ANDRE GASTA1GNE
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 MRS. VIRGINIA B. SPORER
 
 T:
 
 FATA MORGANA
 
 " Helia at the very summit of the car :
 
 FATA MORGANA 
 
 A ROMANCE OF ART STUDENT 
 LIFE IN PARIS 
 
 BY 
 
 ANDRE CASTAIGNE 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 BY THE AUTHOR 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 
 1904
 
 Copyright, 1904, by 
 THE CENTURY Co. 
 
 Published November, 1904 
 
 THE DEVlNNE PRE80
 
 TO HIS MANY FEIENDS IN AMERICA 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR 
 
 2041812
 
 CONTENTS 
 PART I 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ETHEL AND HELIA 1 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 i AFTER THE QUAT'Z-ARTS BALL 3 
 
 ii THE FATA MORGANA 17 
 
 in REMEMBERING THE GOLDEN DAYS 29 
 
 iv WHEN PHIL CAME TO PARIS 51 
 
 v AN INITIATION INTO ART 65 
 
 vi THE HANGING GARDENS OF PARIS 83 
 
 vn A RUDE AWAKENING 99 
 
 vni THE END OF THE GUITAR 102 
 
 ix ALAS! POOR HELIA! 117 
 
 x Miss ETHEL ROWRER OF CHICAGO 125 
 
 xi AN APARTMENT IN THE LATIN QUARTER 133 
 
 xii ETHEL'S IDEA OF A MAN 139 
 
 PART II 
 MORE THAN QUEEN 151 
 
 i WANTED A DUCHESS! 153 
 
 ii A PARISIAN DBUT 167 
 
 in PHIL, CHAMPION OF Miss ROWRER 185 
 
 vii
 
 viii CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 iv 'TwiXT DOG AND POET 196 
 
 v LITTLE SISTER OF A STAR 201 
 
 vi THE OLD, OLD STORY 215 
 
 vn CARACAL'S NARROW ESCAPE 232 
 
 vni A QUEEN FOR KINGS 249 
 
 PART III 
 YOUTHFUL FOLLIES 269 
 
 i TEUFF-TEUFF ! TEUFF! BRRR! 271 
 
 ii IN CAMP 284 
 
 in GRAND'MERE VERSUS GRANDMA 301 
 
 iv THROUGH THE COUNTRY FAIR 317 
 
 v A BANQUET ON THE SAWDUST 330 
 
 vi WAS POUFAILLE RIGHT? 347 
 
 vii "A TRUE HEART LOVES BUT ONCE " 360 
 
 PART IV 
 CONSCIENCE 377 
 
 i ON THE BLUE SEA 379 
 
 ii ETHEL'S VICTORY 392 
 
 in A CASTLE OF THE ADRIATIC 398 
 
 iv THE LITTLE DUKE 410 
 
 v VISITING THE SORCERESS 417 
 
 vi THE FIGHT 431 
 
 vii THE FATEFUL DAY BEGINS 444 
 
 viii FATA MORGANA TO THE RESCUE ! 452 
 
 ix STRICKEN IN TRIUMPH 464 
 
 x "ON YOUR KNEES!" 478
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Helia at the very summit of the car Frontispiece 
 
 The Concierge 5 
 
 The Cow Painting 13 
 
 The Great Canvas 21 
 
 The Little Saint John 31 
 
 Helia and her "Professor" 35 
 
 Phil courting Helia in the Yard 43 
 
 Phil arrives at the Hotel 53 
 
 Hammering the clay with a terrific blow of his fist . . . 59 
 
 Socrate at Deux Magots 69 
 
 Stripped to the waist 75 
 
 " They are pigs ! " 79 
 
 On the Roofs of the Louvre 91 
 
 "Only put your soul into it! " 103 
 
 He encumbered the room 113 
 
 A magnificent guardian stopped her 123 
 
 Miss Ethel and Empress Eugenie 129 
 
 Ethel, who was their leader 145 
 
 " Here is the engraving " 159 
 
 Giving the Flower to the Child 169 
 
 Cemetery 173 
 
 At the Circus 181 
 
 ix
 
 x LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Phil rose up, pale with anger 193 
 
 Suddenly Socrate recognized Phil 199 
 
 "To whom shall I write?" 205 
 
 He approached in visible embarrassment 217 
 
 Poufaille's Goods Ready for Auction 227 
 
 The Punch d'lndignation 235 
 
 Suzanne and Poufaille at the Louvre 253 
 
 Ethel and the Royal Throne 265 
 
 Watching the Arrival of the Rowrers 273 
 
 The Arrival of the Rowrers 277 
 
 Ethel and the Little Peasant Girls 291 
 
 Phil listening to Ethel 297 
 
 They went down into the garden 311 
 
 Suzanne and Poufaille at the Country Fair 319 
 
 The Banquet in the Ring of the Circus 333 
 
 Phil watching Helia and Socrate 351 
 
 Ethel stood upright in the ruined colonnade 371 
 
 She dreamed under a sky studded with stars 389 
 
 She arose angrily 395 
 
 The Searchlight on the Castle 407 
 
 Visiting the Castle 413 
 
 " Does the sight of so many weapons make you nervous?" . 421 
 
 Helia facing the Assailants 433 
 
 The Return to the City 439 
 
 The Delegates , . 447 
 
 "Help me! "he cried 457 
 
 The peddler of pious pictures 467 
 
 The duke stood alone 473 
 
 "My people await their duchess" 483
 
 PAKT I 
 ETHEL AND HELIA
 
 FATA MORGANA 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 AFTER THE QUAT'z-ABTS BALL 
 
 AT daybreak, Phil Longwill, the young American 
 
 i\ painter, entered his studio, threw away his cigar, 
 4 \ gulped down the contents of his water-jug and 
 then slipped into an arm-chair and dozed. 
 
 What a night ! 
 
 In his half-sleep he thought he was still at the Quat'z- 
 Arts Ball, from which he had just come ; he still heard 
 the murmuring noise of the multitude, like the prolonged 
 "moo-o-o" of oxen in the stable; and there still moved 
 before his eyes the restless throng, masked in the skins 
 of beasts or trailing gilt-embroidered mantles. 
 
 His dreaming had the sharp relief of life; but it was 
 the car on which Helia was drawn Helia the circus-girl, 
 the little friend of his boyhood, whom he had not seen 
 for so long and whom he found here with surprise it 
 was this car, with the superb figure of Helia at its sum- 
 mit, which eclipsed all the rest. 
 
 The car itself was an attention of Phil's friends. 
 They had chosen for its subject the personages of the
 
 4 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "Fata Morgana" a great decorative picture which Phil 
 was finishing for the Duke of Morgania. 
 
 Helia, upright at the very summit of the car, like an 
 idol at the pinnacle of a temple, personified Morgana, 
 the fairy, the saint, the legendary Queen of the Adriatic. 
 Lower down, seated at the four corners, Thilda, Marka, 
 Rhodai's the slave, and Bertha the Amazon the four 
 heroines of Morgania kept watch and ward over their 
 queen. 
 
 The car, drawn by knights, advanced amid hushed 
 admiration. Helia seemed to float above the sea of 
 heads, and behind her the great hall was ablaze with 
 lights. 
 
 Phil, dozing in his arm-chair, saw himself, clad in his 
 magnificent Indian costume, marching at the head of 
 the car, brandishing his tomahawk in honor of Morgana. 
 Then, at the breaking up of the cortege when the pro- 
 cession was over, there were the supper-tables taken by 
 storm amid cries and laughter. 
 
 And the feast began. 
 
 Helmets and swords ceased to shine. Hands laid 
 down battle-axes to wield knives and forks; warriors 
 fell upon the food as they might have done after a night 
 of pillage. Each man kissed his fair neighbor. Pou- 
 faille, the sculptor, disguised as the prehistoric man, put 
 his hairy muzzle against the rosy cheeks of Suzanne, his 
 model. Close at hand, Phil, the Indian chief, seated at 
 the table of the Duke of Morgania, talked with Helia of 
 old times, of the strolling circus in which he had known 
 her, of their meeting in her dressing-room below the 
 benches ; and he said to her in a low voice :
 
 The Concierge
 
 AFTER THE QUAT'Z-ARTS BALL 7 
 
 "Do you remember when I used to go to wait for 
 you ? ' ' 
 
 "And you," answered Helia, "the flowers you gave 
 me do you remember?" 
 
 But now it was full day and the sun was lighting up 
 the studio. Phil's memories faded little by little, scat- 
 tered by the early morning cries of Paris. The shrill 
 piping of the wandering plumber awakened him with a 
 start just as he was dropping off into real sleep and 
 seeing in his dream Helia soar through a strange world 
 amid heavenly splendors. 
 
 "Here 's the morning paper, M. Longwill," said the 
 old concierge, who came up with the mail ; but he stopped 
 short with open mouth at the sight of Phil 's costume. To 
 dress one's self like that! Etait-il Dieu possible! They 
 did n 't have such ideas in his time ! 
 
 Certainly, Phil was an odd figure in his Indian dress. 
 If he lowered his head he risked scratching his chin 
 against the bear's claws of his collar. He was clad in 
 leather and glass beads. There were feathers down his 
 legs and a calumet was stuck in his belt. At his feet 
 lay the tomahawk which he had brandished a few hours 
 before in honor of beautiful Helia. He had the look of 
 a veritable savage. No one would have recognized in him 
 the society painter, descendant of Philidor de Longue- 
 ville, the Protestant banished from France by Louis 
 XIV, who became a great proprietor in Virginia. 
 
 "Ah, monsieur," the concierge began again, "in the 
 old times when you took walks with Mile. Helia in my 
 garden on the roofs of the Louvre, where I was inspector, 
 you did n't need to dress up like that to amuse yourself. 
 Ah, it was the good time then ! I remember one day '
 
 8 FATA MORGANA 
 
 1 ' I say, concierge, ' ' interrupted Phil, in a solemn tone ; 
 "go down quick and get me a bottle of seltzer water. I 
 am dying of thirst!" 
 
 The concierge disappeared. 
 
 "Ouf !" Phil gave a sigh of relief. "The old man, 
 with his good old times, was starting off on his remem- 
 brances. He is in for two hours when he begins with the 
 Louvre garden. Bah! that 's all f ol-de-rol, ' ' he added, 
 smoothing his hair with his hand, "not to speak of my 
 having so many things to do this morning. Let 's see : 
 first, Miss Rowrer; then the duke is to bring Helia. It 
 appears that Helia has the legendary Morgana type, so 
 the duke told me, after seeing her last night, and, at 
 the duke's request, she agrees to pose for my picture. 
 Oh, I was forgetting! I am expecting Caracal also." 
 
 Phil detested Caracal. This critic was his bete noire, 
 a man sweet and bitter at the same time, who talked of 
 him behind his back as a painter for pork-packers and 
 a dauber without talent. 
 
 Phil had never forgotten his first impression of the 
 critic. He met him shortly after his arrival in Paris, in 
 the studio of the sculptor Poufaille, and later on in the 
 Restaurant de la Mere Michel, and at the Cafe des Deux 
 Magots, during his student years. Caracal was out- 
 wardly correct and an intimate friend of the duke, and 
 he was received at the Rowrers'; and Phil had to be 
 agreeable to him. Nevertheless, he was going to play 
 him a trick. 
 
 As he opened the morning paper, Phil looked around 
 to assure himself that the pictures in his studio had their 
 faces turned to the wall, and that his painting of the
 
 AFTER THE QUAT'Z-ARTS BALL 9 
 
 Fata Morgana was covered with a veil. It was for Cara- 
 cal 's benefit that he had made these arrangements the 
 evening before ; and he smiled as he gave a glance at the 
 portiere which separated his studio from a little adjoin- 
 ing room, where his trick was ready. 
 
 "Ah, I 'm commonplace, am I no originality? We 
 shall see ! " he said to himself, laughing. 
 
 "What 's the news?" Phil went on, as he looked ab- 
 sently through the paper. " 'A Description of the Bal 
 des Quat 'z- Arts. ' Pass ! ' A Case of Treason. ' Pass ! 
 'War Declared.' Diable! 'The Fleet of the Prince of 
 Monaco Threatening English Ports.' Pass! Good! 
 Here 's another extract from the 'Tocsin': 'The Tomb 
 of Richard the Lion-hearted to be Stolen from France ! 
 Interference of Yankee Gold in French Politics,' signed 
 'An Indignant Patriot.' " 
 
 The foolishness of the article did not prevent Phil's 
 reading it to the end. 
 
 "That 's all very amusing," he thought; "but why 
 these personal allusions ? What have the Rowrers to do 
 with it? And who can be writing such nonsense?" 
 
 Phil turned the page disdainfully, when a sound in 
 the room made him lift his eyes. 
 
 Caracal stood before him. 
 
 Phil had not heard him come in. Caracal entered 
 without knocking, as the concierge in his hurry had for- 
 gotten to close the door. The critic looked mockingly 
 at Phil, like those devils who, in German legends, start 
 up from a hole in the floor and offer you some crooked 
 bargain in exchange for your soul. He greeted Phil with 
 an affectation of politeness.
 
 10 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "How are you, cher ami?" 
 
 Caracal turned the glitter of his monocle on the In- 
 dian costume. 
 
 "Very, very curious very amusing very American! 
 From last night's ball, doubtless?" 
 
 For once there was nothing to say, and Caracal was 
 right. It was really very American. 
 
 Occupied with his paper, Phil had forgotten to change 
 his costume. He rose, excused himself briefly, and asked 
 after Caracal 's health. 
 
 "Thanks, cher ami, I 'm very well; allow me to ad- 
 mire you ! ' ' 
 
 "Wait a bit," thought Phil to himself. "I '11 give 
 you something to admire!" 
 
 But Caracal, with his squirrel-like activity, was al- 
 ready inspecting the studio and the pictures which were 
 turned with their faces to the wall. 
 
 "Oh, ho!" he asked, "so you blush for your work, 
 mon cher? Yet your talent is very interesting, very 
 American. ' ' 
 
 "Don't let us talk of such trifles," said Phil ; "I show 
 them only to the ignorant. You 're not really acquainted 
 with my works, M. Caracal those which I paint for 
 myself alone, those into which I put my soul, as your 
 friend, the painter-philosopher Socrate, used to say. Al- 
 low me to show them to you. Enter, M. Caracal ! ' ' 
 
 Lifting the portiere of the little room, Phil showed the 
 way to Caracal, who stopped on the threshold in amaze- 
 ment. Phil was fond of practical jokes. With imper- 
 turbable seriousness he had gathered in this room all 
 the grotesque works which he had found among the art-
 
 AFTER THE QUAT'Z-ARTS BALL 11 
 
 junk-dealers in his chance explorations. If he found 
 a picture cast aside, provided it was utterly bad, Phil 
 bought it. There was one canvas, among the others, 
 which represented cows something so fearful that Phil, 
 the first time he saw it, scarcely knew whether to groan, 
 or shout with laughter. 
 
 It was in his concierge's lodge that Phil one day had 
 conceived the idea of this collection. The old man of 
 "my time," the former inspector of the Louvre roofs, 
 had on his chimney under bell-glasses two little person- 
 agesMonsieur and Madame made from lobster-shells ; 
 a claw formed the nose, and the tail was turned into 
 coat-skirts. 
 
 "Eureka!" thought Phil, when he saw them. "But 
 I must have something better still." And he at once 
 began a search through the slums of impressionism and 
 modern style ; and he had found what he wanted. 
 
 "Eh bien, M. Caracal, what do you think of that?" 
 asked Phil. 
 
 Caracal, at first upset, pulled himself together. 
 
 "Bravo, mon cher! you Ve found your line! You are 
 revealed to yourself! My congratulations, cher ami!" 
 
 "Does the ignoramus take it seriously? No; that 
 would be too funny!" Phil said to himself amazed in 
 his turn. 
 
 Phil, with his glass beads jingling at every step, took 
 the cow painting and set it in full light. The frightful 
 beasts lowered their crocodile heads to graze in a fan- 
 tastic meadow whose daisies resembled white plates with 
 egg-yolks in the middle. 
 
 Phil looked at Caracal and winked his eye. Caracal
 
 12 FATA MORGANA 
 
 answered by a prudent shrug. Phil was one of those 
 rare Americans who can shrug and wink. The mute 
 dialogue went on: 
 
 ' ' That catches you, mon vieux Caracal ! ' ' said the 
 wink. 
 
 "Idiot!" answered the shoulders; "you '11 pay me for 
 this to make fun of me Caracal!" 
 
 "Each has his turn!" winked Phil. 
 
 Caracal fixed his eye-glass and stared at the picture. 
 
 "Very very interesting very original. That 's art 
 that ought to be at the Luxembourg! Oughtn't it, 
 cher ami?" 
 
 "The deuce!" thought Phil. 
 
 "And this, look at this!" said Caracal, taking up an 
 abominable sketch for a pork-butcher's sign. "Here 's 
 the quintessence of animalism ! Bravo, mon cher, you 're 
 the man I 'm looking for!" 
 
 "Indeed!" exclaimed Phil, to himself. 
 
 "Let me explain. I am looking for an aritst to illus- 
 trate my new novel." 
 
 Phil made a gesture of protest. 
 
 "No commonplace book," Caracal went on, "but a 
 bitter, bleeding slice of life something which takes you 
 by the throat, makes you weep and shriek and pant ! ' ' 
 
 Caracal explained his book. The general idea (an idea 
 of genius, according to him) was this: A vast house 
 rises in the midst of Paris, all of glass, transparent from 
 top to bottom, without curtains. Therein swarm all the 
 vices; yet there are no crimes, so soft and weak-willed 
 are the personages, so incapable of anger or hatred. And 
 they drag themselves from floor to floor, on all-fours like
 
 : 
 
 The Cow Painting
 
 AFTER THE QUAT'Z-ARTS BALL 15 
 
 swine. Title, "The House of Glass" and there you 
 are! 
 
 "And you offer me collaboration in such nastiness?" 
 said Phil. 
 
 "Do you know what you are saying?" replied Cara- 
 cal. 
 
 "It 's my idea of your literature, and I say what I 
 think." 
 
 "Let it be so, mon cher; we '11 say no more about it. 
 Rather let us look at your beautiful works. That cow 
 painting is superb ! It 's as fine as a Millet. If it 's for 
 sale, I '11 buy it!" 
 
 "If you want it, take it. I won't sell it. I '11 give it 
 to you." 
 
 They came back into the studio. Caracal, well pleased 
 with the gift, swung his monocle familiarly. Then they 
 talked of other things, of yesterday's ball, of the "Toc- 
 sin," whose sensational head-lines stared at them from 
 the floor. 
 
 " What do you think of that?" Phil asked, pointing 
 to the newspaper. 
 
 " It 's idiotic, mon cher, utterly idiotic. I don 't know 
 where Vieillecloche picks up such asinine stuff." 
 
 ' ' Who does the articles for him ? ' ' demanded Phil. 
 
 "Who knows?" answered Caracal. 
 
 With a glance at the clock, Phil excused himself. 
 
 "Will you permit me? I must get ready the con- 
 cierge is going to do up the studio. Be seated, please; 
 I '11 be with you again in a moment." 
 
 Caracal sat down on a lounge to wait for Phil, who 
 went to his room to change his Indian costume.
 
 16 FATA MORGANA 
 
 The concierge returned. He began dusting the studio, 
 and in his zeal rubbed off half a pastel with his feather 
 duster. He pulled the veil from sketches, and set the 
 easels in place. The studio began to be peopled with 
 half-finished portraits, with designs, with studies of every 
 kind, representing an immense amount of labor. The 
 canvas of Morgana, in particular, rid of the cover which 
 veiled it, illuminated all with a glow of legend. The 
 figure of the fairy queen was barely indicated ; but Helia 
 was to pose for Phil, as she had promised, and with a 
 month's work all would be finished. 
 
 Caracal, in spite of his jealous ignorance, could not 
 help admiring the superb production ; but he rubbed his 
 hands as he thought of the picture of the cows which he 
 was going to carry away with him. He glanced slyly 
 at Phil, who came back smartly dressed and refreshed 
 from his bath, fit and full of the joy of life, ready for 
 work, in spite of his sleepless night.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE FATA MORGANA 
 
 PHIL prepared his colors. The ball was forgotten, 
 and the Indian costume was laid away for an- 
 other year. Outside, the cries of the plumber and 
 old-clo' man alternated, like a trombone after a fife; 
 and a barrel-organ was grinding below on the sidewalk. 
 Phil, brushes in hand, spoke now and then a word 
 with Caracal, lying on the sofa. 
 
 "Here are my visitors," said Phil, suddenly. 
 
 From the stairway came the sound of voices, the light 
 tread of feet, the swish of skirts. 
 
 The bell rang. 
 
 "I was waiting for you, M. le Due," said Phil, as he 
 opened the door. "Come in, I beg of you! Come in, 
 Mile. Helia!" 
 
 "I have brought you Mile. Helia," the duke said. 
 ' ' You know, she consents to pose for you. Look ! she 's 
 not even tired after such a night!" 
 
 "Oh, as for me, I 'm used to it," said Helia, "a 
 little more or a little less!" 
 
 Caracal came bustling up, shaking hands energetically, 
 as he always did. 
 
 "Show the duke your little gallery," he said in a low 
 17
 
 18 FATA MORGANA 
 
 tone to Phil. ' ' You 're too modest you must n 't hide 
 your light under a bushel." 
 
 "Pshaw! he wouldn't appreciate it," said Phil. 
 
 They stood before the Morgana painting. Helia, 
 strongly impressed by the luxury of the studio, looked 
 around with astonishment. She remembered Phil's be- 
 ginnings in his attic by the quays of the Seine. 
 
 The duke turned toward him : ' ' Superb ! It is very 
 beautiful ! Allow me to congratulate you, Monsieur 
 Phil!" 
 
 Phil bowed. 
 
 Conrad di Tagliaferro, Duke of Morgania, was a grand 
 seigneur, who left his duchy to take care of itself, and 
 passed half his time in his Paris mansion. His people 
 believed him to be quite taken up with politics, discussing 
 mordicus with the representatives of the Great Powers, 
 and securing support against the coming storm. For 
 the duchy was on the banks of the Adriatic, lower than 
 Montenegro, and backed up against Albania, where the 
 clouds threatened. The duke, meanwhile, went about 
 with Caracal, his professor of elegant vice, and his hand- 
 some presence was a part of Tout-Paris. 
 
 "Your picture is a masterpiece, Monsieur Phil," the 
 duke went on. "It would be impossible to interpret 
 better the legend of my ancestress, Morgana. It will 
 hang well in the great hall of the castle, above the ducal 
 throne I see it from here. You have quite caught what 
 I wished, and I am grateful to you." 
 
 The great painting took up a whole side of the studio, 
 and its effect was superb under the light, which fell in 
 floods. It was a decorative work, which, from the first, 
 impressed the beholder by its look of strangeness.
 
 THE FATA MORGANA 19 
 
 Phil was familiar with the mirage which is peculiar to 
 the Adriatic Sea, and which is known as the Fata Morgana. 
 
 In the morning oftenest, but sometimes at evening, 
 you suddenly perceive in the sky images of various 
 things of ruined towers and castles, which crumble and 
 change and take on prodigious shapes. The dwellers of 
 the coast call the phenomenon the Fata Morgana; their 
 superstitious ideas lead them to see in it the enchant- 
 ments of a fairy (fata) , whereas it is simply an effect of 
 the mirage caused by the heating of the sea. This was 
 the moment which Phil had chosen for his picture. 
 
 The lower part of the canvas was in shadow, but the 
 upper part was resplendent with light; and towers 
 seemed to rise and arches hang above the abyss, while 
 visions appeared between the clouds. The setting sun 
 lighted up with its dying fires the moving mists, whereon 
 rainbow tints were playing. At the horizon the sea min- 
 gled with the clouds. Morgana rose from the waves 
 which broke along the beach. Strange sea-flowers clung 
 to her hair and covered her shoulders. In the back- 
 ground, cliffs fell straight down to the sea ; and all along 
 the shore an ecstatic people acclaimed the return of their 
 lady, the Duchess Morgana. 
 
 Phil had put all his talent into this picture. Months 
 of implacable labor were in it. The duke, who had not 
 yet seen the finished canvas, seemed delighted. Phil was 
 paid for his labors. 
 
 The Duke of Morgania had a love for art and artists. 
 He chatted in a friendly way with Phil of the numerous 
 studies which such a picture demands. 
 
 "I should have liked to be a painter," he said, smil- 
 ingly. "I am infatuated with the bohemian life!"
 
 20 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "It hasn't been all amusement to me," replied Phil. 
 "Art is not easy, allez!" 
 
 "It 's about the same in everything ; nothing is easy, ' ' 
 Helia observed. 
 
 She entered into the conversation timidly. Accus- 
 tomed as she had been from childhood to brave a thou- 
 sand eyes in the circus ring, Helia felt herself embar- 
 rassed in the sumptuous studio where she found 
 Phil, friend of her childhood and youth Phil, who had 
 been so fond of her then, and who doubtless loved her 
 still. She would know soon, when they were alone, 
 if only by the way in which he would take her hand. 
 
 "It is the same in everything. You are right, made- 
 moiselle," the duke answered. "Yours is an art also." 
 
 Helia blushed with pleasure. 
 
 ' ' Phil will be proud of me, ' ' she thought. 
 
 "But she 's taking it seriously, the little mounte- 
 bank," Caracal murmured to himself. "She is as big 
 a fool as Phil, on my word ! ' ' 
 
 "Mon cher ami," the duke said to Phil, "Mile. Helia 
 has a singular resemblance to Morgana. For we have 
 documents concerning the appearance of Morgana 
 Sansovino's statue at Ancona, for example, the Botticelli 
 of the Louvre, and the stained-glass window of the 
 throne-room in the ducal castle, as well as numberless 
 pictures scattered through the cottages of Morgania. 
 There is an admitted classic type. You will only have 
 to finish the figure of my ancestress with Mile.- Helia, 
 and your picture will be perfect. ' ' 
 
 "And what happiness for me!" said Helia. "Phil 
 Monsieur Phil will do my portrait!"
 
 1 
 
 The Great Canvas
 
 THE FATA MORGANA 23 
 
 But Phil interrupted Helia to keep the duke, who was 
 on the point of departing: 
 
 ' ' Wait a moment ; Miss Ethel Rowrer is coming to 
 see the picture. She is over there in the students' atelier. 
 I '11 go and tell her." 
 
 Phil went out ; doors were heard opening and closing ; 
 and then he came back with Miss Rowrer, whom he had 
 found just quitting her work. She was fastening a 
 bouquet of Parma violets at her waist, and was ready 
 to come. 
 
 Miss Rowrer entered. 
 
 She was tall and pink and blonde. She had distin- 
 guished features, with a wilful forehead and solid chin. 
 Her beauty and her practice of outdoor sports gave her 
 a self-confidence which was superb, while the prestige of 
 the name of her father the famous Chicagoan and his 
 colossal fortune were as nothing when she looked you in 
 the face with her clear eyes, lighted up with intelligence. 
 As soon as she entered the studio there seemed to be no 
 one else there. 
 
 Miss Rowrer nodded familiarly to Caracal and the 
 duke, habitues of the Comtesse de Donjeon's teas, 
 where she had made their acquaintance, as well as that 
 of Phil, some months previously. She cast a discreet 
 glance at Helia. As for Phil, whose pupil she was 
 and whose talent she admired, she treated him as a 
 friend. 
 
 They began talking immediately. Miss Rowrer spoke 
 of her brother Will, of his yacht, still in the dock at 
 Boston, but which was soon to sail for France; of his 
 autumn cruise in the Mediterranean; then, changing
 
 24 FATA MORGANA 
 
 the subject, she talked of art and literature, lightly, with- 
 out pose. 
 
 "How can any one find time," thought Helia, "to 
 learn so many pretty things!" 
 
 "Is that your Morgana picture?" Miss Rowrer asked 
 Phil, pointing to the great canvas. "That half-painted 
 figure will doubtless be Morgana herself it is very 
 beautiful. But," she added, as she turned to the duke, 
 ' ' explain it to me a little, will you ? I am not acquainted 
 with the subject." 
 
 ' ' What, Miss Rowrer ! You know everything, and you 
 don't know the legend of Morgana!" 
 
 ' ' Only by name, ' ' said Miss Rowrer. ' ' In my picture- 
 books there used to be Bluebeard and ogres and ugly 
 wolves, who made me afraid and the good fairies Melu- 
 sine and Morgana, who delighted me. They did so much 
 good with their magic wands ! ' ' 
 
 "Morgana is my ancestress," said the duke. "She is 
 my good genius. There is not a cottage in Morgania 
 where her picture does not hang, next to the icons of the 
 Virgin. In the winter evenings, around the fire, they 
 recount her exploits and those of Rhodai's and Bertha. 
 Children grow up with it in their blood ; they no more 
 think of their country without its heroines than without 
 its woods and mountains." 
 
 "And what particular event have you chosen for this 
 picture?" asked Miss Rowrer. "Is it the coming of 
 Morgana ? ' ' 
 
 "By the sea she departed," said the duke, "and she 
 has never come back. Yet she will come, they say." 
 
 "You laugh at it?"
 
 THE FATA MORGANA 25 
 
 "Not at all," answered the duke. "Such things seen 
 in the light of Paris appear altogether ridiculous; but 
 away in Morgania there are thousands of good people 
 or thousands of foolish people, if you wish " the duke 
 corrected himself, in terror of the mocking smile of 
 Caracal, his professor of skepticism "thousands of 
 foolish people who talk of nothing else and await her 
 return. ' ' 
 
 "But when did she go away?" asked Miss Rowrer. 
 
 "Oh, ah! well a thousand years ago," answered the 
 duke. 
 
 ' ' A thousand years ago ! ' ' exclaimed Miss Rowrer, 
 amused by these stories of fairy duchesses and poor 
 mountaineers sitting by the sea and watching from 
 father to son for Morgana. "But who has foretold her 
 return?" she asked. 
 
 "An old sorceress who lives like an owl in the hollow 
 of a rock." 
 
 "Really!" 
 
 "Truly and really! People come to consult her from 
 every quarter. She makes her fire on three red stones, 
 observes the sky and the stars, traces serpents on the 
 sand and then this old woman foretells the future. 
 Now, according to her prediction, the cycle of time has 
 swung round and Morgana is coming, bringing in her 
 arms the fortune of Morgania. Events, we must ac- 
 knowledge, seem to bear out the sorceress: the country 
 is deeply troubled; I shall soon be obliged to go back 
 myself and you can imagine whether it is amusing for 
 me ? Oh, I wish I were a simple citizen of Paris ! ' ' 
 
 "Eh bien, monseigneur ! " said Miss Rowrer, "in that
 
 26 FATA MORGANA 
 
 case, abdicate, abdicate. But first tell me, I beg of you, 
 the legend of Morgana." 
 
 "It does not date from yesterday, as I have told 
 you," the duke went on. "The duchy was already in 
 existence, having been given to Hugh, chief of the 
 Franks, by the Emperor Theodosius; but it was only in 
 Morgana 's time that it came to a consciousness of itself. 
 Morgana was a poor sailor-girl, according to some a 
 king's daughter, according to others. Did she ever really 
 exist? or is she only an ideal figure created by a people 
 in infancy, more inclined to poetry than to reflection, 
 and personifying in her all its great heroines? 
 
 "However that may be, the year, as your Edgar Poe 
 says, 'had been a year of terrors.' There was fighting 
 along the frontiers. The duke, selfish-hearted and weak, 
 had lost two of his provinces. The people were in 
 despair. Morgana brought hope back to them. Her 
 piety and her beauty worked miracles. A light, it is 
 said, followed her. She took up arms for her country 
 and worked wonders. The hordes of the enemy thought 
 her invulnerable they had set a price on her head. One 
 day, in battle, she saved Duke Adhemar, when he was at 
 the point of being massacred ; she leaped forward, with 
 the great white-cross standard in one hand and her battle- 
 ax in the other, slashed her way through the barbarians, 
 and, her arms red with blood, brought back the duke 
 amid the acclamations of the people. Their enthusiasm 
 was immense; they prayed at Morgana 's feet. 'What 
 passed afterward?' Had the duke promised marriage 
 to her, as some pretend and, to obtain peace, did he sell 
 Morgana to the enemy? Our chronicles are uncertain
 
 THE FATA MORGANA 27 
 
 on that point. But Duke Adhemar compromised himself 
 by some ugly deed or other the perjury of a coward. 
 One evening the indignant Morgana came down to the 
 shore, followed by a whole people, who demanded her for 
 their duchess and scattered flowers before her. But she 
 entered her bark alone. 'Since the duke has sworn,' 
 she said, 'let me save his honor. I go. May my sacrifice 
 redeem his race! And remember not gold, but youth 
 and courage are a people's strength!' Then Morgana 
 sailed away from the shore and disappeared in the open 
 sea, while the crowd still prayed for her. The next day 
 a strange mirage lighted up the country, and the people 
 said: 'It is the soul of Morgana, virgin and martyr.' 
 Then the people, in their indignation, drove Duke Ad- 
 hemar from the throne. They raised altars to her. To 
 Morgana was given the title of duchess; she became the 
 protectress of Morgania and of my house, whose honor 
 she had saved." 
 
 "Let us hope she will come back," said Miss Rowrer. 
 "You are quite right to believe in her!" 
 
 "I- "began the duke. 
 
 "Why, yes, monseigneur, " continued Miss Rowrer, 
 who had remarked the duke's accent of conviction toward 
 the end of his story. "Don't deny it it is beautiful to 
 believe in something! M. Caracal will pardon you this 
 time." 
 
 "Willingly, Miss Rowrer," said Caracal, with the 
 pinching of the lips which was his mode of smiling. 
 "Willingly; but on one condition. Get Monsieur Phil to 
 show you his works." 
 
 "Here they are, it seems to me," Ethel said,
 
 28 FATA MORGANA 
 
 pointing to the paintings and sketches which filled the 
 studio. 
 
 "No doubt," Caracal insisted; "but all his handi- 
 work is not here. Come, Monsieur Phil, show us the 
 work which is really yours what you paint with your 
 soul ! Don 't be so modest ; bring the light from beneath 
 the bushel!" 
 
 ' ' Yes ; show us, Phil, ' ' said the duke. 
 
 ' ' Monseigneur " Phil began. 
 
 Caracal shot a triumphant glance at Phil. 
 
 "You will allow me, cher ami?" and he opened the 
 little gallery to Miss Rowrer and the duke, while Helia, 
 seated in the shadow, waited impatiently for the visitors 
 to leave. 
 
 Gay laughter was heard. Miss Ethel and the duke 
 came back. "Ah, charming! Couldn't be more amus- 
 ing," said the duke. "A regular art-trap! I must get 
 one myself, to catch fools." 
 
 All left the studio except Phil, and Helia, who was 
 to pose for him. They were already on the stairs, and 
 Caracal, exasperated, went with them, like the legendary 
 devil who disappears into the earth, carrying with him, 
 instead of a soul, his cow painting under his arm. Be- 
 hind him, in place of the classical odor of brimstone, 
 there was only the fragrance of the Parma violets which 
 Miss Rowrer let fall by accident as she went away. 
 
 The noise ceased on the staircase Phil was already 
 seated on the sofa beside Helia.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 REMEMBERING THE GOLDEN DAYS 
 
 THEY looked at each other as if astonished to be 
 once again together. Helia admired Phil, whom 
 she found handsomer and stronger more, in- 
 deed, of a man. Phil scanned the refined features of He- 
 lia : she seemed even more beautiful than in the old days. 
 
 Seated thus, hand in hand, eyes gazing into eyes, 
 everything came back to memory: their first meeting in 
 the little provincial town where Phil was studying, and 
 where the circus in which Helia appeared had been set 
 up; their simple, childish love, the pretty romance of 
 their youth. 
 
 In the old days Phil used to speak to her with the 
 familiar "thou"; here, in the quiet of the studio, alone 
 with this beautiful young girl, it seemed too familiar, 
 almost wanting in respect for her. 
 
 "Perhaps Phil is more intimidated than myself," 
 Helia thought in her surprise. "He has not even kissed 
 me. But whether he speaks to me with a 'thou' or a 
 'you' matters little, provided he loves me still!" 
 
 "Now, then, Phil," she asked, between her smiles, 
 "what hast thou what have you been doing all this 
 time?"
 
 30 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "Oh!" answered Phil, "many things! And you, 
 Helia?" 
 
 ' ' Oh, for me it has been always the same thing, always 
 just as it was before do you remember?" 
 
 Ah, the childish doings of other days ! How happy 
 Helia was to take shelter in their sweet memories ! 
 
 "Do you remember," said Phil, "the day I saw you 
 first? You know it was at the Fete-Dieu procession. 
 How pretty you were as the little Saint John ! ' ' 
 
 On that day houses are decorated ; the walls are hung 
 with white sheets, on which are pinned flowers and 
 greenery, and the procession passes between these blos- 
 soming walls. But the one thing in the procession for 
 Phil had been the little Saint John. 
 
 It was Helia who took the role. At first they had 
 chosen the daughter of a rich merchant; but fear of 
 drafts and a possible fall of rain a cold is caught so 
 quickly led them to change at the last moment ; and in 
 haste they took a creature of less importance, whose 
 colds did not count. 
 
 "I remember," said Helia, "they came to get me at 
 the circus. I happened to be in a pink maillot, and they 
 put the sheepskin on my back and the wooden cross in 
 my hand and ten francs in papa's hand and so I 
 became the little Saint John. ' ' 
 
 "And what a delightful Saint John you were!" said 
 Phil. ' ' I became a lover and a poet on the spot ; I wrote 
 verses I was wild ! ' ' 
 
 "And you got wilder still," said Helia, "when you 
 found out that, instead of a merchant's daughter, I was 
 the famous Helia the acrobatic star whom the posters 
 pictured on her trapeze, amid stars and suns ! ' '
 
 The Little Saint John
 
 REMEMBERING THE GOLDEN DAYS 33 
 
 Helia, in her turn, had seen Phil a few days later, 
 while she was playing Wolf and Sheep. Sinking back 
 in the sofa-cushions of the great studio, she chatted with 
 Phil of that momentous event. 
 
 "That was the day after they had thrown so many 
 oranges to me do you remember, Phil? and I was 
 playing Wolf in the square with the neighbors' children. 
 You remember the game ? One of the players is the wolf, 
 another is the shepherd, the others are the sheep. They 
 stand behind the shepherd and walk around singing : 
 
 ' Promenons-nous dans les bois 
 Pendant que le loup n'y est pas ! ' 
 
 (' Let 's go walking through the woods, 
 While the wolf 's away ! ') 
 
 And then the wolf jumps out and tries to catch a 
 sheep." 
 
 That second meeting of Phil and Helia had passed 
 off very prettily. Helia was a regular little tomboy at 
 play. Of course she did not often get a chance to 
 play, and she found it pleasant to leap and laugh with 
 other children; and Phil was there, standing around 
 with the boys. He would have given everything in the 
 world to be wolf and seize Helia and devour her with 
 kisses if he had dared. 
 
 And perhaps he might have dared, lured on by a 
 smile from the little Saint John, but some one (it was 
 Cemetery, the clown) came out from the circus-tent, and 
 at sight of him sheep and shepherd scattered. He called
 
 34 FATA MORGANA 
 
 harshly to Helia, and with a gesture sent her into the 
 tent. 
 
 The little girl obeyed without a word, raising her el- 
 bow as she passed before her master, as if to ward off a 
 blow. The last thing seen by Phil was the appealing 
 glance of Helia, which seemed to say to him, " You see 
 and yet I was doing no harm and we 'd have had 
 such fun ! " 
 
 That was their second meeting. 
 
 The next day Phil prowled around the circus-tent with 
 the other boys and tried to catch a glimpse of Helia 
 through the holes of the canvas, or from beneath, 
 stretched out flat on the ground. 
 
 All the day long the little girl was kept rehearsing her 
 exercises. Sometimes it was the trapeze, or again the car- 
 pet. Cemetery gave her his directions with a serious air. 
 
 "Allez! firm on your feet smile, smile throw your 
 head back don't move your feet ! Bend back ! bend ! 
 bend! Fall on your hands! There there smile ! 
 Tonnerre! Won't you smile?" 
 
 But Phil waited in vain ; he never saw her play again 
 with the others. 
 
 Soon afterward the circus went away, and Phil, when 
 vacation-time came, returned to America. He took with 
 him tender remembrances, seeing often the last touching 
 glance of Helia with her beautiful sad eyes. Pity min- 
 gled with his tenderness. 
 
 Phil went on his way through Paris and London and 
 across the ocean to New York, and then on to the sunny 
 South and his old ancestral mansion on the Chesapeake. 
 But nothing, neither terrapin-catching nor duck-shooting
 
 : 
 
 Helia and her " Professor "
 
 REMEMBERING THE GOLDEN DAYS 37 
 
 nor horseback-riding through the country, could efface 
 his childhood's first love, which only grew in solitude. 
 How he regretted that he had not taken part in the game 
 when the little Helia invited him with a smile that he 
 had not kissed her through her brown curls ! 
 
 Phil came back to France to go on with his studies. 
 Helia was already a grown girl when he saw her again. 
 The circus was being advertised, and great posters with 
 the name of Helia placarded the walls. 
 
 With what impatience Phil awaited her! He was to 
 see her again. He passed hours in the open square 
 where the circus was being set up in the disorder of 
 wagons and poles and canvas, peering anxiously into the 
 circus-wagons. 
 
 The circus was in a single tent. The artistes for 
 changing their costumes had rude dressing-rooms amid 
 the confusion of circus properties underneath the 
 benches on which the public sat. 
 
 One evening Helia had finished dressing by the light 
 of a candle when she heard a noise above her head. She 
 saw the bunting beneath the benches lifted, and a little 
 bunch of flowers fell on her shoulder. She nearly cried 
 out with surprise. During her turn they often threw 
 oranges and flowers to her that was commonplace ; but 
 these flowers ! 
 
 As soon as she came into the ring she looked at the 
 benches above her dressing-room. She fancied she rec- 
 ognized there the one whom she had seen when she was 
 playing Wolf how long ago! 
 
 "Le Roy fait battre le tambour 
 Pour appeler ses dames."
 
 38 FATA MORGANA 
 
 (Phil took his banjo from the wall behind the sofa. 
 In a low voice he murmured the old song, which he had 
 not forgotten, to the air played by the band when it 
 announced Helia's entrance into the ring: 
 
 "Le Roy fait battre le tambour 
 Pour appeler ses dames, . . . 
 Et la premiere qu'il a vue 
 Lui a ravi son ame." 
 
 (" The King has the drum beat 
 To call out his ladies, . . . 
 And the first one he sees 
 Steals away his soul.") 
 
 All the memories of the past rose up in Helia at the 
 familiar air.) 
 
 At that time she was living inside a courtyard where 
 the circus people put up their wagons. There was a 
 stable for the horses and an inn for the men. Through 
 the great gate of the courtyard the circus was in full 
 sight, out in the public square. 
 
 One evening it was raining. Helia was at the gate 
 and, caught by the rain, hesitated to go on. All at once 
 Phil came up. She recognized him, and both were so 
 moved that they said only the simplest things to each 
 other. 
 
 "Thanks for your bouquet," said Helia. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," Phil began. 
 
 ' ' I remember you very well, ' ' Helia went on ; "I knew 
 you a long time ago. Why did you not play Wolf with 
 us?"
 
 REMEMBERING THE GOLDEN DAYS 39 
 
 "Because that man made you go in/' Phil answered. 
 
 "Ah, yes! true," said Helia. 
 
 Phil feared she would hear the beating of his heart. 
 He tried to put an end to their embarrassment, so he 
 chattered about the rain and the bad weather. 
 
 "Mademoiselle, you must forgive me I have no um- 
 brella !" he said. 
 
 "That 's no matter," said Helia. "Accompany me 
 to the circus. Wait a bit here 's what we want!" 
 
 On the wall beside them there hung a circus-poster. 
 She took it, lifted it with one hand above her head, while 
 Phil held the other end; and the two under one shelter 
 crossed the square. 
 
 "Shall I see you again, mademoiselle?" Phil asked, 
 when they had reached the circus. 
 
 "Surely in the courtyard yonder by the wagons or 
 here in the evening." 
 
 Phil left her without speaking further. Soon, through 
 the canvas, he heard the air that announced her turn : 
 
 " Marquis, t'es bien plus heureux que moi 
 
 D'avoir f emme si belle ; 
 
 Si tu voulais me 1'accorder 
 
 Je me chargerai d'elle ! " 
 
 (" Marquis, you 're happier than I 
 
 Because your wife 's so pretty ; 
 If you '11 give her up to me, 
 Willingly '11 take her ! ") 
 
 The days that followed were for Helia the sunny cor- 
 ner of her sad childhood. When she saw Phil she was 
 happy and she saw him every day ! The very difficulty 
 of meeting added charm to the adventure.
 
 40 FATA MORGANA 
 
 They saw each other in the courtyard of the inn. 
 
 Helia had the care of many things. A baby Soeurette 
 (Little Sister), held on to her skirts, and Helia gave a 
 mother's care to the child. She busied herself also with 
 the linen drying on the clothes-lines ; she scattered grain 
 before the chickens which were tied by their legs; she 
 sewed at her bodices or at her little performance-slip- 
 pers; or else she would be coming back from market 
 with a great loaf of bread under her arm and provisions 
 in her basket. Always she was charming. Her least 
 movement was full of grace. 
 
 When Phil could not speak with Helia he would press 
 her hand as he passed. Then he would watch her from 
 afar. Unconsciously they fell greatly in love with each 
 other he because he found her so pathetic, she because 
 he was so timid and so handsome. From a few words 
 picked up here and there, and from a talk with the clown 
 at a cafe, Phil had come to know something of Helia 's 
 story for she never spoke of it herself, through pride. 
 Or was it a woman's shame in her desire to show to the 
 one she loved only what was fair ? Yet she had nothing 
 to conceal, pretty, sweet, valiant Helia! 
 
 Her story? 
 
 Helia was her circus name. Her real name Phil did 
 not learn. She was not the daughter of Cemetery the 
 clown, although she called herself so; she was only his 
 trained pupil. 
 
 Her father was a gentleman of Aries who became a 
 widower with two daughters on his hands, Helia and 
 Sceurette, one much older than the other. He fell in 
 love with a circus-rider, and a terrible life began for
 
 REMEMBERING THE GOLDEN DAYS 41 
 
 him, with tours across Europe, and marriage with the 
 woman, who ruled him with a rod of iron. The little 
 daughters went with him, for he had no family other 
 than relatives far removed. Then ruin came. A circus 
 whose director and backer he had become, and into which 
 he had put all his money, failed. He died, abandoned 
 by every one, and leaving his two little girls to the care 
 of Cemetery, who had been his circus-manager. Ceme- 
 tery, harsh and honest, adopted the children and deter- 
 mined to make artistes of them. He at once began the 
 training of the elder, and Helia grew up under him for 
 master. "You shall do it or die!" Cemetery used to 
 say when teaching her to perform. To those who rep- 
 resented to him that the profession was already encum- 
 bered, he answered : ' ' There is always room on top ! 
 Beauty is well talent is better. To work!" 
 
 Such was the story of Helia. 
 
 When Phil asked her about it, Helia did not answer, 
 lout only smiled faintly. 
 
 But Phil knew that she was unhappy, and his love 
 for her went on growing. He dreamed a thousand chiv- 
 alrous schemes each madder than the one before. He 
 felt within him the passion and daring resolution of the 
 Longuevilles, his ancestors. He had also inherited their 
 zeal for virtue. He would tear Helia away from her 
 rough life. He would educate her he would make her 
 fit to be his companion. He explained his ideas to Helia. 
 At first they amused her, but when she saw how sincere 
 he was, she ended by believing them. 
 
 Helia went out rarely scarcely more than from the 
 inn to the circus. She would have liked to meet Phil
 
 42 FATA MORGANA 
 
 oftener. When evening came, in her dressing-room 
 under the benches, she donned her costume quickly and 
 received her friend. It was easy for him to enter 
 without being remarked. On the outside there were 
 wagons which left only a narrow passage. It was where 
 the canvas of the circus-tent joined ; he had only to pull 
 it aside to enter. Then he was at once in the dressing- 
 room inclosed by boards and fragments of carpets worn 
 out by generations of tumblers. 
 
 Phil would sit on a trunk while Helia combed her 
 beautiful hair in front of a broken mirror. It never 
 came to their minds that there could be anything wrong 
 in what they were doing. They had long talks. Helia 
 spoke of her profession and described her exercises. 
 
 "I am going to do the high leap. I spring and catch 
 the bar I get my balance, standing on my hands and 
 then I go off with a somersault! The high leap, Phil, 
 you could learn in a month you who are afraid of 
 nothing ! ' ' 
 
 Phil would listen, and then interrupt her gently and 
 speak of all sorts of things, opening new horizons before 
 her; and Helia was happy and glad to learn. 
 
 "What beautiful arms!" said Phil one evening, as she 
 was soaping them in a basin of cold water. 
 
 "And I take care of them!" answered Helia, " songe 
 done, Phil! (They were already using the familiar 
 French "thou" to each other.) Just think; every even- 
 ing I owe my life to these arms ! When I do the flying 
 trapeze they must n't miss their hold. I should be 
 crushed on the benches, think of it! and I have to 
 smile all the same."
 
 Phil courting Helia in the Yard
 
 REMEMBERING THE GOLDEN DAYS 45 
 
 As she dried her arms, Phil raised his eyes and saw, 
 near the shoulder, a brown stain on the white skin. 
 
 "That 's nothing," said Helia; "I knocked against 
 a post." 
 
 Phil looked at her closely. 
 
 "You've been crying again to-day! But I I 'm 
 not afraid of Cemetery, ' ' he went on. "I '11 go for him 
 to-morrow and punch his face. I won 't have him touch- 
 ing you any more. First of all, he has n't the right ! and 
 I '11 forbid him." 
 
 But Helia shook her head: "No!" She added: "I '11 
 attend to that ! I belong to you now not to him ! 
 There he comes," she said suddenly. "Go away and 
 not a word, whatever happens!" 
 
 Above the noise of the band and of the public, Helia 
 had heard Cemetery's voice. Phil had just time to get 
 away. 
 
 "Are you going to come when you are called?" the 
 man said. 
 
 At a glance, from Helia 's emotion, from certain noises 
 he had heard, he guessed the truth. But he was far 
 from thinking of Phil. He suspected that some circus 
 man was paying court to her. 
 
 Phil, from the outside, heard this dialogue. 
 
 "You were not alone?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "There was a man here?" 
 
 Helia did not answer. 
 
 "Wait a bit," said Cemetery. "I '11 teach you 
 
 "Don't touch me I forbid you!" 
 
 Phil looked through a rent in the canvas. 
 
 3
 
 46 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Helia stood transfigured, superb with energy. She 
 was no longer a child driven by cuffs and blows; she 
 was the young woman awakened by love, conscious of 
 her rights and her duties. Phil's soul was in her. Helia 
 spoke in a low tone, and her attitude was so calm that 
 the man stopped in amazement. 
 
 "Hein! what is it?" he stammered. 
 
 "Leave this room!" said Helia, "or I will have the 
 police arrest you. You have no right over me ! From 
 to-day you shall keep your hands off me! Leave the 
 room," she repeated. 
 
 As if her gesture had the power of a charm, the man 
 went out, dumb with surprise and raising his elbow as 
 if to protect himself. 
 
 Phil was filled with enthusiasm at the sight of Helia 's 
 self-deliverance. His counsels had fallen on good 
 ground. He had awakened in Helia a spirit of indepen- 
 dence, and this made him feel an increase of responsi- 
 bility. 
 
 At midnight, while the artistes were supping at the 
 inn, Phil saw Helia in the shadow of the wagons. It 
 was there that he met her henceforth, for after this he 
 went no more to the dressing-room. Their conversations 
 took place in the peace of night; they said a thousand 
 things to each other, talking, like children, of whatever 
 passed through their heads, drifting with the current 
 which bore both onward. 
 
 "I don't like the career they have chosen for me," 
 said Phil! "they want me to be a diplomat. Later on 
 I wish to be an artist a painter or sculptor; a painter, 
 I think. My guardian will never be willing. But never
 
 REMEMBERING THE GOLDEN DAYS 47 
 
 mind ! I will go to Paris I will make my way by 
 myself!" 
 
 "Who knows if I shall ever see you again!" said 
 Helia. "What will become of me?" 
 
 "Helia, you shall come to me as soon as I have earned 
 money. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Paris, ' ' said Helia, dreamily. ' ' You will be all alone 
 there when you arrive. Ah ! if I only knew some one ! 
 At any rate, I will give you the address of a hotel for 
 artistes where I have been myself with Cemetery, and a 
 letter for Suzanne, whom I knew at school. Suzanne 
 is an actress. We write to each other sometimes." 
 
 Ah, what adieus were theirs the evening before the 
 separation! How Helia trembled when Phil kissed her 
 and what promises he made her! 
 
 Sinking back in the sofa-cushions, Helia and Phil stared 
 vaguely before them at the Morgana picture. The per- 
 fume of Miss Rowrer's violets reached them, light and 
 subtle; and the minutes passed in silence. Then Phil 
 sang in an undertone : 
 
 " Adieu, ma mie, adieu, mon coeur, 
 
 Adieu, mon espe"rance ! . . . 
 
 Puisque il me faut servir le roi, 
 
 Se'parons-nous d'ensemble." 
 
 ("Farewell, my love, farewell, my heart, 
 
 Farewell, all my hope ! . . . 
 And since I must serve my king, 
 
 We must separate from each other!") 
 
 He put aside the banjo and began talking with Helia, 
 asking questions about her present life.
 
 48 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "How long have you been in Paris, Helia? A short 
 time only?" 
 
 Helia, who was astonished, was on the point of re- 
 plying: "Why, I wrote you." She remained silent, how- 
 ever. The sumptuous studio the visits of monsei- 
 gneurs and beautiful young ladies how different it was 
 from the Phil of other days, the Phil of the circus, the 
 student who had been devoted to her later on in Paris ! 
 Why not a word of their life then, of their idyl of the 
 Louvre roof-garden ? etc. ... He did not even speak of 
 all that ; his remembrance seemed to be at an end. This, 
 then, was all he found to say to her after more than a 
 year of separation he who could not live without her, 
 who had said it a hundred times. 
 
 "Where are you living?" asked Phil. "At the Hotel 
 des Artistes, where I went when I came to Paris? I 
 left it on the advice of Suzanne, your great actress," 
 Phil went on, smilingly. 
 
 "Ah, Phil! I thought her a great actress," said 
 Helia. "She was the only person I knew in Paris. Oh, 
 if I could have been more useful to you, I would have 
 been ! No, ' ' she began again, quickly, ' ' I am not living 
 there; but I keep Cemetery there." 
 
 ' ' Cemetery ! ' ' replied Phil. 
 
 "The poor fellow has grown old he is out of work; 
 I pay for his room until he can find an engagement. ' ' 
 
 "What, Cemetery, that brute?" 
 
 "He made me an artiste !" Helia replied, bravely. 
 
 "And your little sister?" continued Phil, "Sosu- 
 rette, you called her what has become of her ? Do you 
 keep her with you?"
 
 REMEMBERING THE GOLDEN DAYS 49 
 
 "Yes," said Helia. "My father's family claimed her, 
 but it was a little late, was it not? I have kept her, 
 thanks to several friends M. Socrate, the poet, among 
 the rest." 
 
 "Socrate!" said Phil. "I know a person of that 
 name. It can't be the same mine is a painter." 
 
 "So is mine." 
 
 ' ' lie is a sculptor also, ' ' added Phil. 
 
 "It must be the same man," said Helia. 
 
 ' ' Impossible ! ' ' thought Phil. ' ' Socrate a friend of 
 Helia! How can they have met?" 
 
 Phil thought of the life of Helia in circuses and 
 music-halls the coarse environment where art touches 
 elbows with shamelessness. "What influences have been 
 around her," he thought in sadness, "during all this 
 time in which I have not seen her?" 
 
 "Socrate does many kind little things for me," Helia 
 went on. "He posts my letters and makes himself 
 useful. He 's a man who will be celebrated some day; 
 oh, you will see ! ' ' 
 
 So spoke Helia, in the spirit of loyalty. In reality 
 she cared little enough for Socrate; but it pleased her 
 to let Phil think that she cared for him. So much the 
 worse if Phil should be vexed ! Had he been afraid to 
 give pain ? Since she has been in the studio he has not 
 once kissed her ! 
 
 Helia rose to go away. 
 
 "Then it 's for to-morrow, Phil?" 
 
 Phil begged her to stay. 
 
 "No; I will come back," said Helia, " and we '11 pose 
 to-morrow. I have so many things to do to-day my
 
 50 FATA MORGANA 
 
 costumer, my director, a new apparatus to try I must 
 hurry." 
 
 "Phil has forgotten me," said Helia to herself. "It 
 had to come I am nothing to him now!" 
 
 As she passed out of the door she was aware of the 
 perfume of the violets which Miss Rowrer had let fall.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 WHEN PHIL CAME TO PARIS 
 
 AS Helia felt, Phil was, indeed, no longer the same. 
 
 /% This was no more the Phil who had loved her in 
 -^- the old days. 
 
 When the Phil who did not go into " society," and 
 knew neither duke nor Miss Rowrer, when that Phil 
 came to Paris, after parting from Helia in the court- 
 yard near the circus, he hastened to the Hotel des Ar- 
 tistes, of which Helia had told him, treasuring in his 
 pocket her letter that recommended him to Suzanne. 
 Evening was falling, the street was dark, the house 
 somber. Maillots were drying at windows. An invisible 
 musical clown was picking out on his bottles lugubrious 
 tunes. But Phil thought of Helia, and was gay. 
 
 That night he slept little. He was in a hurry for the 
 morning, in order that he might carry Helia 's letter 
 to Mile. Suzanne. He flung his window wide, and heard 
 Paris murmuring in the dark. 
 
 "Your name and profession," said the landlady 
 next morning, as he came down. Phil signed the regis- 
 ter, writing underneath : 
 
 "Artist-painter." 
 
 51
 
 52 FATA MORGANA 
 
 " Artist-painter," said the landlady. "I should have 
 liked that trade." 
 
 "It 's not a bad one," Phil said. 
 
 "But very difficult," replied the landlady. "We 
 lately had a painter here a very famous one ; he painted 
 with his feet. He used to tell me the hardest thing 
 about it is to balance yourself on your hands while you 
 are painting ! Ah, monsieur, the public no longer appre- 
 ciates the fine arts. If I were you, at your age, I 'd 
 learn to walk on a ball." 
 
 "I '11 tell that to Mile. Suzanne," Phil said to himself. 
 "She must be a real artiste Mile. Suzanne. And then 
 we '11 talk about Helia ! ' ' 
 
 He thought he should never get to Mile. Suzanne, the 
 city was so enormous. He was meditating what he 
 should say to her, when, all of a sudden, the cab began 
 jolting over an atrocious stretch of pavement. Phil 
 stuck his head through the window just as the cab drew 
 up at the end of a blind alley. 
 
 "Say, cocker," said Phil, "I think you 've made a 
 mistake. ' ' 
 
 "Penses-tu, bebe!" murmured the cabman. 
 
 "What do you say?" 
 
 "I say it 's all right." 
 
 Phil got out. There were heads at all the windows; 
 the cab had made a stir in the little street. 
 
 ' ' Perhaps she saw me come, ' ' thought Phil, as he went 
 into the house. 
 
 It was the right address, but Mile. Suzanne was not 
 at home. 
 
 "You '11 find Mile. Suzanne in the Boulevard de Vau-
 
 Phil arrives at the Hotel
 
 WHEN PHIL CAME TO PARIS 55 
 
 girard, Number 13 bis. You go this way, turn to the 
 right, then to the left ; there 's a door with plaster in 
 front of it. Then ask for Mile. Suzanne." 
 
 Phil paid the cabman and set off on foot. He walked 
 to the right, then to the left, and found himself in the 
 Boulevard de Vaugirard, at that time of day deserted. 
 Turning again to the left, he saw a heap of plaster with 
 a door behind it. Phil knocked timidly. 
 
 "Entrez!" cried a voice of thunder. 
 
 Phil had just time to pull down his cuffs. There 
 was no time to push up his cravat. "Come in !" said in 
 such a tone allowed of no delay. 
 
 He entered. It was an astonishing place, heaped up 
 with mud, a chaos of clay and plaster. There were 
 buckets filled with dirty water, sprinklers, hammers, 
 pieces of old iron. 
 
 ' ' Where am I ? " thought Phil. ' ' This must be a school 
 for sculpture done with the feet ! Have I made a mis- 
 take?" 
 
 "Why don't you come in?" roared the voice. "This 
 side ! Don 't upset my statue ! Look out for my ' Fra- 
 ternity' ! Troun de Diou! don't tread on my potatoes!" 
 
 Phil passed over all obstacles and came into the pres- 
 ence of the giant of the place. He was a short, thick-set 
 creature, whose gaping shirt showed a breast as hairy 
 as a monkey's back. With his fingers he was kneading 
 clay, and he raised furious eyes to Phil. Behind him a 
 little monsieur lay stretched on a lounge, playing with 
 his monocle ; but where was Suzanne ? 
 
 "Monsieur excuse me! I have made a mistake!" 
 Phil stammered.
 
 56 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "No harm done!" said the hairy one, mollified by 
 Phil's correct dress and high standing collar; and he 
 added: "At your service, monsieur!" 
 
 Phil showed his letter. "I thought I should find here 
 Mile. Suzanne, an actress," he said. 
 
 ' ' Suzanne ! It 's me ! " cried a gay voice from the 
 ceiling. 
 
 Phil looked up in the air. A charming blonde with 
 bare arms and feet, in a white waist and black petticoat, 
 was seated on top of a scaffolding, looking at Phil with 
 laughing eyes. 
 
 "Mile. Suzanne, my model !" said the man. 
 
 "Let 's have the letter!" Suzanne cried. 
 
 ' ' Catch ! ' ' said the sculptor, tossing up to her the 
 envelop weighted with a piece of clay. 
 
 "Well, I 'm going!" said the little monsieur with the 
 monocle. 
 
 "Wait! don't go!" Suzanne cried, with her letter in 
 her hand. "Let 's be correct. Messieurs, I present to 
 you Monsieur Phil, a young Englishman 
 
 "American," rectified Phil. 
 
 "A friend of one of my friends the famous Helia 
 it 's too long to explain. M. Caracal, who writes in the 
 the what-do-you-call-it well, no matter And Pou- 
 faille, sculptor, pupil of Boudin. There, the introduc- 
 tions are made ! ' ' 
 
 "Monsieur-" 
 
 "Monsieur " 
 
 "Monsieur " 
 
 There were three bows. 
 
 "Ah! so you are an American and a painter," Caracal
 
 WHEN PHIL CAME TO PARIS 57 
 
 said to Phil. "Tiens! tiens! tiensl I thought there 
 were only pork-packers in that country. Salut, mes- 
 sieurs!" 
 
 Before Phil could answer a word, Caracal had strad- 
 dled over the rough model of "Fraternity," jumped 
 across the potatoes, and gone out, slamming the door 
 behind him. 
 
 "He 's -not polite M. Caracal," Suzanne remarked; 
 "but you English don't care!" 
 
 ' ' I am an American ! ' ' 
 
 "Well, then, M. 1'Americain, what are you waiting 
 for ? Give me your hand and help me down ! ' ' 
 
 But she was on the ground before Phil could assist 
 her. 
 
 "Oh, my good Helia!" said Suzanne. "How glad I 
 am she is so happy!" 
 
 "The friends of our friends are our friends," bawled 
 Poufaille, as he patted Phil on the shoulder with his 
 great hairy hand. "Sit down, Monsieur Phil." 
 
 Phil sat down, much encouraged by their welcome. 
 
 Suzanne went and came lightly, moving things about. 
 She took a cigarette, lighted it, and threw it away. He 
 saw her approach the stove and raise the cover of the pot. 
 A bubbling noise came from it. 
 
 "Make yourself at home," said Poufaille. Phil prof- 
 ited by the permission to look around him. A hunk of 
 bread was lying on the model 's table. In an empty plate 
 a fork fraternized with a pipe. The shelves on the wall 
 were encumbered with rude canvases and rough models. 
 The sculptor was smoothing down his clay. The scene 
 did not attract the young American.
 
 58 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he said, preparing to retire, "I will 
 pay you a visit at the Impasse de Vaugirard." 
 
 "So as not to find me? You '11 be taking something 
 for your cold, sure ! ' ' 
 
 "But, mademoiselle, I I haven't a cold!" 
 
 There was an explosion of laughter. Suzanne choked 
 and Poufaille bellowed with joy. 
 
 "Ah ga," Suzanne cackled. "Hou! hou! but hou, 
 hou! Helia taught you nothing, then?" 
 
 Phil stood amazed, with his hat in his hand. 
 
 "He 's nice, all the same, I'Angliche we can't let 
 him go away alone something would happen to him!" 
 said Suzanne. "Put down your hat," she added, "and 
 lunch with us!" 
 
 "Of course, of course!" shouted Poufaille. 
 
 "Now be polite, Monsieur Phil," Suzanne went on: 
 "sit there and act as if you were in society. Help me peel 
 my potatoes ! ' ' 
 
 "Certainly!" Phil answered. 
 
 And so it was that Phil, seated on a block of plaster, 
 was initiated by Suzanne into the belles manieres Pari- 
 siennes. 
 
 "You must take off only the skins of the potatoes, like 
 this ! ' ' she said, while posting him in the picturesque 
 slang of the quarter. 
 
 "And to take something for your cold when you 
 haven't a cold?" Phil asked. 
 
 "That means to be caught," Suzanne answered. 
 "Dame! in Paris wit runs the streets!" 
 
 "Then this morning," said Phil, "this morning when 
 a lady advised me to give up art and learn to walk on a 
 ball it was to take something for my cold, was it?"
 
 "Hammering Hit- c-lay wifli a terrific blow of his list"
 
 WHEN PHIL CAME TO PARIS 61 
 
 ' ' For sure ! ' ' replied Suzanne. 
 
 A noise started them. It was Poufaille working him- 
 self up to a fit of anger. "Troun de Diou! She was 
 right, that lady of yours ! " he cried, hammering the clay 
 with a terrific blow of his fist. 
 
 "Hello!" Phil said in a fright; "is he going crazy?" 
 
 The sculptor's eyes were out of his head. With for- 
 midable blows he was flattening the bust, shouting rin- 
 forzando: "Right a hundred times over a thousand 
 times, a million times!" 
 
 "What 's the matter, M. Poufaille?" asked Phil, 
 rising. 
 
 "What 's the matter? To think that those pigs of 
 the jury refused my statue of 'Fraternity' for the 
 Salon! You understand my indignation," said Pou- 
 faille, taking Phil by the lapel of his coat. "Do you 
 understand? Hein! do you understand?" 
 
 "I I I understand your indignation I I share 
 it," Phil answered between the shakes. 
 
 "It 's enough to set one crazy ! ' ' shouted Poufaille ; 
 "but sacre mille tonnerres!Phi\, take off your col- 
 lar; the sight of you with that instrument of torture 
 chokes me ! ' ' 
 
 "Well, if that 's all that 's needed to calm you!" Phil 
 answered, and with a turn of the hand he pulled off 
 cravat and collar. 
 
 "J. la bonne heure! I breathe!" said Poufaille. 
 
 "Mon petit Poufaille, where 's the salt?" Suzanne 
 asked, without paying the slightest heed to the sculptor's 
 rage. 
 
 "There," answered Poufaille, "in the tobacco-jar."
 
 62 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "And now, to dinner!" Suzanne called. "Here 's 
 pig's rump ragout!" 
 
 "To dinner!" shouted Poufaille. 
 
 "To dinner!" repeated Phil. 
 
 During the meal Phil, who had had a French lesson 
 from Suzanne, tried to give her a lesson in geography. 
 He spoke of America. But Suzanne declared that all 
 those names hurt her head. And besides, she did n 't 
 believe a word of it. 
 
 "Let 's talk of love instead," she said. "Are you 
 greatly in love with my friend Helia?" 
 
 Phil blushed. 
 
 "She is so pretty," Suzanne continued; "and 
 she 's not been spoiled, I can tell you ! All the more 
 merit in her to be good she 's worth more than all of 
 us together ! not to speak of her being pretty- 
 pretty ! That does n 't hurt anything, does it, Monsieur 
 Phil?" 
 
 Phil smiled. 
 
 "Oh, if I were a man!" Suzanne declared, enthusias- 
 tically, "I 'd make a fool of myself for Helia! Tell me 
 all about her," she went on. "Love-stories are so 
 amusing ! ' ' 
 
 Phil told about the little Saint John, the lamb, the 
 game of Wolf, the poster-umbrella, the dressing-room 
 under the benches, and his last interview with Helia, 
 when she had given him the address of the Hotel des 
 Artistes and his letter of introduction. 
 
 Suzanne drank in his words, turn b'y turn moved to 
 tenderness or laughter. 
 
 "Oh, it does me good to hear it! There 's love for
 
 WHEN PHIL CAME TO PARIS 63 
 
 you!" she cried, putting her hand to her heart with a 
 gesture of the stage. 
 
 ''I see that you are an actress," Phil observed. 
 
 "An actress? I? Penses-tu, bebef I appeared once 
 in a cabaret artistiqueit disgusted me with the theater 
 for the rest of my life!" 
 
 "You forget that you play the Muse at our reunion," 
 Poufaille interrupted. 
 
 "Oh, yes! the Muse," Suzanne replied. "You see, 
 Phil, since they bore themselves to death in Paris, those 
 from each province meet together and give balls and 
 receptions and lectures and what not; and they give 
 dinners, too and sing to the sound of the hurdy-gurdy." 
 
 "I 'm the hurdy-gurdy!" cried Poufaille. 
 
 "And I 'm the one that sings," added Suzanne. "I 
 eat garlic that day and improvise in patois and every 
 one thinks I belong to his province. Et die done, et vive 
 la joiel" 
 
 "Et vive la joie!" took up Phil. 
 
 They were now a trio of friends. 
 
 "By the way, mon cher, where do you live?" asked 
 Poufaille, who was already saying "thou" to him and 
 calling him mon cher and mon vieux without knowing 
 either his name or address. Phil told the hotel he was at. 
 
 "Allans done! but that 's a quarter of the arrives!" 
 Poufaille said scornfully; "you have only bourgeois in 
 that quarter, medal-men, members of the jury the pigs ! 
 You 're done for if you stay there ! ' ' 
 
 "You mustn't stay there a day longer!" declared 
 Suzanne. "Come over here; we '11 present you to the 
 copains [comrades] . ' '
 
 64 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Hesitation was impossible. 
 
 "All right," Phil said, as he put on his collar and 
 cravat. ' ' I will leave to-day. ' ' 
 
 "Will you come to my house?" Suzanne asked. "No 
 ceremony, you know ! I '11 bring you a mattress. ' ' 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Phil. 
 
 "Or else here," said Poufaille. "You can sleep in the 
 corner beside the potatoes, heinf Will that do?" 
 
 "No, thanks," said Phil; "I '11 see you again to-mor- 
 row! Au revoir!" 
 
 The same evening, having found a room, Phil left his 
 hotel.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 AN INITIATION INTO ART 
 
 THE next day Phil returned his new friends' 
 hospitality by taking them to lunch. 
 "Where are we going?" Suzanne asked. 
 
 "Where you wish," answered Phil. 
 
 "To Mere Michel's, then." 
 
 Suzanne delighted in this restaurant. The food was 
 bad, but there was laughter. Sometimes messieurs with 
 high hats invited her to chic places. Suzanne would re- 
 fuse the chic restaurants and take them to Mere Michel 's, 
 where their hats brought out thunders of applause. 
 
 Phil had a Derby hat and so received a more modest 
 welcome. For that matter, few people were there when 
 they arrived. Poufaille did the honors of the place. 
 
 ' ' Do you see those two photos on the wall, Phil ? That 
 hum! that 's mine, my two statues 'Liberty,' 'Fra- 
 ternity.' Do you see this photo in the frame? Salut! 
 That means a year's credit it 's from Lionsot, a Prix- 
 de-Rome man; he paid Mere Michel with an autograph 
 dedication at the base of his 'Light-Footed Achilles.' ' 
 
 "Cours apres!" laughed Suzanne. 
 
 Meanwhile the customers kept coming in, some with 
 4 65
 
 66 FATA MORGANA 
 
 canvases and paint-boxes, others with only their long 
 hair and unkempt beards. 
 
 "That one 's a painter that one a sculptor and that 
 a musician," said Poufaille. "The empty place, there in 
 the corner, is the place of Socrate, a type epatant! Mu- 
 sician, sculptor, painter, and poet, and philosopher a 
 whole world in himself!" 
 
 ' ' Ah ! ' ' uttered Phil, respectfully, as he looked at the 
 empty place. 
 
 Nothing was heard for a time but the rattle of knives 
 and forks ; then there was a great deal of laughter, with 
 cries that punctuated conversations on art. Heads were 
 turned for a few entrances. A pretty model with a cloud 
 of gauze for a scarf was greeted with ' ' Kiss, kiss ! ' ' An 
 old man with a gilt band round his cap only called forth 
 howls. 
 
 "Eh! you old Gaul!" 
 
 "Vieux coq!" 
 
 "Your 'kiss, kiss,' makes me laugh," said the old man. 
 ' ' Do you know to-day what ' kiss, kiss, ' means ? Oh, yes ! 
 in the old days women fell in love under the Empire!" 
 
 "Ta louche, bebe!" 
 
 " Ferme $a [shut up] ! " 
 
 "He is the inspector of the Louvre roofs," Poufaille 
 said to Phil. "I am well acquainted with him. I see 
 him every day." 
 
 Phil opened his eyes wide; everything was new to 
 him. From his seat he had also a view of the bar along- 
 side. While Mere Michel served in the room of the ar- 
 tistes, Pere Michel stretched out his immense bulk behind 
 the counter.
 
 AN INITIATION INTO ART 67 
 
 "That man he 's serving is the lackey of the Duke of 
 Morgania," observed Suzanne. 
 
 "Does the Duke of Morgania live near here?" Phil 
 interrupted. He had read the name in the newspapers. 
 
 "Almost opposite," Suzanne answered. 
 
 "Ah!" Phil said, with the same shade of respect which 
 he had shown before the empty seat of Socrate, never 
 dreaming that he would one day be the friend of both 
 the grand seigneur and the poet-philosopher. 
 
 Just then Socrate entered. Pouf aille nudged Phil with 
 his elbow. Phil looked. He saw Socrate seat himself in 
 his corner, call the gargon, order three or four dishes 
 and a liter of wine, hurriedly, at haphazard, like a man 
 overwhelmed with thought and with no time to lose. 
 
 "He 's begun a work on the Louvre something tre- 
 mendous ! ' ' Pouf aille informed Phil. 
 
 "What is it like?"* Phil asked. 
 
 "No one knows!" 
 
 Phil examined the man who seemed to be carrying the 
 weight of a world. 
 
 His skull was nearly bald, his forehead bulging out, 
 his hair about his ears, while his beard half hid a gri- 
 mace ; his eye was alert and sagacious. 
 
 "He does resemble him, though," Phil observed. 
 
 "Resembles whom?" said Pouf aille. 
 
 "Socrates the ancient." 
 
 ' ' So there was another ? ' ' Pouf aille asked. 
 
 When his meal was over, Socrate arose, sad-mannered 
 and dignified. 
 
 "He 's going over to the Cafe des Deux Magots," said 
 Pouf aille. "Let 's go too you '11 see him nearer."
 
 68 FATA MORGANA 
 
 The Deux Magots was the rendezvous of different 
 bands the Band of Cherche-Midi (look out for twelve 
 o'clock!), made up of rich Americans playing Bohemia 
 and frequenting the Deux Magots in appropriate cos- 
 tume; the band of the Red-headed Goat, artists who de- 
 spised art and occupied themselves with socialism ; and 
 there were others besides. 
 
 No one went to the Deux Magots for its coffee they 
 went there for Socrate and Caracal. There could be 
 heard Socrate, musician, painter, and poet, speaking of 
 high art ; the new men drank in his words. 
 
 One day, in his enthusiasm, Charley, the millionaire 
 Bohemian, proposed to take him to America to give lec- 
 tures on ''The Artistic Atmosphere" by Jove! 
 
 "Are there any cafes in America?" Socrate asked. 
 
 "Helas, non!" 
 
 "Then I stay where I am," replied Socrate, the man 
 of manly decisions; "when America has cafes I '11 go 
 over not before. Arrangez-vous!" 
 
 "You 're great, by Jove!" cried Charley. 
 
 Socrate dazzled the young. He talked of everything, 
 social questions included. 
 
 "The distribution of wealth is badly made," he said. 
 "You have genius and no money and you '11 be obliged 
 to work, to produce and to sell ! To sell, do you under- 
 stand ? To cheapen yourself, to prostitute your genius ! 
 In society as I dream of it, the artist, freed from material 
 bonds, would soar in serene heights." 
 
 Socrate cited the example of Lionsot, the Prix-de- 
 Rome man, the sculptor of "Light-footed Achilles." 
 "He had the Prix do Rome he has turned out badly!
 
 Socrate at Deux Magots
 
 AN INITIATION INTO ART 71 
 
 Yet there was good in him : to pay a wretched debt for 
 food with an artistic autograph that was noble!" 
 
 Most of them, in fact, acted like the famous Lionsot 
 for example, whenever Mere Michel demanded her money. 
 
 Caracal, who was not so deep but more brilliant, en- 
 joyed a different prestige. 
 
 First of all, he lived in the Grands Quartiers, in a 
 house with an elevator! so it was said. And while the 
 others ate at Mere Michel 's, Caracal would be supping at 
 Montmartre supreme elegance! 
 
 Besides, he wrote in the newspapers. For a little ar- 
 ticle, for one's name cited in the "Tocsin" how low 
 would not one stoop to obtain such a favor! 
 
 " 'Oysters and Melons,' still life by X ," or else 
 
 "'Old Tree-trunk,' landscape by Z "; and Z 
 
 and X would march off together into immortality. 
 
 Caracal, behind his monocle, observed the different 
 bands, in his heart deriding every one. He cross-ques- 
 tioned the comrades, and composed his newspaper chro- 
 niques on the cafe table. 
 
 "Eh bien! anything for my paper? A nice little 
 scandal ? Something strong ? ' ' 
 
 "I 've got something new, ' ' the good-natured Pouf aille 
 would say ; "at my house, in the courtyard, a woman has 
 been found dead." 
 
 "Bravo! Young? pretty?" 
 
 "No, old." 
 
 "And dead how?" Caracal asked. "From drink?" 
 
 "No, of starvation. She was keeping alive the four 
 children of a neighbor who was palsied ; and she killed 
 herself working."
 
 72 FATA MORGANA 
 
 ' ' Old and poor ! but that 's not interesting ; it 's only 
 tiresome!" 
 
 And he went on with the conversation, in which music, 
 poetry, love, sculpture, and crime made a horrible mix- 
 ture. 
 
 Phil, coming up from the province, was made gloomy 
 by all this noise. These never-ending dissertations made 
 his head turn. It was the invasion of his brain by a 
 world whose existence he had never suspected, of whose 
 virtues and vices he had no idea. 
 
 When his work was over, the copains took walks with 
 him through Paris and showed him such "Parisian" 
 places as the Rue Mouffetard and the Rue Saint-Medard. 
 
 Paris proper did not count ; you had to cross its whole 
 width and go as far as Montmartre to become really 
 Parisian. All had a single ambition to be the painter 
 of the wretchedly poor, and of street-women, an easy art 
 brought into fashion by a few noisy successes. They 
 initiated Phil to their Paris, to the Paris of the fosses 
 aux lions, of leprous quays, of rag-pickers' alleys, where 
 children played hide-and-seek behind heaps of refuse. 
 When Phil wished to go and dream by the banks of the 
 Seine, they led him to the banks of the Bievre, stinking 
 like a charnel-house. 
 
 "Hein! Don't you see it 's beautiful in color?" they 
 said to him. Phil acknowledged, as he sniffed, that the 
 Bievre diffused an "artistic atmosphere." 
 
 The truth is, Phil soon had enough of such loafing. 
 Of course, he wasn't a genius like the others nothing 
 came to him easily. An organism like Socrate, painter- 
 poet-philosopher, was incomprehensible to him. Such a
 
 AN INITIATION INTO ART 73 
 
 man, doing a colossal work on the Louvre and studying 
 the social question in cafes, seemed great to him. As for 
 himself, he was conscious that he had not such gifts. For 
 him work was necessary, a great deal of work, and he set 
 himself to it resolutely : studies at the life-class, sketches 
 in the street, libraries, museums he went everywhere 
 and did a little of everything. He prepared ardently 
 for his admission to the studio ; he frequented the schools 
 and appeared but seldom at the Deux Magots. 
 
 Socrate, isolated in pipe-smoke like a god in a cloud, 
 condescended to take an interest in him. 
 
 ' ' You work too much, young man ! Look out ! Think 
 less of the material side and trust to inspiration. Work 
 is good. Glory is better. Think of glory, young man ! ' ' 
 
 "Helas!" Phil thought; "how can you have glory 
 without work ? ' ' 
 
 He had it a few days later the glory which was dear 
 to the heart of Socrate. 
 
 It was the day of his reception to the studio. He had 
 only to give his family name, first name, and particulars 
 to be asked to get up on a table "Step lively et plus 
 vite que QO,!" and to see around him a howling crowd, 
 armed with brushes and palettes, shouting: "Philidor!" 
 
 "An American speaking French where did you come 
 from? En voilaun drole de type!" 
 
 "My my ancestors were French," said Phil. 
 
 "An American who has ancestors!" 
 
 "Philidor de Longueville " stammered Phil. 
 
 "Philidor! Philidor!" 
 
 "Sing us something!" 
 
 "Take off your clothes!"
 
 74 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Phil began undressing. 
 
 "Step lively et plus vite que ga!" 
 
 Fifty savages were howling, yelling, laughing, and 
 hissing around him. 
 
 ' ' Enough ! enough ! ' ' 
 
 "Encore! encore!" 
 
 1 ' Paint him blue ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' No, no ! " 
 
 "Yes, yes!" 
 
 Phil was already stripped to the waist, facing the 
 great window in full light. At his feet the confused mass 
 of students was hushed they stood in a circle around 
 him. He heard their approving murmurs as they ad- 
 mired his thoroughbred muscles, his broad shoulders, the 
 nervous slenderness of his waist. 
 
 "Bravo, 1'Americain ! There 's a man who 's built! 
 You 'd say he was an antique c'est un costeau he '11 
 be a great boy! I wouldn't want him to punch me 
 he 's a good ' fellow, too ! Enough ! enough ! Dress 
 yourself, Philidor! A Ban for Philidor!" 
 
 "Pan ! pan ! pan ! pan ! pan ! 
 Pan ! pan ! " 
 
 Thus Phil made acquaintance with the intoxication of 
 glory. 
 
 Profiting by the moment of silence, a grave voice arose. 
 
 "The welcome!" 
 
 Phil, over the heads, saw amid the smoke a bearded 
 face under a great bald forehead. 
 
 "Socrate has just come in," a pupil said to Phil. 
 "Socrate, an astonishing man painter-poet!"
 
 ' ; Stripped to the waist
 
 AN INITIATION INTO ART 77 
 
 "I know Socrate," Phil said with pride. 
 
 "The welcome!" Socrate repeated. 
 
 "C'est ga! That 's it, the welcome!" the whole hall 
 cried. 
 
 ' ' That means you must pay the drinks for the studio, ' ' 
 the pupil explained. "It 's the custom here." 
 
 "Messieurs, whenever you wish," said Phil. 
 
 "At the Deux Magots and at once," Socrate insisted, 
 like a man accustomed to prompt decisions. 
 
 Phil dressed himself, and all went out into the streets, 
 en route for the Deux Magots. Socrate, the glory of the 
 studio, leader of men, and genius Socrate himself gave 
 his arm to Phil. 
 
 "Say, young man," whispered Socrate, who was mas- 
 ter of himself in any crowd, "you couldn't lend me 
 twenty francs?" 
 
 After this glorious day Phil's existence seemed flat. 
 From his childhood he had been accustomed to free 
 air, to liberty in great spaces ; and now he had to 
 live a cloistered life, shut up in himself, but with 
 work, it is true, for distraction. He worked sadly and 
 alone. 
 
 In front of his window, on the other side of the Seine, 
 stretched the Louvre. Beyond, far away, above the 
 smoke of Paris, the church of the Sacre-Creur lifted its 
 Oriental dome. To the right was the Pont Neuf with the 
 point of the island of the Cite and Notre Dame; to the 
 left was the greenery of the Tuileries, the Grand Palais, 
 the Arc de Triomphe. 
 
 Now and then Suzanne came. But Suzanne was far 
 from being Helia. Her frivolity made Phil shy, though
 
 78 FATA MORGANA 
 
 her babbling talk amused him. She kept Phil posted, 
 telling him all the important news. 
 
 Poufaille, for example, was surely going to give up 
 sculpture and become a painter 1'Institut would have 
 to look out for itself ! They had rejected his statue. " Eh 
 bien, they '11 see ! And then, paintings sell better ! ' ' 
 added Suzanne. 
 
 "Does he sell his paintings?" Phil asked with aston- 
 ishment. "What does he do for a living?" 
 
 "He has something to do at the Louvre, I believe," 
 Suzanne said. But she immediately became silent and 
 bit her lip. 
 
 "A copy, of course ornaments for a plafond?" Phil 
 asked. 
 
 "I believe so," Suzanne answered, fearing to say too,, 
 much. 
 
 "There is some secret," Phil thought. 
 
 But the very day she told him all this his door opened 
 suddenly and Poufaille entered with a furious air. 
 
 "Ah, the pigs!" he cried, shaking his fist toward the 
 Louvre ; and he threw into a corner a tool which Phil 
 took at first for a sculptor 's instrument. It was a spade. 
 
 ' ' What 's that ? ' ' asked Phil. ' ' What 's the matter ? ' ' 
 
 "That 's my spade; and the matter is they are pigs!" 
 
 "Have they taken your plafond away from you?" 
 Phil asked on a chance. 
 
 "What plafond?" Poufaille cried. "They 're trying 
 to keep me from cultivating my potatoes!" 
 
 "Potatoes?" exclaimed Phil. 
 
 "Phil doesn't know about it," Suzanne said to Pou- 
 faille.
 
 " ' They are pigs ! '
 
 AN INITIATION INTO ART 81 
 
 "Eh bientant pis it 's a secret," Poufaille cried; 
 "but I 'm going to tell it. And, besides, a secret chokes 
 me, like your collars ! ' ' 
 
 ''If it's a secret, I don't want to know it," Phil 
 answered. 
 
 "Si, si! You must. I '11 tell it to you under seal 
 of secrecy ! See here, ' ' Poufaille went on ; ' ' I 'm gar- 
 dener at the Louvre ! ' ' 
 
 "Nothing wonderful in that," Phil said, as he looked 
 across the Seine at the flower-beds and green turf at the 
 foot of the Louvre facade. 
 
 "Not there," Poufaille explained. "Not down there 
 but up yonder! I 'm gardener of the Louvre 
 roofs!" 
 
 Looking where Poufaille pointed, Phil perceived, high, 
 high up against the blue sky, tufts of greenery actually 
 growing above that part of the Louvre Palace. He knew 
 there were a few roof-gardens in Paris ; but he had never 
 noticed this one. 
 
 "Now you understand!" Poufaille said, with gesticu- 
 lation. "There 's no means of keeping up an under- 
 standing with them ! It has ended by wearing me out. 
 Always roses, iris, and gillyflowers, and gillyflowers, iris, 
 and roses. That sort of stuff won 't fill my stomach ! I 
 wanted to plant potatoes. I could live on them! But 
 they 've refused permission and I tell you, they 're 
 pigs!" 
 
 "But they who are they?" 
 
 "Eh! They when I say 'they* I mean him I" 
 
 "Well, who is he?" 
 
 "The old guardian of the Louvre roofs."
 
 82 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "Ah, yes," said Phil; "I saw him at Mere Michel's. 
 And so you 're his gardener?" 
 
 "I am that is, I was!" 
 
 An idea came to Phil. He was stifled in his room ; he 
 might have up there, close by a garden to himself. 
 
 "Dis done, old Poufaille, what if they gave me the 
 gardener's place?" 
 
 "That could be done easily; but I warn you you '11 
 have no right to cultivate potatoes!" 
 
 "I '11 be content with flowers." 
 
 "What eccentricity!" Poufaille exclaimed, in the 
 height of astonishment. "Ah, you 're very American!"
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE HANGING GARDENS OF PARIS 
 
 HENCEFORTH Phil had glorious days. Poufaille, 
 whom he made his assistant gardener, dug and 
 watered and trimmed the alleys. It increased 
 Phil 's expenses, but what a pleasure for him, after work, 
 to pursue his dreams as he walked amid the flowers ! 
 
 Long months had gone by since Phil's reception into 
 the studio. He had passed through many trials since 
 then, and known discouragements and dogged labor and 
 the joy of progress. Should he walk on a ball to earn his 
 bread or hold the globe in his hand like a Caesar? An 
 effort, and then another, and an effort once more ! The 
 periods of want did not discourage him. Still he had 
 a sad existence, and his only amusement was to come up 
 here and breathe the pure air. 
 
 The garden of the Louvre, on top of Perrault's colon- 
 nade, was a resting-place for the pigeons in their flight 
 over Paris. They lighted there in bands, heedless of Phil 
 and Poufaille. But one day the birds were all a-flutter. 
 The hanging garden had its Semiramis Helia ! 
 
 Phil, while they held their dismayed flight above him, 
 
 83
 
 84 FATA MORGANA 
 
 sat at the feet of Helia, who looked down and smiled at 
 him. To the young girl it was a strange place. For 
 thirty years the inspector of the Louvre roofs the same 
 man whom Phil had already seen at Mere Michel's had 
 been making this garden, bringing up little by little the 
 earth in which the plants grew, and the pebbles which 
 covered the alleys. Boxes hidden among the foliage held 
 great shrubs; the perfume of iris and gillyflower, of 
 mignonette and roses, breathed from the flower-beds. 
 Hanging over the borders were ripening currants and 
 peaches and apples ; and laurels gave their purple flow- 
 ers. A whole row of statues and busts outlined the plots. 
 Helia pointed to the busts. 
 
 "The one who looks like a circus-rider with his big 
 mustaches who is he?" 
 
 "Napoleon III," Phil answered. 
 
 "And that other with his hair brushed up to a point 
 like a clown?" 
 
 "That is Louis-Philippe." 
 
 1 ' And this one ? and that one ? ' ' 
 
 Phil went on explaining his aerial paradise. 
 
 "This is Grevy, that is Carnot; here is M. Thiers 
 these are all official busts. When the government changes 
 they pack them off to the attic, and the inspector has put 
 them here to ornament his garden. 
 
 "And this arm-chair on which I am sitting, with all 
 its gilding rubbed off? Is that official also?" Helia 
 asked, examining the wood, carved with palms, and the 
 red velvet embroidered with the attributes of Law and 
 Justice. 
 
 "-It 's a relic of the Revolution of '48," answered Phil ;
 
 THE HANGING GARDENS OF PARIS 85 
 
 "we found it only lately in the attic it was King Louis- 
 Philippe's throne." 
 
 "A king's throne!" Helia said, jumping up. "How 
 can you think of it for a poor girl like me ? You would 
 be better in it, Phil. Seat yourself; I wish you to I 
 command you!" she said, imitating what she considered 
 the royal tone. 
 
 "Well, since you wish it 
 
 "Yes; it 's your place and here is mine," she added, 
 as she seated herself at Phil's feet. "Stay there, Phil 
 leave me at your feet. I am so happy ! ' ' 
 
 Happy ! She could not have found words to express 
 it all! For months and months and months she had 
 thought of Phil every day and every hour Phil, friend 
 of her childhood and youth, who had loved her well, who 
 would have protected her against Cemetery Phil, her 
 hero ! And now she saw him again ; he was there before 
 her, her head was resting on his knees, in the calm of the 
 beautiful day. How could she have told her happiness? 
 
 Phil, on his arrival in Paris, had thought less about 
 Helia at first, overburdened as he was with all his new 
 impressions ; but the environment in which he lived was 
 not pleasant to him. His illusions had been cast to 
 earth ; he was in an abyss of temptations from which he 
 could not, like Suzanne, free himself by a smile or a 
 shrug. But he soon regained possession of himself; he 
 made of Helia an ideal. He knew no young girl of his 
 own sphere, and he took refuge in the thought of Helia 
 as in a place of safety. She personified his innocent 
 youth. Phil still had in him the old Puritan austerity 
 he whose family Bible showed on its margin this proud
 
 86 FATA MORGANA 
 
 device written in faded ink by some persecuted ancestor : 
 "No judge but God, no woman but the wife!" He was 
 grateful to Helia because her remembrance protected 
 him ; because she seemed to him always so pure. 
 
 Accordingly, when Helia came back, with the superb 
 confidence of youth which believes in the everlastingness 
 of things, Phil looked on her again with joy. In spite of 
 the rude life she was leading, she was more modest and 
 charming than ever; and she was so beautiful! Helia 
 came into Phil's life at a dangerous moment an accom- 
 plice of the sun and the fragrance of roses. 
 
 "How beautiful she is!" Phil thought, as he looked 
 at her faultless features and her eyes, in which a flame 
 seemed burning. 
 
 "How handsome you are !" Helia said to him, scanning 
 his firm expression and look of frankness. 
 
 They talked of one thing and another, thinking of each 
 other all the while ; or else they remained without speak- 
 ing, he on his throne, she at his feet, their gaze lost in the 
 tumultuous, motionless ocean of houses. 
 
 Paris was around them with its muffled murmur. At 
 the height where they were a pigeon's cooing subdued 
 the noise of three million human beings; at their feet 
 carriages filled the streets, moving on ceaselessly, like a 
 silent river. Helia looked to the horizon before her. 
 First of all she descried, among the trees of the Quai 
 de Conti, on the other side of the Seine, Phil's little 
 window. That was her first halting-place. La Monnaie 
 (the Mint), with all its millions on one side, and the 
 Institut (the palace of the Academy), with its Immor- 
 tals, on the other, interested her less. For her they were
 
 THE HANGING GARDENS OF PARIS 87 
 
 simply side-pieces, setting Phil's attic in relief. Just 
 behind, over an immensity of roofs, the Palais du Lux- 
 embourg served as a background. Farther still, to right 
 and left and everywhere, even in the distant blue, could 
 be seen cupolas and spires, towers and domes. The 
 church of the Sacre-Cceur rose above this ocean like a 
 cliff at whose foot the smoke beat up like waves. 
 
 ' ' How beautiful it is ! Oh, Phil, is it not beautiful ? 
 And how happy I am!" said Helia. 
 
 In those first days the strangeness of the place intimi- 
 dated her; even the busts took from the privacy of 
 the spot. But she soon came to look on them as old 
 friends, treating them as equals, as sovereign to sover- 
 eign. When Phil was painting and herself posing for 
 him, she would tranquilly disembarrass herself of her 
 collar and place it on the shoulders of Napoleon III and 
 crown the blessed head of Louis-Philippe with her flow- 
 ery hat. She sat on the old throne, and presided without 
 ceremony over the assembled monarchs. 
 
 The little garden seemed immense to her, for it held 
 their happiness. In reality, it occupied only one angle of 
 the middle pediment above the colonnade which looks 
 toward Saint-Germain 1'Auxerrois. 
 
 From that corner, flat as a Russian steppe, stretched 
 the immense oblong of the zinc roofs which surround the 
 court of the Louvre, forming a desert six hundred yards 
 long by thirty wide. Farther on, pointed roofs and pa- 
 vilions and deep gutters invited to adventure, and they 
 amused themselves in exploring their domain. 
 
 Especially the side toward the river attracted them. 
 They went along the balustrade above the Place Saint- 
 
 5
 
 88 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Germain, and turned to the right above the Quai du 
 Louvre. An enormous piece of decoration, composed 
 of bucklers and lances and fasces of piled arms sculp- 
 tured in the stone, terminated the flat roof, like an army 
 watching over the frontier of their empire. They went 
 down a little iron ladder across the Galerie des Bijoux 
 and turned to the left above the Galerie d'Apollon. 
 Helia followed hesitatingly; it seemed to her that the 
 whole city was looking at them. 
 
 In reality, no one could see her. They were shut off 
 from the Seine by the leafy tree-tops; only the cries of 
 children playing on the lawns came up to them, mingled 
 with the twittering of sparrows. The next moment they 
 found themselves in gutters deep as the beds of rivers. 
 They discovered peaceable corners which the old kings 
 of France seemed to have built expressly for themselves. 
 At times they might have thought themselves in gardens 
 of stone. 
 
 There were lofty chimneys profusely carved with gar- 
 lands; the leaves of acanthus and laurel and oak were 
 interlaced with strange flowers, among which laughed the 
 loves and satyrs of the Renaissance. Cornucopias poured 
 at their feet their marble fruits ; and goddesses, standing 
 against the blue sky, trumpeted through their shells the 
 happiness of their loves. 
 
 In the distance their own garden seemed like an oasis 
 of greenery. After long reveries it was sweet to them to 
 come back and breathe the air of its roses and to hear 
 the birds twitter in the shrubbery of their paradise. 
 
 Helia, since she had made Phil 's acquaintance, blushed 
 for her ignorance. She had given to reading all the time
 
 THE HANGING GARDENS OF PARIS 89 
 
 left her by her exercises ; there was in her something else 
 than superb physical beauty. Sometimes, with the blood 
 in her face and glad to be alive, after scaling with an 
 acrobat's agility the obstacles of the roof, she would 
 stop and ask Phil questions which showed a thoughtful 
 mind. She listened to his replies with attention, little 
 by little ridding herself of the common speech and nar- 
 row views of her trade. 
 
 ' ' Say, Phil, ' ' she remarked to him one day as they were 
 looking out over the great courtyard of the Louvre be- 
 neath them, "Blondin would have crossed that, dancing 
 on a tight-rope ! I believe I could do it, too, ' ' she added, 
 so light and strong did she feel. But she soon saw that 
 such ideas were not pleasing to Phil : he loved her in 
 spite of her being a circus-girl and not because she was 
 one. 
 
 At once she spoke of other things. 
 
 "No one ever taught me anything, Phil; teach me, you 
 who speak so well." 
 
 Phil was radiant. Encouraged by her desire to know, 
 he willingly became her educator and poured out his 
 knowledge for her. He modeled Helia's mind on his own. 
 She belonged to him more and more. She thought like 
 him, through him, for him. Her maiden intelligence 
 gave itself up to him. Phil was grateful to her for the 
 progress she was making. A look from her limpid eyes, 
 a grasp of her hand, were his sweet reward. They moved 
 him more deeply than words of love could have done; 
 and more and more Helia grew to be a part of him. Phil 
 talked to her of Paris and of the persons he knew there. 
 Helia answered with her clear good sense.
 
 90 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "The dirty banks of the Bievre what an idea when 
 the Seine is so pretty at Saint-Cloud! But perhaps 
 ugliness is easier to paint ? ' ' 
 
 "Perhaps," said Phil. "That must be the reason." 
 
 "As for me," Helia said, "I 'm only an ignorant girl 
 I love beautiful things!" 
 
 "Look, Phil, what is that we see down there?" she 
 said one day, as she was leaning over a skylight. 
 
 Phil looked ; they were just above one of the halls of 
 the Egyptian Museum, and they saw strange objects 
 beneath them statues of gods, mummies of kings, a 
 pell-mell of fallen grandeur. A squatting Sphinx lifted 
 its head and stared at them. Through the dusty glass 
 they might have thought they were looking into an entire 
 past, engulfed in the depths of the sea. A broken column 
 spoke of the crumbling of temples, a mutilated god of 
 the overthrow of altars, a dun-colored sarcophagus 
 of the heaping up of the sand beneath desert winds. 
 Phil explained these dead things to Helia and gave 
 them life. 
 
 "Ah," Helia said, "what happiness it is to know!" 
 
 They were alone, half kneeling on the roof, their heads 
 bent toward the skylight ; around them Paris murmured 
 like an ocean. They could have imagined themselves the 
 survivors of a world destroyed the only woman and the 
 only man escaped from the cataclysm, while the mysteri- 
 ous Sphinx raised its head as if to say: "Love! for life 
 passes as a dream!" 
 
 Phil and Helia arose in silence and came back to their 
 oasis, while above them, in the blue sky, the doves pur- 
 sued one another.
 
 Ou the Hoofs of the Louvre
 
 THE HANGING GARDENS OF PARIS 93 
 
 "Look at the birds," said Helia. "Come quick and 
 give them their grain. ' ' 
 
 The doves, as free as those of St. Mark's or of the 
 Guildhall, had quickly accustomed themselves to her, 
 and the presence of Helia did not trouble them. 
 
 It was a pleasure to Phil to see Helia in the midst of 
 their cooings and the beating of their wings. They came 
 to eat from her hand. As one of them lighted on her 
 shoulder, Helia had an inspiration. She took the dove 
 and gave a long kiss to its wings. 
 
 "Here, Phil! Do like me!" she said, presenting the 
 other wing to him. ' ' And now, fly away ! ' ' she added, 
 letting loose the bird, who in its flight seemed to sow 
 Paris with kisses. 
 
 And so the days passed. It was usually in the after- 
 noons that they met. In the mornings Phil worked and 
 Helia studied at home or else rehearsed at the circus. 
 Poufaille took care of the garden. The inspector made 
 his rounds, and sometimes, in the afternoon, watched 
 Helia and Phil from his hiding-place behind a bush. 
 
 The old man "of my time" confessed that lovers still 
 existed, and that these were real and kissed each other 
 as they did in "his time" under the Third Empire. But 
 usually they were alone. Suzanne came only now and 
 then to pick a rose. 
 
 ' ' What bears you are ! " she said as she looked at Phil 
 and Helia. "How can you stay in this desert, with 
 nothing but flowers and flowers, and pigeons and pi- 
 geons ? You '11 not come to the Bon Marche ? Good-by, 
 then!" And she would go tumbling down the stairs. 
 
 Phil painted a few studies from Helia. She posed for
 
 94 FATA MORGANA 
 
 her portrait amid the flowers. Sometimes, in hours of 
 discouragement, when his work went badly and his fu- 
 ture seemed doubtful and the struggle became too pain- 
 ful, Phil would dream as he looked at Helia. 
 
 "I will take her out of the life she is leading," he 
 said to himself. "I Ve promised her! I will tear her 
 from her surroundings ; I will make a cultivated woman 
 of her yet. It is God who has led her to cross my path. 
 I I" 
 
 And for a long time he would remain lost in thought. 
 
 In truth, it was a serious moment for him. Phil was 
 too young, too much left to himself, to be content for 
 any length of time with this simple role of friendship. 
 He was caught at his own game ; and, seeing her day by 
 day more beautiful and good, it seemed to him that he 
 could no longer live without her. 
 
 What, then? Should he play with love, taking it for 
 a toy? Should he fashion her heart only to break it? 
 No! The blood which his veins inherited forbade him 
 such meanness. He would have despised himself as if 
 he had been the dust of Sodom. 
 
 Should he marry her, then? 
 
 "Helia is devotedness itself, tenderness, grace," he 
 thought; "her poverty is the sister of my own: we are 
 equal. And yet, no! it is impossible, really! I cannot 
 marry Helia a circus-girl!" 
 
 But this objection disappeared before the lofty, frank, 
 luminous look of Helia and the candor of her smile. 
 
 And still the days passed on. It was splendid weather. 
 Never had they so appreciated their little oasis, where 
 there was always some breeze while at their feet the city
 
 THE HANGING GARDENS OF PARIS 95 
 
 was stifling in the dull heat; though even they them- 
 selves were sometimes almost overcome by it. 
 
 One afternoon Phil stuck up his canvas in the tool- 
 shed and stretched himself in the shade near Helia. 
 They talked of a thousand things or were silent for a 
 time, clasping each other's hands. Suddenly Phil 
 jumped up. 
 
 "Let us go!" he said. "It is time. We never stayed 
 so late." 
 
 But they found the door closed. 
 
 The guardian, no doubt, had glanced around the oasis, 
 and, seeing no one, had closed the door and gone down. 
 
 "He must have thought we had gone away," said 
 Phil. "We are prisoners till to-morrow!" 
 
 ' ' What an adventure ! ' ' said Helia. Both laughed 
 heartily. 
 
 Their supper was delightful. Poufaille would have 
 regretted there was no garlic or potatoes ; but there were 
 strawberries, and two cakes which Phil had brought for 
 lunch, and good fresh water instead of wine. They had 
 never eaten better; it was as charming as child's play. 
 Helia cut the fruits, dividing the oranges and arranging 
 the parts on leaves from the bushes. To drink, she 
 dipped the glass in a bucket of water at her side. 
 
 ' ' Here, Phil, drink ! ' ' she said, as she offered him the 
 glass. 
 
 "You first!" answered Phil. 
 
 Helia touched her lips to the water, and Phil drank 
 off the glass. 
 
 " It 's better than champagne, ' ' he said. 
 
 "Here, Phil, here 's a beautiful strawberry!"
 
 96 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "Taste it first!" said Phil. 
 
 Helia put the berry between her lips, and Phil took it 
 from her with a kiss. The child's play was growing 
 dangerous. 
 
 "Marchons! Now let 's take a walk!" said Phil. 
 
 "C'est Qa! Let 's climb our Himalaya!" cried Helia. 
 
 This was the name they had given to the Pavilion 
 Sully, which lifts its enormous bulk between the Louvre 
 courtyard and the Cour du Carrousel. It was the cul- 
 minating-point of the roof. But the excursion was im- 
 possible in full daylight; they would have been seen 
 from below ; by night no one could see them. 
 
 They passed through their wilderness and, following 
 the roof on the other side, came to the foot of the pavil- 
 ion. There, in the shadow of a chimney as big as a tower, 
 iron steps had been placed along the dome from bottom 
 to top, and an iron rod at the side served as a hand-rail. 
 
 "En route!" said Phil. 
 
 The ascent, which was at first straight up, curved 
 little by little over the round dome ; then there was 
 again a straight-up ascent along the crown of the 
 dome; and when this was passed they were at the top. 
 Helia followed without difficulty it was nothing 
 for her. 
 
 They were on their Himalaya. To right and left 
 opened the abysses of the courtyards below, and on every 
 side the immense roofs with their humps and turrets 
 and projections stood out black as ebony against the 
 glow of Paris. Lights sparkled above and below in 
 the heavens and from the city, which seemed another 
 heaven at their feet.
 
 t THE HANGING GARDENS OF PARIS 97 
 
 La Villette, the Trocadero, Montrouge, and the Bas- 
 tille lighted up their constellations. The Champs-Ely- 
 sees stretched out like a comet. Montmartre shone palely 
 along the horizon like a far-off nebula ; the great circle 
 of the boulevards belted the city with a Milky Way. 
 High up among the stars the Eiffel Tower lifted its 
 torch, like the pole-star. 
 
 "How grand it all is!" said Helia. She was on the 
 wide parapet, and her hair, loosened as she climbed up, 
 floated in the wind ; her breast rose and fell as she caught 
 her breath again. A thousand broken lights came to 
 them where they stood amid the stars. You might have 
 said they were Youth and Love in the center of the 
 universe. 
 
 "How beautiful you are!" said Phil. 
 
 "Let us go down," said Helia. 
 
 But as they climbed down there was a sudden cry. 
 A rusty step yielded under Phil's weight, and, letting 
 go the hand-rail, he glided toward the abyss. 
 
 Without losing her head, with the rapidity and cool 
 decision of a trained acrobat, stretching out one arm 
 and holding hard with the other, and with her breast 
 flat against the wounding rungs, Helia by a mighty ef- 
 fort grasped Phil 's wrist as he slid past her. The hand- 
 rail held firm, and Phil was saved. Then they came back 
 again to their oasis. 
 
 "Without you I should have been lost," said Phil. 
 
 "Oh, no!" Helia answered, laughing bravely. "We 
 were almost down, close to the roof; you would have 
 had a slide, that 's all!" 
 
 Phil was moved to tears.
 
 98 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "Come, pull yourself together," Helia said, "and 
 then to supper!" 
 
 She reached out her hand and took an apple grace- 
 fully and offered it to Phil. 
 
 "Here, eat!" 
 
 Her simple gesture in offering him the apple had, to 
 Phil's mind, something grandly Biblical in it, and the 
 idea overpowered him. As she held out her hand Phil 
 saw that it was bleeding, and exclaimed with anxiety. 
 
 "It is nothing," she answered; "it was just now 
 perhaps while I was holding on to the railing." 
 
 With infinite respect he put his lips to the wound 
 and suddenly he seemed to be drinking love at its 
 source; the fire ran through his veins; he seized Helia 
 with both arms and kissed her full on the mouth, crush- 
 ing his lips against hers ! 
 
 ' ' Helia, I love you ! I love you, and you shall be my 
 wife!" 
 
 "Your wife! Alas, a poor girl like me! How can 
 you think of it, Phil?" 
 
 "And I will serve you on my knees!" said Phil. 
 
 He pressed Helia to his heart, and the girl wept for 
 joy. Phil drank the tears on her cheeks, and murmured 
 words of love with Heaven as witness.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 A RUDE AWAKENING 
 
 OW followed a time of struggle and want; but 
 Phil supported his trials gaily, and gave the 
 same enthusiasm to his work which he had 
 given to his love. 
 
 At the school Phil was successful. The walls of his 
 room became covered with sketches, life studies, land- 
 scapes, compositions, and more and more studies of 
 Helia, studies without end, all adorably graceful, and 
 showing at once the artist and the lover. All the phases 
 of their existence were there, from the little Saint John, 
 and the girl mending her maillot on the steps of the 
 circus-wagon, to the present Helia, the beautiful young 
 woman whom he had decided to make his companion 
 for life. 
 
 It was without fear that Phil felt this increase of 
 responsibility. It was even necessary that Helia should 
 use all her authority over him to persuade him to let her 
 go where her engagements called her. He was too poor 
 to pay her forfeits, and he consented. Soon Helia was 
 to go abroad. This would be the last time they should 
 separate ; Phil swore it. When Helia should come back, 
 99
 
 100 FATA MORGANA 
 
 it would be for always. And what a woman he would 
 make of her! Helia should be his masterpiece. 
 
 The portrait he had painted from her would be worth 
 a Salon medal, his master assured him so, and that 
 would bring him out of his difficulties. Orders would 
 doubtless follow; but, while waiting, he would have to 
 live. Phil here and there sold a few little paintings. 
 Sometimes he had to run all over Paris to accomplish 
 this; but he told Helia where he was going, and they 
 would come back arm in arm like brother and sister, 
 while her smile scattered all his cares to the winds. 
 
 His troubles had their reward in great happiness. 
 There were vases full of flowers upon his table and 
 pretty curtains at his window; and, on his birthday, 
 Helia, with a bouquet, gave him a kiss into which she 
 put all the friendship and gratitude with which her 
 heart was filled. 
 
 There were also more substantial joys. They had 
 even as a supreme hope a chicken tied by the leg in a 
 corner of the room. They had intended fattening it. 
 Helia dreamed of a banquet to which she would invite 
 Poufaille and Suzanne; but the chicken was not ready. 
 The banquet was put off, and the day now came when 
 Helia was to go away. 
 
 Phil experienced the sadness of farewells at a railway 
 station on the crowded platform ; there was the grasping 
 of hands, the promises to write, and the anguish of see- 
 ing the train disappear in the night. 
 
 He came back overcome with grief. For the first 
 time the poverty of his room overwhelmed him; the 
 paper falling from the walls, his sketches fading upon
 
 A RUDE AWAKENING 101 
 
 them, all was somber and desolate in spite of the flowers 
 on the table and the curtains at the window. 
 
 He had never noticed it before, for Helia's presence 
 had absorbed him wholly. Now he realized that he was 
 living in an attic and he blushed at his poverty. 
 
 Was he to fritter away his life in this way? How 
 could he man that he was endure this? With all his 
 desire he had not been able to keep in Paris the young 
 girl he loved to tear her from her wandering life and 
 marry her. He, so free and strong, could not rid himself 
 of these bonds of poverty? He swore that he would be 
 free even though he should kill himself with work.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE END OF THE GUITAR 
 
 ONE effort and then another, and little by little 
 Phil freed himself. So far his health could 
 stand it. He had glimpses of better days. Along 
 with his will his talent also grew strong. His progress 
 was rapid; step by step he mounted upward; and the 
 horizon grew wider before him. 
 
 The day when it was certain that Phil would have his 
 Salon medal, Socrate drank off his absinthe savagely 
 and declared: 
 
 "That fellow is lost!" 
 
 In a few words he put the case before the comrades. 
 
 Phil, the Phil they had known as such a "seeker," 
 with so much personality, was knuckling down ! He 
 was turning bourgeois he was going to have his medal ! 
 In other words, he was down on his knees to tickle the 
 soles of the feet of the old bonzes of the Academy ! 
 
 "That 's no artist! not what I call an artist!" Socrate 
 went on. And it was plain from the fashion in which 
 Socrate ordered another absinthe that he, at least, would 
 never come to terms! Good old Poufaille was dumb' 
 with admiration. 
 
 "What a pity Phil 's not here!" he thought. 
 102
 
 
 
 ' Only piit your soul into it ! ' "
 
 THE END OF THE GUITAR 105 
 
 A few days later he ran across Phil, who looked tired. 
 
 "You 're lost, you know ; you 're in a bad way !" Pou- 
 faille said to him as soon as he saw him; and he added 
 mysteriously: "You ought to go to see Socrate such a 
 wonderful man, mon cher!" 
 
 "Come on," answered Phil, who wanted a walk. 
 
 They found Socrate at the cafe, smoking his pipe and 
 talking art. Half hidden in a cloud of smoke, he raised 
 his head and looked at Phil. 
 
 "You 're doing things that please. Look out take 
 care ! You ought to do powerful things ! Take any 
 subject at all a bottle, a pumpkin, if you wish! it 
 doesn't matter only put your soul into it!" 
 
 "Put my soul into a bottle!" said Phil, amused. 
 
 Socrate did not admit any discussion of his pronounce- 
 ments, and struck Phil dumb with a glance. 
 
 "I tell you, you must paint with your soul!" 
 
 "But I always do my best!" Phil said. 
 
 "Peuh! your best!" Socrate had an expression of 
 unspeakable pity for Phil's best. 
 
 Caracal now and then put in a brief appearance at the 
 Deux Magots, looking from Phil to Socrate and laugh- 
 ing to himself. 
 
 "Socrate is right ; you ought to do high art ! It would 
 be very funny you who are lucky enough to be the 
 lover-" 
 
 "What?" cried Phil. 
 
 " of an acrobat ! There 's inspiration for you ! The 
 trapeze is high art; it soars very high!" 
 
 ' ' Another word and I '11 knock you down ! ' ' was Phil 's 
 answer.
 
 106 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "Calm yourself, mon cher! calm yourself!" 
 
 But Phil meanwhile was changing visibly. The life he 
 had been leading for some time had worn him out. He 
 now worked less and less, and came more and more 
 under the influence of Socrate. He expended his energy 
 at the cafe, and in his turn traced out masterpieces on 
 the table. He explained his ideas to Socrate, and dis- 
 cussed them until the landlord turned out the gas and 
 wiped off the masterpieces with his napkin. 
 
 "Phil will go far!" Socrate said as he clapped him 
 on the shoulder, adding like a truly superior man : 
 
 "You haven't twenty francs about you?" 
 
 One day Socrate brought with him, wrapped up in 
 a newspaper, an object which he laid on the bench. 
 
 "My guitar," he said. 
 
 Socrate 's guitar! Every one was acquainted with it. 
 Socrate, painter-poet-philosopher, was a musician as 
 well. He "heard colors" and "saw sounds." He had 
 undertaken a gigantic work to set the Louvre to music 
 and make colors perceptible to the ear. 
 
 He took notes on the spot, colored photographs, and 
 then came home and played them on his guitar with the 
 hand of a genius. Violet was si; he made sol out of 
 blue ; green was a fa and so on up to red, which was 
 do. 
 
 Phil looked at the guitar with respect; and Socrate 
 had an idea. 
 
 "Tiens!" he said with a noble air; "take my guitar. 
 It has sounded the 'Mona Lisa' it has played Rubens 
 and Raphael ! It has thrilled with beauty ; it contains 
 the Louvre ! My soul has vibrated within it ! Do a
 
 THE END OF THE GUITAR 107 
 
 masterpiece with it ! Show on your canvas all that it 
 holds ! Take it ! Carry it away with you ! ' ' 
 
 And Phil had taken away the guitar. 
 
 "All right," he said the next day, "I will do a mas- 
 terpiece. They shall see if I am an artist or a pork- 
 packer." 
 
 He resolved to ' ' hatch a masterpiece ' ' from this guitar 
 which had thrilled with the soul of Socrate. From that 
 time he went out no longer. He passed whole days in 
 his room, distracted only by the cackling of the chicken 
 in its corner, that brought him back to the realities of 
 life. 
 
 "Ah, ha! You 're hungry, are you?" he said, as he 
 threw the chicken some crumbs. Then he looked at the 
 guitar as if he would say: "We '11 have it out together!" 
 
 Phil struggled. He dreamed and pondered, and 
 hunted all sorts of material for his sketches. He went 
 to the Louvre to study pictures that had guitars in them. 
 
 "The old masters knew nothing about guitars," Phil 
 said one evening at the cafe. Even the comrades laughed 
 at this. 
 
 "How 's the guitar? Does it go?" they asked him. 
 
 They spoke only of guitars guitar this and guitar 
 that as if all the estudiantinas of all the Spains had 
 met together at the Deux Magots. 
 
 "It will drive me crazy!" said Phil. 
 
 "You will produce a masterpiece," replied Socrate. 
 
 One evening Phil came in radiant. "I have it!" he 
 cried. 
 
 He explained his idea. Women had been painted in 
 the moonlight, in the sunlight, and in the light of flames.
 
 108 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Eh bien! he, Phil, would light his woman with reflections 
 from a guitar! 
 
 "You see, I have a woman's head in shadow," Phil 
 explained to Socrate, as he made lines with his pencil 
 on the table; "and the guitar itself is lighted up by a 
 ray from heaven do you understand? Music, an echo 
 of heaven, enlightens our sad humanity!" 
 
 ' ' Bravo ! ' ' exclaimed Socrate. 
 
 Poufaille, in his emotion, pressed Phil's hand. 
 
 "I '11 give you a write-up ! ' ' said Caracal ; ' ' something 
 really good." But he added to himself: "So you 're 
 painting echoes from heaven, pork-packer that you 
 are!" 
 
 Phil, under the guidance of Socrate, began his picture. 
 It was hard to set himself again to real work after so 
 many months of doing nothing. He exhausted his 
 strength and spirits over his canvas. He ate next to 
 nothing and grew thin visibly ; he lived merely a life of 
 the brain. 
 
 "Oh, if I could only have a great success and get 
 rich," he said to himself, "I would have Helia come 
 back!" 
 
 He wrote long letters to her. Helia 's replies breathed 
 love and the lofty confidence she had in him. At the 
 bottom of the page there was always a circle traced with 
 a pen, and to this he touched his lips. 
 
 It was Helia whom he was painting in the background 
 of his picture a Helia illuminated by a strange light 
 like a vision. 
 
 But Phil, worn out and bloodless, no longer had the 
 strength to fix her features on canvas. He was all the
 
 THE END OF THE GUITAR 109 
 
 time beginning over again, floundering in his powerless- 
 ness. 
 
 Every now and then Socrate came to see him and 
 borrowed his last piece of money: "You haven't five 
 francs about you? and this old overcoat, lend it to me 
 till to-morrow ! 
 
 "Tiens! a chicken!" Socrate went on, continuing his 
 inspection; and he winked at Phil and made a gesture 
 of wringing the fowl's neck "like that! couic!" Then 
 he looked at the picture. 
 
 "It doesn't go," Socrate said, rubbing his hands. 
 
 At other times the picture seemed to go better. 
 
 "Look out! You're going too fast!" Socrate said, 
 in a fright at the idea that his guitar might be brought 
 back to him and that he might no longer have a pretext 
 to come and borrow five francs or an overcoat. Suzanne 
 also paid Phil visits. He often spoke to her of Helia. 
 
 "You 're always thinking about her!" Suzanne said, 
 as she lighted a cigarette, taking two or three puffs and 
 throwing it away with a pouah! 
 
 "Well, you must be in love with Helia!" she contin- 
 ued. "I had no idea of it! It won't last, mon cher!" 
 
 She looked at him with mocking eyes. 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" Phil asked. 
 
 "Oh, I don't mean to offend you, Monsieur Phil. I 
 believe you 're sincere!" 
 
 "You think I 'm sincere!" 
 
 "My dear Phil, I 've seen men dragging themselves 
 at my knees, do you hear? dragging themselves at my 
 knees with tears in their eyes, men who would n't look 
 at me now ! ' '
 
 110 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "I 'm not that kind," said Phil. 
 
 "So much the better!" said Suzanne, becoming sud- 
 denly grave. "I 'm happy for Helia's sake very 
 happy, because she thinks so, too ! ' ' 
 
 Phil took up his palette; but Suzanne could not stay 
 quiet. 
 
 "Say, Monsieur Phil, how good you are, all the same !" 
 
 "I? Why?" 
 
 "You don't see they 're making fun of you?" 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Why, Caracal's set Socrate among the rest," Su- 
 zanne answered. 
 
 "I don't believe it," Phil said. "Socrate is an en- 
 thusiast, but he 's a real artist ! ' ' 
 
 "Penses-tu, bebe!" Suzanne murmured to herself. 
 Then, passing before the glass, with a twist of her finger 
 she put a lock of hair in place and went out. 
 
 Phil seldom had such visits. For the most part of 
 the time he was alone in front of his picture which did 
 not go. There was no end to his fumbling efforts. There 
 were always parts to be done over and he never suc- 
 ceeded in doing them right. 
 
 Socrate arrived one fine evening with his hands in his 
 pockets. 
 
 "I 'm coming to live with you!" he said. "Land- 
 lords are idiots, on my word ! Talent and thought never 
 count with them. It 's dough they want. If it were n't 
 for you I 'd have to sleep out of doors!" 
 
 He sat down on a chair and added: "You 're will- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Certainly," Phil said, as he drew a mattress near the
 
 THE END OF THE GUITAR 111 
 
 stove. ' ' You can sleep there for the present. We '11 see 
 later on." 
 
 From that day an infernal life began for Phil. So- 
 crate, stretched out by the stove, worried him with advice 
 and made him begin the same thing twenty times over; 
 he encumbered the room, smoking like a locomotive or 
 sleeping until noon. When the thinker's ferocious 
 snoring quite deafened Phil, he would whistle gently to 
 stop it. But a steamer's siren would not have awakened 
 Socrate. Then Phil, in his exasperation, would shake 
 him by the shoulder. 
 
 "Let me be! I am thinking of something hum- 
 something," Socrate would stammer; and the sleeper 
 would begin "thinking" again. It was a continual tor- 
 ture. Phil, moreover, was so weak that he cauld not even 
 get angry. 
 
 One morning Suzanne came in with her arms loaded 
 down with mistletoe and packages. "My friends, to- 
 morrow is Christmas day," she said, as she entered. 
 
 "Ah!" Phil answered. 
 
 "What ah?" Suzanne took him up. "Didn't you 
 know it, then ? ' ' 
 
 "No," said Phil, who was now only a shadow of him- 
 self, living on mechanically from day to day. 
 
 "But didn't you see," asked Suzanne, "this pretty 
 Christmas card that Helia sent you from London?" 
 
 "Ah, yes!" said Phil; "true!" 
 
 "Phil is sick," thought Suzanne, "and very sick! 
 He 's losing his memory. It 's high time that Helia 
 came back!" 
 
 "Let me prepare the feast," she said next day.
 
 112 FATA MORGANA 
 
 ''You'll see what it will be! Men don't understand 
 such things ! Phil, let me do it, will you ? I 've invited 
 Poufaille. We shall be four at table. There is a fork 
 for each of us!" 
 
 "I don't eat much," Phil answered. 
 
 "Socrate will eat for you, Monsieur Phil," said Su- 
 zanne. She added: "I have a favor to ask you first: I 
 don't want you to kill the chicken!" 
 
 "But we shall have nothing else for the meal," said 
 Phil. 
 
 "Oh, Monsieur Phil, let her live! She 's so amusing! 
 She would follow me in the street, and people would take 
 her for a dog. But wouldn't they laugh!" 
 
 ' ' What a child you are ! ' ' Phil said. 
 
 ' ' And then I '11 like you so much for it, and I '11 make 
 you a nice salad," Suzanne went on, "and I '11 get 
 four sous' worth of fried potatoes." 
 
 "Granted!" 
 
 Just then they heard a couic, and Socrate threw the 
 chicken with its neck wrung at the feet of Suzanne. 
 
 "Enough sentimentality," he said. 
 
 Seeing the turn things were taking, Socrate, who was 
 not willing to miss his meal, had slyly stretched out his 
 hand, seized the chicken, and put an end to it. 
 
 "Oh, you wretch!" cried Suzanne. 
 
 "Bah! the chicken had to end by being eaten," Phil 
 said; "let 's not quarrel for that!" 
 
 Suzanne made everything ready. She cleared the 
 table of paints and palette, spread the cloth and dishes 
 deftly, and sang as she did the cooking. Poufaille came 
 in, bringing a cheese made of goat's milk and garlic 
 which he had received that morning from his village.
 
 He encumbered the room 1
 
 THE END OF THE GUITAR 115 
 
 "What smells like that? Pouah!" Suzanne cried 
 
 "Do you mean my cheese?" said Poufaille, in a 
 pet. 
 
 The time had come. With emotion Suzanne placed the 
 chicken on the table. 
 
 "Your chicken isn't cooked; you're not much on 
 cooking!" cried Poufaille, who had not forgiven the 
 insult to his cheese. 
 
 "I don't know how to cook, don't I?" Suzanne ex- 
 claimed; "and I don't understand salads, either? No, 
 perhaps, hein!" 
 
 Socrate, with his nose in his plate, ate like an ogre, 
 disdainful of idle quarrels. 
 
 "The salad?" Phil said, to keep up the gaiety. 
 "Your salad has a little too much vinegar." 
 
 "My salad spoiled oh, insolents! It 's worth while 
 taking trouble to please you!" And Suzanne began 
 weeping, or a pretense of weeping. But, suddenly los- 
 ing her temper, she seized the frying-pan with a "Tiens! 
 tiens, done! et die done! This will teach you!" and 
 while chicken and salad flew across the floor, bang! she 
 threw the pan full tilt into the painted guitar. Phil's 
 picture was rent in twain. 
 
 "Oh, forgive me!" Suzanne cried. 
 
 All had passed as quick as lightning. Suzanne was at 
 Phil's knees, weeping, begging pardon oh! how could 
 she have done it, she who knew all the trouble he had 
 taken? And she kept on repeating in her despair: "Oh, 
 Phil, forgive me!" 
 
 Phil said not a word ; he was pale as death. Poufaille 
 had fallen backward, and, sitting on his cheese, which
 
 116 FATA MORGANA 
 
 had fallen under him, looked in turn at Phil and Su- 
 zanne. Socrate was thunderstruck. 
 
 ' ' Oh, forgive me, Phil, forgive me ! ' ' Suzanne went 
 on repeating. 
 
 But she did not finish. To her terror, she saw Phil 
 arise, turn, and fall headlong.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 ALAS ! POOR HELIA ! 
 
 PHIL had been struck down by a rush of blood to 
 the brain. For a long time he had been living as 
 in a dream. His fits of absent-mindedness had al- 
 ready amazed Suzanne. Too artificial a life, constant ex- 
 asperation, his fierce persistence at work which was be- 
 yond his present strength, and the ravages of a fixed idea 
 had prepared him for brain-fever. The ruin of his 
 guitar picture was the last blow. 
 
 Suzanne quickly drove Socrate out of the room, and 
 took the mattress which was lying on the floor and put 
 it back in its place. She hastily made the bed, and then, 
 with the help of Poufaille, placed Phil on it. He was 
 still without motion, pale and bloodless, like a dead 
 man. 
 
 Suzanne ran to the Charite Hopital. She was ac- 
 quainted with some of the young hospital doctors, and 
 she explained the case as well as she could. One of 
 them followed her to Phil's studio and made a long ex- 
 amination of him. A^soon as he entered the disordered 
 room with its tale of want, the young doctor understood 
 all; he had already cared for victims like this of the 
 ideal. 
 
 117
 
 118 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Phil came back to life and moaned feebly. 
 
 "He is not dead!" Suzanne said. 
 
 " People don't die like that!" the doctor replied, con- 
 tinuing his examination. "Tell me how it happened." 
 
 Suzanne told the doctor everything. 
 
 "It is as I thought," he said. "We '11 pull him out 
 of it. But, first of all, take away all those canvases 
 put the room in order; and those portraits of a young 
 girl, always the same one, there along the wall take 
 them all away ! You must deliver him from that vision 
 when he comes back to himself!" 
 
 "But he can't live without her," Suzanne said. 
 
 The doctor smiled sadly. 
 
 "If he only remembers her!" he murmured. "No 
 lesion; long overdoing followed by anemia, too strong 
 emotion, and doubtless some fixed idea," the young doc- 
 tor rambled on as he looked at the portraits of Helia 
 which Poufaille was taking down. "It 's a kind of 
 intoxication of the nervous system a railway brain, as 
 it were ; we '11 give him things to build him up, and rest 
 and silence in the meantime." 
 
 "Doc doctor!" Poufaille stammered, livid with fear, 
 "is the disease catching?" 
 
 "No fear!" the doctor answered, as he glanced at the 
 hairy face of Poufaille, with its crimson health. "It 
 only comes from exaggerated intellectual functions." 
 
 "Oh, I 'm better already!" said Poufaille, reassured. 
 
 Phil was delirious for a week. 
 
 His mind, sunk in abysses of sleep, made obscure ef- 
 forts to come back to the light of day. Sometimes an 
 ocean of forgetfulness rolled him in its waves. Some-
 
 ALAS! POOR HELIA! 119 
 
 times great flashes of light illuminated his consciousness 
 in its least details and gave to his dreams the hard relief 
 of marble. 
 
 Oftenest he simply wandered, mingling Helia and 
 Suzanne, seeing in his nightmare guitars, yellow on one 
 side and blue on the other, like worlds lighted up at once 
 by sun and moon a whole skyful of guitars, amid 
 which, motionless, the skull of the poet-painter-sculptor- 
 musician thought constantly, never sleeping until the 
 thought burned like a red-hot iron, and then Phil put his 
 hand to his own burning forehead and asked for some- 
 thing to drink. 
 
 But there was some one to anticipate his wish. A 
 gentle hand raised his head on the pillow and an anx- 
 ious face bent over him, seeking to read his eyes, now 
 dulled, and now brilliant with the light of fever. 
 
 "Is it Helia? "Phil asked. 
 
 "It is I!" Helia answered. "Don't speak rest! 
 You must rest!" 
 
 Yes, Helia had come back. Suzanne, in her belief 
 that Phil was on the point of dying, had not been able 
 to resist the impulse to write to her. It did not occur 
 to Helia to ask if the disease was catching. She gave up 
 everything. She paid her forfeit, took her leave of ab- 
 sence, her own good money going to pay another attrac- 
 tion as a substitute. Nearly all her savings went in this 
 way but she heeded itynot. Nothing in the world would 
 have held her back. She had to be with Phil. She alone 
 had the right to tend him. Another with her own be- 
 trothed in time of danger ? No ! 
 
 Helia nursed him night and day. Suzanne helped
 
 120 FATA MORGANA 
 
 her, and Poufaille did the errands, going for food to 
 Mere Michel 's and for scuttles of coal to the ckarbonnier. 
 From morning to night his heavy shoes shook the stair- 
 case. 
 
 "Why don't you give him wine?" he said, as he 
 looked at the sick man. 
 
 "Why not goat's-milk cheese?" retorted Suzanne. 
 "Will you keep silence, grand nigaudf Go and get 
 some wood ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' And the money to buy it with ? ' ' 
 
 "Here!" Helia said. 
 
 With what joy Helia watched Phil's progress toward 
 health ! 
 
 "Dear, dear friend, my little Saint John," Phil said 
 to her. "How can I ever thank you for all you are 
 doing -for me !" 
 
 He kissed her hand or put it to his burning forehead. 
 Once he rose up and looked around the room saying: 
 "Who is there?" 
 
 "It is I-Helia!" 
 
 "Who is Helia?" 
 
 "Helia, your friend your Helia; I am here with Su- 
 zanne ! ' ' 
 
 "Out, wretches!" And he fell back exhausted. 
 
 "Leave him alone," said the young doctor. "In a 
 fortnight he will be on his feet and I '11 send him to 
 the country." 
 
 Helia, who was forced to depart, went away. Her 
 leave was over. Besides, she had no more money. Phil 
 grew better and better. At first he was surprised to find 
 his room so changed.
 
 ALAS! POOR HELIA! 121 
 
 "Where are my pictures?" he asked. "What have 
 you done with them?" 
 
 "We 've put them one side you can see them later," 
 answered Suzanne. 
 
 "What were they about?" inquired Phil. "Anyway, 
 it 's all the same to me!" 
 
 The young doctor, with the good-fellowship that binds 
 students together, accompanied him to a public sanato- 
 rium not far from Paris. From that moment Phil 
 changed visibly. He who had been so anemic in the 
 vitiated atmosphere of his studio, with his nose always 
 over his oils and colors, and his eyes fixed on the canvas, 
 in Socrate's company, had now abundance of pure air 
 and walks through the open fields. He felt himself 
 reborn, although his head was a little empty and his 
 body stiff and sore like one just taken from the torture- 
 rack. But good food and quiet did wonders for him. 
 He had an excellent constitution, made for work and 
 struggle, and it came up again. 
 
 With a beefsteak an idea would arrive; and with a 
 glass of wine joy entered his heart. His blood, renewed, 
 gave him new feelings. He had again become a man, 
 after the illness in which his youth had been ship- 
 wrecked. 
 
 Helia, anxious to see^him, came back one day. How 
 difficult it had been for her slave to her profession as 
 she was, and still bound to it for many months ! Never 
 mind she came ! Phil was better, Phil was cured. She 
 would have his first smile ; he would be her Phil in health 
 as in sickness. But at the gate of the sanatorium a mag- 
 nificent guardian, adorned with brass buttons and a
 
 122 FATA MORGANA 
 
 gilt-banded cap, stopped her. It was society closing its 
 doors to the intrusion of vagabonds. This man of law 
 and order asked Helia why, how, in whose name, by what 
 right, she wished to see Phil, and he refused the favor to 
 her, the mountebank who had one ever seen the like? 
 pretended to be his betrothed! 
 
 Phil came back to Paris cured. Strength and the 
 daring of courage returned with him. His long rest 
 seemed to have increased his energy tenfold. He went 
 forth from his past as one escapes from a prison, without 
 even looking backward. The young doctor had guessed 
 only too truly : Phil had forgotten many things ! 
 
 Phil, who had received some unexpected money from 
 his uncle in Virginia, now changed his quartier, and set 
 himself up in better style; and the Salon medal gave 
 him his start. His professor made him acquainted with 
 the Duke of Morgania, who ordered from him the great 
 decorative picture of Morgana. The Comtesse de Don- 
 jeon asked his aid for her charity sale. 
 
 One effort and then another, and this time Phil would 
 reach the goal. He had one of those happy dispositions 
 which attract luck as the magnet attracts iron filings. 
 He was ready ; life was open before him like slack water 
 at sea ; there was only wanting to him a good breeze to 
 swell his sail. 
 
 From what side was it to blow ?
 
 "A magnificent guardian stopped her
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 MISS ETHEL ROWRER OF CHICAGO 
 
 THE breeze blew from the West. 
 Miss Ethel Bowrer, daughter of the great Red- 
 mount Rowrer, had just arrived in Paris. She 
 was preceded by the fame of her father, the famous Chi- 
 cagoan, a business Napoleon. From his office, the center 
 of a network of telegraph and telephone lines, he com- 
 municated with the financial universe ; and his tremen- 
 dous toil was building up a world-wide fortune. He 
 thought himself poor, for he had not yet reached the 
 billion mark; but his fame grew. Ethel adored this 
 father. She was proud that men spoke of him. She 
 felt herself a part in his glory; but, really, she could 
 have wished people should pay less attention to herself. 
 Every day the society papers devoted space to her. 
 
 "Yesterday evening, Miss Ethel Rowrer, daughter of 
 the famous milliardai^ was present at the opera" and 
 so forth; and there followed a description of her dress. 
 
 "To-morrow, Miss Ethel Rowrer, daughter of the fa- 
 mous milliardaire, accompanied by her grandmother, 
 will be present at the horse show." 
 
 They told how she passed her day ; people learned that 
 she had tried on gowns at Paquin's, chosen a hat at 
 125
 
 126 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Stagg's, eaten chocolates at Marquis's while in reality 
 she had stayed at home with "grandma." 
 
 All this gossip annoyed her. One day, however, she 
 laughed heartily. She learned from a paper her inten- 
 tion of buying the tomb of Richard the Lion-hearted to 
 make a bench of it in her hall at Chicago. This earned 
 for Ethel a newspaper article, grave and patriotic. 
 
 ' ' Foreigners, touch not our illustrious dead ! ' ' was the 
 journalist's conclusion in the evening "Tocsin." 
 
 Richard the Lion-hearted went the rounds of the head- 
 lines of the Paris yellow press. Then, one fine day, the 
 papers spoke of an interview of the ex-Empress Eugenie 
 with Miss Ethel Rowrer, daughter of the famous milliar- 
 daire, R. K. Rowrer. Vieillecloche, in his "Tocsin," 
 had seen and heard everything. He accused America 
 of mixing itself up with French politics. Miss Ethel 
 did not read the article, otherwise she might have gath- 
 ered that the "Tocsin" was very ill-informed. That 
 she had seen the empress was true, but there had been 
 no word of politics. 
 
 The empress was making a short stay in Paris, as she 
 did every year. Her sorrows had given the former sov- 
 ereign the love of retirement. She passed her days by 
 her window at the hotel, sometimes looking sadly toward 
 the empty place where the Tuileries had been. 
 
 "I see by the paper that Miss Ethel Rowrer is in 
 Paris," the empress said one day to her dame de com- 
 pagnie. "Is it the granddaughter of the Rowrer I 
 knew ? The emperor had great esteem for him ; I re- 
 member him well. Mr. Rowrer was charged 'by the gov- 
 ernment at Washington with a report on the Exposition
 
 MISS ETHEL ROWRER OF CHICAGO 127 
 
 of 1867. My husband loved to look into everything 
 himself. Social questions were near to his heart, and it 
 happened that in the evenings he would receive Mr. 
 Rowrer in his private cabinet. The extreme simplicity 
 and moral robustness of the man struck the emperor. 
 He found him full of new ideas which he would have 
 wished to apply in France. I was present at one 
 of their conversations. My little son was playing 
 around them. Ma chere ami," Eugenie continued, "I 
 remember it as if it were yesterday. I beg of you to find 
 out if Miss Rowrer is the granddaughter of that man." 
 The next day she learned that this was the fact. 
 
 "I should have been astonished if it were not so," 
 said Eugenie. "The emperor foresaw the success of 
 Mr. Rowrer; he knew men." She at once made known 
 to Miss Rowrer that she would be happy to receive her ; 
 and Ethel came. Entering, she saw but one thing: in 
 an arm-chair by the window a lady, with her head 
 covered by a black mantilla, sat in the clear sunlight 
 like a dark figure of sorrow. 
 
 "Madame," sai'd the lady in waiting, "I present to 
 you Miss Ethel Rowrer." 
 
 Ethel saw the dark figure rise from the chair. 
 
 "Thank you for coming !" Eugenie said. "I am glad 
 when people come to see me," and she held out her hand. 
 
 Ethel bore the hand to her lips and bowed with a grace 
 which charmed Eugenie. 
 
 "Be seated, Miss Rowrer," said the empress; "here, 
 beside me," and she pointed with the slender hand of 
 an age,d woman to a seat. 
 
 Ethel sat down. She was in the presence of Eugenie
 
 128 FATA MORGANA 
 
 de Guzman and Porto-Carrero, Countess of Teba, Mar- 
 quise of Mopa and Kirkpatrick, Empress of the French 
 Eugenie the beautiful, the beloved ; and it was an old 
 lady warming herself in the sun and looking around 
 timidly. 
 
 "How happy I am, madame," said Ethel, "to thank 
 you for the kindnesses shown long ago to my grand- 
 father! His Majesty the Emperor loaded him with 
 favors. ' ' 
 
 The empress was greatly touched by the sincere ac- 
 cents of Ethel and her faithful remembrance. No one 
 thanked her, now that she was nothing ; and this daugh- 
 ter of a milliardaire had not forgotten slight kindnesses 
 done long ago to her grandfather. 
 
 "I thank you," she said. "The emperor had great 
 esteem for your grandfather ; he liked to talk with him. 
 Mr. Rowrer was a remarkable man rather, he was a 
 man!" added the empress, who had seen so many who 
 were not men. 
 
 Ethel blushed with pleasure. Newspaper head-lines 
 constantly made sport of her family, and here was the 
 one-time arbitress of Europe glorifying her grandfather 
 and saying to her "I thank you!" 
 
 Then they chatted for a while. Eugenie admired this 
 young girl in her simple elegance and superb health. At 
 the court itself she had never seen a figure more princess- 
 like and radiant. 
 
 "When I was a little girl," Ethel said, "my grand- 
 father often spoke to us of those days of glory." 
 
 At the word "glory" Eugenie interrupted her. 
 
 "Miss Rowrer," she said, pointing with her hand
 
 - 
 
 Miss Kthel and Empress Eugenie
 
 MISS ETHEL ROWRER OF CHICAGO 131 
 
 toward the Tuileries, "see what remains of it. There 
 is nothing left. All has passed, all has changed around 
 me. This was once my Paris. It is now yours. I say 
 yours, for, don't you see, mademoiselle, the true sover- 
 eigns are young girls like you with their grace and 
 health ? To you the world belongs. Ah, what happiness 
 it is to be young ! ' ' 
 
 There was a moment of silence. The dame de com- 
 pagnie was arranging flowers in a vase. The empress 
 sat dreaming. Did she see again the eighteen years of 
 power wherein she held in her hand the scepter of 
 France? Or the palace which had been destroyed, 
 crumbled into dust, leaving not a wrack behind? Did 
 she think of Miss Rowrer, to-day's young queen, who 
 came to pay her tribute of respect to the royalty of other 
 days? of the conquering force which this young girl 
 represented, the supreme outcome of an ambitious race? 
 of the temptations without number which would assail 
 a creature so spoiled by fate? 
 
 Ethel made a motion to take her leave. The empress 
 rose painfully. 
 
 "Madame," EtKel began. 
 
 "Allow me; I wish to accompany you," Eugenie in- 
 sisted. "Your visit has done me good." 
 
 She leaned lightly on Miss Rowrer 's shoulder as she 
 crossed the room. 
 
 "Miss Rowrer, I am going to tell you a great secret," 
 said the empress, as she was taking leave ; "but one must 
 have been an empress to appreciate it rightly. It is 
 this: remain always simple and artless as you were at 
 fifteen. That is the secret of happiness; there is no
 
 132 FATA MORGANA 
 
 other, believe me ! Adieu, mademoiselle. I wish you all 
 happiness in life." 
 
 Ethel retained through life the vision of this woman 
 in her mourning garments, with the white hair crowning 
 her forehead. She recalled her gentle voice, her refined 
 features still resembling the portraits of other days, but 
 without the adorable smile. 
 
 "Our people," Ethel said to her grandmother, "in- 
 terest themselves only in Marie Antoinette and the Prin- 
 cesse de Lamballe. I wish to make a collection concern- 
 ing the Empress Eugenie photographs, statuettes. And 
 I will take back to Chicago her portrait in oils. I '11 
 have it done here in Paris under my direction. Who is 
 this Phil who, they say, has so much talent, and has 
 painted so fine a portrait for the Salon a young girl 
 seated among flowers with doves around her? Cecilia 
 Beaux admires it immensely. He has had a second 
 medal, I believe he has everything he needs to succeed ; 
 and he is an American, they say, and poor and am- 
 bitious." 
 
 "He is poor and ambitious? Give him a chance," 
 replied grandma.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 AN APARTMENT IN THE LATIN QUARTER 
 
 OTHING remained for Ethel but to meet her ar- 
 tist. An opportunity soon offered itself at the 
 Comtesse de Don j eon's five-o'clock tea, at which 
 she was often present. 
 
 Ethel, first of all, had looked for an apartment for 
 her own convenience ; the hotel, thanks to Vieillecloche, 
 was becoming intolerable. 
 
 "Foreigners, stay at home!" the "Tocsin" printed. 
 "Remember the night of the 13th March, 1871, of 
 the day of November 22, 1876. Respect the verdict 
 of the 363. Tremble ! The people is bristling its mane of 
 the 16th May, and^ares its claws of the 14th July!" 
 
 "We 'd have done better to stay in Chicago," said 
 grandma. 
 
 At first the torrent of carriages and automobiles and 
 bicycles flowing day and night before her window had 
 amused Ethel. But soon she tired of it. There were, 
 indeed, theaters and parks, and visits to dressmakers 
 and society calls. But the theaters were impossible, the 
 parks were only parks after all, the visits to dressmakers 
 were anything but amusing it 's so easy to buy! and as 
 to society, Ethel wished to rest a little for a change! 
 
 133
 
 134 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "To speak four languages, including my own, to 
 play three instruments, including the harp, which only 
 needs passable arms all that doesn't count. I must 
 go to painting again. Oh, I wish I could have a picture 
 on the line and a Salon medal ! I wish I could do a work 
 on La Salle's explorations, at the Bibliotheque Natio- 
 nale ! What would I not give to write like Princess 
 Troubetzkoi or paint like Cecilia Beaux ! I am tired of 
 all this idleness. I wish to work ; I wish to be something 
 by myself, and not merely the daughter of papa. I 
 wish that Grandma ! let 's go to the Latin Quarter ! I 
 will be just a student girl living with her good grand- 
 mother while she studies art!" 
 
 "Let 's go, then, to the Latin Quarter, Ethel," said 
 grandma, who would have followed Ethel to the end of 
 the world. "We shall be as well off there as here or 
 let 's go back to America if you wish; for my part I 
 prefer new countries ! ' ' 
 
 "But the Latin Quarter shall be new for you! You 
 shall see how we '11 amuse ourselves, ' ' said Ethel, kissing 
 her grandmother. 
 
 So they looked for a place in the Latin Quarter. They 
 set off early, and, walking under the great trees of the 
 Luxembourg, or leaning on the balustrades, looked at 
 the palace and the flower-beds of the gardens. 
 
 There were bare-legged babies; nurses beribboned 
 from neck to heel ; soldiers in red trousers ; a priest in a 
 black gown; gardeners in wooden shoes; young girls 
 without hats; students with hats flat-brimmed; every- 
 thing gave them the feeling that they were abroad, far, 
 far away. Such specimens of the pigmy races which
 
 AN APARTMENT IN THE LATIN QUARTER 135 
 
 vegetate in old countries amused grandma, and the gar- 
 den pleased her greatly. 
 
 "This is like Douglas Park except that it hasn't 
 any ornamental mound. Do you remember, Ethel, that 
 globe of earth with continents and seas colored on it in 
 different flowers, and our glorious flag made of white 
 and red pinks and blue corn-flowers?" 
 
 "Oh, grandma, for heaven's sake!" said Ethel. 
 
 "And yet it 's not bad here," continued grandma. 
 "The people are so gay! the soldiers' trousers are too 
 short, and the gardener has wooden shoes; but they look 
 gay; why, I wonder?" 
 
 At the beginning they did not venture into the Latin 
 Quarter without some emotion. On the strength of what 
 they had read and seen at the theater they expected 
 moss-grown houses with flowers in the windows, and 
 streets resounding with song, where students and gri- 
 settes danced the cancan. Grandma soon got over her 
 mistake, after a narrow escape from being crushed by a 
 tram-car in a thoroughfare which was for all the world 
 like State Street. 
 
 "It 's not so bad as I thought," she said enthusias- 
 tically. "It reminds me of Chicago." 
 
 In their visits they went up and down an endless 
 number of stairways. Often grandma stayed below, 
 leaving Ethel to visit the apartments. 
 
 "Houses without elevators!" said grandma; "Ethel 
 must be crazy ! ' ' 
 
 She waited for Ethel in deep courtyards or sat in 
 concierges' lodges, near stoves where cabbage-soup was 
 bubbling. More than once, while she was alone in the
 
 136 FATA MORGANA 
 
 lodge, some one would come and ask information from 
 her, taking her for the concierge. Once a butcher's boy, 
 with his basket of meat on his arm, opened the door. 
 
 "B'jour, m'am; what will M'am Gibbon have to- 
 day culotte de veauf" 
 
 But he ran away in a fright at the sight of Mrs. 
 Rowrer staring at him without answering. Such inci- 
 dents helped grandma to pass the time. 
 
 It was while crossing the Rue Servandoni that they 
 at last found their apartment. An atmosphere of peace 
 seemed to issue forth from the old facade with its im- 
 mense windows. By the open door they could see a wide 
 stone staircase with a railing of wrought iron. A great 
 tree shaded the silent courtyard. The placard was out : 
 "Apartment to Let." So they entered. The apartment 
 was at once magnificent and simple, all in white, with 
 lines of gold, and carved doors surmounted by painted 
 panels. 
 
 The street itself had a certain air of tranquil distinc- 
 tion. One of its extremities seemed barred by the austere 
 walls of the old Luxembourg Palace, and the other by 
 the enormous apse of St. Sulpice, with its statue of St. 
 Paul upright on a pedestal between two columns. 
 
 "My favorite saint!" said Ethel, who did not believe 
 in cold and passionless perfection, but in struggles for 
 the best, with tears undoing faults. "St. Paul himself 
 keeps guard over the end of the street! How happy 
 we shall be here, grandma ! And we '11 heat ourselves 
 with wood fires and be lighted with candles, ' ' she added 
 with the joy of a child. 
 
 "We 've found a real gem of an apartment," Ethel
 
 AN APARTMENT IN THE LATIN QUARTER 137 
 
 said to the Comtesse de Donjeon, that very evening at 
 her " five "-o 'clock, which was at four. "Imagine, ma- 
 dame, a door covered with carving, through which you 
 go underneath Medusa heads and cornucopias. We shall 
 burn oil-lamps and candles; that will make us wish 
 to wear flounces and dress our hair a la belle poule " 
 
 "And to play '11 pleut, bergere' on a spinet!" the 
 countess interrupted. "Where did you discover such a 
 gem of an apartment!" 
 
 "In the Rue Servandoni," said Ethel. 
 
 "I know," said the countess; "it 's near St. Sulpice. 
 And, by the way, dear Miss Rowrer, if you wish any 
 bric-a-brac to furnish your shelves, I can recommend 
 you a precious man, a great connoisseur and a distin- 
 guished critic, a journalist of the good cause M. Ca- 
 racal." 
 
 ' ' Thank you so much, madame ! M. Caracal would 
 be very useful to me," Miss Rowrer had answered. 
 
 "He 's a friend 43>f the Duke of Morgania and of your 
 fellow-countryman, Mr. Phil Longwill, whom you are 
 acquainted with, perhaps." 
 
 "Only by name," Ethel said. 
 
 "The duke and Mr. Longwill are coming here to-day, 
 I believe. I will present them to you if you wish." 
 
 They were in the great salon in the half-darkness of 
 the silken curtains. Although it was broad daylight 
 outside, lighted lamps shed a yellow glow and sparkled 
 amid the glass of the chandeliers and the gold frames 
 of paintings. A valet announced two ladies "Mme. 
 and Mile, de Grojean!" The countess hastened toward 
 them.
 
 138 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Ethel was looking vaguely into the depths of the 
 room. Two other visitors came in, talking together like 
 friends. 
 
 "His Highness the Duke of Morgania. 
 
 "Monsieur Phil Longwill!"
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 ETHEL'S IDEA OF A MAN 
 
 AS a consequence of their meeting, Ethel became 
 
 l\ Phil 's pupil. Having made his acquaintance at the 
 -* *- Comtesse de Don jeon 's, she gave him a " chance," 
 as grandma had told her to do. She ordered from him 
 two pictures according to ideas of her own : first, Eu- 
 genie young and beautiful, present in the emperor's 
 cabinet at the reception of Rowrer, the grandfather; 
 then Miss Rowrer had him paint Eugenie aged and 
 broken, seated by the window and looking far away on 
 the empty Place of the Tuileries. Better and better 
 satisfied, she ordere/fTfrom him grandma's and her own 
 portrait. These orders were enough to "launch" Phil, 
 as they say, and brought him other orders from the 
 society frequented by Miss Rowrer. 
 
 Ethel, before she came to Phil, had been working in 
 the Ecole des Beaux- Arts; but there the studio seemed 
 gloomy to her and she stifled in it. Moreover, she was 
 already rather tired of the Latin Quarter on account 
 of her fellow-countrymen whom she met there. 
 
 She had a grudge against some of them for imitating 
 and even exaggerating the most foolish faults of a cer- 
 tain class of students. She did not approve their wear- 
 ing their hair like a horse's mane, their velvet trousers 
 139
 
 140 FATA MORGANA 
 
 and knit-woolen jackets, and their way of carrying 
 around with them boxes and brushes and canvases as if 
 they were sign-painters. And when she saw them seated 
 on the curbstone terrasses before cafes, drinking in pub- 
 lic and spitting everywhere and puffing the smoke of 
 their cigarettes into the faces of the passers-by, it exas- 
 perated her. She had a desire to call out to them: 
 1 ' Up ! and go to work ! ' ' 
 
 As she did not like the art academies of the Quarter, 
 she decided for Phil's studio. She had another reason 
 for doing this. The Ecole des Beaux- Arts was too near, 
 and Ethel needed exercise. In spite of the enormous 
 distance to Phil's studio, she always went to it on foot 
 "to keep myself in training," she said. She came back 
 the same way to give herself an appetite. Thus every 
 morning she had four hours' work and two hours' walk 
 just to keep "in shape." 
 
 Ethel, one morning, was at the studio with Mile. 
 Yvonne de Grojean. The model's rest was over and 
 they were beginning work again. The concierge the 
 old man "of my time" and former inspector of the 
 Louvre roofs mounted the table and posed before the 
 girls dressed as a Louis Quinze marquis. There was a 
 pushing about of easels and chairs, palettes were taken 
 up, and at once the model was beset with remarks : 
 
 " Model -the head!" 
 
 "Model-thefoot!" 
 
 "Model-smile!" 
 
 At this formal injunction the concierge bridled up, 
 distorted his eyes, twisted his lips, and swelled out his 
 neck like a goiter.
 
 ETHEL'S IDEA OF A MAN 141 
 
 Ethel and Mile. Yvonne were not working from the 
 Louis Quinze model. Helia posed for them in a cor- 
 ner of the studio the corner of "still life." She hap- 
 pened to be free that morning, as the figure of Morgana 
 which Phil was painting from her was nearly finished. 
 Helia had come down to the pupils' studio to please 
 Ethel, who greatly desired to do a head of the Madonna 
 from her. 
 
 Ethel and Mile. Yvonne chatted together as they 
 added touches to their water-colors. Ethel was relating 
 to her friend, Yvonne de Grojean, the visit she had paid 
 some time before to Phil's private studio, where she had 
 seen the Duke of Morgania. She had also described the 
 magnificent decorative painting which Phil was finish- 
 ing for the duke. 
 
 Their conversation was punctuated here and there by 
 the remarks cried out around them to the Louis Quinze 
 marquis : 
 
 "Model-the eye!" 
 
 "Model the mouth!" 
 
 "Really," said Ethel, "that concierge is incorrigible. 
 Why does he persist in not looking like the students' 
 drawings?" 
 
 Mile, de Grojean at Ethel's side laughed heartily. 
 
 "How droll you are!" 
 
 Helia smiled in spite of herself. 
 
 "The papers keep me in good humor," Ethel an- 
 swered. "I venture there 's something in them again 
 about Richard the Lion-hearted," she continued, point- 
 ing to a paper on the chair. "All sorts of bargains are 
 offered to me ever since that story usually old mum-
 
 142 FATA MORGANA 
 
 mies. No; there is nothing about Richard to-day," 
 Ethel remarked, as she ran through the head-lines. But 
 she received her "pin-prick" all the same. In an open 
 letter some one attacked American society and the lack 
 of solidity in its family ties signed, "H. Ochsenmaul- 
 salatsf abrikant. " This annoyed Miss Rowrer more than 
 personal attack. She was amazed that people could have 
 such thoughts about her country. 
 
 "In your country," was the conclusion of the Salats- 
 f abrikant, "the young men run after money and the 
 young women after titles." 
 
 "Personally I had the idea that titles were running 
 after me," thought Ethel, who had had reasons for be- 
 lieving so during the three months in which the duke 
 had been paying her court. 
 
 She had already forgotten the open letter, but she 
 kept on thinking of the subject it had started up in her 
 mind. 
 
 Ah, certainly not! Titles were not to be her aim in 
 life. Most of all, since her visit to the empress, she had 
 promised herself to give worldly grandeurs only the es- 
 teem they deserve. A title ! A title no more takes from 
 a man's qualities than it adds to them. The main thing 
 for a man is, not to be a duke or prince; it is, first and 
 foremost to be a man! 
 
 Mile. Yvonne was also painting a Madonna's head 
 from Helia. She wished to make a medallion of it as a 
 present for her mother. Helia took pleasure in posing 
 for these girls who were so kind to her. 
 
 Ethel, after seeing Helia at Phil's the day after the 
 Quat'z-Arts Ball, had met her several times, and felt a
 
 ETHEL'S IDEA OP A MAN 143 
 
 very sincere sympathy for her. She seemed to her to be 
 "the right sort of girl." 
 
 She had even proposed to send her to Chicago as a 
 professor of physical training in the Women's Univer- 
 sity founded by her father. The situation was brilliant, 
 her future would be assured, and she would probably 
 make a very good marriage before long. Helia thanked 
 her effusively but something kept her in Paris; and 
 she added: "Paris alone gives the consecration to 
 artistes!" 
 
 Ethel knew that Helia was preparing a number which 
 was to make a sensation. Meanwhile, she had her little 
 sister, and, so it seemed, was paying for the old clown 
 Cemetery out of pure goodness of soul. For the time 
 being she was pinched for money. Ethel would have 
 been happy to do her a kindness; but she knew that 
 Helia would never/^accept anything under any form 
 whatsoever, not even a gift to So2urette. A smile, yes! 
 a kind word, yes ! an obligation, no ! 
 
 It was the same with Suzanne, the model who some- 
 times posed for pupils, and whose acquaintance Ethel 
 had also made. This simplicity of manners, which was 
 at the foundation of their race, touched Ethel. She 
 pardoned the "pigmies" many things for the sake of 
 these brave little hearts. An acrobat and a model 
 what matters it? Character is everything! 
 
 "Model-time! Rest!" 
 
 There was a noise of palettes laid aside and pupils 
 rising in their places. The old marquis telescoped his 
 neck into his laces and came down from the table. 
 
 "You who are collecting mummies," Yvonne de Gro-
 
 144 FATA MORGANA 
 
 jean said, laughing, to Ethel, "you ought to add the 
 concierge; he is a type!" 
 
 "Don't laugh, Yvonne," said Ethel; "he would do 
 very well in our hall in Chicago ; he 'd give it an air of 
 the old regime ; there are heaps of men like that in 
 princely anterooms." 
 
 Painting was over and they were now talking in the 
 still-life corner. Of the other students some were walk- 
 ing two by two, some were standing, and others seated 
 on the high stools ; and some were grouped about Mile. 
 Yvonne and Ethel, who was, in a way, their leader, 
 by the social position she held, and the prestige of her 
 name. All around her they conversed as in a parlor, 
 amusing themselves with a passing broil between the 
 English Miss Arabella and Mile. Yvonne. 
 
 "England should not allow it!" Miss Arabella had 
 exclaimed, speaking of some performance of French 
 politics. 
 
 ' ' French affairs concern us alone ! ' ' Mile. Yvonne, 
 usually so timid, had retorted, as she raised her head 
 whereon her hair was rolled like a helmet. 
 
 Miss Rozenkrantz, a Swede with spectacles, made 
 peace, as if by chance, with her explanation of a new 
 association in Stockholm the "Women's Anti-Marriage 
 League. ' ' 
 
 ' ' What are its articles ? ' ' Miss Rowrer asked. 
 
 "Absolute indifference to men woman by herself 
 in all and for all meetings lectures to girls mutual 
 aid unions." 
 
 Conversation followed in which the Anti-Marriage 
 League was discussed. On such subjects Mile. Yvonne
 
 ' ' Ethel, who was their leader
 
 ETHEL'S IDEA OF A MAN 147 
 
 did not speak. She listened with astonishment to these 
 young women from the countries of the North talking 
 among themselves of things on which she never touched : 
 marriage and anti-marriage leagues clubs of all this 
 she was ignorant. 
 
 Mile. Yvonne was passing two months in Paris. It 
 was the Comtesse de Donjeon, a friend of the Grojean 
 family, who had introduced her to Miss Rowrer. The 
 two young women were unlike both in education and 
 ideas and they at once became great friends. But 
 Mile. Yvonne was shortly to return to her old tranquil, 
 provincial home, and she was enjoying her last weeks 
 in Paris. To-day, especially, she was delighted to hear 
 them talking freely before her, and, most of all, about 
 marriage. For hermit was the escapade of a school- 
 girl looking over the wall at the fruits of a forbidden 
 garden. 
 
 One thing, however, was troubling her. Her mother 
 had not come back, as she always did, to take her home. 
 Doubtless there was some unforeseen hindrance. She 
 confided her disquiet to Ethel. 
 
 "Don't worry; your mother will come. And even if 
 she does not, you can go away alone, I suppose." 
 
 ' ' What ! ' ' said Yvonne, ' ' cross Paris all alone ? You 
 wouldn't think of it!" 
 
 "But I do it!" 
 
 "That is true," Yvonne said, blushing. 
 
 They were speaking in a low tone; the others were 
 not listening, but surrounded Miss Rozenkrantz. 
 
 "What is more natural than to go about alone?" 
 Ethel said to Yvonne. "What harm is there, voyonst
 
 148 FATA MORGANA 
 
 You slander your fellow-countrymen the men of Paris 
 are not tigers, I imagine. What danger is there?" 
 
 "Oh, none," Yvonne admitted; "but they are said to 
 be so gallant!" 
 
 "Gallant! An ill-bred fellow accosts you in the street 
 and you say he is gallant?" 
 
 "Not exactly, no," Yvonne hastened to say; "it 's 
 just the contrary." 
 
 "Men such as that," said Ethel, "are not men 
 that's all!" 
 
 There was a moment of silence. 
 
 "Men who are not men that must be another of 
 Miss Ethel's pleasantries," thought Yvonne. 
 
 Ethel looked at her water-color, throwing back her 
 shoulders to judge better of the effect. What she did 
 not understand was that a young woman like Yvonne 
 should accommodate herself to such a state of affairs 
 Yvonne, who but now, during the squabble with Miss 
 Arabella, had the decided air of some Gaulish Amazon. 
 Why should she be so timid with regard to such insolent 
 dogs ? She felt really a lofty and protecting pity for this 
 sister of an old country, nice as she was. 
 
 "Men such as that!" she began again, in a tone of 
 contempt. 
 
 "Such as what?" Yvonne timidly asked. "Do you 
 mean workmen, men with blouses those of whom you 
 were just speaking those who are not 
 
 "Who said anything like that?" replied Ethel. 
 "Dress has nothing to do with it." 
 
 "It 's their profession, then?" Yvonne asked again;
 
 ETHEL'S IDEA OF A MAN 149 
 
 "or is it nationality? The Englishman is different from 
 the Frenchman the German' 
 
 "Oehsenmaulsalatsfabrikant !" Ethel interrupted. 
 
 "All go to make up so many different types, I know," 
 Mile. Yvonne continued. 
 
 "It's nothing of all that!" said Ethel, seriously. 
 ' ' When I say a man I speak neither of an officer nor of 
 a lawyer nor of a doctor nor a workman nor a prince. 
 Rich or poor, German, English, or French it does n't 
 matter!" 
 
 The students had gathered round. They asked one 
 another what Miss Rowrer meant who, then, is the rara 
 avis that is neither this nor that not a workman, not a 
 prince ? 
 
 Helia kept silence and ilistened. Which man ? She 
 had known one who seemed to her frank and loyal, and 
 gave her his word ; and then then he had forgotten it ! 
 What meaning, then, was there in Miss Rowrer 's 
 words? But she understood perfectly, and she blushed 
 for Phil when Ethel, to signify those qualities of up- 
 rightness, equity, and honor that respect for one's 
 word once given which she meant by "man," re- 
 peated in a tone of deepest conviction: 
 
 "I say A MAN!"
 
 PART II 
 MORE THAN QUEEN
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 WANTED A DUCHESS! 
 
 A S he had himself said to Ethel the day of his visit 
 l\ to Phil's studio, Conrad di Tagliaferro, Duke of 
 -j^- Morgania, was much to be pitied he had to 
 quit Paris ! 
 
 The duke reveled in the life of the Boulevard, los- 
 ing himself amid the crowd, climbing to the tops of 
 omnibuses, taking a cab^o the opera, getting himself 
 spoken of in the society "hews of the papers. He was 
 seen everywhere, in salons and at the theater, at the 
 clubs and at the races. There was no ceremony for 
 him, and he had no cares. Arriving in Paris he put 
 aside all the duties of his position as you might leave 
 a coat in the cloak-room. When he accepted a friend's 
 invitation he always insisted that there should be no 
 questions of etiquette. 
 
 " Sans ceremonie it 's understood," and he would 
 add in Parisian slang, "au hazard de la fourchette 
 [pot-luck] !" 
 
 However, there was a "but." His people pestered him 
 
 from afar in the shape of two voivodes who had been 
 
 delegated by his nobles, and who followed him even 
 
 to his late suppers like some twofold Banquo specter. 
 
 153
 
 154 FATA MORGANA 
 
 These delegates were in Paris to urge his return. 
 The duke had been lucky enough to avoid them until 
 now; but their mere presence said clearly enough that 
 things were going wrong in Morgania. 
 
 Since the fabulous days of Morgana the unity of 
 this little warlike people had always been kept at its 
 frontier, beneath the shadow of its great red banner 
 with the white cross facing barbarism ; and it was 
 from that side the storm was muttering once again. 
 
 There were grave reports from Macedonia. Houses 
 were being burned and convoys pillaged. All the vil- 
 lages from Kassovo to Monastir were in ebullition. 
 Bands of bashi-bazouks had come as far as the Drina. 
 It would be necessary to go back. The duke saw it 
 clearly great events were preparing. 
 
 "You were present, I believe," the duke said to Ca- 
 racal, "when I spoke at Phil's place of the old sorceress, 
 who is a prophetess for some and a saint for others, and 
 has more influence in the country than all the journal- 
 ists in the world could have. This old woman predicts 
 the future. I assure you, Caracal, she foretells aston- 
 ishing things, absolutely amazing, and I myself have 
 seen them realized many times over. Just now she is 
 upsetting the country with talk about the return of 
 Morgana. ' ' 
 
 "But there 's no harm in that," Caracal remarked. 
 
 "She excites the people, and it will end in war, 
 that's all!" answered the duke, gravely. "Ah! the 
 prophetess and her prophecies they are a load upon 
 my back, I can tell you ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' Why don 't you shut her up in a madhouse ? ' '
 
 WANTED- A DUCHESS! 155 
 
 "That 's more easily said than done," observed the 
 duke. "An old woman adored by an entire people 
 you may not believe me, but I assure you she 's 
 stronger than I!" 
 
 Caracal looked at the duke to see if he was in 
 earnest. But a duke's psychology was entirely beyond 
 his ken, subtle observer as he was. The duke's ani- 
 mosity against the sorceress had a look of embroil- 
 ment between sovereigns. 
 
 While the prospect of all these troubles alienated 
 the duke from Morgania, so a creature dear to his 
 heart attracted him homeward. This was his only child, 
 his son, the little Duke Adalbert. All the duke's affec- 
 tions were centered upon this son, after the death of 
 the duchess. It had n<st been a happy marriage. 
 First of all, his wife had made him take a dislike to 
 his people. She was an Austrian archduchess more 
 than an aristocrat, an Olympian ; and the fall from the 
 elegance of Vienna life to severe duties in Morgania 
 filled her with bitterness. She detested her subjects, 
 and they paid her back the compliment. Never had a 
 duchess been so unpopular. 
 
 Until then, not to speak of the heroine who had 
 founded the glory of the house, all the duchesses had 
 had the gift of pleasing the people, perhaps because 
 most of them were themselves sprung from the people. 
 Love 's fancies had reigned in the house of Tagliaferro, 
 and, thanks to such spontaneousness of feeling, mis- 
 alliances had not been rare. Just as at the Austrian 
 court Archduke Henry, the emperor's nephew, had 
 espoused a dancing-girl who became Baroness Wei-
 
 156 FATA MORGANA 
 
 deck, and before him Archduke John had married the 
 pretty Anna Plochel, a postmaster's daughter, so the 
 Dukes of Morgania, with aristocratic loftiness, chose 
 their consorts wherever it seemed good to them. 
 
 Such duchesses the people of Morgania preferred to 
 all others. It was very important for the future of 
 the house that she who was to succeed the mother of 
 Adalbert should possess all those qualities which make 
 a woman adorable goodness, beauty, and valor. 
 
 In Morgania, where diplomatic refinements were un- 
 known, there was needed a young woman of new 
 blood, bringing energy with her, and able to revive 
 confidence. There had been such in the ancestry of 
 Duke Conrad heroines sprung from the people, 
 daughters of the mountain or the plain. 
 
 "You shall see their statues," the duke said one 
 day to Ethel, who had come with her grandmother to 
 see his collections "that is, if you do me the honor of 
 stopping in Morgania when you make your Mediter- 
 ranean yacht tour." 
 
 "It is a promise," said Ethel. 
 
 "It will interest you, Miss Rowrer, to visit my 
 stronghold. It is one of the most ancient in Europe. 
 The donjon at the entrance is formidable. It was in 
 1221, when he returned from the Crusade of Honorius 
 III and Andrew II, King of Hungary, that my ances- 
 tor, Enguerrand, had it built, along with the great 
 hall used for the people's assemblages; for, to procure 
 the necessary resources of his expedition, he had been 
 obliged to enfranchise the serfs." 
 
 "He did well," observed grandma.
 
 WANTED- A DUCHESS! 157 
 
 "He could not have done better,'* the duke replied. 
 "Moreover, there came out of it the Hall, which is a 
 masterpiece." 
 
 "The Hall, doubtless, is decorated with the arms 
 and armor of the epoch? that will interest me 
 greatly. ' ' 
 
 "There are neither cuirasses nor gauntlets," an- 
 swered the duke; "neither helmets nor the armop^of 
 knights on horseback, as in the Tower of London or 
 the Invalides in Paris. But such as it is, it will in- 
 terest you even more. It has something that will go 
 straight to your heart." 
 
 "Really?" Ethel asked. "And what can that be?" 
 
 "This," the duke went on. "The Walhalla of Ba- 
 varia has been built to German heroes; our Hall is 
 built to the glory, not of the heroes, but of the heroines 
 of Morgania. My ancestor, Enguerrand, consecrated 
 his Hall to the glorification of our women." 
 
 "Ah!" Ethel exclaimed, deeply interested. 
 
 "A great idea!" said grandma. "America ought to 
 have a hall like that at Lincoln Park. We have our 
 heroines, too it would be full in little time!" 
 
 "Madame Rowrer is right," said the duke. "To be 
 a heroine there is no need to fight, sword in hand ; the 
 fulfilment of the civil and moral virtues makes hero- 
 ines, and devotedness and love have their own mar- 
 tyrs. But I am going to show you an old engraving 
 of the Hall." 
 
 The duke rose and searched in a portfolio. 
 
 "Two characteristic features," he continued, 
 ' ' strike one in feudalism : individual energy and im-
 
 158 FATA MORGANA 
 
 provement in the condition of women. When Duke 
 Enguerrand went forth to look for war and adven- 
 tures, my ancestress, Bertha, remained in Morgania 
 as the duke's representative, clothed with the right of 
 administering justice, and charged, during his absence, 
 with the defense and honor of the country. Such sov- 
 ereign power often gave to the women of that time 
 virtues which they had no opportunity of exercising 
 otherwise. 
 
 "When the knights and men-at-arms were gone to 
 the Holy Land, only the women remained at home. 
 Then Hungary was invaded by the Mongols, who 
 ravaged everything down to the Adriatic. Morgania 
 was on the point of perishing; but Bertha the Horse- 
 woman, as the people called her ever after, scoured 
 the country the whole winter long, leading convoys, 
 and bringing in supplies from Italy and mercenaries 
 from Germany. Thus she repelled the Mongols and 
 saved Morgania from invasion, and the people from 
 famine. 
 
 "When the duke came back he found Morgania in 
 mourning, for the duchess had died at her task. Saint 
 Morgana, the heroic ancestress, already had her al- 
 tars. The duke wished to consecrate the glory of the 
 others as well ; and he built the Hall so that henceforth 
 the people might gather around their images under 
 the saint's protection. Dying he expressed a wish 
 that his descendants should dedicate the Hall to the 
 glory of their women. Here is the engraving," the 
 duke said, turning toward Miss Rowrer and grandma. 
 
 "Indeed," said Ethel, "all this interests me tremen-
 
 " ' Here is the engraving ' ;
 
 WANTED-A DUCHESS! 161 
 
 dously. So your ancestor Enguerrand was the creator 
 of women's rights!" 
 
 Ethel and grandma examined the engraving. It 
 represented an octagonal hall of somber and mas- 
 sive aspect. The eight segments of the vaulted roof 
 were separated by stone ribbing that met in a fleuron, 
 from which hung an immense chandelier. The arches 
 rested on eight columns. Between two of these a^solid 
 wall had been built; it was covered with vestiges of 
 ancient painting. Stone steps mounted up to this 
 wall, making a platform on which there was a bench 
 of carved wood. 
 
 "Let me be your guide," said the duke. "This 
 large wooden bench against the wall between the two 
 columns is the ducal throne. The stuffs and cushions 
 which cover it were brought from Tyre and Sidon by 
 Enguerrand." 
 
 "That is very beautiful," Ethel interrupted, "but 
 it is your heroines that interest me most where are 
 they in all this? Bertha the Horsewoman, where is 
 she?" 
 
 "Here this statue," the duke replied. "As you see, 
 there are three statues facing each other first Bertha, 
 then Thilda, the duchess who killed Sultan Murad at 
 Kroja with her own hand, and then Rhodai's the Slave. 
 The fourth pedestal is still empty." 
 
 "Was there a slave in your ancestry?" Ethel asked. 
 "It is the name you apply to Rhodai's." 
 
 "She was the daughter of a simple voivode," said 
 the duke. "She accompanied to Venice the daughter of 
 the King of Hungary, whose kingdom had partly fallen
 
 162 FATA MORGANA 
 
 under the power of the Turks. But they were attacked 
 by an Ottoman galley and every one was massacred 
 except Rhodai's. As she trampled the Crescent under 
 foot they chained her to the rowers' bench, from which 
 she escaped only by a shipwreck. She came back to 
 Morgania, had the duke buy a galley in Venice, chose 
 a crew of hardy corsairs, and began a war without 
 mercy against the Turks who infested the coast. She 
 put herself at the service of Don Juan of Austria 
 at the battle of Lepanto. My ancestor, Hugh XIII, 
 made her his duchess, and Philip II of Spain, as a 
 recompense of her valor, gave her the hereditary title, 
 unknown till then, of Lady Knight of Malta." 
 
 "That was a woman!" Ethel said. "With a 
 duchess like Rhodai's a people could not perish! But 
 Morgana, the fairy, the saint, in whose honor the 
 Hall was built I do not see her?" 
 
 "On the contrary, she is everywhere. She lights 
 up the Hall with her rays," the duke replied. "This 
 engraving does not give the entrance portal which 
 overlooks city and sea and country. This portal was 
 made at Enguerrand's return. It is like the entrance 
 to an enchanted palace; and by its magnificence and 
 delicate ornamentation contrasts with the general 
 severity of the Hall. As in Gothic churches this por- 
 tal sets far back into the interior. An immense 
 stained-glass window overlooks it; and from this light 
 falls in floods through one of the sides of the vaulted 
 roof, which was purposely suppressed." 
 
 "I understand," Ethel said. "Face to face with the 
 ducal throne, your ancestress Morgana dominates every- 
 thing!"
 
 WANTED- A DUCHESS! 163 
 
 "Yes," continued the duke; "at eventide the set- 
 ting sun enters the interior of the Hall through this 
 window, which represents the glorious martyrdom of 
 Morgana. You would say that her blood threw crim- 
 son stains upon the throne itself and the glow of her 
 miracle lighted up the whole hall." 
 
 "What about the fresco which has left traces^on 
 the wall behind the throne? Was it, too, of some war- 
 like deed?" Ethel asked. 
 
 "No; this one represented the legend of Morgana 
 rising from the sea and bringing in her arms what 
 should be the fortune of Morgania. What was it she 
 was bringing in her arms? I know not. Morgana, 
 it appears, was represented in the fresco issuing from 
 the sea, and covered with seaweed." 
 
 "Just as in the picture of Monsieur Phil," remarked 
 Ethel. 
 
 "Exactly so," said the duke. "It was the moment 
 I chose; and your fellow-countryman has reconstructed 
 it. In my next trip to Morgania Monsieur Phil is to 
 come to the castle and finish his picture on the spot. 
 Before then I shall have time to search through the 
 archives, and perhaps I shall find what it was Morgana 
 was bringing in her arms." 
 
 Thereupon Miss Rowrer and grandma went away. 
 The duke remained alone. He retired to his study 
 a den plastered with sporting photographs and sink- 
 ing on a sofa lighted a cigarette and began dreaming 
 as he followed the light smoke with his eye. 
 
 "Morgana she who was to come forth from the 
 sea bringing fortune and happiness in her arms is 
 it not Miss Rowrer landing in her yacht before the
 
 164 FATA MORGANA 
 
 castle? She, too, comes from the setting sun. She, 
 too, brings fortune. She, too, would be adored by the 
 people. What a strange coincidence ! The old sorcer- 
 ess is not so crazy after all," the duke said to himself, 
 "and there is nothing impossible in it! Whatever 
 may be the personal qualities and fabulous fortune of 
 Miss Rowrer, a Duke Tagliaferro is her equal. Through 
 me she would be Duchess of Morgania, Protectress of the 
 Skipetars, Lady Knight of Malta, Princess of Kroja, 
 Queen of Antioch in the Holy Land, allied to the court 
 of Prussia, and cousin of the Hapsburgs. There is not 
 an older nor a nobler house in Europe." 
 
 It made the duke's head swim only to think of it. 
 He was a descendant of Hugh, the Frankish chief to 
 whom Theodosius had given one of his twelve duchies 
 of the West, and since that time nothing not even 
 Attila's torrent, nor the Turks, nor Charles the V, nor 
 so many famines, nor so many wars nothing had ever 
 struck the sword from the hands of his ancestors 
 nothing save the anger of the people against Duke 
 Adhemar, who was driven from the throne because he 
 had delivered up Morgana! 
 
 I will maintain by the sword! This proud device 
 had never proved false, as the old iron-bound ar- 
 chives could witness. The duke felt weary weary 
 with all the weariness and old with all the age of 
 all his ancestors; and his fingers had scarcely the 
 strength to knock the ashes from his cigarette. 
 
 What a youth his inheritance of glory had won for 
 him! How he had envied in other days the little 
 peasants who ran barefoot along the beach, whereas
 
 WANTED- A DUCHESS! 165 
 
 he, brought up by sad-faced priests in the old feudal 
 castle, was less free than a slave. Then .came his mar- 
 riage, which had been settled for him for reasons of 
 state, and the death of his father, which gave him 
 the administration of the duchy an ungrateful taskp 
 No! He had not lived! Enough of the gloomy pal- 
 ace and rude peasants ! He wished to live and to be 
 amused to be young for once in his life. He would 
 know happiness, at least! 
 
 The duke gazed at the blue curls of smoke floating 
 as aimlessly as himself. He had not even hoped for 
 a marriage like this with Miss Rowrer, having all the 
 advantages of a royal marriage, without any of its in- 
 conveniences. She would be one of the richest and 
 most brilliant sovereigns of Europe. 
 
 Never had life appeared sweeter to him than now. 
 He was buoyed up with hope and illusions. There was 
 this marriage for the near future, and meanwhile he 
 could enjoy the little time he still had to pass in 
 Paris. This evening, for instance, he was to go with 
 Caracal and meet Helia behind the scenes of the Nou- 
 veau-Cirque. Perhaps he was thinking more than he 
 ought of Helia, but he wished to thank her before his 
 departure for having posed as Morgana. 
 
 A lackey broke in upon his reverie, handing the 
 duke two cartes-de-visite on a silver plate. 
 
 "Zrnitschka!" 
 
 ' ' Bjelopawlit ji ! " 
 
 "The devil!" said the duke. "My two voivodes 
 my two kill-joys!" 
 
 Ah ! those two sad-faced ' ' ambassadors of the sor-
 
 166 FATA MORGANA 
 
 ceress" would they never cease harassing him? The 
 valet spoke: 
 
 "The gentlemen wish to have the honor of present- 
 ing their homage to monseigneur. " 
 
 "Yes; I am acquainted with their homage," the 
 duke said, below his voice, as he drew out his watch. 
 "Half-past six, and Caracal is waiting for me and 
 Helia, whom I have to see " 
 
 "What answer shall I give these gentlemen?" asked 
 the valet. 
 
 "How do I know!" answered the duke, vexed at 
 being troubled while thinking of so many things. 
 "Tell them oh, tell them I am having a political in- 
 terview a tete-a-tete with the representative of a 
 great power!"
 
 r 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 A PARISIAN DEBUT 
 
 THE duke, imposing and superb, was present; and 
 Caracal, with his monocle in his eye, was beside 
 him. It was the first night of Helia. If it had 
 been a common first night at the Theatre Franc,ais, the 
 duke would have thought himself dishonored by ap- 
 pearing before the second act. But he wished to offer 
 a rose to Helia, and so he, a gentleman, had committed 
 and made Caracal commit an unheard-of thing they 
 had dined between seven and eight so as to arrive on 
 time. 
 
 "You are interested in behind the scenes? Your 
 presence greatly honors us, monseigneur, " said the di- 
 rector of the Cirque as he passed by them. 
 
 Was he interested ? He was more than that he was 
 enthralled. 
 
 First of all, Caracal suggested it was very chic to 
 have the air of paying court to Helia, who to-morrow 
 would be celebrated as a star. This would give an 
 irresistible Don Juan mark to his ducal title. 
 
 "That will help me with Miss Rowrer," thought 
 the duke, who was pupil and plaything of the clever 
 167
 
 168 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Caracal. There was a single shadow in his picture 
 Phil was not there! 
 
 Phil was to accompany Miss Rowrer to the Amer- 
 ican Club Exhibition; but this touched the duke oh, 
 so very slightly. Miss Rowrer had a great esteem for 
 Phil, but pshaw ! a poor devil of an artist was no 
 rival for him, a duke with his duchy, descended from 
 fairies and queens and saints! Against all this what 
 could avail her innocent flirtation with Phil? 
 
 The public had not yet come and the hall was empty. 
 Here and there the electric globes were lighting up; 
 but the duke and Caracal beheld a sight which helped 
 them to pass the time. The sensational equestrienne, 
 the Marquesa de Guerrera, was coming down the steps, 
 enameled and rouged and resplendent with diamonds. 
 Monseigneur gallantly held her stirrup as she pain- 
 fully climbed upon her horse. She dashed out on the 
 track in front of the empty benches for a short re- 
 hearsal. She asked for the orchestra and the lights, 
 to accustom her horse to the noise and glitter. She 
 was afraid he would take fright. She trembled at his 
 slightest shying. 
 
 ''Take away that white paper that program on the 
 bench; take it away! And do you applaud!" the 
 Marquesa called to the stable-boys who approached the 
 ring. 
 
 "Applaud! to accustom him to the bravos!" 
 
 The horse began turning like a great mechanical 
 plaything with a doll on its back. 
 
 "The horse does all the work!" said Suzanne be- 
 hind the duke. She had just arrived with Helia and 
 Sceurette, Helia 's little sister.
 
 'Giving the Flower to the Child"
 
 A PARISIAN DEBUT 
 
 "No, I assure you," said Helia, "haute ecole riding 
 is difficult!" 
 
 The duke turned. 
 
 "How do you do, mesdemoiselles ? " he said, lifting 
 his hat. 
 
 "Monseigneur " Helia began. 
 
 "Oh, monsieur," Soeurette broke in, "it 's for me, 
 is n't it? the pretty rose?" 
 
 " Why why yes !" the duke answered, giving the 
 flower to the child. 
 
 He remarked Helia 's surprise. She seemed troubled 
 by his visit. It had been the affair of a moment, but 
 it was sufficient to hinder the duke, who was no apt 
 pupil of Caracal, from giving the rose to Helia. 
 
 "You lack nerve!" Caracal whispered in his ear. 
 
 "It will come!" answered monseigneur. 
 
 "I see the duke and Caracal," Helia said to herself; 
 ' ' but Phil is not here ! It 's not very nice of him. ' ' 
 
 The public was coming in. The equestrienne left off 
 rehearsing, with her hat over one ear. 
 
 "Come, we have to get ready," said Helia. "Au 
 revoir, messieurs ! ' ' 
 
 The benches were filling up. Against the dark shad- 
 ows of the boxes fans waved to and fro. The duke 
 straightened up in the respectful space which his title 
 of monseigneur left around him. Near him was Cem- 
 etery, the clown, waiting for Helia, whom he was to 
 accompany in the ring. He shook the yellow tresses of 
 his wig and groaned constantly, complaining of his 
 aches and speaking of a return to his box to rub him- 
 self with camphorated alcohol.
 
 172 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "Do you want me to go with you I '11 rub you!" 
 the duke said, Parisian to the finger-tips, and hop- 
 ing, if he rubbed the old clown's spine, that he would 
 redeem in Caracal's eyes the rose given to Sceurette. 
 
 "No, thank you, monseigneur. There is nothing to 
 be done," said the old clown; "I, too, was famous, and 
 now I 'm only an old dog ah!" 
 
 But no one listened to him. 
 
 The show began. In the ring the blond hair and 
 doll face of Louise Bingel whirled to the music of 
 the orchestra, as she leaned over to apply the whip to 
 her horse's neck with many a "Go!" and "Up!" 
 
 The public talked as it looked through the program. 
 The real show was to come later. It was not the 
 "Gallinaro Family, somersaults, bravourturnerin, tapis- 
 tumblers," nor "Miss Soho, the world's greatest I- 
 don 't-know-what, " nor "Princess Colibri and her 
 Prince-Consort" no! that which attracted the public 
 was, first and foremost, Helia. Discreet notes in the 
 papers had given hopes that there would be something 
 "never seen before." Some said she was a young girl 
 of good family, whom an irresistible vocation had drawn 
 to the circus. Details, too, were given of her career 
 in contradiction with one another, of course. 
 
 What was not known, though, was how Helia had been 
 working for months. She was going to try a daring 
 feat. Even the costume was to be new. To her the 
 nudity of the maillot seemed brutal. 
 
 "Beauty is well, talent is better!" Cemetery, her 
 professor in other days, used to say; and she wished 
 to be applauded for her art and not for her beauty.
 
 ) 
 
 Cemetery
 
 ,. 
 
 A PARISIAN D^BUT 175 
 
 Her wonderful gymnastic knowledge gave her the 
 right to attempt the feat. 
 
 She thought in gestures. She had in her the inborn 
 love of grace and physical force. With graceful move- 
 ment she summed up a thousand things which she 
 could not have said ; and she had the idea of reviving 
 the acrobatics of the ancients, just as others have re- 
 constructed the songs of old times, and the dance 
 through the ages. One day at the Louvre she had seen 
 on a Greek vase an artistic dance which struck her. 
 She had spoken of it to Phil while posing for Mor- 
 gana for Helia saw Phil often. 
 
 In spite of all, she loved to be near him, and though 
 Phil might forget, on her side she felt her love for 
 him only increase. She was one of those proud hearts 
 which love but once. In spite of all, she believed in 
 the sacredness of a sworn promise. Phil would come 
 back to her! Besides, Phil was a precious help in 
 the work she was undertaking. Together they con- 
 sulted the "Recherches Historiques et Critiques sur les 
 Mimes et Pantomimes du Seigneur de Rivery." Her 
 head was full of neurobatie, scheunobatie, and acro- 
 batic. She dreamed of gymnastics and the dance. She 
 studied her movements in Phil's studio, in the even- 
 ing, after his work. 
 
 He had a jointed lay-figure which she put in the 
 proper poses, seeking for effects in its curving and 
 bending back. She cut out little costumes and tried 
 them on it. She went to the Library, and looked through 
 the boxes of the booksellers along the Quais. The in- 
 stinct of the beautiful guided her. She composed her 
 number as she might compose a poem.
 
 176 FATA MORGANA 
 
 The reverse of a Roman medal and an old engraving 
 representing the Genoese who descended the towers 
 of Notre Dame, torch in hand, to offer a crown to 
 Queen Isabeau suggested ideas to her. A biography 
 of Madame Saqui, who was called the first acrobat of 
 the empire, and whom Napoleon entitled mon enragee, 
 was very useful to her. 
 
 ''Plato," Phil said to her one day when they were 
 studying together, "Plato contends that gymnastics 
 give grace to the movements of the body, of which 
 we ought to think even before adorning the mind." 
 
 "Plato is wrong," was Helia 's answer. 
 
 But she proved that he was right by the moral 
 energy which physical training had developed in her. 
 For months she studied without let-up, mastering re- 
 bellious muscles, beginning again, twenty times over, 
 the same thing, setting to work with all her heart and 
 all her courage, with clenched teeth and eyes shining 
 with the pride of will. There was despair in her mad 
 energy. 
 
 "But you will kill yourself, Helia," Phil said to her. 
 
 "Nonsense!" said Helia. "I will die or do it!" 
 
 "In other days," she thought in her simplicity, 
 "Phil did not like to hear me speaking of my trade; 
 but who knows? he may change if I become a grande 
 artiste." 
 
 That evening she was to present to the public the 
 outcome of her efforts. 
 
 Suzanne, in the dress of a pretty little Pierrette, 
 was already in the ring. "With her usual go she was 
 showing off trained rabbits. They jumped through
 
 A PARISIAN D^BUT 177 
 
 hoops, climbed up on her, and ate seeds from her hand. 
 It made a little interlude before Helia's number. 
 
 At the entrance of the stables clowns and firemen, 
 reporters and men of sport made up a guard of honor. 
 There was even an impresario from New York, who 
 spoke to Suzanne when she came out. 
 
 "Brava, mademoiselle! Ah! if you only knew how 
 to sing!" 
 
 "If I only knew how to sing! Je t'ecoute!" 
 
 ' ' Brava ! brava ! You '11 have a success in New 
 York! You '11 come on the stage, they '11 ask you 
 if you know how to sing and you '11 answer how 
 was it you said it?" 
 
 "Je t'ecoute [I hear you]." 
 
 ' ' That 's it ! You must also bring in a little can-can 
 do you know how to dance?" 
 
 "There 's a question for you!" And with the point 
 of her elegant foot Suzanne, scarcely seeming to touch 
 it, sent the shining silk hat of the impresario rolling 
 on the ground. 
 
 ' ' Brava ! Perfect ! ' ' the impresario cried in an ec- 
 stasy of joy. "I 've found what I 'm looking for a 
 typical French girl!" 
 
 There was silence. In the luminous void of the cir- 
 cus, high up in the air there were shining things in 
 nickel trapezes and a rope was stretched down to the 
 ring. 
 
 The orchestra burst forth. Helia kissed Soeurette 
 and passed out with a run before the duke and Ca- 
 racal. Her mantle, left hanging as if by chance, gave 
 a glimpse of a rosy shoulder. On the threshold of the
 
 178 FATA MORGANA 
 
 ring she stopped and threw off the mantle. It was 
 like the unveiling of a statue. 
 
 She wore the short tunic of the dancers of Perga- 
 mus. The clinging stuff was fastened at the shoulder 
 and hung to a point on each side, leaving arms and 
 neck and the upper part of the breast uncovered; a 
 light skirt fell straight to the ankles. 
 
 Helia looked at the public long enough to smile and 
 bow. Then, with a quick spring, she leaped to the 
 tightly stretched rope, and with agile bare feet 
 climbed up its incline to the platform in front of her 
 trapeze. The light brought out the whiteness of her 
 skin and her red cheeks, and glittered back from a 
 little star-shaped jewel in the black hair above her 
 forehead. 
 
 There was a murmur of sympathy. The public ap- 
 plauded and cried: "Brava!" Helia had done nothing 
 yet, but the audience was already won. The orches- 
 tra, after a moment's silence, suddenly broke forth and 
 Helia began. 
 
 At first, to accustom the public to the notion of 
 the movements, she leaped upright on the trapeze, 
 which swung over to the platform. This had been 
 foreseen. The three trapezes in their swing almost 
 touched each other. They were hung from light steel 
 tubes and oscillated like a single mechanism, without 
 break or twist. 
 
 Helia, with infinite grace, went through a few exer- 
 cises. It was the Waking of the Goddess the first 
 astonished gestures of a statue called to life by the 
 inspiration of a Pygmalion. Then she let herself fall
 
 A PARISIAN DfiBUT 179 
 
 as if overcome by dizziness, grasped the bar as she 
 slipped down without apparent shock, and almost 
 before the folds of her gown could fall back grace- 
 fullyshe was again on the trapeze, magnificent and 
 at her ease. She balanced herself gently and gave a 
 backward leap to the platform. 
 
 The public broke forth in applause. It felt itself in 
 the presence of a healthy and robust art. This was 
 no acrobat limited to one single task, with legs heavy 
 by dint of walking on the ball, or shoulders by walk- 
 ing on the hands. But here was the accomplished 
 gymnast the all-round artiste, with her muscles obe- 
 dient and supple. In her they acclaimed the poetry 
 of the body and the melody of movement. 
 
 To give Helia a moment's rest, Cemetery entered, 
 stumbled at the entrance of the ring, fell on his nose, 
 rolled over, and pulled himself up by the rope. His 
 pantomime expressed delight and fear at the specta- 
 cle, high above him, of this creature of light and 
 beauty. His pursed-up mouth and rounded eyes had 
 the look of weeping. He walked out scratching his 
 wig. 
 
 The public laughed. 
 
 Helia made a sign and looked to the trapezes 
 oscillating. Suddenly, to a joyous strain, she leaped 
 forward. The orchestra seemed to uphold her in her 
 flight. Nothing could be more graceful than the pose 
 of her skirt, which fluttered from her ankles like a 
 pair of wings. Then Helia leaped to the second tra- 
 peze just as the two bars almost touched. Her hand 
 grasped the steel tube with a sudden effort, which
 
 180 FATA MORGANA 
 
 her art concealed. Then, letting go, she continued 
 her dizzy balancing and leaped to the third trapeze, 
 as calm as Fortune on her Wheel. She had crossed the 
 entire space of the circus at a single flight and fallen 
 upright on the other platform just as a wingless Victory 
 finds rest on the pediment of a temple. 
 
 ' ' Hurrah ! Brava ! brava ! ' ' 
 
 Helia cast a look of triumph on the crowd. 
 
 ' ' "What an artiste ! ' ' the duke murmured. Could 
 this really be she who but a moment ago was talking 
 like any comrade this prodigy who was holding the 
 hall enthralled, and bringing in a crush to the door 
 all the stable crowd and artistes, gentlemen in evening 
 dress, and the whole tumult of clowns? 
 
 Sffiurette looked at her "big sister" in wonder and 
 delight, while her lips seemed to murmur a prayer. 
 Cemetery entered the ring again to proclaim the dis- 
 tress of man and his unrealizable desires. He jumped 
 up to the rope, climbed a yard or two, and fell back 
 flat on the ground. Poum! Come on! the goddess 
 seemed to say to him. He tried again, but from the 
 height of his Olympus the leader of the orchestra 
 thundered him down with a stroke of the bass-drum, and 
 he fell again poum! remaining on his back with 
 his four limbs wriggling in the air. Then he dragged 
 himself away, broken and bruised, with halting leg 
 and rubbing his shoulder, while above him Helia ap- 
 peared as an apparition, a shining form rid of the 
 heaviness of the flesh. 
 
 Her art astonished the public. There was no per- 
 ceptible effort, Jarret laches, high leaps, whirls, there
 
 At the Circ-us
 
 A PARISIAN DEBUT 183 
 
 was nothing of all that. She gave the sensation of the 
 "something never seen before." Merely by the way in 
 which she touched her trapeze with the point of her 
 bare feet, one felt that she was free from rules inven- 
 tive, a genius. It was youth and beauty, scorn of danger, 
 and courage holding spellbound the crowd below her. 
 
 Her artistic intelligence profited even by obstacles. 
 Thus Helia disdained the net; but the law imposed it. 
 She found a means of making it serve her own pur- 
 poses. 
 
 Just as she was ending, a globe was passed up to 
 her, and she placed it on the bar. Then she stood up- 
 right on it, in the vast oscillations of the trapeze. She 
 was like a goddess soaring in space with the earth 
 under her feet. 
 
 Then Helia stopped motionless. 
 
 The orchestra ceased; the lights were extinguished; 
 and suddenly, like a star falling in the night, Helia 
 fell down to the net. 
 
 There was a moment's anguish, and then the lights 
 and orchestra lightning and thunder began again, 
 as in a storm. Helia was on the ground, offering, with 
 a gesture, her heart to the crowd. 
 
 She was called back again and again. Bouquets 
 were thrown to her the public would have her out 
 once more ! At last she retired, worn out, and, putting 
 off her stage-smile, she shook hands all round. 
 
 ''There '11 be no bouquets left for the marquesa," 
 Suzanne said. "But her horse may be accustomed, 
 by this time, to the bravos ! ' ' 
 
 "You must be tired, Mademoiselle Helia?" the duke 
 asked.
 
 184 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "It 's my trade," said Helia. "We smile to the 
 public all the same ; it would not be nice to show that 
 it is work!" 
 
 And, with a gracious salutation to the duke, she 
 went back to her dressing-room. 
 
 "You have n't invited her to supper!" Caracal re- 
 marked to the duke, when she had gone. 
 
 "I didn't think of it!" 
 
 "Are you going to wait till she comes down?" 
 
 "No," said the duke, intimidated. "I shall see her 
 later, I hope. Your valet must attend to it. Let 's go 
 now. There 's nothing to see after Helia!"
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 PHIL, CHAMPION OP MISS ROWBER 
 
 '~W~ 'LL send her some flowers to-morrow," the duke 
 
 said, once they were outside. 
 
 -JL ' ' Monseigneur, ' ' replied Caracal, "allow me to 
 tell you, you 've been below the mark all through ! ' ' 
 
 "That 's so!" agreed monseigneur. 
 
 "For a reigning duke," Caracal went on, "a grand 
 seigneur, a Parisian in soul, to have such timidity! It 
 was worth while dining at impossible hours and pass- 
 ing evenings with a rheumatic clown, to wind up in 
 nothing ! ' ' 
 
 "I shall have my revenge!" the duke said. "This 
 evening I did not dare." 
 
 "And the reason is this," Caracal continued: 
 "you 're in love with Helia!" 
 
 "I!" 
 
 "Yes, monseigneur." 
 
 "What an idea!" 
 
 Just then Caracal passed into the two-colored light 
 of an apothecary's shop, red on one side and green 
 on the other; his single eye-glass darted a fantastic 
 reflection on the duke. He might have been twin 
 brother to Mephistopheles. 
 185
 
 186 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "What a devil of a man!" thought the duke; "you 
 can hide nothing from him. He might easily be 
 right!" 
 
 Caracal had not astonished him. In love? Perhaps 
 'he was, since others were noticing it. It is true that 
 Caracal was not exactly "others," powerful psychol- 
 ogist and searcher of hearts and brains as he was. 
 But even Caracal would have to confess himself beaten 
 by a Duke of Morgania parading with a circus star- 
 that would be Parisian enough! He would no longer 
 accuse him of inheriting the prejudices of Morgania, 
 nor of believing in the predictions of the mad old 
 witch ! 
 
 The duke blushed at his own scruples. He envied 
 Caracal's effrontery. 
 
 "It is true," he said to himself, "I have been below 
 the mark all through. For a grand seigneur like me 
 to be as timid as a college-boy is absurd. Helia ought 
 to be for me simply an episode a pastime and no- 
 thing more." 
 
 All these ideas had come to him while he was light- 
 ing his cigarette, and Caracal, red and green, was 
 darting on him the reflection of his monocle. 
 
 "In love with Helia?" the duke said aloud, flat- 
 tered that Caracal had such an opinion of him, "ma 
 foi, why not ? ' ' 
 
 "You are quite right," answered Caracal. "It will 
 increase your prestige. Besides, you '11 see her at 
 supper. My valet will hand her the invitation. Helia 
 would rather go off alone, but she will come with 
 us. Phil will be of the party, too!"
 
 PHIL, CHAMPION OF MISS ROWBER 187 
 
 ""Well, come along! We have an hour to wait. Let 's 
 go in somewhere," said the duke. 
 
 They were just coming into the Place Blanche. A 
 cafe, through its open doors, wrapped them round with 
 the smell of alcohol. Before them a red-winged mill 
 seemed grinding fire and flame. Beyond, streets went 
 climbing up Montmartre, mountain of guano. Right 
 and left, along the Boulevard, incredible dens held out 
 their blazing signs in line, like the "Mene, mene, tekel, 
 upharsin" of monstrous nights. 
 
 "Here is a cabaret artistique; let 's go in," said 
 Caracal ; " it 's immense ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' Come on ! " assented the duke. 
 
 The atmosphere, as of a den of animals, caught 
 them by the throat. The conversations were deafen- 
 ing, but the voice of the proprietor rose above the 
 clamor. He welcomed visitors, even ladies, with a 
 torrent of insults. It was the height of chic to receive 
 his avalanche of insolence with a smiling face. 
 
 "What do these two carrion come for?" he cried, 
 pointing to Caracal and the duke, who, in his surprise, 
 was on the point of getting angry, to the great joy 
 of the public. 
 
 "Let 's sit in this corner; we can talk better," Cara- 
 cal said to him, as much at his ease in this asphyxi- 
 ating air as a fish in water. They sat down and the 
 brutal voice and the clamors of the public found occu- 
 pation elsewhere. 
 
 "Talk?" asked the duke. "What in the world 
 should we talk about here?" 
 
 "About Helia," answered Caracal; "here 's to your 
 10
 
 188 FATA MORGANA 
 
 amours, monseigneur ! ' ' And he raised the glass which 
 a waiter, dressed like an Academician, had brought 
 him. 
 
 "Caracal!" said the duke, laughing, "we no longer 
 live in the times when kings espoused shepherdesses." 
 
 "But dukes, monseigneur, still pay their court to 
 danseuses," Caracal went on. "It 's a tendency of the 
 aristocracy." 
 
 "Why?" asked the duke. 
 
 "Because the common run of men, when they 
 court a woman, make account of what others think 
 of her ; whereas a grand seigneur does n 't care for 
 the opinion of the public and chooses what pleases 
 him." 
 
 "That 's true!" said the duke. 
 
 "I can cite you a dozen examples," Caracal con- 
 tinued. "There 's Clotilde Loisset, the circus-rider, who 
 is an Hungarian princess to-day; Chelli, the danseuse, 
 married to a Russian count who is Minister of State ; 
 Lord Billy, betrothed to an equilibrist; the Countess of 
 Landsfeldt, Baroness Rosenthal you know well who 
 they were. And you see what they are now, thanks to 
 the caprice of some Highness! Grandees, monseigneur, 
 are like those kings who acknowledge no rank but that 
 which they themselves create." 
 
 "Well said, Caracal!" 
 
 The duke, when his first surprise had passed, found 
 it amusing to talk confidentially in such a moral pig- 
 pen. It was so amusing, even, that he forgot to ask 
 himself what possible interest Caracal could have to 
 see him in love with Helia.
 
 PHIL, CHAMPION OF MISS ROWRER 189 
 
 "Will you come now, Caracal? Phil must be wait- 
 ing for us." 
 
 "Helia, too!" said Caracal. 
 
 They left the place. 
 
 "We are leaving just as it is becoming interesting," 
 Caracal sighed. "It 's over there we are to meet," 
 he added, pointing to the terrace of a cafe inundated 
 with light. 
 
 They had not gone twenty steps before a voice 
 called to them. It was Phil's. 
 
 "Good evening, Monsieur le Due! Good evening, 
 M. Caracal!" 
 
 "Good evening, Phil!" answered Caracal. "Eh 
 bienf How 's your American Club exposition? In- 
 teresting? Painting in the grand style? American 
 painting, eh! eh! done by machinery, of course? 
 I don't say that for you, cher ami!" 
 
 "And how is your novel, 'The House of Glass'?" re- 
 torted Phil, leaving painting for literature. "You 
 were just now in search of human documents. Don't 
 say no ; I saw you ! You 're always thinking about it ? " 
 
 ' ' Always, my dear friend, always ! But what 
 makes you think so?" 
 
 "Because you were looking in the gutter," said 
 Phil. 
 
 Caracal made a grimace ; but when they got to the 
 cafe his self-love had a satisfaction which brought 
 back his smiles. Before the terrace, encumbered 
 with people, his valet was awaiting him, telegrams 
 in hand. This valet was a part of his pride of life; 
 a good fellow employed in a shop all day long, and
 
 190 FATA MORGANA 
 
 free in the evening. Caracal dressed him up in a 
 tail coat with gilt buttons, and a high hat, and had 
 him bring his correspondence to the cafe every night, 
 as if he were a man overwhelmed with invitations and 
 billets-doux. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Helia will not come this evening," 
 the valet announced. 
 
 "Why not?" Caracal asked, interrupting the read- 
 ing of his despatches, which he had good reasons for 
 knowing by heart. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Helia did not say why. Made- 
 moiselle only said that she would not come. She has 
 gone out with M. Socrate." 
 
 "Very well!" said Caracal, dismissing his valet. 
 
 "With Socrate! Poor Helia!" thought Phil. 
 
 "Well, messieurs, it will be less gay without a 
 lady, ' ' Caracal observed ; ' ' but since we are here, let 's 
 do Montmartre, will you?" 
 
 "Come with us," said the duke. 
 
 So all three "did" Montmartre. 
 
 Caracal knew it all thoroughly. The cabaret was 
 his home. He entered offhand; he had his own man- 
 ner of opening the door and bidding a friendly good 
 day to the proprietor amid the tables. 
 
 "There 's Caracal!" These words, pronounced in 
 the smoke of these little cafes by some decadent ac- 
 companied by a painted girl, swelled his heart with 
 pride. Even the duke envied him this quasi-royalty 
 which Paris confers on its elect. 
 
 Caracal loved the cabaret rosses, where some rick- 
 ety little monsieur advances on the platform, opens
 
 PHIL, CHAMPION OF MISS ROWRER 191 
 
 his snarling mouth and, hammering his words that not 
 a syllable may be lost, narrates his little nastiness to the 
 public. 
 
 "It 's a new school," Caracal explained. "Much 
 more advanced than the decadents! It 's educating 
 the public up to itself little by little. It has taken 
 frankly for its flag the exact word in all its crudity." 
 
 "Say, rather, the dirty word," said Phil. 
 
 Wherever they went there was the same atmo- 
 sphere of infection. You would have said that, camp- 
 ing in modern Paris, there was a vtile chaude of the 
 Middle Ages, where "verolez tres pretieultx" made 
 high festival with ribald companions. The look of the 
 places was repulsive. In one they were served by 
 mock galley-slaves dragging their chains behind them. 
 In another there were grave-diggers, and they sat by 
 coffins, and green flames burned inside of skulls. 
 
 "You, fever-patient, what do you take?" the waiter 
 said to the customer; "and you, consumptive? What 
 do you drink, moribund?" 
 
 And then the fever-patient or the moribund some 
 ruddy young man from Scotland would answer tim- 
 idly :"0une lock." 
 
 "That gives a high idea of Paris," Phil said, as they 
 went out. To him it all seemed stupid. What a con- 
 trast for him, after an evening passed with Ethel, were 
 these pestiferous dives with their brute public, like pigs 
 at the fattening! The pitiful sight recalled to him the 
 weak-willed days of the past, the evenings at the Deux 
 Magots, the masterpieces drawn in pencil on cafe tables 
 and wiped off with a rag.
 
 192 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Caracal made a study of the different cabarets, pre- 
 ferring this one to that and drawing a dilletante's 
 distinctions between their poets and singers. 
 
 "Such an one enunciates well. Have you heard his 
 ballad of 'The Drunkard and the Rotting Dog'? That 
 is art!" 
 
 And with an elegant gesture he fixed the monocle 
 in his eye. Phil examined Caracal and tried to dis- 
 cern in his face the low instincts, the hatreds, the 
 thumb-marks of degeneracy. He saw nothing but self- 
 satisfaction. 
 
 They had arrived at The Pustule, the latest cabaret 
 artistique. 
 
 "Let 's go in!" Caracal proposed. "It shall be the 
 last." 
 
 "I shall leave you afterward," said Phil. 
 
 They entered. A blonde girl, with a thin, colorless 
 voice and childish gestures and little smirks, was singing : 
 
 " Les bosquets du Bois d'Boulogne 
 Ous' qu on fait Zizi pan pan ! " 
 
 Her place was taken by a chansonnier rosse, fat and 
 bald. This one began at once, in an aggressive tone, a 
 political satire. What? there was a couplet against 
 Americans Richard the Lion-hearted again, and then 
 a direct allusion to a certain American miss in this 
 sewer ! 
 
 Phil rose up, pale with anger. He would have 
 smashed things, and shut the mouth of the fat brute 
 bellowing on the stage; but suddenly he thought that
 
 PHIL, CHAMPION OF MISS ROWRER 195 
 
 he might compromise Miss Rowrer. He sat down, 
 clenching his fist. 
 
 "I 'd like to know who writes such infamous 
 songs ! " he said to Caracal. 
 
 "Bah, never mind! Calm yourself!" Caracal an- 
 swered, with sudden uneasiness. "Never mind; it 's 
 not worth while. No one understands ! ' ' 
 
 "What a set of fools!" Phil went on. "I 'm going 
 away; I choke here!" 
 
 "We '11 go with you," added the Duke of Morgania. 
 
 A moment later Phil took his leave of the duke and 
 Caracal, to return home. From the other side of the 
 street he saw Caracal gesticulating and explaining 
 modern art to the duke. Fragmentary sentences 
 reached his ear: " Chansonniers rossesoS. with all 
 masks the future of poetry poetry voyez-vous 
 just like the rose, sprouts from the dunghill."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 'TWIXT DOG AND POET 
 
 PHIL went his way, leaving the duke and Caracal 
 behind him. 
 He was angry with himself for having come. 
 Especially he was frightened at the feeling which had 
 just been urging him to punish the singer on the stage. 
 There was something more in it than the natural indig- 
 nation of an upright heart in presence of a low action. 
 He felt it a hundred times more than he would have 
 done for a personal insult. He stood forth revealed 
 to himself as the champion of Miss Rowrer. 
 
 On the whole, the verses were stupid rather than 
 malignant; but it had been stronger than he an ex- 
 plosion, in a way, of a growing passion. He resolved 
 to stop short on this dangerous descent and not allow 
 himself to be lured on by an impossible love, the very 
 thought of which seemed to him worthy of blame. 
 
 Phil was not content with his evening, so well begun 
 and so ill ended. 
 
 "They '11 not catch me again doing Montmartre with 
 
 Caracal and the duke," he said to himself. "I was 
 
 wrong to go there to-night. I have become certain that 
 
 Helia is letting herself be courted by Socrate. To have 
 
 196
 
 'TWIXT DOG AND POET 197 
 
 come down like that she whom I knew so reserved 
 and sweet ! And I know something else, too. I have 
 to stop flirting with Miss Rowrer perhaps even stop 
 seeing her, poor fool that I am!" 
 
 And Phil went his way with lowered head, absorbed 
 in his own reflections. 
 
 Phil's idea was right so far as Miss Rowrer was 
 concerned. He might really have been in danger. But 
 he was mistaken in his appreciation of Helia, for she 
 had not quit the circus with Socrate. Socrate had fol- 
 lowed her, that was all Suzanne having taken away 
 Soeurette immediately after the departure of the duke 
 and Caracal. Helia, worn out with fatigue, went away 
 much later on the arm of old Cemetery. 
 
 She was full of deference for the man who had made 
 her an artiste, and she accompanied him back to his 
 hotel. Socrate walked alongside, without the least 
 emotion at the sight of this Antigone protecting her 
 (Edipus ; rather, he was furious that she should lose 
 her time with such a doddard; but he had nothing to 
 say about it ! Helia would not have understood, and 
 Socrate remembered spitefully that the duke and 
 Caracal were cooling their heels in vain expectation 
 of her. 
 
 Afterward Socrate saw her home. He had so many 
 things to say to her things he dared not utter. 
 
 However, at the moment of taking leave he expressed 
 a wish to go in, in order to speak more freely. 
 
 "No, thank you!" said Helia; "you would wake 
 So3urette, who is already in bed." 
 
 "But-"
 
 198 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "Besides, you have your own work." And she shut 
 the door in his face. 
 
 Socrate, in a rage, remained outside. What he could 
 not say this evening he would say to-morrow; so be it! 
 But that he Socrate, poet, thinker, painter, sculptor, 
 and musician should be so treated by this little moun- 
 tebankwhat a humiliation! He felt that he wanted 
 to break something. A wandering dog passed by, and 
 with all his strength he gave him a kick in the ribs. 
 
 "There, put that in your pocket!" 
 
 "And you take that!" And Socrate received a 
 heavy blow, with which he rolled to the ground. 
 
 It seemed to him as he fell that he flung out his arms 
 to protect himself, and that his fist came in contact with 
 a head. When he was stretched out on the pavement 
 he saw standing on the curbstone a man, motionless and 
 looking at him. They were both in the light of a street- 
 lamp. Suddenly Socrate recognized Phil. 
 
 In fact, Phil had been coming down the street just 
 as Socrate kicked the poor animal. In his indignation 
 Phil punished the brute, and then immediately recog- 
 nized in him Socrate, who, of course, so he thought, 
 was coming from Helia. 
 
 Socrate would have jumped on Phil, but he had 
 neither knife nor revolver. So he remained on the 
 pavement, crazy with impotent rage. Phil, remaining 
 calm, picked up his hat, which had fallen in the scuffle. 
 He waited. But as the thinker contented himself with 
 groaning, he went his way without even a look behind. 
 
 "Helia! Helia!" he thought within himself, "that 
 you should receive such a creature!"
 
 (Ar 
 
 1 Suddenly Socrate recognized Phil "
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 LITTLE SISTER OF A STAB 
 
 THE next day Helia was still sleeping when Sceur- 
 ette aroused her. The little one was trotting along 
 the carpet in her bare feet, talking and laughing 
 to herself in the sunny room. It was her great happi- 
 ness in the morning to be up first and take her big 
 sister by surprise. She climbed on the bed and awoke 
 her with a good kiss on the cheek. 
 
 "Ah, how you frightened me!" cried Helia, pre- 
 tending fear. 
 
 Sceurette burst into laughter. 
 
 "Let me lie beside you; I '11 let you sleep!" 
 
 "Are you sleeping?" the little one asked a moment 
 later. "Ah, you see, you 're not sleeping. Eh bienl tell 
 me a story ! ' ' 
 
 "You know," replied Helia, "if you 're not good 
 you sha'n't do the trapeze to-day." 
 
 This threat quieted Soeurette. 
 
 Helia did not wish to make a gymnast of her. Ah. 
 no ! She dreamed of other things for her anything 
 except that! But she had taught her a few turns to 
 develop her, and the little girl took the greatest plea- 
 sure in it. 
 
 201
 
 202 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Soon, won by the warmth of the bed, Soeurette fell 
 asleep. Helia arose gently and finished waking herself 
 with an invigorating bath in cold water. Then she put 
 on her great peignoir, tying the girdle around her 
 waist. To keep herself supple she went through two or 
 three of her flections, bending herself backward, for- 
 ward, turning her bust on her haunches, breathing 
 again and again long and deep. The sleeves of her 
 peignoir flew loose as she raised her arms, like a statu- 
 ette from Tanagra come to life. 
 
 Then she finished dressing, for she hated wrappers, 
 in which the body grows soft. She put on her apron, 
 and made tea in the samovar which Phil had given her, 
 just as he had given Suzanne a splendid salad-bowl. 
 Tea was Helia 's triumph, as Suzanne's was salad; there 
 was no disputing it! 
 
 The concierge brought up the fresh bread, the butter, 
 and buns; and she cut her tartines thinking of other 
 things. She would put aside savings for Soeurette. She 
 would teach her; have her taught the piano she 
 scarcely knew what but not her own trade! The be- 
 ginnings were too hard; yet if it had not been for her 
 profession would she ever have known Phil? It would 
 have been better not, perhaps; who knows? She owed 
 him great joy and grief as well! To think that he 
 had not come to see her first night at the Cirque! 
 
 The idea came to her that she might never live out 
 her love-romance to the end, and her heart swelled 
 within her. But with a gesture she put away these 
 haunting thoughts, and finished preparing the bread 
 and butter. When the breakfast was ready she awoke 
 her little sister.
 
 LITTLE SISTER OF A STAR 203 
 
 "Up, and quickly, dear one! the tea is ready!" 
 
 Sceurette jumped from the bed, stuck her little feet 
 into her big sister's slippers, and did not linger playing 
 on the carpet. 
 
 Seated on a chair made higher by a great book which 
 she would go to turning over presently, she already had 
 her nose in her cup. Her favorite doll, Glanrhyd, was 
 at Phil 's studio ; he was to repaint the face, which had 
 been damaged by a fall. Other dolls were lying on the 
 floor, but they were not Glanrhyd ! Glanrhyd had been 
 given her by Helia, who had cherished it ever since 
 her own childhood. In spite of its absence, Sceurette 
 was greatly preoccupied with her bread and butter and 
 tea. She had scarcely the time to smile at her big sister 
 and ask her questions. 
 
 "What is that that medal?" 
 
 Helia had just been taking out of her trunk and 
 hanging on the wall mementos of her life, to which she 
 was much attached. Her little sister was not acquainted 
 with these objects. 
 
 "And that, and that?" Soeurette ran on, pointing 
 to a gilt-paper wreath, to a group of gymnasts with 
 Helia in the foreground, to still other things. 
 
 "And that?" she added, pointing to the photograph 
 of a young girl seated on a kind of throne with a 
 young man at her feet. 
 
 "It 's you and Phil!" Soeurette remarked. 
 
 "That might be," answered Helia. "Eat in peace, 
 and keep quiet!" 
 
 "No; tell me first what that is?" Soeurette asked, 
 pointing to another photograph. "Barracks in a 
 garden?"
 
 204 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "It 's not barracks, Sceurette; it 's the palace of the 
 Duchess of Glanrhyd, near London." 
 
 ' ' Is it the doll 's palace ? ' ' 
 
 "No," Helia said; "but the duchess gave me the 
 doll." 
 
 "Do you know the duchess?" 
 
 "When I was in England long ago I played in her 
 park at a benefit for the Society for the Protection of 
 Children and Prevention of Cruelty to the Weak." 
 
 "Oh, what is that, tell me the protection of chil- 
 dren?" So3urette demanded. 
 
 "I can't explain to you; you would not understand." 
 
 Helia looked at the photograph and remembered the 
 day. "I will send you a pretty present," the duchess 
 had said to her, caressing her with her gloved hand. 
 And, in fact, to Kennington Avenue, where Helia was 
 then living with Cemetery, they brought her a magnifi- 
 cent doll and pounds of bonbons; but Helia enjoyed 
 neither them nor the doll. 
 
 "It will fatten you!" Cemetery said, as he locked 
 up the bonbons. "There is no strength in them." He 
 put the doll in a cupboard, adding: "You have no time 
 to play, either, except on Sunday. Come, to work!" 
 
 "Say, big sister," asked Soeurette, who was finishing 
 her bun, "what is cruelty to children? And is there 
 cruelty to big persons ? Tell me ! ' ' 
 
 "Come and kiss me. You will know later on; and 
 now, go and play!" 
 
 ' ' Say, big sister, Glanrhyd does n 't come back. Must 
 I write to her ? ' ' 
 
 "Write if you wish, darling."
 
 
 To whom shall I write? ' "
 
 LITTLE SISTER OF A STAR 207 
 
 This was quite an affair. Sceurette prepared her 
 table behind a screen in the "doll's room"; but the 
 paper was too large Glanrhyd would never be able 
 to read it. Helia had to cut it down to the proper 
 size. At last, having got seated, Sceurette, by way of 
 introduction, stuck out her tongue, rolled her head 
 from right to left, and began. 
 
 "Well, Sreurette is busy," Helia said to herself. 
 "She will leave me a little peace." 
 
 "Say, big sister, does a doll answer?" 
 
 "I don't think so," said Helia. 
 
 "Will Monsieur Phil answer?" Sosurette asked. 
 
 "Let Monsieur Phil alone. He has something else to 
 do!" 
 
 "But, big sister, it used to be always Phil here and 
 Phil there; you weren't afraid to speak of him!" 
 
 "Well, I won't have it!" Helia replied after a mo- 
 ment's silence. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because" 
 
 "To whom shall I write, then?" 
 
 "I don't know, my darling." 
 
 Sosurette reflected for a moment, biting her pen- 
 holder. 
 
 "How do you write 'Little Jesus' say? Is it one 
 word or two words?" 
 
 "Good!" thought Helia. "Now she 's writing to the 
 Little Jesus." 
 
 But some one came to divert their attention. There 
 was a knock at the door, and Socrate came in with a 
 cheek red and limping slightly.
 
 208 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Helia asked what was the matter. 
 
 "Oh, last evening, after leaving you, I had a fall. It 
 is nothing," Socrate hastened to say, not wishing to 
 tell of his affair with Phil ; and for a good reason. 
 
 "You must have hit something hard," Helia said. 
 
 "Oh!" Socrate went on, in a rage at his red cheek 
 and limping leg, "oh, why are you always spoiling 
 that little girl? Cakes and dolls! Cakes only fatten 
 her, and dolls are good only for Sunday ! ' ' 
 
 Helia was struck by the remark which brought back 
 word for word Cemetery's observations. It was of no 
 importance, of course; it was one of Socrate 's jokes 
 the proof was that he was smiling. But it displeased 
 Helia, who had become very reserved with him, and 
 distrusted him a little. She esteemed him only for 
 the nature of his work. It seemed to Helia that by 
 taking interest in an "intelligence" she redeemed in 
 some way the roughness of her trade as a gymnast. She 
 raised herself in her own eyes. So she helped Socrate, 
 half through charity and half out of pride. 
 
 Socrate, knowing Helia 's goodness, looked forward 
 to the time when he should have supplanted in her heart 
 the remembrance of Phil. But he soon discovered 
 Helia 's real feelings, and was all the angrier because he 
 had to hide his wrath. When he described to her the 
 plan of his next poem, or the picture that he was al- 
 ways "going to do," he was thinking all the while of 
 other things than his pictures and poems. 
 
 What! He was not to be the husband of Helia? 
 She was to marry some one else? And he, Socrate, 
 would not have the signing of contracts with her direc-
 
 LITTLE SISTER OF A STAE 209 
 
 tors, the discussing of prices, and the pocketing of the 
 money? Some one else was to enjoy all that? 
 
 What a pleasant life his would be if he should marry 
 Helia! Oh, it was very simple. First of all, he 'd 
 set Sceurette to work, steady ! They might give her 
 bonbons and dolls; they would all go under lock and 
 key, and then to work! In the morning, while he 
 would go to the cafe and take his eye-opener, Helia 
 and the little one would do their dumb-bells, to get 
 under way for rehearsal. And then ouste! three 
 hours' exercise in the morning, and three in the after- 
 noon. Then he would show what was in him! He 
 would encourage with a gesture or threaten with a 
 look; sometimes he might let fall a "Very good" for 
 Helia, or "It doesn't go; begin again!" for .the little 
 one. In his conception of himself as professor he had 
 always a cigar between his teeth, diamond buttons on 
 his cuffs turned up to the elbows, and all around him 
 papers and notices talking of the glory of this wife 
 of his the star. 
 
 To think that he was not to be Helia 's husband ! The 
 very idea made him turn over in his head all sorts of 
 sinister projects. 
 
 Socrate tried to be friendly with Sceurette. 
 
 ' ' Good day, Mile. Princesse ! Will you kiss me, Mile. 
 Princesse ? ' ' 
 
 "No!" Sceurette answered. "Your red cheek makes 
 me afraid. You look like a bogy man ! ' ' 
 
 "Now, now, Sceurette!" Helia said. "Be polite, dar- 
 ling. M. Socrate fell down; it wasn't his fault. Don't 
 you know that poets walk along looking at the stars?"
 
 210 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "Not at the stars, but at one star, Mile. Helia. You 
 know the one I mean ! ' ' 
 
 "Now you are here, Socrate, you can do me a favor," 
 Helia interrupted, not even listening to his compli- 
 ments. "First, throw these letters for me into the 
 waste-basket. ' ' 
 
 "Must I throw that of Mile, la Princesse also? What 
 is she writing there? Can I see?" 
 
 "No!" Sceurette answered. 
 
 "Is it a secret? Well, I won't insist," Socrate said, 
 and straightway stretched his neck over the screen and 
 read: 
 
 "To the Little Jesus: They say, Little Jesus, that up there in 
 heaven you have a wonderful bazaar, with all the playthings 
 which are in all the earth and some that are not. There is no 
 doubt of it, Little Jesus, is there? Well, then, cure Glanrhyd 
 and send me a little white dog a curly one that barks. I 'd 
 like to have a doll dressed for her wedding, and a little china 
 table service; and let it be pretty very, very pretty!" 
 
 "A letter to Little Jesus?" Socrate thought to him- 
 self. "There 's a letter which won't be delivered!" 
 
 Meanwhile Helia was reading her morning's mail. 
 There was nothing new in it ; she had received hundreds 
 of such letters. "Mademoiselle, pardon me, if I dare 
 "Mademoiselle, will you allow an admirer of your tal- 
 ent and your beauty" And so on, and so forth. 
 
 Helia did not even read them through to the end. 
 She blushed, not with shame, but with pity for such 
 foolish adorers. 
 
 ' ' Do they take me for a toy ? Into the basket ! ' ' And 
 she held out the letters to Socrate.
 
 LITTLE SISTER OF A STAB 211 
 
 "Why, she is crazy!" Socrate thought. "All these 
 letters they M be magnificent for blackmailing!" 
 
 "You do wrong to destroy them!" Socrate said aloud. 
 "Some of them are, perhaps, in earnest." 
 
 "How is that?" Helia said, looking at him. "What 
 do you mean?" 
 
 "I why " 
 
 Helia 's uprightness disarmed him. She would never 
 understand anything! Was it possible to be so naive? 
 Socrate was exasperated by it. 
 
 "By dint of shutting yourself out from everybody, 
 you '11 soon have no more friends," he said, trying to be 
 insinuating. "Who knows if there 's not a letter from 
 the duke there?" 
 
 "And what then?" Helia said, as she arose. 
 
 "He is, perhaps, your best friend," Socrate an- 
 swered. "A powerful protector like him " 
 
 "What!" 
 
 "Of course, next to Monsieur Phil," he went on, with 
 the perspiration starting out on his forehead. "But 
 Monsieur Phil is too busy! They say, even" And 
 Socrate hunted for a word with which to end his em- 
 barrassment, and he had to be inventive and prompt. 
 
 "What is it they say?" Helia asked. 
 
 "That he is going to marry." 
 
 Helia had too great a habit of controlling her nerves, 
 too much mastery of herself, and too much pride, to 
 show her pain. Socrate had not the pleasure of seeing 
 her turn pale. She appeared to be taken up with Soeur- 
 ette, in her corner. 
 
 "Of course," was Helia 's reply. "And now do this
 
 212 FATA MORGANA 
 
 errand for me, will you, Socrate? Here is the money," 
 she added, explaining what she wished. "Pay and 
 keep what 's left over." 
 
 She accompanied him to the door. Her limbs were 
 trembling and she seemed to walk on cotton. There 
 was a roaring in her ears. She turned and fell into a 
 chair. 
 
 Phil was to marry ! Everything seemed crumbling 
 around her, her dreams for the future, her castles in 
 Spain, burying her in their ruins. Ah, she could never 
 recover from such a blow! In vain had she been long 
 awaiting it ; she would never have believed it possible 
 that Phil, so gentle and good, would do her such harm ! 
 For him, too, she had, then, been but a toy ! He had 
 amused himself with her ! He had sworn marriage to 
 her, and because she was pot>r and needed to work, at a 
 trade which she had not chosen, oh, no! because she 
 earned her living in a circus, they had the right to look 
 down on her! So she belonged to the public! They 
 could buy a ticket at the door and talk love to her be- 
 tween the acts for a pastime, while oaths yes, oaths tak- 
 ing Heaven for witness, the oaths which were sworn to 
 her did not count ! 
 
 Helia pronounced the last words aloud in a tone of 
 indignation. Sreurette looked up. She saw her big sis- 
 ter put her head in her hands and weep silently. 
 
 For some time she had found that her sister was no 
 longer the same. Her child's memory recalled to her 
 a Helia full of joy and talking always of Phil ; a Helia 
 who drew a circle with her pen at the end of her letters, 
 after applying her lips to the spot; a Helia who told
 
 LITTLE SISTER OF A STAB 213 
 
 her beautiful stories and played and danced her in her 
 arms, which were so firm and gentle that she would 
 have cast herself into them from a belfry with closed 
 eyes. 
 
 Soeurette tried to understand. Her little brain divined 
 something without knowing exactly what. First, they did 
 not often see Monsieur Phil. He was always very kind to 
 her, Monsieur Phil, and yet every time her big sister 
 saw him she was sad afterward. Why? Socrate, too, 
 made Helia sad. She was in trouble when he went away. 
 What had he been saying to her ? And Phil, especially, 
 what had he been doing to her big sister? 
 
 Helia raised her head. She was as worn out .as after 
 her most violent efforts. The suffering calmed her re- 
 volted pride. Sceurette saw her lie back in her chair 
 and close her eyes as if to sleep. But Helia did not 
 sleep. During those moments she saw again her entire 
 life the gloomy childhood in which she could count her 
 happy days, and then her youth, in which Phil had 
 loved her. Had she acted wrongly? What had she 
 done that could displease him? Perhaps it was a mis- 
 take to keep on in her trade ; but how was she to live ? 
 Phil was to have taken her out of it, and he had not 
 done so. And she meanwhile had been so proud to be 
 an artiste, believing that she would become his equal, 
 poor fool that she had been! Yes, it must be that! 
 Phil, the student, was her equal: the Phil who was 
 now tasting glory was not. Then that other young 
 girl had come, so beautiful and good and rich, every- 
 body said ; and surely amiable, and smelling of violets ! 
 
 "No! no! no! It is not possible!" Helia murmured
 
 214 FATA MORGANA 
 
 as she sat upright in her chair. "No! I know Phil- 
 he is a man! If he had done that, he would turn 
 away his head when he sees me, or he would come to 
 ask my forgiveness on his knees. But after the oath 
 which he had sworn me, to act like that without shame 
 and without remorse no! Socrate is lying!" 
 
 Sceurette said nothing. Her instinct told her that all 
 this did not concern her; that her business was to keep 
 quiet, and that big sisters have cares which she could 
 not understand. But she saw that Helia was in trouble, 
 in great trouble; and Soeurette wished to see her full 
 of joy, as she had once been. Her good little heart 
 had a touching inspiration. She drew a mark across 
 her letter and ended it up as follows: 
 
 ' ' Little Jesus, keep your playthings for the poor, but tell Phil 
 to be good to my big sister, who used to play all the while and 
 tell me stories. Make him to be not so wicked, for she cries 
 often when she speaks about him. I put my kiss here for you, 
 Little Jesus." 
 
 And Soeurette did as she had seen Helia do: before 
 slipping the letter into the envelop she placed a kiss at 
 the end of it, and made a circle with her pen all around 
 the spot.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE OLD, OLD STORY 
 
 AN automobile, with Miss Rowrer 's brother Will con- 
 /% ducting it himself, was rolling slowly along. Will 
 ^ ^ had just arrived from America, to rest in France 
 from the worries of business. He had bought for his 
 sister this magnificent "forty-horse-power" machine; 
 and, with a chauffeur to indicate the way for him, he 
 had the pleasure of taking Ethel and gr'andma for a ride 
 through Paris. That day, on the seats behind him, 
 there were his sister and grandma, and, facing them, the 
 Duke of Morgania alone. 
 
 ' ' Oh, there 's Monsieur Phil ! ' ' Miss Rowrer said, as 
 the auto stopped at a crossing thronged with hucksters 
 and good-wives in morning undress. 
 
 "Good day, Monsieur Phil!" 
 
 Phil was on the sidewalk, two steps from Miss Rowrer. 
 He was in his studio dress, a short coat over his sweater. 
 He had come out to buy something and was going home 
 with a package done up in paper in his hand. Hearing 
 his name, he raised his head, recognized Miss Rowrer, 
 bowed, and then approached in visible embarrassment. 
 The vizor of his cap ill concealed the eye which Socrate 
 had chanced to blacken with his fist the night before. 
 215
 
 216 FATA MORGANA 
 
 ' ' Our friend Phil does his own marketing, ' ' Ethel said, 
 laughing. "He is right. I Ve heard from the Hon. 
 Mr. Charley that nothing is equal to a good beefsteak 
 as a plaster for a black eye. ' ' 
 
 "Well, I suppose I must tell you," said Phil, not 
 wishing that Miss Rowrer should think he had fought 
 with a lamp-post. "This is how it happened: I got 
 it last night while punishing a rough fellow for ill- 
 treating a poor dog." 
 
 . "Really? Then get in here with us, I beg of you," 
 said Ethel. 
 
 Phil excused himself, his dress, his black eye. 
 
 "You 're all right as you are," Ethel replied. "You '11 
 really oblige me by coming with us" and she seated 
 him beside the duke. 
 
 "Your dress does n't trouble us, since it pleases you," 
 she continued. "Be yourself, and look out at the world 
 from the neck of a sweater there '11 always be people 
 enough to look loftily over a choker. If I were a man 
 I would always defend the weak and pay no attention 
 to the rest. You 're all right as you are, Monsieur Phil." 
 
 Phil listened to Ethel with intense satisfaction. The 
 duke chatted with grandma. The good-fellowship which 
 he saw growing up between Miss Rowrer and Phil did 
 not bother him. It was only the ordinary relations be- 
 tween an American girl and boy only the friendship 
 of fellow country people. The duke had for Phil that 
 distant regard which nobles by race have for profes- 
 sionals. To handle a tool, even such as the painter's 
 brush or sculptor's chisel, to do something with one's 
 hands, be it even a masterpiece, lowers a man some-
 
 " He approached in visible embarrassment "
 
 THE OLD, OLD STORY 219 
 
 what in their consideration. Consequently Phil might 
 defend strong or weak, or dog-martyrs, if it amused 
 him it was a matter of no importance. The duke 
 gave himself up to the noble occupation of a cicerone 
 of mark, who knew his Paris thoroughly; and, as 
 they passed, he pointed out the monuments to grandma. 
 
 Phil, on his side, talked with Ethel en camarade, as the 
 duke said. What a pleasure such talks were to him! 
 Where were now his fine resolutions no longer to make 
 himself the champion of Miss Rowrer, and even to stop 
 seeing her? He drifted along under the charm of her 
 words. From the day when, in the duke's company, he 
 had first met her at the Comtesse de Donjeon's, he had 
 become one of the faithful at her tea-parties. He often 
 went to the Rue Servandoni; and, after the commission 
 for the empress's portrait and Ethel's entrance as a 
 pupil in his studio, they had had the most friendly 
 relations. 
 
 Phil told her stories from bohemia that amused her. 
 He narrated his adventures in the provinces, including 
 the little Saint John, with his arrival in Paris and his 
 visit to Poufaille and Suzanne; the ''comrades," and 
 Socrate, and the Deux-Magots ; his reception at the stu- 
 dio ; and the welcome on the model 's table ; and many 
 other things besides. But he said little about Helia's 
 stay in Paris when he was a student. For that matter, 
 he thought of it seldom ; his memory was a mist con- 
 cerning it it all seemed so far away to him. 
 
 With what pity he recalled the environment in which 
 he had lived! There were all his chance friends. Su- 
 zanne, who was really good, and skeptical only because
 
 220 FATA MORGANA 
 
 she had seen too early the bad side of life. Poufaille was 
 too simple; to have made an intimate friend of him 
 would have been to tie a cannon-ball to one 's leg. Char- 
 ley was too much of a bluffer. As to Helia ah, Helia! 
 He was grateful to her from the bottom of his heart 
 for the simple love which he had once had for her a 
 love whose remembrance had protected him all through 
 his first years in Paris. For him it had been a ro- 
 mance, without reproach, candid and loyal, and not a 
 passion that would follow him through life like a remorse. 
 His romance Phil was sure of it had nothing in it that 
 was not noble. Yes, Helia would always have a place 
 apart in his heart ; she would be a sweet memory. For- 
 ever, all through his life, she would be his friend and 
 he would forever be a brother to her. 
 
 But time had passed. Helia herself had changed. He 
 saw it clearly during her visit to him in his studio on 
 the morrow of the Quat'z-Arts Ball. Ah, how far away 
 were the days when she had been his sweetheart how 
 many things had passed since then ! Now Ethel ruled 
 in his life. He felt himself very little in her presence. 
 For her he had the same admiration which Helia once 
 had for him. 
 
 Miss Rowrer was the first society girl whom he had 
 known ; for he had led a solitary life in the Chesapeake 
 manor, and in Europe his over-timidity had always 
 held him socially aloof. During his years as a student 
 he had neither opportunity nor leisure. It was only now 
 that he began to understand the charm of the social 
 world. The instincts of his good breeding were awakened. 
 Life seemed beginning for him ; he felt like a man back
 
 THE OLD, OLD STORY 221 
 
 from exile. Contact with Miss Rowrer refined him, and 
 even his art was idealized. It was no longer physical 
 beauty alone which attracted him : there was the moral 
 side; for Ethel put character far above talent, and the 
 two together above everything else. 
 
 After this automobile ride which his black eye had 
 earned for him, others followed. Usually Will, the bro- 
 ther, was himself the conductor, as a matter of prudence. 
 That intoxication of speed which gives weak minds the 
 illusion of energy was unknown to him. Once, however, 
 he got into the auto with them and allowed the mechani- 
 cian to take charge. It was a day when Mme. de Gro- 
 jean and Mile. Yvonne, her daughter, had accepted the 
 invitation to take a ride with them. After that Mile. 
 Yvonne and her mother returned to their province, so 
 that the most part of the time Ethel and grandma had 
 the company only of the duke or Phil, and now and then 
 of M. Caracal. 
 
 They saw Auteuil and Chantilly, and took part in an 
 automobile gymkhana for polo at the Bois de Boulogne. 
 At the Longchamps races Miss Rowrer, like a great favo- 
 rite, was the target of the field-glasses. It was there she 
 met Charley, faultlessly correct, having stripped himself 
 for the day of his bohemian clothes. Charley, who knew 
 Ethel, passed in vain near her again and again to have 
 her recognize him. 
 
 The automobilists were seen everywhere from Ver- 
 sailles to Vincennes. The trip around the world was too 
 commonplace. They made the trip around Paris, passing 
 its fifty-seven gates, past its ten railways, its two water- 
 ways, through its two forests and more than thirty quar-
 
 222 FATA MORGANA 
 
 tiers, which sum up the luxury and industries of all the 
 cities of the world London at La Rapee, Chicago at 
 La Villette, Antwerp at the Canal de 1 'Ourcq. 
 
 At St. Denis Caracal gave them the history of what 
 they were seeing. He showed them the effigies of kings 
 mutilated in the Revolution, at the time when Choisy- 
 le-Roi changed its name to Choisy-sur-Seine and Mont- 
 morency to Etienne, since there were no longer kings or 
 nobles "two things they would have done b'etter to 
 keep," the duke observed. 
 
 "They would probably still be here if they had been 
 worth keeping," answered Ethel. 
 
 They dined in a tree at Robinson and rode on donkeys 
 at Romainville. The outings of Parisians in villages 
 with charming names Marne-la- Coquette, Fontenay- 
 aux-Roses, Les Lilas were pleasing to Ethel. 
 
 "Space opens up ideas! You will find it so, Monsieur 
 le Due, and you too, Phil, if you do us the pleasure to 
 hunt the moose on our Canadian lands. How free one 
 feels there not a hedge, not a barrier between us and 
 the north pole!" 
 
 Caracal, for his part, cared little about space. He 
 regretted the days when the Boulevard was the only 
 promenade. Tramways and railroads seemed to him high 
 treason against Paris something like an invasion of the 
 coarse air of fields and woods into the artistic atmosphere 
 of cafes. 
 
 "No, no!" Miss Rowrer answered. "Leave things as 
 they are a little pure air does no harm." 
 
 "To be sure!" said grandma. 
 
 Caracal refused to be consoled.
 
 THE OLD, OLD STORY 223 
 
 "If this goes on," he said, "Paris will soon be Paris 
 no longer that something indefinable and apart; that 
 hothouse which has made us the neurasthenic and dislo- 
 cated skipjacks that we are." 
 
 "Well, if that 's your manner of loving Paris!" Ethel 
 said, laughing. "Really, you see things worse than they 
 are ! " 
 
 Caracal, perceiving he was on the wrong tack, stopped 
 short. 
 
 "Just the contrary, you ought to be glad for some- 
 thing that is worth more than hygiene moral health," 
 Miss Rowrer continued. "Why should people stay piled 
 together when there is so much empty space around? 
 Tempers are embittered and bodies weakened. Give it 
 space and air and your Paris will cease to be what you 
 would wish it to remain a hothouse full of dislocated 
 skipjacks and neurastheniques such as our up-to-date 
 people are, according to you." 
 
 ' ' That 's a good one on Caracal, ' ' thought Phil to him- 
 self. 
 
 Will, who was not conducting the auto that day, inter- 
 rupted Ethel. He spoke little, but he thought and then 
 went straight to the point. 
 
 "Let us pardon Frenchmen because of Frenchwomen," 
 he said. 
 
 "You are right, Will," replied Ethel. "I admire 
 Frenchwomen they seem so superior to the men; for 
 among the men there are some so mean. Think of Vieille- 
 cloche printing such outrageous things in his newspaper ! 
 Really, in his place I should be ashamed of myself! 
 Who is Vieillecloche, anyway ? ' '
 
 224 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "He 's a remarkable duelist," answered Caracal. 
 "There are already five dead men in his trail." 
 
 "What a coward!" said Ethel. "I would wager that 
 if he were hit with a check, he would apologize to us ! " 
 
 "Oh, let him alone!" said Will. "He does us no 
 harm the barking dog doesn't bite." 
 
 "He 's annoying, all the same." 
 
 "If it were my own case I would silence him ! ' ' Cara- 
 cal declared. 
 
 "But could you do it?" asked Ethel. "It would be 
 very kind of you to do so. I can't go anywhere at all 
 without hearing 'Richard the Lion-hearted' with smiles 
 all around me. It haunts me. It almost spoils my stay 
 in Paris. Can you rid me of it, Monsieur Caracal?" 
 
 "I shall do so!" declared Caracal. 
 
 ' ' I thank you ! ' ' said Miss Rowrer. 
 
 Caracal had just had a bright thought. He knew his 
 friend Vieillecloche would do whatever he wished, since 
 the blackmailing scheme against the Rowrers had not 
 succeeded and no check had come or would come to close 
 his mouth. It would be just as well to look for something 
 else. Caracal would have himself attacked he would 
 turn aside the storm to himself by taking up the defense 
 of foreigners, to the apparent indignation of Vieillecloche. 
 In this noble combat against calumny he would stand 
 forth as a hero in the eyes of Ethel, like a St. George 
 slaying the dragon. The duke and Phil would have to 
 look out for themselves. He would know how to cover 
 them with ridicule them and their Helia in some good 
 little newspaper chronique, sweet as honey, which Ethel 
 might read. For that matter, Phil had already a shot in
 
 THE OLD, OLD STORY 225 
 
 his wing he would find it out in a few days and re- 
 member his cow painting ! 
 
 "I will arrange all that this evening with Vieille- 
 cloche," thought Caracal. "I shall be well able to pay 
 for a service like that if I marry Miss Ethel." Then 
 aloud: "I shall do so you can count on me, Miss 
 Kowrer !" 
 
 All this was but one of a thousand incidents of their 
 trips. 
 
 "I have heard of le dernier salon ou I'on cause [the 
 last salon for conversation]," Ethel remarked. "I sup- 
 pose it has disappeared, it is so long since people began 
 talking about it. Well, our auto takes its place it is the 
 first auto ou I'on cause." 
 
 "When one listens to you, Miss Rowrer, one can say 
 that wit runs the streets, ' ' added Caracal, gallantly. 
 
 Every moment some new observation sprang, bring- 
 ing out individual character. 
 
 For instance, a cab passed them noisily, the horse 
 pounding along the street and the driver lashing him.. 
 
 "What a noise!" Will said. "Why are people so ob- 
 stinate with their hippomobiles ? Why not put rubber on 
 the wheels first, and then on the horses' shoes?" 
 
 Will calculated the chances of a company to be organ- 
 ized for this purpose so many horses in Europe, so 
 many horseshoes rubbered, investment of capital so much, 
 revenue so much. 
 
 "They are 'way behind," said grandma. "What an 
 idea, to be driven about in such dust-boxes ! ' ' 
 
 "What a picture to make!" said Phil. "That horse 
 just now reared under the rein with a movement as
 
 226 FATA MORGANA 
 
 superb as any of the Parthenon. Behind him was that 
 theatrical poster representing a woman with her hair 
 floating with her and the horse you might imagine a 
 troupe of Amazons under the blue sky of Greece ! Only 
 artists can enjoy things. They know how to see!" 
 
 ' ' The poor beast has lost a shoe, and the collar wounds 
 him and the cabman lashes him," Ethel interrupted. 
 "Poor animal, it makes me ill to see him !" 
 
 Phil thought to himself, "That is what I ought to have 
 seen!" 
 
 Apart from these excursions, he gave to Miss Rowrer, 
 also, whatever leisure was left him by his great picture 
 of Morgana. At her request, he accompanied her with 
 Will and grandma in their visits to museums and to the 
 shops where they wished to buy pictures of the masters 
 for their palace on the Lake Shore Drive in Chicago. 
 
 Will had first visited the artists' studios, thinking he 
 would find there a world free from the atmosphere of 
 business. But the landscape man tried to get him away 
 from the portrait-painter, and professional jealousy 
 showed its teeth. They tried to pass off their ' ' old stock ' ' 
 on him; they spoke only of money. "For such a price 
 I will do so and so." "If it is larger it will be dearer." 
 "A landscape without trees is worth so much with trees, 
 twice as much ! ' ' 
 
 "If I 've got to talk business," Will thought, "I 'd 
 rather do it with business men"; and he left the artists 
 alone. 
 
 He liked best to choose for himself at the Hotel 
 Drouot that big collecting-sewer of art, rolling pell-mell 
 in its dusty waves masterpieces and daubs. The sales-
 
 Poufaille's Goods Ready for Auction
 
 THE OLD, OLD STORY 229 
 
 rooms, heaped from ceiling to floor, gave him the feeling 
 that he might sometime make a discovery there like the 
 cock who found pearls in a dunghill. 
 
 ' ' What horrors ! ' ' Will said one day, as they were pass- 
 ing in front of a hall full of plaster statues and un- 
 f ramed paintings. ' ' It must be from the studio of some 
 poor devil whom they are selling out at auction." 
 
 There were casts from nature arms and legs and feet ; 
 there were formless sketches, canvases hung on the wall ; 
 for some, it was impossible to see what they represented, 
 as they had been hung head downward. There was a tub, 
 some bottles, a few chairs, a mattress, and a rickety 
 table, all heaped up in a corner. Two monstrous statues 
 seemed to keep watch over the confusion. On the pedes- 
 tal of one was inscribed "Liberty," and she raised 
 arms and head furiously ; the second, ' ' Fraternity, ' ' lay 
 on the ground in fragments, turning enormous haunches 
 to the public. 
 
 "What are those mastodons there?" Will asked. 
 
 ' ' That, ' ' said Phil, with surprise, ' ' that must be from 
 a sculptor whose name is Poufaille ; yes, look at the sign 
 over the door Vente Poufaille." 
 
 "Poor Poufaille!" said Phil to himself; "he must 
 have been unable to pay his rent the landlord has come 
 down on him. If I had known, I might have helped ; but 
 it is so long since I have seen him." 
 
 What he saw recalled the day when he entered the 
 sculptor's place on his arrival in Paris. He remembered 
 the gay laughter of Suzanne from the top of her ladder, 
 and the pork fried with garlic. Those statues, those 
 pictures worthy to figure in a collection of horrors, how
 
 230 FATA MORGANA 
 
 much more ugly and more lamentable still it all seemed 
 to him in the presence of the crowd of indifferent passers- 
 by! 
 
 "Poufaille?" Ethel asked with interest. "Is it the 
 Poufaille of whom you used to tell me? Why, he has 
 no talent ; he 'd do better as a farmer. ' ' 
 
 The sale began and they heard the auctioneer above 
 the confusion of the throng: "Magnificent statues 'Lib- 
 erty' 'Fraternity' give me a bid!" 
 
 "Forty sous!" 
 
 ' ' Forty sous ? There 's half a ton of plaster there ! 
 Come, now, a higher bid!" 
 
 A silence, and then some one called, ' ' Fifty sous ! ' ' 
 
 "Bid it up a thousand francs, Will!" Ethel said to 
 her brother. 
 
 "Really, now, Ethel," Will answered, "even at fifty 
 sous it 's dear. I '11 buy something else from M. Pou- 
 faille, some other time." 
 
 So many years of toil and want, and all his poor dreams 
 of the future soon to be scattered and ground to mortar 
 yet Poufaille was right ! He had followed his dream, 
 he had tried his fortune ; it had tumbled to the ground, 
 but what a beautiful dream it had been all the same! 
 And Phil thought, with a thrill at his heart, that there 
 was one thing which justified every effort; one thing 
 which broke down distinctions and made a poor artist 
 the equal of a reigning duke, of a king even; something 
 which would put him on a level with Ethel; something 
 which he would reach, had he to kill himself in the 
 struggle for it! 
 
 Ethel came up to Phil as they were going out of the 
 hall.
 
 THE OLD, OLD STORY 231 
 
 ' ' Tell me, Phil, what can induce a man like Pouf aille 
 to try art ? Is n 't it sheer folly ? ' ' 
 
 "No, Miss Rowrer. It is true Pouf aille has not suc- 
 ceeded, but that matters little. He has tried to reach 
 the only thing which makes life worth living." 
 
 ' 'What is that, Phil?" 
 
 "Fame!"
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 CARACAL'S NARROW ESCAPE 
 
 " \ B AS Caracal!" 
 
 /% ''Vive Vieillecloche!" 
 
 -/I^\_ Phil, who was reading a newspaper as he passed 
 along, looked up with astonishment. 
 
 He was in front of the entrance of a music-hall. On 
 a strip of cotton cloth he read, in huge letters, "PUNCH 
 d 'INDIGNATION!" The name of Vieillecloche was 
 displayed everywhere, mingled with the flags which cov- 
 ered a good half of the theatrical posters of acrobats, 
 jugglers, and clowns. 
 
 ' ' The flag covers the goods ! ' ' Phil said, as he saw this 
 assemblage of patriotism and fakery. "Vieillecloche is 
 at his old tricks; what a humbug!" 
 
 Phil stopped. Confused imprecations against impos- 
 tors and grafters came to his ears between the bang ! 
 bang ! of the door, pushed one way or the other by the 
 public and clanging back into its place. 
 
 Bang! "Vive Vieillecloche!" 
 
 Bang! "A bas!" Bang! "Traitors! Sold out!" 
 Bang ! "A bas Caracal ! ' ' Bang ! bang ! 
 
 "Hello!" said Phil. " 'A bas Caracal'? What does 
 that mean ? I must go in. " 
 232
 
 CARACAL'S NARROW ESCAPE 233 
 
 He entered. 
 
 Bang! It was the door slamming after Phil. He 
 had now a right to the indignation and to the punch. 
 
 To tell the truth, there was little indignation in the 
 hall, but a great deal of drinking and still more laughter. 
 The public was made up of the idlers of the quarter, who 
 had come to be amused. There were stable-boys and 
 grooms in their great wooden shoes. The hall was in- 
 fected with the smell of rum and tobacco. The voices, 
 which but now had reached Phil's ear in broken cries, 
 rolled uninterruptedly. There was a continuous torrent 
 of a bas! and vive! mingled with coarse wit and the clink 
 of glasses. On the stage, mastering the tumult, Vieille- 
 cloche was speaking. 
 
 "Vive Vieillecloche!" 
 
 "Hear! hear!" 
 
 Bang! 
 
 The flights of oratory were lost amid the noise. 
 
 "Only yesterday," Vieillecloche was saying, as he 
 raised his voice, "not satisfied with attacking the majesty 
 of universal suffrage, forgetful of the famous night of the 
 13th of March, foreigners feared not to brave the lion- 
 people in its den ! They banded together to despoil us 
 of our dead to soil the majesty of the tomb where our 
 great ancestors ' Bang ! said the door, cutting the dis- 
 course, "ancestors sleep their eternal sleep! Do you 
 not hear, O people, beneath the earth Richard the Lion- 
 hearted roaring with wrath and shame? And to think 
 there are French pens that treat us as visionaries us 
 who point out such attacks and that pretend that we 
 are wanting in courtesy by accusing our passing guests
 
 234 FATA MORGANA 
 
 of an imaginary crime ! This vile pen, citizens, I deliver 
 it up to your indignant scorn. It is Caracal ! ' ' 
 
 "Abas Caracal!" 
 
 "Oho! I understand," Phil said to himself. "Cara- 
 cal has taken up the defense of the foreigners, as he 
 promised Miss Rowrer the other day. ' ' 
 
 "Eh bien!" Vieillecloche went on, "it shall not be 
 said that Caracal has appealed in vain to our courtesy 
 when he asks us to cease our political campaign against 
 such foreigners, among whom there are ladies and even 
 a young girl. We shall speak no more of Richard the 
 Lion-hearted! All that is a blunder, a visionary's 
 dream, a groundless accusation. So be it ! They ask for 
 definite facts and not for vague accusations. Here is a 
 definite fact ! I accuse, formally, an American of steal- 
 ing our ideas and stifling under the power of his cursed 
 gold the outburst of a young genius, the hope of our 
 glorious national art. They come to pillage even in their 
 calm retreats, and to deprive of their labor the sons of 
 the soil Us autochtones!\mm lles autochtones! (The 
 word intoxicated Vieillecloche and he sent it bounding 
 like a rubber ball.) "Yes, citizens! He has signed 
 his work with a false name, he has picked the lock 
 of our national museums, and, like a cuckoo, he has 
 deposited in the bosom of glory the egg which he has not 
 laid ! And you suffer that, people ? Do you not feel 
 the blush of shame mounting to your cheek ? Take your 
 clubs, Parisians " and so he went on and on. 
 
 Vieillecloche in his haranguing embroidered his theme 
 with violent gestures which sent the skirts of his coat 
 flying around his thin body.
 
 The Punch d'liulignatiou
 
 CARACAL'S NARROW ESCAPE 237 
 
 Phil was not sorry to have come. The inventions of 
 this crank amused him, most of all when the orator, rising 
 to higher flights, brought out personal facts so as "to 
 enter into the domain of practical things. ' ' Vieillecloche 
 calmed down. The storm-tossed skirts of his coat fell. 
 He was no longer the roaring tribune of the people : he 
 was the statesman, speaking calmly and coolly. He held 
 one hand between the buttons of his waistcoat, and the 
 other behind his back, like Napoleon. To begin with, 
 according to him, these facts would never have taken 
 place if they had only listened to him. 
 
 A quarter of an hour of counsels followed, in which 
 there were insurrections and barricades, blood and glory, 
 and a has! and vive! 
 
 "But if the sword remains in the scabbard," Vieille- 
 cloche concluded, "let the people, at least, console de- 
 spoiled genius with their songs ; let the old Gaulish gai- 
 ety inflict its avenging laugh on the robber of its glory ! ' ' 
 
 As Vieillecloche retired amid ironic applause, a long- 
 haired poet came out on the platform and a hurdy-gurdy 
 ground out despairingly such an air as goats dance to. 
 Phil looked at the furious grinder and gave a cry of 
 astonishment : ' ' Pouf aille ! ' ' 
 
 "What is Pouf aille doing here? And why does he 
 look so furious ? ' ' Phil asked himself, as he saw the sculp- 
 tor 's wrathful head leaning over the hurdy-gurdy whose 
 crank he turned with rage. 
 
 Bing ! bing ! 
 
 "After all," thought Phil, "there is nothing strange 
 in Poufaille being here. Artists belong to all sorts of 
 provincial and Parisian societies, as if they were really
 
 238 FATA MORGANA 
 
 children of the soil, so as to get orders. He might as 
 well grind out a tune at an indignation meeting as 
 Suzanne do the Muse of the South at the Pig's-Rump 
 Dinner." 
 
 Phil also knew that the "Poets of the Landes" or the 
 "Broom-flower" were only too happy to make themselves 
 heard by a Parisian public, and would not miss an 
 occasion for avenging genius despoiled by cowards, and 
 for declaiming in its honor to the accompaniment of 
 a hurdy-gurdy or bagpipes. 
 
 So it was a very simple thing that Poufaille should 
 have offered his services. Meanwhile Vieillecloche had sat 
 down after many a handshake with the notabilities of 
 the committee. It was now the turn of the poet. 
 
 The singer on the platform gesticulated to his Norman 
 patois, more monotonous than the fall of rain, while the 
 air of the hurdy-gurdy, piercing and thrilling, filled the 
 hall like a continued wailing from a herd of kids. 
 
 "Enough!" cried the public; "be done, fouchtri!" 
 
 "To the door!" 
 
 "Enough! enough!" 
 
 ' ' Silence, Francois ! ' ' 
 
 "Ta bouche, bebe!" 
 
 "Stow it! I say! petrusquin!" 
 
 It was the Parigot wit replying to the wit of the prov- 
 inces. The people had indeed arisen, but not as Vieille- 
 cloche would have wished. Instead of tearing up the 
 paving-stones in honor of misunderstood Genius, and 
 casting out the robbers of Glory, they were content to 
 finish the punch and laugh in the face of the poet who 
 bored them with his doggerel.
 
 CARACAL'S NARROW ESCAPE 239 
 
 Besides, all these questions of signatures to pictures, of 
 museum locks picked, and of Richard the Lion-hearted 
 interested nobody. 
 
 But the banging of the door now began covering the 
 bing ! bing ! of the tune. The public was going out in a 
 mass. Vieillecloche tried to keep them by new flights of 
 oratory which had no echo. Phil foresaw that the fierce 
 tribune of the people would soon be making his prophetic 
 gestures and proclaiming the eternal glory of the au- 
 tochtones alone with his hurdy-gurdy, like St. Anthony 
 with his pig. So Phil went away, followed to the very 
 street by the exasperated grinding of the crank. 
 
 "What madness!" Phil said to himself. "Poufaille 
 is certainly earning his money. He puts as much heat 
 into it as if some one had stolen his own share of glory." 
 Poufaille a despoiled young genius! Phil, at the very 
 idea, could not refrain from laughter. 
 
 "I must wait for him here," he thought; "I shall see 
 him when he comes out." 
 
 He walked back and forth, but Poufaille did not come 
 out. Still, Phil lost nothing by waiting. A final bang 
 of the door made him turn his head and what did he 
 see but, arm in arm and laughing and talking together 
 as gay as school-boys, Vieillecloche with Caracal ! 
 
 "Well, I never! That 's too much!" Phil said, as he 
 followed them with his eyes, trying to gather from their 
 gestures the meaning of their conversation. 
 
 Vieillecloche lifted his hands, as if to show that they 
 were empty. Caracal spoke low to him. Vieillecloche 
 nodded approvingly. 
 
 "Those fine fellows must be preparing some stroke of
 
 240 FATA MORGANA 
 
 business," Phil said to himself, strongly interested. 
 ''Who knows if I do not play a part in it? It may be 
 my turn and Miss Ethel will no longer hear of Richard 
 the Lion-hearted. The attacks will now fall on Caracal. 
 Bravo ! But perhaps Miss Ethel will not be displeased 
 to learn of the friendship between Caracal and Vieille- 
 cloche. One might have supposed they would not be 
 quite so thick! I don't understand it," was Phil's con- 
 clusion. Moreover, he was accustomed never to take se- 
 riously what Caracal said or did. 
 
 "Besides," Phil added, "Poufaille must know what 
 is going on. I have not seen him come out, but he will 
 tell me to-night." So he determined to dine at Mere 
 Michel's, where he would have a chance of seeing Pou- 
 faille. 
 
 For a long time he had not met the copains they had 
 almost become strangers to him. The talk about art and 
 the masterpieces traced with a burnt match on grimy 
 tables no longer interested him. He felt himself out of 
 place in the environment, but he wished to see Poufaille 
 that very evening. To begin with, he would have the 
 pleasure of offering his services to the poor devil, who 
 could not be very rich, to judge from the sale at the Hotel 
 Drouot a few days before. Phil would find some delicate 
 means of being useful to him. Who knows if he would 
 ever see him again? It would be like a farewell to his 
 own past. So Phil went to Mere Michel's. 
 
 His past mounted up to his brain. It seemed to rise 
 up whole and entire before him when, near the Boule- 
 vard, in a narrow street, he saw the painted canvas and 
 fixtures deposited at the stage entrance of a circus. The
 
 CARACAL'S NARROW ESCAPE 241 
 
 damp courtyard, the frayed walls, the store-rooms of 
 stage-properties, the theater's insides all that was a 
 little of his own past. 
 
 It was himself, again, whom he elbowed in the Boule- 
 vard beside the Cafe des Artistes, where women with red 
 tresses topped with feathers were drinking from little 
 glasses with ill-shaven messieurs, showing each other 
 photographs and programs, and signing engagements 
 with fingers stiff with rings. Phil could hear their tech- 
 nical slang: Chique deche puree j'te fais une bleue 
 en cinq sees! ' ' Gargon, two absinthes, and get a move on 
 you, bougre d'andouille!" 
 
 Strolling artists offered to do his portrait for two sous. 
 A bohemian imitated an ocarina by swelling out his 
 cheeks. A contortionist spread his little carpet and dis- 
 located himself on the sidewalk. 
 
 "Do you like my trade?" he said to Phil, who stood 
 looking at him. "If you do, I '11 hire you!" 
 
 "What a world it is, all the same ! And to think that 
 once I loved it all," Phil thought, as he turned away. 
 
 Farther on there was a restaurant still celebrated for 
 the reason that, long ago, my Lord 1 'Arsouille had supped 
 there with Cora Pearl. As Phil passed in front of it, he 
 saw the staircase decorated with green palms, and he 
 thought he recognized Helia going up, it was her hat 
 and cloak, and, lifting his eyes, Phil saw, at the window 
 above, the profile of the Duke of Morgania. Phil low- 
 ered his head and went his way pensively, leaving behind 
 him the restaurant full of fragrance and lights, wherein 
 the beautiful butterflies of the night were coming to burn 
 their wings.
 
 242 FATA MORGANA 
 
 To escape from these mournful visions, Phil called up 
 the remembrance of Ethel. The remainder of his way 
 he traversed without noticing the distance. He had al- 
 ready passed the Seine and gone under the vault of the 
 Institut, following a quiet old street. A moment later 
 he was at Mere Michel's. A volley of enthusiastic cries 
 welcomed him. Phil asked himself if he were not the 
 plaything of a dream. 
 
 "Vive Phil! Hurrah for Phil! Bravo, Phil! A ban 
 for Phil!" 
 
 "Pan! pan! pan! pan! pan!" 
 
 "It must be my tall hat," thought Phil, and he took 
 it off with a quick movement. The welcome doubled its 
 noise. 
 
 "Vive Phil!" 
 
 "Hurrah!" 
 
 "Am I dreaming?" Phil asked himself, "or are these 
 men crazy?" They were all crowding round him, pat- 
 ting him on the back and shaking his hand. 
 
 "Old Phil!" 
 
 "Good old Phil!" 
 
 "My best compliments, old comrade!" 
 
 * ' Compliments for what ? Whose compliments ? ' ' Phil 
 asked in a daze. 
 
 ' ' But for your picture, of course ! ' ' 
 
 "What picture?" 
 
 ' ' Your picture in the Luxembourg. Have n 't you read 
 the papers?" 
 
 You could have "knocked Phil over with a feather." 
 They were telling him he had a picture in the Luxem- 
 bourg, and he was the only one not to know it ! Surely
 
 CARACAL'S NARROW ESCAPE 243 
 
 they must be amusing themselves with him they must 
 have got up a practical joke. So he went away, ill dis- 
 posed for a rigolade after the events of the day. 
 
 He had not gone ten steps when he stumbled on Pou- 
 faille ; but it was Poufaille cold and sinister, a Northern 
 Poufaille as it were, closer buttoned up than Vieille- 
 cloche in his role as statesman. 
 
 "How goes it?" Phil said cordially, holding out his 
 hand. 
 
 Poufaille did not budge. 
 
 "What 's the matter?" said Phil. "You 're giving 
 me the cold shoulder! Is everybody losing his head? 
 You won 't take my hand, good old Poufaille ! ' ' 
 
 "I am no longer your good old Poufaille!" 
 
 "But what have I done?" Phil asked. 
 
 "What have you done?" Poufaille burst out, unable 
 to restrain himself longer. "I '11 tell you what you Ve 
 done. You Ve stolen my share of glory you sign pic- 
 tures which were painted by me! I Ve seen my cows 
 in the Luxembourg, signed by your name the picture 
 into which I put my whole soul !" 
 
 If lightning had fallen at Phil's feet he would have 
 been less surprised. So he was the robber cuckoo and 
 Poufaille was the young genius ! Now he understood the 
 meaning of the "Punch d 'Indignation. " 
 
 "That 's what you Ve done to me!" Poufaille cried, 
 quite beside himself. -"You would hinder me from flying 
 with my own wings. I had something here" (and Pou- 
 faille gave himself a tremendous blow on the forehead), 
 "I had something here and you robbed me of it!" 
 
 "Your cows" Phil began in distress, "it was a joke
 
 244 FATA MORGANA 
 
 I wanted to play on Caracal. I bought the picture and 
 signed it that is true. But was it yours? I didn't 
 know it." 
 
 "You didn't know it! Doesn't one know the mark 
 of the lion?" 
 
 "My good Poufaille, let me explain it to you let 
 me " Phil all but stammered; it was not easy to tell 
 Poufaille that his picture had been used as a scarecrow) 
 "let me explain it to you." 
 
 "We '11 have the explanation in public," Poufaille 
 shouted. 
 
 "Only let me tell you, my dear Poufaille " 
 
 But Poufaille would listen to nothing. He only knew 
 that he was perishing of hunger while another was steal- 
 ing his glory. In his rage fragments of the speech came 
 back to him in chance words: "Les autochtones! young 
 genius you have deposited in the bosom of glory an 
 autochtone's egg do you understand? an autochtone's 
 egg!" 
 
 "Poufaille," Phil said gravely, "if I have done you 
 wrong, I swear it was not done wilfully. How much do 
 you think your cows are worth ? I '11 give you whatever 
 you ask." 
 
 "Money!" Poufaille answered indignantly. "You 
 dare offer me money to purchase my silence !" 
 
 ' ' Listen to me, I beseech you ! ' ' 
 
 "No! I am going to tell them -all about it inside 
 there!" and Poufaille, terrible and furious, entered 
 Mere Michel's. 
 
 It was now Phil's turn to be angry not against the 
 poor simpleton Poufaille, but Caracal should pay for
 
 CARACAL'S NARROW ESCAPE 245 
 
 this ! ' ' What will Miss Rowrer think of me with thia 
 story of a forged signature?" Phil said to himself. 
 
 The idea that his name figured on a picture in the 
 collection of daubs which form the foreign hall of the 
 Luxembourg Museumand that just when he dreamed 
 he was sure of fame ! At the very thought he clenched 
 his fists with fury. So Caracal had bewitched the Fine 
 Arts Commission into accepting such a horror! or per- 
 haps they were willing to discredit American art by 
 presenting to the public a wretched work bought for a 
 few sous in a junk-shop! And now he, Phil, was to 
 suffer shipwreck from the ridiculousness of it, while 
 Ethel would laugh ! What could be Caracal 's aim ? 
 With a flash it came to him that the abominable critic 
 wished to make him grotesque and odious at the same 
 time. 
 
 "Ah, Caracal," Phil said to himself, "you are mis- 
 taken this time. You shall pay for all this ! ' ' 
 
 A sudden idea came to him: "What if I should go 
 and punch his head ! ' ' 
 
 He knew he should find Caracal at home at that hour. 
 It was the day before the feuilleton, impertinent and 
 familiar, which he was in the habit of signing "A Pari- 
 sian," or the chronique scandaleuse of courts by an 
 "Old Diplomat," alternating with art criticisms signed 
 "Caracal." A cab happened to be passing. Phil hailed 
 it, called out the address to the driver, and en route! 
 What streets he took, through what quarters, Phil did 
 not know. He knew only that the critic was going to 
 have a bad quarter of an hour. He must have from 
 him a frank explanation, without dodging or subter-
 
 246 FATA MORGANA 
 
 fuge. This time there would be no duel carried on by 
 winking the eye and shrugging the shoulder. Phil stif- 
 fened his arm as the cab stopped short. He jumped 
 to the ground and with three steps reached the con- 
 cierge's lodge. 
 
 "M. Caracal, if you please?" 
 "Seventh floor, last door on the court!" 
 Phil ran quickly up the stairs. A thick carpet dead- 
 ened his steps, and he could hear, behind the doors, the 
 sound of pianos or the laughter of children. He imag- 
 ined to himself the pleasant homes with their lamps 
 surrounded by a circle of golden heads. 
 
 ' ' Good, simple, good people ! ' ' Phil thought. ' ' Perhaps 
 it is from you that Caracal takes his studies for 'The 
 House of Glass' wolf in the sheepfold that he is!" 
 
 The thought increased his anger. He went up and up. 
 At last he was going to see that apartment of Caracal's 
 which no one ever entered. No doubt it would be in- 
 solent in its luxury and have a big valet in the ante- 
 room and invaluable pictures which this grafter of the 
 press must have extorted for his collection of art works, 
 of which he was always talking in his articles. 
 
 Seventh floor, last door ! It must be there. Phil had 
 reached it. There was no bell ! Phil knocked, but there 
 was no reply. The key had been forgotten in the door, 
 and he entered. On a table a small lamp shed its light 
 over papers and books. There were other books on the 
 ground and on chairs perhaps the encyclopedia from 
 which Caracal drew his weekly erudition. In the half- 
 obscurity, farther back, Phil saw a brass bedstead like 
 a child's couch. Beside it, on a chest of drawers, there
 
 CARACAL'S NARROW ESCAPE 247 
 
 were garments carefully folded and a hat protected 
 from the dust by a newspaper. On the floor were shoes 
 beside a blacking-brush. On the chimneypiece there 
 was a photograph in which an old lady held the hand 
 of an old gentleman. Everything in the room was neatly 
 ordered and touching in its simplicity. 
 
 "I must have mistaken the floor," Phil said to himself. 
 "This is not the apartment of an arbiter of society 
 elegance." 
 
 He was on the point of retreating when, on a sofa near 
 him in the shadow, some one moved, and he seemed to 
 hear a sob. Phil started back and the figure on the sofa 
 came into full light. It was Caracal asleep. There was 
 an expression of sadness on his face and tears were on 
 his cheeks the cheeks which Phil had always seen 
 smirking with a convulsive sneer. 
 
 Caracal, when he came home, must have thrown him- 
 self on the sofa worn out with his day's work. The calm 
 which had come over his features showed that he had 
 dropped off to sleep in some sad and gentle dream. Phil, 
 in spite of himself, looked up to the chimneypiece where 
 the old lady and the old gentleman seemed watching over 
 their child yes, yes, Phil was sure of it now, from the 
 sadness on the face of Caracal. He must have gone back 
 to his childhood; perhaps, in his dreams, he heard the 
 beloved voices which had long since become silent. A 
 sob from Caracal made Phil tremble again a dull, deep 
 sob like the sigh of a dying man. One would have said 
 that his whole life was rising up before him his heart's 
 bitterness, humiliations undergone and illusions fled, the 
 success of others and regrets for his own ill-doing. 
 
 13
 
 248 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Phil felt his anger fade away. He divined all the 
 wretchedness of his life, so full of meanness and bluff. 
 Asleep, the poor creature, overcome by his distress, 
 seemed sacred to him. He went out without noise. 
 
 ' ' Old Caracal, ' ' he murmured, "I '11 leave you to your 
 dream that shall be your punishment."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A QUEEN FOR KINGS 
 
 POUFAILLE, seated on a high stool, was copying 
 in the Louvre Gallery. Since his share of glory 
 had been stolen from him, he had become as down- 
 cast as a caged lion from whom his quarter of meat has 
 been taken. Poor Pouf aille ! Everything fell to pieces 
 in his hands. His studio had been dispersed at auction ; 
 ' ' Liberty ' ' and ' ' Fraternity ' ' had been sold for nothing, 
 not even for enough to pay up the garlic- and potato- 
 seller. And his cows were in the Luxembourg under 
 another name ! What reasons for sadness ! He did not 
 even listen to Suzanne, babbling near him on a lower 
 seat. He was timidly copying the goat and kids of Paul 
 Potter. The company of such good animals consoled 
 him a little for that of men. 
 
 He was a touching sight, with the veins in his fore- 
 head swollen by his effort, exhausting himself in the 
 handling of brushes and paint-knives, which were things 
 too delicate for his big hairy hands made for the plow 
 and the wine-press. 
 
 Nothing could amuse him. Yet Suzanne lifted toward 
 him her laughing face and told her funniest stories. One 
 was an adventure of the other evening, when she had 
 249
 
 250 FATA MORGANA 
 
 taken Helia's hat and cloak to go and sup with the 
 duke. Mon Dieu! how she had laughed. At the thought 
 of it she still held her sides, careless of the stares of the 
 public. 
 
 ' ' I wish you had been there, my little Poufaille, when 
 I went up the stairs. They bowed to me as if I were a 
 queen ah, mais oui! I made myself as fine as I could 
 and I had Helia's hat and cloak. If Phil had seen me 
 he might have thought it was Helia. 
 
 "Eh bien! quoi!" Suzanne exclaimed, interrupting 
 herself to look at Poufaille. "What do you mean by 
 grinding your teeth when I speak of Phil? One would 
 say you were going to eat some one up. Phil does n 't 
 hear us, you know; he is up there with Helia, who is 
 posing for him in what they used to call their oasis the 
 garden, you know, where you wanted to grow potatoes. 
 Oh, forgive me, my little Poufaille, I did n't wish to hurt 
 your feelings," Suzanne added quickly, as she saw Pou- 
 faille clenching his fist at the remembrance of the re- 
 jected potatoes, as painful to him as the stolen share of 
 glory. Poufaille went back to work with a heavy sigh. 
 
 "Besides," Suzanne went on, "you know I 'm not so 
 stuck on Phil myself any more, and I wish he were here, 
 to tell him what I think of his way of acting toward 
 Helia. I would n't hide the truth from him ; and I 'd like 
 to know if he 'd answer as he used to do in his attic 
 ' I 'm not that kind of a man ! * Ah ! ' ' Suzanne continued, 
 ' ' you 're all the same, you men ! You 're not worth the 
 rcpe to hang you!" 
 
 Poufaille sighed as if his heart were breaking. He 
 kept on painting his goat and kids.
 
 A QUEEN FOR KINGS 251 
 
 "I wish you had been there when the garc,on brought 
 me in, ' ' Suzanne began again, to finish her story. * ' Im- 
 agine a table all spread with fruits and flowers and 
 lights ; and whom do I see coming toward me but the 
 duke, in evening clothes, leaning over and kissing my 
 hand. I had my veil down and he did not recognize 
 me it was Helia he was waiting for; the duke had in- 
 vited her with a little note, very well expressed, you 
 know, such as dukes know how to write. When Helia 
 had opened the note she asked me to go and present her 
 excuses. You can imagine I took the opportunity I 
 whom you see before you. I had supped before that 
 with smart people, but with a duke never ! What would 
 you have done, Poufaille? That humbug of a Caracal 
 once told me I should have to get down on my knees 
 when I spoke to him. Well, I just took off my veil and 
 said : ' Cuckoo ! It 's me ! You 're waiting for Helia, 
 but she begs to be excused ! ' Would you think men 
 could be so odd? My little Poufaille, Helia 's stock went 
 up with him at once. I could see it by the way he spoke 
 of her. But never mind that ; he was very amiable and 
 kept me to dinner. I did n't wish to, but he insisted so 
 and it 's a very chic place, that restaurant. Then all 
 at once there was a squabble at the door and I saw two 
 bears coming in ! I mean two men like bears, bowing to 
 the ground to the duke and calling him monseigneur. 
 They spoke of lots of things that they had just come 
 from the monseigneur 's house; that they had been told 
 monseigneur was in diplomatic consultation et patati et 
 patata and then there was Turkey and Morgania and 
 I don't know what all. The duke had a very embar-
 
 252 FATA MORGANA 
 
 rassed look 'my dear Zrnitschka Bjelopawlitji my 
 dear minister ' 
 
 "Ministers those two bears! I was bursting! And, 
 on my word, I believe the duke presented me as the diplo- 
 matic agent ! After that there was dinner and jokes and 
 songs, and the duke brewed a champagne salad, while I 
 tickled the two bears under the chin to make them swal- 
 low brandied cherries." 
 
 Suzanne spoke in vain. Poufaille kept the fated look 
 of a man who has been grazed by glory as it passes. He 
 lifted his head sullenly and then let it fall again on his 
 breast, as if crushed. 
 
 "Attention!" suddenly cried Suzanne, who was look- 
 ing down the gallery. "Here are serious customers 
 Miss Rowrer and Mme. Rowrer, Mr. Will, the duke, 
 and Caracal. I 'm sure they 're going to visit Phil up 
 there in his oasis. Helia is n't expecting such an 
 honor ! ' ' 
 
 Miss Rowrer and her party came on, a compact group 
 among the scattered visitors. Ethel was listening ab- 
 sently to Caracal. Grandma was examining the crowd. 
 The duke was winking at the pictures, while Will looked 
 at the parquet floor. 
 
 Caracal seemed delighted. Besides his opportunity 
 to shine by telling off names and dates, he was also going 
 to show the party one of the hanging gardens of Paris. 
 Presently he would explain the very modus operandi 
 for making such blooming terraces fine sand, tar, 
 gravel, and earth. 
 
 "You know, Miss Rowrer, you go to the Louvre Gar- 
 dens up a staircase."
 
 Suzanne aiid Poufaille at the Louvre
 
 A QUEEN FOR KINGS 265 
 
 ' ' Awful ! ' ' said grandma. 
 
 "A winding staircase cut in the thickness of the wall." 
 
 "Really! Oh, how nice that is!" said Ethel, to whom 
 these little details gave the sensation of being abroad. 
 She forgave the lack of an elevator, as long as the stair- 
 case was winding and cut in the thickness of the wall 
 something impossible to find in her own country. 
 
 "It 's a kind of Jacob's ladder that will take us up to 
 Paradise," Caracal continued. "A real Paradise, where 
 I myself have known an Adam and Eve, known them 
 personally, intimately ! ' ' 
 
 "Oh, M. Caracal, don't talk of that now," Miss Row- 
 rer said, "but tell me what this picture is." 
 
 Caracal explained the picture, regretting that Ethel 
 did not question him about the Adam and Eve he had 
 known in the Paradise. 
 
 Poufaille, who had lifted his head, lowered it 'quickly. 
 The party was just in front of him, all looking at his 
 picture. He had heard Caracal say to Miss Rowrer: 
 "An artist, a great artist, with a brain, but no luck! 
 It is incredible, his lack of luck I could tell you a 
 story" 
 
 But Caracal was interrupted by grandma, who no- 
 ticed the frayed cravat and worn shoes of Poufaille, and 
 pointed him out to Will. Caracal presented Poufaille, 
 who nearly fell from his high stool. The duke bowed. 
 Ethel greeted him cordially, as well as Suzanne, at whom 
 the duke did not even look. 
 
 "That's the way of the world!" Suzanne thought 
 within herself. 
 
 "Do you really wish me to buy such a daub?" Will
 
 256 FATA MORGANA 
 
 said in an aside to grandma, after judging, at a glance, 
 the "Goat and the Kids." 
 
 "Poor devil! he is in rags," Ethel murmured. 
 
 "All right," Will answered; "it 's frightful, but I'll 
 send it to my farm in Texas it will give them a poor 
 idea of grazing in the old country!" 
 
 Poufaille felt his legs tremble under him, and thought 
 all the torrents of Pactolus were pouring down upon him 
 when Will, taking his leave, gave him in advance the 
 money for the order. 
 
 "Au revoir, Mile. Suzanne ! M. Poufaille, au revoir !" 
 Miss Rowrer said, not a little flattered to know, not a 
 Charley, but a real and genuine bohemian. 
 
 With a final bow, Poufaille watched the party going 
 away, in utter amazement at the possession of so much 
 money. 
 
 "Vive la joie and fried potatoes!" Suzanne said, by 
 way of moral. 
 
 Soon Ethel and grandma, Will, the duke, and Caracal 
 were lost in the distance. - 
 
 "You would think Caracal was the chief of the party," 
 Suzanne remarked to Poufaille; "only look you see 
 nothing but him!" 
 
 Indeed, Caracal, who at first was abashed at not being 
 allowed to tell the story of Adam and Eve, nor that of 
 the false signature of the Luxembourg, became doubly 
 amiable, and fished for compliments because of his cour- 
 ageous behavior toward Vieillecloche, a man with five 
 corpses in his trail. Meanwhile, he went on explaining, 
 endlessly, the pictures of the old masters. He greeted 
 them as friends; he spoke familiarly of the painters,
 
 A QUEEN FOR KINGS 257 
 
 called them by their first names and their nicknames 
 the old Breughel the young Teniers "Van Ryn" for 
 Rembrandt and so on. 
 
 He told over the jokes about the Louvre Museum. It- 
 was a national lounge, heated in winter and the place for 
 a siesta in summer. He attacked the curators, who were 
 incompetent, to his thinking; and he cited the forged 
 art objects bought for their weight in gold, crowns and 
 coins and jewels, and the famous Holbein on a mahogany 
 panel the Louvre's pride up to the day when, scratch- 
 ing it on the back, the words appeared: "Flor de Habana 
 Lawyers' Club Brand"! 
 
 The duke passed along heedlessly. The Louvre for him 
 was, most of all, a place in which you can talk amid 
 sumptuous decoration. His only real interest in paint- 
 ing was in the hall of the Italian primitives, before the 
 St. Morgana of Botticelli. 
 
 "St. Morgana, my ancestress," he said to Miss 
 Rowrer. 
 
 He drew himself up as he pointed to the saint, amid 
 the choir of angels, in a sky of gold above a fantastic 
 landscape, where architecture and monuments were piled 
 together. He seemed moved, especially when he ex- 
 plained to Miss Rowrer that he should definitively be 
 obliged to go back to Morgania, that grave events were 
 on the way, and that only the other evening he had had 
 a diplomatic interview with his people's delegates. 
 
 Miss Rowrer liked him better, with this air of one con- 
 vinced of his own importance and duties, than when he 
 was making fun of himself with the skeptical tone which 
 she abhorred. Just as she was glad to know a real and
 
 258 FATA MORGANA 
 
 genuine bohemian, so she was delighted to walk with the 
 scion of a legendary family, whose ancestress figured in 
 the Louvre, painted by Botticelli, surrounded by angels 
 in a golden sky. She found it amusing to take the arm 
 of a man in whose pedigree there was the equal of the 
 White Lady of Potsdam and the Cavalier of Hatfield 
 House. It was all so un-American and exciting. 
 
 She was also really at her ease in the Louvre among 
 these old royal personages. She pleased herself in the 
 midst of history and polished courts. Her intelligence 
 revealed to her their grandeur. 
 
 "I like sincere men who are faithful to their tradi- 
 tions," she said. "There is a noble side to it all which 
 I understand." 
 
 She admired the effete generations who had heaped 
 here, to the very ceiling, royal escutcheons and chimeras 
 and victories. 
 
 "There is something great in it," she said; "you feel 
 the conviction of it. Compare it with the frightful style 
 which artists bungle with nowadays! The beautiful 
 has had its time here ; it is our turn now, in our great 
 Republic! Faith in traditions that is what produces 
 masterpieces! Whether royalty, as in the old times, or 
 the Republic, as with us I recognize only that." 
 
 "But there is a golden mean," the duke said, con- 
 ciliatingly. 
 
 "Away with the golden mean, with cowardly compro- 
 mises and satisfied selfishness, with falsehood and insin- 
 cerity. We must be one thing or another loyalty be- 
 fore all else !" 
 
 Grandma and Will approved this.
 
 A QUEEN FOR KINGS 259 
 
 ' ' Ah ! ' ' the duke thought to himself, struck by Miss 
 Rowrer 's accents of conviction, ' ' it would n 't be well to 
 fail in one 's words to this lady ! ' ' 
 
 "This is a Signorelli," Caracal explained, pointing 
 out a picture; "this is a Filippo Lippi; this is a Pin- 
 turicchio. ' ' 
 
 "Say, M. Caracal, if we stop at every picture of the 
 Quattro Cento we shall never reach Paradise. Where 
 is your winding staircase?" 
 
 There were halls after halls, marbles and gilding, the 
 Salon Carre, and galleries with resplendent jewels ; mar- 
 ble for the pavement, and tnen parquetry shining like a 
 smooth lake, and pictures, and pictures again. The copy- 
 ists were up on their ladders in galleries, which heap to- 
 gether civilizations that have disappeared, statues of gods 
 and the mummies of kings, decayed grandeur pell-mell 
 with fragments of columns and open tombs and women's 
 jewels. And there was the crouching sphinx seeming to 
 take them to witness that all things pass like a dream. 
 
 Miss Rowrer and the duke walked together. In front 
 were grandma and "Will and Caracal. The duke sought 
 to understand Miss Rowrer 's ideas, which seemed con- 
 tradictory to him. How was he to reconcile her admira- 
 tion both for republic and royalty ? 
 
 "Miss Rowrer," the duke began, "your theories are 
 contrary to progress. Your extreme loyalty implies a 
 government which is unchangeable." 
 
 "Not at all!" Ethel answered. "Greatness is in 
 the constant effort toward progress; it is the pursuit 
 of the best. A people's loyalty toward its king is very 
 beautiful."
 
 260 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "Eh lien, then!" the duke replied. 
 
 "I told you my way of looking at things the day we 
 visited St. Denis," Ethel continued. "But you forget one 
 thing the king's loyalty to his people!" 
 
 They were leaving the gallery and walking ever on- 
 ward. They saw a monumental staircase under a vault 
 as high as a cathedral apse, and then there were more 
 halls, with marbles and gilding and galleries, never 
 ending. 
 
 ' ' But where is your Paradise ? ' ' Miss Rowrer asked. 
 
 "It is here," answered Caracal. 
 
 He gave a glance at the guardian who was pacing up 
 and down the hall, and Will slipped a heavy pourboire 
 into the man's hand. 
 
 ' ' Is Monsieur Phil up there ? ' ' 
 
 "The former gardener? Yes. Go up." Lifting a 
 piece of tapestry at the corner of a wall, a little door 
 appeared it was the door of the staircase. 
 
 "Go ahead, M. Caracal; show us the way!" Ethel 
 said. 
 
 Caracal, proud to lead, showed them the way up. They 
 went on, turning round and round in single file, the stair- 
 case being wide enough for nothing else. 
 
 "This reminds me of going up the Monument in 
 London," Ethel said. 
 
 "And me of the corkscrew in the Mammoth Cave," 
 said grandma. 
 
 "Only a few more steps," said Caracal, as he opened 
 the door giving on the roof. 
 
 The light was dazzling. Great clouds floated high in a 
 sky that was sweet and calm. Across the branches of the
 
 A QUEEN FOR KINGS 261 
 
 garden they looked on Paris, bathed in sun. The great 
 city stretched out from horizon to horizon and, vibrating 
 with the heat, seemed to wave like a sea. Grandma, 
 Ethel, and Will, as well as the duke, stopped short. 
 While the distant view was full of grandeur, the nearer 
 scene was just as charming. There were shaded alleys, 
 and under the oleanders and apple- and pear-trees, cur- 
 rants and strawberries were ripening. Caracal was al- 
 ready beginning his explanations. 
 
 "The green spots you see over there are the hanging 
 gardens of the Rue de Valois. If we were a little higher 
 up we could see those of the Automobile Club of the 
 Place de la Concorde. This is the way they make them 
 first a layer of Norway tar, then fine sand, and then 
 gravel" 
 
 "M. Caracal," Ethel interrupted, "you are right; this 
 is a real Paradise ! ' ' 
 
 "And over there you have Adam and Eve," Caracal 
 said, pointing amid the greenery to where Phil was paint- 
 ing Helia, posed in an old arm-chair half hidden by 
 climbing plants. 
 
 "That is what is best in the Louvre," Ethel said to 
 the group, looking at Helia. "Let us greet her Majesty 
 Beauty!" 
 
 Phil had just caught sight of Ethel and her party. 
 He hurriedly laid down his palette and came forward. 
 Helia saw them also, and arose and bowed. Ethel 
 recognized her and spoke with a friendly manner. They 
 looked at each other in that peculiar way which women 
 have of taking each other's measure, it was like a mute 
 dialogue between Beauty and Culture. But Beauty
 
 262 FATA MORGANA 
 
 poor Helia lowered her eyes. She became humble and 
 acknowledged herself vanquished. 
 
 For Helia no longer had any hope. She understood, 
 she saw with fright the ever-growing distance between 
 herself and Phil. Ah, no ! Phil was no longer the same ; 
 he was above her, far above, among the rich and power- 
 ful ; and he would continue his upward march, while she, 
 Helia, would, little by little, go downwards. 
 
 She had agreed to pose for him that day it was the 
 decisive test. It had cost her much to do it. Phil, after 
 all, ought to know what his conscience told him to do ; 
 but she did not wish there should be any fault on 
 her part. She had never had the courage to say to herself 
 it was all over, until this day, which she was passing alone 
 with him. She had come to see if he would remember if 
 the trees in bloom amid their oasis would recall anything 
 to him. She counted on the complicity of the blue sky 
 and the fragrance of roses. But the day had passed, 
 under the splendid heavens, and they had not, as in 
 other days, gathered fruit from the trees or picked flow- 
 ers from the parterres. Phil had been good-natured, but 
 he was like a friend and nothing more. Phil she saw it 
 clearly Phil would be a stranger for her to-morrow. 
 Who knows ? The time might come when he would forget 
 even her name. 
 
 Helia acknowledged that it was possible when she 
 looked at Miss Rowrer, who drew near and began chat- 
 ting with Phil. What charm there was in her words! 
 Helia was never tired of listening to her. She felt no 
 jealousy of Ethel, whose goodness saved her from envy. 
 She admired her in silence. Sometimes, like a lightning
 
 A QUEEN FOB KINGS 263 
 
 flash, she seemed to understand the abyss which sepa- 
 rated them, and then everything reentered the shadow. 
 No she did not know; everything escaped her grasp 
 in that sphere of life, more inaccessible to her than 
 the white clouds up in the depths of the azure. What 
 had she with which to struggle against this young girl, 
 so brilliant and so playful, before whom Phil and the 
 duke were content to seem little ? And then, she was so 
 rich! 
 
 But Helia blushed for herself and quickly cast away 
 any thoughts of Miss Rowrer's wealth. Since she could 
 not help loving Phil, she at least would not cease giving 
 him her esteem. She looked in a sort of fear at Miss 
 Rowrer, of whom so much was said, and who seemed so 
 simple and gay. What could she do against so many 
 advantages she, Helia, who had only her beauty? And 
 perhaps Phil found her ugly now ! 
 
 "What are you painting?" Ethel asked Phil. "I 
 suppose I may look." 
 
 "Miss Rowrer, I beg you," Phil answered, "give me 
 your advice." 
 
 Miss Rowrer squinted with her eye, measured and 
 made a few professional gestures, probably the only 
 thing she retained from her art studies among so many 
 social duties. She remarked a few things, showing re- 
 fined tastes, and then looked at Helia as a connoisseur. 
 
 She admired her noble profile, like that of a marble 
 Venus, her full neck and bare arms, and the sumptuous 
 thickness of her hair over shoulders which would have 
 thrown Phidias into despair. 
 
 "What success a young girl like that would have in
 
 264 FATA MORGANA 
 
 society if she belonged to society " thought Miss Row- 
 rer. ' ' Ought not beauty like that to overcome all social 
 distinctions ? ' ' 
 
 Helia appeared to Miss Rowrer as the splendid flower- 
 ing of the Louvre, personifying in herself all the master- 
 pieces heaped up beneath their feet all that men have 
 loved and made divine in marble or on canvas. At her 
 feet roses and fuchsias breathed forth their fragrance, 
 sweet as the Attic breeze. 
 
 "What you are doing there, Monsieur Phil, is very fine 
 a magnificent study," Miss Rowrer said. ''But it is 
 not up to the model. Is it, Monsieur le Due?" 
 
 The duke assented. 
 
 "Tell me, Monsieur Phil," Miss Rowrer continued, 
 ' ' what is that thing on the ground, with your palette on 
 top of it?" 
 
 She pointed to one of the busts which lined the walks. 
 
 "Those are busts," Phil began. 
 
 "Yes, but of whom?" Ethel asked. 
 
 "Imperial and presidential busts," Phil explained, 
 "Napoleon III, Charles X, Louis Philippe." 
 
 "Really," Miss Rowrer said, with amusement; "only 
 think, each bust represents a revolution. They are sov- 
 ereigns who no longer pleased let them be an example 
 to you, monseigneur, " she added, laughing. "This is 
 not Paradise, then, but the other place each of these 
 busts is a paving-stone of good intentions ! ' ' 
 
 "And that, Phil, that old arm-chair which has lost its 
 gilding? Mademoiselle Helia, who was in it just now, 
 looked, with these busts at her feet, like a sovereign sur- 
 rounded by the dwarfs of the court. What is that old 
 arm-chair ? ' '
 
 Ethel and the Royal Throne
 
 A QUEEN FOR KINGS 267 
 
 "A throne, Miss Rowrer!" 
 
 "Now you are laughing at me!" 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 "The throne of some fairy king?" 
 
 "The throne of King Louis Philippe," answered Phil. 
 In a few words he explained how it happened to be there 
 in the company of the busts. 
 
 "It is not a very comfortable seat," grandma re- 
 marked. 
 
 "They 'd make a better one than that at Grand Rap- 
 ids," Will added. 
 
 "Will you try it, Miss Rowrer?" Caracal hastened to 
 ask. "Be seated on the throne; you might believe your- 
 self a queen." 
 
 " Ah ! that 's all the same to me, ' ' said Miss Rowrer. 
 
 ' ' The queen you are worthy to be, ' ' Caracal corrected, 
 by way of compliment. "You would not have ill become 
 Louis Philippe 's throne, I imagine. ' ' 
 
 "I hope not, indeed," Ethel replied. "What! that 
 bourgeois king, that king of the golden mean, who was 
 neither brave nor cowardly, without vice as without 
 virtue, flat, like a pancake ; an old wolf turned shepherd ? 
 And I could sit on a throne and fancy myself the consort 
 of that imitation goodman, be queen of such a king? 
 Even for his kingdom, I would not!" 
 
 Helia looked at Miss Rowrer as she prodded with her 
 parasol the worn velvet of the throne. She thought of 
 her own half hesitation to sit down in it the first time 
 she came to the oasis, and how she had answered Phil: 
 "A king's throne! You wouldn't think of it a poor 
 girl like me !" To her it had seemed a sort of sacrilege,
 
 268 FATA MORGANA 
 
 whereas Miss Rowrer, quite the contrary, turned hen 
 back on it with disdain and walked away, saying to the 
 duke and Phil : 
 
 "Louis Philippe was possibly a king, but at any rate 
 he was not a man ! The people did well to cast him out." 
 
 And Helia asked herself in amazement: "Who is this 
 Miss Rowrer that judges kings and would refuse them 
 their kingdoms? Is she, then, more than a queen?"
 
 PART III 
 
 YOUTHFUL FOLLIES
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 TEUFP-TEUPF ! TEUFF ! BRER ! 
 
 WE should need words from the old, old time, 
 worn from long use, to give an idea of Mme. 
 de Grojean's house in her little corner of the 
 provinces. It was typical of its kind and just the op- 
 posite of any truly Parisian corner. The latter would 
 have been a populous, noisy street, with odors from the 
 markets, from horses, from tobacco. The former was a 
 deserted street, where you could hear sparrows chattering 
 on the housetops and breathe the fragrance of migno- 
 nette and new-mown hay. 
 
 The house of Mme. de Grojean " grand 'mere, " as 
 Yvonne called her formed the angle of a street on a 
 very provincial place. It was on an open space, in the 
 middle of which a water-jet, long since dry, marked on 
 its basin a turning shadow like a sun-dial. 
 
 The house and garden wall formed one of the sides 
 of the place as far as the river, which was crossed by a 
 bridge ; and, beyond, the plain stretched out. 
 
 Place and house, and trees overhanging the wall, and 
 
 the street where grass grew between the paving-stones 
 
 all had the look of having always been there, of being 
 
 there forever, changeless as the hills of the horizon. 
 
 271
 
 272 FATA MORGANA 
 
 But worthiest of description was the salon where 
 grand 'mere with her daughter and her granddaughter 
 Yvonne were seated in the dim light, amid tapestries of 
 old silk and brown furniture, with glints of brass and 
 portraits in their frames. 
 
 Grand 'mere sat squarely back in her wheeled chair, 
 knitting a pair of stockings. The younger Mme. de Gro- 
 jean was looking through a fashion-paper. Yvonne, by 
 the half-opened blinds, glanced from time to time out on 
 the place while continuing her work. Her little table 
 was encumbered with ribbons and light stuffs. She was 
 finishing a gown, with a heap of patterns around her; 
 and her little scissors traveled slowly through the muslin. 
 
 "It 's this ribbon that gives me trouble," Yvonne said, 
 half aloud, as if speaking to herself. "Why, this ribbon 
 should go on the right ! " she went on, with a comical air 
 of surprise. 
 
 "By no means, my daughter!" Mme. de Grojean pro- 
 tested. 
 
 "Yes, yes! I assure you. Look at the fashion-paper. 
 I must find out for myself, ' ' Yvonne concluded gravely, 
 with her chin in her hand and her eyes fixed on the en- 
 graving. "I shall have to ask Cousin Henri, who was 
 present at the last ball of the prefecture." 
 
 "Yvonne," said the grandmother, stopping her knit- 
 ting, "Yvonne, really, you have nothing but dresses in 
 your head. Rather than lose your time on such trifles, 
 you 'd do better to finish picking the lint for the sol- 
 diers." 
 
 "Grand 'mere, here 's the circus coming!" Yvonne in- 
 terrupted suddenly, as she looked out on the place.
 
 c .^...kfT^j 
 Watching the Arrival of the Kowrers
 
 TEUFF-TEUFF! TEUFF! BRRB! 275 
 
 "Those mountebanks?" grand 'mere said, looking in 
 her turn. "They are coming to the fair, just as they do 
 every year. It must be they I can tell by the dust they 
 make. Only the big drum is lacking to make it com- 
 plete." 
 
 In fact, an odd-looking vehicle had drawn up in the 
 place. It was an immense auto, like a top-carriage be- 
 hind and torpedo-like in front. In the carriage part two 
 ladies were seated; two men occupied the torpedo-end. 
 They wore big smoked glasses, which made them look like 
 frogs, while the enormous auto, spitting and snorting, 
 shook up its passengers, and rattled the canes and um- 
 brellas in the wicker basket behind. 
 
 "It is near four o'clock," grand 'mere said, consulting 
 the familiar shadow of the water-jet. "They must be 
 crazy to be exposing themselves to the heat; but such 
 people fear nothing." 
 
 ' ' They 're brought up to rough it, ' ' Yvonne remarked. 
 
 "But people are saluting them, on my word," grand '- 
 mere said. ' ' There is the adjoint, who must be there for 
 the license ; and there 's Mme. Ric,ois also, and others 
 besides. It looks as if they were personal acquaintances ; 
 they are shaking hands!" 
 
 Grand 'mere in astonishment saw the ladies in the car- 
 riage-end part holding out their hands like princesses. 
 One of them, the younger, got down and moved about to 
 stir herself. As far as could be seen at that distance, 
 between dust and sun, she was dressed in a light silk, 
 very becoming in color. The plaits of the skirt molded 
 her form, and fell to a level with the ground. Her head, 
 enveloped in a cloud of gauze, was not to be seen.
 
 276 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "Where will elegance end, my poor Yvonne?" said 
 grand 'mere. ' ' There 's a gown worth five times as much 
 as your ball-dress." 
 
 "Oh, here are the horses!" Yvonne cried, pointing to 
 magnificent animals which grooms were leading by the 
 bridle from the direction of the railway station. As they 
 passed by the auto the young girl went up to one of them, 
 patted him on the neck, and, putting her hand in her 
 pocket, gave him a lump of sugar. 
 
 ' ' She must be the circus-rider, ' ' Yvonne guessed. 
 
 On the place there was now a little group of curious 
 onlookers drawing near. The proprietor of the Lion 
 d'Or made himself important. They could imagine him 
 at that distance saying: "The Lion d'Or is the tourists' 
 rendezvous every one puts up at my place every one. 
 I do this I have that" 
 
 He had not the time to finish before the young girl 
 had quickly climbed back into the auto, given orders 
 to the groom, pointed to the inn, and made a sign of 
 farewell to everybody. 
 
 Teuff-teuff ! teuff ! The auto swung into movement 
 teuff-teuff ! brrrr ! and off it went at high speed. 
 
 ' ' Bon voyage ! ' ' grand 'mere wished them. ' ' How can 
 people be allowed to race about like that! and all these 
 do-nothings who salute them, they couldn't be more 
 polite to ambassadors ! ' ' 
 
 No doubt it was an event. Every one along the road 
 stared at the disappearing column of dust. 
 
 "It 's a strange world," said grand 'mere. "But here 
 comes Mme. Rigois; she may tell us something about 
 them."
 
 
 The Arrival of the Rowrers
 
 TEUFF-TEUFF! TEUFF! BRRR! 279 
 
 Grand 'mere had scarcely finished when the bonne 
 opened the salon door and announced Mme. Ric,ois, the 
 banker's wife, a little woman all fire and motion, alert 
 and dimpled and forever laughing. 
 
 "My compliments, dear Mme. Ric,ois. You have fine 
 acquaintances ! ' ' grand 'mere began. ' ' You can tell us, I 
 suppose, what has been turning our place upside down." 
 
 "But you ought to know," Mme. Ric,ois answered; 
 ' ' Yvonne is better acquainted with them than I am. ' ' 
 
 "Yvonne is acquainted with them?" grand 'mere 
 asked severely. ' ' Who are they ? ' ' 
 
 "The Rowrers." 
 
 "Goodness gracious!" cried grand 'mere, "in all this 
 dust and in such heat?" 
 
 "The Rowrers what luck!" Yvonne cried. "I shall 
 see Miss Ethel again ; and I did not recognize her ! All 
 those dusters and masks and veils they didn't wear 
 anything like that in Paris the day I went in their auto, 
 with Mr. Will Rowrer to conduct us. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Are they going to stay in our town ? ' ' Mme. de Gro- 
 jean asked. 
 
 "For several weeks, it seems." 
 
 "Where are they stopping?" grand 'mere asked. "At 
 the Hotel de France or at the Hotel d 'Europe?" 
 
 "They are not at a hotel," answered Mme. Ricois, with 
 an important air, as one having a great piece of news to 
 communicate. 
 
 "Where are they going, then?" grand 'mere persisted. 
 
 "To nobody's house." 
 
 "But where are they going to sleep ? Not in the fields, 
 I suppose?"
 
 280 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "Exactly in the fields," Mme. Ric,ois said, looking in 
 turn at grand 'mere, Mme. de Grojean, and Yvonne, to 
 enjoy their astonishment. 
 
 "You mean a house in the country?" grand 'mere 
 said. "What house?" 
 
 "No house," Mme. Ric/ris answered. 
 
 "Not in the open air, I suppose?" 
 
 "Exactly; in the open air!" 
 
 The effect which Mme. Rigois had missed with "the 
 fields ' ' was produced by her ' ' open air. ' ' 
 
 "Is it possible ! ' ' grand 'mere said, as she let her knit- 
 ting fall. "People as rich as that sleep out of doors?" 
 
 ' ' Rich ! ' ' observed Mme. Ricois. ' ' They could buy the 
 town and turn it into wheat-fields ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' Then they must be crazy ! ' ' 
 
 "For that matter," Mme. Rigois went on, "when I say 
 that they sleep out of doors " 
 
 "Do tell us you 're laughing at us!" 
 
 "No, no! Let me explain. They are going to sleep 
 out of doors, but under tents camping out, they call it 
 in America. I know all about it. My husband has been 
 in correspondence with the Rowrers and has had all the 
 arrangements to make. The Comtesse de Donjeon asked 
 them to come to her chateau for the summer. Miss Row- 
 rer simply begged the comtesse to put at her disposal a 
 corner of her estate, the most deserted and the most 
 picturesque. She has taken the part she wished and set 
 up her camp in it. She wanted to have it a surprise, 
 and that is why I kept it a secret. It seems that camping 
 out is delightful and Miss Rowrer intends starting the 
 fashion of it in France."
 
 TEUFF-TEUFF! TEUFF! BRRR! 281 
 
 "Poor France!" grand 'mere exclaimed. "We needed 
 only that ! It 's just like the automobiles. I 'd rather be 
 dragged about all my life in a cripple 's go-cart than get 
 into one." 
 
 "Not I!" said Yvonne. "I should love going in an 
 auto!" 
 
 "Yvonne!" expostulated grand 'mere. 
 
 Yvonne was silent, but thought, all the same, how de- 
 lightful it would be to go here and there in the country 
 and live under one 's tent, by the bank of the river, along 
 with Ethel. She listened absently to the remainder of 
 the conversation, and looked far away at the highroad, 
 golden with dust and with the green grass beside it. 
 
 Grand 'mere took up the discourse. 
 
 "What is camping out, anyway?" 
 
 "Oh, it 's all very simple," Mme. Ricjois answered. "I 
 have heard my husband talking about it." 
 
 "And I have heard Miss Ethel," said Yvonne. "She 
 describes it so well ! ' ' 
 
 "But explain it to me," grand 'mere said. 
 
 They gave her an explanation, in all its details, of 
 camping out and summer touring and fishing, of chape- 
 rons and boys and girls. 
 
 "What!" grand 'mere cried, "young men and young 
 girls go camping out like that in the woods for weeks 
 together, simply accompanied by a chaperon, and you 
 consider that proper?" 
 
 "Ma foi, yes," said Mme. RiQois. "I should have been 
 delighted with anything of the kind." 
 
 Yvonne kept silence, but she asked herself what harm 
 there could be in walking through the country with
 
 282 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Monsieur Will or Monsieur Phil. Miss Ethel did it- 
 why should not she? 
 
 "So that is what you call progress," grand 'mere ob- 
 served. "Milliardaires making their horses travel by 
 express train and lodging them at the hotel, while they 
 themselves wander along the highroads and sleep out of 
 doors like vagabonds you must acknowledge it does 
 not sound well!" 
 
 "Perhaps you like that kind of thing better," Mme. 
 RiQois retorted, pointing to the place. 
 
 An omnibus was driving up from the station, loaded 
 with trunks and packages, with its horses prancing heav- 
 ily. A traveler, with a single glass in his eye, was look- 
 ing out. 
 
 The emotion aroused by the auto had scarcely calmed 
 down. People were standing in the place in front of the 
 hotel, which the last of the Rowrers' horses had just 
 entered. A few curious faces were still to be seen at the 
 windows. The traveler, evidently thinking that all this 
 was in his honor, bowed all around in his satisfaction 
 at their welcome. As he got out of the omnibus at the 
 Lion d'Or, amiable smiles were awaiting him a polite- 
 ness which he repaid with a nod, as if to say, "Greatly 
 flattered, believe me!" 
 
 "Him I recognize," said Yvonne. "I saw him two or 
 three times in Paris. That is M. Caracal." 
 
 But grand 'mere no longer listened. She had returned 
 to her knitting. The place no longer interested her ; too 
 many people were passing there. All this movement 
 annoyed her. Why do not people stay at home? Mean- 
 while Caracal's manceuvers were amusing Yvonne.
 
 TEUFF-TEUFF! TEUFF! BRRR! 283 
 
 "Poor M. Caracal," she thought; "there he is, politely 
 bowing to every one. Really, he seems persuaded that 
 they 've all come out to welcome him ! If he knew that 
 it was all for horses and an auto, his vanity as a writer 
 would be wounded." 
 
 Yvonne sympathized with him, but she could not help 
 being amused at the sight of Caracal jumping about like 
 a puppet, giving orders about his trunks, and at last, 
 when the crowd had seen enough of him, entering the 
 Lion d'Or behind the Rowrers' horses.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 IN CAMP 
 
 GRAND 'MERE de Grojean was talking about 
 camping out, with many an "est-ce possible!" 
 and "Grand Dieu!" and Mademoiselle Yvonne 
 was looking at the dust in the distance, while Miss Rowrer 
 and grandma were already inspecting their camping- 
 ground. 
 
 "How well off we shall be here, Ethel !" grandma said. 
 "What a capital idea! We shall breathe freely and, in 
 spite of being in an old country, we shall have new 
 experiences. I like new things!" 
 
 It was in full July. For several weeks Miss Rowrer 
 had had the intention of quitting Paris. First of all, it 
 was hot, and there was nothing to see, now that the 
 Grand Prix race had been run. Besides, the national 
 holiday of the Fourteenth of July was drawing near, 
 and then the sovereign people dance and eat and drink 
 in the street, which is really too common ! 
 
 ' ' Let us hurry away ! ' ' Miss Rowrer said. ' ' Let us not 
 take back to America a bad opinion of France. We must 
 not judge it by Paris. Let us go and see France at home 
 away from dust and dances and noise, away from 
 punch d'indignation. The countess has invited us to 
 284
 
 IN CAMP 285 
 
 pass the summer in her chateau; with her leave, we '11 
 pass it in her park. Let me arrange it." 
 
 Miss Rowrer had chosen a hill from which you could 
 see the whole country-side. Then she sent for a house- 
 furnisher, told him her plans, saying: "I want this and 
 this and this." The tradesman remonstrated: "But, 
 mademoiselle, that is never done!" She finished by 
 making him understand, all the same, by dint of repeat- 
 ing, ' ' I wish this ! and this ! and this ! " At last, without 
 any one knowing it except M. Ric.ois, who paid the bills, 
 the camp was set up. 
 
 Several square tents, with a flooring of boards, had 
 been raised amid the trees. When the door-flaps were 
 drawn back, Japanese mats were to be seen, and, behind 
 dainty screens, little brass bedsteads and rocking-chairs 
 and toilet furniture. 
 
 The tent for Will and Phil had its beds concealed 
 under Algerian rugs, which made lounges for the day- 
 time. It served as a smoking-room for the dining-tent, 
 which was set up alongside very simply, with an abun- 
 dance of flowers in rustic vases. Farther back, hidden in 
 the shrubbery, were the kitchen and offices. Near by 
 there was an immense water-butt, ingeniously made to 
 furnish each tent with an inexhaustible supply of fresh 
 water. There was also a tent for the auto and for the 
 saddle-horses, when needed. 
 
 " It is perfect, Ethel ! ' ' grandma said, looking around. 
 
 "I am well pleased with it, my dear grandma," Ethel 
 acknowledged. "It is not as good as Tent City, on 
 Coronado Beach at San Diego," she added, laughing, 
 "but we shall be more at home here and the view is
 
 286 FATA MORGANA 
 
 superb. How do you find it, Phil? Will, are you 
 pleased?" And she waved her hand to the horizon. 
 
 From their hilltop, across the river which wound be- 
 low, they saw an immense plain. Its calm beauty im- 
 pressed Ethel, fresh from noisy Paris. France had 
 never seemed so large to her. Among the trees there 
 were bell-towers rising above red roofs, and here and 
 there high factory-chimneys crested with smoke. It was 
 "the province," wide and active and silent. 
 
 In the distance, fields stretched away to the horizon. 
 It was like an immense sea, with waves forever motion- 
 less. Wagons moved across it and boats glided along the 
 waters of the river, and on the roads and in the fields 
 members of the human ant-hill were stirring everywhere. 
 
 "It is beautiful," Phil said, "and I am grateful to 
 you for having invited me. Here I shall paint from 
 nature, and you, Miss Rowrer, ought to do delightful 
 water-colors. ' ' 
 
 "What do you think of my landscape, Will?" Ethel 
 asked her brother, who was examining the auto. 
 
 "It 's all right there 's something wrong with my 
 carbureter," answered Will. "I '11 have to see to it at 
 once. I'll look at the landscape later." 
 
 ' ' That 's just like Will ! ' ' Ethel remarked. ' ' You talk 
 landscape to him and he answers with carbureters and 
 floaters and all the rest. If you only listened to him 
 you 'd think him the most earth-bound of mechanicians. 
 And in his heart he is a poet yes, a poet! He has a 
 little blue flower in his heart; perhaps it 's a forget-me- 
 not!" 
 
 "The dinner-bell is ringing," observed Will.
 
 IN CAMP 287 
 
 * ' Well, let 's to table ! ' ' Ethel said. ' ' There 's nothing 
 like forty miles an hour to give one an appetite. ' ' 
 
 The dinner was delicious. There were the country 
 dishes soupe blanchie, artichokes and beans, an eel in 
 bouillon, stewed chicken and a salad, an ice and the frit- 
 ters of the province. The middle of the table was deco- 
 rated with a magnificent bouquet of roses, while all 
 around were wild flowers of the fields. The cook hired 
 by Mine. Ric,ois had done things well, too well, indeed. 
 Over and above the flowers, the table was furnished with 
 as many bottles as in an inn. 
 
 "Take away those bottles of wine that litter up the 
 table," Ethel said to the valet. 
 
 "But, mademoiselle, what are you going to drink?" 
 asked the cook, who was standing near. 
 
 "We shall drink water with ice in it." 
 
 "Water with ice!" 
 
 "At every meal," Miss Rowrer added. 
 
 "But after your ice-cream to warm up the stom- 
 ach?" 
 
 "Ice-water! "said Ethel. 
 
 Over the cook's face there crept an expression of 
 terror and pity. To console her, Ethel complimented 
 her cookery, but the smile had vanished from the good 
 woman 's lips until they asked her recipe for the fritters. 
 
 "I '11 take it back to Chicago with me," said grandma. 
 "We '11 give a german, and we '11 have pastry just like 
 that on the sideboard. It will be a novelty." 
 
 Ethel, after the meal, pretended to light a cigarette, 
 to put the men at their ease. Will picked out a cigar, 
 and Phil, who patterned himself after Miss Rowrer, took
 
 288 FATA MORGANA 
 
 a whiff at a cigarette and threw it away. Then he 
 picked up his banjo. 
 
 "Play us the 'Arkansaw Traveler'!" grandma asked. 
 "The very turn of the tune makes me wish to dance." 
 
 Ethel spoke up : ' ' What if we should map out our 
 time for the two months we are to spend here? We 
 have, first, the invitation from the countess and her 
 friends there are a rally e-paper and a chasse a courre." 
 
 "The hunt is much later a few days before we leave 
 for Morgania," observed Will. 
 
 "The good duke!" said Ethel; "it seems things 
 are not going at all well in his country. Who knows? 
 By the time we get to Morgania there may be neither 
 duke nor duchy ! ' ' 
 
 "I 'd rather be a trapper in the far West than a duke 
 in such a country, ' ' said grandma. 
 
 "As for me," said Phil, stopping short the "Arkansaw 
 Traveler," which he had been strumming lightly, "my 
 picture is already there and I must put it up and retouch 
 it on the spot. I shall go, whatever happens." 
 
 ' ' Bravo ! ' ' Ethel answered. ' ' ' Whatever happens ' ! 
 That 's talking! One ought to know what one has 
 to do, and then do it, whatever happens! But that has 
 nothing to do with our camp," she went on, as she 
 poured out a lemon squash. We must see the Grojeans. 
 I do hope dear Yvonne will come and sketch with me; 
 and we must visit the country fair, they tell me it is 
 very curious. And then there will be our excursions, and 
 photographs for our albums; and I must take a good 
 deal of exercise. There are so many things to see that 
 we shall have no time to bore ourselves."
 
 IN CAMP 289 
 
 The next day they completed the setting up of the 
 camp. Ethel christened it "Camp Rosemont," looked 
 over it with the eye of the master, and arranged 
 everything for the meals. She had a flag-pole planted 
 for the Stars and Stripes. The rumor ran through 
 the country that circus people had come and were camp- 
 ing under a tent in the open. Curious villagers came 
 and looked on from a distance, stretching out their 
 necks. 
 
 "Let the children come!" Ethel said. She stuffed 
 them with sweetmeats, spreading bread and butter with 
 jelly for them with her own hands. The little girls 
 amused her most, with their braided hair and simple 
 gowns and little wooden shoes. She met an inborn polite- 
 ness in them the refinement of ancient days ; they curt- 
 sied to her. 
 
 "You 'd say they were fresh from the company of 
 princesses," was Ethel's appreciation. True enough, 
 their games, the volant, the graces, the dancing in 
 a round, and the songs, in which they spoke of ladies 
 and princes and knights, all told of the olden time of 
 joust and tournament. 
 
 "How nice you all are," Ethel said to them. "Will 
 you come often ? You are not afraid of me ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Oh, no, mademoiselle ! ' ' 
 
 "Bring your little playmates. I shall always have 
 cakes for you." 
 
 "Oh, no, mademoiselle!" 
 
 ' ' What ! You do not wish to eat my cakes ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Oh, not every day ! Our parents would scold us ! 
 But you can tell us nice stories, and then you might give
 
 290 FATA MORGANA 
 
 us tickets for the circus. You must look pretty when 
 you go riding horseback. ' ' 
 
 ' ' So you think I 'm a circus-rider ? ' ' 
 
 "That 's what people say." 
 
 "Well, they are mistaken. I am, I am" Ethel 
 did not find it easy to say just what she was. She 
 could not say, "I am a painter," or, "I am a musician." 
 So she contented herself with saying, "I am an Amer- 
 ican ! ' ' 
 
 "America that is a country. Is it farther than 
 Paris?" 
 
 "Oh, yes!" 
 
 "My papa has a machine to mow hay which comes 
 from Chicago. Is that a city? Is it as big as the city 
 yonder ? ' ' 
 
 "It is as big as all that!" Ethel said, opening her 
 arms to the boundless horizon. ' ' And three times as high 
 as the tallest tree. ' ' 
 
 "My papa has been in Buenos Aires. Perhaps you 
 saw him there?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "You were never bitten by serpents?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Does everybody in your country sleep under tents 
 as you do?" 
 
 "No; but in big, big houses." 
 
 "That must be fine." 
 
 "I '11 show you pictures, children, and tell you stories 
 of my country and pretty stories of yours, too. Do you 
 love your country very much?" 
 
 "France? Oh, yes!"
 
 
 Ethel and the Little Peasant Girls
 
 IN CAMP 293 
 
 "You are right, darlings, and I love it also. It is a 
 beautiful country, which we all love in America. But 
 we sha'n't be friends any longer if you won't eat my 
 cakes." 
 
 ' ' Oh, yes, mademoiselle ! ' ' 
 
 Ringing laughter followed, and they ate the cakes, and 
 there were games, and dances in which there was some- 
 thing of the majestic minuet and something of the light 
 gavotte. 
 
 "It does me good to see how happy they are," Ethel 
 said to herself. "Oh, how I should like to have all the 
 world happy forever ! ' ' 
 
 They were to visit the Grojeans later, when everything 
 should be finished at the camp. The countess had not 
 yet arrived at her chateau, and Ethel profited by this 
 to explore the country round about. Phil and Will, and 
 even Caracal, who was living at the hotel, from time to 
 time accompanied them. They made sketches and water- 
 colors and talked over their impressions. In her walks 
 Ethel wore a gray serge skirt adorned with large plaits, 
 a bolero of the same stuff edged with white, silk shirt- 
 waist, and a white straw hat ; and with that she went up 
 hill and down dale with the readiness of a college boy. 
 
 They saw France at home. The endless parceling out 
 of properties and labor astonished them. Every one was 
 half peasant and half workman, and had his own house 
 and fields and vineyards. Thanks to the spirit of saving, 
 want was unknown ; and the variety of work made any- 
 thing like a dead season impossible. When the work- 
 shop closed its doors, the workman took up his spade and 
 cultivated his garden.
 
 294 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "I had no idea of anything like this," Will said, with 
 deep interest. What a rest for him, who had just left 
 Chicago and the business strife, to find himself in the 
 open country, where everything smiled around him ! 
 
 Sometimes they met a wedding-party on the way the 
 bride in white, the groom in black, the old men in their 
 blouses. A fiddler, the village barber, marched at the 
 head, scraping out airs of the good old time. 
 
 They talked with housewives who were twirling their 
 spindles on the threshold. They were asked to enter, 
 and saw the great chimney with its fire-dogs, on which the 
 soup was heating, and the dresser with its colored crock- 
 ery shining in the shadow. Chickens pecked at their 
 feet. When Phil and Will sat down at the old oaken 
 table to taste the piquette (light wine) a familiar mag- 
 pie perched on their shoulders and asked its share. 
 
 Issuing forth, they met the "priest-eater" of the vil- 
 lage offering a pinch of snuff to Monsieur le Cure. Boys 
 were coming back from school, shouting and rattling 
 military marches on imaginary drums. For the girls 
 were dancing and the boys playing their soldier-games, 
 just as in the days of yore, when only the brave deserved 
 the fair. 
 
 On the village signs, names and trades bore witness to 
 the antiquity of the race and the power of its traditions. 
 
 "What dignity there is in this people!" Ethel said 
 to Will. "See the old goodman there, with his spade 
 on his shoulder, how he saluted us as he passed by. Our 
 people would think it servility, but it is far from that; 
 it is like the refined greeting of a marquis who does the 
 honors of his land."
 
 IN CAMP 295 
 
 Will thought long over this. All these villages were 
 the same now as they had been in other days. They had 
 always been the refuge of simple ideas, and brave hearts 
 had been born and had died in them, content to consider 
 the smoke of the horizon only from afar. These lowly 
 lives had passed between the old church and the little 
 cemetery on the hill, with its cypresses among the tombs. 
 
 "Yes, here we breathe to the full filial piety and 
 the reverence of forefathers," Ethel said. "There is 
 something good in all that, you know. You are right, 
 M. Caracal, to prepare a romance on this country life. 
 It 's a beautiful subject and full of striking pictures. 
 Look at that village before us, with its gardens cut by 
 a network of hedges and walls, and at the roofs pressed 
 one against the other as if they were afraid of the hori- 
 zon, and the smoke mounting straight up to the sky. ' ' 
 
 "But all that smells of the stable," Caracal murmured, 
 "the country pouah!" 
 
 "It doesn't smell so strong as your Montmartre 
 cafes," Phil whispered in his ear. 
 
 For his part, Phil was living strange days. The valley 
 and hill and the woods he looked at mechanically, think- 
 ing of Miss Rowrer the while. The deep charm of the 
 young woman possessed him more and more; he no 
 longer tried to resist it. She had taken possession of him 
 without knowing it. Her mind was large, cosmopolitan, 
 human. All Phil's happiness was now in being at her 
 disposition, in living near her, and seeing and hearing 
 her. He felt that he grew morally in her presence, and 
 he was more in love with her soul than with her beauty. 
 When he walked through the country with her, he fan-
 
 296 FATA MORGANA 
 
 cied that Columbia herself was at his side, explaining 
 France to him. 
 
 The feeling of his littleness in her presence gave him 
 pain. He could not imagine himself letting her know 
 what he felt, either by word or gesture he would never 
 dare. She was too immensely rich. Ah ! if he only could, 
 he would give all the riches of the world that she might 
 be poor! 
 
 It was especially when evening came, with its melan- 
 choly, that such thoughts arose in him. One night, after 
 dinner, Phil, to please grandma, took his banjo and 
 played the "Arkansaw Traveler." The perfume of 
 roses filled the tent, which was lighted dimly. The raised 
 canvas showed a cloudless sky ; the stars were rising and 
 the crystal notes of the banjo were lost in the great 
 silence. 
 
 "What a beautiful night!" said Ethel, "and how 
 calm ! It is like the infinite. ' ' 
 
 "But what are we in it all?" said Phil. "In a hun- 
 dred years nothing of all this will remain; a new man- 
 kind will take the place of our own. We count no more 
 than the flower or the drop of water." 
 
 "No," Miss Rowrer answered; "I am more than a 
 drop of water, and more than a blade of grass. How, 
 Phil, can you speak that way? As for me, there are 
 times when I feel myself the equal of the whole world. ' ' 
 
 "Miss Rowrer," said Phil, "the whole world itself is 
 nothing to the infinite." 
 
 "And I say," replied the young girl, "that the end 
 and aim of this whole boundless universe is the produc- 
 tion and development of the soul, or, if you prefer it
 
 Phil Listening to Ethel
 
 IN CAMP 299 
 
 that way, of consciousness in man's perishable body. 
 How do you know that Alfred Russel Wallace is not 
 right when he supposes the earth to be the center of the 
 universe? The Bible always said so. What if science 
 should prove it?" 
 
 "Frankly, now," remarked Will, who was smoking a 
 bad cigar (and yet the brand bore his name it was 
 enough to disgust one with earthly grandeur) "frankly 
 now, Ethel, can you suppose these little creatures that 
 we are " 
 
 "But I will not be a little creature!" cried Ethel. 
 "The telescope seems to show that there is no such 
 thing as an infinity of suns. Limited as they must be 
 in number, they only form what is called a globular ag- 
 glomeration, concentric with the Milky Way. I read 
 that the other day. Our solar system is in the center of 
 this agglomeration and so in the center of the Milky Way, 
 which we see around us like a circle. And beyond, there 
 is, perhaps, nothing at all. Our solar system is, then, in 
 the center of the material universe ; and this earth of ours 
 that which is nothing to the infinite, according to 
 Phil on the contrary, occupies so privileged a place 
 near its central sun that here only, it is probable, life can 
 have been developed and man created, and so the whole 
 universe must have its fulfilment in us ! What do you 
 think of such a theory ? I had rather believe that than be 
 only a flower or a drop of water," Ethel concluded, as 
 she arose. 
 
 From his corner in the shadow Phil saw her, in the full 
 light of the lamp, standing out luminous against the dark 
 horizon as if mingled with the stars. He admired her
 
 300 FATA MORGANA 
 
 superb self-confidence why should he doubt himself? 
 He vowed that before their departure for Morgania he 
 would let Miss Rowrer know his feelings for her. Per- 
 haps she suspected them a little. No matter, he would 
 tell her! As an extreme limit, so much did he feel the 
 need of binding himself, he fixed the time for his decla- 
 ration at the stag hunt.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 GRAND 'MERE VERSUS GRANDMA 
 
 I THOUGHT the Grojeans were absent their house 
 has been all the time shut up," Caracal said to 
 Ethel; ''but I caught sight of them yesterday. 
 They must be back. ' ' 
 
 "We '11 go to-day and invite them to tennis," Ethel 
 said. "It will give so much pleasure to Mademoiselle 
 Yvonne and perhaps Will might be glad to see her 
 again," Ethel added to herself. 
 
 In the afternoon the auto, in all its splendor, flew 
 along the way to the home of the Grojeans. 
 
 Caracal was delighted. Miss Rowrer had been very 
 gracious to him. He would have gone oftener to Camp 
 Rosemont, but he had been content to shine from afar 
 on account of the drafts and mosquitos under the ac- 
 cursed tents. He kept to his lodgings at the Lion d'Or, 
 a little inn full of flies and smelling of cabbage-soup. 
 
 "What a beautiful road this is!" Ethel observed. 
 "You would say it was an avenue in a park, every- 
 thing has such a refined air, so prinked and pretty, 
 with its flowers set here and there ! ' ' 
 
 Every one was impressed by the gardens of flowers 
 and the finished, distinguished look of everything. Will 
 301
 
 302 FATA MORGANA 
 
 had the deepest enjoyment of it. His head may have 
 been full of business, he may have handled his millions 
 in his sleep, but he felt himself taken by this provincial 
 charm. His love for it was the love of that which con- 
 trasts with one's self. When he saw the hills crowned 
 with oak and the inclosures bordered with roses, the 
 variegated fields alive with vine and corn, a sweet 
 country and a strong one, whose people greeted him 
 with smiles, he seemed to forget all care, to be reading 
 a poem. 
 
 "Will," Ethel remarked, "is in love with France." 
 
 Caracal kept his impressions to himself. A loftier 
 anxiety was weighing on him: "The House of Glass" was 
 about to appear. It was a thunderbolt which would soon 
 burst and he would be famous ; and, after the town, the 
 country should have its turn ! His work should be the 
 life-encyclopedia of our day. He already had notes on 
 the mosquitos, remarks on the grunting of pigs in their 
 sties and the smells of the manure-heap. His novel would 
 begin well. 
 
 "Tell me, M. Caracal," Ethel chanced to ask just 
 as he was thinking of all this, "have you found a 
 title for your novel on country life which we were talk- 
 ing about the other day ? ' ' 
 
 "I am hunting for one, Miss Rowrer," answered Ca- 
 racal. 
 
 "I hope every one will be allowed to read it, even 
 young girls, ' ' she went on. 
 
 "Ah " Caracal interrupted. 
 
 "Good!" Ethel said, "why should unpleasant things 
 be written? Very dirty things some authors write, so
 
 GRAND'MERE VERSUS GRANDMA 303 
 
 I hear it said. I don't understand this fouling of one's 
 own nest. ' ' 
 
 Caracal hid his chagrin. To him a novel for the 
 "young person" a "proper" novel was the lowest 
 term of contempt. No, his would not be a rose-colored ro- 
 mance ; it would be something that had been lived, thrill- 
 ing with human passion, bleeding and fierce, even if it 
 smelled of the stable and dung-hill ah! and he turned 
 his Mephistophelian eye-glass toward the horizon. 
 
 A writer for young persons ! The indignation which 
 dictated his verses to Juvenal made Caracal find a title 
 for his romance. "Let 's see," he thought. "In fact, 
 what title shall I give it? It must be something sugges- 
 tive. For the city I have 'The House of Glass'; would 
 ' The Pigsty ' do for the country ? No, they 'd say it was 
 a treatise on breeding. 'The Rose on the Dung-Hill'? 
 No, they 'd say it was poetry. 'Dung-Hill' alone is too 
 short. 'Worms from the Dung-Hill' that's the thing! 
 comparing the country to a vast manure-heap with 
 worms crawling through it." 
 
 Secretly satisfied with this stroke of his genius, Caracal 
 rubbed his hands. 
 
 As they drew near the town, the houses, scattered at 
 first and amid gardens, became more numerous. The 
 camping-party now jolted over the "King's Pavement." 
 At a distance, above the low roofs, the spires of a church 
 were seen. All at once they came out in the place where 
 a few days before, through the blinds, when the sun- foun- 
 tain marked four o'clock, the Grojeans had watched 
 their passing by. 
 
 "The Grojean house?" A person standing near
 
 304 FATA MORGANA 
 
 answered their inquiry: "It is the great doorway beyond 
 there opening on the place." 
 
 Brrr ! and the auto was in front of the house. 
 
 There was a great door, studded with big iron nails, 
 and a little wicket, with a grating in front of it, opening 
 in the thickness of the wood. The front of the house, 
 smooth and with drawn blinds, had a venerable look. 
 The stroke of the knocker resounded long, as if re- 
 echoing through an empty house. A moment passed. 
 
 They had time to notice the fine grass which grew be- 
 tween the stones of the walk and the foot of the wall, and 
 the old escutcheon carved above the door. 
 
 "It is the Grojeans' coat of arms," Ethel explained 
 in a low voice. "They belonged to the old noblesse 
 de robe. One grandfather was a presiding judge, an- 
 other was a chancellor." 
 
 Just then the noise of the bolt was heard, the heavy 
 door opened, and Mile, de Grojean welcomed them on the 
 threshold. 
 
 "I am delighted! What a pleasant surprise! You 
 must excuse me for receiving you as I am. The servants 
 have gone out and I was at work. ' ' 
 
 "But you are charming as you are!" answered Ethel. 
 
 Mile. Yvonne was certainly very pretty in her bib and 
 apron, with her graceful neck issuing from the wide 
 white collar, and her refined head, with its hair rolled 
 like a helmet above it. 
 
 "Do come in!" she exclaimed. 
 
 The hallway, paved with marble, and with its lofty 
 ceiling, surprised them by its coolness. To right and left 
 there were double doors. At one side rose a great stone
 
 GRAND'MERE VERSUS GRANDMA 305 
 
 staircase with an iron railing and without carpet. On the 
 wall there were a few old pictures, and these, with two 
 benches of the time of Charles X, formed the furniture of 
 the hall. At -the foot, through a glass door, there was a 
 view on a terrace leading down to the garden. 
 
 " Grand 'mere, here are my Paris friends," Mile. 
 Yvonne said, as she brought the party into the salon: 
 "Mme. Rowrer, Miss Rowrer, Monsieur William, Mon- 
 sieur Phil Longwill." 
 
 Caracal kept himself to one side, smiling as if it were 
 understood that he, a celebrated man, was superior to 
 these poor children of the soil. 
 
 "M. Caracal, of Paris," Miss Rowrer said, presenting 
 him. "M. Caracal has come to study the country. He 
 is preparing a book. ' ' 
 
 "Ah! Monsieur is a professor of agriculture. You 
 are welcome, monsieur," grand 'mere said, with simplic- 
 ity, leaving Caracal to that isolation which is the lot of 
 psychologues once they leave the Boulevard. 
 
 "I shall surely put you into my novel !" Caracal mut- 
 tered to himself, in his vexation. 
 
 "If I had known, I would have taken the covers from 
 the chairs," said Mile. Yvonne. "But sit down all the 
 same, I beg of you. Mama will be very glad to see you. 
 She is coming back. I will go fetch her." 
 
 "Don't mind, Yvonne," said Ethel; "we will wait. 
 You know," she added, "everything is delightful to us 
 here." 
 
 There was the same dim light on the silken hangings 
 and the furniture, reflecting its brasses. The air was 
 fine and sweet, like the fragrance of the caskets of our
 
 306 FATA MORGANA 
 
 grandmothers in family store-rooms. Through the win- 
 dows, half open on the garden, they could hear the song 
 of birds amid the groves. 
 
 Mme. de Grojean now came in. The chairs were 
 moved from their formal rows and every one sat down. 
 Conversation began. 
 
 The perfectly natural manners and air of high distinc- 
 tion of Mile. Yvonne and Mme. de Grojean, found in the 
 midst of their domestic occupations, were a pleasure to 
 Will. 
 
 ' ' You were working at this water-color ? ' ' Ethel asked 
 of Mile. Yvonne. 
 
 "No. I 'm going to send that to a charity bazaar; but 
 I was working at this." 
 
 'This muslin gown?" 
 
 "Not just now," said Yvonne, "I was scraping 
 lint." 
 
 "Lint! For what?" 
 
 "Why, for some expedition they are preparing; for 
 the next war." 
 
 Will and Ethel were in admiration at such simplicity 
 of life, in which young girls sewed at their own muslin 
 gowns for the yearly ball, and varied their employment 
 by picking lint for the next war. 
 
 "Just imagine!" Ethel said to herself. "I pitied 
 her in Paris because she never went anywhere! Quite 
 the contrary, she must have been having a thoroughly 
 good time. Those days must have been regular es- 
 capades, an excess of liberty, compared to this life of 
 work and obscure duties." 
 
 She looked in turn at Yvonne, in her high spirits, at
 
 GRAND'MERE VERSUS GRANDMA 307 
 
 her mother, who was so self-effacing, and at the rigid, 
 conservative, severe grandmother. 
 
 "Have you many amusements here?" Ethel asked. 
 ' ' A theater, books, fine walks ? ' ' 
 
 "Oh !" answered Yvonne, "we hardly go to the theater 
 once or twice a year, perhaps and we receive few 
 books, we have so little time to read. But amusements 
 are not wanting, I assure you. Sometimes I go to market, 
 and there 's the care of the house, with preserves to 
 make; there are the garden and the fruits. We must 
 have an eye to everything." 
 
 "Yvonne is very whimsical, too," said grand 'mere; 
 "she wanted some canary birds ! Nowadays, young girls 
 have nothing but pleasure in their heads!" 
 
 "But birds are so amusing," replied Yvonne. "Just 
 now," she added, "we are in a hurry with our gift to 
 the soldiers there are lint, preserves and tobacco and 
 liqueurs, and linen to send them. We have a committee 
 here, and we occupy ourselves with it at our monthly 
 meetings. And when it is n't that, it 's something else. 
 My cousin Henri accompanies me at the piano, or I read 
 French history or some treatise on education. I have n't 
 a minute to myself, especially here, because grand 'mere 
 is the president of the committee." 
 
 "Alas! what a different idea of the Frenchwoman 
 psychological novelists have been giving!" was Phil's 
 thought as he looked at Caracal, with his monocle glisten- 
 ing in the shadow. 
 
 "In your place, madame," said grandma, speaking 
 directly to grand 'm&re, "I 'd start a committee for gen- 
 eral disarmament. ' ' 
 
 16
 
 308 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Mme. de Grojean opened her eyes wide. Ethel, who 
 saw the effect which had been produced, hastened to 
 say, "Grandma is joking." 
 
 "Not at all, Ethel," replied grandma. "The country 
 is very pretty, with its flowers and its soldiers; but I 
 prefer our Western plains, and I 'd give all the military 
 music in the world for our peaceful tunes." 
 
 Grand 'mere and grandma were face to face; they 
 formed a perfect contrast to each other. 
 
 Grandma seemed to have in her clear eyes the sheen 
 of the sea and of the prairies, where new dawns had 
 arisen for her. Incredible energy could be read on her 
 nervous features. One would have said that she was 
 still young and active, and full of ambition ; and, if she 
 was able to talk with grand 'mere, it was because during 
 the past months she had begun again to speak and read 
 French with as much ardor as a school-girl. She did 
 not feel herself growing old so long as she improved her- 
 self. She detested things which never changed, homes 
 too shut in, too hushed a silence, and too passive obe- 
 dience. Leaning forward, she looked into the eyes of 
 grand 'mere. The latter was the majestic representative 
 of changeless things, of tradition that must not be 
 touched. Of what use is it to learn so much, since all 
 sin comes from knowledge? And why change, since all 
 through the centuries men have gone to war, while women 
 stayed at home and spun. 
 
 Seated squarely back in her arm-chair, she looked like 
 a tower of the Middle Ages, ready for the assault. She 
 prepared her batteries and took from her arsenal replies 
 a thousand years old, with which to overwhelm the as-
 
 GRAND'MERE VERSUS GRANDMA 309 
 
 sail ant. To grandma asking, "Why not change?" 
 grand 'mere would answer, "What use to change?" 
 
 She had the proverbs of her ancestors all in line. 
 Against the taste for travel she could throw this bomb : 
 ' ' Each in his place ! ' ' She would stifle the spirit of 
 adventure with "A rolling stone gathers no moss!" 
 Against the pursuit of progress her ammunition was 
 ready : ' ' The better is the enemy of the good. ' ' And the 
 daring ones who would attempt to climb up, in the name 
 of modern ambition and equality for all, would receive 
 from her mitrailleuse: "There was a frog who tried to 
 become as big as an ox, and who burst in the endeavor ! ' ' 
 
 Last of all, if the enemy should really force a way 
 into the stronghold, she had the crushing reply: "Ca ne 
 se fait pas [It isn't done] !" 
 
 But grandma was not to be intimidated, and her best 
 argument was Ethel herself. 
 
 "In America," said grandma, "we haven't the same 
 idea of education. It 's the young girl 's Paradise ! ' ' 
 
 "But I am very happy here," Yvonne said, smiling. 
 
 "Ignorance is bliss," grandma thought to herself. 
 
 "With us," Ethel said aloud, "a young girl like 
 Yvonne, who has a taste for painting, would go to Paris 
 to study." 
 
 "Ah! Seigneur! how could you imagine my going to 
 live in Paris at my age ! ' ' exclaimed Yvonne 's mother. 
 
 ' ' But you would remain here, ' ' grandma said. ' ' Your 
 daughter would go alone." 
 
 "Est-il possible!" grand 'm^re exclaimed. 
 
 "It is so pleasant," grandma went on, "to have the 
 whole world before you; it is so exciting to be in the
 
 310 FATA MORGANA 
 
 strife and to feel one's self alive at twenty. It is done 
 every day with us and we are none the worse for it. On 
 the contrary ' ' 
 
 "That I can see," grand 'mere admitted, looking at 
 Ethel. Grand 'mere found her charming, and could not 
 understand how a young girl brought up with such lib- 
 erty should be so nice. 
 
 Grandma continued: "The will ought to develop itself 
 freely, just like the body. Women must know how to de- 
 liberate, to be fit companions for strong men; and a 
 young girl ought to have some experience of life to make 
 her way later and to choose her husband. ' ' 
 
 ' ' To choose a husband ! ' ' grand 'mere cried ; ' ' but I 
 suppose that is the parents' concern?" 
 
 "Well, I declare!" was the answer of grandma, who 
 did not declare often. 
 
 Yvonne was beginning to ask herself whether, since 
 they were talking of husbands, they would not, quite by 
 chance, send her to look for something which had been 
 forgotten on the garden bench. 
 
 Ethel, to get away from the subject, spoke up : "Mme. 
 de Grojean, I have a great favor to ask of you. ' ' 
 
 "I grant it in advance," said Mme. Grojean. 
 
 "It is this," said Ethel. "We are camping in the 
 grounds of the Comtesse de Donjeon. Oh ! the establish- 
 ment is quite simple, and more agreeable than a hotel, I 
 assure you. We go fishing and walking and painting; 
 we play the banjo. It is so pleasant to live in the open 
 air, and I would be so glad if Yvonne could come with 
 us. We should amuse ourselves so much." 
 
 ' ' And it would be so good to have these young people
 
 " They went down into the garden ;
 
 GRAND'MERE VERSUS GRANDMA 313 
 
 around me," grandma added. "I love life and move- 
 ment." 
 
 "We shall go about the country in our auto," Ethel 
 continued. "We shall get up picnics, we shall have 
 impromptu plays, with lanterns, when we have guests of 
 an evening; and I count on Yvonne, Mme. de Grojean. 
 It is granted in advance ! ' ' 
 
 "I should like it, if mama pleases," ventured Yvonne, 
 with a blush of pleasure. 
 
 ' ' It is for grand 'mere to decide, my dear Yvonne. Ask 
 grand 'mere. I am willing, if she is." 
 
 The judge was about to pronounce. She meditated 
 a moment. Mme. Rowrer and Miss Ethel were very kind, 
 it was true. But would they always be present to look 
 after Yvonne ? Might not Yvonne sometimes go out alone 
 with Monsieur William or Monsieur Phil ? Her grand- 
 daughter walking with men ! She hesitated no longer. 
 
 ' ' It is impossible, ' ' she said. * * I thank you very much, 
 Mile. Rowrer, but it is impossible." 
 
 The judge had pronounced, without appeal ! 
 
 "Ah!" thought Ethel, "I understand how a young 
 girl in France should take the husband they choose for 
 her with eyes shut. It is to her own interest to escape 
 from such family tyranny. ' ' 
 
 "But we shall go to see Miss Ethel?" Yvonne asked. 
 
 "Oh, certainly! We shall go to pass an afternoon 
 with you," Mme. de Grojean said, encouraged by an in- 
 dulgent smile from grand 'mere, who, seated squarely in 
 her arm-chair, murmured between her lips: 
 
 "Ah! how insatiable for pleasure young people are 
 nowadays ! As if birds and flowers in the garden were
 
 314 FATA MORGANA 
 
 not enough ! Soon we shall have girls playing like boys ; 
 they will talk of the theater and sport, of tennis and bi- 
 cycleshorror !" 
 
 Yvonne, gay as usual, and without any expression of 
 bitterness, spoke low with her grandmother. 
 
 "Grand 'mere, what if I should prepare a light colla- 
 tion for our visitors?" 
 
 "You are right, my child," said grand 'mere; "here is 
 the key of the preserve pantry. ' ' 
 
 Every one was now talking. A visitor had just made 
 her appearance Mme. Kicois, the banker's wife, alert 
 and dimpling, as usual. Phil, Will, and Mme. de Grojean 
 talked pleasantly together. Caracal, with an air of 
 great importance, talked of bric-a-brac to Mme. Ricois. 
 Grand 'mere and grandma made peace together. They 
 found an admirable common ground of interest. Grand '- 
 mere showed grandma, who looked at them like a connois- 
 seur, the photographs of her grandchildren, boys and 
 girls, and grand-nephews and -nieces. Grandma gave 
 grand 'mere a recipe for home-made pie. 
 
 "The collation is ready," Yvonne said, as she opened 
 from without one of the long windows on the terrace. 
 Her joyful voice sounded through the salon as the floods 
 of light came in with the perfume of mignonette and 
 
 " Grand 'mere, " Yvonne went on, "I have spread the 
 collation under the arbor by the waterside. Is that 
 right?" 
 
 "You have done well, my child," said grand 'mere. 
 
 Mile. Yvonne smiled with pride, like a soldier receiving 
 his general 's compliment. Without any more ado, they
 
 GRAND'MERE VERSUS GRANDMA 315 
 
 all crossed the terrace and went down into the garden. 
 It stretched out with straight alleys bordered by cut box ; 
 and at each side thick trees isolated it from the rest of 
 the world. In the center there was a little basin of rock- 
 work. At the bottom of the garden, along the riverside, 
 a trellis- work formed a shady arbor a nook of dainty 
 freshness. As they went down to it Yvonne threw 
 bread-crumbs to the goldfish in the basin, and then 
 showed her flower-borders, in which the blue and white 
 and red blossoms were like a tricolor flag. 
 
 "I water them myself," said Yvonne. 
 
 The table was spread under a trellis covered with 
 honeysuckle. There were biscuits and preserves, fruits, 
 cool water, liqueurs and wine and beer all set out in 
 perfect taste. 
 
 Yvonne served every one. 
 
 "Did you prepare all this yourself?" Ethel asked, in 
 wonder. "And you also found time to adorn the table 
 with flowers you are a real fairy!" 
 
 A balustrade, over which ivy was growing, separated 
 them from the river. On the other side of the water 
 there spread out a vast plain, in which factory-chimneys 
 were smoking. 
 
 "Only look at the contrast!" Ethel said, pointing to 
 the plain across the river. "You would say it was 
 America ; while here, in this old garden, surrounded by 
 walls, with Yvonne beside her flower-beds and all these 
 savory fruits and beautiful golden grapes on their pal- 
 ings, I seem to be looking at old France!" 
 
 "Here 's to France!" Will said, lifting his glass, full 
 of clear water.
 
 316 FATA MORGANA 
 
 ''To America!" Yvonne replied, pouring out for her- 
 self a little white wine. 
 
 ' ' To our alliance ! ' ' said the alert and dimpling Mme. 
 Rigois, as she tossed down her glass of champagne, while 
 the rest of the party, including grandma and grand '- 
 mere, gaily attacked the cakes and fruits. 
 
 "It's understood, then, isn't it, madame?" Ethel 
 said to grand 'mere, "we can count on Yvonne for an 
 afternoon, and, if you are willing, we shall go together 
 to see the fair." 
 
 "It is understood," answered grand 'mere; "and we 
 will go into the booths and the circus, too and you must 
 come also, Mme. Ricois. It will be a fete-day for us ! " 
 
 "With pleasure," said Mme. Ricois, filling her glass 
 again in honor of the alliance.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THROUGH THE COUNTRY FAIR 
 
 THE camping-party and the Grojeans were doing 
 the fair. At the foot of the platform, before the 
 circus door, an open-mouthed circle listened to 
 the girl-clown dressed as Pierrette. All around, under the 
 burning sun, tents had been set up, painted in bright 
 colors. Groaning trombones proclaimed the wrestlers 
 and the bearded woman. Other mountebanks farther on 
 attracted the public toward their own side-shows. To 
 the notes of an orchestrion, wooden horses turned rigidly 
 against a cotton-print background, spangled with mir- 
 rors. Cries and laughter were heard above all the rum- 
 bling of the drums. Far and wide rose the discordant 
 noise, especially that of the market for domestic ani- 
 mals, where the high "do" of squealing pigs quite mas- 
 tered the muffled bass of the oxen. 
 
 Everywhere there was something to see. But the 
 Pierrette was so pretty that the public disdained the 
 rest and thronged around her, fascinated by her air of 
 good-fellowship, and her young, fresh laughter. 
 
 "Now 's the time! Now 's the time!" the Pierrette 
 cried, while, behind her on the platform, circus-riders 
 and clowns, and the master in person, Signor Perbaccho, 
 317
 
 318 FATA MORGANA 
 
 listened gravely to her. ' ' Come in ! Come in ! Let us 
 show you an animal that has been well trained but 
 not without difficulty, for he is stupid enough to make 
 soup of smoked beetles! 
 
 11 Oh, you need n't think it just happened!" the Pier- 
 rette ran on, making gestures with her stick. "To begin 
 with, such animals exist only in Paris Paris on the 
 Seine, you understand ; a big village where all the peb- 
 bles are diamonds and the trees are gold, but you don't 
 dig potatoes there! To live there your loafers have 
 to become sculptors and painters and musicians. Their 
 heads are as empty as their stomachs! Mesdames et 
 messieurs, I am going to show you one of those ani- 
 mals. Don't throw him anything, I beseech you no 
 bread-crusts, no cabbage-leaves; he ate yesterday! At- 
 tention! Here he comes! Come hither, my fly-killer! 
 Come when you are called." 
 
 There were bursts of laughter as the Pierrette 
 stretched out her arm and seized a man by the ear, 
 whirling him around and bringing him, ashamed enough, 
 to face the public. She might have been a marquise 
 disguised as a soubrette, playing in comedy with a 
 clumsy rustic. The man turned red as a tomato. 
 
 "Have you made your bread-winner shine to-day? 
 Did you scrub it with pumice powder ? Answer ! ' ' said 
 the Pierrette. 
 
 ' ' Yes ! ' ' grunted the man, shaking his head like a bear. 
 
 "Let 'ssee!" 
 
 The man took off his hat, showing a skull of dazzling 
 whiteness, shining above his hairy brown face like a 
 piece of crockery on a cocoanut.
 
 Suzanne and Poufaille at the Co
 
 THROUGH THE COUNTRY FAIR 321 
 
 "Bow to the honorable company!" said the Pierrette. 
 ' ' Not so low ! if they see your skull that way, they '11 
 think your breeches are torn at the knee. Now, stand 
 up ! To work, old fly-killer ! 
 
 "Mesdames et messieurs," the Pierrette said, pretend- 
 ing to roll up her sleeves and get her stick ready, "it 's 
 not so easy as that to kill flies unless your breath has 
 alcohol enough in it to make them fall in a fit! As for 
 me, I have discovered the means, without drinking, to 
 rid myself of the treacherous gluttonous flies ! Do you 
 want my recipe? Here it is. You take a bald-headed 
 man, very delicately there! like that! you spread 
 on a layer of molasses and bird-lime, and then flies 
 and wasps, mosquitos and gnats, every insect with a 
 sucker, will light down on the human fly-trap ; and then, 
 then, mesdames, I address my words to you! you 
 take a broomstick and hit hard where the molasses is 
 thickest! There! like that! Aie done! vlan! pan! till 
 the flies are a jelly pan! pan! hit him again! that 's 
 the way to kill flies and treat men as they deserve with 
 a broomstick et die done!" 
 
 "What! Suzanne and Poufaille!" exclaimed Phil, 
 getting nearer the platform. The camping-party, fol- 
 lowed by the Grojeans, joined him just as Poufaille, 
 covered with molasses and shame, escaped from his exe- 
 cutioner and dived back behind the canvas. Suzanne, 
 full of excitement from her bastinade, stamped her feet, 
 and with voice and gesture invited the public to come up 
 and buy their places. High above the noise of the band 
 her piercing voice called out the program: 
 
 "Riding of the haute ecole by the celebrated Per-
 
 322 FATA MORGANA 
 
 baccho ! The dance of the sylphs by Mademoiselle Su- 
 zanne, pupil of the famous Helia ! Hercules O 'Pouf aille, 
 of the family of 'Poufailles ! Come in ! Come in ! " 
 
 Phil was greatly astonished. He had not seen Pou- 
 faille since the evening when the latter, with his 
 eyes starting from his head, had cast at him the ter- 
 rible accusation "You have stolen from me my share 
 of glory!" 
 
 "So he 's made himself a Hercules of the fair," 
 thought Phil, ' ' and he 's made his name Irish ! What a 
 fall for an autochtone!" 
 
 "Phil," asked Ethel, who had stopped in front of 
 the Pierrette, "would n't you say it was Suzanne? 
 And here on the poster is 'Pouf aille it must be M. 
 Poufaille ! Decidedly, Tout-Paris has given itself a ren- 
 dezvous in the provinces ! ' ' 
 
 "What do you know those people?" grand 'mere 
 asked of Ethel. "I suppose you saw them in some cir- 
 cus!" 
 
 "I saw them in Paris at the Louvre and at Monsieur 
 Phil's studio. They are good, brave hearts. Suzanne 
 has posed for me and so did the famous Helia, whose 
 portrait Yvonne did." 
 
 "Impossible!" 
 
 "Why, yes, grand 'mere," Yvonne said. "That head 
 of a Madonna the miniature which you keep on your 
 prie-dieu, don't you know? Mile. Helia posed for it." 
 
 "A Madonna copied from devils like that?" gasped 
 grand 'mere, amazed at the Pierrette's gesticulations on 
 the platform. "What! you bring such people into your 
 house! You are not afraid?"
 
 THROUGH THE COUNTRY FAIR 323 
 
 "I?" answered Ethel; "no fear at all! I would give 
 them the key of my desk ! Mme. Grojean, only ask Mon- 
 sieur Phil, who knows them better than I. Every one 
 earns his living as he can. Each one has his trade and 
 God for us all!" 
 
 "When you go to see them for I hope you are going 
 to see them," Ethel continued, speaking to Phil, "re- 
 member me to them, and you will oblige me much! If 
 M. Poufaille still has a picture to sell, I will buy it. 
 Poor M. Poufaille!" she added. "After all, he might 
 have* succeeded, who knows ? It is all such a question 
 of chance ! ' ' 
 
 Phil, in his heart, did not care much about seeing 
 Poufaille again; what sort of a welcome was there 
 in store for him? But he could not explain all that to 
 Miss Rowrer; and, besides, her desires were orders for 
 him and then, he would come to Poufaille bearing 
 the gifts of Artaxerxes ; that would calm him, no 
 doubt. 
 
 "I do not blush for my friends, Miss Rowrer," Phil 
 said. "I will go this instant. The good fellow will be 
 very glad to have your order." 
 
 "We shall see you later," answered Ethel. 
 
 The camping-party continued its stroll through the 
 fair in two distinct groups. Behind were grandma and 
 grand 'mere, talking familiarly together. The piping- 
 time of peace had come with currant-syrup under the 
 arbor by the riverside. Mme. Ric.ois, full of smiles, fat 
 and dimpling, came and went like a diplomatic valise 
 between the group ahead, Ethel, Yvonne, and Will, 
 and the group behind, grandma and grand 'mere. These
 
 324 FATA MORGANA 
 
 two elegant groups formed a phalanx, bannered by para- 
 sols, in the midst of the crowd in blue blouses. 
 
 They went along the principal part of the fair, a 
 sort of central alley, which the circus blocked at one 
 end, whereas, at the other end, under dusty trees, the 
 show of domestic animals was lined up. From all parts 
 arose a continuous confusion of sounds, like the murmur 
 of the sea. 
 
 "What a noise!' grand 'mere exclaimed. She was ac- 
 customed to her silent house, between the deserted place 
 and the garden with its clipped yew-trees. "But 
 there 's no harm in passing by such a Jericho now and 
 then it disgusts you with noise for a year to come!" 
 
 Just then Mme. Ric,ois came up, breathing hard. 
 
 "Oh, no! It 's too funny! I never saw Yvonne 
 amuse herself so much. Ah ! how gay these young peo- 
 ple are ! Do you know what M. Rowrer has been telling 
 us? He declares that the country, even on a fair-day 
 like this, soothes his nerves. Miss Rowrer is of the same 
 opinion ; they are as merry as children. ' ' 
 
 "Perhaps they are too merry," grand 'mere thought 
 to herself. "What an idea of my daughter's to stay 
 at the house for her preserves, and to leave me alone 
 to look after Yvonne. Really, she chose her time well ; 
 was it so necessary for Yvonne to come here and ad- 
 mire the fronts of the booths? Ah! nowadays young 
 people never have their fill of pleasure ! ' ' 
 
 To calm her conscience, grand 'mere said to herself 
 that it was all right for once, but that it should not 
 happen again. Mme. Ri<jois spoke the truth. They were 
 amusing themselves very much there in front a great
 
 THROUGH THE COUNTRY FAIR 325 
 
 deal too much for grand 'mere. Will was as gay as a boy 
 let loose from school. 
 
 In comparison with such a provincial fete, Chicago, 
 as he remembered it, made on him the effect of a ma- 
 chine-shop full of the noise of steam-hammers. Taking 
 out his watch, he thought how at that very hour he 
 might have been at the Stock Exchange, worried with 
 business, in the midst of frenzied outcries and distorted 
 faces; whereas, here there were only smiles and gaiety. 
 Every one seemed happy, even the poorest; and the 
 tumult was that of good-fellowship. Joyous vine- 
 dressers were buying baskets for their grapes. Farther 
 along, waffles were frying. Here they were selling cooked 
 sausages; and expansive mouths were emptying their 
 glasses or biting into loaves of bread. 
 
 "Here are people," Will said, "who know how to 
 amuse themselves." 
 
 "Is it a secret, monsieur?" asked Yvonne. 
 
 "To be content with what one has," answered Will. 
 "You have a French proverb about it: 'S'il n'y en a 
 pas, il n'en faut pas' ['What you can't have, you don't 
 need'] and that is right don't you think so, made- 
 moiselle?'" 
 
 ' ' Oh, I don 't know, ' ' said Yvonne ; ' ' you seem to 
 know the French people better than I." 
 
 The rare charm of Mile, de Grojean, her innate sim- 
 plicity and inherited refinement, seemed to Will like the 
 perfect expression of all he loved in France. He, who 
 was so taciturn, would have talked on for hours only 
 to see the manner, at once coquettish and reserved, with 
 which Yvonne listened to him.
 
 326 FATA MORGANA 
 
 ''My impression of France is this," said Will: "it 
 is holiday every day, and the next day you begin 
 again. ' ' 
 
 "You see everything in rose-color, M. Rowrer," 
 Yvonne remarked. 
 
 "No," said Ethel, who, in her walks around the camp, 
 had often visited the poor "no, it 's not all the time 
 holiday for everybody." 
 
 "I know that, too," Will replied; "life is as hard 
 here as anywhere else; but it is the only country where 
 you can give yourself the illusion that it is easy." 
 
 They had come to the end of the central alley. Fol- 
 lowed by grand 'mere and grandma, they had passed by 
 the Pretty Shepherdess of the Alps a woman of formi- 
 dable proportions painted on canvas, in company with 
 three white goats, not far from the booth of the bearded 
 woman. Just there the group behind would have lost 
 the forward group, if it had not been for Mme. Ric.ois, 
 who elbowed her way with energy through the crowd, 
 which, at this spot, pressed together like the current 
 in a narrow strait. An immense lottery-wheel was turn- 
 ing with a noise like the wind. 
 
 The day drew on, and the peasants were already lead- 
 ing away their cattle. They went along in single file, 
 in front of their yoked oxen, slow as a procession. The 
 dust they raised settled on the trees in white powder. 
 
 "You may say what you please, Will," Ethel con- 
 tinued; "it may be all very peaceable if you compare 
 it with the Stock Exchange, but it 's not so compared 
 with Camp Rosemont." 
 
 "We shall go to see you soon," said Mile. Yvonne;
 
 THROUGH THE COUNTRY FAIR 327 
 
 ''you know that every one is talking about it in the 
 town. They tell wonders of it!" 
 
 " I am sorry you cannot come to stay with us, Yvonne. 
 I so wish you had been there the other day. I got up an 
 open-air lunch for the village children; and the way 
 they played and laughed! We wound up everything 
 by dancing a great round. Sometimes autos come; and 
 you 'd almost think you were at a gymkhana of the 
 Bois de Boulogne. Then I Ve begun my water-colors 
 again. If you would come, Yvonne, we 'd make Suzanne 
 pose in her costume as a Pierrette." 
 
 "Ce didble! That 's what grand 'mere would say. 
 She 'd never be willing ! ' ' 
 
 "But we should be with you, you know no ugly 
 man 
 
 ' ' With an exception for me, I hope ? ' ' Will put in. 
 
 "And if Suzanne or Helia should pose, after all, what 
 harm could there be?" continued Ethel. "I know very 
 well there are prejudices, and don't let 's be too severe 
 on them ; prejudice is the counterfeit brother of good 
 sense ; hump-backed and with horns, sometimes even 
 without pity. Think of Helia, who wears a more than 
 royal or imperial mantle beauty ! It is impossible 
 that so much beauty should not go along with virtue 
 also; and yet, no! un didble, Mme. de Grojean would 
 say ! ' ' 
 
 "Ah! in such a profession!" said Yvonne. 
 
 "Ah!" said Ethel; "if Helia were an actress or a 
 singer, she would wear crowns and recite high-sounding 
 verses; and the poets would give her prestige in real 
 life. But she has neither diamonds nor jewels; with
 
 328 FATA MORGANA 
 
 her full complement of arms, she is only a Venus de Milo 
 in a silk maillot ! ' ' 
 
 "You are jesting, Ethel," said Will. "You are not 
 going to compare gymnastics with dramatic art?" 
 
 "Why not? Do you know anything more beautiful 
 than a beautiful gesture? What comedy, what drama 
 can moralize us more than beauty which makes us blush 
 for our own ugliness, and for our poor limbs, like con- 
 sumptive chickens or stuffed turkeys ! It is the train- 
 ing-school of the will and of energy." 
 
 "If she were beautiful as Venus," Will retorted, 
 "I'd never choose for a wife an acrobat, offering me 
 her heart with a triple high leap. ' ' 
 
 "Of course," said Ethel, "and you would be right; 
 each one in his own sphere. That is one of the con- 
 ditions of happiness, and society with us has intangible 
 laws which only the unclassed and the blase venture to 
 break. We do not live in the East, where slaves be- 
 come queens, not even in Morgania, a country of icons 
 and superstition; in such countries anything is natural, 
 the only rule being the good pleasure of the master. 
 After all, it is one prejudice instead of another!" 
 
 Phil now came to find them. He had recognized them, 
 from a distance, in the crowd, by the shimmering of 
 their parasols. He recounted to Ethel his interview 
 with Poufaille. He looked delighted; everything must 
 have passed off well. 
 
 "There are prejudices everywhere," Ethel went on. 
 "Yourself, Yvonne do you never stand out against 
 prejudice? I will take Monsieur Phil for witness." 
 
 "In what, please?" Yvonne asked.
 
 THROUGH THE COUNTRY FAIR 329 
 
 ''For one example, in walking with us among hun- 
 dreds of men, those fearful men of whom you spoke 
 with such terror in Phil's studio ; don't you remem- 
 ber?" 
 
 ' ' Oh, ' ' said Yvonne, looking around her indifferently, 
 "these good country people in their blue blouses? It 
 was not that I meant, Miss Ethel." 
 
 "Then men in blue blouses are not men?" Ethel an- 
 swered, laughing. "It 's like women in maillots, they 
 don't count! What do you think, Phil?"
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A BANQUET ON THE SAWDUST 
 
 POUFAILLE and Phil were now friends again 
 really they had been so for some time, ever since 
 the day when Phil had taken to Pouf aille Ethel 's 
 order for a picture. Poufaille was incapable of nursing 
 wrath, and received Phil with open arms. The two co- 
 pains squeezed each other's hands. 
 
 ''Good old Phil!" Poufaille exclaimed; and Phil an- 
 swered: "Good old Poufaille!" 
 
 And they did not speak once of their old quarrel until 
 the day when the artistes had their banquet in the ring of 
 the circus itself. 
 
 Phil had a great deal of amusement that day. Su- 
 zanne beggared description, and Poufaille was a show 
 in himself, standing up, glass in hand, and singing the 
 glory of the vintage. With a gesture, he snatched his 
 collar from his shirt. 
 
 ' ' It chokes me ! I can 't give the trills ! " he said, for 
 the trills were the strong point of this garlic-eater and 
 roller of r's from the South. So he thundered out his 
 song in honor of wine and vine, of vats and presses, and 
 of the good hot blood of the good old wine-drinkers. 
 Around the table all the voices took up the refrain, but 
 they could not drown the terrible voice of Poufaille, 
 330
 
 A BANQUET ON THE SAWDUST 331 
 
 which rumbled and rolled, covering all the rest as the 
 noise of thunder covers the twittering of sparrows. 
 
 " Buveurs de vin couchez dans la poussiere 
 Ces buveurs de biere ! " 
 
 ( " Wine drinkers, throw down in the dust 
 All drinkers of beer ! ") 
 
 Scornful laughter shook his sides, and he struggled 
 to give his good-natured voice a diabolical, biting tone, 
 as he repeated, looking at Phil: 
 
 " Ces buveurs de biere ! " 
 
 Poufaille, excited by the wine, had a look of fury. 
 But when he had finished, his shaggy eyebrows grew 
 peaceful, and a smile spread all at once over his big, 
 good-natured face. 
 
 "You 're not angry at me, I hope?" he said to Phil, 
 patting him on the shoulder. "What I said about beer- 
 drinkers does not vex youheinf" 
 
 "It doesn't touch me," answered Phil, "for I only 
 drink water ! ' ' 
 
 "True, so you do, poor fellow!" Poufaille said in a 
 tone of pity. "Good old Phil!" 
 
 "Good old Poufaille," Phil replied, "sing whatever 
 you wish ; we sha'n't quarrel for that !" 
 
 Poufaille was reassured, filled up his glass, and emp- 
 tied it at a draught. 
 
 "Look out," said Phil, "you '11 drink too much." 
 
 "Let me be; I need it," Poufaille answered; and it 
 was almost with a gesture of despair that he filled his 
 glass again. Those around them, also, were not drink-
 
 332 FATA MORGANA 
 
 ing water. Phil had done things on a large scale. He 
 had ordered champagne as much champagne as they 
 wished. A full glass was offered to Poufaille, but he 
 refused it. 
 
 "Champagne? Pouah! That is a wine for foreign- 
 ers!" he explained. "Give me good old red wine and 
 let me drink till my thirst is quenched ! ' ' 
 
 On the table or rather on the jumping-board of the 
 circus, which stood on props with its chalk-powder giv- 
 ing the illusion of a white cloth there was a mass of 
 dishes and plates and empty bottles. It had been spread 
 in the very middle of the ring in the good odor of saw- 
 dust. Around the table, seated on the chairs of equili- 
 brists, or on the stools of hand-balancers, were the circus 
 artistes and a few invited guests. They had laughed a 
 great deal during the banquet, before the time came for 
 the songs and toasts. 
 
 "We all look as if we had the plague!" Suzanne 
 said, by way of appetizer, pointing to the color of the 
 faces under the green reflected light of the tent. There- 
 upon Poufaille grew livid, in his constant terror of the 
 most imaginary ailments stoppage of the blood, wind, 
 stiff neck, plague, and cholera. 
 
 "Shut off the draughts of air!" he cried, "we '11 all 
 get our death!" 
 
 He all but fainted with fear as he saw, in front of 
 him, his plate rising up in the air without his touch- 
 ing it. 
 
 "My plate! my plate is going away!" he stammered, 
 in terror. 
 
 ' ' Oh ! what is the matter ? ' ' Suzanne cried. ' ' I can 't
 
 Banquet in tho Rhifr of tlif f
 
 A BANQUET ON THE SAWDUST 335 
 
 understand it perhaps a snake has got loose from the 
 menagerie next door!" 
 
 "Help! Help!" Poufaille sputtered, ready to faint. 
 
 "What are you afraid of?" said Perbaccho, the mas- 
 ter of the show. "Don't you see that it is only Suzanne 
 playing tricks on you?" 
 
 "Oh, it 's all right, then!" Poufaille said, recovering 
 his assurance. "She 's been playing me all sorts of 
 tricks lately not counting the strokes of the broom- 
 stick!" 
 
 In fact, Suzanne had brought out her whole repertory 
 of practical jokes liquids that flame up, powder which, 
 thrown into a ragout, crawls about in the shape of a 
 worm, pasteboard mice that run across the table, papier- 
 mache fruits and cheeses, and paste sweetmeats. The 
 lunch was one long burst of laughter. 
 
 When the dessert came Perbaccho, the master, arose, 
 glass in hand. 
 
 "To the health of Monsieur Phil!" he said. 
 
 "Here 's to his health!" repeated the guests around 
 the jumping-board. 
 
 "Vive Monsieur Phil !" said the children, who were sit- 
 ting farther on, at a little table with spangled velvet 
 fringe, on which, during his performances, the juggler 
 placed his balls and knives. Soeurette was there ; Helia 
 had brought her, although she was too great an artiste 
 to show herself at Perbaccho 's circus. She had come to 
 the country to be near Suzanne and to rest. 
 
 ' ' Dear friends, ' ' Perbaccho went on, in the same voice 
 with which he announced his Grrrand Representations, 
 "the time has come to thank Monsieur Phil for the great
 
 336 FATA MORGANA 
 
 and numerous services which he has rendered us. [Ap- 
 plause.] Now that Monsieur Phil is going to leave us, we 
 do not wish to let him depart without saying to him 
 hum, hum how grateful we are for his having been will- 
 ing to put his talents at our disposition. ["Bravo!"] 
 Hum, hum although Monsieur Phil has not yet set up 
 for himself in the fairs, nevertheless he is a real artiste ; 
 and the delighted public looks with great pleasure I 
 will even say with enchantment at the portrait which 
 decorates our platform and represents Mademoiselle Su- 
 zanne of the O'Poufaille Family!" 
 
 "Vive la joie!" Suzanne began. 
 
 "Hear! hear!" 
 
 ' ' Also Monsieur Pouf aille 's portrait in his exercises of 
 strength." 
 
 "Bravo!" cried Pouf aille, squeezing Phil's hand hard 
 enough to crush it. 
 
 "Mesdames et messieurs," Perbaccho continued, "my 
 modest establishment does not permit me to offer Phil, 
 the artiste, that salary to which he has a right to pre- 
 tend ; but let not that prevent us from drinking his 
 health. Come now, mesdames et messieurs, here 's to the 
 health of Monsieur Phil ! ' ' 
 
 It was not a thing which had to be repeated ; every 
 one drank to Phil 's health ; and Phil returned thanks. 
 
 Phil enjoyed the popularity he had won by his friend- 
 liness to such good people. It was true to please 
 Suzanne, he had done her portrait with a few hours' 
 work. Yet Suzanne did not welcome him, as she had 
 done in the old times, with a ' ' Good day, Phil ! Roll 
 me a cigarette, mon petit!" Even her monkeyshines
 
 A BANQUET ON THE SAWDUST 337 
 
 ceased in his presence; this was something he did not 
 understand. He had also painted Poufaille as a Her- 
 cules, lifting enormous weights. Moreover, he had ren- 
 dered light services to all this little world of the fair. 
 He had his recompense. He had entered most intimately 
 into the life of the little world. His album had been en- 
 riched by any number of sketches and types, by pictur- 
 esque interiors as somber and stirring with life as those 
 of Rembrandt. He had daring foreshortenings of gym- 
 nasts at the trapeze, of handsome boys and pretty girls 
 with muscles like antique statues. 
 
 Every one admired the strength and address with 
 which a simple amateur like Phil handled the dumb- 
 bells or climbed the smooth rope. They were only as- 
 tonished that, with a talent like his, he did not open a 
 place for himself to do portraits at four or five francs 
 apiece that would bring him in a good day's earnings; 
 and this would not include the pupils who would be with 
 him from time to time they had seen some of them at 
 the fair with him. He might open a permanent Beauty 
 Exhibition ; there was that big blonde, especially but 
 they never spoke to him about that. They were com- 
 pletely ignorant of whom he was or whom his friends 
 were. Suzanne, flighty as she was, was discretion itself 
 on this point, and there was no danger of Poufaille talk- 
 ing when Suzanne forbade him. No one suspected that 
 the big blonde was rich enough to buy up the circus and 
 its artistes with it, and Signer Perbaccho to boot, as well 
 as all the side-shows and the whole fair, and the houses 
 round about the fair. They did not even know her 
 name. As to Phil, when they met him in the circus-
 
 338 FATA MORGANA 
 
 tent, or with the wrestlers, making his sketches, they 
 treated him like any other comrade. 
 
 The Rowrers' yacht was to sail for Morgania in a few 
 days, taking away the whole party, after two months 
 at Camp Rosemont. Before his departure Phil wished 
 to give pleasure to Poufaille and his friends by this 
 luncheon with him. They yielded to his insistence, and 
 accepted without ceremony. It gave him little trouble, 
 and he brought his box and canvas to finish a study 
 near by in the fields. This was a present he wished to 
 offer to Ethel, and it reminded him of the pastimes of 
 other days. 
 
 On the morrow, during the hunt on the morrow, 
 he had promised, he had sworn it to himself, and the 
 moment was drawing near no power in the world could 
 hinder him and yet how anxious he was! He was al- 
 ready in a fever and occupied himself with this lunch 
 only to distract his thoughts, to prove to himself that 
 he was calm and reasonable, that he had not lost his 
 head. He looked at the groups around the jumping- 
 board which had been turned into a table, and thought 
 of the morrow. He surprised himself repeating in a 
 low tone: "To-morrow!" 
 
 "What are you giving us with your 'To-morrow'?" 
 asked Poufaille, who overheard it. ' ' Perhaps to-morrow 
 others and not we shall be drinking the wine. I know 
 no to-morrow but to-day ! I tell you it 's drinking water 
 that makes you sad and dreamy." 
 
 "And you is it wine that makes you so gay?" Phil 
 retorted. 
 
 "Well, I have little reason to be gay," Poufaille re-
 
 A BANQUET ON THE SAWDUST 339 
 
 plied. "If I drink, it is to stun myself. See here, do 
 you want me to tell you? but what use would it be! 
 He who lives will see. By the way, you know that 
 llelia has come back with Sceurette. She 's in town for 
 a few days. ' ' 
 
 ' ' What ! ' ' Phil exclaimed ; ' ' how is it she is not here ? ' ' 
 
 "She was tired," replied Poufaille. "But, entre nous, 
 Phil, you 'd just as lief she should n't be here eh!" 
 
 "But why?" Phil asked. 
 
 Poufaille was on the point of speaking, but some one 
 at the end of the table called out with all his might: 
 
 "Farine! farine ! 
 Embrassez votre voisine ! " 
 
 It was the gallant refrain which winds up rustic feasts. 
 Around the board all the women lent themselves with 
 good grace to the custom. Poufaille devoured Suzanne 
 with his eyes. 
 
 "Here 's your time," Phil said to him. "What are 
 you waiting for? Kiss her now, kiss her; she owes you 
 as much as that ! ' ' 
 
 "Kiss her?" Poufaille said, looking at Phil gloomily. 
 "Are you making fun of me? She has n't let me kiss 
 her for more than a month ; she 's furious against every 
 one against myself!" 
 
 "Oh, now!' said Phil, "Suzanne furious? She 
 would n't be so gay." 
 
 ' ' I tell you she is ; and I can see it. Do you think it 
 gives me pleasure to take the blows of a broomstick on 
 my head? The stick is light, it is true, and I have a 
 false pigskin skull; but never mind! is that a trade?
 
 340 FATA MORGANA 
 
 You knew me and you knew her. I was the creator of 
 ' Liberty ' and ' Fraternity ' ; and now you see what I am 
 a fly-killer! It 's flattering, heint To be a fly-killer 
 when I feel within myself the soul of a lion!" 
 
 "Keep up your hopes," Phil answered; "all that will 
 change. ' ' 
 
 "'Keep up your hopes'! But you know nothing 
 about it," Poufaille hurried on with his tragic voice; 
 "oh, Suzanne strikes hard with her die done! But the 
 hardest is that I should pay up for others. Oh, yes ; I re- 
 ceive blows which ought to have been for you!" 
 
 "For me?" Phil gasped. 
 
 "Yes, for you which ought to have been for you 
 for you you hear?" and Poufaille shook Phil by the 
 coat collar. ' ' I tell you, it 's your fault ! ' ' 
 
 "You must be crazy," Phil answered. "What have 
 I done?" 
 
 "What have you done?" Poufaille continued, in the 
 excitement of his glass of rum. "Do you want to know 
 what you have done? I am going to tell you what you 
 have done to me! You have stolen my share of hap- 
 piness!" 
 
 "Has that taken hold of you again?" said Phil. . "I 
 thought it was over all this nonsense about stealing 
 glory." 
 
 "It is n't glory, I tell you! It 's happiness!" 
 
 Phil and Poufaille were speaking low, and no one 
 heard them. Suzanne had sat down, and every one was 
 accustomed to Poufaille 's gestures. No one paid any 
 attention. 
 
 "Good Poufaille, dear old Poufaille, I am sorry to
 
 A BANQUET ON THE SAWDUST 341 
 
 give you pain, old man," Phil said pleasantly, as he 
 took away the bottle. 
 
 "No; it 's not worth while," Poufaille said sadly; 
 "I shall drink no more. Only follow what I say, 
 do you follow ? Do you know why I am not married ? ' ' 
 
 "No," said Phil, putting the bottle beyond reach. 
 
 "It is because you are not married. ' ' 
 
 "Indeed!" said Phil. "So, my good Poufaille, you 
 wish to marry me off like that?" 
 
 ' ' Yes ; as you swore you would do ! " answered Pou- 
 faille. 
 
 "To whom?" 
 
 "To Helia!" 
 
 ' ' Speak lower ! ' ' Phil said, disquieted. 
 
 But even if they had talked louder, no one would have 
 caught a word. Conversation was general around the 
 board. The kissing was finished, and they were smok- 
 ing cigarettes. The men talked horses, balancing, feats 
 of strength; the ladies talked dress, spangled maillots, 
 gauze skirts. 
 
 Phil and Poufaille, at their end of the table, were 
 as free to converse as if they had been alone. Pou- 
 faille now bent over Phil, as if to tell him a secret. 
 
 "Yes; you swore it!" he continued. "And Suzanne 
 concludes from it that the best of men are worth nothing 
 at all that men are windmills for lying. When I tell 
 her I love her, that I '11 make her happy when I swear 
 to her that I cannot live without her, she turns on 
 her heel, saying: 'That 's all humbug!' and that she 
 can trust no one, not me more than you; that it costs 
 nothing to get down on one 's knees ; that our promises
 
 342 FATA MORGANA 
 
 and oaths ought to be stuffed down our throats ; and that 
 the way you treated Helia was a shame " 
 
 "Speak lower!" said Phil. 
 
 " that you had promised her marriage," Poufaille 
 kept on; "that you loved her madly; that if need had 
 been you would have taken God to witness ; that you had 
 sworn to her she should be your wife, and that you could 
 not live without her. And, besides, it was no sudden 
 stroke you had known her for years, you had long 
 loved her. And all at once, without any one knowing 
 why, just because you earn a little money and have 
 talent, while she is only a poor acrobat, suddenly, with- 
 out reason, you know her no longer; and if you should 
 meet her in the street, you would turn your head. 
 That 's what Suzanne says ; and she has more head than 
 all of us and more heart, too!" 
 
 Poufaille looked toward Suzanne with a sigh. Then 
 he went on again: "Oh, Phil, I should never have told 
 you all this; but, ma foi, it was choking me! I 'm not 
 one of your Northern folks, to keep a secret. To me it 's 
 like a starched collar I must pull it off ! Now give me 
 a glass of wine ! ' ' 
 
 Phil hesitated. 
 
 "Pour it out, I tell you," Poufaille insisted. "I 
 have a fever. It calms me ; and, after all, there 's truth 
 in wine ! ' ' 
 
 Phil poured out a full glass, which Poufaille emptied. 
 
 "Ah, yes, yes!" he went on again, wanderingly, as he 
 put his glass down on the table; "when I think that 
 without these stories she would have been my wife and 
 now she will not be, for when she says No, it means no !
 
 A BANQUET ON THE SAWDUST 343 
 
 She may be gay to look at, but she 's sad at heart. She 
 has heaps of ideas that turn my blood. On my honor, 
 I believe she will end in a convent ! What ! Phil, I 
 laugh also; but I have no desire to laugh. It 's only by 
 habit, you know ; I feel more like weeping. And as to 
 all those stories about glory which bothered me, how 
 stupid one is to curdle one's blood for so little! But 
 my happiness is gone forever ; I shall never marry Su- 
 zanne, never, never!" 
 
 Poufaille 's gestures emphasized his words; his fist 
 came down heavily upon the table. 
 
 "Eh, over there! don't break anything," Suzanne 
 cried. "Poufaille, you 're losing your head!" 
 
 "Yes, I 'm losing it I mean no!" answered Poufaille. 
 "I 'm only telling a story." 
 
 ' ' That 's no reason for getting into a rage, ' ' Suzanne 
 answered pleasantly. 
 
 "Yes, it is a reason," Poufaille murmured. "There 
 is reason to get into a rage and break things!" 
 
 "Calm yourself; be quiet," said Phil, who now re- 
 gretted that he had come. 
 
 "Bah!" he thought; "is it worth my while listening 
 to drunken maunderings ? " But the hour for breaking 
 up was near. 
 
 Phil stayed on, however, and Poufaille kept on talk- 
 ing. 
 
 "Ah!" he said, crossing his arms and looking Phil 
 in the face; "after all, why did n't you marry her? 
 Yes, why? You loved Helia, and no one can say any- 
 thing against her. You agree with me about that, I 
 suppose?"
 
 344 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Phil did not answer. 
 
 "Dear old Phil," Poufaille insisted strongly, "you 
 can 't deny it ? We should n 't be friends otherwise, you 
 know." 
 
 "I alone must be judge of that," Phil said. 
 
 "No!" Poufaille said; "that 's your new way of look- 
 ing at things; but I tell you, there 's not a woman in 
 the world above her do you understand? not one! I 
 tell you not one!" 
 
 Phil frowned. 
 
 "I 'm not making any allusions," said Poufaille. 
 
 "I should hope not," said Phil. 
 
 ' ' I am only telling you the truth, ' ' Poufaille declared ; 
 "and I am glad to have said it. I can breathe better 
 now. It 's true ! It turned my blood to hear Suzanne 
 telling it, with Helia so sad. When I think that you 
 used to be so rigid about such things and now you 
 act just like the others ! What 's the difference between 
 you and Socrate ? For a man who is always quoting 
 the Bible and setting himself up as an example you 're 
 a bad one, that 's all ! " 
 
 Phil turned pale. 
 
 "Poufaille is drunk," he thought. "I 'd best go 
 away. ' ' 
 
 But he stayed on ; and Poufaille kept on talking ; and 
 Phil listened, in spite of himself, unmoved to all ap- 
 pearance, but deeply touched at bottom, for he could not 
 say to Poufaille : ' ' You are lying ! It is false ! I prom- 
 ised nothing!" 
 
 "Yes," Poufaille continued, in a low voice, making 
 sure that no one was listening "yes, I know what you
 
 A BANQUET ON THE SAWDUST 345 
 
 might say: Helia's surroundings, Socrate, I know not 
 what. You have suspected her, that I do know! Su- 
 zanne has told me. Our good Helia, who would give 
 her life for you if she only gives money to a beggar 
 you suspect her for it ; for Socrate is a beggar a beggar 
 she keeps alive out of pure charity, just as she helps 
 Cemetery, simply because he is old and cannot work. 
 But you know that as well as I. " 
 
 "But the duke/' Phil spoke up. "I saw Helia 
 
 ' ' You saw Suzanne ! Ah, I 've blamed Suzanne often 
 enough for it since what an idea in her to go to take 
 supper with the duke ! I 'd rather she would strike me 
 with the broomstick!" 
 
 "And yet," Phil began. 
 
 "It 's true the duke was greatly taken with her," 
 Pouf aille continued ; ' ' she had only a word to say and 
 he would have offered her anything. She never ac- 
 cepted a thing not even a flower!" 
 
 "Ah!" said Phil. 
 
 "You see," Pouf aille went on, "you don't care much 
 to meet Helia you have your own reasons for it 
 for she is here, you know!" 
 
 Phil raised his head, as if he expected to see the can- 
 vas of the circus-tent open and Helia appear there look- 
 ing at him. But there was no one save the artistes rising 
 from the table and taking away the things. They were 
 even removing the board, so as to leave the ring free. 
 In the stables they were preparing the horses for re- 
 hearsal. He could hear the harness rattling, and the 
 whips snapping. The ring, which had been so gay, 
 suddenly became gloomy. Phil frankly regretted that
 
 346 FATA MORGANA 
 
 he had come. He had a single thought, how to get 
 away. Taking up his color-box and canvas, he said 
 good day to every one, and shook Poufaille's hand. 
 
 "You 're going away?" Poufaille said. "You have n't 
 a grudge against me, I hope it was too much for me!" 
 
 "I have nothing against you, old Poufaille." 
 
 "Shall we see you again soon?" 
 
 ' ' Who knows ! ' ' answered Phil ; adding within him- 
 self : "Perhaps never!" 
 
 As he went out he ca*st a farewell look on the empty 
 benches, on the white ladder and great globe, on the 
 saddles and the maillots which were drying, and on the 
 clowns' costumes. They were like old acquaintances 
 whom he should see no more.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 WAS POUFAILLE RIGHT? 
 
 ONCE outside, Phil breathed easier. It seemed to 
 him that the open air was driving away his 
 nightmare, as the sun drives the darkness be- 
 fore it. 
 
 "Poufaille is either crazy or drunk," he said to him- 
 self, as he went through the fair with his paint-box in 
 his hand. ' ' Suzanne won 't have him ! I have nothing 
 to do with it ! Is that a reason to take tragically a child- 
 ish love-making? And why should Suzanne interfere? 
 Helia has never even breathed a word of it to me, and 
 I 've seen her often enough since. Surely, love must be 
 muddling Poufaille's brain, if it is not the blows of 
 the broomstick. He forgets that I am no longer the 
 little boy to whom Suzanne was a great actress, Pou- 
 faille a great sculptor, Caracal a great psychologist, and 
 Socrate a painter-poet-thinker-philosopher ! There 's 
 been a change since then and I alone am judge of it." 
 
 Phil acknowledged to himself that he had been a lit- 
 tle troubled. Poufaille, with all his simplicity, was can- 
 dor itself, and incapable of lying. Yes, Phil repeated 
 it over as if it gave him relief : Poufaille was drunk ; 
 the least beer-drinker would see ten wine-drinkers like 
 347
 
 348 FATA MORGANA 
 
 that under the table ! He did Pouf aille too much honor 
 by listening to him; and Suzanne was a scatterbrain. 
 Leave Suzanne her salad, and Pouf aille his pig's-rump 
 and garlic and wine ! Leave every one to his own trade, 
 and let them stop minding his affairs ! Think of it ! 
 Now that he was a man, just when he had fallen in 
 love with a young girl whom no one could approach, 
 unless with a pure conscience it was now that Pouf aille 
 would bring him down to the ground, reproaching him 
 with having proved false to an oath, with having been 
 cowardly and mean, as if he had taken up with Helia to 
 amuse himself with her and then cast her away! Pou- 
 f aille, stupid and drunken, had said as much ! 
 
 The absurdity of the idea, even more than the open 
 air and gay sunlight, drove from his memory the sculp- 
 tor's idle tales. 
 
 Phil hastened his steps, for he wished to finish the 
 little picture which he had in his box. It was a nook of 
 the landscape out beyond the last scattering houses of 
 the town a charming spot which they had discovered 
 one day in the automobile. It was a place which had 
 greatly pleased Miss Ethel. 
 
 She had said: "There are spots which you see for 
 the first time, and yet they impress you like old friends. 
 Would it not be delightful to have a little cottage here, 
 and take care of one's own flowers. But no! one must 
 have autos and horses Longchamps and Epsom and 
 Haymarket ah! what fools these mortals be!" 
 
 The snorting forty-horse-power machine bore them 
 afar while she was still building her little cottage. 
 
 "If I were a painter," she added, "that is what I
 
 WAS POUFAILLE RIGHT? 349 
 
 would paint. With the simplest subject you can make 
 a masterpiece. This nook has pleased me, and I shall 
 come back to it, be sure ! ' ' 
 
 Phil said nothing at the time; but he determined to 
 paint the nook which had pleased Ethel so much, and 
 to give the picture to her as a surprise before they left 
 for Morgania. 
 
 Phil passed through the parts of the town which 
 were between the open country and the fair. They were 
 like the outskirts of other towns, with little boxes of 
 houses and grimy wine-shops, and with great bare 
 spaces where goats, the cows of the poor man, bleated 
 despairingly. Just beyond was the full, open country. 
 He approached the spot chosen by Miss Ethel. The 
 noise of the town was no longer heard; before him were 
 the gently rising hills crossed by flowering hedges and 
 great leafy groves, in which the birds were playing. 
 
 Phil set up his easel in a shady spot, where Ethel 
 had lingered. It was by a hedge above a slope leading 
 down to a footpath. He opened his box, prepared 
 his colors, and set to work. At times he leaned back to 
 judge better the effect of the whole picture. At times 
 he bent over to put in a touch ; and as he painted, he let 
 his mind wander as it would. 
 
 He could not help thinking of the morrow of the 
 chasse a courre, the mounted deer-hunt with dogs, with 
 which the Comtesse de Donjeon was honoring the 
 camping-party. It seemed to him that he was already 
 there, taking in all its details. Even his costume oc- 
 cupied his mind the Chantilly boots, the full white 
 breeches, the double-breasted coat, the high felt hat
 
 350 FATA MORGANA 
 
 the things which constitute the true huntsman's cos- 
 tume. It would become him well ; and how charming 
 she would be, with her blond hair under the three-cor- 
 nered marquise hat! 
 
 Phil already fancied himself hearing the joyful notes 
 of the hunting-horn, and watching the unrestrained 
 galloping beneath the great trees, a vision of the 
 Middle Ages, with plumed knights and gentle ladies on 
 their palfreys. Oh! there was one gentle lady who 
 would follow the hunt with him, and, lover as he was, 
 Phil thought there would be monstrous daring in his 
 wish to offer Miss Rowrer a nosegay of wild flowers, 
 for certainly she would see his trouble of soul, and he 
 would betray himself as he offered it. Miss Rowrer 
 could not be offended, of course ! she had been too 
 much courted in society not to allow a little of it in 
 the country. It was the business of bores in society 
 life; but supposing she saw what he meant, would she 
 deign to encourage him? 
 
 All this preoccupied Phil, as he put the finishing 
 touches to his landscape. The place inclined to reverie. 
 While he was there, scarcely two or three persons had 
 passed along the road below. They could not see him ; 
 it would be necessary to climb up the slope and break 
 through the hawthorn hedge. For two hours Phil had 
 been working. He had reached the time, so dangerous 
 for the artist, when a few strokes too much spoil the 
 picture. He resolved to leave it as it was, without any 
 working up, in all its freshness of first inspiration. He 
 was preparing to close his box and fold his easel before 
 going back to Camp Rosemont; but two persons ap-
 
 Phil Watching Ik'lia and Socrate
 
 WAS POUFAILLE RIGHT? 353 
 
 peared in the lane below. He gave them no more at- 
 tention than he had given to others. It seemed to him 
 that a man was speaking, and a woman replying. He 
 did not see them; but when. they came near him he rec- 
 ognized their voices. 
 
 He stopped motionless and listened again, thinking 
 he must have been mistaken. He leaned over and 
 looked through the branches of the hedge. It was in- 
 deed they Helia and Socrate. 
 
 Phil felt a chill at his heart. He would like to 
 have had Poufaille there for a moment only for a 
 moment yet no ! he would be the only witness ! He 
 would see falling away before him, dropping to the 
 dust, petal by petal, the flower of his childish love. He 
 was going to hear Helia talking sweetly, arm in arm, 
 with the painter-thinker. His little Saint John of other 
 days, so pure and simple, he would hear her; but, ah, 
 how he wished that he was not there, that he could not 
 hear! 
 
 But he heard everything. Bits of conversation 
 mounted up to him as if torn asunder by the thorns 
 of the hedge. 
 
 "Listen to me!" Socrate was saying. 
 
 ' ' I know what you are going to say, ' ' answered Helia. 
 "Begone! I have told you no!" 
 
 "Yet you were so good to me," continued the tear- 
 ful voice of Socrate, using the familiar "thou." 
 
 "Socrate, I tell you once again, you are to say 'you' 
 when you speak to me," Helia interrupted firmly. 
 "Any one listening to you might think you had rights 
 
 over me ! 
 
 I"
 
 354 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "But no one is listening!" 
 
 ' ' I hear you ! ' ' 
 
 There was a moment of silence. They had stopped 
 and Phil looked at them. He was astounded by the 
 change in Socrate. His beard was unkempt, and he 
 lowered his head with an air at once humble and ag- 
 gressive. He spoke to Helia with looks which he tried 
 to render touching. On his ragged garments were bits 
 of straw, as if he had slept in a stack. It was clear 
 that Socrate had been wandering around the neigh- 
 borhood for several days, waiting for Helia. He must 
 have met her by chance and, yielding to his entreaties, 
 she had followed him to have, alone with him, a final 
 explanation. 
 
 Helia was pale, tired from her journey, as Poufaille 
 had said. Her black eyes shone feverishly. In her 
 modest black gown she seemed to Phil more beautiful 
 than ever, and more refined. She scarcely turned her 
 head toward Socrate ; and her glance at him was that of 
 scornful pity. 
 
 "You who were so good to me," the tearful voice 
 went on. 
 
 ' ' Too good, it is true ! ' ' answered Helia. ' ' I saw your 
 wretchedness, that you were starving, and I believed 
 in your genius. I would have been proud to help a 
 poet, to have had something to do, no matter how little, 
 with the production of a masterpiece. I sinned by 
 pride ; I thought I could lift myself in the eyes of others 
 especially in his eyes," she added slowly. "I thought 
 I was acting for the best ; I was wrong ! ' ' 
 
 "Why were you wrong?"
 
 WAS POUFAILLE RIGHT? 355 
 
 "It is wrong to aid one who does nothing!*' 
 
 "Ah!" replied the man, with his look of a beaten 
 dog, "it is not my fault if I have not fulfilled my 
 dream. Society is pitiless to thinkers! Those who 
 march to a lofty goal are disdained by the common 
 herd!" 
 
 Socrate, as he spoke, clenched his fist. Phil could 
 see his fingers working spasmodically ah ! if he could 
 only strangle the whole world ! Helia did not let her 
 eyes fall so low. She fixed them on the face of So- 
 crate, scorning his impotent gestures. 
 
 ' ' Silence ! You are only grotesque ! ' ' 
 
 "Be it so, I have made a mistake," the voice went 
 on. "But I can make amends for my wrong-doing. 
 Ah ! if you only were willing if you were willing, I 
 could make you happy. I would occupy myself with 
 your affairs; you should be rid of every care. You 
 would have a sure friend, and I, too, I would become 
 an artiste !" 
 
 "You an artiste !" 
 
 She drew herself up to her full height and looked 
 at the great empty forehead, at the chicken-necked and 
 round-shouldered Socrate, at his sallow skin, his moral 
 hideousness, this rag of a painter and poet and thinker 
 and philosopher. 
 
 "An artiste you! Why, you would not be capable 
 even to show a shaved bear, or a sick dog, or a two- 
 headed calf! Oh, I know you! You 'd like to be a 
 professor and train S(Burette with strokes of the whip, 
 if you were allowed! And you 'd always be there at 
 my side, to steer me through life like a devoted friend,
 
 356 FATA MORGANA 
 
 would you? Just as you used to do before. And when 
 I think that people may have said as much, and per- 
 haps believed that I was your friend, and when I 
 remember that you advised me to frequent the com- 
 pany of a rich duke and forget the friend of my child- 
 hood, when I think of all that, it is enough to make 
 me die of shame!" 
 
 Socrate gnashed his teeth. 
 
 "So it 's the friend of your childhood, is it? al- 
 ways he?" 
 
 ' ' Always he ! " said Helia, simply. 
 
 "Yet you know I have told you that he loves an- 
 other." 
 
 "I know it." 
 
 "And that he no longer cares for you." 
 
 "I shall believe it when he tells me so himself," was 
 Helia 's answer. 
 
 Socrate put his hands to his head, as if to say: "Can 
 one be such a fool ! ' ' 
 
 "But, really," he said aloud, "since you love him 
 so much, why do you not use the weapons you have to 
 bring him back to you?" 
 
 "Weapons!" 
 
 "His letters!" 
 
 "You are a miserable fellow! See here are his let- 
 ters ! ' ' And Helia took from her breast a few yellowed 
 envelops. "They might,- indeed, fall into the hands 
 of a wretch like you." And opening them, she tore 
 the pages in small pieces. 
 
 "But there 's a fortune in them for you!" gasped 
 Socrate. "You don't know what you are doing!"
 
 WAS POUFAILLE RIGHT? 357 
 
 "There 's what I care for such a fortune!" said 
 Helia ; and she opened wide her hand. It might have 
 been a flight of white butterflies. The light breeze 
 scattered the fragments on every side. Some seemed 
 to hesitate, as if issuing from a warm nest, and then 
 mounted upward, whirling around in space. Others 
 fell on the hedge. All these poor little things which 
 had been promises of love, and held in themselves an 
 entire youth, were scattered at once by a breath from 
 heaven. 
 
 "Yet I loved them well," she said. "Only it is bet- 
 ter so/' 
 
 Then, speaking to Socrate, she added proudly: "I 
 will not have him love me for fear, I wish him to love 
 me for love 's sake ! ' ' 
 
 Blushing for shame, she turned her back to Socrate, 
 and walked away without a look behind. The man 
 began following her. She turned back a last time, 
 stopped him with an imperious gesture, and disap- 
 peared in the lane. 
 
 Socrate, in his fury, growled like a wolf. Phil saw 
 him turn his head rapidly, to make sure there was 
 no one near, and then put his hand quickly to his 
 pocket, as if to take out a knife. But no doubt what 
 he sought was not there; and his hand came forth 
 empty luckily for Socrate, since Phil would have leaped 
 the hedge with a bound and fallen on him like a thunder- 
 bolt. Then Socrate disappeared among the trees with 
 a furtive look. 
 
 Phil remained alone. He put everything in order, 
 folding his things together, and went away. He felt
 
 358 FATA MORGANA 
 
 a sort of embarrassment a shame that made him 
 hurry his footsteps as if to flee from himself. 
 
 Was Poufaille right? Phil passed his hand across 
 his forehead. A thousand things came back to him 
 now; a bright light was thrown on the abyss where his 
 youth had perished. The flight of the white butterflies 
 had been a seed of remembrance to him the remem- 
 brance of the love of his boyhood. Had it been the 
 romantic passion of an ignorant heart? No; there had 
 been broken promises and contempt of oaths ! 
 
 Well, even in such a case, drunken Poufaille had ex- 
 aggerated; Helia was more reasonable. She must un- 
 derstand that it was impossible. She could not deceive 
 herself to such a degree, nor keep on pursuing im- 
 aginations never to be realized. Her own words, "I 
 shall believe it when he tells me so himself," were a con- 
 fession. She would submit to the inevitable. How 
 was she going to take the final rupture? Phil, in his 
 heart, trembled to think of it, but it had to be! He 
 would tell her everything ; he would take back the word 
 he had given. He would speak to her, lowering his eyes, 
 hunting for his words; low, as when one begs for for- 
 giveness. Never mind, he would tell her ! He would act 
 as with a somnambulist, commanding: "Awake! it was a 
 dream ! ' ' 
 
 Yes; Helia would understand, without need of in- 
 sisting. They would part with a loyal shake of the hand, 
 like the good friends they were, and would follow sepa- 
 rate destinies. 
 
 Phil walked on, without looking behind, like one es- 
 caping. He felt easier in his mind. No, there was not
 
 WAS POUFAILLE EIGHT? 359 
 
 such a tragedy in it all as Pouf aille had led him to 
 foresee. Things would go on simply, Phil mused within 
 himself. For him it was the time of slanting sophisms 
 which issue from the folds of the heart like crabs from 
 under a rock. He was more sincere and manly when he 
 put aside with a gesture all his anguish and uncertainty 
 and, setting his jaw, lifted his head as he said to him- 
 self: "It is too late! Fate has willed it; all society 
 would be on my side ; they would say I was right. Even 
 if Helia's tears should flow, even if I should see in her 
 eyes a mute malediction for the slayer of her illusions, 
 I could do no otherwise ; it is too late ! ' ' 
 
 Phil breathed deeply, as if his breast had been light- 
 ened of a heavy load. He looked around him with the 
 air of a man to whom the future belongs. 
 
 Lowering his eyes, he saw upon his shoulder one of 
 the poor little fragments of torn letters. Phil threw 
 it from him with a snap of his finger.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 "A TRUE HEART LOVES BUT ONCE " 
 
 THE day for which Phil had waited so impatiently 
 was come at last the day of the chasse a courre. 
 Ethel left the hunt and came back alone to the 
 glade where grandma, a little tired and seated in the 
 great break, was waiting for the return of the hunters. 
 She got down from her horse and tossed the reins to a 
 valet. The sun lighted up the tops of the lofty trees, 
 leaving all the rest in the shade. From afar they heard 
 the voices of the hounds. The hunting-horn filled the 
 forest with a far-away melody. 
 
 ' ' Poor little doe ! ' ' said Ethel, "it is nearly an hour 
 since she left the thicket, followed by the hounds. She 
 must be by this time in the pretty valley I chris- 
 tened the other day the Forest of Arden you remem- 
 ber? when I was reading there Shakspere's 'As You 
 Like It.' They must have lost the scent her mate 
 is leading the dogs away from her, no doubt. But it 
 is not for that I have come back, grandma. I wish to 
 speak with you. ' ' 
 
 "Why don't you follow the hunt?" grandma asked. 
 "Has anything happened to you, Ethel?" 
 
 "Nothing at all, grandma. My horse was in splendid
 
 "A TRUE HEART LOVES BUT ONCE" 361 
 
 form, and I, too ; but, while taking a ditch, she lost a 
 shoe. She 's limping a little, I think. And then 
 and then I could n't see you alone yesterday at the 
 chateau, and I have something to say to you. But let us 
 not stay here; they might overhear us," Ethel added, 
 glancing at the lackeys, who were loading into a 
 van the champagne-baskets and other remains of the 
 picnic. 
 
 "I will get down," said grandma. Leaning on 
 Ethel's arm, she got out of the break and they crossed 
 the open space. 
 
 "Let us go over there," Ethel said, pointing to one 
 of those graceful edifices called nymphees, which are 
 the necessary ornament of every self-respecting park. 
 It consisted of a bench, green with the mold of time 
 and surrounded by a colonnade covered with moss and 
 ivy. It gave this corner of the forest a mythological 
 note. It was like one of those rustic shrines where, in 
 the shadow of the sacred grove, goddesses were ap- 
 peased by the offering of victims. 
 
 "Who would not say this is a scene of Shakspere's 
 fancy?" said Ethel. "Listen to the hunting-horn 
 you might believe you were in an enchanted forest. 
 But," she added, as grandma sat down, "there is no 
 question now of Will the Great, but only of our own 
 dear Will, and of Mile. Yvonne." 
 
 "She 's very nice," said grandma. "She '11 profit 
 a great deal by your company, between Will and you. 
 From being a doll, Yvonne will soon become a woman." 
 
 "Mile. Yvonne is already a woman a true one," 
 Ethel went on, gravely. "She has an upright mind 
 and a strong and resolute heart; and I love her."
 
 362 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "She 's going to marry Will?" grandma exclaimed, 
 starting up. "That dear little Yvonne?" 
 
 "No, granflma, Yvonne will never be Will's wife. 
 She has refused." 
 
 "What did I say?" grandma replied. "She 's a 
 doll she does n't know what she wants! Does a young 
 girl let herself be buried alive like that? Why 
 should n't she show herself as she is and say: 'I will!' 
 when her happiness is at stake? She has much in com- 
 mon with Will, I am sure. But in this country no one 
 dares to say what she thinks; people don't look each 
 other squarely in the face. If you wish, Ethel, we '11 
 leave for America to-morrow!" 
 
 "Wait a bit, grandma, and then you '11 love Yvonne 
 with all your heart." 
 
 "After what she has done? Never!" 
 
 "Because of what she has done? Sit down again, 
 grandma, and I will tell you everything." 
 
 "You will waste your breath, Ethel." 
 
 "Wait," Ethel continued. "Will was very much 
 taken with Yvonne I am sure that now he would be 
 much more so if he were only allowed. The fact that 
 he has been refused shows him so much better the 
 woman he is losing. It has been a revelation to us. He 
 was conquered by Yvonne as Desdemona by Othello. 
 In a way he pitied the young girl's lot it was so child- 
 ish ; there was so little society for her. One ball a year, 
 a poor little ball, next to nothing, a life passed in 
 the dim light of curtains half drawn, near a deserted 
 street, the strong contrast with Will's stormy life in 
 Chicago."
 
 "A TEUE HEART LOVES BUT ONCE" 363 
 
 "That is real life!" said grandma. 
 
 "Well," Ethel continued, "everything took hold of 
 Will, just as a man deafened with the noise of ma- 
 chinery loves the murmur of bees." 
 
 "Oh, it is France Will 's in love with," grandma 
 said. "It was his auto journey from Paris and our 
 excursions round the camp that he was going to marry 
 it 's only a fancy already passed." 
 
 "No; it will never pass!" answered Ethel. "It is 
 true all his impressions were personified in Yvonne; 
 but she shows such sterling qualities that she has no 
 need to personify anything to be loved." 
 
 "You must tell me everything, Ethel," said grand- 
 ma. 
 
 "This is the way it happened. Of course, it was 
 impossible for Will to speak alone with Yvonne, espe- 
 cially on such subjects. Besides, he never had the op- 
 portunity; and then it is n't done! In France, when 
 a young man sees a young girl that pleases him, he 
 asks her parents for her; and her parents accept or 
 refuse." 
 
 "How dreadful!" said grandma. 
 
 "Will," Ethel kept on, "was speaking about it one 
 day to Mme. Ricois." 
 
 "Mme. Ric.ois? What has she got to do with it?" 
 
 "Why, everything, grandma; everything! If it had 
 not been for Mme. Ric.ois we should have gone off to 
 Morgania without anything being decided. Will 
 passed his young days between our mines in Montana 
 and the Chicago Stock Exchange, and never had time 
 to be in love. Mme. Ric.ois opened his eyes. I ought
 
 364 FATA MORGANA 
 
 to tell you that she is the most inveterate marrier of the 
 town." 
 
 "A marrier? I thought she was a banker's wife!' 7 
 
 "Oh, she has to do something," replied Ethel. 
 "Mme. Ric.ois makes matches to please herself. The 
 little woman delights in it. I can imagine her embroi- 
 dering on her sleeve, like an officer's stripes, the num- 
 ber of marriages she has brought about." 
 
 ' ' How dreadful ! ' ' said grandma. 
 
 "She and Will are great friends. Would you be- 
 lieve it, grandma? last month she said to him point- 
 blank : ' Mr. Rowrer, I must find a match for you ! ' Will 
 only laughed. 'Now, don't say No!' Mme. Ric.ois added 
 mysteriously; 'I have a great scheme in my head.' 
 'What is your scheme?' Will asked, more and more 
 amused. 'But you must n't tell anybody! I wish to 
 bring about a Franco- American alliance ! ' Will did n 't 
 answer, but I saw he understood, for I was present." 
 
 "And what then?" asked grandma. 
 
 "Naturally they began talking about marriage. Mme. 
 Rigois told us how she takes hold of the matter; the 
 measures she takes for the parents: 'I 've found a 
 young man who is quite in your line ; this is his situ- 
 ation.' Thereupon a family council is held, and the 
 young girl is consulted as a matter of form. Oh, there 's 
 a whole minute and complicated diplomacy." 
 
 "And yet it would be so simple for the young folks 
 to explain matters to each other!" grandma exclaimed. 
 
 "That is what Will answered; but Mme. Rigois ob- 
 jected that this is never done. I thought as much, but 
 I know France. It was quite new to Will ; and he kept
 
 "A TRUE HEART LOVES BUT ONCE" 365 
 
 repeating: 'Is it possible? Is it possible? For my 
 part, I 'd like to be better acquainted with the girl I 
 marry ! I shall certainly never get married in France. ' 
 Then Mme. Rigois spoke up: 'The main thing is that 
 you should please the parents.' 'But it's the young 
 girl I want to please, and to know if I am pleasing her/ 
 Will said obstinately. 'M. Rowrer, ' Mme. Ric,ois said, 
 ' I have made twenty marriages and they 're all happy ; 
 and I myself married my husband without being ac- 
 quainted with him. That was thirty years ago, and 
 our honeymoon is not over yet ! ' ' Perhaps she is right, ' 
 Will said when Mme. Rigois was gone. 'Marriages 
 seem to me as happy here as anywhere. Different coun- 
 tries have different manners, but at bottom they 're all 
 the same.' I 'm persuaded, grandma, that from that 
 day the Franco- American alliance began. I mean that 
 the remembrance of Mile. Yvonne was crystallized in 
 his heart." 
 
 While Ethel was speaking the shadows had grown 
 darker beneath the trees. A purple haze softened the 
 outlines of the glade. There was deep silence, with now 
 and then an echo of the hunting-horns, light as the 
 humming of a fly. Again the hunt found its way, and 
 the doe, abandoned by her cowardly mate, turned back 
 toward her haunts. Soon the hallali would push her 
 to the thicket from which she had started, and where, 
 at the end of her strength, she would take shelter to 
 die. 
 
 "Listen," Ethel said to grandma, "Will, Phil, and 
 every one are out there, forgetful of care and trouble, 
 chasing to its death a poor, innocent animal. Isn't it
 
 366 FATA MORGANA 
 
 sad?" Then, taking up her interrupted conversation, 
 she continued: ''From that day, especially, Will 
 thought of Mile. Yvonne. He saw her again several 
 times and fell more and more under her charm, in spite 
 of their commonplace interviews. Each time he dis- 
 covered new qualities in her. When I praised her, Will 
 was glad to listen; and Mme. Ric,ois was always after 
 him with the scheme of the alliance. You can imagine 
 that it did n't please Will much to be obliged to win 
 the parents in order to get the girl. Well! he won 
 over everybody. As to grand 'mere, who is the Egeria 
 of the family, the one that decides difficult cases with- 
 out appeal from her judgment 
 
 "Grand 'mere said no for Yvonne?" grandma asked. 
 
 "Grand 'mere said yes!" 
 
 "But if mother and grandmother, uncles and aunts, 
 and Mme. Ric,ois say yes, who is it says no?" 
 
 "Yvonne says no." 
 
 "Well, I declare!" grandma exclaimed, in amaze- 
 ment. It was not the first time she had declared since 
 she was in France, but never with such energy. In her 
 voice there were astonishment and anger and admiration 
 and, most of all, curiosity. 
 
 "How did it happen, Ethel? Tell me all!" and she 
 turned her face toward her granddaughter with an ex- 
 pression of anxiety. 
 
 "Ah!" Ethel replied, "who would ever suspect that 
 Yvonne had a romance in her life?" 
 
 "A romance in Yvonne's life! What are you telling 
 me, Ethel? Watched as she is, a romance! It must 
 have been with another doll! when she was ten years
 
 "A TRUE HEART LOVES BUT ONCE" 367 
 
 old or when she was playing husband and wife with 
 some child of her own age ! ' ' 
 
 "Exactly so," Ethel answered, with a serious look. 
 "Listen! Yesterday I went in the auto to the Gro- 
 jeans', to say good day as I passed. I suspected no- 
 thing. Everything was shut up, as usual. I knocked 
 and was let in. The door of the salon opened, and 
 Yvonne, who had recognized my voice, came toward me 
 with outstretched hands, and said : ' Oh, it 's you ! How 
 glad I am! Come in!' ' 
 
 Grandma was immensely interested, and listened, with 
 her eyes fixed on those of Ethel, with a scarcely per- 
 ceptible movement of her lips, as if, in her anxiety to 
 lose nothing, she were repeating the words to herself. 
 
 "By the way in which Yvonne took my hand," Ethel 
 went on, in a low voice, "I understood something was 
 happening. The Grojean ladies were there, silent and 
 much embarrassed, and there was Mme. RiQois, as red as 
 possible. I looked at Yvonne. 'My dear friend,' 
 Yvonne said to me, 'I am glad you came. Perhaps you 
 know what is going on. For me it 's my first news of it. 
 They have just told me of a great scheme, an offer so 
 honorable and so flattering That moment, grandma, 
 I understood they had just communicated to Yvonne 
 Will 's intentions. By the way in which the ladies listened 
 to Yvonne, I also learned that she had not yet given 
 her answer. She was going to speak in my presence. 
 
 " 'The offer is so flattering,' Yvonne said, looking 
 me squarely in the face, 'and I should have been so very 
 happy to call you my sister; the marriage would over- 
 whelm every one here with joy' (I had only to look at
 
 368 FATA MORGANA 
 
 the beaming faces to see that they expected Yvonne to 
 say 'I accept') 'the marriage would overwhelm us all 
 with joy; but there is some one one only who would 
 have too great pain from it. I am not free I have 
 given my word to another!' 
 
 "I wish you had been there, grandma, to judge of 
 the consternation caused by the word ' another ' ! Mme. 
 de Grojean arose, pale as death. 
 
 " 'Yvonne, you have given your word to another? 
 Without your mother knowing it ? To whom ? Answer ! ' 
 
 " 'To my cousin Henri,' answered Yvonne. 
 
 "Mme. de Grojean breathed again: 'To your cousin 
 Henri! But he is only a child-sweetheart, my dear 
 daughter; every one has that in her life. Now you 
 must act like a woman. That was not in earnest. 
 Henri will give you back your word ! ' 
 
 " 'But I shall not take it back!' said Yvonne. 
 
 " 'What are you thinking of! Your cousin Henri 
 nothing but an employee at the Rigois bank, with no 
 substantial situation and with no future; do you com- 
 pare him with Monsieur Rowrer, for whom, besides, you 
 have a sentiment? Avow it! it is nothing to blush for.' 
 
 " 'I do not blush for it,' Yvonne said; 'but I have 
 a sentiment for Henri also; and, moreover, he has my 
 word. If he is not rich, he will work. Monsieur Rowrer 
 is too rich ! What an opinion Henri would have of me 
 if he thought I would marry another just because he is 
 worth millions, and would abandon him because he 
 is poor! Surely he would believe so! I would never 
 dare look him in the face. Henri counts on me, I 
 shall be his wife!' "
 
 U A TRUE HEART LOVES BUT ONCE" 369 
 
 "Oh, brave little Yvonne!" said grandma. "Did she 
 say that?" 
 
 "Yes, grandma, she said that; and she was radiant 
 with beauty as she said it, I can assure you. 'My dear 
 Ethel,' she told me afterward, 'you see there is nothing 
 to wound Monsieur Rowrer's self-love. Tell him I have 
 the greatest esteem for him, and would have been so glad 
 to call you my sister, Ethel. But what would you have 
 done in my place?' 
 
 "Yvonne must have seen in my looks how deeply I 
 was moved, and how much I admired her." 
 
 "What about the family council what did it say?" 
 grandma asked. 
 
 " 'Is that your final decision?' Mme. de Grojean de- 
 manded of Yvonne. 
 
 " 'It is my final decision,' said Yvonne. 
 
 "'Come, then, Yvonne, and be happy!' and the 
 mother pressed her to her bosom." 
 
 "But the grandmother that terrible grand 'mere?" 
 
 "Grand 'mere kissed Yvonne on the forehead, and 
 said to her, 'You 've done well, my child,' and then I 
 came away. That is all, grandma." 
 
 The evening was creeping over the forest. The high 
 clumps of trees stood out in somber masses against the 
 deep sky. Ethel and grandma had completely forgot- 
 ten the hunt; but the sound of the horns drew near. 
 The exhausted doe was returning, followed close by the 
 hounds. 
 
 "Let us go away; the dew is falling," grandma said 
 pensively. "Let us go back to the breaks; the hunters 
 will soon be here."
 
 370 FATA MORGANA 
 
 ''Go on alone, grandma; I will wait for them here. 
 I shall return to the chateau on horseback. ' ' 
 
 Ethel remained on the stone bench. When she sep- 
 arated herself from the hunt the branch of a tree in 
 a narrow alley had ruffled her hair. She took off her 
 hat, to put it in order. She was just finishing, when 
 a hunter, who had doubtless left his horse at the ren- 
 dezvous and seemed to be looking for some one, crossed 
 the glade and passed before her. 
 
 ' ' Monsieur Phil ! ' ' Ethel said, rising. 
 
 Phil turned his head toward her. Ethel stood up- 
 right in the ruined colonnade. Her blond hair shone 
 bright against the dark background of ivy-covered rock. 
 With her black gown, she might have been a nymph in 
 mourning, staying some passing wanderer, in the depths 
 of a sacred grove. 
 
 Phil was dazzled. He knew he should find her at this 
 place, for he had seen her leave the hunt near the spot 
 of the hallali. He wished to see Ethel. He had gathered 
 in haste a nosegay of wild flowers to offer her. Miss 
 Rowrer was to see that he had come back for her, that 
 he had gathered the flowers for her, that he was think- 
 ing of her. She might, too, see his emotion when he 
 should offer his simple gift. She would thank him. He 
 would say he knew not what, but she would know ! He 
 had sworn to himself to act ; the time had come. Nature 
 herself pushed him forward. There was gladness in 
 this beautiful evening. The wind stirred the lofty trees 
 and Phil listened to the hunting-horn as the soldier 
 sharpens his courage by the rolling of the drums. He
 
 ; Ethel stood upright in the ruined colonnade '
 
 "A TRUE HEART LOVES BUT ONCE" 373 
 
 advanced respectfully toward Ethel, hiding the flowers 
 with which he wished to surprise her. 
 
 "You have something on your mind, Monsieur Phil," 
 Ethel said. 
 
 "Is it as plain as that?" Phil asked, in an uncertain 
 voice. 
 
 Like a true lover, he thought he could already read 
 in her face the feelings which moved himself. He was 
 almost sorry to have come. He would have been glad 
 to escape, and he tried to hide his trouble by indifferent 
 remarks. 
 
 "You, Miss Rowrer, are radiant this evening." 
 
 "It is because I am so happy, Monsieur Phil. Oh, so 
 happy!" 
 
 "The evening is so fine," Phil began; "you 
 
 "I saw yesterday something finer and sweeter than 
 all that," Ethel interrupted, with a gesture which took 
 in the forest and the sumptuous sky. "I saw some one 
 yesterday repulse with disdain a fortune, to remain 
 faithful to a childhood love." 
 
 Phil stopped short. 
 
 "It was a young girl," Ethel went on, slowly, as if 
 to communicate to him her own conviction, "a young 
 girl who believes in the sanctity of promises made when 
 one is young, when the heart is as clear as the sky, a 
 young girl who believes in loyalty to her word once 
 given, and to oaths exchanged later, when she knew 
 what she was doing at the age when one still sees in 
 love only love itself." 
 
 "It might be for me and Helia!" Phil thought. 
 "Yet, she knows nothing about it."
 
 374 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "That is why I look radiant," Ethel continued. "Ah, 
 it refreshes me after what we see so often, vile hearts 
 and cowardly consciences." 
 
 "This is my punishment," thought Phil. 
 
 In full daylight, Ethel would certainly have noticed 
 his fearful pallor. He stammered out: "One is not 
 always master of his own heart!" 
 
 "A true heart," replied Ethel, "loves but once. 
 There are not different oaths for each different age of 
 life." 
 
 All this was a lightning-flash to Phil's soul. Ethel 
 had never seemed more friendly to him, and she was 
 radiant and gay. But he no longer thought of her. 
 He was face to face with himself. 
 
 "Yet, in spite of one's self," Phil answered, in a 
 hesitating voice, "the sacrifice of first love may be made 
 to a later one it sometimes happens." 
 
 "It happens every day," said Ethel; "money talks!" 
 
 Phil let his nosegay of wild-flowers fall behind him 
 to the ground. 
 
 "I won't keep you, Monsieur Phil," she said, believing 
 that she was preventing him from taking part in the 
 hallali. "Go, now!" she continued pleasantly, "they 're 
 only waiting for you to cut the doe's throat listen, 
 they 're sounding the death!" 
 
 Indeed, the forest near them was full of a rising 
 tumult; lackeys were carrying torches; cries and calls 
 were heard, and the barking of the hounds grew savage. 
 The poor doe had come back to her sleeping-place to die. 
 There was despair in her gasp; and the flaring horns 
 set up the triumphal song of the hallali.
 
 "A TRUE HEART LOVES BUT ONCE" 375 
 
 " Really, Phil, I do not wish to deprive you of such 
 pleasure. Go. But you had something in your hand 
 just now some flowers, I think. Put them on this 
 bench. You will find them when you return." 
 
 "I have nothing, Miss Ethel," Phil answered, show- 
 ing his empty hands. 
 
 Every word Ethel had said wounded him cruelly, 
 though he felt sure she knew nothing of his relations 
 with Helia. It seemed to him they applied to his own 
 troubles. They thrilled him to the bottom of his heart. 
 
 He plunged into the night of the forest, toward the 
 blood-red glow lighting up the slaughter.
 
 PART IV 
 CONSCIENCE
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 ON THE BLUE SEA 
 
 BLUE sea a blue sky. The yacht was sailing 
 under deep azure, reflected back by calm waters. 
 It was unlike the jolts and staccato teuf-teuf of 
 the automobile ; it was gentle as the swinging of a bal- 
 loon in the open heavens. The furrow of foam behind 
 the yacht was like a trail of clouds. 
 
 On the promenade-deck, in the shade of the big deck- 
 house, grandma, Ethel, and Will were taking the air, 
 stretched out in bamboo chairs. Through the open door 
 books and newspapers could be seen on the table, and 
 in the corners of the salon baskets of beautiful flowers 
 were disposed. The sea breeze mingled with the smell 
 of roses. Near the yacht's prow a band was playing 
 softly. Among the crew there were musicians by trade, 
 old sailors of the navy bands. They were training 
 themselves for gala-days later on in Sicily, in Greece, 
 in Morgania. Their low notes reached the group at 
 the stern like a murmur of distant voices. Ethel looked 
 abstractedly across the sea to the horizon. She was 
 thinking of the country she had left behind of the 
 mists and gardens where the leaves fall in autumn; 
 of the countries she was yet to see, with their blue ar- 
 379
 
 380 FATA MORGANA 
 
 chipelagos, whose white minarets seem milky pearls set 
 in sapphire. 
 
 She was almost overwhelmed with remembrances. She 
 thought of those shores where poets sang of gods and 
 heroes; of that sea which had reflected, in turn, fable 
 and faith, where the galley of St. Paul crossed the 
 meandering track of Ulysses's bark. She found exqui- 
 site delight in this legendary past. She fancied to her- 
 self Cleopatra and Dido and Morgana, queens who were 
 all but goddesses, and the Roman matrons, borne across 
 the waves to the sound of lutes, with their jesters and 
 their scribes. At her side, Will and grandma were 
 chatting quietly. 
 
 "You are a good boy," grandma said. "I am glad 
 you got my telegram in time to put an elevator in the 
 yacht; perhaps the reason I like new things is because 
 I am growing old." 
 
 "Not at all, grandma," interrupted Ethel. "What 
 is stupider than to go climbing up-stairs? It is the 
 least esthetic of all movements." 
 
 "That was my idea!" said grandma. 
 
 "And the wireless telegraph was mine," said Will. 
 
 Will had himself supervised the building of his yacht, 
 to make it a model of its type. He deserved a Nobel 
 prize for the practical way in which he had foreseen 
 everything. But its nautical qualities, and the rigidity 
 of its double steel shell were as nothing in comparison 
 with its interior comfort. 
 
 The yacht could have held two hundred passengers, 
 and it accommodated only ten. Its furnishings and 
 arrangements were sumptuous. The deck-house was a
 
 ON THE BLUE SEA 381 
 
 hundred feet long. In front were a card-room and the 
 apartments of the captain; all the rest was taken for 
 great cabins, each with its boudoir and bath-room. 
 
 Through the music-room, where the breath of the 
 open sea brought to grandma, Ethel, and Will the smell 
 of the roses, they would go down to the great hall wains- 
 coted in unvarnished cedar, which framed decorative 
 panels. Farther on in the suite of rooms was the library, 
 with its wide, red-leather sofas. Above the shelves 
 twelve caryatids, in yellow marble, upheld the plinth. 
 There were radiators for heat and ventilators for cool- 
 ness, with telephones and electric buttons everywhere. 
 Their bells gave a thrill of life from end to end of the 
 yacht. 
 
 Ethel was on the point of ringing for her maid, when 
 Suzanne appeared. She brought the plaids, fearing the 
 evening freshness might incommode Mme. Rowrer or 
 Miss Rowrer. 
 
 ' ' Suzanne, ' ' Ethel said, while she was putting a plaid 
 over her shoulders, "I don't see Monsieur Phil. Per- 
 haps he is showing the yacht to Mademoiselle Helia. ' ' 
 
 "No; Monsieur Phil is not showing the yacht. Mon- 
 sieur Phil is giving a lemon to M. Caracal to suck. M. 
 Caracal suffers martyrdom. The sighs of M. Caracal 
 rend one's heart. Mademoiselle Helia is in her cabin, 
 reading." 
 
 Suzanne, since she had become a soubrette, said "Ma- 
 demoiselle" when she spoke of Helia. She had perfect 
 tact; she was the ideal soubrette. She had accepted 
 eagerly Ethel's offer to accompany her to Morgania. 
 
 The life she was leading with Perbaccho wearied her; 
 20
 
 382 FATA MORGANA 
 
 and then, to hear Poufaille always repeating the same 
 thing over, to be always knocking on the same skull 
 at the same hours, she was tired of it all. 
 
 Will at first intended to take Poufaille along to help 
 the cook, but he prudently gave up the project when 
 he heard Poufaille explaining his ideas on pig's- rump 
 and garlic, and goat's-milk cheese. So Suzanne not 
 only escaped from Poufaille for the present, but she 
 served Miss Rowrer, whom she adored; and, moreover, 
 she followed Helia and Phil. She guessed that some- 
 thing had lately passed between them. She was de- 
 voured by curiosity to know how the romance would end. 
 Was it possible that Phil, who formerly had been so good 
 and upright, could have changed to such a degree? A 
 hundred times over she had been called to be a witness 
 to his love and a confidante of his oaths. Ah, men, 
 men ! for them the broomstick et die done! 
 
 "Tell me," Ethel said, "is Mademoiselle Helia glad, 
 now that she has come ? I had Monsieur Phil invite her, 
 and she refused at first. I had to insist myself, and 
 almost get angry, to make her accept. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Oh, yes, Mademoiselle Helia is very glad ! ' ' and Su- 
 zanne, having arranged the plaids, lifted to Miss Rowrer 
 eyes in which she might have read infinite gratitude for 
 so much goodness. 
 
 "I need you, Helia," Ethel had urged; "you know 
 it well ! I count on you for my lessons in physical cul- 
 ture, and you know I 've got it in my head to take you 
 to my father's university. There are charming young 
 girls there, and you will teach them how to be strong 
 and beautiful. Besides, the voyage will do so much 
 good to Sceurette. Come you '11 be at home!"
 
 ON THE BLUE SEA 383 
 
 Helia had accepted. To travel with Phil would be to 
 lengthen her torture; but, at least, she would see 
 him. 
 
 At first, amid all these marble statues and bronze 
 reliefs, Helia felt herself intimidated, habituated as 
 she was to the coarsely painted scene-canvases and 
 papier-mache bronzes. But Ethel treated her as an 
 equal Ethel, who had the art to be respected without 
 being unapproachable. 
 
 "Ask them to come up," Ethel said to Suzanne. 
 "It 's the finest hour of the day." 
 
 The sea was mild. Great clouds were climbing above 
 the horizon, while an enormous sun was slowly setting 
 in splendor of molten gold. 
 
 "The duke was right," Ethel said to Will. "From 
 the point of view of Paris the legend of Morgana might 
 seem ridiculous, but here, in the grandeur of such scene- 
 setting, even the supernatural seems normal. How far 
 away are the ant-hills of Paris and London ! Only think 
 how somewhere people are agitating themselves in fog 
 and smoke, while we are sailing straight for dreamland 
 and isn't it curious? a duchy with sorceresses and 
 fairies in its history, where legends a thousand years old 
 still move the people. I wish to believe in it I wish to 
 see the return of Morgana ! ' ' 
 
 " Keep thy flight to the West, bold sailor ; 
 The land thou seekest shall arise, 
 Even though it existed not, 
 From the depths of the waves to welcome thee." 
 
 It was Phil, who arrived ahead of Caracal. He had 
 heard Ethel, and capped her thought with verses from 
 Schiller.
 
 384 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "How is your patient, Monsieur Phil?" asked Ethel; 
 "how is M. Caracal? Seasickness is a sad affair; even 
 animals suffer from it the ox, the ass, the hog, the 
 monkey ' ' 
 
 "And especially man," said Caracal, following Phil. 
 
 Caracal thanked Miss Rowrer. He was better. The 
 responsibility of the old French politeness weighed on 
 Caracal. He went through his most graceful manners, 
 lifting his little finger in the air, and smiling and 
 scraping his foot. And then crac! a diving bow, with 
 his lip turned up, to kiss one's hand or to bite it. 
 
 He wore a faultless suit, and an artistic cravat, which 
 the wind swelled out like a banner. He redoubled his 
 politeness to grandma, a sure means, in his mind, to win 
 her granddaughter. He hummed to himself a music- 
 hall refrain: 
 
 " Pour avoir la fille 
 Aimable et gentille, 
 C'est a la maman 
 Qu'il faut d'abord faire des compliments ! " 
 
 ("To gain the daughter, 
 
 Sweet and pretty, 
 To the old mother 
 Sing your ditty ! ") 
 
 He rhymed sonnets to Miss Rowrer, and trotted out 
 his erudition, working up his Baedeker in his cabin, and 
 astonishing every one by his qualifications as a cicerone. 
 
 "M. Caracal would make an ideal courier," thought 
 grandma. 
 
 Caracal, out of the tail of his eye, glanced at the 
 books on the salon table. "The House of Glass," which
 
 ON THE BLUE SEA 385 
 
 had just appeared before their departure, lay, uncut, 
 under a pile of magazines. Caracal was a little an- 
 noyed; but, with an author's pride, he hesitated to call 
 Miss Rowrer's attention again to his own novel. 
 
 "A wireless for Miss Rowrer." The captain's boy 
 approached, with his cap off and a paper in his hand. 
 
 "Where does it come from?" Ethel asked. 
 
 "From a ship off there." 
 
 Ethel instinctively lifted her eyes to the mast, which 
 seemed to be throwing out its feelers into space. Then 
 she opened the paper and read: 
 
 Captain Far East en route New York, wishes good journey to 
 Captain Columbia. R. K. Rowrer's orders to put himself at dispo- 
 sition of yacht. Bad news from Morgania land excursions danger- 
 ous. Any message for New York. 
 
 Ethel arose. One point appeared on the horizon and 
 then another. 
 
 "It 's the Far East and the Far West/' said Will. 
 "They 've been carrying bridge iron to Africa for the 
 Cape-to-Cairo railway, and machinery for the Nyanza 
 ferry-boat company. They belong to pa. ' ' 
 
 "Really!" said Ethel, looking at the two ships com- 
 ing into sight along the horizon. 
 
 "Boy!" she called, giving him the answer: 
 
 Sailing straight for Morgania danger adds to attraction. Our 
 love to dear old pa ! 
 
 Ethel, with her sea-glass, could observe the ships sa- 
 luting the yacht; the flags tumbled at the mizzen.
 
 386 FATA MORGANA 
 
 She felt a thrill of pride. Roman matrons and 
 Cleopatras and Uidos, slowly dragged over the sea 
 by their chained galley-slaves, what were they beside 
 her? How much better it was to live nowadays! 
 She felt herself more powerful than they had ever 
 been. Space seemed bringing her the salutes of the 
 East and of the distant West. She remained stand- 
 ing until the ships were lost to sight in the evening 
 mists. 
 
 They were cruising along the Italian coast, visiting 
 now one spot and now another. Sometimes there were 
 cool streets bordered with palaces whose windows were 
 without glass. The presence of the yachting-party drew 
 swarms of ragazzi, boys and girls, more importunate 
 than Jersey mosquitos, and harassing them for baiocchi 
 and madonne. 
 
 Again, there were islands which from afar were 
 like bouquets of flowers, and from near smelled of 
 cheese and fried fish and garlic. Capri, with the sea 
 like a liquid sky at its feet, lifted its houses along ter- 
 races like shelves. It was nothing but a going up and 
 coming down. 
 
 "This is a perpendicular country," was Ethel's obser- 
 vation. ' ' We are like flies walking along a wall. ' ' 
 
 On the days when there was no climbing of the 
 islands that sink abruptly to the sea, the party could 
 look at them from the deck or the library, as they 
 passed. Ethel took the opportunity for her physical 
 training, or put herself out of breath on a stationary 
 bicycle, like those on which the travelers on the trans- 
 Siberian line get the rust from their legs.
 
 ON THE BLUE SEA 387 
 
 "You '11 tire yourself, Miss Rowrer," Helia said to 
 her, when she saw what ardor she displayed. 
 
 "No, no!" said Ethel, "just show me how to do it." 
 
 Helia went through a few movements with consum- 
 mate ease. There was no getting out of breath, no 
 swelling of veins neck and shoulders and arms were 
 smooth as marble; for exercise only developed in her 
 the exquisite purity of her form. t 
 
 "Oh, Helia!" Ethel added, "show me how I can have 
 a neck and shoulders and arms like yours. ' ' 
 
 During these short training lessons her friendship 
 for Helia grew; and it is possible Ethel's only ambi- 
 tion was to have arms like Helia. But it was not such 
 an ambition which the press had been attributing to 
 her for some time back. For the newspapers were al- 
 ways talking about her. When the yacht entered the 
 smallest port, it drew more attention than a war 
 squadron. The cabbage-leaf papers of Calabria and 
 Sicily all had something to say of Miss Rowrer. They 
 spoke of her as a wild woman, because she had bought 
 and saved from death the dog whom the natives were 
 asphyxiating, in honor of foreign tourists, amid the 
 noxious gases of a sulphur grotto. Then they had a 
 story of some hermit on a cliff, whom she wished, so 
 it seemed, to take to Chicago to have him bless her 
 father's stock-yard from the top of a sky-scraper! 
 
 "What fools!" said Will. "They 'd do better to 
 put glass in their windows and cultivate their nespoli 
 and pomidoro than lose their time in such silliness. 
 It 's true that time is not worth much in a country 
 where Stromboli and Vesuvius take the place of our
 
 388 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Pittsburgs and Homesteads where there 's nothing 
 smoking on the horizon except some old volcano!" 
 
 Yet the yachting-party found pleasure in the halts 
 when, for a change, they went to dine at the hotels. The 
 rushing down-stairs of the clerks and porters and 
 maitres-d 'hotel, who got suddenly into rank and waited 
 for their orders, amused them. For the landlords their 
 landing was a signal to make all the hay they could 
 while the sun was shining. 
 
 Not the cabbage-leaf papers alone, but the great jour- 
 nals also, printed Ethel's name. At least, she concluded 
 this must be the case one day when she remained on board 
 while Will and the others visited the museum at Pa- 
 lermo. Ethel had letters to write and sat herself down 
 near the music-room under an awning. The yacht was 
 moored beside a great steamer for tourists. Without 
 being seen she could hear, above her head, the talk of 
 these cosmopolitan people, familiar with the Pyramids 
 and the Acropolis, the Smyrna bazaars and Monte 
 Carlo. The whole international swarm knew the Co- 
 lumbia by name. On the steamer they were talking 
 travel and trade and the weather. Ethel heard her 
 name pronounced along with the rest. They were dis- 
 cussing her probable marriage with the Duke of Mor- 
 gania "a glorious name in Europe." "Do you know 
 what Chartered is quoted at on the Stock Exchange?" 
 "They '11 be a magnificent couple!" "The big Pyra- 
 mid is seven hundred feet less than the Eiffel Tower." 
 "She 'd be a charming duchess!" "The best chance 
 Morgania ever had ! ' ' 
 
 Then all the voices were lost in the siren's wailing,
 
 ; She dreamed uiider a sky studded with stars "
 
 ON THE BLUE SEA 391 
 
 long drawn out. The steamer shook itself gently, and 
 issued from the port, leaving Ethel in a reverie. 
 
 ' ' Reigning duchess ! Queen of Antioch ! Lady Knight 
 of Malta!" All this she acknowledged it to herself 
 had already passed through her brain. It had even 
 amused her to see how timid the duke was in her pres- 
 ence. She had to say but a word, not even that, 
 merely to encourage him with a smile, to see him at her 
 feet. But the newspapers were in too great a hurry. 
 They spoke of something that was not yet decided. She 
 would see; she had never so well appreciated her power 
 as since her departure from Marseilles. Everybody in 
 the world seemed to know her. True enough, across the 
 Red Sea and India and Japan, everywhere, to the other 
 side of the earth, as far as 'Frisco, it would have been 
 just the same. 
 
 The voyage continued tranquilly. Villages at the 
 foot of the rugged Calabrian cliffs saw the yacht pass- 
 ing by, white upon the blue sea, or at night shining with 
 lights like a meteor. 
 
 At that hour, most of all after dinner, it was pleas- 
 ant on the bridge. Will walked backward and forward, 
 and smoked his cigar. Grandma, half asleep, looked at 
 the sea, which reminded her of her Western prairies. 
 At her side, to give her pleasure, Phil picked his banjo. 
 Caracal was bored ; he had verified the fact that no one 
 had yet opened his book. 
 
 Ethel had other things to do. Stretched out in her 
 bamboo chair, she dreamed under a sky studded with 
 stars.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 ETHEL'S VICTORY 
 
 PHIL, ever since the day of the hunt, had also been 
 living in a dream. 
 He was sure that Ethel knew nothing of his 
 past. He even suspected the events to which she had al- 
 luded, for he knew Will 's story well. Moreover, she had 
 since then shown herself more amiable than ever to him. 
 He might have thought himself more encouraged than 
 ever to pay her court and to forget Helia more and 
 more. But just the contrary happened. Within him- 
 self he felt a passion storm going on, with sudden illu- 
 mination of vivid lightning flashes. Then all sank 
 back into shadow. 
 
 He no longer dared look Helia in the face. Under 
 Ethel's clear eyes his conscience had awakened. 
 
 One evening, weary of the ideas that beset him, Phil 
 had thrown himself on a sofa in the music-room, when 
 he saw Ethel enter, seat herself, and absently take up 
 a book which chanced to be lying there. She cut one 
 page and looked through it, two pages, ten pages. 
 Then, suddenly, she arose angrily. Phil was as- 
 tounded. 
 
 "Do you understand?" Ethel asked him. "He dares
 
 ETHEL'S VICTORY 393 
 
 to offer me this filthy book with the author's compli- 
 ments ! I have only read a few lines, and it nauseates 
 me." 
 
 "Of what book are you speaking, Miss Rowrer?" 
 Phil asked. 
 
 "Of 'The House of Glass,' which Caracal has dared 
 to offer me." And Ethel showed Phil the volume, with 
 its modern-style cover decorated by creeping plants and 
 monkeys' tails. 
 
 "Would you believe it?" Ethel continued. "The 
 poor fool is trying to be gallant with me. Every day 
 he composes a sonnet in my honor. There 's no great 
 harm in that ; but since he is the author of ' The House 
 of Glass,' it has another meaning. Here, Phil, take the 
 book, I beg of you, and throw it overboard. But, wait 
 a minute, we '11 throw to-day's sonnet with it. Only 
 give me time to open the envelop you '11 see how gro- 
 tesque it is. ' ' 
 
 Ethel opened the envelop, but she had scarcely 
 glanced through the letter it contained when she grew 
 pale with wrath and pride. 
 
 "What an outrage!" she exclaimed, in her fury. 
 "See, Phil, Caracal made a mistake in addressing his 
 envelop. He has sent the sonnet on to Paris and put 
 here, instead of it,, a letter to Vieillecloche. Richard 
 the Lion-hearted! Those attacks which vexed me so, 
 they came from him. He has a family arrangement 
 for it with Vieillecloche. Look, Phil, read, read ! What 
 do you think of that? Is it not infamous? He attacks 
 us for pay ! ' ' 
 
 Phil was indignant. The letter left no possible doubt.
 
 394 FATA MORGANA 
 
 He already could see Caracal disembarked in a hurry 
 at the first port, and going down the gangway crushed 
 by his shame. 
 
 "But he also attacked you once, Phil. How is it you 
 did n't pull his ears?" 
 
 "That was my great desire!" answered Phil. 
 
 "But you did not do it!" 
 
 "Let me tell you 
 
 "You did not do it!" 
 
 Phil, without changing a detail, told the whole story 
 the rage which had pushed him on to hunt for Cara- 
 cal, and his feelings at sight of the poor creature a prey 
 to his own dreams, with anguish on his tear-stained 
 face. 
 
 "That is why I did not do it, Miss Rowrer," said Phil. 
 
 " Ah ! " Ethel exclaimed, as she looked at Phil. 
 
 There was a moment of silence. 
 
 "Throw book and letter into the sea," Ethel con- 
 cluded. "And, I beseech you, not a word of all this 
 to any one!" 
 
 Phil went away, and Ethel remained alone. Within 
 her there was something like a hurricane. What ! those 
 men, those man-monkeys who had been harassing her 
 ever since she came to Paris, it was all to make her 
 buy their silence. How infamous! It humiliated her 
 to see such obscure names mixed up with her life. And 
 one of them was under obligations to her, living under 
 her roof and sitting at her table ! And it was he who 
 offered her a book which might have been written by 
 a drunken ape ! Ah ! if she had only known of his 
 special talents, he would not be there now that public
 
 1 She arose augrily "
 
 ETHEL'S VICTORY 397 
 
 malefactor, that little round-shouldered wretch, who 
 dared to write her sonnets ! What should she do with 
 Caracal? Abandon him on a desert island? Or simply 
 throw him into the water? No, not that. Hang him to 
 the mast like a pirate? Come, now she would not 
 trouble her brain hunting condign punishments for him. 
 She left the music-room, and walked on the deck; and 
 at last, as if to wind up her long monologue with her- 
 self, she concluded: "Caracal is crazy!" 
 
 This idea, which put anger to one side and left room 
 for pity, restored to Ethel her self-possession. "I will 
 deal with him later on," she said. 
 
 The immense distance between herself and such a 
 man appeared to her all at once. Caracal seemed very 
 little to her. And what moral wretchedness! All his 
 energy was aimed at obtaining money, and he did not 
 even succeed ! And how punished he would ' be some 
 day, when he should see his bad actions taking root and 
 growing, and their poison doing its work. 
 
 Could she even understand the case? Who could 
 ever know the extreme need, the passions which urge 
 on a man like Caracal? Perhaps his was not consum- 
 mate vice ; perhaps he would repent some day. He was 
 poor and alone, and she was powerful and rich, and 
 perhaps might be a reigning duchess to-morrow if she 
 would only say yes with a nod. Yet here she was al- 
 lowing herself to be embittered by the snarling of a 
 poor fool. A queen, and she could not pardon ! Phil 
 had been more generous and humane than she ! 
 
 She made a great effort to conquer her remorseless 
 attitude and won.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A CASTLE OF THE ADRIATIC 
 
 WHEN the yacht moored in front of the ducal 
 castle of Morgania, Morgana was surely ab- 
 sent, for no fantastic mirage welcomed their 
 coming. Out of courtesy to the duke, a salvo of cannon 
 was fired from the yacht ; and the salute was returned, 
 shot by shot, from the bastion. 
 
 "Poor duke!" said grandma. "We are making him 
 waste his powder!" 
 
 The yachting-party witnessed, indeed, a grand spec- 
 tacle. It was the country itself, with the forests in its 
 valleys and its uplands ragged with wild rocks. You 
 could imagine paths winding around precipices, and 
 rivulets falling down the crags like shining swords. 
 High up and far away, with its base lost in the mist 
 and its summit lighted by the fays of the sun, the 
 Kutsch-kom Mountain closed in the horizon. 
 
 The port was at the end of a gulf, with two gigantic 
 cliffs reaching out at the sides. The yachting-party was 
 still fresh from their view of the white terraces of the 
 Achilleion of Corfu, with its marble statues and its 
 orange-trees; and they looked with astonishment at this 
 corner full of shadows, with the thousand-year-old castle
 
 A CASTLE OF THE ADRIATIC 399 
 
 perched upon its rock. It was seated on lofty and solid 
 buttresses. A rampart flanked by thick bastions de- 
 fended it; and stunted box-trees stretched over it their 
 dark branches. Behind, wide, deep passages led up to 
 battlemented towers. 
 
 At its feet the little city interlaced its narrow streets. 
 You felt that it was builded in feudal times, and had 
 been constructed under the master's eye, and by his 
 orders. Later, it had pushed back its walls and extended 
 into the plain. A dike by the beach, strewn with fallen 
 boulders, sheltered it against the sea. A road up an 
 embankment, broken by intervals of steps, led up from 
 the city to the castle. Everything seemed weighted down 
 with the years, the Byzantine domes of churches, Ori- 
 ental minarets, Frankish towers; everywhere you felt 
 the succession of the ages. 
 
 "It is a romantic country," said Ethel. "There is 
 no need of a mirage to believe one 's self in the heart of 
 the Middle Ages. We have only to look at the setting of 
 the scene to be transported centuries back. All these old 
 things must reek with superstition. If you stayed here 
 long, Will, you, too, would end by believing in Mor- 
 gana. See," added Ethel, as amused as a child, "see, 
 she is smiling at us ! That shining point up there, above 
 the Gothic portal it is Morgana 's window, the win- 
 dow the duke was telling us about, do you remember, 
 grandma? Up there, in the tower front!" 
 
 Everybody looked where she was pointing, but just 
 then the reflection of the sun's rays disappeared, and 
 the window was quenched in shadow. 
 
 The bells of the city, ringing the Angelus in the
 
 400 FATA MORGANA 
 
 evening calm, sounded like a salutation to Morgana. 
 They had seen Loreto and its Casa Santa, brought 
 thither by angels ; the cathedral church of San Ciriaco, 
 in Ancona, once a temple of Venus; Ravenna, where 
 the heroine Amalberga was deified ; Venice, protected 
 by its winged lions. So, after their long cruise in this 
 sea of legend, they came well prepared to study the 
 people's superstitions and the folk-lore of Morgania. 
 They tasted, in anticipation, the pleasure of seeing the 
 daily life of the castle, wherein there had been no change 
 for centuries. 
 
 Every one seemed to have important things to do. On 
 the morrow Phil was to put his Morgana picture in 
 place, and retouch it on the spot. Ethel and Will were 
 to go on an excursion. Caracal would delve into 
 ducal archives. Grandma was already Uase on these 
 cities of pigmies, wherein music takes the place of the 
 noise of foundries, and where men sleep with their heads 
 in the shade and their feet in the sun while they digest 
 their garlic. Grandma would remain on deck and look 
 at Morgania over her glasses. 
 
 "I hope, M. Caracal, you will write a book on 
 Morgania and its folk-lore," said Ethel. "You would 
 find pathetic things into which this people must have put 
 their love and faith. It would be a rest after the cruel 
 studies which you devote, it seems, to modern society." 
 
 In her manner of speaking to Caracal, it was per- 
 ceptible that Ethel wished to be merciful. That evening 
 when she had discovered everything, Phil hardly dared 
 come up on deck ; but the next day he was greatly sur- 
 prised to find Ethel as smiling as ever, and Caracal
 
 A CASTLE OF THE ADRIATIC 401 
 
 amiable as usual. Ethel was even talking with interest 
 to Caracal, asking questions and seeming to study the 
 man. 
 
 From the dining-room, through the port-holes, they 
 could see the gray mass of towers. A few lights were 
 shining along the hills ; and beyond stretched away a 
 great wall of rocks and the somber woods. The yacht- 
 ing-party admired the grandeur of the landscape as they 
 ate their peach ice-cream. 
 
 "I want to see the sorceress," said Ethel, "provided 
 they don't accuse me of wishing to take her off to Amer- 
 ica like Richard the Lion-hearted." 
 
 "As for me," said Helia, "I should dearly like to see 
 the defile where Morgana stopped the invasion." 
 
 "We shall go together," answered Ethel; "and I 
 hope the gentlemen will accompany us. For me, it is 
 a place of pilgrimage ; it will do us good to compare our 
 useless lives with that of the heroine. We shall gather 
 from it resolution to be brave and energetic, without 
 prejudice, of course, to our right to cry out for the least 
 little ache. Never mind ; for a few hours we shall have 
 understood what duty is." 
 
 "But duty does n't always mean that one should 
 fight," said Phil. "It takes other forms as well." 
 
 "It always consists in fighting," said Ethel; "but 
 not always against some one else oftenest it is against 
 ourselves. ' ' 
 
 "There is no one slain in that case," remarked Cara- 
 cal. "The blows we strike ourselves are never mortal 
 we are careful to strike with the flat of the blade ! ' ' 
 
 "That 's the way they punish cowards," said Ethel.
 
 402 FATA MORGANA 
 
 They were interrupted by a lackey announcing the 
 coming of the Duke of Morgania. 
 
 They had just finished dining, and they went up on 
 deck to receive the duke. Helia and Sceurette retired. 
 
 Without, everything was in shadow. A dense crowd 
 thronged the jetty. The searchlight of the yacht threw 
 its rays upon the shore and brought out here and there 
 white minarets and roofs and domes. A swarm of people 
 men, women, and children half blinded by the light, 
 stared at the yacht. The shining of their eyes could be 
 seen; here there was the glitter of a poniard-handle, 
 and there the glow of silver buckles. There were men in 
 great drugget cloaks over their white fustanelle, and 
 women clad in long red garments, which fell straight as 
 on figures in shrines. Anxious faces might be seen, with 
 scared expressions; and from the crowd, pressed to- 
 gether like a herd, mounted up a confused murmur. 
 
 The word of command was heard; and there was a 
 sound of oars striking the water. A small boat came 
 alongside, a rope was thrown out, and the ladder low- 
 ered; and Monseigneur, the Duke of Morgania, came 
 up. The light fell full upon him. The dufce bowed re- 
 spectfully to the ladies, and shook the men by the hand, 
 like a boon companion. 
 
 "I 'm not putting you out too much, I hope?" 
 
 "We are delighted to see you," said grandma. "Come 
 into the music-room." 
 
 "Don't be alarmed, monseigneur ; we shall not have 
 music ! ' ' added Ethel. 
 
 "You are right," said the duke; "no music is worth 
 the sound of friendly voices. How happy I am to see
 
 A CASTLE OF THE ADRIATIC 403 
 
 you again! I thank you for coming, I seem to be 
 leaving my exile." 
 
 The descendant of Morgana and of Rhoda'is offered 
 his arm to grandma, to enter the salon. As soon as 
 they were seated, conversation began, as if they had 
 left each other but the day before ; it was familiar and 
 gay, as among members of the same social world. 
 
 "What is the news in Paris?" 
 
 "We do not come from there. Talk to us about the 
 sorceress," said Ethel. 
 
 * ' On the contrary, let us not speak of her ! The coun- 
 try is upside down ; every one is losing his head. I should 
 not be astonished if, to-morrow, when the people see you, 
 they should all cry, 'Morgana!' ' 
 
 "Why, that would amuse me immensely!" said Ethel. 
 "How is it possible for you to be bored in such a coun- 
 try? It must be always interesting." 
 
 "Oh, very, very interesting!" said the duke. "But 
 I should prefer something else." 
 
 "And yet, to lead the people! and then, what about 
 your heroines, Morgana and Rhoda'is and Bertha, all 
 those valiant women?" 
 
 "Ah! that 's what we need nowadays," said the duke. 
 "Perhaps one valiant woman like those ancestors of 
 mine would save Morgania ! ' ' 
 
 "Is Morgania threatened to that degree?" asked 
 Ethel. "We were counting on long excursions into the 
 interior." 
 
 "You come at a bad time for that, Miss Rowrer!" 
 
 In a few words he gave an impressive description of 
 the state of the country. Everywhere was the expecta-
 
 404 FATA MORGANA 
 
 tion of war, with all its disquiet. Fields were unculti- 
 vated, and the region of the Moratscha was already all 
 but emptied of its inhabitants. Bands of fugitives were 
 coming in every day, with a pitiful procession of Chris- 
 tians, chased from Albania by the Turks. "You speak 
 of excursions to the Castellum. I greatly fear you 'd 
 not be able to do water-color sketches there. At most 
 you might take kodak shots at brutes always ready to 
 fire on strangers and pillage them. The state of things 
 is insupportable. However, I will have you accompanied 
 by a squad of soldiers." 
 
 "How will it all end?" Phil asked. 
 
 "I count on the aid of the Great Powers," said the 
 duke. 
 
 Will and Phil could not help smiling. The duke him- 
 self watched the smoke of his cigar with an enigmatic 
 air. Perhaps he saw in it the image of the stability 
 and fixity of design of the Great Powers. 
 
 ' ' Don 't count too much on them, ' ' said Will. 
 
 "Meanwhile," the duke added, "you must consider 
 yourselves quite safe in my stronghold, where I shall be 
 greatly honored to offer you hospitality. Your rooms 
 will be as large as churches, and you shall have an im- 
 mense stone staircase for yourselves alone." 
 
 "You must be kind enough to excuse me, Monsieur le 
 Due," said grandma. 
 
 "Well, Morgania is yours!" the duke answered, as he 
 rose to take his departure. "I shall be only too happy 
 to be useful to you, you must dispose of me at your 
 pleasure ! ' '
 
 A CASTLE OF THE ADRIATIC 405 
 
 As the duke crossed the threshold, he saw Soeurette 
 running by. 
 
 "I know that child," said the duke. 
 
 "And her sister also!" Ethel said, repressing a smile, 
 for Parisian gossip had informed her of the duke's ad- 
 miration for Helia. "She is on board, traveling with 
 us." 
 
 "Let her, too, come to the castle," said the duke. 
 "The little girl will be charming company for my son; 
 his life is not any too gay, and with these continual 
 troubles the future is still darker for a ducal heir." 
 
 "Poor child!" said grandma. 
 
 The duke, before he left them, insisted again on the 
 danger of excursions. He was getting ready to go down 
 when Helia appeared, looking for Soeurette. 
 
 "Mile. Helia," said the duke, "I am happy to see you 
 again," and he bowed to her with his perfect tact. 
 
 Helia had heard the end of the conversation. She 
 came just as the duke was speaking of a possible in- 
 vasion. 
 
 "And you, Mile. Helia," he added, with a smiling air 
 of protection, "what would you do if you were attacked? 
 You know there is going to be fighting in our country." 
 
 "That 's very easily settled, monseigneur, " Helia 
 said, with a voice in which there was a thrill as of self- 
 sacrifice. "If there 's question of fighting, I will do my 
 part!" 
 
 "What an Amazon!" the duke said, looking at Helia 
 with a smile. "So if the occasion demanded you would 
 do like my ancestresses : you 'd sleep on the mountain-
 
 406 FATA MORGANA 
 
 side, in the snow and rain night and day, to give an 
 example ! ' ' 
 
 "Yes, monseigneur, " said Helia. 
 
 The duke made his final bows, with a diplomatic sense 
 of degrees answering to the differences of rank between 
 grandma and Ethel and Helia, and then went down to 
 his boat, which was rowed rapidly away. 
 
 There was not a cheer on the shore for the duke. A 
 dull silence reigned on the jetty, broken only by con- 
 fused expressions of anxiety. Fingers pointed to the 
 yacht, as if to say, "What is it?" No doubt they im- 
 agined it to be some powerful envoy of the great nations. 
 Meanwhile the duke disappeared in the night. 
 
 The searchlight wavered for a moment, and then 
 fell on the castle. The people on the jetty were no 
 longer visible, lost in the shadow. But the murmur of 
 the crowd was still heard, and a dim reflected light 
 gave the city a phantasmal look, while beyond might 
 be divined the deserted country, the mountains and 
 valleys. 
 
 "I don't understand the duke," said Ethel, in a low 
 voice. "He should be thrilled at the thought of re- 
 creating a people. The duke must be wanting in reso- 
 lution. I seem to see him in his castle regulating ques- 
 tions of etiquette, brightening up a little the faded gilt 
 of his stage-setting, and regretting Paris a stranger to 
 his people 's aspirations. Yet how many things are to be 
 done here wretchedness to console, ignorance to en- 
 lighten! In his place I would never have waited for 
 them to come to fetch me back from Paris. ' ' 
 
 Ethel suddenly interrupted herself. "See!'" she
 
 The {Searchlight on the Castle
 
 A CASTLE OF THE ADRIATIC 409 
 
 called to Will and grandma, "see, Morgana smiles to us 
 again! See the light yonder, behind Helia!" 
 
 Just then the searchlight illumined the top of the 
 Gothic portal. The Morgana window glittered through 
 the night. 
 
 "Do not stir, I entreat you!" Ethel said to Helia. 
 ' ' The window throws a halo around you ! ' ' 
 
 Indeed, they could see the dark profile of Helia in 
 relief against the glittering background. She was su- 
 perb, standing upright, with her head raised proudly, 
 and one hand grasping a ratline of the mast. She 
 looked as if she were wielding an immense lance, like a 
 warrior-woman of heroic days.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE LITTLE DUKE 
 
 THE next day, as they entered the Hall of the An- 
 cestors, grandma dropped the duke's arm to seat 
 herself in a great chair. But the chair was in 
 carved wood and very hard. Decidedly, this was a feudal 
 castle, and much less comfortable than a Chicago home. 
 
 Ethel thanked the little Adalbert with a big kiss. The 
 child, accompanied by his father, had been the guide 
 of Ethel and grandma. He had climbed up and down 
 steps too high for him ; but Ethel gave him her hand ; 
 and the child explained and mentioned names, as he 
 showed mosaics and statues in the crypt. "My grand- 
 father, Amalfrid IX, my ancestor Enguerrand, Lady 
 Rhodais, Bertha, St. Morgana"; one would have said 
 he was the familiar genius of the place, a little wandering 
 soul of the dead, doing to the living the honors of the 
 past. 
 
 When they issued forth from these gloomy vaults, 
 Adalbert hastened to go off and play with Sceurette 
 behind the pillars of the great hall. 
 
 For some days the place was the scene of constant 
 festivity. The noise of laughter was heard; there was 
 talk and the movement of life, and roses garnished the 
 
 410
 
 THE LITTLE DUKE 411 
 
 vases. Servants carried back and forth cakes and fruits. 
 At times, beneath the arches, there rolled an uncertain 
 harmony, it was Ethel trying the old piano. 
 
 What a change for Adalbert, who was used to being 
 alone with his aged tutor. Until then his walks along 
 the ramparts, amid the box-trees twisted by the wind, 
 had been his chief amusement. How often he had wished 
 to go down and untie the old boat moored at the foot of 
 the wall, and sail out into the bay ! 
 
 But the duke, with all his frequent traveling, had 
 the child whom he adored looked after with the greatest 
 care. It was the last of his race, their last hope. If 
 the child should die, to which of his powerful neigh- 
 bors would the duchy fall as a prey ? So the child grew 
 up in the old castle with the portraits of his forefathers 
 looking down at him ; and his imagination awoke to the 
 recital of ancient legends. In his dreams by night he 
 saw gentle visions bending over him. Now, all had grown 
 alive, and the visions were realities. There were big 
 friends to dance him on their knees; there was a kind 
 old fairy speaking softly to him in a foreign tongue. 
 Two young maidens, more beautiful than those of his 
 dreams, took him in their arms; and for playmates he 
 had a delightful little girl who taught him games and 
 called him Monseigneur. Ethel looked at Adalbert play- 
 ing with Sceurette; the child was bright and gay, and 
 she complimented the duke. 
 
 "It is because your visit gives him such pleasure," 
 said the duke, "as much as to me, were it possible! I 
 don't know what he will do when you go away, poor 
 Adalbert! He will be very sorry."
 
 412 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Ethel looked thoughtful. The duke leaned over the 
 back of her chair, and, so as to be heard by her alone, 
 spoke slowly : 
 
 "It will be his apprenticeship in life. Separation 
 from what one loves most in the world that is where 
 everything ends; and yet, perhaps " 
 
 Ethel did not answer, but remained with her head 
 resting on her hand. She understood quite well what 
 the duke wished to say. She looked aimlessly before her, 
 thinking of all that she had seen, of all these parade- 
 rooms and chambres d'honneur, and the gloomy stair- 
 ways. The gallery, adorned with portraits and suits of 
 heavy armor, haunted her. The donjons and courtyards, 
 the bastions and the moat and rusty drawbridge, she 
 saw it all in her mind. In the old time, on festive days, 
 what a grand air it must all have had, with the heralds' 
 trumpets, with banqueting and tournaments, where fair 
 duchesses crowned those who vanquished! Or, again, 
 at the home-coming from the wars, when the Lady Knight 
 of Malta, Queen of Antioch, saluted with her sword the 
 torn banners! What a magnificent opportunity there 
 would be to bring this all back to sight, if she should 
 make Morgania live again with her millions ! The castle 
 could be made the most princely abode in Europe. But 
 she wished to know more of Duke Conrad. She wished 
 to judge of him without being dazzled by his titles. 
 She was not to marry ancestors, but a husband whom she 
 might love ! 
 
 "Your castle is as big as a mountain," she said to the 
 duke; "you go up and go down. I am now in full 
 training for my excursion to the Roman .ruins, and to
 
 THE LITTLE DUKE 415 
 
 that not less venerable ruin, the sorceress. When shall 
 we go, monseigneur ? " 
 
 "Presently," said the duke, as he pointed to pack- 
 ages and luggage by the door of the hall. "But if I 
 were you, I would not go to Drina," he added earnestly. 
 
 "Do you fear for the escort which accompanies us?" 
 said Ethel, with a smile. 
 
 ' ' No ; but if harm should come to you, what grief for 
 me!" replied the duke. 
 
 "Nothing will happen to us!" said Ethel. "And 
 then, can you imagine me going back to Chicago without 
 having had a single kodak-shot at brigands from na- 
 ture?" 
 
 "I am unable to accompany you, and I regret it," 
 said the duke. "I have to make an inspection of the 
 coast, and I ought also to receive a delegation of the 
 people. ' ' 
 
 "We shall go alone," said Ethel. "St. Morgana will 
 protect us." 
 
 Something happened which greatly amused Ethel and 
 grandma ; and the duke himself could not help smiling. 
 Adalbert broke off his play with Soeurette, and came 
 running to his father. He looked in turn at the Mor- 
 gana of the picture and at Helia, who was sitting near it. 
 The great canvas, illuminated by the stained-glass win- 
 dow, harmonized splendidly with the hall. At the dis- 
 tance where Ethel and the duke were placed, there was 
 nothing to hide the view of the painting. They saw 
 all its details, even the crowd which Phil had depicted 
 along the shore; it might have been the same crowd 
 which thronged the jetty the evening of the yacht's ar-
 
 416 FATA MORGANA 
 
 rival, when the booming of the cannon drew the people 
 to the sea. 
 
 But the crowd in Phil's picture was more animated 
 and gay. Instead of the gloom of discouragement, it 
 seemed transfigured by hope. It acclaimed the heroine ; 
 Rhoda'is and Bertha and Thilda, with swords in their 
 hands, appeared amid the clouds. Everything in the 
 magnificent picture was strange and supernatural. 
 
 The child had just been struck by the resemblance be- 
 tween the model and the portrait of Morgana ; his aston- 
 ishment was touching, as he looked from one to the 
 other. He asked himself if the ancient legends were not 
 realized at last! if Morgana herself had not risen again 
 from the past, to be painted by Phil. 
 
 "My father," said the child to the duke, "is it really 
 Morgana? Tell me!" 
 
 "What a child!" answered the duke, taking him in 
 his arms to kiss him. "He believes that Mile. Helia 
 is Morgana." And he looked at Ethel as if to say, "I 
 know full well who Morgana is it is you!"
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 VISITING THE SORCERESS 
 
 THE conveyance and escort for Ethel, with Suzanne 
 and Helia, were awaiting them at the other side 
 of the city. There were also horses for Will and 
 Phil. Sceurette was to remain behind, to keep company 
 with the little Monseigneur. Grandma returned to the 
 yacht, quite out of sympathy with living in old castles 
 which have plenty of stairways but no elevators. 
 
 Ethel had already seen the city; yet she had an ever 
 new pleasure in these comings and goings. Her inquisi- 
 tiveness was satisfied to the full. She was making stud- 
 ies of a population as ignorant as it was unknown, an- 
 chored to its old-time customs, and closed in by its moun- 
 tains, like monks within their cloisters. Yet beneath 
 all this torpor one could feel unconquerable pride and 
 love of vengeance and of glory. 
 
 These motionless shopkeepers would sell you a pair 
 of slippers or a whole outfit of pistols and daggers for 
 the belt. All these warlike accoutrements were amuse- 
 ments to Ethel ; she found them even on the porter who 
 peacefully brought her packages from the hall of the 
 throne to the carriage. 
 
 As soon as they had come down from the castle, after 
 417
 
 418 FATA MORGANA 
 
 turning back a last time to salute the duke, whom eti- 
 quette bound to the ramparts, along with Caracal, the 
 party entering the town seemed passing through a 
 haunt of brigands. Pieces of basket-work hung before 
 the shops. Suspended on nails in the shade were the 
 bridles of horses, shining with brass, and red leather 
 saddles, and swords. Savage eyes looked out to see 
 them go by. 
 
 The season for heavy siestas had passed. All the day 
 long the crowd thronged the street. Shepherds, clad in 
 hairy goatskins and shod with leather sandals, mingled 
 with soldiers, at whose side was slung long Albanian 
 rifles. They talked politics as they drank their coffee. 
 
 Others displayed the cylindric turban, the knit silken 
 girdle, and the dagger-sheath of brass. Women with 
 knit boots, and dressed in scarlet embroidered with 
 arabesques, sang to the accompaniment of the guzla 
 that lyre with its single string made of twisted hair. 
 They droned out a psalmody of mountaineers, recalling 
 the ancient glories of their country. 
 
 Adalbert's tutor, who accompanied the party, trans- 
 lated and explained the songs. 
 
 The blood sprang to the cheeks of the impetuous queen ; 
 Then every soldier satisfied his vengeance ; 
 None like Morgana ! 
 
 Swift and daring she struck this one and pierced that one ! 
 Ah, she poured out to her enemies a bitter drink ! 
 Thus they all perished ! 
 
 Everywhere the impassioned looks and voices of the 
 crowd made them feel that war was near. All these
 
 VISITING THE SORCERESS 419 
 
 peasants, coming from different regions, were stirred by 
 a common desire to see the return of the heroic days 
 when Morgana and Rhodai's and the great ancestresses 
 had led the people to victory. 
 
 Every one in the street drew aside as the party passed. 
 The rumor had run that a queen was to visit the duke 
 a young maiden from unknown lands beyond the sea, 
 where the sun sets. Which one was it ? Ethel or Helia ? 
 Perhaps both? The people were in admiration at their 
 noble air. Women grown prematurely old in the harsh 
 labor of the fields were in ecstasy at their beauty. To 
 them the two young girls seemed of a higher race, like 
 that of the saints and heroines in the stained-glass win- 
 dows of their churches; they followed them with their 
 eyes, and took up again their chants in honor of Mor- 
 gana. 
 
 Morgana was the universal inspiration; she was 
 everywhere. In the back of gloomy shops icons were 
 to be seen St. Morgana, with the Virgin, dimly lighted 
 by a burning float. There was something touching in 
 the faith which this people had in their national legends. 
 
 Ethel appreciated the silence of the crowd on the 
 jetty that evening when the duke quitted the yacht. 
 No; his people did not recognize themselves in him. 
 They still had a certain respect for him, for the sake 
 of his glorious ancestors; but the people were prepared 
 to abandon him, and to take shelter in their dreams. 
 
 One would have said that the power of the state was 
 no longer in the ducal castle, but far away by the spurs 
 of the Kutsch-kom Mountain, where lived the sorceress, 
 the primitive oracle of her race. They paid no atten-
 
 420 FATA MORGANA 
 
 tion to their effeminate master, and listened only to this 
 ancestral voice, that foretold national happiness. 
 
 "Phil," said Ethel, "you know the proverb, 'When 
 you are in Rome, do as the Romans do.' It 's a useless 
 recommendation, for we can't help doing it. But even 
 if we don't act like this people, we are rather Morganian 
 in our thoughts, are we not? And it is the women who 
 interest me chiefly," Ethel continued. "It is their 
 heroines whose remembrance fills the people with a 
 hope beyond realization. And yet what if it should 
 be realized? We can never be certain." 
 
 Phil was silent, Helia was at his side. 
 
 "You look a little tired," Ethel said to her. 
 
 Phil took Helia 's arm ; and they walked together, talk- 
 ing little, making indifferent remarks to each other, each 
 alone with his own innermost thoughts. They were 
 leaving the weavers' street for that of the armorers. 
 
 "There is enough here to cut the throats of a nation!" 
 Phil could not help observing. 
 
 They were between the lines of shops. The sun's rays 
 fell straight down, striking flashes from the niello work 
 of the rifles, from the ivory of the Albanese pistols, 
 and from the clusters of daggers hanging from their 
 hooks. They were of every form and size : the Malay 
 creese, curved zigzag like a lightning-flash ; Venetian 
 stilettos, as pointed as a bee's sting; and others pierced 
 with holes, for their amalgam of arsenic and grease, 
 looking like blotches. Besides the slender, elegant blade 
 to be worn at the garter, there were horn-handled knives, 
 real bandits' weapons, made to stick into the back. 
 
 Phil thought of the landscape he had painted for
 
 
 ./a 
 
 : Does the sight of so many weapons make you nervous? 1
 
 VISITING THE SORCERESS 423 
 
 Ethel when he had come from the circus, and of the 
 man who had sought for a knife in his pocket, threat- 
 ening Helia from a distance. 
 
 That very moment, as if some mysterious sympathy 
 had been set up between Helia and himself, he felt the 
 young girl's arm tremble in his own. Helia pressed 
 against him in a movement of unreasoned fear. 
 
 "What is the matter, Helia?" he asked. "Does the 
 sight of so many weapons make you nervous?" 
 
 ' ' No, it is not that, ' ' said Helia, looking at the market- 
 place thronged with people. 
 
 "What are you looking at?" Phil insisted. "Has 
 any one frightened you? Do me the honor to fear no- 
 thing when on my arm, Helia!" 
 
 "Oh! I am afraid of nothing," answered Helia. 
 ' ' Forgive me ! it was surprise. I thought I saw some 
 one, recognized some one ; but no, I must be crazy ' ' 
 
 "You have seen some one? Whom?" 
 
 Helia was on the point of answering, ' ' Socrate ! ' ' but 
 she did not pronounce the name. Already he had been 
 spoken of too much between her and Phil. Besides, she 
 no longer could see the man. Yet she would have sworn 
 that but now, there, behind that group, she had beheld 
 the flat face of Socrate looking at her stealthily. It 
 must have been an illusion. Was she now going to meet 
 Socrate everywhere? Already, on board the yacht, one 
 evening when she was looking from the deck into the 
 boiler-room, she thought she had seen him in the red 
 rays of the fires with his eyes lifted toward her, shin- 
 ing from a face black with coal-dust. Surely, it must 
 have been because, when they left Marseilles, Suzanne
 
 424 FATA MORGANA 
 
 burst into laughter, saying: "See the stokers they are 
 taking on! There is one who looks like Socrate!" 
 
 "Do you wish me to find out?" Phil asked. 
 
 "No ; remain here, Phil here, at my side. It was just 
 an idea I had but do not leave me," she added, pressing 
 against him once more. 
 
 "A woman's idea!" 'thought Phil. "I can under- 
 stand it, in this country where they sell daggers in clus* 
 ters as they sell bananas with us." 
 
 The attention of both was drawn away by a change of 
 scene. They had left the city behind them and were 
 already in the open country. Peasants were driving 
 their mules or pushing carts, with children perched upon 
 bundles of straw and packs of rags. They were com- 
 ing to augment the tumult of those who had taken to 
 the city for refuge. 
 
 "It seems to me we are going the wrong way," said 
 Ethel, laughing; "every one is turning his back to us." 
 
 "Why, we 've just started," said Phil. "We must 
 go on now to the end." 
 
 "Of course," Ethel said, in delight; "and it 's so ex- 
 citing! I 'd go through fire and flames to see some- 
 thing really new. Come, here are our horses waiting 
 for us!" 
 
 "What luck!" cried Suzanne, "we are going to see 
 a sorceress b-r-r-r-r! it sends a shiver down one's back 
 to think of it!" 
 
 This childish outburst put everybody in good humor. 
 Will and Phil mounted their horses. Ethel, Helia, and 
 Suzanne seated themselves on the benches or the lug- 
 gage in the conveyance; and the escort started off.
 
 VISITING THE SORCERESS 425 
 
 They went straight into the mountains. Except the 
 guides and two soldiers in the picturesque costumes 
 of the klephts, white gaiters and short jacket, like 
 that of a bull-fighter, with a fustanelle shirt, no one 
 accompanied the tourists. The tutor had gone back to 
 Adalbert. There was no danger as far as the convent 
 of Semavat Evi, or "House of Heaven," and there a 
 larger escort was awaiting them and would accompany 
 them to the frontier. Ethel asked herself in what con- 
 dition she would reach the place, so shockingly rough was 
 the road. Suzanne, seated on a valise which she named 
 her strapontin (an aisle-seat in a theater), was having 
 immense fun. 
 
 "It 's just like a scene in the Chatelet Theater," she 
 said, pointing to the landscape where the huge castle 
 overlooked the old city huddled together at its feet, with 
 the yacht anchored out in the blue sea. She shook with 
 laughter as the wheel passed over a projecting rock 
 and all but overthrew the conveyance. 
 
 Ethel and Helia looked at the two soldiers marching 
 ahead. The flapping of their fustanelle skirts, when they 
 leaped over the gutters, gave them the air of two bal- 
 let-dancers. The contrast between their brigand heads 
 and the collection of weapons at their belts, and their 
 long, white, agile legs was so comic that Ethel and 
 Helia did not perceive they were going along beside a 
 precipice. The cultivated land was passed, and they 
 could see only tufts of thorny shrubs. Suzanne alone 
 gave a note of gaiety to the bleak landscape. Ethel let 
 her talk on, without listening, and soon Suzanne was si- 
 lent, conquered like the others by the melancholy sight.
 
 426 FATA MORGANA 
 
 The horizon broadened around them, rising up on 
 either side. Below, the plains stretched out far as the 
 eye could reach. The road was like a thread lying 
 along the ground. By this road, at their feet, they 
 would come back from the excursion. Ethel looked 
 with interest at this pathway of so many invasions. The 
 rude mountaineers of Albania had followed it to the sea, 
 and more than once invaders had filled it with the flash- 
 ing of their swords. Who could know whether Mor- 
 gania was not to pass again through such a period of 
 disaster? There was now no living wall to stay the 
 waves. 
 
 The wagon went up and up in endless turnings. Sud- 
 denly, as they crossed a plateau where ragged grass was 
 growing, a chant arose, monotonous and solemn, and 
 repeated by the echoes. On every side they seemed to 
 hear lamentations and groans issuing forth from the 
 earth or falling from the clouds. 
 
 "Where are we?" asked Ethel, stirred from her rev- 
 erie. "I see no one." 
 
 "It is the shepherds over there," said Helia. 
 
 Ethel perceived, in the midst of a lean flock, beside 
 a fire whose smoke mounted straight upward, a group 
 of shepherds singing. It was one of the prismes which 
 they sing from one mountain to the other. Ethel was 
 greatly impressed by these spontaneous chants of the 
 desert. In them, hoarse cries alternated with sharp, 
 high cadences and a quickening measure. An impres- 
 sion of grandeur was left behind by this singing in the 
 solitude. Ethel thought with pity of the old untuned 
 piano in the castle, and of the sound of the banjo, thin
 
 VISITING THE SORCERESS 427 
 
 as the humming of flies among the massive pillars of 
 the throne-room. The castle itself, what was it com- 
 pared with these huge natural towers overlooking the 
 road, with their giant steps made of rocks that had slid 
 down? or to these ravines, like somber courtyards, to 
 these measureless caverns opening like vaults, in the 
 depths of which the schist rock shone like stained-glass 
 windows? And still they mounted up, turning around 
 these strongholds of a country made for liberty. They 
 were approaching the grotto of the sorceress. 
 
 A joyful burst of laughter drew Ethel from her rev- 
 erie. Behind her, seated astride a package, Suzanne waa 
 in an ecstasy of delight. 
 
 "The ballet! oh, Miss Rowrer, the ballet is begin- 
 ning look at the danseuses!" 
 
 Suzanne was choking, stuffing her handkerchief into 
 her mouth not to let herself be heard. 
 
 The two soldiers, won by the music's enthusiasm, were 
 leaping in time with sharp cries, now squatting to 
 earth and now brandishing their rifles, swaying right 
 and left, and twirling their legs while their fustanella 
 skirts stood out straight. Like monkeys drunk with 
 cocoa-milk, they gave inarticulate cries "Too! yoo!" 
 
 "Encore!" cried Suzanne. 
 
 "My kodak!" said Ethel. 
 
 "I 'm sitting on it!" said Suzanne; "I can hear it 
 crack!" 
 
 All their gaiety had come back. Ethel felt the need 
 of shaking off the mysterious influence that had been 
 depressing her since they set out. 
 
 "Really, I 'm too simple," she said; "I shall wind up
 
 428 FATA MORGANA 
 
 by believing in their sorceress. Poor old woman, who 
 will sell us four-leaved clover against thunder, coral 
 horns against the evil eye, fetishes and prayer-mills and 
 garlic pommade." 
 
 1 ' How happy Pouf aille would be here ! ' ' thought Su- 
 zanne. 
 
 "What a journey!" Ethel continued. "What roads! 
 I am all shaken up! At least they ought to build a 
 narrow-gage railroad in such a country ! ' ' she said to 
 Will, who had come up with her. 
 
 ' ' It would n 't pay, ' ' said Will. ' ' But if I owned these 
 mountains I 'd take the ore out of them." 
 
 "Mademoiselle would be very good if she would ask 
 for me a toad's-hair chaplet, " Suzanne said, in a low 
 tone. 
 
 "Ask? From whom? From my brother?" 
 
 ' ' No ! From the old sorceress ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' But toads have n 't hair, Suzanne ! ' ' 
 
 "It was M. Caracal told me." 
 
 "Oh, if you 're going to believe all that he says 
 
 "Poor old woman!" observed Will, "living in 
 such a hole, stuck to her rock like an oyster in its 
 shell!" 
 
 "That does n't prevent her consulting the stars and 
 occupying herself with Jupiter, and knowing a hun- 
 dred and ten ways of foretelling the future." 
 
 "A hundred and ten ways that 's a great deal," re- 
 plied Will. "Which is the best of them all?" 
 
 "Let 's count on our fingers," said Ethel. "I '11 
 begin. Aeromancy, by the air; aleuromancy, by flour; 
 telomancy, by arrows "
 
 VISITING THE SORCERESS 429 
 
 " Dactylomancy, by the fingers; chiromancy, by the 
 hand ; podomancy, by the feet ! ' ' continued Phil. 
 
 "Hydromancy, by water," Ethel began again. 
 " Rhabdomancy, by sticks " 
 
 "That 's for Poufaille," thought Suzanne. "Vive 
 la rhabdomancie!" 
 
 Just then the horses stopped, and the driver turned 
 to the tourists, saying a few words in a low tone of 
 voice and pointing with his finger to a recess in the 
 rock. They had reached their journey's end. All was 
 silent. Ethel, Helia, and Suzanne descended from the 
 vehicle, and Will and Phil leaped from their horses. 
 
 The spot was a wild one. Before them the whole 
 country lay outstretched. Behind them mountains were 
 heaped together. The wind blew, tossing the horses' 
 manes; and the great passing clouds seemed to issue 
 forth from the mountain. 
 
 The visitors took a few steps forward and saw a 
 black hole. It was the cavern. A rough statue of Mor- 
 gana, virgin and martyr, was carved in the living rock. 
 There were heaps of votive offerings around it little 
 figures of children and birds, veils and women's girdles, 
 daggers and flowers and fruits, and the red cake which 
 betrothed ones break before marriage. A peasant wo- 
 man at her prayers, prostrate on the rock at the saint's 
 feet, was praying with the energy of despair, and call- 
 ing for vengeance. 
 
 The visitors kept on advancing, half regretting that 
 they had come. What were they to say to the sorceress ? 
 Ethel, greatly moved, took Phil 's arm. It seemed to her 
 that her own lot was to be decided. She felt her heart
 
 430 FATA MORGANA 
 
 beating as they advanced to the grotto. Helia was at 
 her side. Will was behind with Suzanne. They came 
 to the opening and leaned forward, but saw nothing. 
 
 Little by little their eyes grew accustomed to the dark- 
 ness. They could distinguish, uncertainly, in the depths, 
 eyes that shone and then a figure, huddled together 
 on a bed of rushes, looking at them, motionless, with her 
 finger to her mouth, like a statue of silence ! The eyes, 
 fixed in turn on each of them, suddenly rested upon 
 Helia with a strange glow. 
 
 ' ' Oh, how she looks at me ! ' ' Helia said, seizing Ethel 's 
 arm. "Oh, mon Dieu, if she only will not speak! Let 
 us go away ; I entreat you, let us go away ! I am 
 afraid!" 
 
 They started back, and felt relieved when they were 
 out of sight of the sinister eyes. 
 
 "Let us go," said Ethel. 
 
 At the feet of St. Morgana, the suppliant one was now 
 praying as in an ecstasy.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE FIGHT 
 MISS ETHEL ROWREB TO MLLE. DE GROJEAN 
 
 "On board the Columbia. 
 
 YOU 'LL have to hang yourself, my valorous 
 Yvonne, for we have had our battle without you ! 
 The truth is, we have narrowly escaped being 
 spitted and roasted. That 's a promising beginning, 
 isn't it? Grand 'mere will be delighted that you were 
 not there ; but you will regret it if you read my letter to 
 the end. I say ' if, ' for it 's a whole history. Excuse my 
 writing feverishly, on the gallop ; I am in a hurry to tell 
 you. I promised you an adventure in Morgania and 
 here is one. Only I am not its heroine, alas ! For it is a 
 story of heroism, and that of the purest. As for me, 
 I feel the need of crying aloud my admiration for that 
 noble young girl. Are you curious? It is Helia; you 
 understand Helia! You remember her? She was one 
 of those who * don 't count ' ! 
 
 "I come to the facts. 
 
 "We have left Semavat Eli a Heavenly House, 
 
 wherein we were eaten up by vermin, and served by 
 
 good monks who amused themselves teaching thrushes 
 
 to whistle. The next day, from early morning, as 
 
 431
 
 432 FATA MORGANA 
 
 soon as they had let us down, by the window, if you 
 please, in great wicker baskets (for in this country 
 monasteries have no doors), Suzanne seated herself on 
 my kodak, Helia and I on our valises, Will and Phil 
 straddled their horses, and forward, march! over 
 pointed rocks to Thermopylae! that is, to their Ther- 
 mopylae, which is the defile of the Moratscha. It was 
 a kind of pilgrimage we were doing five in all, not 
 counting our escort of ballet-dancers, who were wait- 
 ing for us at the monastery. By that, I mean soldiers 
 with fustanelle skirts, armed to the teeth, very white 
 teeth in black faces, quite like wolves ! 
 
 "The evening before we 'd climbed up all the way to 
 see the sorceress I ought to say the prophetess, and 
 you must not laugh, I entreat you, for it would give me 
 pain. I was never so affected in my life. From that 
 place to Semavat Eli the country is flat, except for the 
 horrible road. After that, we had to go down and down 
 to the defile along the river Drina. We crossed im- 
 petuous torrents where there was not enough water for 
 a water-color sketch, and forests dry as firewood, all 
 bristling with thorns, so that we could not go near with- 
 out leaving bits of our gowns. It was the abomination 
 of desolation, and down we came, down and down to- 
 ward the plain; and through the plain we came back. 
 For that matter there is nothing to see but ill-cultivated 
 fields and dilapidated houses. 
 
 "It is a country where there are no locks. The duke 
 told me so, to give me an idea of his people's honesty. 
 Suzanne, who is an amusing child, says that doors with- 
 out locks are the invention of poor countries ; and that 
 there are no thieves where there is nothing to steal.
 
 Helia facing the Assailants
 
 THE FIGHT 435 
 
 "At noon we stopped. We ate and rested, and our 
 soldiers sang and danced; and then we were off again. 
 There were more impetuous watercourses of gravel and 
 pebble. There were shepherds watching their goats, 
 and red-haired women carrying burdens on their heads, 
 and looking at us with wide-open mouths. We were 
 near the spot. 
 
 ''Imagine a wild gorge. It was the meeting of two 
 ways, from the mountain and from the plain. Farther 
 along was the river Drina, with its old bridge. That 
 is the end of Morgania, which is protected by its moun- 
 tains, with this defile, like ThermopylaB, as its only en- 
 trance. But, you will ask me, what about Helia? 
 
 " Patience! 
 
 "We had all got down, leaving the horses and wagons 
 in the shade of the defile. I had a fixed idea that I 
 would go to the middle of the frontier bridge, which 
 belongs half to Christ and half to Mohammed, and that I 
 would also visit the Roman ruin and the little Christian 
 village farther on, which has a little belfry like a min- 
 aret. 
 
 ''But as we drew near there were loud cries, and a 
 headlong flight of peasants, their features distorted with 
 fright as they ran past us. Then there was the fire and 
 smoke of a fusillade, the tocsin sounding, and then more 
 cries, frightful cries, the howling of hunted beasts, 
 piercing the ear like a knife. 
 
 "It was all so sudden that we did n't know what to 
 do. We all spoke at once: 'What is it?' 'What shall 
 we do?' 'Shall we defend ourselves?' 'The soldiers!' 
 
 "There were no soldiers fled out of sight! We 
 could barely see their white ballet-skirts leaping away
 
 436 FATA MORGANA 
 
 in every direction. We were going to have our throats 
 cut like sheep ! I remember how at that moment the 
 frightened crowd rushed upon the bridge, and bore us 
 back with it toward the defile. Phil grasped my arm 
 and said to Helia and me : ' Don 't be afraid ; I 'm with 
 you!' There was such fire in his eyes that I felt re- 
 assured. We went back toward the wagon, and I shut 
 my eyes and stuffed my fingers in my ears, letting pass 
 the waves of howling creatures, men, women, and chil- 
 dren, who climbed up on the wagon or slipped beneath 
 it, some leaping up only to fall back with convulsed 
 features, struck down by the bullets! 
 
 "I heard Will say to me, 'Turks !' I opened my eyes. 
 Horsemen were riding here and there through the plain, 
 striking right and left with their sabers. Men on foot 
 were advancing, singing harshly. I heard a general dis- 
 charge, and then pitiful cries. The wagon turned cross- 
 wise of the defile. One of our horses reared and the 
 other fell heavily; all the luggage tumbled the way 
 was blocked ! We were sheltered by the wagon as behind 
 a barricade, pell-mell with the fugitives. Helia had not 
 followed us she was not there ! 
 
 " 'Helia is lost!' Phil said to me. Pressed b"y the 
 crowd as he was, he could not disengage himself to go 
 to her aid. Through an opening in the wagon I saw her 
 standing alone. She had not had time to take shelter 
 with us. Bullets were whistling on every side. I no 
 longer knew what I was doing. These were not comic- 
 opera Turks, with gourds for helmets, and dressed in 
 gilded rags. They were men armed with rifles and 
 daggers. Everywhere there were the dead, everywhere 
 there was blood. It was frightful !
 
 THE FIGHT 437 
 
 "The bullets became fewer the enemy had taken to 
 their swords, and we were without arms, pressed upon 
 by the crowd which clung to our garments. 
 
 "Oh, never shall I forget what I then saw. Helia, 
 as I have said, was alone, facing our assailants. There 
 she remained! She had snatched from one of the fugi- 
 tives an enormous club. The enemy drew near. A 
 Turk came upon her and was already stretching out his 
 hand to seize her by the hair, when Helia whirled the 
 club, bringing it down on the man and splitting his skull ! 
 He fell and Helia put her foot on him. 
 
 "As the man was falling Helia seized his rifle and 
 put it quickly to her shoulder. We heard two reports, 
 and two more of the enemy went down. 
 
 "All this passed in no time at all. Helia seemed like 
 a supernatural being. As she remained standing up- 
 right, the attack wavered. The Turks were terror- 
 stricken at this young maiden whose throat they had 
 expected to cut as they passed by, and who handled these 
 heavy weapons as if she were playing with them. I 
 heard Helia call to us ; but we could not stir. I wept 
 with rage. How I wished to be beside her ! She whirled 
 the rifle by the end of its barrel ; and with a terrific blow 
 brought down the breech on the head of one who seemed 
 the leader. They fell back for a moment. Meanwhile we 
 did not remain idle ; and the peasants had pulled them- 
 selves together. Phil and I, as soon as we had got our- 
 selves loose, jumped on the wagon, after picking up rifles. 
 Will brought back the soldiers ; and when the Turks, mad 
 with rage, and sword in hand, came rushing back upon 
 Helia who awaited them without flinching they were 
 welcomed with a discharge of bullets which stopped them
 
 438 FATA MORGANA 
 
 short. Our fears were over. The Turks fled, our bullets 
 striking them in their backs, and the peasants pursuing 
 them with sticks and stones. In a moment the bridge 
 was free. Phil had not quitted me for an instant. He 
 was always between me and the enemy, and superbly 
 cool. I asked him, ' What is the matter with Helia ? She 
 seems to be looking for death!' It is certain there was 
 something like despair in her terrible intrepidity. Phil 
 did not answer. He seemed more moved than herself. 
 Just then I had no time to go into the question ; all of 
 us were safe and sound ; that was the main thing. The 
 Turks had fled away, and would not soon return. We 
 gathered up the wounded. Suzanne was everywhere at 
 once, with a bottle in her hand. 'Qui veut la goutte, les 
 enfants? Voild la petite cantiniere!" ['Who wants a 
 drink, children? Here 's the cantiniere!'] The bells of 
 the Christian village rang joyously, and the cry was taken 
 up, and grew louder and louder: 'Morgana! Morgana!' 
 Helia was borne in triumph. Women knelt down as she 
 passed. The brave girl was bleeding a little; and they 
 gathered the drops of blood on pieces torn from her gown, 
 like the relics of a saint. For me, I was happy beyond 
 expression. I kissed her cheeks and cried : 'Morgana !' 
 
 "'What! you, too, Miss Ethel! But I have done 
 nothing!' answered Helia. 'I did my part, that was 
 all.' 
 
 "Wagons came from the village, and we put the 
 wounded into them. One who spoke Italian told us the 
 story. The Albanian Moslems for a long time had been 
 threatening the Christians. They demanded a thousand 
 Turkish pounds. They were refused, and raided the
 
 The Return to the City
 
 THE FIGHT 441 
 
 village on the day of a marriage, when every one was at 
 the feast. They were going to invade the district of 
 Morgania where the victims were taking refuge ; but this 
 young girl had saved everything ! 
 
 ' ' Helia had her gown all torn, and so they threw over 
 her shoulders the mantle of the village bride. Upon her 
 disheveled hair they placed the red symbolic head-dress, 
 with its golden tassels. 
 
 " Helia 's cart was at the head of the convoy, and 
 the other wagons followed, filled with the wounded. 
 Phil galloped along on an Albanian horse with red-and- 
 white trappings. Will remained in the village, to or- 
 ganize the resistance. I went back to the city with Su- 
 zanne, on Helia 's cart. 
 
 "It was a triumphal march. All these poor people 
 and ourselves, whom she had saved from massacre, had 
 eyes only for her. But she had no air of happiness! 
 She had a slight wound in the forehead. From time to 
 time a drop of blood fell on her gown and made a red 
 stain. This streak of blood marked her out to the crowd. 
 The cheers redoubled, and little children threw kisses 
 toward her. She was indifferent to it all, and looked 
 only at the little red stain. 
 
 " 'Oh, my pretty gown,' she said, 'my pretty bridal 
 gown is ruined ! ' 
 
 "The road through the valley is much shorter than 
 that over the mountain. We were to get to the city 
 by night, just before day-dawn. Oh, what a vision, 
 never to be forgotten, was that night journey! You 
 cannot believe how quickly the tidings traveled, in this 
 country without telegraphs or railroad. Horsemen went
 
 442 FATA MORGANA 
 
 galloping before us. When we passed through a village 
 there were cries of joy and men dancing by the light 
 of torches. Priests bearing golden crosses blessed us as 
 we passed. Helia's exploits grew from mouth to mouth, 
 and this explained the ever-increasing enthusiasm. She 
 had killed eight enemies with her own hand, had stopped 
 the invasion and saved the convoy from massacre ! At 
 Gradiska she had killed twenty, and at Kolo more still. 
 
 " 'You will see/ Helia said to me; 'by the time we 
 get to the city I shall have killed the Grand Vizir and 
 the Sultan!' 
 
 "Our escort kept on growing. It was grand when we 
 entered the city. Helia had been hoping to find every 
 one asleep. You would have thought you were going 
 into a bee-hive! They wished to carry Helia in tri- 
 umph to the castle. But the duke was not there he 
 was off on the excursion along the coast. The people 
 will never pardon him for not having been present to 
 share their joy and cheer the heroine. 
 
 "To wind up: I don't know how we did it, but we 
 got back to the yacht all the same, broken and bruised 
 and delighted, deafened by the cries, and blinded by the 
 lights. 
 
 "Every one is resting except myself. I cannot stay 
 quiet, and I profit by my sleeplessness to write you. 
 Well, what did I tell you? Are you not sorry to have 
 missed a thing like that ? And I will have other things 
 to tell you when I have the pleasure to see you again, 
 my dear Yvonne. . . . 
 
 "P. S. The heavens are mixing themselves up in 
 the event. You have heard of the Fata Morgana that
 
 THE FIGHT 443 
 
 wonderful mirage effect along the coast of the Adriatic 
 (it comes from the evaporation of hot air in the lower 
 layers, changing refraction to reflection, and so forth, 
 and so forth; but people here simply attribute it to a 
 fairy's enchantments). 
 
 "However that may be, I am finishing this letter just 
 as the sun is rising, and the sky is marvelous. I am 
 looking at great streaks of blood and crumbling towers 
 and golden crowns all changing form every moment. 
 You can see in it what you wish; but, always, it is 
 beautiful."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE FATEFUL DAY BEGINS 
 
 ETHEL finished her letter, and went up on deck to 
 find grandma. A splendid day was appearing, 
 with its marvelous light flooding space. Morgana 
 was building her palaces in the heavenly azure. Golden 
 darts across battlemented clouds were driving away the 
 birds of night. The sun rose up, enormous in size. In 
 front of the yacht the city, with its minarets and domes, 
 showed like a vision of the Orient. The castle, scarcely 
 outlined, seemed floating above the waters. 
 
 " Brave Helia! the heavens are celebrating her how 
 splendid the mirage is, grandma!" said Ethel. 
 
 "You see, Ethel," Mrs. Rowrer remarked, "mirages 
 are not easily appreciated with glasses. At my age 
 I perceive rather the chill of the mist." 
 
 "My dear grandma!" said Ethel, as she kissed her, 
 "don't you think that what Helia did was simply 
 grand? Even with your glasses you can distinguish 
 heroism. Helia is what I call a woman! When I 
 think that I might have done it what would I not give 
 to be in her place, grandma!" 
 
 "Are you jealous, Ethel?" 
 
 "Oh, grandma!"
 
 THE FATEFUL DAY BEGINS 445 
 
 No ; Ethel was not jealous. But for the last few days 
 nothing had gone well with her. She was not like Helia, 
 who had so many reasons to be joyful and who yet 
 was sad. Ethel had genuine cares. First, she had 
 not risen to the mark like Helia; next and oh, what 
 a grudge she had against Will for it ! when she saw 
 the poor refugees without food or shelter, she re- 
 marked to her brother how much wretchedness there 
 was to comfort, that something ought to be done. 
 It would even be an acknowledgment of the duke's 
 hospitality. 
 
 "It 's already done!" was Will's answer. "I cabled 
 from the city yesterday ; one of our freight steamers will 
 quit Odessa at once with grain and food." 
 
 ' ' There I am ! " Ethel said, in comic despair. 
 
 Ethel looked far off at the city and castle, for the 
 yacht had taken to the open on account of drifting cur- 
 rents. She was thinking of Morgania. The manner in 
 which the duke would understand his duty under the 
 present circumstances would be a standard by which to 
 judge the man. 
 
 That the duke had stayed on in Paris when he ought 
 to have been in Morgania that she could willingly for- 
 give, since it was for her that he stayed. But that now 
 he should be brave, loyal to his people, with a burning 
 zeal for progress and all that is good that would be 
 more pleasing to her than all his attentions. 
 
 "What is the matter, grandma? You have some- 
 thing on your mind," said Ethel to her grandmother, 
 who was looking toward the mountains. 
 
 "It is nothing," said grandma. "I was thinking of
 
 446 FATA MORGANA 
 
 Will, who is over there, and fearing some accident might 
 happen to him." 
 
 "Just now he risks nothing," said Ethel. "It is all 
 enthusiasm among the people. Will is to take the 
 most pressing measures. The enemy is sure to return, 
 but the duke will be ready unless he wastes too much 
 time. ' ' 
 
 They heard the stroke of oars, and a small boat came 
 alongside. 
 
 " I 'm sure it 's the duke coming to congratulate us, ' ' 
 said Ethel. "He must have returned and you '11 see, 
 grandma, he will thank me for saving Morgania, and 
 will put his heart at my feet! He will say the people 
 wish me, that they are crying for me! Watch him, 
 grandma, when I tell him that it is not I, it is Helia! 
 You '11 see his expression: 'Helia! hum hum charm- 
 ing, very charming, but, really ' 
 
 "You judge the duke wrongly, Ethel." 
 
 "She 's right, all the same!" thought Suzanne. 
 
 "The duke knows what he 's about, grandma! But 
 it is not he, ' ' she said, looking over at the boat. ' ' They 
 are two in long coats! That 's not local color." 
 
 "They are my two bears Zrnitschka, Bjelopawlitji! 
 Sauve qui pent!" Suzanne muttered to herself. 
 
 It was, indeed, the two delegates. They had been 
 chosen because they were accustomed to diplomatic mis- 
 sions ; and, moreover, they spoke French. 
 
 They came up bent themselves double. 
 
 They presented the duke 's excuses. ' ' Monseigneur was 
 unable to come he was presiding at the Assembly of 
 Notables with Monseigneur Adalbert."
 
 The Delegates
 
 THE FATEFUL DAY BEGINS 449 
 
 "Ah, by the way," said grandma, "how is the little 
 fellow? and Sceurette?" 
 
 "Monseigneur Adalbert is well and the little girl also. 
 They 're playing together on the terrace all the time. ' ' 
 
 Then the delegates explained their mission. They had 
 come to invite the heroine to land in the evening. The 
 people were preparing a monster welcome for her. Im- 
 mense crowds were coming in from all parts. Nothing 
 like it had been seen in the memory of man. Monsei- 
 gneur, the duke, would remain to give orders, that all 
 might be worthy of the expected guest. The duke begged 
 Miss Rowrer to be present with him afterward at the 
 reception in the throne-room and he laid his heart at 
 her feet. 
 
 "There just as I thought!" was Ethel's reflection. 
 "The duke believes it was I!" 
 
 Ethel turned to Suzanne: "Ask Mile. Helia or, 
 rather, no ! it 's useless to ask her ; she would not come 
 I know her ! But she will not refuse it to me as a ser- 
 vice," she argued within herself, "we will go together, 
 with Helia at the head. She shall have her triumph this 
 evening. ' ' 
 
 Suzanne showed signs of trouble. The delegates had 
 recognized her and bowed low. The name "Helia" 
 struck them. It came back with the memories of their 
 strange diplomatic soiree. 
 
 "What is the matter?" Ethel asked Suzanne, sharply. 
 ' ' Do you know them ? ' ' 
 
 "No that is yes!" answered Suzanne. 
 
 "Really, is it yes or no?" 
 
 "Eh lien, yes."
 
 450 FATA MORGANA 
 
 " Where did you see them? At Paris? at the duke's 
 place?" 
 
 ' ' At the duke 's yes that is no ! It was one evening 
 when Mademoiselle Helia " 
 
 "Do they know Helia?" 
 
 "No! or, rather" 
 
 "Or rather yes?" interrupted Ethel. 
 
 "I am trying to tell you' 
 
 "Good you '11 tell me later." 
 
 The delegates thought they were talking of the even- 
 ing reception. 
 
 "Messieurs," Ethel said to them, "it is understood. 
 Thank the duke I shall be there at the appointed 
 hour." 
 
 The delegates bowed, and Ethel accompanied them to 
 the rail. 
 
 "Be careful not to fall, M. Zrnitschka, M. Bjelopaw- 
 litji ! See, messieurs," she added, pointing to a tarpaulin 
 which they were arranging at the yacht 's side, ' ' that is a 
 bath-room it 's a tropical invention. The tarpaulin is 
 held by bars stretched out on the top of the water and 
 making a rigid square. It 's a genuine bath-tub, five 
 meters long and wide, and four feet deep. That does not 
 prevent me from jumping over it when I wish, and I take 
 a little turn in the open. That is the real bath-tub for 
 me ! " And she pointed to the sea. 
 
 Ethel could not keep her face straight at the fright- 
 ened look of the delegates, who kept on bowing and bow- 
 ing as they clambered down the steps. 
 
 ' ' What ought I to say ? ' ' Suzanne was thinking within 
 herself. She would have to tell all the stories about the
 
 THE FATEFUL DAY BEGINS 451 
 
 duke and Helia, and perhaps about Phil, "and I who 
 don't know how to lie!" 
 
 Ethel quietly took her seat by grandma, without speak- 
 ing to Suzanne of anything at all. 
 
 "It 's Helia 's day," she thought. "It would be bad 
 taste to crush the brave young girl with my dresses 
 when she has only simple things." 
 
 "Very well, Suzanne," Ethel said aloud. "I do not 
 need you for the present. See that everything is ready 
 for this evening a simple street-gown." 
 
 Ethel's curiosity, however, had been excited. What 
 could there have been in common between the duke and 
 Helia and Suzanne? She now remembered a few pass- 
 ing words. Caracal had finally told her his story of the 
 Louvre gardener, and Adam and Eve. She recalled his 
 expressions. Phil never spoke to her of Helia, although 
 he recounted willingly the adventures of his youth. 
 Against this were his occasional embarrassment, certain 
 hidden allusions, and his salon portrait of the young girl 
 in the midst of flowers surrounded by a flight of doves ; 
 and then, why should Phil, only yesterday, have dropped 
 his eyes and blushed at the mad bravery of Helia? Did 
 he, then, know the secret of it ? 
 
 It was not pleasant to Ethel to go into such ques- 
 tions. Helia 's melancholy, and her daring, her seeking 
 for death when she was only twenty it was not natural ! 
 Miss Rowrer did not need to know more. She understood 
 all, so she believed.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 FATA MORGANA TO THE RESCUE! 
 
 ETER in the day Suzanne appeared, and timidly 
 begged Miss Rowrer to excuse her. ' ' Mademoiselle 
 Helia has gone from the tarpaulin she is swim- 
 ming straight for the cliff. If Miss Rowrer would be good 
 enough to go on deck, perhaps Mademoiselle Helia " As 
 for her, Suzanne, she could do nothing she had called in 
 vain. 
 
 Miss Rowrer followed Suzanne, but Helia was already 
 far away. 
 
 ' ' She would not listen to me, ' ' said Suzanne. ' ' I don 't 
 know what came over her." 
 
 ' ' But where is she going ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' To the rocks off there, Miss Rowrer. ' ' 
 
 Suzanne pointed to the shoals on which the sea was 
 breaking. 
 
 "Well," Ethel said, to quiet Suzanne, "Helia is not 
 lost. If I had been on the deck I would have asked her 
 not to do it. But one who swims as she does has nothing 
 to fear. I only hope she won't delay, so as to be back in 
 time for the evening's reception." 
 
 ' ' If only she comes back ! ' ' 
 
 "Oh, now! it 's only child's play for her," said Miss 
 Rowrer, following with her glass Helia 's movements. 
 452
 
 FATA MORGANA TO THE RESCUE! 453 
 
 For any one else than Helia the undertaking would 
 have been hazardous, because of the eddies among the 
 rocks. She might also hit against some point just hidden 
 beneath the water. There was a striking contrast be- 
 tween the immense cliff and the almost imperceptible 
 swimmer, who was going farther and farther away. 
 
 The marvelous sky had become more magnificent still. 
 The sea was resplendent, and now and then a luminous 
 wake showed behind Helia ; and then it would suddenly 
 be quenched in the blackness of the shoal water. 
 
 ''How little Helia seems in all that immensity!" Ethel 
 said to Phil, who had joined her. 
 
 "She has reached the rocks she is going up them," 
 said Phil. 
 
 1 ' Oh ! never fear for her ; I understand what urges her 
 on : it is still that love of danger which made her heroic 
 yesterday. Have no fear for Helia," Ethel said to Su- 
 zanne, as she gave her the glass. "If I thought there 
 was the least danger, I would send out the boat; but I 
 think she she wishes to be alone; we will respect her 
 desire." 
 
 That day Ethel had a thousand things to do : letters 
 to write ; her preparations for the evening ; to choose the 
 music which was to be played on board during the re- 
 ception on land. Especially there was an old-time 
 melody which she had heard Helia singing in a low voice 
 in her cabin. Ethel had a muffled rehearsal of it in the 
 forecastle. She wished to keep it as a surprise for Helia 
 in the evening, when she should enter the throne-room. 
 She counted greatly on the effect ; the music would come 
 in waves mingled with the sea-breeze, filling the night
 
 454 FATA MORGANA 
 
 with harmony and encircling Helia with her favorite 
 melody. There were also flowers to bring and other 
 orders to give. 
 
 While they were thus making ready her triumph, 
 Helia, who was now stretched out on the seaweed amid 
 the rocks, dreamed, with her mind far away. The effort 
 she had made and the coolness of the water had calmed 
 her. The ardent light shone on her damp neck and arms 
 as on rose-colored marble. The wet bathing-dress clung 
 to her round limbs, and her heavy hair rolled over her 
 shoulders. She was like a dreaming Naiad clinging to the 
 sharp rocks above a sunken Atlantis. 
 
 All around her the sky heaped up tumultuous splendor. 
 Fata Morgana was disporting herself in the burning 
 mists. 
 
 Helia looked at the glowing apotheosis so far above 
 her, as inaccessible as her dream. Then her eyes fell 
 .to the craggy ruins so much more in harmony with her 
 thoughts. The green light upon the sea was reflected 
 in her clear eyes. Beneath the transparent waters she 
 could perceive a strange vegetation gently waving its 
 leaves. Ah, how well one might rest down there, lying 
 on the golden sands amid flowers which seemed alive ! 
 
 Suddenly Helia blushed for herself no ! away with 
 the ugly thought! All her pride revolted against it. 
 Keally, she was going mad ! This idle, artificial life had 
 been gnawing at her ever since she had come on the 
 yacht. What was she doing with these happy ones of the 
 earth, in the midst of their luxury? She saw clearly 
 that Phil and Miss Rowrer were made for each other. 
 No, she would not go to America to be exposed to such
 
 FATA MORGANA TO THE RESCUE! 455 
 
 continual torture as the sight of their love would be 
 to see Phil living serenely on, without remorse and with- 
 out regret. She must escape as soon as possible from 
 him, and go back to her dressing-room, smelling of pat- 
 chouli, and adorned with its broken mirror. There, at 
 least, she would feel at home ! 
 
 Helia, with her eyes fixed upon the sea, was building 
 a hundred schemes. First of all, one thing was certain. 
 She would now dare to attempt feats which she had 
 never done before which no one had ever done before. 
 She might break her neck well, it would be dying on 
 the field of honor! 
 
 Her success should be dazzling. She would conquer 
 New York, London, and Berlin. They would cover her 
 with flowers, which she would crush beneath her feet 
 as she retired behind the scenes. She would turn her 
 back on the hall thundering with bravos, and would 
 answer to her calls not by a flip-flap entrance like some 
 peasant mountebank ! No, she would find some un- 
 heard-of feat to make the hall grow pale with fright. 
 Ah! she was not good for love; they would see what 
 she was worth for terror! 
 
 Her brain went on inventing exercises and seeing 
 movements, composing sensational numbers. She would 
 have all the managers at her feet Barrasford, in 
 England, and Krokowski, in St. Petersburg. At Mos- 
 cow the Boyards should offer her diamonds, and she 
 would throw them back into their faces ! She would be 
 an artiste, only an artiste, the greatest artiste of all 
 time! She would not be of those who are afraid to 
 spoil their beauty or tear their maillots at the trapeze.
 
 456 FATA MORGANA 
 
 She would have the number preceded by orchestral si- 
 lences, suddenly breaking like a thunder-storm. She 
 alone would do more than all the others, more than the 
 Alexes and the Hanlons, more than fifty Leamy sisters. 
 And on the tight-rope she would do more than the 
 Omers, on her hands more than Bartholdi, on the car- 
 pet more than the Kremos or Scheffers! She could see 
 herself, to the roaring of the band, with the crowd be- 
 neath her feet the crowd of lying mouths, of soft and 
 cowardly hearts; and she would cast at them a look of 
 scorn while taking her flight to the roof. 
 
 She would have posters on all the walls in the least 
 village town a Gymnast, in England; a Gymnasiarque, 
 in France ; in Germany, a Bravourturnerin, great 
 posters to dazzle the Ochsenmaulsalatsf abrikanten ! 
 That would be fortune and glory! Oh, what a dog's 
 life ! How could a man like Phil live with falsehood in 
 his heart, and never a word of excuse ? She would have 
 given him up, she would have understood ! She was 
 not made for him; so be it. Phil could not give Miss 
 Rowrer a rival like Helia no ! He had only to ask her 
 pardon to obtain it a kind word, and a kiss, and 
 good-by. But no ! there was not even that. Ah, Phil, 
 Phil; he did not even take the trouble to give her back 
 her word ! 
 
 Helia 's fever had passed, and her dreams were calmed. 
 She felt herself very lowly and little, crushed at the 
 foot of the cliff herself like a bit of jetsam amid the 
 broken fragments of the rock. She dipped her hand in 
 the water and amused herself by letting it run out be- 
 tween her fingers in a shining shower. Or, again, she
 
 " ' Help me ! ' he cried '
 
 FATA MORGANA TO THE RESCUE! 459 
 
 plunged her arms to the bottom, tearing up the sea- 
 flowers, the dainty algse, and placing them in her hair, 
 mingling them with the unbound tresses. Then she 
 bent over, to look at herself in the water, like a child. 
 
 "I am really like the Morgana in Phil's picture," she 
 thought. 
 
 Meanwhile, even in the little creek where Helia was 
 looking at herself, the water had grown less calm, and 
 a current was rushing out to the open sea. Helia stood, 
 stretched her limbs, and looked at the yacht. 
 
 "Come!" she said to herself, "en route! It is time 
 to go!" 
 
 She was just taking her spring when she stopped 
 short, listening. Uncertain cries were borne in to her 
 on the breeze. They came from the shore. All that part 
 of the bay, and the castle itself, were hidden from her by 
 a wall of cliffs. 
 
 "What can be the matter?" she asked herself. "Are 
 those cries of distress?" 
 
 Just then, a little boat with a child for its sole pas- 
 senger floated out before her, amid the shoals, borne on 
 by the ebbing current. 
 
 The child had let drop the oars. He was holding 
 with both hands to the boat's gunwale and looking out 
 to sea with his eyes dilated with fear. 
 
 "Help me! "he cried. 
 
 It was the little Duke Adalbert. 
 
 The boy had been kept awake the night before by the 
 cries of "Morgana!" Confounding reality with legend, 
 he had resolved to go to the yacht which was in the bay ; 
 and there he would see once more that beautiful maiden
 
 460 FATA MORGANA 
 
 whom Phil had painted. He came down to the foot of 
 the castle, and loosened the boat from the old ring in the 
 wall to which it was fastened. Alone he set out to the 
 open sea. They had seen him too late ; the current had 
 seized the boat, and the little duke was lost ! 
 
 Just then a violent shock capsized the boat on a rock 
 almost level with the surface and threw the child into 
 the water. As he disappeared beneath the foam he lifted 
 his arms to heaven with a supreme appeal : "St. Mor- 
 gana, save me!" 
 
 "Adalbert, Monseigneur Adalbert!" cried Helia, rec- 
 ognizing him, "fear nothing, I am here!" 
 
 It was the affair of a moment, and with a daring dive, 
 in which she risked dashing herself against a rock, Helia 
 grasped the boy beneath the waves and brought him 
 back, fainting, to the light of day. 
 
 "What anxiety they must be having on shore!" 
 thought Helia. "What must be the duke's despair! 
 They must think the child is drowned, that there is no 
 possible remedy; perhaps there is not a single boat in 
 the port ! Now, then, Helia, courage ! You 've done 
 harder things than this in your life. Into the sea and 
 take back monseigneur ! ' ' 
 
 Helia was standing on the rock, with the boy in her 
 arms. At a glance, she saw that the water of the dif- 
 ferent currents was colored differently. That which 
 came from the shore was muddy and yellow with sand ; 
 that from the deep sea was dark green. Into this, with- 
 out hesitation, Helia threw herself, holding Adalbert on 
 one arm, and swimming with the other, in superb effort. 
 
 As soon as she had turned the cliff, she saw the crowd
 
 FATA MORGANA TO THE RESCUE 461 
 
 on the shore, close to the water, very far away. They, 
 too, now saw her, for a great cry reached her ear. It 
 strengthened and comforted her. 
 
 She was crossing an eddy full of seaweed torn away 
 by the currents, from which she could issue with dif- 
 ficulty. If the boy had come to himself, they would both 
 have been lost. Luckily, he remained inert, with his head 
 on Helia's shoulder. Slowly she disengaged herself and 
 kept on her way toward the shore. 
 
 Now there was a deep silence. She could see the mul- 
 titude nearer. She could distinguish details women 
 praying on their knees, and groups crowding toward 
 the sea. They ought to come out to her, instead of re- 
 maining there motionless ! But everybody seemed struck 
 powerless by amazement. The setting sun behind her 
 was doubtless dazzling their eyes, for a strange glow, 
 all red and gold, lighted up the city. Weariness over- 
 whelmed her, could she ever reach the shore? The 
 child's weight exhausted Helia. Truly, the people must 
 be stupid not to come out to her. Could no one see that 
 she was tired that all her strength had been taken 
 that she could do no more? 
 
 Soon she felt the sand beneath her feet. She was still 
 far from the shore, but the beach sank away very slowly, 
 and, half walking and half swimming, she kept advanc- 
 ing. Now it was easier for her; the water was only 
 breast-high. She advanced steadily, lifting Adalbert 
 in her arms as if to say: "He is saved! Here he is! 
 Come and take him ! ' ' 
 
 But while she kept on advancing, no one came to- 
 ward her.
 
 462 FATA MORGANA 
 
 "What is the matter with them?" thought Helia. 
 "They do not stir they are recoiling even, as I go to- 
 ward them. What is it frightens them so ? " 
 
 Instinctively, Helia turned her head. She saw only 
 the waste sea and the great marvelous sky, with its 
 depths of purple and gold, and immense crimson cloud 
 forming an arch above her. 
 
 When Helia first appeared, the people had given a 
 great cry, and then there was silence. A thrill ran 
 through the multitude. "Who is coming thus from the 
 open sea? What wonderful being have our cries of 
 terror awakened?" 
 
 They saw the superb" maiden issuing from the waves 
 and bringing back in her arms the little Duke Adalbert, 
 Morgania's hope. What if it were she Morgana! 
 bringing back fortune and the future ? Would it not b'e 
 the complete accomplishing of the prophecy at the date 
 announced and foretold? 
 
 Helia was moved at the terrified aspect of the people, 
 with their mute faces fixed upon her, with their ecstatic 
 eyes. The crowd drew aside at her approach, and a 
 great empty circle opened wide around her. 
 
 Helia stopped. The water reached her knees. At 
 this spot the sea was as placid as a lake, and the beach 
 was as smooth as a floor. Only two or three moss-grown 
 rocks lifted their heads above the water. Helia would 
 have shown herself in a maillot unhesitatingly before 
 a million men, but she was greatly embarrassed where 
 she was, half naked, and with her wet costume clinging 
 to her body. 
 
 Seeing that no one came to her assistance, she placed
 
 FATA MORGANA TO THE RESCUE! 463 
 
 the little duke gently on the mossy rock and took her 
 resolution. She would return to the yacht by the cur- 
 rent leading out to sea. She was again fit and rested 
 by her walk over the sands. Moreover, rid of the child's 
 weight, it would be no more than play for her. 
 
 Helia, with her eyes fixed on the crowd, pointed to the 
 child with her hand, and retired slowly backward. 
 When the water reached her waist she swam out vigor- 
 ously toward the yacht. The dazzling sun still kindled 
 the sea, flooding everything with its flames of crimson. 
 They could not see her from the shore in such a rush of 
 splendor from heaven ; and while she went on and on, 
 just as the sun was sinking below the horizon, an im- 
 mense clamor came out to her, magnified by the echoes, 
 like mysterious voices issuing from plains and moun- 
 tains. 
 
 It was the people on the shore acclaiming Morgana!
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 STRICKEN IN TRIUMPH 
 
 HELIA was far away, swimming toward the yacht, 
 before the duke came down from the castle 
 where he was presiding at the reception of the 
 notables. At the time when the child was carried away by 
 the current no one dared tell the duke the terrible news ; 
 but now the cries of enthusiasm grew and grew. Adal- 
 bert was saved ! When the father clasped his child in his 
 arms upon the beach, he all but fainted with joy. 
 
 Adalbert, coming out of his swoon, kissed his father, 
 and looked around him to find some one. The people 
 cried: "Miracle!" As for the duke, he did not see 
 where the miracle was. Only Miss Rowrer, so he 
 thought, could have had the pluck to do yesterday's 
 deed at the Drina; and she alone would be capable of 
 taking the bay for her bath-tub, as the delegates had 
 told him. No doubt she had been on some rock near the 
 place where Adalbert's boat had capsized. 
 
 What means had he for acknowledging the immense 
 service she had now rendered him? It was a unique 
 occasion, and the duke resolved to grasp it for express- 
 ing his gratitude to Miss Rowrer. Listening to his heart,
 
 STRICKEN IN TRIUMPH 465 
 
 rather than to his reason, he bound himself by oaths to 
 do so in presence of his people. 
 
 ' ' I know not who it is that yesterday saved hundreds 
 of my subjects ; I know not who it is that but now has 
 saved my son. Never has a duchess done so much for 
 our country. We might think it was Morgana herself, 
 whom our legends have announced. Please God she may 
 be free and may deign to accept my hand and share my 
 throne. We have need of so valiant a duchess ! ' ' 
 
 The notables took up the acclaim : ' ' Long live the duch- 
 ess ! Long live Morgana ! ' ' 
 
 The people continued thronging the beach, waiting 
 for the coming of the "duchess," as they already called 
 her, and talking over the words of the duke, who in a 
 moment's time had won back his popularity. 
 
 When their first emotion had passed, this rude popu- 
 lace understood full well that Morgana and the beauti- 
 ful heroine of the Drina must be one of the foreigners 
 come lately from beyond the seas in the white ship. 
 They repeated over to each other how much the country 
 already owed her. Legends began to form about her. 
 They spoke of a coming distribution of food and cloth- 
 ing to the crowd of refugees. One might have thought 
 she had come expressly to fulfil the people's desire and 
 stir them with new hope. The duke saw all this enthu- 
 siasm for the "foreign lady" running onward like a 
 flame ; and his heart swelled with joy. A whole people 
 would express his love and speak for him, crying from 
 the depths of their hearts: "We love you! Be our 
 duchess ! ' ' 
 
 And he, the duke, as he had sworn in presence of his
 
 466 FATA MORGANA 
 
 assembled people, would say to Miss Rowrer: "You have 
 saved my country and my son : will you not stay in Mor- 
 gania, to be the pride and the happiness of my house?" 
 
 The events upon the Drina, and that mysterious sym- 
 pathy which grows in- popular crises, had shaken the 
 whole country. The prophecies of the sorceress had 
 been realized point by point. Even in the remotest 
 mountains the shepherds spoke among themselves of this 
 woman, so young and beautiful, who was invulnerable, 
 and whose heroism had repulsed the enemy. The vil- 
 lages were excited ; and men reached the city with their 
 rifles on their shoulders. Everywhere, it was one long 
 acclamation for Morgana. The peddlers of pious pic- 
 tures went here and there with icons in their mules' 
 harness and singing in her honor heroic prismes. As if 
 every one were waiting for coming events, the mountain 
 tracks and paths across the plain were filled on every 
 side with an enthusiastic crowd. 
 
 That very evening the duke was to receive the "duch- 
 ess" amid his people's acclaim. Great bonfires were to 
 be lighted on the mountain-peaks at the moment of her 
 disembarking, and from one mountain to the other, 
 by signal from the city, the flames should announce her 
 coming. The sorceress, in the depths of her grotto, 
 should see at her feet the night flaming up like the dawn. 
 
 On the beach, where Morgana had brought the faint- 
 ing boy, they built up hastily a rough landing-place. 
 They wished her coming to be at the very spot where she 
 had appeared in her glory ; and they strewed leaves and 
 flowers along the way which she should follow to the 
 Hall of Ancestors. Never had so violent and sudden
 
 1 The peddler of pious pictures
 
 STRICKEN IN TRIUMPH 469 
 
 a movement upset Morgania. The acclaim which would 
 salute the "Lady" would be irresistible. It would 
 issue from the whole people; and the duke, swept on 
 by a current stronger than himself, would only have to 
 let events find a way for themselves. 
 
 Everybody was stirred, even Caracal, who was in the 
 company of the duke, when a cannon-shot, as had been 
 agreed, announced from the castle the arrival of the boat 
 bringing the "duchess." The crowd stood in rows on 
 each side of the way. The duke, at the head of the body 
 of notables, stood alone. 
 
 Behind him the voivodes, in their glittering costume, 
 formed their lines, belted for war and sword in hand. 
 
 After the duke's words of welcome, the heroic maiden 
 was to pass beneath an archway of these swords crossed 
 above her, like Maria Theresa between her Magyars; 
 and, as she issued from beneath their deadly glitter, 
 joyous hymns would break forth, and little children 
 strew flowers before her as a symbol of days of hap- 
 piness after days of battle. Then would begin the tri- 
 umphal march toward the Hall of the Throne. 
 
 All hearts were beating, for now they could perceive 
 the boat coming toward them. Caracal fixed his mon- 
 ocle, like the powerful and subtle observer that he was, 
 and made ready to note everything. 
 
 Religious silence took the place of the tumult of voices. 
 They could see distinctly in the boat two young women 
 holding each other by the hand. Each of them was 
 dressed with great simplicity: it was Helia and Ethel. 
 The light of the torches flashed vividly upon them. They 
 seemed to rise out of the night; and when the sailors 
 
 25
 
 470 FATA MORGANA 
 
 lifted their oars to disembark them on the landing where 
 the duke was waiting, there was not a gesture, not a cry. 
 The people heeded only them. No attention was given to 
 the two personages following them, a young girl and a 
 young man Suzanne and Phil. 
 
 The duke bowed low before Ethel, taking her hand 
 with an impassioned and reverent gesture. Then he 
 spoke. Those who were near him could hear his voice 
 tremble. 
 
 "How am I to thank you, Miss Rowrer, you who have 
 saved my son! Morgania also owes you everything; 
 without you I know the villayets of Albania would have 
 arisen. Everything was ready to crush us! But the 
 defeat of the enemy, exaggerated from mouth to mouth, 
 has taken on proportions of a disaster ! You have done 
 what, before you, my ancestresses, Thilda, Rhoda'is, and 
 Bertha, did ; and like Morgana herself you have brought 
 back in your arms the luck of Morgania, my son Adal- 
 bert! Behold all this people: for them you are she 
 whom our legends of a thousand years announce ! Miss 
 Rowrer, I owe you everything; my whole life will not 
 be sufficient for the acknowledgment of your services!" 
 
 "Monseigneur," interrupted Ethel, in a grave voice, 
 "the heroine, the valiant woman, she who expected no 
 recompense, who knew the danger and coolly faced it, 
 she whom your legends announce, and who has saved 
 your people and your child : it is not I it is Helia!" 
 
 And taking Helia by the hand, Miss Rowrer made her 
 pass in front of her, while she herself stood modestly 
 back. 
 
 "Ah!" gasped the duke.
 
 STRICKEN IN TRIUMPH 471 
 
 There was a little of everything in his "Ah!" A 
 man falling from a balloon must utter such an "Ah!" 
 when he crashes against the ground. 
 
 Meanwhile, twice the cheers burst forth. Hymns of 
 welcome were intoned, for silence had been kept till then. 
 The duke had appeared to be addressing himself to both 
 the young girls. The people did not know exactly which 
 one might be the duchess; but their enthusiasm knew 
 no bounds all the same. A great eddy pushed the crowd 
 in a mass along the way to the castle, amid the blare of 
 trumpets and rattling of rifle-shots. The voivodes 
 formed the archway of steel above the heads of the 
 duke and Helia, followed by Ethel. Endless cheering 
 saluted them : "Long live the duke ! Long live the duch- 
 ess ! Long live Morgana ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' Well ! ' ' thought Caracal, ' ' this is getting to be amus- 
 ing. I had thought all my chances lost, but they are 
 coming back. Miss Ethel is still free ! Helia a duchess ! 
 Well, stranger things have been seen; but all the same 
 it is funny. After my * House of Glass' and 'Worms 
 from a Dung-hill' I shall study from nature a ducal 
 marriage and make it a roman a clef! I shall write up 
 every class of society bourgeois, peasants, and princes ! 
 He certainly will marry her: you can't trifle with an 
 oath among such a population of fools; there are cur- 
 rents you can't stem." 
 
 And so Caracal shouted louder than the others : ' ' Long 
 live Morgana ! Long live the duchess ! ' ' Then he offered 
 his arm to Miss Rowrer, who refused it ! 
 
 "What are they crying 'Long live the duchess!' for?" 
 she asked Caracal, as they issued from beneath the steel
 
 472 FATA MORGANA 
 
 arch, surrounded by children who wafted kisses toward 
 them and bombarded them with flowers. Caracal re- 
 counted the oath which had been taken in presence of 
 the people, and before God. The duke had sworn to 
 offer the heroine his titles and his throne. 
 
 "Poor duke!" thought Ethel; "he really believed it 
 was I otherwise he would have sworn to nothing. Well, 
 let it be so ! We shall see if an oath is a sacred thing, 
 or if women are only dolls for amusement. We shall 
 see if the duke is a man ! ' ' 
 
 Ethel now knew the whole story. On the yacht, that 
 very evening, she had chanced to hear Helia talking 
 with Suzanne. Their few words had been a revelation 
 to her. She had already imagined what now she knew. 
 The cow painting in the Luxembourg, the whole little 
 combination invented by Caracal, all the coarse horse- 
 playah! if Phil thought she was going to think less 
 of him because of it, how mistaken he was! All that 
 was about as important to her as Mr. Charley's hair, 
 brushed like a horse's mane, and his velvet trousers 
 less than nothing at all! But Phil had other rea- 
 sons to blush for himself, indeed. She understood 
 his embarrassed air when he spoke of Helia. That 
 he should promise marriage with an oath, should give 
 hopes of happiness to Helia and lift her above her 
 position, and then thrust her back into her hard life 
 that Phil, a Christian and an American, should do a 
 thing like that ! Ethel also knew the duke's love-making 
 to Helia. Poor Helia! simply a plaything for those 
 two men! 
 
 She looked with admiration at the splendid couple
 
 " The duke stood alone
 
 STRICKEN IN TRIUMPH 475 
 
 before her, the duke and Helia, without a glance at 
 the two men beside her Phil and Caracal. 
 
 Helia was superb. The red lights, shaken by the 
 wind, illuminated her. The popular enthusiasm was 
 beyond description ; the crowd pressed forward behind 
 the torch-bearers along the way. They touched her 
 garments like the relics of a saint. The women lifted up 
 their children to make them see Morgana. Young girls 
 sang in chorus, while young men twirled their sabers 
 aloft in warlike rhythm. 
 
 All at once, above the crowd, far away in the moun- 
 tains flames arose ; the bonfires blazed up on each side 
 of the bay and over the cliffs. An immense blaze, like 
 a giant torch, threw great shadows and blinding streaks 
 of light over the city. Its glow appeared through the 
 night, leaping over space from peak to peak, to the far 
 horizon, where it mingled with the stars. 
 
 Helia and Ethel were amazed at the grandeur of the 
 sight, and at the loving ardor of the crowd, in whose 
 eyes, too, the flame seemed burning. Their own beauty 
 struck everybody; surely the new duchess would be the 
 most popular that Morgania had ever known, to judge 
 from the delirious enthusiasm let loose by her presence. 
 
 "What has taken hold of them?" thought Helia. 
 "One might say I had done something extraordinary." 
 
 Helia for a moment was separated from Ethel. Be- 
 yond them the way, lonely and bare, mounted up to the 
 castle. Guards watched over the approach. High above 
 them the stained-glass window of Morgana reflected 
 glitteringly the torches and bonfires. In a few steps 
 more Helia, on the duke's arm, would leave the people
 
 476 FATA MORGANA 
 
 behind her and mount up, followed by the nobles, to 
 the Hall of Ancestors. 
 
 But just then there was a great rush forward, and 
 as Helia, in real fright at this wild enthusiasm, pressed 
 against the duke, she felt a sharp pain between her 
 shoulders. She gave a little cry, and struggled toward 
 the open space before her ; but her breath failed and she 
 fell. 
 
 ' ' Oh, the coward ! ' ' she murmured. ' ' He would never 
 have dared strike me to my face ! ' ' 
 
 "What is the matter?" the duke said, grasping her in 
 his arms, " you are bleeding!" 
 
 ' ' Oh ! what has happened ? ' ' asked Ethel, who came 
 up at this moment, followed by Suzanne. " Helia! what 
 has happened to you ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' He has killed me ! ' ' said Helia. 
 
 ''It is he who has done it!" cried Suzanne, with a 
 terrible look, searching for some one in the crowd. 
 
 "He- who?" 
 
 "Socrate!" 
 
 It was indeed Socrate. But he was no longer there. 
 He had already disappeared into the shadow, seized by 
 avenging hands, mangled by a people's fury, trampled 
 under foot into blood and mud ! 
 
 Helia had guessed rightly. Socrate had come on 
 board the Columbia at Marseilles, where they had hastily 
 taken on firemen. Under the exasperation of want, he 
 took this occasion to follow Helia. He had learned as 
 he prowled around the circus that she was going to 
 Morgania on Miss Rowrer's yacht, and he was not the 
 man to let go his prey.
 
 STRICKEN IN TRIUMPH 477 
 
 The events of the last day above all else had stirred 
 him to fury. Helia a duchess ! Helia in grandeur, while 
 he, the misunderstood genius, should drag out his life in 
 an attic! Ah! you will not be mine? Then you shall 
 be no one's! He had seized the occasion and planted 
 his knife between Helia 's shoulders. 
 
 "Helia!" sobbed Suzanne. "Do you hear me? An- 
 swer ! ' ' 
 
 But Helia did not. The duke and Phil, terrified, bore 
 her to the throne-room. The torches cast a tragic light 
 upon the group. Immense shadows lengthened them- 
 selves out before them. The duke and Phil, bearing 
 Helia, slowly advanced. The hall opened high before 
 them, lighted dimly.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 "ON YOUR KNEES!" 
 
 THEY laid Helia down at the foot of Phil's picture, 
 on the great ancestral throne on which the duke 
 had hoped to seat himself beside Miss Rowrer. 
 The iron candelabrum, hanging from the arch, lighted the 
 hall. But Morgana 's stained window, more than all the 
 rest, blazed with sanguinary flashes. This time it was 
 not the sunset, as the duke had described it to Miss Row- 
 rer, when he showed her the engraving in Paris; it was 
 the light of torches and of the giant bonfire shining 
 through it from without. The heroic statues, Thilda, 
 Rhodais the Slave, and Bertha the Horsewoman, seemed 
 to live again beneath the glow. The flashes of light 
 from the window seemed to make them palpitate. One 
 would have said that joy swelled their marble breasts 
 when Helia, whose bodice had been undone, and whose 
 wounds were bandaged, opened her eyes and breathed 
 freely as she asked: "Where am I?" 
 
 ' ' Oh, what a fright you 've given us ! " said Suzanne ; 
 "but now you 're saved. Do you suffer?" 
 
 Helia was not suffering. To die was nothing, b'ut to 
 fall, struck from behind by such a man ! 
 
 "If you had been there, Phil," Helia said, speaking 
 
 478
 
 "ON YOUR KNEES!" 479 
 
 low, "you would have protected me, would you not? 
 Oh, with you I should fear nothing. Give me your hand 
 and stay with me ! ' ' 
 
 Phil, with downcast eyes full of tears, took her hand. 
 
 "Look me in the face; why do you lower your eyes, 
 Phil?" she said, so that he alone could hear her. She 
 added, with an indescribable regret in her voice : ' ' Have 
 I ever reproached you ? Look me in the face, as in the 
 old days ! I wish you to be happy. I do not wish you to 
 be sad!" 
 
 From the city came a confused murmur, like the noise 
 of the sea ; and then there were long moments of silence. 
 The nobles had not dared to enter the hall. The people's 
 deep anxiety was making itself felt. Suzanne, mean- 
 while, was arranging the cushions under Helia's head. 
 The duke had gone a little away. 
 
 "Yes," he was saying to himself, "Miss Rowrer will 
 understand the sacrifice I am making for her. I fail in 
 my word, it is true, but she will be grateful to me for 
 not having made Helia her rival. As to the people, Miss 
 Rowrer's millions will make them forget my perjury." 
 
 Ethel, with Caracal at her elbow, gave to a servant the 
 basin of water and bloody cloths. Impassive as the mar- 
 ble ancestresses, she turned her clear eyes on Phil and 
 the duke. 
 
 "Phil," Helia continued, as she pressed his hand, 
 "you promised me once do you remember? when you 
 loved me, in the old days? I understand, many things 
 have passed since ; and you are no longer the same man. 
 Come here, Phil, nearer, nearer ! I want to tell a secret 
 in your ear. I have loved only you, Phil; every day
 
 480 FATA MORGANA 
 
 I have waited for you, and you never came ! I was mad, 
 I know ; it was impossible ! But when one is young one 
 is ignorant and I believed you! Now you love an- 
 other. Phil, I forgive you; but leave your hand in 
 mine." 
 
 Phil was silent and red with shame. Ah, indeed, he 
 remembered! Helia felt his heart beating in the hand 
 which pressed her own. An intense emotion overpow- 
 ered him. He had the fearful calm which goes be- 
 fore a storm. Neither the duke nor Phil spoke, motion- 
 less, by the side of Helia, who was resting tranquilly, 
 while they made a room ready for her. 
 
 "You can get up and go to it by yourself," said Su- 
 zanne. "You 're safe. You have n't lost much blood 
 Socrate's blow missed!" 
 
 "What!" murmured Ethel. "Our heroic Helia is 
 going to die in the presence of these two men who loved 
 her, without one of them asking her pardon for their 
 false oaths?" 
 
 ' ' They accuse me of being cynical, but I should be more 
 loyal than that," said Caracal, with his gaze fixed on 
 Ethel. 
 
 "Look at your work, M. Caracal," Ethel replied, 
 in a low tone of contempt. "Those two men are 
 your pupils. The duke, who will not see that the for- 
 tune of nations is courage and respect for promises 
 and Phil, whom I thought more noble, look at him, 
 blushing with shame, lowering his eyes, these are the 
 men according to your heart ! They are the men who con- 
 sider woman a plaything, and abandon her when she 
 ceases to please ! I forgive you your Richard the Lion- 
 hearted, your blackmailing, and your infamies, but look
 
 "ON YOUR KNEES!" 481 
 
 at the result of your bad example and ignoble theories ! 
 When you threw Helia at Socrate that you might study 
 passion cheaply, without knowing it you put the dagger 
 in the assassin's hand. Helia struck down from behind, 
 it is your work ! The duke, forgetful of duty and aim- 
 ing at Helia for his mistress, it is your work ! Phil, with 
 his false promises, is worthy of you! Two men spoiled, 
 one assassin, and a dying woman look at your work, 
 M. Caracal!" 
 
 The "subtle observer," a poor human rag blown down 
 by a breath, collapsed into a chair. 
 
 The great window still threw its burning glow upon 
 the throne. The marble ancestors, dimly lighted, seemed 
 to lift their heads to curse the feeble duke. They 
 formed a circle round the hall and the throne where 
 Helia was resting Helia, brave as Rhodai's, intrepid as 
 Thilda, invulnerable as Bertha Helia, the Morgana 
 announced and foretold. The duke was pale and grave. 
 He looked at Helia, and then turned his head toward 
 Ethel. 
 
 All at once Ethel saw Helia rise upon her elbow, with 
 one hand convulsively grasping that of Phil, and the 
 other signing to listen. Through the half-open door 
 floated a far-away melody, so weak, so far away Phil 
 felt its thrill in his heart. 
 
 Le roi fait battre le tambour 
 Pour appeler ses dames, 
 Et la premiere qu'il a vue 
 Lui a ravi son ame. 
 
 The king had the drum beat 
 To call out his ladies 
 And the first one he sees 
 Steals away his soul.
 
 482 FATA MORGANA 
 
 It seemed to come with the sea-breeze from beyond 
 the murmurs of the land. It was the music of the yacht 
 playing the air chosen by Ethel, that air which Helia 
 hummed when she was alone. Ethel had foreseen the 
 hour when Helia would be entering the throne-room. 
 The music from the yacht was to greet her triumph. 
 Now it seemed to be soothing her agony. 
 
 " Listen, Phil, listen!" said Helia; "do you remem- 
 ber?" 
 
 Phil remembered all and saw all once more his first 
 love, the little Saint John, the Louvre paradise, all his 
 promises ! His youth blossomed in his heart. 
 
 In his breast rose a flame which burned away every 
 selfish thought. Yes, he had promised ! Helia had lived 
 in that only hope; he had let her fall from the height 
 of her dream ! He had shut off the future from her. 
 He had dug a pit with his selfishness, and pushed Helia 
 into it when she ceased to please! He had turned his 
 back on her despair ! 
 
 It seemed to him that a giant hand was bending him 
 low before Helia and a voice was saying: "Down on 
 your knees!" 
 
 Quickly, quickly and low, as one might confess a 
 crime, Phil spoke: 
 
 "Yes, I was wrong yes, I promised. I ask pardon, 
 Helia ! How I shall thank God if he will let you live, 
 that I may blot out my fault ! ' ' 
 
 "Oh, Phil!" murmured Helia. 
 
 ' ' I love you still, ' ' said Phil ; ' ' and you shall be my 
 wife. You will see how happy we shall be Helia, for- 
 give me!"
 
 "ON YOUR KNEES!" 485 
 
 ''Let me kiss your lips!" said Helia. 
 
 Ethel had drawn near, followed by Caracal. There 
 was a strange light in her eyes. 
 
 "See," she said to Caracal. "Glory to those who are 
 struck down by the light like St. Paul. There is joy 
 in heaven for the repenting sinner!" 
 
 "Will you ever pardon me?" stammered Caracal. 
 
 "Perhaps; tears wash away many things," added 
 Ethel, remembering how Phil had already pardoned 
 Caracal because he had seen him weeping. 
 
 "That is a man worth loving, a rare thing," Ethel 
 thought as she looked at Phil. Helia now was sitting up ; 
 the wound no longer bled. 
 
 "How happy I am!" said Helia. 
 
 She wept with joy. Phil was at her knees as in the 
 old days. "Listen," she said, "it is our tune of the 
 old times, Phil ! I seem still to be there !" 
 
 Phil kissed her hands to hide his tears. 
 
 "Phil," said Helia, with a timid look at Ethel, and in 
 a tone so low that it could come only from the heart, 
 "tell me, Phil, am I really fit to be your wife?" 
 
 The door opened slowly, a bright light burst into the 
 hall. It was the voivodes coming for information. If 
 a misfortune had happened to one of the maidens, per- 
 haps to their duchess, when they were on the spot, sword 
 in hand to form a sheltering arch above her what a 
 shame it would be for them ! If the duchess was dying, 
 they would pray for her on their knees. They ap- 
 proached in silence. The duke had drawn near Ethel. 
 
 "I love you!" he said, speaking low. "See what I 
 have done for you ! I swore but I thought it was you.
 
 486 FATA MORGANA 
 
 There is still time. My people await their duchess. 
 Shall it be you, Miss Rowrer?" 
 
 The duke held out his hand in an attitude of deepest 
 respect. 
 
 Miss Rowrer stopped him short with a gesture. She 
 had judged the two men. This ruler who would not keep 
 his oath, sworn in the name of his ancestors he should 
 never be husband of hers. To her titles were nothing, 
 character was all. Calm as Justice, with her eyes fixed 
 straight on the duke, she pointed with her hand to Phil, 
 kneeling beside Helia, and said : 
 
 " That is a Man !"
 
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