■^^■^ "nr— nv*i— -i -niiim^n %
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 SANTA BARBARA 
 
 RESENTED BY 
 
 MRS. DONALD KELLOGG
 
 AUTHORS DIGEST 
 
 THE WORLDS GREAT STORIES IN BRIEF, PREPARED 
 
 BY A STAFF OF LITERARY EXPERTS, WITH 
 
 THE ASSISTANCE OF MANY 
 
 LIVING NOVELISTS 
 
 ROSSITER JOHNSON, Ph.D., LL.D. 
 
 EDITOR-IN-CHIEF 
 
 ISSUED UNDER THE AUSPICES OF THE 
 
 AUTHORS PRESS
 
 
 This is Volume II of a complete set of the 
 AUTHORS DIGEST 
 
 Consisting of Twenty Volumes, Issued Strictly as a 
 Limited Edition. In Volume I will 6e found the Offi- 
 cial Certificate, under the Seal of the Authors Press, as 
 to the Limitation of the Edition, the Registered Number 
 of this Set, and the Name of the Owner.
 
  
 
 AUTHORS DIGEST 
 
 VOLUME U 
 
 JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN 
 TO 
 
 Babbie promises to save old Ninny from the poorhouse 
 (The Little Minister, p. 329) 
 
 Hand -painted photogravure on French Plate Paper, after an original painting 
 wade for this edition by Frank X. Leycndeck.tr 
 
 Issued under ti 
 AUTHORS P
 
 yrh mod ynnfiH W" 
 
 Aac .. 
 
 Idsc! 
 
 Hja-\>noV\ 
 
   

 
 AUTHORS DIGEST 
 
 VOLUME II 
 
 JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN 
 
 TO 
 
 APHRA BEHN 
 
 Issued under the auspices of the 
 AUTHORS PRESS
 
 COPYRIGHT, igoS, 
 
 By THE AUTHORS PRESS
 
 J£ 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Jane Goodwin Austin 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Nameless Nobleman i 
 
 Massimo d'Azelio 
 
 Ettore Fieramosca 12 
 
 Irving Bacheller 
 
 Eben Holden 24 
 
 WOLCOTT BALESTIER 
 
 Benefits Forgot 35 
 
 Honore de Balzac 
 
 The Chouans 47 
 
 The Magic Skin 58 
 
 A Woman of Thirty 66 
 
 Louis Lambert 77 
 
 The Country Doctor 88 
 
 Eugeriie Grandet 95 
 
 Pcre Goriot 106 
 
 Seraphita 117 
 
 The Lily of the Valley 129 
 
 Lost Illusions 140 
 
 Cesar Birotteau 151 
 
 Beatrix 162 
 
 A Distinguished Provincial at Paris 173 
 
 ix
 
 x CONTENTS 
 
 Honore de Balzac {Continued) 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ursule Mirouet 184 
 
 Catherine de' Medici 193 
 
 A Bachelor's Establishment 212 
 
 A Start in Life 223 
 
 Modeste Mignon 233 
 
 Cousin Bette 244 
 
 Cousin Pons 255 
 
 The Member for Arcis 266 
 
 The Middle Classes 277 
 
 John Banim 
 
 Boyne Water 287 
 
 Amelia Edith Barr 
 
 A Bow of Orange Ribbon . a 308 
 
 James Matthew Barrie 
 
 A Window in Thrums 320 
 
 The Little Minister 326 
 
 Anton Giulio Barrili 
 
 The Eleventh Commandment 334 
 
 Arlo Bates 
 
 A Wheel of Fire 348 
 
 Rene Bazin 
 
 The Ink-Stain 358 
 
 Frances Courtenay Baylor 
 
 On Both Sides 370
 
 I 
 
 CONTENTS xi 
 
 William Beckford 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Vathek: an Arabian Tale 382 
 
 CUTHBERT BEDE 
 
 The Adventures of Mr. Verdant Green .... 394 
 
 Henry Ward Beecher 
 
 Norwood 406 
 
 Aphra Behn 
 
 Oroonoko: or, The Royal Slave ....... 41 8
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 The Egyptian promises to save old Nanny from the 
 
 poorhouse. (The Little Minister, p. 329) . Frontispiece 
 
 From a painting by Frank X. Leyendecker. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Portrait of Honore" de Balzac 47 
 
 From a celebrated painting by L. Boulanger. 
 
 "Ah, my angels!" were the last words the old man mur- 
 mured. (Pbre Goriot) 116 
 
 From an etching by E. Abot, after the drawing 
 by Albert Lynch. 
 
 xin
 
 JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN 
 
 (United States, 1 831 -1894) 
 A NAMELESS NOBLEMAN (1881) 
 
 This story of the days of the "grand monarch" has long been a favorite 
 and was successfully dramatized. 
 
 T a brilliant function in the grand gallery of the 
 palace at Versailles in the second half of his reign, 
 Louis XIV saw his mistress, Madame de Monte- 
 span, flirting audaciously with the Vicomte de 
 Montarnaud, a young gallant from Provence. 
 Addressing the young gallant's father, a courtier 
 of seventy, the King said: "Monsieur de Mont- 
 arnaud, you asked permission, some time ago, to 
 marry your eldest son to Mademoiselle de Rochen- 
 bois, your ward. I withdraw my opposition, and permit the 
 marriage. It may take place in the royal chapel, and we shall 
 see whether some place about the court can be found for the 
 bride, who will remain here while the Vicomte returns to duty." 
 Further talk elicited from the Comte the fact that his younger 
 son, Francois, was at the Chateau de Montarnaud in Provence, 
 with the Comte's ward, Valerie de Rochenbois, whereupon 
 Louis observed : 
 
 "Really, Monsieur de Montarnaud, you are a man of re- 
 source. Since it was not permitted to marry your eldest son 
 to your wealthy ward, you shut her up in a country house with 
 the younger one, trusting to the chapter of accidents for a mar- 
 riage, public or private, before there should be time to prevent 
 it. I shall, however, expect to receive Madame la Vicomtesse 
 de Montarnaud, nee Rochenbois, within the month." 
 
 Approaching Madame de Montespan, the King then re- 
 marked that, judging by the expression on the Vicomte's 
 face, she was probably congratulating him upon his approach- 
 
 A.D., VOL. II.— I I
 
 2 A NAMELESS NOBLEMAN 
 
 ing marriage. Enjoying the confusion of the two, the King 
 again announced his intentions as to the marriage and ordered 
 the young man to go to Montarnaud for his father's ward the 
 next day. Not long after this event, the Comte with his eldest 
 son, Gaston, arrived at the Chateau de Montarnaud a few 
 moments only after Francois, a lad of twenty, had confessed to 
 his father's ward his love for her. While Gaston was acquaint- 
 ing his brother with the condition of affairs, the Comte in- 
 formed Valerie of the King's commands as to herself and 
 Gaston. The brothers had not been on friendly terms since 
 their childhood, and the news now brought by the elder did not 
 tend to greater amity. An open quarrel was presently averted 
 by the tactful interference of their father, who led away his 
 elder son, while Francois vainly sought an interview with 
 Valerie, to whom he at length succeeded in despatching a note 
 by the hands of her old nurse, Marie. The note entreated 
 her to let him know at midnight, when he would be stationed 
 under her window, whether she would marry him. Valerie 
 was by no means sure of her own mind. She was indifferent 
 to Gaston, but, being of a frivolous, butterfly temperament, 
 she greatly inclined toward the gay life that marriage with him 
 would open to her. 
 
 While Francois waited in the darkness for Valerie's re- 
 sponse, Gaston set off through the garden in search of adven- 
 tures in the auberge of the village of Montarnaud, followed at a 
 little distance by Valerie's governess, Mademoiselle Salerne, 
 who had previously imagined him in love with her and now, 
 filled with jealousy and suspicion, was resolved to spy upon him. 
 The young Abbe Despard, the tutor of Francois, while walking 
 in the garden meanwhile, encountered her returning from her 
 quest of Gaston, and reproached her for imprudence. Resolved 
 to spy upon him also, the governess did not return to the house, 
 as his quick ear assured him, and he came to the conclusion that 
 she was either acting as a spy or was set to watch perhaps 
 lest a private meeting of Francois and Valerie should be in- 
 terrupted. At midnight Francois, mounted on a fruit-ladder, 
 stood at Valerie's window to receive her answer, only to learn 
 that she was not sufficiently fond of him to give up the splendors 
 of court life for his sake. Francois was beginning to storm
 
 JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN 3 
 
 when interrupted by his brother's voice from below crying out 
 "Robbers!" A kick from Gaston then brought Francois and 
 the ladder to the ground, and a conflict ensued in which the 
 more powerful Francois was victor, and, fearing lest he had 
 given the other a mortal blow, he fled. He had hardly done 
 this, however, when his sense of honor urged him to return and 
 face the consequences, and at this moment he encountered 
 his friend, the Abbe, who counseled him to wait for a few mo- 
 ments till he, the Abbe, could ascertain what had taken place. 
 
 The Abbe presently returned with the news that Gaston 
 was not dead, was perhaps not mortally injured, but that his 
 father was in a white rage on account of the probable dis- 
 pleasure of the King, and that the governess had accused 
 Francois of "the murder," as she termed it. The Abbe then 
 advised his pupil to remain in hiding for a short time, and 
 produced a note to Francois from Valerie urging the same 
 course. The young Baron reluctantly yielded to persuasion 
 and for several days remained concealed in the home of the 
 Abbe's father, a grocer in Marseilles. At last a letter from 
 Valerie reached him by the hands of Abbe* Despard, in which 
 the writer admitted that, although she did not love Gaston, 
 she did greatly desire to live at the court, and that she must go. 
 
 On reading these words Francois resolved to sell his estates in 
 Normandy and leave France, saying: "I have no longer a 
 country, a home, or a name. The King of France has stolen 
 my father's honor and my fiancee's faith. I renounce all that 
 makes me a Frenchman, and I leave the country of Louis 
 the Fourteenth, never to set foot upon its soil again." 
 
 Upon this the Abbe suggested that he resume the surgical 
 studies that had once interested him, adding that army hospitals 
 were rapid schools; that if Francois desired it he would expatri- 
 ate himself also; and that in the same hospitals he could give 
 his services as chaplain. Francois readily adopted the sugges- 
 tion as to the study of surgery. 
 
 About six years after these events the young Baron and his 
 friend were on board a French privateer, the former ranking 
 as ship's surgeon and the other as chaplain; and while cruising 
 in Buzzard's Bay, in the Pilgrim Colony, they were wrecked 
 near the Falmouth shore. As France and England were then
 
 4 A NAMELESS NOBLEMAN 
 
 at war, the officers and crew of the wrecked vessel were ac- 
 counted enemies and marched to Boston, the Abbe among 
 them. But Francois, having swum ashore, escaped capture. 
 
 Two days later, Humphrey Wilder, a farmer near Falmouth, 
 left home with his wife, a Quaker preacher, to attend Quarterly 
 Meeting at New Bedford, leaving their grown daughter Molly 
 alone in charge of the house. Wilder was a member of the 
 Church of England, and, though yielding to his wife's im- 
 perious will in many things, utterly refused to forsake his 
 church for Quakerism, and insisted that their only child should 
 be reared in the Anglican faith. On leaving England he pru- 
 dently settled himself as far from any Friends' meeting-place 
 as might be, so that Deborah, to her great vexation, could attend 
 only such infrequent gatherings as the Quarterly Meetings. 
 Their only neighbors were a family named Hetherford, and 
 Deborah wished Molly to marry Reuben Hetherford, a mean, 
 small-natured rustic. Humphrey did not favor the proposal; 
 but Reuben was the only young man in the neighborhood, and 
 an unmarried woman was of small importance in the Pilgrim 
 Colony. He had, however, distinctly said that Reuben was not 
 to enter the house in his absence, unless accompanied by 
 Mercy Hetherford, the young man's sister. 
 
 As Molly sat at her spinning-wheel after her parents had 
 driven away, she saw Reuben's face against the window, and, 
 after slipping into place the bolt across the door, held a brief 
 parley with him at the window, which she opened slightly. 
 Reuben explained that he stopped to say that Mercy would 
 come to stay with her presently, and suggested that he should 
 come in for a little. To this Molly replied as her father had 
 bidden her, and remarking that it was too cold for standing at 
 open windows returned to her spinning, while her disappointed 
 lover went home in sullen rage. In the afternoon Mercy 
 Hetherford arrived to keep her company, and as a storm had now 
 arisen Reuben came at nightfall to take them both to the Hether- 
 ford farmhouse after supper. As Reuben sat at the table with 
 the two girls, Molly's repulsion to him increased when she 
 observed his uncouth manners and listened to his harsh voice, 
 and she felt that she could never endure to be his wife. He had 
 much to say of the wreck of a French privateer two nights
 
 JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN 5 
 
 previously, and added that, while the officers and crew had 
 been nearly all taken prisoners, it was supposed that a few 
 had escaped and were in hiding. Twenty dollars a head had 
 been offered for all Frenchmen who should be found, he said, 
 and he wished he might have the luck to capture one of the 
 fugitives. 
 
 He now announced that it was time for them all to set out 
 for the Hetherford house, where his mother was expecting 
 Molly; but the latter, to his great indignation, declared that she 
 should stay where she was, and when he attempted to command 
 she informed him that she did not recognize his right to com- 
 mand her, and that whatever engagement had hitherto ex- 
 isted between them she now broke off altogether. From this 
 position she would not retreat, and the Hetherfords departed 
 in wrath. 
 
 Left alone with only her cat for company, Molly assured 
 herself that there was nothing to fear, but presently a tapping 
 at the window caught her attention and she saw a man's face 
 against the pane. She seized her father's clumsy pistol and 
 pointed it toward the window, but the man did not stir. He 
 only uttered the one word, "Bread." That he was starving 
 his white face now assured her, and she hastened to let him 
 in. As she did so a fierce blast of wind hurled him over the 
 threshold in a senseless heap upon the floor. As he lay there 
 Molly perceived not only that the helpless stranger was young 
 and handsome, but that his arm, which was doubled under 
 him, was broken. Her efforts to straighten it aroused him, and 
 he murmured something in French, becoming again uncon- 
 scious immediately. 
 
 The thought that this might be the chief of a band of French 
 marauders crossed Molly's mind, but she said to herself that she 
 must not let the man die even though he might be her enemy; 
 and with the assistance of such domestic remedies as she had 
 at hand consciousness returned once more and she thereupon 
 gave him food. 
 
 With returning strength the stranger related how his arm 
 had been broken against the rocks, and with some difficulty 
 Molly comprehended his broken English. Following his 
 directions, she arranged matters so that with his unhurt right
 
 6 A NAMELESS NOBLEMAN 
 
 hand he drew the bone into place, and she then applied splints 
 and bandages. After this had been done she half-drew, half- 
 led him to the bed in the next room and there left him, after 
 ministering to his comfort so far as she was able. As she bent 
 over him the next morning he was sleeping uneasily and mur- 
 muring the name of Valerie — a possible sweetheart, Molly 
 thought with a twinge of pain. 
 
 A loud knock on the outer door aroused the sleeper, and 
 after bidding him make no noise she returned to the kitchen 
 and removed every trace of the stranger's presence before she 
 opened the house door to admit Amariah Coffin, the Wilders' 
 hired man, who had returned from driving her parents to 
 New Bedford. He was a privileged member of the house- 
 hold, and to him she explained in regard to Reuben and Mercy, 
 and also that while he boarded with the Hetherfords he was not 
 to ask any of them to come and stay with her, as she was not 
 afraid to be alone for the six days of her parents' absence, 
 since he was to come every day to attend to the live stock. After 
 Amariah had gone to the barn, Molly found her patient in 
 feverish alarm: 
 
 "Is it the English to prisoner me?" he demanded. 
 
 "No," she replied soothingly, "you are quite safe here, and 
 I will care for you." She then told him her name in response 
 to his question, learned that his name was Francois, and 
 presently busiedherself in arranging for his comfort and security, 
 wondering the while at the strange new joy and light that had 
 come into her life. 
 
 Later in the day, when Amariah entered the kitchen to 
 warm his hands, he told of footprints he had seen in the snow 
 around the house, and of a strange knife he had found in the 
 barn and had let Reuben Hetherford take, and how Reuben 
 said he would track the owner twenty miles but he would find 
 him. 
 
 The same day Mrs. Hetherford visited Molly in order to 
 plead her son's cause, but to no effect, and the days of the 
 Wilders' absence were unbroken by another visitor till the 
 morning of the last. 
 
 On the previous day Amariah set out to bring the Wilders 
 home, and Molly then arranged a sleeping-place for her patient
 
 JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN 7 
 
 in the attic, as he was unwilling to have his presence known to 
 her parents. She had hardly accomplished his transfer the 
 next morning when she was surprised by a call from Reuben, 
 accompanied by John Dibley, a constable, with a search- 
 warrant. Molly informed the constable that she would show 
 him over the house, but that Reuben must keep watch on the 
 outside lest any Frenchman should escape during the search. 
 She accordingly led Dibley from cellar to garret but by reason 
 of many words about loose boards in the attic floor the cau- 
 tious constable satisfied himself with a cursory glance from 
 the stair-head that nothing was to be seen there but some "house- 
 hold stuff out of use," and declined her offer to pull it away 
 that he might see no one was concealed behind it. 
 
 At sunset Amariah returned with her parents, but her mother 
 was found to be so ill as to need putting to bed at once. Hum- 
 phrey explained that word had been left for a doctor to come 
 from New Bedford on the morrow; but as it then turned out 
 the practitioner was away, and a Dutch doctor, named Schwarz, 
 arrived in his place. Molly, observing him closely, noticed 
 the use of a French word or two in his speech, and on her next 
 stolen visit to Francois — their love for each other being now no 
 secret to either of them — she told of his presence. Francois 
 was startled, not knowing whether the stranger might prove 
 friend or enemy. 
 
 Meanwhile Schwarz, in talking with Amariah, learned of 
 the finding of the knife, and, seeking out Reuben, played upon 
 his fears with suggestions of poisoned blades till the latter readily 
 yielded up the knife to him. He at once recognized the dagger 
 as belonging to Francois, and adroitly arranged that it should 
 reach its owner at the hands of Molly, whose patient then 
 knew that Dr. Schwarz was the Abbe Despard, who had escaped 
 from Boston in disguise. 
 
 While Schwarz was attending upon Mrs. Wilder Molly's 
 room was given up to his use, and there the friends met at last. 
 After recounting their adventures the Abbe proposed that they 
 should escape to Canada that night, and was much disturbed 
 when he learned that his friend would not leave until Molly 
 became his wife. Remonstrance was useless, and when 
 Francois had gained her consent to marry him at three o'clock
 
 8 A NAMELESS NOBLEMAN 
 
 that night, it was settled that the Abbe should perform the 
 ceremony. She had heard the priest speak of his friend as 
 Monsieur le Baron and had supposed Le Baron to be her lover's 
 surname, and was willing enough to bear that name. Arraying 
 herself in some India-muslin curtains embroidered by her 
 grandmother, and some lace of her mother's for a veil, she was 
 able to satisfy her maidenly desire for a white gown. She was 
 married in her own chamber by the whispered voice of the 
 priest, and a few moments later her husband and the Abbe 
 departed, Francois to return and claim her when the war be- 
 tween French and English should be over. 
 
 Two years and more went by. Her rheumatic fever left 
 Deborah Wilder a querulous semi-invalid, and in the following 
 summer Humphrey died of sunstroke. Ere his death Molly 
 confessed her secret, only to learn that he already partly knew ; 
 that he had seen her in her bridal dress through a partly open 
 door, but that he never had doubted her. Deborah died the 
 next season, leaving Molly alone, and it was settled that she 
 should live with Mrs. Hetherford, but on the evening after the 
 funeral Francois appeared. 
 
 Not long before his return he had learned of the peace, 
 in his barrack quarters in Canada, and, through a letter to the 
 Abbe, from the latter's sister Clotilde, news of his father's 
 death soon followed by that of his brother Gaston in a duel. 
 Clotilde added that Gaston's widow never had ceased to love 
 his brother. The Abbe expected that his friend would at once 
 return to the Old World, but, saying that his wife did not wish 
 to live in France, he declined to go. 
 
 "Your wife? Mademoiselle Marie Wilder?" 
 
 "No, Madame Le Baron, as she herself named her future 
 husband." The Abbe then announced that he had not ac- 
 tually married Francois to Mary Wilder, that he had used only 
 the words of solemn troth-plight and one of the penitential 
 psalms. 
 
 "I knew that you were to leave her immediately. I had 
 seen you in love three or four times already; I knew that if 
 you ever did return it would be easy to complete the ceremony 
 begun, or to procure dispensation from the vows of betrothal. 
 I deceived you for your own good."
 
 JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN 9 
 
 Francois found it difficult to forgive this lack of honor in 
 his friend, but he did so at length, and they parted, the Abbe 
 for France and Francois for Falmouth. On the way he put 
 up at an inn in Plymouth and was instrumental in preventing 
 several ignorant practitioners from amputating the injured 
 leg of the landlady, Betty Tilley. Under his care the diseased 
 knee-joint was cured, and Dr. Le Baron then went on his way. 
 It was arranged that Francois and Molly should be married by 
 Squire Drew, of Falmouth, the next morning after his return; 
 and Dame Hetherford, to whom Molly explained that she and 
 Dr. Le Baron had long been betrothed, putting aside her former 
 resentment, accompanied the pair to the magistrate's as a witness. 
 
 They were to pause at Plymouth for a day or two on the way 
 to Boston, where Francois had intended their home should be, 
 and while they were there three of the selectmen of the town 
 called to invite him to remain as surgeon, physician, and apothe- 
 cary, his skill in the matter of Dame Tilley's leg having been 
 greatly admired. A tract of twenty-five acres outside the 
 village and a house-lot on the main street within it were offered 
 to him by the town, besides such fees as were customary. 
 The offer was accepted with the proviso that while he was not 
 to mention to any but the three selectmen the fact of his Catholic 
 faith, no one was to seek to convert him to Protestantism. 
 
 On the Abbe's return to France he went to Montarnaud, 
 where his sister Clotilde was nurse to the little daughter of the 
 Comtesse Valerie; but in spite of the questioning of the 
 Comtesse she learned nothing of Francois from the Abbe. 
 From other sources, however, she ascertained that her brother- 
 in-law was alive, and the Abbe was finally induced to impart 
 such knowledge of Francois as he possessed. 
 
 A year after the marriage of Dr. Le Baron, the Abbe 
 visited Plymouth and informed his friend that after consulting 
 his ecclesiastical superiors he had learned that, garbled and 
 shortened as was the ceremony in the Wilder farmhouse, it was 
 an actual marriage, and he asked pardon for having led Dr. Le 
 Baron into any doubt of the validity of the rite. He added 
 that a secret Roman Catholic Mission had been established in 
 Boston, and invited the doctor to visit him there, to which pro- 
 posal Francois assented.
 
 io A NAMELESS NOBLEMAN 
 
 On arriving in Boston the doctor attended a secret mass, 
 after which he was led to a room in which he found Valerie de 
 Montarnaud. To repeated expressions of her affection he 
 returned but cold replies, assuring her that there was no woman 
 in the world whom it would be so impossible for him to love as 
 herself. Leaving her, he inquired of the Abb6 the motive for 
 his plot, and the priest explained that he was in New England 
 as a propagandist of the faith, and that the mission was supported 
 by the Comtesse. As Dr. Le Baron was the heir, after her 
 child, of nearly all the property of the Comtesse, she wished to 
 consult him regarding its disposition and to bring him into 
 sympathy with the work of the mission. This she had fancied 
 could best be done in a personal interview. The hearer did 
 not put entire faith in the priest's sincerity, but assured him 
 that had his heart not been protected by a very vivid love of 
 his wife, much harm might have come from the plot. The 
 next day he returned to Plymouth. 
 
 When the Le Barons' first-born son, Lazarus, was a well- 
 grown lad his father made a voyage as the medical attendant 
 of the Marquis de Vieux, an eccentric and wealthy invalid, 
 to be absent several months. Nothing was heard of the vessel 
 in which they sailed till in three months news came to Plymouth 
 that the Belle Isle had been captured by pirates and burned, 
 only a single sailor escaping to tell the tale. A year later Reuben 
 Hetherford again asked Molly to marry him, which she refused 
 to do, and to support herself opened a dame school, having 
 studied much with her husband and son. At a later period 
 she was visited by the Abbe, who wished to take her son to be 
 educated in France and assume the place there to which his 
 birth entitled him, a proposal which Mrs. Le Baron declined 
 with dignity. The Abbe wrote to the Comtesse of his failure, 
 and she, resolving to manage the affair herself, presently ap- 
 peared in Plymouth with the priest and her daughter, and on 
 meeting with Mrs. Le Baron implored her to let the boy stand 
 in his father's place, inherit the name and estates, and in due 
 time wed his cousin, the daughter of Valerie. Mrs. Le Baron 
 consented that the matter should be brought before the boy 
 in his mother's presence; but before this could be done Dr. 
 Le Baron appeared, having but recently escaped from the pirates
 
 JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN n 
 
 by whom he was supposed to have been killed. The question of 
 the boy's future was now put before the father and, as before, 
 the decision was left to young Lazarus whether he would take 
 his father's rank and fortunes in France and become a stranger 
 to his parents, or remain the son of a country physician. His 
 answer was to be given to the Comtesse early the next morning, 
 no further word being said to him on the subject by either 
 parent. 
 
 At ten o'clock the next day Lazarus came to his parents, 
 saying: 
 
 "They've sailed, father, and the gentleman bade me say 
 good -by to you for all of them; and the lady added, 'And tell 
 him we shall trouble him no more: he is safe.'"
 
 MASSIMO TAPARELLI D'AZEGLIO 
 
 (Italy, 1 798-1866) 
 
 ETTORE FIERAMOSCA; OR, THE CHALLENGE OF 
 
 BARLETTA (1833) 
 
 The author of this story followed the examples of many of his contempo- 
 raries in imitating the style of Manzoni's / Promessi Sposi; but the Fieramosca 
 won a high place on its own merits. 
 
 T the close of a day in April, 1503, the bell of 
 St. Domenico, in Barletta, was sounding the last 
 tocsins of the Ave Maria. His Grace the Lord 
 Gonzales Hernandez had garrisoned his army 
 in Barletta, where he awaited the tardy arrival 
 of reinforcements from Spain; for his troops 
 were inferior in numbers to the French, who 
 besieged the town. Groups of Italian and Span- 
 ish soldiery were gathered on the piazza. A 
 light vessel approached Barletta, a boat was lowered from her 
 sides, and two men came ashore. 
 
 " Michele," said the one whose bearing had an air of superi- 
 ority, "the time has come to be on thy guard. Thou knowest 
 who I am. I'll say no more." The two companions passed on 
 together to the "Inn of the Sun," where they found themselves in 
 the company of a few soldiers belonging to Prospero Colonna, 
 who then followed the fortunes of Spain. One fellow named 
 Boscherino, on seeing the strangers, could not repress an ex- 
 clamation—" The Duke! " A withering glance from one of the 
 visitors silenced the surprised speaker. 
 
 Veleno, the host, was preparing food for his guests when a 
 man dashed up with the news that Diego Garcia was returning 
 with his cavalcade and three French prisoners. That night 
 
 12
 
 MASSIMO TAPARELLI D'AZEGLIO 13 
 
 "the Duke" sent for Boscherino, who received the summons 
 in fear and trembling. Don Michele led him into the pres- 
 ence of his strange and terrible master. 
 
 "I have been recognized by thee, Boscherino," he said, 
 "and I am glad. Tell no one thou hast seen me. Thou 
 knowest I can reward thy services, nor will it improve thy pros- 
 pects much to excite my displeasure." Boscherino bowed his 
 head with reverence and left the room. 
 
 About two o'clock in the morning Diego Garcia di Paredes, 
 with his men and prisoners, arrived at the inn. Veleno had 
 ready a hot supper for the famished company. Hunger ap- 
 peased, the conversation became general and gay; Inigo, a 
 handsome young Spaniard, was alone morose over the loss of 
 his steed, which La Motte, one of the French captains, had 
 killed in the recent encounter. This same Baron La Motte 
 began disparaging the Italians, calling them cowards and 
 assassins; he cited the infamous deeds of the Pontiff and those 
 of his son, Duke Valentino (Caesar Borgia). Then the 
 Frenchman spoke of one deed, in particular, perpetrated by 
 the latter villain, who, failing in his designs upon the beautiful 
 Ginevra di Montreale, poisoned her. At that time it was 
 rumored Ettore Fieramosca had been her lover, and this fact 
 explained his deep melancholy and apparent unsociability, 
 though that did not interfere with his wide popularity in the army. 
 Inigo praised Ettore, his friend, with all the ardor of a Spanish 
 heart. La Motte sneered contemptuously, and declared that 
 every Italian was a poltroon. Unable longer to restrain his 
 passion , Inigo gave vent to his rage in a torrent of words. 
 
 "Were one of our Italians here, and above all, Fieramosca," 
 he cried, " and you, who are a prisoner of Garcia, were only free, 
 you would have occasion to learn that a French knight would 
 have good use for both his hands to save his skin from the good 
 sword of a single Italian." 
 
 Angry argument followed, and it was decided that when 
 La Motte and his two fellow prisoners were ransomed, a chal- 
 lenge " to a battle in full armor, and to the last drop of blood," 
 with a given number of combatants on either side, would be 
 accepted. 
 
 The impetuous Inigo was too impatient to await the morning
 
 i 4 ETTORE FIERAMOSCA 
 
 light ere he could tell Fieramosca of the events. He reached 
 the neighborhood of the castle of Barletta as the sun rose, and 
 found his friend already awake. Fieramosca listened to the 
 narrator with flashing eyes. He sprang to his feet. "Now is 
 not the time for words but for deeds," he cried, and began 
 naming the champions who were to be chosen for the combat. 
 Upon one Brancaleone he depended most, for he knew him at 
 once as a lofty-minded, magnanimous, and powerful man. 
 " First of all we must confer with Signor Prospero Colonna, and 
 afterward address ourselves to Gonzales for the safe-conduct," 
 said Fieramosca to Inigo, as they walked along the streets 
 toward the residence of the Colonna brothers. On the way 
 they were joined by Brancaleone. 
 
 When the three friends reached their destination they were 
 greeted by the flower of the Italian army. The only subject of 
 discourse was the challenge. After a few moments Signor 
 Prospero appeared. " This wise Prince realized the extreme 
 importance of the result of a combat at the present crisis, for 
 Italy was vacillating between two contending sovereigns. He 
 invited Fieramosca to render a minute account of the whole 
 matter. Signor Prospero thereupon addressed his audience, 
 and requested each man to write his name on paper, that he 
 might submit the list to Gonzales. Within an hour that great 
 captain conceded safe-conduct and an open field for ten men- 
 at-arms, Ettore Fieramosca being the first chosen among the 
 knights. To him, also, was accorded the honor of bearing the 
 written challenge to the French camp. Brancaleone accom- 
 panied Fieramosca into the enemy's lines. 
 
 It was during this mission that Fieramosca confided his 
 unhappy love adventure to Brancaleone, who listened with 
 deep interest to its unfolding. When but a youth of sixteen, 
 under the command of Count Bosio di Montreale, he had met 
 his captain's daughter, and they loved at first sight. Fiera- 
 mosca held himself the most blessed man in the realm of Naples; 
 then war broke out, and he separated from Ginevra cursing 
 fate. After being severely wounded he made his way to Rome, 
 where he was horrified to hear what had befallen Ginevra in 
 his absence. During a sack of Capua her father had been 
 killed, and she forced into marrying a ruffianly captain, named
 
 MASSIMO TAPARELLI D'AZEGLIO 15 
 
 Claudio Grajano d'Asti. As if this were not evil enough, the 
 infamous Caesar Borgia, whose terrific acts were the subject of 
 universal discussion, got wind of her enchanting loveliness, and 
 his passion was aroused. Finding her virtue impregnable, he 
 succeeded in administering a drug, which induced such profound 
 coma that all said Ginevra was dead. Like others not in the 
 secret of her suspended animation, Fieramosca thought his 
 unfortunate lady was no more. He resolved to kill himself, and 
 at night secretly stole into the church to die beside her bier. 
 Prying open the coffin for one last look and kiss, the desperate 
 lover was astounded by symptoms of life in the supposed corpse. 
 A faithful servitor had luckily followed Fieramosca, and together 
 they carried Ginevra from the sacristy. Hardly had this been 
 done successfully ere Caesar Borgia appeared, accompanied by 
 about thirty soldiers. The foiled Duke raged around the 
 deserted church, but was obliged to abandon his undertaking. 
 All these incidents had occurred some years ago. Meanwhile 
 Grajano had followed the fortunes of Caesar Borgia, and the 
 restored Ginevra did not seek to join him ; instead she had placed 
 herself under the protection of Fieramosca, and he had secured a 
 refuge for her in the convent of St. Ursula on the island off the 
 shores of Barletta. Not a soul knew of her whereabouts save 
 Brancaleone, who now listened to the tale for the first time, and 
 a Saracen maid, Zoraide, her constant companion, whom 
 Fieramosca had once rescued from drowning. 
 
 At the conclusion of this extraordinary narrative, French 
 cavaliers appeared to conduct the two Italian knights into the 
 pavilion of their commander. Fieramosca, after repeating the 
 insult of La Motte, read the challenge, which was promptly 
 accepted, with the condition that the number of combatants be 
 thirteen on each side in lieu of ten. The young Italian was 
 confounded to find Grajano, the husband of Ginevra, in the 
 retinue of the Duke de Nemours, and more nonplused when 
 he learned that the rascal would fight in the forthcoming com- 
 bat against his countrymen. 
 
 " Can you lift your sword with the French against the honor 
 of the Italians?" exclained Fieramosca to Grajano, his eyes 
 flashing fire. 
 
 " I fight for those who pay me!" said Grajano with a laugh.
 
 16 ETTORE FIERAMOSCA 
 
 Fieramosca hurled the epithet "Traitor ! " at him, and the an- 
 tagonists were unsheathing their swords when a multitude sepa- 
 rated them, remembering that the person of a herald is held 
 sacred. Ettore turned and excused himself for what had taken 
 place, but even the Frenchmen admired his action. An hour 
 later the herald and his companion passed over the draw- 
 bridge of the gate of B arietta. They proceeded at once to 
 Gonzales, who thereupon proclaimed a truce till the combat 
 was over; he also sent an invitation to the Duke de Nemours 
 to join him at a jete he had planned for his daughter, Elvira, 
 who was expected shortly in B arietta. 
 
 That same day the two strange guests at the " Inn of the Sun," 
 who were Caesar Borgia (Duke Valentino) and his henchman, 
 Don Michele da Corella, began working out the former's 
 purposes, which were to find Ginevra, and to attempt a secret 
 political alliance with Gonzales. Don Michele conveyed a 
 letter to the Spanish captain, who granted Caesar Borgia an 
 audience. While waiting in an antechamber Don Michele 
 cultivated the acquaintance of the Podesta of B arietta, a garru- 
 lous, weak-minded old man, and he told the wily questioner of 
 Fieramosca's incurable melancholy because of a hopeless love. 
 Don Michele pretended he could cure the case provided he were 
 allowed to pass five minutes with the fair object of unrequited 
 love. The foolish Podesta promised to locate the unknown 
 inamorata. Duke Valentino was pleased at the report of prog- 
 ress made. Donning a hooded mantle, which disguised him, 
 he made his way unobserved to the castle, where the illustrious 
 Gonzales temporized about the proposed league of forces, but 
 offered his visitor a suite of rooms for his privacy while he stayed 
 in Barletta. 
 
 As the vesper-hymn was chanted in the church of the con- 
 vent of St. Ursula, Ginevra knelt in prayer, one that was brief 
 and seldom varied. "Most Holy Virgin," she said, "help me 
 not to love him. Give me courage to seek out Grajano, and to 
 desire to find him." She made a resolution to tell Fieramosca 
 of her intention to search for her husband, but when the young 
 knight came to the island in his little boat at twilight she lacked 
 the courage of declaration, while he equally failed to impart the 
 fact that Grajano was alive and among French soldiers. Fiera-
 
 MASSIMO TAPARELLI D'AZEGLIO 17 
 
 mosca, however, gave eloquent tongue to describing the 
 forthcoming conflict, and also the fete, proclaimed in honor of 
 the Lady Elvira, for which a truce had been agreed upon. 
 Ginevra forgot her worry, and Zoraide her embroidery, in 
 giving attention to the exciting news. Their questions knew 
 no bounds, especially regarding the personal appearance of the 
 great captain's daughter. 
 
 Playing his part with the simple Podesta, Don Michele got 
 him to point out Fieramosca; then, to allay any suspicion, the 
 knave alleged that he possessed God-given miraculous powers, 
 which he would exhibit that night to prove his interest beyond 
 suspicion. From Gennaro, the gardener of St. Ursula and 
 friend of the Podesta, Don Michele gathered that Ginevra 
 lived at the convent. To settle all doubt in the mind of his dupe 
 was now his task, so Don Michele, arranging with Boscherino 
 to help him with a supernatural seance, led the Podesta to a 
 ruined church and cemetery, where the intrepid villain began 
 his conjurations. His companion was chattering with fright 
 when a ghost slowly rose from one of the vaults. It pointed to a 
 tomb, which Don Michele examined, and found therein a pile 
 of gold coins. But a score of brigands at this moment burst in 
 upon them, held pikes to their throats, and took the heap of 
 money. The prisoners were bound, blindfolded, and led away 
 on an unknown journey which lasted over an hour, then Don 
 Michele felt himself pushed through a door, and down a num- 
 ber of steps, into a cell. The grating of a bolt assured the cap- 
 tive that there was little hope of escape. By the next morning 
 Don Michele had correctly guessed that he was at the bottom 
 of the tower which defended the convent of St. Ursula at the 
 head of the bridge connecting city and island. It was com- 
 manded by Schwarzenbach, a guzzling German, in league 
 with the bandits, who hid their booty, and held their captives in 
 prospect of reward. 
 
 Don Michele was brought before this German mercenary, 
 who tried to intimidate him, but the pupil of Cassar Borgia 
 turned the tables by declaring that an unseen witness (none 
 other than Boscherino in the guise of a ghost) had already 
 alarmed B arietta of the midnight attack. Schwarzenbach gave 
 full credence to the assertion when his men reported the rapid 
 A. d., vol. 11.— 2
 
 18 ETTORE FIERAMOSCA 
 
 approach of cavalry. It naturally led him to conclude his 
 prisoner was of high rank, and Don Michele embraced the op- 
 portunity to wring from him a promise to lend aid in the ab- 
 duction of Ginevra at a given time. Suddenly an old hag 
 broke into their midst crying out that the brigand leader, 
 Pietraccio, had murdered the Podesta, and that police and 
 soldiers were pursuing the band of cutthroats. She had 
 barely finished when a body of cavalry, led by Ettore Fiera- 
 mosca, drove on to the bridge. They had two prisoners. 
 One was was the ferocious Pietraccio; the other was his mother, 
 herself an outlaw of fearful character. She had been badly 
 wounded in the latest encounter. Both were thrown into the 
 dungeon recently occupied by Don Michele. Fieramosca, 
 without being observed, slipped away and visited Ginevra, 
 who was surprised at his unexpected appearance at that hour. 
 He related the adventures of the night, and dwelt upon the 
 heroic defense of the son made by the bandit-mother. Ginevra's 
 compassion was excited, and she determined to goto her succor 
 with simples. To accomplish this charity Fieramosca had to 
 obtain the dungeon key from Schwarzenbach, but Don Michele 
 anticipated him, and wheedling the key from the bewildered 
 commander he descended the cellar to set Pietraccio free. He 
 found the bandit-mother dying, and with her last breath she 
 cursed Caesar Borgia, who had ruined her life, and bade her son 
 kill that fiend incarnate. Placing his poniard in the outlaw's 
 hand Don Michele told him how to escape. In the features of 
 the dead woman Don Michele had recognized those of the 
 wayward wife of his youth ! 
 
 It was the day on which Donna Elvira was expected, and 
 the courtyard and terraces of B arietta Castle were magnificently 
 decorated. Gonzales and his suite rode away to meet her. 
 Prospero and Fabrizio Colonna were mounted on Arab steeds, 
 while the herculean Diego Garcia was on the back of a wild 
 Calabrian stallion. Ettore Fieramosca, arrayed in white 
 satin, rode between Inigo and Brancaleone. On their way 
 the cavalcade encountered the Duke de Nemours, with all 
 his barons, coming to participate in the fete. Gonzales prayed 
 him to accompany him, and a mile from the gates of the city 
 Elvira and her train, which included the noble Vittoria Colonna,
 
 MASSIMO TAPARELLI D'AZEGLIO 19 
 
 appeared. Dismounting, Gonzales ran to embrace his child, 
 and Ettore and Inigo, having been chosen to act as esquires to 
 Elvira, came forward with an Andalusian jennet, which the young 
 Italian, on bended knee, helped her to mount. Donna Elvira 
 thanked him with a smile, and a glance of frank admiration. 
 
 The brilliant cortege entered Barletta, and dismounted at 
 the castle, where apartments were assigned to the new guests. 
 Soon after the games and tournaments took place. Bulls were 
 loosed in the arena and killed by men, among whom Diego 
 Garcia distinguished himself. Then the knights entered the 
 lists and fought against one another; in these combats Inigo 
 won high honors for the Spanish, and Bajardo was acclaimed 
 the greatest lance among the French. But Grajano d'Asti, 
 more by good luck than skill, came off victor of the day, 
 much to the chagrin of Fieramosca, who was compelled to 
 remain beside Donna Elvira, and surrounded by noblest barons. 
 Again Ettore vowed to inform Ginevra that her detestable 
 husband was alive and in French service. Little did Elvira 
 imagine his train of thought; the coquettish Spanish maiden 
 had indeed begun to look on her handsome knight as a pos- 
 sible lover. Two in that vast assemblage watched Elvira and 
 Ettore with painful emotions. One was Vittoria Colonna, who 
 held a deep affection for the girl, and knew her susceptibility; 
 the other was Zoraide, the Saracen attendant on Ginevra, whose 
 hidden passion for Fieramosca had been only vaguely suspected 
 by her mistress. Zoraide had persuaded Gennaro to take her 
 to the tournament that morning, and she departed without 
 waking Ginevra. When she did awake a hundred wild fan- 
 tasies crowded on her brain. She was suspicious of Zoraide for 
 leaving her so mysteriously, and even doubted Ettore. Weary 
 of her own thoughts, she walked. The tower which guarded 
 the entrance to the island was utterly abandoned ; Schwarzen- 
 bach and his men had gone to the fete. Suddenly a wretched, 
 miserable man crept out of the bushes and threw himself on 
 her mercy. It was the hunted Pietraccio. Compassion com- 
 pelled Ginevra to hide him in a secret place under her house, 
 where she brought him food. 
 
 Zoraide and Gennaro returned, the former evasive of 
 questions, but the gardener garrulous about the recent exhibition.
 
 20 ETTORE FIERAMOSCA 
 
 He rattled on, relating all the details of how Fieramosca and 
 Elvira were such a matchless pair, and that it was rumored they 
 were to be married, and of how a certain Grajano d'Asti had 
 won the trophy. Of course this news fearfully agitated Ginevra, 
 who sought refuge in prayer. After long agony of soul, the 
 supplicant decided to leave the convent that night by sea to 
 seek her husband. "I will do right without thinking of the 
 consequences," she said firmly. "The agonies I am going to 
 encounter will only be the expiation of my errors." While 
 Ginevra was in the depths of anguish, Pietraccio in his con- 
 cealment overheard a conversation between Schwarzenbach and 
 Boscherino, in which the worthy pair discussed the abduction of 
 Ginevra that evening, and he learned that the instigator, 
 Caesar Borgia, was in Barletta. At the first opportunity the 
 bloodthirsty brigand swam to shore, bent on his mission of 
 revenge. 
 
 Meanwhile all was gayety in the audience-hall of Gonzales, 
 where a sumptuous repast was served. The fervid heart of 
 Elvira was now entirely given up to Ettore. Even when a cloud 
 settled over his brow, she believed herself the cause, though his 
 mind was occupied with the unfortunate advent of Grajano 
 d'Asti. One of Ettore's boon companions, Fanfulla by name, 
 had become completely fascinated gazing upon the beauty of 
 Elvira. Envy and a tinge of ill will possessed him at the absorbed 
 attention she gave Fieramosca, to whom Fanfulla once play- 
 fully whispered : "But thou wilt pay me for this some day." 
 
 The gala-day of Gonzales wound up with presentations of 
 plays, followed by a grand ball. In the courtyard a squalid man 
 wandered unnoticed — it was Pietraccio seeking to assassinate 
 Cassar Borgia, and to give warning to Fieramosca of Ginevra's 
 peril. All unconscious of imminent danger Ettore danced with 
 the enamored Elvira, who was rash enough to propose their 
 going out on the terrace after that dance. Fanfulla heard these 
 words, and when a few moments later Fieramosca excused 
 himself to his fair partner, pleading headache, the jealous 
 fellow watched his exit; he was astonished to see Fieramosca 
 rush from the place without cap or mantle, but he did not know 
 that the cause of this violent action was a note, dropped at the 
 young knight's feet, warning him of the plot to steal Ginevra.
 
 MASSIMO TAPARELLI D'AZEGLIO 21 
 
 Tnigo and Brancaleone also observed the precipitous flight, and 
 they followed Ettore, whom they found talking excitedly with 
 Pietraccio. Everything was then explained, and the men, 
 securing armor and swords, set off in a boat for St. Ursula. 
 Fieramosca and his companions sped over the dark waters, 
 passed unheeded one lonely figure in a little boat, and came 
 upon another boat, holding six men and the prone figure of a 
 woman. A fierce fight ensued, during which Pietraccio was 
 knocked senseless in the bottom of the enemies' skiff ; Fieramosca 
 was wounded by a dagger-thrust in the hand of Don Michele, 
 but the unconscious female was rescued. When her saviors 
 reached the convent they saw that the woman was Zoraide, but 
 the closest search failed to reveal Ginevra anywhere. Despair 
 seized upon Fieramosca, and with it a terrible illness, caused 
 by the dagger, which was a poisoned one. Zoraide recovered 
 from her swoon and began administering to the stricken knight, 
 who became delirious. 
 
 Of contrasting character were the events occurring at the 
 castle. Fanfulla watched Elvira saunter out upon the terrace, 
 and, securing the cloak and cap belonging to Fieramosca, joined 
 her. In the semi-darkness the daughter of Gonzales was 
 deceived by the subterfuge. The moon shone unexpectedly, 
 and a piercing scream rang out from below. Elvira and 
 Fanfulla hurriedly separated for fear of the crowd that might 
 be attracted to the terrace by the sound of the woman's voice. 
 
 That cry rang in the ears of the Duke Valentino, Caesar Bor- 
 gia, as he dozed in his apartment on the ground-floor of the castle. 
 Jumping up he made his way to the shore, where he discovered a 
 woman unconscious in a boat. He carried her to his rooms. 
 Conceive his astonishment on beholding the face of Ginevra, 
 pallid and piteous. She had fallen insensible at witnessing the 
 scene in the moonlight between Elvira and the false Fieramosca. 
 Caesar Borgia wasted no time in executing his foul intentions 
 upon Ginevra. Tears and pleadings were of no avail. The 
 wild anguish and despair of the wretched woman were inde- 
 scribable, but her fate was fixed and irrevocable! Don Michele 
 returned in time to help carry the inanimate form of Ginevra 
 back to her little skiff. He saw blood-marks on her left side. 
 Preparations were then made for departure, and the terrible
 
 22 ETTORE FIERAMOSCA 
 
 Caesar Borgia, with his servitors, left Barletta in a vessel await- 
 ing them. Pietraccio, the prisoner of Don Michele, attempted 
 to kill the fiendish Duke Valentino, but that son of Satan plunged 
 a poniard in the young bandit's heart, kicked the palpitating 
 body, and ordered it flung overboard. 
 
 Leaving Fieramosca in Zoraide's care, Brancaleone and 
 Inigo went to Gonzales with the story of the night's adventures. 
 A search was instituted too late to catch Caesar Borgia, though 
 they found his victim. Ginevra revived long enough to bless 
 Elvira, who she supposed was Fieramosca' s -fiancee, for she 
 had been witness to the scene on the terrace which had provoked 
 her cry of agony. After receiving the sacrament she prayed for 
 their happiness, then died. This calamity was kept secret 
 from Fieramosca, because of his condition, which was convales- 
 cent, under the care of Zoraide, and because of the approaching 
 date of combat with the French, in which he hoped to dis- 
 tinguish himself. Brancaleone assured him that Ginevra 
 was in good keeping, though she could not see him until after 
 the great test of arms. Ettore was not satisfied by this ex- 
 planation, but contented himself with preparing for the field. 
 
 The memorable day of the combat dawned. Twenty- 
 six knights, in dazzling armor, ranged themselves in line for a 
 desperate contest. Long and furious was the fighting, each 
 man determined to conquer his foe. Brancaleone clave the 
 skull of Grajano d'Asti in twain. La Motte was unhorsed and 
 defeated by Fieramosca after a terrible conflict. At last the 
 judges descended from the tribunal and approached the scene 
 of blood, causing the trumpets to be sounded, and proclaiming 
 in a loud voice that the Italians had conquered. 
 
 Vittoria Colonna considered it her duty to break the news 
 of Ginevra's death to Fieramosca, but when it came to the point 
 she could not tell him, though she said Ginevra was again at 
 St. Ursula. Mounting his faithful steed Ettore rode on, and 
 over the bridge to the island, where he arrived in time to see 
 the body of his beloved lowered into an open tomb. Zoraide was 
 sobbing on her knees. Ettore said not a single word. He was 
 as rigid and as pallid as the corpse. Remounting his charger 
 he dashed into the night, which was a tempestuous one. No 
 friend of Fieramosca, no living soul of those times ever saw
 
 MASSIMO TAPARELLI D'AZEGLTO 23 
 
 him afterward, living or dead. Some poor mountaineers of 
 Gargano, who were tending their coal-pits, related to the peas- 
 ants that one night in the midst of a wild storm they had seen a 
 strange vision of an armed knight, on the peaks of some in- 
 accessible rocks that overhung a steep declivity near the sea. 
 At first a few only reported the vision, but the number in- 
 creased, and at last the whole country around adopted the 
 
 firm belief it was the archangel St. Michael In the 
 
 year 1616, a tract of rocky seashore under Mt. Gargano had 
 been left bare by the retreating of the sea. A fisherman found 
 lying between the rocks a heap of iron, almost consumed by the 
 marine salt and by rust, and underneath he found human bones 
 and the carcass of a horse. The reader may draw his own con- 
 clusions. For us, our story is done.
 
 IRVING BACHELLER 
 
 (United States, 1859) 
 EBEN HOLDEN (1900) 
 
 This is the first of Irving Bacheller's series of successful novels. Two 
 tales from his pen — The Master of Silence and The Unbidden Guest — had been 
 published previously, but they had attracted comparatively little attention. 
 Eben Holden was begun as a juvenile story, but when about ten chapters had 
 been written the purpose was altered and it was recast for adult readers. The 
 scenes in the north country described in this novel are, many of them, such as 
 were familiar in fact to the author's boyhood; and many of the characters enter- 
 ing into the story were at least suggested by persons whom he had actually 
 known. The book was not copyrighted in Great E.itain, its great popularity 
 there having been unforeseen by either its author or its American publisher, the 
 result being that it has been supplied to the British public in various forms, 
 from editions de luxe to sixpenny pamphlets. Eben Holden was dramatized in 
 1901. We present here the author's own condensation of the story. 
 
 BEN HOLDEN, a cheerful old bachelor with 
 a rare knack of story-telling, had worked on my 
 father's farm in northern Vermont since long 
 before I was born. When I was a lad of six my 
 parents were drowned, leaving me the only sur- 
 viving member of the family. The farm was 
 not worth the mortgage, and everything had to be 
 sold. Uncle Eb, as I had learned affectionately 
 to call him, wished to keep me, but he was a 
 farm-hand without any home or visible property, and not, 
 therefore, in the mind of the authorities, a proper guardian. 
 Some persons were for sending me to the county house, but it 
 was finally decided to turn me over to the care of a dissolute 
 uncle, with some allowance for my keep. 
 
 The night before they were to take me from the old home, 
 Uncle Eb lifted me into a large pack-basket, to the rim of which 
 he had tied bundles of provisions, and, strapping it to his 
 shoulder, set out afoot in the darkness in a westerly direction. 
 
 24
 
 IRVING BACHELLER 25 
 
 Traveling thus by night and resting in concealment by day, we 
 journeyed for weeks, with no particular destination, and only 
 the one immediate purpose in Uncle Eb's mind of getting beyond 
 the reach of those who would have taken me from him. 
 
 After many interesting experiences in the great Adirondack 
 forest, wherein Uncle Eb's wisdom, courage, and knowledge of 
 woodcraft were repeatedly tested, we one night took refuge 
 from a thunderstorm in an old cabin, apparently deserted. 
 Here we first met "the night man," a mysterious person of 
 whom I was to learn more in later years. At first he angrily 
 ordered us away, but Uncle Eb succeeded finally in gaining his 
 friendship and, as I afterward had reason to believe, in tempting 
 him into confidence that had been given to no other person. 
 
 From this strange man we learned where we were. " Down 
 the hill is Paradise Valley, in the township o' Faraway," he 
 told us. "It's the end o' Paradise road, an' a purty country. 
 Been settled a long time, an' the farms are big an' prosperous — 
 kind uv a land o' plenty. That big house at the foot o' the hill 
 is Dave Brower's. He's the richest man in the valley." 
 
 In the morning we trudged down the hill to Mr. Brower's 
 house. As we turned in at the gate a barefooted little girl, a 
 bit older than I, with red cheeks and blue eyes, and long curly 
 hair that shone like gold in the sunlight, came running out to 
 meet us and led me up to the doorstep, while Uncle Eb was 
 talking with David Brower. Presently Mr. Brower came and 
 lifted me by the shoulders, high above his head, and shook me 
 as if to test my mettle. Then he led me into the house where 
 his wife was working. 
 
 " What do you think of this small bit of a boy?" he asked. 
 
 She had already knelt on the floor and put her arms about 
 my neck and kissed me. 
 
 "Ain' no home," said he. "Come all the way from Ver- 
 mont with an ol' man. They're worn out, both uv 'em. Guess 
 we'd better take 'em in awhile." 
 
 "Oh, yes, mother — please, mother!" put in the little girl, 
 who was holding my hand. "He can sleep with me. Please 
 let him stay." 
 
 "David," said the woman, "I couldn't turn the little thing 
 away. Won't ye hand me those cookies?"
 
 26 EBEN HOLDEN 
 
 And so our life in Paradise Valley began. In ten minutes 
 I was playing my first game of " I spy" with little Hope Brower, 
 among the fragrant stooks of wheat in the field back of the 
 garden. 
 
 David Brower and his wife had settled in Paradise Valley 
 when they were young, and had seen the clearing widen, until 
 now, far as the eye could reach, were the neat white houses of 
 the settlers. Many years before our arrival there Nehemiah 
 Brower, their eldest child, then a lad of sixteen, had killed an- 
 other boy by accident and run away. Some time later word 
 had been received that Nehemiah had been drowned on his 
 way to Van Diemen's Land. There was a wide-spread super- 
 stition in the valley that "the night man," who was never seen 
 in the daylight, but whose tall form was often observed skulking 
 in the dark, was the ghost of the boy Nehemiah had killed. 
 
 I could not have enjoyed my new home more if I had been 
 born in it. Mr. and Mrs. Brower were all that a father and 
 mother could be to me, while Hope filled the place of sister and 
 playmate. True, she sometimes annoyed me by too effusive 
 expressions of affection. Once, for instance, when we were 
 going to mill in the big sled with Uncle Eb, she embraced me 
 and said that she loved me very much, adding that when we 
 were big she was going to have me for a husband. This 
 embarrassed me, I remember. It seemed unmanly to be 
 petted like a doll. 
 
 " I hate to be kissed," I said, pulling away from her, at which 
 Uncle Eb laughed heartily. 
 
 The day came when I would have given half my life for the 
 words I held so cheaply then. 
 
 It was Jed Feary, a local poet, who discovered that I was 
 not likely to make a farmer. When I was still a little chap he 
 called Uncle Eb's attention to my slender hands, and said: 
 "Folks here in the valley think o' nuthin' but hard work, most 
 uv 'em. Toil an' slave an' scrimp an' save — thet's about all 
 we think uv. 'Tain't right, Holden. When thet boy is old 
 enough t' take care uv himself, let him git out o' this country. 
 I tell ye he'll never make a farmer, an' if he marries an' settles 
 down here he'll git t' be a poet, mebbe, er some such shif'less 
 cuss, an' die in the poorhouse."
 
 IRVING BACHELLER 27 
 
 " Singular man ! " said Uncle Eb, when Feary had gone. " But 
 anyone thet picks him up fer a fool '11 find him a counterfeit." 
 
 In time others came to believe that I was planned by nature 
 for something besides farm work, and Mr. Brower, who had 
 now become father in name as well as in fact, decided that I 
 should have a good education. 
 
 The winter that marked the end of my fifteenth year was a 
 time of new things. Then I began to enjoy the finer humors of 
 life in Faraway — to see with understanding, and to feel the in- 
 finite in the ancient forest, in the everlasting hills, in the deep 
 of heaven, in all the ways of men. 
 
 Hope Brower was now near woman grown, with a beauty of 
 face and form that was the talk of the countryside. Of late 
 years something had come between us. Long ago we had fallen 
 out of each other's confidence. Uncle Eb had once told, before 
 company, how she had kissed me and bespoken me for a hus- 
 band that day in the big sled, and while the others laughed 
 loudly, she had gone out of the room crying. Ever since then 
 she had seemed to shun me. 
 
 Uncle Eb one day suggested that I invite her to an entertain- 
 ment at the schoolhouse that night. 
 
 I took his advice. She looked at me, blushing, and said she 
 would ask her mother. She did, and we walked to the school- 
 house together, her hand holding my arm, timidly, the most 
 serious pair that ever struggled with the problems of deport- 
 ment on such an occasion. On the way home she asked me 
 what part of the entertainment I enjoyed most. 
 
 " Your company," I said, with a fine air of gallantry. 
 
 "Honestly?" 
 
 "Honestly. I want to take you to a dance at Rickard's 
 some time." 
 
 "Maybe I won't let you," she said. 
 
 "Wouldn't you?" 
 
 " You'd better ask me some time and see." 
 
 "I shall. I wouldn't ask any other girl." 
 
 How far my aroused courage might have carried me I can- 
 not say. We were interrupted by a woman who overtook us. 
 
 The next autumn Hope, who had a fine voice, went away to 
 study music, and I to the academy at Hillsboro.
 
 2 8 EBEN HOLDEN 
 
 In the spring we had returned and were in the garden, the 
 playground of our childhood, when I confessed my love. A 
 flood of color came into her cheeks, as she stood a moment 
 looking down in silence. 
 
 "I shall keep your secret," she said tenderly, "and when 
 you are through college — and you are older — and I am older — 
 and you love me as you do now — I hope — I shall love you, too — 
 as — I do now." After a moment she added: "Do not speak 
 of it again until we are older, and, if you never speak again, I 
 shall know you — you do not love me any longer." 
 
 In my second year at college Hope went away to continue 
 her studies in New York. She was to live in the family of 
 John Fuller, a friend of Mr. Brower, who had left Faraway 
 years before and made his fortune in the big city. The evening 
 before she was to go Uncle Eb slyly beckoned her and me into his 
 room, and, counting a hundred dollars from a great roll which he 
 took from his trunk, handed it to Hope, saying: "Put thet away 
 in yer wallet. Might come handy when ye're away f'm hum." 
 
 She kissed him tenderly. 
 
 "Put it 'n yer wallet an' say nuthin' — not a word t' no- 
 body," he said. 
 
 Then he counted over a like amount for me. 
 
 After my graduation at college, Uncle Eb and I took the 
 train for New York one summer day in i860. I was leaving to 
 seek my fortune in the big city; Uncle Eb was off for a holiday, 
 and to see Hope and bring her home for a short visit. She was 
 now very busy with her studies and with her singing in a 
 fashionable church. Besides, Mrs. Fuller, as I had learned, 
 had taken her a good deal into society and encouraged a certain 
 wealthy young man named Livingstone to pay much attention to 
 her. I had lost hope of winning her, but as we sped on Uncle 
 Eb encouraged me. 
 
 David Brower and Horace Greeley had been playmates in 
 their boyhood, and I had a letter in my pocket from my adopted 
 father to the great editor. When Mr. Greeley had read it and 
 asked me many questions about its writer, I told him that I 
 wanted to work on the Tribune. 
 
 "Well," said he, turning back to his desk, "go and write me 
 an article about rats."
 
 IRVING BACHELLER 20 
 
 "Would you advise — " I began, when he interrupted me. 
 
 "The man that gives advice is a bigger fool than the man 
 that takes it. Go and do your best." 
 
 The thought of rats suggested ships and wharves and 
 sewers, so I went down to the water-front. There I met a big, 
 good-natured Irish policeman, who went about with me and did 
 not leave me until I was on my way to Mrs. Fuller's, loaded 
 with fact and fable and good dialect with a flavor of the sea in it. 
 
 Uncle Eb and Hope expressed great pleasure when I told 
 them I had a job on the Tribune. I was for going at once to 
 write my article, but Hope said it was time to be getting ready 
 for dinner. 
 
 At that elaborate meal I met many handsome men and 
 women, among them Mr. Livingstone and a Mr. John Trum- 
 bull, the latter a big, full-bearded man who, as I learned, had 
 made the acquaintance of the family by snatching Hope from 
 under a horse's feet and saving her life. 
 
 "Seems as if it were fate," said Hope. "I had seen him so 
 often and wondered who he was." 
 
 After dinner Uncle Eb and John Trumbull went to the 
 smoking-room, where I found them talking earnestly in a corner. 
 Mrs. Fuller afterward told me that Mr. Trumbull was a specu- 
 lator. "A strange man," she added, "successful, silent, and, I 
 think, in love." 
 
 That evening Hope and I had a few moments together in a 
 corner of the large parlor. "I've heard how well you did last 
 year," she said, "and how nice you were to the girls. A friend 
 of mine wrote me all about it. How attentive you were to that 
 little Miss Brown!" 
 
 "Only decently polite," I answered. "One has to have 
 somebody or — or — be a monk." 
 
 "One has to have somebody!" she said quickly, as she 
 picked at the flower on her bosom and looked down at it soberly. 
 "That is true — one has to have somebody, and, you know, I 
 haven't had any lack of company myself. By the way, I have 
 news to tell you. I am going to England with Mrs. Fuller." A 
 moment later she said : " My friend writes that you are in love." 
 
 "She is right," I said. "I am madly, hopelessly in love. 
 It is time you knew it, Hope, and I want your counsel."
 
 30 EBEN HOLDEN 
 
 She rose quickly and turned her face away. "Do not tell 
 me!" she said coldly. "Do not speak of it again. I forbid 
 you!" 
 
 Before I could speak Mrs. Fuller had come through the door- 
 way. "Come, Hope," she said, "I cannot let you sit up late. 
 You are worn out, my dear." 
 
 That night Uncle Eb came to my room, and I told him that 
 Hope didn't care for me. 
 
 "Don't believe it," he answered calmly. "Thet woman —   
 she's tryin' t' keep her away from ye, but 'twon't make no 
 differ'nce. Not a bit." 
 
 "Hope has got too far ahead of me" I said. "She can 
 marry a rich man if she wishes to, and I don't see why she 
 shouldn't." 
 
 "There's things goin' t' happen," Uncle Eb whispered. "I 
 can't tell ye what er when, but they're goin' t' happen an' 
 they're goin' t' change everything." 
 
 Instead of going home with Uncle Eb, Hope went first to 
 Saratoga, and then abroad with Mrs. Fuller. 
 
 When my article was written I took it to Mr. Greeley, who 
 instructed his city editor to read it and, if it were well done, 
 to give me a place on the Tribune staff. The city editor gave me 
 little encouragement, saying the staff was full, but he took my 
 address and said I would hear from him when he wanted me. I 
 never heard from him. 
 
 That evening I chanced to meet Mr. Trumbull, and we took 
 a long walk together. 
 
 "Come!" said he, after a silence, "talk to me. Tell me — 
 what are you going to do?" 
 
 I told him of my plans, so far as they had matured. 
 
 "You love Hope," he said. "You will marry her?" 
 
 "If she will have me," I answered. 
 
 "You must wait," he said. "Time enough!" 
 
 I was soon nearly out of money and at my wits' end. In this 
 plight I ran upon Fogarty, the policeman who had been the 
 good angel of my one hopeful day in journalism. His manner 
 invited my confidence, and I told him I needed work — any kind 
 of honest work. He led me to a gang of Irishmen working in the 
 street near by and induced the boss to give me work. I began
 
 IRVING BACHELLER 3I 
 
 next morning. We were paving Park Place, and presently I 
 saw Mr. Greeley standing near and looking down at me. 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me that you'd rather work than beg or 
 borrow?" he said, after beckoning me to him. 
 
 "That's about it," I answered. 
 
 "And ain't ashamed of it?" 
 
 "Ashamed! Why?" said I, not quite sure of his meaning, 
 for I had learned that all work was honorable. 
 
 "I guess you'll do for the Tribune" he laughed. "Come 
 and see me at twelve to-morrow." He gave me a place on the 
 local staff and invited me to dine with him at his home that 
 evening. 
 
 In the course of my duty I went to report the ball given in 
 honor of the Prince of Wales at the Academy of Music. There 
 I saw Mrs. Fuller in one of the boxes, and made haste to speak 
 with her. She had just landed, having left Hope to study for a 
 time in the Conservatory at Leipsic. 
 
 "Mrs. Livingstone is with her," said she, "and they will 
 return together in April." 
 
 "Mrs. Fuller, did she send any word to me?" I inquired 
 anxiously. "Did she give you no message?" 
 
 "None," she said coldly, "except one to her mother and 
 father, which I have sent in a letter to them." 
 
 In 1861 I resigned from the Tribune and went to the war. 
 At Washington I received a letter from Uncle Eb informing me 
 that Hope, in one of her recent letters, had said she had not 
 heard from me, but had heard from somebody else that I was 
 going to be married. "You had oughter write her a letter, 
 Bill," Uncle Eb wrote. "Looks to me so you haint used her 
 right. She's a-comin' hum in July." 
 
 I wrote immediately to Uncle Eb, telling him of the letters 
 I had sent to Hope, and of my effort to see her. 
 
 I went to the war in despair, and was badly wounded in the 
 battle of Bull Run, and left on the field. Far into the night I 
 lay near to death. Then I heard a voice calling my name again 
 and again, coming nearer and nearer. I answered with a 
 feeble cry, and presently a mighty man had picked me up and 
 was making off. The jolt of his step seemed to be breaking 
 my arms at the shoulder. Fainter and fainter I grew, until my
 
 32 EBEN HOLDEN 
 
 own voice seemed to whisper to me: "My God! this is no man. 
 This is Death severing the soul from the body." From then 
 till I came to myself in the little church at Centreville I remem- 
 ber nothing. In a few weeks I was removed to Washington, 
 where I soon recovered my strength and set out for home. 
 
 When I arrived at Jersey City, Uncle Eb was there to meet 
 me. As I was greeting him I heard a lively rustle of skirts. 
 Two dainty gloved hands laid hold of mine; a sweet voice 
 spoke my name. There, beside me, stood the tall, erect figure 
 of Hope. Our eyes met, and, before there was any thinking of 
 propriety, I had her in my arms and was kissing her and she was 
 kissing me. 
 
 Explanations followed later. She had not received my 
 letters, as I suspected. Mrs. Fuller had wished her to marry 
 young Livingstone. "But for Uncle Eb," she said, "I think I 
 should have done so, for I had given up all hope of you." 
 
 We went to an inn, and late that night when we wakened 
 Uncle Eb and told him that we were to be man and wife, he 
 said : " You go into the other room and wait a minute, and I'll 
 put on my clothes an' then you'll hear me talk some conversa- 
 tion." 
 
 As we neared home in the north countrv, Uncle Eb told us 
 that David Brower had recently lost a large sum of money in 
 speculation and was low in spirits, but that he would soon rise 
 again. The following Christmas Eve we learned what he meant. 
 David and Elizabeth Brower were facing the prospect of losing 
 their home with pathetic bravery when Uncle Eb handed 
 them a check for twenty thousand dollars, saying it was from 
 their son Nehemiah. 
 
 " Why, Nehemiah is dead," said David. 
 
 Then Uncle Eb opened the door and a tall, bearded man 
 came in. 
 
 "Mr. Trumbull!" Hope exclaimed, rising. 
 
 "David an' Elizabeth Brower," said Uncle Eb, "the dead 
 has come to life. I give ye back yer son — Nehemiah." 
 
 Nehemiah, whom I had known as John Trumbull, sat 
 between his father and mother, holding a hand of each, telling 
 his story far into the night. When he was a mere boy he had 
 accidentally shot another boy with an old gun which he sup-
 
 IRVING BACHELLER 33 
 
 posed was not loaded. He had often quarreled with that boy, 
 and some thought he had killed him purposely, so, to escape 
 arrest, he ran away and went to sea. Near Van Diemen's Land 
 a shipmate was washed overboard and drowned. Nehemiah 
 placed a letter in the drowned man's box, saying his real name 
 was Nehemiah Brower, son of David Brower, of Faraway, 
 New York, and the captain wrote to Mr. Brower that his son 
 was dead. Six years later Nehemiah sailed into the harbor of 
 Quebec, and the desire to see those he loved had tempted him 
 to Paradise Valley. Here he concealed himself in the woods by 
 day, coming out at night to watch over the old home and occa- 
 sionally to peep through a window at his friends. 
 
 " I made my home in a concealed cave," he went on ; " caught 
 a cub panther and a baby coon. They grew up with me there 
 and were the only friends I had, except Uncle Eb." 
 
 "Uncle Eb!" I exclaimed. 
 
 "You know how I met him," Nehemiah continued, address- 
 ing me. " You were not as big and heavy then as you were the 
 night I carried you from Bull Run battle-field. Well, Uncle 
 Eb won my confidence that night in the old cabin, and I told 
 him my history. Ever since that he has been my friend, guide, 
 and helper. But for him I should have gone crazy in my lone- 
 liness. Indeed, I was half crazy when he urged me to go out 
 among men and gave me a thousand dollars to start me in bus- 
 iness. I walked through the woods to Utica, where I bought 
 fashionable clothing, and went to New York. You know 
 the rest, save that my introduction to Hope was not so 
 accidental as it seemed. I had long kept pretty close watch 
 over her." 
 
 "I declare!" said he, beaming down upon David and 
 Elizabeth Brower. "In all my born days I never see sech fun. 
 It's tree-menjious, I tell ye. Them 'et takes care uv others'll 
 be took care uv — 'less they do it o' purpose." 
 
 "Three cheers for Uncle Eb!" I demanded. And we gave 
 them. 
 
 Hope and I were married, and made our home in the great 
 city, whence every summer we return to the old fireside and sit 
 by the graves of those we loved and think of the last words of 
 Uncle Eb, now cut in marble: 
 a. d., vol. 11. — 3
 
 34 EBEN HOLDEN 
 
 / ain't afraid. 
 
 'Shamed o' nuthin' I ever done. 
 
 Allwas kep' my tugs tight, 
 
 Never swore 'less 'twas necessary, 
 
 Never ketched a fish bigger' n 'twas 
 
 Er lied in a hoss trade 
 
 Er shed a tear I didn't hev to. 
 
 Never cheated anybody but Eben Holden. 
 
 Goin' off somewhercs Bill — dunno the way nuther. 
 
 Dunno if it's east er west er north er south 
 
 Er road er trail 
 
 But I ain't afraid.
 
 WOLCOTT BALESTIER 
 
 (United States, 1861-1891) 
 BENEFITS FORGOT (1892) 
 
 This story, completed the year before its writer's death, and published 
 the year following this event, appearing first serially in the Century Magazine, 
 was the result of Mr. Balestier's study of Leadville, Colorado, visited by him in 
 1885. Two years earlier he had made a brief sojourn in this portion of Colorado, 
 which had profoundly impressed his imagination; at this time the air in this 
 vicinity proved too bracing for him, and he made but a short stay. His 
 second trip, made in the company of his sister, lasted many months, and 
 the glimpses of the strange life of the West remained, to the end of this 
 author's career, the most vivid and exciting which his memory contained. 
 At this time Mr. Balestier was more than ever inspired with the desire to 
 write earnestly, and it was in Colorado that the first crude sketch was made 
 for a book, which was afterward rewritten as Benefits Forgot. This novel, 
 born in the mining-camps of Colorado, was completed in the congenial atmos- 
 phere of the Old World, where the writer spent his final years. 
 
 AMES DEED'S wedding-day dawned, and as 
 his eyes measured the crisp and sparkling Colo- 
 rado morning he had the pleasant feeling that 
 the sun was shining especially for him. In a 
 few hours he was to marry Margaret Derwenter, 
 the woman of his choice, and his heart was over- 
 flowing with joy and happiness. Up to this 
 time his life had been one of many vicissitudes, 
 and he looked forward to his coming marriage 
 with unspeakable joy and satisfaction. 
 
 Ten years earlier, he had left New York with his two 
 motherless boys, broken-hearted at the death of his wife, whom 
 he had devotedly loved, and shattered in health. He had felt 
 no incentive to live when he was forced to leave his home and 
 seek a new and strange habitation in the West; but gradually 
 the lethargy of sorrow and ill health fell from him and he 
 became himself again. He resumed his practise of law io the 
 
 35
 
 36 BENEFITS FORGOT 
 
 town of Maverick, and also entered into the mining interests 
 of the new country, which eventually brought him satisfactory 
 returns. Deed was an indulgent father to his boys, and en- 
 deavored to make up to them by his affection for the loss they 
 had sustained. He was kind and generous to a fault, but had 
 a quick temper, which, when aroused, would carry him beyond 
 reason or justice. Upon reaching manhood, Jasper, the elder 
 of Deed's two sons, who had always shown much sagacity and 
 business ability, was placed by his father in charge of his large 
 ranch, valued at one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. This 
 he managed with most gratifying results, much to the pride 
 and satisfaction of his father, who took him into partnership 
 and for the term of five years put into his hands his brother 
 Philip's share of the ranch. Jasper suggested the making of a 
 written deed of the property to himself, to which his father, 
 who had full confidence in him, willingly consented, feeling 
 sure that his brother's interests would be to him as his own. 
 However, when Deed was on the point of remarrying, he felt 
 it best to have his sons equally provided for, and wrote to 
 Jasper, who was temporarily absent, asking him to make 
 over to Philip his share of the property. 
 
 To his horror and amazement, upon the morning of his 
 marriage he received a letter from Jasper refusing to relinquish 
 what he had unfairly gained, and Deed's eyes were opened 
 to the perfidy of his son's real character. 
 
 Filled with rage and disappointment, his one desire was to 
 avenge this wrong, no matter what the cost might be. He 
 determined to sell the ranch for the paltry sum of twenty-five 
 thousand dollars in order to ruin Jasper, not stopping to 
 consider how the transaction would affect either Philip or 
 himself. 
 
 He went to Margaret Derwenter, while in this vengeful 
 mood, and told her what he intended to do. She tried in 
 every way to set the matter before him in its true light and 
 endeavored to turn him from his purpose, but he was so full 
 of wrath that he would not listen to reason. 
 
 "James! James!" begged Margaret, "consider the life 
 of remorse you are condemning yourself to. Distrust the 
 false passion and pride that tells you you are right now. You
 
 WOLCOTT BALESTIER 37 
 
 are wrong! Listen to me, who have nothing to gain by telling 
 you so. You are wrong." 
 
 "Have I not the right to make him suffer as I suffer?" he 
 asked coldly. "The thing's done, I tell you." 
 
 He was about to leave the room, but she called — 
 
 "James!" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "You must not." She caught her breath, and sat hastily 
 upon the sofa. 
 
 "Pshaw!" 
 
 " I tell you, you must not. I will not have it. I have my 
 rights, as well as you; my rights as your wife to be. I will 
 not have your property — my property — thrown away for a 
 whim." 
 
 He came toward her quickly. She shrank involuntarily. 
 Her face was white; she set her teeth. 
 
 " Do you mean that ? " 
 
 She nodded painfully. 
 
 "It would have been simpler to say so in the beginning — 
 not to say honester," he said, with slow bitterness. "You might 
 have spared me the pain of knowing that you could promise 
 to give it all up, when you thought yourself secure from being 
 held to your word. You might have saved your sermons." 
 
 It was like the agony of death to hear these things from him; 
 but she shut her lips, and bore it. If she spoke now, she knew 
 that her tone must belie her words. 
 
 "A moment ago you said," he went on coldly, "that you 
 had nothing to gain. Pardon me if I say that you seem to have 
 had much. It may make you sleep easier to-night, if I tell 
 you that you have gained it." 
 
 He put his hands to his head in bewilderment, caught up 
 his hat, and, without a glance at her, left the room not to return. 
 
 Margaret, who was a woman of noble character, knew 
 that this frenzied condition was caused by grief and disappoint- 
 ment; and, though deserted upon her wedding-day, she re- 
 mained true to the man she loved. 
 
 Philip, meanwhile, who was ignorant of the state of affairs, 
 set out from an adjacent town, where he had been engaged in 
 working two mines which belonged to Jasper and himself, in
 
 38 BENEFITS FORGOT 
 
 order to be present at his father's wedding. He was accom- 
 panied on this trip by his friend Lenox Cutter, a New York 
 man of rich and influential antecedents, who had sought the 
 West in order to try to forget the girl whom he had loved for 
 years and who had refused him. 
 
 The line of travel, which the men took on horseback, 
 included a mountain-pass, and while in this dangerous locality 
 they were overtaken by a heavy snow-storm which made their 
 progress almost impossible. They came up with another 
 party, caught in the same predicament, which included a 
 young girl who was already overcome by cold and exhaustion. 
 Deed and Cutter aided in restoring her to consciousness, and 
 led the way to a cave, with the location of which they were 
 familiar, and which afforded them protection from the storm. 
 The members of the rescued party were the Reverend Mr. 
 Maurice, an Episcopal clergyman, his daughter Dorothy, a 
 beautiful girl, and Richard Messiter, a friend and admirer of 
 the young woman. Their journey proved to have been a 
 compulsory one, as Mr. Maurice, who had made himself un- 
 popular as a pastor by refusing to read the burial service for 
 two miners who had died of smallpox, had been run out of 
 the town where he had been living. Dorothy, who was in igno- 
 rance of the cause of their sudden departure, maintained great 
 admiration and respect for her father, who had a pleasant 
 personality in spite of his weak character. In course of time 
 the snow-bound party were able to continue their journey, 
 and they reached their destination, Maverick, where Philip was 
 greeted with the news regarding his father's postponed 
 marriage. 
 
 He at once sought out his father, with whom he had a 
 stormy interview, as the latter failed to understand his son's 
 sympathetic attitude, and saw in his remarks only veiled re- 
 sentment for the wrong that had been done him. 
 
 "Say it, Phil! Say it!" he cried hoarsely. " Don't sit there 
 dumb. I know what you think. You're right. I sold you 
 out. I signed away your rights. I did you out of your future 
 with a foolish, amiable stroke of the pen. I trusted a scoundrel, 
 and you've to pay for it. I wanted to do the handsome thing 
 by Jasper, and I did it at your expense. It's been your treat
 
 WOLCOTT BALESTIER 39 
 
 all along, Phil," he said with a miserable smile, "though you 
 didn't know it." 
 
 Philip leaped up. "Great heaven, father! you haven't 
 been thinking that I was shouting around about my miserable 
 little share in that business? Surely you don't think that I 
 could name it beside your trouble, much less be fooling with 
 the poor question of blame ? I should think Jasper was enough 
 to blame for half a dozen." 
 
 His father smiled sadly. "What Jasper has done cannot 
 excuse me. He couldn't have done it if I hadn't thrown the 
 way open to him — if I hadn't trusted him." 
 
 "Wouldn't a father trust his own son, I should like to 
 know? Is it a thing he must answer for?" 
 
 "My God, Phil! hasn't he answered for it — isn't he answer- 
 ing for it, will he ever get to the end of answering for it?" He 
 covered his eyes. 
 
 "I know, father," said Philip, taking a turn across the 
 room. " Ingratitude is like that. It hurts — it keeps on hurting." 
 
 "Yes," owned Deed grimly, "it hurts." 
 
 "Surely it's enough, then. Pray don't bother about me. 
 You would have done it for me in the same situation. Do 
 you think I don't know that I never gave you the chance? 
 I've not been doing the approved thing. I never have. When 
 I do, it will be time enough for me to trot out my grievance." 
 
 " Oh, Phil, I've not been fair to you!" It was the expression 
 of his sense of his whole course toward him from boyhood; 
 but Philip took it to refer to the contract. "Pshaw, father! I 
 shall rub along for the few years left of the partnership. What 
 difference can it make? I shall be the better for having to 
 make my own way for a while." 
 
 Philip, like Margaret, failed to make Deed see what moral 
 injury he was doing himself by repaying one wrong with 
 another, the father persistently remaining blind and obdurate. 
 
 "Phil!" he cried miserably, "you're not going back on me!" 
 
 "Going back on you, father?" Philip snatched the hand 
 hanging by his side. "I'm trying to save you. You're letting 
 yourself in for a lifetime of remorse. You'll kick yourself for 
 this thing before you are a week older. Think, father! Can 
 you afford to do a wrong like this to Jasper ? Where will there
 
 4 o BENEFITS FORGOT 
 
 ever be an end to it ? 'Twill make you unhappy, father. That's 
 what I'm thinking of. And the unhappiest part of the whole 
 business will be when you see that after all it wasn't fair." 
 
 "Fair!" cried his father hoarsely. "Fair! Oh, the devil!" 
 He sat down, clenching his hands. The blood rose in his face. 
 
 "Did you wish to be unfair?" 
 
 "Yes!" shouted Deed. "Yes! I wish to be all that you 
 imply! I wish to be unfair to both of you." 
 
 "Both of us!" exclaimed Philip, turning pale. 
 
 " Oh, I know what you think; I wish to be unfair to Jasper, 
 and to do it I must be doubly unfair to you, and I didn't care. 
 You don't say it. You talk of Jasper." 
 
 "Father, can you think — " 
 
 "Yes, more than you say." 
 
 Philip grew white about the nostrils. "I have said all that 
 I mean. I say it's shabby to freeze Jasper out in his absence; 
 I say that you are free to use whatever share I may claim in the 
 range as you like. But not for that. I won't be a party to it. 
 I won't stand by and see you do such a wrong to yourself." 
 
 "Say what you mean," cried his father, with an implication 
 in his voice which maddened Philip beyond control. 
 
 "Father!" he cried warningly. 
 
 Deed thrust his hands into his pockets, and, facing him 
 with deliberate bitterness, looked into his eyes. "I will pay you 
 every penny of your damned fifty thousand dollars before you 
 are twenty-four hours older." 
 
 For a moment Philip stared at his father in speechless anger. 
 Then with a cry of rage he burst from the room. 
 
 In leaving the hotel Philip came face to face with Margaret, 
 whom he saw for the first time, and who was on her way to 
 seek the man that had treated her so cruelly. 
 
 Since Deed's desertion of her on her wedding-day, Margaret 
 had endured much suffering, both mental and physical, and 
 had been administered to by her friends Mr. and Mrs. Ventner, 
 with whom she was staying, and by Dr. Ernfield, who was 
 deeply in love with her, although he realized the hopelessness 
 of his suit. 
 
 Ernfield was a consumptive and a forced exile from his 
 home in the East, where he had been doing brilliant work in
 
 WOLCOTT BALESTIER 41 
 
 his profession until obliged to seek another climate in search 
 of health. 
 
 Margaret was utterly unaware of Ernfield's feelings toward 
 her, which he endeavored to hide as much as possible. On 
 one occasion, however, during a horseback ride, Ernfield told 
 Margaret of his love, and this declaration was such a shock to 
 her that it made her long for Deed's protection. 
 
 She realized that her recreant lover could not return to her 
 under the circumstances, and accordingly she decided that she 
 would go to him. This was a tremendous decision for one of 
 Margaret's retiring nature and New England traditions, but 
 when the matter was once settled in her own mind she did not 
 falter. She quietly packed her belongings and went to the 
 man who needed her so sorely. 
 
 She found Deed plunged in misery as the result of the course 
 he had taken, and crushed with sorrow at the thought that both 
 sons were lost to him, and Margaret as well. Deed was over- 
 whelmed by Margaret's generous behavior, and he and she 
 were married immediately and went away at once, leaving 
 their whereabouts unknown. 
 
 Before departing Deed had placed the $50,000 to Philip's 
 credit in the bank, and in order to do this had drawn upon 
 some trust funds that were in his keeping. He felt justified in 
 doing this, as he planned to sell the Lady Bountiful mine 
 to some men in Burro Peak City, who had offered him $60,000 
 for it. In order to reach these purchasers he must take a four 
 days' horseback journey, as they were beyond the reach of 
 railway or telegraph, so Deed's wedding-trip was taken in that 
 direction. 
 
 After his father's departure Philip discovered what he had 
 done, and immediately drew the money and deposited it to 
 his father's account. 
 
 Jasper meanwhile had returned home, and was overcome 
 with rage when he was informed by Snell, the new owner of 
 the ranch, that the property was no longer his. 
 
 He immediately sought an interview with Philip, who was 
 at work in his mine, and a stormy scene ensued, in the course 
 of which Jasper exclaimed : 
 
 "You thought I wouldn't see through this thing — you and
 
 42 BENEFITS FORGOT 
 
 father — did you? You must have taken me for a bat. Why, 
 you'd see through it yourself — yes, even you, my helpless, 
 pottering brother, who don't know as much of business in a 
 year as I could guess before breakfast any morning. Yes! 
 You who never turned an honest dollar in all your life, and who 
 have managed to lose a pretty number, even you would see 
 through it. I do see the point, and I won't be quieted. There's 
 going to be a row about this thing before we're done with it, 
 let me tell you." 
 
 " Do you find yourself safe in always judging other men by 
 yourself?" asked Philip after a pause. " Do I look like a fellow 
 who could stoop to your notions of what a man may let himself 
 do? Was I ever a sneak?" 
 
 Jasper clenched his hands. "Yes," he cried hoarsely, 
 "yes. When were you ever any thing else ? Your life has been 
 one long slinking out of every sort of duty, responsibility, and 
 hard work. Your father has fed you since you were a man; 
 he has kept you in amusement and helped you in every fool 
 scheme for dodging disagreeable things that your ingenuity 
 could invent." 
 
 These hot words were soon followed by blows, and a fracas 
 ensued in which Jasper was worsted and knocked unconscious 
 by Philip. 
 
 Besides their financial difficulties, the brothers found them- 
 selves involved in an affair of the heart, as Dorothy Maurice, 
 for whom Philip had conceived a deep attachment, proved to 
 be an old flame of Jasper's, whom he still hoped to win in spite 
 of her previous rejections of his suit. 
 
 At this crisis in Philip's affairs, he received a telegram telling 
 him that ore had been discovered in his mine named the Little 
 Cipher, and that consequently he was rich. This, instead of 
 being joyful news to Philip, was quite the reverse, because of 
 the two mines that he had been managing, the Little Cipher 
 he had worked for Jasper and the other, named the Pay Ore, 
 for himself. This fact was known only to Philip, however, and 
 it was entirely a matter of conscience with him, as he had made 
 the division in his own mind, and nobody else was aware of 
 the arrangement. 
 
 He battled with his conscience, which told him to give to
 
 WOLCOTT BALESTIER 43 
 
 his brother the mine which he had worked in his interest, while 
 on the other hand he was tempted to take for himself what he 
 had exclusively earned. 
 
 He went to see Dorothy, who wished to know the cause of 
 the estrangement between himself and Jasper, and when he 
 declined to tell her she declined to accede to his proposal of 
 marriage. Philip had an interview with Mr. Maurice, who 
 confessed that he was under an obligation to Jasper, of whom 
 he had borrowed five thousand dollars, and who he feared would 
 make things most unpleasant for him. 
 
 Philip, in his desire to serve Dorothy, yielded to temptation 
 and decided to take possession of the Little Cipher mine; he 
 told Mr. Maurice, who inclined toward a rich son-in-law, that 
 he would give him the money with which to settle with Jasper. 
 
 Dorothy, learning of Jasper's perfidy toward his father and 
 brother, found her heart turned completely against him and 
 drawn toward Philip. These two soon came to an understand- 
 ing, and an engagement followed. Philip was full of joy at 
 having won Dorothy, the only damper to his happiness being 
 the consciousness of his action regarding the mine, but he 
 reassured himself on this point by the convincing argument 
 that it was not wrong if done for Dorothy's sake. 
 
 During this time Deed's whereabouts had been unknown, 
 but this mysterious absence, which was considered intentional 
 by his friends, was due in reality to an accidental happening. 
 He and Margaret had been snow-bound in a place named 
 Mineral Springs, and had been completely shut off from travel 
 or communication with the outer world. This enforced delay 
 had fretted Deed greatly, as it had prevented his selling the 
 mine and restoring the trust-fund that he had borrowed. Jasper 
 discovered his father's whereabouts, managed to force a passage 
 through the snow, and had an interview with him regarding 
 his transactions. 
 
 Deed refused to capitulate in any way, and, though Jasper 
 threatened to bring suit against him, he told him he would fight 
 to the end. Jasper on his return trip was lost in the snow, and 
 was finally rescued in the last stages of exhaustion. This 
 experience was followed by a severe illness from which he 
 barely recovered. He was visited professionally at their home
 
 44 BENEFITS FORGOT 
 
 by Dr. Ernfield, who was prostrated by his exertions and finally 
 succumbed to a severe attack of his fatal malady. He was 
 carefully tended by Mrs. Ventner, and he received a visit from 
 Margaret which caused him mingled pleasure and pain. He 
 wished to be sure that Margaret was really happy with Deed, 
 and when she convinced him that this was the case he was 
 satisfied. 
 
 While these events were taking place, Dorothy and Philip 
 had been reveling in their newly found happiness, from which, 
 however, they soon had a rude awakening. While taking a 
 horseback expedition together, to visit a neighboring mine, 
 conversation drifted around to Philip's experience with the 
 Little Cipher, and he, not wishing longer to withhold the 
 truth from Dorothy, explained the situation to her. Dorothy 
 was horrified. She pressed her cheeks rapidly and repeatedly 
 with her handkerchief. When she looked at him again it was 
 with streaming eyes. "Say you were not in your right mind, 
 that you did it in error! Say anything rather than leave me to 
 believe what I must! It wasn't you! Oh, Philip! Was not 
 the man I have known you for, too proud ? Would he not have 
 seen how the very security with which he might take it, and 
 keep silence, forced him to hold his hand ? Oh, say you did not 
 do it!" 
 
 "I can't! I can't!" he cried. "It's true!" 
 
 She gazed at him with eyes of unspeakable reproach; and 
 he dropped the eyes he had fixed upon her while she spoke 
 with the fascination of a criminal who hears his sentence. She 
 checked her horse and held out her hand. 
 
 " Good-by, then." 
 
 "Good-by?" he exclaimed, stupefied. 
 
 "Did you think we could go on?" she asked sadly. "Did 
 you think it could all be as it was? No; it is ended for us. 
 Good-by," she repeated. The tears fell from her eyes in a rain, 
 but there was no relenting in her face. "Give me my ring," 
 she said dully. 
 
 He stared. "Dorothy," he burst out, "you can't! you 
 won't!" 
 
 "I must." 
 
 " I have wronged Jasper. I confess it. Nothing that he has
 
 WOLCOTT BALESTIER 45 
 
 done excuses it. It makes it worse. I own it. But I can right 
 that. I will. Dorothy, surely this need not touch us." 
 
 " Oh, what do I care for Jasper?" she cried in misery. "It 
 is for you I care, and you have lost yourself, to me, to all that 
 has been. Oh, is it for me to show you such a thing? You 
 have murdered our love. All the atonements in the world can't 
 change that." 
 
 Philip tried to prevail upon Dorothy to change her decision, 
 but at last, realizing that what she said was final, he tore the 
 ring from his finger and left her, heart-broken. 
 
 Meanwhile his father had returned home and had learned, 
 to his astonishment, of Philip's kindness and generosity to 
 himself, which had saved his good name and proved how mis- 
 taken he was in regard to his son's character. 
 
 Deed at once heard of Philip's broken engagement and 
 flight, and, feeling himself the cause of all this trouble, went 
 immediately to Dorothy to intercede in his son's behalf. He 
 told her of Philip's noble conduct toward himself and tried to 
 make her overlook his fault, and at last Dorothy relented and 
 professed her willingness to see him again. 
 
 Dorothy begged her father to take her away from Maverick, 
 and he, feeling that his usefulness there was over, gladly acceded 
 to her wish. They went to an adjacent town temporarily, and 
 while there Dorothy was visited by Jasper, who had discovered 
 her hiding-place. 
 
 He tried to persuade ner to listen again to his suit, and told 
 her that since his illness he had become a changed man. He 
 also said he was ready to make restitution to his brother and 
 restore to him his share of the ranch, and Dorothy was quite 
 impressed by his apparent goodness. 
 
 But when Jasper found that his protestations would not 
 win the day, he changed his tactics and began to defame the 
 character of his brother, who he realized was his rival. He 
 finally let out the secret that Philip had borrowed five thousand 
 dollars on the Little Cipher mine, with which to settle Mr. 
 Maurice's debt to himself, and Dorothy was horror-stricken at 
 the part her father had taken in the transaction. She ordered 
 Jasper to leave her at once, and immediately had an interview 
 with her father which changed her previous attitude toward
 
 46 BENEFITS FORGOT 
 
 him to one akin to loathing, when she realized that he had been 
 willing to barter her happiness for money. 
 
 Dorothy passed a sleepless night and went for an early 
 morning walk to try to decide what she had better do, when 
 she was greatly surprised to meet Philip, who had come in search 
 of her. 
 
 Philip's discovery of Dorothy had been brought about by 
 his father, who had gone in search of him in order to deliver 
 personally the message that Dorothy was willing to see him 
 again. 
 
 Deed's efforts were rewarded by the reconciliation of the 
 lovers, and he had the satisfaction of feeling that he had 
 partially repaid Philip for his goodness to him. 
 
 The marriage of Philip and Dorothy soon followed. 
 
 Deed decided to buy back the ranch and return it to Jasper 
 on the original terms of partnership; and Philip sold his Pay 
 Ore mine and paid back the money that he had borrowed on 
 the credit of the Little Cipher. 
 
 Mr. Maurice left Colorado and returned to New York to 
 be assistant rector in a fashionable parish, where it was hoped 
 that his social gifts would atone for the absence of stronger 
 qualities.
 
 ■Hff I ir7-, HBHSi  
 
 4 o BENEFITS F >T 
 
 hire i akin to loathing, w .hat he had been 
 wiili barter her happiness for n 
 
 passed a sleepless night and went d early 
 
 *alk to try to decide whal hen 
 
 is greatly surprised to meet Phi! ,rch 
 
 lip's discovery of Dorothy had been brouj out by 
 
 father, who had gone i ch of hir liver 
 
 personally the message that Dorothy was willing . 'iim 
 
 again. 
 
 Deed's efforts were rewarded by the reconciliation of the 
 id he had the satisfaction of feeling that he had 
 ■' repaid Philip for his goodness to him. 
 The marriage of Philip and Dorothy soon followed. 
 
 . d decided to buy back the ranch and return it to Jasper 
 original terms of partnership; and Philip sold his Pay 
 mine and paid back the money that he had borrowed on 
 lit of th<. ftlWdpfTeT? ^ de Balzac 
 
 Pholoerocur^fa^ f£f t^M^do^!?^ V&tottogL & 2a S'ufcm^Ork to 
 
 ector in a fashionable parish, where it was hoped 
 'd atone for the absence of stronger

 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 
 
 (France, 1 799-1850) 
 THE CHOUANS (1829) 
 
 The "Chouans" were the French royalists of Maine and Brittany who 
 revolted against the French conventions in 1792. Chouan signifies an owl, 
 and may have been a nickname of Jean Cottereau, who led the insurgents, or 
 perhaps the hoot of an owl was used to summon the men to their rendezvous. 
 The romantic side of this movement was utilized by Balzac, and his plot was 
 subsequently dramatized, Madame Modjeska, the Polish actress, enacting the 
 role of the heroine. This novel was the first to be published under Balzac's 
 name, with the title Le Dernier Chouan ("The Last Chouan"). 
 
 JJOWARD the end of September, 1 799, a hundred 
 or more conscripts, in charge of a detachment 
 of a hundred and fifty soldiers, were slowly 
 climbing the Pilgrim Hill, in Brittany, half-way 
 between Fougeres and Erne"e, a little town used 
 by travelers as a half-way house. Among them 
 were a few townspeople, but the greater part 
 were barefooted peasants, with no garments but 
 a large goatskin, which covered them from neck 
 to knee, and breeches of the coarsest white linen. The straight 
 locks of their long hair falling on their shoulders mingled 
 with the goatskin and so hid their faces that they might 
 easily be confounded with the animals whose spoils served 
 to clothe them. They were the contingent extracted with great 
 difficulty from the district of Fougeres to fill the levy ordered 
 by the Directory of the French Republic. The Government 
 had asked for a hundred millions of money and a hundred 
 thousand men, to reenforce its armies, then in process of defeat 
 by the Austrians in Italy, by the Prussians in Germany, and 
 by Suwaroff and his Russians in Switzerland. 
 
 Brittany was divided at the time into two hostile camps, 
 the adherents and the opponents of the Government. The lat- 
 
 47
 
 48 THE CHOUANS 
 
 ter, called in the Bas Breton dialect Chouans ("screech-owls"), 
 from their peculiar cry of recognition, were made up chiefly of 
 peasantry who, driven to rebellion by heavy taxes, by persecu- 
 tion of their religion, or by fear of being enrolled in the armies 
 of the Republic, supported the royalist party, but often, under 
 pretense of waging war for the King, infested the roads, pillaged 
 villages, and committed all sorts of depredations. The Bret- 
 ons were therefore strongly averse to military service, and the 
 Commandant of the Blues, as the troops of the Republic were 
 called, from their blue uniforms faced with red, was anxious to 
 reach Alencon with his levies, so as to be in a more populous 
 district. Before quitting Fougeres, Commandant Hulot had 
 secretly provided his soldiers with ammunition and with ra- 
 tions for the whole party; and he had resolved not to halt at 
 Erne"e, the usual resting-place, for fear that his contingent 
 might open communication with the Chouans, who were doubt- 
 less spread over the neighboring country. In going up the 
 hill the conscripts had lagged so in their march that they had 
 put two hundred paces between them and their escort. When 
 Commandant Hulot observed this, he cried, in a voice deep- 
 ened by the hardships of war: 
 
 "Why the devil do they not come on?" 
 
 "You want to know why?" answered a voice. 
 
 The Commandant turned sharply around as if a sword- 
 point had pricked him, and saw, two paces off, a figure odder 
 than any of the others — a short, stoutly-built man with broad 
 shoulders, a head nearly as large as a bull's, with blubber lips, 
 flapping ears, and red hair, which made him seem akin rather 
 to cattle than to mankind. His long hair fell on each side 
 of his face and mingled with that of the shaggy goatskin, 
 and his feet were hidden in huge wooden shoes. Instead of 
 the knotty stick borne by the conscripts he carried a large 
 whip, the plaited lash of which seemed twice the length of an 
 ordinary whip-lash. Hulot, surprised at the man's arrival, 
 scanned him from head to foot, and repeated in a me- 
 chanical fashion, "Yes; why do they not come on? do you 
 know, man?" 
 
 "The reason," replied his sinister interlocutor, in an accent 
 showing that he spoke French with difficulty, "the reason is,"
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 49 
 
 and he pointed with his huge rough hand to Ernde, "that there 
 is Maine, and here Brittany ends." 
 
 Hulot looked at him with piercing eyes, and asked, "Whence 
 come you?" 
 
 "From the country of the Gars." 
 
 "Your name?" 
 
 " Marche-a-Terre." 
 
 "Why do you use your Chouan name in spite of the law?" 
 
 But Marche-a-Terre stared with such an air of imbe- 
 cility that the Commandant thought he had not understood 
 him. 
 
 "Are you one of the Fougeres contingent?" 
 
 "I don't know," replied the man, in a tone which arrests 
 further inquiry in despair. He calmly seated himself by the 
 roadside, drew from his smock some pieces of black buckwheat 
 cake, and began to eat with a stolid nonchalance. 
 
 Hulot now noticed that the man's hair, smock, and goat- 
 skins were covered with thorns and scraps of leaves, as if he 
 had made a long journey through dense thickets. He whis- 
 pered to Gerard, his adjutant, "We came for wool, and we 
 shall go home shorn." 
 
 "Are we then really in danger?" asked Gerard. 
 
 "Hist!" said the Commandant. "We are in the wolfs 
 throat. Luckily, we hold the top of the ridge. Friends," 
 he continued, speaking in low tones to Captain Merle and Ad- 
 jutant Gerard, "I have private information of the mess we are 
 in. Fouche" has found out that Louis XVIII has sent here a 
 man full of talent and vigor, a ci-devant, whose hope is to unite 
 Vendeans and Chouans. The fellow has actually landed in 
 Morbihan. He calls himself ' the Gars.' For all these cattle 
 fit themselves with names that would give an honest patriot the 
 stomach-ache if he bore them. Moreover, our man is about 
 here; and the appearance of this Chouan shows me that he is 
 upon us. But they don't teach tricks to an old monkey." 
 
 Hulot now sent scouts ahead to examine the woods on each 
 side of the road, set two men to watch Marche-a-Terre, with 
 orders to shoot him at any suspicious movement, and drew up 
 his men in battle array. The conscripts were huddled together 
 thirty paces in the rear, and ten paces back of them was a 
 A.D., vol. 11. — 4
 
 50 THE CHOUANS 
 
 squad of soldiers under Lieutenant Lebrun. Just then an owl 
 hooted afar off. Hulot took his eyes off Marche-a-Terre for 
 an instant. The Chouan whistled in a way to send the sound 
 to a great distance, and before his watchers could take aim at 
 him, he struck both down with his whip and disappeared in 
 the thicket. As he ran his sabots dropped off, and all could 
 see on his feet the hobnailed shoes worn by the "King's Hunts- 
 men," as the royalists called themselves. 
 
 At the Chouans' signal the whole gathering of conscripts 
 dashed into the wood like a flock of birds. At the same time 
 cries or rather savage howls arose, and a heavy volley from the 
 wood at the top of the slope laid low seven or eight soldiers. 
 Hulot sent two detachments, under Gerard and Merle, to take 
 the Chouans on the flanks. Three hundred of the enemy de- 
 bouched from the wood and formed in a disorderly way across 
 the road in front of the Blues, and would probably have suc- 
 ceeded in surrounding the little company if the wings had not 
 raked their rear with several volleys, which almost equalized 
 their numbers. The Blues then dashed on them with the bayonet, 
 and both sides gave themselves up to the furious zeal which made 
 this war unique, each in silence broken only by the clash of arms 
 and the crunching of the gravel. 
 
 Hulot soon distinguished among the Chouans a man who, 
 surrounded by a few picked followers, seemed to be their leader. 
 Beside him stood Marche-a-Terre, whose rifle was always active, 
 repeating his orders in a harsh tone. The young leader, slender 
 and well proportioned, seemed to Hulot to be not more than 
 twenty-five years old. He wore a green cloth shooting- coat, and 
 the Commandant thought he saw on his half-opened waistcoat a 
 broad red ribbon. Of his features, he could distinguish only 
 sparkling eyes, fair hair, and a finely cut profile. His bearing 
 was marked at once by elegance and strength, making him a 
 pleasing type of the French noblesse, in strong contrast with the 
 Republican leader. 
 
 Victory might have remained undecided for hours, if the 
 sound of a drum had not announced the coming of the National 
 Guard of Fougeres, for which Hulot had despatched a messenger. 
 On hearing the approach of reinforcements for the Blues, the 
 Chouans sullenly fell back, fighting every inch of ground, and
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 51 
 
 finally disappeared over the ridge as the men of Fougcres came 
 on a run to the battle-field. 
 
 Some time after this engagement, Commandant Hulot received 
 orders to escort the mail-coach containing two ladies from May- 
 enne to Mortagne. As the Chouans were about the latter place, 
 he took two companies and his trusty officers, Merle and Gerard. 
 
 "May they make a noble of me," he exclaimed, "if I under- 
 stand a word of my despatches. But I dare say I am only a fool. 
 Don't these Paris dandies request us to show the greatest respect 
 
 to their d d females ? Look at the First Consul : there's a man 
 
 for you; no women about him, always attending to his business." 
 
 One company of the escort preceded the coach and one fol- 
 lowed it. The two travelers were Mademoiselle de Verneuil and 
 her maid Francine. They were apparently accompanied by 
 Monsieur Corentin, a thin, dried-up little man, who rode some- 
 times before and sometimes behind the carriage, but no one ever 
 saw him address the ladies. His costume, in the fashion which 
 called forth the caricatures of the Incroyables, roused Hulot's ire 
 and caused some uncomplimentary remarks to his officers. 
 
 At Alencon the coach stopped at the Three Moors, an inn in 
 the High Street, for breakfast. 
 
 As the travelers were evidently of importance, and time was 
 precious, the innkeeper suggested that they should join a party, 
 the Citizen du Gua Saint-Cyr and his mother, Madame du Gua, 
 who had breakfast ready to be served in a private room upstairs. 
 As he made this suggestion, a short, thick-set man came noise- 
 lessly in, touched the innkeeper with his whip, and whispered in 
 his ear: "You know what any imprudence or any tale-bearing 
 means?" With this he made a gesture which caused the land- 
 lord to turn pale. Francine, the lady's maid, thought she recog- 
 nized the speaker, and, to make sure, ran to a window and watched 
 him as he went to the stable. From his walk and gestures she 
 knew him to be the Chouan called Marche-a-Terre. Her curi- 
 osity was excited, but she determined to keep her discovery to 
 herself and watch events. 
 
 Just then a young man, who stood on the staircase and had 
 seen the travelers come in, said, looking at Mademoiselle de 
 Verneuil, "If it is this young citizeness that you mean to give us 
 as a guest, in my mother's absence I accept."
 
 52 THE CHOUANS 
 
 The speaker wore the blue coat and black gaiters of the students 
 of the Ecole Polytechnique, but Mademoiselle de Verneuil dis- 
 tinguished at a glance under this sober costume an elegant form 
 and the marks of native nobility. She bent her head gracefully, 
 smiled coquettishly, and darted one of those velvet glances which 
 would rekindle a heart dead to love, with her long lashes drooping 
 over her almond-shaped black eyes, and said in her most melodious 
 tones, "We are very much obliged to you, sir." She and Fran- 
 cine then disappeared up the stairs, leaving the young man to 
 settle with himself whether her reply implied acceptance or 
 refusal. 
 
 "Who is the woman?" he asked of the host. 
 
 "'Tis the Citizeness Verneuil," replied Corentin, in a sour 
 tone, scanning the young man jealously, "and she is a ci-devant. 
 What do you want with her?" 
 
 The student, who was humming a Republican song, lifted his 
 head haughtily. The two glared at each other, and the glance 
 was the seed of a mutual and eternal hatred. 
 
 "That fellow," whispered the young man to the hostess, "is a 
 spy of Fouche's. Police is written on his face." Then, to a lady 
 who entered the room, " Dear mamma, I have mustered some 
 guests in your absence." 
 
 "Guests!" she exclaimed; "what madness!" 
 
 "'Tis Mademoiselle de Verneuil," he replied, in a low tone. 
 
 "She perished on the scaffold after the affair at Savenay," 
 said his mother sharply. 
 
 "You mistake, Madame," said Corentin gently, "there are 
 two Demoiselles de Verneuil." 
 
 Corentin, who had been privately studying her, saw a lady 
 with a dazzling skin and luxuriant black hair, with a face that 
 showed mental power, but he did not believe that she could be 
 the mother of the young man. He noted too that her mantle was 
 of English stuff, and that the shape of her bonnet was foreign. 
 
 "If she is his mother," thought he, "then I am the Pope! I 
 have got hold of some Chouans; let us make sure of what their 
 quality is." 
 
 At the breakfast, which passed off pleasantly, though each 
 endeavored in vain to find out the other's political preferences, 
 Mademoiselle de Verneuil, learning that the destination of the
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 53 
 
 strangers was the same as her own, invited them to share her 
 coach and escort. While they were discussing this, Commandant 
 Hulot entered and stood agape at the sailor, whom he considered 
 with extraordinary attention. 
 
 "What's the matter, Commandant? Do you happen to know 
 me?" asked the young man. 
 
 "Perhaps so," answered the Republican. "What is your 
 family name?" 
 
 " Du Gua -Saint-Cyr." 
 
 "And have you got papers?" 
 
 "Perhaps you want to read them?" said the sailor in an im- 
 pertinent tone. 
 
 " Does a young monkey like you think to make a fool of me?" 
 exclaimed Hulot angrily. "Your papers, or off with you!" 
 
 "Who are you?" 
 
 "The Commandant of the department. Come, your papers!" 
 
 Just as the measured tread of soldiers was heard in the street, 
 the young man offered some papers, which Hulot read slowly. 
 During the reading an owl's hoot was heard. The Commandant, 
 handing back the papers, said: "That is all very well, but you 
 must come with me to the district office." 
 
 "Why do you take him there?" asked Mademoiselle de 
 Verneuil. 
 
 "Young woman," replied Hulot, "that is no business of 
 yours." 
 
 Mademoiselle de VerneuiPs face flushed and her eyes sparkled. 
 "Tell me," she asked, "has this young man complied with the 
 law's demands?" 
 
 "Yes, in appearance," said Hulot ironically. 
 
 "Then, you will be good enough to let him alone in appear- 
 ance" said she. " What do you mean to do with him?" 
 
 "Nothing but cool his head with a little lead," said the Com- 
 mandant ironically. "Come, my fine fellow, come along!" 
 
 "Do not stir," said the girl to the young man, with a dignified 
 gesture. Then from her bodice she drew a letter and handed it 
 to Hulot. 
 
 "Read that," she said, with a sneer. 
 
 Hulot read with stupefaction a letter bearing the ministerial 
 countersign, commanding all authorities to obey the bearer.
 
 54 THE CHOUANS 
 
 Then he drew his sword, broke it across his knee, and threw down 
 the fragments. 
 
 ''Mademoiselle," said he, "I am not good at obeying where 
 pretty girls command. My resignation shall be sent to the First 
 Consul to-night." 
 
 "Colonel," said the fair Parisian, "though your beard is 
 rather long, you may kiss this, for you are a man." 
 
 "I hope so, Mademoiselle," said he, depositing clumsily a 
 kiss on her hand. "As for you, my fine fellow, you have had a 
 nice escape." 
 
 "For whom did you take my son?" asked Madame du Gua. 
 
 "For the Gars, the chief sent to the Chouans and the Ven- 
 deans by the London Cabinet — the Marquis de Montauran." 
 
 The Commandant abruptly left the room, but Mademoiselle 
 de Verneuil followed, stopped him in the passage, and asked 
 gravely : 
 
 "Have you really strong reasons for suspecting this man of 
 being the Gars?" 
 
 "God's thunder! Mademoiselle, the fellow who travels with 
 you told me that the travelers Du Gua Saint-Cyr had been assas- 
 sinated by the Chouans." 
 
 "Oh! if Corentin is at the bottom of it," said she, with a con- 
 temptuous gesture, "I am surprised at nothing." 
 
 As soon as Mademoiselle de Verneuil had left the room, 
 Madame du Gua said to her companion: "Women will certainly 
 be your ruin. Why did you allow her to breakfast with us? 
 She is one of the loose women by whose aid Fouch^ hopes to 
 seize you, and the letter she showed was given to her in order to 
 command the services of the Blues against yourself." 
 
 The result of the foregoing was that the young man, who 
 really was the Gars, and Mademoiselle de Verneuil, who was 
 employed by the Government to entrap him, fell mutually in 
 love. They all traveled together on the way to Fougeres, but 
 night fell before they reached their destination, and, at the 
 invitation of him who called himself Du Gua Saint-Cyr, who 
 gave his word of honor for the safety of all, including the Repub- 
 lican guard, they stopped for the night at the Chateau de la 
 Vivetiere. 
 
 To Mademoiselle de Verneuil's astonishment, she found
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 55 
 
 herself, at supper, among a large number of Chouan and Ven- 
 dean chiefs, met here at an important conference. The Mar- 
 quis explained to them that he was indebted for his life to the 
 young lady, and that she and her escort were present on his 
 parole, and must be received as friends. Notwithstanding 
 this, Madame du Gua recalled to them that, although their 
 friends in Paris had warned them of just such a snare, Mon- 
 tauran had fallen in love with the girl who, she believed, had 
 stolen a great name in order to disgrace it, and that he appeared 
 to be ready to sacrifice all their interests to satisfy his own love 
 of pleasure. In consequence of her machinations, the entire 
 escort of Blues, numbering sixty-five men, were surrounded in 
 the courtyard by Marche-a-Terre and his men, and butchered, 
 with their officers, Merle and Gerard. At the sound of the 
 firing, everyone rose from the table save Madame du Gua. 
 
 "Do not be alarmed," said she; "'tis nothing. Our folks 
 are only killing the Blues!" But as soon as she saw that the 
 Marquis had left the room, she arose and dashed at Mademoiselle 
 de Verneuil like a flash of lightning. "This young lady here," 
 she cried, "came to carry off the Gars from us. She came to 
 try to give him up to the Republic." She tore open her dress 
 and snatched from her bosom a paper. "Here," she cried, "is 
 an order, signed Laplace, and countersigned Dubois. And 
 this is its tenor : ' Citizen commandants of the forces of all ranks, 
 district administrators, procurators, syndics, and so forth, in the 
 revolted departments, and especially those of the places where the 
 ci-devant Marquis de Montauran, brigand-chief, surnamed the 
 Gars, may be found, are to afford succor and help to the Citizeness 
 Marie Verneuil, and to obey any orders which she may give 
 them, each in such matters as concern him, etc., etc.'" 
 
 "To think of an opera-girl taking an illustrious name to 
 soil it with such infamy!" she added. 
 
 Then, not perceiving that the Marquis had come in, she 
 said to a Chouan: "Take her away, Pille Miche; she is my 
 share of the spoil, and I give her to you. Do with her whatever 
 you like." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Verneuil, her eyes flashing fire, darted to 
 the door, where the Marquis was standing. With a glance of 
 half-irrational hatred, she seized Merle's sword, which had
 
 56 THE CHOUANS 
 
 been left there, and drove it on him up to the hilt. But the 
 blade passed between his arm and his side; the Gars caught 
 her by the waist and, aided by Pille Miche, dragged her from 
 the room. At this, Francine, uttering piercing cries, followed 
 her mistress, shrieking "Pierre! Pierre!" 
 
 When they led her into the yard and she saw the corpses of 
 the Blues stretched on the straw, she cried with a shudder, 
 " The faith of a gentleman ! ha! ha! ha! A happy day!" 
 
 "Yes, a happy one," answered the Marquis, "and one with- 
 out a morrow." 
 
 He turned bruskly away, leaving Pille Miche his victim. 
 
 "Marquis!" she said, "God will hear me, and I shall pray 
 Him to give you a happy day without a morrow!" 
 
 Madame du Gua did not have her revenge. Francine, 
 whose lover Pierre was the Chouan called Marche-a-Terre, 
 persuaded Pille Miche to sell her mistress, and the two women 
 were hurried into the coach and driven at headlong speed to 
 Fougeres. When Commandant Hulot came to her the next 
 day to demand account of his soldiers, she said : "I shall avenge 
 them. I will lure this young noble into my embraces, and he 
 shall quit them only to take his death journey. The wretch 
 has pronounced his own sentence, 'A day without a morrow!' " 
 
 To secure this end she went again among the Chouans and 
 attended a ball given by the chiefs at their headquarters at St. 
 James, a little town in Brittany named by the English in the 
 fourteenth century. She made her peace with the Marquis, 
 who, again infatuated with her, accompanied her back until in 
 sight of Fougeres. 
 
 They afterward met by stealth at places near the town, and 
 once the Marquis was nearly caught by Hulot and his Blues. 
 At last he offered her his hand and name and promised to risk 
 everything to secure her love. 
 
 "The day after to-morrow, if in the morning you see smoke 
 on the rocks of Saint-Sulpice, that evening I shall be at your 
 house as lover, as husband, whichever you will. I shall have 
 put all to the touch!" 
 
 "Then, Alphonse, you really love me," she cried with 
 transport, "that you risk your life thus before you give it to 
 me?"
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 57 
 
 He answered not, but looked at her. Her eyes fell; but he 
 read on the passionate countenance of his mistress a madness 
 equal to his own, and he held out his arms to her. 
 
 On the evening of the day set, the Marquis de Montauran, 
 accompanied by a priest, and by two witnesses, the Count de 
 Bauvan and the Baron du Guenic, appeared at the house of 
 Mademoiselle de Verneuil in Fougeres. At the end of the 
 salon an altar had been improvised, and the white-haired priest 
 was arrayed in his sacerdotal garments. 
 
 "Leave me alone with the priest," said Mademoiselle de 
 Verneuil. 
 
 When the gentlemen had withdrawn, she said: "Father, in 
 my childhood, an old man frequently repeated to me that, with 
 a lively faith, man can obtain everything from God. Is this 
 true?" 
 
 "It is true," answered the priest. "Everything is possible 
 to Him who has created everything." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Verneuil threw herself on her knees with 
 wonderful enthusiasm. "O God!" said she in her ecstasy, 
 "my faith in Thee is equal to my love for him! Inspire me 
 now: let a miracle be done, or take my life!" 
 
 "Your prayer will be heard," said the priest. 
 
 And it was answered. Before morning, both their forms, 
 shot to death by Hulot's Blues, lay side by side on a camp-bed 
 in the guard-house. 
 
 The dying girl, recognizing her husband, murmured in an 
 almost stifled voice: 
 
 " A Day without a Morrow. God has heard my prayer 
 too well!"
 
 THE MAGIC SKIN (1831) 
 (La Peau de Chagrin) 
 
 This is one of the best known of Balzac's novels. He worked very hard 
 over it, and his hopes of its success were realized. It was asserted that Ernst 
 T. W. Hoffman, the German novelist, was his model, but Balzac denied it. 
 Before it appeared in two volumes, in 183 1, a few fragments were published in 
 periodicals. It was also included in the three volumes entitled Romans et Conies 
 Philosophiques. In 1835 it was classed with the Etudes Philosophiques. Some 
 critics have compared it to Faust and Hamlet. Perhaps Balzac speaks for him- 
 self through the old merchant, who says to Raphael: "I will tell you in a few 
 words the secret of human life. By two instinctive processes, man exhausts the 
 springs of life within him. Two verbs cover all the forms which these two causes 
 of death may take — To Will and To have your Will. Between these two limits 
 of human activity the wise have discovered an intermediate formula, to which 
 I owe my good fortune and long life. To Will consumes us, and To have our 
 Will destroys us, but To Know steeps our feeble organisms in perpetual calm." 
 He tells us that The Magic Skin to some extent forms a link between the Philo- 
 sophical Studies and Studies of Manners, by a work of almost Oriental fancy, 
 in which life itself is shown in a mortal struggle with the very element of all 
 passion. Rastignac and Bianchonare frequently met with in other novels; they 
 appear first after this story in Pere Goriot. 
 
 N October, 1829, a young man entered the Palais 
 Royal, just as the gaming-houses opened. He 
 ascended the stairs of gambling-hell number 
 thirty-six, and walked into the salon where the 
 rattle of coin brought his senses under the spell 
 of greed. Several gamblers were there, hovering 
 over the green table; the croupier and the 
 banker were crying, " Make your play!" The 
 young man, who appeared to be about twenty- 
 five, threw a piece of gold upon the table. It rolled upon the 
 black. A young Italian, with sudden enthusiasm, punted his 
 heap against the stranger's gold. "Even! Red wins!" cried 
 the croupier. As the banker showered the notes upon the 
 Italian, the stranger turned pale and left the room. He went 
 down the steps, feebly whistling Di tanti Palpiti, walked into 
 the Rue Saint Honore, crossed the gardens of the Tuileries, and 
 
 58
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 59 
 
 thought of suicide. He bent his way toward the Pont Royal, 
 reached the middle of the arch, leaned over the parapet and 
 looked forebodingly at the cold and dirty Seine. Death in 
 broad daylight seemed degrading; he would wait until night. 
 Strolling along, he came across the shop of a dealer in antiques, 
 and thought to wile away the time in looking at the curiosities. 
 The young shopkeeper gave him permission to wander about. 
 It was indeed a marvelous collection : four galleries full of works 
 of art and curios of all periods and countries. A mahogany 
 coffer, hanging from a nail by a silver chain, attracted his at- 
 tention. 
 
 "What is in it?" he asked the shopman, who replied that 
 he would have to fetch his master. 
 
 In the meantime, the young man sank into a reverie, from 
 which he was aroused by a startling apparition. A little, old 
 man, thin, with long white hair and gray, pointed beard, clad 
 in a black velvet robe, girded with a silk cord, and a black velvet 
 skull-cap, stood before him holding aloft a lamp. 
 
 "You wish to see Raphael's picture of Jesus Christ, Mon- 
 sieur?" the old man asked, and as he pushed aside a spring the 
 painting was revealed. After the young man had admired the 
 picture, he exclaimed: 
 
 "And now for death!" 
 
 The merchant thought he intended to murder him, and 
 the stranger had to explain his intention of committing suicide. 
 The old man offered to make him rich and powerful. 
 
 "Look," he said, holding the lamp so as to cast light on the 
 wall, "look at that leather skin!" 
 
 The young man rose abruptly, and showed some surprise 
 at the sight of a piece of shagreen which hung on the wall be- 
 hind his chair. It was only about the size of a fox's skin, but 
 it seemed to fill the deep shadows of the place with such bril- 
 liant rays that it looked like a small comet, an appearance at 
 first sight inexplicable. The young skeptic went up to this so- 
 called talisman, which was to rescue him from his woes, with 
 a scoffing phrase in his thoughts. Still, a harmless curiosity 
 led him to bend over it and look at it from all points of view, 
 and he soon learned the cause of its singular brilliance. The 
 dark grain of the leather had been so carefully burnished and
 
 60 THE MAGIC SKIN 
 
 polished, the striped markings of the graining were so sharp 
 and clear, that every particle of the surface of the bit of Oriental 
 leather concentrated the light and reflected it vividly. 
 
 "Ah!" he cried, "here is the mark of the seal which in the 
 East they call Solomon's Signet!" 
 
 The old man held the lamp close to the talisman and pointed 
 out some inlaid characters. The mysterious words were San- 
 skrit, and read as follows: 
 
 Possessing me, thou shalt possess all things. 
 But thy life is mine, for God has so willed it. 
 Wish, and thy wishes shall be fulfilled; 
 But measure thy desires, according 
 To the life that is in thee. 
 This is thy life, 
 With each wish I must shrink 
 
 Even as thy own days. 
 Wilt thou have me? Take me. 
 God will hearken unto thee. 
 So be it! 
 
 "I have offered this talisman with its terrible powers to 
 many men," the merchant continued, "but no one was willing 
 to conclude the fateful contract proposed by an unknown force." 
 
 The stranger clutched the talisman. 
 
 "Let me see now," he exclaimed: "I wish for a royal ban- 
 quet, a carouse worthy of this century, which, it is said, has 
 brought everything to perfection. Let me have young boon 
 companions, witty, unwarped by prejudice, merry to the verge 
 of madness! Let one wine succeed another, each more biting 
 and perfumed than the last and strong enough to bring about 
 three days of delirium! Passionate women's forms should 
 grace that night! I would be borne away to unknown regions 
 beyond the confines of this world by the car and four-winged 
 steed of a frantic and uproarious orgy. Next, I bid this enig- 
 matical power to concentrate all delights for me in one single 
 joy. Yes, I must comprehend every pleasure of earth and 
 heaven in the final embrace that is to kill me!" 
 
 The merchant, laughing ironically, said: 
 
 "Your wishes will be accurately fulfilled, but at the expense 
 of your life. The compass of your days visible in that skin will 
 contract according to the strength and number of your desires,
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 61 
 
 from the least to the most extravagant. The Brahman from 
 whom I had this skin explained to me that it would bring about 
 a mysterious connection between the fortunes and wishes of 
 its possessor. After all, you were wishing to die; very well, 
 your suicide is only postponed!" 
 
 The young man, not noticing how flexible the skin had be- 
 come, thrust it into his coat-pocket and abruptly left. As he 
 rushed into the street, he ran into three young men. 
 
 "Why, it is Raphael!" they exclaimed. 
 
 They had been hunting for him several days; a new news- 
 paper had just been established and large salaries and a merry 
 life for the young journalists and critics were to be had. Arm 
 in arm, with Raphael in their midst, they crossed the Pont des 
 Arts and reached a mansion in the Rue Joubert. A great 
 banquet was to take place. In a gorgeously furnished room, 
 splendid with color and sweet with scent of blooming flowers, a 
 long table was set with gleaming silver and brilliant crystal. 
 Wonderful viands and rare wines succeeded one another, and 
 the conversation of the wits was "merry to the verge of mad- 
 ness." Raphael's wish had been realized. 
 
 When he repaired to the drawing-room, another request 
 was obeyed : beautiful women were there to charm the revelers. 
 The scene became a saturnalia; the rooms were like a fore- 
 taste of Milton's Pandemonium; "the frantic and uproarious 
 orgy" that Raphael had desired was enacted. 
 
 Raphael then told his friend Emile the history of his life: 
 his father's strict discipline; his early pleasures ; his loss of for- 
 tune; his social experiences; his lodging at Madame Gaudin's, 
 where her daughter Pauline so tenderly cared for him; and his 
 acquaintance with Rastignac, who introduced him to the beau- 
 tiful Countess Fcedora. It was particularly of her that he 
 talked, of "this woman without a heart," who scorned his love. 
 He also told Emile how he left the Gaudins, and plunged into 
 a vortex of pleasures, in which gaming played an important 
 part, but only in private houses. He never had been in a 
 gambling-house until he reached his last twenty-franc piece. 
 Then, remembering Rastignac's luck, this reminded him of the 
 talisman. He pulled it out of his pocket. 
 
 "The devil take death!" he cried wildly, brandishing the
 
 62 THE MAGIC SKIN 
 
 skin. "I mean to live! I am rich! Nothing can withstand 
 
 me!" 
 
 Half mad, he explained the virtues of the talisman to Emile, 
 and they retired to the dining-room and measured it on a nap- 
 kin, tracing its outline carefully. "I wish for an income of two 
 thousand livres," said Raphael. "When that comes, you will 
 observe a mighty shrinkage in my shagreen." 
 
 At noon, a notary called to inquire for Raphael. He had 
 inherited a large fortune from his mother's brother. Raphael 
 spread the talisman upon the napkin, and saw that it did not 
 quite reach the outline he had traced. His face took on a 
 ghastly hue; he was terrified; he was facing Death! Did not 
 his mother die of consumption? "Like a traveler in the middle 
 of a desert, with but a little water to quench his thirst, he must 
 measure his life by the draughts he took of it." 
 
 In December, an old man peered at every door in the Rue 
 de Varenne, searching for the house of the Marquis Raphael de 
 Valentin. He had difficulty in effecting an entrance. Jona- 
 than, an old servant, described to the old gentleman, when he 
 told him he was Monsieur Porriquet, Raphael's old tutor, how 
 strangely his master lived. The house was luxuriously fur- 
 nished; but there was no life within. Raphael lived in solitude, 
 vegetating, and Jonathan had to treat him as if he "were a 
 baby in long clothes," thinking of all his needs, anticipating 
 his every desire. Raphael did not desire to wish. 
 
 M. Porriquet was admitted, and found Raphael in his 
 dressing-gown, reading the paper. He was pale, languid, and 
 melancholy. In this room hung the Magic Skin, "fastened 
 upon a background of white surrounded by a red line. Since 
 that carouse, Raphael had stifled the least wish, and had lived 
 so as not to cause the slightest shrinkage in the terrible talisman. 
 The Magic Skin was like a tiger with which he must live without 
 exciting its ferocity." 
 
 The old tutor had come to entreat Raphael's influence in 
 securing employment. The latter said thoughtlessly, "I wish 
 you may succeed"; and then suddenly gave a terrible cry, as 
 he noticed a tiny space come between the skin and the red line. 
 
 At the opera, that night, Raphael saw the old merchant in 
 the guise of an antiquated coxcomb. He laughed at Raphael
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 63 
 
 in derision. The unhappy man also saw the Countess Fcedora 
 and others; but he had vowed to pay no special heed to any 
 woman, and he used an opera-glass that distorted everything 
 on which it was turned. Close beside him sat a lovely woman 
 in a charming costume, who insisted on attracting his attention. 
 
 "Pauline!" he said to her at last. 
 
 "Monsieur Raphael!" 
 
 She asked him to come to his old lodging. He agreed ; and 
 when he got there he learned that Madame Gaudin had become 
 a wealthy baroness. Pauline met him here for the sake of old 
 associations and sentiment. Raphael now discovered that he 
 loved Pauline, and that she had always loved him and made 
 many sacrifices for him in her days of poverty. 
 
 "You shall be my wife," said Raphael. "A new life seems 
 to begin for me. The cruel past and my wretched follies are 
 hardly more to me than evil dreams. At your side, I breathe 
 an atmosphere of happiness and I am pure. Be with me 
 always," he added, pressing her solemnly to his beating heart. 
 
 "Death may come when it will," said Pauline in ecstasy; 
 "I have lived!" 
 
 Pauline's carriage first took them to Raphael's house, where 
 she agreed to marry him within a fortnight, and then to her 
 father's home in the Rue Saint-Lazare. When Valentin re- 
 turned home, "with as much happiness in his heart as mortal 
 man can know," he looked at the Magic Skin; it had shrunk a 
 little! 
 
 "Good God!" he cried, "every wish! Every desire of 
 mine! Poor Pauline!" 
 
 He measured the shrinkage. 
 
 "I have hardly enough for two months!" A cold perspira- 
 tion broke out. He seized the talisman in a burst of rage, ran 
 down-stairs, and threw it into a well. 
 
 "The devil take this nonsense!" 
 
 So Raphael gave himself up to the happiness of loving and 
 being beloved by Pauline. 
 
 The marriage was postponed till March. One morning in 
 February, while Pauline was breakfasting with Raphael, the 
 gardener begged permission to enter and handed his master a 
 curiosity that he had found — a piece of leather, six inches
 
 64 THE MAGIC SKIN 
 
 square! It was the inexorable talisman! Raphael's alarm 
 terrified Pauline. She left him in tears, and he went to consult 
 the learned. The various men of science that he called upon 
 examined the piece of leather and had various theories; they 
 could not stretch it, however. Raphael returned home and 
 replaced the Magic Skin in its old frame, drawing a new line in 
 red ink around it. To his surprise, Pauline returned. She 
 remained all night, and was terrified by his ominous cough and 
 more ominous words. A few days later, four physicians stood 
 around Raphael, feeling his pulse and plying him with questions. 
 His last hope lay in this consultation. This court of appeal 
 was about to pronounce its decision — life or death. Valentin 
 had summoned the oracles of modern medicine, so that he might 
 have the last word of science. Valentin's observation could 
 discover no trace of a feeling for his troubles in any of the three 
 doctors — Brisset, Maugre'die, and Came'ristus; but Bianchon's 
 face showed grave compassion. He had been a doctor for 
 too short a time to be untouched by suffering and unmoved by 
 a death-bed. 
 
 The four doctors went into Raphael's study to discuss the 
 case and reach the verdict. 
 
 A trip to Savoy was advised, and a month later Raphael was 
 at Aix. Here he met the usual collection of invalids and 
 pleasure-seekers drinking the waters, selfish and callous to one 
 another's comfort. The resident physician gave him great 
 encouragement. Several young men, taking a dislike to him, 
 picked a quarrel ; and as Raphael would not heed an old gentle- 
 woman's warning, he fell into the trap and had to fight a duel. 
 He was accompanied to the field by the faithful Jonathan. 
 Raphael begged his antagonist to apologize, telling him that he 
 possessed a terrible power, but did not wish to use it, for the use 
 of it cost too dear. The man refused, and Raphael's ball went 
 straight to his heart. Raphael did not heed the fallen man; he 
 hurriedly pulled out the Magic Skin to see what the man's life 
 had cost him. The talisman was the size of a small oak- 
 leaf! 
 
 Raphael now went to Auvergne. Power leaves us just as 
 it finds us; only great natures grow greater by its means. 
 Raphael had had everything in his power, and he had done
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 65 
 
 nothing. After a brief stay in a peasant's cottage, trying to 
 regain health, Raphael returned to Paris. 
 
 "Go and find Bianchon," he said to Jonathan. 
 
 Dr. Bianchon told Jonathan that Raphael's mind should 
 be diverted; and at Raphael's request gave him an opiate. 
 Jonathan diverted him. The servant one day conducted his 
 master into the great gallery. Here was a banquet; here were 
 beautiful women; here were voices and perfume and music. 
 Raphael uttered a cry, and struck his old servant in the face. 
 It was midnight. Raphael rushed to his room and took his 
 opiate. In his deep sleep, youth seemed to return. He dreamed 
 of Pauline; and, waking, found her beside him. 
 
 "Go! go!" he muttered; "if you stay I shall die!" 
 
 From his pillow, he drew a small bit of leather, tiny as a 
 periwinkle petal. 
 
 "Pauline," he said, showing it to her, "let us say farewell! 
 This talisman grants all my wishes and represents my span of 
 life. If you look at me any longer, I shall die!" She took it 
 in her hand. No longer able to control his thoughts, he called 
 to her in love and longing, and the leather contracted in her 
 hand. Pauline fled from him into the next room, locked the 
 door and tried to strangle herself. The dying man rushed 
 after her, and attempted to embrace her. Jonathan appeared, 
 terrified, and ran to tear away the dead body from Pauline's 
 grasp. 
 
 "He is mine. I have killed him," she said; "did I not 
 foresee what would happen?" 
 
 " And what became of Pauline?" 
 
 "Pauline. Ah! Pauline is the queen of illusions, radiant 
 as an angel, flower of the flame, sparkle of the diamond — 
 sylph, naiad, siren, the child of sun and river, air and cloud." 
 
 "How about Fcedora?" 
 
 "Oh, Fcedora! You are sure to meet her. She will go to 
 the opera this evening, and if you like to take it so, she is 
 Society!" 
 
 A.D., vol. 11. — 5
 
 A WOMAN OF THIRTY (1832) 
 (Une Femme de Trente Ans) 
 
 This work is composed of six separate stories: I. Early Mistakes; II. 
 Hidden Griefs; III. At Thirty Years; IV. The Finger of God; V. Two Meetings; 
 and VI. The Old Age of a Guilty Mother. At first, the names of the characters 
 were different in these disconnected tales, which appeared in various periodicals 
 at various times. In 1842, Balzac changed the names of the individuals, so 
 that all the adventures should be given to the same set of characters. One 
 heroine, Julie d'Aiglemont, links the stories. In 1834, Balzac told Madame 
 Hanska that Souffrances Inconnues ("Hidden Griefs"), the second story of 
 this group, cost him four months of work. He dated this novel 1828-1844. It 
 belongs to the Scenes de la Vie Privee of the Comedie Humaine. 
 
 EARLY MISTAKES 
 
 NE Sunday morning, early in April, 1813, a 
 luxurious cabriolet, drawn by two spirited horses, 
 stopped in the Rue de Rivoli and a prematurely 
 aged duke assisted his youthful daughter Julie 
 to alight. Before setting out upon the disas- 
 trous campaign in which Napoleon was to lose 
 first Bessieres and then Duroc, afterward winning 
 the battles of Lutzen and Bautzen, only to see 
 himself deserted by Austria, Saxony, Bavaria, 
 and Bemadotte, and meeting defeat on the sanguinary field 
 of Leipsic, he was holding a brilliant review of the flower of 
 his troops in the courtyard of the Tuileries. Though they 
 were somewhat late in arriving, an advantageous position for 
 seeing the review was secured for the Duke and his daughter 
 by the Count d'Aiglemont, a young and dashing colonel of 
 cavalry. Julie's manifest interest in the latter betrayed to her 
 father the secret of her love. The latter warned her against a 
 man who was a spendthrift and without ability, who was 
 created to eat and digest four meals a day, to sleep, to fall in 
 love with the first woman at hand, and to fight. He said : " You 
 are still too young, too fragile, too delicate for the cares and 
 
 66
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 67 
 
 rubs of married life. D'Aiglemont's relatives have spoiled him 
 just as your mother and I have spoiled you. What hope is 
 there that you two could agree, with two imperious wills dia- 
 metrically opposed? You will be either the tyrant or the 
 victim, and either alternative means for a wife an equal sum of 
 misfortune." 
 
 Nearly a year later, a caliche was rolling along the high- 
 road from Amboisc to Tours. During a halt to repair some 
 slight mishap to the harness, Colonel d'Aiglemont woke his 
 wife, Julie, to admire the fine view of the Loire. She complied 
 with supreme indifference. Evidently she had had her way 
 with her father, to her misfortune. An English aristocrat, who, 
 with all the other English in France, was detained by Napoleon 
 by way of reprisals for the violation of the Treaty of Amiens, 
 was passing at the moment and was struck by the beauty of the 
 youthful bride. When the carriage proceeded, he had the 
 temerity to turn his horse and follow. On reaching Tours, 
 Colonel d'Aiglemont left his wife in the care of his aunt, the 
 Marquise de Listomere-Landon. He was on his way to the 
 South with despatches for Soult from the Emperor. The old 
 Marquise took a fancy to the young wife, and saw that Julie 
 was not happy. She discovered that the girl was disenchanted 
 and that the full extent of Victor's emptiness had been 
 revealed. 
 
 The persistent Englishman attracted attention by passing 
 the house every day, trying to catch a glimpse of Julie. 
 
 Victor sent his wife news of the downfall of the Empire and 
 the capitulation of Paris. He had gone over to the Bourbons, 
 and begged her to join him at Orleans, sending an old soldier 
 as escort. All the way she heard the wheels of a carriage 
 following hers; and at Blois she found that the occupant 
 was the Englishman, Arthur Grenville. At Orleans she was 
 stopped and put under guard by the Prussians. After two 
 hours, however, she received a passport, with apologies from 
 the General, in whose company was Arthur Grenville, now 
 wearing a British uniform. 
 
 Julie reached Paris without further adventure, and found 
 that her husband had become a general; but she soon suffered 
 irreparable loss in the death of her good friend the Marquise.
 
 68 A WOMAN OF THIRTY 
 
 After the Hundred Days, Victor was appointed lieutenant- 
 general, and for the second time became a marquis; but his 
 ambition was to become a peer of France. At court, thanks 
 to his purely external qualifications, he was in favor and ac- 
 cepted at his own valuation. At home, however, he was more 
 modest : he felt that his young wife was his superior, and out of 
 this respect grew an influence which Julie was unwillingly 
 forced to wield. She became her husband's adviser, the 
 director of his actions and fortunes. Her instinct told her that 
 it was far better to obey a man of talent than to lead a fool. 
 However, she suffered much in silence. Physical weakness 
 condemned her to the sofa, as a rule; but, occasionally she 
 went into society, where her fragile beauty and magnificent 
 voice always attracted attention. 
 
 In 1817 a daughter was born, and for two years maternal 
 cares made life less hard ; but she and her husband necessarily 
 lived apart, and in 181 9 she found that as an object of interest 
 she had passed out of his life. One evening, in 1820, the 
 Marquis asked her to attend a concert at Madame de Serizy's. 
 Julie consented, and triumphed over all the other beautiful 
 and fashionable women in the Countess' own salon. There 
 she saw Lord Grenville again. To the compliments of his 
 friends, the Marquis complained bitterly of his wife's ill- 
 health, and the Englishman, who had studied medicine, offered 
 to cure her. A few days later the offer was accepted. Madame 
 d'Aiglemont welcomed the hope of a speedy cure, and no longer 
 opposed her husband, who pressed her to accept the young 
 doctor's offer. Yet she declined to trust herself with Lord 
 Grenville, knowing that he cherished for herself a tender interest, 
 until after some further study; but at least she felt certain that 
 he had sufficient generosity to bear his enforced aloofness from 
 her in silence. 
 
 One evening in August, 1821, the two were climbing the 
 paths in the crags above the Chateau of Montcontour, near 
 which they had first met seven years before. Julie was now a 
 new creature: her face glowed with health; she was radiant 
 with smiles and she felt the joy of living. After gazing at the 
 lovely view of the Loire, Julie told Arthur that all the pleasure 
 she had she owed to him: he had restored to her more than
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 69 
 
 health. She recognized the delicacy of his conduct, but it was 
 out of her power to make any response. In return for his de- 
 votion, she required only a sacrifice of him: he must leave 
 France. She 'was likely to die young and to know no happi- 
 ness; but, with loathing in her voice, she added: "Henceforth 
 I belong to him no longer." 
 
 During the drive to Blois, the General, who had freshly 
 fallen in love with his wife, whose youth and beauty had been 
 restored, pressed to her side like a lover. She repelled his 
 advances, saying: "Have you not, as it is, found consolations 
 which duty and the honor of both and (stronger still) which 
 Nature forbids to me? Stay," she added, "you carelessly left 
 three letters from Madame de Serizy in a drawer; here they are. 
 My silence about this matter should make it plain to you that 
 in me you have a wife who has plenty of indulgence and does 
 not exact from you the sacrifices prescribed by the law. But 
 I have thought enough to see that the roles of husband and 
 wife are quite different, and that the wife alone is predestined to 
 misfortune." 
 
 Two years later, the General and Madame d'Aiglemont, who 
 had gone their separate ways, meeting more frequently abroad 
 in society than at home, chanced to dine with a friend. The 
 General announced his intention of going boar-hunting for a 
 few days. He had hardly departed when Lord Grenville 
 called. They had not met since the farewell at the Loire. In 
 utter desperation, he had called to see Julie for the last time, 
 and the accidental dropping of a pistol from his pocket showed 
 his intentions. Julie was deaf to his entreaties, in the midst 
 of which the General suddenly returned. In her embarrass- 
 ment, she shut Arthur into her dressing-room. The General, 
 however, was not suspicious. A few days later, he asked a 
 friend to accompany him to attend Lord Grenville's funeral. 
 The friend asked: "Is it really known how he came by his 
 death?" 
 
 "His man says that he spent a whole night sitting on some- 
 body's window-sill to save one woman's character, and it has 
 been infernally cold lately." 
 
 " Such devotion would be highly creditable to one of us old 
 stagers; but Lord Grenville was a youngster, and — an Eng-
 
 70 A WOMAN OF THIRTY 
 
 lishman. Englishmen never could do anything like any- 
 body else." 
 
 "Pooh!" returned D'Aiglemont, "these heroic exploits all 
 depend upon the woman in the case, and it certainly was not 
 for one that I know that poor Arthur came by his death." 
 
 HIDDEN GRIEFS 
 
 The Marquis was a great gambler. His lordship, the 
 papers said, was in Spain with the Due d'Angouleme, and be- 
 yond a doubt her ladyship had come to the lonely Chateau of 
 Saint-Lange, on the skirts of Fontainebleau, to retrench after 
 a run of ill-luck — so ran the local gossip. She lived in seclusion 
 with her little daughter, between whom and herself was an 
 ever-growing antipathy. Helene was the offspring of a union 
 abhorred by her mother. The man the Marquise had really 
 loved had been young and generous; in obedience to the laws 
 of the world, she had refused herself to his love and he had died 
 "to save a woman's honor." To whom could she speak of her 
 misery? Her tears would be an offense against her husband, 
 the origin of the tragedy. By all laws, written and unwritten, 
 she was bound to silence. A woman would have enjoyed the 
 story; a man would have schemed for his own benefit. 
 
 Such grief as hers can weep freely only in solitude and lone- 
 liness : she must die, or kill something within her — perhaps her 
 own conscience. 
 
 The village cur£ was persistent in calling upon the recluse 
 to offer the consolations of religion, and at length succeeded in 
 obtaining an interview. To him, finally, she bared her heart. 
 She told him: "My poor little Helene is her father's child, the 
 offspring of duty and of chance. In me she finds nothing but 
 the affection of instinct, the woman's natural compassion for 
 the child of her womb. Socially speaking, I am above re- 
 proach. Have I not sacrificed my life and my happiness to my 
 child? Her cries go to my heart; if she were to fall into the 
 water, I should spring to save her, but she is not in my heart. 
 
 "Ah! love sets me dreaming of a motherhood far greater 
 and more complete. In a vanished dream I held in my arms a 
 child conceived in desire before it was begotten, the exquisite
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 71 
 
 flower of life that blossoms in the soul before it sees the light of 
 day. I am Helene's mother only in the sense that I brought 
 her forth. When she needs me no longer, there will be an end 
 of my motherhood ; with the extinction of the cause, the effects 
 will cease. . . . Oh, when Helene speaks to me, I wish that 
 her voice were different; when she looks into my face I wish 
 that she had other eyes. She constantly keeps me in mind of 
 all that should have been and is not. I cannot bear to have 
 her near me. I smile at her, I try to make up to her for the 
 real affection of which she is defrauded. I am wretched, 
 Monsieur, too wretched to live. And I am supposed to be a 
 pattern wife. And I have committed no sins. And I am re- 
 spected! I have fought down forbidden love which sprang up 
 all unawares within me; but if I have kept the letter of the 
 law, have I kept it in my heart? There has never been but 
 one here," she said, laying her right hand on her breast, "one 
 and no other; and my child feels it. Certain looks and tones 
 and gestures mold a child's nature, and my poor little one 
 feels no thrill of love in the arm I put about her, no tremor 
 comes into my voice, no softness into my eyes when I speak to 
 her or take her up. She looks at me, and I cannot endure the 
 reproach in her eyes. There are times when I shudder to 
 think that some day she may be my judge and condemn her 
 mother unheard. Heaven grant that hate may not grow up 
 between us! Ah! God in heaven, rather let the tomb open 
 for me, rather let me end my days here at Saint-Lange! I 
 want to go back to the world where I shall find my other soul 
 and become wholly a mother." 
 
 On seeing a meeting between mother and child, the priest 
 was able to fathom the depths that lie between the motherhood 
 of the flesh and the motherhood of the heart. He said : " You 
 are right, Madame, it would be better for you if you were 
 dead." 
 
 In October the Marquise left the old chateau. In the life 
 of leisure at Saint-Lange, she had gradually recovered from 
 her grief, and grown fair and fresh. As she drove through the 
 village and met the old cure, she bowed coldly in response to his 
 farewell greeting. She did not wish to see him again: he had 
 judged this poor Diana of Ephesus only too well.
 
 72 A WOMAN OF THIRTY 
 
 AT THIRTY YEARS 
 
 Charles de Vandenesse was a man of about thirty, who was 
 considered by his friends to have a brilliant career before him. 
 Just before he was about to depart to Italy on a diplomatic 
 mission, he attended a ball given by Madame Firmiani to 
 thank her for introductions to important friends in Naples. In 
 her rooms he met the beautiful Marquise d'Aiglemont, who had 
 now reached her thirtieth year. He was irresistibly attracted 
 by her personal and intellectual charms and, after calling at her 
 house, indefinitely postponed his departure. Their acquaint- 
 anceship soon ripened into passionate love. The Marquise 
 struggled against her feelings for some months, saying to her- 
 self: "I will be faithful to him who died for me"; but the day 
 came when she capitulated. 
 
 General d'Aiglemont came in at the very moment of the 
 confession of love. 
 
 "The ministry has gone out," he said; "your uncle will be 
 in the new cabinet, so you stand an uncommonly good chance 
 of an embassy, Vandenesse." 
 
 Charles and Julie looked at each other and blushed. 
 
 "I do not care to leave Paris now," Charles said. 
 
 "We know why," said the General, with a knowing look: 
 "You do not like to leave your uncle, because you don't want 
 to lose your chance of succeeding to the title." 
 
 The Marquise took refuge in her room, and passed the piti- 
 less verdict upon her husband : " His stupidity is really beyond 
 anything." 
 
 THE FINGER OF GOD 
 
 On a beautiful summer morning, Charles Vandenesse and 
 Julie d'Aiglemont were strolling along the boulevard leading 
 to the Jardin des Plantes, accompanied by a little brown-eyed 
 maid and a fair-skinned, toddling boy. The girl was sullen; 
 but the others were ideally happy. Helene refused to play 
 with her little brother and was sharply reproved by her mother. 
 Charles danced the baby in his arms and showered kisses upon 
 him. A delicately fair woman radiant with smiles, a child of
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 73 
 
 love, a young man with the irresistible charm of youth and a 
 cloudless sky, left nothing wanting in nature to complete a 
 picture of perfect harmony. At nine o'clock Charles tenderly 
 embraced his companion, jumped into his waiting tilbury and 
 drove away. While Julie was gazing lovingly after him, the 
 little boy ran down to the bridge and asked his sister why she 
 did not come to say good-by. She gave him an angry push 
 and he fell into the muddy river. Hellene's horrified shrieks 
 did not succeed in summoning assistance in time to save the 
 child. Had Helene avenged her father? Her jealousy surely 
 was the sword of God. 
 
 TWO MEETINGS 
 
 The General had made a large fortune under the Restora- 
 tion; and, as his duties would not allow him to live far from 
 the court, he had taken a charming house at Versailles, where 
 he lived, with his wife, his beautiful daughter, Helene, now 
 seventeen, and three other children, Gustave, Abel, and Moina. 
 
 One night, while the servants were absent celebrating the 
 wedding of one of their number, the General himself answered 
 the gate at the loud rapping of a stranger, who demanded 
 shelter and protection for two hours. Extraordinary as the 
 request was, the General conducted him to an upper room and 
 there left him. In a few minutes, there was another knocking 
 at the gate, and gendarmes inquired of the General whether 
 anything had been seen of a fugitive murderer. The General 
 respected his promise of protection to the stranger, and the 
 officers departed. On the expiration of the two hours, the 
 General denounced the blood-stained criminal. The word 
 "murderer" seemed to mark an epoch in Helene's life; there 
 was not a trace of surprise in her face. She looked as if she 
 had been waiting for this — for him. Those vast thoughts of 
 hers had found a meaning. The punishment reserved by 
 Heaven for her sins toward little Charles flamed out before her. 
 In her own eyes she was as great a criminal as this murderer; 
 she confronted him with her quiet gaze : she was his fellow, his 
 sister. It seemed to her that in this accident God's command 
 had been made manifest: she determined to throw in her lot
 
 74 A WOMAN OF THIRTY 
 
 with the murderer and wipe away the blood with her devotion. 
 A terrible scene was terminated with the departure of the pair. 
 
 They had no sooner gone than the General realized how his 
 daughter had been goaded into the action she had taken. He 
 cursed his weakness and summoned assistance from every 
 direction to overtake the fugitives, but in vain. He loaded his 
 wife with reproaches. 
 
 That terrible Christmas night, when the murderer stole 
 Helene, as it were, was like a warning sent by fate. The Mar- 
 quis was ruined by the failure of his stockbroker; he borrowed 
 money on his wife's property, and lost it trying to retrieve his 
 fortunes. Driven to desperation, he left France. His family 
 heard little of him for six years, when the Marquis wrote that 
 he was coming home. So one fine morning a Spanish brig, 
 with several French merchants on board, was almost within 
 sight of Bordeaux. Among the passengers was the Marquis, 
 who was wealthy once more. The joyful anticipations of all 
 were dashed by the approach of a privateer, which rapidly over- 
 hauled them. Treachery on board made resistance useless ; the 
 brig was looted and the passengers were thrown overboard. As 
 the Marquis was dragged to the rail, there was mutual recog- 
 nition between him and the captain of the privateer. It was 
 the murderer, with whom Helene had gone away. The Mar- 
 quis's life was saved. He was taken on board the privateer, 
 where he found his daughter queen of the vessel, happy and 
 contented, with children about her and surrounded with the 
 luxury of a sultana. She declared that happiness was no word 
 to express such bliss as hers. In her husband's heart she had 
 found an infinite love, and every member of his crew was her 
 slave. 
 
 The Marquis was sent ashore in a boat, with lavish gifts 
 for his wife and children; but the privations he had undergone 
 had so undermined his health that he died in 1833. 
 
 Shortly after his death, the Marquise, to satisfy one of the 
 capricious whims of Mouia, took her to a watering-place in the 
 Pyrenees. A child's cries kept Moina awake one night. The 
 next morning, on inquiry, the Marquise learned from the land- 
 lady that the latter had taken in a starving woman and child, 
 out of charity. A kindly instinct prompted the Marquise to
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 75 
 
 visit the sufferers; and in the mother she recognized her eldest 
 daughter, whose babe had just drawn its last breath. Molina 
 came in and saw her mother holding HeTene's ice-cold hand. 
 The widowed woman, who had escaped shipwreck with only 
 one of her children, cried: "All this is your work. If you had 
 
 but been for me all that " 
 
 "Your sister," said Madame d'Aiglemont, in tears to Mo'ina, 
 "doubtless meant to tell you that a girl will never find happi- 
 ness in a romantic life, in living as nobody else does, and, above 
 all things, far away from her mother." 
 
 THE OLD AGE OF A GUILTY MOTHER 
 
 In June, 1844, a lady about fifty years old was strolling in 
 the grounds of one of the finest mansions in the Faubourg 
 Saint-Germain. It was the Marquise d'Aiglemont, the mother 
 of the Comtesse Mo'ina de Saint-Hereen, to whom she had 
 made over the mansion and almost her whole fortune, reserving 
 only an annuity for herself. Mo'ina was her only surviving 
 child: Gustave had died of cholera and Abel had fallen in 
 Algeria. Mo'ina, beautiful and fascinating from childhood, 
 was her mother's favorite. The springs of the Marquise's life 
 lay in that young heart. The spoiled child naturally rewarded 
 her mother with rank ingratitude. She seemed to take pleasure 
 in humiliating her before the guests who called or were being 
 entertained. The Marquise d'Aiglemont bore all this uncom- 
 plainingly; but in the absence of the Comte de Saint-Hereen 
 for six months on a political mission, the Comtesse had been 
 amusing herself with a flirtation with the shallow Alfred de 
 Vandenesse, and would pay no attention to her mother's warn- 
 ings. But if Alfred made her shudder with disgust, the un- 
 happy mother was obliged to conceal the strongest reason for 
 her loathing in the deepest recesses of her heart. Alfred was 
 too corrupt and Moina too clever to believe such a revelation 
 of a tie of blood : the young Comtesse would only turn it off as 
 a piece of maternal strategy. Madame d'Aiglemont had built 
 her prison-walls with her own hands ; she had immured herself 
 only to see Moina's happiness ruined thence before she died; 
 she was to look on helplessly at the ruin of the young life which
 
 76 A WOMAN OF THIRTY 
 
 had been her pride and joy. What words can describe anguish 
 so hideous beyond belief, such unfathomed depths of pain? 
 
 Moina was late rising that morning and met her mother's 
 representations of the dangers she was running with cool in- 
 solence. Her final words were, with a forced laugh : " Mamma, 
 I thought you were only jealous of the father!" 
 
 With eyes full of awful majesty and profound sorrow, 
 Madame d'Aiglemont replied in a hardly recognizable voice: 
 "You have been less merciful to your mother than he against 
 whom she sinned; less merciful, perhaps, than God Himself 
 will be." 
 
 She staggered out into the garden and fell. Her last words 
 were: "Do not frighten my daughter!"
 
 LOUIS LAMBERT (1832) 
 
 This work, in which Balzac said he endeavored "to strive with Goethe and 
 Byron, with Faust and Man/red," was written and published in 1832. It 
 first appeared in a book called Nouveaux Contes Philosophiques, and in 1833 
 was issued alone as Histoire Intellectuelle de Louis Lambert. In 1846, it was 
 classified with the Etudes Philosophiques in the Comedie Humaine. Much of 
 Louis Lambert is autobiographical. For seven years Balzac attended a school in 
 Venddme, where he met with little sympathy and endured the hardships he 
 describes so vividly. He preferred omnivorous reading to the prescribed 
 studies; and here he wrote a Treatise on the Will, which one of the masters 
 burned. It may be noted that Balzac places Pauline de Villenoix in his list of 
 irreproachable women included in his Author's Introduction to The Human 
 Comedy. Louis Lambert may be said to form a kind of trilogy with The Magic 
 Skin and Seraphita. It was published between these other two metaphysical 
 and mystical works. 
 
 L OUIS LAMBERT was born in 1797 at Montoire 
 in the Vendomois, where his father was a small 
 tanner. His parents, who adored their only- 
 child, never contradicted him in anything. At 
 the age of five his passion for reading began 
 with the Bible; and from that, till the age of 
 ten, he went over the village begging for books 
 and obtaining them by winning ways peculiar to 
 children. At that period substitutes for the army 
 were scarce; rich people secured them in advance for their 
 sons when the lots should be drawn; but the tanner was not 
 wealthy enough to purchase a substitute for his son, and the 
 only legal means of evading the conscription was to make him 
 a priest; so, in 1807, he was sent to his maternal uncle, the 
 parish priest of Mer, not far from Blois. After a stay of three 
 years with his uncle, an old and not uncultured Oratorian, 
 Louis left him in 181 1 to enter the college at Vendome. He 
 was accustomed to spend at home the time that his uncle 
 allowed him for his holidays, setting out every morning with 
 part of a loaf and his books and going to read and meditate in 
 the woods, to escape his mother's remonstrances; for she be- 
 
 77
 
 78 LOUIS LAMBERT 
 
 lieved such persistent study injurious. Reading was in Louis 
 an appetite which nothing could satisfy; he devoured books of 
 every kind. The cure of Mer had two or three thousand 
 volumes, and in three years Louis assimilated the contents of 
 all the books that were worth reading. His memory was 
 prodigious. He remembered with equal exactitude the ideas 
 he had derived from reading and those which had occurred to 
 him in the course of meditation or conversation. He had 
 every form of memory — for places, names, words, things, and 
 faces. He not only recalled any object at will, but he saw it 
 in his mind, situated, lighted, and colored as he had originally 
 seen it; and this power he could exert with equal effect with 
 regard to the most abstract efforts of the intellect. 
 
 A strong predilection for mystical studies was due to the 
 influence of the first books he read at his uncle's. Saint Theresa 
 and Madame Guyon were a sequel to the Bible; they accus- 
 tomed him to those swift reactions of the soul of which ecstasy 
 is at once the result and the means. 
 
 Madame de Stael, forbidden by Napoleon to approach Paris 
 within forty leagues, spent a part of her exile near Vendome. 
 One day, while walking in the park, she chanced upon the 
 ragged tanner's son absorbed in a translation of Heaven and 
 Hell. At that time Swedenborg was known to very few writers 
 even, and the lady in astonishment asked Louis in her rough way : 
 
 "Do you understand all this?" 
 
 "Do you pray to God?" he asked in reply. 
 
 "Why, yes." 
 
 "And do you understand Him?" 
 
 Madame de Stael was reduced to silence for a moment, and 
 then began to question him. On her return home, she said: 
 " He is a real seer." She determined to save Louis from serving 
 the Emperor or the Church, and to preserve him for the glori- 
 ous destiny which she thought awaited him. Before leaving 
 the neighborhood, therefore, she instructed a friend of hers, 
 Monsieur de Corbigny, to send her Moses in due course to the 
 high school at Vend6me. Then she probably forgot him. A 
 hundred louis which she placed in the hands of M. de 
 Corbigny, who died in 1812, was not sufficient to leave lasting 
 memories in Madame de Stael.
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 79 
 
 Louis entered the college in 181 1 at the age of fourteen. 
 When he left it, three years later, he was too poor to go in search 
 of a patroness who was traveling over Europe. However, he 
 went on foot from Blois to Paris in the hope of seeing her, and 
 arrived, unluckily, on the very day of her death. 
 
 When Louis arrived at the college, I was twelve years of 
 age and was passionately addicted to reading. My father, who 
 was ambitious to see me in the Ecole Polytechniquc, paid for 
 me to have a special course of private lessons in mathematics. 
 My mathematical master was the librarian of the college, and 
 allowed me to help myself to books without much caring what 
 I chose to take from the library, a quiet spot where I went to 
 him during play-hours to have my lesson. Either he was no 
 great mathematician, or he was absorbed in some grand scheme, 
 for he very willingly left me to read when I ought to have been 
 learning, while he worked at I knew not what. So, by a tacit 
 understanding between us, I made no complaints of being 
 taught nothing, and he said nothing of the books I borrowed. 
 
 I neglected my studies to compose poems. In derision of 
 such attempts, I was nicknamed the Poet; but mockery did 
 not cure me. I became the least emulous, the idlest, the most 
 dreamy of "little boys"; and, consequently, the most fre- 
 quently punished. ... I felt sympathy from the first for the 
 boy whose temperament had some points of likeness to my own. 
 
 After three months at school, Louis was looked upon as an 
 ordinary scholar. I alone was allowed really to know that 
 sublime soul. The similarity of our tastes made us friends 
 and chums; our intimacy was so brotherly that our school- 
 fellows joined our names; one was never spoken without the 
 other, and to call either they always shouted "Poet-and- 
 Pythagoras." 
 
 Louis never earned the rest of playtime; he always had 
 impositions to write. The imposition consisted at Vendome 
 of a certain number of lines to be written out in play-hours. 
 Lambert and I were so overpowered with impositions that we 
 had not six free days during the two years of our school friend- 
 ship. We incurred the infliction in a thousand ways. Our 
 memories were so good that we never learned a lesson. It was 
 enough for either of us to hear our class-fellows repeat the task
 
 80 LOUIS LAMBERT 
 
 in French, Latin, or grammar, and we could say it when our 
 turn came; but if the master, unfortunately, took it into his 
 head to reverse the usual order and call upon us first, we very 
 often did not even know what the lesson was. 
 
 Our independence, our illicit amusements, our apparent 
 waste of time, our persistent indifference, our frequent punish- 
 ments and aversion for our exercises and impositions, earned us 
 a reputation, which no one cared to controvert, for being an 
 idle and incorrigible pair. Our masters treated us with con- 
 tempt, and we fell into utter disgrace with our companions, 
 from whom we concealed our secret studies for fear of being 
 laughed at. We could neither play ball, nor run races, nor 
 walk on stilts. On exceptional holidays, when amnesty was 
 proclaimed and we got a few hours of freedom, we shared in 
 none of the popular diversions of the school. Aliens from the 
 pleasures enjoyed by the others, we were outcasts, sitting for- 
 lorn under a tree in the playground. 
 
 Louis was a spiritualist. His considerations on the sub- 
 stance of the mind led to his accepting with a certain pride the 
 life of privation to which we were condemned. His passion 
 for mystery often led us to discuss Heaven and Hell. Then 
 Louis, by expounding Swedenborg, would try to make me share 
 his beliefs concerning angels. To him pure love was the coa- 
 lescence of two angelic natures. Nothing could exceed the fer- 
 vency with which he longed to meet a woman angel. And who 
 better than he could inspire love or feel it? If anything could 
 give an impression of an exquisite nature, was it not the 
 amiability and kindliness that marked his feelings, words, 
 actions, and slightest gestures? 
 
 On one occasion, after discussing man's twofold nature, 
 he announced his intention of studying the chemistry of the 
 Will. The treatise that he wrote on the subject was con- 
 fiscated and destroyed as rubbish by a malicious tutor. 
 
 When I subsequently read the observations made by Bichat 
 on the duality of our external senses, I was bewildered at recog- 
 nizing the startling coincidences between the views of that 
 celebrated physiologist and those of Louis. If Lambert had 
 no other title to fame than the fact of his having formulated, in 
 his sixteenth year, such a physiological dictum as this, "The
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 81 
 
 events which bear witness to the action of the human race and 
 are the outcome of its intellect have causes by which they are 
 preconceived — as our actions are accomplished in our minds 
 before they are reproduced by the outer man; presentiments 
 or predictions are the perception of these causes," I think we 
 may deplore in him the loss of a genius equal to Pascal, 
 Lavoisier, or Laplace. His notions about angels perhaps over- 
 ruled his work too long; but was it not in trying to make gold 
 that the alchemists unconsciously created chemistry? 
 
 Six months after the confiscation of the treatise, I left 
 school; my mother, alarmed by a fever, carried me home at a 
 few hours' notice, and the announcement of my departure re- 
 duced Lambert to dreadful dejection. 
 
 I had seen nothing of the first phase of his brain develop- 
 ment — up to his thirteenth year. I was so fortunate as to 
 witness the first stage of the second period. Lambert was cast 
 into all the miseries of school-life — and that, perhaps, was his 
 salvation, for it absorbed the superabundance of his thoughts. 
 After passing from concrete ideas to their purest expression, 
 from words to their ideal import, and from that import to 
 principles, after reducing everything to the abstract, to enable 
 him to live he yearned for still other intellectual creations. 
 Quelled by the woes of school and the critical development of 
 his physical constitution, he became thoughtful, dreamed of 
 feeling, and caught a glimpse of new sciences — positively masses 
 of ideas. Checked in his career, and not yet strong enough to 
 contemplate the higher spheres, he contemplated his inmost 
 self. I then perceived in him the struggle of the Mind reacting 
 on itself, and trying to detect the secrets of its own nature, like 
 a physician who watches the course of his own disease. 
 
 The third phase I was not destined to see. It began when 
 Lambert and I were parted, for he did not leave college till he 
 was eighteen, in the summer of 1815. He had at that time 
 lost his father and mother about six months before. Finding 
 no member of his family with whom his soul could sympathize, 
 expansive still, but, since our parting, thrown back on himself, 
 he made his home with his uncle, who was also his guardian, 
 and who, having been turned out of his benefice as a priest who 
 had taken the oaths, had come to settle at Blois. There Louis 
 a.d., vol. n. — 6
 
 82 LOUIS LAMBERT 
 
 lived for some time; but, consumed by the desire to finish his 
 incomplete studies, he came to Paris to see Madame de Stael, 
 and to drink of science at its highest fount. The old priest, 
 being very fond of his nephew, left Louis free to spend his whole 
 little inheritance in his three years' stay in Paris, though he 
 lived very poorly. 
 
 Lambert returned to Blois at the beginning of 1820, driven 
 from Paris by the sufferings to which struggling genius is ex- 
 posed there. Judging by the letters his uncle received, he was 
 often a victim to the secret storms and terrible mental anguish 
 by which artists are racked. His feelings, perpetually wounded 
 in the Parisian whirlpool of self-interest, were constantly lac- 
 erated. He had no friend to comfort him, no enemy to give 
 tone to his life. Compelled to live in himself alone, having no 
 one to share his subtle raptures, he hoped to solve the problem 
 of his destiny by a life of ecstasy, adopting an almost vegetative 
 attitude, like an anchorite of the early Church. 
 
 In the longest of these letters, he complains to his uncle that 
 his long and patient study of Parisian society has brought him 
 to melancholy conclusions. "Here money is the mainspring 
 of everything. . . . But though that dross is necessary to any- 
 one who wishes to think in peace, I have not coucage enough 
 to make it the sole motive power of my thoughts. I am abso- 
 lutely devoid of the constant attention indispensable to the 
 making of a fortune. . . . The man who gives his life to the 
 achievement of great things in the sphere of intellect needs 
 very little; still, though twenty sous a day would be enough, I 
 do not possess that small income for my laborious idleness. 
 When I wish to cogitate, want drives me out of the sanctuary 
 where my mind has its being. . . . Everything here checks the 
 flight of a spirit that strives toward the future. . . . The poet's 
 sensitive nerves are perpetually shocked, and what should be 
 his glory becomes his torment; his imagination is his crudest 
 enemy. The injured workman, the poor mother in childbed, 
 the prostitute who has fallen ill, the foundling, the infirm and 
 aged — even vice and crime here find a refuge and a charity; 
 but the world is merciless to the inventor, to the man who 
 thinks. Fruitless attempts are mocked at, though they may 
 lead to the greatest discoveries; the deep and untiring study
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 83 
 
 that demands long concentration of every faculty is not valued 
 here. The State might pay talent as it pays the bayonet. . . . 
 Ah, my dear uncle, when monastic solitude was destroyed, up- 
 rooted from its home at the foot of mountains, under green and 
 silent shade, asylums ought to have been provided for those 
 suffering souls who, by an idea, promote the progress of nations, 
 or prepare some new and fruitful development of science." 
 
 Louis proceeded to animadvert on the methods of the In- 
 stitute and the condition of science, art, politics, and religion. 
 He was troubled by the problems of philosophical science; the 
 roots of the past and their inseparability from the future; deism 
 and atheism; and the transmission of animal faculties. He 
 concluded: "Any man who plunges into those religious waters, 
 of which the sources are not all known, will find proofs that 
 Zoroaster, Moses, Buddha, Confucius, Jesus Christ, and 
 Swedenborg had identical principles and aimed at identical 
 ends. . . . The last of them all, Swedenborg, will perhaps be 
 the Buddha of the north. His theocracy is sublime, and his 
 creed is the only acceptable one to superior souls. He alone 
 brings man into immediate communion with God; he gives a 
 thirst for God; he has freed the majesty of God from the trap- 
 pings in which other human dogmas have disguised Him. 
 Swedenborg has absolved God from the reproach attaching to 
 Him in the estimation of tender souls for the perpetuity of re- 
 venge to punish the sin of a moment. Each man may know 
 for himself what hope he has of life eternal, and whether this 
 world has any rational sense. I mean to make the attempt, 
 and this attempt may save the world just as much as the cross 
 at Jerusalem or the sword at Mecca. These were both the 
 offspring of the desert. And I, too, crave for the desert!" 
 
 When Louis returned to Blois, his uncle was eager to pro- 
 cure him some amusement ; but in that godly town the revolu- 
 tionary priest who had taken the oaths of allegiance was almost 
 a social leper. His only acquaintances were those of liberal, 
 patriotic, or constitutional opinions, on whom he occasionally 
 called for a rubber of whist. 
 
 The first household into which Louis was introduced was 
 presided over by the beautiful Mademoiselle Pauline de Ville- 
 noix, sole heiress to a Jew, who, in his old age, had married a
 
 84 LOUIS LAMBERT 
 
 Roman Catholic. As soon as Louis saw the lovely young 
 Jewess, he discerned the angel within. With the rich powers 
 of his soul and his tendency to ecstatic reverie, every faculty 
 within him was at once concentrated in boundless love, the first 
 love of a young man. When an accident threw me in the way 
 of his uncle, the good man showed me into the room in which 
 Lambert had at that time lived. 
 
 Among his papers I found five letters. . . . He had 
 probably written his love-letters twice over. In these each line 
 was evidently the result of a reverie, and each word the subject 
 of long cogitation, while the most unrestrained passion shone 
 through all. The last paragraphs of the final letter read as 
 follows : 
 
 "To-morrow, then, our love is to be made known! Oh, 
 Pauline! the eyes of others, the curiosity of strangers, weigh 
 on my soul. Let us go to Villenoix, and stay there far from 
 everyone. I should like no creature in human form to intrude 
 into the sanctuary where you are to be mine; I could even 
 wish that, when we are dead, it should cease to exist — should 
 be destroyed. Yes, I would fain hide from all nature a hap- 
 piness which we alone can understand, alone can feel, which is 
 so stupendous that I throw myself into it only to die — it is a 
 gulf! Do not be alarmed by the tears that have wetted this 
 page ; they are tears of joy. My only blessing, we need never 
 part again!" 
 
 In 1823 I traveled from Paris to Touraine by diligence. 
 At Mer we took up a passenger for Blois. . . . On hearing 
 the name (Monsieur Lefebvre) and seeing a white-haired old 
 man, who appeared to be eighty at least, I naturally thought 
 of Lambert's uncle, and I discovered that I was not mistaken. 
 I then asked for some news of my old chum. 
 
 "Then you have not heard his story," said he. "My poor 
 nephew was to be married to the richest heiress in Blois; but 
 the day before his wedding he went mad." 
 
 From M. Lefebvre's account, Lambert had betrayed 
 some symptoms of madness before marriage, but they were 
 such as are common to men who love passionately, and 
 seemed to me less startling when I knew how vehement his 
 love had been and when I saw Mademoiselle de Villenoix. . . .
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 85 
 
 The most serious symptom had supervened a day or two before 
 the marriage. Louis had had some well-marked attacks of 
 catalepsy. He had once remained motionless fifty-nine hours, 
 with his eyes staring; a purely nervous affection, to which 
 persons under the influence of violent passion arc liable. What 
 was really extraordinary was that Louis should not have had 
 several previous attacks, since his habits of rapt thought and 
 the character of his mind would predispose him to them. 
 Time was when Lambert and I had admired this phenomenon 
 of the human mind, in which he saw the fortuitous separation 
 of our two natures, and the signs of a total removal of the inner 
 man using its unknown faculties under the operation of an un- 
 known cause. 
 
 "When this attack had passed off," said M. Lefebvre, "my 
 nephew sank into a state of extreme terror, a dejection 
 that nothing could overcome. He thought himself unfit for 
 marriage. I at once carried him off to Paris. All through our 
 journey, Louis was sunk in almost unbroken torpor. The 
 Paris physicians pronounced him incurable and advised his 
 being left in perfect solitude with nothing to break the silence 
 that was needful for his very improbable recovery, and that 
 he should always live in a cool room with a subdued light. 
 Mademoiselle de Villenoix went to Paris and heard what the 
 doctors had pronounced. She immediately begged to see my 
 nephew, who hardly recognized her; then, like the noble soul 
 she is, she insisted on devoting herself to giving him such care 
 as might tend to his recovery. She would have been obliged 
 to do so if he had been her husband, she said, and could she 
 do less for him as her lover? She removed Louis to Villenoix, 
 where they have been living for two years." 
 
 So, instead of continuing my journey, I stopped at Blois to 
 see Louis. 
 
 When I saw the tall turrets of the chateau, remembering 
 how often poor Lambert must have thrilled at the sight of 
 them, my heart beat anxiously. The marble- floored room 
 was so dark that at first I saw Mademoiselle de Villenoix and 
 Lambert only as two black masses against the gloomy back- 
 ground. To her remark that I was his old school-friend, he 
 made no reply. He was standing, his elbows resting on the
 
 86 LOUIS LAMBERT 
 
 cornice of the low wainscot, which threw his body forward, so 
 that it seemed bowed under the weight of his bent head. His 
 hair was as long as a woman's, falling over his shoulders and 
 hanging about his face. His face was perfectly white. Near 
 him was a bed of moss on boards, 
 
 "He very rarely lies down," said Mademoiselle de Villenoix, 
 "but whenever he does he sleeps for several days." 
 
 Louis stood, as I beheld him, day and night, with a fixed 
 gaze, never winking his eyelids. Having asked whether a 
 little more light would hurt our friend, I opened the shutters 
 a little way, and could see the expression of Lambert's counte- 
 nance. Alas ! he was wrinkled, white-headed, his eyes dull and 
 lifeless as those of the blind. I made several attempts to talk 
 to him, but he did not hear me. I stayed about an hour, sunk 
 in unaccountable dreams and lost in painful thought. I lis- 
 tened to Mademoiselle de Villenoix, who told me every detail 
 of his life. This woman, this angel, always was with him, 
 seated at her embroidery-frame; and each time she drew the 
 needle out she gazed at Lambert with sad and tender feeling. 
 Unable to endure this terrible sight, I went out, and she came 
 with me to walk for a few minutes and talk of herself and of 
 Lambert. She said: 
 
 "To others he seems insane; to me, living as I do in his 
 mind, his ideas are quite lucid. I follow the road his spirit 
 travels; and, though I do not know every turning, I can reach 
 the goal with him. Louis is always in this state; he soars per- 
 petually through the spaces of thought: I can follow him in 
 his flight. I am content to hear his heart beat, and all my 
 happiness is to be with him. Is he not wholly mine? I can 
 live on memory." 
 
 After going in to see Louis once more, I took leave. I was 
 afraid to place myself again in that heavy atmosphere where 
 ecstasy was contagious. I was conscious of strange disturb- 
 ances, transcending the most fantastic results of taking tea, 
 coffee, or opium, of dreams, or of fever — mysterious agents, 
 whose terrible action often sets our brains on fire. 
 
 Louis Lambert died at the age of twenty-eight, September 
 25, 1824, in his true love's arms. He was buried by her desire 
 on an island in the park at Villenoix. His tombstone is a plain
 
 HONORE DP: BALZAC 87 
 
 stone cross, without name or date. Like a flower that has 
 blossomed on the margin of a precipice, and drops into it, its 
 colors and fragrance all unknown, it was fitting that he, too, 
 should fall. Like many another misprized soul, he had often 
 yearned to dive haughtily into the void, and abandon there the 
 secrets of his own life. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Villenoix would have been justified in 
 recording his name on that cross with her own. Since her 
 partner's death, reunion has been her constant hourly hope. 
 But the vanities of woe are foreign to faithful souls. 
 
 Villenoix is falling into ruin. She no longer resides there; 
 to the end, no doubt, that she may the better picture herself 
 there as she used to be. She had said long ago : 
 
 "His heart was mine; his genius is with God."
 
 THE COUNTRY DOCTOR (1833) 
 (Le Medecin de Campagne) 
 
 This study belongs to the Scenes of Country Life, which Balzac did not live 
 to finish. He wrote: "I had to delineate certain exceptional lives, which com- 
 prehend the interests of many persons, or of everybody, and are in a degree 
 outside the general law. Hence we have Scenes of Political Life. This vast 
 picture of society being finished and complete, was it not needful to display it 
 in its most violent phase, beside itself, as it were, either in self-defense or for 
 the sake of conquest? Hence the Scenes of Military Life. . . . Finally, the 
 Scenes of Country Life are, in a way, the evening of this long day." Several 
 editions of this work appeared, and in 1839 it was published in its final form. 
 The story of Napoleon's career, told by the old soldier and postman, Goguelat, 
 in the barn to his rustic audience, has always been admired as an independent 
 composition. It appeared in L'Europe Litteraire in June, 1833, before the 
 book was published. In his list of "irreproachable figures," to use his own 
 words, created by him, the great novelist includes Dr. Benassis, Genestas, and 
 the peculiar La Fosseuse. The work, dedicated to his mother, bears the legend: 
 " For a wounded heart — shadow and silence." 
 
 [N a lovely spring morning, a man of about fifty 
 was riding along the mountain road that led to 
 a large village near the Grande Chartreuse. His 
 impassive face showed no admiration of the 
 beautiful Alpine scenery, for he was one of 
 Napoleon's soldiers, and, therefore, a stoic. He 
 wore the rosette of an officer of the Legion of 
 Honor. Pierre Joseph Genestas was an unosten- 
 tatious kind of Bayard. He had served on every 
 battle-field where Napoleon had commanded. He was one of 
 those natures that are great at need and that relapse into their 
 ordinary simplicity when the action is over. Genestas had just 
 come from Grenoble, having obtained leave of absence. Stop- 
 ping at a squalid hovel to get refreshment, he found its poor 
 mistress taking care of charity children, and was greatly 
 touched by her assumption of the duties of motherhood. In 
 his conversation with her, she spoke of Monsieur Benassis with 
 reverent affection. It was to M. Benassis's house that Genestas 
 
 88
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 89 
 
 wished to go. He inquired the way thither, and set off. Soon 
 he caught a glimpse through the trees of the little town's first 
 cluster of houses, and noticed a general air of prosperity as he 
 rode along. A child showed him the way to the house, and 
 the soldier was astonished at the neglected appearance of the 
 premises. Perhaps he should have to relinquish his ideal of 
 Dr. Benassis ! An old servant took his horse and told him that 
 the master had gone to the flour-mill. Genestas decided to 
 follow him. The miller's boy redirected him to a hovel, "more 
 wretched even than a moujik's hut in Russia," a very dog- 
 kennel indeed. Here was a dying man attended by an old 
 peasant woman and Dr. Benassis, who turned suddenly when 
 he heard a footstep and the unusual clank of spurs. 
 
 Dr. Benassis was of ordinary height, broad-shouldered and 
 deep-chested. He wore a capacious green overcoat buttoned 
 up to the chin, and his dark figure served as a strong relief to 
 his face, which was illumined by the firelight. The face was 
 not unlike that of a satyr. His slightly protruding forehead 
 was full of prominences, his nose was turned up; his cheek- 
 bones were high; the lines of his mouth were crooked; his 
 lips were thick and red; his chin was sharp; his brown eyes 
 were alert and expressed passions now subdued; his hair was 
 iron-gray; his face was deeply wrinkled; his eyebrows were 
 bushy, and his face was covered with red blotches. Dr. 
 Benassis was about fifty. Genestas, who was accustomed to 
 those men of energetic natures sought out by Napoleon, sus- 
 pected, as he surveyed this man, that there must be some 
 mystery in this life of obscurity. 
 
 "Why is he still a country doctor?" he asked himself. 
 
 Next he studied the wholly animal face of the old dying 
 cretin. He had never seen a cretin before and had an instinc- 
 tive feeling of repulsion. In a few moments, this poor creature 
 died; and not long afterward the passing-bell tolled and the 
 rustic religious procession filed in. The doctor and the soldier 
 took their leave. As they walked along, the doctor described 
 the condition of the cretin and the superstitions regarding him; 
 also the story of his settling in this district and the opposition 
 he encountered at first, when he was even stoned. Then he 
 told of the results of his philanthropic and economic schemes.
 
 90 THE COUNTRY DOCTOR 
 
 As they reached the doctor's house, Genestas said that having 
 heard of the miraculous recovery of Monsieur Gravier of 
 Grenoble, he desired to place himself under Dr. Benassis's 
 care. Benassis accepted him as a patient; and when he in- 
 sisted on paying a fee said that it should go to the chemist in 
 Grenoble to pay for medicines for the poor. 
 
 Jacquotte, the doctor's housekeeper, managed everything 
 for him. She loved the house : she had lived there twenty-two 
 years. After the cure's death, Benassis, who had just come 
 into the country, bought it with the plate, wine, furniture, sun- 
 dial, poultry, horse, and woman-servant, the very type of a 
 working housekeeper. Jacquotte was a tyrant by this time. 
 
 While strolling in the garden, Dr. Benassis explained more 
 fully to his guest how the population had increased from seven 
 hundred to two thousand souls in ten years and the means he 
 had employed to develop the country and promote various 
 industries. Then they went to dinner. 
 
 "My name is Pierre Bluteau," answered Genestas; "I am 
 a captain stationed at Grenoble." This was in reply to the 
 doctor's request for his name, as he led the way to the guest- 
 chamber, a luxuriously furnished apartment, though Genestas 
 was astonished to find the doctor's room simple and bare. 
 The astonishment of his guest caused the doctor to explain 
 his ideas of hospitality and to emphasize how utterly he be- 
 longed, body and soul, to the peasants, who were at liberty to 
 come to his house at all times and seasons. 
 
 They bade each other good night; but before the soldier 
 slept he mentally reviewed the doctor, who hour by hour grew 
 greater in his eyes. 
 
 The next morning Genestas, at the doctor's invitation, 
 accompanied him upon his rounds. The two horsemen visited 
 homes of sorrow and death; they encountered an old soldier, 
 Gondrin, and some old laborers contented with their lot; 
 visited several of the doctor's patients, and, above all, the 
 strange, sensitive, and peculiar La Fosseuse, a young girl, a 
 sort of charge of Dr. Benassis, who lived in a rustic dwelling 
 embowered with roses. 
 
 " I can love her in no other way than as a sister or a daugh- 
 ter; my heart is dead," said Benassis, when Genestas ques-
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 91 
 
 tioned him about La Fosseuse. Then Dr. Benassis told the 
 story of La Fosseuse, whose father, Le Fosseur, was a grave- 
 digger and whose mother died at her birth. A neighbor took 
 care of the child till she was nine, and then she was sent out 
 to beg. 
 
 They arrived home late. Jacquotte was annoyed, for 
 dinner had been delayed. There were guests, too: Monsieur 
 Dufau, justice of the peace; Monsieur Cambon, a timber- 
 merchant; Monsieur Janvier, the cure; and Monsieur Ton- 
 nelet, the mayor. Jacquotte announced dinner. 
 
 Invited by Benassis, who summoned each in turn so as 
 to avoid questions of precedence, the doctor's five guests went 
 into the dining-room; and after the cure, in low and quiet 
 tones, had repeated a blessing, they took their places at table. 
 The linen was of dazzling whiteness, and fragrant with the 
 scent of the thyme that Jacquotte always put into her wash- 
 tubs. The dinner-service was of white porcelain, edged with 
 blue, and was in perfect order. The decanters were of the 
 old-fashioned octagonal kind still in use in the provinces, 
 though they have disappeared elsewhere. Grotesque figures 
 had been carved on the horn handles of the ancient knives. 
 
 Society itself seemed to be represented by the types gathered 
 here; and the long conversation was devoted to a discussion of 
 social and economic questions. 
 
 After accompanying the cure home, Dr. Benassis proposed 
 to Genestas that they should go to the barn and hear the 
 peasants talk. They climbed a ladder into the hay-loft and 
 looked down on the scene, keeping quiet so as not to be seen or 
 heard. Quite a large audience of both sexes were listening 
 to a grotesque story related by a peasant — The Courageous 
 Hunchback Woman was its title. 
 
 La Fosseuse called for Napoleon's adventures; and Gogue- 
 lat, the postman, got up from his truss of hay and yielded to 
 the wishes of his audience. He had served under the Emperor, 
 and gave an impassioned survey of Napoleon's career. It was 
 the Napoleon of the People that he described, the hero, the 
 demigod — the Napoleon who bore the Sword of God in his 
 scabbard, Napoleon the Lion of the Desert, father of the 
 soldier, father of the people! When describing the infantry
 
 92 THE COUNTRY DOCTOR 
 
 he was interrupted. " How about the cavalry? " cried Genestas, 
 dropping into the midst of the astonished group. The two 
 soldiers then had a talk; and the crowd screamed : "Long live 
 the Emperor !" "Hush!" said the officer, concealing his deep 
 sorrow. "He is dead!" But this the crowd would not believe. 
 
 "What do you think of our Goguelat?" said Benassis to 
 Genestas, as they went homeward. 
 
 "So long as such stories are told in France, sir, she will 
 always find the fourteen armies of the Republic within her at 
 need; and her cannon will be perfectly able to keep up a con- 
 versation with the rest of Europe. That is what I think." 
 
 Sitting beside the dying fire, Genestas with apologies asked 
 the doctor the reason for his retired existence. 
 
 "Captain," answered Dr. Benassis, "for these twelve years 
 I have lived in silence, and now as I wait at the brink of the 
 grave for the stroke that will cast me into it, I will candidly 
 own to you that this silence begins to weigh heavily upon me." 
 
 Dr. Benassis, careless of the judgments of man and full 
 of hope in God, told his story. He was born in Languedoc; 
 and after ten years of the almost monastic discipline of the 
 Oratorians, he was sent to Paris. He studied at the Ecole de 
 Medecin; and, notwithstanding the precautions taken by his 
 father to guard him, he was drawn into the dissipated life of 
 the capital. He had a craze for the stage, actors and acting, 
 and all pleasures. "I became a Parisian," said the doctor, 
 "and to be brief, I led the aimless, drifting life of a young pro- 
 vincial thrown into the heart of a great city." At last he 
 formed a secret connection with a young girl. His father died 
 and left him a fortune and he deserted the girl to live the gay 
 life of Parisian society. After two years, she wrote and asked 
 him to come to see her. She was dying; and she begged him 
 to take care of their child. Love returned to the young man's 
 heart, and he devoted himself to the little boy. He was both 
 father and mother to him. After a time, he met a young girl 
 with whom he fell in love, and offered his hand. When Eve- 
 lina's parents learned the past history of their future son-in- 
 law and the existence of his son, they broke the engagement. 
 Evelina wrote him a tender farewell, which Benassis showed 
 Genestas with deep emotion, and also his reply in which he
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 93 
 
 said : " Farewell forever. There still remains to me the proud 
 humility of repentance ; I will find some sphere of life where I 
 can expiate the errors to which you, the mediator between 
 Heaven and me, have shown no mercy. Perhaps God may 
 be less inexorable. My sufferings, full of the thought of you, 
 shall be the penance of a heart which will never be healed, 
 which will bleed in silence. For a wounded heart — shadow 
 and silence." 
 
 Another grief fell upon Benassis : his child died. "Nothing 
 was left to me here on earth," said the country doctor sadly; 
 "I raised my eyes to heaven and beheld God." 
 
 He had eighty thousand francs, and meant to live a solitary 
 life in some remote country. Drawn to the rule of Saint Bruno, 
 he made the journey to the Grande Chartreuse on foot, ab- 
 sorbed in solemn thoughts. He saw the Grande Chartreuse 
 and walked beneath the vaulted roofs of the ancient cloisters. 
 An inscription over the door of a cell impressed him — " Fuge, 
 late, tace." Discerning an undercurrent of egotism in the dead 
 life of the cloister, Benassis determined to give his life to the 
 suffering poor in the countryside. "When I remembered," 
 he said, "that my first serious thoughts had inclined me to the 
 study of medicine, I resolved to settle here as a doctor. Be- 
 sides, I had another reason. For a wounded heart — shadow and 
 silence; so I had written in my letter; and I meant to fulfil the 
 vow which I had made to myself. So I have entered into the 
 paths of silence and submission. The luge, late, tace of the 
 Carthusian brother is my motto here, my death to the world is 
 the life of this canton, my prayer takes the form of the active 
 work to which I have set my hand, and which I love — the work 
 of sowing the seeds of happiness and joy, of giving to others 
 what I myself have not." 
 
 Genestas now gave his true name to Dr. Benassis. The 
 latter had long known of Commandant Genestas. Genestas 
 swore eternal friendship and begged the doctor to accept a new 
 patient — a boy. No, not the son of Genestas, but the son of 
 her he loved ; and the soldier told his sad story. To this child 
 Genestas was devoted. Overstudy had developed a weak 
 chest, and Genestas had come to learn Dr. Benassis and his 
 ways before placing the boy under his care. Dr. Benassis
 
 94 THE COUNTRY DOCTOR 
 
 forgave the deception; and Genestas soon brought the delicate 
 lad of sixteen to Dr. Benassis, who pronounced him curable. 
 He left the boy with the doctor. Eight months later, Genestas 
 received a letter from Benassis, telling him of the marvelous 
 improvement in his adopted son. "I will go to see Benassis 
 to-morrow," said Genestas. A few hours later he received 
 another letter, this time from Adrien, his son, announcing the 
 sudden death of the beloved doctor. He was taken ill on re- 
 turning from visiting a patient and just after receiving a letter, 
 Adrien said, addressed in a lady's handwriting and post- 
 marked Paris. " It is all over with me!" he cried. "Adrien, 
 burn this letter." 
 
 When Genestas arrived, he found the whole countryside in 
 sorrow. With the cure he visited the grave. La Fosseuse was 
 weeping there. 
 
 "As soon as I have my pension," he said to the cure, "I 
 will come to end my days here among you."
 
 EUGENIE GRANDET (1834) 
 
 Perhaps because this story touches the mark more closely than any of the 
 rest of Balzac's books, it has been more enthusiastically admired and widely 
 read than those others, with the single exception of Pere Goriot. It appeared 
 first in Volume I of the Scenes of Provincial Life, although the first of its seven 
 chapters had been published during the previous year in V Europe Litteraire. 
 A second edition followed in 1839, and in 1843 the novel took its place, with 
 chapter divisions suppressed, in the Comedy, The characters, with a few trivial 
 exceptions, do not reappear in succeeding novels. 
 
 N 1789 Monsieur Grandet, called by some Pere 
 Grandet, was a master cooper in Saumur, able to 
 read, write, and cipher. When the French Re- 
 public offered for sale the Church property in the 
 arrondissement of Saumur, the cooper, then forty 
 years of age, had just married the daughter of a 
 rich wood-merchant. With his own ready money 
 and his wife's dot, he obtained for a song, legally 
 if not legitimately, one of the finest vineyards in 
 the district, an old abbey, and several farms. Under the Con- 
 sulate Grandet became mayor, governed wisely, and harvested 
 still better pickings. Under the Empire he was called Monsieur 
 Grandet. When Napoleon, who did not like Republicans, 
 superseded him, he quitted office without regret. 
 
 In 1806 M. Grandet inherited three fortunes — that of 
 Madame de la Gaudiniere, born De la Bertelliere, the mother 
 of Madame Grandet; that of old Monsieur de la Bertelliere, 
 her grandfather; and, lastly, that of Madame Gentillet, her 
 grandmother on the mother's side: three inheritances, whose 
 amount was not known to anyone. M. Grandet thus be- 
 came the most imposing person in the arrondissement. He 
 worked a hundred acres of vineyard, owned thirteen farms, an 
 old abbey, a hundred and twenty-seven acres of meadow-land, 
 and the house in which he lived. Such was his visible estate; 
 as to his other property, only two persons could give even a 
 
 95
 
 96 EUGENIE GRANDET 
 
 vague guess at its value: Monsieur Cruchot, a notary em- 
 ployed in Grandet's usurious investments, and Monsieur des 
 Grassins, the richest banker in Saumur, in whose profits Grandet 
 had a certain secret share. 
 
 Financially speaking, M. Grandet was something between 
 a tiger and a boa-constrictor. He could crouch and lie low, 
 watch his prey a long while, spring upon it with open jaws, 
 swallow a mass of louis, and then rest tranquilly like a snake 
 in process of digestion, impassible, methodical, and cold. No 
 one saw him pass without a feeling of admiration mingled with 
 respect and fear, for every man in Saumur had felt the rending 
 of those polished steel claws. Few days passed without public 
 mention of his name. To some his fortune was an object of 
 patriotic pride: they would say to strangers: "We have two or 
 three millionaire establishments, but as for Monsieur Grandet, 
 he does not himself know how much he is worth." 
 
 So large a fortune covered with a golden mantle all the 
 actions of this man. If in early days some peculiarities of his 
 life gave occasion for laughter or ridicule, laughter and ridicule 
 had long ago died away. His speech, his clothing, his gestures, 
 the blinking of his eyes, were law to the countryside, where 
 everyone had come to understand the deep, mute wisdom of 
 his slightest actions. 
 
 M. Grandet's manners were very simple. He spoke little. 
 If people talked to him he listened coldly, and four sentences 
 sufficed him usually in the solution of all matters of business: 
 "I don't know; I cannot; I will not; I will see about it." He 
 never said yes or no, and never committed himself to writing. 
 His wife, whom he had reduced to a state of helpless slavery, 
 was a useful screen to him in business, he often saying: "I can 
 decide nothing without consulting my wife." He went no- 
 where among friends; he neither gave nor accepted dinners; 
 he made no stir or noise, seeming to economize in everything. 
 He kept but one servant, La Grande Nanon, so called on 
 account of her height, who did all the work of the household. 
 In short, M. Grandet was a cold-blooded, calculating miser, 
 who counted every penny of expenditure and gloated in secret 
 over his fast-accumulating hoard. He concentrated every 
 feeling upon the enjoyments of avarice and upon the only
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 97 
 
 human being who was anything whatever to him — his daughter 
 and sole heiress, Euge'nie. 
 
 Only six individuals had a right of entrance to M. Grandet's 
 house. The most important of the first three was a nephew of 
 M. Cruchot, who, since his appointment as President of the 
 Civil Courts of Saumur, had signed himself C. de Bonfons. 
 He was thirty-three years old, possessed the estate of Bonfons, 
 worth seven thousand francs a year, and had expectations from 
 an uncle, the Abbe* Cruchot, as well as his uncle the notary, 
 both of whom were thought to be very rich. These three 
 Cruchots, allied to twenty families in the town, formed a party, 
 like the Medici in Florence. Opposed to them were the party of 
 the Des Grassins, consisting of the banker and Madame des 
 Grassins, their son Adolphe, twenty-three years of age, and 
 their cousins and allies. The object of the ambition of each of 
 these parties was to obtain the hand of the rich heiress, the 
 one for Monsieur le president, the other for Adolphe. 
 
 This secret warfare between the Cruchots and the Des 
 Grassins kept the various social circles of Saumur in violent 
 agitation; but some of the oldest inhabitants, wiser than their 
 fellows, declared that the Grandets would never let the property 
 go out of the family, but would marry Mademoiselle Euge'nie 
 to the son of M. Grandet of Paris, a wealthy wholesale 
 wine-merchant. To this the Cruchotines and Grassinists re- 
 plied: "The two brothers have seen each other but twice in 
 thirty years, and Monsieur Grandet of Paris has ambitious 
 designs for his son. He is mayor of an arrondissement, colonel 
 of the National Guard, judge in the commercial courts; he 
 disowns the Grandets of Saumur, and means to ally himself 
 with some noble family." 
 
 In 181 1 the Cruchotines won a signal advantage over the 
 Grassinists. Maitre Cruchot, the president, aided by the 
 abbe, succeeded in procuring for M. Grandet the estate of the 
 Marquis de Froidfond, remarkable for its park, its mansion, 
 its farms and forests, and worth about three millions. 
 
 La Grande Nanon had lived with Grandet ever since she 
 
 was twenty-two years old, now about thirty-five years. She 
 
 was tall and ugly, with a complexion that would have done 
 
 credit to a grenadier, and with sinewy arms and the hands of 
 
 A.D., vol. 11. — 7
 
 98 EUGENIE GRANDET 
 
 a cartman. Grandet, a good judge of corporeal strength, en- 
 gaged her when she was rejected from door to door, and the 
 poor girl never forgot it. She attached herself in all sincerity 
 to her master, who ruled her and worked her with feudal 
 authority. She cooked and washed ; she got up early and went 
 to bed late; she protected the property of her master like a 
 faithful dog, and obeyed without a murmur his most absurd 
 exactions. From her yearly wages of sixty francs she had been 
 enabled to invest four thousand francs in an annuity with 
 Maitre Cruchot, and every servant in town was jealous 
 of her. 
 
 A single tallow candle usually sufficed the Grandet family 
 for the evening, and no fire was ever lighted in the living-room 
 before Eugenie's birthday file in the middle of November. On 
 this day her father always went to her bedside in the morning 
 and solemnly presented her with a gold piece, while Madame 
 Grandet gave her daughter a winter and a summer dress. In 
 the evening the Cruchotines and the Grassinists came after the 
 dinner was over and endeavored to surpass each other in tokens 
 of respect. 
 
 One evening, in the year 1819, the two factions were gath- 
 ered in the great room, illuminated by two tallow candles in 
 honor of the occasion, to congratulate Eugenie on her twenty- 
 third birthday. The old cooper, with inward self-conceit, 
 looked over the company, and said to himself: 
 
 "They are all after my money. Hey! neither the one nor 
 the other shall have my daughter; but they are useful — useful 
 as harpoons to fish with." 
 
 Just as Madame Grandet had won a pool of sixteen sous at 
 loto, the largest ever pooled in that house, the knocker on the 
 house-door resounded with such a noise that the women all 
 jumped in their chairs. 
 
 "Who the devil is that?" cried Grandet. 
 
 Nanon took one of the candles and went to open the door, 
 followed by her master. 
 
 "Grandet! Grandet!" cried his wife, running to the door, 
 moved by a sudden impulse of fear. 
 
 "Go back to your loto!" he shouted, pulling the door to. 
 The noise of the porter, carrying heavy luggage up the stair-
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 99 
 
 case, was heard, and soon after Grandet returned, followed by 
 a young man who saluted the company gracefully. 
 
 "Sit down near the fire," said Grandet. 
 
 "You are cold, no doubt, Monsieur," said Madame Grandet. 
 
 "Just like all women," growled Grandet, looking up from 
 a letter he was reading. "Do let Monsieur rest himself." 
 
 "But, father, perhaps Monsieur would like to take some- 
 thing," said Eugenie. 
 
 " He has got a tongue," said the old man sternly. 
 
 Monsieur Charles Grandet, of Paris, a handsome young 
 man of twenty-two, presented a singular contrast to the worthy 
 provincials who, disgusted at his aristocratic bearing, were all 
 studying him with sarcastic intent. In this, his first visit to 
 the provinces, he took a fancy to make his appearance with 
 the superiority of a man of fashion, and to make his visit an 
 epoch. He therefore brought with him a great number of 
 costumes, including his whole collection of waistcoats and 
 every variety of collar and cravat known at the time. He 
 brought too all his dandy knickknacks, and his pretty gold 
 toilet-set — a present from his mother; in short, as complete a 
 cargo of Parisian frivolities as it was possible for him to get 
 together. 
 
 The loto game soon came to an end, for Grandet had taken 
 from the table the candle' to read his letter. When he had 
 finished he turned to his nephew with a humble, timid air, and 
 asked, "Have you warmed yourself?" 
 
 "Thoroughly, my dear uncle." 
 
 "Is the room all ready?" he asked of his wife. 
 
 The company arose at these words and took their de- 
 parture. When they were left alone, Grandet said to his 
 nephew : 
 
 "It is too late to talk of the matters which have brought 
 you here; to-morrow we will take a suitable moment. We 
 breakfast at eight o'clock." 
 
 Charles did not appear at breakfast. 
 
 "He's sleeping like a cherub," said Nanon. "I went in 
 and I called him: no answer." 
 
 "Let him sleep," said Grandet. "He'll wake soon enough 
 to hear ill-tidings. His father has blown his brains out."
 
 ioo EUGENIE GRANDET 
 
 "My uncle?" cried Eugenie. 
 
 "Poor young man!" exclaimed Madame Grandet. 
 
 "Poor indeed!" said Grandet; "he isn't worth a sou!" 
 
 Eugenie stopped eating. Her heart was wrung, as the young 
 heart is wrung when pity overflows the whole being of a woman. 
 The poor girl wept. 
 
 "You will say nothing to him about it, Madame Grandet, 
 till I return," said the old man. "I shall be back at noon. As 
 for you, Mademoiselle Eugenie, if it is for that dandy you are 
 crying, that's enough, child. He is going off like a shot to the 
 Indies. You will never see him again." 
 
 When Grandet finally broke to Charles the news of his 
 father's failure and suicide, of which he had no suspicion, the 
 young man utterly collapsed and kept his room for several 
 days. His sobs aroused Eugenie's pity, and she shuddered to 
 hear her father's remarks on his grief. When she and her 
 mother suggested something for the young man's comfort, the 
 old man said: "Charles is nothing at all to us; he hasn't a 
 farthing, his father has failed for four millions. When this 
 dandy has cried his fill, off he goes from here. I won't have 
 him revolutionizing my household. He is going to the West 
 Indies at his father's request, and he will try to make his fortune 
 there." 
 
 Eugenie trembled at her father's comments, and from that 
 hour she began to judge him. Madame Grandet, troubled by 
 her daughter's sweet, persuasive tones as she sympathized with 
 her cousin's grief, said, "Take care, you will love him!" 
 
 In the meantime Grandet had consulted M. de Bonfons in 
 relation to his brother's affairs. The president informed him 
 that bankruptcy, which was attended with dishonor, could be 
 prevented by liquidation, that is, by the appointment of a re- 
 ceiver for the property. "When a man fails, he is dishonored," 
 said the president; "but when he merely liquidates, he remains 
 an honest man." 
 
 The result of the conference was that Grandet, to save the 
 honor of the family name, agreed to liquidate his brother's 
 business. The president said that in a few months the debts 
 might be bought up for a certain sum, and then paid in full by 
 an agreement.
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 101 
 
 Grandet employed Des Grassins to call a meeting of the 
 creditors, who elected the banker, together with another banker 
 of Paris, as liquidators, with full power to protect both the 
 honor of the family and the interests of the claimants. Every 
 creditor acceded, each saying confidently, " Grandet of Saumur 
 will pay." 
 
 Charles, though but twenty-one years old, was a true child 
 of Paris and too much a man of the world to be possessed 
 of noble sentiments. But Eugenie was too inexperienced to 
 know that, and her sympathy for him soon turned to love. 
 She pitied his poverty — not worth a sou, as her father said — 
 and pressed upon him her little hoard of gold, a purse of rare 
 coins of the value of about six thousand francs. In return he 
 entrusted her with a leather-covered dressing-case with his 
 gold toilet-articles, showing her a secret spring which opened 
 a hidden drawer and disclosed two portraits in gold frames set 
 with pearls. "My father and my mother," he said. "If I 
 die and your little fortune is lost, this gold and these pearls will 
 repay you. To you alone could I leave these portraits. Let 
 them pass into no other hands." 
 
 She turned upon him a tender look, her first glance of 
 loving womanhood. 
 
 "Angel of purity!" he continued, taking her hand and 
 kissing it, "between us two money is nothing. Feeling, senti- 
 ment, must be all henceforth." 
 
 When the eve of Charles's departure came, Eugenie had no 
 courage to forbid the kisses he pressed upon her lips. 
 
 "Are we not married?" he said. "I have thy promise — 
 then take mine." 
 
 "Thine; I am thine forever!" each said, repeating the words 
 twice over. 
 
 On the next morning the whole family set out to escort 
 Charles to the diligence for Nantes. 
 
 "Nephew," said Grandet, kissing Charles on both cheeks, 
 "depart poor, return rich; you will find the honor of your 
 father safe. I answer for that myself, I — Grandet." 
 
 Nine months later the two liquidators of the Grandet estate 
 in Paris distributed forty-seven per cent, to each creditor on his 
 claim. The amount was obtained by the sale of the securities,
 
 102 EUGENIE GRANDET 
 
 property, and possessions of all kinds belonging to the late 
 Guillaume Grandet, and was paid over with scrupulous fidelity, 
 which elicited praise from all. After a certain length of time, 
 the creditors asked for the rest of their money. It became 
 necessary to write a collective letter to Grandet of Saumur. 
 
 "Patience, my good friends," said the old man, as he threw 
 the letter into the fire. 
 
 Months passed, and Eugenie's birthday came around again. 
 According to his custom, Grandet went to his daughter's room 
 with his gold piece and asked to see her collection. 
 
 Eugenie hesitated, then made a few steps toward the door, 
 turned abruptly, and said: 
 
 "I have not got my gold." 
 
 "Not got your gold!" cried Grandet. "You are mistaken, 
 Eugenie." 
 
 "No." 
 
 He swore a terrible oath. "What have you done with it?" 
 
 "Grandet, your anger will kill me," said poor Madame 
 Grandet, who had been ailing for some time. 
 
 "Nonsense; you never die in your family. Eugenie, what 
 have you done with your gold?" he cried, rushing upon her. 
 
 "Monsieur," said the daughter, "my mother is ill. Look 
 at her; do not kill her." 
 
 "Nanon, help me to bed," said the poor woman in a feeble 
 voice; "I am dying " 
 
 "Eugenie, when your mother is in bed, come down," said 
 Grandet, leaving the room. 
 
 When Eugdnie went down and still declined to tell her 
 father what she had done with her gold, Grandet said : "I will 
 not see you again until you submit. Go to your chamber. 
 You will stay there till I give you permission to leave it. Nanon 
 will bring you your bread and water. You hear me — go!" 
 
 After several months of suffering, during which she did not 
 have a physician until near the end, Madame Grandet died. 
 "My child," she said, as she expired, "there is no happiness 
 except in heaven; you will know it some day." 
 
 Five years passed with nothing to relieve the monotony of 
 Eugenie's sad existence. In all that time no word ever came 
 from Charles. Toward the close of 1827 her father, then
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 103 
 
 eighty-two. was stricken with paralysis. Eugenie devoted all 
 her care and attention to him. His last words to her were, 
 "Take care of it all," meaning his gold. "You will render me 
 an account yonder!" 
 
 Eugenie Grandet was now alone in the world in that gray 
 house, with none but Nanon to whom she could turn with 
 the certainty of being understood. She learned from Maitre 
 Cruchot that she was the possessor, in real and personal 
 property, besides interest to be collected, of about seventeen 
 million francs. 
 
 "Where is my cousin?" was her one thought. 
 
 "If I knew where he was, the darling," said Nanon, "I'd 
 go on foot to find him." 
 
 "The ocean is between us," Eugenie replied. 
 
 At that time Charles Grandet had just returned from the 
 West Indies, bringing nineteen hundred thousand francs in 
 gold dust, gathered by trading in all kinds of merchandise, 
 lawful and unlawful, in selling slaves, and in practising usury. 
 On the passage he met Monsieur d'Aubrion, a gentleman-in- 
 ordinary to his Majesty Charles X, who had married a woman 
 of fashion, once wealthy, but now reduced to an income of 
 twenty thousand francs. They had an ugly daughter whom 
 the mother wished to marry without a dot, and she promised 
 Charles Grandet to obtain a royal ordinance from Charles X, 
 which would authorize him to take the name and arms of 
 D'Aubrion, and to succeed to the titles of Captal de Buch and 
 Marquis d'Aubrion. Intoxicated with ambition, and believing 
 his father's affairs to have been settled by his uncle, he imagined 
 himself already settled down in the Faubourg Saint- Germain 
 as the Comte d'Aubrion. Des Grassins, hearing of his return 
 with a large fortune, called on him and inquired about the 
 three hundred thousand francs still needed to settle his father's 
 debts. Charles listened coldly and said: "My father's affairs 
 are not mine." 
 
 "But suppose that your father's estate were within a few 
 days to be declared bankrupt?" 
 
 "Monsieur, in a few days I shall be called the Comte 
 d'Aubrion: you will understand, therefore, that what you 
 threaten is of no consequence to me."
 
 104 EUGENIE GRANDET 
 
 Eugenie was sitting one afternoon on a bench in the garden, 
 when she received a letter from Charles informing her of his 
 return and of his approaching marriage to Mademoiselle 
 d'Aubrion, which would give him title and position. In a 
 postscript, he said: "I enclose a check on the Des Grassins's 
 bank for eight thousand francs to your order, payable in gold, 
 which includes the capital and interest of the sum you were 
 kind enough to lend me. . . . You can send my dressing-case 
 by the diligence to the Hotel d'Aubrion, Rue Hillerin-Bertin." 
 
 "My mother was right," said Eugenie, weeping. "Suffer 
 — and die!" 
 
 Madame des Grassins called with a letter she had received 
 from her husband in Paris. It detailed his call on Charles 
 Grandet and the latter's reply concerning his father's debts: 
 "There are twelve hundred thousand francs legitimately owing 
 to the creditors, and I shall at once declare his father a bank- 
 rupt. . . . Still, I have too much respect for Mademoiselle 
 Eugenie to act in this matter before you have spoken to her 
 about it." 
 
 Eugenie paused here, coldly said, "I thank you," and 
 returned the letter. 
 
 That evening she entertained the usual company, hiding 
 her misery behind a veil of courtesy, and when the party rose 
 to leave and M. de Bonfons was about to take his cane, she 
 said: 
 
 "Stay, Monsieur le President." 
 
 The President turned pale and resumed his seat. 
 
 When they were left alone, "Monsieur le President," said 
 Eugenie with emotion, " I know what pleases you in me. Swear 
 to leave me free during my whole life, to claim none of the 
 rights which marriage will give you over me, and my hand is 
 yours. Friendship is the only sentiment which I can give to 
 a husband. But you can possess my hand and my fortune 
 only at the cost of doing me an inestimable service. Here are 
 fifteen hundred thousand francs. Go to Paris, find Monsieur 
 des Grassins, learn the names of my uncle's creditors, pay them 
 in full, with interest at five per cent., and get full and legal 
 receipts. Take all these to my Cousin Grandet, and give them 
 to him with this letter. On your return I will keep my word."
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 105 
 
 When the President heard the exclamation of Charles Gran- 
 det when he put the receipts and his cousin's letter into his 
 hands, he could not repress a smile. 
 
 "We will announce our marriages at the same time," re- 
 marked M. de Bonfons. 
 
 "Ah! you marry Eugdnie? Well, I am delighted. But — 
 she must be rich!" 
 
 "She had," said the President, with a mischievous smile, 
 "about nineteen millions four days ago; she has only seventeen 
 to-day." 
 
 Charles looked at him thunderstruck. 
 
 "Seventeen mil " 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur, we shall muster between us an income of 
 seven hundred and fifty thousand francs." 
 
 Six months after the marriage of Eugenie and M. de Bon- 
 fons, he was appointed Councillor in the Cour Royale at Angers, 
 then Judge in the Superior Courts, and finally President of them. 
 He hoped to be returned to the Chamber of Deputies, and to 
 secure a peerage, but he died eight days after his election as 
 Deputy of Saumur. As he had drawn a careful contract in 
 which husband and wife gave to each other, in case they should 
 have no children, their entire property of every kind, all his 
 possessions fell to Eugenie. God thus flung piles of gold upon 
 this prisoner to whom gold was a matter of indifference, who 
 longed for heaven, who lived, pious and good, in holy thoughts, 
 succoring the unfortunate in secret, and never wearying of 
 such deeds. But, in spite of her vast wealth, she always lived 
 as the poor Eugenie Grandet once lived.
 
 PERE GORIOT (1835) 
 
 This tale is included in the Scenes de la Vie Privee. After appearing as a 
 serial in the Revue de Paris in 1834-1835, it was published in two volumes in 
 1835, and a second edition was called for the same year. According to Balzac's 
 own authority, he wrote the novel in twenty-five days. Pere Goriot has been 
 called "the French King Lear"; but it has no Cordelia to soften the sorrows of 
 the pathetic old man. Pere Goriot and Madame Vauquer appear in no other 
 work; but many of the other characters frequently reappear. This book in- 
 troduces the ubiquitous Eugene de Rastignac; and Vautrin, or Trompe-la-Mort, 
 who figures in Illusions Perdues and Splendeurs et Miseres, is of great importance 
 in this volume. Pere Goriot's two undutiful and ungrateful daughters, Madame 
 de Restaud and Madame de Nucingen, occur in other books and stories — 
 Madame de Beause"ant and the Marquis d'Ajuda in La Femme Abandonnee; 
 Poiret and La Michonneau in Splendeurs et Miseres, and Poiret also in Les 
 Employes; Bianchon is a familiar character in La Peau de Chagrin and many 
 novels of the Comedie; the Taillefers in L'Auberge Rouge; Maxime de Trailles 
 in Beatrix; and the Duchesse de Langeais, one of Balzac's most fascinating 
 women, in a story to which her name is given in the Histoire des Treize. 
 
 jHE Maison Vauquer, which had been kept by 
 Madame Vauquer for forty years, was in one of 
 the least known and ugliest quarters of Paris — 
 in the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve, not far 
 from the Pantheon. The front of this boarding- 
 house stood at right angles to the road, and 
 looked upon a little garden, in which grew arti- 
 chokes and rows of pyramidal fruit-trees, sur- 
 rounded by a border of lettuce, pot-herbs, and 
 parsley. Over the entrance were the words in large letters 
 Maison Vauquer, and beneath these, in small letters, Lodg- 
 ings for both sexes, etc. The house was three stories high ; and 
 there were five windows in each story, the blinds of which were 
 always awry. It was built of rough stone and covered with 
 yellowish stucco. A French window gave access to the sitting- 
 room on the ground floor — a dreary and depressing place, con- 
 nected by a door into the dining-room. The furniture was 
 covered with black horsehair; on a round marble-topped table, 
 in the center of the room, stood a white china tea-service ; and 
 
 106
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 107 
 
 the wall-paper above the wainscot was stamped with scenes 
 from Telemaque; that of Calypso's banquet to Ulysses had 
 suggested jokes to the boarders for forty years. The excessive 
 neatness of the hearth showed that a fire was rare; and on the 
 chimneypiece a vase filled with artificial flowers, imprisoned 
 under a glass shade, stood on either side of a very ugly bluish 
 marble clock. The damp, stuffy, musty, and rancid odor ex- 
 haled by this room, which might be termed "the boarding- 
 house smell," was like the delicate fragrance of a boudoir when 
 compared with that of the adjoining dining-room. So dirty 
 were the painted paneled walls that it was impossible to dis- 
 cover their real color. On the sticky surfaces of the sideboards 
 stood the glass decanters and blue earthenware plates; in one 
 corner a box with numbered pigeonholes was the custodian of 
 the boarders' wine-stained table-napkins. Lamps covered with 
 oil and dust, execrable engravings in black frames, a clock, a 
 green stove, and a table and chairs completed the furnishings. 
 The oilcloth that covered the long table was so greasy that a 
 waggish boarder would sometimes write his name on it with 
 his thumb-nail; the chairs were broken-down invalids; the 
 wretched little hempen mats would slip away beneath the feet; 
 the foot-warmers were hingeless, charred and broken; and the 
 red tiles of the floor were also full of depressions. In short, 
 this room expressed the reign of dire, parsimonious, concen- 
 trated, threadbare poverty. Madame Vauquer was the em- 
 bodiment and interpretation of her lodging-house: you could 
 not imagine the one without the other. She was about fifty, 
 sleek and corpulent, with a bloated countenance, a nose like a 
 parrot's, fat little hands, and a shapeless, slouching figure. 
 
 Madame Vauquer had seven lodgers. The best rooms on 
 the first floor were let to Madame Couture, the widow of a 
 commissary-general, and Victorine Taillefer, a schoolgirl to 
 whom she filled the place of a mother; Madame Vauquer oc- 
 cupied the other rooms. The second floor was occupied by 
 an old man named Poiret and a Monsieur Vautrin, who wore 
 a black wig and dyed whiskers and called himself a retired 
 merchant. Two of the four rooms on the third floor were also 
 let — one to a Mademoiselle Michonneau, an elderly spinster, 
 and the other to a retired manufacturer of vermicelli, Italian
 
 108 PERE GORIOT 
 
 paste and starch, called by all the boarders " Daddy Goriot." 
 One of the remaining rooms, allotted to birds of passage, was 
 occupied by Eugene de Rastignac, a young law-student from 
 the vicinity of Angouleme, one of a large family who pinched 
 and starved themselves to spare twelve hundred francs a year 
 for him. He was one of those who realize that their parents' 
 hopes are centered on them and prepare themselves for a great 
 career. 
 
 Above the third floor were a garret and two attics, in one of 
 which slept Christophe, the man-of-all-work ; and in the other, 
 Sylvie, the stout cook. Several law and medical students dined 
 at the Maison Vauquer, so there were usually eighteen or 
 twenty at the dinner-table. At breakfast, however, only the 
 seven lodgers appeared, and they came down in dressing-gowns 
 and slippers. The dreary surroundings of the house were re- 
 flected in the costumes of the boarders — all wore shabby, 
 threadbare, limp, frayed clothes ; and their faces were, as a rule, 
 hard and cold ; for these people had weathered the storms of life. 
 Mademoiselle Michonneau was angular and sharp; Poiret, a 
 sort of automaton; Victorine Taillefer, a pretty but unhappy 
 young girl, whose rich father intended to disinherit her for the 
 sake of her brother; Madame Couture devoted herself to this 
 almost penniless girl, who soon fell in love with Eugene de 
 Rastignac. Nothing escaped the hawk-eyed, jovial Vautrin, 
 who, despite his invariably good humor and gaiety of spirit, 
 was a mystery to the others. He often put his arm around 
 "Mamma," as he playfully called Madame Vauquer. There 
 was one butt and laughing-stock of the household — the re- 
 tired vermicelli merchant, Daddy Goriot, "upon whose face a 
 painter, like the historian, would have concentrated all the light 
 in his picture." Why did the boarders regard him with a half- 
 malignant contempt? 
 
 At the age of sixty-nine — about 1813 — Daddy Goriot had 
 sold his business and retired— to Madame Vauquer's. He 
 took rooms now occupied by Madame Couture, for which he 
 paid twelve hundred francs. He was called " Monsieur Goriot " 
 then. His fine wardrobe and collection of silver impressed 
 Madame Vauquer, who, despite his sunken and watery eyes, 
 the look of stupid good-nature in his full-moon countenance, and
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 109 
 
 his somewhat boorish manners, felt a desire "to shake off the 
 shroud of Vauqucr and rise again as Goriot." Her attentions 
 failed to bring about the desired result; and, toward the end 
 of the second year, M. Goriot asked for a room on the second 
 floor at a reduced price. Henceforth Madame Vauquer spoke 
 of him as Daddy Goriot. The boarders advanced many theo- 
 ries regarding his life, and were somewhat puzzled by calls 
 from two richly dressed, youthful ladies. At the end of the 
 third year, Daddy Goriot took a room on the third floor, 
 and did without snuff and hair-powder. The boarders were 
 astonished one day to see him appear at the table in his own 
 hair — a dingy olive-gray. He had grown sadder, too, under 
 the influence of some hidden trouble, and his face was dread- 
 fully wobegone. In the fourth year, he suddenly dropped 
 into his dotage: his keen, blue eyes had faded and grown dull, 
 and his red, swollen eyelids looked as if they had wept tears of 
 blood. 
 
 One evening, Madame Vauquer said half-banteringly : 
 
 "So those daughters of yours don't come to see you any 
 more, eh?" meaning to imply doubts upon his paternity. 
 Daddy Goriot was wounded to the quick : 
 
 "They come, sometimes," he said in a tremulous voice. 
 
 "Aha! You still see them sometimes?" cried the students. 
 "Bravo, Daddy Goriot!" 
 
 It was now November, 181 9. Eugene de Rastignac had 
 been in Paris for a year, taken a degree, visited his home and 
 returned to his studies. His head was full of dreams of social 
 success, and he was armed with an introduction to a distant 
 relative, Madame de Beauseant. She invited him to a ball; 
 and when he returned he sat down to study, but his mind was 
 dazzled by the recollection of the brilliant assembly, where he 
 had met the beautiful Countess Anastasie de Restaud and 
 fallen in love with her. She had invited him to call. While 
 dreaming of her, he heard a sigh from Daddy Goriot's room; 
 and, fearing that the old man was ill, looked through the 
 keyhole. He saw Daddy Goriot crushing and twisting a piece 
 of silver out of shape. Then he rolled it with wonderful dex- 
 terity. Tears fell from his eyes, and he blew out the dip that 
 had served for a light, murmuring the words "Poor child!"
 
 no PERE GORIOT 
 
 "He is mad!" thought Rastignac. 
 
 In the morning Vautrin told Madame Vauquer that he had 
 seen Daddy Goriot at half-past eight selling a piece of silver 
 to an old money-lender, Gobseck, in the Rue des Gres. While 
 they were gossiping, Daddy Goriot called Christophe, who soon 
 came down-stairs with a letter, which Vautrin seized, read 
 the address, Madame la Comtesse Anastasie de Restaud, and, 
 holding it to the light, discovered a receipted account. 
 
 The boarders gathered at the table. Eugene described the 
 ball, the beautiful woman he had seen there, and remarked 
 that he had seen her again that morning in the Rue des Gres. 
 
 Vautrin cut him short: "I think," he said, "she was going 
 to call on Gobseck, an old money-lender. Her name is Anas- 
 tasie de Restaud and she lives in the Rue du Helder." The 
 student stared at Vautrin. Daddy Goriot looked uneasy. 
 "Then Christophe was late, and she must have gone to him!" 
 he cried in anguish. When Eugene described Madame de Res- 
 taud's appearance, Goriot's eyes brightened and he devoured 
 every word. The boarders thought the worst of Daddy Goriot. 
 
 In the afternoon, Victorine and Madame Couture described 
 their unhappy visit to Monsieur Taillefer, who refused to do 
 anything for his daughter. Dinner was soon served, during 
 which the usual jests were made at Daddy Goriot's expense 
 and many silly jokes suggested by the newly invented diorama. 
 Every other word had to end in orama! They inquired for 
 each other's health-orama and noted the soup-orama, etc. 
 
 The next day, Eugene called on Madame de Restaud. On 
 his way to the drawing-room he heard voices and the sound 
 of a kiss. One of the speakers was Madame de Restaud ; the 
 other, Daddy Goriot ! On entering, he found his rival, Maxime 
 de Trailles, who was shown into the adjoining room, when 
 Daddy Goriot was dismissed. Eugene followed. Soon Mon- 
 sieur de Restaud entered, greeted Maxime and was introduced 
 to Eugene; and when he entered into conversation M. de 
 Restaud, the Countess, and Maxime retired to the boudoir. 
 When Maxime had left and the Countess had joined her hus- 
 band, Eugene asked about a mutual acquaintance, "Daddy 
 Goriot, his fellow-lodger." "Sir," said the Count, "you 
 might have called him Monsieur Goriot!" The Countess
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC in 
 
 turned pale and then red, "You could not know anyone who 
 is dearer to us both," she said, and going to the piano began 
 to play and sing. Eugene took his leave and drove to Madame 
 de Bcause'ant's, resolving to ask her to help him unravel the 
 mystery. Madame de Beausdant, absorbed in her own troubles 
 over the announced betrothal of her lover, the Marquis d'Ajuda- 
 Pinto, diverted her thoughts with her naive relative. She 
 promised to be his protector and initiate him into the ways of 
 gay Parisian society. She told him that Madame de Restaud 
 was the daughter of a vermicelli manufacturer named Goriot, 
 and that her sister, Delphine, had married a German banker, 
 Baron de Nucingen. Madame de Langeais, who was calling, 
 joined the Vicomtesse in telling the story of the Goriots. 
 
 "The kind father," said the Vicomtesse, "gave each daugh- 
 ter five or six hundred thousand francs to secure her happiness 
 by marrying her well; while he only kept eight or ten thousand 
 livres a year for himself, thinking that his daughters would 
 always be his daughters, thinking that in them he would live his 
 life twice over again, that in their houses he would have two 
 homes where he would be loved and looked up to and made 
 much of. And in two years' time both his sons-in-law had 
 turned him out of their houses as if he were an outcast." 
 
 Tears came into Eugene's eyes. "Daddy Goriot is sub- 
 lime," he said to himself, as he remembered how his neighbor 
 had worked his silver into a shapeless mass. When the 
 Duchesse de Langeais had gone, Madame de Beauseant told 
 Eugene more. The sisters were not on speaking terms. Res- 
 taud moved in court circles and his wife had been received. 
 Madame de Nucingen was not yet in society. "If you like," 
 said the Vicomtesse, "to introduce her to me, she will idolize 
 you. I will invite her to one of my great crushes, and bow 
 when I see her. If after that, you can love her, do so ; if not, 
 make use of her. You have shut the Comtesse de Restaud 's 
 door against you by mentioning Daddy Goriot. Now, let 
 Daddy Goriot take you to the house of the lovely Madame de 
 Nucingen. As soon as she singles you out, other women will 
 lose their heads over you and you will have success. This in 
 Paris is the key to power. You can then go everywhere, and 
 you will find out what the world is — an assemblage of knaves
 
 ii2 PERE GORIOT 
 
 and fools. I am giving you my name like Ariadne's clue of 
 thread to take with you into this labyrinth ; make no unworthy 
 use of it." 
 
 The transition from the elegances of the Countess de Res- 
 taud's home and the superb Hotel de Beauseant to the Mai- 
 son Vauquer was severe. The squalid dinner-table disgusted 
 Eugene. He grumbled a little, told some of his experiences 
 and championed Daddy Goriot. Vautrin was sarcastic and 
 Madame Vauquer amazed to learn that the old man was the 
 father of a countess and a baroness. The medical student, 
 Bianchon, made a capital joke to Rastignac. "That's about 
 all he is capable of," said he; "I have taken a look at his head; 
 there is only one bump — the bump of Paternity; he must be 
 an eternal father." 
 
 "So you have seen my daughter?" said Goriot tremulously 
 to Eugene. Eugene, taking his hand kindly, replied: "You 
 are a good and noble man. We will talk about your daughters 
 by and by." Eugene was busy with his own thoughts after 
 his first day on the battle-ground of Parisian society. Where 
 was he to find enough money? He wrote to his mother and 
 also to his sisters. He counted upon the noble, generous 
 natures buried in the lonely manor-house, and felt ashamed 
 of his selfishness. 
 
 Eugene now neglected his studies and plunged into society. 
 His mother and sisters sent two bags of money to him at the 
 Maison Vauquer, which did not escape Vautrin's keen eyes. 
 He took the "Marquis de Rastignacorama " out in the garden 
 for a little quiet talk under the lime-trees. He astonished the 
 somewhat haughty Eugene by an insight into his ambitions, 
 and riveted his attention. Then he had a business proposition 
 in which Eugene's money-bags were to play a conspicuous 
 part. He was to go out into the wilds of America with Vautrin 
 as business manager and he was to marry Victorine. She was 
 not long to be penniless, because Vautrin was going to get the 
 brother involved in a quarrel with one of his friends. A duel 
 would follow, the boy would be killed, and the bereaved father 
 would send for Victorine. Eugene considered Vautrin a devil 
 incarnate. In the meantime, Eugene had found out more 
 about Goriot. He was a workman in the employ of a vermi-
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 113 
 
 celli-maker, and bought his master's business after the troubles 
 of 1789. He established himself near the Corn Exchange and 
 made a great deal of money. When his wife died, the instinct 
 of fatherhood developed in him till it became a mania. All the 
 affection in his heart turned to his daughters. He lived for them, 
 gratified every whim, and spoiled them to excess. Each, free 
 to marry as she pleased, got what she wanted: Anastasie de- 
 sired social position, and became the Countess de Restaud; 
 Delphine desired money, and married a banker. To please 
 his daughters' ambitions, he sold out and took refuge at the 
 Maison Vauquer, when he was banished from his daughters' 
 rich homes. 
 
 Eugene was informed by Goriot of the houses at which 
 Madame de Nucingen was received. The old man got the in- 
 formation from his daughter's maid. A great friendship had 
 sprung up between Eugene and Goriot, for the latter was 
 thirsting for any knowledge of his daughters. 
 
 Eugene first saw Delphine at the theater, and lost his heart. 
 She was delighted to attract the attention of Madame de 
 Beauseant's escort. The Marquis d'Ajuda took Eugene to the 
 Nucingen box and introduced him. He talked to her of Daddy 
 Goriot and the Countess de Restaud, and a friendship was 
 established. When he went home, he told Daddy Goriot all 
 about Delphine. Eugene noted the terrible poverty of the 
 bedroom, in which there was no fire. It was like the worst 
 kind of a prison cell. Goriot described with passionate fervor 
 his love for his daughters; and when Eugene told him that he 
 had fallen in love with Delphine the old man was delighted. 
 
 Eugene had an invitation to dine at the Nucingens and go 
 to the opera; before dinner, however, the Baroness got him 
 to drive with her to the Palais-Royal and made him take her 
 purse and go into a gaming-house. He won, and brought 
 the seven thousand two hundred francs to her. She gave him 
 a wild embrace, and, as they drove back to her house, she told 
 him all of her private troubles. She made Eugene take some 
 of the money and sent the rest to a former lover, Monsieur de 
 Marsay. 
 
 On his return, Eugene visited old Goriot, and told him all 
 about the evening. The grieved father determined to see a 
 A.D., vol. h. — 8
 
 n 4 PERE GORIOT 
 
 lawyer and arrange so that Delphine should have more 
 money. 
 
 Eugene was now rushing society and fast turning into 
 a coxcomb. He squandered time and money, and then began 
 to gamble. He played high, and lost and won. Some of his 
 winnings he sent home. At last he got so far down in luck 
 and money that he accepted Vautrin's offer to cash a draft. 
 Victorine, seeing him in trouble, grew sympathetic. 
 
 At this juncture a detective, Gondureau, told Poiret and 
 Mademoiselle Michonneau that the so-called Vautrin, at the 
 Maison Vauquer, was a notorious convict, Jacques Collin, 
 nicknamed Trompe-la-Mort; but he wanted to make sure. 
 He proposed that Mademoiselle Michonneau pour the contents 
 of a small bottle, which he would send her, into Vautrin's 
 coffee, or wine. He would fall in a fit. Then they must carry 
 him to bed and undress him. A slap on the shoulder would 
 reveal the letters of this branded criminal — this man o] mark. 
 Mademoiselle Michonneau, who had suffered from Vautrin's 
 caustic tongue, agreed for a price. 
 
 Madame de Nucingen had driven Eugene to despair; and in 
 this mood he made love to Victorine. Vautrin was delighted 
 with the story of the betrothal that he read in their faces. He 
 told Eugene that everything was ready for the duel; and that, 
 by breakfast-time, Victorine would be an heiress. 
 
 Goriot entered and took Eugene away to inform him that 
 Delphine was out of sorts because she had something in her 
 mind. She was waiting for him — Goriot — to complete ar- 
 rangements for a set of chambers for Eugene. Goriot had 
 arranged with her attorney for her independent annuity; and 
 on the fifth floor above these rooms he was going to lodge. 
 "I shall not be in the way," he said, "but I shall be there, that 
 is all." 
 
 The next morning, as the boarders were breakfasting, a 
 messenger came for Victorine: her brother had been fatally 
 wounded in a duel! She left with Madame Couture. Made- 
 moiselle Michonneau watched Vautrin drink his coffee with in- 
 terest. The drug acted : Vautrin dropped as if dead. Made- 
 moiselle Michonneau followed the detective's orders, and found 
 the mark on his shoulder. When Vautrin had recovered and was
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 115 
 
 again in the dining-room, Bianchon facetiously referred to the 
 rioted Trompe-la-Mort, whereupon Vautrin was thunderstruck. 
 At this moment, soldiers appeared and arrested the notorious 
 Collin, whose black wig was snatched off and revealed a crop 
 of red hair. The boarders forced Madame Vauquer to turn 
 Mademoiselle Michonneau into "the streetorama" and Poiret 
 went with her. Five lodgers were now gone! Madame Vau- 
 quer was nearly collapsed. 
 
 What now? Goriot in a cab? 
 
 Daddy Goriot had come for Eugene! "I am going to dine 
 with my daughter in your house" he said; "do you under- 
 stand? She expects you. Come!" 
 
 The cab stopped in the Rue d'Artois. Eugene hesitated to 
 accept the beautiful apartment; but, to his surprise, Goriot 
 owned it all. He had sold out all his property to rent and fur- 
 nish it. A happy evening followed. When they returned, 
 they told Madame Vauquer that they were going to move. The 
 next day Eugene heard Delphine's voice in Daddy Goriot's 
 room. She was in trouble. The Baron had refused to let her 
 have her money. Madame de Restaud now arrived. She was 
 also in despair: she needed money for Maxime; she had sold 
 the family jewels that M. de Restaud prized so highly! Res- 
 taud had found out everything! 
 
 Daddy Goriot nearly went mad to see his daughters in 
 trouble. Anastasie was furious with Delphine when she 
 heard what her father had done. There was no money to meet 
 the demands of the daughters. Eugene dashed into the room 
 with Vautrin's old draft, which Anastasie made her father 
 indorse, although he was ill by this time. Then she disap- 
 peared, and Delphine went home to dress for the opera. Goriot, 
 nursed by Bianchon and Eugene, constantly talked of his 
 daughters. 
 
 Eugene went for Delphine ; but she was going to Madame de 
 Beauseant's ball. This was this great lady's farewell to the 
 world. She was going to bury her heart, broken by the Mar- 
 quis d'Ajuda, in Courcelles. Eugene handed her into her car- 
 riage, and returned to the Maison Vauquer in the cold dark- 
 ness. His education was nearly complete. 
 
 "There is no hope for Daddy Goriot," Bianchon told him
 
 u6 PERE GORIOT 
 
 on his arrival. The old man still talked of his daughters — 
 his tender-hearted Delphine and his darling Nasie! He called 
 for them; but they refused all summons. Eugene now went 
 to fetch them. M. de Restaud took no interest in the matter; 
 his wife could send only a message: she was under her hus- 
 band's tyranny. Delphine was in bed, and at first doubted 
 the seriousness of the case ; but she finally consented to accom- 
 pany Eugene. Daddy Goriot grew worse. In his inarticulate 
 moaning, they found he wanted a little locket — the symbol 
 of his heart, for it contained the childish hair of Delphine and 
 Anastasie. 
 
 "Ah! my angels!" were the last words the old man mur- 
 mured. Madame de Restaud now arrived in great distress; 
 but too late to obtain the forgiveness she desired. 
 
 The boarding-house dinner went on as usual. 
 
 Daddy Goriot was carried to the chapel of Saint-Etienne 
 du Mont. Christophe and Eugene were the only mourners; 
 and "two priests, a chorister, and a beadle did as much as could 
 be expected for seventy francs." They then went to Pere 
 Lachaise, followed by two empty carriages with the armorial 
 bearings of the Comte de Restaud and the Baron de Nucingen. 
 With the tear that he dropped on Daddy Goriot's grave, Eugene 
 de Rastignac's youth ended. He looked across the shining 
 world of Paris in the distance that he had longed to reach, and 
 said magniloquently : 
 
 "Henceforth, there is war between us!" 
 
 And by way of throwing down the glove to Society, he 
 went to dine with Madame de Nucingen!
 
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 u6 PERE GORJOT 
 
 rhe old man still daughters — 
 
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 Thi .--house dinner v. 
 
 loriot was carried to the chapel of Saint-Etienne 
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 "Ah, mv angels T were the last words theold man murmured < p. I r6) 
 
 Eichin* by E. Abot after the SMBfaffiB JKlA l^ch™™ 6 ™ 1 
 
 i the Baron de Nucingen. 
 i Daddy Goriot's grave, Eugene 
 looked across the shining 
 had longed to reach, and 
 
 is! 
 the glove to Societv, he 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 wl [„'■ .■A'.'iw ;n 
 
 1 
 1
 
 SERAPHITA (1835) 
 
 Seraphita first appeared in Le Livre Mystique, with Louis Lambert and Les 
 Proscrits (Paris, 1835). A portion of it had already been published in the 
 Revue de Paris in 1834. In 1840 it appeared in Le Livre des Douleurs; in 
 1842 it was republished with Louis Lambert. Since 1846 it has been included 
 in the Comedie in the Etudes Philosophiques. Balzac's personal estimate of this 
 work is very high. In his dedication to Madame de Hanska he said: "If I 
 should be accused of incapacity after trying to extract from the depths of mysti- 
 cism this book, which demanded the glowing poetry of the East under the trans- 
 parency of our beautiful language, the blame be yours! Did you not compel 
 me to the effort — such an effort as Jacob's — by telling me that even the most 
 imperfect outline of the figure dreamed of by you, as it has been by me from my 
 infancy, would still be something in your eyes? Here, then, is that something. 
 Why cannot this book be set apart exclusively for those lofty spirits who, like 
 you, are preserved from worldly pettiness by solitude!" In his Introduction 
 to the Comedy (1842), Balzac thus explains his aim: "Some persons, seeing me 
 collect such a mass of facts and paint them as they are, with passion for their 
 motive power, have supposed, but wrongly, that I must belong to the school 
 of Sensualism and Materialism — two aspects of the same thing — Pantheism. 
 But their misapprehension was perhaps justified — or inevitable. I do not 
 share the belief in indefinite progress for society as a whole; I believe in man's 
 improvement in himself. Those who insist in reading in me the intention to 
 consider man as a finished creation are strangely mistaken. Seraphita, the 
 doctrine in action of the Christian Buddha, seems to me an ample answer to 
 this rather heedless accusation. . . . The wonders of animal magnetism, with 
 which I have been familiar since 1820; the beautiful experiments of Gall, 
 Lavater's successor; all the men who have studied mind as opticians have 
 studied light — two not dissimilar things — point to a conclusion in favor of the 
 mystics, the disciples of St. John, and of those great thinkers who have estab- 
 lished the spiritual world — the sphere in which are revealed the relations of 
 God and man." 
 
 N May, 1800, the mountainous amphitheater en- 
 closing the Stromfiord between Drontheim and 
 Christ iania was still covered with snow and ice; 
 the falls of the Sieg even had not yet melted. It 
 was a daring thing, therefore, for two human 
 beings to mount the shelves of the Falberg to the 
 summit on their skis. Finally they paused, and 
 she whose name was Minna, looking down into 
 the abyss, was fascinated and overwhelmed with 
 the spectacle at her feet, and was about to throw herself down 
 the precipice in her vertigo, crying, "I am dying, my Seraphitus, 
 having loved no one but you!" 
 
 117
 
 n8 SERAPHITA 
 
 Seraphitus breathed softly on her brow and eyes, and im- 
 mediately she was calmed. 
 
 "Who and what are you?" she cried; "but I know, you 
 are my life." 
 
 Without replying, Seraphitus left her side and stood on the 
 very edge of the precipice, looking calmly into the gulf. Minna 
 called him back in agony and asked the source of such super- 
 human strength of mind. The strange being, raising his hand 
 toward the blue patch between the clouds, replied : 
 
 "You can look into far greater space without a qualm." 
 
 "But what a difference," she said, smiling. 
 
 "You are right," he replied. "We are born to aspire sky- 
 ward. Our native home, like a mother's face, never frightens 
 its children." 
 
 They proceeded till they reached a beautiful little meadow 
 full of alpine plants. In Minna's delight in his presence and 
 talk, she exclaimed that she never had seen Seraphitus so 
 beautiful. Seraphitus had a complexion like the internal glow 
 of an alabaster vase, and eyes that seemed to give out light 
 rather than receive it, a frame slight and fragile as a woman's, 
 but of wonderful strength, and hair with light curls. 
 
 Seraphitus repelled Minna's proffered embrace, and said 
 kindly: "Come!" To her gentle reproaches, Seraphitus re- 
 plied by exhorting her to a celestial love, when she would love 
 all creatures, and added: "Some day, perhaps, we may meet 
 in the world where love never dies." 
 
 Then he said: "I can give nothing that you want. Why 
 do you not love Wilfrid? He will be your lover, your hus- 
 band. I wanted a companion to go with me to the realm of 
 light. I thought to show her this ball of clay, and I find that 
 you still cling to it. Adieu ! Remain as you are, enjoy through 
 your senses, obey your nature; turn pale with pale men, blush 
 with women, play with children, pray with sinners, look up 
 to heaven when you are stricken; tremble, hope, yearn; you 
 will have a comrade, you still may laugh and weep, give and 
 receive. For me — I am an exile far from heaven; like a mon- 
 ster, far from earth ! My heart beats for none ; I live in my- 
 self, for myself alone. I feel through my spirit, I breathe by 
 my brain, I see by my mind, I am dying of impatience and
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 119 
 
 longing. No one here below can satisfy my wishes or soothe 
 my eagerness; and I have forgotten how to weep. I am alone 
 — I am resigned, and can wait." 
 
 They returned to the valley. 
 
 "Make haste, pretty one, the night is falling," said Sera- 
 
 phitus. 
 
 The voice startled Minna : it was as clear as a girl's. Manly 
 strength seemed leaving Seraphitus. They hurried through 
 the village of Jar vis to the parsonage, where Pastor Becker 
 sat reading. He affectionately welcomed the pair; and Sera- 
 phitus invited Minna and her father to tea two days later. 
 
 When Seraphitus arrived at the old Swedish castle, David, 
 a man of eighty, came out to welcome the owner. Seraphitus 
 declined refreshment, and lay down to sleep, while the old man 
 lingered in loving contemplation of the strange being the ques- 
 tion of whose sex was so puzzling. He wept as he thought: 
 " She is suffering and will not tell me." 
 
 In the evening David came into the drawing-room. "I 
 know who is coming," said Seraphita; "Wilfrid may come in." 
 
 Wilfrid had come to urge her to accept his undying devo- 
 tion; but she reasoned with him as she had reasoned with 
 Minna. Among other things, she said : 
 
 "You know full well that I can never be yours. Two 
 feelings rule the love that attracts the women of this earth: 
 either they devote themselves to suffering creatures, degraded 
 and guilty, whom they desire to comfort, to raise, to redeem, 
 or they give themselves wholly to superior beings, sublime and 
 strong, whom they are fain to worship and understand — by 
 whom they are too often crushed. You have been degraded, 
 but you have purified yourself in the fires of repentance, and 
 you now are great; I feel myself too small to be your equal, 
 and I am too religious to humble myself to any power but that 
 of the Most High." 
 
 Seraphita told him that she loved him truly, and Minna 
 also, but to her they were one being. She begged him to 
 marry Minna, so that she might see them happy before quitting 
 this sphere forever. 
 
 "Yes, I should be sorry to see you married to Minna, but 
 promise me to make her your wife when you see me no more.
 
 120 SERAPHITA 
 
 Heaven intends you for each other. ... I torture you, and 
 you come to this wild country to find rest — you who are racked 
 by the fierce throes of misunderstood genius, worn out by the 
 patient labors of science, who have almost stained your hands 
 by crime and worn the chains of human justice." 
 
 Wilfrid fell to the floor in agony. Seraphita breathed on 
 his brow, and he fell asleep. Laying her hand on his brow, 
 she explained to him her feelings and mystical love, exhorting 
 him to rise to the rank of those who are in the circle of love and 
 wisdom and who aspire to celestial illumination. She con- 
 cluded : 
 
 "Now gaze at me for a moment, for you will henceforth 
 see me but darkly, as you behold me by the light of the dull 
 sun of the earth." 
 
 She gazed at him with her head gently bent on one side, 
 her hair flowing about her in the airy grace which the sublimest 
 painters have attributed to messengers from heaven; and the 
 folds of her dress had the indescribable grace which makes the 
 artist stop to gaze at the exquisite flowing veil of the antique 
 statue of Polyhymnia. When Wilfrid awoke, Seraphita, lying 
 on her bearskin, with calm face and shining eyes, dismissed 
 him with an invitation to come to tea with the Beckers. 
 
 Outside he gazed up at the lights in the windows of the 
 castle and asked himself whether he was awake or sleeping. 
 To recover his mental balance, he went to the manse to spend 
 the evening. 
 
 Pastor Becker was seated in his large armchair near the 
 stove and in front of a table on which were books, one of which 
 he was reading, and for extra comfort he had his feet in a foot- 
 muff. A beer-jug and a glass were on his right, while on his 
 left stood a smoky lamp. He was of about sixty years, with a 
 noble Rembrandtesque face and head, and as he smoked his 
 long pipe, he occasionally watched the spirals of smoke with 
 a speculative eye while digesting what he was reading. Minna 
 was sitting opposite him, sewing. Her fresh young face, deli- 
 cately pure in outline, harmonized with the innocence that 
 shone on her white brow and in her bright eyes. Her attitude 
 as she sat forward on her chair leaning slightly toward the 
 light, showed the grace of her figure. She presented the most
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 121 
 
 complete and typical image of woman born to earthly duties, 
 whose eye might pierce the clouds of the sanctuary, while a 
 mind at once humble and charitable kept her on the level of 
 man. 
 
 Until the silence was broken by Wilfrid, the only sound was 
 the heavy step of the kitchen-maid and the sizzle of the dried 
 fish in the frying-pan in the next room. 
 
 Wilfrid asked the Pastor for information about the strange 
 being who dwelt at the Castle. He had been six months in the 
 village, and he found that the chains that were binding him 
 were likely to make his stay permanent. On the very first day 
 he fell under Seraphita's enchantment. The Pastor asked, 
 "Are enchantments possible?" and Wilfrid replied that the 
 man who at that moment was so conscientiously studying 
 Jean Wier's Incantations would understand his own sensa- 
 tions. After describing Seraphita's mysterious influence over 
 him, he concluded: "I have for the past few days been wan- 
 dering round this abyss of madness too helplessly to keep 
 silence any longer. I have, therefore, seized a moment when 
 I find courage enough to resist the monster that drags me to 
 her presence without asking whether I have strength enough 
 to keep up with his flight. Who is she? Did you know her 
 as a child? Was she ever born? Had she parents? Was 
 she conceived by the union of sun and ice? She freezes and 
 she burns; she comes forth, and then vanishes like some coy 
 truth; she attracts and repels one; she alternately kills and 
 vivifies me; I love her, and I hate her! I cannot live thus. 
 I must be either in heaven altogether, or in hell." 
 
 The Pastor listened with a mysterious expression, glancing 
 occasionally at his daughter, who seemed to understand Wil- 
 frid's words. 
 
 "My dear guest," he said, "to explain her birth it will be 
 necessary to disentangle the obscurest of all Christian creeds," 
 and he proceeded to give a detailed description of Sweden- 
 borg's life, writings, beliefs, and teachings. 
 
 Swedenborg was especially attached to Baron Seraphitus, 
 his most zealous disciple, who was in search of a woman with 
 the angelic spirit, and Swedenborg revealed her in a vision, 
 saying the life of heaven shone brightly in her and she had gone
 
 122 SERAPHITA 
 
 through the first tests. She was the daughter of a London 
 shoemaker. After the prophet was translated, the Baron came 
 here to Jarvis to solemnize his heavenly nuptials in the prac- 
 tise of prayer. The earthly life of the couple was undoubtedly 
 that of the saints whose virtues are the glory of the Roman 
 Church. They were extremely charitable; they were never 
 angry or impatient, but invariably gentle and beneficent, full 
 of amiability, graciousness, and true kindness. Their marriage 
 was the harmony of two souls in constant union. The wife 
 was simple in manner, sweetly dignified, and lovely in face and 
 form. 
 
 In 1783 Seraphita was born. Previously her parents had 
 lived in the greatest retirement in perpetual prayer. They 
 hoped to see Swedenborg. At Seraphita's birth Swedenborg 
 appeared and filled the room with light. He said: "The work 
 is accomplished; the heavens rejoice." The servants heard 
 strange sounds of music, brought, they declared, by the four 
 winds. Swedenborg led the Baron out to the fiord and left 
 him in ecstasy. 
 
 "I met him on my way to the Castle. His face was radiant, 
 and his whole appearance inspired. He said: 'Your minis- 
 trations are superfluous; our child is to be nameless on earth. 
 You will not baptize with earthly waters one who has been 
 bathed in fires from heaven. This child will always be a 
 flower; you will not see it grow old; you will see it pass away. 
 You have existence, it has life; you have external senses, it 
 has not; it is wholly inward.' 
 
 "He told me he had just parted with Swedenborg and felt 
 the glory of heavenly love. I went with him to see the child. 
 As I entered the room, Seraphita raised her head and looked at 
 me. Her eyes already saw and understood. . . . She never 
 was seen nude; she lay spotless on her mother's breast, and 
 never cried; no other hand ever touched her. At the age of 
 nine, she began to be absorbed in prayer, which is her life. 
 In church she is set apart from the other worshipers; if 
 space is not left about her she is ill. She spends most of her 
 time indoors — her faculties and feelings are essentially in- 
 ward. She is commonly in a state of mystical contemplation. 
 Her understanding, soul, body, everything about her is as
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 123 
 
 virginal as the snow on our mountains. When she was nine, 
 her parents died at the same instant, painlessly and without 
 any visible malady, after naming the hour at which they should 
 die. She looked at them calmly, displaying neither grief nor 
 pain, neither joy nor curiosity. Her parents smiled upon her. 
 When we went to carry them away she said: 'Take them 
 away.' When I asked her whether she were not grieved at 
 their death, she said : 'Dead! No; they are still in me. This 
 is nothing!' . . . 
 
 "Poor girl! she has inherited the fatal enthusiasm of her 
 parents. She fasts in a way that drives poor old David to 
 despair. His mistress, whose incomprehensible language he 
 has adopted, is to him the breeze and sunshine ; to him her feet 
 are diamonds; her forehead crowned with stars; she moves 
 environed by a white and luminous halo; her voice has an 
 accompaniment of music; she has the gift of becoming invisible. 
 . . . The fishermen declare they have seen her plunge into 
 the fiord and reappear as an eider-duck and walk on the waves 
 in a storm. The herdsmen say the sky in rainy weather is 
 always clear over the Castle, and always blue over her head 
 when she goes out." 
 
 Wilfrid asked to look at Swedenborg's works, and began 
 to read. After supper, the men read, while Minna sewed and 
 dreamed over her recollections. 
 
 At midnight the outer door was suddenly pushed open and 
 heavy, hasty steps of a terrified man were heard in the vestibule. 
 David burst into the room, crying: "Violence! Come! The 
 devils are unchained! They wear miters of flame — Adonis, 
 Vertumnus, the Sirens — they are tempting her! Come, and 
 drive them away!" The Pastor laughed at the old man's 
 terror; but Wilfrid and Minna were deeply affected. David 
 said that for nearly five hours she had been standing with eyes 
 raised and arms uplifted in torment, calling upon God. David 
 could not cross the line; the devils had raised an iron barrier 
 between him and her. His despair was terrible. 
 
 They all hastened to the Castle, Wilfrid and Minna in 
 advance. 
 
 "What a blaze of light!" cried Minna, as they reached the 
 parlor window. "There he is! Great God! and how beau-
 
 124 SERAPHITA 
 
 tiful! Oh, my Seraphitus, take me to thee!" She saw Sera- 
 phitus standing in an opal-tinted mist, which was diffused all 
 round the phosphorescent body. 
 
 "How lovely she is!" exclaimed Wilfrid. The Pastor now 
 came up, and looked in: "Well, David, she is saying her 
 prayers!" Suddenly all was dark. They walked home in 
 silence. Pastor Becker felt doubt; Minna, adoration; Wil- 
 frid, desire. 
 
 Wilfrid was thirty-six: he was of middle height and well- 
 proportioned, and he had thick black hair and brown eyes, 
 with strong features. Intellectually, he was truly balanced. 
 He had been a student and kept late hours in European cap- 
 itals, seen active service, and traveled extensively. He had 
 studied matter and spirit and had the longing for the Beyond 
 which comes to most men of knowledge, power, and will. Com- 
 ing by chance to Jarvis, he saw Seraphita one day, and all 
 memories of his past were wiped out. He did not offer her 
 the ordinary idealization of lovers, but really believed in her 
 divinity. From the first moment, when he suspected the 
 ethereal nature of this sorceress who had told him the secret 
 of his life in harmonious dreams, he resolved to try to subjugate 
 her and steal her from heaven. He would be the representative 
 of humanity, of this earth, recapturing their prey. 
 
 The next day, therefore, on the pretext of inquiring for 
 news of Seraphita, he went to cross-examine David. The old 
 man explained in ecstatic language how the devils tempted, 
 while the archangels stood afar and looked on. Mammon, 
 Lucifer, the Prince of Serpents, the Queen of the Covetous, 
 the Sea in her mantle of green, the Animal with the talons of 
 an eagle, the legs of a lion, the head of a woman, and the body 
 of a horse, the Child with its plaints, Song with its music, the 
 Kings of the East with its luxury, the wounded clamoring for 
 help, the wretched, crying, "Do not leave us," Flowers with 
 their perfumes, the Giant Anakim bringing Gold; their com- 
 rades and all the Spirits of the Astral Worlds who had followed 
 them, Death promising obedience, and Life saying, "I will 
 not desert thee!" They all cried: "We have fed thee; thou 
 art our child! Do not forsake us!" The angelic spirits 
 marveled at her constancy, and chorused "Courage!" At last
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 125 
 
 she triumphed over Desire, unchained to rend her, in every 
 shape and species. 
 
 Wilfrid went back to the manse and discussed the affair 
 with the Pastor, who thought that Scraphita was merely mad. 
 Wilfrid could not understand her vast knowledge, when she 
 never had been beyond the fiord, nor ever read a book, except 
 Swedenborg's writings. When Minna came in, and her father 
 asked her how her spirit-friend was, she replied: "He is 
 suffering, father. The passions of humanity, tricked out in 
 their false splendor, tortured him in the night and spread in- 
 credible pomp before his eyes." 
 
 Wilfrid asked her whether she believed in the reality of 
 these apparitions. She replied: 
 
 "Who can doubt, that hears him tell of them?" 
 
 "Him? Who?" asked Wilfrid. " You speak of Seraphita ? " 
 
 She hung her head and replied: "Yes, you too take pleasure 
 in confusing my mind. What is your idea of her?" 
 
 "What I feel is inexplicable." 
 
 "You are both mad," said the Pastor. 
 
 The next evening was to them what the supper at Emmaus 
 was to the three travelers. The aspects of the world were to 
 be revealed, veils rent, and doubts dispelled. 
 
 On being shown in by old David, they found Seraphita 
 standing by the tea-table. She greeted them affectionately, 
 and told the Pastor that he did well to come, because he was 
 seeing her, perhaps, for the last time, for the winter had killed 
 her. He replied that he wanted more of her than the dainties 
 of her tea-table, and would like her to clear up some of their 
 doubts. Seraphita at great length then gave them her ideas 
 on Spirit and Matter, Skepticism and Belief, Number and 
 Motion, Finite and Infinite, Affinities and Similarities. In con- 
 clusion she said: "All your sciences of to-day, which make 
 you so great in your own eyes, are a mere trifle compared with 
 the light that floods the Seer. Cease to question me: we speak 
 a different language. I have used yours for once to throw a 
 flash of faith upon your souls, to cast a corner of my mantle 
 over you and tempt you away to the glorious regions of prayer. 
 Is it God's part to stoop to you? Is it not yours rather to rise 
 to Him? The Seer and the believer have within themselves
 
 i 2 6 SERAPHITA 
 
 eyes more piercing than are those eyes which are bent on things 
 of earth, and they discern a dawn. Your most exact sciences, 
 your boldest speculations, your brightest flashes of light are 
 but clouds. Above them all is the sanctuary whence the true 
 Light is shed." 
 
 The subject then dropped, and during the general conver- 
 sation, Wilfrid asked her why she did not marry. She said 
 she had been betrothed from her birth, and she would invite 
 them to her wedding. She privately told Wilfrid that she had 
 divined his wishes, and begged him to cease to cherish evil 
 thoughts whose triumph would be a torment to endure. To 
 Minna, Seraphita said: "If you could not look into the gulf 
 without destruction, keep your powers for him who will love 
 you. Go, poor child, I am betrothed, as you know." 
 
 On their way home, the Pastor said he began to think she 
 was a spirit veiled in human form; Wilfrid was calmed, con- 
 vinced and defeated; Minna said to herself : " Why will he not 
 allow me to love him?" 
 
 Several days passed, during which Seraphita remained in 
 seclusion. When Minna was admitted, she noticed that 
 Seraphita's voice was hollow, and her complexion wan. "We 
 shall lose him," said Minna, when she met Wilfrid outside. 
 "Yes, I love him; why should I not be free to declare my 
 affection? In the presence of Death we may all confess our 
 attachment, and Seraphitus is dying." Wilfrid could not dis- 
 abuse her mind of this idea. 
 
 One day they met Seraphita coming out of the Castle, fol- 
 lowed by David, and she invited them to accompany her to 
 the Sieg, which was now falling in a silvery veil. They were 
 all silent for a time in contemplation of the exquisite beauty of 
 spring. 
 
 While Minna was climbing a crag for some blue saxifrages, 
 Wilfrid made a passionate appeal to Seraphita to join him in 
 furthering his ambitious schemes, which contemplated the over- 
 throw of the English rule in Asia. He was chilled by her reply 
 that she had reigned already: beings more powerful than he 
 had offered her more; she was loved with a boundless love. 
 Minna returned with a nosegay, telling her that she was more 
 beautiful to her than this lovely scenery and she only wished
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 127 
 
 she could suffer instead of Seraph ita. Seraphita took a last 
 farewell of the sublime landscape, and to all humanity, and 
 had to be helped back to the Castle. 
 
 The next day Wilfrid and Minna went to see her, lying on 
 her couch of furs. David was weeping, and refused to listen 
 to her consolations. She refused the Pastor's urgent insistence 
 that she should take any remedies. Minna at last learned that 
 the being that Seraphitus loved above all others was God. 
 Minna knelt and begged to be led to Him. Wilfrid also cried : 
 "Lead us, Seraphita, you have made me thirst for the Light 
 and for the Word. If I may not win you, I will treasure every 
 feeling that you can infuse, as part of you." With a look that 
 enfolded them both, the incomprehensible being cried: "Angel! 
 Heaven is thine inheritance!" She then instructed them how 
 God must be sought, through rough ways, for His own sake, 
 and showed how efficacious were the means of entering on the 
 road by silence, meditation, and prayer, and uttered her last 
 dying hymn to the Almighty. Like a white dove, the soul 
 hovered for a moment above this body, of which the exhausted 
 materials were about to dissever. The aspiration of this soul 
 to Heaven was so infectious that Wilfrid and Minna failed to 
 discern Death, and were inspired by the ecstasy of Seraphitus. 
 They could not tell how they found themselves on the border- 
 line of the visible and the invisible, nor how they had lost sight 
 of the visible and perceived only the invisible. They saw the 
 Spirit knock at the sacred gate, and heard the questioning of 
 the choir within. They heard the soul's reply: "I have con- 
 quered the flesh by abstinence; I have vanquished false speech 
 by silence, false knowledge by humility, pride by charity, and 
 the earth by love. I have paid my tribute of suffering. I am 
 purified, by burning for the faith. I have striven for life by 
 prayer; I wait, adoring, and I am resigned." 
 
 When no reply came, the Spirit cried: "The Lord be 
 praised!" His tears flowed, and fell on the kneeling witnesses. 
 Then suddenly the trumpet sounded for the victory of the 
 Angel in this last test. The veils were rent, and from an im- 
 measurable height they saw the messenger bearing the good 
 tidings. With a palm he touched the Spirit, and its white 
 wings spread. The watchers then saw the Seraph rise through
 
 i 2 8 SERAPHITA 
 
 blinding lights and melodies into the infinite space. Wilfrid 
 and Minna in their vision understood some of the mysterious 
 words of the being who on earth had appeared to them under 
 the form which was intelligible to each — Seraphitus to one; 
 Seraphita to the other. On their way back to earth from 
 their vision of the higher mysteries, they leaned on each other 
 for love and strength. They took each other by the hand. 
 "Whither are you going?" asked Pastor Becker. "To God!" 
 said they. " Come with us, Father."
 
 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY (1836) 
 
 Among his own novels this was one of Balzac's favorites. In 1835 he wrote 
 to Madame Hanska: "I am writing a great and beautiful work, entitled Le Lys 
 dans la Vallee, the heroine of which is to represent terrestrial perfection as 
 Seraphita is to represent celestial perfection." A little later he wrote: "But 
 the Lily I If the Lily is not a breviary for women, I am nothing! In it virtue 
 is sublime and not at all tiresome." He also called it "the poetic pendant of 
 The Country Doctor, and in his dedication to Dr. Nacquart he wrote: "Here is 
 one of the most highly wrought stones of the second story of a literary edihce 
 that is being slowly and laboriously constructed." The book was published in 
 1836, before which time parts of it had appeared in the Revue de Paris. It 
 was not finished in that publication, because it was the occasion of a lawsuit, 
 which Balzac won. An account of this appeared in the first edition. Some of the 
 characters appear in other books: the hero, Felix de Vandenesse, in Une Fille 
 d'Eve ("A Daughter of Eve"); his brother Charles in La Femme de Trente Ans 
 ("The Woman of Thirty"); Madeleine de Mortsauf in Memoires de Deux 
 Jeunes Mariees ("Memoirs of Two Young Wives") and Splendeurs et Miseres 
 ("Splendors and Miseries"); and Natalie de Manerville in Le Contrat de Mariage 
 ("The Marriage Contract"). When writing his introduction to the Comcdie 
 Humaine, Balzac remarked: "A sure grasp of the purport of this work will 
 make it clear that I attach to common, daily facts, hidden or patent to the eye, 
 to the acts of individual lives and to their causes and principles, the importance 
 which historians have hitherto ascribed to the events of public national life. 
 The unknown struggle which goes on in a valley of the Indre between Madame 
 de Mortsauf and her passion is perhaps as great as the most famous of battles. 
 In one, the glory of the victor is at stake; in the other, it is heaven." 
 
 N a letter to Madame la Comtesse Natalie de 
 Manerville, from one who signs himself "Felix," 
 is the following: I yield to your wish. You want 
 my past: here it is. . . . Well, you have guessed 
 rightly, Natalie, and it is better perhaps that you 
 should know everything: yes, my life is over- 
 shadowed by a phantom; it asserts itself vaguely 
 at the least word that evokes it; it often hovers 
 over me unbidden. I have, buried within my 
 soul, astounding memories, like those marine growths that may 
 be seen in calm waters, and that the surges of the storm fling 
 in fragments on the shore. ... I only wish my confidence 
 might increase your tenderness twofold. 
 
 A tender, frail, sickly, and sensitive child, misunderstood 
 a.d., vol. n. — 9 I2 9
 
 i 3 o THE LILY OF THE VALLEY 
 
 and neglected by my parents, and so unhappy that I cursed my 
 existence, I spent my early life in Tours. At fifteen I was sent 
 to a boarding-school in Paris; and at nineteen was suddenly 
 taken back to Tours by my parents, on account of the political 
 troubles. I watched my mother anxiously to discover whether 
 there were in her heart a friable spot where I could insert some 
 buds of affection. I flung myself desperately into my father's 
 library, where I read all the books I did not already know. I 
 longed for death. Great events, of which I knew nothing, 
 were then in the air. The Due d'Angouleme, having left Bor- 
 deaux to join Louis XVIII in Paris, was to be the recipient 
 of an ovation. Touraine prepared for a great ball. To my 
 amazement, in the absence of my father and brother, I was 
 chosen to escort my mother. When I was dressed, I was so 
 little like myself that my sister's compliments gave me courage 
 to make my appearance before the whole of assembled Touraine. 
 Dazzled by the lights, the crimson hangings, the gilt orna- 
 ments, the dresses and diamonds, pushed and hustled, too shy 
 and awkward to ask anyone to dance with me, I took refuge 
 at the extreme end of a vacant bench. A woman, misled by 
 my delicate looks, took me for a boy half-asleep, and seated 
 herself by me with the light movement of a bird settling on its 
 nest. I was at once aware of a feminine fragrance which flashed 
 upon my soul as Oriental poetry has flashed upon it since. I 
 was more dazzled by her than I had been by the ball. My 
 eyes were suddenly fascinated by the white, rounded shoulders. 
 Looking round to make sure that no one saw me, I kissed those 
 shoulders, rubbing my cheek against them. The lady gave a 
 piercing cry, turned sharply around and said, "Monsieur!" 
 I was petrified by a look fired with righteous anger. She rose 
 and walked away with the dignity of a queen. I went home and 
 to bed, an altered creature. A new soul, a soul with iridescent 
 wings, had burst its chrysalis within me. My favorite star, drop- 
 ping from the blue waste, had become Woman, while preserving 
 its light, its sparkle, and its brilliancy. Suddenly, knowing 
 nothing of love, I had fallen in love. As I thought that my 
 chosen lady dwelt in Touraine, I inhaled the air with rapture; 
 I saw a blue in the sky which I have never since perceived else- 
 where. Though mentally in ecstasy, I seemed to be ill; my
 
 HONORE DE BAIZAC 131 
 
 mother, alarmed and remorseful, decided that I should spend 
 a few days at Frapesle, a chateau on the Indre, between Mont- 
 vazon and Azay-le-Ridcau, with a friend of hers. I knew not 
 my fair one's name; but as I passed through the emerald 
 valley of the Indre, I thought if this woman, the flower of her 
 sex, inhabits a spot on earth, it must be this ! My heart had not 
 deceived me: it was there that she dwelt; the first chateau I 
 could see was her home! Her cambric dress was the white 
 spot I could see among some vines under a pleached alley. 
 She was the Lily of the Valley, where she grew for heaven, 
 filling it with her virtues. My host, Monsieur de Chesscl, 
 afterward told me that this chateau was Clochegourde, and 
 belonged to the Comte de Mortsauf, a representative of an old 
 Touraine family. "Does she often go to Tours?" I asked. 
 "She went there lately on the occasion when the Due d'An- 
 gouleme passed through," he replied. He offered to take me 
 to Clochegourde. 
 
 As I mounted the winding road to Clochegourde, my heart 
 throbbed in anticipation of the secret events which were about 
 to transform it once for all. A servant told us that Monsieur 
 le Comte had gone to Azay ; but that Madame la Comtesse was at 
 home. She appeared at the drawing-room door, and our eyes 
 met. Which of us reddened most deeply, I do not know. She 
 returned to her seat in front of an embroidery-frame, counted 
 two or three stitches, and then raised her proud yet gentle head 
 to ask M. de Chessel to what happy chance she owed the 
 pleasure of his visit. M. de Chessel told her that my parents 
 had brought me home to Tours when the war threatened Paris, 
 and as I was exhausted by my studies, they had sent me to 
 Frapesle to rest and amuse myself. We remained at Cloche- 
 gourde to dinner. 
 
 Felix now described the house, the beautiful view, the two 
 frail children, Madeleine and Jacques, and the Count, who, 
 though only five-and-forty, appeared to be sixty. He was 
 nearly bald, his face looked like that of a white wolf with a 
 blood-stained muzzle. Yet, for all this, he had the air of a 
 gentleman. His lack of vitality had been transmitted to his 
 children, and their health was the one thought of their devoted 
 mother. Monsieur de Mortsauf's strength had been under-
 
 i 3 2 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY 
 
 mined by suffering. A devoted adherent of the Bourbons, he 
 had served in the army, been exiled, and seen days of abject 
 misery and illness. He was now suffering from a disease which 
 had developed a capricious temper and hypochondria. His 
 gentle wife, fully appreciating his condition, endeavored to 
 clothe this ruin with the ivy of her gracious nature. Felix 
 soon understood the situation. He grew deeper and deeper in 
 love, and became a constant visitor at the chateau. He at- 
 tempted also to entertain the querulous Count, by taking long 
 walks with him and playing backgammon. One evening, after 
 Felix had beaten the Count, and the latter, swept by a terrible 
 gust of passion, poured forth a perfect storm of abuse, Felix 
 walked alone on the terrace. He was soon joined by Madame 
 de Mortsauf, who begged him to forget the scene; but she told 
 him that his sympathetic friendship was a support to her. 
 Felix tried to apologize for his behavior at the ball; but she 
 would not talk about this episode. He told her, however, how 
 love had come into his heart through her, and told her the story 
 of his unhappy childhood. She exclaimed that her childhood 
 also had been a time of great unhappiness, and confided to 
 Felix the sorrows of her married life. 
 
 "I have entered into your sorrows and I am one with your 
 soul," said Felix. "I am yours without reserve and will be just 
 what you wish me to be." She checked him by a gesture, 
 saying: "I consent to the compact if you will never strain the 
 ties that bind us." She added: "Monsieur de Mortsauf calls 
 me Blanche. The one person I loved best, my adorable aunt, 
 used to call me Henriette. I will be Henriette again for you." 
 
 Great changes suddenly took place. On the restoration 
 of the Bourbons, the Count was promoted to Major- General, 
 and received the Cross of St. Louis and a pension of four 
 thousand francs. The Countess's father, the Due de Lenon- 
 court-Givry, was made a peer, with an appointment at court, 
 and his wife's property was restored. Thus, Madame de Mort- 
 sauf became a great heiress. 
 
 Felix and the Countess discussed the future — the future of 
 her children, and his future. The Countess, who noticed little 
 Madeleine's hand in his, offered it to him. 
 
 "Madeleine!" he cried. "Never!"
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 133 
 
 These two words left them silent and greatly agitated. 
 Felix's own narrative continued: 
 
 "I was ere long one of the family. But if I had the de- 
 lights of being thus naturalized in a family where I made re- 
 lationships after my own heart, I also paid the penalties. The 
 Count's intolerable temper grew worse and worse, and his de- 
 light in domineering over his sensitive wife increased daily. 
 She turned to me more and more for sympathy." 
 
 When Felix left for Paris, he carried with him a loving letter 
 from the Countess full of advice; and through her influence, 
 Felix found favor with Louis XVIII. Eight months later, he 
 again visited Clochegourde. He spent several days at the 
 chateau and returned to Paris. 
 
 On a leave of absence, Felix hastened to Clochegourde. 
 Henriette had had a vision of the future, in which Felix had 
 turned his back upon her. Felix vowed his undying love. 
 Madame de Mortsauf grew daily more unhappy in her married 
 life, and cast her burdens upon the sympathetic Felix. The 
 Count had a terrible illness and was tenderly nursed by his 
 wife and Felix; but upon recovery he became even more 
 tyrannical. The King summoned Felix back to Paris. 
 
 "At this juncture," says Felix, "I met in the rooms of the 
 Elysee one of those superb English ladies who are almost 
 queens. She was a beauty and a wit, and married to a dis- 
 tinguished British peer. She had become the idol of Parisian 
 society. My acquaintance with Lady Dudley was notorious; 
 and my obstinacy increased her passion. . . . Protected as I 
 was by my passion for Henriette, still I was not at an age to 
 be insensible to the threefold attractions of pride, devotion, and 
 beauty, that said : ' If I were loved as Madame de Mortsauf is, 
 I would sacrifice everything to you.' One evening, after a 
 party, where she had shone with such beauty that she was sure 
 of having captivated me, I found her in my rooms. Lady 
 Arabella was the mistress of my body; Madame de Mortsauf 
 was the wife of my soul. Being a traitor, I became a cheat. 
 I wrote to Madame de Mortsauf as if I were still the boy in the 
 ill-made coat she was so fond of; but I own her gift of second- 
 sight appalled me, when I thought of the disaster any indis- 
 cretion might bring on the charming castle of my hopes. My
 
 134 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY 
 
 letters remained unanswered. I was in mortal anxiety and 
 wanted to set out for Clochegourde. Arabella spoke as a matter 
 of course of going with me to Touraine. She agreed to remain 
 in the country near Tours, unknown, disguised, never to go out 
 by daylight, and to meet me at night." 
 
 Felix was received coldly by Madame de Mortsauf, who knew 
 all. In the six years that had passed, Madeleine, now fifteen, 
 was restored to health and growing beautiful like her mother; 
 Jacques was still fragile. The Countess was now Madame de 
 Mortsauf to Felix and not Henriette, as of yore. "If I have 
 been mistaken in my life, it is she who is right — she!" added 
 Madame de Mortsauf, as she begged Felix to be faithful to Ara- 
 bella. A long conversation on the terrace proved too great a 
 strain upon the Countess. 
 
 The next week, when she had recovered from a fit of illness, 
 Felix begged to be restored to her heart. 
 
 One day, while driving with Felix, Madame de Mortsauf 
 directed the coachman to the Landes de Charlemagne. She 
 was determined to see Lady Dudley, who was waiting for Felix 
 there. 
 
 As they journeyed on, Lady Arabella, a magnificent horse- 
 woman, dashed by, and pulled up. Recognizing her rival, she 
 dashed away again. After Felix had left her at Clochegourde, 
 Henriette insisted that he should return to Lady Dudley. He 
 did so, reaching Saint-Cyr, where she was lodging, at midnight. 
 Felix tried to make Arabella understand Henriette's nature; 
 but it was impossible. She persuaded Felix to return to Cloche- 
 gourde. Felix found the Countess pale and grief-stricken. 
 He was in an awkward situation. "I could not be at Cloche- 
 gourde by day and at Saint-Cyr by night. Arabella had 
 counted on my sense of delicacy and Madame de Mortsauf's 
 magnanimity." 
 
 In the evening, when Felix took leave of the family on the 
 terrace, the Countess asked him to walk down the avenue with 
 her. "Good-by, my friend," she said, throwing her arms 
 around his neck with her head on his heart; "we shall see each 
 other no more. God has given me the melancholy power of 
 looking into the future." A very tender scene followed, in which 
 Felix told Henriette she was his best beloved — his only love.
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 135 
 
 On his return to Paris, Felix devoted himself to Lady Dud- 
 ley; but he was not happy; and after a time Arabella's love 
 became intolerable. 
 
 Hearing that Madame de Mortsauf was dying, Felix got 
 leave from the King to visit Clochegourde. 
 
 The Abbe* Birotteau, one of those men whom God has 
 marked for His own by clothing them in gentleness and sim- 
 plicity, and endowing them with patience and mercy, drew 
 Felix aside: "Monsieur," he said, "you must know that I 
 have done all that was humanly possible to prevent this meet- 
 ing between you. The salvation of that saint required it. I 
 thought only of her, not of you. Now that you are going once 
 more to her, whose door ought to be held against you by angels, 
 I must inform you that I intend to be present to protect her 
 against you, and perhaps against herself! Respect her feeble 
 state." They reached the door of her room, and the anxious 
 priest opened it. Felix then saw Henriette, dressed in white, 
 reclining on her little sofa in front of the fireplace; on the 
 chimney-shelf were two vases filled with flowers; there were 
 more flowers on a table in front of a window. Her haggard 
 face, under a voluminous lace scarf, had the greenish pallor of 
 magnolia flowers when they first open, and looked like the first 
 outline of a portrait of a head we love sketched in chalk on 
 yellow-white canvas. 
 
 "You will bring me health as you used to do, Felix," said 
 she, "and my valley will be good to me again. My dear, prove 
 to me that I am not to die, and to die disappointed. They 
 think that I suffer most from thirst. Oh, yes, I am very thirsty, 
 my dear. It hurts me dreadfully to see the waters of the Indre ; 
 but my heart suffers a more burning thirst. I thirsted for 
 you," she said in a smothered voice, taking Felix's hands in 
 her burning hands, and drawing him toward her to whisper 
 in his ear: "My agony was that I could not see you. Did you 
 not bid me live? — I will live! I will ride — I, too, will know 
 everything — Paris, festivities, pleasures!" 
 
 This dreadful outcry made their ears tingle — the old priest's 
 and Felix's; the tones of that beautiful voice represented the 
 struggles of a whole life, the anguish of a true love always 
 balked.
 
 136 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY 
 
 The Countess stood up with an impatient effort, like a 
 child that wants a toy. When the confessor saw his penitent 
 in this mood, the poor man fell on his knees, clasped his hands 
 and began to pray. "Yes, I will live," she cried, making Felix 
 stand, too, and leaning on him; "live on realities and not on 
 lies. My whole life has been one of lies; I have been counting 
 them over these last days. Is it possible that I should die, I, 
 who have not lived?" 
 
 "The next day but one," writes Felix, "on a cool autumn 
 morning, we followed the Countess to her last home. Made- 
 leine's hostility closed Clochegourde to me. I determined to 
 rush into politics and science, by the tortuous paths of am- 
 bition, to cut woman out of my life entirely, and be a statesman 
 — cold, passionless, faithful to the saint I had loved. My 
 thoughts went far away out of sight, while my eyes were fixed 
 on the glorious background of golden oaks, with their somber 
 heads and feet of bronze. I asked myself whether Henriette's 
 virtue had not been mere ignorance, whether I were really 
 guilty of her death. I struggled against the burden of re- 
 morse. At last, one limpid autumn day, under one of heaven's 
 latest smiles, so lovely in Touraine, I read the letter which, by 
 her instructions, I was not to open before her death — and I 
 read the whole confession of her love for me, which began with 
 my kisses at the ball given to the Due d'Angouleme. She also 
 begged me to marry Madeleine. 'Farewell, dear son of my 
 heart,' she added, 'I am going to the home of rest, a victim of 
 duty, and — which makes me shudder — I cannot go without 
 a regret ! God knows better than I can whether I have obeyed 
 His holy laws in the spirit. I have often stumbled, no doubt, 
 but I never fell, and the most pressing cause of my sorrows 
 lay in the temptations that surrounded me.' 
 
 "Henriette's letter showed me one bright star of hope. To 
 live at Clochegourde with Madeleine and devote my life to her 
 was a lot to satisfy all the ideas that tossed my soul. I went to 
 Clochegourde to call on the Count. I told the Count I wished 
 to speak to Madeleine, and he went to fetch her. She stopped 
 me with a gesture, 'Monsieur,' she said, in a voice tremulous 
 with agitation, 'I, too, know all your mind. I would rather 
 drown myself in the Indre than marry you. If my mother's
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 137 
 
 name can still influence you, in her name I beg you never to 
 come to Clochcgourde while I am here. The mere sight of 
 you gives me such distress as I cannot describe, and I shall 
 never get over it.' 
 
 "I came away heart-broken; and set out for Paris along the 
 right bank of the Indre — the road by which I had come down 
 the valley for the first time. Then my heart had been full of 
 desires; now I felt it a desert. I was still quite young — nine- 
 and-twenty — and my heart was crushed. 
 
 "Lady Dudley was far from my mind, when I found that 
 I had unconsciously entered her courtyard. Her butler showed 
 me as I was, in traveling-dress, into a drawing-room, where 
 she sat, splendidly dressed, with a party of five visitors. 
 
 "Arabella assumed a lofty air. She looked at me from 
 head to foot, as she might have looked at some country squire 
 just introduced. As to our intimacy, our eternal passion, her 
 vows that she must die if I ever ceased to love her — all the 
 phantasmagoria of Armida — it had vanished like a dream. 
 I had never held her hand, I was a stranger, she did not 
 know me. 
 
 "From that day I have never seen her excepting in com- 
 pany, where we exchange friendly bows, with sometimes a 
 repartee. 
 
 "I threw myself into hard work, I took up science, litera- 
 ture, and politics. On the accession of Charles X, who abol- 
 ished the post I had filled under the late King, I made diplo- 
 macy my career. From that hour, I vowed never to pay any 
 attention to a woman, however beautiful, witty, or affec- 
 tionate she might be. However, all my resolutions have come 
 to nothing — you know how and why. 
 
 "Dearest Natalie, in relating my whole life without re- 
 serve, in confessing to you feelings in which you had no part, 
 I may, perhaps, have vexed some tender spot of your jealous 
 and sensitive heart. But what would infuriate a vulgar woman, 
 will be to you, I am sure, a fresh reason for loving me. . . . 
 To-morrow I shall know whether I have made a mistake in 
 loving you." 
 
 Natalie de Manerville wrote an answer to the Comte Felix 
 de Vandenesse, in which she said: "You received, as you tell
 
 138 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY 
 
 me, a letter from poor Madame de Mortsauf, which has been 
 of some use in guiding you through the world, a letter to which 
 you owe your high fortunes. Allow me to finish your educa- 
 tion. I implore you to divest yourself of an odious habit. Do 
 not imitate certain widows who are always talking of their 
 first husband and throwing the virtues of the dear departed in 
 the teeth of the second. I, dear Count, am a Frenchwoman; 
 I should wish to marry the whole of the man I love; now, I 
 really cannot marry Madame de Mortsauf. After reading your 
 narrative with the attention it deserves — and you know what 
 interest I feel in you — it strikes me that you must have bored 
 Lady Dudley very considerably by holding up to her Madame 
 de Mortsauf's perfections, while deeply wounding the Countess 
 by expatiating on the various resources of English love-making. 
 You have now failed in tact toward me, a poor creature who 
 can boast of no merit but that of having attracted your liking; 
 you have implied that I do not love you as much as either 
 Henriette or Arabella. I confess my deficiencies. I know 
 them; but why make me feel them so cruelly? 
 
 "Shall I tell you whom I pity? — the fourth woman you 
 may love. She will inevitably be required to hold her own 
 against three predecessors; so, in your interest as much as in 
 hers, I must warn you against the perils of your memory. I 
 renounce the laborious honor of loving you. I should require 
 too many Catholic or Anglican virtues, and I have no taste for 
 fighting ghosts. . . . Why, my dear Count, you began by 
 loving an adorable woman, a perfect mistress, who undertook 
 to make your fortune, who procured you a peerage, who loved 
 you to distraction — and you made her die of grief! Why, 
 nothing can be more monstrous. . . . You met Lady Dudley 
 too soon to appreciate her, and the evil you say of her seems 
 to me to be the revenge of your wounded vanity; you under- 
 stood Madame de Mortsauf too late; you punished each for not 
 being the other; what then would become of me, being neither 
 the one nor the other? ... If you want to live in the world 
 and mingle on equal terms with women, conceal with care all 
 you have told me; they do not care to strew the flowers of their 
 affections on stones, or lavish their caresses to heal a wounded 
 heart. Every woman will at once discern the shallowness of
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 139 
 
 your heart, and you will constantly be more unhappy. Very 
 few will be frank enough to tell you what I have told you, or 
 good-natured enough to dismiss you without rancor and offer 
 you their friendship, as she now does who still remains your 
 sincere friend, Natalie de Manerville."
 
 LOST ILLUSIONS (1837) 
 
 {Illusions Perdues) 
 
 This novel is included in the Scenes de la Vie de Province. The first part, 
 Les deux Poetes, appeared in 1837; the second, Un grand Homme de Province 
 a Paris, in 1839 ; and the third, David Sechard,ou les Souffrances d'un Inventeur, in 
 L'Etat and Le Parisien-V Etat in 1843. In 1843 the third part was published as 
 Eve et David. Chapters were suppressed and other changes made, and finally 
 the work was issued as Illusions Perdues, consisting of two parts: The Two 
 Poets and Eve and David. The second part was published as a separate story, 
 A Distinguished Provincial at Paris, although it logically occupies a place 
 between The Two Poets and Eve and David, as it deals with Lucien's fife in 
 Paris, when his illusions are lost one by one, as Eve's and David's are in Angou- 
 leme. Some of the characters appear in other books. Eve, David, and Madame 
 Chardon occur in Splendeurs et Miseres, as do also Lucien de Rubempre and 
 Carlos Herrera, who is none other than Jacques Collin alias Vautrin, the con- 
 summate villain who plays an important part in Pere Goriot. Balzac particularly 
 admired Eve. He wrote to Madame Hanska: "In Illusions Perdues there is 
 a young girl named Eve who is to my eyes the most ravishing creation that I 
 have made." Illusions Perdues was dedicated to Victor Hugo. 
 
 T the time this story opens, the Stanhope press 
 and the inking-roller were not in general use in 
 provincial printing establishments. At Angou- 
 leme, which was closely connected through its 
 paper-mills with the art of typography in Paris, 
 the only machinery in use was the primitive 
 wooden press. Leather ink-balls were still used ; 
 the pressman dabbed the ink on the type by 
 hand; and the bed of the press, being made of 
 marble, deserved its name of "impression stone." 
 
 Jerome-Nicholas Sechard, who had been a journeyman 
 pressman, being fifty years old in 1793, escaped the conscrip- 
 tion which swept so many French workmen into the army. 
 Sechard was the only employe left in the printing-office; and 
 when the master died Sechard, through luck, got a master- 
 printer's license, although he could neither read nor write. 
 He bought the business, amassed a fortune, and grew more 
 avaricious day by day. He was soon left a widower with one 
 
 140
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 141 
 
 son, David, whom he treated harshly, made him work at the 
 case on holidays, and finally sent him to Paris to learn the 
 higher branches of typography at Didot's. 
 
 David was summoned home in 1819 to take charge of his 
 father's business. The old man was worried because the firm 
 of Cointet Brothers, paper manufacturers of Angouleme, had 
 applied for a printer's license. "I should have gone to the 
 wall," he thought, "but a young fellow from Didot's will pull 
 through." Sechard had a passion for drink, which revealed 
 itself in his huge nose and bloated purple cheeks. His little 
 gray eyes were agleam with the cunning of avarice that ex- 
 tinguished everything else in the man, down to the very instinct 
 of fatherhood. He drove a sharp bargain with David, although 
 the latter was fully aware of the obsolete character of the 
 presses and old-fashioned vignettes, borders and ornamental 
 letters that were the fashion in Angouleme for wedding-cards, 
 calendars, etc. David agreed to a contract of partnership be- 
 tween S6chard senior and son. The good father was to let 
 his house and premises to the new firm for twelve hundred 
 francs a year, reserving one of the two rooms in the attic for 
 himself. So long as David's purchase-money was not paid in 
 full, the profits were to be divided equally. 
 
 David now found himself possessor of three bare rooms 
 and a printing-house, without a sou to pay the workmen's 
 wages. His father, even as partner, refused to bear any share 
 in the working expenses. David then questioned his father 
 about the little fortune that his mother left, which was his by 
 right; but the old man gave him no satisfaction. He called 
 David's attention to another treasure that went with the print- 
 ing-house — Marion, a big country girl who did the cooking, 
 washing, and marketing, dampened and cut the paper, un- 
 loaded the paper-carts, collected accounts, and cleaned the 
 ink-balls. 
 
 Old Sechard retired to his vineyard at Marsac, four leagues 
 from Angouleme; but often climbed the rocky steps into the 
 city and walked into the office to see how his son was getting 
 on. The old miser scented misfortune in the wind; the name 
 of Cointet Brothers haunted him like a nightmare; for he 
 saw Sechard and Son dropping into the second place. He was
 
 142 LOST ILLUSIONS 
 
 right: disaster was hovering over the house of Sechard. At 
 this period, in order to secure custom, provincial men of busi- 
 ness had to profess political opinions; they had to choose be- 
 tween the patronage of the Liberals and that of the Royalists. 
 David was, unfortunately, neutral and indifferent regarding 
 the burning questions of the day. The Cointets set them- 
 selves deliberately to assimilate all shades of monarchical 
 opinion, published books of devotion and accused David of 
 Liberalism, Atheism, and what not. David's business began 
 to fall off, while that of the Cointets increased. Finally they 
 bought from David the Charente Chronicle, David pledging 
 himself to print no newspaper thenceforward; and this left 
 Sechard and Son only job-printing orders — the death-blow to 
 David's business. The old man took the cash and still charged 
 his son the same rent for the premises. The old foreman, 
 too, went over to the rival establishment. David now ran 
 across an old schoolfellow in direst poverty, Lucien Chardon, 
 the son of a surgeon-major, who had retired from the Repub- 
 lican army and opened a druggist's business in Angouleme. 
 On his death, his wife, a beautiful woman of noble family, 
 sold the shop, and she and her daughter were forced to work 
 for a living. Madame Chardon called herself " Madame Char- 
 lotte" and went out as a monthly nurse; and her daughter 
 worked for a laundry. Every cent they could scrape together 
 was bestowed on Lucien, who was their hope and pride. 
 David offered Lucien forty francs a month if he would learn 
 the art of the proofreader, and the two friends now worked 
 together. 
 
 David soon caught a glimpse of Lucien's sister, Eve, and 
 loved her. Lucien came to be David's chosen brother; and 
 David outdid the mother and sister in their belief in Lucien's 
 genius. He spoiled Lucien as a mother spoils her child. 
 Lucien thought of a plan that his father had had for employing 
 vegetable fiber in the making of paper, something after the 
 Chinese fashion, and effecting an enormous saving in the cost 
 of raw material. 
 
 In May, 1821, David and Lucien were sitting in the yard 
 under the vines benind the dilapidated office. David's phy- 
 sique was the kind that Nature gives to the fighter. He had
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 143 
 
 strong shoulders, a broad chest, thick, black hair, a swarthy 
 face, and a steady light in his eyes. Lucien was beautiful: 
 he had a Greek profile, golden curls, a white forehead, shapely 
 hands, and a slender, graceful figure. David considered him- 
 self the ox and Lucien the eagle. They read, talked, and 
 thought together. David discovered Lucien's passion for 
 Madame de Bargeton, a queen of society in Angouleme, whose 
 salon attracted all the local celebrities. Her name was Marie- 
 Louise-Anai's de Negrepelisse, the daughter of a noble long 
 relegated to obscurity. She was now thirty-six, and was 
 burdened with a husband of fifty-eight, who was colorless and 
 uninteresting to the last degree. Among the satellites of her 
 drawing-room was an old Parisian beau, the Baron Sixte du 
 Chatelet, an adept in many graces and accomplishments and 
 something of a diplomat, with ambitions for political advance- 
 ment. Lucien had attracted Madame de Bargeton's attention 
 and was invited to read some of his poems at one of her eve- 
 nings. He had fallen in love with this goddess and she flattered 
 and patronized the young poet of twenty. Lucien, at this 
 time, was living with his mother and sister in a few cheap little 
 rooms let to them by Monsieur Postel, who had succeeded to 
 the business of Lucien's father. It required much courage 
 for Madame de Bargeton to introduce the young poet. All the 
 celebrities of Angouleme were present, including the Baron du 
 Chatelet; and Lucien's recitations failed to make the desired 
 impression. He was also ill at ease and unequal to the society 
 into which he was suddenly plunged. Notwithstanding the 
 fact that he was introduced under his mother's noble name, 
 De Rubempre, people soon discovered that he was only the son 
 of a druggist and his mother was a nurse. Tongues wagged 
 freely in the drawing-room, and Lucien was not a success. 
 Madame de Bargeton, however, was more in love with her 
 protege than ever, especially after he had recited his impassioned 
 stanzas entitled To Her. 
 
 While Lucien was causing this gossip at Madame de 
 Bargeton's, David and Eve took a walk on the banks of the 
 Charente; and, while the soft hues of sunset were glorifying 
 the river and the sweet scent of flowers was perfuming the air, 
 David told his love, which found response in Eve's tender
 
 i 4 4 LOST ILLUSIONS 
 
 heart. Their love was the blossom of " two rare natures spring- 
 ing up out of a rich and fruitful soil on foundations of rock." 
 They talked not only of their future life, but of Lucien and his 
 future, his genius, and his connection with Madame de Barge- 
 ton. When Eve promised to marry David, he told her, too, of his 
 secret hope of making a fortune out of pulp to supplant rags in 
 the making of paper. He went into the history and details of 
 the manufacture of paper and took his promised bride into his 
 confidence. Old Se"chard gave his consent, but nothing more, 
 when David announced his approaching marriage. David pre- 
 pared the simple rooms for his bride and also a room for 
 Lucien ; and, meantime, Angouleme gossiped about Madame de 
 Bargeton and Lucien, and the lady paid the penalty of her 
 sovereignty. Lucien, however, became known as Monsieur de 
 Rubempre", and ceased to be a printer's foreman. He had 
 grown great in his own eyes and looked forward to the day 
 when his historical romance, An Archer of Charles IX, and 
 his volume of verses, entitled Marguerites, should spread 
 fame throughout the world of literature and bring in enough 
 money to repay his mother, sister, and David for all they had 
 done. 
 
 Stanilas de Chandour, husband of the rival queen of 
 Angouleme, calling one day at the Bargetons, found Lucien 
 on his knees in an equivocal position, and he gossiped. Chatelet 
 fanned the flame; and, at length, Madame de Bargeton made 
 her husband behave "like a gentleman of spirit." He had to fight 
 a duel with Monsieur de Chandour! The latter was wounded, 
 and Madame de Bargeton's father, Monsieur de Negrepelisse, 
 who acted as his son-in-law's second, took him home with him 
 after the duel. Louise de Bargeton sent for Lucien, and an- 
 nounced that she was going to take advantage of the excite- 
 ment to go to Paris and seek the influence of her cousin, Madame 
 d'Espard, to advance Bargeton. She wanted Lucien to ac- 
 company her: he would shine in Paris, his true place: the 
 publishers would welcome such genius as his, and society open 
 its doors. He would meet his Louise near Mansle and they 
 should proceed to Paris, where they would live together. In 
 the midst of his joy, Lucien remembered that his sister was to 
 be married within two days ! However, he promised to accom-
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 145 
 
 pany Madame do Bargeton, and announced the news to David, 
 Eve, and his mother, who burst into tears. Lucien then had 
 to find money for his Paris trip. His devoted mother raised a 
 loan of a thousand francs from Postel for six months, which 
 was indorsed by David; and David added another thousand 
 francs, which he could ill afford. Lucien went away with his 
 limited wardrobe and small package of manuscript. David 
 accompanied the poet as far as Mansle, where he waited for 
 Madame de Bargeton; and, as he saw Lucien drive away in 
 the shabby cabriolet, David had terrible presentiments of the 
 fate awaiting him in Paris. In spite of Madame de Bargeton's 
 precautions, Chatelet discovered that she was leaving Angouleme 
 and sent his man to Ruffec to watch every carriage that changed 
 horses at that stage. "If she is taking her poet with her," he 
 said, "I have her now!" 
 
 Lucien went to Paris, and "was drawn into the great ma- 
 chinery of journalism, where he was like to have his honor and 
 his intelligence torn to shreds." David began experiments to 
 discover a cheap method of making paper. The expenses of 
 his marriage and Lucien's journey plunged him into poverty 
 at the outset of married life. He could not bear to tell his 
 wife of his troubles. Soon Postel's bill fell due, and there was 
 no money to meet it. Eve gave up her bridal trinkets and 
 silver, and immediately assumed charge of the printing-office. 
 Cerizet, an apprentice of Didot's, brought by David to Angou- 
 leme, was the foreman; Kolb, an Alsatian, also a former porter 
 at Didot's, and now a fairly trained "bear," and the faithful 
 maid of all work, Marion, with whom Kolb was in love, were 
 her aids. While David worked over his invention, Eve printed 
 a Shepherd's Calendar, with symbols and pictures in colored 
 inks, and some old legends and broadsides, which made a little 
 money. The treacherous Cdrizet got friendly with the Cointet 
 Brothers, who had adopted all David's improvements, and they 
 kept a sharp eye on the clever Madame S6chard. Cenzet, 
 who was now reading proof for the Cointets, saw that Eve dis- 
 trusted him, and he vowed revenge. When Madame Sechard 
 tried to sell the printing-office, the Cointets saw the adver- 
 tisement; and, fearing a more dangerous rival, approached 
 the Sechards. They had to accept the terms offered by the 
 
 A.D., VOL. II. — IO
 
 146 LOST ILLUSIONS 
 
 Cointets, and when matters were settled they informed Eve 
 that they meant to make Cerizet lessee of the premises. 
 
 A draft of five hundred francs came from Lucien ; but they 
 had barely received this before a cruel letter from Lucien told 
 David that he had forged three bills on him, to fall due in three 
 months. Monsieur de Rastignac on a visit to his home set An- 
 gouleme gossiping about Lucien. Eve went to him to learn the 
 truth; and young Rastignac told her of Lucien's connection with 
 the actress Coralie, his duel with Michel Chrestien, his treacher- 
 ous behavior to David d'Arthez, and how he lost his chance to 
 get the patent conferring the right to bear the name and arms 
 of Rubempre, which had actually been made out: "If your 
 brother, Madame," he said, "had been well advised, he would 
 have been on the way to honors, and Madame de Bargeton's 
 husband by this time; but what can you expect? He deserted 
 her and insulted her. She is now Madame la Comtesse Sixte 
 du Chatelet, to her own regret, for she loved Lucien." Eve 
 came away in sorrow. Her tears fell on the child at her breast ; 
 and, remembering D'Arthez's address, which Lucien once sent, 
 she wrote to him. D'Arthez's reply gave a full account of 
 Lucien's life in Paris and explained the weakness of Lucien's 
 character and his love of luxury, pleasure, and admiration. 
 
 It was now imperative to renew the lease with the Cointets. 
 David, encouraged by his wife, never gave up experimenting 
 with pulp; but the rival firm was determined to probe his 
 secret. Boniface, "the tall Cointet," discovered a young 
 attorney, Pierre Petit-Claud, who knew David. He was a 
 sharp and snappish little fellow, the son of a tailor, and, of 
 course, looked down upon by the society of Angouleme. Coin- 
 tet dazzled the weedy little lawyer with a proposition of what 
 seemed to him a brilliant marriage, if he would do Cointet's 
 hests. He must go and offer his legal services to David. 'The 
 poor devil," said Cointet, "has three thousand francs' worth 
 of bills to meet; he cannot meet them; you will stave off legal 
 proceedings in such a way as to increase the expenses enor- 
 mously. ... A word to the wise is sufficient. Now, young 
 man?" An eloquent pause followed, and the two men looked 
 at each other. "We have never seen each other," Cointet re- 
 sumed, "I have not said a syllable to you; you know nothing
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 147 
 
 about Monsieur du Hautoy, nor about Madame de Senonches, 
 nor Mademoiselle de la Hayc; only, when the time comes, two 
 months hence, you will propose for the young lady. If we 
 should want to sec each other, you will come here after dark. 
 Let us have nothing in writing." "Then you mean to ruin 
 Sechard?" asked Petit-Claud. "Not exactly; but he must be 
 in jail for some time." "And what is the object?" "If you 
 have wit enough to find out, you will have sense enough to hold 
 your tongue," was the reply. 
 
 The Cointets made use of the complicated machinery of 
 banking to ruin David. The bills that he could not meet 
 traveled to Paris. Lucien became involved, Coralie's estab- 
 lishment was placarded, and a formidable document was sent 
 to the notary at Angouleme, instructing him to prosecute 
 David Sechard with the utmost rigor of the law, for four thou- 
 sand and eighteen francs and eighty-five centimes. The 
 Sechards sent for Petit-Claud. David walked into his toils 
 and told him that he was on the eve of discovering a sheet of 
 paper without a thread of cotton in it, at a cost of fifty per cent, 
 less than cotton pulp. "There is a fortune in that!" said Petit- 
 Claud; and he now knew what the tall Cointet meant. A 
 sudden spark of generosity flashed through his rancorous soul; 
 he tried to reconcile Sechard's interests with Cointet's schemes, 
 and he tried to give David hints. Eve, in their troubles, went 
 to old Sechard ; but she could get no help. Her illusions regard- 
 ing Lucien had gone. She loved her husband more every day. 
 
 Kolb and Marion came forward with their savings; but 
 procedure had begun. David and his wife, by this time, owed 
 ten thousand francs! A letter arrived on September 2d, from 
 Lucien to Eve, announcing the death of Coralie, the beautiful 
 actress with whom he had been living. Old Sechard, who, led 
 on by Petit-Claud, now serving Cointet's interest for his own 
 advancement, refused all aid, even to keep David from im- 
 prisonment for debts. The faithful Kolb discovered Cerizet's 
 treachery, as well as the machinations of the other scoundrels, 
 and David's real position became faintly clear. "It is the 
 Cointets' doing!" cried poor Eve, aghast; "they are proceeding 
 against you! That accounts for Me*tisier's hardness. They 
 are paper-makers. David! they want your secret!"
 
 148 LOST ILLUSIONS 
 
 Kolb advised hiding David, and Eve placed him in a little 
 room with her friend, Basine Clerget, where he could continue 
 his experiments. Once more did David, accompanied by 
 Kolb, try to gain his father's aid, but to no purpose. David 
 now sent Eve some samples of paper. Eve showed them to 
 old Sechard, and he hurried with them to the Cointets. If 
 they had been Jews examining diamonds, their eyes could not 
 have glistened more eagerly over these samples. The Coin- 
 tets would now pay David's debts, provided he would take 
 them into partnership. "If / pay David's debts," thought old 
 Sechard, "he need not share with me! He knows I cheated 
 him on the first partnership and will not try a second. It is 
 my interest to keep him locked up!" Everybody involved 
 thought his own little afterthought. "Experiments must be 
 made before the discovery can take a practical shape, and David 
 Sechard at liberty will slip through our ringers," was the Coin- 
 tets'; "As soon as I am married, I will slip my neck out of the 
 Cointets' yoke; but till then I must hold on," was Petit-Claud's. 
 Cointet now introduced Petit- Claud to Madame de Senonches, 
 who, on Monsieur de Bargeton's death, had removed to the 
 Hotel Bargeton, where she was reigning as queen of Angouleme 
 society. Petit-Claud sued for the hand of her daughter, Made- 
 moiselle de la Haye, and was greatly disappointed at the lat- 
 ter's plain appearance. He agreed to the terms, however, and 
 promised to deliver the two Sechards into Cointet's hands. 
 
 Lucien, after writing to Eve, decided to return to Angou- 
 leme. A market van conveyed him to Longjumeau, and from 
 there he had to tramp. In five days he reached Poitiers, worn 
 and weary. Seeing a traveling-carriage climbing up the hill 
 at night, unnoticed he slipped in among the trunks. The car- 
 riage stopped in the morning at Mansle, where eighteen months 
 before he had waited for Madame de Bargeton. As Lucien 
 jumped down, the two travelers alighted. They were the new 
 Prefect of the Charente, Sixte du Chatelet, and his wife, Louise 
 de Negrepelisse, formerly Madame de Bargeton ! Lucien refused 
 their greetings and hurried on, with a distant bow. In a state 
 of exhaustion, he reached the Courtois' mill, between Mansle 
 and Angouleme. The miller fetched the doctor and the cure 
 for the supposed dying man; but Lucien revived and begged
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 149 
 
 for news of his family. When Lucien heard the truth his 
 remorse was terrible. The cure carried the news of Lucien to 
 his sister. Early next morning Lucien set out for Angouleme. 
 Eve greeted him with tears and his grieved mother with re- 
 proaches and forgiveness; yet neither mother nor sister could 
 put confidence in him — once their pride and hero. Angou- 
 leme grew excited at the poet's return. A notice appeared in 
 the paper, and Lucien was invited to dine with the Chatelets. 
 Angouleme also serenaded him. At a reception at the old 
 Bargeton house, Lucien met Louise, now returned a Parisienne 
 in dress and manner. Lucien now wrote to Lousteau in Paris 
 for some clothes, which Lousteau sent; and Lucien cut a dash 
 in Angouleme society. Finding out David's hiding-place, he 
 wrote to him, and David persisted in meeting him at any risk. 
 The generous and noble inventor met the selfish poet, who 
 had helped ruin him, with affection. Lucien managed to get 
 Madame du Chatelet's influence to have David pardoned but 
 it was too late; for Ce'rizet, who saw David and watched his 
 movements the night he met Lucien, intercepted a letter from 
 Lucien to David and forged a few lines appointing a meeting. 
 David fell into the trap, was seized and carried to prison. Lucien, 
 the unwilling cause of David's arrest, then sneaked away from 
 home, leaving a repentant farewell letter for Eve. On the way 
 to Marsac he turned out of the road to avoid the coach to Paris, 
 and there came across a stranger in clerical dress. His polite- 
 ness was extreme and he spoke with a Spanish accent. "He 
 looked at Lucien with something of the expression of a hunter 
 that has found his quarry after long and fruitless search." 
 He invited Lucien to take a seat in his private carriage; but 
 first they had a long conversation during which Lucien re- 
 lated his life-history to the Spanish priest, who offered him a 
 place as secretary. He told him he was the Abbe Carlos 
 Herrera, Canon of Toledo, secret envoy from His Majesty 
 Ferdinand VII to His Majesty the King of France. Lucien 
 agreed to be his very creature, if he would give him money 
 enough to save David. The Abbe, drawing forth his purse, 
 brought out the gold. 
 
 Eve was in distress, with Lucien gone and David imprisoned. 
 Petit-Claud escorted her to her husband's cell, and the lawyer
 
 ISO LOST ILLUSIONS 
 
 discovered Cerizet's forgery, when David showed him the letter 
 that had caused his arrest. Petit-Claud turned this to his ad- 
 vantage; and got control of Cerizet. The Cointets had an 
 interview with David, and a deed of partnership was drawn up 
 by Petit-Claud. David had to purchase his release heavily; 
 but the terms were agreed upon, and, as soon as the deed was 
 signed, Eve, to her surprise, received fifteen thousand francs 
 from Lucien, with a letter, saying that he had sold his life to a 
 Spanish diplomatist. Cerizet bought the old business, and 
 Eve and David purchased a little farm near Marsac, where 
 David pursued his experiments with ardor and succeeded. 
 The Cointets were amassing a fortune out of David's paper, 
 but did not wish him to share in the profits. They raised 
 trouble about some clause in the agreement; and Petit-Claud 
 persuaded them to sell out. Old Sechard died in 1829, leaving 
 valuable property and money besides. David and Eve, with 
 their two sons and a daughter, led a happy life in their country- 
 home. David bade farewell to glory and dabbled in ento- 
 mology. His discovery was assimilated by the French manu- 
 facturing world and revolutionized the paper industry. The 
 Cointets made a fortune and the elder brother became a peer. 
 Petit-Claud attained great success as a lawyer, and "Brave 
 Cerizet," as he was nicknamed by the Liberals, got into political 
 trouble and went to Paris.
 
 CESAR BIROTTEAU (1838) 
 
 This story bears in the original the title, Histoire de la grandeur et de la 
 decadence de Cesar Birotteau ("History of the greatness and of the fall of 
 Cesar Birotteau"). It appeared first in two volumes and was divided into 
 three parts, since reduced to two, and into sixteen chapters, which were after- 
 ward suppressed. In this form it was used as a premium by the Figaro and 
 the Estafette. Another edition was published in 1839, and in 1844 the novel 
 was placed among the Scenes de la Vie Parisienne of the Comedy, although it 
 had at first been intended for the Etudes Philosophiques. Many of its numerous 
 characters are found elsewhere, and the herohimself is mentioned in Un Menage 
 de Garcon and La Maison du Chat-qui-pelote. 
 
 ESAR BIROTTEAU, son of Jacques Birotteau, 
 a peasant of the environs of Chinon, and of the 
 chambermaid of a lady whose vines he tended, 
 went on foot to Paris, when fourteen years old, 
 to seek his fortune. He could read, write, and 
 cipher, and he soon obtained a place as shop-boy 
 with Monsieur and Madame Ragon, perfumers, 
 where he received his board and lodging and six 
 francs a month. He slept on a miserable pallet 
 in the garret, the clerks made fun of him, and his master and 
 mistress spoke to him as if he were a dog. But he devoted him- 
 self so assiduously to the business, learning the goods and their 
 marks and prices, that when the terrible conscription of the 
 Year II cleared Citizen Ragon's house of assistants, Cesar was 
 promoted to the place of second clerk with fifty francs a month, 
 and a seat at the table of the Ragons. 
 
 Toward the close of the year he was made cashier, on ac- 
 count of his integrity, and Madame Ragon and her husband 
 gradually became intimate with him. In 1 794 Ce*sar had saved 
 two thousand francs in gold ; he exchanged them for six thousand 
 francs in paper, purchased state stocks at thirty francs in the 
 hundred, and locked up his certificate with indescribable hap- 
 piness. Influenced by the Ragons, he became a devoted 
 Royalist and a hater of the Revolution that drove hair-powder 
 
 151
 
 152 CESAR BIROTTEAU 
 
 out of fashion. When M. Ragon saw that he was favorably 
 disposed, he appointed him first clerk and initiated him into 
 the secrets of the Queen of Roses, some of whose customers 
 were the most active and devoted emissaries of the Bourbons. 
 With the warmth of youth, Cesar threw himself into the con- 
 spiracy of the Royalists and terrorists on the 13th Vendemiaire, 
 and had the honor of contending against Napoleon on the steps 
 of Saint-Roch. Wounded at the outset of the affair, he was 
 borne away by his friends and concealed in the garret of the 
 Queen of Roses, where his wounds were dressed by Madame 
 Ragon and he luckily was forgotten. 
 
 On the 1 8th Brumaire, Monsieur and Madame Ragon, de- 
 spairing of the royal cause, decided to retire from business, and 
 proposed to sell to Birotteau. Cesar, who at twenty years of 
 age possessed an income of a thousand francs from the public 
 funds, hesitated. His fancy was to retire to Chinon when he 
 had secured an income of fifteen hundred francs, to marry a 
 woman as rich as himself in Touraine, in order to be able to 
 purchase and cultivate the Tresorieres, a small estate from 
 which he could easily derive an income of three thousand francs. 
 He was about to refuse, when the sight of a young woman 
 standing at the door of a shop at the corner of the Quai d'Anjou 
 caused him to change his mind. Constance Pillerault was the 
 head shop-girl at the Sailor Boy, a fancy store which displayed 
 a large variety of goods at low prices. Constance was a noted 
 beauty and was in daily receipt of brilliant proposals, in which, 
 however, the subject of marriage was never mentioned; but 
 finally, on the advice of her uncle and guardian, Monsieur 
 Claude -Joseph Pillerault, an ironmonger on the Quai de la 
 Ferraille, she consented to marry Cesar Birotteau. She was 
 then eighteen years old, and possessed eleven thousand francs. 
 Cesar, whose love had inspired him with ambition, purchased 
 the stock of the Queen of Roses, and removed it to a beautiful 
 building near the Place Vendome. By the advice of Roguin, 
 the notary of the Ragons, who drew up the marriage contract, 
 he did not use the dowry of his wife in the purchase, but kept 
 it as the means wherewith to engage in promising speculations. 
 
 Birotteau regarded the notary with admiration, contracted 
 the habit of consulting him, and made him his friend. Madame
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 153 
 
 Cesar produced a marvelous effect behind the counter, and her 
 famous beauty brought large sales. The "beautiful Madame 
 Birotteau" was all the rage among the elegants of the Empire. 
 But at the end of the year the ambitious Cesar calculated that 
 it would take twenty years to net a hundred thousand francs, 
 at which figure he had fixed the limits of his fortune. Through 
 the aid of the celebrated chemist Vauquelin, he invented a 
 cosmetic which he called "Concentrated Sultana Paste," and 
 a water for the complexion, styled "Carminative Water." 
 These brought in the aggregate enormous profits, which enabled 
 him to build factories in the Faubourg du Temple, and to deco- 
 rate magnificently the Queen of Roses. In 1810 he was elected 
 Judge of the Tribunal of Commerce. He was considered very 
 rich, and the regularity of his affairs and his habit of owing 
 nothing gave him high credit. He had one daughter, Cesarine, 
 idolized by both Constance and himself, on whose education 
 he lavished money without stint. 
 
 In 1 814 Birotteau took into his house as first clerk a young 
 man of twenty-two, named Ferdinand du Tillet. He was a 
 foundling, the child of a poor girl of Tillet, a small place near 
 the Andelys, who had drowned herself after the birth of her 
 infant in the garden of the curate. He had led a roving life in 
 a world in which he had made up his mind to succeed at any 
 price. Birotteau learned with astonishment that his clerk 
 went out at night elegantly dressed, returned home very late, 
 and attended balls at the houses of bankers and notaries. His 
 habits displeased Cesar, and finally, by the advice of his wife, 
 whom Du Tillet had tried to seduce, his dismissal was resolved 
 upon. 
 
 Three days before parting with him, Birotteau, in making 
 up his monthly account one Saturday evening, discovered a 
 deficit of three thousand francs. His consternation was great, 
 but whom should he accuse? The cashier was a nephew of 
 Madame Ragon, named Popinot, a young man of nineteen who 
 lived with them and was integrity itself. On the next Sunday, 
 while the Birotteaus were entertaining friends at cards, Monsieur 
 Roguin put down on the table several antique gold pieces that 
 Madame Birotteau recognized as some she had taken in the 
 shop. Roguin said he had won them at a banker's house of
 
 154 CESAR BIROTTEAU 
 
 Du Tillet, who confirmed the notary's story without a blush. 
 That night Du Tillet acknowledged the theft, and Cesar par- 
 doned him; but two weeks later Du Tillet entered the service 
 of a broker, to study banking, he said. 
 
 Some months afterward Du Tillet came to Ce"sar to ask him 
 to become security for him in a certain business transaction. 
 The perfumer, surprised at his effrontery, blushed red as he 
 complied with his request, and gave him a searching look that 
 caused the fellow to vow relentless hatred to him. 
 
 The Restoration made an important personage of Cesar, 
 whose zeal in the royal cause was not forgotten, and when the 
 municipal body of Paris was remodeled the prefect wanted 
 him appointed mayor. Thanks to his wife, he accepted the 
 post of deputy, which rendered him less conspicuous and pro- 
 cured him the friendship of the Mayor, Monsieur de la Billard- 
 iere. It also won him the cross of the Legion of Honor. Cesar, 
 now forty years old, began to have elevated ideas. He had 
 succeeded in everything he had undertaken, and he made up 
 his mind to abandon the shop and ascend to the regions of the 
 upper bourgeoisie of Paris. 
 
 With this end in view, he embarked, contrary to the advice 
 of his wife and in disregard of her warnings, in a large specu- 
 lation in lands in the neighborhood of the Madeleine, which he 
 declared were sure to quadruple in value in three or four years. 
 In this scheme, planned by Roguin, the notary, Birotteau was 
 expected to subscribe three hundred thousand francs and 
 represent three eighths of the capital. 
 
 "You shall never do it, Cesar, while I am alive!" exclaimed 
 his wife. "We shall soon have nothing left but our eyes to 
 weep with." 
 
 " Oh, you don't understand. Chance offers me a career of 
 splendor, and I accept the offer." 
 
 Anselme Popinot, Birotteau's cashier, was in love with 
 Cesarine. Though he was small, red-haired, and afflicted with 
 a clubfoot, he was capable and honest, and Birotteau had 
 selected him to aid him in his schemes. He had invented a 
 new oil for the hair, made of nut oil, and opened a new estab- 
 lishment for its sale in the Rue des Cinq Diamants, under the 
 name of A. Popinot and Company.
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 155 
 
 To celebrate properly his decoration with the Legion of 
 Honor, Birotteau determined to give a grand ball. As this 
 necessitated some changes in his house, he employed an archi- 
 tect and gave him carte blanche in respect to alterations, addi- 
 tions, and decorations. The magnificence of the projected 
 entertainment was celebrated in the newspapers and com- 
 mented on in business circles, where the perfumer was cen- 
 sured for his ambition and laughed at for his political pre- 
 tensions. 
 
 Constance, though trembling when she thought of the ex- 
 pense, was so delighted when she saw the result of the architect's 
 work that she fell on her husband's neck and shed tears of 
 happiness, saying, "Ah, Ce*sar, you make me very wild and 
 very happy." 
 
 " So you appreciate me at last," said the perfumer. 
 
 The ball was a great success, being attended by many 
 government functionaries and even by several of the nobility. 
 Birotteau, thoroughly intoxicated by the shower of felicitations, 
 took all compliments in earnest, and saw no sarcasm in the 
 remarks of any of his guests. 
 
 "You have given a national festivity which does you honor," 
 said Camusot. 
 
 "I have rarely seen so fine a ball," said M. de la Billardiere. 
 
 "What an enchanting spectacle! Are you going to give 
 balls often?" asked Madame Lebas. 
 
 The ball at last came to an end, and the weary but happy 
 Birotteaus went to sleep at daylight to dream of the grand 
 entertainment which had cost Cesar, though he was far from 
 suspecting it, hard upon sixty thousand francs. Such was the 
 issue of the fatal red ribbon fastened by a king to a perfumer's 
 buttonhole. 
 
 A week after the ball the bills began to come in. Birotteau, 
 who had completely drained himself of ready money in the 
 Madeleine speculation, ordered his cashier to write out notes, 
 payable three months from date. While the larger creditors 
 were paid by notes, small creditors, who expected cash, were 
 put off two or three times. A neighbor, for whom he had dis- 
 counted notes for five thousand francs, failed, and the notes 
 proved worthless. In trade such matters are whispered about
 
 156 CESAR BIROTTEAU 
 
 and are more injurious than a disaster. Birotteau's till was 
 empty. He was frightened; such a thing had never happened 
 in all his business experience. He was afraid of his wife, and 
 to conceal from her his dejection at this simoom of calamities, 
 he went out for a walk. But he met the architect, who held one 
 of his notes. 
 
 "I can't get this paper of yours cashed," he said, "though 
 I've tried high and low; so I shall have to ask you to change it 
 for specie. I don't like to peddle your signature about, as it 
 must degrade it; so that it is in your interest to " 
 
 "Sir," said Birotteau, stupefied, "not so loud, if you please, 
 you surprise me strangely." 
 
 Presently he met another creditor, who insisted on the im- 
 mediate payment of his account. 
 
 "What does it mean?" said Birotteau to himself. "There's 
 something underneath all this. That cursed ball!" 
 
 In the Rue Saint-Honore he fell in with Alexander Crottat, 
 who expected to succeed Roguin as a notary. 
 
 "Ah, sir, one question. Did Roguin hand your four hun- 
 dred thousand francs to Monsieur Claparon, his business 
 agent?" 
 
 "Why do you ask, for mercy's sake?" 
 
 "Why do I ask? Because Roguin has made off with them 
 and with Claparon's money, as well as the hundred thousand 
 francs I paid him for the good will of his office, for which I took 
 no receipt. The owners of your lots have not received a single 
 sou on them. Madame Roguin's life is despaired of; Du 
 Tillet watched with her during the night. Roguin has been 
 using his clients' deposits for five years — and for whom, think 
 you? For a woman, la belle Hollandaise! The vicious old 
 blackguard! He advised me three weeks ago not to marry 
 your Ce'sarine, for you would soon be without bread to your 
 mouths, the monster!" 
 
 Birotteau stood motionless, petrified. Every sentence was 
 a blow from a sledge-hammer. Crottat, alarmed at his pallor, 
 gave his arm to Cesar, and tried to make him walk, but his legs 
 gave way as if he had been intoxicated. Alexander got him 
 into a carriage and took him home. 
 
 "I thought it would be so," said his wife, who had no sus-
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 157 
 
 picion of the calamity, "he's been working for two months like 
 a galley-slave, as if he still had his bread to earn." 
 
 Cdsar was put to bed at once, and for three terrible days 
 his reason was in danger, but his peasant constitution came off 
 victorious and he got on his feet again. As soon as he was 
 himself once more, he set about making reparation. "I have 
 been dreaming for twenty-two years," he said, "and I wake 
 again to-day with my staff in my hand." 
 
 He handed the cross of the Legion of Honor to his confessor, 
 Abbe* Loroax, saying, "You will return it to me when I can 
 wear it without shame." He also sent in his resignation as 
 deputy-mayor. "May God take pity on me!" he said, as he 
 signed his balance sheet. 
 
 While he was in the depths of despair, Anselme Popinot, 
 who had always been true to Cesarine, asked for her hand. 
 This request brought tears to the eyes of all except Cesar, who 
 arose, took Anselme's hand and said in a hollow voice, "My 
 son, you shall never marry the daughter of a bankrupt." 
 
 "Will you promise, sir," said Anselme, "in the presence of 
 your family, to consent to our marriage, if Mademoiselle accepts 
 me for her husband, on the day when your failure shall be 
 redeemed?" Cesarine held out her hand to Anselme, who 
 kissed it. "Do you consent, too?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," she replied. 
 
 "At last I belong to the family, and have a right to take an 
 interest in its affairs," he said, as he rushed out precipitately. 
 
 As soon as Birotteau had turned over everything to his 
 creditors, Madame Cesar obtained for him, through the influ- 
 ence of the Due de Lenoncourt, a clerkship in the office of the 
 Sinking Fund, worth twenty-five hundred francs a year. A 
 week later Cesarine was established in the richest fancy-goods 
 house in Paris, where she received board and lodging and three 
 thousand francs salary, and Madame Cesar went to Popinot's 
 establishment to keep his books and accounts, for which she 
 received also a salary of three thousand francs. 
 
 Birotteau's liabilities amounted to four hundred and forty 
 thousand francs, while his assets were two hundred and forty- 
 five thousand francs. As he thus paid his creditors more than 
 fifty per cent., his failure was not disgraceful, as Du Tillet had
 
 158 CESAR BIROTTEAU 
 
 hoped it would be. Every creditor, except his former clerk, 
 sincerely pitied him when they saw how regular his books were 
 and how straightforward his business career had been. At 
 the final meeting of his creditors, it was unanimously agreed 
 to remit the remainder of their claims, and Birotteau was dis- 
 charged by the court a free man. He pressed the Judge's 
 hands with tears in his eyes, and announced that he should 
 work until he had paid his creditors in full. 
 
 Eighteen months after the failure, Birotteau was enabled, 
 through his own savings and those of his wife and daughter, 
 with some aid from Uncle Pillerault, to pay his creditors fifty 
 thousand francs. In 1822 Du Tillet, who had bought in 
 Birotteau's claims in the Madeleine lands, which were fast in- 
 creasing in value, came to Popinot to endeavor to buy a lease 
 of the land on which the latter had built a factory. A canal was 
 projected there, and Du Tillet knew that he could get a large 
 sum for the property if he could buy this lease, which had fifteen 
 years to run. Popinot was ignorant of Du Tillet's theft when 
 a clerk, but he was indignant at seeing him grow rich out 
 of the spoils of his old employer; so when Du Tillet explained 
 the object of his visit, he said, "I want sixty thousand francs 
 for it, and I won't take the fourth part of a sou less." 
 
 The discussion over this had waxed warm, when Madame 
 Cesar came in and saw Du Tillet for the first time since the 
 ball. 
 
 "This gentleman," said Popinot, "is to get three hundred 
 thousand francs for your land, and refuses us sixty thousand 
 francs bonus for our lease." 
 
 "But think," said Du Tillet, with emphasis, "that makes 
 three thousand francs a year." 
 
 "Three thousand francs!" repeated Madame Cesar, simply 
 but pointedly. 
 
 Du Tillet turned pale, and after a moment of profound 
 silence, said, "Sign this surrender of the lease, and I will give 
 you a check for sixty thousand francs." 
 
 Popinot looked at Madame Cesar in amazement, but com- 
 plied, and received Du Tillet's check for the amount. As 
 soon as the banker was gone, he hastened after Madame 
 Cesar, who had left the apartment, and asked, "What power
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 159 
 
 is this you have over Du Tillet, to make him conclude such an 
 operation?" 
 
 " Oh, let us not speak of that!" she said. 
 
 "This sixty thousand francs," continued Popinot, "added to 
 half the profits of our present business — for I have always con- 
 sidered Monsieur Birotteau as my partner — gives us one hun- 
 dred and thirty-three thousand francs. To this I shall add 
 such sums as may be necessary to make up the amount that is 
 due. Thus, your husband — will be — rehabilitated." 
 
 "Rehabilitated!" cried Madame Cesar. "Dear Anselme! 
 my dear boy! Cesarine is yours in good earnest." She took 
 his head in her hands and kissed him on the forehead. "Lis- 
 ten," she continued, "I will tell you all. Du Tillet sought to 
 ruin me, my husband was at once informed of it, and Du Tillet 
 was to be discharged. That very day he stole three thousand 
 francs." 
 
 "I suspected it," said Popinot. 
 
 "Anselme, your happiness requires this avowal; but let it 
 die in your heart, as it is already dead in mine and Cesar's. 
 To avoid a lawsuit and to spare the man, Cesar put three 
 thousand francs into the till to make good the amount — the 
 cost of the cashmere shawl I had to wait three years for." 
 
 "Now, I have a little secret," said Popinot. "When your 
 stock in the Queen of Roses was sold, I saddled it with a con- 
 dition. Your rooms there are precisely as you left them. I 
 kept the second story for myself, and I shall live there with 
 Cesarine, who will thus never leave you. In order to restore 
 you your fortune, I will buy out Monsieur Cesar's interest for 
 one hundred thousand francs, so that you will have, with his 
 clerkship, ten thousand francs a year." 
 
 "Say no more, Anselme, or I shall lose my senses." 
 
 This was a joyful day for Cesar. The King's private 
 secretary, the Viscount de Vandenesse, came to see him and 
 said: 
 
 "Monsieur Birotteau, your efforts to pay your creditors 
 have come to the knowledge of the King. His Majesty, touched 
 by an act so rare, and knowing that, from humility, you do not 
 wear the cross of the Legion of Honor, has sent me to request 
 you to resume the emblem. He has also commissioned me to
 
 160 CESAR BIROTTEAU 
 
 hand you this sum of six thousand francs from his privy purse, 
 regretting that he cannot do more. Let this remain a profound 
 secret." 
 
 On the day of his rehabilitation, Ce"sar went to the court 
 surrounded by friends. He listened to the discourse of the 
 Attorney-General, who, in reciting the history of his case, took 
 the occasion to pay him the highest compliments; and he was 
 nearly overcome when the solemn decree of the court was pro- 
 nounced by the First President. Uncle Pillerault took him by 
 the hand and led him from the hall, while Cesar mechanically 
 attached the ribbon of the Legion of Honor to his buttonhole, 
 as he was carried in triumph to his carriage. 
 
 "Where are you taking me, my friends?" he asked. 
 
 "To your own house." 
 
 " No, I wish to go to the Exchange, and profit by my right." 
 
 "Drive to the Exchange," said Pillerault, who observed 
 with anxiety certain threatening symptoms, and feared Cesar 
 might go mad. 
 
 At the Exchange, whose threshold no bankrupt can cross, 
 Birotteau was received with the most flattering attentions, even 
 Du Tillet coming to congratulate him. After this triumph, 
 Ce*sar set out to return to his house, where the marriage con- 
 tract between Cesarine and Popinot was to be signed. Popinot 
 had prepared for him a surprise and, with the connivance of 
 Constance and Ce"sarine, had sent out invitations for a ball to 
 commemorate the signing of the contract. Everything in the 
 rooms in the Rue Saint-Honor^ was precisely as Ce"sar had left 
 them, and when he was taken there, and saw at the foot of the 
 staircase his wife, in the cherry-colored gown she had worn at 
 the previous ball, with Cesarine, the Count de Fontaine, the 
 Viscount de Vandenesse, the illustrious Vauquelin, and others, 
 to welcome him, a veil seemed spread before his eyes, and his 
 Uncle Pillerault, who supported him on his arm, felt a slight 
 shudder. 
 
 Cesar took his wife's arm and whispered in a choking 
 voice, "I am not well." 
 
 Constance, alarmed, led him to his chamber, where he 
 dropped into his armchair, saying, "Monsieur Loraux!" 
 
 The Abbe" came, followed by many of the guests, who formed
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 161 
 
 a terrified group. Ce"sar pressed the hand of his confessor and 
 bowed his head upon the bosom of his kneeling wife. A 
 blood-vessel had burst in his chest, and an aneurism stilled his 
 last breath. 
 
 "Behold the death of the just," said the Abbe* in a deep 
 voice. 
 
 a.d., vol. n. — II
 
 BEATRIX (1839) 
 
 In this novel Balzac presents thinly disguised character studies of certain 
 of his famous contemporaries. Beatrix is the Comtesse d'Agoult (1805-1S76), 
 an author who wrote under the pen-name of "Daniel Stern," and who lived 
 ten years (from 1835 to 1845) with Franz Liszt, the Hungarian pianist and 
 composer (181 1-1886). To them were born three daughters, one of whom married 
 Von Biilow, and afterward Richard Wagner. Liszt is represented in the novel 
 as Conti. The rival of Beatrix, Camille Maupin, or Mademoiselle des Touches, 
 is a composite study of two characters in real life: the Baroness Dudevant (1804- 
 1876), the famous novelist known by her pseudonym of "George Sand"; and 
 Madame de Stael (1766-1817). It is said that Madame Dudevant was immense- 
 ly pleased with the story because it represented her in favorable contrast to her 
 "friend" and fellow-author, the Comtesse d'Agoult. The lover of Mademoiselle 
 des Touches, Claude Vignon, stands for the critic Gustave Planche, although 
 it was with Alfred de Musset (1810-1857), the poet, and Frederic Francois Chopin 
 (1809-1849), the musician, that the Baroness Dudevant had her most noted 
 liaisons. 
 
 (ARON DU GUENIC, of Guerande, was a true 
 Breton. When La Vendee arose against the 
 French Republic, he joined with the Royalists in 
 their guerrilla warfare, and when the insurrection 
 was put down, in 1802, he sailed for Ireland 
 rather than accept the clemency of Napoleon. 
 
 Here, in 1813, at the age of fifty, he married 
 Miss Fanny O'Brien, a young lady of ancient 
 family, dowered with beauty, amiability, and good 
 sense in lieu of fortune. In 1814, on the restoration of the Bour- 
 bons to the French throne in the person of Louis XVIII, the 
 Guenics returned to their Breton home, bringing their new- 
 born son, Calyste (Calixtus) by name. 
 
 No other children were born to the couple, and Calyste was 
 the idol of the household. By the time the son had arrived at 
 the age of manhood, though not its appearance — having in- 
 herited from his Irish mother soft, fair hair, a rosebud mouth, 
 delicate complexion, and finely molded features, though de- 
 riving from his father a swordlike strength and elasticity of 
 nerve and muscle — the Baron du Guenic was a broken old 
 man whose sole reason for clinging to life was that he might 
 
 162
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 163 
 
 see his son married and the father of a boy that would preserve 
 the family from extinction. "I do not want to go out of this 
 world," he said, "without seeing my grandson, a little pink-and- 
 white Guenic, with a Breton hood on in his cradle." 
 
 Accordingly, in the year 1836, when Calyste was twenty-two, 
 a council of all the Du Guenic clan was held, at which a wife 
 •for the young man was decided upon in the person of Charlotte 
 de Kergarouet, a young girl of a family of prominence in the 
 neighboring city of Nantes. Calyste hotly rebelled when in- 
 formed of the disposition made of his future by the family 
 council. "I! marry at my age?" he cried to the Baroness de 
 Guenic with one of those looks which weaken a mother's reso- 
 lution. "Am I to have no period of sweet love-madness? May 
 I never know the beauty that is free, the fancy of the soul, the 
 despair of attainment, the thrill of conquest? Shall I never 
 climb to my beloved's chamber by a rotten trellis, without know- 
 ing or caring that it is breaking behind me at every upward 
 step? Can I know nothing of woman but wifely surrender, 
 or of the light of love but the chastened glow of the marriage- 
 lamp? Is all my curiosity to be satiated before it is excited? 
 Am I to live without ever feeling that fury of the heart which 
 adds to a man's power? Do you not perceive that by following 
 the stupid custom of the country you have fed the fire that is 
 consuming me, and that I shall be burned up before that divinity 
 reveals herself to me in flesh and blood whose presaging image 
 I see wherever I turn — in the green-scarfed limbs of the waving 
 forest, the white breasts of the foaming surge, the soft radiance 
 of moonlight glinting from the darkling lake? Shall I never 
 pluck the blue blossom of romance? Mother, but one such 
 flower of womankind blooms in all Guerande, and that is you. 
 It must be in Paris, in the conservatories of Paris, that my 
 heart-ease is to be found. It was from Paris she came, that 
 glorious creature I saw on the moors amid the yellow broom, 
 whose beauty sent the blood with a rush to the heart!" 
 
 "Oh, my dear boy!" said the melting mother, pressing his 
 head to her bosom and kissing his fair hair, still all her own, 
 "marry when you please, only be happy. It is not my part 
 to torment you. Only — tell your mother about this woman 
 you met on the moors."
 
 i6 4 BEATRIX 
 
 It was indeed a glorious creature that Calyste had beheld 
 amid the golden broom. Felicite* des Touches was one of the 
 score of women who, in the history of the world, have achieved 
 greatness measured by the standards applied to the greatest of 
 men. Demanding such a judgment, as it were, she early as- 
 sumed a masculine appellation — Camille Maupin — and speedily 
 made it shine among the foremost names in contemporary 
 literature. 
 
 Occupied with her labors and studies, Mademoiselle des 
 Touches had passed the age when girls of her class usually, 
 if ever, marry. She was now forty, with the same beauty of 
 form and face that she possessed at twenty-five, and more mag- 
 netic than ever in her attractiveness, owing to her ever-increas- 
 ing insight into the minds and soul of her associates, and her 
 ever-broadening sympathy with human passions and impulses, 
 however weak and wayward these might seem in the eyes of 
 the world. 
 
 Disliking to think that she might be abnormal in regard to 
 her feelings toward the other sex, Mademoiselle des Touches, 
 when she had passed the age of impressionable girlhood, 
 sought a lover among men of genius in her own circle. She 
 first selected an author, who was deeply versed in art, a subject 
 in which she felt herself deficient, and who seemed to share 
 in her desire for ennobling companionship. Together they 
 went to Italy, where, after revealing to her the souls of the Old 
 Masters, he finally laid bare his own — suddenly deserting her 
 for an Italian woman of purely sensual charms. But for this 
 humiliation Mademoiselle des Touches might never have be- 
 come famous. It gave her at once and forever that scorn of 
 mankind which was her great strength. The old Felicite was 
 dead and "Camille Maupin" was born. 
 
 She returned to Paris in the company of Conti, the great 
 musician, for whom she wrote the libretti of two operas. Upon 
 the author who had deserted her she revenged herself by writing 
 a delicious comedy on the subject of their Platonic relations. 
 
 Conti she found going the way of her first lover, and so 
 broke with him in time — even before he realized whither he was 
 drifting. At the time when this story opens she had become 
 interested in Claude Vignon, a lazy, impoverished bohemian,
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 165 
 
 who nevertheless was receiving from more successful men the 
 sincere homage of fear and hatred because of his mordant 
 criticism. Felicite" chose him, evidently, in order to maintain 
 and advance her position in the literary world. To escape 
 criticism for this behavior, so rash and incomprehensible as it 
 seemed to her friends, she carried him off to her "Chartreuse" 
 in Brittany. 
 
 But in this beautiful chateau, filled though it was with the 
 treasures of art and literature purchased with the rich gains of 
 his mistress's pen, Vignon, a true cockney, soon became bored, 
 and grew homesick for his beloved Paris. Here in Brittany 
 was no artist to be plucked, no poet to be driven to despair. 
 The varied scenery of the surrounding country pleased him 
 even less than the chateau. So he moped within doors while 
 Camille tramped the moors and the sand-dunes, planning how 
 she might mold him to her purposes. 
 
 On one of these excursions she came upon Calyste lying on 
 his back in the heather, observing in the clouds the symbols of 
 his ideal woman. To Camille his fair flushed face and lithe 
 form, as he sprang to his feet, seemed the impersonation of a 
 faun, one of the ever-young and beautiful creatures of classic 
 myth. All the immortal in her leaped forth responsive, and to 
 him her five feet of stature towered to regal proportions, and 
 her dark face became radiant with inner light. 
 
 "I am Felicite' des Touches," she said; and he: "lam 
 Calyste du Guenic, of Guerande." 
 
 " Our estates join on this moor where no boundary is visible. 
 Let us clasp hands in a friendship that shall know no barriers. 
 Come and see me, Calyste, when it pleases you, as if we had 
 always known each other." 
 
 A few days after Calyste's understanding with his mother, 
 Charlotte, the bride that had been selected for him without his 
 consent, came to visit Guerande, accompanied by her mother, 
 the Viscountess Kergarouet. By the connivance of the Baroness 
 du Guenic, Calyste, after a formal welcome of the visitors, 
 slipped away to Les Touches. Camille, in despair over Vignon's 
 moodiness, greeted the boy with joy.
 
 166 BEATRIX 
 
 " Perhaps you can aid me with our homesick Parisian," she 
 said. "I have set out to galvanize his withered heart, to save 
 him from himself, to attach him to me, but I despair of succeed- 
 ing. My love is not passionate enough, perhaps. I cannot in- 
 toxicate him into forgetfulness of his grudge against the world. 
 You and he must get drunk together. It may make a man of 
 him." 
 
 Calyste turned as red as a cherry. 
 
 "Good God!" exclaimed Camille, "here am I thoughtless- 
 ly depraving your maiden innocence! Forgive me, Calyste! 
 When you love, you will know that you would sacrifice all other 
 persons in the world to attain the smallest of your purposes 
 with the object of your passion. Only a mother's affection 
 can compare with it. Oh, how I envy your mother! To have 
 a Calyste of my own ! What bliss ! And you shall be my son. 
 I will give up my romantic aspirations, unfitting my age, for 
 the joys of motherhood, the cares of which I have not borne. 
 I shall leave you my fortune." 
 
 "I can give you nothing in return," replied the young man, 
 "and so shall return your fortune to your heirs." 
 
 "Child!" said Camille, in her rich tones, now trembling 
 with emotion, "can nothing save me from myself? But I must 
 do something for you; what shall it be?" 
 
 "Give me the chance to love!" cried Calyste, passionately; 
 "to love where I may give of myself something in measure to 
 what I shall receive. I dare not hope that you, so far above 
 me, so rich in thoughts and emotions that overwhelm me with 
 their abundance, and daze me with their mystery, shall be the 
 beloved one. Oh, sun of womankind, are there not planets 
 that revolve about you upon whom I may dare to gaze? I am 
 not clever, like Monsieur Vignon, yet such a love as I desire 
 would make me so. Then perhaps " 
 
 "Then I should be below the horizon, and the new star ex- 
 alted to the zenith. Yes, I know the woman for you, and I 
 shall bring her here, that you may win her. I have already 
 endowed her with a lover — Conti, the musician, who for a time 
 was my satellite. It will be a pleasure to revenge myself on the 
 man who so willingly permitted the transfer, by seeing him 
 supplanted in turn. Beatrix de Casteran, Marquise de Roche-
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 167 
 
 fide (for she has a husband whom she deserted for Conti), is a 
 woman with a wonderful gift of apprehending everything. 
 Hers is the beauty of the pure white rose that still can flush, 
 oh, so delicately! in response to the warmth of adoration. 
 Your cheek is already glowing, boy, with my description, and 
 I know hers must be tinged in subtle sympathy, distant as she 
 is. Are you never so bashful, she will divine your feelings 
 toward her. Nature formed her kind to be the first love of 
 maiden youths, although not always the last. I shall send for 
 Beatrix at once." 
 
 Within a week young Guenic, who was hard put to it to 
 conceal his disgust at the countrified airs of his fiancee, with 
 whom previously he had been delighted to romp, was over- 
 joyed to receive a note from Les Touches, saying: 
 
 "My dear Calyste: — The fair Marquise has arrived. 
 The honor of Brittany and of the Guenics is at stake when 
 there is a Casteran to be welcomed. So let us meet soon. 
 
 "Camille Maupin." 
 
 That afternoon the young Breton walked over to Les Touches 
 surrounded by a halo of hope through which he beheld all 
 nature in a glow, revealing herself to him, as constantly of 
 late, in feminine attributes. He found the whole party in the 
 drawing-room. It was six o'clock, and the room was full of 
 the soft gloom that women, especially those who have passed 
 their youth, love so well. Lifting up the tapestry that cur- 
 tained the door, Calyste stood for a moment surrounded by 
 the red rays of the level sun. "Young Apollo!" he heard 
 ejaculated in a low tone, and then, becoming used to the gloom, 
 he saw, reclining on the divan, a white, sinuous figure, whose 
 eyes were fixed upon him in frank admiration. In an instant 
 the young man was possessed by a passion that filled to the full 
 the wild longings of the past month. Lionlike he looked about 
 to see who might dispute his right to the love that had come 
 upon him. He saw by the side of the woman of his desire a 
 man with a head like Lord Byron's, that he held even more 
 proudly than was the wont of the defiant poet. Calyste divined 
 at once that this was Conti, the musician, and cast at him a
 
 1 68 BEATRIX 
 
 glance of challenge, a feeling he had never had for Claude 
 Vignon. However, the well-bred man of the world did not 
 appear to notice it. 
 
 As soon as possible Camille took the young man aside and 
 said to him: 
 
 "My dear boy, if the Marquise falls in love with you she 
 will pitch Conti out of the window; but you are behaving in 
 such a way as to tighten their bonds. Command yourself." 
 
 Later in the evening, urged by Vignon, Conti and Camille 
 sang together, among other duets the final one of Zingarelli's 
 Romeo e Giulietta, which expresses the extreme of passion. 
 Calyste was overwhelmed by Conti's genius. In spite of what 
 Camille had told him of the man's selfish, even groveling char- 
 acter, the youth believed at this moment that the singer must 
 have a beautiful soul. How was he to contend against such 
 an artist? His heart was filled with despair. He stole from 
 the music-room and cast himself down upon the divan where 
 he had first seen Beatrix. Exhausted with emotion, he fell 
 into a stupor from which he was aroused by the voices of Camille 
 Maupin and Claude Vignon, conversing in low tones in the 
 dark. Evidently it was late and all the rest of the party had 
 retired. 
 
 The critic, the practised dissecter of souls, was laying bare 
 to Camille secrets of her heart of which she herself was uncon- 
 scious: "You are a coward, Camille; you love Calyste, and 
 dare not confess it to yourself. You were appalled at the con- 
 sequences of such a passion at your age. So you have hurled 
 the boy at the head of another woman, and forced yourself to 
 accept me as his substitute — me of all men to attempt to de- 
 ceive! And I must confess that for a time you succeeded in 
 befooling me. I had hoped for a union of spirit with you, that 
 we might soar together into the realm of infinitude. You were 
 there, already, needing not my aid or company. And so I was 
 deceived. 
 
 "To-morrow I go back in this misery of loneliness to the 
 vast prison of Paris. You will remain here equally desolate. 
 God pity us both, Camille!" 
 
 At this moment Calyste rose from the couch: "I ought to 
 let you know that I am here," he said.
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 169 
 
 However much Calyste was affected at first by the self- 
 sacrifice of Camille, his overwhelming passion for Beatrix soon 
 swept from his mind all consideration of his accomplice's feel- 
 ings, and the plot against the Marquise and Conti advanced 
 apace. The young man promised blind obedience to his 
 mentor's orders. These were to avoid the Marquise as much 
 as possible, eluding particularly her questioning, and to pay 
 assiduous court to Camille. " In a week," said this wily woman, 
 "Beatrix will be crazy about you." 
 
 To the Marquise Camille made open confession of her love 
 for her handsome young countryman, and, acknowledging his 
 infatuation for Beatrix, threw herself on the Marquise's mercy. 
 " Such is Calyste's humility that your disdain will preserve him 
 to me. And I cannot bear to lose him. If I do, my deter- 
 mination is fixed." 
 
 "And what have you determined?" asked Beatrix, with an 
 eagerness that, while a confirmation of Camille's view of the 
 Marquise's character, was yet a shock to her sentiments of 
 friendship. 
 
 "Happily," answered the elder woman, "there is no need 
 to answer that question. I know how to win." 
 
 "And that?" queried Beatrix. 
 
 "Is my secret, my dear," answered Camille. 
 
 By Camille's contrivance, Conti was suddenly recalled to 
 Paris, and Beatrix was left alone without a cavalier. By the 
 end of the week the Marquise was crazy — if not with love, with 
 the passion to possess the beloved of another that with many 
 women supplies the place of love. Camille arranged a walk- 
 ing-party to the rocky shore of the Breton coast, and for the 
 first time permitted Calyste and Beatrix to stray off together. 
 Reaching the top of a high cliff, at the foot of which the wild 
 sea tumbled its surges, the young lover, no longer able to re- 
 strain his passion, declared his love in the poetic similitudes to 
 which his solitary communings with nature inclined him : 
 
 "My love for you is like yon deep and tumultuous sea," he 
 said. " Surging in my heart before I saw you, like those billows 
 rolling in from the infinite distance, it has at last found its pre- 
 destined goal " 
 
 "In a rock-bound coast," completed Beatrix. "Calyste, I
 
 170 BEATRIX 
 
 must be adamant to you* I love you, but I will not sacrifice 
 my friend. Camille it is, who, like the moon to the tide, is the 
 source of your agitation." 
 
 "Then your love is not like mine," said the ardent youth. 
 "For you I would sacrifice my friends, my family, my name, 
 my future life." 
 
 "Be silent!" said Beatrix, satisfied with her conquest, and 
 thoroughly alarmed by his impetuosity. "I have done wrong 
 enough. I forbid you to speak to me again of these matters." 
 
 "You will never be mine?" he asked, in a voice choked by 
 a storm in his blood. 
 
 "Never, my dear; to you I can be only Beatrix — a dream." 
 
 "And you will return to Conti?" 
 
 "There is no help for it." 
 
 "Then you shall never more be any man's," cried Calyste, 
 hurling her over the precipice. 
 
 From a cleft in the rock protruded a box-tree, in which the 
 falling woman lodged. Hardly had she reached it, when the 
 repentant youth had followed her, slipping down the almost 
 perpendicular side of the cliff. Beatrix was unconscious. 
 Gathering her in his arms, as they lay in that aerial bed, Calyste 
 implored her to open her eyes, to forgive him. Her lips quivered 
 before her eyelids moved. Suddenly he found himself kissed 
 with a passion more fervent than he had ever imagined in his 
 wildest dream. 
 
 Camille, walking on the shore below, had been a spectator 
 of this scene. Taking a coil of rope from a boat drawn up on 
 the beach, she leaped like an Amazon (for she wore Turkish 
 trousers) up the less precipitous slope of the cliff and was soon 
 at its summit. First she drew up the light and agile Calyste, 
 and then by his help rescued the Marquise. 
 
 To melt, to vitrify flinty hearts, a thunderbolt is needed. 
 On Beatrix this thunderbolt had fallen in Calyste's passion and 
 his attempt on her life. She now looked at love on its loftiest 
 side. She saw herself in Calyste's eyes the supreme woman. 
 "Dear boy," she said to him, "the love I have been so happy 
 to inspire you with has elevated me in my own eyes. If ever 
 you desire to throw me down from this moral height, do not 
 repent your resolution; after your love, death!"
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 171 
 
 Then, even as she was saying these tender words, while she 
 and Calyste were walking one evening through the garden of 
 Les Touches, with arms encircling each other, they came upon 
 Camille and Conti, seated on a bench, talking in low tones with 
 heads close together. Conti sprang to his feet laughing. "You 
 did not expect me back from Paris so soon, I suppose. Thank 
 you, Monsieur du Guenic, for so satisfactorily filling my place." 
 And, placing his arm around the waist from which Calyste's 
 had just dropped in confusion, he walked away with Beatrix, 
 continuing his laughter. 
 
 "He is mocking her!" cried Calyste to Camille, vehemently. 
 
 " Keep calm," said Camille, "or you will lose the few chances 
 that remain. If he wounds Beatrix's vanity too much, she will 
 trample him under foot like a worm. But he is astute. He 
 will no doubt speak of you as a boy bewitched by the notion of 
 ruling the destinies of two famous women. Beatrix, unable to 
 admit me as a rival, will entangle herself in false denials, and he 
 will come away master of the situation." 
 
 "Oh, why did he return?" moaned the heart-broken youth. 
 " One day more, and we should have been safely on our way 
 to Ireland! What brought him back?" 
 
 "The failure of his opera, and the taunt of Vignon that it 
 was hard to lose both reputation and mistress," said Camille. 
 
 That evening Beatrix sought Camille in her chamber. "I 
 am lost !" she cried. " The convict in the galleys is at the mercy 
 of the man he is chained to. I must go back to the hulks of 
 love ! At last I recognize your infernal plotting. It was you 
 who brought Conti back!" 
 
 The Marquise's features were distorted with rage, while 
 Camille tried to conceal her triumph under an expression of 
 regret. 
 
 "I leave you Calyste," said Beatrix, piercing beneath her 
 rival's mask, "but I am fixed forever in his heart." 
 
 Camille retorted by quoting the famous speech of Mazarin's 
 niece to Louis XIV: "You reign, you love him, and you are 
 going." 
 
 In the meantime, the musician, left alone with Calyste, was 
 playing with the young Breton. 
 
 "I foresaw that you would love Beatrix; I left her in a
 
 172 BEATRIX 
 
 situation in which she must needs flirt with you without ab- 
 dicating her sacred majesty, were it only to annoy her dear friend 
 Camille Maupin. Well, my dear fellow, love her. You will 
 be doing me a service. I am at this moment in love with my 
 newest singer, Mademoiselle Falcon. When you come to Paris 
 you will say I have exchanged a marquise for a queen!" 
 
 Joy shed its glory on Calyste's face. This was all that 
 Conti wanted. 
 
 Returning homeward the young lover trod on air. By the 
 time he had reached Guerande, Conti and the Marquise were 
 on their way to Paris. 
 
 The next day Calyste set out early for Les Touches. Camille 
 met him at the gate. 
 
 "Gone!" she exclaimed. 
 
 "Beatrix?" cried Calyste, stunned. 
 
 "You were duped by Conti. You told me nothing; I could 
 do nothing." 
 
 In her wisdom Camille knew it was useless to talk of Bea- 
 trix's unworthiness to the heart-broken young man. He alarmed 
 her by the calmness of his despair. He asked to see Beatrix's 
 room. Hiding his face in the pillow where her head had rested, 
 to Camille's great relief he burst into a torrent of tears. 
 
 Returning home, he found the family and their guests play- 
 ing cards. Having heard of the departure of the woman with 
 whom he was infatuated, each of them watched him by stealth, 
 and all but his mother observed with gratification his calmness. 
 She alone suspected what the death of a first love must be to a 
 heart so true and artless. 
 
 Taking her aside, "Mother," he said, "another has plucked 
 my flower of romance. Tell them I will marry whom and when 
 they please."
 
 A DISTINGUISHED PROVINCIAL AT PARIS (1839) 
 
 This work originally formed the second part of Illusions Perdues ("Lost 
 Illusions"), and two chapters first appeared in the Estajette, in 1839. It is in- 
 cluded in the Scenes de la Vie de Province. Many of the characters appear 
 in other works. Etienne Lousteau is supposed to be a portrait of the critic, 
 Jules Janin. In 1839 Balzac wrote to Madame Hanska: "You will read the 
 Grand Homme, a work full of verve, in which you will once more encounter 
 Florine, Nathan, Lousteau, Blondet, Finot, those 'great personages' of my 
 work, as you have the kindness to call them. But what will recommend this 
 book to the attention of strangers is the audacious painting of the inner life of 
 Parisian journalism — which is of terrifying exactitude. I alone was in a position 
 to tell our journalists the truth, and to make war upon them a Voutrance." The 
 Grand Homme de Province stirred up a great deal of trouble for the realistic 
 author. 
 
 $UCIEN CHARDON, traveling post with his 
 )y inamorata for the first time in his life, was hor- 
 rified to see nearly the whole sum he meant to 
 live on for a year in Paris used up on the road. 
 He made a great mistake in expressing surprise 
 at the new and wonderful things he saw. Many 
 a woman likes to see the god in her idol and 
 cannot forgive any childishness; and Madame 
 de Bargeton's love was grafted on pride — a fact 
 that Lucien had not yet guessed. Instead of keeping himself 
 to himself, he indulged in the playfulness of a young rat emerg- 
 ing from his hole for the first time. The travelers were set 
 down at the sign of the Gaillard-Bois in the Rue de l'Echelle, 
 at daybreak. They did not see each other till four o'clock. 
 Lucien noticed an unaccountable change in his Louise. A 
 change had indeed taken place. While Lucien slept, she had 
 received a call from Monsieur du Chatelet, who had followed 
 her to Paris; and he told her if she wanted the influence of 
 Madame d'Espard she must not live in the same house with 
 Lucien. The Baron offered to find suitable lodgings for her 
 that evening. She agreed; and the elderly dandy, perfectly 
 familiar with Parisian ways and faultlessly dressed, formed a 
 
 173
 
 174 A DISTINGUISHED PROVINCIAL AT PARIS 
 
 striking contrast to the half-awakened, hastily dressed Lucien, 
 in his last year's nankeen trousers and shabby, tight jacket. 
 After dinner Louise told her young lover, Lucien, of the new 
 arrangement; and two hours later she was installed in the 
 Rue Neuve de Luxembourg. The Baron called and impressed 
 the provincial lady still more. The next day Lucien rambled 
 about the streets and called to see Louise. He found the 
 Baron there, who took them to dinner at the Rocher de Cancale 
 and afterward to the Vaudeville. 
 
 That evening marked an epoch in Lucien's career; he bade 
 farewell to many of his provincial ideas; his horizon widened 
 and society assumed different proportions. He looked around 
 at the fair Parisiennes in their beautiful toilets, and thought 
 that the once peerless Louise seemed rather dowdy. The ar- 
 rangement of her hair, too, so bewitching in Angouleme, was 
 simply frightful in Paris. Madame de Bargeton thought her 
 poet cut a " positively pitiable" figure, as she compared him 
 with the correct young dandies in the balcony. His sleeves 
 were too short; his country gloves ill-cut; and his waistcoat 
 was too tight — indeed, he looked " prodigiously ridiculous." 
 In these lovers a process of disenchantment was at work ; Paris 
 was the cause. The next evening, Madame de Bargeton, who 
 was spending the day with Madame d'Espard, invited Lucien to 
 join them at the Opera. Lucien spent the afternoon in the 
 Garden of the Tuileries, where he noted the well-dressed youths 
 and men of fashion. A cold sweat broke out over him as he 
 compared his appearance with theirs, and thought of the clothes 
 he must wear at the Opera. He noted also the famous Made- 
 moiselle des Touches, Madame Firmiani, and other celebrities. 
 Compared with these queens, Louise was an old woman. After 
 dining at Very's (he could have lived a month in Angouleme 
 on the price of that dinner), he rushed to his inn, got a hundred 
 crowns, and returned to the Palais-Royal, where he made the 
 necessary purchases for his evening outfit, and then inquired 
 for a hair-dresser. The Marquise invited Monsieur de Rubem- 
 pre to take a front seat in her box, which was conspicuously 
 situated. Louise de Negrepelisse looked the same as on the 
 previous night — tall, lean, withered, angular, affected in man- 
 ner, provincial and pompous in her speech, and dowdily dressed.
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 175 
 
 Lucicn felt ashamed to have fallen in love with "this cuttlefish 
 bone." He, on his part, was ill at ease, and his manners as- 
 tonished the Marquise. The social celebrities stared hard at 
 Madame d'Espard's two country guests, and Rastignac and 
 Chatelct, who were in the audience, pulled the feathers off M. 
 de Rubempre, and said that his name was really Chardon, and 
 that he was an apothecary's son. Madame d'Espard and 
 Louise, not willing to stand the ridicule, left the Opera; and the 
 doors of the Marquise's house were closed to M. de Rubempre\ 
 
 The next time Lucien saw these ladies they w T ere driving 
 in the Bois ; and they cut him dead. By this time, Madame de 
 Bargeton had become quite Parisian in appearance, under the 
 Marquise's guidance. Lucien removed to a cheap room in 
 the Latin Quarter, and wrote a rhetorical epistle to Louise and 
 another to his sister Eve, who had just married David Sechard, 
 the Angouleme printer. Dining at the famous Flicoteaux's 
 restaurant, he came across a young man, Etienne Lousteau, 
 who, like Lucien, had come to Paris from the provinces to win 
 fame and money through literature. An experience of two 
 years and some fame as a journalist — he wrote book reviews 
 and dramatic criticisms — made him a hero in Lucien's eyes. 
 Lucien spent his mornings studying at the Bibliotheque Sainte- 
 Genevieve; strolled in the Luxembourg Gardens; dined at 
 Flicoteaux's; and went to the theater at night. He now began 
 his rounds with his two manuscripts. The conversations that 
 he overheard while waiting to see the heads of firms destroyed 
 more illusions. He was astonished to discover that publishers 
 regarded books "as merchandise to be sold dear and bought 
 cheap"; that they drove sharp bargains; and that there was a 
 great deal of chicanery in the business. Lucien left his Archer 
 0} Charles IX with "Old Doguereau," as he was familiarly 
 called, who took his address, and said he would call. Doguereau 
 liked the book, and had made up his mind to buy it for a thou- 
 sand francs. But when he climbed the stairs, and saw the for- 
 lorn room, "the destitution of genius made an impression on 
 Daddy Doguereau." 
 
 "Let him preserve these simple habits of life, this frugality, 
 these modest requirements," thought he. Aloud he said: "It 
 is a pleasure to me to see you. Thus, sir, lived Jean- Jacques,
 
 176 A DISTINGUISHED PROVINCIAL AT PARIS 
 
 whom you resemble in more ways than one. Amid such sur- 
 roundings the fire of genius shines brightly ; good work is done 
 in such rooms as these." Thereupon, he offered Lucien four 
 hundred francs for his book. Lucien declined. In his dis- 
 appointment, he met a fellow-worker that afternoon, coming 
 out of the library. They had seen each other here and at Fli- 
 coteaux's. They spoke. Lucien told his troubles, and, in ex- 
 change, received a longer story of hard experiences from the 
 talented Daniel d'Arthez, who invited him to call and show 
 him his manuscript. Lucien did so that evening, and found 
 his new friend in a poor room. D'Arthez read and criticized 
 the historical romance, and told Lucien that he earned a scanty 
 living by writing for encyclopedias, dictionaries, etc., while he 
 studied philosophy and literature. His friends were all earnest 
 students — young naturalists, doctors, artists, and writers. Lu- 
 cien was soon invited to join this " Unacle of lofty thinkers," 
 who often met in D'Arthez's room. Horace Bianchon, Leon 
 Giraud, Joseph Bridau, Fulgence Ridal, and Michel Chrestien 
 made an oasis for Lucien in the Rue des Quatre-Vents. They 
 lent him money, and, better still, gave him faithful friendship. 
 Chrestien's advice was: "Carry all the cravings of imagination 
 into the world of vanity." 
 
 Lucien insisted that he could not bear the burden of Parisian 
 life. "I cannot struggle bravely," he said. 
 
 "We will stand by you," said D'Arthez; "it is just in these 
 ways that a faithful friendship is of use." 
 
 "Stick by us," said Bianchon, "bear up bravely and trust 
 in hard work." 
 
 "But what is hardship for you is death for me," Lucien 
 put in quickly. 
 
 "Before the cock crows thrice," smiled Le*on Giraud, "this 
 man will betray the cause of work for an idle life and the vices 
 of Paris." 
 
 These friends begged him not to go into journalism. They 
 said it was " an inferno, a bottomless pit of iniquity and treach- 
 ery and lies, which no one can traverse undefiled, unless, like 
 Dante, he is protected by Virgil's sacred laurel." 
 
 Lucien would not listen; and, having tried the publishers, 
 he now tried the newspapers. He had his first shock at the
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 177 
 
 Solitaire, where he got an insight into the ways of dealing with 
 subscribers. Then he ran across Lousteau, and talked over 
 the question of journalism with him. He also read to him some 
 of his sonnets from The Marguerites: Easter Daisies, The Mar- 
 guerite, The Camellia, and The Tulip (the latter admired by 
 the cenacle). Lousteau told him that poetry meant starva- 
 tion; and then he enlightened him with regard to the uni- 
 versal corruption in the world of journalism and literature. "It 
 is always the same story," he said; "year after year the 
 same rush from the provinces to Paris ; but one by one they 
 drop, some into the trench where failures lie, some into the 
 mire of journalism, some again into the quagmires of the 
 book-trade." 
 
 Lucien had made up his mind. He agreed to call for Lous- 
 teau, dine with him at Dauriat's, be introduced to several 
 journalists, attend a first night at the Panorama-Dramatique, 
 and have supper with Lousteau's mistress, Florine, where he 
 would meet Finot, editor and proprietor of Lousteau's paper. 
 The atmosphere of Lousteau's room was a great contrast to 
 that of D'Arthez. Before going out, Lousteau had to get some 
 money from an old pawnbroker and bookseller, Barbet, who 
 called and took away some of the books sent for review. Lous- 
 teau then told Lucien how book-reviews were written without 
 the writer seeing the books. Lousteau paid the cabman three 
 francs (which astounded the provincial poet), when they got 
 out at the "Wooden Galleries," where "fashionable literature, 
 as it is called, used to reign in state." 
 
 The Wooden Galleries of the Palais-Royal were, at this 
 period, one of the sights of Paris. Here were shops full of 
 striking articles; booksellers, tailors, and milliners were side 
 by side; and ventriloquists and charlatans, performing dogs 
 and automatic chess-players plied their queer trades in a jumble 
 with florists and fruiterers. Women of the town, too, made a 
 promenade of this place. Lucien was dazzled and thunder- 
 struck at the book-talk between Lousteau, Dauriat, and Finot, 
 regarding the sales of poetry. Lousteau shrunk somewhat in 
 Lucien's eyes. The most important man in Paris was un- 
 doubtedly the fashionable bookseller, by whom all great literary 
 men lived. Lucien halted no longer between the resignation 
 A.D., vol. 11. — 12
 
 178 A DISTINGUISHED PROVINCIAL AT PARIS 
 
 preached by the brotherhood in the Latin Quarter and Lous- 
 teau's militant doctrine. 
 
 He was impressed with the power of the press when he 
 entered the Panorama- Dramatique with Lousteau. He went 
 with him behind the scenes, and saw all the curious life and 
 manners there. He was introduced to Monsieur Raoul Nathan, 
 a critic, Vernou, Finot, and several actresses, including Florine 
 and Coralie. Matifat, a wealthy chemist, was in her dressing- 
 room. Coralie also had an admirer, a rich silk-mercer named 
 Camusot. Lucien had gone from surprise to surprise. For 
 two months he had seen literature in poverty and want in the 
 Latin Quarter; he had seen literature at its cynical worst in 
 Lousteau's rooms; and he had seen literature abject and liter- 
 ature insolent in the Wooden Galleries. Now he was to 
 undergo his initiation into the intrigues of actors, critics, jour- 
 nalists, and playwrights, as well as the dissipated, frivolous life 
 of the votaries of the footlights. The beautiful Jewess, Cora- 
 lie, with her oval and ivory-tinted face, pomegranate lips, ebony 
 hair, and jet-black, long-lashed eyes, lost her heart. Lousteau 
 told this to Lucien during the play. Lucien told Lousteau 
 about his love-affair with Madame de Bargeton and his en- 
 mity to the Baron du Chatelet. 
 
 "Very good!" said Lousteau, "we want a bete noire for our 
 newspaper; we will take him up. Finot is short of copy. You 
 can do the play, and I will get out three columns about the 
 elderly buck and your disdainful lady." 
 
 " So this is how a newspaper is written !" said Lucien. After 
 the play they went to Florine's luxurious rooms, provided by 
 Matifat. Lucien retired to her pretty boudoir, and, by the 
 light of the pink candles, wrote his first newspaper article on 
 the first performance of the Alcalde in a Fix, an imbroglio in 
 three acts — first appearance of Mademoiselle Florine and Made- 
 moiselle Coralie. At the same time Lousteau wrote The Elderly 
 Beau, and hit off the Baron du Chatelet and "the cuttlefish 
 bone." That evening Lucien saw the very heart's core of 
 cankerous Paris; but, so far from shuddering at the sight, he 
 was intoxicated with the enjoyment of the intellectual and 
 stimulating society in which he found himself. The extraor- 
 dinary men, clad in armor damascened by their vices, these
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 179 
 
 intellects environed by cold and bitter analysis, seemed far 
 greater in his eyes than the grave and earnest members of the 
 brotherhood. Besides all this he was reveling in his first taste 
 of luxury ; for the first time in his life he tasted delicious wines 
 and saw cookery carried to the pitch of a fine art. A minister 
 and a duke were present, and amid the fragrance of wine, 
 steaming dishes, and bright candles was the loveliest actress in 
 Paris — the beautiful Coralie, made happy by a few words of his ! 
 
 Lucien, unaccustomed to orgies of this kind, succumbed, 
 and was taken by Coralie to her home in the Rue de Vendome, 
 where she and her servant, Berenice, put him to bed. Lucien 
 now made his home with Coralie in the luxurious apartments 
 provided by Camusot. His review made a great success. 
 Daniel d'Arthez, too, saw it, and wrote him a letter full of con- 
 gratulation and regrets. He saw the road on which Lucien 
 had begun to travel. 
 
 Lucien then went to see his friends in the Latin Quarter; 
 but he had gone too far away from their lofty ideals. Under 
 the tutelage of Lousteau, Lucien began to pull many wires. 
 Lousteau got the editorship of Finot's paper, and Lucien was 
 taken on the staff. Dauriat now returned The Marguerites to 
 Lucien, and Lousteau showed him how to get him to publish it. 
 A severe review by Lucien of Nathan's new book, published 
 by Dauriat, caused that publisher to make terms. He 
 called on Lucien at Coralie 's house, and agreed to issue The 
 Marguerites if Lucien would agree to attack no more of his 
 publications. 
 
 Coralie bestowed everything upon Lucien : her love, beauti- 
 ful presents, and handsome clothes. In a fit of sentiment, he 
 sent some money to Eve, David, and his mother; and Coralie 
 thought him a model son and brother. One night, at the 
 Opera, he attracted attention, and the Comtesse de Mont- 
 cornet told Blondet to bring him to her home. The Baron du 
 Chatelet had taken the skit about the Baron Heron and the 
 cuttlefish seriously, and Blondet was willing to try to reconcile 
 Madame de Bargeton and Lucien at Madame de Montcornet's 
 house. Lucien, however, wanted to write something sharp 
 against "the Heron and the Cuttlefish," before going. For a 
 month, Lucien's time was taken up with supper-parties, break-
 
 180 A DISTINGUISHED PROVINCIAL AT PARIS 
 
 fasts, and evening gatherings. Easy work and dissipation, 
 without a thought of the future, filled his whole time. In 
 dress and figure he was a rival to all the dandies of the day. 
 When he went to the German Minister's dinner, he was the 
 equal in appearance of Rastignac, De Marsay, Vandenesse, 
 Maxime de Trailles, and the other young men of fashion. 
 Madame de Montcornet and Madame d'Espard overwhelmed 
 him with attentions. The Marquise told him that Monsieur 
 de Bargeton was dead, and reproached him for having 
 wounded Louise's heart. The insight she gave him into 
 society was another lost illusion. Of the bad faith in journal- 
 ism he had had some experience; but he hardly expected to 
 find bad faith or treachery in society. There were still some 
 sharp lessons in store for him. The Marquise told him also 
 that Louise was trying to get a royal patent, permitting him to 
 bear the name and title of De Rubempre. 
 
 In the Minister's hotel in the Faubourg Saint- Germain 
 Lucien saw a very different kind of splendor from that of the 
 world in which he had been living. When he stepped into the 
 carriage in the courtyard, however, Coralie was waiting for 
 him. A week later, Lucien went to Madame de Montcornet's 
 house. There he met Louise, now a happy widow. Her old 
 feeling for Lucien returned; but he would not sacrifice the 
 actress for the great lady. She left the room with a fixed deter- 
 mination to be revenged. 
 
 Lucien was a great success. Beautiful Mademoiselle des 
 Touches, so well known as "Camille Maupin," asked him to 
 one of her Wednesday dinners. Another thing turned the poet's 
 head : every man who entered a drawing-room had a title, while 
 he was plain Chardon. He learned to ride, and escorted great 
 ladies in the Bois, and Finot gave him an order to criticize the 
 Opera, where he spent many evenings. In short, he became 
 one of the exquisites of the day. He made mistakes, however, 
 and one of his greatest blunders was in giving a breakfast in 
 Coralie's rooms to Rastignac and his fashionable friends. 
 Lucien also took to cards and gambling — rivals that Coralie 
 did not fear. Chatelet, seeing that his rival still had a chance, 
 became Lucien's friend, and encouraged him in dissipation that 
 wasted his energies. Debts increased, and finally creditors
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 181 
 
 seized Coralic's horses, carriages, and furniture for four thousand 
 francs; everything else was at the pawnbroker's. 
 
 Lousteau and Florine were in the same plight. Lousteau 
 and Lucien tried in various ways to raise money, among pub- 
 lishers, booksellers, and Jew usurers ; then they tried gambling. 
 When Lucien went home he found a note from Coralie. The 
 Panorama-Dramatique had suddenly failed; and she, in alarm, 
 had sold her furniture and hurried with Berenice and twelve 
 hundred francs to a fourth-floor lodging in the Rue de la Lune. 
 Lucien awoke next morning in an enchanted world of happiness 
 made about him by Coralie. She was even more loving and 
 tender in these days of poverty. Coralie began to study a part 
 for the Gymnase, and Lucien built hopes on his new position 
 as a Royalist journalist. As Berenice was serving a modest 
 breakfast, there was a knock at the door. Giraud, Chrestien, 
 and D'Arthez entered. They had come to beg Lucien not to 
 sully his character by becoming a turncoat. They could do 
 nothing with him; for he was determined to take his place in 
 society as Count Lucien de Rubempre\ The next day Lucien 
 allowed his name to appear in the list of contributors to the 
 Reveil, and joined the Royalist journalists with a great flourish 
 and a dinner at Robert's. The Opposition papers ridiculed 
 him unmercifully ; and, in the very paper in which he had made 
 so brilliant a beginning, Lucien was called "the Poet sans 
 Sonnets"; and a paragraph, pretending to explain why Dauriat 
 withheld them from publication was accompanied by a bitter 
 burlesque sonnet called Le Chardon ("The Thistle"), in allu- 
 sion to his name. 
 
 Lucien had been a Liberal and a hot Voltairean; now he 
 was a rabid Royalist and a Romantic. "I cannot think of 
 another example of such rapid success," said Finot one night; 
 "his old friends cannot forgive him for it; they call it luck." 
 The fact was, he had lost all of his friends, even Lousteau. 
 
 Lucien now took a humiliating step: he actually went to 
 Camusot and got him to discount some bills; but he did not 
 tell this to Coralie. Next, he played traitor to D'Arthez, whose 
 book was given him to review. It was on the eve of Coralie's 
 de"but at the Gymnase. He was ordered to write "a slashing 
 article," which he at first refused to do. He was told that a
 
 1 8a A DISTINGUISHED PROVINCIAL AT PARIS 
 
 renegade could not do as he pleased, and to choose between 
 D'Arthez and Coralie; for, if he did not "slate" the book, a 
 blow should be dealt to Coralie. Lucien went to D'Arthez 
 and told him that he was ordered to write an attack of his 
 book. After all, Coralie failed; for the audience was cold and 
 the press bitter. Coralie became ill, and Florine (who was in 
 the intrigue) took her part and created a sensation. Lucien 
 then tried Frascati's, and lost everything; and, running across 
 Finot, who gave him an anecdote of the Keeper of the Seals, 
 promised to write articles for his paper. He also persuaded 
 Mademoiselle des Touches to give Coralie the heroine's part 
 in a play she was writing. The terrible story of the Keeper of 
 the Seals was published. Lucien was discovered as the author 
 and disgraced. Baron du Chatelet told Lucien that but for his 
 articles he would not so soon have been given the title of Comte 
 du Chatelet, and that he was now Councilor Extraordinary, 
 with the promise of the prefecture of the Charente. They went 
 together to the Secretary- General's office. Des Lupeaulx, a 
 functionary, denounced Lucien, and showed him the manu- 
 script of the article that had appeared in Finot's paper. Lucien 
 was stunned. He went into the Place Vendome; and, while 
 wandering about, saw his book advertised, with a ridiculous 
 title. He did not notice Rastignac and De Marsay, nor Leon 
 Giraud and Michel Chrestien approaching. 
 
 "Are you Monsieur Chardon?" said the latter. 
 
 "Do you not know me?" said Lucien, turning pale. 
 
 Michel spat in his face: "Take that as your wages for your 
 article against D'Arthez. If everybody would do as I do, in 
 his own or his friend's behalf, the press would be as it ought to 
 be — a self-respecting and respected priesthood." Lucien struck 
 Michel in the face, and asked Rastignac to be his second. In 
 the duel, Lucien was wounded, and Coralie found it difficult 
 to act away from her prostrate lover. Lucien 's book failed; 
 Camusot entered proceedings against him; Coralie broke down 
 and had to give her part to Florine; and debt, distress, and 
 poverty threatened to engulf them. In despair, Lucien imitated 
 the handwriting of his brother-in-law, David Sechard, and 
 drew three bills of a thousand francs each, due in one, two, and 
 three months, and indorsed and took them to Metivier, who
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 183 
 
 gave him the cash. Lucien paid the debts and tried to work, 
 but he had "written himself out." 
 
 Bianchon now told them that Coralie had only a few days 
 to live. Her death took all the heart out of Lucien; and, in 
 order to pay the funeral expenses, he had to write ten rollicking 
 songs to fit popular airs. He was shouting the reckless refrain 
 when D'Arthez and Bianchon arrived to find him in a paroxysm 
 of despair and exhaustion. Mademoiselle des Touches arrived 
 with money, but she came too late: Coralie, aged nineteen 
 years, was dead! 
 
 Lucien now decided to return to Angouleme; but he could 
 not find enough money. Berenice got it for him from a stranger. 
 "Here are your twenty francs," she said, "they may cost dear, 
 yet; but you can go." She fled. This was the final brand set 
 upon Lucien by life in Paris.
 
 URSULE MIROUET (1841) 
 
 Balzac considered this novel a "most beautiful piece of work." He dedi- 
 cated it to his niece, saying: "You young girls are a public to be dreaded; you 
 ought never to be suffered to read any book less pure than your own pure souls." 
 
 N 1778, Mesmer, the discoverer of animal mag- 
 netism, settled in Paris, where he created a great 
 sensation by the practise of his art. He was 
 bitterly opposed by the physicians of the city, 
 chief among whom was Dr. Minoret, a member 
 of the circle known as encyclopedists, and at 
 last he was driven from Paris to end his days in 
 poverty and exile. 
 
 Though an ardent atheist and a Republican, 
 Dr. Minoret had married a devout Catholic and Royalist, Ursule, 
 daughter of Valentin Mirouet, the famous harpsichord-player. 
 During the Revolution she died of an aneurism, precipitated 
 by the sight of Madame Roland on her way to the guillotine. 
 She left no children to be a solace to her desolated husband. 
 
 Now her father, Valentin Mirouet, had a natural son, known 
 as Joseph Mirouet, whom he recognized but never legiti- 
 matized out of regard for his daughter, Madame Minoret. 
 Handsome, a divine singer, Joseph was withal wayward, and 
 ran away in early manhood to make a career for himself. At 
 the age of forty he married a music-mad daughter of a merchant 
 in Hamburg. The blissful pair ran through with her fortune 
 in less than a year, when, happily ignorant of this fact, the wife 
 died in giving birth to a daughter. Joseph drifted with the 
 infant to Paris, shortly before the capitulation of that city in 
 1 81 4, and, humbled by poverty, took a situation as regimental 
 bandmaster. Worn out by grief and privation, he became 
 mortally ill, and was taken to the camp hospital, where Dr. 
 Minoret chanced to find him. The physician made the last 
 hours of the dying man happy by adopting the child, standing 
 
 184
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 185 
 
 godfather to her (though "church mummeries" were repugnant 
 to him) and christening her with the name of his beloved wife, 
 Ursule. Thenceforth the doctor began to live for little Ursule 
 alone. He would sometimes tell his friends that he suffered 
 from pain in his teeth when the baby was cutting hers. 
 
 Feeling that Paris in those troublous times was no place in 
 which to rear a child, the old man thought of his birthplace, 
 Nemours, which he had not visited since he was a young man. 
 Having purchased a suitable house there through an agent, he 
 suddenly made his appearance in that provincial seat, creating 
 the greatest possible excitement among its citizens, for Nemours 
 was inhabited chiefly by an intermixture of families of which 
 the clan Minoret furnished the common base. There were 
 such families as Massin-Minoret, Minoret-Minoret, Minoret- 
 Levrault, Minoret-Cre'miere, besides offshoots such as Minoret- 
 Francois and Jean-Minoret — enough to madden a Father 
 Anselme, if Nemours ever required a genealogist. 
 
 The advent of the old doctor, reputed to be fabulously rich, 
 and with no relatives nearer than themselves, became the sole 
 topic of discussion in most of the households of the city, and 
 the occasion of numerous family councils. De'sire' Minoret- 
 Levrault, the postmaster's son, a dandified young law-student 
 of Paris, home on his vacation, looked up the laws on inherit- 
 ance, and announced that the law would probably refuse to 
 recognize a will made by the old man in favor of Ursule, since, 
 though herself born in lawful wedlock, her father was an il- 
 legitimate child, and it was impossible to prove the existence 
 of that tie of kinship between testator and inheritor which the 
 State, in defense of legitimate relationship, had made requisite. 
 At the worst, the old man would probably bequeath her a com- 
 petency. There was one sure consolation, said the smart young 
 legal aspirant to his mother, Zelie, the old man was a confirmed 
 atheist, and would leave nothing to the Church. "Thank 
 God!" ejaculated the pious woman. 
 
 Dr. Minoret had little to do with his relatives. He attached 
 to himself two warm friends, the Abbe Chaperon and Monsieur 
 Bongrand, the judge of the district. The friends became as 
 devoted to Ursule as was the doctor. In deference to the desire 
 expressed by her dying father, Ursule's guardian permitted the
 
 1 86 URSULE MIROUET 
 
 Abbe to instruct the little girl in the Catholic religion. Under 
 the guidance of this devout man, Ursule became a pious and 
 mystical creature, with whom the love of God was inextricably 
 entwined with the love of her godfather. When she set out 
 for her first communion in her pretty white frock, with her eyes 
 shining like stars, she said to the admiring old man: "Why are 
 you not coming too, godfather? Am I to be happy without 
 you?" Then it was that a secret struggle began between in- 
 fidel old age and devout youth which was destined to set the 
 town by the ears. 
 
 This contest culminated in victory for Ursule through a very 
 curious experience of the doctor's. Since his retirement to 
 Nemours, the science of imponderable agents had been de- 
 veloped to account for the phenomena of mesmerism. The 
 materialists could not successfully combat it, and so an old 
 colleague of Dr. Minoret in his fight with Mesmer called on 
 him to return to Paris to confute a new "charlatan" that had 
 arisen, practising the same cult. 
 
 This man, by the visions of a medium whom he threw into 
 a magnetic trance, claimed to be able to tell what was occurring 
 at a distance, thereby proving the existence of a spiritual world 
 dominated by higher than physical laws. 
 
 Dr. Minoret called upon this so-called impostor, and to his 
 surprise found him a man of noble presence and great dignity 
 of manner. The mesmerist caused his medium to pass into 
 a trance, and invited his visitor to test her clairvoyance. The 
 doctor asked her what Ursule was doing at Nemours, and also 
 of what she was thinking. 
 
 "She is marking a tiny red spot opposite Saint Savinien's 
 day in the calendar, and she is thinking of a young man who 
 bears that name," was the answer. 
 
 "Ah," ejaculated the doctor, "the son of Madame de Por- 
 tenduere, our neighbor!" 
 
 Dr. Minoret was so agitated that he left the room at once, 
 and took stage for Nemours. On his arrival he went at once 
 to Ursule 's chamber, and looked at the calendar upon her 
 dressing-table. There, opposite St. Savinien's day, he found 
 a small red mark. And this dot, no larger than a pin's head, 
 the clairvoyante had discerned in spite of distance and obstacles !
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 187 
 
 The infidel was forced to submit to evidence. A thick wall 
 within himself, as it were, crumbled down, for he had 
 founded his infidelity upon his materialism. Kneeling by 
 the bedside, where every night and morning Ursule prayed 
 for his conversion, he lifted up his soul to God, beseeching 
 forgiveness. 
 
 The next morning he asked Ursule to let him accompany 
 her to mass. 
 
 "My little godmother," he said, "at last you have brought 
 me to God." 
 
 Far prouder than even on her first communion was Ursule, 
 as, arm in arm with the old man, she entered the house of 
 God. 
 
 But his relatives were in the greatest consternation at the 
 sight, and met in spontaneous conclave to discuss measures to 
 keep the old man's money from falling into the hands of Ursule 
 and the Church. Dionis, the notary, presented the most ac- 
 ceptable plan. 
 
 "I should be likely to know it if your uncle had made a 
 will, and I do not believe he has done so. He has probably 
 made a secret hoard, the hiding-place of which he intends to 
 reveal only to those he wishes to be his heirs. My advice, 
 therefore, is that he should be induced to invest his capital in 
 such a way as to make it difficult for him to dispossess you, 
 his lawful heirs. The opportunity for such investment now 
 offers. Young Portenduere, after cutting quite a dash in 
 Parisian society, is locked up for a hundred thousand francs 
 of debts. His old mother is distracted, and has invited the 
 Abbe Chaperon to dinner, to talk over the matter, no doubt. 
 Now, the Abbe, having opened up to the old man an endless 
 inheritance of heavenly glory, can undoubtedly influence him 
 in the disposition of his earthly riches. I am in my rights as a 
 notary in applying to your uncle in behalf of the Portendueres, 
 and, seconded by the Abbe, I think I can persuade him to lend 
 the sum necessary to release the young prodigal, taking mort- 
 gages on Madame de Portenduere's farm and her city house. 
 Perhaps I can get him to put the rest of his money in other 
 mortgages. If so, I will see that his capital is tied up in this 
 way until he dies."
 
 1 88 URSULE MIROUET 
 
 Next day Dionis presented this proposition to Dr. Minoret 
 in the presence of the cure and Ursule. The shrewd old man 
 at once refused it. 
 
 "My heirs would undoubtedly be glad to see me sewn up 
 in this fashion. But my arrangements are unalterable. Mon- 
 sieur de Portenduere must remain in prison if his release depends 
 
 on me." 
 
 Hearing these words Ursule, with an inarticulate cry, sank 
 in her chair, with her head lying on the table. The doctor 
 sprang to her side. "Good evening, Monsieur," he said to the 
 notary, "leave me." 
 
 "What is it, my child?" he asked, after Ursule had recovered 
 her senses. 
 
 "Savinien — in prison!" she cried. 
 
 "I did not know, sweetheart, that you loved him so much 
 already." 
 
 "I do not love him, godfather; we have never spoken to 
 each other," she sobbed. "But to know that the poor young 
 man is in prison, and to hear you, who are so kind, sternly refuse 
 to help him out — " 
 
 "Ursule, my sweet little woman, if you do not love him, why 
 have you put a red dot to the day of Saint Savinien? Come, 
 confess to your godfather, whose heart in these last few days 
 has become more tender to you than ever it was." 
 
 "Well, then, dear godfather, I will open my soul to you. 
 While you were in Paris Monsieur de Portenduere came from 
 that city on a flying visit to his mother, to return next day — 
 alas, poor unsuspecting young man ! — to a prison they were pre- 
 paring for him. In the morning, as I opened my window, I 
 saw across the way Monsieur Savinien shaving himself. I saw 
 his throat so white and round, and he combed his imperial, and 
 twirled his black mustache with such grace! Something rose 
 up in me like a mist, penetrating my bosom with a delicious 
 warmth, and setting my head aswim. I trembled so that I 
 could not stand. But I longed to see him so much that I pulled 
 myself up on tiptoe; then he noticed me, and for fun he blew 
 me a kiss from the tips of his fingers, and — " 
 
 "And—?" 
 
 "I hid myself, ashamed and happy, without understanding
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 189 
 
 why I should be ashamed of my happiness. He went away 
 that evening, taking my heart with him." 
 
 "My child," said the doctor tenderly, "your love is natural, 
 and you need not be ashamed of it. But there are many 
 natural impulses that in the unequal conditions of life we must 
 restrain. You must reserve your love for your future husband, 
 and that Monsieur Savinien can never be. His mother would 
 never consent that the son of Vicomte de Portenduere of the 
 Royal Navy should marry the daughter of a regimental band- 
 master who was — for now I must tell you — the bastard son of 
 an organist, my father-in-law." 
 
 "Yes, godfather, you are right. We are equals only in the 
 eyes of God. I will think of him no more — except in my 
 prayers. But give him all you have intended to leave me. 
 What can a poor girl like me want of money? — and he, in 
 prison!" 
 
 "I will do anything you like, child." 
 
 When her godfather set out for Paris to release young M. 
 de Portenduere, Ursule found so many ingenious reasons for 
 going along with him that he had neither the wit nor the heart 
 to refuse her. Arriving at the city, she insisted on seeing the 
 prison wherein they had shut up the poor young man. 
 
 "My child," said the doctor, "this is not forgetting him." 
 
 "Oh," replied the young girl naively, "I may love him even 
 if I do not marry him." 
 
 The young man returned to Nemours in the stage-coach 
 with the doctor and Ursule. The young girl fell asleep, and 
 her head, resting on the old man's shoulder, cushioned by 
 curls, made such an enchanting picture of trusting innocence 
 that Savinien, contrasting the provincial maiden with the bold 
 beauties of the city whose coquetries had lured him into his 
 ruinous extravagance, fell headlong in love. Impetuous in 
 reforming his career as he had been in ruining it, he vowed 
 to win Ursule Mirouet as his wife. Knowing his mother's 
 aristocratic prejudices, he realized that this would be no easy 
 task. 
 
 He was thoroughly sobered when, on entering his home, 
 he found that his mother was not at the threshold to greet him.
 
 190 URSULE MIROUET 
 
 "She is waiting for you in your father's room," said Tiennette, 
 the old servant. 
 
 Then Savinien realized for the first time how deeply his 
 mother was affected by his disgrace; for his father's room, 
 which she kept in the exact condition it was in when her hus- 
 band, the naval captain, died in it, was her holy of holies, into 
 which she retired in spiritual crises. 
 
 "Monsieur le Vicomte," said the stately woman, rising as 
 he entered and pointing to the bed, "there your father died— 
 a man of honor. His spirit is above. Can you swear to me, 
 before that Shade, and before God, who sees all things, that 
 your debts were the consequences only of a young man's follies, 
 that you have wronged no man nor woman — in short, that your 
 honor is unspotted?" 
 
 "Yes, mother," said the young man gravely. 
 
 She opened her arms and clasped him to her heart. 
 
 "Then all is forgotten; we have lost nothing but money!" 
 
 Through the influence of his uncle, Admiral de Kergarouet, 
 Savinien secured a minor appointment in the navy. Then he 
 called upon Dr. Minoret, and told him of his new chance in 
 life, that might lead in time to his father's rank. 
 
 "Monsieur, will you give your ward to a ship's captain?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "No," replied Dr. Minoret with a smile; "we might have 
 to wait too long, but — to a ship's lieutenant." 
 
 In December, 1834, the doctor, now eighty-eight years old, 
 took to his bed from sheer weakness of age. The heirs heard 
 that he was dying and trooped to his house to take possession 
 and prevent anything being removed. The old man ordered 
 them out, saying, "I want to be alone with Ursule." All the 
 heirs departed save the postmaster, Minoret-Levrault, who 
 slipped into the gallery adjoining the sick man's chamber. 
 He overheard the old doctor tell his ward the location of a 
 hidden letter, and command her to bring it to him when the 
 nurse had returned to relieve her. 
 
 The eavesdropper stole away and secured the letter. Tak- 
 ing it home he opened it, and found a note to Ursule, telling
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 191 
 
 the hiding-place of valuable certificates intended for her, and 
 a will, getting around the law that forbade bequests to illegiti- 
 mate relatives by leaving the old man's property to Ursule's 
 intended husband, Savinien. Striking two matches that went 
 out, and a third that lighted, the postmaster burned the note 
 and will, and buried their ashes and the wax of the envelope 
 in the. cinders on the hearth. Returning to the doctor's house, 
 he found it in commotion over the old man's death. He had 
 expired with dismay on seeing Ursule return empty-handed 
 from her errand to find the will. In the confusion the post- 
 master was able to steal the certificates without detection. 
 
 The heirs drove the hapless ward out of her godfather's 
 house, of which they took possession. The postmaster, con- 
 spiring with a malicious clerk of the notary, Goupil, tried to 
 drive her out of town, by concocting most diabolical anonymous 
 letters, telling of Savinien's engagement to an aristocratic girl, 
 and by hiring a band to serenade her, as if from a lover. But 
 her father's old friends stood by her, and, though stricken almost 
 to death by shame of the notoriety to which she was subjected, 
 she survived to triumph over her detractors, through the very 
 condition into which they had thrown her. In this state of 
 physical prostration she became endowed with clairvoyant 
 powers, and in a trance she beheld Dr. Minoret beckoning her 
 to follow him. He led her to the hiding-place of the letter, and 
 showed her the postmaster stealing it. Following the thief 
 home, guided by her godfather's apparition, she saw Minoret- 
 Levrault burn the letter after two ineffectual attempts, and 
 bury the wax and ashes in the cinders. So, too, she saw the 
 postmaster return to Dr. Minoret's house and steal the 
 certificates. 
 
 Ursule told this dream to the Abbe* Chaperon and Justice 
 Bongrand. They confronted the postmaster with the details 
 of his theft. Though frightened, he maintained a bold front. 
 Finally the apparition of the doctor foretold a terrible accident 
 to his son, which soon after took place. Seeing the hand of 
 God in all these events, at last he broke down and made full 
 confession and restitution. A reaction took place among the 
 heirs, and Ursule became the heroine of Nemours. Madame 
 de Portenduere's opposition to the marriage of her son and
 
 192 URSULE MIROUET 
 
 Mademoiselle Mirouet at last broke down, and the young pair 
 were wedded upon the day Savinien received his commission as 
 lieutenant. 
 
 When, in the Champs-Elyse"es you see one of those neat 
 little low carriages, known as escargots (or snail-shells), drive 
 past, and admire a pretty, fair woman leaning lightly against 
 a young man, her face surrounded by a myriad of curls, like 
 light foliage, with eyes like luminous periwinkle-flowers, full of 
 love — if you should feel the sting of envious wishes, remember 
 that this handsome couple, the favorites of God, have paid in 
 advance their tribute to the woes of life. For these married 
 lovers will undoubtedly be the Vicomte de Portenduere and 
 his wife. There are not two such couples in all Paris.
 
 CATHERINE DE' MEDICI (1841) 
 
 This historical romance consists of three separate stories of different lengths, 
 entirely independent of one another. The first part, Le Martyr Calviniste, was 
 the last of the three in regard to date of publication. It first appeared in 
 Le Steele, under the title of Les Lecamus. The second part was the second also 
 with regard to date of publication. It has retained its title, Le Secret de Ruggieri. 
 It appeared in Le Chronique de Paris in 1836-1837. The third part, Les Deux 
 Revcs, had appeared in La Mode as early as 1830; also as Le Petit Souper in the 
 Revue de deux Mondes. It was included in Romans et Contes Philosophiques in 
 183 1. These three stories, with an Introduction, were published in three volumes, 
 in 1843, under the title of Catherine de Medici Expliquee; but when the work was 
 included in the Etudes Philosophiques in 1846, the title was changed to Sur 
 Catherine de' Medici. In his Introduction Balzac says: "In France, and at the 
 most important period of our history, Catherine de' Medici has suffered more 
 from popular error than any other woman, unless it be Brunehaut or Frede"gonde; 
 while Marie de' Medici, whose every action was prejudicial to France, has 
 escaped the disgrace that should cover her name. . . . Catherine de' Medici, 
 on the contrary, saved the throne of France; she maintained the royal authority 
 under circumstances to which more than one great prince would have succumbed. 
 Face to face with such leaders of the factions and ambitions of the houses of Guise 
 and of Bourbon as the two Cardinals of Lorraine and the two Balafres, the two 
 Princes de Conde, Queen Jeanne d'Albret, Henri IV, the Connetable de Mont- 
 morency, Calvin, the Cohgnys, and Theodore de Beze, she was forced to put 
 forth the rarest fine qualities, the most essential gifts of statesmanship, under the 
 fire of the Calvinist press. These, at any rate, are indisputable facts; and to the 
 student who digs deep into the history of the sixteenth century in France, the 
 figure of Catherine de' Medici stands out as that of a great king." 
 
 PART I 
 THE CALVINIST MARTYR 
 
 (|N the bank of the Seine, at the end of the Pont 
 au Change, lived Master Lecamus, furrier to 
 Catherine de' Medici and Mary Stuart. He 
 was very wealthy and the head of his guild. He 
 was secretly in sympathy with the new religious 
 teaching that was setting Paris by the ears, as 
 was also his son, Christophe, an ardent youth of 
 two-and-twenty. 
 
 One evening in April, 1560, the latter re- 
 ceived a visit from a man who announced himself as Chaudieu, 
 one of the most famous ministers and heroic actors in the ter- 
 A.D., vol. h. — 13 193
 
 194 CATHERINE DE' MEDICI 
 
 rible drama about to open. He led Christophe down to a 
 boat, containing two men, which was rowed under one of the 
 arches of the bridge. There the occupants could talk without 
 being overheard. The two strangers were La Renaudie and 
 the Prince de Conde. The four men were representative of 
 the faith of the people, the intellect of eloquence, the arm of the 
 soldier, and royalty cast into the shade. 
 
 Christophe declared that he was ready to suffer all things 
 for the holy cause, and the plans of the conspirators were re- 
 vealed to him. He was told that most of the nobles of the 
 kingdom saw through the schemes of the Cardinal de Lorraine 
 and his brother, the Due de Guise, who, under pretense of 
 defending the Catholic faith, claimed the Crown of France as 
 the inheritance of the House of Lorraine. "It leans on the 
 Church, and has made it a formidable ally; the monks are its 
 supporters, its acolytes and spies. It asserts itself as a pro- 
 tector of the throne it hopes to usurp, of the Valois it hopes to 
 destroy." Therefore, the reformers had decided to rise in 
 arms, because the liberties of the people were threatened, as 
 well as the interests of the nobility. "The Queen Mother is 
 ready to enter into our views. Humiliated and desperate as 
 she is at seeing the power she had hoped to wield at the King's 
 death in the grasp of the Guises, and alarmed at the influence 
 exerted by the young Queen Mary, Queen Catherine will be 
 inclined to support the nobles who are about to strike a blow. 
 Though apparently devoted to the Guises, she hates them, 
 longs for their ruin, and will make use of us to oppose them. 
 . . . Everything is ready; and we have cast our eyes on you 
 to communicate to Queen Catherine our treaty of alliance, our 
 schemes for edicts, and the basis of the new rule." 
 
 Though Catherine was under close espionage, it would be 
 possible for the son of the court furrier to deliver some gar- 
 ment and the papers at the same time. He was given to under- 
 stand, however, that should he be taken, he would be abandoned 
 by everybody, and opprobrium and disgrace would be cast 
 upon him. Entire self-sacrifice was demanded of him, and 
 he gladly consented. Instructions were given as to the way 
 to reach Blois, and he was landed at the back door of his 
 father's house.
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 195 
 
 The Syndic of the Guild of Furriers was a cunning and 
 clear-sighted man of vast ambitions. He had amassed an im- 
 mense fortune and planned a splendid future for his son. He 
 longed to place the house of Lecamus on a par with the oldest 
 and most honored families of Paris citizens. He had engaged 
 his son to Babette Lallier, the daughter of the rich Syndic of 
 the Goldsmiths, and was ambitious to see his son a Councilor 
 of the Parliament. He had spied on Christophe; and, on the 
 latter's entrance, encouraged him on his perilous quest. He 
 concluded that his schemes would not suffer by Christophe's 
 being of service to Queen Catherine. 
 
 Catherine's position when Diane de Poitiers ruled Henri 
 II had been more endurable than now: at least, she had en- 
 joyed the homage and respect of the court; but now she was 
 practically a prisoner at Blois, and her Guise jailers took 
 pleasure in humiliating her. Every hour she was the object 
 of blows offensive to her dignity. She was, therefore, ready to 
 make use of any party that would help her to destroy the Guises : 
 the tools she would throw away later. Her game was to play 
 off the Huguenots, the Bourbons, and the Guises against one 
 another. 
 
 On the day when Christophe reached Blois, the two 
 Princes of Guise were on the eve of striking a fatal blow 
 at the heart of the nobility, of whose plans their spies had 
 informed them, and were discussing the means of announcing 
 their coup d'etat to the King. They knew that their niece, 
 Mary, would approve of extinguishing heresy with a single 
 blow. 
 
 After much trouble, Christophe succeeded in placing the 
 compromising documents in Catherine's hands; but before 
 she could conceal them, Mary Stuart, who regarded her mother- 
 in-law as a low-born intriguing adventuress, and one who 
 having been humbled was always prepared for revenge, kept 
 a close watch on her. Her suspicions being aroused by Cath- 
 erine's absence from the council, she broke in on her mother- 
 in-law's privacy. Catherine immediately cried: "Treason, 
 Madame! I have them fast! Send for the Cardinal and the 
 Duke, and be sure that this fellow does not escape!" Pleased 
 at finding her adversaries in the mind she had hoped for, now
 
 1 96 CATHERINE DE' MEDICI 
 
 that the plot had become known, policy required her to assume 
 the merit of discovering it. 
 
 On being asked who had sent him, Christophe said Chau- 
 dieu, the preacher, had, and even under horrible torture could 
 not be induced to implicate the Prince de Conde", whose head 
 the Guises were so anxious should fall. Even in his worst 
 agonies from the "boot," he denied that he had ever seen that 
 Prince. The Duke exhorted him in vain to confess, and he 
 could hear Catherine say: "Go on; after all, he is only a here- 
 tic!" She thought it prudent to appear more severe to her 
 accomplice than his executioners were. The whole future of 
 this ambitious woman depended on her demeanor, so she 
 gazed on Christophe's sufferings calmly, although she felt the 
 greatest admiration for his fortitude. 
 
 The Princes of Lorraine transferred the court to Amboise. 
 At this moment, the crown, the council, the court, and every 
 kind of power were in their hands. The first rush to arms 
 had ended in the brief skirmish in which the flower of the 
 nobility whom Calvin had misled all perished. This affair 
 the Guises, with crafty policy, spoke of as the riots at Amboise. 
 The Prince de Conde" now showed astuteness and spirit. He 
 boldly went to Amboise, where he was immediately arrested. 
 Chicot, the jester, visited him with a message from the Queen 
 Mother that nothing but daring could get him out of the scrape. 
 On being conducted to the court, Catherine sternly accused 
 him of plotting with the reformers. Thereupon Conde" flung 
 his glove at the King's feet, angrily challenging his calumniator 
 to stand forth. The Due de Guise unexpectedly stepped for- 
 ward and offered to be his second, with the crafty intention of 
 watching his behavior at the execution of his rebel friends. 
 
 The King's victory over the heretics, together with the ex- 
 ecution to be inflicted, was announced from every pulpit, and 
 the auto-da-je attracted vast multitudes. Lecamus had hurried 
 to Blois on hearing of his son's danger; but could only learn 
 that after torture he had been removed to Amboise. He was, 
 therefore, an agitated spectator of the hideous spectacle. Fifty 
 gentlemen in all ascended the scaffold, including twenty-seven 
 barons, eleven counts, and seven marquises. They all refused 
 to recant, and sang their Calvinistic hymn on the appearance of
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 197 
 
 the court. They bowed to Conde", who was purposely placed 
 between Queen Mary and the Due d'Orleans. He returned 
 their salutations, and maintained his nerve throughout the 
 horrible massacre. The next day he was released and set out 
 for Navarre. 
 
 Lecamus, not seeing Christophe among the victims, dressed 
 as a beggar and put himself in the way of Catherine as she 
 passed, who told him to get himself appointed delegate to the 
 States General from the Corporation of Paris Guilds. 
 
 The Guises had convoked the States General at Orleans in 
 the hope of recapturing their prey and overthrowing the House 
 of Bourbon. The Princes of the blood arrived there under 
 the King's safe conduct. Conde" was treacherously arrested, 
 and tried by the magistrates, notwithstanding his demand to 
 be tried by his peers. The King of Navarre was left at liberty, 
 temporarily. 
 
 Lecamus arrived at Orleans and learned from Ruggieri, 
 Catherine's astrologer, that Christophe was to be placed on the 
 morrow where the Prince would pass by. If either made a 
 sign of recognition, Condi's head would be forfeited. The 
 astrologer predicted that the Due de Guise would be killed 
 within a year, but that neither Christophe nor Conde was des- 
 tined to die. Catherine relied on Christophe's fidelity, and 
 Lecamus was advised to vote for her as Regent. Ruggieri 
 concluded: "The King will die; if he recovers his health, the 
 Guises must triumph, the Princes are dead men, the House of 
 Bourbon is extinct, we go back to Florence, your son is hanged, 
 and the Guises will make short work of the royal family." 
 
 At this juncture, Catherine's position was even more critical 
 and dangerous than at Amboise. Though she pretended to 
 be in agreement with the Guises, she was plotting against them. 
 They had planned with the King of Spain to seize Beam, and 
 Catherine had warned the Queen of Navarre in time. She had 
 also divulged the intention to make away with the King of 
 Navarre, and the Cardinal had denounced her in the King's 
 presence and threatened her with banishment. Catherine 
 immediately warned the Constable Anne de Montmorency of 
 the danger his nephew, Conde, was in, and he at once gathered 
 a force to save him.
 
 i 9 8 CATHERINE DE' MEDICI 
 
 Francis II took an excursion on the Loire, so as to be absent 
 at Conde's intended execution; and there caught a cold, which 
 gave him so violent an earache that he was forced to return. 
 The physicians disagreed; but Ambroise Pare, the greatest 
 surgeon of the sixteenth century, maintained that the King 
 had an abscess on the brain and should be trepanned. Le- 
 camus explained the situation to Pare in a midnight interview 
 in the following terms: "If you save the King, you ruin France. 
 Do you know that your instrument will place the crown of the 
 Valois on the head of a Prince of Lorraine calling himself the 
 direct heir of Charlemagne? Do you know that surgery and 
 politics are at this moment at daggers drawn ? Yes, the triumph 
 of your genius will be the overthrow of your religion. If the 
 Guises retain the regency, the blood of the Reformers will flow 
 in streams. Be a great citizen rather than a great surgeon." 
 But Pare refused to be influenced. Ruggieri, who learned 
 from Lecamus the nature of Pare's intended operation, imme- 
 diately hastened to the Queen Mother. In the morning, when 
 Catherine and Mary and the Guises and the doctors and the 
 physicians and attendants were gathered in the King's bed- 
 chamber, everyone realized that a terrible crisis was at hand. 
 Catherine strenuously opposed a cruel operation, and the Duke 
 accused her of desiring her son's death. When the discussion 
 was at its height, the Constable hastily entered, and forbade 
 the operation, because the first Prince of the blood, the Prince 
 de Conde, the Queen Mother, and the Chancellor were all 
 opposed to it. As Lord High Constable he had dismissed all 
 the sentinels from their posts, leaving the States General to 
 deliberate in perfect liberty, laying before it the protest of his 
 nephew, whom he had rescued from prison. He accused the 
 Guises of meaning to let the royal blood and decimating the 
 French nobility, and he defied them to oppose him. 
 
 Within a few minutes Francis died. Mary Stuart accused 
 Catherine of being his murderess, and Catherine retorted 
 with a sentence of deportation to Scotland the next day. On 
 Catherine's withdrawal, the Guises discussed their fall and 
 fortunes. 
 
 "How can we be reconciled to the Queen?" asked the 
 Cardinal.
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 199 
 
 "Wait till she quarrels with the Huguenots," said the 
 Duchess of Guise. 
 
 Catherine's next step was to gain over the Reformers by 
 summoning a convocation, for which Calvin's favor and consent 
 were necessary. Chaudieu was, therefore, sent to Geneva. 
 Catherine thus gained a breathing-space of six months, during 
 which she amused the court, lulled party feeling by the King's 
 coronation, and his first Bed of Justice, when Charles IX en- 
 trusted the government to his mother. 
 
 Calvin was in a dying condition, and his final decision was 
 as follows: "Nobody, neither the Queen, nor the Guises, nor 
 I, wants pacification : it would not suit our purpose. We must 
 compel the King of Navarre to join the Guises and the Con- 
 stable, by advising him to desert Queen Catherine. Let us 
 take full advantage of his weakness : he is but a poor creature. 
 If he prove a turncoat to the Italian woman, she, finding her- 
 self bereft of his support, must inevitably join Conde and 
 Coligny. Such a maneuver may possibly compromise her so 
 effectually that she must remain on our side." He ended: 
 "Ideas can never grow till they are watered with blood. The 
 murder of the Due de Guise would give rise to a fearful per- 
 secution and I hope for it with all my might. To us, reverses 
 are more favorable than success. The Reformation can be 
 beaten and endure, do you hear, oaf? Whereas Catholicism is 
 overthrown if we win a single battle." 
 
 These words were spoken to Theodore de Beze, Chaudieu's 
 companion. Eighteen months later, Poltrot, who fired a pistol 
 at the Duke, confessed that he had been urged to the crime by 
 De Beze. On the day when Chaudieu and De Beze reached 
 Paris, the court returned from Rheims, where Charles IX had 
 been crowned. Catherine had made the coronation unusually 
 splendid, and the occasion of great festivities, which enabled 
 her to gather around her the leaders of every faction. She 
 fully understood that, sooner or later, she must fall back on 
 the Constable Montmorency and the Guises to fight the Hugue- 
 nots. The convocation, which served to flatter the vanity of 
 the orators on each side, and as an excuse for another imposing 
 ceremony to clear the blood-stained field for the religious war 
 that had indeed already begun, was as futile in the eyes of the
 
 200 CATHERINE DE' MEDICI 
 
 Guises as it was in Catherine's. Catherine nattered the Car- 
 dinal de Lorraine into the hope of conquering the heretics by 
 the eloquence of the Princes of the Church, and the Cardinal 
 won over the Duke. 
 
 Catherine next had trouble with her son, who was so attached 
 to his tutor, Amyot, that he made him High Almoner of France 
 without consulting his mother. In a rage, Catherine sent for 
 Amyot and threatened him with death unless he induced his 
 pupil to change his mind. Charles IX went immediately to 
 his mother and said: "Madame, did I not comply with your 
 wishes and sign the letter you asked of me for the Parliament, 
 by virtue of which you govern my kingdom? Did you not 
 promise me, when you laid it before me, that my will should 
 be yours? And now the only favor I have cared to bestow ex- 
 cites your jealousy. The Chancellor talks of making me of 
 age at fourteen, three years hence, and you treat me as a child. 
 By God, I mean to be King!" 
 
 Catherine was shocked at his tone and tried to explain to 
 him the difficulties and perils of kingcraft; but she had to 
 restore his favorite to the office of High Almoner. She then 
 supplied Charles with a tutor in Albert de Gondi, whom she 
 made a marshal of France and a duke. This Italian gave her 
 the following advice: "You let the late King die to save your 
 other children; well, then, do as the grand seignors of Con- 
 stantinople do: crush this one's political passions and fancies. 
 He likes the arts, poetry, hunting, and a little girl he saw at 
 Orleans; all this is quite enough to occupy him." 
 
 On the return of the Geneva envoys, the convocation of 
 Poissy was arranged for, and on taking leave of De Beze, Chau- 
 dieu whispered: "I have saints in Paris that I can rely on, and 
 I mean to make a prophet of Calvin. Christophe will rid us 
 of our most dangerous enemy." 
 
 Meanwhile, the Queen Mother had succeeded in having 
 Condi's trial quashed, and he was reinstated in all his rights, 
 possessions, and honors. Christophe was released in the same 
 proceedings, and, as a compensation for his sufferings, was 
 made a pleader by De Thou. On his return to Paris, he was 
 tenderly nursed by his family and Babette, and the furrier's 
 neighbors were astonished to see him attended by Pare*, the
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 201 
 
 court physician. Old Lccamus gradually worked on his son's 
 heretical mind by recalling the sufferings he had gone through 
 and pointing out the danger of meddling with political reform. 
 Babette also told him that her father would never allow her to 
 marry a heretic. One day his father told him that he had 
 written in Christophe's name to Conde* and Queen Jeanne for 
 permission to purchase a legal business in Bdarn. In reply, 
 Conde's secretary merely offered a place of a man-at-arms in 
 his own company. This for a man who would hardly be able 
 to stand on his legs for the rest of his life ! 
 
 The mortified Christophe, however, felt confident that 
 Catherine would be more grateful. 
 
 Soon after this, Chaudieu called and reproached him for 
 his apostasy, and did his utmost to win Christophe back to 
 Calvinism and to persuade him to assassinate the Due de Guise 
 — but in vain. 
 
 Not long after the Syndic of the Goldsmiths spent half a 
 million livres for a fine estate in Picardy belonging to the 
 Crown; and one evening, when Christophe and Babette were 
 to be betrothed, Catherine and Charles IX unexpectedly ar- 
 rived to grace the occasion and to sign the marriage contract 
 on condition that Christophe should remain a Catholic. As a 
 present the King and Catherine permitted the purchase of the 
 offices and appointments of Groslay, Councilor of the Parlia- 
 ment, who accompanied their Majesties. The King remitted 
 all royal fines and fees of the Picardy estate as a wedding-gift 
 to the bride. Old Lecamus was shrewd enough to offer the 
 King a splendid silver cup by Benvenuto Cellini, which was 
 graciously accepted, and the Queen presented Babette with a 
 diamond ring. Before leaving, Christophe managed to inform 
 Catherine of the Due de Guise's danger, and received her re- 
 newed thanks. 
 
 This was the origin of the famous Lecamus family of law- 
 yers, who were particularly celebrated and magnificent during 
 the seventeenth century.
 
 202 CATHERINE DE' MEDICI 
 
 PART II 
 
 THE RUGGIERIS' SECRET 
 
 One evening, toward the end of October, 1573, the court 
 was in attendance after supper on the two Queens and the 
 King. Queen Elizabeth of Austria and her mother-in-law, 
 Catherine de' Medici, were seated on one side of the great fire- 
 place, and in the other corner, sunk lethargically after hunting, 
 or sulking, sat Charles IX in his big armchair. Of all the dull 
 assembly the two Gondis alone were laughing. Albert, who 
 had come with Catherine from Italy and had been made Due de 
 Retz and Gentleman of the Bedchamber, and had obtained a 
 marshal's baton without ever having commanded an army, 
 had also been sent as the King's proxy to marry Charles's 
 bride at Spires. This fact alone showed that he was one of 
 the few persons whom the King and Queen admitted to a cer- 
 tain familiarity. On the King's side of the room, among the 
 courtiers, the most conspicuous were the old Cardinal de Lor- 
 raine and his nephew, the young Due de Guise. These two 
 chiefs of the Holy Alliance looked as submissive as servants 
 awaiting their opportunity to become masters. Catherine and 
 her son were watching each other like two cats. 
 
 Each of the three royal personages had reason for gloomy 
 reflection. The young Queen was enduring all the torments 
 of jealousy, and disguised them ineffectually by trying to smile 
 at her husband, whom, as a pious woman of infinite kindness, 
 she adored. Marie Touchet, the only mistress of Charles IX, 
 for whom he entirely neglected his gentle wife, had lately re- 
 turned from Fayet in Dauphine, bringing with her the only son 
 Charles IX ever had — Charles, afterward Due d'Angouleme. 
 Another trouble was that Catherine, who, hitherto, had appar- 
 ently been her friend, had lately encouraged her son's infidelity. 
 
 The reason of this was that Marie preferred happiness to 
 splendor, and dearly loved the King for his own sake. She 
 was ignorant of the ambitious objects aimed at by the women 
 of family who were struggling for the advancement of them- 
 selves and their relatives with the weapons of love. The in- 
 significant Marie Touchet spared Catherine the annoyance of
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 203 
 
 finding in her son's mistress the daughter of some great house 
 who might have set up as her rival. She had tasted that cup 
 of bitterness during the sway of Diane de Poitiers. The gentle 
 Marie, therefore, won her warm affection, and later Catherine 
 left the son her personal estate. Marie, who asked for nothing, 
 had already received from Catherine the manor of Belleville, 
 near Vincennes, in which royal residence Charles spent the 
 greater part of his later days, hunting in the surrounding forest. 
 
 Anything that kept the King interested outside of politics 
 was pleasing to Catherine. She had been watching the King 
 because during supper he had been suspiciously cheerful, a 
 mood strongly in contrast to the fractious humor he had be- 
 trayed by his persistent hunting and by his frenzied toil at his 
 forge, where he wrought iron. Catherine was satisfied that some 
 scheme against herself was in the wind, and the unexpected 
 appearance of the Marechal de Tavannes on business had 
 greatly strengthened her suspicions. 
 
 Two words — dominion and astrology — fully summarize this 
 strange woman. She had no passion but for power, and her 
 only sincere belief was in the occult sciences. To Cosmo 
 Ruggieri, her astrologer, she clung more than to her children. 
 She housed him and made him her chief adviser. Her trust 
 seemed to be justified by the horoscopes he had cast and the 
 events he had correctly predicted. From her earliest years, 
 the events of her life had justified the horoscope. Catherine's 
 devouring thirst for dominion was so great that, in order to 
 grasp or retain it, she could ally herself with the enemies of the 
 throne; and to keep the reins of power in her own hands she 
 would sacrifice her friends and even her children. She could 
 not live without the intrigues of rule, and, though a Medici, 
 even the Calvinists never accused her of having a lover. She 
 upheld by turns the Guises and the Calvinists; then, after 
 using the two creeds to check each other in the heart of the 
 people, she set the Due d'Anjou against his brother, Charles 
 IX. After instilling into the King's mind a jealousy of his 
 brother, she worked upon this feeling so as to exhaust Charles's 
 really fine qualities in the intrigues of rivalry with his brother. 
 When the Due d'Anjou went to govern Poland, he robbed her 
 of the means of keeping the mind of Charles IX occupied with
 
 204 CATHERINE DE' MEDICI 
 
 domestic intrigues. Catherine then hatched the La Mole and 
 Coconnas conspiracy, in which her fourth son had a hand. 
 This plot, now ripening, aimed to put the young Duke and his 
 brother-in-law, the King of Navarre, at the head of the Cal- 
 vinists, seizing and imprisoning the heirless Charles IX, thus 
 leaving the throne vacant for the Duke, who purposed estab- 
 lishing Calvinism in France. 
 
 La Mole and Coconnas had now been in prison for fifty 
 days, and were to be beheaded in the following April. Cosmo 
 Ruggieri's participation in the affair shows that Catherine 
 secretly directed it. Cosmo admitted that he had furnished 
 La Mole with an image representing the King stabbed to the 
 heart with two needles. This kind of witchcraft was a capital 
 crime, and Charles's death alone saved Ruggieri from the 
 King's vengeance. 
 
 At this moment, Charles was only anxious to shake off his 
 mother's yoke. He watched her proceedings and kept her in 
 ignorance of his own, with much of her own craft. He was 
 trying by cunning measures to seize the reins of government. 
 
 The secret of the drama that was being played was guessed 
 by some of their followers, especially the Italians. 
 
 Charles IX was worn out. He was in the last stages of the 
 illness of which he died, and Ambroise Pare* and Jean Chape- 
 lain had been sent for secretly to observe him. Before leaving 
 the room, the King exchanged a few confidential words with 
 Tavannes. The Mare"chal de Retz remarked that he looked 
 royally bored, and Charles acknowledged that he missed the 
 good old days when they used to go gadding about at night, 
 jumping across the narrow streets from roof to roof, breaking 
 in shutters, beating watchmen, and generally annoying and 
 maltreating respectable citizens. A party was therefore made 
 up to go night -hawking once more. 
 
 The two Gondis soon fell behind the others to discuss the 
 dangerous trend of events, while Charles and two others went 
 on till they came to the house of Rene*, the court perfumer, 
 who was credited with having invented the famous elixir a 
 succession, and had poisoned the mother of Henri IV. Charles 
 had long been anxious to explore the laboratory in which Rene 
 was often visited by Ruggieri. When, therefore, he saw a
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 205 
 
 light in a window on the roof, he crawled along the parapet and 
 peeped in. He saw a large room lighted by a big lamp, and 
 the ceiling was rendered invisible by the numbers of hanging 
 animals, skeletons, and dried herbs; the room was filled with 
 books, retorts, chests full of instruments for magic and astrology, 
 and diagrams for horoscopes, vials, and wax figures. There 
 were also two lighted stoves on which heretical mixtures were 
 brewing; besides a large table and a couch. Seated at the 
 table was a patriarchal old man with a magnificent beard and 
 dressed in black velvet. His attention was divided between a 
 manuscript before him and the concoctions on the stove. On 
 the couch lay a beautiful girl in a trancelike sleep. As the 
 King and Tavannes gazed spellbound upon the scene, the old 
 man arose and left the room, and opened a window from which 
 a view could be had of the column which Catherine had built 
 for Cosmo Ruggieri. They saw light signals exchanged and 
 could perceive Cosmo on the top of the column. In a few 
 minutes Cosmo came in saying: "Good evening, brother." 
 He brought with him a hideous, toothless, hunchbacked, 
 crooked, lame, wrinkled old hag, who stank of devilry and the 
 stake. She sat down by the side of the girl. Though Cosmo 
 could not see the spies, he went up to the girl and took her 
 hand, saying, "Someone is near; who is it?" "The King," 
 said she. Thereupon, the King knocked at the window, which 
 Ruggieri opened and the two jumped into the wizard's kitchen. 
 There the King demanded an explanation, and threatened the 
 astrologers with condign punishment unless they confessed the 
 meaning of it all. They would not give the King any satis- 
 faction, so he and Tavannes set seals on the doors and sent the 
 two witches to Rene's room, where he and they were guarded 
 by soldiers. The two astrologers Charles had taken to the 
 house of his mistress, and left them there under guard till the 
 next day. 
 
 Charles had more work to do that night. Accompanied by 
 one faithful follower, he crossed the Seine and hurried toward 
 the Pre-au-Clercs. There he held a conference with some high 
 nobles, whose friendliest advice was that Madame Catherine 
 should be sewn up in a sack and thrown into the river. Charles 
 told them plainly that he had decided that the time had come
 
 206 CATHERINE DE' MEDICI 
 
 for the royal authority to assert itself. He appealed to them 
 for their support in putting an end to the troubles of the realm, 
 and gave them a month in which to make up their minds. It 
 was four o'clock before he reached the Louvre. He retired to 
 his workshop and went to work at his anvil. At dawn, Catherine 
 entered and warned him of a plot in which his brother D'Alencon 
 was implicated with the King of Navarre and Conde to snatch 
 the Crown by seizing his person. After a long discussion, she 
 left him in perplexity, asking himself, "On which side are the 
 snares? What is the better policy?" and calling on the Al- 
 mighty to give him the clearness of vision to see into his mother's 
 eyes by questioning the Ruggieri. 
 
 Late in the afternoon, Charles made his way to the charm- 
 ing mansion inhabited by Marie Touchet. He found her as 
 gentle, loving, and fascinating as ever. She did her best to 
 soothe his troubled spirit, and before long he was tenderly 
 dandling their infant in his arms. Presently Marie asked him 
 why he had left assassins in her keeping, and he related his 
 adventures of the night before. When Marie expressed a 
 desire to see the mysterious sages, he sent for them and examined 
 them in her presence. Both the Ruggieri deported themselves 
 with extreme dignity and assurance. Lorenzo took the lead in 
 the discussion, which soon developed into a lecture on alchemy, 
 astrology, chemistry, and the other occult sciences. 
 
 Notwithstanding his desire to avoid being entrapped by 
 Florentine cunning, the King, as well as his simple-minded 
 mistress, was soon caught and carried away by the rhetoric 
 and rodomontade of the Grand Master of Adepts' pompous 
 and specious flow of words; but Charles was anxious to learn 
 some of the secrets and practise of poisons and poisoning, wax 
 images, and other forms of witchcraft, and therefore turned 
 to stern interrogation after a time. From the omniscience 
 claimed by Lorenzo, Charles learned that the stars said that 
 he was soon to die; his successor would fall by violence; his 
 youngest brother would never reign; that Henri de Bourbon 
 would be King and suffer a violent death; and that Marie 
 Touchet would marry again, have children, and live to be more 
 than eighty years old. Charles went to fetch his infant son, 
 and, while out of the room, learned that a search of the labor-
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 207 
 
 atory had been barren of results. Cosmo examined the child's 
 hand, while Lorenzo again lectured on the doctrines trans- 
 mitted through the mysteries of Isis to Chaldaea and Egypt, 
 and brought back to Greece by Pythagoras. Cosmo said: 
 "This child will live nearly a hundred years; he will meet with 
 some checks, but will be happy and honored, having in his 
 veins the blood of the Valois." 
 
 "I will go to see you," said the King, who had recovered 
 his good humor; "you can go." 
 
 As they reached the Louvre moat, Lorenzo said in Italian: 
 "By God! we have caught them. Much good may it do him!" 
 
 "He must make what he can of it," replied Cosmo; "may 
 the Queen do as much for me. We have done a good stroke 
 for her." 
 
 A few days later Marie called the King's attention to the 
 fact that Lorenzo had done all the talking and that Cosmo had 
 said nothing. "That is true," said the startled King, "and 
 there was as much falsehood as truth in w T hat they said. Those 
 Italians are as slippery as the silk they spin." 
 
 This suspicion explains the hatred of Cosmo that the King 
 immediately betrayed at the trial of La Mole and Coconnas. 
 When he found that Cosmo was implicated in the plot, Charles 
 believed himself duped by the two Italians; for it proved to 
 him that his mother's astrologer did not devote himself ex- 
 clusively to studying the stars, fulminating powder, and final 
 atoms. Lorenzo had then left the country. By Catherine's 
 influence, Cosmo was condemned only to the galleys and par- 
 doned as soon as Charles was dead. 
 
 PART III 
 
 THE TWO DREAMS 
 
 In 1786, Bodard de Saint- James was one of the most lux- 
 urious financiers of Paris, and his wife's extravagance attracted 
 remark. She indulged an ambition of never receiving any 
 but people of quality. One evening in August, therefore, when 
 her rooms were full, the habitues were astonished to see two 
 new faces of decidedly inferior birth. To one of her inquisitive
 
 208 CATHERINE DE' MEDICI 
 
 guests, Madame de Saint- James, she explained that one was 
 physician to the Court pages and had done her the great serv- 
 ice of removing blemishes in her complexion. The other, a 
 little prim man, as neat as a doll, who looked as if he drank 
 verjuice, was a lawyer from Artois, who had some business with 
 her husband. After this humiliating confession, Madame 
 Bodard returned to her game of faro. When the tables broke 
 up, at half-past twelve, ten of the guests sat down to supper, 
 the two strangers only staying on the pressing invitation of the 
 hostess. 
 
 At first the supper was deadly dull, but after a time one 
 of the guests, Beaumarchais, and two of the ladies entered 
 into a little plot to make the two strangers tipsy. The surgeon 
 was easy enough to ply with wine ; but, after the first glass, the 
 lawyer, with cold politeness, refused a second. 
 
 The hostess turned the conversation to the wonderful 
 suppers given by Cardinal de Rohan to the Comte de Cagli- 
 ostro, and asserted, with great positiveness, that she had seen 
 Queen Cleopatra. The lawyer said that he quite believed her, 
 because he had spoken to Catherine de' Medici. Nettled at 
 the incredulity of his convives, he had to tell his story. 
 
 He would not actually swear that it was the Queen herself, 
 because such a miracle appeared impossible to a Christian and 
 a philosopher; but, at any rate, the lady he saw was costumed 
 exactly as in the Queen's famous portrait and had her color- 
 less complexion and familiar features. Cagliostro could not 
 guess the name of the personage in whose company the lawyer 
 wished to be. The latter was utterly amazed. The magic 
 spectacle of a supper where such illustrious women of the past 
 were guests dumfounded him, and when he left about midnight 
 his mind was in a whirl. 
 
 As he laid his head upon the pillow the grand shade of 
 Catherine again rose before him; and, prompted by some un- 
 known power, he said: "Ah, Madame, you committed a very 
 great crime!" 
 
 "Which?" she asked in a deep voice. 
 
 " That for which the signal was given on the 24th of August ! " 
 
 With a scornful smile, she replied: "Do you call that a 
 crime? It was only an accident. The undertaking was badly
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 209 
 
 managed, and the good result we looked for failed — for France, 
 for all Europe, and for the Catholic Church. How could 
 we help it? Our orders were badly carried out. We could 
 not find as many Montlucs as we needed. Posterity will not 
 give us credit for the defective communications which hin- 
 dered us from giving our work the unity of impulse which is 
 necessary to any great coup d'etat; that was our misfortune. 
 If by the 25th of August not the shadow of a Huguenot had 
 been left in France, I should have been regarded to the remotest 
 posterity as a noble incarnation of Providence. How often 
 have the spirits of Sixtus Fifth, of Richelieu, of Bossuet, 
 secretly accused me of having failed in my undertaking, after 
 daring to conceive of it! And how many regrets attended my 
 death ! 
 
 "The disease was still rife thirty years after that Saint- 
 Bartholomew's night; and it had caused the shedding of ten 
 times more noble blood in France than was left to be shed on 
 August 26, 1572. The revocation of the Edict of Nantes, for 
 which you had medals struck, cost more tears, more blood and 
 money, and killed more prosperity in France than three Saint- 
 Bartholomews. Letellier, with a dip of ink, carried into effect 
 the decree which the crown had secretly desired since my day; 
 but though on August 25, 1572, this tremendous execution was 
 necessary, on August 25, 1685, it was useless. Under Henri 
 de Valois's second son, heresy was scarcely pregnant; under 
 Henri de Bourbon's second son the teeming mother had cast her 
 spawn over the whole world. 
 
 "You accuse me of crime, and you raise statues to the son 
 of Anne of Austria! But he and I aimed at the same end. 
 He succeeded; I failed; but Louis Fourteenth found the Prot- 
 estants disarmed, while in my day they had armies, states- 
 men, captains, and Germany to back them." 
 
 Catherine proceeded in the same strain to defend her course, 
 saying she had been as calm and cold as reason itself. It was 
 all for the sake of the State that she had condemned the Hugue- 
 nots: it was without pity but without anger; they were the 
 rotten orange in her basket. Her only aversion was for the 
 Guises, who wanted to snatch the crown from her children. 
 
 When the lawyer suggested that she might have given to 
 
 A.D., vol. 11. — 14
 
 210 CATHERINE DE' MEDICI 
 
 the Reformers the wise institution which made the reign of 
 Henri IV so glorious and peaceful, she said that the secret of 
 that reign was that a nation needs repose after a furious struggle. 
 Still, Henri committed two terrible blunders: he ought neither 
 to have recanted nor to have left France Catholic after his 
 conversion; he ought to have seen that he could have changed 
 the face of France without a shock — "either not a single stole, 
 or not a single conventicle. To leave two hostile principles 
 at work in a government with nothing to balance them is a 
 crime in a king: it is sowing the seed of revolutions." 
 
 Catherine proceeded to say that, although a Pope's niece, 
 she would just as soon have been a Calvinist; and, after all, 
 could it be possible that men of brains still thought that religion 
 had anything to do with that retarded revolution? "A revolu- 
 tion," said she, with a look of deep meaning, "which is still 
 progressing, and which you may achieve — yes, you, who hear 
 me!" 
 
 Luther and Calvin, Catherine held, by pointing out to the 
 middle classes the abuses of Rome, aroused a spirit of general 
 investigation, and examination leads to doubt. Instead of 
 faith, an inquisitive and destructive philosophy rose; science 
 bred heresy, indefinite liberty was aimed at more than reform. 
 The Reformers sought to annihilate religion and royalty, and 
 the middle classes were to join in an international compact. 
 Catherine maintained that she stood between Louis XII and 
 Richelieu, the one who lived too soon and the other too late as 
 a visible link in an unrecognizable chain. "You forget that 
 political liberty, the peace of a nation, and science itself, are 
 gifts for which Fate demands a heavy blood tax. Great truths 
 find vigor only in baths of blood. Christianity itself was not 
 established without martyrs." This doctrine of blood was 
 dinned into the ears of her hearer until he woke; and he was to 
 be one of the builders of the new social edifice. 
 
 When the lawyer ceased speaking, the doctor awoke from a 
 half-drunken stupor and exclaimed: "I, too, dreamed!" His 
 dream was of a people he found in the leg of a patient he was 
 about to amputate, and he was astonished to find someone to 
 talk to in that leg. "When I first found myself in his skin, 
 I discerned there an amazing number of tiny beings, moving,
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 211 
 
 thinking, and arguing. Some lived in the man's body and 
 some in his mind. His ideas were creatures that were born, 
 grew, and died; they were sick, gay, healthy, sad — and all had 
 personal individuality. They fought or fondled. A few ideas 
 flew forth and went to dwell in the world of intellect. 
 
 "Suddenly I understood that there are two worlds — the 
 visible and the invisible universe; that the earth, like man, has 
 a body and a soul. A new light was cast on nature, and I per- 
 ceived its immensity when I saw the ocean of beings every- 
 where distributed in masses and in species, all of one and the 
 same living matter, from marble rocks up to God. A mag- 
 nificent sight! In short, there was a universe in my patient. 
 When I inserted my lancet in his gangrened leg, I destroyed a 
 thousand such beings." 
 
 When the bored company rose from the supper-table, 
 Madame de Saint- James took the lawyer aside and said: 
 
 "Monsieur de Robespierre, will you do me the favor of 
 seeing Monsieur Marat home? He is incapable of standing 
 upright." 
 
 "With pleasure, Madame; I wish you had ordered me to do 
 something more difficult."
 
 A BACHELOR'S ESTABLISHMENT (1843) 
 [La Rabouilleuse) 
 
 One part of this book appeared as Les Deux Freres in La Presse, in 1841; 
 and another in the same paper, in 1842, as Un Menage de Garcon en Province. 
 Then these were issued in book form in 1843. The second title was given to 
 the book when it was included in the Scenes de la Vie de Province; but Balzac 
 changed the title to La Rabouilleuse ("one who stirs up the waters of a brook"). 
 Flore Brazier {La Rabouilleuse), Madame Bridau, Madame Descoings, and the 
 Hochons appear solely in this book; Joseph Bridau, frequently met with in other 
 volumes, is said to be a portrait of Eugene Delacroix, the painter. In the dedica- 
 tion to Nodier, Balzac said: "I have never, perhaps, drawn a picture which 
 shows more clearly than this how indispensable the stability of marriage is to 
 European society, what the sorrows are of woman's weakness, what dangers are 
 involved in unbridled self-interest." The novel has been dramatized in French 
 and in English. 
 
 [N 1792, a Dr. Rouget, who was regarded by the 
 citizens as a very sly fox, lived in the town of 
 Issoudun. As long as he lived, little was said 
 about him and he was treated civilly. His wife, 
 a Demoiselle Descoings, had first a son, Jean- 
 Jacques, and, ten years later, a daughter, Agathe. 
 The doctor's father-in-law and his wife, the 
 Descoings, were rich wool-brokers. Their son, 
 a younger brother of Madame Rouget, went to 
 Paris and set up as a grocer in the Rue Saint-Honore. He 
 married the widow of Master Bixiou, his predecessor. Dr. 
 Rouget, who did not expect his wife to live long, sent Agathe 
 to Paris, hoping that the Descoings, who had no children, 
 would take a fancy to her. Dr. Rouget wanted to disinherit his 
 daughter, and thought it might be done if he transplanted her. 
 
 Agathe, the handsomest girl in Issoudun, resembled neither 
 her father nor her mother. Her birth had occasioned a feud 
 between Dr. Rouget and his friend, Monsieur Lousteau, who 
 removed with his family from Issoudun. Madame Rouget con- 
 fided her woes to Lousteau's sister, Madame Hochon, Agathe's 
 godmother. Madame Rouget said: "I shall never see my 
 
 212
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 213 
 
 child again!" "And she was sadly right," Madame Hochon 
 always remarked. Gossip said Dr. Rougct was killing his wife 
 by inches. Her stupid son was a grief to her, for Jean- Jacques 
 Rouget was like his father, only worse, and the doctor, as was 
 said, was not very admirable. 
 
 Soon after Agathe arrived in Paris, her uncle, having been 
 too rash of speech, was reported by Citoycnne Duplay to her 
 lodger, Robespierre. The grocer was arrested. Madame Des- 
 coings knew Bridau, an under secretary; but he was unable to 
 save Descoings, who perished on the scaffold. In the course 
 of the few visits paid to Madame Descoings by Bridau, he 
 became infatuated with Agathe and offered marriage. The 
 delighted Dr. Rouget hurried to Paris to see that the settle- 
 ments were drawn to his mind. Bridau, desperately in love, 
 left this matter to the perfidious doctor. Old Monsieur and 
 Madame Descoings had left their property to Madame Rouget, 
 who died in 1799, and this money came into the hands of Dr. 
 Rouget. His income was thirty thousand francs. After his 
 wife's death, the doctor still led a dissolute life, but with more 
 method, and in the privacy of home life. He died in 1805. 
 
 Agathe Rouget resembled Dr. Rouget's mother. Her por- 
 trait painted by her son showed an oval face with delicate fea- 
 tures, blue eyes, and placid expression. She was an ideal 
 housewife, trained by a country life, and never parted from her 
 mother. She was pious without bigotry, and had no learning 
 but such as the Church allows to women. She lived a pure, 
 simple, and quiet life as the wife of Bridau, who attached him- 
 self fanatically to Napoleon. The latter made him head of a 
 department of state in 1804. Rich with a salary of twelve 
 thousand francs and very handsome presents, Bridau cared 
 not at all for the disgraceful proceedings by which Agathe had 
 been robbed. Six months before his death, old Rouget had 
 sold part of his estate to his son, to whom he secured the re- 
 mainder, in part by deed of gift and in part as his direct heir. 
 An advance on her prospective inheritance of a hundred thou- 
 sand francs secured under her marriage settlement represented 
 the whole of Agathe's share in her father's and mother's fortunes. 
 
 Bridau idolized the Emperor. From 1804 to 1808 he lived 
 in style in an apartment on the Quai Voltaire, near both to
 
 214 A BACHELOR'S ESTABLISHMENT 
 
 his office and the Tuileries. Agathe was always relieved to 
 relapse into provincial simplicity after enforced ceremonial 
 splendor. In 1808 Bridau killed himself by overwork, just 
 as Napoleon was about to promote him. The Emperor entered 
 Madame Bridau's name on the Pension List for four thousand 
 francs a year and charged the education of her two sons to the 
 privy purse. 
 
 Agathe had had no communication with Issoudun, except 
 a yearly letter from her godmother, Madame Hochon, who had 
 begged her to let Monsieur Hochon look after her interests. 
 She, however, had not wished to annoy her brother. With her 
 pension and Bridau's investments, Agathe had six thousand 
 francs a year. Madame Descoings, her uncle's widow, desired 
 to live with Agathe: the two widows, therefore, joined their 
 incomes. They had between them twelve thousand francs a 
 year. 
 
 In 1809, Madame Descoings was sixty-five years old: she 
 owned up to thirty- six! In the heyday of her charms she was 
 called La Belle Epiciere. She was of medium height, plump, 
 with a fair warm complexion and chestnut hair. She was fond 
 of cooking dainty dishes, loved the theater, and spent a great 
 deal of money in dress, was attractive by reason of her gentle 
 and contagious cheerfulness and she understood a joke; but 
 Madame Descoings indulged one vice which she wrapped in 
 the deepest mystery — she put money into the lottery. Since 
 the death of the husband she had adored, Agathe cared for 
 nothing but her two children. 
 
 Madame Descoings had a fancy for sets of three numbers, and 
 she gradually increased her debt, surreptitiously borrowed from 
 Agathe, always staking higher sums, hoping that the favorite 
 combination, which had not come out in ten years, would cover 
 the loss. Presently, the debt amounted to twenty thousand 
 francs. She then wished to pledge her fortune to repay Agathe, 
 but her lawyer showed her that Dr. Rouget had, at the death 
 of his brother-in-law, her husband, taken over his liabilities 
 and assets, indemnifying the widow by a life-annuity, charged 
 on Jean- Jacques Rouget's estate. It was impossible to raise 
 money on this annuity. With sobs, Madame Descoings con- 
 fessed the state of affairs to her niece. Madame Bridau did not
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 215 
 
 reproach her. She sold out some of her securities, parted with 
 her servants and furniture, paid all debts and gave up her 
 apartment. 
 
 Madame Bridau now went to live in the Rue Mazarine, 
 opposite the Palais de PInstitut. She rented the top floor, con- 
 sisting of a small suite, with two little rooms for the boys under 
 the roof. This apartment was simply furnished with a few 
 necessary pieces saved from the wreck, a picture of Napoleon 
 by Vernet, a portrait of Bridau, two large bird-cages — one full 
 of canaries, the other of exotic birds — and cats slept in the arm- 
 chairs. The dashing Madame Descoings occupied a similar 
 apartment on the floor below. Her income was reduced to 
 twelve hundred francs a year. The widows lived together; 
 the aunt managed the dinner; and in the evening a few old 
 friends— Bridau's clerks — came in to play cards. Madame Des- 
 coings still clung to her three numbers, hoping by a stroke of 
 luck to repay all she had borrowed from her niece. Madame 
 Bridau reduced her expenses to save what she could for her 
 children. Thus the two widows had sunk from unreal opulence 
 to voluntary penury — one under the influence of a vice, the 
 other under the promptings of the purest virtue. None of these 
 trivial things are foreign to the deep lesson to be derived from 
 this story, founded on the sordid interests of common life. 
 
 Philippe, the elder of Madame Bridau's children, was strik- 
 ingly like his mother; and, moreover, possessed, though fair- 
 haired and blue-eyed, a daring look which was often mistaken 
 for high spirit and courage. By dint of fighting at school, he 
 acquired that hardihood and scorn of pain which gave rise to 
 military courage. He hated study. From his purely super- 
 ficial resemblance to her, Agathe inferred that they must agree 
 in mind. Joseph, three years younger, was an ugly likeness of 
 his father, with bushy, black, ill-kempt hair, and slovenly habits. 
 The mother greatly preferred Philippe. She looked for won- 
 ders from Philippe; she founded no hopes on Joseph. 
 
 One day, in 181 2, Joseph slipped into the courtyard of the 
 Institute : he was fascinated with the statues, busts, and plaster 
 studies, and his vocation seethed within him. Entering a 
 room, where a dozen lads were drawing from a statue, he became 
 the butt of their horse-play. The sculptor, Chaudet, coming in,
 
 216 A BACHELOR'S ESTABLISHMENT 
 
 put a stop to their tortures, and, questioning the boy, found he 
 wanted to be an artist. He told him to come to the studio as 
 often as he pleased. Soon his progress was so great that his 
 master, Lemire, came to Agathe to speak of her son's vocation; 
 but, a true provincial and ignorant of art, she was horrified. 
 Painting to her was a "beggar's trade." 
 
 Philippe was a spectator of Napoleon's review at the Tuileries, 
 after the rout at Moscow. It turned his head. Unknown to 
 his mother, he petitioned the Emperor to enroll him, saying he 
 was the son of his favorite, Bridau. Within twenty-four hours 
 Philippe was at Saint-Cyr; and in 1813 was made a sublieu- 
 tenant in a cavalry regiment. He soon gained a lieutenancy; 
 then a captaincy ; and won the Cross. He witnessed Napoleon's 
 farewell at Fontainebleau and refused to serve under the Bour- 
 bons. He was only nineteen. To his mother, he was a man 
 of genius, while Joseph, small, sickly, loving peace and quiet 
 and dreaming of fame as an artist, was doomed, she declared, 
 " to give her nothing but worry and anxiety." In 1816, Philippe, 
 fallen from the half-pay of major in the Emperor's Dragoon 
 Guards, returned to his mother's apartment. Joseph, de- 
 pendent on the two widows, had a studio in the loft. Joseph 
 worshiped his mother; Philippe allowed her to adore him, and 
 had a deep contempt for Joseph. Presently Philippe embarked 
 for the United States to aid in founding the Champ d'Asile. 
 Agathe paid ten thousand francs and went to Havre to see him 
 off. Joseph advanced in his art ; but the family had a terrible 
 year of hardship. Philippe lost in the great swindle; where- 
 upon, by means of family sacrifices, money was sent for his 
 return. He came back a bully, a drinker, a smoker, rude, 
 assertive, and deteriorated by penury and privations, but in 
 appearance preserving the blunt, frank, easy-going manner of a 
 soldier. He was a hero in his mother's eyes; but he had really 
 become a rascal. He soon developed into a loafer and gambler, 
 and getting intimate with a former captain of the Dragoon 
 Guards, named Giroudeau, completed what Rabelais calls "the 
 devil's outfit" by adding a fourth iniquity to his dram, his cigar, 
 and his gambling. This Captain took Philippe to see Made- 
 moiselle Florentine, a dancer, at whose house Philippe fell in 
 love with another dancer, Marie Godeschal, whose stage name
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 217 
 
 was Maricttc. Philippe now got in with a newspaper and 
 theatrical set and lived a wild life. But before long Mariette 
 attracted the attentions of a duke at Louis XVIII's court and 
 threw over the rough and brainless soldier. Philippe was now 
 deeply in debt. Moreover, he had borrowed from the cash-box 
 of a newspaper. He told this to Joseph, adding that he intended 
 to commit suicide. Joseph informed Madame Descoings, who 
 told Agathe. The household was terrified. Philippe, how- 
 ever, went to the same cash-box and borrowed five hundred 
 francs more, which he took to the gaming-table, and soon lost 
 it all. Philippe then returned to the family roof, where the 
 tearful, frightened women petted him and excused his be- 
 havior. He continued his life of dissipation and Joseph went 
 on with his painting. Madame Descoings lavished her affec- 
 tion upon the young artist, but Agathe lived only in Philippe. 
 
 Madame Descoings still continued to stake on the same 
 three numbers that had never yet been drawn. This set was 
 now nearly twenty-one years old. It would soon be of age. 
 Madame Descoings based high hopes on this trivial fact. She 
 kept her savings sewed in the bottom mattress of her bed; and 
 resolved to risk her all on the combinations of the three cher- 
 ished numbers. 
 
 Joseph kept some of his savings in a skull that stood in an 
 antique cabinet. His money disappeared so rapidly that he 
 became suspicious. He found that Philippe was guilty of this 
 petty theft; came to the conclusion that what some of the 
 friends of the family said was right — Philippe was a scoundrel. 
 Philippe next took money from the pocket of his mother's 
 dress, while he thought her asleep; but she saw him. She 
 then offered to give him money, and even tried to earn some by 
 needlework; but it was impossible to supply Philippe's demands. 
 
 On Christmas Eve, when Agathe and Madame Descoings 
 were both out, Philippe, needing money for the gaming-table, 
 entered Madame Descoings's rooms and stole the twenty napo- 
 leons hidden in her mattress. With these he began playing, 
 and at first he won. He paid Florentine the five hundred 
 francs he owed her, and after a splendid supper returned to 
 the tables and played for an hour. He doubled his winnings, 
 and gained a hundred and fifty thousand francs; but then
 
 218 A BACHELOR'S ESTABLISHMENT 
 
 luck turned, and at three o'clock in the morning he left the 
 gambling-house a ruined man. 
 
 That same evening Joseph paid a visit to Madame Des- 
 coings. She told him about the monster stake on the famous 
 ternion. Joseph wondered where the four hundred francs were 
 to come from. "You will see," she said, and led Joseph to 
 her bedroom. One look at the mattress, and the poor old 
 woman fainted. Joseph called his mother and they worked 
 over her. On coming to, she told them that all her savings 
 were in the mattress and that she was confident that Philippe 
 had taken them. Agathe begged her to take the family silver 
 in repayment; but when the three opened the plate-box, a 
 pawn- ticket was all that met their horrified gaze. Joseph then 
 ran for his savings; but Maman Descoings heroically refused to 
 accept them. Joseph, however, ran out to find a lottery-ticket 
 office, but it was too late — they had all closed. The next 
 morning, as they were having coffee, their old friend, Des- 
 rosches, came in to congratulate Madame Descoings on the suc- 
 cess of her three numbers. He handed them the list: Joseph 
 read it; Agathe read it; Madame Descoings read nothing: she 
 fell back in her chair, stricken with apoplexy, and died in a 
 few days. Philippe on his return excited the dying woman and 
 was denounced by his mother and brother. 
 
 Agathe now begged Philippe to rejoin the army and gave 
 him a hundred francs. He departed coldly, saying he was 
 going to Florentine, Giroudeau's mistress. "They are real 
 friends!" he added. 
 
 In 1822, Agathe was reduced so low that she had become a 
 clerk in a lottery-ticket office. Her thoughts constantly turned 
 to Philippe; and, at her request, Joseph went to ask him to 
 sit for his portrait. Philippe came, and on one visit, stole a 
 copy of a Rubens, thinking it was the original. After this last 
 crime, Agathe never again mentioned Philippe. But the last 
 blow was yet to fall. Philippe was concerned in a conspiracy 
 of officers and arrested. Giroudeau told the widow that if she 
 could raise twelve thousand francs Philippe might be released. 
 
 Madame Bridau then wrote to Madame Hochon, imploring 
 her to beg Jean- Jacques Rouget to save Philippe; and should 
 this prove impossible, would she herself lend the money?
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 219 
 
 Madame Hochon replied: "Though your brother has forty 
 thousand francs a year, to say nothing of the money he has saved 
 in the last seventeen years, which Monsieur Hochon estimates 
 at more than six hundred thousand francs, he will not spend 
 two farthings on the nephews he has never seen. As for me — 
 as long as my husband lives, I shall never have six francs of 
 my own. Hochon is the biggest miser in Issoudun. ... I 
 have not attempted to speak with your brother, who keeps a 
 woman, whose very humble servant he is. It is pitiable to see 
 how the poor man is treated in his own house when he has a 
 sister and nephews. I have hinted to you several times that 
 your presence at Issoudun might save your brother, and rescue 
 from the clutches of that hussy forty or even sixty thousand 
 francs a year." She invited Agathe to come to Issoudun, and 
 added that there were rumors of a will to deprive her of her 
 inheritance. 
 
 Desroches, Joseph's lawyer, advised him to hasten to Is- 
 soudun with his mother. 
 
 Issoudun afforded no diversions and the young men sought 
 amusement at the expense of the town itself. In 181 6 they 
 formed a society — the "Knights of Idlesse " — for playing prac- 
 tical jokes; and in 1823 all Issoudun lived in terror of them. 
 Their leader, Maxence Gilet, called Max for short, was sup- 
 posed to be the son of Lousteau. Dr. Rouget also claimed 
 him; but he was the son of neither. He had been a bad boy 
 in the town, had run away and served in the army, been sent 
 to the hulks, and now was a braggart and bully. He was also 
 the man of fashion in Issoudun. Madame Hochon's two 
 grandsons were his devotees ; and through them Max learned of 
 the expected visit of Madame Bridau. "Madame Hochon's 
 goddaughter is Rouget's sister," said one of the company to 
 Max; "if she and her son are coming here, it is no doubt to get 
 back her share of the old man's fortune, and then good-by to 
 your harvest." "If," said another, "old Rouget were to alter his 
 will, supposing he has made one in favor of La Rabouilleuse — " 
 But Max cut him short. He never allowed anyone to speak 
 to him of Mademoiselle Flore Brazier, Jean- Jacques Rouget's 
 servant-mistress. However, Max bethought himself of the 
 danger of this threatened visit, with the result that the "Knights
 
 220 A BACHELOR'S ESTABLISHMENT 
 
 of Idlesse," drinking a toast to the fair Flore, resolved to 
 support Max against the Bridaus. Max went home to Rou- 
 get's house. 
 
 La Rabouilleuse commanded the bachelor's establishment. 
 One day Dr. Rouget saw a little girl on the water-meadow. 
 She was clad in a tattered petticoat of brown and white stripes; 
 a sheet of paper formed her hat, beneath which escaped her 
 beautiful golden hair. She replied to his questions that she 
 came from Vatan, and added, "I rabouitte for my Uncle Brazier 
 there." Rabouiller is a local word of Le Berry, used to describe 
 the beating of the waters with a racket (rabouilloir) to frighten 
 the crayfish, that, rushing up-stream, are caught in the poacher's 
 net. Dr. Rouget satisfied Brazier with money and "La Ra- 
 bouilleuse" entered his house. She was seventeen when he 
 died: he left her nothing. Jean- Jacques, who was in love with 
 her, persuaded her to remain. In 1816 she fell in love with 
 Maxence Gilet, and the penniless and ambitious officer saw 
 something better than a mere love-affair in connection with La 
 Rabouilleuse. He was more than content to lodge under Rou- 
 get's roof. 
 
 The news of the visit of the Bridaus was a bomb to Max 
 and Flore: they formed plans to get Rouget's money and send 
 the Bridaus away. 
 
 The Bridaus were welcomed at the Hochons'. Joseph and 
 his mother were entertained at dinner, and Joseph went into 
 raptures over the Italian paintings purchased by the Descoings 
 for the sake of the frames. Max and Flore persuaded Rouget 
 to give Joseph the valueless pictures. Joseph sent them to 
 Paris; but he rashly boasted that they were worth a hundred 
 and fifty thousand francs. This reached the Rouget household 
 and they accused Joseph of unfair dealings. 
 
 On the last night of the Bridaus' stay Max was stabbed by 
 Fario, a Spaniard, who had suffered from the pranks of the 
 Knights. Max recognized Fario but accused Joseph, who was 
 unfortunately strolling about at the time. His innocence was 
 proved, and Joseph and Agathe returned to Paris. 
 
 Philippe was sentenced to police surveillance. Desroches 
 got him sent to Issoudun, hoping he could rescue his uncle's 
 fortune from Gilet.
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 221 
 
 "I sent your brother's pictures back to Monsieur Hochon, 
 telling him to deliver them to you," said the lawyer. "You 
 have an astute adversary — Max Gilet is brave — " "So much 
 the better, a coward would run away," said Philippe, who was 
 overjoyed at the prospect opening before him. 
 
 Max and Flore made light of the advent of Rouget's elder 
 nephew. Philippe called on his uncle and asked him to come 
 across to the Hochons' and identify his pictures. Max began 
 to smell an enemy. Philippe, investigating his brother's arrest, 
 and the history of Gilet and La Rabouilleuse, ended by form- 
 ing an alliance with Fario. Flore resolved to collect bonds 
 from Rouget, of whom she was heartily tired, and go to Paris, 
 where she could be married to Max. Rouget refused to give 
 her the securities, half suspecting her plans. Philippe called 
 on his uncle and took him for a walk, alone, without Flore. 
 Philippe then made him promise that he would not sign the 
 papers Flore and Max were trying to get hold of. Philippe 
 would reward him by "killing Max like a dog." In the mean- 
 time, Max sent Flore away, and Rouget, on his return, was in 
 despair. 
 
 Philippe, however, succeeded in bringing Flore back, oust- 
 ing Max and taking his place in the house. He brutally told 
 Flore he was going to fight a duel with Max. In this duel Max 
 was killed and Philippe wounded. Agathe hurried to Issoudun. 
 Shortly afterward Flore Brazier, who had been ill after Max's 
 death, was married to Jean- Jacques Rouget. On the following 
 day Philippe took the bride aside and with terrible threats com- 
 manded her to get for him the power of attorney. " When once 
 the securities are in my name," he said, "we shall have an equal 
 interest in marrying each other some day. I may marry my 
 aunt-in-law after a year's widowhood, whereas I could not 
 marry a disreputable nobody." Flore quaked, but dared not 
 oppose him. 
 
 Philippe next took Rouget and Flore to Paris and plunged 
 them into the wildest dissipations. Rouget died after one of 
 Florentine's splendid suppers. Philippe then married the 
 widow; bought a fine house in Paris and also the estate of 
 Brambourg, and gained permission to entail the property with 
 the title of Count. He lived in the greatest style, gave splendid
 
 222 A BACHELOR'S ESTABLISHMENT 
 
 entertainments, and was pitiless to the companions of his old 
 debaucheries. One evening, on the way to an entertainment, 
 at the Elysee-Bourbon, Philippe, dashing by in his carriage, 
 patronizingly bowed to his mother and brother, splashing them 
 with mud. The adoring mother still forgave him. 
 
 Philippe now wanted to get rid of his wife and marry the 
 daughter of the Comte de Soulanges. 
 
 In the meanwhile Joseph had attained fame; but he was 
 still in financial difficulties. His mother, too, was forced to 
 work for her living. A tender letter from her to Philippe 
 brought a brutal answer. She fainted on reading it, and be- 
 came desperately ill. Agathe at last understood and gave her 
 heart to Joseph during her last days. Philippe refused to visit 
 his dying mother. 
 
 Soon after Agathe's death, a letter came to Joseph from 
 the Comtesse Flore, asking his charity. Joseph and Bixion, 
 grandson of Madame Descoings, found her in a garret, in rags, 
 ill and emaciated. She had been cast off by Philippe and had 
 gone from bad to worse. They sent her to a hospital, but she 
 soon died. Bixion got an interview with the Comte de Sou- 
 langes, told him of Philippe's life and prevented the marriage. 
 
 Philippe played into the hands of two financiers who were 
 gambling against him on the Bourse. Within a month nothing 
 remained of his fortune but his house, estate, furniture, and 
 pictures. He then went into active service and perished hor- 
 ribly in 1839, while fighting the Arabs. 
 
 Joseph, who had married an heiress, inherited Philippe's 
 possessions and his title. He still continued to paint and greatly 
 valued the collection of paintings which came with the estate, 
 although he used to laugh at the title.
 
 A START IN LIFE (1844) 
 (Un Debut dans la Vie) 
 
 This story appeared first in La Legisture, July 6 to September 4, 1842, 
 under the title Le Danger des Mystifications. It was published in two volumes. 
 The next year, with fourteen chapters suppressed, it entered the Scenes de la 
 Vie Privee in the Comedie Humaine. Balzac wrote to Madame de Surville that 
 it was one of the pearls of his crown. 
 
 V N the year 1820, on the highroad from Paris to 
 England, was a place named La Cave ("the cel- 
 lar"), a hollow way leading down to one of the 
 most delightful nooks of the Oise valley, and to 
 the famous little town of ITsle Adam, in a region 
 renowned for its quarries, which have furnished 
 materials for many fine buildings in Paris and 
 Brussels. It being long before the day of rail- 
 roads, the bit of road from Paris to l'Isle Adam 
 was served by two cou-cous, heavy and grotesque chariot 
 coaches, which ran to and fro alternately and put up, while in 
 Paris, at the Silver Lion, at the corner of the Rue d'Enghien. 
 
 Pierrotin, who owned and drove one of these coaches, was 
 an old soldier, a man of about forty, determined to advance in 
 the world. The bulging sides of his vehicle allowed it to carry 
 six passengers on two seats, which were as hard as iron, though 
 covered with yellow worsted velvet. A wooden bar was so 
 arranged that, although it was intended to form a support to 
 the backs of the passengers, it might be turned at a pinch into 
 an extra seat. This board, while painful to adjust, was more 
 painful when adjusted and was the cause of despair to travelers. 
 Pierrotin was of an ambitious and frugal nature, and continually 
 talked of a grand new conveyance which he had ordered to be 
 built at a standard maker's. He drove two horses — a large 
 but slow and aged beast named Rougeot, and Bichette, a tiny 
 mare that ate little and could go like the wind. 
 
 223
 
 224 A START IN LIFE 
 
 Early one autumn morning Pierrotin stood in front of the 
 Silver Lion, his hands in his blouse pockets, looking up and 
 down the square. It was near time for starting, but no passen- 
 gers had arrived. This was hard, for the grand coach so long 
 talked about was actually finished, and was advertised to make 
 its first trip the succeeding Sunday. Pierrotin had deposited 
 fifteen hundred francs, and unless he could raise the remaining 
 thousand by that date, he would lose not only his coach but his 
 money as well. Therefore his twinkling eyes looked anxiously 
 around for passengers. 
 
 Presently a footman appeared with a small leather trunk, 
 and told Pierrotin that his master wished to take passage if he 
 could wait a quarter of an hour. Pierrotin could indeed wait, 
 but who was his master? His master was a comte, a states- 
 man, who wished to visit his estate at Presles, and who desired 
 to go incognito. It must be no other than the Comte de Serizy, 
 intending to take his steward, Moreau, by surprise. The 
 footman admitted this, but appealed to the driver not to betray 
 his identity. Pierrotin was too much a man of the world not 
 to oblige a nobleman, but there was heaviness in his heart 
 on account of his friend Moreau, who, while managing his 
 master's estate magnificently, had found ways to enrich him- 
 self. There was a particular rumor in regard to a farm, wholly 
 enclosed in the estate, long desired by the Comte, which a cer- 
 tain farmer Leger had held on a long lease from the owner, 
 Margueron, which lease was about to expire. Leger conceived 
 the idea of buying the land from Margueron himself, and selling 
 it again to the Comte through Moreau, both making a fine 
 percentage on the transaction. Owing to a somewhat too 
 zealous letter from Moreau in the matter, the Comte had con- 
 sulted his attorney, Monsieur Crottat, who had advised his 
 going in person, quietly, asking Margueron to dinner, and 
 closing the business himself. M. Crottat added that he would 
 send his clerk down with a form of sale, thus insuring the trans- 
 action and frustrating the steward's designs. Immediately 
 following this advice had come a visit from Madame de Rey- 
 bert, wife of a retired army officer living at Presles, who de- 
 sired the stewardship for her husband, and was much incensed 
 at the Moreaus, who carried themselves arrogantly toward
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 225 
 
 many of the townspeople, giving corroborative information in 
 regard to the proposed sale and setting forth her husband's 
 claims to the place held by Moreau. 
 
 This visit had decided the Comte to follow his attorney's 
 advice, and, anticipating an expected visit, he was about to 
 take a seat in the public vehicle. Naturally Pierrotin did not 
 know all these details, but the little he did know gave him ap- 
 prehension when he learned of the Comte's journey. 
 
 Monsieur de Serizy was one of the great nobles of France 
 and seldom traveled outside his own coach. Moreau's father 
 had been of service to the Senzy family during the Revolution; 
 he had married a former maid of the Comtesse, and had been 
 treated with much consideration by the Comte. He had served 
 the latter faithfully, in spite of his shrewdness, and the Comte 
 was loth to believe in his dishonesty. The Comte and Comtesse 
 had recently been making alterations at Presles, preparatory 
 to taking possession themselves after a long time of non-resi- 
 dence. The Moreaus, particularly Madame Moreau, had 
 carried themselves very nearly as owners of the estate, and 
 people wondered how they would like returning to the con- 
 dition of upper servants. They were, in truth, looking to a 
 different destination. Moreau had saved so much that they 
 meant to buy a small estate in PIsle Adam, and for this reason 
 Moreau was especially anxious to gain the profit on the sale. 
 
 The Comte de SeYizy was truly a great man, who worked 
 incessantly for the good of the State, to the detriment of his 
 health. He was much older than the Comtesse, whom he 
 adored. She was a beauty, who was a widow before he mar- 
 ried her. She remained mistress of herself after as well as 
 before her second marriage, but retained her fascination for 
 her husband, who treated her as a mother treats a spoiled child. 
 He was not happy, but he buried himself in his work, and by 
 the protection of his great name and distinguished devotion 
 prevented the gossip that her conduct might otherwise have 
 provoked. She, in turn, held him in highest esteem. 
 
 Slowly the travelers gathered for the trip in Pierrotin's 
 
 coach. First appeared a woman, once handsome but now 
 
 shabby in her poverty, accompanied by her son, who showed 
 
 evidences of a mother's hand in his attire, which was patched 
 
 A.D., vol. 11. — 15
 
 226 A START IN LIFE 
 
 and outgrown. She commended this lad to Pierrotin's care, 
 and gave him maternal injunctions as to his behavior, which 
 embarrassed him. These two were Madame Clapart and Oscar 
 Husson, her son by a former marriage. Madame Clapart 
 had been one of the Aspasias of the Directory, but was now 
 living in extreme poverty with her incapable husband, her only 
 friend being the Presles steward, Moreau, whom she had known 
 in her youth, who constantly visited her and made her sub- 
 stantial presents of produce from his farm. The boy, Oscar, 
 was of an age when ignorance and folly combined to make him 
 absurd. Moreau had suggested a trip to his own home as an 
 eye-opener to life, and this journey was the result. 
 
 After the mother and son came two young men, gay and 
 well dressed in the extreme of fashion. Oscar listened to their 
 witty comments on his own and his mother's appearance in an 
 agony of shame, and begged her to shorten her farewells and 
 advice. A stout farmer arrived, and two other young men, and 
 Pierrotin began packing them into the coach and put up the 
 wooden bar. It was past the time for starting, but Pierrotin 
 lingered, making one excuse and another. At last an elderly 
 man with a red face and very white hair arrived and took the 
 last place inside. This was the Comte himself, and Pierrotin 
 recognized him, but the others took him for no one in particular, 
 as he was plainly dressed and unpretentious in manner. The 
 coach-doors were then closed, and with much noise and bustle 
 the comical vehicle was off. 
 
 In a French coach, the passengers, after they take some pre- 
 liminary observations of each other, all talk. One of the well- 
 dressed young men, Georges by name, quickly decided that 
 he was the superior man of the party, and set out to amuse him- 
 self by hoaxing them. He told them that he had been in com- 
 mand of the troops under Ali, the Pasha of Janina. His tales 
 increased in splendor as the others interpolated ejaculations, 
 and he wound up by describing his seraglio in the East and his 
 sensations at the battle of Waterloo. The Comte took this in 
 with a twinkling eye, and, observing the name "Maitre Crottat" 
 on his portfolio, took advantage of the descent of the others to 
 get luncheon at an inn to peep inside this portfolio. He there 
 discovered the deed of sale intended for his purchase of the
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 227 
 
 Molincaux farms, which proved the young man to be the 
 attorney's clerk. The Comte quietly appropriated this paper 
 and closed the portfolio again. 
 
 On reentering the coach, one of the other young men fol- 
 lowed Georges's example, and amused the company with re- 
 lating his adventures. He declared himself to be Schinner, 
 the great painter, and told tales of Venice and his amours and 
 escapades there. The Comte, greatly amused, put in an occa- 
 sional comment. Oscar felt his spirits sink in envy and tried 
 smoking a cigar, which made him ill. 
 
 At last the conversation turned on the projected sale of the 
 farms. The Comte in an undertone reminded Pierrotin of his 
 wish to remain incognito, and promised to pay the whole thou- 
 sand francs for his new coach if he would keep still and let the 
 others talk to their hearts' content. The old farmer, who was 
 Leger himself, had not been able to refrain from boasting of 
 his intended bargain, and between the gettings out and in to 
 relieve the horses up the hills, and the various conversations 
 with innkeepers, he got full evidence of his steward's dis- 
 honesty, to his great sorrow. 
 
 Oscar became more excited as the conversation turned on 
 matters of which he knew something. Finally, exasperated at 
 their slighting tone toward himself, he dashed in and informed 
 the assembly that he was intended for a career of diplomacy. 
 He was of noble blood, he said. They jeered at him, and re- 
 minded him of his mother's shabby appearance. He then de- 
 clared her to be the housekeeper, and that he was going to 
 Presles on a visit to the Comte de Serizy. " Schinner " blushed 
 at this, and the others looked at him with interest. Elated at 
 having at last made an impression, he totally lost his head and 
 betrayed the most intimate secrets of the Comte's life, the facts 
 of which he had overheard during Moreau's confidential talks 
 with his mother, Madame Clapart. When he at last made 
 some comment on the Comtesse, the Comte stopped him in a 
 voice of thunder, and almost immediately left the coach, making 
 ironical farewells to the passengers, but without disclosing his 
 identity. When they reached Presles, no one felt quite com- 
 fortable, except Pierrotin, who looked forward on the morrow 
 to his thousand francs and his new coach.
 
 228 A START IN LIFE 
 
 The Comte was indeed wounded to the depths of his heart. 
 The dishonesty of his steward appeared slight in his estimation 
 compared with the discussion of the tragedies of his own sor- 
 rows, which must have taken place for this boy to have got 
 hold of them. He wept bitter tears, his last, as he pursued his 
 way through a by-path to his estate. 
 
 The master dropped on the household at Presles like a shell 
 from a mortar. He approached the gamekeeper's hut and said : 
 
 "Is Moreau here? I see his horse waiting." 
 
 "No, Monseigneur, but as he is going over to Les Moulineux 
 before dinner, he left his horse while he ran over to give some 
 orders at the house." 
 
 At this confirmation of the steward's guilt, the Comte ordered 
 the gamekeeper to go immediately to Farmer Margueron with 
 a note demanding his immediate presence at dinner, forestalling 
 the steward, whom he encountered shortly afterward, to the 
 latter's confusion. 
 
 "Well, Monsieur," said the Comte, who remained sitting, 
 but allowed Moreau to stand, "so we cannot come to terms 
 with Margueron." 
 
 "At the present moment he wants too much for his 
 farm." 
 
 "But why should he not come over here to talk about it?" 
 
 "He is ill, Monseigneur " 
 
 "Monsieur," said the Comte, assuming a terrible expression, 
 "what would you do to a man whom you had allowed to see 
 you dress a wound, and who went off to make game of it with 
 a street trollop?" 
 
 " I should give him a sound thrashing." 
 
 "Listen, Monsieur Moreau. You have, I suppose, dis- 
 cussed my affairs with Madame Clapart, for little Husson was 
 giving to the passengers in a public conveyance information 
 about them this very morning. In addition, I heard from 
 Farmer Leger's own lips of the plan concocted with regard to 
 the farms at Molineux. ... It is unpardonable. To strike 
 at a man's interest is nothing, but to strike at his heart! Ah, 
 you do not know what you have done." 
 
 The Comte covered his face and was silent for a moment. 
 
 "I will leave you in possession of what you have. As a
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 229 
 
 point of dignity, wc will part without quarreling. I cannot 
 forget what your father did for mine." 
 
 The Comte and Moreau went downstairs, Moreau as white 
 as the Comte's hair, M. de Serizy calm and dignified. 
 
 The Comte, somewhat later, put through the sale with 
 Margueron, and entertained his whilom companions at dinner, 
 rallying them on their efforts at amusement, and displaying the 
 deed of sale to the crestfallen Georges, taken, unknown to him, 
 from his own portfolio, in the presence of M. Crottat, who had 
 come down himself by a later coach ; as well as congratulating 
 the noble Schinner, who turned out to be Joseph Bridau, a 
 young artist sent down to do some of the decorating. 
 
 Oscar, dumb with misery and helpless with fright, was 
 dragged into the Comte's presence by the enraged Moreau, to 
 be dismissed with contempt by the nobleman and later sent 
 home to his mother, with a note relating the affair, and telling 
 her that she need expect no more assistance from the humiliated 
 steward in his education, as he was hopeless from stupidity and 
 conceit. 
 
 Madame Clapart was in despair at her son's return and the 
 news that he had lost Moreau's friendship and patronage, for 
 to the latter she had looked for the young man's start in life. 
 There was but one possible direction in which she could now 
 turn: this was to her first husband's brother-in-law, a retired 
 silk- merchant, Monsieur Cardot. This old gentleman had 
 settled the silk business, a flourishing concern, on his eldest 
 daughter, whose husband, Camusot, managed it admirably, 
 and had given portions of four hundred thousand francs each 
 to his younger children. In addition to this, he had settled a 
 large sum on himself in an annuity, so that he was able to live 
 in great comfort in his old age. This little old gentleman, 
 plump, rosy, square, and hearty, was always as neat as a pin, 
 and was a person of much gallantry toward the ladies. He, 
 in fact, amused himself quietly, for to him the charming 
 Mademoiselle Florentine, of the Comedie, looked for support. 
 Madame Clapart had always been on the polite terms of the 
 poor relation, and never had asked him for help. But this was 
 her only course in the present emergency. Accordingly, she 
 and her son called one morning, and, finding M. Cardot in his
 
 230 A START IN LIFE 
 
 garden, were invited to stay to breakfast. She found him to 
 be unexpectedly good-natured, and he promised to pay Oscar's 
 expenses in studying law, mingling the promise with salutary 
 advice; for he had been a hard worker in his younger years 
 and knew the principles of success. 
 
 Accordingly, Oscar was introduced to Monsieur Desroches, 
 a hard-working attorney, and began a career of great industry, 
 which he hated, but could not escape from. He worked dili- 
 gently in this office for two years, being under the particular 
 charge of Godeschal, the head clerk, a young man of good 
 principles, who took a friendly interest in keeping the boy up 
 to the mark. Oscar, however, longed for some variety and 
 fun, and on the appearance of Georges Marest at the office, the 
 young man who had so influenced him to boasting while on the 
 journey to Presles, he became more and more restless under the 
 restraints of drudgery and hard work. 
 
 Frederic Marest, Georges's cousin, was the latest clerk to 
 appear in the office. He was summoned to give the Blen- 
 venue, or welcome, the breakfast which every new pupil must 
 give the old boys, according to the traditions of Parisian law- 
 offices. Godeschal left a book, contrived ingeniously to ap- 
 pear an ancient ritual of office customs, on Frederic's desk. He 
 looked at it, laughed, but did not take the hint. Georges 
 appeared soon afterward, and told them his cousin would not 
 ask them to breakfast, but that he would invite them to a supper 
 at the grand Marquise de la Florentina's. This lady, put 
 forward as a Spanish aristocrat, was only the Mademoiselle 
 Florentine who was the pet and favorite of old M. Cardot, and 
 who contrived to amuse herself very well with Georges Marest 
 and his gay set of friends. The clerks, delighted with this in- 
 vitation, accepted in a body. 
 
 Oscar, while hating his work, had done it faithfully, and 
 had come to be looked upon with respect by his employer. 
 Maitre Desroches, the day of the supper, had given him five 
 hundred francs to take to a client. By some mischance, he had 
 not been able to conclude this business, and was obliged to 
 carry the money to the supper at Mademoiselle Florentine's. 
 Oscar looked forward to a day of perfect bliss. He had new and 
 grand clothes, and he was going to see the world of fashion for
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 231 
 
 the first time. Apart from this, however, he had an instinctive 
 dislike of Georges Marest, who was so closely connected with 
 the circumstances of his great humiliation at Presles. 
 
 This dislike melted away as the twelve young men sat at 
 the gay supper-table, and later were led into the sumptuous 
 rooms of the pseudo Marquise. The wine went to the poor 
 boy's head, and the scene dazzled his vision. When the cards 
 were produced, he easily put up a hundred francs, his entire 
 property, and naturally lost it at once. Tempted then, beyond 
 resistance, he put up his employer's five hundred francs, and 
 this also, in the ups and downs known so well to gamblers, was 
 forfeited, together with a thousand francs more, borrowed from 
 the good-natured Florentine. Dazed, bewildered, and despair- 
 ing, overcome with champagne, at the end of the evening Oscar 
 sank in a deep sleep on a sofa, where he was allowed to stay, 
 and soon was forgotten by all. 
 
 About eleven o'clock in the morning he was awakened by 
 a terrible sound — the rasping voice of Papa Cardot, chiding 
 pretty Florentine for her extravagance. She had managed to 
 fool the old gentleman back into good humor, when he caught 
 sight of his protege, whom he had recommended to a life of 
 hard work and self-denial, extended on the sofa. An admirable 
 scene ensued, as Florentine pulled the young man up by the 
 elbow and half choked with laughing as she saw the hangdog 
 look of uncle and nephew. 
 
 "You here, nephew?" 
 
 "Ho, ho, he is your nephew. Whatever is to become of the 
 poor boy?" 
 
 "Whatever he pleases," said the old man dryly. 
 
 "Wait a moment, Papa Cardot. Who is to pay the fifteen 
 hundred francs he owes?" 
 
 Cajoled and threatened by Florentine, Cardot handed his 
 nephew five hundred francs, with which to repay his master, 
 and told him to begone and never show himself to him again, 
 promising scornfully to repay Florentine herself the thousand 
 she had lent him. 
 
 Oscar was indeed miserable, deprived of his last bene- 
 factor; and when at last, by some mischance, Desroches dis- 
 covered his theft before he had time to repay it with his uncle's
 
 232 A START IN LIFE 
 
 money, and discharged him peremptorily, his misfortunes, in- 
 duced by his own folly, were at the crushing point. 
 
 Oscar, to his mother's despair, was thus brought to the 
 last resort of a French youth and obliged to enlist as a common 
 soldier. Humbled and sobered, he followed faithfully from 
 this time the precepts of wisdom and common sense. His con- 
 duct was so satisfactory that he became quartermaster in his 
 regiment at the age of twenty-five, and by an act of great bravery, 
 in which he lost an arm, gained the cross of the Legion of Honor 
 and the rank of lieutenant-colonel. In this action his superior 
 officer was the son of the Comte de Serizy, and in this way the 
 Comte was led to forgive him his folly on the ride to Presles. 
 
 Years afterward, there was another ride from Paris to 
 Presles, the same passengers finding themselves together once 
 more. It was hard to recognize in the one-armed, bronzed 
 Oscar, carrying his mother proudly on his arm, the foolish boy 
 who had played the bravado years before. Georges Marest 
 was there also, showing by his shabby gentility that he had 
 run through his income of thirty thousand francs a year. 
 Joseph Bridau, now a painter of renown, was going down to 
 marry the daughter of Farmer Leger, who had become a million- 
 aire and had married the daughter of Reybut, Moreau's success- 
 or. Monsieur and Madame Moreau occupied the coupe", together 
 with their daughter and son-in-law, the Baron de Canalis, a 
 peer of France. The ex-steward had prospered by his shrewd- 
 ness, and his wife had seen her social ambitions all gratified. 
 
 As for Oscar, under the powerful patronage of the Serizy 
 family, he was going down to take the office of Collector at 
 Presles. Later he would be promoted to be Receiver- General. 
 He married Pierrotin's daughter. The former driver had ac- 
 quired the ownership of the entire diligence system and was 
 able to give his daughter a fine dowry. The Camusots, Oscar's 
 relatives, recognized him, and his mother had the pleasure of 
 seeing her son a respected and successful man. The results 
 of the journey to Presles had given him discretion, the evening 
 at Florentine's had disciplined his honesty, the hardships of 
 military life had taught him the value of social distinctions and 
 submission to fate. He became prudent, capable, and conse- 
 quently happy.
 
 MODESTE MIGNON (1844) 
 
 This story was first printed in the Journal des Dcbats, in three numbers. 
 It appears, from a long letter written early in that year, to Madame Hanska, 
 VEtrangere, to whom the story is dedicated, that the central idea of it was hers, 
 rather than Balzac's. He actually wished her to write the story and let him 
 print it over his own name. Many efforts have been made to discover who sat to 
 Balzac for the portrait of De Canalis. Opinions fluctuate between Lamartine 
 and Chateaubriand. It is most probable that the picture is composite. 
 
 JHARLES MIGNON, the last survivor of the 
 family to whom Paris owes the street and the 
 hotel built by Cardinal Mignon, had for his 
 father a crafty man who wished to save his es- 
 tate of La Bastie (a fief under the counts of 
 Provence) from the clutches of the Revolution. 
 He therefore vanished on the 9th of Thermidor, 
 was placed on the list of emigres, and the fief of 
 La Bastie was sold. But he was discovered at 
 Orange and killed, with his wife and all his children, with the 
 exception of one son, Charles, who thus became the sole repre- 
 sentative of the ancient family. When this young man came 
 to the age of three-and-twenty, he had developed into a fine 
 and noble youth, with a beauty of person equal to that of 
 Antinoiis. He entered the army, and there met and formed a 
 friendship with Anne Francois Dumay, a young bourgeois. 
 The two were friends through many adventures in the wars of 
 Napoleon, having passed through imprisonment in Siberia 
 together, and proved each other in a devotion that should last 
 through life. 
 
 In one of the episodes of war, Charles Mignon had been 
 quartered at Frankfort-on-the-Main, where he had won the 
 love of the beautiful heiress, Bettina Wallenrod, and married 
 her. They had four children, of whom but two daughters 
 survived. Bettina's father became involved in unfortunate 
 investments and died just before Charles's return from Na- 
 poleon's last terrible expedition to Russia, in 181 5. Thus 
 
 233
 
 234 MODESTE MIGNON 
 
 Charles found himself with his wife's dowry as the sole capital 
 with which to begin life again. He decided on a banker's and 
 shipowner's career, and chose Havre as the field of his opera- 
 tions. He became very successful, and after some years built 
 a beautiful villa at Ingouville, that suburb of Havre which, 
 built high in terraces, overlooks the sea. Somewhat lower than 
 the Villa Mignon, he built a charming little chalet for the occu- 
 pation of his friend Dumay, giving him a lease for twelve years. 
 After some years of prosperity he failed, in consequence of a 
 series of disasters, and was obliged to sell the villa and grounds 
 to a Monsieur Vilquin. The lease he had given to Dumay, 
 however, held good, and his wife and two daughters, Bettina 
 and Modeste, found there a comfortable though unpretentious 
 home. Charles Mignon, with indomitable courage, imme- 
 diately embarked on a voyage to the East, determined to re- 
 trieve his fortunes, leaving his family in charge of the faithful 
 Dumay, together with the task of discharging all the obligations 
 of the firm. 
 
 There was the beginning of a tragedy in the Mignon family, 
 even before Charles Mignon sailed away. The oldest daugh- 
 ter, Bettina, beautiful with a dark Spanish beauty, had been 
 induced to leave her home with a young man who had been 
 the privileged guest of her father and mother. This betrayal 
 of all the sacredness of hospitality had filled the father's heart 
 with bitterness. The family had managed to make excuses 
 for the daughter's absence, saying that she had been sent south 
 for her health. When the financial disaster came she was still 
 away from home, and Charles, in parting from the faithful 
 Dumay, gave him as an inviolable trust his remaining daughter, 
 Modeste, to be guarded from ever speaking to a young man, or 
 even looking upon one. After her father's failure and de- 
 parture, the elder daughter, Bettina, returned, ill indeed, and 
 deserted by her lover, only to die in the little chalet. At this 
 crowning misfortune of her life, the gentle mother had yielded 
 to a month of solitude and weeping, with the result that her 
 eyes gave way and she became totally blind. 
 
 It was a sad and simple little household in which Modeste 
 grew from girlhood to womanhood. Fulfilling her father's 
 orders, Dumay guarded her from all male society. His in-
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 235 
 
 junctions were absolute. "If any man, of whatever age or 
 rank, speaks to her," he said, "he is a dead man. I will blow 
 his brains out and surrender myself to the public prosecutor." 
 
 Modeste grew into a type of exquisite and angelic beauty, 
 devoted herself to her blind mother, and satisfied the cravings 
 of an active and imaginative mind with indiscriminate reading. 
 The notary and his wife, Monsieur and Madame Latournelle, 
 and a man named Gobenhiem, came nearly every evening for 
 a rubber of whist, and at half-past ten the party would break 
 up for the night. Butscha, a dwarf, and clerk in the notary's 
 office, came also, frequently. 
 
 Thus guarded, it would seem that the demon of unrest 
 could never enter the young girl's heart. But one day, while 
 Madame Dumay, the American wife of the faithful guardian, 
 was giving Modeste the little diversion of a long walk, Madame 
 Mignon held council with her only friends, Madame Latour- 
 nelle, the notary, and Dumay. 
 
 "Listen, my friends," she said, "my daughter is in love. I 
 feel it. I see it. A strange change has come over her." 
 
 "Bless my stars!" Dumay exclaimed. 
 
 "Do not interrupt me. For the last two months Modeste 
 has dressed herself with care, as if she were going to meet some- 
 one. She has become excessively particular about her shoes. 
 Some days the poor child is gloomy and watchful, and then 
 again she is gay. You cannot discern these shades. Her 
 cheerfulness betrays itself in the tones of her voice. Oh, my 
 friends, I have learned to know happiness as well as grief. By 
 the kiss my poor Modeste gives me I can guess what is going on 
 in her mind. Though I am blind, my affection is clairvoyant, 
 and I implore you — watch my daughter!" 
 
 At this, all constituted themselves spies over poor Modeste. 
 She never was alone for a moment. But they could find no 
 accusing clue. Unless she were in love with the nightingales 
 in Vilquin's park, or with some goblin prince, she could have 
 seen no one. 
 
 None of the persons about the girl understood her, for, in 
 truth, her heart and her lovely, innocent face were in unison. 
 She had transplanted her life into the world of the imagination. 
 She could be silent, or she would have been thought mad. She
 
 236 MODESTE MIGNON 
 
 had learned the world's ways by observing the conduct of 
 friends who had thrown the family over after their loss of wealth, 
 including the man to whom her father had betrothed her. Her 
 sister, in dying, had given her glimpses of what love is and had 
 said words that had sunk deep in the girl's heart. She lived 
 entirely in her imagination, creating to satiety lovers, experi- 
 ences, and adventures for herself. This satiety flung her at 
 last into a love of goodness and of heaven. She fancied that 
 by becoming irreproachable, in the Catholic sense, she might 
 achieve such saintliness that God would grant her desires. "I 
 only ask God to send me a husband," thought she. 
 
 She adored genius. She longed to become the wife of some 
 great man, to sink her life in his, to sacrifice herself to his great- 
 ness. Her world of feeling finally took shape in the determina- 
 tion to marry an artist or a poet; but first to subject him to 
 thorough study before giving him her heart. 
 
 She thus led a double life. While performing her simple 
 duties, her mind was definitely fixing her fate. Madame Mi- 
 gnon, who read her soul, was right. Modeste was in love, but 
 only with that Platonic sentiment so rare — the first illusion of 
 girlhood, the subtlest of feelings, the heart's daintiest morsel. 
 
 A trifling, foolish accident sealed her fate. On a book- 
 seller's counter one day she saw a portrait of De Canalis, one 
 of her favorite poets. She at once chose him to love, as ful- 
 filling her dreams. But was he married ? Taking her maid into 
 her confidence, she posted a letter to his publisher, politely re- 
 questing him to let her know, in the interests of the poet, whether 
 he were married or no. This person could hardly take the 
 matter seriously, and placed the letter in the hands of several 
 journalists, who concocted a reply, asserting with much rodo- 
 montade that he was a bachelor, and commenting on his cir- 
 cumstances, his political standing, and other details. 
 
 Modeste was not discouraged by this, but began a corre- 
 spondence, which the foppish poet regarded with indifference 
 and handed over to his friend and secretary, Ernest de la 
 Briere, a man of sensibility and worth of soul. In the secre- 
 tary's reply to Modeste's first note he tried to dissuade her 
 from a correspondence with an unknown poet, telling her that 
 a poet was but a man, and in this instance a Parisian, and
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 237 
 
 that her appreciation of his genius might be misunderstood. 
 Modeste replied to this in a manner showing qualities of mind 
 and heart so rare, although in her girlish innocence she said 
 many unwise things, that De la Briere became more and more 
 interested, and finally, totally forgetting that he was playing 
 the part of poet, he went down to Havre one day and followed 
 the maid as she took the letter from the post, and saw Modeste 
 at a window. He returned to Paris, resolving that, rich or 
 poor, if she had a noble soul he would gladly make her 
 Madame de la Briere; and he determined to carry on the 
 correspondence. 
 
 Many letters passed between Modeste and the young De la 
 Briere, masquerading under the name of De Canalis, the poet. 
 The poor private secretary's really heroic feelings gave them- 
 selves rein in these letters, and the young girl poured forth her 
 soul with no reserve. At last she bade De la Briere come to 
 Havre the next Sunday, and to be at service in the cathedral 
 with a white rose in his buttonhole, that she might see him be- 
 fore promising to marry him. De la Briere, who was handsome, 
 dressed himself with care, not forgetting the rose, and obeyed 
 her behest. Modeste, in the greatest agitation, disguised her- 
 self as an old woman, and, attending service, saw the adorable 
 De Canalis, as she believed him to be, and found in his appear- 
 ance the complete realization of her dreams. The sight of his 
 melancholy and pleasing personality, dressed in the latest of 
 Parisian fashions, removed her last doubt, and she determined 
 to send the letter that should give him the right to claim her 
 as his wife. 
 
 Just at this time Monsieur Dumay received a letter from 
 Charles Mignon containing the information that he was return- 
 ing with a fortune of seven million francs. He bade Dumay to 
 keep secret the fact of his great wealth, admitting that he had 
 made a modest fortune, and told him that his intention was to 
 choose desirable sons-in-law, and to petition the King to settle 
 his name and titles upon one of these latter. At the time of 
 writing he did not know of the death of his oldest daughter, 
 Bettina. He intended, he wrote, to land at Marseilles, to pub- 
 lish the report that his daughters would have about two hundred 
 thousand francs' dowry, and to devote himself to deciding
 
 238 MODESTE MIGNON 
 
 which of his sons-in-law should be most worthy to inherit the 
 real wealth, titles, and repurchased estate of La Bastie. 
 
 Modeste was happy at the thought of her father's return, 
 but disturbed that her dowry was to be no larger. She had 
 written her supposed poet that she was to have six millions of 
 francs; for, although he had written that he had hoped to find 
 her poor, as it was his wish to make his own fortune rather than 
 to depend on a wife, she longed to endow him with wealth. 
 She was ecstatically happy, and her joy overflowed in musical 
 improvisation, an art in which she was skilled to the verge of 
 genius. Her joyous moods and wonderful singing filled her 
 guardians with suspicion, particularly her ever-brooding mother. 
 They talked much about the mysterious lover, who seemed so 
 certainly to be the object that inspired these manifestations, 
 but who was so elusive. The appearance of the fashionably 
 dressed stranger at church had not escaped their observation. 
 Suspicion turned in his direction, but La Butscha, the dwarf, 
 who loved Modeste with an all-consuming passion himself, 
 became her friend and ally and declared this person to have 
 been an architect come down to estimate some repairs. 
 
 Having seen the supposed De Canalis, Modeste wrote an 
 imprudent letter, fully abandoning the reserve she had hitherto 
 preserved and confessing fully the love in her heart. At the 
 same time she wrote one to her father. On going out to post 
 them, she met Dumay, and at his demand gave him the letter 
 she had written to her lover, supposing it to be the one for her 
 father. In this way the whole truth came out, and Modeste 
 proudly acknowledged everything. 
 
 Dumay at once set out for Paris to face De Canalis. In the 
 meantime, De la Briere had written Modeste a letter, in which 
 he confessed his masquerading, and told of his deep love for her 
 and his hope that she was poor, so that he might aspire to 
 win her. 
 
 Dumay, on reaching Paris, found De Canalis living in sump- 
 tuous style in a fashionable quarter. Intimidated by such 
 magnificence, he asked him his intentions in regard to Made- 
 moiselle Mignon. The poet scornfully assured him of his 
 ignorance of such a person, and pointed to a casket, full of 
 adoring letters from lovely women, which he declared himself
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 239 
 
 to be too noble to destroy or to use for lighting his cigars. 
 Dismayed, the old soldier took his leave. 
 
 De la Briere then entered the poet's room and confessed his 
 part in the affair, adding that he was fortunate in it, as he had 
 not only won a lovely girl, but a fortune of six million francs 
 as well, as he had just heard from a banker that she was daugh- 
 ter of Comte de la Bastie, and would have that sum. Her 
 father was in Paris and had sent for him to come and see him. 
 De Canalis was instantly stricken with regret that he should 
 have missed this glorious fate, and was furious at his ill luck, in 
 that he had not detected the golden gleam under the first 
 anonymous letter of poor Modeste. 
 
 The Comte de la Bastie had heard from Dumay the par- 
 ticulars of his eldest daughter's death, his wife's blindness, and 
 Modeste's imbroglio. He was a stricken man, but the one ray of 
 hope was in the excellent character of the young De la Briere. 
 He received the lover with dignity. During a long conversa- 
 tion he detected his worth, and told him his daughter should 
 be his. Then De la Briere confessed the deception he had prac- 
 tised. The Count assured him that that was something beyond 
 his jurisdiction. His daughter believed herself to be in love 
 with a poet. It was for her to overlook or not the fraud that 
 had been worked upon her. Fixing upon him a keen look, 
 he said that there was but one thing to do. That was for him- 
 self and the poet to go down to Havre in their true characters, 
 telling him at the same time that Modeste had but two hundred 
 thousand francs, and pledging him not to reveal this latter fact 
 to De Canalis, and let Modeste choose between them herself. 
 
 The two young men accordingly prepared for an extended 
 visit at Havre, De Canalis believing Modeste to have six million 
 francs and De la Briere two hundred thousand. De Canalis 
 took a magnificent villa and many servants, giving out that he 
 needed the baths, and bringing with him his friend and secre- 
 tary, Monsieur de la Briere. 
 
 Before their arrival, Charles Mignon took his daughter for 
 a walk and talked long and kindly to her of her imprudence, 
 and endeavored to show her the real value of De la Briere, with 
 whom she was incensed to fury because of his deception. 
 
 Thus there were to be two avowed suitors for the hand of
 
 2 4 o MODESTE MIGNON 
 
 Mademoiselle Mignon, to whom was immediately added a third, 
 the Due d'Herouville, adorned with many titles and an impover- 
 ished purse. This young man had some noble qualities, but 
 was small and timid, and had two elderly sisters who were of 
 an indomitable family pride and determined to marry him to 
 Modeste and her reputed millions and title. She perceived 
 his value as an offset to the pretensions of De Canalis and De 
 la Briere, for her intelligence was fully awake now to the fact 
 that her love and pride had been cruelly wounded in the trick 
 played upon her. The comedy of The Heiress about to be 
 played at the chalet might truly be called by the name Modeste 
 gave it in jest, a competition, for she was resolved, after the 
 overthrow of her illusions, to give her hand only to the man 
 whose character should prove thoroughly satisfactory. 
 
 De Canalis at first carried off all the honors. Parisian to 
 the core, man of the world, handsome and a poseur, a poet, 
 adored and flattered by the great Duchesse de Chaulieu, his 
 patroness, with a gift of conversation and a habit — all-conquer- 
 ing in the salons of Paris — of declaiming his own verse, the 
 actual poet captured the girl's fancy nearly as the imagined one 
 had by correspondence. Through her skilful handling of the 
 affair, however, all were somewhat in doubt, and De la Briere 
 became more and more the victim of a true devotion. 
 
 One evening he was walking alone by the sea, indulging 
 his unhappiness, when the dwarf Butscha joined him, and told 
 him much that he had learned in his visit to Paris concerning 
 the private life of De Canalis. He confessed his own love for 
 Modeste and his determination to watch over her. He had 
 discovered, by talking with his cousin, the Duchesse de Chau- 
 lieu's maid, that this great lady would never forgive De Canalis 
 his desertion of herself, and that the latter was a ruined man 
 unless he married Modeste and her millions. Butscha opened 
 this conversation for the purpose of drawing out the secretary 
 and discovering still more, if possible, of De Canalis's char- 
 acter; for his love for Modeste was so great that he deter- 
 mined to see to it for himself that she married a man worthy 
 of her. 
 
 Later, the devoted dwarf had a conversation with Modeste 
 in which he showed her that he read her soul like a book, and
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 241 
 
 asked her whether, should she discover a change in De Canalis 
 when he learned of the smallness of her real fortune, she would 
 still insist upon making him her husband. The girl did not 
 reply, but Butscha knew he had planted a thought in her mind. 
 
 Butscha accordingly spread the rumor that Charles Mignon's 
 fortune was greatly overrated, and that Modeste would have a 
 dowry of but two hundred thousand francs. This news caused 
 De Canalis instantaneously to change and to withdraw his suit. 
 He wrote a long letter to the Duchesse de Chaulieu, whose favor 
 he hoped it was not yet too late to regain. 
 
 Eleonore, Duchesse de Chaulieu, was a grande dame, who 
 retained her magnificent beauty, unimpaired, at the age of 
 fifty-six. Made wretched and furious at the desertion of De 
 Canalis, she gladly believed in the sincerity of his words of re- 
 pentance. The rumor came to her ears that Modeste was rich 
 but not beautiful, so she was all the more inclined to forgive 
 the recreant poet. 
 
 She accordingly wrote De Canalis a magnanimous letter, 
 in which she informed him that she had intended to marry him 
 to Mademoiselle de la Bastie, whom she understood from her 
 father's banker to be worth eight thousand francs. De Canalis, 
 once more upset in his calculations, tore off that part of the 
 letter relating to the Duchess's wish to marry him to Modeste, 
 and gave it to the latter, in order to prove to her that his re- 
 lations with the Duchess were simply those of friendship, and 
 strove by judicious behavior to regain the ground he had lost. 
 
 De la Briere had given Modeste a magnificent riding- whip, 
 whose jeweled handle had cost him all his savings. This the 
 girl had coldly resigned to her father's keeping. The D'Herou- 
 ville faction were making active efforts to win, and had arranged 
 that her father and she should receive an invitation to a royal 
 hunt in Normandy, where her head should be turned with the 
 magnificence of what the Duke could command for his wife. 
 
 At this hunt all the opposing factions met. The Duchesse 
 of Chaulieu, on beholding the amazing beauty of Modeste, 
 hated her, and showed her hatred as only a great lady can, un- 
 der the mask of graciousness. She gave De Canalis to under- 
 stand that it must be a choice between her and the beautiful 
 heiress. De Canalis, greatly agitated that Modeste still pos- 
 A.D., vol. 11. — 16
 
 242 MODESTE MIGNON 
 
 sessed the part of the letter the Duchess had written, announc- 
 ing her intention of marrying him to her, implored his friend 
 De la Briere to get it for him from the girl, as if the Duchess 
 discovered it to be in her possession all would be over for him. 
 
 The secretary approached Modeste, and walking down the 
 superb suite of apartments placed at the disposal of herself and 
 her father, made known the poet's desire. Modeste made no 
 objection and gave the incriminating scrap of paper into his 
 hand, with a good-natured but contemptuous message for the 
 poet, whose character she now thoroughly understood. 
 
 The aristocratic society gathered at this hunt pleased 
 Modeste. She instinctively assimilated everything that gave 
 distinction to the Duchesses of Maufrigneuse and De Chaulieu; 
 but, in the midst of this Olympus, she discovered that her father 
 and De la Briere were infinitely superior to De Canalis. The 
 great poet, abdicating his claim to real and indisputable power 
 — that of the intellect — was nothing but a Master of Appeals, 
 eager to become a Minister, anxious for a collar of the Legion 
 of Honor, and obliged to subserve every constellation. Ernest 
 de la Briere, devoid of ambition, was simply himself, while her 
 father, the Comte de la Bastie, proud of his services and of the 
 Emperor Napoleon's esteem, was simple in dignity and easy 
 in speech. Feeling her regard for De la Briere deepen, Modeste 
 felt it her duty to put an end to the struggle the Due d'Herou- 
 ville was making for the honor of her hand, and, telling him at 
 the same time that he had no firmer friends than her father and 
 herself, she spoke truthfully as to the state of her real feelings 
 toward him. To her little speech the Duke replied with 
 dignity: 
 
 "You are a noble girl, and, though it breaks my heart to 
 be no more than your friend, I shall glory in the title, and 
 prove it to you wherever and whenever I find occasion." 
 
 On the occasion of a grand hunt, the Duchesse de Chau- 
 lieu, feeling it beneath her dignity to sulk longer with a young 
 person of Modeste's pretensions, when the victory in regard 
 to De Canalis remained on her own side, drew near her horse, 
 and remarked the beauty of the jeweled whip she carried in her 
 hand. 
 
 "You will confess, Madame," replied Mademoiselle de la
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 243 
 
 Bastie, with a mischievous but tender glance at De la Briere, 
 in which he could read an avowal, "that it is a very strange 
 gift as coming from a future husband — " 
 
 "Indeed!" exclaimed Madame de Maufrigneuse. "I should 
 regard it as a recognition of my rights, remembering Louis the 
 Fourteenth." 
 
 There were tears in De la Briere's eyes; he dropped his bridle 
 and was ready to fall; but another look from Modeste recalled 
 him to himself, by warning him not to betray his happiness. 
 
 When, later, Modeste's mother, by a fortunate operation, 
 regained her eyesight, and could at last see Ernest de la Briere, 
 she murmured in Modeste's ear: "I should have chosen him!" 
 
 Toward the end of February all the documents relating to 
 the acquisition of the estates were signed, and the transmission 
 of the title and arms was made to De la Briere, who was author- 
 ized to call himself the Vicomte de la Briere. The wedding, 
 which took place at the same time, was the beginning of a long 
 life of happiness for both, and Modeste, who kept her promise 
 of avoiding all the absurdities of pedantry, became the pride 
 and delight of her husband, of her family, and of her circle of 
 friends.
 
 COUSIN BETTE (1846) 
 
 Cousin Bette, written by Balzac toward the end of his career, was published 
 in The Constitutionnel, in instalments, between October 8 and December 3, 1846, 
 and was produced to get money to pay off his indebtedness. The strenuous 
 labor it involved, coming after the severe literary strain of the preceding years, 
 is thought to have broken even Balzac's gigantic strength. Cousin Bette and 
 Cousin Pons (which followed it in The Constitutionnel, after a few months) are 
 comprised under the title: The Poor Relations. Balzac dedicated this to the 
 Prince of Teano, Michele Angelo Cajetani, through admiration for his commen- 
 taries on Dante, which, Balzac declared, had made the Divina Commedia in- 
 telligible to him. Brunetiere says that the Monarchy of July lives anew in 
 Cousin Bette. 
 
 ECTOR HULOT D'ERVY, a young French- 
 man in the commissary department of the army, 
 chanced, through his official duties, to meet 
 Adeline, daughter of a Lorraine peasant named 
 Andrew Fischer. This girl of sixteen was so 
 wondrously beautiful that Hulot married her as 
 quickly as the law would permit. He was as 
 strikingly handsome as his wife, and (in this her 
 exact opposite) quite a gallant. For a long time 
 this lovely woman commanded his entire devotion, while she, 
 the peasant girl, raised to such social eminence and so adored 
 by this superb man, held him as a god who could do no 
 wrong. 
 
 Hulot rose to high dignities. He had a marshal's baton 
 and was a great authority in the war-office. Now, after 
 twelve years, Baron Hulot lived in a fine residence and was 
 wealthy. His infidelities to Madame Hulot dated from the 
 ■finale of the Empire, when, having no official occupation, he 
 devoted himself to the ladies. His beautiful wife, although 
 a saintly being, shut her eyes to all that her husband did outside 
 his home. 
 
 Constantin Hulot, their son, had married the plain daugh- 
 ter of a rich retired perfumer, a bourgeois widower of fifty, 
 named Celestin Crevel. This conceited man, who imitated 
 
 244
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 245 
 
 Napoleon's poses, also imitated the Emperor in Napoleon's 
 admiration for Adeline, but she had promptly repelled his 
 amorous advances. A marriage had been arranged between 
 Hortense Hulot, her daughter, and Counselor Lebas, which 
 Crevel blocked by intimating to the lawyer that Hulot could 
 not supply the marriage portion of his daughter. Hulot had 
 stolen away CreVel's mistress, a beautiful young Jewess named 
 Josepha, who was now a singer at the OpeVa. This was an 
 added reason why CreVel desired to win Adeline. She sum- 
 moned him to an interview to remonstrate with him, and asked 
 him whether he would have ruined her daughter's marriage 
 by his remark about the lack of money for her dot, if she, Ade- 
 line, had listened to his suit. 
 
 "I could not," he replied. "For then you would have had 
 the sum, dearest Adeline — in my pocketbook!" 
 
 Adeline dismissed him, more troubled than ever. Hor- 
 tense had reached twenty-three years of age and it was impera- 
 tive that she should be married. CreVel had told Adeline that 
 the most likely husband for Hortense, in their straitened cir- 
 cumstances, would be a clever young man who would take 
 Hortense penniless. The girl often talked about a lover with 
 Lisbeth Fischer, her mother's cousin, who was always called 
 "Cousin Bette." 
 
 This old maid of forty-five was a lean, brown, peasant 
 woman, with thick eyebrows, strong limbs, and a bitter, jealous, 
 vindictive disposition. Adeline's success had made her re- 
 sentment intense, but she did not betray her feelings. When 
 Adeline was settled in Paris after her marriage, she had invited 
 Cousin Bette there to try to find a husband for her. But the 
 offers Lisbeth got did not suit her. She had learned a trade 
 and supported herself. As her rent in an obscure part of Paris 
 was very cheap, and she had her dinners at the Hulots' and with 
 other connections of the family, she had even managed to lay 
 by a little money. 
 
 Hortense often teased Cousin Bette about having a lover. 
 One day, after the mortifying ruin of Hortense's projected mar- 
 riage, the old maid met the mockery of the other by stating 
 that she had as lover a fair young Polish count, who was a 
 sculptor, named Wenceslas Steinbock. Later, as proof, she
 
 246 COUSIN BETTE 
 
 brought a little statuette of his making and showed it to Hor- 
 tense and Adeline. 
 
 Hortense became so interested in this young man that she 
 went to the art-shop where his work was exhibited. She ad- 
 mired a piece very much, but declared, rather sadly, that the 
 price was beyond her purse. Steinbock chanced to be in the 
 shop, and hearing this, introduced himself and said she could 
 have it at her own price. Hortense was at once captivated by 
 his beauty and charm, to which Cousin Bette had not done 
 justice. . She coyly asked him to bring it to her father's house, 
 and added: "Do not mention the purchase to Mademoiselle 
 Fischer. She is our cousin." 
 
 He called promptly, and in a short time the Hulots felt that 
 here was a solution to the problem of Hortense's marriage. 
 This poor nobleman, whose talent enabled him to support a 
 wife, would ask no dot. Hulot promised to secure for him the 
 commission to make a statue which the State was to erect to 
 Marshal Montcornet. There was no scruple on anybody's part 
 about Cousin Bette's claim upon this youth. She was old 
 enough to be his mother, and had admitted that he was to her 
 a sort of pleasant plaything. She learned of the engagement 
 from an unlooked-for source. 
 
 Hector Hulot, in escorting Cousin Bette home one evening, 
 saw a very charming, daintily dressed young woman enter the 
 Rue du Doyenne. A glance that passed was enough to fire him, 
 and since Josepha had cast him off he felt the need of just such 
 a woman "friend." She was Madame Valerie Marneffe, the 
 natural child of the deceased Marshal Montcornet, and her 
 worthless husband was a clerk in the war office, of which Hulot 
 was the head. It was very easy for the two to meet, and after 
 a little Vale'rie had seemed to be swept away by her affection 
 for Hulot. It was not long before he had established the Mar- 
 neffes in a house in the Rue Varennes. In three years Valerie 
 was costing him more than Josepha had. 
 
 Valerie, through Hulot, learned of the engagement of Wen- 
 ceslas Steinbock and Hortense and naturally spoke of it to 
 Cousin Bette. Valerie had known and admired the young 
 Pole herself and thought Bette's interest in him was only 
 philanthropic. The storm of rage and diabolical hatred toward
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 247 
 
 Madame Hulot to which Cousin Bette gave way when she 
 learned that the Hulots had stolen the Pole from her was a 
 revelation. But it led to the two women, each with decided 
 designs on the Hulots, swearing a solid friendship for each other; 
 and Cousin Bette went to live in the Marneffes' house in the 
 Rue de Varennes. This helped Valerie to cloak her mercenary 
 intrigues. There was a very "respectable" note about the 
 household. A trust-fund of Marshal Montcornet for his 
 daughter was invented to account for the Marneffes' changed 
 style of living. Crevel was carried away by Valerie because she 
 was a lady ; and he soon imagined that he had supplanted 
 Hulot in the beauty's favor, although the opinion cost him 
 several thousand francs. Valerie was simply playing off one 
 against the other. 
 
 The situation was complicated by the unexpected arrival at 
 Valerie's one evening, when Hulot and Crevel were there, of 
 a dashing Brazilian, Baron Montes Montejanos. He was the 
 only man Valerie had ever really loved. 
 
 "Oh, my cousin!" cried Valerie, rising to greet the new- 
 comer. The ardent South American drove Hulot and Crevel 
 distracted by his marked attentions to her. Finally Marneffe 
 whispered in Valerie's ear, and she withdrew with him and 
 the Brazilian. After a few moments she returned and de- 
 clared that the sound of carriage-wheels which was heard in- 
 dicated the new arrival's departure. Then, while Crevel was 
 playing cards with Marneffe, Valerie whispered to Hulot to go 
 and to walk up and down outside until Crevel came out. Mar- 
 neffe retired, and Crevel remonstrated sharply with Valerie. 
 She treated him haughtily and soon had him at her feet again. 
 Then she authorized him to tell Hulot, whom she said he would 
 find in the street waiting for a signal to return, that she was 
 tired of him and loved Crevel. "He will not believe you. 
 Take him to the Rue du Dauphin and give him every proof. 
 Crush him," she cried. 
 
 CreVel did as ordered, and Hulot was convinced of Valerie's 
 infidelity to him. Both were discomfited at her trifling with 
 them, but Valerie was now too engrossed with Baron Montes 
 to care what they felt. She had one sincere regret. She had 
 not yet avenged Cousin Bette on Hortense!
 
 248 COUSIN BETTE 
 
 "Make your mind easy, my pretty little devil," said Lisbeth, 
 kissing her forehead. "Hortense is in beggary. For a thou- 
 sand francs you may have a thousand kisses from Wenceslas." 
 
 It was indeed true. Easy success had made Steinbock in- 
 dolent and neglectful. He was severely criticized. Cousin Bette 
 insinuated that Madame Marneffe would lend him money, 
 but Hortense could not brook his appealing to her father's mis- 
 tress to aid them. Then Lisbeth suggested to him that he could 
 go without letting Hortense know. Steinbock went. Val6rie 
 had arranged everything — dinner, guests, and toilet, with a 
 view to winning him. She loaned him ten thousand francs, 
 refusing any interest, but suggesting that he should make a 
 bronze statuette for her of Delilah cutting off Samson's hair. 
 
 "Such a group, and one of the ferocious Judith, epitomizes 
 Woman," she cried gaily. "Virtue cuts off your head and Vice 
 only cuts off your hair. Take care of your wigs, gentlemen!" 
 
 "Your vengeance is secure," she whispered to Lisbeth later. 
 " Hortense will cry herself blind, and curse the day she robbed 
 you of Wenceslas." 
 
 "I shall not think myself successful until I am Madame 
 la Marechale Hulot," replied Lisbeth. "They are beginning 
 to wish this." 
 
 She had made Hulot's family feel that if Hector's elder 
 brother — a glorious Marshal of Napoleon's and a superb old 
 bachelor of flawless honor — would marry her, she would be 
 able to help them when Hector's excesses had utterly stranded 
 them. It was her dream of revenge to see them all, some day, 
 eating out of her hand. 
 
 Hortense discovered Wenceslas's visits to Valerie and made 
 such a scene that he did not go near Madame Marneffe for three 
 weeks. This made Valerie hate Hortense as bitterly as Lisbeth 
 did. At this juncture a serious incident arose, which she put 
 to the greatest profit. One morning she announced to Mar- 
 neffe that he was to become a father! Then she wrote a letter 
 of reproach to Wenceslas, which she contrived to have Hortense 
 receive. When that tender wife read this love-letter, which 
 called him back with this appeal: "You missed fire with my 
 father's statue, but in you the lover is greater than the artist, 
 and you have had better luck with his daughter. You are a
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 249 
 
 father, my beloved Wenceslas!" she clutched her infant son 
 and fled to her mother's protection. 
 
 Ten minutes after writing this letter Valerie had breathed 
 into Hulot's ear that he was a father, and secretly conveyed the 
 news of his paternity of the infant, a little later, to Crevel. The 
 real father was the Brazilian, Baron Montes. 
 
 Matters were becoming desperate for Hulot. Just at this 
 time he received word from Johann Fischer, Adeline's uncle, 
 whom he had sent to Algiers to thieve for him there, that the 
 Government was investigating the expenditures in his depart- 
 ment in Algiers, and that he could send him no more money. 
 Marneffe was insolently pressing him for the promised chief- 
 clerkship, and as it was impossible for Hulot to arrange that, 
 he was shut out of the Marneffe household. 
 
 These trials and dangers actually made Hulot pass a fort- 
 night in the bosom of his family, apparently a reclaimed man. 
 But the active Cousin Bette brought him the key of the Rue du 
 Dauphin, and he met Valerie there. The next morning Mar- 
 neffe and officers of the law broke in upon the guilty pair and 
 discovered Hulot's letter from Valerie declaring his paternity, 
 which she had left on the table where they could not help 
 seeing it. 
 
 The matter was hushed up through a high dignitary who 
 had been Hulot's friend in Napoleon's days. But Marneffe got 
 his clerkship. Lisbeth said she could not remain in Madame 
 Marneffe's house, however, after such scandals became known ! 
 So she went to be Marshal Hulot's housekeeper, and ten days 
 later the banns of marriage were published for them. Her 
 revenge seemed at hand, for she would be Adeline's superior. 
 The whole family continued to regard her as their rescuing 
 angel. 
 
 Another letter from Johann Fischer demanded two hundred 
 thousand francs to prevent the peculations that he and Hulot 
 had committed from being found out. He declared he would 
 not live to be tried as a disgraced man. Hulot fell almost life- 
 less at this blow. Adeline saw the letter, read it, and the dis- 
 honor which had been brought upon her honest peasant family 
 was such a shock to her that for the rest of her life the poor 
 woman never was free from a nervous trembling. In his
 
 250 COUSIN BETTE 
 
 despair, Hulot groaned aloud that Crevel was the only one who 
 could help them. 
 
 A fearful, sublime possibility of rescue was suggested to the 
 devoted wife by the mention of Crevel and of the two hundred 
 thousand francs needed! This pure woman, faithful wife, and 
 honored mother, sent for Crevel, prepared to sacrifice more 
 than life for her uncle and her husband. The bitterest cup 
 she ever had drained awaited her. Crevel came, heard her, 
 and said, striking a pose: 
 
 "When I offered you that money, I was only seeking re- 
 venge on Hulot for stealing Josepha from me. I have since 
 had a finer revenge. For his mistress — a lady! — has been 
 mine for three years, and when Marneffe dies I am going to 
 marry her. Valerie only endured Hulot until her husband got 
 his chief-clerkship, and now, as she says — for she is awfully 
 witty — she 'restored you your Hector, virtuous in perpetuity.' " 
 
 The remorse and heart-breaking humility of Madame Hulot 
 over such shame and failure actually moved Crevel to promise 
 to aid her. But on his way to get the securities he called on 
 Valerie, who found out his purpose and jeered at him so that 
 he abandoned it. 
 
 Johann Fischer killed himself after being arrested. When 
 Marshal Hulot learned what shame and dishonor Hector had 
 brought on them all, he took him home with himself, neither of 
 them uttering a word on the way. Then the grand old soldier, 
 ushering his infamous brother into the library, took a box con- 
 taining a pair of pistols, the inscription on the lid reading: 
 "Given by the Emperor Napoleon to General Hulot," and 
 showing it to Hector, curtly remarked : " There is your remedy." 
 
 Lisbeth, peeping through the door, saw this significant 
 scene, rushed off, and returned with Madame Hulot. Adeline, 
 the picture of despair, fell into Hector's arms, looking with a 
 wild air at the pistols and then at the stern old soldier. 
 
 "What do you say against your brother? What has he 
 done to you?" she cried, in terror and anguish. 
 
 "He has disgraced us all!" replied the Marshal, with harsh 
 vehemence. "He has robbed the Government! He has cast 
 odium on my name. He has killed me. I can only live long 
 enough to make restitution. As for his family, he has robbed
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 251 
 
 you of the bread I had saved for you by thirty years of privation 
 and economy. He has killed your uncle, Johann Fischer, 
 whom he inveigled into his thievery from his country, and who 
 could not endure a stain upon his peasant honor. 
 
 " To crown all, God gave him you, an angel among women, 
 for a wife. He has deceived you, neglected you, to waste him- 
 self and the fortune due to his family upon courtesans, his 
 Cadines, Josephas, and Marneffes, those grasping hussies! 
 And that is the brother I treated as a son and as my pride. 
 
 "Go, wretched man!" he concluded, turning to Hector. "If 
 you can accept the life of degradation you have made for your- 
 self, leave my house! I have not the heart to curse you, but 
 never let me see you again. I forbid his attending my funeral, 
 or following me to my grave. Take him away, for I hear a 
 voice that commands me to load my pistols and blow out the 
 brains of this monster, this swine! In that way, I would save 
 you all, and even save him from himself." 
 
 He had sprung up with such a terrifying gesture that Ade- 
 line seized her husband's arm, and crying, "Hector — come!" 
 dragged him away, and, her heart having only the deepest pity for 
 him, led the prostrated man home. 
 
 Marshal Hulot, although through influence the scandal had 
 been hushed up, insisted on paying into the State treasury his 
 entire fortune as restitution for the sums of which his brother 
 had robbed it. Lisbeth had assented to this, when the Mar- 
 shal asked her consent. In three days the noble old soldier 
 was dead, despite Lisbeth's careful nursing. His death was 
 a thunderbolt that destroyed all that she had built up. The 
 Marshal had died of the blows dealt at the family by herself 
 and her good friend, Valerie. Her former vindictiveness was 
 trebled, as she returned, crying with rage, to Madame Marneffe. 
 
 Poor Adeline had felt that now she would have her shattered 
 and humiliated husband to herself. She dreamed that she 
 would rehabilitate him, lead him back to family life, and 
 reconcile him with himself. Soon after his brother's funeral, 
 he deserted her and rushed to his former mistress, Josepha, 
 imploring her assistance. The excess of his extravagance, and 
 the recklessness with which he had plunged into such depths 
 for the Marneffe woman, actually appealed to that singular
 
 252 COUSIN BETTE 
 
 creature's heart. She set him up as proprietor of an em- 
 broidery shop, supplied him with a poor, innocent girl of six- 
 teen, who was wonderfully beautiful, as a partner in the firm, 
 and guaranteed him an income. 
 
 After a time, Victorin Hulot had been made into a man by 
 the family ruin his father had precipitated, and was building the 
 Hulot fortune up again. Adeline had been appointed the dis- 
 burser of their charities by several wealthy and devout ladies 
 of rank. Cousin Bette brought to this peaceful household, 
 one morning, the news that Valerie was to marry Crevel, and 
 kindly recounted the enormous sums he had already expended 
 upon the wretched woman. Lisbeth had counseled Valerie, 
 who wished to throw over everybody and marry Baron Montes, 
 to marry Crevel, who would not last more than ten years, and 
 then, after his death, to take Montejanos. In the mean time 
 Valerie was quite interested in Wenceslas, which gratified 
 Cousin Bette and gave herself the satisfaction of torturing 
 Hortense. 
 
 Adeline had told the family that she had learned Hulot was 
 in Paris. The pale, broken wife longed to have her wretched 
 husband share the present peace of the family home. Cousin 
 Bette had said, indignantly: "I would wager that he begs money 
 of his former mistresses!" 
 
 This remark haunted Adeline, and, without a word to any- 
 one, she went to Josepha, thinking she might find out some- 
 thing about her husband's whereabouts. That singular woman, 
 who in her fashion had been kind to Hulot, was deeply touched 
 by the pathetic figure and exquisite wifely devotion of Adeline, 
 who was so eager to find her husband, now seventy-four years 
 old, who had deserted her two and a half years before. She 
 promised her every aid she could give. "Wait a few days and 
 you shall see him, or I renounce the God of my fathers — and 
 that from a Jewess, you know, is a promise of success." 
 
 Baron Montes Montejanos frequented the gay society of 
 Paris, but was not known to have any mistress. Carabine, a 
 brilliant demi-mondaine, gave a dinner at the Rocher de 
 Cancale to a number of her friends, including the wealthy 
 Brazilian. They hoped to solve this mystery. A remark of 
 Josepha, lauding Hulot as a lover who had ruined himself for
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 253 
 
 his mistress, elicited in rapid succession the facts that he had 
 done this for Madame MarnefTe, who was to marry CreVel, and 
 who was really in love with Steinbock. 
 
 Montes turned pale, and violently vituperated these calumni- 
 ators. "If you wished to find out my secret," he concluded, 
 with a flaming glance around the table, "at least, cease to 
 vilify the woman I love." 
 
 "I can prove it in an hour," whispered Carabine in his ear, 
 when they had left the restaurant. As Montes demanded ab- 
 solute proof, she conducted him to an apartment near the 
 Opera, where they surprised Valerie and Steinbock. He was 
 lacing her stays for her. Montes had sworn to Carabine that 
 if he found that Valerie was deceiving him he would kill her 
 in his own way. Now, as he departed from this scene he 
 muttered: "I shall be the instrument of Divine wrath!" 
 
 One morning, some time after this, Dr. Bianchon, who had 
 called at Victorin's to see how Adeline was, spoke of a wonder- 
 ful case to which he had been called recently: that of a man 
 and his wife, both suffering from a hideous but almost unknown 
 disease. "The disease is a rapid blood-poisoning, peculiar to 
 negroes and the American tribes," he said. "It is not curable 
 in Europe. The woman, once very pretty, is now a mass of 
 putrefaction, and looks like a leper. The stench in the room 
 is so intolerable that no servant will stay in it. They are a 
 Monsieur and Madame Crevel." 
 
 Cousin Bette went to see her friend at once. 
 
 "If I had not been ill myself I would have come to nurse 
 you," she said. 
 
 "Poor Lisbeth, you, at least, love me still, I see!" said 
 Valerie. "I have only a day or two left to think, for I cannot 
 say to live. Oh, if I might only win mercy! I would gladly 
 undo all the mischief I have done." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Lisbeth, "if you can talk like that, you are 
 indeed a dead woman." 
 
 "Lisbeth, give up all notions of revenge. Be kind to that 
 family, to whom I have left by will everything I can dispose of. 
 Go, child, I beseech you, and leave me. I have only time to 
 make my peace with God!" 
 
 "She is wandering in her wits," said Lisbeth to herself, as
 
 254 COUSIN BETTE 
 
 she left the room. She returned, however, with Bianchon, 
 who had come to tell Valerie that they meant to apply a power- 
 ful remedy to her, which held much promise. 
 
 "If you save my life," she asked, "shall I be as good-looking 
 as ever?" 
 
 "Possibly" said the physician, slowly. 
 
 "I know your 'possibly,' " said Valerie. "I shall look like 
 a woman who has fallen into the fire! No! Leave me to the 
 Church. I can please no one now but God. I will try to be 
 reconciled with Him. It will be my last flirtation! Yes, I 
 must try to come around God!" 
 
 "That is my poor Valerie's last jest. That is all herself!" 
 said Lisbeth, in tears. 
 
 By the end of the week Madame Crevel was dead, and two 
 days later Crevel expired, impenitent. The order of their 
 deaths made him his wife's heir, so that Celestine Hulot, his 
 daughter, recovered the money he had lavished on his mer- 
 cenary mistress. 
 
 Adeline's charitable work brought her one day to an old 
 man, slouchily dressed in a gray flannel shirt and trousers, who 
 was living with a girl of the slums. It was her once handsome 
 Hector, who was perfectly willing to be taken back to his family. 
 Cousin Bette, who was dying of consumption, had her last 
 days embittered by the returned prodigal's almost veneration 
 for his faithful wife. She kept her hatred a secret from them 
 to the end, and had the satisfaction of seeing them all stand 
 around her death-bed, mourning her as the angel of the family. 
 
 For nearly three years Baron Hulot continued to be a com- 
 fort to Adeline, whose health greatly improved. Then she 
 discovered the old man trying to win a raw, buxom kitchen- 
 wench by promising to make her a baroness when his wife 
 should die ! The shock killed her. On her death-bed, she whis- 
 pered to him: "My dear, I have nothing left to give you except 
 my life. In a minute or two you will be free, and can make 
 another Baroness Hulot." 
 
 On the brink of eternity this angel gave utterance to the 
 only reproach she had ever spoken in her life. Within a year 
 the Baron, who had left Paris three days after Adeline's death, 
 wedded Agathe Piquetard, the kitchen-maid.
 
 COUSIN PONS (1847) 
 
 In planning the two novels comprised under the title The Poor Relations, 
 Balzac's intention was to make Cousin Pons the more important work. But 
 Cousin Bette, with its devilishly vindictive heroine, got such possession of him 
 as to become the longer and more impressive story. Balzac explicitly declares, 
 in Cousin Pons, that the two taken conjunctively prove that " character is the 
 chief of all social forces." He says also that the chief object of interest, on the 
 heroine, so to speak, in Cousin Pons, "as amateurs, connoisseurs, and collectors 
 will at once perceive, is the Pons Collection." 
 
 BOUT three o'clock, one October afternoon in 
 1844, a singular-looking man, more than sixty- 
 years old, was wending his way along the Boule- 
 vard des Italiens, in Paris, his nose in the air 
 and his lips pursed up, as if he had made a 
 good bargain. His gaunt figure was clothed 
 with such a regard for the fashions of 1806 that 
 he seemed a caricature of the Imperial Era. He 
 wore black trousers and three waistcoats, the 
 outside one black, the next white, and the inside one red; a 
 voluminous white muslin cravat, in which his chin was engulfed ; 
 and, as a last distinctive garment, a hazel-colored spencer, which 
 surmounted a greenish coat with white metal buttons. 
 
 His face corrected the tendency to laugh occasioned by his 
 costume, for it was one from which no woman could have 
 heard a word of love issue without a burst of merriment, or 
 experiencing a recoil of loathing. The large countenance, under 
 a leprous-looking old silk hat, resembled a Roman mask dug 
 out of the earth. It appeared to have no bones and was deeply 
 pitted, and had a huge Don Quixote nose as its most prominent 
 feature, while sad, gray eyes peered forth beneath two red lines 
 which did duty as eyebrows. His thin legs were emphasized 
 by the voluminous trousers, and his thick, sensual lips, when 
 they parted, showed two rows of pearly teeth which would have 
 done credit to a shark. This uncouth visage was illumined 
 by a smile. The man held some object carefully under the 
 
 255
 
 256 COUSIN PONS 
 
 two left skirts of his coats, as if to screen it or protect it from 
 impact. 
 
 This grotesque old fellow was Monsieur Sylvain Pons, a 
 composer who had been a Grand Prix winner of the Academie 
 de Rome, and now, in the autumn of his life, was conductor of 
 an orchestra in a Boulevard theater, and, thanks to his ugliness, 
 music- teacher in several young ladies' boarding-schools. His 
 only sources of revenue were derived from these occupations. 
 
 In Rome he had acquired a taste for antiquities and beau- 
 tiful works of art, with the result that he returned to Paris with 
 a collection of pictures, statuettes, carvings in ivory and wood, 
 enamels, china, and the like, which had absorbed the greater 
 part of his patrimony. He had continued to collect, and now 
 had nearly two thousand works of art. They were his delight, 
 and he would have thought it a crime to sell this Pons Collection. 
 
 This passionate collector, whose delicacy and high moral 
 nature were sustained by the beauty of art, was the slave of 
 that one of the seven deadly sins which God will surely punish 
 with less severity than He will any of the others. Pons was a 
 gourmand. His slender means admitted only a diet far from 
 what his palate craved, so he sought its worthier gratification 
 by dining out whenever he could. Naturally, the poor fellow's 
 value as a dinner-guest waned as his years augmented; and 
 now that he had fallen into the triple indigence of old age, 
 poverty, and intensified ugliness of features, he was restricted 
 to his family circle for the gratification of his gastronomic 
 passion. He had been led to give far too extensive an applica- 
 tion to the limits of that circle. 
 
 In 1835, Pons had found in friendship some compensation 
 for his denial of conquests with the fair sex. But for the ex- 
 istence of La Fontaine's divine fable, this history would have 
 been entitled The Two Friends. His alter ego was a German 
 pianist named Schmucke. Never perhaps had two such con- 
 genial spirits met upon the wide ocean of Humanity. Schmucke 
 was as absent-minded as Pons was observant. Pons secured 
 a place for this friend at the theater where he conducted the 
 orchestra. Schmucke played the piano and had charge of the 
 scores. They lived in a modest apartment in the quiet Rue de 
 Normandie in the Marais, sharing expenses. They soon ac-
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 257 
 
 quired the nickname of "the pair of nut-crackers" among the 
 denizens of the quarter. Winter and summer, they rose at 
 seven, and after breakfast went to give their music-lessons. 
 The evening found them united again at the theater. This 
 twin existence was ruffled only by Pons's passion for dining 
 out. "If it would only make him vatter!" Schmucke would 
 say to himself. A divine serenity mitigated the German's 
 fearful ugliness. 
 
 Among the "relatives" to whom Pons was restricted as a 
 dinner-guest at the period in which we have seen him walking 
 the Boulevard des Italiens, there was actually only one who 
 merited the title, and he was only a cousin once removed: 
 Camusot de Marville, president of one of the divisions of the 
 Court Royal of Paris. This gentleman's deceased mother had 
 been first cousin to Pons. Their parents had been members 
 of the rich firm of Pons Brothers, perfumers. Madame Camu- 
 sot de Marville, the second wife of this gentleman, never had 
 given a warm reception to "Cousin" Pons. She was a Cardot, 
 so Cousin Pons considered the Cardot tribe his relatives, 
 as well as the Chiffrevilles, into which family her brother had 
 married, and through these, the Popinots. Such was the 
 bourgeois firmament which Pons styled his family! and in 
 which, by many a painful effort, he had retained the privilege 
 of eating good dinners. The daughter of Camusot de Mar- 
 ville, Cecile, a rude, red-haired young woman of twenty-three, 
 whom they were eager to marry off, was as disaffected toward 
 Cousin Pons as her virulent mamma. It was to their house 
 that the old gentleman with his concealed treasure was hasten- 
 ing. Even the servants had caught the prevalent note toward 
 the "poor relation," and had often made the sensitive Pons 
 wince by their audible comments. 
 
 When Pons arrived this evening, the mother and daughter 
 had planned a coup which would rout the "cousin." They 
 pretended they had an engagement but told him he could stay 
 and dine alone. And Pons had brought to this insolent woman 
 an exquisite, delicately carved fan, painted by Watteau, and 
 once a possession of Madame de Pompadour. 
 
 "It is high time," said Cousin Pons, "that what has been 
 in the service of Vice should be placed in the hands of Virtue." 
 
 a.d., vol. 11. — 17
 
 258 COUSIN PONS 
 
 The lady, who was quite ignorant of even the name "Wat- 
 teau," accepted the fan, but was so insolent later that, stung 
 to the quick, Pons took his dismissal (for he felt it was that), 
 and burning with humiliated pride, rushed home, his wounded 
 dignity driving him along like a straw before the wind. The 
 contemptuous epithet of "sponger," which he had heard mut- 
 tered by one of the lackeys of the Camusots, scorched him with 
 humiliation, and the gentle soul could hardly restrain his tears. 
 He dashed past Madame Cibot, the doorkeeper of the house 
 where he had lodged for twenty-six years, with no sort of recog- 
 nition. He poured his pitiful tale into Schmucke's wholly 
 sympathetic ear, and said he would dine with him. The loyal 
 German, enraptured, cried out: "Tine here effery day! We 
 will pric-a-prack together, and the teffil will neffer put his tail 
 into our home." 
 
 To Schmucke's perfect joy, they did have their dinners to- 
 gether for four months. But Pons missed the refinement, the 
 choice viands, the exquisite wines, and the sophisticated con- 
 versation of those tables of his "relations." Moreover, paying 
 for his dinners diminished by just so much his expenditure for 
 objets d'art. The loss of two such coveted pleasures made the 
 old gentleman melancholy, and even his gauntness was notably 
 augmented. 
 
 "I would giff almost annyting to zave him," said the faithful 
 Schmucke. "He finds life vearyzome." 
 
 Fate was to restore Pons to his former status. Count Popi- 
 not, meeting him one day, wrung from him the reason for his 
 disappearance, and promptly acquainted Camusot with this 
 grievance. Madame Camusot, who was the meanest of snobs, 
 immediately threw the blame upon the impudent remarks of 
 the servants. Her husband required them, by a threat of dis- 
 missal otherwise, to go to Pons and apologize, which they did. 
 Thus Pons found himself restored to the delights of fine dinners, 
 and the moribund old man became the self-contented parasite 
 once more. Schmucke became almost ill over the change, but 
 buried his sorrow in his heart. 
 
 Just at this time, through his German friend, Pons had be- 
 come acquainted with a wealthy bachelor of forty, Fritz 
 Brunner, and conceived the idea that he might in him supply
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 259 
 
 Cecile Camusot with a husband. Plans were made to bring 
 this about, which seemed quite promising at first. But later 
 the astute German got the measure of the young woman's char- 
 acter so well that he absolutely withdrew. Poor Pons was 
 made the scapegoat of this "affront." Madame Camusot 
 affected to see in the negotiations a scheme of Pons to heap 
 contumely on them. It was an infernal device which would 
 save the honor of the family. 
 
 "I hope, Monsieur Pons, that for the future you will spare 
 us the pain of seeing you in a house into which you have en- 
 deavored to introduce shame and dishonor," she said venom- 
 ously. "Neither your master nor myself will ever be at home 
 to this gentleman," she continued, speaking to the servants 
 and pointing at Pons, "should he call." All the connections 
 accepted this story, and poor Cousin Pons became a pariah 
 whom they "cut" absolutely. 
 
 The innocent man was ill for a month from the hideous in- 
 justice of this calumny, and Schmucke was heart-broken at his 
 dejection. For the first time in his lamblike existence, he was 
 roused to fierce indignation, and called these maligners "beasts." 
 
 The walk on which Pons had been scornfully "cut" by the 
 two most important members of his circle of "relations" was 
 the last he ever took. He walked wearily and silently home, 
 leaning on the arm of Schmucke, took to his bed, and was 
 found by the district doctor, Poulain, to be dangerously ill with 
 inflammation of the liver. Most important consequences 
 flowed from this doctor's visit. Dr. Poulain told Madame 
 Cibot that, as her lodger was too poor to engage a nurse, she 
 would have to care for him, and that, as he would be extremely 
 irritable, nothing must be done to fret him, as it might cost 
 Pons his life. 
 
 Remonencqs, a lean dealer in curiosities, with a small shop 
 in the neighborhood, had heard B runner, after a visit to Pons, 
 remark, on leaving, that his collection was worth thousands 
 of francs. He repeated this to Dr. Poulain and Madame 
 Cibot, with the result of arousing a fierce cupidity in both. 
 The doorkeeper already saw herself "well remembered" in 
 Pons's will! It practically turned her from a negative probity 
 to absolute depravity through the cupidity aroused in her.
 
 2 6o COUSIN PONS 
 
 She began at once an aggressive domination of the invalid, who 
 was necessarily left alone in her charge much of the time. She 
 found out that Pons meant to leave all to Schmucke, to whose 
 "consideration" he would recommend her. For both these 
 childlike beings regarded the terrible harpy as a kind but rough 
 creature, genuinely interested in them. 
 
 Dr. Poulain recommended her to consult a lawyer friend 
 of his, named Fraisier, a cunning, sordid wretch, adding that 
 she had better feather her own nest as best she could and then 
 accept what Fraisier and himself would do for her for helping 
 their game. The doorkeeper accordingly misrepresented the 
 expense and exertion to which the care of the two old gentlemen 
 had subjected her, especially since Pons's illness, and thereby 
 forced Schmucke into consenting to the sale of some of the 
 pictures in order to indemnify her. Schmucke was as trust- 
 ful and as ignorant of business as a little child, but when she 
 urged him to this step he at first replied with simplicity: "I 
 gannot dizpose of things which do not belong to me." Where- 
 upon Madame Cibot procured a summons, and the official 
 document so impressed the poor German that he said, with 
 tears in his eyes: "Sell de bigdures!" 
 
 Elie Magus, one of the greatest collectors in Europe, and 
 Remonencqs got eight of the best paintings, and the cunning 
 Madame Cibot secured sixty-eight thousand francs for having 
 brought about the transaction. Remonencqs, who had long 
 coveted a shop for curios on the Boulevard, became convinced 
 that this shrewd and wealthy woman would be a great help in 
 conducting it, if he could only marry her, which seemed to him 
 very feasible, were it not for the lady's husband, a tailor. To 
 a mind like his, it was a slight step to facilitate her becoming a 
 widow, and he managed to "doctor" the invalid husband's 
 barley-water with a copper rundle greatly oxidized! There 
 was no reason for suspecting anybody of an interest in this old 
 fellow's demise! 
 
 Fraisier had taken care to frighten Madame Cibot when 
 she consulted him, by saying that Madame Camusot, who was 
 greatly interested in her husband's inheriting from Pons (which 
 he would do if the old collector failed to make a will), was a 
 terrible force to rouse against oneself. He had instantly con-
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 261 
 
 ceived a scheme by which he could secure the appointment of 
 justice of the peace for himself, and that of head of a Paris 
 hospital for his friend, Dr. Poulain, should it "happen" that 
 Pons died intestate! He went to Madame Camusot, and, by- 
 insinuations, which veiled a covert agreement, set forth that if 
 Dr. Poulain should insist on the removal of Madame Cibot's 
 administrations (which he might do if he considered their effect 
 on the irritable invalid as too detrimental), that gentleman 
 might recover! 
 
 Fraisier, to be able to state to Madame Camusot de Mar- 
 ville the value of the Pons Collection, had seen the necessity of 
 having it appraised. He had therefore induced Madame 
 Cibot to arrange that he, Elie Magus, and Remonencqs should 
 do this at a time when Schmucke was absent and when Pons 
 was asleep, his slumber having been induced by Madame 
 Cibot's meddling with his medicine. Despite this, Pons awoke, 
 and although the two men had promptly fled at his cry of 
 "Thieves!" when he saw them, he recognized Elie Magus! 
 His suspicions were more than confirmed when, later, he 
 dragged himself to his gallery and saw that certain inferior can- 
 vases from Schmucke's room had been substituted for several 
 of the most precious of his paintings! When he learned of the 
 specious trickery by which the simple German, whose one 
 dominant aspiration was to have Pons restored to health, had 
 been induced to sell these, he fell into deep pondering. The 
 result was to turn the simple Pons into a being of extraordinary 
 astuteness. His one aim now was to convince Schmucke of 
 the devilish duplicity of the Cibot woman, in whom they both 
 had been hideously deceived, and then to secure his property 
 as inalienably as possible to his artless but devoted friend. 
 He therefore had him summon a notary, and drew up a will 
 which was duly witnessed, and which bequeathed his entire 
 collection to the State if a certain annuity would be paid to 
 Schmucke for life. He told Schmucke to keep close watch 
 and see whether Madame Cibot would not meddle with this 
 will, feeling that this would open even his trusting soul to 
 conviction of her vileness. Then he sent for Mademoi- 
 selle Heloi'se Brisetout, danseuse at his theater, and had her 
 send him a reliable and learned notary who would draw up
 
 2 6 2 COUSIN PONS 
 
 an unassailable will by which everything would become 
 
 Schmucke's. 
 
 When Pons told him this scheme, the honest fellow clasped 
 the hands of his friend, and breathed a fervent prayer to him- 
 self. Pons asked him what he was doing. 
 
 "I was braying to God to take us to Himself togedder," 
 replied Schmucke simply, when his prayer was ended. 
 
 With great difficulty, for he was suffering the acutest pain, 
 Pons managed to stoop low and imprint a kiss on Schmucke's 
 forehead. In that kiss, Pons poured forth his whole soul in a 
 blessing upon that being, who in heart and mind resembled 
 the Lamb that reposes at the feet of God. 
 
 The scheme worked perfectly. Madame Cibot filched the 
 will from the compartment in the desk in which it had been 
 locked up, and took it down-stairs to show it to Fraisier. He 
 recognized how fatal this will was to Madame Camusot's in- 
 terests, and consequently to his own hopes, since the agree- 
 ment had been that the favors she would secure for him were 
 contingent on her inheriting. He promptly substituted a 
 blank paper in the envelope, without letting Madame Cibot 
 see him do it, then sealed it and restored it to her. "That 
 cuts you off," he said. "But there is a fire in the grate! And 
 if Pons dies intestate I will promise you a hundred thousand 
 francs." 
 
 Madame Cibot returned to the room and was about to 
 throw the envelope in the fire when Pons and Schmucke gripped 
 her by the shoulders. She screamed and went into convul- 
 sions. Then, rallying, she declared vehemently that her act 
 was due only to a woman's curiosity. Schmucke reviled her 
 as a monster and drove her from the room. When she returned 
 with this tale to Fraisier, he declared that she was liable to 
 prosecution for stealing a will! He then pacified the terror- 
 stricken woman by promising to aid her if she would be sub- 
 missive to his wishes. 
 
 The next morning Madame Cibot's husband, thanks to 
 Remonencqs's continued interest in his health, sent for the 
 priest and received the last sacraments. In the confusion, 
 Pons's lawyer got to his apartment, and the dying collector 
 made his last will as he had planned, constituting his devoted
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 263 
 
 Schmucke his universal legatee. After which, utterly pros- 
 trated by the excitement of the past twenty- four hours and the 
 reaction, he called for a priest himself and prepared for death. 
 
 When, some hours later, Madame Cibot sent a messenger 
 to see what was going on, the woman was not permitted to enter 
 the room. Fraisier, who was waiting below, conceived the 
 idea of introducing his own housekeeper into the apartment 
 as a watch-dog, and managed to do this by having Madame 
 Cantinet, the wife of the beadle of St. Francis's Church, take 
 her as an assistant, when, at the abbe's suggestion, that good 
 woman had been summoned to take Madame Cibot's place 
 as attendant on Pons and Schmucke. Just as they entered the 
 room poor Cousin Pons died, so quietly that it was only when 
 Madame Sauvage, Fraisier's housekeeper, touched his hands 
 that they learned he had passed away. Schmucke, agonized 
 at this death of his one friend — and it was the first death he had 
 ever seen — could only groan to any and every suggestion: "Do 
 what you bleaze!" This truest of friends was to go through 
 a veritable martyrdom. He watched the women and their 
 proceedings as an idiot might have. His eyes were fixed on 
 the dead face of his late companion, whose contour was puri- 
 fied by the repose of death into something fascinating, and 
 Schmucke not only was absolutely indifferent to everything 
 terrestrial, but felt nothing except a longing to die and join his 
 friend. He would eat nothing, and whenever he was left alone 
 with the body of Pons, he held it clasped in a close embrace. 
 
 A more facile victim to the plundering of everybody who 
 had anything to gain could not be imagined, and he was pur- 
 sued by Fraisier and that wretched lawyer's tools. Touts for 
 every sort of thing connected with the disposition of a corpse 
 swarmed about him and plucked him. In his desperation at 
 these incessant appeals, which dragged him from the thought of 
 his dead friend, he gladly appointed Tabareau, an accomplice 
 of Fraisier, his proxy in all matters relating to the succession. 
 
 "I would giff all dat I bozzezz to be left alone," he sighed. 
 Dame Sauvage, at the close of day, found him stretched across 
 the foot of the bed where Pons lay, in the sleep of utter exhaus- 
 tion. She lifted him like an infant to his own couch, and when 
 he awoke Pons was in his coffin, beneath the carriage gateway.
 
 264 COUSIN PONS 
 
 Pons had one mourner besides Schmucke— a poor super- 
 numerary at the theater, named Topinard, to whom he had 
 given five francs every month. As Pons's body was lowered 
 into the grave, Schmucke swooned with emotion. When he 
 had been revived, Topinard assisted him back to the house. 
 As the lease of the apartment was in Pons's name only, Fraisier 
 evicted the unfortunate German, who secured a garret room in 
 Topinard's humble lodging. "All I want is some nook to die 
 in," he said. As he had not money to pay for anything after 
 the drain of Pons's illness, he went to Gandissard, the pro- 
 prietor of the theater, to get a month's salary. Gandissard, a 
 friend of Popinot, and acquainted with the situation, advised 
 the simple German to compromise with the legal heirs, who 
 would give him a sum down and an annuity for life. 
 
 Schmucke assented, and authorized him to act. He had 
 only two demands. 
 
 "Dobinard was Bons's vrend. He is de only berzon who 
 followed him to de zemetery. I want tree touzand francs for 
 him, and tree touzand francs for his nice little girl with light 
 hair, like a little German girl." 
 
 These conditions were promptly granted. Fraisier had 
 induced Madame Camusot de Marville to summon Schmucke 
 and contest the will, on the ground of his undue influence over 
 Pons, which she did. Gandissard arrived after him and told 
 of his arrangement with Schmucke. It was agreed that the 
 deed should be signed the next day. By signing this deed, 
 with a preamble in which the grounds for contesting the will 
 were stated, the poor German would admit the justice of Frai- 
 sier's fearful imputations. As Schmucke was about to sign, 
 Topinard arrived with the summons which had been sent to 
 Schmucke at his lodgings, to warn the old German against 
 such injustice. Gandissard went out to meet him, and in that 
 interval Schmucke signed the fatal document. He came forth 
 smiling with the money in his hand. " Dis is for de little Ger- 
 man girl and you," he said. 
 
 " Oh, dear Monsieur Schmucke, you have been enriching a 
 pack of monsters! Read that, and you will see that your duty 
 was to punish this wickedness by defending the action." 
 
 Schmucke read the paper. It was a mortal blow. He fell
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 265 
 
 exhausted into Topinard's arms. He never recovered his 
 reason through the ten days he survived. He was nursed by 
 Madame Topinard and was buried obscurely by Topinard, 
 who was the only person to follow this child of Germany to his 
 last resting-place. 
 
 Every one of the evil hounders to death of the two friends 
 derived great advantages from their villainy. Cousin Pons's 
 Collection went to adorn Popinot's house, as Cecile, who was 
 now his daughter-in-law, had inherited it. One day, a Russian 
 nobleman, who was a collector, asked her who had amassed 
 these exquisite treasures of art. 
 
 "A cousin who was very fond of me," replied the Viscountess. 
 
 " Monsieur Pons was a charming man," interjected Madame 
 Camusot de Marville, in her dulcet falsetto voice. "This 
 Watteau fan, once Madame de Pompadour's, he placed in my 
 hands one morning with a charming little phrase, which I must 
 not repeat! Such talent and originality, and such kindness of 
 heart ! He used to dine with us three or four times every week, 
 because we appreciated him so thoroughly." 
 
 "And the phrase that went with the gift of the fan?" asked 
 the nobleman. 
 
 "The little phrase is worthy of the fan," said the Vis- 
 countess (whose "little phrase" was a stereotyped expression). 
 "He said to my mother that it was high time that what had 
 been in the hands of Vice should be placed in the hands of 
 Virtue." 
 
 The nobleman looked at Madame Camusot de Marville 
 with an air of doubt that was extremely flattering to so lean a 
 lady! 
 
 Madame Remonencq is still in her magnificent shop on the 
 Boulevard de la Madeleine, once more a widow, through a 
 singular chance. As her husband had had the marriage con- 
 tract drawn up so that all the property should go to the sur- 
 vivor, he placed a liqueur glass of vitriol within his wife's reach, 
 expecting that she would make a mistake. But as she, with 
 the best intentions in the world, changed its position, it was 
 Remonencq who swallowed it! Such a fitting end for the 
 miscreant is an argument in favor of the existence of Provi- 
 dence.
 
 THE MEMBER FOR ARCIS (1854) 
 
 Le Depute d'Arcis is classed under the Scenes de la Vie Politique in the 
 Comedie Humaine. It is divided into three sections: I: V Election; II: Lettres 
 Edifiantes; III: Le Comte de Sallenauve. The only part that appeared in 
 Balzac's life was The Election, which was published in L' Union Monarchique 
 in 1847. The work was completed by Charles Rabou, who was chosen by 
 Balzac to finish it and the second and third chapters first appeared in the Con- 
 stitutionnel in 1853. Rastignac and Jacques Collins, who were introduced in 
 Pere Goriot, appear in The Member for Arcis. The latter, who had assumed 
 the names of Vautrin, Trompe-la-Mort (in Pere Goriot), and Herrera (in 
 Lost Illusions), now appears in three characters here: Monsieur de Saint-Esteve, 
 the Marquis de Sallenauve, and Monsieur le Comte Halphertius. Dorlange is 
 a grandson of Danton, which explains the likeness that everyone noticed. 
 
 V N April, 1839, about ten in the morning, the 
 drawing-room of Madame Marion, widow of 
 a revenue collector in the Department of the 
 Aube, presented a strange appearance. The 
 carpet and all the furniture had been removed, 
 an old man-servant attached to Colonel Giguet, 
 Madame Marion's brother, had just finished 
 sweeping, and the housemaid and cook were 
 bringing in chairs and arranging them according 
 to Madame Marion's directions. The latter placed three arm- 
 chairs behind the tea-table, which she covered with a green 
 cloth, on which she placed a bell. 
 
 "We can seat seventy persons," she said to Colonel Giguet, 
 who now entered. 
 
 "God send us seventy friends," exclaimed the Colonel. He 
 then inquired for his son, Simon. 
 
 "He is dressing," she replied; "he is very nervous." 
 "My word! Yes! I have often stood the fire of a battery 
 and my soul never quaked — my body I say nothing about; 
 but if I had to stand up here," said the old soldier, placing 
 himself behind the table, "opposite the forty good people who 
 will sit there open-mouthed, their eyes fixed on mine, expect- 
 
 266
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 267 
 
 ing a set speech in sounding periods — my shirt would be soak- 
 ing before I could find a word." 
 
 "And yet, my dear father, you must make that effort in 
 my behalf," said Simon Giguet, entering, "for if there is a man 
 in the department whose word is powerful, it is certainly you. 
 My whole life is at stake, my prospects, my happiness." 
 
 Colonel Giguet was one of the most respected officers in 
 the Grande Armee, and fanatically devoted to Napoleon. The 
 Comte de Gondreville prevented his banishment in 181 5 and 
 got for him a pension and the rank of colonel. He lived with 
 Madame Marion, who, in 1814, settled in Arcis, her native 
 town, and bought a handsome residence in the Grande Place. 
 Her drawing-room for the last four-and-twenty years had been 
 open to the prominent members of the Liberal circle at Arcis. 
 Colonel Giguet, a Liberal, after being a Bonapartist, became, 
 under the Restoration, president of the town council of Arcis, 
 which included Grevin the notary, Grevin's brother-in-law, 
 Varlet fils, the chief physician in the town, and Grevin's son- 
 in-law, Beau visage. For the past nine years, since his political 
 party had come to the top, the Colonel had lived almost out of 
 the world, devoting himself to the culture of roses, and he had 
 the stained hands of a true gardener. 
 
 "If our dear boy is not elected," said Madame Marion, 
 "he will not w r in Mademoiselle Beauvisage; for what he looks 
 for in the event of his success is marrying Cecile." 
 
 Cecile Beauvisage was the richest heiress in the Department 
 of the Aube and had already refused many suitors. 
 
 The district of Arcis- sur- Aube believed itself free to elect 
 a deputy. From 1816 till 1836 it had always returned one of 
 the most ponderous orators of the Left, one of those seventeen 
 whom the Liberal party loved to designate as great citizens — 
 no less a man, in short, than Francois Keller, of the firm of 
 Keller Brothers, son-in-law to the Comte de Gondreville. 
 
 Gondreville, one of the finest estates in France, was not 
 far from Arcis. The banker, lately created count and peer 
 of France, hoped that his son would succeed him as deputy. 
 Charles Keller, already a major with a staff appointment, and 
 now a viscount, as one of the Prince Royal's favorites, was 
 attached to the party of the Citizen King. A splendid future
 
 268 THE MEMBER FOR ARCIS 
 
 seemed to lie before this young man, possessed of immense 
 wealth, courage, and devotion to the new dynasty, who was, 
 moreover, grandson of the Comte de Gondreville and nephew 
 of the Marechale de Carigliano. 
 
 As soon as Gre'vin, the notary, declared that he would sup- 
 port Charles Keller, Arcis conceived a strong feeling against 
 him and supported Simon Giguet. Phileas Beauvisage, the 
 Mayor, on bad terms with his father-in-law, was naturally of 
 this party. Madame Marion, queen of Arcis society, had, 
 with her friends, organized a meeting of "Independent Elec- 
 tors" in favor of her nephew, Simon Giguet; and she had 
 turned the whole house topsy-turvy for the reception of the 
 friends on whose independence she relied. 
 
 Simon Giguet, the home-made candidate of a little town 
 that was jealously eager to return one of its sons, had, as has 
 been seen, at once taken advantage of this stir to represent the 
 wants and interests of Southwestern Champagne. At the 
 same time, the position and fortune of the Giguet family were 
 due to the Comte de Gondreville. Simon, although a lawyer, 
 was the butt of many pleasantries. He was so ready to talk 
 that he had laid himself open to ridicule. Now, when the 
 door-bell announced the advent of the electors, he began to 
 feel nervous. 
 
 The first to come were Phileas Beauvisage and the notary, 
 Achille Pigoult, who was sent by Madame Beauvisage to keep 
 an eye on Beauvisage. He was really a spy from the Gondre- 
 ville faction; and Simon immediately scented an enemy when 
 he saw him. By twelve o'clock fifty men were seated in the 
 chairs that had been arranged by Madame Marion, who took 
 a seat in the garden where she could overhear everything. 
 
 At three o'clock, Simon Giguet was still explaining the 
 meaning of progress. Achille Pigoult had persuaded the 
 electors to listen and many of them were asleep. Meanwhile 
 the other party was informed of the sudden death of Charles 
 Keller. An opposition candidate to Simon Giguet had now 
 to be found. 
 
 Old Grevin had great ambitions for the third generation. 
 He hoped by means of his gold to start Cecile on the high road 
 to greatness. He told Madame Beauvisage one day when she
 
 IIONORE DE BALZAC 269 
 
 called and found him taking his coffee under the blossoming 
 lilacs that he had bought the Hotel Beauseant in Paris for a 
 wedding-gift for Cecile and he had planned a brilliant future 
 for his daughter and granddaughter. Madame Beauvisage 
 must, however, refuse Simon Giguet's attentions. He also 
 said: "You and Cecile would be miserable with an old family 
 of the Faubourg Saint-Germain; they would make you feel 
 your humble birth in a thousand little ways. What we must 
 look out for is one of Napoleon's dukes who is in want of money; 
 then we can get a fine title for Cecile, and we will tie up her 
 fortune." 
 
 Madame Marion held her usual salon that evening; and 
 Madame Beauvisage told her daughter that, as she was des- 
 tined to shine in Paris, she must be very reserved with the 
 young men of Arcis, especially Simon Giguet. 
 
 " Be quite easy," was her reply; " I will begin at once to adore 
 the Unknown." 
 
 The Unknown was the subject of conversation in every 
 family of Arcis. Three days before Simon's meeting, a Stranger 
 in a neat tilbury, drawn by a fine horse and followed by a small 
 lackey, arrived in Arcis and took rooms at the Mulet. The 
 coach brought three unlabeled trunks from Paris. He gave 
 no name and his mysterious behavior set all the tongues of 
 Arcis wagging. The Stranger was the chief subject of con- 
 versation at Madame Marion's. Madame Mollot, wife of the 
 clerk of assize, had even peered from her house through her 
 opera-glasses, and was certain that he wore a wig! Antonin 
 Goulard left Madame Marion's to make inquiries, and, re- 
 turning, informed the gossips that the Stranger was a count 
 who had just returned from Gondreville. Cecile's interest in 
 the Stranger aroused Simon's jealousy. During the evening 
 Madame Beauvisage informed Madame Marion of Cecile's 
 prospects and said: "If you have any proposals to make, go 
 and see my father." 
 
 The next day, Simon, certain of his election, remarked to 
 the sous-prefet: "But I have no opponent." "So you think," 
 said Antonin Goulard. "But one will turn up; there is no 
 doubt of that." 
 
 Goulard made use of his official position to intrude upon
 
 270 THE MEMBER FOR ARCIS 
 
 the Stranger, who received him with sangfroid and handed 
 him the following letter from the pref et of the department : 
 
 " Monsieur le Sous-prefet : — Be good enough to take steps with the 
 bearer as to the election in Arcis, and conform to his requirements in every 
 particular. I request you to be absolutely secret, and to treat him with the 
 respect due to his rank." 
 
 The Stranger asked himself to dine with Goulard and re- 
 quested that Goulard should invite the Beauvisages. He also 
 handed Goulard two other letters, saying: "Make out a list 
 of all the votes at the disposal of the Government. Above all, 
 we must not appear to have any understanding. I am merely 
 a speculator, and do not care a fig about the election." 
 
 Comte Maxime de Trailies, prince of rakes and dandies, 
 having run through his fortune at the age of forty-eight, de- 
 termined to marry; and, as he could not find a wife in the high- 
 est Parisian circles, nor, indeed, in the middle class, asked his 
 friend, Rastignac, a peer of France and possessed of great 
 political influence, to help him conclude a rich marriage and 
 launch him into a diplomatic career. 
 
 Rastignac told him of the helplessness of the present min- 
 istry, and added: "If you could distinguish yourself in the 
 thick of the electoral fray that is beginning; if you become a 
 voter — a member — faithful to the reigning dynasty, your wishes 
 shall be attended to. . . . As to your marriage, my dear fellow, 
 that can only be arranged in the country. In Paris you are 
 too well known. The thing to do is to find a millionaire, a 
 parvenu, with a daughter and the ambition to swagger at the 
 Tuileries." 
 
 A few weeks later Rastignac told him that Charles Keller 
 had been killed in Africa and that as he was "our candidate 
 for the borough and district of Arcis," his death had left a gap. 
 Armed with letters to Gondreville and the local officials and 
 with a loan from Rastignac's father-in-law, the Baron de 
 Nucingen, Maxime de Trailies was, within an hour, on the 
 road to Arcis. 
 
 Supplied with information by the landlady of the Mulct 
 and Antonin Goulard, Maxime de Trailies lost no time in 
 arranging the plan of his electoral campaign. This shrewd
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 271 
 
 agent for his own private politics at once set up Phileas Beau- 
 visage as the candidate in opposition to Simon Giguet; and, 
 notwithstanding that the man was a cipher, he had strong 
 chances. Maxime, of course, intended to gain old Grevin's 
 consent to his marriage with the handsome Cecile. 
 
 Beau visage's nomination caught fire, and just as Maxime 
 had written to Rastignac regarding the success of his schemes, 
 another candidate appeared on the scene. 
 
 A bundle of "edifying letters" threw light on this new can- 
 didate and his chances for election. A Monsieur Dorlange, a 
 sculptor, having been asked to make a monument for the wife 
 of an old friend of his, M. Marie-Gaston, refused on the plea 
 that he was being urged to come forward as a candidate at the 
 coming elections; the Comte de l'Estorade proposed that his 
 own wife, a very tactful negotiator, should try her feminine per- 
 suasion with the artist. The Comte also said that Madame 
 de l'Estorade was suffering from a nervous attack brought on by 
 the shock of having had their little daughter, Nai's, nearly run 
 over a week earlier. The child was saved at the last minute 
 by a stranger who rushed at the horses' heads. This stranger 
 continually shadowed Madame de l'Estorade. 
 
 Dorlange, for a slight cast upon Marie-Gaston by the Due 
 de Rhetore, had compelled the Duke to fight a duel, in which 
 the latter was wounded. 
 
 When the Comte de l'Estorade, his wife, and Nai's went to 
 visit the sculptor's studio, Madame de l'Estorade recognized 
 the stranger, as did Nais, who cried: "Oh, you are the gentle- 
 man who saved me!" Dorlange presently showed his guests 
 a statue of St. Ursula, commissioned from a country convent. 
 Unknown to Madame de l'Estorade, Dorlange had used her 
 for a model in making this statue. She reminded him, he said, 
 of a lady he had known in Italy named Lanty. Madame de 
 l'Estorade noticed a handsome Italian woman at the studio who 
 was both housekeeper and model to Dorlange. 
 
 The sculptor became a frequent guest at the De l'Estorade 
 home. But the eldest son, Armand, did not like him: he said 
 he looked like the portraits of Danton and considered that a 
 statuette of his mother presented to the Comte looked like a 
 milliner's apprentice. Dorlange, writing to his friend Marie-
 
 272 THE MEMBER FOR ARCIS 
 
 Gaston, told him that he had discovered his hitherto unknown 
 father. A waiter at the Cafe des Arts had warned Dorlange 
 that a little old man, untidy and marked by smallpox, was 
 watching him. This was Jacques Bricheteau, a wonderful 
 organist. He evaded Dorlange. But one day the sculptor 
 received a letter postmarked Sweden. It was from his anony- 
 mous father, who told him he must enter politics, his aptitude 
 being vouched for by a friend who had shadowed him. The 
 father gave him an order on his bankers, told him that for a 
 time he must continue to be a sculptor, and that he would soon 
 receive an order for a statue of St. Ursula for the convent. 
 
 Dorlange bought a house, took shares in a newspaper, and 
 executed the St. Ursula — all according to his father's instruc- 
 tions; then he awaited further orders. The duel he had 
 fought with Marie-Gaston's brother-in-law helped his chances 
 of election. 
 
 According to his father's orders, Dorlange sent his statue 
 to a convent at Arcis-sur-Aube, and himself soon followed 
 it, after receiving a draft on the bankers in the name of 
 " Monsieur le Comte de Sallenauve, known as Dorlange, Rue 
 de VOuest, No. 42." 
 
 At Arcis Dorlange, to his surprise, was met by Jacques 
 Bricheteau, who had previously avoided him. This man con- 
 ducted Dorlange to the Hotel de la Poste, where he was intro- 
 duced to his father, the Marquis de Sallenauve, a very tall, 
 very thin, and very bald man. He was calm in receiving his 
 son and also while Bricheteau gave a rhetorical account of his 
 life before asking Dorlange if he would consent to take M. de 
 Sallenauve's name and be acknowledged as his son. On Dor- 
 lange's consent, the father produced deeds, pedigrees, letters- 
 patent, and many documents to prove the antiquity of the 
 Sallenauve family. After dinner, the three repaired to the 
 notary's office, where deeds were drawn, and Dorlange emerged 
 as the Comte de Sallenauve and possessor of the Chateau 
 d'Arcis, which his father purchased for a hundred and eighty 
 thousand francs. In describing all this to Marie- Gaston, Dor- 
 lange confessed his lack of filial respect and affection. He 
 continued: "Supposing this man were not my father, were not 
 even the Marquis de Sallenauve, as he assumes to be; suppos-
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 273 
 
 ing that, like that luckless Lucien de Rubempre — whose story 
 made such a noise at the time — I were wrapped in the coils of 
 some serpent of the type of the sham priest Carlos Herrera, 
 and were to wake presently to the frightful truth!" 
 
 Strange to say, the new-found father left Arcis at daybreak. 
 Through the influence of Mother Marie des Anges, of the 
 Ursuline convent, who was Bricheteau's aunt, after much intri- 
 cate wire-pulling, the newly created Count of Sallenauve was 
 put up as a third candidate for Arcis. 
 
 Marie- Gaston joined his friend at Arcis and wrote a long 
 account of Sallenauve's success. He described how Beau- 
 visage had crushed and beaten Simon Giguet, "who wanted 
 to take his seat with the Left Center," how Maxime de Trailles 
 was trying to win Cecile Beauvisage, and how, by his splendid 
 entertainments at the chateau, his fine equipage, and open- 
 handed generosity, the new candidate was fast snuffing out 
 Maxime de Trailles's elegance and Beauvisage's chances. 
 Everybody noticed his likeness to Danton, who was quite a 
 hero in his native province. 
 
 At the preliminary meeting, Sallenauve carried the day by 
 his gifts of public speaking; but Maxime de Trailles dragged 
 up the story of the handsome Italian he kept hidden in his 
 house in Paris. Sallenauve now thought it best to relate this 
 woman's history in a letter to Madame de l'Estorade. This 
 is the story. One day, in Italy, a musician and spy named 
 Benedetto brought his wife to Dorlange's studio to pose. She 
 refused, and that night suffocated her husband and went to 
 Dorlange, begging him to take her to Paris. She became his 
 housekeeper and model, and he had had her voice trained. 
 She was now ready to appear in public. How to launch her 
 was a puzzle. Would Madame de l'Estorade lend her aid? 
 Sallenauve also wrote that grief for his dead wife seemed to be 
 unsettling Marie-Gaston's mind. 
 
 The election took place. The number of votes was 201. 
 Beauvisage received 2; Giguet, 29; and Sallenauve, 170. 
 Consequently, Charles de Sallenauve was elected. 
 
 The day after the election, Maxime de Trailles returned to 
 Paris and called on Colonel Franchessini, on the staff of the 
 Citizen-Militia. He described the election, ending with: 
 A.D., vol. 11. — 18
 
 274 THE MEMBER FOR ARCIS 
 
 "How can you account for the fact that an old tricoteuse, for- 
 merly a friend of Danton's, and now the Mother Superior of 
 an Ursuline convent, with the help of a nephew, an obscure 
 Parisian organist whom she brought out as the masculine 
 figurehead of her scheme, could have hoodwinked a whole con- 
 stituency to such a point that this stranger actually polled an 
 imposing majority?" 
 
 "Well, but someone knew him, I suppose." 
 
 "Not a soul, unless it were this old hypocrite. Till the 
 moment of his arrival he had no fortune, no connections — not 
 even a father! While he was taking his boots off he was made 
 — Heaven knows how! — the proprietor of a fine estate. Then, 
 in quite the same vein, a gentleman supposed to be a native 
 of the place, from which he had absented himself for many 
 years, presented himself with this ingenious schemer in a 
 notary's office, acknowledged him post-haste as his son, and 
 vanished again in the course of the night, no one knowing by 
 which road he went. This trick having come off successfully, 
 the Ursuline and her ally launched their nominee ; Republicans, 
 Legitimists, and Conservatives, the clergy, the nobility, the 
 middle classes — one and all, as if bound by a spell cast over 
 the whole land, came around to this favorite of the old nun- 
 witch." 
 
 The two concluded it would be worth while to get Mon- 
 sieur de Saint- Esteve, head of the criminal police, to ferret 
 out the true story of Dorlange and his supposed father. The 
 elections had made Rastignac Minister of Public Works. He 
 was friendly with Monsieur de l'Estorade, a zealous Con- 
 servative and influential in the Upper Chamber. Through 
 De l'Estorade's friendship with Dorlange, now Sallenauve, Ras- 
 tignac was enabled to meet the new member from Arcis and to 
 study him at close range. In the meantime, Franchessini went 
 to Rastignac about Saint-Esteve, who wanted advancement. 
 Under the name of Vautrin the latter had years before com- 
 pelled Franchessini to fight a duel for Rastignac's advantage, 
 a duel Rastignac had tried to prevent. Rastignac wanted to 
 have no dealings with Vautrin; but, yielding to Franchessini's 
 persuasions, he advised him to get Vautrin to turn over a new 
 leaf, to come out in the world, to take up with some actress,
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 275 
 
 display luxury on this idol's account, and, by degrees, make 
 connections through the people who gather round a famous 
 actress as moths round a candle. This would get him classed 
 among the third or fourth rate notabilities — and make of him 
 a man possible to deal with. "Then," added Rastignac, "if 
 he came to me and I were in power, I might listen to him." 
 
 Sallenauve was much discussed at the De PEstorades', who 
 were entertaining guests — Monsieur and Madame Octave de 
 Camps. They learned that the Italian woman, Luigia, had 
 fled from Dorlange's studio, and no one knew what had become 
 of her. An under- servant said she had had a mysterious visitor, 
 a middle-aged lady, handsomely dressed, who came in a car- 
 riage, and who managed their interviews with secrecy. 
 
 Madame de Camps had many conversations with Madame 
 de l'Estorade about Sallenauve and her course of action re- 
 garding him. About this time, M. de l'Estorade was made 
 very jealous by finding a letter from Marie-Gaston to his wife, 
 in which the half- mad widower wrote that he had had a mes- 
 sage from Madame de l'Estorade saying that on the death of 
 her husband she was to marry Sallenauve. 
 
 To everyone's surprise, Sallenauve left Paris suddenly. A 
 letter from him to Madame de l'Estorade informed her that he 
 had followed Marie-Gaston to England, as his friend had been 
 taken there to an insane asylum. Not long after this, Monsieur 
 and Madame de l'Estorade thought it best to dismiss Sallenauve 
 politely from their acquaintance. 
 
 A peasant woman now came forward to declare that she 
 was a Sallenauve and that there was no Marquis de Sallenauve 
 in existence. This information was furnished by Madame 
 Beauvisage to Maxime de Trailles, who passed it on to Ras- 
 tignac for the good of the party. Maxime took the papers to 
 a lawyer, Desroches, who, during the interview, mentioned 
 that he was dining out and was afterward to draw up a con- 
 tract between a London impresario and a star, just discovered 
 by Madame de Saint- Esteve, who had a matrimonial agency. 
 
 Madame de Saint- Esteve was none other than Vautrin's 
 aunt, Jacqueline Collin. She had found the Italian woman 
 with the beautiful voice. Vautrin called to see his relative and 
 in the course of a long conversation the latter formed a plan:
 
 276 THE MEMBER FOR ARCIS 
 
 Vautrin, as Count Halphertius, a Swedish lord, crazy about 
 music and philanthropy, should take great interest in the new 
 singer. He would be her recognized patron, and Jacques and 
 Jacquelin Collin must make her reign brilliant and herself 
 wealthy for the sake of their own advancement. 
 
 When Vautrin called to meet the singer, his aunt and accom- 
 plice did not know him, so perfect was his disguise. He intro- 
 duced the diva to Sir Francis Drake, who engaged her for the 
 London opera. Madame de Saint- Esteve gave a dinner to 
 which various journalists and other well-known men were in- 
 vited. This was the dinner to which Desroches was going. 
 
 Luigia was singing in London when Sallenauve, about to 
 leave Marie-Gaston, was joined by Jacques Bricheteau, who 
 had come from Paris to tell him of the plot against him. They 
 decided to return at once to Paris. In London, Sallenauve 
 saw the announcement of Signora Luigia at Her Majesty's 
 Theater. He was struck by the name, and went to the opera, 
 where Luigia was a great success in Paesiello's Nina, la 
 Pazza per Amore. While Luigia was receiving compliments in 
 the green-room, Sallenauve's card was handed to her. She left 
 her admirers and hastily returned to her apartments, where he 
 was awaiting her. Sallenauve wished to renew their relations; 
 but Luigia would not consent, although she told him she loved 
 him. There was no common future, she said, for them, for 
 Dorlange had forsaken art for a political career. They parted for- 
 ever. Sallenauve's regrets for the life of Dorlange, the sculptor, 
 were silenced by Bricheteau, who pictured his brilliant future. 
 
 The Chambers were opened; Sallenauve had not been 
 present at the royal sitting, and his absence had caused some 
 sensation in the Democratic party. Maxime was ready with 
 a petition from the peasant woman. The legality of the elec- 
 tion was questioned; but Rastignac's damaging speech was 
 interrupted by the culprit's entrance. 
 
 " Danton minus the smallpox," a voice cried, as Sallenauve 
 went up to the tribune; and everyone noticed the likeness to 
 that fiery orator. 
 
 The member for Arcis gave a fine defense. The president 
 then put the question of the validity of Sallenauve's election to 
 vote. He was admitted and took the oaths.
 
 THE MIDDLE CLASSES (1854) 
 
 This novel was left unfinished by Balzac, and it is supposed to have been 
 completed by Charles Rabou, whom Balzac chose to continue it. Balzac had 
 been at work upon it a long time, frequently laying it aside for other things. 
 It appears from his correspondence that it was very nearly finished at the time 
 of his death, and all the principal scenes were sketched out, if not entirely finished, 
 even to the last chapter. 
 
 >j|HE Thuillier family occupied one of those great 
 houses in Paris which, formerly the abode of 
 the nobility, retain traces of former grandeur. 
 Mademoiselle Thuillier owned this house, hav- 
 ing by saving and clever investing gradually be- 
 come rich. This remarkable woman ruled her 
 brother, a retired government clerk, handsome 
 but empty-headed, and the insignificant wife his 
 sister had chosen for him. She rented the floors 
 of the house not used by the family, and held a salon every 
 Sunday evening with her tenants and a few friends. 
 
 Among the frequenters of her salon were Monsieur Dutocq, 
 a government clerk, Monsieur and Madame Colleville, the 
 latter handsome and ambitious, and their daughter, the -pretty 
 Celeste; Monsieur and Madame Phellion and their son, Felix, 
 Monsieur a highly respected man in the arrondissement and 
 Felix a student and professor of mathematics in the Royal 
 College. Monsieur Minard, who had made a fortune in adul- 
 terating groceries but who was now a pattern of benevolence, 
 with his wife and son, together with the lodger on the top floor, 
 Monsieur de la Peyrade, were the remaining principal persons 
 of the group. 
 
 Monsieur and Madame Thuillier had no children; but as 
 Celeste Colleville was their godchild, they looked upon her as 
 their own, and she had the promise of inheriting the united 
 fortunes of Madame and Mademoiselle. The three young men 
 aspired to her hand with differing motives — Felix, from affec- 
 
 277
 
 278 THE MIDDLE CLASSES 
 
 tion, Julien Minard, from desire for her money, and De la Pey- 
 rade, with the desperate hope that it might save him from the 
 abyss of degradation which, unknown to the simple group, 
 yawned under his feet. 
 
 Theodose de la Peyrade had come to Paris a few years 
 previously and had been admitted to the bar. He had not 
 advanced in his profession, but continued as an advocate, de- 
 voting himself ostentatiously to the service of the poor. He 
 was, in fact, an adventurer, of an honest family in the province, 
 but a Tartuffe in character, who made trickery and hypocrisy 
 his means of advancement in life. He had two associates in 
 vice, Cerizet and the clerk Dutocq. The latter, also masking 
 under false pretenses, while highly thought of by the Thuilliers, 
 had introduced Peyrade to them. Cerizet was a man of power- 
 ful intellect, who had formerly edited a ministerial journal, but 
 who, sinking lower and lower, now kept a sort of quick-loan 
 shop for the lowest of the poor in the most disreputable quarter 
 of Paris. These two had befriended Peyrade in a time of ex- 
 tremity and had loaned him fifty thousand francs. They held 
 him by this chain, now that he was rising in the world and 
 hoped to marry the young heiress, Celeste. The three held 
 together, although each suspected the other of treachery. 
 Cerizet's appearance was so terrible, from a life of dissipation, 
 that he never came with the others to the Latin Quarter. Pey- 
 rade began his flatteries by making love to Madame Colleville, 
 by praising Brigitte's cooking, and by laughing at Thuillier's 
 jokes. 
 
 Cerizet had concocted a plan to make Brigitte Thuillier buy 
 a house near the Madeleine. The procedure was illegal on 
 account of some difficulty with the builders, but it would prove 
 profitable. Cerizet himself intended to rent from her and sub- 
 let to actual tenants, making a large profit. 
 
 De la Peyrade agreed to this, because it fell in with his 
 plans. To carry them out, he first suggested to Thuillier, an 
 incompetent fool, that he should obtain a seat in the Municipal 
 Council, and won over old Phellion, virtuous but pompous, to 
 voting for him against his own convictions. He promised to 
 get Thuillier the cross of the Legion of Honor and to write a 
 political pamphlet for him.
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 279 
 
 His next step was to take advantage of Brigitte's joy in the 
 election of her idolized brother to persuade her into buying 
 the house, as necessary to his new dignity. 
 
 He then approached Thuillier with his plan of marrying 
 Celeste. Thuillier agreed to this, and the two influenced 
 Brigitte, the supreme power in the family, to approve and to 
 promise her own and Madame Thuillier's fortunes as her 
 dowry. In addition, he informed Thuillier that as it was very 
 necessary to win over the girl's mother by flattery and judicious 
 management, it would be better to say nothing of these plans 
 for the present. 
 
 The only thing in the way of this match was the inclination 
 of Celeste herself. She loved Felix. She was an ardent Cath- 
 olic and talked often with him about religion, as he was in- 
 different to the faith. The two were tacitly engaged, but 
 De la Peyrade, having managed the property question, turned 
 himself to embroiling the lovers, which he did by adroitly foster- 
 ing their religious differences. 
 
 In these operations De la Peyrade had acted entirely for him- 
 self. He had outwitted his two companions and was preparing 
 to cast them off as soon as he felt himself to be strong enough. 
 They knew this well, and Cerizet prepared a pitfall for him. 
 He summoned him to a visit at his own sordid stronghold. 
 Cerizet was talking with Mother Cardinal, a fish-hawker with 
 a voice of iron, when he entered, and seemed preoccupied with 
 a new idea, but almost immediately turned his attention to 
 De la Peyrade, and put it to him plainly that he must get him 
 the lease of the new house, or he would foreclose one of his 
 acceptances. This was a blow to De la Peyrade, for, despite 
 his success, he could not command the money. He therefore 
 promised to bring the lease to a dinner on the following Tuesday. 
 
 Good luck seemed coming Cerizet's way. Madame Car- 
 dinal had told him of the approaching death of an old uncle 
 of hers, a miser. Cerizet accepted her proposition to help her 
 carry off his gold before his death. This scheme was foiled by 
 the appearance of a little old man at the very moment when 
 Cerizet had his hand on the treasure, and even in his success 
 he found himself in danger of the police. 
 
 This old man was Monsieur du Portail, who occupied the
 
 280 THE MIDDLE CLASSES 
 
 first floor with his niece, a girl crazed by some misfortune. He 
 spoke with an air of authority, and instead of having Cerizet 
 arrested, commanded him to call on him the next morning. 
 
 At this call it devolved that the niece was a cousin of 
 De la Peyrade's; that her malady was one that physicians said 
 would be cured by marriage; and that M. du Portail intended 
 that Peyrade should marry her. Cerizet told the old man 
 something of Peyrade's plans; that Dutocq's introduction of 
 him to the Thuilliers was intended ultimately to repay himself 
 and Cerizet from Celeste's dowry, and was told in return that 
 the miser, Torpillon, had left his fortune to the crazed girl, 
 Mademoiselle Lydie de la Peyrade. Du Portail further ex- 
 plained that this was a restitution, as years before the jewels 
 had been stolen from Lydie's mother, a celebrated actress, and 
 confided by the actual thief to Torpillon, who had afterward 
 refused to renounce them. Du Portail had discovered this 
 and had compelled Torpillon to make a will in the girl's favor, 
 not only of the jewels, but of all his property. Thus Cerizet 
 could see that Peyrade would be rich if he married his cousin. 
 Du Portail therefore proposed to him, as the price of his own 
 silence in regard to the attempted robbery, to buy Peyrade's 
 acceptances from Dutocq, thus getting the former into his own 
 power. Cerizet agreed to this, with an idea of making an ad- 
 ditional commission himself out of the transaction. 
 
 De la Peyrade came to this dinner in a gay mood. He coolly 
 told Cerizet that he could not have the lease of the house, as 
 Mademoiselle intended to look after her own renting, and as 
 for Dutocq's acceptances, he should have the money for them. 
 He then left, humming a tune, and paid their bill at the desk, 
 as a bit of effrontery, after carelessly dismissing Cerizet's propo- 
 sition that he should marry his cousin instead of Celeste. 
 
 Cerizet, downcast at his double failure, confessed it to M. 
 du Portail, who merely remarked that he should have to look 
 after the business himself. 
 
 De la Peyrade was in the habit of attending early mass in his 
 parish church. He had noticed a woman of saintly appearance 
 and plain dress watching him constantly. On the morning of 
 the dinner he had spoken to her and found that she desired to 
 confide to him, as his reputation as a friend of the poor was
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 281 
 
 great, the sum of twenty-five thousand francs, a legacy. He, 
 promising to invest them for her, and giving her no receipt, 
 found himself, just in time, able to rid himself of his shackles 
 by paying Dutocq, which he did to the last cent. She was a 
 woman who served Monsieur Picot, the astronomer, nearly 
 blind and absent-minded, and this money was the result of her 
 thieving. 
 
 It was not so good for Peyrade as it seemed, to keep the 
 whole business of renting Mademoiselle Thuillier's house in 
 her own hands. The old bourgeoise, feeling a timidity in doing 
 business in a fashionable quarter, put herself entirely into the 
 hands of a tenant who suddenly appeared, a Hungarian 
 countess, Madame Godollo. The Thuilliers decided to oc- 
 cupy their new house, and help was needed to furnish their 
 apartment suitably. This help Madame Godollo, a woman 
 of most lofty pretensions to fashion, was ready to give. Won- 
 derful bargains in furniture, draperies, and carpets were secured 
 through her agency, and she soon occupied the position of 
 social mentor to these good people, unused to the customs of 
 polite society. De la Peyrade felt that his own influence was 
 waning, and, worse than this, the Countess Godollo made no 
 pretense of her opposition to the match with Celeste. 
 
 Another thing troubled him. There was a mysterious 
 obstacle to his obtaining the cross for Thuillier, which he had 
 been sincere in promising. He felt that he had reached a 
 point where he must strike a decisive blow. 
 
 Accordingly one morning, while they were working over 
 the famous pamphlet, he stopped and refused to go on. Thuil- 
 lier, alarmed, asked him the reason. He replied frankly that 
 Madame Godollo's influence was against his marriage, and 
 said that if the friendship was to continue the matter must be 
 settled within two weeks. Brigitte, on being consulted, agreed, 
 saying nevertheless that these machinations were not to her 
 taste; and Celeste was told that she must decide between 
 Peyrade and Felix within that time. 
 
 At first the liberty to follow her own inclinations pleased the 
 young girl, but De la Peyrade had not miscalculated the force of 
 her religious convictions. The two quarreled, and the quarrel 
 would have been irreconcilable had it not been for the inter-
 
 282 THE MIDDLE CLASSES 
 
 ference of Madame Godollo, which brought the affair to a 
 standstill. By this, De la Peyrade became fully certain of 
 the hostility of the Countess, and determined to try his pow- 
 ers upon her. On the day Celeste's decision was to be an- 
 nounced, he called upon her in her magnificent rooms in the 
 entresol. 
 
 He was kept waiting some time in the reception-room, and, 
 chancing to look out of the window, he beheld a little old man 
 decorated with many orders stepping into an emblazoned car- 
 riage. The Countess entered, with apologies for tardiness on 
 account of another visitor of importance. Her attitude to him- 
 self was one of mystery and possible coquetry. When he left 
 her he thought that a secret love for himself might be the cause 
 of her behavior. This from a woman skilled in the arts of 
 attraction, surrounded as she was with the evidences of wealth, 
 influenced him, although in his dealings with women he was 
 usually guided merely by motives of policy. Her management 
 of him had been so adroit that later, when Thuillier told him 
 that Celeste accepted him, but entirely as a sacrifice to their 
 wishes, he allowed his cold judgment to be warped, and instead 
 of clinching the matter himself he suggested waiting a little 
 longer. 
 
 The great pamphlet was at length finished, and Thuillier 
 haunted the book-stalls to witness the extent of its sale. To 
 his humiliation, only four copies were sold. The bookseller 
 then suggested a breakfast to the press, which the misguided 
 man gave, and which contributed still more to his humiliation, 
 as almost nobody came and those who did come were of the 
 lowest order. 
 
 In the midst of this sad feast, the news was brought that 
 the whole edition had been seized, as containing illegal printed 
 matter. Thuillier and his companion immediately withdrew, 
 the former in the greatest agitation. 
 
 In the despair following this bit of ill luck, Peyrade again 
 sought the Countess. At this second visit she led him con- 
 clusively to believe in her love for him. She declared also that 
 she had great influence in high quarters, and told him that it 
 was at her behest the pamphlets had been seized. Peyrade 
 was all the more ready to believe in this influence from another
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 283 
 
 glimpse of the little old man, decorated with orders, going from 
 her door, and from seeing letters addressed to the Commandant 
 waiting to be posted in the foyer. 
 
 The Countess intimated that what she had done was for 
 the purpose of deterring him from the match with the little 
 bourgeoise and mating him with a nobler, more congenial soul 
 in herself. Losing his head entirely, Peyrade declared to her 
 that the struggle was over and that she had won. He then 
 rushed from the house in a mood of great exaltation. 
 
 The next morning he disclosed to Thuillier that the seizure 
 of the pamphlets was an irremediable misfortune, and took 
 the high hand with him in a quarrel, in which Brigitte soon 
 participated. He renounced his claim to Celeste, and gave 
 Brigitte no great satisfaction when she coarsely reminded him 
 of the ten thousand francs given for the promised cross, which 
 had not been forthcoming. 
 
 De la Peyrade had fallen completely into the Countess Go- 
 dollo's trap. Having done her work, she now disappeared, 
 leaving a letter giving the information that by embroiling him 
 with the Thuilliers and Collevilles she had blessed him in dis- 
 guise, for a richer bride than Celeste awaited him. She re- 
 ferred him to M. du Portail, Rue Honore-Chevalier, who was 
 expecting him. 
 
 The shock of this disappointment was too much for the 
 Provencal. His health gave way, and an attack of fever con- 
 fined him to his room for some time. The Thuilliers, on their 
 part, reveled in the freedom resulting from his absence. The 
 brother strutted like a turkey-cock, and Brigitte indulged in 
 all her petty economies and bourgeois tricks. 
 
 Still another turn in the wheel brought to Thuillier the 
 opportunity of buying a journal, L'Echo de la Bievre. De la Pey- 
 rade had formed some feeble resolutions of leading a respectable 
 life after his illness, but could not resist this chance of regaining 
 his ascendancy. Meeting Thuillier opportunely, he proposed 
 to him to buy the journal and to install himself as editor-in- 
 chief, at an excellent salary, with Cerizet as manager. The 
 pretense was that it would insure Thuillier's election to the 
 Chamber. The latter, inflated with success, and in spite of 
 his former experiences with the adroit Peyrade, yielded to his
 
 284 THE MIDDLE CLASSES 
 
 clever arguments, and fell more completely under his power 
 than before. 
 
 Du Portail now had occasion to interview Cerizet again. 
 He discovered him to be deeply in debt. His debts must be 
 paid before he could take the place offered. 
 
 "I see I've got to stand the money myself," said Du Portail, 
 "but the question is, whether your presence in the affair is 
 worth it." 
 
 "Dame!" said Cerizet; "if I were only installed there, 
 I would soon have De la Peyrade and Thuillier at logger- 
 heads." 
 
 Accordingly, he was installed, for to checkmate Peyrade 
 was what Du Portail wanted most. 
 
 The two concocted a story to be told Thuillier: that the 
 twenty-five thousand francs, of which they had learned the 
 history, had been obtained from the police, as a reward for 
 De la Peyrade's inserting some traitorous paragraphs in the 
 pamphlet, leading to its seizure. 
 
 Cerizet laid his plans with great skill to carry this out, and 
 brought things to such a point that Thuillier demanded of 
 Peyrade information as to where he got the twenty-five thousand 
 francs which came in so opportunely for buying his acceptances 
 from Dutocq. 
 
 The Provencal saw that without confession he would have 
 the newly recovered future cut from beneath his feet. So he 
 told them frankly that they were the savings of a domestic that 
 had been confided to him, and offered to summon this person 
 by a note. 
 
 Madame Lambert, the saintly thief, appeared. She at first 
 denied the transaction, but on Peyrade's calling the others to 
 witness that Madame, according to her own statement, never 
 had twenty-five thousand francs, and consequently could not 
 have given that sum to him; and that, as the notary, Depuis, 
 with whom he fancied he had placed them, had left Paris that 
 morning, carrying with him all his clients' money, he had a 
 clear account with Madame, and 
 
 "The notary Depuis has absconded!" cried Madame Lam- 
 bert; "the wretch! the villain! when only this morning he 
 took the communion!"
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 285 
 
 "That was doubtless to pray for a safe journey," replied 
 Peyrade. 
 
 "Monsieur can talk lightly enough about it," continued 
 Madame Lambert, "but that brigand has carried off all my 
 savings." 
 
 De la Peyrade had triumphed once more. The marriage was 
 again arranged and the day arrived when the ceremony was to 
 be performed. The Provencal felt that his struggle to achieve 
 respectability and fortune was over, as the wedding-party were 
 gathered in the drawing-room preparatory to going to the 
 notary's, when Henri came in to say that an aged gentleman, 
 wearing decorations, had asked to be received on very urgent 
 business. 
 
 The interview was enormously prolonged. Brigitte and even 
 De la Peyrade himself were not above putting their eyes to the 
 keyhole, to discover what was keeping Thuillier. At last the 
 old gentleman was seen to get into an elegant carriage and 
 drive rapidly away. Thuillier rejoined the others, and with a 
 grave face thus addressed De la Peyrade: 
 
 " My dear De la Peyrade, you did not inform me that another 
 proposal of marriage had been considered seriously by you. 
 Were I in your place, I should go at once to see Monsieur du 
 Portail." 
 
 "Again that name! It pursues me like remorse!" cried 
 De la Peyrade. 
 
 "Yes, go to him at once; he awaits you. That is an in- 
 dispensable preliminary before we proceed further. When 
 you shall have seen this honest gentleman — well, if you persist 
 in demanding Celeste's hand, we may carry out our plans; 
 until then we shall take no further steps." 
 
 De la Peyrade had at last met his match. Du Portail con- 
 fessed himself to be the great detective Corentin, and he dis- 
 closed to the Provencal his power. He it was who had pur- 
 sued him from the beginning, who had sent the Godollo, an 
 adventuress, to the Thuilliers, who had annulled the promise 
 of the cross, who had had the pamphlets seized ; and he added 
 that it had been his care to incite all the journals to a persecu- 
 tion of M. Thuillier, which must end in his political defeat. 
 
 Corentin offered to De la Peyrade, as the sole field in which
 
 286 THE MIDDLE CLASSES 
 
 his abilities might now be exercised, a connection with the 
 department of the police. The young man, seeing in every 
 other direction he might turn only a cul-de-sac, felt this to be 
 a not uncongenial solution of his difficulties. 
 
 When, later, Corentin confronted him with the darkest 
 crime of his past, the ruin of his own cousin, Lydie, in the 
 person of the girl herself, his yielding to the great man's domina- 
 tion was complete. He recalled and explained to him that 
 chapter of his life, telling him that his uncle, victim of a diabol- 
 ical intrigue, had fallen into a situation where his own daughter 
 must be sacrificed, and that he, De la Peyrade, had been chosen 
 to carry out this deadly plot. This was the secret of his deter- 
 mination that De la Peyrade should marry Lydie, for her father, 
 De la Peyrade's uncle, had been his own dearest friend. De la 
 Peyrade yielded to his fate and found thenceforth a legitimate 
 outlet for his powers of intrigue in .the service of the police. 
 
 His last attention to the Thuillier family was an editorial 
 in L'Echo, in which he announced, in the name of the great 
 statesman himself, that he had forever, and in the best interests 
 of his constituency, renounced public life. To the great rage 
 of that noble man, Thuillier, this resignation was completely 
 effectual, and never again could he aspire to political distinction. 
 
 The Thuillier family soon moved back into the Latin Quar- 
 ter, where they resumed their lives of sober, respectable, and 
 worthy bourgeoisie, the honorable lives of the salvation of 
 France — the Middle Classes.
 
 JOHN BANIM 
 
 (Ireland, 1798-1842) 
 BOYNE WATER (1826) 
 
 The scenes of this tragic tale are laid in the time of the bitter civil war in 
 Ireland between the partizans of King James II and his son-in-law, William 
 of Orange. 
 
 [N the next day after James the Second was pro- 
 claimed King of Great Britain, a young Prot- 
 estant gentleman and his sister, Robert and 
 Esther Evelyn, were traveling along a rough 
 road in the north of Ireland. While descending 
 a hill, Esther's horse became unmanageable, 
 and the young lady would have perished had it 
 not been for a young Irishman and his sister, 
 Edmund and Eva MacDonell, who came to their 
 rescue and took the fatigued and frightened party of travelers 
 to their own home in a glen near by. 
 
 On their way there, a strange, uncanny woman, Onagh by 
 name, who lived in a cave and was deemed a witch, intercepted 
 them and foretold to Eva MacDonell that she would love 
 Robert Evelyn and might safely do so, though the blessing 
 would come late; but said that in Esther Evelyn she saw the 
 face which Edmund MacDonell must shun, on peril of dire 
 sorrow. 
 
 At the MacDonells' home, the Evelyn party were enter- 
 tained with generous hospitality, and soon after this Edmund 
 and Eva MacDonell went to visit Evelyn and his sister at their 
 cottage on the coast ; and as the four young folks were all fresh 
 of heart, enthusiastic and imaginative, and as peace, even the 
 rare peace of sectarian toleration, was in the land, they naturally 
 fell in love. Even their contrasts of character drew them to- 
 
 287
 
 288 BOYNE WATER 
 
 gether and helped to unite the fiery- spirited Eva with the 
 matter-of-fact Robert Evelyn; and to make the weak and tender 
 Esther love the bold and manly Edmund MacDonell. 
 
 Many delightful months were passed by the four lovers in 
 the enjoyment of repeating the usual sweet vows, protestations, 
 and caresses. But Evelyn was not yet twenty-one, and, more- 
 over, was obliged from business reasons to make a lengthy 
 voyage across the Atlantic. On returning home, Evelyn landed 
 in Dublin and was met by MacDonell with the warmest greet- 
 ings. But so heated was the political atmosphere by that time 
 that a toast to King James could not be drunk in the tavern 
 where they dined without raising a brawl. 
 
 On the first night that the united friends slept under the 
 same roof, each was approached by clerical plotters, who sought 
 to enlist the young men on their respective sides and who urged 
 their causes so hotly that each was prevailed upon to make a 
 conditional engagement to fight with the party to which by 
 inheritance he belonged. 
 
 The young men journeyed together to MacDonell's home 
 with a reserve and embarrassment between them never before 
 known; but the long-awaited meeting was happy with the 
 mutual embraces of brothers and sisters, and lovers. 
 
 The preparations for the double wedding went merrily on. 
 On several occasions, however, the young lovers were each 
 seriously disturbed by various incidents, rumors of Popish 
 plots, despatches announcing the speedy landing of William of 
 Orange in England, the secret drilling of Catholic peasants, 
 conducted by Edmund, and tragic warnings to Esther from 
 the witch, Onagh, that a shroud, not a bridal robe, awaited her. 
 Nevertheless, the lovers, closing ears and eyes to all these omens, 
 were determined to be married at the time appointed. 
 
 When the day and hour came, the guests, bridesmaids, and 
 priest were ready. The Protestant clergyman, however, had 
 not arrived. A disagreeable pause ensued. The company 
 waited, hour after hour. At length, when darkness came, it 
 was decided to proceed without the clergyman. In the midst 
 of a heavy storm, Robert Evelyn and Eva MacDonell were 
 married by the Catholic ceremonial. 
 
 At last the Protestant minister, Mr. Walker, arrived with
 
 JOHN BANIM 289 
 
 the tidings that William, Prince of Orange, had landed in Eng- 
 land. This news convulsed the whole bridal party with dis- 
 cordant passions. Edmund was urged by the Catholics not to 
 dishonor his name and blood by taking to his bosom a heretic. 
 Evelyn and the Protestant clergyman denounced this as a 
 breach of faith, and Evelyn was bidden by his friends to lead 
 his sister away from that idolatrous roof. Eva and Edmund 
 MacDonell felt themselves insulted by such language, and re- 
 torted by accusing Evelyn of being a secret plotter against 
 King James and against the very friends who would take him 
 to their bosoms. 
 
 "Scandalous men!" cried out the old priest from the altar 
 to both parties; "interrupt not the conferring of a sacrament; 
 tear not asunder those whom God is about to make one. Peace ! 
 and let the marriage be finished." 
 
 The words "traitor" and "betrayer" were fiercely bandied 
 to and fro. Edmund sprang to the altar and seized his sister's 
 cold hand. 
 
 "I forbid this marriage!" he said. "And I," said Eva, 
 "renounce the former one; your own priest there has told you 
 it is invalid. Think it so, and farewell, Robert — forever. 
 Brother, your hand." 
 
 "Be that as it may," Evelyn retorted, "this lady shall never 
 be his bride," and he led his sister Esther down the altar- 
 steps. 
 
 Just then a screaming, discordant voice at the side window, 
 accompanied by frantic hand-clapping, cried "Never!" A 
 glare of red light broke through all the apertures in the chapel ; 
 and from window after window was heard the shrill voice of 
 the witch Onagh, "Never! Never!" rising above the chapel- 
 roof like a tongue of the tempest. 
 
 This wretched ending of what had been expected would be 
 the happiest of events filled all four lovers with the bitterest 
 feelings. Edmund and his sister took public and active part 
 in organizing and encouraging the militia troops to uphold 
 King James. Evelyn at first made several earnest efforts to 
 reach and talk with his bride. But while she saved his life 
 from attacks of her own partizans, she told him that hence- 
 forth they were strangers. "Farewell, sir! Poor renegade 
 a.d., vol. n. — 19
 
 2 9 o BOYNE WATER 
 
 from the altar and the throne; perjured in love and loyalty 
 to man, to Heaven, and to me, farewell!" 
 
 It was rumored that the Catholics had conspired to murder 
 the Protestants on the ninth of the month, and Evelyn removed 
 his sister Esther to what he was told was the safest place for 
 Protestants in this crisis, the city of Deny. 
 
 A regiment of King James's army was just on the point of 
 entering this town, when the populace shut the city gates in 
 the face of the soldiers. The dreaded 9th of December, 1688, 
 passed in quiet. Nevertheless, the Protestant revolt spread. 
 But Evelyn still hesitated to take up arms for the Prince 
 of Orange and so further estrange his wife from him. While 
 deliberating what course to adopt, he made a journey to his 
 family estate. Unfortunately, approaching his home in the 
 night, he found it occupied and plundered by a roving com- 
 pany of Catholic guerrillas, called "the Rapparees." In a fray 
 between them and the Protestants, Evelyn's house was burned, 
 he nearly lost his life, and was saved only by the wit and courage 
 of an Irish peasant girl, Moya Laherty. Indignant at the con- 
 duct of these miscreants, and at a king and government in whose 
 name such lawless outrages were perpetrated, Evelyn was 
 moved openly and actively to join the Protestant troops, and 
 became the captain of a company. Journeying to Derry to 
 join his sister, he fell in with a company of soldiers commanded 
 by Edmund MacDonell and would have been made a prisoner 
 if MacDonell in his generosity had not refused to accept his 
 surrender. In a night journey together, the two young men 
 ignored all differences for the time, and helped each other 
 through terrible dangers both from inhospitable Nature and 
 human foes. Near Red Bay, Eva, with a number of the 
 MacDonell retainers, met them, protected them from a band 
 of their pursuers, and conducted them first to the house of 
 Father MacDonell and next to the great cliff by the sea, called 
 "The Fair-head." 
 
 On the way Evelyn tried many times to lead Eva into some 
 acknowledgment of her forgiveness of the past, but for a long 
 time in vain. At length they toilsomely climbed to the summit 
 of the Fair-head and looked off over the ocean far and wide, 
 even to the Isles of Scotland. After gazing for some time spell-
 
 JOHN BANIM 291 
 
 bound at the grand view, Evelyn and Eva climbed down a nar- 
 row fissure between huge basaltic columns, which made a tre- 
 mendous staircase a thousand feet high from the shore to the 
 top of the bluff. Here, overcome with emotion, Evelyn begged 
 Eva to forgive the past and assured her of his unchanging love. 
 Eva assured him that, however much she had felt alienated, 
 she recognized the bond of her marriage vow and her heart 
 could not be indifferent to his dangers and his affection. 
 
 But when they considered their future course, both felt that 
 the political and religious causes to which they had respectively 
 committed themselves could not with honor be abandoned. 
 Each urged the other to withdraw from the contest and remain 
 neutral. But neither was willing to do so. 
 
 Bitter as the trial was, it was at length agreed that neither 
 had a right to force the inclinations of the other, and that, while 
 the political conflict lasted, they should live as strangers to each 
 other, except in heart, until they could meet in undivided love. 
 Resolute as each was against yielding up the cause that seemed 
 so imperative, yet both felt the pity and the unreasonableness 
 of their strife. 
 
 "Oh, Robert!" cried Eva, "did God ever ordain that His 
 children should be cruelly tortured merely by a difference of 
 forms in loving Him? Why are hearts thus separated?" 
 
 "Because," replied Evelyn, "from the beginning of the 
 world, ambitious princes and churchmen, captains and poli- 
 ticians, have deliberately made God's name a watchword for 
 monopoly." 
 
 "And when," asked Eva, "shall religion bring peace and 
 good- will to men?" 
 
 "When men of every sect," answered her husband, "be- 
 come sufficiently awake to their own happiness to separate re- 
 ligion from politics, and churchmen from politicians; to bow 
 down reverently and sincerely before the minister of religion 
 as such, but to confine him to his ministry." 
 
 Soon after this, a party of Protestant horsemen surprised 
 them and arrested Edmund MacDonell. All the explanations 
 and pleadings of Evelyn for his friend were in vain, and all the 
 mitigation of the arrest that he could obtain was that MacDonell 
 should remain as Evelyn's prisoner, only giving his parole not
 
 292 BOYNE WATER 
 
 to escape. Evelyn went to Deny to join his sister Esther, 
 Edmund attending him as a prisoner. 
 
 Here Evelyn gave MacDonell permission to visit his be- 
 trothed as often as he pleased, and the two lovers enjoyed un- 
 interrupted dreams of a happy future. One day when com- 
 missioners from the besieged city went forth to King James's 
 camp to treat with him and his generals concerning a surrender, 
 Evelyn and MacDonell were permitted to accompany the 
 commissioners. A Scottish sergeant pointed MacDonell out 
 to the Catholic commander. In spite of the explanation 
 offered, the two brothers-in-law were arrested as traitors, tied 
 back to back, and a dozen musketeers were ordered out to 
 execute them. Their eyes were bandaged and the friends had 
 grasped hands, as the click of the locks was heard, only to 
 have their bandages pulled off and MacDonell offered his life 
 if he would shoot his friend Evelyn. In a mad rage, MacDonell 
 turned the musket on the tormenting general and singed his 
 hair with his shot. The soldiers leaped upon the two friends, 
 who in their turn grappled with their foes. In the midst of 
 the melee King James rode up, and MacDonell appealed to 
 him for protection. After much discussion it was decided that 
 neither man was a traitor and that, under the safe-conduct 
 promised by King James, the two should go back to Deny. 
 
 The siege dragged slowly along amidst terrible sufferings. 
 There were thirty thousand people in the city and only ten 
 days' provision for them. To protect Esther, it was decided 
 that she ought to marry MacDonell as soon as possible. The 
 young men agreed that they could not ask a Protestant clergy- 
 man to perform the ceremony, and to get a priest was difficult. 
 So it was determined to summon Eva and Father MacDonell, 
 and a message was sent to them. Weeks elapsed, however, 
 and no answer came. Edmund was reduced to one coarse 
 meal a day, and Esther's pallid cheek and sunken eyes curdled 
 her lover's blood with gloomy apprehensions. At last a note 
 was brought back from Eva, advising them that she was now 
 in the Irish camp, attended by the old clergyman, and that four 
 nights from the date of her writing she would meet them. 
 
 The three in disguise contrived to pass the lines and get out 
 to Columb-KilPs well, where Eva and the old priest met them.
 
 JOHN BANIM 293 
 
 The priest had already begun the marriage ceremony when a 
 body of Protestant horsemen came down upon them and 
 arrested them all. The soldiers took the three who had come 
 out from Derry back to the besieged city, Esther screaming 
 wildly because of the treachery of Onagh, the witch, by whose 
 information the marriage had again been frustrated. The 
 supply of food in the besieged city fell so low that considerable 
 sums were offered for cats, rats, mice, horse-blood, rawhides, 
 and such like offal. More than ten thousand of these people 
 had died. Edmund was laid low with a fever, and when he was 
 well enough to totter to his Esther's house, he found her wasted 
 to a shadow and in the last stages of consumption. After a 
 moment of frenzied agitation, he burst out of the room into the 
 street and ran about like a maniac, demanding food. Some 
 rude men, pitying him, gave him food and wine, with which he 
 sought Esther. Finding her in church, he bore her frantically 
 to the walls whence they could look out on the river, where an 
 English fleet, with store-ships, under the command of General 
 Kirke, were attempting to ascend the stream to relieve the be- 
 sieged people. Ship after ship essayed in vain to break the 
 ponderous boom with which the besiegers had obstructed the 
 river. At length, amidst a hoarse cry of joy, one strong ship 
 struck the huge barricade and broke it in pieces, and the fleet 
 sailed in with its succor for the starving city. Edmund ex- 
 ultantly called on Esther to eat, and to hear the shouts that 
 hailed their rescue. But the shock of joy, added to the strain 
 of famine and despair, and the voice of the dreaded witch 
 Onagh, which at this moment sounded in her ears, was too 
 much for her. Edmund caught her up, but when he saw she 
 was dead he swooned with her in his arms. 
 
 Both of the young men now fell victims to the fever, and Eva 
 came to nurse them. Edmund had been dismissed from his 
 regiment with a degrading sentence, and the injustice of this, 
 as well as the bitter grief from Esther's loss, rankled in his 
 heart. After they had one evening secretly visited Esther's 
 grave, they departed together for the MacDonell homestead. 
 When they reached it they found their old home half burned 
 and the bodies of their followers, who had dared to remain by 
 it, hanging from trees near it. The blind harper, Carolan, was
 
 294 BOYNE WATER 
 
 sitting on his accustomed stone, smilingly singing a merry tune; 
 but on the blood-clotted hearthstone lay the corpse of Father 
 MacDonell, his head covered with red gashes that told what a 
 brave fight he had fought against his foes. Over the mangled 
 corpse, the half-crazed brother and sister clasped hands and 
 swore a terrible oath of revenge. Eva's screams called down 
 upon them General Kirke and his English soldiers. Edmund 
 seized his father's sword from his dead hand and cut down the 
 first invaders. Evelyn and the Protestant clergyman in vain 
 sought to save their friends by exhibiting their protection papers. 
 Then the Rapparees came to their rescue and almost strangled 
 General Kirke. More English soldiers came up. Edmund 
 denounced Evelyn (as he kept him back from a useless attack 
 on the overwhelming force of the enemy) as one who held him 
 to betray him to the foe; the Rapparee captain struck Evelyn 
 with the butt of his pistol, and he dropped insensible. When 
 he regained his senses, all were gone except the peasant girl, 
 Moya Laherty, who held his head on her lap. She had band- 
 aged his wounded head, and told him that MacDonell had been 
 called away and that his sister had been carried off by the dis- 
 solute and cruel General Kirke. The girl further urged him, 
 as all his friends had abandoned him and as so many enemies 
 were seeking his life, to go away with her to her cabin in a 
 distant valley and give her the peace and love she had longed 
 for, while she served and comforted him. Evelyn refused and 
 thus incurred the unscrupulous enmity of the jealous girl. 
 
 Soon after this he found himself arrested by General Kirke 
 as one who had aided rebels; but after investigation and a duel 
 with Kirke, in which he nearly perished, he was appointed an 
 aide-de-camp to General Schomberg, in command of King 
 William's troops. After several months' service in Ireland, 
 he was sent to London to carry despatches to King William. 
 On the eve of his departure he found among his belongings a 
 sealed note from Eva, returning her marriage ring and declar- 
 ing that his course had made their separation indispensable; 
 and besides that, she added, ruin and degradation had come 
 between them. This brought to a horrid certainty his worst 
 apprehensions on Eva's account in connection with General 
 Kirke.
 
 JOHN BANIM 295 
 
 In London, Evelyn, with his deputation, was summoned 
 to King William's palace at Kensington, and there he caught 
 sight of a youth whose dress, face, and figure were strangely 
 like those of Eva disguised in man's attire. In a secluded spot, 
 the youth drew a dagger from his bosom, half bared it, and 
 kissed it fervently. But when Evelyn advanced a step, the 
 unknown one darted into the thick shrubbery and disappeared. 
 This sight awakened the most dreadful thoughts in Evelyn's 
 brain, suggesting that Eva had given herself over to wild and 
 ruinous revenge on King William. 
 
 On returning to Ireland, after many months, Evelyn anx- 
 iously sought to reach and speak with his wife. By the kindness 
 of General Sarsfield (to whom he frankly told his story and his 
 object), he was invited to accompany him to a reception at 
 Dublin Castle. There he saw and spoke with King James 
 and caught a glimpse of his wife. He pushed toward her to 
 speak to her, but the bustling group of courtiers and ladies-in- 
 waiting obstructed his passage until she had disappeared. 
 
 Rejoining the Protestant army, of which King William had 
 personally taken command, Evelyn took a prominent part as 
 an aide-de-camp in the famous battle of " Boyne Water." His 
 fidelity and intrepidity exposed him to the greatest dangers. 
 At length he was cut off from his comrades and madly struck 
 at the band of horsemen that surrounded him. "To the 
 traitor's heart!" cried a furious assailant; and, as he fell, 
 stunned by a sword-cut, the features of Eva MacDonell swam 
 before his eyes, and Evelyn believed that her sword had been 
 raised to shed his blood. 
 
 When he regained his senses, he found himself the prisoner 
 of General Sarsfield, of King James's army. With him Evelyn 
 went to Dublin, and the next morning at the royal castle he 
 overheard his Eva reproaching King James for having so pre- 
 maturely deserted the field at the battle of the Boyne. Amidst 
 the confusion attending the departure of the King and his 
 retinue for France, Evelyn found opportunity to address a few 
 hurried words to his wife, assuring her of his continued love 
 and begging her to accept his protection and make him happy 
 again. But with a strangely mingled expression of coldness, 
 loftiness, and deepest sorrow, she silently walked away.
 
 296 BOYNE WATER 
 
 With General Sarsfield, Evelyn was taken to Limerick. At 
 a Rapparee camp, Evelyn discovered Edmund MacDonell, 
 acting as their secret commander. But when Evelyn anxiously 
 inquired for Eva, Edmund angrily denounced him as a knave 
 and liar who had basely deserted his wife. 
 
 On returning to Limerick, Evelyn was detained there many 
 trying months while the siege of the city dragged along. At 
 length King William departed, leaving General Ginkle in 
 command of the English forces, but empowered to make any 
 terms of peace with the enemy that seemed at all fair. General 
 Sarsfield and the Catholics had lost their patience, waiting for 
 the promised fleet and reinforcements from France. Even the 
 Papist clergy strongly urged a treaty, and at length, on a memo- 
 rable day, the two commanders-in-chief of the opposing armies, 
 with their lawyers and advisers, met in General Ginkle's camp 
 to discuss and sign a treaty. On this very morning, as Evelyn 
 stood on the walls of Limerick, he encountered James MacDonell. 
 After a long and excited colloquy, in which Carolan, Onagh, 
 and Moya Laherty soon joined, it came out that the stories that 
 had so alienated Edmund and Eva MacDonell from Evelyn, 
 and filled him with suspicion and indignation against them, 
 were chiefly lies and treacheries, for which the revengeful Moya 
 Laherty was responsible. In shame and remorse, the peasant 
 girl confessed that the story that Evelyn had abandoned his 
 wife at the MacDonell homestead and sent back word that he 
 was weary of her love was only an invention of her own. It was 
 Moya also who put the false letter from Eva among Evelyn's 
 effects, and in disguise stole his wedding-ring and other precious 
 tokens and sent them back to his wife, as if he had cast her off. 
 The face that Evelyn had seen in his camp, and again in the 
 garden of King William at Kensington, and on the battlefield 
 of the Boyne Water, seeking his life's blood, was not Eva's, as 
 he had supposed, but that of her younger brother James, whose 
 features strikingly resembled his sister's. James, unknown to 
 Evelyn, had returned from Spain to help the Catholic party 
 by assassinating King William. Evelyn's strongest wish now 
 was to return to Eva's hand their former bond of union, the 
 marriage ring. Soon, conducted by Carolan, Eva appeared. 
 Onagh, Carolan, and James MacDonell disclosed to her the
 
 JOHN BANIM 297 
 
 recently discovered tricks, falsehoods, and misunderstandings 
 that had caused so much trouble, and how the blind harper, 
 Carolan, by long journeys in France and Ireland, had brought 
 the truth to light. The dreadful wrongs that Onagh had 
 suffered at the hands of the MacDonells' dead brother, Donald, 
 were also rehearsed. Eva held out her arms to Evelyn and in 
 a moment was clasped to his heart. But in the very midst of 
 the happiness of reconciliation, a Rapparee messenger came in, 
 seeking General Sarsfield, with the news that Edmund had 
 fallen into the hands of General Ginkle and was about to be 
 shot. Eva, seeking General Sarsfield's aid, learned that he 
 was in the English commander's camp, arranging a treaty of 
 surrender; and inasmuch as she knew that a French fleet was 
 sailing for Limerick to reenforce the Catholic army, she then 
 dashed off to General Ginkle's camp to save her brother and 
 prevent General Sarsfield from signing the treaty of surrender. 
 But the moment before that in which she gained audience with 
 the Irish-Catholic commander he had signed the treaty, and 
 although notified of the near approach of the French fleet, 
 General Sarsfield would not go back on his word of honor. 
 The signing of the treaty barely saved Edmund's life; but it 
 led in a few days to the embarkation upon the French fleet of 
 most of General Sarsfield's officers and men. The MacDonell 
 brothers determined to sail with them to France, to continue 
 fighting for King James's cause. 
 
 Eva was at first resolved, in loyalty to the faith and the King 
 for whom she had so struggled and suffered, to go with her 
 brothers. But Evelyn's pleadings had shaken her determina- 
 tion. Her brothers had already stepped into the boat, and 
 Eva, her eyes blinded with tears, was about to follow them, 
 when Evelyn cried: "And do you indeed leave me with but 
 this mocking symbol of an eternal fate, once solemnly sworn at 
 the altar?" and, as Evelyn caught her arm, he showed her their 
 marriage ring and replaced it on her finger. Her brothers, not 
 displeased, saw which way God and woman's nature at last 
 swayed her. They embraced their sister, while she clung 
 sobbing to them. Then Evelyn clasped her in his arms and 
 the boat put off, leaving husband and wife united at last.
 
 SABINE BARING-GOULD 
 
 (England, 1 834-1 906) 
 GRETTIR THE OUTLAW (i860) 
 
 This story is a transcription of an Icelandic saga entitled Grettir the Strong. 
 With only a Danish grammar of Icelandic available, Mr. Baring-Gould began 
 the translation, first having to learn Danish. He was then a schoolmaster, 
 and wrote after school hours. He had visited Iceland (1861) and had gone 
 over the ground of Grettir's experiences, so that he had a full knowledge of the 
 country. When Iceland was actually discovered is not known, nor is it known 
 when the first Europeans made it their home, but the definite settlement began 
 about 870, when many Norwegians refused to acknowledge the sovereignty 
 of Harold Fairhair. By the year in which Grettir was born, 997, more than fifty 
 thousand persons were distributed along the coast of the island, where haymaking 
 was practicable, the interior being largely a volcanic desert interspersed with 
 rounded mountains of ice, called jokulls. Many of the settlers came from the 
 northern portions of the British Isles, some Norse and some Gaelic. There 
 was no government, each first settler of a locality directing affairs around him. 
 Feuds among the various groups, as well as among individuals, were common, 
 and blood atonement and blood-money settlement were a part of the unwritten 
 law of the time. A sort of parliament was established in 930, called the Althing, 
 with four Things, or subcourts, one for each quarter of the island. The Althing 
 convened once a year, at a place called Thingvellir, for the Lawman to hear 
 grievances and pass judgment. There were no primitive people in Iceland, 
 Eskimos or the like, so far as known, when the Europeans discovered it. The 
 population is, and always has been, entirely European. The farmhouses are 
 built mainly of turf, with front and rear gables of wood. Being almost under 
 the Arctic Circle, Iceland has no darkness in summer and no sunlight in winter. 
 About two hundred and fifty years after the death of Grettir his history was 
 committed to writing, and during this time deeds of other men, as well as fan- 
 tastic legends, were grafted upon it; but the main facts of his life are true history. 
 
 RETTIR THE STRONG was the son of a well- 
 to-do farmer of Biarg, in Iceland, and was de- 
 scended from some of the great nobles of Nor- 
 way. He was not good-looking as a boy. He 
 had reddish hair, a pale face full of freckles, and 
 light-blue eyes. But he was broadly built, and he 
 grew to be an immense man. His disposition 
 was wilful, headstrong, and obstinate. Never 
 did he do anything cheerfully, and it was easier 
 to let him alone than to receive his sullen assistance. 
 
 298
 
 SABINE BARING-GOULD 299 
 
 When Grettir was fourteen years old, a friend of his father, 
 Thorkel Krafla, passing on his way to the Althing at Thing- 
 vellir, took him along to see what he was made of. From one 
 of the camps their horses strayed. Grettir finally found his 
 horse, but not his provision-bag, which had fallen from the 
 saddle. Presently he saw another man, also hunting for a 
 provision-bag. The rest of the party had moved on. Just 
 then the stranger, Skeggi, found a bag; a dispute ensued, for 
 Grettir thought the bag was his. During the quarrel, Skeggi 
 struck at Grettir with an ax, which the boy deftly caught, and, 
 wrenching it from his opponent's grasp, cleft his skull with it. 
 Then he went on with the bag, which he was sure was his 
 own. When he was asked what had become of Skeggi, he 
 replied by singing a stanza of his own composing after the 
 fashion of the time — a periphrasis of what had happened. He 
 was understood, and some men went back to the place where 
 Skeggi was lying dead; but Grettir continued the journey, 
 well pleased with his skill, to lay the matter before the Lawman 
 at the Althing. The rule was for the slayer to appear by proxy 
 and offer blood-money to the nearest of kin. If this form of 
 settlement was refused, they had the alternative of pursuing 
 the offender to the death. Thorkel appeared for Grettir, with 
 the result that Skeggi's relatives were satisfied with the money 
 offered, so Grettir was free from hindrance by them; but the 
 Lawman decided that Grettir must be outlawed and leave Ice- 
 land for three winters. Should he set foot there within that 
 period his life was forfeit. Thus began the long outlawry of 
 Grettir, and he departed for Norway. 
 
 His father refused to give him weapons, fearing he might 
 put them to bad use; but his mother went with him a distance 
 down the valley and, unobserved, presented him with a good 
 sword she had carried under her cloak — a sword that had be- 
 longed to his grandfather. On the voyage Grettir was unruly, 
 as usual, and made himself disliked. They lost their bearings 
 and one night ran on the rocks of the Norwegian coast. With 
 great difficulty all got ashore, with their goods, on a sandy island 
 where lived a wealthy farmer named Thorfin. This man 
 helped the castaways on their road, but Grettir, though not 
 much wanted, remained with him. About Yule-time, Thorfin,
 
 3 oo GRETTIR THE OUTLAW 
 
 with all but his wife, his daughter, who was ill, and some serving- 
 men, departed for a Yule-feast at a distance. Grettir was not 
 desired for any merrymaking, and he too was left at the farm. 
 On Christmas Day, toward evening, as he sat gazing discon- 
 solately over the sea, he spied a suspicious-looking boat stealing 
 toward the shore. Twelve armed men were in it. They broke 
 open Thorfin's boat-house and placed their own boat in the 
 place of his. Grettir sauntered down in his nonchalant way, 
 and asked them who they might be. They replied: "Thorir- 
 wi'-the-Paunch and Bad Ogmund." These two were brothers 
 and the most desperate of all Red Rovers, burning, murdering, 
 and laying waste everywhere they went. 
 
 "We have come to settle a little reckoning," they said. "Is 
 Thorfin at home?" 
 
 "You are lucky," laughed Grettir. "He's away with all 
 his fighting men for a couple of days. Follow me and I'll do 
 what I can for you." 
 
 Everybody at the house hid in terror. Grettir dried the 
 weapons, set them by the fire lest they should rust, exchanged 
 their wet garments for dry ones from Thorfin's wardrobe, and 
 waited on the pirates till they declared he should be one of them. 
 Before a roaring fire he gave them the best and strongest ale in 
 abundance, and presently they grew tipsy. Then Grettir pro- 
 posed that before bedtime they should take a look into Thor- 
 fin's great log warehouse and see the fine treasures there. 
 Across the yard and into the building they staggered, yelling 
 their joy, and immediately began to quarrel over the stores. 
 In the midst of this turmoil, Grettir extinguished the torch, 
 stepped out, and slid the bolt on the heavy door. He then 
 called for help from the house, but the eight serving-men re- 
 mained hidden. Securing a spear and helmet, and girding on 
 a sword, he rushed again to the storehouse, arriving just as the 
 pirates had broken through into a lean-to and were smashing 
 the door of that structure. They came out on a landing, armed 
 with pieces of plank, and in the moonlight the two fierce brothers 
 dashed down upon Grettir. Planting the butt of the spear on 
 the ground, he received one upon it, at the same time badly 
 wounding the other with the blade. The other men he cut 
 right and left till those in the rear ran, believing a large number
 
 SABINE BARING-GOULD 301 
 
 against them; those in front speedily followed. Grettir pur- 
 sued and killed all but two, who, the next day, were found 
 frozen under a rock. 
 
 Another of Grettir's adventures at this place was the en- 
 trance into the tomb of Karr-the-Old, which was on a desolate 
 promontory. Flames were said to dance over hidden treasure, 
 and often he saw them dance over this lonely tomb. He per- 
 suaded a friend named Audun to go there with him, and was 
 lowered into the black chamber after he had broken a hole at 
 the top. There sat the long-dead Karr on a throne. Grettir 
 helped himself to the treasures he saw and placed them in a 
 vessel to be hauled up. Then he took from the dead man a 
 short sword, and finally began to unhook a gold torque from the 
 neck, when, amidst a glare of phosphorescent light, as his hands 
 were undoing the clasp behind Karr's neck, the body stood up 
 with a roar like a bull, and embraced Grettir in an iron grip. 
 Then began a fearful wrestle. Grettir was well-nigh smothered 
 by the long gray beard of the dead chief. The two staggered to 
 and fro about the chamber, kicking bones about, stumbling 
 against the walls, and bringing down masses of turf and planks 
 from above. At last Karr's feet gave way, and Grettir fell over 
 him. Then with the short-sword Grettir smote off Old Karr's 
 head and laid it beside his thigh, the only way in which to pre- 
 vent the evil spirits from making a dead man walk. Audun 
 had run away, so Grettir climbed the rope with his treasures 
 and made his way home. 
 
 In the spring he left Thorfin's farm and went along the 
 coast, being made much of, as the story of his defeat of the 
 rovers had spread. 
 
 The next winter he passed with another farmer called 
 Thorgils, a very pleasant man. Among the visitors was one 
 Biorn, with whom Grettir was soon at odds. While the whole 
 party one day were engaged in an unsuccessful attempt to kill 
 a troublesome bear, this man threw Grettir's fur coat into the 
 lair. Grettir said nothing, but on the way home he stopped, 
 pretending to repair his shoe, and as soon as the others had 
 gone, he went back to fight the bear alone. Creeping up the 
 narrow path, the animal came fiercely down to destroy him. 
 The battle was desperate, till finally both rolled off the ledge.
 
 3 o2 GRETTIR THE OUTLAW 
 
 Grettir landed on top, and as the fall had broken the bear's 
 back, he took one paw and carried it to the house, where all 
 rejoiced at his triumph except Biorn. He sneered, and Grettir 
 would have fought him had it been permissible on his friend's 
 estate. Later, he met him at a seaport and killed him. Earl 
 Sweyn, who had dominion here, named a sum which should be 
 paid to Biorn's brother, but the latter refused it and lay in wait 
 for Grettir, giving him a bad wound in the back. The brother 
 was killed also, as well as some of his men. The Earl wished 
 to banish Grettir for this, but he remained over the third winter, 
 and in the spring, his outlawry being ended, he returned to 
 Iceland. 
 
 Horse-fights were the sport of the time, and in one of these 
 Grettir was imposed upon and resented it. A feud resulted 
 between Grettir and Kormack, the owner of the opposing 
 horse. Not long after that, the two young men met on the 
 plain, and a fight followed, which was stopped by the arrival 
 of a man named Oxmain. The feud was dropped, and all 
 would have been well had not a brother of Oxmain's, nick- 
 named " Slowcoach," sneered at it. 
 
 Grettir now heard of a haunted valley, and he went to stay 
 with the frightened farmer that lived there, named Thorhall, to 
 see what might happen. It was said that the corpse of a former 
 shepherd, named Glam, haunted the place. Grettir wished to 
 meet it, though it was reported to be a fierce wraith, and had 
 killed the shepherd who was employed in his stead. Nothing 
 happened to Grettir himself the first night of his stay at Thor- 
 hall's, but his horse's neck was broken by some mysterious 
 force. The next night Thorhall locked himself within his bed, 
 much frightened. Iceland beds were like portable closets. 
 Grettir lay by the fire wrapped in a fur cloak, which he pulled 
 over his head. Suddenly he heard something that shook all 
 the sleep out of him. A heavy tread crunched the snow around 
 the house. Then a crash overhead told that the visitor was on 
 the roof. Grettir, peeping from his cloak, saw the monster's 
 eyes glaring down the smoke-hole. Sounds of wreckage were 
 heard outside, and then the door yielded. It was Glam. He 
 prowled around, and finally pulled at the bundle by the fire. 
 Grettir grappled with him; he drove his powerful head into
 
 SABINE BARING-GOULD 303 
 
 Glam's breast, then tried to bend him backward and break his 
 spine. Then followed a fearful struggle for mastery, Glam 
 trying to drag Grettir outside where he could easily kill him. 
 Grettir clung to the door-posts, but presently down crashed the 
 gable-trees, ripping beams and rafters from their places. Glam 
 fell on his back and Grettir on top of him, weak but still able 
 to hold Glam down. Then Glam said : 
 
 "You have done ill, matching yourself with me; now know 
 that never shall you be stronger than you are to-day, and that 
 to your dying day, whenever you are in the dark, you will see 
 my eyes staring at you, so that for very horror you will not dare 
 to be alone." At this moment Grettir saw his short-sword in 
 the snow, where it had fallen — the same he had taken from 
 Karr-the-Old — and with it he severed Glam's head and laid it 
 beside his thigh. On a pile of fagots the body was burned. 
 
 In the spring of 1015, Grettir decided to go to Norway. It 
 chanced that Slowcoach, the brother of Oxmain, was a passenger 
 on the same ship. His friends tried to dissuade him from 
 going when it was learned that Grettir was on the boat. But 
 Slowcoach defied Grettir and made insulting remarks about his 
 father and about Grettir himself. Grettir had not forgotten 
 the ending of the battle over the horse-fight, and was ready for 
 a quarrel. The result was an immediate encounter, and Gret- 
 tir's skilful sword did its work. The ship carried him to Nor- 
 way, and, landing in a cove one night without fire, Grettir swam 
 to a light on the other side, which proved to be from an inn 
 where two sons of an Iceland chieftain, Thorir of Garth, were 
 holding revelry. Grettir's clothing had frozen on him and he 
 was a wild-looking object as he scraped embers from the inn 
 fire into an iron pot he had brought. The company attacked 
 him, and he defended himself with a heavy firebrand. The 
 burning coals were scattered through the straw on the floor, 
 and amidst the flames and smoke Grettir made his escape. 
 
 He swam back across the arm of the sea, carrying the burn- 
 ing embers in the iron pot. In the morning the skipper recog- 
 nized the locality, and Grettir was accused of maliciously de- 
 stroying the inn and the sons of the distinguished Thorir with 
 it. To preserve themselves from a similar charge, the company 
 expelled Grettir, who made his way on foot to Drontheim.
 
 3o 4 GRETTIR THE OUTLAW 
 
 There he laid the matter before the King and was sentenced to 
 go through the ordeal of fire. He was fed on bread and water 
 for a week and taught to pray that if he were innocent God 
 should reveal it by enabling him to pass unscathed through 
 this trial. A great procession, with the King at the head, led 
 him to the test, and all went smoothly till Grettir resented the 
 insults of a bystander by tossing him into the air. This caused 
 a general disturbance; and it was reported that the Icelander 
 was fighting the whole town. By this time the hot irons had 
 cooled, and the King gave up the ordeal and passed a sentence 
 of banishment instead. As no ship could be taken to Iceland 
 till spring, Grettir was tolerated until that time. He went to 
 stay with a farmer called Einar, in a lonely place exposed to 
 the raids of bandits who wore bearskins with the heads pulled 
 over their faces and were called Bearsarks. Their custom was 
 to pretend mad frenzy when making their demands. Snoekoll, 
 one of the worst of these, came to Einar's on a huge black horse, 
 with several followers on foot. Snoekoll threatened to go into 
 a paroxysm. 
 
 "Let us see how you look in a fit," calmly said Grettir, 
 whereat Snoekoll bellowed, roared, rolled his eyes, blew foam 
 from his lips, and bit hard on his iron shield. At a moment 
 when he was clenching the shield furiously between his teeth, 
 Grettir gave it a sudden kick upward, and the leverage broke 
 the Bearsark's jaw. Quickly pulling him from his horse, Grettir 
 killed him with his own sword, while the followers ran away. 
 
 Einar had a beautiful daughter, of whom Grettir was much 
 enamored, but as he knew a man of his reputation would have 
 no chance in that direction, he departed to live for a time with 
 a half-brother, Thorstein Dromund, a man of wealth. Dro- 
 mund, on parting, swore to avenge Grettir if anyone should 
 kill him, a promise which he fulfilled. 
 
 Meanwhile more ill luck was befalling Grettir in Iceland. 
 Oxmain, whose brother, Slowcoach, Grettir had killed, went to 
 Biarg and killed Atli, Grettir's brother; and Thorir of Gaith, 
 hearing of the burning of his two sons at the inn fire, went to 
 the Althing and charged Grettir with their murder. The Law- 
 man declined to pass judgment on this one-sided evidence ; but 
 the power of Thorir's influence compelled the proclaiming of
 
 SABINE BARING-GOULD 305 
 
 Grettir an outlaw throughout the whole of Iceland, and a price 
 was put on the absent man's head. 
 
 So when Grettir at last returned to his native shores he was 
 met with thrice bad news. His father had died; his brother 
 was killed, and he was again declared an outlaw. A few days 
 he remained at home with his mother and his remaining brother, 
 young Illugi; then he went to Oxmain's farm and had a battle 
 with him and his son, killing both in the open field. In this 
 fight he lost a silver-inlaid spear-head, which never was found 
 till the year 1250. He was now an outlaw indeed, for the kins- 
 men of Oxmain and Thorir, with all their power, were continu- 
 ally in pursuit of him. His relatives laid the whole matter be- 
 fore the Althing. Snorri, a new judge, suggested that a fine 
 imposed should be dropped; that the outlawry should be set 
 aside, and that the slaying of Thorbiorn Oxmain should be 
 balanced by the slaying of Atli, Grettir's brother. This ar- 
 rangement would have prevailed had it not been for the im- 
 placable Thorir of Garth. He even increased the price set on 
 Grettir's head to three marks of silver, and to this Thorod, the 
 kinsman of Oxmain, added three more. , 
 
 Grettir was now hunted like a dog, and never could remain 
 long in one place, unless it was out in the desert of lava and 
 jokulls, where he found it difficult to secure provisions. In 
 winter he could stay with some friendly farmer in an out-of- 
 the-way place, but in summer he must be continually moving. 
 Once he took up his quarters for the winter at a place called 
 Eagle Lake Heath, a hard day's journey from his home, and 
 a bleak locality. Other outlaws wished to join him here, and 
 Grettir's enemies, who were all afraid of him, arranged with 
 one called Grim to pretend friendliness and find an opportunity 
 to kill him. But Grettir was on his guard and gave no chance. 
 Another outlaw, named Redbeard, was hired to do the same 
 thing. Grettir would have remained alone, but Glam's words 
 haunted him, and he was nervous about being without some 
 companion and feared the dark. Redbeard had no chance 
 the first winter, but during the second he formed a plan that 
 nearly succeeded; but Grettir triumphed over him and killed 
 him. A large body of armed men then tried to capture Grettir, 
 but he found a place of vantage and defeated them. He would 
 A.D., vol. 11. — 20
 
 306 GRETTIR THE OUTLAW 
 
 not have succeeded in this had not a friend of his, unknown to 
 Grettir, beaten off the attacking party from his rear. This 
 friend was Hallmund, who lived in a cave some distance away, 
 and Grettir went with him to his home. It had now come to 
 such a pass that even those who favored Grettir's cause were 
 afraid to shelter him or give him food. 
 
 Grettir consequently became a nuisance in every neighbor- 
 hood, for he was obliged to steal sheep and forage on the farms. 
 At one time three separate bodies of armed men closed in on 
 him, but, with the help of two friends, who defended his back, 
 on a point of rocks jutting into a river, Grettir defeated them 
 by his great strength and his skill in swordsmanship. 
 
 After this, Grettir, with his brother Illugi and a servant 
 named Glaum, went to the island of Drangey, which lay five 
 miles off the shore and was bounded by precipitous cliffs. A 
 rope ladder led to its grassy summit. This ladder had been 
 put there by farmers who had right to graze sheep on the island. 
 Eighty sheep were wandering there when Grettir arrived. He 
 drew up the ladder and prevented the farmers from recovering 
 their stock, which meanwhile he used for subsistence. The 
 exiles also had plenty of eggs and birds, but they lacked vege- 
 tables. There was also driftwood for fuel, and the island 
 offered a comfortable refuge till Grettir's term of outlawry 
 should expire. In the summer of 1031 his friends brought up 
 the subject at the Althing. He had now been in outlawry nine- 
 teen years, and the judge ruled that no man could be outlawed 
 more than twenty years. Grettir, then, had one year more of 
 exile to pass. One of the farmers, named Hook, who had 
 rights on Drangey, was a brutal fellow, and he determined to 
 destroy Grettir. He caused his foster-mother, who was a witch, 
 to cast a spell upon him from a boat. She cut some runes on 
 a log of driftwood, which later was washed on the shore of 
 Drangey. Grettir, in attempting to chop this log, cut his leg 
 severely. Blood-poison set in; Grettir lay in fever and dis- 
 tress; and one stormy night Hook and a band of men gained 
 the summit and attacked the hut. Grettir and Illugi fought 
 desperately, but they were overpowered, Grettir, indeed, being 
 in his death-throes when he struck his last blow. They killed 
 Illugi too, as he refused to swear a truce, and they killed Glaum.
 
 SABINE BARING-GOULD 307 
 
 Hook cut off Grcttir's head and rode to the Biarg home, where 
 he flung it at the feet of Grettir's mother. 
 
 The Althing decreed that as Hook had cut off the head of 
 a man who was already dead, and as he had brought about 
 that death by the help of witchcraft, he should receive nothing 
 of the money reward and should be outlawed from Iceland. 
 So he went to Constantinople, where he enlisted in the Em- 
 peror's guard. Dromund, Grettir's half-brother, secretly fol- 
 lowed him and enlisted in the same guard. Dromund did not 
 know which was the murderer of Grettir till one day Hook 
 boasted of having killed a great outlaw with a peculiar sword 
 he had: the short-sword which Grettir had taken from Karr- 
 the-Old. 
 
 "And his name?" asked Dromund. 
 
 "His name was Grettir the Strong," Hook replied. There 
 was a pause, and in that pause the sword was handed to Dro- 
 mund to look at. 
 
 "Then is Grettir avenged!" cried Dromund, and whirled 
 it in the air. So great was the stroke he dealt that it smote 
 through Hook's skull to his teeth, and he fell without a word, 
 dead.
 
 AMELIA EDITH BARR 
 
 (England, 1831) 
 
 A BOW OF ORANGE RIBBON: A ROMANCE OF 
 
 NEW YORK (1886) 
 
 This book established Mrs. Barr's popularity and has remained the greatest 
 favorite among her many novels. It was the second book she wrote, being 
 preceded by Jan Vedder's Wife, also a story of New York under the Dutch. 
 
 I ATE one afternoon of May, 1765, in the pictur- 
 esque little city of New York, a group of grave- 
 looking men were separating at the steps of the 
 City Hall — members of His Majesty's Council for 
 the Province of New York. One of them was 
 Joris Van Heemskirk. He was massively built, 
 and richly dressed in a style that proclaimed 
 him a Hollander. He was proud of his race as 
 any English duke of his royal line, and while he 
 associated with the ruling English in civic and commercial 
 affairs, he scorned those of his Dutch neighbors who mingled 
 with them socially. On arriving at his handsome dwelling in 
 the northwestern outskirts of the city, with its great garden 
 sloping down to the river-side, the Councilor sat down to re- 
 fresh himself with his pipe. 
 
 Madam Lysbet Van Heemskirk, his wise little wife, busy 
 in household matters, moved steadily about, and, in her trig 
 Dutch costume, made a pleasant picture of domesticity. 
 
 Joanna, the plump elder daughter, was out; Bram, the 
 broad-shouldered son, had not yet come home; and when the 
 good man asked for Katherine, his lovely seventeen-year-old 
 darling, the mother's brow clouded. 
 
 "Katherine troubles me," she said. "She is quiet, and 
 thinks much, and when I ask of what she is thinking, she 
 
 308
 
 AMELIA EDITH BARR 309 
 
 answers, 'Nothing, mother.' But when a girl says, 'Nothing,' 
 there is something — perhaps indeed somebody — on her mind." 
 But soon came the two daughters, who had been visiting 
 Madam Semple, their next neighbor; and with them Elder 
 Semple, a rich and godly Scotchman r with whose family the 
 Van Heemskirks had kept up a friendship through four genera- 
 tions. The Elder stayed to supper; and after that, when the 
 girls had retired, he opened his mind, formally proposing mar- 
 riage between his son Neil and Katherine. This was received 
 in friendly spirit, it being agreed that at the proper time Neil 
 would be acceptable; but as yet, said the mother, Katherine 
 was too young, and had not begun to think of such things. 
 The Elder reminded them, however, that Colonel Gordon, of 
 an English regiment, and his fine English wife, had been living 
 at his house, and that among their visitors was Mistress Gor- 
 don's handsome nephew, Captain Richard Hyde; adding that, 
 as Katherine had been there often to learn the crewel- stitch 
 from Mrs. Gordon, both he and his son Neil had noticed that 
 the young officer had shown much interest in her. This 
 startled Joris and his wife, who were alarmed by the danger — 
 especially from one of the hated English race. They decided 
 that Katherine should go no more to the Semples', and the 
 Elder departed. Even so, Madam Van Heemskirk was not 
 altogether happy. Their eldest two daughters had married 
 substantial Dutch citizens of Albany, and Joanna was be- 
 trothed to a successful and self-satisfied sea-trader, Captain 
 Batavius De Vries; but, for the charming Katherine, Lysbet 
 had dreamed of some higher advancement. Indeed, that very 
 day had been dangerously fascinating for the girl. Mrs. Gor- 
 don greatly fancied her, and seeing that her nephew did so too, 
 knowing that the gay Captain's gambling debts were pressing, 
 and thinking that the wealthy Councilor would handsomely 
 portion his daughter, she skilfully favored his suit. She had 
 that morning flattered the maiden with tales of Richard's ad- 
 miration; and, when he came in and invited Katherine to sail 
 with him, she laughed away the girl's doubts of propriety and 
 sent them off together. But Captain Hyde had no idea of 
 going on the river ; they stopped on the lower steps of the land- 
 ing, and there he enchanted the fair girl with his love-story,
 
 310 A BOW OF ORANGE RIBBON 
 
 and she resigned her heart to him. When they returned, 
 Hyde spoke of the pleasure of their excursion, and Madam 
 Semple and Joanna accepted it; but Neil Semple suspected 
 something, and scented danger. A talk with his father led to 
 the Elder's evening visit to the Van Heemskirks. 
 
 Katherine sadly obeyed her father's injunction to go no more 
 to Madam Semple's, but decided to send some apology to Mrs. 
 Gordon, and wrote as follows: 
 
 " To Mistress Colonel Gordon: 
 
 " Honored Madam: My father forbids that I come to see you. He thinks 
 you should upon my mother call. That you will judge me to be rude and un- 
 grateful I fear very much. But that is not true. I am unhappy, indeed. I 
 think all the day of you. 
 
 " Your obedient servant, 
 
 "Katherine Van Heemskirk." 
 
 Mrs. Gordon answered this by visiting the Van Heemskirks 
 the next morning, where she charmed the appreciative Lysbet 
 with her gracious manners. Before leaving, she managed to 
 see Katherine alone, and, depicting Richard's distress at not 
 seeing her, coaxed her to send him a love-token. So Katherine 
 gave her a little bow of orange ribbon that she had worn on 
 St. Nicholas's Day, and agreed to walk in the garden beside 
 the river at three o'clock, so that Richard might see her from 
 his boat. She was there, but with Joanna; and, while the 
 latter stooped to pick flowers, a boat appeared, and an officer 
 arose in the stern, and threw back his cloak, showing a bow 
 of orange ribbon upon his breast. And joy throbbed in the 
 maiden's heart. 
 
 Neil Semple was a promising young lawyer, of grave deport- 
 ment and shrewd mind. Although reared with Katherine from 
 her childhood, and always regarding her as his future wife, he 
 never had spoken of love. But the attentions of the Gordons 
 and young Hyde had aroused his jealousy, which now was firing 
 his complacent affection to real passion. But, even since the 
 Elder's talk, nothing had been said to Katherine about Neil; 
 the father had shrunk from so positive an act, while the mother 
 had no enthusiasm for the commonplace match. Thus all 
 circumstances conspired to leave Katherine free to respond to 
 her handsome and gallant lover.
 
 AMELIA EDITH BARR 311 
 
 A few days later, the arrival of Captain Batavius De Vries 
 with his rich cargo, and rare gifts for Joanna, occasioned an 
 evening gathering at the Van Heemskirk house to welcome the 
 future son-in-law. Neil, with his dark beauty, made a fine 
 foil to Katherine's delicate grace when they danced the minuet; 
 but after the arrival of Mrs. Gordon and Hyde the young officer 
 engrossed Katherine, to her delight, and Neil went home, gloom- 
 ing. The very next day Hyde went manfully to see Van Heems- 
 kirk in his great warehouse. At the mention of Katherine, the 
 Councilor stood up ; his kindly face grew stern, and he forbade 
 the Captain even to speak her name. He scorned Hyde's 
 frank story of his own family and his possible inheritance of 
 its earldom, told him that he regarded neither king nor kaiser 
 superior to his own Dutch ancestry, and bade him seek a wife 
 among his own women. "My daughter," he added, "is to 
 another man promised." 
 
 "Look you, Councilor," said Hyde, "that would be mon- 
 strous. Your daughter loves me," and he further quietly as- 
 serted that he would marry the girl if he could compass it. 
 
 "Not one guilder," cried Joris, "will I give my daughter 
 if—" 
 
 "To the devil with your guilders! Dirty money made in 
 dirty traffic!" shouted Hyde; and, pale with rage, he went out. 
 
 The proposal, and Hyde's assertion that Katherine loved 
 him, smote Joris with a shock. He saw trouble for the house 
 of his friend Semple, and sought him for conference. The 
 Elder heard him quietly, and told him that it was mostly his 
 own fault for not being more decided with the girl, who, young 
 as Van Heemskirk thought her, had been old enough to fool 
 one of the councilors of the colony. So Joris returned to his 
 house and, with the mother, told Katherine of the arrange- 
 ments for her marriage with Neil, and the new house and all — 
 but with the dictum that she should see Hyde no more until 
 after the wedding. He reluctantly consented, on the mother's 
 plea, that she might see him once more, to tell him of the facts 
 and to bid him farewell ; and Katherine sped away to the river- 
 side, where Richard's boat was soon to come. 
 
 Meantime, the Elder had told Neil of Hyde's proposal and 
 seeming success with the girl, and, as hate flashed up in the
 
 312 A BOW OF ORANGE RIBBON 
 
 young man's face, he cautioned him against fighting, but ad- 
 vised him to be more loverlike if he would win his wife. Neil 
 was no coward, but a duel might have untoward effects upon his 
 career, and he walked about the city debating with himself, 
 when a sudden determination to go to Katherine took him down 
 a river-path. As he descended he met Hyde coming up from 
 his interview with Katherine. Looks of mutual defiance broke 
 into words: 
 
 "At your service, sir," cried Neil. 
 
 "Mr. Semple, at your service," replied Hyde, and throwing 
 back his coat he added, "As for the cause, Mr. Semple, here it 
 is," showing the bow of orange ribbon. 
 
 "I will dye it crimson in your blood," shouted Neil. 
 
 "In the meantime, I have the felicity of wearing it," an- 
 swered Hyde, and, with an offensively deep salute, he passed on. 
 
 Neil pursued his way to the house, and found Katherine 
 tearful after her parting with Richard; but, intent on his own 
 ideas, he poured out vows of love and devotion. Katherine 
 met him kindly, but declared that she should never marry ; and, 
 when he persisted, turned from him with dignity. He then 
 spoke of the bow of orange ribbon, and begged, and finally de- 
 manded, that she should give him one also. When at last she 
 vehemently denied him, he retorted: 
 
 "Well, then, I will cut my bow from Hyde's breast, though I 
 cut his heart out with it," and abruptly left her. 
 
 The seconds of the young men arranged the meeting for 
 sunset on the Kalehook Hill. Neil made his will and settled 
 his affairs. Hyde did what he could to arrange his debts, and 
 visited a venerable Jew, named Cohen, to whom he owed a 
 hundred guineas, leaving with him a ring, which was accepted 
 in settlement. But the Jew's daughter, Miriam, learning from 
 her father of the duel, sent word to Van Heemskirk, through 
 his son Bram, who had answered her summons for his father, 
 and who speedily told both the Councilor and the Elder. 
 
 The encounter was bitter. Hyde had no special desire to 
 fight, but, knowing that Semple had just cause of anger, was 
 willing enough. Some bloody thrusts from Semple, however, 
 roused him, while the sight of the bow of ribbon on Hyde's 
 breast filled Neil with fury. At last, bleeding from many
 
 AMELIA EDITH BARR 313 
 
 wounds, both lost their swords in the same entanglement, and 
 before they could recover Van Heemskirk and Elder Semple 
 rushed between them, while they fell fainting to the ground. 
 One of Semple's friends tried to take the blood-stained love- 
 knot for him, but Van Heemskirk thrust him away. 
 
 "To touch it would be the vilest theft," he cried. "His 
 own it is. With his life he has bought it." 
 
 News of the duel spread rapidly, and, strangely enough, 
 censure of the innocent girl seemed to be the verdict of the 
 Dutch community, so that even after it was decided that both 
 the grievously wounded men would live, Katherine felt as if 
 God, fate, and the world had united against her. In three 
 months Neil was about again, his sword-arm in a sling, but he 
 was able to resume his duties. He was, however, further than 
 ever from Katherine, who treated him kindly, but ignored or 
 repelled every attempt at sentiment. Her brother Bram went 
 often to old Cohen, who had saved Hyde's life when the English 
 surgeons said he must die, and from the Jew, or from the 
 lovely Miriam, brought her news of Richard's progress. Bram 
 soon saw life a heavenly thing in Miriam's eyes; but their 
 dream was short-lived, for the Jew married his daughter to 
 one of their own race. 
 
 One day Katherine ventured out to buy some things for her 
 mother, and, passing along Pearl Street, heard her name called. 
 A door flew open, and Mrs. Gordon rushed down the steps, 
 embraced her, and constrained her to enter. Once in, despite 
 the parental injunction, Mrs. Gordon persuaded Katherine to 
 drive with her to see Dick at The King's Arms. They found 
 him, still very weak, but delighted to receive them. When it 
 was time to go, Hyde begged Katherine to come again, saying: 
 
 "Upon my honor, I promise to ask Katherine Van Heems- 
 kirk only this once." 
 
 She promised, for two days from that time, on the appointed 
 day, Katherine went again to Mrs. Gordon, who had just re- 
 ceived some dainty gowns from Paris, and persuaded her to 
 put on one, an exquisite light-blue satin, sprigged with silver, 
 and a dark-blue manteau trimmed with fur — "just to please 
 Dick." They found a soldierly man in full uniform sitting 
 beside the couch of the invalid, who himself was attired in a
 
 3i4 
 
 A BOW OF ORANGE RIBBON 
 
 chamber-gown of maroon satin, with deep ruffles at wrists and 
 bosom. 
 
 "Ah, if you were only my wife, Katherine!" cried Richard. 
 
 "Only your wife will I be," responded the blushing girl. 
 
 "Now, Katherine? This minute, darling? I promised not 
 to ask Katherine Van Heemskirk here again, but Katherine 
 Hyde would have a right to come." 
 
 And, with trembling hesitation, in great pity for the man 
 she loved, Katherine consented. The Governor's chaplain 
 was in attendance, Colonel Gordon, Mrs. Gordon, and Captain 
 Earle were witnesses, and the ceremony was performed, Kath- 
 erine kneeling by Richard's side. 
 
 Neil still persisted in coming to see Katherine, despite her 
 discouraging attitude. The secret marriage had been con- 
 tracted in October, and since then she had not seen Richard, 
 although she had exchanged letters with him; and now St. 
 Nicholas's Day was at hand, appointed for the wedding of Ba- 
 tavius and Joanna. It was a splendid affair, and when the 
 afternoon dinner had given place to the evening's entertain- 
 ment, .and dancing began, Neil solicited Katherine. But she 
 refused, saying she could not take his blood-stained hand, and 
 left him, helpless and distraught. After this he came no more 
 to see her, though there was no break between the families. 
 
 Spring came, and one fine May morning Madam Semple 
 excitedly entered the Van Heemskirk dwelling with the startling 
 news that the British ship Dauntless had sailed for the West 
 Indies with Captain Earle and his contingent, "and who wi' 
 him, guess you, but Captain Hyde!" Katherine was heart- 
 struck. Her father and Bram confirmed the news, and they 
 felt tender pity for the little maid. But, when she was sitting 
 with her sympathetic mother at household work that afternoon, 
 Mrs. Gordon rustled in, took her for a drive, and told her that, 
 while Richard had gone, he was coming back at eight o'clock 
 that evening to see her, down by the garden river-steps. Whether 
 Lysbet suspected Katherine's desire to get out that evening or 
 not, was uncertain; but, after supper, when the father and 
 Bram had gone to a meeting, she sent Katherine to Joanna's 
 on an errand. Katherine blushed scarlet, and lingered about 
 till her mother tied on her hood and bade her go. At the river-
 
 AMELIA EDITH BARR 315 
 
 steps, a boat soon shot out of the shadows to her feet, and 
 Richard leaped ashore. She flew to his arms, and then, holding 
 her fast, Richard told her he had come to take her, so that they 
 should never be separated more. Her mental struggle was 
 severe, but it had to be short, for Richard could wait but five 
 minutes, and, recalling her agony when she thought he had 
 gone without her, Katherine yielded; they entered the boat, 
 and were gone to join the Dauntless in the lower bay. 
 
 At home, they thought Katherine had stayed with Joanna 
 overnight; but in the morning came a note to Joris at his 
 store, brought by a fisherman : 
 
 "My Father and Mother: I have gone with my husband. I married 
 Richard when he was ill, and to-night he came for me. When I left home I 
 knew not I was to go. Only five minutes I had. In God's name, this is the 
 truth. Always, at the end of the world, I shall love you. Forgive me, forgive 
 me, myn jader, myn moeder. Your child, 
 
 " Katherine Hyde." 
 
 Joris hastened to Mrs. Gordon, who told him all about the 
 wedding; but he was crushed. At home, the mother kissed 
 the letter and said, "It was a great strait, Joris"; and then 
 heartened up her man to uphold his daughter's honor and 
 proclaim that she had gone with her husband. Of course, 
 Batavius and Joanna, the neighbors, the town at large, took 
 the worst possible view; but the doubters were silenced by the 
 next issue of the New York Gazette, containing an advertise- 
 ment of the marriage: "October 19, 1765, by the Rev. Mr. 
 Somers, Chaplain to his Excellency the Governor, Richard 
 Drake Hyde, of Hyde Manor, Norfolk, son of the late Richard 
 Drake Hyde and brother of William Drake Hyde, Earl of 
 Dorset and Hyde, to Katherine Van Heemskirk, the youngest 
 daughter of Joris and Lysbet Van Heemskirk, of the city and 
 province of New York," with the names of the aristocratic 
 witnesses in full. 
 
 And now it was May again — a fair English May. In Hyde 
 Manor House, Richard, in full uniform, his twelve months' 
 leave expired, was hastily breakfasting with his wife before re- 
 turning to duty. But neither was sorrowful, for he had been 
 exchanged into a court regiment and was going only to London. 
 Hyde Manor House was not beautiful, but it was old and inter-
 
 316 A BOW OF ORANGE RIBBON 
 
 esting, and Katherine, with Dutch orderliness and thrift, had 
 gradually cleansed and adorned the halls and rooms, and brought 
 to bloom the neglected garden, while Richard, spurred by this, 
 had cared well for his stables, his fields, and his woods ; and the 
 birth of a son increased his sense of responsibility. Katherine 
 had kept up a loving correspondence with her mother, but 
 when the little son came — whom Richard had cordially con- 
 sented to name George, the English form of Joris — she had 
 written full-heartedly to her father. He was immensely pleased, 
 and sent Katherine as her portion five thousand pounds, and 
 to the little Joris the famous old silver Middleburg cup, their 
 choicest family heirloom. Richard, gratified that the money 
 had been entrusted to his honor, not settled on his wife, ar- 
 ranged to use only the interest. He knew, too, that rumor 
 would swell the five thousand pounds to fifty thousand — a 
 satisfactory answer to the jibes of his fashionable friends in 
 London. 
 
 Richard's first visit in town was to his maternal grand- 
 mother, the Dowager Lady Capel — a wealthy, ill-tempered old 
 woman, who, nevertheless, liked her gay grandson and had 
 twice paid his gambling debts. She rallied him about his Dutch 
 wife, commended her fifty thousand pounds of fortune, laughed 
 at his constancy for a whole year, and claimed his social 
 service for herself and his cousin, Lady Arabella Suffolk — a 
 fashionable coquette with an indulgent old husband. In this 
 lady's fascinations she foresaw mischief and amusement. 
 
 In the next six months Lady Capel was satisfied. Society 
 idolized Captain Hyde, and he, while flirting with a dozen other 
 women, was pretty constantly at Lady Arabella's side. His 
 marriage was a topic of doubt and dispute; but no one dared 
 ask him about it. He loved his wife tenderly, but was sus- 
 ceptible to the beauty and attractiveness of other women, and 
 spent his days and nights in a perpetual round of social folly. 
 His income was small, and his debts began to press. He must 
 borrow. One Sunday afternoon a sweet letter from Katherine 
 touched his better nature, and he determined to go to her. 
 Obtaining a two weeks' leave of absence, he went to Lady 
 Capel's brilliant mansion, as Sunday evening was her great 
 card-night, hoping to find her in good humor. But she had
 
 AMELIA EDITH BARR 317 
 
 been losing, and it was only after much scolding that she gave 
 her grandson the hundred guineas he sought. Next morning 
 he mounted his horse and made his way to Norfolk. Here he 
 spent two happy weeks with his wife and son, and then was off 
 to London once more. 
 
 It was May again, but in 1774. The years had passed 
 without much variation in the lives of Hyde and his wife; but 
 the troubles between England and the Colonies were culmi- 
 nating, and party feeling ran high, even in the army, for many 
 officers — Hyde among them — angrily opposed the policy of 
 the Government. At Hyde's club one evening an altercation 
 arose, in which he took part so vigorously that a certain Lord 
 Paget called him a traitor, and, being himself a suitor for the 
 hand of Lady Suffolk, now a widow, proceeded further to 
 question Hyde sarcastically about his American wife. Hyde 
 blazed with rage, when a messenger summoned him to his 
 grandmother, who had been death-stricken while at whist. 
 She told him she had left him eight thousand pounds, and, 
 with a cynical smile on her old face, passed away. 
 
 On the same afternoon a London pedler came to Hyde 
 Manor. Ladies in the country purchased most of their toilet 
 accessories from these packmen, and Katherine went to in- 
 spect his wares. She had laid out and paid for several things, 
 when the pedler showed a beautiful scarf which he had bought, 
 he said, for Lady Suffolk, "but Lord Suffolk died sudden, and 
 my lady had to wear black"; and then he continued, detailing 
 the London gossip about Lady Arabella and her lover, a fine 
 cavalry officer, adding, "Though there's them that do say the 
 Captain has a comely wife hid up in the country." Katherine 
 turned on him with quiet, concentrated anger. She charged 
 him with being a bad man, sent by a bad woman to lie about 
 her husband. She returned his goods, demanded her money, 
 and had him driven from the house and grounds. 
 
 Katherine had at one time been pained by frequent talk of 
 Richard's about Lady Arabella, but he had laughed away her 
 anxieties, and she had taken pride in putting his word above 
 all suspicion. Yet this London gossip was frightful: her 
 husband the reputed lover of another woman, her own ex-
 
 3 i8 A BOW OF ORANGE RIBBON 
 
 istence doubted or denied; and doubts and fears assailed her. 
 But she remembered Richard's tenderness for her and little 
 Joris, and calmed herself, even though his usual letter came 
 not for several days. When it came, it explained his silence 
 by Lady Capel's death and funeral, and announced his speedy 
 home-coming. Katherine spent the next few days in joyful 
 preparations, until a strange officer brought her a letter, which 
 said : 
 
 " It is midnight, beloved Katherine, and in six hours I may be dead. Lord 
 Paget spoke to me of my cousin in such terms as left but one way out of the 
 affront. I pray you, if you can, to pardon me. The world will condemn me; 
 my own actions will condemn me; and yet, I vow that you, and you only, have 
 ever had my love. Kate, my Kate, forgive me. If this comes to you by strange 
 hands, I shall be dead or dying. My will and papers of importance are in the 
 drawer marked "B" in my escritoire. Kiss my son for me, and take my last 
 hope and thought." 
 
 Oh, the shame! Oh, the sorrow! Was the pedler's talk 
 true, then? The officer bringing the note would escort her 
 to Richard, or take to him his will for a codicil concerning 
 Lady Capel's legacy. She went to his writing-desk, and in 
 drawer "B" found divers personal treasures of Richard's — 
 some that touched her nearly. Among them was a small 
 parcel, and on the outside these lines in Richard's hand: 
 
 " O, my love, my love! This thy gift I hold 
 More than fame or treasure, more than life or gold." 
 
 At last, the test! If it contained aught of Lady Suffolk, 
 she would send him his will and leave him to himself. Within 
 was another wrapper — the first letter she had signed "Katherine 
 Hyde"; and, folded within that, was her own love- token, the 
 blood-stained bow of orange ribbon. She kissed it with tri- 
 umphant love, and cried, "Oh, Richard, my lover, my hus- 
 band! Now will I hasten to thee!" 
 
 In August, while Richard was convalescing at home, one 
 day his tall, handsome elder brother, Earl William, for years a 
 world-wanderer, arrived. He was enthusiastic over the beau- 
 tiful condition of Hyde Manor, and when Richard said it was 
 his wife's work, the Earl told him that he himself was married, 
 and had two sons. The disinherited Richard responded cor-
 
 AMELIA EDITH BARR 319 
 
 dially, when the Earl said: "Why not go to America? I will 
 take Hyde Manor at its highest price, and add fifty thousand 
 pounds indemnity for your loss of the succession. You may buy 
 land enough for a duchy over there. If there is war, you will 
 have your chance with the Colonists you approve of, and if 
 they win, you will be a person of consideration and found a new 
 line of the old family." 
 
 After consulting Katherine, Richard accepted his brother's 
 offer, and went with his wife and son and fortune to throw in 
 his lot with the Americans. With Van Heemskirk and Bram 
 he joined the army, his tasseled sword-knot as he rode off being 
 replaced by a brown and faded bow of orange ribbon. 
 
 A hundred years later, the family residing in a great stone 
 mansion on the Hudson told much of the builder of the house, 
 a noted cavalry officer of the Revolution, and his beautiful 
 wife, whose portraits adorned the main hall. And they proudly 
 showed "the household talisman," carefully kept in a box of 
 carved sandalwood — a faded bit of satin that had been a love- 
 token : a St. Nicholas bow of orange ribbon.
 
 JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE 
 
 (Scotland, i860) 
 A WINDOW IN THRUMS (1889) 
 
 Much of this little story is acknowledged by the author to be autobiographical. 
 Jess is drawn from Mr. Barrie's own mother, who was afterward more carefully 
 pictured in his novel entitled Margaret Ogilvy; while Leeby is a portrait of his 
 sister. The author's own character has. much in common with Jamie; and the 
 little village of Thrums finds its original in Kirriemuir, where Mr. Barrie was 
 born and reared. 
 
 [T the top of the brae still stands a one-story house 
 whose whitewashed walls look yellow when 
 snow comes. Into this humble abode I would 
 take anyone who cares to accompany me. On 
 the left of the doorway is the "room." The 
 passageway is narrow. There is a square hole 
 between the rafters, and a ladder leading up to 
 it. You may climb and look into the attic, as 
 Jess liked to hear me call my tiny garret room. 
 I have kept the kitchen for the last, and the window where Jess 
 sat in her chair, and looked down the brae. For more than 
 twenty years she had not been able to go so far as the door. 
 With her husband, Hendry, or their only daughter, Leeby, to 
 lean upon, and her hand clutching her staff, she took twice a 
 day, when she was strong, the journey between her bed and the 
 window where stood her chair. She seldom complained. All 
 the sewing of the house was done by her, and she often pre- 
 pared her baking on a table pushed close to the window. 
 
 I stayed only once during the whole of my holidays at the 
 house on the brae, but I knew its inmates for many years, in- 
 cluding Jamie, the son, who was a barber in London. 
 
 Jess's rarest possession was a christening robe, that even 
 people at a distance came to borrow. 
 
 320
 
 JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE 321 
 
 From Jess's window a great deal could be seen that went on 
 in Thrums, and often she sent Leeby up into the attic to see 
 whether smoke was coming out of the chimney of the spare 
 bedroom at the manse, in order to learn whether a guest was 
 expected. When anyone passed the window, Jess and Leeby 
 took intense interest in them, and discussed the probability of 
 their going here or there for this or that purpose. When Law- 
 yer Ogilvy's servant passed with two jugs in her hand, Leeby 
 was sure that she was going for cream as well as for milk, and 
 that there was company at the lawyer's house. 
 
 One night Jess was taken with diphtheria, and she thought 
 she was going to die. Leeby ran for the doctor, but he was 
 away in the hills and did not come till dawn. 
 
 "This is a fearsome nicht," Hendry said. He sat down by 
 the kitchen fire with his Bible on his knees. But Jess recovered. 
 
 Hendry often crossed over to the farm of T'nowhead and 
 sat on the fence of the pigsty. Here a gathering that was 
 almost a club held informal meetings. Tammas Haggart took 
 the lead at these meetings, and he had a great reputation as a 
 humorist. 
 
 "A humorist doesna tell whaur the humor comes in," he 
 said. "A humorist would often no ken 'at he was ane, if it 
 wasna by the wy he maks other fowk lauch. A body canna 
 be expeckit baith to mak the joke an' to see't. Na, that would 
 be doin' twa fowks' wark." 
 
 Twenty years had passed since Jess lost her boy Joey. He 
 was run over and killed, and that was the tragedy of Jess's life. 
 On the Sabbath-day Jess could not go to church, and it was then, 
 I think, that she was with Joey most. He had meant to be a 
 minister when he grew up, and told his mother his first sermon 
 should be from the text, "Thou God seest me." 
 
 Jess's staff was old and black, and very short ; nearly a foot 
 having been cut from the original, of which to make a porridge 
 " thieval," or stick with which to stir porridge. Joey had once 
 hidden it when Jess was very ill, after he had heard her say 
 that she was going very far away. He knew she could not 
 walk without it, and thought that if he hid it she could not go 
 away. 
 
 When I was with Hendry beaded cloaks were the fashion, and 
 A.D., vol. 11. — 21
 
 322 A WINDOW IN THRUMS 
 
 Jess sighed as she looked at them. They were known in Thrums 
 as "the Eleven and a Bits." Her only opportunity to handle 
 garments was when she had friends to tea. Hendry was not 
 quick at reading faces, but he saw that Jess wanted a cloak. 
 He told her she could never wear it, and it would have to be 
 kept in a drawer. She said she could take it out and look at 
 it, and she would know it was there. And then he told her 
 that no one else would know it. 
 
 "Would they no!" answered Jess. "It would be a' through 
 the town afore nicht." 
 
 Hendry finally saved up money and bought her the cloth for 
 a cloak, and gave her money for the beads and buttons. 
 
 Hendry, Leeby, and I were invited to drink tea at the manse 
 with the minister and his bride, a very grand lady from Edin- 
 burgh. Leeby shaved her father and dressed him, and the 
 family agreed that he looked unusually "perjink." The minis- 
 ter's wife said afterward that Leeby seemed very stupid and 
 unobserving. But I heard Leeby describe to Jess everything 
 in the parlor and in the bedroom where she went to take off 
 her hat. 
 
 Jamie sent a registered letter containing money to his mother 
 every month, and Jess was always greatly excited when the day 
 came for it to arrive. There was much talk about it between 
 her and Leeby, and Jess was up earlier than usual looking for 
 the postman. 
 
 Jamie came once a year from London to visit his parents. 
 On the previous year he had listened at the window for his 
 mother's voice, and heard her say to Leeby that she was sure 
 the teapot was running out. He then imitated an old man who 
 went about selling firewood, and pushed open doors, crying : 
 
 "Ony rozetty roots?" and Leeby, going to shut the door, 
 was surprised to see Jamie. 
 
 This time, as usual, Jess was very much excited, and Leeby 
 was up at two in the morning, and eight hours before Jamie 
 could possibly arrive Jess had a nightshirt warming for him. 
 
 Hendry, Leeby, and I walked out to meet Jamie, and when 
 we saw him he and Leeby made signs that they recognized each 
 other as brother and sister, but I was the only one with whom 
 he shook hands. He even inquired for his mother in a tone
 
 JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE 323 
 
 that was meant to deceive me into thinking he did not care how 
 she was. He pretended to be calm, but I saw him take Leeby's 
 hand afterward; and when we came in sight of the house he 
 suddenly exclaimed: 
 
 "My mother!" 
 
 There was only one other memorable event of that day. 
 Jamie took from his pocket a purse, and from the purse he took 
 a neatly folded piece of paper, crumpled it into a ball, and flung 
 it into Jess's lap. Leeby was in the secret. 
 
 "What is't?" asked Hendry. 
 
 "It's juist a bit paper Jamie flung at me," said Jess, and 
 then she unfolded it. 
 
 "It's a five-pound note!" cried Hendry. 
 
 Leeby loved her brother Jamie dearly, and as a boy he was 
 ashamed of it, for the boys teased him about it. He used to beg 
 her not to show her affection for him before others. 
 
 "You're aye lookin' at me sae fondlike 'at I dinna ken what 
 wy to turn. Am no tellin' ye no to care for me, but juist to 
 keep it mair to yersel. Naebody would ken frae me 'at am 
 fond o' ye." 
 
 As a boy, Jamie refused to go to kirk one Sabbath-day, and 
 went off with some Tilliedrum lads in a cart. He returned at 
 dark, defiant and miserable. Jess was terrified, Hendry prayed 
 for him, and Leeby cried. After midnight Jamie rose and 
 crept to Leeby's bedside, where she was shaking in agony. 
 She slipped from her bed and both fell on their knees and 
 prayed. 
 
 Jess liked to hear tales of sweethearting when Jamie was 
 not the lad. But she had noticed him putting his hand in his 
 pouch two or three times, as if to make sure that something 
 was safe, so she got up early in the morning and got hold of 
 his jacket and found a woman's glove in a bit of paper. She 
 took it and hid it, and Jamie looked all over the house for it 
 without saying a word. I never knew how Jamie came by the 
 glove, nor whether it had originally belonged to her who made 
 him forget the window at the top of the brae. But he found it 
 after a time, and Jess got it again and hid it. She kept Jamie 
 home from church on the Sabbath because he had a cold, and 
 gave him the glove, and told him she could not bear to think
 
 3 2 4 A WINDOW IN THRUMS 
 
 of his carrying that about so careful. And he laid it on the fire, 
 so Leeby told me. 
 
 On the last night of Jamie's stay, Jess packed his box, tying 
 his socks together with string. Hendry read his favorite chap- 
 ter in the Bible, the fourteenth of John's Gospel, and then he 
 prayed. 
 
 Leeby died at the end of the year I have been speaking of, 
 and as I was snowed up in the schoolhouse at the time, I heard 
 the news from Gavin Birse. She ran out in a sudden rain to 
 bring in her washing, and took a terrible cold. She did not 
 blame Jamie for not coming to her. He never got Hendry's 
 letter with the news, and we knew that he was already in the 
 hands of the woman who played the devil with his life. Before 
 the spring came he had been lost to Jess. But Hendry said 
 the Lord had given his house "so muckle that to pray for mair 
 looks like not being thankful for what we have." And he prayed 
 that Jess might go before him. But his prayer was not granted. 
 He took a fever, and one night he wandered from the house to 
 Elshioner's shop and worked at his loom, and there they found 
 him dead. So it came about that for the last few months of her 
 pilgrimage Jess was left alone. 
 
 Tammas Haggart was the first to come forward with offer 
 of help. He filled Jess's pitcher and pan at the well every 
 morning after filling his own, waiting his turn in the line of peo- 
 ple who were sometimes at the well as early as three o'clock. 
 Others helped, too. Jess said she would bake if anyone would 
 buy, and many kindly folk came to her door for scones. 
 
 Jamie did not come to see his mother. We did not know 
 of the London woman then, and Jess never knew of her. But 
 Jess always had an eye on the brae, even when she was baking, 
 Tibbie told me. Toward the end Jess felt sure that Jamie 
 was dead. 
 
 The minister was with her when she died, and she asked 
 him to read the sixteenth chapter of Genesis. When he read 
 "Thou God seest me," she covered her face with her hands, 
 and said: 
 
 " Joey's text, Joey's text ! Oh, but I grudged ye sair, Joey !" 
 And so she died. 
 
 Some time after this Jamie came back and went to the
 
 JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE 325 
 
 house, but it was occupied by strange people. He asked about 
 his family and was told that they were dead. He looked like 
 a broken-hearted man. He asked about the furniture and his 
 mother's staff. 
 
 "I've heard tell," the woman of the house told him, "'at 
 the dominie up i' Glen Quharity took awa' the staff." 
 
 He spent that night on his mother's grave, and the next day 
 came to the schoolhouse. 
 
 "I came oot," he said, "to see if ye would gie me her staff — 
 no 'at I deserve it." 
 
 I brought out the staff and gave it to him. That evening 
 he went up to the old house again and asked to be allowed to 
 stay alone in the kitchen for a little while. Then he went away, 
 and was never again seen in Thrums.
 
 THE LITTLE MINISTER (1891) 
 
 This romance first appeared serially in Good Words in 1891, and was issued 
 the same year in book form. It was dramatized by its author in 1897, and was 
 received with great favor both in England and the United States. The scene 
 of the tale is the market-town of Kirriemuir, Forfarshire, Scotland, about sixty 
 miles north of Edinburgh, and designated as Thrums in the novel, much attention 
 being paid to local coloring. The major part of the action of the novel covers 
 a period of about ten months, but in the drama it is condensed within less than a 
 fortnight. 
 
 T twenty-one, Gavin Dishart was settled as min- 
 ister of the Auld Licht parish in Thrums, a con- 
 gregation composed mainly of weavers and their 
 families. His mother, Margaret Dishart, was 
 the widow of Adam Dishart, a fisherman of 
 Harire, on the east coast, and at his death, when 
 her son was but four years old, she removed to 
 Glasgow, where the two remained until Gavin 
 got his call to Thrums. 
 When Margaret was a young girl she was beloved by Gavin 
 Ogilvy, later the dominie, or schoolmaster, of Glen Quharity, 
 the supposed narrator of the story. A shy, timid man, he was 
 soon distanced in his courtship by Dishart, for he says: "I went 
 back to Aberdeen to write a poem about her, and while I was 
 at it Adam married her." 
 
 Three months after the wedding Adam disappeared, most 
 people supposing he had fallen over the cliff into the sea, and 
 after two years Margaret married Ogilvy, who kept the school 
 at Harvie. Nearly six years had elapsed when Adam came 
 back, claimed Margaret as his wife, and pitched a coin in order 
 to determine whose child the four-year-old boy should be, with 
 the result that the lad fell to him. The dominie left home that 
 same day and never saw Margaret again till seventeen years 
 afterward, when she came to Thrums with her son, "the little 
 minister," as he soon came to be known by reason of his short 
 
 326
 
 JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE 327 
 
 stature. Margaret, however, knew nothing of the dominie's 
 whereabouts after he left Harvie, and Ogilvy determined she 
 never should see him in Thrums. 
 
 Once established in the manse with his mother and the 
 serving-maid, Jean, "in eight days Gavin's figure was more 
 familiar in Thrums than many that had grown bent in it. 
 Though short of stature he cast a great shadow. He was so 
 full of his duties, Jean said, that though he pulled the door to as 
 he left the manse, he had passed the currant-bushes before it 
 'snecked.' He darted into courts, and invented ways into 
 awkward houses. If you did not look up quickly he was 'round 
 the corner." 
 
 A few months before Gavin's call to Thrums, the turbulent 
 weavers of the town had made riotous demonstrations toward 
 the manufacturers who had reduced the price of the web; and 
 since then a watch had been kept by the weavers lest the sheriff 
 should suddenly bring a force of soldiery to overawe the neigh- 
 borhood. The blowing of a horn was to be a signal to Thrums 
 that the soldiers had arrived and that the persons who had led 
 the riot should make haste to flee. The possibility of the com- 
 ing of the soldiers was the principal topic of discussion in 
 Thrums save the settlement of the Auld Licht minister. Rob 
 Dow, a drunken weaver, who came to kirk to annoy the 
 minister, was unaccountably turned from his design and be- 
 came one of Gavin's stanch supporters. 
 
 "My certie," he roared, "there's the shine frae Heaven on 
 that little minister's face, and them as says there's no has me 
 to fecht." 
 
 On one evening the minister visited Dow, who lived in the 
 neighboring hamlet of New Zealand, and after praying with 
 him and encouraging him in his resolution to keep sober, went 
 on to visit a gipsy family called the Wild Lindsays. Not find- 
 ing them, he was coming through a patch of woodland by 
 moonlight when he saw a dancing figure before him that he 
 fancied might be the embodiment of a maiden said to haunt 
 the place. Presently she sang, and when she saw him she kissed 
 her hand to him and fled. Under the spell of the moment, he 
 pursued her, but in vain; and soon after he heard the signal 
 horn. Hastening now to the public square of Thrums he saw
 
 328 THE LITTLE MINISTER 
 
 the figure of the gipsy again, this time as the leader of a dozen 
 men with staves and pikes. In a few moments the square was 
 filled with a turbulent throng, but "the Egyptian," as he had 
 heard the gipsy girl called, was not visible. The minister en- 
 deavored to pacify the excited people, but the Egyptian, who 
 now appeared, opposed his counsel, saying: 
 
 "This mair I ken, that the captain of the soldiers is confi- 
 dent he'll nab every one o' you that's wanted unless you do 
 one thing." 
 
 "What is't?" 
 
 "If you a' run different ways you're lost, but if you keep 
 thegither you'll be able to force a road into the country whaur 
 you can scatter." 
 
 Intelligence now arrived that the soldiers were approaching 
 from the north; and crying "Follow me!" the gipsy girl ran 
 past the town house, with the crowd after her, and Gavin and 
 Rob Dow were left alone in the square. Dow, bidden by the 
 minister, escaped to the eastward, and Gavin hastened to 
 the spot where the weavers were contending with the soldiers, 
 commanded by Captain Halliwell. Stones and clods were 
 cast at the soldiers; and, unnoticed by anyone, the Egyptian 
 pressed a clod into Gavin's hand, whispering "Hit him!" 
 Ere he knew what he was about, Gavin flung the clod and hit 
 the captain on the head. He was horror-stricken at having 
 done so, but when he turned to reproach the girl she had 
 vanished. 
 
 It was not long ere the town house was full of prisoned 
 weavers, and the sheriff and Captain Halliwell in its round room 
 were discussing the evening's tumult. It presently developed 
 that the Egyptian had cleverly induced the Thrums policeman, 
 nicknamed "Weary- world," to blow the horn; and at that 
 moment of revelation she was brought to the round room. 
 There was much questioning on the part of sheriff and cap- 
 tain, but with small result; and presently the girl, adroitly up- 
 setting the lamp, fled in the darkness, after locking the door 
 behind her and thus imprisoning the sheriff and Halliwell. 
 
 At three o'clock in the morning, Gavin was returning home 
 after trying to comfort the families whose heads had been cap- 
 tured, when he saw a file of soldiers in front of him, and also
 
 JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE 329 
 
 perceived the gipsy in a long cloak approaching him. To his 
 dismay she grasped his arm, and the soldiers, now recognizing 
 him, inferred that his companion must be his wife. Quickly 
 forestalling his remonstrance, she caught at the occasion thus 
 offered, and, in a brief conversation with the sergeant com- 
 manding the soldiers, sustained the role of the minister's wife 
 with entire success. To Gavin's subsequent reproaches she 
 was alternately penitent and audacious, speaking freely in 
 "broad Scots" and good English by turns. They parted, but 
 she quickly returned, not being able to escape in the way she 
 had hoped, and, distracted by contradictory emotions, he bade 
 her hide in the manse garden. 
 
 On the Sunday after the riot Gavin was announcing his 
 text to be in the eighth chapter of Ezra, when, to the amaze- 
 ment of his hearers, he came to a full stop, and then, showing 
 much agitation, announced a text from Genesis, chapter three, 
 verse six, and preached a long extemporaneous sermon against 
 women. The pulpit Bible had been used by him in the summer- 
 house of the manse garden, and as he was giving out the text 
 from Ezra his eyes had rested on a scrap of writing on the 
 sacred page: 
 
 "I will never tell who flung the clod at Captain Halliwell. 
 But why did you fling it? I will never tell that you allowed 
 me to be called Mrs. Dishart before witnesses. But is not this 
 a Scotch marriage? Signed, Babbie the Egyptian." 
 
 Sanders Webster, the mole-catcher, whose bragging about 
 maltreating policemen he never saw led to his being sent to jail 
 for nine months, had a sister Nanny with whom he lived, and 
 his imprisonment left her alone and starving. Early in January 
 Gavin and Dr. McQueen visited her in order to reconcile her 
 to the necessary removal to the poorhouse. The old woman 
 was most unhappy at the thought of leaving her home, and 
 while Gavin was praying with her the Egyptian entered Nanny's 
 hut. Reproaching the two men for their proposed disposition 
 of Nanny, the gipsy promised that she would herself pay the 
 needful seven shillings weekly for the old woman's support till 
 Sanders Webster should be let out of jail in the following 
 August. She added that if the minister would meet her at a 
 specified place on the Monday, she would hand him a five-pound
 
 330 THE LITTLE MINISTER 
 
 note for Nanny's behoof. The minister promised, and the 
 doctor then drove away. Babbie now absented herself for a 
 short time in order to get some tea and other necessaries for 
 Nanny, and presently the three sat at tea in very sociable 
 fashion; Gavin in love with Babbie, but as yet unaware of it, 
 and now and again bewildered by her coquetry and rapidly 
 changing moods. 
 
 Gavin made no mention of the Egyptian to his mother, but 
 on Monday he met Babbie at the place appointed, the Kaims, 
 where a much longer conversation ensued than was strictly re- 
 quired to accomplish the errand of each; but when Gavin 
 stretched out his arms toward the mysterious girl, she ran away. 
 
 When the little minister had gone, a man came from be- 
 hind a tree. It was Rob Dow, black with passion. 
 
 "It's the Egyptian!" he cried. "You limmer, wha are you 
 that hae got haud o' the minister?" 
 
 The next meeting of Babbie and Gavin was near Nanny's 
 hut, and this time Gavin was quite sure of the nature of the 
 feeling he had for her. Meanwhile, Thrums folk were sus- 
 picious that their clergyman was in love with someone, but 
 Rob Dow was the only person who knew of Babbie in this con- 
 nection; and he feared that Gavin was being led astray. Dr. 
 McQueen, however, surprised the secret from Rob, who would 
 fain have called it all back. "I'm roaring drunk, doctor," he 
 said, "and it wasna the minister I saw ava'; it was another 
 man." At the first opportunity McQueen taxed Gavin with 
 his interest in Babbie, whereupon the minister owned his love 
 for the girl and his intention to marry her. 
 
 Late that night Gavin saw the flash of a lantern from his 
 window, and going to the garden he found Babbie and kissed 
 her as she sat in the summer-seat. He insisted on accom- 
 panying her back to old Nanny's in spite of the risk incurred 
 should anyone meet them thus together; and they very shortly 
 encountered the dominie, Mr. Ogilvy. 
 
 "It is natural," Gavin said, "that you, sir, should wonder 
 why I am here with this woman at such an hour, and you may 
 know me so little as to think ill of me for it. But I will explain 
 nothing. You are not my judge. If you would do me harm, 
 sir, you have it in your power."
 
 JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE 331 
 
 The Egyptian must have seen that his suspicions hurt Mr. 
 Ogilvy, for she said softly: 
 
 "You are the schoolmaster in Glen Quharity? Then you 
 will perhaps save Mr. Dishart the trouble of coming farther by 
 showing me the way to old Nanny Webster's." 
 
 "I have to pass the house," he answered. 
 
 At the house she looked abruptly into the dominie's face 
 and said, "You love him, too." 
 
 On the morrow following, Babbie encountered, on a bleak 
 hill near Thrums, Rob Dow's small son, Micah, weeping upon 
 the wishing-stone there. Her questions elicited the informa- 
 tion that he was wishing that the woman who had driven his 
 father to drink was in hell. Her identity was unknown to him, 
 and his father had said she should be burned for a witch. It 
 was Mr. Dishart that she had power over, the boy added. " My 
 father's michty fond o' him, and when the folk ken about the 
 woman they'll stane the minister out o' Thrums." 
 
 Presently Micah said with conviction: 
 
 "You're the woman! You micht gang awa'. If ony shame 
 comes to the minister his auld mither'll die. I'll gie you my 
 rabbit if you'll gang awa'." 
 
 Babbie promised to go away and never return. Months 
 elapsed, and Gavin at last gave up the search for her, convinced 
 that he should never see her again. 
 
 On the 5th of August the old Lord Rintoul was to be mar- 
 ried to a young bride at the Spittal, between Thrums and Glen 
 Quharity, and on the day previous many persons were gathered 
 to celebrate the occasion. Ogilvy from his window saw Lauch- 
 lan Campbell, a Highland piper, rushing down the highway 
 playing his pipes and now and again shaking his fist in the 
 direction of the Spittal, the immediate cause of his wrath being 
 a command to play an air abhorrent to the Campbells. Some 
 hours later, Babbie entered the dominie's house, crying out that 
 Gavin had been killed by the angry piper. This, however, 
 was a mistake. The piper, in an altercation with Dow, had 
 been stunned by a blow from the other; Gavin, trying to inter- 
 cept the blow, had fallen, and the report had gone out that he 
 was killed. Ogilvy, having left Babbie at old Nanny's, went 
 onward to Thrums and there learned the truth from Gavin
 
 33^ THE LITTLE MINISTER 
 
 himself, who then accompanied the dominie back to Nanny's 
 and so discovered Babbie. 
 
 Ogilvy left them together, and Babbie, confessing that she 
 was to be married to Lord Rintoul, told him of her gipsy origin 
 and how Rintoul had found and educated her in order some day 
 to marry her. But it was Gavin who had taught her what love 
 was, she said. A meeting at the kirk to pray for rain was to 
 be held that same evening, but Gavin did not appear, and the 
 congregation dispersed in mingled anger and sorrow to search 
 for their minister. Lord Rintoul was already searching in his 
 dog-cart for the promised bride, who had fled from him at the 
 last moment, and, knowing this, Gavin and Babbie went on to 
 the gipsy camp and were there married, gipsy fashion, over 
 the tongs. 
 
 A drought of many weeks was broken that night by a deluge 
 of rain, preceded by lightning flashes, in one of which Gavin 
 and Babbie were revealed to Rintoul with hands clasped over 
 the tongs. The ceremony had barely taken place when Babbie 
 was snatched from her husband in the darkness — by Rintoul, 
 as Gavin then thought. The storm now increased in violence, 
 and the countryside was soon under water. In the morning 
 Dominie Ogilvy found his schoolhouse surrounded by water, 
 and not far away he discovered Gavin lying exhausted on the 
 hillside. Taking the minister to the schoolhouse, the dominie 
 allowed him to sleep many hours. 
 
 When Gavin awoke, fully determined to prevent Babbie's 
 marriage to Rintoul, the dominie, in hopes to change his resolu- 
 tion, revealed the story of their relation to each other, but 
 Gavin remained resolute and set off for the Spittal while Ogilvy 
 departed for Thrums in order to send word to Margaret that 
 her son was safe. The fog was now very dense, and only by 
 great hazard could Ogilvy make his way through the flooded 
 region, and by long detours reach Thrums where, to his great 
 surprise, he found Babbie at the manse. 
 
 Her captor at the gipsy camp was not Rintoul but Rob 
 Dow, who, in his insane regard for Gavin, meant to kill Babbie 
 for having led the minister astray, as he explained to her in 
 frenzied language. She managed to escape from him in the 
 darkness, but his own progress was stopped soon after by a
 
 JAMES MATTHEW BARR1E 33s 
 
 falling tree which pinned one of his legs to the ground. Babbie 
 made her way at length to the manse, where Jean admitted her, 
 and later Rintoul sought her there and begged her to return 
 with him, but she refused. He then departed, and Margaret, 
 who knew nothing of Gavin's love for Babbie, fancied that only 
 a lover's quarrel was now dividing Babbie from Lord Rintoul. 
 
 A cannon-shot was to have been the signal that Rintoul's 
 marriage had taken place, and the roar of falling rocks loosened 
 by the rain was mistaken for the signal by Gavin and others. 
 The minister, on his way to the Spittal, narrowly escaped falling 
 into the foaming Quharity in the mist through the warning of 
 a shepherd; and as the fog lifted slightly they saw Rintoul lying 
 on a fast-vanishing island below. The minister leaped boldly 
 into the torrent, drew the Earl out of the water and tried to 
 restore him to consciousness. In this he succeeded, but so 
 rapidly was the island disappearing that unless help could 
 reach them they would have been drowned in another hour. 
 The Earl shouted out rewards, but his voice could not reach 
 the shepherds and others on the high bank. Then the minis- 
 ter called out the items of his will, concluding by singing the 
 Twenty-third Psalm. All attempts to throw ropes to the two 
 men had failed, when Rob Dow, who had been released from 
 under the tree, with his crushed leg now leaped into the water, 
 holding a rope whose end was caught by the Earl, who, with 
 Gavin, was then drawn to shore in safety, while Rob, whom 
 Gavin tried to grasp, was swept on with the torrent. 
 
 Margaret never knew^how nearly Gavin came to being 
 turned out of his kirk, but his fortitude won back his people's 
 hearts. "He was an obstinate minister and love had led him 
 a dance, but in the hour of trial he had proven himself a man." 
 
 Gavin and Babbie were married by Gavin's predecessor in 
 the manse, while Lord Rintoul returned to his English estates 
 and never came again to the Spittal. As for little Micah Dow, 
 he had always the best of friends in the little minister. Of the 
 dominie in the glen, by his own desire, Margaret never heard.
 
 ANTON GIULIO BARRILI 
 
 (Italy, 1836) 
 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT (1870) 
 
 Among the many pleasantly farcical tales by this author, none is more 
 popular than the following, which has been dramatized for the Italian stage. 
 
 [ASTELNUOVO BEDONIA, a manufacturing 
 town on the slope of the Apennines, rejoiced in 
 the possession of a forceful Subprefect. He 
 and his wife — they had no children — were quar- 
 tered, along with many other officials, in the 
 Government building. It was currently re- 
 ported that the Registrar was soon to be turned 
 out of his apartment there because the Sub- 
 prefect required more room. The Subprefect's 
 wife was very agreeable when not descanting upon her hus- 
 band's wrongs. Perhaps she had good cause to complain, for 
 several officers had already been promoted over her husband's 
 head, in absolute disregard of his right to advancement. The 
 Subprefect listened to his wife and smiled, for he beheld the 
 day speedily approaching when justice would be done him. 
 
 For two months Subprefect Tiraquelli had been holding 
 weekly receptions, an unprecedented novelty, which gave rise 
 to endless gossip. The Minister of the Interior had promised 
 to eject the Registrar from the Government building, and to 
 give Tiraquelli the whole second story, in order that the famous 
 receptions might continue. The question was: Why should a 
 subprefect, with a salary of only four thousand lire and no 
 private resources, permit himself the expensive luxury of weekly 
 receptions? And why was the Minister so interested? 
 
 From these receptions the townspeople held aloof at first. 
 
 334
 
 ANTON GIULIO BARRILI 335 
 
 Occasionally there was a new visitor, and lately an archeologist 
 had appeared there — the Duca di Francavilla. He was an 
 amateur; but no professional could have been more enthu- 
 siastic. The Duke was handsome, young, witty, elegant, and 
 democratic. After his arrival in town, the Subprefect's re- 
 ceptions became triumphant successes. The host enthusias- 
 tically chanted his praises and foresaw the approach of the day 
 when the whole district would become loyal to the policy of the 
 party in power. To this end Subprefect Tiraquelli labored, 
 and in pursuance of this aim he had a private talk with one of 
 his guests, Signor Prospero Gentili, and set forth to him an 
 attractive scheme. He endeavored to persuade Signor Gentili 
 that he would certainly become a chevalier, or even a com- 
 mander with the collar, if he would only be complaisant. Then 
 he declared that the Government wished the Duca di Franca- 
 villa to marry Signor Gentili's very wealthy orphan niece and 
 ward, Signorina Adele Ruzzani. Signor Gentili replied that 
 the young lady might take it into her head not to like the ar- 
 rangement, in which case he should be helpless. Her head, 
 not her heart, was what he feared. She was very fond of her 
 liberty, and of gratifying her caprices — and extremely queer 
 caprices they were. He admitted that he was more than eager 
 to see his beautiful niece a duchess, and promised to use his 
 influence with her to bring about the marriage. He accepted 
 the Subprefect's assurance that the Duke was wildly in love 
 with the girl, and believed that he would become "Chevalier" 
 or even "Commander" Gentili. 
 
 The chief magnet of the Subprefect's receptions was the 
 young millionairess, Adele Ruzzani. The beautiful Adele 
 wore her fine blonde hair cut short just below her ears, like a 
 medieval page, which was very becoming to her animated face. 
 She cared little for music, danced only when compelled, had 
 no feminine tastes, and lamented her ignorance of Latin and 
 Greek, declaring that she would learn both at the first oppor- 
 tunity. The Duke realized that in order to capture such a 
 girl he must exercise craft. He showered his attentions im- 
 partially upon all social ranks in Castelnuovo, nobly paying 
 court to all the elderly ladies, and showing Adele Ruzzani no 
 more attention than the other young girls. He spent his morn-
 
 336 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT 
 
 ings in archeological researches, and his evenings in improving 
 his mind at the Subprefect's receptions. 
 
 When the Subprefect and Signor Gentili returned to the 
 drawing-room after their conference, the Duke announced that 
 he had discovered a medieval wonder in the neighborhood — 
 "The Monastery of the Madmen." He explained that while 
 on the way to his excavations, he had met a peasant who had 
 offered to show him a fox's lair as soon as he should have de- 
 livered his load at the monastery. The Duke's curiosity was 
 aroused, and after questioning the peasant about the monastery, 
 he decided to accompany him thither. A brief colloquy with 
 the gatekeeper ended in an invitation to the Duke to enter the 
 monastery and take luncheon with the Prior. Visitors were 
 rarely admitted, the gatekeeper explained, because they were 
 generally curious persons who wished to discover who the 
 monks were, and their reasons for living in retirement in this 
 singular "lay monastery." There were nine monks in residence, 
 the Duke said, and five more were expected at any moment. 
 These monks wore snuff-colored habits. Their Prior was a 
 very handsome, intelligent man of five-and-thirty, who had 
 questioned him minutely on his archeological researches, re- 
 marking that the brethren intended to undertake something of 
 the sort themselves. In reply to the Duke's somewhat indis- 
 creet questions, the Prior had informed him that their com- 
 munity did not make a specialty of hating women, though the 
 sex might be, in part, the reason for retirement in some cases. 
 He had explained that all the brethren had fled from the world 
 "with the second vocation"; the rather surprising but per- 
 fectly natural distinction between that and the first vocation 
 being that, in his youth, every man has two vocations. The 
 first should be distrusted, because it is impossible to discern, at 
 first sight, whether it is true or false; hence the tardy regrets, 
 the frenzies and long agonies of the cloister. The second voca- 
 tion is the true one, because it comes to those who have had 
 experience in the battles of life, and a man surrenders himself 
 to it with full knowledge. 
 
 As the Duke had said, the Monastery of the Madmen was 
 expecting a reenforcement of five. A week later, on the morn- 
 ing that the gatekeeper had received orders to admit these new-
 
 ANTON GIULIO BARRILI 337 
 
 comers as soon as they should present themselves, two persons 
 arrived, and announced that they were desirous of becoming 
 brethren. One was a fair-haired youth, with fine features, an 
 elegant figure, and a beardless face. His anxious- looking com- 
 panion was an old man, fat, rosy, and shining. 
 
 While Father Giocondo was gone to announce them to the 
 Prior, the old man suggested gloomily that they should beat a 
 retreat. But the youth replied: "I've given you my orders, 
 uncle. You must do as I wish, or I'll take a dose of poison. 
 And, see here — there's to be no running away from this place!" 
 
 When the handsome Prior Anacleto arrived, the young man 
 answered most of the questions. He announced his age as 
 twenty-two, assured the Prior that his vocation would be of 
 the lasting sort, and allayed his doubts in general. At last 
 Father Anacleto consented that the pair should remain as 
 "novices." A year, six months, three months hence, at their 
 pleasure, said the Prior, the question of their vocation might 
 be discussed again. When told that everyone must have some 
 special occupation, the old man announced himself as an agri- 
 culturist, while the seraphic youth admitted he could sing a 
 little, and that he had some skill at the piano and also in 
 drawing. Father Anacleto remarked that, as they were about 
 to set up a scientific journal, to record the results of their 
 studies, and illustrations would be required, the knowledge 
 of drawing would be very useful. He then had the newcomers 
 conducted to their cells, after they had given their names as 
 Prospero Gentili and Adelindo Ruzzani. 
 
 Meanwhile, Subprefect Tiraquelli was under the impression 
 that he knew precisely where the future Commander Gentili 
 and his lovely niece were gone. Two days after the Duke's 
 narration of his adventures at the monastery, Signor Gentili 
 had called on the Subprefect, and announced that he and his 
 niece were going to Milan for a week, as Adele had certain 
 purchases to make, and wished to have the family jewels reset. 
 The information about the jewels had precisely the effect which 
 the clever Adele had calculated upon when she ordered her 
 uncle to impart it. No sooner had Signor Gentili taken his de- 
 parture than the Subprefect wrote a confidential letter to the 
 Minister, announcing that the marriage project was making 
 
 A.D., VOL. II. 22
 
 338 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT 
 
 the best possible progress, mentioning, in confirmation, the 
 significant fact about the jewels. A few days later, he reflected 
 that Signor Gentili had neither written to him nor left an ad- 
 dress. He determined to prove to him that he could discover 
 it; so he telegraphed to an official in Milan inquiring at what 
 inn Signor Gentili was staying. The official reply that no per- 
 son resembling Signor Gentili, either with or without a niece, 
 was at any hotel in Milan, astonished the Subprefect. 
 
 At the second reception from which Adele Ruzzani was 
 absent, the Subprefect had hardly succeeded in soothing the 
 impatient Duke with the story of the visit to Milan, when a 
 certain elderly lady, the Countess Gamberini, revealed to the 
 assembly that Signor Gentili and his niece had gone to become 
 monks in the Monastery of the Madmen! Her agent, on his 
 way from inspecting one of her estates, had caught sight of the 
 pair riding on asses ; had concealed himself, and had afterward 
 questioned the peasant who had carried their bags and was 
 returning with the asses. The peasant had heard them state 
 their intention to the gatekeeper. 
 
 The Duke was overwhelmed, and sternly demanded of the 
 Subprefect: "What will the Minister say?" 
 
 The Subprefect was crushed: the prospect of his com- 
 mandership was gloomy. 
 
 Meanwhile, the two novices had been enjoying an immense 
 success in the monastery. Father Anacleto had explained 
 their presence to the brethren with much plausibility, saying 
 that he had exercised liberty of action in a case not provided 
 for by the rules of their community. Several of the brethren 
 thought "Brother Adelindo" too young, and that he looked 
 like a girl; but all admired "the seraphic youth," and tried to 
 be often in his society. Brother Adelindo spoke in as throaty 
 a voice as he could command, and although timid at first, he 
 speedily gained confidence. In the course of a week life in the 
 monastery underwent a great change. 
 
 No work and no recreation could go on except in the com- 
 pany of Brother Adelindo. All were full of good-will, and 
 everything was soon made ready for issuing their great work, 
 the scientific journal, the edition of which was to be strictly 
 limited to a copy for each brother, and an extra one for the
 
 ANTON GIULIO BARRILI 339 
 
 monastery library. Everyone felt that the first number must 
 contain some sketches by Brother Adelindo. Accordingly, an 
 expedition was undertaken to the Cave of the Witches, and 
 their explorations yielded abundant material for the pencil of 
 the fair-haired brother, who sketched diligently while the other 
 fifteen monks stood around him in a state of rapt admiration. 
 
 As a matter of fact, every one of them had divined that 
 "Brother Adelindo" was a woman; but not one announced his 
 discovery to his companions. The scientific journal lagged; 
 little was written, nothing at all profitable was thought of in 
 the cells of the recluses. Everything and everybody revolved 
 around Brother Adelindo. 
 
 Presently the gatekeeper began to be besieged by would-be 
 visitors. They came singly, they came in groups. Father 
 Anacleto became suspicious, and gave orders that no one was 
 to be allowed to enter. If a visitor came with a specific request 
 to see a particular brother, he was forced to remain in the parlor 
 at the bridge, enjoying the fresh air, until the gatekeeper had 
 informed the person wanted and had brought him. Obviously, 
 these new visitors were curious persons from Castelnuovo; for 
 it now seemed to require two or more persons to bring a basket 
 of eggs, or any other object for the monastery's use. 
 
 One day Father Prospero was summoned to the parlor. He 
 showed no surprise. In fact, the visit had been announced to 
 him in a letter, over which he had pondered long. He had not 
 shown it to the fair-haired seraph. Truth to tell, he was tired 
 of the eternal buzzing of the apocryphal friars around the young 
 monk, and the letter was more than welcome. Father Pros- 
 pero's visitor was the Subprefect, who laughed at his rotund 
 form in the snuff-colored habit (which enhanced the charms 
 of Brother Adelindo, by the way), and reproached him for al- 
 lowing himself to be led by a girl's caprices, and for not having 
 informed his friends of this strange action. Father Prospero 
 replied that Adele had made him conform to her will from the 
 age of six months, when he had taken charge of her at her 
 mother's death; but he declared that he asked nothing better 
 than to be rescued from his present predicament. 
 
 The Subprefect promised to counteract the gossip of the 
 town; but insisted that Signor Prospero and his niece must go
 
 340 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT 
 
 to Turin for a month, setting out by night in a carriage which 
 he would send. Poor Signor Prospero said his niece would 
 never consent; she was enjoying herself hugely! She had be- 
 witched all the brethren, who waited upon her and sang her 
 praises all day long ; Father Anacleto was the only one who had 
 not lost his head. 
 
 The Subprefect declared that Father Anacleto was the most 
 dangerous of them all; he was a former cavalry officer from 
 Ferrara, who had resigned and had flung himself into politics, 
 of which he had soon wearied. He had had endless love- 
 affairs, and, one fine day, had taken it into his head to reform 
 the world; and this queer lay monastery was his freak. The 
 girl would end by falling in love with him or some other one 
 of the brethren, if she remained there. 
 
 Signor Prospero, thoroughly alarmed, promised to aid in 
 any plan of rescue which the Subprefect might invent. On 
 his return to the monastery, he found that all the brethren had 
 disappeared. They were holding a serious conference in the 
 Chapter-room, and the doorkeeper refused him admittance, 
 on the ground that he was still a novice. Accordingly, he set 
 out in quest of his niece, who also had disappeared; and after 
 a long search he arrived in the library. "Where the devil can 
 she have gone?" he exclaimed aloud. A low hiss answered 
 him from a balcony, and his niece signaled to him that he was 
 to keep quiet while she listened to the discussions of the Chap- 
 ter! When the brothers had retired to the Chapter-room, she 
 had set out in quest of a post of observation, and had discovered 
 an attic intended for drying fruits, situated directly above the 
 Chapter-room. In the uncarpeted floor she found a hole, 
 which enabled her to see and hear, by turns, all that took place 
 in the Chapter-room. The discussion there waxed warm. 
 Some of the new arrivals protested strongly against the presence 
 of women in the monastery, and asserted that young Brother 
 Adelindo was a woman. Father Anacleto argued that a woman 
 had once been Pope, that women had served with distinction 
 in various armies, and had never been expelled from their regi- 
 ments, even when their sex became known. By analogy, there- 
 fore, there was no reason why so quiet and gentle a person as 
 Brother Adelindo should be expelled, even though a content
 
 ANTON GIULIO BARRILI 341 
 
 might be a more suitable place for her. The Prior remarked, 
 further, that he had suspected Brother Adelindo's sex on the 
 third day after her arrival, but had not interfered, because all 
 the brethren were gentlemen; adding that to refuse her ad- 
 mission, even had they known her sex beforehand, would 
 have been equivalent to declaring that they were afraid of 
 women. If her presence was a temptation, let them thank 
 Fate, which had thrown in their way such a peril — one which 
 had been encountered and overcome by divers saints and holy 
 men. 
 
 This exordium was received with cries of "Stupendous!" 
 "Divine!" "Immense!" by the brethren (and by the seraph, 
 in her hiding-place, with a gratified smile); but there were 
 enough dissenting voices to cause Father Anacleto to offer his 
 resignation, with the suggestion that they should elect another 
 prior. It was decided to postpone action on this point; also, 
 that the two novices were not to be allowed to get wind of the 
 fact that they were objects of suspicion. 
 
 Brother Adelindo, perceiving that the Chapter was on the 
 point of adjourning, flew down through the library (where her 
 uncle was peacefully slumbering), and out of doors. 
 
 Meanwhile, Father Anacleto was suffering from the con- 
 sciousness that he had worked out an intricate problem without 
 having taken into account one element which now threatened 
 to destroy all his calculations. He had suspected from the first 
 that Father Prospero's nephew was a woman; but he had ig- 
 nored the possible consequences of that fact upon the monas- 
 tery family. He was driven to meditate upon his own real 
 view of her. Before long he noted a curious fact: the two 
 fathers who had been his partizans in the Chapter began to 
 change their honeyed speech toward him for one tinged with 
 bitterness, while all his opponents became extremely devoted 
 to the disturbing youth, considerably more so than Father 
 Anacleto relished. This was the situation of affairs when the 
 Subprefect called upon the Prior, and was promptly received. 
 The Subprefect explained his visit by saying that he was in- 
 specting communities in his district and asked to be shown 
 the monastery. Father Anacleto courteously complied, but 
 sent word to the brethren that as many as wished might come
 
 342 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT 
 
 to luncheon with the Subprefect, and that any who were ill 
 would be served in their own apartments. If the Subprefect 
 had hoped to surprise Adele Ruzzani by this visit, his calcula- 
 tions were upset by the Prior's quick wit. 
 
 The Subprefect announced to Father Anacleto, as the chief 
 object of his visit, that he wished to inquire whether there were 
 any women in the monastery; a rumor being current in Castel- 
 nuovo that a young girl, with her elderly uncle, had run away 
 from her home to the monastery, and was still there. The 
 Prior replied that the girl was there, but of her own free will, 
 and under no constraint to remain. The Subprefect suggested 
 that gossip was rife, and that if the young lady did not return 
 home promptly she never would be able to get a husband, in 
 spite of her millions — unless someone should present himself 
 who could testify that this most imprudent caprice could not 
 possibly cast a shadow on her good name. 
 
 Father Anacleto exclaimed impetuously that the Subprefect 
 need have no fear : no one there wished to marry, or to set traps 
 for wealthy girls, and that as tranquillity was the chief blessing 
 they had sought in this solitude, their peace demanded that 
 Signorina Adele Ruzzani should leave the monastery as speedily 
 as possible. The Subprefect rapturously embraced the Prior 
 and departed. 
 
 Father Anacleto had observed three vacant places at lunch- 
 eon, and had been told that Father Agapito had accompanied 
 Brothers Prospero and Adelindo to the woods. At this he had 
 felt a certain irritation. He now proceeded in search of the 
 missing trio. As he approached the woodland, hearing voices, 
 he peeped through the bushes and beheld a most idyllic scene. 
 Prospero was stretched out on the turf, with his head resting 
 against a projecting rock, and his face covered with his hand- 
 kerchief. Beside him sat the fair-haired brother with lap full 
 of flowers, while Father Agapito, close at hand, was plucking 
 sprays of clematis. These Brother Adelindo wove into a gar- 
 land, then placed it on his head, resembling then some of the 
 youthful friars in a fourteenth-century picture; while Father 
 Agapito, in ecstatic admiration, represented a Dominican or 
 Franciscan monk from one of the same pictures. Father Ana- 
 cleto, restraining his inclination to dash from his hiding-place,
 
 ANTON GIULIO BARRILI 343 
 
 stole away, muttering: "Devil take it! I must put an end to 
 this, or peace will vanish!" 
 
 Returning to the monastery, he informed his comrades as 
 to the object of the Subprefect's visit, and announced the 
 identity of the novices. 
 
 In the course of the discussion that followed, Father Resti- 
 tuto, with a candor which smacked of irony, was defending 
 Brother Adelindo as "a very nice boy, the light and joy of the 
 monastery," when the three absentees made their appearance, 
 and the seraph inquired why the Subprefect had come. The 
 Prior requested her to come to him after dinner, with her uncle ; 
 but she declared that she preferred to hear the story alone, and 
 would go to the garden, where the Prior might join her. 
 
 When the brethren beheld the Prior and Brother Adelindo 
 strolling off to the garden, they decided that the Prior had no 
 right to send the fair guest away without consulting them. 
 They also decided that the conference in the garden must be 
 broken up, and that the proper person to do it was Father Pros- 
 pero, who was asleep in the library. When they awakened him 
 he responded phlegmatically to their persuasions, and said he 
 would depart at once with his — nephew! Father Agapito sug- 
 gested that the Prior's heart was touched, and that if he found 
 himself Adelindo's chosen companion he would abstain from 
 ordering the pair away, in which case Father Prospero would 
 be compelled to remain in the monastery forever. This moved 
 Father Prospero to set out for the garden ; but he turned back, 
 reflecting that if his niece and Father Anacleto loved each other 
 the monastery was fated to come to a speedy end, and that he 
 would then be free. 
 
 Accordingly, he told the disappointed brethren that what- 
 ever the Prior did would be well done; whatever pleased his 
 niece would please him; and he resumed his interrupted nap. 
 
 Meanwhile, the Prior was trying to explain to Brother Ade- 
 lindo the Subprefect's errand, but found it somewhat difficult, 
 as the roguish girl declared that the Adele Ruzzani in question 
 was her sister, and persisted in discussing the matter from that 
 point of view, which gave her the opportunity to say many things 
 concerning the numerous proposals she had received on account 
 of her wealth; about a woman's own feelings regarding suitors
 
 344 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT 
 
 in general, and mentioning the latest of her own suitors (the 
 Duke), who was being forced upon her, whereas she preferred 
 to wait for a man who would love her sincerely. But in spite 
 of her cleverness this discussion did not lead the Prior to ex- 
 press his love, and Brother Adelindo inquired why he had with- 
 drawn from the world. Chiefly, the Prior replied, because he 
 had fancied himself to be in love, and had discovered that he 
 was mistaken. He hinted at Father Agapito's admiration for 
 Brother Adelindo; for himself, he said, he would cling to the 
 peace he had acquired. Thereupon the fair seraph read him 
 a lesson upon the disgrace of a soldier deserting the battle of 
 life, and wound up by imploring him to leave the monastery, 
 declaring that, while he might be keeping the Ten Command- 
 ments with all due strictness, he was breaking the Eleventh 
 Commandment — that which is assumed by the first ten, and 
 which includes all the rest. That Commandment, she told 
 him, is: "Thou shalt remain in the company of thy fellow- 
 men; thou shalt live their life; thou shalt love and suffer with 
 them: For it is not permitted to thee to alienate thyself from 
 the general law." She added that there was a penalty for 
 breaking this commandment, and that Father Anacleto might 
 meditate for himself as to what it was; meanwhile, was she to 
 be permitted to remain at San Bruno, or must she take her 
 departure? The Prior reluctantly pronounced his decision: 
 She must depart on the morrow. And at five o'clock the next 
 morning she forced her uncle to return with her to Castelnuovo, 
 despite his efforts to carry out the Subprefect's suggestion that 
 they spend a fortnight or a month in Turin, Venice, and other 
 places. After their departure, the gatekeeper knocked at the 
 Prior's door, and handed him a card, whereon, handsomely 
 engraved, was Signor Prospero Gentili's name, accompanied by 
 a daintily penciled message of thanks for the hospitality shown 
 to Signor Gentili and his niece, and an invitation to call at the 
 Palazzo Ruzzani. 
 
 All night the Prior had been paying the penalty for breaking 
 the Eleventh Commandment! He was soon called to account 
 by his fellow-monks for the departure of their guests. The 
 discussion grew warm, and Father Agapito expressed the view 
 of the rest when he declared that the seraph's confession as to
 
 ANTON GIULIO BARRILI 345 
 
 her true name and station was invalid, because it had been 
 made to the Prior alone, whereas the whole Chapter had the 
 right to hear it. The Prior retorted by addressing Father 
 Agapito by his worldly name, and ended by remarking that a 
 pair of Toledo blades and two sword-canes hung upon the 
 walls of his cell. Father Agapito promptly accepted this chal- 
 lenge and addressed the Prior by his secular name. Seconds 
 were chosen at once, and a duel was arranged to take place 
 immediately. Just as the adversaries were on the point of 
 attacking, the eight monks not engaged arrived in a body to 
 protest, declaring that the population of Castelnuovo would 
 take advantage of such a scandalous proceeding as a duel to 
 say all possible evil of the monastery. Father Agapito, highly 
 incensed at the interruption, exclaimed that the monastery 
 might go to the devil; which, being interpreted in plain and 
 polite language, declared Father Restituto meant: "Let us 
 dissolve the community." Of truth, the demon had entered 
 there, darkness and the shadow of death had overwhelmed it 
 since that woman had departed. Father Marcellino expressed 
 his surprise at that opposition, on the part of Father Restituto, 
 to the order of the Prior — "the only man among us who has 
 not lost his head in love." 
 
 "You are mistaken, Marcellino," replied the Prior, gravely; 
 " I am more in love with her than all the rest of you put together." 
 
 But when the Prior declared that he had not even asked 
 the lady about her sentiments, Father Agapito offered Father 
 Anacleto his hand, and the adversaries embraced. Father 
 Agapito then announced that all the monks, beginning with 
 the Prior, were at liberty to pay court to the seraph, if they 
 wished. Father Anacleto reaffirmed his desire to resign the 
 post of Prior ; and when Father Restituto proposed that Father 
 Marcellino's suggestion as to the dissolution of the monastery 
 should be adopted, because they had been opposing the law 
 of nature, Father Anacleto proclaimed to them the Eleventh 
 Commandment. 
 
 On the morning after their return home, Signor Gentili 
 made his official appearance in the town, and met curious 
 questions and spiteful insinuations with much courage and 
 skill. The Subprefect received him warmly, addressed him
 
 346 THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT 
 
 as "Commander," and warned him that the Duca di Franca- 
 villa would call on the following evening to make his official 
 proposal for his niece, and must be promptly accepted. In re- 
 porting to the Minister the return of Signor Gentili and his 
 wealthy niece, the Subprefect explained that their absence had 
 been protracted to a month on account of the former having 
 fallen seriously ill in Turin. 
 
 The next day Signorina Adele Ruzzani was kept busy re- 
 ceiving calls from several gentlemen who were not residents of 
 the town. Late in the afternoon a card was brought to her, 
 whereon, under a count's coronet, handsomely engraved, was 
 the name: "Valentino Gualandi del Poggio." Below, in pen- 
 cil, was written: "Anacleto." Sending the servant in search 
 of her uncle, Adele flew to the mirror, surveyed her blushing 
 face, then hastened to the drawing-room, where the Count 
 announced to her that he had resigned his office, and that the 
 monastery was dissolved. She remarked that she knew these 
 facts already. In reply to his surprised inquiry, she confessed 
 that two of the brethren had called on her the day before; four 
 had called that day, and she was now momentarily expecting 
 the few remaining members of the community, who had ap- 
 peared to regard her with friendly eyes, she said, modestly 
 lowering her gaze. 
 
 When Signor Prospero returned home, and was informed 
 by the servant of this latest visitor, he could not reconcile his 
 niece's apparent satisfaction at leaving the monastery with the 
 equally apparent intention of the entire brotherhood to transfer 
 themselves to her house. The Count was invited to remain to 
 dinner; and when Signor Prospero left him alone with Adele 
 a few moments, he ventured to inquire the object with which 
 his fellow "monks" had called, professing inability to believe 
 that they should have come to ask her hand unaccompanied 
 by the necessary grave and reasonable relative, whose presence 
 was required by etiquette under such circumstances. The 
 young lady reassured him by saying that, as she had set them a 
 bad example by her trip to the monastery, she had pardoned 
 their neglect of etiquette. Thus encouraged, the Count informed 
 her that he had sent a telegram to his elderly cousin, the Mar- 
 chese Melli, begging him to come to Castelnuovo at once, on
 
 ANTON GIULIO BARRILI 347 
 
 vitally important business; but that now he asked for her hand 
 himself. The roguish girl replied that she would take the mat- 
 ter under consideration. But when the Subprefcct arrived, she 
 introduced the Count to him as her betrothed, to the amaze- 
 ment of both gentlemen. The Subprefect contented himself 
 with swearing at her uncle, and was not consoled when the 
 Count announced to him the dissolution of the monastery, 
 quoting to him his own words: "A lay monastery is a bad ex- 
 ample, a treason to society." 
 
 When the Subprefect reported to the Minister the frustra- 
 tion of their plans, he added that, thanks to his astuteness, he 
 had succeeded in suppressing the undesirable lay monastery of 
 San Bruno, and that the monastery property had been presented 
 to Castelnuovo. But the Minister was not greatly impressed, 
 and sent him no reward but the chevalier's cross of an order — 
 which added no dignity, as he already possessed the same sort 
 of cross in another order. 
 
 A few weeks later, the wedding of Count Gualandi del 
 Poggio and Adele Ruzzani was celebrated. Before leaving 
 Castelnuovo for their new home, they made a pilgrimage to 
 the deserted monastery; and there, for the first time, the mis- 
 chievous bride learned of the duel which, on her account, had 
 come so near being fought.
 
 ARLO BATES 
 
 (United States, 1850) 
 A WHEEL OF FIRE (1885) 
 
 The author planned and began this story, and then laid it aside as too 
 painful. Upon his repeating the plot to Mr. Howells, however, he was en- 
 couraged to finish it. The comedy scenes between Elsie and Dr. Wilson were 
 introduced largely to enliven the story and by contrast to heighten the pathos 
 of the loneliness of Damaris. We present here the author's own synopsis. 
 
 JAMARIS WAINWRIGHT was in perfect har- 
 mony with her surroundings, as she sat in the 
 library of her colonial mansion, discussing mat- 
 ters of importance with her lawyer, Sherlock 
 Lincoln. 
 
 The room, like every other apartment in 
 the old Wainwright house, had scarcely changed 
 in appearance since colonial days. The Wain- 
 wrights had lived in the mansion, father and 
 son, for more than two centuries; and, as blood in America 
 goes, not even that of the most gallant Virginian, or the state- 
 liest Knickerbocker of them all, was more purely blue than 
 that which faintly flushed the cheek of Mistress Damaris, 
 as she sat there in her deep mourning, the light of the fire 
 within, and of the fading day without, illuminating her slender 
 figure. 
 
 The interview with her lawyer had been brought about by 
 the recent death of her mother, and Damaris, having been made 
 executrix of her estate, had sent for Mr. Hamilton, her legal 
 adviser, to arrange matters with him. A sudden attack of ill- 
 ness had made it impossible for Mr. Hamilton to accede to her 
 request, so in his place he had sent Sherlock Lincoln, his junior 
 partner, who never had met Miss Wainwright. He was im- 
 pressed by her air of deep melancholy, and did not understand 
 her vehement assertion that she never would marry. After 
 
 348
 
 ARLO BATES 
 
 349 
 
 taking leave of her, however, he was followed to the door by 
 Hannah Stearns, the aged housekeeper, whose startling revela- 
 tions filled him with horror and pity. 
 
 She told him that the taint of insanity was in the family; 
 that Damaris's mother had been insane during the last ten years 
 of her life, and that her only brother, who was also demented, 
 was incarcerated in a private asylum. Lincoln left the house 
 deeply impressed by the charm and sadness of Miss Wain- 
 wright, and by the tragedy which enfolded her. 
 
 Staying with Damaris was her cousin and lifelong friend, 
 Elsie Dimmont, but in spite of their close relationship the two 
 were not really in sympathy. Elsie was gay and frivolous, 
 while her cousin, who felt the blighting shadow of madness 
 hanging over her, was unable to throw off her continual 
 melancholy. 
 
 Her first knowledge of the family doom had come to Damaris 
 in her nineteenth year, when her brother was stricken with this 
 terrible malady upon the night of his graduation from Harvard 
 College. John Wainwright had been an athlete and a social 
 leader, and was exceedingly popular with his classmates. His 
 dreadful doom came upon him like a thunderbolt, and to 
 Damaris the shock was one never to be forgotten. Up to this 
 time she had been a happy, careless girl, unconscious of im- 
 pending evil, but from the moment she hastened to her mother 
 with the terrible tidings she was a changed being. 
 
 Damaris never forgot the calmness with which her mother 
 received the dreadful news, and her remark, "Has it come, 
 then?" was a revelation, the shock of which changed her whole 
 life. With a thrill of deadly pain she realized that she, no 
 less than her brother, might be born to this heritage of woe, and 
 that the time allotted before the curse should fall was but a 
 respite granted by the fates. Henceforth a perpetual fear 
 preyed upon Damaris's life, carrying away all joy and rending 
 her heart with hopeless anguish. 
 
 On the evening following her interview with Lincoln, 
 Damaris sat with Elsie, watching the dying embers of the wood- 
 fire on the hearth and trying to throw off the usual cloud of sad- 
 ness. A wild November storm was raging, which added to the 
 gloom of the old house, and both girls were under the spell of
 
 350 A WHEEL OF FIRE 
 
 the many sad memories connected with it, though they tried to 
 overcome these impressions. 
 
 Suddenly the silence was broken by a startling peal of the 
 door-bell, and from their seats by the fire Damaris and Elsie 
 could hear the suppressed murmur of conversation, of which 
 the words were not audible. 
 
 Damaris started to her feet, and with the words, "It is about 
 John, Elsie," hurried to the hall door. 
 
 Her premonition proved only too true, as she was met with 
 the tidings that her brother had escaped from the asylum and 
 was presumably trying to make his way to his home. 
 
 This painful news was brought by Dr. Chauncey Wilson, a 
 young physician who had been one of those in charge of Wain- 
 wright's case at the hospital, and who was at once received into 
 the household pending John's expected arrival. 
 
 Some hours later the invalid was discovered by Damaris's 
 faithful dog, Wallace, lying in the snow within a few feet of 
 his own door. The exposure and exertion were followed by a 
 severe illness, during which he was tended by Dr. Wilson and 
 the loyal old housekeeper, Hannah Stearns. 
 
 During the trying days of sickness, Damaris found her only 
 solace in the companionship of Sherlock Lincoln, and for him 
 she conceived a deep and violent attachment, such as she never 
 had felt for anyone before. 
 
 John Wainwright's illness ended suddenly and tragically. 
 His nurse was obliged to leave him for a time, and in the interval 
 Elsie was stationed to keep watch just outside his chamber 
 door. After what appeared to her to be a suspiciously long 
 silence, she cautiously looked in to assure herself that all was 
 well. Then she found that her cousin had managed with 
 stealthy silence to hang himself. An immediate and careful 
 examination proved that life was already extinct. Thus had 
 one more calamity, never to be effaced or forgotten, come darkly 
 into the history of the old house. Elsie's fright and horror were 
 indescribable when she saw what had happened, but even in 
 her frenzy she was able to hide the truth from Damaris, and 
 pretended, when questioned, that she had slipped and turned 
 her ankle. 
 
 Hannah Stearns, a pillar of strength on all occasions, took
 
 ARLO BATES 351 
 
 charge of affairs at this crisis, and she and Dr. Wilson settled 
 matters and kept secret all details. 
 
 The bereaved sister bore her loss with stoical resignation, 
 and looked upon her brother's death as a release from a life of 
 misery and suffering. 
 
 After the funeral Damaris presented Lincoln with a valuable 
 intaglio ring, which had belonged to her brother and which she 
 requested him to wear for his sake and hers. Lincoln was 
 much embarrassed and touched by this unexpected gift, and 
 responded in a confused manner that he was ready to serve her 
 in every way, and, as far as it was possible, would be glad to 
 fill her brother's place. Damaris thanked him for his kindness, 
 and he left her with the realization that he was growing to 
 care deeply for her. 
 
 While Damaris had been finding solace in the companion- 
 ship of Lincoln, Elsie had been passing away the time in a 
 flirtation with Dr. Wilson; although this young man was not 
 to the "manner born," and had risen from the ranks through 
 his own exertions, he had a strength of character which made 
 up for his lack of polish and social training. 
 
 Elsie, who had always associated with the men who be- 
 longed to her own exclusive circle, found in Dr. Wilson a type 
 entirely new to her and played with him accordingly. 
 
 One day when seeking for diversion, Elsie amused herself 
 by showing Dr. Wilson some of the heirlooms and curios that 
 the old house contained, and chief among these was an exquisite 
 chalice of rare old German glass whose associations made its 
 value priceless. 
 
 It had been used as a betrothal cup for many generations 
 in the family and had been originally presented to a remote 
 ancestor by a German prince. 
 
 After displaying the treasure, Elsie endeavored to restore 
 it to its place, but in doing so, to her horror, snapped the delicate 
 stem from the bowl. 
 
 She was filled with consternation and was undecided whether 
 to confess the accident to Damaris or to conceal it; finally she 
 settled on the latter plan, satisfying her conscience with the 
 thought that her cousin had so many things to worry her it 
 would be wicked to add one more to the number.
 
 352 A WHEEL OF FIRE 
 
 After John Wainwright's death, it was decided that Damaris 
 must have a change of scene, and so she and Elsie returned to 
 the city, for a visit at Elsie's home. 
 
 The Dimmonts' residence was in a fashionable part of 
 Boston, and the family was well known in the social doings of 
 the city. But Damaris found it impossible to forget her grief 
 in spite of her cheerful surroundings, and the efforts of her 
 relatives to divert her from her sad memories were unavailing. 
 
 One evening, soon after her arrival, while sitting in the 
 library of her uncle's home with her friend Sherlock Lincoln, 
 her despondency was so great that he endeavored to rouse her 
 from it. 
 
 "Come," he said, with brusk decisiveness, "this will not 
 do at all. I don't pretend to know what your philosophy of 
 life is, but at least there is no doubt that you have had so much 
 hard fortune that you refuse to expect anything else. I don't 
 wonder at it. I've no especial right to lecture you like a school- 
 girl, but I cannot bear to see you turning away from the sun, 
 and from all the joy there is in the world. Life isn't on the 
 average either sad or painful. Sorrow isn't our normal con- 
 dition. That your life has been so bitter thus far is so much 
 evidence that better things are to come. Don't give your- 
 self up to grief, Miss Wainwright; it isn't wise and it isn't 
 brave." 
 
 Damaris lifted a face strongly marked, not with indignation, 
 but with pain, as she answered: 
 
 "But what can life do for me? I am only wearing out the 
 brief respite before my hereditary doom falls on me." 
 
 "You are wrong," he cried, in tones of the most absolute 
 conviction. "I tell you, you are no more under doom than I 
 am. I know it, and you are wilfully throwing away the possi- 
 bilities of life by believing it." 
 
 "Oh, no," she interrupted, painfully, "no, no; not wilfully." 
 
 "Yes," he repeated, "wilfully. It is wrong to yourself and 
 it is wrong to others." 
 
 She grew so deathly white that not even the gay lamp-shade 
 could conceal her pallor. He feared she would faint, but she 
 drew herself up with a quick, shuddering breath, and he started 
 from his seat and walked to the fire.
 
 ARLO BATES 353 
 
 Lincoln then explained to Damaris that he spoke with the 
 authority of Dr. Wilson and another eminent doctor, who 
 agreed that insanity was not hereditary, and reiterated that it 
 was necessary that she rid her mind of dreadful thoughts at 
 once. 
 
 Damaris was greatly shaken by Lincoln's words, which 
 brought with them conviction ; but her morbid brooding of years 
 on this subject had worked upon her mind so that she was be- 
 yond the point of dispassionate reasoning. 
 
 She lifted to Lincoln a face over which the tears streamed 
 in a bitter flood. 
 
 "You mean to be kind," she moaned, "but oh, you are so 
 cruel!" 
 
 "I am cruel to be kind," he returned, never shrinking, al- 
 though his own eyes were wet. "I cannot let you be the victim 
 of this horrible nightmare. You must believe me." 
 
 She leaned back in her chair as if utterly exhausted, with 
 an aspect of wo pitiful to see. 
 
 "I will go now," Lincoln said, with a world of tenderness 
 and pity in his voice. "But you must believe what I say. 
 Good-by." 
 
 And where he left her, half fainting in her chair, Elsie, on 
 her return from the theater, found her. 
 
 Soon after this interview, Damaris returned to her home, 
 and very shortly she received a visit from Sherlock Lincoln, 
 during which he declared his love for her and finally persuaded 
 her to confess her affection for him. After he had overcome 
 her many scruples regarding their engagement, and had at last 
 won her consent, he said: 
 
 "Dearest, you shall never regret this. I have said to my- 
 self that I must win you for my wife from the first day I ever 
 saw you. I could not have given you up." 
 
 Damaris bent over his hand as he spoke and kissed it; then 
 she flushed rosy red, and to cover her confusion she rose quickly 
 and opened the narrow door of the quaint china-closet beside 
 the chimney. 
 
 "There has never been a betrothal in our family," she said, 
 taking down the morocco case in which was kept the old Wain- 
 wright glass, "or at least none for a century, that has not been 
 A.D., vol. 11. — 23
 
 354 A WHEEL OF FIRE 
 
 pledged in this glass. Though betrothals," she added, "have 
 long been unheard of here." 
 
 She placed the case upon the small old-fashioned table 
 which held the lamp, and with her hand upon the lid, turned 
 toward him a face so full of archness that he hardly recog- 
 nized it. 
 
 "It is so strange that I can hardly believe it real," she 
 laughed. "I never believed the old glass would be rilled for 
 me. I am not sure even now that fate will not interpose in 
 some unexpected way." 
 
 He bent forward and kissed her bright face, which, mingled 
 with its joy, had a tremulousness that suggested tears. 
 
 "I think we can afford to defy fate now," he answered. 
 "If love isn't stronger, then one can have faith in nothing." 
 
 Her look of response was eloquent. She unfastened the 
 clasp and opened the case. Glittering in its velvet bed lay the 
 antique glass, reflecting the lamplight in many tinted rays; but 
 when Damaris lifted it, only the bowl came, the standard lying 
 separated in its place. A sudden pallor quenched the joy of 
 her face, as a black flood may cover golden sands. All women 
 are superstitious when love is concerned, and the coincidence 
 was in itself too painful to be lightly regarded. Damaris 
 turned to her lover a face full of terror. 
 
 "Fate has prevented!" she said. 
 
 Sherlock Lincoln was a man of too resolute a fiber and of 
 too absolute self-control to lose his presence of mind in this 
 emergency. 
 
 "Nonsense," he returned, taking the glass. "When fate 
 attempts a thing she does it more thoroughly. We can drink 
 out of this perfectly well. And if you are set on an omen," he 
 added, smiling at his whim, "you may regard this as a symbol 
 that our life is detached from the past and from all you have 
 feared from it." 
 
 After the betrothal Damaris went back to the city for an- 
 other visit with the Dimmonts, and she and Elsie, who had 
 become engaged to Dr. Wilson, found their love-affairs most 
 absorbing. 
 
 Arrangements were hastened for the marriage of Damaris 
 and Lincoln, as he was desirous to have as little delay as
 
 ARLO BATES 355 
 
 possible, and was impatient for the time to come when he could 
 shield his betrothed from the sorrows that had encompassed 
 her so long. 
 
 The wedding-day arrived and was sunny and bright, as all 
 bridal days should be. Damaris, dressed in her bridal robes 
 by Hannah and Elsie, was very beautiful, though pale as a 
 statue, and awaited her lover, who was to have a few moments 
 with her before the ceremony. 
 
 Suddenly it seemed to Damaris as if a hand of ice clutched 
 her heart. Since the question of her right to marry had been 
 the problem which had tortured her, the ceremony itself had 
 come illogically but naturally to seem the awful crisis, and she 
 was possessed by a vague feeling that, if she could so far 
 evade the vigilance of malevolent fate as to go through the 
 actual rite, she might yet escape. She felt as if she could not 
 bear the delay of an instant, so strongly was she oppressed 
 with a horrible sense that her doom was approaching with swift 
 feet, and that if she were not Lincoln's wife before the horror 
 could reach her, she must fall a victim to its fury. The mo- 
 ments she waited seemed to her endless. She heard Hannah 
 moving in the next room, unwilling to go down-stairs before 
 her mistress, and it was with difficulty that Damaris restrained 
 herself from calling out to bid her inquire why the bridegroom 
 did not come. 
 
 Then she smiled with a painful sense of her folly, and en- 
 deavored to be reasonable. She knew it had in reality been 
 but a moment since Elsie left her, and she tried to give her 
 whole attention to the details of her toilet. She looked into 
 the mirror to see whether the lace at her throat was graceful 
 in its folds, and suddenly, without warning, a horrible fancy 
 came to her that it would be a wild joy to clutch such a soft 
 white neck with fierce fingers and crush out all the life! She 
 seemed impelled to reach out to catch and strangle that image 
 in the glass, and at the same time she felt, in a strange double 
 consciousness, as if someone behind her chair were preparing 
 to seize her. Then with a thrill of agony she realized what she 
 was thinking, and she cast around her a beseeching glance, 
 vainly seeking help. 
 
 Yet surely that girl in the mirror was another creature than
 
 356 A WHEEL OF FIRE 
 
 herself. Damaris extended her hand toward the figure with a 
 mocking gesture, and laughed a little, in an absent-minded, 
 absorbed fashion, when the white-robed stranger did the same. 
 She dropped her hands into her lap, and, watching with a glance 
 of horrible cunning from beneath her drooping lids the white, 
 smooth neck of that other girl, she began with furtive haste to 
 pull off her gloves. She would assure herself whether the fair 
 throat were as soft as it appeared; and with motions catlike 
 and swift, she cast the gloves to the floor and rose to steal upon 
 the stranger. 
 
 Then it occurred to her that this must be some guest at her 
 own wedding, and the hereditary instinct of hospitality as- 
 serted itself. She sank back into a chair, with hands falling 
 passive in her lap. She felt confused and dizzy. Something 
 seemed to be unutterably wrong, and she knew not what it was. 
 Why should this stranger be here, and why did she regard her 
 so closely? She struggled with her wandering thoughts, stri- 
 ving to understand how it chanced that she was not alone. 
 
 Watching intently, she saw with a shock of surprise and 
 pity that this hapless girl in the mirror was twisting her fingers 
 in the well-remembered gesture which her mother had shown 
 in the coming on of madness. Damaris was seized with a great 
 compassion of grief for the fair young creature whom such an 
 awful doom had overtaken. The fate of this stranger had been 
 swifter, Damaris reflected, than the feet of her bridegroom! 
 Her bridegroom ! The word touched the very core of her half- 
 dazed intelligence. Like the swift thrust of a white-hot sword, 
 with rending, searing agony, the truth came home to her. She 
 knew the image of herself! 
 
 The unspeakable anguish of ages of pain was concentrated 
 into that moment. It was like the horror of one who hangs 
 a measureless instant upon the dizzy brink of an abyss down 
 which he knows himself dashing. That fatal gesture which 
 she knew so well smote the hapless bride with a terror too great 
 for words. All power failed her; she could not breathe; an 
 intolerable pressure crushed her bosom. Great drops of suf- 
 fering beaded her forehead, and she gasped with an absolute 
 sense of suffocation as if an ocean wave had suddenly rolled 
 over her.
 
 ARLO BATES 357 
 
 She heard her dog at the door, and with a mad impulse to 
 flee she sprang to her feet just as Lincoln knocked. 
 
 The sound seemed to come from some far distance, and was 
 muffled and half lost amid the confused murmur which filled 
 her ears like the beat of rushing waters. 
 
 Then once more for an instant her failing reason struggled 
 to consciousness, as a drowning swimmer writhes a last time 
 to the surface and gasps, only to yield his breath in futile 
 bubbles that mark the spot where he sank. With a supreme 
 effort, her vanquished will for a moment reasserted itself; she 
 knew her lover was at the door, and she knew also that the feet 
 of doom had been swifter than those of the bridegroom. She 
 even asked herself in agonized frenzy whether she might not 
 have been saved had Sherlock reached her a moment sooner. 
 And as she thought she sprang forward and opened the door. 
 
 "I am mad!" she shrieked, in a voice which pierced to 
 every corner of the old mansion. 
 
 The housekeeper came running from the inner chamber, 
 while Wallace shrank whining at his mistress's feet. Lincoln, 
 white as death, caught Damaris in his arms, as if he would 
 snatch her from the jaws of death itself if need be. She struggled 
 in his embrace, a wild glare in her eyes replacing the flickering 
 light of intelligence. 
 
 Then Hannah Stearns took her from her bridegroom, drew 
 her into the chamber, and closed the door. 
 
 After a few days of suffering, Damaris died and was laid at 
 rest in the quiet country churchyard. 
 
 Lincoln, heart-broken and crushed by the sad ending of 
 his hopes, left the scenes which held for him such memories, 
 and went abroad, where he wandered long in an effort to forget.
 
 RENE BAZIN 
 
 (France, 1853) 
 THE INK-STAIN (1888) 
 
 This is the author's best-known work and was crowned by the French 
 Academy. He is known as the "Apostle of Home Life." The descriptions of 
 French country life and the glimpses into that scholarly sanctuary, the National 
 Library of Paris, have made this book very popular in translation. 
 
 WAS born in La Chatre, and attended La Chatre 
 College for eighteen years. My parents died 
 when I was so young that I barely remember 
 them, and my uncle, M. Brutus Mouillard, a 
 solicitor of Bourges, was appointed my guardian. 
 He had planned to leave me his practise, and 
 therefore when my school-days were over he 
 sent me to Paris to take a course in law. Three 
 years later I became a probationary barrister. 
 In the intervals of my legal studies I took my arts degree, and 
 now I am working for that of Doctor of Laws. 
 
 This afternoon, the 10th of December, 1884, when I was at 
 work in the National Library, Paris, writing my thesis for my 
 doctor's degree, a serious accident happened to me, and some- 
 thing tells me that this event is destined to bring about a crisis 
 in my existence. I believe that I owe it to myself to write my 
 memoirs, and that is the reason I have begun to jot down a 
 record of the incidents relating to this misadventure. 
 
 Briefly, the affair occurred as follows: I was at the desk 
 where I had written the name of the book I wanted, and, as I 
 laid down the pen, it slipped off the desk and fell upon an 
 Early Text that Monsieur Charnot, a member of the Institute, 
 was reading, depositing thereupon a huge and hideous blot. 
 M. Charnot was enraged, and the librarian hardly less so. 
 Barely was the blot dry before I, Fabien Jean Jacques 
 
 358
 
 RENE BAZIN 359 
 
 Mouillard, barrister, 91 Rue de Rennes, took up my pen and 
 began writing this book — my memoirs. 
 
 Feeling that my first duty was to apologize to the distin- 
 guished reader whom I had offended, I consulted Monsieur 
 Flamaran, my professor, as to how I should go about it. He 
 advised me to call on M. Charnot, who was his intimate friend, 
 at his home in the Rue de l'Universite. 
 
 December 30th. I have seen M. Charnot. The servant 
 ushered me unannounced into the library, where the learned 
 man was spinning a spiral twist of paper under the lamplight 
 to amuse his daughter, a beautiful girl of eighteen. I felt 
 greatly embarrassed, and stumbled through a few infelicitous 
 sentences which were coldly received by the eminent scholar. 
 When I left the room, the young girl was standing motionless, 
 looking at me with the expression of an angry Diana. I im- 
 agine that this was because, in trying to say something com- 
 plimentary about a learned work of which M. Charnot was 
 the author, I stupidly allowed him to know that I was aware 
 that he had published it at his own expense, and that only 
 twenty-seven copies of it had been sold. 
 
 December 315/. This New Year's Eve I returned to my 
 lodgings in a very dejected state of mind. After meditating 
 some time, I decided to go to see my dear friend Sylvestre 
 Lampron, whom I found engraving by lamplight. He was 
 copying a portrait he had once painted of a lovely Italian girl; 
 and he told me that while he was painting the original, he and 
 his sitter had fallen in love with each other; that she belonged 
 to a very distinguished family, who would not hear of a daugh- 
 ter of their house marrying an artist; and that they had taken 
 her away. Not long after that she became ill and died. This 
 portrait he cherished, and although her parents had asked for 
 it many times, he never would part with it. 
 
 March 3^. The year is advancing, and my essay is grow- 
 ing. I still see M. Charnot reading in the library nearly every 
 day. I am seeking an opportunity of meeting him again, and 
 his lovely daughter is the reason! I may as well own it — I 
 have fallen in love with the beautiful girl who looked at me so 
 angrily. Jeanne is her name, and I have often tried to see 
 her once more, but so far without success. One afternoon I
 
 360 THE INK-STAIN 
 
 walked to and fro in front of her house eight times, and yester- 
 day I spent five hours at the spring opening of the Bon Marche, 
 for I thought surely every young woman in Paris would be 
 there. But no Jeanne was to be seen. 
 
 April 3d. I have much to write about to-day. I went to 
 the Place St. Sulpice, where the flower-sellers are stationed, and 
 was looking at the floral display when I happened to turn 
 round, and there, only ten feet distant, were my professor, M. 
 Flamaran, M. Charnot, and Jeanne. They had been pur- 
 chasing flowers and were about to go. I saw them turn to 
 walk toward St. Sulpice, and followed at a distance, but soon 
 lost sight of them in the crowd. 
 
 April 27th. The beautiful spring is here, and Lampron 
 and I went on an excursion to "our forest," as we call the for- 
 est of St. Germain. We walked to the clear pond in the woods, 
 and Lampron lay down to take a nap. While I was silently 
 contemplating the beauty of the woodland silence, I heard dis- 
 tant voices, and presently saw approaching a man, and a 
 young girl dressed in gray. I felt sure that the young girl was 
 she, and as they drew nearer I saw that they were indeed M. 
 Charnot and his lovely daughter. My eyes filled with tears. 
 Not until that moment did I realize how much I loved her. 
 Father and daughter passed on without seeing us. I wakened 
 Lampron, and as he was curious to see my inamorata, he pro- 
 posed that we catch up with them. After a brisk run, he sig- 
 naled me from behind a large tree: "Here they are!" 
 
 Jeanne and M. Charnot were seated on a fallen trunk. 
 Lampron immediately began to sketch the pair. In his en- 
 thusiasm he moved and attracted Jeanne's attention. She 
 turned and saw that I was looking at her, and Lampron sketch- 
 ing her. We bowed, but she only blushed, and smiled a faintly 
 troubled smile. M. Charnot continued reading, but it was 
 evident that his daughter was not listening. Presently they 
 disappeared down the path. 
 
 April 28th, 9 p.m. This afternoon I met Lampron with a 
 portfolio under his arm. He was going to see Monsieur Plumet, 
 the frame-maker, and I accompanied him. The door was 
 opened by Madame Plumet, who knew me slightly, for I had 
 given her legal assistance, for which I had made no charge.
 
 RENE BAZIN 361 
 
 M. Plumet said he was overrun with orders and could not 
 frame the picture then; but when Lampron told him that it 
 was the portrait of a young lady with whom his friend was in 
 love, and that his whole future depended upon having the 
 picture hung in the approaching exhibition at the Salon, M. 
 Plumet reconsidered the matter. The portfolio was opened, 
 and there was the little finished sketch of M. Charnot's back 
 and Jeanne's pretty profile in the forest nook! I remarked 
 that I hoped the fair subject would see her portrait at the ex- 
 hibition; whereupon Madame Plumet inquired her name and 
 address, which I gave. Then she said she knew the wife of a 
 porter who lived near the Charnot household, and that through 
 her, on some manufactured errand, Jeanne might learn that her 
 portrait was in the Salon. 
 
 May 1st. These four days just past seemed as if they 
 would never end, but to-day Lampron took me to the salon 
 to see the picture. It was perfect! As soon as we had seen it 
 he left me there alone, and I stood somewhat in the shadow 
 near by, watching for Jeanne. At last she came. She looked 
 at the picture and seemed pleased; then, turning her head, 
 she saw me! She blushed and was almost moved to tears. 
 (O rapture! Jeanne, you are touched; Jeanne, you under- 
 stand!) At that moment someone called, and she hastened 
 to meet her father. A young man was with him, who spoke 
 to Jeanne, and I heard her answer, "It's nothing, George." 
 Can it be that she loves another? 
 
 May 2d. This morning, after being examined for two 
 hours, I received my degree. At the law school to-day I met 
 an acquaintance who said to me: 
 
 " Do you know that Mademoiselle Charnot is to be married 
 soon? She is to marry Dufilleul. Don't you know Dufilleul?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Oh, yes, you do. He is always to be seen at the opera 
 with little Tigra of the Bouffes." 
 
 "Poor girl! it is too dreadful to see an innocent child 
 married to a rake and gambler!" 
 
 My acquaintance tried to assure me that it was not so bad 
 as it might be, for Dufilleul was rich and of a distinguished 
 family.
 
 362 THE INK-STAIN 
 
 Alas! All is over between us! She has given me no en- 
 couragement — only a smile, a tear. 
 
 May $th. A letter has just come from my uncle, M. Mouil- 
 lard. He is very angry because I did not set out for Bourges 
 the very evening of the day I took my degree, to begin pro- 
 fessional life, where his practise awaits me. I know he will 
 arrive here soon in order to take me home with him. 
 
 May gth. This evening at seven o'clock, just as I was 
 going out to dinner, I saw my uncle coming toward me. We 
 dined together, and he learned my secret, and also how hope- 
 less was my love for Jeanne, because she was engaged to an- 
 other. He then told me that he did not wish me to bring home 
 any Parisian wife. 
 
 May 10th. My uncle is very angry because I will not re- 
 turn with him at once to Bourges. He told me that he was 
 determined to find out whether Jeanne were really engaged or 
 not, and that he had called on her father. M. Charnot re- 
 membered having seen me once at the Library, and once at 
 his own house, and was good enough to say that I was a youth 
 of parts. When my uncle told him of my love for Jeanne, he 
 replied that her hand had already been promised. My uncle 
 finished his disconcerting remarks by urging me to start with 
 him to-night for Bourges. I promptly refused to go, and re- 
 proached him for having told a secret that was not his to tell; 
 I said also that it would be better for both of us for me to con- 
 tinue to live in Paris, away from him. He was furious, and 
 reminded me that I could not live in Paris on an income of 
 fourteen hundred francs a year. He then left without saying 
 good-by and hurried down the stairs, striking the banisters with 
 his cane and exclaiming, "Damnation!" 
 
 May 20th. My time is all my own and I enjoy my freedom. 
 I was brought up with the idea that I was to become a lawyer, 
 but I am convinced that nothing spoils the nobler virtues more 
 quickly than practise at the bar. 
 
 I have confided everything to Lampron, who, although glad 
 to have me remain in Paris, warned me that it was "easy 
 to refuse a profession, harder to find another in its place." 
 
 June jth. The die is cast! I will not be a lawyer, and I 
 wrote my uncle a calm, polite letter to that effect.
 
 RENE BAZIN 363 
 
 I realize that it is impossible for me to live on fourteen hun- 
 dred francs a year, and so, until something better offers itself, 
 I have accepted the position of managing clerk to my old 
 master, Counselor Boule. I correct the drafts of the inferior 
 clerks, instruct the clients how to proceed, go to the courts 
 nearly every day, and hang about chief clerks' and judges' 
 chambers. 
 
 One day Madame Plumet called at our office on business. 
 She was surprised to find me there. She told me that she had 
 opened a dressmaking establishment, and that Mademoiselle 
 Charnot had her gowns made there. Then I told her that 
 Mademoiselle Charnot was about to be married to Baron Dufil- 
 leul. At this news Madame Plumet became very indignant. 
 She said that he was a dreadful man, and that she knew all 
 sorts of scandalous things about him. She would not talk 
 about her own business after that, for she said that what she 
 had heard had made her so unhappy she had forgotten it. 
 
 June 10th. I am on my way to Italy, sent there at a client's 
 expense to prove some copies of deeds. I am allowed two 
 weeks for the trip. 
 
 Milan, June iSth. The heat is wilting, and, surrounded by 
 clerks, I am working in the Municipal Palace, in the midst of 
 countless numbers of documents. 
 
 A letter has just come from Lampron. He writes me that 
 my rival, Baron Dufilleul, has had his miniature painted for 
 Mademoiselle Tigra of the Bouffes. He left it at Plumet's to 
 be framed, and when he called for it and was holding it in his 
 hand, admiring it, Jeanne walked in. As soon as she saw 
 Dufilleul, she exclaimed: 
 
 "Well, sir, and so I've caught you! What are you hiding 
 there? Hand me that portrait. Was it not intended for me?" 
 
 Dufilleul explained in a halting way that it was intended 
 for a wedding-present to a friend. Jeanne did not believe this 
 and so she asked Plumet what he knew about it. At this junc- 
 ture Madame Plumet interrupted: 
 
 "Excuse me, Mademoiselle, but I cannot have you de- 
 ceived in this house. This portrait is for an actress — for 
 Mademoiselle Tigra of the Opera Bouffes." 
 
 Mademoiselle Jeanne then turned the miniature over, and
 
 364 THE INK-STAIN 
 
 read on the back : " From Monsieur le Baron D. to Mademoiselle 
 T. — Boulevard Haussmann. To be delivered on Tuesday." 
 
 Dufilleul declared it was not his handwriting, that it was 
 some vile conspiracy against him, and so on. But Jeanne was 
 not pacified, and suddenly left the room. On the stairway 
 she heard a high-pitched voice calling: "Well, George, how 
 much longer are you going to keep me waiting?" 
 
 Mademoiselle Charnot bent over, and saw, at the bottom 
 of the staircase, a woman looking up. Their eyes met. Jeanne 
 at once looked in another direction. Then she called to Madame 
 Plumet, " Come, Madame, we must go and choose a hat," and 
 closed the dressmaker's door behind her. 
 
 Madame Plumet herself had recounted this scene to him, 
 and it was she who had arranged this meeting of Jeanne and 
 her lover. Lampron thinks that the betrothal is definitely at 
 an end. He says that just as he was closing the letter a note 
 came from Madame Plumet informing him that M. Charnot 
 and his daughter had left Paris, though she did not know where 
 they had gone. Lampron says also that his mother is very ill. 
 
 Milan, June 26th. My law business here is over to-day, 
 and now comes another letter from Lampron. His mother is 
 dead. She made him promise to give the portrait of the young 
 Italian girl he loved to her family, and he asks me in this 
 letter to visit them at their residence, the Villa Dannegianti, 
 about nine miles from Milan, near the village of Desio, and to 
 tell them that, "in accordance with the dying wish of Lam- 
 pron's mother, the portrait of Rafaella is to be given in per- 
 petuity to the Villa Dannegianti." 
 
 I received this letter about ten o'clock in the morning, and 
 at once took a carriage for Desio, where I stopped at the inn. 
 I heard in the next room someone talking about a collection of 
 valuable Roman coins which was kept locked up in the villa of 
 an Italian nobleman near by; and as I peeped in at the open 
 door I saw M. Charnot and Jeanne! They were very much 
 surprised to see me, and we stood and stared at one another to 
 make sure we were not dreaming. Then M. Charnot, who 
 did not seem very much pleased at seeing me, told the blushing 
 Jeanne to put on her hat, for it was time to go. Turning to me, 
 he made a few remarks concerning the inn, and was about to
 
 RENE BAZIN 365 
 
 depart, when I inquired whether he could tell me the way to 
 the Villa Danncgianti. M. Charnot laughed, and said that he 
 had not been able to gain admission there, although he had 
 two letters of introduction and honorable initials after his 
 name; he added that he was certain I would not meet with 
 success. But I begged him to stay, telling him that, as I bore 
 news of great importance to the family, I was not only sure of 
 being admitted myself, but thought I could obtain permission 
 for him to see the valuable collection of medals in the villa. 
 The old man was delighted at the prospect; and so M. Char- 
 not, his daughter, and I left the inn together. 
 
 After walking a mile we arrived at the villa, and I presented 
 my card and Lampron's. The gates were opened and we 
 passed in. M. Charnot and Jeanne waited outside the house 
 until I could gain permission for them to view the collection, 
 and I entered and was shown to the room in which the Countess 
 was seated. She was overpowered with emotion when she 
 heard that she was to have the long- wished- for portrait of her 
 daughter. I then obtained permission for M. Charnot and 
 Jeanne to see the medals. A moment later they entered the 
 museum with me. Jeanne and I talked together while her 
 father looked at the medals. When we had finished it was 
 after eight o'clock and the last train had left Desio; so I sug- 
 gested that rather than stay all night at an uncomfortable inn, 
 it would be better for them to drive back to Milan with me in 
 my carriage. To this M. Charnot assented. It was a beau- 
 tiful moonlight night and the learned man, tired with all he had 
 seen, soon went to sleep in the corner of the carriage. For a 
 time I was afraid to speak to Jeanne, for our isolation made me 
 ill at ease. She, too, seemed far away in dreamland. But 
 after a while we began to talk, and the conversation drifted to 
 the portrait of Jeanne that Lampron had sketched, which I 
 said was a similar relic to the portrait of Rafaella I had just 
 told her about, except that I dared to think that I might be less 
 unfortunate than my friend — that my dream might return to 
 me if the original of this portrait were willing ! 
 
 Jeanne fixed her eyes on me. Then she asked whether I 
 did not think the breeze refreshing. At that moment her father 
 awoke and made an appropriate reply.
 
 366 THE INK-STAIN 
 
 Ten minutes later the carriage drove up to his hotel. He 
 thanked me for a most delightful drive home, hoped we should 
 meet again, and told me that he and his daughter were going 
 to Florence the next day. Mademoiselle Charnot bowed 
 slightly in farewell. 
 
 Milan, June 27th, before daybreak. I have spent the night 
 thinking of yesterday's trip. Shall I follow them to Florence? 
 On second thought, I have decided not to go to Florence, 
 but to return to Paris. 
 
 Paris, July 2d. A clerk at the office asked me to go fish- 
 ing with him on Sunday, and on our arrival at the place I 
 found my old professor, M. Flamaran, much to my surprise. 
 
 While we were fishing together, he questioned me about my 
 love for Jeanne. He said he had known her all her life, and 
 that he was very anxious when he learned that she was to marry 
 "that scoundrel Dufilleul." 
 
 After the day's fishing was over we went to a restaurant for 
 supper, and then my kind friend, M. Flamaran, volunteered 
 to go to Jeanne's father and ask her hand for me. 
 
 "Now," said he, "let us talk, and tell me everything." He 
 has a warm, good heart, and I am sure that if anyone can do 
 this for me successfully it is he. 
 
 August 2d. After waiting ten days, I received a note yes- 
 terday from M. Charnot asking me to call on him that evening. 
 I went in a great state of trepidation. 
 
 "Monsieur," said he, "I receive you as a friend. What- 
 ever may be the result of our interview, you may be assured 
 of my esteem, therefore have no fear of answering me 
 frankly." 
 
 After questioning me about my parents and my early life, 
 he said: 
 
 "Young man, I promised you an answer; this is it. My 
 daughter has at this moment several proposals of marriage. 
 She has weighed and compared them all, and communicated to 
 me yesterday the result of her reflections. To a richer and 
 more brilliant match she prefers an honest man who loves her 
 for herself, and you, Monsieur, are that honest man. But 
 there are two conditions : one is that you promise never to leave 
 Paris, and the other is that you make peace with your uncle."
 
 RENE BAZIN 367 
 
 I promised the former, and said that I would do all in my 
 power to effect the latter. 
 
 M. Charnot was very pale. He held out his hand to me 
 and said: "I think, Monsieur Fabien, that we are quite in 
 accord, and that the hour has come — " 
 
 Instead of finishing the sentence, he opened the door and 
 said: "Jeanne, Monsieur Fabien accepts the two conditions, 
 my dear." 
 
 And I saw Jeanne come smiling toward me! 
 
 My rapture was complete. We sat together all the evening; 
 M. Charnot pushed back his chair and tried to read the news- 
 paper; Jeanne and I formed plans for pacifying my uncle, and 
 Jeanne settled the matter by making her father promise to take 
 her to Bourges, where an old friend of theirs lived, saying that 
 while there M. Charnot could return my uncle's call upon him, 
 and somehow patch up the breach, if possible. 
 
 August 3d. I am to go to Bourges in advance to choose 
 rooms for M. Charnot and Jeanne; I shall try to see my uncle 
 first, and tell him that M. Charnot and his daughter are travel- 
 ing in the neighborhood, and that if they happen to be near 
 Bourges they will probably return his visit. 
 
 Bourges, August 4th. I called at my uncle's house to-day. 
 Formerly he welcomed me, but now I am averse to meeting him, 
 and the housekeeper is afraid to let me in. My uncle was not 
 at home, nevertheless I went in and sat down to talk to the 
 housekeeper, who told me that my uncle is greatly changed. 
 She said that he had been very moody ever since his re- 
 turn from Paris. I told her of my engagement and said 
 that I had come hoping to effect a reconciliation with him. 
 At this she only shook her head, but promised to conceal 
 me in the house over night, and to let me know when my 
 uncle was in a sufficiently amiable frame of mind to be ap- 
 proached. 
 
 I passed the night on the sofa-bed in the library on the 
 first floor. 
 
 At seven o'clock in the evening I saw my uncle coming into 
 the house. He went into the dining-room, which was under 
 the library. Just as he had finished dinner a gentleman called, 
 and I could hear them talking together excitedly and even
 
 368 THE INK-STAIN 
 
 angrily for three hours. At eleven o'clock I heard my uncle's 
 heavy tread as he went up-stairs to his room. 
 
 Bourges, August $th. I arose at seven o'clock, hoping to 
 see my uncle, but learned that he had gone out at six, which 
 was very unusual. The housekeeper says he has been weep- 
 ing, and she thinks it is on account of the visitor of last night, 
 with whom he was negotiating for the sale of his practise. 
 She told me also that when he bade her good night he had said : 
 "I am a broken-hearted man! I might have got over it, but 
 that monster of ingratitude would not have it so. If I had him 
 here I don't know what I should do to him." This gave me 
 no little compunction and anxiety. 
 
 M. Charnot and Jeanne are to be here at ten o'clock, and 
 I must go to meet them without having seen my uncle. 
 
 The train arrived, and M. Charnot, Jeanne, and I stood 
 before the garden gate, to which I have the key. Just as I 
 turned it in the lock, I beheld my uncle on the other side of the 
 fence. It is needless to say that I felt exceedingly nervous. 
 He had reached his front door when he perceived two strangers 
 coming toward him (I had hidden behind the shrubbery). He 
 recognized M. Charnot, was surprised to see Mademoiselle 
 Jeanne. After a few civilities had been exchanged, M. Charnot 
 told my uncle that Jeanne was to marry his nephew, to which 
 my uncle replied : 
 
 "Monsieur, I have no longer a nephew." 
 
 "He is here." 
 
 "And I never asked for your daughter." 
 
 "No, but you have received your nephew beneath your 
 roof, and consequently — " 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 "Monsieur Fabien has been in your house since yesterday; 
 he told you we were coming." 
 
 "No, I have not seen him; I never should have received 
 him! I tell you I no longer have a nephew! I am a broken- 
 hearted man, a — a — a — " 
 
 He staggered, fell, and lay motionless on his back. 
 
 I rushed to the rescue, and Jeanne dipped her handkerchief 
 in water to bathe his brow. M. Charnot and I carried him up
 
 RENE BAZIN 369 
 
 to his room, and he lay there unconscious for ten minutes. 
 Just as the doctor opened the door, my uncle opened his eyes, 
 and his glance rested on Jeanne. "Come," said the doctor, 
 "give your future niece a kiss." Jeanne bent down and my 
 uncle kissed her, saying, "Good girl — dear girl!" 
 
 He began to weep, and we were ordered to leave him alone. 
 
 In a few moments, much to our surprise, down came my 
 uncle and invited us all to dine with him that night, though he 
 did not seem quite reconciled to me; so Jeanne and I each 
 wrote him a kind and affectionate letter, begging him to forgive 
 us, and to consent to our marriage. 
 
 At dinner that night my uncle tried his best to be agreeable, 
 but suddenly at dessert he said: "I have a painful confession 
 to make to you." Then he told us that he had sold his practise 
 the night before, and he feared now that I wanted it. But I 
 assured him that I would not have taken the practise even if 
 he had not sold it. Then M. Charnot said that Jeanne would 
 always have sufficient money for us both, but that he preferred 
 his son-in-law to have some occupation, so he suggested that I 
 should become a librarian. 
 
 My uncle looked sad at this, for, as he said, he would often 
 feel very desolate, living all alone. " Oh, no," said M. Charnot, 
 " come to Paris, and live with us." 
 
 Paris, September 18///. We are married! We have just 
 come back from the church, and in two hours we shall leave 
 for Italy on our wedding- trip; so I am writing these few last 
 words in my diary. 
 
 Uncle Mouillard has arrived in Paris; he is to live near us, 
 and he and M. Charnot have become devoted friends. 
 
 Jeanne, my own dear Jeanne, is leaning on me and reading 
 over my shoulder, which distracts the flow of my recollections. 
 
 "If you don't mind, Jeanne, I will cherish no ambition be- 
 yond your love; and if you agree, Jeanne, we shall see little of 
 society, and much of our friends; we shall not open our win- 
 dows wide enough for love, who is winged, to fly out. I shall 
 leave you to guide me, as a child, along the joyous path in 
 which I follow your footsteps." 
 
 I am looking up at Jeanne. 
 
 She has not said "No." 
 A.D., vol. 11. — 24
 
 FRANCES COURTENAY BAYLOR 
 
 (United States, 1848) 
 ON BOTH SIDES (1886) 
 
 This was its author's first book, and it immediately established her reputa- 
 tion as a writer of vivid and finished style. At the time of its publication no 
 piece of fiction had so well presented the differences in English and American 
 character, manners and social creeds. 
 
 \ATE in the autumn of 1873, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Fletcher, wealthy and refined Americans, re- 
 turned to England after an extended tour on 
 the Continent and decided to spend the winter 
 in Cheltenham, one of the gayest and most agree- 
 able of the English watering-places. 
 
 Mr. Fletcher was obliged to "run over to 
 New York " to put his affairs upon a footing 
 that would permit him to prolong his remain 
 abroad for another year; but during her husband's absence 
 Mrs. Fletcher was not forced to languish alone. She had for 
 company a rather low-spirited mother-in-law, a cheerful sister, 
 named Lucy, and a pretty and accomplished cousin, named 
 Jenny Meredith, all of whom had been compagnons de voyage 
 of her husband and herself. Mr. Fletcher was a typical Amer- 
 ican husband, "who ought always to be painted with a nimbus 
 about his head." This good soul is seldom allowed to travel 
 abroad with only the wife of his bosom for his companion; for 
 when a trip is decided upon, and the plan is unfolded to their 
 joint families, the news is usually responded to in this wise: 
 
 "How perfectly splendid! It would be so nice for Sister 
 Lucy to go"; or "Kate has a wonderful voice, which must be 
 cultivated"; or "Mother has always wanted to go abroad"; 
 or "Jack ought really to be sent to Heidelberg." 
 
 37°
 
 FRANCES COURTENAY BAYLOR 371 
 
 And consequently the American husband, after one or two 
 feeble remonstrances, sails on the Scythia or the Russia, with 
 a full complement of petticoated barnacles, and wears his neck- 
 lace of millstones ever after with the beautiful unconscious 
 grace of the hero and none of the airs of a martyr; and hosts 
 of foreigners hold up their hands and puzzle their heads over 
 the strange spectacle. 
 
 Before leaving his family, Mr. Fletcher ensconced them com- 
 fortably in a furnished house on the Promenade. The estab- 
 lishment was perfect in every detail, provided with every luxury 
 and comfort, and included a staff of well-trained servants as 
 noiseless as the white cats of the fairy-tale. 
 
 First and most important of these was Walton, the butler, 
 whose dignified air and impressive manner completely awed 
 the newcomers. 
 
 "I am glad I am going home," said Mr. Fletcher, "instead 
 of staying here in the trying role of master to that very 
 superior domestic, Walton. I couldn't do it; he would find 
 me out in a week. I should never dare to be helped thrice to 
 anything, unless it was 'cold boiled missionary,' of which he 
 might approve, for he looks like an archbishop. I felt that he 
 was my master the moment he took my overcoat down-stairs. 
 I lost confidence in my tailor on the spot. I felt as if I had 
 come home from school for the holidays, or had done something 
 that I could atone for only by assuming an apologetic attitude 
 and entering upon a course of systematic propitiation." 
 
 "Nonsense, Ned! how absurd you are!" exclaimed his 
 wife. "Besides, he who propitiates under such circumstances 
 is lost." 
 
 " Oh, you may be sure I didn't give way to the impulse. I 
 frowned, and looked as if my temper were bad, and got up- 
 stairs as soon as possible. I shouldn't in the least mind meet- 
 ing the Prince of Wales, or the Lord Chancellor; but there is 
 something inexpressibly awe-inspiring about the British flunky. 
 Deny it as we may, very few Americans can honestly say that 
 they feel themselves a match for the majestic, inscrutable 
 creature." 
 
 In the course of the following week the Fletchers presented 
 their letters of introduction to two influential families, and were
 
 372 ON BOTH SIDES 
 
 received with the kindness which characterizes English hos- 
 pitality. 
 
 Invitations to functions of every sort poured in upon them, 
 and Walton was kept busy "shuffling cards" for several weeks. 
 
 As a family they met with general favor, and the two girls 
 became immediately very popular, Jenny creating a furor with 
 her beauty and accomplishments. 
 
 Among their new friends were Sir Robert Heathcote, a well- 
 preserved man of sixty-five, with the prosperous air which an 
 inherited income of thirty thousand pounds never fails to 
 impart, and his nephew and heir, Arthur Heathcote. The 
 latter was an extremely good-looking young fellow of the con- 
 ventional London type, knowing full well his advantages as a 
 bon parti and prepared not to be taken alive by any matron in 
 the land, be she never so skilful. Another friend was a quiet 
 young barrister named Lindsay, who became an admirer of the 
 fascinating Jenny, while an important factor in their circle was 
 a sweet and gentle little English girl named Mabel Vane. 
 
 Mabel, whose father was a poor clergyman, lived very 
 quietly and economically with her mother in lodgings, and, in 
 spite of being well connected, saw very little of the gay world 
 of society. 
 
 Lucy and Jenny, having taken an especial fancy to Mabel, 
 decided to do what they could to bring a little more pleasure 
 into her quiet existence, which they considered "a case of des- 
 titution in the upper classes." 
 
 The Fletchers received cards for a very exclusive ball, and 
 though the invitations were very difficult to obtain, they suc- 
 ceeded in securing an extra one for Mabel, who was overjoyed 
 at the prospect of attending so grand a function. Before the 
 evening in question the Fletchers were surprised by an arrival 
 from the homeland, who was announced by Walton in an in- 
 tensely respectful manner. 
 
 "If you please, 'm, there is a party" (here he coughed dis- 
 creetly behind his hand), "a person describin' himself as a 
 relative of the family — from America, which I was to say the 
 name is Ketchum — Mr. Job Ketchum is what I was told." 
 
 Walton made little pauses between his clauses. He felt 
 that he was impressive. Having finished, he cast one swift
 
 FRANCES COURTENAY BAYLOR 373 
 
 glance around the group, caressed thoughtfully his luxuriant 
 side- whiskers, and dropped his eyes again, waiting for orders. 
 
 "Job Ketchum!" cried Mrs. Fletcher, senior, in a tone of 
 horrified amazement. 
 
 "Cousin Job!" echoed her daughter-in-law feebly. "What 
 on earth" — can have brought him here? she was about to say, 
 but, catching Walton's deferential eye, she changed it into — 
 "can have prevented his telegraphing or writing us to expect 
 him?" After greeting as cordially as possible the newcomer, 
 who proved to be a cousin from the wild and woolly West, 
 Mrs. Fletcher asked him where his luggage was, as she took it 
 for granted he would remain with them. 
 
 "That's all the luggage I've brought," said he, pointing to 
 a shiny black portmanteau on the hall floor. "I didn't want 
 to bother with more, just for a flying trip. I knew I could 
 rig myself out over here if I needed anything; but I guess I'll 
 do as I am. When did you hear from your husband?" he 
 continued, mounting the stairs as he spoke. Then over his 
 shoulder to Walton: "Here! bring that along up to my room, 
 and get me some water." 
 
 The ladies winced at this peremptory way of addressing 
 "the archbishop," and were prepared for a revolt; but Walton 
 said, with his usual respectful air, "Yes, sir. At once, sir," 
 and, seizing the bag, disappeared into the back premises. 
 
 When Mr. Job Ketchum rejoined his relatives in the draw- 
 ing-room he entertained them with a vivacious account of his 
 experiences. He explained that he had recently prospered in 
 business, having made "a hundred thousand dollars at a clip," 
 and had decided to leave Tecumseh, Michigan, and go " abrard," 
 to see whether there was anything there worth seeing. 
 
 Mrs. Fletcher tried in a tactful way to show Mr. Ketchum 
 that his wardrobe would need replenishing to meet the require- 
 ments of his present position ; but he did not take kindly to her 
 suggestions, and he finally lost his temper and said hotly : " Damn 
 it! I am an American, and I shall do as I please." 
 
 This outburst was rapidly repented of, and Job apologized 
 handsomely and agreed to go to a tailor the following morning 
 to be fitted out in a suitable manner. 
 
 Job, on meeting Mabel Vane, was greatly taken with her
 
 374 ON BOTH SIDES 
 
 pretty face and gentle ways, and made up his mind that he 
 would aid the Fletchers in giving her a good time at the ball. 
 When the night arrived he sent her a huge bouquet, and he also 
 loaded her with attentions at the ball. 
 
 Mabel, who had had little experience with the other sex, 
 was much pleased with Job's attentions and he was entirely 
 captivated by the "little English daisy," and decided to make 
 every effort to win her for his wife. 
 
 Under Job's rough exterior was a warm and generous heart, 
 and his kindly nature and sterling character were recognized 
 by all those that really knew him. 
 
 As Job's attentions to Mabel became more and more marked, 
 Mrs. Vane, who was a weak and worldly woman, decided that 
 it was time to ask him what were his intentions. 
 
 A characteristic interview took place between her and Job, 
 in which the latter, who saw plainly through the mother's 
 apparent solicitude for her daughter's welfare, got very much 
 the better of the situation. Before closing the interview, Mrs. 
 Vane remarked to Job that he had done her daughter a great 
 wrong, had blighted her future and kept off other men. 
 
 To which Job replied: "I don't want to crowd the mourners; 
 if she wants any fellow to take my place, I'm ready to take a 
 back seat." 
 
 This act did not prove necessary, as Mabel wholly recipro- 
 cated Job's affection, and he and she were soon happily married. 
 After the wedding Job made such large settlements on his 
 blushing bride that she was quite overcome by his generosity, 
 and Mrs. Vane also was handsomely provided for. 
 
 During Job's courtship the Fletchers had continued their 
 enjoyable experiences, which terminated abruptly with the 
 arrival of Mr. Fletcher with the tidings that it was necessary 
 for them all to return home at once. 
 
 They packed up immediately, much to the regret of their 
 many friends; and Arthur Heathcote would not be satisfied 
 with Jenny's refusal of his repeated offers until at last she 
 confessed that somebody else was waiting for her in New York. 
 
 Mrs. Fletcher's greatest regret in breaking up her English 
 establishment was the parting with Walton, her "perfect 
 treasure." Throughout her housekeeping experiences he had
 
 FRANCES COURTENAY BAYLOR 375 
 
 been her right-hand man on every occasion, and had made 
 himself absolutely invaluable. 
 
 Even their packing could never have been accomplished 
 without Walton's efficient services. He ordered, selected, and 
 packed with incomparable judgment and despatch the Fletchers' 
 personal effects, verified the inventory of the house and replaced 
 what was missing, took notes, left cards, and did a thousand 
 last things, as no one else could have done them. Mr. Fletcher 
 was so charmed that he offered him a large advance on his 
 wages if he would go to the United States with them, but he 
 respectfully refused, with many expressions of gratitude for the 
 esteem in which he was held. 
 
 "What do you think of doing, Walton?" asked Mrs. 
 Fletcher. 
 
 "I'm going abroad, 'm; I have heard of something there 
 that will suit," he replied, and they reluctantly forbore to press 
 him further about remaining in their service. 
 
 When they finally tore themselves away from the charming 
 town in which they had grown to feel at home, and where they 
 had received great kindness and hospitality, Walton accom- 
 panied them as far as Liverpool, was useful up to the last 
 moment, and went down the Mersey with them in the tug, in 
 charge of their smaller pieces of luggage, and especially of one 
 dressing-bag of Mrs. Fletcher's that contained several thousand 
 dollars' worth of diamonds and a quantity of other valuables. 
 Each member of the party tipped him handsomely, and parted 
 from him with effusion — almost tearfully, indeed, knowing that 
 they should ne'er look upon his like again until they returned 
 to Europe. As he was stepping on the tug, Mr. Fletcher said 
 to him: 
 
 "What did you do with that bag— the bag, Walton?" 
 
 "If you please, sir, I gave it to Mrs. Fletcher." 
 
 " Oh, all right ! Good-by, again ! " 
 
 Ten minutes before, Mrs. Fletcher had made the same in- 
 quiry, and he had made the same response, except that — in the 
 confusion of the moment, doubtless — he had substituted Mr. 
 for Mrs. Fletcher. When they were well out to sea, Kate asked 
 her husband what he had done with her bag, and, after a long 
 discussion, ending in a quarrel, they concluded that there had
 
 376 ON BOTH SIDES 
 
 been some dreadful mistake, which Walton would be sure to 
 rectify, and that they must telegraph as soon as they reached 
 New York. 
 
 Is it necessary to say that the Fletchers never got back that 
 bag? and, after much telegraphing and writing and the employ- 
 ment of the best detective talent, they traced Walton only as 
 far as Spain and found that the dignified, able, incomparable 
 "perfect treasure" was a ticket-of-leave man! Before entering 
 the Fletchers' service he had been for two years in the service 
 of an English officer, who thought as highly of him as they had. 
 
 "I shall never get over it, never!" exclaimed Jenny. "The 
 foundations of society are completely broken up for me. I 
 wouldn't trust Cardinal Newman now, or Mr. Gladstone, or 
 Charles Francis Adams!" 
 
 Five years later, Mr. and Mrs. Job Ketchum, settled in their 
 luxurious home in Raising, Michigan, received word that their 
 English friend, Sir Robert Heathcote, was soon to make a tour 
 of the United States, accompanied by several traveling com- 
 panions. In his party, besides his nephew and his niece, Ethel, 
 were his sister, Miss Noel, Mrs. Sykes, who had attached her- 
 self to the company without being urged, and Mr. Ramsay, a 
 friend of Arthur's. The last mentioned, being a younger son 
 with no special prospects, had decided to leave his mother coun- 
 try indefinitely and settle in the United States, where he under- 
 stood fortunes could be acquired in the most rapid manner. 
 
 Mrs. Sykes was a very disagreeable person, who prided her- 
 self upon being as rude as possible to everybody with whom 
 she came in contact; and Miss Noel was a sweet and gentle 
 little woman who was entirely helpless without her faithful 
 maid, Parsons, who had served her for many years. 
 
 Ethel was a typical English girl with a pleasant face, but 
 without style, and with no idea how to wear her clothes. On 
 one occasion, when descending the stairs with the agreeable 
 consciousness of being well-dressed, she was confronted by her 
 brother Arthur, who greeted her with the words: "What is the 
 matter with you, Ethel? There is something wrong with you, 
 but I can't tell what it is. You seem to wear the same things 
 that American women wear, but you don't look as they do." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Retchum had found their matrimonial ven-
 
 FRANCES COURTENAY BAYLOR 377 
 
 ture a grand success, and Mabel, who adored her husband, had 
 adopted American customs with unusual cheerfulness and 
 amiability. 
 
 They had been blessed with a son and heir, whose name 
 was Jared Ponsonby, the first part of the appellation being for 
 Job's father, and the latter chosen in accordance with Mabel's 
 wishes. 
 
 The Ketchum household comprised, besides the immediate 
 family, the two mothers-in-law and an indigent German jrdu- 
 lein, who, being homeless and without friends, was included in 
 their number by the kind-hearted Job. 
 
 When installing the two mothers in their home, Job talked 
 the matter over with his wife in this wise : 
 
 "Your ma has had a hard life of it, and so has mine, and 
 they both are getting old, and I am determined that they shall 
 have everything they want. I've got plenty to do it with, and 
 we'll just all live along together here as snug as sardines. I 
 ain't a-going to make any difference between them, down to a 
 paper of pins, and I know you ain't the woman to do it either." 
 
 In accordance with these views, Mr. Ketchum gave both 
 ladies exactly the same allowance of pin-money, christened 
 them facetiously "Mother and T'other," put one on his right 
 hand and one on his left at table, and behaved with the most 
 absolute fairness and the most admirable kindness in every- 
 thing, from the greatest to the smallest question that came 
 up. Mabel, who loved and admired her husband's generosity, 
 imitated it as well, and never was less room given for jealousy 
 or heart-burning in any household that ever was organized. 
 Mr. Ketchum himself saw to their comforts — their bedroom 
 fires, port, steaks, tonics, and what not — and Mrs. Ketchum 
 was an affectionate, respectful daughter to both alike, anxious 
 to consult their tastes, anticipate their wishes, and obey their 
 very distracting and somewhat imperious commands — for their 
 advice and counsels were apt to take the latter shape. 
 
 A more complete and ideal paradise for two weary old 
 women, who had been battling with poverty and misfortune 
 respectively for sixty and sixty-five years, it would be impossible 
 to conceive ; yet, such is the perversity of human nature, neither 
 of them was satisfied, happy, or particularly grateful. One
 
 378 ON BOTH SIDES 
 
 would have supposed that there was no room for the serpent to 
 wriggle in, try as he might, yet he was there, in envy and jeal- 
 ousy, malice and all uncharitableness, pride and love of domin- 
 ion. All Mr. Ketchum's thoughtfulness, generosity, and bene- 
 factions were poisoned to each by the thought that the other 
 shared them. Did he bring home a box of particularly fine 
 grapes for Mrs. Vane, that lady was certain that its counter- 
 part was reserved for her rival. Did he surprise his mother by 
 sending her up a handsome silk dress of superior quality, she 
 knew quite well that another dress had been cut from the same 
 piece for Mrs. Vane. And so the honest fellow got but tepid 
 thanks, and went delicately, like King Agag, fearing to tread on 
 one or the other of the sensitive plants, whose "feelings" would 
 hardly bear breathing upon, though they had small care for 
 the feelings of others. And Mabel was ever gentle and good 
 and patient, yet the two foolish women squabbled over every- 
 thing that came up, and made themselves very ridiculous and 
 very miserable. The usual attitude of the belligerents was one 
 of ill-repressed sniffs and sneers; the warfare was illogical and 
 deathless, though rarely did it find vent in open outbreaks. 
 These, when they came, occurred always when Mr. Ketchum's 
 restraining influence was removed, for, with all his indulgence, 
 he was emphatically master of his own house, and could, as he 
 expressed it, "put his foot down," indeed, plant both feet firmly 
 and squarely and stamp on other feet that got in his way. 
 Once at table, when Mrs. Ketchum, senior, had openly taunted 
 Mrs. Vane with being a dependent on her son's bounty, and 
 Mrs. Vane had taken the ground that the third cousin of an 
 English earl conferred an honor in accepting anything at the 
 hands of social inferiors who were only too glad to purchase 
 good blood at any price, Mr. Ketchum had got into one of his 
 rare rages, and had frightened them so thoroughly and re- 
 buked them so sternly that for a month afterward all was as 
 beautifully calm and bright as moonlight in the tropics. 
 
 The English travelers arrived in New York and went at 
 once to a hotel, not kept on the European plan, where Sir 
 Robert faced "that great American fountain of absolute author- 
 ity and irresponsible power," the clerk, with the unconscious 
 courage that animates a boy in his first battle. He did not
 
 FRANCES COURTENAY BAYLOR 379 
 
 know the danger, and so knew no fear, and had no idea of 
 what he was doing, when, after saying particularly that he 
 wished a room with a southern exposure, and being assigned 
 one with a northern exposure — a fact ascertained by taking 
 his bearings with a pocket compass as soon as he was installed — 
 he marched down-stairs and boldly rebuked the gorgeous young 
 man with the solitaire pin who had betrayed his confidence, 
 and who, paralyzed perhaps by such audacity, forgot either to 
 threaten or to command, but called a servant and bade him 
 "take that there lord's things up to thirty-six from twenty-four, 
 and be quick about it, too." 
 
 The visitors were greeted cordially and entertained royally 
 by many friends, both old and new, much to the appreciation 
 of all members of the party, with the exception of Mrs. Sykes, 
 who thought she was being run after, and conducted herself 
 accordingly. She made the rudest remarks imaginable at 
 every opportunity, and insulted her hosts and hostesses indis- 
 criminately, much to the mortification of her companions. On 
 one occasion, while the party was being entertained at the 
 pretty country home of Mrs. DeWitt, who before her marriage 
 was Jenny Meredith, Mrs. Sykes was seen to be staring fixedly 
 at a handsome silver epergne on the table near her. 
 
 "Dear me!" said she, alertly. "Can that be a crest that I 
 see?" 
 
 "On the epergne?" asked Mrs. DeWitt. "Yes. My hus- 
 band's. An old family piece, which has quite recently come 
 into our possession through the kindness of a friend, who, 
 strange to say, found it at a jeweler's in Charleston, and rescued 
 it just in time to prevent its being melted down and converted 
 into teaspoons." 
 
 "An old piece, you say? How very extraordinary! I 
 thought Americans had no grandfathers," said Mrs. Sykes, 
 restoring her glass to its place, her brows still keeping the arch 
 of surprise. 
 
 Mrs. DeWitt flushed, and was about to retaliate, but, re- 
 membering that she was in her own house, stopped. She 
 caught Miss Noel's uneasy look, and felt repaid for her self- 
 control. 
 
 Among Mrs. DeWitt's guests was a charming cousin of hers
 
 380 ON BOTH SIDES 
 
 from Baltimore, named Edith Bascome, who had inherited an 
 equal share of the family beauty and was a close rival to Jenny 
 in fascination and charm. 
 
 Heathcote, who never had seen any girl who could fill the 
 place of Jenny Meredith in his affections, was much pleased 
 with Miss Bascome and immediately decided to visit Baltimore. 
 
 After seeing New York, the travelers visited Washington, 
 where they were much astonished at many of the American 
 customs; and when on one occasion Miss Noel was attending 
 the President's reception, and discovered her maid Parsons in 
 the line ahead of her, her amazement and indignation knew no 
 bounds. She ordered the offending Parsons home at once, 
 and was strongly tempted to discharge her on the spot, but after 
 further consideration decided to pardon her, as it was her first 
 offense. 
 
 After "doing" the capital, Sir Robert and his party set out 
 for the West and in due time arrived at their destination, the 
 hospitable home of Mr. and Mrs. Ketchum. On the journey 
 the visitors had their first introduction to a sleeping-car, and 
 did not find the experience one of unalloyed pleasure. One of 
 their fellow-travelers was a loquacious man, who retailed his 
 entire family history to a neighbor in a loud tone. 
 
 This was too much for the endurance of Mrs. Sykes, and 
 after bouncing about in fury behind her curtains for a while 
 she suddenly sent forth these words in a stentorian voice, with 
 an aggressively British accent: 
 
 "Would you be good enough, whoever you are and wherever 
 you are, to keep yourself and your affairs to yourself, and allow 
 an English lady, who doesn't care a pin about you, or your wife, 
 or your daughter, or anything connected with you, to go to 
 sleep?" She thought of and spoke for herself alone, but so 
 admirably expressed the general exasperation that a loud laugh 
 followed. 
 
 The stay with Mr. and Mrs. Ketchum proved most enjoy- 
 able, and when it was completed the travelers continued their 
 tour, visited California and New Orleans, and took a trip to 
 Havana. 
 
 While staying at the Ketchums' Mr. Ramsay progressed 
 rapidly in his friendship with Miss Bijou Brown, a very pretty
 
 FRANCES COURTENAY BAYLOR 381 
 
 and wealthy young girl whom he had met in New York. He 
 left her without declaring himself, much to her mortification and 
 grief; but she learned later, when he returned to her after re- 
 ceiving a legacy from his aunt, that his silence was caused by 
 his impecuniousness, and she accordingly forgave him. 
 
 Arthur Heathcote found Baltimore and Miss Bascome even 
 more fascinating than he had anticipated, and when the latter 
 informed him that she would never live in England, he made 
 up his mind to make his future home in the United States. 
 Sir Robert purchased an attractive old estate in Virginia which 
 had greatly taken his fancy, and put it into the hands of his 
 nephew, who planned there an ideal home in which to install 
 his bride. 
 
 The visiting party being now depleted of two of its mem- 
 bers, and also being minus Mrs. Sykes, who had forsaken it, 
 set sail for its native land, carrying back most delightful mem- 
 ories of the American trip.
 
 WILLIAM BECKFORD 
 
 (England, 1 759-1844) 
 VATHEK: AN ARABIAN TALE (1786) 
 
 This fantastic story, written in imitation of the One Thousand and One 
 Nights, is not only an extraordinary story in itself but was written in extraor- 
 dinary circumstances. The author, a wealthy, highly cultivated, and much 
 traveled young Englishman of twenty, wrote it at one sitting: "It took me," he 
 says, "three days and two nights of hard labor. I never took my clothes off 
 the whole time. The severe application made me very ill." Vathek was origi- 
 nally written in French, and was so admirable in style and idiom that it was con- 
 sidered by many the work of a Frenchman. It was first published in 1786, as a 
 translation from the French, said to have been made by Dr. Henley, who also 
 supplied the notes. The original edition in the British Museum, however, does 
 not bear the title Vathek ; it is simply entitled: "An Arabian Tale from an un- 
 published MS., with notes, etc." (London, 1786). The original French copy 
 was published at Lausanne in 1787. Lord Byron said of it: "As an Eastern 
 tale, even Rasselas must bow before it; the Happy Valley will not bear a com- 
 parison with the Hall of Eblis." One critic, fifty years after the publication of 
 Vathek, said: "In the Hall of Eblis, the figure of Soliman on his throne, showing 
 his heart enveloped in flame; the impressive sentences he utters; the awful 
 forms of the pre- Adamite kings; the innumerable multitudes whirled around in 
 eternal motion, each hand pointing to the heart on fire, leave an impression on 
 the mind more human, more startling and awakening than any drawn from the 
 hell of Milton." 
 
 [HE Caliph Vathek, grandson of Haroun-al- 
 Raschid, possessed a pleasing and majestic 
 figure, but when angry one of his eyes became 
 so terrible that no one could bear its glance. 
 He was exceedingly generous, and his greatest 
 pleasures were woman and wine. He was 
 especially addicted to the pleasures of the table, 
 and denied that it was necessary to make a hell 
 of this world to make a paradise of the next. 
 In magnificence he surpassed his predecessors: he considered 
 his father's palace far too cramped, and therefore added five 
 palatial wings for the gratification of each of the senses. In 
 the first of these The Eternal, or Unsatiating Banquet, tables 
 
 382
 
 WILLIAM BECKFORD 383 
 
 were kept spread with the most exquisite dainties and liquors. 
 The Temple of Melody, or The Nectar of the Soul, was in- 
 habited by the most skilful musicians and admired poets of 
 the day, who provided perpetual entertainment. The Delight 
 of the Eyes, or The Support of Memory, was a vast museum. 
 The Palace of Perfumes, or The Incentive to Pleasure, con- 
 sisted of various halls in which all the perfumes in the world 
 were kept burning in golden censers and torches, and aromatic 
 lamps flamed day and night. This was surrounded by an im- 
 mense garden, planted with every known fragrant flower and 
 herb. The Retreat of Mirth, or The Dangerous, was in- 
 habited by women as beautiful and seductive as the houris. 
 
 Notwithstanding Vathek's love of everything that ministered 
 to the senses, he was a great student and lover of the sciences, 
 particularly the occult. He was fond of arguing with the 
 doctors, and when the zealots opposed him he persecuted 
 them in return, so as to have reason on his side, at least. 
 
 Mahomet naturally viewed the irreligious conduct of his 
 vicegerent on earth with some indignation; but he told the 
 genii to leave him alone and see how far he would go before 
 punishing him. He told them to help Vathek to complete the 
 tower which he had begun for the purpose of insolently pene- 
 trating the secrets of heaven. The result was that for one 
 cubit the workmen raised in the daytime two were added in 
 the night, and this immensely tickled Vathek's vanity. He 
 was extremely proud, finally, when he mounted the fifteen 
 hundred steps and surveyed the entire city of Samarah spread 
 below him. On the summit he spent many nights in astro- 
 logical studies, and learned that he was to have the most ex- 
 traordinary adventures accomplished by a wonderful personage 
 from an unknown country. He made a proclamation, there- 
 fore, that every stranger should be brought into his presence. 
 Soon afterward a hideous being arrived whose appearance 
 terrified the guards that brought him into the Caliph's presence. 
 He had with him marvelous wares; but what particularly 
 attracted the Caliph's admiration were some sabers that dealt 
 automatically a blow at the person they were desired to strike. 
 The dazzling blades were engraved with unknown characters. 
 He told the stranger to take what gold he wanted for them,
 
 384 VATHEK: AN ARABIAN TALE 
 
 and then asked him whence he came. To all inquiries, he 
 showed his hideous teeth and laughed horribly. He was 
 ordered to prison. When Vathek went to dinner, he was so 
 disturbed that he could eat only thirty-two dishes of the three 
 hundred that daily supplied his table. His anger was further 
 inflamed in the morning when, on visiting the prison, he found 
 it empty and the guards dead. His mother, Carathis, who was 
 an adept in astrology, did her best to comfort him, and sug- 
 gested that proclamation should be made that anyone who 
 would decipher the inscriptions on the swords should be richly 
 rewarded, and that those who failed should have their beards 
 burned off. News of the stranger was to be rewarded with 
 fifty beautiful slaves and fifty jars of Kirmith apricots. Though 
 this made their mouths water, the Caliph's subjects were not 
 able to gratify their longings. Finally an old man ap- 
 peared who deciphered the inscriptions; but the next day, on 
 examining the swords, he found that the words had changed 
 to those of totally different import; and thereafter Vathek 
 noticed that the characters changed daily. Though he con- 
 sulted the stars from the top of his tower, he gained no satis- 
 faction. He lost his appetite, ceased to administer justice, 
 and shut up the Palace of the Five Senses. Sometimes his 
 attendants would carry him to a high flower-carpeted plateau 
 within a few miles of the city to breathe the pure air and drink 
 at the four fountains there. One day while there the hideous 
 stranger reappeared and gave him a potion that immediately 
 restored his health and spirits. Vathek took him home, opened 
 the palace, and magnificently entertained him. 
 
 At the divan next morning Vathek received a message from 
 Carathis saying that the stars portended danger, and that the 
 potion was probably poison. The stranger's mocking laughter 
 so enraged Vathek that he kicked him off the steps of the 
 throne, in which act he was imitated by all the bystanders. 
 The stranger, being short and plump, immediately rolled him- 
 self up into a ball and was kicked through the streets of the city 
 by the whole population, headed by Vathek, out to the plain of 
 Catoul and into the valley at the foot of the mountain of the 
 four fountains, where he disappeared over a precipice into an 
 abyss. On the edge of the precipice Vathek ordered his tents
 
 WILLIAM BECKFORD 385 
 
 to be pitched and spent many nights in vigils. At length a 
 terrible voice addressed him: "Wouldst thou devote thyself to 
 me? adore the terrestrial influences, and abjure Mahomet. On 
 these conditions I will bring thee to the Palace of Subterranean 
 Fire. There shalt thou behold in immense depositories the 
 treasures which the stars have promised thee, and which 
 will be conferred by those intelligences whom thou shalt thus 
 render propitious. It was from thence I brought my sabers, 
 and it is there that Soliman-Ben-Daoud reposes, surrounded 
 by the talismans that control the world." 
 
 Vathek promised, and immediately the earth opened, and 
 Vathek saw the stranger standing with a golden key in his 
 hand before an ebony portal. Before admitting Vathek, how- 
 ever, he demanded the blood of fifty beautiful children as a 
 libation. Vathek returned to Samarah and organized a splen- 
 did festival on the plain, during which he managed to throw 
 the necessary number of children into the gulf. To his amaze- 
 ment, though, the chasm immediately closed against him, and 
 he was left alone to the execration of his subjects. It required 
 the utmost exertions of his vizier, Morakanabad, and Baba- 
 balouk, the head of the eunuchs, to get him to his palace in 
 safety. Carathis somewhat appeased the angry crowd by ha- 
 ranguing them from her window, while Bababalouk showered 
 Vathek's stores of gold upon them. By a secret passage 
 Vathek reached his tower and ascended to the top, where he 
 was joined by Carathis, who there built an altar for sacrifice 
 to the subterranean genii. A pile of mummies' bones and 
 vases of serpents' oil was raised to a height of twenty cubits. 
 The blaze terrified the inhabitants of Samarah, who broke into 
 the tower with buckets of water to quench the flames. Those 
 who reached the top, half suffocated, were seized by Carathis's 
 mutes and negresses and thrown into the flames, which im- 
 mediately changed from swarthy crimson to bright rose, while 
 mephitic vapors changed to others of most exquisite fragrance, 
 and the marble columns rang with harmonious sounds. Cara- 
 this was delighted at the success of her sacrifice. A table 
 appeared loaded with dainties, and on it was an urn containing 
 a parchment, on which was written the satisfaction of the in- 
 fernal powers and a command for Vathek to set out to Istakhar 
 a.d., vol. 11. — 25
 
 3 36 VATHEK: AN ARABIAN TALE 
 
 with his wives, slaves, richest laden camels and most magnificent 
 litters. The document read: "Beware how thou enterest any 
 dwelling on thy route; or thou shalt feel the effects of my 
 anger." Vathek and his mother then caroused, ironically toast- 
 ing Mahomet and blaspheming Balaam's Ass, the Dog of the 
 Seven Sleepers, and all the other animals in Paradise. 
 
 At this juncture, an embassy returned from Mecca bringing 
 with it a precious besom used to sweep the sacred Kaaba. 
 Vathek received the pious moullahs with the utmost indignity. 
 On taking leave of Vathek, Carathis expressed her desire to 
 visit the subterranean palace, and she said: "There is nothing so 
 pleasing as retiring to caverns: my taste for dead bodies and 
 everything like mummy is decided; and, I am confident, thou 
 wilt see the most exquisite of their kind. Forget me not, then, 
 but the moment thou art in possession of the talismans which 
 are to open the way to the mineral kingdoms, and the center 
 of the earth itself, fail not to despatch some trusty genius to 
 take me and my cabinet ; for the oil of serpents I have pinched 
 to death will be a pretty present to the Giaour." 
 
 On the night before this, Vathek had ascended the tower 
 with his mother to see whether everything was propitious: the 
 planets appeared in their most favorable aspects. They supped 
 gaily on the roof, and during the repast Vathek thought he 
 heard shouts of laughter in the sky, which inspired the fullest 
 assurance. 
 
 At moonrise the great standard of the Califat was dis- 
 played: twenty thousand lances shone around it, and the 
 Caliph, treading royally on the cloth of gold, ascended his 
 litter amid general acclamation. 
 
 For three days all went well ; but on the fourth angry skies 
 inclined Vathek to take shelter in Ghulchissar, whose gov- 
 ernor greeted him with refreshments and invitations. How- 
 ever, he consulted his tablets and refused. He sent for his 
 geographers, but the maps were all soaked and nobody knew 
 which way to turn; so, with curses and mutterings of the 
 bowstring for his useless advisers, he determined to cross the 
 heights under guidance of a peasant, who undertook to bring 
 him to Rocnabad in four days. The wailings and shrieks of 
 the eunuchs and the women at the terrors of the precipices did
 
 WILLIAM BECKFORD 387 
 
 not deter him, nor did a terrible tempest. Worse was to 
 come, however, for Vathek was aroused in his capacious 
 cushioned litter by Bababalouk, who cried: "Misfortune is 
 arrived at its height; wild beasts, who entertain no more 
 reverence for your sacred person than for a dead ass, have 
 beset your camels and their drivers; thirty of the most richly 
 laden are already become their prey, as well as your confec- 
 tioners, your cooks and purveyors; and unless our holy Prophet 
 should protect us, we have all eaten our last meal." 
 
 This was too much: everybody, including the ladies, had 
 to seize torches. Vathek himself, with a thousand blasphemies, 
 was compelled to touch with his sacred feet the naked earth. 
 One of the cedar forests took fire, which was communicated 
 to the ladies' litters, and there was great lamentation when the 
 women had to descend and expose themselves to the vulgar 
 gaze. One of Vathek's Ethiopian wives (he was catholic in 
 his tastes) shouldered her lord like a sack of dates and carried 
 him out of danger. 
 
 When the tents were finally pitched and Vathek called for 
 his evening meal, nothing was forthcoming. All the provisions 
 and cooking utensils had been lost. Those delicate cakes baked 
 in silver ovens for his royal mouth, those rich manchets, amber 
 comfits, flagons of Shiraz wine, porcelain vases of snow, and 
 grapes from the banks of the Tigris, were all lost. Baba- 
 balouk could present nothing but roasted wolf, vultures a la 
 daube, acrid herbs, rotten truffles, boiled thistles. In the morn- 
 ing his diet stimulated Vathek to imprecations against the 
 Giaour and some soothing expressions toward Mahomet. 
 He was in a desolate gorge, with no help in sight. The timely 
 arrival of two dwarfs from the Emir Fakreddin, with a present 
 of fruits and offers of hospitality, gladdened his heart. Before 
 their address was finished, the fruits had disappeared. As for 
 Vathek, his piety increased, and in the same breath he recited 
 his prayers and called for the Koran and sugar. However, he 
 paled on consulting his tablets, on which Carathis had written : 
 "Beware of puny messengers." 
 
 Nevertheless, he determined to accept the hospitality of 
 Fakreddin, who soon arrived and conducted Vathek to his 
 magnificent palace. The ladies were taken into the harem and
 
 3 88 VATHEK: AN ARABIAN TALE 
 
 delightfully entertained by the Emir's daughter, Nouronihar, 
 who was as sprightly as an antelope and full of wanton 
 gayety. She assisted the mischievous ladies to give poor 
 Bababalouk a good ducking in the bath, and left him 
 there vainly seeking an exit till the morning. The Emir gave 
 a great festival in honor of the Caliph, which was attended by 
 all the holy men of the neighborhood, and there Vathek saw 
 and was deeply smitten by the charms of Nouronihar, who 
 was betrothed to her cousin, Gulchenrouz, an effeminate boy 
 of her own age. On her way home in the moonlight, Nour- 
 onihar got separated from her eunuch escort and her maidens, 
 and was attracted to a grotto in the mountains that was 
 brilliantly lighted. It was decorated with the appendages 
 of royalty: diadems and heron feathers, all sparkling with 
 carbuncles. After soft music, a voice asked: "For what 
 monarch are these torches kindled, this bath prepared, and 
 these habiliments which belong to the talismanic powers?" 
 "For the charming daughter of Fakreddin," another voice 
 replied. "What? For that trifier, who consumes her time 
 with a giddy child? Can she be amused with such empty 
 toys, whilst he who is destined to enjoy the treasures of the 
 pre-Adamite sultans is inflamed with love?" "For her? No! 
 she will be wise enough to answer that passion alone that can 
 aggrandize her glory. Then all the riches this place contains, 
 as well as the carbuncle of Giamschid, shall be hers." "You 
 judge right, and I haste to Istakhar to prepare the Palace of 
 Subterranean Fire for the reception of the bridal pair." 
 
 Nouronihar awoke in her father's harem, and found every- 
 body in despair at having missed her. The next day she re- 
 ceived a visit from Vathek with much graciousness. Fakreddin 
 appealed to Vathek to respect the laws of hospitality, and, 
 when he found that his remonstrances were of no avail, he 
 gave Nouronihar and Gulchenrouz a drug which produced a 
 death-like trance; he then held a splendid funeral, meanwhile 
 sending the pair to a hidden lake in the hills, where they were 
 tended by the two dwarfs, who told them that they were now 
 in Paradise. 
 
 Vathek was in despair. He renounced the perfidious Giaour 
 and supplicated the pardon of Mahomet, and the Emir con-
 
 WILLIAM BECKFORD 389 
 
 gratulated himself on having performed so admirable a con- 
 version. Vathek visited Nouronihar's tomb, and declared his 
 intention of doing so daily. 
 
 One day the adventurous Nouronihar scaled the rocks 
 around the lake and met the disconsolate Vathek, and yielded 
 to his entreaties. He left the Emir's palace and pitched his 
 tents in a neighboring valley, where Bababalouk supplied him 
 with every luxury that could please his palate and Nouronihar 
 delighted him with her songs and love. 
 
 His neglected Dilara, now sheltered by Fakreddin, sent 
 messengers to Carathis, informing her of present conditions. 
 Vathek's mother immediately mounted her great camel, Albou- 
 faki, and, attended only by her one-eyed slaves, the hideous 
 Nerkes and the relentless Cafour, she departed, telling the 
 Vizier to fleece the people well in her absence, for she would 
 need large sums. Alboufaki inhaled malignant fogs with de- 
 light, and was glad to stop at a miasmatic marsh for Carathis 
 and her two negresses to cull venomous plants for the benefit 
 of whosoever might retard the expedition to Istakhar. At 
 dusk, Alboufaki stopped and stamped so that Carathis knew 
 they were near a cemetery, and on examination she discovered 
 two thousand graves, and determined to consult the ghouls 
 who must haunt it, supplying them with fresh provisions in the 
 bodies of her two guides. Having obtained the information 
 she required, she proceeded; and, on the sixth day, Vathek 
 was awakened by the rough trot of Alboufaki. After a stormy 
 interview between mother and son, Vathek consented to pur- 
 sue his original quest, only stipulating that he should be ac- 
 companied by his beloved Nouronihar, who was "enamored of 
 carbuncles, especially that of Giamschid." The latter dropped 
 a tender tear over the memory of Gulchenrouz, which aroused 
 the jealousy of Vathek, who told the tale to his mother. Cara- 
 this then retired to her tent, where her negresses informed her 
 that Alboufaki, in search of some sufficiently venomous moss, 
 had run across some blue fish in a lake. Carathis immediately 
 proceeded thither and pronounced incantations, whereupon 
 the fish supplied her with the desired information. She dis- 
 covered the retreat of Gulchenrouz, and during a battle between 
 the negresses and the dwarfs, the boy escaped and was picked
 
 39© VATHEK: AN ARABIAN TALE 
 
 up by a good old genius, who had also rescued the fifty little 
 victims which the impiety of Vathek had devoted to the voracity 
 of the cruel Giaour in the horrible chasm. The genius brought 
 them all up in nests higher than the clouds, and fixed his own 
 abode in a larger nest, from which he had driven the rocs that 
 had built it. 
 
 The enraged Carathis returned to vent her spleen upon 
 Vathek and Nouronihar; but in the evening the sky toward 
 Samarah turned fiery red; and, on consulting her magic instru- 
 ments, she found that a great rebellion had broken out at 
 Samarah and that her wonderful tower was invested. Before 
 returning, therefore, in hot haste she sought her son and con- 
 jured him to strike tent at once and set forward, because, 
 though he had broken the conditions of the parchment, she 
 was not yet without hope; "for it cannot be denied that thou 
 hast violated to admiration the laws of hospitality by seducing 
 the daughter of the Emir, after having partaken of his bread 
 and his salt. Such a conduct cannot but be delightful to the 
 Giaour; and if, on thy march, thou canst signalize thyself by 
 an additional crime, all will still go well and thou shalt enter 
 the palace of Soliman in triumph. Adieu! Alboufaki and 
 my negresses are waiting at the door!" 
 
 The Caliph wished his mother a prosperous journey, and 
 finished his supper. At midnight he broke camp, and in four 
 days reached the spacious valley of Rocnabad, where he was 
 welcomed by a colony of pious santons. Suspecting that their 
 oratories might be deemed a habitation by the Giaour, he 
 ordered them to be leveled and the gardens devastated. A 
 deputation of the moullahs, sheiks, cadis, and imans of Shiraz 
 arrived with presents, and with an invitation to visit their city 
 and mosques. The presents were accepted, and, in order to 
 make sure that the dignitaries should retire from the Caliph's 
 presence deferentially backward, they were bound on their 
 asses with their faces to their tails, and driven with nettles out 
 of the Caliph's presence. Two days later, the mountains of 
 Istakhar came into view, and the Caliph and Nouronihar were 
 unable to repress their transports. The good genii now has- 
 tened to Mahomet in the seventh heaven, and begged him to 
 prevent Vathek's impending ruin at the hand of the dives.
 
 WILLIAM BECKFORD 391 
 
 Mahomet indignantly replied that Vathek richly deserved ret- 
 ribution, but he was willing to allow them one more effort. 
 One of them, therefore, assumed the form of a shepherd, and 
 on the slope of a hill played pathetic melody on his flute. His 
 music melted the hearts of the whole caravan. Even Vathek 
 and his partner felt remorse for their misdeeds, and all ap- 
 proached the shepherd, who reproved Vathek in the severest 
 terms and warned him that this was his last hour of grace, at 
 the same time exhorting him to repent and make amends. 
 Vathek, however, hardened his heart, and pressed forward 
 with Nouronihar, although most of his followers deserted him. 
 Finally the pair, alone, arrived at the foot of a vast staircase, 
 which they mounted and saw before them an inscription in 
 fiery letters on the darkness to the effect that though Vathek 
 had violated the conditions of the parchment, yet in view 
 of his other services Eblis would permit the portals of his 
 palace to be opened, and the subterranean fire to receive him 
 into the number of its adorers. 
 
 The rock yawned, revealing a staircase of polished marble, 
 down which the pair hastened. At the bottom, before a vast 
 portal of ebony, they were welcomed by the Giaour, before 
 whose golden key the doors flew open. Vathek and Nour- 
 onihar were amazed to find themselves in a vast hall with 
 a vaulted roof supported by rows upon rows of columns and 
 arcades extending into infinite distances. The pavement was 
 strewn with gold dust and saffron, exhaling overpowering odors. 
 As they passed along, they noticed an infinity of censers in 
 which ambergris and aloes-wood were burning. Tables spread 
 with rich viands and every kind of wine in crystal vases stood 
 between the columns, and a throng of genii of both sexes were 
 dancing lasciviously to barbarous strains. A vast multitude 
 incessantly passed by, holding their hands over their hearts, 
 pale as death and taking no notice of one another. Some 
 stalked slowly along, some rushed about shrieking with agony, 
 some grinding their teeth in fury foamed more frantically than 
 the wildest maniac. They all avoided each other. The Giaour 
 would answer no questions, but hurried his charges along. At 
 length they entered, through long curtains brocaded with crim- 
 son and gold, a vast tabernacle hung with leopard-skins. An
 
 392 VATHEK: AN ARABIAN TALE 
 
 infinity of bearded elders and armored afrits were prostrate 
 before an eminence, on the top of which upon a globe of fire 
 sat the dread Eblis. He was youthful in appearance, but his 
 noble features seemed to have been corroded with malignant 
 vapors. His eyes were full of pride and despair; his hair 
 resembled that of an angel of light; an iron scepter was in his 
 hand. Vathek was daunted; Nouronihar was greatly interested. 
 Eblis welcomed the creatures of clay: ''Enjoy whatever this 
 palace affords — the treasures of the pre-Adamite sultans, their 
 fulminating sabers, and those talismans that compel the dives 
 to open the subterranean expanses of the mountain of Kaf." 
 Everything was open for their inspection. 
 
 Eagerly following their guide, they reached a vast domed 
 hall with fifty bronze doors in the walls. Here lay the fleshless 
 forms of the pre-Adamite kings, who still retained enough life 
 to be conscious of their condition. With their hands on their 
 hearts they gazed upon one another. At their feet were in- 
 scribed stories of their exploits, their power, their pride, and 
 their crimes. Highest of all, and immediately under the dome, 
 lay Soliman-Ben-Daoud. A range of brazen vases surrounded 
 the elevation. " Remove the covers," said the Giaour to Vathek, 
 "and avail thyself of the talismans which will break asunder all 
 these gates of bronze and render thee master of the treasures 
 contained within, and of the spirits that guard them." 
 
 Vathek was about to obey, when Soliman addressed him 
 and recited the glories, pleasures, and crimes of his career and 
 his present torments. Vathek was horrified to see that Soli- 
 man's heart was in flames, and reproached the Giaour for hav- 
 ing brought him there, calling on Mahomet for mercy. 
 
 The Giaour replied: "Know, miserable Prince! thou art 
 now in the abode of vengeance and despair. Thy heart also 
 will be kindled like those of the other votaries of Eblis. A few 
 days are allotted thee previous to this fatal period: employ 
 them as thou wilt; recline on these heaps of gold; command 
 the infernal potentates; range, at thy pleasure, through these 
 immense subterranean domains: no barrier shall be shut 
 against thee. As for me, I have fulfilled my mission: I now 
 leave thee to thyself." At these words he vanished. 
 
 Hand in hand the couple tottered from the fatal hall.
 
 WILLIAM BECKFORD 393 
 
 Every portal opened and the dives fell prostrate at their ap- 
 proach. Every reservoir of riches was open to them, but they 
 felt neither curiosity, pride, nor avarice. Apathetically they 
 listened to the music and gazed on the banquet. They wan- 
 dered from chamber to chamber, hall to hall, and gallery to 
 gallery, all traversed by beings in vain search of repose and 
 consolation. They awaited in dread suspense the moment 
 that should render them to each other the like objects of terror. 
 Occasionally also they reproached each other. Finally Vathek 
 ordered an afrit to fetch Carathis, as the author of all his woes. 
 When she arrived on the back of the groaning afrit, Vathek re- 
 proached her for her teachings. She informed him of the 
 vengeance she had wreaked on Samarah before leaving. Cara- 
 this then entered the dome of Soliman, opened the vases, 
 seized the talismans, and penetrated into the most secret 
 recesses of the realm of Eblis. Nothing appalled her fearless 
 soul. Even when Eblis confronted her, she was not daunted. 
 She even attempted to dethrone one of the Solimans, to usurp 
 his place, when she was halted by a voice from the abyss of 
 death, proclaiming: "All is accomplished!" At that moment, 
 she laid her right hand upon her heart, which had become a 
 receptacle of eternal fire. At the same moment Vathek and 
 Nouronihar were struck. Their hearts also took fire, and they 
 recoiled from one another with looks of the most furious dis- 
 traction. All plunged into the cursed multitude, there to wander 
 in an eternity of unabating anguish.
 
 CUTHBERT BEDE 
 
 (EDWARD BRADLEY) 
 
 (England, 1827-1889) 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF MR. VERDANT GREEN (1853) 
 
 "Cuthbert Bede" was the pseudonym of the rector of Denton in Hunting- 
 tonshire, although he was not appointed to the living until six years after the 
 publication of his first book. He wrote several stories of a mildly humorous 
 nature, but none achieved the popular success of that which is presented here. 
 
 ^ROM earliest times, as you may find by referring 
 to the unpublished volume of Burke's Landed 
 Gentry, the Verdant Greens have been regarded 
 as highly respectable. 
 
 To be sure, none of the Greens has ever 
 attained to great eminence, nor has any one ever 
 amassed an unusual amount of wealth. In fact, 
 they have from generation to generation been 
 good-natured dupes of more astute minds. In 
 the comedy of the monkey and the catspaw, they have always 
 been ready to assume the role of the guileless cat, and there has 
 rarely been a generation that did not number among its mem- 
 bers a number of burned paws. 
 
 Turn again to the chronicles of which I have spoken and 
 you will find this entry: "Verdant Green, of the Manor 
 Green, Co. Warwick, Gent., who married Mary, only surviv- 
 ing child of Samuel Sappey, Esq., of Sapcot Hall, Co. Salop; 
 by whom he has issue, one son, and three daughters: Mary, 
 Verdant, Helen, Fanny." 
 
 The Manor Green was situated in one of the loveliest spots 
 in all Warwickshire; a county rich in all that constitutes the 
 picturesqueness of a true English landscape. Here Verdant 
 passed the days of his youth, and here he was petted and spoiled, 
 
 394
 
 CUTHBERT BEDE 395 
 
 as much as his naturally sweet temper would allow, by the 
 assiduous attentions of mother, sisters, and a doting father. 
 
 Verdant had no playmate of his own age, and his mother 
 had a horror of public schools, so he never was allowed away 
 from her apron-strings, although the rector, Mr. Larky ns, had 
 a son who was being educated at a public school, and intimated 
 that such a training was just what Verdant needed. 
 
 Verdant thought himself lucky to escape going to such a 
 place of horrors as a public school, for Master Charley had 
 told him many a tale of the way the second master would find 
 out your tenderest places when you were licked for a false 
 quantity, and of the jolly "mills" the boys used to have with 
 town "cads," who would lie in wait for a fellow and half kill 
 him if they caught him alone ; and of the fun it was to make a 
 junior form fellow fag for you and do all your dirty work. 
 
 So Verdant came to the age of eighteen without ever having 
 fired a gun or driven a cricket-ball, or having learned to swim 
 or to ride, or to do anything that a girl should not do. 
 
 But if the Greens did not realize that their son was in a fair 
 way to become a milksop, the rector did, and, wishing to save 
 the boy from such a fate, he had several talks with Pater Green 
 in which he discussed the advisability of sending Verdant to 
 Oxford, where he would mix with other boys and learn some- 
 thing of the world. Mr. Green finally allowed himself to be 
 swayed by this counsel, and, to the great regret and trepida- 
 tion of Mrs. Green, it was decided to send Verdant down. 
 
 Brazenface will be a good name to call the college selected 
 for Verdant, and the evening of the day of his arrival (accom- 
 panied by his father) saw him ensconced in small but com- 
 fortable quarters, with a scout in the person of Robert Filcher 
 to do his errands, and several amiable students in agreeable 
 contiguity. 
 
 The next morning Mr. Green returned to Manor Green, and 
 Verdant realized that now he was an Oxford Man. He im- 
 mediately looked up his old acquaintance, Charley Larkyns, 
 who had been at Oxford some time. 
 
 Mr. Charles Larkyns had sporting tendencies, as was 
 shown by the ornaments of his room, the foils, boxing-gloves,
 
 396 ADVENTURES OF MR. VERDANT GREEN 
 
 cricket-bats, tandem whips, antlers, pictures of footlight favor- 
 ites, and other articles that lent themselves to manly decora- 
 tion. There were also one or two suspicious-looking boxes 
 labeled "Colorado," "Regalia," "Lukotilla." 
 
 There was no doubt in Verdant's mind when he timidly 
 entered the room that Charley actually smoked, for a perfumed 
 cloud was issuing from his lips as he lolled on a couch in the 
 neglige* attire of dressing-gown and slippers, with his pink 
 striped shirt comfortably open at the neck. 
 
 Opposite him sat a gentleman who was draining the last 
 drop from a pewter mug, and on a table between the two was 
 another beer-mug and a bottle of soda-water. 
 
 At first Charley did not recognize Verdant, but when he did 
 his reception was cordial, and he introduced him to "Mr. 
 Smalls," the gentleman who had formerly had Verdant's room. 
 
 Both men were astonished to hear that Verdant never had 
 smoked and advised him to adopt the habit if he intended to 
 be a deep reader, as it was a great help to study. 
 
 A walk was proposed, and Verdant was filled full of "in- 
 formation" concerning the colleges, the dons, the proctors, and 
 the students, that was provocative of much amusement to the 
 congenial pair of friends, and taken as gospel by the sapling. 
 
 Upon his return to his rooms the youth wrote a long letter 
 to his mother, expatiating on the patient kindness of Charley 
 and Mr. Smalls in explaining so much that was necessarily 
 new and strange to him. He also (by the advice of Charley) 
 asked for a certificate that he had been vaccinated, as that young 
 gentleman had intimated that he could not pass his "Little 
 Go" unless he were provided with such a paper. 
 
 There was no denying that there were pleasures connected 
 with college life, and so far Verdant was rather glad that he had 
 come down. The evening after his meeting with Charley Lar- 
 kyns he attended a " smoker" at the rooms of Mr. Smalls. There 
 was much smoking and many drinks of many kinds, and to his 
 own astonishment Verdant soon found himself with a cigar in 
 his mouth and a glass of milk-punch in his hand. 
 
 Bashful as he ordinarily was, it was not long before he was 
 induced to sing, and in a weak voice he caroled to them, "I 
 Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls." As he sang his utterance
 
 CUTHBERT BEDE 397 
 
 thickened, but he was delighted with the vigorous way in which 
 all joined in the chorus, and after a time bashfulness gave place 
 to assurance and he was easily prevailed upon to address the 
 company. 
 
 His speech was remarkable for the way in which the con- 
 sonants became mixed and were carried away by the vowels. 
 
 After making a few unintelligible sounds, Verdant felt his 
 knees suddenly give way, and with a benevolent smile he dis- 
 appeared under the table. 
 
 Two kind friends put "Giglamps" (as he had been nick- 
 named) to bed, and thus ended his first convivial evening. 
 
 He did not care to go to chapel next morning. His scout, 
 using an agreeable euphemism, told him that he had been 
 "pleasant" the night before, but when one of his friends, little 
 Mr. Bouncer, came in to see how he was, he told him, to his 
 intense mortification, that he had been beastly drunk. Mr. 
 Bouncer, who was a jolly little man, always bent on turning 
 things upside down, if it were possible, assured him that he 
 had been all right until Mr. Slowcoach, his tutor, had joined 
 the party. 
 
 Mr. Slowcoach! To think that he should have seen him 
 in that condition! Of course Mr. Slowcoach had not been near 
 the scene of the festivities, but the mischievous Bouncer had 
 alarmed poor Verdant with his insinuations. 
 
 "You see what brought him was your throwing empty beer- 
 bottles at his window. That would have a tendency to arouse 
 his interest. And then when he came in, you remember, you 
 wanted to have a polka with him — and he doesn't dance," said 
 the incorrigible joker. 
 
 Visions of expulsion chased one another through Verdant's 
 throbbing head. A way out of it was kindly suggested by Mr. 
 Bouncer, who told Verdant that if he wrote an extremely peni- 
 tent and contrite note to Slowcoach, the tutor might relent 
 enough to keep the matter from reaching the ears of higher 
 authorities. The note was written and handed to Bouncer, 
 and as Verdant was not expelled he felt very grateful to his 
 kind friend. 
 
 The usual routine of lectures and study followed their due 
 course, and Verdant's innocent ways, while tempting to the
 
 398 ADVENTURES OF MR. VERDANT GREEN 
 
 mischievous, at the same time won him many friends, who 
 could not help liking the gullible fellow, but who relaxed not 
 one jot of their efforts to hoax him. 
 
 Under Charley Larkyns's tutelage Verdant ordered clothing 
 of a more fashionable cut and ran up a number of bills in the 
 furnishing of his rooms with engravings and other ornaments. 
 He also learned how it feels to be thrown by a horse, what it is 
 to own a dog that cannot kill rats and finally runs away after 
 you have paid an exorbitant sum for him, and in many ways 
 added to his stock of an experience that somehow did not teach 
 much discretion. 
 
 He could now smoke without evil consequences, and felt 
 himself to be more of a man than his mother; and so the first 
 term passed and he went home to his adoring relatives, where 
 he posed as a devil of a fellow, shocked his maiden aunt, and 
 made his father and mother feel that it was a wise move to 
 send him to college, since he seemed to have learned so much. 
 
 Upon Verdant's return to the University, it became his 
 pleasure to hoax freshmen even as he had been hoaxed, but it 
 is doubtful whether any among them were quite as credulous 
 as he had been. His gullibility was likely to pass into a college 
 tradition. 
 
 He was now firm friends with Larkyns, Bouncer, Smalls, 
 and a number of other genial men with kindred tastes, and life 
 at college was not all a " grind." 
 
 One of the most memorable evenings of his second term was 
 an occasion when he took part in a Town and Gown riot (against 
 his will at the outset, but coached by excitement into becoming 
 an adversary of some worth). 
 
 In this fight Larkyns et al. received the help of no less a 
 person than the Putney Pet, a prize-fighter of prowess who 
 had been hired for the occasion, and who had been induced to 
 don a mortar-board, although he balked at the gown as being 
 in the way. 
 
 Many were the cracked heads and tapped noses that eve- 
 ning, and when the fight was at its height the Rev. Thomas 
 Tozer of the University took an involuntary part in it and was 
 saved from a knock-out blow at the hands of a Townsman by 
 the same Putney Pet.
 
 CUTHBERT BEDE 399 
 
 Being a strict disciplinarian, Mr. Tozcr had called the low- 
 browed gentleman to task for appearing on the streets without 
 his gown. 
 
 "I ax your pardon, guv'nor!" replied the Pet, deferentially, 
 "I didn't so much care about the mortar-board, but I couldn't 
 do nothin' nohow with the other thing, so I pocketed him; but 
 some cove must have gone and prigged him, for he ain't here." 
 
 Owing to the darkness Mr. Tozer did not see the tale-telling 
 features of the bruiser, and he angrily replied that he did not 
 understand his foolish talk and would like him to confine him- 
 self to English. 
 
 Then the truth came out, and the pacified Mr. Tozer said: 
 "Well, well! you have used your skill very much to our advan- 
 tage, and displayed pugilistic powers not unworthy of the 
 athletes and xystics of the noblest days of Rome. As a pales- 
 trite you would have gained palms in the gymnastic exercises 
 of the Circus Maximus. And now, go home, sir, and resume 
 your customary head-dress: and stay! here's five shillings." 
 
 This so pleased the somewhat mystified Pet that he handed 
 the reverend gentleman one of his professional cards. 
 
 After the fight there was a jovial supper-party in the prin- 
 cipal room at "The Roebuck," and the Pet was given a place 
 of honor and toasted and cheered by all present in a man- 
 ner to disperse the doubts of anyone as to undergraduate 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 It is needless to say that the Rev. Mr. Tozer did not form 
 one of this roistering company, but Verdant Green did, and 
 enjoyed the occasion as well as any, in spite of the patch of 
 brown paper, perfumed with vinegar, that indicated where he 
 had met with punishment in the long-to-be-remembered fight 
 between Town and Gown. 
 
 During his second term Verdant made adequate progress 
 in his studies, but the outdoor sports interested him most, al- 
 though candor compels the statement that he did not excel in 
 one of them. His horseback rides always invited disaster, and 
 disaster always accepted the invitation; his rowing was a sight 
 for those whose risibles needed exercise; and altogether he 
 continued to be the same guileless, amiable, lovable nincom- 
 poop that he was at the beginning of this veracious history.
 
 4 oo ADVENTURES OF MR. VERDANT GREEN 
 
 At Christmas there were delightful doings down at Manor 
 Green, for Charley Larkyns had invited little Bouncer down, 
 and there were also two lovely girls from the north country, the 
 sisters Honeywood. 
 
 Verdant found the younger, Miss Patty, to be quite the 
 most adorable creature he had ever known, and, while Christ- 
 mas holidays were always delightful, these Christmas holidays 
 were made ever memorable by the advent of the rosy-cheeked 
 girl from the northern borders. 
 
 The Christmas vacation passed all too quickly, and Ver- 
 dant once more sought the classic shades of Oxford. Charley 
 Larkyns was going in for a degree, so he burned oil at midnight 
 more often than formerly; but neither Verdant nor Bouncer 
 used their oil for studious purposes, and they contrived to have 
 many a merry evening together. Verdant was still Green, but 
 Green was not quite as verdant as he had been. He was never 
 above learning, and as his learning was always attended by 
 amusement on the part of the spectators, he always found those 
 who were willing to coach him. So he learned to skate, and 
 described many strange figures in the air rather than on the ice; 
 he also kept up his horseback exercise, without ever being mis- 
 taken for a centaur. 
 
 After Easter vacation Verdant was fortunate enough to get 
 through his "smalls," while Charley Larkyns won the Chan- 
 cellor's prize for a Latin essay and the Newdigate prize for 
 English verse. 
 
 But little Bouncer, in spite of an ingenious system of cards 
 worn upon his person and decorated with answers to the ques- 
 tions in his examinations, was ignominiously "plucked," and 
 his boisterous spirits were dampened for nearly a day. 
 
 Commemoration Day came in due time, and Verdant was 
 chosen as prompter for Charley Larkyns when he came to de- 
 liver his prize poem; but luckily enough Charley did not need 
 a prompter, for Verdant was far too nervous to render him any 
 assistance. 
 
 After Commemoration came more vacation, and an event 
 to which Verdant had looked forward for weeks — a visit to 
 Honeywood Hall, in the County of Northumberland, where 
 dwelt the adorable Patty. Not only were Verdant and his
 
 CUTHBERT BEDE 40 r 
 
 sisters going, but Charley Larkyns and little Bouncer and his 
 sister Fanny were of the party. 
 
 It was a merry company, and not the less merry for the 
 presence of Bouncer; but with every revolution of the car- 
 wheels Verdant's heart beat faster as he reflected that in a few 
 hours he would gaze on the dearest face in all Christendom and 
 feel the pressure of the most thrilling hand in the world. But 
 with all his ardor, doubt and mistrust of himself kept steady 
 pace. It was not likely that so fascinating a young woman as 
 Patty would ever deign to look at him in any way save as a 
 friend. 
 
 Oh, the delights and the tortures of first love! Verdant 
 was in a heavenly hell from which he hardly dared wish to be 
 delivered. 
 
 At last they reached Honeywood Hall, and he saw Patty, 
 saw Charley take upon himself the cousinly privilege of kissing 
 her, and then he himself shook hands with her — and was 
 superlatively happy. 
 
 Many were the hospitalities lavished upon the guest from 
 the South by the Northrons, but opportunity did not come for 
 Verdant to be alone with Patty until one happy day when the 
 bright sunshine was reflected in Miss Patty's bright-beaming 
 face, and Mr. Verdant Green found himself wandering forth 
 with her "all in the blue, unclouded weather." 
 
 Miss Patty sketched, and she had asked Verdant to accom- 
 pany her to the ruined church of Lasthope, about two miles 
 distant from the Hall. 
 
 She had made her outline of the scene, and was prepar- 
 ing to wash it in (conversing most entertainingly the while), 
 when to Verdant's terror and amazement he saw a huge bull 
 stealthily approaching the seated figure of the unconscious 
 young lady. 
 
 And now, for the first time in his life, he proved that he was 
 a man, after all. Quietly, with no indication of the fear he felt 
 for her, he said to Patty: "Don't be frightened — there is no 
 danger — but there is a bull coming toward us. Walk quietly 
 to that gate, and don't let him see that you are afraid of him. 
 I will take off his attention till you are safe at the gate, and then 
 I can wade through the Swirl and get out of his reach." 
 A.D., vol. 11. — 26
 
 4 o2 ADVENTURES OF MR. VERDANT GREEN 
 
 Patty, though loath to leave her escort behind, was prevailed 
 upon to seek a place of safety, and then Verdant, arming him- 
 self with a stone, watched his chance and hit the bull full in the 
 nose. The indignant animal, which had been pursuing Patty, 
 turned his attention to Verdant, but that young man, cool- 
 headed for once, waited until the bull was almost on him and 
 then threw his coat upon his horns. The bull, blinded by the 
 coat, was temporarily checked, and while he made havoc with 
 the garment, the delay enabled Verdant to reach the bank of 
 the Swirl. But it is likely that the bull would have overtaken 
 him had not Patty's cries brought farm laborers to the scene. 
 They attacked the bull with spades, and in a short time he was 
 subdued and led to the bull-house. 
 
 Verdant was Patty's deliverer, and as such was fully appre- 
 ciated by her. She looked upon him as a Bayard who had 
 chivalrously risked his life in behalf of a lady. 
 
 Most important in its bearing on Verdant's suit was an 
 interview that he had with Patty as they sat on the trunk of an 
 apple-tree that formed a natural seat about two feet from the 
 ground, an excellent place, as Patty said, for the telling of 
 secrets, being put to that use by her sister and herself. 
 
 Such pleasant contiguity made even the timid Verdant 
 think that it was a time most propitious for him to say words 
 of greater weight than any he had ever used lips to form. 
 
 She said: "It's very hot, don't you think?" 
 
 He answered: "How very odd. I was thinking the same." 
 
 "I think I shall take my hat off — it is so warm. Dear me! 
 how stupid! the strings are in a knot." 
 
 "Let me see if I can untie them for you." 
 
 "Thanks, no, I can manage." (But she could not!) 
 
 He tried to help her, his fingers accidentally touched her 
 chin, and he received a shock as from a highly charged elec- 
 trical machine. 
 
 The conversation was for a little longer not particularly to 
 the point. Verdant found it necessary to say "It's hot" more 
 than once, and Patty said that it was pleasanter there than in 
 the sun. 
 
 After a time he became bold enough to place his arm behind 
 her in order to keep her from falling off the seat. She allowed
 
 CUTHBERT BEDE 403 
 
 him to do this, and at last he said in a faltering tone, "I wonder 
 how much you like me — very much?" 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't tell — how should I? What strange ques- 
 tions you ask. You saved my life; so of course I am very, 
 very grateful, and I hope I shall always be your friend." 
 
 "Yes, I hope so indeed — always — and something more. 
 Do you hope the same?" 
 
 "What do you mean? Hadn't we better go back to the 
 house?" 
 
 "Not just yet — it's so cool here — at least, not cool exactly, 
 but hot — pleasanter, that is — much pleasanter here. I always 
 feel hot when I'm out-of-doors." 
 
 "Then we'd better go indoors." 
 
 " Pray don't — not yet — do stop a little longer." 
 
 And the hand that had been on the bough of the tree 
 timidly seized Miss Patty's arm. 
 
 " But," said the young lady, as she felt the pressure of the 
 hand, "but it's not necessary to hold me a prisoner." 
 
 "It's you that hold me a prisoner!" said Mr. Verdant Green, 
 with a sudden burst of enthusiasm and blushes, and a great 
 stress upon the pronouns. 
 
 And then, just as he was about to tell his love, there was a 
 perfume of tobacco, and the horrid voice of Mr. Bouncer said: 
 
 "Holloa, Giglamps! Been looking for you everywhere. 
 Luncheon's been on the table more than an hour, Miss Honey- 
 wood." 
 
 Of course Verdant took early opportunity to tell Bouncer 
 how he had spoiled the most precious moment of his life, and 
 of course the good-natured Bouncer was exceedingly sorry, but 
 that opportunity was gone forever. 
 
 To Honeywood Hall came two unpleasant things not long 
 after the episode on the tree-trunk: a Mr. Frederick Delaval 
 and Jealousy. Delaval was a cousin of Patty's, but that fact, 
 while it gave him a right to kiss her, need not have given him a 
 right to monopolize her company quite as much as he did un- 
 less they pretty well understood each other. 
 
 Verdant was heart-broken, and yet was so frank that he could 
 not hate the debonair Delaval, and speedily became very good 
 friends with him.
 
 4 o4 ADVENTURES OF MR. VERDANT GREEN 
 
 At a picnic a gipsy read Miss Patty's fortune in such a 
 manner and with so many veiled sayings that seemed to point 
 directly at Delaval that Verdant was sure they were engaged, 
 and he was betrayed into saying to Patty, who had rallied him 
 on his seriousness and had asked him of what he was thinking, 
 "I was thinking that Mr. Delaval had proposed and had been 
 accepted." 
 
 Miss Patty looked confused and surprised. 
 
 "I see that it is so," he sighed, and his heart sank. 
 
 "How did you find out?" she replied. "It is a secret for 
 the present, and we do not wish anyone to know of it." 
 
 "My dear Betty," said Frederick Delaval, who had waited 
 for them to come up, "I am dying to tell you my fortune. I 
 was with Miss Maxwell at the gipsy camp, and the old woman 
 described her to me as my future wife. The fortune-teller was 
 slightly on the wrong track, wasn't she?" 
 
 Frederick Delaval and Patty and her sister Kitty laughed, 
 and Mr. Verdant Green also laughed in a very savage manner. 
 
 "My last hope is gone," thought Verdant. "I have now 
 heard my fate from her own lips." 
 
 All hope seemed indeed to have gone. If English language 
 meant anything, Patty was engaged to Frederick, and Verdant 
 must go through life "remote, unfriended, solitary, slow." 
 
 But the fates were less disposed to laugh at the innocent 
 young man than had been some of his college mates, and before 
 the picnic was ended Verdant was rendered almost dizzy on 
 learning that he and Patty had been having a game of cross- 
 purposes and that the engagement of which he must not speak 
 was that between Delaval and Patty's sister, Kitty. 
 
 And then — they were sitting shielded from the sun's rays 
 under a tilt-cart, while one of the picnickers was singing num- 
 berless verses of an inane song — in this highly romantic position 
 Verdant Green found the right words to declare his love, and 
 Patty found bliss-bestowing words to say in return; and when 
 the picnic party set out for home, Miss Patty Honeywood could 
 exclaim with Schiller's heroine: "Ich habe gelebt und geliebett" 
 
 The ordeal of asking Patty's papa was safely passed, and 
 Verdant, on promising to wait two years, was allowed to become 
 her fiance.
 
 CUTHBERT BEDE 405 
 
 While in the North, Verdant became an expert horseman 
 and took many rides with the lady of his love. In fact, the 
 term "milksop" never could be applied again to Verdant. 
 
 His further adventures at Oxford often took the form of 
 episodes in which he acted as the dupe, but the bonds of friend- 
 ship between him and his fellows were ever more firmly united, 
 and at last he found himself taking his degree before them all, 
 with lovely Patty witnessing his pride; and not long after this 
 he traveled once more to the County of Northumberland, there 
 to be united to Patty for life.
 
 HENRY WARD BEECHER 
 
 (United States, 1813-1887) 
 NORWOOD (1867) 
 
 This story of Village Life in New England was its author's only novel. 
 Mr. Beecher had been for several years previously to the Civil War a regular 
 contributor to the New York Ledger, and when, at the close of the great conflict, 
 he found himself at leisure to devote considerable time to literary work, he 
 acceded to the request of Mr. Robert Bonner, proprietor and editor of the 
 Ledger, to furnish him a serial story. As Mr. Beecher never had turned his 
 attention to the production of fiction, the task seemed at first very difficult; 
 but as the work progressed he became deeply interested in his theme, in the 
 development of which he took great delight. Norwood was written mostly in 
 Peekskill, New York, and its author denominated it "a summer-child, brought 
 up among flowers and trees"; he asserted that there was not a single unpleasant 
 memory connected with it. While the work was in preparation Mr. Beecher 
 said of it: "I propose to make a story which shall turn, not so much on outward 
 action as on certain mental and inward questions. I propose to delineate a high 
 and noble man, trained to New England theology. ... I propose introducing 
 a full company of various New England characters, to give a real view of the 
 inside of a New England town, its brewing thought, its inventiveness, its industry 
 and enterprise, its education and shrewdness and tact." 
 
 jURROUNDED by goodly hills, and nestling 
 close to the Connecticut River, lay the town of 
 Norwood with its few thousand inhabitants. It 
 was a typical New England village, settled not 
 many years after the landing of the Pilgrims, 
 and retaining in large measure the manners and 
 morals, customs and religion of its fathers. 
 
 The place was unusual for picturesqueness 
 and beauty, and it would be safe to say that no 
 fairer village ever glistened in the sunlight or hid itself under 
 arching elms. 
 
 Abiah Cathcart, a lifelong resident of Norwood, was an 
 honorable specimen of a New England farmer. He possessed 
 great bodily strength, calmness, patience, and an inflexible will. 
 From his parents he had received, in addition to a healthy 
 
 406
 
 HENRY WARD BEECHER 407 
 
 body, a sound judgment, habits of industry, a common-school 
 education, and a good name. 
 
 At the age of eighteen, Abiah had "bought his time" of his 
 father for two hundred dollars. These were considered liberal 
 terms in the early 'thirties, when this took place, for a son's 
 services for the three years before his majority were no small 
 part of the working capital of a farm. 
 
 After leaving his father's house Abiah had hired out as a 
 teamster, and by his faithful labor, thrift, and industry had 
 soon become independent. He had married Rachel Liscomb, 
 a girl of fine traits and sterling character, who made him an 
 admirable wife. 
 
 At the time of his marriage, Abiah had purchased a large 
 farm, which, on account of its deteriorated condition and 
 dilapidated buildings, he had been able to secure at a very low 
 price. After his purchase he had set to work to bring his 
 property out of the state of chaos and decay in which it was 
 enveloped, and what would have seemed an impossible task to 
 one of less persistent nature had not daunted his courage. 
 
 Abiah had worked early and late with untiring energy, and 
 his wife, who was his equal in industry and frugality, had aided 
 him greatly in his struggle. 
 
 In course of time success had crowned his labors and 
 he had found himself the owner of a prosperous farm, which 
 was clear of debt and returned him a large revenue. Sons and 
 daughters had been born to him, only two of whom, however, 
 Alice and Barton, the two youngest, have to do with this 
 narrative. 
 
 Barton Cathcart was a true son of his father. Industry and 
 fidelity marked him from his childhood, and he early mani- 
 fested an ambition and tenacity of purpose which were remark- 
 able in one so young. At the age of ten he was ambitious to 
 do a man's work, and in any labor that required tact and quick- 
 ness, rather than strength, he was fully the equal of a grown 
 person. 
 
 He was eager to prove himself strong and hardy, rejoicing 
 in the severest storms, and aspiring to the reputation of being 
 considered "a good farmer." His winters were given to 
 schooling, and his father's example bred in him a love of read-
 
 4 o8 NORWOOD 
 
 ing. When he was fourteen years of age dim questionings 
 began to arise in his mind as to how he should spend his future 
 life, and while a choice of various careers floated before him, 
 the die was cast by Rose Wentworth, his childhood's friend and 
 companion. 
 
 Rose was the doctor's daughter, lovely in form and feature 
 as well as in character, and loved by all who knew her. She 
 was just the age of Barton's sister Alice, and the two girls had 
 grown up together and were devoted friends. 
 
 When discussing the vital question of a career, Rose ex- 
 pressed the opinion that to her mind college was the first 
 stepping-stone toward a useful life, and Barton, who had not 
 thought of this matter before, was impressed at once with the 
 suggestion. 
 
 From this time his mind was filled with the ambition to go 
 to college, and he confided his hope to his parents, who looked 
 upon it as a great step, which should not be taken lightly or 
 unadvisedly. 
 
 His father told Barton that if he proved himself worthy of 
 this higher education he would willingly indulge him in his de- 
 sire, but that he must first perfect himself in some branch of 
 learning which his parent should choose. 
 
 Accordingly, surveying was decided upon by Mr. Cathcart, 
 and Barton agreed to acquire as much knowledge as he could 
 on that subject. He betook himself to "Uncle Tommy Taft," 
 who was a retired sailor, and who, he felt sure, could give him 
 advice on this subject. Uncle Tommy was a good-natured old 
 soul, beloved by all the children in the village, for in spite of his 
 rough manners and outlandish ways, he had a warm heart, 
 which they did not fail to appreciate. 
 
 Tommy had a wooden leg which he addressed with the en- 
 dearing epithet of "old Smasher," and the cheery old fellow, 
 who tinkered and did odd jobs for a living, was always full of 
 quips and pranks and stories of adventure drawn from his sea- 
 faring experiences. 
 
 The jolly old soul had a wink and a word for everybody, 
 and his kind services rendered to the children, and to those 
 poorer than himself, always without compensation, were too 
 numerous to relate.
 
 HENRY WARD BEECHER 409 
 
 Good Parson Buell sometimes visited his shop in the regu- 
 lar rounds of parochial duty and tried to talk faithfully to him. 
 
 Tommy would listen respectfully and then would respond 
 in the following manner: 
 
 "I know that I am, Parson, a sinner — an awful sinner; and 
 without excuse. I live below my privileges; I don't live up to 
 my light and knowledge. To set under such preachin' as I do, 
 Parson Buell, and not to be better'n I am, is a great sin; and 
 I'm afeerd that I get harder and harder, and that I am puttin' 
 off the day of repentance, and sinnin' away my opportunities, 
 and wastin' my day of grace. It is a surprisin' thing in me! I 
 don't wonder that you are alarmed at my case, Parson. It is a 
 very alarmin' case — I know it is. It has been alarmin' for 
 more'n forty years. I ought to repent, that's sartain! Why 
 shouldn't I? It is well said that it is time for sinners to be 
 surprised in Zion. The rest of the varse, too, is very alarmin'. 
 'Who among us shall dwell with devourin' fire, and who among 
 us shall dwell with everlastin' burnings?' It is sartinly time 
 that I should repent of my evil thoughts, and my drinkin', and 
 of my swearin', and of my manifold evil ways and deeds, and I 
 hope, Parson, you will pray for me." 
 
 Among Tommy's friends no one ranked higher than Bar- 
 ton, and for him the old man had a feeling akin to worship, so 
 that when the latter came to him to confide his college ambi- 
 tions he could not disguise the regret awakened by the thought 
 of the boy's departure. His manner was so new, and there was 
 such a sort of helplessness in his way, that Barton was affected 
 by it, and said: 
 
 "Why, Tommy, I sha'n't go this two years, and I shall be 
 home every vacation, you know. It is only a few miles to 
 Amherst, anyhow." 
 
 "It's all right. If a boy's got anything particular in him, 
 it'll certainly git out, somehow, and it ain't much use to try 
 to stop it. If you do, it'll only twist it and twirl it, like a seed 
 with a board on it, that will come up and creep out sideways, 
 and gits up in spite of hindrance, only with a cruel crooked 
 stem. I might 'a made a smart man once, but they meddled 
 with me, and I was fierce — well, no matter. Old Tommy 
 missed it. But you won't. You'll be all right, Barton, boy!
 
 410 NORWOOD 
 
 On the hull, I'm glad of it. Folks that stay to hum are like 
 coasters — sloops and schooners like, that run along shore and 
 do a peddlin' business in shoal water. Folks that go to college 
 are square-rigged. They can make long voyages, carry big 
 freights, go around the world if they're mind to." 
 
 In course of time Barton was ready to enter college. He had 
 finished his preparatory studies in a satisfactory manner, and 
 his scholastic ability combined with his athletic prowess made 
 him the pride of the village. 
 
 During the last months at home the strong feeling of affec- 
 tion which Barton had always entertained for Rose had been 
 steadily increasing, and he at last realized that he felt for her a 
 passionate and overwhelming love. 
 
 Feeling himself unworthy of her, he kept back the words he 
 fain would have uttered during their last evening together, but 
 confided his secret to his mother, who urged him to wait a little 
 longer before acquainting Rose with his feelings. 
 
 During Barton's years at college Rose saw him only at in- 
 frequent intervals, and on these occasions Barton's efforts to 
 conceal his true feelings caused him to appear formal and cold. 
 
 Rose found other admirers who were not held back by scru- 
 ples of any sort, and Frank Esel, a handsome young artist, and 
 Tom Heywood, a dashing and fascinating Southerner, both 
 aspired to her hand. But Rose did not reciprocate the affec- 
 tion of either of these suitors, as she realized that lying dormant 
 in her heart was a deep love for Barton, waiting to be acknowl- 
 edged when he should ask for it. 
 
 Barton was graduated from college with highest honors, 
 and returned to his native town, where he accepted the place 
 offered him by the trustees to become principal of the Norwood 
 Academy. 
 
 This engagement was gratifying to him in every respect, 
 as he was glad to spend a few years in teaching before deciding 
 on his life-work, and also it would keep him near Rose. He 
 found, however, to his consternation, that he had apparently a 
 dangerous rival in Tom Heywood, and he seriously considered 
 questioning him in regard to his intentions. 
 
 During this period of uncertainty Barton kept away from 
 Rose, thereby causing her to wonder at his indifference. He
 
 HENRY WARD BEECHER 411 
 
 finally decided to go West on a business venture, and leave the 
 field to Heywood for a time, thinking that this method of pro- 
 cedure would bring matters to a crisis. 
 
 Accordingly, he slipped away without even bidding good-by 
 to Rose, who, though she was at a loss to understand his be- 
 havior, did not waver in her allegiance to him. 
 
 Meanwhile Alice Cathcart had found her heart going out to 
 the handsome young Southerner, though she fully understood 
 that his interest was centered in Rose. 
 
 One day, while the young people were on a nutting ex- 
 cursion, Heywood slipped through a crevasse and was picked 
 up unconscious and with a broken leg. He was carried to the 
 Cathcart farm, where he was nursed through his illness and 
 convalescence by Mrs. Cathcart and Alice, the latter finding 
 her happiest hours when seated by his bedside. 
 
 Heywood, on his part, began to appreciate the attractions of 
 his shy, brown-eyed companion, but before he was aware of 
 any serious feelings rumors of war called him back to the South. 
 
 The echo of the guns that fired on Fort Sumter was heard 
 in the quiet town of Norwood, and the loyal citizens of that 
 place immediately organized their militia and set out on the 
 march to the front. 
 
 Barton, who had returned from the West a few weeks previ- 
 ously, was put in command of a company and departed at the 
 first call. He had reached Norwood in time to cheer with his 
 presence the death-bed of Tommy Taft, which old friend had 
 felt that he could not die content without seeing his much- 
 loved Barton once again. 
 
 Before departing for the seat of war, Barton wrote a letter 
 to Rose, who was absent on a visit, telling her of the deep feel- 
 ing he cherished for her in these words: 
 
 " To-day I leave for the field upon a sudden summons. My whole soul con- 
 sents. I was never more cheerful. But a single shadow lies upon me. At last 
 let me speak plainly, Rose. I am sad at leaving you, whom I love more than 
 father and mother, or all besides. This will surprise you, but it is no sudden 
 experience. It has been the secret of my life. 
 
 "Only within the year have I been in circumstances to justify me in an 
 honorable solicitation. But a shadow fell upon me. Another came before me. 
 Pardon me! I would not speak of it, but I may never return, and for our child- 
 hood friendship's sake you will indulge me in the sad pleasure at last of speaking 
 out my heart.
 
 4 i2 NORWOOD 
 
 " If only I knew that your interest was with another, all struggle would cease. 
 Your happiness would shed some faint joy on my disappointment. I know not 
 whether, even if you were free, you could love me. Have I said too much? It 
 is as nothing to the unsaid. The silence of my heart through years now yearns 
 for an expression. Only let me hear one word from you; if not in Boston, then 
 at Washington. I pray you do not send me to the war without a word to say 
 that you are not offended — to say more would be a joy too great to hope! But 
 let me not go in the chill of utter silence. 
 
 "Barton." 
 
 This letter he hastily folded, and, being obliged to trust 
 it to a messenger, put it into the hands of black Pete, whom 
 he charged to deliver it safely. 
 
 "Sawmill Pete," as this individual was usually called, was 
 a well-known character in Norwood. He was colossal in size 
 and strength, overflowing with good nature, and spent his time 
 doing odd jobs instead of devoting himself to any regular labor. 
 He had been the friend of Barton and Rose from their earliest 
 days, and as children they never were happier than when learn- 
 ing about the trees and flowers from Sawmill Pete. 
 
 One weakness Pete had which is common to many, and that 
 was his fondness for liquor, but fortunately it assailed him only 
 at infrequent intervals, and at other times he was thoroughly 
 trustworthy and reliable. 
 
 On the night that Pete took Barton's letter he found him- 
 self surrounded by many temptations, numerous treats were 
 offered him by men who were to set out for the scene of war the 
 following day, and he could not fail to respond to their ad- 
 vances. 
 
 By the time that evening had waned Pete's brain had be- 
 come somewhat hazy, but he did not forget Barton's commis- 
 sion, and delivered to Dr. Wentworth a note which he thought 
 the correct one. 
 
 But this note was only a business communication intended 
 for Barton's father, which the doctor promptly forwarded to its 
 rightful owner. The note addressed to Rose never reached 
 its destination, but was accidentally tossed by Pete into the fire 
 with some other crumpled papers, when he was clearing out 
 his pockets the following morning. 
 
 Rose returned from her visit just after Barton and his men 
 had taken their hurried departure, and found it impossible to 
 conjecture any reason why he should leave her a second time
 
 HENRY WARD BEECHER 413 
 
 without a word of farewell; she tried, however, to console her- 
 self with the thought that there must have been some good rea- 
 son for his having done so. 
 
 While the men of Norwood were giving their lives and their 
 services to their country, the faithful women at home were 
 doing everything in their power to assist in the great struggle. 
 
 Rose worked for the soldiers unceasingly, but was not satis- 
 fied with these slight tasks, for she longed to go to the front as 
 a nurse, and begged her father to accede to her wish. 
 
 The death of her brother Arthur, on the battle-field, awak- 
 ened the conviction in her mind that in this course lay her 
 duty; and her father, feeling at last that she was called to this 
 noble mission, gave his consent. Accordingly, after some 
 months spent in preparation and study, Rose set out for Wash- 
 ington accompanied by Agate Bissell, who had been the Went- 
 worths' faithful housekeeper and friend for many years. 
 
 Alice Cathcart also was filled with a burning desire to aid 
 in this work, and after gaining her parents' consent she joined 
 Rose in this labor of love. The two girls were never separated ; 
 they worked together, traveled together, slept together, and 
 were equally admired and beloved by the soldiers to whom they 
 ministered. 
 
 Alice Cathcart was not less patriotic in her feelings than 
 Rose, but for some reason she added to these generous impulses 
 a peculiar pity and tenderness toward the sick and wounded 
 rebel prisoners. 
 
 Her thoughts continually turned to Heywood, who was 
 fighting for the Confederacy, in spite of the fact that his heart 
 was not in the cause, for his judgment and reason told him 
 that the Northerners were right in this great conflict. 
 
 After several months of service in the Washington hospitals, 
 Rose and Alice returned to their homes for a period of rest ; but 
 before this time had elapsed they were impatient to be back at 
 their labors, and returned to their work in time to enter the 
 campaign of Chancellorsville. 
 
 This campaign opened in May, 1863, and Barton Cathcart 
 (who had been advanced to the rank of general), learning of his 
 sister's presence, immediately sought her out and had an af- 
 fectionate meeting with her, but missed seeing Rose Wentworth,
 
 414 NORWOOD 
 
 who was at that time temporarily employed in the transport 
 service. But just before the great battle of Gettysburg these 
 two lovers, between whom existed such a complete misunder- 
 standing, had a sudden and unexpected meeting. It was only 
 for a passing moment, and but few words were exchanged be- 
 tween them, yet as they stood together Barton fixed upon Rose 
 a look so full of inquiry, so imploring and hungry, so full of 
 eagerness and helplessness, that Rose never forgot it. 
 
 During the terrible scenes that followed Rose and Alice 
 worked tirelessly, and when after days and nights of almost con- 
 tinual service Rose was questioned as to how she could endure 
 so much and hold out so long, she responded, "God gave me 
 strength according to my need." 
 
 During one terrible charge, in which the Union troops were 
 led by Barton, Alice recognized Tom Heywood in the opposing 
 army, and her grief and fear lest he should be killed knew no 
 bounds. The following morning Alice was up before dawn, 
 searching with anxious foreboding for some news of Heywood. 
 To her horror, she suddenly came upon his dead body, and 
 the shock was so great that she was bewildered, and could not 
 believe as she gazed upon his noble face that its calmness was 
 more than that of sleep. 
 
 "Speak to me!" she cried. "Do wake! It is Alice — Alice 
 Cathcart! O Heywood, I would speak to you if it were I 
 lying so! He is not dead! It cannot be death!" 
 
 Then, looking long and wildly, as a child looks shudderingly 
 into some dark room at night, she lowered her voice and said 
 in a hoarse whisper: 
 
 " He is dead ! O God, take me!" 
 
 Already the light seemed vanishing and Alice fell fainting 
 upon Heywood's breast. At last she had found on his bosom 
 a brief rest of love. 
 
 Thus she was found by Hiram Beers, an old Norwood 
 friend, who lifted her up tenderly and gave her what comfort 
 he could. 
 
 Alice returned to the hospital, arranged her apparel with 
 more than common care, and stepped forth calmly but firmly 
 to her merciful duties. Her face was serene but without 
 smiles. Her care and pity, always striking, had in them now
 
 HENRY WARD BEECHER 415 
 
 an austere tenderness that struck the rudest men with awe and 
 admiration, as if an inspired priestess were among them. Nor, 
 to the end, did Alice ever mention Heywood's name, nor for 
 one waking hour did she ever forget it! 
 
 After the third day of Gettysburg, which brought victory to 
 the Northern troops, Rose received a letter from Barton which 
 was brought to her by Hiram Beers, with the sad tidings that 
 General Cathcart had fallen in the battle and that no trace of 
 him could be found. 
 
 Rose took the letter and read : 
 
 " I have a presentiment, Rose, I feel that evil will befall me to-morrow. If 
 you get these lines I shall have fallen, and my words will be forgiven as of one 
 dead. Rose, I have tried to conquer that love which has so taken possession of 
 my life as to overcome all other feelings. As early as I can remember, I loved 
 you. It has grown with my manhood. It is a part of my being. Not to love 
 you would be not to be myself. When I told you all this, on leaving home, I 
 had hoped for some sympathy; I pleaded for only a word. My letter was not 
 answered or noticed. Perhaps your silence was best. It was hard to bear. If 
 I could have ceased loving, I could have conquered the pain of the refusal 
 which you gave by silence. It will not be a trouble to you any longer to know 
 that a heart has loved you beyond every other thing. My latest, strongest 
 feeling, Rose, is love for you! My last wishes and prayers invoke blessings on 
 you! I go toward darkness; but there is a light beyond. In heaven, O Rose, 
 in heaven, I shall meet you, and say 'I love you!' without fear of repulse. 
 
 "Barton Cathcart." 
 
 Rose stood silent and motionless. Amazement, sorrow, 
 and joy filled her heart. She whispered to herself: 
 
 "He loved me! He loved me always! — best! — to the last! 
 He told me of it! When? what letter? There has been some 
 dreadful mistake! And he will never know that I loved him 
 more! Noble soul, if thou art in heaven, God will tell thee 
 how thou art loved ! — And he wrote to me ! wrote to tell me all 
 this when first leaving Norwood? Where is that treacherous 
 letter that did not fulfil its message?" 
 
 Rose then called Alice and broke the sad news to her; but 
 while she did so her mood seemed exalted, as in her sorrow 
 she was filled with an overmastering joy, and she could triumph 
 in the knowledge of Barton's undying love. 
 
 Alice saw in Rose's experience a great contrast to the one 
 that had come to her, as her one desire had been for Heywood's 
 love, and that longing must forever remain ungratified. 
 
 After three days, during which time Barton was mourned
 
 416 NORWOOD 
 
 as dead, news came that he had been picked up wounded on 
 the battle-field and taken prisoner. 
 
 Rose was overwhelmed with joy at the tidings that he still 
 lived, and wished to go immediately to get a pass that would 
 take her through the enemy's lines so that she might see General 
 Lee and sue for Barton's release. 
 
 Just as she was departing, however, Sawmill Pete, who had 
 been Barton's faithful servant and ally through the war, appeared 
 on the scene with the further information that Barton was 
 among friends, but was seriously wounded and lying very near 
 death. 
 
 Rose, accompanied by her father, who had recently re- 
 sponded to the call for surgeons, set out at once, guided by Pete, 
 for Barton's bedside. They found him in the home of a kind 
 family named Hetherington, where he had been carried by the 
 faithful Pete, who had journeyed for miles with Barton in his 
 arms after rescuing him from the hands of the enemy. 
 
 Barton hovered for some days between life and death, but 
 at last consciousness returned, and he opened his eyes and saw 
 Rose kneeling beside him. 
 
 He put his hand timidly out to touch her, as if to make 
 sure whether it was an illusion or a reality. His hand was 
 clasped in both of hers. She leaned toward him. He felt her 
 kiss upon his brow. Slowly and with difficulty he spoke : 
 
 "Is — this — Rose? — my Rose? — I mean — " 
 
 "Yes, Barton — your own Rose; you will live, Barton — O 
 Barton, live! live!" She spoke with an intensity full of an- 
 guish, for a moment letting go restraint. 
 
 He lay silent. His eyes were closed. In his weakness he 
 could not keep back the tears that would break from under his 
 eyelids. After a moment's pause, Barton raised his eyes to 
 Rose with a look of utter imploring, as if he would say: "Do 
 not let me be deceived, nor send me back again to hopelessness." 
 
 Her eyes were full of gladness and love, if one could have 
 seen them behind her tears. 
 
 "God has been very gracious to us both, Barton. He has 
 brought us together, and nothing shall ever divide us again." 
 
 After Barton's wounds were healed and his strength had 
 returned, he joined his corps again and fought with them till
 
 HENRY WARD BEECHER 417 
 
 the war ended, two years later. Then, his duties over, he re- 
 turned to Norwood and married his beloved and faithful Rose, 
 who had proved herself worthy to be the wife of a man so noble. 
 The village of Norwood rejoiced in this happy event and 
 united with enthusiasm in the wedding festivities of these two 
 lovers, who had so truly merited the love and admiration of 
 their community. 
 
 A.D., VOL. II. — 27
 
 APHRA BEHN 
 
 (England, 1 640-1689) 
 OROONOKO: OR, THE ROYAL SLAVE (1658) 
 
 Among the many productions of the prolific pen of Mrs. Behn, this tale 
 occupies a unique place. Most of her other works were exceedingly imaginative 
 poems, or else novels and plays of a very light and somewhat coarse character, 
 intended to amuse the fops and rakes of the court of Charles II. But in the 
 tragic narrative of The Royal Slave she allowed the emotions of a warm and 
 sympathetic heart to pour themselves out freely in an endeavor to arouse public 
 indignation against the unspeakable barbarities endured by the bondmen of 
 British Colonies, chronicling in all its horrors, as she does, the dreadful sufferings 
 of one of its most notable victims. In tracing the pedigree of modern "novels 
 with a purpose," such as Uncle Tom's Cabin or Ramona, the moving tale of 
 Oroonoko must be counted as among the earliest of the kind. Its evident purpose 
 to awaken the Christian people of England to the horrors of slavery in lands 
 under their own government, and the author's warm and womanly sympathy 
 with the despised black men, well justifies the compliment that has been paid 
 Oroonoko of being "the first humanitarian novel in English." Moreover, in an 
 epoch when purely imaginative romance was the fashion of the day, Mrs. 
 Behn in Oroonoko made a noticeable departure toward the field of realism. 
 She assured her readers over and over that this pathetic story of the Royal Slave 
 is no invention of fancy but a narrative of facts. To a great part of these events 
 she was an eye-witness. For the rest, she had the authority of direct accounts 
 received either from the Royal Slave himself or from her own personal friends. 
 She had herself seen and talked with Oroonoko and Imoinda, and learned to 
 admire and esteem them and often sought to befriend them. The most horrible 
 atrocities of all, the brutalities attending Oroonoko's execution, had been wit- 
 nessed by her mother and sister, who had in vain tried to save him. On her 
 return to London she put into literary form the accounts of the African hero 
 which she had collected in Surinam. 
 
 [OROMANTIEN was a part of Africa which in 
 the seventeenth century was one of the chief re- 
 sorts of the slave-traders. Its king was a man 
 more than a hundred years old. Thirteen of 
 his sons had died in battle, and he had left for 
 a successor one grandchild, called Oroonoko. 
 This boy was sent into the field to be trained to 
 war as soon as he could bear a bow, and at 
 seventeen he became one of the bravest and 
 most expert of captains. 
 
 When he came back from war victorious, and presented him- 
 
 418
 
 APHRA BEHN 419 
 
 self at court, he became the object of universal admiration. 
 The cleverest sculptor could not form the figure of a man more 
 admirably turned from head to foot. His face was a perfect 
 ebony, his nose was Roman, and his eyes were the most awe- 
 inspiring that could be seen and very piercing; the white of 
 them being like snow; as were his teeth. Nor did the per- 
 fections of his mind come short of his person, for his discourse 
 was admirable upon almost every subject. He spoke English 
 and French with ease. Whoever had heard him speak would 
 have been convinced of their errors that all fine wit is confined 
 to white men, and would have confessed that Oroonoko was 
 as capable of governing wisely, had as great a soul and con- 
 ceived as statesman-like maxims as any prince civilized in the 
 most refined schools of humanity or the most illustrious 
 courts. 
 
 The old General, who had trained Oroonoko in war, had 
 left at his death an only daughter, Imoinda, a beauty who was 
 the lovely black Venus to this young Mars, as charming in per- 
 son as he, and of delicate virtues. When Oronooko made his 
 first visit to her, he was infinitely surprised at the beauty of this 
 charming Queen of Night. The lovely modesty with which 
 she received him, the softness in her look and sighs gained a 
 perfect conquest over his fierce heart. Having made his first 
 compliments, and presented her with a hundred and fifty slaves 
 in fetters, he told her with his eyes that he was not insensible 
 of her charms. Imoinda was pleased to believe that she under- 
 stood that silent language of new-born love. 
 
 Oroonoko stayed not long before he made a second visit; 
 and waited not much longer before he frankly told her he adored 
 her. As he knew no vice, his flame aimed at nothing but honor. 
 Though in that country men take to themselves as many wives 
 as they can maintain, Oroonoko made to Imoinda his vows 
 that she should be the only woman he would possess: that no 
 age nor wrinkles should incline him to change; for her soul 
 would be always fine and young to him. After listening to a 
 thousand assurances of his lasting flame and her eternal em- 
 pire over him, she condescended to receive him as her husband. 
 
 Unfortunately, it was necessary to obtain the consent of the 
 old King, the Prince's grandfather. But at the report of Imo-
 
 4 2o OROONOKO: OR, THE ROYAL SLAVE 
 
 inda's surpassing beauty the monarch's aged heart felt new 
 sparks of love and began to kindle. 
 
 And when the King, himself unseen, beheld her charming 
 face, he saw and burned, and would not delay his happiness. 
 No sooner had he returned to his palace than he sent to Imo- 
 inda the royal veil, a sign in that country that "the maid who 
 receives it is for the King's use and 'tis death to disobey." 
 
 The lovely maiden, at this news, was seized with grief, but, 
 almost fainting, she was covered with the veil and led to court. 
 The King sat under a canopy in state, in a very rich bath, to 
 receive this longed-for virgin. Without more courtship, the 
 old monarch bade her throw off her mantle and come to his 
 arms. But Imoinda, all in tears, threw herself on the marble 
 brink of the bath, and tremblingly told him she was already 
 another's, through the interchange of the most solemn vows. 
 But as she assured him also, for fear of his vengeance upon 
 Oroonoko, that she was still a maid, the King put her among 
 his other wives in his Otan or seraglio. Although forced at last 
 to yield her lovely person to the withered arms of the impotent 
 old King, she could only sigh and weep there, and think of 
 Oroonoko, and oftentimes could not forbear speaking of 
 him. 
 
 Through the reports of his officers, and the dissemblance of 
 Oroonoko, the King became convinced after a time that the 
 Prince, his grandson, was no longer a lover of Imoinda. So 
 he took him in his train to the Otan, to banquet with his wives. 
 But when Oroonoko's eyes, instructed by his passionate heart, 
 exchanged glances with Imoinda's love-darting orbs, they spoke 
 so affectionately that she no longer doubted that she was the 
 only delight and darling of his soul. 
 
 The parley of the eyes of these two lovers had not passed so 
 secretly that an old and jealous sovereign could not detect it. 
 
 At the entertainment that night, the royal ladies danced for 
 the diversion of the King. But while Imoinda was beholding 
 with infinite pleasure the joy her motions and graces produced 
 in the eyes of the Prince, regarding him too much, rather than 
 the steps she took, she chanced to fall, and the Prince, leaping 
 up from the carpet where he reclined, clasped her close to his 
 bosom and quite forgot the reverence that was due to the mis-
 
 APHRA BEHN 421 
 
 tress of a king. The monarch, in a jealous rage, led Imoinda 
 to her apartment and ordered Oroonoko to go to the camp. 
 
 But the Prince felt that he could not depart till he had seen 
 his beloved once more. By the clever management of his 
 friend Aboan, assisted by a former mistress of the old King, 
 Onahal by name, Oroonoko was led through the citron-grove 
 to the apartment of Imoinda in the sacred precincts of the Otan. 
 The Prince softly awakened Imoinda, who was surprised with 
 joy, and yet trembled with a thousand fears. Beyond imag- 
 ination was the satisfaction of the two young lovers thus to 
 meet, and beyond expression were the transports of Oroonoko 
 as he listened to the charming assurances that came from the 
 lips of his beloved that fate had allowed her to keep herself 
 for him and him alone. Amid a thousand caresses, both be- 
 moaned the hard fate of youth and beauty. But while they 
 were thus fondly employed, they heard a great noise in the 
 Otan. Spies had tracked the Prince to the forbidden quarters 
 of the seraglio. Oroonoko seized his battle-ax, rushed to the 
 door, and with a commanding voice called out that he, the 
 Prince Oroonoko, would revenge with death the entrance of any 
 rude intruder. "Stand back and know that this place is sacred 
 to love and me to-night. To-morrow, 'tis the King's!" 
 
 Having ascertained the Prince's identity, the King's officers 
 withdrew, and Oroonoko fled. The old King bitterly reproached 
 Imoinda, who, falling in tears at his feet, implored his pardon 
 for a fault which she had not with her will committed. The 
 aged monarch, enraged, ordered Imoinda and her companion, 
 Onahal, to be sold as slaves to some other country, whether 
 Christian or heathen he cared not. This cruel sentence, reck- 
 oned in that country as worse than death, was immediately and 
 secretly carried out, in spite of the poor victim's prayers, and 
 no one within or without the seraglio knew their fate. 
 
 When the King had thus wreaked his revenge on the women 
 for the insult to himself, his anger toward his grandson cooled. 
 He sent word to Oroonoko by a messenger that Imoinda was 
 dead. For two long days, in the very face of the enemy, Oroo- 
 noko lay prostrate in his tent, overwhelmed with grief, declar- 
 ing that henceforth he would never lift a weapon but would 
 abandon the small remains of his life to sighs and tears.
 
 422 OROONOKO: OR, THE ROYAL SLAVE 
 
 But when his army was driven back in disorder, he leaped 
 from his couch and cried: "Come, if we must die, let us meet 
 death the noblest way!" That day he performed such prodigies 
 of reckless valor as to change absolutely the fate of the battle. 
 
 After a long time spent in military campaigns, the Prince 
 at last, in obedience to his grandfather's wishes, returned to 
 court. There he met for the second time a well-bred sea cap- 
 tain with whom he had often trafficked for slaves. The sea 
 captain entertained the Prince daily with globes and maps, 
 mathematical discourses and instruments, and drank and 
 hunted with him with such familiarity that he quite drew to 
 himself the heart of the gallant young man. 
 
 Before the captain set sail he gave to the Prince and his 
 train an invitation to a grand banquet on his vessel. On board 
 ship the noblest youths of the court of Coromantien sat down to 
 a splendid feast, and were so well plied with wines that, when 
 the captain gave to his men the signal agreed upon, Oroonoko 
 and all his retinue were easily shackled fast in heavy irons, and, 
 as the vessel sailed off, they found themselves in slavery. 
 
 Oroonoko raged and struggled like a lion taken in toils, but 
 all in vain. And when he found he could not turn a hand 
 against either his foes or himself, he lay down and refused all 
 food, firmly resolved to die. The Prince's followers, also, would 
 touch no food. It seemed as if, through suicide, the captain 
 would lose most of his slaves. In this predicament the captain 
 solemnly promised the Prince, with many oaths and on the 
 word of a Christian, that if he would live and show himself to 
 his followers, he should be freed from his shackles, and with 
 his friends should be set ashore when next the ship touched. 
 
 The Prince gave his parole of honor for his good behavior, 
 and, freed from his irons, was conducted to the captain's own 
 cabin. When he had eaten, he visited his people, repeating 
 the assurances of the captain, and the rest of the voyage was 
 borne by all in hope and patience. 
 
 But when the ship reached the mouth of the river of Surinam, 
 a colony of England, later known as Dutch Guiana, Oroonoko 
 and his noble attendants learned at once how little trust could 
 be put in any slave-trader's oaths. For they found themselves 
 seized and sold as slaves to the various merchants and over-
 
 APHRA BEHN 423 
 
 seers who had come down to meet the slave-ship. It was in 
 vain to make any resistance to this base treachery. But with 
 such disdainful looks did Oroonoko upbraid the slave-captain 
 that blushes rose to his guilty cheeks; and as the Prince passed 
 over the side of the ship he cried: "Farewell, sir! 'Tis worth 
 my sufferings to gain so true a knowledge both of you and of 
 your gods by whom you swear. Come, my fellow-slaves; let 
 us descend, and see if we can meet with more honor and honesty 
 in the next world which we shall touch upon." 
 
 When at length Oroonoko had made the journey up the 
 great river to his master's plantation, and had been conducted 
 to the quarters assigned him among the negroes' cabins, the 
 slaves, as soon as they beheld him, recognized him as the Prince 
 who had at various times sold most of them to the traders, and, 
 in accordance with the veneration which they pay to their 
 great men, they all cast themselves at his feet, crying out in 
 their language, "Long live, O King!" and kissing his feet, paid 
 him even divine homage. But the Prince, troubled with their 
 joy, bade them rise and receive him as their fellow-slave. 
 
 At a grand supper which his fellow-negroes soon afterward 
 held in his honor, Oroonoko, in the course of conversation, 
 heard the most glowing accounts of a most charming black 
 woman who had recently come to this neighborhood. Clemene, 
 as she was called, had all the slaves perpetually at her feet, and 
 no man of any nation or color ever beheld her face that did not 
 fall in love with her. Clemene herself was, however, all ice and 
 unconcern, and her graceful modesty, the most exquisite that 
 ever beautified youth, seemed to fear that even the breezes 
 might steal kisses from her delicate mouth. 
 
 The next day, Oroonoko, in the company of his master, 
 met the much-praised Clemene. Her eyes, shyly bent on the 
 ground, gave the Prince the opportunity to take a good look at 
 her face. In a minute he recognized in her his beloved Imo- 
 inda. As she fell insensible, overcome with delight, the Prince 
 caught her in his arms; and it is needless to tell with what 
 ecstasies of joy they beheld each other, without speaking; then 
 snatched each other to their arms; then gazed again, as if 
 they still doubted whether they possessed the blessing they 
 grasped, and wondered with tender greetings what strange
 
 4 2 4 OROONOKO: OR, THE ROYAL SLAVE 
 
 destiny had brought them together. Although they bewailed 
 their fate, at the same time they mutually protested that even 
 fetters and slavery would be supported with joy while they 
 could be so happy as to possess each other. 
 
 From that happy day, Cesar, as his English master had 
 dubbed Oroonoko, took Imoinda for his wife. At the wedding 
 there was as much magnificence as the country and their con- 
 dition would allow, and it was not long before Cesar, as hence- 
 forth he was called, adored her still more, because of her ap- 
 proaching motherhood. This new accident made him more 
 impatient for liberty; and every day he made an offer of gold 
 or slaves as the price of his freedom. 
 
 From day to day he was fed with promise after promise and 
 put off, till the new Governor of Surinam should come. At 
 length he began to fear that the delay was a piece of treachery, 
 and that the matter was purposely postponed until the birth 
 of the child, who would also be a slave. This thought made 
 him uneasy and sullen. To distract his attention, Cesar was 
 diverted with sports, hunting and fishing, and with trips among 
 the Indian tribes, in the course of which he performed most 
 notable feats in the killing of fierce tigers and monstrous snakes. 
 Yet these were not actions great enough for his large soul, 
 which still panted for more renowned actions. 
 
 The fear and grief of Imoinda that she and her child might 
 be kept as slaves were like so many darts in the great heart of 
 Cesar. So one Sunday, when all the whites were overcome 
 with liquor, Cesar met about three hundred of his fellow blacks 
 and made an impassioned harangue to them about the igno- 
 minies and drudgeries of the state of slavery; sufferings fitter 
 for senseless brutes than for human souls. "An ass or a dog," 
 he said, "having done his duty, could lie down in retreat, and 
 while he did his duty endured no stripes. But men, such as 
 they, toiled through all the tedious week till Black Friday; and 
 then, whether they were faulty or meritorious, they promiscu- 
 ously suffered the infamous lash till blood trickled from all 
 parts of their body. We are bought and sold like apes and 
 monkeys, to be the support of rogues and renegades who have 
 abandoned their own countries for rapine, murders, theft, and 
 villanies. Will you suffer the lash from such hands?"
 
 APHRA BEHN 425 
 
 His hearers replied with one accord : "No! No! Cesar has 
 spoken like a great captain, like a great king." 
 
 It was resolved by the company to take their wives and 
 children with them and travel to the sea-shore, and when they 
 could seize a ship, employ it to transport them to their native 
 land. Even if they died in the attempt, it would be braver 
 than to live in perpetual slavery. With one accord they vowed 
 to follow Cesar even to death; and that very night they fur- 
 nished themselves with arms, and began the march. 
 
 The militia of the colony turned out to pursue the rebellious 
 slaves. But many of the better sort sympathized with Cesar, 
 as a man who had been ill-used; and the white men who en- 
 gaged in the pursuit were armed only with whips, clubs, or 
 rusty old-fashioned swords and guns of little use. In the battle 
 that followed, Cesar and some of his followers fought most 
 valorously. Imoinda shot the Governor in the shoulder with 
 a poisoned arrow — a wound so severe that he barely escaped 
 with his life. But most of the blacks proved a cowardly lot, 
 by nature slaves and fit only for white men's tools. The 
 women and children lost all sense in their great fear, and, 
 rushing among their own fighters, hung upon them and implored 
 them to yield. At length a parley was begun, in which Byam, 
 the Governor, made the fairest promises that if Cesar would 
 surrender he and and his family should depart free out of the 
 land. Cesar at first refused, declaring that there was no faith 
 in the white men or the gods they adored. 
 
 "Though no people profess so much as the Christians," he 
 said, "none perform so little. When I deal with men of honor 
 I know what I have to do, but with the whites a man ought to 
 be continually on his guard." 
 
 But the solicitations of his followers and friends were so 
 great, and the Governor spoke him so fairly and made such 
 solemn oaths of good treatment, that at length Cesar yielded, 
 taking the precaution, however, to have the agreement ratified 
 by the Governor's hand in writing. All this was agreed to. 
 
 Nevertheless, as soon as Cesar and his chief man-at-arms 
 reached the slave quarters, they were treacherously surprised, 
 bound to stakes, and whipped in the most inhuman manner, 
 so as even to rend the very flesh from the bones. Then, to
 
 426 OROONOKO: OR, THE ROYAL SLAVE 
 
 complete their cruelty, his many wounds were rubbed with 
 Indian pepper, which had like to have made him raving mad. 
 
 But worse to him even than the pain was the disgrace he felt 
 that he, a prince, should thus have been whipped. Thence- 
 forth, his one thought was to be revenged on the Governor who 
 had perfidiously inflicted such infamy on him. Hearing of these 
 threats, the Council condemned Cesar to be hanged. But Ce- 
 sar's friend Trefry, on whose plantation Cesar was, denied the 
 Council's jurisdiction. Cesar's days meanwhile passed in black 
 designs and melancholy thoughts. He must, he felt, have re- 
 venge on the Governor for his unspeakable indignities and 
 treacherous cruelties. But his great heart could not endure 
 the thought of leaving his lovely Imoinda as a prey to the en- 
 raged multitude, exposed to their vile lusts and probably to a 
 shameful death. So one sad day he took Imoinda into a wood, 
 to which in happier days they used to go, and there he opened 
 to her his tragic plan; first to kill her, then to kill his enemies, 
 and next himself. He found the heroic wife readier to plead 
 for death as the only way of escape than he to propose it, and 
 she besought him not to leave her a prey to his enemies. 
 
 Embracing her with all the passion of a dying lover, he 
 drew his knife to kill this treasure of his soul. Tears trickled 
 down his cheeks; but she smiled with joy that she should die by 
 so noble a hand. 
 
 When the eternal leave-taking of the lovers was ended, the 
 lovely victim laid herself down before the sacrificer, while he, 
 with a hand resolved and a heart breaking within, gave the fatal 
 stroke. As soon as he had done the deed, he laid the body 
 decently on leaves and flowers of which he made a bed, con- 
 cealing it under a similar coverlid of Nature's handiwork. 
 
 But when he found she was dead, past retrieval, his grief 
 became a raging madness. 
 
 A thousand times he turned the fatal knife toward his own 
 heart, with a resolution to follow her at once in death. But the 
 desire of revenge on his foes, now a thousand times more in- 
 tense, prevented him. Then, when he thought how, with his 
 own hand, he had sacrificed the fairest and dearest creature 
 that ever Nature made, grief got the ascendancy. He lay down 
 by her side and watered her face with showers of tears. How-
 
 APHRA BEHN 427 
 
 ever bent he was on his intended slaughter of his enemies, he 
 had not power to stir from the sight of his dear love, now more 
 adored than ever. In this terrible state, vacillating between 
 fits of intense remorse, revenge, and despondence, he remained 
 for two days; his eyes and brain dizzy, and all his limbs over- 
 come with a faintness never felt before. Then a party of white 
 pursuers found him and learned the dreadful deed he had com- 
 mitted. While they were hesitating which should venture to 
 attack him, Cesar ripped up his own bowels, lest he be taken 
 alive and again fall a victim to the shameful whip. Neverthe- 
 less, he was soon surrounded, and in his weak and mangled 
 condition was caught and carried to his master's plantation, 
 where a surgeon dressed his wounds and he was given food and 
 cordials, and recovered sufficiently to explain the motives that 
 led him to sacrifice his wife. But while his friends among the 
 whites were away, the Governor and one of his council (re- 
 solved to compass the death of the rebellious slave-leader) 
 seized him, tied him to the whipping-post, had a great fire made 
 before him, and told Cesar he should die like a dog. 
 
 Cesar in reply assured his executioner that if "he would 
 keep that word, he was the only man of all the whites that ever 
 he heard speak truth." To those who threatened him with 
 immediate execution, Oroonoko replied, smiling, "A blessing 
 on thee!" and assured them that they need not tie him, for he 
 would stand fixed like a rock and endure death, so as to en- 
 courage them to die. 
 
 Then the executioners, with revolting atrocity, cut off the 
 living flesh and members, piece by piece, and tossed them into 
 the fire, till, without a groan, Oroonoko gave up the ghost. Not 
 even then were the savage slave-owners content, but barbar- 
 ously cut the dead body into quarters and sent it round to the 
 various plantations in the neighborhood. 
 
 "Thus died this great man, worthy of a better fate," a man 
 whose glorious name should "survive to all ages with that of the 
 brave, the beautiful, and the constant Imoinda."
 
 
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