LEISUAE HO UA SERIES
JOSEPH NOIRELS REVENGE
BY
VICTOR  CHERBULIEZ
Transalted from the Frelnch
BY
WM.. F.  WEST, A.M.
(Re{>ri;.ted from  The Week
NE\W YORK
HOLT & WILLIAMS
1872




Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by
HOLT   & WVILLIAMS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.




CONTENTS.
CHAPTER                                                      PAGE
I.  MON-PLAISIR AND ITS INMATES.........              I
II.  MARGUERITE MIRION...................                9
III.  JOSEPH NOIREL........................   14
IV.  JOSEPH IN LOVE.......................   22
V.  AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.................   28
VI.  M. D'ORNIS CALLS AGAIN...............   35
VII.  A  PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE...........    40
VIII.  THE FAMILY COUNCIL AND ITS RESULT.    45
IX.  JOSEPH VISITS BURGUNDY..............   51
X.  JOSEPH'S    ADVENTURES    AT    CASTLE
D'ORNIS..................   58
XI.  MARGUERITE PROVES THE AMIABILITY OF
HER DISPOSITION....................   67
XII.  COUNT D'ORNIS IS MADE A HAPPY MAN..   74
XIII.  A  PAINFUL INTERVIEW.................  o8
XIV.  A NIGHT OF DESPAIR......................   86
XV.  MARGUERITE'S LETTER................   95
XVI.  DAWNING CURIOSITY....................  I09
XVII.  M. BERTRAND APPEARS AGAIN.........   17
XVIII.  THE OLD  COUNTESS PLOTS FRESH  MISCHIEF..............................  128
XIX.  CURIOSITY AGAIN  AT WORK............  135
XX.  A  STARTLING  REVELATION.............  141
XXI.  MARGUERITE AT HOME.............  148
XXII.  AN OLD FLAME REKINDLED.............  153




'V                       COANTENAT/S,.
CHAPTER                                                   PA E
XXIII.  MVARGUERITE FINDS A  CONFIDANT......  I57
XXIV.  AN ANGRY  HUSBAND..................  I64
XXV.  MARGUERITE A PRISONER...............  171
XXVI.  THE OLD  COUNTESS'S TRIUMPH.........  179
XXVII.  M. MIRION  LOSES JOSEPH..............  185
XXVIII. JOSEPH FINDS A  NEW  EMPLOYER........  I89
XXIX.  THE TRAP IS SET.................  197
XXX.  M. BERTRAND TAKES THE BAIT.........  203
XXXI.  CONVALESCENCE....................                  208
XXXII.  THE MEETING IN THE SNOW.............                213
XXXIII.  M. BERTRAND  OUTWITTED............   219
XXXIV.  THE CONSPIRATORS AT ORNIS..........  225
XXXV.  THE  FATAL  PAPER.................  231
XXXVI.  M. BERTRAND   MEETS  WITH  AN  ACCIDENT................................   237
XXXVII.  JOSEPH  BECOMES MASTER OF THE SITUATION..............................    241
XXXVIII.  MARGUERITE'S FLIGHT.........                         248
XXXIX.  ARRIVAL AT  MON-PLAISIR.............  252
XL.  EXPLANATIONS.........................  258
XLI.  FATHER AND  DAUGHTER...............  262
XLII.  CAPTURE AND RETURN TO ORNIS.......  267
XLIII.  COUNT D'ORNIS TELLS HIS STORY......  276
XLIV.  JOSEPH  REVEALS HIS SECRET...........  284
XLV.  THE LAST FRIEND PROVES FAITHLESS...  29I
XLVI.  AN APPEAL FOR  MERCY...........  297
XLVII.  A  DISASTROUS TRIUMPH...............  304
XLVIII. 1 THE LAST ACT OF THE TRAGEDY....   311




JOSEPH NOIREL'S REVENGE.
CHAPTER  I.
MON-PLAISIR AND ITS INMATES.
ALTHOUGH perfect happiness is not of this world, something very like it was to be found, a few years ago, in a country
house two or three miles from Geneva, on the main road from
that city to Saint-Julien. This house, which its inmates
had christened Mon-Plaisir, is approached by means of a
long avenue of pear-trees, and presents an agreeable picture to the passer-by. Standing on the summit of a grassy
slope, surrounded by masses of verdure and a garden of
roses, it overlooks an orchard on the west and a terraced
vineyard on the east. This vineyard is bordered by a brook
and a row of willows.
The proprietor of this smiling domain was a citizen of Geneva, M. Thomas Mirion, a furniture manufacturer and dealer,
a man who understood his business, and who had been
made rich by it. This fortunate man could not conceal his
happiness; it beamed forth in his honest face, in his round
and rosy cheeks, in his bright and confident glance, and in
his smile, which indicated an amiable good-nature, a trait ot
character that had never proved injurious to his business. It
must be admitted that, though Heaven had helped him, this
broad-shouldered, strong-backed man had nobly helped himself.
Constantly at work, always contented, he had that perseverance that conquers all things, that good nature that simplifies
all difficulties, that care and circumspection that avoids all
false steps. Although he had always wished to live well and
cut a figure in the world, he had never allowed his expenses to
exceed his income.  Dieting his vanity5 so to speak. he had




2           7OSEPH  NOZIREL'S RE VENGE.
never taken from his business more than could well be spared
from it. Finally some important orders which he turned to
good profit, made him rich. An association which had built
several large hotels on the shores of Lake Leman, made a contract with him to furnish them. He realized a large sum by
this contract, and that too without violating his conscience.
He was not a man to supply a poor article; but managed so
well that the buyer was well pleased, and the seller even
more so. Profitable investments and fortunate speculations
tripled and quadrupled his gain; he became a man of means.
As his property increased, he satisfied, one by one, all those
desires which had for a long time been silently brooding in
his breast, which had so often been repressed by his wise and
prudent policy. He bought, piece by piece, a tract of land of
which he had first obtained the refusal, built a small summerhouse upon it, where the family passed their Sundays and holidays, and finally replaced the summer-house by an elegant
and costly dwelling. A year later he had a stable, two horses, and a carriage. He had at last arrived at the summit of
his desires. It is proper to add that M. Mirion had none of
those disagreeable ways that render a parvenu so insupportable. Although he could easily have proved how wealthy he
was, he did not assume the airs of a Marquis of Carabas,
and did not delight in bullying his neighbors or in spattering
them with mud from his high station.  He continued to work
and kept his shop open as before. Caring little to rise above
his former position, to grimpionner, as they say at Geneva, he
did not try to associate himself with people of high rank, and
remained faithful to all his old friendships. We may say further that his house did not in any respect resemble a castle,
that his carriage was handsome but unpretentious, and his
two horses were honest nags that trotted well, but never mistook their place, nor put on airs with those passing by.
Plutarch tells us that those envious of Sylla called him " the
fortunate," and that the great man was not offended by it,
but spoke of Fortune as having aided him, and congratulated
himself on having so good a friend.   Like Sylla, M. Mirion




)0OSEP11 NOzIREL'S RE VE  GE.               3
had his envious acquaintances who said to him, " You are extremely fortunate, Mirion; you have had wonderful opportunities during your whole life." M. Mirion, without being at
all provoked, would answer them, "My friends, you are right;
I was born under a lucky star. Nature has done well by me;
she has given me an iron constitution, a good stomach, arms
and legs that are fond of work, and a certain share of common
sense to guide me. I admit that I have had opportunities.
It is not less true that I commenced in a small way, and, if I
have had success, I believe that I have done something toward
obtaining it." While speaking thus, he would cast a fond
glance on his house and stable, his vineyard, and his peartrees. "The best of it is," he would add, " it has all been
honestly acquired. I am not like some people that we know.
I am a man of principle. I can place my hand upon my breast
and feel that my conscience does not reproach me." M. Mirion loved to talk of his conscience and his principles; it is a
peculiarity which a few of his countrymen share with him.
If M. Mirion was a happy man, Mme. Mirion was surely a
happy woman. She had not, however, the clear good sense
and easy temper of her husband. Her happiness was noisy,
demonstrative, and somewhat lyrical. Small and plump, with a
well-rounded form and face, she spun round quickly like a
top, while her eyes and tongue moved as nimbly as her limbs.
She ran to and fro, turned about, and went away, chatting all
the time; she was always out of breath, and her two chief
pleasures were to get excited and to talk.  To tell the truth,
she was not altogether free from that fault which the English
have termed snobbishness. She exhibited a somewhat exaggerated admiration for her home and every thing it contained,
including the ducks and canaries. Her pear-trees were the
finest in the world, the roses in her garden had a sweetness
which was elsewhere unknown, the water from her pump had a
slight nutty taste which was incomparable, her hens laid four
times as many eggs as her neighbors', and these eggs from
some unknown cause, always had a double yelk.  In short,
Mon-Plaisir was a remarkable place, under the especial bless



4           7OSEPHI iVOIRE'L'S REVENGE.
ing of Heaven, where every thing happened that was desired,
where the grass grew thicker than in any other spot, where
the rain always fell as it was wanted; a true paradise lighted
by a sun which was not the ordinary sun that every body
saw, but a sun assigned to the especial service of M. and
Mme. Mirion. The innocent fancies of his wife often made
our furniture dealer smile. Sometimes even he teased her a
little. " My good Marianne," he would say, "there are some
things which you have a perfect right to believe, but it's better not to speak of them, for fear of making other people
laugh."  " I don't care, let them  laugh," she would reply;
"it's only because they envy us."  She would then reproach
him for not gaining all the advantage that he could from his
new position, for not making enough show and parade. She
thought that rejoicing and noisy gayety were the necessary
accompaniments of happiness, that they were the sign to be
placed before the door.  Her secret ambition was to have a
large marble fountain, with its Tritons, beneath her windows,
to plant an allegorical statue before her gate, to replace the
good Savoyard girl who waited on the table with a fashionable
waiter wearing a white cravat, and to give each week a fete,
when rockets should be sent up from the lawn-Mme. Mirion
had a weakness for rockets. Unfortunately allegories, white
cravats, and fire-works had no attractions for M. Mirion.
He was fond of ease and comfort, but he thought that vanity
was expensive and not particularly profitable. These slight
differences of opinion, however, did not lead to any serious
conflicts in the household. Mme. Mirion adored her husband,
whom she looked upon as a great man, and she resigned herself to his refusal as dictated by a wisdom superior to her own.
On his side, M. Mirion took pleasure in giving his wife credit
for all her good qualities, and for all the help which her habits
of system and order had been to him. She attended to her
household duties with indefatigable care and vigilance, having
an eye everywhere, in the cellar and the garret, in the pantry
and the kitchen. Her faithfulness and ability were more than
an offset to her unfortunate passion for Tritons.




yOSEPhT  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                  S
The happiness of these worthy people was contagious; they
delighted in seeing every thing about them joyful and contented. Cats, dogs, and chickens, every thing at Mon-Plaisir lived
in luxury and tasted the pleasures of a quiet and peaceful life
under a merciful and paternal rule. The most petted of the
domestic animals that had found shelter and food at MonPlaisir, were two old maids, relatives of M. Mirion, who boarded them at a very moderate charge. The one, Mlle. Baillet,
was his aunt on his mother's side. She was usually spoken
of as Aunt Amaranth, because that was her favorite color, as
could be seen by her bonnet-strings, the trimmings of her
dress, and her beautiful purple stockings.  In spite of her
seventy years, this worthy lady was marvelously well preserved. Always neat and dressed with care, having a somewhat
affected air and voice, with shoulders drawn in and chin raised,
she stood as straight as a wax candle, and when seated, her
back never touched the chair. She had read a little, and had
seen something of the world. Having spent ten years in the
service of a noble family of Mecklenburg, she had there learned a number of maxims and aphorisms, and a complete code
of social and moral ethics.  When I said that she knew something of the world, I meant her world, the world of Mecklenburg. According to her account, there was nothing to be
compared to the court of Schwerin, the most elegant of all the
German courts.  So dazzled had she been by the splendor
which she had there seen, that she no longer deemed a country respectable, unless it had an equestrian order and was governed by a prince who had his foot soldiers and couriers always
about him.  She knew every letter in the Almanach de GoIha,
could recite all the genealogies of the duchy, and abounded in
anecdotes, more or less apocryphal, concerning the reigning
grand duchess and her mother. She had once had the honor
of being present at a court ball. This ball was the great event
of her life; she had described it a hundred times, she was always ready to describe it again. M. Mirion stopped his ears
when she began, but Mme. Mirion was more and more pleased
with each repetition of this wonderful story. Proud of having




6           7OSEPHI   NOIREL'S REVENGE.
beneath her roof one who had seen real princes in flesh and
blood, it seemed to her that, thanks to Aunt Amaranth, she
was in some way related to the Grand Duke of Mecklenburg.
Very different was Mlle. Grillet, M. Mirion's first cousin, a
puny little woman, who seemed scarcely to have strength
enough to move about. Somewhat deformed, her body being
out of shape and one shoulder larger than the other, she looked very little like a person of romantic imagination. Nevertheless she had once had her romance which had ended unfortunately. She had fallen madly in love with a gay deceiver, who had amused himself by making sport of her, and it was
some time before the innocent creature understood that he was
only trifling. This unhappy experience had made her very
suspicious and extremely timid; the world seemed to her to
be full of thorns, making it necessary to look carefully before
her at every step. A scalded cat fears cold water; she was
afraid of ridicule, of the opinions and perfidies of men. At
every new occurrence, she asked herself, "'What will people say?" and from fear that something would be said, she
was very reticent, keeping her thoughts entirely to herself.
Mme. Mirion accused her of being narrow-minded, and was a
little provoked because she agreed with her husband in the
matter of the Tritons. Her opinion having been asked by her
cousin, Mlle. Grillet had stated, in her usual drawling tone, that
naked Tritons were not a proper ornament for a respectable
gentleman's grounds, and that all the neighbors would surely
talk about them. Mme. Mirion, however, was forced to acknowledge that she was a very useful person. If she had
never been in Mecklenburg, nor seen the mother of the grand
duchess, she knew well what the garden contained and put up
the most excellent brandied plums.
In every concert a false note will sometimes occur, and in
the crowd which surrounds the conqueror's triumphal car,
there is usually some ill-tempered person ready to remind him
of the mutability of fortune. It was M. Mirion's elder brother, generally known as Uncle Benjamin, who, at Mon-Plaisir,
served as the false note and monitor. His visits there were




YOSEPHI  NOIREL'S RE  ENGE.                  7
long and frequent, and Mme. Mirion plied him with attentions
and crammed him with sweetmeats, in vain attempts to soften his cynical temper; for, although he was one of the best
men in the world at heart, he found more or less fault with
every thing.  Perhaps there was a little envy in his disposition. The father of MM. Thomas and Benjamin Mirion, an
honest carpenter, had concluded in his great wisdom, that his
son Thomas would never be a man of genius, and had taken
him from school at an early age to place the plane and chisel in
his hands. At the same time he had conceived the highest
opinion of Benjamin's talents, and had spared no expense
in his education. " Our fine lad," he would complacently remark, "our fine lad will be the genius of the family."  After
having carried him successfully through his classes and taken
all the prizes, Benjamin's precocious genius was suddenly arrested, and all the care that had been spent upon him served to
produce only a very ordinary teacher of mathematics, who went
through life just managing to support himself, while the despised Thomas, constantly rising, finally inscribed his name in the
golden book of the Genevan millionaires. Benjamin had the
best wishes possible toward his brother, but it seemed to him
that fortune had bestowed her favors in a capricious manner.
" Why is Mon-Plaisir his instead of mine?" he kept asking
himself. This thought was with him when he went to sleep,
and came to him as soon as he awoke; it did not, however,
prevent him from becoming very angry with other envious people who spoke slightingly of his brother. " He has been
both able and honest," he would say to them in a surly tone.
"Why don't you follow his example? "  Uncle Benjamin was
like those mothers who keep picking at their children, but will
not let any one else interfere with them.
Two hours never passed at Mon-Plaisir without his saying
something to wound the vanity of his too sensitive sister-inlaw. He had a geometrical eye, and took pleasure in criticising the lines in which her fruit trees and rose bushes were
arranged. He maintained that the walls were not plumb, that
the squares of the floor were not of equal size, and that the




8           yOSEPz  NIVOIREL'S RE VEXNGE.
stairs were not in good proportion. When contradicted, he
armed himself with a plumb-line, rule, and square, and in
a calm but determined manner, compelled the angry Mme.
Mirion to listen till he had finished his demonstration - he
planted his compasses in her heart. What was yet worse, he
pretended that Mon-Plaisir was not the most healthy place in
the world, that the exhalations from the brook which bounded the property on the east were injurious to throats that were
at all delicate. Regularly, at the breakfast table, he was seized
with a long and violent fit of coughing. " What's the matter,
Benjamin?" his brother would ask with a little impatience in
his tone. "It's no use," he would reply, "I can't come
here without catching cold."  At this Mme. Mirion would grow
very excited. In her heart she looked upon her brother-inlaw as an evil genius, as a tantalizing and disagreeable person; before the world, she spoke of him in the highest terms,
as a very superior man, who was an honor to his country.
Her family pride rose into heroism.




CHAPTER  II.
MARGUERITE   MIRION.
Notwithstanding what Uncle Benjamin said, I believe that
Mon-Plaisir was a healthy place enough; I also believe, without having seen them, that Mme. Mirion's rose-bushes were a
credit to her. She had, however, another cause for the most
heartfelt joy and satisfaction. The loveliest rose of her garden, the most precious ornament of her house, the feast of her
eyes, her highest pride and glory was her daughter. Certain
it is that Mlle. Marguerite Mirion was beautiful; all Geneva,
if called upon, would bear witness to the fact. She was tall,
slender, exquisitely graceful, with beautifully rounded throat
and arms, having the hands and feet of a duchess, light wavy
hair drawn back from her brow, handsome brown eyes soft as
velvet, a dazzling complexion, and a smile the charm  of which
was enhanced by an expression of indescribable simplicity and
frankness. As she walked, free from thought or care, up and
down the avenue of pear-trees leading to the road, those passing by stopped before the gate to look at her, saying to
themselves, "What a lovely flower!"  These words came naturally to the lips on seeing her. She had come up like a flower; nature had done all for her. Although Mlle. Marguerite
Mirion was aware of the fact that she was beautiful, although
she was not displeased when others gazed upon her, there was
not the slightest grain of coquetry in her disposition, and in
her simplicity, she ignored all those little affectations and allurements which often form the stock in trade of a pretty girl.
She could do without these, she could afford to leave them
to those who were somewhat doubtful concerning their beauty; hers was not to be disputed.  When, on Sunday, she aczompanied her mother to church, their entrance always caused
a great sensation; all eyes were turned toward them, and a
hum of admiration, very grateful to the heart of Mme. Mirion,




10          7OSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
was heard. This admiration was pleasing also to M. Mirion;
he idolized his daughter, and as he gazed upon her, he always
seemed to grow taller. Even Uncle Benjamin laid down his
arms before Marguerite. He was very attentive to her, supplying her with candies and reciting madrigals to her; all his
savings and all his poetry went in that direction. Sometimes,
taking her by the chin, he would say, " What a pretty girl you
are! Where on earth did you come from? Your father's eyes
are like a frog's, your mother is short and dumpy: how could
they have produced a masterpiece like you? If they were to
tell the truth, they would confess that they found you under a
cabbage leaf."
A handsome girl, especially if she be an only child, is usually spoiled. Although M. and Mme. Mirion had tried their best
to spoil their daughter, they had not succeeded in so doing.
Her generous nature had not been injured by the excessive
kindness which had been bestowed upon her. All who knew
her could say that she was neither proud nor haughty. Aunt
Amaranth and Mlle. Grillet could both testify that she had an
even and gentle temper, and that she was thoughtful of others,
treating them  with kindness and delicate attention. What
chiefly distinguished her was the purity of her sentiments and
the nobility of her character. She was above all sordid calculations, all low thoughts and feelings; she did not need to fight
against them, she was free from their attacks through her perfect ignorance of evil. Vanity sometimes has its uses.  If
Marguerite had always lived at home, she would, I fear, have
become dull and stupid; she would have contracted some incorrigible faults. Fortunately, her lady mother had decided to
give her what she called a first-class education, and to accomplish this, had the courage to send her from home to a celebrated and aristocratic boarding-school in the canton of Vaud.
Marguerite found herself associated there with young ladies of
high birth.  In this noble company she cut but a poor figure;
notwithstanding her handsome eyes, the furniture dealer's
daughter was put in the background.  She had no partiality
shown her; she received her due, but was never courted. At




JOSEPH  NOIREL'S REVELAGE.                   I I
this school, she learned to make comparisons which helpled to
form her judgment.  She also learned to control her actions
and her words, which is the true foundation of a first-class
education.  Fortunately, however, she did not lose her lightheartedness and gayety, but took them home with her just at
the close of her seventeenth year. She also carried back a
confused mass of scribblings, of studies, some well, some ill
digested, a dim knowledge of many things, and a fair musical
education.  The evening of her arrival, in spite of all that M.
Mirion and the timorous Mlle. Grillet could say, the house
was illuminated from garret to cellar, and the terrace lighted a
giorno with transparencies and fireworks.
Mon-Plaisir was a new acquaintance for Marguerite; it had
been bought during her absence.  A very pleasant room, exquisitely decorated and furnished, had been prepared for her.
In it were rich ornaments and moldings, tables of ebony and
mosaic, a Persian carpet, and curtains of white cashmere, while
pretty trifles and flowers were scattered all about.  Marguerite
was in love with her little room.  She spent whole hours there
alone, flitting like a bird about her flower-stands, opening a
book, reading a little and stopping in the middle of a sentence,
or leaning on her window-sill and casting a happy glance over
the orchard, the road, the hills, the Jura, joyful in life and youth,
having no care,with the spring-time in her cheek, with content
and cheerfulness in her heart.  The bell would ring for breakfast.  She would go down to the dining-room, kiss Aunt
Amaranth and say to her, "Is it as pleasant as this in Mecklenburg?" Afterwards she would throw her arm round Cousin
Grillet's waist and draw her into the garden, saying, " Let's
see how our rose-bushes are coming on."  On the way she
would pluck a flower and put it in her hair. Returning to the
house, she would sit down at the piano, and play a barcarolle,
or sing a love song in a full, clear voice, paying attention wholly
to the music and caring little for the words, which she thought
she understood, but which, in reality, were Hebrew to her.  In
the evening, she would embroider, talk about her school, or
nestling in an arm-chair, receive the attentions of her uncle




12          yOSEIZ PH  NOIRELS AREVENGE.
Benjamin, if he were there, and laugh loud and long at his
compliments and madrigals.  The family separated at ten
o'clock. She would then go directly to her room, and sometimes would open her window to look upon the moon; but no
confidences passed between them, they had nothing of importance to say to each other. When half undressed, she would
kneel down, and, her head resting against her flower-stand,
would breathe this silent prayer to her kind Father: " Thou
art good and wise, thou knowest what is needful for me; if it
be possible, let all my life be like to-day."  Then she would
fall into a calm, deep, and dreamless slumber, awaking to rejoice that the sun was again shining, and that Life, standing by
her bedside, was awaiting her.
It will readily be believed that Mme. Mirion's thoughts
pierced farther into the future than those of Marguerite.
Her maternal vanity was at work, and in her mental orisons,
she was not satisfied to ask, "May to-morrow be like to-day."
Her prayer was, " Thou knowest what I desire; when will he
come? Grant, 0 Lord! that he may be like a fairy prince!"
What she read most and understood best in the New Testament, was the parable of the talents and the sacred duty which
is imposed upon us, of obtaining all the interest that we can, as
we shall one day be called upon to render up an account.
Heaven had placed a treasure in her hands; the investment of
this treasure was the clief aim of her life. She would often sit
quietly by the hour, plunged in deep reveries; then starting
suddenly, she would ask her husband: " Do you want to know
what I'm thinking of?" "Oh dear!" he would reply stroking
his chin, "I can guess without any trouble. Your head is full
of sons-in-law, stout and lean, little and big; I care little for
them. What do all these dreams amount to? Let's enjoy
the present and take the future as it comes." Mme. Mirion
had sense enough not to make her daughter acquainted with
her plans and wishes, and Marguerite was very far from guessing them. The pastor of their parish, a wise man in his way,
said of her, "She is a tranquil lake; guard her from storms."
Like her father, she enjoyed the present, dreaming neither of




JOSEPZ i NOIREL'S 1RE VENVGE.               13
marriage nor of husbands. She was so ill-informed on certain
points, she paid no attention to the fact that the son of a rich
linen-draper was in the habit of coming every Sunday to MonPlaisir, under the pretext of playing billiards with M. Mirion,
but really for the sake of seeing her. The indifference of his
fair charmer prevented him from declaring his suit in person;
he, however, engaged a third party to speak for him.  M.
Mirion was tempted to say yes; Mme. Mirion cried out against
the proposition, declaring that the gentleman was not worthy of
her daughter, and did not figure in her collection. He was dismissed and nothing was said to Marguerite. If she had been
consulted, what answer would she have given? Like all natures swayed rather by affection than by passion, she had something of weakness and indecision in her character. Moreover,
she had thought little on these matters; she would have said:
" Dear me! if it seems best... I will do just as you wish."




CHAPTER  III.
JOSEPH  NOIREL.
In this happy household, however, there was one unhappy
person. No one was to blame for this. Always welcome,
loved by every one, treated, though a stranger, like one of the
family, his lot seemed an envious one. But there are many
causes of suffering here below: sorrow has many aspects, sadness many mysteries, and, ofttimes, if the question were put to
us, "Why do you complain, have you not every thing you
wish?" we should have a perfect right to answer, " What do you
know about it?" The discontented person of whom I speak,was one of M. Mirion's workmen, a youth of twenty-five,
named Joseph Noirel.  He had dark brown hair, was of medium height, and of slight but muscular frame; he had a strong
will, and with his ten fingers he accomplished wonders. His
face was very intelligent and somewhat pale; occasionally a
sudden glow would flush his cheeks. To tell the truth, this
face was not very regular; the mouth and nose were both too
large. The clear gray eyes, however, like the eyes of certain
greyhounds, like the limpid water of certain streams, were full
of light and motion; their glance was both deep and penetrating. Sometimes they disclosed a whole history, and that history by no means a cheerful one.
The poor boy had been reared by wretched parents. His
father had been a jack at all trades who accomplished nothing.  He tried his hand at almost every thing, but finally
gave himself over entirely to idleness and dissipation. With
want gnawing him like an incurable leprosy, a stranger to
every sentiment of honor, delighting in strong drink, hugging
his poverty, scarcely would he have worked a week, before he
would desert his employer, dive into some out-of-the-way kennel, and there drink up his wages; after all was gone, he would
return home, with an empty pocket, a dull eye, and a thick




JOSEPZH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.               15
tongue, and say to his wife with a maudlin laugh, " Well! what
of it? I've been on a spree."
"You'd better go on another," she would reply; "there's
not enough in the house to feed a spider."
"You lie!" he would answer; " the young rascal must have
brought in something."
The truth is, it was the young rascal, that is Joseph, who in
these days of misery was compelled to provide for them. He
set out every morning, according to orders, with a crust of dry
bread in his pocket and a basket on his arm, selling matches
and begging from door to door. Woe to him if his returns
were scanty: the blows rained upon his head like hail. One
day, weary of climbing stairs and having his ears boxed for his
trouble, he ran away; he was caught and beaten so cruelly
that it took away from him all desire of repeating the experiment. Sometimes his mother would treat him very harshly;
then in a fit of tenderness, in order to console him for the sufferings he had undergone, she would take him to spend the
evening at a coffee-house, where, with eyes and ears wide open,
he would listen for hours to the gushing notes of Mlle. Zephyrine, the prima donna of the Eldorado at Lyons. These were
his holidays, his intermittent Paradise.  The next day, he
would start on his route again, asking from house to house for
a little help, crying to move the sympathies of the kind gentlemen and ladies, a sad trade, to which, thank Heaven, he could
never reconcile himself; he followed it unwillingly, looking
for all the world like a whipped cur. There was something
within him, I know not what, which protested against his work;
a kind of native pride, which he must, I think, have inherited
from some remote ancestor. When his story was disbelieved
or he was called a beggar, he would straighten himself up and
sing in a loud voice some strain which he had caught from
Mlle. Zephyrine. Freaks of this kind did not serve to improve his trade; each day the number of houses which he
dared not approach increased.  Each day, also, the hovel
which he knew as home became more forlorn and uninhabitable; in order to obtain food, the furniture and even the bed



i6          JO70SE PHZ  NOIREL'S LRE VENGE.
clothes were disposed of. His father had an attack of delirium
tremens; thenceforth he was unable to do any work. Fearful
quarrels occurred between him and his wife: they caught each
other by the hair, exhausting the Billingsgate vocabulary in
their rage. The child, pale and shuddering, was a witness of
these stormy scenes. Fortunately Noirel had a second attack;
he was taken to the hospital, where he died; and ten months
later his widow was laid up with sciatic gout, which entirely
deprived her of the use of her limbs.
The parish pastor found a place for the invalid in an almshouse, and looked about for a home for the helpless orphan.
He spoke of him to M. Mirion, and recommended him warmly to his charity. Joseph was then thirteen years old. M.
Mirion sent for him and questioned him. After some deliberation, he agreed to take charge of the boy, to give him food
and shelter, and to receive him as an apprentice. As often
happens, this good deed afterward had its reward; but the
young rascal at first gave his employer much anxiety and trouble. In his former occupation, he had contracted some very
bad habits; he had learned to hate all rule and discipline, to
run about the streets, and had acquired a stock of vagabond and
blackguard wit, which escaped him at the slightest provocation. Although a tight rein was held upon him, he would
sometimes escape and stay away whole days at a time. M.
Mirion talked with him in his important manner, delivered
before him wise and lengthy moral essays which floated away
upon the wind, and gave him whippings, which he seemed to
care little for, having a tough skin and a pride which the rod
could not break. XWhat finally influenced him more strongly
than the lectures or any thing else, was an almost passionate
love of work which suddenly came upon him. We always like
to do what we can do well; one fine morning Joseph found his
vocation, and from that moment he became another man; he
went to work with a will, his arms became more active while
his legs enjoyed a rest. This change at first revealed itself in
the love which he manifested for his tools: he handled them
with the greatest respect; a speck of rust troubled him, and he




yOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                 17
gladly devoted his leisure hours to sharpening his planes,
chisels, and saws. Seeing this, M. Mirion took a liking to his
protege; he considered that a love of tools was a certain indication of ability. He was astonished also by his manual skill
and his inventive powers, and prophesied that he would make
his mark. He had him instructed in geometry and drawing.
This did not satisfy Joseph; he studied trigonometry and perspective without a teacher, and became an able draughtsman
and designer. At the age of twenty-five he was a master joiner, by far the best workman in M. Mirion's employ, and devoted his attention to fine cabinet work, at the same time giving his advice in all other matters. Although he was really a
foreman, he did not have that title; he was simply M. Mirion's
adviser, working for him and receiving fair wages for his work.
Inasmuch as he boarded and lodged with his employer, he was
enabled to save some money; he used it to pay his mother's
board. She was still a helpless invalid, but clung obstinately
to life. As soon as he could, he took her from the alms-house,
and found a home for her with some country people. Thanks
to him, she was no longer dependent on public charity, and in
this particular Joseph's pride was satisfied.
It appears that after all Joseph Noirel had no reason to complain. The little vagabond had been fortunate: it is not every
one that meets a M. Mirion on life's highway. Well lodged
and fed, without any present trouble, or any great anxiety for
the future, loving his work and respected by all about him,
what had he to complain of? A secret sorrow: his position
was a false one, and a false position is intolerable to a proud
nature. He led two modes of life, and both were unpleasant
to him: at the same time a workman and his employer's intimate companion, neither he nor his comrades knew exactly
where he stood; a wall seemed built between him and them.
Every morning they saw him riding in with M. Mirion from the
country; often during the day, the latter would seek him at his
bench, and talk with him in a low and confidential tone. When
the clock struck twelve he would call him into his private
office, where they would lunch together; in the evening the
office,                      6 VCI6 ICI~~ ~bV~y-~    i




18          YOSEPHI NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
carriage would return for them. In vain was Joseph the truest
of comrades, in vain at every meeting did he assert before his
brethren, the workingmen, that he was one of them and wished
to be nothing else; there was in his manner, his cultivated
tone, and his precise language, a certain mark of superiority and
self-respect which kept them at a distance. They were suspicious of him, regarding him as a doubtful character, the favorite of their employer, almost a gentleman. Some of them
even looked upon him as a spy, but were very careful what
they said about him. Although he was of slender form, and
his small and delicate hands had caused him to be nicknamed
the young lady, Joseph had proved on more than one occasion
that he could take his own part, and that his fists could do good
service. He was therefore treated respectfully, but every one
seemed to avoid speaking before him; a conspiracy was formed
to maintain in the shop that silence which keeps a man in quarantine.
At Mon-Plaisir it was very different. The family, which
had in a certain sense adopted him, treated him with the greatest confidence. At the table or elsewhere, M. and Mme.
Mirion discussed before him all their little affairs and family
secrets. When we look for poison we find it everywhere.
Joseph was a Genevese, that is he was sensitive and moody,
attaching great weight to little things. He was provoked by
the confidential way in which he was treated. He thought,
" Mme. Mirion would not have spoken as she did before me,
if I were a person whose opinion she cared any thing about."
Again he would say, " How kind they all are to me! Kindness
is not friendship though, it is a very different affair."  Moreover, there were many little things which showed him he was
not the equal of those with whom he sat at table; the servants
were particular, as they always are, to make him understand
this. The girl who waited on the table, after saying to M.
Mirion in a respectful tone, " Can I help you to any thing, sir?"
would suddenly turn to Joseph with, "Will you have some
beef?" This willyou have some beef and the manner in which
it was said were insupportable; it seemed to say to him, " My




YOSEPZH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                 19
dear friend, y6u are out of place." He dreaded above all the
dinner parties which M. Mirion occasionally gave to his
friends. He had requested to have his meals sent to his room
on such occasions, but M. Mirion had answered him, "Why
do you ask that, my boy? Are you not one of the family?"
He felt himself out of place in the society of these merry
tradespeople, who treated him in a familiar manner which did
not entirely conceal their sense of superiority. At one of these
parties, he overheard Mme. Mirion say to one of her friends,
"Are you surprised that he's so much attached to us? Does
he not owe us every thing?"  These words were constantly
ringing in his ears; he often repeated them aloud, while the
bread that he ate seemed very bitter. No one in the house
had the least suspicion of his secret troubles.  The worthy M.
Mirion could not have understood his feelings; I know not
whether he would have been sad or angry if le had learned
that his workman was not the happiest Joseph in the world.
He loved to be with him, and to gaze upon him, not only because
he was so useful to him, but also because he recalled the
best action of his life, an action which would gain him a sure
entrance into Paradise.  " He is a lucky fellow," he would
mutter to himself; "if it had not been for me, he would have
died, like his father, in the hospital, or perhaps in the penitentiary. He owes a big candle to Providence and me. Show
me another workman, if you can, who lives so comfortably
with his employer, forming his character in the society of honest people!" Thanks to Joseph, M. Mirion's conscience was
always easy. In the morning, he would slap Joseph smartly
on the back, saying, "Have you slept well, you lucky
dog?"  He never could have believed that this lucky dog
would have slept better in an empty garret, and that on his bed
of down, he sometimes had bad dreams, in which he found
himself alone in the midst of a vast desert.
It was unfortunate for Joseph that he had none of that independence of character which is called ingratitude. Certain it
is, that ingratitude greatly simplifies such difficulties, but not
every one, who wishes to be ungrateful, can be so. Joseph




20           JOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
knew better than any one how much he owed to M. Mirion,
and, knowing it so well, he did not like to be reminded of it.
He had not tried to forget the condition in which M. Mirion
had found him. All the scenes of his childhood were indelibly
impressed upon his mind. When he recalled them, he found
himself in the sixth story, in a dirty garret, the walls of which
had that frightful look which disorder lends to poverty; he saw
in one corner his father buried in a drunken stupor, while his
mother stood before him, her face distorted with anger, heaping
a torrent of reproaches on the drunkard, and shaking her clenched fists in the face of fortune. He recalled also his mortification, his heart sickness, and all the evil thoughts that kept
passing through his brain when he went from door to door, with
his basket on his arm, covered by an old green rag, out at the
elbows, which had formerly been a curtain, and wearing an old
pair of pantaloons, through the holes in which his ragged shirt
was visible. He saw himself lolling out his tongue at one porter after another, as they drove him from their doors, or sitting
on a step to count in his cold, blue fingers the pennies which
he had received, and to think of the blows which the evening
had in store for him, or, in order to forget his misery, dragging
his worn-out shoes through the gutter, while he talked familiarly with the sewer, his best friend. When he compared his
early days, what he might have been, with what he now was, it
seemed to him that the thread of his life had been broken, that
he had been born a second time. Whence had come this love
of work which had been his salvation, this pride which had kept
him firm and true, this honor which had made him despise all
that was mean and vulgar? How far it seemed from his father's
kennel to this family of good and worthy people who had received him, to this hospitable home where his shipwrecked
bark had found a haven, to this beautiful attic-room in which
he lived, from the vine-embowered window of which could be
seen the lawn, and a grove of oak trees where the nightingales
sang sweetly every spring. No, he had never thought of repudiating his debt; but he had hoped that he might, at some
time, repay it by one supreme effort, and then say to his bene



JOSEPrH'OIZREL'S RE VENGE.               21
factors,  Our accounts are settled, now we can start clear
again." As this time did not come, his gratitude turned to
bitterness and pain, and, as often happens, he visited on society
his ill-humor and discontent. He argued that the world was
badly made, and that it would be doing mankind a Service to
re-make it. He had secretly read several works on socialism.
There was no necessity for reading them; certain ideas are
found everywhere to-day; we breathe them in the very air.
Joseph's theories were very confused; he would have found
some trouble in putting them into practice. He had some
good sense, however, and neither accepted Communism, nor
railed at capital. On the contrary, he considered capital the
best thing in the world, the only difficulty being that it did not
do its duty, and was too careful of itself; he thought that an
industrious workman ought always to be able to borrow enough
to start a shop and begin work on his own account. Sometimes when he stood at his bench, his plane gliding rapidly beneath his hand, his thoughts flew still more swiftly. He would
begin to hum a tune, and as he did so, would see the old world
swept away in flames, while from its smoldering ashes rose another world, where every thing was new, where there was
plenty of air and room for all, where the proud were perfectly
at ease, where no one bore upon his shoulders that heavy
burden of gratitude which weighs down like a mountain; in
short, an ideal and perfect world, where the Joseph Noirels
were on an equal footing with the Thomas Mirions. What
wonders accompany the humming of a tune! We can not always sing, however, and when the sound of their voices no
longer soothes them, the Josephs awake and find that there
has been no change at all, either in themselves or their surroundings.




CHAPTER IV.
JOSEPH  IN  LOVE.
I have not yet mentioned the greatest of Joseph's griefs, the
one which gave form and reality to all the others. He had conceived and secretly cherished a passion which had overpowered
him, and was constantly preying on his heart. This passion
was hopeless; he might as well have loved a star. He was twenty-two years old, when one day there appeared at Mon-Plaisir a
beautiful young girl, who had just returned from boardingschool. He had taken very little notice of her in her younger
days, he had not seen her for a long time; she now appeared
in ripened bloom. She seemed beautiful as a dream to him,
and scarcely had he been two minutes in her society, before
he felt a tightening of the chain that bound him, and knew that
Mon-Plaisir was now a prison, from which he could never have
the courage to escape.
The fact is, that the first week succeeding Marguerite's return,
he experienced for her only a profound admiration, mingled
with the intensest curiosity. He felt that he could never be
any thing to her, that she was beyond his reach, that her silky
tresses, her fair face, her soft and gentle glances, her clear
voice and ringing laugh were not at his disposal. He was like
a little beggar girl, standing before the window of a toy store,
staring at one of those handsome dolls that speak and move
their eyes; she very well knows that the doll is not for such as
she, but she feels a sense of ownership in looking at it, and
even poverty has eyes, thank God! Little by little, Joseph discovered that Marguerite was as good as she was beautiful, that
she had a heart as pure as gold, that she exhibited none of the
follies peculiar to her class, and that she had lost none of her
natural charm under the influence of her doting mother and her
teachers. He grew bolder and occasionally spoke to her; he
questioned her, but with a timid and bashful air. He wanted




yOSEPZr  NVOIREL'S RE VENGE.               23
to know what the doll was made of, what there was inside of
it.  His investigations proved very entertaining, and MonPlaisir now appeared like a new place to him. In the evening,
returning from his work, he would say to himself, " Now I shall
hear her laugh and sing!"  It seemed to him that henceforth
there was some little happiness in store for him.
It is right to tell children that they may look at, but must not
touch the things about them. It happened on the morning of
a certain holiday, that Joseph was in one corner of the grounds,
working on an arbor which he had planned: he amused himself in this way in his leisure hours. Marguerite had risen early
the same morning, and had gone forth to greet the dawn.
Wearing morocco slippers ornamented with red rosettes, holding in her hand, like a marchioness of the olden time, a light,
gold-headed cane which her uncle Benjamin had given her, she
undertook to make a trip round her domain. As she passed
before the arbor, she spied Joseph and stopped to see him work.
Suddenly a few large drops of rain fell near them. " I must
run," she cried; "if my dress gets wet it will be spoiled." She
took the most direct route home, going across a field that had
just been ploughed. At the third step she took, one of her
slippers was buried in the soft ground. Standing on one foot,
leaning on her cane as well as she could, she called for help,
laughing all the time. The rain fell faster. Joseph ran to her;
a sudden boldness seized him. "You can never get across
the field alone," he said; " shall I carry you?" She assented
without any hesitation. He threw off his coat, and wrapped it
round her to protect her dress;.then lifted her, scarcely knowing what he did; and when, at last, he knew that he was indeed holding her within his arms and pressing her against his
breast, a thrill of delight ran through his frame, he stumbled
as though overcome with joy. He began to run, jumping across
the furrows; it seemed as though his precious burden belonged
to him, as though he could carry it with him where he pleased. Once when Marguerite moved, her hair brushed against
his cheek.  He stopped suddenly, trembling with passion;
but his glance fell upon two wondering eyes, in whose clear,




24          yOS'EPi   NOAIREL'S REVENGE.
tranquil depths dwelt only innocence.  These eyes brought
him to himself again, and he proceeded on his way. At last
he put her down at the entrance to the house. " Where is my
slipper?" she said. " How careless I am!" he answered;
"I must have dropped it."  He did not tell the truth; he
pretended to hunt for it, while all the time it was safe in his
pocket, where he had placed it when he picked her up. A
slipper is easily forgotten.   Little did any one think that
Joseph had carefully hidden it away. When he drew it forth
and held it in his hands, it told him a story, always the same,
which he never grew tired of, and yet by which he never was
deceived. I have said that he had good common sense; he
knew very well that if he had not been a simple workman, Mile.
Mirion would never have permitted him  to carry her. But
what of that? He had met with an adventure in a ploughed
field, and this adventure would henceforth be the brightest
spot in his whole life.
From that day, Joseph had one fixed idea, and this idea was
a constant source of anguish to him. He had sufficient selfcontrol not to betray himself, to conceal his secret from all
eyes. His room was directly over that of Mile. Mirion. Little did any one suspect that every evening he threw himself upon the floor, pressing his ear close against it. The floor was
thick and impenetrable to every sound; he could hear nothing,
but he believed he heard. He experienced an indescribable
agitation as he thought, " She is there; her life and mine are
separated only by the thickness of a plank." When he closed
his eyes, it seemed to him that the floor became transparent,
that he saw her moving busily about, like a bee among the flowers. Sometimes he fell asleep in this position and had the
most delightful dreams, waking the next morning to curse the
inexorable reality which drove away these charming visions.
Marguerite was far from suspecting what was passing in
the workman's mind; if she had been informed of it, it would
have overwhelmed her with astonishment.  She thought
little of Joseph, except when he was present. He simply inspired her with feelings of good will and respect.  Her father




JOSEPtH  NOIleL'S RE VEAL.GE.               25
often praised him to her.  "You see, Margot," he would say,
" the boy is a perfect treasure. I don't tell him so, of course,
for fear that it will spoil him; but he can make any thing
he pleases with those hands of his. And then the good
judgment that he shows.  Even I have to consult him sometimes on important matters.  Good deeds have their reward;
from the very day that he came into my house, my business
has prospered."  Not only was Marguerite disposed to think
well of Joseph on her father's recommendation, but she also
liked to talk with him herself.  What he said did not resemble
at all the gossip that she heard about her; it pierced through
the conventionalisms of the society in which she lived, with a
boldness of thought that pleased her, she knew not exactly why.
The citizen has a fondness for closed doors, not only because
they shut out draughts, but also because an open door makes
him uneasy; there may enter something unpleasant: an idea,
for instance, or a revolution. The workman, on the other hand,
holds his wide open, to get the air and to allow the future to
come in. Often nothing but misconceptions and frightful errors
enter by it; yet how many live on fallacies! In short, it seemed to Marguerite that, when her father invited his friends to
dinner, there was something almost stifling in the conversation,
while in the little that Joseph Noirel said, there was a certain
freshness that made one breathe with perfect freedom, an indescribable something that came from the soul, making known
the man. It was a confused impression which she did not try
to clearly comprehend: her roses and canaries took up too
much of her time.  If Joseph had set out for Australia, she
would have wished him a pleasant journey, and would occasionally have asked if any news had been received from him: that
would have been all.
Though we may have good common sense, we sometimes
believe in the impossible; of what use else is hope, that daughter of folly?  There were times when Joseph thought, Why
should it not happen?  He took to reading novels; he
searched with avidity for adventures that resembled his own.
Shepherds marrying princesses he often met with, especially




26           7OSEPiZ AOIREL'S REVENGE.
in fairy tales; but, in the end, his reason would take a terrible
revenge, completely overwhelming him. What likelihood was
there that his wild passion would ever be returned? And if
this miracle should take place, would the result not be that he
would simply dash his head against a wall? He pictured to
himself Mme. Mirion's indignation and cry of horror, on learning that from the depth of his obscurity, Joseph Noirel had
dared to raise his eyes to her daughter and her idol. The
good lady was so far from believing such an enormity possible, that more than once she introduced her favorite subject in Joseph's presence. One evening, when he had remained in the drawing-room later than usual, reading the paper by
the fire, she suddenly turned toward her husband who was
doz ng in his arm-chair, saying, "You men are so strange, you
never care to think about the future."
" Why! what's the matter?" said he, waking with a start.
"Is the house on fire?"
" The matter is that a father owes certain duties to his child,
and you care little enough about them."
"I'm  neglecting my duties, because I'm  taking a nap by
the fire, I suppose.  What bee has stung you now, Madame
Marianne Mirion?"
" When any one is fortunate enough to have a daughter like
our Marguerite," she replied in an impressive manner, "his
first duty is to find a husband worthy of her."
" There come the everlasting sons-in-law again."  He rose
from his chair as he continued, "Would you like to have me
take the first train, to offer my daughter to Prince Charming?"
"I can't understand how any one can jest on such a subject.
I tell you we don't see enough society; we do wrong to spend
the winter in the country, like so many wolves. It might do
well. enough if we could give a few parties...."
"And have some fireworks," he interrupted.
"Your jokes will drive me mad," she answered, in a pet.
" To hear you, Thomas, any one would think that you were
light and trifling."
"Oh! I'm not light by any means," he said, taking with his




yOSE'tPH  NVOIREL'S RE VEANGE.              27
hands the measure of his portly paunch. " Don't be angry,
my good wife. I've often told you there was no need of any
trouble in this matter. Next St. Martin's day our chick will be
only twenty; and, besides, you're so difficult to suit. Upon
my word, you ought to have a son-in-law made to order. Why
don't you ask Aunt Amaranth to write a line to her noble
friend, the Duke of Mecklenburg? Perhaps he has a cousin,
not yet provided for, who would serve our purpose."
He saw that she was now getting angry in earnest, and added, as he chucked her under the chin, "Be a good little
woman, and don't get excited. Your dear husband has discovered that we don't often, in this world, find what we're
hunting for, but we sometimes find what's even better."
At the first words of this conversation, Joseph started as
though he had received an electric shock, and let his paper fall
from his hands. He picked it up again, folded it as well as he
could, left the room, and did not close his eyes all night. From
that day a deep gloom settled on him. He ate scarcely any
thing; if asked what was the matter, he replied that he was not
hungry, and this answer seemed satisfactory. He kept fiercely
at work, but sang no more.  He dreamed none the less, however.  He prayed silently for storms: he besought them to
come quickly, there was urgent need; next St. Martin's day,
Marguerite would be twenty, and Madame Mirion might any
day secure a son-in-law. He cried in frenzy and despair for
that great overturning which was to level all distinctions, to
overthrow the proud and haughty, to raise the victims of oppression and of scorn, and to prepare the way for that ideal
world, in which Madame Mirion would seek out Joseph Noirel,
and say to him, " Marguerite loves you-she is yours."




CHAPTER V.
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR,
On the 3ISt of July, 1869, at two o'clock in the afternoon,
M. Mirion was busy in his office, proving his accounts. When
he had finished, he put his pen behind his ear, and went up to
the second story, where the work-rooms were, to give some orders.  On coming down into the store again, he found there
a stranger, who had a decidedly military air. His face impressed M. Mirion at once. He was a man of about forty-five, of
medium height, and aristocratic appearance; he had a well:
bronzed skin, a black mustache, hair a little gray, a nose
somewhat bent, deep-set and piercing eyes, and the keen glance
of a hawk. His face betokened intelligence and will; its expression would have been harsh and almost threatening, had
it not been relieved by a smile which sometimes was very
pleasing.  He had come in to examine a collection of cabinets
of the style prevalent in the reign of Louis XIII., which M.
Mirion had obtained from a convent at Valais, and had had restored by Joseph, who excelled in this kind of work.  He
looked over all these antiquated articles without finding any
thing that pleased him; but finally selected a small portable
desk, a piece of Venetian work, of very neat design. He drew
from his pocket-book a card, on which he wrote his address,
requesting M. Mirion to send the purchase to his hotel as soon
as possible, as he wished to send it, the same evening, to his
home in Burgundy. His card read: Count Roger D'Ornis, late
Captain in the Third Zouaves.
"The choicest articles of my collection are not here," said
M. Mirion, after directing one of his clerks to carefully pack
the desk. " My daughter, like you, has a passion for old-fashioned furniture; she has ransacked my shop. In spite of all




7OSEP'It NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                29
that I could do, the most handsome things have been carried
off to Mon-Plaisir."
"Mon-Plaisir? where is that?" asked M. D'Ornis.
"Mon-Plaisir is my country house," responded M. Mirion,
somewhat astonished by the question. " I have there two old
tables covered with moldings, grooves, and the queerest little
figures.  It would make your mouth water to look at them.
My wife would be glad enough to get rid of these tables; she
complains that they collect the dust, and that it makes the servants sick to clean the copper on them. What my daughter
says is law, however, so I keep my tables. If you would like
to see them, I shall be glad to have you visit Mon-Plaisir."
M. D'Ornis thanked him coldly, excusing himself by saying
that he had to start the next day on a trip to Chamouni; he
then took up his hat, which he had placed upon a chair. At
the same moment, the door of the large and gloomy store was
thrown wide open, and Mile. Marguerite Mirion, dressed in
pink from head to footJ entered like a sunbeam.  "Father,
dear," she said,  I came to tell you that I'm going shopping
and have forgotten my money; I'll take some of yours instead."
So saying, she fumbled for a moment in his vest pocket, and,
taking out a napoleon, stowed it away inside her glove.
" Didn't I tell you that they robbed me?" cried M. Mirion
turning toward M. D'Ornis, who, half hidden in the shadow of
a large side-board, had his fierce glance fixed on Marguerite.
She now noticed, for' the first time, that there was a stranger
present, and bowed, at the same time coloring  slightly.
"Since I've been caught so nicely," she said, " I can do nothing better than to run away." And with another graceful nod,
she started toward the door.
"The carriage will be here at six o'clock precisely," said
her father. "Are you going to keep us waiting as you did the
other day?"
"You know I'm  always doing something wrong," she answered as she left them.
M. D'Ornis walked up and down the floor once or twice, as
though buried in deep thought; then said to M. Mirioi:




30           7OSEP'1I NOIRLL'S RE VEi'GE.
"Your tables keep running in my head.  I so much wish to
sec them that I will put off my trip; when shall I call at your
house?"
" To-morrow will be Sunday," answered M. Mirion.  "I'll
be at Mon-Plaisir all day, and we'll esteem it a great honor to
receive you. You mustn't expect to see a castle though.  It's
a very plain and ordinary kind of house. We common people,
you know...."
M. D'Ornis did not wait for him to finish. " I will be there,
to-morrow," he said, and went away.
At six o'clock, as M. Mirion was getting into the carriage,
where his daughter was already seated, he noticed M. D'Ornis,
who was reading a placard further down the street. As the carriage passed, he turned round and bowed.
"Who is that gentleman?" asked Marguerite.
" A count, my dear; he's coming to Mon-Plaisir to-morrow,
to see my tables. Don't say any thing to your mother about
it, though. The thought of receiving such a distinguished person would be too much for her brain; she wouldn't sleep all
night, and I don't know-the Lord forgive me-but she might
even hang the house with flags."
"Dear me!" she said, " a count is just like other men."
"Well said, Miss Philosophy!" he answered, giving her a
tap on the cheek.
The next day, Count Roger D'Ornis arrived at Mon-Plaisir
at precisely two o'clock.  M. Mirion was alone, his wife and
daughter having gone to call upon a neighbor. He exerted
himself to please his guest, and in the first place took him to
look at the tables, which he described with the minutest detail,
not omitting an ovolo or quarter-round. M. D'Ornis looked
and admired, but was not enthusiastic over them; every time
the door opened he turned round quickly, and seemed disappointed that some one he expected did not appear. When the
subject of the tables was exhausted, M. Mirion proposed that
they should look at the house, and took his guest from cellar to
garret, from poultry-yard to garden, saying in a tone of pretended humility, "It's hardly worth looking at; my house is not




JO7SEPZI NOIREL'S REVENGE.                  3 1
a castle; it's not a bad one of its kind, though."  M. D'Ornis
followed him about, listening, saying little, yawning perhaps,
but not going away. They passed through the billiard-room
on their return. M. Mirion proposed to the Count that they
should have a game. He consented. He played remarkably
well, making several fine runs. As they were finishing their
second game, Mme. Mirion appeared, accompanied by her
daughter.  M. Mirion introduced the stranger to her. She
stared and changed color.  Her agitation increased when, her
husband having asked M. D'Ornis to stay to dinner, the latter
accepted the invitation, without waiting to be urged at all.
She took M. Mirion one side, and scolded him well for not having told her about his visitor. The idea of offering a count
nothing better than pot-luck!
"Don't get excited," he replied; " for heaven's sake, don't
get excited. Our guest is a man who can get along without
partridges and truffles."
He could not calm her, however. She ran in haste to inform
Mlle. Baillet of the great event, to beg her to put on her finest
ribbons, and to have her best wits about her, in order that she
might entertain their guest. Mlle. Baillet had moved in the
best society; she must know how to talk to a count. Then
she went down to the kitchen, where she held a conversation
with her cook, stopping every minute to cry out, " No fish, no
fowls, no game! I'm the most unlucky woman in the world."
However, as she was a woman of resources, she soon became
mistress of the situation, and putting on a large brown linen
apron, set to work to make a highly seasoned dish of her own
invention, and to prepare some cream fritters, which even Uncle Benjamin declared could not be beaten. Meanwhile, Aunt
Amaranth, while dressing her hair, had prepared herself to
furnish her part of the entertainment. When she descended to
the drawing-room, more amaranthine than ever, with her head
full of witty and agreeable remarks, she was surprised to find
Marguerite getting ready to play billiards with Count D'Ornis.
She had admitted that she sometimes played with her father,
and he had asked permission to test her skill. She had con



32          JOSEPH  iN'OIRlEL'S REVENAGE.
sented with that gentle grace, that amiable simplicity which
was so natural to her.  He told her that she would play a
good game, if she were better acquainted with its principles.
"Principles!" she answered, laughing; "ask my aunt if I'm
not well acquainted with them."
" Fortunately, they're easily acquired," he said as a slight
smile curled his lip, and he commenced giving her a lesson.
At the end of half an hour he told her that she had improved
wonderfully.  Mile. Baillet did not say a word; this game of
billiards did not please her. She had not relished their joking
about principles. At Schwerin, principles and rules of conduct
are very plentiful; Mile. Baillet had brought many of them away
with her, and when she prepared to ventilate them, she always
assumed an air of great importance. There are some things
too sacred to joke about.
They sat down to dinner at seven o'clock. Mme. Mirion
considered it necessary to apologize to her guest. He had
taken her by surprise, and that too on Sunday, when they made
as little preparation as possible at Mon-Plaisir, in order that the
cook might not have to work. These excuses were entirely
uncalled for: at Mon-Plaisir the ordinary fare was excellent,
and, on this occasion, the special dishes were delicious. Moreover, M. D'Ornis seemed to pay little attention to his plate; he
ate sparingly and talked scarcely at all; he kept looking about
him and taking observations. Mlle. Baillet tried to keep the
conversation moving; it seemed ready to die away every minute. By a series of laborious transitions, she at last arrived at
Mecklenburg, and began the story of the famous court ball,
which had been the great event of her life. M. D'Ornis did not
seem  particularly interested; he cared as little for both the
Mecklenburgs together as he did for what was passing in the
moon. When his turn came, Uncle Benjamin mounted the
breach, and began to talk about the wines of Burgundy. He
asked M. D'Ornis if his vineyards were nearer Beaune than
Nuits. M. D'Ornis replied that he had no vineyards, that there
was not one within ten leagues of him, as he lived in Upper
Burgundy, a grazing and wooded country. It was Marguerite




yOSEPHFI nOIREL'S RE VENGE.                33
who finally broke the spell. She had seen by M. D'Ornis's card
that he had served in the Third Zouaves. She asked him
about his army life.  He suddenly became animated. He had
fought in Mexico; he told the story of the taking of Puebla,
where he had received two wounds which fortunately had not
been serious. He spoke earnestly, without referring to himself,
and his eloquence produced a deep impression on his hearers.
Mme. Mirion fairly drank in his words. Now and then she
nudged Mile. Grillet who sat next to her, saying in a low tone,
" How well he talks! just listen to him."
Puebla being taken, however, he relapsed into his former
gloomy silence. He looked straight before him twisting the
ends of his mustache. In vain, after they had gone into the
drawing-room, did Marguerite assail him with new questions;
he answered her only in monosyllables. At ten o'clock he rose,
said good-night, refused their offered carriage, lit a cigar, and
started off on foot. When he had reached the end of the avenue, he sat down on a large stone and remained there a long
time, his hat pushed forward and his cigar between his teeth,
gazing sometimes at the stars, sometimes at the dusty road.
What was he thinking of? His revery would have lasted until
dawn perhaps, if a large dog that was prowling about the road,
and to whom this dreamer seemed a suspicious character, had
not rushed at him, barking furiously. Enraged at being thus
disturbed, he rose, picked up a stone, and threw it with all his
might at the offender, who ran off howling. After this performance he started toward Geneva, where he arrived in the
early hours of the morning. While this was taking place, there
were many comments and criticisms exchanged at Mon-Plaisir.
Scarcely had M. D'Ornis left the room, when Mme. Mirion approached her husband, and patting him softly on the cheek,
said, " What a dear, good man you are, Mirion, to bring that
gentleman here! That's the kind of man to know, so elegant
and distinguished! What a noble air, what noble manners!
You would know he was a count, just to see him get up and
sit down again.  Then that story he told us.... How my




34          7OSEPII  POY'IEL'S REVEN'GE.
heart beat! I thought I heard the cannon, the grape-shot,
and the trumpets. It seemed as though I was in Mexico."
Her enthusiasm was so intense that no one dared to say a
word, always excepting Uncle Benjamin, who never neglected
an opportunity to take down (as he expressed it) his dear sisterin-law. "If your Count," he said in his sarcastic way, "knows
how to talk, he knows how to hold his tongue too. As soon
as he had finished taking Puebla, he sat a whole hour without
opening his mouth. It was nothing but pride, if I'm not mistaken. Confound it! he said to himself, I won't exert myself
for such common people.  I noticed too that your table didn't
please him. He ate scarcely any thing at all. You ought to
have had truffles for the gentleman.  I believe now he's
laughing to himself over his dinner, his host, and the whole
concern, in fact."
" You've got a quick tongue, Benjamin," she answered sharply. " We can't have any pleasure here, without your crawling
over it like a caterpillar, and whenever we eat any thing in this
house, we always get some of your hairs in it. Count D'Ornis,
himself, told your-humble servant he thought her fritters were
excellent. If he didn't eat much, it was probably because his
wounds have affected his appetite, and if he said nothing, it
was because he preferred to let those talk, who are all the
time saying silly things that no one cares any thing about."
Delighted at having put his sister-in-law in a passion, Uncle
Benjamin was about to pursue his point; but M. Mirion, as
usual, interfered and separated the combatants. "You know
well enough, Puss," he said to his wife, " that Benjamin loves
to tease, you can't prevent it; besides, in well-constituted
governments, there always is an opposition party.  Uncle
Benjamin is the Left of the House; he is a loyal Left though, I
can tell you."




CHAPTER  VI.
M. D'ORNIS CALLS AGAIN.
Mme. Mirion retired to her room at an early hour; she felt
that she must be alone. While Count D'Ornis sat motionless
on the stone, she was no less quiet in her arm-chair. Although
the Count had not during the evening addressed a single compliment to her daughter, Mme. Mirion had more than once
caught him casting side-glances at Marguerite. " Could such
a thing happen?" she thought. " No, it would be too good; it
was not possible." She did not sleep well, she was dreaming
through the whole night that a white mouse was scratching at
the door, which partly opened now and then. The mouse was
iust coming in, when a gust of wind blew the door quickly to.
This dream was symbolical. The white mouse represented a
rash idea which was moving about Mme. Mirion's brain,
scratching and trying to get in; but her good sense, that stern
guardian, drove it away, in spite of all that she could do.
The next day, the other members of the household were all
occupied with their daily duties, thinking no more of Count
D'Ornis; Mmie. Mirion, however, had him constantly in her
mind. During the morning, she felt a presentiment which was
afterward realized, showing conclusively that she had good reason to trust her own sagacity. After lunch, she said to her
daughter, who was in morning costume, " You're not going to
keep on that shabby gray dress, are you, Marguerite?"
"Why, mamma, you know we never have any calls on Monday."
"Something tells me that we'll have one to-day,' she answered. "Dress yourself up, my pet; it's best to be on the safe
side."
Marguerite good-naturedly went up to her room to do as her
mother had requested. She soon came down again, this time




30         y.7SEPI NOIREL'S REVENGE.
handsomely dressed. Making a low courtesy, she said, " How
do I look now?"
" You look lovely, my dear. A young lady of your age always ought to be prepared. Here, put this rose in your hair;
you know flowers are very becoming to you."
"   dear! I should think you expected an emperor or a king
to-day," she answered with a laugh.
"Do as I tell you. I love to see you looking well. You've
one fault though, you laugh too much. If you're not careful, it
will spoil your mouth.  It's very easy to make a pretty mouth;
all you have to do is to say fomme once in a while......
Try it; saypo omme. You'll see..... "
"Porzme, pommie," said Marguerite looking in the glass.
" Yes, it's very pretty; but I would rather sing, I think."
She sat down at the piano and began a song.  Mme. Mirion,
who was sitting by the window, engaged in fancy work, now and
then raised her eyes from her embroidery to look out. Suddenly she was seized with a strange trembling; she had just
noticed, at the turn of the road, a black spot approaching MonPlaisir. She kept her eyes fastened on it, while gradually her
face grew brighter; it came nearer and nearer, and finally turned into the avenue. She said nothing to Marguerite, who was
still singing, her back turned toward the door, so that she did
not see M. D'Ornis enter. The Count waved his hand toward
Mme. MIirion, and stood silent, waiting for the song to be finished. Marguerite sang it through, then shut the piano, and
turning round, perceived the enemy. She colored a little and
seemed embarrassed for a moment, looking handsomer than if
she had said iomwzme a dozen times.
" That's the way she sings every day," cried Mme. Mirion,
" without practicing at all."
"What would you say, sir," added Marguerite raising her
hands in a comical way, "if you should hear my Sunday singing!"
" I prefer what I heard just now," he answered bowing. " It
pleased me very much."  This was the first compliment he
ever paid her; it also was the last.




yOSEPHI NOI'EL'S REVENGE.                    37
Mme. Mirion proposed to the Count that they should take a
walk about the grounds.  She wished to exhibit Marguerite in
the open air and in the sun, to prove that her beauty was not
afraid of the severest test. She also wished to show him the
whole of Mon-Plaisir. M. D'Ornis evidently was prepared for
whatever might be required of him. On the way, they picked
up Mile. Baillet in the garden; her anecdotes this time proved more successful than before. M. D'Ornis, who had made
a firm resolve to be agreeable, listened without winking, to the
long catalogue of virtues of the grand duchess's mother, which
polite attention raised him very high in the estimation of the
former associate of the aristocracy. Mme. Mirion, for the first
time in her life, thought that Aunt Amaranth talked too much
of Mecklenburg.  She kept constantly interrupting her in order
to bring her daughter forward. She said in a loud voice, "' Marguerite, you understand botany; what is the name of that little
lilac flower?  Marguerite, you understand astronomy; what
quarter is the moon in now?" " I must tell you, Count," she added, " that my daughter is running over with science. The education of young ladies, nowadays, is carried to such perfection,
especially in this country! She has been for five years at a
boarding-school, where they learn every thing, positively every
thing. All the professors there are first-class men.  Marguerite
was associated with young ladies of high birth, and was very
intimate with them; but she left all these fine people to come
back to her old mother. She has a remarkably good disposition; she is easily pleased and is happy everywhere. I say to
her sometimes, Do try to have one fault; I don't like to have
you too perfect ".... Then stopping a moment to pick up a
small white stone from the gravel walk, she continued, " Marguerite, you understand mineralogy, what is the name of this
pebble?" "I call it a pebble;" answered Marguerite. "That's
all I learned about it from my ten first-class professors." Poor
Marguerite knew not what to do, to avoid this flood of compliments and questions which her mother rolled upon her. She
finally began to laugh heartily, and her glance met that of
Count D'Ornis, who, in spite of his usual gravity, also laughed.




38          7OSEPH NOIREL'S RE VENaGE.
This interchange of merriment did more to make them understand each other, than a long conversation on astronomy could
possibly have done.
As they were thus talking, they finished their walk around the
grounds, without the time seeming at all long to M. D'Ornis.
When he took leave, Mme. Mirion asked him if she should not
have the pleasure and honor of seeing him  again.  He
answered that he should start for Chamouni the next morning,
should stay there several days, and on his return would come
to say farewell to Mon-Plaisir. Mme. Mirion stood gazing
after him until he reached the end of the avenue; then, imitating the voice and accent of Uncle Benjamin, " You may rest
assured, sister-in-law," she cried," that this gentlemen is laughing to himself at his host and the whole concern, in fact.....
What a disagreeable creature that Benjamin is. How I should
like to see him now; how I would give it to him!" Fortunately for him, Uncle Benjamin did not come home to dinner; he
very prudently kept away. By some instinct he was always
warned of any good fortune that befell his sister-in-law. The
very days when Mme. Mirion calmly awaited the moment of
her triumph over him, the loyal opposition would not appear at
Mon-Plaisir; it would be impossible to give it to him.  M.
D'Ornis's second call left Mme. Mirion in a state of nervous
excitement that began to tell upon her health. This time the
door had opened, the white mouse had gone in. What had
yesterday appeared absurd to her, now seemed likely enough
to happen. When she considered the facts, and reflected that
some day this great event might take place, that some day, perhaps, she could publish the news through the city, the villages,
and the country houses round about, she was seized with nervous tremblings and twitchings, while her brain kept constantly
in a whirl. She was like a fisherman, whose highest ambition
it is to take a perch or carp, and who sees an immense trout, a
real salmon-trout, approaching his net; he begins to tremble,
his breath comes short and quick. Great hopes are always accompanied by great apprehensions; Mme. Mirion dared not
yet believe in her good fortune. Her manner changed. She




JOSEPHI  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.              39
became taciturn; no one seemed, to her mind, worthy to be
made the confidant of her dreams, her impatient wishes, and
her fears. A week passed. What had become of M. D'Ornis?
Nothing had been heard of him. The good old lady felt her
hopes grow smaller day by day. She was cross and fidgety;
she scolded every body, not excepting her daughter, who, in
her happy heart, cared little whether Count D'Ornis were alive
or not. M. Mirion asked his wife, "What's the matter with
you?" She answered him, " If you don't know, there's no use
in telling you."




CHAPTER  VII.
A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.
It was about ten days after M. D'Ornis had set out for Chamouni, when one afternoon, toward four o'clock-it was the
thirteenth of the month and a Friday-M. Mirion, taking the
fresh air on his door-step, saw his man suddenly appear a little
way down the street.  M. D'Ornis, walking directly up to him,
asked with a grave face, for a few moments' private conversation. M. Mirion took him at once into his office. His first
thought was that M. D'Ornis wanted to borrow some money of
him! " Al! my fine fellow," lie said to himself, " I'm not taken
in so easy as you think, perhaps. All hands on deck, and stand
ready to receive the enemy." Imagine then his stupefaction,
when the Count, taking a seat, said directly, in a clear, calm
voice, " M. Mirion, I have come to ask your daughter's hand."
M. Mirion gave a start and clung to his chair to keep from
falling. All the furniture in the store seemed to be dancing a
hop-waltz around him.
"What was that, Count?" he asked with a scared look.
"I repeat, M. Mirion, that I have come to ask your daughter's hand."
There was a short silence, during which M. Mirion tried in
vain to collect his thoughts. He kept saying to himself, "Is
he joking? Is he trying to make a fool of me?" This proposal
astounded him, and almost took away his breath.
M. D'Ornis grew tired of waiting for his answer. " Listen,"
he said, " I will explain myself.  Mlle. Mirion is too attractive
for you to be surprised that, from the first moment I saw her,
her grace and beauty should have made a deep impression on
me. I am a man of forty-five, however, and am not likely to
do a foolish thing; at my age one reasons and calculates; I




JOSEP1' iA 07IiEL'S RE VENAGE.               4I
have taken time for reflection, you see.  For some years I have
been tired of my lonely bachelor's life; I wish to taste domestic happiness, as I understand it, and I believe your daughter
will make me happy as my wife.  In the first place, she is a
Protestant, and I have always been determined that I would
marry no one but a Protestant; I have a holy horror of confessors and confessionals. I want my wife to tell me every thing,
and to say nothing about my affairs to any one else. In Catho.
lic countries they pretend that Protestant women are wanting
in grace and softness, that they are affected, reserved, and independent.  Seeing your daughter has convinced me to the contrary. She is so charming, she has such grace of manner, such
cheerfulness, such good taste, and yet is so simple and so modest, that I'm delighted with her.  She has every womanly grace
and virtue; I should be proud and happy if she were my wife,
and I have returned fron Chamouni to tell you so."
" Really, Count,' answered M. Mirion, "I feel highly honored.... I don't know.... I didn't expect... I must talk with my
wife about it.... Are you sure it's so?.... Perhaps you may
be mistaken.... It's true my business has prospered.... Perhaps.... Yes, I'm afraid the dowry.... "
" The dowry!" interrupted M. D'Ornis. " I don't wish any.
That's another of my ideas. I think a woman should belong
solely to her husband, and, for this reason, should receive every
thing from him.  The patrimony of the Counts D'Ornis has
greatly diminished since the beginning of the present century;
the Revolution made sad havoc with it; but even now, in interest and rents, I have an income of twenty-five thousand francs.
That is more than is really necessary to make a man happy, if
he has simple tastes, like myself, and wastes nothing for the
sake of vanity. If you wish it, I will put you in communication
with my lawyer, who will give you any information you may desire on this subject.  Monsieur Mirion. I will make a settlement on my wife, which shall be hers during my life and after
my death; but no dowry, either large or small, if you please!"
Rising as he spoke, he continued, "Do as I have done,
my dear sir, take time for reflection.  Above all, I beg of you,




42          JOSEPHII IVOIREL'S RE VENGE.
let your daughter make her own free choice. I start to-morrow
for the Oberland; a week from  now I shall be at Zurich.
Write me there at the Baur Hotel."
With these words, he bowed and moved toward the door,
followed by the astounded M. Mirion, who, in his confusion,
had put his handkerchief on his head, and was wiping his face
with his velvet cap. "What will Marianne say?" he cried at
last,
This was his first thought, and the first sentence that he had
been able to complete. He immediately sent an order to his
coachman to have the carriage ready, then called to Joseph,
"Come, young man, hurry up! I've a tremendous appetite.
Confound the business! Let's go to dinner."
Joseph noticed that his employer's manner was very strange;
he seemed excited, like a general who had just carried a
Malakoff and Redan. During the whole route, M. Mirion kept
constantly grumbling at the slow gait of his horse. " Drive
faster," he cried to the coachman. "If your horse has got only
three legs, why don't you say so?"
Joseph did not understand this feverish haste.
Jumping from the carriage, M. Mirion ran to the drawingroom, where his wife sat alone.  He approached her with a
jaunty air, caught her by the waist, and spun her twice around.
Then, looking her straight in the eyes, he said, "I'll give you
a hundred, a thousand chances. Guess it if you dare."
She grew very red, but did not try to guess. " What is it?"
she asked. " What's the matter?"
"The  strangest, most extraordinary, most unheard  of
thing!"
" Don't keep me waiting; out with it! quick!"
He told her at last. At the first words, she grew very pale,
uttered a cry, and sank into an arm-chair. M. Mirion was about
to throw some water in her face, but she made a sign to him to
stop, to give her time to recover herself. When she had regained her power of speech, she broke out in a torrent of questions, mingled with exclamations which prevented her from
hearing his replies.  M. Mirion finally placed both his hands




JOSE'EPIH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.               43
over her mouth, saying, " Let me talk now, you can have your
say after I've finished."
After he had explained every thing, going into all the details,
after she had twenty times cried out, "This is worth living for,
Mirion; we have drawn a prize!" he said to her, " We're not
through yet, Puss.  I must speak to Margot. She must have
time to think about it, for I promised she should be free to
choose; she must say yes or no just as she wishes."
He had already left the room, when she caught him by the
coat.
"What are you going to do?" she cried. " You men have
such a rough way of saying things. I know better than you do,
how to prepare our pet."
With these words, she ran quickly up the stairs that led to
Marguerite's room, opened the door, pushed it to again with
her foot, threw out her arms, and cried, " Come and kiss your
mother, Countess D'Or-nis." Thus she understood the great
art of oratorical preparation.
Marguerite was busy putting her room in order.  She would
allow no one else to do this, for fear that some of her treasures
might be broken. She turned round and looked at her mother,
her arms swinging, a feather-duster in her hand.  She wondered what all this meant, she thought her mother was only joking. "Kiss me, Margot," repeated Mme. Mirion. "He loves
you, he adores you, he came himself, to ask your hand." Then
snatching the duster from her, she continued, " What are you
doing? Don't you know that dusting will spoil your hands?"
Drawing her daughter to the window, she gazed upon her for
a moment; then kissing her eyes, those beautiful, brown eyes
that worked such miracles, she said, "I guessed right.  You
love him, don't you, darling? How glad I am, that it is so!"
"Love whom?" asked Marguerite, who had not yet recovered from her first surprise.
"Why, Count D'Ornis, to be sure."
" Is it true? Did the Count?.... "
"Of course it's true....  Poor darling! you ought to have
told me; I knew you loved him though."




44          7yOSEPH'  NOIREL'S REV ENGE.' How can I love him? I hardly know him."
That's a fine reason!" answered Mme. Mirion, growing
angry. "Love always comes suddenly. When I was your age,
I one day saw your father from my window crossing the Fusterie, and I fell in love with him at once."
Marguerite could not help laughing.  "I'm not so tenderhearted," she answered. "I don't think I could ever love a
gentleman I didn't know."
"Perhaps," her mother said, raising her voice, "perhaps
you think Count D'Ornis is homely and awkward...."
" I didn't say so."
" Perhaps he's deformed, hump-backed, bandy-legged...."
"  ood heavens! Must I marry all the men that are not
hump-backed.... "
" Perhaps you don't like his manners....
" Oh! yes I do; I think he's very elegant."
"Then it's the way he speaks that you don't like. He can't
express himself, he stammers... "
" Not at all."
"That story of the battle he told us...."
"Interested me very much."
"Those two wounds he received at the taking of Puebla.... "
"I'm  sorry he received them, and I wish he could forget
them altogether."
"There, I knew you loved him!" said Mme. Mirion. Then
turning toward her husband who had just entered the room, she
cried, "She loves him, she loves him; it's all settled! I'm the
happiest mother in the world."
" Ta, ta, ta," said M. Mirion, who had at last recovered his
self-possession. " There's no hurry, and Marguerite has plenty of time to think about it, and make up her mind whether
she loves him or not. To start with, I'm going to call a family
council to-night. My father used to do this on all important
occasions, and he always found it a good thing.  Benjamin will
be here to dinner, every body will be on hand, and we all can
freely speak our minds. Two heads are better than one, you
know."




CHAPTER   VIII.
THE FAMILY COUNCIL AND ITS RESULT.
This idea of a parliamentary discussion did not suit Mme.
Mirion at all; but, her husband insisting on it, she finally
consented; she would, at all events, she thought, have an opportunity, that very evening, of hearing her wonderful story told
to the whole family. What would her brother-in-law say to it?
How he would stare! The members of the privy-council were
notified that immediately after dinner there would be a session
with closed doors, in the drawing-room, for the discussion of an
important subject.  The dinner was dull, solemn even. All
present felt in the air itself the approach of some great event.
The discreet Joseph, to whom nothing had been said, suspected
that something was brewing, and was troubled.  As soon as
he had finished his coffee, seeing that he was in the way, he retired to his room.
Then they all took their places; they formed a circle round
the president, who stood before the fire-place, awaiting his
words in the midst of a religious silence. Marguerite sat a
little to  one side, near the light, her eyes fixed on  her
embroidery.  Her face revealed nothing; but more than once
she broke her thread. After an impressive exordium, M. Mirion
told his story, which produced a startling effect upon his hearers. Glances of astonishment were exchanged and a confused
murmur passed through the group.  Mme. Mirion, red as a
poppy, drank in their surprise as a connoisseur in wines sips a
delicious nectar. She had succeeded in producing a sensation.
"My dear friends," said M. Mirion in conclusion, " we did
not think it right to make a decision without first consulting
you. It is the happiness of my daughter, whom you all love,
that is concerned. I hope you will all say freely and conscientiously what you think.  My cousin, Mlle. Grillet, has the
floor."




46           70OSE'i  AVOIRELS REVENGE.
Cousin Grillet, whose timidity almost choked her, begged
earnestly to be excused from the unexpected honor; but they
all urged her so strongly, that she was compelled to speak.
Changing color with each word, she stated that her feelings,
her surprise.... in short, she could not exactly express her
meaning, but they could easily see what joy so wonderful an
event had caused her. She had her share, her small and modest share in the glory thus shed on all the family. Still, if they
would excuse the liberty she took, there was one shadow resting on her happiness; she feared the slanders and criticisms
of the envious. Tall trees attract the lightning; great good
fortune excites remark. Would not M. Mirion be accused of
not understanding his position, of forgetting the rank from
which he had sprung? The world is so malicious! One other
thought troubled her: was not M. D'Ornis a Catholic? That
was a matter to be considered. What would their pastor, who
had instructed Marguerite in religious things, think of it?
What would his wife, who insisted so on every question of the
catechism, think of it?...."
" What would his maid-servant, his ox, and his ass think of
it?" interrupted Mme. Mirion, who was boiling over with impatience. " Let them think just what they please! I guess we're
able to answer for ourselves."
This interruption and the fierce eyes that were glaring at
her, threw Mlle. Griilet into utter confusion; she stopped short,
and when at last she found her voice, made no more objections,
but expressed in advance and without any reservation, her approval of whatever her worthy cousin and his excellent wife, in
their great wisdom, should decide upon.
Aunt Amaranth then took the floor, and resolutely maintained that Mme. Mirion was right, that it was impossible to please
every body; that it would be a shame to change their plans on
account of what envious and foolish people might say. It surely was Providence that, by so extraordinary an event, had
procured for Marguerite a home so worthy of herself, her
beauty, her grace, her angelic disposition, and her desire to do
good to every body.  She was born to move in good society,




7OSEPI Z NVOI'REL'S RE VEYLVGE.             47
she could not but be successful in it; with a little experience,
she would not be out of place in any circle, even in the court
of Schwerin. Moreover, M. D'Ornis seemed to her to possess
all those qualities which ought to make a woman happy; he
was not frivolous and trifling like most of his countrymen.
A single glance proved that he was a man of thought and great
good sense, full of judgment and experience, rich in all domestic and social virtues. Finally, it would be folly to permit such
an opportunity and such a providential husband to escape
them; if they should do so, they would never afterward cease
to repent it.
" That's the way to talk!" cried Mme. Mirion, jumping from
her chair and throwing her arms around Aunt Amaranth.
When Uncle Benjamin's turn came, he sang a very different
tune. " Since you do me the honor to consult me," he said, " I
am decidedly opposed to the projected marriage."
"Hadn't you better get your rule, so that you can demonstrate it more correctly?" sharply cried his sister-in-law.
He did not allow himself to be put out by this interruption,
but went on as follows: "Vanity is an evil counsellor. I understand very well, sister-in-law, how delightful it would be to say,'the Countess, my daughter,' or'my daughter the Countess.'
It sounds well, and makes the gossips stare; the devil take it,
though; it's your daughter's happiness that's concerned; don't
make that a sacrifice to your paltry vanity. When Margot
becomes a countess, will she have a better form or lighter
heart? I fear that, on the contrary, she will lose that charming gayety and sprightliness which, if I may so express it, are
the sunshine of this house. As certainly as the three angles of
atriangle are equal to two right-angles, so sure is it that we can
not be happy except among people of our own class, and in the
midst of that society in which we have been reared, and to
which we have become accustomed. Where the kid is tied
there it must browse; if it run away, Heaven save it from the
wolf! Believe me, it's not in a castle of Burgundy that Margot
will find peace of heart and happiness. How do you know but
that these D'Ornis, the devil take'emr! will look down upon




4S           7_OSE' II NOIREL'S lEL ViiNGE.
her, will try all the time to make her feel that she's not a fit
associate for them? I can see them now, treating her with disdain, asking her in a sarcastic way about her father, the carpenter, and her dear mother, who spent her younger days in
measuring linen in a store on the Fusterie. Even her husband.... I grant you, he may love her better than the apple of his
eye; but love soon tires, and he will see that he has married
beneath him, and will revenge himself by treating her with
contempt and scorn.  Remember what Sancho Panza said on
leaving his island, and finding his ass again:'Nothing becomes a man so well as the employment he was born for.'
And he added,' Here will I leave the wings of vanity that raised me aloft, to be pecked at by martlets and other small birds.'
Sister-in-law, marry your daughter to some good tradesman
who is like ourselves and doesn't think that he has sprung from
the thigh of Jupiter; to a worthy man who will not despise his
wife, nor his wife's mother, and to whom you can say as Mme.
Jourdain did,' Sit down and take dinner with me, Son-in-law.'"
Thus spake Uncle Benjamin, rudely, harshly, perhaps with
some good sense.  Marguerite stopped her work a moment,
and slyly putting out her hand, tapped her uncle on the shoulder in token of her friendliness and approbation. Fortunately,
Mme. Mirion did not perceive this by-play. " Don't talk to me
about your professors of mathematics!" she cried. " They
get a knowledge of the world by logogriphs."  Mme. Mirion
confused logogriphs with logarithms.
" I'm not through yet," continued Uncle Benjamin.  "Who
is this Count D'Ornis that you're all so infatuated with? Do
you know him?  Not a bit of it. He is to you an unknown
quantity, an X. Are you even sure that he's a count? Remember what has occurred in other cases at Geneva, and take
warning.  May it not be that this pretended count is only an
adventurer, a knave? I'll bet my eyes there's not a Castle
D'Ornis in the whole of France.  Besides all this, I can read
faces pretty well; his does not please me. There is something
in his eyes that betokens no good.  Perhaps you will object
that he doesn't wish the dowry. That's just what looks sus



7OSEPH/I NOIRELS RE VENVGE.                49
picious to me. There's something singular in such disinterestedness. Real counts don't marry below their rank without a
dowry. This gentleman asks for nothing that he may have
all; he'll worry your last cent out of you.... Look out for
the whole tribe of D'Ornis and their castles in Burgundy, and
may Heaven protect the innocent! That's all I've got to say."
Uncle Benjamin's peroration threw cold water on the meeting. With the exception of Mme. Mirion, who wished her
brother in the infernal regions, every one thought: Sure enough,
there's neither count nor castle here; this would have been a
most unfortunate marriage.  In spite of the way in which his
wife shrugged her shoulders, M. Mirion could not help admitting that there was some reason in what his brother said, and
spoke as follows:
"That is true. We must get more information.  We must
be careful and keep the reins in our own hands. M. D'Ornis
proposed to put me in communication with his lawyer; but he
didn't tell me this lawyer's name, and, stupidly enough, I didn't
think to ask it. That confounded man goes like a locomotive.... Quick! quick! I've come to ask your daughter's hand.
Quick! quick! I'm  going to the Oberland.... Now, where
can I find him? Where can I write him? Bah! We can get
along without him and his lawyer. We don't want to know,
within a thousand francs, what our man's fortune is. All we
care for is to be sure that he's a count, that he has a castle
and estate, and that his reputation is good in his own country.
The best diplomacy is secret. We will send forth an emissary,
a trusty agent.... Wait, I have it.  There is in this very
house a good lad who is devoted to us, and who, besides, although a workman, is very discreet and very shrewd.  He will
go for us, and, without appearing to be doing so, will get all
the information. On his return, Joseph Noirel will tell us
whether my brother's doubts or Mme. Mirion's shrugs are
most to be depended on."
Full of this idea, M. Mirion ran at once to tell Joseph Noirel
about it. He found him in his room, where he was sitting
without a light.




50          yOSEPfH  NOIREL'S REVENGE.
"Hallo! my boy," he cried," "what are you doing in the
dark? Are you asleep?"
" I guess I was," he answered in a voice that did not sound
at all like that of a sleepy man.
He quickly lighted his lamp. His employer sat down in front
of him, resting his elbows on the table. "You are a good lad,
Joseph," he said, " and I have every confidence in you. You
know I keep no secrets from you, and have always looked on
you as one of my family. Great events are now taking place
with us, and you can render us a very important service, in a
very delicate matter. You have great good sense, you are very
prudent, I know that I can count upon you."
Thereupon he told him the whole story. Joseph trembled
beneath the unexpected blow.
" What's the matter, Josephin?" cried M. Mirion. "How
pale you are! Where did you get your white face from? I've
noticed for some time you were not well. You don't eat any
thing, your cheeks are hollow, your eyes dull. A little rest
and the fresh air of Burgundy will set you right. You lucky
dog! you're going to travel for three or four days. If the news
is good, I give you leave, on your return, to stop at Beaune,
and empty a bottle or two to Marguerite's health and mine;
but don't drink on your way there. A secret diplomatic agent
ought to have his wits about him, and his tongue under his control."
Stunning as was the blow, Joseph's pride rose under it.
"You can depend on me," he said; " I will do this for you."
There was a single question he was burning to ask M. Mirion;
but his courage failed him. He talked about almost every
other subject; and, finally, in an affectedly careless tone, inquired, "Does she love him?"
*" How do I know?" answered M. Mirion. " No one can tell.
Before dinner, I heard her through the door, saying to her
mother,' I don't know him!' That's sensible enough. Pshaw!
all depends on the news you bring us. Don't worry, she'll
love him, if we want her to. She's got such a good disposition."




CHAPTER IX.
JOSEPH VISITS BURGUNDY.
While walking through the grounds with M. D'Ornis, Mme.
Mirion had questioned him about his castle, and, although he
was not fond of questions, she had learned from him that it was
situated three or four miles from Arnay-le-Duc, the chief town
of the canton of Cote-d'Or. Joseph's orders were to take the
Paris train, stop at Beaune, and pass the night there. At the
inn where he slept, no one knew any thing about Ornis. This
was a good beginning, and his first night was a peaceful one.
He took the diligence for Arnay the next morning. It was
his first journey. His acquaintance with the world had heretofore been limited to Geneva, its lake, and its valley inclosed on
all sides by high mountains. The country that he now saw
astonished him. He enjoyed leaving the vehicle and climbing
the steep slope that separates the vineyards from the highlands.
He gazed intently on the vast rolling plain which he was leaving, the gradually rising hills which lay before him, and the distant line of the horizon. Either the novelty of the scene, or
the pleasure of moving about and breathing another air, caused
every thing to appear to him in glowing colors; he was in one
of those happy moods in which the soul is contented with the
world, lending it charms which are quite fictitious.
He reached Arnay about noon and first took time to eat a little lunch. His appetite was soon spoiled, however, for the first
person passing by, on being questioned, told him where Ornis
was, and pointed out the road leading to it.  Joseph thanked
him with a surly air, and started on his way. He consoled
himself by the reflection that though the village was genuine
enough, it was not yet certain about the Count.




52          JOSLPtI  iNOIl'REL'S REVENGE.
Every road does not lead to Ornis. I know not whether
Joseph intended it, but he turned off to the right, and was soon
lost in the woods. A peasant that he met set him right again.
It was already evening, when from the crest of a hill, he saw
on the banks of a little stream, a village, and on the rising
ground beyond it, a terrace shaded by two magnificent elms.
In the foreground of this terrace was a church; behind the
church appeared a vaulted passage leading to a gate, which
opened on a large court. Beyond this court was an immense
castle with battlements and turrets, behind which could be seen
a park, so thickly wooded that it seemed almost black. At the
sight of this genuine castle, Joseph began to believe in Count
D'Ornis, and his brow darkened. It was with a heavy heart
that he entered the White-Horse Inn, situated at one end of the
village, and called for supper.
After finishing his meal, he went into the kitchen, and entered into conversation with Mme. Guibaud, the hostess, a stout
Burgundian woman with a jovial face, who had been a widow
for three years, and was very desirous of marrying again. She
was trying to put a broken coffee-mill in order.
"You don't know how to do it!" said Joseph to her, and
taking it from her hands, he set to work to mend it. This
pleased the woman, and made her his friend at once.  She
inquired where he came from. He replied that he was aworkman who had had some words with his employer, and was going
to look for something to do at Dijon or thereabouts; he was in
no hurry though, as he had some money on hand and wanted
to see the country.
" You live in a pretty place," he added. " Who does that
castle on the hill belong to?"
"What a question! To Count D'Ornis, of course."
"A tall, light-complexioned man, that I saw riding in a carriage a little while ago?"
"No, he isn't light or tall, and he never rides; he is the
greatest walker in the country. I don't know who you met;
they say the Count is traveling in Switzerland."
There could be no longer any doubt: the Count was as real




JyOSEPH  NOIREOL'S RE'VENI GE.            53
as the castle. Joseph was silent for a moment, and then asked, " What kind of a looking man is the Count?"
" le's got a mouth, a nose, and two eyes in his head. What
do you want to know for?"
"I just now met two men on the road who were talking
about him. I heard one of them say, Count D'Ornis is an ugly
fellow, he makes his wife very unhappy."
"You heard wrong. The Count hasn't got a wife. The only
Countess D'Ornis is the Count's mother, who lives with him.
It isn't likely he will ever get married. He's forty-five years
old, and don't seem to care much for the ladies. He thinks a
good deal more of his dogs and gun."
"He's eccentric, then."
" I suppose so. The fact is, some people like him, and some
don't. Another thing about him is, he's more careful of his
words than of his money. You might meet him in the village
twenty times, without hearing him speak."
"I don't like people who don't talk," said Joseph. " I always
think that they're concealing something."
As he spoke these words, a man in a blue blouse leaned
toward the fire to light his pipe, and said to Joseph, "You're
right, my boy. And those men who told you that the Count
made his wife unhappy were right too."
"How can that be, if he hasn't got any?" asked Mme. Guibaud.
" What difference does that make?" replied the other in an
angry tone. " He might have one, and, if he did-good Lord!
how I should pity her."
"Do you think he'd beat her?" asked Joseph.
" Within an inch of her life, by thunder!"
"Poor woman! a real Genevieve de Brabant!" said the hostess with a loud laugh that displayed all her teeth.
The man in the blouse was in no laughing humor. ",He's a
savage," he continued, "and I'd like to see any one who'll say
the contrary.  It was in Mexico that he changed so. Last
winter, a boy happened to hit him with a snowball; he flew at
him like a wild beast, and almost killed him on the spot."
"He was mad, Father Chazet; any body else might do the




54          7OSEP1H  NOIREL'S REVENGE.
same," answered Mme. Guibaud. " Generally, he's very kind
to every body."
" Pshaw! that was before he went to Mexico," said the other
firing up. "Mexico's the place to change a man for you. He
came back as furious as a wild boar. We'll settle accounts with
him some day. If the wheel ever turns...."
He did not finish his sentence, but started off smoking his
pipe and humming the air of the Qa Ira.
Joseph had devoured Father Chazet with his eyes, every one
of his words was engraved on his memory. The hostess now
addressed him, saying, " You ought to know that Father Chazet
is a Red, who used to poach on the Count's grounds. He warned him twice; the third time he was caught in the act, arrested,
and punished."
" I don't care for that," said Joseph; "he seemed to me a
very sensible man."
" Father Chazet is a dotard," said a little old man with a
shaking head, who had drawn near the fire to warm his legs,
for, summer and winter, he was always cold. He was the
school-teacher, M. Machillard.  "Count D'Ornis," he continued, "is a good man, God bless him! He isn't proud at all,
and treats every one alike. You won't find another such count
in the whole world. There's only one thing I blame him for:
he will not marry, he will leave no children. He has given the
people a fountain and a laundry; he -ought to present them
besides with twenty little D'Ornis to preserve the breed."
"Twenty little D'Ornis, M. Machillard! Wouldn't that be
too many?" asked Mme. Guibaud, who always seemed disposed
to take a medium course.
" Make it ten then, and don't bother me," answered M. Machillard with a cough.
"Why don't your Count get married?" Joseph asked.
" Hasn't he ever thought about it?"
" Oh, yes! he used to have some idea of it; but for two years.... You know, since the accident, the murder.... "
" Don't bring up those horrible stories again," said Mme.
Guibaud. " They've kept me awake many a night already."




7OSEPH  NOIREL'S REVENGE.                 55
" Vhat murder?" said Joseph, laying the coffee-mill down
upon the table.
"Don't you know about it? Where have you been?" asked
the old man glancing compassionately at him.
" I came from Lyons," answered Joseph. " We heard nothing about it there."
M. Machillard drew his snuff-box from his pocket, took a
pinch of snuff between his thumb and finger, and spoke as follows:  These are the facts, young man: Count D'Ornis had
an intimate friend, who lived near here at Riviers, the Marquis
de Raoux. They always were walking, hunting, and dining together; one couldn't live without the other. They were like
Orestes and Pylades. Now it happened...."
" I'm going to leave you," said the hostess. " How can you
tell that dreadful story?"
" It happened in this way," continued M. Machillard in a
dogmatic tone. " The Marquis had come, as usual, to take dinner and spend the evening with Count D'Ornis. It was the 26th
of February, I867. It was terribly cold that day, and the wind
blew hard enough to tear the cattle's horns off. And now,
young man, I'll show you what presentiments are. It's my
habit always to go to bed at exactly ten o'clock. I often tell
Mme. Machillard that regular habits are what preserve a man;
I say the same to you, and hope you'll profit by it. Well!
somehow that evening I couldn't make up my mind to go to
bed. I had an uneasy feeling in my stomach and mylimbs....
It seemed exactly as though something was going to happen.
Suddenly the clock struck twelve...."
" And you heard a shot?" interrupted Joseph.
Nonsense, young man!  Do knives shoot?  That's all....you're too young to listen.... As I was saying, at twelve
o'clock the two friends parted.  The Marquis went away,
crossing the park. When he had reached the little bridge that
leads to the wood lying between here and Riviers..... Are you
listening now?.... When he had crossed this little bridge, a
man, who had been hid behind an oak, sprang upon him and
buried a knife in his heart. He fell, stone dead! There's a




56          JOSEPIi NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
lesson for you! There was an elegant young man, who had
just been to dinner, a good dinner too, and who was feeling
very merry, for in those times they drank good wine at the castle.... There he was, stone dead, just as I told you. The
body was not found till morning, and then the news was carried to M. D'Ornis. You ought to have seen him. He tore his
hair, and caught his friend's body in his arms, as though he
would call him back again to life. Such despair I never saw?
It was heart-rending. The whole village will tell you so."
" Was the murderer discovered?" inquired Joseph.
" Good gracious! what a hurry you're in.  I can't tell you
every thing at once. Yes, the murderer was discovered, and
held for trial.  He was a tramp, a kind of gypsy; he was arrested about twenty-four hours afterward. He denied every
thing to the very end, the villain; he defended himself with the
greatest obstinacy. Unfortunately for him, there were spots of
blood on his blouse, and the Marquis's watch and pocket-book
were in his pocket. Will you believe it, the poor, innocent fellow maintained that he had picked them up at the foot of an
oak. Does justice listen to such tales as that? Is it likely that
a pocket-book and watch would go out walking in the woods
alone?  A knife was found on him besides.  It is true, an
expert pretended that this knife had a loose handle, and that it
could not possibly have killed a man; but it was proved, as
clear as day, that the villain had loosened it after he struck
the blow."
"Didn't they ascertain," said Joseph, "'whether the knife
fitted the wound?"' Do you pretend to doubt the infallibility of justice, young
man? Judges are in the world to judge.  If we suppose that
they can make a mistake, where will it lead us to? As I was
going to say, they guillotined the villain-he didn't manage to
escape."
At this point, M. Machillard took his pinch of snuff and
cried, " You can come back now, Madame Guibaud, I've finished my story."
"I'm glad to hear it," she answered, entering the room.




JOSEPIH  NOIAREL'S REVEAGE.                57
" In conclusion," he continued, " since the Marquis's death,
Count D'Ornis has been another man. Before that time, he
used to seek amusements, and was fond of play.... He played
a great deal, and sometimes with high stakes.  After his
friend's death, there was a change. No more pleasure, no
more cards. For eighteen months, he didn't speak more than
twenty words.  Thin and sad, always dressed in black, he
moved slowly about looking like a funeral. He scarcely ever
left the house. He passed whole weeks shut up in his room,
with his doors and windows hermetically sealed, as though he
wanted to make the house a tomb; he let the grass grow in the
court, and the nettles in the garden.  It's only during the last
six months that he has returned to life; he has begun to
walk and talk again, and last of all has gone to Switzerland,
to pass away the time in climbing mountains. Notwithstanding this, as long as he lives, he'll not forget his friend, the Marquis, which goes to prove that he has a heart of gold, and that
Father Chazet is a malicious fellow and a gossip-monger."
With these words, M. Machillard returned his snuff-box to
his pocket, bowed to the pot-hooks and the saucepans, and
went away. "I hope it's true about his having a heart of
gold," said the hostess to Joseph; "but you ought to know
that M. Machillard is under obligations to the Count, who once
gave bonds for ten thousand francs for him."
" From  which I conclude," said Joseph, " that the man and
his story are both to be regarded with suspicion...... There's
your mill mended," he added. " Good-night to all."




CHAPTER X.
JOSEPH'S ADVENTURES AT CASTLE D'ORNIS.
The clock was striking ten. Joseph walked along with his
hands in his pockets, climbed to the church, and pushed on to
the castle gate. It was closed and locked. Following the directions which M. Machillard had given him, he turned back
and followed the road, until he reached a path leading to a little
wood, that lay upon his right. He entered this wood, and soon
reached a small rustic bridge spanning a narrow stream, the
banks of which were high and steep.  Although Joseph was
courageous, he could not repress a shudder as his eyes fell on
the scene before him. The full moon shone brightly on the
spot where the murder had been committed.  It seemed to
mark the place, to say,'Tis here. The trees surrounding it
appeared like sad and silent witnesses of the crime. Joseph
at last decided to cross the bridge which was closed at the other
end by a gate. He climbed over this barrier without difficulty,
and entered the park; he had not yet lost his former taste for
scaling walls, and entering other people's grounds without permission. Notwithstanding the bright moonlight, he could not
find a path, the grass grew so thickly and the trees were so
close together. More than once he tripped against a stump,
more than once his hat was caught in the branches of an oak.
Finding he could make no progress, he started to go back
again. As he was about climbing the gate a second time, his
eyes fell upon a man standing at the other end of the bridge.
This man, whose back was turned toward him, had a thick ratan in his right hand, while with his left he held an immense dog
by a chain. He was leaning over the rail of the bridge, looking
at the flowing water. Soon he muttered in a low tone, "Be
still, old fellow! What is done can't be helped."  Was he




JOSEPH  NOIREL'S -REVErNGE.                59
speaking to the Marquis's ghost or to his dog? The latter took
the liberty of answering him with a mournful howl; perhaps he
had scented Noirel. The man broke into a volley of oaths,
looked carefully about him, and seeing no one, silenced the dog
by threatening him with his stick, after which they both silently went away. Joseph waited a little for them to disappear,
then crossed the bridge, and went back to the inn.  He did
not sleep well at all, and kept tossing about during the whole
night. A traveling salesman, who slept in the next room, heard
him cry out twice, "No, you can't have her.  She is mine
He awoke early the next morning, with a headache. After
breakfast, he decided that before leaving, he would again visit
the castle and the park, so as to be able to answer the innumerable questions which Mme. Mirion would be sure to ask him.
This time he found the gate open, crossed the large court without meeting any one, and descended by a spiral staircase to the
garden, where he found a few wall-flowers, and here and there
some faded roses. When he had crossed this garden, he
turned round to look at the face of the castle. He was struck
by the sad and gloomy appearance of this vast Gothic structure, which was large enough for ten families to live in, yet
served as the home of only one man. A projecting portion of
the building was all that was in repair, and seemed to be the
only part inhabited; the rest had been given up to the rats and
spiders. It seemed like an immense body struck with paralysis and living only by the brain and heart.  Turning his eyes
from the flowerless garden to the gray old walls, Joseph muttered to himself, "What would become of her gay spirits
here?" He penetrated into the park, which was funnel-shaped,
and turned his steps toward a pond surrounded by weepingwillows.  The ground was covered with dead wood, and the
trees formed dense and impenetrable thickets. Joseph, with
great difficulty, forced his way through to the stagnant pool,
which had formerly been a fish pond, but was now inhabited
only by frogs.  The bending willows hung their mournful
branches in the water, entirely concealing the sky from view.




60           yOSEPIt  iVNOIREL'S RE VENAGE.
In the centre of a lawn on the border of this pond, stood the
marble statue of an officer, with sword in hand. This statue had
lost its nose in the battle of the centuries. Its pedestal bore
this inscription: " James D'Ornis, Field-Marshal and Commander of the Order of the Holy Ghost, born in 1635, killed in the
battle of Nerwinde in I693."
Joseph turned back toward the castle. He approached the
inhabited portion, the doors and windows of which were open.
Ascending a flight of steps, he saw before him a large drawingroom, furnished luxuriously, but showing signs of age. An
upholsterer with two assistants was engaged in refitting some
portions of the room. An old woman, seated in an arm-chair,
with a short crutch at her side, was watching them at their work,
talking at the same time to a tall, awkward fellow who was
standing in front of her, sucking the ivory handle of his cane.
This old woman had a very important air, a harsh and crafty
face, a pointed chin, thin, compressed lips, projecting eyes that
looked like agate marbles, and a sharp glance that was expressive of any thing but goodness, and that accorded well with her
shrill voice.
" I tell you again, my dear Du Rozan," she said, " my son is
an ungrateful fellow. He has written me only twice since he
went away, and then such letters! They were just like telegrams; you know the style of them:'Arrived at Geneva,
bought a watch; arrived at Fribourg, heard the organs; arrived at Berne, saw the bears; arrived at Zurich, took a sail on
the lake; the weather is pleasant; I am well, and hope you
are the same.' That's all there is to them. Well, well, you
know my weakness; I've always adored this monster, and
suppose I'll continue to do so to my dying day."
At this moment she perceived Joseph standing by the door.
" Who are you?" she cried.  " What do you want?"
" I'm a poor workman traveling through France," answered
Joseph in a whining tone, such as he had assumed in his younger days, " and if you could help me.... "
" Get out!" she cried in an angry tone.  "This is no place
for tramps and beggars."




7OSEPI  N;OI'EL'S  RE VENGE.                 6.
"Tramps! believe me, madam...."
She raised her cruch: "M  y dear Marquis, put that man
out!" she said.
" I am out now, don't let the Marquis trouble himself," answered Joseph, changing his tone and beating a retreat.
As he crossed the stone-paved court, he perceived the mysterious stranger, whom he had seen on the bridge the night before. He was talking with a servant dressed in livery.  This
individual, who had a large parrot nose red as a beet, bushy
side-whiskers, also of a beautiful red color, and the airs and
manners of a bully, was saying to the servant, " So your master
isn't in, eh?"
" He's in Switzerland, I tell you, Monsieur Bertrand, and we
don't expect him home for several weeks."'' The devil! that doesn't suit me," he answered striking the
pavement fiercely with his stick. " Can't you give me his address?"
" How can I if he doesn't write?.... The Count will no
doubt be sorry".... he added with a deferential air; "but he
could not have expected.... Generally you visit Ornis in the
spring."
"It seems to me I can come whenever I please," answered
the other in a surly tone; "besides he ought to have let me
know."
"Certainly, certainly," said the servant trying to appease
him; "but you know it isn't my fault. Won't you step in and
take some refreshments, Monsieur Bertrand.  The Countess
is at home, and will be glad to see you."
" The devil take your old Countess!  She'd let me stand
two hours without offering me a chair or a glass of wine."
During this time, the large dog, an ugly-looking animal, after
moving about Joseph for a moment, began to bark furiously,
and crouched as though to spring at him.  Fortunately, Joseph
forestalled his attack by giving him a kick that lifted him completely from the ground.  "Who are you, I'd like to know?"
cried M. Bertrand turning toward Noirel.  " Don't hurt my
dog!"




62           7OSEP1H NOIREL'S REV'ENGE.
"I won t, if he'll leave my pantaloons alone," replied Joseph.
"None of your insolence," answered M. Bertrand.. "My
little friend, I think I'll have to give you a flogging."
Joseph, whose blood was up, rolled up his sleeves, and
marched straight upon the enemy with clenched fists and a defiant air. So confident was his manner that M. Bertrand fell
back a step. The servant stepped between therm.
"What are you doing here?" he said to Joseph in a haughty
tone.
"I found the gate open," he answered, "and walked in to
look about; your castle is such a hospitable place though, I
don't think I'll trouble you again."
So saying he rolled down his sleeves and quietly walked
away, followed by the howlings of the dog, who was careful,
however, to keep at a respectful distance.  He soon reached
the inn, where he proceeded to settle his bill at once.
"You've been to the castle?" asked the hostess in a pleasant tone.
" Your castle is a pretty place!" he answered. "It's as cheerful as a jail, and there's a complete assortment of agreeable
creatures there, from the dog that snaps at your legs to the old
woman who's as attractive as an angry porcupine."
" Pshaw!" said she, " when the Countess is out of humor.... She's a woman who does a great deal of good, though."
" Heaven help those she assists. She must be very good to
them.... By the way," he added, " who is M. Bertrand?"
" Is M. Bertrand here? He must have arrived this morning then.  He's a dealer in bric-a-brac, as they call it, who
now and then comes into Burgundy to buy old iron, furniture,
and clocks...."
"He makes himself at home at the castle, anyhow."
" The Count seems to like him very well. He has some old
things he sells him, I believe.  But what makes you so curious
about all these people?"
He answered quickly, " My good woman, I've always hated
cabtles and every thing inside of them."




7)OSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                  63
"You're a Red, then, like Father Chazet?" she said in a reproachful tone.
"As red as I can be," he answered, " and for good reasons,
too."
Notwithstanding this profession of faith which she disliked,
it was with regret that Mme. Guibaud saw Joseph depart. She
was greatly pleased with him, and asked him if he would not
visit Ornis again.  He answered with a bitter smile, " It isn't
likely, unless I take a notion to drown myself some day; I saw
a pond over there that would be just the place for it."
What's the matter, my boy?" she cried. " Does any thing
trouble you?"
"How can any thing trouble me?  My old master used to
tell me every morning that I was a lucky dog, and of course it
must be so."
And then, angry at having so nearly betrayed himself, he
assumed a reckless, jovial manner, which was by no means
natural, caught Mme. Guibaud round the waist, and kissed
her on both cheeks.  She struggled some, but evidently was
not displeased. Joseph turned suddenly and ran away. Standing on the door-step, she watched him moving off, shaking her
finger at him when he turned to look at her. She little thought
that as he left her he wiped his lips, although, all things considered, Mme. Guibaud was rather an attractive woman. This
adventure put her in a pensive mood for several hours, and
when Father Chazet came in during the afternoon to empty a
bottle or two, she said to him, " Did you notice the little sunburnt fellow who was sitting yesterday by this table?  He's the
kind of workman for you.  He's as genteel and well-bred as
any gentleman."
As soon as he reached the crest of the hill, from which he
had the day before first looked on Ornis, Joseph threw himself
down upon the grass, leaning back against a rock. It was a
quiet spot; the clock had just struck twelve, and now all was
still. Joseph heard nothing but the distant hum of a mill, and
the occasional tinkling of a bell belonging to a solitary cow that
was browsing in the woods. Opposite him, on the other side




64          yOS,-'IH  AZOA'REL'S REVEAAGE.
of the valley, rose another hill, on the summit of which stood
a dead oak, the mournful outline of which was clearly marked
against a smoky sky.  On the right, something glittered in the
sun above the trees; it was a vane on one of the towers of the
castle. Joseph angrily turned away his eyes. That castle was
his enemy, an enemy that threatened to deprive him of all he
held most dear, to rob him of the treasure of his dreams.
His stern good sense did not allow him to deceive himself.
"They will not be influenced by what I tell them," he thought;
" they are governed by vanity rather than affection. What do
they care for their daughter's happiness? As soon as they find
out that this man is really a count, and that in his park there's
a statue of one of his ancestors, who was a field-marshal and
commander of the Holy Ghost, their foolish heads will all be
turned."  His only hope, for hope never dies, was that perhaps
Marguerite would  make some  resistance.  " I know  well
enough," he said to himself, "that if she had been with me this
morning, that park, pond, and castle, that old witch who threatened me with her crutch, that bridge where the murder was
committed-all those things would have made her heart-sick,
and Ornis would have seemed to her a sad place, where it would
be impossible to smile. If she ask me, I'll tell her just what I
think, in spite of every body." His hope, however, was very
slight. It had all happened so quickly. The very rapidity with
which his misfortune had come upon him terrified him; he saw
something fatal in it.  "And yet," he thought, "it might have
happened otherwise."  He shut his eyes and began to dream.
He saw himself standing at his bench; near him was seated his
wife, gazing on him with fond eyes, and these eyes belonged to
him: he had the right to shower kisses on them.  He thought: She is mine and mine alone!" His heart was melting in his
breast. He gloried in his fate, his trade, his hard work, his
poverty which she shared with him, the brown bread which they
broke together, and the garret that concealed their happiness;
life appeared as bright to him as the summer sky, as sweet as
those mysterious, entrancing notes which the nightingale utters
to the moon in the gentle nights of spring.  There was some



yOSEPIH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                65
thing, however, in his dream that jarred on his imagination.
Marguerite's beauty was not of the type that is usually hidden
in a garret, her hands were too white and delicate to wash the
dishes or mend the clothes, and her queenly grace would ill become a mechanic's wife. The idea of clothing that symmetrical
and charming form in calico or coarse cloth! The idea of imprisoning in a hood those wavy tresses, with which the sun and
wind loved to sport! No matter how often Joseph began his
dream, it fell to pieces every time, like a house of cards.
" No, she can not be a workman's wife," he thought.
" Where can a man be found who is worthy of her, even in her
own class.  She does not belong to the society in which she
lives; she is far superior to those about her; she is like a
swan shut up in a poultry-yard.  She can not stoop to me, she
will not let me rise to her! If the stupid conventionalities
that govern society had not placed a barrier between us, she
would have taken the trouble to find out that I had a heart
worthy of her, and, strong in our love, we would have helped
each other to bear the world's scorn. I have always been treated in her presence, however, as a person of no consequence,
and although we have lived under the same roof for two years,
she has never once thought seriously of her wretched companion, nor known whether he had a heart.... Why did I ever
meet her? Why has cruel fate opened to me the garden in
which grew this beauteous flower, and condemned me to look
at it, to become intoxicated with its perfume, and then said to
me, " Touch it not, another must pluck it before your eyes!"
Then he began to find fault with fickle fortune, to reproach it for
its favors more cruel than its hardships. " You have placed a
man's heart within my breast," he cried, " and will not allow
me to follow the yearnings of that heart." He opened his
eyes; his elbows were resting on his knees, his chin was supported in his hands. He gazed for a long time at the dead oak
in front of him. It seemed to have been struck by lightning;
it was still standing, but there was no life in it.  Joseph
thought, " Shall I be able to keep from falling, too?" He rose.
Frantic with rage, he picked up an enormous stone, and threw




66           yOSEPJH  NOIREL'S REVENGE.
it against the rock with such force that it flew to pieces. Two
children were passing along the path, singing,
Bourguignon sald,
L'epee au cote,
La barbe au menton,
Saute, Bourguignon.
They saw Joseph; the expression of his face was so ferocious that, thinking him a raging madman, they fled into the
woods, shrieking with terror. Their cries brought Joseph to
himself. He picked up his cap and knapsack, and started on
again.  He reached Arnay just in time to catch the coach for
Beaune, where he passed the night. The next afternoon, he
was in Geneva.
He arrived at Mon-Plaisir about two o'clock. Mme. Mirion,
whose eyes were sweeping the road like a field battery, saw
him in the distance. She ran down to the gate, pale with emotion and out of breath, crying out, " Is he a count?" He nodded his head. She asked no more, but ran at full speed up the
avenue, swinging her arms like an old-fhshioned telegraph, and
shouting so loud as to be heard all over the neighborhood,
" Just as I told you! he is a count, a real count!"




CHAPTER XI.
MARGUERITE PROVES THE AMIABILITY OF HER DISPOSITION.
Joseph Noirel had judged rightly concerning the effect his
story would produce. As soon as he reached the house, he
was taken to an inner room, where he had an interview of two
hours with M. and Mme. Mirion. He told them all that he
had seen and heard. Mme. Mirion was provoked that he laid
so much weight on certain details, which she thought unworthy
of notice. What did she care for Chazet? He was a poacher
and a drunkard. Were those the kind of people to listen to?
The satirical portrait which Joseph drew of the old Countess
brought to her lips a smile of pity. " You don't know what
you're talking about," she said. " What seems like pride to
you is simply a noble grace and majestic manner, which sets
well on great people." Only one thing made a disagreeable
impression on her, that was the bridge where the murder had
been committed.  Fortunately, the murderer was not living.
She promised herself that when she became intimate with her
son-in-law, she would persuade him to take away the bridge
and put up another a little further down the stream.
When Joseph had concluded, M. Mirion said to him, " Well
done, my son! You have accomplished your mission like the
intelligent lad that you are. Now give me your opinion. You
are not ungrateful, you love us, and you want Marguerite to be
happy as much as we do. I've often consulted you on important matters; this is of the greatest consequence. I won't
promise to agree with you, but I'd like to know what you
think."
" Why, Thomas, you're out of your mind!" cried Mme.
Mirion.  "If you're going to consult every body...."
"Joseph isn't every body," he answered, interrupting her.
"I've always considered him as one of the family."
" What do you care about what I think?" inquired Joseph.




68.OSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
" I care enough about it to ask you for your candid opinion.
Are you for or against this marriage? You must have some
idea about it."
" My opinion, then, since you desire it," answered Joseph,
"is that Count D'Ornis is an eccentric person, as my good
hostess of the White-Horse expressed it. He has lately met
with some misfortunes which have greatly troubled him. He
is trying to forget them, and he thinks that getting married will
help him to accomplish this. Chance threw your daughter in
his way, and he was pleased with her. This doesn't surprise
me, for I believe that he wishes to marry a tradesman's daughter. He thinks that he can mould her to his will, and accustom her to his habits and mode of life, which are different from
those of ordinary mortals. Can he make her happy? Neither
you nor I can tell, and perhaps it would be well to inquire further into the subject. Otherwise, it's nothing but a lottery."
" Suppose it is a lottery," cried Mme. Mirion in her shrillest
tone. " Isn't every marriage a lottery, I'd like to know? When
I married you, Mirion, did I know who you were, or whether
you would make me happy or not?"
"You are exaggerating," he replied. "The Mirions were
well known here. And, besides, my face was a sufficient guarantee...."
" While Count D'Ornis," she answered, "looks like a BlueBeard, I suppose. Did you see any claws on his hands?"
"Ah! madam," said JQseph, "such people, if they have
claws, don't show them to every body. They keep them in
their pockets, and only take them out on great occasions."
Mme. Mirion bounced upon her chair; her patience was entirely exhausted by this last remark. She stretched out her
hand toward Joseph with a tragic air, and said, "You are our
enemy! You have sworn to defeat this marriage.  I believe
you are bribed by my brother Benjamin."
At these offensive words, Joseph started to his feet, pale with
anger. He was about to speak, when M. Mirion interposed.
"You don't mean that, Marianne," he said to his wife in a
coaxing tone. "Joseph our enemy! Have we not brought




2OSEPH1  NOIREL'S REVENGE.                 69
him up? If it had not been for us, would he not be lying now
in the dirt where his father died? He knows well enough it's
so, and he loves us all, you and me, every thing here, even to
the dogs and chickens.... I asked him to speak.  He won't
say any thing more. You shall have your own way about it.
My father used to say that mothers ought to marry off their
daughters."
Mme. Mirion was pacified at once. "We mustn't forget,"
she said, "that Marguerite is to decide for herself. I know
where to find her, and will give her all the information she desires, without exerting the least influence upon her; but I
know, beforehand, that she will be of my opinion. I must request you, Joseph," she added dryly, "not to have any private
conversation with her; it would not be proper."
" There's no necessity for saying that," remarked M. Mirion
as he patted Joseph on the head. " Noirel never speaks without good cause. He's both grateful and discreet."
Mme. Mirion went into the garden to look for her daughter;
she found her arranging a basket of flowers for the dining-room.
Marguerite was not ignorant of the fact that the secret agent
had returned, and I should not dare to say that she was not agitated a little. However that might be, she turned toward her
mother, saying in a sprightly way,  Well! what news?"
Her mother made her sit down beside her on a bench. " My
dear child," she said in a trembling voice, "Joseph has returned from Ornis, where he has talked with a great many people,
among others with the hostess of the White-Horse, a very repectable woman, who is far superior to her position.  The
report which he has just given your father and myself surpasses our expectations. In the first place, notwithstanding all the
tirades of your uncle Benjamin, there is an Ornis. I knew well
enough there was. It's a beautiful village, situated in a very
fertile valley, and inhabited by excellent people. There you
will find magnificent trees, delightful scenery, mountains, sparkling streams, a clear sky....
"Except when it rains," interposed Marguerite.
"Don't pick me up so," answered Mme. Mirion, a little net



70          yOSEPII NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
tied. " I don't deny that it occasionally rains at Ornis. Did I
say it never rained there? As regards the Count, he is a real
count; the origin of his family is lost in the night of time. His
park is full of statues of his ancestors. One of them, James
D'Ornis, was a commander of the order of the Holy Ghost.
Do you understand, a commander? He covered himself with
glory in the crusades. He died somewhere, I don't remember
the place, in I693."
"According to that," said Marguerite, " if my books tell the
truth, he must have covered himself with glory under Louis
XIV."
" That's exactly what I told you. He was, it seems, the favorite, the king's most intimate friend.  Near his statue,
there's a lake, my dear, a love of a lake, surrounded by weeping willows, whose forms are mirrored in the water.  It's very
nice to be able to say,'my lake.'"
"My lake is not mine yet."
"The castle is superb, monumental, I may say," continued
Mme. Mirion.  "You could make ten castles of it, if you
wanted to."
"How about the owner of it? Tell me something about
him. In the first place, is he an old bachelor or a widower?"
" Oh! don't think because he's a few years older than
you...."
"A few! a good many, it seems to me. I believe he's twice
my age."
"What if he is? As long as a man is not fifty, he isn't old.
What difference does his age make, if he's young at heart?.... No, my dear, he isn't a widower. A widower! how ridiculous! He has been waiting to find the wife of his dreams. He
had sworn that he would never marry unless he found this ideal
being; fate caused him to meet her at Geneva."
"Did the hostess of the White-Horse tell Joseph all this?
You frighten me. I am no such ideal being; I don't feel like
one.... But tell me, what did you hear about his character?"
" Oh! he's such a man! How can I describe him! The
whole village is full of his goodness and generosity. This very
6          6~~hV ~~U    I~ ~lrVII




YOSEPH ANOIREL'S RE VEGE.                V I
year he gave the people a fountain and a laundry. Some of
the stories told about him would bring tears to your eyes. He
had a friend, the Marquis De Raoux, who was accidentally killed. He fell from a bridge. How can I tell you about Count
D'Ornis.... He couldn't rest until the murderer was caught
and punished."
"What murderer?  I thought the Marquis fell from  a
bridge."
" How you confuse me with your interruptions! I meant,
until he had destroyed the bridge that caused his friend's
death. At any rate, that's what Noirel told us. But that's
nothing to what followed. He shut himself up in the house
for eighteen months, and wouldn't eat or drink...."
"Eighteen months without eating!" interrupted Marguerite
again. "I don't believe that the commander of the Holy-Ghost
even...."
" Oh! how you pick me up! I didn't say that he ate nothing at all; but that he ate so little that any one else in his place
would have starved. I want to know if a man who loves his
friends like that, wouldn't love his wife and make her happy!"
"Perhaps so," answered Marguerite; "only, if he waited
for her to fall from a bridge...."
"You must stop this trifling; it's entirely out of place."
"Please don't get angry. I only judge, from what little I
know of Count D'Ornis, that he is not as tender-hearted as you
think."
"The idea of a young girl like you knowing any thing about
such matters! At your age you can't understand how the
warmest hearts hide their feelings by an appearance of coldness and indifference. Count D'Ornis takes after his mother.
She is a very respectable lady, but it seems that she, too, is
very quiet and sedate. What do you suppose she was doing
when Noirel saw her?  She was preparing a surprise for her
son. She had noticed that the hangings of their drawing-room
were a little faded, so she had sent for an upholsterer, and was
having new ones put up. Nothing was good enough for her
dear son. Just imagine this countess, this real countess, doing




72         O7SEPI NOIREL'S REVEI NGE.
this! That's the way the D'Ornis understand domestic life!
There! I've told you every thing I could think of, both for
and against this proposition; now you must decide."
"What! right away?" cried Marguerite, who was becoming
frightened.
"Yes, right away. There isn't a minute to lose; your father
must send an answer to-night."
"Please let me talk with Joseph about it first."
" What! talk with Joseph!" interrupted Mme. Mirion, growing red with indignation. During the last half hour she had
taken a spite against Noirel. " Talk with Joseph! your father's
workman!... If I thought that you would presume to ask his
advice, or that he would dare to give it to you, he shouldn't stay
in this house twenty-four hours."
Marguerite was silent for a moment.  She was twisting a
jasmine branch in her hands, and the poor flower was suffering
sadly. " What would you think, if I should say no?" she replied at last in a low voice.
Mme. Mirion started to her feet as though pushed up by a
spring. " If you should say no," she cried, giving her daughter a terrible look, "you would be guilty of ingratitude toward
God. Have you not seen the workings of his hand in what
has happened here during the last two weeks? Have you not
seen that Providence, by an astonishing and miraculous dispensation, has wished to make us all happy, to recompense us
for all the care we have taken with your education, and for your
poor father's forty years of honest toil? If you should say no,
you would no longer be my daughter, and God would no longer keep you under his protecting care."
Like King William, Mme. Mirion had a bad habit of mixing
God up with matters that he cared nothing for; it is true
it was her particular God, and not the God of common sense.
She also resembled the King of Prussia in being exceedingly
obstinate; she never raised a siege until the place surrendered.
At last, Marguerite tired of war, said to her, " Well, you can
decide for me; I'll do whatever you wish."
Then she threw herself upon her daughter's neck, and




JOSEPH  NOJREL'S REVENGE.                   73
pressed her to her heart, calling her her treasure, her angel,
her darling child; after which she hurried away to find M. Mirion, whom she also embraced, saying to him, " I've left her free,
entirely free, to decide for herself. She says yes, but the poor
child is so agitated, that it's best not to speak to her. Don't
say a word, but run your letter over in your head. You can't
take too much pains with it."
After dinner, the family, whose curiosity as can readily be
believed was greatly excited, was informed of what had taken
place: this time, however, there was no consultation.  Mlle.
Grillet and Aunt Amaranth were full of congratulations. "' The
die is cast, my dear Benjamin," said Mme. Mirion to her brother-in-law, who had not spoken a word. "We are going to give
our daughter to this sharper, you unmasked so finely."
"Treat your daughter like the cabbages in your garden, if
you want to," he answered.  " I've told you what I thought,
and now, whatever happens, I wash my hands of it."




CHAPTER  XII.
COUNT D'ORNIS IS MADE A HAPPY MAN.
During this time, M. Mirion was engaged in thinking over
his letter to M. D'Ornis. This painful incubation made him
grave and taciturn. It was nearly midnight before his egg was
hatched.
The following was the result:
" MY DEAR COUNT: In answer to the very kind and unexpected request which I had the honor to receive from you, I
reply that I have informed our daughter Marguerite of your
intentions, and that after taking time for reflection, she has
given a favorable answer to the communication. Her mother
and myself feel deeply the value of an alliance between our
family and the glorious house of Ornis, more than one of
whose ancestors died on the field of honor in the reign of
Louis XIV. We are nothing more than plain, simple people;
but I can assure you that our Marguerite bears a spotless
name; morality and honesty being, so to speak, hereditary
among the Mirions. It is not without deep feeling, as you can
well imagine, that we accede to your gracious request. Our
daughter is our joy and pride, and her happiness is the great
aim of our lives.  We are very confident that you will make
her happy; on your side, you may rest assured that if God
gives you children, she will set them a good example, teaching
them all the virtues which she has seen practiced by her mother, and which have been taught her from her infancy.
" As regards the dowry, permit me to differ from you in regard to the desire which you were kind enough to express to
me. It is a principle among the Mirions that the wife should
contribute her share toward the family expenses, and as my
father often used to say, principles before every thing! This




7OSEPIr NAOIR'EL'S IREVENGE.                 75
is the foundation of all family happiness. God having prospered my business, I can easily afford to give my daughter a
dowry of 300,000 francs, say three hundred thousand, or fifteen
thousand francs a year, which will be her contribution toward
the general fund.  I remember your once saying to me in my
office, that a wife ought to belong solely to her husband. This
principle, I dare affirm, belongs alike to the D'Ornis and the
Mirions. I should be very sorry if you had the least uneasiness in this regard, or if you thought that, because Marguerite
brings you something more than her trousseau, it can at all lessen the respect she will always have for your desires. I promise you that she will always remember that noble precept of the
Gospel,' Wives, obey your husbands.'
" Please receive my deepest, most respectful, and, if I may be
permitted so to say, most affectionate regards, and believe me
to be,
" Your humble servant,
"THOMAS MIRION."
Before this letter was sent, it was carefully reviewed by
Mme. Mirion; if she was a little confused concerning Louis
XIV. and the Crusades, she was perfectly acquainted with her
grammar and her Poitevin.
Forty-eight hours later, M. D'Ornis, who had climbed up
some peak or other and just come down again, arrived in haste
at Mon-Plaisir. As he approached, he saw Marguerite on the
terrace; without noticing any one else, he went straight up to
her, looked her in the eyes a moment, and then took both her
hands in his, saying, "Thank you, you have made me very
happy."  He remained at Geneva only three days, being anxious as he said, to return to Burgundy, in order to attend to
important matters there, and to have his castle put in order.
During these three days, his actions and manners were every
thing that Marguerite could have desired. Although he addressed her neither with compliments nor protestations of affection, he evidently was in love.  He gave her speaking
glances and treated her with an air of marked courtesy and
respect, with which was mingled a kind of fatherly protection.




76          7OSEPZT  NOVIREL'S RE VENGE.
As regarded the domestic animals that formed what, in his
talks with her, he called the Mon-Plaisir menagerie, he bore
their questions and officious services with very good grace, and
succeeded in concealing his annoyance from them. He was
very polite to every body, and his politeness, though it was perhaps a little curt, proved very satisfactory, they all being so well
disposed toward him. Mme. Mirion went into ecstasies over
her future son-in-law; she almost worshiped him; she watched
every motion that he made, and repeated again and again his
words, in which she found a depth of wisdom that completely
overwhelmed her.
The marriage was fixed for the middle of the following month.
Before leaving, M. D'Ornis had a conversation with M. Mirion
in which the question of the dowry was definitely settled. Not
being able to overcome the obstinate resistance of the good
old man, he finally said, "Well, put in your fifteen thousand
francs a year. You can give it to your daughter as her own.
She can use it for her personal expenses and her charities."
The weeks that followed were undoubtedly the happiest of
Mme. Mirion's life. She lived in the clouds, and, as Uncle
Benjamin said, the Queen of Spain was not good enough to be
her cousin. There was not air enough at Mon-Plaisir for her
lungs, or light enough for her eyes. Sometimes she was perfectly serene, sometimes her happiness almost took her breath
away. She called on all her friends and acquaintances, going
from house to house to tell her story. With a satisfied look,
and a face lighted d giorno, she enjoyed alike the exclamations
of some and the ill-concealed jealousy of others. Every one
of her sentences began with, Our son-in-law, Count D'Ornis.
She no longer called her daughter Marguerite; she spoke of
her as the Countess, my daughter, or as our dear Countess.
When she unfolded the Geneva 7ournal one morning, and
read in the list of legal notices these words, " Contract of marriage between Count Roger D'Ornis of Burgundy, and Marguerite Mirion," she experienced a strong desire to surround
the number with a triple band of gold, and to invite the whole
editorial staff to supper. It grieved her that she could not




0OSEP1 NO IREL'S RE VENGE.                 77
climb to the highest tower of St. Peter's cathedral, there to
take a speaking trumpet and cry aloud to the whole Republic,
"Stupid people, hear me; in two weeks my daughter will be a
countess."
In the midst of all this tumult and confusion, Marguerite said
but little, except to talk about the trousseau with her mother,
or to prevent her from doing various absurd things. What she
thought may be gathered from the following letter, which she
wrote at this time to her bosom friend:
" MY DARLING NELLY: I must tell you all about it right
away, or it will kill me. Do you want to hear some wonderful
news, which I can scarcely believe myself, it seems so strange?
Come here and sit down by me, put your arm around my neck
and place your hand in mine, just as you used to do when, in
the long winter evenings, we read together in the school-room
Gonzalvo di Cordova and The Last of the Abencerrages. Now,
are you listening? This is the news: Marguerite Mirion is
going to be married.  He is about forty-five, is dark and
well formed; he has very piercing black eyes and hair a little
gray; he fought in Mexico and received two wounds at the
taking of Puebla; his name is Roger D'Ornis; he is a count,
and owns a castle in Burgundy. This is the way it all happened: he was passing through Geneva on the way to Chamouni; as he is very fond of old furniture, he went into father's
store to examine some cabinets, but found nothing there that
pleased him.'The handsomest articles are at my house,'
said father to him.' I'll be glad to show them to you; but I
give you notice they are not for sale.' At this point Marguerite
Mirion, dressed in pink, appeared suddenly upon the scene,
and interrupted this interesting conversation.  I don't know
how it happened, but Marguerite and the cabinets both made
such an impression on him, that he scarcely knew what he was
about. He came to Mon-Plaisir, saw the cabinets, and fell in
love with them; but father refused to part with his treasures.'Then give me your daughter instead,' he said,'otherwise I
shall get nothing.'' Oh! oh! we must have time to think about




78          yOSEPHI  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
that.''Very well, I'll give you eight days, fifteen hours, and
twenty-five minutes to think it over; but I positively must
have either your cabinets or your daughter.' With these words
he went off like a shot, and for eight days I thought it over.
The only reply that came to me, however, a reply which was
considered a foolish one, was,' How can I love him, when I
don't know him?''What has that to do with it?' was the answer;'don't you think he has good manners?''Certainly.''Doesn't he talk well?'' Yes.'' Is he deformed in any way?''Not at all.''There, I knew you loved him!' To all this my
only answer was,' How can I, when I don't know him.' My
wise mother replied that people never know each other well
until they have been married a year at least, and that, at all
events, I could not have any serious objections to a person I
did not know. Then she begged and entreated me.... She
told me if I refused she would never forgive me. The fact is,
if I had no reason for saying yes, I had still less for saying no
-and tired of disputing with her, I agreed to do whatever she
wished me to. He was at once informed of my decision, and
came back immediately; he had not changed his mind, you
see. He took both my hands in his, kissed them tenderly, and
said,'You have made me very happy.' Since he believes it, it
must be so. I will try my best, at all events, to make him a
good wife. I am a good daughter, and good daughters make
good wives, you know. But what a strange affair this is, Nelly! It all comes from being so fond of old furniture.... Mother is in raptures, she always speaks of me as her dear Countess.
I am.... how can I express it? I am astonished. I'm the
most astonished person in the world.
"I inclose his photograph; you must tell me frankly what
you think of him. I like his looks very well, only this photograph does not show that, at times, he is absent-minded. He
suddenly grows sad, not appearing to hear what is said to him,
his thoughts wander away I know not where, his face grows
long and solemn, his eyebrows come together, and a deep
wrinkle seams his forehead. The other day it frightened me a
little to see him so. What was he thinking of? where was he?




O7SEPIZ NOIREL'S RE VENAGE.                79
In Mexico, perhaps. He came quickly to himself again, however, and took up his sentence where he had left it off.
"I am not only astonished, but also somewhat confused.
After reading the Abencerrage, we promised each other that we
would never marry except for love. We knew a great deal
about that article. We agreed that love was something that
suddenly came and took possession of you, never leaving you
all your life; we called it a divine frenzy. Well, Nelly, my lot
is cast, I shall die without knowing what this divine frenzy is!
It is not the fault of circumstances; I believe that deep feeling
is foreign to my nature. I am too much of a Genevese, as
Aunt Amaranth  says, too  matter of fact, and, moreover, I am the greatest laugher you ever saw. I shall laugh
without trouble in my castle in Burgundy, and the castle and
its owner must laugh with me. You must take my place, Nelly, and be divinely mad for both of us. Some fine morning
you will find yourself face to face with some Ben-Hamet, who
will have fallen from the sky or sprung up from the ground; then
the frenzy will take possession of you, and remain with you for
life. You must tell me all about it, dear, and I will listen as
the children do to Mother Goose, half believing all you say.
" Now I must leave you, darling, mamma is calling me, oh!
so loud.  Something must be the matter....'Yes, yes, I'm
coming in a minute.'... You must answer me at once, and tell
me what you think of it all, and whether you believe I have
done right or not. Now, Nelly, don't be jealous; I swear to
you by Gonzalvo's sword, that you shall always have the first
place in my heart. You will answer immediately, will you
not? From a future Burgundian, who will love her Nelly forever.                                     MARGUERITE.
"P. S. Mamma called me to look at my presents, which
have just dropped from the clouds. They are exquisite, and in
perfect taste; they are a thousand times too good for me. It
is very evident he must have gone to Paris to buy them all."




CHAPTER  XIII.
A PAINFUL INTERVIEW.
After Joseph's return, Mme. Mirion was careful to keep him
away from Mon-Plaisir, until all the arrangements for the wedding had been perfected. She did not wish to have her son-inlaw meet a common workman in her house, and eat at the same
table with him. She also feared that in spite of her injunctions, Marguerite might try to talk with the secret agent concerning his journey; she was well aware of the effect which
is often produced by certain questions and answers on an unsettled mind. As there had recently been two or three burglaries committed in Geneva, which had caused a great deal of
excitement there, M. Mirion had pretended to be uneasy about
his goods and the money in his safe, and asked Noirel to sleep
in the store for a little while. The result was that for more
than three weeks he did not visit Mon-Plaisir.  This was
exactly what he wished; Mon-Plaisir and the preparations that
were going on there terrified him. His stay at Geneva was not
pleasant; he undertook a task there that was both painful and
fatiguing. He persistently endeavored to conquer his passion,
and despairing of ever becoming indifferent, he sought to
change his love to hate, to persuade himself that Marguerite
was repulsive to him. He kept repeating to himself, a hundred
times by day, two hundred times by night, that he had been
mistaken, that she was like the people about her, that she was
mean and narrow-minded, that she was governed by vanity,
that although she had pretended to hesitate, she had really taken the bait held out to her from the very first, and that her
joy at the idea of becoming a countess had supplied the place
of love and happiness. When at last he had, as he thought,




JOSEPH  AOVIREL'S RE VEVGE.                 81
convinced himself, his work was in an instant all undone by
the thought of two large, brown eyes, that glanced at him with
a frank yet saucy look, revealing in their clear depths a happy
indifference to all the petty follies that govern the world.
Those eyes were like two strangers that gazed, in a curious
way, at all the vanities about them, while it was evident
that they belonged to a foreign land. M. Mirion's safe was
well watched; Joseph did not sleep two hours of the night.
Almost as soon as his eyes closed, he would be awakened by
an intolerable sense of suffocation; he would sit up in bed, and
panting for breath, would rise and walk up and down the floor
till morning, tearing with his hands and teeth an inoffensive
shaving. If a burglar had appeared, I believe he would have
treated him as he did the shaving.
It was five days before the wedding, when Joseph, at the urgent request of M. Mirion, agreed to pass Sunday at MonPlaisir. There he saw Marguerite, who appeared more beautiful than ever to him; the near approach of the fatal day
rendered her pensive, and the paleness of her cheeks lent a new
lustre to her glance. Toward the close of dinner, Joseph was
seized with a sudden faintness, and came near crying like a
child. As soon as he could, he left the house, and directed his
steps toward the most, lonely spot in the place. Marguerite,
who wished to speak with him, succeeded in escaping her
mother's watchful eye. She followed the fugitive at a distance,
and saw him enter the woods. She came up to him, just as he
had thrown himself down under a willow, his face buried in his
hands. He was so absorbed inthought that he did not hear
her approach. She had to call him by name before he noticed
her; then he sprang suddenly to his feet. There was an angry
look upon his face.
" Are you in trouble?". she asked.
There was no reply. She moved back a step. " Do I annoy
you? Do you want me to go away?"
" This place is yours," he answered quickly. "I'm the one
to go away."
The bitterness of his reply surprised her.  " Why! what's




82          JOSEPH1  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
the matter?" she continued.  " Are you angry with me?
Have I offended you without knowing it?"
He could scarcely contain himself. He leaned back against
the willow, crossing his arms upon his breast, as though to still
the beating of his heart; his eyes were fastened on the ground.
"I can get nothing out of you," she said. " I should like to
know what's the matter, though. I've thought for some months
that you acted strangely."
What's that to you?" he answered with increasing bitterness. "Am I a person for you to think of, or be interested in?
Am I any body?"
" I believe you are sick," she said in a serious tone.
"I'm sick of life!" he answered in a deep, hollow voice.
She walked close up to Joseph, and said to him:
" You are in trouble. I want you to tell me all about it."
He felt his secret starting from his breast, but forcibly retained it there.  "Perhaps I am in trouble," he cried. "If it
suits you, you can have it so. I am happy though, very happy.
Ask the first workman you meet, and he will tell you I was
born lucky. I will sell out my good-fortune, very cheaply.
I will exchange it for a crust of mouldy bread. Do you know
what constitutes happiness according to my idea? It's to
eat and drink, to laugh and cry with your equals; it's to sit
with united hearts about a common table. Where are my
friends? I'm alone, terribly alone. I have no equals. I am too
low for some, too high for others. My comrades shun me and
hide from me; they look on me as a fugitive, a deserter. What
am I in this house? Nothing but a creature fed, lodged, and
cared for by charity. Those with whom I live owe me nothing,
while I owe every thing to them. This tree that protects me
from the sun knows well that I have no claim on it for shade.
It bestows it on me in charity, just as your questions are bestowed.  Oh! this feeling of obligation! It's a ball and chain
that I've dragged after me for ten years; I might better have
thrown myself, ball, chain, and all, into the first stream I
met!.... "
He had not finished, but his lips trembled, he could say no




yOSEPFI NOIREL'S REVENGE.                   83
more. Marguerite looked with amazement at his face distorted
by passion, at the angry curve of his nostrils, at his bloodshot eyes. She remained silent for a moment; then she said,
" Obligation, charity: what ugly words!"
Then, after another short silence, she continued, "I can't
understand it....You must be angry with some of us."
" I'm not angry with any one," he replied stamping his foot.
"I'm only sorry that I ever was born."
"Please don't!" she said, making a sign to him to stop.
" Sometimes we say things when we're angry that we would be
only too glad to take back again.... 
She went on: "You refuse to tell me your secret, but you
will reason with me, will you not?  I can reason pretty well,
though you may not think so. What do you mean by your
debt, by the ball and chain that you carry about with you?
You have paid your debt. You have given your services and
advice to my father, and have devoted yourself faithfully to his
interests.  He knows it well enough. If he sometimes says
things that displease you, you must not think he intends to
hurt your feelings. Do you believe that I approve of every
thing he says? He doesn't stop to think, that's all. You
mustn't take it so to heart. There's one thing certain, you
ought to have some settled arrangement with him. You are
very ingenious and intelligent, you are master of your trade.
Father is good enough at heart, but he never thinks of such
matters. If you'll give me your permission, I'll speak to him
to-night."
It was Joseph's turn to be astonished now.  Marguerite
had never spoken like this to him before. Although he had
thought he understood her nature, he had never suspected the
depth of this tranquil lake, or dreamt that this lovely girl, whose
joyous and contented disposition readily adapted itself to every
situation, had reflected so much on the affairs of life. " No; I
beg you to say nothing to your father!" he cried. " When the
right time comes, I'll speak to him myself."
"You can do better, you can let me know at Ornis, and I
will write to him. I never like to trust people who lose their




84           JOSEPH'    OIREL'S  EL VENGE.
temper easily; they always spoil what they undertake..... In
the mean time, if you wish to oblige me, you will drive away
those absurd ideas. Workmen, citizens, and counts are all
made of the same clay.  There's only one true aristocracy; it
has its members in the highest and the lowest ranks of society;
it is composed of all free and honest souls, who love what is
good and beautiful, and dare to despise the rest....Amen!
My sermon is ended."
He could scarcely keep from falling at her feet. " You are the
only one who thinks and talks like this, and you are going
away!" he passionately cried.
She drew her hand across her brow and softly sighed.' It's
true," she said, "I'm about to start upon a voyage on an unknown sea.  I ask God's blessing on the vessel that's to carry
me.  I am not like you, however, for I have faith in a happy
future. It's so nice to be happy! I'll try all I can to be so.... You'll think of me, sometimes, won't you? And here, to
help your memory.... "
She drew from her pocket a little box containing a silver
ring, in which two diamonds were sparkling. " I was looking
for you to give you this," she continued " I had this ring made
according to my own idea; these two diamonds were the first
that were ever given to me.  They were set in a breast-pin
that I wore for a long time. You see there's no doubt that
they are really mine.... I wanted to tell you.... You won't get
angry, will you? We have lived so long in the same house,
and to use your words, have eaten so long at a common table,
that I am something like a sister to you, and sisters can say
what they please. If you are ever short of money, or want to
do it for any other reason, you can sell these diamonds and
put false ones in their place.  The ring will remind you of me
just the same.... I should like better yet to have you give it
to your wife when you are married. It shall be her weddingring."
" When I am married!" he said with a scornful gesture.
" I shall never marry."
" Why! Is that another of your ideas, if I may ask?"




yOSEPI  NOIREL'S RE VEAGE.                 85
"The ring is too fine for me," he said.  Then suddenly
changing his mind, he took it without thanking her. He was
in great fear that his secret would escape him.
At this moment, Mme. Mirion's voice was heard calling her
daughter.  Marguerite held out her hand to Joseph, saying,
"Remember our understanding: when you're ready to go to
court, I'm to be your lawyer. I hope that in return you will
pray for my happiness. Come, you know all about Ornis, what
good fortune do you wish me?"
He took the hand which she was holding toward him; his
own was trembling and his face was pale. He looked steadily
upon her as he said in a broken voice, " I have a debt to pay.
I wish.... yes, I wish that you may be the most unhappy woman
in the world, and that you willneed a friend ready to die for
you."....Then striking his breast, he cried, " I am such a
friend."
As soon as he had uttered these words, he fled from her like
a thief. She gazed after him, amazed and stupefied. " What a
strange boy he is!" she said to herself. " I didn't know him as
I thought I did." Then she hurried toward her mother, who
was still calling her. She had a letter for her from Count D'Ornis; it informed her that he would be with her the next dav.




CHAPTER  XIV.
A NIGHT OF DESPAIR.
This conversation almost turned Joseph's brain. I do not
know exactly what he hoped, but he awoke the next morning
with the fixed idea of seeing Marguerite again and telling her
every thing. The sick toss restlessly about in bed, although
they know that one position is as comfortable as another. Joseph was so wretched that he wanted to suffer in some other
way, even though he suffered more. This time M. Mirion did
not invite Joseph home with him to dinner; Count D'Ornis
had arrived that morning. Joseph waited till night and then
set out on foot for Mon-Plaisir. His mind was so confused
that he could form no plan; he walked straight forward trusting to chance. As he ascended the avenue, he saw two shadows moving to and fro upon the terrace. He approached
them and hid himself behind a bush. The two shadows passed by him; they were Marguerite and Count D'Ornis.  She
was leaning on the Count's arm, listening to an amusing account of his last journey, and there was so much humor in his
recital that Marguerite laughed aloud. That laugh was terrible to Joseph, and in a paroxysm of rage, he rent his clothes,
lacerating his bosom with his finger-nails. That laugh swept
away what little hope was left; it ended all his dreams. He
fled back to Geneva, despairing, desperate, with a heart that
weighed down in his bosom like a lump of lead.
Two days afterward the contract was signed. The following
morning they were married according to the civil form, and in
the afternoon the religious ceremony took place in the Protestant church at Carouge, attracting a large number of friends and
a great crowd of the idle and the curious. Half an hour before the ceremony, the body and galleries of the church were
filled; so crowded were they, a pin could not have fallen to the
floor. Outside two lines were formed, stretching for some dis



JOSE.PH  NO'REL'S RE VENGE.                 87
tance across the square. Count D'Ornis's entrance was a great
success; every one admired his distinguished manner, his martial air, his aristocratic appearance, the carriage of his head,
and the fire of his glance. Occasionally, however, a clQud
seemed resting on his brow; he was not fond of ceremonies,
and was impatient for this one to be finished. Ten minutes
later Marguerite appeared, pale and trembling. Her father,
who was leading her, strove to add to his short stature by walking on his toes; Mme. Mirion followed them, puffed out like a
balloon. There was a division of opinion among those present.
The mothers thought, " That Mirion girl has been very fortunate."  On the other hand, the men all said, "There's a
lucky fellow; he's got a bride fit for a king."  The ceremony
being ended, M. D'Ornis returned at once to his hotel, while
Marguerite entered a friend's house near by; they only took
time to change their clothes, and then rejoined each other at
the railway station. They took the express train for Lyons,
where they were to remain two days. Between Bellegarde and
Culoz, M. D'Ornis fell into one of those strange abstractions
which Marguerite had complained of in her letter to her friend.
Alone with her in a compartment of the carriage, he had up to
this time given his whole attention to the lovely flower which
had just passed into his possession. Suddenly his countenance changed, his eyes turned toward the window, and motionless and speechless, he glared into the empty air, as though
some horrid phantom stood before him.  Marguerite looked on
him with amazement; in about ten minutes he seemed to wake,
took her hand, put his arm round her waist, and during the remainder of the journey treated her with the most lover-like attention.
What was Joseph doing all this time? At Marguerite's particular request, he had been invited to the ceremony, and a
place had been reserved for him in one of the wedding carriages. He did not make his appearance, however. M. Mirion was astonished and twice cried out, "Where's that confounded Noirel?" It did not trouble him long, however; he
had too many other things to think of. A Joseph more or less
~IC~C LIV  ~PC"J VI~Y IL~I L




88          JOSEPI  NOOIREL'S RE VENGE.
on such a cay made very little difference. M. Mirion had given
all the workmen a holiday and closed the shop. The invisible
Joseph, who had his own key to the work-room, remained there
all the morning working furiously. Toward  noon, without
stopping to take off his blouse, he started for Carouge. He
saw Marguerite pass without being perceived by her. By hard
pushing he succeeded in forcing an entrance into the church.
He remained there looking on and listening until the officiating
clergyman said, " Lord God, let thy grace descend upon this
wedded pair, who have solemnly promised in thy presence to
share each other's fortune, whether good or ill, and always to
be one in heart and soul before thee!" At these words, Joseph
suddenly turned round, pushed through the crowd, and went
out. It seemed to him as he reached the porch, that the world
was nothing but a wretched show, that the sun was an old
smoky lantern, that the rows of trees which embellished the
square had just been taken from a Noah's ark, and that the
people passing through the streets were ugly puppets worked
by wires to the sound of a hand-organ. There was nothing
real; every thing seemed like a miserable farce. He muttered
to himself, " What a poor affair it is!"  Then he added, " Fortunately life is short."
He walked on without any fixed purpose; chance led him
near the house where his helpless mother lived. It seemed as
though he were searching for every thing that could increase
his pain; he did not hesitate, but entered the house at once.
Notwithstanding the sacrifices her son had made to procure
an honorable home for her, Mme. Noirel retained all her former habits of negligence and disorder, and squandered in the
most foolish manner every cent that was given to her. Joseph
found her seated in an arm-chair, dirty as she could be, with
her finger-nails in mourning, wearing a ragged dress, and having on her head a torn cap, through the rents in which straggled
long locks of tangled hair. She had in her lap a large bag of
candies, which on Joseph's entrance, quickly disappeared in
one of her capacious pockets. He walked up to her, and stood
for a moment gazing on her with folded arms.  "This,"




y'OSEPII NVOIREL'S lRE VIVGE.              89
thought he, "is the mother-in-law I intended for Marguerite
Mirion. After leaving the church, I should have led her to this
house, and said,'This is my mother; kiss her rags and ask a
blessing from her hands.'
"Is that you, Joseph?" said Mme. Noirel; " didn't you get
to the wedding?"
"No, I refused to go."
"Pshaw! don't be silly! If you quarrel with your master
what will become of me?"
He did not answer; his mind was fixed on one idea. He
kept repeating to himself, " That's my mother. Where is
Marguerite? I want to present her to my mother."
At this moment, the woman who kept the house entered and
bowed to Joseph with a deferential air. This young man, who
had so much self-respect, and who had for years taken care of
a mother totally deficient in that particular, made a powerful
impression on this good woman; she looked on him as a
superior being. " Your mother grows more childish every day,"
she said. " I took the money that you gave me and bought
some stuff to make a dress for her. While I was awav from
the house a few minutes, she called in a pedlar and sold it to
him. The money is all gone, for she spent it right away for
candy."  After a moment's pause, she added, "I wanted to
tell you of it, Monsieur Joseph; but I thought that to-day, the
wedding-day...."
" What wedding?" he cried fiercely, interrupting her. Then
bringing his fist down heavily on the table, he continued,
" Damnation! leave my mother alone. We were born to live
in the mire, and take to itas naturally as a fish does to the water."
"So you've begun to swear, too!" said Mme. Noirel.  "I
thought it was your father talking.... Any body but you would
have increased my allowance long ago; but you care for nothing but your own pleasures, and I'm  sure you've taken to
drink, just as your father did."
"That's a good idea," he cried.  "My father drank, I'll
drink too. What's the use of working?  What's the use of




90          yOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
having a heart?  There's nothing in the world so good as
getting drunk. I'll make that my business after this."
With these words he left the house, slamming the door behind him. He acted so strangely that the woman was astonished.  "I really believe he has been drinking," she said to
Mme. Noirel.
He had not been drinking, but he now began to do so. He
entered the first tavern that he came to, and emptied three
bottles in a trice. His brain was not easily affected, however; he did not succeed in getting drunk. He left the tavern
with a cleat head, but with his nerves excited to the highest
pitch. He wanted to demolish something or somebody. He
saw in the distance one of his comrades, named Peter Servan,
who was returning from the wedding. He hailed him. The
other turned round and bowed, then continued on his way.
Joseph ran after him and stood before him in the road. " Come
with me," he said in an abrupt tone.
"Where are you going?" asked Servan.
"I tell you to come with me."
What's the matter with you? Are you joking?"
" I tell you to come with me," repeated Joseph, seizing him
by the arm. " I am going to walk; we'll go to some inn, and
drink all night. Come on, old fellow! I'll pay the bill."
This last argument was too much for Servan. They started
off together.
" I supposed that you were busy about this time in putting
down the champagne, Noirel. Didn't they invite you to the
dinner?"' What makes you ask that question?"
"I don't know....you're on good terms with M. Mirion.
You're one of the family almost."
" Whoever says that is a liar and a villain!" cried Joseph,
clenching his fists. "I one of the family! I hate the whole
brood as I do the plague."
Servan could scarcely believe his ears. Joseph was destined to astonish every one that day. "Who are they all?" he
continued. "A lot of knaves who keep us working and grow




JOSEPH  NOZIREL'S RE VENGE.                91
rich by our sweat, who rob us of our labor and our heart's
blood. I one of the family! They give me my pittance day
by day. Don't they do the same by their watch-dog? We both
wear a collar; if we should either of us lose it, we wouldn't belong to the family any more."
Then he began a virulent tirade against the burgher class.
His conclusion was that society was in terrible disorder; that
it was exceedingly unjust for a workman to work day after day
to secure a fortune for his employer and enable him to marry
his daughters to counts; that this state of things could not
and would not last much longer, that the divine thunderbolts
had slept too long, and would soon be launched against the offenders. Servan, becoming more and more astonished, listened with open mouth, reproaching himself for not having understood Joseph better before. He was far from suspecting
what was in the heart of this modern tribune; he supposed
that M. Mirion had offended him-that he had asked him, perhaps, to wait on the table, instead of inviting him to sit down
with the guests.  "It's a good thing," he thought. " Noirel
will now be one of us."
While thus fulminating his anathemas, Joseph had conducted his companion to a small village named Fossaz. As they
were crossing the bridge over the Foron, he caught Servan by
the arm, crying, " I wish you could have heard her laugh-such
a laugh!"
" Heard who laugh?" asked Servan.
"None of your business," answered Joseph. Then drawing
from his pocket the little box that Marguerite had given him,
he continued: " Look, here's their wedding gift."
Servan stared at him. "Good heavens!" he cried. "You
ought not to complain.  Diamonds! and you're not satisfied?"
"You great donkey; don't you see they're false-false as
the heart of a tradesman's daughter-false as all she does
and says?" and placing the open box on the railing of the
bridge, he picked up a large stone, and began to furiously
pound the ring. He dented and bent it; his anger kept in



92          JOSEPHI NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
creasing, he struck harder and harder.  The diamonds escaped
from their setting, and rolled into the stream, where he threw
the ring to keep them company. Servan did not understand
this at all; he wanted to take off his shoes and stockings, and
wade into the river to pick up the stones, even if they were
false. Joseph, however, drew him by main force into the inn,
saying, " Now let's drink and forget every thing."  He expected to kill his thoughts as he would a dangerous beast.  He
had learned from M. Mirion, the night before, that the newlywedded pair would pass the night at Lyons, and he knew by
the railway time-table that they would arrive there between ten
and eleven o'clock. He had sworn that before that time came,
he would drown his thoughts in drink.  He worked hard to accomplish this, but did not entirely succeed.
As the village clock struck eleven, the clouds which had obscured his brain seemed to clear away.  He thought he saw
again the dead oak on the hill at Ornis; it was moving its leafless arms and making mysterious signs to him.  This oak was
pointing something out, and Joseph endeavored in the darkness to discover what it was. The obscurity was too great,
however.  He experienced a secret joy at this; he had succeeded in doing what he wished. He pointed toward his glass,
saying, "There it is, it can't get out!"  He was speaking of
his grief. Suddenly a covering seemed to fall from off his eyes,
and he saw before him a dimly-lighted room.  Marguerite was
there; before her stood Count D'Ornis, gazing on her with
greedy eyes, like a miser who counts piece by piece the treasure
hidden in his chest. It seemed to Joseph as though a red-hot
iron had touched his heart; he gave a cry, overturned the table
by which he was sitting, sending the bottles and glasses crashing to the floor, and stood erect with pale face and flashing
eyes, crying, " Long live the Social Republic!"
Every body was aroused by the noise, and the inn-keeper
demanded pay for his broken bottles.  At this, Servan, who
had been snoring for an hour in a corner of the room, awoke,
and in a drunken frenzy, without taking time to ask what was
the matter, sprang at the inn-keeper and seized him by the




JOSLEP''Z  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.              93
throat. A violent struggle now began; the blows fell like hail.
Joseph was not a man to see his companion badly used; he
tried to rescue him and struck out before him right and left.
What followed he never knew; he was no longer conscious of
what he did. The first thing he remembered, he was in the
middle of the road, helping Servan along as well as he could;
the latter had left some of his teeth and hair behind him in the
inn.  He took him to Geneva and saw him safely home; the
remainder of the night he spent in wandering about the fields.
At seven o'clock, he was at work. M. Mirion came to his
bench and requested him to walk into his office, where he asked him to explain his strange conduct of the day before.
They had hunted for him everywhere without success.  What
had Monsieur Noirel been doing all day?
" I thought I wasn't wanted," said Noirel in a dry tone.
M. Mirion indignantly replied, " Oh! I see where the shoe
pinches. You're angry because we kept you in the city the
last two weeks. Confound it all, I couldn't help it. What
would my son-in-law have thought?.... "
"If I had gone to his wedding, I should probably have done
something to disgrace you. That's the reason why I kept
away."
At this M. Mirion became very angry, calling his workman
an ungrateful fellow. There was a stormy scene between them
which almost led to an open rupture.  Fortunately, M. Mirion
was able to control his temper when he found that it conflicted
with his interests; Joseph was too useful to him to be allowed
to go away on so slight a provocation. He therefore ceased
abusing him, making up for it by treating him with great coolness for several days afterward.  Mme. Mirion's resentment
lasted longer; she often said to her husband, " The idea of his
going to walk when our dear Countess was getting married!
It's unpardonable. You were right in saying that the boy
hadn't any heart.'
On the other hand, Joseph's fellow-workmen, having been informed by Servan of what had taken place, and of the sentiments which had been expressed by him, treated him with bet



94         JOSEPH  NOZREL'S REVENGE.
ter grace, and, made him some advances. He did not reply to
them, however. Stern and silent, he kept constantly at work.
He did not visit the tavern a second time. That drunken
scene, in which he had cast aside his usual dignity and selfrespect, had left a painful sting; he felt that he could not repeat
it. He formed a new plan, he resolved to emigrate to America.
He secretly obtained information on the subject, read accounts
of travels in the United States, and gradually collected money
enough to pay his passage. Perhaps he regretted a little having thrown away his diamond ring; but he did not demand it
back from the Foron.




CHAPTER XV.
MARGUERITE'S LETTER.
Marguerite had been married about three weeks when her
dear friend received the following letter:
"Forgive me, Nelly, for not having written to you sooner.
Before answering your questions, I wanted a little time to become accustomed to my new position. What story-tellers novels are! I can tell you that marriage is a dangerous experiment; you plunge headlong into an unknown future, with your
eyes shut. I have had considerable of a fall; but I have come
down on my feet without being hurt. And now you want to know
if I am happy. I hope I shall be. That is something, isn't it?
" In the first place, I live in a charming country, which is the
very centre of France. To prove it, there is near here a delightful castle called The Summit. The summit of what? Of
every thing; you can get no higher. It is agreeable to feel that
you are in the centre of something, that you hold France, as it
were, in your hand. The fact is our streams are tributary to
the Seine, the Loire, and the Sa6ne. My country (it has become mine) is an immense table-land, where the air is excellent,
and the spring water is delicious, it's so fresh and sparkling.
The ground is very undulating, full of humps and hollows, and
is dotted with woods interspersed with meadows, heaths, and
immense barren plains. The fields are partly cultivated and
partly wild, and the green, mossy valleys are cut through by
deep ravines. On every side flow clear, bubbling streams, while
the oaks and rushes on their banks look on them as though well
satisfied with their own condition, but glad at the same time to
see others moving by. They seem to say,' A pleasant journey
to you! God bless you!' You know I always was passionately fond of water.  It is transparent, you can look through it,




96           70SE'P/    NOIREL'S REVENGE.
it is moving all the time; it sparkles, changes color, reflects the
clouds, and seems to be talking with the sky. A country without running streams is like a parlor without mirrors. In this
particular I am well satisfied.  There is a wild spot full of
small ponds near here; they call it Little-Scotland. You must
tell me what you think of it when you come to see me. What
I like better yet, though, are our large meadows used as common pasture grounds. There is nothing more delightful than
these immense fields, where you see a great many white horses
roving about, and numerous little girls with switches in their
hands, driving before them flocks of geese. When I first came
here I missed my Swiss mountains; I am beginning now to do
very well without them. The other morning, I was seated on
a large stone, on the border of a field which rose before me
with a gentle slope.  This field was being ploughed.  On raising my eyes, I could see the crest of this slope, along which the
shadow of a cloud was slowly moving.  A moment later, the
laborers stopped to take breath at the other end of the field,
and I saw clearly outlined against the pale, autumn sky, the
handles of the plough, the ploughman's staff, and the smoking
nostrils of the oxen. A plough standing out against the sky is
a thing not often seen at Geneva. After all though, if you look
sharp enough, you can find mountains here; they call them the
Morvan mountains-they are nothing but little mounds, that I
should never notice.  On the east, the landscape is bounded
by a chain of low hills, on the tops of which are a number of
wind-mills.  When I have nothing better to do, I watch these
wind-mills turn, and my thoughts keep turning with them.
Though I am a Genevese, there are some moments when I
keep thinking, thinking.
"I promised to tell you every thing. My castle does not
please me as well as its surroundings. It is decidedly too large.
I had been told of this, but, notwithstanding, the first sight of
it was an unpleasant surprise to me. It is a whole world in itself. We live in one wing of the building; the remainder of
it is empty and dilapidated.  rWhat goes on there?  It is unpleasant for me to feel that close beside me are these great




JyOSEPS I'  OIREL'S RE VENGE.               97
empty spaces, these walls which could tell such stories, if they
could only talk. I could not help speaking about it, one day,
to my lord and master.' Why!' he answered,' I thought nothing could frighten you.' I replied that I felt very brave and
very timid at the same time; that I thought I could face a
known danger well enough, but an unknown one troubled me.....' Pshaw!' he exclaimed as he pinched my cheek.' What's
the use of troubling yourself about what you don't know?'....
That's the way he reasons. It's all as simple as you please.
"I spoke my mind on other subjects.  The first time we
went over the grounds, he gave me permission to express my
opinions freely.' Do you like the garden?' he said.
"' There's only one thing I don't like about it.'
"' What's that?'
"'There are no flowers in it.''Why! what do you call this?' he said, pointing with his
cane to a miserable little wall-flower, eaten by bugs and dried
up by the sun. He really acted as though he were in earnest.
"'A wall-flower doesn't make a garden.' He pinched my
cheek again.
"' Next spring,' he said,'you can arrange it to suit yourself.'
" I then took the liberty of remarking that his park was too
dense, that he had allowed the trees to grow in their own way,
until they had locked their branches together in such a manner
that it was dark under them at mid-day. He looked on me
with profound astonishment.' What, do you like the sun?' he
said.
" It evidently seemed strange to him that I should do so.' I
love the sunlight and the water,' I replied.
"  That's good, we've got a lake,' he said.
"I did not dispute with him concerning the lake, which I
had heard a great deal about, and which I was simple enough
to believe in. It turned out to be an ugly pond, full of croaking frogs. I had been deceived; but I learned long ago the
fact that things are not always what they are said to be.
"I have been telling you my little troubles; now I come to
more serious matters. When we had finished our walk through




98          yOSEPI  NO'OIREL'S RE VENGE.
the park, we sat down on a bench before the noseless statue
of a commander.'Listen to me,' said Roger,  I want to give
you my ideas of married life.... 
"You must also listen, Nelly, and learn the lesson with fear
and trembling. What I am going to relate will seem matterof-fact enough to you. But if we must sooner or later become
serious and thoughtful, why not begin at once? Then we can
enjoy resting quietly, and looking at others running themselves
out of breath, chasing a shadow which they can not catch; then
we can say to them,'Poor creatures, you'll get tired pretty soon,
and have to keep still just as we do.' In short, Nelly, I have
decided to be very wise, very gay, and very happy all at the
same time. That is my programme.
"' You will think me very prosaic, probably,' said M. D'Ornis,
twisting the ends of his mustache in his usual manner.
" I replied at once that I had often been accused of having a
very practical mind, with much good sense and very little poetry.  This declaration entirely reassured him.'In the first
place I must tell you,' he continued,' that when a child, I was
petted and praised until I was completely spoiled. It was not
my father's fault; he was a tall man, gloomy and taciturn, who
loved nothing on earth except his dogs and horses.  He cared
little for me; my mother cared too much.   She worshiped
me, partly because she took pleasure in doing so, and partly because I had an elder brother whom she could not endure. This
poor boy had committed the crime of coming into the world
with a club foot; his mother never forgave him for it. Every
thing was denied him, every thing was given to me. I took advantage of the situation and played all manner of mischievous
tricks, for which usually he was made to suffer. He was whipped and locked up. I, on the contrary, was simply told that
penitence consisted in confession and forgiveness, contrition
and atonement.  I confessed and was forgiven; but I was not
sorry, nor did I make amends. I always hated sermons, and
would rather be whipped than listen to them. To be worshiped and preached to, at the same time, was very distressing to
me. It was a happy day for me when I gained my liberty.




yOSEPHI  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                9
They decided to send me to Paris, just as physicians send their
patients to the springs, when they don't know what else to do
for them. Paris didn't amuse me long, and to get rid of my
liberty, I enlisted. I went to Africa as a private, and there
won my chevrons.  I was made a lieutenant in Cochin China,
and a captain in Mexico. Those were the best years of my
life. I was treated unjustly, however; I discovered that I could
not get ahead, that others more artful and designing kept passing by me, that the captaincy was a difficult place to move beyond, and that being a captain, I was likely to remain one all
my life. At last I became disgusted and left the service.
When I returned home, my father had been dead about two
years; my brother had died a long time before. I found my
mother living; she gave up preaching to me, but worshiped
me more than ever. I thank her for her kindness and love her
very much, though we don't have much to say to each other. In
short, I wanted a change....'
"'And one fine morning.' I interrupted,'you made up your
mind to get married.'
"' I had been thinking of it for two years,' he continued.'The difficulty was to find any one to suit me. I wouldn't
give a fig for a doll, or a delicate creature that couldn't walk
through the park without a fainting fit. I was born a walker
myself. Now I think that marriage ought to be a delightful
companionship, and I expect my wife to be my companion in
every thing, to share all my pleasures, to walk, ride, hunt, and
fish with me, to play billiards with me...."
"'Heaven be praised!' I cried.'I made two caroms in
succession to-day, and you told me that you loved me for it.'
"He stroked my hair as he said,'This head was good for
something, I knew well enough..... Do you like my ideas?'
he added.    Will you accept them?'
"' Give me your hand, comrade!' was my reply. He took
my hand and pressed it strongly in his own.
"What walks we have taken, Nelly! I walk well as you
know. I went with him, bravely marching through the dust
on the road, or climbing the rocky foot-paths, jumping from




100          70SEPHI NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
stone to stone. Roger gazed on me with admiration, which
made me proud and well satisfied with myself. We have often
stopped to rest, at noon, at some tavern on the road, and eaten
with good relish an omelette with vegetables, which we washed down with excellent red wine. The other day my foot
was lame.  He frowned: he could accept no excuse for a
lame foot.....Our hunting parties please me less than our
walking excursions; they are stained with blood. My best
days are those in which we return empty handed.   Don't
think I have the slightest murder on my conscience. I simply look on; that's more than I want to do.  There's one
hare that owes me a big candle, Nelly. Diana had lost its
trail and was barking furiously in the woods.   Suddenly I
saw the hare jump from a thicket and run at full speed across
a sloping glade, at the upper part of which I was sitting. Just
as it disappeared, Roger cried out,' He must have passed
this way.  Didn't you see him?''No, I haven't seen any
thing,' was my reply.  You know, you've often said, Nelly,
that I couldn't tell a lie..... This is the way the happy pair
pass the honey-moon at Castle D'Ornis.  You will tell me
there are different kinds of honey-moons. I am very well
satisfied with mine.
"There is a shadow, however, on the picture.  I have a
ipother-in-law who does not love me. This is in the greatest
confidence, Nelly. I must confess that Mme. D'Ornis has
not the most prepossessing face in the world. Her features,
glance, and voice are all too sharp. I am sorry to say, too,
that her piety has soured with age. A sour religion is a terrible thing. Roger had forewarned me that she was exceedingly displeased at his marriage. She worships him; I take
him from her, and she is jealous; that's the simple truth.
If that was all, I shouldn't care.....She can't forgive me,
though, for belonging to the common people, and, what is
worse still, for being a Protestant. She refused to come to any
understanding with her son, left the castle, and went to live in
a little cottage belonging to her, situated at the other end of
the village.




70SEPZI NOIREL'S REVENGE.                  10I
"However, there has been no open quarrel. Two days after
my arrival, we went to pay our respects to her. I am brave,
you know; I put on a bold face. She sent us word that she
was dressing. Roger replied that we would wait. She finally
appeared, walked across the room, and held out her hand to her
son-I said her hand; she gave him only two fingers. He
presented me, but she pretended not to notice it, and stood with
her back toward me, opening and shutting her fan and telling
it (the fan I mean) that she had that morning saved a sparrow
which her cat had caught.... The cat and the sparrow, the
sparrow and the cat, and the fan opening and shutting all the
time —it was very funny, but it wasn't nice. At last, looking
at the clock, she said,' I must leave you now; it's time to go
to church.' Then casting a side glance at me, she added,'That's a duty irreligious women don't attend to.....'
" Irreligious! Am I an irreligious woman? I thought that religion consisted in communion with God, in confessing our
weakness before him, in asking him for what we need, in feeling that we are in his presence, and in opening our hearts to
him  that he may cleanse and purify them....Irreligious!
How hateful intolerance is, Nelly! Does not God belong to
all the world alike? Does he not understand all tongues, even
though they stammer, or are altogether silent, not knowing
how to speak?
"Mme. D'Ornis evidently intends not to disregard the ordinary customs of society. She has returned our call. I had
gone out. I do not know whether she commenced the story of
the sparrow again, but Roger said to her,' You have decided to
follow this course, then? You will not accept the fact that I
have a wife, and that it would be proper to ask about her?'
She replied,'I thought I was carrying out your own ideas.
You take your wife to taverns, and don't care to present her
to your friends, as I suppose.' He became very angry; she
begged his pardon and endeavored to appease him. I do not
know the result of the conversation. What I have told you, I
learned from Fanny, my maid, who had gone into the room to
light the fire, but had been quickly sent out again by Roger. She




102         O0SEPH  NOAIREL'S RE VENGE.
is a good girl; she came with me from Geneva, and is perfectly
devoted to me.  If any one should scratch me with a pin, she
would scream as though she was being murdered. I do not care
to listen to what she tells me though; I hear enough myself.
"Roger said nothing to me of this interview, but in the evening he remarked,'I think we ought to give a party.' The
very thought of it worried me terribly; but I knew I ought
to respect the customs of society. I am glad enough to be
through with it though.  I understood very well that his
mother's remark had troubled him, and that he had determined
to show her that he did not wish to hide his wife from the
world.  I made a few objections, but he had an answer for
them all, and night before last, my dear, Castle D'Ornis was
illuminated to receive the nobility of the neighborhood. I had
arranged every thing myself, and it was all well arranged, I
can assure you. I spent two hours at my toilet; I must confess that for the first time in my life, I felt like playing the
coquette.  Our guests all came: Roger is a man that no one
likes to offend, and then people are so curious, you know! My
mother-in-law deigned to notice me as she came in, and manifested a surprise which was evidently less agreeable to her
than to myself. She recovered herself very quickly, however, and sat down on a sofa, as far from her daughter-in-law
as possible. The gentlemen were polite, respectful, and attentive; the ladies were affedted, formal, and patronizing; their
manner seemed very strange to me. They sat in a semi-circle
round my mother-in-law, as though they considered her the
real mistress of the house. The gentlemen stood about me.
I was in high spirits, and the compliments flew fast. Suddenly I heard a sharp voice say,' You must ask my daughter-inlaw; probably she can tell you.'
" I rose and walked over toward the ladies.'What can I
do for you, madam?' I asked.
"' We were speaking of mortise-chisels, madam. What is a
mortise-chisel?'
"  It's a tool used for cutting deep and narrow cavities in
wood.'




O7SEPII NOIREL'S REVENGE.                  103
"'And what is a gouge, madam?'
"' A gouge, madam, is a rounded chisel used for cutting concave surfaces. But why do you ask the question, madam?'...
"'Because the Marchioness Du Rozan has a son who is
amusing himself with carpentry, and he has asked her for some
gouges and mortise-chisels. She wanted to know what they
were.
" This Marchioness Du Rozan, who sat facing me, was an
old crane, whose grandfather had been a rich hardware merchant in Marseilles. The old crane now lifted her neck, and
said,
"' It would be very kind in you, Countess, if you would only
give my son a little advice. He is very awkward.'
" I am naturally a good-hearted girl, Nelly; I know it is my
greatest fault. All these eyes fastened on me, however, made
me a little spiteful, and I answered,' No doubt he needs advice.
Carpentry is a very complicated art. It would be easier for him
to learn the hardware trade.'
" She blushed to her very temples, and hid her face behind her
fan. The women looked angry, my mother-in-law bit her lips,
the men were all laughing in their sleeves. As for myself, I
was sorry that I had spoken so quickly; but a word can not be
taken back. After that, the evening passed very pleasantly.
We had a band of strolling musicians with us; the dancing
lasted until morning.
"Trouble came from this, though, Nelly. Our unpleasant
conversation about chisels and gouges was overheard by Roger.
He looked upon it as a premeditated insult, and although I
tried my best, I could not prevail on him to pass it by. He
went yesterday to call on Mme. D'Ornis, and had a stormy interview with her, which came near ending in an open rupture.
I scarcely know what to do, but have formed a plan to call on
Mme. D'Ornis myself. Perhaps I may succeed in appeasing
her. I talked with Roger about it; he at first refused to listen
to me, but finally gave me his permission.  I am going right
away, and am considerably agitated as you can well believe.
Good-by, dear! I must put on my hat and gloves, and go




104         7JOSEPI  NOIREL'S RE ING'. E.
into the lion's den. If the lion eat me, you can compose some
verses commemorative of the sacrifice. Do you ever compose
verses now? They used to jingle a little, as Professor Bourdon said; as they have grown in years, though, they must have
grown in strength.
"P. S. Have I done right or wrong, Nelly? I do not know.
I must tell you all about it.  I have often noticed that
things scarcely ever happen as we think they will. I expected
to be received very coolly, or perhaps not to be received at all,
which would have greatly simplified the interview. How mistaken I was! A lady came forward to the very door to greet
me.'Good day, my dear,' she said.' I was very provoking
the other evening, but you turned the laugh on me nicely. I'm
not surprised at all; you are wise and beautiful as an angel.
There's my hand!'
" You can imagine my bewilderment.  I took her offered
hand and said,' I am very glad that you feel so, madam, for I
called to tell you that I wanted to love you, and to ask you if
you wouldn't try to love me a little in return?'
"' Oh I' she answered,'now you are asking a great deal.''Pshaw!' I replied,'God is great, as the Turks say. It
will all come in good time.' As I spoke of the Turks, she
frowned.' Isn't it proper for an irreligious woman to refer to
the Turks?' I asked, laughing.
"'Don't let's talk about such things,' she said dryly; or if
we do, let's talk seriously. If I could only hope that some
day....'
"'I won't make any promises,' I replied, interrupting her.'I will try, however, to prove my devotion to you, and I think
I can help to make the time pass pleasantly.'
" As I said this I touched my lips to her hand, which I had
been holding in my own. It was hard work, Nelly, but I did
it. She looked at me, and seemed to be forming some new
plan. Remember, during all this time, we had been standing
at the door, I outside, and she inside the room. She finally
came to a decision, and with a face that was almost smiling,
said,'Come in, my dear, and take a seat.'




OSEPHZ  NOIREL'S RE VE.NGE.                10O
"She pushed an arm-chair forward for me, and placed a
cushion beneath my feet; then she rang the bell, and ordered some raspberry syrup and orange marmalade, which she
makes herself. During this time I could not help admiring the
certainty and precision of all her movements; she does every
thing in the shortest and quickest way, and I am sure I can not
understand why she always carries a crutch with her. I also
admired the simple elegance of her dress.  She would make a
charming picture, if she were not so sharp in every way.
" She began to talk about Switzerland and the Alps, and of
a trip she had made in that direction some twenty years ago.
She talks well, and seems to have seen much that is interesting and to have remembered it well.  She knows more than I
do, Nelly; I could learn a great deal from her. But her prejudices! As soon as you touch upon them, she will neither
talk nor listen to you. While in her presence, I compared her
to a house, the front of which admits the light, while the back
is an immense wall without doors or windows, seeing nothing
and believing nothing.
" For half an hour we conversed quietly, almost gayly. The
lion had not eaten me; it even seemed to have become more
tame. As I wanted to leave a good impression, I rose to go;
but she made me sit down again, saying,' You are in too great
a hurry, madam.'
" Then turning suddenly toward me, she continued,' It was
very kind of you, my dear, to come to see me. You seem disposed to judge others charitably.  Old women have their pecu- -
liar ideas, you know. My son is forty-five years old, and I
didn't think that he would ever marry.  I hadn't taken into account the wonders which a pair of handsome eyes can work.
I have yielded my place to you. At my age it's a hard thing to
give up a home. I was angry at you, and was foolish enough
to let you know it. You forgive me, do you not?.... And, now,
that you are here, I'll tell you something... My son is very
hot-headed. Yesterday, he treated me outrageously.  You are
very gentle, dear, I can talk easily with you. I will tell you
that I should Jhave become reconciled to this marriage much




o16         7OSEPHI NOIREL'S REVENGE.
more readily, if I had thought that Roger was a fit person to
have a wife. If you can make a good husband of him, you will
deserve great credit. He's an old bachelor and is full of
whims. You can see how he treats his wife; he takes her with
him to the hunt and to the tavern. How can you allow him to
so compromise your dignity? He loves you, but he's not
respectful. Love is fleeting, while respect lasts forever. My
dear, I charge you seriously not to lend yourself to his caprices.
You don't know what it may lead to. God knows that I am
greatly to blame for his being what he is.  I cry peccavi; I
know that I have spoiled him. He ought to be under some
restraint; try to gain an influence over him, and to make him
act within the bounds of reason. It wouldn't matter so much
if he were simply whimsical. He has, besides, a most violent
temper. You'll find it out only too soon. I could tell you
some terrible things.... He used to be very intimate with a certain Marquis De Raoux, an honorable man as the world goes,
but in my opinion, a vicious, swaggering reveler, who drank
immoderately and gambled to excess. I was very sorry that
Roger sought the society of this gamester. It seems he had
been in the service, and they used to talk of their campaigns
and sing their army songs together. Well, one night, just after
he had left my son, Raoux was killed by a villain hid near the
bridge. It was terrible, I know; but after all, it was nobody
but Raoux. My son became a victim of despair, as though
the murdered man had been a model of honor and of virtue.
I thought at times that he'd go mad. I will give you one fact
in evidence of this.... He had a saddle-horse, that he loved as
the apple of his eye; he paid eight thousand francs for him.
This horse and Raoux were his two idols. The day after the
murder, he took a gun, went into the stable, and blew out the
brains of this noble animal. How do you like that way of
honoring a man's memory?  You can see that he is easily
excited, and that it's always well to be prepared....He knows
it all; he's afraid of himself. Although he is not sociable, he
can not bear to be alone, but must always have some one with
him, to stand, as it were, between him and his caprices. While




J'OSEP1I NOIREL'S REVENGE.                 107
Raoux lived, he answered the purpose.  When he missed
Raoux, he thought of getting married. A handsome blonde is
a very good exchange for him.... I thought it best to tell you
of this, my dear, in order that you might know what to expect.
You ought not to be ignorant of what your husband may do in
his fits of melancholy. Forewarned, forearmed! You must
watch over and control him.'
" This long harangue was uttered in a dry, heartless tone
that grated harshly on my ears. I wanted to interrupt her, but
could say nothing. What strange creatures we are, Nelly!
Before seeking this interview, I had thought about it, and was
prepared to hear cruel words and to bear them with good grace;
but I was far from expecting this strange outburst of a mother
against her son, and was thrown completely off my guard. I
experienced a feeling of uneasiness which kept increasing every minute. I remained motionless in my chair, and I am sure
that I appeared as awkward and embarrassed as a school-girl;
or, what better expresses my idea, I seemed like a helpless bird
charmed by a serpent. I wanted to fly, but I stayed and listened, though it seemed as if I were swallowing poison and
felt it running through my veins. The curtains of the room
were dropped, so that the light entered only by a narrow opening between them. These few rays of sunlight fell upon my
face; Mme. D'Ornis could read it easily. Perhaps she experienced a secret joy at witnessing my agitation. When she
had finished, I had still strength enough to rise and say,' If
you wanted to frighten me, madam, you have not succeeded.'
I said this in an indifferent, almost haughty tone. I was like
the boys who whistle when they are afraid.
"She answered coolly,'Frighten you! you seem to me a
very courageous little body, if I can say so without offending
you.'
"' Besides,' I continued,'I don't see any thing so terrible
in his shooting the horse.... If any body should ever murder
me, I think it would be splendid to have Roger blow up his billiard-table.'
"She accompanied me to the door of the room.'Well,




108         yOSEPHt NOIREL'S REVEVNGE.
well,' she said,'I'm  not sorry that I have made you uneasy.
Nothing is more dangerous than a false security.  Good-by.
my dear.  Now you know the way, you must come and talk
with me whenever you feel like it.'
"What a weak thing I am, Nelly! I had made up my mind
that, if I was defeated, I would at least retire in good order;
but, notwithstanding the bold air which I assumed, I felt that I
was completely routed; it seemed to me that this rout would
end in some terrible catastrophe, and that on leaving the house
I should meet with some new misfortune. At last I reached
the open air; I looked about and breathed more freely. The
sky was blue, the air was full of sunshine, a rose-bush in full
bloom stretched one of its fragrant branches toward me. My
trouble was dissipated as by enchantment. I saw the sunshine
and the roses, and all my former confidence returned; I felt
that all these blessings were not at the mercy of an old woman
full of jealousy and hate.
" On my return, Roger questioned me. My answers were
truthful; but, though I invented nothing, I did not tell all; I
omitted the whole of her long harangue. I tell you the whole
story. It is so nice to have some one to whom you can tell
every thing! Good-by, my darling. Before marrying, learn all
you can about your mother-in-law.  May your sky be full of
sunshine, and your pathway strewn with roses."




CHAPTER  XVI.
DAWNING CURIOSITY.
The words we use are ofttimes an active poison. Although
we may resolve to believe nothing of what we hear, we generally do believe a little.  Marguerite had decided to pay no attention to the warnings which Mme. D'Ornis had been kind
enough to give her; she could not keep from thinking of them,
however. She had no idea of following her mother-in-law's
advice and changing her mode of life, in which she could discover nothing reprehensible.   She could not see that her
husband was lacking in respect for her, nor that she compromised her own dignity in roaming about the country with him.
What harm was there in it? " He has his peculiar ideas about
married life," she thought, " and he has a right to his own way
of thinking. No one is hurt by it. Let people talk if they
want to! They would talk about any thing else just the same."
She began to think, however, that she did not understand
M. D'Ornis very well, and in order to become better acquainted with him, she began to study him more attentively.
Doubt produces curiosity, curiosity creates uneasiness.  In
searching too deeply, we run the risk of making unpleasant
discoveries. Fortunately, Marguerite was not one to borrow
trouble; she was determined not to become alarmed without
sufficient cause.  Her good sense and cheerfulness were a
great help to her.  I do not know how better to describe her
than by saying that she had a happy disposition.
On one of those lovely days in the late autumn which Mme
de Sevigne calls crystal days, they started on a long walk
which took them farther than they expected. In order to please
his wife, Ruger had left his gun at home; he simply carried his
game-bag, into which he had put a pie, a cold chicken, a bottle




I 10         OSEPZH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
of wine, and some ground coffee. They expected to take their
meal near some inn, at which they could borrow some plates
and forks. At midday they found themselves in an opening in
the woods, with no house of any kind in sight.  Being hungry,
they decided to stop in this lonely place and to eat in the Turkish fashion, with their fingers in other words. They selected a
spot near a spring; all about them was an abundant growth of
water-cresses, which served admirably as a seasoning to their
meal. As they had walked fast and were afraid of catching
cold, they started a large fire before proceeding to their repast.
Both of them hastily gathered armfuls of dead wood, striving
to see which could collect the most. When the fire was lighted, they spread out their provisions on the grass. The pie
was speedily demolished.  The most difficult thing was to prepare the coffee. By exercising a little ingenuity, they succeeded in boiling some water in a cup, without its tasting at all of
smoke.
Their repast being finished, Marguerite, who felt a little tired
after the twelve miles she had walked that morning, asked
permission to take a half-hour's nap.  She lay down, wrapped
up in her shawl, with her head resting on a mossy stone.  She
would have slept two hours, if Roger, becoming impatient, had
not awakened her. On opening her eyes, she saw him leaning
over her, fanning away the smoke with one hand, and with the
other, tickling her lips by means of a long spear of grass. This
awakening was delicious; she could scarcely recognize her
companion; he seemed to have grown ten years younger. She
started up and began to sing; all feelings of uneasiness suddenly passed away; she felt light-hearted as a bird, and when
birds are happy, they will sing. " Did the time seem long to
you?" she said.
" What do you want to make me say so for? You can judge
me by my acts."
"That's not enough.  I like to hear people say what they
think."
"Very well!" he answered.  "I declare on my honor that




yOSEPHI  NOIREL'S REVENLGE.                 III
the time seemed very long to me."  Then he added: "I've
read in some comedy that persons should become well acquainted before marrying; otherwise they might find out too late that
they did not suit each other.... Yes, this is the line:'Que tous deux du marchd nous nous repentirions.'
We were not well acquainted, and yet I don't see that we're
likely to repent our bargain."
An imprudent thing is quickly done.  Charmed as well as
surprised at the happy frame of mind in which she found her
husband, Marguerite thought she would profit by this unusual
display of good nature, and try to have an explanation with him.
"I think as you do," she replied, " that we are a well-matched couple, and yet we're not at all alike."
" If you mean in looks, it's very certain that an old graybeard like me doesn't deserve such a handsome wife."
"You must do yourself justice; you don't look to be thirty,
this very minute."
Well, my legs are young enough anyhow, and, thank goodness, yours are also good. So we can take our walks together.
You see we agree so far."
" Yes, but there are many respects in which we are very different."
"Suppose you tell me what they are."
" Do you really want me to? Well! in the first place, I am
very trusting, too much so perhaps.  It's very hard for me to
believe that intentions can be wrong, or people wicked, while
you.... 
" While I am  suspicious of every body?  Isn't that what
you want to say? You are right; I don't believe in perfect
characters. Men are governed by the feelings or interests of
the moment. You can not tell to-day what they will be to-morrow. It's best not to trust them..... Still, I don't think of any
striking proof I've given.... "
" Oh!" she answered gayly, " there are plenty of proofs....
The other evening, we were crossing the little wood....
you remember, we were talking about the rain and the fine
weather, when we heard a rustling in the dead leaves near us.
You caught me suddenly by the arm saying,' Hush! there's




112         7OSEPHI  NOIREL'S RE VENAGE.
some one here!'.... It turned out to be a dog who was gnawing a bone.....I don't think what he could have repeated of
our conversation would have compromised us very much."
He frowned slightly as he replied, " The Italians, who are
not fools by any means, have this proverb:' Be careful of your
words; some day or other they may return to you.' "
"Another proof," she continued.  "Day before yesterday.
you were alone in your room, looking for something in your
wardrobe.  I took the liberty of entering without knocking.'Who's that?' you cried in a voice of thunder.  Fortunately,
you recognized me."
He answered with a forced smile, " If you think there's any
thing in my wardrobe that ought not to be there, I'll give you
the key any time you want it."' I won't accept it; I don't want to meddle with your wardrobe."
As she said this, she held out her hand to him.
"Let's be serious," he replied, "since we've entered on
this subject.  What other difference?...."
"Well! this for instance. I've always been told that I have
not sufficient strength of character; perhaps you have too
much."
"What do you mean by that?"
"That you're sometimes....how shall I express it?....a
little violent."
"Are you trying to find out all that's bad about me?"
"Not at all. There are some kinds of violence that I admire, and if the story's true...."
"Explain yourself," he cried impatiently, "I hate enigmas."
"I was told that two years-yes, it was two years ago, I
think-you shot a horse that you were very fond of."
Nothing is more disagreeable than to step inadvertently on
a petard, and have it explode beneath your feet.  It was
such a surprise that Marguerite experienced on seeing the effect produced by her imprudent words.  M. D'Ornis turned
pale and bounded to his feet, running his hand rapidly through
his hair, as he always did when he was angry.  His lips were




yOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENl GE.              I13
trembling as he cried, " Who told you that?....who dared to
tell you?....I will know.... I command you....."
Marguerite was frightened as she looked at him.
" Don't be angry, please," she said. " I had no idea..."
M. D'Ornis felt that he must visit his anger upon something.
He picked up a half-burnt branch, snapped it in two, and threw
the pieces far away....."I tell you I must know....What
was the story that you heard?"
" I only heard that you used to have a valuable horse which
you were very proud of. You used to ride him, accompanied by a
friend who was murdered two years ago..... Your friend being
dead, you determined to rid yourself of this horse, which recalled
to you such sad memories. Another person would have sold
him, you killed him instead. If it was madness, I say again, it's
a kind of madness I admire."
"And I ask you again, who told you this? Whom  have
you dared to talk with about me?"
"It ought to be easy enough for you to guess. Whom have
I seen since I've been your wife?"
"Ah! my mother.....So you've been questioning her?.. Woman's curiosity...."
He now perceived that tears were standing in her eyes, and
feeling somewhat ashamed, at last succeeded in mastering
his passion. " After all," he said, "I'm wrong.....There was
no great harm in it.....I couldn't help myself; there are
some remembrances."... Then he added with an effort, " Never speak to me again about that murdered friend.... or that
horse.... never! never!".... Stopping a moment to  take
breath, he continued, "What were we talking about? The
points of difference between us.....We've displayed a great
deal of penetration and subtle wit.....It's not worth the
trouble. I'm not a keen-witted person; I never could understand any thing but plain truths. All these differences can
be summed up in one word: I'm very dark and you are very
light, whence I conclude....."
"Whence you  conclude?".... she repeated  trying  to
smile.




114         YOSEPH  NOIREL'S REVENGE.
" I conclude," he said in an ironical tone, which, in spite of
all that he could do, evinced more bitterness than good-nature, "that it's my fate to be ruled by you, for there's no
tyrant so oppressive as a blonde."
With these words, he picked up his game-bag and strapped
it together. In the feverish haste of his movements, he twice
pricked his fingers with the buckle. Then he suddenly cried
"Forward!"  They walked for twenty minutes almost without
exchanging a word.  Marguerite, however, soon began to
master her agitation and to regain possession of her faculties.
Little by little, also, he unbent and resumed his usual manner.
Half an hour before reaching Ornis, he took her in his arms
to carry her across a brook, and, on putting her down again,
said in a cold but pleasant tone, " You're decidedly the handsomest woman I've ever seen."  He spoke as though he were
praising some piece of furniture. This was sufficient to
make Marguerite gay again.
Notwithstanding, this day which had commenced so badly
had a bad ending. After dinner, M. D'Ornis asked his wife
to sing for him. She sat down at the piano and began a song.
Turning her head, she saw that he had fallen asleep in his
arm-chair. She closed the piano softly, took up her embroidery, and sat down facing her husband. As she worked, she
now and then glanced at him, and as she looked, the mysterious story of the horse came to her mind; it seemed to her
that within the heart of this man, who held her fate within his
hands, there lurked a secret ready to spring upon her. "Am I
growing mad?" she thought. " What's the use of trying to
find it out. I don't believe there is a secret."
M. D'Ornis's sleep was troubled. Twice he sighed; then
an expression of such agony came upon his face, that Marguerite was terrified. She saw him throw out his arms and
beat the air; a moment afterward he muttered in a hoarse
voice, " It's yours. Don't be angry. I swear that you shall
have it; but, for God's sake, don't tell of it!" The sound of
his voice awoke him, and his first glance fell on Marguerite,




JOSEPEI  NZOIREL'S RE VENGE.              I 5
who hastily dropped her eyes and kept them fixed on her embroidery. " I think I was asleep," he said.
" I think so too," she answered with a forced smile and a
slight trembling in her voice.
"It seems to me that I was talking."
" Indeed! I didn't hear you."
He looked at her steadily for a minute or two, and then got
up and left the room. Marguerite did not sleep well that
night. She kept repeating to herself as she tossed about in
bed, " I'll give it to you; but, for God's sake, don't tell of it!"
When  she opened her eyes in the morning, it seemed as
though a change had taken place in her life-as though her
happiness was like a precious vase which had been cracked.
Thenceforth it could not be touched but with precaution; a
single careless movement might shatter it to pieces.
A fortnight passed without any thing of importance happening. M. D'Ornis had resumed his usual manner and appearance. Though a woman may be very reasonable, when
once her curiosity is awakened, it is difficult for her to lull it to
sleep again. This is not because women are more curious
than men, but because they have more time to give to their
thoughts, and fewer opportunities to escape from them. The
uniform and quiet life which Marguerite led gave little employment to her mind. A walk in the woods is very pleasant;
but the woods can not speak, except to the poet's heart, and
there are moments when the most unworldly woman would
give all the forests in the world, for an opportunity to talk
about dress for twenty minutes with another of her sex. What
woman could Marguerite talk with? After the party given by
M. and Mme. D'Ornis, they had received from their neighbors
several invitations to dinner. M. D'Ornis had found excuses
for not accepting them, and they had not been repeated. The
old Countess went about remarking that her daughter-in-law
was a very handsome girl, but that she had good reasons for
shunning society; that knowing her own failings, she felt
embarrassed in her new position, and had asked her husband
neither to receive calls nor make them.' Poor Roger!" she




16         JOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
would add with a sigh. Her intimate friend, the Marchioness
Du Rozan, shared her feelings of resentment, and confirmed
all her petty calumnies. "Your son will come back to you,
my dear," she said consoling her. " When a man like him
marries such a woman, he always repents of it before long."
The women talked in this way; the men reasoned in another
manner. Marguerite's beauty had made a deep impression on
them, and when they chanced to meet her, they gazed persistently on this forbidden fruit. They found fault with M. D'Ornis for keeping his wife to himself, and depriving society of her
presence. Some attributed it to his savage humor, others suspected him of jealousy. A few were persevering enough to
call upon them. The coolness of their reception, however,
compelled them to cut short their calls.




CHAPTER  XVII.
M. BERTRAND APPEARS AGAIN.
If Marguerite did not find much diversion in her neighbors'
society, she certainly did not take much comfort in her own.
We are often tormented by our imagination, but sometimes it
does us a service in return, by helping us forget the realities of
life, and we are very thankful when these realities are disagreeable. Marguerite was not one of those winged souls, that fly to
the clouds when the earth displeases them. She had never
been able to lose herself in the realms of space, nor to fall in
love with a shadow or a day-dream. The only passion she had
ever experienced was friendship; every thing else was simply
a more or less agreeable pastime to her. She liked to read
a novel or play a sonata as well as any one, but as soon as
she had closed her book or her piano, she found herself again
face to face with Marguerite Mirion, now Countess D'Ornis,
who recounted all her little affairs to her and asked her advice
concerning them.  Good-by to music! She had to answer
these questions and give her attention to the realities of life.
She could not drive away her troubles by dreaming over them;
her reason was her only resource. She bravely held her curiosity in check. " Be still," she said to it; "if I should follow
your advice, you would render me unhappy."
One evening-I believe it was the 20th of November-a fire
broke out in a hamlet near Ornis. Roger, accompanied by his
men, was one of the first upon the ground; he always, on such occasions, exhibited great coolness and intrepidity. Marguerite
was left at the castle, with no companion but her maid. About
ten o'clock, the bell rang violently.  At her mistress's bidding, Fanny, who was not the bravest girl in the world, went to
the door, much against her will. A few moments later, Marguerite heard her running hurriedly up the stairs.  She came
in with a terrified look, crying out, "Oh! my lady... it's an




118        yOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
ugly man with a great nose and staring eyes....I think he
must be a robber."
"What does he want? who did he ask for?" said Marguerite a little frightened.
" The Count. I told him he wasn't in. He said he was always in for him. I asked him to call again to-morrow. Then
he began to whirl his stick, telling me not to put on airs, that
he wanted to see the Count, that he would see him...."
" Well?"
"Then I pushed the door to in his face; but he kept it from
shutting with his stick, and I ran away."
"You're the greatest coward I ever saw," said Marguerite.
" Perhaps the man has an important message."
She rose to leave the room. Fanny tried to hold her back.
begging her to lock the door and put out the light. " I'm sure
that he's a robber," she said.
"There are no robbers about here."
"Oh! yes, my lady, one of them murdered that poor Marquis Raoux...."
" He was guillotined, and I want you never to mention that
name, or speak of that murder in this house again," said Marguerite in a reproving tone.
With these words, she took up the lamp, and leaving the room,
went to meet the nocturnal visitor. The latter had tried
to find M. D'Ornis's room, but had mistaken the way, and had
just entered a bath-room, situated at the end of the corridor.
The door had closed upon him, and after trying in vain to open
it, he was searching in the darkness for another outlet, cursing
and swearing all the time.
Marguerite summoned up all her courage and entered the
room. She found herself in the presence of a red-faced man,
whose eyes gave signs of his having been drinking freely. His
tongue, however, moved with ease, and he stood firmly on his
feet. On perceiving Marguerite, he remained an instant as
though bewildered; he shaded his eyes with his hairy hands,
and looked at her from head to foot. "Oh! what a handsome
Countess D'Ornis!" he said at last.




70SEP11 NO2IREL'S REVENGE.                 19
"What do you want?" asked Marguerite, not particularly
relishing his enthusiasm.
Instead of answering her, he smacked his lips. " Some men
are born lucky!" he said as though talking to himself. " Here's
an old fellow almost fifty, and black as an ant, and the good
Lord sends him a wife handsome enough to make an angel's
mouth water.... And then the dowry! may I inquire what
the dowry is?"
"What do you want here?" asked Marguerite again in a
louder tone. " What are you doing in this bath-room?"
He looked around him.  "As sure as I live, you're right," he
said with a harsh laugh; "I came near falling into the bath-tub.
I know what I'm about though! I've trotted round a good deal
to-day, and a little while ago I went into Mme. Guibaud's to
refresh myself. I don't know what she puts in her wine, but it
makes my head swim a little.  It won't last long...Where's
your husband, Countess?"
" You've been told once that's he's not at home. Have you
any message to leave for him?"
" A message, did you say?  I don't leave any messages
for him. I'm in the habit of talking over all my little affairs
with him, myself. We're old friends, you see. He wouldn't
like it at all, if he knew that I'd come to Burgundy without shaking hands with him.  Last summer, I didn't find
him. He was in Switzerland, looking for a wife. He's had
good luck, I must say, and I ought to congratulate him on
it."
Marguerite had never heard of this M. Bertrand, whom Joseph
Noirel had had the pleasure of meeting twice at Ornis. His
inseparable companion, the large dog, was not far distant; his
master had left him in the court-yard, where he was plaintively
baying at the moon. Marguerite wondered who this clown,
who spoke so familiarly of Count D'Ornis, could be. His dress
presented a strange mixture. His coat was of fine cloth with a
fur-collar, and in his cuffs he wore two enormous gold sleevebuttons. On the other hand, his felt hat was well worn and
out of shape, and he had on a pair of coarse, heavy shoes, tied




120         JOSEPI'   NOIRELS REVENGE.
with pieces of rough twine. Marguerite finally concluded that
he was some horse-jockey, who had formerly accompanied M.
D'Ornis in his walks, and who had the bad habit of drinking
too much.
"I don't know when M. D'Ornis will return," she said.
" Please be kind enough to call again to-morrow, sir."
" Yes, that's very nice," he answered, rolling his eyes about.
"You can't get rid of me so easy. To-morrow, the Count will
be off hunting, and I'll have to chase after him. Time is
money, as the English say. I'm here, and here I'll stay, if I
have to wait all night."
In the meantime, Fanny, who from very shame, had rejoined
her mistress, bethought herself of an expedient she had heard
of, for getting rid of unwelcome nocturnal visitors.  Turning
toward the door, she began to shout, " Joseph, Jerome, Matthew,
John; this man is insulting my lady! Come up and put him
out."  She would have exhausted the whole calendar, if Marguerite had not placed her hand over her mouth.
The only result of this experiment was to excite M. Bertrand
to fury. Striking his hat fiercely with one hand, and brandishing his stick with the other, he cried, " Put me out! me, M.
Bertrand! Let your Johns and Matthews all come on! I'd
like to see any body in this house that dare touch me!... Perhaps you don't know that this house belongs to me.".... Then
striking the wall with his stick, he continued, " This wall knows
me. It knows who I am, and that I've a right to act as master
here.... Yes, my dear Countess, if I should take a fancy to add
that handsome coral necklace you've got on, to my stock in
trade, I'd only have to ask for it, to get it.... And if I choose
to insult my lady, as your girl says, who's going to hinder me,
I'd like to know?"
With these words he put out his arm, and would have caught
Marguerite round the waist, if she had not sprung back. As
he started to follow her, his hat fell off, and he stooped to
pick it up. Marguerite ran into the corridor, and Fanny
quickly shut the door of the room, locking it from the outside.
M. Bertrand tried to kick down the door, but without success;




7OSEPI  NOIR0EL'S RE VEANGL'.            121
he remained shut up in the dark, swearing, howling, dancing
about like a devil in a holy-water basin, pounding the bath-tubs
with his stick, and making noise enough to wake the dead.
His dog in the court-yard hearing him, answered by a series ot
unearthly howls, to which all the dogs in the neighborhood
hastened to add a chorus.
Marguerite, who was still trembling at the remembrance of
M. Bertrand's insolence, was afraid that the door would soon
give way, and scarcely knew what to do. Fanny volunteered
to go to the village and ask for help. She was about to accept
her offer, when M. D'Ornis appeared, followed by his valet.
" What's all this noise?" he asked. Fanny ran up to him,
and before Marguerite could say a word, related in a most pathetic tone, how a drunken man, who seemed a very suspicious
character, had succeeded in gaining admission to the house,
and, on being asked to leave it, had threatened and insulted
them, and had even gone so far as to try to put his arm around
the Countess's waist.
M. D'Ornis's face grew purple with anger. "Where is the
villain?" he cried, and, without waiting for an answer, he ran toward the bath-room. Marguerite followed close behind him,
fearful that he would commit some violence. She might have
saved her steps. The door had scarcely opened, when his anger left him as if by magic, giving place to a kind of terror,
mingled with surprise and anguish. He fell back a step.
" What! it's you, Bertrand?" he stammered, striving to regain his self-possession.  " What are you doing?... "
The furious rage to which M. Bertrand had given way had
completely sobered him, but he came near having an apoplectic
fit. He untied his cravat quickly, as though afraid of suffocating.
" Yes, it's me," he answered in a panting voice. " It's me,
Count, and this is the way I'm received here in your house.
What do they take me for? Have you ordered them to treat
me so? Am I a man to be trifled with? Or are you trying to
make me sick of coming here? You might as well save yourself the trouble."




122         7OSEPIJ ANOIREL'S RE VENGE.
"It's a mistake," muttered M. D'Ornis. "How can you
think....
" Why don't you tell your people who I am then?" answered the other shaking his red head. "You've never told the
Countess about me. Explain to her.... "
" That will do," interrupted M. D'Ornis in a haughty tone.
He had at last succeeded in mastering his agitation. " I have
no reason for presenting you to my wife, and intend to keep
you entirely for myself. Cool down now, pick your hat out of
the bath-tub, and follow me to my room. We can talk there
at our leisure."
M. Bertrand picked up his hat, and turning toward Marguerite with a slight bow, and a side glance that she did not deign
to notice, hastened to rejoin M. D'Ornis, who had already started and was turning round to call him.
Marguerite was almost stunned by what she had just seen and
heard; it all seemed like a dream. She knew by experience
how quick her husband's temper was; she had feared, for an
instant, that he would strangle this intruder, who had forced
himself into his house and taken liberties with his wife. At
the mere sight of him, however, his anger had melted like snow
before the fire; he had turned pale, had listened with resignation to the reproaches of this clown, and had finally taken him
to his room, to talk over matters with him. Who was this M.
Bertrand, who understood so well how to quiet people?
She went up to her room in a deep revery. About eleven
o'clock, Fanny, whom she had sent downstairs on an errand,
returned saying, "I can't understand it, my lady? That ugly
creature has just gone, and the Count went with him to the
door. They stood in the vestibule talking a few minutes."
" And you were listening as usual? It's time you put a stop
to this. Your ears are growing so large, you'll have to be very
careful of them."
s" I wasn't listening, my lady; they were talking very loud.
M. Bertrand said,' Very well, we'll meet again a week from
now; but I give you warning it's the only thing I'll do.' It was
very evident that the Count was angry.' All right,' he an



JOSEP I   NOIREL'S RE VENAGE.             123
swered,' only permit me to observe that you're a rascal.' At this
the'ugly fellow was about to speak; but the Count motioned
him to keep quiet, and he went off whistling. I never heard
of siuch a thing, my lady! A drunken fellow tries to put his
arm round you, and the Count swallows it like so much honey."
Marguerite ordered her to be quiet. Her own reflections on
this subject were sufficient for her; she did not wish to hear
her maid's.  She took up her embroidery again.  Soon she
heard her husband's quick, nervous step on the stairs and in the
corridor. The door opened and he came in. He had a gloomy
expression on his face. As soon as he saw her, he gave her a
searching glance; it seemed as though his anger had been
long pent up, and was now ready to explode on the slightest
provocation.
" Well!" she said, " where was the fire?"
This question took him by surprise; it was not what he expected.  " It's scarcely worth speaking of," he said in a dry
tone. " It was a shed that caught fire. There was nothing in
it but a few pigs, and they were only singed a little."
" Any one would think that you were angry because they
saved their bacon?" she answered laughing.
" Not at all! You know I wouldn't harm a living thing."
He began to walk up and down the room with his hands
behind him, now and then glancing at Marguerite.  Although
he was not fond of questions, he preferred them to such silence.
In fact, nothing could have been more disagreeable to him than
to have his wife say nothing, when he knew she was thinking
about him all the time. " It's suffocating here!" he cried.
"You've got such a blazing fire. I don't see how you can
stand it."
He opened the window as wide as he could. Marguerite approached the fireplace, and pushed aside two logs that had
just lbegun to burn. She could not help making inz petlo the
reflection that her fire was a very modest one, and that an angry man always finds something to get provoked about. She
then sat down and began to embroider again. Stopping before
her, M. D'Ornis said, " What are you doing?"




124         JOSEPHF AZTOIEL'S RE VENGE.
" Don't you see, I'm embroidering."
" You ought not to work so late; it will spoil your eyes."
" Oh! I'm used to it; it doesn't tire them at all."
" Don't you know that there's nothing so provoking to a
man, as to have a woman embroidering all the time."
"Oh!" she answered gayly, " that's an argument that I appreciate."  Then putting down her work and leaning back in
her chair with her arms folded, she continued, " Well! what
have you to say to me?"
He slightly shrugged his shoulders, and began to walk round
the room. When he came back to Marguerite, seeing that she
was determined not to question him, he decided to break the
ice himself. " If I may ask the question, where did you pick
up that maid of yours?" he said.
" In Geneva. She comes from my own country. She has
been at Paris several years, and is a good clever girl."
" Begging your pardon, she's a goose."
" Why, what has she done?"
" Oh I she gets frightened so easily and tells such fearful
stories.  Didn't she take M. Bertrand for a highway robber?
A little more and she would have roused the whole village.
Does he look like a villain? Did he try to murder her? You'd
better send your girl home again."
" Excuse me. She does get excited very easily, and I have
often scolded her for it; but she was not so much to blame
this time. Your M. Bertrand has such a way of presenting
himself.... I should have been sorry, I must confess, if he had
caught your wife in his arms."
" Are you sure that he tried to do so? He saw that you were
frightened, and wanted to have a little fun with you....His
joke was in bad taste, perhaps....."
"Yes, I think it was," she interrupted.
" Nothing like that ever happens to women who are not
afraid," he answered brutally. " If Countess D'Ornis didn't
act like a little girl, no one would ever think of taking liberties with her."
In spite of her gentle nature, this remark provoked her.




O7SEPtI  NOIIRELS lRE VENGE.                125
"You must excuse your poor Marguerite," she said.  " If I
had supposed that this man was a friend of yours...."
He started back. " He, my friend! Do you want to insult
me?"
" Not at all, only I think you are strangely indulgent toward
him."
"Are you sorry I didn't kill him like a dog, because he'd
been drinking a little too much?"
" Heaven forbid! I wish, though, that you would show the
same indulgence to other people, especially to your humble servant."  Then, becoming good-natured again, she added with
that childish grace which was so irresistible, " Come, tell me
right away who M. Bertrand is, and let's have done with
him!"
He experienced some satisfaction at having succeeded in
making her ask the question, and became a little gentler in
his manner. " I knew you were dying to question me!" he
cried.  " What curious creatures women are!.... M. Bertrand
is one of the finest products of this country. After having
tried all kinds of business, this child of Ornis is now in a fair
way to make a fortune. Beginning as a simple shepherd, and
becoming in turn a peddler, a wood-cutter, an insurance broker, and a sampler in a wine-house, he finally grew tired of tasting other people's wines, and swore that thenceforth he would
drink none but his own. He doesn't always keep his word, as
you have seen. Finally, he became a dealer in bric-a-brac,
and for some years has had a store in Lyons. Every now and
then, he makes a visit to our Burgundian castles, where he always finds something that he wants to buy. My garret is full
of old furniture, antiquated things that are good for nothing,
and I'm very glad to get rid of them. You see that this man
is a useful animal after all, and that your maid is a silly
goose."
For the moment, Marguerite was satisfied with this explanation. " Why have you never taken me to visit your garret?"
she asked. "You know that I'm  very fond of old furniture."
" Pshaw!1 he said, " you'd find nothing there but worn-out




126         yOSEPH  NOAIREL'S RE VENGE.
things, such as ragged sofas, ricketty tables, chairs without
arms, and little trifles which would be of no use to you, but
which my man knows what to do with, and is very willing to
pay me for."
" Then I'll outbid M. Bertrand. If Marguerite Mirion loves
old furniture, Countess D'Ornis has a great regard for family
keepsakes."
" Don't be more loyal than the king himself," he answered
curtly.
She approached him and held her cheek for him to kiss;
he just touched it with his lips. In return she kissed him on
the forehead. She did not succeed, however, in dissipating the
dark cloud which hung upon his brow.
Marguerite had scarcely placed her head upon her pillow,
when, her husband's explanations returning to her mind, she
found much in them that troubled her. She knew him well
enough to be aware that he had an almost sacred reverence for
family relics, and that he would be more likely to burn an old
cabinet than to sell it to a peddler. Even supposing he had
made some lucrative bargains with M. Bertrand, would that
suffice to explain the kind of mysterious power which this
clown exerted, or the respect with which M. D'Ornis treated
him? Why had he turned pale and fallen back when he first
recognized him?  She recalled also M. Bertrand's words,
"This house belongs to me.... If I wanted that coral necklace,
I'd only have to ask for it, to get it." Such expressions seemed strange even in the mouth of a drunken man. Then Fanny had heard M. D'Ornis say, " Permit me to observe that
you're a rascal!" Would he be likely to talk in that way to a
useful animal, whom he expected to meet again in a week, to
talk over the price of a table with him?
After turning many times upon her pillow, Marguerite finally fell asleep. About two o'clock, she woke up with a start.
She thought she had seen her husband approach her bed, lean
over and gaze fixedly at her for a moment, and then suddenly
shake his fists above her, heaving a despairing sigh. She
sprang from the bed, crying, " What's the matter? What are




0OSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                 I27
you doing?"  Her cry brought her to herself  There was no
one in the room; around her all was still. On listening attentively, however, she thought she heard some one walking in
her husband's room, which was separated from her own by a
short flight of steps with a narrow landing at their base. She
opened the door softly, and saw that the light was still burning
in M. D'Ornis's apartment.  Her ears had not deceived her:
he was walking up and down the room. A few minutes afterward, he heaved a deep sigh, almost as appalling as the one
she had heard in her dream.  Fearing that he was ill, she
sprang forward to assist him. Her hand was already on the
latch, when her courage failed her. She remained motionless
a few minutes, holding her breath; finally she said in a low
voice, " Roger, are you sick?"  Probably he did not hear her,
for no answer was returned. Soon afterward, he blew out the
light and went to bed. Marguerite lay down again, but could
not sleep. Every few minutes she would start up and listen.
The darkness frightened her; the night seemed very long.
The sun was her great friend; he had always brought her consolation with his beams. She had never had a sorrow which
had been able to resist the charms of the early morn-the first
bright smiles of a pleasant day.
She rose as soon as it was light, opened her window, and
inhaled the cold, fresh air of the November morning; then
she lay down again, and slept two or three hours. When she
awoke, she sought her terrors, but could no longer find them.




CHAPTER  XVIII.
THE OLD COUNTESS PLOTS FRESH MISCHIEF.
That day Marguerite saw little of her husband.... He went
hunting very early in the morning, without asking her to accom
pany him. He did not return till dinner-time. His face was
dark, a cloud was on his brow. After dinner, he smoked two
or three cigars in the park, then entered the little room where
his wife was sitting, and after exchanging a few careless words
with her, went off to bed. The next day passed in the same
manner.  The day following, he stated that urgent business
called him to Paris, and without saying what this business was,
or how long he would be gone, started for the railway station
at Blaisy-Bas.
Marguerite employed her days of solitude as best she could.
She took some walks, and passed an hour or two every afternoon with an old woman who was paralyzed, and who interested her very much. The rest of her time, she divided between
her embroidery and a new piece of music, which she had every
opportunity to learn thoroughly.
She was seated at her piano one morning, when a servant
announced the old Countess. She was sorry that her motherin-law had chosen a time when her husband was away to call
upon her. It was better to receive her, though, than to pretend she had a headache; Mme. D'Ornis had not much faith
in her daughter's headaches.  Marguerite ordered the servant
to show her into the large parlor on the ground floor, whither
she hastened to meet her. " What is this they tell me, my
dear?" said Mme. D'Ornis holding out her hand. "You're a
widow so soon? How could you let your shepherd go away?
You must have shed whole floods of tears."
" M. D'Ornis was called to Paris on business," Marguerite
quietly replied.




7OS-EPI  NOIREL'S iR'E VNGE.              129
" What an ugly word! When did shepherds ever have
business to attend to? I thought that was something unheard
of in Arcadia. If I had been in your place, I wouldn't have let
him go. When a husband, as much in love with his wife as
yours, finds business to call him fifty leagues away from her, it
marks a new epoch in married life."
"I'm not worried about it," answered Marguerite; "my shepherd will return to me."
"May I inquire what his business is in Paris?"
" He probably wanted to see his banker."
"Probably?  Don't you know  for sure?  I'm  more and
more astonished; I thought he told you every thing."
"He does tell me all I care to know."
"That's right, my dear!" answered Mme. D'Ornis.  "You
are strong in faith.  It's not the saving kind, but it's useful,
notwithstanding. It keeps you from being jealous. Besides,
what good would it do if you were to question Roger? Nothing is more disagreeable than a question. When we lived together, he would often discover, while shaving in the morning,
that urgent business required his presence at Lyons, Dijon, or
even Paris. I would ask him what his business was. He at
first used to make up some story for me; but at last he simply answered,' I'm tired of home, and want a change.'.... The
times are very different now; he don't get tired any more."
"Are you fond of music, madam?" interrupted Marguerite.
"I have a new piece upstairs that I'd be glad to play for you."
"I don't like any thing but church music.  Keep your demisemi-quavers for the amateurs, my dear..... By the way," she
added, "there's a story in our neighborhood about a scene
in a bath-room.... "
"You forget, madam," said Marguerite with a laugh, "that
there's nothing more disagreeable than a question."
" Unless it is advice," she answered, " and yet I'm going to
give you some. One does disagreeable things at my age, and
foolish things at yours. I was about to tell you that it would
be a foolish thing to draw M. Bertrand here."
" I draw him here! I think I received him...."




130         7OSE'PI NOIREL'S REVENGE.
"Oh! certainly.  I know all about it. Your servants are
great gossips, and I've been informed that the gentleman
made himself very much at home.....The story has amused
every body in the neighborhood. It's not because people are
malicious, but they want some occupation, and when they can
talk about their neighbors...."
"What advice have you to give me?" interrupted Marguerite again, with something like coolness in her tone. " Are
you afraid that I'll encourage M. Bertrand's advances?"
" Let's be serious about it. I have already said, and I now
repeat, that it's your duty to watch over your husband and to
oppose his caprices whenever you can. I don't know what's
come over him; it seems as though, during the last few years,
he had determined to sell out his property piece by piece.
Why does he find it necessary to turn every thing into money?
Last year he sold M. Du Rozan a large field and a strip of
woods, answering all my remonstrances by saying,'Money
is worthless trash, but we must have it.' The most absurd of
all his whims, though, is his fancy for M. Bertrand.  This
man has been banished from all respectable society; he's received nowhere excepting at this house. While I was mistress
here, he twice visited the castle. I managed so well that he
went off without taking any thing with him. Just think what a
bad effect it would have, my dear, to see a load of old relics
and family portraits leave the castle. And then people would
blame you for it. They would say that you were ignorant of
the common courtesies of life.... "
"They're not to be learned in a carpenter's shop," said Marguerite.  "How much the poor carpenters have to answer for."
"I have nothing against them.  There's room  for every
body in this world. It seems to me, though, that this ought
to be a matter of honor with you.... Among the family portraits that M. Bertrand covets there are some of real merit.
That's another strange thing about Roger. Formerly lhe us-ed
to like to have these portraits about him, and had them hung
up in his office. Now the wind has changed; in the unsettled
state of mind in which Raoux's death left him, he had them all




7OSEPIZ A.OIREL'S RE VENGE.                131
carried to the garret, telling me that he couldn't bear to see
them staring at him. I particularly commend to your care a
crayon drawing by Latour, about as large as your hand.  It's
a portrait of a great-aunt of Roger's, a D'Epinac, taken at the
age of twenty-five.  She is in a ball dress, and has a rose in
her hair.  Her hair was beautiful, and of a color just like
yours, my dear. The poor lady had an eventful life. Her husband, who began by worshiping her, ended by beating her.
Such things do happen sometimes.  One day she ran away
with her lover, and such a lover!-he was a lawyer's clerk..... May God have mercy on him! When she had had enough
of her dear clerk, she entered a convent; she died with an
odor of sanctity about her. Her portrait is marvelously beautiful. Picture to yourself a lovely face, with a pink and white complexion, a little pouting mouth, and handsome brown eyesthey were something like yours, too, only they were quite deceitful. You can almost see the lawyer's clerk, if you search
them carefully. It would be a sad thing to have such a treasure fall into M. Bertrand's hands.  Take good care of it, I beg
of you. You ought to talk seriously to Roger....'
" Why don't you speak to him, yourself, madam?"
" It would do no good, I have no influence over him now.
You have succeeded to my rights, it's just that you should bear
my burdens too.... Ah! does your shepherd frighten you?  I
believe in proverbs, my dear. If you treat the wolf too well,
the wolf will eat you."
As she spoke, she drew her cashmere shawl over her shoulders, rose from her seat, and again pressed her daughter-inlaw's hand, saying, "You ought to take advantage of your
husband's absence to come and dine with me without ceremony; then we can have a good talk together. I can give you an
omelette, since you like them, and can season it to suit your
taste, I think."
" I'm always suspicious of the seasoning," replied Marguerite with a smile.
"Will you come?"
" I prefer to wait till M. D'Ornis returns."




132          2O5EPI    NOJREELS ALEVECGE.
The old Countess broke into a harsh laugh, which displayed
all her pointed teeth. " To tell the truth," she said, "you don't
dare to dine with me without asking your tyrant's leave. You
certainly are afraid of him."
Marguerite accompanied her to the gate.  "Ah!" she said
to herself as she saw her moving away, "you are a bad woman, and I shall not try to love you."
She went upstairs again, and opening her new  piece ot
music, played it through.  While shutting her piano, she
thought of an old woman at Geneva, who was noted for her
cross and ugly disposition, and who never called on her acquaintances, without making some spiteful flings at them, or
telling them some unpleasant story about themselves, that was
circulating through the neighborhood.  Uncle Benjamin detested this old vixen, and as soon as he caught sight of her,
always cried, " Look out! here comes that hateful animal...."
This brought to her mind another phrase of Uncle Benjamin's,
an answer that he always gave her, when she was a little girl,
and asked him  about things that she could not understand.
" There, there, Margot," he would say, "when you are grown
up, you will find that there are a great many things in a chosie-."  "What is a chosier, Uncle?" she would ask.' It's
whatever the Lord uses to put things in. The great chosier is
the world, and there are a great many little chosiers, such as a
young girl's head, and it's a harder thing to understand than
you have any idea of." Yes, indeed! she thought; it is difficult to understand.
She tried to work on her embroidery, but she was too nervous to fix her attention on it. It seemed as if some venomous
insect had stung her.  She wanted to bathe in the fresh air.
She put on a gray felt hat trimmed with red feathers, threw over
her shoulders a cloak of velvet lined with fur, and started for
th-e park. In passing through the parlor, she saw her figure reflected in the glass, and stopped to look at herself a moment.
" I don't see but you look well enough," she said.  " 1 don't
believe you could find another such handsome head of hair within ten miles of here.  The great trouble is, that in your little




yOSEPII NOIREL'S'REVE'NGE.                133
chosier there's a longing for such happiness as can not be found
within this house.  The ceiling3 are too high for it."
A moment afterward, she descended the steps, and went into
the park, drawing her feet through the dead leaves that covered the walks, and listening to the sad rustling that they made.
She soon grew tired of this music, and sat down on a bench at
the base of the noseless statue.  She gazed for a long time at
the castle and its massive architecture.  " How immense it
is!" she thought, and for the first time she asked herself, if it
were not a caprice of fortune that had brought her there.....
"The linnet wants a nest, and not an eagle's eyry," she said.
" I take up so little room and this castle is so large, I feel
quite lost in it. If I had been trained for this kind of life from
the time that I was ten years old, I might, perhaps, have
grown to like it. The people that I grew up among were no
better than any others; they scolded and quarreled and were
jealous, just like those that live in castles. They were always
frank and open-hearted, though, and they lived too near each
other to surround themselves with mystery. When husbands
went away, they gave a reason for it, and if their wives were
troubled, they always had their household duties, their knitting,
or their accounts to occupy them.  What have I to do?  I'm
not permitted to attend to any thing. As soon as the dinner is
ordered, I have the whole day before me, and don't know what
to do with it. My greatest misfortune," she added, "is that
I've always lived with those who loved me dearly, and I've become accustomed to it.  There's only one person here that
cares for me, and I don't see him very often. Every one else
that I meet, is all the time watching to see me say or do some
foolish thing. The worst of it is. I can not live without love,
for vanity does not help me in the least."   She felt herself
drawn on by this current of sad thoughts, and her gayety left
her for the moment,  She rose and, with folded arms, paced
slowly round and round the statue. At last, picking up a pine
cone from the grass, she murmured, " It's a little pet no larger than this I want.  Those little darlings help fill up the
time."  Then, holding the cone in her hand, she stood looking




134          yOSESH  NrOIR'EL'S RE VEA'GE.
at the battered statue of James D'Ornis, Field-Marshal and
Commander of the Holy Ghost. Notwithstanding the irreparable
outrages which time had inflicted on his countenance, his frank
and martial face pleased Marguerite.  " You look like a good
man," she said, "in spite of your missing nose, and it seems
as though I could talk with you. You have been in the camp
and in the court; you are acquainted with the world and the
vicissitudes of life; you have no set ideas and narrow prejudices, like some people that I know. Perhaps if you were to return to life, you would be surprised to find Ma-guerite Mirion
here, talking so familiarly with your statue; perhaps you would
be astonished to learn that she had become a member of your
family.  You must judge things by their fruits, however.  If I
am ever fortunate enough to present your house an heir, he
shall be worthy of you. I will teach him to be noble-minded
both in what he loves and what he hates; I will strive to kindle
in his breast that courage which enables us to struggle for the
right, and even to die bravely for it at Nerwinde,-for that's
where you died, old fellow!" she added, leaning forward to read
the inscription on the pedestal. At this moment, she noticed
that she was still holding the pine cone in her hand. She put
it to her lips and, closing her eyes, covered it with kisses, until coming to herself and laughing at her folly, she threw it
far away upon the lawn.




CHAPTER XIX.
CURIOSITY AGAIN AT WORK.
Marguerite turned back toward the castle. Her conversation
with the field-marshal had rendered her more cheerful; she felt
disposed to think better of herself and of those about her.
"It's very singular, though," she thought. " I've just promised that old stone hero that I would teach my son to become
a brave man, and yet it would be safe to wager ten to one, that
I'll not have sufficient courage to even mention the matter of
the portraits."
As she thought of the pictures, she became somewhat curious to see them, especially the portrait of that poor young
Marchioness D'Epinac, who had been first loved, then beaten
by her husband, and who had finally eloped with a clerk.
She felt touched by her misfortunes, though she could not excuse her errors; true women are so constituted that they love
and pity while they condemn. She hastily returned to the
house. Before starting on her search, as she wished to have
no one know what she was about, she sent her husband's valet
with a letter to the post, and dispatched Fanny with a message to the sick woman whom she was in the habit of visiting.
She could not help laughing at her own precautions. " Any
one would think it was a crime to visit a garret," she thought.
" I'm almost as much frightened as Blue Beard's wife was, when
she entered the mysterious room."
As soon as she found herself alone, she went up to the third
story, passed through the corridor, ran quickly up a wooden
staircase that she found upon her left, and stopped before a
great carved oaken door, which had a very uncompromising look,
as though it were accustomed to keep away intruders. She
opened it, notwithstanding, though not without great difficulty;
she had to use both hands to turn the key. The door grated
harshly as it swung upon its hinges, seeming to utter a cry ot




136          7OSEPIH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
complaint or protestation. It had been taught to dislike curious people.
The garret was lighted by two large dormer windows, and
did not appear to be either dark or uncomfortable. It was in
good order and not very dusty. The pieces of furniture that
filled it were arranged in rows like files of soldiers; it was an
easy matter to pass them in review. Marguerite, who was experienced in such matters, saw very quickly that there was
nothing among them of much value.  She thought she would
not try to keep them from M. Bertrand.  She passed on to the
portraits, which were leaning against the wall; it was easy to
recognize the members of her adopted family. All these D'Ornis resembled each other; they were dark and thin, with narrow, compressed lips, hooked noses, gleaming eyes, and dark,
stern brows.  "What a lot of night-hawks!" thought Marguerite; "those large brows seem full of secrets."  She was
delighted, at last, at finding the charming portrait of the Marchioness D'Epinac; it was in the bottom of a chest, wrapped
up in a piece of canvas. As she saw it, she gave a little cry
of pleasure and admiration.  The picture was a gem; Mme.
D'Ornis had not exaggerated its merits in the least.  The
expression of the eyes was strange; Marguerite did not discover the lawyer's clerk, but she thought she could perceive
within them a gentle sadness, a vague presentiment of evil, a
mystery of melancholy and gloomy expectation. She sat down
on the chest to gaze leisurely at this portrait which seemed to
fascinate her; she could not turn her eyes away from  it.
"It's true," she said; "it does resemble me a little. The hair,
the neck.... Ah! I see, the mouth is too small; it would be
impossible to laugh with such a mouth.  It maybe well enough
in a picture, but in real life, I shouldn't like it at all... She
must have been a melancholy Marguerite.  Her eyes are
searching the mysterious future. I would rather have smaller
eyes and a larger mouth, I think."
She began to laugh aloud, as though to show the portrait how
to do it. As her voice resounded through the garret, it frightened
her.  It seemed as though it were wrong to be merry there.




7OSEPtI  NAOIREL'S RET VENAGE               137
Why shouldn't I laugh?" she said.  Then looking at all the
D'Ornis staring at her, she added, " That kind of people don't
like to see others happy."  So saying, she turned their faces
back  against the wall.  As she was about putting Mme.
D'Epinac into her chest, she felt that she could not be separated from her.  She thought it would be too bad to have this
charming Marchioness fall into M. Bertrand's hands, that she
would plead her cause when the time came, and, meanwhile,
would take care of her, and make a companion of her in her
solitary hours.
She carried the portrait to her room, and looked at it often
during the day.  While she was undressing, it stood upon her
toilet table, and when she went to bed, she took it with her,
talking to it, and making it tell its story.  " So he first loved
and afterward beat you," she said. " Why did he do it? You
were not a coquette, and he was not jealous.  Perhaps you
made him angry; perhaps you talked too much with your mother-in-law. You can't be too cautious with such sharp people.... And so. one day, not being able to bear such treatment
any longer, you ran off with a clerk.  XWas he very handsome?
Whether he was or not, you soon found out how heartless your
lover was.... Then you made your peace with God by entering a convent.  There seems to be a charm in a nun's veil; it
drives away sad memories. That's a resource I could never
have.  I should suffer remorse for twenty years.  Twenty
years of remorse! I think I'd rather kill myself."
She fell asleep still holding the portrait in her hands.  In
the morning, her first glance fell upon it.  Springing from bed,
she hastily thrust the Marchioness into a drawer. She had just
finished dressing, when she heard a well-known voice and step
upon the stairs, and Roger entered the room.' Has any thing happened while I've been away?" he asked.
No; nothing ever happens here. How did you find Paris?"
"The same as ever.... Have you received any calls?"
"None at all....Oh! yes, there was one. Your mother
came to see me."
" What did she have to say?"




138         JOSEPIH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
" She came to ask me to dine with her, but I told her I preferred to wait till you came back."
" You're a good wife, and I believe you mean to do what's
right."
He kissed her forehead as he spoke. He was in such good
humor that she resolved to speak to him about the portraits.
A letter from her father, which was handed her at this moment,
however, changed the current of her thoughts.  This letter,
which had been delayed by some mistake, informed her that
Uncle Benjamin had had an apoplectic fit, that the physicians
were in doubt as to his recovery, and that knowing how
seriously ill he was, he had expressed a strong desire to see his
niece. Marguerite showed the letter to her husband, and asked his permission to make a three days' visit to Geneva.
" That's very unfortunate," he said, " I wanted you to go with
me to the Morvan hills to-morrow."
As she persisted in her request, he finally said with a harshness that deeply pained her, "Yes, you may go, and I'll forgive your uncle, but only on condition that he won't get well
again."
The express train from Paris to Geneva passed through
Beaune during the night. It was arranged that Marguerite
should leave for Beaune immediately after dinner, and the carriage was ordered for eight o'clock.  Her husband appeared
very much annoyed; she did not wish to speak to him about
the portraits: it would be too much to displease him twice in
the same day. What should she do with Mme. D'Epinac?
The picture was set in a costly frame, ornamented with garnets.
Marguerite feared that if M. Bertrand should return during
her absence and the portrait could not be found, some servant
would be accused of taking it to obtain the garnets. She determined to carry Mme. D'Epinac back to her chest.  In the
afternoon as she was walking in the park with M. D'Ornis, she
was twenty times on the point of telling him of her expedition
of the day before, of the prize that she had found, and of the
value that she set upon it. She began to speak, but stopped,
and although the hero of Neerwinden seemed looking down




)OSEPI  IVOIREL'S RE VETGE.                139
upon her from.his pedestal, and recalling to her mind the brave
words she had uttered, her courage failed her. She left M.
D'Ornis pretending that she had to finish preparing for her
journey, and after stopping in her room to get the picture,
stole quietly to the garret to return it to its place.
She found the door wide open, and noticed on entering, that
some one had aired and dusted the room that morning. She
concluded from this that it was a dangerous place to visit, as
M. D'Ornis probably expected his customer there that afternoon. Although she made all possible haste, it took some time
to arrange the chest, so that no one would suspect that curious
hands had been at work there. As she rose up, she struck her
head against a beam; she rested it in her hand a moment, and
in doing so, noticed that she had lost a lilac bow, which had
been fastened in her hair.  She hunted for it a long time without success, and finally persuaded herself that she had dropped
it, while passing with her husband through the dense thickets of
the park. She prepared to retreat, and had already descended
one flight of stairs, when she heard voices on the floor below.
She listened attentively; the sounds came nearer..She soon
recognized M. D'Ornis's voice, and a moment afterward heard
the hollow tones of M. Bertrand. " Now  I'm  caught," she
thought.  Yielding to her first impulse, she ran lightly up the
steps that she had just descended.  At the entrance to the
garret, she stopped to think a moment, and reproached herself
for her childish fear. " I must be crazy," she thought. " What
can be simpler than to explain it to him?.... Yes, but I ought
to have told him about it in the park. I left him, pretending
that I wanted to get ready for my journey. I've told a white
lie already, and he will not forgive me. Besides, he's so suspicious! He will believe that I have the most horrible designs
in view; and, moreover, he can't control himself when he is
angry.  He will speak harshly to me before that man.  Every
body in the neighborhood will hear of it. It would make Mme.
D'Ornis too happy."
The voices had approached still nearer. Marguerite ran
quickly across the garret, and hid herself in a dark closet, separ



140            OSEPII AOZIREL'S RE VEINGE.
ated from the main portion of the room by a partition, the boards
of which had drawn apart, leaving wide cracks between them. In
this closet stood an old arm-chair, half hidden behind an immense chest.  Before seating herself in this chair, Marguerite
revolved the matter in her mind again.  " If they should find
me here, it would be a serious thing.  Well! I don't care.
I'll confess all, and tell them that Mme. D'Epinac is very dear
to me, that I don't wish to part with her, that I'm ready to pay
a double price, and that she belongs by right to the highest
bidder."  She thus excused her present fear, in consideration of the brilliant courage she intended to display. So our
consciences are formed. As soon as they begin to hesitate,
they are sure to find excuses and expedients. The truth is,
Marguerite was frightened, and when a frightened person finds
an arm-chair hidden behind a chest, it is an easy matter to settle down in it, and take the chances of being discovered there.




CHAPTER XX.
A STARTLING REVELATION.
Marguerite had scarcely reached her hiding place, when M.
D'Ornis appeared at the door of the garret, followed by M.
Bertrand, who was panting and out of breath. After having
closed the door, Roger cast a quick glance about him, as
though to make sure that no one was hidden in the room.
This glance, however, did not penetrate the thick darkness of
the closet. M. Bertrand threw himself down heavily on a sofa
in the corner, the worn-out springs of which groaned beneath
his weight.  "Ugh! Count, I'm all out of breath," he said in a
familiar tone. " There was no use in climbing up so far. We
should have been much more comfortable in your library....
As regards all this stuff up here, I told you last year what I
thought of it. It's none of it worth any thing, except a few
frames, and one or two portraits. You look on those as family relics, and you know I always respect such feelings.... Still,
if you want to make a trade, I'll give you a thousand francs,
if you'll allow me to pick out whatever suits me. You could
pass the amount over to your credit on our little account."
He rose and walked about the room, as though taking an
account of stock, shrugging his shoulders, nodding his head,
and puffing out his cheeks with a contemptuous air. He had
reached the door of the closet and had already stepped within
it, when M. D'Ornis, who had been following him, caught him
roughly by the arm and motioned him to take a seat. " Very
well! we'll say no more about it," he said, turning his back to
the little room. " A count always has a great respect for his
ancestors and for all the old things they've left behind them,
and is never willing to sell any of them, even when he has a
bargain offered him.  I understand you very well, though
perhaps you don't think I do. Although I'm a low-born fellow, I respect the aristocracy, and think it perfectly right that




142         7OSEPIII  NOIREL'S'RE VENGE.
there should be a class representing refined and noble sentiments. What would become of society without such sentiments, I'd like to know?"
So saying, he sat down again, putting his muddy shoes upon
the sofa. M. D'Ornis remained standing in front of him, leaning against a sideboard, and scanning him from head to foot
without speaking a single word. " Don't you suppose I know
what you're thinking about?" continued M. Bertrand with a
malicious grin. "You're figuring up my chances of life. You're
saying to yourself,' There's a stout fellow, with a red face and
a short, thick neck; he's certainly apoplectic, and some lucky
accident may rid me of him soon'....I'd very much like to
oblige you.  It won't do to trust too much to appearances
though. My father was just my build; he died at eighty-two,
and I'm only fifty-three. You see there's considerable margin.... By the way, where's the money?"
M. D'Ornis at last made up his mind to speak.  "What
money?" he asked. " Your demands are ridiculous; I didn't
suppose you were in earnest."
"You are mistaken, then.  You know well enough that I'm
always in earnest."
" May I inquire, M. Bertrand, what you are doing with your
money?  I'm told that your business is very good...."
"Don't believe it. The times are hard, good bargains are
very scarce, and customers are getting more suspicious every
day. Suspicion is the great evil of the present time; it's the
ruin of such fellows as me. Take pictures for example. The
devil himself couldn't sell a picture nowadays.  Your customer grins and says,' What! that miserable little daub! it's
nothing but a copy.'... Last year I bought ten Peruginos in
one lot, and they were genuine too, upon my honor. I've got
them all to-day. No one wants to deal in Peruginos."
"What you mean," said M. D'Ornis with an expression of
the deepest scorn, "is that you are living extravagantly, and
wasting your money in riot and on women...."
" What if I did spend my money on women!" answered the other with a disdainful air. " Are not women the consolation of life?




JOSEPH1 NOIREL'S'RE VEA'CG.                143
It's not often that you'll find such handsome ones as your wife
is....You're mistaken, though; I don't give myself up to such
follies. My plan is to invest my little savings in real estate.
There's a house at Guillotiere that I've had my eye on for
some time. I want about thirty thousand francs to make up
the purchase money, and I come to you to get it.  It's all as
plain as daylight."
M. D'Ornis violently struck his forehead with his hand.
"Have you sworn to ruin me?" he said. " Fifty thousand
francs the first time, forty thousand last year, thirty thousand
now.... 
" Well! that's only a hundred and twe'nty thousand in all, and
you get from your estate six hundred thousand at least. You
see you've got plenty left.... Then your father-in-law!  I've
made my little inquiries: they write me from Geneva that he's
a millionaire."
" I've shown you my marriage contract. You know as well
as I do that my wife brings me no fortune. Her father has given her three hundred thousand francs for her own use, but I
have no control whatever over it."
" Is her father such a stingy fellow?" replied M. Bertrand
with an appearance of sincere indignation. "Why! he's worse
than an old Jew.... It seems to me he ought to do more, considering the honor you've conferred upon him....Margoton
has become a countess, you see. Those old fellows generally
pay well for such things. Don't you think there's some way to
make this one settle?"
Marguerite did not lose a single word of this conversation.
The latter portion of it grieved her deeply.  She remembered
how persistently her husband had refused the dowry. What
she had looked upon as a refinement of delicacy was really a
matter of prudence with him. What was this danger which had
rendered him so careful?  Who was this insolent borrower,
who did not ask for money as a favor, but claimed it as a right?
What gave him the power to speak so boldly? He seemed
like a gambler holding the winning card.  What was this
card?  Was he not on the point of playing it? Marguerite




144        7yOSEPi~ NOIRELS RE VENGE.
shuddered as she thought, What am I about to hear? what is
this secret? She felt that her future depended on it, that her
fate hung, as it were, on the thick, brutish lips of this low fellow, who was now compelling the proudest of men to listen io
him, to hear him  say, " Margoton has become a countess."
The poor girl wanted to fly; but, even if fear had not retained
her in the chair, she felt that she was firmly fastened there,
by an eager, feverish curiosity.
" You impudent rascal!" cried M. D'Ornis after a moment's
silence. " Why did I ever consent, in a moment of weakness
and folly, to do this thing. You agreed, for a certain sum, never to trouble me again. You're a robber, Monsieur Bertrand!
a robber, do you understand? I'll let you know what I think
of you."
"A robber!" replied M. Bertrand without exhibiting the
slightest feeling.'" Where did you get that idea?  It isn't so
at all.  I'm a man of principle, I'd have you know.  I don't
believe in doing any thing that isn't right; I understand the
laws which  govern  my trade, and don't intend to  break
them.... There, don't get angry, don't be unreasonable; you'll
get your money back again some day.  You shouldn't talk of
having done a foolish thing. What you did was very sensible,
I think.  You agreed to pay a ransom  for what?...Count
D'Ornis's head, that's all.  If life without money is worth but
little, money without life isn't worth any thing. Come, you
mustn't talk so to your preserver, especially when he's so kind
to you, and is a man of principle besides.  Your ingratitude
really pains me.  I know very well, that you don't like my face,
and don't want to have me calling on you.  I've been to see
you only three times in the last three years; it seems to me
that's considerate enough. This year, too, from a feeling of
delicacy, I said to myself,' Let him enjoy the honey-moon in
peace, and since he dislikes the sight of my big nose, God grant
he may forget it for three months at least!' I must live, though;
I can't put myself out of existence to oblige you. I'm an intermittent bore, that's so much in your favor... Good Lord!
if I was in your place, I'd be delighted to see that rascally rob



yOSEPH  iVOIREL'S R'E zVENGE'.              145
ber, M. Bertrand, give some signs of life now and then.  I
come here to ask for money. Damn it, if I hadn't a love for
money, Count D'Ornis would be rotting in the ground to-day.
Do you want to know what I do with the money that you give
me?  It's well invested, I can tell you; it quiets my remorse,
for every body has a conscience, as you told me once. Every
body has some weak point too. I'm no exception to the rule; a
door well greased makes no noise, you know.... Perhaps you
won't believe me, but on my honor, there are nights when I
can't sleep, nights when I see by my bed the white face of the
man, who.... "
M. D'Ornis dcd not let him finish; he hurriedly drew out a
pocket-book, and threw it violently in the speaker's face.
" Well done!" cried M. Bertrand. " When I have bank bills
thrown at me, I'm willing to excuse the way it's done, provided
they count up all right."
He opened the pocket-book, and drew out a package of bills
which he began to count; then dipping an imaginary pen into
an equally imaginary ink-stand, and pretending to write, he said,
" Received from Count D'Ornis, one hundred and twenty thousand francs, to be returned upon demand."
So saying, he pocketed the bills.
" Where is my receipt? I want a receipt!" cried M. D'Ornis.
" Go and get one then. What nonsense! Am I in the habit of giving receipts? One merchant ought to trust another
merchant's honor.  My dear Count, you haven't got a line of
my writing, while I have some of yours, I think."
M. D'Ornis here gave way to another fit of passion. He
turned toward M. Bertrand with his teeth set and his fists
clenched.  " Give me that paper!" he cried.  " What do you
want for it? fifty thousand francs? a hundred thousand?"
"Much obliged!" answered M. Bertrand rising from  the
sofa. " I might sell it some time perhaps.... A hundred thousand francs is a fair sum.  The trouble is, that scrawl of yours
hasn't a fixed price. If the old fellow at Geneva should die tomorrow and you should get his pile, that precious little paper
would be worth a million."




146         7OSEP1  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
M. D'Ornis could control himself no longer. He uttered
a savage cry, and started forward as though to seize his enemy. The latter, however, caught up his stick, and falling back
a step, placed himself on guard. " Don't try that on me," he
said; "I know your temper well enough. What's the use of
acting so? If you should search me from head to foot, you
couldn't find your paper. I don't risk my valuables in such a
way."
M. D'Ornis had come to himself again. Showing the door
to M. Bertrand, he cried, " Get out, you villain! If you ever
dare show yourself here again, I'll have you beaten within an
inch of your life."
At these words, M. Bertrand's jovial humor deserted him.
Steadying himself on his immense feet, with reddened face and
staring eyes, he answered in a voice of thunder, " I'll come
here when I please, and if you...."
M. D'Ornis motioned him to stop. He had heard some one
coming up the stairs. It was Jerome, his valet, who had come
to tell him that the Marquis Du Rozan was below, waiting to
speak to him.  " So you won't take any less, Count?" said M.
Bertrand, changing his tone.  " The portraits are not worth so
much, upon my honor.  Is that the best you'll do?.... There's
no use in talking then. We'll have to change about; I'll be the
seller, and you can be the buyer. You told me you had a great
liking for Peruginos, I've got a dozen of them. They're magnificent pictures. I'll send them to you, and I guarantee you'll
keep the whole lot.  When a man likes such things, you
know...."
He began to descend the stairs; M. D'Ornis followed, pushing the door of the garret to behind him.  Marguerite left her
hiding place, and descended to her room; she did not take the
least precaution against discovery, she was so bewildered and
confused. Fortunately she was to start that very evening for
Geneva. She wanted to begin her journey at once, but before
doing so had to take dinner with her husband. The very
thought terrified her. How could she control her countenance
so that it should not betray her? She trembled like a leaf on




0OSEPIi NIOI'EL'S RiEVENGE.             147
her way to the dining-room. M. D'Ornis sent down word that
he had a headache and did not care for any dinner. She
breathed more freely; still she could not go without bidding
him good-by. At eight o'clock precisely, she knocked at his
door. "Who's that? what do you want?" he cried in a loud
voice.
It's me.... I'm going."
"Where to?....0 yes, I forgot."
He opened the door half way. Marguerite had been careful
to lower her veil. " Good-by," he said in a sad tone. " Come
back with your gay spirits as soon as you can, for you are
gay and happy as a lark, God bless you!"
"Are you in much pain?" she timidly asked.
"Yes, here and here," he answered, pointing to his head and
heart.
During the whole journey, from eight o'clock in the evening
to eleven the next morning, Marguerite had but one thought,
one occupation; she was reviewing all the details of that interview in the garret, and asking herself the question, " What is
the man who calls himself my husband?"
So absorbed was she in these gloomy thoughts, that on hearing the cry, " Geneva! all out here!" she shuddered and said
to herself, " Geneva! am I in Geneva? What did I come here
for? Oh! I remember, my uncle is sick, perhaps dead. What
difference does it make to me?  It will not lessen my gay
spirits, for I am bright, and gay, and proud besides, as the wife
of Count D'Ornis ought to be."




CHAPTER  XXI.
MARGUERITE AT HOME.
Uncle Benjamin was not dead.  Favorable symptoms had
set in, and, to use the mythological language of which he was
so fond, had brought him swiftly back from the dark shores of
Acheron. They had sent the news to Marguerite two days
before, but the letter had not arrived in time to prevent her
journey.
If there ever was a joyful home, it was Mon-Plaisir on this
long-to-be-remembered day. A little boy, watching his cows
in a neighboring field, was the first to see Countess D'Ornis.
He gave the alarm at once. The news spread like wildfire;
cows, dogs, horses, and chickens, all caught the infection, and
from kitchen to parlor, from poultry yard to stable, every heart
danced with joy. Scarcely had Marguerite's foot touched the
ground, when she was surrounded, questioned, petted, and
pushed about from every side. In this storm of words and
kisses, it seemed to her as though Mon-Plaisir had a hundred
doors, from each of which came forth a father, mother, aunt,
and cousin. She scarcely knew what to do or say.
When she had answered, as she could, their questions, and
returned their greetings, her mother, who was impatient to
have her to herself, threw her arms about her waist and drew,
or more correctly speaking, carried her to her room, on entering which she locked the door. Then she took off her hat,
made her sit down in an arm-chair, knelt on a cushion at her
feet, took both her hands within her own, and fixed her
eyes upon her face. "Well! my darling, are you happy?"
she cried in joyous tones. "Very happy, mamma," replied
Marguerite, as soon as she could catch her breath.
Thereupon Mme. Mirion talked to her for two hours in a
steady stream.  " Dear me! how lovely you look!" she said.
" I believe you've grown handsomer than ever. You're a little




'OSEPrZ  NOIREL'S REVENGE.                 149
pale and your eyes look heavy, but it all comes from your journey, and will soon pass away. You are happy, are you not?
He worships you, doesn't he? You owe it all to me. You al
ways had so many ifs and buts, whenever we talked about the
marriage.  You must confess that you didn't like it, and that I
almost forced you into it. How sorry I am that he didn't
come with you! They all laugh at me, and pretend that I'm in
love with him. That stupid Benjamin with his prophecies of
evil.... To hear him, you'd think we had driven you to the
slaughter. Dear me! I'm glad he's getting better, but I never did feel worried about him; disagreeable people always do
come round all right.  Every thing here must seem small
enough to you; the ceilings are very low. We can't help it,
dear; we haven't a castle, you know. Then your lake! tell me
all about it. What! it's only an ugly pond? Pshaw! ask your
husband to make you another then.  A man who worships
you, couldn't refuse you a lake. Your letters, you see, are very
good, only they have no news in them. You write,'The weather is fine; I am well and love you dearly.' We have to guess
all the rest. One thing, I've guessed, is that your mother-inlaw pets you a great deal, and that you have a party nearly
every day. I gave Mme. Patet a dose, the last time I saw her.
You know those people feel very grand because their Emily
married a rich merchant. When they heard of our marriage, it
made them pretty sick, and I heard that they went about saying,'Those Mirions are trying to reach too high; they'll get
enough of it before they're through.' Day before yesterday,
I met the old fright with her three freckled-faced daughters, and
took occasion to tell her that you were the happiest of wives,
that your husband worshiped you, and that every single day,
you had a baron to breakfast and two or three duchesses to
dinner. She almost died with envy. But that isn't all. There's
one question I'm dying to ask you..... What! isn't it so? I
remember how  it was with me; the first I knew I wanted
oranges, oh! so much. Haven't you felt so at all? I want
you to make haste, for I must have four little D'Ornis, at least.
We'll fix it so that your doctor will order Swiss air for them,




I So        yOSEPz   NOIREL'S REVENGE.
and every year I'll dance all four of them together on my
knees."
M. Mirion was as much pleased as his wife, but he did not
talk so much. He was satisfied to look at Marguerite, and to
cry as he tossed his suuff-box in the air, " There's our dear girl
home again!" Cousin Grillet gazed humbly and silently upon
her, as a beadle contemplates a bishop. Mlle. Baillet questioned her concerning the manners and customs of Burgundy, and
concluded from her answers that there were only two things
wanting to complete the happiness of the people there, an equestrian order and a grand duchess dowager. As regarded Uncle
Benjamin, who had not yet left his easy-chair, when he saw her
entering his room, he cried, " Margot, your uncle has seen
Charon's boat very near, but the grim ferryman would not receive him; he begged me to return to earth again, and I am
glad now it's so, since I see you so happy and contented.
Does every thing go well with you?  Do those D'Ornis treat
you with respect?  Is your husband kind to you?  Well,
well, this affair has turned out better than that mother of yours
deserves. She talks of nothing but her son-in-law, and regales
us with him the whole day long, making the most horrible rollings with her eyes and tongue. To hear her, you'd think that
D'Ornis was spelt with three rs and four ss. The devil take
such nonsense; I've had enough of it."
Mme. Mirion made all manner of plans to exhibit her
daughter and her delight. She was not one of those misers
who keep their treasures to themselves, and are careful never
to display them in public; she wanted the whole universe to
share her happiness. Two different ideas came to her. One,
which she kept to herself, was to hire a show window in the
most public street of Geneva, and to have Countess D'Ornis
stand in it for an entire day. The other was to give a grand
dinner party, followed by music, an illumination, and Bengal
lights-this was the way her parties always ended. Marguerite had hard work to dissuade her from this scheme; she
told her that she had only three days to spend at Mon-Plaisir,
that such an affair could not be gotten up without preparation,




yOS'EP1  NOIAREL,'S RE'VENGE.              15 1
that the musicians were so engaged that they could not come,
that she had brought no party dresses with her, and that she
preferred her dear old room, with its empty flower-stands and
withered rose-bushes, to all the Patets in the world. She
could not, however, refuse to go occasionally with her mother
to the city, where Mme. Mirion invented all kinds of pretexts
to make her walk the streets for hours, while her flashing eyes
seemed to say, " Sound the trumpets! She is here!"
Although she was spared the party, Marguerite found no
rest during the first two days she spent at Mon-Plaisir. To
have one fixed idea preying on the mind and be compelled to
conceal it from every eye, to so command the face and voice
that no suspicion be aroused, to hold back the starting tears
and keep a forced smile upon the lips, is a cruelly fatiguing
task. Mme. Mirion said to her daughter, "Now tell us all
about your parlor, and how it's furnished." All the time that
she was giving the description of the parlor, Marguerite saw
before her a garret and two men disputing there. Uncle Benjamin, who loved to talk, inquired of her what the history of
Ornis was. While answering that Ornis was a model canton,
where all the virtues flourished, where the husbands were all
faithful, and the wives above reproach, she kept saying to herself, " What is this mystery? what is this horrible debt that a
hundred and twenty thousand francs will not suffice to pay?"
When they asked her if her husband was not thinking of taking her to Paris or to Italy, she answered that Ornis was such
a charming place, they could not bear to leave it, and at the
same time she thought, " I'll tell him that I was there, that I
heard every thing, that I can not sleep and can not live, unless
he tells me the whole truth, unless I know who it is that I now
call my husband!"
The day before her departure, Marguerite received a call from
the Protestant minister of the parish, the one who had prepared
her for her first communion, and afterward had married her.
Although this worthy clergyman had no confessional in his
church, he took great pleasure in confessing his flock whenever he had an opportunity, a taste which he possessed in com



152          7OSEPI  NOIA0REL'S RE VENGE..
mon with a number of his brethren.  He questioned Marguerite at length, asking her whether marriage had proved to
be all that she expected, whether she had found her husband to
be the ideal of her dreams, and whether, thus far, she had met
with any unpleasant experiences or painful deceptions; last of
all, he offered her his sympathy and his advice-he had come
prepared at every point. She met his curiosity with a calm,
impenetrable face, eluded his questions, and declined his proffered services with a polite dignity which somewhat mortified
him.  Men of the church, whether Catholics or Protestants,
love to see others seeking their holy ointments.
As he was about to leave her, he said in an affected tone,
"Persons of your character think they are above temptation.
It's a dangerous illusion."
"What is my character?" she inquired with a smile.
" Certain souls," he answered, "conceal strong passions beneath a cold and calm exterior."
" Passions! I don't know what they are. I have but little
imagination and little force of character; it would be impossible for me to be very angry, to violently hate, or passionately
love any human creature."
" You mustn't trust too much to appearances. When you
were my pupil, I looked upon you as a tranquil lake, and
I have often noticed that these quiet lakes are the most terrible in storms. It's always well to keep a watch upon yourself."
"And to confess to your minister," mentally added Marguerite, as she accompanied him to the door. " My tongue is
tied," she thought, "and I know of no one in the world, who
can help me bear the burden that is weighing on my heart."




CHAPTER XXII.
AN OLD FLAME REKINDLED.
Marguerite passed the night that followed battling with her
thoughts.  Not able to sleep and yet not quite awake, she
would lose her senses for a moment and then regain them with
a sudden start, only to pass from frightful visions to still more
terrible realities. In these waking dreams were mingled her
remembrances, presentiments, and terrors; they brought before
her a confusion of large noses, red beards, English horses, little mouths that never smiled, pale faces seeking something,
she knew not what, and dead eyes which opened in the night
to terrify the living. She finally had a dream much more distinct than these confused and painful visions.  The scene of it
was in a garret. She saw herself seated in an arm-chair which
she thought concealed her; little by little the back of this chair
became transparent, and a voice at which she shuddered cried,
" She has my secret, I will have her life!"
She sat erect in bed and tried to gather up her courage; she
could not find i itit had all been spent during the last two days
in smiles and falsehoods.  In a few hours she was to return
to Ornis. What should she do?  Would she be bold enough
to speak, or strong enough to keep silence and dissimulate?
Every thing appeared frightful or impossible to her.  She had
no counselor; she was alone in the world, alone with her
secret.  She was filled with terror; Ornis seemed  like a
gloomy cavern to her, her future was shadowed by dark
clouds.
Scarcely were the first faint streaks of dawn visible on the
horizon, when Marguerite arose. After dressing hastily and
throwing an old shawl over her head, she went out, hoping that
the fresh morning air would comfort her.  This time, however,
the dawn brought no consolation with it.  Neither earth, nor




154         JOSEPH  JVOIREL'S REVENGE.
sky, nor dew, nor the gray eyes of morn, to use the poet's
words, had any thing to say to her. She crossed the garden,
and walked straight forward, seeing nothing but the dark pictures of her dreams, hearing nothing but her troubled thoughts.
On reaching the clump of willows, her strength deserted her;
she dropped wearily upon a bench, and placing her face within
her hands, burst into tears. She little suspected that a man
had followed her and was looking at her, and that this man was
Joseph Noirel.
Joseph had remained faithful to his design. Since Marguerite's departure, he had been slowly amassing a sufficient sum
to carry him to America, to place the sea between himself and
his sad thoughts. He sighed for the day when, newly landed
on the wharf at New-York, he should be able to shake off the
dust of the old world, and the ashes of his dead folly. He kept
steadily at work; no fault could be found with him in that regard. He was often busy at his bench until late at night. He
had obtained M. Mirion's permission to take his meals at the
eating-house and to sleep in the shop. Sometimes a week
would pass without his appearing at Mon-Plaisir.  M. Mirion
dared not complain; he knew that at the first remonstrance,
Joseph would desert him.
On the evening of her arrival, Marguerite was surprised not
to see Joseph at the table, and asked what had become of him.
" Don't speak to me about the boy!" Mme. Mirion had replied.
"He's completely spoiled. Blood will always tell, he will end
up like his father. We don't see him any more-the society of
honest people doesn't seem to please him. I'd be willing to bet
that he has taken to drink, and is going to ruin. He's got a
stone where his heart ought to be. Would you believe that
since you've been away, he has never asked after you but once,
and that, one day when I was reading a letter of yours out loud,
he went out of the room laughing."
"You're too hard on the boy, Marianne," M. Mirion replied.
" He never takes any amusement and is nearly killing himself
with work. I admit that he's cross and sulky, that he reads
bad books, that he's growing to be a socialist and an incen



yOSEPF  NVONIREL'S RE, VENGE.               1 55
diary, and that it's almost impossible to talk with him.  If
we're only patient, though, it will pass off like the chicken-pox."
"Couldn't he be informed that I should be sorry to go away
without seeing him?" asked Marguerite.
"He'd only keep away the more," her mother answered.
On learning from M. Mirion of Marguerite's unexpected arrival, Joseph was seized by a feeling of intense bitterness
against fate, which, by compelling him to look again on the enemy of his repose, seemed to take delight in reopening his
wound and preventing it from  healing.  He determined to
keep away from her, and for two days adhered to his resolve.
On the evening of the third he felt his determination growing
weaker; his desires were more powerful than his reason. His
eyes longed to look once more upon those wavy tresses, to
gaze entranced upon that smile; his ears were waiting to catch
the accents of that well-remembered voice. He went to MonPlaisir by night, and slipped quietly into his room. He passed
the hours of darkness, as he had often done before, stretched
out upon the floor, his head whirling, his heart on fire. At
times, it seemed as though the floor again became transparent,
and his closed eyes gazed into other eyes which smiled upon
him, upon loosened tresses which he caressed, upon fair shoulders which he covered with warm kisses; deceived by his
dream of passion, his sad heart became a habitation of delight.
At daybreak he heard Marguerite move about her room,
then open her door and descend the stairs. He looked out of
the window and saw her cross the garden.  He immediately
left the house and followed her; she did not hear his footsteps,
so deeply was she absorbed in her sad thoughts.  Having assured himself that she was going toward the willows, he took a
shorter route, and reaching the spot before her, hid himself
within the trunk of an immense hollow tree. It was the same
place where, three months before, she had surprised him in a
tumult of despair; at that time she  smiled.  He saw her
stop, seat herself, place her face within her hands, and,
could he believe it? he saw her weep. Yes, indeed, she wept;
not only did her tears fall, but convulsive sobs shook her




56          7OSEPH  iVOIREL'S RE VENGE.
frame. A delirium of joy took possession of him, while his
eyes shot fire and his breast was filled with a maddening
hope.  His wish then had been fufilled! It was misfortune she had found at Ornis. Misfortune removes all barriers and places every one on the same level; misfortune
despises no one, it grasps eagerly the first hand stretched
out to it, it clothes itself with patience and condescension,
it listens to advice, is docile and obedient, and receives with
gratitude the sympathy and devotion of the poor and weak.
Joseph felt reconciled, for a moment, with the government of
the world; it seemed to him that all was changed in heaven; that blind fortune had been dethroned by an omniscient justice, which had decreed that henceforth each one
in turn should have his desires fulfilled, and that bright and
happy days should dawn on the oppressed. Thus we transfer to heaven the feelings of our hearts, and thus our desires, denied or satisfied, frame our philosophy.  The heart
of man is the cradle where all the gods are born.




CHAPTER  XXIII.
MARGUERITE FINDS A CONFIDANT.
Joseph did not hesitate a second.  He left his hidingplace, and softly moved toward the bench. A moment later,
Marguerite raised her head, and saw  him  standing  there
before her. At first she was confused and troubled; the
soul has its nudities which a glance profanes.  Besides,
would not this man demand the secret of her tears? She
could not tell this secret; it belonged to another. She looked on Joseph with troubled, almost angry eyes, striving to
frame some answer to the question she expected, asking herself what invention would be most likely to satisfy his curiosity.  Suddenly something which she had forgotten came
distinctly to her mind.  She remembered that in that very
spot, Joseph had said to her, " I hope that some day you will
need one ready to die for you."  No, she was not dreaming, those were the very words he had used.  She looked
about her as though to ask the grass, the trees, the walks,
if it were not so. Yes, they all had heard, they all remembered.  Then she raised her head again, and fixed on Joseph a piercing look, which he could scarcely bear; it seemed to read the very secrets of his heart.  Marguerite thought,
"They speak ill of him, yet on his brow is the mark of a
noble nature. This young man is neither dissipated nor ungrateful; he's simply proud, and, not being understood, is
constantly wounded by unintentional slights and provocations."
After gazing a long time upon him, she came to the conclusion that this workman, this son of a poor beggar, was the only true soul she had met within the last three cays, and an impetuous, irresistible desire took possession of her, a desire to
share her secret with this soul, as one divides a bit of bread




158          JOSEPH  NOIRE3L'S RE VENGE.
with a companion on the road saying, " Let's eat together."  It
seemed to her that it would be a great comfort to do this, that
half the weight she bore would be taken from her, that thenceforth she would be able to move calmly on, making her way as
best she could over the sharp stones and through the thorns of
life.
She could not, however, quite make up her mind to break
the silence.  He spoke first, saying, " Do you remember, here,
three months ago.... 
" You wished misfortune to come upon me," she interrupted
in a sweet, sad voice. " Your desire has been granted; I hope
you're satisfied."
" I shall only be so," he answered quickly, "when you permit me to devote myself to your service.  I told you, if you
ever needed help, to call on me. I have not much to give;
but what I have is yours."
She fixed her calm, clear eyes upon him: "What have I
done to inspire you with this devoted friendship that you
offer me?"
He changed color; his lips trembled.  " Must I repeat what
I have already told you? I owe every thing to your family.
My debt weighs heavily upon me, I wish to pay it off.  How
can I do otherwise?  I am proud, I can't feel that I am free
until it's paid. It's in your hands, though, I wish to make my
payment.  You seem nearer to me than anyone else. Didyou
not say, yourself, that I was almost a brother to you?"
"How is it then that, though I've been here three days, I
see you now for the first time?"
" I was afraid you had forgotten me.... It's so easy to forget!
I'd rather not see those I love, than to find them changed."
Then he added, " What can I do for you?"
She hesitated no longer.  "Listen to mee....I'm  going to
reveal a secret to you...."
Then  stopping a moment, she continued, "But first you
must promise the strictest secrecy. You must swear that you
will never repeat a word of what I tell you.... "
A thrill of joy ran through his frame.  Henceforth there




yOSEP'I A OIRLE'L'S   E VLENIGE/.         I59
would be a secret between them, which would belong to them
alone, and from which all the rest of the world would be excluded.  This secret would unite and wed their souls.' I promise," he answered in a steady voice.
"That will not do," she continued. "You must take a solemn oath. Swear by what you love best in the world.... Swear
by that pride which with you is honor."
" I swear by my pride," he answered, " and I swear by the
horror and scorn I should feel for myself, if I should break
my word."
She held out her hand to him. " And I swear," he added,
"by this hand which I hold in mine, and which I should not
dare to touch, with the crime of perjury upon my soul."
" That will do," she answered. " Now sit down by me, I will
tell you....."
As soon as he was seated, she recounted the scene that had
taken place in the garret; she toned down the coloring of the
picture, however, and said nothing of the frightful conjectures
which she had made. Strange to relate, as she told the story,
she looked at the matter herself in a different light, her fears
were dissipated, the pouring out her secret into a sympathetic
heart acted like healing balm upon her own, and opened again
to her the consolations of hope.
"Now you know what makes me so unhappy," she said in
conclusion. " I have found that M. D'Ornis is in a condition of
humiliating dependence upon a man to whom he has given his
signature, for some reason, I know not what. His freedom, his
fortune, and his honor all seem compromised by this fatal paper, and his misfortune is also mine. How can this have happened? What service has this insolent fellow rendered him,
to be able thus to abuse his power? I suspect that he was a
soldier or sutler in Mexico, that he met the Count there, and
that in the vicissitudes of the campaign, he at some tOme saved
his life. M. D'Ornis is a man who acts on the impulse of the
moment.  In his first transports of gratitude, he probably
agreed to every thing, and signed whatever was presented to
him. I ought to ask him for an explanation, but I am not brave




i0 o        YOSEP&I   NOJICEL'S IEL VENG'E.
enough.  He is proud and quick to take offence. He can not
bear to speak of the past; he wishes to share with me only the
present and the future. What a future it will be, alas! if I do
not succeed in delivering him from this usurer, his evil genius
and my own! Whoever will discover the answer to this enigma, find out who this Bertrand is, and help me to rescue M.
D'Ornis from his hands, whoever will do this, will restore to me
my peace and dignity, and acquire an eternal claim upon my
gratitude.... But do I not expect too much? Am I not asking
an impossibility?  Am  I not wrong in telling you?...Why
have I disclosed these secrets to you? You saw my tears,
your eyes were questioning me. I was so unhappy, I could
not tell you an untruth; but I trust your promise and your
oath. You swore to me that you would keep my secret."
Joseph's heart bounded with joy. He now knew that Marguerite's feelings toward her husband were those of friendship,
not of love. Love is bold and not afraid to question; love is
jealous of its secrets, and never permits another person to come
between the loved one and itself. "I swore to you," he cried,
"that you could do with me as you wished, that I had chosen
you from among my benefactors, as the one whom it pleased
my pride to acknowledge as a creditor. Yes, I owe you a debt,
and I promise you I will pay it.... Within a fortnight, this man
at Lyons shall become my employer, and I will learn how to
make him reveal his secrets.... But to know them is not all; I
must disarm him by destroying this dangerous paper which
gives him  so much power over others.  Even if I risk my
life...."
" Risk your life!" she said in a trembling voice. " You must
not think of it. You must promise that you'll do nothing without consulting me.'
"Do not fear, there are no dangers except for those who are
afraid," he answered proudly. Then he added, while his face
was lighted with an expression of strange joy and triumph,
" Since you have confidence in my oaths, I'll take one more. I
swear to you by the horrible den where I was born, by all the
doors where I asked for alms and received but insults, by all




J OSEPJ' NAOIREL'S REl ViEGE.               16 
the evil thoughts which came to me, by all the evil acts I meditated, by the hospital where I saw my father die, I swear that I
will bear this paper to you, saying,' Now my debt is paid!'"
"May God hear you, bless you, and reward you!" she said
warmly pressing both his hands.
He fixed upon her a strange look. " Why should God reward me?" he replied. " I shall have done nothing but my duty.  If you are satisfied, that's all I ask."
But as she turned toward him with a questioning glance, he
felt that his eyes revealed too much. He succeeded in mastering his passion.  He rose, saying, " It shall not cost you a
farthing. All I ask in return for what I shall have done, will
be that you will listen to me, while I tell you what I have upon
my mind.... An hour of patience, that is all! If I am full of
pride, I'm  also crazy with ambition.  For some months,
I've been thinking of going to America. I'm tired of this old
world. Certain peculiar ideas have come to me, you see; I
should not dare confess them to a soul.... They've told you,
perhaps, that I've taken to drinking. It is not true-I never
drank but once. My thoughts are what intoxicate me. I want
to tell you what they are some day; perhaps you can give me
some good advice. You will hear me, will you not? On the
day I give you up that paper, I can tell you all, and after you
have heard me, however great my folly may appear, you will
answer me without anger and without scorn?"
" Tell me now," she said; "I'm ready to hear you."
"I shouldn't dare to do so yet," he answered. " I want first
to prove to you that I'm good for something more than putting a smooth face on a board."
It is very rare for two such interviews to take place without
at least one of them being disturbed.  Some weeks before,
Mme. Mirion had almost broken in upon a meeting between
Joseph and her daughter. This time, she interrupted the conversation with a cry of astonishment and indignation. She had
gone up to Marguerite's room, and not having found her there,
had started out to look for her. She was shocked to see her
seated on a bench, talking familiarly with the ungrateful work



I62          JOSE'PH  NOVEZt'L'S REVENGE.
man.  Countess D'Ornis was not maintaining her dignity, she
thought.
" What are you doing there, dear Countess?" she cried as
she approached them. " Breakfast is waiting for you."
Marguerite hastened to join her mother without stopping to
say good-by to Joseph. If she had turned her head a moment
afterward, she would have surprised him in an attitude and occupation that would have given her cause for serious reflection.
After moving away a little, he had hastily retraced his steps,
and had fallen on his knees upon the ground, at the spot where
Marguerite, in talking with him, had left the imprint of her foot
in the damp earth. He gathered up a handful of this earth,
pressed his mouth upon it, smeared  it on his lips, and, I
verily believe, he ate it. After this repast, he ran at full speed
to the workroom, where, during the whole day, he astonished
his companions by the fire of his glance, by his feverish and
ioquacious humor, by his whistling and his singing.  For scnme
months before, he had not been heard to sing a note.
Meanwhile Mme. Mirion had said to her daughter in a reproachful tone, "What are you thinking of, my dear? What
would your husband say, if hle were to see you so familiar with
a workman of your father's, especially one who doesn't stand
well in my books?"
"You don't do him justice," replied Marguerite with unusual vivacity; " he's better than you think he is."
"If he hasn't all the vices I suspect," answered Mme. Mirion,' he's an ungrateful fellow at the best."
"I'm afraid you don't understand how to manage him; you
worry him by constantly telling what you've done for him."
Mme; Mirion made a sharp reply and scolded her daughter
for at least five minutes.  That was the extent of her ill-nature
though. Love spats do not last long.
Marguerite was a prey to two opposing feelings.  Now she
was astonished at what she had done, at the boldness of speech
which had suddenly come to her, and at the temerity of her
confidence.  " My secret has escaped; I can not take it back,"
she thought.  Again she experienced a kind of magical relief




JOSEPI  NzVOI REL'S RE VEANE.               16
at the thought that she had made known her misfortune to
another-that a friendly heart had taken her sufferings upon
itself, had bound itself to hers by a solemn vow, and had promised to aid and comfort her.  She saw again in imagination
Joseph's face, with its irregular but expressive features; his
hands which were well shaped, though hardened and browned
by toil; his pale and hollow cheeks; his gray eyes full of mystery and unrest; and his thick dark hair, which fell upon his
forehead with a kind of savage grace. " He's homely rather
than handsome," she thought; " but his face is full of character, and his eyes full of intelligence. They express resolution,
boldness, pride, and obstinacy; they reveal a thoughtful yet
savage nature, at war with all the world and determined to
struggle to the bitter end. At times, he seems like a madman,
full of fantasies and stormy passions-then his expression softens suddenly, his eyes grow tender and sympathetic, and you
recognize within him a heart capable of devotion and of love.
He freely acknowledges his faults. He speaks boldly of his
pride, of his ambition, of the debt that weighs upon him, of
the old world which wearies him, and of his castles in America; he is sincere, at all events.  No, I have not misplaced my
confidence."
She was so absent-minded during the morning, that her father noticed it and chided her. " You're no longer here, Margot," he said; "you're back again at Ornis.  A  plague on
wives who are too devoted to their husbands!"
In the afternoon at three o'clock, the whole family accompanied her to the railway station. They all kissed and embraced her again and again. As the train started, she looked
from the window and saw a workman in a gray blouse, who was
standing by the track and waving his cap to her. She waved
her hand in return; then sitting back in a corner of the carriage, she closed her eyes and slept soundly for five or six
hours. She had great need of sleep after three nights of wakefulness and unrest.




CHAPTER  XXIV.
AN ANGRY HUSBAND.
How quickly our thoughts change! Because she had seen
a hat waving in the air near the depot at Geneva, Marguerite
Mirion, Countess D'Ornis, had slept soundly and peacefully
for several hours. Scarcely had she awakened, however, when
her mind experienced a sudden revolution.  She felt that she
had committed an irreparable fault; she foresaw its consequences and was terrified by them. "There's nothing surer in this
world than courage," she thought, "and the wisest part to
take is always that which costs the most. It was my duty to
confess my involuntary fault to Roger as soon as it was committed. I didn't dare to do it. Now I am condemned to silence. If I should tell him to-day that chance had made me
a witness of that horrible scene in the garret, his first words
would be,' You've just spent three days at Geneva; swear to
me that you've not told a soul what you have seen and heard.'
How could I answer him? My only resource would be to tell
him an untruth..... She wondered whether she were capable
of doing this. It seemed to her like trying to raise a mountain, only to have it fall back again and crush her. Marguerite Mirion had little force of character, and if later she showed some strength of will, it was the result of circumstances,
such as sometimes constrain our natures, making them unrecognizable even to ourselves. Though she was weak, however,
she was honest and sincere; the truth was in a certain sense
her native air, she could breathe no other freely.
S'he arrived at the castle just after her husband had started
on a hunting trip.  " The Count will not be gone long, for he
was very impatient to see my lady," Fanny remarked as she
was dressing her mistress's hair.  "He can't keep still a mo



7OSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                 165
ment. He was afraid that you'd remain some time at Geneva,
I think; when he received your dispatch yesterday, he was
just strapping his valise to go after you."
" Has any one called to see him since I've been gone?"
"The old Countess took dinner with him day before yesterday. They've made up again; and if my lady will let me tell
her...."
" No, I don't care to hear," said Marguerite; "your stories
are too long."
It's very certain, she thought, that Mme. D'Ornis makes it
a point never to come here, unless one of us is absent.
How great was her astonishment, when she saw the portrait
of Marchioness D'Epinac hanging in the most conspicuous
place in her sitting-room! How had the portrait come there?
This question, and the answer which came most naturally to
her mind, greatly troubled her. M. D'Ornis did not make his
appearance until evening. He bowed politely to his wife, and
inquired concerning her health and her uncle's; but all the
time he wore a singular air, as though he had something to
say, and was only awaiting a suitable time to say it. He conversed very little at the table. After dinner, he smoked a cigar
in the park, and then rejoined Marguerite in the sittingroom.
"You haven't thanked me for the little surprise I planned
for you," he said showing her the portrait. " That's a charming picture."
"Very charming," she replied, concealing her emotion as
best she could.
"I want to tell you about that handsome, light-haired girl,
who, it seems to me, looks a little like you."
By the glance he gave her, she knew that he was putting her to the test. " I've heard the story," she said; "your
mother told it to me."
" Did she tell you how the unhappy woman lost her husband's love?  How she could not distinguish between what
was his, and what her own? My mother seemed to think that
the portrait would please you. Take a better look at it."




166         yOSE'PH  NOIREL'S REL' ZENGE.
" I've seen it before," courageously answered Marguerite,
making a faint attempt to smile.
"Indeed?" he said in a sarcastic tone. " Hereafter when
you're hunting about the garret, don't drop your ribbons
there."
So saying, he drew from his pocket and placed on the table
the lilac bow which Marguerite supposed had been lost in the
park. He walked two or three times up and down the room;
he was afraid, himself, of what he was going to say. Finally,
throwing himself into an arm-chair, he asked, "Will you
please inform me what day and what hour you.... "
She felt her head whirl a moment; then it seemed as though
some other person took her place and answered, " It was all
chance. I was there and heard every thing."
Then the consciousness of what she had done returning to
her, she threw herself at his feet and, in a choking voice and
with streaming eyes, told him how it happened. When she
raised her head again, the expression of M. D'Ornis's face
terrified her. She felt that a change had come over him, that
he did not and could not love her longer; that his heart,.which
had opened for a moment, had closed again, and that this heart
was now a tomb on which was written this inscription, " Here
lies a friendship that survived three months."
He rudely pushed her back, crying, " Chance! do men of
my age believe in chance,...and women's stories?....I'll
tell you what you've done-you've been spying out my secrets!"
Marguerite shuddered, her heart throbbed. " Do you think,"
she asked with a piteous smile, " that I look like a spy?"
He seized her by the wrists and, raising her to her feet, dragged her before the portrait.  " You look enough like her to be
her sister," he cried. "She's worthy to become your patron
saint."
He pressed her wrists so strongly that a groan escaped her
lips. Releasing her from his grasp, he fell back in his chair,
where he remained for some time motionless and frowning.
Suddenly he laughed aloud. It was the first time she had




JOSEPf>H  i OUI'EL'S RE VEA:GE.          1I67
ever heard him laugh.  " After all, what does it amount to?"
he said. " It was scarcely wortlh your while to climb into a
garret, and to hide there in the dark, holding your breath and
keeping as quiet as a spider on the watch.... On the watch for
what, I'd like to know? Have I got any secrets? You didn't
make any thing by your spying.... I use the same word yet,
madam.  What did you find so wonderful in the garret? Two
men talking angrily with each other....I'm sure I had good
reason to be angry. I'm never angry except for cause. That
Bertrand... that Bertrand is a rascal.... That Bertrand"....
He stopped. His trembling lips could not find the word they
sought. "That Bertrand," he continued after a moment's silence, "that Bertrand is a wretched usurer. Cursed be the
day in which I fell into his hands! What else could you expect? I was dissipated, I gambled, I had all the fashionable
vices.  My childhood was so dull! I was trying to amuse myself. Bertrand serves to amuse me now. I wanted money, he
lent it to me at twenty per cent. It must be paid....You see
what it is, madam, to marry a libertine."
She sat down at his knees, her cheeks bathed with tears.
" You are not a libertine," she said, " any more than I'm a spy.
I deserve your confidence, your entire confidence, and will try
to prove it to you. I have a heart and I love you, although
you seem to doubt it. You see me at your knees; I beg you
to hide nothing from me. Do you want money, a great deal of
money to free yourself from this man? You shall have every
thing I own. Tell me all! I'm sure I know how it happened; I'm sure this Bertrand saved your life and took advantage of your generosity, making you sign promises you can
not keep. It was in Mexico, wasn't it?  What is this pride
which keeps you from telling me the truth.... Ah! tell me all,
how at the fatal moment he appeared, turning aside the blow
and killing the assassin...."
M. D'Ornis's face was terrible to look upon. " What assassin?" he cried in shrieking tones. His cheeks were pale,
he gazed at her with haggard eyes. She thought he was going
mad.  He quickly came to himself, however, twisted the ends




168         7OSEJ NVOIJEEL'S RE VENTGE.
of his mustache, and bit his lips until they bled; it was a punishment he was inflicting on them. Then he rose and, crossing
the room, pulled the bell cord so violently, that he tore it from
its place. Fanny appeared. "' Mme. D'Ornis is faint," he said,
" Quick! bring the salts!" Fanny returned a moment afterward
with the bottle; she offered her services to Marguerite, who refused them and sent herout again.
M. D'Ornis took plenty of time to recover his composure.
It was with a firm voice, cutting and sharp as steel that he
continued: " Smell the salts, madam; you need them, you
seem to be out of your head. Are you subject to these attacks?
I am very uneasy about you.  It seems that my usurer has
the sad privilege of disturbing your brain. Now you take him
for a robber, and lock him up in a bath-room. Now you make
a melodramatic hero of him, and imagine all manner of queer
things. He saved my life, he killed a Mexican who held me
by the throat....There's no truth in any of it, except that
there's a bill I've got to pay, no matter what it costs; but
out of my money, my own money, for I'm  not like you, I
make a distinction between mine and yours.... I'm a proud
fool though. See how madly I deceived myself! When I met
you by chance at Geneva-this time it was really chance-I
thought I had found the woman to make me a good wife.
I said to myself,' She's a Genevese, and Geneva is the classic
land of common sense; she belongs to the middle classes, and
is probably as well bred as a marchioness; it is Marguerite
Mirion, who on becoming Countess D'Ornis, will thank me for
the change, and show her gratitude by conforming herself to
my humors and my tastes; last of all, she's a Protestant, and
whoever marries a Protestant has the inestimable advantage
of having a wife who does not confess to a black-robed priest
every thing about herself, her conscience, her sins, her husband, and her household. It has turned out that this Genevese is a flighty person, that this well-bred girl is more indiscreet than Marchioness D'Epinac herself, that Marguerite Mirion does not care to fulfill her obligations, and that this Protestant....Ah! I hope that I'm not mistaken in this respect.




7OSEPZI ANOIREL'S RE VEINGE.                  69
Thank God! you've no confessor, madam! Tell me, you've no
confessor, have you?"
He glanced at her. He saw that she blushed and looked
confused.  He cried, " What! you've not been able to hold
your tongue? There's some one at Geneva to whom you've
told your visions?"
She did not answer. He walked toward her with clenched
fists; she thought she saw again her horrible dream. She laid
her head upon her knees, hiding her face within her hands.
" What! you've been base enough!"... he continued. " Who
is your confessor. I want to know him, to talk with him. I
know how to talk to such people."
She had lifted up her.head. He waited a moment for an answer which did not come to him.  He again seized her hands,
and pressed them with all his force, as though to crush them
in his grasp. She still continued silent. " Do you hear me?"
he continued; " I want to know the name of this receiver of
stolen secrets."
She raised her large eyes wet with tears; soft and supplicating as was their glance, those eyes announced a firm determination not to yield to his demand.
" It's very foolish for me to ask the name of your confessor.
You may have ten or twenty for all I know.  I'll guarantee
that you had scarcely arrived at Mon-Plaisir, before the great
family council was gathered in the parlor, and you served me
up alive to the hungry crowd."
At last she made up her mind to answer him. " I've spoken
to no one," she sadly said, "except a discreet and devoted
friend, and not a single word has escaped my lips, that did not
bear witness to the esteem and affection which I have for you,
and which you have just put so rudely to the test. He saw me
weep and questioned me. I confessed to him that I was sad, because I feared you had some great sorrow.... I will try to make
amends for my fault, which I know will cause no future trouble....I promise you that after this.... Have I not already
proved that I know how to hold my peace?"
M. D'Ornis's anger was rekindled. " Once more, I ask, who




170          OSE'PI NVOIREL'S RE'VENlVGE.
is this man?" he repeated, stamping his foot. "Is he a Protestant Jesuit? is he some low-born lover, who has been made a
sacrifice to your parent's vanity, and whom you are now repaying with your confidence?"
Standing before her with folded arms, he fastened upon her
a fierce and steady glance, crying angrily, " I'm waiting; I want
to know who this man is." When her continued silence at
length convinced him that he would obtain no answer, he abded, " At your own pleasure, madam! I'll think it over." With
these words he left the room.




CHAPTER XXV.
MARGUERITE A PRISONER.
Scarcely had her husband shut the door, when Marguerite
burst into tears. When she had somewhat recovered her composure, her conscience spoke to her; they had a long conversation with each other. " You are very unhappy," this honest
conscience said; "but is it not your own fault, 0 weak and
cowardly soul? You are now overthrown because you have
met with a difficult situation and an intractable nature!" " I
should be thankful if that were all," she answered. " Can my
eyes forget what they have seen, or my ears forget what they
have heard?  Oh! that he had been artful enough to really deceive me!" " What is the use of these vain imaginings and conjectures?" replied her conscience.  " Some day all will be explained, and you will blush for your foolish thoughts and idle
fears.  In the meantime, you must make amends for your
fault and repair your errors."  " I am ready to do all I can,"
answered Marguerite.   " Will you not promise me that by
patience and submission I shall succeed in touching this hard
heart, compelling it to see me as I am, and at last to return to
me."  Her conscience promised all she asked. It was a youthful conscience just awakened and perfectly sincere, which, not
having yet become acquainted with the world, took pleasure in
believing that, in this life, virtue always meets with its reward.
The first thing Marguerite did, was to write the following
letter:
" MY DEAR JOSEPH:
"Your friend is a foolish creature, who gets frightened at
nothing, who weeps without cause, and talks without reason.
Her only excuse is that she is not yet twenty-one.  I have received an explanation of the famous mystery.  M. D'Ornis has
told me all about it. and I am as ashamed as a linnet that has




172         JOS'EPI NOIREL'S RE VEiNGE.
been frightened by a scarecrow. The whole affair is finally
reduced to an ugly creditor, who has the bad habit of drinking
too much, and of saying foolish things when he is intoxicated. A
little patience and we shall pay him, and be freed forever from
his importunities.  I beg you to forget my foolish fancies, and
to give up the journey you were proposing to make on my account, as it would be perfectly useless now. I have made up
my mind to become a sensible person, and not again to be
frightened by my shadow.  I feel that I am changed already;
what will never change, however, is my friendship for you, and
my deep gratitude for the devotion you have shown me. When
I again visit Geneva, we will talk over your plans, your ambitions, your pride, which pleases and pains me at the same
time, and your castles in America, which I should like to help
you build.  Farewell!  Forget my unreasonable fears, but
do not forget the unreasonable person who signs herself,
" Yours affectionately,
" MARGUERITE."
She was interrupted more than once while writing; at the
slightest sound, she laid down her pen and hid her paper. For
the sake of greater safety, she inclosed her letter in a second
envelope, and addressed the latter to the woman with whom
Joseph's mother lived. The next morning, she watched behind her curtain, and as the porter's daughter passed beneath
the window, she threw her out the missive, asking her to carry
it immediately to the post.
A few hours afterward, she met with her first surprise, which
was soon followed by many others. She had passed the morning in her sitting-room, embroidering a little and reflecting a
great deal, with no other company than Marchioness D'Epinac,
who was gazing on her from the wall. Marguerite looked at
her small, sad mouth, the mouth that never smiled, that told
the story of her sorrows, her deceptions, her quarrels, her sufferings, and her long repentance in the convent; then she said
to herself, " What can I do to obtain my pardon?"  She
thought for a long time, but could find no answer to her question. Time and patience, a long infinitude of time and patience,




7OSEPIH  NOIREL'S RE VEAN'GE.             173
this was the only remedy her reason could suggest.  But
could she not divert her thoughts and forget the past? She
gave a side glance at her piano, which had not been opened
since her return. There was a silence in her soul which could
not bear the sound of music.  It seemed to her that her gayety
was inclosed within this mute piano; she thought she heard it
humming among the wires, like a fly imprisoned in a box.
"I'll not open you," she said, " until he pardons me. Heaven
grant that on that day I may not find you ruined!"
The clock had just struck twelve. She prepared to descend
to the dining-room, and her heart beat quickly at the thought
of again seeing her husband. Her maid entered, glancing at
her with a singular expression.  "Is it true, my lady?" she inquired.
" Is what true?
" That you are sick, and will take your meals up here?"
"Who told you so?"
"The Count."
"In that case, it must be true," she said with a forced smile.
Then she added, "In fact, I don't feel very well, and think
I'd better keep my room."
She passed the afternoon entirely alone. She said to herself, " He has thought of this as an expedient to avoid me
for a few days. It's better for him, as well as for me. Thank
Heaven, though, I am well; I'm not an invalid, except in the
imaginations of other people."
At seven o'clock, Fanny brought up her dinner. She had a
constrained air, walked on tip-toe, and spoke in a low tone.
She was somewhat reassured when she saw that Marguerite
had not lost her appetite. A youthful digestion does not yield
to the first assaults of trouble.
An hour later, Marguerite had another surprise which powerfully affected her.  She saw M. D'Ornis entering her room.
She rose to meet him; he bowed to her without speaking, and
motioned her to take her seat again.  He sat down himself,
drew from his pocket a number of the Union, unfolded it and
read it through from the first line to the last.  She asked two




174         7OSEP'II NZOIR'EL'S   EVEL NGE.
or three questions; he acted as though he did not hear her.
When he had finished his paper, he folded it up, put it in his
pocket, and left the room.
The second day passed like the first, the third day like the
second. On the fourth day, as she looked in the mirror, Marguerite was struck by the paleness of her face and by her
sunken cheeks. To say nothing of the uneasiness and sadness that had been preying, night and day, upon her mind, this
silent cloister life to which she had been condemned, was painful to her bright and happy nature; she could not bear it long
without becoming pale. Her appetite deserted her; she experienced a nervous trembling from time to time. The evening before, while M. D'Ornis, mute and impassible, had been
studying his paper, she had been compelled to stop embroidering, her tears fell so fast upon her work. After his departure,
she had remained an hour as though stupefied, listening to the
ticking of the clock, and comparing it with her thoughts, which
shot to and fro like a shuttle through her brain.
Toward the close of the morning, she threw a cloak upon her
shoulders, drawing the hood over her head, and went out into
the park, following the path that led to the pond. She was
astonished, on turning her head, to see Jerome, her husband's
valet, following her. He stopped when she stopped, and moved forward when she moved forward, regulating his pace by
hers. It was a cold and gloomy December morning. A thick
mist was rising from the pond, and the willows that surrounded
it were covered with a thin coat of ice. Marguerite stepped
upon the bank.  Her twenty years, which only asked to be
amused, took some pleasure in looking at these white willows;
gnarled and twisted, they leaned over the surface of the water
and seemed endeavoring to see their image in this dim mirror,
which vaguely reflected their wrinkled forms. She approached
one of them and, leaning forward, shook from it the ice, which
fell like sleet upon her hood and in the water. Suddenly she
felt some one pulling at her dress. She turned round quickly,
and found herself in the presence of Jerome, who was looking
at her with a startled air. " Ah! my lady, how you fiightened




7OSEPVI  NOIaIREL'S RE'  iVGE.            175
me," he said in a reproachful tone, drawing her down with a
firm but respectful grasp.
" What are you afraid of? Let go my dress, you'll tear it."
He did not loose his hold until he had drawn her from the
bank. " Yes, you frightened me well, my lady!" he repeated
hleaving a sigh of relief, as though he had just saved her life.' Were you afraid my foot would slip?"
"No; but it seems my lady is not very well, and if it were
not for the respect I owe her.... "
"Ah! you thought I wanted to drown myself?" she asked
with a nervous laugh. "Don't trouble yourself, I love my life
too much for that."
She started to walk on again, and Jerome, faithful to orders,
began to follow her, after she had moved a few steps in advance
of him. She stopped as she was passing the Commander's
statue. She looked at him with a troubled gaze which seemed
to say, " Since you wish me well, give me your advice."  The
Commander, who had formerly been an active man in warlike
matters, appeared unable to find an answer to this appeal; he
could not understand this new case presented to him, and knew
not what to say to a young wife borne down by her domestic
sorrows.
Marguerite was not yet through with her surprises. On the
morrow, she received a call from the physician of Ornis, M.
Crotet, a little old man in spectacles, rude in speech, awkward
in manner, talking through his nose, who concealed his ignorance beneath a multitude of apothegms, and whose empty head
had never invented any thing better than quack remedies.
This worthy man had gained a footing in the place through the
patronage of Countess D'Ornis; he was perfectly devoted to
her, seeing only through her eyes, and trusting only in her
name. " So! so! madam, we're a little out of sorts?" he said
in a familiar tone. " Well, well, we mustn't get discouraged.
It's our business to mend the machine when it's out of order.
I've an idea you don't want to see me. You must be careful,
Countess; it's a bad sign to hate the doctor. Let me see your
tongue and feel your pulse!... A little too quick and not quite




176        J7OSEPZZ A'vIREL'S RE' VEL-GE.
regular. It isn't enough to kill a man, though, or a woman
etlier for that matter.  Young women are very easily affectedl; but they recover very fast. Then, besides, we're an only
daughter, they say; we have been spoiled, badly spoiled.  The
first time we're crossed, our imagination boils up like so much
porridge. We must keep it from boiling over, if we can."
"I don't know what you're talking about," answered Marguerite, assuming a gentleness of manner she did not feel.
" Without taking into account," he continued, "that sudden
changes of fortune predispose us to melancholy; all surprises,
whether good or bad, disturb the machine.  It's very true that
since'89 the trades stand higher than before; but it's no less
true that there are some adventures that astonish one. To go
to sleep at night in a carpenter's shop and wake up in the morning in a castle...."' Don't you see the shavings in my hair?" said Marguerite
running her fingers through her tresses with an angry gesture.
"You must keep quiet, madam," he cried moving uneasily
on his chair. " Where did you get that idea from? Look in
the glass; you'll see a very handsome head of hair there, but
no more shavings than I've got in my eye. When such ideas
come to you, you must shut them out at once. If you yield
to them, you are lost. But, pshaw! you'll get over it; youth
recovers very quickly."
Thereupon he asked her a great many questions, all of
which might have been summed up in her mother's inquiry
about the oranges.  Marguerite answered him  with angelic
sweetness.  He obstinately insisted on his point; the worthy
man clung to his ideas: such is generally the case with people
who have but few of them.  He had, however, to give it up.
He afterward asked her other questions, to which she gave him
no reply.
Suddenly his face lighted up, as though a ray of divine wisdom had just passe:l through his mind, and was now darting
from his eyes and through his spectacles.  " I have the solution
of the question," he said, tossing his snuff-box in the air.
" You have had a great fright on one of those days when young




y70SEPI ANOIREL'S ARE IVENUGE.           177
women ought particularly to avoid all emotion.... First, there
was the fire; then that ugly Bertrand arrived and you took
him for a robber. A week later you met him unexpectedly
again.  That was enough to induce lypemania.  Consult the
masters of the art, and they will tell you that all lypemaniacs
are very sensitive and irritable, that a little matter makes a
strong impression on them, and that the most ordinary events
appear like new and strange phenomena, invented expressly
to annoy them....Tell me now, what you thought you saw
and heard in the garret."
A shudder ran over her from head to foot.
"Never mention that garret to me again," she cried in anger.
He nodded his head with a satisfied air.
" Didn't I tell you I had solved the difficulty?" he said; " I
have my way of getting at a thing. Rest easy, Countess! we'll
say nothing more about the garret.  There! there! don't
think you're worse than you really are. It's only an hallucination, a false perception. You thought you heard and thought
you saw strange things; but, Heaven be praised! you'll soon
get over it. The best way is to say to yourself, I really didn't
hear or see a thing. Then when those gloomy thoughts come
over you, you ought never to walk near the pond."
"There's no great harm done," she interrupted; "they pulled me out and I'm all safe now."
" It's no joking matter.  Lypemaniacs always ought to avoid
the water. But it is nothing serious, Countess.  In a couple
of months, I trust our little trouble will be over. We'll have
to be a little careful in our living. Rest, solitude, and silence...
Those are the sovereign remedies for troubled minds.... Now
and then a short walk to refresh the ideas, and then good, nourishing food besides. No highly seasoned or farinaceous dishes.
A little veal or chicken, and some nice ripe fruit, that's what
you want!.... My dear patient, I'll call on you again in a few
days, and I hope to find you with a smile on your lips and roses
in your cheeks."
He rose and held out his hand. She bowed to him with
folded arms.  A week afterward he returned. This time, she




178         JOSE!'P!  iVOIREL'S REVENGE.
received him coldly and refused to talk with him at all; he
could make no impression on her, and retired shaking his
head mournfully and repeating to himself, "Yes, yes, it's a
bad sign to hate the doctor."




CHAPTER XXVI.
THE OLD COUNTESS'S TRIUMPH.
A few hours later, Mme. D'Ornis called on Marguerite. Although the old Countess could perfectly control her countenance, the sparkling of her eye betrayed her; she could not
conceal her happiness.  A  moment before she had said to
Marquis Du Rozan, who had inquired concerning her daughterin-law, "Ah! my dear Marquis, is there any thing so sad as to
see a young girl of twenty lose her reason?"
" Poor dear!" she said to Marguerite as she embraced her;
" what is the matter with you? You know, my darling, I don't
love you very much, and yet I'm very sorry....I really hope
with all my heart, that you will soon get well. I can't bear to
see young people suffer. How  did it happen, dear?  After
such a bright beginning!.... Every thing smiled on you, the
wind was fair, you had a husband who adored you, who was
always at your feet, who. gave you the first place in his thoughts.
What has caused this dreadful melancholy?.... Don't be offended at my question; I only ask it because I am so much interested in you. Are such affections common in your family?"
Marguerite exerted all her self-control and answered gayly,
Don't be uneasy, madam, the Mirions' heads are well set
on their shoulders."....Then moving her own about, she
added, " You can see, mine's well fastened on at all events."
"Dear me!" she continued after a moment's pause, "M.
D'Ornis thinks too much of me and is altogether too much
troubled about my health."
" I wish I could believe you. M. Crotet tells me, though.....
"M. Crotet is a stupid fool," interrupted Marguerite.'He
called me a lypemaniac, an ugly name I don't understand, but
which I don't like at all. He can't tell when you're making
sport of him.  I dare say he told you...  "




I80         YOSEPIT  IVOIREL'S RE VEVGE.
" About the shavings! 0 yes, he told me that."
"He commenced the talk himself.  I'm not a person to despise shavings. They bring back happy memories to me, and if
I should find any in my hair, I'd be very proud of them."
Marguerite pronounced these words with a little excitement
in her tone; as she did so, she saw a smile of malignant satisfaction pass over the thin lips of her mother-in-law. She immediately resumed her former coolness of manner, and Mme.
D'Ornis could easily see that there was nothing serious about
her malady. The conversation lasted for an hour.  Though
Marguerite received no pleasure, she gathered some instruction from it. She had wondered several times whether Mme.
D'Ornis possessed her son's secret. She now knew that she
did not. Mme. D'Ornis thought that, acting on her advice,
Marguerite had made certain suggestions to her husband, that
he had become angry, that they had had a quarrel, that her
daughter-in-law had made up some excuse to pass three days
at Geneva, that on her return there had been more quarreling,
that Marguerite had not been able to bear up under so much
trouble, that like a spoiled child she had pretended to be sick,
and that she was now in a fair way to become so in reality.
She flattered herself that a reconciliation would, every day, become more difficult. She was too well acquainted with her
son not to know that he was both proud and selfish, that properly speaking he loved no one but himself, and only evinced
an attachment for another, on account of the gratification he
expected in return; if he found he was mistaken, he never forgave those who disappointed him. The most he could do was
to forget them; but he could not forget his wife, it was much
more likely he would hate her.
Marguerite's beauty was the only thing that troubled Mme.
D'Ornis. She wanted to persuade the invalid to go away for a
time, to try the effect of her native air. She made a few insinuations of this kind, telling her that Roger, who was always
well, could not bear to have a sick person about him; that
change of air and scenery was the best cure for melancholy,
and that there probably were in Geneva much better physi



J0SEP,'I NOIAIREL'S  REVEt N'GE.           18I
cians than M. Crotet. Marguerite turned a deaf ear to her,
and the old Countess had to beat a retreat, reserving her attack for a more favorable occasion.  " I thank you, madam, for
the affectionate interest you have shown in me," said Marguerite as she accompanied her to the stairs.  " If M. Crotet will
leave me alone, Roger will have his companion back again
before three weeks have passed."
Meanwhile M. D'Ornis hunted by himself from  dawn till
dark, and when he had any thing to say, he said it to his dog.
The woods heard; but they are silent and discreet. In the
morning, before starting out, he inquired concerning his wife's
health; on his return, he again asked about her; then he took
his dinner, walked about the park, went to Marguerite's room,
and unfolded his paper, silent and frowning as on that first
dreadful evening, never lifting his eyes except to give a quick,
circling glance about him.  There was a fierce rapidity in this
glance that caused Marguerite to shudder. One evening, feeling that her strength and patience were about exhausted, she
resolved to make an effort to put an end to this intolerable situation. Resting her work upon her knees, she said, " Roger,
we can't live this way any longer. It seems to me like a painful dream.... I prefer your anger to your silence.  Say what
you please; only speak to me."
He settled back further in his chair and kept on reading.
She approached him.  " Tell me what you intend to do," she
said. " Are you putting me to the test?  I'm sure I bear it
well. What is your opinion?"
He fastened his eyes upon his paper and buried his face
within its folds. " I hardly dare tell you what is on my mind,"
she continued in a trembling voice.  "It seems to me that
here, three weeks ago, you had a horrible thought. You said
to yourself,'She has discovered half my secret, and she will
not rest until she has learned the rest.  She will learn it, too,
some day, for she's a regular domestic spy.... As she has no
heart and can't control her eyes or tongue, she won't be able
to keep from talking, and so becoming a witness against me.
I'll spoil her testimony by making her pass as a crazy woman




I182        rOSEPH  NOIREL'S REVENGE.... If she ever appear against me, I'll say to the fools who
are tempted to believe her, " Ask Dr. Crotet, ask my mother,
my servants, my porter; they'll all tell you she is mad."'....
Roger, if that's your thought...."
He gave a start and his paper trembled in his hands, but he
did not stop his reading.
"Look at me," she continued; "look me in the eyes. Don't
you know me any more?"
She tried to wrest the paper from his hands, but did not
succeed in her attempt.
" You think I have a confessor at Geneva," she continued.
"That friend who saw me weep, Roger, do you want me to repeat word for word all I told him, and also the letter I wrote to
him the other day? If that letter is not enough, you can dictate another to me."
He raised his eyes and fixed a stern look upon her; then he
began to read again.
" Will you never learn to know me?" she cried, wringing her
hands in anguish. " If you should confess to me this very minute.... Yes, if by any strange chance there has been a crime connected with your life, and you should make it known to me, I
would not let my conscience speak; I would think only of the
confession, and forget the fault.... I will say more. It seems
to me that I should love you better. Your confidence would inspire me with a deep affection, a mingling of sorrow, joy, and
fear. You and your crime would belong to me alone. You
would have given me your whole heart, and my heart would respond to you, and be ready to break before parting with your
secret."
She burst into tears. He let his paper fall and gazed on her a
moment; that hard heart seemed about to soften, but suspicion
and pride soon got the better of this momentary tenderness. She
sprang forward to throw her arms about his neck. He rose
suddenly, and pushed her back with so much violence that he
threw her from her feet. In her fall, her head struck the corner of the mantel; the blood streamed from the wound. Her
eyes were closed; she opened them  with difficulty.  She




yOSEPl   i\; OIREL'S RE VENGE.             183
thought she saw  him leaning over her, and looking at her
bleeding face with a terrified and pitying glance. She smiled
at him; her whole heart was in that smile. Her eyelids grew
heavy as lead, but her thoughts were active still. She said to
herself as though talking in a dream, " This is the vital moment on which depends my future; if he take me in his
arms and reveal his secret to me, I shall be his forever." She
succeeded in opening her eyes again and, raising her head,
she tried to smile. In this smile she again offered him her
heart, a heart willing to be sacrificed, and yearning to devote
itself to him. This offering did not satisfy him. Pointing to
the half-opened mouth which was reaching toward him, he muttered, " Forever false!" He gazed fixedly upon her. His glance
was like a thunder-cloud, and in this cloud she thought she saw
a flash of pitiless hate. Then she knew that all was over;
she gave a feeble cry and lost all consciousness.
When she came to herself again, it was two o'clock in the
morning. She looked for a long time at the bed-curtains, which
were covered with flowers sprinkled on a white ground. Her
eyes collected these flowers together and formed bouquets of
them. While she was thus engaged, she strove to recall her
memory which had fled. She rose up in bed and cast her eyes
about her. M. Crotet was seated at her side.  " Doctor," she
said, "ask him about it; I know I smied."  Then her reason
entirely returned. They questioned her; she answered them
with pious lies.
"So you fainted suddenly?" they said.
Yes.  I was crossing the room, when suddenly my limbs
failed me, and I fell. We can't look out for every thing, doctor. We keep away from ponds and meet a mantel-piece.  I
suppose you think I tried to kill myself."
Suddenly her eyes fell on M. D'Ornis, who was seated on a
sofa across the room, his hands resting on his knees. She
gave a cry and, turning her head, hid it beneath the clothes
like a frightened child.
From that moment until evening she was without consciousness. She had a burning fever accompanied by delirium. At




184.         7OSEP    NO IREL'S RE VENGE.
intervals she kept repeating, " 0 the poor girl! they don't
believe her!"  Then she cried, "Take away his paper; tear it
up!"
At sunset she regained her senses, and for a few moments
retained the use of them. She heard her maid say to Mme.
D'Ornis, "The Count has come back."  A moment afterward
she saw him enter in his hunting-dress. The doctor, who accompanied him, was saying, " She hated the doctor, and you see
what's come of it." The four then formed a group in the centre of the room, and talked together in a low tone for a long
time. Marguerite heard the words brain fever; and soon she
understood that they were discussing the important question as
to whether it would be necessary to shave her head. Fanny
was making supplicating gestures.  M. Crotet said, " It would
be a shame to do it!" Roger seemed to be of the same opinion;
but Mme. D'Ornis was insisting that the sacrifice should be
made. Marguerite thought, " She is right; a bald Marguerite
would no longer be a dangerous rival." She raised herself in bed
and cried, " Take them; they're of no more use to me." She
then fell back upon her pillow, and her reason again deserted
her. They did not, however, rob her of her tresses. She was
mistaken, they were yet to be of use to her.




CHAPTER  XXVII.
M. MIRION LOSES JOSEPH.
A few days after his conversation with Marguerite, Joseph
Noirel, having put his affairs in order, went to M. Mirion,
and in a firm tone, which announced an irrevocable determination, told him of his decision to go away and seek his fortune. As he listened, M. Mirion began to rub his eyes as
though to make sure of being awake; then in a sarcastic tone
he begged Joseph to repeat the story of his life, asked him if he
was sure his reason had not deserted him, and finally, being
convinced that Joseph meant what he said, tried to argue with
him. When he at last made up his mind that Joseph was a
prey to vain ambition, he grew angry and heaped all manner of
reproaches on his head. He had noticed for a long time, he
said, that Joseph had been ruining himself by reading bad
books and adopting evil doctrines, that he had lost all principle and all respect for those above him, that he had been nursing in his heart a hatred of all social institutions and a scorn of
those wise distinctions which assureds the happiness of the
State, and without which there can be no morality, no religion,
no God, no devil, nothing at all in fact. M. Mirion was not absolutely wrong, but he had a most unhappy way of being right,
and in this world the form is more important than the matter.
Joseph happening to smile, he became furious, declaring that
he would have nothing more to do with him; that Joseph Noirel
would appear in the annals of humanity, and particularly in
those of the cabinet-maker's trade, as an example of the blackest ingratitude; that ungrateful adventurers always came to a
bad end; and that he felt it his duty to remind him of his
father's fate: after all which he went into along enumeration of
tlhe benefits he had bestowed upon him. Nothing was omitted,
from the dozen fine linen shirts they had given him the day of




I86          7OSEPIT ANOIREL'S RE VERGE.
his first communion, to the culinary delicacies with which they
regularly welcomed Saint Joseph's day; at the head of these
figured Mme. Mirion's celebrated cream-fritters. Joseph ate
those fritters for the last time that day, and they gave him an
indigestion for the remainder of his life.
He listened to this chant, the words and air of which he knew
so well, with an impassible and, at times, sardonic face.  He
quietly answered that he remembered it all, but that, on his side,
he had given all his time and skill to his employer. He added
that he intended to remain in the shop until M. Mirion found
some one to take his place. M. Mirion was not only sorry to
lose a clever workman, who had become his factotum, but his
vanity suffered also at the thought that he was not discharging
Joseph, but that Joseph was leaving him.  He was delighted
at this opportunity to save his dignity by changing roles. " Get
out," he cried, " and never let me see your face again! I want
you to understand that I'm discharging you."
Joseph did not wait to hear these words repeated. A few
hours later, he went to Mon-Plaisir to get his clothes. He
tried to see Mme. Mirion, in order to say good-by to her and
thank her. She refused to let him in. Aunt Amaranth  and
Mlle. Grillet joined with the husband and wife in expressing
their indignation. At dinner and during the entire evening,
nothing was spoken of but the monstrous perversity of Joseph's
heart. Uncle Benjamin alone, who with his health had recovered his belligerent humor, pleaded various extenuating circumstances.
When Joseph went to say farewell to his mother, the evening
before starting for Lyons, the housekeeper handed him Marguerite's letter, which at first filled him with dismay. On reading it a second time, however, he was entirely reassured.  It
seemed to him that this retraction had no real meaning, that
Marguerite had a remorseful feeling, that she was sorry she
had been so indiscreet, and that, perhaps, she did not trust her
confidant.  " She fears," he thought, "that I may be tempted
to abuse her confidence."  He pondered a moment over this
reflection which made his heart beat quickly. If he was feared




yOS'EPH  NOIR'EL'S REVENVGE.              187
by any one, it was because he was somebody. Whatever he
might be, he was determined to do what he had promised, to
solve this profound mystery. He started on his journey without answering Marguerite.
From Geneva to Lyons, he conversed only with his thoughts;
they gave him sufficient occupation. He had read some ancient
tales of chivalry; he pictured to himself a knight-errant,
searching for adventures in order to gain his lady's love and
win the right to wear her colors. For the first time, something had happened to him, his life was big with an event, he
found himself excited by the novelty of an adventure. He
looked at his hands, those obscure and indefatigable workers,
which all his care had not been able to keep from becoming
hard and brown. "You have a new work before you," he said
to them; "you must unravel the mysteries of a dark intrigue."
Up to the present time these hands had wrought on oak and
pine, now they were to work on human souls; in their days of
glory, they had carved out ovolos and leaves, now they were to
create tragedies and passions, joys and sorrows, smiles and
tears; they found themselves engaged in executing the decrees of fate, and Joseph in his simple pride felt that fate was
somewhat under his control.  He snapped his fingers and
shook them in the air; he thought he saw puppets dangling
from them, which danced and laughed and wept at his command.
His heart was a prey to contradictory feelings. When his
pride was silent, he only saw Marguerite in tears; he suddenly
became again her confidant and friend and, examining his
heart, found himself capable of the noble devotion and heroic
silence characteristic of great sacrifices. A moment later, he
gave himself up anew to the fever of desire and hope: his
future, taking shape before him, brought to his view such
visions of delight, that his form trembled and his temples
throbbed. His pride, which was never quiet long, added to
these visions other delusive dreams of satisfied revenge. If
he should succeed in his attempt, what scandal, what piercing
sorrow his triumph would create among those vain and sanc



188         J7OSEPH'  ANOIREL'S RE VENAGE.
timonious people whom he detested. They would look upon it
as a sign of the times, and all the Mirions in the world would
lift their hands in horror. They would have good reason to do
so, he thought, for this triumph would be an example-a public
event which would mark the date of the revenge of the employed on the employers, of the scorned upon the scorners, a
deep blow struck into the crumbling strata of the old and wornout social order, and the signal for the universal overturning.
If, by any possibility, Marguerite Mirion, Countess D'Ornis,
should some day give herself to Joseph Noirel, such an event
would dawn upon the world with the light of the new era.
Such were the shadows and desires which pressed upon this
soul, possessed at the same time by Marguerite and the spirit of
the Gracchi, and filled with dark clouds of passion, tinged with
the rosy hues of love. It was not a vulgar soul, it belonged to
a noble family; great deeds and sublime devotion had their
attractions for it; but there were bitter dregs within, by which
its virtue was corrupted. It had its griefs against fortune and
against mankind; it believed it had been the victim of injustice
and of scorn; it had sworn to make others expiate the misfortune of its birth and the defeats of its ambition; its rankling bitterness mingled something of gloom and horror with
its most noble feelings; its tenderness resembled wrath, its
dreams of happiness resembled vengeance.
If Marguerite could have read her preserver's thoughts, she
would have been seized with terror. She had placed her secret
and her life at the disposal of a man for whose soul God and
Satan were disputing. Which was to gain the victory? Capable of generous emotions, but incapable of scruples, this
workman's heart had the fierce desires, the bold flight, and the
savage cry of a bird of prey.




CHAPTER  XXVIII.
JOSEPH FINDS A NEW EMPLOYER.
M. Bertrand was in his store one day, between four and five
o'clock in the afternoon, when a young workman appeared at
the door, dressed in a short blouse, with a knapsack on his
back and a stout stick in his hand. The dealer in bric-a-brac
did not deign to notice this new comer. He was talking with
a customer, whom he was attempting to deceive without success, which fact provoked him very much. M. Bertrand flattered himself that he was an adept in the art of mzakinzg a customer bite, as he expressed it. His plan was to exhibit first
all the daubs, the refuse of his stock. After having tortured
his customer by keeping him for a long time contemplating
these horrors, he would pass on to other paintings of some
merit, and show him some apocryphal canvas, scratched and
re-touched in twenty places, which he would characterize as
a masterpiece and call by the most pompous names. He
thought that after having lived some time with negroes, it would
be natural to mistake mulattos for whites.  If the amateur was
a hard customer, and his judgment was able to withstand this
double assault, M. Bertrand would have recourse to his great
expedient, to what he called his boxed-up picture. " Is that
all?" the customer would ask; " haven't you any thing else?"
"That's all," the shrewd merchant would reply, " and it seems
to me it is enough. I see you are tired of looking at so many.
As regards my Perugino and my Rembrandt, I never exhibit
them except on great occasions." The purchaser, who thought
his visit entitled to be called a great occasion, would insist on
seeing them.  M. Bertrand would hesitate awhile, and at last
would lead his man, with a condescending air, into a small
room, entered by a door of solid oak, carefully locked and
bolted. This sanctuary, in which a mysterious twilight reigned, contained a couple of cases, before approaching which,




190         JOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
M. Bertrand always made a profound and reverent bow. His
experience had taught him that a customer is less likely to bite
at a Rembrandt than at a closed case which might contain a
Rembrandt.  His own inclosed only copies.  Solemn as an
officiating priest, taking out the masterpiece with an infinity of
precautions and with a pious hand, he would begin to sing its
praises, and to grow pathetic, his voice would tremble, and
sometimes tears stood in his eyes. Then, mingling the serious
with the sweet, he would recount the birthplace and the history of the masterpiece, its varied fortunes, its peregrinations,
the galleries of which it had been the finest ornament, the
principal sales in which it had figured, the ruses which he had
employed to gain possession of it, how, for instance, having
discovered it in a garret at Rome, he had had the greatest
trouble in getting it across the frontier, the holy father having
determined to claim the treasure for the Vatican, and not to
allow it to be taken from his States.
The day that Joseph made his first appearance in M. Bertrand's store, the customer had not taken the bait. It is proper to add that this customer was a Belgian, and according to
Bertrand, the Belgian was a cool and reasoning animal. The
child of the Scheldt had not bitten at either the daubs or the
paintings of merit, at either the locked door or the pine case.
Silent and observant, he had looked and listened almost without
opening his mouth; he had not, however, been able to keep
from smiling once or twice, and in order to conceal this smile
had put to his lips the gold head of a cane, which M. Bertrand
would willingly have broken across his back. After returning
to the shop again, he began to examine a wooden chest, carved
in Gothic style.
"You won't find its equal in the hStel de Cluny," cried M.
Bertrand.  "It is splendidly preserved.  It hasn't been retouched at all. It's just as it left the maker's hands."  The
Belgian made no reply; he simply placed his finger on two of
the carved figures; one was antique, the other modern, and the
contrast between them was easily to be seen. Thereupon he
bo-wcd and left the store.




0OSEPI  NVOIREL'S REVENGE.                 9 I
The bric-a-brac merchant was very indignant, and wished all
the Belgians at the bottom of the sea. He felt aggrieved that
his customer had not allowed himself to be deceived, to say
nothing of the fact that large robberies did not disgust him at
all with smaller ones. The day after he had caught a trout
worth thirty thousand francs in the pond at Ornis, he could
not bear to miss a carp or gudgeon. He acted on the precept
of Socrates, who advised his disciples to despise nothing.
His bad humor sought for some object on which to vent itself; it was on Joseph that the storm fell. Suddenly perceiving
him, he cried, "What are you doing standing there like an
idiot? Did you come to beg? You've got hold of the wrong
man! You can look for the right one in the street."
Joseph was not disconcerted by this reception. " My good
sir," he answered, " I called to see if you wanted a good cabinet-maker, who is willing to work, and understands his trade."
"Go to the devil with your cabinet work!" cried the other.
"What do I want of a lazy fellow like you? You'd better leave
as quick as possible."
" Excuse me," replied Joseph; "I've been running about
Lyons all day without finding any work, and I can go no further."
With these words, he laid his knapsack on the floor, and,
without any ceremony, sat down in an easy chair, which held
out its arms invitingly toward him. " That's cool!" said M.
Bertrand. " Upon my word, the little scamp takes it easy."
Then running toward him, he cried, " Quick! out of this!" As
he was about taking him by the shoulders, he recognized him
as some one he had seen before. " Your impudent face is familiar to me," he said. "Where have I had the pleasure of
meeting you?"  Then he began to ransack his rich memory,
which was one of those dark places that can not be searched
long without making unpleasant discoveries. He began to
pass his numerous acquaintances in review, when Joseph came
to his assistance, saying, " We met in the court-yard of Castle
D'Ornis....You remember, I came near being eaten by your
dog."




192          JOSEP1H NlOIAREL'S RE VENrGE.
" He wouldn't have digested you. He's used to better food.
What were you doing at the castle?"
" I was in Burgundy buying wood for my employer; while
traveling about, I was looking at the country."
"You amused yourself so much that your master kicked you
out. If you don't hurry up, you'll have the same luck here."
So saying, he opened the door into the street; he did not,
however, try to put Joseph out. He remembered that at Castle
D'Ornis, the little scamp had treated him in such a cool and
resolute way, that he had been compelled to lower his tone.
Though M. Bertrand was familiar with every body, and rude
to his inferiors, he never raised his hand except to the inoffensive and the weak. He avoided quarreling with others.
Joseph rose, picked up his knapsack, and placed it with a
sigh upon his back. Instead of going out, however, he stood
with folded arms before the chest which the Belgian had just
examined, and looked at it a moment.  "Your customer was
right," he said. " There was mighty little skill in the restoring of that chest. It must have been a fool that patched up
those twisted columns. Then look at those two monks singing matins.... See, that's the original, and that's the copy, and
one's as much like the other as a turnip's like an orange."
Self-confident people always made an impression on M. Bertrand. He was not wanting in confidence himself; but he had
acquired it by study, and used it as a cover for his ignorance.
When he found it in a natural state in other people, he at once
conceived a high opinion of them. This coward, who pretended
to be hold, had no respect for any thing but insolence. Joseph's
speech attracted his attention.  "What's that you say?" he
cried. "Are you acquainted with those little machines? It's
easy to talk, but I'd like to see you do the work."
"I'll be hanged," proudly answered Joseph, " if it will take
me more than an hour to turn you out a monk's head singing
matins....You'll be ready to swear that he never did any
thing else all his life, and that the brute of a joiner who spoiled
that piece of furniture for you is only a bungling workman."
It was now the turn of the great fisherman to bite. " Enough




O2SEPH1'1 NjOIREL'S REVENCGE.              193
said!" he answered. " There's a piece of wood and there's the
tools. I'll take you at your word. If you make your monk, I'll
give you your supper; but if you're only talking, you'll be kind
enough to clear out at once, and take your knapsack and your
boasting with you."
In two hours' time, Joseph had nearly finished his monk's
head, which was an exact copy of the model. He had reproduced the face and all the details, the distended veins of the
neck, the puffed-out cheeks, the dimples in the chin, the slight
frown, in fact every thing to indicate a singer who was exerting himself to the utmost. M. Bertrand stared and, leaning toward him, said, "That isn't bad; you shall have your supper."
He led him into his room, where the table was already spread,
and gave him a seat opposite his own. There was nothing remarkable about the meal; M. Bertrand did not spend much on
his table; he made his investments in other quarters. They
washed down their simple fare with a pale wine, which, in spite
of its innocent look, went very quickly to the head. Joseph
drank a great deal of it; when an idea had possession of him,
he could swallow any quantity of wine, without being at all affected. M. Bertrand tried to draw him out; the young man
told him all he wanted to know.
Toward the close of the meal, the worthy merchant said,
"You're a good sort of fellow, and I see we can make something out of you. Now tell me honestly what your former
master paid you."
" My former master was a stingy fellow," answered Joseph.
" He never paid me much of any thing.  I've left him in order
to do better."
Thereupon he demanded such exorbitant wages, that M.
Bertrand could scarcely believe his ears.  They disputed the
question for a long time; Joseph would not yield at all, but
evinced a desire for gain, that was very revolting to M. Bertrand's
stern morality. They finally, however, came to an understanding. The bric-a-brac merchant owned the miserable house, the
ground floor of which was occupied by his store. He rented




T 94         7OSEP'lI NOJIteL':S  et,' VE'GE.
out the second story and lived in the third himself; above the
latter were two small lofts. It was agreed that he should give
Joseph his board and lodging, and in consideration of this, the
latter was to be satisfied with reasonable wages.
This bargain being concluded, Joseph, well satisfied with his'ay's work and with having installed himself in the heart of the
enemy's works, went up to take possession of his loft. It was
not a pleasant spot; the cold was intense, and there was scarcely room to turn around. It seemed a delightful place to him,
however, and he did not regret at all his comfortable attic-room
at Mon-Plaisir.  "Prudence and wise delay," he said to himself as he tried to warm his fingers:' those are the things that
gain success." The last thing he thought of before going to
sleep was the little bridge where he had met M. Bertrand for
the first time, when leaning on the rail and gazing into the water,
he had muttered, "Keep still, old fellow; what is done can't
be helped!"  "Yes, what is done can't be helped," thought
Joseph, " but sometimes it can be looked after." Then placing his fingers on his lips, he threw into the darkness of the
night a kiss, which knew well where to take its way.
It required only a short time for the shrewd boy to gain his
new master's good will and confidence. M. Bertrand was delighted by the way he worked. In order to save all he could,
he had employed none but low-priced workmen; he had now in
his service, without any more expense, the king of Josonsthis was a friendly nickname he had given him. Joseph repaired, with patient and ingenious industry, the old furniture
which filled his employer's store-rooms, and which had cost
him little more than the expense of transportation, so well did he
understand the art of bargaining. Joseph dressed the wounds
of these dilapidated articles with a light and delicate hand; he
not only brought his fingers to the task, but he possessed, besides, taste, style, and a genius for the work. Up to that time,
M. Bertrand had given all such work to a master cabinet-maker,
with whom he had made an agreement, and who according to
his story overcharged him heavily. He confided the most delicate work to Joseph, and the first cabinet he finished was sold




7OSEI'I ANO IREL'S RE VENGE.               I95
the same day, bringing twice as much as he expected. It was
during the enthusiasm caused by this first sale, that M. Bertrand
called him the king of Josons.
His workman appeared to be a pleasant fellow. He was discreet, easy to get along with, and simple in his manners; he
kept his place, took in good part his employer's familiarities,
listened to his stories, and laughed at his jokes. When M.
Bertrand had been unsuccessful in his projects and was in
a bad humor, Joseph knew how to smooth him down again,
He spoke to him something like a character in a certain comedy: " I say, Gotte, I have read in some book or other that, in
order to make your fortune in this world, you must have neither honor nor humor."  There was only one objection M.
Bertrand made to him: he thought he stood up too firmly for
his rights. One day when, under some pretext or other, he had
endeavored tokeep back a portion of his wages, Joseph had
threatened at once to leave him. At another time, on a single
word of remonstrance concerning a tool he had mislaid, he
had mounted hurriedly to his loft, had thrust his clothes into
his knapsack, and started off without saying a word. He had
already reached the street, when M. Bertrand running after
him, caught him  by the blouse and coaxed him to return.
A statesman said recently to a young prince, who was leaving to take possession of a vacant throne, "Don't pay too
much attention to the Spaniards; they will care for you, if
you don't care for them." Joseph understood diplomacy without having studied it, and Spain now held him by the blouse.
At first he took his meals in the shop, but little by little, M.
Bertrand got into the habit of inviting him to his table, and
generally they passed the evening together after dinner. During the dessert, the pale wine helping him, our worthy merchant became communicative.  He told his workman about
certain customs of the trade, or informed him of his commercial and financial speculations, which consisted in buying up old
houses at a low price, repairing or rebuilding them in an economical way he well understood, and then selling them at a
great advance.  He also made known to Joseph his dreams




I96         JOSEPHZ  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
of the future, which he was impatient to realize. His idea was
to cross the sea, to settle in a slave country, and become a
planter there. The paradise of his dreams consisted of some
hundreds of blacks, men, women, and children, who were
all to belong to him. He already saw himself governing this
woolly tribe, with a whip in one hand and a handkerchief in
the other. He was anxious to take possession as soon as
possible; and in order to hasten the happy moment, he lived
very economically, denying himself present pleasures, but enjoying in imagination all the delights of his future Nabob
life.




CHAPTER XXIX.
THE TRAP IS SETI
If M. Bertrand was satisfied with his workman, Joseph was
no less satisfied with his employer. He studied him curiously and quietly, and soon began to understand his character.
He found out at once that he did not belong to the class of heroic knaves. His clown's face was not deceptive; there was
not in him the stuff of which great criminals are made; the
most that could be said of him was, that he was the king of
rogues. He had no scruples, yet he was very cautious. His
strange and noisy impudence served to conceal the weakness
of a will that was never sure of itself, and was always afraid of
accidents; this iron bar had flaws in it, which rendered it liable to be broken suddenly. If any one were weak enough to
yield to his effrontery, it carried every thing before it; if opposition were made to it, it gave way at once. One day, in
Joseph's presence, he had a lively altercation with a builder
who had come to collect some money on account.  He tried
to put him off at first by a number of miserable excuses. The
other becoming urgent in his demand, he refused him boldly
and endeavored to intimidate him; he was dealing, however,
with a determined man, who turned on him at once, threatening to sue him. As soon as this occurred, M. Bertrand gave
him what was due. From this and various other incidents,
Joseph inferred that his employer was formidable only to those
who had good cause to fear him. If Count D'Ornis submitted
himself to this humiliating tyranny, he evidently had some
great crime upon his conscience.
Joseph made another observation. Although it may seem
strange to compare M. Bertrand to a flower, this coarse man
did, in one particular, resemble those beautiful blue and white
morning-glories, the corollas of which, opening at the rising of
the sun, close again as soon as he has sunk below the hori



198        0OSEPZI NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
zon. Like the morning-glories, M. Bertrand's gayety was
fresh and sparkling in the morning, and unless something unpleasant happened in his business, he abounded in coarse
jokes throughout the day.  On the approach of evening, a
sudden change took place, a cloud hung upon his brow, he
became uneasy and nervous, if it is proper to speak of a
clown's nerves. He then had recourse to the bottle to animate his drooping spirits, and society became very necessary
to him. Before Joseph's arrival, he had been accustomed to
spend his evenings at the coffee-house or in some little theatre; but since good fortune had brought the king of Josons
beneath his roof, he no longer found it necessary to go away
from home to seek for company and amusement. After dinner, they lit their pipes, and played interminable games of
dominos together. On the other hand, he always tried to isolate himself during the hours of sleep. At eleven o'clock he
sent Joseph to his loft; the cook retired to her room; a shopboy made his bed on the first floor; he then shut himself up
in his own apartments, which consisted of four rooms, the
doors of which were fastened by double bolts. He slept there
alone, watched over by a lamp that burned all night, and by
his dog who lay at his feet upon the floor.
Joseph's loft was situated immediately above M. Bertrand's
sleeping room, and the partition between them was quite thin.
Joseph, who for some months past had slept with one eye
open, thought he heard strange noises in his employer's room.
He listened, he even pressed his ear against the floor; as we
know this was no new thing for him. He heard nothing but
a low groaning or grumbling sound, the creaking of loose
boards beneath a heavy tread, and sometimes the howling of
the dog, who perhaps was suffering from bad dreams and telling them to the moon. It seemed to him that his new employer's sleep was broken and troubled. " It's not indigestion
that makes him so uneasy," he thought. " Can it be that he,
too, has something on his conscience? I've discovered already that he has nerves; if he has a conscience besides, he's
a very complete clown."




yO.S/PI'H  iVOIREL'S RE VENGE.            199
One evening, M. Bertrand notified his workman that early
the next morning he had an important business engagement at
the other end of Lyons: fearing that he should oversleep himself, he gave Joseph a pass-key, asking him to wake him
at exactly four o'clock.  It was half-past four when Joseph
awoke. He dressed himself hastily and went down to his employer's room. As he was crossing the hall, a groaning sound
fell upon his ear. He looked through the key-hole, and by the
light of the lamp, saw M. Bertrand, who had slid from the bed
to the floor, and who, with his eyes shut, was throwing his
arms about, as though struggling with some hideous dream.
Soon he uttered, in a mysterious tone, the same words that Joseph had heard him use before, " Be still, old fellow, be still!"
Joseph kept quiet, thinking he might hear more; but that was
all. M. Bertrand was again silent; at intervals he moved his
lips, but no sound came from them. Finally Joseph rapped
upon the door. The dog barked, and his master, rising suddenly, sprang into the bed, which groaned beneath his heavy
weight.
"Who's that? what do you want?" he cried in an angry
voice.
Joseph entered, saying, "I came to wake you up, as you
asked me to last night."
" Oh! it's you, is it?" answered M. Bertrand in a milder
tone.  "Excuse me for speaking so; you just awoke me from
a most delightful dream.... I thought I was stretched out in the
shade of a palm-tree, with two lovely black girls near me; one
was fanning me with a peacock's tail, while the other was delicately tickling the bottoms of my feet."
" I'm sorry I frightened your black girls away," said Joseph.
"I had an idea that your dream was a bad one, for you spoke
and said...."
" What did I say?" asked M. Bertrand, suddenly changing
countenance.
"You said,'Be still, old fellow?'
"Did I, really?.......O! yes, I remember. An old negro
had come to complain that he had been whipped for some



200         JOSEPLI  N-OIREL'S RE VEANfGE.
thing he hadn't done, and I was sending him away....... What
did he want to complain of that for? A little whipping
wouldn't hurt the fellow.  It's silly enough to talk in your
sleep. Do you ever do it?"
" No," he answered; "I can't afford to dream, nor to keep
black girls either."
With these words he went away. From that day, M. Bertrand never asked him to wake him in the morning.
Joseph Noirel knew how to act. He remained two months
with M. Bertrand without asking him a single question, or
manifesting the least curiosity concerning his affairs. He
seemed to think only of his work and of making money.
At the end of the two months, he asked for an increase ot
wages.  The bric-d-brac merchant protested, and tried to
pay him in fine words and promises.  Joseph threatened to
leave if his demands were not complied with; his employer
finally gave him what he wanted, and this discussion only
increased his confidence in Noirel.
Joseph at times, however, was sad and silent; this surprised M. Bertrand, who said to him one evening, " What's
the matter, my boy?  You seem  very dull to-day."  To
which Joseph answered with a start, " It's nothing." Then
he affected a noisy gayety, which did not seem natural to
him. Another time he allowed himself to be surprised with
his head buried in his hands, and plunged in a deep and
endless revery.  " You are troubled about something," M.
Bertrand said; "tell me about it."  " We all have our troubles," Joseph answered. " Mine are not worth speaking of." M.
Bertrand was not satisfied, and continued to question him on the
subject. He liked to become acquainted with other people's
affairs; some profit can be gained from every thing.  Joseph
did not enlighten him at all; he gave him nothing but evasive
answers.
One Sunday, as M. Bertrand was dilating for the hundredth
time on the joys which he anticipated in Brazil, Joseph interrupted him saying, " That may be well enough for you; I couldn't
be happy in Brazil."




JOSEPHI! NOLVIEL'S RE VENt GE.            201
"What would make you happy then?" asked M. Bertrand.
"Revenge, if you must know!" he answered in a sullen
tone.
"Revenge! whom do you want to be revenged on?"
Noirel bit his lips, as though he were sorry he had said so
much.  " On nobody," he said. " Is it likely I'd hate any one?
I was talking nonsense, that is all."
M. Bertrand's curiosity was now thoroughly excited; on
several occasions, he endeavored to discover Joseph's secret.
The following Sunday, he persuaded him to drink more than
usual, and when two bottles had been emptied, made a direct
assault upon him. " What are you so mysterious about?" he
said. " Don't you like to talk over matters with your friends?
Tell me what troubles you, old fellow! If you've got an enemy you want to be revenged on, you may get some advice, and
some help, too, perhaps."
Joseph did not yield for a long time. At last he began a
story, in which fact and fiction were strangely mingled.  He
said that he had been apprenticed in his youth to a masterjoiner at Geneva; that his benefactor had certainly been very
kind to him, but had always treated him in a haughty way; that
under these circumstances, he had been unfortunate enough to
fall in love with the daughter of the house; that finding she
was receiving attentions from a man of rank, he had been so
foolish as to declare his love, which had been scornfully refused; and that finally, he had been spurned from the house as
though he were a dog.
"What's your former master's name?" asked M. Bertrand.
"Haven't you seen it on my certificate upstairs?"
" I don't remember; I think there's an ink spot over it."
" His name is M. Mirion."
M. Bertrand started.  " Mirion!.... I've heard of him before.... Your sweetheart is Countess D'Ornis now?"
"Countess of any thing you please," answered Joseph with a
sullen air.  "When you met me at Ornis, I wasn't there by
chance, as I told you the other day. Those idiots ha-d sent
me there to gather information; they wanted to make sure that




202         OySEPI L     ZOlL'L'LS R'  VEYGL'.
he was a real count.... A real count, you understand! If he'd
been white with leprosy, they would have given him Margot
all the same."
" Yes, I see.... what did Margot think of it?"
"Oh! she's a kind of saint.... She's always willing to do
every thing you want her to. She was delighted, though, I
know; her eyes betrayed her happiness."  Bringing his fist
down heavily on the table, he continued, "Ah! if I could get
those upstarts in my power! How scornfully they treated
me! They trod me under foot as though I were a worm."
Then, letting his imagination have free play, he gave M.
Bertrand a long account of the miseries and insults he had endured.  "The trouble was, you looked too high," replied the
latter. "I saw your Margoton, one lay, at one of the castle
windows. She's handsome as an angel..... Then the money!
how about the money? I've heard that those people were millionaires."
"That's no name for it," said Joseph.  " I'll take my oath,
though, I didn't care a straw for their money.  I was dead in
love. It was Margot I wanted, and if she brought me nothing
but her night-cap and her slippers...."
"Her expectations were not to be despised," interrupted M.
Bertrand. " You're a sly rogue, ain't you?"
Joseph assumed an offended look. " I was a great fool to
tell you that," he answered in an angry tone.  "You're a
bourgeois, too, M. Bertrand, and the bourgeois all understand
each other, like so many thieves.... they're all leagued against
us, and treat us as though we were the offscourings of the
earth. Well, what is said can't be helped; but I'll be hung if
I ever.... A shut mouth catches no flies."
"Keep cool," said M. Bertrand, slapping him on the back,
" I'm a good fellow. To prove it, I'll sign an agreement to give
you my daughter with a dowry of a hundred thousand crowns.
Only you'll be kind enough to wait till the young lady's born."
He laughed long at his joke and at Joseph's angry look, and
then proposed a game of dominos. He played badly that evening, however; he was so preoccupied that Joseph could not
help noticing it.




CHAPTER XXX.
M. BERTRAND TAKES THE BAIT.
For several days M. Bertrand appeared absorbed in thought.
Noirel pretended not to notice it, and did not speak again of
Marguerite. It was Bertrand, himself, who brought the subject up the second time. One evening, after walking a long
time up and down the dining-room, whistling a lively air, he
stopped before his workman, and placing his hand upon his
shoulder, said, "You've only got to say the word, to be revenged on those Mirions."
" Leave me alone," Joseph answered in a sulky tone. " You
joked enough about it the other night, I think."
"I say again that if you want to be revenged on your benefactors, you've only got to say the word. I can furnish you the
means."
As Joseph looked at him  in astonishment, he continued,
" Answer a few questions for me first.  Those people are rich
and vain. Which influences them most, their money or their
vanity?"
"Their vanity, most decidedly."
"Yet you told me they were mean enough not to give their
daughter any dowry."
"You don't understand.  They were willing to give her
every thing, they had this marriage so much at heart; it seems,
however, that M. D'Ornis was a man of peculiar delicacy. He
refused to receive a dowry in order to show that he was not
marrying for money."
M. Bertrand shook with rage. " What! he refused! Then
in an accent of honest indignation, he added,'" The miserable
rascal!"
" What's that?" asked Joseph.
" I'm asking questions now," returned the other in a haugh



204          yOS8EP1  NOIREL'S A'REVEN' GE.
ty tone.  He took a large glass of wine to calm his ruffled
temper, and then continued, " On what terms are they with
their son-in-law?"
"They glory in him, and address him on their bended knees
as they would the Eternal Father."
" If he should ask them to-morrow for half a million, would
they give it to him?"
" Ah! now you're going too fast. The day before the wedding, they would have given him their last cent; to-day, in my
opinion, they'd refuse him."
" Suppose Margot should join with him  in asking for the
hundred thousand crowns?"
"That's a very different affair. They would give her the
entire million. With her soft ways, she leads them all, and, if
she wanted to, could make them go through the eye of a needle.
She's the real shepherd of the flock."
M. Bertrand's face lighted up. He sat down in a rocking
chair, and began to drum with his fingers on his forehead; then
rising again, he said, " How is it with you and Margot, have
you had any quarrel?"
" O no! I don't think she has the least idea that I was ever
rash enough.... I talked with her mother, and she said nothing to her... What would be the use of that? It's easier to
kick a poor fellow into the street, and say nothing to Margot
about it.... There, I'm getting angry again.  Let's play dominos, Monsieur Bertrand."
He shook the dominos from their box. M. Bertrand caught
him by the arm saying, " If you should go to Ornis, would they
receive you there?"' I don't know whether they would or not; but if I was the
only one to travel in that direction, the grass would soon grow
in the road.  If any one offered me ten thousand francs...."
" There, that will do, you rogue!" interrupted M. Bertrand.
" If any one gave you ten thousand francs, you'd not only go
to Ornis, but into the devil's den itself!"... As Joseph rose
with an angry gesture, he added, " Lord! how quick you are!
Pray sit down and listen to me.  Suppose," he continued in




JOSEP'HI ViNOIREL'S' A'l IE\NGI-.        205
a mysterious tone, " some one should oo to Margot, and whisper in her ear, Madam, your noble husband, of whom you are
so proud, has a crime upon his conscience, which no one
knows about, thank Heaven, but which, if it was known, would
make it very unpleasant for him...."
Joseph bounded from his seat. " What has he done?" he
cried. " Has he committed forgery, or broken into some banker's safe?"
"That's none of your business," answered M. Bertrand;
"that is my secret. Answer the question I put to you. What
would she say to such a person?"
" Don't deceive yourself, the Mirions are no fools, and she
has a sound head that reasons and will believe nothing except
on abundant proof."
"Suppose," continued M. Bertrand, "this person had his
proofs with him."
"She would require conclusive and unanswerable ones, such
as could be seen and felt...."
M. Bertrand leaned toward him and, seizing him by his ears,
which he pulled vigorously, said, " Proofs that can be seen and
felt!....What would you say, if I had such proofs?"
Joseph remained for a moment dumb with astonishment. At
last, coming to himself, he cried, "In that case, I'd say it was
a splendid thing, and I'd like to take a hand in it."
M. Bertrand began to laugh. " Look at the innocent fellow,
who never loved any thing but his sweetheart. Don't speak to
him of money; it will break his heart.... I say, my boy, if we
avenge you, you've nothing else to ask for. Let's play dominos, Monsieur Joson!"
" One moment," answered Joseph, seizing his arm in turn.
" I don't care for the money; but the vengeance that you offer
me-the devil! it's orne of those dishes I can eat without being
hungry."....Then snapping his fingers as though they were
castanets, he added, "So you Want to bleed those Mirions,
eh? I'm  your man; only I don't know  how  to play my
part..... "
" Oh! you'll do well enough; and you shall have your share




206         7OSEPI NOIREL'S REVEAGE.
too. Whoever puts his hand in the pie will have something
stick to his fingers. You shall have your share, large or small,
according to the size of the pie."
Then resting his elbows on the table, he continued, " Listen
to me. You must start for Ornis early to-morrow morning;
you must present yourself before your sweetheart, saying that
you've come to ask her to plead your cause with your old employer.  You've been driven away, but you are homesick;
you want to return to the old place. If she receives you kindly, you can show your gratitude by warning her of danger; if
she will not hear you, you can get angry and threaten her witl
revenge. In either case, you must reveal to her that your new
master, Monsieur Bertrand, dealer in bric-a-brac and other
articles, is the owner of a paper which threatens the safety
of Count D'Ornis; that the said Bertrand is a dangerous
man, and that this little paper is probably for sale, the only
thing being to fix the price. You can make up any story you
please to explain to her how you know all this; above all, you
must give her to understand that she is lost, if her husband
ever suspects her.... The devil! he'd just as leave kill her
as not. You must therefore advise her to observe the strictest
secrecy....In short, you are a stupid rascal, if you don't
bring me back word that the lady will meet me at such a day
and hour and place, to question me and make a bargain for
my little scrawl."
In proportion as M. Bertrand developed his plan of operations, Joseph, who had been very eager at first, pretended to
become more doubtful and hesitating. He was full of difficulties and objections, representing to his employer that their
common enterprise seemed very hazardous to him, that he feared he was not a fit person to attend to it, that, as nearly as he
could judge, he would neither be received nor believed at Ornis, and that, at his first words, before he could gain time to
explain himself, he would be- turned into the road. M. Bertrand grew excited and told him he was a coward. " What do
you want to send me for?" Joseph asked. " Why don't you
write instead?"




7OSEPI NA-OlREL'S RE VEN I-I6TE.          207
" I never write," he answered. "The only writing I care
for is that of other people."
The next day, Joseph acted in the same manner. The cooler he became, the more excited M. Bertrand grew. " Don't be
angry," Joseph said at last; " since you're so determined, I
will try it; but I'll not answer for my success. You'll find that
you're engaged in a desperate game."
The day afterward, he was on the road to Ornis.




CHAPTER XXXI.
CONVALESCENCE.
We sometimes say, " Strong as a Turk;" we might better
say, " Strong as a young girl struggling with sickness and misfortune." She is considered lost; her physicians have given
her up; her fi-iends, if she have any, are already mourning for
her. She does not cease to hope; she defends herself with
calm persistency against the assaults of the pitiless enemy who
has caught her in his iron grasp; more pliant than the willow
or the vine, she meets his furious attacks with a gentle and
patient resistance. Her days have been so few! She looks
forward to the future with such longing and desire! "Wait
for me, happy days!" she cries. At last, moved by pity and
repentance, Death softly steals away.
Marguerite was for several days at the point of death. M.
Crotet had already pronounced the fatal sentence, when suddenly she began to improve as though by miracle; her most
alarming symptoms disappeared, her eyes, for a moment paralyzed, regained their natural lustre, her fever passed away. At
the end of three weeks, she became convalescent; her appetite
and strength returned, and a few days afterward she was walking about her room.  She was not, however, the Marguerite of
former days. She seemed to have lost forever her bright color, her quick and graceful movements, the elasticity of her
step, the quick flash of her glance, and that charming smile
which always lurked in the clear depths of her eyes. The
greatest change was in her voice, which had been so fresh
and sweet that it reminded one of the linnet in the woods,
when, in the bright spring days, it carols forth its happy song.
That voice now was soft and faint; having nothing but sad
things to say, it had no use for its former ringing notes. Her
form, too, like her voice, bore the impress of a languid grace;
her beauty, however, still remained. It was not a destruction,




7OSEP'It NAOI'REL'S  RE VENAGE.            209
it was only a metamorphosis. Grief had touched with his sceptre that youthful and smiling brow, over which the hours had
heretofore so lightly flown; it had left upon it a settled gloom,
the imprint of a sad memory.  This, however, did not prevent M. Crotet from admiring the astonishing rapidity of his
fair patient's recovery-it was indeed wonderful, from the fact
that she had had to contend not only with her malady, but also
with her doctor, who had treated her in a barbarous way, administering remedies fit only for a horse.  " My dear Countess," he said, " I've never seen such a recovery from meningitis before." He had taken a liking to her on account of all
the leeches he had applied.  Such are the considerations that
determine the friendships of physicians.
Marguerite, while convalescing, had regained the use of
her mind and memory.  She clearly recalled the past; but
she saw it in the distance, as it were.  It seemed to her that
her sickness had lasted a long time, that entire years had
rolled away since the day when, carrying a picture to the garret, she had overheard a conversation that had frozen the blood
within her veins. Her memory was very clear; but her impressions being deadened, she asked herself if her imagination
had not had something to do with her fright and her despair.
She said to herself, " I'll think no more about it, till I've
regained my strength."  When one is recovering from  brain
fever, it is necessary to start anew in life. She bravely went to
work to learn again to use her hands and feet and head; she applied herself to this like a faithful scholar to his tasks. She
had plenty of time: all her hours belonged to her.  Every
three days, she saw her husband for three minutes, when he
spoke three words. This seemed more than enough to her, so
much did she dread any excitement or emotion.  She sometimes saw her mother-in-law, and had no reason to complain of
her.  Mme. D'Ornis treated her as though she were a sick
child, not responsible for the foolish things she might say or
do.  She seemed to think it very strange that she was able to
put two words or ideas together, or that she had any common
sense at all. Her maid was of the same opinion. Marguerite




2 10       O7SEP'f AOI iiRL'S' RE.'VtAENG.
soon discovered that this girl had changed during her sickness,
that she was now playing the spy upon her, and was in communication with the enemy. Another thing happened which made
her sad. One morning, as she was walking in the park, she
heard the porter's son call to his sister, who was playing in
the snow, " What are you stopping for, you big fool?"  His
mother placed her hand quickly over his mouth, while she
cast a glance at Marguerite; she remembered that it is not
proper to speak of a rope in the house of a man who has been
hung.
Marguerite's courage alternately rose and fell. Sometimes
she thought she could discover in herself an inexhaustible fund
of patience and resignation; she felt strong enough to tire out
her grief. At other times, life weighed so heavily upon her,
that her mind seemed to fall to pieces. Marguerite, however,
would not yield; she went to work to repair the ruin.
Her only amusement was carriage riding. For some years,
M. D'Ornis had owned no horses; he hired them  whenever
they were needed. She expressed a wish to buy a pair with
her own money; he gave his consent at once. The Marquis
Du Rozan sold her two good trotters, whose lively ways had
given the Marchioness much uneasiness.  She selected for her
coachman an old man who had formerly been a diligence postilion. M. D'Ornis only required that Jerome, his valet, should
always accompany her in her rides; his orders were never to
lose her from his sight.
It happened, however, that one day toward the middle of
February, Jerome was called away for a short time. Marguerite did not wait for him; she ordered her old postilion to start
on, and made him drive her a long distance on the road to
Arnay-le-Duc, to the foot of a rocky hill that commanded an
extensive view. Descending from  the carriage, she climbed
by a foot-path to the summit of this hill. When a stone wall
at last concealed her from her coachman's sight, she folded her
arms upon her breast, and looked upon the landscape spread
out before her. The snow had fallen heavily during the few
preceding days, and had covered the whole plain with a thick




.70SEPI'    - OIRIEL'S RE VEANWE.          211
white shroud, through which the undulations of the ground
were visible. Clearly defined against this background, were
long rows of poplars, tufts of yellow osiers, old and stunted
oaks covered with dry leaves, clumps of elms and beeches
whose dark forms and naked arms had fixed themselves in tragic attitudes, patches of thorny brushwood, still agitated by long
struggles with the wind and revealing their anger by their savage gestures, and here and there a few lonely pines, bending
beneath the weight of years and looking sadly down upon the
snow. The hills which bounded the horizon were half concealed by a thick gray mist. The air was still; nothing was
moving on the ground or in the branches of the trees.  The
plain and all that it contained was frozen into immobility and
silence. Over this landscape hung a dull, leaden sky, which
seemed tired of gazing on the gloomy scene below.
Marguerite was in low spirits, and this view  was not
calculated to console her.  Her sadness whispered low  to
the sad things about her, to the frozen, lifeless fields, to the
bare and gloomy woods, to the earth and sky, both prisoners of
the winter and believing no more in the coming of the spring.
Her heart was frozen like the plain, her future appeared as dull
and dark as the gray horizon. Suddenly the clouds opened, and
the pale sunlight struggled through them for a moment.  The
valley seemed astonished, it did not recognize the stranger;
he, himself, felt that he was out of place and disappeared. So
a traveler sets out to find a friend, and stops at the wrong
door; unfamiliar faces meet his gaze,'he finds out his mistake,
and quickly moves away.
"How the sun is changed!" thought Marguerite; "I never
saw him with so sad and wan a face. He has been sick like
me; he has lost his color, too.  Formerly, we loved to look
upon each other; I don't know which was the gayer of the two.
Ah! what has become of our old friendship?....And yet,"
she continued, " when I saw that death had spared me, I was
thankful for it. What a fierce desire to live! Is life of any
value without happiness? Could I believe in happiness again?
I did believe in it; I can not do so now   How simple I was




212          JOSEPH  NOI'REL'S RE VENGE.
then! every thing seemed easy to me! I used to be so young!
How old am I to-day?"
She sat down on a stone, first brushing the snow off with
her handkerchief. She leaned forward and closed her eyes.
It seemed to her that within her was a springtime surprised
and ravaged by the frost; her heart was strewn with unfulfilled desires and disappointed expectations, with withered
branches and dead flowers.  " If I had a child," she said as
she raised her head, " I'd teach him  to believe that life was
but a snare."




CHAPTER  XXXII.
THE MEETING IN THE SNOW.
As Marguerite was about to descend the hill and rejoin her
coachman, whose horses she thought might have become uneasy,
she threw a last look over the valley. From the place where
she stood, she could see upon her left the prolongation of the
road which, after bending toward her, descended in zig-zags to
a stream, beyond which she could trace it running for a long
distance in a straight line. Marguerite noticed in the road a
black point clearly defined against the snow. This point was
moving, it was approaching her. She regarded it with interest; it was the only living being this solitude contained.
Suddenly an unaccountable emotion seized her. She had
an idea that this traveler was not a stranger, that she knew
his name and that he knew hers, that this very moment he
was thinking of her, was looking for her, and was bringing
something to her.  He disappeared at one of the angles of
the road; she did not wish to go without seeing him again.
Wrapped in her thick furs, she did not feel the cold. Her feet
alone were growing numb; she stamped upon the ground to
warm them. Suddenly the man appeared. She gave a cry, as
did the Israelites of old when they saw the manna falling in the
desert. She was not mistaken-this traveler was acquainted
with her life and history; he knew her name and loved to
have it linger on his lips. He had been a witness of her youth,
he had seen this flower grow, he had heard this bright bird
sing. he could certify that Marguerite Mirion had once been
loved and happy; and this traveler, who had known her so
long, did not pass by; he had come purposely to see her, he
had, indeed, brought her something, for under his gray blouse,
beneath his woolen vest, there was a heart devoted to her, a




214         7OSEPH  NZOIREL'S RE ViEAGE.
soul that belonged to her, that had sworn obedience to her
will. In her first transport of joy, she cast about her a glance
of triumph, as though to say to the trees, the rocks, the snow,
the mist, " I am richer than I thought; if you have never seen
a true and honest soul, here is one, a soul that belongs to me."...Then she waved her handkerchief, with as much excitement as a ship in distress would display on seeing help
approaching.  Joseph saw her, raised his cap, hastened his
steps, and soon, leaving the road to climb directly toward her,
she saw him leap from stone to stone, jump over bushes, force
his way through the brushwood, and run swiftly over the snow.
He was not more than twenty paces from her, when he stopped,
all out of breath and ready to sink down with emotion. Again
he started toward her. She held out both her hands, which he
seized and pressed within his own, fastening a look on her, in
which she thought she saw nothing but the respectful inquiries
of a tender and devoted friendship; perhaps, at that moment, his eyes revealed no more than this. She drank in
his glance, as a shipwrecked mariner, who still feels the salt
waves washing against his lips and threatening him with death,
drinks the first glass of wine that a merciful hand presents to
him.
This transport of joy was of short duration. Her memory,
which had been weakened by her sickness, now came back
in all its power.  In seeing again this man whom she had
made her confidant, she had also seen the past, and shaking
off its torpor, her mind suddenly awoke. Since she had returned from death to life, she had tried to persuade herself that
the only cause of her unhappiness was that she was no longer
loved. Before Joseph had spoken a word, she knew that he
had brought all her former terrors back to her.
She looked at him uneasily; he gazed on her with astonishment.  He found her changed, and no longer recognized the
bright young girl whom he had carried across a ploughed field
two years before. Her paleness, the dull fire of her glance,
her emaciated features, her face on which disease had left its
traces, and the bright color of which had given way to a touch



7OSEPII  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                215
ing languor and penetrating charm, all served to bewilder him.
What had become of Marguerite Mirion? After looking at
her for a short time, he felt that he did not love her less, but
that he loved her in a different way. He experienced a feeling
of sad tenderness, he could have sat down at her feet and
cried; he was capable at that moment of risking his life for
her without asking any thing in return.  "What has happened?" he asked. " Have you been sick?"
"Alas! my poor Joseph, I've been very, very sick," she answered with a faint attempt to smile. " I have escaped as though
by miracle, and you see me surprised at being still alive, and
not knowing whether to rejoice or weep. Life has some good
in it, however, since sooner or later we see our friends again."
With these words, she held out her hand to him the second
time. " But what chance has brought you here?" she said....
"I wrote you two months ago; didn't you receive my letter?"
"Forgive me," he answered.  "I disobeyed you, and it is
well I did, for that scrap of paper of which you spoke to me
exists; it has been most carefully preserved.... It has fallen
into terribly bad hands. Fortunately they are hands that open
when they see gold within their reach."
She nervously twisted the ribbons of her hat.  "Tell me
quickly all about it," she replied in a trembling voice.
He briefly told his story, while she listened to him, gazing
into his face with haggard eyes.  She kept interrupting him,
exclaiming, "Is it so?....do you believe it?....can it be
true?"
He concluded with the following advice: "After having
thought it over, I believe it will be well for you to see this
man.  He is not fit to approach you, or to speak to you,... but
it can not well be helped. You mustn't be afraid of him; he
is a coward. Then I won't be far away, for I wouldn't consent
for any thing in the world.... You had better write me a few
lines that I can show him, which will give me an excuse to accompany him here.  He is very suspicious. Your letter must
be carefully worded.... You must pretend that you will believe
nothing unless you see the proofs with your own eyes.  He




216          yOSEPH  ANrO1IEL'S RE VENGE.
must come here and bring his paper with him, so that you may
know what it is.... Perhaps, in spite of what he says, it don't
amount to any thing.  In that case, you can send him off again."
While Joseph was speaking, Marguerite was a prey to the
most cruel uncertainty. Her first impulse was to push away
the cup thus offered to her. How did she know but a deadly
poison lurked within it? At the same time she thought, " My
present situation is so painful that I can not bear it longer.
An opportunity is now offered to escape from it. If I can become the possessor of this paper and restore to M. D'Ornis his
dignity and lost repose, I shall compel him to give up his horrible suspicions, and to do me justice. He has told me that my
words are false; he must believe my deeds. I'll not ask him
to love me, for that he can not do; but the greatness of this
service will oblige him to put faith in me, and thus make life
endurable again."
She made her decision, and as Joseph finished speaking,
said, " You're right. I will write to you.... Then I will ask
for proofs; you can see for yourself that it is so....I must
haveproofs!...."
Suddenly a voice behind her cried, " Proofs of what, I'd like
to know?"
She turned round quickly, and saw M. D'Ornis, who, with his
hands in his pockets, was looking at her in a threatening way.
While his wife was riding, he had started for a walk, first
having slung his gun across his back. As he was crossing a
meadow, he saw at a distance the carriage standing in the road,
and curious to know what this halt meant, had turned aside
from his intended route.  The coachman told him that Mme.
D'Ornis had left the carriage, and that he had become uneasy
about her, but had not dared to leave the horses, as there was
no one else to stay with them.  Thereupon, M. D'Ornis had
climbed the hill in haste, and had arrived in time to hear the
words, " I must have proofs!'
Proofs of what?" he asked again, looking from Marguerite
to Joseph, and tlen from Jos phl back to Marguerite.
She immediately regained Iler plresence of mind, and for the




JOSZEPH  NOIRA'L'S RE VENGE.              217
first time in her life she boldly lied. She knew that he loved
her no longer, and she felt that she could not love him.
"This is a good workman," she said in the calmest tone,
"who has lived twelve years with us."  (She strongly emphasized the us.)  " They have discharged him for a supposed
offense, which he tells me he has not committed. He is intelligent and honest, and his only fault is that he can not always
control his tongue. He has come to ask me to intercede for
him.  I have promised that I will write to my father, and
ask him what proofs he has that this young man has deserved
to be discharged. I must have proofs. Don't you think, Roger, that it's the best thing I can do?"
Judging from his past experience, M. D'Ornis considered
her incapable of telling an untruth.  He almost believed her
now, which fact, however, did not prevent him from looking at
Joseph with an arrogant and angry glance.  "What is your
name?" he suddenly inquired.
"Joseph Noirel," replied the workman, after hesitating a
moment whether to answer him or not.
" Well, M. Joseph, if you have come to Ornis on purpose to
have a consultation with my wife, you will make nothing by it,
and it may be it will cost you something."
The sudden appearance of M. D'Ornis had thrown Joseph
into a tumult of excitement.  He was no longer the same
man; his passions were rekindled, his heart was full of violent desires, which cried aloud to him as the young eagles cry
when they ask for food. His first idea, which was not a very
unreasonable one, was to seize Marguerite in his arms and
carry her away, crying, " Who will dare to take her from me?"
Fortunately, she looked at him, and this glance brought him to
himself. He answered M. D'Ornis, " I hope that the Countess.".... He could say no more; it was impossible for him to hold
any communication with this man.
" You have no business to hope," answered M. D'Ornis as
he approached him, " nor to keep your cap on in the presence
of a superior." So saying, he struck his cap and sent it flying
through the air.




218         JOSEPH  NO IREL'S RE VEANGE.
Joseph's face grew white as the snow on which he stood;
he was on the point of rushing headlong on M. D'Ornis,
and it was with great difficulty that he finally controlled his
passion. His lips trembled, he nervously rubbed his hands
together; he said to his pride, "Be still, your hour has not
yet come."  Marguerite had run after his cap; she picked it
up, brushed it off, and presenting it to Joseph, said, " The man
who controls his temper is always the superior. You may deyend upon me.  I will write to-morrow to my father."
She had just lied to her husband; now, for the first time, she
braved him. She was astonished at her own audacity, at the
change which her destiny was already working in her character.  M. D'Ornis also seemed surprised.  Two minutes afterward, Marguerite stepped into the carriage; before closing the
door, she invited her husband to take the seat beside her.
" I prefer to walk," he answered. Then turning to the coachman, he dryly said, " Hereafter, when Jerome is not at liberty,
you need not go."
He waited till the carriage was out of sight, and then climbed
the hill again to make sure that Joseph had departed. The
man with the cap had already reached the road; he was walking at a rapid pace, and singing a battle-song in a loud voice.
This song was interrupted now and then by hoarse, sharp
cries, like those of a wounded hawk. The song and cries breathed forth a savage joy, a frantic hope, a fierce and passionate
hate, the tumult and confusion of a soul that could no longer
recognize itself.




CHAPTER  XXXIII.
M. BERTRAND OUTWITTED.
Joseph Noirel presented himself to his employer with a long
face and downcast look, like a man who brings bad news. He
told him that he had with great difficulty succeeded in obtaining an interview with the Countess Marguerite, but had scarcely mentioned the subject of his errand, when she became indignant and drove him from the house. " You're a fool," said
M. Bertrand; "you didn't know how to manage it.  Never
mind, we won't give up so soon. Young women are quicktempered; they get mad and won't listen at first, but afterward they think it over and are mighty glad to talk.  I'm  only afraid that she will tell her husband, in which case, I'll lay
it all on you, and send you off as a traitor and a spy!"
" I knew very well," replied his workman, " that was all I
had to expect."
A week passed, during which nothing more was said. The
eighth day, at supper-time, Joseph's employer handed him a
letter. He opened it hastily, and as he read his face betrayed some emotion. M. Bertrand unceremoniously snatched the
paper from his hands; fortunately, it was an easy letter to understand. It read as follows:
" I have written to request your pardon.  They answer me
that your conduct was unjustifiable, without giving me any
further explanation. You have exiled yourself forever from a
home which you ought surely to regret; you received there
many favors, for which you have made a poor return. I am
sorry for it. Gratitude is a noble trait, and my father is right
in saying that ungrateful people always come to a bad end.  If
you need money, let me know. I shall be very glad to help
you.  It seems to me, however, that so good a workman as




220         JOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE;
you are ought easily to find a way out of this difficulty,
without having recourse to any unworthy or deceptive tricks.
Can I speak in any other way of the commission you undertook? What does your new master take me for, that he
thinks he can so easily disturb me? He evidently thinks that
all young women are credulous and jealous. You might have
told him that the members of my family always take things
coolly, and never believe any thing unless they see the proofs.
I should have blushed to have thought for a quarter of an hour
of the few words he sent you to whisper to me, and I shall be
glad to tell him so, if he ever come to Ornis. Perhaps he
would prefer to write; in that case, I should advise him to disguise his writing, as it probably is well known here."
"Good Lord!" cried M. Bertrand as he folded up the letter, " what a strange mixture of cunning and stupidity women
are! Here is one who takes plenty of precautions.  In the
first place, she has mailed her letter at Arnay-le-Duc, as the
post-mark proves; then she hasn't signed it, and probably
she's disguised her hand besides, which last fact pleases me,
for I conclude from it that she's afraid of her husband and has
said nothing to him on the subject.  On the other hand, this
very cautious woman is simple enough to think that I'm going to write to her.  What does she take me for? You can
set it down as a general rule that those who write are fools.
Add to this that my lady is incredulous and is never disturbed;
that she would blush to have thought for a quarter of an hour
of those few words, and vet that she does think of them a
week afterward. Your Margot is an innocent creature; we
were so afraid we couldn't interest her, and here she is excited by a single word. I'd only want to have a few customers
like her.... The great trouble is, she has left it for me to appoint the time and place of meeting. What shall I do? I'm
looked upon at Ornis as a white wolf would be."' All I ask is that you won't send me there again!" answered Joseph with a scared expression.  "They treated me like
a dog, and I'm a little proud, you know."
" What will you sell out for?" his employer asked with a sly




yOSEPIZ NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                 221
glance.  " You mean well enough, my boy; but you want a littie training."
Another week passed by.  M. Bertrand hoped for a second
letter from  Marguerite.  As nothing came, he finally became
impatient and tried to persuade Joseph to write to her; he refused, however, repeating his employer's aphorism: " Those
who write are fools."
" How can it hurt you?" asked M. Bertrand.
" There are certain things that the law looks out for," he
answered.  "You want me to pull the chestnuts out of the fire.
You'll take the chestnuts and leave me to the police."
" Don't be such a fool as to talk of the police. Say rather
that you're afraid of being laughed at."
"I'm  not afraid of any thing," answered Joseph; "but I
don't intend to be imposed upon."
M. Bertrand treated him coolly all the evening, but Joseph
pretended not to notice it.  Only one thought troubled him:
what influence could he bring to bear to make his employer
take him to Ornis with him? M. Bertrand kept thinking the
matter over without coming to any decision.  He was willing
to trust no one but himself.  As Joseph was preparing to retire
to his loft, he asked him to call at his room the next morning
at five o'clock. " We may have something to talk about," he
said.
It was still dark when Joseph, who had slept but little
through the night, heard M. Bertrand moving about his room.
After a while he went out, but soon returned again.  At halfpast four, Joseph went down stairs, and suddenly entering his
employer's bedroom, surprised him preparing for a journey.
A large iron safe, set in the wall and furnished with a patent
Fichet lock, stood open; on the table lay a large leather pocket-book, fastening with a key. M. Bertrand quickly slipped the
pocket-book into his coat, buttoning it tightly over his breast.
" Is that the way to come into a room?" he asked in a surly
tone.  "What are you doing here?  It isn't five o'clock."
" Excuse me for disturbing you," said Joseph. " If I can help
you in any way in getting ready for your journey...."




222         yOSEP' I A;OIREL'S RE VENGE.
" What journey?"
" Why you seem to be going away; I can't help noticing it.....There! frankly, M. Bertrand, you had better not attempt
it."
"Not attempt what, you fool?"
"I shouldn't say any thing about it, if it were not to keep my
conscience clear, for you know well enough it makes no difference to me. Your life is your own, and you can dispose of
it as you please.  I would guard against surprises, though, if I
were in your place. I don't know what you've got in that big
pocket-book you just put in your coat, and I don't care to
know:  it's none of my business, anyway. The Countess
Marguerite is very cunning, though, and to-night I began to
suspect....What woul y   s  i s    d you say i she had let her husband into the secret, and if he had dictated the letter she wrote the
other day? We must look out for every thing. Are you sure
that you're not being drawn into a trap? You will arrive there
and be assigned a rendezvous, when suddenly three big fellows
will spring on you and rob you.... The fox expected to eat the
hen, but it's the hen that catches the fox at last.... Believe me,
Monsieur Bertrand, you'd better not attempt it!"
M. Bertrand grew thoughtful; he sat down astride a chair,
with his elbows resting on the back.  " There's nothing in my
pocket-book," he answered after a moment's pause,  except
some receipted bills and two or three bank notes."
The tune of his song did not agree with the words, and Joseph
learned all he wished to know. "Oh!" he answered carelessly,
" if that's all you've got, what's the use of going to Ornis?....
Margot is a Mirion, and the Mirions never yet bought a thing
without knowing what it was."
M. Bertrand looked at his finger-nails for some time without
speaking. The vision of the three men evoked by Joseph made
him thoughtful. The more he reflected, however, the more improbable did his workman's suggestion seem.  Marguerite's
letter excluded the idea of any plot; he had put it in his desk,
he now took it out and read it again.  "You are all wrong this
time," he said to Joseph. " When people set a trap, they gen



7OSEPH  N VOII REL'S  tREVENGE.            223
erally bait it. Read that letter. Don't you see that Margot
wants to see me and at the same time is afraid to do so? She
would like better to have me write. You're a coward, but
you've made a mistake in trying to frighten me."
Joseph argued the question with him for a long time. " This
is my conclusion," said M. Bertrand, rising as he spoke  "who
risks nothing gains nothing; only for the sake of greater safety, I'll take you with me, and you can act as courier and scout."
"Thank you!" said Joseph starting for the door.  " Ornis is
not a place I like, and I prefer to stay at home."
M. Bertrand caught hold of him and forced him back into
the room. "Upon my word, you're a queer fellow," he said.
" If there's any thing to be made, you're always ready; I never
saw such an appetite for gain. We mustn't ask you to take
any trouble, though.  If we do, your pride is afraid of a
rebuff, your conscience is afraid of the police, and your long
ears are afraid of being cut off. You're fond of sinecures, and
want the money to come in while you're asleep.... Listen, my
boy, I'll buy your pride, your conscience, and your ears, all in
a lump. What do you want for them?"
Joseph looked him in the eyes as though to assure himself
that he meant what he said.  " Two thousand francs," he answered in a trembling voice, "and I'm your man."
M. Bertrand made a gesture of dismay.  "Two thousand
francs!" he said; "are you crazy?  Where shall I get them
from?"
" You expect to get five hundred thousand out of this affair,"
answered Joseph.
"Five hundred thousand francs....wouldn't I be happy
if I had them. You don't understand the times, my boy; a
man's signature sells as cheap as his honor now; you can't
get more than the market price. Besides you exaggerate the
importance of my little paper. I overestimated it the other day.
No doubt Margot will be glad to get it, but if I ask her a cent
too much, she'll send me to the moon to get my pay. And
then, too, this may happen. She will, perhaps, begin to cry,
and I have a tender heart. I know just how it is: when I see




224          JOSEPI   ANOI'REL'S RE VE.A'GE.
a woman cry, it's too much for me, I always melt into tears....
You'll see that I'll give her my little paper for a thank-you."
M. Bertrand's tears! If a sea' monster had told Joseph of
its excessive susceptibility, he could have believed it much
more readily. He insisted on his price. The discussion became animated; his employer finally had to yield, and although
he did not like to write, consented to sign a note as follows:
" M. Bertrand hereby agrees to pay the sum of two thousand
francs to his workman, Joseph Noirel, when the latter shall
have faithfully performed the work committed to him." Joseph
pretended to find nothing objectionable in the words or form of
this note, which his employer gave him, saying, " Now, are you
satisfied? You complain of getting too small slices. This
one may give you an indigestion."




CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE CONSPIRATORS AT ORNIS.
M. Bertrand took time to leave a few instructions with his
clerks, and then set out with Joseph for the station at Vaise.
At half past six the train started, and at ten o'clock our travelers arrived at Beaune. There they took a closed carriage,
which carried them at a rapid pace to Rousset, a hamlet near
Ornis.  M. Bertrand stopped at an inn, where he ordered
dinner.  "Be off!" he said to Joseph.  "It's a principle of
mine to attend to business at once."
Joseph quickly left him and soon reached the outskirts of
Ornis, which place he carefully avoided. He turned one side
and gained the little wood, where three years before the Marquis De Raoux had been murdered. He wandered about there
for some time, in the hope that Marguerite would appear in the
park, and that he could approach her without being seen. He
waited in vain. Evening came on; it had snowed heavily the
previous day, and the sky now being clear, the cold was intense; the paths in the park had not yet been cleared, and it
was very improbable that Marguerite would care to walk there.
Joseph retraced his steps; there was nothing for him to do but
to enter the castle, and to enter it, moreover, by the door.
Unfortunately this door was guarded, and at the very moment
that Joseph arrived before the gate, the porter stepped out in
front of his lodge. Seeing Jerome sweeping the snow off the
steps in the court, he asked, " Is it true that the Count will
not be back to dinner?"
" He's going to dine with Marquis Du Rozan," replied the
other; " he won't be back before eleven or twelve o'clock."
This news pleased Joseph very much, and his face lighted up
at oncer " You don't say so!" continued the old porter as he




226         7OSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
took a pinch of snuff. "The Count is on good terms with the
Marquis then?"
"He has sold him his mill. They sign the papers to-night."
"His mill! Next year he'll sell his park. What on earth
has come over him?"
The worthy man remained thoughtful for a moment, with
downcast eyes, and as gloomy a look as Hamlet's when he
cried, " The time is out of joint." As he regained his lodge,
he met Joseph, who had just passed through the gate.
" Where are you going? what do you want?" he said.
" Is Count D'Ornis at home?" asked Joseph.
"No! If you want to see him, call again to-morrow."' To-morrow!....But I must see him to-day. Is the Countess in?"
"The Countess don't receive strangers."
" I'm not a stranger; she knows me very well. She promised that if I ever was in trouble..... "
" We don't allow any beggars here.  Cofne, leave!"
" You are very harsh," said Joseph. "The Countess is better than you. Before sending me away, please tell her that I
wish to see her."
So saying, he advanced step by step to the centre of the
court, in spite of the resistance which the porter made.
" What is your name?" the porter asked.
"Joseph Noirel."
"That's good.  The Count told me a week ago, if Joseph
Noirel came here, to shut the door in his face. Come, my
boy, clear out!"
" Wait a minute, I know that fellow," said Jerome as he came
nearer, broom  in hand. "Yes, it's the same one. He was
prowling about the park one day, and in crossing the court, he
met M. Bertrand, whose dog tried to bite him. Dogs don't
fancy him, it seems. Let's loose Diana, and we'll see some
sport."
" You miserable rascals!" cried Joseph in a loud voice, hoping that the sound would bring Marguerite to her window; " I
defy you, brooms, dogs, and all,"




JOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                227
His manner was so determined, that Jerome and the porter
hesitated to begin the attack. Each gave the other an encouraging look, but left his companion the honor of commencing
the assault. Suddenly the cracking of a whip was heard under
the vaulted passage before the gate; the porter hastened to
open it.
A momrent afterward, a carriage rolled into the court; in it
sat the old Countess, who had borrowed her daughter's horses
to make a call in the neighborhood. Something had startled
them; instead of stopping before the steps, they passed by them,
and the coachman had great trouble in reining them back;
they reared and pawed the ground. Mme. D'Ornis, who was
easily frightened, gave a scream, and thrust her head out of the
carriage window.
At this instant, Marguerite, who had heard the noise of the
quarrel, appeared at the top of the steps. She saw Joseph at
once, and blushed deeply with emotion and surprise. Mme.
D'Ornis noticed her agitation and, motioning Jerome to approach, asked him who that man was. She had scarcely finished her question, when Joseph, running up the steps and
taking off his hat, said in a loud voice to Marguerite, " I hope
the Countess has not forgotten the promise she was good
enough to make me."  Then he added in a low tone, without
any perceptible motion of his lips, "The man is here; where
and when will you see him?"
Marguerite shuddered.  She turned away her eyes and
looked for a moment at the winter sun, which was about to sink
below the horizon, and which resembled an immense wafer, red
as blood; then turning toward Joseph, she whispered, "To
night, at nine, in the orangery."
"If you want me," said Joseph in the same tone, " clap your
hands.... Now, get angry and send me off."
At the same instant, Mme. D'Ornis, who had just alighted,
looked straight at her daughter-in-law and cried, " What is it,
my dear?" She had heard nothing, and could not understand
what was going on.
"' The trouble is, madam, that this foolish young man has left




228         JOSEPI  Ar OIREL'S RE VENGE.
a happy home and now is sorry for it."  Then addressing Joseph, she continued, "I tell you again that after what I've
heard, I can and will do nothing for you. You are able to
work; you must help yourself."
"But, madam,..." answered Joseph.
"I don't want to hear any thing more," she cried raising her
voice. " You can go."
Joseph bowed to the ground with a mock and insolent humility. " I thank the Countess," he said, " for all her kindness
to me."  With these words, he turned upon his heel and
moved rapidly away, as Mme. D'Ornis said to her daughter-inlaw, "You are very harsh, my dear."
"Do you think so, madam?"
"I am often struck by countenances; that young man's is
very interesting."
" It expressed great insolence just now," replied Marguerite
coldly; so saying, she regained her room.
Before returning to his employer, Joseph stopped a few moments before the castle gate, and looked about to discover the
orangery which was to be the place of meeting. He saw it in
one corner of an inclosed garden, situated on the side of the
castle opposite the park. It seemed to him that it would be
easy enough to reach it by climbing the wall; crumbling and
broken, it offered an easy passage.. The orangery, which stood
near this wall, was an old-fashioned Chinese green-house,
which contained two or three sickly-looking orange trees set in
boxes. A few steps from it was a rustic gate, which communicated by a spiral staircase with Marguerite's room, the windows
of which looked out on this sad garden. It had not been cultivated for several years, and there was no need of guarding it,
as there was nothing in it to tempt a thief. Joseph approached
the spot as night came on, and found in the wall a breach that
could easily be scaled. Having finished this reconnoissance,
he returned to Rousset, where he found M. Bertrand indulging
in a bottle of wine. It was always his custom to drink freely
before engaging in any serious undertaking.
At half-past eight, M. Bertrand and his workman arrived in




yOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.               229
sight of Castle D'Ornis. They left the road, climbed the hill,
and crossed a lawn planted with lindens; on the other side of
this lawn, they found the breach which Joseph had deemed practicable. The moon shone brightly from a cloudless sky, and
the snow in the garden sparkled in its light. Fortunately, the
thick branches of the lindens cast a dark shadow about the
orangery. " It is understood," said M. Bertrand to his workman, " that you are to remain here and keep watch, and if you
see any thing suspicious you are to hoot like an owl."' All right," said Joseph.
" After what you've told me, I'm not afraid. It's very evident
that our young Countess has let no one into her secret. Do
you really believe in those three big fellows you told me about
this morning?"
"M. D'Ornis has only one servant, and he's a little chap.
But let the three come on! I don't know what's the matter
with me to-night, but I feel as though I could fight ten
men."
"Don't be a fool," said M. Bertrand. "Your duty is to
fight with nobody. If contrary to what we expect, any one
should come this way, you must hold him at bay long enough
to let me escape; you can fight a little to save appearances,
and finally give yourself up. They will find no arms about you;
you can make up a story for them, tell them you're in love with
Margot, and that you were prowling beneath her windows to
catch a glimpse of her. They won't lock you up for that;
you'll get off with a few blows, and as soon as you return to
Lyons, I'll put an ointment on your wounds that will heal them
right away. You know what I mean."
" Very well," answered Joseph; " only don't stay too long in
the orangery. It's very cold, and I haven't a fur cloak like
you."
" You ought not to be cold. You've got your bottle and your
hopes to keep you warm."
The castle clock struck nine. " It's the lovers' hour," said
M. Bertrand; and as he saw Joseph press a paper to his lips,
he added, " What are you doing there?"
he added,       bCIi~VI~




230          7OSEPH  NOIREL'S REVENGE.
" I was kissing the note you signed for me this morning," he
answered.
"It's astonishing," thought M. Bertrand, "that such a
simpleton can repair cabinets so well." Then climbing through
the breach, he gained the green-house door, which he entered
with a stealthy step, casting a searching glance about him in
the mysterious gloom.




CHAPTER XXXV.
THE  FATAL PAPER.
Ten minutes passed. Joseph waited with trembling heart and
bated breath, keeping his eyes fixed on the rustic door. Finally, he heard the faint creaking of a hinge, and saw a hooded
shadow suddenly appear.  It seemed to hesitate before trusting
itself on a patch of snow lighted by the moon; then it ran forward, stopped a moment, started on again, and disappeared
within the orangery. Joseph immediately left his post. He
climbed into the garden, and walked on tip-toe along the narrow
passage between the green-house and the wall. Having moved
with great precaution toward a corner whence the low murmur
of voices came, he hid himself behind a shutter which was
leaning against the glass, and which hid him from the view of
those inside. He could see nothing; but a broken pane permitted him to hear.
On perceiving M. Bertrand in the orangery, Marguerite
trembled violently. The worthy merchant bowed with a respectful, almost gallant air. " You seem agitated, Countess;
don't be afraid,' he said. She threw her head back proudly.' Afraid of what?" she asked. "You had a proposition to make
to me. What is it?"
"Let's commence right," he answered.  "You expressed a
desire to see me, and a desire expressed by such a charming
mouth is sacred. I have no proposition to make; but you
have something to ask me, I think."
She gave him a look of scorn. "There's no need of further
quibbling," she answered in a voice that was low, but firm.
" You took the trouble to send me word that you had a paper
which compromised M. D'Ornis's safety, and that perhaps I
would like to buy this paper of you. I must find out in the




232        7yOSEPH  NVOIREL'S REVENGE.
first place what it's worth. Let me know as soon as possible.
I should be sorry to remain here two seconds longer than is absolutely necessary."
"You are in a great hurry, madam.  I must explain in the
first place how this paper came into my possession.  It's a security which I took, and while it remains in my hands, it will
endanger no one."
"'Dear me!" she interrupted, " why are you wasting so much
time?"
"Because I want to make you understand.... We are all
mortal. If I should have an apoplectic fit to-morrow, and that
terrible paper should be discovered in my bureau-ah! madam,
that discovery would have terrible consequences for M. D'Ornis and yourself. You understand, I don't intend to use it;
but I am thinking of the future. Who can promise that my
heirs will be as scrupulous as I?"
"It would be too much to ask of them," she said with increased impatience.  "What does this talk amount to? I believe you're trying to cheat me, and that your paper isn't worth
a farthing."
She felt a little reassured by M. Bertrand's digressions and
by his embarrassed air. She forgot that it is equally embarrassing to have nothing to say, or to have too much to say. As
she turned toward the door, he put out his arm to stop her.
" Don't touch me!" she cried, shaking her sleeve as though to
efface the imprint of that hand and arm.
M. Bertrand's anger was easily excited; although he cared
little what others thought of him, he could not bear to have his
wares depreciated, and in this case he had some reason for this
feeling; the paper in his pocket was more authentic than his
Peruginos.  "My little paper not worth a farthing!" he cried
rolling his eyes about...." Hear this, madam! Three years
ago I wanted fifty thousand francs; I had a note to pay and
my safe was empty. I said to myself, I'll go and see M. D'Ornis; he will advance me part of the amount, if not the whole.
He knows me, and can be sure of getting his money back....
M. D'Ornis rose that day under an evil star. He refused me




yOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                233
flatly, madam, and to tell the truth, he was a little rude. A few
hours later, he offered me the fifty thousand francs upon his
knees, and begged me to accept them.... Countess, in a few
minutes, you'll offer not fifty thousand, but four hundred thousand francs for my little paper."
She shrugged her shoulders, and, folding her arms, stood
silently before him. Although she tried to conceal the fact,
she had lost something of her assurance; her uneasiness kept
increasing.  " I will tell you how it happened," he continued,
"and why your husband changed his mind. Greatly mortified
by his refusal, I turned my steps another way. I was denied
everywhere and scarcely knew what to do. At last I concluded to drown my cares; at night I entered a tavern. It was halfpast eleven when, on my return to Ornis, I was passing along a
lonely path.  I was in the little wood,....the little wood, you
know, on the border of your park.... Suddenly I heard a cry,
followed by a dull heavy sound. The cry was like a nighthawk's, but the sound was that of a falling body.... I hastened
my steps, and saw at the end of the little bridge two men, one
upon the other.  The one underneath was dead; the other
was lying flat upon him, and looking with horror at his victim.
He still held in his right hand the handle of a hunting knife;
the blade could not be seen, and that for a good reason.... I
thought, at first, that he too was dead, he was so still.  I approached and caught him by the arm.  He sprang suddenly to
his feet and bounded from the ground; then he looked at me
with a madman's glare....He still held the knife, which he
raised in the ai'r, and I must acknowledge, madam, that he
tried to stab himself.  I was there, however, and succeeded in
wrenching the knife away from him, receiving a cut upon my
hand in the attempt....When any one tries to kill himself,
madam, he must succeed at first; otherwise, he will reflect and
reason and decide to live. This is exactly what happened to the
man of whom I speak. Twenty minutes later, I was with him in
his room. To tell the truth, I was the one who led him there;
he could scarcely walk himself. No one saw us enter. He was
in the habit of playing and drinking with a friend in a room




234         yOSEPH  NOIREL'S REXVENGE.
that could be entered from the park, and all his people used to
retire at eleven o'clock.... By the way, I ought to tell you that
the man he had just killed was this friend.... Then he begged
me to accept the fifty thousand francs he had refused me the
same morning.  On my side, note this point, I insisted on his
giving me a little certificate which should protect me against
any mistakes of justice.  Justice is so suspicious! I had been
seen, on leaving the tavern, going toward the wood, and then I
was cut upon the hand.  It would require less than that to
convict an innocent man; virtue attracts misfortune as honey
attracts flies.... Madam, it was to protect himself, that this
madman, who had just killed his friend, gave me the note which
I demanded of him. And now see what a good fellow I am!
If the law had accused me of the murder, I believe I would
have risked my life before making use of my certificate; but I
was spared so great a struggle with my conscience. It seems
there was a certain vagabond, who passed through the wood
an hour or two after the crime had been committed.  This
idiot rifled the body lying in the path, and took its watch, its
jewels, and its money.  That was a very unfortunate accident
for him; for the next day the poor devil...."
The words died upon his lips. He had told his story with his
face turned toward the wall; finally he became curious to know
what effect it had produced. He turned toward Marguerite and
fell back a step.  It seemed to him that it was no longer a woman, but a marble statue, that stood before him; and this statue
seemed the more strange, because it held riveted upon him
two large eyes, which appeared to look upon the world with great
astonishment, as though they had been far away.  Marguerite
had experienced a thrill of horror; like a surging wave, this
horror had mounted to her brain, and for the moment her
reason left her.  She was listening, she lost nothing of what
was said; but her terror-stricken soul had fled-she could
not call it back again. Suddenly she found herself at MonPlaisir. It was morning; the woods resounded with the songs
of spring; she was walking in the garden, and Aunt Amaranth
was saying, "Stoop down, darling, and let me put this rose in




yOSEIPH  NVOIREL'S RE VEIVGE.             235
your hair."  Some one called her; she raised her head and
saw Uncle Benjamin, who was crying from his window, " Oh!
the handsome girl! and she's so happy too."  "Be still," she
answered, "you don't know all."  As she said this, she discovered that she was not at Mon-Plaisir, but that she had been
shut up in a dark, damp cave, the gloomy silence of which was
relieved only by the dropping of muddy water, which oozed from
the low roof and fell drop by drop upon her head. Then M.
Bertrand having ceased to speak, she suddenly awoke, and
discovered that she had before her a garden covered with snow,
on which the moon was shining, that she was in a green-house,
that she was not alone, that a man was talking with her, and
that this man had just revealed the fact that Count D'Ornis
was a murderer.
She threw her hood back on her shoulders and, running her
fingers through her hair, she fiercely cried, " It's false! You're a
miserable impostor! There's not a word of truth in what you
say. You think, perhaps, that I'll believe you. What a poor
story you've made up! Don't you know that the Marquis De
Raoux was Count D'Ornis's dearest and best friend?"
" What passed between them," answered M. Bertrand, " I
never knew.  I'm a discreet man, I have not questioned M.
D'Ornis.  But what do you think now of my little paper,
Countess? Your husband would give his right arm to get it
back again; should he receive it from your fair hand, he would
be your slave for the rest of life; you could do whatever you
pleased with him."
" Oh! yes, the paper!" she cried. " I don't believe there is
such a paper. You can't show it to me.... I dare you to show
it to me.... You're afraid to do it, you know I'm acquainted
with his writing."
Then changing her voice and manner, she said in a plaintive,
coaxing tone, like a child begging for a toy, "You must let me
see it. You can't refuse me.... Please show it to me."
" Tell me first what you think it's worth," he answered with a
triumphant air.
" How do I know? a million, a whole fortune.... But you




236          JOSEPHI NOIRE~'S REVENGE.
know very well he didn't write it. Show  it to me, or I'll tell
every one it's forged, and that you're a forger."
As she said this, she caught by the arm this man, whose
touch had heretofore seemed loathsome to her.  She had but
one thought, one passion, one feverish desire, to see and know
all, to make sure of her horrible misfortune.
He seized both her hands with a vice-like grasp, and drew her
toward a window, through which the moonlight shone.  She
made no resistance, she would have followed him to the end of
the world. Without loosing his hold, he leaned forward, plunged his left hand inside of one of his riding boots, and from a
pocket in the lining, drew forth a paper, which he held up in
the air. She bent her head forward, her eyes were fastened on
the paper. He unfolded it with his thumb and finger, and she
read the following words, written in a trembling hand: "It
was I who, on the zight of the 26/h of February, 1867, killed
thqe Mfarquis De Raoux. —Roger, Count D'Ornis. "
At this moment, M. Bertrand heard a rustling outside the
orangery, which seemed suspicious to him.  He started, let
Marguerite's hands fall, and thrust the paper quickly into its hiding place; then he looked about him in the darkness, listening
intently, with his right hand in the pocket of his cloak, and his
thumb on the hammer of a pistol which he had taken with him.
He soon recovered his composure.' It was a false alarm," he
whispered.
He saw that he was talking to the air; Marguerite had vanished like a phantom.  He waited a few minutes.  " What
isn't spoken, can be written," he thought.  " It appears that
she prefers to write." Then cautiously leaving the orangery, he
directed his steps toward the breach, where he found, straight
and motionless like a man on guard, the king of Josons, who
held out his hand to help him  over the wall. When he had
reached the other side, he said, " Give me the bottle, my boy,
I'm  very dry."  He nearly emptied it at a single draught.
" Come, let's go on," he added. " I know a path that is shorter
than the road by half an hour, and in it we won't run any risk of
meeting Count D'Ornis returning from his visit to the Marquis."




CHAPTER XXXVI.
M. BERTRAND MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT.
Ten minutes later, the master and his workman were moving along an ascending pathway which wound through a thick
growth of underbrush. They could only pass through it in
single file; the master walked in front swinging his stick, Joseph was whistling as he followed him. If M. Bertrand had
known what this whistling meant, he would not have felt so comfortable. He was far from dreaming of the thoughts that were
passing through his companion's brain.
They walked on for some time without speaking. Joseph
first broke the silence. " Well, master, are you satisfied with
your little talk?" he asked. "'Will Marguerite Mirion pay?
She can afford to do it."
" Why will you renew my griefs?" answered M. Bertrand in
the same tone that Eneas used when replying to the Queen of
Carthage. "You see before you a man who has been robbed,
and, what is worse, a man who has robbed himself."
" What is the matter, M. Bertrand? Wouldn't Marguerite
believe you?"
"Alas! my boy, I warned you that I had a tender heart;
my sympathies have ruined me. When I saw that poor girl
cry, I was so affected that I acted like a fool, and gave her the
paper without asking any pay for it."
"That story may do for some people," answered Joseph.
" Do you think I believe in your crocodile's tears?"
" I don't know whether crocodiles have tears or not; but I
have often cried a bucketful, myself, when something has come
upon me unexpectedly.  As I've heard in some opera or other,'Le ciel fait un present bien chet, bien dangereux,
Quand il donne un coeur trop sensible.'




238          JOSEPH  NOIREL'S REVENGE.
I came to make a good bargain, and I've ended with a good
action.  The devil take Margot and her handsome eyes!"
"Well! that's your own affair," answered Joseph, "and as
long as I get my two thousand francs...."
M. Bertrand stopped short.  "Are you joking?" he said.
If I get nothing, you get nothing of course. When there's
nothing made, the devil loses his rights."
"I don't understand it so," answered Joseph raising his
voice. "You promised me two thousand francs; I've got
nothing to do with your tender heart, I want my money."
" Shall I take it out of my own pocket? What is there to
pay you for? You've only spent half an hour near an old wall,
looking at the moon. Haven't you any poetry about you?
You ought to pay me for the little treat I've given you."
" Thank heaven, you signed a note for me," said JQseph.
" Your note will do you lots of good. I promised to pay two
thousand francs to Joseph Noirel, when he had faithfully performed the work committed to him. What is this work, I'd
like to know? The note don't say any thing about it. I order
you to restore immediately a hundred cabinets and fifty tables;
after that I'll see about paying you."
Joseph was seeking a quarrel; he did not have far to
look for it.  "I'll show you that you can't act so with me,"
he cried as he raised his stick.
M. Bertrand looked at him with a compassionate air. He
contrasted his own bulky frame with the slender form and narrow shoulders of his young companion. " Look at the little
chap!" he said. "Poor Joson! I won't make more than a
mouthful of you."
And, in a playful way, he placed himself on guard and aimed
a blow at him. Joseph, however, received it on his stick, and
with a dexterous movement disarmed his adversary, sending his
cane flying into the thicket. " The little fellow fences well,"
thought M. Bertrand, surprised at his mishap.
Then with the paternal air of a hippopotamus which has been
mastered and decides to wait for abetter opportunity, he added,
" Go and pick up my cane, son. You have a hard heart. You




OS'EP1Z  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                239
see me troubled because I gave up my paper, and instead
of pitying me, you abuse me. Do you think that I would try
to cheat you? We'll talk this over again at Lyons, and I
promise that you shall be satisfied."
After a moment's hesitation, Joseph picked up the cane and
gave it to him. His victory had been too easy; he could not
follow it up. They started on again without exchanging another word, and soon reached the top of the hill, where the road
ended and was followed by a large stony pasture ground, bristling here and there with clumps of bushes which cast dark
shadows on the snow.  In the midst of this pasture stood a
stone cross.  The place was wild and solitary; there was no
habitation within a radius of a mile. A short distance from
them, on the top of a little hillock, a deserted windmill spread
out its great arms against the sky, and seemed pointing toward
something on the horizon, or perhaps complaining to the stars
of its inactivity and weariness.  Behind the mill could be seen
the undulating outlines of the hills, on which the moon shed its
mysterious and silent light.
On arriving at the foot of the cross, M. Bertrand, who had
been walking fast, stopped a moment to take breath. He wiped
the perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief.  If
he had turned his head, he would have been terrified by the
look which his workman had fixed upon him. This look was
as wild as the place about them, as fierce as the savage gesture
of the mill which was talking with the stars. A cold breeze
was blowing.  The bushes shuddered and let fall some of those
mysterious words which the wind caused them to utter to the
night.  There are moments when inanimate things seem  to
be alive; they look and listen.  These slumbering witnesses
awake; they gaze on man, and wonder at this strange creature
who is so little like them, who has passions and volitions, who
moves about and changes his ideas. Joseph raised his eyes toward the cross, and thought he saw it tremble; he cast a glance
upon the mill, and it seemed to him that this mill was a living
being, and was asking what Joseph Noirel was about to' do.
The mill, the cross, the wind, the bushes, the stars, the moon,




240         JOSEPIH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
all were spectators who expected him to furnish them a spectacle.  Such indeed was his design; but he was looking for a
beginning and could not find it. Chance came to his aid and
served him as a prompter. The best opportunities are those
which fortune proffers without consulting us.
After wiping his brow, M. Bertrand looked forward for the
path. "This is the way," he said, and started on. The dimly-marked pathway, which he had to follow, ran along the crest
of the hill and formed a narrow passage between two steep
declivities. A few steps beyond the cross, it was obstructed
by a fallen tree; to the left of this was a kind of ditch caused
by the sinking of a portion of the ground. Perhaps M. Bertrand had made too violent an assault on Joseph's bottle, and
his limbs had lost their usual steadiness. His foot caught in
one of the branches of the tree, and sliding over the crusted
snow, he fell at full length into the ditch.  Fortunately, it was
not deep, and the bed of snow which received him softened
his fall; but his head struck an exposed root and the shock
stunned him.  He had come off well, however; he had neither bruise, nor sprain, nor fracture, nor serious injury of any
kind; with the exception of a slight scratch upon the face, he
had arrived at the bottom of the ditch sound in body, if not in
mind.




CHAPTER XXXVII.
JOSEPH BECOMES MASTER OF THE SITUATION.
M. Bertrand, for a few minutes, entirely lost his consciousness; on coming to himself, his surprise was great. The first
thing he noticed was the moon, which was directly over him.
Turning his eyes, he saw the upper portion of the cross, which
seemed to have a singular appearance; then looking to the left,
he perceived the arms of the windmill, which he thought were
rising up to gaze at him. He again glanced at the moon; that
pale face also expressed a sly curiosity, and from it he concluded that something was going on. Whether it was comedy or
tragedy, he did not know, but perhaps he was the hero
of it?
His ideas began to grow more distinct and his memory to
return to him. "Ah! yes," he thought; " I stumbled against
a tree, and fell into a ditch; but when I fell, I was not alone.
Where is Joseph?"  Then he saw that Joseph was seated at
the edge of the ditch above him, with his arms crossed and his
feet swinging, and that he was looking coldly and fixedly upon
him, as if he were a stick or stone.
"What are you doing there?" he cried.  "Why don't you
help me up?"
Joseph did not stir or speak. It seemed as though he was
deaf and dumb. " What's the matter with him?" thought M.
Bertrand, and as Joseph refused to help him, he attempted to
get up himself. He tried to move his legs, but did not succeed; he found that they were tied together by a cord. He
tried to move his arms, but found that his wrists were bound.
He thought that he was dreaming; but the fact was evident
enough, and he began to guess what the moon was looking
at, and what gave it that appearance of mocking curiosity.




242          7OSEPH  NOIREL'S tRE VELGE.
Meanwhile, his thoughts became clearer every minute, being
aided by the snow which had been melted by the warmth of
his body, and which, in spite of his fur cloak with its turnedup collar, had begun to penetrate his neck, and to run in a
cold stream down his back. This disagreeable but effective
sensation caused him to regain his power of reasoning, and
he concluded that the real cause of the strange situation in
which he found himself was that same Joseph who was silently regarding him.  He remembered that the said Joseph had
brought from Lyons, in his pocket, a small coil of rope, saying
that there were a great many walls at Ornis, and that in climbing a wall nothing was more useful than a rope.  It might also serve to prevent an honest man, who had fallen down, from
getting on his feet again. Joseph's hands were not clumsy;
on the contrary, he possessed a marvelous dexterity in his fingers, and M. Bertrand very justly inferred that a few minutes
had sufficed to place him in the condition in which he found
himself. But what had he done it for? His mind was not yet
clear enough to understand this, and his first outburst of anger
was not against Joseph, but against the tree which had tripped
him  up, and had thus been the first cause of his mishap.
"That damned tree!" he muttered, after which he remained
silent for a time. An idea had come to him. If a knot can
be tied, it can also be untied; he tried to unloose the one that
bound his hands. The attempt was vain; his hands were covered with fur gloves, which Joseph had not taken off, and these
gloves were firmly fastened to his wrists. He looked mournfully upon his captive fingers which could render him no service. " That cursed tree!" he muttered the second time. Then
he added, " But what is Joseph trying to do?" Three or four
different suppositions passed through his mind.
A coarse smile crossed his lips. " What's the joke?" he
cried to Joseph.
" The joke!" answered the latter gravely.  " I don't see any
joke."
"Oh! you've found your voice again. Will you be kind
enough to tell me...."




yOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE  ErNGE.              243
"Silence!" answered Joseph; "don't you see that I am
busy?"  He held in his hands a pocket-book which he was
carefully examining. M. Bertrand recognized it as his own
and stared at him. "Are you going to rob me?" he asked.
"By no means," answered Joseph. " There are two notes
of two hundred francs each which I won't take away from you.
I'm not a petty thief; I like to do something grand while I'm
about it....I was looking for that paper we were talking of.
For once in your life you didn't lie, and Marguerite has really
got it...."
He angrily threw the pocket-book into the ditch, then leaping down, he picked it up, and put it back in M. Bertrand's
pocket. Happiness is a relative thing; M. Bertrand proved
that a bound man is capable of being happy. His eyes sparkled with joy at seeing Joseph's discomfiture. His little paper
was saved.
" Didn't I tell you," he said in a good-natured tone, "that I
couldn't resist those handsome eyes? I'm a fool, I know;
but you must own that you're a curious and unfriendly fellow.
Now, let's make up; but first untie these knots as soon as you
can, for I am a freezing."
"You ought to be comfortable," answered Joseph. "You're
sheltered from the wind."
And regaining the border of the ditch, he sat down again
upon it. His face bore no trace of anger; it was calm and
sinister.  This time M. Bertrand was frightened.  "Hasn't
this joke lasted long enough?" he said. " What are you waiting for? What are you trying to do?"
"You are a murderer!" cried Joseph in a terrible voice;
"and the man you killed has, to-night, found an avenger."
" You are mad," stammered the other.
"Silence! I'm the one that's speaking here....When you
were talking in the orangery just now, I became curious, and
listened at a broken window.  Unfortunately, from  fear of
being surprised, I didn't stay until you'd finished; but I heard
a certain story that I shall not forget.... You are a murderer.




244         JOSEPH NOIRE~'S RE VENGE.
Your conscience whispers it to you, at night, like a coward
as it is. It's time that you were told of it aloud.'
"Did I kill the Marquis De Raoux?"
"If you had killed him, I shouldn't care. What are all the
counts and marquises on earth to me? Let them tear each
other up like wolves! But you, by your silence, have killed a
vagabond, a beggar, whose only crime consisted in having
passed near the murdered man. I'm in a strange humor tonight, and this little incident interests me. These vagabonds
and beggars are relatives of mine, and I have a great deal of
family pride, you know.... I will avenge this innocent man."
"Innocent!" said M. Bertrand whose voice was almost
choked with fear. " He robbed the body."
" If my father in his day," cried Joseph, "had found a dead
man in the woods, he would have stolen his watch, perhaps.
You see that this man was a relative of mine." Then stretching out his arm, he added, " How pale the moon is! it looks
like a dead man's face."
M. Bertrand closed his eyes. The moon terrified  him
almost as much as Joseph. It was clear that it knew all, and
its silence was more awful than any words.
" Seriously, what do you mean to do?" he asked.
"A very simple thing," answered Joseph with great coolness;' I'm going to bury you in the snow."
Agreat mass of snow had accumulated about this hollow.
The north wind, which had blown fiercely for a day or two, had
drifted it in that direction; held by the slope and by the tree
lying across the ridge, it had piled up like a mountain. Joseph
rolled up his sleeves, and with feverish haste began to transport huge masses of this mountain to the border of the ditch.
M. Bertrand was now overcome by terror, and collecting all his
strength, he gave a cry which was heard afar off in the woods,
for an owl answered him. "Silence," said Joseph. "You know
that the place is deserted, and if you should cry until tomorrow, no one would hear you.  I'm working and don't
want to be disturbed.  If you don't keep quiet, I'll have to
gag you."




yOSEPH  NOIREL'S REVENGE.                 245
He went to work again.  M.. Bertrand did not yet despair;
he could not cry, he tried to think, and after much reflection
said to himself, " That infernal Joseph, whom I should like to
cut in pieces or burn alive, is playing a comedy for some particular purpose. It isn't likely that he would want to bury me
under the snow, because I had something to do with the death
of avagabond whom he has never seen.  I don't believe in
such virtuous vengeance.  He wants his money, and he's
going to make me pay in turn.  If that's all, it can easily be
arranged."
" Joseph!" he cried, " my good Joseph!"... And as Joseph
leaned toward him, he added., " You want your money, don't
you?  There, tell me how much, and let's have done with
this."
Joseph raised both hands toward heaven, and his face lighted up like that of a man whose lawyer tells him he has gained
his case. " 0 yes, it's money I want," he said.  " How long
you've been in making the discovery!.... But I'll be easy with
you. All I ask is the two thousand francs you promised me
this morning and refused this evening."
You shall have three thousand," quickly answered M. Bertrand.
"You are too generous. I only ask what's due me; but I
won't take off a cent, and as you've compelled me to distrust
you, I must have security."
"Take the notes in my pocket-book on account."
" I don't take any thing on account. To-morrow you'll swear
that you have paid me all. I intend to profit by your lessons.
I want a note better than the one I took this morning,...a
little note in which you acknowledge that you allowed an innocent man to suffer death. This time I'll be sure to hold
you. "
"What an idea!" said M. Bertrand.  "When I promise
you...."
" Your promises are nice security. I want your signature.
You don't like to write; so much the worse for you, for your
writing I must have."




246         yOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
" Never!" cried M. Bertrand.
" You ought not to say never," answered Joseph. "It's a
bad word for a citizen as well as for a statesman."
And he began to move the snow again.
A white and glistening wall had already risen beside the
ditch; it kept constantly increasing.  At intervals, Joseph
looked over this wall at his master, and finally said, "' Think of
Brazil and your black harem! Have you changed your mind?
Will you write the note?"  "Never!" repeated M. Bertrand,
whose voice appeared to stick in his throat. Suddenly Joseph
threw part of the wall upon him; falling like an avalanche, it
entirely covered his lower limbs.
M. Bertrand yielded; his teeth were chattering, he felt a
chill run through his veins and gradually approach his heart, and
that sleep from which one never wakes weighed heavily upon
his eyelids.  He moved his head and stammered, " I will
write." With one bound, Joseph stood beside him, and raising his head, poured into his mouth the remainder of his bottle.
Brandy is one of those friends that can always be depended on;
it produced a magical effect on M. Bertrand, who immediately
felt warmth and life returning to him.
"If you wtnt me to write," he said, " untie my hands."
"You can use your right hand as it is," answered the inexorable Joseph. " I can manage to get off your glove. Here's
a pencil and some paper.  My left arm will answer for a rest.
Your fingers are a little stiff; I will get them warm by rubbing
them....There, that's all right; now I'll dictate the note to
you.  The moon makes a splendid candle; it's almost as light
as day."
He then dictated the following: " On the night of the 26th
of February, I867, I saw Count D'Ornis murder the Marquis
De Raoux, and was paid by him for my silence, which caused
the death of an innocent person.-Louis BERTRAND."
"Will you give me back this paper when you receive your
two thousand francs?" asked the master as he wrote.
"Of course I will," said Joseph, "or I'll burn it before your
eyes."




yOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                247
As soon as he had placed the paper in his pocket-book, he
took out his knife, and a second sufficed to cut the cords. He
even went so far as to help his master to rise and to draw him
from the ditch; then moving away a little and leaning against
the cross, he cried, "Monsieur Bertrand, will you be kind
enough to feel in your boot, and see that your treasure has not
dropped out."
M. Bertrand hastily placed his hand inside his boot; the
pocket was empty. He started forward as though to throw himself on Joseph; but he was stiff with cold, and moreover was a
prudent man. He ended by seizing his hair with both his
hands as though he would tear it from his head.
" I'm a dealer in little papers now," said Joseph with a proud
gesture; "I've got the heads of a count and a bourgeois in my
pocket."....Then he added, "Would you like to take those
papers from me? Let's fight for them? You forget you have
a pistol in your pocket. I've got my knife."
M. Bertrand quickly seized his pistol, cocked it, and, with his
finger on the trigger, took good aim; but he thought again a
moment, changed his mind, and softly let the hammer down.
" If my knife frightens you, I'll only use my stick!" again
cried Joseph, whose savage joy could no longer be controlled.
M. Bertrand stood motionless and gazed at him a moment.
It seemed to him that this little fellow, leaning against across,
was six feet high, that he was proof against all bullets, that the
moon protected him, and that flames shot from his eyes. He
made a gesture of despair and rage, returned his pistol to, his
pocket, and slowly moved away.
Joseph looked after him for some time, as he painfully descended the slope of the hill; then he threw a last glance on tlie
bushes, the windmill, the stone cross, the fallen tree, and the
moon; he seemed to say to them, " What a treat I've given
you!" After which, retaking the path by which he came, he
rapidly returned to Ornis.




CHAPTER  XXXVIII.
MARGUERITE S FLIGHT.
If Doctor Crotet had seen Marguerite leave the orangery and
fly across the garden, he would have changed his diagnostic
and have said, "She is not a lypemaniac, she is mad."  Certain it is that at that moment Marguerite Mirion, Countess
D'Ornis, had lost her reason; her ideas flew and danced about
her brain as the dead leaves are whirled before the blast. Marguerite's mind had again deserted her, and her body had now a
double duty to perform. This body hastened from the orangery,
because the orangery terrified it. It unconsciously crossed a
garden covered with snow, because, although it was possessed
of eyes, these eyes could no longer see. It did not notice the
movement which Joseph made to intercept it, because it did not
know that there was such a person as Joseph Noirel in the
world. It knew its road, however; it sprang toward a little door,
pushed it open, closed it again, ran up a stairway, entered a
bedroom, and  dropped into an arm-chair, an inert mass.
There, Marguerite regained her reason; her mind returned to
her body, thought to her brain, and sight to her eyes.
With bowed head and folded hands, she gazed for a long
time at her fate. It seemed like an abyss before her. Her
eyes plunged to its lowest depths and found nothing but horror
there. She could say like the poet who visited hell, " I was
not dead, and yet I no longer lived."  Her maid knocked at
her door. She answered, " I don't want you now." She would
not, for any consideration, have let her see her face; it seemed
to her that her face revealed her secret, that strange lines were
written on her brow.
As soon as Fanny had retired, she rose from her chair and
said, " I can not remain longer in this house."  Her good




YOSEPZ NOREEL'S REVENGE.                 249
sense presented some objections; she thrust them at once
aside. She was filled with horror and with fear, and, in spite of
all that could be said, she wanted to go away. What answer
could there be to that? All that her reason obtained from her
was that she should write a few lines in lead-pencil on the first
scrap of paper she came across, and place it in an envelope addressed to M. D'Ornis. These lines read as follows: "I am
not happy here, and I do not make you happy. I am going to
spend a few weeks with my parents. I do not ask your permission, because you would refuse to give it to me. I will
write you from Geneva, and try to make you understand that it
will be better for you as well as for me, not to see each other
for some time."
She placed the note upon her dressing-table, and took a few
gold pieces from her desk. The last thing she did was to unlock her door; she did not wish to have the locksmith called to
open it after she was gone. This being done, she could give
herself up entirely to her passion.  She wanted to fly, to
place leagues and hours, plains and mountains between Marguerite Mirion and the face that terrified her.
How she found strength to escape from the garden she never
knew.  She twice tried to climb the wall without success; she
finally had the courage to re-enter the orangery, and to search
there for a stool which served her as a ladder. At last she was
without the grounds. She did not take the path which M. Bertrand and Joseph had followed; she was afraid of losing her
way in the woods. At the risk of meeting some one that she
knew, she took the high-road to Arnay-le-Duc. She had been
walking about ten minutes, when she saw a carriage that she
recognized moving rapidly toward her on its way to Ornis. She
threw herself behind a tree, and the carriage passed. Then
she began to run over the slippery snow, or, I should rather
say, she flew; she felt as though her feet had wings, and she
moved with that strange facility which we sometimes experience in our dreams. Most of the time, she did not look ahead
at all; she saw nothing but her trouble and her fear which went
before her and pointed out the way. At intervals she would




250         yOSEPH  NOIR EL'S RE VENGE.
awake and cast a glance over the fields of snow. As she did
so, a shudder would run through her frame; she thought she
saw in the snow large pools of blood. When she was about
half-way to Arnay, she saw two men who had stopped to look
at her. One said to the other, the words coming to her upon
the wind, "Either I'm blind, or that is Countess D'Ornis."
" No, it's not Countess D'Ornis," she thought; "I'm only
Marguerite Mirion now."
She reached Arnay just at midnight. The express train
from Paris to Geneva was due at Beaune between three and four
o'clock. She had just time to get there.  She knocked at the
door of an inn, where she was known from having stopped
there with her husband.  Every body was fast asleep; she
rang and knocked as loudly as she could. The landlord finally came to the door, with his nightcap in his hand.
"A carriage!" she cried, "a carriage! I'll pay whatever you
ask."
"At this time of night? Impossible," he answered.
"I want it, I must have it!" she said stamping her foot.
" Ask any price you please."
Her demands were so urgent that they triumphed over the
landlord's doubts; he awoke his men and ordered them to
harness up. Marguerite watched these preparations leaning
against a post. She knew that all present were attentively observing her, and that even from the windows she was being looked at with astonishment and curiosity. She made an effort,
and invented some story which,bore witness to the sterility of
her imagination; a tree struck by lightning can not yield fruit.
Her explanations did not seem satisfactory; but the mouth
that gave them was one of those that we love to believe; its
accent was so pure. Then the glances that accompanied her
voice at once disarmed all suspicion; they were the most
honest glances in the world. This fact, however, did not prevent the landlord from more than once shaking his head in
doubt.
If M. Bertrand had an instant of happiness in his ditch, Marguerite leaning against her post experienced a feeling of joy:




yOSEPH  VNOIREL'S RE VEGE.               251
it was at the moment when the horses that were to carry her to
Beaune came from their stable and their bells rung out on the
stillness of the night. Never had music sounded so sweetly to
her ear. She was constantly in dread, however, lest some accident should happen, lest a trace or axletree should break, or
one of the horses should drop dead in the snow. She complained of the slowness of the hostler who was harnessing; it
seemed to her that the number of straps and buckles in a harness was much too great. How much time was lost! how much
useless labor'! And why should Ornis be so near Arnay-leDuc, and Beaune so far away?
She was not entirely reassured until she was seated in
the carriage, and the driver having whipped his horses, the
wheels rolled rapidly over the road. " Make haste," she cried
to him, "or we shall lose the train."  He honestly earned the
fee she gave him; he drove his horses at full speed. Notwithstanding, she was uneasy and impatient. Every minute she
would thrust her head out of the window and look back on the
road; it seemed as though she was pursued, as though a man,
or rather a crime, was running after her at full speed, crying,
"You are mine, you married me!"  Then she would cry to
the driver in a voice of anguish, "Faster! faster! for Heaven's sake!" At this he would lash his horses with the whip,
although they were doing their very best.




CHAPTER XXXIX.
ARRIVAL AT MON-PLAISIR.
It was Sunday. Toward three o'clock in the afternoon, the
weather being too cold for the usual walk, the inmates of MonPlaisir were gathered in the blue room. M. Mirion was playing a game of chess with the timid Mlle. Grillet, who changed
her mind a dozen times before each play. "It's touch and
move," her cousin said to her.  Seated near them, with his eye
upon the board, Uncle Benjamin criticised the play, or, starting
off on a ta.ngent, spoke at length on the balance of power in
Europe and the Eastern question.  "Benjamin Pacha, koep
quiet with your Grand Turk," M. Mirion said in an impatient
tone. Aunt Amaranth, more be-ribboned and be-pinned than
ever, was working by the window at her everlasting embroidery. Reclining in an arm-chair, with her chin uplifted, Mme.
Mirion was learning by heart her paper, which she ha d exhibited an intense affection for ever since she had read in it the notice of her daughter's marriage.
They had received, an hour before, a call from Mme. Patet,
that envious woman, who took it so to heart that Marguerite
Mirion had become a countess, and who went about saying,' Those Mirions are trying to reach too high; they'll get enough
of it before they're through."  She had heard of Marguerite's
sickness, and had come to ask about her. Mme. Mirion had
at once informed her that her dear Countess had entirely recovered; that her mother-in-law and husband had watched
over her like two angels.  "My son-in-law wrote us every
day," she added. " Such letters I never saw! they brought
tears to our eyes."  As soon as Mme. Patet had gone, she
cried, " The poor woman! our good luck will kill her."
After finishing his game of chess, from which he came off




7OSEPH  NOIREL'S REVENGE.                 253
conqueror, M. Mirion turned his arm-chair toward the fireplace,
and placing his feet on the andirons, gazed silently at the blue
flames dancing on the logs. Uncle Benjamin was trying to
prove to him that he had made mistake after mistake, and that
he really ought to have lost the game. M. Mirion let him talk;
he had been melancholy for some weeks past, since the most
skillful and most ungrateful of his workmen had so suddenly
deserted him.  This departure had become a sad, almost a
tragic incident in his life. It seemed to him, at times, as though
he had lost an arm, and he felt troubled that it could not grow
again.  He had been in a revery for a quarter of an hour,
when his wife said, "What are you thinking about, Mirion?"
"His Joseph, of course," said Uncle Benjamin.
"I wish the devil had him," cried M. Mirion.
"I couldn't ask any thing better than that," replied his wife.
"   yes; it's easy enough for you to talk," said M. Mirion,
who, in this complicated matter, blew hot and cold at the same
time. " That confounded boy was mighty useful to me, and I
haven't been able to find another like him since."
" That could easily have been foreseen," replied Uncle Benjamin with a wise look, " and if you had taken my advice...."
" 0 yes; you're always right," interrupted M. Mirion in
a vexed tone, and he began to inveigh against the new workmen whom he had brought from Paris to replace Joseph. One
made more shavings than any thing else; the other was skillful enough, but whether business was pressing or not, he would
scarcely work two days together, without running to the tavern. In fact, they disgusted him both with themselves and
with the trade.
Mme. Mirion listened attentively. When he had finished
speaking, she approached him, and blushing deeply, as she always did when a bold idea came to her, she said, " Haven't you
worked enough, Mirion, and made money enough? Give up
your business. You have a right to live on your income like
a gentleman."
"So you've brought it out at last!" cried her brother-in-law
with a sarcastic laugh. " It's a long time since you first want



254         YOSEPZI NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
ed to say that. It's all right, of course. Your husband will
die for want of something to do; but the Burgundian castles
will not be able to say, as Countess D'Ornis passes,'Her father keeps a shop.' "
"I don't know where you pick up such nonsense," angrily
answered Mme. Mirion, furious at having her thoughts thus exposed.  Such mishaps are generally disagreeable to the ladies.
Uncle Benjamin was opening his mouth to answer, when
the sound of a hurried step was heard in the vestibule, and the
door, swinging wide open, gave admission to the Countess
Marguerite, who sprang into the room with her arms outstretched before her. She seemed like a shipwrecked sailor
who had at last arrived at port. The five persons in the room
gave an astonished cry, after which a cross-fire of questions
began; then all were silent, for they now saw that Marguerite was very pale, and that there was a strange fire in her
glance.
"0 yes, it's me," she said. "I know you're all astonished; but nevertheless, it's me."
"I understand," cried Mme. Mirion. " Your doctor decided
that you needed a change of air in order to get your strength
again. Have I guessed right?"' Yes, that's it, that's it."
"And your husband?"
" My husband.... Oh! he's very well."
"Are you going to make us a long visit? Have you brought
all your trunks with you?"
" They were lost on the road.... I will write about them."
Mme. Mirion drew her toward a window, and looking in her
face, said in an angry tone, " Dear me! what have you done to
get so thin?"
" It's not my fault altogether," she answered.
"Don't scold her," said Aunt Amaranth.  " Her cheeks
were too full before; I think she looks better as she is."
" I think so too," said Cousin Grillet, who was always glad
to agree with an already expressed opinion.




7OSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                255
"I think so too," said Uncle Benjamin, who was willing to
coincide with any opinion, provided it was not that of his sister-in-law.
"Of course," answered Mme. Mirion, "any body is liable to
be sick; but she might have taken better care of herself.
There's no need of growing thin, unless one chooses to."
"I love you, whether you're thin or not," said her father
holding out his arms. Throwing herself on his neck, she
burst into tears. He put his arms about her, and said in a
surprised tone, " What's the matter, Margot? what's the matter?" She only wished that those arms which held her now,
and which had so often tossed her when a little girl, could
never unclasp again; she only wished that her head could always rest there, that no one could ever seek her out, and that
her name could be forgotten by all the world.
After weeping a long time, she felt somewhat stronger.
They attributed her deep emotion to the weak condition in
which her sickness had left her. They drew their chairs in a
circle about the fire, and tried to talk; but the conversation
flagged and finally ceased altogether.  Mine. Mirion was the
first to grow uneasy and to suspect that there was something
that had not yet been told. She rose, saying to her daughter,
You must be tired. Go and lie down a little while."  Then
she motioned to her husband, who also rose. They went out,
and Marguerite followed them  to their room. Mme. Mirion
quickly shut the door, and seizing her daughter by both
arms, said in a trembling voice, " Has any thing happened?"
"Yes," she answered; "he don't love me and I don't love
him; it's a hell on earth for us to live together, and I won't
return to him again. I will not do it.....No, I will not do
it!"
This was a terrible blow to Mme. Mirion. She gave a cry
and dropped upon the floor. She had a violent hysterical attack; her husband and daughter with great difficulty succeeded in bringing her to herself again.  Her first words, on coming to her senses, were, "What would Mme. Patet say, if she
should know it?"




256         JOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
She began to question Marguerite, who answered, "We
will talk when you are better, and I have had a little rest."
Marguerite went up to her former room, which remained
just as she had left it. Her furniture, her little vases and other ornaments were all in place. She took from her table a
small box made of shells, which one of her boarding-school
friends had given her, and a bronze statuette which her father
had once brought her from  Paris.  Holding the box in her
right hand and the statuette in her left, and pressing them
both upon her heart, she lay down on the bed, and soon was
fast asleep.
She was awakened by the dinner-bell.  She felt calmer and
acted naturally during the meal. Uncle Benjamin was in a
talkative and laughing mood. Mme. Mirion did not open her
mouth. Her lips were compressed, her eyes were swollen,
there were red spots upon her cheeks; from time to time, she
cast a harsh and gloomy glance upon her daughter.
When they had left the table and returned to the drawingroom, when Aunt Amaranth, sitting in her usual place, had taken up her work, when M. Mirion, in order to conceal his disappointment, had commnenced a game of backgammon with his
brother, and when Mlle. Grillet, with her glasses on her nose,
had drawn from her work-basket, on which the word souvezir
appeared in large blue letters, her embroidery, which the good
old lady never brought out except on holidays and Sundays,
Marguerite experienced, for the second time since leaving Ornis, a feeling which resembled joy. Her eyes filled with happy
tears as she saw Aunt Amaranth at work, she listened with delight to the rattling of the dice in the cups and on the board, and
to the blows which Uncle Benjamin struck upon the table as he
cried, " Attention! now I'm going to take my turn." It seemed to her that she had awakened after a horrible dream, and
had just returned from visions to realities. She promised herself that she would dream no more, that she would not again
believe that there was a Castle D'Ornis, whose great walls
chilled her heart, a castle haunted by peddlers who told strange
stories, in which one felt more solitary than if alone, and in




OSEPII NOIIREL'S  dE VEIVGE.              257
which one passed terrible nights, divided between incurable curiosity and hopeless fear-to say nothing of the fact that at the
door of this castle was a garden full of snow, and in one corner of this garden an orangery.... No, all that was false. The
truth was what she now saw and heard-the table, the diceboxes, the dice; the floor divided into squares, which were not
perfectly regular according to a certain critic; the simple lamp
which flared sometimes, but which had never lighted any but
honest faces; the footstool on which her feet were resting and
which recognized them as old acquaintances-the real truth
was these people before her,, who had nothing on their consciences and nothing to conceal, this drawing-room whose inmates loved Margot, and were willing to devote themselves to
her. and to throw themselves between her and misfortune. She
went about the room, passing from chair to chair, softly pulling
her aunt's hair, pinching her cousin's cheek, tickling her uncle's
ear, placing her hand on her father's shoulder and saying to
herself, " I knew  it well enough; these are real forms and
faces, the others were only phantoms."  She finally took from
Mile. Grillet's work-basket a new handkerchief, which she began to hem. At intervals, she raised her eyes and gazed with
confidence on the four walls of the room. They seemed to say,
" She has returned to us, she belongs to us, they shall not take
her from us; we will keep her and defend her."




CHAPTER  XL.
EXPLANATIONS.
Mme. Mirion passed the evening in an arm-chair, with her
back turned upon her daughter, her eyes half-closed, and her
body trembling with convulsive motions. At ten o'clock, the
entire company, according to their usual custom, put up their
work, and as Uncle Benjamin said, each one regained his chacuniire. As soon as Mme. Mirion found herself alone with her
husband and daughter, she rose suddenly, and in a harsh
voice said to Marguerite, " Confess that it's not serious!"
"Alas! my poor mother, it's only too serious," she answered.
"Impossible!"
" Impossible? I used to think so too; I have now learned
that nothing is impossible."
" Tell us what you complain about.... Can it be that your
husband.... Can your husband have what bad novels call a mistress?....Whatthings you make me say!" she added, covering
her face with her handkerchief to hide her blushes.
"No, mamma. Count D'Ornis has no mistress to my knowledge. I wish it were nothing more than that! I should then
have borne my sorrows patiently, and should not now be
here."
" You hear her, Mirion!" she cried to her husband who was
resting his elbows on his knees.  " Didn't I tell you that our
son-in-law was incapable of such trifling, and that his habits
were above reproach?" Then turning toward her daughter, she
continued, "You complain that he doesn't love you any more.
You're a spoiled child. The honeymoon can't last forever....
He can't spend his whole life at your feet, and pass the whole
blessed day in telling you that he worsh-ips you."
"He never worshiped me, and I have never complained of




JOSEPH  NOI'REL'S REVENGE.                259
It. I would have been satisfied with bread made of rye or oats.
Even if I had found a great deal of chaff and straw in it, no
one would have been the wiser; I would have eaten it as
wheat-bread every day of my life.... But if they give me poison.... You don't want me to die, I hope. You know that I'm
not difficult to please; a little respect and esteem would have
satisfied me. He hates me; he despises me, I tell you, and
God knows which of us has a right to despise the other.....
Oh! I beg you, do not question me; I have too much to tell;
I will tell nothing."
" Again I ask you to mention a single fact. I've heard nothing so far but big words and hollow phrases," continued Mme.
Mirion with increasing bitterness.
"A fact! You want facts?.... I have been sick, have I not?
sick almost unto death.... Shall I tell you why?....We had a
scene together, he and I....A horrible scene....He pushed
me so rudely that I fell.... My face was covered with blood,
and yet I smiled and held out my hand to him.... His own
hung by his side.... He would not raise me up,"
" Impossible!" said Mme. Mirion. "You're dreaming. You're
not in your senses."
" You are right; I'm mad. That's what he says. How can
you doubt it?.... Give him time and he'll make every one believe it....Yes, I'm mad, for I've been unfortunate enough to
discover.... Have pity on me! Don't you see that my secret
must die with me?"
Mme. Mirion wrung her hands, and cried, " Oh! dear, what
willbecome of us?" It was not her daughter's misfortune that
troubled her. She thought of the unpleasant things that would
be said; how all Geneva would talk of the affair; how the envious would be filled with malignant joy. " You want to compel
me, then," she said, " to keep my room for the remainder of my
life? I should no longer dare to appear in the streets. Every
one would point their fingers at me.... Oh! I shall die. You
can boast that you have killed me." Such was her conclusion.
Marguerite looked at her in bewilderment. She had believed
that she had a mother-vanity is a savage beast.




260         JOSEPZH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
" So you don't believe me?" she asked after a moment's silence.
" I don't know whether I believe you or not; I only know
that you want to kill us.... If I must speak frankly, no, I don't
believe you. It's all very childish what you've said. Young
girls often let their imaginations run away with them. You've
had a quarrel with your husband, and it's possible that he's a
little quick-tempered.... What of it all? You ought to remember that you owe him a great deal. Perfect happiness is not of
this world; you must learn to bear such little troubles....
Where is your religion? You are guilty of ingratitude toward
Providence, in despising his gifts because he brings them to
you through care and sorrow. It is wicked to break your glass
because you find a drop of absinthe in it. I will have your pastor talk to you. I'm sure that you don't read your Bible any
more.... If your husband has done wrong, I'll guarantee he'll
be the first to make amends. Let me arrange it.... Before a
week has passed he shall come here for you, and lead in
triumph to Ornis the happiest and best beloved of wives."
Marguerite shuddered from head to foot. " Condemn me to
any torture you please," she cried, " to pass the rest of my
days in a dungeon, if you will, but to see him again!.... Oh!
I can not, I will not...."
Mme. Mirion paid no attention to these entreaties.  Marguerite turned to her father, who, weighed down with his
sorrow, gave no sign of life. " Dear father," she said, "speak
for me, take my part. You know that my nature is sincere and
honest, it's the nature you have given me.... Do you remember, you said once that I had never told a lie? I swear to you
that, if I have broken my chain, it's because there are some
things one can not bear without losing all self-respect. If
you knew all....Speak, speak; tell me that you believe me,
that you'll defend me, that you will not permit that man to
take away your daughter, and make her die of despair and
shame."
At these words, M. Mirion drew her to his breast. " Yes,
my child," he answered, " I know what you are, and I believe




O7SEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                261
you. I thought I had had some trouble in my life. It all
seems as nothing now. No matter, you have my word, you
can count upon your father.  I'll fight any battle for you....
Let the world blame, insult, or scorn us! It all weighs as
nothing in the balance, when my child's life and honor are in
the other scale."
"That's right," cried Mme. Mirion rising like a fury. " Take
her part, persuade her that she has good cause to hate her husband, that Count D'Ornis is an incendiary or a murderer..."
Marguerite trembled. She thought as she looked upon her
mother, " If I should tell her that my husband was a murderer,
she would none the less send me back to Ornis, and bind me
forever to him. Her chief end in life is to keep Mme. Patet
from talking."
" I don't hate M. D'Ornis," she answered.  " I only ask that
I may never see him again, and so forget him.... I will write
to him. I want you simply to support me in what I say. Let
him know that I am acting with the advice and consent of my
family, and he, himself, will finally agree to every thing."
"I have no daughter," cried Mme. Mirion as she hurried to
the door.
" Be comforted," said her husband, who was revolted by her
cruel words, " you have a son-in-law at all events."




CHAPTER  XLI.
FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
Marguerite's father trusted her. This reflection soothed her
to sleep, and in the morning brightened her first waking
thoughts. The weather had suddenly grown warmer; a ray
of sunshine, gliding between the blinds, entered her room at an
early hour, and began to play on the coverlet of her bed. This
bright ray awoke her youth, which had remained within this
room, and which now began to buzz like a fly in winter, warmed into life by an illusive semblance of the spring. Marguerite
talked for some time with her former gayety, which endeavored
to console her.  There are some souls born with a natural
vocation for happiness; in vain does it escape them, its denials
can not overcome their perseverance; they always look and
wait for its return.
Desiring to avoid a tete-c-thte with her mother, Marguerite
had notified M. Mirion that she would accompany him to town.
When they were in the carriage, he said, "Your mother has
been pretty hard on me this morning; she opened fire before
light."
"She evidently doesn't believe me."
"Alas! no. She pretends that the whole trouble is, that
you were foolish enough to fall sick and lose your color, and
that your husband lost his love for you. To hear her, you'd
think it was only a question of being plump and well."
"You believe me, don't you?"
"Of course!....I'm  only sorry.... Are there really things
that you can't tell us conscientiously?"
She placed her hand upon her heart, " Though it kill me, my
secret must not escape," she said.




7OSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                263
" That's bad. Your father will trust you, but other people
will not, my poor dear Countess."
" Ah! if you knew how little I cared about the others," she
answered.  "But don't call me Countess, I beg of you.  I
don't want to be anything but your daughter; I'm only Marguerite Mirion now."
" It's all very sad," he said with a deep sigh. " Who could
have foreseen such misfortunes? Ah! why didn't you marry
a good bourgeois like your father? There's nothing sure in
this world but the bourgeoisie and the bourgeois. We are men
of principle, you see; add property to this, and you have happiness. To tell the truth, neither property nor principles are
worth much, when taken separately.... Ah! cursed be the day
when that Count D'Ornis....We were careless, we were in
too great a hurry, and it's been proved that your uncle Benjamin was right, which provokes your mother very much. And
Joseph Noirel, too, was right when he said on his return from
Ornis,'Don't be in too great haste, learn all you can about
him.'  Why should such a good counselor turn out to be a
knave? If he had not been so heartless, he would have insisted on delay, and all this would not have happened: but he
never loved any body but.himself. He is infatuated with his
ingratitude. Heaven help him and his mistress."
It was thus that, unavoidably returning to this unhappy subject, M. Mirion included his workman in his complaints against
his son-in-law. It is a consolation to be able to put all one's
sorrows in the same sack; it greatly simplifies misfortune.
Marguerite did not continue this conversation. The name of
Joseph Noirel, so unexpectedly introduced, had made her
thoughtful. He had scarcely been in her thoughts before for
thirty-six hours. " I am the one who is ungrateful," she said
to herself. " That dear boy! what a faithful and devoted friend
he is! He has done every thing he could. Thanks to him, I
now know all I wanted to, and all I have to do is to get possession of that hateful paper, which I will use to obtain my
freedom....Or rather I will write to M. D'Ornis,'Keep my
dowry, and buy that paper with it; I only ask one thing in re



204         JOSEPH  NOIREL'S REVENGE.
turn, a promise that you will spare my family that scandal
which it dreads more than death. We will separate quietly on
the ground of incompatibility.' I have confidence in myself, I
feel that I can begin life again. There are yet sunshine and
flowers in the world.... My brave Joseph, it is to you I owe my
safety, I ought to have written to you before this. He has
doubtless returned to Lyons, where he awaits my orders.... I
know well what I'll do to reward him for his care and trouble.
I will reinstate him in this house, which he left for me and by
my order.  He shall be treated henceforth as he deserves, not
as a dependent, but as a friend. My father is kind and reasonable; he will give him an interest in the business, and every
body will be satisfied. Ah S how much better it would be for
society, if all understood what was for their interest!"
Thus thought and reasoned Marguerite Mirion, although she
had learned, when a child, the fable of Perrette and the Pot of
Milk; they used to make her recite it, dressed in pink and
standing on a chair, every Sunday afternoon, when there was
company at Mon-Plaisir. M. Mirion had fallen into a mournful silence; he was ruminating over his sorrows.
Just as the carriage was entering the city and crossing the
Place-Neuve, Marguerite said to her father, " Isn't there any
way of making up with that poor Joseph? I should be very
glad to use my influence with him."
"I only know too well, now," he answered, " how useful that
abominable boy was to me; but he shall not enter my house
again, until he has promised to do better and begged my pardon
on his knees."
" I don't think his pride will allow him to do that," she answered.
"His pride! his insolence rather.  He's a perfect monster."
Marguerite said no more, determining to wait for a more favorable opportunity to pursue the subject.
"However," added her father, "that is nothing in comparison with the sorrow that you cause us."
" That I cause you?" she said in a reproachful tone.




YOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.               265
"I beg your pardon, Margot. I meant to say, that our
amiable son-in-law causes us."
" Don't be discouraged. It isn't a question of being plump
and well, as mamma says; you will find that it will reduce itself
at last to a question of money, and that will not kill you, will
it?"
He gazed on her tenderly as he said, " I would gladly give
up both my hands, and all the wealth that they have gained, to
hear you laugh as you used to do."
Marguerite left her father to make a few necessary purchases,
she having arrived at Geneva without trunk or valise. She rejoined him in the shop, at the door of which the carriage was
to call for them. She was deeply moved on seeing again this
shop, which recalled to her the happiest hours of her childhood.
At that time, they had not yet purchased Mon-Plaisir; they
lived in a gloomy suite of rooms on the fifth story, and Margot's
chief amusement was to noiselessly descend into the shop, to
stand before a bench, to look at the rapid movement of the
plane, to listen to the saw as it cut smoothly through the wood,
to gather in her little pink hands, which she joined together
like a cup, the saw-dust which rained upon them, tickling them
as it fell, to touch and examine every thing, to roll herself in
the shavings, to pass her fingers over the twisted columns of
the old cabinets, or to look at the old oak boards, the shining
knots in which resembled faces and told her stories. Oh!
what a happy time, and what merry games of hide and seek
she had played at dusk in that store below, so full of corners
and of hiding places! There was not one of those corners
that had not heard her call or laugh; they knew all her songs
and at that moment were repeating them to this poor Marguerite, who no longer knew how to sing.  Alas! there also
had first appeared to her that dark stranger, who had become her master. Hidden by the furniture, he had suddenly
emerged into the light, and fixed upon her beauty the burning
glance of a bird of prey. She had not been able to defend herself, she had trusted to the chances of an inexorable fate, as the
swallow to the wind that carries it away. Now she knew that




266         JOSEPH  ANOIREL'S REVENGE.
stranger; she had succeeded in reading the secret of his
gloomy glance, she had seen upon his hands a stain of blood
that could never be washed away.
Quickly crossing the store, she sought her father in his
office, near which stood a bench. where he still worked at
times. She profited by a moment when his back was turned
to stoop to the floor, to run her fingers over the boards, and to
cover them with dust; then passing in review the saws, the
chisels, and the planes, she impetuously carried them, one after
another, to her lips.
"' What's that performance?" asked her father, who turned
around as she was honoring with her caresses a large chisel.' Take care! some of those tools belonged to that unlucky
Joseph."
You ought to have told me sooner," she answered with a
blush.




CHAPTER  XLII.
CAPTURE AND RETURN TO ORNIS.
The carriage in which the father and daughter returned to
Mon-Plaisir entered the paved court, on which the windows of
the drawing-room looked out, at noon precisely.  A hired
vehicle had preceded them, and had left the tracks of its
wheels upon the snow. M. Mirion had just stepped to the
ground, and was helping his daughter out, when, turning suddenly toward the house, he said, " What's going on in there?
Somebody is talking very loud."
She listened also, and heard a voice she recognized too well.
She grew very pale, and turned about as though to fly.
" Come," he said, taking her by the arm. " Take courage!
I am with you."
He drew her into the house more dead than alive. When
he had opened the drawing-room door, she saw on the left, in the
recess of the window, her aunt and cousin, who, with troubled
faces, were gazing, the one at the floor, the other at the ceiling; at their right, her uncle, red as a beet, was leaning
against a table; in front of them, with her face buried in the
cushions of a sofa, was Mme. Mirion, who seemed a prey to
the most violent despair; and leaning against the mantelpiece, gloomy, terrible, with a menacing air, stood the man
whom she had determined never to see again.
On learning of his wife's departure, M. D'Ornis had had a
furious fit of passion, and had started in hot haste in pursuit of
her. In vain did the old Countess, who was secretly delighted
with what had taken place, use every endeavor to retain him;
she was ignorant of his reasons for not loving his wife and, at
the same time, determining never to be separated from her.
He had answered her remonstrances very curtly, and had just




268          yOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
fallen like a bomb-shell at Mon-Plaisir, in the midst of the
family assembled for the noon-day meal. Without losing any
time in asking questions, he had at once assumed the offensive,
as might have been expected from his natural audacity. The
strange accusations which he had just made had caused Mme.
Mirion, with sobs and cries, to hide her face within the cushions.
She raised her head as she heard the door open, and seeing
her daughter, cried to her, " Marguerite, is it true that you
love,....that you love....Ah! I can never pronounce that
name. "
Marguerite had advanced to the centre of the room. She
had looked fixedly upon her husband; their eyes had met like
two flashing swords. " Go on, finish your question," she said
to her mother.
"Yes, finish your question," cried M. Mirion.  "Count,
Marguerite is our daughter.  She has never loved any thing
but her duty.... "
"And one of your workmen, named Joseph Noirel!" answered M. D'Ornis, twisting his hat with his trembling fingers.
Then turning toward Marguerite, he continued, " I am not
an accommodating husband, madam. I want my rights, and I
am jealous,....so jealous that I've trampled my pride beneath
my feet to come here and claim you from my fortunate rival..... What a noble rival! he's one of those that you can flog,
but can not kill."
Marguerite could not say a word. She could not believe
her ears; such audacity bewildered her. Remorse and innocence have sometimes the same way of clasping the hands and
casting down the eyes. M. Mirion attentively observed his
daughter; her silence and embarrassment terrified him. He
bowed his head as though overwhelmed with sorrow. This,
then, was Marguerite's secret! Had she not just asked for
Joseph Noirel's pardon, saying, " You ought to make up with
Joseph; I'll gladly use my influence with him."  He groaned
aloud, and dropped into an arm-chair. " Speak, madam," continued M. D'Ornis, who thenceforth felt himself master of the
situation. "What makes you hang your head?  Is it so




JOSEPZ  NVOIREL'S RE'VENGE.                269
hard for women to lie?  Deny boldly that that young man
whom I'll not name again-once is quite enough-resolved to
leave this house the day after your marriage, because he could
not bear to stay here, with you away. Deny that a few weeks
later you had a private interview with him, and that since then
you've kept up a correspondence with each other. Deny that
he kept hanging about Ornis in the hope of seeing you, and
that I surprised you both one day, alone together in the snow,
and not seeming to feel the cold at all, so great was the charm
of the conversation which I had the misfortune to interrupt.
Deny that he returned, day before yesterday, to Ornis, and
that he enacted a little comedy in the court in order to bring
you out to him.... Can my mother be mistaken?  She says
that she saw him whisper in your ear, and, by a strange coincidence, that same evening Countess D'Ornis flies from a castle,
which she has taken a dislike to because her movements there
are too well watched, because her rendezvous are too well
known, and because she thinks she can taste here the sweetest of liberties, the liberty of the heart.... Deny all, madam,
that you are here, that you have compelled me to come after
you to save your honor and my own, that I am looking at you,
and that you are filled with fear!"
At these words, as though by some magic spell, Marguerite
regained her voice. She advanced toward M. D'Ornis, saying, " Ah! sir, I thought I knew you pretty well, but you've
succeeded in astonishing me."
"Marguerite," cried her mother,'there's nothing in these
stories, is there?  It's all a mistake, a misunderstanding....
Explain it to him; but don't speak in that way. Ask his pardon for the trouble you have caused him, ask his pardon on
your knees."
She raised herself to her full height.  " On my knees to
him!" she cried. " I did kneel to him once; but now!....
Confess yourself, sir, that it would be a shame."
" Since you refuse to speak, I'll speak for you," said Mme.
Mirion, grasping her son-in-law's hands and pressing them to
her lips in an attitude of supplication..... " Have mercy, par



270         JOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
don her," she cried; " I promise you that she is still worthy
of your love.  Her head has led her astray; but her heart is
right. My daughter love that scoundrel! She doesn't love
him; she respects herself too much. If you knew the principles in which she has been educated! She ha.s never read a
bad book; no novel has ever been allowed within this house... It's possible that the wretched fellow may have forgotten
himself so far as to fall in love with her. He may have made
use of some strange pretext to approach her; she ought to
have driven him off, to have shown to him the slough in which
he was born.  She is too kind-hearted; she is afraid of hurting people's feelings; I've often scolded her for it; but believe me, she never could have cared for a workman whose
father died in a hospital....I repeat that she is innocent.
Just think, the poor child has been sick. She is not yet well,
her mind has not entirely recovered; she has been guilty of
great folly. She will explain it all to you, and you will find
that she is less culpable than you think....Ah! Count, she
knows what she owes you-the honor you have done her in
letting her bear your name; her heart is full of your kindness
to her, and only yesterday she spoke of you with a respectan affection..... Isn't what I say true, my child?.... "
M. D'Ornis stemmed this flood of words by saying, " I wish
I could believe you, madam; but, after all, I am not an exacting judge. While awaiting the explanations which she owes
me, I ask only one thing of your daughter, that she will return
with me at once. You shall see that she will not consent."
"You misjudge her!" cried Mme. Mirion.  " I should like
to see...."
" Return to Ornis!" interrupted Marguerite; "return with
him! Never."
"You hear her, madam," said M. D'Ornis coldly.
Marguerite's exclamation produced a disastrous effect on
those who heard her.  Mme. Mirion gave a despairing cry,
and her husband raised his arms as though to curse his
daughter. Aunt Amaranth fastened on her niece eyes as terrible as were those of the four-and-twenty elders of the Apoca



yOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                 271
lypse, when they looked upon the wicked one. Mile. Grillet
placed her head in her lap and stopped her ears; her affrighted virtue could hear no more. At this, Marguerite fell on her
knees, her frame quivering, her hands trembling. She cried,
"Mercy! pity!  If you love me, do not condemn me to this
frightful torture!.... There are things that I can not tell. Oh,
you don't know that man, he is deceiving you."..... Then
turning to him, she continued, " Sir, have mercy on me! I
will tell nothing, I swear to you that I'll tell nothing; you
know that we can not live together.... I will try to forget you;
but I beg you, do not let me see your face again!" While
thus speaking, she approached her mother, fastened on her
dress, and tried to take her hands; those harsh hands pushed
her away, and she fell forward upon the floor. " You want to
dishonor us," cried her doting mother. " Is it not written in
the Gospel,'Woe to him  by whom  the offence cometh?'"
Her father also repulsed her, saying, " You've been trying to
deceive me. Where is that Joseph? Where is the villain,
that I may kill him before your eyes?"
Among the witnesses of this scene, there was one, however,
who, more clear-sighted or more disinterested than the rest,
understood the whole affair, and spoke out for the right. This
was Uncle Benjamin, who, not being able to control his indignation any longer, suddenly left the table against which he had
been leaning, and stepping forward, cried, " Brother! sister!
what has become of your good sense and your affection for your
daughter? What! that dear child, whom we all know as an
angel of goodness, purity, and truth, can not succeed in moving
you? Don't you see that, if she is silent, it's because she has
too much to say, and can not defend herself without accusing
some  one else?"....Then turning to M. D'Ornis, he continued, "Glare at me all you please, Count, you can't prevent
my speaking.  I'm only an humble teacher at your service;
but I have nothing on my conscience. Are you sure that you
can say the same? In my opinion, the accusations you make
against this poor girl are false; they remind one of a man
whose case is bad, and who tries to stir up the water, so that




272         7OSEPII IOIRELS REVENGE.
no one can see the mud below. Besides, I tell you plainly,
your face never pleased me, and if I had had any thing to say
about it, my niece would not have been your wife to-day.
Alas! they would not believe me. No one is a prophet in his
own family, and vanity will never listen to reason."
"Monsieur Mirion," said M. D'Ornis in a haughty tone, " has
this house changed its master?"
M. Mirion started as though his son-in-law had struck him
with a whip; turning toward his brother, he addressed him in
a manner which was very unusual for him.  "You're going too
far, Benjamin," he said.  " Who asked for your opinion! We
have listened to your impudence too long. Be quiet, or leave
at once."
"You'll never have an opportunity to say that to me again,"
answered Uncle Benjamin. " I leave you never to return." So
saying, he rushed from the room, pushing the door to violently
behind him.
Marguerite had remained upon her knees.  She cast once
more a terrified glance about her, and felt that she was deserted and alone. There were with her only eyes that did not believe her, hard hearts that refused to hear, souls at the doors of
which her misfortune knocked, but could not enter. Then
came the temptation to take her revenge, to tell all she knew.
A terrible struggle took place within her.  Her secret rose to
her lips; she was on the point of crying out, " That man who
accuses me is a murderer, and he has permitted an innocent
person to bear the penalty of his crime!" But as the fatal
words were about to escape her, she made a desperate effort,
and they found a wall of silence before them  which they
could not pass.  Her lips moved convulsively, cold drops
of sweat stood on her forehead. Thrice her mouth opened as
though she were about to speak; thrice she thrust back her
secret, which fell heavily upon her heart. Suddenly, by an
heroic effort of her will, rising to her feet, with flashing eyes,
passing her feverish hand over her burning cheeks, like a
wounded lioness who has fought her last fight and knows that
she must die, she staggered toward Count D'Ornis, and, in a




JOSEPH  NOIREL'S REVENAGE.                273
hoarse voice, uttered these words, which were understood by
no one but himself, " Take me away at once! Your life depends upon it."
A few minutes afterward she was in the carriage. M. and
Mme. Mirion stood at the doors on either side, and, moved by a sudden change of feeling, lavished their caresses on
her. She did not seem to see or hear them.  Only one thing
occupied her thoughts; throwing herself back in one corner of
the carriage, she watched to see that her dress did not touch
M. D'Ornis, who had seated himself on her right. The carriage started. Then she leaned forward and gave a last look
at the walls of that house which had promised to defend her,
and had failed to keep its word.  That look seemed like a last
adieu.  Then she closed her eyes, and, with her head bowed
down, buried herself in her destiny.
It took a long time for that house, which had refused to defend Marguerite Mirion, to recover from its fright; it seemed as
though a tempest had passed over it. Mme. Mirion was the
first one to regain her usual demeanor. " There's a great deal of
mystery about it all," she said. " There are three things, however, as clear as daylight to me: Joseph is a villain; my
daughter is innocent, but imprudent; and her husband, by his
jealousy, has shown how he adores her."
M. Mirion had more difficulty in recovering his composure.
He was uneasy and full of doubt. In the evening, he went out
to walk upon the terrace; a new surprise was there in store for
him. He had not moved more than ten steps, when he thought
he saw a dark figure appear at one of the angles of the house,
and disappear immediately behind a bush. He cautiously approached it. The figure endeavored to escape; contrary to its
expectation, however, a gate through which it tried to effect its
retreat proved to be shut and padlocked. The gate was high
and difficult to scale. The nocturnal marauder turned and
faced the enemy.
" Ah! it's you, you rascal!" cried M. Mirion.
After leaving M. Bertrand, Joseph had returned to Ornis
with his two papers in his pocket. He had passed the morning




274         YOSEPH!  NOIREL'S REVEANGE.
in prowling about the castle, at the door of which he did not
dare present himself. No Marguerite was to be seen. At
noon, he went to the White Horse aInn to dine; he entered the
drinking-room as a peasant was telling Mme. Guibaud how, the
night before, the young Countess D'Ornis had been seen on
the road to Arnay, running at full speed, and how her husband
had started in pursuit of her. Joseph rightly guessed that, being
overwhelmed by the discovery she had made, Marguerite had
taken refuge with her parents. He went at once to Beaune,
and, concluding that M. D'Ornis would take the first train, he
prudently waited for the next one, which entered the station at
Geneva an hour after the husband and wife had started on their
return. At nightfall, he went to Mon-Plaisir to find out whether Marguerite was there, impatient to see her and talk with
her; there are unlucky days, however, when even the shrewdest men are caught.
"It's you, you rascal!" repeated M. Mirion, stretching out
his arm to seize Joseph by the collar. The latter quickly stepped aside saying, " I'm not going to run away."
"Is it true," continued M. Mirion, "that in return for all
the favors we've conferred on you, you have dared to raise your
eyes upon our daughter? Can Joseph Noirel so far forget
himself as to fall in love with Marguerite Mirion? Fortunately, Providence has thwarted your vile plans. I don't know
what you have said to my daughter to irritate her against her
husband; but just now they met here, had an explanation with
each other, and went away together.... Do you imagine that
Marguerite could really love you? Do you forget the distance
there is between you?.... You villain, what have you said to
her? how have you managed to deceive her? what black falsehoods have you told her?"
Then suddenly overcome by his feelings, he changed his
tone, bursting into tears. "Joseph, my good Joseph!" he
cried, stretching both his hands toward him, " remember the
past, remember what I have done for you, and what you have
done for me. I am so unhappy! Tell me all, and I will forgive you all."




7OSEPHIZ NOIREL'S RE VENGE.               275
Joseph looked at him in silence for a moment; then slightly
shrugging his shoulders, he rudely answered, " Your daughter's
secrets are her own, and mine belong to me; I have nothing to
tell you."
He had not finished speaking, when M. Mirion, furious with
indignation, gave him a terrible blow, the consequences of
which were to be more terrible still. Joseph gave an angry
cry and raised his stick as though to strike his old employer;
he soon mastered his rage, however, and as though proud to
show that plebeian souls have their hours of royalty, with a gesture worthy of Louis XIV., he lowered his stick until one end
touched the ground, and, breaking it with his foot, threw the
pieces far behind him.
i Henceforth I owe you nothing!" he cried in a threatening
tone.
And before M. Mirion, who was astounded by his action,
had time to stop him, he had fled across the terrace and the
court, bearing with him his blow, his wounded love, and his
bleeding pride which cried for vengeance.




CHAPTER  XLIII.
COUNT D'ORNIS TELLS HIS STORY.
Count D'Ornis was not a malicious man; he had never
in his life been guilty of useless cruelty; but his character
exhibited a formidable combination of calculation and passion; and, although it often happens that a passionate temperament is at times exceedingly generous, he was never known to
have performed an act of self-sacrificing generosity.  He was
the most selfish of men. Why had his brother been born with
a club-foot, and why had this brother, held in aversion by his
mother, been constantly sacrificed to him?  The Benjamins
are a terrible race. When they are in a violent mood, they kill
Raoux, and Raoux being dead, having a crime to conceal and
heir life to defend, woe to Marguerite Mirion, if she ever
cease to be a source of pleasure to them, or if they ever suspect that she may become a source of danger.
M. D'Ornis's triumph was complete.  He was taking home
his prisoner, and he flattered himself, not without reason, that
she would not try to escape from him a second time. Whither
could. she go? He had closed the doors of Mon-Plaisir to her,
he reigned there as he did at Ornis. He could not feel entirely
at ease, however. After having lived for forty-eight hours in
a storm, his mind had become calm again; he had recovered
his reflective powers, and his thoughts troubled him. Marguerite's words, " Take me away at once; your life depends
upon it!" tormented him.  Did she suspect the truth, or had
she really learned the facts? What had occurred between her
and Joseph? He wanted to know immediately. Several times,
while on the road, he tried to engage his wife in conversation.
She did not seem to see or hear him; sometimes she closed
her eyes, sometimes she let them wander vaguely about.  " I




JOSEPH  IVOIREL'S REVENGE.                277
hope," said M. D'Ornis, " that we shall at least keep up appearances; it's more for your interest than for mine."
It was only on seeing the roofs of Castle D'Ornis, the vanes
on which shone brightly in the sun, that Marguerite felt the full
horror of her situation, and the terrors of this prison, the doors
of which were so soon to close upon her. As the carriage
approached the village, she made a desperate call upon her
courage.  She sat erect and firm. She bore without flinching
the glances of derision and curiosity which those passing cast
upon her. She looked without a shudder on the orangery and
the garden, where she thought she still saw her foot-prints in the
now half-melted snow. She passed through the arched gateway,
and heard the ringing of the horses' hoofs on the stone pavement of the court. When she reached the steps, she descended from the carriage without assistance, and, bowing to the
servants, ran to her room and shut the door.
At midnight, worn out with fatigue, she felt the need of rest.
She reflected, however, that M. D'Ornis was peculiar in his
choice of times and places, and that he would be very likely to
surprise her in her sleep.  She thought of bolting the door,
but her numerous failures had disgusted her with all precautions; and, besides, why should she try to avoid the inevitable? She did not leave her arm-chair. A few minutes later,
her door opened, and M. D'Ornis appeared.
He seemed surprised to find his wife still up, and remained
motionless for a moment. Finally, resolving on his course of
action, he approached her, saying in a low tone, " Will you be
kind enough to explain to me why you left this house?"
She looked him in the eyes, and answered in a steady voice,
"Because I discovered that you murdered the Marquis De
Raoux."
He staggered as though a ball had pierced his heart. He
would have fallen, if his hand had not been resting on a
chair. His face grew livid, his features were no longer under
his control.  He thought he saw the room turning around him,
carrying Marguerite with it, and it seemed to him that in every
corner of this room sat a woman crying, " You are the mur



278         7OSEPH'  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
derer of the Marquis De Raoux!" He whispered in a hoarse
voice, " Speak lower, for God's sake!"  Then recovering from
his dizziness, he found that there was but one woman present,
and that woman was his wife.  He raised his arm  with a
threatening gesture. Despair knows no fear. Marguerite was
calmly looking at him, and her glance restored him to himself.
He walked about the room, cautiously opening and shutting
all the doors, in order to assure himself that no one had been
listening; then he again approached her, and his first words
were, " I am very sorry for you, madam, for you must understand that after this we never again can separate."
For a few minutes both were silent. At last he said, " Speak!
Who gave you this information? You must speak," he continued in a low voice. " This is a time for explanations. In
our common misfortune, we must save each other the trouble
of trying to discover any thing more. Do you want me to commence? It's so long since your curiosity has been at work. I
knew very well that this would be the end of it.... Have you
any thing to ask me, madam?"
She shook her head. "You are mistaken," he said. " You
are dying to know how and why.... You will have no rest until
you know. I prefer to tell you all myself."
He stopped a moment to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief; great beads of sweat stood on his brow. In a still
lower voice he continued, "The quarrel was about a horse.
Raoux had sworn to own it. Unbeknown to him, I offered a
higher price, and the horse was mine. From that day a coldness arose between us. He begged so hard that I finally agreed
to play a game of chess with him for the horse. We drank
a great deal of wine that night, we almost lost our heads.
Since then I have never drunk any thing but red wine, and you
know the next day I killed the horse; I did not wish to see it,
or ride it, or have any one else ride it.... Where was I? You
want to know all, you shall know all.... He said to me,' You see
that you're checkmated!' With that he went to the other end
of the room and took a glass of water, which he emptied




JOSEPH  iVOIREL'S RE VENGE.               279
at a draught; he was very thirsty. When he returned, I answered,'You're mistaken; don't you see, I can move my
king?'.... Then he declared that I had moved his knight while
he was away.  I felt myself turn pale; I proved to him that
he was mistaken.  He upset thl  chess-board, repeating again
and again,'You are a cheat!'  Then he added,' To-morrow the world shall know what you are.'.... I swear to you that
I was patient with him.  I begged him to be still; I told him
that I should do some desperate thing. He continued to repeat,' To-morrow the world shall know!' I lost my reason, I
seized a knife. He fled across the park; I caught him near the
bridge.... Did they tell you that I tried to kill myself?  Some
one was there and prevented me. When a man does not succeed in killing himself, he defends himself; I will defend myself, I will save my life!.... "
He stopped again; then, in an almost inaudible voice, he
whispered,' Have you any thing more to ask me?"
"Yes," she answered; "I want to know the name of that
man, that vagabond...."
He made a terrible gesture.  " Be still," he cried; " I don't
want that man here."....And, by a mechanical movement,
his eyes turned toward the window and the door, as though to
make sure that they were still closed; then he hid his face
within his hands.  Marguerite began to sob.
"That's right, madam, follow your trade," he said starting to
his feet again. " Women always weep as though their tears
were going to do some good. You know nothing of the world
or of men. You imagine that, coolly and deliberately, I said
to myself, I'll let that beggar die. Don't deceive yourself in
that way. Every night, before going to sleep, when I did sleep,
I thought,'To-morrow, I will confess.' The morrow came, I
thought of my name and honor, and was silent; the days passed, the head fell. What was the use of saying any thing after
that?....You don't know what a gambler is, nor what a fierce
desire he always has to win. What will he do when his life is
the stake for which he plays?"
He succeeded in mastering his emotion, and added in a dry




280          JOSEPHI  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
one, " Don't weep, madam; after all, the head that fell wasn'
worth a crown."
Marguerite ceased to sob. She cried, " Enough, sir! not
another word, I beg of you!" He seemed a monster to her.
She was mistaken; he was only a spoiled child who had lost
his conscience in the game of life.
At that moment, M. D'Ornis thought he heard a noise without. He ran to the window that faced the garden, opened it,
raised the blind, looked out, and listened. He saw nothing but
a dark and cloudy sky; he heard nothing but the moaning of a
warm wind, which blew in gusts and was melting the snow.
He let the blind fall again, but only half closed the window;
he was very glad to have a little air in the room, he was suf.
focating.  Approaching his wife, he said, "It is your turn to
explain now. I flattered myself that only one man possessed
my secret. He was interested in keeping it; he made a
revenue of his discretion.  Did he tell it to you; or did some
one else?"
He awaited her reply in an agony of expectation. He gave a
sigh of relief as she answered, "Be comforted, it was himself."
"He came here? You saw him?"
-" You refused to tell me what you were; I determined to find
out."
"Confess, madam," he cried, "that I formed a just opinion
of you."
"You ought to thank me," she answered; "I have good
news for you. A certain paper that villain holds is for sale.
You have my dowry; if that is not enough, you can call upon
my father. You are well acquainted with Mon-Plaisir and its
inmates now; they are at your service. Ah! sir, confess on
your side that it is fortunate for a man like you to have married a bourgeois's daughter."
With these words she began to weep again; she had undertaken a part beyond her strength. He did not notice that she
was weeping; he had not heard all she said; he only knew
that a certain paper would soon be his, that he would burn it
and cast its ashes to the wind, so that the wind itself could no




JOSEPHI NOIREL'S RE  VE-GE'.              28 I
longer read his name, that the past would be dead, that he
could kill his memories and begin to live again. Suddenly his
face grew  dark and frowning.  " You are imposing on me,
madam," he said. "M. Bertrand is very suspicious.  You
have laid a trap for him, and the faithful agent who has served
vou in this affair is undoubtedly that workan....Good God!
madam, does he too possess my secrets?"
" He only knows," she quickly answered, " what I was able
to tell him when I as yet knew nothing. Would I ever have
spoken, if I could have guessed how terrible your secrets
were?"
" If ever I come to an unhappy end," he violently cried, " it
will be your work, madam!"
She clasped her hands together.  "I will answer for that
young man," she said; " I can depend on him."
" Can I frighten him? or must he be bought?"
" I only know that he's my friend, the only one I have on
earth."
" I should be glad to believe that he was nothing more," he
answered.  "To-morrow you must write to this young man a
letter that I will dictate, and bring him here. You must find
some means to rid me of him forever. Think it over, form
some plan.  You can send him to America, or anywhere else
you please. The main thing is that I shall never see him, and
that we shall never have occasion to speak of him again."
She was silent for a moment, and then said, "Very well, I
submit.  After that, what are you going to do with me? It
seems to me that I have a right to make some conditions."
" Conditions!" he replied.  " Do you forget that you were
met the other night out on the road alone? Are you supposed
to be mad or false? I don't know what they're saying about
you to-day in Arnay-le-Duc and Ornis; to-morrow they'll say
what I want them  to....You'd better submit without conditions. I don't intend to abuse my power; you will only be
my prisoner, a prisoner well watched."....Then he added,
"Why haven't we a child? It would be a guarantee for me;
it would answer for your silence."




282          YOSEPI'  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
These words seemed more terrible to Marguerite than all that
she had heard before. "Ah! sir," she cried, "yesterday I
was in my father's house; I knew only too well the future that
awaited me here, and a single word would have saved me;
why did I not speak that word?"
He answered with a bitter smile, " Do you want me to admire your generosity? If you did not speak, it was because I
was there and you were afraid of me."
She hid her head within her hands. What she felt was
neither anger nor fear; it was that horrible loathing of life
and of men, which every one experiences who has a true and
noble soul, and finds that it is of no use to him, such merchandise having no value in this world. When she uncovered
her face, her husband was standing before her, looking at her
with an expression that made her shudder. She rose in terror.
He gazed at her in silence for a moment longer; then taking
up other thoughts, he rudely turned his back upon her and retired to his room.
He walked there for a long time, absorbed in thought, looking carefully at his new position, passing in review his hopes
and fears. He wanted air.  Toward two o'clock, he opened
one of his shutters, and leaned upon the window-sill. Suddenly a stone passed over his head and struck against a mirror, which was broken by the violence of the blow. M. D'Ornis leaned out and thought he saw a figure flying through the
garden.  He closed his blind and picked up the stone, about
which was wrapped the following note:
"I have become possessor of the paper which you wrote on
the night of the 26th of February, 1867. If to-morrow morning you have not left Ornis to return only at your wife's request, the next day the imperial attorney at Beaune shall receive my visit.                        JOSEPH NOIREL."
With a whirling brain, M. D'Ornis sank down upon a chair;
he was still there when morning came. Like a tired swimmer
who thinks he feels the ground beneath his feet, but whom the
waves seize and carry back again, so scarcely had he seen his
deliverance approaching, when it escaped him, leaving him a




YOSEPH NOIREL'S IRf VENGE.                 283
prey to dark despair. That terrible paper, which bore witness
against him, had seemed for a moment to be within his grasp;
now he had learned that it was in the hands of a man who
could not be bought. What did this man want? He, himself,
seemed to know too well; he evidently nourished within his
breast a love and hate which he had determined to gratify at
any cost.  He could reason with Bertrand; he could not reason with Joseph, a madman and an amorous fool....
When M. D'Ornis had at last shaken off his gloomy stupor,
the first idea that came to him was to run after Joseph, to take
him by the throat, and kill him. The second was to kill Marguerite: was not she the one who had plunged him into this
abyss? He did not tarry long over these mad thoughts: his reason overcame his rage, and prudence gained the day.  He silenced his pride, and determined, after considering the question
in all its bearings, to set out at once for Paris, not without the
idea of returning, not without cherishing the hope of a speedy
and terrible revenge. Joseph's note, which he read again and
again, seemed to breathe a candor almost childish in its insolence; from it he augured favorably for the success of his
plans. " Good!" he thought, "I will leave these imprudent
lovers a clear field; then I will surprise them in my own good
time, and hold them thereafter in my power."
He rang for his valet, sent him to pack his trunks and to order a carriage, left some money to settle a few open accounts,
wrote two or three words to be given to his wife after his departure, and, at ten o'clock precisely, started for Blaizy-Bas,
the nearest railway station on the road to Paris.




CHAPTER  XLIV.
JOSEPH REVEALS HIS SECRET.
Joseph Noirel had returned in haste from Geneva to Ornis
where he arrived at midnight, almost fainting from fatigue and
hunger. As soon as he had swallowed a few morsels of bread,
he glided into the little garden, whence he saw a light and heard
a confused murmur of voices in Marguerite's room. He succeeded in climbing upon a shed near by. A few disconnected
words and scattered phrases fell upon his ear; he readily guessed the rest. Sliding to the ground, he picked up a stone, fastened a note to it, waited an opportunity, and at last his missive
sped to its address.
The next morning, he was in the little wood when the carriage that contained Count D'Ornis passed over the road to
Blaizy-Bas. Hidden behind some bushes, the branches of
which he pushed aside, he cast a look of triumph on this carriage which had thus obeyed him. He experienced a transport
of joy; his success exceeded his anticipations. He looked
down upon his hands with proud complacence; he had promised to make them rulers over fate, to place puppets under
their control: he had kept his word.
Pushing his way into the wood, he cut off an ash branch,
from which he made himself a stick to take the place of the one
he had broken the night before. With this stick, which he
kept whirling in his hand, he struck the bushes as he walked
along, cutting down those branches which projected over the
path. He thus moved on, whistling and singing, leaving behind him a pathway strewn with twigs and leaves. I do not
know what he was thinking of, or what this slaughter meant to
him. Perhaps he thought he saw certain heads at the ends of
the branches which his stick struck down. History does not




JOSEPH  NOIREL'S REVENGE.                 285
state of what use this carnage was, nor whether the bushes were
the better for it.
When his murderous joy at length had ceased and his reason
had returned to him, he suddenly grew thoughtful. He gained
the most retired part of the wood, as though to surround with
impenetrable silence the council which he was preparing to
hold with himself. Finding an old stump lying on the ground, he
sat down upon it and remained there more than an hour, leaning forward and digging into the ground with his cane, while
his mind was working at a thought. What was he going to
do? He did not yet know, himself, but he wanted to know at
once. He questioned himself. he deliberated, he consulted.
Two days before a man had said to him, " Can it be that Joseph
Noirel has dared to raise his eyes on Marguerite Mirion?"
And that man had given him a blow. As he thought of it, the
blood mounted to his cheek, his eyes shot fire, a serpent was
biting at his heart. In the great debate which his good and
his evil genius held before him, the advocate of pride and vengeance, that advocate who is always pleading in evil causes,
made terrible use of that cruel blow. He referred to it with
touching eloquence, and unfortunately he addressed himself to
one in love. It is an easy matter to pass from one folly to another. Nevertheless, when Joseph rose to go to Marguerite,
he had not yet determined what to do.
He passed over the bridge, rapidly crossed the park, and,
without the least precaution, went straight toward the room
from which he had once been ordered away by the old Countess. As he entered it by one door, Marguerite came in by the
other. She gave a cry on seeing him, and running toward him
said, "Are you the one who has worked this miracle?"
Marguerite had passed the night in constant dread, fearing
each moment that her door would open again. The morning
had come, and her fears, more cruel than all her previous sufferings, had not been dissipated. What should she do? The
most reasonable project she had formed was to fly, to go
straight on, not knowing whither, and, if she could succeed in
finding the end of the world, to engage herself as a servant to




286          7OSEPHT  NOIREL'S REVEyNGE.
some laborer, on the sole condition that no one should ever
call her by her name.  This was her thought when a note
from M. D'Ornis was handed her, which read as follows: " I
have decided to go away; I shall proceed first to Paris. I
will return whenever you express a desire to see me again. If
you wish to write me, address your letter to the Grand-Hotel."  She read a dozen times those two lines which informed
her of this unexpected deliverance.  It was her nature to give
herself up entirely to the impressions of the moment.  The
good news which she had just received caused her, for some
hours, to forget all her troubles, all the gloom and misery of her
life. The poor child was like a gambler who seats himself before the table with his pockets full of gold and jewels; he has
lost all and is ruined, when on going out, he sees an old copper
in the road; he picks it up and carries it to his lips: that poor
coin takes the place of hope and happiness. In fact, Marguerite felt herself thenceforth capable of loving that gloomy
castle, where fate had placed her without hope of escape, for
she could come and go in her prison without meeting the face
that terrified her, without speaking to or answering it, without
having to defend herself against it in her sleep.
As she entered the room, Joseph was astonished at her rosy
cheeks and sparkling eyes; she seemed to have recovered her
former beauty.  This flower, which bent beneath the fierce
glare of the sun, needed only a drop of dew to raise it up
again.  She made him  sit down and talk with her, without
for an instant thinking that they might be surprised. Her
liberty had been restored to her; could she make a better use
of it? Joseph told her all he had said and done during the
last ten days. She was greatly confused and agitated on learning that he knew all; she quickly reassured herself, however,
saying that he belonged to her, that she could depend on him
as on herself.
When he had finished his recital, she scolded and thanked
him at the same time for the risks that he had taken for her;
then she cried, " What an abyss my destiny is!  If any one
had predicted, six months ago, that such a fate awaited me,




yOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.              287
how I should have ridiculed the story! It seems to me that I
was born for an entirely different purpose, to lead an uneventful life, made up of days when I could sing and nights when I
could sleep. God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, they
say. What am I, to be thus beaten by the storm? I believe
that there is some mistake, that the Lord has taken me for
some one else, and has sent afflictions which were never intended for me.  Oh! that the world may never know the
truth concerning this! They may say what they please of
me; I will not defend myself, I will die before making any accusation. I should be filled with terror if any one but you
possessed my secret; but what have I to fear from you? If
called upon, you would help me to be silent."....Then she
added, " Such trials as still await me, I shall bear with greater
courage when I think of the friend who has been so kind and
devoted to me. He would have healed all my wounds, if
they had not been incurable. Alas! he is about to leave me;
perhaps he still dreams of going to America....But now I
think of it, you told me once that when we met again, you had
certain plans to tell me of and to ask my advice about. My
head is clear to-day; during the last two hours I have recovered the power of putting two ideas together. Profit by this
opportunity to consult me. You also have a secret. I hope
it's a happier one than mine i"
The supreme hour had come.  Joseph's face grew pale.
Two roads were open to him. Which should he take? At
the end of one he saw a mournful, arid desert; the other conducted to a precipice. He covered his eyes with his hand.
Like a judge upon the bench, he rapidly summed up the arguments of the opposing counsel whom he had listened to in
the wood. His trouble constantly kept increasing. "Ah! I
ought not to have seen her again," he thought.
Marguerite looked at him in astonishment. She began to
grow uneasy. " Is it so hard to tell?" she asked.
He raised his head.  "You promised me," he cried,
"that whatever I might tell you, you would not be angry."
"I will keep my promise," she answered. " How can I be




288         yOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VELNGE.
angry with you?  Still, if you think.... Yes, perhaps it would
be better to say nothing..  "
He rose and started as though to leave the room; then, falling back upont a chair, he said in a trembling voice, "This is
my secret I My feelings toward you have never been those of
friendship.... I have been mad enough to love you, I love you
madly now."
Marguerite hid her face within her hands, and in her turn
grew pale. " How terrible!" she murmured.  They remained
for some time motionless; they dared not look upon each other.  "How terrible!" she repeated.  He opened his eyes at
length; what he saw  recalled his courage.  Marguerite's
trembling lips expressed neither scorn nor anger; her face and
attitude betrayed simply her confusion, the disorder of a mind
surprised by an unforeseen event. A visitor who is not expected enters suddenly, and nothing is prepared for his reception.  What shall be done with him?  What room shall be
allotted him?  All is hurry and excitement, and confusion
reigns supreme.
Joseph gave Marguerite no time to recover from her bewilderment.  In a hurried voice, he told his story: the commencement of his love, all that he had suffered, all that he had
dreamt, his illusions, his vain hopes, that ploughed field which
he had crossed holding her in his arms, that little slipper
which he had hidden in a drawer, the evenings which he had
spent stretched out upon the floor talking with shadows, all
that he had felt on learning that another had been bold enough
to love her, and that her beauty was to become this robber's
prey, his passion, his despair, the broken ring, the diamonds
thrown into the stream.... She did not wish to hear him, and
yet she listened.  It was the first time she had heard the music of love, and when that strolling musician sings at the door,
a young heart, that has never heard him, can not be kept back
from the window. Marguerite could not understand herself.
"I am  listening  without interrupting  him," she thought.' What change has taken place in me?"... It seemed to her
that within her was a double nature-a nature at the same time




7OSEPZI NOIREL'S RE VENGE.               289
old and young; two souls, one of which had lived through
centuries during the last few months, while the other had but
just been born. Her former nature had been beaten by misfortune, which had ceaselessly struck upon it, night and day,
as the blacksmith strikes upon his anvil; it was now bent and
useless, and was astonished at finding by its side a new heart
which had never yet been moved, and which felt all the curiosity and wonder of life's first hour. It had been awakened
from its slumber by a serenade, and instinctively had run to
listen to that harp which sung and wailed and moaned, mingling with the sweetness of its harmonies harsh and jarring
notes, and strange and bitter cries. "You come too late," she
said to it; "I am no longer gay. Why did you not awake me
sooner?"....As Joseph hurried on, Marguerite moved her
hand to stop the impetuous torrent of his words; but this motion, although begun, ceased of its own accord. Her conscience reproached her, being roused by her calm demeanor.
She answered, " Why should I stop him? This will soon be
over, and we will think no more about it."
Scarcely had he ceased to speak when, encouraged by her
silence and the dreamy look he saw upon her face, he threw
himself at her feet, and, looking wildly at her, caught one of
her tresses in his hands and pressed it passionately to his lips,
crying, " Oh! I love you! I love you!" This act and these
words brought Marguerite to herself. Like those princesses
in the fairy tales, who are enchanted by one genie, while another breaks the spell, she recovered her power of action, her
reason, and her voice. She gently pushed him back, and,
standing before him with a reproachful and commandinglook,
she motioned him to rise.
He obeyed, but with a frown. She saw gathering within his
eyes one of those clouds which, growing as by miracle, herald
the sudden explosion of a storm. " I have offended you!" he
cried with bitterness.
" Offended?" she replied. " I promised you that I would
not be angry; but I pity you and pity myself. I have suffered
every trial. I had a friend, and I am about to lose him! I can




290         yOSEPfI NOIREL'S'RE VENGE.
not see him nor speak to him again. Why did they not cut off
my hair? You would then have been cured of your passion,
and I should possess your friendship. Or rather why did you
not speak to me when I was free? My mother often said, when
I was a little girl, that I never guessed or invented any thing,
but that I readily received the ideas of others. You ought to
have explained yourself, to have given me that idea, to have
pointed out the way, saying,'It is possible.' I should have
followed you, and perhaps we should have surmounted every
obstacle, and I should not be here, in this prison, in this solitude. To-day I am not free. Would you have me prove those
slanders true? When M. D'Ornis accused me, and I reproached him for speaking falsely, was he telling the truth, and I a lie?
Where is he now? We have driven him from his home, and
are profiting by his absence.... What has just occurred seems
like treason to me, and I am pained that the walls about us
should have seen and heard you. No, Marguerite Mirion will
never forget that by a cruel decree of fate she has become
Countess D'Ornis. Whether she loves or hates, the absent
are always sacred to her."
He did not understand her: he thought that she was trying
to recall to him the distance that there was between them.
The storm-cloud burst. In a harsh and cruel voice he cried,
"I'm a greater fool than I thought I was. I imagined that you
were different from those who brought you up, and I laid at
your feet my heart, my dreams, and my workman's blouse.
Your father, the other day, treated me like a beggar. He gave
me to understand that you also scorned me, and, as I seemed
to doubt him, he struck me on the cheek; you have just struck
the other. It's all right; the beggar has received his due."
With these words, in spite of her efforts to appease and detain him, he gained the door and hastened away, without turning his head to look at her again.




CHAPTER XLV.
THE LAST FRIEND PROVES FAITHLESS.
This scene threw Marguerite into a deep and settled melancholy. It was too much for her to bear.  The man who had
espoused her cause, the only living being who wished her well,
had just broken with her, and had left her forever, wounded
unto death, breathing forth threatenings and accusations.
Each coming day taught her a new mode of suffering. It seemed to her that there was yet hidden in her life an abundance of
misfortune, and that the cruel smith, multiplying his blows,
would not cease to strike upon the anvil till she was quite destroyed. A thought which suddenly crossed her mind increased her perplexity. Joseph had departed without leaving her
those dangerous papers which he had brought for her. He had
kept them in his hands which were trembling with anger.
What would he do with them? She trembled as she thought
of the evil counsel which despair might give to a wounded and
savage soul. She tried to reassure herself by thinking that this
soul was loyal, that after this transient storm it would grow calm
and listen to the voice of reason. "Undoubtedly he will write
to me," she said; " I will answer him, and, while trying to
console him, will ask for those two papers; he will not refuse
to give them to me." What did she propose to do with them?
She had determined to destroy them. Of what use could this
arm be to her? She did not intend to defend herself. Assailed by the wind on every side, her poor bark, leaking and dismantled, was drifting on to hopeless shipwreck. The oar was
useless now. Nothing remained for her to do but to lie down
quietly and let herself be driven by the storm.
The next day she received a letter from Mme. D'Ornis.




292         yOSEPEF  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
"What have you done with my son, madam?" her mother-in
law wrote, "and what inexplicable power do you exert over
him? Was I not right in objecting to his marriage? From the
first day, I foresaw the consequences of that rash experiment.
Matters are progressing faster than I expected, though.  I do
not understand what has occurred between you, and I never
want to understand it. I can not help noticing, however, that
my son voluntarily leaves his home in order to give you perfect
freedom. Such an example of generosity stands by itself in the
whole history of marriages. Henceforth the house belongs entirely to you; you receive visits there which are very strange
and somewhat compromising; every one to their taste as regards their company and friendships. I did not know that Roger
was so accommodating; but you seem able to work miracles.
May Castle D'Ornis prove an agreeable place to you! I am
much mistaken, or you will finally believe that you are there at
home. "
While reading this letter, which she tore in pieces as soon as
she had finished it, Marguerite felt tears of indignation starting to her eyes; she held them back by an effort of her will.
"Am I not to believe this house is mine?" she cried. " If I
did not think so, where should I go?" The evening before she
had walked to the end of the village for the sake of the exercise and change of scene. On every side she heard low whisperings; each one nudged his neighbor as she approached;
even the little children, who were eating their porridge in the
doorway, hid their faces in their bowls as she drew near, and
quickly lifted them again as soon as her back was turned, to
stare with wonder at this gray wolf, this great beast of the
Apocalypse.  Marguerite resolved never again to set her foot
in Ornis, to walk nowhere excepting in her park. She owned
this park in the same sense that a prisoner owns his prison, and
an unhappy person his misfortune.
New sorrows kept coming to her poor heart, either small or
great, ridiculous or tragic. A week after her husband had departed, she received from her parents a letter of at least ten
pages. Her father informed her that his meeting with Joseph




yOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VEGE.                  293
had made him ill, that for a week he had not left his bed.  He
now rose from it to reproach her in the strongest terms for her
unpardonable imprudence and indiscretion.  " It is absolutely
necessary," he added, "that we should have an explanation of
this mystery. If you wish to regain our affection, you must
make a full confession, omitting nothing, and not trying to palliate your fault." Mme. Mirion then came to the charge, and
addressed to her daughter a sermon in three parts, in which she
called her attention to her duty toward her husband, her duty
toward herself, and her duty toward her family and country,
representing to her in the style of Mme. De Sotenville that she
was a Genevese, that is to say, of a race too virtuous to ever permit
itself to commit an act by which its honor might be wounded.
The good lord came last; he did not lose any thing, howevera fair share of space was allotted him.  Marguerite could not
read this letter through; she could not bear these horrible commonplaces, with their heartless morality and asphyxiating catechism, which rained on her devoted head at a time when she was
exerting  all her strength  to  stand  erect.   Thenceforth
Mon-Plaisir was no  more  to  her than  Ornis.  Whither
should she go? Whichever way she turned, she saw nothing
but impossibilities, obstructed pathways, and forbidden doors.
But these miseries were nothing when compared with the
torments which Joseph's letters caused her. After ten days of
silence, he had begun to write her every day. He had found a
lodging place in a suburb of Arnay-le-Duc, whither M. Bertrand, happy to get rid of him so cheaply, had sent at his request his workman's certificate, and the other articles which he
had left at Lyons. Turning a deaf ear to every thing about
him, Joseph was working for a wheelwright; his apprenticeship
had been short, he already understood the trade.  Unfortunately, he employed a portion of his nights in scribbling, and these
scribblings made Marguerite despair.  They were composed of
complaints, tendernesses, adorations, and passionate entreaties,
interspersed with objurgations no less pathetic, with irony, with
bitter sayings, mingled with which were endless arguments on
what he called the great injustice of society, anathemas against




294          JOSEPI  NOIR2EL'S REVENGE.
the spirit of caste and the narrow-minded bourgeois, lyric and
wordy apostrophes to the people, to the proletary, to the workman, that eternal victim, that eternal pariah. These grand
words and phrases served to cover here and there certain vailed
threats, which appeared beneath this frothy rhetoric like the
rocks beneath the surface of the wave.
Marguerite had the double misfortune of having to read
these letters and to answer them; add to this her constant
fear lest one of these missives should go astray or be intercepted. She endeavored to calm Joseph, to pacify him by every
means which her tormented mind suggested; reduced to extremities like a besieged town, she had recourse to all manner of
expedients. After having appealed in vain to the reason of her
passionate solicitor, after having declared a hundred times that
there was neither pride nor scorn in her refusal, that for her
there were no pariahs, and that she loved him as a brother, she
appealed to his generosity; she besought him, she adjured
him, she begged for mercy. She wrote one morning: " I had
a dream the other night. I was at Mon-Plaisir, I was just sixteen. You entered suddenly in my dream, and said to mother;'I love her, I want her for my wife.' She immediately placed
my hand in yours, and you kissed me, saying,'We will live
together in an attic, and we will work, she with her needle, I
with my plane, for she is to be a workman's wife.'....I
thought I saw that attic, and I felt such a thrill of joy, that I
awoke and wept."  This recital and the comments which she
added to it had a contrary effect to what she intended; she was
throwing oil upon the fire.  Clear and  intelligent as was
Joseph's mind, and though he had learned the wheelwright's
trade at once, there was one thing he could never understand:
he knew not what a scruple was, and, having but an intermittent conscience, he had little faith in the conscience of another.
Marguerite's chief thought and care was to obtain from him
those two papers. Her uneasiness increasing day by day, she
demanded them with tears and cries; he pretended not to notice this, and never referred to it in his replies.  She wrote to
him: " If you will send me those papers, I will write you that




.OSEP'I  NOIR'EL'S RE VENGE.              295
I love you, and you can show my letter to the world."  He
still turned a deaf ear to her. She then began to comprehend
that his determination was irrevocable, that she could not move
him, that there was a bargain to be made, that all her reproaches and appeals were beating against a wall, and that in
trying to save herself, she had simply changed her master and
the form of her misfortune.
A new suspicion increased still more her cruel agony. She
could no longer doubt that her maid was in the service of the
enemy; this girl was constantly at her side, always watching
her, following her about, entering her room without permission.
Suddenly, as though new instructions had been given her, she
relaxed her vigilance and pretended to avoid her mistress.
Marguerite inferred from this that they had determined no longer to keep a check upon her movements, but to leave her free to
commit some indiscretion. She questioned Fanny; her embarrassed answers not satisfying her, she dismissed her, and
took in her place the daughter of the old paralytic whom she
had cared for, and who had remained faithful to her. About
the same time she made another observation. At the end of
the park was a spot from which the old Countess's house was
visible.  Marguerite noticed that there were two windows in
this house, the blinds of which were always closed. Was
some one concealed behind those blinds? How great was her
emotion when in the midst of one of her sleepless nights, having heard footsteps in the garden and softly opened her blind,
she thought she saw gliding along the orangery a man who,
in form  and manner, resembled M. D'Ornis! The evening
before Joseph had written her that he often escaped from
Arnay after supper, and wandered during the night about the
castle. At the mere thought that these two ramblers might
meet each other, Marguerite felt her blood freeze in her veins.
She feared lest one should kill the other, or, if he should fail,
lest the other, released from his promise, should carry his terrible threats into execution. These two alternatives both filled
her with alarm; the second, which seemed most probable, terrified her most. Her husband's words, " If ever I come to an




296         JOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.
unhappy end, it will be your work," were constantly resounding in her ears; she repeated them again and again, by day
and by night.
From that moment, she had not an hour's rest. At times,
she shook and trembled like a leaf. Soon she felt moving in
the deep confusion of her soul a thought, vague and obscure at
first, but little by little taking consistency and shape. This
thought or shape seemed like a monster to her. Her heart
would not acknowledge this enormity; it cried out against it
when it first appeared, but finally was silent. In certain situations, the soul soon becomes familiar with such monsters.




CHAPTER  XLVI.
AN APPEAL FOR MERCY.
A few days later, Marguerite received from Joseph a sealed
letter, which she turned for some time in her fingers before
daring to open it; she had a presentiment that it contained her
fate. Finally she broke the seal and read it. It was short,
containing only the following words:
"My strength and reason are both exhausted; I have resolved to end my life. There is nothing to keep me longer in
the world; my mother died two weeks ago, I received the news
this morning. But I do not intend to die without being revenged, or rather without avenging that innocent man whom a
criminal allowed to die in his place. I am working here; I
shall be free in a few days, and will set out for Beaune, where
I will see a certain person I need not name. I have a right to
do this; if I can believe my eyes, the tacit promise which was
made me has been broken. It is possible that you may have given your consent, but mine has not been asked. So justice shall
be done before I die. My resolve is fixed, do not try to change
it; you might as well reason with a stone. And yet, if you
had wished it otherwise,....but you do not wish it. Henceforth I am only a judge and executioner."
Marguerite walked for some time up and down her room
with this letter in her hand; then she sat down and leaned her
head against the bed. She remained for two hours in that
position, so motionless that it seemed doubtful whether she
breathed at all.  She held a last deliberation with herself. She
looked at all those doors which were closed against her, she
timidly tried those inexorable bolts which refused to give her
passage.  Death alone was possible; but could she quit the




298         J7OSEP'I AOIe'RELE'S RE VENrGE.
world and leave those papers there behind her?  Must she
not, at any price, carry them with her to the tomb? H-er new
maid twice entered the room while she was thus absorbed in
thought, and twice approached to speak to her without securing her attention.  Her silence and immobility filled the good
girl with tenror, and she retired on tip toe, as much startled as
though she had seen a corpse.
At the end of two hours, Marguerite rose, and running to
her desk, rapidly traced the following reply:
" I, also, have my folly, and you must make yours conform
with it.  I have made my decision; like you, I wish to bid
farewell to life. This is my proposition: you must give up
your plans of vengeance, and I will pass a day with you in
some place which I shall indicate, and the evening of the same
day we will die together.  Do you accept?"
She ran her eyes over what she had written, and with a convulsive laugh, she cried, "That is the monster!"  The letter
remained for half a day upon her table. From time to time,
she read it over, asking if it was really herself, if it was Marguerite Mirion who had written those four lines. Then she
passed her whole life in review, in order to convince herself
that the person who had been sitting by that table and who
had dipped her pen into that inkstand was the same who, in
former days, joyous and happy as a bird, had related to her
dearest friend all the innocent secrets of her boarding-school,
and who afterwards had, for three years, filled with her laughter a country-house called Mon-Plaisir.  Improbable as it
seemed, there was an identity between the two. " How could it
be otherwise?" she said in a low tone. " We are at the mercy
of events, events beget monsters, and misfortune is a horrible
toothed wheel; if it catch you only by the finger, it will soon
draw in your arms and head.  Whose fault is it?  I was a
good girl, I asked only to be good, my intentions were the best,
I did not know that good intentions were scourges and snares;
one day, with the most honest purpose in the world, I committed an imprudent act, and this act led me to an abyss. Then I
escaped as best I could, and now I am writing and sending let



JOSEPIZ  NOIREL'S REVENGE.                299
ters, and there are carriers who bear them away without knowing that what they are holding in their hands contains the honor and the life of Margot." Such was her story; thus she had
commenced, thus also she was about to finish, and it all was
linked together, it could not have been otherwise. This letter
was the necessary solution, the inevitable dedizoment of the
tragedy. She sent it in the afternoon.
The next day she received an answer, which ran thus: "Yes,
yes, a thousand times times yes. To die with you, what joy!"
She sent the following reply:' I have your promise and you
have mine. I ask for four or five days in which to make
necessary arrangements; at the end of that time I will
write and make an appointment with you; but you must agree
not to leave Arnay during these five days, and you also must
not write to me. If you fail to keep these conditions, our
agreement will be ended."
Why did she ask for this delay? Apparently because she
was twenty-one, and because at that age one has the divine instinct of hope, because one insists in believing in the unforseen, in the miracles of chance, in the saving event which may
come to-morrow; in order to give it time to come, one puts off
the evil day. Marguerite usefully employed these days of grace
which she had not been able to deny herself. A short time before she had been taken sick, in order to fill up the long solitary
days, she had formed the plan of sending to the daughter of
her father's farmer a complete Burgundian costume, which consisted of a tulle bonnet, gathered in behind and furnished with
a ruche, a jacket of red silk, a black collar from which hung a
silver cross, a short full skirt of black rep, and a pair of figured
stockings and buckled shoes. She had already made the bonnet, and cut out the waist and skirt; but the brain-fever had
interrupted her, and the unfinished garments had been laid away
in a closet. Marguerite took them out and set to work to finish them, fitting them to her own form.  This work kept her
constantly employed.
A new alarm caused her to hasten her preparations.  She
had acquired that unnatural acuteness of hearing which is some



300         yOSEPHT  NOIREL'S REVENGE.
times caused by uneasiness and fear.  One night she thought
she again heard footsteps in the garden, and this time, the
moon shining brightly, she distinctly recognized M. D'Ornis,
who was moving toward the orangery, where he remained concealed for about two hours.  She rose early the next morning,
put every thing in order, and burned all her letters and her papers; then she sat motionless for a long time in the corner of
the room, her head bent forward and resting on her knees.
She was talking in a low voice, she was saying, " Thou, who
knowest all, wilt thou not pardon me? Thou knowest that I
am doing the best I can, that I can not do otherwise. I have
sought and have not found. What a life has mine been! Thou
knowest my days and nights, my sorrows, my repentance, and
my fears. Thou knowest that I can not remain here, and that
no other place is open to me.  That is nothing though. That
man whose wife I am, who could accuse me of having sought
his life, and could say,' My blood be upon thee!.... that is
what terrifies me. Yes, I committed a fault, a serious fault; I
ought to have kept my trouble and unhappiness to myself. I
did wrong to trust in friendship. Why was I not taught to believe in nothing, to think that every thing on earth is false?
Now I must expiate my fault.  If any thing else is possible,
tell me now, I pray thee, before it is too late. Dost thou not
hear me? I know that thou dost hear, although I speak so
low: this is a secret between me and thee, and no one else
must hear us.  If thou dost not answer, I will speak still
louder; but my cry must reach thee, wherever thou mayst be.
Thou knowest all things; thou knowest that, in my happy
days, the beggars that I met had scarcely to move their lips. I
understood them before they spoke." She stopped here, her
voice was choked with sobs; a moment after, she again began
to speak to the eternal silence.
Finally, she felt that this door, the last at which she had
knocked, also refused to open; that He to whom she spoke
would answer neither yes nor no, that He would leave her free,
reserving the right to judge her. Then she took the final step.
She sat down at her writing-table, and it seemed as though her




yOSEPHI NOIREL'S REVENGE.                  301
pen ran over the paper of its own accord without the aid of
hand or will.
" The time has come.  I have a desire to die near Geneva,
in a village built on the slope of a hill from which Mon-Plaisir
is visible. We were there three years ago; you accompanied
us in our walk. It was Easter-Sunday. I now and then helped
you to carry the lunch-basket. You passed your cane through
the handles of the basket; you took hold of one end and I of
the other.  The cane broke, but the basket was not hurt.
My memory fails me; I can not recall the name of the
village; you surely will remember it.  Go there and wait for
me. You shall see me coming day after to-morrow morning,
by a lovely road that runs in zig-zags, and passes through a
certain hamlet..... My memory has entirely deserted me.....
Yes, now I know, the hamlet is called Perly-Certoux. This
name has come to me, but not the other."
Then, without letting the ink dry on her pen, she wrote the
second letter as follows:
" I am going to Geneva. Do not be disturbed. I will speak
of you to no one.  I will see no one except a man who has
promised to kill me, and afterwards kill himself. When you
read these lines, you will have neither wife nor enemy; and,
without its having cost you any thing, the paper you know of
will have been destroyed. I swear it shall be so; for once in
your life believe me."
She sealed these two notes; then ringing for her maid, whom
she knew she could depend upon, she gave the letters to her,
directing her to send the first one immediately to the post, and
to give the other the next evening to Mme. D'Ornis.  She
then told her that she was going to Paris to be absent for some
time, and ordered her to pack her trunk, naming piece by piece
the various articles she wished to take. After that she kissed
her, and slipped into her hand a box containing a bank-note
for a thousand francs, requesting her not to open it till after
she had left. It seemed to her that she could not recompense
sufficiently this fidelity of the last hour.
About ten o'clock she was riding in a carriage on the road to




302        O7SEPH  NOIREL'S REVENEGE.
Blaizy-Bas. Her coachman leaned back to ask her where she
wished to stop? "At Blaizy-Bas," she answered.
" My lady is going to Paris?"
"I said so once, I think," was her reply.
When she had reached the railway station, she ordered him
to return as soon as his horses had had some oats. While
they were eating, with their heads bent toward the trough, a
singular thought came to her; she kissed each of them tenderly on the white star on their foreheads. These horses were
hers, and had never caused her any trouble; such a miracle
called for a reward. Then she entered an inn near the station,
engaged a room, and, while waiting for the Paris train, opened
her trunk, took out the tulle bonnet, the red jacket, the short rep
skirt, the figured stockings, and the buckled shoes. She spent
some time at her toilette, and was well satisfied with her appearance when it was finished. As soon as she had passed about her
neck the black collar and the silver cross, she placed in her trunk
the garments she had just taken off, and throwing a large cape
over her shoulders, started for the waiting-room. The people
at the inn who saw her pass gazed at her in astonishment; she
paid no attention to them; she cared little for such gazing now.
She arrived at Lyons in the evening.  She did not leave until the afternoon of the next day. It is probable that what she
saw at the end of her journey terrified her, and that, by a last
effort of nature, she sought to gain a little time. Besides, was
it not necessary that she should allow time for that master of
ceremonies, whom Death had chosen, and had sent before her
to a village to prepare the feast? Marguerite reached Geneva
toward midnight. She stopped at the hotel which was nearest
to the station.
At daybreak she wrote a letter to her uncle, in which, without
mentioning any facts or accusing any one, she told him of her
supreme determination, and begged him  to seek for her body
the next day in the village of Confignon: this name had finally
returned to her.  She thanked him for having been the only
one who had believed her innocent. She begged him to continue
to believe that, notwithstanding appearances, she was more de



JOSEPHI  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.               303
serving of pity than of blame, and that the determination she
had taken was the result of a terrible fatality. In a postscript,
alluding to one of the favorite expressions of the worthy man,
she added, " Life is a great chosier in which there are more
things than young girls can understand. What I have found
there has given me a horror of living. Fortunately this great
sack is open at one end, and we can leave it when we will."
She slipped this letter into her pocket, and then left her baggage with the proprietor of the hotel, telling him that in a few
days she would send for it. This being done, she took a carriage and started on her way. Her route took her past MonPlaisir, the inhabitants of which seemed to be asleep. She
stopped at the entrance of the road leading to Perly-Certoux,
and paid her driver, who afterward testified that he noticed at
the time that she had a singular look. She made a mistake in
counting her money, confusing the gold pieces with the silver.
Finally, she became impatient, and gave the driver all the
money in her hand



CHAPTER  XLVII.
A DISASTROUS TRIUMPH.
The road that Marguerite followed is bordered with oak-trees
and quick-set hedges. After making several turns, it slopes
gently toward a stone bridge thrown across a stream, which is
called the Aire. On arriving at the bridge, you have before
you a village built on the side of a hill, and surrounded by black
walnut-trees. On either side runs the stream, its green waters
bubbling over the pebbles which form its bed, while aspentrees and willows line its banks.  Marguerite saw neither the
village nor the stream; she saw nothing but Joseph standing
on the bridge. It was her destiny which there awaited her;
she did not try to escape; she moved directly toward him.
Joseph looked at her as she approached with some surprise,
scarcely recognizing her in her disguise, which was displeasing
to him. Doubtless the tulle bonnet and short dress enhanced
her beauty; but it was not exactly the Marguerite whom he
expected, the one whom he had seen in his dreams, and whom
he had sworn to possess. His displeasure soon vanished, however; his mind was occupied with more serious thoughts.
He fell on his knees in the centre of the bridge, and cried
with a voice which seemed to come from his inmost breast,
"Your father is right; I am a villain.  Spurn me from you as
I deserve. I made an infamous proposition to you, and I have
used violent means to obtain your consent. Here are the two
papers; do what you please with them.  I release you from
your promise."
As he finished speaking, she shook her head, and a bitter
smile crossed her lips. There was but one thing left for her
to do, to choose the manner of her death.  She preferred the
knife, and determined soon to tell him so. In the mean time,




JOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                305
she eagerly seized the papers, and, asking Joseph to give her
a match, she lit them and threw the burning fragments into the
air, the wind bearing their ashes to the stream. Leaning upon
the parapet, she watched them as they disappeared. Now she
could die, she had made reparation for her fault; there was
nothing more for her to do.
The pathway which they entered follows the course of the
Aire, and leads into a wild and desolate country. Since they
last had met, an event had taken place, which, although the
world has had plenty of time to become accustomed to it, always appears as wonderful as a miracle; I refer to the coming
of the spring. It was now the latter part of April, and the first
renewal of the face of nature, with all its uncompleted graces,
had begun.  Some trees were already covered with a light
foliage which promised rather than gave a shade, and which
allowed the eye to wander through the woods and to lose itself
in the far distance. The hedges were white with the freshly
opened hawthorn blossoms; in the orchards near the villages
the peach-trees were covered with pink clouds. The willows
bent their light green branches toward the stream, and newly
springing plants were mingled with old mosses. The first verdure of the poplars could just be seen; these tardy ones, who
were hurrying on, fearing to miss this happy time, seemed to
reproach their sap for moving slowly. The black walnuts and
the plane-trees had not yet begun to blossom; the oaks had
not even shaken off their dead leaves, and gazed as in a dream
at the bright fresh grass, the green bushes, the sudden appearance of the violets which were springing up at their feet, whose
subtile perfume surprised them in their slumbers. Every
where Life was defying Death, and Death itself experienced a
secret desire to live again. These two children, who were
about to die, did not think of greeting the eternal Caesar, that
omnipotent Nature, whose sovereign will sports with its creatures, brings them  forth but to destroy them, and, warming
again their cold ashes, causes a new progeny to spring forth,
They walked beside the river, and, while absorbed in thought,
passed by this festival without perceiving it. Sometimes, their




306          yOSEPH  iVOIREL'S REVENGE.
eyes met, and then they shuddered.  One was filled with grief,
remorse, and expectation; the other felt her destiny weighing
heavily upon her, and thought she heard within the woods the
frightened beating of a heart which was kept in motion only by
its fears. God knows that there was nothing in the woods except the spring, which was now calling its orchestra together,
and except the birds, who, knowing of its coming, hastened to
try their voices and attune their instruments, without ever
dreaming that misfortune was passing near them. What had
these artists, in their divine abstraction, to do with such a
stranger?
At noon, Joseph left Marguerite in the retreat which they had
chosen; he went to the village for some food, for they had determined not to die of hunger. When he had reached the top
of the hill, he stopped at a spot from which he could see the
valley, on one side Geneva with the three towers of its cathedral, on the other Mon-Plaisir with its avenue of pear-trees.
He remained for some time motionless, his hair streaming in
the wind, his glance scanning the entire valley. He wished to
exhibit the pride which sparkled in his eyes, the intoxication
of his triumph, his cheek which had forgotten the blow it had
received, his hands which seemed to grasp their prey.  He
flattered himself that he had conquered fate, that he had secured that happiness which had been so rudely denied him, and
that this happiness would avenge him for all the scorn he had
received.  He had only one regret, which, however, was a serious one: no one seemed to know what he had done.  He
wanted to cry in clarion tones:'She is mine."  He wanted  to  be heard  at Mon-Plaisir and at Geneva, so that
at the one place they should cry with rage, and at the other
toss their caps in air, as a sign of joy and triumph; he wanted the Jura and the Alps to be informed of his adventure. The
truth is he persisted in believing that he had undertaken a great
work, that he had begun a revolution, and that he had given
the signal for the long-delayed revenge of the oppressed.
He finally reached the village inn, procured a loaf of fresh
bread, a few slices of cold meat, a cake, a bottle of white wine,




yOSEPI NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                 307
two forks, two plates, and a single glass, placed them all in a
basket, and, with this basket on his arm, hastened back to the
banks of the Aire, to the solitude where he had left Marguerite.
He found her lying on the grass asleep. He sat down near her
respecting her slumber.  Now and then her lips moved, and
her fingers nervously grasped the silver cross which was hanging from her neck. She was dreaming; it seemed to her that
just as she was leaving Ornis, Death, moved with pity, had transported her, without a struggle and without pain, to a world
where there were no castles, nor garrets, nor orangeries, where
she saw no Bertrand, no Count D'Ornis, no Joseph, to a divine world where there was no thought nor care, where she
could sleep in peace-for what she most desired was to have no
one speak to her again, to recover from her weariness, to
drown her memories and her fears in deep oblivion. Leaving
the earth, her soul expanded, floating in an immense solitude and
infinite silence, which was interrupted only by soft strains of
mysterious music, sounding like the faint notes of an organ
far away.
Joseph finally grew impatient, and noisily struck his hands
together. She shuddered, opened her eyes, and found that she
had not left the earth, that she was lying on the bank of a
babbling stream, near a wood to which the wind was whispering her name, that she was not dead, that the knife still awaited her. She sat up suddenly with an angry look.  She was
still at the mercy of her illusions; like Life, Death also had deceived her. Her anger embraced the entire universe, but fell
chiefly upon Joseph. Why had he awakened her? why had he
not killed her in her sleep? She must then begin to live again.
She answered his questions with dry monosyllables, only
tasted of the food, and refused to drink the wine, perhaps
because there was but one glass. When the meal was finished, she quenched her thirst at the stream, joining her hands
together to form a cup.
Joseph mistook the cause of her irritation.  He thought
that on awakening a desire for life had come to her, that she
had felt her resolution waver, that she desired to change her




308         7OSEPH   zVOIRAEL'S RE VEANGE
purpose, and that she was angry because she had to make the
humiliating confession to him. He experienced a feeling of
unutterable joy, and, when she had seated herself at his side
again, he made known to her the hope which had been concealed within his breast.  " This isn't such a serious matter,"
he said in a tender voice.  "We will not die; life is too
sweet."
As she was silent, he continued, "Ah! you might have
known that I should never have accepted your proposition, if
I had not thought that you would repent of it." Then, opening his heart, he besought her to fly with him; he. painted in
glowing colors the happiness in store for them beyond the sea,
in America, in a house which he intended to build for her with
his own hands-their daily joys, his adoration, his devotion,
his tender love-how he would work for her, the wonders his
ten fingers would perform, those fingers which were worth a
fortune to him, and which would gain that fortune for her.
" Do those die who love and whom happiness awaits?" he
cried.  " What is death that we should think of it?"  As he
spoke thus, he tore from the ground handfuls of fresh grass
and held them toward her.
She let him finish; then looking fixedly upon him, she asked in a dry and abrupt tone, " Do you suppose that I am happier to-day than I was yesterday?"
These terrible words recalled him from the sky, and completely demolished the castle he had built; he began  to
re-build it again, however; he was not a man to yield so
quickly.
She interrupted him, saying, "You may as well understand
the truth: you hate the bourgeois, I owe you aconfession; I
feel that I am a bourgeoise in my entire nature. I have but
little heart, I am narrow-minded; I was brought up in that
way. The only happiness which tempts me is the happiness
of a bourgeois, and, besides, I have the peculiar ideas of my
class; what we care most for is to be thought well of.  How
can it be otherwise?  We are so constituted that we must
have the esteem of those about us. I would rather die a doz



yOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                309
en times than to hear it said some day,'People think that
she's his wife, but she really is his mistress.' You will answer me that over there no one will know, that we can tell
them what we please, and they will believe us. But there
comes in another of my prejudices: I have a holy horror of a
lie, and I could not be untruthful for three days in succession,
without loathing myself and the man who forced me to it!"
He was filled with anger; the hot blood mounted to his
face, and fierce threats rose to his lips. He gave himself up
to the most violent passion. Perhaps he thought this would
frighten Marguerite; what now had she to fear? She laughed
aloud and said, " Good! take vengeance on this bourgeoise;
kill her in your mad fury; that is the best thing for you to do.
Where is your knife?"
Joseph felt his anger suddenly depart; he began to weep, to
beg for mercy, to tear his hair, to kiss Marguerite's feet, to call
her by her name again and again. She was inflexible, inexorable; she repeated the words which he had written: "You are
talking to a stone." At last he understood that he could effect nothing, that his tears and cries could not change her resolution, that he had cruelly deceived himself, that his happiness
was but a dream, and that his punishment had now begun.
He fled into the woods, where he remained for more than an
hour, walking about, out of his mind, stumbling over rocks
and striking himself against the trees. His pride was dead;
in his broken heart remained only an incurable grief, a nameless despair, a hopeless love which was terrified by the promise he had made and by the blood he was about to shed. He
thought for a moment of killing himself then and there, in order to escape the horror of seeing her die; but his soul was
strong even in its weakness-his promise must be kept.  He
submitted to his fate, his heart beat more calmly, and passing
from  the woods, he returned to Marguerite, whom he found
motionless in the place where he had left her.
She received him kindly; her usual voice and manner had
returned.  She said as she held out her hand, "I do not reproach you; who are we that we should struggle against fate?




310        JOSEPH  NOIREL'S REVENGE.
I have always had confidence in your courage and your promises. Otherwise I should not be here."  She permitted him
to again seat himself at her feet and to repeat all the tender thoughts with which her beauty and their unhappy fate
inspired him. She listened to him indulgently, or, I should
rather say, with the fixed attention of a person who desires to
master something she can not understand; he spoke to her in
a strange tongue, and in what he said there were many things
which her good sense could not explain. She finally confessed this fact, but with so much tact and gentleness that he
could not be offended. A moment afterward he became silent and thoughtful; he had learned since morning that he
was under the influence of an illusion. He had thought himself alone with Marguerite; a third accompanied them; it
was Death, who, standing near her, covered her with his dark
shadow.
They rose and walked about the woods. At nightfall a
shower came on. They began to run, and Joseph went ahead
to prepare a fire. He did not notice that, on entering the village, Marguerite had met the postman who was taking the
letters from the box to carry them to Geneva, and had quietly
handed him the one which she had written in the morning.




CHAPTER  XLVIII.
THE LAST ACT OF THE TRAGEDY
The night before, Joseph, not finding any rooms vacant
at the inn, had applied to an old peasant who owned a very
respectable house, two rooms of which he rented to city
people who wished to spend the summer out of town. As it
was early, the rooms had not yet been taken, and Joseph engaged them both, telling the good man that he had just been
married, that his wife had gone to see some relatives in Savoy,
that she would soon return to him, that he wished to pass the
honeymoon like a gentleman, and, his means permitting it, to
work no more till it was over.
As Marguerite appeared in the doorway, their host was
throwing an armful of vine cuttings on the fire. How very familiar he was! "What a handsome girl!" he cried. Then he
added as he drew two chairs before the fire, " The lovers must
sit down and dry themselves."  At these words Marguerite
frowned; there are moments when false notes are very painful
to the ear. She became nervous and somewhat cruel.
The old man, although he could not see very clearly, was
struck by the whiteness of her hands. " Where did you find
that girl?" he said to Joseph.  "Those hands have never
touched a frying-pan."
" Do you think so?" she replied. "Give me some eggs;
I'll make an omelette for you."
He took her at her word. She cut her parsley very fine, beat
her eggs up in an earthen dish, and melted her butter in the
frying-pan. The omelette was ready in a trice, and strange to
say it tasted well. During supper Marguerite kept up her
part; she boasted to their host of her housekeeping abilities.
explained to him how she would take care of her house, and




312         yOSEPH  NOIREL'S PRE VENGE.
described it in detail with all its furniture and cooking utensils. She was in haste to take possession of it; life is so
sweet when love is in the heart. What happy parties they
would have on holidays and Sundays! what dinners spread
upon the grass! They would start at daylight, stop and drink
cream at the cottages on the road, and in the evening return,
tired with their journey, but cheerful, happy, and contented.
"How long will that last?" the peasant asked. "Youth
passes quickly."
" Mine will not die before I do," she answered.
At that moment they heard the singing of a bird. " A nightingale!" she cried with a sudden start. The old man began
to laugh, and told her that the nightingales never came before
the middle of May. She insisted that she had just heard one,
and, as he still contradicted her, she became excited.
"I will maintain to my last hour," she answered, " that I
heard a nightingale to-day."
Joseph, with his head resting on the back of a chair, seemed
absent from the world and did not speak a word. His silence
was an abyss into which Marguerite's words dropped one by
one, like stones whose fall is heard as they strike the bottom of
a chasm.
She rose and, touching him on the shoulder, said, " The time
has come, let's go up-stairs."
He rose mechanically to his feet, and, taking a candle, went
up the stairs. He looked like a walking statue. Before following him, she turned toward their host and said, " We are
two fools, who will give you a great deal of trouble, perhaps;
I want to pay you for it in advance."
And, approaching him, she put three gold pieces in his hand.
He looked at her with a bewildered air; but the gold pieces
pleased him, and he took them from her.
When she reached the room, Joseph, who had just placed
the candle on the table, fell on the floor like one dead. He remained there for a long time, biting his hands and sobbing bitterly. She sat down in a chair in front of him; she tried to
comfort him, she chided him. He prayed for mercy, he no




yOSEPIH NAOIREL'S REVENGE.                 3 1 3
longer asked for years, he begged for days, for hours, for minutes.  Then she told him that she had written two letters.
"To-morrow a man, it may be two, will come for me," she
said. " I want them to find me dead and cold."
At these terrible words, he rose upon his knees.  A cold
sweat poured from his face, his mouth was writhing, his agony
was depicted on his brow. "After all," she said, "your misfortune is not so great. You may be sure that you would never
have been satisfied with me. You are very romantic, my poor
friend, and I am not so in the least. Strong passions and deep
emotions were never meant for me.  When you spoke of your
love just now, I told you that I could scarcely understand you,
I have loved many things, but I have never worshiped any
one, I do not think it would be possible for me.  I am simply
a very quiet and very ordinary person, and, this time I say
it without anger, I am a bourgeoise at heart; I was born to
live, like nearly all the world, far away from adventures and
from storms.  The storms have come and have beaten upon
me, and I have now an intense loathing of life.  A  little
good sense and a great deal of gayety, that is what Marguerite
Mirion was. What is left of it all, to-day?.... I have suffered
so much that my heart has been slowly eaten away. There
is no more oil in the lamp; it flickers and its flame is dying
away; it is better to blow it out at once."
He was not in a condition to understand her; but her gentle
accent and the music of her voice soothed his despair, which
finally passed away. Seeing her so calm, so strong in courage,
he was overcome with shame, and after remaining a few minutes
motionless, with his face buried in his hands, he rose and said,
" I am ready; I will do whatever you wish."
She thanked him earnestly, and then a last strange fancy took
possession of her. In passing through the village, she had
noticed an open barn, where the carpenters were at work. She
asked Joseph to go there and get some shavings for her.  He
hastened to the spot, and soon returned with the shavings in his
llouse. When she saw these friends of her early days entering the room, she smiled.  She took off her hood, let her hair




314         7OSEPH  NOIREL'S REVENGE.
fall upon  her shoulders, and, after tenderly kissing the
shavings, wove them  into a crown, which she placed upon
her head. There was a broken mirror at the other end of the
room; she walked over to it, looked at herself, and admired
her new head-dress. Turning toward Joseph she said, " Is it
not true that carpentry is the king of all the arts and trades,
and that we will die faithful to our early love?"
He did not answer.  He could no longer live except in
silence; it seemed to him that his courage and his life were at
the mercy of the first word that he spoke. She came back to
him; changing her tone, she said, "I have been very harsh
to you, to-day; I have given you much pain. Forgive me, as
I forgive every one on earth."
Then, taking his head between her hands, she gently kissed
his brow. Immediately afterward she bared her breast. " Now
is the time!" she said. He opened his knife. He was white
as a piece of marble, and before his eyes there floated a cloud
of blood, through which he saw Marguerite very small and far
away, as though he was looking at her through a telescope
reversed. He felt that his arm could never reach her. He
poured some water into a basin, plunged his head into it, and
rubbed his eyes. The cloud vanished; when he stood up
again, he saw clearly, his ideas were not confused. He knew
that he was there, that she stood before him, and that he was
about to kill her.
She spoke again. She was standing very straight, her back
resting against the wall. She was thinking of an old dancing
master, who had often tormented her at boarding-school. He
always said, " Stand up straight, mademoiselle, and keep that
left shoulder in, I beg of you."  By a mechanical movement
she drew in her left shoulder. Joseph raised his arm, but it
refused to strike because she was looking at him. In a broken
voice he begged her to close her eyes; her eyes prevented him
firom killing her. She did not close them, but she turned away
her head, and the last thing that she saw was an immense Castle
D'Ornis on the wall before her, which was spinning swiftly like
a top. Then she gave a feeble cry; Joseph had stabbed her to




yOSEPH  NOIREL'S RE VENGE.                 3 5
the heart, and with such a blow that death was instantaneous,
and not a drop of blood flowed from  the wound.  She sank
down heavily; he caught her in his arms, gazed for a long time
into her face, and assured himself that she was dead. Then
he took her up and laid her on the bed, by the side of which he
stood for a long time, arranging her hair, fastening her jaclket,
and smoothing out her dress. At intervals, he kissed her feet;
but his eyes were dry, he could not shed a tear.
The remainder of the night he spent in scribbling; this
had always been a mania of his.  He wrote a letter of twenty pages to the workman with whom  he had gone to Fossaz
on the day of Marguerite's marriage. Faithful to his oath, in
this rambling and incoherent letter, he spoke only of himself,
sometimes to boast of what he had done as a great and noble
act, sometimes to accuse and revile himself as a villain and
a murderer;  his epistle ended with a formal dissertation
on the social question, in which a few sparks of good sense
were dimly visible through dense clouds of smoke. The last
line ran thus: " Workmen, when will come the day, in which
you shall be the masters of your masters?"
His candle, which was nearly burnt away, suddenly went out.
He waited for the dawn; he did not wish to die without seeing
again his idol and his victim.  As soon as a dim light began
to fill the room, he approached the resting place of what had
once been Marguerite. He opened her eyes again and asked
himself what there was within them; then he pressed his lips
on those cold lips which could not speak to him; he strove to
draw a last breath from them, as though to make her say she
loved him. The light increased.  He wound his left hand in
the bright tresses which had won his heart, and plunged the
knife three times into his breast. When the room was entered,
he was breathing still; a moment afterward, he was no more.
Uncle Benjamin arrived two hours later.  On entering the
blood-stained room, his surprise was as great as his despair.
M. D'Ornis had preceded him, and, leaning over the bodies,
had just finished searching their pockets which were turned in~~YC  nu r~rrr~uvr vrL~ rvr  u rvr  I —z-~ 




316         J'OSEPHI  NOIREL'S RE VE NGE.
side out.  It appears that he had met the driver of the carriage
which Marguerite had taken. Some also pretend to say that he
had followed her without her knowledge, and that, if he had
wished, he might have intercepted her the day before; but this
has not been proved.  Since that time lie has not been seen;
it iS impossible to discover what has become of him, or whether
he has had the pleasure of learning that M. Bertrand, after
selling all his property, had departed suddenly for Brazil. The
adventure at the ditch and Joseph's face and form as he leaned
against the cross had left an indelible impression on the mind
of this mediocre rascal. On his arrival at Rio Janeiro, he told
some one that an accident had happened which had disgusted
him with Europe.
At Mon-Plaisir, they are disgusted not only with Europe, but
with every thing; they still gather pears in autumn, but there
are no more roses to be seen in spring. Mlle. Baillet, who has
become very devout, pretends that Marguerite had read some
novels without her mother's knowledge. Cousin Grillet is more
than ever convinced that the world is full of thorns; she scarcely dares to take a step. Mme. Mirion has not been able to bear
her sorrows. For six months she did not pronounce her daughter's name; on her death-bed, she felt her mother's heart awakening again; she said to her pastor, who was at her bedside
during her last moments, " My pastor, I am sure that in her
heart she was innocent, and that that villain laid a trap for her;
I am going to meet in heaven that poor dear Countess." Since.M. Mirion has become a widower, Uncle Benjamin has returnecl to live with him. He is proud of having been chosen by
Marguerite to receive her last farewells; but he is wrong in
sometimes saying, " Didn't I tell you so?"
Marguerite Mirion's story, the mystery surrounding which
has never yet been cleared away, caused a prodigious sensation
at Geneva.  For some weeks it was the chief topic of conversation-in fact, they talk about it still. Some are without pity
for M. and Mme. Mirion, whom they accuse of being the real
authors of the calamity. "That is what you might expect,"
they say, "' from the spirit of intrigue and ambition."- In other




JOSEPH  AOIREL'S CRE VENrGE.               317
circles, Marguerite is blamed, the most virulent anathemas are
hurled against her, and she is reproached as being destitute of
principle and religion.  Those who are more thoughtful or better informed consider, on the contrary, that there are in this
world, as Marguerite wrote one day, terrible fatalities, and that
it is a wise man's part sometimes to suspend his judgment.
Among the workmen there are many who look upon Joseph as
a hero: he might have been a hero, but he failed; he belonged to a very dangerous race.








TAIN E'S
Notes on England.
Translated by W. F. RAE.
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