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THE COMEDY OF HUMAN LIFE 
 By H. DE BALZAC 
 
 SCENES FROM PARISIAN LIFE 
 
 FERRAGUS, CHIEF OF THE DEVORANTS 
 THE LAST INCARNATION OF VAUTRIN 
 
BALZAC'S NOVELS. 
 
 Translated by Miss K. P. Wormeley. 
 
 Already Publislied: 
 PERE GORIOT. 
 DUCHESSE DE LANGEAIS. 
 RISE AND FALL OF CESAR BIROTTEAU. 
 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 COUSIN PONS. 
 THE COUNTRY DOCTOR, 
 THE TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 THE ALKAHEST (La Recherche del'Absolu). 
 MODESTE MIGNOK. 
 
 THE MAGIC SKIN (La Peau de Chagrin). 
 COUSIN BBTTE. 
 LOUIS LAMBERT. 
 BUREAUCRACY (Les Employes). 
 SERAPHITA. 
 
 SONS OF THE SOIL (Les Paysans). 
 FAME AND SORROV^ (Chat-qui~pelote). 
 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY, 
 URSULA. 
 
 AN HISTORICAL MYSTERY. 
 ALBERT SAVARUS. 
 BALZAC : A MEMOIR. 
 PIERRETTE. 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 LOST ILLUSIONS. 
 A GREAT MAN OF THE PROVINCES IN 
 
 PARIS. 
 THE BROTHERHOOD OF CONSOLATION. 
 THE VILLAGE RECTOR. 
 MEMOIRS OP T'WO YOUNG MARRIED 
 
 WOMEN. 
 CATHERINE DE' MEDICI, 
 LUCIEN DE RUBEMPRE. 
 
 FERRAGUS, CHIEF OF THE DEVORANTS 
 • 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 
 BOSTON. 
 
hONORE DE BALZAQ. .. 
 
 TKANSLATKD BY 
 
 KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY 
 
 FERRAGUS, 
 CHIEF OF THE DE'VORANTS 
 
 THE LAST INCARNATION OF 
 VAUTRIN 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS 
 
 3 SOMERSET STREET 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 1895 
 
GIFT OF 
 
 /)c "Thct 
 
 Copyright, 1895, 
 By Roberts Brothers. 
 
 All rishts reserved. 
 
 5Snibfr2itji |)rcs0 : 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. 
 
Dl 
 
 v^ 
 
 jc B/Ay 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Thirteen men were banded together in Paris under 
 the Empire, all imbued with one and the same senti- 
 ment, all gifted with sufficient energy to be faithful to 
 the same thought, with sufficient honor among them- 
 selves never to betray one another even if their interests 
 clashed ; and sufficient!}' wily and politic to conceal 
 the sacred ties that united them, sufficient!}' strong 
 to maintain themselves above the law, bold enough 
 to undertake all things, and fortunate enough to suc- 
 ceed, nearly alwa3's, in their undertakings ; having 
 run the greatest dangers, but keeping silence if de- 
 feated ; inaccessible to fear ; trembling neither before 
 princes, nor executioners, not even before innocence ; 
 accepting each other for such as they were, without 
 social prejudices, — criminals no doubt, but certainly 
 remarkable througli certain of the qualities that make 
 great men, and recruiting tlieir number on!}' among 
 men of mark. That nothing might be lacking to the 
 sombre and mj'sterious poes}' of their histor}', tliese 
 Thirteen men have remained to this day unknown ; 
 
 7962^ 
 
vi Preface. 
 
 though all have realized the most chimerical ideas 
 that the fantastic power falsely attributed to the Maii- 
 freds, the Fausts, and the Melmoths can suggest to 
 the imagination. To-da}-, they are broken up, or, at 
 least, dispersed ; the}' have peaceabl}^ put their necks 
 once more under the yoke of civil law, just as Morgan, 
 that Achilles among pirates, transformed himself from 
 a buccaneering scourge to a quiet colonist, and spent, 
 without remorse, around his domestic hearth the mil- 
 lions gathered in blood by the lurid light of flames and 
 slaughter. 
 
 Since the death of Napoleon, circumstances, about 
 which the author must keep silence, have still farther 
 dissolved the original bond of this secret societ}', always 
 extraordinar}', sometimes sinister, as though it lived in 
 the blackest pages of Mrs. Radcliffe. A somewhat 
 strange permission to relate in his own way a few of 
 the adventures of these nien (while respecting cer- 
 tain susceptibilities) has onh' recently been given to 
 him b}' one of those anonymous heroes to whom all 
 societ}' was once occult!}^ subjected. In this permis- 
 sion the writer fancied he detected a vague desire for 
 personal celebrit}'. 
 
 This rnan, apparently still young, with fair hair and 
 blue eyes, whose sweet, clear voice seemed to denote a 
 feminine soul, was pale of face and mysterious in man- 
 ner ; he conversed affably, declared himself not more 
 
Preface. vii 
 
 than forty years of age, and apparent!}' belonged to 
 the very highest social classes. The. name which he 
 assumed must have been fictitious ; his person was 
 unknown in society. Who was he? That, no one 
 has ever known. 
 
 Perhaps in confiding to the author the extraordinary 
 matters which he related to him, this mysterious per- 
 son may have wished to see them in a manner repro- 
 duced, and thus enjo}' the emotions they were certain 
 to bring to the heart of the masses, — a feeling analo- 
 gous to that of Macpherson when the name of his 
 creation Ossian was transcribed into all lang-uas^es. 
 That was certainly', for the Scotch law3'er, one of tiie 
 keenest, or at any rate the rarest, sensations a man 
 could give himself. Is it not the incognito of genius? 
 To write the '' Itinerary from Paris to Jerusalem " is 
 to take a share in the human glory of a single epoch ; 
 but to endow his native land with another Homer, was 
 not that usurping the work of God ? 
 
 The author knows too well the laws of narration to 
 be ignorant of the pledges this short preface is con- 
 tracting for him ; but he also knows enough of the 
 history of the Thirteen to be certain that his ^present 
 tale will never be thought below the interest inspired 
 b}' this programme. Dramas steeped in blood, come- 
 dies filled with terror, romantic tales through which 
 rolled heads mj'steriously decapitated, have been con- 
 
viii Preface. 
 
 fided to him. If readers were not surfeited with hor- 
 rors served up to tliem of late in cold blood, he might 
 reveal the calm atrocities, the surpassing tragedies con- 
 cealed under family life. But he chooses in preference 
 gentler events, — those where scenes of purity' succeed 
 the tempests of passion ; where woman is radiant with 
 virtue and beaut}'. To the honor of the Thirteen be 
 it said that there are such scenes in their histor}', which 
 ma}'^ have the honor of being some da}' published as a 
 foil to tales of filibusters, — that race apart from others, 
 so curiously energetic, and so interesting in spite of 
 its crimes. 
 
 An author ought to be above converting his tale, 
 when the tale is true, into a species of surprise-game, 
 and of taking his readers, as certain novelists do, through 
 many volumes and from cellar to cellar, to show them 
 the dry bones of a dead body, and tell them, by way of 
 conclusion, that that is what has frightened them be- 
 hind doors, hidden in the arras, or in cellars where the 
 dead man was buried and forgotten. In spite of his 
 aversion for prefaces, the author feels bound to place 
 the following statement at the head of this narrative. 
 Ferragus is a first episode which clings by invisible 
 links to the "History of the Thirteen," whose power, 
 naturally acquired, can alone explain certain acts and 
 agencies which would otherwise seem supernatural. 
 Although it is permissible in tellers of tales to have 
 
Preface. ix 
 
 a sort of literary coqiietr}^ in becoming historians, 
 thc}^ ought to renounce the benefit that may accrue 
 from an odd or fantastic title — on which certain slight 
 successes have been won in the present da}'. Conse- 
 quently, the author will now explain, succinctly, the 
 reasons that oblige him to select a title to his book 
 which seems at first sight unnatural. 
 
 Ferragus is, according to ancient custom, a name 
 taken b}' the chief or Grand Master of the Devorants. 
 On the day of their election these chiefs continue 
 whichever of the dynasties of their Order they are most 
 in sympatlu' with, precisely as the Popes do, on their 
 accession, in connection with pontifical dynasties. Thus 
 the Devorants have " Trempe-la-Soupe IX.,*' "Ferra- 
 gus XXIL," "Tutanus XIII.," " Masche-Fer IV.," 
 just as the Church has Clement XIV., Gregory VII., 
 Julius II., Alexander VL, etc. 
 
 Now, then, who are the Devorants? " Devorant" is 
 the name of one of those tribes of " Companions " that 
 issued in ancient times from the great mystical associ- 
 ation formed among the workers for Christianity to 
 rebuild the temple at Jerusalem. Companionism (to 
 coin a word) still exists in France among the people. 
 Its traditions, powerful over minds that are not 
 enlightened, and over men not educated enough to 
 cast aside an oath, might serve the ends of formidable 
 enterprises if some rough-hewn genius were to seize 
 
X Preface. 
 
 bold of these diverse associations. All the instruments 
 of this Companionism are well-nigh blind. From town 
 to town there has existed from time immemorial, for 
 the use of Companions, an '^Obade," — a sort of halt- 
 ing-place, kept b}^ a " Mother," an old woman, half- 
 g3'ps3', with nothing to lose, knowing everything that 
 happens in her neighborhood, and devoted, either from 
 fear or habit, to the tribe, whose straggling members 
 she feeds and lodges. This poople, ever moving and 
 changing, though controlled by immutable customs, has 
 its e3'es everywhere, executes, without judging it, a 
 Will, — for the oldest Companion still belongs to an 
 era when men had faith. Moreover, the whole bodj' 
 profess doctrines that are sufficiently true and suffi- 
 ciently mj-sterious to electrify into a sort of tribal I03'- 
 alty all adepts whenever they obtain even a slight de- 
 velopment. The attachment of the Companions to 
 their laws is so passionate that the diverse tribes will 
 fight sanguinary battles with each other in defence of 
 some question of principle. 
 
 Happily for our present public safet}', when a Devo- 
 rant is ambitious, he builds houses, lays b}' his mone}', 
 and leaves the Order. There is man}- a curious thing 
 to tell about the " Compagnons du Devoir " [Compan- 
 ions of the Dut}'], the rivals of the Devorants, and 
 about the different sects of working-men, their usages, 
 their fraternit}', and the bond existing between them 
 
Preface. xi 
 
 and the free-masons. But such details would be out 
 of place here. The author must, however, add that 
 under the old monarch}' it was not an unknown thing 
 to find a " Trempe-la-Soupe " enslaved to the king 
 sentenced for a hundred and one years to the galleys, 
 but ruling his tribe from there, religiousl}' consulted by 
 it, and, when he escaped from his galle}', certain of help, 
 succor, and respect, wherever he might be. To see its 
 grandmaster at the galleys is, to the faithful tribe, only 
 one of those misfortunes for which Providence is re- 
 sponsible, and which does not release the Devorants 
 from obeying a power created b}' them to be above 
 them. It is but the passing exile of their legitimate 
 king, always a king for them. Thus we see the roman- 
 tic prestige attaching to the name of Ferragus and to 
 that of the Devorants completelj' dissipated. 
 
 As for the Thirteen, they were all men of the stamp 
 of Trelawne}^ Lord Byron's friend, who was, they say, 
 the original of his " Corsair." They were all fatalists, 
 men of nerve and poesy, wear}' of leading flat and 
 empty lives, driven toward Asiatic enjo3'ments by 
 forces all the more excessive because, long dormant, 
 the}' awoke furious. One of them, after re-reading 
 " Venice Preserved," and admiring the sublime union 
 of Pierre and JafRer, began to reflect on the virtues 
 shown by men who are outlawed by society, on the 
 honest}- of galley-slaves, the faithfulness of thieves 
 
xii Preface. 
 
 among each other, the privileges of exorbitant power 
 which such men know how to win by concentrating all 
 ideas into a single will. He saw that Man is greater 
 than men. He concluded that societ}' ought to belong 
 wholly to those distinguished beings who, to natural 
 intelligence, acquired wisdom, and fortune, add a 
 fanaticism hot enough to fuse into one casting these 
 different forces. That done, their occult power, vast in 
 action and in intensit}', against which the social order 
 would be helpless, would cast down all obstacles, blast 
 all other wills, and give to each the devilish power of 
 all. This world apart within the world, hostile to the 
 world, admitting none of the world's ideas, not recog- 
 nizing any law, not submitting to any conscience but 
 that of necessit}', obedient to a devotion onl}', acting 
 with every facult}' for a single associate when one of 
 their number asked for the assistance of all, — this life 
 of filibusters in lemon kid gloves and cabriolets ; this 
 intimate union of superior beings, cold and sarcastic, 
 smiling and cursing in the midst of a false and puerile 
 societ}^ ; this certaintj' of forcing all things to serve an 
 end, of plotting a vengeance that could not fail of liv- 
 ing in thirteen hearts ; this happiness of nurturing a 
 secret hatred in the face of men, and of being always 
 in arms against them ; this ability to withdraw to the 
 sanctuary of self with one idea more than even the 
 most remarkable of men could have, — this religion 
 
Preface. xiii 
 
 of pleasure and egotism cast so strong a spell over 
 Thirteen men that the}' revived the society of Jesuits 
 to the profit of the devil. 
 
 It was horrible and stupendous ; but the compact 
 was made, and it lasted precisely because it appeared 
 to be so impossible. 
 
 There was, therefore, in Paris a brotherhood of 
 
 Thirteen, who belonged to each other absolutel}', 
 
 but ignored themselves as absolutel}' before the world. 
 
 At night the}' met, lil^e conspirators, hiding no thought, 
 
 disposing each and all of a common fortune, like that 
 
 of the Old Man of the Mountain ; having their feet in 
 
 all salons, their hands in all money-boxes, their elbows 
 
 in the streets, their heads on many pillows, and making 
 
 all things serve their purpose or their fancy without 
 
 scruple. No chief commanded them ; no one member 
 
 could arrogate to himself that power. The most eager 
 
 passion, the most exacting circumstance, alone had the 
 
 right to pass first. They were Thirteen unknown kings, 
 
 — but true kings, more than ordinary kings and judges 
 
 and executioners, — men who, having made themselves 
 
 wings to roam through society from deptli to height, 
 
 disdained to be anything in the social sphere because 
 
 they could be all. If the present writer ever learns 
 
 the reasons of their abdication of this power, he will 
 
 take occasion to tell them.^ 
 
 1 See Theophile Gautier's account of the society of the " Cheval 
 Rouge." Memoir of Balzac. Roberts Brothers, Boston 
 
xiv Preface. 
 
 Now, with this brief explanation, he may be allowed 
 to begin the tale of certain episodes in the history- of 
 the Thirteen, which have more particularly attracted 
 him by the Parisian flavor of their details and the 
 whimsicality of their contrasts. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 FERRAGUS, CHIEF OF THE DEVORANTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. Madame Jules 1 
 
 II. Ferragus 34 
 
 III. The Wife Accused 66 
 
 IV. Where go to Die? 105 
 
 V. Conclusion 155 
 
 THE LAST INCARNATION OF VAUTRIN. 
 
 I. The Two Gowns, Legal and Feminine . 185 
 
 II. The Man in Solitary Confinement and 
 
 in the Solitude of his Soul .... 201 
 
 III. The Pr^au of the Conciergerie, with an 
 
 Essay Philosophic, Linguistic, and Lit- 
 erary, on Thieves' Latin and Thieves 222 
 
 IV. His Majesty the Dab 239 
 
 V. The Condemned Cell 264 
 
 VI. Mademoiselle Collin appears upon the 
 
 Scene 289 
 
 VII. Madame Camusot pays Three Visits . . 306 
 
 VIII. The Sufferings of an Attorney-General 329 
 
xvi Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 IX. Crime and Justice Tete A Tete . . , 343 
 X. In which Jacques Collin prepares for 
 
 HIS Debut as a Comedian 359 
 
 XI. Messieurs les Anglais, fire first! . . 373 
 XII. Jacques Collin abdicates the Royalty 
 
 of Dab 386 
 
FERRAGUS, 
 
 CHIEF OF THE DEVORANTS. 
 
 TO HECTOR BERLIOZ. 
 
 I. 
 
 MADAME JULES. 
 
 Certain streets in Paris are as degraded as a man 
 covered witli infamy ; also, there are noble streets, 
 streets simply respectable, young streets on the mor- 
 ality of which the public has not yet formed an opinion ; 
 also cut-throat streets, streets older than the age of 
 the oldest dowagers, estimable streets, streets alwa3^s 
 clean, streets always dirt}'^, working, laboring, and 
 mercantile streets. In short, the streets of Paris have 
 every human quality, and impress us, b}^ what we must 
 call their ph3'siognom3', with certain ideas against which 
 we are defenceless. There are, for instance, streets of 
 a bad neighborhood in which 3'ou could not be induced 
 to live, and streets where you would willingly' take up 
 your abode. Some streets, like the rue Montmartre, 
 
 1 
 
" <M « « 
 
 '2 Fe?^ragus. 
 
 have a charming head, and end in a fish's tail. The 
 rne de la Paix is a wide street, a fine street, j-et it 
 wakens none of those gracefull}' noble thoughts which 
 come to an impressible mind in the middle of the rue 
 Ro3^ale, and it certainh' lacks the majest}^ which reigns 
 in the Place Vendome. 
 
 If 3'oa walk the streets of the lie Saint-Louis, do not 
 seek the reason of the nervous sadness that lays hold 
 npon you save in the solitude of the spot, the gloom}' 
 look of the houses, and the great deserted mansions. 
 This island, the ghost of ferTniers-generaux, is the 
 Venice of Paris. The Place de la Bourse is voluble, 
 bus}^ degraded ; it is never fine except b}' moonlight 
 at two in the morning. By da}' it is Paris epitomized ; 
 by night it is a dream of Greece. The rue Traversiere- 
 Saint-Honore — is not that a villanous street? Look 
 at the wretched little houses with two windows on a 
 floor, where vice, and crime, and miser}' abound. The 
 narrow streets exposed to the north, where the sun 
 never comes more than three or four times a 3'ear, are 
 the cut-throat streets which murder with impunit}' ; the 
 authorities of the present day do not meddle with 
 them ; but in former times the Parliament might per- 
 haps have summoned the lieutenant of police and 
 reprimanded him for the state of things ; and it would, 
 at least, have issued some decree against Ruch streets, 
 as it once did against the wigs of the Chapter of Beau- 
 
Ferr agios. 3 
 
 vais. And yet Monsieur Benoiston de Cliateauneuf 
 has proved that the mortaUty of these streets is double 
 that of others ! To sum up such theories by a single 
 example : is not the rue Fromentin both murderous 
 and profligate ! 
 
 These observations, incomprehensible out of Paris, 
 will doubtless be understood by musing men of thought 
 andpoes}' and pleasure, who know, while rambling about 
 Paris, how to harvest the mass of floating interests 
 which may be gathered at all hours within her walls ; 
 to them Paris is the most delightful and varied of 
 monsters : here, a pretty- woman ; farther on, a hag- 
 gard pauper ; here, new as the coinage of a new reign ; 
 there, in this corner, elegant as a fashionable woman. 
 A monster, moreover, complete ! Its garrets, as it 
 were, a head full of knowledge and genius ; its first 
 stories stomachs repleted ; its shops, actual feet, where 
 the busy ambulating crowds are moving. Ah ! what 
 an ever-active life the monster leads ! Hardlj' has the 
 last vibration of the last carriage coming from a ball 
 ceased at its heart before its arms are moving at the 
 barriers and it shakes itself slowly into motion. Doors 
 open ; turning on their hinges like the membrane of 
 some huge lobster, invisibly manipulated by thirty 
 thousand men or women, of whom each individual 
 occupies a space of six square feet, but has a kitchen, 
 a workshop, a bed, children, a garden, little light to 
 
4 Ferragus. 
 
 see b}^, but must see all. Imperceptibl}', the articula- 
 tions begin to crack ; motion communicates itself; the 
 street speaks. By mid-day, all is alive ; the chimne3's 
 smoke, the monster eats ; then he roars, and his thou- 
 sand paws begin to ramp. Splendid spectacle ! But, 
 O Paris ! he who has not admired your gloomy pas- 
 sages, your gleams and flashes of light, your deep and 
 silent cul-de-sacs^ who has not listened to 3'our murmur- 
 ings between midnight and two in the morning, knows 
 nothing as yet of 3'Our true poesj^, nor of your broad 
 and fantastic contrasts. 
 
 There are a few amateurs who never go their way 
 heedlessl}' ; w^ho savor their Paris, so to speak ; who 
 know its physiognomy so well that they see everj' wart, 
 and pimple, and redness. To others, Paris is alwa3's 
 that monstrous marvel, that amazing assemblage of 
 activities, of schemes, of thoughts ; the cit3' of a hun- 
 dred thousand tales, the head of the universe. But to 
 those few, Paris is sad or gay, ugl3^ or beautiful, living 
 or dead ; to them Paris is a creature ; every man, ever3^ 
 fraction of a house is a lobe of the cellular tissue of 
 that great courtesan whose head and heart and fantas- 
 tic customs the3" know so well. These men are lovers 
 of Paris ; the3' lift their noses at such or such a corner 
 of a street, certain that the3^ can see the face of a clock ; 
 the3' tell a friend whose tobacco-poucii is empt3', "Go 
 down that passage and turn to the left ; there 's a 
 
Ferragus. 5 
 
 tobacconist next door to a confectioner, where there's 
 a pretty girl." Rambling about Paris is, to these 
 poets, a costly luxur}-. How can they help spending 
 precious minutes before the dramas, disasters, faces, 
 and picturesque events which meet us everywhere amid 
 this heaving queen of cities, clothed in posters, — who 
 has, nevertheless, not a single clean corner, so complj'ing 
 is she to the vices of the French nation ! Who has not 
 chanced to leave his home early in the morning, intend- 
 ing to go to some extremity of Paris, and found himself 
 unable to get awa}' from the centre of it by the dinner- 
 hour? Such a man will know how to excuse this vaga- 
 bondizing start upon our tale ; which, however, we here 
 sum up in an observation both useful and novel, as far 
 as any observation can be novel in Paris, where there 
 is nothing new, — not even the statue erected j'esterday, 
 on which some 3'oung gamin has already scribbled his 
 name. 
 
 Well, then ! there are streets, or ends of streets, 
 there are houses, unknown for the most part to persons 
 of social distinction, to which a woman of that class 
 cannot go without causing cruel and ver}' wounding 
 things to be thought of her. Whether the woman be 
 rich and has a carriage, whether she is on foot, or is 
 disguised, if she enters one of these Parisian defiles at 
 any hour of the day, she compromises her reputation 
 as a virtuous woman. If, by chance, she is there at 
 
6 Ferragus. 
 
 nine in the evening the conjectures that an observer 
 permits himself to make npon her ma}' prove fearful in 
 their consequences. But if the woman is 3'oung and 
 prett}', if she enters a house in one of those streets, if 
 the house has a long, dark, damp, and evil-smelling 
 passage-wa}', at the end of which flickers the pallid 
 gleam of an oil lamp, and if beneath that gleam appears 
 the horrid face of a withered old woman with fleshless 
 fingers, ah, then ! and we sa}' it in the interests of 
 young and pretty women, that woman is lost. She is 
 at the mere}' of the first man of her acquaintance who 
 sees her in that Parisian slough. There is more than 
 one street in Paris where such a meeting maj' lead to 
 a frightful drama, a blood}' drama of death and love, 
 a drama of the modern school. 
 
 Unhappil}', this scene, like modern drama itself, will 
 be comprehended b}' only a small number of persons ; 
 and it is a pit}' to tell the tale to a public which can- 
 not enter into its local merit. But who can flatter 
 himself that he will ever be understood ? We all die 
 unknown — 't is the saying of women and of authors. 
 
 At half-past eight o'clock one evening, in the rue 
 Pagevin, in the days when that street had no wall 
 which did not echo some infamous word, and was, in 
 the direction of the rue Soly, the narrowest and most 
 impassable street in Paris (not excepting the least 
 frequented corner of the most deserted street) , — at the 
 
Ferragus. 7 
 
 beginning of the month of February about thirteen years 
 ago, a young man, b}' one of those chances which come 
 but once in life, turned the corner of the rue Pagevin 
 to enter the rue des Vieux-Augustins, close to the rue 
 Sol}'. There, this young man, who lived himself in 
 the rue de Bourbon, saw in a woman near whom he 
 had been unconscioush' walking, a vague resemblance 
 to the prettiest woman in Paris ; a chaste and delight- 
 ful person, with whom he was secretly and passionately 
 in love, — a love without hope; she was married. lu 
 a moment his heart leaped, an intolerable heat surged 
 from his centre and flowed through all his veins ; his 
 back turned cold, the skin of his head crept. He 
 loved, he was young, he knew Paris ; and his knowl- 
 edge did not permit him to be ignorant of all there 
 was of possible infam}' in an elegant, rich, 3'oung, and 
 beautiful woman walking there, alone, with a furtively 
 criminal step. She in that mud ! at that hour ! 
 
 The love that this young man felt for that woman 
 may seem romantic, and all the more so because he 
 was an officer in the Royal Guard. If he had been 
 in the infantry, the affair might have seemed more 
 likely ; but, as an officer of rank in the cavahy, he 
 belonged to that French arm which demands rapidity 
 in its conquests and derives as much vanit}' from its 
 amorous exploits as from its dashing uniform. But 
 the passion of this officer was a true love, and many 
 
8 Ferragus. 
 
 3'oung hearts will think it noble. He loved this woman 
 because she was virtuous ; he loved her virtue, her 
 modest grace, ber imposing saintliness, as the dearest 
 treasures of his hidden passion. This woman was 
 indeed worthy to inspire one of those platonic loves 
 which are found, like flowers amid blood}' ruins, in the 
 history of the middle-ages ; worthy to be the hidden 
 principle of all the actions of a young man's life ; a love 
 as high, as pure as the skies when blue ; a love without 
 hope and to which men bind themselves because it can 
 never deceive ; a love that is prodigal of unchecked 
 enjoyment, especially at an age when the heart is 
 ardent, the imagination keen, and the ej'es of a man 
 see ver}^ clearly. 
 
 Strange, weird, inconceivable effects ma}' be met 
 with at night in Paris. Onh* those who have amused 
 themselves by watching those effects have anj- idea 
 how fantastic a woman ma}' appear there at dusk. At 
 times the creature whom you are following, by accident 
 or design, seems to you light and slender ; the stock- 
 ings, if they are white, make you fancy that the legs 
 must be slim and elegant ; the figure though wrapped 
 in a shawl, or concealed by a pelisse, defines itself 
 gracefully and seductively among the shadows ; anon, 
 the uncertain gleam thrown from a shop-window or a 
 street lamp bestows a fleeting lustre, nearly always 
 deceptive, on the unknown woman, and fires the imag- 
 
Ferragics. 9 
 
 ination, carrying it far be3'oncl the truth. The senses 
 then bestir themselves ; ever3'thing takes color and 
 animation ; the woman appears in an altogether novel 
 aspect; her person becomes beautiful. Behold! she is 
 not a woman, she is a demon, a siren, who is drawing 
 3'ou by magnetic attraction to some respectable house, 
 where the worthy bourgeotse, frightened b}' 3'our 
 threatening step and the clack of your boots, shuts 
 the door in your face without looking at you. 
 
 A vacillating gleam, thrown from the shop-window 
 of a shoemaker, suddenlj' illuminated from the waist 
 down the figure of the woman who was before the 
 young man. Ah! surel3', she alone had that swaying 
 figure ; she alone knew the secret of that chaste gait 
 which innocentl3' set into relief the man3^ beauties of 
 that attractive form. Yes, that was the shawl, and 
 that the velvet bonnet which she wore in the mornings. 
 On her gra3' silk stockings not a spot, on her shoes 
 not a splash. The shawl held tighth' round the bust 
 disclosed, vaguely, its charming lines ; and the 3'oung 
 man, who had often seen those shoulders at a ball, 
 knew well the treasures that the shawl concealed. B3^ 
 the wa3^ a" Parisian woman wraps a shawl around her, 
 and the way she lifts her feet in the street, a man of 
 intelligence in such studies can divine the secret of 
 her mysterious errand. There is something, I know 
 not what, of quivering buoyanc3' in the person, in the 
 
10 Ferragus. 
 
 gait ; the woman seems to weigh less ; she steps, or 
 rather, she glides like a star, and floats onward led by 
 a thought which exhales from the folds and motion of 
 her dress. The young man hastened his step, passed 
 the woman, and then turned back to look at her. Pst! 
 she had disappeared into a passage-wa}', the grated 
 door of which and its bell still rattled and sounded. 
 The 3'oung man walked back to the alle}' and saw the 
 woman reach the farther end, where she began to 
 mount — not without receiving the obsequious bow of 
 an old portress — a winding staircase, the lower steps 
 of which were strongly lighted ; she went up buoj'- 
 antl}', eagerl}', as though impatient. 
 
 " Impatient for what? " said the young man to him- 
 self, drawing back to lean against a wooden railing on 
 the other side of the street. He gazed, unhappy man, 
 at the different store3's of the house, with the keen 
 attention of a detective searching for a conspirator. 
 
 It was one of those houses of which there are thou- . 
 sands in Paris, ignoble, vulgar, narrow, 3'ellowisli in 
 tone, with four store3's and three windows on each 
 floor. The outer blinds of the first floor were closed. 
 Where was she going? The young man fancied he 
 heard the tinkle of a bell on the second floor. As if 
 in answer to it, a light began to move in a room with 
 two windows stronglj' illuminated, which presenth' lit 
 up the third window, evidcntlv that of a first room. 
 
Ferragus. 11 
 
 either the salon or the dining- room of the apartment. 
 Instantly the outline of a woman's bonnet showed 
 vaguel}' on the window, and a door between the two 
 rooms must have closed, for the first was dark again, 
 while the two other windows resumed their ruddy 
 glow. At this moment a voice said, "Hi, there!" 
 and the young man was conscious of a blow on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Wh}' don't you pay attention?" said the rough 
 voice of a workman, carrying a plank on his shoulder. 
 The man passed on. He was the voice of Providence 
 saying to the watcher : " What are you meddling with? 
 Think of your own duty; and leave these Parisians to 
 their own affairs." 
 
 The young man crossed his arms ; then, as no one 
 beheld him, he suffered tears of rage to flow down his 
 cheeks unchecked. At last the sight of the shadows 
 moving behind the lighted windows gave him such 
 pain that he looked elsewhere and noticed a hackne}'- 
 coach, standing against a wall in the upper part of 
 the rue des Vieux-Augustins, at a place where there 
 was neither the door of a house, nor the light of a 
 shop-window. 
 
 Was it she? Was it not she? Life or death to a 
 lover ! This lover waited. He stood there during a 
 century' of twentj' minutes. After that the woman 
 came down, and he then recognized her as the one 
 
12 Ferragus. 
 
 whom he secretly loved. Nevertheless, he wanted 
 still to doubt. She went to the hackney-coach and 
 got into it. 
 
 " The house will alvva3's be there and I can search it 
 later," thought the .young man, following the carriage 
 at a run, to solve his last doubts ; and soon he did so. 
 
 The coach stopped in the rue de Eichelieu before a 
 shop for artificial flowers, close to the rue de Menars. 
 The lady got out, entered the shop, sent out the 
 money to pay the coachman, and presently left the 
 shop herself, on foot, after buying a bunch of mara- 
 bouts. Marabouts for her black hair ! The officer 
 beheld her, through the window-panes, placing the 
 feathers to her head to see the effect, and he fancied 
 he could hear the conversation between herself and 
 the shop-woman. 
 
 '• Oh! madame, nothing is more suitable for bru- 
 nettes : brunettes have something a little too strongly 
 marked in their lines, and marabouts give them just 
 that flow which the}' lack. Madame la Duchesse de 
 Langeais says they give a woman something vague, 
 Ossianic, and very high-bred." 
 
 " Very good ; send them to me at once." 
 
 Then the lad}' turned quickl}- toward the rue de 
 Menars, and entered her own house. When the door 
 closed on her, tlie young lover, having lost his hopes, 
 and worse, far worse, his dearest beliefs, w^alked 
 
Ferragus. 13 
 
 through the streets like a drunken man, and presentl}' 
 found himself in his own room without knowing how 
 he came there. He flung himself into an arm-chair, 
 put his head in his hands and his feet on the andirons, 
 drying his boots until he burned them. It was an awful 
 moment, — one of those moments in human life when 
 the character is moulded, and the future conduct of the 
 best of men depends on the good or evil fortune of his 
 first action. Providence or fatalit}'? — choose which 
 you will. 
 
 This 3'ouri^ man belonged to a good famih', whose 
 nobilit}' was not very ancient ; but there are so few 
 really' old families in these da3's, that all men of rank 
 are ancient without dispute. His grandfather had 
 bought the office of counsellor to the Parliament of 
 Paris, where he afterwards became president. His 
 sons, each provided with a handsome fortune, entered 
 the army, and through their marriages became attached 
 to the court. The Revolution swept the famil}^ away ; 
 but one old dowager, too obstinate to emigrate, was 
 left; she w^as put in prison, threatened with death, 
 but was saved b}" the 9th Thermidor and recovered 
 her property. When the proper time came, about 
 the year 1804, she recalled her grandson to France. 
 Auguste de Maulincourj the only scion of the Carbon- 
 non de Maulincour, was brought up b}^ the good dow- 
 ager with the triple care of a mother, a woman of rank, 
 
14 ^ Ferrag^is. 
 
 and an obstinate dowager. When the Restoration 
 came, the yonng man, then eighteen 3'ears of age, 
 entered the Maison-Rouge, followed the princes to 
 Ghent, was made an officer in the bod3'-gnard, left it 
 to serve in the line, bnt was recalled later to the Royal 
 Guard, where, at twentj^-three j^ears of age, he found 
 himself major of a cavahy regiment, — a splendid posi- 
 tion, due to his grandmother, who had played her cards 
 well to obtain it, in spite of his youth. This double 
 biograph}' is a compendium of the general and special 
 history, barring variations, of all the noble families 
 who emigrated having debts and property, dowagers 
 and tact. 
 
 Madame la Baronne de Maulincour had a friend in 
 the old Vidame de Pamiers, formerly a commander of 
 the Knights of Malta. This was one of those undying 
 friendships founded on sexagenary ties which nothing 
 can weaken, because at the bottom of such intimacies 
 there are certain secrets of the human heart, delightful 
 to guess at when we have the time, insipid to explain 
 in twenty words, and which might make the text of a 
 work in four volumes as amusing as the Doyen de 
 Killerine, — a work about which 3'oung men talk and 
 judge without having read it. 
 
 Auguste de Maulincour belonged tlierefore to the 
 faubourg Saint-Germain through his grandmother and 
 the vidame, and it sufficed him to date back two cen- 
 
Ferragus. 15 
 
 tiiries to take the tone and opinions of those who 
 assume to go back to Clovis. This young man, pale, 
 slender, and delicate in appearance, a man of honor 
 and true couraeje, who would fight a duel for a yes or 
 a no, had never yet fought upon a battle-field, though 
 he wore in his button-hole the cross of the Legion of 
 honor. He was, as 3'ou perceive, one of the blunders 
 of the Restoration, perhaps the most excusable of 
 them. The 3'outh of those da^^s was the youth of no 
 epoch. It came between the memories of the Empire 
 and those of the Emigration, between the old traditions 
 of the court and the conscientious education of the 
 bourgeoisie; between religion and fanc3^-balls ; be- 
 tween two political faiths, between Louis XVIII., who 
 saw onl3^ the present, and Charles X. who looked too 
 far into the future ; it was moreover bound to accept 
 the will of the king, though the king was deceiving and 
 tricking it. This unfortunate 3'Outh, unstable in all 
 things, blind and yet clear-sighted, was counted as 
 nothing b3^ old men jealously keeping the reins of the 
 State in their feeble hands, while the monarch3' could 
 have been saved by their retirement and the accession 
 of this Young France, which the old doctrinaires, the 
 etnigres of the Restoration, still speak of slightingly-. 
 Auguste de Maulincour was a victim to the ideas which 
 weighed in tliose days upon French youth, and we must 
 here explain wh3'. 
 
1 6 Ferragus. 
 
 The Vidame de Pamiers was still, at sixty-seven 
 years of age, a very brilliant man, having seen much 
 and lived much ; a good talker, a man of honor and a 
 gallant man, but who held as to women the most de- 
 testable opinions ; he loved them, and he despised 
 them. Their honor ! their feelings ! Ta-ra-ra, rubbish 
 and shams! When he was with them, he believed in 
 them, the ci-devant " monstre ; " he never contradicted 
 them, and he made them shine. But among his male 
 friends, when the topic of the sex came up, he laid 
 down the principle that to deceive women, and to carry 
 on several intrigues at once, should be the occupation 
 of those 3'oung men who were so misguided as to wish 
 to meddle in the affairs of the State. It is sad to have 
 to sketch so hackne3'ed a portrait, for has it not figured 
 everywhere and become, literallj', as threadbare as that 
 of a grenadier of the Empire? But the vidame had an 
 influence on Monsieur de Maulincour's destinj^ which 
 obliges us to preserve his portrait ; he lectured the 
 young man after his fashion, and did his best to con- 
 vert him to the doctrines of the great age of gallantr3\ 
 
 The dowager, a tender-hearted, pious woman, sitting 
 between God and her vidame, a model of grace and 
 sweetness, but gifted with that well-bred persistenc}^ 
 which triumphs in the long run, had longed to preserve 
 for her grandson the beautiful illusions of life, and had 
 therefore brought him up in the highest principles ; she 
 
Ferragus. 1 7 
 
 instilled into liim her own delicacy of feeling and made 
 him, to outward appearance, a timid man, if not a fool. 
 The sensibilities of the young fellow, preserved pure, 
 were not worn by contact without ; he remained so 
 chaste, so scrupulous, that he was keenly offended by 
 actions and maxims to which the world attached no 
 consequence. Ashamed of this susceptibility, he forced 
 himself to conceal it under a false hardihood ; but he 
 suffered in secret, all the while scoffing with others at 
 the things he reverenced. 
 
 It came to pass that he was deceived ; because, in 
 accordance with a not uncommon whim of destin}^, he, 
 a man of gentle melanchol}', and spiritual in love, 
 encountered in the object of his first passion a woman 
 who held in horror all German sentimentalism. The 
 young man, in consequence, distrusted himself, became 
 dreamy, absorbed in his griefs, complaining of not 
 being understood. Then, as we desire all the more 
 violently the things we find it difficult to obtain, he 
 continued to adore women with that ingenuous tender- 
 ness and feline delicacy the secret of which belongs to 
 women themselves, who may, perhaps, prefer to keep 
 the monopoly of it. In point of fact, though women 
 of the world complain of the way men love them, the}' 
 have little liking themselves for those whose soul is 
 half feminine. Their own superiorit}' consists in mak- 
 ing men believe the}^ are their inferiors in love ; there- 
 
 2 
 
18 Ferragus. 
 
 fore the}^ will readily leave a lover if he is inexperienced 
 enough to rob them of those fears with which the^' seek 
 to deck themselves, those delightful tortures of feigned 
 jealous}', those troubles of hope betrayed, those futile 
 expectations, — in short, the whole procession of their 
 feminine miseries. They hold Sir Charles Grandison 
 in horror. What can be more contrary to their nature 
 than a tranquil, perfect love? They want emotions; 
 happiness without storms is not happiness to them. 
 Women souls that are strong: enouo;h to brinaj infini- 
 tude into love are angelic exceptions ; they are among 
 women what noble geniuses are among men. Their 
 great passions are rare as masterpieces. Below the 
 level of such love come compromises, conventions, 
 passing and contemptible irritations, as in all things 
 petty and perishable. 
 
 Amid the hidden disasters of his heart, and while he 
 was still seeking the woman who could comprehend him 
 (a search which, let us remark in passing, is one of the 
 amorous follies of our epoch), Auguste met, in the 
 rank of society that was farthest from his own, in 
 the secondary sphere of raone}', where banking holds 
 the first place, a perfect being, one of those women 
 who have I know not what about them that is saintl}' 
 and sacred, — women who inspire such reverence that 
 love has need of the help of long familiarity to declare 
 itself. 
 
Ferragus. 19 
 
 Auguste then gave himself up wholly to the deliglits 
 of the deepest and most moving of passions, to a love 
 that was purely adoring. Innumerable repressed de- 
 sires there were, shadows of passion so vague yet so 
 profound, so fugitive and j'.et so actual, that one 
 scarcel}' knows to what we may compare them. They 
 are like perfumes, or clouds, or rays of the sun, or 
 shadows, or whatever there is in nature that shines for 
 a moment and disappears, that springs to life and dies, 
 leaving in the heart long echoes of emotion. When 
 the soul is young enough to nurture melancholy and 
 far-off hope, to find in woman more than a woman, is 
 it not the greatest happiness that can befall a man 
 when he loves enough to feel more J03' in touching a 
 gloved hand, or a lock of hair, in listening to a word, 
 in casting a single look, than in all the ardor of pos- 
 session given b}' happ}' love ? Thus it is that rejected 
 persons, those rebuffed b}' fate, the ugly and unfortu- 
 tunate, lovers unrevealed, women and timid men, alone 
 know the treasures contained in the voice of the be- 
 loved. Taking their source and their element from the 
 soul itself, the vibrations of the air, charged with pas- 
 sion, put our hearts so powerfuU}' into communion, carry- 
 ing thought between them so lucidh', and being, above 
 all, so incapable of falsehood, that a single inflection of 
 a voice is often a revelation. What enchantments the 
 intonations of a tender voice can bestow upon the heart 
 
20 Ferragus. 
 
 of a poet ! What ideas the}' awaken ! What freshness 
 they shed there ! Love is in the voice before the glance 
 avows it. Aiiguste, poet after the manner of lovers 
 (there are poets who feel, and poets who express ; the 
 first are the happiest), Auguste had tasted all these 
 early joys, so vast, so fecund. She possessed the most 
 winning organ that the most artful woman of the world 
 could have desired in order to deceive at her ease ; 
 she had that silvery voice which is soft to the ear, and 
 ringing only for the heart which it stirs and troubles, 
 caresses and subjugates. 
 
 And this woman went by night to the rue Soly 
 through the rue Pagevin ! and her furtive apparition 
 in an infamous house had just destroyed the grandest 
 of passions ! The vidame's logic triumphed. 
 
 " If she is betra3'ing her husband we will avenge 
 ourselves," said Auguste. 
 
 There was still faith in that " if." The philosophic 
 doubt of Descartes is a politeness with which we should 
 alwaj's honor virtue. Ten o'clock sounded. The Baron 
 de Maulincour remembered that this woman was going 
 to a ball that evening at a house to M'hich he had 
 access. He dressed, went there, and searched for her 
 through all the salons. The mistress of the house, Ma- 
 dame de Nucingen, seeing him thus occupied, said : — 
 
 " You are looking for Madame Jules ; but she has 
 not yet come." 
 
Ferragus. 21 
 
 '' Good evening, dear," said a voice. 
 
 Augnste and Madame de Niicingen turned round. 
 Madame Jules had arrived, dressed in white, looking 
 simple and noble, wearing in her hair the marabouts 
 the 3'oung baron had seen her choose in the flower- 
 shop. That voice of love now pierced his heart. Had 
 he won the slightest right to be jealous of her he 
 would have petrified her then and there by saying the 
 w^ords, "Rue Soly ! " But if he, an alien to her life, 
 had said those words in her ear a thousand times, 
 Madame Jules would have asked him in astonishment 
 wdiat he meant. He looked at her stupidl}'. 
 
 For those sarcastic persons who scoff at all things it 
 ma}^ be a great amusement to detect the secret of a 
 woman, to know that her chastit}' is a lie, that her 
 calm face hides some anxious thought, that under that 
 pure brow is a dreadful drama. But there are other 
 souls to whom the sight is saddening; and man}* of 
 those who laugh in public, when withdrawn into them- 
 selves and alone with their conscience, curse the world 
 while the}' despise the woman. Such was the case 
 with Auguste de Maulincour, as he stood there in 
 presence of Madame Jules. Singular situation ! There 
 was no other relation between them than that which 
 social life establishes between persons who exchange 
 a few words seven or eight times in the course of a 
 winter, and yet he was calling her to account on behalf 
 
22 Ferragus. 
 
 of a happiness unknown to her ; he was judging her, 
 without letting her know of his accusation. 
 
 Many young men find themselves thus in despair 
 at having broken forever with a woman adored in 
 secret, condemned and despised in secret. There are 
 many hidden monologues told to the walls of some 
 solitary' lodging ; storms roused and calmed without 
 ever leaving the depths of hearts ; amazing scenes of 
 the moral world, for which a painter is wanted. Ma- 
 dame Jules sat down, leaving her husband to make 
 a turn around the salon. After she was seated she 
 seemed uneasy, and, while talking with her neighbor, 
 she kept a furtive e3'e on Monsieur Jules Desmarets, 
 her husband, a broker chiefly employed by the Baron 
 de Nucingen. The following is the historj' of their 
 home life. 
 
 Monsieur Desmarets was, five 3'ears before his mar- 
 riage, in a broker's office, with no other means than 
 the meagre salar}' of a clerk. But he was a man to 
 whom misfortune had earl}' taught the truths of life, and 
 he followed the strait path with the tenacity of an insect 
 making for its nest; he was one of those dogged 3'oung 
 fellows who feign death before an obstacle and wear 
 out everj'body's patience with their own beetle-like 
 perseverance. Thus, young as he was, he had all the 
 republican virtue of poor peoples ; he was sober, saving 
 of his time, an enemy to pleasure. He waited. Nature 
 
Ferragus. 23 
 
 had given him the immense advantage of an agree- 
 able exterior. His calm, pure brow, the shape of his 
 placid, but expressive face, his simple manners, — all 
 revealed in him a laborious and resigned existence, 
 that lofty personal dignitj- which is imposing to others, 
 and the secret nobilit}' of heart which can meet all 
 events. His modest}' inspired a sort of respect in 
 those who knew him. Solitary in the midst of Paris, 
 he knew the social world only b}' glimpses during the 
 brief moments which he spent in his patron's salon on 
 holidaj's. 
 
 There were passions in this young man, as in most 
 of the men who live in that wa}', of amazing profundit}', 
 — passions too vast to be drawn into pett}' incidents. 
 His want of means compelled him to lead an ascetic 
 life, and he conquered his fancies b}" hard work. After 
 paling all da}' over figures, he found his recreation in 
 striving obstinately to acquire that wide general knowl- 
 edge so necessary in these days to every man who 
 wants to make his mark, whether in society, or in com- 
 merce, at the bar, or in politics or literature. The 
 only peril these fine souls have to fear comes from 
 their own uprightness. They see some poor girl ; they 
 love her ; they marry her, and wear out their lives in a 
 struggle between poverty and love. The noblest am- 
 bition is quenched perforce by the household account- 
 book. Jules Desmarets went headlong into this peril. 
 
24 Ferragus. 
 
 He met one evening at his patron's house a girl of 
 the rarest beaut3\ Unfortunate men who are deprived 
 of affection, and who consume the finest hours of 3'outh 
 in work and stud}', alone know the rapid ravages that 
 passion makes in their loneh", misconceived hearts. 
 The}^ are so certain of loving truh', all their forces 
 are concentrated so quickly on the object of their 
 love, that they receive, while beside her, the most 
 dehghtful sensations, when, as often happens, they 
 inspire none at all. Nothing is more flattering to a 
 woman's egotism than to divine this passion, appar- 
 ently immovable, and these emotions so deep that 
 they have needed a great length of time to reach the 
 human surface. These poor men, anchorites in the 
 midst of Paris, have all the enjoyments of anchorites ; 
 and ma}' sometimes succumb to temptations. But, 
 more often deceived, betrayed, and misunderstood, 
 they are rarely able to gather the sweet fruits of a 
 love which, to them, is like a flower dropped from 
 heaven. 
 
 One smile from his wife, a single inflection of her 
 voice sufficed to make Jules Desmarets conceive a 
 passion which was boundless. Happily, the concen- 
 trated fire of that secret passion revealed itself art- 
 lessly to the woman who inspired it. These two 
 beings then loved each other religiousl}'. To express 
 all in a word, the}' clasped hands without shame before 
 
Fcrragus. 25 
 
 the eyes of the world and went their wa}' like two 
 children, brother and sister, passing serenely through 
 a crowd where all made way for them and admired 
 them. 
 
 The young girl was in one of those unfortunate posi- 
 tions which human selfishness entails upon children. 
 She had no civil status ; her name of "Clemence" and 
 her age were recorded only by a notar}^ public. As for 
 her fortune, that was small indeed. Jules Desmarets 
 was a happy man on hearing these particulars. If 
 Clemence had belonged to an opulent family, he might 
 have despaired of obtaining her ; but she was only the 
 poor child of love, the fruit of some terrible adulterous 
 passion ; and they were married. Then began for 
 Jules D^marets a series of fortunate events. Ever}^ 
 one envied his happiness ; and henceforth talked only 
 of his luck, without recalling either his virtues or his 
 courage. 
 
 Some days after their marriage, the mother of 
 Clemence, who passed in society for her godmother, 
 told Jules Desmarets to bu}' the office and good-will 
 of a broker, promising to provide him with the neces- 
 sary capital. In those days, such offices could still be 
 bought at a moderate price. That evening, in the 
 salon as it happened of his patron, a wealthy capitalist 
 proposed, on the recommendation of the mother, a very 
 advantaseous transaction for Jules Desmarets, and the 
 
26 Ferragus. 
 
 next day the happy clerk was able to hwy out liis 
 patron. In four 3'ears Desmarets became one of the 
 most prosperous men in his business ; new clients in- 
 creased the number his predecessor had left to him ; 
 he inspired confidence in all ; and it was impossible 
 for him not to feel, by the way business came to him, 
 that some hidden influence, due to his mother-in-law, 
 or to Providence, was secretl}* protecting him. 
 
 At the end of the third 3'ear Clemence lost her god- 
 mother. B3' that time Monsieur Jules (so called to dis- 
 tinguish him from an elder brother, whom he had set up 
 as a notar^^ in Paris) possessed an income from invested 
 property of two hundred thousand francs. There was 
 not in all Paris another instance of the domestic hap- 
 piness enjoyed b}' this couple. For five 3'ears their 
 exceptional love had been troubled bv onh' one event, 
 — a calumn3' for which Monsieur Jules exacted ven- 
 geance. One of his former comrades attributed to 
 Madame Jules the fortune of her husband, explaining 
 that it came from a high protection dearl3' paid for. 
 The man who uttered the calumny was killed in the 
 .duel that followed it. 
 
 The profound passion of this couple, which survived 
 marriage, obtained a great success in societ3', though 
 some women were annoyed b3^ it. The charming house- 
 hold was respected ; everybod3' feted it. Monsieur and 
 Madame Jules were sincerelv liked, perhaps because 
 
Ferragus. 27 
 
 there is nothing more delightful to see than happj- 
 people ; but they never stayed long at any festivity. 
 They slipped awa}' earl}', as impatient to regain their 
 nest as wandering pigeons. This nest was a large and 
 beautiful mansion in the rue de Menars, where a true 
 feeling for art tempered the luxury which the financial 
 world continues, traditionally, to display. Here the 
 happy pair received their society magnificently, although 
 the obligations of social life suited them but little. 
 
 Nevertheless, Jules submitted to the demands of the 
 world, knowing that, sooner or later, a family has need 
 of it ; but he and his wife felt themselves, in its 
 midst, like green-house plants in a tempest. With a 
 delicacy that was very natural, Jules had concealed 
 from his wife the calumny and the death of the calum- 
 niator. Madame Jules, herself, was inclined, through 
 her sensitive and artistic nature, to desire luxurj'. In 
 spite of the terrible lesson of the duel, some imprudent 
 women whispered to each other that Madame Jules 
 must sometimes be pressed for money. They often 
 found her more elegantly dressed in her own home 
 than when she went into societ}'. She loved to adorn 
 herself to please her husband, wishing to show him 
 tliat to her he was more than any social life. A true 
 love, a pure love, above all, a happ}- love ! Jules, 
 always a lover, and more in love as time went by, was 
 happy in all things beside his wife, even in her caprices ; 
 
28 Ferragus. 
 
 in fact, he would have been uneasy if she had none, 
 thinking it a symptom of some illness. 
 
 Auguste de Maulincour had the personal misfortune 
 of running against this passion, and falling in love 
 with the wife beyond recovery. Nevertheless, though 
 he carried in his heart so intense a love, he was not 
 ridiculous ; he complied with all the demands of soci- 
 et}', and of military manners and customs. And yet 
 his face wore constantl}', even though he might be 
 drinking a glass of champagne, that dream}' look, that 
 air of silently despising life, that nebulous expression 
 which belongs, though for other reasons, to biases men, 
 — men dissatisfied with hollow lives. To love without 
 hope, to be disgusted with life, constitute, in these 
 da3'S, a social position. The enterprise of winning 
 the heart of a sovereign might give, perhaps, more 
 hope than a love rashlj' conceived for a happ}- woman. 
 Therefore Maulincour had sufficient reason to be grave 
 and gloom}'. A queen has the vanit}' of her power ; 
 the height of her elevation protects her. But a pious 
 bourgeoise is like a hedgehog, or an ojster, in its rough 
 wrappings. 
 
 At this moment the 3'oung officer was beside his 
 unconscious mistress, who certainlj' was unaware that 
 she was doubly faithless. Madame Jules was seated, in 
 a naive attitude, like the least artful woman in exist- 
 ence, soft and gentle, full of a mnjestic serenity. 
 
Ferragus. 29 
 
 What an abyss is human nature ! Before beginning a 
 conversation, the bamii looked alternately at the wife 
 and at the husband. How many were the reflections 
 he made ! He recoraposed the " Night Thoughts " of 
 Young in a second. And 3'et the music was sounding 
 tlirough the salons, the light was pouring from a thou- 
 sand candles. It was a banker's ball, — one of those 
 insolent festivals bj'' means of which the world of solid 
 gold endeavored to sneer at the gold-embossed salons 
 where the faubourg Saint-Germain met and laughed, not 
 foreseeing the day when the bank would invade the 
 Luxembourg and take its seat upon the throne. The 
 conspirators were now dancing, indifferent to coming 
 bankruptcies, whether of Power or of the Bank. The 
 gilded salons of the Baron de Nucingen were gay with 
 that peculiar animation that the world of Paris, appar- 
 entl}' joyous at any rate, gives to its fetes. There, 
 men of talent communicate their wit to fools, and fools 
 communicate that air of enjo3'ment that characterizes 
 them. B}' means of this exchange all is liveliness. 
 But a ball in Paris alwaj's resembles fireworks to a 
 certain extent ; wit, coquetrj', and pleasure sparkle 
 and go out like rockets. The next da}' all present have 
 forgotten their wit, their coquetry, their pleasure. 
 
 "Ah!" thought Auguste, by way of conclusion, 
 " women are what the vidame sa3's they are. Cer- 
 tainly all those dancing here are less irreproachable 
 
30 Ferragus. 
 
 actually than Madame Jules appears to be, and j'et 
 Madame Jules went to the rue Soh' ! " 
 
 The rue Soly was like an illness to him ; the very 
 word shrivelled his heart. 
 
 " Madame, do 3'ou ever dance? " he said to her. 
 
 " This is the third time you have asked me that 
 question this winter," she answered, smiling. 
 
 " But perhaps you have never answered it." 
 
 " That is true." 
 
 "I knew xQvy well that you were false, like other 
 women." 
 
 Madame Jules continued to smile. 
 
 "Listen, monsieur," she said; "if I told you the 
 real reason, you would think it ridiculous. I do not 
 think it false to abstain from telling things that the 
 world would laugh at." 
 
 " All secrets demand, in order to be told, a friend- 
 ship of which I am no doubt unworth}', madame. But 
 3'ou cannot have any but noble secrets ; do 3'ou think 
 me capable of jesting on noble things ? " 
 
 "Yes," she said, " 3'ou, like all the rest, laugh at 
 our purest sentiments ; you calumniate them. Besides, 
 I have no secrets. I have the right to love my husband 
 in the face of all the world, and I say so, — I am proud 
 of it ; and if you laugh at me when I tell j'ou tliat I 
 dance only with him, I shall have a bad opinion of 3'our 
 heart." 
 
Ferragus. 31 
 
 '' Have you never danced since your marriage with 
 an}' one but your husband ? " 
 
 "Never. His arm is the only one on which I liave 
 leaned ; I have never felt the touch of another man." 
 
 " Has 3'our phs'sician never felt your pulse?" 
 
 '' Now you are laughing at me." 
 
 "No, madame, I admire you, because I comprehend 
 3'ou. But you let a man hear 3'our voice, you let your- 
 self be seen, you — in short, you permit our eyes to 
 admire you — " 
 
 "Ah! " she said, interrupting him, " that is one of 
 my griefs. Yes, I wish it were possible for a married 
 woman to live secluded with her husband, as a mistress 
 lives with her lover, for then — " 
 
 "Then wh}' were you, two hours ago, on foot, dis- 
 guised, in the rue Soly ? " 
 
 " The rue Soly, where is that?'^ > 
 
 And her pure voice gave no sign of an}' emotion ; no 
 feature of her face quivered ; she did not blush ; she 
 remained calm. 
 
 " What ! 30U did not go up to the second floor of a 
 house in the rue des Vieux-Augustins at the corner of 
 the rue Soly? You did not have a hackne3'-coach 
 waiting near b3'? You did not return in it to the 
 flower-shop in the rue Richelieu, where you bought the 
 feathers that are now in your hair? " 
 
 " I did not leave m3' house this evening." 
 
32 Ferragus. ' 
 
 As she uttered that lie she was smiUng and imper- 
 turbable ; she played with her fan ; but if any one had 
 passed a hand down her back they would, perhaps, have 
 found it moist. At that instant Auguste remembered 
 the instructions of the vidame. 
 
 " Then it was some one who strangel}' resembled 
 3'ou," he said, with a credulous air. 
 
 '' Monsieur," she replied, "if 3'ou are capable of 
 following a woman and detecting her secrets, 3'ou will 
 allow me to sa}' that it is a wrong, a very wrong thing, 
 and I do you the honor to sa}' that I disbelieve 3'Ou." 
 
 The baron turned away, placed himself before the 
 fireplace and seemed thoughtful. He bent his head ; 
 but his ej'es were covertl}' fixed on Madame Jules, 
 who, not remembering the reflections in the mirror, 
 cast two or three glances at him that were full of 
 terror. Presently she made a sign to her husband 
 and rising took his arm to walk about the salon. As 
 she passed before Monsieur de Maulincour, who at 
 that moment was speaking to a friend, he said in a 
 loud voice, as if in reply to a remark : " That woman 
 will certainh' not sleep quietl}' this night." Madame 
 Jules stopped, gave him an imposing look which ex- 
 pressed contempt, and continued her wa}', unaware 
 that another look, if surprised by her husband, might 
 endanger not onlj- her happiness but the lives of two 
 men. Auguste, frantic with anger, which he tried to 
 
Fcrragus. 3 
 
 o 
 
 smother in the depths of his soul, presentl}' left the 
 house, swearing to penetrate to the heart of the m3-s- 
 terj. Before leaving, he sought Madame Jules, to 
 look at her again ; but she had disappeared. 
 
 What a drama cast into that 3'oung head so emi- 
 nently romantic, like all who have not known love in 
 the wide extent which they give to it. He adored 
 Madame Jules under a new aspect ; he loved her 
 now with the fury of jealous}^ and the frenzied 
 anguish of hope. Unfaithful to her husband, the 
 woman became common. Auguste could now give 
 himself up to the joj's of successful love, and his imag- 
 ination opened to him a career of pleasures. Yes, he 
 had lost the angel, but he had found the most delight- 
 ful of demons. He went to bed, building castles in 
 the air, excusing Madame Jules b}' some romantic fic- 
 tion in which he did not believe. He resolved to 
 devote himself wholh', from that daj^ forth, to a search 
 for the causes, motives, and ke3'note of this myster}'. 
 It was a tale to read, or, better still, a drama to be 
 played, in which he had a part. 
 
34 Ferragus. 
 
 II. 
 
 FERRAGUS. 
 
 A FINE thing is the task of a spy, when performed 
 for one's own benefit and in the interests of a passion. 
 Is it not giving ourselves the pleasures of a thief and 
 a rascal while continuing honest men? But there is 
 another side to it ; we must resign ourselves to boil 
 with anger, to roar with impatience, to freeze our feet 
 in the mud, to be numbed, and roasted, and torn by 
 false hopes. We must go, on the faith of a mere indi- 
 cation, to a vague object, miss our end, curse our luck, 
 improvise to ourselves elegies, dith^Tambics, exclaim 
 idioticall}" before inoffensive pedestrians who observe 
 us, knock over old apple-women and their baskets, 
 run hither and thither, stand on guard beneath a win- 
 dow, make a thousand suppositions. But, after all, 
 it is a chase, a hunt ; a hunt in Paris, a hunt with all 
 its chances, minus dogs and guns and the tally-ho ! 
 Nothing compares with it but the life of gamblers. 
 But it needs a heart big with love and vengeance to 
 ambush itself in Paris, like a tiger waiting to spring 
 upon its prey, and to enjoy the chances and con- 
 tingencies of Paris, bj^ adding one special interest to 
 
Ferragus, 35 
 
 the many that abound there. But for this we need a 
 manj'-sided soul — for must we not live in a thousand 
 passions, a thousand sentiments? 
 
 Auguste de Maulincour flung himself into this ardent 
 existence passionatel}', for he felt all its pleasures and 
 all its misery. He went disguised about Paris, watch- 
 ing at the corners of the rue Pagevin and the rue 
 des Vieux-Augustins. He hurried like a hunter from 
 the rue de Menars to the rue Soly, and back from the 
 rue Soly to the rue de Menars, without obtaining either 
 the vengeance or the knowledge which would punish 
 or reward such cares, such efforts, such wiles. But 
 he had not yet reached that impatience which wrings 
 our very entrails and makes us sweat ; he roamed in 
 hope, believing that Madame Jules would onl}- refrain 
 for a few da3's from revisiting the place where she 
 knew she had been detected. He devoted the first 
 days therefore, to a careful study of the secrets of the 
 street. A novice at such work, he dared not question 
 either the porter or the shoemaker of the house to 
 which Madame Jules had gone ; but he managed to 
 obtain a post of observation in a house directh^ op- 
 posite to the mysterious apartment. He studied the 
 ground, tr3'ing to reconcile the conflicting demands of 
 prudence, impatience, love, and secrec}'. 
 
 Earl}' in the month of March, while bus}' with plans 
 by which he expected to strike a decisive blow, he 
 
36 Ferragus. 
 
 left his post about four in the afternoon, after one of 
 those patient watches from which he had learned noth- 
 ing. He was on his wa}^ to his own house whither a 
 matter relating to his military service called him, when 
 he was overtaken in the rue Coquilliere by one of those 
 heavy showers which instantly flood the gutters, while 
 each drop of rain rings loudl}' in the puddles of the 
 roadway. A pedestrian under these circumstances is 
 forced to stop short and take refuge in a shop or cafe 
 if he is rich enough to pay for the forced hospitalit}-, 
 or, if in poorer circumstances, under a porte-cocMre. 
 that haven of paupers or shabbily dressed persons. 
 Why have none of our painters ever attempted to re- 
 produce the physiognomies of a swarm of Parisians, 
 grouped, under stress of weather, in the damp porte- 
 cocMre of a building? Where could they find a richer 
 subject? First, there's the musing philosophical pe- 
 destrian, who observes with interest all he sees, — 
 whether it be the stripes made b}' the rain on the 
 gray background of the atmosphere (a species of chas- 
 ing not unlike the capricious threads of spun glass), 
 or the whirl of white water which the wind is driving 
 like a luminous dust along the roofs, or the fitful dis- 
 gorgements of the gutter-pipes, sparkling and foaming ; 
 in short, the thousand nothings to be admired and 
 studied with delight by loungers, in spite of the por- 
 ter's broom which pretends to be sweeping out the 
 
Ferragits. 37 
 
 gatewa}'. Tlien there 's the talkative refugee, who 
 complains and converses with the porter while he rests 
 on his broom like a grenadier on his musket ; or the 
 pauper wayfarer, curled against the wall indifferent to 
 the condition of his rags, long used, alas, to contact 
 with the streets ; or the learned pedestrian who stud- 
 ies, spells, and reads the posters on the walls without fin- 
 ishing them ; or the smiling pedestrian who makes fun 
 of others to whom some street fatality' has happened, 
 who laughs at the mudd}' women, and makes grimaces 
 at those of either sex who are looking from the win- 
 dows ; and the silent being who gazes from floor to 
 floor; and the working-man, armed with a satchel or a 
 paper bundle, who is estimating the rain as a profit or 
 loss ; and the good-natured fugitive, who arrives like 
 a shot exclaiming, " Ah ! what weather, messieurs, what 
 weather ! " and bows to every one ; and, finally, the 
 true bourgeois of Paris, with his unfailing umbrella, 
 an expert in showers, who foresaw this particular one, 
 but would come out in spite of his wife ; this one takes 
 a seat in the porter's chair. According to individual 
 character, each member of this fortuitous societ}- con- 
 templates the skies, and departs, skipping to avoid the 
 mud, — because he is in a hurrj-, or because he sees 
 other citizens walking along in spite of wind and slush, 
 or because, the archwa}' being damp and mortalh' catar- 
 rnal, the bed's edge, as the proverb says, is better than 
 
38 Ferragus. 
 
 the sheets. Each one has his motive. No one is left 
 but the prudent pedestrian, the man who, before he 
 sets forth, makes sure of a scrap of blue sk^' through 
 the rifting clouds. 
 
 Monsieur de Maulincour took refuge, as we have 
 said, with a whole famih' of fugitives, under the porch 
 of an old house, the court-yard of which looked like 
 the flue of a chimne3\ The sides of its plastered, nit- 
 rified, and mould}' walls were so covered with pipes 
 and conduits from all the man}' floors of its four ele- 
 vations, that it might have been said to resemble at 
 that moment tlie cascatelles of Saint-Cloud. Water 
 flowed everywhere ; it boiled, it leaped, it murmured ; 
 it was black, white, blue, and green ; it shrieked, it 
 bubbled under the broom of the portress, a toothless 
 old woman used to storms, who seemed to bless them 
 as she swept into the street a mass of scraps an in- 
 telligent inventor}' of which would have revealed the 
 lives and habits of every dweller in the house, — bits 
 of printed cottons, tea-leaves, artificial flower-petals 
 faded and worthless, vegetable parings, papers, scraps 
 of metal. At ever}' sweep of her broom the old woman 
 bared the soul of the gutter, that black fissure on which 
 a porter's mind is ever bent. The poor lover examined 
 this scene, like a thousand others which our heaving 
 Paris presents daily ; but he examined it mechani- 
 cally, as a man absorbed in thought, when, happening 
 
Ferragus. 39 
 
 to look up, he found himself all but nose to nose with 
 a man who had just entered the gateway. 
 
 In appearance this man was a beggar, but not the 
 Parisian beggar, — that creation without a name in 
 human language ; no, this man formed another type, 
 while presenting on the outside all the ideas suggested 
 by the word " beggar." He was not marked by those 
 original Parisian characteristics which strike us so 
 forcibly in the paupers whom Charlet was fond of 
 representing, with his rare luck in observation, — coarse 
 faces reeking of mud, hoarse voices, reddened and 
 bulbous noses, mouths devoid of teeth but menacing ; 
 humble yet terrible beings, in whom a profound intel- 
 ligence shining in their eyes seems like a contradic- 
 tion. Some of these bold vagabonds have blotched, 
 cracked, vein}^ skins ; their foreheads are covered with 
 wrinkles, their liair scantv and dirty, like a wig thrown 
 on a dust-heap. All are gay in their degradation, and 
 degraded in their joys ; all are marked with the stamp 
 of debaucherj', casting their silence as a reproach ; 
 their very attitude revealing fearful thoughts. Placed 
 between crime and beggar}' they have no compunctions, 
 and circle prudently around the scaffold without mount- 
 ing it, innocent in the midst of crime, and vicious in 
 their innocence. They often cause a laugh, but they 
 alwa^'s cause reflection. One represents to 3'ou civili- 
 zation stunted, repressed ; he comprehends everything, 
 
40 Ferragus. 
 
 the honor of the galleys, patriotism, virtue, the malice 
 of a vulgar crime, or the fine astuteness of elegant 
 wickedness. Another is resigned, a perfect mimer, 
 but stupid. All have slight 3'earnings after order and 
 work, but they are pushed back into their mire by 
 society, which makes no inquiry as to what there ma}- 
 be of great men, poets, intrepid souls, and splendid 
 organizations among these vagrants, these gypsies of 
 Paris ; a people eminentl}^ good and eminently evil — 
 like all the masses who suffer — accustomed to endure 
 unspeakable woes, and whom a fatal power holds CA^er 
 down to the level of the mire. The}^ all have a dream, 
 a hope, a happiness, — cards, lottery, or wine. 
 
 There was nothing of all this in the personage who 
 now leaned carelessly against the wall in front of Mon- 
 sieur de Maulincour, like some fantastic idea drawn 
 by an artist on the back of a canvas the front of 
 which is turned to the wall. This tall, spare man, 
 whose leaden visage expressed some deep but chilling 
 thought, dried up all pity in the hearts of those who 
 looked at him by the scowling look and the sarcastic 
 attitude which announced an intention of treating ever}' 
 man as an equal. His face was of a dirt}' white, and 
 his wrinkled skull, denuded of hair, bore a vague re- 
 semblance to a block of granite. A few gray locks on 
 either side of his head fell straight to the collar of his 
 greasy coat, which was buttoned to the chin. He 
 
Ferragus. 41 
 
 resembled both Voltaire and Don Quixote ; he was, 
 apparently, scoffing but melancholy, full of disdain 
 and philosoph}', but half-craz}'. He seemed to have 
 no shirt. His beard was long. A rust}' black cravat, 
 much worn and ragged, exposed a protuberant neck 
 deeply furrowed, with veins as thick as cords. A 
 large brown circle like a bruise was strongly marked 
 beneath his eyes. He seemed to be at least sixt}' 
 years old. His hands were white and clean. His 
 boots were trodden down at the heels, and full of 
 holes. A pair of blue trousers, mended in various 
 places, were covered with a species of fluff which 
 made them offensive to the eye. Whether it was 
 that his damp clothes exhaled a fetid odor, or that 
 he had in his normal condition the ''poor smell" 
 which belongs to Parisian tenements, just as offices, 
 sacristies, and hospitals have their own peculiar and 
 rancid fetidness, of which no words can give the least 
 idea, or whether some other reason affected them, 
 those in the vicinit}' of this man immediately moved 
 away and left him alone. He cast upon them and 
 also upon the officer a calm, expressionless look, the 
 celebrated look of Monsieur de Tallej'rand, a dull, 
 wan glance, without warmth, a species of impene- 
 trable veil, beneath which a strong soul hides profound 
 emotions and close estimation of men and things and 
 events. Not a fold of his face quivered. His mouth 
 
42 Ferragus. 
 
 and forehead were impassible ; but his ej'es moved 
 and lowered themselves with a noble, almost tragic 
 slowness. There was, in fact, a whole drama in the 
 motion of those withered eyelids. 
 
 The aspect of this stoical figure gave rise in Mon- 
 sieur de Maulincour to one of those vagabond reveries 
 which begin with a common question and end b^' 
 comprising a world of thought. The storm was past. 
 Monsieur de Maulincour presentl}' saw no more of 
 the man than the tail of his coat as it brushed the 
 gate-post, but as he turned to leave his own place 
 he noticed at his feet a letter which must have fallen 
 from the unknown beggar when he took, as the baron 
 had seen him take, a handkerchief from his pocket. 
 Tiie 3'oung man picked it up, and read, involuntaril}', 
 the address : " To Mosieur Ferragusse, Rue des Grands- 
 Augustains, corner of rue Soly." 
 
 The letter bore no postmark, and the address pre- 
 vented Monsieur de Maulincour from following the 
 beggar and returning it ; for there are few passions 
 that will not fail in rectitude in the long run. The 
 baron had a presentiment of the opportunity^ afforded 
 by this windfall. He determined to keep the letter, 
 which would give him the right to enter the mysterious 
 house to return it to the strange man, not doubting that 
 he lived there. Suspicions, vague as the first faint 
 gleams of daylight, made him fancy relations between 
 
Ferragus. 43 
 
 this man and Madame Jules. A jealous lover supposes 
 everything ; and it is by supposing everything and 
 selecting the most probable of their conjectures that 
 judges, spies, lovers, and observers get at the truth they 
 are looking for. 
 
 *' Is the letter for him? Is it from Madame Jules? " 
 His restless imagination tossed a thousand such 
 questions to him ; but when he read the first words 
 of the letter he smiled. Here it is, textually, in all 
 the simplicit}' of its artless phrases and its miserable 
 orthography, — a letter to which it would be impossible 
 to add anything, or to take anything awa}', unless it 
 were the letter itself. But we have yielded to the 
 necessity of punctuating it. In the original there were 
 neither commas nor stops of any kind, not even notes 
 of exclamation, — a fact which tends to undervalue the 
 system of notes and dashes by which modern authors 
 have endeavored to depict the great disasters of all the 
 passions : — 
 
 Henry, — Among the manny sacrifisis I imposed upon 
 myself for your sake was that of not giving you anny news 
 of me ; but an iresistible voise now compells me to let you 
 know the wrong you have done me. I know beforehand 
 that your soul hardened in vise will not pitty me. Your 
 heart is deaf to feeling. Is it deaf to the cries of nature ? 
 But what matter ? I must tell you to what a dredful point 
 you are gilty, and the horror of the position to which you 
 have brought me. Henry, you knew what I sufered from 
 
44 Ferragus. 
 
 my first wrong-doing, and yet you plunged me into the 
 same misery, and then abbandoned me to my dispair and 
 sufering. Yes, I will say it, the belif I had that you loved 
 me and esteemed me gave me corage to bare my fate. But 
 now, what have I left ? Have you not made me loose all 
 that was dear to me, all that held me to life ; parents, 
 f rends, onor, reputation, — all, I have sacrifised all to you, 
 and nothing is left me but shame, oprobrum, and — I say 
 this without blushing — poverty. Nothing was wanting to 
 my misfortunes but the sertainty of your contempt and 
 hatred ; and now I have them I find the corage that my 
 project requires. My desision is made ; the onor of my 
 famly commands it. I must put an end to my suferins. 
 Make no remarks upon my conduct, Henry ; it is orful, I 
 know, but my condition obbliges me. Without help, without 
 suport, without one frend to comfort me, can I live } ISTo. 
 Fate has desided for me. So in two days, Henry, two 
 days, Ida will have seased to be worthy of your esteem. 
 But hear the oath I make, that my conshence is at peace, 
 for I have never seased to be worthy of your regard. Oh, 
 Henry ! oh, my frend ! for I can never change to you, 
 promise me to forgive me for what I am going to do. Do 
 not forget that you have driven me to it ; it is your work, 
 and you must judge it. May heven not punish you for all 
 your crimes. I ask your pardon on my knees, for I feel 
 nothing is wanting to my misery but the sorow of knowing 
 you unhappy. In spite of the poverty I am in I shall refuse 
 all help from you. If you had loved me I would have taken 
 all from your f rendship ; but a benfit given by pitty my soul 
 refussis. I would be baser to take it than he who ofered it. 
 I have one favor to ask of you. I don't know how long I 
 must stay at Madame Meynardie's ; be genrous enough not 
 
Ferragus. 45 
 
 to come there. Your last two vissits did me a harm I can- 
 not get ofer. I cannot enter into particlers about that con- 
 duct of yours. You hate me, — you said so ; that word is 
 writen on my heart, and f reeses it with fear. Alas ! it is 
 now, when I need all my corage, all my strength, that my 
 facculties abbandon me. Henry, my frend, before I put a 
 barrier forever between us, give me a last pruf of your 
 esteem. Write me, answer me, say you respect me still, 
 though you have seased to love me. My eyes are worthy 
 still to look into yours, but I do not ask an interfew ; I fear 
 my weakness and my love. But for pitty's sake write me a 
 line at once ; it will give me the corage I need to meet my 
 trubbles. Farewell, orther of all my woes, but the only frend 
 
 my heart has chosen and will never forget. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 This life of a young girl, with its love betrayed, its 
 fatal joys, its pangs, its miseries, and its horrible 
 resignation, summed up in a few words, this humble 
 poem, essentially Parisian, written on dirty paper, 
 influenced for a passing moment Monsieur de Maulin- 
 cour. He asked himself whether this Ida might not 
 be some poor relation of Madame Jules, and that 
 strange rendezvous, which be had witnessed by chance, 
 the mere necessity of a charitable effort. But could 
 that old pauper have seduced this Ida? There was 
 something impossible in the very idea. Wandering in 
 this labyrinth of reflections, which crossed, recrossed, 
 and obliterated one another, the baron reached the rue 
 Pagevin, and saw a hackney-coach standing at the end 
 
46 Ferragus. 
 
 of the rue des Vieux-Angnstins where it enters the rue 
 Montmartre. All waiting hackne^'-coaches now had 
 an interest for him. 
 
 " Can she be there?" he thought to himself, and his 
 heart beat fast with a hot and feverish throbbing. 
 
 He pushed the little door with the bell, but he low- 
 ered his head as he did so, obejing a sense of shame, 
 for a voice said to him secretly : — 
 
 '' Why are 3'ou putting your foot into this mystery?" 
 
 He went up a few steps, and found himself face to 
 face with the old portress. 
 
 '* Monsieur Ferragus? " he said. 
 
 "Don't know him." 
 
 " Does n't Monsieur Ferragus live here? " 
 
 " Have n't such a name in the house." 
 
 " But, my good woman — " 
 
 "I'm not 3'our good woman, monsieur, I'm the 
 portress." 
 
 "But, madame," persisted the baron, "I have a 
 letter for Monsieur Ferragus." 
 
 " Ah ! if monsieur has a letter," she said, changing 
 her tone, " that 's another matter. Will 3'ou let me 
 see it — that letter?" 
 
 Auguste showed the folded letter. The old woman 
 shook her head with a doubtful air, hesitated, seemed 
 to wish to leave the lodge and inform the mysterious 
 Ferragus of his unexpected visitor, but finally said : — 
 
Ferragus, 47 
 
 "Very good; go up, monsieur. I suppose you 
 know the way?" 
 
 Without replying to this remark, which he thought 
 might be a trap, the young officer ran lightly up the 
 stairway, and rang loudly at the door of the second 
 floor. His lover's instinct told him, " She is there." 
 
 The beggar of the porch, Ferragus, the " orther" of 
 Ida's woes, opened the door himself. He appeared in 
 a flowered dressing-gown, white flannel trousers, his 
 feet in embroidered slippers, and his face washed clean 
 of stains. Madame Jules, whose head projected be- 
 yond the casing of the door into the next room, turned 
 pale and dropped into a chair. 
 
 "What is the matter, madame?" cried the officer, 
 springing toward her. 
 
 But Ferragus stretched forth an arm and flung the 
 intruder back with so sharp a thrust that Auguste 
 fancied he had received a blow from an iron bar full 
 on his chest. 
 
 "Back! monsieur," said the man. " What do you 
 want here ? For five or six days you have been roam- 
 ing about the neighborhood. Are 3'ou a sp}^ ? " 
 
 " Are you Monsieur Ferragus?" said the baron. 
 
 " No, monsieur," 
 
 "Nevertheless," continued Auguste, "it is to you 
 that I must return this paper which you dropped in the 
 gatewa}" beneath which we both took refuge from the 
 
48 Ferragus. 
 
 While speaking and offering the letter to the man, 
 Auguste did not refrain from casting an eyo. around 
 the room where Ferragus received him. It was very 
 well arranged, though simply. A fire burned on the 
 hearth ; and near it was a table with food upon it, 
 which was served more sumptuously than agreed with 
 the apparent condition of the man and the poorness of 
 his lodging. On a sofa in the next room, which he 
 could see through the doorway, lay a heap of gold, and 
 he heard a sound which could be no other than that of 
 a woman weeping. 
 
 "• The paper belongs to me ; I am much obliged to 
 you," said the mj'sterious man, turning away as if to 
 make the baron understand that he must go. 
 
 Too curious himself to take much note of the deep 
 examination of which he was himself the object, 
 Auguste did not see the half-magnetic glance with 
 which this strange being seemed to pierce him ; had 
 he encountered that basilisk eye he might have felt 
 the danger that encompassed him. Too passionately 
 excited to think of himself, Auguste bowed, went down 
 the stairs, and returned home, striving to find a mean- 
 ing in the connection of these three persons, — Ida, 
 Ferragus, and Madame Jules ; an occupation equiva- 
 lent to that of trying to arrange the man3'-cornered 
 bits of a Chinese puzzle without possessing the key to 
 the game. But Madame Jules had seen him, Madame 
 
Ferragus. 49 
 
 Jules went there, Madame Jules had lied to him. 
 Maulincour determined to go and see her the next da}'. 
 She could not refuse his visit, for he was now her 
 accomplice ; he was hands and feet in the mysterious 
 affair, and she knew it. Already he felt himself a 
 sultan, and thought of demanding from Madame Jules, 
 imperiously, all her secrets. 
 
 In those days Paris was seized with a building-fever. 
 If Paris is a monster, it is certainl}' a most mania- 
 ridden monster. It becomes enamoured of a thousand 
 fancies : sometimes it has a mania for building, like a 
 great seigneur who loves a trowel ; soon it abandons 
 the trowel and becomes all military ; it arrays itself 
 from head to foot as a national guard, and drills and 
 smokes ; suddenly', jt abandons militar}- manoeuvres 
 and flings awa}' cigars; it is commercial, care-worn, 
 falls into bankruptcy, sells its furniture on the place 
 du Chatelet, files its schedule ; but a few days later, 
 lo ! it has arranged its affairs and is giving fetes and 
 dances. One day it eats barley-sugar by the mouthful, 
 b}- the handful; yesterday it bought "papier Wey- 
 nen ; " to-da}' the monster's teeth ache, and it applies 
 to its walls an alexipharmatic to mitigate their damp- 
 ness ; to-morrow it will lay in a provision of pectoral 
 paste. It has its manias for the month, for the season, 
 for the 3'ear, like its manias of a da}'. 
 
 So, at the moment of which we speak, all the world 
 
 4 
 
50 Ferragus. 
 
 was building or pulling down something, — people 
 hardl}" knew what as yet. There were very few streets 
 in which high scaffoldings on long poles could not be 
 seen, fastened from floor to floor with transverse blocks 
 inserted into holes in the walls on which the planks 
 were laid, — a frail construction, shaken by the brick- 
 layers, but held together b}' ropes, white with plaster, 
 and insecurely protected from the wheels of carriages 
 by the breastwork of planks which the law requires 
 round all such buildings. There is something maritime 
 in these masts, and ladders, and cordage, even in the 
 shouts of the masons. About a dozen yards IVom the 
 hotel Maulincour, one of these ephemeral barriers was 
 erected before a house which was then being built of 
 blocks of free-stone. The da}' after the event we have 
 just related, at the moment when the Baron de Maulin- 
 cour was passing this scaffolding in his cabriolet on his 
 way to see Madame Jules, a stone, two feet square, 
 which was being raised to the upper store}' of this 
 building, got loose from the ropes and fell, crushing 
 the baron's servant who was behind the cabriolet. A 
 cr}' of horror shook both the scaffold and the masons ; 
 one of them, apparently unable to keep his grasp on a 
 pole, was in danger of death, and seemed to have been 
 touched by the stone as it passed him. 
 
 A crowd collected rapidl}' ; the masons came down 
 the ladders swearinir and insistins: that Monsieur de 
 
Ferrayus. 51 
 
 Maulincour's cabriolet had been driven against the 
 boarding and so had shaken their crane. Two inches 
 more and the stone would have fallen on the baron's 
 head. The groom was dead, the carriage shattered. 
 'T was an event for the whole neighborhood, the news- 
 papers told of it. Monsieur de Maulincour, certain 
 that he had not touched the boarding, complained ; 
 the case went to court. Inquir}' being made, it was 
 shown that a small boy, armed with a lath, had 
 mounted guard and called to all foot-passengers to keep 
 awa}'. The affair ended there. Monsieur de Maulin- 
 cour obtained no redress. He had lost his servant, and 
 was confined to his bed for some da3's, for the back of 
 the carriage when shattered had bruised him severe!}-, 
 and the nervous shock of the sudden surprise gave him 
 a fever. He did not, therefore, go to see Madame Jules. 
 Ten daj's after this event, he left the house for the 
 first time, in his repaired cabriolet, when, as he drove 
 down the rue de Bourgogne and was close to the sewer 
 opposite to the Chamber of Deputies, the axle-tree 
 broke in two, and the baron was driving so rapidl}' that 
 the breakage would have caused the two wheels to 
 come together with force enough to break his head, 
 liad it not been for the resistance of the leather hood. 
 Nevertheless, he was badly wounded in the side. For 
 the second time in ten days he was carried home in a 
 fainting condition to liis terrified grandmother. This 
 
52 Fcrragus. 
 
 second accident gave him a feeling of distrust; he 
 thought, though vaguel}', of Ferragus and Madame 
 Jules. To throw light on these suspicions he had the 
 broken axle brought to his room and sent for his 
 carriage-maker. The man examined the axle and the 
 fracture, and proved two things : First, the axle was 
 not made in his workshop ; he furnished none that did 
 not bear the initials of his name on the iron. But he 
 could not explain bj what means this axle had been 
 substituted for the other. Secondl}', the breakage of 
 the suspicious axle was caused b}" a hollow space hav- 
 ing been blown in it and a straw very cleverly inserted. 
 
 "Eh! Monsieur le baron, whoever did that was 
 malicious!" he said; "anyone would swear, to look 
 at it, that the axle was sound." 
 
 Monsieur de Maulincour begged the carriage-maker 
 to sa}^ nothing of the affair ; but he felt himself warned. 
 These two attempts at murder were planned with an 
 ability which denoted the enmit}- of intelligent minds. 
 
 "It is war to the death/' he said to himself, as he 
 tossed in his bed, — "a war of savages, skulking in 
 ambush, of trickery and treacher}', declared in the 
 name of Madame Jules. What sort of man is this 
 to whom she belongs? What species of power does 
 this Ferragus wield ? " 
 
 Monsieur de Maulincour, though a soldier and brave 
 man, could not repress a shudder. In the midst of 
 
Ferr agios. 53 
 
 many thoughts that now assailed him, there was one 
 against which he felt he had neither defence nor cour- 
 age : might not poison be emplo^'ed erelong by his 
 secret enemies? Under the influence of fears, which 
 his momentar}^ weakness and fever and low diet in- 
 creased, he sent for an old woman long attached to 
 the service of his grandmother, whose affection for 
 himself was one of those semi-maternal sentiments 
 which are the sublime of the commonplace. Without 
 confiding in her w^holl}', he charged her to bu}' secretly 
 and daily, in different localities, the food he needed ; 
 telling her to keep it under lock and key and bring 
 it to him herself, not allowing any one, no matter who, 
 to approach her while preparing it. He took the most 
 minute precautions to protect himself against that form 
 of death. He was ill in his bed and alone, and he 
 had therefore the leisure to think of his own security, 
 — the one necessity clear-sighted enough to enable 
 human egotism to forget nothing ! 
 
 But the unfortunate man had poisoned his own life 
 by this dread, and, in spite of himself, suspicion dyed 
 all his hours with its gloomy tints. These two lessons 
 of attempted assassination did teach him, however, the 
 value of one of the virtues most necessary to a public 
 man ; he saw the wise dissimulation that must be prac- 
 tised in dealing with the great interests of life. To 
 be silent about our own secret is nothing ; but to be 
 
54 Ferragus. 
 
 silent from the start, to forget a fact as Ali Pacha 
 did for thirt}' 3'ears in order to be sure of a vengeance 
 waited for for thirt}'' years, is a fine study in a land where 
 there are few men who can keep their own counsel for 
 thirt}' days. Monsieur de Maulincour literall3' lived onlj- 
 through Madame Jules. He was perpetuall}' absorbed in 
 a sober examination into the means he ought to employ 
 to triumph in this mysterious struggle with these mys- 
 terious persons. His secret passion for that woman 
 grew by reason of all these obstacles. Madame Jules 
 was ever there, erect, in the midst of his thoughts, in 
 the centre of his heart, more seductive bj^ her pre- 
 sumable vices than by the positive virtues for which he 
 had made her his idol. 
 
 At last, anxious to reconnoitre the position of the 
 enemy, he thought he might without danger initiate the 
 vidame into the secrets of his situation. The old com- 
 mander loved Auguste as a father loves his wife's chil- 
 dren ; he was shrewd, dexterous, and \Qvy diplomatic. 
 He listened to the baron, shook his head, and they 
 both held counsel. The worthy vidame did not share 
 his 3'oung friend's confidence when Auguste declared 
 that in the times in which thej' now lived, the police 
 and the government were able to lay bare all mj'ste- 
 ries, and that if it were absolutely necessary to have 
 recourse to those powers, he should find them most 
 powerful auxiliaries. 
 
Ferragus. 55 
 
 The old man replied, gravely : "The police, my 
 dear bo}', is the most incompetent thing on this earth, 
 and government the feeblest in all matters concerning 
 individuals. Neither the police nor the government 
 can read hearts. What we might reasonably ask of 
 them is to search for the causes of an act. But the 
 police and the government are both eminently unfit- 
 ted for that ; the}' lack, essentiall}', the personal in- 
 terest which reveals all to him who wants to know all. 
 No human power can prevent an assassin or a poi- 
 soner from reaching the heart of a prince or the stom- 
 ach of an honest man. Passions are the best police." 
 
 The vidanie strongly advised the baron to go to 
 Ital}', and from Italy to Greece, from Greece to Syria, 
 from S3'ria to Asia, and not to return until his secret 
 enemies were convinced of his repentance, and would 
 so make tacit peace with him. But if he did not take 
 that course, then the vidame advised him to sta}' in 
 the house, and even in his own room, where he would 
 be safe from the attempts of this man Ferragus, and 
 not to leave it until he could be certain of crushing 
 him. 
 
 "We should never touch an enem}' until we can be 
 sure of taking his head off," he said, gravel}'. 
 
 The old man, however, promised his favorite to 
 employ all the astuteness with which Heaven had pro- 
 vided him (without compromising any one) in recon- 
 
56 Ferragus. 
 
 noitring the enemy's ground, and laying his plans for 
 future victory. The Commander had in his service a 
 retired Figaro, the wiliest monkey that ever walked in 
 human form ; in earlier days as clever as a devil, 
 working his bod3^ like a galle3'-slave, alert as a thief, 
 SI3' as a woman, but now fallen into the decadence of 
 genius for want of practice since the new constitution 
 of Parisian society, which has reformed even the valets 
 of comedy. This Scapin emeritus was attached to his 
 master as to a superior being ; but the shrewd old 
 vidame added a good round sum yearly to the wages 
 of his former provost of gallantr}', which strengthened 
 the ties of natural affection by the bonds of self-inter- 
 est, and obtained for the old gentleman as much care 
 as the most lovino; mistress could bestow on a sick 
 friend. It was this pearl of the old-fashioned comed}'- 
 valets, relic of tlie last centur}', auxiliar}' incorruptible 
 from lack of passions to satisf}^, on whom the old 
 vidame and Monsieur de Maulincour now relied. 
 
 " Monsieur le baron will spoil all," said the great 
 man in livery, when called into counsel. " Monsieur 
 should eat, drink, and sleep in peace. I take the whole 
 matter upon myself." 
 
 Accordingly, eight da^s after the conference, when 
 Monsieur de Maulincour, perfectly restored to health, 
 was breakfasting with his grandmother and the vidame, 
 Justin entered to make his report. As soon as the 
 
Ferragus. 57 
 
 dowager had returned to her own apartments he said, 
 with that mock modest}' which men of talent are so apt 
 to affect : — 
 
 " Ferragus is not the name of the enemy wlio is pur- 
 suing Monsieur le baron. This man — this devil, rather 
 — is called Gratien, Henri, Victor, Jean -Joseph Bou- 
 risrnard. The Sieur Gratien Bouri^nard is a former 
 ship-builder, once ver}' rich, and, above all, one of the 
 handsomest men of his day in Paris, — a Lovelace, 
 capable of seducing Grandison. My information stops 
 short there. He has been a simple workman ; and the 
 Companions of the Order of the Devorants did, at one 
 time, elect him as their chief, under the title of Ferragus 
 XXin. The police ought to know that, if the police 
 were instituted to know anything. The man has moved 
 from the rue des Vieux-Augustins, and now roosts 
 rue Joquelet, where Madame Jules Desmarets goes 
 frequently to see him ; sometimes her husband, on his 
 wa}^ to the Bourse, drives her as far as the rue Vivienne, 
 or she drives her husband to the Bourse. Monsieur le 
 vidame knows about these things too well to want me 
 to tell him if it is the husband who takes the wife, or 
 the wife who takes the husband ; but Madame Jules is 
 so prett}', I 'd bet on her. All that I have told you is 
 positive. Bourignard often plaj'S at number 129. Sav- 
 ing 3'our presence, monsieur, he 's a rogue w4io loves 
 women, and he has his little ways like a man of con- 
 
58 Ferragus. 
 
 dition. As for the rest, he wins sometimes, disguises 
 himself like an actor, paints his face to look like an}'- 
 thing he chooses, and lives, I may sa}', the most origi- 
 nal life in the world. I don't doubt he has a good 
 man}' lodgings, for most of the time he manages to 
 evade what Monsieur le vidame calls '' parliamentar}' 
 investigations." If monsieur wishes, he could be dis- 
 posed of honorabl}', seeing what his habits are. It is 
 always eas}' to get rid of a man who loves women. 
 However, this capitalist talks about moving again. 
 Have Monsieur le vidame and Monsieur le baron any 
 other commands to give me ? " 
 
 *' Justin, I am satisfied with you; don't go any far- 
 ther in the matter without my orders, but keep a close 
 watch here, so that Monsieur le baron may have noth- 
 ing to fear." 
 
 " My dear boy," continued the vidame, when the}' 
 were alone, "' go back to your old life, and forget 
 Madame Jules." 
 
 "No, no," said Auguste ; "I will never yield to 
 Gratien Bourignard. I will have him bound hand and 
 foot, and Madame Jules also." 
 
 That evening the Baron Auguste de Maulincour, 
 recently promoted to higher rank in the company of 
 the Body-Guard of the king, went to a ball given by 
 Madame la Duchesse de Berry at the Ely see-Bourbon. 
 There, certainly, no danger could lurk for him ; and 
 
Ferragus. 59 
 
 3'et, before he left the palace, he had an affair of honor 
 on his hands, — an affair it was impossible to settle 
 except by a duel. 
 
 His adversary, the Marquis de Ronquerolles, con- 
 sidered that he had strong reasons to complain of 
 Monsieur de Maulincour, who had given some ground 
 for it during his former intimacy with Monsieur de 
 Ronquerolles' sister, the Comtesse de Serizy. That 
 lad\', the one who detested German sentimentalit}', 
 was all the more exacting in the matter of pruder}'. By 
 one of those inexplicable fatalities, Auguste now uttered 
 a harmless jest which Madame de Seriz}' took amiss, 
 and her brotlier resented it. The discussion took place 
 in the corner of a room, in a low voice. In good soci- 
 ety, adversaries never raise their voices. The next 
 day the faubourg Saint-Germain and the Chateau 
 talked over the aff'air. Madame de Serizy was warml}' 
 defended, and all the blame was laid on Maulincour. 
 August personages interfered. Seconds of the high- 
 est distinction were imposed on Messieurs de Maulin- 
 cour and de Ronquerolles and every precaution was 
 taken on the ground that no one should be killed. 
 
 When Auguste found himself face to face with his 
 antagonist, a man of pleasure, to whom no one could 
 possibl}' deny sentiments of the highest honor, he felt 
 it was impossible to believe him the instrument of 
 Ferragus, chief of the Devorants ; and 3'et he was 
 
60 Ferragus. 
 
 compelled, as it were, by an inexplicable presentiment, 
 to question the marquis. 
 
 "Messieurs," he said to the seconds, "I certainly 
 do not refuse to meet the fire of Monsieur de Ron- 
 querolles ; but before doing so, I here declare that I 
 was to blame, and I offer him whatever excuses he 
 may desire, and publicl}^ if he wishes it ; because when 
 the matter concerns a woman, nothing, I think, can 
 degrade a man of honor. I therefore appeal to his 
 generosity and good sense ; is there not something 
 rather silly in fighting without a cause ? " 
 
 Monsieur de RonqueroUes would not allow of this 
 way of ending the affair, and then the baron, his sus- 
 picions revived, walked up to him. 
 
 " Well, then ! Monsieur le marquis," he said, "pledge 
 me, in presence of these gentlemen, your word as a 
 gentleman that you have no other reason for vengeance 
 than that you have chosen to put forward." 
 
 "'• Monsieur, that is a question you have no right to 
 ask." 
 
 So saying. Monsieur de RonqueroUes took his place. 
 It was agreed, in advance, that the adversaries were 
 to be satisfied with one exchange of shots. Monsieur 
 de RonqueroUes, in spite of the great distance deter- 
 mined by the seconds, which seemed to make the death 
 of either party problematical, if not impossible, brought 
 down the baron. The ball went through the latter's 
 
Ferragus. 61 
 
 liod}" just below the heart, but fortunately without 
 doing vital injury. 
 
 "You aimed too well, monsieur," said the baron, 
 " to be avenging onh' a paltry quarrel." 
 
 And he fainted. Monsieur de RonqueroUes, who 
 believed him to be a dead man, smiled sardonically as 
 he heard those words. 
 
 After a fortnight, during which time the dowager 
 and the vidarae gave him those cares of old age the se- 
 cret of which is in the hands of long experience only, 
 the baron began to return to life. But one morning 
 his grandmother dealt him a crushing blow, b}' reveal- 
 ing anxieties to which, in her last da3's, she was now 
 subjected. She showed him a letter signed F, in which 
 the history of her grandson's secret espionage was re- 
 counted step by step. The letter accused Monsieur de 
 Maulincour of actions that were unworthy of a man of 
 honor. He had, it said, placed an old woman at the 
 stand of hacknej-coaches in the rue de Menars ; an old 
 spy, who pretended to sell water from her cask to the 
 coachmen, but who was really there to watch the ac- 
 tions of Madame Jules Desmarets. He had spied 
 upon the daily life of a most inoftensive man, in order 
 to detect his secrets, — secrets on which depended the 
 lives of three persons. He had brought upon himself 
 a relentless struggle, in which, although he had escaped 
 with life three times, he must inevitably succumb. 
 
62 Ferragus. 
 
 because his death had been sworn and would be com- 
 passed if all human means were employed upon it. 
 Monsieur de Maulincour could no longer escape his 
 fate by even promising to respect the mysterious life 
 of these three persons, because it was impossible to 
 believe the word of a gentleman who had fallen to the 
 level of a police-spy : and for what reason ? Merely to 
 trouble the respectable life of an innocent woman and 
 a harmless old man. 
 
 The letter itself was nothing to Auguste in compari- 
 son with the tender reproaches of his grandmother. To 
 lack respect to a woman ! to spy upon her actions 
 without a right to do so ! Ought a man ever to spy 
 upon a woman whom he loved? — in short, she poured 
 out a torrent of those excellent reasons which prove 
 nothing ; and they put the 3'oung baron, for the first 
 time in his life, into one of those great human furies in 
 which are born, and from which issue the most vital 
 actions of a man's life. 
 
 " Since it is war to the knife," he said in conclusion, 
 "I shall kill m}' enemj' by any means that I can laj' 
 hold of." 
 
 The vidame went immediately, at Auguste's request, 
 to the chief of the private police of Paris, and without 
 bringing Madame Jules' name or person into the narra- 
 tive, although they were really the gist of it, he made 
 the official aware of the fears of the family of Maulin- 
 
Ferrarjus. 63 
 
 cour about this mysterious person who was bold enough 
 to swear the death of an officer of tlie Guards, in de- 
 fiance of the law and the poUce. The chief pushed up 
 his green spectacles in amazement, blew his nose sev- 
 eral times, and offered snuff to the vidame, who, to 
 save his dignity, pretended not to use tobacco, although 
 his own nose was discolored with it. Then the chief 
 took notes and promised, Vidocq and his spies aiding, 
 to send in a report witliin a few da3's to the Maulincour 
 family, assuring them meantime that there were no 
 secrets for the police of Paris. 
 
 A few days after this the police official called to 
 see the vidame at the Hotel de Maulincour, where 
 he found the young baron quite recovered from his 
 last wound. He gave them in bureaucratic style his 
 thanks for the indications they had afforded him, and 
 told them that Bourignard was a convict, condemned 
 to twenty 3'ears' hard labor, who had miraculously 
 escaped from a gang which was being transported 
 from Bicetre to Toulon. For thirteen j'ears the po- 
 lice had been endeavoring to recapture him, knowing 
 that he had boldh' returned to Paris ; but so far this 
 convict had escaped the most active search, although 
 he was known to be mixed up in man}' nefarious 
 deeds. However, the man, whose life was full of 
 very curious incidents, would certainlj^ be captured 
 now in one or other of his several domiciles and 
 
64 Ferragus. 
 
 delivered up to justice. The bureaucrat ended his 
 report b}' saying to Monsieur de Maulincour that if 
 he attached enough importance to the matter to wish 
 to witness the capture of Bourignard, he might come 
 the next da}^ at eiglit in the morning to a house in 
 the rue Sainte-Foi, of which he gave him the aumber. 
 Monsieur de Maulincour excused himself from going 
 personalh' in search of certaint}', — trusting, with the 
 sacred respect inspired by the police of Paris, in the 
 capability of tlie authorities. 
 
 Three days later, hearing nothing, and seeing noth- 
 ing ill the newspapers about the projected arrest, 
 which was certainl}' of enough importance to have 
 furnished an article, Monsieur de Maulincour was 
 beginning to feel anxieties which were presentl}^ 
 allayed b}' the following letter : — 
 
 Monsieur le Baron, — I have the honor to announce 
 to you that you need have no further uneasiness touching 
 the affair in question. The man named Gratien Bouri- 
 gnard, otherwise called Ferragus, died yesterday, at his 
 lodgings, rue Joquelet No. 7. The suspicions we naturally 
 conceived as to the identity of the dead body have been 
 completely set at rest by the facts. The physician of the 
 Prefecture of police was despatched by us to assist the phy- 
 sician of the arrondissement, and the chief of the detective 
 police made all the necessary verifications to obtain absolute 
 certainty. Moreover, the character of the persons who signed 
 the certificate of death, and the affidavits of those who took 
 care of the said Bourignard in his last illness, among others 
 
Ferragus. 65 
 
 that of the worthy vicar of the church of the Bonne-Xouvelle 
 (to whom he made his last confession, for he died a Chris- 
 tian), do not permit us to entertain any sort of doubt- 
 Accept, Monsieur le baron, etc., etc. 
 
 Monsieur cle Maulincour, the dowager, and the 
 vidame breathed again with joy unspeakable. The 
 good old woman kissed her grandson leaving a tear 
 upon his cheek, and went awa}^ to thank God in 
 prayer. The dear soul, who was making a novena 
 for Auguste's safety, beUeved her prayers were an- 
 swered. 
 
 "Well," said the vidame, "now you had better 
 show yourself at the ball you were speaking of. I 
 oppose no further objections." 
 
66 Ferragus. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE WIFE ACCUSED. 
 
 Monsieur de Maulincourt was all the more anxious 
 to go to this ball because he knew that Madame Jules 
 would be present. The fete was given by the Prefect 
 of the Seine, in whose salons the two social worlds 
 of Paris met as on neutral ground. Auguste passed 
 through the rooms without finding the woman who 
 now exercised so mighty an influence on his fate. 
 He entered an empt}' boudoir where card-tables were 
 placed awaiting players ; and sitting down on a divan 
 he gave himself up to the most contradictor}^ thoughts 
 about her. A man presently took the young officer b}' 
 the arm, and looking up the baron was stupefied to 
 behold the pauper of the rue Coquilliere, the Ferragus 
 of Ida, the lodger in the rue Sol}', the Bourignard of 
 Justin, the convict of the police, and the dead man of 
 the da}' before. 
 
 "Monsieur, not a sound, not a word," said Bouri- 
 gnard, whose voice he recognized. The man was 
 elegantly dressed ; he wore the order of the Golden- 
 Fleece, and a medal on his coat. " Monsieur," he con- 
 tinued, and his voice was sibilant like that of a hyena. 
 
Ferragns. 67 
 
 *'3'ou increase ray efforts against 3'ou bj- having re- 
 course to the police. You will perish, monsieur ; it 
 has now become necessary. Do you love Madame 
 Jules? Are 30U beloved by her? By what right do 
 you trouble her peaceful life, and blacken her virtue?" 
 
 Some one entered the card-room. Ferragus rose 
 to go. 
 
 " Do you know this man?" asked Monsieur de Mau- 
 lincour of the new-comer, seizing Ferragus b}' the col- 
 lar. But Ferragus quickly disengaged himself, took 
 Monsieur de Maulincour by the hair, and shook his 
 head rapidly. 
 
 " Must 3'ou have lead in it to make it steady?'' he 
 said. 
 
 " I do not know him .personally," replied Henri de 
 Marsa}', the spectator of this scene, "but I know that 
 he is Monsieur de Funcal, a rich Portuguese." 
 
 Monsieur de Funcal had disappeared. The baron 
 followed but without being able to overtake him until 
 he reached the peristyle, where he saw Ferragus, who 
 looked at him with a jeering laugh from a brilliant 
 equipage which was driven away at high speed. 
 
 " Monsieur," said Auguste, re-entering the salon and 
 addressing de Marsay, whom he knew, " I entreat you 
 to tell me where Monsieur de Funcal lives." 
 
 "I do not know; but some one here can no doubt 
 tell you." 
 
68 Ferragus. 
 
 The baron, having questioned the prefect, ascer- 
 tained that tlie Comte de Funcal Uved at the Portu- 
 guese embassy. At this moment, while he still felt the 
 ic}" fingers of that strange man in his hair, he saw 
 Madame Jules in all her dazzling beauty, fresh, gra- 
 cious, artless, resplendent with the sanctity of woman- 
 hood which had won his love. This creature, now 
 infernal to him, excited no emotion in his soul but that 
 of hatred ; and this hatred shone in a savage, terrible 
 look from his eyes. He watched for the moment when 
 he could speak to her unheard, and then he said : — 
 
 "Madame, your hravi have missed me three times." 
 
 "What can 3'ou mean, monsieur?" she said, flush- 
 ing. "I know that you have had several unfortunate 
 accidents latel}^, which I have greatly regretted ; but 
 how could I have had anything to do with them ? " 
 
 "You knew that hrcwi were emploj'ed against rae 
 by that man of the rue Soly ? '' 
 
 " Monsieur!" 
 
 "Madame, I now call you to account, not for m^^ 
 happiness only, but for my blood — " 
 
 At this instant Jules Desmarets approached them. 
 
 "What are you saying to my wife, monsieur?" 
 
 "Make that inquir}' at ni}' own house, monsieur, if 
 3'Ou are curious," said Maulincour, moving away, and 
 leaving Madame Jules in an almost fainting condition. 
 
 There are few women who have not found them- 
 
Ferragus. 69 
 
 selves, once at least in their lives, d, propos of some 
 undeniable fact, confronted with a direct, sharp, un- 
 compromising question, — one of those questions piti- 
 lessly asked b}'^ husbands, the mere apprehension of 
 which gives a chill, while the actual words enter the 
 heart like the blade of a dagger. It is from such 
 crises that the maxim has come, " All women lie." ^ 
 Falsehood, kindly falsehood, venial falsehood, sublime 
 falsehood, horrible falsehood, — but always the neces- 
 sit}' to lie. This necessity admitted, ought they not to 
 know how to lie well? French women do it admirably. 
 Our manners and customs teach them deception ! Be- 
 sides, women are so naively sauc}'-, so prett\', graceful, 
 and withal so true in lying, — they recognize so fully 
 the utiUt}' of doing so in order to avoid in social life 
 the violent shocks which happiness might not resist, — 
 that lying is seen to be as necessary to their lives as 
 the cottonwool in which they put awa}" their jewels. 
 Falsehood becomes to them the foundation of speech ; 
 truth is exceptional ; they tell it, if they are virtuous, 
 by caprice or by calculation. According to individual 
 character, some women laugh when they lie ; others 
 weep ; others are grave ; some grow angry. After 
 beginning life b}^ feigning indifference to the homage 
 that deepl}' flatters them, the}' often end by lying to 
 themselves. Who has not admired their apparent 
 snperiorit}' to everything at the very moment when 
 
70 Ferragus. 
 
 they are trembling for the secret treasures of their 
 love? Who has never studied their ease, their readi- 
 ness, their freedom of mind in the greatest embarass- 
 ments of life? In them, nothing is put on. Deception 
 comes as the snow from heaven. And then, with what 
 art they discover the truth in others ! With what 
 shrewdness the}" employ a direct logic in answer to 
 some passionate question which has revealed to them 
 the secret of the heart of a man who was guileless 
 enough to proceed b\' questioning ! To question a 
 ■woman ! wh}', that is delivering one's self up to her ; 
 does she not learn in that waj' all that we seek to 
 hide from her? Does she not know also how to be 
 dumb, though speaking? What men are daring enough 
 to struggle with the Parisian woman ? — a woman who 
 knows how to hold herself above all dagger thrusts, 
 saving : " You are ver}' inquisitive ; what is it to 3'ou? 
 Why do wish to know ? Ah ! you are jealous ! And 
 suppose I do not choose to answer you ? " — in short, a 
 woman who possesses the hundred and thirty-seven 
 methods of saying No, and incommensurable variations 
 of the word Yes. Is not a treatise on the words yes and 
 no, a fine diplomatic, philosophic, logographic, and moral 
 work, still waiting to be written ? But to accomplish 
 this work, which we may also call diabolic, is n't an 
 androg3'nous genius necessary? For that reason, prob- 
 abl}', it will never be attempted. And besides, of 
 
Ferragus. 71 
 
 all unpublished works is n't it the best known and the 
 best practised among women? Have you studied tlie 
 behavior, the pose, the cUsinvoUura of a falsehood? 
 Examine it. 
 
 Madame Desmarets was seated in the right-hand 
 corner of her carriage, her husband in the left. Having 
 forced herself to recover from her emotion in the ball- 
 room, she now affected a calm demeanor. Her husband 
 had then said nothing to her, and he still said nothing. 
 Jules looked out of the carriage window at the black 
 walls of the silent houses before which they passed ; 
 but suddenly, as if driven by a determining thought, 
 when turning the corner of a street he examined his 
 wife, who appeared to be cold in spite of the fur-lined 
 pelisse in which she was wrapped. He thought she 
 seemed pensive, and perhaps she was really so. Of all 
 communicable things, reflection and gravity are the 
 most contagious. 
 
 '' AVhat could Monsieur de Maulincour have said to 
 affect you so keenly ? " said Jules ; ' ' and whj' does he 
 wish me to go to his house and find out? " 
 
 " He can tell you nothing in his house that I cannot 
 tell 3'ou here," she replied. 
 
 Then, with that feminine craft which alwa3'S slightly 
 degrades virtue, Madame Jules waited for another 
 question. Her husband turned his face back to 
 the houses, and continued his stud}' of their walls. 
 
72 Ferragiis. 
 
 Another question would impl}^ suspicion, distrust. To 
 suspect a woman is a crime in love. Jules bad already 
 killed a man for doubting his wife. Clemence did not 
 know all there was of true passion, of loyal reflection, 
 in her husband's silence ; just as Jules was ignorant of 
 the generous drama that was wringing the heart of his 
 Clemence. 
 
 The carriage rolled on through a silent Paris, bear- 
 ing the couple, — two lovers who adored each other, 
 and who, gently leaning on the same silken cushion, 
 were being parted by an abyss. In these elegant 
 coupes returning from a ball between midnight and 
 two in the morning, how many curious and singular 
 scenes must pass, — meaning those coupes with lan- 
 terns, which light both the street and the carriage, 
 those with their windows unshaded ; in short, legiti- 
 mate coupes, in which couples can quarrel without 
 caring for the eyes of pedestrians, because the civil 
 code gives a right to provoke, or beat, or kiss, a 
 wife in a carriage or elsewhere, an3'where, every- 
 where ! How many secrets must be revealed in this 
 way to nocturnal pedestrians, — to those young fellows 
 who have gone to a ball in a carriage, but are obliged, 
 for whatever cause it ma}' be, to return on foot. It 
 was the first time that Jules and Clemence had been 
 together thus, — each in a corner; usuall}' the husband 
 pressed close to his wife. 
 
Ferragus. 73 
 
 " It is very cold," remarked Madame Jules. 
 
 But her husband did not hear her ; he was studying 
 the signs above the shop windows. 
 
 " Clemence," he said at last, " forgive me the ques- 
 tion I am about to ask you." 
 
 He came closer, took her by the waist, and drew her 
 to him. 
 
 '' My God, it is coming ! " thought the poor woman. 
 " Well," she said aloud, anticipating the question, 
 "you want to know what Monsieur de MauUncour said 
 to me. I will tell you, Jules; but not without fear. 
 Good God ! how is it possible that you and I should 
 have secrets from one another? For the last few mo- 
 ments I have seen you struggling between a conviction 
 of our love and vague fears. But that conviction is 
 clear within us, is it not? And these doubts and fears, 
 do they not seem to you dark and unnatural? AYhy 
 not sta}^ in that clear light of love you cannot doubt? 
 When I have told you all, you will still desire to know 
 more ; and yet I myself do not know what the ex- 
 traordinary words of that man meant. What I fear is 
 that this may lead to some fatal affair between you. I 
 would rather that we both forget this unpleasant mo- 
 ment. But, in an}^ case, swear to me that 5'ou will let 
 this singular adventure explain itself naturall}'. Here 
 are the facts. Monsieur de MauUncour declared to me 
 that the three accidents 3'ou have heard mentioned — • 
 
74 Ferragus. 
 
 the falling of a stone on bis servant, the breaking down 
 of his cabriolet, and his duel about Madame de Serizy 
 — were the result of some plot I had laid against him. 
 He also threatened to reveal to you the cause of my 
 desire to destroy him. Can you imagine what all this 
 means? My emotion came from the sight of his face 
 convulsed with madness, his haggard e3'es, and also 
 his words, broken b}' some violent inward emotion. I 
 thought him mad. That is all that took place. Now, 
 I should be less than a woman if I had not perceived 
 that for over a year 1 have become, as they call it, the 
 passion of Monsieur de Maulincour. He has never 
 seen me except at a ball ; and our intercourse has been 
 most insignificant, — merelj' that which ever}' one 
 shares at a ball. Perhaps he wants to disunite us, so 
 that he may find me at some future time alone and 
 nnprotected. There, see ! already 3'ou are frowning ! 
 Oh, how cordialh' I hate societ}' ! We were so happj' 
 without him; why take any notice of him? Jules, I 
 entreat you, forget all this ! To-morrow we shall, no 
 doubt, hear that Monsieur de Maulincour has gone 
 mad." 
 
 "What a singular aflfair ! " thought Jules, as the 
 carriage stopped under the perist3'le of their house. 
 He gave his arm to his wife and together the}' went up 
 to their apartments. 
 
 To develop this histor\' in all its truth of detail, and 
 
Ferragus. 75 
 
 to follow its course through man}' windings, it is neces- 
 sary here to divulge some of love's secrets, to glide 
 beneath the ceilings of a marriage chamber, not shame- 
 lessly, but like Trilby, frightening neither Dougal nor 
 Jeannie, alarming no one, — being as chaste as our 
 noble French language requires, and as bold as the 
 pencil of Gerard in his picture of Daphnis and Chloe. 
 
 The bedroom of Madame Jules was a sacred spot. 
 Herself, her husband, and her maid alone entered it. 
 Opulence has glorious privileges, and the most envi- 
 able are those which enable the development of senti- 
 ments to their fullest extent, — fertilizing them b}' the 
 accomplishment of even their caprices, and surrounding 
 them with a brilliancy that enlarges them, with refine- 
 ments that purify them, with a thousand delicacies that 
 make them still more alluring. If you hate dinners on 
 the grass, and meals ill-served, if 3'ou feel a pleasure 
 in seeing a damask cloth that is dazzlingly white, a 
 silver-gilt dinner service, and porcelain of exquisite 
 purity, lighted by transparent candles, where miracles 
 of cookery are served under silver covers bearing coats 
 of arms, you must, to be consistent, leave the garrets 
 at the tops of the houses, and the grisettes in the streets, 
 abandon garrets, grisettes, umbrellas, and overshoes to 
 men who pa}' for their dinners with tickets ; and you 
 nmst also comprehend Love to be a principle which 
 develops in all its grace only on Savonnerie carpets, be- 
 
76 Ferragus. 
 
 neath the opal gleams of an alabaster lamp, between 
 guarded walls silk-hung, before gilded hearths in cham- 
 bers deadened to all outward sounds by shutters and 
 billow}^ curtains. Mirrors must be there to show the 
 play of form and repeat the woman we would multiply 
 as love itself multiplies and magnifies her ; next low 
 divans, and a bed which, like a secret, is divined, not 
 shown. In this coquettish chamber are fur-lined slip- 
 pers for pretty feet, wax-candles under glass with 
 muslin draperies, b}- which to read at all hours of the 
 night, and flowers, not those oppressive to the head, 
 and linen, the fineness of which might have satisfied 
 Anne of Austria. 
 
 Madame Jules had realized this charming programme, 
 but that was nothing. All women of taste can do as 
 much, though there is alwa3's in the arrangement of 
 these details a stamp of personalit}' which gives to this 
 decoration or that detail a character that cannot be 
 imitated. To-da}', more than ever, reigns the fanati- 
 cism of individualit}'. The more our laws tend to an 
 impossible equalitj^, the more we shall get awa}' from it 
 in our manners and customs. Thus, rich people are 
 beginning, in France, to become more exclusive in 
 their tastes and their belongings, than they have been 
 for the last thirty years. Madame Jules knew very 
 well how to carr}^ out this programme ; and everything 
 about her was arranged in harmony with a luxury that 
 
Ferragus. 77 
 
 suits so well with love. Love in a cottage, or '' Fifteen 
 hundred francs and my Sophy," is the dream of starve- 
 lings to whom black bread suffices in their present 
 state ; but when love really comes, they grow fastidious 
 and end by craving the luxuries of gastronom}'. Love 
 holds toil and povert}' in horror. It would rather die 
 than merel}' live on from hand to moutli. 
 
 Man}' women, returning from a ball, impatient for 
 their beds, throw off their gowns, their faded flowers, 
 their bouquets, the fragrance of which has now de- 
 parted. The}' leave their little shoes beneath a chair, 
 the white strings trailing ; the}- take out their combs 
 and let their hair roll down as it will. Little they care 
 if their husbands see the puifs, the hairpins, the artful 
 props which supported the elegant edifice of the hair, 
 and the garlands or the jewels that adorned it. No 
 more mysteries ! all is over for the husband ; no more 
 painting or decoration for him. The corset — half the 
 time it is a corset of a reparatiA'^e kind — lies where it 
 is thrown, if the maid is too sleepy- to take it awa\' with 
 her. The whalebone bustle, the oiled-silk protections 
 round the sleeves, the pads, the hair bought from a 
 coiffeur, all the false woman is there, scattered about 
 in open sight. Disjecta membra poetce^ the artificial 
 poesy, so much admired by those for whom it is con- 
 ceived and elaborated, the fragments of a pretty woman, 
 litter ever}' corner of the room. To the love of a yawn- 
 
78 Ferragus. 
 
 ing husband, the actual woman presents herself, also 
 3'awning, in a dishabille without elegance, and a 
 tumbled night-cap, that of last night and that of to- 
 morrow night also, — "For reall}', monsieur, if you 
 want a prett}' cap to rumple every night, increase my 
 pin-money." 
 
 There's life as it is ! A woman makes herself old 
 and unpleasing to her husband ; but dainty and elegant 
 and adorned for others, for the rival of all husbands, — 
 for that world which calumniates and tears to shreds 
 her sex. 
 
 Inspired by true love, for Love has, like other crea- 
 tions, its instinct of preservation, Madame Jules did 
 very differently ; she found in the constant blessing of 
 her love the necessary impulse to fulfil all those mi- 
 nute personal cares which ought never to be relaxed, 
 because they perpetuate love. Besides, such personal 
 cares and duties proceed from a personal dignity which 
 becomes all women, and are among the sweetest of 
 flatteries, for is it not respecting in themselves the man 
 they love ? 
 
 So Madame Jules denied to her husband all access to 
 her dressing-room, where she left the accessories of her 
 toilet, and whence she issued m3'steriously adorned for 
 the m3'sterious fetes of her heart. Entering their cham- 
 ber, which was always graceful and elegant, Jules found 
 a woman coquettishly wrapped in a charming peignoir, 
 
Ferragus. 79 
 
 her hair simply wound in heavy coils around her head ; 
 a woman always more simple, more beautiful there 
 than she was before the world ; a woman just refreshed 
 in water, whose only artifice consisted in being whiter 
 than her muslins, sweeter than all perfumes, more 
 seductive than any siren, alwa^^s loving and there- 
 fore alwa3's loved. This admirable understanding of 
 a wife's business was the secret of Josephine's charm 
 for Napoleon, as in former times it was that of 
 Csesonia for Caius Caligula, of Diane de Poitiers for 
 Henri II. If it was largely productive to women of 
 seven or eight lustres what a weapon is it in the hands 
 of 3'oung women ! A husband gathers with delight the 
 rewards of his fidelit3\ 
 
 Returning home after the conversation which had 
 chilled her with fear, and still gave her the keenest 
 anxiet}', Madame Jules took particular pains with her 
 toilet for the night. She wanted to make herself, and 
 she did make herself enchanting. She belted the 
 cambric of her dressing-gown round her waist, defining 
 the lines of her bust ; she allowed her hair to fall upon 
 her beautifully modelled shoulders. A perfumed bath 
 had given her a delightful fragrance, and her little bare 
 feet were in velvet slippers. Strong in a sense of her 
 advantages she came in stepping softly, and put her 
 hands over her husband's eyes. She thought him 
 peftsive ; he was standing in his dressing-gown before 
 
80 Ferragus. 
 
 the fire, his elbow on the mantel and one foot on the 
 fender. She said in his ear, warming it with her 
 breath, and nibbling the tip of it with her teeth : — 
 
 "What are you thinking about, monsieur?" 
 
 Then she pressed him in her arms as if to tear him 
 away from all evil thoughts. The woman who loves 
 has a full knowledge of her power ; the more virtuous 
 she is, the more effectual is her coquetry. 
 
 " About you," he answered. 
 
 " Only about me?" 
 
 ''Yes." 
 
 "Ah I that's a very doubtful ' yes.' " 
 
 They went to bed. As she fell asleep, Madame Jules 
 said to herself : — 
 
 " Monsieur de Maulincour will certainl}' cause some 
 evil. Jules' mind is preoccupied, disturbed; he is 
 nursing thoughts he does not tell me." 
 
 It was three in the morning when Madame Jules 
 was awakened b}- a presentiment which struck her 
 heart as she slept. She had a sense both ph3'sical 
 and moral of her husband's absence. She did not 
 feel the arm Jules passed beneath her head, — that 
 arm in which she had slept, peaceful and happ}', for 
 five years ; an arm she had never wearied. A 
 voice said to her, "Jules suffers, Jules is weeping." 
 She raised her head, and then sat up ; felt that her 
 husband's place was cold, and saw him sitting before 
 
Ferragus. 81 
 
 the fire, his feet on the fender, his head resting 
 against the back of an arm-chair. Tears were on his 
 cheeks. The poor woman threw herself hastily from 
 her bed and sprang at a bound to her husband's 
 knees. 
 
 " Jules ! what is it? Are 3'ou ill? Speak, tell me ! 
 Speak to me, if you love me ! " and she poured out a 
 hundred words expressing the deepest tenderness. 
 
 Jules knelt at her feet, kissed her hands and knees, 
 and answered with fresh tears : — 
 
 "Dear Clemence, I am most unhapp}- ! It is not 
 loving to distrust the one we love. I adore 3'ou and 
 suspect you. The words that man said to me to-night 
 have struck to m}^ heart ; thej' sta}' there in spite of 
 myself, and confound me. There is some mystery 
 here. In short, and I blush to say it, your explana- 
 tions do not satisfv" me. M3' reason casts gleams into 
 my soul which m}^ love rejects. It is an awful combat. 
 Could I stay there, holding 3'our head, and suspecting 
 thoughts within it to me unknown? Oh! I believe in 
 3'OU, I believe in you ! " he cried, seeing her smile 
 sadl3^ and open her mouth as if to speak. " Sav 
 nothing ; do not reproach me. A word of blame from 
 3'ou would kill me. Besides, could 3'OU sa3" anything 
 I have not said to m3'self for tlie last three hours? 
 Yes, for three hours, I have been here, watching 3'ou 
 as you slept, so beautiful ! adniiring that pure, peace- 
 
 6 
 
82 Fer vagus. 
 
 ful brow. Yes, yes ! you have alwa3's told me your 
 thoughts, have 3'ou not? I alone am in that soul. 
 While I look at you, while my eyes can plunge into 
 yours I see all plainly-. Your life is as pure as 3'our 
 glance is clear. No, there is no secret behind those 
 transparent e3'es." He rose and kissed their lids. "Let 
 me avow to 3'on, dearest soul," he said, " that for the 
 last five 3'ears each day has increased m3" happiness, 
 through the knowledge that 3'ou are all mine, and that 
 no natural nfFection even can take any of 3'our love. 
 Having no sister, no father, no mother, no companion, 
 I am neither above nor below an3' living being in youi 
 heart ; I am alone there. Clemence, repeat to me 
 those sweet things of the spirit 30U have so often 
 said to me ; do not blame me ; comfort me, I am 
 so unhapp3'. I have an odious suspicion on m3' con- 
 science, and you have nothing in your heart to sear 
 it. My beloved, tell me, could I sta3- there beside 
 3'Ou? Could two heads united as ours have been lie 
 on the same pillow when one was suffering and the 
 other tranquil? What are you thinking of?" he cried 
 abruptl3', observing that Clemence was anxious, con- 
 fused, and seemed unable to restrain her tears. 
 
 "I am thinking of my mother," she answered, in a 
 grave voice. " You will never know, Jules, what I 
 suffer in remembering m3" mother's dying farewell, saifl 
 in a voice sweeter than all music, and in feeling the 
 
Ferragus. 83 
 
 solemn touch of her ic}^ hand at a moment when you over- 
 whehu me with those assurances of your precious love." 
 
 She raised her husband, strained him to her with a 
 nervous force greater than that of men, and kissed 
 his hair, covering it with tears. 
 
 " Ah ! I would be hacked in pieces for you ! Tell me 
 that I make 3'ou happv ; that I am to 3'ou the most beau- 
 tiful of women — a thousand women to 3'OU. Oh! you 
 are loved as no other man ever was or will be. I don't 
 know the meaning of those words ' dutj'/ ' virtue.' 
 Jules, I love you for yourself; I am happ\' in loving 3'ou ; 
 I shall love 3'OU more and more to m3' dying da3'. 1 
 have pride in m3' love ; I feel it is m3' destin3" to have 
 one sole emotion in m3' life. What I shall tell you now 
 is dreadful, I know — but I am glad to have no child ; I 
 do not wish for an3'. I feel I am more wife than motlier. 
 Well, then, can you fear? Listen to me, m3' own be- 
 loved, promise to forget, not this hour of mingled tender- 
 ness and doubt, but the words of that madman. Jules, 
 you must. Promise me not to see him, not to go to liim. 
 I have a deep conviction that if 3'ou set one foot into 
 that maze we shall both roll down a precipice where 
 I shall perish — but with your name upon m3' lips, your 
 heart in m3^ heart. Wh3' hold me so high in that heart 
 and yet so low in realit3'? What ! 3'ou who give credit 
 to so man3' as to mone3', can you not give me the 
 charit3'' of faith? And on the first occasion in our lives 
 
84 Fcrragus. 
 
 when 3'ou might prove to me your boundless trust, do 
 3'ou cast me from my throne in your heart? Between 
 a madman and me, it is the madman whom 3'ou choose 
 to believe? oh, Jules ! " She stopped, threw back the 
 hair that fell about her brow and neck, and then, in a 
 heart-rending tone, she added : " I have said too much ; 
 one word should suffice. If 3'our soul and 3'our fore- 
 head still keep this cloud, however light it be, I tell 
 you now that I shall die of it." 
 
 She could not repress a shudder, and turned pale. 
 
 "Oh! I will kill that man," thought Jules, as he 
 lifted his wife in his arms and carried lier to her bed. 
 
 "Let us sleep in peace, m3' angel," he said. ''I 
 have forgotten all, 1 swear it!" 
 
 Clemence fell asleep to the music of those sweet 
 words, softh' repeated. Jules, as he watched her sleep- 
 ing, said in his heart : — 
 
 "She is right; when love is so pure, suspicion 
 blights it. To that young soul, that tender flower, a 
 blight — yes, a blight means death." 
 
 When a cloud comes between two beings filled with 
 affection for each other and whose lives are in abso- 
 lute unison, that cloud, though it ma3" disperse, leaves 
 in these souls a trace of its passage. Either love gains 
 a stronger life, as the earth after rain, or the shock 
 still echoes like distant thunder through a cloudless 
 sk3\ It is impossible to recover absolutel3' the former 
 life ; love will either increase or diminish. 
 
Ferragus. 85 
 
 At breakfast, Monsieur and Madame Jules showed 
 to each other those particular attentions in which there 
 is alwaj's something of affectation. There were glances 
 of forced gayety, which seemed the effort of persons 
 endeavoring to deceive themselves. Jules had invol- 
 untary^ doubts, his wife had positive fears. Still, sure 
 of each other, they had slept. Was this strained con- 
 dition the effect of a want of faith, or was it only a 
 memor}^ of their nocturnal scene? They did not know 
 themselves. But they loved each other so purely that 
 the impression of that scene, both cruel and beneficent, 
 could not fail to leave its traces in their souls ; both 
 were eager to make those traces disappear, each striv- 
 ing to be the first to return to the other, and thus they 
 could not fail to think of the cause of tlieir first vari- 
 ance. To loving souls, this is not grief; pain is still 
 far-off ; but it is a sort of mourning, which is diffi- 
 cult to depict. If there are, indeed, relations between 
 colors and the emotions of the soul, if, as Locke's 
 blind man said, scarlet produces on the sight the effect 
 produced on the hearing by a blast of trumpets, it is 
 permissible to compare this reac':ion of melancholy to 
 mourning tones of gra}'. 
 
 But even so, love saddened, love in which remains a 
 true sentiment of its happiness, momentarily troubled 
 though it be, gives enjo3'ments derived from pain and 
 pleasure both, which are all novel. Jules studied his 
 
86 Ferragus. 
 
 wife's voice ; he watched her glances with the fresh- 
 ness of feehng that inspired him in the earliest da3'S 
 of liis passion for her. The memory of five absolutely 
 happy 3^ears, her beauty, the candor of her love, quickly 
 effaced in her husband's mind the last vestiges of an 
 intolerable pain. 
 
 The day was Sunday, — a da}" on which there was 
 no Bourse and no business to be done. Tlie reunited 
 pair passed the whole da}' together, getting farther in- 
 to each other's hearts than they ever yet had done, 
 like two children who in a moment of fear, hold each 
 other closely and cling together, united by an instinct. 
 There are in this life of two-in-one completely happy 
 days, the gift of chance, ephemeral flowers, born 
 neither of yesterday nor belonging to the morrow. 
 Jules and Clemence now enjoyed this day as though 
 they foreboded it to be the last of their loving life. 
 What name shall we give to that mysterious power 
 which hastens the steps of travellers before the storm 
 is visible ; which makes the life and beauty of the dy- 
 ing so resplendent, and fills the parting soul with joy- 
 ous projects for days before death comes ; which tells 
 the midnight student to fill his lamp when it shines 
 brightest ; and makes the mother fear the thoughtful 
 look cast upon her infant by an observing man ? We 
 all are affected by this influence in the great catastro- 
 phes of life ; but it has never yet been named or stud- 
 
Ferragus. 87 
 
 ied ; it is something more than presentiment, but not 
 as yet clear vision. 
 
 All went well till the following da}'. On Monda}', 
 Jules Desmarets, obliged to go to the Bourse on his 
 usual business, asked his wife, as usual, if she would 
 take advantage of his carriage and let him drive her 
 an}' where. 
 
 " No," she said, ••' the da}' is too unpleasant to go 
 out." 
 
 It was raining in torrents. At half-past two o'clock 
 Monsieur Desmarets reached the Treasury. At four 
 o'clock, as he left the Bourse, he came face to face with 
 Monsieur de Maulincour, who was waiting for him with 
 the nervous pertinacity of hatred and vengeance. 
 
 ^' Monsieur," he said, taking Monsieur Desmarets by 
 the arm, " I have important information to give you. 
 Listen to me. I am too loyal a man to have recourse 
 to anonymous letters with which to trouble your peace 
 of mind ; I prefer to speak to you in person. Believe 
 me, if my very life were not concerned, I should not 
 meddle with the private affairs of any household, even 
 if I thought I had the right to do so." 
 
 " If what you have to say to me concerns Madame 
 Desmarets," replied Jules, " I request you to be silent, 
 monsieur." 
 
 " If I am silent, monsieur, you may before long see 
 Madame Jules on the prisoner's bench at the court of 
 
88 Ferragus. 
 
 assizes beside a convict. Now, do you wish me to be 
 silent?" 
 
 Jules turned pale ; but his noble face instantly re- 
 sumed its calmness, though it was now a false calm- 
 ness. Drawing the baron under one of the temporary 
 sheds of the Bourse, near which the}' were standing, 
 he said to him in a voice which concealed his intense 
 inward emotion : — 
 
 " Monsieur, I will listen to you ; but there will be a 
 duel to the death between us if — " 
 
 "Oh, to that I consent!" cried Monsieur de Mau- 
 lincour. " I have the greatest esteem for your charac- 
 ter. You speak of death. You are unaware that your 
 wife may have assisted in poisoning me last Saturday 
 night. Yes, monsieur, since then some extraordinary 
 evil has developed in me. My hair appears to distil 
 an inward fever and a deadly languor through my 
 skull ; I know who clutched my hair at that ball." 
 
 Monsieur de Maulincour then related, without omit- 
 ting a single fact, his platonic love for Madame Jules, 
 and the details of the affair in the rue Soly which 
 began this narrative. An}' one would have listened to 
 him with attention ; but Madame Jules' husband had 
 good reason to be more amazed than any other human 
 being. Here his character displa3'ed itself; he was 
 more amazed than overcome. Made a judge, and the 
 judge of an adored woman, he found in his soul the 
 
Ferragus. 89 
 
 equity of a judge as well as the inflexibilit3\ A lover 
 still, he thought less of his own shattered life than of 
 his wife's life ; he listened, not to his own anguish, but 
 to some far-off voice that cried to him, " Clemence 
 cannot lie ! Why should she betra}^ you ? " 
 
 '' Monsieur," said the baron, as he ended, "being 
 absolutely certain of having recognized in Monsieur de 
 Funcal the same Ferragus whom the police declared 
 dead, I have put upon his traces an intelligent man. 
 As I returned that night I remembered, by a fortunate 
 chance, the name of Madame Me3'nardie, mentioned in 
 that letter of Ida, the presumed mistress of m}' perse- 
 cutor. Supplied with this clue, my emissary' will soon 
 get to the bottom of this horrible affair ; for he is 
 far more able to discover the truth than the police 
 themselves." 
 
 "Monsieur," replied Desmarets, "I know not how 
 to thank 3'ou for this confidence. You sa}' that you 
 can obtain proofs and witnesses ; I shall await them. I 
 shall seek the truth of this strange affair courageousl}* ; 
 but 3'ou must permit me to doubt everything until the 
 evidence of the facts you state is proved to me. In any 
 case 3"ou shall have satisfaction, for, as you will cer- 
 tainly^ understand, we both require it." 
 
 Jules returned home. 
 
 "What is the matter, Jules?" asked his wife, when 
 she saw him. " You look so pale j'ou frighten me ! " 
 
90 Ferragus. 
 
 " The da^' is cold," be answered, walking with slow 
 steps across the room where all things spoke to him of 
 love and hnppiness, — that room so calm and peaceful 
 where a deadl\' storm was gathering. 
 
 "Did j'ou go out to-da}'?" he asked, as though 
 raechanicalh'. 
 
 He was impelled to ask the question by the last of a 
 ni3riad of thoughts which had gathered themselves 
 together into a lucid meditation, though jealous}' was 
 activeh' prompting them. 
 
 " No," she answered, in a tone that was falsel}' 
 candid. 
 
 At that instant Jules saw through the open door of 
 the dressing-room the velvet bonnet which his wife 
 wore in the mornings ; on it were drops of rain. Jules 
 was a passionate man, but he was also full of delicacy. 
 It was repugnant to him to bring his wife face to face 
 with a lie. When such a situation occurs, all has come 
 to an end forever between certain beings. And j'et 
 those drops of rain were like a flash tearing through his 
 brain. 
 
 He left the room, went down to the porter's lodge, 
 and said to the porter, after making sure that they 
 were alone : — 
 
 " Fouguereau, a hundred crowns if you tell me the 
 truth ; dismissal if 3'ou deceive me ; and nothing at all 
 if 3'ou ever speak of my question and your answer." 
 
Ferragus. 91 
 
 He stopped to examine the man's face, leading him 
 under the window. Then he continued : — 
 
 "• Did madame go out this morning? '' 
 
 " Madame went out at a quarter to three, and I 
 think I saw her come in about half an hour ago." 
 
 " That is true, upon your honor? " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur." 
 
 " You will have the money ; but if you speak of this, 
 remember, you will lose all." 
 
 Jules returned to his wife. 
 
 ''Clemence," )ie said, "I find I must put my ac- 
 counts in order. Do not be offended at the inquir}- I 
 am going to make. Have I not given you forty thou- 
 sand francs since the beginning of the year?" 
 
 " More," she said, — "fort}'- seven." 
 
 " Have you spent them? " 
 
 " Nearly," she replied. "In the first place, I had to 
 pay several of our last year's bills — " 
 
 " I shall never find out anything in this wa}'," 
 thought Jules. " I am not taking the best course." 
 
 At this moment Jules' own valet entered the room 
 wdth a letter for his master, who opened it indifferentl}', 
 but as soon as his ej'es had lighted on the signature he 
 read it eagerl}'. The letter w^as as follows : — 
 
 Monsieur, — For the sake of your peace of mind as well 
 as ours, I take the course of waiting you this letter without 
 possessing the advantage of being known to you ; but my 
 
92 Ferragus. 
 
 position, my age, and the fear of some misfortune compel 
 me to entreat you to show indulgence in the trying circum- 
 stances under which our afflicted family is placed. Mon- 
 sieur Auguste de Maulincour has for the last few days shown 
 signs of mental derangement, and we fear that he may 
 trouble your happiness by fancies which he confided to Mon- 
 sieur le Vidame de Pamier's and myself during his first 
 attack of frenzy. We think it right, therefore, to warn you 
 of his malady, which is, we hope, curable ; but it will have 
 such serious and important effects on the honor of our fam- 
 ily and the career of my gTandson that we must rely, mon- 
 sieur, on your entire discretion. 
 
 If Monsieur le Vidame or I could have gone to see you we 
 would not have written. But I make no doubt that you 
 will regard the prayer of a mother, who begs you to destroy 
 this letter. 
 
 Accept the assurance of my perfect consideration. 
 
 Baronne de Maulincour, ne'e de Rieux. 
 
 " Oh ! what torture ! " cried Jules. 
 
 "What is it? what is in your mind?'' asked his 
 wife, exhibiting the deepest anxiety. 
 
 " I have come," he answered, slowlj', as he threw her 
 the letter, " to ask myself whether it can be 3'ou who 
 have sent me that to avert m^' suspicions. Judge, 
 therefore, what I suffer." 
 
 "Unhappy man!" said Madame Jules, letting fall 
 the paper. " I pity him ; though he has done me great 
 harm." 
 
 " Are 3'ou aware that he has spoken to me? " 
 
Ferragus. 93 
 
 "Oh! have 3'on been to see him, in spite of your 
 promise?" she cried in terror. 
 
 *' Clemence, our love is in danger of perishing ; we 
 stand outside of the ordinar}^ rules of life ; let us 
 lay aside all pett}' considerations in presence of this 
 great peril. Explain to me why you went out this 
 morning. Women think the}' have the right to tell us 
 little falsehoods. Sometimes they like to hide a pleas- 
 ure they are preparing for us. Just now you said a 
 word to me, b}' mistake no doubt, a no for a 3'es." 
 
 He went into the dressing-room and brought out the 
 bonnet. 
 
 " See," he said, " your bonnet betrayed you ; these 
 spots are raindrops. You must, therefore, have gone 
 out in a street cab, and these drops fell upon it as 3'on 
 went to find one, or as you entered or left the house 
 where you went. But a woman can leave her own 
 home for man}' innocent purposes, even after she has 
 told her husband that she did not mean to 20 out. 
 There are so many reasons for changing our plans ! 
 Caprices, whims, are they not your right? Women are 
 not required to be consistent with themselves. You 
 had forgotten something, — a service to render, a visit, 
 some kind action. But nothing hinders a woman from 
 telling her husband what she does. Can we ever blush 
 on the breast of a friend? It is not a jealous husband 
 who speaks to you, my Clemence ; it is your lover, 
 
94 Fcrragus. 
 
 your friend, 3'our brother." He flung himself passion- 
 ately at her feet. " Speak, not to justify yourself, but 
 to calm my horrible sufferings. I know that 3'ou went 
 out. Well — what did you do? where did you go? " 
 
 " Yes, 1 went out, Jules," she answered in a strained 
 voice, though her face was calm. " But ask me noth- 
 ing more. Wait ; have confidence ; without which 30U 
 will lay up for yourself terrible remorse. Jules, my 
 Jules, trust is the virtue of love. I own to you that I 
 am at this moment too troubled to answer 3'ou : but I 
 am not a false woman ; I love 3 ou, and 3'ou know it." 
 
 " In the midst of all that can shake the faith of man 
 and rouse his jealous3', for I see I am not first in 3 our 
 heart, I am no longer thine own self — well, Clemence, 
 even so, I prefer to believe 3'ou, to believe that voice, to 
 believe those eyes. If you deceive me, you deserve — " 
 
 " Ten thousand deaths ! " she cried, interrupting him. 
 
 " I have never hidden a thought from you, but3'ou — " 
 
 ''Hush!" she said, "our happiness depends upon 
 our mutual silence." 
 
 " Ha! I will know all! " he exclaimed, with sudden 
 violence. 
 
 At that moment the cries of a woman were heard, — 
 the 3'elping of a shrill little voice came from the ante- 
 chamber. 
 
 " I tell you I will go in ! " it cried. " Yes, I shall 
 go in ; I will see her ! I shall see her ! " 
 
Ferragus. 95 
 
 Jules and Cleraence both ran to the salon as the door 
 from the antechamber was violently burst open. A 
 young woman entered hastih', followed by two ser- 
 vants, who said to their master : — 
 
 " Monsieur, this person would come in in spite of 
 us. We told her that madame was not at home. She 
 answered that she knew very well madame had been 
 out, but she saw her come in. She threatened to 
 stay at the door of the house till she could speak to 
 madame." 
 
 " You can go," said Monsieur Desmarets to the two 
 men. "What do you want, mademoiselle? " he added, 
 turning to the strange woman. 
 
 This " demoiselle" was the tj^pe of a woman who is 
 never to be met with except in Paris. She is made in 
 Paris, like the mud, like the pavement, like the water 
 of the Seine, such as it becomes in Paris before human 
 industry filters it ten times ere it enters the cut- 
 glass decanters and sparkles pure and bright from the 
 filth it has been. She is therefore a being who is truly 
 original. Depicted scores of times by the painter's 
 brush, the pencil of the caricaturist, the charcoal of the 
 etcher, she still escapes analysis, because she cannot 
 be caught and rendered in all her moods, like Nature, 
 like this fantastic Paris itself She holds to vice b}^ 
 one thread onh', and she breaks away from it at a 
 thousand other points of the social circumference. Be- 
 
96 Ferragus. 
 
 sides, she lets only one trait of her character be known, 
 and that the onl}^ one which renders her blamable ; 
 her noble virtues are hidden ; she prefers to glor3' in 
 her naive libertinism. Most incomplete^ rendered in 
 dramas and tales where she is put upon the scene with 
 all her poes}', she is nowhere reall}^ true but in her 
 garret ; elsewhere she is invariably calumniated or 
 over-praised. Rich, she deteriorates ; poor, she is mis- 
 understood. She has too many vices, and too man}' 
 good qualities ; she is too near to pathetic asphyxiation 
 or to a dissolute laugh : too beautiful and too hideous. 
 She personifies Paris, to which, in the long run, she 
 supplies the toothless portresses, washerwomen, street- 
 sweepers, beggars, occasional!}' insolent countesses, 
 admired actresses, applauded singers ; she has even 
 given, in the olden time, two quasi-queens to the mon- 
 arch3\ AVho can grasp such a Proteus? She is all 
 woman, less than woman, more than woman. From 
 this vast portrait the painter of manners and morals 
 can take but a feature here and there ; the ensemble is 
 infinite. 
 
 She was a grisette of Paris ; a grisette in all her 
 glory ; a grisette in a hackne3'-coach, — happ}', young, 
 handsome, fresh, but a grisette ; a grisette with claws, 
 scissors, impudent as a Spanish woman, snarling as a 
 prudish English woman proclaiming her conjugal rights, 
 coquettish as a great lad}', though more frank, and 
 
Ferragus. 97 
 
 ready for everj'thing ; a perfect lionne in her wa}' ; 
 issuing from the little apartment of which she had 
 dreamed so often, with its red-calico curtains, its 
 Utrecht velvet furniture, its tea-table, the cabinet of 
 china with painted designs, the sofa, the little moquette 
 carpet, the alabaster clock and candlesticks (under 
 glass cases) , the yellow bedroom, the eider-down quilt, 
 — in short, all the domestic joys of a grisette's life ; 
 and in addition, the woman-of-all-work (a former 
 grisette herself, now the owner of a moustache), 
 theatre-parties, unlimited bonbons, silk dresses, bon- 
 nets to spoil, — in fact, all the felicities coveted by the 
 grisette heart except a carriage, which only enters her 
 imagination as a marshal's baton into the dreams of a 
 soldier. Yes, this grisette had all these things in return 
 for a true affection, or in spite of a true affection, as 
 some others obtain it for an hour a da}', — a sort of tax 
 carelessly paid under the claws of an old man. 
 
 The 3'oung woman who now entered the presence of 
 Monsieur and Madame Jules had a pair of feet so little 
 covered by her shoes that only a slim black line was 
 visible between the carpet and her white stockings. 
 This peculiar foot-gear, which Parisian caricaturists 
 have well rendered, is a special attribute of the grisette 
 of Paris; but she is even more distinctive to the eyes 
 of an observer by the care with which her garments are 
 made to adhere to her form, which they clearlj' define. 
 
98 Ferragus. 
 
 On this occasion she was trigly dressed in a green 
 gown, with a white chemisette, which allowed the 
 beaut}' of her bust to be seen ; her shawl, of Ternaux 
 cashmere, had fallen from her shoulders, and was held 
 by its two corners, which were twisted round her 
 wrists. She had a delicate face, ros}^ cheeks, a white 
 skin, sparkling gray eyes, a round, very prominent 
 forehead, hair carefully smoothed beneath her little 
 bonnet, and heavy curls upon her neck. 
 
 ^'M}'' name is Ida," she began, " and if that's Ma- 
 dame Jules to whom I have the advantage of speaking, 
 I 've come to tell her all I have in my heart against 
 her. It is \evy wrong, when a woman is set up and in 
 her furniture, as you are here, to come and take from 
 a poor girl a man with whom I 'm as good as married, 
 morally, and who did talk of making it right b}^ raarr}'- 
 ing me before the municipalit}'. There 's plent}- of 
 handsome 3"oung men in the world — ain't there, mon- 
 sieur? — to take your fanc}', without going after a man 
 of middle age, who makes ni}^ happiness. Yah ! I 
 haven't got a fine h6tel like this, but I 've got my love, 
 I have. I hate handsome men and money ; I 'm all 
 heart, and — " 
 
 Madame Jules turned to her husband. 
 
 " You will allow me, monsieur, to hear no more of 
 all this," she said, retreating to her bedroom. 
 
 "If the lad}' lives with you, I've made a mess of 
 
Fer vagus. 99 
 
 it; but I can't help that," resumed Ida. " Wliy does 
 she come after Monsieur Ferragus every day ? " 
 
 "You are mistaken, mademoiselle," said Jules, stu- 
 pefied ; " my wife is incapable — " 
 
 " Ha ! so you 're married, you two," said the grisette 
 showing some surprise. " Then it's very wrong, mon- 
 sieur, — is n't it ? — for a woman who has the happi- 
 ness of being married in legal marriage to have rela- 
 tions with a man like Henri — " 
 
 " Henri! who is Henri?" said Jules, taking Ida by 
 the arm and pulling her into an adjoining room that 
 his wife might hear no more. 
 
 *' Wh}'', Monsieur Ferragus." 
 
 " But he is dead," said Jules. 
 
 "Nonsense; I went to Franconi's with him last 
 night, and he brought me home — as he ought. Be- 
 sides, your wife can tell you about him ; did n't she 
 go there this very afternoon at three o'clock? I know 
 she did, for I waited in the street, and saw her, — 
 all because that good-natured fellow, Monsieur Justin, 
 whom 3'ou know perhaps, — a little old man with jew- 
 elr}'' who wears corsets, — told me that Madame Jules 
 was my rival. That name, monsieur, sounds might}^ 
 like a feigned one ; but if it is 3'ours, excuse me. But 
 this I say, if Madame Jules was a court duchess, Henri 
 is rich enough to satisfy all her fancies, and it is my 
 business to protect my property; I've a right to, for 
 
100 Fer vagus. 
 
 I love him, that I do. He is my first inclination ; mj' 
 happiness and all my future fate depends on it. I fear 
 nothing, monsieur ; I am honest ; I never lied, or stole 
 the property of any living soul, no matter who. If 
 an empress was my rival, I 'd go straight to her, em- 
 press as she was ; because all pretty women are equals, 
 monsieur — " 
 
 "Enough! enough!" said Jules. "Where do you 
 live?" 
 
 " Rue de la Corderie-du-Temple, number 14, mon- 
 sieur, — Ida Gruget, corset-maker, at your service, — 
 for we make lots of corsets for men." 
 
 " Where does the man whom 3'ou call Ferragus 
 live?" 
 
 " Monsieur," she said, pursing up her lips, " in the 
 first place, he 's not a man ; he is a rich monsieur, 
 much richer, perhaps, than you are. But win' do j'ou 
 ask me his address when 3'oar wife knows it? He told 
 me not to give it. Am I obliged to answer you? I 'm 
 not, thank God, in a confessional or a police-court ; 
 I'm responsible onlj^ to m3'self." 
 
 "If I were to offer you ten thousand francs to tell 
 me where Monsieur Ferragus lives, how then?" 
 
 " Ha! n, o, ?io, my little friend, and that ends the 
 matter," she said, emphasizing this singular rcpl}' with 
 a popular gesture. "There's no sum in the world 
 could make me tell you. I have the honor to bid you 
 good-da3\ How do I get out of here?" 
 
Ferragus. \ '. *'',•''', .401 
 
 *' Jules, horror-struck, allowed , 'her >.o ' go v\!t!i6at 
 further notice. The whole world seemed to crumble 
 beneath his feet, and above him the heavens were 
 falling with a crash. 
 
 " Monsieur is served," said his valet. 
 
 The valet and the footman waited in the dining-room 
 a quarter of an hour without seeing master or mistress. 
 
 " Madame will not dine to-day," said the waiting- 
 maid, coming in. 
 
 '' What 's the matter, Josephine? " asked the valet. 
 
 " I don't know," she answered. " Madame is crying, 
 and is going to bed. Monsieur has no doubt got some 
 love-affair on hand, and it has been discovered at a 
 ver}' bad time. I would n't answer for raadame's life. 
 Men are so clums}^ ; they '11 make you scenes without 
 any precaution." 
 
 ^'That's not so," said the valet, in a low voice. 
 " On the contrar}', madame is the one who — 30U under- 
 stand? What time does monsieur have to go after 
 pleasures, he, who has n't slept out of madame's room 
 for five years, who goes to his stud}' at ten and never 
 leaves it till breakfast, at twelve. His life is all known, 
 it is regular ; whereas madame goes out nearly ever}' 
 day at three o'clock. Heaven knows where." 
 
 " And monsieur too," said the maid, taking her mis- 
 tress's part. 
 
 " Yes, but he goes straight to the Bourse. I told 
 
102 Ferragus. 
 
 him triree tiwea that dinner was ready," continued the 
 valet, after a pause. "You might as well talk to a 
 post." 
 
 Monsieur Jules entered the dining-room. 
 
 " Where is madame? " he said. 
 
 ' ' Madame is going to bed ; her head aches," replied 
 the maid, assuming an air of importance. 
 
 Monsieur Jules then said to the footmen com- 
 posedl}^ : "' You can take away ; I shall go and sit with 
 madame." 
 
 He went to his wife's room and found her weeping, 
 but endeavoring to smother her sobs with her hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 ' ' Whj' do 3'ou weep ? " said Jules ; ' ' 3'ou need ex- 
 pect no violence and no reproaches from me. Wh}" 
 should I avenge m3'self ? If you have not been faithful 
 to my love, it is that 3'ou were never worthy of it." 
 
 "Not worth3'?" The words were repeated amid 
 her sobs and the accent in which the3' were said would 
 have moved an3' other man than Jules. 
 
 "To kill 3'ou, I must love more than perhaps I do 
 love 3'Ou," he continued. " But I should never have the 
 courage ; I would rather kill m3'self, leaving j'ou to 
 your — happiness, and with — whom ! — " 
 
 He did not end his sentence. 
 
 "Kill 3'ourself!" she cried, flinging herself at his 
 feet and clasping them. 
 
Ferragus. 103 
 
 But he, wishing to escape the embrace, tried to shake 
 her off, dragging her in so doing toward the bed. 
 
 " Let me alone," he said. 
 
 "No, no, Jules ! " she cried. " If you love me no 
 longer I shall die. Do you wish to know all ? '' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He took her, grasped her violently, and sat down 
 on the edge of the bed, holding her between his legs. 
 Then, looking at that beautiful face now red as fire and 
 furrowed with tears, — 
 
 " Speak," he said. 
 
 Her sobs began again. 
 
 "No; it is a secret of life and death. If I tell it, 
 I — No, I cannot. Have mercy, Jules ! " 
 
 "You have betrayed me — " 
 
 "Ah! Jules, j'ou think so now, but soon you will 
 know all." 
 
 "But this Ferragus, this convict whom 3'ou go to 
 see, a man enriched by crime, if he does not belong to 
 you, if 3'ou do not belong to him — " 
 
 "Oh, Jules!" 
 
 " Speak ! Is he 3'our mysterious benefactor? — the 
 man to whom we owe our fortune, as persons have 
 said already?" 
 
 "Who said that?" 
 
 " A man whom I killed in a duel." 
 
 " Oh, God ! one death already ! " 
 
104 Ferragus. 
 
 " If he is not your protector, if he does not give 3'ou 
 mone}', if it is 3'Ou, on the contrary, who carry money 
 to him, tell me, is he your brother?" 
 
 " What if he were? " she said. 
 
 Monsieur Desmarets crossed his arms. 
 
 "Why should that have been concealed from me?" 
 he said. "Then 3'ou and your mother have both de- 
 ceived me? Besides, does a woman go to see her 
 brother ever}^ day, or nearly ever}' day?" 
 
 His wife had fainted at his feet. 
 
 " Dead," he said. '• And suppose I am mistaken ? " 
 
 He sprang to the bell-rope ; called Josephine, and 
 lifted Clemence to the bed. 
 
 " I shall die of this," said Madame Jules, recovering 
 consciousness. 
 
 "Josephine," cried Monsieur Desmarets. "Send for 
 Monsieur Desplein ; send also to mj- brother and ask 
 him to come here immediately." 
 
 " Why 3^our brother?" asked Clemence. 
 
 But Jules had alreadv left the room. 
 
Ferragus. 105 
 
 lY. 
 
 WHERE GO TO DIE? 
 
 For the first time in five years Madame Jules slept 
 alone in her bed, and was compelled to admit a physi- 
 cian into that sacred chamber. These in themselves 
 were two keen pangs. Desplein found Madame Jules 
 very ill. Never was a violent emotion more untimely. 
 He would say nothing definite, and postponed till the 
 morrow giving any opinion, after leaving a few direc- 
 tions, which were not executed, the emotions of the 
 heart causing all bodily cares to be forgotten. 
 
 When morning dawned, Clemence had not yet slept. 
 Her mind was absorbed in the low murmur of a conver- 
 sation which lasted several hours between the brothers ; 
 but the thickness of the walls allowed no word which 
 could betra}' the object of this long conference to reach 
 her ears. Monsieur Desmarets, the notarv, went awa}' 
 at last. The stillness of the night, and the singular 
 activity of the senses given by powerful emotion, en- 
 abled Clemence to distinguish the scratching of a pen 
 and the involuntary movements of a person engaged in 
 writing. Those who are habitually up at night, and 
 who observe the different acoustic effects produced in 
 
106 Ferragus. 
 
 absolute silence, know that a slight echo can be readily 
 perceived in the very places where louder but more 
 equable and continued murmurs are not distinct. At 
 four o'clock the sound ceased. Clemence rose, anxious 
 and trembling. Then, with bare feet and without a 
 wrapper, forgetting her illness and her moist condi- 
 tion, the poor woman opened the door softlj' without 
 noise and looked into the next room. She saw her 
 husband sitting, with a pen in his hand, asleep in his 
 arm-chair. The candles had burned to the sockets. 
 She slowly advanced and read on an envelope, already 
 sealed, the words, "This is my will." 
 
 She knelt down as if before an open grave and kissed 
 her husband's hand. He woke instantly. 
 
 ''Jules, m}^ friend, the}' grant some da^-s to crimi- 
 nals condemned to death," she said, looking at him 
 with eyes that blazed with fever and with love. " Your 
 innocent wife asks only two. Leave me free for two 
 days, and — wait! After that, I shall die happy — at 
 least, you will regret me." 
 
 " Clemence, I grant them." 
 
 Then, as she kissed her husband's hands in the ten- 
 der transport of her heart, Jules, under the spell of that 
 cr\' of innocence, took her in his arms and kissed her 
 forehead, though ashamed to feel himself still under 
 subjection to the power of that noble beauty. 
 
 On the morrow, after taking a few hours' rest, Jules 
 
Ferragus. 107 
 
 entered his wife's room, obeying mechanicalh' his in- 
 variable custom of not leaving the house without a 
 word to her. Clemence was sleeping. A ray of light 
 passing through a chink in the upper blind of a window 
 fell across the face of the dejected woman. Already 
 suffering had impaired her forehead and the fresh red- 
 ness of her lips. A lover's eye could not fail to notice 
 the appearance of dark blotches, and a sickly pallor in 
 place of the uniform tone of the cheeks and the pure 
 ivory whiteness of the skin, — two points at which the 
 sentiments of her noble soul were artlessly wont to 
 show themselves. 
 
 "She suffers," thought Jules. "Poor Clemence! 
 Ma}^ God protect us ! " 
 
 He kissed her very softly on the forehead. She 
 woke, saw her husband, and remembered all. Unable 
 to speak, she took his hand, her e3"es filling with 
 tears. 
 
 "I am innocent," she said, ending her dream. 
 
 " You will not go out to-daj', will 3'ou ? " asked Jules. 
 
 " No, I feel too weak to leave my bed." 
 
 " If you should change your mind, wait till I return," 
 said Jules. 
 
 Then he went down to the porter's lodge. 
 
 " Fouguereau, you will watch the door yourself to- 
 da}'. I wish to know exactly who comes to the house, 
 and who leaves it." 
 
108 Ferragus. 
 
 Then he threw himself into a hackne}'- coach, and was 
 driven to the hotel de Maulincour, where he asked for 
 the baron. 
 
 " Monsieur is ill," they told him. 
 
 Jules insisted on entering, and gave his name. If he 
 could not see the baron, he wished to see the vidame 
 or the dowager. He waited some time in the salon, 
 where Madame de Maulincour finally came to him and 
 told him that her grandson was much too ill to receive 
 him. 
 
 " I know, madame, the nature of his illness from the 
 letter you did me the honor to write, and I beg you to 
 believe — " 
 
 " A letter to you, monsieur, written b}^ me ! " cried 
 the dowager, interrupting him. '' I have written you 
 no letter. What was I made to sa}' in that letter, 
 
 monsieur 
 
 9 " 
 
 "Madame," replied Jules, "intending to see Mon- 
 sieur de Maulincour to-day, I thought it best to pre- 
 serve the letter in spite of its injunction to destroy it. 
 There it is." 
 
 Madame de Maulincour put on her spectacles, and 
 the moment she cast her ej'es on the paper she showed 
 the utmost siu-prise. 
 
 "Monsieur," she said, "my writing is so perfectly 
 imitated that, if the matter were not so recent, I might 
 be deceived myself. My grandson is ill, it is true ; but 
 
Ferragiis. 109 
 
 his reason has never for a moment been affected. We 
 are the puppets of some evil-minded person or persons ; 
 and yet I cannot imagine the object of a trick like this. 
 You shall see m}' grandson, monsieur, and 3'ou will at 
 once perceive that he is perfectl}* sound in mind." 
 
 She rang the bell, and sent to ask if the baron felt 
 able to receive Monsieur Desmarets. The servant re- 
 turned with an affirmative answer. Jules went to the 
 baron's room, where he found him in an arm-chair near 
 the fire. Too feeble to move, the unfortunate man 
 merely bowed his head with a melanchol}' gesture. The 
 Vidame de Pamiers was sitting with him. 
 
 " Monsieur le baron," said Jules, " I have something 
 to say which makes it desirable that I should see you 
 alone." 
 
 " Monsieur," replied Auguste, " Monsieur le vidame 
 knows about this affair ; you can speak fearlessl}' before 
 him." 
 
 " Monsieur le baron," said Jules, in a grave voice, 
 " you have troubled and well-nigh destroyed m}' happi- 
 ness without having any right to do so. Until the 
 moment when we can see clearl}' which of us should 
 demand, or grant, reparation to the other, you are 
 bound to help me in following the dark and mysterious 
 pa.th into which you have flung me. I have now come 
 to ascertain from you the present residence of the ex- 
 traordinarv beinsj who exercises such a baneful effect 
 
110 Ferragus. 
 
 on your life and mine. On xny return home j^ester- 
 day, after listening to your avowals, I received that 
 letter." 
 
 Jules gave hira the forged letter. 
 
 " This Ferragus, this Bourignard, or this Monsieur 
 de Funcal, is a demon ! " cried Maulincour, after hav- 
 ing read it. " Oh, what a frightful maze I put my foot 
 into when I meddled in this matter I Where am I 
 going? I did wrong, monsieur," he continued, looking 
 at Jules ; " but death is the greatest of all expiations, 
 and m}'^ death is now approaching. You can ask me 
 whatever you like ; I am at your orders." 
 
 "Monsieur, you know, of course, where this man is 
 living, and I must know it if it costs me all my fortune 
 to penetrate this mystery. In presence of so cruel an 
 enemy every moment is precious." 
 
 "Justin shall tell you all," replied the baron. 
 
 At these words the vidame fidgeted on his chair. 
 Auguste rang the bell. 
 
 " Justin is not in the house ! " cried the vidame, in a 
 hasty manner that told much. 
 
 "Well, then," said Auguste, excitedlj', "the other 
 servants must know where he is ; send a man on horse- 
 back to fetch him. Your valet is in Paris, isn't he? 
 He can be found." 
 
 The vidame was visibly distressed. 
 
 " Justin canH come, my dear boy," said the old man ; 
 
Ferragus. Ill 
 
 " he is dead. I wanted to conceal the accident from 
 3^ou, but — " 
 
 " Dead ! " cried Monsieur de Maulincour, — " dead ! 
 When and how ? " 
 
 " Last night. He had been supping with some old 
 friends, and, I dare say, was drunk; his friends — no 
 doubt they were drunk, too — left him lying in the 
 street, and a heavy vehicle ran over him." 
 
 " The convict did not miss him; at the first stroke 
 he killed," said Auguste. " He has had less luck 
 with me ; it has taken four blows to put me out of the 
 way." 
 
 Jules was gloom}^ and thoughtful. 
 
 "Am I to know nothing, then?" he cried, after a 
 long pause. " Your valet seems to have been justly 
 punished. Did he not exceed your orders in calumni- 
 ating Madame Desmarets to a person named Ida, 
 whose jealousy he roused in order to turn her vindic- 
 tiveness upon us." 
 
 "Ah, monsieur! in my anger I informed him about 
 Madame Jules," said Auguste. 
 
 "Monsieur!" cried the husband, keenly irritated. 
 
 " Oh, monsieur ! " replied the baron, claiming silence 
 by a gesture, " I am prepared for all. You cannot tell 
 me anything m}' own conscience has not alread\' told 
 me. I am now expecting the most celebrated of all 
 professors of toxicology, in order to learn my fate. If 
 
112 Ferragus. 
 
 I am destined to intolerable suffering, my resolution is 
 taken. I shall blow my brains out." 
 
 " You talk like a child! " cried the vidame, horrified 
 by the coolness with which the baron said these words. 
 ^' Your grandmother would die of grief." 
 
 " Then, monsieur," said Jules, " am I to understand 
 that there exist no means of discovering in what part 
 of Paris this extraordinary man resides?" 
 
 "I think, monsieur," said the old vidame, "from 
 what I have heard poor Justin sa}', that Monsieur 
 de Funcal lives at either the Portuguese or the Bra- 
 zilian embassy. Monsieur de Funcal is a nobleman be- 
 longing to both those countries. As for the convict, he 
 is dead and buried. Your persecutor, w^hoever he is, 
 seems to me so powerful that it would be well to take 
 no decisive measures until 3'ou are sure of some w^ay of 
 confounding and crushing him. Act prudentl}' and 
 witli caution, my dear monsieur. Had Monsieur de 
 Maulincour followed my advice, nothing of all this 
 would have happened." 
 
 Jules coldly but politely withdrew. He was now at 
 a total loss to know how to reach Ferragus. As he 
 passed into his own house, the porter told him that 
 Madame had just been out to throw a letter into 
 the post box at the head of the rue de Menars. 
 Jules felt humiliated by this proof of the insight with 
 which the porter espoused his cause, and the cleverness 
 
Ferragus. 113 
 
 by which he guessed the way to serve him. The eager- 
 ness of servants, and their shrewdness in compromising 
 masters who compromise themselves, was known to 
 him, and he fully appreciated the danger of having 
 them as accomplices, no matter for what purpose. But 
 he could not think of his personal dignit}' until tlic 
 moment when he found himself thus suddenly de- 
 graded. What a triumph for the slave who could not 
 raise himself to his master, to compel his master to 
 come down to his level ! Jules was harsh and hard to 
 him. Another fault. But he suffered so deeph' ! His 
 life till then so upright, so pure, was becoming crafty ; 
 he was to scheme and lie. Clemence was scheming 
 and lying. This to him was a moment of horrible dis- 
 gust. Lost in a flood of bitter feelings, Jules stood 
 motionless at the door of his house. Yielding to de- 
 spair, he thought of fleeing, of leaving France forever, 
 carrying with him the illusions of uncertaint3\ Then, 
 again, not doubting that the letter Clemence had just 
 posted was addressed to Ferragus, his mind searched 
 for a means of obtaining the answer that mj'sterious 
 being was certain to send. Then his thoughts began 
 to analj'ze the singular good fortune of his life since 
 his marriage, and he asked himself whether the cal- 
 umny for which he had taken such signal vengeance was 
 not a truth. Finally, reverting to the coming answer, 
 he said to himself: — 
 
 8 
 
114 Ferragus. 
 
 *'But this 'mail; so profoundh' capable, so logical in 
 his ever}' act, who sees and foresees, who calculates, 
 and even divines, our very thoughts, is he likel}^ to 
 make an answer? Will he not emploj' some other 
 means more in keeping with his power? He ma}' send 
 his answer b}' some beggar ; or in a carton brought 
 by an honest man, who does not suspect what he 
 brings ; or in some parcel of shoes, which a shop-girl 
 may innocently deliver to my wife. If Clemence and 
 he have agreed upon such means — " 
 
 He distrusted all things ; his mind ran over vast 
 tracts and shoreless oceans of conjecture. Then, after 
 floating for a time among a thousand contradictor}^ 
 ideas, he felt he was strongest in his own house, and 
 he resolved to watch it as the ant-lion watches his 
 sandy labyrinth. 
 
 '^ Fouguereau," he said to the porter, " I am not at 
 home to any one who comes to see me. If any one 
 calls to see madame, or brings her anything, ring 
 twice. Bring all letters addressed here to me, no mat- 
 ter for whom they are intended." 
 
 "Thus," thought he, as he entered his study, which 
 was in the entresol, "I forestall the schemes of this 
 Ferragus. If he sends some one to ask for me so as 
 to find out if Clemence is alone, at least I shall not 
 be tricked like a fool." 
 
 He stood by the window of his study, which looked 
 
Ferragus. 115 
 
 upon the street, and then a final scheme, inspired b}- 
 jealousy, came into his mind. He resolved to send 
 his head-clerk in his own carriage to the Bourse with 
 a letter to another broker, explaining his sales and 
 purchases and requesting him to do his business for 
 that day. He postponed his more delicate transactions 
 till the morrow, indifferent to the fall or rise of stocks 
 or the debts of all Europe. High privilege of love ! — 
 it crushes all things, all interests fall before it : altar, 
 throne, consols ! 
 
 At half-past three, just the hour at which the Bourse 
 is in full blast of reports, monthly settlements, premi- 
 ums, etc., Fouguereau entered the study, quite radiant 
 with his news. 
 
 '^ Monsieur, an old woman has come, but very cau- 
 tiously ; I think she 's a sly one. She asked for mon- 
 sieur, and seemed much annoj'ed when I told her he 
 was out ; then she gave me a letter for madame, and 
 here it is." 
 
 Fevered with anxiet}^ Jules opened the letter ; then 
 he dropped into a chair exhausted. The letter was 
 mere nonsense throughout, and needed a ke}'. It was 
 virtually in cipher. 
 
 '' Go away, Fouguereau." The porter left him. 
 " It is a mystery deeper than the sea below the 
 plummet line ! Ah ! it must be love ; love only is so 
 sagacious, so inventive as this. Ah ! I shall kill her." 
 
116 Ferragus. 
 
 At this moment an idea flashed through his brain 
 with such force that he felt almost physically illumin- 
 ated by it. In the days of his toilsome poverty before 
 his marriage, Jules had made for himself a true friend. 
 The extreme delicac}^ with which he had managed the 
 susceptibilities of a man both poor and modest ; the 
 respect with which he had surrounded him ; the ingen- 
 ious cleverness he had employed to nobly compel 
 him to share his opulence without permitting it to 
 make him blush, increased their friendship. Jacquet 
 continued faithful to Desmarets in spite of his 
 wealth. 
 
 Jacquet, a nobl}' upright man, a toiler, austere in 
 his morals, had slowly made his way in that particu- 
 lar ministry which develops both honesty and knavery 
 at the same time. A clerk in the ministry of P'oreign 
 Affairs, he had charge of the most delicate division of 
 its archives. Jacquet in that office was like a glow- 
 worm, casting his light upon those secret correspond- 
 ences, deciphering and classifying despatches. Rank- 
 ing higher than a mere bourgeois, his position at the 
 ministry was superior to that of the other subal- 
 terns. lie lived obscurely, glad to feel that such 
 obscurity sheltered him from reverses and disappoint- 
 ments, and was satisfied to humbl}" pay in the lowest 
 coin his debt to the countr\^ Thanks to Jules, his 
 position had been much ameliorated by a worth}' mar- 
 
Ferragus. 117 
 
 riage. An unrecognized patriot, a minister in actual 
 fact, he contented himself with groaning in his chimne3'- 
 corner at the course of the government. In his own 
 home, Jacquet was an easj'-going king, — an umbrella- 
 man, as the}" say, who hired a carriage for his wife 
 which he never entered himself. In short, to end this 
 sketch of a philosopher unknown to himself, he had 
 never suspected and never in all his life would suspect 
 the advantages he might have drawn from his position, 
 — that of having for his intimate friend a broker, and 
 of knowing every morning all the secrets of the State. 
 This man, sublime after the manner of that nameless 
 soldier who died in saving Napoleon b^^ a "qui vive," 
 lived at the ministry. 
 
 In ten minutes Jules was in his friend's office. 
 Jacquet gave him a chair, laid aside methodicalh' his 
 green silk eye-shade, rubbed his hands, picked up his 
 snuff-box, rose, stretched himself till his shoulder-blades 
 cracked, swelled out his chest, and said : — 
 
 *' What brings you here, Monsieur Desmarets? 
 What do you want with me?" 
 
 "Jacquet, I want you to decipher a secret, — a 
 secret of life and death." 
 
 "It doesn't concern politics?" 
 
 " If it did, I should n't come to 3'ou for information," 
 said Jules. " No, it is a famih' matter, about which I 
 require you to be absolutely silent." 
 
118 Ferragus. 
 
 *' Claude- Joseph Jacquet, dumb by profession. 
 Don't you know me by this time ? " he said, laughing. 
 " Discretion is my lot." 
 
 Jules showed him the letter. 
 
 *' You must read me this letter, addressed to m}' 
 wife.'' 
 
 ''The deuce! the deuce! a bad business!" said 
 Jacquet, examining the letter as a usurer examines a 
 note to be negotiated. " Ha ! that 's a gridiron letter ! 
 Wait a minute." 
 
 He left Jules alone for a moment, but returned im- 
 mediatel}'. 
 
 " Easy enough to read, m}^ friend ! It is written on 
 the gridiron plan, used b}- the Portuguese minister un- 
 der Monsieur de Choiseul, at the time of the dismissal 
 of the Jesuits. Here, see ! " 
 
 Jacquet placed upon the writing a piece of paper 
 
 cut out in regular squares, like the paper laces which 
 
 confectioners wrap round their sugarplums ; and Jules 
 
 then read with perfect ease the words that were visible 
 
 in the interstices. The}" were as follows : — 
 
 " Don't be uneasy, my dear Clemence ; our happiness can- 
 not again be troubled ; and your husband will soon lay 
 aside his suspicions. However ill you may be, you must 
 have the courage to come here to-morrow; find strength 
 in your love for me. Mine for you has induced me to sub- 
 mit to a cruel operation, and I cannot leave my bed. I have 
 had the actual cautery applied to my back, and it was neces- 
 
Ferragus. 119 
 
 sary to burn it in a long time ; you understand me ? But 
 I thought of you, and I did not suffer. 
 
 " To baffle Maulincour (who will not persecute us much 
 longer), I have left the protecting roof of the embassy, 
 and am now safe from all inquiry in the rue des Enf ants- 
 Rouges, number 12, with an old woman, Madame Etienne 
 Gruget, mother of that Ida, who shall pay dear for her 
 folly. Come to-morrow, at nine in the morning. I am in 
 a room which is reached only by an interior staircase. Ask 
 for Monsieur Canmset. Adieu ; I kiss your forehead, my 
 darling." 
 
 Jacquet looked at Jules with a sort of honest terror, 
 the sign of a true compassion, as he made his favorite 
 exclamation in two separate and distinct tones, — 
 
 " The deuce ! the deuce ! " 
 
 '•That seems clear to 3'OUj doesn't it?" said Jules. 
 *' Well, in the depths of m}' heart there is a voice that 
 pleads for my wife, and makes itself heard above the 
 pangs of jealousy. I must endure the worst of all 
 agony until to-morrow ; but to-morrow, between nine 
 and ten I shall know all ; I shall be happy or wretched 
 for all my life. Think of me then, Jacquet." 
 
 "I shall be at 3'our house to-morrow at eight o'clock. 
 We will go together ; I '11 wait for 3'ou, if 3'ou like, in 
 the street. You ma}' run some danger, and 3'OU ought 
 to have near you some devoted person who 'H under- 
 stand a mere sign, and whom you can safely trust. 
 Count on me." 
 
120 Ferragus. 
 
 " Even to help me in killing some one?" 
 
 "The deuce! the deuce!" said Jacquet, repeating, 
 as it were, the same' musical note. " I have two 
 children and a wife." 
 
 Jules pressed his friend's hand and went away ; but 
 returned immediatel}'. 
 
 " I forgot the letter," he said. " But that 's not all, 
 I must reseal it." 
 
 " The deuce ! the deuce ! 3'ou opened it without sav- 
 ing the seal ; however, it is still possible to restore it. 
 Leave it with me and I '11 bring it to 3'ou secundum 
 scripturam.''^ 
 
 "At what time? 
 
 "Half-past five." 
 
 "If I am not yet in, give it to the porter and tell 
 him to send it up to madame." 
 
 " Do 3'OU want me to-morrow?" 
 
 "No. Adieu." 
 
 Jules drove at once to the place de la Rotonde du 
 Temple, where he left his cabriolet and went on foot to 
 the rue des Enfants-Rouges. He found the -house of 
 Madame Etienne Gruget and examined it. There, the 
 mystery on which depended the fate of so man3' per- 
 sons would be cleared up ; there, at this moment, was 
 Ferragus, and to Ferragus all the threads of this 
 strange plot led. The Gordian knot of the drama, 
 already so blood3% was surely in a meeting between 
 
Ferragus. 121 
 
 Madame Jules, her husband, and that man ; and a 
 blade able to cut the closest of such knots would not 
 be wanting. 
 
 The house was one of those which belong to the 
 class called cahajoutis. This significant name is given 
 by the populace of Paris to houses which are built, as 
 it were, piecemeal. They are nearl}' always composed 
 of buildings originally' separate but afterwards united 
 according to the fanc}' of the various proprietors who 
 successively' enlarge them ; or else the}' are houses 
 begun, left unfinished, again built upon, and com- 
 pleted, — unfortunate structures which have passed, like 
 certain peoples, under manj' d^'nasties of capricious 
 masters. Neither the floors nor the windows have 
 an ensemble^ — to borrow one of the most picturesque 
 terms of the art of painting ; all is discord, even the 
 external decoration. The cahajoutis is to Parisian 
 architecture what the capharnaum is to the apartment, 
 — a poke-hole, where the most heterogeneous articles are 
 flung pell-mell. 
 
 " Madame Etienne?" asked Jules of the portress. 
 
 This portress had her lodge under the main entrance, 
 in a sort of chicken coop, or wooden house on rollers, 
 not unlike those sentry-boxes wliich the police have 
 lately- set up by the stands of hackney-coaches. 
 
 " Hein?" said the portress, without laying down the 
 stocking she was knitting. 
 
122 Ferragus. 
 
 In Paris the various component parts which make up 
 the physiognoni}' of any given portion of the monstrous 
 city, are admirably in keeping with its general char- 
 acter. Thus porter, concierge, or Suisse, whichever 
 name ma}' be given to that essential muscle of the 
 Parisian monster, is alwa3's in conformity with the 
 neighborhood of which he is a part ; in fact, he is 
 often an epitome of it. The laz\' porter of the 
 faubourg Saint-Germain, with lace on every seam of 
 bis coat, dabbles in stocks ; he of the Chaussee d'Antin 
 takes his ease, reads the money-articles in the news- 
 papers, and has a business of his own in the faubourg 
 Montmartre. The portress in the quarter of prostitu- 
 tion was formed}' a prostitute ; in the Marais, she has 
 morals, is cross-grained, and full of crotchets. 
 
 On seeing Monsieur Jules this particular portress, 
 holding her knitting in one hand, took a knife and 
 stirred the lialf-extinguished peat in her foot-warmer ; 
 then she said : — 
 
 "You want Madame Etienne ; do 3'ou mean Madame 
 Etienne Gruget?" 
 
 " Yes," said Jules, assuming a vexed air. 
 
 " Who makes trimmings? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, then, monsieur," she said, issuing from her 
 cage, and laying her hand on Jules* arm and leading 
 him to the end of a long passage-waj', vaulted like a 
 
Ferragus. 123 
 
 cellar, "go up the second staircase at tlie end of the 
 court-yard — where you see the windows with the pots 
 of pinks ; that 's where Madame Etienne lives." 
 
 "Thank you, madaine. Do you think she is alone?" 
 '" Wh}' should n't she be alone? she 's a widow." 
 Jules hastened up a dark stairway, the steps of 
 which were knobby with hardened mud left by the 
 feet of those who came and went. On the second floor 
 he saw three doors but no signs of pinks. Fortunately, 
 on one of the doors, the oiliest and darkest of the three, 
 he read these words, chalked on a panel : " Ida will 
 come to-night at nine o'clock." 
 *' This is the place," thought Jules. 
 He pulled an old bellrope, black with age, and heard 
 the smothered sound of a cracked bell and the barking 
 of an asthmatic little dog. By the way the sounds 
 echoed from the interior he knew that the rooms were 
 encumbered with articles which left no space for rever- 
 beration, — a characteristic feature of the homes of 
 workmen and humble households, where space and air 
 are alwaj's lacking. 
 
 Jules looked about mechanicallj- for the pinks, and 
 found them on the outer sill of a sash window between 
 two filthy drain-pipes. So here w^ere flowers ; here, a 
 gai'den, two 3'ards long and six inches wide ; here, a 
 wheat-ear ; here, a whole life epitomized ; but here, 
 too, all the miseries of that life. A ray of liglit fall- 
 
1 24 Ferragus. 
 
 ing from heaven as if by special favor on tliose puny 
 flowers and the vigorous wheat-ear brought out in full 
 relief the dust, the grease, and that nameless color, 
 peculiar to Parisian squalor, made of dirt, which 
 crusted and spotted the damp walls, the worm-eaten 
 balusters, the disjointed window-casings, and the door 
 originally red. Presentl}' the cough of an old woman, 
 and a heavy female step, shuffling painfull}" in list slip- 
 pers, announced the coming of the mother of Ida 
 Gruget. The creature opened the door and came out 
 upon the landing, looked up, and said : — 
 
 "•Ah! is this Monsieur Bocquillon ? Wh}', no? But 
 perhaps you 're his brother. What can I do for you ? 
 Come in, monsieur." 
 
 Jules followed her into the first room, where he saw, 
 huddled together, cages, household utensils, ovens, fur- 
 niture, little earthenware dishes full of food or water 
 for the dog and the cats, a wooden clock, bed-quilts, 
 engravings of Eisen, heaps of old iron, all these things 
 mingled and massed together in a way that produced 
 a most grotesque effect, — a true Parisian dusthole, 
 in which were not lacking a few old numbers of the 
 ^' Constitutionel." 
 
 Jules, impelled b}^ a sense of prudence, paid no at- 
 tention to the widow's invitation when she said civ- 
 illy, showing him an inner room : — 
 
 " Come in here, monsieur, and warm 3'ourself.'* 
 
Ferragus. 125 
 
 Fearing to be overheard by Ferragns, Jules asked 
 himself whether it were not wisest to conclude the 
 arrangement he had come to make with the old woman 
 in the crowded antechamber. A hen, which descended 
 cackling from a loft, roused him from this inward med- 
 itation. He came to a resolution, and followed Ida's 
 mother into the inner room, whither the}' were accom- 
 panied b}'' the wheez}^ pug, a personage otherwise raute, 
 who jumped upon a stool. Madame Gruget showed 
 the assumption of semi-pauperism when she invited her 
 visitor to warm himself. Her fire-pot contained, or 
 rather concealed two bits of sticks, which la}^ apart : 
 the grating was on the ground, its handle in the ashes. 
 The mantel-shelf, adorned with a little wax Jesus 
 under a shade of squares of glass held together with 
 blue paper, was piled with wools, bobbins, and tools 
 used in the making of gimps and trimmings. Jules 
 examined everything in the room with a curiosity that 
 was full of interest, and showed, in spite of himself, 
 an inward satisfaction. 
 
 '' Well, monsieur, tell me, do you want to bu}' any 
 of my things ? " said the old woman, seating herself in a 
 cane arm-chair, which appeared to be her headquarters. 
 In it she kept her handkerchief, snuffbox, knitting, 
 half-peeled vegetables, spectacles, calendar, a bit of 
 liverj'' gold lace just begun, a greasy pack of cards, 
 and two volumes of novels, all stuck into the hollow 
 
126 Ferragus. 
 
 of the back. This article of furniture, in which the 
 old creature was floating clown the river of life, was 
 not unlike the enc^'clopedic bag which a woman carries 
 with her when she travels ; in which may be found a 
 compendium of her household belongings, from the por- 
 trait of her husband to eau de Melisse for faintness, 
 sugarplums for the children, and English court-plaster 
 in case of cuts. 
 
 Jules studied all. He looked attentivel}' at Madame 
 Gruget's yellow visage, at her gray eyes without either 
 brows or lashes, her toothless mouth, her wrinkles 
 marked in black, her rust}' cap, her still more rusty 
 ruffles, her cotton petticoat full of holes, her worn-out 
 sHppers, her disabled fire-pot, her table heaped with 
 dishes and silks and work begun or finished, in wool 
 or cotton, in the midst of which stood a bottle of 
 wine. Then he said to himself: "This old woman has 
 some passion, some strong liking or vice ; I can make 
 her do my will." 
 
 "Madame," he said aloud, with a private sign of 
 intelligence, " T have come to order some livery trim- 
 mings." Then he lowered his voice. " I know," he 
 continued, " that 3'ou have a lodger who has taken the 
 name of Camuset." The old woman looked at him sud- 
 denly, but without any sign of astonishment. " Now, 
 tell me, can we come to an understanding? This is 
 a question which means fortune for you." 
 
Ferragus. 127 
 
 " Monsieur," she replied, " speak out, and don't be 
 afraid. There 's no one here. But if I had anj^ one 
 above, it would be impossible for him to hear 3'ou." 
 
 " Ha ! the sly old creature, she answers like a Nor- 
 man," thought Jules, "We shall agree. Do not give 
 yourself the trouble to tell falsehoods, madame," he 
 resumed, '' In the first place, let me tell you that I 
 mean no harm either to 3'ou or to your lodger who 
 is suffering from cauter}', or to your daughter Ida, a 
 stay-maker, the friend of Ferragus. You see, I know 
 all your affairs. Do not be uneasy ; I am not a detec- 
 tive policeman, nor do I desire an3'thing that can hurt 
 your conscience. A young lady will come here to- 
 morrow-morning at half-past nine o'clock, to talk with 
 this lover of your daughter. I want to be where I can 
 see all and hear all, without being seen or heard b}' 
 them. If you will furnish me the means of doing so, 
 I will reward that service with the gift of two thou- 
 sand francs and a yearly stipend of six hundred. My 
 notary shall prepare a deed before you this evening, 
 and I will give him the money to hold ; he will pay 
 the two thousand to you to-morrow after the confer- 
 ence at which I desire to be present, as 3^ou will then 
 have given proofs of your good faith." 
 
 "Will it injure my daughter, m}' good monsieur?" 
 she asked, casting a cat-like glance of doubt and unea- 
 siness upon him. 
 
128 Ferragus. 
 
 " In no wa}', madarae. But, in any case, it seems 
 to me that your daughter does not treat you well. A 
 girl who is loved by so rich a man as Ferragus ought 
 to make you more comfortable than you seem to be." 
 
 " Ah, my dear monsieur, just think, not so much as 
 one poor ticket to the Ambigu, or the Gaiete, where 
 she can go as much as she likes. It 's shameful ! A 
 girl for whom I sold my silver forks and spoons ! and 
 now I eat, at my age, with German metal, — and all 
 to pa}^ for her apprenticeship, and give her a trade, 
 where she could coin money if she chose. As for 
 that, she 's like me, clever as a witch ; I must do her 
 that justice. But, I will say, she might give me her 
 old silk gowns, — I, who am so fond of wearing silk. 
 But no ! Monsieur, she dines at the Cadran-Bleu at 
 fift}^ francs a head, and rolls in her carriage as if she 
 were a princess, and despises her mother for a Colin- 
 Larapon. Heavens and earth ! what heedless 3'oung 
 ones we 've brought into the world ; we have nothing 
 to boast of there. A mother, monsieur, can't be an}- 
 thing else but a good mother ; and I 've concealed that 
 girl's wa3"S, and kept her in ni}' bosom, to take the 
 bread out of my mouth and cram ever3'thing into her 
 own. Well, well ! and now she comes and fondles one 
 a little, and says, ' How d'ye do, mother?' And that's 
 all the duty she thinks of paying. But she '11 have chil- 
 dren one of these da3's, and then she '11 find out what 
 
Ferragus. 129 
 
 it is to have such baggage, — which one can't help 
 loving all the same." 
 
 '' Do 3'ou mean that she does nothing for 3'ou? " 
 
 "Ah, nothing? No, monsieur, I didn't say that; 
 if she did nothing, that would be a little too much. 
 She gives me m}' rent and thirtj'-six francs a month. 
 But, monsieur, at mv age, — and I 'm fifty -two 3'ears 
 old, with eyes that feel the strain at night, — ought I 
 to be working in this wa}-? Besides, wh}' won't she 
 have me to live with her? I should shame her, should 
 T? Then let her saj' so. Faith, one ought to be 
 buried out of the wa}- of such dogs of children, who 
 forget you before the}- 've even shut the door." 
 
 She pulled her handkerchief from her pocket, and 
 with it a lotter}' ticket that dropped on the floor ; but 
 she hastil}' picked it up, sa3'ing, "Hi! that's the 
 receipt for my taxes." 
 
 Jules at once perceived the reason of the sagacious 
 parsimony of which the mother complained ; and he 
 was the more certain that the widow Gruget would 
 agree to the proposed bargain. 
 
 " Well, then, madame," he said, " accept what T offer 
 you." 
 
 " Did you say two thousand francs in ready mone}^ 
 and six hundred annuit}", monsieur? " 
 
 "Madame, I 'a'c changed my mind; I will promise 
 3-ou onh' three hundred annuit}'. This wa^' seems 
 
 9 
 
130 Ferragus. 
 
 more to m}' own interests. But I will give 3'ou five 
 thousand francs in ready money. Would n't you like 
 that as well ? " 
 
 " Bless me, 3'es, monsieur ! " 
 
 "You'll get more comfort out of it ; and 3'ou can 
 go to the Ambigu and Franconi's at your ease in a 
 coach." 
 
 "As for Franconi, I don't like that, for the}' don't 
 talk there. Monsieur, if I accept, it is because it will 
 be very advantageous for my child. I sha n't be a drag 
 on her any longer. Poor little thing ! I 'm glad she has 
 her pleasures, after all. Ah, monsieur, 3'outh must be 
 amused ! And so, if you assure me that no harm will 
 come to anj-body — " 
 
 " Not to anybody," repeated Jules. " But now, how 
 will 3'ou manage it ? " 
 
 " Well, monsieur, if I give Monsieur Ferragus a 
 little tea made of popp3"-heads to-night, he '11 sleep 
 sound, the dear man ; and he needs it, too, because of 
 his sufferings, for he does suffer, I can tell 3'ou, and 
 more 's the pit3'. But I 'd like to know what a healthy 
 man like him wants to burn his back for, just to get 
 rid of a tic douleureux which troubles him once in two 
 3^ears. However, to come back to our business. I 
 have my neighbor's key ; her lodging is just above 
 mine, and in it there 's a room adjoining the one where 
 M6nsieur Ferragus is, with onl3' a partition between 
 
Ftrragns. 131 
 
 them. My neighbor is away in the conntrj' for ten 
 daj's. ' Therefore, if I make a hole to-night while Mon- 
 sieur Ferragus is sound asleep, j'ou can see and hear 
 them to-morrow at your ease. I 'm on good terms 
 with a locksmith, — a ver}' friendly- man, who talks like 
 an angel, and he '11 do the work for me and say nothing 
 about it." 
 
 "Then here's a hundred francs for him. Come to- 
 night to Monsieur Desmaret's office ; he 's a notar}', 
 and here 's his address. At nine o'clock the deed will 
 be read}', but — silence ! " 
 
 "Enough, monsieur; as you say — silence! Au 
 revoir, monsieur." 
 
 Jules went home, almost calmed b}' the certaint}^ 
 that he should know the truth on the morrow. As he 
 entered the house, the porter gave him the letter 
 properly resealed. 
 
 "How do 3'ou feel now?" he said to his wife, in 
 spite of the coldness that separated them. 
 
 " Prett}' well, Jules," she answered in a coaxing 
 voice, "do come and dine beside me." 
 
 " Ver}^ good," he said, giving her the letter. "Here 
 is something Fouguereau gave me for 3'ou." 
 
 Clemence, who was very pale, colored high when she 
 saw the letter, and that sudden redness was a fresh 
 blow to her husband. 
 
 "Is that jo}'," he said, laughing, "or the effect of 
 expectation ? " 
 
132 Ferragus. 
 
 "Oh, of many things!" she said, examining the 
 the seal. 
 
 " I leave you now for a few moments." 
 
 He went down to his stud}', and wrote to his brother, 
 giving him directions about the payment to the widow 
 Gruget. When he returned, he found his dinner served 
 on a little table by his wife's bedside, and Josephine 
 ready to wait on him. 
 
 "If I were up how I should like to serve 3'ou m}"- 
 self," said Clemence, when Josephine had left them. 
 "Oh, 3'es, on my knees!" she added, passing her 
 white hands through her husband's hair. " Dear, 
 noble heart, yo\x were very kind and gracious to me 
 just now. You did me more good b}" showing me 
 such confidence than all the doctors on earth could do 
 me with their prescriptions. That feminine delicac}' of 
 3'ours — for you do know how to love like a woman — 
 well, it has shed a balm into my heart which has almost 
 cured me. There 's truce between us, Jules ; lower 
 3-our head, that I ma}' kiss it." 
 
 Jules could not deny himself the pleasure of that 
 embrace. But it was not without a feeling of remorse 
 in his heart ; he felt himself small before this woman 
 whom he was still tempted to think innocent. A sort 
 of melancholy J03' possessed him. A tender hope shone 
 On her features in spite of their grieved expression. 
 The3^ both were equall3' unhappy in deceiving each 
 
Fer vagus. 133 
 
 other ; another caress, and, unable to resist their 
 suffering, all would then have been avowed. 
 
 "To-morrow evening, Clemence." 
 
 "No, no; to-morrow morning, by twelve o'clock, 
 you will know all, and j'ou '11 kneel down before your 
 wife — Oh, no ! you shall not be humiliated ; you are 
 all forgiven now ; you have done no wrong. Listen, 
 Jules ; yesterday you did crush me — harshly ; but 
 perhaps my life would not have been complete with- 
 out that agony ; it ma}' be a shadow that will make 
 our coming daj's celestial." 
 
 "You la}^ a spell upon me," cried Jules; "you fill 
 me with remorse." 
 
 ' ' Poor love ! destin}' is stronger than we, and I am 
 not the accomplice of mine. I shall go out to-morrow." 
 
 " At what hour?" asked Jules. 
 
 " At half-past nine." 
 
 "Clemence," he said, "take every precaution; con- 
 sult Doctor Desplein and old Haudry." 
 
 "I shall consult nothing but my heart and my 
 courage." 
 
 "I shall leave yo\x free; you will not see me till 
 twelve o'clock." 
 
 " Won't you keep me company this evening? I feel 
 so much better." 
 
 After attending to some business, Jules returned to 
 his wife, — recalled by her invincible attraction. His 
 passion was stronger than his anguish. 
 
134 Ferragus. 
 
 The next day, at nine o'clock Jules left home, hur- 
 ried to the rue des Enfants-Rouges, went upstairs, and 
 rang the bell of the widow Gruget's lodgings. 
 
 " Ah ! you 've kept 30ur word, as true as the dawn. 
 Come in, monsieur," said the old woman when she saw 
 him. ''I've made you a cup of coffee with cream," 
 she added, when the door was closed. " Oh ! real 
 cream ; I saw it milked myself at the dair}' we have 
 in this very street." 
 
 "Thank 3'ou, no, madame, nothing. Take me at 
 once — " 
 
 " Ver}" good, monsieur. Follow me, this wa}'." 
 
 She led him up into the room above her own, where 
 she showed him, triumphantly, an opening about the 
 size of a two-franc piece, made during the night, in a 
 place, which, in each room, was above a wardrobe. In 
 order to look through it, Jules was forced to maintain 
 himself in a rather fatiguing attitude, by standing on a 
 step-ladder which the widow had been careful to place 
 there. 
 
 " There 's a gentleman with him," she whispered, as 
 she retired. 
 
 Jules then beheld a man emplo3'ed in dressing a 
 number of wounds on the shoulders of Ferragus, whose 
 head he recognized from the description given to him 
 by Monsieur de Maulincour. 
 
 " When do you think those wounds will heal? " asked 
 Ferragus. 
 
Ferragus. 135 
 
 " I don't know," said the other man. "The doctors 
 sa}' those wounds will require seven or eight more 
 dressings." 
 
 " Well, then, good-b^'e until to-night," said Ferragus, 
 holding out his hand to the man, who had just replaced 
 the bandage. 
 
 "Yes, to-night," said the other, pressing his hand cor- 
 dially. " I wish I could see 3'ou past your sufferings." 
 
 '^ To-morrow Monsieur de Funcal's papers will be 
 delivered to us, and Henri Bourignard will be dead 
 forever," said Ferragus. "Those fatal marks which 
 have cost us so dear no longer exist. I shall become 
 once more a social being, a man among men, and more 
 of a man than the sailor whom the fishes are eating. 
 God knows it is not for m}" own sake I have made 
 myself a Portuguese count ! " 
 
 "Poor Gratien ! — you, the wisest of ns all, our be- 
 loved brother, the Benjamin of the band ; as you very 
 well know." 
 
 " Adieu ; keep an e3'e on Maulincour." 
 
 " You can rest easy on that score." 
 
 " Ho ! sta3% marquis," cried the convict. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " Ida is capable of everything after the scene of last 
 night. If she should throw herself into the river, I 
 would not fish her out. She knows the secret of my 
 name, and she'll keep it better there. But still, look 
 after her ; for she is, in her wa}^ a good girl." 
 
136 Ferragus, 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 The stranger departed. Ten minutes later Jules 
 heard, with a feverish shudder, the rustle of a silk 
 gown, and almost recognized by their sound the steps 
 of his wife. 
 
 " Well, father," said Clemence, " my poor father, 
 are you better? What courage 3'ou have shown!" 
 
 "'' Come here, my child," replied Ferragus, holding 
 out his hand to her. 
 
 Clemence held her forehead to him and he kissed it. 
 
 " Now tell me, what is the matter, m}- little girl? 
 What are these new troubles ? " 
 
 "Troubles, father! it concerns the life or death of 
 the daughter you have loved so much. Indeed 3'OU 
 must, as I wrote you yesterda}', you must find a way 
 to see m}'' poor Jules to-day. If you knew how good 
 he has been to me, in spite of all suspicions appar- 
 ently so legitimate. Father, xny love is my very life. 
 Would you see me die ? Ah ! I have suffered so much 
 that my life, I feel it ! is in danger." 
 
 " And all because of the curiositj' of that miserable 
 Parisian?" cried Ferragus. ''I'd burn Paris down if 
 I lost 3'OU, my daughter. Ha! you ma}' know what 
 a lover is, but you don't 3'et know what a father can 
 do." 
 
 " Father, you frighten me when you look at me in 
 that wa}'. Don't weigh such different feelings in the 
 
Ferragus. 137 
 
 same scales. I had a husband before I knew that my 
 father was Uving — " 
 
 " If jour husband was the first to lay kisses on your 
 forehead, I was the first to drop tears upon it," replied 
 Ferragus. " But don't feel anxious, Clemence, speak 
 to me frankl}'. I love you enough to rejoice in the 
 knowledge that you are happ}', though I, your father, 
 may have little place in 3'our heart, while you fill the 
 whole of mine." 
 
 "Ah! what good such words do me! You make 
 me love you more and more, though I seem to rob 
 something from my Jules. But, ra^^ kind father, think 
 what his sufferings are. What may I tell him to-day ? " 
 
 ''My child, do you think 1 waited for your letter to 
 save you from this threatened danger? Do you know 
 what will become of those who venture to touch 3'our 
 happiness, or come between us? Have 3'ou never been 
 aware that a second providence was guarding your life ? 
 Twelve men of power and intellect form a phalanx 
 round j'our love and your existence, — ready to do all 
 things to protect you. Think of your father, who has 
 risked death to meet 3'ou in the public promenades, 
 or see you asleep in 3-our little bed in your mother's 
 home, during the night-time. Could such a father, to 
 whom your innocent caresses gave strength to live 
 when a man of honor ought to have died to escape his 
 mfam}^, could /, in short, I who breathe through your 
 
138 Ferragus. 
 
 lips, and see with 3'our eyes, and feel with your heart, 
 could I fail to defend with the claws of a lion and the 
 soul of a father, my only blessing, my life, m}' daughter? 
 Since the death of that angel, your mother, I have 
 dreamed but of one thing, — the happiness of pressing 
 3'ou to ra}' heart in the face of the whole earth, of bur}'- 
 ing the convict, — " He paused a moment, and then 
 added : " — of giving 3'ou a father, a father who could 
 press without shame ^-our husband's hand, who could 
 live without fear in both your hearts, who could say to 
 all the world, ' This is m}' daughter,' — in short, to 
 be a happy father." 
 
 ''Oh, father! father!" 
 
 " After infinite difficult}', after searching the whole 
 globe," continued Ferragus, "my friends have found 
 me the skin of a dead man in which to take my place 
 once more in social life. A few da3's hence, I shall 
 be Monsieur de Funcal, a Portuguese count. Ah ! my 
 dear child, there are few men of my age who would 
 have had the patience to learn Portuguese and English, 
 which were spoken fluently by that devil of a sailor, 
 who was drowned at sea." 
 
 "But, m}^ dear father — " 
 
 " All has been foreseen, and prepared. A few days 
 hence, his Majest}' John VI., King of Portugal will be 
 my accomplice. My child, 3'ou must have a little pa- 
 tience where your father has had so much. But ah ! 
 
Ferragus. 139 
 
 what would I not do to reward 3'our devotion for the 
 last three years, — coming religiously to comfort your 
 old father, at the risk of your own peace ! " 
 
 "Father!" cried Clemence, taking his hands and 
 kissing them. 
 
 " Come, my child, have courage still; keep my fatal 
 secret a few days longer, till the end is reached. Jules 
 is not an ordinary man, I know ; but are we sure that 
 his lofty character and his noble love may not impel 
 him to dislike the daughter of a — " 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Ck'mence, "you have read my heart; 
 I have no other fear than that. The very thought 
 turns me to ice," she added, in a heart-rending tone. 
 " But, father, think that I have promised him the truth 
 in two hours." 
 
 " If so, my daughter, tell him to go to the Portu- 
 guese embassy and see the Comte de Funcal, your 
 father. I will be there." 
 
 " But Monsieur de Maulincour has told him of Fer- 
 ragus. Oh, father, what torture, to deceive, deceive, 
 deceive ! " 
 
 "Need you say that to me? But onl^- a few days 
 more, and no living man will be able to expose me. 
 Besides, Monsieur de Maulincour is be3ond the faculty 
 of remembering. Come, drj' your tears, my sill}' child, 
 and think — " 
 
 At this instant a terrible cr^' rang from the room in 
 which Jules Desmarets was stationed. 
 
140 Fer vagus. 
 
 The clamor was heard by Madame Jules and Ferra- 
 gus through the opening of the wall, and struck them 
 with terror. 
 
 " Go and see what it means, Clemence," said her 
 father. 
 
 Clemence ran rapidly down the little staircase, found 
 the door into Madame Gruget's apartment wide open, 
 heard the cries which echoed from the upper floor, 
 went up the stairs, guided b}' the noise of sobs, and 
 caught these words before she entered the fatal 
 chamber : — 
 
 " You, monsieur, you, with 3'our horrid inventions, — 
 3'ou are the cause of her death ! " 
 
 ••' Hush, miserable woman!" replied Jules, putting 
 his handkerchief on the mouth of the old woman, who 
 began at once to cry out, " Murder ! help ! " 
 
 At this instant Clemence entered, saw her husband, 
 uttered a cr}-, and fled awa3\ 
 
 " Who will save my child? " cried the widow Gruget. 
 ' ' You have murdered her." 
 
 "How?" asked Jules, mechanically, for he was 
 horror-struck at being seen b}^ his wife. 
 
 " Read that," said the old woman, giving him a 
 letter. " Can money or annuities console me for 
 \hat?" 
 
 Farewell, mother ! I bequeath you what I have. I beg 
 your pardon for my forlts, and the last greet' to which I put 
 
Ferragus. 141 
 
 you by ending my life in the river. Henry, who I love 
 
 more than myself, says I have made his misfortuns, and as 
 
 he has drifen me away, and I have lost all my hops of mer- 
 
 rying him, I am going to droun myself. I shall go abov 
 
 Neuilly, so that they can't put me in the Morg. If Henry 
 
 does not hate me anny more after I am ded, ask him to 
 
 berry a pore girl whose hart beet for him only, and to forgif 
 
 me, for I did rong to medle in what did n't consern me. 
 
 Tak care of his wounds. How much he sufered, pore fellow ! 
 
 I shall have as much corage to kill myself as he had to burn 
 
 his bak. Carry home the corsets I have finished. And pray 
 
 God for your daughter. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 " Take this letter to Monsieur de Funcal, who is 
 upstairs," said Jules. " He alone can save your 
 daughter, if there is still time." 
 
 So saying he disappeared, running like a man who 
 has committed a crime. His legs trembled. The hot 
 blood poured into his swelling heart in torrents greater 
 than at an}" other moment of his life, and left it again 
 with untold violence. Conflicting thoughts struggled 
 in his mind, and yet one thought predominated, — 
 he had not been loyal to the being he loved most. It 
 was impossible for him to argue with his conscience, 
 whose voice, rising high with conviction, came like an 
 echo of those inward cries of his love during the cruel 
 hours of doubt he had lately- lived through. 
 
 He spent the greater part of the da}' wandering 
 about Paris, for he dared not go home. This man of 
 
142 Ferragiis. 
 
 integrit}' and honor feared to meet the spotless brow of 
 the woman he had misjudged. We estimate wrong- 
 doing in proportion to the puritj' of our conscience ; 
 the deed which is scarceh^ a fault to some hearts, takes 
 the proportions of a crime in certain unsuUied souls. 
 The slightest stain on the white garment of a virgin 
 makes it a thing ignoble as the rags of a mendicant. 
 Between the two the difference lies in the misfortune of 
 the one, the wrong-doing of the other. God never 
 measures repentance ; he never apportions it. As much 
 is needed to efface a spot as to obliterate the crimes of 
 a lifetime. These reflections fell with all their weio;ht 
 on Jules ; passions, like human laws, will not par- 
 don, and their reasoning is more just ; for are thev not 
 based upon a conscience of their own as infallible as 
 an instinct? 
 
 Jules finall}^ came home pale, despondent, crushed 
 beneath a sense of his wrong-doing, and yet expressing 
 in spite of himself the jo}' his wife's innocence had 
 given him. He entered her room all throbbing with 
 emotion ; she was in bed with a high fever. He took 
 her hand, kissed it, and covered it with tears. 
 
 '' Dear angel," he said, when they were alone, " it is 
 repentance." 
 
 " And for what? " she answered. 
 
 As she made that reply, she laid her head back upon 
 the pillow, closed her eyes, and remained motionless, 
 
Ferragus. 143 
 
 keeping the secret of her sufferings that she might not 
 frighten iier husband, — the tenderness of a mother, 
 the delicacy of an angel ! All the woman was in her 
 answer. 
 
 The silence lasted long. Jules, thinking her asleep, 
 went to question Josephine as to her mistress's 
 condition. 
 
 " Madame came home half-dead, monsieur. We 
 sent at once for Monsieur Haudrj." 
 
 " Did he come? What did he say? " 
 
 "He said nothing, monsieur. He did not seem 
 satisfied ; gave orders that no one should go near 
 madame except the nurse, and said he should come 
 back this evening." 
 
 Jules returned softly to his wife's room and sat 
 down in a chair before the bed. There he remained, 
 motionless, with his eyes fixed on those of Clemence. 
 When she raised her eyelids she saw him, and through 
 those lids passed a tender glance, full of passionate 
 love, free from reproach and bitterness, — a look which 
 fell like a flame of fire upon the heart of that husband, 
 nobl}'^ absolved and forever loved by the being whom 
 he had killed. The presentiment of death struck both 
 their minds with equal force. Their looks were blended 
 in one anguish, as their hearts had long been blended 
 in one love, felt equalh' by both, and shared equally. 
 No questions were uttered ; a horrible certainty was 
 
144 Ferr agios. 
 
 there, — in the wife an absolute generosity ; in the hus- 
 band an awful remorse ; then, in both souls the same 
 vision of the end, the same conviction of fatalit3\ 
 
 There came a moment when, thinking his wife 
 asleep, Jules kissed her softly on the forehead ; then 
 after long contemplation of that cherished face, he 
 said : — 
 
 "O God! leave me this angel still a little while 
 that I may blot out my wrong b}' love and adoration. 
 As a daughter, she is sublime ; as a wife, what word 
 can express her?" 
 
 Clemen ce raised her e3'es ; the}^ were full of tears. 
 
 *' You pain me," she said, in a feeble voice. 
 
 It was getting late ; Doctor Haudry came, and 
 requested the husband to withdraw during his visit. 
 When the doctor left the sick-room Jules asked him 
 no question ; one gesture was enough. 
 
 "Call in consultation any physician in whom you 
 place confidence ; I ma}' be wrong." 
 
 " Doctor, tell me the truth. I am a man, and I can 
 bear it. Besides, I have the deepest interest in know- 
 ing it ; I have certain affairs to settle." 
 
 " Madame Jules is dying," said the physician. 
 "There is some moral malady which has made great 
 progress, and it has complicated her physical condi- 
 tion, which was already dangerous, and made still 
 more so hy her great imprudence. To walk about 
 
Ferragus. 145 
 
 barefooted at night ! to go out when I forbade it ! 
 on foot yesteiTlay in the rain, to-da}' in a carriage ! 
 She must have meant to kill herself. But still, my 
 judgment is not final ; she has youth, and a most 
 amazing nervous strength. It ma}' be best to risk all 
 to win all bj' employing some violent reagent. But I 
 will not take upon myself to order it ; nor will I advise 
 it ; in consultation I shall oppose it." 
 
 Jules returned to his wife. For eleven da3's and 
 eleven nights he remained beside her bed, taking no 
 sleep except during the day when he laid his head upon 
 the foot of the bed. No man ever pushed the jeal- 
 ous}' of care and the craving for devotion to such an 
 extreme as he. He could not endure that the slightest 
 service should be done by others for his wife. There 
 were da3's of uncertaint}', false hopes, now a little 
 better, then a crisis, — in short, all the horrible muta- 
 tions of death as it wavers, hesitates, and finall}" 
 strikes. Madame Jules always found strength to smile 
 at her husband. She pitied him, knowing that soon he 
 would be alone. It was a double death, — that of life, 
 that of love ; but life grew feebler and love grew 
 mightier. One frightful night there was, when Cle- 
 mence passed through that delirium which precedes 
 the death of youth. She talked of her happy love, 
 she talked of her father ; she related her mother's 
 revelations on her death-bed, and the obligations that 
 
 10 
 
146 Ferragus. 
 
 mother bad laid upon her. She struggled, not for life, 
 but for her love which she could not leave. 
 
 " Grant, O God ! " she said, " that he may not know 
 I want him to die with me.*' 
 
 Jules, unable to bear the scene, was at that moment 
 in the adjoining room, and did not hear the praj'er, 
 which he would doubtless have fulfilled. 
 
 When this crisis was over, Madame Jules recovered 
 some strength. The next day she was beautiful and 
 tranquil ; hope seemed to come to her ; she adorned 
 herself, as the dying often do. Then she asked to 
 be alone all da}', and sent away her husband with 
 one of those entreaties made so earnestly that they 
 are granted as we grant the prayer of a little child. 
 
 Jules, indeed, had need of this da}'. He went to 
 Monsieur de Maulincour to demand the satisfaction 
 agreed npon between them. It w^as not without great 
 difficulty that he succeeded in reaching the presence of 
 the author of these misfortunes ; but the vidame, when 
 he learned that the visit related to an affair of honor, 
 obeyed the precepts of his whole life, and himself 
 took Jules into the baron's chamber. 
 
 Monsieur Desmarets looked about him in search of 
 his antagonist. 
 
 "Yes! that is really he," said the vidame, motion- 
 ins: to a man who was sittino; in an arm-chair beside 
 the fire. 
 
Ferragus. 147 
 
 " Who is it? Jules? " said the dj'ing man in a broken 
 voice. 
 
 Auguste had lost the onl}' facult}' that makes us 
 live — memory. Jules Desmarets recoiled with horror 
 at this sight. He could not even recognize the elegant 
 young man in that thing without — as Bossuet said — 
 a name in an}' language. It was, in truth, a corpse 
 with whitened hair, its bones scarce covered with a 
 wrinkled, blighted, withered skin, — a corpse with wliite 
 eyes motionless, mouth hideously gaping, like those 
 of idiots or vicious men killed by excesses. No trace 
 of intelligence remained upon that brow, nor in any 
 feature ; nor was there in that! flabb}' flesh either color 
 or the faintest appearance of circulating blood. Here 
 was a shrunken, withered creature brought to the state 
 of those monsters we see preserved in museums, float- 
 ing in alcohol. Jules fancied that he saw above that 
 face the terrible head of Ferragus, and his own anger 
 was silenced b}' such a vengeance. The husband found 
 pit}' in his heart for the vacant wreck of what was once 
 a man. 
 
 " The duel has taken place," said the vidame. 
 
 " But he has killed many," answered Jules, sorrow- 
 fully. 
 
 ''And many dear ones," added the old man. " His 
 grandmother is dying ; and I shall follow her soon into 
 the grave." 
 
148 Ferragus. 
 
 On the morrow of this daj', Madame Jules grew 
 worse from hour to hour. She used a moment's 
 strength to take a letter from beneath her pillow, and 
 gave it eagerl}' to her husband with a sign that was 
 eas3" to understand, — she wished to give him, in a kiss, 
 her last breath. He took it, and she died. Jules fell 
 half-dead himself and was taken to his brother's house. 
 There, as he deplored in tears his absence of the da}' 
 before, his brother told him that this separation was 
 eagerly desired by Clemence, who wished to spare him 
 the sight of the religious paraphernalia, so terrible to 
 tender imaginations, which the Church displays when 
 conferring the last sacraments upon the dying. 
 
 " You could not have borne it," said his brother. 
 " I could hardl}' bear the sight myself, and all the 
 servants wept. Clemence was like a saint. She gath- 
 ered strength to bid us all good-bj-e, and that voice, 
 heard for the last time, rent our hearts. When she 
 asked pardon for the pain she might unwillingly have 
 caused her servants, there were cries and sobs and — " 
 
 " Enough, enough ! " said Jules. 
 
 He wanted to be alone, that he might read the last 
 words of the woman whom all had loved, and who had 
 passed awaj^ like a flower. 
 
 " My beloved ; this is my last will. Why should we not 
 make wills for the treasures of our hearts, as for our worldly 
 property ? Was not my love my property, my all ? I mean 
 
Ferragus, 149 
 
 here to dispose of my love : it was the only fortune of your 
 Clemence, and it is all that she can leave you in dying. 
 Jules, you love me still, and I die happy. The doctors may 
 explain my death as they think best; T alone know the 
 true cause. I shall tell it to you, whatever pain it may 
 cause you. I cannot carry with me, in a heart all yours, 
 a secret which you do not share, although I die the victim 
 of an enforced silence. 
 
 "Jules, I was nurtured and brought up in the deepest 
 solitude, far from the vices and the falsehoods of the world, 
 by the loving woman whom you knew. Society did justice 
 to her conventional charm, for that is what pleases society ; 
 but I knew secretly her precious soul, I could cherish the 
 mother who made my childhood a joy without bitterness, 
 and I knew why I cherished her. Was not that to love 
 doubly? Yes, I loved her, I feared her, I respected her: 
 yet nothing oppressed my heart, neither fear nor respect. 
 I was all in all to her; she was all in all to me. For nine- 
 teen happy years, without a care, my soul, solitary amid the 
 world which muttered round me, reflected only her pure 
 image ; my heart beat for her and through her. I was 
 scrupulously pious ; I found pleasure in being innocent be- 
 fore God. My mother cultivated all noble and self-respect- 
 ing sentiments in me. Ah! it gives me happiness to tell 
 you, Jules, that I now know I was indeed a young girl, and 
 that I came to you virgin in heart. 
 
 "When I left that absolute solitude, when, for the first 
 time, I braided my hair and crowned it with almond blos- 
 soms, when I added, with delight, a few satin knots to my 
 white dress, thinking of the world I was to see, and which 
 I was curious to see — Jules, that innocent and modest 
 coquetry was done for you ! Yes, as I entered the world, I 
 
150 Ferragus. 
 
 saw you first of all. Your face, I remarked it; it stood out 
 from the rest; your person pleased me; your voice, your 
 manners, all inspired me with pleasant presentiments. 
 When you came up, when you spoke to me, the color on 
 your forehead, the tremble in yom' voice, — that moment 
 gave me memories with which I throb as I now write to 
 you, as I now, for the last time, think of them. Our love was 
 at first the keenest of sympathies, but it was soon discovered 
 by each of us and then, as speedily, shared ; just as, in after 
 times, we have both equally felt and shared innumerable 
 happinesses. From that moment my mother was only sec- 
 ond in my heart. Next, I was yours, all yours. There is 
 my life, and all my life, dear husband. 
 
 " And here is what remains for me to tell you. One even- 
 ing, a few days before my mother's death, she revealed to 
 me the secret of her life, — not without burning tears. I 
 have loved you better since the day I learned from the 
 priest as he absolved my mother that there are passions con- 
 demned by the world and by the Church. But surely God 
 will not be severe when they are the sins of souls as ten- 
 der as that of my mother; only, that dear woman could 
 never bring herself to repent. She loved much, Jules ; she 
 was all love. So I have prayed daily for her, but never 
 judged her. 
 
 " That night I learned the cause of her deep maternal ten- 
 derness ; then I also learned that there was in Paris a man 
 whose life and whose love centred on me ; that your fortune 
 was his doing, and that he loved you. I learned also that 
 he was exiled from society and bore a tarnished name ; but 
 that he was more unhappy for me, for us, than for himself. 
 My mother was all his comfort ; she was dying, and I prom- 
 ised to take her place. With all the ardor of a soul whose 
 
Ferragus. 151 
 
 feelings had never been perverted, I saw only the happiness 
 of softening the bitterness of my mother's last moments, 
 and I pledged myself to continue her work of secret charity, 
 — the charity of the heart. The first time that I saw my 
 father was beside the bed where my mother had just ex- 
 pired. When he raised his tearful eyes, it was to see in 
 me a revival of his dead hopes. I had sworn, not to tell 
 a lie, but to keep silence; and that silence what woman 
 could have broken it? 
 
 "There is my fault, Jules, — a fault which I expiate by 
 death. I doubted you. But fear is so natural to a woman ; 
 above all, a woman who knows what it is that she may lose. I 
 trembled for our love. My father's secret seemed to me the 
 death of my happiness ; and the more I loved, the more I 
 feared. I dared not avow this feeling to my father ; it 
 would have wounded him, and in his situation a wound was 
 agony. But, without a word from me, he shared my fears. 
 That fatherly heart trembled for my happiness as much as I 
 trembled for myself; but it dared not speak, obeying the 
 same delicacy that kept me mute. Yes, Jules, I believed 
 that you could not love the daughter of Gratien Bourignard 
 as you loved your Clemence. Without that terror could I 
 have kept back anything from you, — you who live in every 
 fold of my heart? 
 
 " The day when that odious, unfortunate young officer 
 spoke to you, I was forced to lie. That day, for the second 
 time in my life, I knew what pain was ; that pain has 
 steadily increased until this moment, when I speak with 
 you for the last time. What matters now my father's 
 position ? You know all. I could, by the help of my love, 
 have conquered my illness and borne its sufferings ; but 
 I cannot stifle the voice of doubt. Is it not probable 
 
152 Ferragus. 
 
 that my origin would affect the purity of your love and 
 weaken it, diminish it ? That fear nothing has been able 
 to quench in me. There, Jules, is the cause of my death. 
 I cannot live fearing a word, a look, — a word you may 
 never say, a look you may never give ; but, I cannot help it, 
 I fear them. I die beloved ; there is my consolation. 
 
 " I have known, for the last three years, that my father 
 and his friends have well-nigh moved the world to deceive 
 the world. That I might have a station in life, they have 
 bought a dead man, a reputation, a fortune, so that a living 
 man might live again, restored ; and all this for you, for us. 
 We were never to have known of it. WeU, my death will 
 save my father from that falsehood, for he will not sur- 
 vive me. 
 
 " Farewell, Jules ; my heart is all here. To show you my 
 love in its agony of fear, is not that bequeathing my whole 
 soul to you ? I could never have the strength to speak to 
 you ; I have only enough to write. I have just confessed to 
 God the sins of my life. I have promised to fill my mind 
 with the King of Heaven only ; but I must confess myself 
 to him who is, for me, the whole of earth. Alas ! shall I not 
 be pardoned for this last sigh between the life that was and 
 the life that shall be ? Farewell, my Jules, my loved 
 one ! I go to God, with whom is Love without a cloud, to 
 whom you will follow me. There, before his throne, united 
 forever, we may love each other throughout the ages. This 
 hope alone can comfort me. If I am worthy of being there 
 at once, I will follow you through life. My soul shall bear 
 you company; it will wrap you about, for you must stay 
 here still, — ah ! here below. Lead a holy life that you may 
 the more surely come to me. You can do such good upon 
 this earth ! Is it not an angel's mission for the suffering 
 
Ferragus. 153 
 
 soul to shed happiness about him, — to give to others that 
 which he has not ? I bequeath you to the Unhappy. Their 
 smiles, their tears, are the only ones of which I cannot be 
 jealous. We shall find a charm in sweet beneficence. Can 
 we not live together still if you would join my name — your 
 Clemence — in these good works ? 
 
 " After loving as we have loved, there is naught but God, 
 Jules. God does not lie ; God never betrays. Adore him 
 only, I charge you ! Lead those who suffer up to him ; com- 
 fort the sorrowing members of his Church. Farewell, dear 
 soul that I have filled ! I know you ; you will never love 
 again. I may die happy in the thought that makes all 
 women happy. Yes, my grave will be your heart. After this 
 childhood I have just related, has not my life flowed on 
 within that heart? Dead, you will never drive me forth. 
 I am proud of that rare life ! You will know me only in 
 the flower of my youth ; I leave you regrets without disillu- 
 sions. Jules, it is a happy death. 
 
 " You, who have so fully understood me, may I ask one 
 thing more of you, — superfluous request, perhaps, the ful- 
 filment of a woman's fancy, the prayer of a jealousy we all 
 must feel, — I pray you to burn all that especially belonged 
 to us, destroy our chamber, annihilate all that is a memory 
 of our happiness. 
 
 " Once more, farewell, — the last farewell ! It is all 
 love, and so will be my parting thought, my parting 
 breath." 
 
 When Jules had read that letter there came into his 
 heart one of those wild frenzies of which it is impos- 
 sible to describe the awful anguish. All sorrows are 
 individual ; their effects are not subjected to anj- fixed 
 
154 Ferragus. 
 
 rule. Certain men will stop their ears to hear nothing ; 
 some women close their e3'es hoping never to see again ; 
 great and splendid souls are met with who fling them- 
 selves into sorrow as into an abyss. In the matter of 
 despair, all is true. 
 
Ferragus. 155 
 
 V. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Jules escaped from his brother's house and returned 
 home, wishing to pass the night beside his wife, and 
 see till tlie last moment that celestial creature. As he 
 walked along with an indilference to life known only 
 to those who have reached the last degree of wretched- 
 ness, he thought of how, in India, the law ordained 
 that widows should die ; he longed to die. He was 
 not 3'et crushed ; the fever of his grief was still upon 
 him. He reached his home and went up into the 
 sacred chamber ; he saw his Clemence on the bed 
 of death, beautiful, like a saint, her hair smoothly 
 laid upon her forehead, her hands joined, her body 
 wrapped alread}' in its shroud. Tapers were lighted, a 
 priest was pra3'ing, Josephine kneeling in a corner, wept, 
 and, near the bed, were two men. One was Ferragus. 
 He stood erect, motionless, gazing at his daughter 
 with dr}' ej'es ; his head you might have taken for 
 bronze : he did see Jules. 
 
 The other man was Jacquet, — Jacquct, to whom 
 Madame Jules had been ever kind. Jacquet felt for 
 her one of those respectful friendships which rejoice 
 
156 Ferragus. 
 
 the untroubled heart ; a gentle passion ; love without 
 its desires and its storms. He had come to pay his 
 debt of tears, to bid a long adieu to the wife of his 
 friend, to kiss, for the first time, the ic}' brow of the 
 woman he had tacitly made his sister. 
 
 All was silence. Here death was neither terrible as 
 in the churches, nor pompous as it makes its waj' along 
 the streets ; no, it was death in the home, a tender 
 death ; here were pomps of the heart, tears drawn 
 from the e^-es of all. Jules sat down beside Jacquet 
 and pressed his hand ; then, without uttering a word, 
 all these persons remained as they were till morning. 
 
 When daylight paled the tapers, Jacquet, foreseeing 
 the painful scenes which would then take place, drew 
 Jules away into another room. At this moment the 
 husband looked at the father, and Ferragus looked at 
 Jules. The two sorrows arraigned each other, meas- 
 ured each other, and comprehended each other in that 
 look. A flash of fury shone for an instant in the e3'es 
 of Ferragus. 
 
 *' You killed her," thought he. 
 
 ^' Why was I distrusted?" seemed the answer of the 
 husband. 
 
 The scene was one that might have passed between 
 two tigers recognizing the futilit}" of a struggle and, 
 after a moment's hesitation, turning away, without 
 even a roar. 
 
Ferragus. 157 
 
 " Jacquet," said Jules, "have 3'ou attended to every- 
 thing?" 
 
 "Yes, to ever3'thing," replied his friend, "but a 
 man had forestalled me who had ordered and paid 
 for all." 
 
 "He tears his daughter from me!" cried the hus- 
 band, with the violence of despair. 
 
 Jules rushed back to his wife's room ; but the father 
 was there no longer. Clemence had now been placed 
 in a leaden coffin, and workmen were employed in 
 soldering the cover. Jules returned, horrified b}' the 
 sight ; the sound of the hammers the men were using 
 made him mechanically burst into tears. 
 
 " Jacquet," he said, " out of this dreadful night one 
 idea has come to me, onl}^ one, but one I must make a 
 reality at an}' price. I cannot let Clemence sta}' in 
 any cemetery in Paris. I wish to burn her, — to gather 
 her ashes and keep her with me. Say nothing of this, 
 but manage on my behalf to have it done. I am going 
 to her chamber, where 1 shall stay until the time has 
 come to go. You alone may come in there to tell me 
 what 3'ou have done. Go, and spare nothing." 
 
 During the morning, Madame Jules, after lying in a 
 mortuar}' chapel at the door of her house, was taken to 
 Saint- Roch. The church was hung with black through- 
 out. The sort of luxur}" thus displayed had drawn a 
 crowd ; for in Paris all things are sights, even true 
 
158 Ferragus. 
 
 grief. There are persons who stand at their windows 
 to see how a son deplores a mother as he follows her 
 bod}' ; there are others' who hire commodious seats to 
 see how a head is made to fall. No people in the 
 world have such insatiate e^'es as the Parisians. On 
 this occasion, inquisitive minds were particularl}' sur- 
 prised to see the six lateral chapels at Saint-Roch also 
 hung in black. Two men in mourning were listening 
 to a mortuary mass said in each chapel. In the chan- 
 cel no other persons but Monsieur Desmarets, the 
 notar}', and Jacquet were present : the servants of 
 the household were outside the screen. To church 
 loungers there was something inexplicable in so much 
 pomp and so few mourners. But Jules had been de- 
 termined that no indifferent persou should be present 
 at the ceremony. 
 
 High mass was celebrated with the sombre magnifi- 
 cence of funeral services. Beside the ministers in ordi= 
 nary of Saint-Roch, thirteen priests from other parishes 
 were present. Perhaps never did the Dies irce pro- 
 duce upon Christians, assembled by chance, bj' curi- 
 osit}', and thirsting for emotions, an effect so profound, 
 so nervously glacial as that now caused b}' this hymn 
 when the eight voices of the precentors, accompanied 
 b}' the voices of the priests and the choir-boys, intoned 
 it alternateh'. From the six lateral chapels twelve 
 other childish voices rose shrilh* in grief, mingling 
 
Ferragus. 159 
 
 with the choir voices lamentably. From all parts 
 of the church this mourning issued ; cries of an- 
 guish responded to the cries of fear. That terrible 
 music was the voice of sorrows hidden from the world, 
 of secret friendships weeping for the dead. Never, 
 in any human religion, have the terrors of the soul, 
 violentl}' torn from the bod}' and storniily shaken iu 
 presence of the fulminating majest}' of God, been 
 rendered with such force. Before that clamor of 
 clamors all artists and their most passionate compo- 
 sitions must bow humiliated. No, nothing can stand 
 beside that hymn, which sums all human passions, 
 gives them a galvanic life beyond the coffin, and leaves 
 them, palpitating still, before the living and avenging 
 God. These cries of childhood, mingling with the 
 tones of older voices, including thus in the Song of 
 Death all human life and its developments, recalling 
 the sufferings of the cradle, swelling to the griefs of 
 other ages in the stronger male voices and the quaver- 
 ing of the priests, — all this strident harmonj', big with 
 lightning and thunderbolts, does it not speak with equal 
 force to the daring imagination, the coldest heart, nay, 
 to philosophers themselves? As we hear it, we think 
 God speaks ; the vaulted arches of no church are mere 
 material ; they have a voice, the}' tremble, the}' scatter 
 fear by the might of their echoes. We think we see 
 unnumbered dead arising and holding out their hands. 
 
160 Ferragus. 
 
 It is no more a father, a wife, a child, — humanit}^ it- 
 self is rising from its dust. 
 
 It is impossible to judge of the catholic, apostolic, 
 and Roman faith, unless the soul has known that deep- 
 est grief of mourning for a loved one lying beneath 
 the pall ; unless it has felt the emotions that fill the 
 heart, uttered by that Hymn of Despair, by those cries 
 that crush the mind, by that sacred fear augmenting 
 strophe by strophe, ascending heavenward, which ter- 
 rifies, belittles, and elevates the soul, and leaves with- 
 in our minds, as the last sound ceases, a consciousness 
 of immortality. We have met and struggled with the 
 vast idea of the Infinite. After that, all is silent in the 
 church. No word is said ; sceptics themselves k7iow 
 not what they are feeling. Spanish genius alone was 
 able to bring this untold majesty to untold griefs. 
 
 When the solemn ceremony was over, twelve men 
 came from the six chapels and stood around the cof- 
 fin to hear the song of hope which the Church intones 
 for the Christian soul before the human form is bur- 
 ied. Then, each man entered alone a mourning-coach ; 
 Jacquet and Monsieur Desmarets took the thirteenth ; 
 the servants followed on foot. An hour later, they 
 were at the summit of that cemeter}' popularl}- called 
 Pere-Lachaise. The unknown twelve men stood in a 
 circle round the grave, where the coffin had been laid in 
 presence of a crowd of loiterers gathered from all parts 
 
Ferragus. 161 
 
 of tills public garden. After a few slioi-t prayers the 
 priest threw a handful of earth on the remains of this 
 woman, and the grave-diggers, having asked for their 
 fee, made haste to fill the grave in order to dig another. 
 
 Here this history seems to end ; but perhaps it 
 would be incomplete if, after giving a rapid sketch of 
 Parisian life, and following certain of its capricious 
 undulations, the eflTects of death were omitted. Death 
 in Paris is uulike death in any other capital ; few per- 
 sons know the trials of true grief in its struggle with 
 civilization, and the government of Paris. Perhaps, 
 also, Monsieur Jules and Ferragus XXIII. may linve 
 proved sufficienth' interesting to make a few words on 
 their after life not entirely out of {)lace. Besides, 
 some persons like to be told all, and wish, as one of 
 our cleverest critics has remarked, to know by what 
 chemical process oil was made to burn in Aladdin's 
 lamp. 
 
 Jacquet, being a government employe, naturally ap- 
 plied to the authorities for permission to exhume the 
 bod}' of Madame Jules and burn it. He went to see 
 the prefect of police, under whose protection the dead 
 sleep. That functionary demanded a petition. The 
 blank was bought that gives to sorrow its proper ad- 
 ministrative form ; it was necessary to emplo}' the 
 bureaucratic jargon to express the wishes of a man so 
 crushed that words, perhaps, were lacking to him, and 
 
 11 
 
162 Ferragus. 
 
 it was also necessary to coldly and briefl}' repeat on 
 the margin the nature of the request, which was done 
 in these words: "The petitioner respectfully asks 
 for the incineration of his wife." 
 
 When the official charged with making the report to 
 the Councillor of State and prefect of police read that 
 marginal note, explaining the object of the petition, 
 and couched, as requested, in the plainest terms, he 
 said : — 
 
 "This is a serious matter! my report cannot be 
 read}^ under eight days." 
 
 Jules, to whom Jacquet was obliged to speak of this 
 delay, comprehended the words that Ferragus had said 
 in his hearing, "I'll burn Paris!" Nothing seemed 
 to him now more natural than to annihilate that re- 
 ceptacle of monstrous things. 
 
 " But," he said to Jacquet, "3'ou must go to the min- 
 ister of the Interior, and get your minister to speak 
 to him." 
 
 Jacquet went to the minister of the Interior, and 
 asked an audience ; it was granted, l)ut the time ap- 
 pointed was two weeks later. Jacquet was a persistent 
 man. He travelled from bureau to bureau, and finally 
 reached the private secretary of the minister of the 
 Interior, to whom he had made the private secretary 
 of his own minister say a word. These liigli protec- 
 tors aiding, he obtained for the morrow a second inter- 
 
Ferragus. 163 
 
 view, in which, being armed with a line from the 
 autocrat of Foreign affairs to the pacha of the Inte- 
 rior, Jacquet hoped to carry the matter by assault. He 
 was ready with reasons, and answers to peremptory 
 questions, — in sliort, he was armed at all points ; but 
 he failed. 
 
 "This matter does not concern me," said the min- 
 ister; "it belongs to the prefect of police. Besides, 
 there is no law giving a husband anj' legal right to the 
 bod}' of his wife, nor to fathers those of their children. 
 The matter is serious. There are questions of public 
 utility involved which will have to be examined. The 
 interests of the city of Paris might suffer. Therefore 
 if the matter depended on me, which it does not, I could 
 not decide Idc et nunc; I should require a report." 
 
 A report is to the present S3'stem of administration 
 what limbo or hades is to Christianit}'. Jacquet knew 
 very well the mania for " reports ; " he had not waited 
 until this occasion to groan at that bureaucratic ab- 
 surdity. He knew that since the invasion into public 
 business of the Report (an administrative revolution 
 consummated in 1804) there was never known a single 
 minister who would take upon himself to have an opin- 
 ion or to decide the slightest matter, unless that opinion 
 or matter had been winnowed, sifted and plucked to 
 bits by the paper-spoilers, quill-drivers, and splendid 
 intellects of his particular bureau. Jacquet — he was 
 
164 Ferragus. 
 
 one of those men who are worth}' of Pkitarch as bio<2:- 
 rapher — saw that he had made a mistake in his man- 
 agement of the affair, and had, in fact, rendered it 
 impossible hy tr3ing to proceed legall}'. The thing 
 he should have done was to have taken Madame Jules 
 to one of Desmaret's estates in the country- ; and there, 
 under the good-natured authority of some village ma3'or 
 to have gratified the sorrowful longing of his friend. 
 Law, constitutional and administrative, begets nothing ; 
 it is a barren monster for peoples, for kings, and for 
 private interests. But the peoples decipher no princi- 
 ples but those that are writ in blood, and the evils of 
 legality will always be pacific; it flattens a nation 
 down, that is all. Jacquet, a man of modern libert}', 
 returned home reflecting on the benefits of arbitrary 
 power. 
 
 When he went with his report to Jules, he found it 
 necessar}' to deceive him, for the unhappy man was in 
 a high fever, unable to leave his bed. The minister of 
 the Interior mentioned, at a ministerial dinner that 
 same evening, the singular fanc}' of a Parisian in wish- 
 ing to burn his wife after the manner of the Romans. 
 The clubs of Paris took up the subject, and talked for 
 a while of the burials of antiquity. Ancient things 
 were just then becoming a fashion, and some persons 
 declared that it would be a fine thing to re-establish, for 
 distinguished persons, the funeral pyre. This opinion 
 
Ferragus. 165 
 
 had its defenders and its detractors. Some said that 
 there were too man}' such personages, and the price of 
 wood would be enormously increased by such a custom ; 
 moreover, it would be absurd to see our ancestors in 
 their urns in the procession at Longchamps. And if 
 the urns were valuable, they were likely some da}' to 
 be sold at auction, full of respectable ashes, or seized 
 b}' creditors, — a race of men who respected nothing. 
 The other side made answer that our ancestors were 
 much safer in urns than at Pere-Lachaise, for before 
 very long the city of Paris would be compelled to order 
 a Saint-Bartholomew against its dead, who were invad- 
 ing the neighboring country', and threatening to invade 
 the territory of Brie. It was, in short, one of tliose 
 futile but witty discussions which sometimes cause 
 deep and painful wounds. Happily for Jules, he knew 
 nothing of the conversations, the witty speeches, and 
 arguments which his sorrow had furnished to the 
 tongues of Paris. 
 
 The prefect of police was indignant that Monsieur 
 Jacquet had appealed to a minister to avoid the wise 
 delays of the commissioners of the public highways ; 
 for the exhumation of Madame Jules was a question 
 belonging to that department. The police bureau was 
 doing its best to reply promptl}' to the petition ; one 
 appeal was quite sufficient to set the office in motion, 
 and once in motion matters would go far. But as for 
 
166 Ferragus. 
 
 the administration, that might take the case before the 
 Council of state, — a machine very difficult indeed to 
 move. 
 
 After the second da}^ Jacquet was obliged to tell his 
 friend that he must renounce his desire, because, in a 
 cit}^ where the number of tears shed on black draperies 
 is tariffed, where the laws recognize seven classes of 
 funerals, where the scrap of ground to hold the dead 
 is sold at its weight in silver, where grief is worked for 
 what it is worth, where the pra3'ers of the Church are 
 costly, and -the vestry claim pa3'ment for extra voices 
 in the Dies irce^ — all attempt to get out of the rut 
 prescribed by the autliorities for sorrow is useless and 
 impossible. 
 
 " It would have been to me," said Jules, " a com- 
 fort in ni}^ miser}'. I meant to have died away from 
 here, and I hoped to hold her in m}' arms in a distant 
 grave. I did not know that bureaucracy could send its 
 claws into our ver}' coffins." 
 
 He now wished to see if room had been left for him 
 beside his wife. The two friends went to the cemetery. 
 When they reached it the}" found (as at the doors of 
 museums, galleries, and coach-offices) ciceroni^ who 
 proposed to guide them through the labjTinth of Pere- 
 Lachaise. Neither Jules nor Jacquet could have found 
 the spot where Clemence lay. Ah, frightful anguish ! 
 They went to the lodge to consult the porter of the 
 
Ferragus. 167 
 
 cemetery. The dead have a porter, and there are 
 hours when the dead are "not receiving." It is ne- 
 cessary to upset all the rules and regulations of the 
 upper and lower police to obtain permission to weep 
 at night, in silence and solitude, over the grave where 
 a loved one lies. There 's a rule for summer and a 
 rule for winter about this. 
 
 Certainly, of all the porters in Paris, the porter of 
 Pere-Lachaise is the luckiest. In the first place, he has 
 no gate-cord to pull ; then, instead of a lodge, he has a 
 house, — an establishment which is not quite ministe- 
 rial, although a vast number of persons come under his 
 administration, and a good many employes. And this 
 governor of the dead has a salary, with emoluments, 
 and acts under powers of which none complain ; he 
 plays despot at his ease. His lodge is not a place of 
 business, though it has departments where the book- 
 keeping of receipts, expenses, and profits, is carried 
 on. The man is not a Suisse^ nor a concierge, nor actu- 
 ally a porter. The gate which admits the dead stands 
 wide open ; and though there are monuments and 
 buildings to be cared for, he is not a care-taker. In 
 short, he is an indefinable anomaly, an authorit\' which 
 participates in all, and yet is nothing, — an authoritj^ 
 placed, like the dead on whom it is based, outside of 
 all. Nevertheless, this exceptional man grows out of 
 the city of Paris, — that chimerical creation like the ship 
 
168 Ferragus. 
 
 which is its emblem, that Creature of reason moving 
 on a tlioiisand paws which are seldom unanimous in 
 motion. 
 
 This guardian of the cemetery may be called a con- 
 cierge who has reached the condition of a functionary, 
 not soluble by dissolution ! His place is far from being 
 a sinecure. He does not allow any one to be buried 
 without a permit ; he must count his dead. He points 
 out to you in this vast field the six feet square of earth 
 where you will one da}^ put all you love, or all you 
 hate, a mistress, or a cousin. Yes, remember this : all 
 the feelings and emotions of Paris come to end here, at 
 this porter's lodge, where the}' are administrationized. 
 This man has registers in which his dead are booked ; 
 the}' are in their graves, and also on his records. He 
 has under him keepers, gardeners, grave-diggers, and 
 their assistants. He is a personage. Mourning hearts 
 do not speak to him at first. He does not appear at 
 all except in serious cases, such as one corpse mis- 
 taken for another, a murdered body, an exhumation, 
 a dead man coming to life. The bust of the reigning 
 king is in his hall ; possibly he keeps the late royal, 
 imperial, and quasi-royal busts in some cupboard, — a 
 sort of little Pcre-Lachaise all ready for revolutions. 
 In short, he is a public man, an excellent man, good 
 husband, and good father, — epitaph apart. But so 
 many diverse sentiments have passed before him on 
 
Ferragus. 169 
 
 biers ; he has seen so man}' tears, true and false ; he 
 has beheld sorrow under so man}' aspects and on so 
 many faces ; he has heard such endless thousands of 
 eternal woes, — that to him sorrow has come to be noth- 
 ing more than a stone an inch thick, four feet long, 
 and twenty-four inches wide. As for regrets, they 
 are the annoyances of his office ; he neither break- 
 fasts nor dines without first wiping off the rain of an 
 inconsolable affliction. He is kind and tender to other 
 feelings : he will weep over a stage-hero, over Mon- 
 sieur Germeuil in the " Auberge des Adrets," the man 
 with the butter-colored breeches, murdered by Macaire ; 
 but his heart is ossified in the matter of real dead men. 
 Dead men are ciphers, numbers, to him ; it is his busi- 
 ness to organize death. Yet he does meet, three times 
 in a centur}', perhaps, with an occasion when his part 
 becomes sublime, and then he is sublime through every 
 hour of his da}', — in times of pestilence. 
 
 When Jacquet approached him this absolute mon- 
 arch was evidenth" out of temper. 
 
 " I told 5'ou," he was saying, " to water the flowers 
 from the rue Massena to the place Regnault de Saint- 
 Jean-d'Angel}'. You paid no attention to me ! Sac-a- 
 papier ! suppose the relations should take it into their 
 heads to come here to-day because the weather is fine, 
 what would they say to me ? The}' 'd shriek as if they 
 ■were burned; they'd say horrid things of us, and 
 calumniate us — " 
 
1 70 Ferragus. 
 
 " Monsieur," said Jacquet, " we want to know where 
 Madame Jules is buried." 
 
 "Madame Jules wlio?^^ he asked. "We've had 
 three Madame Jules within the last week. Ah," he 
 said, interrupting himself, "here comes the funeral of 
 Monsieur le Baron de Maulincour ! A fine procession, 
 that ! He has soon followed his grandmother. Some 
 families, when they begin to go, rattle down like a 
 wager. Lots of bad blood in Parisians." 
 
 " Monsieur," said Jacquet, touching him on the arm, 
 "the person I spoke of is Madame Jules Desmarets, 
 the wife of the broker of that name." 
 
 "Ah, I know!" he replied, looking at Jacquet. 
 " Was n't it a funeral with thirteen mourning coaches, 
 and only one mourner in the twelve first? It was so 
 droll we all noticed it — " 
 
 "Monsieur, take care, Monsieur Desmarets is with 
 me ; he might hear you, and what you say is not 
 seemly." 
 
 "I beg pardon, monsieur! you are quite right. 
 Excuse me, I took yon for heirs. Monsieur," he con- 
 tinued, after consulting a plan of the cemetery, " Ma- 
 dame Jules is in the rue Marechal Lefebre, alley No. 4, 
 between Mademoiselle Raucourt, of the Comedie-Fran- 
 9aise, and Monsieur Moreau-Malvin, a butcher, for 
 whom a handsome tomb in white marble "has been 
 ordered, which will be one of the finest in the 
 cemetery — '' 
 
Ferragus. 171 
 
 " Monsieur," said Jacquet, interrupting him, " that 
 does not help us." 
 
 '' True," said the official, looking round him. " Jean," 
 he cried, to a man whom he saw at a little distance, 
 " conduct these gentlemen to the grave of Madame 
 Jules Desmarets, the broker's wife. You know where 
 it is, — near to Mademoiselle Raucourt, the tomb where 
 there 's a bust." 
 
 The two friends followed the guide ; but they did not 
 reach the steep path which leads to the upper part of 
 the cemetery without having to pass through a score of 
 proposals and requests, made, with honied softness, b}'' 
 the touts of marble-workers, iron-founders, and monu- 
 mental sculptors. 
 
 " If monsieur would like to order something, we would 
 do it on the most reasonable terms." 
 
 Jacquet was fortunate enough to be able to spare his 
 friend the hearing of these proposals so agonizing to 
 bleeding hearts ; and presently they reached the rest- 
 ing-place. When Jules beheld the earth so recently 
 dug, into which the masons had stuck stakes to mark 
 the place for the stone posts required to support the 
 iron railing, he turned and leaned upon Jacquet's shoul- 
 der, raising himself now and again to cast long glances 
 at the clay mound where he was forced to leave the re- 
 mains of the being in and by whom he still lived. 
 
 '' How miserably she lies there I " he said. 
 
172 Ferragus, 
 
 "But she is not there," said Jacqiiet, "she is in 
 your memory. Come, let us go ; let us leave this odi- 
 ous cemetery, where the dead are adorned like women 
 for a ball." 
 
 "Suppose we take her away?" 
 
 " Can it be done? " 
 
 "All things can be done!" cried Jules. "So, I 
 shall lie there," he added, after a pause. "There is 
 room enough." 
 
 Jacquet finall}' succeeded in getting him to leave the 
 great enclosure, divided like a chessboard by iron rail- 
 ings and elegant compartments, in which were tombs 
 decorated with palms, inscriptions, and tears as cold 
 as the stones on which sorrowing hearts had caused 
 to be carved their regrets and coats of arms. Many 
 good words are there engraved in black letters, epi- 
 grams reproving the curious, concetti, wittil}' turned 
 farewells, rendezvous given at which only one side 
 appears, pretentious biographies, glitter, rubbish and 
 tinsel. Here the floriated thyrsus, there a lance-head, 
 farther on Egyptian urns, now and then a few cannon ; 
 on all sides the emblems of professions, and every 
 style of art, — Moorish, Greek, Gothic, — friezes, ovules, 
 paintings, vases, guardian-angels, temples, together 
 with innumerable immortelles, and dead rose-bushes. 
 It is a forlorn comedy ! It is another Paris, with its 
 streets^ its signs, its industries, and its lodgings ; but 
 
Ferragus. 173 
 
 a Paris seen through the diminishing end of an opera- 
 glass, a microscopic Paris reduced to the littleness of 
 shadows, spectres, dead men, a human race which no 
 longer has anj'thing great about it, except its vanit}'. 
 There Jules saw at his feet, in the long valley of the 
 Seine, between the slopes of Vaugirard and Meudon 
 and those of Belleville and Montmartre, the real Paris, 
 wrapped in a mist}^ blue veil produced b}' smoke, which 
 the sunlight rendered at that moment diaphanous. 
 He glanced with a constrained eye at those fort}' thou- 
 sand houses, and said, pointing to the space comprised 
 between the column of the Place Vendorae and the 
 gilded cupola of the Invalides : — 
 
 " She was wrenched from me there bv the fatal curi- 
 osity of that world which excites itself and meddles 
 solely for excitement and occupation." 
 
 Twelve miles from where they were, on the banks 
 of the Seine, in a modest village lying on the slope of 
 a hill of that long hilly basin in the middle of which 
 great Paris stirs like a child in its cradle, a death 
 scene was taking place, far indeed removed from Paris- 
 ian pomps, with no accompaniment of torches or tapers 
 or mourning-coaches, without pra3'ers of the Church, 
 in short, a death in all simplicity. Here are the facts : 
 The body of a young girl was found earl}^ in the morn- 
 ing, stranded on the river-bank in the slime and reeds 
 of the Seine. Men emplo3'ed in dredging sand saw it 
 
174 Ferragus. 
 
 as they were getting into their frail boat on their way 
 to their work. 
 
 '•'•Tiens! fifty francs earned!" said one of them. 
 
 "True," said the other. 
 
 The}' approached the bod}'. 
 
 "A handsome girl! We had better go and make 
 our statement." 
 
 And the two dredgers, after covering the body with 
 their jacl^ets, went to the house of the village mayor, 
 who was much embarrassed at having to make out the 
 legal papers necessitated by this discovery. 
 
 The news of this event spread with the telegraphic 
 rapidity peculiar to regions where social communica- 
 tions have no distractions, where gossip, scandal, cal- 
 umny, in short, the social tale which feasts the world 
 has no break of continuity from one boundary to another. 
 Before long, persons arriving at the mayor's office re- 
 leased him from all embarrassment. They were able 
 to convert the proces-verbal into a mere certificate of 
 death, by recognizing the body as that of the Demoi- 
 selle Ida Gruget, corset-maker, living rue de la Cor- 
 derie-du-Temple, number 14. The judiciary police of 
 Paris arrived, and the mother, bearing her daughter's 
 last letter. Amid the mother's moans, a doctor certi- 
 fied to death by asphyxia, through the injection of 
 black blood into the pulmonary system, — which set- 
 tled the matter. The inquest over, and the certificates 
 
Ferragus. 175 
 
 signed, b}' six o'clock the same evening anthorit}' was 
 given to l)ury tlie grisette. Tlie rector of the parish, 
 however, refused to receive her into the church or to 
 pray for her. Ida Gruget was therefore wrapped in a 
 shroud by an old peasant- woman, put into a common 
 pine coffin, and carried to the village cemeter}- b}^ four 
 men, followed by a few inquisitive peasant-women, who 
 talked about the death witli wonder mingled with some 
 pity. 
 
 The widow Gruget was charitably taken in by an 
 old lady who prevented her from following the sad 
 procession of her daughter's funeral. A man of triple 
 functions, the bell-ringer, beadle, and grave-digger of the 
 parish, had dug a grave in the half-acre cemetery be- 
 hind the church, — a church well-known, a classic 
 church, with a square tower and pointed roof covered 
 with slate, supported on the outside by strong corner 
 buttresses. Behind the apse of the chancel, lay the 
 cemeter}', inclosed with a dilapidated wall, — a little 
 field full of hillocks ; no marble monuments, no vis- 
 itors, but surely in every furrow, tears and true regrets, 
 which were lacking to Ida Gruget. She was cast into 
 a corner full of tall grass and brambles. After the cof- 
 fin had been laid in this field, so poetic in its simpli- 
 cit}', the grave-digger found himself alone, for night was 
 coming on. While filling the grave, he stopped now 
 and then to gaze over the wall along the road. He 
 
176 Fcrragiis. 
 
 was standing thus, resting on bis spade, and looking 
 at tlie Seine, wLiicli had brought him the bod}'. 
 
 " Poor girl ! " cried the voice of a man who suddenly 
 appeared. 
 
 '' How 3'ou made me jump, monsieur," said tlie 
 grave-digger. 
 
 " Was any service held over the body you are 
 burjing? '' 
 
 "No, monsieur. Monsieur le cure w^as n't willing. 
 This is the first person buried here who did n't belong 
 to the parish. P^ver^'body knows everybody else in this 
 place. Does monsieur — Wh}', he 's gone ! " 
 
 Some da3's had elapsed when a man dressed in black 
 called at the house of Monsieur Jules Desmarets, and 
 without asking to see him carried up to the chamber of 
 his wife a large porphyry vase, on which were inscribed 
 the words : — 
 
 In VITA Lege 
 
 CONJUGI MCEKENTI 
 FlLIOL^ CiNERES 
 
 Restituit 
 
 AmICIS XII. JUVANTIBUS 
 
 MoRiBUNDUs Pater. 
 
 " What a man ! " cried Jules, bursting into tears. 
 Eight da^'s sufficed the husband to obo}' all the 
 wishes of his wife, and to arrange his own affairs. He 
 
Ferragus. 177 
 
 sold his practice to a brother of Martin Falleix, and 
 left Paris while the authorities were still discussing 
 whether it was lawful for a citizen to dispose of the 
 body of his wife. 
 
 Who has not encountered on the boulevards of Paris, 
 at the turn of a street, or beneath the arcades of the 
 Palais-Royal, or in any part of the world where chance 
 may offer him the sight, a being, man or woman, at 
 whose aspect a thousand confused thoughts spring into 
 his mind ? At that sight we are suddenly interested, 
 either by features of some fantastic conformation which 
 reveal an agitated life, or by a singular effect of the 
 whole person, produced by gestures, air, gait, clothes ; 
 or by some deep, intense look ; or b}' other inexpressi- 
 ble signs which seize our minds suddenly and forcibl}'' 
 without our being able to explain even to ourselves the 
 cause of our emotion. The next da}^ other thoughts 
 and other images have carried out of sight that passing 
 dream. But if we meet the same personage again, 
 either passing at some fixed hour, like the clerk of a 
 ma3'or's office, who belongs to the marriage business at 
 eight o'clock, or wandering about the public prome- 
 nades, like those individuals who seem to be a sort of 
 furniture of the streets of Paris, and who are always 
 to be found in public places, at first representations or 
 noted restaurants, — then this being fastens himself or 
 
 12 
 
178 Ferragus. 
 
 herself on our menior}', and remains there like the first 
 volume of a novel the end of which is lost. We are 
 tempted to question this unknown person, and say, ''Who 
 are you ? " " Why are you lounging here ? " '' By what 
 right do 3'ou wear that pleated ruffle, that faded waist- 
 coat, and carr}' that cane with an ivory top ; why those 
 blue spectacles ; for what reason do you cling to that 
 cravat of a dead and gone fashion ? " Among these 
 wandering creations some belong to the species of the 
 Greek Hermse ; the}' say nothing to the soul ; they are 
 there^ and that is all. Why? is known to none. Such 
 figures are a type of those used by sculptors for the 
 four Seasons, for Commerce, for Plent}', etc. Some 
 others — former law3'ers, old merchants, elderly gen- 
 erals — move and walk, and 3'et seem stationarj'. Like 
 old trees that are half uprooted b}- the current of a 
 river, the}' seem never to take part in the torrent of 
 Paris, with its 5'outhful, active crowd. It is impossible 
 to know if their friends have forgotten to bury them, 
 or whether they have escaped out of their coffins. At 
 any rate, they have reached the condition of semi- 
 fossils. 
 
 One of these Parisian Melmoths had come within a 
 few days into a neighborhood of sober, quiet people, 
 who, when the weather is fine, are invariabl}^ to be 
 found in the space which lies between the south en- 
 trance of the Luxembourg and the north entrance of 
 
Ferragus. 179 
 
 the Observatoire, — a space without a name, the neutral 
 space of Paris. There, Paris is no longer ; and there, 
 Paris still lingers. The spot is a mingling of street, 
 square, boulevard, fortification, garden, avenue, high- 
 road, province, and metropolis; certainlj', all of that is 
 to be found there, and yet the place is nothing of all 
 that, — it is a desert. Around this spot without a name 
 stand the Foundling hospital, the Bourbe, the Cochin 
 hospital, the Capucines, the hospital La Rochefoucauld, 
 the Deaf and Dumb Asylum, the hospital of the Val-de- 
 Grace ; in short, all the vices and all the misfortunes of 
 Paris find their as3'lum there. And (that nothing may 
 lack in this philanthropic centre) Science there studies 
 the tides and longitudes. Monsieur de Chateaubriand 
 has erected the Marie-Therese Infirmary', and the Car- 
 melites have founded a convent. The great events 
 of life are represented by bells which ring incessantly 
 through this desert, — for the mother giving birth, for 
 the babe that is born, for the vice that succumbs, for 
 the toiler who dies, for the virgin who praj-s, for the 
 old man shaking with cold, for genius self-deluded. 
 And a few steps off is the cemeterj' of Mont-Parnasse, 
 where, hour after hour, the sorry funerals of the fau- 
 bourg Saint-Marceau wend their way. This esplanade, 
 which commands a view of Paris, has been taken pos- 
 session of by bowl-players ; it is, in fact, a sort of 
 bowling-green frequented hy old graj^ faces, belonging 
 
180 Ferragus. 
 
 to kindly, worthy men, who seem to continue the race 
 of our ancestors, whose countenances must only be 
 compared with those of their surroundings. 
 
 The man who had become, during the last few days, 
 an inhabitant of this desert region, proved an assidu- 
 ous attendant at these games of bowls ; and must, 
 undoubtedly, be considered the most striking creature 
 of these various groups, who (if it is permissible to 
 liken Parisians to the different orders of zoology) be- 
 longed to the genus mollusk. The new-comer kept 
 sympathetic step with the cochonnet^ — the little bowl 
 which serves as a goal and on which the interest of 
 the game must centre. He leaned against a tree when 
 the codionnet stopped ; then, with the same attention 
 that a dog gives to his masters gestures, he looked at 
 the other bowls flying through the air, or rolling along 
 the ground. You might have taken him for the weird 
 and watchful genii of the cochonnet. He said nothing ; 
 and the bowl-players — the most fanatic men that can 
 be encountered among the sectarians of any faith — 
 had never asked the reason of his dogged silence ; in 
 fact, the most observing of them thought him deaf and 
 dumb. 
 
 When it happened that the distances between the 
 bowls and the cochonnet had to be determined, the cane 
 of this silent being was used as a measure, the pla3ers 
 coming up and taking it from the ic}' hands of the old 
 
Ferragus, 181 
 
 man and returning it without a word or even a sign 
 of friendliness. Tlie loan of his cane seemed a servi- 
 tude to which he had negatively consented. When a 
 shower fell, he stayed near the cochonnet^ the slave of 
 the bowls, and the guardian of the unfinished game. 
 Rain affected him no more than the fine weather did ; 
 he was, like the plaA'ers themselves, an intermediary 
 species between a Parisian who has the lowest intellect 
 of his kind and an animal which has the highest. 
 
 In other respects, pallid and shrunken, indifferent 
 to his own person, vacant in mind, he often came 
 bareheaded, showing his sparse white hair, and his 
 square, j'ellow, bald skull, like the knee of a beggar 
 seen through his tattered trousers. His mouth was half- 
 open, no ideas were in his glance, no precise object 
 appeared in his movements ; he never smiled ; he 
 never raised his eyes to heaven, but kept them habit- 
 ually on the ground, where he seemed to be looking 
 for something. At four o'clock an old woman arrived, 
 to take him Heaven knows where ; which she did b}'' 
 towing him along by the arm, as a young girl drags a 
 wilful goat which still wants to browse by the wayside. 
 This old man was a horrible thing to see. 
 
 In the afternoon of the day when Jules Desmarets 
 left Paris, his travelling-carriage, in which he was 
 alone, passed rapidly through the rue de I'Est, and 
 came out upon the esplanade of the Observatoire at 
 
182 Ferragus. 
 
 the moment when the old man, leaning against a tree, 
 had allowed his cane to be taken from his hand amid 
 the noisy vociferations of the pla3'ers, pacifically irri- 
 tated. Jules, thinking that he recognized that face, 
 felt an impulse to stop, and at the same instant the 
 carriage came to a standstill ; for the postilion, hemmed 
 in by some handcarts, had too much respect for the 
 game to call upon the plaj'ers to make way for him. 
 
 "It is he!" said Jules, beholding in that human 
 wreck, Ferragus XXIII., chief of the Devorants. Then, 
 after a pause, he added, ''How he loved her! — Go 
 on, postilion." 
 
THE LAST INCARNATION OF VAUTRIN. 
 SCENES FROM PARISIAN LIFE. 
 
THE 
 
 LAST INCARNATION OF YAUTRIN 
 
 I. 
 
 THE TWO GOWNS, LEGAL AND FEMININE. 
 
 *'What is the matter, Madeleine?" said Madame 
 Camusot, as her waiting-maid entered the room with 
 the air that servants are apt to assume at critical 
 moments. 
 
 '•Madame," replied Madeleine, "monsieur has just 
 returned from the Palais looking so upset, and in such 
 a state, that madame had better, perhaps, go and see 
 him in his stud}'." 
 
 " Did he sa}' anything?" asked Madame Camusot. 
 
 "No, madame; but none of us ever saw him look 
 as he does ; you 'd think he was beginning on some 
 illness ; he is yellow, his features seem all distorted, 
 and — " 
 
 Without waiting to hear more, Madame Camusot 
 darted from her dressing-room, and ran to find her 
 husband. She found thejuge cVinstruction [examin- 
 
186 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 ing judge] sitting in an arm-chair, his legs stretched 
 out before him, his head resting on the back of the 
 chair, his hands hanging, his face pale, his eyes dull, 
 precisely as though he were about to swoon. 
 
 " What is it, my dear friend ? " cried his young wife, 
 terrified. 
 
 "Ah ! my poor Amelie, such a fatal event has hap- 
 pened ! I tremble all over. Just fancy, the attorney- 
 general — no, Madame de Serizy — that is — I don't 
 know where to begin." 
 
 "Begin at the end," said Madame Camusot. 
 
 "Well, at the very moment when, in the Council 
 chamber of the Premiere, Monsieur Popinot had put 
 the last signature to the decree of non-lieu rendered 
 on my report, which would have set Lucien de Rubem- 
 pre at libert}^, — in fact, the matter was all finished, the 
 clerk was carrying away the record-book, and I was feel- 
 ing safe out of the whole affair, — at that moment the 
 chief-justice came in and saw the papers. ' You are 
 setting at liberty a dead man,' he said. ' Lucien de 
 Rubempre has gone, td use Monsieur de Bonald's ex- 
 pression, before his natural judge. He succumbed to 
 a rush of blood to the head, an apoplexy.' I breathed 
 again, believing in some accident. ' If I understand 
 you,' said Monsieur Popinot, ' you mean an apoplexy 
 of the Pichegru kind.' 'Messieurs,' said the justice, 
 ' remember, if you please, that to all the world Lucien 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 187 
 
 de Ruberapre died of the rupture of an aneurism.' We 
 looked at each other. ' Great personages are mixed 
 up in this deplorable affair. God grant for your sake, 
 Monsieur Camusot, that Madame de Serizy does not 
 go mad from the shock. They have taken her home 
 half-dead. I have just met the attorney-general, who 
 is in great distress. You 've got 3'ourself into a hot 
 place, Camusot,' lie whispered in m}' ear. My dear 
 Amelie, as I left the council chamber I could hardl}^ 
 walk. My legs trembled so that I dared not trust 
 myself in the streets, and I went back to my office 
 to rest awhile. Coquart, who was sorting the papers 
 of that wretched examination, told me that a hand- 
 some woman had taken the Conciergerie b}^ assault 
 trying to save Lucien, and that when she saw him 
 hanging by his cravat from a window in the Pistoles 
 she fainted away. The idea that the manner in which 
 I examined that young man — who, between ourselves, 
 was undoubtedly guilty — had caused his suicide has so 
 fastened upon me from the moment the news reached me 
 that I feel like fainting away mj'self at ever}' instant." 
 
 "Nonsense; are you going to imagine yourself a 
 murderer because an accused man kills himself when 
 3'ou were just about to set him at libert}^ ? " cried 
 Madame Camusot. "Why! an examining judge at 
 such times is like a general who has a horse killed 
 under him, that's all." 
 
188 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 '' Such comparisons, my clear, are only good as 
 jests, and jesting is out of place here. The dead kills 
 the living in this case. Lucien's coffin carries off our 
 hopes." 
 
 "Oh ! does it?" said Madame Camusot, sarcastically. 
 
 "Yes, my career is at an end. I shall remain all 
 m}^ life a mere judge of the courts of the Seine. Mon- 
 sieur de Granville was, even before this fatal event, 
 ver}' much dissatisfied with the course the examination 
 had taken ; and what our chief-justice said to me just 
 now proves to my mind that so long as Monsieur de 
 Granville remains attornej'-general, there will be no 
 advancement for me." 
 
 Advancement! that is the terrible word, the idea, 
 which in our day transforms the magistrate into a 
 functionar}'. 
 
 Formerly the magistrate was from the beginning that 
 which he was to continue to be. The three or four judge- 
 ships of the chamber sufficed for all ambitions in each 
 parliament. The office of Councillor satisfied a de Brosse 
 as it did a Mole, as well at Dijon as at Paris. This 
 office, a fortune in itself, required a great fortune to 
 maintain it. In Paris, outside of the Parliament, men 
 of the long robe could aspire to only three distinguished 
 positions : those of comptroller-general, keeper of the 
 seals, and chancellor. In a lower sphere, the assistant 
 judge of one of the inferior courts thought himself a 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 189 
 
 person sufficiently distinguished to be willing to stay 
 in that post all his life. Compare the position of a 
 councillor to the royal court of Paris, whose only for- 
 tune in 1829 was his salary, with that of a councillor 
 to the Parliament in 1729. Great is the difference! 
 In these days when money is made the universal social 
 guarantee, magistrates are released from the obligation 
 of possessing, as in former times, great fortunes ; the 
 consequence is that we see them deputies, peers of 
 France, adding office to office, becoming judges and 
 legislators, and borrowing importance from positions 
 other than those from which alone they ought to derive 
 their fame. 
 
 In short, magistrates think, in these da3's, of distin- 
 guishing themselves in order to obtain promotion, as 
 men are promoted in the arm}' or in diplomacy. 
 
 This thought, if it does not injure the independence 
 of the magistrate, is at least too well-known, and its 
 effects are too plainly seen, not to cause the magistracy 
 to lose its majest}" in public opinion. The salaries 
 paid by the State make government employes of the 
 priest and the magistrate. The grades to be attained 
 develop ambition, ambition begets compliance toward 
 power ; moreover, modern equality puts the judge and 
 the person arraigned on the same social level. Conse- 
 quently, the two great columns of support to the social 
 order — religion and the law — are depreciated in this 
 
190 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 nineteenth centuiy, in which we think we make such 
 progress in all things. 
 
 ''And pray, why shouldn't 3'ou be promoted?" said 
 Amelie Camusot. 
 
 She looked at her husband with a satirical air, for 
 she felt the necessity of giving energy to the man who 
 bore her ambition and on whom she was accustomed 
 to play like an instrument. 
 
 " Why despair?" she continued, with a gesture that 
 well depicted her indifference to the suicide of the pris- 
 oner. ''This death will please two of Lucien's ene- 
 mies, Madame d'Espard and her cousin, Madame du 
 Chatelet. Madame d'Espard is on the best of terms 
 with the Keeper of the Seals. You can obtain, through 
 her, an interview with his Excellenc}^ and tell him, 
 3'ourself, the secret of this affair. And then, if the 
 minister of Justice is on j-our side, why need 3"0u fear 
 your own chief-justice or the attornej'-general ? " 
 
 "But Monsieur and Madame de Seriz}^ !" cried the 
 poor judge, "Madame de Seriz}', I tell j'ou, has gone 
 mad, — and gone mad through my blunder, they sa3\" 
 
 "Well, if she is mad, oh, judge of no judgment," 
 said Madame Camusot, laughing, " she can't do 3'ou 
 an3' harm. Come, tell me all the events of the da3'." 
 
 "Ah!" replied Camusot, with a sigh, "just as I 
 had finished examining the 3'oung man, and had got 
 him to declare that the Spanish priest was really 
 
Tlie Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 191 
 
 Jacques Collin, the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse and 
 Madame de Seriz}' sent me, by a footman, a little note 
 in which the}' requested me not to examine him. But 
 it was all done." 
 
 '^ Have 3'ou lost your head?" said Amelie, "Sure 
 as 3'ou are of your clerk, 3'ou might have called back 
 Lucien, reassured him, and altered the examination." 
 
 "You are like Madame de Seriz}- ; that would be 
 a mockerv of justice," said Camusot, incapable of tri- 
 fling with his profession. " Madame de Seriz}' seized 
 the examination-papers, and threw them into the fire." 
 
 " Ah ! bravo ! there 's a woman indeed ! " cried Ma- 
 dame Camusot. 
 
 "Madame de Seriz}' told me she would blow up 
 the Palais rather than let a young man who had stood 
 well in her good graces and those of Madame de Mau- 
 frigneuse sit in the dock at the court of assizes beside 
 a galle3'-slave." 
 
 "But, Camusot," said Amelie, unable to repress a 
 smile of superiorit}-, "3'our position is superb." 
 
 " Ah ! superb indeed ! " 
 
 " You have done 3'our dut3\" 
 
 " Yes, but I've done it unluckily, and in spite of 
 the Jesuitical advice of Monsieur de Granville, who met 
 on the Quai Malaquais — " 
 
 "This morning? " 
 
 "Yes, this morning." 
 
192 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 "What hour?" 
 
 ''Nine o'clock.*' 
 
 " Oh ! Camusot ! " said Amelie, clasping her hands 
 and wringing them, "• how often have I told you to be 
 careful about everything. Good heavens ! it is not a 
 man, it is a load of stone I drag after me. But, Cam- 
 usot, don't you see that if your attorney-general inter- 
 cepted you, it was because he had something he wanted 
 of you?" 
 
 " Well, yes." 
 
 "And you didn't understand him! If you are so 
 deaf as that, you will certainly stay an examining judge 
 without examinations all the rest of your life. Have 
 the sense to listen to me," she said, making her hus- 
 band, who began to answer her, hold his tongue. "Do 
 you think the affair ended?" 
 
 Camusot looked at his wife as peasants look at a 
 juggler. 
 
 " If the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse and the Comtesse 
 de Serizy have compromised themselves in this way," 
 she continued, " you can have them both as your pro- 
 tectresses. Let us consider. Madame d'Espard will 
 'obtain for you an audience with the Keeper of the 
 Seals ; 3'ou will tell him the secrets of the affair, and 
 he will amuse the King with them ; all sovereigns like 
 to see the other side of the tapestry, and know the 
 real causes of the events the public gape at. From 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 193 
 
 that moment neither Monsieur cle Serizy nor the attor- 
 nev-s:eneral need be feared." 
 
 " What a treasure of a woman you are ! " cried the 
 judge, recovering a Utile courage, " After all, I have 
 ferreted out Jacques Collin ; 1 '11 send him to his de- 
 serts at the court of assizes ; I 'Jl unmask his crimes. 
 Such an affair is a triumph for an examining judge." 
 
 " Camusot," said Amelie, pleased to see her husband 
 recovering from the mental and pM'sical prostration 
 Lucien's suicide had caused him, " the chief-justice 
 told you a while ago that you were in a hot place, but 
 now you 're jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire. 
 My dear friend, you are blundering again." 
 
 The examining judge stood bolt upright looking at 
 his wife in a sort of stupefaction. 
 
 "The King and the Keeper of the Seals," she went 
 on, ''may like very well to know the secrets of the 
 affair, and at the same time be much displeased if 
 the liberals should la}' hold of the matter and drag 
 before the bar of public opinion and the court of as- 
 sizes, names of such importance as Serizy and Mau- 
 frigneuse and Grandlieu, — in short, all those who are 
 involved directly or indirectly in this affair." 
 
 "Ha! they are all in it! I hold them in the palm 
 of my hand ! " cried Camusot. He got up and stalked 
 a;bout his study, veiy much as Sganarelle does on the 
 stage when lie tries to get out of a scrape. 
 
 13 
 
194 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 *' Listen, Amelie," he continued, placing himself 
 directl}' in front of his wife. "A circumstance recurs 
 to my mind which seemed of slight importance at the 
 time, but, placed as I now am, it ma}' be of vital use 
 to me. Recollect, m}' dearest, that this Jacques Collin 
 is a colossus of shrewdness, dissimulation, and trickery ; 
 a man of profound — ah ! what shall I call him ? — he 's 
 the Cromwell of the galleys ! I never in ni}' life met 
 with such a knave ; he almost baffled me ! But in 
 criminal examinations a single thread which you hap- 
 pen to catch sight of will often give you the wiiole 
 ball by which to find youv wa}' through the laln'rinth 
 of the darkest consciences or the best-concealed facts. 
 When Jacques Collin saw me handling the letters seized 
 at Lucien's house, the rascal gave those papers the 
 glance of a man who wants to see if any other packet 
 is among them, and he made a motion of satisfaction. 
 That glance of a criminal looking for liis treasure, that 
 gesture which said ' I still hold my weapons,' made me 
 understand a world of things. There are none but 
 you women and prisoners and ourselves who can, in 
 a single look, express whole scenes which reveal a 
 complicated deception, like the key-words of a safe. 
 A volume of suspicions are conceived in a moment. 
 It is terrible ; it is life or death in a glance. ' That 
 fellow has other letters in his possession,' thought I. 
 Then the other points of the affair occupied mj' mind, 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vaiiti^in. 195 
 
 and I forgot the incident ; for I then expected to con- 
 front the two men, and clear up this matter later. But 
 we ma}' now consider it as certain that Jacques Coilin 
 has put in some safe place, as these wretches alwa3s 
 do, the most compromising letters of that handsome 
 3'outh adored by so — " 
 
 "And you tremble, Camusot ! Why, 3'ou will be 
 chief-justice of the Royal courts far sooner than I 
 thought ! " cried Madame Camusot, her face radi- 
 ant. "Let us consider; you must act in a wa}' to 
 satisf}' everybod}', for the affair is evidently so serious 
 that it ma}' be stolen from us. Did n't they take out of 
 Popinot's hands and give to 3'OU the proceedings in the 
 case of the injunction applied for b}' Madame d'Espard 
 against her husband? " she asked, in reply to a gesture 
 of amazement made by Camusot. " Well, the attornc}'- 
 general, who takes such a lively interest in the affairs 
 of Monsieur and Madame de Serizv, might carry the 
 affair before the Royal courts, and put it into the 
 hands of a counsellor with orders to make a fresh 
 examination." 
 
 " All ga ! my dear, where did you pick up such 
 knowledge of criminal law?" cried Camusot. "You 
 know all ; you are my master." 
 
 " Don't you know that to-morrow morning Monsieur 
 de Granville will be alarmed at the probable action of 
 some liberal lawyer whom Jacques Collin will have no 
 
196 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 
 
 difficult}' in securing? You may be sure those ladies 
 know their danger as well, or even better, than you. 
 They will inform the attornej'-general, wlio is already 
 anxious lest the names of these great families should be 
 involved with that of a galley-slave, through Lucien, 
 the betrothed of Mademoiselle de Grandlieu, the lover 
 of Esther, the friend of Madame de Maufrigneuse, and 
 the cherished darling of Madame de Serizy. You must 
 manoeuvre this matter in a way to conciliate the good- 
 will of the attorney-general, the gratitude of Monsieur 
 de Seriz}', that of Madame d'Espard, and the Comtesse 
 du Chatelet ; and at the same time you must strengthen 
 tlie protection Madame de Maufrigneuse alread}' gives 
 3'ou with that of the house of Grandlieu. As for me, 
 I '11 take charge of the Espard, Maufrigneuse, and 
 Grandlieu part of the business. You must go to- 
 morrow morning earl}' to the attorne3'-general. Mon- 
 sieur de Granville is a man who, they tell me, does n't 
 live with his wife, he has a mistress ; he is no saint, 
 but a man like all the rest ; he can be persuaded and 
 seduced if 3'Ou find his weak spot. Ask him for ad- 
 vice ; show him the danger of the affair. In short, try 
 to compromise yourselves in compan}', and 3'OU will — " 
 " I kiss your ver3' footsteps ! " cried Camusot, 
 interrupting his wife to catch her round the vraist and 
 press her to his heart. " Amelie, you have saved 
 me ! " 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 197 
 
 " It was I who towed you from Alenyon to Mantes, 
 and from Mantes to the courts of the Seine," rephed 
 Amelie. '^ AVell, don't be uneasy; I mean to be the 
 wife of the ehief-justice in five 3ears fj-om now — only, 
 my Uttle man, tliink, and think long before 30U come to 
 decisions. The business of a judge is not that of a 
 fireman ; the flames are not in your papers. You have 
 time enough to reflect ; therefore, in such a position as 
 30urs, blunders are inexcusable." 
 
 •" The strength of my present position lies wholly in 
 the identity of the Spanish priest with Jacques Collin," 
 said the judge, after a long pause. "• When once that 
 identity is full}' established, even though the Royal 
 court might take cognizance of the case, it will remain 
 an actual fact, the credit of which no one can take 
 away from me. I 'm like the children who tie a rattle 
 to the cat's tail ; no matter where the case is tried, 
 Jacques Collin's chains will always clank." 
 
 '' Bravo ! " said Amelie. 
 
 '^ Besides, the attorney-general would rather come to 
 an understanding with me who can alone lift this sword 
 of Damocles from those heads of the faubourg Saint- 
 Germain than with any other. But 30U don't know 
 how difficult it will be to bring about that result. Just 
 now the attorney-general, sitting in his office, agreed to 
 take Jacques Collin for what he claims to be, — a canon 
 of the Chapter of Toledo, Don Carlos Herrera ; w'e de- 
 
198 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 tcrmined to admit his status as a diplomatic envo}', and 
 to allow the Spanish embassy to have him. It was in 
 consequence of this agreement that I released Lucien 
 de Rubempre. To-morrow Messieurs de Rastignac 
 and Bianchon were to be confronted with the so-called 
 priest ; but they would not have recognized Jacques 
 Collin, whose last arrest took place in their presence 
 ten 3'ears ago, in a common boarding-house, where he 
 went by the name of Vautrin." 
 
 Silence reigned for a few moments while Madame 
 Camusot reflected. 
 
 "Are you sure that he is Jacques Collin?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Quite sure," replied the judge, "and so is the 
 attorne^^-general." 
 
 " Well, then, tr}^, without showing the claws under 
 your fur, to filch a credit from the Palais de Justice. 
 If your convict is still in solitary confinement, go im- 
 mediatel}^ to the director of the Conciergerie, and have 
 him publicly identified. Instead of imitating children, 
 imitate the ministers of police in despotic countries, 
 who invent conspiracies against their sovereign to gain 
 the credit of defeating them, and so make themselves 
 necessary. Put the three families in danger, in order 
 to have the glory of saving them." 
 
 " Ah, what luck ! " cried Camusot; " my head was 
 so troubled and worried that I forgot that circumstance. 
 
Tlie Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 199 
 
 The order to put Jacques Collin in the Pistoles was 
 taken b}' Coquart to Monsieur Gault, the director of 
 the Conciergerie. Now, Bibi-Lupin, Jacques Collin's 
 greatest enemy, has transferred three criminals, who 
 know him well, from La Force to the Conciergerie. 
 When he comes down to-morrow into the jireau^ the 
 yard where the prisoners take their exercise, a terrible 
 scene is expected to take place." 
 
 *' Why terrible?" 
 
 *' Jacques Collin, m\' dear, is the trusted depositary 
 of the fortunes of the convicts at the galleys, which 
 amount to a considerable sum of money. He has, the}^ 
 suspect, wasted them upon Lucien, and these three 
 men will call him to account for it. Bibi-Lupin tells 
 me there will be an assault upon him which will require 
 the interference of the jailers, and the truth will be 
 discovered. Jacques Collin's life will be in danger. 
 By going to the Palais very early, I shall be able to 
 draw up the report of his identity before it- is general I3' 
 known." 
 
 "Ah! if his comrades relieve you of him, you will 
 be thought a most capable man ! Don't go to see 
 Monsieur de Granville ; let him come to you. Await 
 him with that formidable weapon in your hand. It is 
 a cannon pointed at the three most distinguished fami- 
 lies of the court and peerage. Be bold ; propose to 
 Monsieur de Granville to rid 3'ou of Jacques Collin by 
 
200 The Last Iiicarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 transferring him to La Force. I will go myself to the 
 Ducbesse de MaiifrigoeLise and get her to take me to 
 the Grandlieus. Perhaps I shall also see Monsieur de 
 Serizy. Trust to me to ring the alarm all round. 
 Write me a line to let me know the moment the Span- 
 ish priest is recognized to be Jacques Collin. Arrange 
 your affairs so that you can leave the Palais at any 
 moment, for I shall get an appointment for you with 
 the Keeper of the Seals. Perhaps he may be at Madame 
 d'Espard's." 
 
 Camusot stood, planted on his legs, in an attitude of 
 admiration which made his clever Amelie smile. 
 
 " Come, let's go to dinner and be gay! " she said. 
 '' See ! we have been only two years in Paris, and here 
 you are on the high-road to be a councillor in a few 
 months. Thence, my dear, to the chief-justiceship 
 there is but the distance of some service rendered in 
 a political matter." 
 
 This private conference shows to what a point the 
 actions and words of Jacques Collin affected the honor 
 of families in the midst of whom he had placed and 
 maintained his deceased protege. 
 
The Last 1 near tiat ion of Vautrin. 201 
 
 11. 
 
 THE MAN IN SOLITARY CONFINEMENT, AND IN THE 
 SOLITUDE OF HIS SOUL. 
 
 Lucien's death and the invasion of the Concier2;erie 
 b}' Madame de Seiizy had produced such disturbance to 
 the running-gear of that machine that the director had 
 forgotten to release the Spanish priest from the secret 
 cells and place him in tha pistoles. 
 
 Though there is more than one instance in judiciary" 
 annals of the death of an accused person during the 
 preliminary examination of a case, it is sufficiently rare 
 to force the warders, clerks, and the director himself, 
 out of the usual calmness with which \\\Qy perform 
 their duties. And yet, to their minds, the great event 
 was not that a fine young man was suddenl}' a corpse, 
 but that a wrought-iron bar at their gatewaj' had been 
 broken by the delicate hands of a fashionable woman. 
 No sooner, therefore, had the attorn e3'-general, Comte 
 Octave de Bauvan, and the Comte de Seriz}', carried off 
 the fainting countess in the latter's carriage, than the 
 director and all his assistants, together with Monsieur 
 Lebrun, the prison doctor (called to certify the young 
 man's death, in company with the ''death doctor" of 
 
202 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 the arrondissement in which Lncieii lived), collected 
 about the iron gate to examine it. 
 
 We ma}' mention here that in Paris the " death 
 doctor " is a physician whose business it is in each 
 arrondissement to verify all deaths, and examine into 
 their causes. 
 
 With the rapidity of judgment which distinguished 
 him. Monsieur de Granville had seen that it was neces- 
 sary', for the honor of the three families concerned, that 
 Lucien's death should be certified to in the arrondisse- 
 ment of the Quai Malaquais, where he had lived ; and 
 that the funeral procession should proceed from his 
 own house to the parish church, Saint-Germain des 
 Pres, where the services were to be held. Monsieur de 
 Chargebceuf, Monsieur de Granville's secretar}-, sent by 
 him, had orders to that effect. The removal of Lucien's 
 bod}' from the prison to his late home was to take place 
 during the night. To all the world, therefore, Lucien 
 would seem to have died in his own house, where his 
 friends were invited to assemble to attend his funeral. 
 
 Therefore, at the moment when Camusot, with a 
 mind relieved, was sitting down to table with his 
 ambitious better-half, the director of the Conciergerie, 
 the prison doctor, and the death doctor were standing 
 outside the iron railing, deploring the fragilit}' of iron 
 bars and discussing the extraordinary strength of ner- 
 vous women. 
 
Tlic Last TncarncUion of Vantrin. 203 
 
 " No one knows," said the prison doctor to Mon- 
 sieur Gault, tlie director, " what amazing nervous force 
 there is in persons violently excited by passion. Matli- 
 eniatics and dynamics are without signs or calculations 
 by which to estimate that force. Only 3esterda3' I 
 was witness of a magnetic experiment which made me 
 shudder, and which explains to a certain extent the 
 extraordinarv' physical power displayed b}' that little 
 woman." 
 
 "Tell me about it," said Monsieur Gault, "for I 
 have the weakness to be much interested in magnet- 
 ism without believing in it; I must sa}' it puzzles me." 
 
 ** A magnetizing physician, for we have men in the 
 facult}' who believe in magnetism," continued Monsieur 
 Lebrun, "proposed to experiment on me a phenome- 
 non which he described and w4iich I doubted. Curious 
 to see in m}' own person one of those strange nervous 
 crises, b}' which they prove the existence of magnet- 
 ism, I consented. This is what happened, — and I 
 should like to know what the Academy of Medicine 
 would sa3', if each member, one after the other, sub- 
 mitted his limbs to an influence which left no possible 
 chance for incredulity. My old friend — But I should 
 tell 5'ou," said Doctor Lebrun, beginning a parenthesis, 
 " that this doctor is an old man, persecuted b}' the 
 Facult}' for his opinions, which are those of Mesmer. 
 He is over seventy years of age, and his name is Bou- 
 
204 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 varcl. He may be called the patriarch of the doctrine 
 of animal magnetism. I am like a son to the old man, 
 and I owe ni}' profession to him. So, then, this worthy 
 Bouvai'd proposed to prove to me that the nervous 
 force called into action by a magnetizer is not infinite, 
 for man is ruled by definite laws, but that it proceeds 
 from forces of nature whose essential principles escape 
 calculation. 'If,' he said to me, 'you are willing to 
 put your hand into the grasp of a somnambulist who 
 in her waking state has not the strength to squeeze 
 beyond a certain appreciable force, 3^ou will find that in 
 the condition foolishly' called somnambulic, her fingers 
 have the facult}^ of acting like the nippers of a lock- 
 smith.' Well, monsieur, when I did give my wrist into 
 the grasp of a woman, not asleej), — Bouvard objects 
 to that expression, — but isolated^ and wiien the old 
 man told her to press my wrist with all her force, I 
 was compelled to beg her to release me, for the blood 
 was beginning to burst from my fingers' ends. Here, 
 look at the bracelet I shall wear for the next three 
 months." 
 
 "The deuce!" cried Monsieur Gault, looking at a 
 circular discoloration ver}' much like that produced b}' 
 a burn. 
 
 "My dear Gault," said the doctor, "if I had had 
 m}' flesh held in an iron band which was tightened b\' 
 the vise of a locksmith, I could not have felt that 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 205 
 
 metal circle more severeh' than I did the fingers of that 
 woman. Her grasj) was that of steel, and I am con- 
 vinced she could iiave crushed the bones and have sep- 
 arated the hand from the wrist. This pressure began 
 in an almost imperceptible manner, continued without 
 relaxing to gather force, until at last a tourniquet could 
 have had no closer grip than the woman's hand thus 
 changed into an instrument of torture. It seems to 
 me to prove that, under the empire of passion, which 
 is will concentrated on one point and attaining to in- 
 calculable volumes of animal strength (as do all tlie 
 various species of electrical powers), it proves, I sa}', 
 that man can bring his whole vitality, either for attack 
 or for resistance, into any given organ. That little 
 woman had, under the pressure of despair, put her 
 whole vital strength into her wrists." 
 
 " It takes a devilish deal to break an iron bar,'' said 
 the head jailer, shaking his head. 
 
 "There must have been a straw in it," remarked 
 Monsieur Gault. 
 
 '•As for me," said the doctor, " I no longer venture 
 to assign limits to nervous force. It is that b}' which 
 mothers to save their cliildren magnetize lions, or go 
 through flames, or walk on ridge-poles where cats can 
 hardl}' crawl, and bear the tortures of a difficult child- 
 birth. In it is the secret of attempts made b}' pris- 
 oners and convicts to rcixaiu their libertv. I tell vou 
 
206 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 no one yet knows the ultimate reach of the vital forces ; 
 they share tlie power of Nature herself, and we draw 
 from them as from hidden reservoirs." 
 
 " Monsieur," said a warder, whispering in the direc- 
 tor's ear, as he was about to accompan}' the doctor to 
 the outer gate of the Conciergerie, " Number Two, in 
 the solitaries, says lie is ill, and wants the doctor. He 
 pretends he is dying," added the man. 
 
 " Is it true? " asked the director. 
 
 " Well, his throat rattles." 
 
 "It is five o'clock, and I've not dined," said the 
 doctor. " However, here I am on the spot; come, let 
 us go to him." 
 
 " Number Two, in the solitaries, is tiiat very Spanisli 
 priest suspected of being Jacques Collin," said the 
 director to the doctor. " He is one of the accused 
 persons in the affair in which that poor 3'oung man 
 was implicated." 
 
 "I saw liim this morning," said the doctor. " Mon- 
 sieur Camusot sent for me to examine the physical 
 condition of the fellow, who, between ourselves, is per- 
 fectl}' well, and might make his fortune as a Hercules 
 among a troop of acrobats." 
 
 "He may be trying to kill himself," said Monsieur 
 Gault. " Como, let us both go to the sohtaries ; in 
 fact, I ought to go and transfer the man to the pistoles. 
 Monsieur Camusot lias released this sin2;ular nonde- 
 script from close confinement." 
 
Tfie Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 207 
 
 Jacques Collin, nicknamed Trompe-la-Mort in the 
 world of the galleys, and to whom we shall henceforth 
 give no other name than his own, had been, from the 
 moment of his re-incarceration by Camusot's order, in 
 the grasp of an anxiety he had never before known in 
 the course of a life marked b}' man}' crimes, by three 
 escapes from the galleys, and two sentences in the 
 court of assizes. This man, in whom the life, force, 
 mind, and passions of the galle3's are summed up, who 
 presents the ver}' highest expression of that under- 
 world, was yet astonishingh' fine in his attachment, 
 worth}' of the canine race, to the being he had made his 
 friend. Infamous, horrible, and deserving of condem- 
 nation on all sides, this absolute devotion to his idol 
 does render him so truly interesting that our stud}' of his 
 past career would be unfinished, incomplete, if the de- 
 nouement of this criminal existence did not follow that 
 of Lucien de Rubempre. The little spaniel dead, we 
 cannot but ask ourselves what became of his terrible 
 companion, the lion. 
 
 In real life, as in social life, facts are so fatally inter- 
 locked with other facts that none can be taken and the 
 others left. The water of a river forms a species of 
 liquid floor ; there is no flood, however raging it may 
 be, to whatever height it may rise, whose foaming 
 crests w^ill not sink beneath the volume of the water, 
 which is stronger in the rapidity of its course than the 
 
208 The Last Incarnation of Vaiitrin. 
 
 rebellious whirlpools which it meets and sweeps away. 
 Perhaps it is desirable to consider the pressure of the 
 Social power on that whirlpool called Vautrin, to note 
 the spot at which the rebel vortex sank, and learn 
 the end of a man who was trul}^ diabolical, and yet was 
 fastened to humanity by love, — so hard is it for that 
 sacred principle to perish, even in a gangrened heart. 
 
 The ignoble convict, in materializing the poetic idea 
 wooed b}^ so many poets, by Moore, B3'ron, Mathurin, 
 Canalis (that of a demon possessing an angel drawn to 
 hell to refresh him with the dews of paradise), — Jacques 
 Collin, if we have really penetrated that heart of iron, 
 had renounced self for seven years past. His powerful 
 faculties, absorbed in Lucien, were exercised for Lucien 
 only ; he lived in his progress, his loves, his ambition. 
 For him, Lucien was his visible soul. 
 
 Trompe-la-Mort dined at the Grandlieus, glided into 
 the boudoir of great ladies, loved Esther, vicariously. 
 He saw in Lucien a Jacques Collin, young, beautiful, 
 noble, attaining to the rank of an ambassador. 
 
 Trompe-la-Mort had realized the German supersti- 
 tion of the Double through a phenomenon of mental 
 paternit}' which will be understood by those w^omen 
 who in the course of their lives having loved truly 
 have felt their soul passing into tlie soul of the man 
 they loved ; who have lived of his life, noble or infa- 
 mous, happ3' or unhapp}', obscure or famous ; who 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 209 
 
 have felt, in spite of distance, a pain in their leg if his 
 was wounded ; and who, to sum all up, have no need 
 to hear that he has proved unfaithful in order to 
 know it. 
 
 When returned to his solitary- cell, Jacques Collin's 
 thought was : — 
 
 " They are questioning the young one ! " 
 
 He shuddered, — he who could strike as another man 
 drinks. 
 
 *' Has he seen those women? Will the}- warn him? 
 Has my aunt been able to find those damned females? 
 Those duchesses, those countesses, have they taken 
 proper steps? Have the}' stopped the examination? 
 Has Lucien received my letter? If fate wills that he 
 be examined, how will he carry himselj f Ah, poor 
 boy ! it is I who have brought him to this ! That brig- 
 and of a Paccard, and that sneak Europe, got us into 
 this mess bv filching the seven hundred and fifty 
 thousand francs which Nucingen gave Esther. Those 
 villains knocked us over at the ver}' last step ; but 
 the}" '11 pa}' dear for it ! One day more, and Lucien 
 was rich, and married to Clotilde de Grandlieu. Esther 
 was no longei' in my way. Lucien loved that girl too 
 well, and there 's no loving a sheet-anchor like Clotilde. 
 Ah ! the young one would then have been all mine. 
 And now, only to think that our fate depends on a 
 look, on a tinge of color in Lucien's face before that 
 
 U 
 
210 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 Camusot, who sees all, and, fool as he is, has tlie sl^'- 
 ness of a judge. I saw the look he gave me when I 
 glanced at those letters ; he detected that I could 
 expose those women if I chose." 
 
 And so the monologue went on for three hours. The 
 agony was so great that it got the better of that crea- 
 ture of iron and vitriol. Jacques Collin, whose brain 
 was fired almost to madness, felt such devouring thirst 
 that he drank, without observing that he did so, all the 
 water contained in two buckets, which, with a wooden 
 bedstead, form the whole furniture of a solitarj'-cell. 
 
 "If he loses his head, what will become of him? 
 For the poor bo}^ has n't the force of a Theodore ! " he 
 thought, as he flung himself on the camp bedstead, 
 which was like that of a guard-room. 
 
 One word here about this Theodore whom Jacques 
 Collin remembered in this crucial moment. Theodore 
 Calvi, a young Corsican, condemned to the galle3's for 
 life, for eleven murders before he was eighteen 3'ears 
 of age, thanks to certain influence purchased with gold, 
 had been Jacques Collin's chain companion in 1819 
 and 1820. The last escape of Jacques Collin, one of 
 his ablest performances (he left the gallej^s dressed as 
 a gendarme conducting Theodore Calvi as a prisoner 
 before the commissary), had taken place at Rochefort 
 where the convicts die in shoals, and where the author- 
 ities hoped these two dangerous characters would soon 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 211 
 
 end their daN's. Escaping together, the}' were forced 
 to separate immediatel}'. Theodore, recaptured, was 
 returned to the gallejs. Jacques Collin, after reach- 
 ing Spain and transforming himself into Carlos Herrera, 
 was on his way back to Paris, when he met Lucien on 
 the banks of the Charente. 
 
 Life with Lucien, a 3'outh free of all criminality, 
 who had only peccadilloes on his conscience, rose to 
 the mind of the escaping convict like the sun of a sum- 
 mer's da}' ; whereas, with Theodore, Jacques Collin 
 could see no other ending but the scaffold, after a 
 series of inevitable crimes. 
 
 The idea of some misfortune caused b}^ Lucien's 
 weakness, who was likel}' to lose his head under the 
 trial of solitary confinement, took enormous propor- 
 tions in Jacques Collin's brain. Dwelling on the pos- 
 sibilit}' of a catastrophe, his eyes filled witli tears, — a 
 phenomenon, which since his infanc}' had never been 
 genuinel}' produced in him. 
 
 " I 've a horse-fever on me," he said to himself, " and 
 perhaps, if I get the doctor here and offer him a round 
 sum, lie will help me to communicate with Lucien." 
 
 Just then the jailer brought in his dinner. 
 
 "It is useless, my lad," he said ; "I can't eat. Tell 
 the director of this prison to send me the doctor ; I 
 feel so ill that I think my last hour has come." 
 
 Hearing the guttural sounds of a rattle, with which 
 
212 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 the convict accompanied these words, the jailer nodded 
 liis head and went awa}'. Jacques Collin fastened 
 madly upon this hope ; but when he saw the doctor 
 enter his cell accompanied hy the director, he felt that 
 his scheme had miscarried, and coldl}' awaited the re- 
 sult of the visit, holding out his pulse to the doctor. 
 
 " Monsieur has a fever," said the doctor, to Monsieur 
 Gault, " but it is the fever we find in nearly all accused 
 persons, and wdiich," he whispered in the ear of the 
 false priest, "is to me the sign of some guilt." 
 
 At this moment the director, to whom the attorne}''- 
 general had given the letter written b}' Lucien to 
 Jacques Collin for transmission to the latter, left the 
 cell to get it, leaving the doctor with the prisoner, in 
 charge of the jailer. 
 
 " Monsieur," said Jacques Collin to the doctor, see- 
 ing the jailer outside the door, and being unable to 
 explain to himself the departure of the director, " I 
 should n't consider a matter of thirty thousand francs, 
 if I could be enabled to send five lines to Lucien de 
 Rubempre." 
 
 " I will not steal 3'our money," replied the doctor, 
 "No one on earth can communicate with that young 
 man." 
 
 "No one? " said Jacques Collin, bewildered. "Why 
 not?" 
 
 " Because he has hanged himself." 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 213 
 
 Never tigress robbed of her cubs made the jungle 
 of India resound with a more awful cry than that which 
 burst from Jacques ColUn. He rose to his feet as the 
 tigress on her paws, and cast a flaming look upon the 
 doctor like the lightning when it strikes, then sud- 
 denly he dropped back upon the camp-bed, saying, 
 "Oh! my son! " 
 
 " Poor man! " exclaimed the doctor, moved b3' this 
 terrible struggle of nature. 
 
 In truth, that explosion was followed by such com- 
 plete prostration that the words " Oh ! my son ! " were 
 like a murmur. 
 
 "Is he, too, going to shp through our fingers?" 
 asked the jailer. 
 
 "It is not possible," said Jacques Collin, raising 
 himself and looking at the two witnesses of tliis scene 
 with an eye without flame or warmth. " You are mis- 
 taken, it was not he. You saw wrong. A man can- 
 not hang himself in sohtary confinement. Look ! could 
 I hang myself here? All Paris shall answer to me for 
 that life? God owes it to me ! " 
 
 The jailer and the doctor were bewildered in their 
 turn, — the}', whom nothing for many a 3-ear had been 
 able to surprise. Monsieur Gault came in, holding 
 Lucien's letter in his hand. On seeing the director, 
 Jacques Collin, exhausted by tiie violence of that ex- 
 plosion of grief, seemed to calm himself. 
 
214 Tlhc Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 " Here is a letter which the attorney-general charged 
 me to give 3'ou ; he allows 3'ou to receive it unopened," 
 said Monsieur Gault. 
 
 '' Is it from Lucien? asked Jacques Collin. 
 
 " Yes, monsieur." 
 
 " That proves that this 3'oung man — " 
 
 "Is dead," said the director. "Even if the phj'si- 
 cian had been on the spot he could not have saved 
 bim. The young man is dead, there, — in one of the 
 pistoles.^' 
 
 " May I see him with my own e^-es? " asked Jacques 
 Collin, timidly. "Will you give a father freedom to 
 mourn his son? " 
 
 " Yes ; you ma}', if you like, take his room. I have 
 orders to transfer you to one of the ^nstoles; you are 
 no longer in solitary confinement, monsieur." 
 
 The prisoner's eyes, devoid of warmth and life, 
 moved slowly from the director to the doctor. Jacques 
 Collin questioned them ; he seemed to fear some trap, 
 and liesitated to leave the cell. 
 
 " If you wish to see the body," said the doctor, 
 " you have no time to lose. It is to be removed to- 
 night." 
 
 " If 3'ou have children, messieurs," said Jacques 
 Collin, " 3'ou will comprehend m}^ imbecility. I can 
 hardh' see. The blow is to me far more than death ; 
 but 3'ou cannot knovv what I mean. You are not fath- 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vantrin, 215 
 
 ers, or if you are, onl}' in one waj' ; I am a motlierj 
 too. I, I am mad, — I feel it." 
 
 B3' following passages the inflexible doors of which 
 open only for the director, it is possible to go in a very 
 short time from the solitary-ceils to the x^^^toles. Tiie 
 two lines of cells are separated b}' a subterranean cor- 
 ridor, formed b}- two thick walls which support the 
 arches on which the galler}' of the Palais de Justice, 
 called the Galerie Marchande, rests. So that Jacques 
 Collin, accompanied by the jailer, who took him b}' the 
 arm, preceded by the director and followed b}- the doc- 
 tor, was onh' a few moments in reaching the cell where 
 Luclen la}'. They had placed him on a bed. 
 
 At the sight, the convict fell upon the bod}', clinging 
 to it with a grip of despair, the strength and pas- 
 sionate movement of which made the three spectators 
 shudder. 
 
 " There," said the doctor, in a low voice to the 
 director, " is an example of what I was sa3'ing to j'ou. 
 See ! the man will crush that bod}^ and you know what 
 a dead body is ; it is stone." 
 
 " Leave me here," said Jacques Collin, in a voice 
 that was almost extinct. " I haA'e not long to see him ; 
 the}' will take him from me to — " 
 
 He stopped, unable to say " bury." 
 
 " You will let me keep something of my dear child? 
 Have the kindness, monsieur," he said to the doctor, 
 
216 The Last Incarnation of Vaiitrin. 
 
 " to cut me, yourself, a few locks of his hair, for I 
 cannot." 
 
 " Surely that must be his son," said the doctor. 
 
 " I doubt it," said the director, with a thoughtful air 
 which threw the doctor into a revery. 
 
 The director told the jailer to leave the prisoner 
 alone in the cell, and to cut off some locks of liair 
 from the young man's head before the body was 
 removed. 
 
 At half-[)ast five o'clock in the month of May it is 
 easy to read a letter in the Conciergerie, even behind 
 the bars and iron network which darken the windows. 
 There, Jacques Collin, holding Lucien's hand, read that 
 terrible letter. 
 
 No man has been found who could hold a piece of 
 ice in his hand, grasping it in his palm, for ten min- 
 utes. Its cold would affect the sources of life with 
 deadly rapidity. But the effect of such terrible cold, 
 acting like a poison, is scarcely comparable to that 
 produced upon tlie soul by the stiff and ic}^ hand of 
 a corpse held in the same wa}'. Death speaks then 
 to Life ; it tells black secrets, which kill many 
 feelings. And to change our feelings, is not that to 
 die? 
 
 As we re-read, with Jacques Collin, Lucien's letter, 
 it will be seen what it was to this man, — a cup of 
 poison : — 
 
The Last Incarnation of VaiUrin. 217 
 
 To the Ahbe Carlos Ilerrera : 
 
 My dear Abbi^, — I have received nothing but bene- 
 fits from you and I have betrayed you. This involuntary 
 ingratitude kills me, and when you read these lines I shall 
 no longer exist, — you are no longer here to save me. 
 
 You gave me full right, in case I found an advantage 
 in it, to sacrifice you, and throw you away like the end of 
 a cigar; but I have sacrificed you foolishly. To get my- 
 self out of difficulty, misled by the captious questioning 
 of the examining judge, I, your spiritual son, whom you 
 adopted, went over to the side of those wlio wish at any 
 cost to destroy you by discovering an identity (which I 
 know to be impossible) between you and a French criminal. 
 All is over. 
 
 Between a man of your power and me, of whom you have 
 tried to make a greater person than I could be, there should 
 be no silly sentiment at the moment of our final parting. 
 You have wished to make me powerful and famous ; you 
 have flung me into the gulf of suicide — that is all. I have 
 long seen its vertigo approaching me. 
 
 There is, as you once said, a j)osterity of Cain, and one of 
 Abel. Cain, in the grand drama of humanity, is Opposi- 
 tion. You are descended from Adam by that line, into which 
 the devil has continued to blow his flame, the first sparks 
 of which were cast on Eve. Among the demons of this 
 descent some appear, from time to time, of terrible vigor, 
 of vast organization, combining all human forces, and re- 
 sembling those rampant animals of the desert whose life 
 requires the great spaces in which they are found. These 
 men are dangerous to society, as lions would be dangerous 
 in Normandy : they must have food ; they devour common 
 men, and suck the gold of fools ; even tlieir games are so 
 
218 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 perilous that they end by killing the poor dog of whom 
 they make a companion, an idol. When God wills It, these 
 mysterious beings are named Moses, Attila, Charlemagne, 
 Robespierre, Napoleon ; but when he lets a generation of 
 these gigantic instruments rust in the depths of ocean they 
 are nothing more than Pugatcheff, Fouche, Louvel, and 
 Carlos Herrera. Gifted with a mighty power over tender 
 souls, they attract and knead them. 'T is grand, 't is fine 
 in its way; 'tis the poisonous plant with glowing colors 
 that entices children in a wood ; 't is the poesy of Evil. 
 Men like you should live in lairs and never leave them. 
 You made me live within the circle of this stupendous life, 
 and I have had my fill of existence. Therefore I withdraw 
 my head from the Gordian knot of your policy to fasten it 
 in the running noose of my cravat. 
 
 To repair my fault, I transmit to the attorney-general a 
 formal retractation of my testimony. You will see to its 
 being of service to you. 
 
 In pursuance of my will you will receive. Monsieur I'abbe, 
 the sums belonging to your Order which you spent, most 
 imprudently, on me, in consequence of the paternal affection 
 you have always shown me. 
 
 Farewell, then, farewell, grandiose statue of Evil and cor- 
 ruption ; farewell, you, who in the j)ath of Good would have 
 been greater than Ximenes, greater than Richelieu. You 
 have kept your promises ; I find myself once more on the 
 banks of the Charente, after owing to you the enchantments 
 of a dream ; but, unfo\'tunately, it is not the river of mine 
 own country in which I was about to drown the peccadilloes 
 of my youth, — it is the Seine, and my pool is a cell in the 
 Conciergerie. 
 
 Do not regret me. My contempt for you is equal to my 
 admiration. Lucien. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 219 
 
 At one o'clock in the morning, when they came to 
 remove the body, Jacques Collin was found kneeling 
 beside Lucien's bed, the letter on the floor beside him, 
 dropped, no doubt, as the suicide drops the pistol 
 which has killed him ; but the miserable man was still 
 holding the stiffened hand of him he had loved so well ; 
 he held it pressed between his own clasped hands, and 
 was praying God. 
 
 When they saw him thus, the jailers stopped for an 
 instant ; he i-esembled one of those stone figures kneel- 
 ing for eternit}' on the tombs of the middle ages. The 
 man, with eyes as clear as those of tigers, and rigid 
 with an awful immobilit}', so impressed the minds of 
 those men that the}' asked him gentl}- to rise. 
 
 " Why?" he said, timidly. The audacious Trompe- 
 la-Mort had become as humble as a little child. 
 
 The director showed this sight to Monsieur de Charge- 
 boeuf, who, filled with respect for such a sorrow, ex- 
 plained to the prisoner Monsieur de Granville's orders 
 relating to the funeral services and the interment, adding 
 that it was essential to transfer the body to Lucien's 
 home on the Quai Malaquais, where the clergy were 
 then assembled to watch it for the rest of the night. 
 
 " I recognize his great soul in that," said the con- 
 vict, in a sad voice. "Tell him, monsieur, that he 
 may count upon my gratitude. Yes, I am able to ren- 
 der him oreat services. Do not forget those words ; 
 
220 The Last Incarnation of VoMtrin. 
 
 they are, to him, of imich importance. Ah! monsieur, 
 there come strange changes in the lioart of a man when 
 he lias wept for seven hours over a child hi\e that. 
 I shall never see him again ! " 
 
 Looking once more at Lucien with the e3'es of a 
 mother from whom the}' are rending her son, Jacques 
 Collin sank back upon himself. As he watched them 
 take the bod}-, so dreadful a moan escaped his breast 
 that the porters hastened to be gone. 
 
 The secretary of the attorne3-general and tiie director 
 of the prison had already withdrawn from the painful 
 sight. 
 
 What had become of that iron nature in which de- 
 cision and resolution equalled the glance of those eyes 
 in rapidit}' ; in whom thought and action sprang forth 
 with a single flash ; whose nerves, inured by three 
 escapes, three periods at the galleys, had attained to 
 the metallic strength of the nerves of savages? Iron 
 yields to reiterated striking, or to a certain continu- 
 ance of pressure ; its impenetrable molecules, purified 
 bj' man and made homogeneous, segregate, and, with- 
 out being in fusion, the metal has not the same power 
 of resistance. Blacksmiths, locksmiths, tool-makers, 
 all men who work constantly in this metal, express that 
 condition by a technical word. " The iron is retted," 
 the}' sa}', appropriating a term which belongs properl}' 
 to flax or hemp, the fibre of which is disintegrated by 
 
Ik^ LsM Imariimtiism &f lis '..:'"'. "/. -21 
 
 rettiiiig. Well, the hamsm soal, or, if joa dioose to 
 say sos tb« triple energy of body, he^aurt, and mincl^ is 
 fmtnd in at cooditioa anaJogons to tbat of iron as iJhe 
 result of repeated sbodks. It is tben ^ilJb men as it is 
 witBi flax or iron: they arte ** retted.** Seienee, the 
 law, and the pnlilie, attribate a huiMlr«d eaoses tx> some 
 terrible catastrophe on a railway by the rapture of an 
 iron bar, as in that terrible e3:amp]le at Bellevne ; bul 
 no one pays attention to the trae experts in this mat- 
 ter^ the smiths, who all employ the same expression, 
 ""^ The iron was retted." This danger cannot be fore- 
 seen. The metal lodks the same, be it disintegrating, 
 or be it resistant. 
 
 It is in this state that confessors and examining 
 judges often find great criminals. The terrible emo- 
 tions caused by the court of arizes and by the ^'^ toi- 
 lette '^ almc^t always bring even the strongest natures 
 to what may be called a dislocation of the nervous sys- 
 tem. Confessions escape the lips till then most firmly 
 closed ; the stoutest hearts give way, and this — 
 strange fact! — at the moment when confession be- 
 comes useless,, when this sudden weakness merely tears 
 from the guilty man the mask of innocence by which 
 he disturbs the mind of justice, for that is always uneasy 
 when the condemned man dies without confession. 
 
 ^sipoleon experienced this dissolution of all human 
 forces at Waterioo. 
 
222 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE PREAU OF THE CONCIERGERIE, WITH AN ESSAY PHIL- 
 OSOPHIC, LINGUISTIC, AND LITERARY, ON THIEVES* 
 LATIN AND THIEVES. 
 
 At eight in the morning, when the warder of the 
 pistoles entei'ed the room where Jacques Collin was 
 now confined, he found him pale and calm, like a 
 man who had recovered strength through some violent 
 determination. 
 
 " This is the hour for exercise," said the jailer. 
 " You have been shut up for three days ; if 3'ou would 
 like to get some air, and walk in the preau^ you can 
 do so." 
 
 Jacques Collin, absorbed in his thoughts, taking no 
 interest in himself, regarding himself as a garment 
 without a body, as a rag, did not suspect the snare 
 set for him by Bibi-Lupin, nor the vital consequences 
 of his appearance in the preau. The unhappy man left 
 his cell mechanically, and passed along the corridor 
 which skirts the cells that are built into the cornice of 
 the splendid arcades of the palace of the kings of 
 France, on which rests the so-called gallery of Saint- 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 223 
 
 Louis. This corridor joins tliat of the pistoles ; and it 
 is a circumstance not unworthy of remark tliat the cell 
 in which Louvel, the murderer of the Due de Berrj-, 
 was confined, is situated in the angle formed by the 
 junction of the two corridors. Under the pretty office 
 in the Tour Bonbec is a corkscrew staircase by which 
 the prisoners in all these cells go and come to and from 
 the preau. 
 
 All accused persons, also indicted persons who are 
 waiting for trial before the court of assizes, and those 
 who have already appeared there, in short, all the pris- 
 oners in the Conciergerie, except those in solitar}* con- 
 finement, walk in this narrow unpaved space for several 
 hours of the day, and more particularly in the early 
 summer mornings. This yard, the antechamber to the 
 scaffold or the galleys, leads to those institutions at 
 one end, Mobile at the other it is still connected with 
 social existence through the gendarme, the office of 
 the examining judge, and the court of assizes. It 
 is even more petrifying to behold than the scaffold. 
 The scaffold may be a pedestal from which to rise 
 to heaven ; but the preau is all the infamies of earth 
 united, and with no outlet ! 
 
 The 2^^'eaii is a preau, whether it be that of La Force, 
 or Poissy, or Melun, or Sainte-Pelagie. Its facts are 
 Identicall}' the same, even to the color of the walls, 
 their height, and the space inclosed. This study of 
 
224 The Last Incarnation of Vaittrin. 
 
 Parisian customs would be incomplete without a more 
 exact description of this species of Pandemonium. 
 
 Under the strong arches which support the Chamber 
 of the Court of Appeals is (at the fourth arch) a stone 
 which, it is said, served Saint-Louis as a table from 
 which to distribute alms, but which in our day is used 
 as a stand, at which are sold certain supplies to the 
 prisoners. Therefore, as soon as the preau is opened in 
 the morning, the latter all group themselves about this 
 stone of luxuries such as brand}', rum, and eatables. 
 
 The first two arches on this side of the preau (which 
 faces the magnificent B3'zantine gallerj', sole remains 
 of the palace of Saint-Louis) are occupied b}' the parlor 
 where prisoners and their lawyers maj' confer. This 
 parlor, placed at the end of the immense entrance hall 
 of the Conciergerie and lighted from the preau by 
 recessed windows high above the floor, has lately been 
 supplied with other windows opening to the entrance- 
 hall, so that the conferences which take place in that 
 parlor may be watched. This innovation was rendered 
 necessary b}^ the cajoleries practised by certain pretty 
 women on their legal defenders. In this room take 
 place such interviews as police regulations permit be- 
 tween prisoners and their friends. 
 
 We can now imagine what the preau must be to the 
 two hundred prisoners of the Conciergerie : it is their 
 garden, — a garden without trees, or earth, or flowers, 
 
The Last I iicariiation of Vautrin. 225 
 
 but still, their place of relaxation, their preau. The 
 gratings of the parlor, and the stone of Saint-Louis 
 constitute their onh' possible communication with the 
 outer world. 
 
 The moments spent in the 2^^eau are the only ones dur- 
 ing which the prisoners can have fresh air and compan}'. 
 In other prisons the men are collected in workshops, 
 but in the Conciergerie the}' are not allowed an}' occu- 
 pation, unless they are in the j^^^toles ; and there, the 
 drama of the court of assizes usually preoccupies their 
 mind, for the}' are only placed there while undergoing 
 examination or awaiting sentence. 
 
 This yard presents a horrifying spectacle ; it cannot 
 be imagined, — it must be seen. In the first place, we 
 find, in a space about one hundred and thirty feet long 
 by one hundred feet wide, over one hundred individuals 
 either suspected or indicted criminals, who are therefore 
 not the elite of society. These miserable creatures, 
 who, for the most part, belong to the lowest classes, 
 are badly clothed and their countenances are ignoble or 
 shocking ; a criminal from the upper social classes is 
 happily seldom seen here. Peculation, forgery, or 
 fraudulent bankruptcy, the only crimes which would 
 bring the upper classes to the Conciergerie are confined 
 in the pistoles, and such prisoners seldom or never 
 choose to leave their cells. 
 
 This place of exercise, enclosed by noble and for- 
 
 15 
 
226 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 midable black walls with fortified towers on the quay, 
 watched b}- careful keepers, and occupied b}' a throng 
 of ignoble criminals, all distrustful of one another, is 
 sad enough to glance at superficially, but it is terri- 
 fying when 3'on fnid yourself the centre of looks of 
 hatred, curiosit}', despair, as 3'ou stand face to face 
 with those dishonored beings. No joy there ! all is 
 gloom}', the place and its inhabitants ; all is silent, 
 walls and consciences. All is peril to these unfortu- 
 nates ; the}^ dare not trust each other, — unless it be 
 through friendships as sinister as the galleys of which 
 they are the product. The police, known to be ever 
 near, corrupt the atmosphere and poison all things to 
 their minds, even the pressure of a fellow-convict's 
 hand. The criminal who meets an accomplice is igno- 
 rant whether the latter has not confessed in secret to 
 escape his own penalty. This lack of security, this 
 fear of the niouton spoils the already too treacherous lib- 
 erty of the preau^ In prison argot, the mouton [sheep] 
 
 1 The difficulty of rendering this chapter in English is great. 
 It cannot be translated. The following method is therefore em- 
 ployed. The word argot is left in the French, because the word, 
 " slang," does not do it justice ; in the present connection " thieves' 
 latin," is its best equivalent. Argot is a language of expression ; 
 keenly intelligent, filll of meaning and experience. Where its 
 meaning can be given by a literal, word-for-word translation into 
 English, this has been done. In other places tlie French Avords 
 have been left. No attempt lias been made to render French 
 argot in its equivalent of English slang. A dictionary of argot is 
 
Tlie Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 227 
 
 is a sp3', who appears there under the accusation of 
 some dangerous crime, and whose aim it is to be taken 
 for an ami [friend]. The word ami signifies in argot 
 a robber emeritus, a consummate thief, who has 
 long broken with societ}', who means to be a thief all 
 his hfe, and to remain faithful under all circumstances 
 to the laws of the haute iiegre. Pegre is the caste of 
 thieves. It is divided into two classes, the haute and 
 the basse pkjre. The first is an association of the 
 oldest and most accomplished criminals ; they commit 
 none but great robberies and despise ordinary thieves. 
 
 Crime and madness have a certain similitude. Ob- 
 serving prisoners of the Conciergerie in the preau^ and 
 observing patients in the garden of an insane asylum, 
 are much the same thing. The}' all avoid each other as 
 the}' walk about ; the}' cast glances that are strange or 
 ferocious, according to the thoughts in their minds at 
 the moment, but never gay or earnest ; they either 
 know or they fear one another. The expectation of 
 a conviction, anxiety, possibly remorse, give to these 
 denizens of a 2weau the uneasy, haggard look of mad- 
 men. Consummate criminals alone have an assured 
 manner which resembles the tranquillity of an honest 
 life and the sincerity of a pure conscience. 
 
 very amusing and instructive reading ; such as the " Dictionnaire 
 Historique d'Argot," par M. Lore'dan Larchej, derniere edition, 
 E. Dentu, Paris. — Tr. 
 
228 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 A man of the middle and upper classes being an 
 exception (shame retaining in their cells those whom 
 crime has sent there), it follows that the occupants of 
 WiQ preau are usually dressed as w^orking-men. Blouses, 
 linen caps, and velveteen jackets predominate. These 
 coarse or dirty costumes, in keeping with the common 
 or threatening faces and the brutal manners (somewhat 
 cowed, perhaps, b}' the gloom}* thoughts that assail all 
 prisoners, even the silence of the place), do their share 
 in striking terror or disgust to the mind of the visitor 
 for whom some high influence has obtained the very 
 rare privilege of studying the Conciergerie on the spot. 
 
 Just as the sight of a museum of anatom}', where 
 loathsome diseases are represented in wax, has brought 
 young men to resolutions of chastit}', so the sight of 
 the Conciergerie and the aspect of the^j^r^^a^, swarming 
 with guests doomed to the scaffold, the galleys, or 
 some other degrading punishment, inspires fear of 
 human justice in those w^ho do not dread divine jus- 
 tice however loudly it may speak to the conscience. 
 Such persons issue from that sight honest men, and 
 sta}' so for a long time. 
 
 As several of the criminals in the preau at the mo- 
 ment when Jacques Collin came down to it are the 
 actors in a crucial scene in Trompe-la-Mort's life, it is 
 not superfluous to describe a few of the principal figures 
 of this terrible assemblage. 
 
The Last 1 iicar nation of Vaiitrin. 229 
 
 There, as everywhere that men congregate, there, 
 as in schools and colleges, reigns physical force, and 
 mental and moral force. There, too, as at the galley's, 
 criminality' forms the aristocracy. He whose head is in 
 danger takes precedence of all the rest. The^^reai^r, as 
 we can readily believe, is the criminal's law-school ; it 
 is even a court where cases are tried. An occasional 
 amusement consists in acting over again a drama of 
 the court of assizes, with judge and jury, an official of 
 the State, and lawTers, ending with a verdict on the 
 case. This horrible farce is almost always played on 
 the occasion of a celebrated crime. At the present 
 moment a great criminal trial w^as going on before the 
 court of assizes, — namely, the shocking murder of a 
 couple named Crottat, formei'ly farmers, the father and 
 mother of the notary of that name, who were hoarding, 
 as this horrible affair proved, over eight hundred thou- 
 sand francs in gold. 
 
 One of the persons concerned in this two-fold mur- 
 der was the celebrated Dannepont, otherwise called La 
 Pouraille, a released galW-slave, who for the last five 
 3'ears had escaped the most active police search fur 
 fresh crimes, thanks to seven or eight aliases, and as 
 many different lives. The disguises of this villain 
 were so perfect that he even underwent, without dis- 
 covery, two years' imprisonment in the name of Del- 
 souq, one of his pupils, a celebrated thief, who never, 
 
230 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 in his many crimes, got be3-ond the jurisdiction of the 
 correctional police. La Pouraille was now, five years 
 after his release from the galleys, at his third murder. 
 The certainty of his condemnation to death, not less 
 than his reputed possession of enormous boot}', made 
 this man an object of awe and admiration to the other 
 prisoners ; for not one penny of the stolen money had 
 been recovered. The reader will doubtless remember, 
 in spite of the public events of Jul}', 1830, the excite- 
 ment caused in Paris by this bold crime, comparable 
 only to the theft of the coins of the Bibliotheque, — in 
 public estimation, at least, for the unfortunate tendency 
 of our day is to measure crime by the amount of the 
 money stolen. 
 
 La Pouraille, a spare and lean little man, with a 
 weasel face, about forty-five years of age, a celebrity 
 in each of the three srallevs which he had inhabited 
 successively from the time he was nineteen years old, 
 knew Jacques Collin intimately, and we shall presently 
 explain why. Transferred from La Force to the Con- 
 ciergerie with La Pouraille on the previous day were 
 two other former galley-slaves, who had instantly rec- 
 ognized and made known in the premi the dangerous 
 royalty of this ami foredoomed to the scaffold. One of 
 these convicts, a released galley-slave named Selerier, 
 alias I'Auvergnat, le Pere Palleau, le Rouleur, but 
 known to the society of the haute pegre as Fil-de-Soie, 
 
The Lcifit Incarnation of Vautrin. 231 
 
 a nickname due to the cleverness with which he could 
 slip out of the dangers of his profession, was also one 
 of Trompe-la-Mort's former comrades. But Trompe-la- 
 Mort had suspected him of plaj-ing a double part, of 
 being in the counsels of the haute xiegre and also in the 
 emplo}' of the police, so that he attributed his own 
 arrest in 1819, at the Maison Vauquer, to this man. 
 (See Pere Goriot.) Selerier, whom we will call Fil- 
 de-Soie, as we shall call Dannepont La Pouraille, was 
 implicated in certain robberies, in which, however, no 
 blood had been shed ; he was about, in all probabilit}', 
 to be returned to the galleys on a twenty years' sen- 
 tence. The third convict, named Riganson, formed, 
 with his concubine, called La Biffe, one of the most 
 redoubtable households of the haute plgre. Riganson, 
 whose relations with law and justice had been delicate 
 from his earliest years, was commonly known as Le 
 Biffon. Le Biffon was the male of La Biffe. 
 
 A digression is here necessary ; for Jacques Collin's 
 entrance into the j)rean^ his appearance in the midst 
 of his enemies, so cleverly arranged b}' Bibi^Lupin at 
 the instigation of the examining-judge, and the curious 
 scenes which came of it, would be incomprehensible to 
 the reader without certain explanations on the world 
 of the galleys, its laws, its customs, — above all, its lan- 
 guage, the dreadful poesy of which is an indispensable 
 feature of this portion of our tale. First, therefore, a 
 
232 The Last Incarnation of Vautrln. 
 
 few words on the language of sharpers, swindlers, 
 thieves, and murderers, called argot, which literature 
 has employed of late with such success that several 
 words of this strange vocabular}' have been heard 
 from the ros}' lips of beautiful women, beneath silken 
 curtains, delighting the ears of princes, more than one 
 of whom has owned himself ^oz/e (cheated at cards). 
 Let us say here, perhaps to the astonishment of many, 
 that there is no language more energetic, more highly 
 colored, than that of the subterranean world, which, 
 from the origin of empires and chief cities, ferments in 
 cellars, abysmal depths, the "third-floor-under," — to 
 borrow from dramatic art a lively and striking ex- 
 pression. Is not all the world a stage? The "third- 
 floor-under" is the lowest cellar beneath the boards of 
 the Opera-house, where they put away machiner}', lad- 
 ders, apparitions, and the devils who vomit hell. 
 
 Each word of this language presents an image of 
 some kind, — brutal, ingenious, or terrible. Men do 
 not sleep in argot, the}^ pionce. Remark with what 
 precision that word expresses the peculiar sleep of the 
 hunted, wear}', defiant beast called robber; who, the 
 instant he is in safet}', falls into the depths of needed 
 sleep, but always under the wings of the suspicion that 
 hovers over him. Horrible sleep ! — like that of the wild 
 animal that slumbers and snores while its ears are ever 
 prudentl}' awake. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 233 
 
 All is descriptive in this idiom. AVoman is a laryue 
 (a breeze for sails). And what poesy ! A straw is la 
 jjlume (the feather) of Beauce^ Beauce being rich in 
 cereals. Midnight is rendered by the paraphrase, 
 Douze plomhes crossent (twelve leads strike) ; the words 
 make one shudder ! liincer une camhriole (rinse out 
 a room), means to plunder it. How inferior the ex- 
 pression, "go to bed," compared with se piausser (new- 
 skin one's self). What liveliness of comparison, what 
 imager}' ! Domi)ws, teeth ; joiier des doiiinos, eat in 
 haste like one pursued; oignon^ onion, tears; mouche^ 
 fly, police-spy ; boussole, compass, brains ; jnncette^ 
 tongs, legs ; fourcJiette, fork, fingers. Argot goes 
 on forever ! It follows civilization ; it keeps at its 
 heels ; it enriches itself with every new invention. 
 Potatoes, brought into use b}- Louis XVI., and Par- 
 mentier, the famous agriculturist (the potato was first 
 called in France "la parmentiere "), were instantly 
 argotized as "pigs' oranges." Paper isfaffe, from the 
 sound when you touch it. Bank-bills were invented, 
 and the galleys at once called them fcifiots garates^ 
 from Garat, the name of the cashier who signed them. 
 Fafiot! can't you hear the rustle of the crisp paper? 
 The thousand-franc note is 2^ fafiot male; the five-hun- 
 dred-franc note, Vi fafiot femelle. You may be sure that 
 the galleys will rebaptize all things with fantastic but 
 expressive names. 
 
234 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 In 1790 Doctor Guillotin invented, for the benefit 
 of human it}', the expediting piece of machinery which 
 solves all problems suggested by the penalty of death, 
 and bears his name. No sooner had the convicts and 
 ex-galle3'-slaves surve3'ed that machine, standing on the 
 monarchial confines of the old system of justice and 
 the frontiers of the new, than they named it the Abhaye 
 de Monte-a-Hegret^ — abbe}", separation from the world ; 
 regret, as you mount the steps to it. Then they studied 
 the angle at which the steel blade made its stroke, and 
 called its action /(xttcAer, to mow. When we remember 
 that the gallej's alwa3's speak of themselves as le pre 
 (the field) it really seems as if those who concern them- 
 selves with the science of language ought to bow be- 
 fore the creation of these horrible vocables^ as Charles 
 Nodier would have called them. 
 
 We must recognize, moreover, the great antiquit}'" 
 of argot. One tenth of it are words of the lingua 
 romana, another tenth the old Gallic language of 
 Rabelais. Effo7idrer, break open ; otolondrer^ bore ; 
 auhert^ silver, — that is, mone}' ; gironde, beautiful 
 (the name of a river in the langue d'Oc) ; fouillousse^ 
 pocket, — all belong to the language of the fourteenth 
 and fifteenth centuries. Affe^ for life, is of the high- 
 est antiquit3\ From troubler Vciffe comes the word 
 a^reux, — the meaning of which is " that which 
 troubles life." 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 235 
 
 At least one hnndred words of argot belong to the 
 language of Panurge, who, in the Rabelaisian work, 
 symbolizes the people, — the name being composed of 
 two Greek words, which mean, "he who does all." 
 But lo ! science changes the whole face of civilization. 
 Raih'oads are built, and immediately argot is ready 
 with their name, le roidant vif the burning roller. 
 
 The name of the head, while it is still upon their 
 shoulders, sorbonne, dates from the 13th century, 
 and indicates the antique source of this language 
 in the oldest romances, those of Cervantes, Aretino, 
 and the Italian novelli. In all ages, la Jille, the 
 prostitute, the heroine of so many of the old roman- 
 ces, was the protectress, companion, and comfort of the 
 sharper, the thief, the swindler, the blackleg. Prosti- 
 tution and robber}' are two living protestations, male 
 and female, of the natural state against the social state. 
 Consequenth' philosophers, new-fangled theorists of the 
 present da}', humanitarians, wlio have at their tail com- 
 munists and Fourierites, will bring up, before they 
 know it, at two barriers, — theft and prostitution. The 
 thief does n't discuss in sophistical books questions of 
 property, heredity, and social guarantees ; he ignores 
 all that. To him, robbery is coming into possession of 
 his own. He does n't discuss marriage, nor find fault 
 with it, nor ask it, as in printed Utopias, for that mutual 
 agreement, that lasting alliance of souls, which can't be 
 
236 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 generalized ; be couples himself with a woman of his 
 species by chains which are constantl}' tightened b}' the 
 hammer of necessity. Modern theorists write philan- 
 thropic novels, haz3', muddy, nebulous, but the robber 
 goes to work ; he is as clear as a fact, as logical as a 
 knock-down blow. And what a capacit}' he has ! " 
 
 Another observation. The world of thieves, prosti- 
 tutes, and murderers, the galleys and the prisons, have 
 a population of between sixt}' and eighty thousand in- 
 dividuals, male and female. This world cannot be 
 omitted in any picture of manners and customs, or any 
 truthful reproduction of our social condition. Civil 
 officials, the gendarmerie, and the police make a force 
 of employes nearlj' equal in numbers to the dangerous 
 classes. Is not this a singular fact? This antagonism 
 of those who search for and those who avoid each other 
 reciprocally', constitutes a vast and perpetual duel which 
 is eminently dramatic. It is with robbery and prosti- 
 tution as it is with theatrical life, the police, the priest- 
 hood and the gendarmerie. In those six conditions, 
 the individual takes on a special and indelible char- 
 acterization. He can no longer be his individual self. 
 The stigmata of the divine ministr}' are irremovable ; 
 so are the signs of a military life. Other professions 
 in which there are strong oppositions, contradictions 
 to civilization, show the same thing. These strange, 
 fantastic, violent, or sid generis diagnostics make the 
 
The Last IncaniatioR of VaiUrin. 237 
 
 prostitute, the thief, the murderer, the ex-convict, so 
 easy to recognize that the}' are to their enemies, the police 
 sp3' and the gendarme, what the game is to the hunter : 
 the}' have a gait, manner, and complexion, looks, color 
 and smell of their own, in short, infallible characteris- 
 tics. Hence, that deep science of disguises, which the 
 celebrities of the galleys find it necessary to acquire. 
 
 One word more on the construction of this under- 
 world, which the abolition of branding, the lessening 
 of penalties, and the stupid indulgence of juries now 
 render menacing. In fact, in twenty years from now, 
 Paris will be surrounded by an army of forty thousand 
 ex-convicts. The department of the Seine, with its 
 fifteen hundred thousand inhabitants, is the only part 
 of France where these criminals can hide themselves. 
 Paris is to them wdiat the virgin forest is to wild beasts. 
 
 The haute pdgre, which is the faubourg Saint- 
 Germain, the aristocracy of this world, resolved itself 
 in 181 G, as the result of a Peace which put the future 
 of so many lives in question, into an association called 
 the Grands Fanandels^ in wdiich were gathered the 
 most celebrated leaders of the band, and some other 
 bold minds then without any means whatever of exis- 
 tence. The word fanandels means brothers, friends, 
 comrades. All thieves, convicts, and prisoners are 
 fanandels. The Grands Fanandels, the cream of the 
 haute p^gre^ constituted for twenty years or more tae 
 
238 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 Court of Appetils, the Institute, and the Chamber of 
 peers of the people of their world. The Grands Fan- 
 andels all had their private means ; capital was in 
 common, but their habits and ways were separate. 
 The}' all knew one another, and each was bound 
 to aid the rest in difficult}'. All were above the wiles 
 and seductions of the police ; they had their own 
 charter, their own laws, their passwords and signs of 
 recognition. The dukes and peers of the galleys 
 formed, between 1815 and 1819, the famous society of 
 the Dlx Mille (the Ten Thousand, see " Pere Goriot"), 
 thus named from the solemn agreement entered into, 
 never to undertake an}' affair in which there was less 
 than ten thousand francs to be made. At the time of 
 which we write, that is, in 1827 and 1830, sketches of 
 this society, its forces, the names of its members, etc., 
 were being published by one of the celebrities of tiie 
 detective police. In those " Memoirs," we find, with 
 something like terror, the record of an army of great 
 capacities, in men and women so formidable, so able, 
 often so lucky, that criminals like Levy, Pastourel, Col- 
 longe, Chimaux, men between fifty and sixty years of 
 age, are there stated as having been in revolt against 
 society from their earliest childhood. What an avowal 
 of impotence in law and justice is the mere existence 
 of thieves and robbers of that age I 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 239 
 
 IV. 
 
 HIS MAJESTY THE DAB. 
 
 Jacques Collin was the treasurer, not onlj' of the 
 society of the Dix Mille^ but also of the Grands 
 Fanandels^ the heroes of the galle3s. Competent 
 authorities agree that the convicts at the galle3's have 
 property. This singular state of things is explainable. 
 The proceeds of a robberv are never recovered except 
 under peculiar circumstances. Condemned robbers, un- 
 able to take the money with them, are forced to have 
 recourse to the honor and capacit}' of some ex-convict, 
 in whose hands they place their propert}', as society at 
 large confides in a banking-house. 
 
 Formerh', Bibi-Lupin, chief of the detective police 
 for the last ten years, had been a member of the aris- 
 tocrac}' of the Grands Fanandels. His treacherj^ was 
 caused by a wound to his vanitj'. Trompe-la-Mort, 
 with his keen intelligence and prodigious force of char- 
 acter, was constantlj' preferred to him. Hence the 
 unceasing rancor of his pursuit, as chief of the detec- 
 tive police, against Jacques Collin. Hence, also, came 
 certain compromises between Bipi-Lupin and his former 
 
240 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 comrades, which the authorities about this time were 
 beginning to suspect. 
 
 So, in his desire for vengeance, to which the exam- 
 ining judge had given full play b}' the order to estab- 
 lish, if possible, the identitj'- of Jacques Collin, the 
 chief of the detectives had ver}^ judiciouslj' selected 
 his men when he arranged to confront the Spanish 
 priest with La Pouraille, Fil-de-Soie, and Le Biffon ; 
 for La Pouraille and Fil-de-Soie belonged to the Dix 
 Mille, and Le Biffon was a Grand Fanandel. 
 
 La Biffe, the terrible largue of Le Biffon, who to this 
 day has managed to escape all the efforts of the police, 
 thanks to her ability in disguising herself as a well-bred 
 woman, was, of course, at libert}'. This woman, who 
 knows perfectly well how to pla}' the characters of wo- 
 men of rank, keeps a carriage and servants. A species 
 of Jacques Collin in petticoats, she is the onl}" woman 
 comparable to Asia, Jacques Collin's right arm. Every 
 hero of the galleys has his devoted mate. Judicial 
 records and secret chronicles will tell 3'ou this. No 
 passion of a virtuous woman, not even that which a 
 religious nature feels for a confessor, can surpass the 
 attachment of the mistress who shares the peril of 
 these great criminals. Such passions are nearly always 
 the originating cause, in the men, of their most daring 
 enterprises, and of their murders. Even the necessity 
 of living, and living well, is small in comparison with 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 241 
 
 the desire these women inspire in their generous Medors 
 to give them jewels, gowns, and especially — for they 
 are alvva3S greedy — choice food. The girl desires a 
 shawl, the lover steals it ; and she thinks the theft a 
 proof of love. That is how men are frequcntl}' led into 
 crime ; if we examine the human heart with a micro- 
 scope, we shall see that this proceeds fi'om a primitive 
 sentiment in the nature of man. 
 
 Thus it is that the adoration of their mistresses is 
 acquired b}' criminals, the terror of societ}'. It is 
 female devotion, crouching faithfully at the doors of 
 prisons, perpetually emplo3'ed in thwarting the wiles 
 of the police or the examining judges, the incorruptible 
 guardian of the blackest secrets, — which makes so 
 many criminal cases obscure and, in fact, impeneti'able. 
 There lies the strength, and also the weakness, of the 
 criminal. In the language of these women, avoir de la 
 yrohite (to be honest) means not to fail in any duty to 
 that attachment ; to give all their mone}' to the men 
 enflacque (imprisoned) ; to watch over their safet}' and 
 comfort ; to keep ever}' species of faith with them ; and 
 to undertake for them all possible things. The worst 
 and most dishonoring insult one of these women can 
 cast upon another is to accuse her of infidelit}' toward 
 a lover who is serve (locked up). A girl, in such a 
 case, is looked upon as heartless. 
 
 La Pouraille was passionately attached to a woman, 
 
 16 
 
242 The Last lacarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 as we shall presently' see. Fil-de-Soie, a philosophical 
 egotist, who robbed to procure a fortune, was veiy like 
 Paccard, Jacques Collin's henchman, who had run awa}^ 
 with Prudence Servien and seven hundred and lift}' 
 thousand francs. He had no affections ; he despised 
 women, and loved only himself. As for Le Biffon, he 
 derived his name, as we have already said, from his 
 attachment to La Biffe. These three illustrious mem- 
 bers of the haute pegre had a reckoning to demand of 
 Jacques Collin, though the accounts between them were 
 very difficult to establish clearl}^ 
 
 The treasurer alone knew how many of the partners 
 survived, and what was the share of each in the capital 
 placed in his hands. The mortality peculiar to his 
 clients may have entered into Trompe-la-Mort's calcu- 
 lations when he resolved to manger la grenouille (eat 
 the frog), dissipate the sum intrusted to him on Lucien. 
 By keeping out of sight of his former companions and of 
 the police for several 3'ears, Jacques Collin had almost 
 a certainty of having inherited, according to the laws 
 of the Grands Fanandels, the property of at least two- 
 thirds of his clients. Besides, he conld easily allege 
 that payments had been made on behalf of t\iQ fanan- 
 dels fauches. No register existed on which to accuse 
 this hero of the Grands Fanandels. Absolute trust had 
 been placed in him of necessit}', for the hunted wild- 
 beast life led bv such being's forces them to a trustful- 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 24 
 
 Q 
 
 ness of the utmost delicac3\ Jacques Collin could 
 probabl}" liquidate all demands on the three hundred 
 thousand francs placed in his hands with less than a 
 hundred thousand. At the present moment, as we have , 
 alread}' seen, La Pouraille, one of Jacques Collin's cred- 
 itors, had only ninety days to live. Provided with other 
 sums no doubt much larger than that in Trompe-la- 
 Mort's care, he was little likel}' to be exacting. 
 
 One of the infallible diagnostics b}- which directors of 
 prisons and their agents, the police, and even the exam- 
 ining-magistrates recognize a clieval-de-retour (returned 
 post-horse), that is, one who has alread}' eaten gour- 
 ganes (a species of bean, on which the convicts at the 
 galleys are fed), is his knowledge of prison wa3's ; habit- 
 ual criminals are naturall}' aware of such usages ; they 
 are at home, as we may sa}', and nothing surprises them. 
 
 Up to this time Jacques Collin, keeping watch against 
 himself, had played his part of innocent foreigner 
 admirabl}', both at La Force, and in the Conciergerie. 
 But now, cast-down with sorrow, crushed by his double 
 death, for during that fatal night he had died twice, 
 Jacques Collin no longer remembered to be other than 
 himself. The jailer was amazed not to be obliged to 
 tell a Spanish priest the way to the preau. This great 
 actor had so thoroughl}- forgotten his part, that he 
 went down the spiral staircase of the Bonbec tower, 
 like an inmate of the Conciergerie. 
 
244 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 " Bibi-Lupin is right," tliouglit the jailer; "he is a 
 cheval-de-retour ; it must be Jacques ColHii." 
 
 At the moment when Jacques Colhn appeared in the 
 sort of frame made for his figure by the casing of tlie 
 tower door tlie prisoners had finished making their pur- 
 chases from Saint-Louis' table, so-called, and were dis- 
 persed about the preau^ always too small for them. 
 The new prisoner was therefore seen b}' all the others 
 at once, with the unequalled rapidity and precision of 
 the glance of convicts, who are in a preau like spiders 
 in the centre of their webs. This comparison is mathe- 
 matically exact ; for the e^'e being limited on all sides by 
 black and lofty walls, the prisoners see at all moments, 
 without even looking at them, the gate through which 
 the jailers pass, the windows of the parlor, and the 
 door to the staircase of the Bonbec Tower. In the 
 isolation of a prisoner's life, everything is an event to 
 him, and takes hold of his mind. His ennui, compara- 
 ble to that of a tiger at the Jardin des Plantes, 
 increases his power of attention tenfold. It is not un- 
 necessary to mention here that Jacques Collin, dressed 
 like an ecclesiastic who is not \Qvy rigid in the matter 
 of apparel, wore black trousers and a black waistcoat, 
 shoes with silver buckles, black stockings, and a dark- 
 brown surtout coat, the cut of which will always betray 
 the priest, no matter what he does, or where he is, 
 especiall}' when these indications are enforced by the 
 
TJie Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 245 
 
 characteristic manner in which the hair is cut. Jacques 
 ColHn wore a w^ig superlatively ecclesiastical, and won- 
 derfully natural. 
 
 '• 2' lens I tiensf said La Pouraille to Le Biffon, — 
 " a bad sign ! a sanglier (wild-boar, priest) ! How did 
 he get here ? " 
 
 " It is one of their trues (dodges) ; that' s a cuisinier 
 (spy) of a new kind," replied Fil-de-Soie ; " some 
 marchand de lacets (gendarme, allusion to handcuffs) 
 disguised, who is after his business." 
 
 The gendarme has three different names in argot : 
 when in pursuit of a criminal, he is a marchand de 
 lacets (dealer in strings of any kind) ; when he escorts 
 a prisoner, he is a hirondelle de la Grh-e (swallow of 
 the place of execution) ; when he conducts him to the 
 scaffold, he is the hussctrd de la guillotine. 
 
 To finish this picture of the preaii it is, perhaps, 
 necessar}' to sketch in a few words the two other 
 fcmandels whom we have already mentioned. Selerier, 
 alias the Auvergnat, P^re Ralleau, Le Rouleur, Fil-de- 
 Soie (he had, in fact, thirt}' names and as many pass- 
 ports) will here be designated b}" the latter nickname, 
 the onh' one bestowed upon him by the haute pegre. 
 This profound philosopher, w^ho saw a gendarme in the 
 priest, was a lively fellow about five feet four inches in 
 height, whose muscles stood out in a singular manner. 
 Beneath an enormous head, he flashed flames from his 
 
246 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 little e3'es, which were covered (like those of a bird of 
 prey), with gra}' lids, hard and metallic. At first sight 
 he resembled a wolf, from the width of his jaws, which 
 were vigorousl}' and massively outlined ; but all that 
 this resemblance implied of cruelty, even of ferocitv, 
 was counterbalanced by the artfulness and vivacity of 
 his features, which were deeply pitted with the small- 
 pox. The edges of each scar, clean-cut, had something 
 piquante about them. Sarcastic jests without num- 
 ber were written there. The life of criminals, which 
 means hunger and thirst, and nights passed in bivou- 
 acking on quays, and banks, under bridges, or in the 
 streets, the orgies of strong liquors with which some 
 triumph is celebrated, had laid upon this man's face a 
 sort of couch of varnish. If Fil-de-Soie had shown him- 
 self exactl}' as he was, any gendarme or agent of police 
 would have recognized his pre}^ at thirty paces ; but 
 he rivalled Jacques Collin in the art of dyeing or paint- 
 ing his person and in making up his dress. At this 
 moment, Fil-de-Soie, carelessly arra3'ed, like all great 
 actors when not upon the stage, was wearing a sort 
 of hunting jacket, — to which buttons were lacking, 
 while the ragged buttonholes disclosed the white of the 
 lining, — a pair of shabb3^ green slippers, trousers of 
 nankeen now faded into gray, and on his head a cap 
 without a visor, beneath which appeared the corners 
 of a Madras handkerchief, much torn and faded. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 247 
 
 Le Biffon, when side by side with Fil-de-Soie, pre- 
 sented a marked contrast to him. This celebrated 
 thief, who was short, stout, fat, active, with a Hvid 
 skin, a sunken black e3'e, clothes like a cook, and 
 two bowlegs, alarmed beholders by a countenance in 
 which predominated all the characteristics peculiar to 
 the organization of carnivorous animals. 
 
 Fil-de-Soie and Le Biffon were pa3'ing court to La 
 Pouraille, who no longer retained an}' hope of life. He 
 knew ver}' well that he should be tried, condemned and 
 executed within four months ; for which reason Fil-de- 
 Soie and Le Biffon called him by no other name than 
 Le Chanoine^ meaning the Chanoine of the Abbaye de 
 Monte-a-Regret. It can readil}' be imagined how Fil- 
 de-Soie and Le Biffon cajoled La Pourraille. The lat- 
 ter had buried two hundred and fifty thousand francs 
 in gold, his share of tiie boot}' taken from the house 
 of the murdered Crottats. What a magnificent bequest 
 to leave to two fanandels, although the pair were cer- 
 tain to be returned to the galleys within a month. 
 They were expecting sentence (for robber}', with " ag- 
 gravated circumstances") to fifteen years at tlie galleys, 
 in addition to ten remaining years of a former sentence 
 which they had taken the liberty to interrupt. So, al- 
 though the one had twenty-two years and the other, 
 twenty-six years of hard labor to do, they both hoped 
 to escape and to find La Pouraille's hidden gold. But 
 
248 The Last Incarnation of Vaiitrin. 
 
 the hero of the Dix Mille kept his secret ; he thought 
 it useless to reveal the information until he was ac- 
 tually sentenced. Belonging to the highest aristocracy 
 of the galleys, he had not betrayed his accomplices. 
 His character was well-known ; and Monsieur Popinot, 
 tlie examining judge in this dreadful affair, had ex- 
 tracted nothing from him. 
 
 The terrible triumvirate were standing at the upper 
 end of the i:)reau^ that is, directly under the pistoles. 
 Fil-de-Soie was ending certain instructions to a 3'oung 
 man, arrested for his first crime and considering him- 
 self sure of a ten years' sentence, who was asking for 
 information about the three j9re5 (galleys). 
 
 " Well, my Httle fellow," Fil-de-Soie was sa3'ing, sen- 
 tentiously, at the moment when Jacques Collin ap- 
 peared, "there's onh^ one difference between Brest, 
 Toulon, and Rochefort, if you want to know it." 
 
 "Tell me," said the young man, with the curiosity 
 of a novice. 
 
 This youth, the son of a famil}' of rank, and accused 
 of forgery, had come down to t\\Q preau from the ad- 
 joining pistole to that of Lucien. 
 
 " My lad," continued Fil-de-Soie, " at Brest you are 
 sure of finding goiirganes at the third spoonful when 
 you dip into the bucket ; at Toulon you won't get 'em 
 till the fifth ; and at Rochefort no one gets any unless 
 he 's an ancien.'* 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 249 
 
 Having spoken, that [)rofound philosopher moved 
 away to rejoin La Poaraille and Le Biffon, who, greatl}' 
 puzzled by the san.glier^ began to walk down the 2^^(^aii, 
 while Jacques Collin, absorbed in his grief, walked up 
 it. Filled with terrible thoughts, the thoughts of a 
 fallen emperor, Trompe-la-Mort did not notice that 
 he was the centre of all eyes and the object of general 
 attention. He walked slowlv, gazinoj before him at 
 the fatal window where Lucien had hanged himself. 
 None of the prisoners knew of this event, for Lucien's 
 neighbor, from motives which we shall learn presently, 
 had said nothing about it. The three faiiandels walked 
 abreast, intending to bar the way to the priest. 
 
 " That's not n sanglier^'' said La Pouraille to Fil-de- 
 Soie, " he 's a cheual-de-retour. See how he drags the 
 right ! " 
 
 It is necessary to explain here, to such readers as 
 have never had a fanc}' to visit the galle3's, that each 
 convict is coupled to another (always a 3'oung and an 
 old one together) by a chain. The weight of this chain, 
 riveted to a ring worn just above the ankle, is such 
 that b}' the end of the first 3'ear it has given a pecu- 
 liar and life-long gait to the wearer. Obliged to send 
 more force into one leg than into the other, in order to 
 draw the 7nanicle (that is the name the galleys give to 
 this iron), the convict contracts the habit of that effort. 
 Later, when he no longer wears his chain, he is like a 
 
250 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 man whose leg is amputated who still feels the missing 
 limb ; the galle3--slave feels his manicle, and never gets 
 rid entirely of the gait it gives him. He "drags the 
 right," as the police term is. Tliis diagnostic, known to 
 convicts as it is to the police, though it may not cause 
 the recognition of a comrade, certainly completes it. 
 
 In Trompe-la-Mort, eight years having elapsed since 
 his last escape from the galleys, this peculiar motion 
 was a good deal lessened ; but on this occasion he 
 walked with so slow and solemn a step, as the result 
 of his absorbing meditation, that, slight as the defect 
 w^as, it could not fail to strike so practised an eye as 
 that of La Pouraille. Moreover, convicts at the gal- 
 leys, being forever in presence of one another, and 
 having none but themselves to observe, have so stud- 
 ied the countenance of their kind that the}' can rec- 
 ognize certain habits which escape the knowledge of 
 their systematic enemies, spies, gendarmes, and com- 
 missaries of police. It was thus to a slight twitching 
 of the maxillary' muscles of the left cheek, recognized 
 by a convict who was sent to a review of the Legion 
 of the Seine, that the lieutenant-colonel of the brigade, 
 the famous Coignard, owed his arrest ; for, in spite of 
 Bibi-Lupin's assurances, the police were afraid to be- 
 lieve in the identit}' of Comte Pontis de Sainte-Helene, 
 with so great a criminal. 
 
 "That is our ddb (master)," said Fil-de-Soie, after 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 251 
 
 receiving from Jacques Collin the abstracted glance 
 which men engulfed in despair cast upon all about 
 them. 
 
 " Faith ! j'es, that is Trompe-la-Mort," said Le 
 Biffon, rubbing his hands. "Yes, that's his figure, 
 his cut. But what has he done to himself? He does n't 
 seem the same man." 
 
 "Oh, I see what he is after!" cried Fil-de-Soie. 
 "He has a plan; he wants to see Theodore before 
 they execute him." 
 
 " So they are going to terrer (earth, execute) that 
 3'ouug one ! " said La Pouraille. '' Pretty bo}' ! what 
 a hand ! what hair ! A great loss to societj' ! " 
 
 " Yes, Theodore Calvi morfile (eats) his last mouth- 
 ful to-day," said Le Biffon. " Ah ! his largues must be 
 crying their eyes out, for they loved him well, the little 
 beggar ! " 
 
 " So here you are, old fellow ! " said La Pouraille to 
 Jacques CoUm. 
 
 And in concert with his two acolytes, between whom 
 he was walkino; arm in arm. he barred the way of the 
 new-comer. 
 
 " Oh, ddb ! wh}' did j'ou make 3'ourself a sanglier ? " 
 added La Pouraille. 
 
 " The}' sa}' you have poisse nos j^hili^opes (filched 
 our five-franc pieces)," said Le Biffon, with a threat- 
 ening air. 
 
252 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 " Do 3'ou mean to (ihouler du carle (give back the 
 monej' ; carle from carolus, monc}' struck under King 
 Charles VIII.)," demanded Fil-de-Soie. 
 
 These three interrogations went off like pistol-shots. 
 
 " Do not ridicule a poor priest brought here b}- mis- 
 take," replied Jacques Collin, who instantly recognized 
 his former comrades. 
 
 " That's the son de son grelot (sound of his rattle, 
 speech), if it is n't his frimousse (face)," said La Pou- 
 raille, putting his hand on Jacques Collin's shoulder. 
 
 This action and the looks of his three comrades 
 brought the dab violentl}' out of his dejection, and re- 
 stored him to a sense of actual life ; for during this 
 fatal night he had roamed the spiritual and infinite 
 worlds of the soul's consciousness in search of some 
 new existence. 
 
 " iVe fais pas du ragout sur ton dab (Don't rouse 
 suspicions on 3'our master)," said Jacques Collin, in a 
 hollow, threatening voice, which was not unlike the 
 smothered growl of a lion. " La raille (the police) 
 are there. Let them fall into their own trap. I am 
 playing mislocq (comedy) for a fanandel en fine 
 pegr-ene (a comrade in the last extremity)." 
 
 This was said with the unction of a priest trying to 
 impress sinners, and was accompanied by a look with 
 which Jacques Collin took in the whole ^weau^ saw the 
 jailers under the arcade, and showed them sarcastically' 
 to his comrades. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 253 
 
 " See those cmsiniers (spies). Allumez vos cla'irs^ 
 et remouchez (light your hghts and snuff the enndles ; 
 see and observe). JSFe nie conobrez pas, &pargnons le 
 poitou^ and engantez mo I en sanfjlier (Don't know me ; 
 let us take precautions, and treat me as a priest), or 
 I '11 ruin you, — you, your lanjues, and your aubert 
 (fortunes)." 
 
 '' T^as done tafe de 7iozigues (do 3'ou distrust us)?" 
 said Fil-de-Soie. " Have you come to cromper (save), 
 Theodore?" 
 
 "•Theodore!" exclaimed Jacques Collin, repressing 
 a cr}'. It was a last torturing blow to the broken 
 colossus. 
 
 " They are going to buter (knock over, guillotine) 
 him," said La Pouraille. " He has been gerbe a mort 
 (sheaved, condemned to death) for the last two 
 months." 
 
 Jacques Collin was taken with a sudden faintness ; 
 his knees gave wa}'. The three fanandels supported 
 him, and he had the presence of mind to clasp his 
 hands, and seem to speak with unction. La Pouraille 
 and Le Biftbn respectfully held him up, while Fil-de- 
 Soie ran to the jailer stationed as guard before the door 
 which led to the parlor. 
 
 " This venerable priest wants to sit down ; give him 
 a chair," he said. 
 
 Thus Bibi-Lupin's grand stroke was a failure. 
 
254 The Last Incarnation of VaiUrin. 
 
 Trompe la-Mort, like Napoleon, recognized by his 
 soldiers, obtained the respect and submission of the 
 three convicts. Two words had sufficed. Those words 
 were 3'our largues and 3'our aubert (your women and 
 your mone}'), the summing up of the real affections of 
 mankind. This threat was to the three criminals an 
 indication of power. The dab still held their fortune 
 in his hands. All-powerful as ever, their dab had not 
 betrayed them, as false brothers said he had. More- 
 over, the colossal reputation for abilit}- and shrewdness 
 acquired by their master stimulated the curiosit}' of the 
 three men ; for, in prison life, curiosity is the sole spur 
 to these jaded minds. The boldness of Jacques Col- 
 lin's present disguise, maintained even under the bolts 
 and bars of the Conciergerie, bewildered and dazzled 
 the three criminals. 
 
 " I have been in solitary confinement for the last 
 four days, and I did not know that Theodore was so 
 near the abbaye,'' said Jacques Collin. '* I came here 
 to save a poor young fellow who hanged himself yester- 
 day, up there^ at four o'clock, and here I am, con- 
 fronted with another misfortune. I have no longer any 
 aces in my game ! " 
 
 " Poor dub ! " said Fil-de-Soie. 
 
 "Ha! the boulanger (hixkev^ devil) abandons me!" 
 cried Jacques Collin, tearing himself out of his com- 
 rades' arms. " I tell you there comes a moment when 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 255 
 
 the world is stronger than we are ! La Cigogne (the 
 stork, Palais tie Justice, prefecture of police, the crim- 
 inal authorities), La Ciffogne nabs us at last." 
 
 The director of the Conciergerie, informed of the 
 faintness of the Spanish priest, came himself to the 
 preau to watch him. He ordered a chair to be brought, 
 made him sit down in the sunlight, and examined his 
 whole appearance and bearing with that formidable 
 perspicacity which increases day by day through the 
 exercise of such functions, though it is always hidden 
 under an air of perfect indifference. 
 
 " Ah, monsieur ! " said Jacques Collin, '' to be con- 
 founded with such people, the refuse of societj', crim- 
 inals, murderers ! But God will not abandon his 
 servant. My dear monsieur, I will strive to mark m}' 
 passage through this dreadful place by acts of mere}', 
 the memory of which will last. I will endeavor to con- 
 vert these unhapp3' men, and teach them that they 
 have a soul ; that eternal life awaits them, and al- 
 though the}' have lost all on earth, the}' still have 
 heaven to win, — the heaven that belongs to true 
 repentance." 
 
 Twenty or thirty prisoners, clustering at the back of 
 the three great convicts, whose dangerous glances kept 
 three feet of distance between themselves and the in- 
 quisitive group, heard this allocution uttered with evan- 
 gelical unction. 
 
256 The Last Incariiation of Vautrin. 
 
 "He! Monsieur Gault," said the formidable La 
 Pouraille ; "oh, 3'es, we'll listen to him!" 
 
 " The}' tell me," said Jacques Collin, beside whom 
 Monsieur Gault was standing, " that a man condemned 
 to death is in this prison." 
 
 *'Yes; they have just read to him the rejection of 
 his appeal," replied Monsieur Gault. 
 
 " I don't understand what that means," said Jacques 
 Collin, looking helplessl}' about him. 
 
 " Heavens I is n't he sinve (simple) ? " said the 3'outh 
 who had lately consulted Fil-de-Soie about the galleys. 
 
 "Why, it means," said the nearest prisoner, "that 
 to-da}' or to-morrow the}' 'Wfauche him." 
 
 " Fauche ? " said Jacques Collin, whose look and 
 tone of ignorance filled his three fanandels with 
 admiration. 
 
 " In their language," said the director, " that means 
 the execution of the penalty of death. When the clerk 
 has read to the prisoner the rejection of his appeal, the 
 executioner receives orders to proceed with the execu- 
 tion. The unhappy man has steadily refused the succor 
 of religion." 
 
 " Ah, monsieur," cried Jacques Collin, " there is a 
 soul to save ! " 
 
 He clasped his hands with an expression of feeling 
 which seemed to have the effect of divine fervor upon 
 the watchful director. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 257 
 
 *' Monsieur," continued Trorape-la-Mort, "let me 
 prove to 30U what I am, and what I can do ; permit me 
 to bring repentance into that hardened heart. God has 
 given me the faculty' of saying certain words which 
 produce great changes in the soul. I touch some 
 hearts; 1 open them. What can you fear? Send 
 jailers or gendarmes with me if you choose." 
 
 *' I will see if the chaplain of the prison will allow 
 you to take his place,'" said Monsieur Gault. 
 
 The director withdrew, struck with the air of perfect 
 indifference, except as to curiosity, with which the con- 
 victs and other prisoners looked at the priest, whose 
 unctuous voice bestowed a charm on his French and 
 Spanish jargon. 
 
 " How did 3'ou come here, monsieur I'abbe?" asked 
 Fil-de-Soie's young questioner. 
 
 "Oh, h\ mistake!" replied Jacques Collin, taking 
 the measure of the young man. " I was found in the 
 house of a courtesan who was robbed after her death. 
 It was evident that she had killed herself; but the 
 robbers, who were probably the servants, were not 
 arrested." 
 
 " Was it on account of that robber3' the 3'oung man 
 hanged himself? " 
 
 " The poor lad could not endure the thought of being 
 disgraced by unjust imprisonment," replied Trompe-la- 
 Mort, raising his eyes to heaven. 
 
 17 
 
258 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 "Yes," said the 3'oung man, "for I am told they 
 were just going to release him when he committed sui- 
 cide. AYhat ill-luck ! " 
 
 "It is onl}' innocence that cannot bear the thought 
 of disgrace," said Jacques Collin. "Remark also that 
 the theft was a loss, not a gain, to him." 
 
 " How much did it amount to?" asked Fil-de-Soie, 
 the deep and shrewd. 
 
 " Seven hundred and fifty thousand francs," said 
 Jacques Collin, in a low voice. 
 
 The three convicts looked at each other, and retired 
 from the group which the other prisoners had formed 
 round the so-called ecclesiastic. 
 
 "It is he who has rince la profonde (rinsed 
 out, robbed) the girl," said Fil-de-Soie to Le Biffon, 
 in a low voice. " The}^ have tried to coquer le 
 taffe (frighten us ; toffe from the German taffen, 
 to be afraid) about our thunes de dalles (five-franc 
 pieces). 
 
 " He '11 always be the dab of the Grands Fanandels,^^ 
 said La Pouraille. "Our carle has not been decare 
 (made awa}' with)." 
 
 La Pouraille, who was looking for a man in whom 
 he could trust, had an interest in thinking Jacques 
 Collin honest. In prisons, above all other places, men 
 believe what they hope. 
 
 "I'll bet that he'll esquinte le dub de la Cigogne 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 259 
 
 (fool the attorn ej'-general) and cromjyer Theodore," 
 said Fil-de-8oie. 
 
 " If he does," said Le Biffon, '' I sha'n't exactl}' think 
 him Meg (God), bat he must have houffarde^ as they 
 sa}' he has, with the boalanger (smoked a pipe with the 
 devil)." 
 
 "Yes, that's so; didn't you hear him say, ' ie 
 boulanger abandons me'?" remarked Fil-de-Soie. 
 
 "Ah!" eried La rouraille, "if he would onl}' 
 crom.jyer ma sorbonne, what a viocque (hfe) I'd liave 
 with my fade de carle (share of our mone\') safe in his 
 hands, and ray ro7idins jau7ies servis (gold pieces 
 buried)." 
 
 '* Fais sa balle (follow his advice)," said Fil-de- 
 Soie. 
 
 '•'' Planches-tii (are you joking)?" replied La Pou- 
 raille, looking at his fanandel. 
 
 "Aren't you sinve (silly)!" exclaimed Le Biffon. 
 "You'll be gerhe a la jxisse (condemned to death); 
 therefore, you have n't any other lovrde ci i^Gssigner 
 (door you can force) to keep on 3'our paturons (feet), 
 and morfiler, dessalei', and goupiner (eat, drink, and 
 steal) again, except to lend him your back." 
 
 " One thing is certain," said La Pouraille, " not one 
 of us is to fail Xho, dub ; whoever does, I'll take him 
 with me where I am going." 
 
 " And he 11 do as he says !" cried Fil-de-Soie. 
 
260 The Last Inca7niation of Vautrin. 
 
 Persons who are least susceptible of S3'mpath3- tor 
 this strange world of criminals can now conceive the 
 state of mind of Jacques Collin, who saw on the one 
 hand the dead bod^' of the idol he had vvatched during 
 five terrible hours of the past night, and on the other, 
 the approaching death of his former chain companion, 
 Theodore Calvi. Even to see the latter, he had need 
 to display uncommon cleverness ; but to save him 
 would be a miracle ; and his mind alread}' turned that 
 way. 
 
 To understand what he now attempted, it is neces- 
 sary to remark here that thieves and murderers and 
 all those who people the galleys are not as formidable 
 as we believe them to be. Putting certain very rare 
 exceptions aside, they are all cowards, as the result, 
 no doubt, of the fear that is perpetually pressing on 
 their minds. Their faculties beinsj ceaselesslv bent on 
 stealing, and the execution of each exploit demanding 
 the employment of all the forces of life, an agility of 
 mind equal to that of tlie body, and an attention which 
 uses up their mental force, the}' become stupid outside 
 the range of these violent exercises of their will, for 
 the same reason that a singer or a dancer falls ex- 
 hausted after a fatiguing pas^ or one of tliose ter- 
 rible duos which modern composers inflict upon the 
 pubUc. 
 
 Evil-doers are, in fact, wlien not employed upon their 
 
TJie Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 261 
 
 special business, so devoid of reason, or so oppressed 
 I)}' fear, that the}' become under many circumstances 
 absolute children. Credulous to the last degree, the 
 simplest strateg}' will take them in. After the success 
 of some enterprise, the}' are in such a state of pros- 
 tration that they rush immediately into all forms of 
 debauchery, to recover calmness by exhausting all their 
 forces ; they seek forgetful ness of their crime in the 
 overthrow of their reason. In this condition, tliey are 
 at the mercy of the police. Once arrested, they are 
 blind, they lose their heads, they have so much need 
 of hope that they believe in everything ; and there is 
 no absurdity which tliey cannot be made to admit. An 
 example will serve to show to what lengths the stupid- 
 it}" of a captured criminal can go. Bibi-Lupin had 
 recently obtained the confession of a murderer, w'ho 
 was nineteen years of age, by inducing him to believe 
 that minors were never executed. When the young 
 fellow was transferred to the Conciergerie to undergo 
 his sentence after the rejection of his appeal, Bibi- 
 Lupin saw him. 
 
 ''Are you quite sure you are not twenty 3'ears old?" 
 said that terrible detective agent. 
 
 "Quite sure; I am only nineteen and a half," said 
 the murderer, who was perfectly calm. 
 
 "Well," replied Bibi-Lupin, "make yourself easy; 
 you never will be twenty." 
 
262 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " Because you will be fauche within three da3'S." 
 
 The murderer who still believed, even after his sen- 
 tence, that minors were never executed, collapsed like 
 an omelette soufflee. 
 
 These men, so cruel from the necessity of suppress- 
 ing testimonj', for they murder to destro}' proof (this 
 is one of the reasons put forth by those who oppose 
 the death penalty), these colossi of adroitness and abil- 
 ity, in whom the action of the hand, the rapidity of the 
 glance, in short, all the senses are trained like those 
 of savagjes, are onlv heroic evil-doers on the scene of 
 their exploits. The crime committed, not onh' do em- 
 barrassments begin (for the}^ are as doltish under the 
 necessity of hiding the proceeds of their theft as in the 
 rest of their conduct), but the}' are weakened ph3'sically, 
 like a woman after her confinement. Vii^orouslv enero-etic 
 in their conceptions of an evil deed, they are like chil- 
 dren after it succeeds. In a word, these men are wild 
 beasts, eas}* to kill when the}' are surfeited. Once in 
 prison, however, these singular beings become men in 
 dissimulation and silent discretion, who seldom give way 
 till the last instant, after the}' have been tortured and 
 exhausted by examinations and the length of their 
 imprisonment. 
 
 We can now understand how it was, that the three 
 fanandels^ instead of betraying their dab^ resolved to 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 263 
 
 serve him ; thej' suspected that he was master of the 
 seven hundred and fiftj^ thousand francs ; they admired 
 his calmness under the bolts and bars of the Con- 
 ciergerie ; and tliej' believed him cai)able of affording 
 them protection. 
 
264 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE CONDEMNED CELL. 
 
 When Monsieur Gault, the director of the Con- 
 ciergerie, left xX^Qpreau, he returned to his office through 
 the parlor, in order to find Bibi-Lupin, who for the 
 last twenty minutes had been watching Jacques Collin's 
 meeting with his fellow fancuidels through a peep-hole 
 constructed below one of the windows in that room. 
 
 '' None of them recognized him," said Monsieur 
 Gault; '"and Napolitas, who has watched them all, 
 detected nothing. The poor priest, in his despondency 
 through the night, said not a word that showed Jacques 
 Collin beneath his cassock." 
 
 "That proves onl}^ how well he knows prisons," 
 replied the detective afficer. 
 
 Napolitas, Bibi-Lupin's secretar}^, unknown to all 
 the prisoners then in the Conciergerie, had plaj'ed the 
 part of the 3'oung man of family arrested for forgerj'. 
 
 " He asks permission to confess the man who is now 
 to be executed." 
 
 " Good ! " said Bibi-Lupin, " that 's our last resource ; 
 I wonder I did not think of it. Theodore Calvi, that 
 young Corsican, was Jacques Collin's chain companion. 
 
The Last Tncarnatlon of Vautrin. 265 
 
 They used to su}- tluit Jacques Collin made him the 
 best ^9«?;a raises ev'ei' seen at the pre." 
 
 Galley-slaves make a sort of pad which they slip 
 between the iron ring and their flesh, so as to lessen 
 the pressure of the manicle on the ankle and instep. 
 These pads, made of tow and linen, are called at the 
 galleys, patarasses. 
 
 ''Who is watching the condemned man?" asked 
 Bibi-Lupin, addressing Monsieur Gault. 
 
 '^ Coeur-la-Virole." 
 
 "Good! then I'W p)iaiisser (new-skin) myself as a 
 gendarme and watch him m^'self. I shall hear tliem, 
 and I '11 answer for all." 
 
 " Are not you afraid that if it is Jacques Collin, 
 he might recognize you and strangle you ? " asked 
 Monsieur Gault. 
 
 " As a gendarme I shall have a sabre," replied the offi- 
 cer. " Besides, if it is Jacques Collin, he will never do 
 anything to let himself be gerber ci la passe (condemned 
 to death). If he is a priest, of course I am safe." 
 
 " There is no time to lose, then," said Monsieur 
 Gault ; " it is half-past eight ; P^re Sauteloup had just 
 read the rejection of the appeal, and Monsieur Sanson 
 is waiting for the order from the Parquet." 
 
 "Yes, the execution is fixed for to-day; the hus- 
 sards de la Veuve (veuve, widoiv, — another name, a 
 terrible name, for the guillotine) are ordered out," re- 
 
266 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 plied Bibi-Liipin. " I understand why it is that the 
 attorney-general hesitates. The fellow has steadil}" 
 declared his innocence, and to my mind there have not 
 been convincing proofs against him." 
 
 "He is a true Corsican," replied Monsieur Gault ; 
 "he has never said a word that could implicate him; 
 he resists all efforts to make him speak." 
 
 These last words contain the dismal historj' of a man 
 condemned to death, — a man whom law and justice 
 cut from the land of the living. The Parquet [the 
 attorne3'-general, his bureau, in general terms, the Law] 
 is sovereign ; it is dependent on none ; it acts of its 
 own conscience only. Prisons belong to the Parquet, 
 which is their absolute master. Poesy has laid hold 
 of the "man condemned to die," as a social subject 
 eminently fitted to strike the imagination. Poesy can 
 be, and has been, sublime on that topic; prose has 
 no resource, except reality, but that realit}' is terrible 
 enough to hold its own against poetical enthusiasm. 
 The life of a condemned criminal, who has not con- 
 fessed his crime or his accomplices, is one of fearful 
 torture. No longer subjected to the "boot," which 
 crushed the feet, nor to the pouring in of water to the 
 stomach, nor to the stretching of the limbs by horrible 
 machinery, the wretched man is delivered over to an 
 artful and, so to speak, negative torture. The Parquet 
 leaves him, after he is once sentenced, absolutely alone ; 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 2G7 
 
 in darkness and in silence, witli only one companion 
 (a spy), whom, of necessitN', he distrusts. 
 
 Amiable modern philanthropy thinks it knows all 
 about the horrible punishment of isolation ; it is quite 
 mistaken. Since the abolition of torture, the Parquet, 
 with a natural desire of comforting the alread\' too sen- 
 sitive consciences of juries, has discovered the terrible 
 resources of working upon remorse which solitar}' con- 
 finement gives to justice. Solitude is a vacuum, and 
 the moral nature abhors it as deeply as the ph3'sical 
 nature. Solitude is not habitable, except to the man 
 of genius who fills it with his ideas, — those virgins 
 of the spiritual world ; or to the contem})lator of 
 Divine w^orks, who finds it illuminated by the light 
 of heaven and filled b}- the breath and voice of God. 
 Outside of those two classes of men, so near to par- 
 adise, solitude is to torture what morals are to phys- 
 ics. Between solitude and torture, there is simply the 
 difference between nervous illness and a case of sur- 
 gery-. It is sufl^ering multiplied indefinitel}'. The bod}' 
 touches the infinite through the nervous system as the 
 spirit penetrates it b}- thought. Therefore, in the rec- 
 ords of the Parquet of Paris criminals who die without 
 confessing their crime are few in number. 
 
 This gloomy situation, which assumes enormous pro- 
 portions in certain cases (in politics for instance, when 
 the State or a dynasty is in question) , has a place of 
 
268 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 its own ill the " Corned}^ of Human Life." But here 
 and now, a description of the stone box in which, since 
 the Restoration, the Parquet of Paris keeps the pris- 
 oner who is condemned to death, must suffice to sliow 
 the horror of the last days of that man. 
 
 Before the revolution of July there existed, and still 
 exists, in the Conciergerie what is called the "death 
 chamber." This room adjoins the office, but is sepa- 
 rated from it by a massive wall ; it is also flanked by a 
 wall, seven feet thick, which supports a portion of the 
 vast Salle des Pas-perdus. It is entered from a long, 
 dark corridor, into which the 63-0 penetrates when we 
 stand in the middle of the great arched hall of the 
 guichet^ the office hall. This dismal room gets all its 
 light from a ventilator, protected by a heav}' iron grat- 
 ing, which is hardly noticeable as we enter the Con- 
 ciergerie. All escape from it is impossible. The 
 corridor, which leads to the solitary cells and the 
 women's quarter, opens in the hall near the stove, 
 round which the jailers and gendarmes are always 
 gathered. The ventilator, sole opening to the exte- 
 rior, nine feet above the floor, looks into the first 
 court-3'ard, guarded by sentries at the outer gate. No 
 human power could succeed in mining the walls ; more- 
 over, a criminal, when condemned to death, is instanth" 
 put into the camisole (strait-jacket), — an article which 
 deprives him of the use of his hands ; he is also chained 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 269 
 
 b}- the leg to his camp bedstead, and, as a final guard, 
 he is watched and fed by a mouton (police sp}). The 
 floor of this room is paved with thick stone blocks, and 
 the light is so feeble that the eye can barely distinguish 
 anything. 
 
 It is impossible not to feel chilled to the ver}" mar- 
 row of our bones in entering this dreadful place, even 
 to-day, when sixteen years have elapsed since this 
 death chamber has been used, — changes in the execu- 
 tion of criminal justice having altered the arrangements 
 of the prison. But imagine the criminal in that place 
 in company with his remorse, in silence and darkness, 
 ^ — two sources of horror, — and ask 3'ourselves if such 
 imprisonment was not enough to drive him mad. What 
 organizations those must be if their quality resists a 
 mental strain to which the strait-jacket adds that of 
 immobility, inaction ! 
 
 Theodore Calvi, the Corsican, now twenty-seven 3'ears 
 of age, had wrapped himself in a veil of absolute 
 silence, and for two months had resisted the effects of 
 this dungeon, and the insidious chatter of his attendant 
 sp3'. The following account of the singular criminal 
 case which had led to the Corsican's condemnation is 
 worth reading. Although it is extremel}' curious, the 
 analysis here given will be ^-ery rapid ; for it is impos- 
 sible to make a long digression in a scene which seeks 
 to offer no other interest than that surrounding Jacques 
 
270 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 Collin, — a species of vertebral column, who by his 
 dangerous influence is bound up, so to speak, with 
 other volumes of this stud}' of manners and customs, — 
 namely, " Pere Goriot," " The Great Man of the Prov- 
 inces in Paris," and " Lucien de Rubempre." The 
 imagination of the reader will develop for itself the 
 mysteries of a crime which at this moment was causing 
 great uneasiness to the judges and juries of the court 
 before which Theodore Calvi had been tried. Since the 
 day when the criminal's petition had been rejected by 
 the Court of Appeals, the attorney-general, Monsieur de 
 Granville, had studied the case, and, in consequence, had 
 delayed the execution of the sentence from daj^ to day, so 
 anxious was he to reassure the jurors b}' making known 
 publicly that the criminal had confessed his crime. 
 
 A poor widow at Nanterre, living in a lonely house 
 in that township, which is situated, as we all know, in 
 the middle of the arid plain which lies between Mont- 
 Valerien, Saint-Germain, the hills of Sartrouville, and 
 d'Argenteuil, was murdered and robbed a few days 
 after she had received her share of an unexpected 
 legacy. This share consisted of three thousand francs 
 in mone}', a dozen forks and spoons, a chain, a gold 
 watch, and some linen. Instead of investing the money 
 in Paris, as the notar}' of the man who bequeathed it 
 advised, the old woman chose to keep it b}' her. In 
 the first place, she had never before seen so much 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 271 
 
 money of her own ; and in the next, she distrusted 
 every living soul in matters of business, as country- 
 people of the working-classes generally do. but after 
 much discussion with a wine-merchant of Kanterre, 
 who was her relation, and also the relation of the 
 deceased man, the widow finall}' resolved to buy an 
 annuit}', sell her house at Nanterre, and go to live as 
 a bourgeoise at Saint-Germain. 
 
 The house she occupied, surrounded b}' a large gar- 
 den inclosed bv a miserable fence, was the usual poor 
 abode which small farmers in the neighborhood of Paris 
 build for themselves. Plaster and rough stone, being 
 plentiful at Nanterre, where the land is honeycombed 
 with quarries worked on the surface, had been hastih' 
 put together, as we often see near Paris, without the 
 slightest architectural idea. Such constructions are the 
 huts of civilized savages. This particular house con- 
 sisted of a ground-floor and a second floor, above which 
 w^ere the attics. The husband of this woman, and the 
 builder of the house, w4io had owned a quarry, had put 
 ver}' solid iron bars to all the windows. The entrance 
 door was also remarkably solid. The man must have 
 feared their loneh* life in the open country, — and such 
 a country' ! His business connections were ehiefl}' with 
 the master-masons of Paris, and from thence he brought 
 back in his empt}' carts the more important materials 
 of his house, which was built about five hundred feet 
 
272 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 from the quarry. He picked out the things he wanted 
 among the various " demoUtions" of Paris, and bought 
 them at a very low price. Thus the windows, iron 
 raiUngs, doors, blinds, and all cabinet-work, came from 
 authorized destruction, or were gifts made to him by 
 his customers, the masons. The house, approached 
 through a good-sized court-3'ard, in which were the 
 stables, was inclosed from the main road by walls. A 
 strong iron railing made the gate ; watch-dogs were in 
 the stable, and a small dog was kept in the house at 
 night. Behind this building lay a garden of rather 
 more than two acres in extent. 
 
 The wife of the quarry-man, now a widow without 
 children, lived alone in the house with a single servant. 
 The sale of the quarr}' had paid off the debts of her 
 late husband, who had been dead two years. The sole 
 propert}^ of the widow was the lonel}' house, where she 
 kept cows and chickens, selling the milk and eggs in 
 Nanterre. As she no longer kept either a stable-man, a 
 carter, or laborers in the quarr}', the garden was not 
 cultivated and all the vegetables she ate came up of 
 themselves in the stony soil. 
 
 The proceeds of the sale of the house, and her late 
 inheritance amounted in all to about eight thousand 
 francs, and the widow thought herself very luck}' to be 
 able to live at Saint-Germain on the annuity of seven 
 or eight hundred francs which she expected to get 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 273 
 
 from the investment. She had held several confer- 
 ences with a notarj' at Saint- Germain, for she refused 
 to take an annuity from her cousin the wine-merchant 
 at Nanterre, who had offered her the investment. 
 
 This was the state of things when it was noticed 
 one day that neither the widow Pigeau nor her servant- 
 woman had been seen for some time. At the end of 
 three days, the law, informed of this fact, went to work ; 
 Monsieur Popinot, an examining judge, and the public 
 prosecutor came down from Paris, and the following 
 facts were established : — 
 
 Neither the iron gates of the court-yard, nor the en- 
 trance door to the house showed an}^ sign of burglar}'. 
 The key was in the lock of the front door on the in- 
 side. Not a single iron bar had been forced. The 
 locks, blinds, in short, all the means of closing the 
 house, were intact. The walls showed no trace what- 
 ever of the passage of evil-doers. The chimnej's being 
 of tile flues did not afford an}' practicable entrance. 
 The roofs were sound and in proper condition, and 
 showed no signs of violence. AYhen the magistrates, 
 the gendarmes, and Bibi-Lupin reached the bedrooms 
 on the second floor, they found the widow Pigeau stran- 
 gled in lier bed, and the servant strangled in hers with 
 their own night-handkerchiefs. The two bodies were 
 in a state of putrefaction ; so were the bodies of the 
 two watch-dogs and the little house-dog. The three 
 
 '18 
 
274 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 thousand francs had been taken as well as the forks 
 and spoons and jewels. The garden fence was next 
 examined ; it had not been broken. Within the gar- 
 dens the paths showed no trace of any one having 
 passed along them. The judge thought it probable 
 that the murderer had walked on the grass to avoid 
 leaving footprints, in case he had entered the premises 
 at the back. But, even so, how did he get into the 
 house? On the garden side, the door had a frame in 
 which were three iron bars that were found to be in- 
 tact. The ke}^ was in the lock on tlie inside as at the 
 front door. 
 
 When the fact of these impossibilities was plainly 
 demonstrated by Monsieur Popinot and Bibi-Lupin, who 
 spent a whole day on the premises, observing every- 
 thing, and also by the public prosecutor and the com- 
 mander of the post at Nanterre, the murder became 
 a terrible problem, before which justice and the law 
 seemed forced to succumb. 
 
 This drama, which was published in the " Gazette 
 des Tribunaux," took place in the winter of 1828 and 
 1829. Heaven knows what an excitement of curiosity 
 the m3'Sterious crime stirred up in Paris. But Paris 
 finds new dramas to batten on every morning, and soon 
 forgets each one. The police, however, forget nothing. 
 Three months after the abortive inquiry, a girl of the 
 town, who was being observed by the agents of Bibi- 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 275 
 
 Lupin in consequence of her sudden extravagance, and 
 watched on account of her acquaintance with certain 
 thieves, endeavored ineffectually to pawn, through a 
 friend, twelve knives and forks and a gold watch and 
 chain. This fact reached the ears of Bibi-Lupin, who 
 renaembered such articles as being stolen at Nanterre. 
 The commissioners of the Mont-de-Piete, and all the 
 second-hand dealers in Paris who -were known to be 
 receivers of stolen goods were notified, and Bibi-Lupin 
 put the girl, who was called Manon-la-blonde, under 
 strict surveillance. 
 
 Now Manon-la-blonde was deeply in love with a 
 5'oung man who was little known, and was thought to 
 be indifferent to the fair Manon. Myster}' upon mj's- 
 ter}^ This young man, when subjected after this dis- 
 cover}^ to the attention of spies, was found to be no 
 other than an escaped galley-slave, a famous hero of 
 several Corsican vendettas, the handsome Theodore 
 Calvi. 
 
 A treacherous receiver of stolen goods, one of those 
 dealers who serve both criminals and police, was 
 launched upon Theodore, and after sundrj' negotiations 
 he agreed to buy the plate and the watch and chain. 
 At the moment when this man was counting out the 
 mone}' to Theodore, who was disguised as a woman, 
 the police made a descent upon the shop, arrested Calvi, 
 and seized the articles. The examination at once be- 
 
276 The Last Incarnation of Vautriii. 
 
 gan. From such feeble elements it was impossible to 
 draw out, to use the Parquet's term, a capital offence. 
 Calvi never contradicted himself; his statement was 
 not confused. He said that a country' woman had sold 
 him those articles at Argenteuil ; after having bought 
 them, he heard of the murder at Nanterre and saw the 
 danger of possessing articles which, having been de- 
 scribed in the inventor}' of the deceased uncle's prop- 
 erty, were known to have been in the possession of the 
 murdered woman. Finalh', being compelled b}' pov- 
 erty to sell these articles he had tried to get rid of 
 them by employing a young woman, who was not other- 
 wise mixed up in the affair. 
 
 Nothing further could be obtained from the Corsican, 
 who was able by his firmness and his silence to put into 
 the mind of the authorities an idea that the wine-mer- 
 chant of Nanterre was the guilty person, and that his 
 wife had sold the stolen articles. The unfortunate 
 cousin of the late widow and his wife were arrested; 
 but after a week's imprisonment and close examination 
 it was proved that neither husband nor wife had left 
 their place of business during the time when the mur- 
 der was committed. Moreover, Calvi did not recognize 
 in the wife the woman who, as he declared, had sold 
 him the property. 
 
 As Manon-la blonde, who was implicated in the affair, 
 was proved to have spent over a thousand francs be- 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 211 
 
 tween the period of the murder and the time when she, 
 at Calvi's request, tried to pawn the stolen articles, 
 such proof was thought sufficient to send botli the ex- 
 convict and his concubine before the court of assizes. 
 This murder was the eighteenth committed b}' the Cor- 
 sican ; he was judged guilty, and condemned to death, 
 for he seemed to be the author of the crime so skilfull}' 
 committed. The examination had proved by a number 
 of witnesses that Calvi was at Nanterre for over a 
 month at the time of the murder ; he had worked for 
 masons, and his face was constantl}' covered with dust 
 and plaster. All who saw him at Nanterre declared 
 that he was only eighteen years old, and he must have 
 plotted and prepared the crime for a month before 
 committing it. 
 
 The Parquet believed he had accomplices. Thej' 
 measured the tubes of the chimney to see if Manon-la- 
 blonde's slender body could have passed through them ; 
 but a child of six could n't have slipped through the 
 tile-pipes which modern architects substitute for the 
 huge chimne}' flues of former da^'s. It was this irri- 
 tating and singular uncertaintv which delayed the exe- 
 cution of Theodore's sentence. The prison chaplain 
 had, as we have already heard, totally failed in obtain- 
 ing a confession from him. 
 
 This affair and Calvi's name appear to have escaped 
 the attention of Jacques Collin, then preoccupied with 
 
278 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 his own plot against Nucingen. Moreover, Trompe- 
 la-Mort had avoided as much as possible les amis, and 
 all connected with the Palais de Justice. To be brought 
 face to face with a /anandel might subject the ddb to a 
 demand for an accounting he could not make. 
 
 The director of the Conciergerie went at once to the 
 office of the attorne3'-general, and there found the public 
 prosecutor talking with Monsieur de Granville, and 
 holding the order for execution in his hand. Monsieur 
 de Granville, who had spent the night at the h6tel de 
 Seriz}', overwhelmed with fatigue and anxiet}' (for the 
 physicians dared not affirm as 3'et that the countess 
 would keep her reason), was nevertheless obliged by 
 this important execution to be at his office earh\ 
 After talking a few moments with the director, Mon- 
 sieur de Granville took back the order of execution 
 from his assistant and gave it to Gault. 
 
 *'Let the execution take place," he said, "unless 
 extraordinarj' circumstances appear, and of those you 
 must judge ; I trust wholly in your prudence. The}" 
 can delay putting up the scaffold until half-past ten 
 o'clock ; you have, therefore, an hour left. In sucli a 
 case hours are equal to centuries, and many events 
 may occur in a centur}'. Do not give an}' hope of a 
 reprieve. Let the toilette be made if necessarj- ; and 
 if the prisoner makes no confession, give Sanson the 
 order for execution b}- half-past ten. Let him wait till 
 then." 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 279 
 
 As the director was leaving the office of the attorne}'- 
 general, he met Monsieur Camusot in tlie vaulted pas- 
 sage which leads to the galler}', who was on his wa^' to 
 find Monsieur de Granville. He stopped, and had a 
 rapid conversation with the judge, whom he informed 
 of all that had happened at the Conciergerie in relation 
 to Jacques Collin ; then he hurried on to superintend 
 the confronting of Trompe-la-Mort with his former chain 
 companion. He did not, however, permit the self- 
 stvled ecclesiastic to see the condemned man until 
 Bibi-Lupin, admirably disguised as a. gendarme, had 
 taken the place of the police sp}' who was watching the 
 3'oung Corsican. 
 
 It is impossible to describe the astonishment of the 
 %\\YQQ fa7ia7idels when they saw a jailer come in search 
 of Jacques Collin to take him to the condemned cell. 
 They jumped toward the chair in which Jacques Collin 
 was sitting, simultaneously. 
 
 "Is it for to-day, Monsieur Julien?" asked Fil-de- 
 Soie of the jailer. 
 
 *'Yes, Chariot is there," replied the ofl^cial, with 
 perfect indifference. 
 
 The populace and the world that inhabits prisons 
 give that name to the executioner of Paris. It dates 
 back to the revolution of 1789. The name produced a 
 profound sensation. All the prisoners looked at each 
 other. 
 
280 The Last Incarnation of Vaittrin. 
 
 " It is settled," said the jailer, in reply to some in- 
 quiries. " Monsieur Gault has received the order for 
 execution, and the sentence has just been read." 
 
 "So," said La Pouraille, "the lad has had all the 
 sacraments." 
 
 And he drew in a long breath. 
 
 "Poor little Theodore ! " cried Le Biffon ; "he is a 
 nice little chap. It is a pity to eternuer dans le son 
 (sneeze into the bran, the basket of the guillotine) at 
 his age." 
 
 The jailer went toward the guichet^ thinking that the 
 Spanish priest followed him ; but Jacques Collin walked 
 slowly, and when he saw the jailer ten steps ahead of 
 him, he turned faint, and signed to La Pouraille to give 
 him an arm. 
 
 " He 's a murderer," said Napolitas, motioning to La 
 Pouraille, and offering to the priest his own arm. 
 
 " No, to me he is a sufferer," replied Trompe-la- 
 Mort, with the presence of mind and unction of the 
 archbishop of Cambrai. 
 
 He walked awa}^ from Napolitas, who had seemed to 
 him suspicious from the moment he laid eyes on him, 
 and said rapidly in a low voice to the \X\yqq fanandels i 
 
 " He is on the first step of the Ahhaye-de-Monte-h- 
 Regret^ but I 'm the prior. I '11 show you how to en- 
 tijier la Cicogne (lead to church, get round the law). 
 I '11 cromper that sorhonne from its clutches, — I seek 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 281 
 
 to give that soul to heaven ! " he added, with fervor, 
 as he saw the prisoners pressing round him. 
 
 He overtook the jailer at the guichet. 
 
 " He came to save Theodore," said Fil-de-Soie, — 
 "we o'uessed riofht. What a dub/" 
 
 "How can he save liim? The hussards de la gidl- 
 lotine are there ; he won't even be allowed to see him," 
 said Le Biffon. 
 
 " He has le boulanger on his side ! " cried La Pou- 
 raille. " He, poisser nos phiU2?pes (crib our money) ! 
 — not he ! He loves les amis too well ; he has too 
 much need of us. The}' 've been tr3ing to put us (X 
 la manque pour lid (fail, betra}' him) ; but we are not 
 gnioles (ninnies) . If he can cromper Theodore he shall 
 have ma balle (m}' secret)." 
 
 These last words onl}' served to increase the devo- 
 tion of the three convicts to their master. From that 
 moment their famous dab became all their hope. 
 
 Jacques Collin now pla3'ed his part without a failure. 
 He, who knew the Conciergerie as well as he knew the 
 three galleys, mistook the wa}' so naturall}' that the 
 jailer was obliged to say to him at every turn, "This 
 way," •' That way," until the}' reached the greffe (the 
 chief, or registration, office). There Jacques Collin saw 
 at a glance, leaning against the stove, a large man 
 dressed in black, with a long and ruddy face which 
 was not without a certain distinction, in whom he 
 recosrnized Sanson. 
 
282 The Last Incarnation of Vaiitrin, 
 
 "Monsieur is the chaplain?" he said, going up to 
 him with an air of cordialit}'. 
 
 This mistake was so dreadful that it horrified the 
 spectators. 
 
 " No, monsieur," replied Sanson, " I have other 
 functions.'' 
 
 This Sanson, the father of the last executioner (from 
 whom the office has latel}^ been taken), was the son 
 of the Sanson who executed Lous XVT. 
 
 After an hereditary exercise of this function for four 
 hundred j'ears, the heir of so man}'- torturers had at- 
 tempted to cast off the burden of this entail. The 
 Sansons, executioners at Rouen during a period of 
 two centuries before they were promoted to the first 
 office of their calling in the kingdom, had executed 
 Jthe sentences of the law, from father to son, since 
 the thirteenth centur3\ There are few families who 
 can show an example of a genealogy preserved from 
 father to son for six centuries. The man whom we 
 now see was a cavalry captain w^th ever}- prospect 
 of a gallant career before him, when his father com- 
 pelled him to assist in the execution of the King. 
 After that, when the countless executions of 1793 re- 
 quired two scaffolds (one at the Barriere du Tr6ne, the 
 other on the place de Greve), he made him his second. 
 About sixty 3'ears of age at the time of which we now 
 write, this terrible functionary was noticeable for his 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautriii. 283 
 
 gentle and composed manner, the good taste of his 
 dress, and his deep contempt for Bibi-Liipin and his 
 acolytes, the purveyors of the guillotine. The oulj- 
 indication in the man which betra3'ed the blood of the 
 old torturers was the breadth and the extraordinarj' 
 thickness of his hands. Sufficiently well-educated, valu- 
 ing higlih' his status as citizen and elector, passion- 
 ately' devoted, it was said, to gardening, this tall, stout 
 man with a low voice, a calm demeanor, a broad and 
 bald forehead, and habituall}' silent, was far more like 
 a member of the British aristocracj' than the execu- 
 tioner of France. Consequently, a Spanish canon might 
 easil}' have committed the mistake which Jacques Collin 
 committed intentionallj'. 
 
 "He is not a convict," said the head -jailer to the 
 director. 
 
 " I begin to think so m^'self," replied Monsieur 
 Gault, nodding to his subordinate. 
 
 Jacques Collin was at once ushered into the sort of 
 cellar where 3'oung Theodore, in a strait-jacket, was 
 sitting on the edge of his horrible iron bedstead. 
 Trompe-la-Mort, taking instant advantage of the light 
 tlirown into the cell bj' the opening of the door, recog- 
 nized his enemy Bibi-Lupin in the gendarme who was 
 standing on guard and leaning on his sabre. 
 
 " lo sono Gabha-Morte. Paiia nostra italiano^^^ 
 said Jacques Collin, quickl}'. " Vei^go ti salvar." (" I 
 
284 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 am Trompe-la-Mort ; speak Italian ; I come to save 
 you.") 
 
 All that the two comrades now said to each other was 
 unintelUgible to the false gendarme, and as Bibi-Lupin 
 was there as guard over the prisoner he dared not 
 leave his post. The wrath of the chief of the detective 
 police may be imagined. 
 
 Theodore Calvi, a young man with a sallow, olive 
 skin, fair hair, and hollow eyes of a misty blue, ex- 
 tremely well-made, and possessing that amazing mus- 
 cular strength which is found concealed under the 
 lymphatic appearance of many Southerners, would 
 have had a most charming countenance were it not for 
 a retreating forehead, arched eyebrows, red lips of sav- 
 age cruelty, and a twitching of the muscles of the face, 
 denoting that faculty for irritation especially charac- 
 teristic of Corsicans which makes them so prompt to 
 assassinate in a sudden quarrel. 
 
 Amazed at the sound of Jacques Collin's voice, 
 Theodore raised his head, believing it was some hallu- 
 cination. Then, as a two months' sojourn in that stone 
 box had accustomed his eyes to the darkness, he saw 
 that the new-comer was a priest, and he sighed heavily. 
 He did not recognize Jacques Collin, whose face, seamed 
 by the action of sulphuric acid, did not resemble that of 
 his ddh. 
 
 "It is I, your Jacques ; I have made myself a priest, 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 285 
 
 and I come to save you. Don't be fool enough to recog- 
 nize me ; seem to be confessing to me." 
 
 This was said very rapidly. 
 
 " The 3'oung man appears to be much broken down ; 
 death terrifies him. I think he will confess ah," said 
 Jacques Collin, addressing the gendarme. 
 
 " Tell me something to prove that you are he ; for 
 you have nothing about you but his voice," said 
 Theodore. 
 
 *' Poor 3'outh ! he tells me he is innocent," said 
 Jacques Collin, still addressing the gendarme. 
 
 Bipi-Lupin dared not answer for fear of being 
 recognized. 
 
 " Semx)re mi^" replied Jacques Collin to Theodore, 
 uttering their private password in his ear. 
 
 " fSempre ti," murmured the 3'oung man, giving the 
 right reply. ''Yes, you are indeed my dab." 
 
 " Did you do the trick (commit the murder) ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Tell me all, so that I may see how to save 3-00. 
 There is no time to lose. Chariot is here." 
 
 The Corsican at once knelt down at the priest's feet, 
 and seemed about to confess. Bibi-Lupin was at a loss 
 what to do, for the conversation was so rapid it took 
 less time to carry it on than it does to read it. Theo- 
 dore related all the circumstances of his crime, Jacques 
 Collin being ignorant of them. 
 
286 The Last Incarnation of Vantrin. 
 
 '' The jury condemned me without proof," he said, in 
 conclusion. 
 
 " Child, you are arguing when the}' are about to cut 
 your hair ! " 
 
 " I was really only chargeable with pawning the 
 jewels. That 's how people judge, — and in Paris, 
 too ! " 
 
 " How was it done?" asked Trompe-la-Mort. 
 
 "Ha! this way. Since I saw 3'ou I've made the 
 acquaintance of a Corsican girl. I met her when I 
 came to Paris." 
 
 "Men who are foolish enough to fall in love with 
 women," exclaimed Jacques Collin, " perish that way. 
 They are tigers out of cages, — tigers who gossip, and 
 have looking-glasses. You were very foolish." 
 
 "But — " 
 
 " Go on ; tell me what that damned woman did for 
 3'ou." 
 
 " That love of a woman — slim as an eel, active as a 
 monkey — slipped through the top of the oven, and 
 opened the door of the house to me. The dogs were 
 poisoned. I chilled the two women. After we got the 
 money and things, Ginetta locked the door, and got out 
 through the oven." 
 
 " Such cleverness as that deserves to live," said 
 Jacques Collin, admiring the workmanship of the crime 
 as a carver admires a beautiful figurine. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 287 
 
 " But I committed the foil}' of displaying all that 
 cleverness for a paltry three thousand francs." 
 
 " No, for a woman ! " said Jacques Collin. " I tell 
 3'ou the}' rob us of our intellects ; " and he cast a look of 
 sovereign contempt on Theodore. 
 
 " You were gone, and I had no one to look to," 
 replied the Corsican. 
 
 "Do you love the girl?" asked Jacques Collin, 
 somewhat moved by that appeal. 
 
 '' Ah ! if I live, J 'd rather follow you than her." 
 
 ''Well, make 3'ourself easy; I am not named 
 Trompe-la-Mort for nothing. I take upon myself to 
 save 3'OU." 
 
 "What! my life?" cried the 3'oung Corsican, striv- 
 ing to raise his swaddled arms to the damp stone roof 
 of his dungeon. 
 
 " My bo3', 3'ou must be prepared to go back to the 
 old galle3's," continued Jacques Collin. " That can't 
 be helped ; 3'ou don't expect, do 30U, to be crowned 
 with roses, like the carnival bull? If we are booked 
 for Rochefort, it is because they want to get rid of us 
 and kill us. But T '11 tr3' to get 3-ou sent to Toulon ; 
 there 3'ou can easil3' escape, and come back to Paris, 
 where I will set 3'ou up in some nice little business." 
 
 A sigh such as those inflexible walls had seldom 
 heard, — a sigh of happiness for deliverance beat upon 
 the stone, which echoed back the sound to the ears of 
 the bewildered Bibi-Lupin. 
 
288 The Last I)icarnatlon of Vautrin. 
 
 " See the result of the absolution that I have prom- 
 ised him," said Jacques Collin to the detective. "These 
 Corsicans, monsieur, are full of faith I But he is as in- 
 nocent of this crime as a child unborn ; and I shall now 
 attempt to save him." 
 
 " God be with you, monsieur I'abbe/' said Theodore 
 in French. 
 
TJiG Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 289 
 
 VI. 
 
 MADEMOISELLE COLLIN APPEARS UPON THE SCENE. 
 
 Trompe-la-Mort, more priestl>' than ever, hastened 
 out of the condemned cell and through the corridor, 
 to the director's office, where he pla3ed horror to Mon- 
 sieur Gault most effectively. 
 
 " Monsieur le directeur, the 3'oung man is innocent; 
 be has revealed to me the guilty person. He was about 
 to die for a point of honor, like a true Corsican! I 
 pray 3'ou ask the attorne3'-general to grant me an in- 
 terview for five minutes. Monsieur de Granville will 
 not refuse to listen immediatel3' to a Spanish priest 
 who has suffered so much himself from the mistakes 
 of French law." 
 
 " I will go at once," replied Monsieur Gault, to the 
 great astonishment of all present. 
 
 " But," said Jacques Collin, " will 3-ou kindly have 
 me sent back to that 3'ard in the mean time. There 
 is a man there who had begun to confess himself wlien 
 you sent for me ; I desire to complete his conversion. 
 Ah ! those men have hearts." 
 
 This speech produced a stir among all the spectators 
 of the extraordinary scene. The gendarmes, the turn- 
 
 19 
 
290 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 ke3's, the jailers, Sanson himself, and his assistant who 
 was waiting to " set up the machine," as the prison 
 term is, — these persons, whom all ordinary emotions 
 left untouched, were moved by a curiosity' that is 
 readily conceivable. 
 
 At this moment the noise of an equipage with spir- 
 ited horses, pulled up on the quay before the outer 
 gate of the Conciergerie, made itself heard. The car- 
 riage door was opened, and the steps let down in a 
 manner to imply the arrival of a personage of impor- 
 tance. Presentl}' a lady waving a blue paper presented 
 herself at the gate of the guichet, followed by a foot- 
 man and a chasseur. She was dressed in black, but 
 ver}' magnificently ; a veil was over her bonnet, and 
 she was stanching her tears with an embroidered 
 handkerchief. 
 
 Jacques Collin instantly recognized Asia, or to give 
 the woman at last her right name, Jacqueline Collin, 
 his aunt. This wicked old woman, worthy of her 
 nephew, held in her hand a permit granted the even- 
 ing before to the waiting-maid of the Duchesse de 
 Maufrigneuse, on the recommendation of the Comte 
 de Serizy, to communicate with Lucien de Rubempre 
 and the Abbe Don Carlos Herrera so soon as the latter 
 should be released from solitary confinement. On this 
 order the chief of the department of prisons had writ- 
 ten a few lines. The color of the paper was sufficient 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 291 
 
 to impl}' its importance ; for these permissions, like 
 gratis tlieatre-tiekets, differ in form and color. 
 
 Consequentl}' the gate-warder opened the two iron 
 doors, especial!}' after noticing the plumed chasseur^ 
 whose green and gold uniform, as dazzling as that of 
 a Russian general, announced. an aristocratic visitor 
 with a blazon that was almost royal. 
 ' "Ah! m}- dear abbe," cried the false great lad}*, 
 shedding a torrent of tears when she beheld tlie eccle- 
 siastic. " How could the}' put so saintly a man here, 
 even for a moment?" 
 
 The director took the permit and read the words, 
 " On the recommendation of his Excellenc}' the Comte 
 de Serizy. 
 
 "Ah! Madame di San-Esteban, Madame la mar- 
 quise," said Carlos Herrera, '• what noble devotion ! " 
 
 "Madame, no communication is allowed with the 
 prisoners in this place," said the good old Gault. 
 
 And he himself stopped the advance of the portly 
 mass of black moire and lace. 
 
 " But at this distance," said Jacques Collin, " and be- 
 fore all present? " and he cast a circular glance around 
 the assembh*. 
 
 His aunt, whose dress must have amazed the whole 
 office, director, jailers, and gendarmes, was redolent of 
 musk. She wore, besides laces worth thousands of 
 francs, a black cashmere shawl worth six thousand. 
 
292 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 The chasseur paraded the court-3'ard of the Conci- 
 ergerie with all the insolence of a lacquey who feels 
 himself indispensable to a princess. He did not speak 
 to the footman, who kept his station near the gate 
 which opened upon the quay. 
 
 "What do 3'ou wish? what am I to do?" asked 
 Madame di San Esteban, in the argot agreed upon 
 between the aunt and nephew. 
 
 This argot consisted in giving terminations in ar or 
 in or^ or in al or in i, so as to make all words, either 
 French or argot, unintelligible. It was the diplomatic 
 cipher applied to language. 
 
 "Put all the letters in a sure place, take the most 
 compromising, come back in rags to the Salle des Pas- 
 perdus and wait mj' orders." 
 
 Asia, tliat is, Jacqueline, knelt down as if to receive 
 a benediction, and the false abbe blessed his aunt with 
 evangelical unction. 
 
 " AclcUo, marchesa^^^ he said, adding rapidly in their 
 own argot : " Find Europe and Paccard with the seven 
 hundred thousand francs that they filched ; I want them." 
 
 " There 's Paccard," replied the pious marchesa, 
 looking toward the chasseur witii tears in her ej'es. 
 
 This readiness of comprehension brought not only 
 a smile, but also an expression of surprise to the face 
 of a man wlio could no longer be astonished by any 
 one but his aunt. The false marchesa turned toward 
 
Tlie Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 293 
 
 the witnesses of this singular scene witli the manner 
 of a woman who is accustomed to take a position in 
 the world. 
 
 '' He is in despair at being unable to attend the 
 obsequies of his child," she said in bad French; " for 
 this frightful mistake of the police has brought to light 
 his painful secret. I m3'self am now on my way to 
 the mortuar}' mass. Here, monsieur," she added to 
 Monsieur Gault, giving him a purse full of gold, " is 
 something with which to comfort the poor prisoners." 
 
 " Famous move! " muttered her well-pleased nephew 
 in her ear. 
 
 Jacques Collin then followed the jailer, who took him 
 back into the preau. 
 
 Bidi-Lupin, in despair, having at last managed to 
 attract the attention of the gendarme, to whom he 
 hemmed significantl}', was now released from the coii^ 
 demned cell. But he did not reach the ofBce in time 
 to see the great lady, who had by that time disappeared 
 in her brilliant equipage. 
 
 " Three hundred halles [francs] for the prisoners ! '' 
 said the head-jailer, showing Bibi-Lupin the purse which 
 Monsieur Gault had given to his clerk. 
 
 " Let me see, Monsieur Jacomety," said Bibi-Lupin. 
 
 The head of the detective police took the purse, 
 emptied the gold into his hand, and examined it 
 attentively. 
 
294 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 "It is vQfxWy gold ! " he said, " and the purse is bla- 
 zoned. Ah, the scoundrel, how strong he is ! He is 
 armed at all points ; he ought to be shot like a dog ! " 
 
 " Wh}' so? " asked the clerk, taking back the purse. 
 
 "That woman is, no doubt, a thief!" cried Bibi- 
 Lupin, stamping with rage on the stone pavement of 
 the guicJtet. 
 
 These words produced a sensation among the specta- 
 tors grouped at a little distance from Monsieur Sanson, 
 who still stood leaning with his back against the huge 
 porcelain stove placed in the centre of that vaulted 
 hall, where he awaited the order to make the criminal's 
 " toilette " and set up the guillotine on the place de 
 Greve. 
 
 As soon as Jacques ColHn re-entered the preau, he 
 walked toward the three faiiandels. 
 
 " What have 3'ou got ahead of you? " he said to La 
 Pouraille. 
 
 " I'm done for," rephed the murderer, whom Jacques 
 Collin led aside into a coiner. " What ,1 want now is 
 a safe friend." 
 
 "W^hy?" 
 
 La Pouraille related in argot his various crimes, 
 ending with the details of the murder and robbery of 
 the Crottats. 
 
 " I respect 3'ou," said Jacques Collin ; " the affair 
 was well done. But you seem to me to have committed 
 one mistake." 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 295 
 
 *' What was that?" 
 
 " The matter once accomi)lished, 3*011 ought to have 
 got a Russian passport, disguised yourself as a Russian 
 prince, bought a carriage with a coat of arms, gone 
 boldh' to a banker and deposited 3'our gold, and asked 
 for a letter of credit on Hamburg, and then embarked 
 for Mexico. With tw^o hundred and eight}' thousand 
 francs in hand, a clever fellow like j'ou could go where 
 he chose and do as he liked, you simpleton ! " 
 
 " Ah ! you can have those ideas because you are cldh / 
 you never lose vour head, not vou ! But I — " 
 
 " Well, well, good advice to a man in your position 
 is broth for the dead ! " replied Jacques Collin, casting 
 one of his compelling glances on the convict. 
 
 " True," said La Pouraille, doubtfully ; " but give 
 me the broth all the same. If it can't nourish me, I 
 can make a foot-bath of it." 
 
 " Here you are in tlie hands of the Cicogne^ with 
 five robberies, under aggravated circumstances, and 
 three murders to answer for, — the last of which con- 
 cerns two rich bourgeois. Jurors don't like to have 
 the bourgeois killed. You will certainl}' be gerhe a la 
 l^asse ; there 's not the slightest hope for you." 
 
 " So the}' all tell me," replied La Pouraille, ruefull}'. 
 
 " M}' aunt Jacqueline, with whom I've just had a 
 bit of a task before the whole grejfe, and who is, 
 3'ou know, la mere des fa?iandels, told me that the 
 
296 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 Cicogne wanted to get rid of you because 3'ou were 
 dangerous." 
 
 " But," said La Pouraille, with a naivete which 
 proves how imbued robbers are with a sense of their 
 natural right to rob, " I am rich now, why should they 
 fear me an}' longer? " 
 
 " We have n't time to talk philosophy," replied 
 Jacques Collin. "Come back to your situation — " 
 
 "What do you want to do with me?" asked La 
 Pouraille, interrupting his dab. 
 
 " You shall see ; a dead dog is worth something." 
 
 " For others," said La Pouraille. 
 
 "I'll take you into my game," continued Jacques 
 Collin. 
 
 "That's something," said the murderer. "What 
 next?" 
 
 " I don't ask where your money is, but what you 
 want to do with it?" 
 
 La Pouraille watched the impenetrable eye of his ddb 
 as the latter continued, coldly : — 
 
 " Have 3'ou some largue you love, or a child, or a 
 fanandel to protect? I shall be at liberty very soon, 
 and I can do everything for those you wish to benefit." 
 
 La Pouraille hesitated ; he stood wavering with in- 
 decision. Jacques Collin brought forward a final 
 argument. 
 
 " Your share in our funds is thirty thousand francs. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 297 
 
 Do you want to leave it to tlie fanandels^ or will you 
 give it to some one else? The money is at hand, and 
 I can pay it over to-nigiit to any one you name." 
 
 La Pouraille let a movenient of satisfaction escape 
 him. 
 
 " I have him ! " thought Jacques Collin. " But don't 
 dawdle ; think ! " he continued, speaking into La Pou- 
 raille's ear. '''• Mon vieux, we haven't ten minutes to 
 ourselves. The attorney-general will send for me ; I 
 am to have a conference with him. I hold him, that 
 man ! I can wring the neck of the Cicogne ! I am 
 certain of saving Theodore." 
 
 " If you can save Theodore, m}' ddb^ 3'ou might 
 save — " 
 
 "Don't waste 3'our spittle," said Jacques Collin, 
 curtly. " Make your will.'' 
 
 "Well, then," replied La Pouraille, piteously, "I 
 want to leave the money to La Gonore — " 
 
 " Tiens! are you living with the widow of Moise, 
 that Jew who was at the head of the rouleurs (swind- 
 lers) of the South?" asked Jacques Collin. 
 
 Like all great generals, Trompe-la-Mort knew the 
 personnel of all his troops. 
 
 " Herself," replied La Pouraille, much flattered. 
 
 " Prett}' woman ! " said Jacques Collin, who un- 
 derstood well how to manage his terrible machines. 
 "Your largue is shrewd; she knows what's what, — • 
 
298 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 an accomplished tbief, and honest, too. Ha ! so j'ou 
 have strengthened yourself vvitli La Gonore, have you? 
 A man's a fool to get himself terrer with such a largue 
 as that. Idiot ! you ought to have bought a comfort- 
 able little business and jogged on together. Et que 
 goupine-t-ellef (What is her line of robber}' ?) " 
 
 " She has set up in the rue Sainte-Barbe, where she 
 keeps a house." 
 
 "And 30U want to make her your heir? My dear 
 fellow, that 's what all these jades get out of us when 
 we are fools enouoh to love them." 
 
 "But don't give her anything till I'm tumbled 
 over." 
 
 " Sacredly not," said Jacques Collin, in a serious 
 tone. "But i\\Q fanandels^ nothing to them?" 
 
 " Nothing; they sold me," replied La Pouraille 
 vindictively. 
 
 "Who sold 3'ou ! Do 3'ou want me to revenge 
 5'ou?" asked Jacques Collin, quickh', endeavoring to 
 rouse the last sentiment that makes such hearts as 
 these vibrate in crucial moments. " Who knows, my 
 old fanandel^ whether bj^ avenging 3'OU, I could n't 
 make your peace with the Cicogiief^ 
 
 La Pouraille looked at his dab with a stupefied air 
 of happiness. 
 
 " But," replied the dab to that speaking expression, 
 " I'm placing mislocq just now for Theodore. After 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 299 
 
 that farce succeeds, I am capable of much else for ni}' 
 friends, — and you are a friend of mine, old man ! " 
 
 " If I see that you can get that ceremony for poor 
 little Theodore put off only for a time, I 'II do as you 
 wish, there ! " 
 
 *' That's done aire ad}' ; I am certain of saving his 
 sorhonne from the claws of the Cicogne. Those who 
 want to se cUsenjlacquer (get out of this scrape), La 
 Pouraille, must all grasp hands. No one can act alone." 
 
 * ' That 's true ! " cried the murderer. 
 
 Confidence being thus established and La Pouraille's 
 faith in his dab becoming fanatic, he hesitated no 
 longer ; he revealed the secret of his accomplices, — 
 a secret most carefuU}' kept up to the present time. 
 This was all that Jacques Collin wanted to know. 
 
 " Here's the halle (secret)," said La Pouraille. 
 " Ruffard, Bibi-Lupin's agent, went thirds with me and 
 Godet in the poupon (robbery long planned). 
 
 " Arrachelaine ? " cried Jacques Collin, giving Ruf- 
 fard his galle\' name. 
 
 ''Yes. The villains sold me because I knew where 
 their share was hidden, but they did not know about 
 mine." 
 
 "You grease my boots, old fellow!" said Jacques 
 Collin. 
 
 " How so?" 
 
 "Now," replied the dub, "see what you gain by 
 
oOO The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 trusting me. I make your vengeance a part of the 
 game I am going to pla}'. I don't ask to know where 
 3'our money is ; you can tell me that at the last mo- 
 ment ; but tell me now all about Ruft'ard and Godet." 
 
 " You are, and you alwa3's will be, our dab ; I sliall 
 have no further secrets from you. My mone}" is in 
 the profonde (cellar) of La Gonore's house." 
 
 "Are not you afraid to trust your larguef' 
 
 " Yah ! she does n't know anything about it," replied 
 La Pouraille. "I made La Gonore drunk, — though 
 she 's a woman who would n't sa}' a word la tete dans 
 la lunette (in the last extremity). But so much gold, 
 you know ! " 
 
 " Yes, that turns the milk of the purest conscience," 
 replied Jacques Collin. 
 
 ^^ So I could work without a luisant (eye) upon me ; 
 the hens were all roosting. I buried the gold three 
 feet down behind the wine bottles ; and I put a layer 
 of cobblestones and mortar above it. 
 
 "Good!" ejaculated Jacques Collin, "Where did 
 the other two hide theirs?" 
 
 " Ruffard has his fade (share of a robbery) at La 
 Gonore's, in the poor woman's own room ; that 's how 
 he holds her ; he can prove she is an accomplice in 
 receivino; goods and send her to Saint-Lazare for the 
 rest of her days." 
 
 " Ah ! the scoundrel ! How the raille (police) trains 
 3'ou to rob ! " cried Jacques Collin. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 301 
 
 " Godet has put his fade with his sister, a clear- 
 starcher, an honest girl who might get five years 
 under lock and key without knowing wh}'. He took 
 up the tiles of the floor, put the money under, and 
 cleared out." 
 
 " Do you know what I want of you? " said Jacques 
 CoUin, suddenlj-, casting one of his magnetic glances 
 on La Pouraille. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I want you to take upon 3'our own shoulders 
 Theodore's affair." 
 
 La Pouraille gave a singular shrug with those shoul- 
 ders, but instantly returned to a posture of obedience 
 under the fixed glance of the ddh's eye. 
 
 "What! you snort already? Do you mean to 
 thwart my game? Four murders or three, what's the 
 diflTerence ? " 
 
 " Not much, perhaps." 
 
 " B3' the meg of the fanandels ! you have n't any 
 raisine in j'our verinichels (blood in your veins). And 
 I, who was thinking of saving you ! " 
 
 ''How?" 
 
 "Idiot! if you offer to return the money to the 
 family, you '11 get off with the pre for life. I would n't 
 give a straw for your sorbojuw if the money is kept ; 
 but don't you see, you fool, that you have the whole 
 seven hundred thousand francs in your hands." 
 
302 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin.' 
 
 '''' Dab, dab/" cried La Pouraille, in an ecstasy of 
 
 joy. 
 
 '' And besides that," continued Jacques Collin, " we 
 throw the murders upon Ruffard, and that will put an 
 end to Bibi-Lupin. I have him I " 
 
 La Pouraille stood stupefied at the idea, rigid as a 
 statue, his eyes widening. In prison for the last three 
 months, about to appear before the court of assizes, 
 advised by his friends in La Force, to whom he had not 
 spoken of his accomplices, he was so wholly without 
 hope after the preliminar}' examination into his crimes 
 that such a plan of defence had never entered his im- 
 prisoned mind. This flicker of hope now made him 
 almost imbecile. 
 
 " Can Ruffard and Godet have fait la 7ioce (made a 
 debauch of it) ? Do you think their jaunets (yellow 
 boys) have breathed the air?" 
 
 '' The}' dare not. The villains are waiting till I'm 
 mown," replied La Pouraille. " That 's what my 
 largue sent me word b}' La Biffe when she came to 
 see Le Biffon." 
 
 " Well, we shall have their fades within twenty-four 
 hours!" cried Jacques Collin. "Those scoundrels 
 can't make restitution as you can ; you '11 get off as 
 white as snow, and they '11 be red with all the blood. I 
 shall make 30U out an honest fellow misled b}' them. 
 I have enough of your mone}' in my hands to bu}' you 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vaiitrin. 303 
 
 an alibi on the other charges, and once in the old pre 
 — for, of course, 30U ^ill have to go back there — you 
 can manage to escape. It is a vile life, to be sure, but 
 at anj' rate it is life." 
 
 La Pouraille's eyes expressed an inward delirium. 
 
 " Ah, old fellow ! " said Jacques Collin, intoxicating 
 his fanandel with hope, '' seven hundred thousand 
 francs is power — " 
 
 ''Dub, dab!'' 
 
 "I'll dazzle the attorne3'-general with it. ITa ! 
 Ruffard dansera (shall die of this) ; he 's a raille to 
 demolish. Bibi-Lupin is fried ! " 
 
 '' Then it 's settled ! " cried La Pouraille, with savage 
 joy. " Order, and I obej." 
 
 He pressed Jacques Collin b}' the arm, with tears in 
 his eyes, for it now seemed possible to him to save his 
 head. 
 
 "But that's not all," said Jacques Collin. The 
 Cicogne is slow of digestion, especiall}' if there 's a 
 return of fever (revelation of new facts). The thing 
 to be done now is to servir de belle une largne (bring a 
 false charge against a woman)." 
 
 " How? and what 's the good of that? " 
 
 " Help rae, and you shall see," replied Trompe-la- 
 Mort. 
 
 Jacques Collin then related biiefly the circumstances 
 of the crime committed bj' Theodore, and showed La 
 
304 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 Pouraille the necessity of finding some woman who 
 would consent to play the part of Ginetta. Then he 
 went to Le Biffon, followed by La Pouraille, now 
 supremely joyful. 
 
 " I know how you love La Biffe," said Jacques Collin. 
 
 The glance cast by Le Biffon was a dreadful poem. 
 
 " What will she do while 3'ou are at the pre? " 
 
 A tear moistened Le Biffon's ferocious eyes. 
 
 " Well, suppose I get her locked up at the Madelon- 
 nettes [female prison] for a year, which will just about 
 cover the time of your trial, your return to' the pre^ and 
 your escape? " 
 
 " You can't do that miracle ; she is niqiie de mieche 
 (not halves, without complicity)," said La Biffe's lover. 
 
 " Ah, m}' Biffon ! " cried La Pouraille, "our dab is 
 more powerful than meg." 
 
 " What is your password with her? " asked Jacques 
 Collin, with the assurance of a master who will brook 
 no refusal. 
 
 " Sorgue a Pantin (night in Paris) ; sa3' that, and 
 she '11 know you come from me. And if you want her 
 to obej' you, show her a thune de cinq balles (five-franc 
 pioce), and say the word ' Tondif.' " 
 
 " She will be condemned at La Pouraille's trial, and 
 released for confessing the matter after a year of ombre 
 (shade, prison)," said Collin, sententiousl}', with a 
 glance at La Pouraille. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vaidrin. 305 
 
 La Pouraille understood without farther words the 
 plan of his duh, and promised him b}- a look to decide 
 Le Biffon to help it by persuading La Biffe to accept a 
 false complicit}' in the crime he was about to take upon 
 his own shoulders. 
 
 " Adieu, my sons. You will soon hear that I have 
 saved Theodore from Chariot's clutches," said Trompe- 
 la-Mort. "■ Yes, Chariot was in the office with his 
 men waiting to make Theodore's ' toilette,' as I passed 
 through it Tliere ! " he added presently, " they are 
 coming to fetch me now ; the dub of the Cicogne (at- 
 torney-general) has sent for me." 
 
 A jailer came through the gate and made a sign to 
 this extraordinary man, to whom the danger of the 
 3'oung Corsican and the idea of being able to save 
 him, had restored the savage power with which he had 
 warred against societj' for a lifetime. 
 
 Here is the proper moment to sa}' that when the 
 body of Lucien was taken from him, after those hours 
 of mental torture, Jacques Collin had decided b}' a 
 mighty resolution, to attempt a last incarnation, not 
 into a being as in Lucien, but into a thing. He took 
 the course which Napoleon so fatal!}' took when he 
 entered the boat that carried him to the " Bellero- 
 phon." B3' a singular combination of circumstances 
 all things aided this genius of evil and corruption in 
 his enterprise. 
 
 20 
 
306 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 VII. 
 
 MADAME CAMUSOT PAYS THREE VISITS. 
 
 Though the unexpected denouement of this criminal 
 life ma3' lose somewhat of the marvellous (which in our 
 day cannot be presented except by improbabilities 
 which the mind rejects), it is necessar}', before we 
 enter, with Jacques Collin, the office of the attorne}"- 
 general, to follow Madame Camusot in the visits which 
 she made to certain persons while these events were 
 taking place at the Conciergerie. One of the obliga- 
 tions which the historian of manners and morals should 
 never disregard is that of not spoiling truth by ar- 
 rangements apparently dramatic, above all when truth 
 has taken pains to become romantic. The social nature, 
 in Paris especiall}', involves such chances and changes, 
 such entanglement of phases and events, all so capri- 
 cious, that the imagination of tale-makers is constanth- 
 surpassed. The boldness of the Real produces com- 
 binations that are forbidden to Art ; and so unreal and 
 perhaps indecent do the}' often seem that a writer is 
 forced to soften, prune, and even expurgate them. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 307 
 
 Madame Camiisot endeavored to make her morning 
 toilet one of good taste, — a rather difRcnlt matter for 
 the wife of a judge who had lived the greater part of 
 her life in the provinces. It was important, however, 
 not to lay herself open to the criticism of the Mar- 
 quise d'Espard and the Duchesse de Maufrignense, 
 whom she proposed to visit between eight and nine 
 o'clock in the morning. Amelie-Cecile Camusot, though 
 nee Thirion, let us hasten to sa}', succeeded partiall}'. 
 Is not that, in the matter of female dress, to fail twice? 
 
 People little know the utility of Parisian women to 
 ambitious men of all kinds ; the}' are as necessar}' in 
 the great world as they are in the world of robbers, 
 where, as we have just seen, the}' play an enormous 
 part. For instance, suppose a man to be forced to 
 speak within a given time to that all-powerful individ- 
 ual under the Restoration, the Keeper of the Seals, 
 or else to be pushed back in the arena and remain in 
 obscurity. Take a man in the most favorable circum- 
 stances, — a judge. He is obliged to get speech with the 
 head of a department, or a private secretary, or the gen- 
 eral secretary, and prove to him that there is some real 
 reason why he should have an immediate audience. 
 The Keeper of the Seals is never visible at a moment's 
 notice. In the middle of the day, if he is not at the 
 Chamber, he is at a council of ministers, or signing 
 papers, or giving audience. In the morning he sleeps, 
 
308 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 no one knows where. In the evening he has both his 
 pubhc and his private avocations. If all judges could 
 claim audiences under any pretext whatever the chief 
 law officer would be overwhelmed. The purpose and 
 expedienc}' of an interview is therefore subjected to the 
 judgment of an intermediarj' power, who becomes an 
 obstacle, a door to open, even if he is not already 
 pledged to some other competitor. But a woman ! 
 she goes in search of another woman ; she enters even 
 bedrooms immediately ; she awakens the curiosit}' of 
 the mistress, sometimes that of the maid, — if the mis- 
 tress appears to be under the spur of some great in- 
 terest or pressing necessit}'. Call female power the 
 Marquise d'Espard ; this woman writes a little per- 
 fumed note which her footman carries to the minister's 
 valet. The minister is caught b}^ the billet as soon 
 as he wakes, and he reads it at once. If he has affairs 
 of interest on hand, he is delighted to pay a visit to 
 one of the queens of Paris, a power of the faubourg 
 Saint-Germain, one of the favorites of Madame, or of 
 the dauphiness, or the king. Casimir Perier, the only 
 real minister the revolution of Juh' produced, left all 
 to pa}' a visit to a former first gentleman of the Bed- 
 chamber to Charles X. This theor}' explains the re- 
 sult of Madame Camusot's visits. 
 
 " Madame, Madame Camusot on a pressing matter, 
 about which madame knows/' said the waiting-maid of 
 
Hie Last Incarnation of VaiUrin. 309 
 
 the Marquise cl'Espard to her mistress whom she sup- 
 posed to be awake. 
 
 The marquise called out that Madame Camusot was 
 to be introduced at once. The judge's wife obtained 
 immediate attention when she opened her business in 
 these words : — 
 
 " Madame la marquise, we are ruined for having 
 avenged you." 
 
 "How is that, m}' dear?" replied the marquise, 
 looking at Madame Camusot in the half-light produced 
 b}' the opening of her bedroom door. " Wh}', you are 
 charming this morning, with that pretty liltle bonnet ! 
 Where do you get such shapes ? " 
 
 " Madame, you are very good. But do you know 
 that the manner in which Camusot examined Lucien de 
 Rubempre reduced the 3'oung man to despair, and he 
 has hanged himself in prison?" 
 
 " What will Madame de Serizy do? " cried the mar- 
 quise, pretending ignorance in order to have the matter 
 told to her again. 
 
 " Alas, they say she is going mad ! " replied Amelie. 
 "Ah, madame ! if you would onlj' ask the Keeper of 
 the Seals to summon m}' husband from the Palais im- 
 mediatel}', b}' a courier, the minister would hear strange 
 mysteries which he would certainh' wish to tell to the 
 king. In that way Camusot's enemies will be reduced 
 to silence." 
 
310 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 " Who are Camusot's enemies?" asked the marquise. 
 
 " Wh}', the attornej'-general, and now the Comte de 
 Sarizy." 
 
 a YQYy good, my dear," replied Madame d'Espard, 
 who owed her defeat in her shameful suit against her 
 husband to Messieurs de Granville and de Serizy. 
 " I '11 defend you. I don't forget either my friends or 
 my enemies." 
 
 She rang, ordered the curtains opened, and a flood of 
 light poured into the room. Then she asked for her 
 desk, and rapidl}^ scribbled a little note. 
 
 " Let Godet take a horse and carr}' this note at once 
 to the Chancellerie ; there is no answer," she said to 
 her maid. 
 
 The maid left the room hastily, but she lingered out- 
 side the door for a few moments. 
 
 "You say there are mysteries?" said Madame d'Es- 
 pard. " Tell me about them, ni}' dear. Clotilde de 
 Grandlieu is mixed up in the affair, isn't she?" 
 
 " Madame la marquise will hear all from his Excel- 
 lenc}^ ; my husband has told me nothing, except that 
 he had incurred great danger. It would be better for 
 us that Madame de Serizy should die than remain 
 insane." 
 
 " Poor woman ! " said the marquise ; " but she was 
 alread}' half-crazj'." 
 
 Women of the world by their various ways of pro- 
 
The Last Incarnation of VaiUinn. 311 
 
 nouncing the same words will reveal to attentive ob- 
 servers the infinite extent and variation of those notes 
 of music. The soul passes wholly into the voice 
 as well as into the eyes ; it imprints itself on the 
 air as in the light, — the two elements in which the 
 larynx and the ej'es have pla}'. In the accent of those 
 words, " Poor woman ! " the marquise revealed the 
 contentment of her satisfied hatred, the happiness of 
 triumph. Ah, how many evils she had wished to 
 Lucien's protectress ! Vengeance, which survives the 
 death of a hated object, and is never quenched, inspires 
 gloom}' fear. Madame Camusot, whose own nature 
 was harsh, spiteful, and quarrelsome, was shocked. 
 Finding nothing to say, she was silent. 
 
 " Madame de Maufrigneuse told me that Leontine 
 had gone to the prison," continued Madame d'Espard. 
 " The dear duchess was in despair, for she is weak 
 enough to be fond of Madame de Seriz}-. But that 's 
 conceivable, for the}- both adored that little fool of a 
 Lucien ; nothing unites, or disunites, two women like 
 paying their devotions at the same altar." 
 
 "The}' tried their best to save Lucien, madame ; 
 and it is because my husband did his duty that this 
 danger threatens us. But he will tell all to the Keeper 
 of the Seals. An examining judge is compelled to 
 question prisoners privately within a time limited by 
 law. It was absolutely necessary to examine Lucien ; 
 
312 The Last Tiicarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 the miserable youth did not understand that the inquiry 
 was only formal, and he instantly made confession." 
 
 " He was always a fool, and very insolent," said 
 Madame d'Espard, curtly. 
 
 The wife of the judge kept silence. 
 
 " Though we lost our case in the matter of the in- 
 junction, it was not Camusot's fault, and I shall never 
 forget his services," said Madame d'Espard, after a 
 pause. " It was Lucien, and Messieurs de Serizy, 
 Bauvan, and Granville, who defeated us. With time, 
 God will be on my side. See ! already those people are 
 unhapp3'. Now, don't worry yourself. I will send the 
 Chevalier d'Espard to the Keeper of the Seals to hasten 
 him in sending for your husband, if you think it 
 useful — " 
 
 " Oh, yes, madame ! " 
 
 " Listen ! " said the marquise. " I promise you the 
 decoration of the Legion of honor immediatel}', — 
 to-morrow ! That will be a public testimony to your 
 husband's conduct in this affair. Yes, it will be an 
 additional blow on Lucien ; it will show that he was 
 guilty. People don't hang themselves for pleasure ! 
 Well, adieu, my dear." 
 
 Ten minutes later Madame Cam u sot was entering 
 the bedroom of the beautiful Diane de Maufrigneuse, 
 who was not asleep, though she had gone to bed at one 
 o* clock. However insensible to feeling duchesses may 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 313 
 
 be, these women, even if their hearts are cased in 
 stucco, cannot behold a friend in the paroxysms of 
 madness without receivmg a most painful impression. 
 Moreover, the intimacy between Lucien and Diane, 
 though slackened for the last eighteen months, had left 
 memories enough in the mind of the duchess to make 
 his dreadful death a terrible shock to her. Diane had 
 seen a vision all night long of that beautiful being, so 
 charming, so poetic, who knew so well how to make 
 love, hanging, as Leontine had described him to her 
 with the tones and gestures of delirium. She herself 
 had eloquent, electrifying letters from Lucien, compar- 
 able to those written by Mirabeau to Sophie, but more 
 literary, more carefully composed ; for Lucien's letters 
 were dictated b\' the most violent of all passions, — 
 vanity ! 
 
 •"' And he died in a vile prison ! " she was saying to 
 herself, clasping the letters in her hands with horror, as 
 her maid softl}' tapped on the bedroom door. 
 
 ''• Madame Camusot, on a matter of great impor- 
 tance, which concerns Madame la duchesse," said the 
 woman. 
 
 Diane sat upright, much startled. 
 
 '' Oh ! " she said, looking at AmeUe, who assumed a 
 face of anxietj' as she glanced at the papers in Diane's 
 hands, — oh, I know vv^hat 30U are here for! My let- 
 ters ! 3'es, my letters 1 " 
 
314 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 And she fell back upon the sofa. She suddenh* re- 
 membered having replied to Lucien in his own kej', 
 chanting the poes}^ of the man as he had chanted the 
 o-lories of the woman ; and in what dithyrambics ! 
 
 " Alas, 3'es, madame ! and I have come to save you 
 from their consequences. Recover yourself, dress 
 quickly, and let us go to the Duchesse de Grandlieu ; 
 fortunatel}' for you, you are not the only one compro- 
 mised in this matter." 
 
 " But Leontine burned up yesterda}^ at the Palais all 
 the letters seized among poor Lucien's papers, — at 
 least, so I was told." 
 
 " But, madame, Lucien had a double in Jacques 
 Collin," cried the judge's wife. " You forget that 
 wicked companionship, which was the only cause, 
 really, of the death of that charming and regrettable 
 young man. That Machiavelli of the galleys has not 
 lost his head. Monsieur Camusot is certain from some- 
 thing that occurred that this monster keeps in some 
 safe place the most compromising of the letters ad- 
 dressed to his — " 
 
 " Friend," said the duchess, quickly. " You are 
 right, my dear ; we must go and take counsel with the 
 Grandlieus. We are all interested in the affair ; and 
 Monsieur de Serizy will lend us a hand." 
 
 Danger has, as we saw in the scenes at the Con- 
 ciergerie, a virtue over the soul as great as that of 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 315 
 
 powerful reagents upon the body ; it is a moral Voltaic 
 batter3\ Perliaps tlie day is not far distant when some 
 discoverer will seize the method by whicli feeling con- 
 denses itself cliemicall}' into fluid, — possibl}- that of 
 electricit}'. 
 
 Diane found her garments, and went about her 
 toilet with the celerit}' of a grisette who acts as her 
 own waiting-maid. This was so surprising that the 
 duchess's maid stood motionless for a moment watch- 
 ing her mistress in her cliemise, which allowed the 
 judge's wife to see through a mist of transparent linen 
 a white bod}- as perfect as that of Canova's Venus. It 
 was like a jewel in its tissue paper. 
 
 " You are the most beautiful woman I have ever 
 seen ! " cried Amelie. 
 
 " Madame has n't her equal," said the maid. 
 
 " Nonsense, Josette ! hold your tongue," said the 
 duchess. " Have you a carriage here?" she asked of 
 Madame Camusot, as she finished dressing. " Come, 
 my dear ; we will talk as we drive along ; " and tlie 
 duchess ran down the great staircase of the hotel de 
 Cadignan, putting on her gloves as she went along, — a 
 thing that was never before seen. 
 
 " To the h6tel de Grandlieu, and quickly," she said 
 to one of her servants, signing to him to get up 
 behind. 
 
 The footman hesitated, for the vehicle was a hackney- 
 coach. 
 
316 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 " Ah ! Madame la duchesse, yf\\y did n't you tell me 
 that young man had letters from you ? If I had known 
 that, Camusot would have acted ver}- differently." 
 
 "I entirely forgot it/' replied the duchess, "Leon- 
 tine's condition has so filled mj- mind. The poor 
 woman was half-crazy before 3'esterda3', and you can 
 imagine the effect upon her of that fatal event. Ah, 
 m}' dear, what a morning we had ! We were dragged, 
 both of us, by a horrid old woman — an old-clothes 
 dealer, but a maitresse-femme — into that evil-smelling, 
 blood}' place the}' call tlie palace of Justice. I could n't 
 help saying to her, ' I feel like falling on my knees, and 
 crying out, as Madame de Nucingen did in one of those 
 frightful storms of the Mediterranean, "O God! save 
 me now, if never again ! " ' Certainly, these last two 
 days will shorten my life ! How silly we are to write 
 letters ! But then, one has a heart, and we get pages 
 which set it on fire through the eyes ; it flames up, 
 prudence flies away, and we answer — " 
 
 " Why answer when you can speak? " said Madame 
 Camusot. 
 
 "Oh," said the ducliess, proudly, "it is so fine to 
 commit one's self! That's a pleasure of the soul." 
 
 " Beautiful women," said Madame Camusot, mod- 
 estly, " are excusable ; they have more occasions than 
 we to compromise themselves." 
 
 The duchess laimhed. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 317 
 
 "Yes, we are much too generous," she said. "In 
 future I shall do as that horrid Madame d'Espard 
 does." 
 
 " What is that? " asked Araelie, with curiosit}'. 
 
 " She writes a tliousand love-letters — " 
 
 " As many as that ! " cried Madame Camusot, inter- 
 rupting the duchess. 
 
 " Yes, but there is n't a compromising phrase in the 
 whole of them." 
 
 "You would be incapable of such coldness/' re- 
 sponded Amelie. 
 
 " But I have vowed never again to write letters. 
 In fact, I never did write, in all m}' life, except to that 
 unhapp}' Lucien, I shall preserve his letters as long 
 as I live ! M3' dear, the}' are fire itself, — and one 
 wants that sort of thing sometimes." 
 
 "But suppose the}' are found?" said the Camusot, 
 with a frightened gesture. 
 
 "Oh! 1 should sav thev were parts of a novel. I 
 copied them, my dear, and burned the originals." 
 
 " Oh, madame ! as a reward for v^y little services 
 let me read them." 
 
 " Well, perhaps I will," said the duchess. " And 
 then you '11 see that he did not write in the same way 
 to Leontine." 
 
 The last words were the woman, — the woman of all 
 times and all countries. 
 
318 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 Like the frog in La Fontaine's fable, Madame 
 Camusot's skin was bursting with pleasure at the honor 
 of entering the Grandlieu mansion in company with 
 the beautiful and famous Uiane de Maufrigneuse. She 
 was about to form one of those connections so ne- 
 cessary to ambition. Already she heard herself called 
 " Madame la presidente." She felt the ineffable joy 
 of triumphing over immense obstacles, the cliief of 
 which was the incapacity of her husband, secret as 
 yet to others, but well known to her. To make an 
 inferior man a success ! this, to a woman as it is to 
 kings, is a pleasure that seduces great actors, that of 
 acting a bad play for the hundredth time. It is, as we 
 may say, the intoxication of egotism, the saturnalia of 
 power ! Power cannot prove its force to itself unless 
 by the singular abuse of crowning some absurdit}^ with 
 the palm of success, and in that way insulting genius, 
 which is the only force which absolute power cannot 
 attain. The promotion of the horse of Caligula, that 
 imperial farce, has had, and ever will have, innumer- 
 able representations. 
 
 In a few moments Diane and Amelie had passed 
 from the elegant disorder of the beautiful Diane's bed- 
 room, to the correctness of a severe and grandiose lux- 
 nry in the home of the Duchesse de Grandlieu. That 
 extremely pious Portuguese lad}' alwa3's rose at eight 
 in the mornins: to hear mass in the little church of 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 319 
 
 Sainte-Valere, a cbapc4 of Saint-Thomas cVAquin, thon 
 standing on the esplanade of the Invalides. The con- 
 gregation of the little chapel, which is now demolished, 
 has removed to the rue de Bourgogne, while awaiting 
 the erection of a gothic church, which is to be, they 
 say, dedicated to Sainte-Clotilde. 
 
 At the first words whispered into the Duchesse de 
 Grandlieu's ear b}' Diane de Maufrigneuse, tliat excel- 
 lent woman rose and went into the duke's stud}', from 
 which she soon returned followed by her husband. The 
 duke gave Madame Camusot one of those rapid looks 
 b}' which great seigneurs analyze a whole existence 
 and often the soul itself. Amelie's costume aided him 
 not a little in penetrating that bourgeoise life from 
 Mantes to Alencon, and from Alen9on to Paris. 
 
 Ah ! if the judge's wife had been aware of this fAc- 
 ult}' of dukes, she could not have borne graciousl}' that 
 politely ironical glance, in which happily she saw noth- 
 ing but politeness. Ignorance shares the privileges of 
 shrewdness. 
 
 " This is Madame Camusot, the daughter of Thirion, 
 one of the cabinet ushers," said the duchesse to her 
 husband. 
 
 The duke bowed very politely, and his face lost* 
 something of its gravit}'. His valet, for whom he had 
 rung, presented hnnself. 
 
 " Go to the rue Honore-Chevalier ; take a carriage. 
 
320 The Last Incar nation of Vautrin. 
 
 Ring at a small door at number 10. You will sa}' to 
 tlie servant who opens the door that I beg his master 
 to come here ; if tlie master is at home, you will bring 
 him back with you. Use my name and you will have 
 no difficult}' ; trj' not to be more than fifteen minutes 
 in doing all this." 
 
 Another valet, that of the duchess, appeared as the 
 first one left the room. 
 
 " Go to the Due de Chaulieu's and send in this 
 card." 
 
 Tlie duke gave the man a card folded in a certain 
 manner. When these two intimates wished to meet 
 immediatel}' on some pressing, or mysterious affair, 
 about which the\' preferred not to write, the}' notified 
 one another in this way. Thus we see how customs 
 resemble each other in all stages of society, and diflfer 
 only in manners, methods, and shades. The great world 
 has its argot, but there it is called style. 
 
 " Are you very sure, madame, of the existence of 
 these letters said to be written by Mademoiselle de 
 Grandlieu to that young man ? " asked the duke. 
 
 " I have not seen them, but I fear they exist," she 
 replied, trembling. 
 
 • "My daughter cannot have written anything she 
 would not acknowledge," exclaimed the duchess. 
 
 "Poor duchess!" thought Diane, giving the duke 
 a glance that made him tremble. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 321 
 
 "What do you think, m}' dear little Diane?" he 
 whispered in her ear, taking her aside into the recess 
 of a window. 
 
 " Clotilde was so in love with Lucien, dear, that she 
 gave him an appointment before her departure. If it 
 had n't been for that little Lenoncourt she might pos- 
 sibly have run away with him in the forest of Fontaine- 
 bleau. I know that Lucien wrote passionate letters to 
 Clotilde, enough to turn the head of a saint. We are 
 three daughters of Eve in the toils of the serpent of 
 correspondence." 
 
 The duke and Diane returned toward the duchess 
 and Madame Camusot, who were talking in a low 
 voice. Amelie, following a hint given to her b}' the 
 Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, was posing as a devote to 
 gain the good-will of the pious Portuguese. 
 
 *' We are at the mere}' of an escaped convict ! " said 
 the duke, with a curious movement of his shoulders. 
 " This is what comes of receiving in one's house per- 
 sons of whom we are not absolutel}' sure. Before 
 admitting any one, we ought to know his famih', his 
 fortune, and all his antecedents." 
 
 That sentence is the moral of this tale from the aris- 
 tocratic point of view. 
 
 " Well, the thing is done," said the Duchesse de 
 Maufrigneuse. " Let us think now of saving that 
 poor Madame de Serizy and Clotilde and myself." 
 
 21 
 
322 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 '' We must wait for Henri. I have sent for him ; 
 but all depends on the person whom Gentil has gone 
 to fetch. God grant that he ma}' be in Paris ! Ma- 
 dame," he said, addressing Madame Camusot, " I thank 
 you for having thought of our interests." 
 
 This was Madame Camusot's dismissal. The daugh- 
 ter of the cabinet usher knew enousjh to understand 
 the duke, and she rose ; but the Duchesse de Mau- 
 frigneuse, with that bewitching grace which won for 
 her so many friends among all classes, took Amelia 
 by the hand and presented her in a certain manner to 
 the duke and duchess. 
 
 "For my own sake," she said, "and not because 
 she has been up since dawn endeavoring to save us all, 
 I ask you for something more than a mere remem- 
 brance of my little Madame Camusot. In the first 
 place, she has already rendered me services I can 
 never forget ; and, besides that, she is absoluteh' de- 
 voted to our cause, both she and her husband. I have 
 promised to advance her Camusot, and I beg j'ou to 
 protect him, in the first instance, for m}' sake." 
 
 " You did not need this recommendation," said the 
 duke to Madame Camusot. " The GrandUeus never 
 forget the services that are rendered to them. Before 
 long, all persons attached to the king will have an oc- 
 casion to distinguish themselves ; devotion will be 
 asked of them. Your husband shall be put in the 
 breach." 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 323 
 
 Madame Camusot retired, proud, happy, and swelling 
 almost to suffocation with delight. She returned home 
 triumphant. She applauded herself; she scoffed at the 
 enmit3' of the attorne^'-general. She even said to her- 
 self, " Suppose we get him dismissed? " 
 
 It was time that Madame Camusot retired, for as she 
 left the house the Due de Chaulieu, one of the king's 
 faA'orites, encountered her on the portico. 
 
 " Henri," cried the Due de Grandlieu, as soon as his 
 friend was announced, "go to the chateau, I entreat 
 you, and try to speak to the king about a matter I want 
 to confide to you." 
 
 Then he drew him into the window where he had 
 alreadj' talked witli the heedless and gracious Diane. 
 From time to time the Due de Chaulieu glanced fur- 
 tively at the lively duchess, who, while talking with the 
 pious duchess and allowing herself to be lectured, re- 
 turned the duke's glances with interest. 
 
 " Dear child," said the Due de Grandlieu, when the 
 private conference was over, " do be a little more care- 
 ful ! Come," he added, taking Diane's hands, "promise 
 me to remember appearances. Don't compromise your- 
 self again ; never write letters. Letters, my dear, have 
 caused as many private troubles as the}' have public 
 evils. What might be pardonable in a 3'oung girl like 
 Clotilde, in love for the first time, is inexcusable 
 in — " 
 
324 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 " An old grenadier who has been under fire ! " said 
 the duchess, making a face at the duke. This joke and 
 its attendant grimace brought a smile to the troubled 
 faces of two dukes, and even to that of the excellent 
 Duchesse de Grandlieu. '^But it is four whole years 
 since I have written a love-letter! Are we saved?" 
 continued Diane, who hid a real anxiety under her 
 playfulness. 
 
 '' Not 3'et," replied the Due de Chaulieu. " You 
 don't know how difficult it is to commit an arbitrary 
 act. For a constitutional king, it is like the iufidelitj'' 
 of a married woman ; it is his adultery." 
 
 " His pet sin ! " said the Due de Grandlieu. 
 
 *' Forbidden fruit! " cried Diane, laughing. "Oh, I 
 wish I was he ! I have n't an}' of it left, — that fruit I 
 I've eaten mine all up." 
 
 "My dear! my dear!" said the pious duchess, "you 
 are going too far." 
 
 The two dukes, hearing a carriage pulled up before 
 the portico, with the noise which horses make when 
 driven at speed, left the two women alone after bowing 
 to them, and betook themselves to the duke's stud}', 
 where was presently introduced the personage from the 
 rue Honore-Chevalier, who was no other than the chief 
 of the political police, the obscure but all-powerful 
 Corentin. 
 
 " Come in," said the Due de Grandlieu, " come in, 
 Monsieur de Saint-Denis." 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 325 
 
 Corentin, surprised to find so good a memory in the 
 duke, entered, and bowed profoundly to the two men. 
 
 "The present matter is about the same person, or 
 because of him, my dear monsieur," said the Due de 
 Grandheu. 
 
 " But he is dead," said Corentin. 
 
 " He had a companion who is alive," remarked the 
 Duke de Chauheu, " a tough companion." 
 
 " The convict, Jacques Collin," replied Corentin. 
 
 " Speak, Ferdinand ; relate the facts," said the Due 
 de Chaulieu to his friend. 
 
 " That wretch is much to be feared," said the Due 
 de Grandlieu. "He seems to hold, in order to obtain 
 a ransom, letters which Mesdames de Seriz}' and de 
 Maufrigneuse had written to this Lucien Chardon, his 
 dependent. Apparently it was systematic on the part 
 of that 3'oung man to obtain emotional letters in ex- 
 change for his own ; for m}' daughter. Mademoiselle 
 de Grandlieu has written, the}' sa}', several, — or at 
 an}' rate, the}' fear so. AVe cannot know how that may 
 be, for she is now on a journey." 
 
 " That foolish young man," said Corentin, " was in- 
 capable of any such scheme. It is a precaution taken 
 by the abbe, Carlos Herrera." 
 
 Corentin rested his elbow on the arm of the chair 
 in which he was sitting and put his head in his hand 
 to reflect. 
 
326 The Last Inearnation of Vautrin. 
 
 *' Money?" he said ; " why, the man has more than 
 we have. Esther Gobseck served hnn as a bait to fish 
 two millions out of that pond of gold called Nucingen. 
 Messieurs, give me full powers and I will rid 30U of 
 that fellow." 
 
 "But — the letters?" said both dukes together. 
 
 " Listen, messieurs," continued Corentin, rising and 
 showing his crafty face in a state of ebullition. He 
 shoved his hands into the pockets of his black flannel 
 trousers. This great actor in the historical drama of 
 our day had merely slipped on a coat and waistcoat, 
 not waiting to change his morning trousers, knowing 
 well that great personages are grateful for promptitude 
 under certain circumstances. He now walked famil- 
 iarly up and down the duke's stud}^ discussing the 
 matter aloud as if he were alone : — 
 
 *' He is a convict; we can fling him, without trial, 
 into solitar}' confinement at Bicetre ; without an}' pos- 
 sible communications ; it would soon kill him. But he 
 may have given instructions to some of his followers, 
 foreseeing that very thing." 
 
 " He was put in solitar}* confinement at once, as 
 soon as he was found in the house of that courtesan," 
 said the Due de Grandlieu. 
 
 "There's no such thing as solitary confinement in 
 Paris for a determined fellow like him," replied Coren- 
 tin. "He's as powerful as, — as I am!" 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 327 
 
 "What's to be done?" asked the dukes of each 
 other in a glance. 
 
 " We can send him back to the galleys at once," 
 went on Corentin. "At Rochefort, he'll be dead in 
 six months — Oh ! without a crime," he added, reply- 
 ing to a gesture of the Due de Chaulieu. " It could n't 
 be prevented. A convict can't hold out longer than 
 six months of a hot summer if he is made to really 
 work in the malarial swamps of the Charente. But 
 that would n't do in case he has already- taken precau- 
 tions about these letters. If the rascal distrusts his 
 adversaries, and there 's little doubt be does, we must 
 find out what and where those precautions are. If the 
 person who holds the letters is poor, of course he is 
 corruptible — The thing is to make Jacques Collin 
 talk ! What a duel ! I should be worsted ! It would 
 be better to bu}' those papers bv other papers, — an 
 official pardon, — and give me that man in m}" squad. 
 Jacques Collin is the only man I know capable of suc- 
 ceeding me, now that poor Contenson and that dear 
 Peyrade are dead, — Messieurs, 3'ou will have to give 
 me carte-blanche. Jacques Collin is at the Conci- 
 ergerie. I '11 go and see Monsieur de Granville at his 
 office. Send some confidential person to meet me 
 there. Monsieur de Granville does not know me, and 
 I must therefore have either a letter of introduction 
 or some imposing person to introduce me. You have 
 
328 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 half an hour in which to arrange this, for it will take 
 me that time to dress, or rather to become what I 
 must be to the e3'es of the attorney-general." 
 
 "Monsieur," Said the Due de Chaulieu, "I know 
 3'our wonderful ability ; and I only ask you for an an- 
 swer, 3^es or no. Do you answer for success?" 
 
 " Yes, — if allowed full powers, and if 3'ou give me 
 your word never to question me on this subject. My 
 plan is made." 
 
 This m3'sterious answer made the two great sei- 
 gneurs shudder slightly. 
 
 " Go on, monsieur," said the Due de Chaulieu, " and 
 charge 3'our expenses to the usual account." 
 
 Corentin bowed and left the room. 
 
 Henri de Lenoncourt, for whom Ferdinand de Grand- 
 lieu ordered a carriage to be brought round, went at 
 once to the king, whom he was able to see at all times, 
 owing to the privileges of his office. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 329 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE SUFFERINGS OF AN ATTORNEY-GENERAL. 
 
 Thus we see that all these interests, tangled together, 
 in the lowest and the highest walks of life, were about 
 to meet in the office of the attorne3'-general, — brought 
 there by necessit}', and represented by three men : law 
 and justice by Monsieur de Granville, the family by 
 Corentin ; both confronted b}^ their terrible adversar}^ 
 Jacques Collin, the representative of Evil in all its sav- 
 age energ}'. 
 
 What a dugl this between justice and authority, the 
 galleys and craft ! — the galleys, that symbol of audac- 
 ity which represses calculation and reflection, to which 
 all means are good, which is devoid of the hypocrisy 
 of power, which symbolizes hideously the interests of 
 the famished stomach, the bloody, lieadlong protestation 
 of hunger ! Here is the offensive and tlie defensive, 
 robbery and property, the terrible question of the social 
 state and the natural state decided, but not argued, 
 in the narrowest possible space, — in short, a fearful, 
 living image of those antisocial compromises which 
 
330 The Last Incarnation of VaiUrin. 
 
 feeble representatives of power have made with sav- 
 age outlaws. 
 
 When Monsieur Camusot was announced to the 
 attorne3'-general, the latter made a sign that he should 
 be admitted. Monsieur de Granville, who expected 
 the visit, was anxious to come to an understanding 
 with the judge as to the manner in which the affair of 
 Lucien should be terminated. The arrangement made 
 between himself and Camusot on the previous evening, 
 before the death of the unhappy poet, of course was at 
 an end. 
 
 " Sit down, Monsieur Camusot," said the attorne}'- 
 general, dropping into his own arm-chair. 
 
 Alone with the judge, he allowed his depression to 
 be visible. Camusot looked at him, and saw on that 
 firm face a pallor that was almost livid, and an utter 
 fatigue, — a total prostration, which revealed more 
 cruel sufferings than, perhaps, those of the man con- 
 demned to death who had just listened to the rejection 
 of his appeal for mere}' ; and yet that rejection meant, 
 " Prepare to die, for 3'our last hour has come." 
 
 " Shall I return later. Monsieur le comte, — though 
 the matter is certainl}' urgent?" 
 
 " No, remain," replied the attorney-general, with 
 dignit}'. "A 103'al magistrate, monsieur, must accept 
 his trials, and know how to beax them. I did wrong to 
 let you see that I am tronbled — " 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 331 
 
 Camusot made a gesture. 
 
 " God grant that you ma}' never know, Monsieur 
 Camusot, these extreme necessities of our life ; one 
 might die of a lesser suffering ! I have just spent the 
 night with one of my intimate friends ; I have but two 
 friends, — Comte Octave de Bauvan and the Comte de 
 Seriz}'. From six o'clock last evening to six this 
 morning we passed, all three in turn, from the salon to 
 the bedside of Madame de Seriz}', expecting each time 
 to find her dead or a maniac. Desplein, Bianchon, and 
 Sinard, with two nurses, did not leave her. The count 
 adores his wife. Think what a night it was ! A states- 
 man is never desperate like an imbecile. Seriz}', as calm 
 as he is in the Council chamber, writhed in his chair 
 that he might show us a tranquil face ; but the sweat 
 rolled from his brow. I have slept from six to half- 
 past seven, overcome with watching ; yet I had to be 
 here at lialf-past eight to order an execution ! Believe 
 me, Monsieur Camusot, when a magistrate has passed 
 a night in the midst of sorrows, and felt the hand of 
 God heavy on all things human, striking down the 
 noblest hearts, it is difficult for him to sit here before 
 his desk and say, ' Let that head fall at four o'clock ! 
 Annihilate a creature of God who is full of life and 
 force and health.' And yet that is m}' duty ! Over- 
 come with grief, I must now set up a scaffold. A con- 
 demned man does not know that the magistrate who 
 
332 Tht Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 condemns him suffers an agony almost equal to bis 
 own. At this moment, bound together by a sheet of 
 paper, I, Society avenging itself, he, Crime about to 
 be expiated, — we are both Duty, with two sides, two 
 existences held together for an instant b}' the sword 
 of the law. These heavy griefs of a magistrate, who 
 pities them? who consoles them? Our glory is to bury 
 them in the depths of our hearts. The priest, whose 
 life is an offering to God ; the soldier, whose thousand 
 deaths are given to his countr}-, seem to me far happier 
 than the magistrate, with his doubts, his fears, his ter- 
 rible responsibility. Do you know the man who is to 
 be executed to-da}'?" continued the attornej'-general. 
 *' A young man of twenty-seven, handsome as the one 
 who killed himself 3'esterda3', fair as he, — one whose 
 head we are taking off against all expectation, for the 
 only positive proof against him is of possessing stolen 
 propert3\ Since his condemnation, he refuses to con- 
 fess. For seventy days he has resisted every effort, 
 and declares himself innocent. For two months I have 
 had two heads upon my shoulders ! Oh ! I 'd give a 
 year of my own life to obtain his confession, if onlj' to 
 reassure the jur3\ Think what an injury it would be 
 to law and justice should it be discovered too late that 
 another had committed the crime ! The jury — that 
 institution which revolutionar}' legislators have thought 
 so strong — is an element of social ruin, for it fails in 
 
The Last IncarnaMon of Vautrin. 333 
 
 its mission ; it does not sufficient!}' protect societ}'. 
 The jury plays with its functions. The jurors divide 
 themselves into two camps, one of which is against the 
 death penalty' ; from this results the total overthrow of 
 equality before the law. A certain horrible crime 
 (parricide) obtains in one de[)artment a verdict of non- 
 culpahllite, while in another some far less heinous crime 
 is punished bj' death. -^ What would happen if here in 
 Paris we were to execute an innocent man ? " 
 
 " He is an escaped convict," remarked Camusot, 
 timidly. 
 
 " He would become a paschal lamb in the hands of 
 the Opposition and the press ! " cried Monsieur de 
 Granville. "And the Opposition would have a fine 
 game to pla}' in whitening him ; for he is a Corsican, 
 fanatical as to the ideas of his countr}'. His crimes are 
 mostly the result of a vendetta. In that island the}' kill 
 their enemies, and think themselves, and are thought 
 by others, honorable men. Ah, loyal magistrates are 
 most unfortunate ! The}' ought to live apart from all 
 society, as pontiffs used to do. The world would then 
 see them issuing from their cells at certain fixed hours, 
 grave, venerable, sitting in judgment like the high- 
 priesthood of the ancients, which united in itself the 
 
 1 At the present time [1843] there are at the galleys twenty, 
 three parricides to whom have been granted the benefits of "exten- 
 uating circumstances." 
 
334 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 
 
 sacerdotal power and the judicial power. We should 
 then be seen in our vocation onh' ; now all the world 
 ma}' see us suffering, or diverting ourselves like other 
 men. It beholds us in salons, in our homes, as citi- 
 zens, full of passions, often grotesque instead of being 
 terrible." 
 
 This passionate cr}', broken by pauses and interjec- 
 tions and accompanied by gestures which gave it an 
 eloquence not transferable to paper, made Camusot 
 quiver. 
 
 " I, m3'self, monsieur,'' he said, " began mj' appren- 
 ticeship in the sufferings of our calling yesterda3^ I 
 have almost died of the death of that 3'oung man. He 
 did not understand my good intentions to him ; the 
 unfortunate fellow did the harm to himself." 
 
 '•'• Ah ! he ought not to have been examined ! " cried 
 Monsieur de Granville. "It is so easy to do a service 
 by abstaining from doing anything." 
 
 " But the law? " said Camusot. " It was two days 
 since his arrest." 
 
 "The harm is done," said the attornej^-general. "I 
 have repaired as best I could what is, in truth, irrep- 
 arable. My carriage and servants are now following 
 the hearse of that poor weak poet. Seriz}- has done 
 even more ; he accepts the dut}^ of being his execu- 
 tor ; and the Comte de Bauvan has gone in person to 
 the funeral." 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 335 
 
 *' AYell, Monsieur le comte," said Camusot, "then 
 let us finish the matter now. We still have a very 
 dangerous prisoner on our hands. He is, as 3'ou 
 know, Jacques Collin. This wretch cannot fail to be 
 recognized — " 
 
 "Then we are lost! " exclaimed Monsieur de Gran- 
 ville. 
 
 *' He is at this moment with the man condemned 
 to death, who was formerly his chain companion at 
 the galleys ; he protected him as he has since protected 
 Lucien. Bibi-Lupin has disguised himself as a gen- 
 darme in order to be present at the interview." 
 
 ''Wh}' does the detective police meddle in the mat- 
 ter?" cried the attorney-general. "It ought to act 
 under my orders onl}'." 
 
 " All the Conciergerie will know that we have caught 
 Jacques Collin. Well, I have come here to tell you that 
 this bold criminal undoubtedly possesses certain danger- 
 ous letters in Lucien's correspondence with Madame de 
 SerizN', the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, and Mademoi- 
 selle Clotilde de Grandlieu." 
 
 " Are 3'ou sure of that? " asked Monsieur de Gran- 
 ville, betraying on his face a pained surprise. 
 
 "You can judge for 3'ourself what cause there is to 
 fear. As I opened and laid upon m\' table the bundle 
 of letters taken from Lucien's apartments, Jacques 
 Collin cast an incisive glance over the papers and then 
 
336 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 let a smile of satisfaction escape him ; no judge could 
 fail to understand tlie significance of that smile. A 
 scoundrel as waiy as Jacques Colhn would be careful 
 not to drop such a weapon as compromising letters. 
 What use, think 3'ou, his lawyer (whom he'll certainly 
 choose among the enemies of the government and the 
 aristocracy) will make of those documents ? My wife, 
 to whom the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse has shown much 
 kindness, has gone to warn her, and they will probably 
 go together to the Grandlieus' to consult them." 
 
 "The trial of that man is impossible!" cried the 
 attorney-general, rising and walking up and down his 
 office with great strides. " He has undoubtedly put 
 those letters in some safe place." 
 
 "I know where," said Camusot. With those three 
 words, he effaced from the attorney-general's mind the 
 prejudice which that official felt against him. 
 
 " Explain," said Monsieur de Granville, sitting down.' 
 
 " On my wa}' to the Palace this morning I reflected 
 deeply on this painful affair. Jacques Collin has an 
 aunt, a blood-relation, a woman about whom the polit- 
 ical police sent a memorandum to the prefecture. He 
 is the pupil and the idol of that woman, who is the 
 sister of his father and is named Jacqueline Collin. 
 This creature has an establishment of marchande de 
 toilette^ and, b}* help of this business, she obtains a 
 knowledge of man}' family secrets. If Jacques Collin 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 337 
 
 has confided those papers to the care of an}"" one, it 
 is to that woman. Let us arrest her." 
 
 The attorne3'-general cast a glance at Camusot which 
 seemed to sa}' : "The man is not such a fool as I 
 thought him ; but he is young at the work ; he does 
 not know how to hold the reins of the law." 
 
 "But," said Camusot, continuing, "in order to suc- 
 ceed we must change all the measures we took 3'ester- 
 day ; and I have come to ask your advice, — 30ur 
 orders." 
 
 The attorney -general took up his paper knife and be- 
 gan to tap gently on the edge of his table with one 
 of those motions common to thinkers when they give 
 themselves up to reflection. 
 
 "Three great families in peril!" he cried; "no 
 blunder must be made. You are right ; let us follow 
 Fouche's maxim and arrest. Jacques Collin must be 
 sent back to solitar}^ confinement instantl}-." 
 
 " But that is admitting him to be the ex-convict; it 
 will ruin Lucien's memory." 
 
 "What a frightful situation!" said Monsieur de 
 Granville; "danger on all sides." 
 
 At this instant the director of the Conciergerie ap- 
 peared, but not without rapping. An office like that 
 of the attornej'-general is so well guarded that persons 
 belonging to the Parquet can alone reach the door to 
 rap there. 
 
 22 
 
338 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 *' Monsieur le comte," said Monsieur Gault, " the 
 accused person, who goes by the name of Carlos Her- 
 rera, asks to speak with you." 
 
 ''Has he communicated with an}' one?" 
 
 '' With the other prisoners ; he has been in i\iQ preau 
 since half-past seven o'clock. He has also seen the 
 condemned man, who seems to have talked to him." 
 
 Monsieur de Granville, on a word from Camusot, 
 which struck him like a flash of light, saw the chance 
 offered by Jacques Collin's intimac}' with Theodore 
 Calvi to obtain the letters. Glad of a reason to post- 
 pone the execution, he called Monsieur Gault to his 
 side with a motion of his hand. 
 
 " My intention is," he said, '"to put off the execu- 
 tion till to-morrow ; but I do not wish this to be sus- 
 pected at the Conciergerie. Keep absolute silence, 
 therefore. Let the executioner appear to go on with 
 the preparations. Send the Spanish priest here care- 
 fully guarded ; the Spanish embassy claims him. The 
 gendarmes are to bring Don Carlos by 3'our private 
 staircase, so that he may see no one on the wa}'. 
 Warn the men who bring him as to this. Two are to 
 hold him, — one by each arm; and the}^ are not to 
 loose him for an instant until they reach the door of 
 this office. Are 3'ou sure. Monsieur Gault, that this 
 dangerous foreigner has communicated with no one 
 except the prisoners?" 
 
Tlie Last Incarnation of Vaut^^in. 339 
 
 " Ah ! just as he left the condemned cell a lady 
 arrived to see him — " 
 
 Here the two magistrates exchanged a look. 
 
 " What lady? " asked Camusot. 
 
 '' One of his penitents, — a marquise," replied Mon- 
 sieur Gault. 
 
 ^' Worse and worse ! " cried Monsieur de Granville, 
 looking at Camusot. 
 
 " She dazzled the gendarmes and jailers," said Mon- 
 sieur Gault, puzzled. 
 
 "Nothing is unimportant in j-our functions," said 
 the attorne3'-general, sternl}'. " The Conciergerie is 
 not walled as it is for nothing. How did that lady 
 enter? " 
 
 *'With a proper permit, monsieur," replied the di- 
 rector. " The lad}', who was handsomel}' dressed, 
 came in a fine equipage, with a chasseur and footman. 
 She wished to see her confessor before going to the 
 funeral of that unhappy young man whose body you 
 sent to his late home." 
 
 "Bring me that permit from the prefect," said Mon- 
 sieur de Granville. 
 
 " It was granted on the recommendation of his Ex- 
 cellenc}' the Comte de Serizy." 
 
 "What was the womanlike?" asked the attorney- 
 general. 
 
 " She appeared to be a well-bred woman." 
 
340 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 
 
 " Did you see her face? " 
 
 " She wore a black veil." 
 
 " What did they say to each other? " 
 
 "A devote with a prayer-book, — what should they 
 say? She asked for the abbe's blessing, and went down 
 on her knees." 
 
 "Did they talk long?" 
 
 "About a minute; but none of us understood what 
 they said. They appeared to speak in Spanish." 
 
 "Tell us all, monsieur," said the attorney-general. 
 " I repeat, that the slightest detail is of importance to 
 us. Let this be a warning to you." 
 
 "She wept, monsieur." 
 
 "Real tears?" 
 
 " That we could not see ; her face was hidden in her 
 handkerchief. She left three hundred francs in gold 
 for the prisoners." 
 
 " Then it was not she ! " cried Camusot. 
 
 " Bibi-Lupin cried out, when he heard of it, that she 
 was certainly a thief," said Monsieur Gault. 
 
 " He ought to know," said Monsieur de Granville. 
 " Issue that warrant," he added, looking at Camusot, 
 " and quickly ; put the seals on her domicile at once. 
 But how did she get the recommendation from Mon- 
 sieur de Serizy? Bring me that permit from the pre- 
 fecture. Go, Monsieur Gault, and send the abbe here 
 at once. As long as we have him in prison the danger 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 341 
 
 cannot increase ; and in two liours' conversation we 
 can often raake mucb way in a man's soul." 
 
 "Especially an attorney -general like you," said Ca- 
 musot, artfull}'. 
 
 "We shall be two on this occasion," returned the 
 attornej'-general, politely. Then he resumed his 
 reflections. 
 
 "There ought to be attached to all prisons, which 
 have parlors, a proper superintendent of visitors, with 
 a good salarj', and retiring pension for the cleverest of 
 them," he said, after a long pause. " Bibi-Lupin 
 might finish his days there. We should thus have an 
 eye and an ear in a place which wants far more watch- 
 ing than it ever gets. Monsieur Gault has told us 
 nothing decisive." 
 
 "He is so busy," said Camusot. "But there is a 
 great gulf between us and the prisoners in solitary con- 
 finement which ought not to exist. To get from the 
 cells of the Conciergerie to our oflSces, prisoners have to 
 be brought through the corridors and the court-j'ard, 
 and up the stairwa}'. The attention of the guard can- 
 not ))e perpetually on the criminal ; whereas, the crim- 
 inal is thinking all the time of his affair. I have been 
 told that a lad3' had alread}' met Jacques Collin when 
 he was on his way to me for examination. This woman 
 got as far as the guard-room of the gendarmes at the 
 top of the staircase from the Sourici^re. The ushers 
 
342 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 told me so ; and I rebuked tlie gendarmes for allow- 
 ing it." 
 
 "Oh! the Palais ought to be rebuilt entirely," said 
 Monsieur de Granville; "but it would cost from 
 twent}" to thirty millions. Ask the Chambers for thirt}' 
 millions for the good of the Law ! " 
 
 The steps of several persons coming up the corridor 
 and the rattle of arms was heard. No doubt it was 
 Jacques Collin, with his guard. 
 
 The attorne3'-general put a mask of gravit}' on his 
 face, behind which the man disappeared. Camusot 
 imitated the head of the Parquet. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 343 
 
 IX. 
 
 CRIME AXD JUSTICE TETE A TETE. 
 
 The office-servant opened the door, and Jacques 
 Collin appeared, calm and imperturbable. 
 
 " You have asked to speak to me," said the attorney- 
 general. " I will listen to 3'ou." 
 
 " Monsieur le comte, I am Jacques Collin, and I 
 surrender." 
 
 Camusot quivered, the attorne3'-general remained 
 calm. 
 
 '* You will, of course, suppose that I have motives 
 for thus acting," went on Jacques Collin, holding the 
 two magistrates b}' his mocking e3e. " I must em- 
 barrass 3'ou immensely ; for, while I continued a Span- 
 ish priest, 3'ou had onU' to send me with an escort of 
 gendarmes across the frontier at Ba3onne, and there 
 the Spanish ba3'onets would have rid you of me." 
 
 The two magistrates remained silent and impassible. 
 
 *' Monsieur le comte," continued the convict, " the 
 reasons that impel me to act thus are serious, although 
 the3' are devilishl3' personal to myself. But I can tell 
 them onh' to you ; and if 3'ou are afraid — " 
 
 "Afraid of whom, — of what?" said the Comte de 
 
344 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 Granvitte. The attitude, countenance, carriage of the 
 head, the gesture, the glance of this great magistrate, 
 made him at that moment a living embodiment of the 
 Magistracy which is in duty bound to offer noble ex- 
 amples of civil courage. In this passing moment he 
 rose to the height of the old magistrates of the ancient 
 parliament in the days of the civil wars, when judges 
 found themselves face to face with death, and stood 
 like the marble of the statues that were afterwards 
 erected to them. 
 
 "Afraid of being alone with an escaped convict." 
 
 "Leave us, Monsieur Camusot," said the attorney- 
 general, quickl}^. 
 
 " I wished to propose that j'ou should bind me hand 
 and foot," continued Jacques Collin, coldl}^ enfolding 
 the two magistrates in a potential look. He paused, 
 and then said, gravel}', " Monsieur le comte, 1 esteemed 
 you only, but now you have m}- admiration." 
 
 " Do you think 30urself so formidable?" asked the 
 magistrate, in a tone of contempt. 
 
 " Think myself formidable!" replied the convict. 
 "Why should I? I am, and I know it." 
 
 He took a chair and sat down with all the ease of a 
 man w^ho feels himself on a level with his adversary in 
 a conference of one power with another power. 
 
 "At this moment Monsieur Camusot, who had 
 reached the threshold of the door, and was about to 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 345 
 
 close it, returned to Monsieur de Granville, and gave 
 liim two papers, folded. 
 
 " See ! " lie said to the attorney-general, pointing to 
 one of the papers. 
 
 " Call back Monsieur Gault," cried the Comte de 
 Granville, as soon as he had read (on the permit the 
 director had brought to him) the name of the maid of 
 the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, who was known to 
 him. 
 
 The director entered. 
 
 '' Describe to me the woman who presented this per- 
 mit," said the attorne3'-general in a low voice to the 
 director. 
 
 " Short, stont, and stocky," replied Monsieur Gault. 
 
 " The person for whom this permit was given is tall 
 and slight," said Monsieur de Granville. "How old 
 was she ? " 
 
 "About sixty." 
 
 "Does this concern me, messieurs?" said Jacques 
 Colhn. "Come," he added, frankl}', "you needn't 
 look further. That person was m}' aunt, an old woman. 
 1 can save you a great deal of trouble. You cannot 
 find my aunt unless I choose. If we paddle about in 
 this wa}', we shall never come to any result." 
 
 " Monsieur I'abbe no longer speaks broken French," 
 remarked Monsieur Gault. 
 
 " Because everything is l)roken enough, mj' dear 
 
346 The Last Iiicar7iation of Vautrin. 
 
 Monsieur Gault," replied Jacques Collin, with a bitter 
 smile. 
 
 Monsieur Gault went hurriedly up to the attorney- 
 general and whispered in his ear: "Be careful of 
 yourself, Monsieur le comte ; that man is in a fury." 
 
 Monsieur de Granville looked slowly at Jacques 
 Collin, and thought him calm ; but he presently per- 
 ceived the truth of what the director had said. That 
 misleading calmness covered the cold and terrible irri- 
 tation of the nerves of a savage. In the convict's e3'e 
 smouldered a volcanic eruption, his fists were tightly 
 closed. It was indeed a tiger gathering itself up to 
 spring upon its \)VQy. 
 
 " Leave us/' said the attorney-general, gravel}', 
 addressing the director and the judge. 
 
 "You did well to send away Lucien's murderer," 
 said Jacques Collin, not caring whether Camusot heard 
 him or not. "I could not have borne it longer; I 
 should have strangled him." 
 
 Monsieur de Granville shuddered. Never had he 
 seen so much blood in the e3'es of a man, so much 
 pallor on the cheeks, so much sweat on the brow, or 
 such contraction of the muscles. 
 
 "What good would that murder have done you?" 
 he said tranquilly to the criminal before him. 
 
 "You avenge — or think you avenge — society 
 every day, monsieur, and 3'et you ask me the reason 
 
The Last Incarnatio7i of Vautrin. 347 
 
 of a vengeance ! Have you never felt Revenge 
 turning its blades in your bosom? Are you igno- 
 rant that that man, that imbecile judge, killed our 
 dear one, — for you loved him, my Lucien, and he 
 loved you ! I know you b}' heart, monsieur. Ever}' 
 night that dear child told me all when he came home 
 to me. I put him to bed, as a nurse her nursling; 
 and I made him relate all that happened. He confided 
 to me everything, even to his least sensations. Ah! 
 no good mother ever loved her only son as I loved 
 that dear angel. Oh ! if you had known him as I knew 
 him ! Good sprang up in that heart as the flower in 
 the fields. He was weak, — that was his one defect ; 
 weak as the strings of a lute, strong only in bending. 
 But such are the lovable natures ! their weakness 
 is tenderness, the faculty of unfolding to the sun of 
 art, of love, of the beautiful which God has given to 
 man under m3Tiad forms ! Lucien was half a woman. 
 Ah ! what did I not say to that brute beast who 
 has just gone from here? Monsieur, I did, in my 
 place as prisoner before a judge, what God himself 
 might have done to save his son, had he so willed it, 
 from Pontius Pilate." 
 
 A torrent of tears burst from the clear and yellow 
 eyes that lately flamed like those of a famished wolf 
 after six months prowling on the snows of the Ukraine. 
 Presently he continued : — 
 
348 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 *' The booby would not listen to me, and he de- 
 stroyed mj' child ! Monsieur, I washed that body with 
 my tears, imploring Him I do not Jciiow^ who is above 
 us. That tells you all in a word, — for I believe not 
 in God ; T could not be what I am, unless I were 
 materialist. You do not know, no man knows what 
 sorrow is ; I alone know it. The fire of grief had so 
 dried up ray tears that I could not weep last night. 
 But now T weep, for I feel that 3'ou understand me. 
 I saw 3'ou there, just now, holding the scales of justice 
 — Ah! monsieur, ask God, in whom I am tempted 
 to believe, ask God to spare you sufferings like mine. 
 That cursed judge has robbed me of my soul. Mon- 
 sieur ! monsieur ! they are burying at this moment my 
 life, my beaut}', my virtue, my conscience, my strength ! 
 Did you ever see a dog from which a surgeon drains 
 its blood? behold me in that dog! This is wh}' I 
 have come to say to you, ' I am Jacques Collin, and 
 I give myself up.' I had resolved to do so this morn- 
 ing when the}' tore that body from me. I determined 
 then to give myself up to justice without conditions. 
 But I have changed my mind ; now I must make some ; 
 you shall know why." 
 
 " Are you speaking to Monsieur de Granville or to 
 the attorney-general?" said the count. 
 
 The two men. Crime and Justice, looked at each 
 other. The convict's words had deeply moved the 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vaiitrm. 349 
 
 magistrate, who was seized with a divine pity for that 
 unhappy man ; lie came to a perception of his life and 
 of his feelings. Thus impressed, tlie magistrate (for 
 a magistrate is always a magistrate) to whom Jacques 
 Collin's life since his escape was unknown, thought 
 that he might make himself master of this criminal who 
 was, after all, only guilty of forgery. It occurred to 
 him to try generosity on that complex nature, composed 
 like bronze of divers metals, of good and evil. Monsieur 
 de Granville who had reached the age of fifty-two with- 
 out ever being able to inspire affection, admired tender 
 natures, like all men who have not been loved. Per- 
 haps this despair, the lot of many men to whom women 
 will give only esteem or friendship, was the secret of 
 the tie between the three friends, de Bauvan, de Gran- 
 ville, de Serizy ; for mutual sorrow like mutual happi- 
 ness, tunes all souls to the same diapason. 
 
 " You have a future," said the attorney-general, 
 with a penetrating glance at the humbled criminal. 
 
 The man answered with a gesture that expressed the 
 profoundest indifference to himself. 
 
 *' Lucien leaves a will in which he bequeaths yon 
 three hundred thousand francs." 
 
 " Poor boy ! ah, my poor boy ! " exclaimed Jacques 
 CoUin, "always too honest! I was everj' evil thing; 
 he was good, noble, beautiful, sublime ! Such glorious 
 souls cannot be injured ; he never derived anything 
 from me, monsieur, — except my mone}'." 
 
350 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 This utter abandonment of his own personalit}^, which 
 the magistrate was unable to arouse, proved the sin- 
 cerity of the man's words so forcibly that Monsieur 
 de Granville went over to his side completel}'. The 
 attorney-general alone remained against him. 
 
 " If nothing can interest 3'ou personall}" an}' more, 
 why are you here, and what have you come to say to 
 me? " asked Monsieur de Granville. 
 
 " I came to deliver myself up ; that is something, is 
 it not? You burned, but 3'ou had not found me. And 
 if you had, I should only have embarrassed you." 
 
 " What an adversary ! " thought the attorney- 
 general. 
 
 " You are about to cut off the head of an innocent 
 man, monsieur ; and I have found the guilt}' persons," 
 said Jacques Collin, gravel}^ " But I am not here for 
 him more than for 30U. I wish to save you from re- 
 morse, for I love all those who bore my Lucien good- 
 will, just as my hatred will forever follow those, be 
 they men or women, who hindered him from living. 
 What 's a convict to me ! " he exclaimed, after a slight 
 pause. " A convict to my e3'es is what an ant is 
 to 3'ours. I 'm like the brigands of Itah', — fine fel- 
 lows, the3' ! — if onl3^ a traveller brings them in some- 
 thing more than the cost of the powder and shot, they 
 shoot him. In this matter I have only thought of 3'ou. 
 I have m^de that 3'oung man, Theodore Cah i, confess ; 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 351 
 
 I was the onlj' person he could trust, for he used to 
 be ni}' chain companion. He has a kind nature, and 
 he meant to do a service to his mistress in selhng 
 the stolen goods. But he was no more criminal in the 
 Nanterre affair than you are. He is a Corsican ; it is 
 then* moraiit}' to avenge themselves, and to kill one 
 another like flies. In Spain and Italy life is not re- 
 spected ; and the reason is simple enough. There they 
 believe in a soul, a spirit, a something which survives 
 eternall}'. Go and tell that pretty tale to the histo- 
 rians ! There are other lands, philosophical and athe- 
 istical, which make men pay dear for meddling with 
 human life ; and the}' are right, because the}' only be- 
 lieve in Matter in this present world. If Calvi," con- 
 tinued Jacques Collin, " had told 3'ou the name of the 
 woman from whom he got the stolen things, you would 
 have found, not the real culprit, for he is already in 
 your hands, but an accomplice Theodore does not want 
 to injure, for she is a woman. Now, I know the mur- 
 derer and the managers of this bold and skilful crime, 
 which has been related to me in all its details. Put off 
 Calvi's execution, and you shall know all ; but give me 
 your word to commute the death penalty, and send him 
 back to the galleys. In the sorrow in which I now am, 
 I cannot play a part, as you must know." 
 
 " With 3'Ou, Jacques Collin, I think I am at liberty 
 to relax the rigor of my office, althougli it may some- 
 
352 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 what lower justice and the law, which ought never to 
 make compromises." 
 
 " Will you grant me that life?" 
 
 *' Possibly." 
 
 '* Monsieur, I implore you to give me your word ; 
 that will suffice me." 
 
 Monsieur de Granville made a gesture of offended 
 dignit3% 
 
 " I hold the honor of three great families in m}'' 
 hands," said Jacques Collin; "all 3'ou hold are the 
 lives of three convicts. I am the stronger." 
 
 " You ma}^ be returned to solitary confinement ; what 
 will you do then? " asked the attornej'-general. 
 
 " ^A (}a! are we playing a game?" cried Jacques 
 Collin. " I was speaking frankly to Monsieur de 
 Granville ; but if the attornej'-general is here, I take 
 back m}' cards and am dumb, — just as I was about, 
 had you given me your word, to offer you the let- 
 ters written to Lucien by Mademoiselle Clotilde de 
 Grandlieu." 
 
 The words were said with a cool composure of look 
 and tone which warned Monsieur de Granville that 
 here was an adversary with whom the slightest blunder 
 was dangerous. 
 
 "Is that all you have to ask?" said the attorney- 
 general. 
 
 " I am about to speak to you of myself," said Jacques 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 353 
 
 Collin. " The honor of the fomilj' of GrandUeu pays 
 for the commutation of Theodore's sentence. It is giv- 
 ing much and receiving little ; for what 's a galle\'-slave 
 condemned for life ! If he attempts to escape you shoot 
 him ; it is onl}* a bill of exchange upon the guillotine. 
 Promise me to send him to Toulon, and give orders 
 that he shall be well treated, or they might pack him 
 off to Rochefort, intending to get rid of him in six 
 months. Now, for myself I want more. I have cer- 
 tain letters of Madame de Serizy, and others of the 
 Duchesse de Mauf rigneuse, — and what letters ! These 
 little duchesses and countesses, whose heads are so 
 virile, can write masterpieces of another kind when 
 the}'' choose. These are as fine from end to end as the 
 famous ode of Piron — " 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 " Should you like to see them? " said Jacques Collin, 
 smiling. 
 
 The magistrate felt ashamed. 
 
 " I can let you read them, but no nonsense about it ! 
 We are playing a fair game, are not we? You are to 
 give me back the letters, and 3'ou must forbid that the 
 person who brings them shall be watched, or followed, 
 or even looked at." 
 
 " But it will take time to get them," said the attor- 
 ne^'-general. 
 
 " No, it is half-past nine," said Jacques Collin, 
 
 Jo 
 
354 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 glancing at the clock. "Well, in four minutes 3'ou 
 shall have a letter from each of those ladies, and after 
 having read them 3'ou must countermand the guillotine. 
 If I could n't do all this, I should n't be as calm as you 
 now see me. Moreover, those ladies have been warned 
 alread}^" 
 
 Monsieur de Granville made a gesture of surprise. 
 
 "They are already in motion; the Keeper of the 
 Seals has been set to work, and they may go, who 
 knows? to the king. Come, give me your word to 
 take no notice of who comes here, and not to allow 
 that person to be followed." 
 
 " I give you my word." 
 
 " Good ; I know you, — you are above deceiving an 
 escaped convict. You are of the wood Turennes are 
 made of, and you would keep your word to a thief. 
 Well ! there is at this moment in the Salle des Pas- 
 Perdus an old beggar-woman, standing about the mid- 
 dle of the hall. Very likely she is talking with some of 
 those public writers. Send your office servant to fetch 
 her ; he must say to her, Dabor ti mandana. She 
 will come. But don't be unnecessarily cruel. Either 
 accept m}' propositions, or sa}' 3'ou will not make bar- 
 gains with a felon (as for that, I am only a forger, 
 remember), but do not leave Calvi in the agony of 
 thinking this his last hour." 
 
 " The execution is already countermanded. I do not 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 355 
 
 wish, as you will now sec, that justice should be behind 
 you in trustfulness." 
 
 Jacques Collin looked at the attorney-general with 
 wonder as he went to the bell and rang it. 
 
 ^' You have no intention of escaping? Giv^e me your 
 word that you have not, and I am satisfied. You shall 
 go yourself and find that woman." 
 
 The office servant entered. 
 
 " Felix, send awa}^ the gendarmes," said Monsieur 
 de Granville. 
 
 Jacques Collin was vanquished. In this duel with 
 the magistrate, he meant to have been the grander, 
 the stronger, the more generous of the two, and the 
 magistrate had risen above him. Nevertheless, the ex- 
 convict still felt himself superior in one respect ; he was 
 cheating the law, persuading it that the guilty- was 
 innocent, and victoriousl}' forcing it to give up a head. 
 On the other hand, this triumph must needs be dumb, 
 secret, unseen, whereas the Cicogne rose superior to 
 him in open day, majestically'. 
 
 At the moment when Jacques Collin left Monsieur 
 de Granville's office, the secretarj'-general of the Coun- 
 cil, a deput}', the Comte des Lupeaulx, presented him- 
 self, accompanied b}' a feeble old man. The latter, 
 wrapped in a wadded brown coat as if it were still 
 winter, with white hair and a wan, cold face, walked 
 like a gouty man leaning on a gold-headed cane. His 
 
356 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 head was bare, he carried his hat in his hand and wore 
 in his buttonhole a bar with seven crosses. 
 
 "What brings 30U, my dear des Lupeaulx?" asked 
 the attornej'-general. 
 
 " The prince sends me," answered the secretar}' in 
 a whisper. " You have carte blanche to recover the 
 letters of Mesdames de Serizy and de Maufrigneuse, 
 and those of Mademoiselle de Grandlieu. You can 
 arrange matters with the gentleman I have brought 
 with me." 
 
 " Who is he?" asked the attorney-general. 
 
 "I have no secrets from 3'ou, my dear count; he 
 is the famous Corentin. His Majesty sends 3'ou word 
 b3'me to report to him all the circumstances of the case 
 and the conditions on which success may be obtained." 
 
 " Do me the favor," replied the attorne\'-general, 
 still whispering, " to say to the prince that the affair 
 is alread}^ settled, and that I do not need the services 
 of that gentleman. I will go myself and take the or- 
 ders of his Majest}' as to the conclusion of the affair, 
 which concerns the Keeper of the Seals, for two par- 
 dons will have to be granted." 
 
 "You have acted wisely in following up the matter 
 so promptl}'," said des Lupeaulx, shaking hands with 
 the attorney-general. "The king is anxious lest the 
 peerage and these great families should be attacked 
 and vilified on the eve of his great effort, — which 3'ou 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 357 
 
 know of. The matter is not a mere criminal trial, it is 
 really an affair of State." 
 
 " But tell the prince that all was settled before you 
 came to me." 
 
 '' Really?" 
 
 '' I think so." 
 
 " Then you '11 be the Keeper of the Seals, ni}' dear 
 fellow, when the present incumbent is made chancellor." 
 
 '' I have no ambition," replied the attorn ej-general. 
 
 Des Lupeaulx went awa}', laughing. 
 
 " Beg the prince to ask an audience for me with the 
 king about half-past two o'clock," said Monsieur de 
 Granville, as he accompanied des Lupeaulx to the 
 door. 
 
 "And you are not ambitious!" said des Lupeaulx, 
 with a sly look at de Granville. '' Well, well, 3'ou 
 have two children, and you want to be made peer of 
 France." 
 
 " If Monsieur le comte has those letters, m}' inter- 
 vention is useless," remarked Corentin, when alone with 
 Monsieur de Granville, who looked at him with a 
 curiosit}' that is easily understood. 
 
 " A man like 3'ou can never be useless in so deli- 
 cate an affair," replied the attorney-general, seeing that 
 Corentin had either overheard or guessed all. 
 
 Corentin bowed with a little nod of the head that was 
 almost patronizing. 
 
358 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 "Do you know tlie person concerned?" asked the 
 attorne3--general. 
 
 " Yes, monsieur le comte ; it is Jacques Collin, the 
 head of the Societ}' of the Ten Thousand, the banker 
 of the galleys, an escaped convict, who for the last five 
 years has managed to hide himself under the cassock 
 of the Abbe Carlos Herrera. How he became actuall}'' 
 charged with a mission from the King of Spain to the 
 late King, I cannot tell you ; we are baffled, so far, in 
 all inquiries on this point. I am now expecting an 
 answer from Madrid, where I have sent notes of the 
 alfair b}' a trusty man. The 'fellow holds the secrets of 
 two kings." 
 
 " He is a man of vigorous nature. We have but two 
 wa3's of dealing with him, — either to attach him to our 
 service, or get rid of him," said the attorne3'-general. 
 
 '* You and I have the same idea, which is a great 
 honor for me," replied Corentin. "I am obliged to 
 have so many ideas, for so man}' persons, that among 
 the number I ought sometimes to meet with a man of 
 sense." 
 
 This was said in so ^vy and icy a tone that the 
 attorne3'-general kept silence, and busied himself in 
 attending to certain other pressing matters. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 359 
 
 X. 
 
 IN WHICH JACQUES COLLIN PREPARES FOR HIS DEBUT 
 AS A COMEDIAN. 
 
 No one can imagine the amazement of Mademoiselle 
 Jacqueline Collin when Jacques Collin appeared in the 
 Salle des Pas-Perdus. She stood planted on her two 
 legs, with lier hands on her hips, for she was dressed 
 as a hawker of vegetables. Accustomed as she was 
 to w^onderful exhibitions of her nephew's power, this 
 exceeded all. 
 
 " Well, if 3'ou stand there gazing at me as if I were a 
 museum of natural histor}," said Jacques Collin, taking 
 his aunt's arm and leading her out of the Salle, " we 
 shall be taken for two curiosities ; the\' might arrest us, 
 and that would be losing time." 
 
 So saying, he went down the staircase from the 
 Galerie Marchande which leads to the rue de la 
 Barillerie. 
 
 " Where is Paccard? " he asked. 
 
 " He is waiting for me near La Rousse's, — walking 
 up and down the quai aux Fleurs." 
 
 " And Prudence? " 
 
360 The Last I near tuition of Vaittrin. 
 
 '' She is living there as my god-daughter." 
 
 *' We 'II go there." 
 
 " See if we are followed." 
 
 La Rousse, a dealer in hardware, with a shop on the 
 qnai aiix Fleurs, was at one time the widow of a noted 
 criminal, — a member of the Ten Thousand. In 1819 
 Jacques Collin had faithfully paid over twentj' odd 
 thousand francs to the girl after the execution of her 
 lover. Trompe-la-Morte alone knew of the intimacy of 
 this young woman, then a milliner, with his fanandel. 
 
 " I am the dab of your man," he said to her (this 
 was during the period when he was living with Madame 
 Vauquer). " He must have spoken to you of me, my 
 dear. Whoever betrays me dies within a year ; who- 
 ever is faithful need never fear me. I am a friend who 
 will die sooner than say a word that injures those to 
 whom I wish well. Be faithful to me as the soul is to 
 the devil, and you shall profit b}' it. I promised your 
 poor Auguste that you should be made happ}'. He 
 wanted to see 3'ou well off, and he let them fauclier 
 him for your sake. Don't cry. Listen to me : no one 
 knows but me that you were the mistress of a convict, 
 a murderer buried Saturda}' ; and never will I tell it. 
 You are twenty-two years old, and pretty ; and here 
 you are, rich, with twenty thousand francs. Forget 
 Auguste, marr}', and make yourself an honest woman 
 if 3'ou can. In return for this tranquillity^ I want you 
 
The Last iRcarnation of Vautrin. 361 
 
 to serve me — me and aii}' one I send to you — with- 
 out hesitating. I will never ask anything that may 
 compromise either you or your children or your hus- 
 band, if you have one. In mj- business I often want a 
 safe place in which to talk with persons, or to hide ; I 
 need a discreet woman to carr^' a letter, or do an 
 errand. You shall be m}' letter-box, my lodge, one of 
 m}' emissaries, — nothing more, and nothing less. You 
 are too blond ; Auguste and I always called you La 
 Rousse, and you shall keep the name. My aunt, the 
 marchande in the Temple, to whom I '11 introduce you, 
 will be the only person in the world whom you are 
 hound to obey. Tell her everything that happens to 
 3'ou ; she will mair}' you, and you will find her very 
 useful." 
 
 In this manner was concluded one of those diabolical 
 compacts, like the one which bound Prudence Servien, 
 — compacts which this man never failed to keep up, 
 and to strengthen and cement, for, like Satan himself, 
 he had the lust of recruiting. 
 
 Jacqueline Collin had married La Rousse in 1821 to 
 the head-clerk of a wholesale iron-monger. This man, 
 having bought out his patron's business, was now on 
 the high-road to prosperit}', the father of two children, 
 and the assistant-mayor of his district. Never did La 
 Rousse, now Madame Prelard, have the slightest 
 ground of complaint against either Jacques Collin or 
 
362 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 his aunt, who kept faithfulh' to the terms of tlie agree- 
 ment ; but, at ever}' service asked of her, Madame 
 Prelard trembled in all her limbs. She now became 
 white and livid as she saw these two terrible person- 
 ages enter her shop. 
 
 " We have come to talk to 3'on on business, madame," 
 said Jacques Collin. 
 
 " My husband is there," she answered. 
 
 "Well, then, I won't take up your time; I never 
 disturb people unnecessarily." 
 
 " Send for a hackne^^-coach, my dear," said Jacque- 
 line Collin, "and tell my goddaughter to come down ; I 
 think I have found her a place as maid to a great ladj', 
 and the steward of the household wants to take her 
 there." 
 
 Paccard, who looked like a gendarme turned into a 
 a bourgeois^ was talking at this moment with Monsieur 
 Prelard about an important purchase of iron wire for a 
 bridge. 
 
 A clerk fetched a coach, and a few moments later 
 Europe, or rather Prudence Servien, Paccard, Jacques 
 Collin, and his aunt were, to the great J03' of Madame 
 Prelard, seated in the vehicle, while Trompe-la-Mort 
 gave the order to drive to the Barriere d'Ivr3\ 
 
 Prudence and Paccard, trembling before the ddh^ 
 resembled what we have heard of guilt}- souls in the 
 last judgment. 
 
The Last Incar7iation of Vautrin. 363 
 
 " Where are the seven hundred and fift}' thousand 
 francs?" demanded the ddb^ [)Uinging upon them one 
 of his fixed, clear looks, which so turned the blood of 
 these lost souls, conscious of guilt, that they fancied 
 the\' had more pins than hairs on their heads. 
 
 "The seven hundred and thirty thousand francs." 
 replied Jacqueline, speaking for the other two, " are in 
 safet}'. I placed them this morning in La Romette's 
 care, in a sealed package." 
 
 "If 3'ou had not given them to Jacqueline," said 
 Trompe-la-Mort, "3'ou were going straight there " point- 
 ing to the place de Greve, which the vehicle was then 
 passing. 
 
 Prudence made a sign of the cross, as the}" do in 
 her country when the lightning falls. 
 
 "I forgive 3'ou," continued the dab, "on condition 
 that 3'ou never commit such a fault again, and that 
 henceforth 3'OU are to me what those two fingers of 
 m}' right hand are," and he held up the first and mid- 
 dle fingers ; "as for the thumb, that 's m}' good largue 
 here ! " (striking his aunt's shoulder). " Now listen to 
 me. Henceforth, Paccard, you 've nothing to fear ; you 
 may follow 3'our nose about Paris at 3'our case. I per- 
 mit vou to marr}' Prudence." 
 
 Paccard caught up Jacques Collin's hand and kissed 
 it. 
 
 ** What shall I have to do?" he asked. 
 
364 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 "Nothing; you'll have an income and wives, not 
 counting 30ur own ; for ^-ou are terribh' Regence, old 
 man ! That 's what it is to be such a handsome 
 fellow." 
 
 Paccard blushed on receiving this satirical eulogy 
 from his sultan. 
 
 "As for you, Prudence," continued Jacques Collin, 
 " 3'ou need a career, a position, a future ; I shall keep 
 30U in m}' service. Listen to me carefully. In the 
 rue Sainte-Barbe there's a very good establishment be- 
 lon^ino; to that Madame de Saint-Esteve whose name 
 my aunt sometimes borrows. It is a good business, 
 with a fine custom which brings in from fifteen to 
 twenty thousand francs a year. La Saint-P^steve puts 
 in as manager — " 
 
 "La Gonore," said Jacqueline. 
 
 " The largue of that poor La Pouraille," said Paccard ; 
 " that's where Europe and I hid the day poor Madame 
 van Gobseck, our mistress — " 
 
 " Who gabbles when I am speaking? " said Jacques 
 Collin. 
 
 Profound silence reigned in the coach. Neither Pru- 
 dence nor Paccard dared even look at each other. 
 
 "The house is kept by La Gonore," resumed Jacques 
 Collin. " If you hid there with Prudence, Paccard, I 
 see you have sense enough to esquinter la raille (clieat 
 tlie police) ; but you could n't f aire voir des couleurs d la 
 
Tlie Lust Incarnation of Vautrin. 365 
 
 darhonne (deceive her)," he continued, stroking his 
 aunt's chin. " I see now how it was she found you ! 
 Very good. I resume ; Jacquehne will negotiate with 
 Madame de Saint-Esteve for the purcliase of that estab- 
 lishment in the rue Sainte-Barbe, and you can make 
 a fortune there, m}' girl," he said to Prudence, " if you 
 behave properly. Abbess, at your age ! It is the for- 
 tune of a king's daughter ! " he added in a sarcastic 
 tone. 
 
 Prudence threw herself upon his breast and kissed 
 him ; but, with a sharp tap which showed his extraor- 
 dinary strength, the ddb repulsed her so violently that 
 if Paccard had not caught the girl she would have 
 struck her head against the window of the coach and 
 broken it. 
 
 *' Paws down ! I don't like such manners," said the 
 ddh^ harshh' ; "they are disrespectful to me." 
 
 "He is right, my girl," said Paccard. "Don't you 
 see, it is just as if the ddh had given you a hundred 
 thousand francs. The shop is worth that. It is on 
 the boulevard, opposite to the G3'mnase ; it takes the 
 theatre-goers when the}^ come out." 
 
 " I shall do better than tliat," said Trompe-la-Mort. 
 "I intend to buy the house — " 
 
 " M}' ! we shall be rich b}' millions in six j'ears," 
 cried Paccard. 
 
 Weary of being interrupted, Trompe-la-lSrort sent 
 
366 The Last Incarnation of VaiUrin. 
 
 a kick into Paccard's tibia that miglit have broken that 
 of another man ; but PaccarcVs muscles were inclia rub- 
 ber and his bones tin. 
 
 " Enough, ddh ! I'll be silent," he responded. 
 
 "Do you think I'm talking nonsense," resumed 
 Trompe-la-Mort, who now noticed that Paccard had 
 taken a glass or so too much. " Now attend. In the 
 cellar of that house are two hundred and fift}^ thou- 
 sand francs in gold." Deep silence reigned in the coach. 
 " This gold is buried under a solid mass of stone and 
 cement. It is necessarj' to get at that mone}^ and you 
 have onl}^ three nights to do it in. Jacqueline will 
 help you. One hundred thousand will pa}' for the 
 business and lift}' thousand for the house ; you are to 
 leave the rest." 
 
 "Where?" asked Paccard. 
 
 " In the cellar ! " exclaimed Prudence. 
 
 " Hush ! " said Jacqueline. 
 
 "Yes, but in order to get the business transferred 
 la raille (police) must give a permit," said Paccard. 
 
 " They will," said Trompe-la-Mort, curtly. '• Mind 
 3'our own business." 
 
 Jacqueline looked at her nephew, and was struck 
 with the change in that face, visible through even the 
 impassible mask beneath which the strong man habitu- 
 ally concealed his emotions. 
 
 " M}' dear," said Jacques Collin to Prudence Servien, 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 367 
 
 *' my aunt will give you the seven hunclred and fifty 
 thousand francs — " 
 
 " Seven linndi-ed and tJiirty'' said Paccard. 
 
 "Well, so be it, — seven hundred and thirty!" re- 
 sumed Jacques Collin. "To-night you must get hack 
 in some wa}' or other into Madame Lueien's house. 
 Go up through the skylight to the roof, down the 
 chimne}' to your late mistress's bedroom, and put the 
 packet containing the monej' in the mattress of her 
 bed — " 
 
 '' Wh}^ not go in by the door of the apartment?" 
 asked Prudence. 
 
 " Idiot! the seals are on it," replied Jacques Collin. 
 "The inventory wnl) be taken in a few days, and it will 
 then appear that you are innocent of the robber}'." 
 
 " Vwe le dub f cried Paccard. " What kindness ! " 
 
 ''Driver, stop!" called out Jacques Collin in his 
 powerful voice. 
 
 The coach drew up near the stand of hacknej'-coaches 
 by the Jardin des Plantes. 
 
 " Off with you, my children," said Jacques ColUn to 
 Prudence and Paccard, " and don't commit any follies. 
 Be to-night on the Pont des Arts about five o'clock. 
 My aunt will be there and tell you if there is any coun- 
 ter order. One must foresee everytliing, " he whispered 
 to his aunt. " Jacqueline will explain to you to-mor- 
 row," he added, "how you can go to work to get the 
 
368 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 gold out of the profonde without danger. It is a deli- 
 cate operation." 
 
 Prudence and Paccard s-prang out upon the pavement 
 as happy as pardoned thieves. 
 
 " Ah, what a man he is, our dab!'' cried Paccard. 
 
 *'He'd be the king of men if he didn't despise 
 women so." 
 
 " Ha ! is n't he amiable?" exclaimed Paccard. '' Did 
 3'ou see the kick he gave me ? We deserved to be sent 
 ad pat7'es ; for it was our filching that money that got 
 him into all these troubles." 
 
 " Let's hope," said the keener and wiser Prudence, 
 " that he is n't getting us into some crime in hopes of 
 sending us to the pre.'^ 
 
 "He! if he meant that he'd sa}' so. You don't 
 know him. What a fine career he has made for you ! 
 Wh}', here we are, regular bourgeois ! What luck ! 
 Oh, when he likes you, that man, he has n't his equal 
 for goodness ! " 
 
 " Minette," said Jacques Collin to his aunt, " take 
 charge 3'ourself of La Gonore ; you must keep her 
 quiet. In five days from now she will be arrested, and 
 they will find in her room a hundred and fifty thousand 
 francs in gold which remain from another share in the 
 murder of the Crottats — " 
 
 "But that will give her five years in the Madelon- 
 nettes," said Jacqueline. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 369 
 
 *' About that," replied Jacques Collin. "• And it is 
 a good reason why the Saint-P2steve should sell her 
 house. She can't manage it herself, and she won't find 
 the right kind of deputy when she wants her. Conse- 
 quently, you can easily arrange tlie matter. We want 
 an eye there. But all these operations are secondary to 
 the negotiation I am now engaged in about the letters. 
 Unrip your gown, and give me those specimens of our 
 merchandise. AVhere are the three packets? " 
 
 " Parbleu! La Kousse has them." 
 
 '' Driver," cried Jacques Collin, " turn round, and go 
 to the Palais de Justice, and make haste ! — I promised 
 celerit}', and I've been gone over half an hour; it is 
 too much. Stay with La Rousse yourself, and give the 
 three packets, sealed up, to an office-servant who will 
 come there and ask for Madame de Saint-Esteve. The 
 de is the password; he'll say to you, 'Madame, I 
 have come from the attorne^'-general for tlie things 3'ou 
 know of.' Stand outside the house, and be looking at 
 what goes on in the flower-market, so as not to excite 
 Prelard's attention. As soon as you have given up the 
 letters, go to work with Prudence and Paccard." 
 
 " I see what j^ou are after," said Jacqueline; "you 
 want to take Bibi-Lupin's place. Lucien's death has 
 turned your brain." 
 
 " And Theodore, whose hair they meant to cut at 
 four o'clock this afternoon." 
 
 24 
 
370. The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 
 
 " Well, after all, it is an idea ! We should end our 
 da3'S as honest folk and bourgeois on some nice prop- 
 ert}', — in the fine climate of Touraine, sa3\" 
 
 '* What else could I be? Lucien has taken away 
 my soul, my happy life ; I see thirty 3'ears still be- 
 fore me, and I have no heart to live them. Instead 
 of being the ddb of the galleys, I shall be the Figaro of 
 the law, and I '11 avenge Lucien. I can only demolish 
 Corentin in the skin of the police. It might be life 
 still to have a man to pursue. All that we do and are 
 in life is but appearance. Reality is Idea ! " he added, 
 striking his forehead. " How much have you got in 
 the treasury ? " 
 
 *' Nothing," replied his aunt, alarmed bj^ the tone 
 and manner of her nephew. " I gave 3'ou all for 3'our 
 30ung one. La E-omette has n't more than twenty 
 thousand for her business. I have taken all Madame 
 Nourisson had, which was sixt3' thousand francs of her 
 own. Ha ! our sheets have n't been washed for a 3'ear. 
 The 3'oung one cost 30U all our mone3'' ^"^^ ^-he fade of 
 the Fanandels, and all that Nourisson possessed into 
 the bargain." 
 
 "That makes — " 
 
 '' Five hundred and fift3" thousand." 
 
 '^ Well, of that we have- a hundred and fift3^ thousand 
 in gold which Paccard and Prudence will owe us. I can 
 tell you where to get another two hundred thousand ; 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 371 
 
 the rest will come from Esther's estate. We must 
 reimburse the Nourrisson. Witli Theodore, Paccard, 
 Prudence, the Nourrisson, and you, I '11 soon have the 
 battalion that I need. Now listen — " 
 
 " Here are the three letters," said Jacqueline, who 
 by this time had given a last snip to the lining of her 
 gown. 
 
 " Ver}' good ! " replied Jacques Collin, receiving the 
 precious autographs on vellum paper which still held its 
 perfume. " Theodore did the trick at Nanterre." 
 
 ''Did he? How?" 
 
 "Never mind how; time is precious. He wanted 
 to give a worm to a little bird, — a Corsican named 
 Ginetta. You must get la Nourrisson to find her. I '11 
 send 3'ou the necessary' information in a letter Gault 
 will hand to you. Come to the guichet of the Conci- 
 ergerie in two hours from now. You must foist that girl 
 upon Godet's sister, — a clear-starcher ; she must lodge 
 there. Godet and Ruffard were La Pouraille's accom- 
 plices in the robbery and murder of the Crottats. The 
 four hundred and fift}' thousand francs are still intact : 
 one third in La Gonore's cellar ; the second third in 
 La Gonore's chamber (that belongs to Ruffard) ; the 
 third is Godet's, and it is hidden somewhere in his sis- 
 ter's house. AYe will begin by taking one hundred and 
 fifty thousand from La Pouraille's cache, one hundred 
 from Godet's, one hundred from Ruffard's. Once Ruf- 
 
372 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 fard and Godet are locked up, it is tliey who have 
 made away with part of the money. Prudence and 
 Paccard will do the trick at La Gonore's, and 3'ou and 
 Ginetta (who seems to me a sly cat) must manoeuvre 
 Godet's sister. For my debut in comed}', I intend to 
 make the Cicogne recover the four hundred thousand 
 francs stolen from the Crottats and find the guilty par- 
 ties. I shall seem to clear up the affair at Nanterre. 
 We shall recover our funds, and be at the very heart 
 of the police. We were the game, now we '11 be the 
 hunters, that's all. Give the driver three francs." 
 
 The coach stopped before the Palais. Jacqueline, 
 bewildered, paid the man. Trompe-la-Mort went up 
 the staircase on his way back to the office of the 
 attorney-general. 
 
Tlie Last Incarjiation of Vautrin. 373 
 
 XL 
 
 MESSIEURS LES ANGLAIS, FIRE FIRST ! 
 
 A TOTAL change of life is so violent a crisis that, in 
 spite of his decision to make it, Jacques Collin walked 
 slowl}' up the steps of the staircase which leads to the 
 Galerie Marchande, where, beneath tiie peristyle of the 
 court of assizes, is the gloom}- entrance to the law 
 offices. A political matter had occasioned a sort of 
 gathering at the foot of the double staircase which 
 leads to the court of assizes, so that the ex-convict, 
 absorbed in his own thoughts, was stopped for a few 
 moments by the throng. To left of this double stair- 
 case stands out, like an immense pilaster, one of the 
 buttresses of the Palais, and close beside it is a small 
 door. This small door gives entrance to a corkscrew 
 staircase, which serves as a wa}' of communication with 
 the Conciergerie. By it the attorney-general, the di- 
 rector of the prison, the judges of the court of assizes, 
 and the chief of the detective police can come and go. 
 It was b}" a branch of tliis staircase, now disused, that 
 Marie-Antoinette, queen of France, was taken before 
 
374 The Last Incarnation of VaiUrin. 
 
 the Revolution aiy tribunal which sat, as we know, in 
 the great and solemn hall of the court of appeals. 
 
 The heart shrinks at the sight of this dreadful stair- 
 way when we think that the daughter of Maria Theresa, 
 whose head-dress and hoop once filled the grand stair- 
 case at Versailles, passed this wa}'. AVas she expiating 
 the crime of her mother, — the odious partitioning of 
 Poland? Sovereigns who commit such crimes do not 
 think of the retribution demanded by Providence. 
 
 At the moment when Jacques Collin was about to 
 enter the vaulted passage-wa}^ beneath the staircase, 
 Bibi-Lupin came out hy the little door in the buttressed 
 wall. The chief of the detective police was coming 
 from the Conciergerie, and was also on his way to the 
 attorney-general's office. We can imagine the amaze- 
 ment of Bibi-Lupin when he saw before him the well- 
 known overcoat of Carlos Herrera, which he had 
 watched and studied for some hours that morning. 
 He ran to head him off. Hearing steps, Jacques Collin 
 turned round. The two enemies stood face to face. 
 Each stood still, and the same look darted from each 
 pair of eyes, different as they were, like two pistol-shots 
 in a duel fired at the same instant. 
 
 '* Ha ! this time I have 3'ou, brigand ! " cried the 
 chief of police. 
 
 " Ha! ha!" replied Jacques Collin, ironically. The 
 thought crossed his mind that Monsieur de Granville 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 375 
 
 had ordered him to be followed ; and, strange fact 1 
 it gave him pain to think that man less great than he 
 imagined him. 
 
 Bibi-Lupin sprang courageously at Jacques Collin's 
 throat ; but the latter, with his e3'e on his adversary, 
 received him witli a sharp blow which sent the man 
 six feet off with his heels in the air. Trompe-la-Morte 
 went composed!}' up to Bibi-Lupin and offered him a 
 hand to rise, — precisel}' like an English boxer, who, 
 sure of his strength, is readj' for the next round. Bibi- 
 Lupin was much too strong a man to make an outer}' ; 
 but he sprang up, ran to the entrance of the corridor, 
 and signed to a gendarme to stand there on guard. 
 Then, with the rapidity of lightning, he returned to his 
 enem}', who was watching his proceedings tranquilly. 
 Jacques Collin had made up his mind : either the attor- 
 torne3'-general had broken his word to him, or he had 
 not taken Bibi-Lupin into his confidence ; in which case 
 it was necessary to explain his position. 
 
 "Do you mean to arrest me?" he asked of his 
 enemy. *' Say so without more ado. Don't I know 
 that in the heart of the Palais you are stronger than 
 I? I could kill you where you stand, but I couldn't 
 massacre all the gendarmes of the line. Let 's have 
 no noise about it ; where do 3'ou want to take me ? " 
 - *' To Monsieur Camusot." 
 
 "Very good; to Monsieur Camusot," responded 
 
376 The Last hicarnatioii of Vautrin. 
 
 Jacques Collin. "But why not to the attorne3'-gen- 
 eral? — it is nearer," he added. 
 
 Bibi-Lupin, who knew himself out of favor in the 
 higher regions of judicial power, being suspected of 
 making his fortune out of criminals and their victims, 
 was not unwilling to appear before the attorney-general 
 with so fine a capture. 
 
 '•We will go there," he said, "that suits me. But, 
 since you surrender, you must let me trim you ; I 'm 
 afraid of your claws." 
 
 So saving he drew a pair of handcuffs from his 
 pocket. Jacques Collin held out his hands, and Bibi- 
 Lupin fitted them on. 
 
 " Ah qa!'' said the latter, " since you are so good- 
 humored, just tell me how you got out of the Con- 
 ciergerie." 
 
 " By the same way 3'ou did, — the little staircase." 
 
 " Then you must have played some trick on the 
 gendarmes ? " 
 
 "No; Monsieur de Granville set me at libert}^ on 
 parole." 
 
 '•'- Planches-tu9 (are you joking?)'' 
 
 "You'll see if I am. Maybe the handcuffs will go 
 on you next." 
 
 At this instant Corentin, whom we left in the attor- 
 ney-general's office, was saying to that magistrate : 
 
 " Well, monsieur, it is an hour since our man de- 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. Zll 
 
 parted ; are not you afraid he has given you the slip ? 
 He may be ah-ead}' on the road to Spain, and we shall 
 never recover him or the letters, for Spain is a very 
 visionary land." 
 
 ''Either I don't know men, or he will return," re- 
 phed Monsieur de Granville. " All his own interests 
 oblige him to return ; he has more to gain from me 
 than I from him." 
 
 At this moment Bibi-Lupin appeared. 
 
 "Monsieur le comtc," he said, "I have some good 
 news to give you. Jacques Collin, who had escaped, 
 is retaken." 
 
 " See ! " cried Jacques Collin, " how 3'ou have kept 
 3'our word. Ask your double-faced agent where he 
 found me." 
 
 "Where?" asked the attorney-general. 
 
 "Not two steps from the parquet" replied Bibi- 
 Lupin. 
 
 " Relieve that man of 3'our irons," said Monsieur de 
 Granville, sternh'. "Remember that until you get 
 further orders this man is to be left at libert3\ Go 
 out ! 3'OU are too much in the habit of talking and act- 
 ing as if 3'OU alone were the police, and the law too." 
 
 So sa3'ing, the attorne3'-general turned his back on 
 the chief of the detective police, who became livid, 
 especiall3" after receiving a glance from Jacques Collin 
 which seemed to him to foretell his downfall. 
 
378 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 *' I have not left m}' office ; I was waiting for you; 
 you cannot doubt that I have kept my word, as 3'ou have 
 kept yours," said Monsieur de Granville to Jacques 
 Collin. 
 
 *'At the first moment I doubted you, Monsieur le 
 comte ; perhaps in my place you would have thought 
 as I did ; but reflection showed me that I was unjust. 
 I bring you more than you can give me ; you had no 
 interest in betraying me." 
 
 The attornej'-general exchanged a rapid glance with 
 Corentin. That glance could not escape Trompe-la- 
 Mort, whose attention was concentrated on Monsieur 
 de Granville ; he turned and saw a little old man, en- 
 sconced in an arm-chair in a corner of the room. In- 
 stantl}', warned by that keen and rapid instinct which 
 tells of the presence of an enem}', Jacques Collin ex- 
 amined this personage ; he saw at a glance that the 
 eyes were not of the same age as the rest of the per- 
 son and the style of the clothes, and he was sure of 
 a disguise. 
 
 ''We are not alone!" he said. 
 
 " No," replied the attorne3'-general, briefl}^ 
 
 " Monsieur is, I think," said the ex-convict, " one of 
 my best acquaintances." 
 
 He took a step toward the old man, and recognized 
 Corentin, the real and avowed author of Lucien's down- 
 fall. Jacques Collin, whose face was a brick-red, be- 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 379 
 
 came, for an almost imperceptible moment, pale and 
 nearly white ; all his blood rushed to his heart, so hot 
 and frenzied was his desire to spring upon that danger- 
 ous beast and crush him. But he drove back the brutal 
 desire, and restrained it b}' the force which made him 
 so terrible. He assumed a friendly air and a tone of 
 obsequious politeness, — the habit of which he had ac- 
 quired while playing the r61e of an ecclesiastic of the 
 higher order. He bowed to the little old man. 
 
 "Monsieur Corentin," he said, "is it to accident 
 that I owe the pleasure of meeting you, or am I for- 
 tunate enough to be the object of your visit to the 
 Parquet?" 
 
 The amazement of the attorne3'-general was great ; he 
 set himself to examine the two men now brought face to 
 face with each other. Jacques Collin's movements and 
 words denoted a crisis, and he was curious to under- 
 stand the meaning of it. On this sudden and miracu- 
 lous recognition of his personalit}', Corentin started up 
 like a snake whose tail has been trodden on. 
 
 *' Yes, it is I, my dear Abbe Carlos Herrera." 
 
 " Have you come," asked Trompe-la-Mort, " to place 
 yourself between the attorne3'-general and me ? Am I 
 to have the happiness of being made the subject of a 
 negotiation which ma}' show off 3'our brilliant talents? 
 Here, monsieur," said the convict, turning back to the 
 attorney-general, "I won't make you lose time so pre- 
 
380 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 cious as yours ; here are the samples of my merchan- 
 dise." So saying, he held out to Monsieur de Granville 
 three letters which he took from the pocket of his over- 
 coat. " While 3'ou are looking over them I will, with 
 your permission, converse with monsieur here." 
 
 " That is too much honor for me, monsieur," said 
 Corentin, who could not repress a shght quiver. 
 
 '' You obtained a complete success in our late affair, 
 monsieur," said Jacques Collin. " I was beaten," he 
 added carelessl}', like a gambler who loses his mone^', 
 *' but you left a few men on the field ; the victory cost 
 3^ou something." 
 
 " Yes," replied Corentin, accepting the jest ; " if 3'ou 
 lost your queen, I lost both my castles." 
 
 "Oh! Contenson was only a pawn," said Jacques 
 Collin, " easil}'' replaced. You are, — permit me to 
 give you this praise to your face, — 3'ou are, upon my 
 honor, a marvellous man." 
 
 *' No, no, I bow before your superiority," replied 
 Corentin, with the look of a stage-jester, and as if he 
 had said, " You want to blaguer, very good, hlaguons ! " 
 "For I, you know, dispose of power, and 3'ou, — you 
 are, so to speak, alone — " 
 
 " Oh, oh ! " exclaimed Jacques Collin, significantly. 
 
 *' And you almost carried the day," continued Coren- 
 tin, taking note of the exclamation. "You are the 
 most extraordinary man I have ever met, and I have 
 
Tlie Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 381 
 
 known many that were veiy extraordinaiy ; for the 
 classes with whom I fight are all remarkable for their 
 audacit}' and their bold conceptions. I was, unfor- 
 tunately*, very intimate with the late Due d'Otrante. 
 I have worked with Louis XYIII. while he reigned and 
 when he was an exile ; also for the Director}' and for 
 the Emperor. You are of the stamp of Louvel, the 
 finest political instrument I have ever seen ; but you 
 have also the suppleness of diplomats. And what aux- 
 iliaries you have ! I 'd give a good many heads to the 
 block if I had the cook of that poor little Esther in 
 m}^ service. I can't find such people myself; where 
 do you get them? " 
 
 '* Monsieur," replied Jacques Collin, '' 3'ou overwhelm 
 me. From you, such praises would turn the head of 
 an}' man." 
 
 " They are deserved. Why ! if you had n't had that 
 little fool of a poet on your hands to defend, you 'd 
 have routed us all." 
 
 '' Ah ! monsieur, but I work underhand. To be 
 great and strong in the broad daylight, and at all hours, 
 it takes you and yours." 
 
 " Well, come," said Corentin, " we are each convinced 
 of our mutual merit and value. Here we are now, 
 both alone. I have lost my old friends, and you your 
 young protege. I am the stronger for the moment. 
 Why should n't we do as the people in the ' Auberge 
 
382 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 des Adrets'? I hold out m}' hand to 3'ou and say: 
 ' Shake hands, and let's make an end of it.' I offer 
 you, in presence of the attorn e3'-general, a full and 
 complete pardon ; 3'ou shall be one of mine, next to 
 myself and, possibly, my successor." 
 
 " So it is a position that you are offering me?" said 
 Jacques Collin. " A fine position ! I should pass from 
 black to white." 
 
 *' You would be in a sphere where your talents would 
 be appreciated and rewarded, and in which you could 
 act freely at your ease. The political and govern- 
 mental police has its perils. I have already, such as 
 you see me, been twice imprisoned, — I'm none the 
 worse for that. But one travels, one sees the world ; 
 we are all that we desire to be ; the machinery of great 
 political dramas ; treated politel}^ by the great seigneurs. 
 Come, m}' dear Jacques Collin, will that suit you?" 
 
 "Have you orders in respect to this?" asked the 
 convict. 
 
 "I have full power," replied Corentin, rejoicing at 
 his inspiration. 
 
 ''You are joking; 3'Ou are a very strong man and 
 3''ou must admit that others ma3' distrust 3'ou. You 
 have sold more than one man b3' tying him in a sack 
 into which you persuaded him to enter. I know your 
 fine battles, — the Montauran affair, the Simeuse affair. 
 Ha ! ha ! those were the Marengos of spydom." 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 383 
 
 *' Well," said Corentin, " you have confidence in the 
 attornej'-general, have n't 3-011? " 
 
 " Yes," said Jacques Collin, bowing respectfullv. 
 " I admire his noble character, his firmness, his loy- 
 alty, and I would give m}' life to see him happ}'. 
 Therefore," he added, addressing the count, "• I shall 
 begin by curing the dangerous condition in which Ma- 
 dame de Seriz}' now lies." 
 
 The attorney-general made a motion of surprise and 
 pleasure. 
 
 " Well, then, ask him," continued Corentin, " whether 
 I have not full power to take 3'ou from the shameful 
 position you now hold and attach you to m}- person." 
 
 " That is true," said Monsieur de Granville, watch- 
 ing the convict closeh*. 
 
 " Absolutel}' true? I am to have absolution for the 
 past and the promise of succeeding you if I show my 
 competency ? " 
 
 " Between two men like 3'ou and me, there can be no 
 misunderstanding," replied Corentin, with a grandeur 
 b3' which most persons would have been caught. 
 
 "And the price of this transaction is, no doubt, 
 the return of three bundles of letters?" said Jacques 
 Collin. 
 
 " I did not think it necessary to sa3' that." 
 
 " M3' dear Monsieur Corentin," said Trompe-la-Mort, 
 with an iron3' worthy of that which made Talma's tri- 
 
384 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 umph in the r6le of Nicomede. " I thank 3'ou ; I owe 
 to you the knowledge of what I am, and the importance 
 attached to depriving me of those weapons. I shall 
 not forget it. I shall be ever, and always, at your 
 service ; and instead of saying, like Robert Macaire, 
 ' Let us embrace ! ' I shall embrace you." 
 
 He seized Corentin by the middle of the body with 
 such rapidity that the latter could not defend himself; 
 he pressed him like a doll to his heart, kissed him on 
 both cheeks, lifted him like a feather, opened the door 
 of the office and deposited him outside, somewhat 
 bruised by the rough embrace. 
 
 " Adieu, m}' dear fellow," he whispered in his ear. 
 '' We are separated, one from the other, b}" the length of 
 three dead bodies; we have measured swords, and both 
 are of the same steel and the same dimensions. Let 
 us respect each other ; but I choose to be 3'our equal, 
 not your subordinate. Armed as you would be, I think 
 3'ou too dangerous a general for 3^our lieutenant. A 
 grave lies between us. Sorrow to 3'ou if you attempt 
 to come upon my ground! You call 3^ourself the State 
 just as lacqueys take the names of their masters ; I 
 shall call myself Justice. We shall often meet ; let us 
 treat each other with all the more dignit3' and propri- 
 ety because we are, and ever shall be — atrocious 
 scoundrels," he whispered. " I set you an example 
 in that embrace." 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 385 
 
 For the first time in his life, Corentin looked foolish, 
 and he allowed his terrible adversary to shake him bj' 
 the hand. 
 
 " If this is how it will be," he said, '' I think it is to 
 the interests of both to remain friends." 
 
 " We shall be the stronger on both sides, — but also 
 more dangerous," added Jacques Collin in a low voice. 
 *' You will permit me to ask you to-morrow for certain 
 instalments on this bargain." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Corentin, good-humoredly, " I see you 
 take your affair out of my hands and give it to the 
 attorney-general. You will be the cause of his pro- 
 motion. I cannot help telling you that you do right. 
 Bibi-Lupin's ways are well-known ; besides, he has 
 served his time. If you take his place, you will live in 
 the only condition that really suits you. I shall be 
 charmed to see you in it, — on my word of honor." 
 
 " Au revoir, and soon," replied Jacques ColUn. 
 
 25 
 
386 The Last Incarnation of VaiUrin. 
 
 XIT. 
 
 JACQUES COLLIN ABDICATES THE ROYALTY OF DAB. 
 
 On re-entering the office, Trompe-la-Mort found the 
 attorney -general sitting at his desk with his head in 
 his hands. 
 
 "How can you prevent Madame deSerizy from be- 
 coming insane ? " asl^ed Monsieur de Granville, looking 
 up. 
 
 *' I can do it in five minutes," replied Jacques Collin. 
 
 '' And you are willing to place all the letters of those 
 ladies in mj' hands?" 
 
 " Have you read the three I gave you?" 
 
 "Yes," replied the attorney-general. 
 
 ''Well, we are alone; forbid all entrance and let 
 us come to an agreement," said Jacques Collin. 
 
 "One moment. Before all else the law must take 
 its course ; Monsieur Camusot has orders to arrest 
 3'our aunt." 
 
 " He cannot find her." 
 
 " The police are to search a place in the Temple 
 where a Mademoiselle Paccard keeps an establishment." 
 
 "They will find nothing but rags, costumes, dia- 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 387 
 
 monds and unifonns. Still, it is high time to put an 
 end to Monsieur Camnsot's zeal." 
 
 Monsieur de Granville rang the bell and told the 
 servant to deny him to all comers. 
 
 " Now," he said to Jacques Collin, " let us finish 
 what we were saying. I wisli to know your prescrip- 
 tion for curing the countess." 
 
 '' Monsieur le comte," said Jacques Collin, becoming 
 grave. " I was, as you know, condemned to five years 
 at the galleys for the crime of forger}'. I love m}- 
 libertv. That love, like all loves, defeated itself, — 
 for lovers quarrel because they are too adoring. B3' 
 escaping, and then being retaken, I have, in point of 
 fact, done seven years at the galleys. You have there- 
 fore onh' to pardon me the increase of penalt}' which 
 I incurred at the pre^ — excuse me^ I mean the galleys. 
 In real it V, I have suffered in}' punishment, and until 
 the}' find me guilt}' of some other crime, — which I 
 defy the law, and even Corentin, to do, — I ought to be 
 restored to my rights as a French citizen. Excluded 
 from Paris and under the supervision of the pohce, is 
 that a life, I ask you? Where can I go? What can I 
 do? You know my capacities. You saw Corentin, 
 that arsenal of tricks and treachery, livid with fear 
 before me and doing justice to my talents. That man 
 has robbed me of everything ! for it is he, he only, 
 by what means and in whose interests I do not know, 
 
388 The Last lucarnattoii of Vautrin. 
 
 who has overthrown the edifice of Lucien's fortune. 
 Corentin and Caamsot have done it alL 
 
 "Do not recriminate," said Monsieur de Granville; 
 "keep to your point." 
 
 " Well, my point is this: Last night, holding in ni}' 
 hand the icy hand of that dead ciiild, I vowed to m}'- 
 self to renounce the senseless struggle I have carried 
 on for twenty years against society. You will not 
 think me capable of cant after what I have told you 
 of my religious opinions. Well, I have seen the world 
 for twent}^ years on its seamy side, in its caves and 
 cellars, and I recognize that there is in the march of 
 events a force, which you call Providence, which I call 
 fate, and my comrades call luck. All evil action is over- 
 taken b}' vengeance of some kind, no matter with what 
 rapidity it gets away from it. In this business of fight- 
 ing the world, see what happens ! You hold good cards, 
 quint and quatorze in hand with the lead ; a candle 
 falls, the cards are burned, or the player falls in a fit! 
 There 3'ou have Lucien's liistorv. That lad, that angel, 
 never committed so much as the shadow of a crime ; he 
 let himself be led, lie let things be done for him. He 
 was about to marr}' Mademoiselle de Grandlieu, to be 
 made a marquis ; he had a fortune. Well, a girl poisons 
 herself, she hides a sum of money, and the edifice of 
 that fine fa.te, so laboriously raised, crumbles in a 
 moment. And who is the man who sfave the first 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 389 
 
 thrust? A man covered with hidden infamy; a mon- 
 ster who has committed in the world of moneyed in- 
 terests such crimes tliat every penny of his fortune is 
 soaked with the tears of a familj' ; a Nucingen, who 
 has been a legalized Jacques Collin in the world of 
 money. You Icnow as well as I do the liquidations, 
 the tricks of that man for which he deserves hanging; 
 but society accepts him. My chains will forever ham- 
 per all m}' actions, even the most virtuous. To be a 
 shuttlecock between two battledores, one called the 
 galleys the otiier the police, is a life whose triumph 
 is toil without end and in which tranquillity seems 
 to me impossible. Jacques Collin, monsieur, is being 
 buried at this moment with Lucien, whom they are now 
 sprinkling with holy-water before he goes to Pere- 
 Lachaise. But I, where can I go, not to live, but to 
 die ! In the present state of things, you, I mean Law 
 and Justice, have not been willing to concern yourself 
 with the civil and social condition of the liberated con- 
 vict. When the law is satisfied, society is not ; it con- 
 tinues its distrust and it does all to justify that dis- 
 trust to itself. It makes the liberated convict an 
 impossible being. It ought to return to him all his 
 rights, for he has paid the penalty of his crime ; but 
 society forbids him to live within a certain zone. It 
 says to the wretched man : ' Paris and its suburbs 
 to such a distance, the onlj^ place where ^'ou can hide 
 
390 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 3'oiir past, yon shall not inhabit.' Moreover, it snb- 
 jects the liberated convict to police snpervision, and 
 yon think it possible for a man to live nnder such con- 
 ditions? To live, one must work; for we don't bring 
 fortunes from the galleys. But you have arranged 
 that the convict shall be clearly pointed out, recog- 
 nized, stamped, and penned, because you think citizens 
 may trust him when society and justice will not. You 
 condemn him to hunger or to crime. He can get no 
 work ; he is inevitablj* driven to return to his former 
 business, which will send him to the scaffold. Thus, 
 while desiring to renounce ni}' struggle against the law, 
 1 saw no place under the sun above us for me. One 
 onlv could I fill, — that of being a servant of the Au- 
 thority which weighs so heavily upon us. AVhen this 
 thought came to me the power in my possession of 
 which I have spoken to you, made itself clear to my 
 mind. Three great families are in the hollow of my 
 hand. Do not think that I desire to blackmail them. 
 Blackmailing is the most cowardl}' of murders. To my 
 e3xs it is a crime of deeper wickedness than murder ; 
 a murderer must have a devilish courage. I act out 
 my opinions ; for the letters which are my securit}', 
 which enable me to speak as I do to you, which put 
 me, at this moment, on an equal footing with you, — 
 I, Crime, you. Justice, — are at 3'our disposition. Let 
 your servant now go and ask for them in your name ; 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 391 
 
 he will receive them. I seek no equivalent, I do not 
 sell them. Alas ! Monsieur le comte, when I put them 
 aside to keep them I did not think of m3'self; I 
 thought of some peril which Lucien might possibl}' en- 
 counter. If 3'ou will not compl}' with m}' request I 
 have more courage, more disgust of life than I need 
 to blow mj' brains out and rid you of me. I could, 
 with a passport, go to America and live in the wilds ; 
 I have all the makings of a savage in me. Such are 
 the thoughts that filled my mind last night. Your sec- 
 retary' must have given you, I think, a message I 
 charged him to conve}' to you. Seeing the precau- 
 tions you were taking to save Lucien's memor}- from 
 infamy, I gave you all m}' life, poor gift! I no longer 
 cared for it ; it seemed to me impossible without the 
 light that lighted it, without the J03' that brightened 
 it, without the thought that was its meaning, without 
 the splendor of that 3'oung poet who was its sun, and 
 I wished then to give 3'OU these letters — " 
 
 Monsieur de Granville bowed his head. 
 
 " When I was taken to the preau, I heard that m}* 
 little chain-companion was about to be executed for the 
 crime at Nanterre," continued Jacques Collin. " I 
 learned also that Bibi-Lupin is betraying his position ; 
 one of his own agents was engaged in the Crottat mur- 
 der. Was not this, as 3'ou would say, providential? I 
 then saw the possibilit3' of usefulness, of employing the 
 
392 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 faculties with which I am gifted, the mehiiichol}' knowl- 
 edge that I have acquired, in the interests of society, 
 — of being useful, in short, instead of harmful ; and 
 I have dared to count upon your comprehension and 
 3'our kindness." 
 
 The air of good-will, of candor, of simplicit^^ in the 
 man who thus confessed himself without bitterness, 
 without that philosoph}' of vice which had hitherto 
 made him so terrible to listen to, would have caused 
 all those who saw it to believe in a transformation. 
 He was no longer liis past self. 
 
 " I believe in you so thoroughly," he resumed with 
 the humility of a penitent, "that I desire to put m3^self 
 wholly at your disposal. You see me between three 
 roads, — suicide, America, and the rue de Jerusalem. 
 Bibi-Lupin is rich; he has served his time; he is a 
 double-faced sentry of the law ; and if 3'ou will let 
 me act against him, je le pawnerais marron (I will 
 take him red-handed) within a week. If you will give 
 me the place of that scoundrel, you will render a great 
 service to society. I shall be faithful. I have all the 
 qualities needed for the work. I have more than Bibi- 
 Lupin, because I am educated, I have followed my 
 classes in rhetoric ; and I am not such a blockhead as 
 he, for I have manners, — when I choose to have them. 
 I have no other ambition than to be an element of 
 order and repression instead of being corruption itself. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 39 
 
 o 
 
 I will never again recruit a human being for the grand 
 army of vice. Monsieur, when you capture the enemy's 
 general on the open field 3'ou don't shoot him, 3'ou 
 give him hack his sword, with a town for a prison. 
 Well, I am the general of the galWs, and I surrender. 
 It is not the Law that has struck me down, it is a 
 death. — The sphere in which I ask to act and live 
 is the only one that I can live in. In it, I shall de- 
 velop the power that I feel within me. Decide." 
 
 He ceased speaking, and stood in a submissive and 
 respectful attitude. 
 
 "You have put those letters at my disposal?" said 
 the attorney-general. 
 
 " You can send for them ; they will be given to the 
 person whom 3'ou send." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 Jacques Collin read the heart of the attornej'-gen- 
 eral, and he continued on the same lines : — 
 
 "You have promised me the commutation of Calvi's 
 death sentence to one of twentj' years at the galleys. 
 Oh ! I am not reminding 3'ou of that as a bargain," 
 he said quickl}-, answering a gesture of the attorne3'- 
 general ; "but that life ought to be saved for other 
 reasons ; the young man is innocent." 
 
 " How can I obtain tlie letters?" asked the attorne}'- 
 general. "It is my dutv to know if you are the man 
 3'OU say 3'Ou are. I want 3'ou without conditions — " 
 
394 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 "Send a confidential man to the quai aux Fleurs; 
 he will see on the steps of a hardware shop, at the 
 sign of the ' Bouclier d'Achille' — " 
 
 " The house of the ' Bouclier ' ? " 
 
 *'Yes," said Jacques Collin, with a bitter smile, "my 
 shield and buckler are there. Your man will find an 
 old woman on those steps, dressed, as I told you be- 
 fore, like a marketwoman of some means, with pen- 
 dants in her ears. He must ask for Madame de Saint- 
 Est^ve, — be careful not to forget the cZe, — and he 
 must sa}'' to her : ' I come from the attorne3'-general 
 for the things you know of.' You will at once receive 
 three sealed packets." 
 
 "Are all the letters there?" asked Monsieur de 
 Granville. 
 
 "Well, well, you are strong! You haven't stolen 
 your oflfice," said Jacques Collin, smiling. " I sec 3'ou 
 think me capable of tricking you with blank paper. 
 You don't know me!" he added, "but I trust }'ou 
 as a son his father." 
 
 '^ You will now be taken back to the Conciergerie," 
 said the attornej^-general, " and there 3'ou will await 
 the decision on your fate." He rang the bell and said 
 to the servant who answered it, ''Request Monsieur 
 Garner}' to come here, if he is in his office." 
 
 Besides the forty-eight commissaries of police, who 
 watch over Paris like forty-eight petty providences, 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 395 
 
 (hence the name Quart-d'oeil, quarter of an e3'e, given 
 bj' thieves' argot, because there are four to each ar- 
 rondissement), and not counting the detective poHce, 
 there are two commissaries attached to the poHce 
 proper, and two to the courts for the execution of 
 delicate missions and occasionallv to do the work of the 
 examining-judges. These places require men of mid- 
 dle age, proved capacity, great morality, and absolute 
 discretion. It is one of the miracles performed by 
 Providence for the benefit of Paris that natures of 
 this kind can alwajs be obtained. No description of 
 the Palais would be complete witiiout mention of this 
 preventive magistracy, if we may so call it, which is in 
 truth the most powerful auxiliary of the law ; for if 
 law has, by the force of things, lost something of its 
 ancient pomp and grandeur, we must admit that it has 
 gained materialh'. In Paris, above all, its mechanism 
 has been brought to perfection. 
 
 Monsieur de Granville having sent his secretar}', 
 Monsieur de Chargeboeuf, to Lucien's funeral, he wished 
 to substitute a safe man to send upon this new errand, 
 and Monsieur Garnery was one of the two commissa- 
 ries deles^ated to the leg-al service. 
 
 " Monsieur le comte," said Jacques Collin, '' I have 
 proved to 3'ou that I have my point of honor. You 
 gave me liberty to go and I returned. It is now eleven 
 o'clock ; the mortuarj' mass for Lucien must be nearly 
 
396 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 over, and the}^ will take him to the cemeteiy. Instead 
 of sending ine to the Conciergerie, permit me to accom- 
 pany the body of that child to Pere-Lachaise. I will 
 return and give myself up a prisoner." 
 
 " You ma}' go," said Monsieur de Granville, in a 
 voice full of kindness. 
 
 " One word more. The money of that girl, Esther 
 Gobseck, was not stolen. During the half-hour's free- 
 dom 3'ou gave me this morning, I questioned her ser- 
 vants. I am as sure of them as you are of 3'our agents. 
 You will undoubtedl}' find the money said to be stolen 
 in Mademoiselle Esther's room, when the seals are re- 
 moved. Her maid tells me that she was very secretive 
 and distrustful, and I make no doubt that the bank-bills 
 are hidden in her bed. Let it be well examined, open 
 the mattress and pillows, and you will find the money .'^ 
 
 " Are you sure of that? " 
 
 " I am sure of the relative honesty of my scamps ; 
 the}^ never venture to cheat me. I have the power of 
 life and death over them. I judge and condemn and 
 execute without all your formalities. You shall soon 
 see the effects of my power. I will recover for 3'ou 
 the sums stolen from the Crottats ; I will serre mar- 
 ron (catch red-handed) one of Bibi-Lupin's agents, 
 his right arm ; and I will give you the secret of the 
 the crime committed at Nanterre. Is n't all that a 
 pledge? Now, if you will put me in the service of the 
 
Tlie Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 397 
 
 law and the police, at the end of a 3-Gar you will be 
 glad of your resolution. I will be honestly what I 
 ought to be ; and I shall know how to succeed in all 
 the affairs confided to me." 
 
 " I cannot promise you anything but my own good- 
 will in the matter. What you ask does not depend 
 on me alone. To the king, on receiving the report of 
 the Keeper of the Seals, belongs the sole right to par- 
 don, and the place you ask for is in the gift of the pre- 
 fect of police." 
 
 "• Monsieur Garner}'," announced the office servant. 
 
 On a sign from the attorne^'-general, the commissaiy 
 entered, gave Jacques Collin the glance of a connois- 
 seur, and could hardl}' repress his surprise wlien Mon- 
 sieur de Granville said to the ex-convict : — 
 
 " You may go." 
 
 "Will you permit me," said Jacques Collin, "to 
 wait here till Monsieur Garnerj' brings 3'ou that which 
 is ni}' strength? I should be glad to carry away with 
 me a proof of your satisfaction." 
 
 This humilit}^ and good faith touched the attorne}'- 
 general. "Go," he said; "1 am sure of 3'ou." 
 
 Jacques Collin bowed with the submission of an in- 
 ferior to his superior. Ten minutes later Monsieur de 
 Granville had in his possession the three packages of 
 letters, each sealed up and intact. But the importance 
 of the affair and the sort of confession made to him 
 
398 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 by Jacques Collin had, as he now recollected, caused 
 liiiu to forget the latter's promise of curing Madame 
 de Seriz3\ 
 
 Once outside those walls, Jacques Collin became 
 conscious of an incredible sense of well-being. He felt 
 himself free and born to a new life. He walked rapidly 
 from the Palais to the church of Saint-Germain des 
 Pres, where the mass was over. They were sprinkling 
 the coffin with holy-water, and he arrived in time to 
 share in that Christian farewell to the remains of the 
 child he cherished so tenderly. Then he got into one 
 of the coaches and followed the body to the cemetery. 
 
 At funeral ceremonies in Paris, unless under extra- 
 ordinary circumstances, like the death of some cele- 
 brated man, the crowd which attends in the church 
 does not follow to the cemeter}'. People have time 
 for the church service ; but their own affairs are press- 
 ing, and they return to them as soon as possible. So, 
 out of ten mourning-coaches on this occasion, only four 
 were occupied. When the procession reached Pere- 
 Lachaise, not more than a dozen persons surrounded 
 the grave, among whom was Rastignac. 
 
 "You are faithful to him," said Jacques Collin to 
 his former acquaintance. 
 
 Rastignac gave a start of surprise on seeing Vautrin 
 beside him. 
 
 *' Be calm," said Madame Vauquer's former boarder. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 399 
 
 "3'ou have a slave in me, if onl}" because I find you 
 here. My support is not to be despised ; I am, or 
 shall be, more powerful than ever. You 've slipped 
 3'our cable, you have been clever, but you may, some 
 time or other, want me, and I will always serve you." 
 
 " What are you going to be? " 
 
 " The purveyor of the galleys, instead of their lodger,'* 
 replied Jacques Collin. 
 
 Rastignac made a motion of disgust. 
 
 " Suppose you are robbed? " 
 
 Rastignac walked on quickly to get away from 
 Jacques Collin. 
 
 " You don't know under what circumstances you 
 ma}' find yourself," said the ex-convict. 
 
 The}' had now reached the grave dug for Lucien 
 beside that of Esther. 
 
 " Two beings who loved each other and were happy," 
 said Jacques Collin. " They are reunited. It is a 
 happiness even to rot together. I will lie there, too." 
 
 When Lucien's body was lowered into the grave 
 Jacques Collin fell rigid and unconscious. That strong 
 beino; could not bear the slisfht rattle of the earth which 
 the grave-diggers threw upon the coffin in order to de- 
 mand their fees. 
 
 At that moment two members of the detective police 
 force came up, and recognizing the ex-abbe, they 
 lifted him into a coach and took him away with them. 
 
400 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 *' What is it now?" asked Jacques Collin, when he 
 recovered consciousness. He looked about the coach 
 and recognized the police agents, one of whom was 
 Ruffard. 
 
 " Merel}' that the attorne3'-general is asking for you," 
 replied Ruffard. " We looked everywhere, and onl}^ 
 found you in the cemetery, where you came near 
 pitching head-foremost into the grave of that young 
 man." 
 
 Jacques Collin was silent. 
 
 " Did Bibi-Lupin send you for me?" he asked pres- 
 ently of the other police-agent. 
 
 " No, it was Monsieur Garner3\" 
 
 " Did he say anything to 3'ou? " 
 
 The two agents consulted each other with expressive 
 pantomime. 
 
 *' Come, tell me, how did he give the order?" 
 
 " He told us to find 3'ou immediately," replied Ruf- 
 fard, " saying that you were either in the church of 
 Saint-Germain des Pres, or at the cemeter3\" 
 
 '' The attorney-general had asked for me? " 
 
 *' Perhaps so." 
 
 "Yes, that's it," said Jacques Collin, "he wants 
 me ; " and he fell back into a silence that much dis- 
 quieted the two agents. 
 
 About half-past two o'clock, Jacques Collin re-en- 
 tered the attorney-general's office, and there saw a new 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin, 401 
 
 personage, Comte Octave de Bauvan, one of the judges 
 of the court of appeals. 
 
 " You forgot that you promised to relieve Madame 
 de Seriz\''s mind from its present danger," said the 
 attorney-general, when he saw him. 
 
 "Ask those two men, Monsieur le comte, where they 
 found me," said Jacques Collin, signing to the police- 
 agents to enter the office. 
 
 "Lying unconscious, Monsieur le comte, beside the 
 grave of the young man they were burying." 
 
 " That will do," said the attorney" -general, motioning 
 to the men to leave the office. 
 
 " Relieve Madame de Serizy's mind," said Monsieur 
 de Bauvan to Jacques Collin, "and you shall have 
 what you ask." 
 
 " I ask nothing," replied Jacques Collin. " I sur- 
 rendered at discretion, and Monsieur le comte must 
 have received — " 
 
 " All the letters ! " said Monsieur de Granville, " but 
 you said that you could relieve Madame de Serizy's 
 mind and save her reason. Can you? or was that 
 mere bravado ? " 
 
 " I hope I can," replied Jacques Collin, modestl}'. 
 
 " Then come with me to her house," said Comte 
 Octave. 
 
 "No, monsieur," said Jacques. "I am still a con- 
 vict, and I will not enter a carriage with 3"ou. If I de- 
 
 26 
 
402 The Last Iiicarnatum of Vaittrin. 
 
 sire to serve the police and the law I shall not begin 
 byinsulting.it. Go yourself to Madame la comtesse ; I 
 shall be there soon after 3-011. Saj- to her that Lueien's 
 best friend, the Abba Carlos Herrera will call to see 
 her. The expectation of that visit will necessarily 
 make an impression upon her, and be favorable to the 
 result. You will excuse me for once more playing the 
 part of the Spanish priest ; it is for the purpose of 
 doing you a great service." 
 
 " I will meet you there at four o'clock," said Mon- 
 sieur de Granville. "I must now go to the king with 
 the Keeper of the Seals." 
 
 Jacques Collin took a coach and drove to the quai 
 Malaquais. There he went up to the little room on the 
 fourth floor where he himself had lodged, which was 
 separate from Lucien's apartment. The porter, much 
 astonished at seeing him again, wanted to talk about 
 the many events which had happened. 
 
 " I know all," said the abba. '' I was compromised, 
 notwithstanding the sanctity of my character. But, 
 thanks to the intervention of the Spanish ambassador, 
 I am now at libert}'." 
 
 He went hurriedly to his room, where he took from 
 the cover of a breviary a certain letter which Lucien 
 had written to Madame de Se'rizy when the latter had 
 dismissed him in disgrace after seeing him at the Opera- 
 house with Esther. 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrm. 403 
 
 In his aiixiet}' and despcair at the position in which 
 be was beginning to find himself, Lucien had not sent 
 the letter, believing it to be useless, but Jacques Collin 
 had read that poetical masterpiece, and as whatever 
 Lucien wrote was sacred to him, he had slipped the 
 letter under cover of his breviar}'. When Monsieur 
 de Granville spoke to him of Madame de Serizy's state, 
 his profound mind rightly believed that the despair 
 and madness of the countess came from remorse for 
 the quarrel she had allowed to go on between Lucien 
 and herself. lie knew women as magistrates know 
 criminals ; he could guess, like them, the hidden springs 
 of the heart, and he thought at once that Madame 
 de Serizy probably believed that Lucien's death was 
 caused by lier unkindness, and was bitterl}' remorseful 
 for it. The proof given by Lucien's poetic letter that 
 in spite of her rigor he still relied upon her and loved 
 her, would probabl}' restore her reason. 
 
 The entrance of this dangerous personage to the 
 hotel de Serizy was a shock as well as a hope to the 
 Comte de Seriz}' and to his friend Comte Octave de 
 Ban van, who alone were present, all others having been 
 sent away. Jacques Collin had changed his clothes. 
 He now wore a coat and trousers of black cloth, and 
 his demeanor, looks, and gestures were entirely in keep- 
 ing with his assumed profession. He bowed to the two 
 statesmen and asked if he might enter the countess's 
 room. 
 
404 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 " She expects you," said Monsieur de Bauvan. 
 
 After a conference of half an hour, Jacques Collin 
 opened the door and said : — 
 
 " Come in, messieurs ; there is nothing more to fear." 
 
 The countess held the letter to her heart ; she was 
 calm, and apparently reconciled with herself. The 
 count gave a sigh of relief. 
 
 "That's what they are, these men who decide our 
 destiny and that of the peoples ! " tliought Jacques 
 Collin, shruooinor iiis shoulders as the door closed on 
 the two friends and he found liimself alone in the salon. 
 " A female tear turns their intellect inside-out like 
 a glove ! They lose their heads at a glance I The fan- 
 cies of a woman act and react on the State ! Oh ! what 
 strength a man acquires when he has withdrawn him- 
 self, as I have, from those childish tyrannies, those 
 pretended virtues overthrown bj' passion, those candid 
 wickednesses, those wiles of savages ! Woman, with 
 the orenius of an executioner her talent for torturinjj; 
 is, and ever will be the destruction of man. Attorney- 
 general, minister of state, judge of appeals, — here 
 they all are, blinded, fooled, twisting and turning ever}'- 
 thing to get back the letters of a duchess and a girl, 
 and restore the reason of a woman who is madder 
 when she has her senses than when she loses them." 
 He smiled derisively. "And they believe in me," he 
 continued. " They obe}' my promptings ; I shall have 
 
The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 405 
 
 that place. I shall still reign in this world which for 
 twenty-five years has been at my feet." 
 
 He was left alone a whole hour, forgotten, in that 
 salon. Then Monsieur de Granville came and found 
 him standing there, sombre and lost in rever}", as a 
 man may well be when he makes an 18th Brumaire 
 in his life. 
 
 The attorne^'-general w^ent to the threshold of the 
 countess's room and remained there a few moments ; 
 then he returned to Jacques Collin and said : — 
 
 " Do you persist in your intentions?" 
 
 " Yes, monsieur." 
 
 " Very good ; then 3'ou will take Bibi-Lupin's place ; 
 and the penalty of the condemned man Calvi is re- 
 mitted." 
 
 "He will not go to Rochefort?" 
 
 " Not even to Toulon. You ma}' employ him in 
 your service. But these pardons and your appointment 
 will depend on your conduct for the next six months, 
 during which time 3'Ou will act as assistant to Bibi- 
 Lupin. 
 
 Within a week, Bibi-Lupin's assistant had enabled 
 the authorities to restore four hundred thousand francs 
 to the Crottat family*, and Ruffard and Godet were 
 denounced. 
 
 The money of Esther Gobseck was found in her bed, 
 and the Comte de Serizy paid over to Jacques Collin 
 
406 The Last Incarnation of Vautrin. 
 
 the three hundred thousand francs bequeathed to him 
 by Lucien de Rubempre. 
 
 The monument ordered b3' Lucien for Esther and 
 himself is thought to be one of the finest in Pere- 
 Lachaise ; the ground below it is reservec? for Jacques 
 CoUin. 
 
 After exercising his functions for about fifteen years, 
 Jacques Collin retired in 1845. 
 
 THE END. 
 
Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Piiblicatiojis. 
 
 25al3ac in aSngli^l). 
 
 Memoirs of Two Young Married Women. 
 
 By Honore de Balzac. 
 
 Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley. i2mo. 
 
 Half Russia. Price, $1.50. 
 
 "There are," says Henry James in one of his essays, "two writers in 
 Balzac, — the spontaneous one and the reflective one, the former of 
 which is much the more dehghtful, while the latter is the more extraordi- 
 nary." It is the reflective Balzac, the Balzac with a theory, whom we 
 get in tlie •' Deux Jeunes Mariees," now translated by Miss Wormeley 
 under the title of " Memoirs of Two Young Married Women." The 
 theory of Balzac is that the marriage of convenience, properly regarded, 
 is far preferable to the marriage simply from love, and he undertakes to 
 prove this proposition by contrasting the careers of two young girls who 
 have been fellow-students at a convent. One of them, the ardent and 
 passionate Louise de Chaulieu, has an intrigue with a Spanish refugee, 
 finally marries him, kills him, as she herself confesses^ by her perpetual 
 jealousy and exaction, mourns his loss bitterly, then marries a golden- 
 haired youth, lives with him in a dream of ecstasy for a year or so, and 
 this time kills herself through jealousy wrongfully inspired. As for her 
 friend, Renee de Maucombe, she dutifully makes a marriage to please her 
 parents, calculates coolly beforehand how many children she will have and 
 how they shall ht trained ; insists, however, that the marriage shall be 
 merely a civil contract till she and her husband find that their hearts are 
 indeed one; and sees all her brightest visions realized, — her Louis an 
 ambitious man for her sake and her children truly adorable creatures. 
 The story, which is told in the form of letters, fairly scintillates with 
 brilliant sayings, and is filled with eloquent discourses concerning the 
 nature of love, conjugal and otherwise. Louise and Renee are both 
 extremely sophisticated young women, even in their teens ; and those 
 who expect to find in their letters the demure innocence of the Anglo- 
 Saxon type will be somewhat astonished. The translation, under the 
 circumstances, was rather a daring attempt, but it has been most felicit- 
 ously done. — The Beacon. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, postpaid., on receipt of 
 price by the Publishers., 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. Mass. 
 
Messrs. Roberts BrotJiers Publications. 
 
 25al5ac in €nglt^l^* 
 
 THE VILLAGE RECTOR. 
 
 By Honore de Balzac. 
 
 Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley. 121110. 
 Half Russia. Price, ^1.50. 
 
 Once more that wonderful acquaintance which Balzac had with all callings 
 appears manifest in this work. Would you get to the bottom of the engineer's 
 occupation in France? Balzac presents it in the whole system, with its aspects, 
 disadvantages, and the excellence of the work accomplished. We write to-day 
 of irrigation and of arboriculture as if they were novelties ; yet in the waste lands 
 of Montagnac, Balzac found these topics ; and wliat he wrote is the clearest 
 exposition of the subjects. ' 
 
 But, above all, in " The Village Rector " is found the most potent of religious 
 ideas, — the one that God grants pardon to sinners. Balzac had studied and 
 appreciated the intensely human side of Catholicism and its adaptiveness to the 
 wants of mankind. It is religion, with Balzac, " that opens to us an inexhaustible 
 treasure of indulgence." It is true repentance that saves. 
 
 The drama which is unrolled in "The Village Rector" is a terrible one, and 
 perhaps repugnant to our sensitive minds. The selection of such a plot, pitiless 
 as it is, Balzac made so as to present the darkest side of human nature, and to 
 show how, through God's pity, a soul might be saved. The instrument of mercy 
 is the Rector Bonnet, and in the chapter entitled " The Rector at Work" he 
 shows how religion " extends a man's life beyond the world." It is not sufficient 
 to weep and moan. "That is but the beginning; the end is action." The 
 rector urges the woman whose sins are great to devote what remains of her life 
 to work for the benefit of her brothers and sisters, and so she sets about reclaim- 
 ing the waste lands which surround her chateau. With a talent of a superlative 
 order, which gives grace to Veronique, she is like the Madonna of some old panel 
 of Van Eyck's. Doing penance, she wears close to her tender skin a haircloth 
 vestment. For love of her, a man has committed murder and died and kept his 
 secret. In her youth, Veronique's face had been pitted, but her saintly life had 
 obliterated that spotted mantle of smallpox. Tears had washed out every blemish. 
 If through true repentance a soul was ever saved, it was Veronique's. Tliis 
 work, too, has afforded consolation to many miserable sinners, and showed them 
 the way to grace. 
 
 The present translation is to be cited for its wonderful accuracy and its literary 
 distinction. We can hardly think of a more difficult task than the Englishing of 
 Balzac, and a general reading public should be grateful for tlie admirable manner 
 in which Miss Wormeley has performed her task. — New York Times. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed., post-paid, on receipt 
 of price by the Publishers .^ 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS. Boston. Mass. 
 
Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 THE BROTHERHOOD OF CONSOLATION. 
 
 (UENVERS DE L'HfSTOIRE C0N7EMP0RAINE.) 
 
 By HONORE DE BALZAC. 
 
 f. Madame de la Chanterie. 2. The Initiate. Translated by 
 Katharine Prescoit Wornieley. i2mo. Half Russia. Price, 
 
 ^1.50. 
 
 There is no book of Balzac which is informed by a loftier spirit than 
 " L'Envers de I'Histoire Contemporaine," which has just been added by Miss 
 Wormeley to her admirable series of translations under the title, " The Brother- 
 hood of Consolation." The title which is given to the translation is, to our 
 thinking, a happier one than that which the work bears in the original, since, after 
 all, the political and historical portions of the book are only the background of the 
 other and more absorbing theme, — the development of the brotherhood over 
 which Madame de la Chanterie presided. It is true that there is about it all 
 something theatrical, something which shows the French taste for making godli- 
 ness itself histrionically effective, that quality of mind which would lead a Parisian 
 to criticise the coming of the judgment angels if their entrance were not happily 
 arranged and properly executed ; but in spite of this there is an elevation such as 
 it is rare to meet with in literature, and especially in the literature of Balzac's age 
 and land. The story is admirably told, and the figure of the Baron Bourlac is 
 really noble in its martyrdom of self-denial and heroic patience. The picture of 
 the Jewish doctor is a most characteristic piece of work, and shows Balzac's 
 intimate touch in every line. Balzac was always attracted by the mystical side 
 of the physical nature ; and it might almost be said that everything that savored 
 of mystery, even though it ran obviously into quackery, had a strong attraction 
 for him. He pictures Halpersohn with a few strokes, but his picture of him has 
 a striking vitality and reality. The volume is a valuable and attractive addition to 
 the series to which it belongs ; and the series comes as near to fulfilling the ideal 
 of what translations should be as is often granted to earthly things. — Boston 
 Courier. 
 
 The book, which is one of rare charm, is one of the most refined, while at the 
 same time tragic, of all his works. — Public Opinion. 
 
 His present work is a fiction beautiful in its conception, just one of those 
 practical ideals which Balzac nourished and believed in. There never was greater 
 homage than he pays to the book of books, " The Imitation of Jesus Christ." 
 Miss Wormeley has here accomplished her work just as cleverly as in her other 
 volumes of Balzac. — N. Y. Times. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed., post-paid, by the 
 Publishers^ 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 
 
Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 A Great Mm of the Provinces in Paris. 
 
 By HONORE DE BALZAC. 
 
 Being the second part of " Lost Illusions." Translated by Kath- 
 arine Prescott Wormeley. i2mo. Half Russia. Price, $1.50. 
 
 We are beginning to look forward to the new translations of Balzac by Katha- 
 rine Wormeley almost as eagerly as to the new works of the best contemporary 
 writers. But, unlike the writings of most novelists, Balzac's novels cannot be 
 judged separately. They belong together, and it is impossible to understand the 
 breadth and depth of the great writer's insight into human life by reading any 
 one volume of this remarkable series. For instance, we rise from the reading of 
 this last volume feeling as if there was nothing high or noble or pure in life. But 
 what would be more untrue than to fancy that Balzac was unable to appreciate 
 the true and the good and the beautiful ! Compare *' The Lily of the Valley " 
 or " Seraphita " or "Louis Lambert" with "The Duchesse of Langeais" and 
 " Cousin Bette," and then perhaps the reader will be able to criticise Balzac with 
 some sort of justice. — Boston Traiiscript. 
 
 Balzac paints the terrible verities of life with an inexorable hand. The siren 
 charms, the music and lights, the feast and the dance, are presented in voluptu- 
 ous colors — but read to the end of the book! There are depicted witli equal 
 truthfulness the deplorable consequences of weakness and crime. Some have 
 read Balzac's "Cousin Bette" and have pronounced him immoral; but when 
 the last cliapter of any of his novels is read, the purpose of the whole is clear, and 
 immorality cannot be alleged. Balzac presents life. His novels are as truthful 
 as they are terrible. — Springfield Union. 
 
 Admirers of Balzac will doubtless enjoy the mingled sarcasm and keen analy- 
 sis of human nature displayed in the present volume, brought out with even more 
 than the usual amount of the skill and energy characteristic of the author. — 
 Pittsburgh Post. 
 
 The art of Balzac, the wonderful power of his contrast, the depth of his 
 knowledge of life and men and things, this tremendous story illustrates. How 
 admirably the rise of the poet is traced ; the crescendo is perfect in gradation, yet 
 as inexorable as fate! As for the fall, the effect is more depressing than a 
 personal catastrophe. This is a book to read over and over, an epic of life in 
 prose, more tremendous than the blank verse of " Paradise Lost " or the 
 "Divine Comedy." Miss Wormeley and the publishers deserve not congratula- 
 tions alone, but thanks for adding this book and its predecessor, " Lost Illusions," 
 to the literature of English- — San Francisco Wave. 
 
 Sold by all bookxellers. Mailed^ post-paid^ by the 
 Publishers^ 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 
 
Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 Lost IllisiODS : Tlie Two Poets, and Eve wi Davifl. 
 
 By HONORE DE BALZAC. 
 
 Being the twenty-third volume of Miss Wormeley's translation of 
 Balzac's novels. i2mo. Half Russia. Price, ^1.50. 
 
 For her latest translation of the Balzac fiction cycle. Miss Wormeley gives us 
 the first and third parts of "Illusion Perdue," under the caption of "Lost 
 Illusions," namely, "The Two Poets " and " Eve and David." This arrange- 
 ment is no doubt a good one, for the readers are thus enabled to follow the consecu- 
 tive fortunes of the Angouleme folk, while the adventures of Eve's poet-brother, 
 Lucien, which occur in Pans and make a tale by themselves, are thus left for a 
 separate publication. The novel, as we have it, then, belongs to the category of 
 those scenes from provincial life which Balzac found so stimulating to his genius. 
 This story, certainly, in some respects takes high rank among them. The 
 character-drawing is fine: Lucien, the ambitious, handsome, weak-willed, selfish, 
 and easily-sinning young bourgeois, is contrasted with David, — a touching picture 
 of the struggling inventor, born of the people and sublimely one-purposed and 
 pure in his life. Eve, the type of a faithful large-brained and larger-hearted wife, 
 who supports her husband through all his hardships with unfaltering courage and 
 kindness, is another noble creation. David inherits a poorish printing business 
 from his skin-flint of a father, neglects it while devoting all his time and energy to 
 his discovery of an improved method of making paper ; and through the evil 
 machinations of the rival printing firm of the Cointets, as well as the debts foisted 
 on him by Lucien in Paris, he is brought into money difficulties and even into 
 prison. But his invention, although sold at a sacrifice to the cunning Cointets, 
 gets him out of the hole at last, and he and his good wife retire on a comfortable 
 competency, which is augmented at the death of his father into a good-sized 
 fortune. The seamy side of law in the provinces is shown up in Balzac's keen, 
 inimitable way in the description of the winding of the coils around the unsuspect- 
 ing David and the depiction of such men as the brothers Cointets and the shrewd 
 little petifogging rascal. Petit Claud. The pictures of Angouleme aristocratic 
 circles, too, with Lucien as high priest, are vivacious, and show the novelist's 
 wonderful observation in all ranks of life. The bit of wild romance by which 
 Lucien becomes the secretary of a .Spanish grandee lends a fairy-tale flavor to tne 
 main episodes. Balzac, in whom is united the most lynx-eyed realism and the 
 most extravagant romanticism, is ever and always one of the great masters in 
 fiction of our century. 
 
 Sold by all bookselleis. Mailed^ post-paid^ on receipt of 
 the price by the Publishers^ 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 
 
Balzac in Eno-lish. 
 
 PIERRETTE 
 
 AND 
 
 Thk Vicar ok Tours. 
 
 BY HONORE DE BALZAC. 
 Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley. 
 
 In Pierrette, which Miss Wormeley has added to her series of felicitoua 
 translations from the French master-fictionists, Balzac has made within 
 brief compass a marvellously sympathetic study of the martyrdom ot a 
 young girl. Pierrette, a flower of Brittany, beautiful, pale, and fair and 
 sweet, is taken as an undesired charge by sordid-minded cousins in Pro- 
 vins, and like an exotic transplanted into a harsh and sour so'l she withers 
 and fades under the cruel conditions of her new environment. Inciden- 
 tally Balzac depicts in vivid colors the struggles of two shoe-keepers — a 
 brother and sister, who have amassed a little fortune in Paris — to gain a 
 foothold among the bourgeoisie of their native town. These two become 
 the prey of conspirators for political advancement, and the rivalries thus 
 engendered shake the small provincial society to its centre. Put the 
 charm of the tale is in the portrayal of the character of Pierrette, who 
 understands only how to love, and who cannot live in an atmosphere of 
 suspicion and ill-treatment. The story is of course sad, but its fidelity to 
 life and the pathos of it are elements of unfailing interest. Balzac brings 
 a score or more of people upon the stage, shows each one as he or she 
 really is both in outward appearance and inward nature, and then allows 
 motives and circumstances to work out an inevitable result. To watch 
 this process is like being present at some wonderful chemical experiment 
 where the ingredients are mixed with a deft and careful hand, and combine 
 to produce effects of astonishing significance. The social genesis of the 
 old maid in her most abhorrent form occupies much of Balzac's attention 
 in Pierrette, and this theme also has a place in the story of The Vicar oj 
 Tours, bound up in this same volume. The vicar is a simple-minded 
 priest who is happy enough till he takes up his quarters with an old maid 
 landlady, who pesters and annoys him in many ways, and finally sends him 
 forth despoiled of his worldly goods and a laughing-stock for the country- 
 side. There is a grea^ deal of humor in the tale, but one must confess 
 that the humor is of a rather heavy sort, it being weighed down by a domi- 
 nant satirical purpose. — The Beacon. 
 
 One handsome i2mo volume, uniform with " Pere Goriot," 
 *• The Duchesse de Langeais," " Cesar Birotteau," " Eugenie 
 Grandet," *' Cousin Pons." " The Country Doctor," " The Twa 
 Brothers," and " The Alkahest." Half morocco, Fr£:nch style 
 Price, $1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, Boston. 
 
Messrs. Roberts BrotJiers' Publications, 
 
 A MEMOIR OF HONORE DE BALZAC. 
 
 Compiled and written by Katharine Prescott Wormeley, translator 
 of Balzac's works. VVitli portrait of Balzac, taken one hour after 
 death, by Eugene Giraud, and a Sketch of the Prison of the College 
 de Vendome. One volume, i2mo. Half Russia, uniform with our 
 edition of Balzac's works. Price, ^1.50. 
 
 A complete life of Balzac can probably never be written. The sole object ot 
 the present volume is to present Balzac to American readers. Tliis memoir is 
 meant to be a presentation of the man, — and not of his work, except as it was a 
 part of liimself, — derived from aiithentic sources of inforn^ation, and presented in 
 their own words, with sucli simple elucidations as a close intercomse with Balzac's 
 mind, necessitated by conscientious translation, naturally gives. The portrait 
 in this volume was considered by Madame de Balzac the best likeness of her 
 husband. 
 
 Miss Wormeley's discussion of the subject is of value in many ways, and it has 
 long been needed as a help to comprehension of his life and character. Person- 
 ally, he lived up to his theory. His life was in fact austere. Any detailed ac- 
 count of the conditions under whicii lie worked, such as are given in this volume, 
 will show that this must have been the case ; and the fact strongly reinforces the 
 doctrine. Miss Wormeley, in arranging her account of his career, has, almost 
 of necessity, made free use of the letters and memoir published by Balzac's sister, 
 Madame Surville. She has also, whenever it would serve the purpose of illus- 
 tration better, quoted from the sketches of him by his contemporaries, wisely 
 rejecting the trivialities and frivolities by the exaggeration of which many of his 
 first chroniclers seemed bent upon giving the great author a kind of opera-bouffe 
 aspect. To judge from some of these accounts, he was flighty, irresponsible, 
 possibly a little mad, prone to lose touch of actualities by the dominance of his 
 imagination, fond of wild and impracticable schemes, and altogether an eccentric 
 and unstable person. But it is not difficult to prove that Balzac was quite a 
 different character ; that he possessed a marvellous pov\er of intellectual organi- 
 zation ; that he was the most methodical and indefatigable of v\ orkers ; that he 
 was a man of a most delicate sense of honor; that his life was not simply de- 
 voted to literary ambition, but was a martyrdom to obligations which were his 
 misfortune, but not his fault. 
 
 AH this Miss Wormley has well set forth ; and in doing so she has certainly 
 relieved Balzac of much unmerited odium, and has enabled those who have not 
 made a study of his character and work to understand how high the place is in 
 any estimate of the helpers of modern progress and enlightenment to which his 
 genius and the loftiness of his aims entitle him. This memoir is a very modest 
 biography, though a very good one. The author has effaced herself as much as 
 possible, and has relied upon "documents" whenever they were trustworthy — 
 N. V. Tribufie. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed^ postpaid, on receipt of 
 price, by the publishei's, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston- 
 
Balzac in English, 
 
 Albert Savarus, with Paz (La Fausse 
 Maitresse) and Madame Firmiani. By 
 
 Honors de Balzac. Translated by Katharine Prescott 
 Wormeley. 
 
 There is much in this, one of the most remarkable of his books, 
 which is synonymous with Balzac's own life. It is the story of a man's 
 first love for woman, his inspirer, the source from whom he derives 
 his power of action. It also contains many details on his habits of 
 life and work. 
 
 The three short stories in this volume, — ' Albert Savarus,' 'Paz' and 'Madame 
 Firmiani' — are chips from tliat astounding workshop which never ceased its Hephoes- 
 tian labors and products until Balzac was no more Short stories of this character 
 flew from his glowing forge like sparks from an anvil, the playthings of an idle hour, 
 the interludes of a more vivid drama. Three of them gathered here illustrate as 
 usual Parisian and provincial life, two in a very noble fashion, Balzacian to the core. 
 The third — ' Albert Savarus' — has many elements of tragedy and grandeur in it, 
 spoiled only by an abruptness in the conclusion and an accumulation of unnecessary 
 horrors that chill the reader. It is a block of tragic marble hewn, not to a finish, but 
 
 to a fine prophetic suggestion of what is to follow if ! The if never emerges 
 
 from conditionality to fulfilment. The beautiful lines and sinuous curves of the 
 nascent statue are there, not fully born of the encasing stone ; what sculptors call the 
 'tenons' show in all their visibility — the supports and scaffoldings reveal their 
 presence ; the forefront is finished as in a Greek metope or Olympian tympanum, 
 where broken Lapiths and Centaurs disport themselves; but the background is rude 
 and primitive 
 
 In ' Madame Firmiani ' a few brilliant pages suffice to a perfect picture, — one of 
 the few spotless pictures of this superb yet sinning magician so rich in pictures. It is 
 French nature that Balzac depicts, warm with all the physical impulses, undisguised 
 in its assaults on the soul, ingeniously sensual, odiously loose in its views of marriage 
 and the marriage relation, but splendidly picturesque. In this brief romance noble 
 words are wedded to noble music. In 'Paz' an almost equal nobiliiy of thought — ■ 
 the nobility of self-renunciation — is attained. Balzac endows his men and women 
 with iiappy millions and unhappy natures: the red ruby — the broken heart — blazes 
 in a setting of gold. ' Paz,' the sublime Pole who loves the wife of his best friend, 
 a Slav Crcesus, is no exception to the rule. The richest rhetoric, the sunniest colors, 
 fail to counteract the Acherontian gloom of these lives and sorrows snatched from the 
 cauldron of urban and rural France, — a cauldron that burns hotter than any other 
 with its strange Roman and Celtic ardors. Balzac was perpetually dipping into it and 
 drawing from it the wonderful and extraordinary incidents of his novels, incidents often 
 monstrous in their untruth if looked at from any other than a French point of view. 
 Thus, the devilish ingenuity of the jealous woman in ' Albert Savarus' would seem 
 unnatural anywhere else than in the sombre French provinces of 1836, — a toadstool 
 sprung up in the rank moonlight of the religious conventual system of education for 
 women ; but there, and then, and as one result of this system of repression, it 
 seems perfectly natural. And so does the beautiful self-abnegation of Albert himself, 
 that high-strung soul that could have been born only in nervous and passionate 
 France. 
 
 As usual. Miss Wormeley's charming translation floats the reader over these 
 pages in the swiftest and airiest manner. — The Critic. 
 
 One handsome i2mo volume, uniform with " Pere Goriot," " The 
 Duchesse de Langeais," " Cesar Birotteau," " Eugenie Grandet,'* 
 "Cousin Pons," " The Country Doctor," "The Two Brothers," and 
 "The Alkahest." Half morocco, French style. Price, ^1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Bubmshers, Boston. 
 
BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 An Historical Mystery, 
 
 Translated by KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY. 
 12mo. Half Russia. TJnifonn with Balzac's Works Price, $1.50. 
 
 An Historical Mysttry'is the title given to" Una Tenebreuse Affaire," which 
 has just appeared m tlie seiijs of translations of Honore de Balzac's novels, by 
 Katharine Prescott Wormeley 'I'his exciting romance is full of stirring interest, 
 and is distinguished l)y that minute analysis of character in which its eminent 
 author excelled. 'I'iie characters stand boldly out from the surrounding incidents, 
 and with a fidelity as wonderful as U is truthful. Plot and counter))lot follow 
 each other with marvellous rapidity; and around the exciting days when Na- 
 poleon was First Consul, and afterward when he was Emperor, a mystery is 
 woven in which some royalists are concerned that is concealed with masterly 
 ingenuity until the novelist sees fit to take his reader into his confidence. The 
 heroine, Laurence, is a remarkably strong character; and the love-story in which 
 she figures is refreshing in its departure from the beaten patli of the ordinary 
 writer of fiction IVlicbu, her devoted servant, has also a marked individuality, 
 which leaves a lasting impression. Napoleon, Talleyrand, Fouche, and other 
 historical personages, appear in the tale in a manner that is at once natural and 
 impressive. As an addition to a remarkable series, the book is one that no 
 admirer of Balzac can afford to neglect. Miss Wormeley's translation reproduces 
 the peculiarities of the author's style with the faithfulness for which she has 
 hitherto been celebrated. — Sattdrday Evening Gazette. 
 
 It makes very interesting reading at this distance of time, however; and Balzac 
 has given to the legendary account much of the solidity of history by his adroit 
 manipulation. For the main story it must be said that the action is swifter and 
 more varied than in many of the author's books, and that there are not wanting 
 many of those cameo-like portraits necessary to warn the reader against slovenly 
 perusal of this carefully written story; for the complications are such, and the re- 
 lations between the several plots involved so intricate, that the thread might 
 easily be lost and much of the interest be thus destroyed The usual Balzac 
 compactness is of course present throughout, to give body and significance to the 
 work, and the stage is crowded with impressive figures. It would be impossible 
 to find a book which gives a better or more faithful illustration of one of the 
 strangest periods in French history, in short ; and its attraction as a story is at 
 least equalled by its value as a true picture of the lime it is concerned with. The 
 translation is as spirited and close as Miss Wormeley has taught us to expect in 
 this admirable series. —New York Tribune. 
 
 One of the most intensely interesting novels that Balzac ever wrote \s An 
 Historical Mystery, whose translation has just been added to the preceding 
 novels that compose the "Comedie Humaine " so admirably translated by Miss 
 Katharine Prescott Worn>eley. The story opens in the autumn of 1803, in the 
 time of the Empire, and the motive is in deep-laid political plots, which are re- 
 vealed with the subtle and ingenious skill that marks the art of Balzac. . . The 
 story IS a deep-laid political conspiracy of the secret service of the ministry of 
 the police. Talleyrand, M'lle de Cinq-Cvgne, the Princess de Cadigan, Louis 
 XVIII , as well as Napoleon, figure as characters of this thrilling historic ro- 
 mance. An absorbing love-story is also told, in which State intrigue plays an 
 important part. The character-drawing is faithful to history, and the story illu- 
 minates French life in the early years of the century as if a calcium light were 
 thrown on the scene. 
 
 It IS a romance of remarkable power and one of the most deeply fascinating 
 of all the novels of the 'Comedie Humaine." 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed., post-paid., on receipt of 
 price by the Publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 
 
BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 Pame and Sorrow^, 
 
 TRANSLATED BY KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY. 
 
 l2mo. Half Russia. Uniform with our edition of Balzac*s 
 Works. Price, $1.50. In addition to this remarkable story, 
 the volume contains the following, namely: "Colonel Chabert," 
 " The Atheist's Mass," " La Grande Breteche," " The Purse," and 
 " La Grenadiere." 
 
 The force and passion of the stories of P.alEac are unapproachable. He had 
 the art of putting into half a dozen pages all the fire and stress wliich many 
 writers, who are still great, cannot compass in a volume. The present volume is 
 an admirable collection, and presents well his power of handling the short story. 
 That the translation is excellent need hardly be said — Boston Courier. 
 
 The six stories, admirably translated by Miss Wormeley, afford good examples 
 of Balzac's work in what not a few critics have thought his chief specialty. It is 
 certain that no writer of many novels wrote so many short stories as he ; and it is 
 equally as certain that his short stories are, almost without an exception, models 
 of what such compositions ought to be. . . No modern author, however, of any 
 school whatever, has succeeded in producing short stories half so good as Balzac's 
 best. Balzac did not, indeed, attempt to display his subtility and deftness by 
 writing short stories about nothing. Every one of his tales contains an episode, 
 not necessarily, but usually, a dramatic episode The first in the present collec- 
 tion, better known as " La Maison du Chat-qui-pelote," is really a short novel. 
 It has all the machinery, all the interest, all the detail of a regular story. The 
 difference is that it is compressed as Balzac only could compress ; that here and 
 there important events, changes, etc., are indicated in a few powerful lines instead 
 of being elaborated; that the vital points are thrown into strong relief. Take the 
 pathetic story of " Colonel Chabert " It begins with an elaboration of detail. 
 The description of the lawyer's office might seem to some too minute. But it is 
 the stage upon which the Colonel is to appear, and when he enters we see the 
 value of the preliminaries, for a picture is presented which the memory seizes and 
 holds. As the action progresses, detail is used more parsimoniously, because the 
 tnise-efi-scette has already been completed, and because, also, the characters once 
 clearly described, the development of character and the working of passion can 
 be indicated with a few pregnant strokes. Notwithstanding this increasing 
 economy of space, the action takes on a swifter intensity, and the culmination of 
 the tragedy leaves the reader breathless. 
 
 In " The Atheist s Mass " we have quite a new kind of story This is rather 
 a psychological study than a narrative of action. Two widely distinguished char= 
 acters are thrown on the canvas here, — that of tiie great surgeon and that of the 
 humble patron ; and one knows not which most to admire, the vigor of the 
 drawing, or the subtle and lucid psychical analysis. In both there is rare beauty of 
 soul, and perhaps, after all, the poor Auvergnat surpasses the eminent surgeon, 
 though this is a delicate and difficult question. But how complete the little story 
 is; how much it tells; with what skill, and in how delightful a manner! 'I'hen 
 there is that tremendous haunting legend of " La Grande Breteche," a story which 
 has always been turned into more languages and twisted into more new forms than 
 almost any other of its kind extant. What author has equalled the continuing 
 horror of that unfaithful wife's agony, compelled to look on and assist at the slow 
 murder of her entrapped lover? . . Then the death of the husband and wife, — 
 the one by quick and fiercer dissipation, the other by simple refusal to live longer, 
 — and the abandonment of the accursed dwelling to solitude and decav, complete 
 a picture, which for vividness, emotional force, imaginative power, and compre- 
 hensiveness of effects, can be said to have few equals in its own class of fiction. — 
 Kansas City yournal. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, postpaid, on receipt of price, by 
 ike publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS. Bo.ston. 
 
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