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 onore tre Balzac
 
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 PRIVATE LIFE 
 
 VOLUME I
 
 LIMITED TO ONE THOUSAND COMPLETE COPIES 
 
 NO. -I 
 
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 yit!fiy*,^ir.ti /SU >V -^ -^^ ** '^'
 
 M. GUILLAUME AND THEODORE 
 
 But, at this moment, the old draper paid, no 
 attention to his apprentices ; he zvas biisily study- 
 ing the motive of the anxiety with which the yoimg 
 man in the cloak and silk socks alternately sur- 
 veyed his signboard and the recesses of his shop.
 
 THE NOVELS 
 
 OF 
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 
 
 NOW FOR THE FIRST TIME 
 COMPLETELY TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH 
 
 THE HOUSE OF THE CAT AND RACKET 
 THE DANCE A T SCEA UX 
 THE PURSE 
 THE VENDETTA 
 
 BY MAY TOMLINSON 
 
 WITH FIVE ETCHINGS BY LEON LAMBERT, XAVIER LE 
 
 SUEUR AND RICARDO DE LOS RIOS, AFTER 
 
 DRAWINGS BY EDOUARD TOUDOUZE 
 
 IN. ONE VOLUME 
 
 PRINTED ONLY FOR SUBSCRIBERS BY 
 
 GEORGE BARRIE & SON, PHILADELPHIA
 
 COPYRIGHTED, 1896, BY G. B. & SON
 
 P9 
 
 o 
 
 THE 
 HOUSE OF THE CAT AND RACKET 
 
 189936
 
 TO MADEMOISELLE MARIE DE MONTHEAU 
 
 (3)
 
 THE HOUSE OF THE CAT AND RACKET 
 
 * 
 
 In the middle of Rue Saint-Denis, almost at the 
 corner of Rue du Petit-Lion, there existed but 
 lately, one of those houses so valuable to the his- 
 torian, in facilitating his task of reconstructing 
 ancient Paris by analogy. 
 
 The tottering walls of this dilapidated house 
 seemed to have been checkered with hieroglyphics. 
 What better name could the chance observer give to 
 the X and V, traced upon the facade by transversal 
 or diagonal pieces of wood, indicated in the white- 
 wash by narrow parallel crevices? 
 
 The lightest carriage in passing by evidently 
 shook every rafter in its mortice. 
 
 This venerable edifice was surmounted by a tri- 
 angular roof whose like will soon become extinct in 
 Paris. Distorted by the inclemency of the Parisian 
 climate this roof projected three feet over the road, 
 as much to screen the threshold of the door from 
 rain as to shelter the wall of an attic, and its window 
 without a sill. This last story was built of planks 
 nailed one over the other like slates, doubtless to 
 prevent the overburdening of this fragile structure. 
 
 One rainy morning in March, a young man, care- 
 fully wrapt in his cloak, stood under the porch of a 
 
 (5)
 
 6 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 shop opposite this old house, examining it with the 
 enthusiasm of an arch^ologist. And certainly this 
 fragment of the Sixteenth Century bourgeoisie pre- 
 sented to an observer more than one problem. Each 
 story had some peculiarity; the ground-floor had 
 four long, narrow windows, close together, the lower 
 parts crossed by squares of wood in order to pro- 
 duce the doubtful light by the help of which the 
 materials of a clever tradesman assume the colors 
 desired by his customers. The young man seemed 
 indifferent to this essential part of the house, he 
 did not even appear to notice it. The windows of 
 the second story above, with their raised blinds 
 showing little red muslin curtains through large 
 panes of Bohemian glass, had still less interest for 
 him. His attention was wholly centred in the 
 humble windows of the third story, in the modest 
 windows whose rudely fashioned woodwork de- 
 served a place in the Conservatoire of Arts and 
 Trades, as a specimen of the primitive efforts of 
 French joinery. So green were the little panes of 
 these windows that had it not been for his excellent 
 eyesight, the young man would not have been able 
 to discern the linen curtains, with their pattern of 
 blue squares, that hid the mysteries of this room 
 from the eyes of the profane. But tired of his pro- 
 fitless contemplation, or of the silence in which the 
 house, as well as the whole neighborhood, was 
 wrapt, the watcher every now and then bent his 
 gaze upon the lower regions. An involuntary smile 
 played upon his lips each time he looked at the
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 7 
 
 shop, where, in fact, features sufficiently amusing 
 might be seen. A tremendous piece of wood, hori- 
 zontally supported by four posts that were appa- 
 rently bent by the weight of this decrepit old house, 
 had been adorned with as many layers of paint as 
 the cheek of an old duchess is covered with rouge. 
 In the middle of this delicately-carved beam was 
 an old picture representing a cat playing at ball. 
 It was this canvas that roused the young man's 
 mirth. But it must be confessed that the most in- 
 telligent of modern painters could not have origi- 
 nated a more comical caricature. In one of his front 
 paws the animal was holding a racket as big as 
 himself, he was standing up on his hind legs to aim 
 at an enormous ball returned to him by a gentleman 
 in an embroidered coat. Design, color and acces- 
 sories, all combined to suggest that the artist wished 
 to mock at the tradesman and the passers-by. 
 
 This picture had become still more ludicrous 
 owing to the modifications made by time, which 
 rendered the outlines so uncertain as to greatly puz- 
 zle the unconscious idler. Thus the cat's spotted 
 tail stood out in such a way that it might have 
 been taken for a spectator. So big, erect and thick 
 were the tails of our ancestors' cats. 
 
 To the right of the picture, upon an azure ground 
 that only imperfectly disguised the rottenness of the 
 wood, passers-by might read: GUILLAUME, and to 
 the left: SUCCESSOR TO THE SlEUR CHEVREL. The 
 sun and rain had worn away most of the gold so 
 sparingly applied to the letters of this inscription,
 
 8 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 in which the letter U took the place of V and vice 
 versa, according to the rules of our ancient orthog- 
 raphy. In order to humble the pride of those who 
 believe that the world grows daily more intelligent 
 and that modern charlatanism surpasses everything, 
 it is as well to here observe that these signboards, 
 whose etymology appears strange to more than one 
 Parisian tradesman, are dead pictures of living pic- 
 tures by which our rogues of ancestors succeeded in 
 attracting customers to their shops. Thus the Spin- 
 ning Sow, the Green Monkey, etc., were animals in 
 cages, whose cleverness was the astonishment of 
 passers-by, and whose training testified to the 
 patience of the Fifteenth Century industrial. Such 
 curiosities enriched their lucky owners more quickly 
 than the Providence, the Good Faith, the Grace of 
 God, and the Beheading of John the Baptist that are 
 still to be seen in Rue Saint-Denis. However, the 
 stranger most assuredly was not staying there to 
 admire the cat, that one moment's attention sufficed 
 to engrave upon the memory. This young man also 
 had his peculiarities. The classic folds of his cloak 
 revealed his elegantly shod feet, which were all the 
 more conspicuous in the depths of the Paris mud, on 
 account of the white silk socks whose spattered 
 condition testified to his impatience. No doubt he 
 came from a wedding or ball, for at this early hour 
 he held a pair of white gloves, and his uncurled 
 black locks, scattered over his shoulders, indicated 
 a coiffure after the st3'le of Caracalla, brought into 
 fashion not less by the school of David, than by the
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 9 
 
 infatuation for Greek and Roman customs that 
 marked the early years of this century. Despite 
 the noise caused by several belated market gar- 
 deners galloping past to the great market there was 
 a magic in the quiet of this usually busy street that 
 is known to those only who have wandered through 
 deserted Paris at those times when her uproar, 
 lulled for a space, revives and murmurs in the dis- 
 tance like the great voice of the sea. This young 
 stranger must have appeared as peculiar to the 
 tradesman of the Cat and Racket as the Cat and 
 Racket did to him. A dazzling white tie caused his 
 anxious face to appear paler than it really was. 
 The alternately gloomy and eager light flashing in 
 his black eyes harmonized with the strange outlines 
 of his face, and with his large and sinuous mouth, 
 which contracted when he smiled. His forehead 
 was wrinkled as if under the influence of some 
 strong annoyance and bore a somewhat terrible ex- 
 pression, is not the brow the most prophetic 
 feature in man? When distorted by anger, there 
 was something almost terrifying in the force with 
 which the lines gathered in the stranger's fore- 
 head; but when it recovered its easily disturbed 
 composure, it wore the bright charm that formed 
 the attraction of this physiognomy, in which joy, 
 pain, love, anger and scorn were expressed in so 
 speaking a manner that the most cold-blooded man 
 must have been moved by it. When the attic 
 window was hastily opened, the unknown was so 
 thoroughly out of temper that he did not see three
 
 10 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 merry faces, all round, pink and white, as much 
 alike as the figures of Commerce carved on certain 
 monuments. These three faces, framed by the 
 window, recalled the chubby angel heads pictured 
 as scattered in the clouds around the Almighty. 
 The apprentices inhaled the emanations from the 
 street with an avidity that testified to the hot and 
 vitiated atmosphere of their garret. After pointing 
 to the strange looking sentinel, the clerk who 
 seemed the merriest of the three, disappeared, and 
 presently returned holding a stiff metal instrument 
 which has lately been superseded by the more sup- 
 ple strop; then, maliciously watching the idler they 
 sprinkled him with a fine whitish shower which, 
 from its perfume, showed that the three chins had 
 just been shaved. Retreating on tiptoe to the back 
 of their attic to enjoy their victim's rage, the clerks 
 stopped laughing when they saw the careless scorn 
 with which the young man shook his cloak, and the 
 profound contempt depicted in his face as he lifted 
 his eyes to the empty window. At this moment, a 
 white and delicate hand raised toward the moulding 
 the lower part of one of the rough windows in 
 the third story by means of those cords whose 
 pulley often drops the heavy frame it is meant to 
 support. The loafer was then rewarded for his 
 long waiting. The face of a young girl appeared, 
 fresh as one of those lilies that flower upon the 
 bosom of the waters, crowned by a ruche of rumpled 
 muslin that gave her head a wonderfully innocent 
 look. Although clothed in some dark material her
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET II 
 
 neck and shoulders could be seen, thanks to some 
 slight openings which her movements during sleep 
 had made. No expression of constraint could alter 
 the ingenuity of this face or the serenity of eyes for- 
 ever immortalized in Raphael's sublime composi- 
 tions; there was the same grace, the same tranquil- 
 lity as that of the proverbial Madonna. The 
 youthful cheeks, upon which slumber had laid, as 
 it were, a superabundance of life, made a charming 
 contrast to the massive old window with its rough 
 outlines and blackened sill. The young girl, barely 
 awake, rested her blue eyes on the neighboring 
 roofs and looked up at the sky like those flowers that 
 morning fmds with petals still unfurled; then, from 
 force of habit she lowered them to the dingy regions 
 of the street, where they promptly encountered 
 those of her adorer; coquettishly ashamed of being 
 seen en deshabille, she hastily withdrew, the worn- 
 out pulley revolved, the window fell with a rapidity 
 that within our days has gained an invidious repu- 
 tation for our ancestors' simple invention, and the 
 vision disappeared. 
 
 It seemed to the young man as if the brightest 
 morning star had been hidden by a cloud. 
 
 During these little incidents the heavy inside 
 shutters protecting the thin panes of the shop of 
 the Cat and Racket, had been removed as if by 
 magic. The old, knockered door was thrown back 
 against the inner wall of the house by a servant 
 who was probably a contemporary of the signboard, 
 to which, with a shaky hand, he fastened a square
 
 12 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 cloth embroidered in yellow silk with the name 
 GuiLLAUME, Successor to Chevrel. It would 
 have puzzled more than one passer-by to guess the 
 nature of Monsieur Guillaume's trade. 
 
 The great iron bars protecting the exterior of the 
 shop prevented a good view of the brown linen pack- 
 ets that were as numerous as herrings in the ocean. In 
 spite of the apparent simplicity of this Gothic front, 
 Monsieur Guillaume's shops were the best stocked 
 of all the merchant drapers in Paris, he had the 
 most extensive connections, and his commercial 
 honesty was above the least suspicion. If any of 
 his fellow tradesmen concluded a bargain with the 
 government without having the required quantity 
 of cloth, he was always ready to supply them, no 
 matter how great the number of pieces tendered for. 
 The wily merchant knew a thousand ways of accru- 
 ing the greatest profit without being obliged, as they 
 were, to have recourse to patrons, to practise mean 
 tricks, or give rich presents. 
 
 If his fellow tradesmen could only repay him in 
 safe long-dated drafts, he would refer them to his 
 notary as being an accommodating man, for he knew 
 how to get a double profit out of the transaction, 
 thanks to the expedient that gave rise to the prover- 
 bial saying amongst the tradesmen of Rue Saint- 
 Denis, "God preserve you from Monsieur Guil- 
 laume's notary!" as indicating a heavy discount. 
 As the servant retired the old merchant appeared, as 
 if by some miracle, upon the threshold of his shop. 
 
 Monsieur Guillaume surveyed the Rue Saint-
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 1 3 
 
 Denis, the neighboring shops and the weather, with 
 the interest of a man landing at Havre and seeing 
 France again after a long journey. 
 
 Duly convinced that nothing had changed during 
 his sleep, he then perceived the stranger on guard, 
 who, on his side, contemplated the patriarchal 
 draper, just as Humboldt might have examined the 
 first electric gymnotus that he saw in America. 
 Monsieur Guillaume wore wide black velvet 
 breeches, variegated stockings and square-toe shoes 
 with silver buckles. His slightly bent body was 
 incased in a square-tail coat, of a greenish cloth, 
 with square flaps and a square collar, trimmed with 
 big white metal buttons, reddened with wear. His 
 gray hair was so precisely flattened and combed on 
 his yellow skull that it looked like a furrowed field. 
 His little green eyes, like gimlet holes, shone be- 
 neath two arches outlined by a slight redness in the 
 place of eyebrows. 
 
 Anxiety had traced as many horizontal wrinkles 
 on his forehead as there were creases in his coat 
 The sallow face indicated patience, commercial pru- 
 dence and that species of sly cupidity required in 
 business. At that time it was no such rare thing as 
 it is now-a-days, to see these old families preserv- 
 ing, like precious traditions, the customs and dress 
 peculiar to their calling, and who dwelling in the 
 midst of modern civil ization are 1 ike the antediluvian 
 remains discovered in quarries by Cuvier. The 
 head of the Guillaume family was one of these 
 remarkable guardians of ancient customs; he was
 
 14 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 often caught regretting the "Mayors of Paris;" and 
 he never spoke of a decision of the Commercial 
 Court of Justice but as o. Sentence of the Consuls. 
 Being the first of his household to rise, no doubt in 
 virtue of these practises, he was resolutely awaiting 
 the arrival of his three clerks in order to scold them 
 should they be late. These young disciples of Mer- 
 cury dreaded nothing so much as the silent activity 
 with which, on Monday morning, the master 
 scrutinized their faces and movements, seeking 
 evidences or traces of their escapades. But, at this 
 moment, the old draper paid no attention to his ap- 
 prentices; he was busily studying the motive of the 
 anxiety with which the young man in the cloak and 
 silk socks alternately surveyed his signboard and 
 the recesses of his shop. 
 
 The growing daylight showed up the wired office 
 hung round with old green silk curtains, where were 
 kept the huge day-books, dumb oracles of the house. 
 The inquisitive stranger seemed to be gloating over 
 the little place, and to be taking a plan of the side 
 dining-room, lighted by a skylight whence the as- 
 sembled family, during meals, could easily see the 
 slightest accident that might occur on the threshold 
 of the shop. So great an affection for his house ap- 
 peared suspicious to a merchant who had suffered 
 the administration of the Maximum.* Monsieur 
 Guillaume naturally imagined that this sinister 
 figure had designs upon the till of the Cat and 
 
 *The Convention of 1793 passed a law ordaining that merchants should not 
 exceed a fixed price in selling the necessities of life.
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 15 
 
 Racket. After a discreet enjoyment of the silent 
 duel going on between his master and the stranger, 
 the oldest of the clerks, seeing the young man 
 stealthily eyeing the windows of the third story, 
 ventured to stand on the same flagstone as Monsieur 
 Guillaume. He took two steps into the street, 
 lifted his head, and fancied he saw Mademoiselle 
 Augustine retiring precipitately. Displeased at the 
 perspicacity of his head clerk, the draper looked 
 askant at him; but, all of a sudden, the mutual ap- 
 prehensions excited by this loiterer's presence in 
 the minds of the merchant and the amorous clerk 
 were quieted. The stranger hailed a cab that was 
 making for a neighboring stand and hastily jumped 
 in with a delusive affectation of unconcern. This 
 departure brought a certain comfort to the hearts of 
 the other clerks who were somewhat anxious at 
 recognizing the victim of their joke. 
 
 "Well, sirs, what are you staying there with 
 your arms folded for.?" said Monsieur Guillaume to 
 his three neophytes. "Why! Bless my soul ! In 
 times gone by when I was with the Sieur Chevrel, I 
 would already have examined more than two pieces 
 of cloth." 
 
 "It was light much earlier then.?" said the second 
 clerk, upon whom this task devolved. 
 
 The old merchant could not help smiling. Al- 
 though two of these young people entrusted to his 
 care by their fathers— rich manufacturers of Lou- 
 viers and Sedan— only had to ask for one hundred 
 thousand francs to have them on the day when they
 
 l6 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 were old enough to set up for themselves, Guil- 
 laume believed it to be his duty to keep them under 
 the rod of an antiquated despotism, unknown in 
 these days of magnificent modern shops where the 
 clerks expect to be rich at thirty; he made them 
 work like niggers. As to the three clerks, they 
 were equal to as much work as would have tired out 
 ten of those officials whose sybaritism now swells 
 the columns of the budget. No noise broke the still- 
 ness of this solemn household, where the hinges 
 seemed always oiled, and the smallest piece of fur- 
 niture was so respectably clean as to proclaim a 
 rigid order and economy. The most mischievous of 
 the clerks would often amuse himself writing the 
 date of its original receipt upon the Gruyere cheese 
 that was abandoned to them at luncheon and that it 
 pleased them to spare. This trick and others of a 
 similar character would sometimes draw a smile 
 from the youngest of Monsieur Guillaume's two 
 daughters, the pretty virgin who had just appeared 
 to the fascinated stranger. Although each of the 
 apprentices, and even the oldest one, paid a large 
 sum for board, not one of them would have dared 
 remain at the master's table after the dessert had 
 been served. When Madame Guillaume spoke of 
 dressing the salad these poor youths trembled at the 
 thought of how sparingly her prudent hand could 
 pour the oil. They might not venture to spend a 
 night out without giving a plausible reason for 
 this irregularity a long time beforehand. Every 
 Sunday, in town, two of the clerks accompanied the
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 1 7 
 
 Guillaume family to Mass and Vespers at Saint-Leu. 
 Mademoiselles Virginie and Augustine, modestly- 
 dressed in print gowns, each took the arm of a 
 clerk and walked on in front under their mother's 
 piercing eye, who brought up the rear of this little 
 domestic procession with her husband, who used to 
 carry for her two big prayer-books bound in black 
 morocco. The second clerk had no salary. As for 
 the one whom twelve years of perseverance and 
 discretion had initiated into the secrets of the busi- 
 ness, he received eight hundred francs as the reward 
 for his labors. At certain family festivities he was 
 favored with a few presents whose value was en- 
 hanced only by the dry and wrinkled hand of Ma- 
 dame Guillaume: beaded purses that she carefully 
 filled with cotton to show up their open-work 
 design, strongly made braces, or heavy silk stock- 
 ings. Sometimes, but very rarely, this prime min- 
 ister was allowed a share in the family pleasures, 
 whether they went into the country, or whether, 
 after waiting months, they decided to avail them- 
 selves of their right, in applying for a box, to ask 
 for a play that Paris no longer thought anything 
 of. As for the three other clerks, the barrier of 
 respect that formerly separated a master draper 
 from his apprentices was so firmly fixed between 
 them and the old merchant that they could more 
 easily have stolen a piece of cloth than upset this 
 sacred etiquette. 
 
 This reserve may appear ridiculous now-a-days, 
 but these old firms were schools of morality and 
 2
 
 l8 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 honesty. The masters adopted their apprentices. 
 A young man's linen was attended to, mended and 
 sometimes renewed by the mistress of the house. 
 
 If a clerk fell ill he was the object of true moth- 
 erly care. In case of danger, the master spared no 
 money in sending for the most distinguished doc- 
 tors; for he was not answerable to the parents of 
 these young people for their morals and acquire- 
 ments alone. If one of them, with an honorable 
 character, met with disaster, these old merchants 
 knew how to appreciate the intelligence that they 
 had helped to develop and did not hesitate to entrust 
 their daughter's happiness to one in whose hands 
 they had so long trusted their wealth. 
 
 Guillaume was one of these old-fashioned men, 
 and if he possessed their absurdities he also had all 
 their qualities; and so Joseph Lebas, his head clerk 
 and a penniless orphan was, in his opinion, the 
 future husband of his eldest daughter, Virginie. 
 But Joseph did not share his master's symmetrical 
 projects, who would never, for a kingdom, have 
 allowed his second daughter to marry before the 
 first. The unfortunate clerk felt that his heart 
 was wholly set upon Mademoiselle Augustine, the 
 younger. 
 
 In order clearly to understand this passion, that 
 had grown secretly, it is necessary to further dis- 
 cover the spirit of despotic government that ruled 
 the house of the old merchant draper. 
 
 Guillaume had two daughters. The elder. Made- 
 moiselle Virginie, was the perfect image of her
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET I9 
 
 mother. Madame Guillaume, daughter of the Sieur 
 Chevrel, held herself so upright on the seat at her 
 desk, that more than once she overheard some wags 
 betting that she was impaled. Her thin, long face 
 betrayed an extreme piety. Without charm or 
 pleasant manners, Madame Guillaume habitually 
 decked her almost sexagenarian head with a cap of 
 unvarying shape trimmed with lappets like that of 
 a window. The whole neighborhood called her "la 
 soeurtouriere. "* Her speech was curt and her ges- 
 tures something like the jerky movements of the 
 telegraph. Her clear, cat-like eye, seemed to bear a 
 grudge against the whole world because she was 
 ugly. Mademoiselle Virginie, brought up like her 
 younger sister under the mother's despotic laws, was 
 now twenty-eight years old. Youth lessened the un- 
 pleasant expression that her likeness to her mother 
 sometimes gave to her face; but the maternal sever- 
 ity had endowed her with two great qualities that 
 counter-balanced all; she was meek and patient. 
 Mademoiselle Augustine, barely eighteen, was like 
 neither father nor mother. She was one of those 
 offsprings that, in the absence of all physical link 
 with their parents, give credence to the prudish 
 saying, "God sends children." Augustine was 
 slight, or, to describe her more accurately, delicate. 
 Graceful, and full of ingenuousness, no man of the 
 world could have reproached this charming creature 
 with anything but awkward gestures or certain 
 underbred attitudes, and sometimes a want of ease. 
 
 *Touriere: i.e. the attendant of the turning box in convents.
 
 20 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 Her quiet, still face breathed that transient melan- 
 choly that possesses all young girls who are too 
 weak to venture any resistance to a mother's will. 
 Always quietly dressed, the two sisters could only 
 gratify a woman's innate coquetry by an excess of 
 neatness which became them wonderfully and was 
 in keeping with the shining counters, with the 
 shelves which the old servant kept spotless, and 
 with the old-fashioned simplicity of all around 
 them. Forced by their way of life to seek happi- 
 ness in persistent industry, Augustine and Virginie 
 up till now, had given nothing but satisfaction to 
 their mother, who secretly congratulated herself 
 upon the perfection of their characters. It is easy 
 to imagine the results of the education they had 
 received. Brought up in trade, accustomed to hear 
 nothing but dismally mercantile discussions and cal- 
 culations, having learnt nothing beyond grammar, 
 bookkeeping, a little Jewish history, French history 
 in Le Ragois, and reading no authors but those 
 whose books were approved of by their mother, their 
 ideas were very limited; they knew how to keep 
 house perfectly, they knew the cost of things, they 
 appreciated the difficulties that are experienced in 
 amassing money, they were economical and had a 
 deep respect for commercial qualities. In spite of 
 their father's income, they could darn as skilfully 
 as they could embroider; their mother often spoke 
 of teaching them to cook, in order that they might 
 know how to order a dinner and know their reasons 
 for scolding a cook. Ignorant of the pleasures of
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 21 
 
 the world, and seeing how the exemplary life of 
 their parents was passed, they very seldom noticed 
 anything beyond the precincts of the old patrimonial 
 home which, to their mother, constituted the uni- 
 verse. The gatherings at the family solemnities 
 formed the whole sum of their earthly joys. When 
 the big drawing-room on the second story was 
 opened to receive Madame Roguin, a demoiselle 
 Chevrel, fifteen years younger than her cousin, who 
 wore diamonds; the young Rabourdin, assistant 
 manager of the Treasury; Monsieur Cesar Birot- 
 teau, a rich perfumer and his wife, called Madame 
 Cesar; Monsieur Camusot the richest silk mer- 
 chant in the Rue des Bourdonnais, and his father- 
 in-law, Monsieur Cardot; two or three old bankers 
 and their irreproachable wives; then, the prepara- 
 tions necessitated by the manner in which the silver, 
 Dresden china, lights and glass were wrapt up, 
 made a diversion in the monotonous lives of these 
 three women, who ran about like nuns preparing for 
 their bishop's reception. Then, when, at night, all 
 three were tired out with cleaning, rubbing, un- 
 packing and arranging the decorations for the feast, 
 and the two young girls were helping their mother 
 to bed, Madame Guillaume would say: 
 
 "We have done nothing to-day, my dears!" 
 When, during these solemn assembl ies, the "sceur 
 touriere" allowed dancing, shutting up the boston, 
 whist and tric-trac parties in her bedroom, this privi- 
 lege was considered as one of the most unexpected 
 delights, and gave as much pleasure as when
 
 22 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 Guillaume took his daughters to two or three big 
 balls during the Carnival. Finally, once a year the 
 honest draper gave a party on which he spared no 
 expense. However rich and fashionable the guests 
 invited, they took care not to miss it; because the 
 most important houses in the place resorted to the 
 enormous credit, fortune, or long tried experience of 
 Monsieur Guillaume. But the worthy merchant's 
 two daughters did not profit as much as might have 
 been supposed by the opportunities society offers to 
 young people. At these gatherings they wore 
 dresses that were entered in the bill books of the 
 house, but whose shabbiness made them ashamed. 
 Their dancing was nothing remarkable, and the ma- 
 ternal supervision forbade any further conversation 
 than "yes" and "no" with their partners. Besides, 
 the laws of the old ensign of the Cat and Racket, 
 ordained that all must be home by eleven, just 
 when the 1 ife of balls and parties was beginning. 
 Thus, though outwardly consistent with their 
 father's means, their pleasures were often dull ow- 
 ing to circumstances arising from the habits and 
 principles of the family. As to their ordinary life, 
 a word will complete the picture. Madame Guil- 
 laume insisted that her two girls should be dressed 
 very early, that they should come down every day 
 at the same time, and should arrange their occupa- 
 tions with monastic regularity. And yet, by some 
 chance, Augustine had a soul that was capable of 
 feeling the emptiness of such an existence. Some- 
 times her blue eyes would be raised as if to pierce
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 23 
 
 the depths of the gloomy staircase and damp ware- 
 houses. After having fathomed the silence of this 
 cloister she would seem to be listening afar to the 
 vague revelations of that impassioned life that sets 
 more value on feelings than things. At these 
 moments her face would flush, her idle hands would 
 drop the white musl in on to the pol ished oak counter, 
 and presently her mother would say in a voice that 
 was always sour in spite of the loving tone: 
 
 "Augustine! what are you thinking of, my dar- 
 ling?" 
 
 Perhaps Hippolyte, Comte de Douglas, and Le 
 Comte de Comminges, two novels belonging to a cook 
 whom Madame Guillaume had recently dismissed, 
 and which Augustine had found in a cupboard may 
 have contributed to the development of this young 
 girl's ideas, for she had secretly devoured them 
 during the long evenings of the last winter. Her ex- 
 pressions of vague longing, her sweet voice, her jas- 
 mine skin and blue eyes had consequently inflamed 
 the heart of the unfortunate Lebas, with a love that 
 was as strong as it was respectful. By some caprice 
 that can be readily understood, Augustine felt no sort 
 of attraction for the orphan ; perhaps it was because 
 she was unconscious of his love for her. In return 
 the long legs, chestnut hair, large hands and robust 
 appearance of the head clerk found a secret admirer 
 in Mademoiselle Virginie, who, in spite of her 
 dowry of 50,000 crowns had never been sought in 
 marriage by anyone. There was nothing more 
 natural than these two inverted passions born in
 
 24 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 the silence of these obscure counters, as violets 
 bloom in the depths of a wood. The mute and con- 
 stant contemplation that these young people ex- 
 changed, from the need of distraction in the midst of 
 prolonged work and religious quiet, was bound 
 sooner or later to excite feelings of love. The habit 
 of constantly seeing one face unconsciously leads to 
 the discovery of the soul's qualities and ends in 
 effacing its imperfections. 
 
 "Atthe rate this man is going, it will not be long 
 before our daughters will have to kneel to a suitor!" 
 said Monsieur Guillaume to himself in reading the 
 first order with which Napoleon drew upon the con- 
 scripts. From that day, in despair at seeing his 
 eldest daughter fading, the old merchant recal led how 
 he had married Mademoiselle Chevrel under very 
 nearly the same conditions as those of Joseph Lehas 
 and Virginie. What a glorious thing it would be to 
 marry his daughter and acquit himself of a sacred 
 debt, by giving an orphan the same blessing that he 
 himself had formerly received, under the same cir- 
 cumstances, from his predecessor. Being thirty- 
 three years old, Joseph Lebas thought of the 
 obstacles that the difference of fifteen years placed 
 between Augustine and himself. Besides being 
 intelligent enough to see through Monsieur Guil- 
 laume's plans, he also knew his inexorable princi- 
 ples well enough to be certain that the younger 
 would never marry before the elder. So the poor 
 clerk, whose heart was as good as his legs were 
 long and his frame was big, suffered in silence.
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 25 
 
 Such was the state of affairs in this little repub- 
 lic in the middle of the Rue Saint-Denis, resembling 
 nothing so much as a branch of the Trappists. But, 
 in order to give a strict account of external events 
 as well as sentiments, it will be necessary to go 
 back several months before the scene with which 
 this story opens.
 
 * 
 
 A young man, once passing at nightfall in front of 
 the dark shop of the Cat and Racket, stopped for 
 a moment to contemplate a picture that would have 
 held all the painters in the world. 
 
 The shop, as yetunlighted, formed a black ground 
 at the end of which could be seen the merchant's 
 dining-room. An astral lamp shed that yellow light 
 that gives so much charm to the pictures of the 
 Dutch school. The snowy linen, the silver and 
 glass, formed brilliant accessories, which the vivid 
 contrasts between the light and shade only served 
 to exaggerate. The face of the head of the family 
 and that of his wife, those of the clerks and the pure 
 outlines of Augustine, behind whom stood a big, 
 fat-cheeked girl, composed so curious a group, — the 
 heads were so original and each bore so open an ex- 
 pression, — one could so well imagine the peace, still- 
 ness and unpretending life of this family, that, for 
 an artist accustomed to depicting Nature, there was 
 something hopeless in attempting to convey this 
 casual scene. The passer-by was a young artist, 
 who, seven years before, had carried off the Grand 
 Prix for painting. He had just returned from Rome. 
 Nourished upon poetry and satiated with Raphael 
 and Michael Angelo, his soul and eyes thirsted for 
 real nature after a long residence in a stately land 
 overspread with the grandeur of Art. Right or 
 
 (27;
 
 28 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 wrong such was his personal feeling. Given up 
 for so long to fierce Italian passions his heart longed 
 for one of those simple, placid virgins whom unfor- 
 tunately he could only fmd in paintings at Rome. 
 From the enthusiasm excited in his ardent soul by 
 the artless tableau that he was watching, he very 
 naturally passed into a profound admiration for the 
 principal figure. Augustine seemed pensive and was 
 no longer eating; by some arrangement of the lamps 
 by which the light fell entirely on her face, her 
 bust appeared to be moving in a circle of fire that 
 showed up the outline of her head more vividly than 
 the rest and illuminated it in a way that was half 
 supernatural. Involuntarily the artist likened her 
 to an exiled angel thinking of heaven. An almost 
 unknown sensation, a clear and burning love, inun- 
 dated his heart. Stopping for a moment as if 
 crushed beneath the weight of his ideas, he tore 
 himself away from his happiness and went home 
 unable to eat or sleep. The next day he entered his 
 studio not to leave it until he had set down on can- 
 vas the magic of this scene, at the recollection of 
 which he became almost fanatical. His happiness 
 was incomplete without a faithful portrait of his idol. 
 He passed by the Cat and Racket several 
 times, he even dared to go in two or three times, 
 disguised, in order to obtain a closer view of the 
 lovely creature under the wing of Madame Guil- 
 laume. For eight whole months, devoted to his 
 love and his brushes, he remained invisible to his 
 most intimate friends, indifferent to society, poetry,
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 29 
 
 theatres, music and his most cherished habits. One 
 morning Girodet infringing the orders that artists 
 recognize and know how to evade, succeeded in 
 finding him, and woke him up with this question : — 
 
 "What are you sending to the Salon?" 
 
 The artist seized his friend's hand, dragged him 
 to the studio and uncovered a small easel picture 
 and a portrait After a slow and eager contempla- 
 tion of the two masterpieces Girodet threw his 
 arms round his friend and embraced him, unable to 
 speak. His emotions could only be expressed as he 
 felt them, heart to heart. 
 
 "You are in love?" said Girodet. 
 
 Both knew that the most beautiful portraits by 
 Raphael, Titian, and Leonardo de Vinci are owing 
 to exalted feelings which, after all, under diverse 
 conditions, are responsible for all masterpieces. 
 For all answer the young artist bent his head. 
 
 "How lucky you are to be in love, after returning 
 from Italy ! I do not advise you to place such works 
 as these in the salon," added the great painter. 
 "You see, these two pictures will not be under- 
 stood. These realistic tints, and wonderful work 
 cannot yet be appreciated. The public is not ac- 
 customed to so much depth. The pictures we paint, 
 my good friend, are screens, fire screens. See here, 
 we had much better write verses and translate the 
 ancients ! We may expect more glory from that than 
 from our miserable canvas." 
 
 In spite of this charitable advice the two can- 
 vases were exhibited. The picture of the interior
 
 30 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 caused a revolution in painting. It gave birtli to 
 the genre-paintings of whicli such an enormous 
 quantity are imported into our exhibitions that one 
 might almost believe they are obtained by some 
 purely mechanical process. As for the portrait, 
 there are few artists who do not recollect that living 
 canvas, to which the public, as a whole, occasionally 
 just, awarded the wreath that Girodet himself 
 placed upon it. A huge crowd surrounded the two 
 pictures — "A perfect crush," as women say. 
 Speculators and nobles offered to cover the two 
 canvases with double napoleons; the artist obsti- 
 nately refused to sell them or to reproduce them. 
 He was offered a large sum for his consent to en- 
 grave them, but the dealers were no more successful 
 than the amateurs. Although society in general 
 was talking of this event, it was not of a nature to 
 reach the heart of the little desert in the Rue Saint- 
 Denis; nevertheless, whilst paying a visit to Ma- 
 dame Guillaume, the solicitor's wife spoke about 
 the exhibition before Augustine, whom she dearly 
 loved, and explained the purpose of it to her. Madame 
 Roguin's chatter naturally inspired her with a wish 
 to see the pictures and gave her the courage to 
 secretly ask her cousin to take her to the Louvre. 
 The cousin was successful in prevailing upon Ma- 
 dame Guillaume to give her permission to snatch 
 her little cousin from her dreary work for about two 
 hours. So the young girl made her way through the 
 crowd to the crowned picture. She shook like a 
 leaf when she recognized herself. She was afraid
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 3 1 
 
 and looked round for Madame Roguin, from whom 
 she had been separated by the surging crowd. At 
 this moment her terrified eyes met the glowing face 
 of the young artist She suddenly recollected it as 
 that of a stroller whom she had often noticed with 
 curiosity, thinking he was a new neighbor. 
 
 "You see how love has inspired me!" whispered 
 the artist to the timid creature who stood aghast at 
 these words. 
 
 A supernatural courage helped her to break 
 through the crowd and rejoin her cousin, who was 
 still struggling through the masses that barred her 
 way to the picture. 
 
 "You will be suffocated !" cried Augustine, "come 
 away!" 
 
 But there are moments in the salon when two 
 solitary women are not always able to make their 
 way through the galleries. Mademoiselle Guillaume 
 and her cousin, in consequence of the surging move- 
 ments of the crowd were pushed to within a few feet 
 of the second picture. Chance decreed that together 
 they should approach the canvas to which fashion, 
 for once in accordance with art, had awarded the 
 palm of glory. The exclamation of surprise that 
 broke from the solicitor's wife was lost in the hub- 
 bub and buzzing of the crowd; as for Augustine she 
 was involuntarily crying at sight of this marvelous 
 painting, and, prompted by some inexplicable feel- 
 ing, she placed her fmger on her lips when she saw 
 the ecstatic face of the young artist quite close to 
 her. The unknown nodded in reply and indicated
 
 32 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 Madame Roguin as a wet blanket, in order to show 
 Augustine she was understood. The poor girl grew 
 hot as fire at this pantomime and felt herself guilty 
 in supposing she had entered into a compact with 
 the artist. 
 
 The stifling heat, the incessant sight of the most 
 dazzling toilettes, the giddiness produced by the 
 variety of colors, the multitude of painted and liv- 
 ing figures, and the profusion of gilded frames, 
 caused her to feel a sort of intoxication that in- 
 creased her fears. She might perhaps have fainted, 
 had she not, in spite of this chaos of sensations, ex- 
 perienced a strange joy in her secret heart, that 
 quickened her whole being. Nevertheless she be- 
 lieved herself to be under the influence of the demon 
 whose terrible snares she had heard predicted in the 
 thundering eloquence of the pulpit. This moment 
 for her was a moment of madness. She pictured 
 herself escorted to her cousin's carriage by this 
 young man, beaming with love and happiness. A 
 prey to an entirely new irritation and an intoxica- 
 tion that yielded her in some measure to nature, 
 Augustine listened to the eloquent voice of her 
 heart, and looked at the young painter several times, 
 plainly showing the trouble that possessed her. 
 The carnation of her cheeks had never formed a 
 stronger contrast to the whiteness of her skin. The 
 artist then saw this beauty at its best, this modesty 
 in all its glory. Augustine felt a sort of joy min- 
 gled with terror in the thought that her presence 
 gave happiness to one whose name was on every
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 33 
 
 lip, and whose talent gave immortality to fleeting 
 impressions. He loved her! It was impossible to 
 doubt it. When she could no longer see him these 
 simple words re-echoed in her heart — "You see how 
 love has inspired me!" So strongly had her ardent 
 blood roused strange forces within her that the deep- 
 ening thrills seemed to her painful. She feigned a 
 bad headache in order to avoid her cousin's ques- 
 tions about the pictures; but, on their return Ma- 
 dame Roguin could not resist speaking to Madame 
 Guillaume of the celebrity acquired by the Cat and 
 Racket and Augustine trembled in every limb when 
 she heard her mother say she would go to the Salon 
 to see her house. The young girl complained again 
 of the pain she suffered, and obtained permission to 
 go to bed. 
 
 "Headache!" cried Monsieur Guillaume, "that is 
 all one gains at all these shows. Is it very amusing 
 to see in a painting a thing that one can see any 
 day in our street.? Don't talk to me of these artists 
 who, like authors, are all starving wretches. What 
 the devil is the necessity for their taking my house 
 to vilify it in their pictures.'"' 
 
 ' ' Perhaps it may hel p us to sel 1 a few extra pieces 
 of cloth," said Joseph Lebas. 
 
 But this observation did not prevent a second 
 condemnation of the arts and ideas at the tribunal 
 of Trade. As may well be supposed, these disser- 
 tations did not give any great hope to Augustine, 
 who gave herself up during the night to her first 
 meditations upon Love. The events of that day 
 3
 
 34 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 were like a dream that she loved to recall in her 
 thoughts. She was a victim of all the fears, hopes, 
 regrets and all the uncertainties of feelings that 
 must delude a simple, timid soul like her own. How 
 empty this dark house now seemed, and what a 
 treasure she had found in her soul ! What havoc 
 this idea was to work in the heart of a child brought 
 up in the bosom of such a family! What hopes 
 might it not raise in a young girl who, hitherto 
 reared upon ordinary principles, had always longed 
 for a superior life! A ray of sunlight shone into 
 this prison. Augustine suddenly loved! So many 
 feelings were flattered at the same time that she 
 succumbed without the least calculation. Is not 
 Love's prism thrown between the world and the 
 eyes of a young girl eighteen years of age.-" Inca- 
 pable of foreseeing the terrible shocks that result 
 from an alliance between a loving woman and a 
 man of imagination, she believed herself destined 
 to make his happiness, without perceiving any in- 
 congruity between herself and him. Her present 
 was her future. The next day when her father and 
 mother returned from the Salon, their lengthened 
 faces indicated some disappointment. In the first 
 place the artist had removed the two pictures; and 
 then Madame Guillaume had lost her cashmere 
 shawl. The knowledge that the pictures had dis- 
 appeared after her visit to the Salon was a revela- 
 tion to Augustine of a delicacy of feeling that 
 women always, and even instinctively, appreciate. 
 The morning that Theodore de Sommervieux — such
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 35 
 
 was the name of the celebrity engraved upon Augus- 
 tine's heart — returning from a ball, was sprinkled 
 by the clerks of the Cat and Racket — whilst he 
 was waiting for the vision of his simple little 
 friend — who most assuredly did not know he was 
 there — was the fourth time only that the two lovers 
 had seen each other since the scene in the Salon. 
 The obstacles that the regime of the Guillaume 
 house presented to the artist's impetuous character, 
 only served to increase his passion for Augustine 
 with a strength that can easily be imagined. How 
 was it possible to approach a young girl seated at a 
 counter between two such women as Mademoiselle 
 Virginie and Madame Guillaume? 
 
 How correspond with her when her mother never 
 left her? Apt, like all lovers, to imagine misfor- 
 tunes, Theodore fancied he had a rival in one of the 
 clerks, and supposed the others to be in the interests 
 of his rival. Even if he escaped so many Argus 
 eyes, he pictured himself falling under the stern 
 gaze of the old merchant or of Madame Guillaume. 
 On all sides barriers and hopelessness! The very 
 violence of his passion prevented the young painter 
 from resorting to those ingenious expedients that 
 with prisoners as well as lovers, seem to be the 
 final efforts of a brain that is stimulated by a mad 
 desire for liberty or by the ardor of love. So 
 Theodore rushed about the neighborhood with the 
 activity of a madman, as if motion could inspire him 
 with some stratagem. Having thoroughly racked 
 his imagination he bethought himself of bribing the
 
 36 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 fat-cheeked servant. Several letters were then ex- 
 changed from time to time during the fortnight that 
 followed the unlucky morning when Monsieur Guii- 
 laume and Theodore had scrutinized each other so 
 well. For the present, the two young people 
 agreed to see each other at a certain hour of the day, 
 and on Sundays at Saint-Leu during Mass and Ves- 
 pers. Augustine had sent her beloved Theodore a 
 list of the family friends and relations, to whom the 
 young artist tried to gain access, in hopes of excit- 
 ing some interest in his love affairs, in one of these 
 people who were absorbed in money and trade, 
 and to whom a genuine passion would seem the most 
 absurd and unheard of speculation. Otherwise 
 there was no change in the ways of the Cat and 
 Racket. If Augustine were absent-minded; if, 
 against every kind of rule in the domestic chart she 
 went to her room, thanks to a pot of flowers, to 
 arrange some signals; if she sighed, in fact, if she 
 were at all thoughtful, nobody, not even her mother, 
 was aware of it. This state of affairs might some- 
 what surprise those who understood the spirit of the 
 house, where any thought infected with poetry must 
 have formed a contrast to the people and the things, 
 where nobody could indulge in a gesture or look that 
 was not seen and analyzed. And yet nothing could 
 be more natural ; the quiet vessel navigating the 
 stormy sea of the Place de Paris, under the flag of 
 the Cat and Racket, was a prey to one of those gales 
 which, from their periodic returns, might be termed 
 equinoctial.
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 37 
 
 For fifteen days the five men of the crew, 
 Madame Guillaume and Mademoiselle Virginie 
 had devoted themselves to the stupendous labor 
 known as an inventory. They moved all the bales 
 and measured the pieces to ascertain the exact value 
 of the remnants. The card attached to each packet 
 was carefully examined to see when the cloth had 
 been bought The present price was affixed. Mon- 
 sieur Guillaume looked like a captain directing 
 manoeuvres, standing all the time, with his measure 
 in his hand and his pen behind his ear. His shrill 
 voice passing through a peephole in communicating 
 with the depths of the hatchway of the basement 
 uttered these barbarous commercial terms, that can 
 only be expressed in enigmas: "How much of H- 
 N-Z.? Take it away— How much left of Q-X-? — 
 Two ells — What price .?— Five-five-three — Carry to 
 3 A all J- J, all M-P, and the remainder of V-D-O." 
 
 Thousands of equally intelligible phrases 
 sounded across the counters like verses of modern 
 poetry that romanticists might have been quoting to 
 each other to indulge their enthusiasm for one of 
 their parts. In the evening Guillaume, closeted 
 with his clerk and his wife, settled the accounts, 
 entered afresh, wrote to those in arrears and made 
 up the bills. All three prepared this enormous task, 
 the result being written on a square of foolscap, 
 and proved to the house Guillaume that it had so 
 much in cash, so much in goods, so much in drafts 
 and bills; that it owed not a penny, but was owed 
 one or two hundred thousand francs ; that the capital 
 
 189936
 
 38 THE HOUSE OF THE CAT AND RACKET 
 
 had augmented; that the leases, houses and funds 
 were to be increased, repaired or renewed. From 
 all this arose the necessity of amassing more money 
 with renewed ardor, these industrious ants never 
 dreaming of asking — "To what purpose?" Under 
 cover of this annual tumult Augustine luckily es- 
 caped their Argus-like investigation. At last, one 
 Saturday night the closing of the inventory took 
 place. Upon this occasion the figures in the assets 
 presented so many ciphers that Guillaume relaxed 
 the severity of the orders that prevailed all the year 
 round at dessert. The cunning draper rubbed his 
 hands and allowed his clerks to remain at table. 
 Each man had hardly finished his demi verre of 
 home-made liqueur, when the rumbling of a carriage 
 was heard. The family went to see Cinderella at 
 the Varietes whilst to each of the two youngest 
 clerks was given a six-franc piece and permission 
 to go where he pleased, provided he came in at 
 midnight.
 
 On Sunday morning, in spite of this debaucii, 
 the old merchant draper shaved at six o'clock, put 
 on his chestnut colored coat — whose magnificent 
 lustre always gave him the same pleasure, — 
 fastened gold buckles in the flaps of his ample silk 
 breeches; then, towards seven, when the whole 
 house was still wrapt in slumber, he went to the 
 little closet adjoining his shop on the first story. 
 Daylight came through a window armed with great 
 iron bars, that overlooked a little square courtyard 
 framed in such dark walls that it was not at all un- 
 like a well. The old tradesman opened the sheet- 
 iron shutters with which he was so familiar, and 
 lifted half the window by sliding it in its groove. 
 The icy air from the yard freshened the stuffy 
 atmosphere of the closet, which had that odor pecu- 
 liar to offices. The merchant stood, resting his 
 hand on the greasy arm of a cane arm-chair lined 
 with faded morocco, as if uncertain whether to sit 
 down or not. His expression softened as he looked 
 at the office with two desks, where his wife's place, 
 opposite his own, was arranged in a small arch con- 
 trived in the wall. He looked at the numbered 
 half-sheets, the string, the implements, the instru- 
 ments for marking the cloth, and the till, objects of 
 an immemorial origin, and he fancied he could see 
 himself once more before the conjured-up spirit of 
 
 (39)
 
 40 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 the Sieur Chevrel. He drew forward the identical 
 stool upon which he had sat in the presence of his 
 defunct master. This stool, upholstered in black 
 leather, with the horsehair that had long been 
 escaping from the corners, he placed with trembling 
 hands in the same spot as his predecessor had done; 
 then in an indescribable state of agitation he pulled 
 the bell that communicated with the head of Joseph 
 Lebas's bed. Having made this decisive move, the 
 old man, doubtless overcome by these recollections, 
 took up two or three bills of exchange that had been 
 presented to him, and was looking over them with 
 unseeing eyes, when Joseph Lebas suddenly ap- 
 peared. 
 
 "Sit down there," said Guillaume pointing to the 
 stool. 
 
 As the old master had never bidden his clerk sit 
 in his presence, Joseph Lebas trembled. 
 
 "What do you think of these drafts.?" asked 
 Guillaume. 
 
 "They will not be paid." 
 
 "What.?" 
 
 "Why, the day before yesterday I knew that 
 Etienne & Co. had made all payments in gold." 
 
 "Oh! oh!" cried the clothier, "one must be very 
 sick to bring up bile. Let's talk of something else. 
 Joseph, the inventory is finished." 
 
 "Yes sir, and the dividend is one of the finest you 
 have ever had." 
 
 "Don't use those modern words — Call it 'pro- 
 ceeds,' Joseph. Do you know, my boy, that we
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 4I 
 
 owe these results in a small measure to you? there- 
 fore, I no longer wish you to receive any salary. 
 Madame Guillaume has suggested to me to offer you 
 a share in the business. Eh! Joseph! 'Guillaume 
 and Lebas. ' Would not these names make a fine 
 firm ? One might add 'And Company' to round 
 off the signature." 
 
 Joseph Lebas's eyes filled with tears which he 
 tried to hide. 
 
 "Ah! Monsieur Guillaume! What have I done to 
 deserve so much goodness? I have only done my 
 duty. You did a great deal in even interesting your- 
 self in a poor orph " 
 
 He rubbed his cuffs one over the other, and dared 
 not look at the old man, who smiled as he thought 
 that this youth, like himself in times gone by, 
 needed encouragement to make a complete explana- 
 tion. 
 
 "And yet," continued Virginie's father, "you 
 hardly deserve this favor Joseph! You do not place 
 as much confidence in me as I do in you" — the clerk 
 suddenly raised his head — "you know the secret of 
 the till. For two years I have told you nearly all 
 my affairs. I have made you travel for fabrics — In 
 short — to you I have bared my heart — But you ? — 
 you have an attachment of which you have not told 
 me a single word" — Joseph Lebas reddened — "Hal 
 ha!" cried Guillaume, "you think you can de- 
 ceive an old fox like myself? 1, who, as you know, 
 found out the insolvent Lecoq!" 
 
 "How, sir," answered Lebas, looking at his
 
 42 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 master as intently as the latter looked at him,"how ! 
 you know that I love?" 
 
 "I know all, you rascal !" said the venerable and 
 cunning merchant, pulling his ear — "And I forgive 
 you; I did the same thing myself." 
 
 "And will you give her to me?" 
 
 "Yes, with fifty thousand crowns, and I shall 
 leave you as much again, and we will continue with 
 a new firm. We will brew fresh business, my boy!" 
 cried the old merchant, getting up and waving his 
 arms. "You see, my son-in-law, trade is the only 
 thing! Those who ask what pleasure is to be got 
 out of it are fools. To be in the track of business — 
 to know how to manage on the spot — to wait with 
 the eagerness of a gambler to see if Etienne & 
 Company are going bankrupt — to see a regiment of 
 the Imperial Guard passing by, dressed in our cloth, 
 to trip up a neighbor, honestly of course! to manu- 
 facture cheaper than others — to follow a business 
 that is first sketched out, that begins, increases, tot- 
 ters and finally succeeds — to know like the police 
 all the resources of the mercantile firms in order to 
 make no mistakes, — to stand erect in the face of 
 failure — to possess friends, through correspondence, 
 in all the manufacturing towns ; — is not this a never- 
 ending amusement, Joseph? But it is life! 1 shall 
 die in the midst of such work, like old Chevrel, 
 taking things, however, at my ease." 
 
 In the heat of his most vigorous extemporizing, old 
 Guillaume had hard'y looked at his clerk, who was 
 weeping bitterly.
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 43 
 
 "Why, Joseph! my poor boy, what is the mat- 
 ter?" 
 
 "Oh! I love her so, so much, Monsieur Guil- 
 laume, that my heart fails me, I fancy — " 
 
 "Well, boy," said the merchant softening, "you 
 are luckier than you think — by Jove! for she loves 
 you. I know it!" and he winked his little green 
 eyes as he looked at his clerk. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Augustine! Mademoiselle Augus- 
 tine!" cried Joseph Lebas in his excitement. 
 
 He was rushing out of the closet when he was ar- 
 rested by a hand of iron and his master, horrified, 
 swung him swiftly round in front of him. 
 
 "What has Augustine to do with this matter.?" 
 asked Guillaume, whose tone of voice promptly froze 
 the unfortunate Joseph Lebas. 
 
 "Is it not she — whom — I love.-'" stammered the 
 clerk. 
 
 Disconcerted at his own want of perspicacity, 
 Guillaume sat down again and buried his peaked 
 head in his hands to think out the strange position 
 in which he was placed. Joseph Lebas remained 
 standing, ashamed and distressed. 
 
 "Joseph," resumed the merchant, with cold dig- 
 nity, "I was speaking of Virginie. I know that 
 love cannot be made to order. 1 trust your discretion 
 and we will forget what has occurred. 1 will never 
 allow Augustine to marry before Virginie. Your 
 interest will be ten per cent." 
 
 Inspired by love with an incredible degree of 
 courage and eloquence, the clerk clasped his hands,
 
 44 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 began to speak, and for a quarter of an hour spoke 
 to Guillaume with so much heat and feeling that 
 the position of affairs was changed. Had it been 
 some commercial business the old merchant would 
 have decided it by fixed rules; but, as he would 
 have put it, cast a thousand miles away from 
 commerce on a sea of sentiment without a compass, 
 he floated irresolutely before so original an occur- 
 rence. Carried away by his natural goodness of 
 heart, he beat about the bush for a little while. 
 
 "But, deuce take it! Joseph, you are not una- 
 ware of the fact that there is ten years' difference 
 between my two children! Mademoiselle Chevrel 
 was certainly not beautiful, but then she could not 
 complain about me. Do as 1 did. Come now, do 
 not weep any more! How silly you are! What 
 more do you want? Perhaps it will all come right, 
 we will see. There is always some way out of a 
 difficulty. We men are not always sentimental 
 lovers about our wives — You understand? Madame 
 Guillaume is very prejudiced and — Well, then! 
 Hang it all! my boy, give your arm to Augustine 
 this morning going to Mass!" 
 
 Such were the random sentences jerked out by 
 Guillaume. The inference with which they con- 
 cluded enraptured the love-sick clerk; he was 
 already thinking of one of his friends for Mademoi- 
 selle Virginie when he came out of the smoky closet 
 squeezing his future father-in-law's hand, after 
 having said to him with a look of intelligence that 
 all would be arranged for the best.
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 45 
 
 "What will Madame Guillaume think?" 
 
 This idea greatly worried the worthy merchant 
 when he was alone. 
 
 At luncheon, Madame Guillaume and Virginie, 
 from whom the master had temporarily concealed 
 his disappointment, looked somewhat slily at Jo- 
 seph Lebas, who was greatly embarrassed. The 
 bashful ness of the clerk won him favor with his 
 mother-in-law. 
 
 The old lady became so lively that she actually 
 smiled at Monsieur Guillaume, and indulged in 
 several little jokes used from time immemorial in 
 this simple family. She called the heights of 
 Virginie and Joseph in question, so as to have 
 their measure. This preparatory nonsense clouded 
 the brow of the head of the family and he even 
 affected such a love of decorum that he ordered 
 Augustine to take the head clerk's arm going to 
 Saint-Leu. 
 
 Madame Guillaume, astonished at this masculine 
 delicacy, honored her husband with an approving 
 nod. So the procession left the house in an order 
 that could suggest no spiteful interpretation to the 
 neighbors. 
 
 "Do you not think, Mademoiselle Augustine," 
 said the trembling clerk, "that the wife of a mer- 
 chant, who has so much influence, like Monsieur 
 Guillaume for instance, might amuse herself a little 
 more than Madame does, might wear diamonds or 
 ride in a carriage.'' As for me, if I were to marry, 
 I should do all the work, and see my wife happy.
 
 46 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 I should not put her in my office. You see, in the 
 cloth business women are no longer so necessary 
 as formerly. Monsieur Guillaume was quite right 
 to act as he did, and besides, it was his wife's 
 choice. But it is sufficient if a woman knows 
 enough to lend a hand with the accounts, correspon- 
 dence, retailing, orders, or her household, so as not 
 to be idle — that is all. At seven o'clock, when the 
 shop would be closed, 1 would amuse myself — I 
 should go to the play or into society — but you are 
 not listening?" 
 
 "Oh! yes, Monsieur Joseph. What do you say 
 to painting.? That is a splendid calling." 
 
 "Yes, I know a master house painter, Monsieur 
 Lourdois, who is rich." And chatting in this way, 
 the family arrived at the church of Saint-Leu. 
 There, Madame Guillaume reasserted her rights, 
 and for the first time, placed Augustine by her side. 
 Virginie took the fourth chair next to Lebas. Dur- 
 ing the sermon, all went well between Augustine 
 and Theodore, who, standing behind a pillar, was 
 praying to his Madonna with fervor ; but, during the 
 raising of the Host, Madame Guillaume noticed, a 
 little late in the day, that her daughter Augustine 
 held her prayer-book upside down. She was on the 
 point of giving her a good scolding when, lowering 
 her veil, she suspended her lecture and followed the 
 directions of the young girl's eyes. 
 
 By the help of her spectacles she saw the young 
 artist, whose fashionable elegance gave him the ap- 
 pearance of some cavalry officer off duty, rather
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 47 
 
 than a merchant of the quariier. It is difficult to 
 imagine the furious condition of Madame Guillaume 
 — who flattered herself that she had brought up her 
 daughters to perfection — when she discovered a 
 clandestine love in Augustine's heart, the danger of 
 which her prudishness and ignorance greatly exag- 
 gerated. She believed her daughter to be polluted 
 to the heart. 
 
 "Hold your book the right way, Mademoiselle," 
 she said in a low voice, but shaking with rage. 
 
 She hastily snatched the accusing prayer-book 
 and replaced it in such a way that the letters re- 
 sumed their natural order. 
 
 "You had better not look anywhere else but at 
 your prayers," she added, "or you will have me to 
 deal with. After Mass, your father and 1 will have 
 something to say to you." 
 
 These words came like a thunderbolt to poor 
 Augustine. She felt herself giving way; but strug- 
 gling with the pain she felt and the fear of causing 
 a scandal in the church, she had the courage to hide 
 her agonies. And yet it is easy to imagine the vio- 
 lent state of mind she was in when she saw her 
 prayer-book shaking and the tears falling on each 
 page as she turned it. 
 
 By the furious glance that Madame Guillaume 
 hurled at him, the artist saw the danger with which 
 his love was threatened and he went out, his heart 
 full of anger, determined to dare all. 
 
 "Goto your room. Mademoiselle," said Madame 
 Guillaume to her daughter upon reaching the house.
 
 48 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 "we will call you, and above all, do not dare to 
 come out." 
 
 The conference between the husband and wife 
 was so secret, that at first nothing transpired. But 
 Virginie, who had encouraged her sister with a 
 thousand kindly representations, carried her kind- 
 ness to the extent of slipping to the door of her 
 mother's bedroom where the discussion was takins; 
 place, in order to gather a few words. The first 
 time she went from the third to the second story, 
 she heard her father crying: 
 
 "Then you wish to kill your daughter, Madame?" 
 
 "My poor child," said Virginie to her tearful 
 sister, "papa is defending you." 
 
 "And what do they intend to do to Theodore?" 
 asked the simple creature. 
 
 The inquisitive Virginie went down once more; 
 but this time she stayed longer; she learnt that 
 Lebas loved Augustine. It was fated that upon 
 this memorable day, this ordinarily peaceful house- 
 hold should become a pandemonium. Monsieur 
 Guillaume distracted Joseph Lebas when he con- 
 fided to him that Augustine loved a stranger. Lebas, 
 who had advised his friend to propose for Mademoi- 
 selle Virginie saw all his hopes dashed to the ground. 
 Mademoiselle Virginie, overcome with the know- 
 ledge that Joseph had in some sort of way refused 
 her, was seized with a sick headache. The discord 
 sown between husband and wife by the discussion 
 they had had together, when, for the third time 
 in their lives, their opinions differed, showed itself
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 49 
 
 in a terrible manner. Atlast four hours after noon, 
 Augustine, pale, trembling and with reddened eyes, 
 appeared before her father and mother. The poor 
 child naively related the brief history of her love. 
 Reassured by her father, who had promised to listen 
 in silence, she took a certain courage in pronouncing 
 the name of her beloved Theodore de Sommervieux 
 before her parents, and mischievously emphasized 
 the aristocratic de. Abandoning herself to the 
 strange pleasure of talking of her feelings, she 
 mustered up sufficient audacity to declare with an 
 innocent firmness that she loved Monsieur de Som- 
 mervieux, that she had written to him, and she 
 added with tears in her eyes : 
 
 "It would make me miserable to sacrifice me to 
 another." 
 
 "But, Augustine, do you not know that he is 
 nothing but a painter.?" cried her horrified mother. 
 
 "Madame Guillaume!" said the old man, silenc- 
 ing his wife. — "Augustine," said he, "artists are 
 generally good-for-nothings. — They are too extrava- 
 gant to be anything but worthless fellows. I sup- 
 plied the late Monsieur Joseph Vernet, the late 
 Monsieur Lekain and the late Monsieur Noverre. 
 Ah! if you but knew the tricks that this Monsieur 
 Noverre, Monsieur le Chevalier de Saint-Georges, 
 and above all Monsieur Philidor played upon that 
 poor father Chevrel ! They are a queer lot, I know 
 well ; they all chatter so, and have such ways — ah ! 
 your Monsieur Sumer — Somm — " 
 
 "De Sommervieux, father!" 
 4
 
 50 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 "Well, de Sommervieux, be it! He would never 
 have been as amiable to you as Monsieur le Cheva- 
 lier de Saint-Georges was to me — the day that I 
 obtained a decision of the consuls against him. 
 Indeed the people of rank were always so in former 
 times." 
 
 "But, father. Monsieur Theodore is of noble birth 
 and has written to me that he is rich. His father 
 was the Chevalier de Sommervieux before the Revo- 
 lution." 
 
 At these words, Monsieur Guillaume looked at 
 his formidable half, who, in feminine contrariness, 
 was tapping the floor with her foot and maintaining 
 a gloomy silence; she even avoided turning her 
 angry eyes toward Augustine, and appeared to leave 
 the responsibility of so grave a matter to Monsieur 
 Guillaume since her advice was not heeded; never- 
 theless, in spite of her apparent phlegm, when she 
 saw her husband resigning himself so meekly to a ca- 
 tastrophe that was in no sense commercial, she 
 cried: 
 
 "Really, sir! you show a weakness with your 
 daughters — but — ' ' 
 
 The noise of a carriage stopping at the door, sud- 
 denly interrupted the reprimand that the old mer- 
 chant already dreaded. In a moment Madame 
 Roguin entered the room, and looking at the three 
 performers in this domestic drama: 
 
 "I know all, my cousin," she said with a 
 patronizing air. 
 
 Madame Roguin's one fault was that of believing
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 51 
 
 that the wife of a Parisian notary can play the role 
 of a great lady. 
 
 "1 know all," she repeated, "and I come into 
 Noah's ark like the dove with the olive branch. 
 I read this allegory in the Genie du Christianisme," 
 she said turning to Madame Guillaume, "the com- 
 parison ought to please you, cousin. Do you know," 
 she added smiling at Augustine, "that Monsieur de 
 Sommervieux is a charming man ? He gave me my 
 own portrait to-day painted by a master's hand. It 
 is worth at least six thousand francs." 
 
 At these words she gently tapped Monsieur Guil- 
 laume on the arm. The old merchant could not 
 resist pouting his lips in a way that was peculiar 
 to him. 
 
 "I know Monsieur de Sommervieux very well," 
 continued the dove, "for the last fortnight he has come 
 to my soirees, and is the life of them. He has told 
 me all his troubles and has enlisted me as his advo- 
 cate. I know from this morning that he adores 
 Augustine, and he will have her. Ah! cousin do 
 not shake your head like that in token of refusal. 
 Know then, that he is to be created baron, and has 
 just been appointed Chevalier of the Legion of 
 Honor by the Emperor himself at the Salon. 
 
 "Roguin has become his notary and knows all his 
 affairs. Well then. Monsieur de Sommervieux pos- 
 sesses in good landed property twelve thousand 
 francs a year. Do you know that the father-in-law 
 of such a man might become something, mayor of 
 his arrondissement for instance! Did you not see
 
 52 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 how Monsieur Dupont was made a Count of the 
 Empire and Senator, for having gone, in his capa- 
 city as mayor, to congratulate the Emperor upon his 
 entry into Vienna? Oh! this marriage will take 
 place. 1 adore him, I do, this good young man. Such 
 bearing as his toward Augustine is only to be found 
 in novels. There, my little one, you will be 
 happy, and all the world will envy you. Madame 
 la Duchessede Carigliano, who comes to my soirees, 
 dotes upon Monsieur Sommervieux. Some spiteful 
 tongues say she comes only on his account, as if a 
 duchess of yesterday could be out of place in the 
 house of a Chevrel whose family can boast of a 
 century of good bourgeoisie. — Augustine!" resumed 
 Madame Roguin after a short pause, "1 have seen 
 the portrait. Goodness ! how beautiful it is ! Do 
 you know the Emperor wished to see it.? He said 
 laughingly to the Vice-Constable that if many such 
 women as that were at Court whilst so many kings 
 came there, it would be hard to maintain the peace 
 of Europe. Is that not flattering.?" 
 
 The storms with which this day had begun were 
 like those of Nature, bringing back calm, serene 
 weather. Madame Roguin was so bewitching in 
 the course of conversation, she knew so well what 
 chords to strike at once in the dry hearts of Monsieur 
 and Madame Guillaume, that she ended by finding 
 one of which she took advantage. At this singular 
 epoch trade and finance were more than ever pos- 
 sessed by the foolish mania of allying themselves 
 with noblemen, and the generals of the Empire were
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 53 
 
 not slow to profit by this inclination. Monsieur 
 Guillaume was singularly opposed to this deplor- 
 able passion. His favorite axioms were, that to be 
 happy a woman should marry a man of her own 
 class; retribution sooner or later overtook those 
 who soared too high ; — love withstood so little the 
 worries of housekeeping that each must seek sound 
 qualities in the other in order to be happy; one of 
 the two must not know more than the other, because 
 above all they should understand each other; a 
 husband who spoke Greek and the wife Latin ran 
 the risk of dying of hunger. He had invented this 
 sort of proverb. He would compare such marriages 
 to old silk and woolen stuffs where the silk always 
 finished by cutting the wool. And yet, so much 
 vanity lies at the bottom of man's heart, that the 
 prudence of the pilot who so well guided the Cat 
 and Racket, succumbed to the aggressive volubility 
 of Madame Roguin. The severe Madame Guil- 
 laume was the first to find motives in her daughter's 
 inclination to induce her to act contrary to her prin- 
 ciples and consent to receive Monsieur de Sommer- 
 vieux at the house, secretly determined to submit 
 him to a close examination. 
 
 The old merchant went to find Lebas and informed 
 him of the state of things. At half-past six, under 
 the glass roof of the dining-room rendered famous by 
 the painter, were assembled Madame and Monsieur 
 Roguin, the young artist and his charming Augustine, 
 Joseph Lebas, who took his good fortune patiently, 
 and Mademoiselle Virginie, whose headache had
 
 54 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 vanished. Monsieur and Madame Guillaume saw 
 a vision of their children established and the 
 future of the Cat and Racket intrusted to skilful 
 hands. Their satisfaction was complete, when, at 
 dessert, Theodore presented them with the marvel- 
 ous picture that they had not seen, and that 
 depicted the interior of their old shop, to which so 
 much happiness was due. 
 
 "How nice it is!" cried Guillaume. "To think 
 that anyone would give thirty thousand francs for 
 that—" 
 
 "And there are my lappets!" said Madame Guil- 
 laume. 
 
 "And those unfolded stuffs," added Lebas, "one 
 could almost take hold of them." 
 
 "Draperies always paint well," answered the 
 artist, "we should be too fortunate, we modern 
 artists, if we could attain the perfection of antique 
 drapery." 
 
 "Then you like drapery?" cried father Guil- 
 laume. "Well, shake hands, my young friend. 
 As you have such a good opinion of trade we shall 
 agree. Well ! and why should it be despised? The 
 world began that way since Adam sold Paradise for 
 an apple, though, to be sure that was not a first-rate 
 speculation!" And the old merchant, elated by the 
 champagne that he was freely circulating, burst into 
 a loud, hearty laugh. So blinded was the young 
 artist that he thought his future relatives delightful. 
 He was not above enlivening them with a few 
 tales in good taste. And so he pleased everybody.
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 55 
 
 At night, when the smartly furnished salon, as 
 Monsieur Guillaume expressed it, was deserted; 
 while Madame Guillaume was trotting from table 
 to chimney-piece, from candelabra to candle, hastily 
 blowing out the lights, the worthy merchant, 
 always clear-sighted in a matter of business or 
 money, drew Augustine to his side; and, having 
 seated her on his knee, delivered her this discourse: 
 "My dear child, you shall marry your Sommer- 
 vieux, as you wish to; you may risk your capital of 
 happiness. But I take no stock in these thirty 
 thousand francs that are earned by spoiling good 
 canvas. Money that comes so fast goes as quickly. 
 Did I not hear that young scatterbrain saying to-night 
 that if money was round it was made to roll ? If it 
 is round for extravagant people, it is flat for econom- 
 ical people who pile it up. Now, my child, that 
 handsome boy talks of giving you carriages and 
 diamonds. He has money, let him spend it on you ! 
 well and good! I have nothing to say to that. But 
 as to what I shall give you, I do not wish money 
 pocketed with so much difficulty to vanish in car- 
 riages and gewgaws. He who spends too much is 
 never rich. You cannot buy all Paris even with 
 the hundred thousand crowns of your dowry. It is 
 all very well for you to inherit several hundreds of 
 thousands of francs one day, but, by Jingo! I'll 
 make you wait for it as long as possible. So I drew 
 your intended into a corner, and, for a man who 
 managed the bankrupt Lecoq it was not difficult to 
 obtain an artist's consent to marry with the wife's
 
 56 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 estate separate. I shall attend to the contract in 
 order to clearly stipulate the settlements he pro- 
 poses to make. You see, my child, I hope to be a 
 grandfather, and hang it all ! I wish to look after my 
 grandchildren already; swear to me here never to 
 sign a deed of money without my advice; and if I 
 am gone to join old Chevrel, swear to me you will 
 consult young Lebas, your brother-in-law. Promise 
 me." 
 
 "Yes, father, I swear it to you." 
 
 As she said these words in a low voice the old 
 man kissed his daughter on both cheeks. That 
 night, all the lovers slept almost as peacefully as 
 Monsieur and Madame Guillaume. 
 
 A few months after this memorable Sunday, the 
 high altar of Saint-Leu witnessed two very differ- 
 ent weddings. Augustine and Theodore came in 
 all the glamor of happiness; their eyes full of love, 
 dressed in the most elegant attire, attended by a 
 brilliant train. Virginie, arrived in a livery coach 
 with her family, and, leaning upon her father's arm, 
 meekly followed her younger sister in simple fmery, 
 like some shadow that was indispensable to the 
 harmonies of the picture. Monsieur Guillaume 
 had taken the greatest pains imaginable to arrange 
 that Virginie should be married in church before 
 Augustine ; but he had the mortification of seeing the 
 principal and lesser clergy alike addressing the 
 most elegant of the brides on every occasion. He 
 heard some of his neighbors particularly approv- 
 ing Mademoiselle Virginie's good sense, who, they
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 57 
 
 said, was making by far the best marriage and re- 
 mained true to the quartier; whilst they launched 
 several envious sneers at Augustine, who was mar- 
 rying an artist, a nobleman; they added with a sort 
 of dismay that if the Guillaumes soared too high, 
 the cloth business was lost Overhearing an old 
 fan merchant saying that "that spendthrift would 
 soon bring her to want," old Guillaume inwardly 
 congratulated himself upon his foresight in the 
 matrimonial agreement. That night after a sump- 
 tuous ball, followed by one of those abundant sup- 
 pers that are fast dying out in the present generation, 
 Monsieur and Madame Guillaume remained at their 
 mansion in the Rue du Colombier where the wed- 
 ding had taken place; Monsieur and Madame Lebas 
 returned in their hack to the old house in the Rue 
 Saint-Denis to look after the wreck of the Cat and 
 Racket ; the artist intoxicated with joy, took his 
 beloved Augustine in his arms, hastily carried her 
 off when their brougham reached the Rue des Trois- 
 Freres, and led her into a room adorned by every art.
 
 * 
 
 The transport of passion that possessed Theodore 
 lasted the young couple almost an entire year with- 
 out the least cloud to darken the blue sky above. 
 Existence for these two lovers had no burdens. 
 Over each day Theodore distributed incredible 
 beauties of pleasure, he loved to vary the excesses 
 of passion with the luxurious languor of a repose in 
 which the soul is so lost in ecstasy that it seems to 
 forget any bodily union. Incapable of thought, the 
 happy Augustine gave herself up to the undulating 
 course of her delight. She fancied she was not 
 doing enough in wholly abandoning herself to the 
 lawful, holy love of marriage; besides, simple and 
 na'ive, she knew neither the coquetry of refusal, nor 
 the power that a young woman of the world can ex- 
 ercise over a husband by ingenious caprices; she 
 loved too well to look into the future and imagined 
 that so delicious a life could never cease. Happy, 
 then, in being her husband's sole pleasure, she be- 
 lieved that this inextinguishable love would always 
 be her most beautiful adornment, as her devotion 
 and submission were to be an eternal attraction. 
 In short, the joy of love had made her so radiant 
 that her beauty had roused her pride and gave her 
 a consciousness of always being able to influence as 
 susceptible a man as Monsieur de Sommervieux. 
 Thus her position of wife had taught her no lessons 
 
 (59;
 
 60 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 but those of love. In the midst of this happiness 
 she remained the ignorant little girl who used to 
 live in the obscurity of the Rue Saint-Denis, and 
 never thought of adopting the style, attainments or 
 tone of the society in which she was to live. Her 
 words being those of love, she displayed a sort of 
 versatility of mind and a certain delicacy of 
 expression ; but she used the language common to 
 all women when they find themselves plunged into 
 a passion that seems to be their natural element. 
 If by any chance she expressed an idea that jarred 
 upon Theodore, the young artist would laugh at it 
 as one does at the first mistakes of a foreigner, 
 which end by becoming wearisome if they are not 
 corrected. In spite of so much love, at the end of 
 this year which had flown as delightfully as it had 
 rapidly, Sommervieux one morning felt the need of 
 resuming work and his old habits. His wife was 
 pregnant. He went amongst his friends again. 
 During the tedious delays of the year when a young 
 wife nurses a child for the first time, he doubtless 
 worked with zeal ; but now and then he sought dis- 
 traction in society. The house to which he went 
 most willingly was that of the Duchesse de Carig- 
 liano, who had finally attracted the celebrated 
 artist. When Augustine had recovered and her son 
 no longer required those constant attentions that 
 deprive a mother of the pleasures of society, Theo- 
 dore set his heart upon testing the gratification of 
 amour propre bestowed by society upon a man when 
 he appears with a beautiful woman, an object of
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 6l 
 
 envy and admiration. To make her appearance in 
 salons with all the eclat borrowed from her hus- 
 band's fame, to see the jealousy of other women, 
 was a new source of pleasure to Augustine; but it 
 was the last reflex of his conjugal happiness. She 
 began by offending her husband's vanity, when, in 
 spite of fruitless efforts, she betrayed her ignorance, 
 the impropriety of her language, and the narrow- 
 ness of her ideas. Sommervieux's temperament, 
 restrained for nearly two and a half y^ars by the 
 first transports of love, now resumed with a tran- 
 quillity of a less recent acquisition, the habits and 
 inclinations which had been for a while diverted 
 from their course. Poetry, painting, and the ex- 
 quisite delights of imagination assert indefeasible 
 rights over lofty minds. These exigencies of a 
 forceful soul had not been suppressed these two 
 years, they had only found new pastures. When 
 the fields of Love had been overrun and the artist, 
 childlike, had so greedily gathered the roses and 
 cornflowers that he did not see that his hands could 
 hold no more, the scene changed. If the artist 
 showed his wife the sketches of his most beautiful 
 compositions, she would exclaim just as old Guil- 
 laume might have done: "How pretty!" This 
 lukewarm admiration did not spring from a con- 
 scientious perception, but from a loving, implicit 
 trust Augustine preferred one look to the most 
 beautiful picture. The only loftiness she recog- 
 nized was that of the heart. Finally, Theodore 
 could no longer shut his eyes to a cruel truth; his
 
 62 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 wife was insensible to poetry, she did not inhabit 
 his sphere, she did not follow him in all his ca- 
 prices, in his improvisations, his joys or sorrows; she 
 walked in a commonplace way in a substantial 
 world, whilst he was in the clouds. Ordinary peo- 
 ple cannot appreciate the constant sufferings of a 
 being, who, united to another by the closest of all 
 intimacies, is continually forced to suppress the 
 most valuable expansions of his mind and to restore 
 to nothingness the images that a magic power forces 
 him to create. For such a one, this torture is all 
 the more cruel, because the feeling that he bears to 
 his companion demands, as its first precept, that 
 they should never conceal anything from each other, 
 and that the effusions of the mind should mingle as 
 well as the outpourings of the soul. The prompt- 
 ings of nature are not to be disobeyed with im- 
 punity; she is as inexorable as necessity, which is 
 most assuredly a kind of social nature. Sommer- 
 vieux took refuge in the peace and silence of his 
 studio, hoping that the habit of living with artists 
 might improve his wife and develop in her the 
 torpid germs of a higher intelligence which some 
 superior people believe to be pre-existing in every- 
 one; but Augustine was too sincerely religious not 
 to be alarmed by the tone of the artists. At the 
 first dinner given by Theodore, she heard a young 
 artist say with that childish airiness that she 
 failed to see, and that absolves a jest from any 
 profanity: 
 
 "But, madame, is not your Heaven more beautiful
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 63 
 
 than Raphael's Trarisfigtiraiion? Well, I am tired 
 of looking at it." 
 
 So Augustine exhibited in this witty society a 
 spirit of diffidence that escaped nobody's observa- 
 tion; she embarrassed everyone. An uncomfortable 
 artist is merciless; he either flies or he scoffs. 
 Amongst her other absurdities Madame Guillaume 
 had always exaggerated the dignity which she sup- 
 posed suitable to a married woman; and though 
 often teased about it, Augustine could not refrain 
 from a weak imitation of the maternal prudishness. 
 This exaggeration of modesty that virtuous women 
 do not always avoid, inspired several pencilled 
 epigrams, whose innocent playfulness was in too 
 good taste to offend Sommervieux. Even had these 
 jokes been a little more cruel, they would after all 
 only have been retaliations practised upon him by 
 his friends. But to a soul so easily susceptible to 
 outside impressions, nothing is a trifle. And so he 
 insensibly felt a coldness that could but go on in- 
 creasing. To attain conjugal happiness a mountain 
 has to be scaled where a narrow platform is close to 
 a very steep and slippery bank, and the artist's 
 love was rapidly descending it. He deemed his 
 wife incapable of appreciating the moral considera- 
 tions which, in his own eyes, justified his singular 
 attitude towards her, and believed himself perfectly 
 innocent in hiding from her the thoughts that she 
 could not understand and the deviations that do not 
 come under the jurisdiction of a bourgeois con- 
 science. Augustine shut herself up in silent.
 
 64 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 gloomy sorrow. These secret feelings placed a veil 
 between husband and wife that could but thicken 
 day by day. Although her husband never failed to 
 show her every consideration, Augustine could not 
 help quivering when she saw him reserving for 
 society the treasures of talent and grace that he had 
 formerly laid at her feet. Very soon she put a fatal 
 construction upon the witty conversations society 
 holds upon the inconstancy of men. She did not com- 
 plain, but her attitude was equivalent to reproaches. 
 Three years after her marriage, this young and 
 pretty woman, who drove by so radiantly in her 
 brilliant carriage, who lived in a sphere of glory 
 and wealth envied by careless people incapable of 
 justly estimating the conditions of life, was a prey 
 to terrible grief ; her color faded, she reflected and 
 compared; and then misery revealed to her the first 
 texts of experience. She resolved bravely to con- 
 tinue her round of duties, hoping that this generous 
 conduct might sooner or later restore her husband's 
 love; but it was not so. WhenSommervieux, weary 
 with work, came out of his studio, Augustine could 
 not hide her work so quickly but that the painter 
 could see that his wife was mending his own and 
 the house linen with all the care of a thrifty house- 
 keeper. She generously and uncomplainingly 
 provided the money for all her husband's extrava- 
 gances ; but, in her desire to preserve her beloved 
 Theodore's wealth she practised economy herself, 
 as well as in certain details of the domestic admin- 
 istration. This behavior is incompatible with the
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 65 
 
 carelessness of artists, who, at the end of their 
 careers, have so much enjoyed life, that they never 
 seek the cause of their ruin. There is no need to 
 follow each degradation of color with which the 
 brilliant tint of their honeymoon disappeared and 
 left them in a great darkness. One evening, the 
 wretched Augustine, who had for a long time heard 
 her husband speaking enthusiastically of the Duch- 
 esse de Carigliano, received from a friend some 
 maliciously charitable warnings as to the nature of 
 the attachment that Sommervieux entertained for 
 this celebrated coquette of the Imperial Court. 
 Augustine saw herself at twenty-one, in all the flush 
 of youth and beauty, abandoned for a woman of 
 thirty-six. Conscious of her misery in the midst 
 of society and entertainments that to her were 
 empty, the poor little thing no longer cared for the 
 admiration she excited, or for the envy she 
 inspired. Her face wore a new expression. 
 Melancholy had laid upon her features the meekness 
 of resignation and the pallor of a despised love. It 
 was not long before she was courted by the most 
 fascinating men; but she remained alone and vir- 
 tuous. Two or three disdainful words dropped by 
 her husband, filled her with an incredible despair. 
 A fatal glimmer dimly revealed to her the deficiency 
 of touch that in consequence of her poor education, 
 hindered the perfect union of her soul with Theo- 
 dore's; she loved him well enough to forgive him 
 and condemn herself. She wept tears of blood and 
 recognized too late that there can be misalliances of 
 5
 
 66 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 mind as well as those of manner and rank. In mus- 
 ing upon the early delights of her union she summed 
 up the extent of the past happiness and admitted to 
 herself that so rich a harvest of love was a whole 
 lifetime that could only be expiated by misery. 
 However, she was too sincerely in love to lose all 
 hope. Accordingly, she ventured at twenty-one 
 years old to educate herself and to make her imagi- 
 nation at least worthy of the one she admired. 
 
 "If I am not a poet," she said to herself, "I 
 shall at least understand poetry." 
 
 And then, displaying all the force of will and 
 energy which all women possess when they love, 
 Madame de Sommervieux attempted to change her 
 character, her manners and her customs; but, whilst 
 devouring books and studying with zeal, she only 
 succeeded in becoming less ignorant Versatility of 
 mind and charms of conversation are a gift of nature 
 or the results of education from the cradle. She 
 could appreciate music and enjoy it, but sang with- 
 out taste. She understood literature and the 
 beauties of poetry, but it was too late to instil them 
 into her rebellious memory. She listened with 
 pleasure to the conversations of society to which 
 she herself contributed nothing brilliant. Her 
 religious ideas and childish prejudices prevented 
 the complete emancipation of her intelligence. In 
 short, a prejudice against her had insinuated itself 
 into Theodore's mind which she could not overcome. 
 The artist scoffed at those who praised his wife, 
 and his jests were often enough justifiable; he
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 67 
 
 overawed this pathetic young creature to such a 
 degree that in his presence, or when they were tete- 
 a-tgte, she trembled. Embarrassed by her over- 
 whelming desire to please, she felt her intelligence 
 and acquirements vanishing into mere sentiment. 
 Her constancy even annoyed this faithless husband, 
 who seemed to be urging her to make mistakes by 
 accusing her virtue of insensibility. Augustine 
 vainly strove, against her judgment, to adapt herself 
 to her husband's caprices and whims, and to devote 
 herself to his egotistical vanity; she did not reap 
 the benefit of her sacrifices. It may be that they 
 had both missed the moment which might have 
 brought them together. One day the young wife's 
 over-sensitive heart received one of those shocks 
 that wrench the bonds of sentiment so hard, that it 
 seems as if they must be broken. She isolated her- 
 self. But soon a fatal idea prompted her to seek 
 consolation and advice in the bosom of her family. 
 
 So one morning she turned in the direction of the 
 grotesque fagade of the humble and silent house 
 where her childhood had been passed. She sighed 
 as she looked at the window from which, one day, 
 she had blown the first kiss to him who to-day 
 brought as much fame as misery into her life. 
 Nothing was changed in the retreat where, however, 
 the drapery business was reviving. Augustine's 
 sister occupied her mother's place at the old-fash- 
 ioned desk. The unhappy girl met her brother-in- 
 law with his pen behind his ear, but he seemed 
 almost too busy to listen to her; the formidable
 
 68 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 signals of a general inventory were going on 
 around him; and so he left her with an excuse. 
 She was somewhat coldly received by her sister, 
 who bore her some ill-will. For Augustine, radiant 
 in her pretty carriage, had only paid her sister flying 
 visits. The wife of the prudent Lebas, thinking that 
 money was the primary object of this morning call, 
 tried to maintain a reserve that made Augustine 
 smile more than once. The painter's wife per- 
 ceived that, save for lappets in the cap, her mother 
 had found in Virginie a successor who kept up the 
 ancient credit of the Cat and Racket. At lunch she 
 noticed certain changes in the regime of the house 
 that did credit to Joseph Lebas's good sense; the 
 clerks remained for dessert, they were allowed to 
 speak, and the abundance of food indicated comfort 
 without luxury. The young beauty came upon some 
 tickets for a box at the "Frangais, " where she 
 remembered having seen her sister from time to 
 time. The richness of the cashmere shawl worn 
 by Madame Lebas attested the generosity shown to 
 her by her husband. In fact, husband and wife pro- 
 gressed with the times. Augustine was quickly 
 filled with emotion when, during two-thirds of the 
 day, she observed the even happiness — not enthu- 
 siastic it is true, but, on the other hand, unruffled — 
 that this well -assorted couple enjoyed. They 
 looked upon life as a commercial enterprise in 
 which it behooved them, before everything else, to 
 do credit to their business. Meeting with no ex- 
 treme love from her husband, the wife set herself to
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 69 
 
 create it. Led unconsciously to respect and cherish 
 Virginie, the time that happiness took to dawn for 
 Joseph Lebas and his wife was a pledge of duration. 
 So when the plaintive Augustine disclosed her mis- 
 erable situation she had to endure the deluge of 
 commonplaces with which the ethics of the Rue 
 Saint-Denis supplied her sister. 
 
 "The mischief is done, my wife," said Joseph 
 Lebas, "we must try to give good advice to our 
 sister." 
 
 And then the skilful merchant thoroughly ana- 
 lyzed the resources that the laws and customs might 
 offer as an escape for Augustine in this crisis; he 
 numbered all the considerations, so to speak, ar- 
 ranged them according to their efficiency in a 
 species of category, as if it were a question of mer- 
 chandise of divers qualities ; then he balanced them, 
 weighed them, and concluded by explaining the 
 necessity for his sister-in-law to take a strong 
 course, which did not satisfy the love she still felt 
 for her husband; indeed, this sentiment revived in 
 all its force when she heard Joseph Lebas talk of 
 legal proceedings. Augustine thanked her two 
 friends, and returned home more undecided than she 
 had been before she consulted them. She then ven- 
 tured to the old house in the Rue du Colombier, 
 with the intention of confiding her misfortunes to 
 her father and mother, for she was like a sick per- 
 son who, in a state of despair, tries all receipts and 
 even relies upon the remedies of an old woman. 
 The old couple welcomed their daughter with an
 
 70 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 effusion that touched her. Her visit brought them 
 a distraction which to them was worth a fortune. 
 For four years they had gone through life like 
 mariners without aim or compass. Seated by their 
 fireside they would remind each other of all the dis- 
 asters of the Maximum, their bygone purchases of 
 cloth, the way in which they had avoided bank- 
 ruptcy, and, above all, the celebrated failure of 
 Lecoq, old Guillaume's Battle of Marengo. And 
 then, when they had exhausted the old lawsuits, 
 they would recapitulate the additions to their most 
 profitable inventories, and would tell each other 
 once more the old stories of the Quartier Saint- 
 Denis. At two o'clock, old Guillaume would go 
 and cast an eye over the establishment of the Cat 
 and Racket ; on his way home, he would stop at all 
 the shops, formerly his rivals, whose young pro- 
 prietors hoped to draw the old merchant into some 
 hazardous discount, which, as was his wont, he 
 never positively refused. Two good Normandy 
 horses were dying of fat in the stables of the man- 
 sion ; they were never used except to draw Madame 
 Guillaume every Sunday to the High Mass of her 
 parish. Three times a week this worthy couple 
 held open house. Thanks to the influence of his 
 son-in-law Sommervieux, old Guillaume had been 
 appointed member of the consulting committee for 
 the clothing of the troops. Since her husband's 
 promotion to such an important place in the admin- 
 istration, Madame Guillaume determined to keep up 
 appearances ; her apartments were crowded with so
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET J I 
 
 many gold and silver ornaments, and tasteless but 
 certainly valuable furniture, that the simplest room 
 resembled a chapel. Economy and extravagance 
 seemed to be struggling in each accessory of this 
 house. One might have thought that Monsieur 
 Guillaume had invested in silver even down to 
 the acquisition of a candlestick. In the middle of 
 this bazaar, the wealth of which betrayed the 
 leisure of husband and wife, Sommervieux's cele- 
 brated picture had been given the place of honor, 
 and was the comfort of Monsieur and Madame Guil- 
 laume, who, twenty times a day, would turn their 
 spectacled eyes towards this likeness of their former 
 existence, which for them had been so active and 
 amusing. The aspect of this house and these rooms 
 where all was redolent of old age and mediocrity; 
 the spectacle presented by these two beings who 
 seemed to be stranded upon a golden rock far from 
 the world and all life-giving thought, surprised 
 Augustine; she was now contemplating the second 
 part of the picture, the first part of which had struck 
 her at Joseph Lebas's; that of a restless though in- 
 active life, a sort of mechanical instinctive existence 
 like a beaver's; she then felt an indescribable 
 pride in her sorrows, in the thought that they had 
 sprung from a happiness of eighteen months which 
 in her eyes was worth a thousand such lives as this 
 whose emptiness seemed so horrible to her. But 
 she concealed this somewhat uncharitable sentiment, 
 and exerted for her old parents all the fresh charms 
 of her mind and the tender coquetries revealed to
 
 72 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 her by love, and disposed them to listen favorably 
 to her matrimonial grievances. Old people have a 
 weakness for this particular kind of confidence. 
 Madame Guillaume insisted upon hearing the 
 minutest details of this strange life, which, to her, 
 seemed almost fictitious. The Travels of the Baron 
 de la Hoiitan, which she was always beginning and 
 never finishing, told her of nothing more extraordi- 
 nary respecting the Canadian savages. 
 
 "What! child! your husband shuts himself up 
 with naked women and you are simpleton enough 
 to believe that he draws them ?" 
 
 After this remark the grandmother placed her 
 glasses upon a little workbox, shook her skirts and 
 folded her hands upon her knees that were raised 
 on a footwarmer, her favorite pedestal. 
 
 "But, mother, all artists are obliged to have 
 models." 
 
 "He took good care not to tell us all that when 
 he proposed to you. Had I known it, I would 
 never have given my daughter to a man who 
 followed such a trade. Religion forbids such hor- 
 rors, it is immoral. At what hour did you say he 
 comes in?" 
 
 "Well, at one or two o'clock — " 
 
 Husband and wife looked at each other in pro- 
 found astonishment. 
 
 "Does he gamble then?" said Monsieur Guil- 
 laume, "in my time it was only gamblers who came 
 home so late." 
 
 Augustine's face repudiated this accusation.
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 73 
 
 "He must make you spend some cruel nights 
 waiting for him," continued Madame Guillaume, 
 "but no, you go to bed, do you not? And when he 
 has lost, the monster wakes you up." 
 
 "No, mother, on the contrary, he is sometimes 
 very cheerful. Very often even, when it is fine, he 
 wants me to get up and go in the woods." 
 
 "In the woods, at those hours? You must have 
 very small apartments that he should not be con- 
 tent with his room, or his salon, and must run out 
 to — But the rascal proposes these excursions to give 
 you cold. He wants to get rid of you. Did one 
 ever see a married man, with a peaceful trade, gal- 
 loping round like this as if he were a surly dog? " 
 
 "But, mother, you do not understand that he 
 needs excitement to develop his talents. He loves 
 scenes that — " 
 
 "Ah! I'd make some fine scenes for him, I 
 would!" cried Madame Guillaume, interrupting 
 her daughter, "how can you keep house with such 
 a man? To begin with I object to his drinking 
 nothing but water. It is not healthy. Why does 
 he object to seeing women eat? What an extraor- 
 dinary creature! But he must be mad — All that 
 you tell us is impossible. A man cannot leave his 
 house without breathing a word and only return ten 
 days afterwards. He told you that he went to 
 Dieppe to paint the sea; does one paint the sea? He 
 tells you nonsensical stories." 
 
 Augustine was opening her lips to defend her 
 husband, but Madame Guillaume silenced her with
 
 74 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 a gesture which from force of habit she obeyed, and 
 her mother exclaimed sharply: 
 
 "Look here, don't talk to me of such a man! he 
 has never set foot inside a church except to stare 
 at you and to marry you. People without religion 
 are capable of anything. Has Guillaume ever seen 
 fit to hide anything from me; to remain three days 
 without saying a word and then to chatter like a 
 blind magpie?" 
 
 "My dear mother, you judge clever people too 
 harshly. If they had the same ideas as other peo- 
 ple they would no longer be talented." 
 
 "Well then, let talented people stay at home and 
 not marry. What! a talented man makes his wife 
 miserable! and because he has talent it is right.? 
 Talent! talent! It does not require much talent to 
 blow hot and cold every minute as he does, to cut 
 people short, to behave cruelly at home, to drive 
 you to your wit's end, to prevent a woman amusing 
 herself until monsieur is in a good temper, to be sad 
 when he is sad." 
 
 "But, mother, the characteristic of these imagi- 
 nations — " 
 
 "And what are these imaginations?" resumed 
 Madame Guillaume, again interrupting her daugh- 
 ter. "Faith! he has some fme ones. What is a man 
 who is suddenly seized with a whim for eating 
 nothing but vegetables, without a doctor's advice? 
 Still, if it were for religion, his diet might be of 
 some good to nim ; but he has no more than a 
 Huguenot. Has one ever known a man who loves
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 75 
 
 his horses, as he does, more than his fellow crea- 
 tures, curl his hair like a heathen, lay statues 
 under muslin, and shut up the windows by day so 
 as to work by lamplight? Oh! don't talk to me; 
 if he were not so grossly immoral he would be fit 
 for the madhouse. Consult Monsieur Loraux, the 
 Vicar of Saint-Sulpice, ask his opinion of all this, 
 and he will tell you that your husband does not be- 
 have like a Christian — " 
 
 "Oh! mother can you believe — " 
 
 "Yes, I do believe it! You loved him and were 
 blind to these things. But about the early days of 
 his marriage, I recollected having met him in the 
 Champs-Elysees. He was riding. Well, at times 
 he would go at full gallop, then he would stop and 
 go at a walk. I then said to myself, 'There goes 
 a man who has no judgment' " 
 
 "Ah!" cried Monsieur Guillaume, rubbing his 
 hands, "how right I was to insist upon your having 
 a separate estate from that oddity !" 
 
 When Augustine was imprudent enough to relate 
 the real grievances that she had to disclose against 
 her husband, the aged couple were mute with indig- 
 nation. The word "divorce" was very soon pro- 
 nounced by Madame Guillaume. At the mention 
 of divorce the indolent merchant became like one 
 awakened. Stimulated by his love for his daughter 
 as much as by the excitement that the prospect of 
 a lawsuit would bring into his uneventful life, old 
 Guillaume began to speak. 
 
 He headed the application for divorce, directed it,
 
 76 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 and almost pleaded, he offered to be responsible 
 for all the expenses, to see the judges, solicitors 
 and barristers, to move heaven and earth. Madame 
 de Sommervieux, terrified, refused her father's help, 
 said that she would not be separated from her hus- 
 band were she ten times more unhappy, and spoke 
 no more of her troubles. After her parents had 
 overwhelmed her with all the little dumb and com- 
 forting attentions with which they vainly attempted 
 to compensate her for her aching heart, Augustine 
 left, feeling how impossible it is to obtain a fair 
 judgment for great men from those of a weaker in- 
 telligence. She learnt that a wife had better con- 
 ceal from the whole world, even from parents, those 
 troubles that so rarely meet with any sympathy. 
 The storms and sufferings in higher spheres are 
 only appreciated by the lofty spirits who inhabit 
 them. We can only be judged in everything by 
 our equals. 
 
 Poor Augustine found herself thus once more in 
 the chilly atmosphere of her home, abandoned to 
 the horror of her thoughts. She no longer cared to 
 study since it had failed to restore her husband's 
 love. Initiated into the mysteries of these fiery 
 souls, but deprived of their resources, she shared 
 abundantly in their sufferings without partaking of 
 their pleasures. She was disgusted with society 
 which seemed to her mean and petty beside the 
 issues of passion. In fact, her life was a failure. 
 One evening, she was struck with a thought that 
 came like a heavenly ray to shine upon her gloomy
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET ^^ 
 
 sorrow. Only a heart as pure and virtuous as her 
 own could have been pleased with this idea. She 
 resolved to go to the Duchesse de Carigliano, not to 
 ask her to give back her husband's affections, but 
 to acquaint herself with the wiles that had stolen 
 them away, to interest this proud woman of the 
 world in the mother of her friend's children, to 
 soften her, and make her a party to her future hap' 
 piness as she now was the instrument of her present 
 misery. So one day, the timid Augustine, armed 
 with a supernatural courage, drove in her carriage 
 at two o'clock to attempt an entry into the boudoir 
 of this famous coquette, who was invisible up to 
 that hour. Madame de Sommervieux was not yet 
 familiar with the old and sumptuous houses of the 
 Faubourg Saint-Germain. When she traversed the 
 stately vestibules, the grand staircases, the immense 
 reception rooms, filled with flowers in spite of the 
 severity of the winter, and decorated with the taste 
 peculiar to women who are born in the midst of 
 wealth or with the distinguished ways of the aris- 
 tocracy, Augustine's heart grew terribly heavy; 
 she envied the secret of this elegance of which she 
 had never had a notion, she breathed an air of 
 grandeur which explained to her the attraction this 
 house possessed for her husband. When she 
 reached the private apartments of the duchess, she 
 felt jealousy and a kind of despair mingling with 
 her admiration of the voluptuous arrangements of 
 furniture, draperies and hangings. Here, disorder 
 was a charm ; and luxury affected a species of scorn
 
 78 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 of wealth. The perfumes that filled this soft 
 atmosphere pleased the sense of smell without 
 offending it. The accessories of the room harmon- 
 ized with a view, obtained through a reflecting mir- 
 ror, of the lawn of a garden planted with green 
 trees. It was all fascinating, with no perceptible 
 effort The genius of the mistress of these apart- 
 ments pervaded the whole salon in which Augustine 
 was waiting. She tried to guess the character of 
 her rival from the appearance of the things scattered 
 about; but there was something impenetrable alike 
 in the confusion and the symmetry, and to the sim- 
 ple Augustine they were secrets. All that she 
 could gather from them was that the duchess was 
 as clever as she was womanly. Then a sad thought 
 came to her. 
 
 "Alas! can it be true," she said to herself, "that 
 a loving and simple heart is not enough for an 
 artist, and, to balance the weight of these great 
 minds, must they be united to feminine minds that 
 are as powerful as their own ? Had 1 been brought 
 up like this siren, at least our weapons would have 
 been equal in the fight." 
 
 "But 1 am not at home." 
 
 These curt, sharp words, although spoken in a 
 low voice in the adjoining boudoir, were overheard 
 by Augustine, whose heart quaked. 
 
 "But the lady is there," answered the lady's 
 maid. 
 
 "How stupid you are; show her in!" said the 
 duchess whose softened voice suddenly assumed the
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 79 
 
 kindly accent of good breeding. Evidently she then 
 wished to be overheard. 
 
 Augustine advanced timidly. 
 
 At the far end of this cool boudoir she saw the 
 duchess voluptuously reclining on a green velvet 
 ottoman placed in the centre of a kind of semicircle 
 formed by soft folds of muslin stretched upon a yel- 
 low background. Some gilded bronze ornaments 
 arranged with exquisite taste still further enriched 
 this species of dais upon which the duchess was 
 resting like some antique statue. The deep color of 
 the velvet enhanced every means of seduction. 
 The subdued light, so favorable to her beauty, 
 seemed more of a reflection than a light. Some 
 rare flowers raised their scented heads from the 
 richest Sevres vases. At the moment this scene 
 met Augustine's astonished eyes, she was treading 
 so softly that she was in time to intercept a look 
 from the enchantress. This look seemed to say to 
 some one at first unnoticed by the painter's wife: 
 "Stay here, you will see a pretty woman and make 
 it less tiresome for me." When she perceived 
 Augustine the duchess rose and made her sit by 
 her side. 
 
 "To what do I owe the honor of this visit, ma- 
 dame?" she asked with a charming smile. 
 
 "Why so much insincerity?" thought Augustine, 
 who only bent her head in answer. 
 
 The silence was forced. The young wife saw 
 before her one witness too many to this scene. 
 This person was the youngest, the most elegant, and
 
 80 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 best formed colonel in the army. His plain 
 clothes set off the graces of his person. His lively, 
 youthful, and just then very expressive face was 
 rendered still more animated by small moustaches 
 black as jet, twirled up at the ends, a thick imperial, 
 carefully combed, whiskers and a forest of rather 
 untidy hair. He was toying with a riding whip with 
 a display of ease and freedom that became the satis- 
 fied expression of his physiognomy, as well as the 
 elegance of his dress; the ribbons in his buttonhole 
 were carelessly tied and he seemed much more 
 proud of his appearance than of his courage. 
 Augustine glanced from the duchess to the colonel 
 with an appealing look that was understood. 
 
 "Well, good-bye, d'Aiglemont; we shall meet 
 again in the Bois de Boulogne." 
 
 The siren said this as if it were the result of an 
 agreement prior to Augustine's arrival. She 
 accompanied the words with a threatening look 
 which perhaps the officer deserved for the admiration 
 he expressed in contemplating the modest flower who 
 contrasted so well with the proud duchess. The 
 young dandy bowed in silence, turned on his heels 
 and gracefully left the boudoir. Augustine, watch- 
 ing her rival, who seemed to be following the bril- 
 liant officer with her eyes, surprised in her glance 
 a feeling whose fleeting expressions all women 
 know. She reflected with the deepest sorrow that 
 her visit was going to be useless; this artificial 
 duchess was too greedy of homage to be pitiful. 
 
 "Madame," said Augustine in broken accents,
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 8l 
 
 "the application that I am now about to make to 
 you will seem to you very extraordinary, but 
 despair has its madness and ought to excuse all. I 
 understand only too well why Theodore prefers your 
 house to all others, and why your mind exercises 
 such an influence over him. Alas! I only have to 
 look into myself to fmd more than sufficient reason. 
 But, madame, I adore my husband. Two years 
 spent in weeping have not washed his image from 
 my heart, although I may have lost his. In my 
 distraction I dared to conceive the idea of pitting 
 myself against you; and I come to you to ask by 
 what means I can triumph over yourself. Oh! ma- 
 dame!" cried the young wife, eagerly seizing the 
 hand that her rival let her take, "never will I pray 
 to God for my own happiness as I will for yours, if 
 you will help me to recover, — I do not say the love 
 — but the friendship of Sommervieux. My only 
 hope is in you. Ah! tell me how you have been 
 able to please him and make him forget the early 
 days of " and here, Augustine, choked by irre- 
 pressible sobs, was forced to pause. Ashamed of 
 her weakness, she buried her face in her handker- 
 chief, which she drenched with tears. 
 
 "Are you not childish, my dear little woman?" 
 said the duchess, who, won over by the novelty of 
 the scene and softened in spite of herself in receiv- 
 ing tribute from possibly the most perfect virtue in 
 all Paris, took the handkerchief from the younger 
 woman and herself wiped her eyes, murmuring 
 caressing monosyllables with a gracious pity. 
 
 6
 
 82 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 After a moment's silence, the coquette, impris- 
 oning poor Augustine's pretty hands in her own, 
 which possessed the rare quality of great beauty 
 and power, said to her in a gentle, affectionate 
 voice : 
 
 "In the first place, I would advise you not to cry 
 like this, tears are disfiguring. One must learn to 
 resign one's self to troubles that make one morbid, 
 for love does not stay long upon a bed of sorrow. 
 Melancholy has at first a certain charm that pleases, 
 but in the long run it draws the features and 
 withers the loveliest face. Then, our tyrants are 
 selfish enough to will that their slaves should 
 always be cheerful." 
 
 "Oh! madame, it is not entirely my fault that 
 I do not feel it. Is it not dying a thousand deaths 
 to see a cold, lifeless, and indifferent face where 
 formerly it beamed with love and joy? I do not 
 know how to regulate my affections." 
 
 "So much the worse, my dear little woman; but 
 I think I already know your whole history. In the 
 first place, you may rest assured that if your hus- 
 band has been unfaithful to you, I am not his ac- 
 complice. If 1 set my heart upon having him in my 
 salon, it was, I must confess, from vanity; he was 
 famous and would go nowhere. I like you already 
 too much to tell you all the follies he has committed 
 on my account I will only inform you of one, be- 
 cause it will perhaps help us to lead him back to 
 you and punish him for his audacity to me. He 
 will end by compromising me. I know the world
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 83 
 
 too well, my dear, to place myself at the mercy of 
 too great a man. You may let them make love to 
 you, but it is a mistake to marry them. We women 
 can admire men of genius and enjoy them as we 
 would a play, but live with them? Never! Why! 
 it is like taking pleasure in going behind the scenes 
 at the opera instead of enjoying its brilliant illu- 
 sions from a box. But with you, my poor child, 
 the mischief is done, is it not.? Well then you must 
 try to secure yourself against tyranny." 
 
 "Ah! madame! before coming in here and seeing 
 you, I already recognized several unsuspected arti- 
 fices." 
 
 "Well then, come and see me sometimes, and it 
 will not be long before you master the science of 
 these trifles, which, nevertheless, are rather impor- 
 tant. To fools, the better half of life consists in 
 externals; and, as to that, more than one man of 
 talent finds himself a fool in spite of all his intelli- 
 gence. But I dare wager that you have never 
 known how to refuse anything to Theodore?" 
 
 "How can one refuse anything to the man one 
 loves?" 
 
 "Poor little innocent, I should adore you for your 
 simplicity. You must know then that the more we 
 love the less must we let a man, especially a hus- 
 band, see the extent of our passion. It is the one 
 who loves the most who is tyrannized over, and, 
 what is worse, is sooner or later deserted. The one 
 who wishes to rule must — " 
 
 "What! madame? is it necessary to dissimulate?
 
 84 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 calculate, become false, acquire an artificial charac- 
 ter, and for always? oh! how can one live so? 
 Can you — ?" 
 
 She hesitated. The duchess smiled. 
 
 **My dear," answered the great lady gravely, 
 "conjugal happiness, at all times, has been a specu- 
 lation, a matter that requires particular attention. 
 If you talk passion whilst I talk marriage we shall 
 never come to an understanding. Listen to me," 
 she continued in a confidential tone, "I have seen 
 some of the greatest men of our time. Those who 
 are married, are with very few exceptions, united 
 to women who are nonentities. Well, these very 
 women rule them as we are ruled by the Emperor, 
 and, if they are not loved, they are at least respected. 
 I am fond enough of mysteries, above all, those that 
 concern ourselves, to have amused myself seeking a 
 solution to this enigma. Well, my angel, these 
 good wives had a talent for analyzing their hus- 
 bands' characters; and without being frightened, 
 like you, at their superiority, they had shrewdly 
 remarked the qualities which they themselves 
 lacked; and, whether they really possessed such 
 accomplishments or whether they pretended to 
 possess them, they found means of making such a 
 display of them to their husbands that they ended 
 by deceiving them. In short, let me tell you once 
 more that these seemingly great souls all have some 
 little grain of foolishness that we ought to know 
 how to cultivate. By firmly resolving to govern 
 them, by never swerving from this end, by bringing
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 8$ 
 
 all our actions, our ideas and our coquetries to 
 bear accordingly, we master these eminently capri- 
 cious minds, who, from the very instability of their 
 thoughts, give us the means wherewith to influence 
 them." 
 
 "Heavens!" cried the horrified wife, "Such 
 then is life! It is a fight — " 
 
 "In which you must always threaten," answered 
 the duchess laughing. "Our power is entirely 
 imaginary. You must also never let a man despise 
 you; it is impossible to retrieve such a downfall 
 save by odious tactics. Come," she added, "I will 
 give you a means with which you may enchain 
 your husband." 
 
 She rose smiling to guide the young and innocent 
 apprentice to these conjugal stratagems, through the 
 mazes of her miniature palace. They both came to 
 a private staircase, communicating with the recep- 
 tion rooms. When the duchess had turned the 
 secret lock of the door she stopped and looked at 
 Augustine with an inimitably arch and charming 
 air. 
 
 "See here! the Due de Carigliano adores me. 
 Well, he dare not pass this door without my 
 permission. And he is a man who is accustomed to 
 commanding thousands of soldiers. He knows how 
 to face a battery; but — before me — he is afraid." 
 
 Augustine sighed. They came to a sumptuous 
 gallery, where the duchess led the artist's wife to 
 the portrait Theodore had painted of Mademoiselle 
 Guillaume. At this sight Augustine gave a cry.
 
 86 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 "I knew it was no longer at home," she said, 
 "but— here!" 
 
 "My dear little one, I only exacted it to see what 
 degree of stupidity a man of genius could attain. 
 Sooner or later I should have returned it to you, for 
 I did not expect the pleasure of seeing the original 
 here before the copy. Whilst we finish our conver- 
 sation I will nave it put in your carriage. If, armed 
 with this talisman, you are not mistress of your 
 husband for a hundred years, you are not a woman, 
 and you deserve your fate!" 
 
 Augustine kissed the hand of the duchess, who 
 pressed her to her heart and kissed her with a ten- 
 derness that was all the more lively in that it would 
 be forgotten the next day. This scene would per- 
 haps have forever ruined the candor and purity of a 
 less virtuous woman than Augustine, to whom the 
 secrets revealed by the duchess might have been 
 equally salutary or disastrous, for the astute policy 
 of the higher social spheres pleased Augustine no 
 better than Joseph Lebas's narrow reasoning or 
 Madame Guillaume's foolish moralizing. Strange 
 result of the false positions in which we are placed 
 by the least mistake in life! Augustine at this 
 moment resembled a shepherd overtaken by an 
 avalanche on the Alps; if he hesitates or listens to 
 his companion's cries, he is generally lost. In 
 so great a crisis the heart either breaks or hardens. 
 
 Madame de Sommervieux reached home in a 
 state of agitation difficult to describe. Her con- 
 versation with the Duchesse de Carigliano had
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 87 
 
 awakened a crowd of conflicting ideas. It was like 
 the sheep in the fable: brave enough in the wolf's 
 absence, she lectured herself and laid out admirable 
 plans for her behavior; she imagined a thousand 
 coquettish stratagems ; she even spoke to her hus- 
 band, recovering, away from him, all the resources 
 of the genuine eloquence that never deserts a 
 woman; then, thinking of Theodore's fixed, keen 
 eye, she already trembled. Her voice failed when 
 she asked if monsieur was at home. When she 
 heard that he would not be in to dinner, she felt an 
 unaccountable relief; like a criminal who obtains 
 an appeal against sentence of death, any delay no 
 matter how short, seemed to her an entire lifetime. 
 She placed the portrait in her room, and waited for 
 her husband in all the agonies of expectation. She 
 foresaw only too well that this attempt was to de- 
 cide her whole future, not to shiver at every kind 
 of noise, even at the murmur of the clock that only 
 seemed to augment her terrors in timing them. She 
 tried to kill time by a thousand devices. She hit 
 upon the idea of dressing herself exactly like the 
 portrait. Then, knowing her husband's inquiring 
 nature, she had her room lighted in an unusual 
 manner, feeling certain that when he came in curi- 
 osity would bring him to her. Midnight sounded 
 when, at the postilion's cry, the door of the house 
 opened. The artist's carriage rumbled over the 
 pavement of the quiet court. 
 
 "What does this illumination mean?" asked The- 
 odore joyfully entering his wife's room.
 
 88 THE HOUSE OF 
 
 Augustine skilfully seizing so favorable a moment, 
 threw her arms round her husband's neck and 
 pointed to the portrait. 
 
 The artist stood as still as a rock, looking alter- 
 nately at Augustine and the tell-tale canvas. The 
 timid wife, half-dead, who was watching the chang- 
 ing terrible brow, saw the portentous frown gather- 
 ing like the clouds; then she thought her blood 
 would have curdled in her veins when with a flam- 
 ing look and a deep hollow voice she was asked: 
 
 "Where did you find this picture?" 
 
 "The Duchesse de Carigliano returned it tome." 
 
 "You asked her for it?" 
 
 "I did not know she had it." 
 
 The sweetness or rather the bewitching melody 
 of this angel voice would have softened a savage, 
 but not an artist who was suffering the tortures of 
 wounded vanity. 
 
 "It is just like her!" thundered the artist, "I'll 
 have my revenge," he said, striding up and down, 
 "she shall die of shame; I will paint her ! Yes! I 
 will exhibit her with the features of Messalina 
 stealing by night from the palace of Claudius." 
 
 "Theodore!" — faltered a faint voice. 
 
 "I'll kill her!" 
 
 "My love!" 
 
 "She loves this little cavalry colonel because he 
 rides well — " 
 
 "Theodore!" 
 
 "Eh! leave me!" said the artist to his wife in a 
 voice that was almost a roar.
 
 THE DUCHESS AND AUGUSTINE 
 
 They came to a suinptnoits gallery, where the 
 duchess led tlie artist's ivife to the portrait Theodore 
 had painted of Mademoiselle Guillaiime. At tins 
 sight Augustine gave a cry. 
 
 " / knew it xvas no longer at home',' she said, 
 " but— here ! "
 
 Lit fJttCvr 
 
 IT Lit fJuC'
 
 THE CAT AND RACKET 89 
 
 It would be invidious to describe this scene, in 
 which the frenzy of rage drove the artist to words 
 and acts that a less experienced woman than Augus- 
 tine would have attributed to insanity. 
 
 The next day at eight in the morning, Madame 
 Guillaume found her daughter, with a white face, 
 red eyes and disordered hair, holding a tear-soaked 
 handkerchief, staring at the scattered fragments of a 
 torn canvas and the remnants of a big gilt frame 
 that lay in pieces on the floor. Augustine, almost 
 unconscious from grief, pointed to the wreck with 
 a gesture full of despair. 
 
 "There's a loss!" cried the old regent of the Cat 
 and Racket ; "it certainly was a good likeness; but 
 I hear there is a man on the boulevard who makes 
 charming portraits for fifty ecus." 
 
 "Oh! mother!"— 
 
 "Poor little one, you are quite right!" answered 
 Madame Guillaume, who misinterpreted the mean- 
 ing of the look her daughter gave her. — "Come, my 
 child, one is never loved so tenderly as by one's 
 mother. My darling! lean guess all; but come 
 and tell me all your troubles, I will comfort you. 
 Did I not tell you that man was mad.-* Your maid 
 has told me some fme tales — But he must be a regu- 
 lar monster!" 
 
 Augustine put her finger to her pale lips, as if 
 imploring her mother to be silent for a moment. 
 During this awful night, sorrow had taught her that 
 patient resignation which, in mothers and women 
 who love, surpasses human strength in its results
 
 90 THE HOUSE OF THE CAT AND RACKET 
 
 and, it may be, reveals the existence of certain 
 chords in a woman's heart that God has denied to 
 men. 
 
 An inscription cut on a tombstone in the cemetery 
 Montmartre tells that Madame de Sommervieux 
 died at the age of twenty-seven. In the simple 
 lines of this epitaph, a friend of this timid creature 
 sees the last scene of a drama. Every year, on the 
 solemn day of the second of November, he never 
 passes this early grave without asking himself 
 whether the powerful grasp of genius does not re- 
 quire a stronger woman than was Augustine. 
 
 "It may be," he said to himself, "that lowly, 
 modest flowers born in the valleys die when they 
 are transplanted too close to the skies, in regions 
 where tempests are formed and the sun scorches. " 
 
 Maffliers, October, 1829.
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 (91)
 
 TO HENRI DE BALZAC, 
 
 His brother 
 
 HONORE. 
 
 (93)
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 The Comte de Fontaine, head of one of the oldest 
 families of Poitou, had intelligently and bravely 
 served the cause of the Bourbons during the war 
 waged against the Republic by the Vendeans. After 
 escaping all the dangers which threatened the Roy- 
 alist leaders during this stormy period of contem- 
 porary history, he would say gaily: 
 
 "I am one of those who were killed on the steps 
 of the throne !" 
 
 This joke bore some truth from a man who had 
 been left for dead on the bloody day of the Quatre- 
 Chemins. Although ruined by confiscations, this 
 loyal Vendean constantly refused the lucrative posts 
 offered him by the Emperor Napoleon. Faithful to 
 his aristocratic creed, he had blindly followed its 
 maxims when he deemed it convenient to choose a 
 wife. In spite of the allurements of a rich revolu- 
 tionary parvenu who set a high price on this alliance, 
 he married a Mademoiselle de Kergarouet, penniless, 
 but of one of the oldest families in Brittany. 
 
 The Restoration found Monsieur de Fontaine en- 
 cumbered with a large family. Although it never 
 entered the generous gentleman's head to solicit 
 favors, nevertheless, yielding to his wife's wishes, 
 he left his estate, whose small revenue barely sufficed 
 
 (95)
 
 96 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 for the needs of his children, and came to Paris. 
 Saddened by the avidity with which his former 
 comrades scrambled for constitutional posts and 
 titles, he was on the point of returning to his prop- 
 erty, when he received an official letter, in which 
 a rather well-known Excellency informed him of his 
 appointment to the rank of Field-Marshal, in pur- 
 suance of the decree which allowed officers of the 
 Catholic forces to count the first twenty years of the 
 reign of Louis XVIII. as years of service. Several 
 days after, the Vendean still further received, with- 
 out any application, and officially, the Cross of the 
 Legion of Honor and that of Saint-Louis. Shaken 
 in his resolution by these successive favors, which 
 he believed due to the monarch's recollection of him, 
 he was no longer content with leading his family, 
 as he had hitherto religiously done, every Sunday, 
 to cry, "Vive le roi!" — in the Hall of the Marshals, 
 at the Tuileries, when the princes were going to 
 chapel, — he begged the favor of a special interview. 
 This audience, very promptly granted, was in no 
 sense private. The royal salon was full of old 
 servants whose powdered heads, looked at from a 
 certain height, were like a carpet of snow. There, 
 the nobleman recognized some old companions who 
 received him with somewhat cold looks; but the 
 princes seemed to him adorable, an enthusiastic ex- 
 pression which escaped him when the most gracious 
 of his masters, to whom the count believed himself 
 only known by name, came and squeezed his hand 
 and declared him to be the truest of the Vendeans.
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 97 
 
 In spite of this ovation, not one of these august per- 
 sonages had any idea of asking him for an account 
 of his losses or of the money so generously poured 
 into the coffers of the Catholic army. He per- 
 ceived, a little too late, that he had fought at his 
 own expense. 
 
 Toward the end of the evening, he thought he 
 might risk a witty allusion to the state of his affairs, 
 similar to those of many other gentlemen. His 
 Majesty laughed heartily enough, — every word 
 bearing the stamp of wit had the advantage of 
 pleasing him — but he replied, nevertheless, with 
 one of those royal jests whose gentleness is more 
 formidable than the anger of a reprimand. One of 
 the king's most intimate confidants lost no time in 
 approaching the scheming Vendean, to whom he in- 
 timated, in a subtle, polished phrase, that the time 
 for settling with the rulers had not yet arrived; 
 there were on hand several accounts much more in 
 arrears than his own, and that were no doubt likely 
 to form the history of the Revolution. 
 
 The count discreetly retired from the venerable 
 group forming a respectful semicircle before the 
 august family; then, after having, not without diffi- 
 culty, disengaged his sword from amongst the slen- 
 der legs in which it had become entangled, he 
 walked across the court of the Tuileries to the cab 
 he had left on the quay. With the restive spirit 
 that distinguished the noblemen of the old stamp 
 whose memory of the League and the Barricades 
 was not yet dimmed, he complained in the cab, 
 7
 
 98 THE DANCE AT SCEALIX 
 
 aloud and in a compromising manner, about the 
 change that had taken place at Court. 
 
 "Formerly," he said to himself, "everyone talked 
 freely to the king of his little affairs, the seigneurs 
 could ask favors and money of him when they pleased, 
 and to-day is it to be an offence to seek the reim- 
 bursement of sums raised for his service? 'Sdeathl 
 the Cross of Saint-Louis and the rank of Field-Mar- 
 shal are not worth the three hundred thousand 
 pounds that I spent in fine style in the royal cause. 
 I shall speak to the king again, to his face, and in 
 his cabinet." 
 
 This occurrence chilled Monsieur de Fontaine's 
 zeal all the more as his requests for an audience 
 always remained unanswered. Moreover, he saw 
 the intruders of the Empire succeeding to some of 
 the offices which, under the ancient monarchy, had 
 been reserved for the higher families. 
 
 "All is lost," he said to himself one morning, 
 "decidedly, the king has never been anything but 
 a revolutionary. But for monsieur, who never de- 
 grades himself and who consoles his faithful ser- 
 vants, I do not know into whose hands the crown 
 of France might not fall if this regime continues. 
 Their cursed constitutional system is the very worst 
 of all governments, and can never answer in France. 
 Louis XVIII. and Monsieur Beugnot spoiled every- 
 thing for us at Saint-Ouen. " 
 
 In despair the count was preparing to return to 
 his estate, nobly abandoning his clairhs to any 
 indemnity. At this moment, the events of the
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 99 
 
 twentieth of March foretold a fresh storm that 
 threatened to ingulf the lawful king and his sup- 
 porters. Like those generous people who never 
 dismiss a servant on a rainy day, Monsieur de 
 Fontaine borrowed from his estate to follow the 
 overthrown monarchy, not knowing whether this 
 participation in emigration would be any more pro- 
 pitious to him than his past devotion had been; 
 but, after having observed that the companions in 
 exile were in greater favor than the heroes who 
 had formerly protested, sword in hand, against the 
 establishment of the Republic, he may perhaps 
 have hoped to profit more by this journey abroad 
 than by an active and perilous service at home. 
 His courtier-like calculations were not any of those 
 empty speculations that promise such superb results 
 on paper, and ruin in their fulfillment. He was, 
 therefore, according to the saying of one of our 
 wittiest and cleverest diplomatists, one of the five 
 hundred faithful servants who shared the court's 
 exile at Ghent, and one of the fifty thousand who 
 returned. During this short absence of royalty, 
 Monsieur de Fontaine had the good fortune to be 
 employed by Louis XVIll., and hit upon more than 
 one occasion of giving the king proofs of great 
 political honesty and sincere attachment. 
 
 One evening when the monarch had nothing bet- 
 ter to do, he recalled the bon mot said by Monsieur 
 de Fontaine at the Tuileries. The old Vendean did 
 not let such an opportunity escape, and related his 
 story ingeniously enough so that the king, who
 
 100 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 never forgot anything, might remember it in due 
 time. The august scholar remarked the shrewd turn 
 given to some reports, the drawing up of which had 
 been intrusted to the discreet nobleman. This little 
 accomplishment inscribed Monsieur de Fontaine in 
 the king's memory, as being amongst the most loyal 
 servants of his crown. Upon the second return, the 
 count was one of tliose special envoys who traveled 
 through the districts, with authority to absolutely 
 judge the abettors of the rebellion; but he used his 
 terrible power moderately. As soon as this tempo- 
 rary magistracy ceased, the grand-marshal took one 
 of the seats in the Council of State, became deputy, 
 spoke little, listened much, and considerably 
 changed his opinions. Several circumstances, un- 
 known to biographers, advanced him sufficiently in 
 the prince's intimacy, for the malicious monarch to 
 thus address him one day as he came in : 
 
 "Friend Fontaine, I would not presume to ap- 
 point you director-general or minister ! Neither you 
 nor I, if we were officials, would keep our places, on 
 account of our opinions. The representative gov- 
 ernment is so far good in that it saves us the trouble 
 we formerly had in ourselves dismissing our Secre- 
 taries of State. Our council is a veritable inn, to 
 which public opinion often sends us queer travelers; 
 but after all we shall always know where to find a 
 place for our faithful servants." 
 
 This mocking overture was followed by an order 
 giving Monsieur de Fontaine an administration 
 in the domain extraordinary of the Crown. In
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX lOI 
 
 consequence of the intelligent attention with which 
 he would listen to the sarcasms of his royal friend, 
 his name was on His Majesty's lips every time that 
 it became necessary to create a commission whose 
 members were to be lucratively paid. He had the 
 good sense to say nothing of the favor with which 
 the monarch honored him and knew how to preserve 
 it by a piquant manner of narrating, in one of those 
 familiar chats in which Louis XVIII. delighted as 
 much as in agreeably written notes, political anec- 
 dotes, or, if one may use such an expression, the 
 diplomatic or parliamentary cancans which abounded 
 at that time. It is well known that the details of his 
 gowvernementabilite — a word adopted by the august 
 jester — amused him infinitely. Thanks to the 
 good sense, intelligence and shrewdness of Monsieur 
 le Comte de Fontaine, every member of his numer- 
 ous family, however young he might be, finished — 
 as he humorously remarked to his master — by 
 alighting like a silk worm on the leaves of the 
 budget. Thus, through the kindness of the king, his 
 eldest son attained an eminent position in the per- 
 manent magistracy. The second, a plain captain 
 before the Restoration, obtained an order immedi- 
 ately after his return from Ghent; then, favored by 
 the agitations of 1815, during which regulations 
 were disregarded, he passed into the Royal Guard, 
 repassed into the body guard, returned to the line, 
 and, after the affair of the Trocadero found himself 
 a lieutenant-general with a command in the guard. 
 The youngest, appointed sub-prefect, soon became
 
 I02 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 maitre des requetes and director of a municipal ad- 
 ministration of the city of Paris, where he found 
 himself secure from legislative storms. These quiet 
 favors, secret as the preference bestowed upon the 
 count, showered down unremarked. 
 
 Although the father and the three sons might each 
 have had sinecures enough to enjoy an income from 
 the budget almost equal to that of a director-general, 
 their political success excited nobody's envy. In 
 these early days of the first establishment of the 
 constitutional system, very few people had any ac- 
 curate ideas concerning the peaceful regions of the 
 budget, where shrewd favorites knew how to find 
 an equivalent for their ruined abbeys. Monsieur 
 le Comte de Fontaine, who but lately boasted that 
 he had not read the Charter and showed so much 
 bitterness against the avidity of the courtiers, was 
 not long in proving to his august master that he un- 
 derstood the character and resources of the represen- 
 tative as well as he did. And yet, in spite of the 
 security of the careers opened to his three sons, in 
 spite of the pecuniary advantages resulting from 
 the holding of the four positions. Monsieur de Fon- 
 taine was the head of too numerous a family to be 
 able to re-establish his fortunes either promptly or 
 easily. His three sons were rich in prospects, favor 
 and talent; but he had three daughters and feared to 
 weary the king's kindness. He contrived to speak 
 of only one of these virgins who were in such haste 
 to light their torches. The king had too much good 
 taste to leave his work incomplete. The marriage
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX IO3 
 
 of the eldest with a collector-general, Planat de 
 Baudry, was decided by one of those royal phrases 
 that cost nothing and are worth millions. 
 
 One evening when the monarch was out of humor, 
 he smiled at learning the existence of another 
 demoiselle de Fontaine, whom he married to a young 
 magistrate, of bourgeois extraction, it is true, but 
 rich, full of talent, and whom he created a baron. 
 When, the following year, the Vendean mentioned 
 Mademoiselle Emilie de Fontaine, the king replied, 
 in his little sour voice: 
 
 "Amicus Plato, sed magis arnica Natio." 
 
 Then, several days after, he regaled his friend 
 Fontaine with a somewhat silly quatrain that he 
 called an epigram and in which he rallied him on 
 his three daughters so cleverly produced in the form 
 of a trinity. If history is to be believed, the mon- 
 arch had sought his bonmot in the unity of the three 
 divine beings. 
 
 "If only the King would deign to change his epi- 
 gram into an epithalamium .?" said the count, try- 
 ing to turn this fancy to his own advantage. 
 
 "If I see the rhyme, I do not see the reason," 
 answered the King stiffly, in no way relishing this 
 joke upon his poetry, however mild it might be. 
 
 From that day, his dealings with Monsieur de 
 Fontaine were less gracious. Kings are more given 
 to perversity than one would think. Like almost 
 all youngest children, Emilie de Fontaine was a 
 Benjamin, spoiled by everyone. The monarch's 
 coolness caused the count all the more pain in that
 
 104 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 there never was a more difficult marriage to arrange 
 than that of this darling daughter. To understand 
 all these obstacles, it is necessary to penetrate 
 within the precincts of the beautiful house in which 
 the administrator lived at the expense of the Civil 
 List Emilie had spent her childhood on the Fon- 
 taine estate enjoying the abundance that suffices for 
 the early pleasures of youth ; her least wishes were 
 law to her sisters, brothers, her mother and even 
 her father. All her relations doted upon her. 
 
 Arriving at a sensible age just at the time when 
 her family was loaded with fortune's favors, the en- 
 chantment of her life continued. The luxuries of 
 Paris seemed to her quite as natural as the profu- 
 sion of flowers and fruit and the rural wealth that 
 constituted the happiness of her early years. Just 
 as she had met with no sort of contradiction when 
 in childhood she wished to satisfy her glad desires, 
 so she found herself obeyed when at fourteen years 
 of age she was launched into the vortex of society. 
 Thus gradually accustomed to the gratifications of 
 wealth, refinement of dress, elegance of gilded 
 salons and carriages, became as necessary to her as 
 the genuine or false compliments of flattery, as the 
 entertainments and vanities of the Court. Like 
 most spoiled children, she tyrannized over those 
 who loved her, and reserved her coquetries for those 
 who were indifferent to her. Her faults only grew in 
 proportion as she did, and her parents were soon 
 to reap the bitter fruits of this fatal training. At 
 nineteen Emilie de Fontaine had not yet made her
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 105 
 
 choice from amongst the numerous young men that 
 Monsieur de Fontaine's policy assembled at their 
 entertainments. Although still very young, she 
 enjoyed in society all the independence that a 
 woman can have. Like kings, she had no friends, 
 and found herself everywhere an object of attention 
 of which a better disposition than her own would 
 perhaps not have been able to stand the test. No 
 man, not even an old one, had the strength to con- 
 tradict the opinions of a young girl whose mere 
 glance could awaken love in a cold heart Brought 
 up with more care than her sisters, she painted 
 fairly well, spoke Italian and English, and played 
 the piano in the most distracting manner; lastly, 
 her voice, improved by the best masters, had a tone 
 that gave irresistible charm to her singing. Intel- 
 lectual and fed upon every kind of literature, she 
 might have made one believe, as Mascarille says, 
 that people of rank come into the world fully edu- 
 cated. She argued fluently about Italian or Flemish 
 painting, on the Middle Ages or the Renaissance; 
 judged old or new books indiscriminately, and 
 brought out the faults in a work with cruel charm 
 of wit. Her simplest sentence was received by the 
 adoring crowd as the Turks would difetfa of the Sul- 
 tan. In this way she dazzled artificial people; as 
 to more profound persons, her natural tact helped 
 her to recognize them; and for them she would dis- 
 play so much coquetry that, by the help of her 
 charms, she could escape their examination. This 
 fascinating polish covered an indifferent heart, the
 
 I06 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 opinion, common to many young girls, that nobody 
 lived in a sufficiently exalted sphere to understand 
 her perfection of mind, and a pride that relied as 
 much upon her birth as her beauty. In the absence 
 of any strong feeling which sooner or later lays 
 waste a woman's heart, she spent her youthful ardor 
 in an immoderate love of distinction, and showed 
 the deepest contempt for commoners. Very imper- 
 tinent to the new nobility, she strove her utmost so 
 that her parents should rank on an equal footing 
 with the most illustrious families of the Faubourg 
 Saint-Germain. 
 
 These sentiments had not escaped Monsieur de 
 Fontaine's observing eye, who more than once, at 
 the time of the marriage of his two eldest daughters, 
 had had to lament Emilie's sarcasms and witticisms. 
 Logical persons would have been astonished to have 
 seen the old Vendean giving his eldest daughter to 
 a collector-general who, it is true, possessed several 
 old manorial estates, but whose name was not pre- 
 ceded by that particle to which the throne owed so 
 many defenders, and the second to a magistrate too 
 recently created baron to overlook the fact that the 
 father had sold fagots. This remarkable change in 
 the noble's ideas just when he was attaining his 
 sixtieth year, a period at which men rarely aban- 
 don their beliefs, was not only due to the deplor- 
 able residence in modern Babylon, where all 
 provincial people end by losing their crudeness; 
 the Comte de Fontaine's new political conscience 
 was still more the result of the king's advice and
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX IO7 
 
 friendship. This philosopher prince had delighted 
 in converting the Vendean to the ideas exacted by 
 the progress of the nineteenth century and the ren- 
 ovation of the monarchy. Louis XVill. wanted to 
 blend parties as Napoleon had blended things and 
 men. The legitimate king, perhaps as clever as 
 his rival, proceeded the reverse way. The last 
 head of the House of Bourbon was as eager to please 
 the commons and the people of the Empire, by re- 
 pressing the clergy, as the first of the Napoleons 
 had been anxious to win over the great noblemen 
 and to endow the Church. Confident of the royal 
 opinion, the Councillor of State had insensibly be- 
 come one of the most influential and wisest heads 
 of the moderate party that earnestly desired, in the 
 name of national interest, the merging of opinions. 
 He preached the expensive principles of constitu- 
 tional government and promoted with all his power 
 the game of political seesaw that enabled his mas- 
 ter to govern France in the midst of agitations. 
 Perhaps Monsieur de Fontaine flattered himself he 
 could attain the peerage by one of those legislative 
 squalls whose strange effects at that time surprised 
 the oldest politicians. One of his most fixed prin- 
 ciples consisted in no longer recognizing any other 
 nobility in France than the peerage, whose families 
 were the only ones who had privileges. 
 
 "A nobility without privileges," he said, "is a 
 handle without a knife." 
 
 As far removed from La Fayette's party as from 
 that of De la Bourdonnaye, he zealously undertook
 
 I08 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 a general reconciliation from which a new era and 
 a brilliant destiny for France was to arise. He 
 tried to convince the families who frequented fash- 
 ionable circles and those he visited, of the few fav- 
 orable chances afforded in future by a military 
 career or the administration. He persuaded mothers 
 to launch their children into independent and indus- 
 trial professions, by giving them to understand that 
 military offices and the higher functions of the gov- 
 ernment would finally belong quite constitutionally 
 to the younger sons of noble families in the peerage. 
 According to him, the nation had acquired so large 
 a share in the administration by its elective assem- 
 bly, by offices in the magistracy and those in 
 finance, which, said he, would always be as formerly 
 the appanage of notabilities of the commons. The 
 new ideas of the head of the De Fontaine family 
 and the wise alliances resulting from them for his 
 two elder girls, had met with vigorous resistance 
 in the heart of his household. The Comtesse de 
 Fontaine remained faithful to the old beliefs, which 
 could not be renounced by a woman who belonged 
 to the Rohans on her mother's side. Although she 
 was for a while opposed to the happiness and good 
 fortune in store for her two elder daughters, she 
 submitted to those secret considerations that hus- 
 band and wife confide to each other, when their 
 heads rest upon the same pillow. Monsieur de 
 Fontaine coldly demonstrated to his wife, by close 
 calculations, that living in Paris, the necessity of 
 keeping up appearances there, the splendor of the
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX IO9 
 
 house which compensated them for the privations 
 so bravely shared in the depths of La Vendee, the 
 outlay spent upon their sons, absorbed the greater 
 part of their budgetary revenue. So they must 
 seize, as a heaven-sent favor, the chance offered 
 them of providing so richly for their daughters. 
 Would they not one day enjoy sixty, eighty, a 
 hundred thousand francs income? Such advan- 
 tageous marriages were not to be met with every 
 day for dowerless girls. In short, it was time 
 to think of economizing to improve the estate of De 
 Fontaine and to re-establish the old territorial for- 
 tune of the family. The comtesse yielded to such 
 persuasive arguments, as all mothers would have 
 done in her place, although perhaps with a better 
 grace; but she declared that her daughter Emilie, at 
 least, should marry in such a way as to satisfy the 
 pride which she had unfortunately contributed to 
 develop in this young soul. 
 
 Thus the events that ought to have bestowed 
 happiness upon this family introduced a slight 
 leaven of discord. The collector-general and the 
 young magistrate were objects of a chill ceremony 
 that the comtesse and her daughter Emilie were 
 well-skilled in. Their etiquette found ample 
 ground for exercising their domestic tyrannies; the 
 lieutenant-general married Mademoiselle Mongenod, 
 daughter of a rich banker ; the president very sensi- 
 bly married a young lady whose father, million- 
 aire two or three times over, had traded in salt; 
 finally, the third brother proved his adherence to his
 
 no THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 plebeian doctrines by taking to wife Mademoiselle 
 Grosset^te, only daughter of the collector-general 
 at Bourges. The three sisters-in-law and the two 
 brothers-in-law found so many charms and personal 
 advantages in remaining in the lofty sphere of 
 political magnates and in the circles of the Faubourg 
 Saint-Germain, that they all united in forming a 
 small court around the haughty Emilie This treaty 
 between interest and pride was, nevertheless, not so 
 well cemented but that the young sovereign often 
 excited revolutions in her little State. Scenes, that 
 good breeding could not retract, maintained be- 
 tween all the members of this influential family a 
 scoffmg disposition, which without perceptibly 
 altering the friendship shown in public, in private 
 sometimes degenerated into not very charitable 
 sentiments. Thus the wife of the lieutenant-gen- 
 eral, now a baroness, believed herself quite as noble 
 as a Kergarouet and presumed that a hundred thou- 
 sand francs solid income gave her the right to be as 
 impertinent as her sister-in-law Emilie, to whom 
 she often ironically wished a happy marriage in 
 announcing to her that the daughter of such and 
 such a peer had just married some plain monsieur 
 so-and-so. The wife of the Vicomte de Fontaine 
 amused herself by surpassing Emilie in the good 
 taste and richness for which her dress, her furni- 
 ture and carriages were remarkable. The mocking 
 air with which the sisters and brothers-in-law some- 
 times received the pretensions made by Mademoi- 
 selle de Fontaine roused in her a wrath hardly
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX III 
 
 appeased by a shower of epigrams. When the head 
 of the family met with any coolness in the tacit and 
 precarious friendship of the monarch, he trembled 
 all the more that, in consequence of the satirical 
 defiance of her sisters, his darling daughter had 
 never had more ambitious views. 
 
 In the midst of these circumstances, and when the 
 little domestic fight was becoming very serious, the 
 monarch, in whose favor Monsieur de Fontaine be- 
 lieved himself re-established, was attacked by the 
 illness of which he was to die. The great politi- 
 cian who had so well known how to guide his ves- 
 sel amidst the storms was not long in succumbing. 
 Uncertain of the favor to come, the Count de Fon- 
 taine then made the greatest efforts to gather the 
 most select of the marriageable young men round 
 his youngest daughter. Those who have attempted 
 to solve the difficult problem offered by the marriage 
 of a proud and capricious daughter will perhaps un- 
 derstand the trouble taken by the poor Vendean. 
 Had it been completed to the satisfaction of his 
 beloved child, this last enterprise would have nobly 
 crowned the career that the comte had pursued for 
 ten years in Paris. 
 
 From the way in which his family usurped the 
 salaries of all departments, they might have been 
 compared to the House of Austria, which, by its 
 coalition, threatens to invade all Europe. There- 
 fore the old Vendean was not to be discouraged in 
 presenting suitors, so much had he his daughter's 
 happiness at heart; but nothing could be more
 
 112 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 ludicrous than the way in which the impertinent 
 creature passed sentence upon and judged the merits 
 of her adorers. One would have said that like one 
 of the princesses in the Thousand and One Nights, 
 Emilie was rich enough and beautiful enough to 
 have the right to choose amongst all the princes in 
 the world; her objections were each more facetious 
 than the other; one was too heavy in the legs or 
 was knock-kneed, another was short-sighted, this 
 one was called Durand, that one limped, nearly all 
 seemed to her too fat. Livelier, more charming and 
 merrier than ever after having rejected two or 
 three suitors, she threw herself into winter festiv- 
 ities and ran to balls where her piercing eyes 
 would examine the celebrities of the day, and she 
 would amuse herself by inviting the proposals that 
 she always declined. 
 
 Nature had endowed her richly with all the ad- 
 vantages indispensable to this role of Celimene. 
 Tall and slender, Emilie de Fontaine possessed a 
 bearing that was imposing or playful, as she chose. 
 Her rather long neck allowed her to take charming 
 attitudes of disdain and impertinence. She pro- 
 vided herself with an abundant repertory of those 
 nods and feminine gestures that interpret hints and 
 smiles so cruelly or so favorably. Beautiful black 
 hair, thick and strongly arched eyebrows, lent her 
 face an expression of pride that coquetry, as much 
 as her mirror, had taught her to render terrible or 
 to soften by the fixity or the gentleness of her look, 
 by the immobility or the light inflections of her lips,
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX II3 
 
 by the coldness or graciousness of her smile. When 
 Emilie wanted to secure a heart, her pure voice was 
 not wanting in sweetness, but she could at the same 
 time impart a sort of curt clearness to it when she 
 undertook to paralyze the indiscreet tongue of a 
 cavalier. Her white face and snowy forehead were 
 like the limpid surface of a lake that alternately 
 ruffles at the touch of a breeze or resumes its joyful 
 serenity when the air is quiet. More than one 
 young man, a victim of her disdain, accused her of 
 playing a part; but she would vindicate herself by 
 inspiring the slanderers with a desire to please her 
 and by subjecting them to the scorn of her coquetry. 
 Amidst all the fashionable young girls, none knew 
 better than she how to assume an air of haughtiness 
 in receiving the salutation of a man of talent, or 
 how to use that insulting politeness which makes 
 inferiors of our equals, or to pour out her imperti- 
 nence on all who attempted to place themselves on 
 a level with her. She seemed, wherever she went, 
 to receive homage rather than compliments, and 
 even for a princess, her appearance and manners 
 would have converted the chair in which she might 
 be seated, into an imperial throne. 
 
 Monsieur de Fontaine discovered too late how the 
 bringing-up of his best-loved daughter had been 
 warped by the tenderness of the whole family. 
 The admiration that the world first shows to a 
 young person, but which it does not take long in 
 avenging, had still further elated Emilie's pride, 
 and increased her self-confidence. A universal 
 s
 
 114 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 compliance had developed in her the egoism natural 
 to spoiled children, who, like royalty, make fun of 
 all who approach them. For the present, the grace 
 of youth and the charm of talent hid from all eyes 
 these faults, all the more odious in a woman in that 
 she can only please by devotion and self-renuncia- 
 tion; but nothing escapes the eye of a good father; 
 Monsieur de Fontaine often tried to explain to his 
 daughter the principal pages of the enigmatical 
 book of life. Vain attempt! he too often had to 
 bemoan the capricious intractableness and the iron- 
 ical wisdom of his daughter to persevere with so 
 difficult a task as that of correcting so mischievous 
 a disposition. He contented himself with occasion- 
 ally giving advice full of gentleness and kindness; 
 but he suffered the pain of seeing his tenderest 
 words glancing over his daughter's heart as if it 
 had been of marble. A father's eyes open so late, 
 that it required more than one proof for the old 
 Vendean to perceive the condescending air with 
 which his daughter vouchsafed him scanty caresses. 
 She was like those children, who seem to say to 
 their mother: "Make haste and kiss me so that I 
 may go and play." Upon the whole, Emilie 
 deigned to have some tenderness for her parents. 
 But often, from some sudden caprice that seems 
 inexplicable in young girls, she would isolate her- 
 self and hardly appear ; she would complain that 
 she had to share the love of her father and mother 
 with too many people, she became jealous of every- 
 body, even of her brothers and sisters. Then, after
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 115 
 
 having taken great pains to produce a desert all 
 round her, this strange girl would blame all nature 
 for her imaginary solitude and her voluntary suffer- 
 ings. Armed with her twenty years' experience 
 she blamed fate because, not knowing that the first 
 principle of happiness lies within ourselves, she 
 demanded it from the realities of life. She would 
 have fled to the ends of the earth to avoid marriages 
 similar to those of her two sisters; and, notwith- 
 standing, she felt an awful jealousy in her heart 
 in seeing them married, rich, and happy. At last, 
 she sometimes caused her mother — victim of her 
 proceedings as much as was Monsieur de Fontaine 
 — to think that she was a little crack-brained. This 
 aberration was sufficiently explicable; there is 
 nothing more common than this secret pride in the 
 hearts of young persons belonging to families rank- 
 ing high in the social ladder, and gifted by nature 
 with great beauty. Most of them are persuaded 
 that their mothers, having reached forty or fifty 
 years of age, can neither sympathize with their 
 youthful minds, nor enter into their fancies. They 
 imagine that most mothers, jealous of their daugh- 
 ters, wish to dress them according to their own 
 ideas with the premeditated design of eclipsing 
 them or robbing them of their tribute. From this, 
 there often arise secret tears or quiet revolt against 
 the imaginary maternal tyranny. In the midst of 
 these sorrows, which become real, though built 
 upon imaginary grounds, they further have a mania 
 for composing a theme for their existence and
 
 Il6 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 prophesy for themselves a brilliant horoscope; their 
 magic consists in taking their dreams as realities; 
 they secretly resolve, in their lengthy meditations, 
 that they will grant their love and hand only to the 
 man who shall possess such and such an advantage; 
 they form a type in their imaginations which their 
 intended, willing or unwilling, must resemble. 
 After having experienced life and made the serious 
 reflections that come with years, by dint of seeing 
 the world and its prosaic course, by dint of unhappy 
 examples, the bright colors of their ideal figure 
 become extinct; then they find themselves one fine 
 day, in the course of time, quite astonished at being 
 happy without the nuptial poetry of their dreams. 
 According to this poetry. Mademoiselle Emilie de 
 Fontaine had, in her frail wisdom, resolved upon a 
 programme to which her suitor must conform in 
 order to be accepted. Hence, her scorn and sarcasms. 
 "Although young and of the old nobility," she 
 had said to herself, "he must be a peer of France or 
 the eldest son of a peer. It would be unbearable 
 not to see my coat-of-arms painted on the panels of 
 my carriage in the middle of the fluttering folds of 
 an azure mantle, and not to stroll with princes on 
 the days of Longchamp in the great walk of the 
 Champs-Elysees. Moreover, my father says that 
 that will one day be the highest dignity in France. 
 1 want him to be a military man, reserving to my- 
 self the right of making him tender his resignation, 
 and I want him to be decorated so that they may 
 present arms to us."
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 1 17 
 
 These rare qualifications would be of no use if 
 this imaginary being did not possess in addition, a 
 great amiability, a handsome appearance, intellect, 
 and if he were not slender. 
 
 Thinness, this grace of body, however transitory, 
 particularly in a government representative, was a 
 strict stipulation. Mademoiselle de Fontaine had a 
 certain ideal standard which served as a model. 
 The young man who, at the first glance, did not 
 fulfill the desired conditions never obtained even a 
 second look. 
 
 "Oh! mon Dieu! see how fat that man is!" was 
 her highest expression of contempt. 
 
 According to her, men of a decent corpulence 
 were incapable of sentiment, bad husbands and un- 
 worthy of entering civilized society. Although em- 
 bonpoint m\g\\t be a beauty much sought after in the 
 East, it seemed to her a misfortune in women; but, 
 in a man, it was a crime. These paradoxical 
 opinions were amusing owing to a certain liveliness 
 of elocution. Nevertheless, the count felt that 
 later on his daughter's affectations, whose absurdity 
 would be detected by certain women who were as 
 clear-sighted as they were uncharitable, would 
 become a fatal subject of ridicule. He dreaded lest 
 his daughter's odd ideas might turn into vulgarity. 
 He trembled lest the pitiless world should be already 
 jeering at a person who remained so long on the 
 scenes without giving any conclusion to the comedy 
 she was playing. More than one actor, smarting 
 under a refusal, seemed to be awaiting the least
 
 Il8 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 unlucky incident to avenge himself. Idle and in- 
 different people were beginning to weary of it; 
 admiration is always an effort for the human spe- 
 cies. The old Vendean knew better than anyone 
 that if it is necessary to be skilful in choosing the 
 right moment of appearing upon the boards of soci- 
 ety, those of the Court, in a drawing-room or on the 
 stage, it was still more difficult to walk off oppor- 
 tunely. So, during the first winter following the 
 accession of Charles X. to the throne, he redoubled 
 his efforts, conjointly with his three sons and his 
 sons-in-law, to assemble in his salons the best 
 matches that Paris and the different provincial depu- 
 tations could offer. The splendor of his entertain- 
 ments, the magnificence of his dining-room and his 
 dinners flavored with truffles, vied with the famous 
 repasts with which the ministers of the period se- 
 cured the votes of their parliamentary soldiers. 
 
 The honorable deputy was at that time pointed 
 out as one of the most powerful corrupters of the 
 legislative honesty of that illustrious Chamber which 
 appeared to be dying of indigestion. Strange! his 
 attempts to marry his daughter secured him a 
 dazzling popularity. He may perhaps have found 
 some secret advantage in selling his truffles twice 
 over. This accusation, proceeding from certain 
 liberal scoffers who made up for the scarcity of their 
 adherents in the Chamber by the abundance of 
 their words, was in no way successful. The con- 
 duct of thepoitevin nobleman was generally so noble 
 and so honorable, that he was never submitted to
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX II9 
 
 one of those epigrams with which the spiteful jour- 
 nals of this period attacked the three hundred voters 
 of the Centre, the ministers, the cooks, the directors- 
 general, the princes of the trencher and the 
 upholders of office who supported the Villele admin- 
 istration. At the end of this campaign, during 
 which Monsieur de Fontaine had repeatedly fought 
 all his troops, he fancied that his collectors of 
 suitors would not be, this time, a phantasmagoria to 
 his daughter. He felt a certain inward satisfaction 
 at having well fulfilled his duty as a father. Then, 
 after having left no stone unturned, he hoped that 
 amidst so many hearts offered to the capricious 
 Emilie there might be found at least one whom she 
 would single out. Incapable of renewing this effort 
 and tired, besides, of his daughter's conduct, he re- 
 solved to consult her, towards the end of Lent, one 
 morning when his vote was not so urgently required 
 at the sitting of the Chamber. Whilst a valet 
 artistically arranged upon his yellow skull the delta 
 of powder which, with the hanging side curls, com- 
 pleted his venerable headdress, Emilie's father 
 ordered his old valet-de-chambre, not without secret 
 trepidation, to go and tell the proud young lady to 
 appear immediately before the head of the family. 
 
 "Joseph," he said, the moment he had finished 
 his coiffure, "take away this towel, pull the cur- 
 tains, put those chairs in order, shake the hearthrug 
 and put it back quite straight, wipe everything. 
 Come now! open the window and let a little air 
 into my closet." The count repeated his orders, put
 
 I20 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 Joseph out of breath, who, understanding his mas- 
 ter's purpose, restored some freshness to this room 
 which was naturally the most untidy in the whole 
 house, and succeeded in communicating some sort of 
 harmony to the masses of accounts, half-sheets, 
 books and furniture of this sanctuary in which the 
 interests of the royal domain were debated. 
 
 When Joseph had finished putting some small 
 order into this chaos and placing conspicuously, as 
 in a linendraper's shop, the things that might be the 
 nicest to look at, or by their colors produce a sort 
 of bureaucratic poetry, he stopped in the middle of 
 the labyrinth of papers spread in some places upon 
 the carpet, admired himself for a moment, tossed 
 his head and went out. 
 
 The poor sinecurist did not share the good opinion 
 of his servant. Before seating himself in his 
 enormous armchair, he cast round a look of distrust, 
 examined his dressing-gown with an air of 
 hostility, brushed from it several grains of snuff, 
 carefully wiped his nose, arranged the shovel and 
 tongs, stirred up the fire, drew up the flaps of his 
 slippers, threw back his little pigtail which had 
 lodged horizontally between the collar of his vest 
 and that of his dressing-gown, and returned it to 
 its perpendicular position; then he gave a thrust 
 with the broom at the cinders on a hearth that 
 testified to the obstinacy of his catarrh. Finally 
 the old man did not sit down until after he had once 
 more reviewed his closet, hoping that nothing in it 
 might call forth those equally droll and impertinent
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 121 
 
 remarks with which his daughter had a habit of 
 answering his wise counsel. Upon this occasion he 
 did not want to compromise his paternal dignity. 
 He daintily took a pinch of snuff and coughed two 
 or three times as if he were preparing to request 
 the call of the House; he heard his daughter's light 
 step, she came in humming an air from // Barbiere. 
 
 "Good-morning, father. What do you want 
 with me this morning?" 
 
 After these words, thrown off as if they were a 
 flourish to the tune she was singing, she kissed the 
 count, not with that familiar tenderness which 
 makes the filial feeling so sweet, but with the light 
 indifference of a mistress who is sure of pleasing, 
 whatever she may do. 
 
 "My dear child," said Monsieur de Fontaine, 
 gravely, "I sent for you in order to talk very seri- 
 ously with you about your future. The necessity 
 for you now to choose a husband in such a way as 
 to ensure your lasting happiness — " 
 
 "My good father," answered Emilie, using the 
 most caressing tone of voice to interrupt him, "it 
 seems to me that the armistice we agreed upon 
 regarding my suitors has not yet expired." 
 
 "Emilie, to-day let us stop joking on so impor- 
 tant a subject. For some time, the efforts of those 
 who truly love you, dear child, have been combined 
 to procure you a suitable marriage and you will be 
 guilty of ingratitude in lightly receiving the proofs 
 of interest which I am not the only one to lavish 
 upon you."
 
 122 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 While listening to these words, and after darting 
 a maliciously inquiring glance at the furniture of 
 the paternal cabinet, the young girl went and took 
 the chair that appeared to have been the least used 
 by petitioners, drew it herself to the other side of 
 the fireplace so as to face her father, struck so 
 solemn an attitude that it was almost impossible 
 not to see signs of derision, and crossed her arms 
 over the rich trimming of a tippet a la neige, piti- 
 lessly crumpling its numerous frills of tulle. After 
 a laughing side-glance at her old father's anxious 
 face, she broke the silence. 
 
 "I have never heard you say, dear father, that 
 government transacted its correspondence in a 
 dressing-gown. But," she added, smiling, "no 
 matter, the people must not be particular. Let us 
 hear your legal projects and your official presenta- 
 tions." 
 
 "I shall not always have the patience to make 
 them for you, foolish child! Listen, Emilie. I do 
 not intend any longer to compromise my character, 
 to which my children owe part of their prosperity, 
 by recruiting this regiment of partners that you put 
 to flight every spring. You have already been the 
 foolish cause of many dangerous misunderstandings 
 with certain families. I hope that you will now 
 better understand the difficulties of your position 
 and of ours. You are twenty-two years old, child, 
 and you ought to have been married three years 
 ago. Your brothers and your two sisters are all 
 prosperously and happily settled. But, my child.
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 123 
 
 the expenses incurred in these marriages and the 
 style of the establishment you oblige your mother to 
 maintain have drained our income to such an extent, 
 that I shall barely be able to give you a hundred 
 thousand francs dowry. From to-day, I must think 
 of your mother's future, for she ought not to be sac- 
 rificed to her children. Emilie, if 1 were to be taken 
 away, Madame de Fontaine could not be left to the 
 mercy of anyone, and must continue to enjoy the 
 comforts with which I have too late compensated 
 her for her devotion during my misfortunes. You 
 see, my child, that the slenderness of your dowry 
 could not harmonize with your ideas of grandeur. 
 It will still be a sacrifice 1 have never made for any 
 other of my children, but they have generously 
 agreed never to take advantage of the interest we 
 are taking in a well-beloved child." 
 
 "In their position!" said Emilie ironically, toss- 
 ing her head. 
 
 "My child, never depreciate thus those who love 
 you. You must know that only generous people 
 are poor! The rich always have excellent reasons 
 for not giving up twenty thousand francs to a rela- 
 tion. Well, don't sulk, my child, and let us talk 
 rationally. Amongst the marriageable young men, 
 have you not remarked Monsieur de Manerville?" 
 
 "Oh! he says '^eu' instead of ' jeu,' he always 
 looks at his feet because he thinks they are small, 
 and looks at himself in the glass! Besides, he is 
 fair, and I don't like fair people." 
 
 "Well then, Monsieur de Beaudenard .''"
 
 124 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 "He is not noble. He is badly made and fat. 
 Certainly he is dark. These two gentlemen ought 
 to agree to unite their incomes, and let the first give 
 his body and name to the second who should keep 
 his hair, and then — perhaps — " 
 
 "What have you against Monsieur de Rastignac ?" 
 
 "Madame de Nucingen has made him her bank- 
 er," she said, maliciously. 
 
 "And the Vicomte de Portenduere, our relative?" 
 
 "A boy who dances badly, and, moreover, has no 
 money. In short, father, these men have no title. 
 I must be at least a countess as my mother is." 
 
 "Then you have seen nobody this winter 
 who—?" 
 
 "No, father.' 
 
 "What do you want then?" 
 
 "The son of a peer of France." 
 
 "My child, you are mad!" said Monsieur de Fon- 
 taine, rising. 
 
 But he suddenly lifted his eyes to heaven, seem- 
 ing to gather a fresh measure of resignation from 
 some religious thought; then, looking at his child 
 with a look of fatherly pity, which became one of 
 emotion, he took her hand, squeezed it, and said to 
 her sadly : 
 
 "God is my witness, poor misguided creature! I 
 have conscientiously fulfilled my duty as a father 
 toward you— what do I say, conscientiously? with 
 all tenderness, my Emilie. Yes, God knows, this 
 winter 1 have brought you more than one upright 
 man whose qualities, morals and character were
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 125 
 
 well-known to me, and all seemed worthy of you. 
 My child, my task is complete. From to-day, I 
 give you the disposal of your own lot, feeling both 
 happy and unhappy in finding myself relieved of 
 the heaviest of paternal obligations. I do not know 
 if you will much longer hear a voice which, unfor- 
 tunately, has never been severe ; but remember that 
 conjugal happiness is not so much based upon bril- 
 liant qualities and upon wealth, as upon a mutual 
 esteem. This happiness is, naturally, modest and 
 quiet. Go, my child; my approbation is insured 
 for him whom you present to me as son-in-law; but, 
 if you become unhappy, remember that you will 
 have no right to accuse your father. I will not 
 refuse to make overtures and help you; only, let 
 your choice be serious and decisive; I will not twice 
 endanger the respect due to my gray hairs." 
 
 The affection shown her by her father, and the 
 solemn tone which he put into his impressive speech, 
 deeply touched Mademoiselle de Fontaine; but she 
 concealed her emotion, jumped on to the count's 
 knees, who, all trembling, had seated himself, and 
 covered him with the gentlest caresses, and petted 
 him so charmingly that the old man's brow cleared. 
 When Emilie thought her father had recovered from 
 his painful emotion, she said to him in a low voice: 
 
 "Thank you very much for your kind care, dear 
 father. You had tidied your room to receive your 
 beloved daughter. Perhaps you did not think to 
 find her so foolish and rebellious. But, father, is 
 it so very difficult to marry a peer of France? You
 
 126 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 said that they were made by the dozen. Ah ! at 
 least you will not refuse me advice." 
 
 "No, no, poor child, and I shall say more than 
 once, 'Take care!' You must remember that the 
 peerage is too recent a department of our gouverne- 
 mentabilite as the late king used to say, for peers to 
 possess any great fortunes. Those who are rich 
 want to become still more so. The wealthiest of all 
 the members of our peerage has not half the income 
 possessed by the poorest lord in the Upper House 
 in England. But, the peers of France will all seek 
 rich heiresses for their sons, no matter where they 
 come from. The necessity under which they all 
 are for making money matches will last more than 
 two centuries. It is possible that in waiting for the 
 lucky chance you wish for, a search that may cost 
 you your best years, your charms — for there are 
 many marriages for love in our century — your 
 charms, I say, may work a miracle. When experi- 
 ence is hidden beneath such a fresh face as yours, 
 one may hope for marvels. In the first place, have 
 you not a facility for recognizing virtue according 
 to the greater or less size of the figure? That is no 
 small accomplishment. I also need not warn so 
 wise a person as yourself of the difficulties of the 
 enterprise. I am certain that you will never take 
 it for granted that a stranger has good sense because 
 he has a pleasing face, or virtues because he has a 
 fine shape. In fact, I am entirely of your opinion 
 that all sons of peers are under an obligation of 
 having a particular air and a distinctive manner.
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 1 27 
 
 Although now-a-days nothing stamps high rank, 
 these young men may possess 3. je ne sais quoi which 
 reveals them to you. Moreover, you hold your 
 heart in hand like a good rider who never lets his 
 horse stumble. Good luck to you, my child!" 
 
 "You are laughing at me, father. Well then, I 
 declare I would rather go and die in Mademoiselle 
 de Conde's convent, than not become the wife of a 
 peer of France." 
 
 She escaped from her father's arms, and, proud of 
 being her own mistress, went off singing the air 
 Cara non dubitare from Matrimonio Segreto. As it 
 happened, the family that day was celebrating the 
 anniversary of a domestic birthday. At dessert, 
 Madame Planat, wife of the receiver-general and 
 Emilie's elder, spoke rather openly of a young 
 American, owning an immense fortune, who, pas- 
 sionately in love with her sister, had made her an 
 extremely brilliant offer. 
 
 "He is a banker, I think," said Emilie, carelessly. 
 "I don't like financiers." 
 
 "But, Emilie," answered the Baron de Villaine, 
 husband to Mademoiselle de Fontaine's second sis- 
 ter, "you don't like the magistracy any better, so 
 that 1 hardly see, if you repulse untitled men, from 
 what class you are to select a husband." 
 
 "Especially, Emilie, with your system of thin- 
 ness, " added the lieutenant-general. 
 
 "1 know what 1 want," answered the young girl. 
 
 "My sister requires a fine name, a handsome 
 young man, a brilliant future," said the Baronne de
 
 128 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 Fontaine, "and a hundred thousand francs income; 
 in short, Monsieur de Marsay, for instance!" 
 
 "I know, my dear sister," returned Emilie, "that 
 I shall not make such an absurd marriage as many 
 that I have seen. However, to avoid these nuptial 
 discussions, I declare that I shall look upon those 
 who talk to me of marriage as inimical to my 
 peace." 
 
 An uncle of Emilie's, a vice-admiral who in con- 
 sequence of the law of indemnity had just increased 
 his fortune by an income of twenty thousand 
 pounds, an old septuagenarian who was privileged to 
 say hard truths to his great-niece, whom he adored, 
 cried, in order to divert the sharpness of this con- 
 versation : 
 
 "Don't tease my poor Emilie! don't you see she 
 is waiting for the Due de Bordeaux's coming of age ?" 
 
 A general laugh greeted the old man's joke. 
 
 "Take care I do not marry you, old fool !" retorted 
 the young girl, whose last words were happily 
 deadened by the noise. 
 
 "Children," said Madame de Fontaine to soften 
 this impertinence, "Emilie, like the rest of you, will 
 only consult her mother." 
 
 "Oh! mon Dieu! I shall only consult myself in 
 a matter that concerns none but myself," said Ma- 
 demoiselle de Fontaine very distinctly. 
 
 All eyes were then directed to the head of the 
 family. Everyone seemed curious to see how he 
 would manage to preserve his dignity. The vener- 
 able Vendean not only enjoyed great esteem in
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 1 29 
 
 society, but, more fortunate than many fathers, he 
 was also appreciated by his family, all the mem- 
 bers of which had known how to recognize the solid 
 qualities which had helped him to make the fortune 
 of all who belonged to him; he was also associated 
 with that profound respect shown by English fami- 
 lies and several aristocratic houses on the continent 
 to a representative of the genealogical tree. There 
 was a deep silence, and the eyes of the guests 
 traveled alternately from the spoiled child's sulky 
 and haughty countenance, to the stern faces of Mon- 
 sieur and Madame de Fontaine. 
 
 "I have left Emilie mistress of her own fate," 
 was the answer that fell from the count in a deep 
 voice. 
 
 The relations and guests then looked at Mademoi- 
 selle de Fontaine with curiosity, mingled with pity. 
 These words seemed to indicate that the paternal 
 kindness was tired of struggling with a character 
 that the family knew to be incorrigible. The sons- 
 in-law murmured, and the brothers smiled mock- 
 ingly at their wives. 
 
 From that time, each ceased to be interested in 
 the marriage of the proud girl. Her old uncle was 
 the only one who, in his capacity of old sailor, dared 
 to tack round her and encounter her sallies, without 
 being afraid of giving her shot for shot. 
 
 When the fine weather came after the vote of the 
 
 budget, this family, true pattern of parliamentary 
 
 families on the other side of the Channel, who have 
 
 a finger in all the administrations and ten votes in 
 
 9
 
 130 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 the Commons, fled, like a lot of birds, to the beauti- 
 ful sites of Aulnay, Antony and Ch^tenay. The 
 wealthy receiver-general had recently purchased, in 
 his parts, a country-house for his wife, who only 
 remained in Paris during the sessions. Although 
 the lovely Emilie despised plebeians, this feeling 
 was not carried so far as to disdain the advantages 
 of the fortune amassed by the bourgeois; so she 
 accompanied her sister to her sumptuous villa, not 
 so much out of love for the members of her family 
 who went there, but because good breeding imperi- 
 ously demands that every self-respecting woman 
 should leave Paris during the summer. The green 
 fields of Sceaux admirably fulfilled the conditions 
 exacted by good breeding and the discharge of pub- 
 lic functions.
 
 As it is rather doubtful whether the fame of the 
 country ball at Sceaux has ever reached beyond the 
 limits of the province of the Seine, it is necessary 
 to give some particulars about this weekly festivity 
 which, from its importance, threatened to become an 
 institution. The surroundings of the little town of 
 Sceaux enjoy a reputation, due to scenery which is 
 considered lovely. Possibly it is very common- 
 place and only owes its celebrity to the stupidity of 
 the Paris bourgeois, who, in leaving the abyss of 
 bricks in which they are buried, would be disposed 
 to admire the plains of Beauce. And yet the ro- 
 mantic shades of Aulnay, the hills of Antony, and 
 the valley of Bievre being inhabited by several 
 artists who have traveled, by strangers, very fas- 
 tidious people, and by numbers of pretty women 
 who are not wanting in style, it is to be presumed 
 that the Parisians have some excuse. But Sceaux 
 has one other attraction which appeals no less forci- 
 bly to the Parisian. In the middle of a garden from 
 whence some delicious views are obtained, is an 
 immense rotunda, open on all sides, the dome of 
 which — as airy as it is big — is supported by grace- 
 ful pillars. This rustic dais shelters a dancing-hall. 
 It was no uncommon thing for the most strait-laced 
 proprietors of the neighborhood to emigrate once or 
 twice during the season to this palace of rustic 
 
 (131)
 
 132 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 Terpsichore, either in brilliant cavalcades, or in 
 those elegant and light carriages that sprinkle phil- 
 osophic pedestrians with dust. The hope of meet- 
 ing some of the society women and of being seen by 
 them, the hope — less seldom baffled — of seeing the 
 young peasant women, as subtle as judges, brought 
 together on Sundays, at the ball of Sceaux, number- 
 less swarms of lawyers' clerks, disciples of Escula- 
 pius, and young men whose white complexion and 
 bloom are sustained by the damp air of the Parisian 
 back-shops. 
 
 The foundations of a good many bourgeois 
 marriages are also laid to the strains of the orches- 
 tra that occupies the centre of this circular hall. If 
 the roof could speak, what love affairs could it not 
 relate? This interesting medley at that time gave 
 more piquancy to the ball of Sceaux than the two or 
 three other dances in the neighborhood of Paris, its 
 rotunda, the beauty of its position and the pleas- 
 ures of its garden giving it indisputable advantages 
 over any others. Emilie was the first to express a 
 wish to go and make one of the crowd at this merry 
 ball of the district, promising herself great pleasure 
 in joining this assembly. Everyone was astonished 
 at her desire to wander into the heart of such a 
 crowd; but do not great folks keenly enjoy the un- 
 known? Mademoiselle de Fontaine amused herself 
 by picturing all these cockney figures, fancied her- 
 self leaving the memory in more than one bourgeois 
 heart of a bewitching glance and smile, already 
 chuckled over the affectations of the dancers, and
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 1 33 
 
 sharpened her pencils for the scenes with which she 
 expected to adorn the pages of her satirical album. 
 Sunday did not arrive fast enough to suit her im- 
 patience. The party from the Planat house set out 
 on foot, in order not to commit the indiscretion of 
 numbering as people who wished to honor the ball 
 with their presence. They had dined early. In 
 fact, the month of May favored this aristocratic es- 
 capade with one of her finest nights. Mademoi- 
 selle de Fontaine was quite surprised at finding, 
 under the rotunda, several quadrilles composed of 
 persons who appeared to belong to good society. 
 She certainly saw here and there some young peo- 
 ple who seemed to have spent the savings of a 
 month to make a show for one day, and observed 
 several couples whose unmixed joy argued nothing 
 conjugal ; but she only had to glean instead of reap- 
 ing. She was surprised to see pleasure dressed in 
 cambric strongly resembling pleasure decked in 
 satin, and the bourgeoisie dancing with as much 
 grace as — sometimes more than — the nobility. Most 
 of the dresses were simple and neatly arranged. 
 Those who, in this assembly, represented the lords 
 of the land, that is to say, the peasants, remained in 
 their corner with incredible politeness. Mademoi- 
 selle de Fontaine, to a certain extent, even had to 
 examine the different elements composing this gath- 
 ering before she could find one object of derision. 
 But she had neither the time to devote herself to her 
 malicious criticisms, nor the leisure to hear many of 
 those striking remarks preserved by caricaturists
 
 134 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 with delight. The haughty creature suddenly met 
 in this vast field, a flower — the metaphor is season- 
 able — whose brilliancy and color worked upon her 
 imagination with all the fascination of a novelty. 
 It often happens that we look at a dress, hangings, 
 or a white paper with so much absent-mindedness 
 that we do not immediately perceive a spot or 
 some brilliant point which later on suddenly strikes 
 our eye as if it had come there at the moment 
 only that we notice it; by some kind of moral phe- 
 nomena rather like this. Mademoiselle de Fontaine 
 recognized in a young man the model of exterior 
 perfection that she had dreamed of so long. 
 
 Seated on one of those rough chairs that formed 
 the necessary circle round the hall, she had placed 
 herself at the extremity of the group made by the 
 family so that she might be able to get up or stretch 
 forward, as she liked, in conforming herself to the 
 living pictures and groups presented in this hall, 
 just as at the exhibitions at the Musee, she would 
 impertinently turn her eyeglass upon a person who 
 might happen to be two feet away, and would make 
 her reflections upon them as if she were criticising 
 or praising a study of a head, or a genre painting. 
 Her eyes, after having wandered over this vast an- 
 imated canvas, were suddenly arrested by this 
 figure which seemed to have been purposely placed 
 in one corner of the tableau, in the most charming 
 way, like some character out of all proportion to the 
 rest. The dreamy, solitary stranger was leaning 
 lightly against one of the columns that supported
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 1 35 
 
 the roof, with his arms crossed and holding himself 
 as if he were posing to an artist for his picture. 
 Although full of elegance and pride this attitude 
 was free from affectation. No sign went to show 
 that he had placed his face at three-quarters and 
 slightly bent his head to the right, like Alexander 
 or Lord Byron and some other great men, with the 
 sole object of attracting attention. His fixed gaze 
 followed the movements of one of the dancers, be- 
 traying some deep feeling. His slender, graceful 
 figure recalled the splendid proportions of Apollo. 
 Beautiful black hair curled naturally on his high 
 forehead. With a single glance Mademoiselle de 
 Fontaine noticed the nicety of his linen, his fresh 
 kid gloves evidently from the best maker, and his 
 small feet, well shod in boots of Irish leather. He 
 wore none of the horrid gewgaws with which the 
 old dandies of the National Guard or the Lovelaces 
 of the counting-house were loaded. Only a black 
 ribbon, to which his eyeglass was hung, fluttered 
 over a waistcoat of irreproachable cut. The fastid- 
 ious Emilie had never seen the eyes of any man 
 shadowed by such long, curved eyelashes. Melan- 
 choly and passion breathed in this face, which was 
 distinguished by an olive-colored, manly complex- 
 ion. His mouth seemed always ready to smile and 
 to lift the corners of two eloquent lips ; but this ten- 
 dency, far from being the result of gaiety, rather 
 revealed a kind of sad charm. There was too much 
 promise in the head, too much distinction in the 
 appearance, for anyone to have said, "What a
 
 136 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 handsome man, or a fine man!" One wished to 
 know him. Looking at the stranger, the sharpest 
 observer could not have avoided taking him for 
 some man of talent attracted to this village festivity 
 by some powerful interest. 
 
 This stock of observation did not cost Emilie 
 more than a moment's attention, during which this 
 privileged man, submitted to a severe analysis, 
 became the object of a secret admiration. 
 
 She did not say, "He must be a peer of France!" 
 but, "Oh! if he is noble, and he must be — " 
 
 Without concluding her thought, she suddenly 
 rose, and went, followed by her brother the lieuten- 
 ant-general, toward the column, apparently looking 
 at the lively quadrilles; but, by an optical trick 
 well known to women, she did not miss the young 
 man's slightest movement, as she approached. The 
 stranger politely moved off to make way for the two 
 newcomers and leaned against another column. 
 Emilie, as much piqued by the stranger's politeness 
 as if it had been an impertinence, began to talk to her 
 brother, raising her voice much more than good 
 breeding required; she moved her head about, re- 
 doubled her gestures and laughed without much 
 object, not so much to amuse her brother as to at- 
 tract the attention of the imperturbable stranger. 
 None of these little stratagems succeeded. Ma- 
 demoiselle de Fontaine then followed the direction 
 of the young man's eyes, and perceived the cause 
 of this indifference. 
 
 hi the middle of the quadrille in front of her, was
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 1 37 
 
 dancing a pale young girl, like those Scotch divini- 
 ties placed by Girodet in his enormous composition 
 of Ossian receiving the French Warriors. 
 
 Emilie thought she recognized in her an illustrious 
 lady who had for some time inhabited a neighboring 
 country-house. Her cavalier was a youth of fifteen 
 with red hands, nankeen breeches, blue coat, and 
 white shoes, which showed that her love of dancing 
 exceeded her fastidiousness in the choice of partners. 
 Her movements did not show the effects of her ap- 
 parent weakness; but a slight blush already tinged 
 her white cheeks and her color began to revive. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Fontaine approached the quad- 
 rille so as to be able to examine the stranger the 
 moment she returned to her place, whilst the vis-a- 
 vis repeated the figure she was doing. But the un- 
 known stepped forward, leaned toward the pretty 
 dancer, and the inquisitive Emilie could distinctly 
 hear these words, although spoken in a voice that 
 was both imperious and gentle: 
 
 "Clara, my child, don't dance any more." 
 
 Clara gave a little pout, nodded her head in token 
 of obedience, and finished by smiling. 
 
 After the quadrille, the young man took all a 
 lover's care in wrapping a cashmere shawl round 
 the young girl's shoulders, and made her sit where 
 she was sheltered from the wind. Then presently, 
 Mademoiselle de Fontaine, who saw them rise and 
 walk round the enclosure like people preparing to 
 leave, found some means of following them under 
 the pretext of admiring the sights of the garden.
 
 138 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 Her brother lent himself with mischievous good- 
 nature to the caprices of this rather aimless walk. 
 Emilie then saw this handsome couple getting into 
 an elegant tilbury held by a mounted servant in 
 livery; just as the young man, from the height of 
 his seat was adjusting his reins, he first gave her 
 one of those glances that one casts vaguely at a big 
 crowd ; then she had the slender satisfaction of see- 
 ing him turn his head twice, and the strange young 
 lady did the same. Was it jealousy? 
 
 "I presume that as you have now seen enough of 
 the garden," said the brother, "we can go back to 
 the dance." 
 
 "Willingly," she replied, "do you think she is a 
 relation of Lady Dudley?" 
 
 "Lady Dudley may have a relation staying with 
 her," answered the Baron de Fontaine, "but not a 
 young lady." 
 
 The next day Mademoiselle de Fontaine ex- 
 pressed a wish to ride. By degrees she accustomed 
 her old uncle and her brothers to accompanying her 
 on certain early rides, very good, she said, for her 
 health. She showed a singular partiality for the 
 surroundings of the village in which Lady Dudley 
 lived. In spite of her cavalry manoeuvres, she did 
 not see the stranger again so soon as the glad pur- 
 suit to which she was devoting herself had led her 
 to hope. She went again several times to the ball 
 of Sceaux, without succeeding in finding the young 
 Englishman who had fallen from the skies to domi- 
 nate and beautify her dreams. Although nothing
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 1 39 
 
 Stimulates the dawning love of a young girl more 
 than an obstacle, there were, nevertheless, moments 
 when Mademoiselle de Fontaine was on the point 
 of giving up her strange and secret pursuit, almost 
 despairing of the success of her enterprise, whose 
 singularity may give some idea of the boldness of 
 her character. In fact, she might have gone round 
 the village of Ch^tenay for a long time without see- 
 ing her stranger. The young Clara, since that was 
 the name overheard by Mademoiselle de Fontaine, 
 was not English, and the supposed stranger did not 
 inhabit the flowery, perfumed groves of Chatenay. 
 One evening, Emilie was out on horseback with 
 her uncle, who since the fme weather had enjoyed 
 a fairly long cessation of hostilities from the gout, 
 when they met Lady Dudley. Beside the illustrious 
 lady in her barouche was Monsieur de Vaudenesse. 
 Emilie recognized the handsome couple, and her 
 suppositions were dissipated in a moment like 
 dreams. 
 
 Vexed like all women disappointed in an expecta- 
 tion, she turned back so quickly, that her uncle had 
 the greatest trouble in the world in following her, so 
 far had she urged on her pony. 
 
 "Apparently I have grown too old to understand 
 people of twenty, " said the sailor to himself, put- 
 ting his horse at a gallop, "or perhaps youth is not 
 what it was in the old days. But what is the mat- 
 ter with my niece ? There she is walking as slowly 
 as a gendarme patrol ing the streets of Paris. One 
 might think she wanted to hem in that honest
 
 140 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 bourgeois who looks to me like an author musing 
 over his poems, for I think he has an album in his 
 hand. Upon my word, I am an idiot! May it not 
 be the young man for whom we are searching?" 
 
 At this thought, the old sailor slackened his 
 horse's speed, so as to come up to his niece without 
 any noise. The vice-admiral had committed too 
 much mischief in the year 1771 and after, a period of 
 our annals when gallantry was in favor, not to 
 guess at once that Emilie had, by the greatest 
 chance, met the unknown of the Sceaux ball. In 
 spite of the mist spread by age over his gray eyes, 
 the Comte de Kergarouet recognized the signs of an 
 unusual agitation in his niece, despite the immobil- 
 ity she tried to impart to her face. The young girl's 
 piercing eyes were fixed in a sort of stupor upon 
 the stranger quietly walking before her. 
 
 "Good!" said the sailor to himself, "she will 
 follow him as a merchant vessel follows a pirate. 
 Then, when she sees him disappearing, she will be 
 in despair at not knowing who it is she loves, and 
 whether it is a marquis or a bourgeois. Really, 
 young heads ought always to have an old fogy by 
 them, like myself — " 
 
 He suddenly urged his horse along in such a way 
 as to start off his niece's, and passed so rapidly be- 
 tween her and the young pedestrian that he forced 
 him on to the green bank bordering the roadside. 
 Immediately pulling up his horse the count cried: 
 
 "Could you not have stood aside?" 
 
 "Ah! I beg your pardon, sir," answered the
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 141 
 
 stranger, "I did not know it was my place to apolo- 
 gize to you for having very nearly upset me." 
 
 "Eh! friend, stop that," sharply replied the 
 sailor, assuming a sneering tone of voice which was 
 somewhat insulting. 
 
 At the same time, the count lifted his whip as if 
 to whip his horse and touched his interlocutor's 
 shoulder, saying: 
 
 "A liberal bourgeois is a reasoner, all reasoners 
 ought to be sensible." 
 
 The young man climbed down the bank at this sar- 
 casm; crossed his arms and answered very angrily: 
 
 "Sir, I can hardly believe, from your white 
 hairs, that you still amuse yourself seeking duels." 
 
 "White hair ?" cried the sailor, interrupting him, 
 "you lie in your throat! it is only gray." 
 
 A quarrel thus begun, grew so heated in a few 
 seconds, that the young adversary forgot the moder- 
 ate tone he had forced himself to maintain. Just 
 as the Comte de Kergarouet saw his niece coming 
 up with all the signs of eager anxiety, he was giv- 
 ing his name to his antagonist bidding him keep 
 silence before the young lady entrusted to his care. 
 The stranger could not help smiling and gave the 
 old sailor a card, pointing out that he lived in a 
 country house at Chevreuse, and rapidly disap- 
 peared after having indicated it to him. 
 
 "You nearly hurt that poor fellow, child," said 
 the count hastening to meet Emilie, "you no longer 
 know how to hold in your horse. You leave me 
 there to compromise my dignity in covering your
 
 142 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 follies; whilst, had you remained, one of your 
 looks or one of your polite words, one of those you 
 say so prettily when you are not impertinent, would 
 have mended all, even had you broken his arm." 
 
 "Eh! my dear uncle, it was your horse, and not 
 mine, which caused this accident. I really think 
 that you must not ride any more, you are not as 
 good a cavalier as you were last year. But instead 
 of talking nothings — " 
 
 "The deuce! nothings! Then it is nothing if you 
 are impertinent to your uncle!" 
 
 "Ought we not to go and see if that young man 
 is hurt? He limps, uncle, do look." 
 
 "No, he runs. Ah! I lectured him severely." 
 
 "Ah! uncle, I recognize you there." 
 
 "Stop, niece!" said the count stopping Emilie's 
 horse by the bridle; "I do not see the necessity of 
 making advances to some shopkeeper who is only 
 too lucky in being thrown down by a charming 
 young girl or by the commander of La Belle-Poule." 
 
 "Why do you think he is a common man, my 
 dear uncle.? It seems to me that he has very refined 
 manners." 
 
 "Everyone has manners now-a-days, my niece." 
 
 "No, uncle, everyone has not got the air and ap- 
 pearance that comes from frequenting drawing- 
 rooms, and I will willingly lay you a wager that 
 this young man is noble." 
 
 "You had not much time to examine him." 
 
 "But it is not the first time I have seen him." 
 
 "And it is not the first time either, that you have
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 143 
 
 looked for him," replied the admiral laughing. 
 Emilie reddened; her uncle amused himself by- 
 leaving her some time in confusion, then he said to 
 her, "Emilie, you know that I love you as if you 
 were my own child, just because you are the only 
 one of the family who has that legitimate pride that 
 good birth gives. Deuce! child, who would have 
 thought that good principles would become so rare? 
 Well, I want to be your confidant. My dear little 
 one, I see that you are not indifferent to this young 
 gentleman. Hush! they would make fun of us in 
 the family if we embarked under a bad flag. You 
 know what that means. So let me help you, my 
 niece. Let us both keep the secret, and I promise 
 to bring him to you in the drawing-room." 
 
 "And when, uncle.-'" 
 
 "To-morrow." 
 
 "But, dear uncle, I shall not be bound in any 
 way?" 
 
 "Not at all, and you may bombard him, burn and 
 leave him like an old carack if it pleases you. He 
 will not be the first, eh?" 
 
 "How good you are, uncle!" 
 
 As soon as the count got in, he put on his spec- 
 tacles, secretly drew the card from his pocket and 
 read: 
 
 Maximilien Longueville, Rue du Sentier. 
 
 "Rest in peace, my dear niece," he said to Emi- 
 lie, "you may harpoon him in all ease of con- 
 science, he belongs to one of our historic families;
 
 144 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 and, if he is not a peer of France, he will inev- 
 itably become one." 
 
 "How do you know so many things?" 
 
 "That is my secret." 
 
 "Then you know his name.?" 
 
 The count silently nodded his gray head, which 
 was rather like an old oak trunk with a few leaves 
 curled up by the autumn cold fluttering round it; at 
 this sign, his niece came to try upon him the un- 
 failing power of her coquetries. An adept in the 
 art of cajoling the old sailor, she lavished upon him 
 the most infantile caresses, the most tender words; 
 she even went so far as to kiss him, in order to ob- 
 tain the revelation of so important a secret. The 
 old man, who passed his days playing at such 
 scenes with his niece, and which often cost him the 
 price of a set of gems or his box at the Italiens, was 
 pleased to let her implore him and particularly to 
 caress him. But, as he spun out his pleasure too 
 long, Emilie became vexed, passed from caresses to 
 sarcasms, and sulked, then returned, overcome by 
 curiosity. 
 
 The diplomatic sailor exacted a solemn promise 
 from his niece that for the future she would be more 
 modest, more gentle, less wilful, less extravagant, 
 and, above all, tell him everything. The treaty 
 concluded and signed by a kiss which he laid on 
 Emilie's white forehead, he led her into a corner of 
 the drawing-room, sat her on his knee, placed his 
 two thumbs over the card so as to hide it, letter 
 by letter disclosed the name of Longueville, and
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 145 
 
 obstinately refused to let her see more. This occur- 
 rence only intensified Mademoiselle de Fontaine's 
 secret sentiment, and she spent the greater part of 
 the night unfolding the brightest of the dreams upon 
 which she had fed her hopes. At last, thanks to 
 the chance so often prayed for, Emil ie nov/ saw some- 
 thing quite different from idle fancy in the source 
 of the imaginary riches with which she gilded her 
 conjugal life. Like all young people, ignorant of 
 the dangers of love and marriage, she was madly 
 fond of the delusive externals of marriage and love. 
 Does this not mean that her sentiment arose like al- 
 most all Youth's fancies, sweet and cruel errors that 
 exercise so fatal an influence over the lives of young 
 girls who are inexperienced enough to trust the care 
 of their future happiness to themselves.? The next 
 morning before Emilie was awake, her uncle had 
 hurried to Chevreuse. Seeing in the yard of an 
 elegant house the young man whom he had pur- 
 posely insulted the previous day, he went toward 
 him with the affectionate politeness of the elders of 
 the old Court. 
 
 "Eh! my dear sir, who would have thought that 
 I should quarrel at seventy-three years of age, with 
 the son or grandson of one of my best friends ? I 
 am a vice-admiral, sir. From that you will gather 
 that I think as little of a duel as I do of smoking a 
 cigar. In my day, two young people could not be- 
 come friends until they had seen the color of each 
 other's blood. But, ventre-de-biche ! yesterday in 
 capacity of sailor I had too much rum on board and 
 10
 
 146 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 I foundered on you. Shake hands! I would rather 
 take a hundred rebuffs from a Longueville than 
 cause the least pain to his family." 
 
 A certain coldness that the young man tried to 
 show the Comte de Kergarouet could not withstand 
 the frank kindness of his manners, and he allowed 
 him to squeeze his hand. 
 
 "You were going to ride," said the count, "do 
 not let me disturb you. But, if you have no plans, 
 come with me. I invite you to dine to-day at the 
 Planat house. My nephew, the Comte de Fontaine, 
 is a man you ought to know. Ah ! morbleu, I hope 
 to compensate you for my rudeness by presenting 
 you to five of the prettiest women in Paris. Eh! 
 eh! young man, your brow clears. I like young 
 men and I like to see them happy. Their pleasure 
 reminds me of the good years of my youth when 
 intrigues were no more lacking than duels. How 
 gay those times were! To-day, one reasons and 
 disquiets one's self over everything, as if there 
 never had been any fifteenth or sixteenth century. " 
 
 "But, sir, are we not right? The sixteenth cen- 
 tury only gave religious liberty to Europe, and the 
 nineteenth has given it freedom of pol — " 
 
 "Ah! don't let us talk politics. 1 am an ultra old 
 fogy you see. But I would not prevent young men 
 from being revolutionaries as long as they leave the 
 king the liberty of scattering their mobs." 
 
 A few feet from there, when the count and his 
 young companion we»'e in the middle of the wood, 
 the sailor saw a rather slender birch tree, stopped
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 1 47 
 
 his horse, took one of his pistols, and the ball lodged 
 in the middle of the tree fifteen feet away. 
 
 "You see, my dear fellow, that I fear no duel," 
 he said with comical gravity, looking at Monsieur 
 Longueville. 
 
 "Neither do 1," replied the latter, who promptly 
 loaded a pistol, aimed at the hole made by the 
 count's ball, and placed his own close to the mark. 
 
 "There's a well brought-up young man," cried 
 the sailor with a kind of enthusiasm. 
 
 During the walk he took with the man he already 
 looked upon as his nephew, he found a thousand 
 opportunities of questioning him on all those trifles 
 of which a perfect knowledge constituted, according 
 to his particular code, an accomplished gentleman. 
 
 "Have you any debts?" he finally asked his 
 companion after many questions. 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "What! you pay for all that is suppl ied to you .?" 
 
 "Exactly, sir; otherwise we should lose all credit 
 and every kind of respect." 
 
 "But at least you have more than one mistress? 
 Ah! you blush, my friend? Morals are much 
 changed. With these ideas of legal order, Kantism 
 and liberty, youth is spoiled. You have neither 
 Guimard nor Duthe, nor creditors, and you don't 
 know heraldry; but, my young friend, you are not 
 educated! Know that he who does not commit his 
 follies in springtime commits them in winter. If I 
 have eighty thousand francs income at seventy- 
 three, it is because I ran through the capital at
 
 148 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 thirty — oh ! with my wife, of course, honorably, 
 quite honorably. Nevertheless, your shortcomings 
 will not prevent me from introducing you to the 
 Planat house. Remember that you promised to 
 come, and I shall expect you." 
 
 "What an extraordinary little old man," said 
 young Longueville to himself; "he is vigorous and 
 fresh; but, although he may wish to appear good- 
 natured, I shall not trust him."
 
 The next day, toward four o'clock, when the 
 company was scattered in the drawing-rooms and 
 billiard-rooms, a servant announced to the inmates 
 of the Planat house: Monsieur de Longueville. At 
 the name of the old Comte de Kergarouet's favorite, 
 everyone, down to the player who was going to 
 miss a ball, came hurrying, as much to watch Ma- 
 demoiselle de Fontaine's face, as to judge the 
 human phoenix who had deserved honorable men- 
 tion to the detriment of so many rivals. A simple, 
 refined dress, manners full of ease, polite ways, a 
 sweet voice of a tone that vibrated the heart's 
 chords, gained Monsieur Longueville the good will 
 of all the family. He did not seem strange to the 
 luxury of the pompous receiver-general's house. 
 Although his conversation was that of a man of the 
 world, everyone could easily guess that he had 
 received the most brilliant education and that his 
 acquirements were as solid as they were extensive. 
 He so happily hit upon the right word in a rather 
 trifling discussion raised by the old sailor upon 
 naval constructions, that one of the ladies observed 
 that he seemed to have come from the Ecole Poly- 
 technique. 
 
 "I think, madame," he replied, "one may con- 
 sider it a cause for pride to have gone into it." 
 
 In spite of eager entreaties, he politely, but 
 
 (149)
 
 I50 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 firmly, resisted the desire they expressed to keep 
 him to dine, and fixed the attention of the ladies 
 by saying that he was Hippocrate to a young sister 
 whose delicate health demanded great care. 
 
 "Monsieur is no doubt a doctor?" ironically 
 asked one of Emilie's sisters-in-law, 
 
 "Monsieur came from the Ecole Polytechnique," 
 kindly answered Mademoiselle de Fontaine, whose 
 face glowed with the richest color directly she 
 learned that the young girl at the dance was Mon- 
 sieur de Longueville's sister. 
 
 "But, my dear, one can be a doctor and yet have 
 been at the Ecole Polytechnique; is that not so, 
 monsieur?" 
 
 "Madame, there is nothing against it," replied 
 the young man. 
 
 All eyes turned upon Emilie, who was looking at 
 the fascinating stranger with a sort of anxious curi- 
 osity. She breathed more freely when he added, 
 not without a smile: 
 
 "I have not the honor of being a doctor, madame, 
 and 1 have even given up entering the profession of 
 civil engineering in order to keep my indepen- 
 dence." 
 
 "And you did well," said the count, "but how 
 can you look upon being a doctor as an honor?" 
 added the great Breton. "Ah! my youngfriend, for 
 a man like you — " 
 
 "Monsieur le Comte, I infinitely respect all pro- 
 fessions that have a useful end in view." 
 
 "Eh! then we are agreed; you respect those
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 151 
 
 professions I imagine, as a young man respects a 
 matron." 
 
 Monsieur de Longueville's visit was neither too 
 long nor too short. He left the moment he per- 
 ceived he had pleased everybody and that every- 
 one's curiosity about him was aroused. 
 
 "He's a cunning fellow," said the count, coming 
 back to the drawing-room after seeing him out. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Fontaine, who alone was in the 
 secret of this visit, had dressed herself rather ele- 
 gantly so as to attract the young man's notice; but 
 she had the petty mortification of seeing that he did 
 not pay her as much attention as she thought she 
 deserved. The family were rather surprised at 
 the silence in which she had wrapt herself. For 
 new-comers Emilie ordinarily exerted her coquetry, 
 her witty chatter, and the inexhaustible eloquence 
 of her glance and attitudes. Whether the sweet 
 voice and attractive manners of the young man had 
 charmed her, or she was seriously in love and this 
 feeling had wrought a change in her, her demeanor 
 had lost all affectation. Simple and natural, she 
 must doubtless have seemed more beautiful. Sev- 
 eral of her sisters and an old lady friend of the 
 family, judged this behavior a refinement of 
 coquetry. They supposed that, thinking the 
 young man worthy of her, Emilie intended showing 
 her gifts but by degrees, in order to dazzle him all 
 of a sudden when she had pleased him. All the 
 members of the family were curious to know what 
 this capricious girl thought of the stranger; but
 
 152 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 when, during dinner, each one delighted in endow- 
 ing Monsieur Longueville with some new quality, 
 whilst claiming to have been the only one to dis- 
 cover it. Mademoiselle de Fontaine remained silent 
 for some time; a slight sarcasm from her uncle sud- 
 denly roused her from her apathy, she said in a 
 rather epigrammatical way that this divine perfec- 
 tion must conceal some great fault, and that she 
 should be very careful not to judge so clever a man 
 at first sight 
 
 "Those who please everybody please nobody," 
 she added, "and the worst of all faults is to have 
 none." 
 
 Like all young girls who are in love, Emilie flat- 
 tered herself with the hope of hiding her feeling in 
 the depths of her heart by deceiving the Argus eyes 
 that surrounded her; but, at the end of a fortnight, 
 there was not a single member of this numerous 
 family but was initiated into this little domestic 
 secret. At Monsieur Longueville's third visit, 
 Emilie believed she had something to do with it. 
 This discovery caused her such an intoxicating 
 pleasure, that, in thinking it over, she was aston- 
 ished. In that there was something painful to her 
 pride. Accustomed to forming the centre of society, 
 she was obliged to acknowledge a force that drew 
 her out of herself; she tried to rebel, but she could 
 not drive the young man's fascinating image from 
 her heart. After that there soon arose anxiety. Two 
 qualities in Monsieur Longueville very unfavor- 
 able to the general curiosity, were an unexpected
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 153 
 
 reserve and modesty. The artifices dispersed in 
 Emilie's conversation and the traps she laid for 
 wringing some particulars about himself from the 
 young man, he knew how to baffle with the skill of 
 a diplomatist who wishes to hide secrets. If she 
 spoke of painting, Monsieur Longueville answered 
 as a connoisseur. If she played, the young man 
 proved without conceit that he was as good at the 
 piano. One evening he enchanted all the company 
 by joining his delicious voice to Emilie's in one of 
 Cimarosa's most beautiful duets; but, when they 
 tried to enquire if he were an artist, he put them off 
 with so much gracefulness, that he did not leave 
 these women, so skilled in the art of divining sen- 
 timents, the possibility of discovering to what 
 social sphere he belonged. No matter with what 
 boldness the old uncle threw the grappling irons on 
 to this vessel, Longueville nimbly escaped in order 
 to maintain the charm of mystery; and he was able 
 all the more easily to remain the handsome stranger 
 at the Planat house, in that curiosity did not over- 
 step the bounds of politeness. Emilie, tormented 
 by this reserve, hoped to gain more from the sister 
 than the brother in this kind of confidence. Sec- 
 onded by her uncle, who managed this manoeuvre 
 as well as he would that of a ship, she tried to bring 
 upon the scenes the hitherto silent character of Ma- 
 demoiselle Clara Longueville. The house party 
 soon showed the greatest desire to know so amiable 
 a person, and to procure her some amusement. An 
 informal dance was proposed and accepted. The
 
 154 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 ladies did not completely despair of making a young 
 girl of sixteen talk. 
 
 In spite of these little clouds, gathered by sus- 
 picion and raised by curiosity, a great light per- 
 vaded Mademoiselle de Fontaine's soul, deliciously 
 rejoicing in the life that brought her nearer another. 
 She was beginning to understand social relations. 
 Whether happiness makes us better, or whether she 
 was too much absorbed to tease others, she became 
 less caustic, more forbearing, more gentle. The 
 change in her character delighted her astonished 
 family. Perhaps, after all, her egotism was being 
 transformed into love. To look for the arrival of 
 her timid and secret adorer was an intense joy. 
 Without a single word of passion having been 
 spoken, she knew she was loved, and delighted in 
 skilfully displaying for the young stranger the 
 treasures of an education that showed itself to be so 
 varied. She too saw that she was being carefully 
 observed, and then she tried to conquer the faults 
 that her bringing-up had encouraged. Was it not a 
 first tribute to love, and was she not fiercely re- 
 proaching herself ? She wanted to please and she 
 fascinated; she loved and she was idolized. Her 
 family, knowing she was well protected by her 
 pride, gave her sufficient liberty to taste those little 
 childish pleasures that lend so much charm and 
 force to a first love. More than once, the young 
 man and Mademoiselle de Fontaine walked alone in 
 the alleys of this park where nature was decked 
 like a woman for a dance. More than once, they
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 1 55 
 
 held these aimless, featureless conversations in 
 which the most senseless sentences are those that 
 hide the most feeling. Together they often ad- 
 mired the setting sun and its rich colors. They 
 gathered marguerites to pick them to pieces, and 
 sang the most impassioned duets using melodies 
 from Pergolese or Rossini, like faithful interpreters, 
 to express their secrets. 
 
 The day of the dance arrived. Clara Longueville 
 and her brother, whom the servants persisted in 
 dignifying with the noble particle, were the heroes 
 of the evening. For the first time in her life. Made- 
 moiselle de Fontaine saw a young girl's triumph 
 with pleasure. She lavished with sincerity on 
 Clara those graceful caresses and little attentions 
 that women only ordinarily exchange to excite the 
 jealousy of men. Emilie had an object, she wanted 
 to surprise secrets. But, in her capacity of woman. 
 Mademoiselle Longueville at least was equal, and 
 showed more finesse and ingenuity than her brother ; 
 she had not even the appearance of being reserved 
 and knew how to hold conversation on subjects un- 
 connected with material interests, whilst putting 
 into it so much charm, that Mademoiselle de Fon- 
 taine conceived a sort of envy of her and surnamed 
 her the Siren. Although Emilie had formed the in- 
 tention of making Clara talk, it was Clara who 
 questioned Emilie; she wanted to judge her, and 
 was judged by her; she was often vexed at having 
 let her character appear in several answers mis- 
 chievously extorted from her by Clara, whose
 
 156 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 modest, candid air repudiated all suspicion of per- 
 fidy. There was a moment when Mademoiselle de 
 Fontaine seemed vexed at having been provoked by 
 Clara into an imprudent tirade against commoners. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," this charming creature said to 
 her, "I have heard Maximilien speak so much of 
 you, that I have the most lively desire to know you 
 out of affection for him ; but to wish to know you, 
 is it not to wish to love you?" 
 
 "My dear Clara, I was afraid of displeasing you 
 by speaking like that against those who are not 
 noble." 
 
 "Oh! do not be afraid. Now-a-days, these 
 sorts of discussions are objectless. As for me, 
 they do not affect me; I am outside the question." 
 
 However ambitious this answer might be, it 
 caused Mademoiselle de Fontaine to feel great joy; 
 for, like all passionate people, she construed it as 
 oracles are read, in whatever sense it agreed with 
 her desires, and came back to the dance more joy- 
 ous than ever in looking at Longueville, whose 
 manners and elegance perhaps surpassed those of 
 her imaginary type. She felt all the more satisfac- 
 tion in reflecting that he was noble, her black eyes 
 shone, she danced with all the pleasure one feels in 
 the presence of the person one loves. The two 
 lovers had never understood each other better than 
 at this moment; and more than once they felt the 
 tips of their fingers thrill and tremble when the 
 rules of the quadrille joined them. 
 
 This handsome couple reached the beginning of
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 1 57 
 
 autumn in the midst of festivities and country 
 pleasures, gently yielding themselves to the current 
 of the sweetest feeling in life, whilst strengthening 
 it by all the thousand little incidents that can be 
 imagined; love is always alike in some respects. 
 Each studied the other, as much as one can when in 
 love. "In short, never has a love affair turned so 
 rapidly into a love marriage," said the old uncle, 
 following the two young people with his eyes, as a 
 naturalist examines an insect under the microscope. 
 This word frightened Monsieur and Madame de Fon- 
 taine. The old Vendean ceased to be as altogether 
 indifferent to his daughter's marriage as he had but 
 lately promised to be. He went to Paris to seek 
 information, but found none. Alarmed by this 
 mystery, and not yet knowing what would be the 
 result of the enquiry about the Longueville family 
 that he had begged a Parisian administrator to under- 
 take for him, he thought he ought to advise his 
 daughter to behave cautiously. The paternal hint 
 was received with feigned obedience full of irony. 
 
 "At least, my dear Emilie, if you love him, do 
 not confess it to him." 
 
 "Father, it is true that I love him; but I shall 
 wait for your permission before I tell him so." 
 
 "And yet, Emilie, reflect that as yet you know 
 nothing cf his family or position." 
 
 "And if I do know nothing, I am very glad. 
 But, father, you wished to see me married, you 
 gave me liberty to make my choice, and it is irrev- 
 ocably made; what more do you want?"
 
 158 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 "We must know, dear child, if the man you have 
 chosen is son of a peer of France," ironically re- 
 plied the venerable gentleman. 
 
 Emilie was silent for a moment Presently she 
 raised her head, looked at her father and said with 
 a kind of anxiety: 
 
 "Are the Longuevilles — ?" 
 
 " — Extinct in the person of the old Due de Ro- 
 stein-Limbourg, who perished on the scaffold in 
 1793. He was the last offspring of the last younger 
 branch." 
 
 "But, father, there are some very good families, 
 issue of bastards. French history swarms with 
 princes who put bars upon their shields." 
 
 "Your ideas have considerably changed," said 
 the old gentleman smiling. 
 
 The next day was the last that the Fontaine fam- 
 ily were to spend at the house of the Planats. 
 Emilie, much disturbed by her father's advice, 
 waited with eager impatience for the hour at which 
 young Longueville was in the habit of coming, in 
 order to obtain an explanation from him. She went 
 out after dinner to walk alone in the park, directing 
 her steps toward the grove where they exchanged 
 confidences, knowing the eager young man would 
 seek her there and, while running, she reflected on 
 the best way of surprising so important a secret 
 without compromising herself; no easy thing to do! 
 Up to the present, no direct avowal had sanctioned 
 the feeling that united her to this stranger. She had 
 secretly enjoyed, like Maximilien, the sweetness of
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 1 59 
 
 a first love; but, each as proud as the other, it 
 seemed as if both feared to confess their love. 
 
 Maximilien Longueville, inspired by Clara with 
 sufficiently well-founded suspicions of Emilie's 
 character, found himself alternately carried away 
 by the violence of a young man's passion, and 
 restrained by a wish to know and test the woman 
 to whom he was to entrust his happiness. His love 
 did not prevent him from recognizing in Emilie the 
 prejudices which spoiled this youthful nature; but 
 he wanted to know whether she loved him before 
 he strove against them, for he would no more risk 
 the fate of his love than he would his life. He had, 
 therefore, constantly adhered to a silence that his 
 look, attitude and the least of his actions belied. 
 On the other hand, a young girl's natural pride, 
 further increased in Mademoiselle de Fontaine by 
 the foolish vanity with which her birth and beauty 
 inspired her, prevented her from anticipating a 
 declaration that her growing passion sometimes 
 inclined her to solicit So the two lovers had in- 
 stinctively grasped their situation without explain- 
 ing their secret motives to each other. There are 
 moments in life when vagueness pleases young 
 people. From the very fact that both had hesitated 
 so long before speaking, they both seemed to 
 be cruelly sporting with their expectation. One 
 sought to discover whether he was loved, from the 
 effort that an avowal would cost the pride of his 
 haughty mistress, the other every moment hoped to 
 see an over-respectful silence broken.
 
 l60 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 Seated on a rustic bench Emilie was thinking 
 over the events that had just happened during these 
 three delightful months. Her father's suspicions 
 were the last fears that could touch her, she even 
 refuted them with two or three of those reflections 
 that to a young and inexperienced girl seemed 
 triumphant Above all, she agreed with herself 
 that she could not possibly have deceived herself. 
 During the whole season, she had never remarked 
 in Maximilien a single gesture or a single word 
 that might indicate a common origin or occupation; 
 much better, his manner in discussions betrayed 
 him to be a man engaged in the higher interests of 
 the country. 
 
 "Besides," she said to herself, "a member of 
 the administration, a financier or a merchant, would 
 never have had leisure to remain a whole season 
 making love to me in the midst of the fields and 
 woods, spending time as freely as a nobleman with 
 a whole lifetime, exempt from care, before him." 
 
 She was giving herelf up to a course of medita- 
 tion far more interesting to her than these prelimi- 
 nary thoughts, when a light rustling of the leaves 
 told her that for the last minute Maximilien had 
 been gazing at her, doubtless with admiration. 
 
 "Do you know that it is very wrong to surprise 
 young girls in this way?" she said to him, smiling. 
 
 "Particularly when they are thinking of their 
 secrets?" answered Maximilien slyly. 
 
 "Why should 1 not have mine? You surely have 
 yours!"
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX l6l 
 
 "Then you were really thinking of your 
 secrets?" he returned, laughing. 
 
 "No, I was considering yours. Mine, I know 
 them." 
 
 "But," gently exclaimed the young man, seizing 
 Mademoiselle de Fontaine's am and drawing it 
 within his own, "perhaps my secrets are yours and 
 yours are mine." 
 
 After having gone several steps, they found 
 themselves under a clump of trees wrapt in the 
 colors of the setting sun as if in a red-brown cloud. 
 This natural magic imparted a kind of solemnity to 
 the moment. The young man's bold and eager 
 action and above all the fluttering of his burning 
 heart, rapidly pulsating against Emilie's arm, threw 
 her into an excitement that was all the more intense 
 in that she was stirred only by the most simple 
 and innocent of occurrences. The reserve in which 
 young girls in high life live, gives an incredible 
 force to the outbursts of their feelings, and is one 
 of the greatest dangers that can attack them when 
 they meet with an impassioned lover. Never had 
 Emilie's and Maximilien's eyes said so many of 
 those things that one dare not speak. Victims of 
 this intoxication, they readily forgot the little stip- 
 ulations of pride and the cold considerations of 
 distrust. At first they could not even express 
 themselves but by a pressure of hands which served 
 to interpret their happy thoughts. 
 
 "Monsieur, I have a question to ask you," said 
 Mademoiselle de Fontaine in a trembling, anxious 
 II
 
 1 62 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 voice, after a long silence and after having walked 
 a few steps with a certain slowness; "but, I beg of 
 you to remember that it is in some degree required 
 of me by the rather strange position in which I find 
 myself placed toward my family." 
 
 A pause, terrifying to Emilie, followed these 
 sentences, which she had almost stammered out. 
 
 During the moment that this silence lasted, this 
 proud young girl dared not encounter the piercing 
 look of the man she loved, for she had a secret con- 
 sciousness of the meanness of the following words 
 she added : 
 
 "Are you a nobleman.?" 
 
 When she had uttered these last words, she 
 wished she were at the bottom of a lake. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," gravely replied Longueville, 
 whose changed face acquired a sort of severe dig- 
 nity, "I promise to give a straightforward answer to 
 this demand when you shall have answered with 
 sincerity that which I shall make of you." 
 
 He dropped the arm of the young girl, who sud- 
 denly felt herself alone in life, and said to her: 
 
 "With what purpose do you question me about 
 my birth?" 
 
 She remained motionless, cold and dumb. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," continued Maximilien, "do not 
 let us go any further if we do not understand each 
 other. I love you, " he said in a deep and tender tone. 
 
 "Well!" he added, with a glad look at hearing 
 the joyous exclamation that the young girl could 
 not restrain, "why ask me if I am noble?"
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 1 63 
 
 "Would he speak thus if he were not so?" cried 
 an inner voice that Emilie felt springing from the 
 bottom of her heart. 
 
 She gracefully lifted her head, seemed to draw 
 new life from the young man's eyes and held out 
 her arm to him as if to conclude a fresh alliance. 
 
 "You believed I had my heart greatly set upon 
 titles?" she asked with mischievous archness. 
 
 "I have no title to offer my wife," he answered, 
 half gay, half serious, "but, if I take her from a 
 high rank and from those whom the paternal fortune 
 has accustomed to luxury and the pleasures of 
 wealth, I know to what my choice binds me. Love 
 gives everything," he added gaily, "but only to 
 lovers. As to married people, they must have a 
 little more than the sky's canopy and the meadow's 
 carpet." 
 
 "He is rich," she thought, "as to titles, perhaps 
 he wishes to test me! Some one has told him that 
 I am partial to the nobility, and that I will marry 
 none but a peer of France. My humbugging sisters 
 must have played me this trick. — I assure you, mon- 
 sieur," she said aloud, "that I have had very ex- 
 aggerated ideas of life and society; but, to-day," 
 she continued, intentionally looking at him in such 
 a way as to turn him crazy, "I know where lie a 
 woman's true riches." 
 
 "I am anxious to believe that you disguise noth- 
 ing," he answered with gentle gravity, "but, this 
 winter, my dear Emilie, perhaps in less than two 
 months, I shall be proud of what I may be able to
 
 1 64 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 offer you, if you care for the gratifications of 
 wealth. It will be the only secret that I shall keep 
 here," he said pointing to his heart, "for, on its 
 success depends my happiness, I dare not say our — " 
 
 "Oh! say it! say it!" 
 
 It was in the midst of the sweetest converse that 
 they slowly returned to join the company in the 
 drawing-room. Never had Mademoiselle de Fon- 
 taine found her lover more pleasing or more clever; 
 his slender figure, his winning manners, seemed to 
 her still more charming since the conversation 
 which, in some measure, had secured her the pos- 
 session of a heart that was worthy the envy of all 
 women. They sang an Italian duet with so much 
 expression, that the party applauded them enthusi- 
 astically. Their good-bye assumed a conventional 
 tone under which they concealed their happiness. 
 
 In short, to the young girl this day became a 
 chain to bind her still more closely to the stranger's 
 destiny. The force and dignity he had just dis- 
 played in the scene in which they had mutually 
 revealed their feelings had perhaps forced from 
 Mademoiselle de Fontaine that respect without 
 which true love cannot exist. When she was alone 
 with her father in the drawing-room, the venerable 
 Vendean approached her, took her hands affection- 
 ately, and asked her if she had obtained any light 
 upon Monsieur Longueville's family and fortune. 
 
 "Yes, dear father," she replied, "I am happier 
 than 1 could ever have wished. In fact, Monsieur 
 Longueville is the only man that I would marry."
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 165 
 
 "That's right, Emilie," answered the count, "I 
 know what it remains for me to do." 
 
 "Do you know of any obstacle?" she asked 
 with real anxiety. 
 
 "My dear child, this young man is an absolute 
 stranger; but, as long as he is not a dishonest man, 
 from the moment you love him he is as dear to me 
 as a son." 
 
 "A dishonest man!" replied Emilie; "I am quite 
 easy. My uncle, who introduced him to us, can 
 answer for him. Say, dear uncle, has he been a 
 filibuster, pirate, corsair?" 
 
 "I knew that I was going to be dragged into it," 
 cried the old sailor, waking up. He looked round 
 the salon, but his niece had vanished like Saint 
 Elmo's fire, to use her favorite expression. 
 
 "Well, uncle," resumed Monsieur de Fontaine, 
 "how could you have hidden from us all you knew 
 about this young man ? Yet you must have re- 
 marked our anxiety. Is Monsieur deLonguevilleof 
 good family?" 
 
 "I do not know him from Adam or Eve," cried 
 the Comte de Kergarouet "Trusting to the tact of 
 this little elf, I brought her Saint-Preux to her by a 
 way known to myself. I know that this boy fires a 
 pistol admirably, hunts very well, plays billiards, 
 chess and backgammon marvelously; he fences 
 and rides like the late Chevalier de Saint-Georges. 
 His knowledge is comparatively as rich as our vine- 
 yards. He calculates like Barreme, draws, dances, 
 and sings well. Eh! deuce take it! — what is the
 
 166 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 matter with you, you people? If that does not 
 make a perfect gentleman, show me a bourgeois who 
 knows all that, find me a man who lives as honor- 
 ably as he does? Does he work? Does he com- 
 promise his dignity by going into offices, to bow 
 down to parvenus that you call directors-general? 
 He walks upright. He is a man. But, however, I 
 have just found in my waistcoat pocket the card he 
 gave me when he thought I wanted to cut his throat, 
 poor simpleton! — Now-a-days young people are not 
 at all sharp. — Here it is." 
 
 "Rue du Sentier, No. 5," said Monsieur de Fon- 
 taine, trying to recall, from amongst all the infor- 
 mation he had obtained, that which might relate to 
 the young stranger. "What the devil does this 
 mean? Messieurs Pal ma, Werbrust and Company, 
 whose chief trade is in muslins, calicoes and printed 
 cottons, wholesale, live there. Good! I have it! 
 Longueville, the deputy, has an interest in their 
 house. Yes, but I only know Longueville to have 
 a son of thirty-two, who is not at all like our man, 
 and to whom he is giving fifty thousand francs 
 income in order to marry him to a minister's daugh- 
 ter; he wants to be made a peer like anybody else. 
 I have never heard him speak of this Maximilien. 
 Has he a daughter? Who is this Clara? However, 
 it is possible for more than one intriguer to be 
 called Longueville. But is not the house of 
 Palma, Werbrust and Company half ruined by a 
 speculation in Mexico or the Indies? 1 will clear 
 this all up."
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 1 67 
 
 "You talk to yourself as if you were on the stage, 
 and you seem to count me as a mere cipher," sud- 
 denly said the old sailor. "Do you not know, that 
 if he is a gentleman, I have more than one bag in 
 my hatchway to supply his want of fortune?" 
 
 "As to that, if he is a son of Longueville, he 
 needs nothing; but," said Monsieur de Fontaine, 
 shaking his head, "his father did not even purchase 
 an office entitling to nobility. Before the Revolu- 
 tion, he was a solicitor; and the de he has assumed 
 since the Restoration belongs to him about as much 
 as half his wealth." 
 
 "Bah! bah! lucky for those whose fathers have 
 been hanged!" gaily cried the sailor. 
 
 Two or three days after this memorable day, and 
 on one of those beautiful mornings in November 
 that show the Parisians their boulevards cleaned by 
 the sharp cold of an early frost. Mademoiselle de 
 Fontaine, attired in a new fur that she wanted to 
 bring into fashion, went out with the two sisters-in- 
 law upon whom she had formerly vented the most 
 epigrams. The inclination to try a very elegant 
 carriage and dresses that were to set the style for 
 winter fashions, tempted these three women to a 
 Parisian drive far less than the wish to see a cape 
 that one of their friends had noticed in a handsome 
 linen shop at the corner of the Rue de la Paix. 
 When the three ladies entered the shop, Madame la 
 Baronne de Fontaine pulled Emilie by the sleeve 
 and pointed out Maximilien Longueville, seated at 
 the cashier's desk engaged, with mercantile grace.
 
 168 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 in giving change for a gold piece to the needle- 
 woman with whom he seemed to be debating. 
 
 The "handsome stranger" held several patterns in 
 his hand which left no doubt as to his respectable 
 profession. Without anyone's observation, Emi- 
 lie was seized with an icy shiver. Nevertheless, 
 thanks to the breeding of good society, she com- 
 pletely concealed her inward rage, and answered 
 her sister, "I knew it!" with a depth of intonation 
 and such an inimitable accent as the most famous 
 actress of the day would have envied. She ad- 
 vanced toward the desk. 
 
 Longueville raised his head, put the patterns in 
 his pocket with distracting sang-froid, bowed to 
 Mademoiselle de Fontaine and approached her with 
 a penetrating look. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he said to the shopwoman, who 
 followed him with a very anxious air, "I will send 
 and settle this account ; my establ ishment expects it. 
 But, here, '■' he added in a whisper to the young 
 v/oman, giving her a thousand-franc bill, "take it; 
 it shall be a matter between us. — I hope you will 
 forgive me, mademoiselle," he said turning to Emi- 
 lie, "you will be kind enough to excuse the tyranny 
 exercised by business." 
 
 "But it seems to me, monsieur, that it is of ex- 
 treme indifference to me," replied Mademoiselle de 
 Fontaine, looking at him with an assurance and an 
 air of scornful carelessness that might have led any- 
 one to believe that she was seeing him for the first 
 time.
 
 IN THE RUE DE LA PAIX 
 
 When the tJiree ladies entered the shop, Madame 
 la Baronne de Fontaine pnllcd Einilie by the sleeve 
 and pointed out Maximilien Longueville, seated at 
 the cashier s desk engaged, zvith mercantile grace, 
 in giving change for a gold piece to the needle- 
 woman with whom he seemed to be debating. 
 
 The "handsome stranger" held several patterns 
 in his liand.
 
 rit^y^-^XZi^ ■/iit/y. '■&■ '.'Ji. >• .'-i-tn 
 
 ~"*»''««»>SfSSEi' 
 
 
 
 - L- -
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 1 69 
 
 '•Are you speaking seriously ?" asked Maximilien 
 in a broken voice. 
 
 Emilie turned her back upon him with exquisite 
 impertinence. These few words, spoken in a low 
 voice, had escaped the curiosity of the two sisters- 
 in-law. When, after taking the cape, the three 
 ladies had regained their carriage, Emilie, who 
 found herself sitting in front, could not help taking 
 in with her last look the depth of this odious shop, 
 where she saw Maximilien standing with his arms 
 crossed, in the attitude of a man who had risen 
 above the misfortune which had attacked him so 
 suddenly. Their eyes met and darted two im- 
 placable glances. Each hoped that the other loving 
 heart had been cruelly wounded. In one moment, 
 they found themselves as far from one another 
 as if one had been in China and the other in Green- 
 land. Is not vanity a blast that withers every- 
 thing? A prey to the most violent struggle that 
 can agitate a young girl's heart, Mademoiselle de 
 Fontaine reaped the fullest harvest of sorrow that 
 ever prejudice and narrowness have sown in a 
 human soul. Her face, but lately so fresh and vel- 
 vety, was streaked with yellow tints, red stains, 
 and every now and then her white cheeks would 
 turn suddenly green. In the hope of hiding her 
 trouble from her sisters, she would laughingly point 
 to a passer-by or a ridiculous toilette; but the laugh 
 was convulsive. She felt herself more keenly 
 wounded by the compassionate silence of her sisters 
 than by any epigrams with which they might have
 
 I70 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 avenged themselves. She exerted all her skill to 
 draw them into a conversation in which she tried 
 to give vent to her anger by senseless paradoxes 
 and overwhelming tradesmen with the most cutting 
 insults and vulgar epigrams. Upon her return 
 home she was seized with a fever that was at first 
 of a somewhat dangerous nature. At the end of a 
 month her parents and the doctor's care restored her 
 to the prayers of her family. Everyone hoped that 
 this lesson would be sufficiently severe to subdue 
 Emilie, who gradually resumed her old habits and 
 rushed anew into society. 
 
 She said there was no shame in being deceived. 
 
 "If, like her father, she had any influence in the 
 Chamber," she said, "she would promote a law or- 
 daining that tradesmen, especially calico-merchants, 
 should be marked on the forehead like the sheep of 
 Berri, down to the third generation." 
 
 She would have given to nobles alone the right 
 to wear those old French coats that were so becom- 
 ing to Louis XV. 's courtiers. To hear her, there 
 might have been some misfortune to the monarchy 
 in the lack of any visible difference between a mer- 
 chant and a peer of France. Thousands of other 
 jests, readily understood, rapidly followed each 
 other when any unforeseen accident set her off on 
 the subject. But those who loved Emilie noticed a 
 tinge of melancholy through these sneers. Evidently, 
 Maximilien Longueville always reigned in the bot- 
 tom of this unaccountable heart. Now and then she 
 would become as gentle as she was during the brief
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 171 
 
 season that saw the birth of her love, and some- 
 times she would be more unbearable than ever. 
 Everyone excused the caprices of a temper that 
 sprang from a sorrow that was both secret and 
 known. The Comte de Kergarouet obtained some 
 little influence over her, thanks to an excess of ex- 
 travagance, a species of consolation that rarely 
 misses its effect upon young Parisian women. The 
 first time Mademoiselle de Fontaine went to a ball, 
 was at the house of the Neapolitan Ambassador. 
 The moment she took her place in the most bril- 
 liant of the quadrilles, she saw Longueville a few 
 steps from her, giving a slight nod of the head to 
 her partner. 
 
 "Is that young man one of your friends.-"' 
 she asked her cavalier with a scornful air. 
 
 "He is only my brother," he replied. 
 
 Emilie could not suppress a start. 
 
 "Ah!" he resumed enthusiastically, "there is 
 the best soul in the world — " 
 
 "Do you know my name?" asked Emilie eagerly 
 interrupting him. 
 
 "No, mademoiselle. It is a crime, I confess, not 
 to have retained a name that is on all lips, I ought 
 to say, in all hearts; but I have good excuse; I have 
 just come from Germany. My ambassador, who is 
 in Paris on his holiday, sent me here to-night as 
 chaperon to his amiable wife, whom you see in the 
 corner over there." 
 
 "A truly tragic face," said Emilie, after having 
 scrutinized the ambassadress.
 
 172 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 "And yet she always looks like that at a ball," 
 replied the young man laughing. "I must make 
 her dance! But I wanted some compensation." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Fontaine bowed. 
 
 "1 was much astonished," continued the talkative 
 secretary of the Embassy, "at finding my brother 
 here. Upon arriving at Vienna, I heard the poor 
 boy was ill in bed. I had counted upon seeing him 
 before coming to the ball; but politics do not 
 always allow us leisure for family affection. The 
 padrofia del/a casa did not permit me to visit my 
 dear Maximilien. " 
 
 "Your brother is not, like you, in diplomacy?" 
 said Emilie. 
 
 "No," sighed the secretary, "the poor boy sacri- 
 ficed himself for me! He and my sister Clara gave 
 up my father's fortune, in order that he might reunite 
 the entail in my person. My father dreams of the 
 peerage like all those who vote for the ministry. 
 He has a promise of being mentioned," he added in 
 a low voice. "After having amassed some capital, 
 my brother then joined a banking establishment; 
 and I know he has just made a speculation in Brazil 
 that may make him a millionaire. You see me 
 greatly delighted at having contributed to his suc- 
 cess by my diplomatic relations. I am even now 
 impatiently awaiting a dispatch from the Brazilian 
 Legation which I hope will cheer him up. How do 
 you think he looks?" 
 
 "But your brother's face does not strike me as 
 being that of a man who thinks of money."
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 1 73 
 
 With a single glance the young diplomat scruti- 
 nized the outwardly calm face of his partner. 
 
 "What!" he said smiling, "do young ladies then 
 also divine the thoughts of love through taciturn 
 brows?" 
 
 "Your brother is in love?" she asked, allowing a 
 gesture of curiosity to escape her. 
 
 "Yes. My sister Clara, to whom he shows all a 
 mother's care, wrote to me that he became en- 
 amored, this summer, of a most beautiful lady; but 
 since then I have had no news of his love affairs. 
 Would you believe that the poor boy used to get 
 up at five in the morning to go and dispatch his busi- 
 ness so as to be able to be at the country house of 
 the fair one by four o'clock ? So he ruined a charm- 
 ing racer that I had sent him. Forgive me for 
 chattering, mademoiselle; I am only just home 
 from Germany. For a year I have not heard 
 French spoken correctly, I have been deprived of 
 French faces and satiated with Germans, so much 
 so, that in my mad patriotism, I believe I should 
 speak to the ghost of a Parisian lamp-post. Then, 
 if I chatter with more unconstraint than quite be- 
 comes a diplomat, the fault lies with you, made- 
 moiselle. Were you not the one to point out my 
 brother ? When he is mentioned I am inexhaust- 
 ible. I would like to be able to tell the whole 
 world how good and generous he is. It was a ques- 
 tion of nothing less than one hundred thousand 
 francs income brought in by the Longueville estate !" 
 
 However Mademoiselle de Fontaine obtained these
 
 174 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 important disclosures, it was partly owing to the 
 skill with which she questioned her confiding cav- 
 alier, from the moment she learned that he was the 
 brother of her despised lover. 
 
 "Did it not distress you to see your brother 
 selling muslin and calico?" asked Emilie after they 
 had gone through the third figure of the quadrille. 
 
 "How did you know that?" asked the diplomat. 
 "Thank heaven! although streams of words es- 
 cape me, yet I have learned the art of saying only 
 what I intend, like all other diplomatic novices that 
 I know." 
 
 "You told me, I assure you." 
 
 Monsieur de Longueville looked at Mademoiselle 
 de Fontaine with an astonishment full of sagacity. 
 A suspicion entered his mind. He alternately ex- 
 amined his brother's eyes and those of his partner, 
 guessed all, clasped his hands together, raised his 
 eyes to the ceiling, began to laugh, and said: 
 
 "I am an idiot! You are the most beautiful 
 woman at the ball, my brother looks at you stealth- 
 ily, he dances in spite of the fever, and you pre- 
 tend not to see him. Make him happy," he said as 
 he led her back to her old uncle, "I shall not be 
 jealous; but I shall always tremble a little when 1 
 call you sister — " 
 
 And yet the two lovers were to be as inexorable 
 one as the other. Towards two in the morning, a 
 collation was served in an immense gallery, where, 
 in order to leave persons of the same circle free to 
 assemble, the tables had been arranged as they are
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 175 
 
 at a restaurant By one of those accidents that 
 always happen to lovers, Mademoiselle de Fontaine 
 found herself at a table next to the one at which 
 the most distinguished people were seated. Maxi- 
 milien was one of this group. Emilie, listening 
 attentively to her neighbors' talking, was able to 
 overhear one of those conversations that are readily 
 taken up between young women and young men 
 who have the charm and appearance of Maximilien 
 Longueville. Speaking to the young banker was a 
 Neapolitan duchess, whose eyes flashed, and whose 
 snowy skin had the lustre of satin. The intimacy 
 that young Longueville pretended to share with her, 
 wounded Mademoiselle de Fontaine all the more as 
 she bore her lover twenty times more tenderness 
 than she had formerly yielded him. 
 
 "Yes, monsieur, in my country, true love knows 
 how to make all kinds of sacrifice," said the duch- 
 ess, simpering. 
 
 "Then you are more impassioned than French 
 womenare," said Maximilien, whose burning glance 
 fell upon Emilie; "they are all vanity." 
 
 "Monsieur," answered the young girl quickly, 
 "is it not a shame to slander one's country? De- 
 votion exists in all nations." 
 
 "Do you believe, mademoiselle," replied the 
 Italian with a sardonic smile, "that a Parisian is 
 capable of following her lover wherever he goes.-"' 
 
 "Ah! let us understand each other, madame. 
 One goes into the desert to live in a tent, but one 
 does not go to sit in a shop."
 
 176 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 She ended her sentiment with a scornful gesture. 
 Thus twice the fatal influence of her education 
 ruined her dawning happiness, and caused her to 
 miss her vocation. Maximilien's apparent coldness 
 and a woman's smile wrung from her one of those 
 sarcasms whose treacherous gratifications always 
 tempted her. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said Longueville in a low voice, 
 under cover of the noise made by the ladies in ris- 
 ing from table, "no one will wish for your welfare 
 more ardently than I shall ; allow me to assure you 
 of this in bidding you good-bye. In two or three 
 days I start for Italy." 
 
 "With a duchess, no doubt?" 
 
 "No, mademoiselle, but with a mortal malady 
 perhaps." 
 
 "Is not that a fancy?" asked Emilie looking at 
 him anxiously. 
 
 "No," he said, "some wounds never heal." 
 
 "You will not go!" said the imperious girl smil- 
 ing. 
 
 "I shall go," gravely replied Maximilien. 
 
 "You will find me married on your return, I warn 
 you," she said coquettishly. 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 "Impertinent!" she cried, "he avenges himself 
 cruelly enough!" 
 
 A fortnight after, Maximilien Longueville left 
 with his sister Clara for the warm, poetical regions 
 of beautiful Italy, leaving Mademoiselle de Fon- 
 taine a victim to the fiercest regrets. The young
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 177 
 
 secretary of the embassy took up his brother's cud- 
 gels, and brilliantly avenged Emilie's scorn by pub- 
 lishing the reason of the rupture between the two 
 lovers. He repaid his partner with interest for 
 the sarcasms she had formerly flung at Maximilien, 
 and often drew a smile from more than one Excel- 
 lency with his description of the beautiful enemy of 
 the shop, the amazon who preached a crusade 
 against bankers, the young girl whose love had 
 evaporated before half a piece of muslin. 
 
 The Comte de Fontaine was obliged to exert his 
 influence to procure a mission in Russia for Auguste 
 Longueville, so as to free his daughter from the 
 ridicule which this young and dangerous persecutor 
 liberally poured upon her. Before long, the minis- 
 try, being forced to raise an enlistment of peers to 
 strengthen aristocratic votes that were wavering in 
 the higher Chamber before the voice of a famous 
 writer, nominated Monsieur Guiraiidin de Longue- 
 ville peer of France and viscount Monsieur de 
 Fontaine also obtained a peerage, a reward which 
 was due as much to his fidelity in bad times as to 
 his name, which was disrespectful to the hereditary 
 Chamber. 
 
 About this time, Emilie, now of age, doubtless 
 made some serious reflections upon life, for her tone 
 and manner perceptibly changed; instead of em- 
 ploying herself making rude remarks to her uncle, 
 she would bring him his crutch with a persevering 
 tenderness that made all the wags laugh; she 
 offered him her arm, rode in his carriage, and 
 12
 
 178 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 accompanied him in all his walks; she even per- 
 suaded him that she loved the smell of a pipe, and 
 would read him his beloved qtwtidienne in the midst 
 of puffs of tobacco which the old sailor would pur- 
 posely send at her; she learned piquet in order to 
 play with the old count ; finally, this whimsical young 
 woman would listen patiently to periodic accounts 
 of the engagement of La Belle-Potde, the manoeuvers 
 of La J/ille-de-Paris, Monsieur de Suffren's first ex- 
 pedition, or the Battle of Aboukir. Although the 
 old sailor had often declared he knew his longitude 
 and latitude too well ever to be captured by a young 
 corvette, one fine morning all fashionable circles in 
 Paris heard of the marriage of Mademoiselle de Fon- 
 taine and the Comte de Kergarouet. The young 
 countess gave splendid entertainments to divert her 
 mind; but she doubtless found nothing at the bottom 
 of this vortex ; splendor but imperfectly hid the void 
 and misery of her suffering soul ; most of the time, 
 in spite of outbursts of artificial gaiety, her beauti- 
 ful face told of a secret melancholy. Nevertheless, 
 Emilie lavished attentions on her old husband, who 
 would often say, going to his room at night to the 
 joyous strains of an orchestra: 
 
 "1 don't know myself any longer. Had I to wait 
 until I was seventy-three to embark as pilot on LA 
 Belle-Emilie, after twenty years at the matrimo- 
 nial galleys!" 
 
 The countess's conduct was marked by such se- 
 verity, that the sharpest critic could have found 
 nothing to fmd fault with. Observers thought that
 
 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 1 79 
 
 the vice-admiral liad reserved liis right to dispose 
 of his fortune so as to strengthen his hold upon his 
 wife ; a supposition which was most unjust both to 
 uncle and niece. The attitude of husband and wife 
 was so cleverly managed that young men, inter- 
 ested in discovering the secret of the household, 
 were unable to fmd out whether the old count 
 treated his wife as husband or father. He was often 
 heard to say that he had picked up his niece as a 
 shipwrecked person, and that, in the old days, he 
 had never taken advantage of hospitality when he 
 happened to save an enemy from the fury of a 
 storm. Although the countess aimed at reigning in 
 Paris and tried to be on a par with the Duchesses de 
 Maufrigneuse, de Chaulieu, the Marquises d'Espard 
 and d'Aiglemont, the Comtesses Feraud, de Mont- 
 cornet, de Restaud, Madame de Camps and Made- 
 moiselle des Touches, she would not yield to the 
 love of the young Vicomte de Portenduere, who 
 idolized her. 
 
 Two years after her marriage, in one of those 
 old-fashioned circles of the Faubourg Saint-Germain 
 where they admired his character as being worthy of 
 olden times, Emilie heard Monsieur le Vicomte de 
 Longueville announced; and, in the corner of the 
 salon where she was playing piquet with the bishop 
 of Persepolis no one could see her agitation; in 
 turning her head, she had seen her old lover entering 
 in all the glory of youth. Through the death of his 
 father and his brother, who was killed by the rigorous 
 climate of St. Petersburg, Maximilien came into
 
 180 THE DANCE AT SCEAUX 
 
 possession of the hereditary feathers in the peerage 
 cap; his fortune equaled his acquirements and his 
 merit; even the day before, his youthful, burning 
 eloquence had electrified the assembly. At this 
 moment he appeared, to the sorrowful countess, free 
 and adorned with all the advantages she had for- 
 merly desired in her ideal standard. All the 
 mothers with marriageable daughters made coquet- 
 tish advances to a young man endowed with all the 
 virtues they attributed to him while admiring his 
 grace; but Emilie knew, better than anyone else, 
 that the Vicomte de Longueville possessed a firm- 
 ness of character in which a prudent woman fore- 
 sees a pledge of happiness. She looked over at the 
 admiral, who, to use his familiar expression, seemed 
 likely to stand by his ship for a long time to come, 
 and cursed the errors of her childhood. 
 
 At this moment, Monsieur de Persepolis said to 
 her with episcopal grace : 
 
 "Fair lady, you have discarded the king of hearts, 
 I have won. But do not regret the loss of your 
 money, I will keep it for my beloved seminaries." 
 
 Paris, December, 1829.
 
 THE PURSE 
 
 (i8i)
 
 TO SOFKA 
 
 Have you never noticed, mademoiselle, that, in 
 placing two adoring figures beside a beautiful saint, 
 no painter or sculptor of the Middle Ages has ever 
 failed to give them a filial resemblance? When you 
 see your name amongst those that are dear to me and 
 under whose patronage I place my works, remember 
 this touching harmony, and you will find in this 
 less of homage than the expression of brotherly 
 affection vowed to you by 
 
 Your servant 
 
 De Balzac. 
 
 (183)
 
 tty.»*««<C^i«(^ ■i»ss^'^.&. f 'jC
 
 THE BARONNE DE ROUVILLE, ADELAIDE 
 AND HIPPO LYTE 
 
 So he sat dow7i at the card-table. Adelaide 
 wished to share the pai7iter's lot, asserting that 
 he did not know piquet and needed a partner. 
 Madame de Roiiville and her daiighter, during 
 the game, exchanged signs of intelligence which 
 made Hippolyte all the more nneasy in that lie 
 was wijining ; but, in the end, a last trick placed 
 the two lovers in the baroness' debt. Intending to 
 look in his pocket for money, the painter drew his 
 hajids from beneath the table, and then saw be- 
 fore him a purse that Adelaide had slipped there.
 
 THE PURSE 
 
 For souls that are easily gladdened there is a 
 delicious hour that comes ere night is come, and 
 the day is no more; the twilight glimmer then 
 spreads its soft tints or strange reflections over every 
 object and encourages a reverie that vaguely blends 
 with the play of light and shade. The silence that 
 nearly always reigns at this time makes it espe- 
 cially dear to artists who concentrate their thoughts, 
 standing a few feet from the work which they can 
 no longer continue, judging it, whilst intoxicating 
 themselves over a subject whose inmost meaning 
 then bursts upon the inner eyes of genius. He who 
 has never stood thoughtfully beside a friend during 
 this period of poetic dreaming will hardly under- 
 stand the indescribable privileges. The rude arti- 
 fices employed by art to give the semblance of 
 reality, completely disappear under the influence of 
 the light and shade. If it is a question of a picture, 
 the people that it represents seem both to speak and 
 walk; shadow grows into shadow, the day is day, 
 flesh is living, the eyes move, the blood flows in the 
 veins, and fabrics glisten. Imagination lends life 
 to every detail and sees nothing but the beauties of 
 the work. At this hour, illusion reigns supreme; 
 perhaps it wakens with the night! Is not illusion 
 
 (185)
 
 l86 THE PURSE 
 
 a kind of night to the soul, which we furnish with 
 dreams? It is then that illusion spreads her wings, 
 she carries the mind away into the world of fancies, 
 a world rich in voluptuous caprices in which the 
 artist forgets the real world, yesterday, to-morrow, 
 and the future, everything, even his miseries, the 
 good as well as the bad. In this magic hour, a 
 young and talented painter, who saw in art nothing 
 but art itself, was perched upon the trestle that he 
 used for painting a big, high picture which was 
 almost finished. There, criticizing himself, admir- 
 ing himself in all good faith, floating on the current 
 of his thoughts, he lost himself in one of those med- 
 itations that delight and enlarge the soul, that 
 caress and soothe it. His reverie doubtless lasted 
 a long time. Night fell. Whether he wished to 
 descend from his trestle or whether he made a care- 
 less movement believing himself near the floor, — he 
 had no distinct recollection of the cause of his acci- 
 dent, — he fell, his head struck a piece of furniture, 
 he lost consciousness and remained motionless during 
 a lapse of time of which he knew nothing. A soft 
 voice roused him from the species of torpor in which 
 he was sunk. When he opened his eyes, the sight 
 of a bright light caused him to promptly close them 
 again; but, through the mist enwrapping his senses, 
 he heard the whispering of two women, and felt his 
 head resting between two young and nervous hands. 
 He soon regained consciousness, and could see, in 
 the light of one of those old lamps with a double 
 air current, the most delicious head of a young girl
 
 THE PURSE 187 
 
 that he had ever seen, one of those heads that are 
 often looked upon as a caprice of the brush, but 
 which to him was a sudden realization of those the- 
 ories of an ideal beauty that every artist creates for 
 himself, and which inspires his talent The face 
 of the stranger belonged, so to speak, to the fine 
 and delicate type of Prudhon's school, and also pos- 
 sessed the poetry imparted by Girodet to his fanci- 
 ful figures. The freshness of the temples, the 
 regularity of the eyebrows, the purity of line, the 
 virginity so deeply imprinted in all the outlines of 
 this physiognomy, made a perfect creation of the 
 young girl. The figure was supple and slender; 
 the make frail. Her dress, though simple and neat, 
 indicated neither prosperity nor poverty. In com- 
 ing to himself, the painter expressed his admi- 
 ration by a look of astonishment, and stammered 
 some confused thanks. He found his forehead 
 pressed by a handkerchief, and, in spite of the odor 
 peculiar to studios, recognized the strong smell of 
 ether, doubtless used to recover him from his swoon. 
 Then finally he saw an old woman, who looked like 
 a marquise of the old regime, holding the lamp and 
 giving instructions to the young stranger. 
 
 "Monsieur," the young girl replied to one of the 
 questions asked by the painter when he was still 
 in the state of uncertainty produced in his ideas 
 by the fall, "my mother and I, we heard the noise 
 of your body on the floor, and thought we heard a 
 groan. The silence that followed the fall frightened 
 us, and we hastened up. Finding the key in the
 
 1 88 THE PURSE 
 
 door, we fortunately took the liberty of coming in, 
 and we saw you stretched on the ground, motion- 
 less. My mother went to fetch all that was neces- 
 sary to make a compress and revive you. You are 
 hurt on the forehead, there, do you feel it?" 
 
 "Yes, now," he said. 
 
 *'0! it will not be much," said the old mother. 
 "Happily, your head struck this lay figure." 
 
 "I feel infinitely better," answered the painter, 
 "I only need a carriage to take me home. The por- 
 ter will go and fetch one." 
 
 He wished to reiterate his thanks to the two 
 strangers; but, at every word, the old lady inter- 
 rupted him saying: 
 
 "To-morrow, monsieur, be very careful to apply 
 leeches, or have yourself bled, drink several cups 
 of vulnerary; take care of yourself, falls are dan- 
 gerous. " 
 
 The young girl stealthily looked at the artist and 
 the pictures in the studio. Her countenance and 
 look were perfectly modest; her curiosity suggested 
 absent-mindedness, and her eyes seemed to express 
 the interest that women, with a spontaneity full of 
 grace, show in all our misfortunes. The two 
 strangers seemed to forget the painter's works in the 
 presence of the artist's suffering. When he had reas- 
 sured them as to his condition, they went out, exam- 
 ining him with a solicitude that was equally devoid 
 of significance and familiarity, without asking in- 
 discreet questions, or seeking to inspire him with a 
 wish to know them. Their actions were marked
 
 THE PURSE 189 
 
 by exquisite simplicity and good taste. Their re- 
 fined and simple manners at first made little impres- 
 sion upon the artist; but, later, when he thought 
 over all the circumstances of this event, he was 
 vividly struck by them. When they reached the 
 story immediately under the painter's studio, the 
 old woman gently cried: 
 
 "Adelaide, you left the door open." 
 
 "It was to help me," answered the artist with a 
 grateful smile. 
 
 "Mother, you came down just now," replied the 
 young girl blushing. 
 
 "Would you like us to accompany you down- 
 stairs.?" said the mother to the artist, "the stair- 
 case is dark." 
 
 "No, thank you, madame, I am much better." 
 
 "Take good hold of the banister." 
 
 The two women remained upon the landing to 
 show a light to the young man whilst listening to 
 the sound of his footsteps. 
 
 In order to convey all that this scene might hold 
 that was piquant and unforeseen for the artist, it is 
 necessary to add, that only a few days before he 
 had established his studio at the top of this house, 
 lying in the most obscure, and therefore the mud- 
 diest, part of the Rue de Suresnes, almost in front 
 of the church of the Madeleine, two steps from his 
 apartment, which was in the Rue des Champs-Ely- 
 sees. The fame he had acquired by his talent had 
 made him one of the most valued artists of France, 
 he was beginning to feel no further want, and was
 
 rgo THE PURSE 
 
 enjoying, as he said, the last of his poverty. In- 
 stead of going to work in one of those studios situ- 
 ated near the slums, whose moderate rent would 
 have been formerly in proportion with his modest 
 gains, he had gratified a wish which revived every 
 day, in saving himself a long journey and a loss of 
 the time which was now more precious to him than 
 ever. Nobody in the world could have inspired 
 more interest than Hippolyte Schinner, had he con- 
 sented to make himself known ; but he did not 
 lightly confide the secrets of his life. He was the 
 idol of a poor mother, who had educated him at the 
 cost of the most severe privations. Mademoiselle 
 Schinner, daughter of an Alsatian farmer, had 
 never been married. Her tender soul had formerly 
 been cruelly crushed by a rich man who did not 
 pride himself upon any great scrupulousness in his 
 love affairs. The day upon which, young and in all 
 the splendor of beauty, in all the glory of her life, 
 she suffered — at the expense of her heart and her 
 beautiful illusions — that disenchantment which 
 overtakes so slowly and so rapidly, — for we wish 
 to believe in misfortune as late as possible and it 
 always seems to come too quickly, — that day was a 
 whole age of reflections, and it was also a day of 
 religious thoughts and resignation. She refused 
 assistance from the man who had deceived her, for- 
 sook the world, and gloried in her fault. She gave 
 herself up entirely to her maternal love, only asking 
 all its delights in return for the social pleasures to 
 which she had bidden farewell. She lived by her
 
 THE PURSE 191 
 
 needle-work, hoarding a treasure in her son. And 
 so, later, one day, one hour, repaid her the long, 
 slow sacrifices of her poverty. At the last exhibi- 
 tion her son had received the Cross of the Legion of 
 Honor. The papers, unanimously in favor of an 
 unknown talent, still resounded with sincere praise. 
 Artists themselves recognized a master in Schinner, 
 and dealers covered his pictures with gold. At 
 twenty-five, Hippolyte Schinner, to whom his 
 mother had transmitted her womanly feeling, had, 
 better than ever, understood his position in the 
 world. Wishing to give his mother the pleasures 
 of which society had so long deprived her, he lived 
 for her, hoping, by dint of fame and wealth, to see 
 her one day happy, rich, respected, and surrounded 
 by celebrated men. Schinner had, accordingly, 
 chosen his friends from amongst the most honorable, 
 and most distinguished men. Fastidious in choos- 
 ing his acquaintance, he wanted to further build up 
 his position, already raised so high by his talent. 
 By forcing him to live in solitude, work, — that 
 mother of great thoughts, — to which he had devoted 
 himself from childhood, had left him the beautiful 
 faith which adorns the early years of life. His 
 youthful mind forgot none of the many refinements 
 which make an exceptional being of a young man 
 whose heart abounds in happiness, poetry, and pure 
 hope, weak in the eyes of blase people, but great 
 because they are natural. He had been gifted with 
 the gentle, refined manners which are so becoming 
 to a person and fascinate even those who do not
 
 192 THE PURSE 
 
 understand them. He was well made. His voice, 
 coming from the heart, moved others to noble feel- 
 ings, and indicated a genuine modesty, by a cer- 
 tain ingenuousness of expression. Seeing him, one 
 felt one's self drawn toward him by one of those 
 moral attractions which scientists happily do not 
 yet know how to analyze; they would discover in 
 it some phenomena of galvanism or a play of some 
 fluid, and would formulate our feelings by the pro- 
 portions of oxygen and electricity. These details 
 may explain to bold people and well-assured men 
 why, during the absence of the porter whom he had 
 sent to the end of the Rue de la Madeleine to fetch 
 a carriage, Hippolyte Schinner did not ask the por- 
 ter's wife any questions about the two persons 
 whose goodness of heart had been shown him. But 
 although he answered yes and no to the inquiries, 
 natural enough after such an occurrence, made by 
 this woman about his accident, and the obliging in- 
 terference of the lodgers occupying the fourth floor, 
 he was unable to prevent her obedience to the in- 
 stinct of all porters; she spoke of the two strangers 
 according to the interests of her policy and follow- 
 ing the secret opinions of the lodge. 
 
 "Ah!" she said, "no doubt it was Mademoiselle 
 Leseigneur and her mother, who have lived here 
 four years. We do not yet know what these ladies 
 do; in the mornings, only until midday, an old 
 charwoman, half-deaf, and who is as dumb as a 
 stonewall, comes to work for them ; in the evenings, 
 two or three old gentlemen, decorated like you,
 
 THE PURSE 193 
 
 monsieur, one of whom has a carriage, servants and 
 who is said to have sixty thousand francs a year, 
 come to see them and often stay very late. Other- 
 wise they are very quiet lodgers, like you, mon- 
 sieur; and then it is economical, living on nothing; 
 as soon as a bill comes in, they pay it. It's funny, 
 monsieur, the mother has a different name from her 
 daughter. Ah! when they go to the Tuileries, 
 mademoiselle is very gorgeous, and never goes out 
 but that she is followed by young men at whom she 
 slams the door, and quite rightly. The landlord 
 will be no sufferer — " 
 
 The carriage had arrived, Hippolyte listened to 
 no more, and went home. His mother, to whom he 
 related his adventure, dressed his wound again, and 
 would not allow him to venture the next day to his 
 studio. Advice was obtained, various prescriptions 
 ordered, and Hippolyte remained at home three 
 days. During this confinement, his idle imagina- 
 tion recalled to him vividly, and in scraps as it 
 were, the details of the scene which followed his 
 swoon. The young girl's profile stood out forcibly 
 against the darkness of his inward vision; he could 
 see again the mother's withered face or feel Ade- 
 laide's hands; he would again meet with some ges- 
 ture which had struck him but little at first, but 
 whose exquisite grace was brought into relief by 
 memory; then an attitude or the sound of a melo- 
 dious voice beautiE^ by the distance of memory, 
 would suddenlj^^^ppear, like objects, which, 
 thrown to the bottom of the water, return to the 
 13
 
 194 THE PURSE 
 
 surface. And so, the day on which he was abie to 
 resume work, he returned early to his studio; but 
 the visit which he unquestionably had the right to 
 pay his neighbors was the true cause of his haste ; 
 he was already forgetting the pictures he had com- 
 menced. The moment passion breaks its bonds, it 
 fmds singular pleasures understood by those who 
 love. Thus some persons would know why the 
 artist slowly ascended the stairs of the fourth story, 
 and would know the secret of the throbs succeeding 
 each other so rapidly in his heart the moment he 
 saw the brown door of the modest apartment inhab- 
 ited by Mademoiselle Leseigneur. This girl, who 
 did not bear the same name as her mother, had 
 awakened a thousand sympathies in the young 
 painter; he was pleased to think that there might 
 be some similarity in their positions, and endowed 
 her with all the misfortunes of his own origin. 
 Whilst working, Hippolyte yielded himself very 
 complacently to thoughts of love, and made a great 
 deal of noise to force the two ladies to think of him 
 as much as he concerned himself with them. He 
 stayed very late at his studio, and dined there; 
 then, towards seven o'clock, went downstairs to his 
 neighbors. 
 
 No painter of manners and customs has dared to 
 initiate us, perhaps through modesty, into the really 
 curious interiors of certain Parisian existences, into 
 the secret of those dwellings from which issue such 
 fresh and elegant toilettes, women so brilliant that 
 though outwardly rich, they still betray the signs of
 
 THE PURSE 195 
 
 a doubtful prosperity in their surroundings at home. 
 If the picture is here too boldly drawn, if you find it 
 tedious, do not blame the description which is con- 
 nected, so to speak, with history ; for the appear- 
 ance of the apartment occupied by his two neighbors 
 greatly influenced Hippolyte Schinner's feelings 
 and hopes. 
 
 The house belonged to one of those proprietors in 
 whom there pre-exists a profound horror of all re- 
 pairs and improvements, one of those men who con- 
 sider their position as Parisian landlords in the 
 light of a profession. In the great chain of moral 
 species these men are something between a miser 
 and a usurer. Optimists from calculation, they 
 are all faithful to the statu quo of Austria. If you 
 talk of displacing a cupboard or a door, of making 
 the most necessary ventilators, their eyes flash, 
 their anger is excited, they shy like frightened 
 horses. When the wind blows two or three tiles off 
 their chimneys, they are ill, and deprive them- 
 selves of the pleasures of going to the Gymnase or 
 the Porte-Saint-Martin, on account of the repairs. 
 Hippolyte, who had had gratis the representation of 
 a comic scene with the Sieur Molineux in connec- 
 tion with certain improvements to be made in his 
 studio, was not surprised at the black and greasy 
 colors, the oily tints, the stains and other suffi- 
 ciently disagreeable accessories which decorated the 
 woodwork. Besides, these brands of poverty are not 
 entirely devoid of poetry in the eyes of an artist. 
 
 Mademoiselle Leseigneur came herself to open the
 
 196 THE PURSE 
 
 door. Recognizing the young painter, she bowed; 
 then, at the same time, with that Parisian dexterity 
 and presence of mind inspired by pride, she turned 
 to shut the door of a glazed partition through which 
 Hippolyte might have been able to see some linen 
 stretched on the line above the economical stove, 
 an old cot-bed, the cinders, the coal, the flat-irons, 
 the filter, the crockery and all the utensils peculiar 
 to small households. Fairly clean muslin curtains 
 carefully hid this capharnaiim, a word familiarly used 
 to denote this species of laboratory, here badly 
 lighted by the borrowed light from a neighboring 
 yard. With the rapid glance of an artist, Hippolyte 
 took in the appointment, furniture, the ensemble and 
 condition of this first divided room. The respecta- 
 ble part, which was used both as antechamber and 
 dining-room, was hung with an old gold-colored 
 paper, with a velvet border, no doubt manufactured 
 by Reveillon, and the holes or stains of which had 
 been carefully concealed under wafers. Engravings 
 representing the Battles of Alexander by Lebrun, 
 but with worn gilt frames, symmetrically adorned 
 the walls. In the middle of this room was a mas- 
 sive mahogany table, old-fashioned in shape and 
 with well-worn boards. A little stove, whose 
 straight pipe without elbows could hardly be seen, 
 was in front of the fireplace, the hearth of which 
 contained a cupboard. In strange contrast, the 
 chairs showed some remains of a bygone splendor, 
 they were of carved mahogany ; but the red morocco 
 seats, the gilded nails and wire threads showed as
 
 THE PURSE 197 
 
 many scars as those of the old sergeants of the Im- 
 perial Guard. This room was used as a museum 
 for certain things which are only found in this kind 
 of amphibious households, nondescript objects par- 
 taking alike of luxury and poverty. Amongst other 
 curiosities, Hippolyte noticed a richly ornamented 
 telescope, hung over the little greenish glass which 
 decorated the chimney-piece. To match this 
 strange suite, there stood between the fireplace and 
 the partition a wretched sideboard painted like ma- 
 hogany, of all woods the least successful in imita- 
 tion. But the red and slippery floor-tiles, the 
 wretched little rugs placed in front of the chairs, 
 the furniture, all shone with that polished cleanli- 
 ness which lends a false lustre to old things by still 
 further accentuating their defects, their age and long 
 service. An indefinable odor pervaded the room, 
 resulting from the exhalations of the capharnaum 
 mixed with the fumes of the dining-room and stair- 
 case, although the window was half open and the 
 air from the street was stirring the muslin curtains, 
 carefully drawn in such a way as to hide the re- 
 cess where the previous lodgers had left the signs 
 of their presence in various incrustations, species of 
 domestic frescoes. Adelaide promptly opened the 
 door of the other room, showing in the artist with a 
 certain pleasure. Hippolyte, who had formerly seen 
 at his mother's the same signs of want, noted them 
 with the peculiarly vivid impression which charac- 
 terizes memory's first acquisitions, and entered into 
 all the details of this existence better than any one
 
 198 THE PURSE 
 
 else could have done. In recognizing the things of 
 his childish life, this good young man felt neither 
 contempt for this hidden misfortune, nor pride in the 
 luxury he had just gained for his mother. 
 
 "Well, monsieur, I hope you feel no further 
 effects of your fall ?" said the old mother, rising 
 from an old-fashioned easy chair standing beside 
 the fireplace, and motioning him to a chair. 
 
 "No, madame. I have come to thank you for the 
 kind care you gave me, and especially mademoiselle 
 who heard me fall." 
 
 Whilst saying these words, marked by the de- 
 lightful stupidity that the first agitations of true 
 love communicate to the mind, Hippolyte was 
 looking at the young girl. Adelaide was lighting 
 the double-draughted lamp, no doubt to eclipse a 
 candle held in a big flat candlestick of copper, and 
 decorated with several projecting channels from 
 excessive melting. She bowed slightly, went to 
 put the candlestick in the antechamber, returned 
 to place the lamp on the chimney-piece and seated 
 herself close to her mother, a little behind the 
 painter, so as to be able to look at him comfortably 
 while appearing to be absorbed in the progress of 
 the lamp, the light of which, chilled by the damp- 
 ness of a dim chimney, was flickering in a struggle 
 with a black and badly trimmed wick. Seeing the 
 big glass which ornamented the mantelpiece, Hip- 
 polyte promptly fixed his gaze upon it so as to 
 admire Adelaide. So the young girl's little trick 
 only served to embarrass them both. Whilst chatting
 
 THE PURSE 199 
 
 with Madame Leseigneur, for Hippolyte gave her 
 this name at all events, he examined the drawing- 
 room, but decently and stealthily. The Egyptian 
 faces of the iron fire-dogs could hardly be seen on 
 a hearth full of ashes, where two fire-brands were 
 trying to meet in front of a sham terra cotta log, as 
 carefully hidden as a miser's treasure might be. 
 An old Aubusson carpet, well mended, thoroughly 
 faded, and as worn as an old pensioner's coat, failed 
 to cover the whole floor, the cold of which was per- 
 ceptible to the feet. The walls were adorned with 
 a reddish paper, representing a figured silk stuff 
 with a yellow pattern. In the middle of the wall 
 opposite the windows, the artist saw the cracks and 
 slits caused in the paper by the doors of an alcove 
 where no doubt Madame Leseigneur slept, and very 
 badly concealed behind a sofa. Opposite the 
 chimney-piece, over a mahogany cupboard contain- 
 ing ornaments lacking neither richness nor taste, 
 was the portrait of a military man of high rank, 
 whom the painter could hardly distinguish for want 
 of light; but, from the little he could see of it, he 
 thought that this terrible daub must have been 
 painted in China. In the windows, the red silk 
 curtains were as faded as the suite of this general 
 sitting-room upholstered in yellow and red tapestry. 
 On the marble top of the cupboard, a valuable mal- 
 achite dish held a dozen coffee cups, beautifully 
 painted, and doubtless made in Sevres. On the 
 chimney-piece towered the eternal clock of the Em- 
 pire, a warrior guiding the four horses of a chariot
 
 200 THE PURSE 
 
 whose wheels bear on every spoke the number of 
 an hour. The candles in the candlesticks were 
 yellowed by the smoke, and, at each corner of the 
 mantelpiece, was a porcelain vase wreathed in ar- 
 tificial flowers full of dust and garnished with moss. 
 In the centre of the room, Hippolyte noticed a card 
 table set up and new cards. To a looker-on, there 
 was indescribable desolation in the sight of this 
 poverty, rouged like an old woman who wants to 
 belie her face. At this sight, all common sense 
 men would secretly and at once have determined 
 upon this kind of dilemma; either these two women 
 are honesty itself, or they live by intrigue and cards. 
 But, looking at Adelaide, any young man as pure as 
 Schinner must have believed in the most perfect 
 innocence, and have ascribed the most honorable 
 motives to the inconsistencies of this furniture. 
 
 "Child," said the old lady to the younger, "1 
 feel cold, make a little fire, and give me my shawl." 
 
 Adelaide went into a room adjoining the drawing- 
 room where no doubt she slept, and returned bring- 
 ing her mother a cashmere shawl, which when new 
 must have been worth a great deal, the design being 
 Indian; but, old, without freshness and full of darns, 
 it harmonized with the furniture. Madame Leseign- 
 eur wrapt herself up in it very artistically and 
 with the dexterity of an old woman who wants to 
 give belief in the truth of her words. The young 
 girl quickly ran to the capharnaiim, and reappeared 
 with a handful of small wood which she unhesitat- 
 ingly threw into the fire to relight it.
 
 * 
 
 It would be rather difficult to describe the con- 
 versation which took place between these three 
 persons. Guided by the tact which misfortune 
 experienced from childhood nearly always teaches, 
 Hippolyte did not venture the slightest remark con- 
 cerning the position of his neighbors, seeing around 
 him the symptoms of such badly concealed want. The 
 most innocent question would have been indiscreet, 
 and could only be asked in a long-standing friend- 
 ship. Nevertheless, the painter was deeply troubled 
 by this hidden misery, his generous soul suffered; 
 but, knowing that any kind of pity, even the most 
 friendly, might be offensive, he felt uncomfortable 
 from the opposition of his thoughts and words. 
 The two ladies at first talked of painting, for women 
 easily guess the secret embarrassment of a first 
 visit; perhaps they feel it too, and the nature of 
 their minds furnishes them with a thousand resources 
 to stop it. Whilst questioning the young man 
 on the material process of his art, on his studies, 
 Adelaide and her mother knew how to encourage 
 him to talk. The indefinable trifles of their conver- 
 sation prompted by kindness, naturally led Hip- 
 polyte to make remarks or reflections which showed 
 the nature of his manners and mind. Sorrow had 
 prematurely withered the old lady's face, doubtless 
 beautiful in times gone by; but nothing remained 
 
 (201)
 
 202 THE PURSE 
 
 save the prominent features, the outlines, in a 
 word, the skeleton of a physiognomy whose whole 
 indicated great refinement, much charm in the play 
 of the eyes where one met the expression peculiar 
 to women of the old Court, that no words could 
 define. These delicate, fine features might as well 
 denote bad sentiments, imply cunning and feminine 
 subtlety to a high degree of perversity, as betray 
 the niceties of a beautiful mind. In fact, a woman's 
 face is puzzling to ordinary observers for this reason, 
 that the difference between candor and duplicity, 
 between the spirit of intrigue and the spirit of the 
 heart, is imperceptible. A man endowed with 
 penetrating insight recognizes the indiscernible 
 shades produced by a line more or less curved, a 
 dimple more or less deepened, a projection more or 
 less arched or prominent. Appreciation of these 
 diagnostics is entirely in the domain of intuition, 
 which alone detects what everyone is interested in 
 hiding. This old lady's face was like the apart- 
 ment she occupied; it seemed as difficult to know 
 whether this poverty covered vices or great integ- 
 rity, as to discover whether Adelaide's mother was 
 an old coquette accustomed to weighing, calculating, 
 trading upon everything, or a loving woman, full of 
 nobleness and lovely qualities. But, at Schinner's 
 age, the heart's first impulse is to believe in good. 
 And so, whilst contemplating Adelaide's noble, 
 almost haughty, forehead, whilst looking at her eyes 
 brimming with mind and feeling, he inhaled, as it 
 were, the sweet and modest fragrance of virtue. In
 
 THE PURSE 203 
 
 the middle of the conversation, he took the opportu- 
 nity of speaking of portraits in general, so as to ob- 
 tain the chance of examining the terrible pastel the 
 colors of which had faded and the bloom, for the 
 most part, rubbed off. 
 
 "You are doubtless attached to this painting on 
 account of the likeness, mesdames, for the drawing 
 is shocking?" said he, looking at Adelaide. 
 
 "It was done at Calcutta, in a great hurry," an- 
 swered the mother in a tone of emotion. 
 
 She gazed at the crude sketch with that profound 
 resignation produced by the recollections of happi- 
 ness when they awaken and break upon the heart, 
 like a kindly dew to whose cool influence one loves 
 to yield one's self; but there was also in the ex- 
 pression of the old lady's face the traces of an eter- 
 nal mourning. At least so the painter wished to 
 interpret the attitude and physiognomy of his neigh- 
 bor, by whose side he then seated himself. 
 
 "Madame," he said, "but a little more time and 
 the colors of this pastel will have disappeared. 
 The portrait will then no longer exist but in your 
 memory. Where you now see a face that is dear to 
 you, others will no longer see anything at all. 
 Would you permit me to transfer this likeness to 
 canvas ? It would be more solidly fixed than it is on 
 paper. Grant me, for the sake of our proximity, the 
 pleasure of rendering you this service. There are 
 hours when an artist loves to rest himself from his 
 great compositions by doing works of less import- 
 ance, so it would amuse me to repaint this head."
 
 204 THE PURSE 
 
 The old lady started at hearing these words, and 
 Adelaide gave the painter one of those concentrated 
 glances which seem to be a ray from the soul. 
 Hippolyte wanted to be connected with his neigh- 
 bors by some bond, and acquire the right to mingle 
 in their life. His offer, whilst appealing to the 
 keenest affections of the heart, was the only one he 
 could possibly make; it satisfied his artist's pride, 
 and could not offend the two ladies in any way. 
 Madame Leseigneur accepted without eagerness or 
 reluctance, but with the consciousness of a magnan- 
 imous mind which understands the extent of the 
 bonds formed by such obligations and which speaks 
 in favor of them, a proof of esteem. 
 
 "It seems to me," said the painter, "that this is 
 the uniform of an officer in the Marines?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, "it is that worn by captains of 
 vessels. Monsieur de Rouville, my husband, died 
 at Batavia from the results of a wound received in 
 a fight with an English vessel that he met off the 
 coast of Asia. He was in a frigate of fifty-six guns, 
 and the Revenge was a man-of-war of eighty-six. 
 The struggle was unequal ; but he defended himself 
 so bravely, that he held up until night fell and he 
 could escape. When I returned to France, Bona- 
 parte was not yet in power, and I was refused a 
 pension. When, lately, 1 again petitioned for it, 
 the minister told me harshly, that, had the Baron 
 de Rouville emigrated, 1 should have retained it; 
 that he would doubtless have been rear-admiral by 
 now; finally. His Excellency concluded by pleading
 
 THE PURSE 205 
 
 a law unknown to him upon forfeiture. I should 
 not have taken this proceeding, to which I was urged 
 by my friends, but for my poor Adelaide. I have 
 always felt reluctant to hold out my hand in the 
 name of a sorrow which robs a woman of her voice 
 and strength. I do not like this pecuniary valua- 
 tion of blood irreparably shed — " 
 
 "Mother, talking on this subject always does you 
 harm." 
 
 At Adelaide's reminder the Baronne Leseigneur 
 de Rouville nodded her head and was silent. 
 
 "Monsieur," said the young girl to Hippolyte, "I 
 thought that an artist's work generally made very 
 little noise?" 
 
 At this question, Schinner began to blush, remem- 
 bering the racket he had made. Adelaide did not 
 pursue the subject, and spared him an untruth by 
 suddenly rising at the sound of a carriage stopping 
 at the door; she went into her room, from which 
 she immediately returned holding two gilded 
 candlesticks supplied with partly burned candles 
 which she promptly lighted; and, without waiting 
 for the tinkle of the bell, she opened the door of the 
 next room, where she left the lamp. The sound of 
 a kiss given and received re-echoed right down in 
 Hippolyte's heart. The impatience the young man 
 felt to see the person who treated Adelaide so 
 familiarly was not satisfied at once, the new-comers 
 holding what seemed to him a very long conversa- 
 tion with the young girl, in low tones. At last, 
 Mademoiselle de Rouville reappeared followed by
 
 206 THE PURSE 
 
 two men whose costume, physiognomy and appear- 
 ance would make a long history. The first, about 
 sixty years old, wore one of those coats designed, I 
 believe, for Louis XVlll., who was then reigning, 
 and in which the most troublesome jacket problem 
 was solved by a tailor who ought to be immor- 
 talized. This artist knew, to a certainty the art 
 of transition which was all the spirit of this politi- 
 cally unsettled period. Is it not a very rare merit 
 to be able to judge one's epoch? This coat, which 
 young men of to-day may take as a myth, was 
 neither civil nor military and might pass in turn for 
 either. Embroidered fleurs-de-lys adorned the fac- 
 ing of the skirts at the back. The gilt buttons 
 were also stamped with fleurs-de-Iys. On the 
 shoulders, two expectant spaces called for the un- 
 necessary epaulettes. These two warlike signs 
 were there like a petition without a recommenda- 
 tion. The buttonhole of the old man's coat of royal 
 blue cloth was decked with several ribbons. No 
 doubt he always held his three-cornered hat 
 trimmed with gold cord, in his hand, for the snowy 
 side-curls of his powdered hair showed no traces of 
 the hat's pressure. He did not look more than fifty 
 years old, and seemed to enjoy robust health. 
 Whilst betraying the loyal, honest character of the 
 old refugees, his face also denoted licentious, weak 
 morals, the loose passions and recklessness of 
 those musketeers who were formerly renowned for 
 their records in gallantry. His gestures, bearing 
 and manners showed that he did not wish to
 
 THE PURSE 207 
 
 reform either his royaiism, his religion, or his love 
 affairs. 
 
 A truly fantastic figure followed this pretentious 
 "Louis Xiy. tumbler" — such was the nickname 
 given by the Bonapartists to these remaining noble- 
 men of the Monarchy; — but to thoroughly portray 
 him, he would have to be made the principal figure 
 in the picture of which he was only an accessory. 
 Imagine a dry, thin person, clothed like the first, 
 but only as it were the reflection, or shadow of him, 
 if you will. The coat, new on one, was old and 
 faded on the other. The powdered hair seemed less 
 white in the second, the gold of the fleur-de-lys less 
 brilliant, the spaces for the epaulettes more discon- 
 solate and curled up, the intelligence weaker, the 
 life further on the road to the fatal goal than was 
 the first. In fact, he realized that saying of Riva- 
 rol's on Champcenetz, "It is my moonshine." He 
 was nothing but the other's double, a poor, pale 
 double, for there was the same difference between 
 them as exists between the first and last proofs of a 
 lithograph. This silent old man was a mystery to 
 the painter and always remained a mystery. The 
 chevalier — he was a chevalier — did not speak, and 
 nobody spoke to him. Was he a friend, a poor re- 
 lation, a man who stayed with the old gallant like 
 a companion beside an old woman.? Did he occupy 
 a position something between a dog, a parrot, and a 
 friend? Had he preserved the fortune or only the 
 life of his benefactor ? Was he the Trim to another 
 Captain Toby? Elsewhere, as at the Baronne de
 
 208 THE PURSE 
 
 Rouville's, he always excited curiosity without 
 ever gratifying it. Who could, under the Restora- 
 tion, recall the attachment that before the Revolu- 
 tion had bound this chevalier to the wife of his 
 friend, dead twenty years ago ? 
 
 The person who seemed to be the freshest of 
 these two wrecks gallantly advanced toward the 
 Baronne de Rouville, kissed her hand, and sat down 
 beside her. The other bowed and placed himself 
 close to his model, at two chairs' distance. Ade- 
 laide came and leaned her elbows on the back of the 
 arm-chair occupied by the old gentleman, imitating 
 unconsciously, the pose that Guerin has given to 
 Dido's sister in his celebrated picture. Although 
 the gentleman's familiarity was fatherly, just now 
 his liberties seemed to annoy the young girl. 
 
 "Well ! you are sulky?" said he. 
 
 Then he gave Schinner one of those oblique 
 glances full of cunning and craft, diplomatic looks 
 whose expression betray the cautious anxiety, the 
 polite curiosity of well-bred people, which seem to 
 ask at sight of a stranger, "Is he one of us?" 
 
 "You see our neighbor," said the old lady to him, 
 motioning toward Hippolyte; "monsieur is a cele- 
 brated painter, whose name you must know in spite 
 of your indifference to art." 
 
 The gentleman recognized his old friend's malice 
 in the omission of the name, and bowed to the 
 young man. 
 
 "Certainly," he said, "I heard his pictures much 
 talked of at the last Salon. Talent has great
 
 THE PURSE 209 
 
 privileges, monsieur," he added, looking at the 
 artist's red ribbon. "This distinction, that we 
 have to purchase at the cost of our blood and pro- 
 longed service, you gain early; but all glory claims 
 sisterhood," he added, putting his hand on his Cross 
 of Saint-Louis. 
 
 Hippolyte stammered a few words of thanks, and 
 resumed his silence, contenting himself with admir- 
 ing with increasing admiration the beautiful head 
 of the young girl who had fascinated him. He very 
 soon forgot himself in this contemplation, thinking 
 no further of the great shabbiness of the lodging. 
 For him, Adelaide's face stood out alone in a lumi- 
 nous atmosphere. He briefly answered the ques- 
 tions put to him and which he fortunately heard, 
 thanks to a singular faculty our minds possess of 
 being able in some measure to separate our thoughts 
 occasionally. Is there anyone who has not hap- 
 pened to be sunk in a voluptuous or sorrowful medi- 
 tation, listening to an inner voice, and yet taking 
 part in a conversation or a reading? Wonderful 
 dualism which often helps us to bear with tiresome 
 people! Genial and smiling, hope rained thousands 
 of happy thoughts upon him, and he did not want to 
 watch his surroundings any longer. 
 
 Being a sanguine youth, it seemed to him foolish 
 to analyze a pleasure. After a certain lapse of time, 
 he perceived that the old lady and her daughter 
 were playing cards with the old gentleman. As to 
 the latter's satellite, faithful to his calling as a 
 shadow, he stood up behind his friend who was 
 14
 
 210 THE PURSE 
 
 absorbed in the game, answering the mute questions 
 put to him by the player, with little approving 
 grimaces which reflected the interrogatory move- 
 ments of the other physiognomy. 
 
 "Du Halga! I always lose," the old gentleman 
 was saying. 
 
 "You discard badly," answered the Baronne de 
 Rouville. 
 
 "I have not been able to win a single game from 
 you for three months," he replied. 
 
 "Has Monsieur le Comte the aces?" asked the 
 old lady. 
 
 "Yes. Still another one doomed," he said. 
 
 "Would you like me to advise you?" said 
 Adelaide. 
 
 "No, no, stay over there. The devil ! it would 
 be too much to lose not to have you opposite 
 me." 
 
 At last the game ended. The gentleman pulled 
 out his purse, and, throwing two louis on the cloth, 
 not without temper, he said : 
 
 "Forty -francs! in good gold! Eh! deuce take it! 
 it is eleven o'clock!" 
 
 "It is eleven o'clock," repeated the mute person, 
 looking at the artist. 
 
 The young man, hearing these words a little more 
 distinctly than all the others, thought that it was 
 time to retire. So coming back to the world of 
 commonplace he found some commonplace topic 
 upon which to begin talking, bowed to the baroness, 
 her daughter, the two strangers, and left, victim to
 
 THE PURSE 211 
 
 the first joys of true love, without trying to analyze 
 the trifling incidents of the evening. 
 
 The next day, the young artist felt the most vio- 
 lent longing to see Adelaide again. Had he listened 
 to the promptings of passion, he would have gone 
 to see his neighbors at six o'clock in the morning, 
 on arriving at his studio. But he still had sufficient 
 sense to wait until the afternoon. But, as soon as 
 he thought he could call upon Madame de Rouville, 
 he went down, rang, not without some great heart- 
 beatings, and, blushing like a young girl, timidly 
 asked Mademoiselle Leseigneur, who had opened 
 the door to him, for the portrait of the Baron de 
 Rouville. 
 
 "But come in," said Adelaide, who had doubtless 
 heard him coming down from his studio. 
 
 The painter followed her, confused, abashed, not 
 knowing what to say, happiness had made him so 
 stupid. To see Adelaide, to hear the rustling of her 
 dress after having longed the whole morning to be 
 near her, after having jumped up a hundred times 
 saying, "I will go down!" and yet not going; to 
 him, it was living so richly that such sensations 
 over-prolonged wouid have destroyed his mind. 
 The heart has a strange power of setting an extra- 
 ordinary value on trifles. What joy it is to a 
 traveler to gather a blade of grass, an unknown 
 leaf, if he has risked his life in the search for it! 
 The trifles of love are like this. The old lady was 
 not in the drawing-room. When the young girl 
 found herself alone with the painter, she brought a
 
 212 THE PURSE 
 
 chair to reach the portrait; but, finding that she 
 could not unhook it without stepping on to the cup- 
 board, she turned to Hippolyte and said, blushing: 
 "I am not tall enough. Will you get it?" 
 A feeling of modesty, revealed in her expression 
 and the tone of her voice, was the true motive for 
 this request; and the young man, taking it in this 
 way, gave her one of those intelligent looks which 
 are love's sweetest language. Seeing that the 
 painter understood her, Adelaide lowered her eyes 
 with a movement of pride whose secret belongs to 
 virgins. Not finding a word to say, and almost in- 
 timidated, the painter then took the picture, gravely 
 examined it in the daylight near the window, and 
 went off without saying any more to Mademoiselle 
 Leseigneur than : 
 
 "I will bring it back to you soon. " Bothofthem, 
 during this fleeting moment, experienced one of 
 those great shocks of which the effects on the mind 
 may be compared to those produced by the throwing 
 of a stone into the depths of a lake. The sweetest 
 reflections are created, and succeed each other, in- 
 definable, complex, aimless, agitating the heart like 
 the circular ripples which ruffle the water long after 
 starting from the point where the stone has fallen. 
 Hippolyte returned to his studio armed with the 
 portrait His easel was also provided with a can- 
 vas, a palette covered with colors; the brushes 
 were cleaned, the position and light chosen. So, 
 until the dinner hour, he worked at the portrait 
 with that ardor that artists put into their caprices.
 
 THE PURSE 213 
 
 He called again the same evening at theBaronnede 
 Rouville's, and stayed from nine till eleven. Save 
 for different subjects of conversation this evening 
 was almost exactly like the preceding one. The 
 two old men arrived at the same hour, the same 
 game of piquet took place, the same phrases were 
 uttered by the players, the sum lost by Adelaide's 
 friend was as large as it had been the evening be- 
 fore; only, Hippolyte, a little bolder, ventured to 
 talk to the young girl.
 
 Eight days passed in this way, during which the 
 feelings of the painter and Adelaide underwent 
 those delicious, slow transformations that lead two 
 souls to a perfect understanding. Also, day by 
 day, the look with which Adelaide received her 
 lover grew more friendly, more confiding, gayer and 
 franker ; her voice, her manners were somewhat 
 more eloquent and more familiar. Schinner wished 
 to learn piquet. Ignorant and inexperienced, he 
 naturally made blunder after blunder; and, like the 
 old man, he lost nearly every game. Without hav- 
 ing as yet confessed their love to each other, the 
 two lovers knew that they belonged to one another. 
 Both would laugh, chatter, tell each their thoughts, 
 talk of themselves with the ingenuousness of two 
 children, who, in the space of a day, become as 
 well acquainted as if they had known each other for 
 three years. Hippolyte delighted in exercising his 
 power over his timid little friend. Many conces- 
 sions were granted him by Adelaide, who, anxious 
 and devoted, was deceived by those pretended sulks 
 which the dullest lover, or the most na'ive young 
 girl, will invent and employ incessantly, like spoilt 
 children who abuse the power their mother's love 
 yields them. In this way, all familiarities between 
 the old count and Adelaide promptly ceased. The 
 young girl had instinctively understood the painter's 
 
 (215;
 
 2l6 THE PURSE 
 
 sadness and the thoughts hidden beneath his frown- 
 ing brow, from the abrupt tone in the few words 
 he said when the old man unceremoniously kissed 
 Adelaide's hands or neck. On her side, Made- 
 moiselle Leseigneur soon demanded from her lover 
 a strict account of his slightest actions; she be- 
 came so unhappy and restless when Hippolyte did 
 not come, she knew so well how to scold him for 
 his absence, that the artist was obliged to give 
 up seeing his friends, and frequenting society. 
 Adelaide showed a woman's natural jealousy at 
 learning that sometimes, upon leaving Madame de 
 Rouville's at eleven o'clock, the artist paid more 
 visits and went into the most brilliant circles in 
 Paris. According to her, that kind of life was bad 
 for the health; then, with the deep conviction to 
 which the accent, gesture and look of a loved one 
 give so much weight, she asserted, "that a man 
 who was obliged to lavish so much of his time and 
 charms of mind on several women at once, could 
 never be the subject of a very keen affection." So 
 the artist was led, as much by passion's despotism 
 as by a young and loving girl's exactions, to live 
 only in the little apartment where everything 
 pleased him. In short, never was there a purer or 
 more ardent love. On both sides, the same faith, 
 the same delicacy increased their passion without 
 the help of those sacrifices by which many people 
 seek to prove their love. There existed between 
 them a continual exchange of such sweet sensations, 
 that they did not know which of the two gave or
 
 THE PURSE 217 
 
 received the most An involuntary inclination 
 made their union of mind always closer. The prog- 
 ress of this genuine sentiment was so rapid, that, two 
 months after the accident to which the artist owed 
 the happiness of knowing Adelaide, their life had 
 become one life. 
 
 At daybreak, the young girl, hearing the painter's 
 step, could say to herself, "He is there!" When 
 Hippolyte returned to his mother at dinner time, he 
 never missed coming to greet his neighbors; and, 
 in the evening, he would come, at the usual hour, 
 with all a lover's punctuality. The most tyranni- 
 cal and most ambitious woman in love, could not 
 have brought the slightest reproach against the 
 young painter. Hence Adelaide tasted a happi- 
 ness without alloy and limitless, in seeing realized 
 in all its fullness the ideal of which at her age, it is 
 so natural to dream. The old gentleman came less 
 often, the jealous Hippolyte had replaced him in 
 the evenings, at the gaming table, in his constant 
 ill-luck at cards. And yet, in the midst of his hap- 
 piness in thinking over Madame de Rouville's un- 
 fortunate situation, for he had already acquired 
 more than one proof of her distress, a troublesome 
 thought struck him. Several times already he had 
 said to himself upon reaching home: 
 "Why! twenty francs every night?" 
 And he did not dare to admit to himself any in- 
 vidious suspicions. He spent two months over the 
 portrait and when it was finished, varnished and 
 framed, he considered it as one of his best works.
 
 2l8 THE PURSE 
 
 Madame la Baronne de Rouville had not mentioned 
 it to him again. Was it indifference or pride? The 
 painter would not account to himself for this silence. 
 He gaily plotted with Adelaide to put the portrait 
 in its place during an absence of Madame de Rou- 
 ville. So one day, during the walk her mother 
 ordinarily took in the Tuileries, Adelaide went up 
 alone, for the first time, to Hippolyte's studio, under 
 the pretext of seeing the portrait in the favorable 
 light in which it had been painted. She remained 
 silent and motionless, victim of a delightful con- 
 templation in which all a woman's feelings were 
 merged into one. Are they not all summed up in 
 admiration of the beloved one? When the painter, 
 uneasy at this silence, leaned forward to look at the 
 young girl, she stretched out her hand to him, un- 
 able to speak a word; but two tears had fallen; 
 Hippolyte took her hand, covered it with kisses, and, 
 for a moment, they looked at each other in silence, 
 longing to confess their love, and not daring to. 
 The painter kept Adelaide's hand in his, the same 
 warmth and the same fluttering told them that their 
 hearts were beating in unison. Feeling too much 
 agitated, the young girl gently moved from Hippo- 
 lyte, and said, glancing at him with a look full of 
 naivete : 
 
 "You will make my mother very happy!" 
 
 "What! Your mother only?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh! me! I am too much so. " 
 
 The artist bent his head and was silent, fright- 
 ened at the violence of the feelings roused in his
 
 THE PURSE 219 
 
 heart by the tone of these words. Then, both un- 
 derstanding the danger of the situation, they went 
 down and put the portrait in its place. Hippolyte 
 dined for the first time with the baroness, who, in 
 her emotion and all in tears, wanted to embrace him. 
 In the evening the old refugee, an old comrade of 
 the Baron de Rouville, paid a visit to his two 
 friends to tell them that he had just been appointed 
 vice-admiral. His navigations on land through 
 Germany and Russia had been accounted as naval 
 campaigns. At sight of the portrait, he cordially 
 pressed the artist's hand and cried : 
 
 "Faith! although my old carcass is not worth the 
 trouble of preserving, 1 would gladly give five hun- 
 dred pistoles to secure such a good likeness as that 
 of my old Rouville." 
 
 At this offer, the baroness looked at her friend and 
 smiled whilst the signs of a sudden gratitude flashed 
 across her face. Hippolyte thought that the old 
 admiral wished to offer him the price of the two 
 portraits in paying for his own. His artist's pride, 
 quite as much perhaps as his jealousy, took offence 
 at this idea, and he answered : 
 
 "Monsieur, if I painted portraits, I should not 
 have done this one." 
 
 The admiral bit his lip and began to play. The 
 painter remained beside Adelaide, who proposed 
 six points at piquet; he accepted. Whilst playing, 
 he noticed in Madame de Rouville a passion for the 
 game that surprised him. The old baroness had 
 never yet shown so ardent a desire for gain, nor so
 
 220 THE PURSE 
 
 keen a pleasure in fingering the gentleman's gold. 
 During the evening, evil suspicions came to disturb 
 Hippolyte's happiness and caused him distrust. 
 Did Madame de Rouville then live only by gam- 
 bling? Was she not playing at this moment to dis- 
 charge some debt, or pressed by some necessity? 
 Perhaps she had not paid her rent. This old man 
 seemed to be too shrewd to let his money be taken 
 with impunity. 
 
 Some interest must attract him, a rich man, to 
 this shabby house ! Why, formerly so familiar with 
 Adelaide, had he given up liberties acquired and 
 owing perhaps? These reflections, which came to 
 him involuntarily, incited him to examine the old 
 man and the baroness, whose expressions of intelli- 
 gence and certain oblique looks at himself and Ade- 
 laide annoyed him. "Could they be cheating me?" 
 was Hippolyte's final thought, horrible and dis- 
 graceful, and in which he believed just enough to 
 be tortured by it He wanted to remain after the 
 departure of the two old men to either confirm or 
 dispel his suspicions. He drew out his purse to 
 pay Adelaide; but, carried away by his stinging 
 thoughts, he put it on the table, and fell into a 
 reverie that lasted but a short time; then, ashamed 
 of his silence, he rose, replied to some common- 
 place remark of Madame de Rouville, and ap- 
 proached her, whilst talking, to better scrutinize 
 her old face. He went out a prey to a thousand 
 doubts. After having gone down several steps, he 
 went back to fetch his forgotten purse.
 
 THE PURSE 221 
 
 "I left you my purse," he said to the young girl. 
 
 "No," she answered, reddening. 
 
 "I thought it was there," he replied, pointing to 
 the card-table. 
 
 Ashamed for Adelaide and the baroness' sake at 
 not seeing it there, he looked at them with a stupe- 
 faction that made them laugh, grew pale, continued, 
 whilst feeling his waistcoat: 
 
 "I must have made a mistake, no doubt I have 
 it." 
 
 In one of the sides of the purse there were fifteen 
 louis, in the other some small change. The theft 
 was so flagrant, and so boldly denied, that Hippo- 
 lyte had no further doubts about the morality of his 
 neighbors; he stopped on the staircase, and walked 
 down with difficulty ; his legs shook, his head swam, 
 he was sweating and shivering, and found he could 
 hardly walk, struggling with the cruel shock caused 
 by the destruction of all his hopes. From this 
 moment, he searched his memory for a host of appar- 
 ently slight evidences, but which corroborated his 
 terrible suspicions, and which, whilst proving the 
 reality of this last fact, opened his eyes to the char- 
 acter and life of these two women. 
 
 Had they then waited until the portrait was given 
 to steal the purse ? Combined, the theft seemed all 
 the more hateful. The painter remembered, to his 
 misfortune, that, on two or three evenings Adelaide, 
 whilst appearing with a young girl's curiosity, to be 
 examining the particular process of the worn silk 
 network, was probably ascertaining the amount of
 
 222 THE PURSE 
 
 money in the purse, all in making apparently inno- 
 cent jokes, but doubtless with the object of watch- 
 ing for the moment wlien the sum should be large 
 enough to steal. 
 
 "Perhaps the old admiral has the most excellent 
 reasons for not marrying Adelaide, and so the 
 baroness may have tried to — " 
 
 At this supposition, he stopped, not even com- 
 pleting his thought, which was neutralized by a 
 very sensible reflection : 
 
 "If the baroness," thought he, "hopes to marry 
 me to her daughter, they would not have robbed 
 me." 
 
 Then he tried, so as not to destroy all his illu- 
 sions, and his love which was already so deeply 
 rooted, to find some vindication of the accident. 
 
 "My purse must have fallen on the floor," he said 
 to himself, "it may be in my arm-chair. Perhaps 
 I have it; I am so absent!" 
 
 He searched himself rapidly, but did not find the 
 accursed purse. Every few moments his cruel 
 memory recalled the fatal truth to him. He could 
 distinctly see his purse laid upon the cloth; but, 
 having no further doubt about the theft, he then 
 excused Adelaide, saying to himself that one 
 should not judge unfortunates so hastily. No doubt 
 there was some mystery in this outwardly degrad- 
 ing action. He would not allow that this proud 
 and noble face could lie. And yet, this wretched 
 apartment seemed to him denuded of all the romance 
 of love, which beautifies everything; he saw it,
 
 THE PURSE 223 
 
 dirty and faded, considered it as the picture of an 
 ignoble, idle, vicious home life. Are not our feel- 
 ings written so to speak on the things that surround 
 us? The next morning he rose after a sleepless 
 night. The heart's sorrow, that serious moral sick- 
 ness, had made great progress. 
 
 To lose an imaginary happiness, to give up a 
 whole future, is more acute pain than that caused 
 by an experienced joy, however perfect it may have 
 been ; is not hope better than memory ? The reflec- 
 tions into which our mind suddenly plunges, are 
 then like a shoreless sea on the bosom of which we 
 may swim for a moment, but where our love must 
 drown and perish. And it is an awful death. Are 
 not our feelings the most brilliant part of our life.? 
 From this partial death there result, in certain deli- 
 cate or vigorous organizations, the fearful ravages 
 produced by disenchantments, by hopes and pas- 
 sions betrayed. So it was with the young painter. 
 He went out very early, and went for a walk under 
 the refreshing shade of the Tuileries, absorbed in 
 his thoughts, oblivious to the whole world. There, 
 by chance, he met one of his most intimate friends, 
 a college and studio companion, with whom he had 
 lived more happily than with a brother. 
 
 "Well ! Hippolyte! what's the matter with you.-"' 
 said Francois Souchet, a young sculptor who had 
 just carried off the grand prix and was soon starting 
 for Italy. 
 
 "I am very unhappy," answered Hippolyte, 
 gravely.
 
 224 THE PURSE 
 
 "Then it is only a love affair that could sadden 
 you. Money, glory, esteem, you have everything." 
 
 Insensibly confidences began, and the painter 
 confessed his love. The moment he mentioned the 
 Rue de Suresnes and a young lady lodging on the 
 fourth floor : 
 
 "Stop!" cried Souchet gaily ; "that is a little girl 
 whom I see going every morning to the Assumption, 
 and whom I am courting. But, my dear fellow, we 
 all know her. Her mother is a baroness! Do you 
 believe in baronesses who lodge on the fourth floor.? 
 Brrr ! Ah ! well, you are a man of the Golden Age. 
 We see the old mother every day in this alley; but 
 she has a figure, an appearance, which tell all. 
 What ! you have not guessed the sort of woman she 
 is from the way she holds her bag?" 
 
 The two friends walked for a long time, and sev- 
 eral young men who knew Souchet or Schinner 
 joined them. The painter's adventure, looked 
 upon as of little importance, was related to them 
 by the sculptor. 
 
 "He also," he said, "has seen that little one!" 
 
 There followed remarks, laughs, and the inno- 
 cent mockery marked by the gaiety which is famil- 
 iar to artists, but which made Hippolyte suffer 
 horribly. A certain modesty of mind made him 
 uncomfortable in seeing his heart's secret treated so 
 lightly, his passion dissected, torn to shreds, and a 
 young unknown girl whose life appeared so simple, 
 subjected to real or false judgments delivered with 
 so much heedlessness. He pretended to be moved
 
 THE PURSE 225 
 
 by a spirit of contradiction, he seriously asked each 
 one for the proofs of his assertions, and the jokes 
 began again. 
 
 "But, my dear fellow, have you seen the bar- 
 oness' shawl ?" said Souchet. 
 
 "Have you followed the little one when she trots 
 every morning to the Assumption?" said Joseph 
 Bridau, a young pupil in Gros's studio. 
 
 "Ah! the mother has, amongst other virtues, a 
 certain grey dress which I consider a model," said 
 Bixiou, the caricaturist. 
 
 "Listen, Hippolyte, " resumed the sculptor, 
 "come here about four o'clock, and analyze a little 
 the mother's and daughter's walk. If, after that, 
 you still have doubts! well, we shall never make 
 anything of you; you would be capable of marrying 
 your porter's daughter." 
 
 Tormented by the most conflicting sentiments, the 
 painter left his friends. It seemed to him that 
 Adelaide and her mother must be above these ac- 
 cusations, and he felt, at the bottom of his heart, 
 remorse for having suspected the purity of this 
 beautiful, simple young girl. He went to his studio, 
 passed by the door of Adelaide's apartment, and felt 
 a pang which deceives no man. He loved Made- 
 moiselle de Rouville so passionately, that, in spite 
 of the theft of the purse, he still adored her. His 
 love resembled that of the Chevalier des Grieux 
 admiring and purifying his mistress even on the 
 cart which takes lost women to prison. 
 
 "Why should not my love make her the purest of 
 15
 
 226 THE PURSE 
 
 all women? Why abandon her to evil and vice, 
 without stretching out a friendly hand?" 
 
 The idea of this mission delighted him. Love 
 makes the best of everything. Nothing fascinates 
 a young man more than to play the part of a good 
 genius to a woman. There is an indescribable 
 romance in the enterprise, which suits exalted 
 minds. Is it not the greatest devotion in the most 
 lofty, the most gracious form ? Is there not some 
 greatness in knowing that one loves enough to still 
 love when the love of others fades and dies out? 
 Hippolyte sat down in his studio, contemplated his 
 picture without working at it, seeing the figures 
 through tears that rolled from his eyes, always 
 holding the brush in his hand, approaching the can- 
 vas as if to soften some tint and not touching it. 
 
 Night came and found him in this attitude. 
 Roused from his reverie by the darkness, he went 
 down, met the old admiral on the stairs, gave him 
 a lurid look as he bowed, and fled. He had intended 
 going in to see his neighbors, but the sight of Ade- 
 laide's protector froze his heart and changed his 
 resolution. He asked himself for the hundredth time 
 what motive could draw this old intriguer, with 
 eighty thousand francs a year, to this fourth floor 
 where he lost about forty francs every night; and 
 he thought he could guess what motive it was. The 
 next and following days, Hippolyte threw himself 
 into his work in an attempt to fight his passion by 
 the enthusiasm of ideas and the ardor of conception. 
 He half succeeded. Study consoled him without,
 
 THE PURSE 227 
 
 however, stifling the recollections of so many ten- 
 der hours passed with Adelaide. One evening, in 
 leaving his studio, he found the door of the two 
 ladies' apartment half open. Someone was stand- 
 ing up, in the embrasure of the window. The 
 arrangement of the door and the staircase made it 
 impossible for the painter to pass without seeing 
 Adelaide; he bowed coldly, giving her a look full of 
 indifference; but, judging this young girl's suffer- 
 ings by his own, he felt an inward qualm in think- 
 ing of the bitterness this look and coldness must 
 cause a loving heart. To crown the sweetest 
 pleasures that ever rejoiced two pure souls, by a 
 week's disdain, by the deepest scorn, the most ob- 
 stinate — horrible ending! Perhaps the purse had 
 been found, and perhaps, every evening, Adelaide 
 had expected her friend. This simple, natural 
 thought caused the lover fresh remorse; he asked 
 himself whether the proofs of attachment the young 
 girl had shown him, the delightful talks, breath- 
 ing of a love that had charmed him, did not merit at 
 least one inquiry, were not worth some justification. 
 Ashamed of having resisted the desire of his heart 
 for a whole week, and feeling that this opposition 
 was almost criminal, he called the same evening 
 upon Madame de Rouville. All his suspicions, all 
 his evil thoughts, vanished at sight of the pale, at- 
 tenuated young girl. 
 
 "Eh! good God! what's the matter with you?" 
 he said to her after having greeted the baroness. 
 
 Adelaide did not answer, but gave him a look full
 
 228 THE PURSE 
 
 of sorrow, a dreary, discouraged look which hurt 
 him. 
 
 "You have doubtless been working very hard, " 
 said the old lady, "you are altered. We are the 
 cause of your seclusion. The portrait must have 
 delayed some pictures which are of consequence to 
 your reputation." 
 
 Hippolyte was pleased to find so good an excuse 
 for his incivility. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I have been extremely busy; 
 but I have suffered — " 
 
 At these words, Adelaide raised her head, looked 
 at her lover, and her anxious eyes reproached him 
 no more. 
 
 "Did you then suppose we were very indifferent as 
 to whether you might be happy or unhappy?" said 
 the old lady. 
 
 "I was wrong," he said, "and yet, there are 
 some sufferings that one could not confide to any 
 one, not even to an earlier affection than that with 
 which you honor me—" 
 
 "Sincerity, and the strength of friendship, should 
 not be measured by time. 1 have known old friends 
 not to shed a tear in misfortune," said the baroness, 
 tossing her head. 
 
 "But what is the matter with you?" asked the 
 young man of Adelaide. 
 
 "Oh! nothing," answered the baroness, "Ade- 
 laide has spent several nights in finishing some work, 
 and would not listen to me when I told her that one 
 day more or less was of little consequence — "
 
 THE PURSE 229 
 
 Hippolyte was not listening. Seeing these two 
 noble, serene faces, he was ashamed of his suspi- 
 cions, and attributed the loss of his purse to some 
 mysterious accident. The evening was sweet to 
 him and perhaps to her too. There are secrets 
 which young minds understand so well ! Adelaide 
 guessed Hippolyte's thoughts. Without wishing to 
 confess his errors, the painter acknowledged them, 
 and returned to his mistress more loving and more 
 affectionate, trying thus to win a tacit pardon. 
 Adelaide was tasting such perfect, sweet joy that 
 she thought all the misery which had so cruelly 
 bruised her soul was not too much to pay for it. 
 The really genuine harmony of their hearts, this 
 magic understanding was, nevertheless, troubled by 
 a word from the Baronne de Rouville. 
 
 "Shall we make up our little game?" she said, 
 "for my old Kergarouet is very hard upon me." 
 
 These words reawakened all the young painter's 
 fears, and he reddened in looking at Adelaide's 
 mother, but he saw nothing in her face but an ex- 
 pression of honest kindliness; no hidden intention 
 destroyed the charm, the delicacy was in no sense 
 treacherous; the mischief in it seemed harmless, and 
 no remorse disturbed her calm. So he sat down at 
 the card-table. Adelaide wished to share the painter's 
 lot, asserting that he did not know piquet and needed 
 a partner. Madame de Rouville and her daughter, 
 during the game, exchanged signs of intelligence 
 which made Hippolyte all the more uneasy in that 
 he was winning; but, in the end, a last trick placed
 
 230 THE PURSE 
 
 the two lovers in the baroness' debt. Intending to 
 look in his pocket for money, the painter drew 
 his hands from beneath the table, and then saw be- 
 fore him a purse that Adelaide had slipped there 
 unbeknown to him; the poor child was holding the 
 old one, and to keep herself in countenance was 
 searching it for the money to pay her mother. All 
 Hippolyte's blood rushed so violently to his heart, 
 that he nearly lost consciousness. The new purse 
 replacing his own, and which contained his fifteen 
 louis, was embroidered with gold beads. The knots 
 and tassels all testified to Adelaide's good taste, and 
 no doubt she had spent all her evenings on the decora- 
 tions of this charming piece of work. It would have 
 been impossible to have said with more delicacy 
 that the painter's gift could only be requited by a 
 mark of affection. When Hippolyte, overcome with 
 happiness, turned his eyes on Adelaide and on the 
 baroness, he saw them trembling with pleasure and 
 delighted with this charming trick. He felt hum- 
 bled, mean, and foolish; he would like to have 
 punished himself, to have rent his heart. Tears 
 came to his eyes, he rose under an irresistible im- 
 pulse, took Adelaide in his arms, pressed her to his 
 heart and overwhelmed her with kisses; then, with 
 all an artist's good faith: 
 
 "Let me make her my wife!" he cried, looking 
 at the baroness. 
 
 Adelaide looked at the painter half angrily, and 
 Madame de Rouville, a little astonished, was seeking 
 a reply, when this scene was interrupted by the
 
 THE PURSE 231 
 
 ringing of the bell. The old vice-admiral appeared 
 followed by his shadow and by Madame Schinner. 
 After having guessed the cause of the grief which 
 her son vainly tried to hide from her, Hippolyte's 
 mother had made enquiries from several of her 
 friends about Adelaide. Justly alarmed by the cal- 
 umnies which hung over this young girl unknown 
 to the Comte de Kergarouet, whose name was told 
 her by the porter, she had gone to relate them to 
 the vice-admiral, who, in his anger, "would have 
 liked," he said, "to have cut off these rascals' ears." 
 Excited by his anger, the admiral had told Madame 
 Schinner the secret of his voluntary losses at cards, 
 since the baroness' pride only left him this ingen- 
 ious method of helping. 
 
 When Madame Schinner had greeted Madame de 
 Rouville, the latter looked at the Comte de Kerga- 
 rouet, the Chevalier du Halga, an old friend of the 
 late Comtesse de Kergarouet, Hippolyte and Ade- 
 laide, and gracefully said: "It seems that we are a 
 family party to-night." 
 
 Paris, May, 1832.
 
 THE VENDETTA 
 
 (233)
 
 TO PUTTINATI 
 A MILANESE SCULPTOR 
 
 (235)
 
 THE VENDETTA 
 
 In the year 1800, towards the end of the month of 
 October, a stranger, accompanied by a woman and 
 a little girl, arrived at the Tuileries, in Paris, and 
 stood rather a long time beside the ruins of a recently 
 demolished house, upon the spot now occupied by 
 the wing which has been begun, to unite the 
 chateau of Catherine de Medici to the Louvre des 
 Valois. He remained there standing, with his arms 
 folded, his head bent, although he occasionally 
 raised it to look alternately at the consular palace, 
 and at his wife, who was seated near him on a 
 stone. Although the strange woman appeared to be 
 absorbed in playing with the long black hair of the 
 little nine- or ten-year-old girl, she did not lose any 
 of the looks her companion gave her. The same 
 feeling, other than love, united these two beings, 
 and inspired the same anxiety in their actions and 
 thoughts. Misery is, perhaps, the most powerful of 
 all ties. The stranger possessed one of those grand, 
 massive heads with abundant hair, that have so 
 often formed a study for the brush of the Caracci. 
 His black hair was largely streaked with white. 
 Although noble and haughty, his features had a 
 
 (237)
 
 238 THE VENDETTA 
 
 hard expression which spoilt them. In spite of his 
 strength and upright figure, he seemed to be more 
 than sixty. His shabby clothes showed that he 
 came from a distant country. Although the once 
 beautiful, but now faded face of the woman betrayed 
 profound sadness, when her husband looked at her 
 she forced a smile and assumed a calm countenance. 
 The little girl was standing, in spite of the traces of 
 fatigue in her sunburnt face. She had an Italian 
 appearance, great black eyes beneath strongly 
 arched eyebrows; a natural nobility, a true grace. 
 More than one passer-by felt moved at the lonely 
 aspect of this group, the members of which made 
 not the slightest effort to conceal a despair as deep 
 as its expression was simple; but the fountain of 
 this fleeting kindness which distinguishes Parisians 
 was promptly dried up. As soon as the stranger 
 thought himself the object of some idler's attention, 
 he would look at him with so fierce an air that the 
 boldest loiterer hastened his step as if he had 
 trodden on a snake. After remaining for a long 
 time in indecision, the big stranger suddenly passed 
 his hand across his brow, and chased away, as it 
 were, the thoughts that had furrowed it with 
 wrinkles, and doubtless took some desperate reso- 
 lution. After casting a piercing look at his wife and 
 daughter, he drew a long dagger from his vest, held 
 it out to his wife, and said to her in Italian: 
 
 " I am going to see if the Bonapartes remember 
 
 us." 
 
 And he walked with a slow, steady step towards
 
 THE VENDETTA 239 
 
 the entrance to the palace, where he was naturally 
 stopped by a soldier of the consular guard with 
 whom he could not argue long. Seeing the 
 stranger's obstinacy, the sentinel presented his 
 bayonet by way of an ultimatum. Chance ordained 
 that at this moment the soldier's watch should be 
 relieved and the corporal very obligingly showed 
 the stranger in which direction to find the com- 
 mander of the guard-house. 
 
 " Tell Bonaparte that Bartolomeo di Piombo 
 would like to speak with him," said the Italian to 
 the captain on duty. 
 
 In vain the officer reminded Bartolomeo that no 
 one could see the First Consul without having pre- 
 viously written to ask for an audience, the stranger 
 absolutely insisted that the soldier should go and 
 inform Bonaparte. The officer put forward the rules 
 of the orders, and plainly refused to obey the request 
 of this singular petitioner. Bartolomeo frowned, gave 
 the commander a terrible look, and seemed to hold 
 him responsible for all the misery that this refusal 
 might occasion; then he was silent, resolutely 
 crossed his arms over his chest, and went to station 
 himself under the portico communicating with the 
 courtyard and the Tuileries garden. People who 
 wish a thing very strongly are nearly always helped 
 by chance. Just as Bartolomeo di Piombo was 
 seating himself on one of the boundary stones that are 
 near the entrance to the Tuileries, a carriage drove 
 up, from which descended Lucien Bonaparte, then 
 Minister of the Interior.
 
 240 THE VENDETTA 
 
 "Ah! Loucian, how lucky for me to meet you!" 
 cried the stranger. 
 
 These words, uttered in a Corsican patois, 
 stopped Lucien just as he was springing under the 
 archway; he looked at his compatriot and recog- 
 nized him. At the first word whispered by Bartolo- 
 meo, he led the Corsican with him. Murat, Lannes 
 and Rapp were in the First Consul's private room. 
 Lucien's entrance, followed by such a singular man 
 as Piombo, stopped the conversation. Lucien took 
 Napoleon's hand and led him into the recess of the 
 window. After having exchanged a few words with 
 his brother, the First Consul made a sign with his 
 hand that Murat and Lannes obeyed in retiring. 
 Rapp pretended to have seen nothing, so as to be able 
 to remain. Bonaparte having spoken to him sharply, 
 the aide-de-camp went out reluctantly. The First 
 Consul, hearing the sound of Rapp's footsteps in the 
 next salon, went out brusquely and saw him close 
 to the wall separating his cabinet from the salon. 
 
 " Then you will not understand me?" said the 
 First Consul, " I want to be alone with my fellow- 
 countryman." 
 
 "A Corsican," answered the aide-de-camp, "I 
 distrust those people too much not to — " 
 
 The First Consul could not help smiling, and 
 lightly pushed his faithful officer away by the 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Well, what have you come here for, my poor 
 Bartolomeo?" said the First Consul to Piombo. 
 
 "To ask you for shelter and protection, if you
 
 THE VENDETTA 24 1 
 
 are a true Corsican," answered Bartolomeo, 
 brusquely. 
 
 "What misfortune has driven you from the 
 country? You were the richest, the most — " 
 
 ** I have killed all the Porta," replied the Corsican 
 in a deep voice, knitting his brows. 
 
 The First Consul started back as if in surprise. 
 
 "You will betray me?" cried Bartolomeo, giving 
 Bonaparte a dark look. " Do you know that there 
 are still four more Piombo in Corsica?" 
 
 Lucien seized his compatriot's arm and shook it. 
 
 " Have you come here then to threaten the Savior 
 of France," he said sharply. 
 
 Bonaparte made a sign to Lucien, who held his 
 tongue. Then he looked at Piombo, and said: 
 
 "Why did you kill the Porta?" 
 
 "We had made friends," he replied, "the Bar- 
 banti had reconciled us. The day after we had 
 been drinking together to drown our quarrels, I left 
 them because I had business at Bastia. They re- 
 mained at my house and set fire to my vine at 
 Longone. They killed my son Gregorio. My 
 daughter Ginevra and my wife escaped them; they 
 had received the Sacrament . in the morning, the 
 Virgin had protected them. When I returned, I 
 could not find my house, I was seeking it with my 
 feet in its ashes. All of a sudden I stumbled against 
 Gregorio's body, which I recognized by the light of 
 the moon. 'Oh! the Porta have struck the blow!' 
 I said to myself. I went at once to the woods, I 
 there collected several men to whom I had rendered 
 16
 
 242 THE VENDETTA 
 
 some service, do you understand, Bonaparte? and 
 we marched against the Porta's vine. We arrived 
 at five in the morning; at seven, they were all before 
 God. Giacomo declares that Elisa Vanni saved a 
 child, the little Luigi; but I fastened him to his bed 
 myself before setting fire to the house. I left the 
 island with my wife and child without being able to 
 ascertain whether Luigi Porta still lived." 
 
 Bonaparte looked at Bartolomeo with curiosity, 
 but no astonishment. 
 
 "How many of them were there?" asked 
 Lucien. 
 
 " Seven," replied Piombo; " they were your per- 
 secutors at one time." 
 
 These words roused no expression of hatred from 
 the two brothers. 
 
 "Ah! you are Corsicans no longer!" cried Bar- 
 tolomeo with a sort of despair, "Good-bye. For- 
 merly 1 protected you," he added, in a reproachful 
 tone, "without me, your mother would never have 
 reached Marseilles," he said to Bonaparte, who was 
 standing full of thought, leaning his elbow upon the 
 mantel-piece. 
 
 "Conscientiously, Piombo," answered Napoleon, 
 " 1 cannot take you under my wing. I am now the 
 head of a great nation, 1 command the Republic, and 
 must see that the laws are executed." 
 
 "Ah! ah!" said Bartolomeo. 
 
 " But 1 can shut my eyes," continued Bonaparte, 
 " the prejudice of the vendetta will prevent the reign- 
 ing of all laws in Corsica for a long time," he added,
 
 THE VENDETTA 243 
 
 speaking to himself. " And yet it must be destroyed 
 at all costs." 
 
 Bonaparte was silent for a moment, and Lucien 
 signed to Piombo to say nothing. The Corsican 
 was already shaking his head disapprovingly from 
 right to left. 
 
 "Stay here," resumed the Consul, addressing 
 Bartolomeo, "we shall know nothing. I will have 
 your property bought, so as to give you, in the first 
 place, the means of subsistence. Then, after a 
 time, later on, we will think of you. But no more 
 vendetta! There are no thickets here. If you play 
 with a dagger, there will be no pardon to hope for. 
 Here, the law protects all citizens, and one does not 
 execute justice for one's self." 
 
 "He has made himself chief of a strange coun- 
 try," answered Bartolomeo, taking Lucien's hand 
 and squeezing it; "but you remember me in misfor- 
 tune, there will now be eternal friendship between 
 us, and you may dispose of all the Piombo." 
 
 At these words, the Corsican's brow cleared, and 
 he looked round with satisfaction. 
 
 "It is not bad here," he said smiling, as if he 
 would have liked to stay there. "And you are 
 dressed all in red, like a cardinal." 
 
 " It only depends upon you to be successful and 
 have a palace in Paris," said Bonaparte, measuring 
 his fellow countryman. " It will often happen that 
 I shall look around me in search of a faithful friend 
 in whom I can trust." 
 
 A sigh of joy burst from Piombo's great chest,
 
 244 THE VENDETTA 
 
 and he held out his hand to the First Consul, 
 saying: 
 
 " There is still some of the Corsican in you!" 
 
 Bonaparte smiled. He silently looked at this man, 
 who brought him in some sort the air of his native 
 land, that island where he had but lately been so 
 miraculously saved from the hatred of the English 
 party, and which he was not to see again. He 
 made a sign to his brother, who led away Bartolomeo 
 di Piombo. Lucien enquired with interest into the 
 financial position of his family's former protector. 
 Piombo led the Minister of the Interior to a window, 
 and showed him his wife and Ginevra, both sitting 
 on a heap of stones. 
 
 "We have walked here from Fontainebleau, and 
 we have not a farthing," he said. 
 
 Lucien gave his purse to his compatriot and 
 advised him to come and find him the next day, so 
 as to consider the best means of assuring the posi- 
 tion of his family. The total value of Piombo's 
 possessions in Corsica would scarcely enable him to 
 live properly in Paris. 
 
 Fifteen years elapsed between the arrival of the 
 Piombo family in Paris, and the following adventure, 
 which, without an account of these events, would 
 have been less intelligible.
 
 * 
 
 Servin, one of our most distinguished artists, was 
 the first to conceive the idea of opening a studio for 
 young girls who wished to take painting lessons. 
 Forty years old, highly moral, and entirely devoted 
 to his art, he had made a love match with a daughter 
 of a penniless general. At first the mothers them- 
 selves brought their daughters to the professor's; 
 then they finished by sending them, when they came 
 to know his principles and appreciate the care he 
 took to deserve confidence. It was part of the 
 painter's scheme only to accept as students young 
 ladies belonging to rich or respected families so 
 as to avoid reproach for the character of his studio; 
 he even refused to take young girls who wished to 
 become artists and to whom he would have been 
 obliged to give certain instructions without which 
 there is no talent possible in painting. By degrees 
 the prudence, the superiority with which he initiated 
 his pupils into the secrets of art, the certainty felt 
 by the mothers in knowing their daughters to be in 
 the company of well-bred young girls, and the 
 security inspired by the character, morals, and mar- 
 riage of the artist, gained him an excellent reputa- 
 tion in fashionable circles. When a young girl 
 expressed a desire to learn painting or drawing, and 
 her mother asked advice, "Send her to Servin!" 
 was everyone's reply. So Servin became a specialty 
 
 (245)
 
 246 THE VENDETTA 
 
 for feminine painting, like Herbault for hats, Leroy 
 for fashions and Chevet for edibles. It was observed 
 that a young woman who had taken lessons at 
 Servin's could give a final judgment on the pictures 
 of the Musee, paint a portrait uncommonly well, 
 copy a picture and paint her genre picture. This 
 artist accordingly satisfied all the requirements of 
 the aristocracy. In spite of his relations with the 
 best houses in Paris, he was independent, patriotic, 
 and maintained with everyone that light, witty and 
 sometimes ironical tone, and liberty of opinion which 
 distinguishes the artist. He had carried the strict- 
 ness of his precautions even to the arrangement of 
 the room where his pupils studied. The entrance to 
 the attic which extended over his rooms had been 
 walled up. To reach this retreat, as sacred as a 
 harem, it was necessary to ascend a staircase con- 
 trived inside his residence. The studio, which took 
 up the whole of the top of the house, presented 
 those enormous proportions which always surprise 
 onlookers, when, having climbed sixty feet from the 
 ground, they expect to see artists lodging in the 
 gutter. This species of gallery was profusely 
 lighted by immense glass windows furnished with 
 those great green blinds with which painters regu- 
 late the light. A crowd of caricatures, heads in 
 outline, either done in color or with the point of a 
 knife upon the dark-gray painted walls, proved, save 
 for the difference in expression, that the most refined 
 girls have as much extravagance of imagination as 
 men can have. A little stove and its great pipes,
 
 THE VENDETTA 247 
 
 describing a hideous zigzag before reaching the 
 higher regions of the roof, was an inevitable decora- 
 tion in this studio. A shelf ran all round the walls 
 supporting plaster models which were lying in con- 
 fusion, most of them covered with yellow dust. 
 Above this shelf, here and there, a head of Niobe 
 hanging on a nail could be seen in its mournful pose; 
 a Venus smiling; a hand suddenly thrust before 
 one's eyes, like that of a beggar asking alms; then 
 several torches, yellowed by smoke, looking like 
 limbs just torn from coffms; in short, the paintings, 
 drawings, dummies, the pictureless frames and. 
 frameless pictures combined to give this untidy 
 apartment the appearance of a studio remarkable 
 for a singular mixture of ornament and nakedness, 
 poverty and wealth, of care and indifference. This 
 enormous interior, where everything, even man, 
 appears small, savors of the green-room of the 
 Opera; there is old linen, gilded armor, fragments of 
 cloth, and mechanism; but there is an indefinable 
 grandeur like thought; genius and death are there; 
 Diana or Apollo alongside a skull or a skeleton, 
 beauty and confusion, poetry and reality, rich colors 
 in shadow, and often a whole still and silent drama. 
 How symbolical of an artist's mind! 
 
 At the time this story begins, a brilliant July sun 
 was illumining the studio, and two rays, traversing 
 its extent, formed great bands of diaphanous gold 
 sparkling with grains of dust. A dozen easels reared 
 their pointed heads, like masts of vessels in a port. 
 Several young girls enlivened this scene with the
 
 248 THE VENDETTA 
 
 variety of their physiognomies, their attitudes, and 
 , the difference in their costumes. The strong 
 shadows cast by the green serges, placed according 
 to the requirements of each easel, produced a multi- 
 tude of contrasts, and piquant effects of light and 
 shade. This group was the most beautiful of all 
 the pictures in the studio. One young, fair girl, 
 simply dressed, was sitting apart from her com- 
 panions, working bravely whilst seeming to anticipate 
 unsuccess; nobody looked at her or spoke a word to 
 her; she was the prettiest, the most modest and 
 the poorest of them. Two principal groups, sepa- 
 rated by a slight space, indicated two parties and 
 two spirits even in this studio where all ranks and 
 fortune ought to have been forgotten. Sitting or 
 standing, these young girls, surrounded by their 
 color boxes, playing with or preparing their brushes, 
 handling their shining palettes, painting, talking, 
 laughing, singing, giving way to nature, and 
 betraying their characters, formed a sight unknown 
 to men: this one, proud, haughty, capricious, with 
 black hair and beautiful hands, casting her bright 
 glance at random; that one, heedless and gay, with 
 smiling lips, brown hair, white and delicate hands, 
 a French maiden, volatile, without a secret thought 
 and living only in the present; another, dreamy, 
 melancholy, pale, and drooping her head like a 
 falling flower; her neighbor, on the other hand, big, 
 indolent, of Mussulman habits, with a long, black 
 dewy eye; talking little but meditating, and 
 stealthily looking at the head of Antinous. In the
 
 THE VENDETTA 249 
 
 midst of them, like the Jocoso in a Spanish play, full 
 of wit and epigrammatic sallies, was a girl, watching 
 them all at a glance, making them laugh and 
 incessantly lifting her face which was too lively not 
 to be pretty; she was the leader of the first group 
 of pupils, which included the daughters of bankers, 
 solicitors and merchants; all rich, but experiencing 
 all the imperceptible, though stinging disdain lavished 
 upon them by the other young ladies of the 
 aristocracy. These were governed by the daughter 
 of an usher in the king's cabinet, a little creature, 
 as foolish as she was vain, and proud of owning as 
 father a man having a post at Court; she always 
 wished to appear as if she had understood the 
 master's remarks at once, and seemed to work as a 
 favor; she used an eyeglass, always came very 
 much dressed up, and late, and used to implore her 
 companions to speak softly. In this second group 
 one might have remarked some delicious figures and 
 refined faces; but there was very little simplicity in 
 the looks of these young girls. Even if their 
 attitudes were elegant and their movements graceful, 
 their faces lacked candor, and one could easily guess 
 that they belonged to a world where politeness 
 early fashions characters, where the abuse of social 
 pleasures kills all sentiment and develops egotism. 
 When this party was complete, there were amongst 
 the number some young girls with childish heads, 
 virgins of a lovely purity, faces whose slightly 
 parted lips, upon which a virgin smile played, 
 disclosed virgin teeth. The studio did not then
 
 250 THE VENDETTA 
 
 resemble a seraglio, but a group of angels seated 
 on a cloud in the sky. At mid-day, Servin had not 
 yet appeared. For several days, he had remained, 
 for the greater part of his time, at a studio that he 
 had elsewhere and where he was finishing a picture 
 for the Exhibition. All of a sudden. Mademoiselle 
 Amelie Thirion, leader of the aristocratic party in 
 this little assembly, entered into a long conversation 
 with her neighbor; there was a great silence in the 
 group of patricians. The astonished banking party 
 were silent too, and tried to guess the subject of 
 such a conference; but the secret of the young 
 ultras soon became known. Amelie rose, took up 
 an easel that was standing near her and replaced it 
 at a somewhat marked distance from the noble 
 group, close to a rough partition which divided the 
 studio from a dark closet where the broken casts, 
 the pictures condemned by the professor and the 
 store of wood for the winter use were kept. Amelie's 
 action excited a murmur of astonishment which did 
 not prevent her from completing this removal by 
 quickly wheeling the paint-box and stool close up to 
 the easel, everything, even to a picture by Prudhon, 
 which her companion, now absent, was in course of 
 copying. After this coup d'etat, although the right 
 side set to work silently, the left side held forth at 
 great length. 
 
 "What will Mademoiselle Piombo say?" one 
 young girl asked Mademoiselle Mathilde Roguin, the 
 mischievous oracle of the first group. 
 
 " She is not one to talk," she replied, " but, fifty
 
 THE VENDETTA 25 1 
 
 years hence, she will remember this insult as if it 
 had been yesterday, and will avenge herself cruelly. 
 She is a person with whom I should not care to be 
 at war." 
 
 " The banishment which these young ladies inflict 
 upon her is all the more unjust," said another young 
 girl, " as the day before yesterday Ginevra was very 
 unhappy; her father, they said, had just tendered 
 his resignation. This will only add to her sorrow, 
 whilst she was exceedingly kind to these young 
 ladies during the Hundred Days. Has she ever said 
 a word to wound them? On the contrary, she 
 avoided talking politics. But our ultras seem to be 
 actuated by jealousy rather than by party spirit." 
 
 " I have a good mind to go and fetch Mademoiselle 
 Piombo's easel and place it next mine," said 
 Mathilde Roguin. 
 
 She got up, but upon thinking it over, sat down 
 asain. "With such a character as Mademoiselle 
 Ginevra's," she said, " one can never tell how she 
 might take our attentions; let us await results." 
 
 " Ecco la," languidly said the young girl with the 
 black eyes. 
 
 Indeed, the sound of somebody's footsteps as- 
 cending the stairs resounded in the room. The 
 words "Here she comes!" passed from mouth to 
 mouth, and the deepest silence reigned in the 
 studio. 
 
 In order to understand the importance of the 
 ostracism exercised by Amelie Thirion, it is neces- 
 sary to add that this scene took place toward the
 
 252 THE VENDETTA 
 
 end of July, 1815. The second return of the 
 Bourbons had just disturbed many friendships 
 which had withstood the agitations of the first 
 Restoration. At this moment, many families, 
 nearly ail divided in opinion, repeated several of 
 those deplorable scenes which stain the history of 
 all countries in times of civil or religious war. 
 Children, young girls, old men all shared the 
 monarchical fever which possessed the government. 
 Discord was insinuating itself beneath all roofs, and 
 distrust tinged the actions and conversations of the 
 most intimate friends with its sombre colors. 
 Ginevra Piombo idolized Napoleon, and how could 
 she have hated him! The Emperor was her fellow- 
 countryman and her father's benefactor. Of 
 Napoleon's servants, the Baron de Piombo had 
 been the one to co-operate most efficaciously in the 
 return from the island of Elba. Incapable of re- 
 nouncing his political faith, anxious even, to pro- 
 claim it, the old Baron de Piombo remained in Paris 
 in the midst of his enemies. Ginevra Piombo 
 accordingly was all the more likely to be numbered 
 amongst suspected persons, in that she made no 
 concealment of the grief her family felt at the second 
 Restoration. The only tears she had, perhaps, 
 ever shed in her life were those wrung from her by 
 the double news of Bonaparte's captivity on the 
 Bellerophon and Labedoyere's arrest.
 
 The young girls who composed the group of 
 nobles belonged to the most exalted royalist families 
 in Paris. It is difficult to give any idea of the 
 excesses of this period and the horror with which 
 the Bonapartists were regarded. 
 
 Insignificant and petty as Amelie Thirion's action 
 may appear now-a-days, it was at that time an ex- 
 pression of very natural hatred. Ginevra Piombo, 
 one of Servin's first pupils, occupied a place of 
 which they had wished to deprive her from the day 
 she had entered the studio; the aristocratic group 
 had gradually surrounded her; to drive her from a 
 place which in some measure belonged to her, was 
 not only injuring her, but causing her a kind of 
 suffering; for all artists have some place of pref- 
 erence to work in. But political animadversion 
 possibly had very little to do with the behavior of 
 this little right-hand quarter of the studio. Ginevra 
 Piombo, the cleverest of all Servin's pupils, was an 
 object of the deepest jealousy; the master professed 
 as much admiration for the talents as the character 
 of this favorite pupil, who was held up as an ex- 
 ample in all his comparisons; in short, without being 
 able to explain the influence that this young girl 
 obtained over all around her, she exerted over this 
 little world a prestige almost similar to that of 
 Bonaparte over his soldiers. For some days the 
 
 (253)
 
 254 THE VENDETTA 
 
 aristocracy of the studio had resolved upon the 
 downfall of the queen; but, nobody having yet 
 dared to separate herself from the Bonapartist, 
 Mademoiselle Thirion had just struck a decisive 
 blow, in order to make her companions accomplices 
 in her hatred. Although Ginevra was sincerely 
 loved by two or three of the Royalists, nearly all 
 of whom had been lectured at home about politics, 
 they decided, with that tact which is peculiar to 
 women, that they had better remain neutral in the 
 quarrel. Accordingly, upon her arrival Ginevra was 
 greeted with a profound silence. Of all the young 
 girls who until then had come to Servin's studio, 
 she was the most beautiful, the tallest and the best 
 formed. Her bearing bore a stamp of nobleness and 
 grace which commanded respect. Her face, full of 
 intelligence, seemed almost radiant, so strongly did 
 it breathe of the animation peculiarly Corsican and 
 which in no way precludes tranquillity. Her long 
 hair, her eyes and dark lashes told of passion. 
 Although the corners of her mouth were softly 
 moulded and her lips were a little too prominent, 
 they expressed that goodness which the conscious- 
 ness of their power gives to strong beings. By an 
 extraordinary caprice of nature, the charm of her 
 face was, to a certain extent, belied by a marble 
 forehead marked by an almost fierce pride, betoken- 
 ing the manners of Corsica. There was the only 
 bond between her and her native country; in all the 
 rest of her person, the simplicity, and graceful ease 
 of the Lombardian beauty were so fascinating, that
 
 THE VENDETTA 255 
 
 one could not look at her and cause her the least 
 pain. She was so intensely attractive, that, as a 
 precaution, her father had her accompanied to the 
 studio. The only defect in this truly poetical crea- 
 ture arose from the power itself of so fully developed 
 a beauty: she had the appearance of a woman. 
 She had refused to marry from love of her father 
 and mother, feeling herself necessary to their old 
 age. Her taste for painting had compensated for 
 the passions which usually disturb women. 
 
 "You are very quiet to-day, mesdemoiselles," 
 she said, after having taken two or three steps 
 amongst her companions. — " Good-morning, my 
 little Laure," she added in a gentle, caressing tone, 
 approaching the young girl who was painting apart 
 from the others, " this head is very good! The flesh 
 tints are a little too pink, but it is all wonderfully 
 drawn!" 
 
 Laure raised her head, looked at Ginevra tenderly, 
 and their faces brightened whilst expressing the 
 same affection. A faint smile played upon the 
 Italian's lips, she seemed dreamy, and proceeded 
 slowly towards her place, carelessly glancing at 
 drawings or pictures, saying good-morning to each 
 of the young girls of the first group, without observ- 
 ing the unusual curiosity her presence excited. One 
 would have said she was a queen surrounded by 
 her court. She paid not the least attention to the 
 profound silence which reigned amongst the patri- 
 cians, and passed in front of the party without 
 saying a single word. So great was her preoccupation
 
 256 THE VENDETTA 
 
 that she settled herself at her easel, opened her 
 paint-box, took her brushes, put on her brown 
 sleeves, arranged her apron, looked at her picture, 
 and examined her palette without thinking, so to 
 speak, of what she was doing. All heads in the 
 bourgeois group were turned towards her. If the 
 young ladies of the Thirion party did not show their 
 impatience so openly as their companions, their 
 glances were none the less directed at Ginevra. 
 
 " She notices nothing," said Mademoiselle Roguin. 
 
 At this moment, Ginevra dropped the meditative 
 attitude in which she had been contemplating her 
 canvas, and turned her head towards the aristo- 
 cratic group. With a glance she measured the 
 distance that separated her from them and remained 
 silent. 
 
 " She does not believe that anyone could have 
 thought of insulting her," said Mathilde, "she did 
 not grow pale or red. How vexed these young 
 ladies will be, if she prefers her new place to the 
 old one! You are out of line there, mademoiselle," 
 she then added aloud to Ginevra. 
 
 The Italian pretended not to hear, or it may be 
 that she really did not hear; she suddenly rose, 
 slowly skirted the partition dividing the dark closet 
 from the studio, and appeared to be examining the 
 window from which the light came, making it of so 
 much importance that she got up on a chair to fasten 
 the green serge that intercepted the light, much 
 higher. Having attained this height, she came 
 upon a slight chink in the partition, the real object
 
 THE VENDETTA 257 
 
 of her efforts, for the look she cast through it can 
 only be compared to that of a miser discovering 
 Aladdin's treasures: she quickly got down, returned 
 to her place, adjusted her picture, pretended to be 
 dissatisfied with the light, drew a table to the parti- 
 tion upon which she placed a chair, nimbly climbed 
 upon this scaffold and again looked through the 
 crack. She only cast one glance into the closet, 
 then lighted by a skylight that some one had opened, 
 and what she saw there caused her so violent a 
 sensation, that she started. 
 
 "You will fall, Mademoiselle Ginevra!" cried 
 Laure. All looked at the imprudent girl who was 
 tottering. The fear lest her companions should 
 crowd round her lent her courage. She recovered 
 her strength and her balance, turned to Laure 
 whilst swinging herself on her chair and said in 
 trembling tones: " Bah! at least it is a little firmer 
 than a throne!" 
 
 She hurriedly fastened the serge, got down, 
 pushed the table and chair far away from the parti- 
 tion, returned to her easel, and made several more 
 trials as if she were seeking a mass of light to suit 
 her. She was hardly thinking of her picture, her 
 object was to be near the dark closet, beside which 
 she fixed herself as she wished, close to the door. 
 Then she set about preparing her palette, maintain- 
 ing the most profound silence. Upon this spot, she 
 soon heard more distinctly the slight noise, which, 
 the day before, had so strongly excited her curiosity 
 and caused her youthful imagination to travel all 
 17
 
 258 THE VENDETTA 
 
 over the vast field of conjecture. She easily 
 recognized the deep, regular breathing of the sleep- 
 ing man she had just seen. Her curiosity was 
 satisfied beyond her desires, but she found herself 
 burdened by a tremendous responsibility. Through 
 the crevice, she had caught a glimpse of the imperial 
 eagle, and, on a feebly-lighted bed of sacking, the 
 figure of an officer of the guard. She guessed all; 
 Servin was concealing a fugitive. Now, she trembled 
 lest any of her companions should come to examine 
 her picture and overhear the wretched man's respira- 
 tion or too loud breathing, like that which had 
 reached her ears during the last lesson. She resolved 
 to remain close to this door, trusting to her own 
 skill to baffle the chances of fate. 
 
 " It is better that I should be here," she thought, 
 "to prevent any evil accident, than leave the poor 
 prisoner at the mercy of some blunder." 
 
 Such was the secret of the apparent indifference 
 Ginevra had shown at finding her easel disarranged; 
 inwardly she was delighted, since she had been 
 able to satisfy her curiosity so naturally; besides, at 
 this moment, she was too deeply preoccupied to 
 seek the reason of her removal. Nothing is more 
 mortifying to young girls, as well as to everybody, 
 than to see a spiteful trick, an insult or a witticism 
 failing in its effect in consequence of the disdain 
 shown by the victim. It seems as if hatred 
 towards an enemy grows in proportion to the 
 superiority with which he rises above us. Ginevra's 
 conduct was a mystery to all her companions. Her
 
 THE VENDETTA 259 
 
 friends as well as her enemies were equally sur- 
 prised; for they granted all possible good qualities 
 but that of forgiving an injury. Although the inci- 
 dents of studio life had very rarely offered Ginevra 
 any opportunity of displaying this defect of character, 
 the examples she had been able to give of her 
 vindictive disposition and firmness, had none the 
 less left a deep impression in the minds of her com- 
 panions. After much conjecture. Mademoiselle 
 Roguin ended by thinking that the Italian's silence 
 showed a grandeur of soul above all praise; and her 
 circle, incited by her, formed a scheme for humil- 
 iating the aristocracy of the studio. They gained 
 their object by a fire of sarcasms which humbled 
 the pride of the right-hand party. The arrival of 
 Madame Servin put an end to this struggle of amour- 
 propre. With the cunning that always accompanies 
 spitefulness, Amelie had noticed, analyzed and put 
 a construction upon the amazing preoccupation 
 which prevented Ginevra hearing the acidly polite 
 dispute of which she was the subject. 
 
 The revenge obtained by Mademoiselle Roguin 
 and her companions over Mademoiselle Thirion and 
 her group, then had the fatal effect of causing the 
 young ultras to inquire into the reason for Ginevra 
 di Piombo's silence. The beautiful Italian thus 
 became the centre of all looks, and was watched by 
 her friends and enemies alike. It is very hard to 
 hide the slightest emotion, the least feeling from 
 fifteen young inquisitive idle girls, whose malice and 
 intelligence ask nothing better than to guess secrets,
 
 260 THE VENDETTA 
 
 to create and baffle intrigues, and who are too clever 
 in finding different interpretations for a gesture, a 
 glance, or a word not to be able to discover its true 
 meaning. Therefore, Ginevra di Piombo's secret 
 was soon in great danger of becoming known. At 
 this moment, Madame Servin's presence caused 
 an interval in the drama which was being secretly 
 acted at the bottom of these young hearts, the sen- 
 timents, thoughts and progress of which were ex- 
 pressed by almost allegorical phrases, by malicious 
 glances, gestures, and even by silence, often more 
 intelligible than words. As soon as Madame Servin 
 entered the studio, her eyes fell upon the door near 
 Ginevra. Under the present circumstances, this 
 look was not lost. If, at first, none of the pupils 
 paid any attention to it, later on Mademoiselle 
 Thirion remembered it, and accounted for the mis- 
 trust, fear and mystery which at that time gave a 
 certain hunted look to Madame Servin's eyes. 
 
 " Mesdemoiselles," she said, "Monsieur Servin 
 will not be able to come to-day." 
 
 Then she complimented each young lady, while 
 receiving from all of them a great many of those 
 feminine caresses which are shown as much in the 
 voice and look as in action. She quickly reached 
 Ginerva, governed by an anxiety which she vainly 
 strove to hide. The Italian and the painter's wife 
 exchanged a friendly nod, and both remained silent, 
 the one painting, the other looking on. The sol- 
 dier's breathing could easily be heard, but Madame 
 Servin appeared not to notice it; and so good was
 
 THE VENDETTA 261 
 
 her dissimulation, that Ginevra was tempted to 
 accuse her of voluntary deafness. Meanwhile, the 
 stranger moved in his bed. The Italian looked 
 earnestly at Madame Servin, who then said to her, 
 without her face undergoing the least change: 
 
 "Your copy is as beautiful as the original. If I 
 had to choose, I should be very much perplexed." 
 
 " Monsieur Servin has not trusted this mystery to 
 his wife," thought Ginevra, who, after answering 
 the young woman by a gentle smile of incredulity, 
 hummed a can:^onetta from her own country to cover 
 any noise that the prisoner might make. 
 
 It was so unusual to hear the studious Italian sing- 
 ing, that all the young girls, astonished, looked at 
 her. Later on, this circumstance served as a proof 
 to the charitable suppositions of hatred. Madame 
 Servin soon left, and the session closed without any 
 further incident. Ginevra let her companions go, 
 and seemed to wish to continue working for a long 
 time yet; but she unconsciously betrayed her desire 
 to remain alone, for, whilst the pupils were preparing 
 to go, she cast them ill-disguised looks of impatience. 
 Mademoiselle Thirion, become in a few hours a cruel 
 enemy to her who excelled her in everything, 
 guessed by some instinct of hatred that her rival's 
 pretended application was concealing a mystery. 
 She had been struck more than once by the atten- 
 tive air with which Ginevra had set herself to listen 
 to a noise which nobody else heard. The expression 
 she had in the last place surprised in the Italian's 
 eyes was a flash of light to her. She was the last
 
 262 THE VENDETTA 
 
 of the pupils to leave, and she went down to Madame 
 Servin, with whom she talked for a moment; then 
 pretending to have forgotten her bag, very gently 
 went up again to the studio, and saw Ginevra 
 perched upon a hastily erected scaffolding, so deeply 
 lost in contemplation of the military stranger, that 
 she did not hear the light sound of her companion's 
 footstep. It is true that, according to an expression 
 of Walter Scott's, Amelie was treading as if on eggs; 
 she quickly regained her studio door and coughed. 
 Ginevra started, turned her head, saw her enemy, 
 reddened, hastened to unfasten the serge to throw 
 her off the scent, and got down after having tidied 
 her color box. She left the studio carrying away 
 engraved in her memory the image of a man's head, 
 as graceful as that of Endymion, a masterpiece of 
 Girodet that she had copied a few days before. 
 
 " Proscribing so young a man! Who can he be? 
 for it is not Marshal Ney." 
 
 These sentences are the most simple expression 
 of all the ideas that Ginevra uttered for two days. 
 The third day, in spite of her care to be the first at 
 the studio, she found Mademoiselle Thirion, who had 
 driven there. Ginevra and her enemy observed 
 each other a long time; but they assumed impene- 
 trable faces toward each other. Amelie had seen 
 the stranger's charming head; but, both happily and 
 unhappily, the eagles of the uniform were not placed 
 in the space that she could see through the chink. 
 She was then lost in conjecture. All of a sudden 
 Servin arrived, much earlier than usual.
 
 THE VENDETTA 263 
 
 "Mademoiselle Ginevra," he said, after having 
 glanced round the studio, "why are you sitting 
 there? The light is bad. Come nearer to these 
 young ladies, and pull down your curtain a little." 
 
 Then he seated himself beside Laure, whose work 
 earned his most kindly corrections. 
 
 "Yes, indeed," he cried, "here is a beautifully 
 done head! You will be a second Ginevra." 
 
 The master went from easel to easel, scolding, 
 flattering, joking, and as always, causing more terror 
 by his jests than by his reprim?nds. The Italian 
 had not obeyed the professor's observations, and 
 remained at her post with the firm determination 
 not to leave it. She took a sheet of paper and 
 began to sketch the head of the poor recluse in 
 sepia. A work conceived with passion always bears 
 a peculiar stamp. The faculty of expressing the 
 translations of nature or thought in true colors con- 
 stitutes genius, and passion often supplies its place. 
 Therefore, in Ginevra's case, the intuition she owed 
 to her keenly roused imagination, or perhaps neces- 
 sity, the mother of great things, lent her a super- 
 natural talent. The officer's head was dashed upon 
 the paper in the midst of an internal thrilling that 
 she attributed to fear, and in which a physiologist 
 would have recognized the fever of inspiration. 
 From time to time she glanced furtively at her com- 
 panions, in order to be able to hide the wash in case 
 of any indiscretion on their part. In spite of her 
 active watchfulness, there came a moment in which 
 she did not perceive the eyeglass that her merciless
 
 264 THE VENDETTA 
 
 enemy was pointing at the mysterious drawing, 
 whilst sheltering herself behind a big portfolio. 
 Mademoiselle Thirion, recognizing the refugee's 
 face, abruptly raised her head, and Ginevra drew 
 the sheet of paper closer. 
 
 "Why did you stay here in spite of my advice, 
 Mademoiselle?" the professor gravely asked 
 Ginevra. 
 
 The pupil quickly turned her easel in such a way 
 that no one could see her wash, and whilst showing 
 it to her master, anxiously said: 
 
 " Do you not also think that this is a better light? 
 ought I not to stay here?" 
 
 Servin turned pale. As nothing escapes the 
 piercing eye of hatred. Mademoiselle Thirion made 
 a third, so to speak, in the emotion which disturbed 
 both master and pupil. 
 
 " You are right," said Servin, " but you will soon 
 know more about it than I do," he added with a 
 forced laugh. 
 
 There was a pause, during which the professor 
 contemplated the officer's head. 
 
 " This is a masterpiece worthy of Salvator Rosa!" 
 he cried with an artist's vehemence. 
 
 At this exclamation, all the young girls rose, and 
 Mademoiselle Thirion ran up with the swiftness of a 
 tiger who throws itself upon its prey. At this 
 moment, the refugee, wakened by the noise^ moved. 
 Ginevra overturned her stool, uttered some rather 
 incoherent sentences, and began to laugh; but she 
 had folded the portrait and thrown it into her
 
 THE VENDETTA 265 
 
 portfolio before her formidable enemy was able to 
 see it. The easel was surrounded; Servin loudly 
 detailed the beauties of the copy that his favorite 
 pupil was now making, and everyone was taken in 
 by this stratagem, except Amelie, who, placing 
 herself behind her companions, tried to open the 
 portfolio in which she had seen the wash laid. 
 Ginevra seized the portfolio and put it in front of 
 her without a word. The two young girls then 
 inspected each other in silence. 
 
 "Come, mesdemoiselles, to your places," said 
 Servin, "if you wish to know as much as Made- 
 moiselle di Piombo, you must not always talk about 
 fashions or balls, and trifle as you do." 
 
 When all the young girls had returned to their 
 easels, Servin seated himself by Ginevra. 
 
 " Was it not as well that this mystery should be 
 discovered by me and not by another.?" said the 
 Italian in a low voice. 
 
 " Yes," answered the painter, " you are patriotic; 
 but, even had you not been, I should still have 
 confided it to you." 
 
 The master and pupil understood each other, and 
 Ginevra was no longer afraid to ask: 
 
 "Who is it?" 
 
 " Labedoyere's intimate friend, the one who, 
 next to the unfortunate colonel, contributed most for 
 the union of the seventh with the grenadiers of the 
 island of Elba. He was a major in the guard, and is 
 just back from Waterloo." 
 
 " How is it you have not burnt his uniform, and
 
 266 THE VENDETTA 
 
 his shako, and given him bourgeois clothes?" asked 
 Ginevra, eagerly. 
 
 " They are going to bring me some to-night." 
 
 " You ought to have shut up our studio for a few 
 days." 
 
 " He is leaving." 
 
 "Then he wants to die?" said the young girl; 
 " let him stay with you during the first stormy 
 times. Paris is the only place in France where one 
 can safely hide a man. He is a friend of yours?" 
 she asked. 
 
 " No, he has no other claim upon my regard than 
 that of his misfortune. This is how he came to fall 
 into my hands: my father-in-law, who had returned 
 to the service during this campaign, met this poor 
 young man, and very cleverly saved him from the 
 clutches of those who have arrested Labedoy^re. 
 He wanted to shelter him, the madman!" 
 
 "And you can call him that!" cried Ginevra, 
 looking in surprise at the painter, who was silent for 
 a moment. 
 
 " My father-in-law is too much spied upon to be 
 able to keep anyone at his house," he replied, " so 
 for the last week he has nightly brought him here. 
 I had hoped to conceal him from all eyes by putting 
 him in this corner, the only place in the house where 
 he is in safety." 
 
 " If I can be of any use to you, employ me," said 
 Ginevra, " 1 know the Marechal de Feltre." 
 
 " Well, we shall see," answered the painter. 
 
 This conversation lasted too long to escape the
 
 M. SERVIN'S STUDIO 
 
 When the painter and Ginevra believed them- 
 selves alone, he knocked, in a certain way at the 
 attic door, which at once turned tip on its rusty, noisy 
 hinges. The Italian saw a young man appear, tall 
 and well-made, whose imperial imiform made her 
 heart beat. The officer s arm was in a sling.
 
 ^Atf^^Ju:^ ¥SSg^ ^^.tfi^ iA 
 
 R. . ^t Los \ios , icn/jf! _'
 
 THE VENDETTA 267 
 
 notice of all the young girls. Servin left Ginevra, 
 returned once more to each easel, and gave such a 
 long lesson, that he was still on the staircase when 
 the hour at which his pupils usually left, sounded. 
 
 "You are forgetting your bag. Mademoiselle 
 Thirion," cried the professor, running after the 
 young girl, who was stooping to the work of a spy 
 to gratify her hatred. 
 
 The inquisitive pupil came to fetch her bag whilst 
 showing some surprise at her own carelessness, but 
 Servin's attention was an additional proof to her of 
 the existence of an undoubtedly serious mystery; 
 she had already imagined all that must exist, and 
 could say like the Abbe Vertol: "My siege is laid." 
 She noisily clattered down the stairs and violently 
 shut the door leading to Servin's apartment, in 
 order to give the belief that she had gone out; but 
 she softly reascended, and stood behind the studio 
 door. When the painter and Ginevra believed 
 themselves alone, he knocked in a certain way at 
 the attic door, which at once turned upon its rusty, 
 noisy hinges. The Italian saw a young man appear, 
 tall and well-made, whose imperial uniform made 
 her heart beat. The officer's arm was in a sling, 
 and the pallor of his complexion implied keen suffer- 
 ings. Seeing a stranger, he started. 
 
 Amelie, who could see nothing, was afraid to 
 remain any longer; but the creaking of the door 
 being sufficient for her, she went away noiselessly. 
 
 "Do not be afraid," said the painter to the 
 officer, "mademoiselle is the daughter of the
 
 268 THE VENDETTA 
 
 Emperor's most faithful friend, the Baron de 
 Piombo." 
 
 The young soldier had no further doubt about 
 Ginevra's patriotism, after having seen her. 
 
 "Are you wounded?" she said. 
 
 "Oh! it is nothing, mademoiselle, the wound is 
 closing." 
 
 At this moment, the shrill, piercing voices of the 
 newsboys reached the studio: " Here is the sentence 
 of death — " All three started. The soldier was the 
 first to hear the name which made him turn pale. 
 
 " Labedoyere!" he said, sinking on to the stool. 
 They looked at each other in silence. Drops of 
 perspiration gathered on the young man's livid 
 forehead; with a gesture of despair he clutched his 
 dark clusters of hair, and leant his elbow on the 
 edge of Ginevra's easel. 
 
 "After all," he said, abruptly rising, " Labe^ 
 doyere and I knew what we were doing. We 
 knew what fate to expect after triumph as after 
 failure. He dies for his cause, and I hide — " 
 
 He was hurrying toward the studio door; but, 
 swifter still, Ginevra had sprung forward and barred 
 the way. 
 
 "Will that re-establish the Emperor?" she said. 
 " Do you think you can raise this giant when he 
 himself did not know how to stand?" 
 
 "What do you imagine is to become of me?" 
 then said the refugee, addressing the two friends 
 that chance had sent him, " I have not a single 
 relation in the world. Labedoyere was my protector
 
 THE VENDETTA 269 
 
 and friend, I am alone; to-morrow I may perhaps be 
 banished or condemned. I have never had any 
 more income than my pay, I have spent my last 
 penny in coming to save Labedoyere from his fate 
 and in trying to take him away; so death is a neces- 
 sity for me. When one has made up his mind to 
 die, he must know how to sell his head to the exe- 
 cutioner. I was thinking just now that the life of 
 one honest man was well worth that of two traitors, 
 and that a well -placed stroke of a dagger might give 
 immortality." 
 
 This paroxysm of despair frightened the painter 
 and Ginevra herself, though she thoroughly under- 
 stood the young man. The Italian admired the 
 handsome head and delicious voice whose sweetness 
 was hardly changed by the accents of frenzy; then 
 she suddenly threw balm upon all the wounds of the 
 unfortunate man: 
 
 " Monsieur," she said, " as to your pecuniary dis- 
 tress, let me offer you gold from my savings. My 
 father is rich, I am his only child, he loves me, and 
 I am quite sure he would not blame me. Do not 
 scruple to accept it: our blessings come from the 
 Emperor, and we have not a farthing that is not 
 the result of his munificence. Would it not be only 
 grateful to oblige one of his faithful soldiers.^* So 
 take this sum with as little ceremony as I offer it to 
 you. It is only money," she added in a scornful 
 tone. " Now, as to friends, you will find some!" 
 
 At that, she proudly raised her head, and her 
 eyes shone with unwonted lustre.
 
 270 THE VENDETTA 
 
 " The head that will fall to-morrow before a dozen 
 rifles saves yours," she resumed. " Wait until the 
 storm is over, and you can go and seek service 
 abroad if they do not forget you; or in the French 
 army if they do forget you." 
 
 In the consolation given by a woman there always 
 exists something motherly, shrewd and complete. 
 But, when to these words of peace and hope are 
 added graceful gestures, that eloquence of tone that 
 comes from the heart, and above all when the bene- 
 factress is beautiful, it is difficult for a young man 
 to resist. The refugee inhaled love in all his senses. 
 A light pink color tinged his white cheeks, his eyes 
 lost a little of the melancholy that dimmed them, 
 and he said in a peculiar tone of voice: 
 
 "You are an angel of goodness! But Labe- 
 doyere," he added, " Labedoyere!" 
 
 At this cry, they all three looked at each other in 
 silence, and understood each other. They were no 
 longer friends of twenty minutes, but twenty years. 
 
 " My dear fellow," replied Servin, " can you save 
 him?" 
 
 " I can avenge him." 
 
 Ginevra started; although the stranger was hand- 
 some, his appearance had in no way moved the 
 young girl; the gentle pity that women find in their 
 hearts for miseries that have nothing ignoble about 
 them, had stifled all other feelings in Ginevra; but 
 to hear a cry of vengeance, to meet in this refugee 
 an Italian spirit, devotion for Napoleon, Corsican 
 generosity! — It was too much for her; she then
 
 THE VENDETTA 27I 
 
 contemplated the officer with a reverential emotion 
 which deeply disturbed her heart. It was the first 
 time any man had caused her so keen a sensation. 
 Like all women, she delighted in placing the 
 stranger's soul on a level with the distinguished 
 beauty of his features, and with the happy propor- 
 tions of his figure which, as an artist, she admired. 
 Led by chance from curiosity to pity, from pity to a 
 powerful interest, from that interest she arrived at 
 such deep feelings that she thought it dangerous to 
 remain there any longer. 
 
 "Good-bye until to-morrow," she said, leaving 
 the officer the sweetest of her smiles as consolation. 
 Seeing this smile, which threw a new light upon 
 Ginevra's face, the stranger forgot all for a moment. 
 
 "To-morrow," he replied sadly, "to-morrow, 
 Labedoy^re — " 
 
 Ginevra turned, put her finger upon her lips, and 
 looked at him as if to say, "Calm yourself; be 
 prudent." 
 
 Then the young man cried: 
 
 "O Dio! che non vorrei vivere dopo averla 
 veduta! — O God! who would not wish to live after 
 having seen her!" 
 
 The peculiar accent with which he uttered these 
 words made Ginevra thrill. 
 
 "You are Corsican?" she cried, coming back to 
 him, her heart beating joyfully. 
 
 " I was born in Corsica," he replied; " but I was 
 taken to Genoa when very young; and, as soon as 
 I reached the age for military service. I enlisted."
 
 272 THE VENDETTA 
 
 The stranger's beauty, the extraordinary charm 
 that his attachment to the Emperor lent him, his 
 wound, his misfortune, even his danger faded from 
 Ginevra's eyes, or rather all were merged into a 
 single new, delicious feeling. This refugee was a 
 child of Corsica, he spoke the beloved language! 
 For a moment the young girl remained motionless, 
 held by a magic sensation; before her eyes was a 
 living picture vividly colored by combined human 
 feeling and accident; at Servin's bidding, the officer 
 had seated himself on a divan, the painter had 
 loosened the sling which held his guest's arm, and 
 he was busily undoing the bandage in order to dress 
 the wound. Ginevra shivered at sight of the long, 
 deep sore made by a sword blade on the young 
 man's fore-arm, and a groan burst from her. The 
 stranger lifted his head toward her and began to 
 smile. There was something touching and which 
 went to the heart in the care with which Servin 
 was taking off the bandage and feeling the bruised 
 flesh; whilst the wounded man's face, although pale 
 and sickly, expressed at sight of the young girl, 
 more pleasure than suffering. An artist would have 
 involuntarily admired this antithesis of feelings, and 
 the contrasts produced by the whiteness of the 
 linen, the nakedness of the arm, against the officer's 
 blue and red uniform. At this moment, a dusky 
 twilight enshrouded the studio; but a last ray of 
 sunlight lit up the spot where the refugee was sit- 
 ting, so that his pale, noble face, black hair, and his 
 garments, were flooded with light. The superstitious
 
 THE VENDETTA 273 
 
 Italian took this simple effect for a happy omen. 
 Thus the stranger resembled a heavenly messenger 
 who spoke her native tongue to her, who placed her 
 under the spell of her childhood's memories, whilst 
 in her heart was growing a feeling as sweet and 
 pure as her early infancy. For a brief moment, she 
 stood dreaming and as if sunk in infinite thought; 
 then she blushed at showing her preoccupation, 
 exchanged a gentle, swift look with the refugee, and 
 ran away seeing him always before her eyes. 
 
 18
 
 The next day, as there was no class, Ginevra 
 came to the studio, and the prisoner was able to 
 stay by his compatriot; Servin, who had a sketch to 
 finish, allowed the recluse to remain there whilst 
 acting as mentor to the two young people, who 
 often conversed in Corsican, The poor soldier 
 related his sufferings during the defeat at Moscow, 
 for he found himself, at nineteen, at the passage of 
 the Beresina, the only one of his regiment after 
 having lost amongst his comrades the only men who 
 could interest themselves in an orphan. With fiery 
 touch he depicted the great disaster of Waterloo. 
 His voice was music to the Italian. Brought up in 
 Corsican ways, Ginevra was in some degree a 
 child of nature, she was unacquainted with false- 
 hood and yielded herself unreservedly to her 
 impressions; she acknowledged them, or rather, 
 allowed them to be guessed without any exercise of 
 the petty, calculating coquetry of the young girls of 
 Paris. During this day, she stopped more than once, 
 her palette in one hand, her brush in the other, 
 without moistening it with the colors on the palette; 
 with eyes fastened on the officer and with slightly 
 parted lips, she listened, always in readiness to 
 make a stroke of the brush which she never made. 
 She did not wonder at finding so much sweetness in 
 the young man's eyes, for she felt her own growing 
 
 (275)
 
 276 THE VENDETTA 
 
 soft in spite of lier determination to keep them 
 severe and calm. Then, after that, she would paint 
 with particular application for hours together, with- 
 out raising her head, because he was there, beside 
 her, watching her at work. The first time that he 
 came to sit near to look at her in silence, she said to 
 him in a voice of emotion, after a long pause: 
 
 " Then it amuses you to see me painting?" 
 
 That day, she learnt that his name was Luigi. 
 Before separating, they agreed that on studio days, 
 if any important political event had happened, 
 Ginevra should inform of it by singing in a low 
 voice certain Italian airs. 
 
 The next day, Mademoiselle Thirion secretly told 
 all her companions that Ginevra di Piombo was 
 loved by a young man who came, during lesson 
 hours, and settled himself in the dark closet in the 
 studio. 
 
 "You, who take her part," she said to Made- 
 moiselle Roguin, " watch her well, and you will see 
 how she spends her time." 
 
 Accordingly, Ginevra was then observed with 
 diabolical attention. They listened to her songs, 
 and watched her looks. Just when she thought 
 nobody saw her, a dozen eyes were immediately 
 fixed upon her. Thus forewarned, these young girls 
 interpreted aright the agitations flitting across the 
 Italian's brilliant face, her actions, the peculiar tone 
 of her humming, and the intentness of the look with 
 which they saw her listening to the indistinct sounds 
 which she alone could hear through the partition.
 
 THE VENDETTA 277 
 
 At the end of a week, only one of Servin's fifteen 
 pupils, Laure, had resisted her inclination to ex- 
 amine Louis through the chink in the partition; and 
 by an instinct of weakness, she still defended the 
 beautiful Corsican; Mademoiselle Roguin wanted to 
 make her stay on the stairs at the hour for leaving 
 in order to prove to her the intimacy between 
 Ginevra and the handsome young man by surprising 
 them together; but she refused to stoop to an 
 espionage that curiosity could not justify, and she 
 became an object of universal disapproval. Very 
 soon the daughter of the usher in the king's cabinet 
 found it inconvenient to attend the studio of a painter 
 whose opinions were tinged by patriotism or Bona- 
 partism, which, at that time, seemed to be one and 
 the same thing; so she came no more to Servin's. 
 If Amelie forgot Ginevra, the evil she had sown 
 bore its fruits. Gradually, through accident, chat- 
 tering or prudishness, all the other young students 
 told their mothers of the strange intrigue going on at 
 the studio. One day, Mathilde Roguin did not 
 come; the next lesson, it was another young girl; 
 finally three or four young ladies, who had remained 
 to the last, came no more. Ginevra and her little 
 friend Mademoiselle Laure, were for two or three 
 days the only occupants of the deserted studio. 
 The Italian did not notice her desertion, and did not 
 even enquire into the reasons for her companions' 
 absence. Since she had invented means of com- 
 municating with Louis, she lived at the studio as if 
 in a delicious retreat, alone in the midst of the
 
 278 THE VENDETTA 
 
 world, thinking only of the officer and the dangers 
 which threatened him. This young girl, although a 
 sincere admirer of those noble characters who refuse 
 to betray their political faith, pressed Louis to 
 promptly submit to the royal authority, in order to 
 keep him in France, and Louis would not submit so 
 as to remain in his hiding-place. 
 
 If passions only spring and grow under the 
 influence of romantic causes, never were there so 
 many circumstances conspiring to unite two beings 
 by the same feeling. Ginevra's friendship for Louis 
 and Louis's for her thus made more progress in one 
 month than society friendship would have made in 
 ten years in a drawing-room. Is not adversity the 
 touchstone of character .-' Ginevra was therefore 
 easily able to know and appreciate Louis and they 
 soon felt a mutual esteem for one another. Older 
 than Louis, Ginevra found a certain sweetness in 
 being courted by a young man who was already so 
 great, so tried by fate, and in whom a man's ex- 
 perience was combined with the gifts of youth. On 
 his side, Louis felt unutterable pleasure in allowing 
 a young girl of twenty-five to apparently protect 
 him. Was it not a proof of love? The union of 
 gentleness and pride, of strength and weakness was 
 an irresistible attraction in Ginevra; so Louis was 
 completely subjugated by her. In short, they 
 already loved each other so deeply, that they did 
 not need to deny or confess it to themselves. 
 
 One day, towards evening, Ginevra heard the 
 signal agreed upon; Louis was tapping upon the
 
 THE VENDETTA 279 
 
 woodwork with a pin in such a way as to produce 
 no more noise than a spider spinning its web, and 
 thus asked if he might come out of his retreat. She 
 cast a look round the studio, did not see little Laure, 
 and answered the signal; but, on opening the door, 
 Louis perceived the pupil, and retired hastily. 
 Surprised, Ginevra looked round, saw Laure, and 
 said to her whilst going to her easel: 
 
 " You stay very late, dear. And yet this head 
 seems to me finished, there is only one reflection to 
 indicate on the top of this lock of hair." 
 
 " You would be very good," said Laure in a voice 
 of emotion, " if you would correct this copy for me, 
 I could then keep something of yours — " 
 
 "I will gladly," resumed Ginevra, feeling sure 
 in this way of being able to send her away. " 1 
 thought," she answered, giving light touches with 
 the brush, " that your home was a long way from 
 the studio?" 
 
 " Oh! Ginevra, I am going, and for ever," cried 
 the young girl, with a sad face. 
 
 "You are leaving Monsieur Servin?" asked the 
 Italian, without seeming as much affected by these 
 words as she would have been a month before. 
 
 "Have you not noticed then, Ginevra, that for 
 some time, you and I are the only ones here?" 
 
 " That's true," answered Ginevra, as if suddenly 
 struck by some recollection, "are the young ladies ill, 
 married, or are their fathers all serving at the Castle ? ' ' 
 
 "They have all left Monsieur Servin," replied 
 Laure.
 
 280 THE VENDETTA 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 " Because of you, Ginevra." 
 
 " Of me!" repeated the Corsican girl rising, with 
 lowering brow, a fierce look and flashing eyes. 
 
 " Oh! do not be angry, dear Ginevra," mourn- 
 fully cried Laure. " But my mother too wishes me 
 to leave the studio. All the young ladies said that 
 you were carrying on an intrigue, that Monsieur 
 Servin allowed a young man who loved you to 
 remain in the dark closet; I have never believed 
 these slanders and have said nothing to my mother. 
 Yesterday evening, Madame Roguin met my mother 
 at a ball and asked her if she still sent me here. On 
 my mother replying in the affirmative she repeated 
 these young ladies' stories. Mama gave me a good 
 scolding, she declared that I must know of all this, 
 that, in not speaking of it to her I was wanting in 
 the confidence existing between mother and daugh- 
 ter. Oh! dear Ginevra! I, who have looked upon 
 you as my model, how sorry I am not to be able to 
 remain your companion — ." 
 
 " We shall meet again in life; young girls 
 marry — ," said Ginevra. 
 
 " When they are rich," replied Laure. 
 
 " Come and see me, my father is wealthy." 
 
 " Ginevra," rejoined Laure tenderly, " Madame 
 Roguin and my mother are coming to-morrow to re- 
 proach Monsieur Servin; at least, let him be warned." 
 
 Had a thunderbolt fallen in front of Ginevra she 
 could not have been more astonished at this dis- 
 closure.
 
 THE VENDETTA 28 I 
 
 " What did it matter to them?" she said naively. 
 
 " Everyone thinks it is very wrong. Mama says 
 it is against morality — " 
 
 " And you, Laure, what do you think of it.?" 
 
 The young girl looked at Ginevra, their thoughts 
 mingled, Laure no longer controlled her tears, threw 
 her arms round her friend's neck and kissed her. 
 At this moment, Servin arrived. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Ginevra," he said enthusias- 
 tically, " I have finished my picture, it is being 
 varnished — What is the m.atter with you? It 
 seems that all these young ladies are taking holidays, 
 or are in the country?" 
 
 Laure dried her tears, bowed to Servin and with- 
 drew. 
 
 " The studio has been deserted for several days," 
 said Ginevra, "and the girls are not coming back," 
 
 "Bah ?"— 
 
 "Oh! you need not laugh," replied Ginevra, 
 "listen: I am the involuntary cause of the loss of 
 your reputation." 
 
 The artist began to smile, and said, interrupting his 
 pupil: 
 
 "My reputation? But — in a few days — my picture 
 will be exhibited." 
 
 "It is no question of your talent," said the 
 Italian, "it concerns your morality. These girls 
 have given out that Louis is shut up here, that you 
 countenanced — our love — " 
 
 "There is some truth in that, mademoiselle," 
 replied the professor. " The mothers of these girls
 
 282 THE VENDETTA 
 
 are prudes," he resumed. " Had they come to see 
 me, all might have been explained. But why 
 should I care for all that? Life is too short!" 
 
 And the painter snapped his fingers above his head. 
 
 Louis, who had heard part of this conversation, 
 hastened up directly. 
 
 "You will lose all your pupils," he cried, " and 
 I shall have ruined you!" 
 
 The artist took Louis's and Ginevra's hands, and 
 joined them. 
 
 "You will marry, children?" he asked with 
 touching kindness. 
 
 They both lowered their eyes, and their silence 
 was the first avowal they made to each other, 
 
 " Well," resumed Servin, "you will be happy, 
 will you not? Can anything pay for the happiness 
 of two such beings?" 
 
 " I am rich," said Ginevra, " and you will allow 
 me to indemnify you — " 
 
 " Indemnify! — "cried Servin, " when it becomes 
 known that I was the victim of the slanders of two 
 or three silly women, and that I was hiding a 
 refugee: why, all the Liberals in Paris will send me 
 their daughters! I may then be your debtor — " 
 
 Louis squeezed his protector's hand, unable to 
 utter a word; but he finally said in a voice of 
 emotion: 
 
 " Then I shall owe all my happiness to you!" 
 
 " Be happy, I join you together," said the painter 
 with comical unction, as he laid his hands upon the 
 heads of the two lovers.
 
 THE VENDETTA 283 
 
 This artistical joke put an end to their emotion. 
 All three looked at one another laughing. 
 
 The Italian grasped Louis tightly by the hand 
 with a simplicity of action worthy the customs of 
 her native country. 
 
 " Ah! my dear children," resumed Servin, " you 
 think now that all goes beautifully. Well, you are 
 mistaken." 
 
 The two lovers gazed at each other in astonish- 
 ment, 
 
 " Don't be afraid, I am the only one embarrassed 
 by your tricks! Madame Servin is a little strait-laced, 
 and, to tell you the truth, I do not know how we 
 are going to settle it with her." 
 
 " Good gracious! I was forgetting!" cried Ginevra. 
 ** To-morrow, Madame Roguin and Laure's mother 
 are to come and — " 
 
 " So I hear," said the painter, interrupting her. 
 
 " But you can justify yourself," replied the young 
 girl with a proud toss of the head. " Monsieur 
 Louis," she said turning towards him and looking at 
 him slyly, " ought to feel no more antipathy for the 
 royal government? — Well," she resumed after see- 
 ing him smile, "to-morrow morning I shall send a 
 petition to one of the most influential persons in the 
 War Office, to a man who can refuse nothing to the 
 daughter of the Baron de Piombo. We will obtain a 
 tacit pardon for Commander Louis, for they would not 
 recognize your rank as major. — And you," she added, 
 addressing Servin, "can confound the mothers of 
 my charitable companions by telling them the truth."
 
 284 THE VENDETTA 
 
 "You are an angel!" cried Servin. 
 
 Whilst this scene was taking place at the studio, 
 Ginevra's father and mother were growing impatient 
 at her non-arrival. 
 
 " It is six o'clock, and Ginevra is not back yet," 
 cried Bartolomeo. 
 
 " She has never come in so late," replied Piombo's 
 wife. 
 
 The two old people looked at each other with all 
 the signs of unusual anxiety. Too much perturbed 
 to remain in his place, Bartolomeo rose, and for a 
 man of seventy-seveji, walked twice round his salon 
 actively enough. Thanks to his robust constitution, 
 he had undergone little change since the day of his 
 arrival in Paris, and, in spite of his height, was still 
 upright. His hair, grown white and thin, left bare 
 a large protuberant skull which gave a great idea of 
 his character and decision. His face, scored with 
 deep wrinkles, had developed tremendously, and 
 retained that pallor which compels veneration. 
 
 The vehemence of passion still prevailed in the 
 supernatural gleam of his eyes, the brows of which 
 had not entirely whitened and still preserved their 
 terrible mobility. The appearance of this head was 
 severe, but one could see that Bartolomeo had the 
 right to be so. Only his wife and child knew his 
 kindness and gentleness. On duty or before 
 strangers, he never laid aside the stateliness that 
 age had imparted to his person, and the habit of 
 knitting his heavy eyebrows, of contracting the 
 wrinkles in his face, of investing his glance with
 
 THE VENDETTA 285 
 
 Napoleonic fixity, gave frigidity to his manner. 
 During the course of his political life, he had been 
 so universally feared, that he passed as unsociable; 
 but it is not difficult to account for this reputation. 
 Piombo's life, morality and fidelity were a reproach 
 to most of the courtiers. In spite of the delicate 
 missions entrusted to his discretion, and which for 
 any other man would have been lucrative, he did 
 not possess more than thirty thousand francs income 
 from the Funds. If one thinks of the cheapness of 
 the public securities under the Empire, of Napoleon's 
 liberality to those of his faithful servants who knew 
 how to speak, it is easy to see that the Baron de 
 Piombo was a man of strict honesty; he only owed 
 his plumage of baron to the necessity Napoleon was 
 under of giving him a title in sending him to a for- 
 eign Court. Bartolomeo had always professed 
 implacable hatred for the traitors with which Na- 
 poleon surrounded himself in the belief that he could 
 win them by means of victories. It was he, they 
 said, who took three steps toward the Emperor's 
 closet door, after having advised him to get rid of 
 three men in France, the eve of the day on which 
 he left upon his famous and wonderful campaign 
 of 1814. Since the second return of the Bourbons, 
 Bartolomeo no longer wore the decoration of the 
 Legion of Honor. Never did any man present a 
 more beautiful picture of those old Republicans, in- 
 corruptible friends of the Empire, who remained like 
 living ruins of the two most energetic governments 
 that the world has ever known. If the Baron de
 
 286 THE VENDETTA 
 
 Piombo was disliked by some of the courtiers, he 
 had friends in the Darus, the Drouots, the Carnots. 
 So, as to the remainder of the politicians, after 
 Waterloo, he cared about them as little as the 
 whiffs of smoke he drew from his cigar. 
 
 By means of the somewhat small sum that Ma- 
 dame, the Emperor's mother, had given him for his 
 property in Corsica, Bartolomeo di Piombo had 
 acquired the old mansion of Portenduere, to which 
 he made no alteration. Almost always lodged at 
 the expense of the government, he had only lived 
 in this house since the catastrophe at Fontainebleau. 
 According to the habit of simple and highly virtuous 
 people, the baron and his wife set no value on out- 
 side show; their furniture came from the old furnish- 
 ings in the house. The great high-storied rooms, 
 dark and bare, of this residence, the large mirrors 
 set in old, almost black, gilt frames, and the Louis 
 XlVth. furniture, were in keeping with Bartolomeo 
 and his wife, both persons worthy of antiquity. 
 Under the Empire and during the Hundred Days, 
 whilst exercising functions that were richly remun- 
 erated, the old Corsican had had a large household, 
 rather with the object of doing credit to his position 
 than with the design of making himself conspicuous. 
 His life and that of his wife were so frugal, and so 
 quiet, that their modest fortune sufficed for their 
 needs. To them, their daughter Ginevra was worth 
 all the riches in the world. So, when, in May, 1814, 
 the Baron de Piombo left his post, dismissed his 
 suite and closed his stable-door, Ginevra, as simple
 
 THE VENDETTA 287 
 
 and unostentatious as her parents, had not a single 
 regret; following the example of great minds, she 
 luxuriated only in the strength of her feelings, as 
 she founded her happiness on solitude and work. 
 Then these three beings loved each other too much 
 for the exteriors of existence to have any value in 
 their eyes. Often, and especially since Napoleon's 
 second and terrible downfall, Bartolomeo and his 
 wife would spend delicious evenings listening to 
 Ginevra playing or singing. Their daughter's pres- 
 ence, or least word, gave them an immense secret 
 pleasure; their eyes followed her with tender 
 anxiety, they heard her step in the yard, however 
 light it might be. Like lovers, they all three knew 
 how to remain silent for hours together, in this way 
 hearing the eloquence of their souls much better 
 than by words. This deep feeling, which was life 
 itself to the two old people, animated all their 
 thoughts. There were not three existences, but 
 one alone, which, like a flame on the hearth, divided 
 itself into three tongues of fire. If sometimes the 
 memory of Napoleon's kindnesses and misfortune, or 
 the politics of the moment, triumphed over the con- 
 stant solicitude of the two old people, they could 
 talk of them without breaking the community of 
 their thoughts: for did not Ginevra share in their 
 political passions? What more natural than the 
 ardor with which they fled to the heart of their only 
 child? Up till then, the Baron de Piombo had been 
 absorbed in occupations of a public life; but, in 
 giving up his employment, the Corsican had to
 
 288 THE VENDETTA 
 
 throw his energy into the last sentiment remaining 
 to him; then, apart from the ties which unite a 
 father and mother to their daughter, there was per- 
 haps, unknown to these three despotic souls, a 
 powerful reason for the fanaticism of their mutual 
 passion; they loved each other equally, Ginevra's 
 whole heart belonged to her father, as did Piombo's 
 to her; in short, if it be true that we cling to each 
 other through our faults rather than through our 
 qualities, then Ginevra responded marvelously to all 
 her father's passions. From this proceeded the only 
 imperfection in this triple life. Ginevra was head- 
 strong in will, vindictive and hasty as Bartolomeo 
 had been in his youth. The Corsican delighted in 
 developing these savage feelings in his daughter's 
 heart, just as a lion teaches its cubs to pounce upon 
 their prey. But as this apprenticeship of vengeance, 
 in some degree, could only be gone through at the 
 paternal home, Ginevra forgave her father nothing, 
 and he was obliged to yield to her. Piombo looked 
 upon these mimic quarrels as mere child's play; but 
 the child contracted the habit of ruling her parents. 
 In the middle of these storms that Bartolomeo loved 
 to excite, one tender word, one look, was enough to 
 calm their wrathful souls, and they were never so 
 near a kiss as when they threatened each other. 
 And yet, for about five years, Ginevra, grown wiser 
 than her father, constantly avoided this sort of scene. 
 Her faithfulness and devotion and the love that 
 triumphed over all her thoughts, and her admirable 
 good sense had overcome her fits of rage; but there
 
 THE VENDETTA 289 
 
 had resulted none the less a great evil; Ginevra 
 lived with her father and mother on a footing of 
 equality which is always fatal. To complete the 
 account of all the changes that had befallen these 
 three persons since their arrival in Paris, Piombo 
 and his wife, both uneducated people, had allowed 
 Ginevra to study according to her fancy. Following 
 her youthful whims, she had learned everything and 
 dropped everything, taking up and leaving each idea 
 in turn, until painting became her ruling passion; 
 she would have been perfect, had her mother been 
 capable of directing her studies, enlightening her 
 and harmonizing the gifts of nature: her faults arose 
 from the fatal education that the old Corsican had 
 delighted in giving her. 
 
 After treading the creaking boards under foot for 
 a long time, the old man rang; a servant appeared. 
 
 "Go and meet Mademoiselle Ginevra," he said. 
 
 " I have always regretted that we no longer had 
 a carriage for her," observed the baroness. 
 
 "She would not have one," replied Piombo, 
 looking at his wife, who, inured for forty years to 
 her role of submission, lowered her eyes. 
 
 Already seventy, tall, withered, pale and wrinkled, 
 the baroness was exactly like those old women that 
 Schnetz puts in the Italian scenes in his genre 
 paintings; she was habitually so silent, that one 
 might have taken her for another Madame Shandy; 
 but a word, a look, a gesture would betray that her 
 feelings had preserved the vigor and freshness of 
 youth. Her toilette, devoid of coquetry, was often 
 19
 
 290 THE VENDETTA 
 
 lacking in taste. She usually remained passive, 
 sunk in an easy-chair, like a Sultana Valide, either 
 waiting for or admiring Ginevra, her pride and her 
 life. It seemed as if her daughter's beauty, toilette 
 and grace had become her own. All was well with 
 her when Ginevra was happy. Her hair had grown 
 white, and several locks could be seen above her 
 pale, wrinkled forehead, or along her hollow 
 cheeks. 
 
 "It is about a fortnight," she said, "since 
 Ginevra has returned a little later." 
 
 " Jean will not go fast enough," cried the im- 
 patient old man, who folded the skirts of his blue 
 coat, seized his hat, crammed it on his head, took his 
 cane and went off. 
 
 "You will not go far," cried his wife. 
 
 In fact, the gate had opened and shut, and the old 
 mother heard Ginevra's step in the yard. Barto- 
 lomeo suddenly reappeared carrying his daughter in 
 triumph, struggling in his arms. 
 
 " Here she is, la Ginevra, la Ginevrettina, la 
 Ginevrina, la Ginevrola, la Ginevretta, la Ginevra 
 bella!" 
 
 " Father, you are hurting me!" 
 
 Ginevra was at once set down with a sort of 
 respect. She nodded her head pleasantly to her 
 mother, who was already startled, as if to say to 
 her, " It is only pretence." 
 
 The color and a kind of gaiety then returned to 
 the baroness's wan, pale face. 
 
 Piombo then rubbed his hands with extreme
 
 THE VENDETTA 29 I 
 
 energy, a sure sign of gladness; he had acquired 
 this habit at Court from seeing Napoleon in a rage 
 with those of his generals or ministers who served 
 him badly or had committed some fault. Once the 
 muscles of his face were relaxed, the slightest 
 wrinkle on his forehead bespoke benevolence. At 
 this moment these two old people exactly resembled 
 suffering plants to whom a little water restores life 
 after a long drought. 
 
 "Come to dinner!" cried the baron holding out 
 his great hand to Ginevra, whom he called Signora 
 Piombellina, another symptom of cheerfulness that 
 his daughter answered with a smile. 
 
 " I say," said Piombo, as they left the table, " do 
 you know that your mother has remarked to me, 
 that, for a month, you stay much longer than usual 
 at the studio? It seems that painting comes before 
 us." 
 
 "Oh! father—" 
 
 " Doubtless Ginevra is preparing some surprise 
 for us," said the mother. 
 
 "You are going to bring me a picture of your 
 own?" cried the Corsican, clapping his hands. 
 
 " Yes, 1 am very busy at the studio," she replied. 
 
 "What is the matter, Ginevra? you are growing 
 pale!" said her mother. 
 
 "No," cried the young girl, a gesture of resolu- 
 tion escaping her, "no! it shall not be said that 
 Ginevra Piombo ever lied in her life!" 
 
 Hearing this singular exclamation, Piombo and 
 his wife looked at their daughter with astonishment.
 
 292 THE VENDETTA 
 
 " I love a young man," she added with emotion. 
 
 Then, not daring to look at her parents, she 
 drooped her large lids, as if to veil the fire in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Is he a prince?" asked her father ironically in a 
 tone of voice that made the mother and daughter 
 tremble. 
 
 "No, father," she answered modestly, "he is a 
 penniless young man — " 
 
 " Then he is very handsome?" 
 
 " He is unfortunate." 
 
 "What does he do?" 
 
 " He is Labedoyere's companion; he was out- 
 lawed, without shelter, Servin hid him, and — " 
 
 " Servin is an honest fellow who has behaved 
 well," cried Piombo, "but you do wrong, my child, 
 to love another that your father — " 
 
 "It is not in my power not to love," gently 
 replied Ginevra. 
 
 "1 flattered myself," resumed her father, "that 
 my Ginevra would be faithful to me until death, 
 that she would have received no attentions but mine 
 and her mother's, that our tenderness would have 
 encountered no rival tenderness in her heart, and 
 that—" 
 
 " Have I ever reproached you for your fanaticism 
 over Napoleon?" said Ginevra. "Am I the only 
 person you have loved? have you not been sent on 
 embassies for months at a time? have I not bravely 
 endured your absences? Life has necessities that 
 one must learn to submit to."
 
 THE VENDETTA 293 
 
 " Ginevra!" 
 
 " No, you do not love me for myself, and your 
 reproaches betray unbearable egotism." 
 
 "You complain of your father's love!" cried 
 Piombo with flaming eyes. 
 
 " Father, I will never accuse you," replied 
 Ginevra, more gently than her trembling mother 
 expected, " you have grounds for your egotism, as I 
 have grounds for my love. Heaven is my witness, 
 that never has a daughter better fulfilled her duty 
 towards her parents. I have never found anything 
 but happiness and love in what others often consider 
 as an obligation. For fifteen years I have not 
 turned aside from your protecting wing, and it has 
 been a very sweet pleasure for me to brighten your 
 days. But should I be ungrateful in yielding my- 
 self to the charm of loving, in wishing for a husband 
 to protect me after you are gone.?" 
 
 "Ah! you are calculating with your father, 
 Ginevra," rejoined the old man in a sinister tone. 
 
 There was a terrifying pause during which no one 
 dared speak. At last Bartolomeo broke the silence 
 by crying in a heart-rending voice: 
 
 "Oh! stay with us, stay by your old father: I 
 could not bear to see you loving a man. Ginevra, 
 you will not have long to wait for your liberty — " 
 
 " But, father, think, that we will not leave you, 
 that there will be two to love you, that you will 
 know the man to whose care you will leave me! 
 You will be doubly loved, by me and him; by him 
 who is yet me, and by me who am entirely himself."
 
 294 THE VENDETTA 
 
 "Oh! Ginevra! Ginevra!" cried the Corsican, 
 clenching his fists, "why did you not marry when 
 Napoleon had accustomed me to the idea, and when 
 he offered you dukes and counts?" 
 
 "They loved me to order," said the young girl, 
 " besides, I did not wish to leave you, and they 
 would have taken me away with them." 
 
 "You do not wish to leave us alone," said 
 Piombo, " but to marry, is to separate us! I know 
 you, child, you would not love us any more." 
 
 "Elisa," he added, looking at his wife, who 
 remained motionless and as if in a stupor, "we no 
 longer have a daughter, she wants to marry." 
 
 The old man sat down after raising his hands in 
 the air as if to invoke God, then he remained bowed 
 down as if overwhelmed beneath his sorrow. 
 Ginevra saw her father's agitation and the modera- 
 tion of his anger broke her heart; she had expected 
 a crisis, a frenzy; she had not armed herself against 
 the paternal gentleness. 
 
 "Father," she said in a touching voice, "no, 
 you shall never be forsaken by your Ginevra. But 
 love her also a little for herself. If you only knew 
 how he loves me! Ah! he would not cause me any 
 pain!" 
 
 " Comparisons already," cried Piombo, in terrible 
 accents. " No! I cannot bear this idea," he 
 resumed. " If he loved you as you deserve to be 
 loved, he would kill me; and, if he did not love you, 
 I should stab him." 
 
 Piombo's hands shook, his lips and body trembled
 
 THE VENDETTA 295 
 
 and his eyes flashed lightning; Ginevra could 
 alone endure his glance, for then her eyes kindled, 
 and the daughter was worthy of the father. 
 
 " Oh! to love you! What man on earth is worthy 
 of it?" he resumed. " To love you as a father, is 
 it not already living in Paradise? Who then is 
 worthy of being your husband?" 
 
 "He is," said Ginevra, "he of whom I feel 
 myself so unworthy." 
 
 "He?" mechanically repeated Piombo, "who.? 
 he?" 
 
 " The man I love." 
 
 " Can he yet know you well enough to adore 
 you?" 
 
 "But, father," replied Ginevra, feeling an im- 
 pulse of impatience, " even if he does not love me, 
 as soon as 1 love him — " 
 
 "You love him then?" cried Piombo. 
 
 Ginevra gently nodded her head. 
 
 " Then you love him more than you love us?" 
 
 " These two feelings cannot be compared," she 
 replied. 
 
 " One is stronger than the other?" rejoined 
 Piombo. 
 
 " I think so," said Ginevra. 
 
 "You will not marry him!" cried the Corsican, 
 in a voice that made the window panes ring. 
 
 " I shall marry him," quietly replied Ginevra. 
 
 " Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" cried the mother, " how 
 is this quarrel to end? Holy Virgin, come between 
 them!"
 
 296 THE VENDETTA 
 
 The baron, who was striding up and down, came 
 and sat down; an icy sternness darkened his face, 
 he looked fixedly at his daughter, and said in a 
 gentle, weak voice: 
 
 "Well, Ginevra! no, you will not marry him. 
 Oh! do not say 'yes' to-night — let me believe the 
 contrary. Do you want to see your father kneeling 
 and his white hairs prostrated before you? I will 
 implore you — " 
 
 " Ginevra Piombo has not been accustomed to 
 make a promise and not keep it," she replied. " I 
 am your daughter." 
 
 "She is right," said the baroness; "we are 
 brought into the world to marry." 
 
 "So, you encourage her in her disobedience," 
 said the baron to his wife, who, struck by this 
 word, became a statue. 
 
 " It is not disobeying to refuse to comply with an 
 unjust order," replied Ginevra. 
 
 " It cannot be unjust when it emanates from your 
 father's mouth, my child! Why do you judge me? 
 Is not the reluctance I feel a warning from on high? 
 I am perhaps preserving you from some misfortune." 
 
 " The misfortune would be if he did not love me!" 
 
 " Always him!" 
 
 " Yes, always," she rejoined; " he is my life, my 
 blessing, my thought. Even in obeying you, he 
 would always be in my heart. To forbid me to 
 marry him, is it not to make me hate you?" 
 
 " You do not love us any more!" cried Piombo. 
 
 " Oh!" said Ginevra, shaking her head.
 
 THE VENDETTA 297 
 
 " Well then! forget him, remain faithful to us. 
 After us — you understand." 
 
 "Father, do you want me to wish for your death?" 
 cried Ginevra. 
 
 " I shall live longer than you will! Children who 
 do not honor their parents die soon," cried her 
 father, reaching the last pitch of exasperation. 
 
 " All the more reason that I should marry at once 
 and be happy," she said. 
 
 This composure, this power of reasoning, com- 
 pleted Piombo's disturbance, the blood rushed 
 violently to his head and his face became purple. 
 Ginevra shivered, she sprang like a bird on to her 
 father's knees, threw her arms round his neck, 
 stroked his hair, and cried, quite softened: 
 
 "Oh! yes! let me die the first! I shall not sur- 
 vive you, father, my good father!" 
 
 "Oh! my Ginevra, my foolish Ginevrina!" 
 answered Piombo, whose anger melted under this 
 caress like ice under the sun's rays. 
 
 "It was time that you both finished," said the 
 baroness in a voice of emotion. 
 
 " Poor mother!" 
 
 " Ah! Ginevretta! ma Ginevra bella!" 
 
 And the father played with his daughter as if 
 with a child of six, he amused himself by undoing 
 the waving locks of her hair, by making her dance; 
 there was something foolish in the expression of his 
 tenderness. Very soon his daughter scolded him 
 whilst kissing him, and tried, whilst joking, to obtain 
 permission for her Louis's admission; but, though
 
 298 THE VENDETTA 
 
 joking too, the father refused. She pouted, came 
 back and pouted again; then, at the end of the 
 evening, she felt content with having engraved upon 
 her father's heart both her love for Louis and the 
 idea of an early marriage.
 
 The next day, she did not speak of her love, she 
 went later to the studio, and returned early; she 
 was more affectionate to her father than she had 
 ever been, and showed herself full of gratitude, as 
 if to thank him for the consent his silence seemed 
 to give to her marriage. In the evening she played 
 a long time, and would often cry: " This nocturne 
 needs a man's voice!" She was Italian, which is 
 saying all. 
 
 At the end of eight days, her mother made a sign 
 to her; she came; then, whispering in her ear: 
 
 "I have persuaded your father to receive him," 
 she said. 
 
 " Oh! mother! you make me very happy!" 
 
 Accordingly, that day, Ginevra had the happiness 
 of returning to her father's house on Louis's arm. 
 For the second time, the poor officer was coming out 
 of his hiding-place. The active solicitations that 
 Ginevra made to the Due de Feltre, at that time 
 Minister of War, had been crowned with complete 
 success. Louis had just been reinstated on the list 
 of unattached officers. It was a very great step 
 toward a better future. Informed by his sweetheart 
 of all the difficulties that awaited him with the baron, 
 the young major did not dare confess the dread he 
 had of not pleasing him. This man, so brave in 
 adversity, so bold on the battle-field, trembled in 
 
 (299)
 
 300 THE VENDETTA 
 
 thinking of his entrance into the Piombos' drawing- 
 room. Ginevra felt him thrilling, and this emotion, 
 whose element was their happiness, was to her a 
 fresh proof of love. 
 
 " How pale you are!" she said to him when they 
 arrived at the door of the house. 
 
 "Oh! Ginevra! if it were only a matter of my 
 life!" 
 
 Although Bartolomeo had been forewarned by his 
 wife of the official presentation of the man Ginevra 
 loved, he did not come forward to meet him, re- 
 mained in the chair he usually sat in, and the 
 severity of his forehead was icy. 
 
 "Father," said Ginevra, "I have brought some 
 one whom you will no doubt be pleased to see; 
 Monsieur Louis, a soldier who fought four feet from 
 the Emperor at Mont Saint-Jean — " 
 
 The Baron de Piombo rose, cast a furtive look at 
 Louis and said sardonically: 
 
 " Monsieur is not decorated.?" 
 
 " I no longer wear the Legion of Honor," timidly 
 answered Louis, who remained humbly standing. 
 
 Ginevra, hurt at her father's rudeness, brought 
 forward a chair. The officer's answer satisfied Na- 
 poleon's old servant. Madame Piombo, seeing that 
 her husband's eyebrows were resuming their natural 
 position, said, in order to enliven conversation: 
 
 " The likeness between Monsieur and Nina Porta 
 is very astonishing. Do you not think that mon- 
 sieur has quite the physiognomy of 'the Portas?" 
 
 "Nothing is more natural," replied the young
 
 THE VENDETTA 3OI 
 
 man, upon whom Piombo's flaming eyes were fixed, 
 " Nina was my sister — " 
 
 " You are Luigi Porta?" asked the old man. 
 
 "Yes—" 
 
 Bartolomeo rose, staggered, was obliged to lean 
 on a chair, and looked at his wife. Elisa Piombo 
 came to him; then the two old people, in silence, 
 took each other's arms, and left the drawing-room, 
 abandoning their daughter with a kind of horror. 
 Luigi Porta, stupefied, looked at Ginevra, who be- 
 came as pale as a marble statue, and remained with 
 her eyes fixed upon the door by which her father 
 and mother had disappeared; there was something so 
 solemn in this silence and this retreat, that, perhaps 
 for the first time, the feeling of fear entered her 
 heart. She clasped her hands violently, and said, 
 in so agitated a voice that only a lover could have 
 heard her: 
 
 "What misery in a word!" 
 
 "In the name of our love, what have 1 said?" 
 asked Luigi Porta. 
 
 "My father," she replied, "has never spoken to 
 me about our wretched history, and I was too young 
 when I left Corsica to know it." 
 
 "Were we in -vendetta?" asked Luigi, trembling. 
 
 "Yes. Upon questioning my mother, I learnt 
 that the Porta had killed my brothers and burnt our 
 house. My father massacred all your family. How 
 have you survived, you whom he believed he had 
 fastened to a bedpost before setting fire to the house ? ' ' 
 
 "I do not know," replied Luigi. "At six years
 
 302 THE VENDETTA 
 
 of age I was taken to Genoa, to the home of an old 
 man called Colonna. No details about my family 
 were given me. I only knew that I was an orphan 
 and penniless. This Colonna was a father to me, 
 and I bore his name up to the day upon which I 
 entered the service. As I needed deeds to prove 
 who I was, the old Colonna then told me that, 
 weak and still a child as I was, I had enemies. He 
 induced me to take the name of Luigi only, so as to 
 escape them." 
 
 "Go! Go! Luigi!" cried Ginevra, "but no, I 
 ought to accompany you. Whilst you are in my 
 father's house, you have nothing to fear; the 
 moment you leave it, take care of yourself! you 
 will go from danger to danger. My father has two 
 Corsicans in his service, and, if he himself does not 
 threaten your life, they will." 
 
 "Ginevra," he said, "is this hatred to exist 
 between you and me?" 
 
 The young girl smiled sadly and hung her head. 
 She soon lifted it with a sort of pride and said: 
 
 " Oh! Luigi! our feelings must be very pure and 
 sincere to give me strength to walk in the path upon 
 which I am to enter. But it is a question of a 
 happiness that is to last for life, is it not?" 
 
 Luigi's only answer was a smile and he pressed 
 Ginevra's hand. 
 
 The young girl understood that true love alone 
 could just then disdain vulgar protestations. The 
 calm, conscientious expression of Luigi's feelings 
 foretold, in some degree, their strength and durance.
 
 THE VENDETTA 303 
 
 The destiny of these two lovers was then fulfilled. 
 Ginevra foresaw that she would have to wage some 
 cruel fights; but the idea of forsaking Louis, a 
 thought which had perhaps drifted through her 
 mind, completely vanished. His always, she sud- 
 denly dragged him with a sort of energy out of the 
 house, and never left him until he reached the 
 house in which Servin had rented him a modest 
 lodging. When she returned to her father's, she 
 had assumed that species of serenity which comes 
 from a strong resolution; no alteration in her man- 
 ners reflected anxiety. She looked up at her father 
 and mother, whom she found about to sit down to 
 table, with eyes that were guiltless of defiance and 
 full of gentleness; she saw that her old mother had 
 been crying and the redness of her wrinkled eyelids 
 moved her heart for a moment; but she hid her 
 emotion. 
 
 Piombo seemed to be a prey to a grief that was 
 too violent and too repressed to be betrayed by 
 ordinary expressions. The servants served the 
 dinner, which nobody touched. A horror of food is 
 one of the symptoms that denote the great crises of 
 the soul. All three rose without having spoken a 
 word to each other. When Ginevra was seated 
 between her father and mother in their great, 
 dark, solemn drawing-room, Piombo wanted to 
 speak, but lost his voice; he tried to walk, but was 
 too weak; he returned to his seat and rang the bell. 
 
 " Pietro," he said at last to a servant, " light the 
 fire; 1 am cold."
 
 304 THE VENDETTA 
 
 Ginevra started and looked anxiously at her 
 father. The struggle he was engaged in must have 
 been horrible, his face was convulsed. Ginevra 
 knew the extent of the peril which threatened her, 
 but she did not quail; whilst the furtive glances that 
 Bartolomeo cast at his daughter seemed to imply 
 that, at this moment, he dreaded the temper whose 
 violence was his own handiwork. Between them 
 all must be extreme. Therefore, the certainty of 
 the change that might take place in the feelings of 
 father and daughter, animated the baroness's face 
 with an expression of terror. 
 
 " Ginevra, you love the enemy of your family," 
 said Piombo finally, not daring to look at his 
 daughter. 
 
 " That is true," she replied. 
 
 ** You must choose between him and us. Our 
 vendetta is part of ourselves. Whoever does not 
 espouse my vengeance does not belong to my 
 family." 
 
 " My choice is made," replied Ginevra in a calm 
 voice. 
 
 His daughter's quiet deceived Bartolomeo. 
 
 "Oh! my dear daughter!" cried the old man, 
 his eyelids suffused with tears, the first and the last 
 he shed in his life. 
 
 " 1 shall be his wife," said Ginevra hastily. 
 
 Bartolomeo became almost dizzy; but he re- 
 covered his composure and replied: 
 
 " This marriage will not take place during my 
 lifetime, 1 will never consent to it."
 
 THE VENDETTA 305 
 
 Ginevra was silent. 
 
 "But," continued the baron, "do you not bear 
 in mind that Luigi is the son of the man who killed 
 your brother?" 
 
 " He was six years old when the crime was com- 
 mitted, he must be innocent of it," she answered. 
 
 "A Porta!" cried Bartolomeo. 
 
 " But have I ever been able to share in this 
 hatred?" said the young girl eagerly, "did you 
 bring me up in the belief that a Porta was a 
 monster? Could I imagine that anyone remained of 
 those you killed? Is it not natural that you should 
 give up your vendetta to my feelings?" 
 
 "A Porta!" said Piombo. " Had his father 
 formerly found you in your bed, you would not 
 have lived, he would have killed you a hundred 
 times over." 
 
 " That may be," she answered, " but his son has 
 given me more than life. To see Luigi, is a happi- 
 ness without which I could not live. Luigi has 
 revealed the world of sentiment to me. I have 
 perhaps seen handsomer faces than his, but none 
 have charmed me so much; I have perhaps heard 
 voices — no, no, never any that were sweeter. 
 Luigi loves me, he shall be my husband." 
 
 " Never!" said Piombo, " 1 would rather see you 
 in your cofifm, Ginevra." 
 
 The old Corsican rose, began to stride hastily 
 about the drawing-room, and burst out with these 
 words, after pauses which reflected all his agitation: 
 
 "Perhaps you think you can bend my will? 
 20
 
 306 THE VENDETTA 
 
 Undeceive yourself; I will not have a Porta for my 
 son-in-law. Such is my decision. Let there be no 
 more question of it between us. I am Bartolomeo 
 di Piombo, do you understand, Ginevra.?" 
 
 "Do you attach some mysterious meaning to 
 these words?" she asked coldly. 
 
 ** They mean that 1 have a dagger, and that I do 
 not fear the justice of men. We Corsicans, we go 
 and account to God." 
 
 " Well," said the daughter rising, " I am Ginevra 
 di Piombo, and I declare, that in six months, I shall 
 be Luigi Porta's wife. You are a tyrant, father," 
 she added, after a dreadful pause. 
 
 Bartolomeo clenched his fists and struck the 
 marble chimney-piece. 
 
 " Ah! we are in Paris!" he murmured. He held 
 his peace, folded his arms, hung his head on his 
 chest and spoke not a single word the whole even- 
 ing. After having expressed her will, the young 
 girl affected an incredible composure; she sat down 
 at the piano, sang, and played delicious pieces with 
 a grace and feeling that denoted a perfect liberty of 
 spirit, thus triumphmg over her father, whose brow 
 did not seem to soften. The old man cruelly felt 
 this implied taunt, and at this moment gathered one 
 of the bitter fruits of the education he had given his 
 daughter. Respect is a barrier which protects a 
 father and mother as well as the children, by sparing 
 the former sorrow, and the latter remorse. 
 
 The next day, Ginevra, wishing to go out at the 
 hour she usually went to the studio, found the door
 
 THE VENDETTA 307 
 
 of the house shut upon her; but she soon invented 
 a means of informing Luigi of the paternal severity. 
 A lady's maid, who could not read, brought the 
 young officer the letter that Ginevra wrote to him. 
 For five days, the two lovers were able to corre- 
 spond, thanks to those artifices that one can always 
 contrive at twenty years old. 
 
 The father and daughter rarely spoke. Both, in 
 the bottom of their hearts, nursed a principle of 
 hatred, they suffered, but proudly and in silence. 
 Knowing the strength of the bonds of love that 
 attached them to one another, they tried to snap 
 them, without succeeding. No gentle thought 
 came, as formerly, to gladden Bartolomeo's stern 
 features when he looked at his Ginevra. The 
 young girl had something fierce about her whenever 
 she looked at her father, and reproach sat upon her 
 innocent brow; she gave herself up a great deal to 
 happy thoughts, but sometimes remorse seemed to 
 dim her eyes. It was not even difficult to guess 
 that she would never be able to calmly rejoice in a 
 happiness that caused the sorrow of her parents. 
 
 With Bartolomeo, as with his daughter, all the 
 irresolution produced by their natural goodness of 
 heart was nevertheless bound to clash with their 
 pride and the ill-will peculiar to Corsicans. They 
 encouraged each other in their anger, and shut their 
 eyes to the future. Perhaps they also flattered 
 themselves that one would yield to the other. 
 
 On Ginevra's birthday, her mother, in despair at 
 this breach, which was assuming a serious character.
 
 308 THE VENDETTA 
 
 meditated reconciling the father and daughter, by 
 virtue of the memories of this anniversary. They 
 were all three assembled in Bartolomeo's room. 
 Ginevra guessed her mother's intention from the 
 hesitation depicted on her, face, and she smiled 
 sadly. 
 
 Just then, a servant announced two public nota- 
 ries, who entered, accompanied by several witnesses. 
 
 Bartolomeo looked fixedly at these men, whose 
 coldly precise faces were somehow hurtful to souls 
 as passionate as were those of the three principal 
 actors in this scene. The old man turned towards 
 his daughter in an anxious way, and saw on her 
 face a triumphant smile which made him suspect 
 some calamity; but, as savages do, he feigned a 
 delusive apathy whilst looking at the two notaries 
 with a kind of calm curiosity. The strangers sat 
 down after having been invited to do so by a gesture 
 from the old man. 
 
 "Monsieur is doubtless Monsieur le Baron de 
 Piombo.'"' asked the elder of the notaries. 
 
 Bartolomeo bowed. The notary moved his head 
 slightly, and looked at the young girl with the sly 
 expression of a bailiff surprising a debtor; he drew 
 out his snuff-box, opened it, took a pinch of snuff, 
 and began to inhale it spasmodically whilst search- 
 ing for the opening words of his discourse; then, 
 whilst delivering it, he made continual pauses — an 
 oratorical manoeuvre that this mark — very imper- 
 fectly represents. 
 
 " Monsieur," said he, "I am Monsieur Roguin,
 
 THE VENDETTA 3O9 
 
 notary to mademoiselle your daughter, and we 
 come — my colleague and I — to accomplish the will 
 of the law and— put an end to the disagreement — 
 which — it seems — has come between you and made- 
 moiselle your daughter — on the subject — of — her — 
 marriage with Monsieur Luigi Porta." 
 
 This sentence, rather pedantically delivered, prob- 
 ably seemed too fine to Maitre Roguin to be under- 
 stood all at once; he stopped and looked at Bartolomeo 
 with an expression peculiar to men of business, and 
 which is something between servility and familiarity. 
 
 By pretending to assume a great deal of concern 
 for the people to whom they are talking, the faces 
 of notaries finish by contracting into a grimace that 
 they put on and take off like their official pallium. 
 This mask of kindliness, the mechanism of which is 
 so easily discerned, so irritated Bartolomeo, that he 
 had to collect all his senses not to throw Monsieur 
 Roguin out of the window; an angry expression 
 crept into his wrinkles, and, seeing this, the notary 
 said to himself: 
 
 "I am producing an effect. — But," he resumed, 
 in horrid accents, " Monsieur le Baron, on occasions 
 like this, our good offices always begin by being 
 essentially conciliatory. — Deign therefore to have 
 the goodness to listen to me. — It is undeniable that 
 Mademoiselle Ginevra Piombo — attains upon this 
 very day the age which permits to a young woman 
 the right of claiming from her parents her independ- 
 ence in the matter of her marriage — in spite of their 
 lack of consent. Now, — it is customary in families —
 
 3IO THE VENDETTA 
 
 who — enjoy a certain esteem, — who belong to so- 
 ciety, — who maintain some dignity, — to whom, in 
 short, it is of importance to guard the secret of their 
 dissensions from the public, — and who, besides, do 
 not wish to injure themselves by blasting the future 
 of the young married couple with their disapproval, 
 — for it is injuring one's self, — it is customary, — I 
 say, — amongst these honorable families — not to 
 allow such processes to remain open, — that last, 
 that — are monuments of a division that — ends — by 
 ceasing. — The moment, monsieur, a young lady has 
 recourse to legal process, she shows too determined 
 a purpose for a father — and — a mother," he added, 
 turning towards the baroness, "to hope to see her 
 follow their advice. — Paternal resistance is then 
 made void — by this deed— in the first place, — then 
 being invalidated by the law, it is certain that any 
 wise man, after having made a last remonstrance to 
 his child, will give liberty to — " 
 
 Monsieur Roguin stopped, seeing that he might 
 talk in this way for two hours without obtaining any 
 reply, and he experienced, moreover, a peculiar 
 emotion at the appearance of the man he was trying 
 to convert. Bartolomeo's face had undergone an 
 extraordinary revolution, all his contracted wrinkles 
 gave him an air of indefinable cruelty, and the look 
 he cast at the notary was like that of a tiger. The 
 baroness remained mute and passive. Ginevra, 
 calm and resolute, was waiting; she knew that the 
 notary's voice was more powerful than her own, 
 and so she seemed to have decided to be silent.
 
 THE VENDETTA 31I 
 
 When Roguin stopped speaking, this scene became 
 so terrifying, that the strange witnesses trembled; 
 never, perhaps, had they been struck by such a 
 silence. 
 
 The notaries looked at each other as if in consul- 
 tation, rose, and went together to the window. 
 
 " Have you ever met such clients?" Roguin asked 
 of his colleague. 
 
 "There is nothing to be drawn from them," re- 
 plied the younger man. " In your place I should 
 content myself with reading my deed. To me the 
 old man does not seem assuming, he is furious, and 
 you will gain nothing by insisting on arguing with 
 him." 
 
 Monsieur Roguin read a stamped paper containing 
 a report drawn up in advance, and coldly asked Bar- 
 tolomeo for his reply. 
 
 " Then there are laws in France that destroy the 
 paternal power?" asked the Corsican. 
 
 "Monsieur — " said Roguin in his honeyed voice. 
 
 " That snatch a daughter from her father?" 
 
 " Monsieur — " 
 
 " That deprive an old man of his last consolation?" 
 
 " Monsieur, your daughter only belongs to you — " 
 
 "That kill him?" 
 
 " Monsieur, allow me!" 
 
 Nothing is more ghastly than the composure and 
 correct reasoning of notaries in the midst of the 
 passionate scenes in which they are wont to inter- 
 vene. The faces that Piombo looked upon seemed 
 to him to have escaped from hell; when the quiet
 
 312 THE VENDETTA 
 
 and almost flute-like voice of his little antagonist 
 uttered that fatal "Allow me!" his cold, concen- 
 trated rage knew no bounds. He seized a long 
 dagger hanging on a nail over the chimney-piece 
 and sprang upon his daughter. The youngest of the 
 two notaries and one of the witnesses threw them- 
 selves between him and Ginevra; but Bartolomeo 
 rudely overturned the two peacemakers, turning 
 upon them a flaming face and blazing eyes which 
 appeared more terrible than the dagger's brightness. 
 When Ginevra found herself face to face with her 
 father, she looked at him triumphantly, slowly ap- 
 proached him and knelt down. 
 
 " No! no! I could not," he said, flinging away his 
 weapon so violently that it was embedded in the 
 woodwork. 
 
 "Well, then, mercy! mercy!" she said. "You 
 hesitate to give me death, and yet you refuse me 
 life. Oh! father, never have I loved you so much. 
 Grant me Luigi! 1 ask your consent on my knees; 
 a daughter may humble herself before her father — . 
 My Luigi! or 1 die!" 
 
 The violent excitement which was choking her 
 prevented her from continuing and she lost her 
 voice; her convulsive efforts showed plainly enough 
 that she was between life and death. Bartolomeo 
 harshly repulsed his daughter. 
 
 " Go," he said. " The wife of Luigi Porta could 
 not be a Piombo. I have a daughter no longer! I 
 have not the strength to curse you; but 1 renounce 
 you, and you have a father no more. My Ginevra
 
 THE VENDETTA' 313 
 
 Piombo is buried iiere," he cried in a deep voice, 
 tightly pressing his heart. — "So leave! wretched 
 girl," he added after a moment's silence, "leave! 
 and never appear before me again!" 
 
 Then he took Ginevra's arm and silently led her 
 out of the house. 
 
 "Luigi!" cried Ginevra, entering the modest 
 apartment where the young officer was, " my Luigi, 
 we have no other fortune than our love." 
 
 " We are richer than all the kings of the earth!" 
 he replied. 
 
 "My father and mother have abandoned me," 
 she said with deep sadness. 
 
 " I will love you for them." 
 
 " Then we shall be very happy?" she cried with 
 a gaiety that was somewhat ghastly. 
 
 "Always!" he answered, pressing her to his 
 heart.
 
 The day after Ginevra left her father's house, 
 she went to beg Madame Servin to give her shelter 
 and her protection until the time fixed by the law 
 for her marriage with Luigi Porta. Then began for 
 her the apprenticeship to those sorrows that society 
 spreads round those who do not follow its customs. 
 Very much vexed at the blame Ginevra had brought 
 upon her husband, Madame Servin received the 
 fugitive coldly, and informed her in a few polite, 
 guarded words that she must not count upon her 
 support. Too proud to persist, but astonished at an 
 egotism to which she was not accustomed, the 
 young Corsican went to the lodging-house which 
 was nearest to the house in which Luigi lived. The 
 son of the Portas came and spent all his days at his 
 future wife's feet; his youthful love, and the purity 
 of his words, dispelled the clouds that the paternal 
 disapproval gathered on the banished girl's forehead, 
 and he would paint such a beautiful future, that she 
 finished by smiling, without, however, forgetting the 
 harshness of her parents. One morning, the ser- 
 vant of the house brought Ginevra several trunks 
 which contained materials, linens, and a host of 
 things necessary to a young wife setting up a house- 
 hold; in this present she recognized a mother's 
 prudent kindness; for, upon examining these gifts, 
 she found a purse in which the baroness had put the 
 
 (315)
 
 3l6 THE VENDETTA 
 
 sum belonging to her daughter, adding to it the 
 fruits of her economy. The money was accom- 
 panied by a letter in which the mother besought 
 the daughter to abandon her fatal contemplation of 
 marriage, if there were yet time; she had been 
 obliged, she said, to take unheard-of precautions in 
 getting this slight help to Ginevra; she begged her 
 not to accuse her of unkindness, if, in course of 
 time she left her to neglect, she feared she would 
 be unable to help her, she blessed her, and wished 
 her happiness in this fatal marriage, if she insisted 
 upon it, whilst assuring her that her thoughts were 
 only with her beloved daughter. At this part, tears 
 had obliterated several words of the letter. 
 
 "Oh! mother!" cried Ginevra, entirely relenting. 
 
 She felt a longing to throw herself on her knees, 
 to see her and breathe the genial air of the 
 paternal home; she was on the point of rushing out, 
 when Luigi came in; she looked at him, and her 
 filial tenderness vanished, her tears dried, and she 
 felt she had not strength enough to forsake such an 
 unfortunate and affectionate youth. To be the only 
 hope of a noble creature, to love and yet desert 
 him — this sacrifice was a treachery of which 
 youthful hearts are incapable. Ginevra had the 
 generosity to bury her misery in the depths of her 
 heart. 
 
 At last, the wedding day arrived. Ginevra had 
 nobody with her. Luigi took advantage of the 
 time she was dressing to go and find the wit- 
 nesses necessary to the signature of their marriage
 
 THE VENDETTA 317 
 
 certificate. These witnesses were worthy folk. The 
 one, formerly a quartermaster in the hussars, had, 
 whilst in the army, laid himself under obligations to 
 Luigi, which are never blotted out of an honest 
 man's heart; he had set up as a livery stableman 
 and owned several cabs. The other, a master-mason, 
 was landlord of the house in which the newly-mar- 
 ried couple were to live. Each of them took a friend, 
 then all four came with Luigi to fetch the bride. 
 Unaccustomed to social humbug, and looking upon 
 the service they were rendering Luigi as a matter of 
 course, these people had dressed neatly, but quietly, 
 and nothing betrayed a merry wedding procession. 
 Ginevra herself was dressed very simply, so as to 
 be in keeping with her means; nevertheless, her 
 beauty was somehow so noble and striking, that, at 
 sight of her the words died away on the lips of the 
 witnesses, who had thought themselves bound to 
 pay her some compliment; they greeted her respect- 
 fully and she bowed; they looked at her in silence 
 and could only admire her. This reserve threw a 
 chill over them all. Joy can only burst out amongst 
 people who feel they are equals. So chance ordained 
 that all around the fiances should be gloomy and 
 solemn; nothing reflected their happiness. The 
 church and mayoralty were not very far from the 
 hotel. The two Corsicans, followed by the four 
 witnesses prescribed by the law, would go there on 
 foot, in a simplicity that stripped this great scene in 
 social life of all display. In the yard of the mayor- 
 alty they found a crowd of carriages which meant a
 
 3l8 THE VENDETTA 
 
 numerous company; they went up and came to a 
 great hall where the wedding couples, whose happi- 
 ness was appointed for that day, were waiting some- 
 what impatiently for the mayor of the district. 
 Ginevra sat down close to Luigi at the end of a big 
 bench, and their witnesses, for want of seats, stood 
 up. Two brides, gorgeously dressed in white, 
 covered with bouquets of orange blossom whose 
 satin buds quivered beneath their veils, were sur- 
 rounded by their joyful families, and accompanied 
 by their mothers, whom they looked at with 
 alternate glances of satisfaction and timidity; all 
 eyes reflected their happmess, and every face 
 seemed to lavish blessings upon them. Fathers, 
 witnesses, brothers and sisters all came and went 
 like a swarm of bees disporting themselves in a 
 vanishing ray of sunshine. Each one seemed to 
 understand the value of this fleeting moment when, 
 in life, the heart finds itself torn between two hopes; 
 the longing for the past, and the promises of the 
 future. At sight of all this, Ginevra felt her heart 
 swelling, and she pressed Luigi's arm, who looked 
 at her. Tears swam in the young Corsican's eyes, 
 he never understood better than at that moment all 
 that his Ginevra was sacrificing for him. These 
 precious tears caused the young girl to forget her 
 desertion. Love shed treasures of light between 
 the two lovers, so that they no longer saw 
 anything but their own selves in the midst of 
 this confusion; they were there, alone in this 
 crowd, such as they were to be through life. Their
 
 THE VENDETTA 319 
 
 witnesses, regardless of ceremony, were chatting 
 quietly about their affairs. 
 
 " Oats are very dear," the quartermaster was 
 saying to the mason. 
 
 " Not so much so as plaster, making all allow- 
 ance," replied the contractor. 
 
 And they took a turn round the hall. 
 
 " How they waste time here!" cried the mason, 
 returning a big silver watch to his pocket. 
 
 Luigi and Ginevra, crowded close together, seemed 
 to be but one person. Indeed, a poet would have 
 admired these two heads united by the same feel- 
 ing, colored alike, both sad and silent in the presence 
 of two buzzing wedding parties, before four riotous 
 families, glittering with diamonds and flowers, and 
 whose gaiety had something transient about it. All 
 the joy shown outwardly by these noisy, resplend- 
 ent groups, Luigi and Ginevra buried in the depth 
 of their hearts. On the one hand, the vulgar 
 uproar of pleasure; on the other, the delicate silence 
 of joyful souls: earth and heaven. But the trembling 
 Ginevra could not entirely divest herself of a 
 woman's weaknesses. Superstitious, like all Italians, 
 she would see an omen in this contrast, and a feeling 
 of terror, as unconquerable as that of her love, kept 
 hold of her heart. All of a sudden, a porter in the 
 town livery opened a double swing door; all were 
 silent, and his voice resounded like a shout as he 
 called Monsieur Luigi da Porta and Mademoiselle 
 Ginevra di Piombo. This moment caused the two 
 lovers some embarrassment.
 
 320 THE VENDETTA 
 
 The fame of the name of Piombo attracted atten- 
 tion, the spectators looked for a wedding that, it 
 seemed, ought to have been sumptuous. Ginevra 
 rose, her glance of withering pride awed the whole 
 crowd, she took Luigi's arm and proceeded with a 
 firm step, followed by her witnesses. An increasing 
 murmur of astonishment and general whispering 
 reminded Ginevra that the world was asking an 
 account of her parents' absence; the paternal curse 
 seemed to be pursuing her. 
 
 " Wait for the families," said the mayor to the 
 clerk, who was promptly beginning to read the 
 deeds. 
 
 " The father and mother protest," phlegmatically 
 replied the secretary. 
 
 " On both sides?" rejoined the mayor. 
 
 " The bridegroom is an orphan." 
 
 " Where are the witnesses,?" 
 
 "Here they are," again replied the secretary, 
 pointing to the four motionless, silent men, who, 
 with folded arms, looked like statues. 
 
 " But if there is a protestation?" said the mayor. 
 
 "The necessary legal requirements have been 
 complied with," replied the clerk getting up to hand 
 over to the functionary the documents annexed to 
 the marriage certificate. 
 
 There was something degrading in this official 
 discussion and it contained a whole history in very 
 few words. The hatred of the Porta and the 
 Piombo, and terrible passions were inscribed on a 
 page of the civil register, as the annals of a people
 
 THE VENDETTA 32 I 
 
 are graven in a few lines, or even in one word on 
 the lieadstone of a grave: Robespierre or Napoleon. 
 Ginevra trembled. Like the dove, who in crossing 
 the seas, only had the ark on which to set her feet, 
 she could only turn her gaze into Luigi's eyes, for 
 all was dreary and cold around her. The mayor 
 wore an air of severe disapproval, and his clerk 
 looked at the couple with malicious curiosity. Never 
 did anything appear less like a fete. Like all things 
 in human life when stripped of their accessories, it 
 was an act simple in itself, but infinite in thought. 
 After several questions that the bride and bridegroom 
 answered, after the mayor had mumbled several 
 words, and after afTixing their signatures to the 
 register, Luigi and Ginevra were united. The two 
 young Corsicans, — whose union held all the poetry 
 perpetuated by genius in that of Romeo and Juliet, — 
 walked through two rows of joyful relations to 
 whom they did not belong, and were almost impa- 
 tient over the delay caused by this seemingly 
 mournful marriage. When the young girl found her- 
 self in the yard of the mayoralty and under the sky, 
 a sigh burst from her bosom. 
 
 " Oh! can a whole life of care and love requite 
 my Ginevra's courage and tenderness?" said Luigi. 
 
 At these words accompanied by tears of joy, the 
 bride forgot all her sufferings; for she had suffered 
 in facing the world to claim a happiness that her 
 family refused to sanction. 
 
 " Why do men come between us?" she said with 
 a simplicity of feeling that delighted Luigi. 
 21
 
 322 THE VENDETTA 
 
 Pleasure gave buoyancy to the married couple. 
 They saw neither sky, nor earth, nor houses, and 
 flew as if with wings toward the church. At last 
 they reached a gloomy little chapel and stood before 
 a quiet altar where an old priest celebrated their 
 union. There, as at the mayoralty, they were sur- 
 rounded by the two wedding parties whose noise 
 had so worried them. The church, filled with friends 
 and relations, re-echoed with the noise made by the 
 carriages, the beadles, the porters and the priests* 
 The altars blazed with every ecclesiastical luxury, 
 the wreaths of orange blossoms decking the statues 
 of the Virgin seemed to be new. One saw nothing 
 but flowers, glittering tapers and velvet, gold em- 
 broidered cushions, while delicious perfumes sur- 
 rounded them. God seemed to smile upon this joy 
 of a day. When it was necessary to hold over 
 Luigi's and Ginevra's heads the symbol of eternal 
 union, the soft, shining white satin yoke, light for 
 some, and of lead for most, the priest looked, but in 
 vain, for the youths who fill this glad office; they 
 were replaced by two of the witnesses. The ecclesi- 
 astic hastily gave the married couple an address 
 upon the perils of life and the duties that they would 
 one day have to teach their children; and, whilst on 
 this subject, he insinuated an indirect reproach upon 
 the absence of Ginevra's parents; then, after having 
 joined them before God, as the mayor had united 
 them before the law, he finished his mass and left 
 them. 
 
 "God bless them!" said Vergniaud to the mason
 
 THE VENDETTA 323 
 
 under the church porch. " Never were two crea- 
 tures better made for each other. That girl's pa- 
 rents are idiots. I know no braver soldier than 
 Colonel Louis! If everyone had behaved as he did, 
 the other would still be here." 
 
 The soldier's blessing, the only one that had been 
 given them that day, shed balm on Ginevra's heart. 
 They separated in clasping each other's hands, and 
 Luigi cordially thanked his landlord. 
 
 " Good-bye, my brave fellow," said Luigi to the 
 quartermaster, " I thank you." 
 
 " You are welcome, colonel — soul, self, horses and 
 carriages, all that I have is at your disposal." 
 
 " How he loves you!" said Ginevra. 
 
 Luigi eagerly hurried his bride to the house they 
 were to occupy; they soon gained their modest 
 apartment; and there, when the door was shut, 
 Luigi took his wife in his arms, crying: 
 
 " Oh! my Ginevra! for now you are mine — here 
 is our true fete. Here," he continued, ** everything 
 will smile upon us." 
 
 Together they went through the three rooms 
 which formed their home. The first room served as 
 drawing-room and dining-room. On the right was 
 a bedroom, to the left a big closet that Luigi had 
 arranged for his dear wife and where she found 
 easels, paint-boxes, plaster casts, models, lay figures, 
 pictures, portfolios, in short, all the artist's property. 
 
 " Then I shall work there," she said with childish 
 expression. 
 
 For a long time she looked at the hangings, the
 
 324 THE VENDETTA 
 
 furniture, and was ever turning to Luigi to thank 
 him, for there was a kind of magnificence about this 
 little habitation; a book shelf contained Ginevra's 
 favorite books, and at the further end was a piano. 
 
 She sat down on a divan, drew Luigi beside her, 
 and squeezing his hand: 
 
 "You have good taste," she said caressingly. 
 
 " Your words make me very happy," he said. 
 
 " But let us see everything," demanded Ginevra, 
 to whom Luigi had made a mystery of the decora- 
 tions of this retreat. 
 
 They then went towards a nuptial chamber, fresh 
 and white as a virgin. 
 
 "Oh! come out!" said Luigi, laughing. 
 
 " But I want to see everything." 
 
 And the imperious Ginevra inspected the furniture 
 with the inquisitive attention of an antiquary exam- 
 ining a medal; she touched the silks and reviewed 
 everything with the naive satisfaction of a young 
 bride displaying the riches of her wedding presents. 
 
 " We are beginning by ruining ourselves," she 
 said, with an air half glad, half sorrowful. 
 
 " That's true! all the arrears of my pay are 
 there," replied Luigi, "I sold them to an honest 
 man called Gigonnet." 
 
 " Why?" she rejoined in a reproachful tone mixed 
 with secret satisfaction. " Do you think I would be 
 less happy in an attic? But," she continued, "all 
 this is very pretty and belongs to us." 
 
 Luigi was contemplating her with so much rap- 
 ture, that she lowered her gaze and said:
 
 THE VENDETTA 325 
 
 " Let us go and see the rest." 
 
 Above these three rooms, under the roof, was a 
 study for Luigi, a kitchen and a servant's bedroom. 
 Ginevra was content with her little domain, although 
 the view was limited by the large wall of a neigh- 
 boring house, and the courtyard that gave them 
 light was gloomy. But the two lovers were so glad 
 of heart, and hope gilded their future so well, that 
 they would see nothing but delightful imagery in 
 their mysterious abode. They were in a corner of 
 this enormous house and lost in the immensity of 
 Paris like two pearls in their shell, in the bosom of a 
 deep sea; to anyone else it would have been a 
 prison, to them it was a paradise. The first days of 
 their union were given up to love. They found it 
 too hard to devote themselves all at once to work, 
 and they could not resist the spell of their rightful 
 passion. Luigi lay whole hours at his wife's feet, 
 admiring the color of her hair, the shape of her 
 forehead, the delightful setting of her eyes, the 
 purity and whiteness of the two arches under which 
 they slowly glided in expressing the joy of satisfied 
 love. Ginevra stroked her Luigi's hair, never tired 
 of contemplating, according to one of her own 
 expressions, this young man's beltd folgomnte, and 
 the delicacy of his features; ever fascinated by the 
 dignity of his manners, as she always fascinated 
 him by the gracefulness of hers. They played like 
 children with trifles, these trifles always led them 
 back to their passion, and they only ceased their 
 play to sink into dreams of far niente. An air that
 
 326 THE VENDETTA 
 
 Ginevra sang would reproduce the delicious tran- 
 sitions of their love. Then, linking their steps 
 as they had joined their souls, they would scour the 
 fields finding their love wherever they went, in the 
 flowers, and skies, and in the heart of the fiery tints 
 of the setting sun; they even read it in the fitful 
 clouds that wavered in the breeze. Two days were 
 never alike, their love increased because it was 
 genuine. In a very few days they had tested each 
 other, and had instinctively recognized that their 
 minds were those whose inexhaustible riches always 
 seem to promise fresh delights in the future. It was 
 love in all its simplicity, with its interminable chats, 
 its unfinished sentences, its long silences, its oriental 
 repose and passion. Luigi and Ginevra understood 
 all there was in love. Is not love like the sea, 
 which, when seen superficially or hastily, is declared 
 by common souls to be monotonous, whilst certain 
 privileged beings can pass their lives admiring it, 
 constantly discovering changing phenomena which 
 delight them? 
 
 However, very soon, prudence came to drag the 
 young bride and bridegroom from their Eden; it was 
 necessary that they should work to live. Ginevra, 
 who possessed a peculiar talent for imitating old pic- 
 tures, set to work to make copies and formed a con- 
 nection amongst the dealers. Luigi, on his side, 
 very energetically sought occupation, but it was 
 very difficult for a young officer, whose whole talents 
 were confined to a thorough knowledge of stratagem, 
 to find employment in Paris. At last, one day when
 
 THE VENDETTA 327 
 
 tired of his useless efforts, he was in despair at 
 seeing that the burden of their existence was entirely 
 falling upon Ginevra, he bethought himself of turn- 
 ing his handwriting, which was very good, to account. 
 Following the example of his wife's perseverance, 
 he went and applied to all the solicitors, notaries, 
 and lawyers in Paris. The frankness of his man- 
 ners, and his position, interested them deeply in his 
 behalf, and he obtained sufficient copying to be 
 obliged to have the help of young men. By degrees 
 he undertook writings on a large scale. The pro- 
 ceeds from this office, and from Ginevra's pictures, 
 finished by placing the young household in such 
 easy circumstances that they were proud, for it all 
 proceeded from their industry. It was the happiest 
 moment of their lives. The days sped rapidly be- 
 tween business and the delights of love. In the 
 evenings, after having worked hard, they loved to 
 find themselves in Ginevra's cell. Music comforted 
 them for all their fatigues. No expression of sad- 
 ness came to darken the young wife's features, and 
 she never allowed herself to complain. She could 
 always appear to Luigi with a smile and beaming 
 eyes. Both fostered one predominant thought which 
 would have helped them to find pleasure in the 
 roughest labor; Ginevra said to herself that she was 
 working for Luigi, and Luigi for Ginevra. Some- 
 times, in her husband's absence, the young wife 
 would think of the perfect happiness that she might 
 have had, if this life of love had been spent beside 
 her father and mother; she would then fall into a
 
 328 THE VENDETTA 
 
 deep melancholy in experiencing the power of re- 
 morse; gloomy scenes would pass like shadows in 
 her imagination; she would see her old father alone, 
 or her mother crying in the evenings and concealing 
 her tears from the relentless Piombo; these two 
 white, grave heads would suddenly uprise before 
 her, and it seemed to her that she was never to see 
 them but in the fantastic light of memory. This idea 
 haunted her like a presentiment. She celebrated 
 the anniversary of their wedding by giving her hus- 
 band a portrait he had often wished for, that of his 
 Ginevra. Never had the young artist produced 
 anything so remarkable. Apart from the perfect 
 likeness, the splendor of her beauty, the purity of 
 her feelings, and the happiness of love, were there 
 reproduced as if by magic. The masterpiece was 
 inaugurated. They passed yet another year in the 
 midst of plenty. The history of their lives could 
 then be told in three words: THEY WERE HAPPY. 
 No event worthy of interest then happened to them.
 
 * 
 
 In the beginning of the winter of 1819, the picture 
 dealers advised Ginevra to give them something 
 else than copies, for, on account of the competition, 
 they could no longer sell them at a profit. Madame 
 Porta recognized the mistake she had made in not 
 practising painting genre pictures which would have 
 gained her a name, and she undertook to paint 
 portraits, but she had to contend against a crowd of 
 artists still less rich than herself. However, as 
 Luigi and Ginevra had saved some money, they did 
 not despair of the future. At the end of the winter 
 of this same year, Luigi worked without intermis- 
 sion. He also contended against competitors; the 
 price of copying was so much lower, that he could 
 no longer employ anybody, and found he was 
 obliged to devote more time than heretofore to his 
 work in order to earn the same amount. 
 
 His wife had finished several pictures that were 
 not without merit; but the dealers scarcely bought 
 those of artists of reputation, Ginevra offered them 
 at insignificant prices without succeeding in selling 
 them. The position of this household was some- 
 thing appalling; the souls of husband and wife were 
 full of happiness, love overwhelmed them with its 
 treasures, and poverty rose up like a skeleton in the 
 midst of this harvest of pleasure, and they hid their 
 anxieties from each other. At the time when 
 Ginevra felt herself near crying at seeing her Luigi 
 
 (329)
 
 330 THE VENDETTA 
 
 suffer, she would cover him with caresses. In the 
 same way Luigi hid a gloomy sorrow in his heart 
 when expressing the tenderest love for Ginevra. 
 They sought compensation for their misfortunes, 
 in the exaltation of their sentiment, and their 
 words, their joys and their amusements were 
 impregnated with a kind of frenzy. They were 
 afraid for the future. What feeling is there whose 
 strength can be compared to that of a passion that 
 must cease on the morrow, killed by death or by 
 want? When they spoke of their poverty, they 
 felt the necessity of deceiving one another, and 
 seized the least hope with equal eagerness. One 
 night, Ginevra looked in vain beside her for Luigi, 
 and got up thoroughly frightened. A faint light 
 reflected on the dark wall of the little courtyard told 
 her that her husband was working during the night. 
 Luigi would wait until his wife was asleep before 
 going up to his study. Four o'clock struck, Ginevra 
 lay down again and pretended to be asleep; Luigi 
 returned overcome with fatigue and sleep, and 
 Ginevra sorrowfully gazed at the beautiful face 
 which was already furrowed with work and anxiety. 
 
 " It is for my sake that he spends the nights 
 writing," she said, crying. 
 
 A sudden idea dried her tears. She thought she 
 would imitate Luigi. That very day, she went to a 
 rich dealer in engravings, and, by the help of a letter 
 of recommendation to the merchant, given her by 
 Elie Magus, one of her picture dealers, she obtained 
 a contract for coloring. During the day, she painted
 
 THE VENDETTA 331 
 
 and busied herself with household cares; then, 
 when the night came, she colored engravings. So 
 these two enamored beings only sought their nuptial 
 bed to leave it. Both pretended to sleep, and from 
 devotion left one another as soon as each had 
 deceived the other. One night, Luigi, succumbing 
 to a kind of fever caused by the heavy work under 
 which he was beginning to give way, opened the 
 window of his study to inhale the pure morning air 
 and throw off his sorrows, when, upon lowering his 
 eyes, he saw the light thrown on to the wall by 
 Ginevra's lamp; the wretched man guessed all, he 
 went down, stepping softly, and surprised his wife 
 in the midst of her studio, illuminating engravings. 
 
 "Oh! Ginevra!" he cried. 
 
 She started convulsively in her chair and blushed. 
 
 " Could 1 sleep whilst you were exhausting your- 
 self with fatigue?" she said. 
 
 " But 1 alone have the right to work in this way." 
 
 " How could 1 remain idle," replied the young 
 wife, the tears rising to her eyes, "when I know 
 that every piece of bread almost costs us a drop of 
 your blood? 1 should die if I did not unite my 
 efforts to yours. Shall we not share everything 
 between us, pleasures as well as pains?" 
 
 "She is cold!" cried Luigi in despair. "Wrap 
 your shawl closer over your chest, my Ginevra; 
 the night is damp and cold." 
 
 They both went to the window, the young wife 
 leaning her head on her beloved's breast, his arm 
 round her waist, and both, buried in profound
 
 332 THE VENDETTA 
 
 silence, looked at the sky that the dawn was slowly 
 lighting. Gray shaded clouds quickly succeeded 
 each other, and the east grew lighter and lighter. 
 
 "Do you see?" said Ginevra, "it is an omen; 
 we shall be happy." 
 
 "Yes, in Heaven," answered Luigi with a bitter 
 smile. " Oh! Ginevra, you who deserve all the 
 treasures of the earth — " 
 
 " I have your heart," she said with an accent of joy. 
 
 "Oh! I am not complaining," he rejoined, press- 
 ing her tightly to him. And he kissed the delicate 
 face that was beginning to lose the bloom of youth, 
 but which had such a tender, sweet expression, that 
 he never could look at it without being comforted. 
 
 "What a silence!" said Ginevra. "Dear one, 
 I find great pleasure in staying up. The majesty of 
 night is indeed infectious, it awes and inspires one; 
 there is an indefinable power in this idea: everyone 
 is asleep and 1 watch." 
 
 "Oh! my Ginevra, to-day is not the first time 
 that I feel how delicately graceful your mind is! 
 But here is the dawn; come and sleep." 
 
 "Yes," she replied, " if I do not sleep alone. I 
 did suffer the night I found my Luigi was sitting up 
 without me!" 
 
 The courage with which these two young people 
 contended against misfortune had its reward for a 
 time; but the event which nearly always crowns 
 the happiness of most households was to be fatal to 
 them; Ginevra had a son, who, to use a popular 
 expression, was as beautiful as the day.
 
 THE VENDETTA 333 
 
 The feeling of maternity redoubled the youngwife's 
 spirits. Luigi borrowed to provide for the expenses of 
 Ginevra's confinement. So, at first, she did not feel 
 all the discomfort of her position, and husband and 
 wife gave themselves up to the happiness of rearing 
 a child. It was their last happiness. Like two swim- 
 mers who unite their efforts to break a current, the 
 two Corsicans at first struggled bravely; but some- 
 times they yielded to an apathy similar to the sleep 
 which precedes death, and very soon they were 
 obliged to sell their jewels. Poverty suddenly showed 
 herself, not hideous, but simply clothed, and almost 
 easy to bear; her voice had nothing terrifying, she 
 did not drag despair, or spectres, or rags after her; 
 but she drove away the recollection and customs of 
 comfort; she wore away the elasticity of pride. 
 Then came misery in all its horror, unmindful of its 
 tatters, and trampling human feeling under foot. 
 Seven or eight months after the birth of little 
 Bartolomeo, one would have hardly recognized in the 
 mother nursing this sickly child, the original of 
 the admirable portrait, the only ornament of a bare 
 room. Without fire in a severe winter, Ginevra 
 saw the graceful outlines of her face slowly fading, 
 her cheek grew as white as porcelain, and her eyes 
 as dim as if the springs of life were drying up within 
 her. Seeing her emaciated, colorless child, she only 
 suffered from this youthful misery, and Luigi no 
 longer had the heart to smile at his son. 
 
 " I have been all over Paris," he said in a hollow 
 voice, "1 know nobody, and how can I venture to
 
 334 THE VENDETTA 
 
 ask from outsiders? Vergniaud, the cow-keeper, 
 my old gipsy, is implicated in a conspiracy, he has 
 been put in prison, and, besides, he has lent me all 
 that he could part with. As to our landlord, he has 
 asked us nothing for a year." 
 
 " But we do not need anything," replied Ginevra 
 gently, assuming a calm expression. 
 
 "Every day that comes brings more difficulty," 
 rejoined Luigi with terror. 
 
 Luigi took all Ginevra's pictures, the portrait, and 
 several pieces of furniture that the household could 
 still go without, he sold them all for a small sum, and, 
 for a little time the amount he obtained prolonged 
 the agony of the family. In these days of adversity, 
 Ginevra proved the sublimeness of her character, 
 and the extent of her resignation, she bore stoically 
 the attacks of misery; her energetic mind supported 
 her under all evils, she worked with faltering hand 
 beside her dying son, despatched the household 
 duties with miraculous activity, and attended to 
 everything. She even felt happy again when she 
 saw Luigi's smile of astonishment at sight of the 
 cleanliness that prevailed in the one room they had 
 taken refuge in. 
 
 " Sweetheart, I kept this piece of bread for you," 
 she said to him one night when he came in tired. 
 
 " And you?" 
 
 " I have had dinner, dear Luigi, I do not want 
 anything." 
 
 And the sweet expression of her face urged him 
 still more than did her words to accept the food of
 
 THE VENDETTA 335 
 
 which she was depriving herself. Luigi kissed her 
 with one of those despairing kisses that were given 
 in 1793 by friends when they were mounting the 
 scaffold together. At these supreme moments, two 
 beings see each other heart to heart. So the 
 wretched Luigi, suddenly understanding that his 
 wife was starving, shared in the fever that was 
 devouring her; he shivered, and went out on the 
 pretext of pressing business, for he would rather 
 have taken the deadliest poison than shirk death by 
 eating the last piece of bread they had. He pro- 
 ceeded to wander about Paris, amongst the most 
 brilliant carriages, in the midst of the taunting 
 luxury that blazes everywhere; he quickly passed 
 by the shops of the money-changers where the gold 
 was glistening; he finally resolved to sell himself, 
 to offer himself as a substitute for military service, 
 hoping that this sacrifice might save Ginevra, and 
 that, during his absence, Bartolomeo might take 
 her into favor again. So he went to find one of 
 those men who carry on the white slave trade, and 
 he felt a kind of happiness in recognizing an old 
 officer of the Imperial Guard. 
 
 "I have eaten nothing for two days," he said to 
 him in a slow, weak voice, " my wife is dying of 
 hunger and never complains to me, I believe she 
 would die smiling. For pity's sake, my friend," 
 he added with a bitter smile, " buy me in advance, 
 I am strong, I am no longer in the service, and I — " 
 
 The officer gave Luigi a sum on account of the 
 amount he undertook to procure. The poor wretch
 
 336 THE VENDETTA 
 
 laughed convulsively when he held a handful of 
 gold coins, he ran with all his might to his house, 
 breathless, and crying from time to time: 
 
 "Oh! Ginevra! my Ginevra!" 
 
 It was growing dusk when he reached home. He 
 entered softly, for fear of giving his wife, whom he 
 had left very weak, too great a shock. The sun's 
 last rays in penetrating through the window expired 
 on Ginevra's face, she was asleep, sitting in a chair 
 with her child upon her bosom. 
 
 "Wake up, my heart," he said, without noticing 
 the position of the child, who was at that moment 
 extraordinarily bright. 
 
 Hearing his voice, the poor mother opened her 
 eyes, met Luigi's look and smiled; but Luigi give a 
 cry of dismay; he hardly recognized his wife, who 
 became half crazy when, with a gesture of fierce 
 energy he showed her the gold. Ginevra began to 
 laugh mechanically, and all of a sudden she cried in 
 a terrible voice: 
 
 " Louis, the child is cold!" 
 
 She looked at her son and fainted; the little Bar- 
 thelemy was dead. 
 
 Luigi took his wife in his arms, without removing 
 the child whom she held clasped with extraordinary 
 strength; and, after having laid her on the bed, he 
 went out to call for help. 
 
 "Oh! mon Dieu!" he said to his landlord, whom 
 he met on the stairs, " I have gold and my child is 
 dead of hunger! his mother is dying, help us!" 
 
 He returned like a madman to his wife, and left
 
 THE VENDETTA 337 
 
 the honest mason busy, with several neighbors 
 collecting all that might mitigate a state of misery 
 which, till then, had remained unknown, so care- 
 fully had the two Corsicans hid it, through a feeling 
 of pride. Luigi had thrown his gold upon the floor, 
 and was kneeling at the head of the bed where his 
 wife was lying. 
 
 "Father, take care of my son, he bears your 
 name!" cried Ginevra in her delirium. 
 
 " Oh! my angel, be still," said Luigi, kissing 
 her; " happy days are in store for us." 
 
 This voice and caress restored her to some degree 
 of tranquillity. 
 
 " Oh ! my Louis!" she replied looking at him with 
 strange fixity, " listen well to me. 1 feel that I am 
 dying. My death is natural, I suffered too much, 
 and then so great a happiness as mine had to be 
 paid for. Yes, my Luigi, be comforted. I have 
 been so happy, that, if I were to begin life again, I 
 should still accept our destiny. I am a bad mother; 
 I regret you still more than I regret the child — My 
 child!" she added in a deep voice. 
 
 Two tears fell from her dying eyes, and she sud- 
 denly pressed the corpse that she had not been able 
 to warm. 
 
 " Give my hair to my father, in memory of his 
 Ginevra," she continued. "Tell him that 1 never 
 accused him — " ^ 
 
 Her head fell back upon her husband's arm. 
 
 "No! you must not die!" cried Luigi. "The 
 doctor is coming. We have bread. Your father 
 22
 
 338 THE VENDETTA 
 
 will forgive you. Prosperity has dawned for us. 
 Stay with us, angel of beauty!" 
 
 But the faithful, loving heart was growing cold. 
 Ginevra instinctively turned her eyes toward him 
 whom she adored, though she was conscious of 
 nothing; confused images clouded her spirit, about 
 to lose all recollection of this earth. She knew that 
 Luigi was there, for she tightened her hold of his 
 icy hand, and seemed as if she wanted to cling 
 above a precipice that she thought she was falling 
 into. 
 
 " Sv/eetheart," she said at last, "you are cold, I 
 will warm you." 
 
 She tried to put her husband's hand upon her 
 heart, and she died. 
 
 Two doctors, a priest, and the neighbors came 
 in just then, bringing all that was necessary to 
 save the husband and wife and quiet their despair. 
 At first, the strangers made a great noise; but, 
 when they came in, a ghastly silence reigned in the 
 room. 
 
 Whilst this scene was taking place, Bartolomeo 
 and his wife were sitting in their old-fashioned arm- 
 chairs, each in a corner of the huge fireplace, in 
 which the glowing fire was hardly sufficient to warm 
 the immense drawing-room of their house. The 
 clock pointed to midnight. For a long time the old 
 couple had been unable to sleep. At this moment, 
 they were as silent as two old people who had fallen 
 into their dotage, and who look at everything and 
 see nothing. Their empty drawing-room, full of
 
 THE VENDETTA 339 
 
 memories for them, was dimly lighted by a single 
 lamp on the verge of going out. But for the flicker- 
 ing firelight, they would have been in perfect dark- 
 ness. One of their friends had just left them, and 
 the chair upon which he had been sitting during his 
 visit was between the two Corsicans. Piombo had 
 already looked more than once at this chair, and his 
 thoughtful glances chased each other like the stings 
 of remorse, for the empty chair was Ginevra's. 
 Elisa Piombo watched the expressions passing over 
 her husband's white face. Although she was accus- 
 tomed to guessing the Corsican's feeling according 
 to the changing motions of his features, they were 
 alternately so threatening and so sorrowful, that she 
 could not read this unfathomable mind. 
 
 Was Bartolomeo yielding to the powerful memories 
 awakened by this chair? Was he shocked to see 
 that a stranger had used it for the first time since 
 his daughter's departure? Had the hour of his 
 mercy sounded, that hour so vainly awaited until 
 now? 
 
 These reflections in turn agitated Elisa Piombo's 
 heart. For a moment her husband's face became 
 so terrible that she trembled at having dared make 
 use of so simple an artifice to create an opportunity 
 to speak of Ginevra. Just then the blast swept 
 the snowflakes so violently against the shutters that 
 the old couple could hear its light rustle. Ginevra's 
 mother lowered her head to hide her tears from her 
 husband. Suddenly a sigh burst from the old man's 
 bosom; his wife looked at him, he had broken down;
 
 340 THE VENDETTA 
 
 she ventured, for the second time in three years, to 
 speak to him of his daughter. 
 
 " If Ginevra were cold!" she cried softly. 
 
 Piombo started. 
 
 " Perhaps she is hungry!" she continued. 
 
 The Corsican shed a tear. 
 
 " She has a child and cannot nurse it, her milk is 
 dry," resumed the mother eagerly in an accent of 
 despair. 
 
 " Let her come! let her come!" cried Piombo, 
 "Oh! my darling child! you have conquered me!" 
 
 The mother rose as if to go and seek her child. 
 At that moment the door opened with a crash, and 
 a man whose face was no longer human suddenly 
 appeared before them. 
 
 "Dead! — Our two families had to exterminate 
 each other, for there is all that remains of her," he 
 said, laying Ginevra's long, black hair upon the 
 table. 
 
 The old couple shuddered as if they had been 
 struck by lightning, and no longer saw Luigi. 
 
 " He spares us a shot, for he is dead!" cried Bar- 
 tolomeo slowly, looking down upon the ground. 
 
 Paris, January, 1830.
 
 LIST OF ETCHINGS 
 
 VOLUME XII 
 
 PAGB 
 
 M. GU1LLAUA\E AND THEODORE Fronts. 
 
 THE DUCHESSE AND AUGUSTINE 88 
 
 IN THE RUE DE LA PAIX l68 
 
 THE BARONNE DE ROUVILLE, ADELAIDE AND HIP- 
 
 POLYTE 185 
 
 A\. SERVIN'S STUDIO 266 
 
 12 N. R., Cat 341
 
 Cv!
 
 .\WEUNIVERS/A 
 
 ^ 
 
 9. 
 
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