THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 JIM TULLY 
 
 GIFT OF 
 MRS. JIM TULLY
 
 BOOKS BY RENE BAZIN 
 
 PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 The Marriage of Mile. Qimel and Other 
 
 Stories . . . . (postage extra; net $1.25 
 
 Davidee Birot net $1.25 
 
 The Barrier net $1.00 
 
 (La Barriere) 
 
 "This, My Son" net $1.25 
 
 (Les Noellets) 
 
 The Nun net $1.00 
 
 (L'Isolfe) 
 
 The Coming Harvest net $1.25 
 
 (Le Ble qui Live) 
 
 Redemption . nit $1.25 
 
 (De toute son Arae)
 
 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES
 
 The Marriage of 
 Mademoiselle Gimel 
 
 and Other Stories 
 
 BY 
 RENE BAZIN 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 EDNA K. HOYT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 1913
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Published September,
 
 PQ 
 
 B3M3E 
 
 Author's Preface 
 
 OF the five stories which compose this collection, 
 the first three have never appeared before. The 
 last two formed, with others, "Donatienne," "Ma- 
 dame Dor," "1'Adjutant," "les Trois Peines d'un 
 Rossignol," a volume published in 1894 under the 
 title of "Humble Amour." 
 
 In writing the first version of " Donatienne," that 
 which the Revue des Deux Mondes published June 
 1, 1894, I felt very clearly that I was composing 
 the beginning of a romance. But none of the 
 imagined developments satisfied me. It was not 
 until several years later, about the summer of 
 1900, that I found in real life, as always, the de*- 
 nouement of this drama of abandonment. I set 
 myself immediately to work and the story became 
 a romance. The volume of "Humble Amour" 
 was withdrawn from circulation and the copies 
 were destroyed. 
 
 That is the strange shipwreck from which I 
 have thought it possible to save two stories which 
 reappear here. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 919304
 
 Contents 
 
 PAQH 
 
 PREFACE v 
 
 THE MARRIAGE OF MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 
 
 I. THE CREAMERY OF MADAME MAULEON ... 3 
 
 II. THE JOURNAL 23 
 
 III. NUMBER 149,007 63 
 
 IV. THE DRILL AT BAGATELLE 77 
 
 V. THE 12TH OF AUGUST 82 
 
 VI. HAUT-CLOS 96 
 
 VII. THE DOUBLE VISIT 114 
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 123 
 
 THE WILL OF OLD CHOGNE 167 
 
 THE LITTLE SISTERS OF THE POOR 187 
 
 THE RAPHAEL OF MONSIEUR PRUNELIER 249
 
 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL.
 
 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE CREAMERY OF MADAME MAULEON. 
 
 "FOR a fine day, this is a fine day, Mademoiselle 
 Evelyne! It is like your name! What taste you 
 had to choose such a name." 
 
 "Tell that to mamma; you will please her." 
 
 " I am not acquainted with her, but I shall not 
 miss the opportunity, if Madame Gimel comes to 
 breakfast here. Evelyne! One sees the person 
 at once, fair, fastidious, distinguished, blue eyes, 
 hair enough to stuff a mattress, and fine and of 
 the true Parisian tint precisely, the nut-brown 
 shade of the year " 
 
 "Madame Mauleon, I am waiting for the bill. 
 I am in a hurry." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I understand, I am too familiar. 
 With you there is no making any mistake. Your 
 eyes speak in spite of you; they draw together, 
 they quiver when you are offended, and they di- 
 late to say thank you " 
 
 The tall young girl, standing by the desk, could 
 not keep from laughing. 
 
 3
 
 4 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "It is true," she said, "my companions call me 
 sometimes 'Mademoiselle Folded Eyes'!" 
 
 "Oh! what a pretty live doll you are! and pru- 
 dent, too! Say, Mademoiselle Evelyne, you can 
 spare me two minutes, can't you; I have some- 
 thing " The mistress of the creamery inter- 
 rupted herself. 
 
 "What are you doing, Louise, place a decanter 
 at No. 4! Monsieur has been waiting for five 
 minutes!" 
 
 As she spoke Madame Mauleon bent over to 
 designate the customer at No. 4, and the strapped 
 linen apron, which she wore, parted from her bust 
 and made a pocket. Madame Mauleon loved 
 white. She had white linen sleeves always im- 
 maculate, a counter like a professor's desk cov- 
 ered with white porcelain on which, on the left 
 and the right, framing in the mistress and com- 
 pleting the harmony, were piles of plates and 
 bottles of "special cream." On the left also 
 stood Mademoiselle Gimel; her two wrists rest- 
 ing on the counter left both her small gloved 
 hands free, which unconsciously tapped against 
 each other. One could have taken her for a 
 pianist playing an air on an imaginary keyboard; 
 but she was not a musician, simply a typewriter, 
 accustomed to use her fingers, and she was com- 
 posing this silent phrase: 
 
 "You are a gossip, Madame Mauleon! What 
 can you have to say to me? Is it worth while to 
 stay here? " 
 
 As she knew, within a few cents, the price of 
 her breakfast, a roll, slice of ham with an egg and
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 5 
 
 a glass of milk, she began spreading the change on 
 the counter. 
 
 At this moment a customer came in, whom 
 Madame Mauleon installed with a glance and 
 gave to understand with a nod of the head that 
 he was recognised and was going to be served. 
 She pressed an electric button. Louise, the good- 
 looking little maid, came promptly. 
 
 "Wait on No. 1, Louise, and be quick." 
 Mademoiselle Gimel is a very charming person, 
 in fact, and the customer who has just entered, 
 an under-clerk of the mayor's office in the rue 
 d'Anjou, is already quite persuaded of it. He 
 looks at her with interest while unfolding his 
 paper. Mademoiselle Gimel is simply dressed, 
 but with care, like a Parisian as she is. Her sole 
 luxury is a small bunch of violets pinned to her 
 waist, a white waist, which signifies: "It is the 
 month of July." Her black skirt is like that of 
 so many working-girls, who do not like black, but 
 who are resigned to it, because it is a colour 
 "which does not show dirt." Her straw hat is 
 not worth six francs; but the two roses on the 
 crown were chosen with taste and the mousse- 
 line beneath, the fluff resting on the hair, was 
 charmingly rumpled. Mademoiselle Gimel is 
 twenty-two years old, and she has been at work 
 for ten at least. Her eyes are circled with shad- 
 ows. Madame Mauleon may think them blue, 
 but she is mistaken; they are flax-grey, with a 
 little of the hue of the flower, if you like, when 
 they open in the full light. One would say that 
 they were intelligent, for they shine; but a clever
 
 6 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 psychologist or simply a man of the world, who 
 might talk with Mademoiselle Gimel from the 
 Place de la Concorde to the Arc de Triomphe, the 
 Sunday promenade of the stenographer and her 
 mother, would quickly perceive that this pretty 
 girl has less intelligence than decision, that she 
 is proud, that she hides her feelings, and that 
 this little light is the will of a child of Paris, who 
 is not afraid of life, and who looks at it with se- 
 cret prudence and an amused air. Mademoiselle 
 Gimel is tall and very slender. Her complexion 
 is pale but healthful, her nose slightly turned up 
 and her lips barely pink in repose become smooth 
 and red when she laughs. When she puts her 
 chain of silver-gilt on her neck and goes for her 
 Sunday walk people take her for a fortunate, al- 
 most wealthy young woman; the conductor of the 
 omnibus says: 
 
 "If you have forgotten your change, Madem- 
 oiselle, give your address at the office, that is 
 enough." 
 
 She has the discretion of young girls in large 
 cities, which is as real as it is rare, having been 
 shaken and tried. She has a little depth of sad- 
 ness, like many others, like almost all, but well 
 hidden and well guarded. She has a sensitive na- 
 ture, forewarned, one who would place her con- 
 fidence better than her savings, but who has not 
 even been called to make the trial. She is still 
 distrustful with Madame Mauleon herself, she 
 does not make any advances, and that is why she 
 does not seem to attach the least importance to 
 her idle talk. Still, she is no longer as hurried as
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 7 
 
 she appeared to be; she has no embarrassing 
 witness; |the mayor's clerk is nothing to her, 
 and the waitress Louise hears nothing when she 
 walks. 
 
 "I was going to say to you," resumed Madame 
 Mauleon, "there are many who would like to re- 
 semble you. I have an idea that you will not 
 remain Mademoiselle Evelyne very long." 
 
 Mademoiselle Gimel stretched out her two 
 hands like a screen to ward off the offer. 
 
 "Let us not trifle, Madame Maule*on! In our 
 trade, we have no time to think of the improbable. 
 Here are the ninety centimes." 
 
 "And suppose I should tell you that the lieu- 
 tenant came back here yesterday?" 
 
 "Yesterday?" 
 
 "Yesterday, he went out almost at the mo- 
 ment when you came in; he was standing on the 
 sidewalk opposite." 
 
 Mademoiselle Gimel looked at the mistress of 
 the creamery; and her lashes drooped, and her 
 eyes became soft as if she were looking at a beau- 
 tiful star; but it was only a moment of oblivion. 
 She smiled. 
 
 "I did not see him," she replied; "it is really a 
 pity." 
 
 "He saw you very well. He stood there, out- 
 side, opposite the door, as if there had been an 
 accident in the street, all the time I suppose that 
 you were standing still visible above the cur- 
 tains." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "He went away."
 
 8 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "Well, so much the better! Au revoir, Madame 
 Maul6on." 
 
 "Till to-morrow, Mademoiselle Evelyne." 
 
 The young girl went out, followed the rue 
 Boissy d'Anglas, on which the creamery was sit- 
 uated, and went up the Boulevard Malesherbes. 
 She walked very slowly. It was ten minutes after 
 one, and, provided that she was at Maclarey's 
 bank by twenty-five minutes past, she would still 
 be five minutes ahead of Mademoiselle Raymonde 
 and of Mademoiselle Marthe, who breakfasted at 
 their home in the Ternes quarter. 
 
 The intense heat of the sun softened the as- 
 phalt. Joy dwelt in this summer light, made for 
 the growth of life, and it made more rapid and 
 more elastic the gait of the promenaders of every 
 age who were going up or going down the boule- 
 vard. Carriages fanned the driveway and sent 
 the white dust up to the third stories. Rising 
 above the noise of horns, sirens, and wheels, the 
 wrangling of two men caused Evelyne to stop. 
 An auto had come near upsetting a cab. The 
 coachman abused the chauffeur; professional ri- 
 valry made sharp words. The driver cried: 
 "Beast of an aristocrat! Get out, old caravan! 
 Get out, smoke all the time!" 
 
 The chauffeur mocked: "Look at his muddy 
 wheels! To the stable, old man, to the stable!" 
 
 The passers-by laughed, grouped themselves 
 around the place where the auto, a wonderful 
 mahogany-coloured machine, finishing its curve 
 with the gliding motion of a ship coming into 
 port, drew up and stopped an inch from the side-
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 9 
 
 walk. Evelyne had never seen so spacious a coach 
 before! The chauffeur's seat, a coupe and behind the 
 coupe, separated by a glass, a third compartment. 
 
 "That is for the companion," explained a work- 
 man. Evelyne was in the front row, admiring 
 the interior arrangement, the bevelled glasses, the 
 deep-yellow silk upholstery, the pocket stuffed 
 with maps, the spy-glass lodged in a leather case 
 on the ceiling, and then, on the roof, the trunks 
 and the complete set of tires, stowed away like 
 coils of rope upon a ship's bridge. 
 
 "How far that must be able to go!" said she. 
 "One would like to be the companion." 
 
 "Well! Mademoiselle, if I were the owner, your 
 place would be in the inside, for sure." 
 
 She had spoken aloud then? She turned her 
 head, put on her offended air, her eyebrows drawn 
 together, and saw a young clerk with a fine beard 
 and a shrewd profile, a bookbinder, engraver, 
 decorator, something of a jester in any case, and 
 an artist, standing in the rear, a portfolio under 
 his arm; then, bursting into a laugh: 
 
 "Thanks," she said; "I would rather not ride!" 
 
 She made her way through the group, which 
 opened before this pretty, smiling girl. She did 
 not appear to notice the slight bow of the fine 
 bearded head and went on her way quickly in 
 the sunlight. 
 
 She would have liked to go in the Pare Mon- 
 ceau and make the tour of a grass-plot ; it was her 
 chosen walk; she took out her watch and turned 
 short to the left ; it was impossible to take such a 
 liberty. The management of the bank had sent
 
 10 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 an urgent piece of work to the typewriter's office. 
 If Evelyne were late, Mademoiselle Raymonde, 
 as an elder clerk, would not fail to remark to 
 Monsieur Maclarey that Mademoiselle Evelyne 
 took most extraordinary liberties, "no doubt be- 
 cause she was pretty." Ah! what unpardonable 
 inequality! Nearly all the difficulties of her po- 
 sition came to Mademoiselle Gimel because of her 
 charming face, and of that something besides, 
 which makes a woman, even one of equal beauty, 
 jealous of another. 
 
 While she was walking toward the Maclarey 
 bank, customers filled the creamery: a few work- 
 men as they could only be served with water, 
 milk, and beer, they were rare at Madame Mau- 
 leon's post-office clerks, a bookkeeper of a whole- 
 sale confectionery shop, a young man, either a 
 student or young lawyer, unless he were an under- 
 writer, for he always carried a morocco bag under 
 his arm, which, on entering, he placed on a chair 
 with his gloves and silk hat eleven customers in 
 all. The small hall was nearly full. There re- 
 mained but one vacant place. Madame Mau- 
 leon, magnificent with satisfaction, brightened up 
 at the clicking of plates, lowering her head and 
 presenting her bands of brown hair to the reflec- 
 tions of the light, her eyes half closed over the 
 easy accounts, or else she held out a saucer, a 
 cup, a plate, reassured with a gesture a hurried 
 customer, or reproved in an undertone Louise, the 
 only waitress. The latter did wonders. She had 
 a way of gliding over the flagstones, sprinkled 
 with sawdust, of pushing open the kitchen door
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 11 
 
 with her foot, coming back with four or five 
 orders, distributing them without ever making a 
 mistake; she had an elastic step, a sure movement, 
 black eyes which saw everything, a quick way of 
 saying: "I know, I will be back in a moment," 
 which would have excited the admiration of a 
 head waiter. You must realise that there were 
 no experts in this hall. No one dreamed of 
 paying the compliments, which she so well de- 
 served, to the little maid. She heard other 
 praises, discreet on account of the presence of 
 Madame Mauleon; she listened to them with 
 indifference, as one who lacks time. She was no 
 fool. When the post-office clerk, having sweet- 
 ened his coffee, drew from his pocket and ar- 
 ranged in fan shape five lottery tickets for the 
 benefit of the "Scrofulous children of the Seine/' 
 and asked, "Mademoiselle Louise, if you please, 
 choose two tickets for me, so that I will win; the 
 others I give back," she replied: 
 
 " Choose for yourself ! " 
 
 "No, you have a lucky hand. If I win " 
 
 "You will divide?" 
 
 "Well, not exactly, but I will give you a kiss." 
 
 "Don't trouble! You would get two big prizes 
 at once." 
 
 She took away the coffee-pot and every one 
 laughed. Madame Mauleon herself approved, 
 because the jesting had not interfered with the 
 service. The clerk went out, the fan of tickets 
 still open in his fingers. At the same moment, 
 the lieutenant entered. He was in citizen's 
 dress. Without responding to the inclination of
 
 12 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 Madame Mauleon's head, without even appear- 
 ing to notice it, he seated himself before a table 
 upon which the hors-d'oeuvres were served, and 
 began crunching a piece of an artichoke. You 
 saw, under his moustache, his teeth, which were 
 white, pointed, and glistening. You would have 
 said that he was smiling. He ate like all young 
 and ravenous beings, who always have the air of 
 attacking a prey. He was one of those men, 
 numerous in France, whom one can call born sol- 
 diers. His brown eyes, under the clearly and 
 strongly framed forehead, beneath the straight, 
 short, abruptly ending eyebrows, seemed void of 
 curiosity. When you caught their gaze you felt 
 that you were in the presence of a disciplined 
 soul, a logical and strong mind, which ideas 
 interested little and never disturbed. A street 
 urchin called after him one day : 
 
 "There goes a defender!" 
 
 He had guessed rightly; he was a man of hum- 
 ble origin, but he carried in his breast the image of 
 France and the little lamp lighted before it. His 
 features were regular, but rudely moulded; the 
 jaw, for instance, a trifle advancing and square-cut 
 in front, lifted at a right angle near the ear, the 
 bone showing everywhere near the skin. His thin, 
 short moustache, which he tried to twist and curl 
 at the corners of his lips, proclaimed youth and 
 youthful pride. He must have been the son of 
 some subordinate official, or of a retired non- 
 commissioned officer or small landed proprietor, 
 one of those who have learned early in life that 
 they must have a career and live by it, and who
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 13 
 
 at once have chosen the army, knowing that it 
 would leave them poor, but preferring it to all 
 others because it satisfied in them a passion for 
 authority, honour, and action. They bring with 
 them to the regiment the love of order, of minute 
 preparation for the smallest enterprises, of man- 
 ual tasks, strict economy, and also a facility for 
 fellowship with soldiers, a willingness to do a 
 service, valuable in barrack or camp life. Like the 
 real nobility, though for other reasons, they have 
 been they are the strength, the traditional ele- 
 ment of command, the normal staff of the army. 
 Often they go through the schools. Often they 
 enlist. They are methodical, serious, and brave. 
 A chief who knows the species, and who does not 
 clash with them, can make heroes of them. They 
 talk little; when they have the leisure, they 
 dream, but sentiment is a subordinate thing. 
 
 Louis Morand had not been for very long a 
 customer of Madame Mauleon. She knew but 
 little about him, not to say that she knew noth- 
 ing. Such a condition of things could not con- 
 tinue: the habits of the mistress would not per- 
 mit it. When the lieutenant had finished his 
 breakfast, he approached the counter and Madame 
 Mauleon smiled. 
 
 "Monsieur le Lieutenant was late to-day, and 
 I imagine he was hungry." 
 
 Louis Morand made a slight inclination. 
 
 "It belongs to your age," resumed the mistress 
 of the creamery, seeing that she received no other 
 response than the pieces of coin rapidly laid on 
 the counter.
 
 14 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 The majority of the customers had left the shop. 
 Madame Mauleon insisted: 
 
 "And then, your profession, too. You drill 
 some distance from here, I wager." 
 
 "At Bagatelle or at Issy-les-Molineaux," said 
 Monsieur Morand finally. 
 
 "As far as that? And ninety in the shade! You 
 have run about! I am not surprised that you 
 have a good appetite." 
 
 She was delighted to have obtained a word 
 from the lieutenant. She smiled, she exulted, 
 she wished to detain this uncommunicative cus- 
 tomer, and, recalling him with a sweeping wave 
 of the hand, for he had turned to go : 
 
 "Well, Monsieur le Lieutenant, I assure you that 
 I have some customers who do not often breathe 
 'the fresh air' of the country. For instance, the 
 pretty stenographer of Maclarey's bank 
 
 He knit his brows and said carelessly, but with- 
 out seeking to leave the desk: 
 
 "I do not know whom you mean." 
 
 "Why, yes; the young girl who came in the 
 other day, as you were going out. She break- 
 fasts always before you do; you looked at her, 
 from the sidewalk yonder. A young girl such 
 as one does not often see, I assure you; she is 
 pretty, she is discreet, she is a workwoman." 
 
 The lieutenant's lips lengthened a fraction of 
 an inch abruptly and immediately regained the 
 normal line. 
 
 "Well, au revoir, Madame Mauleon!" 
 
 "Au revoir, Monsieur le Lieutenant. Till an- 
 other time."
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 15 
 
 He did not even hear. He gained the door, 
 with a serious air, with his marching step, preoc- 
 cupied with giving a favourable idea of the French 
 army, of its dignity, of the good use it makes of 
 its time, to the three remaining customers, who 
 were watching the officer go out. 
 
 "It did not hinder him," thought Madame Mau- 
 leon, "from casting a glance at the table which I 
 pointed out to him, and which is the one where 
 Mademoiselle Evelyne sits. He remembered, then, 
 something. He is a very worthy young man, but 
 cold. My Mauleon would not have gone away so 
 quickly, if one had spoken to him of a young girl. 
 He had the artistic temperament! This one 
 I do not know " 
 
 She weighed these thoughts, her eyes lifted 
 toward the windows, which poured into the 
 creamery the almost dazzling light of the rue 
 Boissy d'Anglas. 
 
 It was the hour when Paris trembles less, vi- 
 brates less, when its noise diminishes, when, in 
 the four thousand veins which are its streets, the 
 current of life slackens and the fever falls. It was 
 oppressively warm. People passing walked upon 
 the heated asphalt and felt their heels sinking 
 into the sidewalk. Many employees dozed while 
 watching the shop, office, or factory. It was the 
 hour for resuming work in yards and bureaus. 
 There were young heads which, in crossing the 
 threshold, turned for an instant toward the blue 
 line of the sky from which life flowed. 
 
 Mademoiselle Gimel entered the room where 
 the three typewriters of the bank worked when
 
 16 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 the dictation of correspondence or the session of a 
 board of management did not call them into one 
 of the offices. Three tables ranged along the wall 
 near the windows, three chairs, three machines, 
 a box and row of pegs in the rear, furnished the 
 room. Evelyne took off her hat. 
 
 "Are you hot, my dear? Has any one followed 
 you?" 
 
 The young girl tossed back her hair, and, with- 
 out replying, seated herself before the second ma- 
 chine. 
 
 The same voice continued : 
 
 "You know it is not becoming to you! You 
 are as red !" 
 
 The occupant of the table nearest the door, 
 Mademoiselle Raymonde, had ceased to write on 
 seeing Evelyne enter, and, leaning back, looked at 
 her with an expression which she thought to make 
 mocking, but which, in spite of her, betrayed 
 her soul full of suffering and revolt. This little 
 woman, nearing forty, all nerves and eyes, felt 
 that she was vanquished, or on the point of being 
 so, and she avenged herself on life by detesting 
 some one. Mademoiselle Raymonde was the old- 
 est stenographer of the firm, something like the 
 chief of stenography. She was vain of this; she 
 could say to Evelyne or to Marthe, her two com- 
 panions in the office: "I am established, Mesdem- 
 oiselles, I am the head here," but she did not 
 know that Monsieur Maclarey cared little for 
 length of service; that what he exacted was swift- 
 ness of touch, exactitude, the power of divining, 
 the delicacy of ear for distinguishing words indis-
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 17 
 
 tinctly uttered or stammered when he dictated, 
 and which all these virtuosi lose gradually; an 
 old cashier, yes, but an old stenographer, no. 
 She felt a grudge against Mademoiselle Marthe 
 and Mademoiselle Evelyne for being young, and 
 against Mademoiselle Evelyne, in addition, for 
 being pretty. She had noticed, from the first 
 day, the preferences of the employees of the bank 
 for this tall clerk who walked like a lady on the 
 carpet of the council room, and who carried her 
 young head proudly. 
 
 Mademoiselle Raymonde had that flabby and 
 half-faded look which one remarks so often in 
 women of the world who keep too late hours, hair 
 weary of being blondined and undulated, a com- 
 plexion that required powder, pale lips and eye- 
 lids. But, at this moment, this little iinage of 
 crackled Dresden china, reanimated by anger, 
 was also rejuvenated by it. In spite of the heat, 
 Mademoiselle Raymonde had on her shoulders 
 a boa of silk gauze which was becoming to her; 
 with her exasperated and trembling right hand 
 she was pinching the end of the boa. 
 
 "Presently," said she, "when they send to ask 
 for a stenographer for the Board of Oilworks of 
 Mogador, do me the favour not to offer your serv- 
 ices. That is my right." 
 
 "Why, I do not dispute it!j" Evelyne answered. 
 "I never offer my services. As if the Oilworks 
 of Mogador were so amusing!" 
 
 "Enough, we know you!" 
 
 Mademoiselle Marthe, very dark, her hair 
 parted in the middle, and whom one might have
 
 18 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 taken for a student, came into the room to resume 
 her work. As she was very stiff in her move- 
 ments, her companions had nicknamed her Mon- 
 olyth. 
 
 " Isn't it true, Monolyth, we know this young 
 lady? She has ways of attracting the attention, 
 of gaining the favour of the officials. We know 
 by what means you succeed!" 
 
 Evelyne, whom the walk had put in a good 
 humour, shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "Then imitate me!" 
 
 Mademoiselle Marthe had a smile of contempt, 
 which drew downward her soft lips and eyelids 
 with their long lashes. The undulation and the 
 crackling noise of the moving sheets of paper 
 was heard, then the dry click of a letter striking 
 the sheet, then ten, then a hundred minute blows, 
 all alike, answering to each other. The three 
 women had begun to typewrite. The door opened. 
 Young Monsieur Amedee, one of the exchange 
 clerks, thrust through the half-opening his square 
 head, which he tried to lengthen by a too thin, 
 pointed beard, and which revealed the whole 
 framework of his jaw and throat. 
 
 " Mesdemoiselles, one of you, if you please, for 
 the Board of Oilworks 
 
 "Here, Monsieur, I will go!" 
 
 But the young man, as if he had not heard 
 Mademoiselle Raymonde, continued : 
 
 "Mademoiselle Evelyne, will you come?" 
 
 Evelyne arose. She avoided looking at her 
 companions and carried with her her stenographic 
 book. The little keyboards behind her began to
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 19 
 
 click furiously. Then one of the typewriters 
 stopped and burst into tears. 
 
 The afternoon came to an end; the light faded 
 very slowly away; the heat continued stifling. 
 When night had come, the windows, one by one, 
 opened upon that impalpable furnace of dust, 
 which men, animals, machines and vibrations of 
 pavements and of walls send up through the cuts of 
 the streets. Each of the cells, rich or poor, where 
 men live, one above the other, was connected 
 thus, more closely, with this great troubled cur- 
 rent of movement and of noise which bathes our 
 houses until the hours of approaching day. Each 
 received, at the same time, a little of the fresh air 
 which fell in waves into the furnace. That did 
 not waken thought, but it took away the terror 
 which the solitude of night has for many; it 
 sufficed to preserve the semi-sleep of dream and 
 repose. 
 
 Madame Gimel, who lived on the fourth floor, 
 rue Saint-Honore, not far from the Nouveau 
 Cirque, like everybody else, had opened the win- 
 dow of her room. She was sitting near the bal- 
 cony; she saw well enough, thanks to gas-jets 
 and reflections from fagades, to run the tucks in 
 a white waist, which she was finishing. She 
 worked until five o'clock in the office of a whole- 
 sale house in the vicinity of the bank, and, in the 
 evening, she found time to do some fine lingerie 
 sewing. In the background, in the shadow, some 
 one was silent and was thinking. Madame Gimel, 
 now and then, straightened up; she turned her 
 head, and, although she only saw the outlines of
 
 20 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 a motionless form reclining in the easy chair, she 
 brightened up. She asked: 
 
 "Don't you want to light the lamp?" 
 
 "What is the use, Mamma? The twilight rests 
 me so much. I think that it is delicious." 
 
 "I don't." 
 
 A half moment passed. In the abyss of the 
 street below the huge omnibus of Ternes shrieked 
 out, its four wheels suddenly blocked; wordless 
 oaths, snortings of motor, murmurs of cockneys 
 rose in waves. Then, as if the wave had broken, 
 there was a lull, a dull rumbling, and a little 
 tremor of the earth shaken by the retreat of the 
 heavy masses, which were again set in motion. 
 
 " I do not complain I was thinking of the time 
 when you will be married!" 
 
 "I do not look so far as you. Would you be 
 pleased?" 
 
 "Not too much so! I have only you, but for 
 all that you are old enough." 
 
 "Twenty-two years, yes, past, and what have 
 I besides?" 
 
 "Everything: a Parisian's courage, a trade, 
 good looks, white teeth yes, indeed, whoever 
 wants pearls, a real necklace, two rows, not one 
 false!" 
 
 "But, Mamma, it is only the men who do not 
 marry who admire them! What ideas you have 
 this evening, indeed!" 
 
 In the depths of the room, Evelyne laughed, 
 and her white teeth threw a little light in the 
 shadow. There were the white margins of an 
 engraving and an ivory statue, a finger high,
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 21 
 
 which shone in the same way. Evelyne, seated 
 in a low chair, had placed on her dress and aban- 
 doned to the folds of the stuff her hands, which 
 shone also, very vaguely. She asked, and Ma- 
 dame Gimel guessed that her daughter was no 
 longer laughing: 
 
 "Then, your presentiment of marriage is based 
 upon nothing?" 
 
 "Upon nothing at all." 
 
 "Curious, isn't it? I have one quite similar 
 to offer to you. No reason for it, and my heart 
 not in it. It must be the effect of the heat." 
 
 She rose and went to the older woman, who 
 dropped her work and raised her arms. Near 
 the window, without caring about the neighbours, 
 in the twilight which the street sent up, Evelyne 
 kissed Madame Gimel, who kept the fair head 
 near her white head, thinking of all the happiness 
 of the past, as if an event had marked its end; 
 while Evelyne was thinking of all the happiness 
 to come, although she loved no one and nothing 
 was changed in her life. And they did not talk 
 with each other any more when they separated, 
 when Evelyne had seated herself, turning her back 
 to the street, by the side of her mother, and the 
 latter had picked up her needle again, whose lit- 
 tle regular clicking was lost, like so many other 
 sounds, in the noise of the city. They were think- 
 ing, both of them, about the marriage of Evelyne. 
 And, all vague as it was, this thought divided 
 them already. Madame Gimel was thinking that 
 if Evelyne should marry the shoemaker, Quart-de- 
 Place, or some one else, the intimacy of twenty
 
 22 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 years would not continue, in spite of the vow 
 that Evelyne, in her moments of expansion, made 
 with so grave, so ardent a voice, with her whole 
 soul in her eyes : 
 
 "If he wishes to separate me from you, I re- 
 fuse him!" 
 
 Evelyne, who had less imagination, was sim- 
 ply reviewing in her mind the words of the mis- 
 tress of the creamery; she did not attach any 
 importance to them; still, she would have liked 
 to know if they would come to anything. 
 
 "More astonishing things have happened," she 
 thought. "If I were loved, it seems to me that I 
 would recognise quickly if he only thinks me a 
 pretty woman, or indeed and I would love him 
 only on this condition if he has confidence in 
 me, if he understands that I can be a friend, a 
 power, a helpmeet, a true woman, and even a 
 lady, why not?" 
 
 Time slipped away; she gave no thought at 
 all to Madame Gimel. And for this reason, two 
 or three times, she reproached herself for the 
 egotism of this idleness and this silence, putting 
 her hand upon the hands of her mother, who 
 stopped her sewing, much touched. 
 
 In the room, whose ceiling was low and which 
 was of average width, Madame Gimel had con- 
 trived to place all the furniture which she had in- 
 herited from her husband: a sofa and four chairs 
 of green velvet, an ebony sideboard, which she 
 believed to be of the Renaissance, a standing bed 
 of the same style, which was covered by a coun- 
 terpane also of green velvet intersected by two
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 23 
 
 bands of hand embroidery. The room was gloomy ; 
 but Madame Gimel thought it the height of good 
 taste. When the daylight waned, the cardboard 
 margins, which framed the photograph hanging op- 
 posite the bed, took on an extraordinary impor- 
 tance, and made a sort of halo around the portrait 
 of the late Monsieur Gimel, late adjutant in the 
 Republican Guard. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE JOURNAL. 
 
 Like so many others of her condition in life, 
 Evelyne Gimel kept a journal in which she jotted 
 down, although irregularly, certain little events of 
 her life, dates, poems she had read, and "impres- 
 sions of plays." The journal had thirty-two pages 
 in all. It .was suddenly increased by ten new 
 pages. And this is what they recorded : 
 
 "Saturday, July 6, 190. 
 "This morning, something new happened to 
 me. I do not dare say pleasant, for one never 
 knows, when one has no dot and is a little pretty, 
 whether to be pleased with an attention or to be 
 offended. But, in spite of myself, I do not feel 
 offended. In the first place, he appeared very 
 serious; he does not joke with Madame Mauleon; 
 I have observed him; he does not even pay any 
 attention to the people who enter, who leave, or 
 to little Louise, who waits. That is precisely
 
 24 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 what began to interest me; he looked only at 
 me. I arrived late at the creamery. I had taken 
 quite a walk in the Pare Monceau, on leaving 
 Maclarey's, at the risk of being scolded by the 
 amiable Raymonde. The reason? Merely the 
 memory of that jest of Madame Mauleon, who 
 insisted that this officer, her customer, had no- 
 ticed me for a moment when he left the shop. In 
 meeting him, I would see. Well, he was there 
 at his table; he looked at me at the moment when 
 I entered. I came late for him, but he did not 
 know that. Nor can I say that he showed any 
 emotion, or admiration; but, when he saw that 
 I too looked at him oh! just as at the others 
 he lowered his eyes; he did not 'insist,' and that is 
 already very nice; it is a proof that he does not 
 think lightly of me. I took my seat at the table 
 in front of the desk, near the mirror. Madame 
 Mauleon devoured me with glances under her 
 eyelids, she assassinated me with smiles. She had 
 the air of saying to me : 
 
 '" At last, little one, you have come at the hour 
 when he breakfasts, bravo! But turn your head 
 then, just a trifle, to the right.' 
 
 "I did not appear to understand her. How- 
 .. ever, in the mirror on the left, without needing 
 to make the slightest movement, I saw the whole 
 room. I had no difficulty in discovering that I 
 was the object of a study. He proceeded stealth- 
 ily, with little glances, when he supposed that I 
 could not see him. I am well aware that the 
 creamery does not offer many subjects of interest. 
 Three, at the most: myself, a clerk from Fiver's,
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 25 
 
 who is not ugly, and a maker of fancy trimmings, 
 whom I have already met and who is not very 
 shy. He only looked at me, but discreetly, as 
 if I intimidated him. I, to intimidate any one! 
 It seems to me that that is curious. A compli- 
 ment would have flattered me less. I was the 
 first to leave. I do not think that I took ten 
 minutes to eat my breakfast." 
 
 "Monday, July 8. 
 
 "I have seen him again. This time, he scarcely 
 lifted his eyes in my direction; but he did not 
 look anywhere else. Madame Mauleon called me 
 to her, when she saw that I meant to pay little 
 Louise for my breakfast. 
 
 "'I believe, in truth, that he is interested in 
 you, Mademoiselle Evelyne. Yesterday, Sunday, 
 you were not here, naturally he asked me for all 
 sorts of information.' 
 
 " ' What about? About whom? ' 
 
 "'About you! What you did? Have I known 
 you for a long time? How old you were pre- 
 cisely? ' 
 
 "'That is droll. 1 
 
 "I said, 'That is droll'; I thought very differ- 
 ently. But I laughed in order not to appear too 
 naive. 
 
 ''Twenty-two years, my dear Madame Mau- 
 le"on, and virtue enough to distrust men who 
 think me good looking.' 
 
 "My heart was troubled, in truth. It takes 
 so little, even when one believes that they are 
 sure of themselves."
 
 26 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "Tuesday, July 9. 
 
 "I took a long time to breakfast on an egg and 
 a piece of bread! No one came, since he did not 
 come. Am I forgotten already?" 
 
 "Monday, July 15, . 
 
 "The day after our national festival. For me 
 the festival is to-day. For eight days I had no 
 news. And, this morning, oh! I not only have 
 seen him again, he has spoken to me; he has 
 almost confessed to me. And even wholly, I be- 
 lieve. I write to be more sure, to be able to re- 
 flect better on the meaning of the words, on the 
 details, in reading over my journal; perhaps also 
 for the pleasure that there is, when a feeling is 
 born in your heart, to confide it to something, for 
 lack of some one. Very well, I was the first to 
 enter and I had not been there more than five 
 minutes when he himself came in. At the first 
 glance, I comprehended not only that he sought 
 me, but that this meeting was going to be a date 
 in my life. We were almost alone; only a chance 
 customer with us, and then the little perfumery 
 clerk from Fiver's, who was looking at her beef- 
 steak with her near-sighted eyes. Madame Mau- 
 leon turned pale, as happens when she makes a 
 mistake in a bill. Monsieur Morand seated him- 
 self on the left, as I was on the right of the room, 
 and plunged into the reading of a paper. But I 
 plainly saw that he was not reading; he never 
 moved his eyes from the title of an article; he did 
 not give any order to the maid standing near him, 
 and who, unoccupied for a moment, moved in
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 27 
 
 measure her rosy head, her left foot and the folded 
 napkin, which she carried upon the radius (I 
 learned that word at school), as if to say: 
 
 "'When will Monsieur le Lieutenant deign to 
 see that I am here ! ' 
 
 "He did not see anything. The little clerk 
 from Fiver's having gone, Madame Mauleon, 
 who is not stupid, moved in her white box and 
 said: 
 
 "'Monsieur le Lieutenant, you promised to 
 bring me a souvenir of your country!' 
 
 "He trembled like a man who hears his con- 
 demnation I imagine and stammered, embar- 
 rassed, trying to smile and searching in his pocket : 
 
 " 'To be sure, Madame, I think I have some here 
 with me ' 
 
 "He rose, while little Louise stepped aside 
 to let him pass, and went toward the desk of 
 Madame Mauleon, my friend, and I saw that he 
 showed her a series of sketches, or postal cards, 
 and she thanked, and he explained, and I heard 
 words cut with exclamations, a sort of duo, al- 
 most as incomprehensible as the words of a chorus 
 at the opera: 
 
 " ' Perfectly, my mother is alone.' 
 
 "'Fifty years?' 
 "No, fifty-seven.' 
 : 'What a pretty little country!' 
 
 "'What are you saying! Large, immense, Ma- 
 dame Mauleon! And here is We were two 
 Scarcely enough to live. Content all the same! 
 Come now! It is called the Valromey.' 
 
 "'What did you say?'
 
 28 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "'Valromey, an old word; the valley of the 
 Romans.' 
 
 "A ray of sunshine touched the mirror on the 
 left and rebounded from the counter onto the 
 shoulder of the mistress of the creamery. Ma- 
 dame Mauleon leaned forward. 
 
 "'Mademoiselle Evelyne, come and look at 
 these pretty post-cards that Monsieur Morand 
 has brought me. Monsieur Louis Morand, Lieu- 
 tenant of the 28th, of the line.' 
 
 "He turned around, bowed very low, as people 
 of good society do when they are presented to a 
 lady, and, with a decision, an audacity, that I 
 had not the time to enjoy, and which confused 
 me at once, he gathered up the postal cards and 
 came to me : 
 
 "'If they would interest you, Mademoiselle, 
 I should be most happy.' 
 
 "What a situation! I was breakfasting, or I 
 was making a pretence, I had a knife, a fork, a 
 glass before me and I have no idea what, on my 
 plate, and it is at this moment, without my being 
 able to foresee anything, that Monsieur Louis 
 Morand spoke to me for the first time! I had so 
 little suspected that this moment was near or even 
 possible, that I had put on my every-day waist, and 
 even, under my straight collar, a bright blue tie, 
 that mamma gave me, and which I do not like. I 
 rose, I took three steps, not to approach nearer to 
 him, but to place myself behind the neighbouring 
 table, which was unoccupied and clean, and I said : 
 
 "'Certainly, Monsieur, I should be pleased to 
 look at them. We will be better here '
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 29 
 
 "I felt myself stupid and timid, which is not 
 usual with me. I am certain that I must have 
 had the air of a boarding-school miss, as they say; 
 I, who have never been to any but the primary 
 and there as day pupil! I looked down. He 
 followed me and seated himself, not in front of 
 me, but by my side, very near. He is taller than 
 I by a head. He spread out ten postal cards on 
 the marble table, like a game. He had the air 
 of guessing that he held the trump. 
 
 " ' A country no doubt unknown to you, Madem- 
 oiselle, the Ain: some mountains, as you see: the 
 Dent du Chat, the Colombier; on this side, Lake 
 Bourget do you like it, Mademoiselle? ' 
 
 "'I know so little of the country, Monsieur. 
 I know nothing but the rue Saint-Honore, fancy!' 
 
 "I dared not look at him. The hand which he 
 had placed upon the table contracted, then 
 stretched out again and took a new picture. He 
 has a long, thin hand, small joints and the articu- 
 lations strongly knit; it is the hand of a strong 
 and of a sentimental man. Madame Mauleon, 
 motionless with anxiety, must have questioned 
 my face. 
 
 "'Then, look at this, Mademoiselle. It is the 
 high valley of Valromey; if you should go there, 
 you would be astonished at least, I am sure. 
 There are little villages huddled in a fresh and 
 green cave which the wind of the mountains fills. 
 In winter, we often have three feet of snow.' 
 
 "He hesitated a moment, took up a fresh postal 
 card, turned it over, and, placing his finger on 
 a light greyish spot :
 
 30 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "'That is our house. It is as well known there 
 as the Louvre is in Paris. My mother lives there 
 still, alone, now that I am gone. Madame Theo- 
 dore Morand.' 
 
 "Why did he tell me that? The tone of his 
 voice had suddenly become different. I raised 
 my head, not much, just enough for my glance, 
 from the corner of my eyes, to meet the eyes of 
 Monsieur Morand. This lieutenant is a singular 
 man; he was as pale, his expression as severe, as 
 if he had challenged me to a duel. He waited for 
 my reply as if his phrase had had a significance 
 of great importance. And I believe, in truth, 
 that what he wished to say was: 
 
 "'It is there that the one who will be my wife 
 will live some day, and if you would listen well, 
 Mademoiselle, to my heart, which is so near yours, 
 you would hear your name.' 
 
 " I did hear it, Monsieur, but I belong to Paris, 
 and I am a clerk, earning her living; that is two 
 reasons to be distrustful. I pretended not to 
 understand, thinking that he would repeat his 
 thought more clearly if I did so. And I said : 
 
 "'Indeed, no, the farthest I have been is to 
 Bagnolet.' 
 
 "He looked at me with more attention, to see 
 if I were intelligent, and very likely also he found 
 that I did not express myself in very pure French. 
 For his face wore a smile, swift as the turn of the 
 wheel of an auto. Then, carelessly, he gathered 
 up the post-cards, even those that I had not seen : 
 
 "'I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, for having 
 shown you things so uninteresting to you.'
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 31 
 
 "'But how so, Monsieur? I meant no offence: 
 quite the contrary.' 
 
 "He returned to his place and I went back to 
 mine. Madame Mauleon, very agitated, and who 
 always thinks that she does not show it, began to 
 contemplate the sun through the windows. I did 
 not swallow a mouthful more, I left a portion of 
 cherries in the saucer. The lieutenant drank 
 his cup of coffee at a single draught and he went 
 out, without saying a word to the mistress of the 
 creamery. Passing by me, he made a military 
 salute, just as he would have saluted Madame 
 Maule'on, nothing more, nothing less. 
 
 "As soon as he had closed the door, I rose in 
 my turn. All this had not taken long. 
 
 "'Explain yourself, Madame Maule'on, what 
 does this mean? ' 
 
 "'That he loves you, my child.' 
 
 "'Speak lower, you have a customer.' 
 
 '"He is deaf. But how pale you are! What 
 is the matter? ' 
 
 '"It is cold here.' 
 
 "'Seventy degrees; you call that cold? Come, 
 confess now. You like him, too.' 
 
 "'You are joking; I do not even know him!' 
 
 "'One loves always before knowing. And be- 
 sides, you are going to know him; he wishes for 
 nothing but that. Come nearer, that Louise may 
 not hear; he asks you for a rendezvous.' 
 
 " ' Me ! But I am not one of that kind ! ' 
 
 "'You are angry? You do not know him, in- 
 deed! Very well! Here are the exact words 
 which he said to me, I repeat them to you: "You
 
 32 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 will ask, Madame Mauleon, if Mademoiselle 
 Gimel will do me the honour to grant me ten 
 minutes' conversation.'" 
 
 "'He said: "the honour?"' 
 
 "'Why, yes.' 
 
 "'You are very sure?' 
 
 "'I hear him still; the honour, the honour, I 
 would take an oath to it!' 
 
 " 'Then, I must accept. The honour! The mo- 
 tive is good then ! It is. Ah ! I beg you, Madame, 
 do not give me false joy. I am only a poor girl. 
 I seem to joke often, but it is because I must. 
 I am sensitive, to the bottom of my heart.' 
 
 "'Like me!' 
 
 "'To be loved for one's self, that is a thing that 
 one always wishes for. When it comes like that, 
 suddenly, you understand.' 
 
 '"Yes, you are crying.' 
 
 "'No, I am laughing, you see I am.' 
 
 "'It comes to the same thing, little one! 
 Whether one laughs, whether one cries, the heart 
 knows no longer what it is doing. What must I 
 answer him, your sweetheart? ' 
 
 "'Not yet! I do not know whether I shall 
 please him, after he has talked with me. Where 
 do you advise me to meet him? Ah! mamma will 
 be happy! Not at home, just the same!' 
 
 "'No, he wishes to speak, at first, with you 
 alone, neither here at my place, nor at your home; 
 some quiet place, away from taxicabs.' 
 
 "'The Place de la Concorde, then, by the side 
 of the statue. Oh! no, that is impossible; all my 
 young friends cross there.'
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 33 
 
 "'Go a hundred steps farther; he will wait for 
 you near the greenhouse of the Tuileries, on the 
 terrace at the right, on the side of the Seine, at 
 half-past six?' 
 
 '" Yes, that will do!' 
 
 "'The place is perfect. Up to eight o'clock, 
 one still finds children with their nurses there. 
 They will not be astonished, you know. They 
 are used to it. And on what day? ' 
 
 "'Why, to-morrow! why put it off? Does he 
 not wish the meeting for to-morrow? ' 
 
 "The mistress of the creamery began to laugh: 
 
 "'What put that idea in your head? Why, no! 
 He is more in love than you are, more in a hurry 
 to tell you than you are to hear him ; and when I 
 shall tell him "to-morrow," he will say: "Why 
 not to-day?" 
 
 "I felt that great joy which pierces through and 
 which betrays itself, whatever one may do. Often 
 I had said to myself: 
 
 '"I may perhaps love, but I will not show it; 
 that is too silly!' 
 
 "I feel that I have not kept my word. 'To 
 be loved,' I tasted these words as, formerly, I 
 would let a sugar-plum dissolve in my mouth. 
 Did the passing people look at me more than 
 usual? Those who carry a joyous secret imagine 
 that they are transparent. Perhaps they are not 
 wrong. At the bank, I could not keep still. 
 That silly Marthe, who thinks herself artistic be- 
 cause she wears her hair parted a la Vierge, did 
 not fail to remark that I went four times to ask 
 explanations of Monsieur Amedee, whose report
 
 34 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 I was copying; but Raymonde, who is more clever 
 and more malicious, took the finished report from 
 the table, under pretext of examining it, and car- 
 ried it herself to the young secretary. I let her 
 do it. She remained a long time she came back 
 with her eyes mor'e red than usual. It seems that 
 she made the most incredible scene. I have the 
 details from Monsieur Amedee himself, he told 
 me at the door a scene of jealousy! It is too 
 absurd ! 
 
 "'There is really, Monsieur, a preference given 
 to Mademoiselle Evelyne which I cannot explain. 
 I am the senior clerk and the reports are confided 
 to her. There is no use in being devoted ! I do 
 not know whether you have remarked, Monsieur, 
 that this silly girl becomes more and more giddy? 
 To-day her thoughtlessness exceeds all bounds.' 
 
 "Here she became much affected. 
 
 "'I have, however, demanded information from 
 a friend of mine, in the loan establishment, where 
 Monsieur Ame"dee worked before coming to Mac- 
 larey's. You will pardon me for being so frank. 
 I asked her if you were capable of how shall I 
 express it? of favouring one stenographer be- 
 cause she is younger and more coquettish? She 
 answered me : 
 
 "'"I do not think so, he is a settled man." 
 And yet, Monsieur, whenever there is any impor- 
 tant work, it is Mademoiselle Evelyne who has it!' 
 
 "She began weeping. Monsieur Amedee de- 
 clared that he would rather direct thirty men 
 than three women, and he left Mademoiselle Ray- 
 monde to dry her tears.
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 35 
 
 "All that because I seemed happy. I was 
 happy in fact, and I am so still. At the late hour 
 in which I am writing this, my mother is asleep 
 in her room next to mine. I feel that sleep will 
 not visit me so soon. She has guessed something 
 too, dear mamma! While we were dining to-day 
 together, in the kitchen, she noticed, at first, that 
 I ate with the appetite of a young wolf, or of an 
 errand-girl, and that, nevertheless, I forgot to 
 eat, at intervals, to look out of the window! 
 
 "'Whom are you laughing at, Evelyne?' 
 
 "'No one.' 
 
 "'Yes, you are.' 
 
 "'See for yourself; the windows on the opposite 
 court are all closed, in spite of the heat.' 
 
 "'Then you are laughing at your thoughts? I 
 know how that is!' 
 
 " She was silent, and I understood that she was 
 treading many silent paths, that she was search- 
 ing in all of the houses in which I might have, 
 according to her, a suitor. Poor mamma! As 
 if Paris was the same for her and for me! She 
 did not wish to say so, but she suffered also at the 
 thought that I was not confiding in her. For my- 
 self, I did not wish, I do not wish to say anything, 
 because I am not certain. Such a love! Is it 
 possible? I, the insignificant stenographer? How 
 I wish it were to-morrow evening! Ah! to-mor- 
 row evening, if he has spoken to me as I dare not 
 believe that he will speak, then, I will be expan- 
 sive. Yes, I will share my joy with her, I will 
 atone for the pain I have given her to-day. 
 Mamma said to me:
 
 36 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "'The shoemaker's son, our neighbour, when I 
 came in this evening gave me a friendly nod ; it is 
 not the first time; I am sure that he thinks of you. ' 
 
 "'Quart-de-Place?' 
 
 " ' Why do you call him that? Poor boy ! ' 
 
 "'It is the name he gives to all those who do 
 not deal with his father.' 
 
 "'Yes, more than once I have seen him, on 
 turning a little, when I passed, I have seen him 
 devouring you with his eyes/ 
 
 "'That leaves me untouched, Mamma.' 
 
 "'Without doubt, but does it leave you indif- 
 ferent?' 
 
 "'Oh! you talk like! . . . No, I beg your par- 
 don, I mean absolutely untouched.' 
 
 "Poor dear mamma did not reply; but she had 
 that little contraction of the mouth which is the 
 sign with her of a blow received, the 'touch' of 
 the fencing-master. It gave me pain to be the 
 cause of it. But what could I do? We separated 
 earlier than usual. She cannot be asleep, either. 
 She is thinking: 'Children are ungrateful, yes, 
 all of them!' 
 
 "No, it is not true. I am grateful to her, on 
 the contrary, because she has been a true mother, 
 a mother for whom her child is not a plaything 
 to be dressed and kissed, but a love which changes 
 the whole life. I was 'big as your hand' how 
 often I have heard her say that! I was 'deli- 
 cate/ I was 'lively as a mouse with blue eyes.' 
 Mamma was afraid, if she gave me to a nurse in 
 the country, that I would not be well taken care 
 of. She was no longer young when she married
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 37 
 
 the 'handsome Gimel,' my father, whom I have 
 scarcely known. A little tremor of fear and the 
 great sacrifice was at once accomplished. Mamma, 
 who had a good place, mamma, who was a sales- 
 woman at Revillon's, gave up her place for Eve- 
 lyne. She has never been separated from me, 
 and all that she has gained, alas, is that I do not 
 even tell her, this evening, that it is joy that keeps 
 me awake. Poor mamma! Her husband, retired 
 adjutant of the Republican Guard, was never, I 
 imagine, a vigorous worker. He had his pen- 
 sion. He used to say: 'I am looking for employ- 
 ment in civil life. ' 
 
 "Mamma said nothing; but she embroidered, 
 she took in sewing, she earned what was lacking 
 for the home and the right to keep the 'little one' 
 with her. Thanks to her, we have never suffered 
 for anything. She even claims that we will end 
 by being 'quite at our ease.' 
 
 "I laugh at that this evening. We have not 
 become rich. And here I am loved! Is it not 
 mysterious? Could I ever have dreamed that 
 an officer would fall in love with me, just for hav- 
 ing seen me at Madame Mauleon's eating little 
 pink radishes! He must have guessed that I had 
 been well brought up, by a courageous, clear- 
 headed woman, loving her Paris, which does not 
 spoil her but which amuses her, and that I was a 
 modest girl, born of an admirable mother. Ah! 
 if we should marry, he and I, he would have to 
 be polite and attentive to mamma. No super- 
 ciliousness ! No false pride ! I shall tell him that 
 to-morrow with other things, many others."
 
 38 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "Half past twelve, . 
 
 "I have no desire to sleep. I must go to bed, 
 however, because the stenographer must be at 
 work to-morrow morning at nine o'clock. We are 
 given no leave on account of love. I can see 
 Monsieur Maclarey's face, if I should say to him : 
 
 "'I have a sweetheart; will you permit me to 
 leave an hour before the others? ' 
 
 "He would ask himself if I had taken leave of 
 my common sense. And Monsieur Amede"e? He 
 would insert his monocle to make sure that I 
 am indeed Mademoiselle Gimel, stenographer, es- 
 teemed for her regular application and her good 
 humour, and he would answer with his diplomatic 
 air: 
 
 "'Do not forget, Mademoiselle, that the copy 
 of the report on the Loan of Herzegovina has 
 been intrusted to you because you are the least 
 frivolous of our stenographers.' 
 
 "But, just the same, at six o'clock, I fly and 
 without waiting for Mademoiselle Raymonde!" 
 
 "Tuesday, July 16. 
 
 "Since noon, I have not lived. I have always 
 been proud of my self-control, but I am so no 
 longer. I have always believed that I would not 
 let myself be carried away, and my heart beat 
 madly, foolishly, as soon as I thought: 'half past 
 six, the Tuileries, Louis Morand'; and I thought 
 of nothing else, and I had to exert all my will and 
 a tiresome attention, not to mix these words in 
 the copy of the coal-mine and financial reports 
 which I was copying for the bank !
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 39 
 
 "So I am weak. Oh! yes, weak as all the rest. 
 When I left Maclarey's at six sharp, I had noth- 
 ing determined about me but my chin, which I 
 carry a little high from habit. Raymonde called 
 after me. I was already off; the street was as hot 
 as a laundry room and my one thought was to 
 walk the faster; I had no fear of being red when I 
 should see him. That is a fear I have entertained 
 at other times, when it was a question of presenta- 
 tions less serious. I had no fear of not pleasing; 
 I was sure of being loved, loved forever, and my 
 whole soul was strained only toward the words 
 which should say that, and toward his glance, 
 the only thing which made me afraid. I took 
 the left side of the Avenue des Champs Elyse"es so 
 as not to be opposite the greenhouse; I saw only 
 the balustrade, white in the sunlight like a pen 
 stroke, the trees above and black points moving 
 slowly from one tree-trunk to the other. I 
 wished for mamma's opera-glass. Carriages were 
 returning from the Bois many open hacks, some 
 wedding landaus, some autos. No one has their 
 heart as absorbed in one thought as mine; I 
 wished for a balloon, to get in, to cross the square, 
 and to light on the terrace saying: 'Here I am!' 
 
 "Well! Those were nearly my words to Mon- 
 sieur Morand. My desire was so great to see him 
 first, to come unawares upon him, thinking of 
 me, that I took a way which seemed very simple 
 to me and which he thought very clever when I 
 told him about it. Where would Monsieur Mo- 
 rand, waiting for Mademoiselle Gimel coming 
 from the Boulevard Malesherbes, place himself?
 
 40 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 At the corner of the orange-house, near the Place 
 de la Concorde, and he must look toward the 
 west. I went around the orange-house then and 
 arrived from the east, I followed the terrace above 
 the quay. . . . And quite at the end, motionless, 
 leaning upon the balustrade, stood a young man, 
 shielding his eyes with his right hand, placed as 
 a visor on his forehead, searching with eagerness, 
 with visible vexation, with knit eyebrows, the 
 Place de la Concorde. I approached as softly as 
 possible and said: 
 
 " ' It is I, Monsieur, Evelyne Gimel.' 
 
 "I laughed, not to seem agitated. I dislike 
 displaying my feelings. The three little nurse- 
 maids, surrounded by children, saw me. I pre- 
 ferred that they should take me for an adventur- 
 ess. He, too, was confused, on hearing my laugh. 
 Oh! he did not tell me so. You easily pardon 
 when you see for the first time face to face, alone, 
 or nearly so, the one you love. He looked at me; 
 and because he was very serious and agitated, his 
 glance, which successively rested on my face, my 
 laughing eyes, my cheeks which laughed and my 
 smiling lips, did not know where to rest. Finally, 
 he looked at my hands and said to me : 
 
 "'I thank you; I am very happy.' 
 
 "At that I gave him both my hands. And I 
 laughed a little more softly, in answering: 
 
 '" Shall we walk?' 
 
 "The three little nurse-maids were looking at 
 us with so lively an interest that I would have 
 chosen to walk on the other side of the balustrade, 
 on the square below, and I made a little move-
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 41 
 
 ment to the left. But he opposed it, oh! gently, 
 but very decidedly : 
 
 "'Straight ahead, if you please.' 
 
 "We passed in front of the bench, in the midst 
 of the children. Immediately after, looking at 
 me again, he said: 
 
 "'You laugh very readily, Mademoiselle.' 
 
 "'Oh! Monsieur, it is impossible to hide . . .' 
 
 "'I had already noticed that, and I shall seem 
 very singular to you; I laugh at scarcely any- 
 thing.' 
 
 "'And I at nearly everything.' 
 
 "'I hope you would not laugh, however, if a 
 man should tell you that he loves you? ' 
 
 "I was transported with joy at these words and 
 grateful; but I do not know what stupid spirit 
 of independence and of teasing, something not 
 myself, triumphed over what is myself; I turned 
 my head to the back of the island, the quays, and 
 a little boat which was going up the Seine. 
 
 "'That depends on the man?' 
 
 "'If it were I?' 
 
 "I stopped. I threw my little decided glance, 
 which still scoffed maliciously, full into his eyes: 
 I saw that he was half Wounded and I continued 
 as if to wound him more : 
 
 "'Really, Monsieur, we scarcely know each 
 other.' 
 
 "'It is true, Mademoiselle, you do not know 
 me. I took the liberty of asking you to come, 
 precisely to explain to you.' 
 
 "'And perhaps also to know who I am?' 
 
 "'Anything you would be willing to tell me of
 
 42 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 yourself will give me pleasure but teach me lit- 
 tle.' 
 
 "'Ah, indeed?' 
 
 "'I know you.' 
 
 "'Through Madame Maule*on, then?' 
 
 "'A little through her, but most of all through 
 yourself. I have observed you during eleven 
 breakfasts.' 
 
 "'What you have learned is at most a means of 
 identification; but to become acquainted with each 
 other takes longer ! ' 
 
 "'You are mistaken! a look is enough.' He 
 said that with so much passion, quite at the end 
 of the terrace near the Solferino bridge, that I 
 was seized with a desire to thank him. But, as 
 I am ashamed of demonstrations, as I think them 
 weak, I looked incredulous. 
 
 "'No one has had such a look from me.' 
 
 "'You see very well that I know you, Madem- 
 oiselle; I was persuaded of it. You have never 
 yet loved any one.' 
 
 "Well, I must confess that Monsieur Louis Mo- 
 rand is altogether nice ! It was no use to reply to 
 him with a joke and briefly. He was so willing to 
 hear me, he did not tire of being amiable, of li- 
 king me and of telling me so. We glided, as the 
 poets say, along the terrace in the glory of the 
 sunset. No more nurses above, no more chil- 
 dren; only people below the terrace, going home. 
 I knew that mamma must be getting anxious, 
 going to the window, repeating: 
 
 "'That darling is late coming home! Where 
 is Evelyne? Half after six! six thirty-five even!'
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 43 
 
 "He told me all about himself. He was very 
 unpretending, very modest a little, probably, to 
 be like me. I did not find him, however, familiar, 
 which touched me deeply. Respect is almost a 
 dream in our world. I did not appear astonished 
 at this perfect politeness, of which he gave me the 
 proof; but I lifted my eyes less frequently in his 
 direction and I avoided doing so when he excused 
 himself for not being rich, for not being able to 
 give me, if I consented to become his wife, the 
 luxury that he would have liked (these are his 
 words) 'to place at my feet.' If our eyes had 
 met, he would have seen too clearly in mine ! He 
 told me that he was born in the department of 
 the Ain, in a pretty place called Linot, the one 
 that he showed me on the postal card. His 
 father, who was overseer of bridges and highways, 
 is dead. And as I appeared to think that title 
 very grand, without knowing what it was, he at 
 once explained that I was mistaken; he was, I 
 may say, obstinate, not knowing how to persuade 
 me that he was of a very humble family. Truly, 
 this Monsieur Morand does not resemble any of the 
 young men whom I have known before; he does 
 not flatter himself at all, he is afraid that you may 
 think him better or richer than he is. He said : 
 
 " 'We are quite poor, or rather I am able to live 
 on condition that my mother makes little sac- 
 rifices; my pay is not enough and my mother 
 makes it up. She is worthy of admiration. If 
 you do me the honour to listen to me ' 
 
 "'But I am doing nothing else!' 
 
 "'Then, if you do me the honour to love me '
 
 44 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 Ah! with what decision he uttered that word, his 
 head near mine and seeking my eyes, which were 
 obstinately, unkindly looking at the distance, at 
 the Arc de Triomphe! 'If you do me the honour 
 to love me, I wish that you should know that you 
 are not marrying a fortune. The army does not 
 make one rich.' 
 
 "'Nor stenography either.' 
 
 "We began to laugh together, a long laugh, 
 without speaking, he looking at me, I with my 
 eyes fixed on the vague distance, but our two 
 hearts so close to each other and so happy that 
 I did not move lest it should end. A great wood 
 pigeon, flying to rest, passed close to us and 
 broke the charm. I was a little ashamed of my 
 weakness; I asked: 
 
 "'You will not think the worse of me, Mon- 
 sieur, if I am prudent? It is a quality that the 
 life of a working girl would give to those even who 
 might not have it naturally. You could choose 
 a young girl who would bring you a fortune. 
 Why choose a working girl? Why me? ' 
 
 "We had resumed our walk and he made me 
 no answer until we reached the Place de la Con- 
 corde. I had wounded him. He was ardent, rough, 
 passionate, a little of the common people I like 
 that in his way of revealing the blow. He told 
 me that he had sworn to marry only a worthy 
 woman, accustomed to work, clever in conquering 
 life, and, at the same time, pretty, distinguished, 
 able to play her part, make the regulation visits, 
 quick-witted, self-possessed. 
 
 "'You are the one whom I was looking for,
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 45 
 
 Mademoiselle. Now, if I cannot please you, I 
 prefer to know it at once; does my demand or 
 my person appear perhaps ridiculous to you? tell 
 me?' 
 
 "I was agitated, I laughed no more, I answered: 
 
 "'I cannot judge of you in so short a time!' 
 
 " l Am I asking you to, Mademoiselle? ' 
 
 "' Why, yes!' 
 
 "'Not at all; I only ask to see you again.' 
 
 "'Then, we are agreed. Will you come, to- 
 morrow, to my mother's? She must be told.' 
 
 "'No.' 
 
 "'I cannot however ' 
 
 "'Yes, you can put it off. I beg you to return 
 here, to-morrow, to become better acquainted with 
 me before consulting any other person, even your 
 mother. Is that much to ask of you?' 
 
 "I looked at him a moment with all my eyes, 
 with all my heart, with all my troubled good 
 faith, and I found so much decision, loyalty and 
 love in the depth of this look that I hesitated no 
 longer. 
 
 "'Yes, Monsieur, it is much to ask of me. My 
 mother is worthy of confidence. But I am willing 
 to do this. I will not speak. I will return. Till 
 to-morrow then!' 
 
 "I extended my hand to him gravely; I thought 
 that he was going to kiss it. He pressed it lightly, 
 respectfully, and I left him. I do not know how I 
 still had the presence of mind to go down the flight 
 of steps without stumbling, and across the Place. 
 I divined his soul, I was wrapped in his thought, 
 which he had thrown around me. And I felt a
 
 46 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 desire to brush the meshes away with my hand. 
 I did not look back a single time, but I am cer- 
 tain that he remained there at the corner, by the 
 side of the stairway, which serves as an entrance 
 during the dog-show, until I disappeared by the 
 rue Royale. 
 
 "Mamma was listening on the stairway to be 
 quicker warned of my return. She almost cried 
 out when she recognised my step and my hat. I 
 called, going from one flight to the next, my head 
 raised : 
 
 "'Poor mamma, we were kept at the bank. 
 Why do you worry? The firm is about to make 
 a large Peruvian loan, day after to-morrow.' 
 
 "'Plague take Peru!' She called from the top 
 of the stairs. 'It has put me out of temper!" 
 
 "Wednesday, July 17, . 
 
 "I have seen him again. When one meets for 
 the first time, the emotion, the vastness of the 
 unknown between two beings who have lived 
 far from each other, the fear of being too trusting, 
 at least, with me make the first meeting of 
 those who think they love each other, a medley of 
 effusion and of diplomacy, a little display, an 
 uneasy search for permission to love, a sort of 
 examination which one feels is too formidable to 
 be thoroughly pleasant. 
 
 " Youstakeyour heart, your repose, your dreams, 
 you stake a family yet unborn and more than that. 
 I had so vivid a sense of this peril, that we are in 
 at the moment when we are going to give our 
 love, that I restrained, all the time, not only my
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 47 
 
 words but my heart, my smile even. That was 
 very unlike me! I did not thank him when he 
 told me things of which in my heart I was proud, 
 because I was afraid of being forced the instant 
 after to withdraw, to become again the little 
 stenographer who is not easy to marry because 
 her ambition is to marry a man 'of worth.' 
 
 "I begin to believe that he is really worthy. 
 Our second interview was less long, but more con- 
 fidential ; we both of us felt less fear of being mis- 
 taken. I had on my white linen waist, which has 
 a yoke of eyelet embroidery, and, through the 
 cherry ribbon, knotted around my neck, I had 
 slipped a sprig of mignonette. It is a delicate 
 flower and faithful to the end; it dies, but it does 
 not lose its -leaves. Monsieur Morand saw the 
 mignonette at once, because he looked at my 
 small white throat and my shoulders, and he said 
 to me: 
 
 " 'The flower that I love best, precisely, Madem- 
 oiselle! At home, at our house at Valromey, 
 my mother sows a bed of mignonette in a border 
 every year, always the same, which perfumes the 
 valley.' 
 
 "'Your valley is small then?' 
 
 "'No, very large. A little thing, a sprig of 
 lavender or of mignonette, but which has a soul 
 full of perfume, what power it has, and how far it 
 goes ! ' 
 
 "'You are a poet?' 
 
 "'No, I am happy.' 
 
 "The nurses were all there on the bench. They 
 laughed on seeing us again, and we laughed too.
 
 48 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 It became embarrassing. I proposed to Mon- 
 sieur Louis Morand that we should walk on the 
 side of the terrace which goes along the Place 
 de la Concorde. He assented. It is a great 
 point to agree on the road. Immediately after, 
 we became serious. Yes, both of us, and almost 
 sad. During what seemed a long time, we ceased 
 to be young and to feel that we were friends. Is 
 it the same with everybody? Perhaps. We 
 were like travellers who, reaching the port of 
 embarkation, stop, less eager for the journey, full 
 of questions about the sea, and the boat, and the 
 wind. By and by, a step more, and there will be 
 no longer time. We had both of us foreseen that 
 moment, yet it had come suddenly. He ques- 
 tioned me about my childhood, my character, my 
 tastes, and I asked him: 
 
 "'What would your mother say if you spoke 
 of your plan to her, Monsieur? She might think 
 that I did not belong to her world.' 
 
 "'She is the daughter of a very small proprie- 
 tor.' 
 
 '"She was the wife of an overseer of bridges and 
 highways.' 
 
 "'A very modest official! I guarantee you the 
 consent of my mother, Mademoiselle, and more 
 than that, her adoration.' 
 
 "I thanked him with a look, and I saw that he 
 turned pale because of the tenderness of my look. 
 This man, whose look is so stern, is very sensi- 
 tive. I wished to know one thing, infinitely deli- 
 cate, and I took advantage of his emotion. 
 
 "'The words which I guess, which I feel already
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 49 
 
 upon your lips, are very fine; do not say them, 
 however, Monsieur; I would like not to have any 
 falsehood between us. Do not tell me yet that 
 you love me. ... I seem singular to you, perhaps? ' 
 
 "'No; you surprise me, but deliciously.' 
 
 "'Then I may continue and question you with 
 entire frankness?' 
 
 "'Yes.' 
 
 "'Even indiscreet? I would like to know one 
 thing which you would have the right to conceal 
 from me.' 
 
 "He knit his brows and took a moment or two 
 to make his decision : 
 
 "'Continue just the same! I never lie.' 
 
 "'Very well! I would like to know if you have 
 often said to other women the words which you 
 would have said to me just now had I not stopped 
 you?' 
 
 "'No, you are not the first to whom I have said 
 "I love you"; I do not wish to make myself out 
 better than I am; I swear to you, however, that 
 I have not often been unfaithful to you, before 
 I knew you, and that if we were married . . .' 
 
 '"What do you know about it?' 
 
 "'I answer for it, I will be the friend who does 
 not change. I have the habit of obeying orders; 
 and then, with you it would be easy.' 
 
 "'Easy? I have not seen many plays, Mon- 
 sieur, but none said that. Still, I believe you. 
 I need to believe you.' 
 
 "He left these words unanswered, and we 
 walked without speaking side by side for the space 
 of four trees at least. I am persuaded that he
 
 50 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 was sincere. When men are young and are near 
 us, they are very sure of themselves. Then, he 
 asked me two questions more : 
 
 "'Would you be willing to leave Paris?' 
 
 "'It would be very hard for me; I love it.' 
 
 "'Impossible?' 
 
 "'No, because I am capable of loving some one 
 more than I love my Paris; I am sure of that.' 
 
 "Then, imperiously, without change, as if he 
 were making a speech to his men, he said to me : 
 
 "'I am a soldier; but I am ignorant of every- 
 thing else. A short time at college, then early in 
 the troop, then to Saint-Maixent. You under- 
 stand that I have few ties. I own to you that I 
 am not well grounded in religion. But I ask noth- 
 ing better than to learn of you, because I have 
 comrades, whom I esteem greatly, those whom I 
 esteem the most, who are fervent believers. My 
 mother is a devout Christian. WTiat is your belief 
 on the subject?' 
 
 "I was forced to reply. I was content that he 
 should be better than I, who have not his excuses 
 and who am an indifferent observer of religious 
 duties. Excuses, why yes, I may have some per- 
 haps, thinking carefully . . . mamma, for instance, 
 is not at all devout; my life as a clerk, which is 
 not surrounded by many examples. ... I promised 
 to instruct Monsieur Louis Morand. But it will 
 be necessary first to instruct the teacher, who is 
 not of the first order. I cannot tell how happy 
 this frank talk, without the shadow of hypocrisy 
 on either side, made me. My great Paris had 
 become almost silent you can never ask complete
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 51 
 
 silence of it. The air from the Bois came so soft 
 that I felt myself affected breathing it. Mon- 
 sieur Morand sometimes followed with his eye 
 the rosy clouds and smiled at them. I found this 
 dangerous for a certain little Evelyne Gimel, who 
 will have no real advice in this serious affair, and 
 who has much trouble already to make herself 
 take forty-eight hours' reflection. I broke this 
 melancholy of love which was seizing us both. 
 I asked: 
 
 "' Where did you drill this morning, Monsieur?' 
 " ' At Issy-les-Molineaux.' 
 "'Do you mean Issy-les- Aeroplanes?' 
 "'Precisely. I have witnessed two flights. ' 
 "'How I should have loved to be there! It is 
 my passion! Every day I buy a paper to know 
 when we will fly. Who was it? Delagrange? 
 Malecot? Ferber? The lady aviator? ' 
 
 "'None of them, but new ones, some quite 
 young men, who threw themselves into the air, 
 borne aloft by very fine linen wings that looked 
 like those of a butterfly.' 
 
 'Tell me about it!' 
 
 "'I would rather tell you to-morrow/ 
 "His expression was so serious that I felt that 
 my laugh rang false. There was so much true love 
 in his eyes that I said yes. I promised to come 
 back again, for the last time." 
 
 "Thursday, July 18, . 
 
 "It is the third evening of my love. Alas, the 
 last of my joy! All is over. I write this at I do 
 not know what hour of the night, while Madame
 
 52 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 Gimel I must call her so now weeps too and 
 suffers almost as much as I. 
 
 "My love began so well! This very evening 
 at ten minutes after six, he was waiting for me 
 upon the terrace that we had chosen for our meet- 
 ings, and he had, like myself, a whole rising tide 
 of thoughts in his heart. I had not confessed 
 that I was beginning to love him; I was going to 
 tell it to him; I was no longer afraid of him. On 
 leaving the bank, I looked up at the sky and I re- 
 ceived a drop of water on my cheek. Any other 
 day, every day, I would have been furious, for I 
 was without an umbrella; but now, I stretched out 
 my ten fingers, tired with striking the keys of 
 my machine, and I said, I remember: 
 
 "'I will get there rumpled, if I must, but that 
 makes no difference to me; he loves me now, and 
 I am going to tell him that I love him.' 
 
 "Why? That is the secret of yesterday's 
 words, words which are seeds, which shoot up 
 their first two leaves in a night. And I did not take 
 a roundabout way going to the rendezvous; no, 
 I went straight ahead, under the drizzling rain 
 which was falling and whose drops I would have 
 been willing for him to drink from my cheek. He 
 was at the lookout; I saw his tall silhouette in the 
 distance, above the white balustrade, between 
 two trunks of trees; and then, I saw his motion- 
 less face. We were drawn by each other, and I 
 alone was advancing; I saw his eyes which were 
 full of me; I went up the steps, no one was there 
 but ourselves; I ran and I said: 
 
 "'I love you!'
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 53 
 
 "Then, oh! then his eyes filled suddenly with 
 tears. And he weeping, I nearly, we were in- 
 finitely happy under the rain, in those deserted 
 Tuileries. I think that we walked very softly, 
 but I am not sure. In our hearts we were be- 
 trothed. He looked at me for a long time with- 
 out speaking, his firm eyes, his eyes of command 
 and of justice, fixed on mine, and I saw, trembling 
 on the corner of his lips, the words of love which 
 he was too agitated to utter. He had become 
 dumb. 
 
 "'I understand it all, Monsieur, but it is rain- 
 ing. Let us go in.' 
 
 "But where? The great conservatory of the 
 Tuileries was there, all its glass windows wide 
 open, showing the palms, the orange-trees, ba- 
 nanas, ferns, and guarded only by a little iron 
 chain festooned from one post to the other. 
 Well, we entered; I stood leaning against a box 
 and Monsieur Morand was leaning against the 
 same one. It was a very large box; we stood 
 under the orange-tree, and I do not know whether 
 that brings luck, but I shall never live moments 
 more sweet. He was looking before him at the 
 falling rain and I was doing the same; I believe 
 indeed that we saw nothing but the future, of 
 which we did not speak. He had taken my hand 
 and he pressed it often, and even in the interval 
 I felt it small, trusting, loved, between his strong 
 fingers, which trembled too. . . . What did he say 
 tome? Nothing of any moment! It was a kind 
 of plaint, which seemed to me delicious and which 
 he called 'telling of his youth.'
 
 54 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "'I have suffered/ he repeated, 'until the mo- 
 ment when I knew you. My life has been poor 
 and lonely and, at last you are here!' 
 
 "What happiness there was for me and for 
 him in this past sadness! I pitied him. I had 
 the feeling that I was beginning my r61e as a 
 woman, which is to console. He talked non- 
 sense, and I too, in the hope that it might last. 
 We allowed long silences to fall between the words; 
 but they were filled with a kind of loving pity 
 which he asked for and which I gave. There is 
 a language, from soul to soul, which has no words; 
 it is like a changeable colour enveloping us. Con- 
 trary to my custom, I was not gay. I did not 
 find again what has been my way of being happy 
 up to the present time. I wished for nothing 
 except to hear him say continually: 
 
 "'I have suffered, and at last you are here!' 
 
 " Suddenly a door in the rear of the greenhouse 
 opened; a gardener entered from back of the palms. 
 
 "'Upon my word! Lovers! Not shy either! 
 Will you clear out! The conservatory of the 
 Tuileries is not a marquise restaurant ! ' 
 
 " Monsieur Louis Morand is a man of self-pos- 
 session; I saw that at once. He drew himself up; 
 he looked at the gardener, who was approaching, 
 and when he was near he said calmly: 
 
 "'Your name is Jean Jules Plot, you were cor- 
 poral three years ago in the 3rd of the 2nd. Were 
 you not?' 
 
 " ' That is possible. And you? ' 
 
 "'Lieutenant Louis Morand. You were not 
 in my company. But I recognised you.'
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 55 
 
 "'It is because you are in citizen's dress, Lieu- 
 tenant; I beg pardon.' 
 
 "With that, they moved away, and I heard the 
 gardener say in a low tone : 
 
 "'My compliments, Lieutenant; she is alto- 
 gether chic, your lady-love.' 
 
 "'Say my fiancee, Jean Jules Plot.' 
 
 "Turning he looked at me. Ah! the beautiful 
 frank eyes in which there was love enough for a 
 whole life and even for two! The rain had nearly 
 stopped; I made a sign: 
 
 "'Shall we go out?' 
 
 "He opened his umbrella, I took my place 
 quite near my 'fiance"'; he was so happy that I 
 could have led him to the right, to the left, no 
 matter where. 
 
 "'I love you, Mademoiselle Evelyne.' 
 
 "We walked down the garden slope, we passed 
 by the side of the fountain, near old father Nile, 
 buried under the mass of his children; we passed 
 between the bars. 
 
 "'Mademoiselle Evelyne, I love but where 
 are we going? ' he asked. 
 
 "'To see my mother! It is time to tell her, 
 after three rendezvous!' 
 
 "I do not know whether he rightly understood, 
 for, from the Tuileries to the rue Saint-Honore, 
 his only thought apparently was of me, he did not 
 speak of her. 
 
 " Never have I mounted the stairs of our house 
 more slowly. Ah! how right I was! Happiness, 
 it is joy which believes that it is going to last. 
 Mine was not entirely complete. It trembled a
 
 56 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 little. What was mamma going to say? But I 
 knew her weakness for me. Monsieur Morand 
 on the first step had taken my arm and had placed 
 it in his. 
 
 " ' Are there but four stories?' said he. ' What a 
 pity! I would appreciate an American sky- 
 scraper at this time ! ; 
 
 "I was of the same mind. It was light still 
 in the great white cage. No one disturbed our 
 ascent. When we reached the top we had the 
 same beating of the heart, the same recoil before 
 the copper button of the bell. Behind the door, 
 what word was going to be spoken! What fate 
 was lying in wait for us? I reached out my hand 
 very slowly. Monsieur Morand saw the move- 
 ment, and, it may be in order to put off the 
 moment when we should be there, he took my 
 hand and carried it to his lips, and I felt them 
 praying on my fingers and saying: 
 
 "'Not yet.' 
 
 "That lasted a little. I believe that I would 
 have let the prayer continue had I not heard 
 mamma's step. She was coming, probably, to lean 
 over the balustrade. It was Monsieur Morand 
 who rang. Then he stood back and mamma 
 came hastily, joyously to open the door, as she 
 did every evening. She saw me first; I saw the 
 smile, which welcomes me and which belongs to 
 me, begin; but suddenly, it ceased. Mamma had 
 just discovered this young man behind me; her 
 near-sighted eyes made an effort, she wrinkled 
 her eyelids, she asked herself: 
 
 "'Do I know him?'
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 57 
 
 "She made the little movement of the head 
 which precedes the salutation. But no, she does 
 not know this gentleman. He is a stranger, she 
 does not understand; she remembers that she still 
 has on her black alpaca apron and I see her draw 
 back her poor, troubled, dull, pinched face into 
 the shadow of the passage, while I go forward and 
 say very low : 
 
 "'Mamma, I will explain to you. Do not be 
 afraid of anything. Let us go into the sitting- 
 room/ 
 
 "Her first movement on entering the room, 
 which is hers, was to throw the surprised apron 
 under the sewing-machine. Then she seemed to 
 recover her presence of mind; she turned the 
 lamp up: 
 
 "'Please come in, Monsieur. What is the mat- 
 ter? - 1 was not expecting a call. If you will 
 close the window, Evelyne? ' 
 
 "When she was seated with her back to the 
 light, when the window was closed, mamma had 
 already regained her usual sure air, her Parisian 
 air. 
 
 "'But please be seated, Monsieur.' 
 
 "She looked at him, during this time. She 
 studied him. She classified him. I was on her 
 left, by the armchair, and much more agitated 
 than at the Tuileries. I looked at him too, and I 
 thought him wonderful and charming. 
 
 "He was not embarrassed, not awkward nor 
 gawky; he was agitated; and, what struck me as 
 very proper and very clever, he only looked at 
 mamma regardless of all the rest of the room.
 
 58 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 He waited with deference for her to act, he 
 waited without impatience until he could say 
 what he wished to say. He remained standing; 
 and it was very simple. I had not had time to 
 explain anything. He took the explanations on 
 himself. 
 
 "'Madame/ he said, 'I should have spoken to 
 you day before yesterday. It is already three 
 days since I made my declaration to Mademoi- 
 selle Evelyne.' 
 
 "She put on her expression of astonishment, 
 an expression that she had seen assumed in plays, 
 happy really, poor mamma, very happy. 
 
 "'What kind of a declaration, Monsieur?' 
 
 "I was so close to her that I bent forward, and 
 kissing her where her white hairs began, I said : 
 
 "'Of love, Mamma.' 
 
 "And in a lower tone: 
 
 "' It happened quite properly. . . . AttheTuile- 
 ries. ... He is very gentlemanly. . . . Receive 
 him well.' 
 
 "He did not speak. She gazed at him for per- 
 haps hah* a moment. She is sensitive, impres- 
 sionable! I read everything in her face; she was 
 asking herself: 
 
 "'Let me see, does that countenance impress 
 me? Would he have pleased me when I was 
 young, when I was saleswoman at Revillon's? 
 Let me see, the mustache, the eyebrows a little 
 rough, this calm and stubborn brow, these eyes 
 of command, but which love, which have some 
 fear too, not of me, but of what I am going to 
 say. Yes, surely, Evelyne has done what I would
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 59 
 
 have done. . . . Although, yes, certainly, Monsieur 
 Gimel, adjutant of the Republican Guard, was a 
 handsomer man.' 
 
 "'Excuse me, Monsieur; one is not prepared 
 for such news. I am overcome. Tell me how 
 you became acquainted with Evelyne? Are you 
 in her bank? ' 
 
 "He began to laugh, and I can still hear this 
 restrained but frank laugh, the last between us. 
 
 " ' Oh no, Madame ! No ! I began by two years 
 in the Soudan.' 
 
 " ' Gracious ! You live in the colonies? ' 
 
 '"I lived there yesterday; I would willingly 
 return there, if I had not the place which I have 
 just confessed to you. I am a lieutenant of 
 infantry.' 
 
 "Mamma suddenly became very pale, she was 
 at a loss for words, she, who is always so ready 
 and so quick! 
 
 "'An officer! But, Monsieur, a regulation dot 
 is necessary; I do not know whether Evelyne, 
 even after my death . . .' 
 
 "'No, Mamma, it is not necessary any more! 
 I made that objection myself, you recall, Mon- 
 sieur, by the side of the myrtle tree as the gar- 
 dener came in. I had just asked you. . . . No, 
 Mamma, there is a circular of the general . . .' 
 
 "I thought that mamma was going to smile. 
 No, she became still more pale; she looked as if 
 she were going to faint; she looked at us in turn 
 with a kind of stupor, as if one or the other of us 
 were going to die. 
 
 "'Really, Monsieur,' she said, 'this project is
 
 60 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 impossible utterly impossible. The honour was 
 great, without doubt but Evelyne cannot marry 
 an officer. Will you wait for me here? I have 
 something to say to the child, who does not under- 
 stand, more than you, what I wish to say. Come, 
 my child.' 
 
 "Saying that, she drew me into my room. I 
 was not afraid; I felt myself strong against all 
 opposition, capable of waiting, of exiling myself, 
 of continuing to work, of learning a new trade 
 if it were necessary, of so many things that I was 
 sure that whatever argument mamma was going 
 to oppose would not hold out against my will. 
 Could I have foreseen? Ah! I was too confi- 
 dent! A word sufficed to crush me! She drew 
 me to the window; she passed her arm around 
 my waist; she hid her face from me; she spoke 
 to me her forehead resting on my hair. At once, 
 I felt my poor love struck with death; I did not 
 defend myself ; I did not answer; I suffered. How 
 long did I remain there, without strength, while 
 she urged me: 
 
 "'Come, my child, go back, invent a pretext, 
 send him away, since it must be done!' 
 
 "Seeing that I remained silent, she even pro- 
 posed to me to go alone and to say herself to Mon- 
 sieur Morand: 
 
 "'It is ended, do not return.' 
 
 "Then only I came to myself. I repulsed her; 
 she let me act. My nerves were tense, therefore 
 fortified. I must have looked very strange, my 
 eyes glittering with the tears that I was holding 
 back; with my new will to leave him; with my
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 61 
 
 voice which I was afraid of hearing myself, be- 
 cause it was going to separate us. I do not know 
 how I had the courage, I went straight to him, 
 standing in the middle of the room. 
 
 " ' Monsieur, there is a great sorrow for me and 
 for you; Madame Gimel has just told me. I was 
 ignorant of what she has told me, I swear it to 
 you. She was right to tell me, I must not, I can 
 not be your fiancee.' 
 
 "'But what can she have told you, Mademoi- 
 selle? She does not know me. Someone, perhaps, 
 has slandered me to her? Let her make inquiries. 
 I have nothing to fear. But do not say such 
 words.' 
 
 "'Oh! no, it is nothing about you.' 
 
 "'Then, how can a thing which you did not 
 know, and which concerned you, Mademoiselle, 
 have so great importance? You were ignorant 
 of it what is it? Have I not assured you that 
 questions of dot did not enter into my thoughts. 
 If you were without anything and without trous- 
 seau, I should not change my mind. Is that 
 all?' 
 
 "'Alas! no.' 
 
 "'Then speak, tell me!' 
 
 "'I cannot.' 
 
 "'You must! I will not leave you without 
 knowing why you break off. I have the right to 
 an explanation.' 
 
 '"And if I ask you, Monsieur, not to demand 
 it?' 
 
 "'I refuse. You see that I suffer cruelly. I 
 shall believe that I have been rejected for rea-
 
 62 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 sons of ambition, which you have been made to 
 share.' 
 
 "'Indeed, no! Do not insult the child, Mon- 
 sieur! She had the right to choose, in fact she 
 had chosen, and she is not the woman to take back 
 her word from ambition ! ' 
 
 "It was Madame Gimel, who came out, in her 
 turn, from my room, animated, flushed, ready to 
 take offence for me, who was only unhappy. I 
 reached out my hand to stay the pleadings of this 
 loving, offended one; I said: 
 
 "'You are right, Monsieur, it is better that 
 you should know the truth.' 
 
 "'What, you are going to tell him, Evelyne?' 
 
 "'Everything; Monsieur Morand will see by 
 that how greatly I esteem him. He will also see 
 that I cannot become his wife. I am a foundling, 
 Monsieur, I am a ward of Public Charity, adopted 
 by Madame Gimel. Do you understand now? 
 This woman, who has brought me up, had only 
 to leave me with the others. I should have grown 
 up on a farm in Nievre or in Normandy. I am 
 without father or mother. You yourself see that 
 I am not one who can be presented to the wives 
 of officers. You cannot deny it.' 
 
 "He looked at me, and he loved me still. But 
 he did not reply. He saw that I was not lying, 
 that I had been ignorant of everything, that I did 
 not wish to weep, that I did not wish him to re- 
 main. He too wished to be courageous; he did 
 not even ask me to take his hand; he bowed to 
 mamma, the poor boy, bewildered and yet cor- 
 rect; he bowed to her and then he did not have
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 63 
 
 the strength to bid me farewell. I think that he 
 tried to begin: 'Pardon me' but he had not 
 the courage to finish, he felt that everything was 
 crumbling to pieces, and he left the room. I am 
 almost sure that he stopped to look at me on the 
 landing. I did not move. The ward of Public 
 Charity had no word of hope to give him, no 
 illusion. The dry click of the lock, resuming its 
 role of guardian, has separated us. 
 "Madame Gimel spoke: 
 "'Come, let me tell you everything!' 
 "We talked and wept until two o'clock in the 
 morning. And, now, I have no father, no mother, 
 no name of my own, and no longer a fiance." 
 
 III. 
 NUMBER 149,007. 
 
 At eight o'clock Evelyne was up. She had 
 made her bed, swept the room, and had heated 
 the milk which the milkman, at half past seven 
 every morning, placed upon the door-mat in a 
 sealed bottle with a blue label: "Select milk 
 from the Chateau de Perray." 
 
 She carried the two cups on a tray into the 
 room of Madame Gimel. 
 
 "Thank you, my dear. Do not hurry. You 
 have plenty of time. There, put the tray on the 
 stand. Go get the rolls. That is all. Why have 
 you put on a black dress and your black tie? 
 You look "
 
 64 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "As if I were in mourning? That is what I 
 wish." 
 
 "Yes, my poor darling. But what will the 
 others at the bank say? " 
 "I am not going there." 
 "How! You are not going there?" 
 "No, we are going, both of us, on an urgent 
 errand, and I will send a note to Monsieur Amedee, 
 to say that I am ill." 
 
 "If they learn that it is not true?" 
 
 " It is truer than if the doctor had said so 
 
 "That is true. And where do you want " 
 
 " To the Bureau of Public Charity. I am going 
 to ask for my mother. I wish to know her name, 
 who she is, and to find her again if she is not 
 dead." 
 
 "You will learn nothing, my child, since I have 
 known nothing." 
 
 "Because you are timid! Because you are 
 from Romorantin, while I I am a Parisienne 
 Though as to that, I am no longer sure of any- 
 thing! But I assure you that they will tell it 
 tome!" 
 
 She had the appearance of a very young widow 
 who was beside herself. 
 
 "Yes, dearest, they will tell it perhaps. You 
 are right. Drink your milk. I will put on my 
 hat. Sit down. There, don't hurry. We have 
 plenty of time. I am always your mother, my 
 Evelyne." 
 
 The pale Madame Gimel took more time than 
 usual to pin on her hat. Like others, when they 
 have aged a little, she sought for words to console
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 65 
 
 the sorrow of love, which had no wish to be con- 
 soled and which burst into brighter flame at the 
 useless words. Evelyne, seated facing the light, 
 near the little table, looked into space above the 
 opposite roofs, which were visible through the 
 open window, and forgot to touch the bowl of 
 milk which sent up trembling wreaths of steam. 
 
 Behind her, Madame Gimel, dressed for the 
 walk, having even taken her "best" parasol, 
 which had a cherry on the end of the handle, 
 stood erect for a little time. She pitied Evelyne; 
 she envied her, perhaps; she turned over in her 
 mind the incidents of this living romance which 
 was under her eyes, as she did in her hours of 
 solitude, when she had finished a continued story 
 in the Petit Journal But this time, she ran against 
 the unknown and the impossible on all sides. "I 
 am ready, my child; I am waiting for you." 
 
 Evelyne swallowed a mouthful of milk and went 
 out first. 
 
 While the two women were walking in the street 
 their eyes and even their hearts were distracted a 
 little. It was still early. They followed the rue 
 de Rivoli, which they had entered, leaving the 
 rue Saint-Honore. Madame Gimel had chosen 
 this route on purpose to pass under the galleries 
 of the Louvre shops, to be able to speak the words 
 which have power over the minds of women 
 she knew them well which appeal where there 
 is love of self, of another, or of child. 
 
 "Look at that beautiful guipure bertha; and 
 this dress for the seashore! And that adorable 
 layette!"
 
 66 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 In spite of her grief, Evelyne looked. She did 
 not go so far as to smile, but a little caress came 
 to her from things exposed in the window that 
 struck her fancy. Her heart was not wholly closed 
 to life, but almost so. She had on her black skirt, 
 a flexible leather belt, a white waist and her every- 
 day sailor hat from which a pigeon's wing rose, 
 a single one. 
 
 When Madame Gimel turned to the right, a 
 little before reaching the Hotel de Ville, quite two 
 minutes had passed without her speaking. Old 
 memories and the dread of those offices, behind 
 which the State sits, threw a gloom over her. 
 Evelyne, the impressionable Evelyne, haughty 
 because ashamed, hostile beforehand to all that 
 she was going to see and to hear, hesitated, her 
 head raised, between the fagades of the public 
 buildings which occupy nearly the whole length 
 of Victoria Avenue. 
 
 "It is at No. 3, the Public Relief," said Madame 
 Gimel. " I remember you have to go in the court. 
 Ah! dear me! I was so happy twenty-two years 
 ago when I came out of there with you in my arms, 
 and my good husband, worthy soul, who was 
 murmuring behind me: 'You don't know how to 
 carry her right, give her to me.' This brings back 
 so many things. There was a clerk but what 
 am I saying? there were several chiefs of bu- 
 reaus and the director who made us sign papers 
 that day. I might, perhaps, recognise some of 
 them." 
 
 The memory of the heart is not that of the 
 eyes. Madame Gimel, on entering the court of
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 67 
 
 No. 3, took her lorgnette and looked, unable to 
 decide, at the flights of steps and the doors around 
 the court, when Evelyne went to the right, to 
 the glass door upon which were inscribed these 
 words: "Foundlings. Information and Inquir- 
 ies." The two women entered, turned to the 
 left, and passed before an office where the exam- 
 iners of the suburbs of Paris were holding forth, 
 giving the accounts of their researches. They 
 came to a little window like that of a bank, be- 
 hind which a fat, grave, smooth-shaven man was 
 standing, who had expressive lips and who knew 
 it. He did not move on seeing Madame Gimel 
 and Evelyne. The latter did not advance. Ma- 
 dame Gimel glided lightly, with the step she had 
 had at Revillon's when advancing to meet a cus- 
 tomer, and said: 
 
 "Monsieur, the Chief of the Bureau?" 
 
 He answered immediately: 
 
 "Have you the child's number?" 
 
 "No, Monsieur, I haven't it with me, but I 
 remember it perfectly : 149,007." 
 
 The clerk turned to an inclined desk upon which 
 a register lay. Madame Gimel saw plainly that 
 he was in error, but she did not dare tell him so, 
 on account of the reverential fear with which 
 every official inspired her. The clerk crushed 
 under his thumb and turned with a swift, circu- 
 lar motion five or six leaves, then let them drop 
 again. 
 
 "Why," he exclaimed, "this is No. 170,000! 
 Your number is old, Madame." 
 
 A firm, young voice spoke:
 
 68 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "Monsieur, I am No. 149,007!" 
 
 The fat scribe was struck with the accent of this 
 voice, and when he looked at Evelyne, who had 
 advanced to Madame Gimel's right, his aston- 
 ishment became admiration. The expressive lips 
 made a sign. 
 
 "Pardon me, Mademoiselle; I could not sus- 
 pect- 
 
 "That does not matter," interrupted the young 
 girl. "I was adopted twenty-two years ago by 
 Madame " 
 
 "Oh! Evelyne!" 
 
 " Naturally. How would you have me explain? 
 I have come, Monsieur, to get some information 
 about my origin." 
 
 She was nervous and decided to be impertinent. 
 
 The head of the bureau saw that. He econ- 
 omised the rest of the smile, which was waiting 
 its turn, and answered : 
 
 "Very well, Mademoiselle. Apply then to the 
 Bureau of Adoptions, stairway A, top floor." 
 
 He bowed with administrative politeness, yet 
 with a shade of reserve, on account of the abrupt- 
 ness of the young girl. Madame Gimel alone 
 acknowledged it. The pigeon-wing had already 
 flitted on and passed in front of the examiners, 
 who blinked their eyes in Evelyne's wake. 
 
 The latter, recrossing the court, found stair- 
 way A, mounted several flights, and went down 
 a corridor upon which numbered doors opened. 
 She knocked at one of the last, and entered a 
 warm cell of a room whose occupant her knock 
 had awakened.
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 69 
 
 "I do not remember him either," whispered 
 Madame Gimel, coming close to Evelyne. 
 
 The man pushed forward two chairs, the only 
 ones which furnished the room. He belonged to 
 that intelligent and ardent class who rush into 
 public office, who invent and meditate on reforms, 
 make reports, hope for advancement, and, receiv- 
 ing very little, sometimes get angry, but more 
 often relax their vigilance. His ample forehead, 
 which the baldness of his temples prolonged, and 
 his pointed chin with its curved beard, gave him 
 a triangular head. He glanced at the little red 
 curtains which framed the window, at the Empire 
 clock, two black columns and a gold dial, at the 
 files of papers lined up before him, to assure him- 
 self that all was in order, placed a small eye- 
 glass on his nose, which was also triangular, and 
 asked : 
 
 "What can I do for you, Madame?" 
 
 Evelyne did not give Madame Gimel time to 
 reply. 
 
 " It appears, Monsieur," said she, "that I am No. 
 149,007. I learned yesterday evening that I was 
 not the daughter of Madame Gimel; that I was 
 a ward of the Public Relief. I have come to ask 
 you to tell me my mother's name, to permit me 
 to find her again, if she is living. I am extremely 
 unhappy. Especially, I beg of you no consola- 
 tions and no commonplaces." 
 
 Monsieur Heidemetz gave an approving glance 
 and replied : 
 
 "That does not seem to me possible. You 
 or Madame must have "
 
 70 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "Gimel, Monsieur; my husband was adjutant 
 in the Republican Guard." 
 
 "Madame Gimel should have a certificate of 
 origin, guaranteed by the Administration." 
 
 "Yes, I have seen it; it is a document which 
 shows nothing. You cannot admit that a child 
 may be abandoned without the mother giving her 
 name?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon, but that is so, Mademoi- 
 selle." 
 
 "Without her making known what motive 
 has actuated her?" 
 
 "That may happen, on the contrary." 
 
 "From whence one springs, from what poverty 
 or from what vice? For I can only hesitate be- 
 tween those two things." 
 
 "Come, come, my little Evelyne, calm your- 
 self." 
 
 "Let me alone; I am speaking to monsieur, 
 who sees that I wish to know all that he knows 
 himself, and I think that my pretension is not 
 excessive " 
 
 The hand of Monsieur Heidemetz removed the 
 eye-glass and seemed to fondle it. 
 
 "It is, Mademoiselle. You have a right only 
 to the information contained in the Administra- 
 tion's certificate of origin. Nevertheless, to oblige 
 you, I am going to do an exceptional thing, alto- 
 gether exceptional, one which I have vainly asked 
 should be made obligatory on the Public Relief." 
 
 He rang for a messenger. 
 
 "Go, ask for ,this file at the archives." He 
 wrote two lines upon a slip of paper, which he
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 71 
 
 handed to the messenger, and immediately be- 
 gan to question Madame Gimel about the cir- 
 cumstances of what he termed: "The placing 
 under guardianship." Madame Gimel recalled 
 with complaisance the long discussions that she 
 had had with Monsieur Gimel before deciding 
 to adopt a child; the indecision of her husband, 
 who did not know whether he would adopt a 
 boy or girl; her own insistence in asking for "a 
 little girl"; the comparison of the photographs of 
 the "candidates"; then the coming of the couple, 
 accompanied by a notary, to the director of the 
 Public Relief himself, "in that fine office where 
 the portraits of benevolent persons of all ages 
 are hung." 
 
 Evelyne did not speak, in spite of the atten- 
 tions of the young clerk, who furnished her with 
 explanations which she did not ask for. 
 
 When the messenger returned, she rose and 
 went quickly to the table on which he placed a 
 small vellow file of papers. 
 
 "Ah! Let me see." 
 
 "Look." 
 
 Evelyne bent forward, her hands resting on the 
 table. She followed the text which Monsieur 
 Heidemetz read rapidly in an undertone. It was 
 a double cream-coloured sheet of large size, hav- 
 ing on each leaf, on the first page and on the 
 reverse, a printed list of questions, with square 
 spaces opposite, nearly all empty, alas! 
 
 "Bulletin of information concerning a child 
 presented at the Foundling Hospital. Sex of 
 child: feminine. Name and surname: Evelyne."
 
 72 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "Then I have no other name, Monsieur?" 
 
 "Evelyne, nothing more, Mademoiselle. You 
 can see. Place and date of birth, Department: 
 Paris, October 1, 1886." 
 
 "At least I was born in Paris," said Evelyne. 
 
 "Is it legitimate or illegitimate? Illegitimate. 
 Recognised by the father? No. By the mother? 
 No. Place of confinement? Blank. Wish of the 
 parents as to creed? Blank." 
 
 "Ah! as for that, she was baptised, Monsieur," 
 interrupted Madame Gimel. "I took care to have 
 her baptised conditionally, as they say. And I 
 may even add that she is very religious for a 
 That is, I mean to say; I have brought her up as 
 my own child." 
 
 "Date of deposit. You were twelve days old, 
 Mademoiselle. Detailed explanation of the mo- 
 tives which led to the abandonment of the child." 
 
 Here monsieur showed a delicate attention. 
 He had a feeling that the young creature who 
 was standing near him suffered, and he did not 
 read aloud the motive written in the space for 
 the answers; the motive in a single word: pov- 
 erty. Evelyne was grateful to him for this. He 
 turned the page. The mother had been unwill- 
 ing to give any information about herself which 
 could identify her, and all that she had consented 
 to say was that she had had no other child but 
 the one which she abandoned. 
 
 The third page must have been the hardest for 
 Evelyne, and the silence was complete while Eve- 
 lyne read these cruel lines : 
 
 "Has the mother been told that the admission
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 73 
 
 of a child to the Foundling Hospital did not con- 
 stitute a temporary placing, but an effective 
 abandonment?" "Yes." 
 
 "And that the consequences were the following: 
 absolute ignorance of the places where the infant 
 would be put to nurse or be placed?" "Yes." 
 
 "Absence of all communication, even indirect, 
 with it?" "Y*s." 
 
 The young girl turned her head aside an in- 
 stant to Madame Gimel. 
 
 "My mother must have been very unhappy," 
 she said, "to accept that!" 
 
 Madame GimePs eyes were red, and she could 
 not reply. Evelyne read this last condition : 
 
 "News of the child given every three months 
 only, and confined merely to the question of ex- 
 istence or of decease?" 
 
 And there was again "Yes" in the column of 
 replies. 
 
 Monsieur Heidemetz folded the leaf, and the 
 noise of rustling paper ran from one wall to the 
 other and reigned alone during some seconds in 
 this mansard above that great world Paris, where 
 three persons were living over again a story 
 twenty-two years old. Evelyne asked very low: 
 
 "Is that all that I shall know of her?" 
 
 "It is all that we know, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "She never came to ask for news of her child, 
 afterward?" 
 
 "I do not know; it would be necessary to make 
 researches; to oblige you, I can " 
 
 "No, I thank you." 
 
 She stepped back; the chief of the bureau
 
 74 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 turned the leaves of file 149,007, partly to satisfy 
 his sense of duty, partly to hide his emotion. 
 
 "Ah! Let me see that, Monsieur; I think I 
 remember " 
 
 Madame Gimel had seen a note, between a 
 report and the black-covered register of Evelyne, 
 sent by the agent of Bourbon F Archambault ; she 
 seized and read it, to console Evelyne to console 
 herself. 
 
 "Listen, my dear, how pretty you were then 
 already. This is what decided Monsieur Gi- 
 mel and me. Oh! how we weighed each word: 
 'Two candidates appear to me to have different 
 chances to be proposed with a view to adoption : 
 No. 149,007. A beautiful child, blonde, strong 
 for her age.' " She was beaming. Evelyne behind 
 her said : 
 
 "Let us go, if you don't mind. Good-bye, 
 Monsieur." 
 
 "Mademoiselle!" 
 
 She felt that he remained in the opening of 
 the door on the threshold and that he was follow- 
 ing with his glance this abandoned one, who 
 would suffer all her life for the fault of an un- 
 known woman. Poor Evelyne, the smiling one! 
 At least, no one had seen her weep ; she would not 
 weep; she walked very rapidly to avoid the ques- 
 tions of the one who had adopted her, who trotted 
 behind her. Two nurses, a clerk of the hospital 
 and three silly girls on the stairway stepped aside 
 and were silent a moment to allow this sorrow to 
 pass. One of the women remarked : 
 
 "Why is she in half-mourning? Her grief must
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 75 
 
 be very recent. Her face is all drawn by suffer- 
 ing!" 
 
 Madame Gimel had also her share in this grief. 
 She suffered most of all from this diminution of 
 tenderness and respect which she remarked since 
 the evening before in the young girl. 
 
 "You try to act the part of a mother," she 
 thought, "you love with a love equal to a mother's 
 love, but devotion counts but little with chil- 
 dren whom you have only loved ; it is necessary to 
 give them birth." 
 
 The conversation on the street was limited to 
 words exchanged in haste : 
 
 "Take care of the auto." 
 
 "I see it." 
 
 "It is going to rain!" 
 
 "Probably." 
 
 "A storm." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Evelyne and Madame Gimel going down Vic- 
 toria Avenue, took, to return home and without 
 paying any attention, the quai of the Megisserie, 
 and the quai of the Louvre. There, as Evelyne 
 turned obliquely to the right: 
 
 "Do you want to go back by the rue de Rivoli? 
 It is cooler here." 
 
 "No, I am going to Saint-Germain-l'Auxer- 
 rois." 
 
 Madame Gimel was amazed and she was still 
 more so when she saw Evelyne ask an employee 
 of the church if the attending priest was there, 
 when she followed her into the sacristy and heard 
 the following conversation:
 
 76 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "Monsieur PAbbe", can you have a mass said 
 for a woman whom you have not known, whose 
 name you do not even know, nothing about her, 
 nothing?" 
 
 "Certainly, Mademoiselle; it is enough that 
 she has existed and that your thought attributes 
 the merit to her." 
 
 " Then, I beg you to say a mass for my unknown 
 mother." 
 
 "Very well, Mademoiselle. Do you wish it on 
 any fixed day?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 She handed the abbe* three francs, who said : 
 
 "But it is not so much, Mademoiselle." 
 
 Evelyne had already left the sacristy. At the 
 door she stopped upon the steps before the gra- 
 ting and, when she felt that the maternal shadow 
 had rejoined her, she said: 
 
 "Mamma" Madame Gimel found the return 
 of that word sweet "Mamma, I ask your pardon 
 if I have wounded, pained, astonished you. I 
 have not quite had my heart nor my brain since 
 yesterday. I will recover them, but I only ask 
 of you one thing not to pity me. That would 
 lessen my courage. And do not even ask me 
 what I am thinking of. . . ." 
 
 Madame Gimel kissed her, standing there on 
 the steps, and that was her answer, her way of 
 taking an oath.
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 77 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE DRILL AT BAGATELLE. 
 
 Three companies of infantry were drilling at 
 six o'clock in the morning, on the 12th of August, 
 on the turf of Bagatelle. 
 
 They were not in full strength, and one of the 
 three spectators following the evolutions of the 
 troops I speak only of manifest witnesses 
 had just counted, in all, one hundred and fifty- 
 three men, jotting down this figure in a note-book 
 in the midst of abbreviated memoranda. It was 
 Colonel Ridault. The two other observers, who 
 did not take notes, were two Apaches, lying at 
 the end of the turf, their legs doubled up, their 
 linen sandals waving at the end of their balanced 
 feet. 
 
 The colonel, coming without being expected 
 or invited, left his horse on the road, taking his 
 stand by the side of the avenue leading to the 
 chateau. Standing and front view, he had still a 
 fine military figure; in profile, you saw the cir- 
 cumflex accent too much. He was growing stout 
 and he deplored the fact. 
 
 But he did nothing to prevent it and continued 
 to dine often in town. He was much sought 
 after. Colonel Ridault supported the govern- 
 ment and suffered from it only in what he called 
 "his line." He knew that his opinions, especially 
 those that were attributed to him, were a hin- 
 drance to his career. Just what were the opinions
 
 78 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 of Colonel Ridault? He would have been em- 
 barrassed to have told. Endowed with a spirit 
 of contradiction, which he had not exercised with- 
 out losing something of his best-reasoned and 
 most cherished ideas, it might be said that he 
 had only one conviction, only one passion, only 
 one idea which he himself never criticised: the 
 army. This injured him with the civilian offi- 
 cials who disposed of grades. He was too much a 
 soldier in a time when they did not fight. This 
 old bachelor, who showed but a discreet sym- 
 pathy for the trials of people of the world, be- 
 came paternal, ridiculously tender at times, when it 
 concerned one of his officers or one of his soldiers. 
 His pay was dissipated in loans, that is to say, in 
 gifts. The head round, moustache straight, grey, 
 and fair, eyes blue, chin always a little raised, 
 Colonel Ridault never laughed in uniform. He 
 permitted himself to joke only in the evening, 
 judging that that was, like the good dinner, the 
 repose of a strong man. Long ago people had 
 said of him: "There goes a future great gen- 
 eral." Now they said: "Eighteen juniors have 
 been promoted over his head ! In fifteen months, 
 he will be retired as a colonel. It is ended." 
 Colonel Ridault had more difficulty than public 
 opinion in accepting the situation. However, he 
 began to make his plans known, among his friends, 
 for this approaching period. With no relatives, 
 except some distant cousins, with whom he had 
 quarrelled on hunting questions, the colonel would 
 retire to a country house in the south, near Ville- 
 franche, and there he would be able to economise
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 79 
 
 enough to enable him to pass the three beautiful 
 spring months in Paris. " In the meantime, " said 
 he, "I shall continue the task of my life, which is 
 to enforce discipline." 
 
 The colonel inspected the three companies at- 
 tentively for ten minutes, when, taking advan- 
 tage of an interval of repose, he called : 
 
 " Lieutenant Morand? " 
 
 The lieutenant stepped out from a group of 
 officers and non-commissioned officers and came 
 double-quick time, holding his sabre in his left 
 hand. It was soon done, he jumped from the 
 turf on the sand of the path, and took the posi- 
 tion of the inferior before the superior. 
 
 "You are acting as captain of the company?" 
 
 "Yes, Colonel, I am the ranking officer." 
 
 "How many men are there?" 
 
 "Forty-eight in my company; one hundred and 
 fifty-one in the three." 
 
 "That is an error; I counted one hundred and 
 fifty-three; you have some on sick report?" 
 
 "Five in all, Colonel; but the garrison duty, 
 the fatigue duty, the officers " 
 
 "Tricks also, isn't it so? You will send me, as 
 soon as you have returned, the total strength, 
 present and absent." 
 
 The lieutenant gave a sign of assent. The 
 colonel reached out his hand to him then : 
 
 "Monsieur Morand, you have not been losing 
 at cards?" 
 
 The serious face of the lieutenant relaxed for 
 a second . 
 
 "No, Colonel."
 
 80 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "You have no' difficulties with your superior 
 officers?" 
 
 "None." 
 
 "Nothing in the profession which frets you?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "You are lucky! All the same you have your 
 troubles, that is plain; everybody remarks it; 
 your captain told me that you no longer spoke a 
 word outside of the service. I know that troubles 
 not connected with the service are none of my 
 business; I have no remedy for them, unless the 
 friendship of an old man may be of some use 
 and that rarely happens." 
 
 Morand, who had great powers of self-control, 
 did not let, at first, anything of what he thought 
 appear. Then his guarded eyes became softer; 
 something, an icy barrier of hardness and of re- 
 serve, fell away. 
 
 "I have indeed, a counsel that I would like to 
 ask of you, my Colonel." 
 
 "Continue, my dear fellow." 
 
 He made a sign to the officers, who were look- 
 ing on, a hundred paces distant on the turf, to 
 continue the drill; and he began walking on the 
 gravel of the still deserted path, on the right 
 of the lieutenant, who spoke, his eyes fixed on 
 the distant horizon. They walked some hundred 
 paces from north to south, faced about, and then 
 began again. Second Lieutenant Leguille, Adju- 
 tant Pratt, and Lieutenant Roy, from the distance, 
 said to each other: "He is a lucky fellow, that 
 Morand ! And the worst of it is that he will not 
 tell us a thing. We shall never know whether the
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 81 
 
 colonel has confided the secret of the mobilisation 
 to him, or inquired about his grandfather!" 
 
 Colonel Ridault did not speak, did not ask a 
 question : he listened. Neither of them made ges- 
 tures. An attentive observer might have noted 
 a certain resemblance of bearing and gait between 
 this young, slender man and this other, who had 
 grown stout, but was yet capable of feeling en- 
 thusiasm and especially that impulse which made 
 sometimes the one, sometimes the other, raise his 
 head, leading them to seek points on the horizon 
 where sad eyes might wander without danger of 
 tears or of betrayal. Monsieur Ridault scarcely 
 spoke, or did so merely to start Morand with a 
 phrase like: "And after?" "And what does your 
 mother think?" Oftenest, he only uttered an en- 
 couraging monosyllable: "Good!" 
 
 Morand finished and waited for the judgment 
 as if he had been before a council of war. Nothing 
 came. The words stuck in the colonel's throat 
 and choked him. 
 
 "I repeat my question, Colonel: is it not your 
 opinion that there is nothing to be done, that 
 I would never succeed in having a foundling 
 admitted into the society of the regiment?" 
 
 " No, nothing to be done, except what you have 
 done. I am sorry for you. Give me your hand. 
 And renew your betrothal with the army. Au 
 revoir!"
 
 82 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 V. 
 
 THE 12TH OF AUGUST. 
 
 Evelyne was as good as her word; she did not 
 weep; she never alluded to the hard blow which 
 had struck her youth; she did not even complain 
 of life in vague terms, so as not to enter, by that 
 wide road, into the paths to which we all return so 
 willingly to wound ourselves on the same stones 
 and the same thorns. Something had died in 
 her, her gaiety; in spite of her resolute will, 
 Evelyne did not laugh any more. 
 
 Her two associates at Maclarey's bank had no- 
 ticed this from the first day, but they had not 
 permitted themselves to make offensive allusions 
 until the second, when they saw that it continued. 
 Mademoiselle Raymonde had ended by guessing 
 that Evelyne was suffering from a trouble without 
 remedy, as she suffered, herself, from the wear 
 and tear of life. In the first week of August, at 
 the end of a stifling day, she had joked with 
 Mademoiselle Marthe about the stormy loves of 
 Evelyne Gimel. The latter fingered her machine 
 softly and did not listen. Suddenly, Mademoi- 
 selle Raymonde, who was deciphering a page of 
 stenography, stopped, crumpled up the paper, 
 threw it against the wall, and, mopping her fore- 
 head, eyes and throat, rested, dulled and panting, 
 on her chair like a hunted animal. She sat for an 
 hour without making a movement other than with 
 her right hand, which waved her moist handker-
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 83 
 
 chief, like a fan, before her wan and drawn face. 
 At the moment when six o'clock struck, she said, 
 addressing herself to Evelyne : 
 
 "I am worn out! I have no longer strength 
 even to amuse myself, my courage is gone. And 
 you?" 
 
 "Oh! I? When I have no more courage, I act 
 as if I had it." 
 
 The stupid Marthe had laughed. But Ray- 
 monde, comprehending that a deep grief alone 
 could utter words like these, had gone out with 
 Evelyne. 
 
 "My poor friend," she had said, "I know 
 men; they are all scoundrels alike. Yours has 
 left you? Tell me about it, you will do me good." 
 
 Evelyne did not tell anything; but, from that 
 day, she regained the favour of the "first sten- 
 ographer" of Maclarey's bank. 
 
 At home, Evelyne and Madame Gimel met, 
 each evening, with the same apparent joy and the 
 same greetings as in the past. The young girl had 
 resumed the habit of saying "mamma," and the 
 other had never for an instant ceased to say, "my 
 child, my daughter." They lied, both of them; 
 they could not utter these words without think- 
 ing of the truth, which was different and cruel. 
 Two neighbouring solitudes: that was what their 
 home life had suddenly become. And no effort 
 of will prevailed against the recollection, at every 
 instant recalled. Evelyne reminded herself of 
 the continued cares, the generosity, the tenderness, 
 of Madame Gimel. "I love her just as much," 
 she thought. Madame Gimel asked herself:
 
 84 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "Have I not always known what Evelyne has 
 just learned? We will continue to be for each 
 other what we have been." Together, yes, but 
 separated; the air from without ran between 
 them. Conversation became less spontaneous. 
 They no longer confided everything to each other. 
 Even the two troubles were different. Madame 
 Gimel, who had more tenderness than imagina- 
 tion, thought the theatre might distract Evelyne. 
 There was only the Theatre Franc, ais; the Opera 
 Comique was closed during the dog-days. But 
 Britannicus was very heavy, after a day of sten- 
 ography. And then, would that audience of 
 strangers and insignificant provincials interest 
 Evelyne? 
 
 "How I regret Mignon," cried Madame Gimel, 
 
 She fell back on cinematographs and the small 
 theatres still open. They organised parties for 
 the third gallery, or the third box at the side. 
 To do this they had to break open a savings-bank, 
 shaped like an apple, in which the savings des- 
 tined for a trip to Dieppe reposed. Sometimes 
 Evelyne was amused, and at other times she 
 seemed so utterly indifferent to the piece to which 
 she was supposed to be listening that Madame 
 Gimel thought : 
 
 "Poor dear, she has her own play in her heart, 
 and it is not a gay one!" 
 
 An excursion to an aunt's, living at Charenton ; 
 a dinner at the house of a friend of the late Mon- 
 sieur Gimel, in the direction of Bercy; and some 
 "surprises" in the shape of desserts when they
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 85 
 
 dined at the rue Saint-Honor^; and flowers, roses, 
 carnations, a bunch of mignonette; but nothing 
 brought back the old smile any more, the one which 
 said: "Life is sweet, Mamma! Watch me live!" 
 
 Madame Gimel thought of nothing else. " Such 
 a fine offer! A handsome man and an officer! 
 Mine was only an adjutant. It is true, he was in 
 the Guard ! All that has been lost, because a father 
 and a mother were lacking I mean their names. 
 I understand Evelyne's refusal. For it was she 
 who withdrew, she who was not willing! She is 
 proud, but it is killing her!" 
 
 She was so filled with this idea, and so unhappy 
 at having no one to confide in, that, without 
 saying a word to Evelyne, she went to talk with 
 Madame Maule"on. The former saleswoman, 
 still "distinguished" in her appearance, and Ma- 
 dame Mauleon, simply affable and easy, quickly 
 agreed and gossiped for a long time. As she went 
 out, Madame Gimel said, with rather an affected 
 air: 
 
 " Do it, if you dare, my dear Madame Maule"on. 
 I should never dare." 
 
 The next day, however, she returned to the 
 creamery of the rue Boissy d'Anglas. It was in 
 the middle of the afternoon, the hour which be- 
 longed to the flies, to the noise of the street, and 
 the nap of the mistress. Madame Gimel seated 
 herself on the left of the white desk, where, so 
 often, Evelyne had leaned; she drew a paper out 
 of her reticule, which she unfolded and began to 
 read, with a little affectation and much emotion, 
 articulating better than actors at the Come'die,
 
 86 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 lowering the voice and sighing, without meaning 
 to do so, punctuating phrases sometimes with a 
 move of her silk-gloved hand. Madame Mau- 
 le*on listened seriously, her chin resting on her 
 hands, her vague eyes ready to fill with tears. 
 As her new friend read, the mistress of the cream- 
 ery grew excited; a smile of content, of enjoyment, 
 of approval, distended her lips, revealing her 
 teeth, which were fine. 
 
 There passed, after that, fifteen long days, dur- 
 ing which Madame Gimel was strangely agitated. 
 She had such long fits of abstraction, looking at 
 "her daughter," that the latter asked her: 
 
 "What is the matter? What are you thinking 
 of? I am sure that you have not heard one word 
 of what I have said to you." 
 
 It was true, she scarcely slept, she grew thin 
 and pale, so much so that Evelyne, one Sunday, 
 herself broke the silence which she had imposed. 
 Madame Gimel, returned from a rather short 
 walk which they were accustomed to take to- 
 gether, between four and five, when the weather 
 was fine the Champs Elysees, around the Arc 
 de Triomphe, and returning by Avenue de Fried- 
 land stopped at the corner of the rue Faubourg 
 Saint-Honore and, seeing an omnibus coming 
 down, she said : 
 
 "Let us take this to the Filles-du-Calvaire; I 
 am tired out." 
 
 Then, between the two women, jolted upon the 
 same bench, quite in the rear of the bus, words 
 were exchanged which the other passengers did 
 not hear:
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 87 
 
 "Tell me, Mamma, is it on my account that 
 you are suffering?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You do not blame me, however, for what I 
 did?" 
 
 "No, my poor darling! You acted like a " 
 she hesitated for the comparison, which made a 
 little silence. " Like a saint !" 
 
 "You do not blame Monsieur Morand either?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then, since nothing can be changed, you must 
 cure yourself like me. You must take care of 
 yourself, in the first place. This is the season for 
 the seashore. I offer you, from my savings and 
 your own, a ticket for Trouville. You will go 
 and pass a week or two there, and you will come 
 home cured!" 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 "I? I will keep at work, I do not need a 
 change." To Evelyne's great surprise, Madame 
 Gimel, a moment after, resumed, gazing through 
 the arched window: 
 
 "My child, I am expecting a remedy, which I 
 have asked for and which does not come." 
 
 That evening they both felt so tired that they 
 went to bed without having dined. And they 
 realised that silence is worth more than half con- 
 fidences. 
 
 Until Monday, the 12th, no incident broke the 
 monotony of work at the bank or of the life at home. 
 Evelyne had breakfasted as usual at Madame 
 Mauleon's creamery; but since the project of 
 marriage had been abandoned, she avoided talk-
 
 88 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 ing with the mistress of the creamery, contenting 
 herself with a friendly nod on entering and leav- 
 ing. It was exactly three forty-five when the 
 sound of military music blew into the room where 
 the stenographers were at work and stopped the 
 other music short. Mademoiselle Raymonde was 
 the first to rise; she executed a galop step, shaking 
 out her skirt, and said : 
 
 "I am going. I never miss going to look at 
 them!" 
 
 Mademoiselle Marthe said: 
 
 "I dislike their trade, but I am going all the 
 
 same." 
 
 Evelyne hesitated a moment, and then followed 
 her companions. The three young women ran to 
 the end of the corridor at the left, and leaned out of 
 the window. A regiment was passing, marching 
 up the Boulevard Malesherbes, all the brass in- 
 struments playing. The First company, the 
 Second company, the men marched quickly, the 
 Third company, with an officer as file-closer with 
 the nervous gait of an Alpine climber, a tall man 
 with square chin, short moustache, and flat cheeks, 
 a young man who kept his eyes fixed, as the regu- 
 lations require, twenty paces to the front, arrived 
 opposite Maclarey's bank, and turning his head, 
 saw the three young women at the window, saluted 
 with his sword, and marched on. The act was 
 quick, but it was seen. 
 
 "Well, there, my dear! it was you that he sa- 
 luted?" 
 
 "No, indeed, it was you!" 
 
 "It was you!"
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 89 
 
 An immoderate burst of laughter from Ray- 
 monde and from Marthe. The window is closed. 
 What matters the rest of the parade? They go 
 back to the room of the copyists. Mademoiselle 
 Raymonde has no trouble in guessing the emo- 
 tion of Evelyne. She surprised, at the very mo- 
 ment when the officer saluted, an involuntary 
 movement of recoil from her neighbour. Aston- 
 ishment? Protest? Anger? In any case proof 
 and confession. 
 
 "You are not acquainted with him, Marthe?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then, it is you that he saluted, Evelyne, 
 there is not the slightest doubt. Why do you 
 deny it? He is very good-looking, your lieu- 
 tenant." 
 
 "You must introduce him to us." 
 
 " Does he come to wait for you when you leave 
 the bank?" 
 
 Evelyne denied shamelessly. She had wit and 
 she became animated the machines did not 
 click very rapidly and her two companions be- 
 gan to doubt, when, under pretext of orders to 
 transmit, of information to give to the service of 
 stenography, Monsieur Ame'de'e, and another as- 
 sistant secretary, and Monsieur Honore" Pope, the 
 cashier with oily hair, one after the other, put in 
 an appearance in the room of the stenographers. 
 They had no doubts. Through the grating of the 
 ground-floor window they had seen the lieuten- 
 ant's salute ; had heard the burst of laughter from 
 the window above; an infallible instinct warned 
 them that but one of the three women would have
 
 90 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 been saluted in that way by an officer! This 
 Evelyne, who pleased every one and whom no one 
 appeared to please. Monsieur Amede'e, as usual, 
 came sliding over the floor he was a man of the 
 world; he had, between his eyebrows, the crease 
 of the man burdened with important interests; in 
 his eyes, that little will-o'-the-wisp flame which 
 belied the wrinkle, the gravity, and the busy look. 
 He bent over Mademoiselle Raymonde's table, 
 but he kept his eyes fixed on Evelyne, engaged and 
 bending over her machine; and, on going away, 
 provoked at not having been the object of the 
 slightest attention: 
 
 "My compliments, Mademoiselle Evelyne; he 
 is a fine fellow." 
 
 Evelyne blushed, turned her head; he had 
 glided back, gained the door and disappeared. 
 
 It was the turn of the assistant secretary, who 
 smiled with a knowing air, saying : 
 
 " Mesdemoiselles, I salute you." 
 
 Then, the second cashier, Monsieur Honore 
 Pope, came in, carrying a bundle of papers under 
 his athletic arm, weakened by fat. 
 
 "Come, here is work to keep you going, my 
 children!" said he. 
 
 Purposely he placed the bundle on Evelyne's 
 table and took a long time to unfasten the strap, 
 which permitted him to touch Evelyne's elbow. 
 At the second touch, the latter got farther off 
 without stopping her work. The big man, who 
 only spoke with half of his mouth, the other 
 remaining closed, said, aiming at the left and 
 downward:
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 91 
 
 "It is not worth while to put on such airs, 
 Mademoiselle Evelyne! You are known now!" 
 
 "Old satyr! You ought to be ashamed of 
 yourself!" 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 "I said, old satyr!" 
 
 " Very well ! You will hear from me, Mademoi- 
 selle Evelyne!" 
 
 "Possibly I may, but I will never ask for news 
 of you, Monsieur Honore Pope, and if Monsieur 
 Maclarey questions me, I will tell him why you 
 attack me!" 
 
 She rose. The cashier assumed an air of of- 
 fended dignity; picked the bundle of papers up 
 and carried it to Mademoiselle Raymonde, who 
 smiled affably. But scarcely had the man dis- 
 appeared than the same words, from the table 
 in front, which was Raymonde's, and from the 
 table in the rear, where Marthe worked, reached 
 Evelyne's ears : 
 
 "Come! come, don't be rash! You are right, 
 he is odious! But, all the same, it is not so easy 
 to find work!" 
 
 Evelyne sat down to her copying again. But 
 at a quarter before six she put on her hat : 
 
 "So much the worse if they see me; so much 
 the worse if they dismiss me ! I am going home ! " 
 
 She went straight through the rue Saint-Honore. 
 She was furious with Honore" Pope; but most of 
 all furious with Louis Morand. Madame Gimel 
 provoked an outburst from her by saying: 
 
 "Mademoiselle, I have a little surprise " 
 
 : And I, I have an incredible stupidity on the 
 
 n
 
 92 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 part of Monsieur Louis Morand to tell you, unless 
 I ought to call it a cruelty, of which I believed 
 him incapable " 
 
 "But what is it, Evelyne what has happened 
 again? At what time?" 
 
 "At three forty-five this afternoon. A way of 
 calling attention to me which may have seemed 
 to him a fine jest, but which has let loose the whole 
 kennel of the bank on me, even that fat imbecile 
 Honore" Pope, whom I told what I thought of 
 him " 
 
 "Oh! Evelyne!" 
 
 "Yes, just what I thought, and so plainly that, 
 at this moment, I may perhaps be discharged 
 from Maclarey's." 
 
 Madame Gimel was neither puzzled nor even 
 very agitated. 
 
 "That would seem to me unfortunate. Let us 
 see: tell me all just as it happened." 
 
 In five minutes Evelyne told the story of the 
 afternoon. While she was talking and as she used 
 very energetic language, the young girl watched 
 the countenance of Madame Gimel with stupefac- 
 tion. Madame Gimel's face was beaming. This 
 sick, emaciated, anxious woman appeared to listen 
 with pleasure, in any case with a kind of ironic 
 placidity, to the story which Evelyne related. 
 
 "My child," she interrupted, "you can't under- 
 stand. There is an explanation. I have announced 
 a little surprise to you; that was to spare you; it is 
 a great one." 
 
 "You have a lottery ticket which has won 
 twenty-five francs?"
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 93 
 
 "Better than that; you will forgive me " 
 
 "Go on just the same." 
 
 "Evelyne, I took upon myself to write to Ma- 
 dame Morand." 
 
 "Do you mean to the mother of Monsieur 
 Morand, who came here? To the Madame Mo- 
 rand, who lives at Bugey?" 
 
 "The same. I told her that you loved her son 
 still." 
 
 "But you know nothing about it!" 
 
 " I told her that you were a remarkable woman, 
 a charming character, an industrious and a poor 
 child, one who suffers too much 
 
 She stopped breathless, unable to utter the re- 
 maining words. Evelyne listened, pale and be- 
 wildered. 
 
 " The letter was beautiful, I assure you ; Madame 
 Mauleon told me it was. My dear child, what I 
 dared not hope for has happened ! Madame Mo- 
 rand has answered. I have found a true mother; 
 I have her letter; take it, read it, my treasure! I 
 am not able!" 
 
 She began to sob, leaning back in the low chair, 
 happy at last to cry before a witness, which is a 
 confession, a sharing of your trouble; happy, now 
 that she began to hope and that she could give 
 way to her feelings without the risk of agitating 
 too much her adored Evelyne, her child with 
 the nut-brown hair, reading the letter in front of 
 her. 
 
 Evelyne was reading a letter, written in a 
 fine slanting hand, without flourishes or erasures, 
 upon a sheet of paper edged with black.
 
 94 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "LE HAUT-CLOS, August 10, 190. 
 "MADAME: 
 
 "I was deeply affected on receiving your let- 
 ter. The more so as, almost by the same mail, I 
 received one from my Louis, so unhappy, so gloomy 
 and so resolute, alas! that I would have liked to 
 have flown to Paris to advise him and console him, 
 to keep him from taking a resolution, very noble 
 of him, but which would kill me. I know him too 
 well not to know that the distance from word to 
 deed is short with him. He wishes to exchange 
 with an officer of the French Congo or the Soudan. 
 He has already made application for the exchange. 
 I shall lose him, unless I succeed in making pos- 
 sible a plan which is fraught with impossibilities. 
 As for him, he has given up seeking. But I am a 
 mother; I still am seeking. I have thought so 
 much about it and I will add, that you may know 
 me better, I have prayed over it so much, that I 
 cannot despair. I am still in darkness, but I am 
 searching for light. I will confess to you very 
 frankly that, without my son's knowledge, I have 
 made inquiries about you and about Mademoi- 
 selle Evelyne. The answers have been as favour- 
 able as I could hope or fear, I hardly know which 
 of the two words fits. I wish to see this child, 
 whom cowardly parents have abandoned. She will 
 know, if we must forever remain strangers to each 
 other, that I do not think that I have the right to 
 be hard, and that I have wished to see, to hear and 
 to pity, at least, the one whom my son had chosen. 
 " MADAME THEODORE MORAND. 
 
 "P.S. My son is ignorant of my step. He will 
 not be at home. If Mademoiselle Evelyne can
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 95 
 
 only spend the day at Haut-Clos she may arrive 
 very early. I rise with the dawn." 
 
 "Well! Evelyne, what shall I answer? She is 
 a woman, this Madame Morand, she is a true 
 mother, isn't she?" 
 
 "You did the same before her, Mamma, and 
 you did still better! You could not know what 
 a little wretch I might turn out and yet you took 
 me. This lady wishes only to have an interview 
 with me. It is kind of her all the same." 
 
 All the old intimacy, and gratitude besides, 
 was found in these words, which Madame Gimel 
 had bent forward to hear and to which she lis- 
 tened still. Madame Gimel ceased to weep. 
 
 "What do you want me to say to her?" 
 
 Evelyne reread the letter and raised her eyes 
 to the light of the street. 
 
 "I must go," she said. 
 
 " That is what I think. When shall we go? " 
 
 The eyes, which were wandering over the roofs 
 opposite, lengthened a little but did not wholly 
 smile. 
 
 " Mamma, I prefer to take all the responsibility 
 of what may happen on myself. If I make a mis- 
 take, if I do not manage well, there will be no one 
 but myself to blame. Let me go alone. You 
 shall be informed of the slightest details, I promise 
 you. Next Thursday will be Assumption Day; I 
 will ask Monsieur Maclarey for leave. If necessary, 
 Monsieur Honore Pope will indorse it, so that he 
 may appear to be a generous man without rancour. 
 We will pass the day together, Mamma, and I will
 
 96 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 leave on Thursday evening. I hope that there is 
 an evening train for Bugey. Just where is Bugey, 
 do you know?" 
 
 "Here is your small school atlas/' said Ma- 
 dame Gimel, "and I have a last year's time-table, 
 too." 
 
 They spent the evening in arranging the jour- 
 ney which Evelyne was to make, and in anticipa- 
 ting, and in fearing that it would not be a pleasure. 
 But, nearly always, the unknown resolves itself 
 into hope. They ended by being a little hopeful. 
 The future, the way in which they pictured it, the 
 words of welcome, the probable questions, the ob- 
 jections, all these things echoed in this room, 
 where two poor women, one young and the other 
 old, were talking, eager about a love which seemed 
 to be reviving. 
 
 VI. 
 
 HAUT-CLOS. 
 
 At six o'clock on Friday morning, August 16, 
 Evelyne descended from the P.-L.-M. train at 
 the station of Artemare. She was alone; the 
 morning was foggy; you could see only a small 
 stony knoll on the left of the road, some meadows 
 on the right, and the silhouettes of poplars in the 
 fog. Giving her ticket to the station-master, 
 Evelyne asked: 
 
 "Which is the road to Linot, Monsieur, if you 
 please? "
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 97 
 
 "Above there, Mademoiselle. You cross the 
 village people living in market-places have sim- 
 ple villages go straight ahead, then you come to 
 a path which mounts to Don; Linot is on the hill 
 above Don." 
 
 He followed with his eyes, a moment, the young 
 girl, very simply dressed, but with her hair so well 
 arranged, such well-fitting shoes, and who walked 
 so daintily, carrying her closed parasol on her left 
 arm, and holding in her right hand a bag. Her 
 sailor hat trimmed with tulle, her fair hair, her 
 slim, straight neck, her dress, which undulated 
 right and left to the sure rhythm of the Parisian 
 step, were soon but a moving shadow amongst 
 others which were motionless. The station-mas- 
 ter went inside. Evelyne crossed the village of 
 Artemare and took the road which rises in a 
 steep ascent from the valley of Virieu to the lofty 
 valley of Valromey. At first the road went along 
 by the side of perpendicular rocks, which sup- 
 port the weight of the high plain and which bar, 
 in a straight line, like the dam of a great, dried- 
 up river, the whole space between Mount Colom- 
 bier and the mountain of Colere; it turned; it 
 passed through the village of Don, turned again, 
 and stopped on the edge of the plateau. When 
 Evelyne reached that point, she felt that the air 
 was lighter, the fog was mingled with sunshine. 
 There were several roads, and some foot-paths 
 scaling vineyards, but no more houses. She asked 
 the way to Linot of a middle-aged workman, on his 
 knees before a pile of stones, who took off his glasses 
 to see her better, and seated himself upon the
 
 98 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 heels of his wooden shoes with a slow move- 
 ment. 
 
 "You have only to go straight to the station, 
 my pretty one. You will find the road there. 
 You will spoil your parasol and your fine little 
 yellow shoes trying to climb the hill as we do." 
 
 A laugh, a light laugh, rippling like a line of 
 music, rang out in the calm morning air. 
 
 "How good your country air is to breathe!" 
 said Evelyne, flattered. "If I could breathe the 
 like at Paris I would deny myself milk every 
 morning." 
 
 "Then you are from Paris?" 
 
 "Where else should I be from? Is it much 
 farther to Haut-Clos?" 
 
 "A young lady's promenade! Ah! that cursed 
 Paris! I have a son who might have gone there, 
 if he had wished. But here he is; he has a place 
 at Montpellier. Cursed Paris, I say, all the same ! " 
 
 He put his glasses back on his nose and began 
 breaking stones again; the noise of the hammer 
 and that of Evelyne's heels on the dry, convex 
 road echoed together for a little time. Soon Eve- 
 lyne moderated her Parisian gait, not that she 
 felt at all tired, but for fear of being red on arri- 
 ving. It was half past seven when she reached the 
 top of the hill of Linot, and she recognised imme- 
 diately, beyond a group of farm buildings and 
 orchards, upon a smooth and slightly raised part 
 of the plateau, the house where she was expected. 
 It was the very one which she had seen in the 
 photograph, and of which Louis Morand had 
 spoken with so much love at Madame Mauleon's.
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 99 
 
 Only the lateral facade could be seen, irregularly 
 pierced with a door, with one large window and 
 three small ones. Even on this side, the slate 
 roof, bent down on account of snow, made a blue 
 triangle across the top of the white gable. The 
 southern fagade, toward the plain of Artemare 
 and of Virieu, must be the principal one. It 
 looked upon a sloping garden, surrounded by a 
 hedge-row of trees, at whose foot there was a 
 vineyard, doubtless the vineyard from which it 
 received the name of Haut-Clos. 
 
 Back of it on the north side, Evelyne recognised 
 also the walnut-tree, where an ivy-vine was climb- 
 ing. It grew isolated, protecting the house, in an 
 uncultivated piece of ground, a kind of pasture- 
 land, to which succeeded, still veiled with the 
 fog, strips of herbs of different heights, some 
 green, others light, whose names Evelyne could 
 not have told. She advanced to within fifty 
 yards, and listened with a beating heart. De- 
 spite the letter, which said: "I rise with the 
 dawn," how could she dare to knock or to ring at 
 the door of that house? No sound! Seven 
 thirty-five. At this hour her companions of the 
 bank were scarcely awake, and Madame Gimel 
 had not yet put the kettle on the gas-stove. 
 
 Evelyne felt her heart beat less quickly and the 
 freshness of the air pulsate through her lungs, in 
 the veins of her neck, and her temples. She drew 
 three deep breaths, her lungs wide open and tast- 
 ing the mountain mist, and she repeated: 
 
 "How good the air is here!" 
 
 And the third time she heard a step behind
 
 100 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 her. A woman was coming, by a field path, 
 barely marked, between a patch of clover and a 
 bed of stubble. She was small, rather stout, 
 dressed in mourning, the material of which was not 
 new and the cut old; she had bright blue eyes 
 under brown lashes, and as she walked she looked 
 at Evelyne. She had been looking at her for 
 some time, no doubt, and with so intent, so stead- 
 fast a gaze that her whole face wore an expres- 
 sion of curiosity and intentness. She was not 
 preparing to smile. When she was within a few 
 steps of the young girl she stopped and drew a 
 deep breath in her turn, but with an effort and 
 turning very pale, like one whom emotion seizes 
 and stifles, she said : 
 
 " I expected to be here before you, Mademoiselle. 
 You must have come up rapidly. How much you 
 resemble the description that he gave me!" 
 
 Then only she came up close to her and reached 
 out her hand, but without being able to smile. 
 Her eyes, which were looking at Evelyne, were try- 
 ing to read a whole future in her, and they were 
 filled with anguish. She said : 
 
 "Do I make you afraid? You are so pale." 
 
 "I think that we are both afraid, Madame. 
 That is not astonishing, especially in my case. 
 And it is true that I am afraid of you." 
 
 "A Parisienne! I thought them bolder than 
 
 we." 
 
 "Oh! being a Parisienne makes no difference, 
 
 when " 
 
 "Say on." 
 
 " When one loves, Madame I am not timid,
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 101 
 
 ordinarily, but to-day it is another thing. I come 
 perhaps to learn that I shall displease you." 
 
 The old lady replied seriously : 
 
 "I shall tell you so, if it is so. Come, you 
 must be hungry." 
 
 The two women began walking, one near the 
 other, toward the house. 
 
 "This is my place," said Madame Morand; "it 
 is not large '' 
 
 "The country must be pretty." 
 
 "You will be able to judge of it later; the fog 
 will lift in half an hour. Things have not changed 
 in my home these fifty years or more. But those 
 who once lived here with me have left me alone! 
 I love the place still because of them; anywhere 
 else I should be a little more alone. My room 
 has a small window on this side and a large one 
 on the side of the low valleys. When it is fine 
 weather I can watch my son coming up to Linot, 
 almost from Virieu. He passes three weeks every 
 year with me. That is my provision of happi- 
 ness for the eleven months which follow not all 
 of it, however! I am never bored." 
 
 "Nor I, Madame, except when Mademoiselle 
 Raymonde complains of fate." 
 
 "Who is she?" 
 
 "A stenographer like myself at Maclarey's." 
 
 Evelyne was taller, by half a head at least, than 
 Madame Morand. She saw the commencement of 
 a smile upon the wrinkled lips. She observed, 
 without danger of being discovered, from the cor- 
 ner of her eye, the one who was pointing out to 
 her the house, the garden, an$ the vineyard.
 
 102 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "You see the arbour by the side of the hedge, 
 Mademoiselle? It is there that ' 
 
 Evelyne studied this face, a trifle too full, wrin- 
 kled in circles and reduced to a single tone, which 
 the blood no longer vivified, but which could still 
 turn pale; the chapped lips; the round, common- 
 place nose; the admirable expression of the eyes 
 and brow ; one of those transparent brows, through 
 which one divines the upright flame of the mind ; a 
 serene look and paring of the tenderness of the 
 soul, before which the world is like a thing already 
 past. They walked for some hundred paces: 
 Madame Morand entered, through the gate, into 
 a part of the enclosure which surrounded the 
 lateral fagade of the dwelling, and from there 
 into the kitchen, where the maid, a tall and good- 
 natured girl from Isere, drew back before the 
 Parisienne, bending to one side to see her dress 
 better. Madame Morand entered first, opening 
 and closing the doors, which had great locks. 
 
 "Come in here, Mademoiselle Evelyne," she 
 said at last; "your coffee must be ready. Yes, 
 it is. Eat first, and then we will talk. The sun 
 is going to make us a visit, you see the whole gar- 
 den is bright." 
 
 In fact the garden was bright; it reached to the 
 door of the sitting-room a large room, hung with 
 faded paper and furnished with mahogany cov- 
 ered with flowered cretonne; it entered even a 
 little on each side of the French window which 
 was wide open; the borders, in gratitude, sent 
 up on the parquet some adventurous branches, 
 such as there are in all clusters. Out of the corner
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 103 
 
 on the right, a bunch of mignonette, on the left a 
 stalk of marshmallow. In front, the central path 
 led down, edged with rose-trees, of which not one 
 was rare, but which were as prolific as common, 
 happy people. 
 
 Evelyne seated herself before the low table on 
 which Madame Morand was accustomed to keep 
 her work-basket, and on which this morning were 
 placed, upon a spotless napkin, the coffee-pot, 
 cup, sugar-bowl, some butter, some jam, and the 
 cream-jug. She began to bite a slice of bread 
 and jam, which gave her courage to smile for the 
 first time. 
 
 "What are you smiling at?" asked the old lady, 
 who often went as far as the village to see a child 
 smile. 
 
 "I was smiling at a saying one often hears in 
 the creameries: 'There is fresh butter only in 
 Paris.' Mamma says the same; Madame Gimel, 
 I mean that is you know, the one who brought 
 me up." 
 
 The smile faded away; Evelyne became red. 
 Tears rose to the corners of her eyes. She pre- 
 tended to be interested in the arbour of boxwood 
 in the rear of the garden. Madame Morand, who 
 could have spoken, and dissipated the memory, 
 and consoled her, did nothing; but she looked in 
 silence into the eyes of flax-grey which the light 
 illumined to their very depths, down to the sor- 
 rowful soul which was struggling to recover it- 
 self. 
 
 That same day, at two o'clock in the afternoon, 
 the postman who passed by Haut-Clos carried
 
 104 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 a letter from Evelyne, who wrote to Madame 
 Gimel : 
 
 "You must know all; I promised you, I keep 
 my word. Then, at eight o'clock, after the re- 
 ception of which I have just told you, I had cried 
 stupidly, for nothing, when Madame Morand, 
 who until then had been standing, came and 
 seated herself against the light, turning her back 
 to the garden. And this little person began an ex- 
 amination ! . . . How many things she asked me ! 
 She questioned me about you, about my educa- 
 tion, about what I thought of plays which I have 
 seen, my work at the bank, everything, finally, 
 with more details than her son had done, oh! 
 much more! He believed in me more quickly. 
 With her I was conscious only that her distrust 
 was lessening. I was a person from a long way 
 off, from the dangerous city, from the place where 
 men ruin themselves for women who are daring. 
 I kept my self-possession, I told her: 
 
 "'Madame, it is just the contrary; men are 
 the ones who ruin women. I know something 
 about it?' 
 
 "'Really?' 
 
 "'Like all those who are virtuous. Men have 
 such audacity ! With poor girls like us, they don't 
 stand on ceremony, I assure you, in the street, 
 in the omnibus, in stairways, at the restaurant ! ' 
 
 "'The blackguards!' 
 
 '"Often well-dressed men, with monocles. 
 Young and old, they stare at you, they say any- 
 thing to you.'
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 105 
 
 "'Why, I should blush! What do you an- 
 swer?' 
 
 "'Nothing, unless they are a little too bold. 
 You simply walk on; pretend not to hear; some- 
 times you go into a shop. Oh! there is an ap- 
 prenticeship to serve. I have served mine. I 
 could pass between two files of gendarmes.' 
 
 "'You are brave, my child!' 
 
 "'I am not all that I should be, Madame, but 
 brave, yes a little. And I am not the only one. 
 The brave ones are more numerous than you 
 would believe; and if you wish me to tell you a 
 thought which I have often: virtue, at Paris, is 
 altogether chic; it is vaccinated, tried, stamped, 
 and, with it all, it is good-humoured. I have some 
 friends who have no imposing airs; but when 
 you know them well, you discover virtue in them, 
 and real virtue . The maj ority would make charm- 
 ing wives. There are many proud ones among 
 them, some sensitive ones, princesses of elegance, 
 some clever ones.' I stopped, comprehending 
 that I had gone too far. Madame Morand did 
 not reply directly. She said : 
 
 '"You blush, Mademoiselle Evelyne? You 
 are very wrong. I believe what you say. Come, 
 let me help you to some preserves. They are 
 preserves of mountain raspberries, such as you 
 have never tasted at Paris.' 
 
 "For the first time I felt that I was not dis- 
 pleasing. The thought made me so happy that 
 I obeyed Madame Morand and realised that I 
 was hungry. 
 
 "The inspection of the house which is not
 
 106 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 beautiful, which looks like the pilot-house that 
 we saw together, you remember, at Dieppe the 
 day of the excursion took three good quarters 
 of an hour. It was ten o'clock when we went out 
 of doors. Ah ! how delightful if he had been there 
 to show me his own country. Sunshine every- 
 where; the fog flown away; more land under my 
 eyes than I had ever seen in my life, stretched out 
 before us, in the hollow where I had climbed this 
 morning up to Linot. I cannot say how many 
 low valleys, villages, dear little hills and moun- 
 tains. It is dreamland. Around us, to the right, 
 to the left, more mountains, but close by and dotted 
 with forests, and, between the wide slopes, little 
 hills covered with vineyards, meadows, houses. 
 
 "'We are in the high valley, you see/ Madame 
 Morand said, 'and upon the hill of Linot; a little 
 farther, there is the hill of Hostel, with its vine- 
 yards and lime-trees; then that of Arcolliere 
 
 "She took pleasure in saying these familiar 
 names. But I kept thinking that she did not 
 talk to me of her son. We walked in the foot- 
 paths of the peasants, often on the grass, and she 
 stopped to ask me: 
 
 "'You are not tired?' 
 
 "I answered: 
 
 " ' Madame, I am much more tired when I have 
 worked seven hours at stenography and type- 
 writing. Then it is my shoulders that are stiff 
 with fatigue, and my ringers that have lost their 
 energy. On the mountain, to-day, I could walk 
 until night.' 
 
 "We came to a road; she placed herself by my
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 107 
 
 side and said to me with a tone which was, I 
 think, a reward and which I had earned : 
 
 " ' This morning when I met you, Mademoiselle 
 Evelyne, I was returning from mass. I go every 
 day. My whole strength comes from that. Now 
 that I know you, and that I see that you are a 
 child naturally noble, and so sincere, I can con- 
 fess to you the dearest wish I have made for my 
 Louis ' 
 
 "We stood facing each other on the road be- 
 tween two great hedges of brambles. She be- 
 came pale again as at the first moment when she 
 had seen me. But she was looking at me with 
 eyes in which there was love for me, and which 
 recalled yours to me. She continued: 
 
 "'Mademoiselle Evelyne, I have wished all my 
 life that my son should marry a religious woman. 
 Those who are fairly good without religion, with 
 prayer would be still more worthy of admiration. 
 It is a world closed to many. I do not wish to 
 preach a sermon to you, I ask you to tell me sin- 
 cerely if your dear young soul could rise to that 
 height?' 
 
 "I have never looked in eyes as beautiful as 
 hers, which were waiting and which were repeat- 
 ing: 
 
 "'Your dear young soul, could it rise?' 
 
 "I answered: 
 
 "'Why not? I have thought more than once 
 on what you say to me. It has not come into 
 my life, that is all.' 
 
 "'If you should seek?' 
 
 "'You believe that it would be a way of loving 
 him better?'
 
 108 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "'I am very sure of it, my child.' 
 
 "I shut my eyes. I stretched out my hands a 
 little, and I felt this old mother, very tender as 
 you are, weeping on my breast. And I leaned my 
 head down against hers; when I was able to speak, 
 I said to her, resuming my walk by her side : 
 
 "'Madame, I wish to tell you everything, in my 
 turn. ... I am sure that no one will love your son 
 as I love him; but I should be an obstacle to his 
 career; even were I religiously such as you would 
 wish me to be, I should still have my wretched 
 civil status of foundling. There are doors which 
 would close before us, or which would open only 
 half-way to the superior officer, by order. I am 
 very unhappy, I assure you ! I ought not to have 
 come; if we should talk it over together, he and 
 I, we would come to the same conclusion: I can- 
 not marry him ! Indeed, no ! I ought not to have 
 come. I had already made the sacrifice once, 
 and it will be harder to make it again. . . . Have 
 you a solution? Have you a way?' 
 
 "Like myself she was in tears. Walking along 
 she put her poor mourning bonnet straight, which 
 I had displaced with my arms. And she was 
 silent. 
 
 "Soon we saw the houses of the hamlet of Vieu; 
 the paths, the scenery between the trees and 
 above the meadows in relief, were perhaps pretty : 
 I did not see them. We went in the church; 
 Madame Morand made me go in first, and I 
 stepped at once to the holy water basin, then, 
 naturally, I turned to her to offer the holy water, 
 which astonished her. We were alone. She went 
 a little way up the nave and knelt down. I re-
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 109 
 
 mained in the last row of chairs. And it is cer- 
 tain that I felt better than usual; I said a true 
 prayer and I did not notice the time my prayer 
 lasted. 
 
 "Madame Morand touched my shoulder; we 
 went out; she said to me simply: 
 
 "'I have a commission to give to Angelique 
 Samonoz. We will go this way, if you please.' 
 
 "At the grocer's, I saw from the threshold, 
 where I very sadly waited for her, that she was 
 discussing terms, that she counted out some 
 money, that she wrote something. But what did 
 it matter to me? I was only struck with the 
 joyousness of her face when we regained the 
 road to Haut-Clos. She turned her head toward 
 me, she sought for something besides the com- 
 monplace smile, the ordinary smile which I gave 
 her. What did she wish? Could I guess? At 
 the last house of the village, without warning me, 
 she took my hand and pressing it: 
 
 "'Little Mademoiselle Evelyne, be happy!' 
 
 "'Why, Madame?' 
 
 "'I have just sent a messenger to the post- 
 office of Champagne. I have telegraphed to my 
 son.' 
 
 "'What did you say to him?' 
 
 "'To come.' 
 " When will he be here?' 
 
 "'To-morrow morning, and I shall keep you/ 
 
 "Mamma, I will not tell you of the return to 
 the house of Haut-Clos. We talked only of Louis. 
 I am filled with a joy that cannot be described. 
 It is only trouble that one tells at length. I have
 
 110 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 but one now, which struggles in the midst of my 
 happiness, like a fly in cream, and which I cannot 
 make fly away, and it is this : What career to find 
 for Louis if he gives up the army? Is it not too 
 much to ask of a man? 
 
 "Until to-morrow, 
 
 "EVELYNE. 
 
 "P.S. Do not look for my photograph. I 
 brought it with me. Was it a presentment? I 
 would be so happy not to bring it back." 
 
 The next day, at the same hour, Evelyne wrote 
 a second letter: 
 
 "HAUT-CLOS, Saturday. 
 
 "He arrived this morning, not by the road as 
 I did, no, by footpaths known only to the inhab- 
 itants of the country, and rough ones, I assure 
 you. He took half an hour less than I to climb 
 from Artemare to Haut-Clos. He is an energetic 
 man, and it was not only seeing him run across the 
 fields and jump over palings which has best proved 
 this energy to me. Madame Morand waited for her 
 son at the same place. Although she had gone 
 to bed very late ten o'clock, Mamma, a dissi- 
 pation at Linot, a date in the mountains! she 
 had risen with the dawn, visited the kitchen, the 
 linen-room, then the garden. She was like a 
 partridge in a cage. All along the hedge, on the 
 edge of the vineyard, she trotted without a hat, 
 her head covered with a shawl. At times, she 
 lifted herself up on the tip of her sabots, watching 
 with eyes and ears for her Lieutenant, my Lieu-
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 111 
 
 tenant. I was in the sitting-room, behind the 
 window. We distributed our roles yesterday 
 evening. She wished to speak with him first, to 
 tell him all alone what we had both of us said, 
 to act the mother finally a last time. I saw him 
 bending between two lines of vines, straightening 
 up, raising his hand. A shadow leaps over the 
 fence. It is he; I see him kissing his mother, 
 questioning her, taking her arm, trying to pull 
 her along. She resists laughingly. Ah! he loves 
 me still. He looks very well in a short jacket and 
 cap, his legs gaitered like an Alpine climber. He 
 seemed to me taller than at Paris. He comes, 
 positively, by the central path, between the old 
 rose-trees, on the arm of Madame Morand. He 
 keeps his eyes fastened on the window, where I 
 no longer am. I have run to the door and I have 
 opened it. ... Then, Mamma, we stood looking at 
 each other, I on the threshold, they in the path, 
 motionless, struck with joy. I thought that I 
 was going to faint; I made a great effort; I said: 
 
 "'Monsieur, I love you always, but you must 
 not sacrifice your career for me, you must not 
 regret' . . . 
 
 "He dropped Madame Morand's arm, he came 
 up to me, and, with my permission, he kissed me 
 and with his whole heart, I assure you. Then 
 he said : 
 
 "'You are my betrothed, now; come, let us 
 talk of the future/ 
 
 " We passed a part of the morning in the house, 
 all three of us, and the rest, we two, in the coun- 
 try around Haut-Clos. Louis wished to show me
 
 112 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 the nooks of the country where are lodged still, as 
 he says, all the memories of his youth. We were, 
 and we are, very happy. We talked about so 
 many things that were I merely to try to enumer- 
 ate them, it would be a real task, a very pleasant 
 one, but too long for a letter to tell you. The 
 sky was clear, all the cultivated strips of land 
 flowed around us on the slopes and moved in the 
 wind like a wave of new ribbons. Louis asked 
 me: 
 
 "'Do you like the country?' 
 
 "'I do not know it.' 
 
 "'I adore it. If I come back here, will you 
 love it?' 
 
 "'I love you, and everywhere it will be the 
 same.' 
 
 "Madame Morand, to whom we told this con- 
 versation, took on an expression, a little sad, and 
 she declared: 
 
 "'How long have people been saying these 
 sweet words, and how they keep the world alive ! ' 
 
 "Oh! yes, to live! I feel that I am living and 
 I, who used not to cling to the hours, cling to the 
 minutes now. In my turn, I asked : 
 
 " ' Do you remember the 12th of August? Mac- 
 larey's bank, the regiment which marched by, your 
 salute with your sword? I was angry with you for 
 it. Why did you salute me? ' 
 
 "'Because, the evening before I had received 
 word that I would not get the exchange to Sou- 
 dan. My resolution had been taken a week be- 
 fore to resign if I did not obtain Soudan and, since 
 my career was the obstacle between us, to sup-
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 113 
 
 press the obstacle. . . . That is what I am going 
 to do. ... In saluting you I was in my right, 
 you see.' . . . He added: 
 
 "'I have but one vocation; but for you, Eve- 
 lyne, I can have a trade.' 
 
 "How sweet these words are, are they not? 
 You understand that I am flattered, touched, and 
 that I, the laughing one, have wept listening to 
 them. He is simple, he is good, he has a quick 
 power of decision which gives one confidence. I 
 said to him besides : 
 
 "'Do you know what pleased me, at once, in 
 you?' 
 
 : 'What? My uniform?' 
 
 " ' No, it is not as pretty as a dress/ 
 
 "'My mustache?' 
 
 "'Too short.' 
 
 " 'Then I will let it grow. My soldierly air?* 
 
 "'The affectionate one suits me better.' 
 
 '"I can guess no more. Tell me yourself.' 
 
 "'What enraptured me was that you showed 
 respect for me; we are not accustomed to it. . . .' 
 
 " That is how things are. A single thing troubles 
 us. 
 
 "How and by what career to replace the army, 
 where Louis cannot remain? He is young, he is 
 going to try at Paris, at first, for love of me. I 
 close this long letter quickly. Perhaps it will 
 reach you at the same time that I do. ... I leave 
 this evening. They will take me to the station 
 in a carriage. Louis will not leave the mountains 
 for two days. Good-bye. 
 
 "EVELYNE."
 
 114 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 VII. 
 THE DOUBLE VISIT. 
 
 As soon as he returned to Paris, Louis Morand 
 donned his uniform and repaired to the house of 
 his colonel, who lived, Place de Jena, above the 
 gardens and the Seine. It was ten o'clock in the 
 morning. The lieutenant's leave did not expire 
 until the next day, which was what Colonel 
 Ridault observed to begin with, on seeing the 
 officer come to him: 
 
 "You have changed your habits of old," he said. 
 "Four days' leave, four days passed in the Ain. 
 You would return to Paris at five o'clock in the 
 morning, and, at six, you were at Pepiniere. Can 
 you be growing old?" 
 
 "It may be, Colonel." 
 
 "Well, I am not. Look at this. Is not the 
 plan of my fortress rather attractive? Imagine 
 the sea on this side, and there, the background 
 of the bay of Villefranche; the terraces, you re- 
 member, baked and golden, like loaves of bread?" 
 
 "I have never been able to travel, Colonel; I 
 do not know the place, but the house will be 
 pleasant, certainly." 
 
 It was a wonderfully beautiful day. Sunshine 
 and air stirred by the current of the river entered 
 the study, which, without the rack of pipes hang- 
 ing on the side of the chimney, would have been all 
 in the style of Louis XV. The colonel, in a light 
 jacket, seated before his desk, was studying an archi-
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 115 
 
 tect's sketch, a brilliant water-colour, which repre-^ 
 sented a low villa, roofed with tiles, whose windows 
 seemed cut in the clumps of bougainvilleas. He 
 raised his head, shoved his armchair back a lit- 
 tle, trying to read in the countenance of the lieu- 
 tenant the progress or the cure of a trouble of 
 love, of which he had been the first confidant. 
 
 "Your face is always a sealed book, my dear 
 Morand. I read there, however, that your mind 
 is more fixed . Come, come ! Here, you are turning 
 pale! What is the matter? A tear! I do not 
 recognise you! Is this indeed one of my officers?" 
 
 "Who is going to leave the regiment." 
 
 "You mean to exchange?" 
 
 "I resign." 
 
 "You? But I forbid you!" 
 
 "Colonel!" 
 
 "I do not want you even to speak of it to me! 
 My duty is to prevent suicides, Morand; to watch 
 over the honour of the regiment. Very well ! By 
 giving in your resignation, you will commit sui- 
 cide, for you are the most military of all my of- 
 ficers: a man of discipline, who takes duty like 
 bread, every day, and who finds it good; the man 
 to whom I would confide a battalion in a war, and 
 whom all the soldiers would follow, sounding the 
 charge. But don't you know what it is that 
 makes the chief? It is not gold lace, it is the 
 heart which never trembles, the clear eye, the 
 sharp command, it is the continual thought for 
 others and the forgetfulness of self, and that, all 
 that, Morand, you have. " 
 
 The colonel had suddenly come near the young
 
 116 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 man and had seized him by the shoulder, which he 
 pressed in his strong hand, as if to show that 
 Morand was his prisoner, and that the regiment 
 would not let him go. At the same time the 
 duel of glances went on, touching and swift, be- 
 tween these two men, separated only by an arm's 
 length. The old soldier ordered, begged, was 
 astonished not to conquer and became again the 
 offended superior officer whose blue eyes, charged 
 with will, commanded imperiously; while be- 
 fore him, wide open in the full light, the brown 
 eyes of the lieutenant, a moment troubled and 
 moist, refused to say yes and grew more and more 
 gloomy. 
 
 "I would never have believed that of you, 
 Morand!" cried the colonel, letting him go. 
 
 Choking with rage, he buttoned his linen jacket, 
 threw himself down in the armchair and began 
 hitting, with his paper-knife, the water-colour of 
 the fortress spread out before him. Morand 
 straightened a little more; his eyes had not 
 swerved, they had not yielded : 
 
 "Colonel, I have resolved to marry the young 
 girl of whom I spoke to you. I sacrifice to her 
 my vocation as a soldier, and all the labour that 
 I have had to win my rank." 
 
 " It is madness ! It is sheer madness ! " 
 
 "That is possible, Colonel, but it will happen, 
 this very evening." 
 
 "No, Monsieur!" 
 
 "I shall write my letter to the minister. It 
 was my duty to notify you; it is done." 
 
 "No, it is not done! Morand, do not leave us.
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 117 
 
 For the love of the army, which has but too many 
 cowards. No, I mean " 
 
 The lieutenant saluted and turned to the door. 
 
 "Morand, my boy, I cannot let you go thus. 
 Come back ! I have something more to ask you." 
 
 Colonel Ridault had risen, and he brought the 
 lieutenant back to the open window. He had 
 spoken these last words with such an accent of 
 affection and sorrow that, suddenly, all the arti- 
 ficial harshness and even the natural firmness of 
 Morand gave way. 
 
 "You may believe, Colonel, that the battle 
 has been fierce for me; I would rather have 
 fought that battle for which I have been trained, 
 the true one, that of arms ' 
 
 "Not so! The true battle is that of every day; 
 and those who do not betray their honour in that 
 one, do not forfeit it under arms either ^1 do not 
 mean to say that you are acting contrary to 
 honour, my dear friend, no, but contrary to your 
 own interest, contrary to your vocation, contrary 
 to all, as you acknowledge. Tell me; is she then 
 so charming?" 
 
 His face had a youthful smile, very brief, the 
 first. The two men were leaning their elbows 
 on the window-sill; before them was Paris all 
 transparent in the summer light like a glass. 
 
 "Yes, Colonel, yes. Ah, yes!" 
 
 "The expression is too weak, is it not? The 
 word is not strong enough?" 
 
 And the first laugh broke, discreetly, above 
 the trees. 
 
 "Have you by chance a photograph of her, 
 Morand?"
 
 118 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "For three days, Colonel. It does not leave 
 me." 
 
 He searched in the pocket of his uniform and 
 handed over the photograph; Colonel Ridault 
 seized it quickly, held it to the light, then put it 
 away as far as he could from his face, for he had 
 become far-sighted. With the other hand he 
 twisted the point of his mustache. 
 
 "You are right, charming is not strong enough. 
 There is character in these eyes. Are they blue? " 
 
 "No, Colonel, clear grey." 
 
 "A rare shade. They must have a piquant 
 and tender smile, have they not?" 
 
 "Ah, Colonel!" 
 
 "And this line of the chin, firm, a trifle plain- 
 spoken, is not commonplace at all. And these 
 lips, which would quickly utter a little nonsense, 
 but never a spiteful word, and which I should 
 believe to be supreme in pity. One is tempted 
 to ask where race will lodge itself next? Well, 
 then, my dear fellow, since you are sure that she 
 is an honest girl, and as I think her as pretty as 
 you think her yourself, will you tell me why she 
 should not be able to modestly fill her little niche 
 hi the chorus of the 'ladies' of the regiment?" 
 
 "You know the reason " 
 
 " Eh? Yes, her father a Jean Jacques, of whom 
 there remains only that. Her father might have 
 been well born enough; he must have been even 
 very well born. Lieutenant Louis Morand, look 
 at me." 
 
 "I am looking." 
 
 " If I should assure you that this young woman 
 will be received in the military world, well re-
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 119 
 
 ceived even, would you renounce giving in your 
 resignation?" 
 
 "Colonel, I thank you for your sympathy; 
 I am deeply touched; but my resolution is taken 
 to leave the army." 
 
 "Yes, because you think that I have changed 
 my opinion and that the world will not change 
 theirs. But if you had proofs to the contrary?" 
 
 "What proofs?" 
 
 " If perfectly certain proofs were given you that 
 the most elegant, the most worldly women of the 
 regiment will receive the visit of Madame Louis 
 Morand, and will return this visit for the wel- 
 come of the others, those whom I call women of 
 heart, is not doubtful would you still send your 
 letter?" 
 
 " No, I should remain. But that is improbable, 
 one may even say impossible." 
 
 "Wait three days. You promise me?" 
 
 The lieutenant, flattered and touched by the 
 insistence of his chief, looked at Paris, where the 
 arbiters of his fate, wholly unconscious of their 
 r61e wives of lieutenants, captains and majors 
 were, at this moment; engaged in their morning's 
 shopping. 
 
 "So be it," he said. "I shall have obeyed to the 
 last, Colonel. I will wait three days." 
 
 He pressed the hand which Colonel Ridault 
 extended to him, and withdrew. The colonel made 
 him a gesture of friendship again upon the landing- 
 place; then, watching his young soldierly silhouette 
 disappear on the stairway, between the walls of 
 purple stucco, he murmured:
 
 120 THE MARRIAGE OF 
 
 "Go, my boy! I wish you to be my farewell 
 gift, my souvenir to the regiment. I will give 
 you back to it. He does not suspect, the poor boy, 
 that I am going to commit an act of folly for him. 
 It is not the first in my life, but it is the best, the 
 one which will gain for me, I hope, the pardon for 
 several others. Bah! I have no longer any- 
 thing to expect from the War Office! What do 
 I risk? Besides, I shall affirm nothing; that 
 would be to he. I will let the legend shape itself 
 and take wings. We shall see, indeed!" 
 
 He re-entered his study, whistling a march, 
 rolled up the rather badly treated plan of his 
 fortress, and pressed an electric button. An 
 orderly opened the door. 
 
 "Lancret, I shall go out at two o'clock. You 
 will get out uniform No. I." 
 
 Colonel Ridault made several visits in the 
 course of the afternoon. He had the luck that he 
 was hoping for, and was received by three or four 
 of the ladies of the regiment, not the youngest 
 ones, but those best qualified, by the number of 
 their interests and their curiosity, to fashion a 
 legend with a word, to put it in circulation, 
 and to give it the authority of a bit of history. 
 At the house of one he spoke only of the char- 
 acter and the eyes of Mademoiselle Evelyne; at 
 another's, he declared that he wished to be one 
 of the witnesses of the lieutenant, who was on 
 the eve of making an unexpected and delicious 
 marriage; at the third's, who asked: "But, finally, 
 whom does she look like?" he answered:
 
 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 121 
 
 "Like me, Madame." 
 
 That was enough. From the very next day 
 it was whispered in the military world, that the 
 colonel proposed to recognise the foundling later; 
 that, meanwhile, he avowed his paternity with 
 much frankness, with a tenderness which could 
 not deceive anyone, and that to repair his fault he 
 meant to give Mademoiselle Evelyne a dot. They 
 even fixed the figure of the dot. It was modest 
 at the beginning of the day. Toward the close 
 some people asked : 
 
 "Do you believe that he can be so rich?" 
 
 The second day after that, several comrades 
 congratulated the lieutenant, during the morning 
 drill, in the court of the barracks. Every one said : 
 
 "They say that she is charming." 
 
 And when he went home, in the afternoon, the 
 porter handed him two notes, the first of a series 
 which was long! One read: 
 
 "Most sympathetic congratulations from our 
 household." 
 
 The other, more explicit, said: 
 
 " MY DEAR MORAND : 
 
 "We have just learned the happy news. My 
 wife will be charmed to make the acquaintance 
 of Madame Louis Morand, of whom, for the last 
 two days, every one is saying the kindest things. 
 She wishes to present her to our best friends. 
 
 " Congratulations." 
 
 Finally, in the evening, a captain of the regi- 
 ment, who returned from the War Office, affirmed
 
 122 MADEMOISELLE GIMEL 
 
 that suddenly the prejudices, which had delayed 
 the advancement of Colonel Ridault, had disap- 
 peared; and that Colonel Ridault at the next pro- 
 motion would be made a brigadier-general. But 
 the report might not have been true, and the lieu- 
 tenant, that very evening, entirely forgot to men- 
 tion it to Evelyne, whom he went to see again.
 
 THE DIPLOMAT
 
 THE DIPLOMAT. 
 
 I. 
 
 MONSIEUR Louis JEAN NEPOMUCENE DE RABEL- 
 COURT, seated under a green arbour of jasmine in 
 the rear of his English garden, murmured : 
 
 "I am a coward!" 
 
 And, almost immediately, he added this ex- 
 planation, which did not go beyond the green 
 walls, motionless in the June heat : 
 
 "She has no one but me. I am her sole sup- 
 port. She called me three weeks ago, and I have 
 not budged. I am a coward!" 
 
 Several times every day, Monsieur de Rabel- 
 court addressed this offensive epithet to himself 
 without its deciding him to leave his domain of 
 Wimmerelles, where he lived in summer, to go a 
 quarter of an hour beyond the Belgian frontier. 
 Short and alert, a trifle large in the waist, and with 
 sinewy limbs; full-faced, with a ruddy complexion, 
 and smooth-shaven, save two small side-whiskers 
 at the base of the ear white and light as if made 
 of silk, Monsieur de Rabelcourt belonged to that 
 category of old men who retain their youth. Their 
 youth consists nearly always in a peculiar quality 
 of their mind, which their life has not disillu- 
 
 125
 
 126 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 sioned. They guard illusion, either of themselves, 
 of science, of their profession, of the continuance 
 or merely the curiosity of the present hour, and 
 the enjoyment of the news of the day. Merely 
 to look at the eyes of Monsieur de Rabelcourt, 
 bluish-grey eyes, always quivering and vibrating, 
 amusing themselves in looking, searching, ques- 
 tioning, reading another's glance or smile, you 
 guessed that this man had a singular talent for 
 psychology, or believed that he had. For him 
 every visit, every meeting, even commonplace 
 ones, assumed the appearance of a conference, and 
 turned to experience. He appeared to ask those 
 whom he accosted for the first time, women es- 
 pecially, whom he found infinitely more interest- 
 ing than men: "What kind of a heart is this? 
 Does it beat? Doesn't it beat? Will it beat? 
 Has it a secret? Can one learn it?" And of 
 those whom he met again after a brief interval: 
 "Have we gone far, since the other day?" 
 
 In the gay world of Brussels, which he fre- 
 quented in summer; at Paris, where he passed 
 the winter; he had the reputation of being an 
 agreeable conversationalist, well versed in af- 
 fairs of the heart, a little too prone to enrich his 
 observations, and of a discretion above the average, 
 which is not to say trustworthy. He was courted, 
 and people feared him. They enjoyed, espe- 
 cially in their freshness, the stories which he told; 
 they feared those which he might surprise or 
 invent. 
 
 All was explained, when you knew that Mon- 
 sieur de Rabelcourt had been in the diplomatic
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 127 
 
 service; and that perpetual tension of his curios- 
 ity with regard to the feminine unknown, the 
 persistency and fluttering of his eyes, the insid- 
 ious turn of his conversation, lost their singularity 
 and became a pardonable and troublesome trans- 
 position of professional habit. They told each 
 other that he had a diplomatic temperament, that 
 he continued his career, interrupted by his retire- 
 ment, in drawing-rooms; and if they still feared 
 his manner, it no longer astonished them. 
 
 In two capitals at least, he passed, therefore, 
 as a clever man. It would have been slandering 
 him, besides, to refuse him a certain sensibility. 
 He was fond of his memories of Washington, where 
 he had made his debut as attache of the embassy; 
 of Montevideo, Valparaiso and Lima, where he had 
 slowly been promoted in rank; of Buenos Ayres, 
 where, being made minister in that same Amer- 
 ica from which they did not transfer him, he had 
 grown old, envious, and forgotten, he thought; 
 he liked the despatches, which he had sent to 
 twenty successive ministers, and which he alone 
 knew; he loved the familiar images, which the 
 mere word America evoked before him, of Cre- 
 oles, half-breeds, Spanish women and Portuguese, 
 women who smoked and swung in hammocks, with 
 one arm dangling, under the shade of bananas and 
 mimosas. He liked to recall his former trips 
 through the passes of the Cordilleras, and his pres- 
 ent repose in the flat country on the Belgian 
 frontier; his brick chalet, his garden, so different 
 from the virgin forest; his Angora, which re- 
 sembled a yellow caterpillar; his numerous decora-
 
 128 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 tions, kept in a case large as a valise; he liked 
 his club at Brussels, where he regularly passed the 
 week-end; he was also fond of Countess Guil- 
 laumette, his little niece, his last relative, married 
 with a cavalry officer; the one precisely about 
 whom Monsieur de Rabelcourt had been accusing 
 himself, for the last three weeks, of selfishness and 
 irresolution. 
 
 "Dear child!" he murmured under the jasmine 
 arbour. "Barely eight years married and already 
 unhappy! She, so pretty, so clever, so full of 
 imagination; a little the image of my brother, 
 a little mine, with a charm all her own! Yet I 
 have not answered her letter! I have not flown 
 to her! Rabelcourt, you are growing old, you 
 dread a trip to Berry! You enjoy your repose, 
 while Guillaumette weeps and expects you." 
 
 The old diplomat interrupted his monologue 
 to chase, with a net, a slim white petal, curved 
 like the snowy neck of a tiny swan, which had 
 just settled whirling on his jacket sleeve. Then 
 he lifted his eyes, and contemplated fondly 
 through the arch of the arbour, with the uneasy 
 tenderness which precedes a farewell, the elon- 
 gated rectangle which formed his garden; the tall 
 trees, crowded in a small clump on both sides, 
 and which rose, like a green cliff, in the smooth- 
 cut plain; the two avenues which passed under 
 their shade encircling an oval grass plot ; the turf, 
 fresh as in April, watered every morning, clipped 
 once a fortnight, where daisies could flourish 
 only on condition of crouching on the ground; 
 finally, quite at the end, through the transparent
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 129 
 
 veil of shimmering air, the low red house, whose 
 tiles were grazed here and there by branches of 
 elm-trees, silent fans which the summer breeze 
 set in motion. 
 
 "This is what keeps me, then?" thought Mon- 
 sieur de Rabelcourt. He raised his head, which 
 he held bent a little to see better under the wan- 
 ton stems which hung from the arch and lessened 
 the opening of the door, and he called : 
 
 "Eugene?" 
 
 At first there was no answer, then the sand of 
 a path crackled more and more clearly under 
 approaching steps. The valet of Monsieur de 
 Rabelcourt, blond and formal, dressed in black, 
 appeared at the corner of a clump of trees. 
 
 "Eugene, go to my room and pack my bag. 
 I will take the evening express. Put in suit 
 number two; it is for the country." INP^I 
 
 The sound of footsteps died away and was lost 
 in the silence of the plain stifling under the sun, 
 while Monsieur de Rabelcourt drew from his 
 pocket a violet envelope, already worn at the 
 corners, opened it for the twentieth time, and 
 reread, skipping useless phrases and scanning 
 others, a letter which he could have recited by 
 heart. 
 
 "My DEAR UNCLE: First I must give you news 
 of the children. . . . Jean, Pierre. . . . Ta, ta, 
 ta, Louise is suffering with her teeth. . . . Ta, 
 ta, ta. . . . Roberte. . . . Ta, ta, ta. . . . As for 
 myself, I prefer not to reply to your affectionate 
 questions. One should question only those who
 
 130 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 are young, gay, happy, for otherwise, you risk 
 burdening yourself, alas, uselessly, with the troub- 
 les of others. No, dear uncle, I am no longer 
 the smiling niece whom you remember; I would 
 like to be able to go far away, to Buenos Ayres, 
 to Lima and live free with you. I have had 
 enough of life. It is too hard! Ah! one thing 
 is certain, when my daughters are of the age to 
 marry, I will bid them reflect twice, a hundred 
 times. . . . But what am I saying? It is weak 
 to complain. Forget what I have just written 
 . . . above all do not refer to this subject; that 
 would be disastrous. Write me rather the sequel 
 of that story, which you began in your last letter, 
 
 the story of that Madame de . Ta, ta, ta. 
 
 "P.S. Edouard came back from Algeria nine 
 weeks ago. He is very well." 
 
 Monsieur de Rabelcourt drew a deep sigh, in 
 returning the letter to his pocket, but his face, 
 like his voice, had become more and more firm 
 as he read : 
 
 "It is perfectly clear," he said aloud, "trans- 
 parent enough! There is no need to be a diplo- 
 mat to decipher that pitiful enigma! It is the 
 eternal despatch of the yellow book of life. Guil- 
 laumette complains of her husband; she is suffer- 
 ing on his account; the dryness of her postscript 
 is sufficiently eloquent: 'Edouard is very well/ 
 He has deceived her. Where? With whom? 
 Can it be at Limoges, where they are in garrison? 
 I do not think so, since Monsieur de Rueil has 
 just passed six months in Algeria, on a topo-
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 131 
 
 graphic mission, and Guillaumette's letter reveals 
 a sorrow which breaks forth, a surprise; it is a 
 cry! Then, what is it? I see but two supposi- 
 tions: an Algerian adventure that this poor child 
 has discovered, or an intimacy in Berry on his 
 return, in that peaceful corner where she was so 
 happy to pass their three months' leave. ... I 
 will find out what it is. She will tell me, since 
 she has begun the confession. She calls me, since 
 she has taken me for a confidant. I start, Guil- 
 laumette, I start, I am coming to aid you!" 
 
 He crossed the whole length of the garden, 
 opened the box of orders, out of which he chose 
 a decoration that Dom Pedro himself had placed 
 on the breast of the "dear minister," and he 
 could not refrain from smiling sadly, while pass- 
 ing the ribbon through his buttonhole. "I am 
 returning to the active diplomatic list," he thought, 
 "and it is a good omen to carry with me the evi- 
 dence of my best success. May I succeed in this 
 as I did in the affair of the Jacobson concession!" 
 
 He dined and, at nightfall, took the express 
 from Brussels. 
 
 II. 
 
 The traveller only passed through Paris. Five 
 or six errands between his arrival at daybreak 
 at the North station and his departure in the 
 afternoon from the Orleans station restored his 
 natural vivacity, which a night of disturbances 
 and sudden awakenings had depressed a little. 
 When he was again settled in the train and felt
 
 132 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 that he was rolling toward the fields of Berry, 
 from which only a few hours' journey separated 
 him, he regained all his confidence in his diplo- 
 matic star, all the vibrating good humour, the 
 abundance of ideas and the oratorical form, that 
 he had formerly known the night before princely 
 audiences, or interviews with the ministers of 
 South America. His imagination flew before him, 
 picturing to him the chateau of Monant, the old 
 family dwelling, from which he had escaped early 
 to roam the world. The last time that he had 
 gone to Berry was to be present at the marriage 
 of Guillaumette. They had postponed the wed- 
 ding a month to give her uncle, the diplomat, 
 time to reach there. How clearly he saw the two 
 slanting towers joined by a main building, rest- 
 ing on a hill and surrounded with sloping chest- 
 nut groves; the tent decorated with flags and 
 bouquets of daisies and corn-flowers for the wed- 
 ding breakfast on the return from the church, 
 and the hurried, snatched departure of the young 
 couple, full of agitation and full of joy, who rose 
 from the table before their guests, leaving to go 
 to the neighbouring station, alone, but followed 
 by the thought of all. How pretty this radiant 
 and agitated Guillaumette was, to whom a hundred 
 friends, Parisians, Berrichons, and Poitevins, were 
 calling, in murmurs mingled with tears and laugh- 
 ter: "Good-bye, darling, adieu, Madame! Be 
 happy. Do not forget us, Guillaumette! Think 
 of us, dearest!" Glances were fixed on this smi- 
 ling apparition, arrested a last moment between 
 the portieres, which she was holding with one
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 133 
 
 hand; this face, in which each sought, with secret 
 jealousy, with repressed sobs, with infinite desire, 
 to read the fleeting radiance of perfect faith in 
 life, whilst she, already separated from the oth- 
 ers, was looking at but one person, her oldest, 
 most faithful friend. Yes, Monsieur de Rabel- 
 court had had Guillaumette's last thought at the 
 moment when childhood ended. He, protected 
 against emotion by the long habit of separations, 
 had wept; he, the sceptic, had believed and be- 
 lieved firmly in the happiness which he wished 
 his niece and which he almost envied. This 
 Edouard de Rueil, who was carrying Guillaumette 
 off, taking her away from the chateau de Monant, 
 was so obviously in love! Young, also, full of 
 promise, like all officers who marry, he passed 
 indeed as being a trifle blunt, rough and stub- 
 born, but his comrades judged him to be of a 
 loyal, upright nature, incapable of betrayal. 
 
 "Who would have said then?" Monsieur de 
 Rabelcourt repeated to himself, looking at the 
 twilight descend upon the misty plains of Berry, 
 "who would have guessed? This Rueil, with his 
 large neck, his arched nose, his piercing black 
 eyes, looks like an eagle, a hawk, but not the least 
 in -the world like a fickle turtle-dove. He did 
 not have an even temper. That must have grown 
 upon him. In truth, I have a pretty piece of 
 business there on my hands!" 
 
 He was a trifle disturbed by his role. But a 
 little fever of self-love and anger urged him on. 
 It was eight o'clock in the evening when he set 
 foot on the platform of a little rural station in
 
 134 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 the midst of an almost deserted country covered 
 with trees and fresh as a mushroom cellar. 
 
 "Oh!" he exclaimed, "what a journey! From 
 yesterday evening at eleven! At last, here I am! 
 I recognise the sharp air of Monant. Burning 
 days and icy nights!" He threw his Scotch plaid 
 over his shoulders, although he had worn his sum- 
 mer overcoat, and looked around him. As he 
 had neglected to announce his coming, so as to 
 fall "in the middle of the game," according to his 
 favourite expression, he saw only the departing 
 train, the station-master going inside with his 
 lantern, and the stars which were coming out. 
 It happened luckily that a little shepherd boy was 
 passing, whistling, on his way to a small farm. 
 
 "Take my bag and accompany me to the cha- 
 teau," said Monsieur de Rabelcourt. "I will re- 
 ward you." 
 
 "Are you going to the ball?" asked the boy. 
 
 "To the ball? No, my boy, I am going to the 
 chateau of Monant, nowhere else. There are two 
 or three rather silly country houses about here, 
 I know, but I am going to Monant, you under- 
 stand, Monant!" 
 
 The boy looked at him, gave a toss of his head, 
 which signified: "I made a mistake," and doubt- 
 less^taking him for some business man, he led the 
 way without uttering another word. 
 
 It was a calm night, perfumed with the odour 
 of leaves, of wheat in grain and of gorse in bloom. 
 Monsieur de Rabelcourt, following his guide, took 
 the shortest way along solitary roads, walking up- 
 on the ridges of old ruts and upon slopes of grass
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 135 
 
 that no scythe had ever mown. He stalked 
 along, his head up, his nostrils to the wind, breath- 
 ing in the air with full lungs. From time to time 
 he pronounced in an undertone phrases which 
 seemed opportune and pertinent to him : 
 
 "This is an intoxicating country, Monsieur, 
 heady and poetic, I acknowledge that. But when 
 a man has wife and children, devil take it! he 
 must stay at home! After all, there is such a 
 thing as morality." 
 
 The boy thought that he was reciting a fable. 
 Together they went down into the hollows of the 
 valleys; they climbed slopes where ferns shone 
 beneath the branches of chestnut-trees. At last, 
 after half an hour, reaching the turn of a clump 
 of trees, which opened suddenly upon a rising 
 glade, they found themselves at once on a gravelled 
 walk, a hundred steps from the chateau, which 
 stood on the crest of the hill, whose windows, 
 from top to bottom, were lighted up. 
 
 "Sapristi!" exclaimed Monsieur de Rabelcourt, 
 "they were not expecting me nevertheless?" 
 
 "It is because they are dancing!" said the lit- 
 tle urchin. "They often dance. They do not 
 put themselves out much for it." 
 
 The traveller listened a moment to the shrill 
 notes of a piano melting into the night, and he 
 doubted no longer. Annoyed, he continued to 
 advance slowly, to gain his breath. Some men 
 servants, grouped around the stables to the right 
 of the chateau, were talking. One of them 
 stepped forward, a formal old steward with thick 
 white side-whiskers, who had served the masters
 
 136 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 of Monant for thirty years, and who had known 
 Monsieur de Rabelcourt at the time of his diplo- 
 matic activity, at the most brilliant period of his 
 career. 
 
 " Is it possible ! " he exclaimed. " It is Monsieur 
 le Ministre!" 
 
 " In person, Claude," replied Monsieur de Rabel- 
 court, flattered by a title which was not given him 
 as frequently as of yore. "A surprise! I arrive 
 without notice." 
 
 " Does Monsieur le Ministre desire madame to 
 be informed?" 
 
 "Not at all! On the contrary. You may take 
 up my bag only so that I may change my clothes, 
 and make ready a guest-chamber for me. But 
 what is going on this evening at Monant? A 
 ball?" 
 
 "Pardon, Monsieur le Ministre. The rooms 
 would not lend themselves to what is called a great 
 ball. We have a few people of the neighbour- 
 hood, about thirty. It is only a hop. It will 
 end at eleven o'clock, I take the liberty of assuring 
 Monsieur le Ministre of that, because madame 
 has already given several reunions of this kind to 
 enliven the last weeks of monsieur's leave." 
 
 He bowed, taking the valise; and one would 
 have said, from the air with which he passed be- 
 fore his comrades, that he carried the bag in which 
 the former minister kept his despatches. 
 
 "Courageous and imprudent child," thought 
 Monsieur de Rabelcourt, "I recognise her well! 
 She dances to throw the world off the scent; she 
 wants to make believe in a happiness which no
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 137 
 
 longer exists. I am afraid of but one thing; that 
 is, that the masks will drop of themselves, and 
 too suddenly, when I enter. For I am coming, 
 Monsieur de Rueil, and I shall be at the fete." 
 
 By the time he had changed his dress, the hall 
 clock was just striking nine; the diplomat had 
 crushed in his buttonhole the Brazilian ribbon, 
 drawing the ends very tight so that they followed 
 the line on his shirt-front of the four buttons of 
 his white waistcoat, and, noiselessly, he pushed 
 open the drawing-room door. 
 
 He stopped near the door. They were waltzing. 
 No one noticed him at first, then a young woman, 
 seated near a dowager, and who was looking around 
 for a topic of conversation, seeing the unknown, 
 bent forward and asked: 
 
 "Who is that?" 
 
 The dowager bent forward in her turn to the 
 left, and the movement was started as in a field 
 of wheat, the white shoulders bent, and the same 
 question, "Who is that?" flew from group to group 
 until it reached Guillaumette de Rueil, whom the 
 diplomat, dazzled by the brilliancy of the lights, 
 was endeavouring to discover behind the dancers. 
 She was seated in the midst of four friends of her 
 age, leaning back a little in her armchair, listening 
 to the laughter around her, a little absent-minded, 
 and patting, with little strokes, the folds of em- 
 broidered tulle which veiled her pink satin gown. 
 Suddenly the murmur," Who is that? "which spread 
 from place to place, reached her; with a supple 
 movement she straightened up. All her friends fol- 
 lowed the movement of her face, which was bent
 
 138 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 forward. She squinted her eyes for a second, 
 then two dimples hollowed her cheeks and her daz- 
 zling teeth appeared between the smooth lips. 
 
 "Ah!" she cried, "it is my Uncle Rabelcourt!" 
 
 And gliding between the waltzers, who saw 
 nothing, with outstretched hands, rosy and dim- 
 pled under the aureole of her fair hair, the saucy 
 patch which marked the right dimple displaced 
 by her smile and lifted by a line, like the point of 
 her eyebrows, the corner of her eyes, her nostrils, 
 the curve of her mouth, Guillaumette de Rueil, 
 in the reflections of stuffs and mirrors, moving in 
 step to the music of the slow waltz, came toward 
 Monsieur de Rabelcourt, who stood motionless, 
 already bent to kiss her hand, and who watched 
 her come. She kissed him : 
 
 "What a charming surprise, Uncle!" 
 
 "I could not come sooner," said Monsieur de 
 Rabelcourt rapidly and in an undertone; "busi- 
 ness, important business affairs, detained me, but 
 I did not wish to fail at the rendezvous, my dear 
 child." 
 
 She replied in the most natural tone and with- 
 out lowering her voice. 
 
 "I cannot believe my eyes; my uncle at Mo- 
 nant! Where do you come from?" 
 
 "Why, from Belgium, of course," murmured 
 Monsieur de Rabelcourt; "you know very well." 
 
 "On purpose to see us?" 
 
 "Naturally." 
 
 "Then I take it for granted that you are going 
 to stop with us?" 
 
 "I had Claude take my luggage up."
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 139 
 
 "That is good of you. Bdouard will be de- 
 lighted!" And as she smiled, her blue eyes, still 
 coaxing like those of a child, rested upon the old 
 man ; the latter gave an admiring toss of his head, 
 thinking: "Marvellously well acted, Guillaumette ! 
 Not a change of countenance, not an avowal 
 before witnesses! You belong to my race!" 
 
 Then, as the waltz stopped, and as all eyes were 
 now turned toward Guillaumette de Rueil and 
 toward him, Monsieur de Rabelcourt, who had 
 been very serious until then, added with an unem- 
 barrassed air aloud : 
 
 "You are more Watteau than ever, Niece!" 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 "Fresh and slim, quite the figure of a young 
 girl!" 
 
 The smile on the lips of Madame de Rueil was 
 accentuated. A droll thought must have been 
 passing through her mind. 
 
 "Always the diplomat, Uncle!" she answered. 
 "You have not changed either! Will you come 
 with me? Edouard is in here." 
 
 As she spoke, she drew Monsieur de Rabel- 
 court into a small drawing-room where half a 
 score of distinguished-looking country gentle- 
 men, who had given up dancing, were playing 
 cards. At the moment when Madame de Rueil 
 entered, one of them turned around, laying his 
 hand down on the table. He was tall and sinewy; 
 his short-cropped hair was tinged with grey; his 
 nose made an accentuated curve above his heavy 
 moustache. In his soldierly face, which had but 
 a limited number of simple expressions, with no
 
 140 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 intermediary shades, his first impulse could be 
 read like an open book. He could not disguise 
 an impression of annoyance, which Monsieur de 
 Rabelcourt carefully noted, but quickly recover- 
 ing himself, like a well-bred man, he rose and held 
 out his hand : 
 
 "Is it possible, Uncle?" he said. "Your visits 
 are so rare to us that, as you see, I am all aston- 
 ishment. Are you on a mission in Berry? " 
 
 "Partially so, Nephew." 
 
 "I am delighted, because I hope that it will 
 keep you with us." 
 
 "Oh, that depends; I am not yet settled, you 
 understand. " 
 
 Monsieur de Rabelcourt had said this, with his 
 head up, his eyes fixed on those of Rueil, who tried 
 to comprehend. But the young man did not try 
 long, and half a minute later a stifled laugh told 
 the players in the small drawing-room that the 
 arrival of the uncle was not an unmixed source 
 of delight to the nephew. 
 
 The diplomat was already mingling with the 
 guests who crowded the adjoining room. Guil- 
 laumette presented him. They crowded around 
 him. Some of the elderly ladies recognised him, 
 having met him either at the famous fete of 
 Monant, or at Paris. "The dear minister! Mon- 
 sieur de Rabelcourt! How is it possible! Who 
 could forget you! What a piece of luck for 
 Berry! Do you remember the ball at the Aus- 
 trian Embassy, at the end of the second Empire?" 
 Monsieur de Rabelcourt replied : 
 
 "Perfectly."
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 141 
 
 He remembered everything. He had ears for 
 everybody, words for every one, and eyes for all 
 the young women who bowed : " Madame de Hulle, 
 Uncle; Madame de Houssy; Madame Guy Milet; 
 Madame OTarell; my dear friend Baroness de 
 Saint-Saulge ..." At the same time whispered 
 words were interchanged behind him: "What did 
 you say, my dear, a minister?" "Yes, plenipo- 
 tentiary . " " Ah ! indeed, where ? " " Formerly in 
 America, I do not know precisely where." "Is 
 he an entertaining man ? " " Oh ! extremely ! ' ' 
 
 Among the number, insidiously, according to 
 his custom and without discouraging any ad- 
 vances, Monsieur de Rabelcourt chose the priv- 
 ileged ones whom he desired to group around him, 
 retained them with a word, with a more attentive, 
 more meaning glance, which said: "I will come 
 back to you." He returned soon, in fact, after 
 making the tour of the room, and as the dancing 
 began, went to seat himself by the side of the 
 Baroness de Saint-Saulge, who adjusted her train 
 with a flattered smile. Two dowagers, not expressly 
 invited, were on either side of her; a few quite young 
 married women made a circle before them. Those 
 less young and less ingenuous preferred to dance. 
 Monsieur de Rabelcourt began by complimenting 
 his neighbour in a very low tone, upon the fashion 
 of her dress. The seven women leaned forward 
 to gather the words of the former minister, and 
 all brightened up. Then, feeling his words lis- 
 tened to, studied, master of his audience, feeling 
 again that light shiver of ease which old birds 
 must feel in the April sunshine, he began to con-
 
 142 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 verse. The history of the Jacobson concession 
 had again a revival; they saw hammocks hung 
 with blossoming bindweed reappear; Pepita, the 
 Peruvian, whose name closes the lips for a double 
 kiss; Juana, a "gloomy and jealous creature," 
 besides others, whose memory skilfully mingled 
 with the names of emperors, of presidents of far- 
 away republics, of rivers and mountains, awoke 
 in the youthful listeners of Monsieur de Rabel- 
 court an idea of diplomacy new to them. He 
 told a story well and without hesitation, on ac- 
 count of the great experience which he had had 
 with the same stories; he could lift his eyes be- 
 yond the little circle and note what took place in 
 the two drawing-rooms. He noticed, for instance, 
 that Madame de Rueil, invited three times in a 
 brief space of time, had refused to dance and had 
 placed herself at the piano. He remarked that 
 she was a little flushed and agitated, that at times, 
 leaning to the right of the keyboard, quite at the 
 farther end of the room, she cast a glance as host- 
 ess on the group as if thinking: "My friends do 
 not dance any more since uncle is here." The 
 uncle thought: "She is troubled." That did not 
 prevent him from talking; phrases followed each 
 other from the mouth of Monsieur de Rabelcourt 
 as music from the piano, equally fluent, full of 
 the same light, commonplace, and measured gaiety. 
 Rather quickly they produced the inevitable 
 weariness of ordinary music. The imprudent 
 ones who had sought the neighbourhood of the 
 diplomat became conscious that the latter took 
 more pleasure in talking than they in listening;
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 143 
 
 they recognised that they were simply galvanising 
 into life an old drawing-room success; that the 
 only novelty in these stories of America was their 
 names, that they had better ones in the Old World, 
 and they regretted letting themselves be caught 
 in the snare. One by one, they moved their 
 chairs, enlarging the circle, sent their searching 
 eyes around the great drawing-room, summoning 
 help by a movement of the eyelids, let themselves 
 be invited, and, excusing themselves with a pained 
 gesture to Monsieur de Rabelcourt, departed 
 waltzing away to return no more. 
 
 Only the two old ladies remained in the cor- 
 ner of the room, to whom Monsieur de Rabel- 
 court paid very little attention, but who expected 
 still less, and the little Baroness de Saint-Saulge, 
 a plain, angular woman of thirty-two, who pleased 
 him by the natural insolence of her wit, the ex- 
 uberance of her gestures, the flutelike tone of her 
 voice, by the vengeance which she drew from her 
 unattractiveness, in enduring, as if they were ad- 
 dressed to another, the most insistent glances and 
 the most open flattery, and especially on account 
 of the intimacy which he knew now existed be- 
 tween Madame de Rueil and this country neigh- 
 bour. As an experienced tactician, he reflected 
 that Guillaumette might conceal, or not tell all, 
 while he had there, that evening, an unique occa- 
 sion to get information, a witness, who could not 
 be ignorant of anything, and who no doubt de- 
 manded nothing better than to be indiscreet. To 
 question without betraying anything, to use vague 
 words in the hope of attracting precise replies,
 
 144 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 to have the air of knowing everything in order to 
 obtain a secret, such had been the classic process 
 of Monsieur de Rabelcourt in public life. He 
 resolved to use it again. 
 
 As soon as he felt himself alone, or nearly so, 
 with Madame de Saint-Saulge, he turned away 
 insensibly from the dowager on the right, made a 
 change to the left, and leaning over the armchair 
 in which the baroness was plunged, he said : 
 
 "I see with pleasure, Madame, that you are 
 one of the best friends of my niece. The dear 
 child has need of support!" 
 
 "Yes, we understand each other admirably well, 
 although our dispositions are very different." 
 
 "There are circumstances," observed Monsieur 
 de Rabelcourt sententiously, "which bring to- 
 gether the most opposite natures." 
 
 "We live very near each other," replied Ma- 
 dame de Saint-Saulge. "We knew each other 
 before these last months, it is true, but we have 
 been especially intimate during this long leave that 
 Monsieur de Rueil has passed entirely at Monant. 
 I come here, she comes to me, that is, they come. 
 Yes, I am very fond of her, the poor darling, she 
 is so good, so forgetful of herself!" 
 
 "You pity her, Baroness, since you say poor?" 
 
 " The term is applied as often to the rich ! AYho 
 is there that has not his little troubles? Even the 
 happiest, even Guillaumette? " 
 
 He bent a little lower and murmured : 
 
 "You know all, then you, too?" 
 
 Madame de Saint-Saulge moved in her arm- 
 chair slightly so as to re-establish the distance that
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 145 
 
 Monsieur de Rabelcourt was trying to lessen; she 
 looked fixedly at the diplomat, asking herself: 
 "What does he mean? What is he alluding to? 
 I only know very simple things on the subject of 
 this straightforward and very happy household. 
 Let this old ferreter come to the point, and let 
 us not make any advances!" She replied, there- 
 fore, in the most matter-of-fact tone, playing with 
 the chain of her gold lorgnette, which she rolled 
 upon the handle of her fan : 
 
 "What do you mean, Monsieur?" 
 
 "That Guillaumette, in the first place, seems 
 preoccupied." 
 
 "I don't think so." 
 
 "She keeps looking at us, do you see?" 
 
 "Apparently, she is fond of both of us." 
 
 "She does not dance!" 
 
 "That is quite natural." 
 
 "No, Madame, it is not natural, she used to 
 adore dancing she is suffering. Do not try to 
 deceive me ! I have guessed the wrong which has 
 been done her, the abandonment, the neglect, 
 poor child!" 
 
 Madame de Saint-Saulge gave a start, she 
 raised her eyes eagerly, which had been following 
 the courtesies of the eight dancers in the minuet, 
 and took her lorgnette the better to gaze at Mon- 
 sieur de Rabelcourt. In the glance with which 
 she scanned the troubled face of her interlocutor 
 there beamed all her amused youth, her great con- 
 tempt for the shrewdness of men, her delight in 
 finding an opportunity of ridiculing a diplomat, 
 the roguishness of the child persisting and living
 
 146 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 in the woman of thirty. Inclining her head a 
 little, delighted to feel contempt for Monsieur 
 de Rabelcourt: 
 
 "Do you allude to their intimacy?" she asked. 
 
 "Precisely." 
 
 "It is very great." 
 
 "I was sure of it!" said Monsieur de Rabel- 
 court, growing bolder. "I guessed it by certain 
 signs! But what a sad thing, Madame, and im- 
 probable!" 
 
 "Improbable? No, I expected it and others 
 with me, everybody " 
 
 She smiled. He assumed a still more serious 
 air to add : 
 
 "Indeed? Does the neighbourhood suspect 
 something?" 
 
 "It is only a suspicion, still vague. It is so 
 recent!" 
 
 "Two months perhaps?" 
 
 "Assuredly not more than three," said Madame 
 de Saint-Saulge, laughing outright. 
 
 "I envy you, Madame," said Monsieur de 
 Rabelcourt, "that you can speak of such a sit- 
 uation with so much indifference. You are not, 
 like myself, bound by close ties of relationship 
 with Guillaumette. Tell me, has she reproached 
 her husband? Have there been scenes?" 
 
 "About that, I know nothing!" answered the 
 young woman, opening her fan. "No one can 
 know anything of that you ask me for details 
 of an intimacy " 
 
 "So much the better, a thousand times better, 
 Madame! I am glad that there is no scandal.
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 147 
 
 A mere murmur in the vicinity. My niece is so 
 proud that she has concealed everything. People 
 do not reproach her, I hope, for the slightest 
 fault?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean that fidouard is the only one at fault 
 and that is just what I thought!" 
 
 "Why, no, Monsieur, he is not!" 
 
 "You absolve him?"' 
 
 "Certainly! An accomplished man, serious 
 and gay, a charming man whom every one likes!" 
 
 "She is the one," thought Monsieur de Rabel- 
 court. He rose severe and incapable of restrain- 
 ing his indignation. 
 
 "Madame," he murmured, "you are very- 
 young, but even at the risk of appearing to you 
 to belong to the iron or stone age, I must think 
 Monsieur de Rueil's conduct unqualifiable." 
 
 The Baroness de Saint-Saulge, struggling with 
 a mad desire to laugh, replied after a moment : 
 
 "What a droll dictionary you have, Monsieur!" 
 
 "It is not a question of dictionaries, Madame, 
 it is the foundation even of our feelings which dif- 
 fers completely completely. ' ' 
 
 He bowed, and the young woman followed 
 with her eyes, in which the smile had died, this 
 singular uncle, whom she had not yet catalogued 
 in her rich collection of worldly souvenirs. 
 
 It was warm. The evening lacked animation 
 after the arrival of this inconvenient personage, 
 who seemed to monopolise the attention of Ma- 
 dame de Rueil from the distance and that of Ma- 
 dame de Saint-Saulge near by. It dragged on for
 
 148 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 half an hour more, until refreshments were served, 
 then the noise of carriages arriving one by one 
 before the chateau made the window-panes rattle. 
 The neighbours took leave with the usual : " Charm- 
 ing evening, adieu," which was not wholly so 
 false as elsewhere. Madame de Saint-Saulge, on 
 taking leave of her friend, whispered in her ear: 
 
 "What a delightful man your uncle is!" 
 
 "You think so?" 
 
 "It is impossible to be bored an instant with 
 him. He has imagined a crazy story about you. 
 I misled him, and w r e ended by abusing each other. 
 I will come and tell you about it in the morning." 
 
 Guillaumette replied with her habitual calm 
 smile : 
 
 " Do so, dear. Till to-morrow then." 
 
 And she remained in the drawing-room alone 
 with Monsieur de Rabelcourt, while her husband 
 accompanied a group of friends to the steps. 
 
 Scarcely was the door closed when Monsieur 
 de Rabelcourt, seized again by the idea of his mis- 
 sion, approached his niece and, pressing her hands 
 between both of his, said to her tragically, in hur- 
 ried words : 
 
 "We have but a moment, Guillaumette. . . . 
 I know enough. You will tell me the rest. We 
 will act together, my poor child." 
 
 She did not seem to understand. 
 
 "But I have nothing to tell you, my dear 
 Uncle!" 
 
 "Do not dissimulate. Nothing this evening, 
 but to-morrow. You have sent for me?" 
 
 "No."
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 149 
 
 "Your letter!" 
 
 Guillaumette de Rueil blushed to the roots of 
 her fair hair. Embarrassed, hesitating, confused, 
 she remained a moment without saying anything, 
 asking herself if it were necessary or not to con- 
 fide in her uncle, who had so little discretion, 
 whom she had been wrong to alarm. She de- 
 cided in the negative, and putting her two arms 
 on the shoulders of the old man, smiling and ca- 
 ressing, she kissed him, saying : 
 
 " I wrote that in a moment of folly. You will 
 know all some day soon, I promise you. Do not 
 be alarmed at a trifle. I do not think now what I 
 did when I wrote. ... If you wish to give me 
 pleasure " 
 
 "Yes, certainly!" 
 
 " Then do not insist. Forget the letter. Above 
 all, never allude to it before Edouard. He would 
 be furious with me." 
 
 " Come, my dear Uncle," said Edouard de Rueil, 
 coming in, "let us have a game of billiards, will 
 you, it is only eleven o'clock!" 
 
 "I thank you, Nephew," said Monsieur de 
 Rabelcourt coldly. "I feel the fatigue of one 
 hundred and twenty-seven leagues of railway 
 travel in my body and of many cares in my mind. 
 May I ask you to ring for the valet, Guillaumette. 
 I will retire." 
 
 A moment later, upon the first flight of the 
 stairway, the very dignified Monsieur de Rabel- 
 court, followed by his enlarged shadow turning 
 on the wall, mounted in placing his two feet on 
 each step and by little jerky strides displaying
 
 150 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 the form and the elasticity of his calf. Before 
 him, the valet carried the candle. In the large 
 drawing-room, behind the half-closed door, Mon- 
 sieur and Madame de Rueil were seized with a 
 sudden fit of merriment, and the former said: 
 
 "What is the matter with him, with your wor- 
 thy uncle, Guillaumette? I find him most de- 
 pressing! Have you any idea why he has that 
 manner with me?" 
 
 "Not yet. I will find out to-morrow." 
 
 " At least, I hope that he has not come to stay? " 
 
 "Ihope- 
 
 " You did not invite him?" 
 
 "Oh! Not exactly." 
 
 "Deliver me from him, I say! For our last 
 days that would be gay! We must go back to 
 Limoges at the end of the week. If he remains 
 here well, I consider my leave already at an 
 end." 
 
 She reflected a moment and said : 
 
 "I will find a way by sleeping on it." 
 
 He, accustomed to her having wit for two, 
 looked at her with admiration, took her at her 
 word, and, already relieved, said: 
 
 "Shall we go up, too?" 
 
 And they went, without valet and without for- 
 mality. 
 
 III. 
 
 Monsieur de Rabelcourt slept little; the fa- 
 tigue of the journey, the change of bed, and chil- 
 dren's cries penetrating through the ceiling, from
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 151 
 
 the nursery on the second floor, kept him awake 
 a part of the night. He had time to make a 
 plan of battle. In spite of all, his mind was 
 rested; his ideas took shape of themselves; his 
 old experiences counselled him without even hesi- 
 tating on the way to act. 
 
 " I am in the presence of a very simple and well- 
 known case. A wife has been betrayed. It is 
 she. In the first moment of her indignation she 
 seeks a deliverer, a man who may be a discreet 
 confidant and a natural protector. That is my- 
 self. This friend, this relative hastens to her; she 
 loses her head at the thought of completing the 
 avowal, of analysing herself, her wrong; she hesi- 
 tates through modesty, through fear also of the 
 necessary consequences and of the explanation 
 which has not taken place, the anger, the probable 
 separation. What must he do? Firstly, remain 
 so as to add to the proofs which he possesses 
 already, and secondly, as soon as he has his file 
 of papers complete lay it before this too weak 
 woman, say to her paternally : ' I have no need 
 of admission; the proof is obtained; let us act!'" 
 
 At the hour of the early breakfast he found the 
 family assembled in the dining-room. The chil- 
 dren were all ready for company in immaculate 
 frocks, seated, according to size, by the side of 
 their mother; Jean and Pierre in blue, Louise in 
 pink, little Roberte, supported by her mother's 
 arms, standing tottering in her wool socks. 
 
 "Good morning, Uncle!" Three fresh voices 
 saluted Monsieur de Rabelcourt, who came in, 
 three smiles welcomed him, followed him as he
 
 .152 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 approached, and were effaced when the absorbed 
 and not very paternal uncle gave to each child, 
 as a reward, a little tap on the cheek. 
 
 "Are they not darlings?" asked Guillaumette. 
 "Whom do they resemble?" 
 
 "My dear," replied Monsieur de Rabelcourt, 
 "I never judge women before twenty or men be- 
 fore thirty." 
 
 He pressed the hand of Edouard de Rueil, who 
 half rose from the chair where he was seated and 
 said: 
 
 "Well, Uncle, have you your plans for to-day?" 
 
 "Always, Nephew." 
 
 "I will wager that one is to see again Madame 
 de Saint-Saulge. You know you paid her the 
 most assiduous attentions last evening. Confi- 
 dences, affected airs, discreet laughs, nothing was 
 lacking." 
 
 "Except perhaps sympathy," answered Mon- 
 sieur de Rabelcourt, seating himself before his 
 cup of chocolate. 
 
 "What do you say!" cried Guillaumette, who 
 was fastening the napkin behind Roberte's neck. 
 "Therese did not please you? She charms every 
 one!" 
 
 Monsieur de Rabelcourt cast a pitying glance 
 on her, as on a child who does not comprehend, 
 and fixing his gaze on Monsieur de Rueil, who 
 looked up a little astonished from the opposite 
 side of the table : 
 
 "A giddy-head!" he said. 
 
 "A woman full of good sense, full of heart," 
 said fidouard.
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 153 
 
 "You are not mistaken on the last point, Mon- 
 sieur de Rueil. I believe that she has enough for 
 two." He laughed one of his laughs, which he 
 termed sardonic, but which was like all the others. 
 
 "Your best friend?" he added. 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 " Guillaumette told me so, Madame de Saint- 
 Saulge confirmed it, and you repeat it. I have 
 not the least doubt, but I think that Guillaumette 
 might have chosen better. This intimate friend," 
 he emphasised the epithet, "talked to me in a 
 way ..." 
 
 "Frivolous, Uncle?" interrupted Monsieur de 
 Rueil, whose strong, stern countenance beamed 
 with satisfaction. "You must have challenged 
 it then. I know you; you are a hermit, but not 
 a strict one. Confess now that you told some 
 tales of South America to Madame de Saint- 
 Saulge." 
 
 "No, Monsieur, the stories came from her. 
 They were stories of this country, of your neigh- 
 bourhood, of your immediate neighbourhood." 
 
 He paused to judge of the effect of his words, 
 which did not appear to be considerable. And 
 raising his voice, flushed, his lips tightly pressed, 
 Monsieur de Rabelcourt added: 
 
 "Without insisting further for the present, I 
 repeat to you that she flaunted before me an easy 
 code of morality, more than easy. ... I make 
 no pretensions to being a model, but between her 
 code of morals and mine, Heaven be praised, there 
 is an abyss." 
 
 "My dear Uncle," exclaimed Guillaumette,
 
 154 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 troubled at the turn the conversation was taking, 
 "I assure you that you are mistaken. She must 
 have been joking. She is bright and she loves 
 controversy. When you become better acquainted, 
 you will see that the abyss is a very shallow ditch." 
 
 "You are blind," said Monsieur de Rabelcourt. 
 "But Monsieur de Rueil should understand me 
 better. I would prefer to see your baroness ten 
 leagues from here." 
 
 "Speak for yourself!" said Rueil, who was get- 
 ting irritated. 
 
 "I speak for you, on the contrary; for you per- 
 sonally," said Monsieur de Rabelcourt. " I would 
 rather see her a hundred leagues from here than 
 in your house." 
 
 "Madame la Baronne de Saint-Saulge would 
 like to speak to madame," announced the valet, 
 opening the door. "I have shown her into the 
 small drawing-room." 
 
 Guillaumette de Rueil, after an instant of sur- 
 prise, recalled the rendezvous made the evening 
 before; and leaning over her four besmeared chil- 
 dren who had finished their breakfast without 
 breathing a word : 
 
 "My darlings," she said, "you must ask your 
 great-uncle for his most beautiful story of Amer- 
 ica. You are going to see how good they are, 
 Monsieur le Ministre!" she added, laughing. 
 "Spoil them for ten minutes, and do not malign 
 my friend behind my back; that would be to 
 betray her." 
 
 She cast a glance full of prudent recommenda- 
 tions to her husband, to which Edouard de Rueil
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 155 
 
 replied by a shrug of the shoulders, which said: 
 "I will be silent, but do not leave me long with 
 your uncle; he exasperates me." 
 
 She crossed the room and went out. Monsieur 
 de Rabelcourt looked at his nephew fixedly, fin- 
 ished his chocolate without saying another word, 
 and went up to his room. 
 
 "Edouard de Rueil did not detain him. 
 
 IV. 
 
 After five minutes' conversation the two young 
 women rose and kissed each other. There were 
 tears in the eyes of Madame de Rueil. The other 
 was laughing. 
 
 "You are silly, Guillaumette, to cry because 
 your uncle is not a good psychologist." 
 
 "To suspect my husband! To invent such a 
 story! To talk about it at a ball in my house! 
 To assume the appearance of a judge before 
 Edouard, who has not a fault, whom I love, whom 
 I You must admit that?" 
 
 "Why did you write to him?" 
 
 "I did not know what I was about." 
 
 "Then tell all to your husband." 
 
 "He will be angry with me. He will think me 
 silly, and he will be right. And yet, if I do not 
 say anything, we shall have a family scene, Rabel- 
 court against Rueil." 
 
 "Do better than that." 
 
 "What shall I do?" 
 
 "Turn Edouard over to me. I invite him for 
 breakfast. Everything is arranged; my carriage
 
 156 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 is waiting at the end of the park; we will start at 
 once, he and I; I will keep him until five o'clock; 
 that will give you time to bring your uncle to 
 reason, and when they meet again there will be 
 no more clouds to forge thunderbolts." 
 
 "Admirable! But say nothing about my let- 
 ter?" 
 
 "I promise." 
 
 GuUlaumette dried her eyes, crossed the room, 
 half opened the dining-room door and pressing her 
 head in the opening: 
 
 "Good news, Sdouard," said she. "The house 
 is untenable with this poor uncle, who seems to 
 me more and more eccentric. Madame de Saint- 
 Saulge has come to your rescue; she invites you 
 to breakfast." 
 
 "I fly!" said Rueil. "Try to get rid of him. 
 But what has he against me anyway?" 
 
 "I will explain that to you," said Madame de 
 Saint-Saulge, taking him by the arm. 
 
 They went down the steps together, and Ma- 
 dame de Rueil watched them as they walked slowly 
 down the sunny avenue leading toward the woods, 
 which began half-way down the slope. Her par- 
 asol concealed Madame de Saint-Saulge's head, 
 but the gay note of her laugh made itself heard. 
 The officer shook his head as if to say: "It is not 
 credible!" made gestures with his cane, bent 
 down to hear what his neighbour was saying and 
 the confidences must have been amusing, for 
 they moderated their youthful pace. They made 
 a pretty group: he, in a close-fitting suit of 
 blue which revealed his tall form; she, dressed
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 157 
 
 in a light billowy gown, striped with mauve, her 
 long skirt trailing over the grass and sand, looked 
 like a great white poppy. Guillaumette followed 
 them with her glance through the window, and 
 as they were about to reach the turn of the grove 
 and to disappear under the trees, she observed 
 her friend lift up her parasol, look for a second in 
 the direction of the house and at once take a more 
 rapid gait. Madame de Saint-Saulge was fleeing 
 with her invited guest. 
 
 From whom? 
 
 The question was not long in being answered. 
 
 Coming out from the shadow of the right tower, 
 passing between the central clump of vervains 
 and the bunches of petunias which edged the turf, 
 launched with all the swiftness which the rotund- 
 ity of his figure permitted, Monsieur de Rabel- 
 court appeared. He was running in the same 
 direction. His head which he held forward, 
 his eyes fixed upon the end of the avenue, fol- 
 lowed the fugitives. He had seen them from his 
 room. Doubting his eyes, he had examined with 
 his field-glass this pair of young people who were 
 making their escape so resolutely and so gaily 
 into the country. It was he! It was she! Mon- 
 sieur had not an instant's hesitation. He seized 
 his cane, hurried down-stairs, opened the door 
 cautiously. He had sworn an oath to catch them; 
 and with his whole power, he was striving to keep 
 his word. 
 
 Madame de Rueil guessed that the promena- 
 ders were hastening their pace on his account. But 
 she hesitated to believe that her uncle was trying
 
 158 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 to overtake them. For a moment she watched 
 the lessening silhouette of Monsieur de Rabel- 
 court. Soon doubt was no longer possible. " Good 
 gracious!" she thought, "he is chasing them!" 
 
 She opened the window and called: 
 
 "Uncle, Uncle!" 
 
 He did not hear, or pretended that he did not. 
 His shoulders twisting, his legs, which described 
 unusual curves, raising a cloud of dust at each 
 step, his silk" hat shaken by the run, he con- 
 tinued on the way to the sheltered paths in which 
 Madame de Saint-Saulge and Edouard de Rueil 
 had just disappeared. 
 
 Guillaumette wished for a horse, a bicycle, for 
 wings to fly after him, to stop him, to prevent a 
 scene. Agitated, anxious, unable to think how 
 to prevent the meeting of the adverse parties, 
 she caught her garden hat, pinned it quickly on 
 her head, and, taking a path which crossed the 
 lawn and reached the woods on the right, she 
 plunged into the thicket, to meet her uncle at 
 least on his return from the other end of the park, 
 by the most direct path. 
 
 She, too, walked very quickly. She seated her- 
 self on a bench, in an opening where three diverg- 
 ing paths, full of quivering shadows rocked by the 
 wind, could be seen. Madame de Rueil listened, 
 her ear strained toward the distance below, in 
 which this chase of a diplomat running down an 
 intrigue in flight was continuing. After some 
 moments she heard a voice deadened by the dis- 
 tance and the leaves. The voice was raised three 
 times and, although the words could not be dis-
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 159 
 
 tinguished, it was clear that they were violent 
 and that they commanded. Then silence ensued; 
 the woods were asleep in the heat. In the cut- 
 tings and thickets around Monant, you felt this 
 long shivering of twigs, which the ear confounds 
 with silence and which, at certain hours, grows 
 faint like the roar of the sea, diminish and die 
 gradually. 
 
 Ten minutes passed; suddenly Madame de 
 Rueil waved her parasol, signalling : 
 
 "Here I am! Come!" 
 
 Monsieur de Rabelcourt emerged from the end 
 of a green path. He saw his niece. He was 
 walking with a less rapid gait than on leaving the 
 chateau, but it was still nervous and strained. 
 He appeared to be carrying on a lively conversa- 
 tion with himself; he twirled his cane, now and 
 then cutting off shoots of brambles; he raised 
 his shoulders, straightening up as if an adversary 
 were before him. As soon as he came in reach of 
 her voice, Madame de Rueil cried to him: 
 
 "Did you overtake them?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She turned pale; he drew near. 
 
 "What did you do then? Uncle, I am so dis- 
 tressed! What did you do?" 
 
 "My duty!" 
 
 He was flushed and panting, still filled with 
 the pride of his victory; but there was pity min- 
 gled with it for this young wife, who was watch- 
 ing him come from the distance, and was so 
 troubled. Monsieur de Rabelcourt stopped near 
 her and said:
 
 160 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 "Do not be alarmed, my poor darling! Do 
 not be agitated; let me relate the affair from the 
 beginning." 
 
 But she drew him to her, moved aside a little 
 and made him sit down near her: 
 
 "Quick, quick, tell me, on the contrary, what 
 has just happened. I am so unhappy! It is all 
 my fault I ought to have explained my letter 
 to you you did not understand it 
 
 "Everything, my child, everything!" 
 
 "No, you did not!" 
 
 "Let me speak. You will see. But don't in- 
 terrupt me any more! Yes, your letter gave me 
 the first suspicion, almost the certainty. I hasten 
 to Monant; I find you agitated; I see your hus- 
 band annoyed at my coming; I question Madame 
 de Saint-Saulge, she confesses 
 
 "What? Since there is nothing. " 
 
 "She confesses this betrayal from which you 
 are suffering, unhappy child, and which you wish 
 to hide from me now!" resumed Monsieur de 
 Rabelcourt, raising both arms. "She avowed it 
 with perfect cynicism to me, your uncle, in your 
 house! Ah! I did not miss her just now! I saw 
 your husband with her in the path, I ran after 
 them. Anger restored my youth, I did not catch 
 up with them, for they almost ran, but I got 
 near enough for my voice to carry, and " 
 
 "Great heavens, what did you say?" 
 
 "I cried at the top of my lungs: 'Monsieur de 
 Reuil, you are betraying your most sacred duties, 
 but hereafter there is a witness; I am the one!" 
 
 " What did he do? Was he angry? "
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 161 
 
 "No." 
 
 "At least, he replied very sharply?" 
 
 "Not at all. In place of stopping, he went on 
 running; he merely looked over his shoulder and 
 threw this simple impertinence at me: 'Au revoir, 
 you old sheep!' while his accomplice, still more 
 giddy than he, hurried him along; I heard them 
 laughing, Guillaumette, laughing after they were 
 out of sight!" 
 
 "Ah! so much the better! So much the bet- 
 ter!" 
 
 She could not utter another word. Tears, nerv- 
 ous agitation, the rebound of the emotion which 
 she had felt, prevented her from speaking; half 
 turned toward Monsieur de Rabelcourt, she made 
 a sign with her lashes, with her lips lifted at the 
 corners, with all her pretty fair head, and said: 
 "Do not mind me, I was afraid, I was faint for a 
 moment, but I am happy, enchanted, pleased, and 
 I will explain!" 
 
 Monsieur de Rabelcourt thought her out of her 
 senses. He looked at her in silence, he studied 
 the changing play of her face and her expressions 
 which were effaced one after the other; he felt 
 some anxiety and remorse in the presence of his 
 niece as one does before one of those pretty, frag- 
 ile toys whose spring you have unintentionally 
 snapped, without knowing how to mend it. 
 
 She mended herself all alone. 
 
 Suddenly, Madame de Rueil stopped crying; 
 she seized both her uncle's hands and became 
 grave, affectionate even. Having recovered her 
 frank expression, she said:
 
 162 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 "My dear Uncle, it is my fault, but you have 
 made a grievous mistake!" 
 
 At that moment, she resembled so greatly per- 
 sonified reason, she had such an air of conviction, 
 that he lost his. Monsieur de Rabelcourt felt 
 that he had blundered, and blushed beforehand 
 for what he was going to learn. 
 
 "What mistake, Guillaumette?" he demanded. 
 "Are you not unhappy?" 
 
 "I was for twenty-four hours. I am not so 
 any longer. " 
 
 "Has not your husband deceived you?" 
 
 "He is the most faithful and the most loving 
 of husbands!" 
 
 "I did not, however, dream my conversation 
 with Madame de Saint-Saulge?" 
 
 "It was a joke!" 
 
 " She spoke to me of an intimacy of fidouard's? " 
 
 "With me." 
 
 "She has just taken him home with her." 
 
 "With my full consent; he breakfasts at 
 Roches." 
 
 "Then, why the devil did you call me?" 
 
 "I did nothing of the kind!" 
 
 "Oh! indeed! What do you call your letter?" 
 
 "My dear Uncle," said Guillaumette, in her 
 sweetest voice, "you must not get angry with me; 
 you have too much experience not to know that 
 even the happiest of young women have moments 
 when they detest life, when their youth is no con- 
 solation to them, indeed, quite the contrary. I 
 went through one of these crises. My letter was 
 written by your Guillaumette, already burdened 
 with rather a large family! "
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 163 
 
 "Jean, Pierre, Louise, Roberte," counted the 
 uncle. 
 
 "In six years," she resumed. "The mother 
 wished for a little liberty, a little vacation. She 
 had the disagreeable surprise " 
 
 "You are?" 
 
 "Yes, Uncle; a little fifth!" 
 
 "With your slim figure!" 
 
 "We will baptise it at Limoges, this winter." 
 
 "And that is all your trouble!" 
 
 "It is quite enough! Do not get angry!" 
 
 "And you had the face to write to me for such 
 a little thing that you would like to start with 
 me for Buenos Ayres?" 
 
 " I was sorry for it the next day." 
 
 "And you gave me three weeks of distress 
 by explaining nothing to me! You make me 
 take a journey of one hundred and twenty-seven 
 leagues; I arrive, I believe that you are betrayed, 
 I suspect Madame de Saint-Saulge, I offend your 
 husband, I risk making trouble between two 
 households, and I seriously compromise my repu- 
 tation as a man of the world and a diplomat, and 
 when the evil is done, you mean to tell me that 
 all this fine despair came to you from what is 
 called a hope! Really, my dear, it is unpardon- 
 able!" 
 
 Monsieur de Rabelcourt drew away his hands, 
 which, until then, Guillaumette de Rueil had re- 
 tained in her own, and, offended, straightening up 
 against the back of the bench, he began to look 
 vaguely at the forest trees. 
 
 The young wife did not try to defend herself,
 
 164 THE DIPLOMAT 
 
 she felt that she was at fault; but, remembering 
 the recommendations of Edouard and the time 
 which was passing, she tried to find out the inten- 
 tions of Monsieur de Rabelcourt. From the other 
 end of the bench, her eyes vague also and dreamy, 
 she said : 
 
 "I take it upon myself to reconcile you with 
 Madame de Saint-Saulge." 
 
 He made no answer. 
 
 " The most difficult thing will be," she continued, 
 "to make my husband listen to reason. He will 
 pardon you, Uncle, without any trouble! but it 
 will be necessary to confess to him that I wrote that 
 peevish, ridiculous letter. And I am so worried. 
 He will be only too much disposed to think as 
 you, that I had no sense on that day in not keep- 
 ing silent, and that I had less yesterday evening 
 in keeping silent. He is so good to me that his 
 reproaches are infinitely hard for me." 
 
 Monsieur de Rabelcourt let her continue her 
 monologue without interrupting her. 
 
 At the end of a quarter of an hour, he sighed, 
 his features relaxed, he looked at his niece with 
 eyes in which there was much indulgence and a 
 little regret. 
 
 "Come!" said he, "let us return to the cha- 
 teau. I will make the explanation very easy for 
 you. Fear nothing. Are you able to walk back? " 
 
 Both rose. As they were going up the steps, 
 Monsieur de Rabelcourt, who had recovered his 
 good humour more from moment to moment, 
 added : 
 
 "All the same, the trip will not have been with-
 
 THE DIPLOMAT 165 
 
 out benefit for me. It will have recalled to me 
 what we men are always tempted to forget, that 
 one should never hurry to help a woman who 
 complains. Order the horse to be harnessed, my 
 little Guillaumette." 
 
 Some moments later, as the victoria, which 
 was used to go from Monant to the neighbour- 
 ing station, was carrying away Monsieur de Rabel- 
 court and turning the corner of the chateau, the 
 diplomat put his head out of the carriage, com- 
 pletely restored to serenity, already smiling at 
 the shadows of Wimerelles, and bowing to his 
 niece, who was leaning out of a low window, he 
 cried : 
 
 "Good-bye, Guillaumette, good-bye! Do not 
 disturb me for the sixth!"
 
 THE WILL OF OLD CHOGNE.
 
 THE WILL OF OLD CHOGNE. 
 
 NOTHING told the hour, unless it was the silence. 
 It must have been near midnight, or a little after 
 the dead point of the dial, in that brief period, when 
 the very watch-dogs rouse themselves with dif- 
 ficulty. Only at long intervals there came a 
 brief lowing from the stable, the cry of an animal 
 exhausted by the accumulated heat which the 
 snow on the roof kept stored. No noise; no light 
 either in the great room of the farm. There were 
 two men, however, seated near the table on which 
 the masters and servants of the Beinost Farm 
 ate their morning and evening meals, both on 
 the same side and looking at the bed, whose 
 motionless clothes and coverlid were raised their 
 whole length by a human form. Around the bed, on 
 the right of the fireplace, the sheets dragged on the 
 floor; other sheets were drying, stretched on the 
 back of a chair, in front of the scattered logs which 
 were growing grey with ashes. Elsewhere, along 
 the walls of the room, as in all farmhouses of the 
 region, there was a provision of wood carefully 
 piled up, a dish-closet, a clothes-press crowned 
 with boots with widened tops, a chest, two or 
 three sacks of potatoes or chestnuts. These ob- 
 
 169
 
 170 THE WILL OF 
 
 jects emerged from the shadows very vaguely. 
 The reflections from the fields of snow, which do 
 not lose all light at night, entered through the 
 panes of opposite windows and kept, for the 
 accustomed eyes of the witnesses, somewhat of 
 the life of colours and of outlines. At last the 
 men spoke in an undertone. 
 
 "He has not budged for an hour," said one. 
 
 "I do not hear his breath any longer," replied 
 the other. 
 
 "He passed away so suddenly," resumed the 
 elder, " that there was not time to have him make 
 his will. It can't be, however, that Melanie 
 should share with us in father's property." 
 
 "No, that mustn't be! The meadow must be 
 ours, and the vineyard below too, and the whole 
 Farm." 
 
 "Then you agree with me, Francis?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Entirely?" 
 
 The younger replied with a nod, accompanied 
 by a lowering of the eyelids, which signified: "I 
 know what I have to do; it is useless to talk." 
 He was young, thin, and colourless, with yellow 
 hair, an aquiline nose, and light-coloured, con- 
 tinually shifting eyes. Some people took him for 
 a creature of little judgment; they did not notice 
 the brief laugh which barely stretched his lips 
 and cheeks, but in which a resolute and cunning 
 spirit was shown. 
 
 Anthelme, the elder, a heavy, bearded, thick- 
 faced, and flat-nosed peasant, gave one the im- 
 pression of brutal and impelling strength, but he
 
 OLD CHOGNE 171 
 
 had his share of cunning too, which he cloaked 
 under the violence of words, tone, and gesture. 
 Habitually, people heard only of him at the Beinost 
 Farm. The real master was, however, the father, 
 who had just died and after him the younger son, 
 who was like his father. Francis was the first 
 to rise. 
 
 "Go and fetch Biolaz," he said; "I will get the 
 witnesses and arrange the rest." 
 
 A quarter of an hour later the great black mare, 
 whose mouth, drawn too early by the bit, had 
 remained stretched as if by a stupid laugh, waited, 
 in the snow, in the farmhouse court. Francis 
 stood by the sleigh; he had a last injunction to 
 give, and when the stable door opened, he said : 
 
 "Anthelme, don't talk too much with Biolaz!" 
 
 He went in immediately, shaking his jacket. 
 Anthelme had wrapped himself up in a lined 
 carter's coat, a wretched cloak which had been 
 used for twenty years by all the cowherds of the 
 Farm, and his head almost disappeared in the 
 funnel of the high collar. He came forward car- 
 rying before him the lighted lantern, which he 
 fastened in an iron ring on the right of the seat, and 
 then he started. The mountain was entirely white, 
 without tree or bush as far as the first fields of 
 the valley. He tried, therefore, in the radiance 
 of the slopes, to recognise the path, which he 
 could not leave without risking his life. The 
 snow was falling softly. The villages, below, in 
 the icy fog, were asleep. No sound came up from 
 the valleys. Nothing was moving, in that win- 
 ter's night, unless it were, very high up on the
 
 172 THE WILL OF 
 
 Colombier, the flame of the lantern, which made 
 around the sleigh a tiny halo which went down in 
 zigzags across the fields of snow. 
 
 Anthelme Chogne was going to fetch the no- 
 tary. These Chognes were known in the moun- 
 tain as a rich, litigious family, at all times to be 
 feared by those who were not of use to them. It 
 was a saying among the neighbours: "One never 
 does a good stroke of business with a Chogne, and 
 those are lucky even who do not do a bad one." 
 The old father rarely came down from his farm, 
 perched some two thousand feet up in the air, 
 in the bulky part of the Colombier, where the 
 peaks diminish in size and where the mountain 
 spreads out its sides. When summer had melted 
 the snows, one saw nothing around the Beinost 
 Farm but poor pasture-lands strewn with stones 
 and unfenced fields where the surface of the soil, 
 scratched by the plough and spade, gave back 
 meagre harvests of rye, beans, and potatoes; but 
 below, upon an old marsh, bordered by a tor- 
 rent, there was a vineyard, shaped like a turtle, 
 which gave a pale-red, piquant wine very cele- 
 brated in the neighbourhood. This vineyard was 
 the pride and the wealth of the Chognes. There 
 was besides, above the farm, a pine forest, rising 
 up dark and crowded together to the summit of 
 the chain, which did not belong to the Chognes, 
 but which they, from father to son, exploited and 
 devastated with an audacity against which the 
 owner had never found any valid defence. Did 
 trees disappear? No one had ever seen the wood- 
 cutter who cut them down. Were they found
 
 OLDCHOGNE 173 
 
 at the foot of the mountain, in the fold, where 
 the trunks of trees run whether borne down by 
 avalanches or by the torrent? The Chognes al- 
 ways claimed that the wood belonged to them, 
 that it came from a cutting on the outskirts 
 bought by them, and proof against them was im- 
 possible in this vast and sparsely populated coun- 
 try, difficult of access and where no witness would 
 dare to say: "Chogne lies." Father Chogne, of 
 a morose, avaricious disposition, had never will- 
 ingly tolerated the presence of a woman in his 
 house. His only daughter, Melanie, grown stupid 
 from want of care and lack of nourishment, at 
 the age of fifteen had taken a place as servant 
 at Nantua. She was now twenty-five years old, 
 and it was she whom it was necessary to despoil 
 of the vineyard and the Farm, and of all that 
 the father would have taken away from her if he 
 had not died so suddenly on that winter's night. 
 
 Anthelme put the mare to a trot on reaching the 
 plain. He passed hamlets, one after another, 
 without stopping, and barely slackened his speed 
 in going up the slope on the other side of the val- 
 ley to reach the pass which joins Valromey with 
 Hauteville. The snow was soft and very deep 
 on the heights. Fortunately it had ceased to fall 
 in this region. The sleigh glided along a wide 
 road marked out by forests or clusters of trees. 
 The second descent was easy and rapid. The 
 peasant stopped about the middle of the principal 
 street of the town, before a door to which you 
 mounted by four steps, provided with a balus- 
 trade; he threw the blanket over the mare, whose 
 body smoked like a pool at dawn.
 
 174 THE WILL OF 
 
 "Hullo now, Monsieur Firmin Biolaz!" he 
 cried, pulling the bell at the same time. A sharp 
 and prolonged peal answered him, a trembling 
 of copper wire, which died away slowly and with- 
 out result. It was only at the third call that the 
 blinds of the first floor, lightly pushed upon their 
 iron hinges, let a white nightcap appear which 
 waved in the air, and a voice demanded: 
 
 "Can't you ring a little less hard? Who are 
 you?" 
 
 "I am come to get you for a will." 
 
 "Is it urgent?" 
 
 "Yes, very." 
 
 "Then I will go in the morning. Who are 
 you?" 
 
 "In the morning! No, that will be too late! 
 You must come at once. Everything is ready." 
 
 The man raised his voice so that he might have 
 been heard even to the depths of the alcoves where 
 the neighbours were sleeping behind their drawn 
 curtains. 
 
 "Open the door, Monsieur Biolaz; the law says 
 that notaries cannot refuse clients! Open!" 
 
 The blinds drew together. Then Anthelme 
 heard the muffled noise of the paddings of the 
 window as it closed. He remained outside only 
 long enough for the notary to light a candle, ex- 
 plain to his wife that there was no danger, put 
 on his slippers, draw on his trousers, tuck in the 
 ample folds of his nightshirt, and come down- 
 stairs. 
 
 "Come in quick," said Monsieur Biolaz; "it is 
 devilishly cold." 
 
 "That is no news to me!"
 
 OLDCHOGNE 175 
 
 "This way," said the notary, pushing open, 
 on the left of the corridor, the door of his office. 
 He went in first, pushed forward a chair, in the 
 darkness disturbed by the flickering candle, 
 walked around the desk, and seated himself in his 
 accustomed place, lifting up the flat candlestick 
 to study his client. The latter unbuttoned the 
 collar of his coat, drew out his beard, upon which 
 bits of melting snow were running, took off his 
 cap, and announced: 
 
 " I am Chogne, Anthelme Chogne of the Beinost 
 Farm." 
 
 "Chogne!" repeated the notary, setting down 
 the candlestick. "Ah, very well! Who, then, is 
 sick at your house?" 
 
 "The old man; he will not live through the 
 night; that is certain." 
 
 "Very well, very well," repeated the notary. 
 The two men observed each other during a half- 
 minute of silence, each seeking to read and not 
 to be read. The faces remained fixed, inexpres- 
 sive; nevertheless, by the direct communication, 
 which is always established between two minds 
 in conflict, Anthelme understood, he plainly saw, 
 that Monsieur Biolaz thought : " All these Chognes 
 are rascals; let us be on our guard." Monsieur 
 Biolaz, on his side, knew to a certainty that 
 Anthelme Chogne of the Beinost Farm thought: 
 "The notary has heard people talk about us; he 
 does not think very well of us, but I am shrewder 
 than he." This man, still young and thick-set, 
 recalled by his spotted red face, his drooping eye- 
 lids and the nervous twitch which drew down one
 
 176 THE WILL OF 
 
 corner of his lips, his regulation short-cropped 
 hair, and his awkward movements, the legendary 
 type of foot-soldier just entering the barracks; but 
 he had always lived in the country and he had 
 fathomed what he termed "la dinique notariale." 
 He demanded: 
 
 "Can you get witnesses at this hour of the 
 night?" 
 
 "They will be at the Farm, all four, when you 
 get there. Come on!" 
 
 The peasant's neck swelled out; his eyes be- 
 came bloodshot; he struck the table with his 
 fist. 
 
 " Come on ! Will you finally decide to go? " 
 
 Monsieur Biolaz had a fluttering of the eyelids 
 and a kind of assent of the head which Anthelme 
 took for a sign of fear. He made no answer, but 
 he rose, seized a bag hanging upon the green wall- 
 paper, and slipped some legal cap, some stamped 
 paper, some pens in it, and, at the last moment, 
 an object contained in a rectangular leather case, 
 as high as your hand, which stood on the desk. 
 
 "You don't need to take your revolver, you 
 know!" said Anthelme in a jeering tone. "The 
 house is safe." 
 
 The notary snapped the spring which closed his 
 bag. 
 
 "Pass first, Monsieur Chogne; I am not taking 
 a revolver, it is a small instrument with which I 
 take notes, when I need them." 
 
 Anthelme did not have long to wait in the 
 street. Monsieur Biolaz reappeared, in high 
 boots, wrapped in a goatskin, dragging a fur cov-
 
 OLDCHOGNE 177 
 
 ering after him; he wrapped himself up in these 
 furs, stretched himself in the back of the sleigh, 
 without making an observation or a remark, his 
 bag under his head, and murmured : 
 
 "At your service, Monsieur Chogne!" 
 
 During the greater part of the way and until 
 he had reached the foot of the mountain, near his 
 vineyard, Anthelme appeared to have no other 
 preoccupation than that of urging his already 
 jaded mare to a gallop. The sudden change of 
 speed when the ground rose restored speech to 
 the driver. Anthelme turned half around upon 
 the seat of the sleigh. He recognised by the 
 shapes which the mist was taking that daylight 
 was approaching, and that the morning would be 
 clear. 
 
 "Monsieur Biolaz, do you know my father 
 well?" 
 
 "I have met him once or twice at fairs." 
 
 "He will certainly recognise you; he has a good 
 memory! I say, Monsieur Biolaz, do you know 
 my brother Francis well?" 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 The peasant whipped up his exhausted mare, 
 adding: 
 
 "Perhaps he will be there and perhaps he will 
 not. He went for the doctor for father, you see." 
 
 They were watching for the travellers at the 
 Beinost Farm, and as soon as the sleigh drew 
 up before a kind of platform which extended 
 behind the farmhouse the door of the great hall 
 opened and a man came out in the darkness, say- 
 ing:
 
 178 THE WILL OF 
 
 "Welcome! Come in quickly! He is still alive, 
 but you must be quick; he moans continually." 
 
 The notary entered. The room was lighted 
 only by a stable lantern of convex glass, which 
 was placed in the centre of the table. He saw 
 the bed, but all he could see of the sick man, hid- 
 den among the pillows and sheets, was a cotton 
 night-cap and an indistinct profile turned toward 
 the wall, from which there came an uninterrupted 
 moan. The notary walked around the room and 
 stopped by the fireplace among the chairs loaded 
 with linen. The bed-curtains were half closed. 
 
 "It is I, Monsieur Chogne, it is I, the notary. 
 Do you hear me well?" 
 
 A muffled voice replied : 
 
 "Yes, yes, Monsieur Biolaz of Hauteville. Oh, 
 dear, dear! My dear sir, how sick I am!" 
 
 "Not so sick as you think, Monsieur Chogne. 
 . . . Look at me." 
 
 Several voices from the rear of the room pro- 
 tested : 
 
 "Let him be. ... He is sick enough as it is. 
 Since he does not want to move, why disturb the 
 man?" 
 
 They heard the drawling voice of the notary : 
 
 "Hand me the lantern." 
 
 The words fell in a silence as profound as if 
 they had been uttered in the midst of fields of 
 snow and the fog of dawn. Monsieur Biolaz re- 
 peated them with the same tranquil tone. Then 
 the man who had come out to meet him in the 
 court, a very tall man, with his hat pulled down 
 over his eyes, seized the lantern by the copper
 
 OLDCHOGNE 179 
 
 handle and lifted it up without leaving the middle 
 of the room. Monsieur Biolaz did not insist; 
 but he looked at the testator, who began again 
 to moan, bending down over him ; then he turned 
 briskly away. In the back of the room, upon a 
 bench along the wall, three other peasants were 
 listening, and watching, scarcely breathing, their 
 heads and shoulders bent forward. The move- 
 ment of the notary made them start like persons 
 caught in a fault . One of them cried ill-humouredly : 
 
 "Ply your trade, Monsieur Biolaz, instead of 
 swinging yourself about like that in your goat- 
 skin." 
 
 The notary hesitated no longer; he had the 
 feeling that he was alone against five, for Anthelme 
 came in, after having unharnessed the mare, and 
 said: 
 
 "That is so; bring your papers over to the 
 lantern, Monsieur Biolaz; you can see there to 
 write. Unfortunately we have no more oil; it has 
 all been used these last days, you understand." 
 
 Then, as Monsieur Biolaz began asking the 
 names, surnames, and trades of the witnesses, he 
 continued : 
 
 "It is a pity that my brother Francis is not 
 back in time for father's will; that will be a grief 
 to him for his whole life." 
 
 The notary appeared to be no longer listening; 
 he was drawing up the will. Spreading a sheet 
 of stamped paper where the light of the lantern 
 shone on it, he applied himself, his forehead 
 creased with a single wrinkle, to combining his 
 phrases and weighing his words. The witnesses
 
 180 THE WILL OF 
 
 became expansive. They chatted with each 
 other. 
 
 "In the presence of Monsieur Firmin Biolaz, 
 appeared Monsieur Mathieu Napoleon Chogne, 
 who, believing himself to be mortally ill, re- 
 quested the said Monsieur Biolaz to draw up his 
 will." The notary put down afterward, with 
 minutiaB, the circumstances of date and place, 
 describing the hall of the Beinost Farm and the 
 sick man himself, "as far as I could see him," he 
 wrote. He then asked the testator to dictate his 
 wishes to him. Old Chogne, whose speech was 
 interrupted by frequent sighs, groans and fits of 
 coughing, dictated, however, some phrases which 
 revealed a long experience in business. He be- 
 queathed, "as preference legacy and besides their 
 share, to his sons Anthelme and Francis, all that 
 he could will away from his daughter Melanie, 
 and this in gratitude for the good care with which 
 they had surrounded his old age." He expressed 
 the wish, "which should be sacred for all," that 
 the vineyard should belong to Francis and the 
 Beinost Farm to Anthelme. The drawing of the 
 will concluded, Monsieur Biolaz read the deed 
 aloud and rose to have the sick man sign. Two 
 of the four witnesses and Anthelme rose at the 
 same time, going between the notary and the 
 bed. The two others crowded in the little space 
 back of the bed. 
 
 "I cannot sign," groaned the sick man; "I 
 am not able." 
 
 "Don't torment him again! You hear what 
 he says," grumbled the men. "Monsieur Biolaz,
 
 OLDCHOGNE 181 
 
 it must be written on the deed <^hat he is not able 
 to sign. Monsieur Biolaz, do not go near him 
 like that; he is afraid of you, you see. Leave the 
 lantern on the table, the light hurts his eyes." 
 
 The notary was at the foot of the bed, which 
 was hidden by a covering reaching down to the 
 floor. The men on both sides of the sick man 
 moved about, bending over so closely to speak 
 to him that his face could not be seen. 
 
 " Isn't it true, old father, that you cannot sign? 
 Say it again. The notary must go now. Sick 
 persons like him, Monsieur Biolaz, should not be 
 annoyed." 
 
 During this time, the notary raised cautiously, 
 and without their noticing, the covering upon 
 which he had stepped. He had felt, through the 
 wool, something resisting and soft at the same 
 time; he had followed the contour with the tip 
 of his boot, and without for a single instant low- 
 ering his eyes. 
 
 Had not the witnesses and Anthelme been so 
 intently occupied in shielding old Chogne, they 
 would have noticed Monsieur Biolaz turn pale. 
 The notary turned his head toward the window, 
 which was quite clear. The daylight without, 
 clear and made brighter by the snow, was coming 
 into the room. He moved back. 
 
 "Gentlemen, I will add the legal formula; I 
 will write that the testator is unable to sign. 
 Come, let us finish." 
 
 At once they resumed their places, all confront- 
 ing him on the other side of the table. He wrote 
 the phrase with his right hand; with his left, he
 
 182 THE WILL OF 
 
 searched in the travelling-bag, taking the little 
 box out of its case, which he placed standing on 
 the top of the table. 
 
 "What are you going to do with that?" cried 
 Anthelme. "I do not permit! . . . Prevent him!" 
 
 "It is I who will not permit you to hinder the 
 witnesses from signing! Help, witnesses." 
 
 The witnesses put the struggling Anthelme 
 aside; Monsieur Biolaz, turning the box toward 
 the bed, pressed a noiseless spring, then hid the 
 object in the pocket of his goatskin coat. 
 
 At this instant the elder of the Chognes bounded 
 to the bed, bent down, pulled to the floor the 
 covering which had been raised, and still crouch- 
 ing, his fists clinched, sought with a glance for 
 the companion who would help him commit a 
 crime. They could easily have thrown them- 
 selves on Monsieur Biolaz, searched him, bound 
 him if he had resisted; but the notary seemed so 
 self-possessed, so entirely occupied in arranging 
 the signatures, that the eyes to which Anthelme 
 appealed replied with an expressive look: "It is 
 useless; he has seen nothing; do not compromise 
 everything!" 
 
 "Imbeciles !" exclaimed Anthelme aloud, straight- 
 ening himself up and taking his place as sentry 
 at the foot of the bed. 
 
 Monsieur Biolaz said simply: "Anthelme, the 
 first witness will take me home. Have another 
 horse harnessed to the sleigh." 
 
 No one would have guessed, when the notary 
 stretched himself, for the second time, in the 
 wooden cage which was to carry him back to
 
 OLDCHOGNE 183 
 
 Hauteville, that, in the same hour, he had dis- 
 covered one crime and committed another. 
 
 The interment of old Chogne took place the 
 second day after. On the fifth day, early in the 
 morning, the two sons presented themselves at 
 the office of Biolaz. The notary was expecting 
 their visit. He seated them before his desk and 
 remained standing on the other side. He had 
 his usual naive air and drawling tone, but his 
 lips twitched more nervously than usual. 
 
 "Well, what do you want of me?" he asked. 
 
 He knew very well. 
 
 "We want to know whether you have had the 
 will recorded," replied the elder. 
 
 "For my sister Melanie agrees to all that father 
 wished," added the younger; "she will not con- 
 test the will." 
 
 Monsieur Biolaz collected himself, dropped his 
 eyelids very low, turned his eyes toward An- 
 thelme's wolfish face, then toward Francis with his 
 polecat nose, and, pausing between the words, said : 
 
 "The will has not been recorded, nor will it 
 be; it is null!" 
 
 "Null!" cried Anthelme, pushing his chair back 
 with violence. "It is not null. I saw it and I 
 know what I am talking about!" 
 
 "You would have to prove its nullity!" added 
 Francis. 
 
 The two brothers were standing leaning with 
 their hands on the edge of the desk. 
 
 "Here is the document," said the notary, ta- 
 king a sheet of paper, which they recognised. " It
 
 184 THE WILL OF 
 
 is thrice null. In the first place, you see this: 
 'who requested Monsieur Biolaz to draw up his 
 will.'" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "There should have been put in also 'and dic- 
 tated it.' The mention that the will was dictated 
 is necessary. I omitted it." 
 
 "Purposely?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Scoundrel!" 
 
 "Wait, Anthelme, before calling names; we will 
 see which of us three deserves it." 
 
 "What next, Monsieur Biolaz?" Francis asked. 
 
 " I neglected, in addition, to indicate that I read 
 the will to the testator and witnesses; and lastly, 
 and third nullity, I wrote, it is true, that the tes- 
 tator was too feeble to sign, but I did not state 
 that he told me so himself." 
 
 The little sheet fell to the desk noiselessly as 
 snow falls. The three men were seized by the 
 same emotion, and their three angers met in the 
 narrow space which separated their faces, arms, 
 and chests. 
 
 "Own up, Biolaz," cried Anthelme, "in public 
 documents, that is called forgery!" 
 
 "I know it." 
 
 "An act like that leads a man to the galleys!" 
 exclaimed Francis. 
 
 "Certainly," answered Monsieur Biolaz, "such 
 an act leads a public officer to the galleys, if he 
 has not, in order to justify it, this little document 
 here." He held out a small square brown paper. 
 The two Chognes recoiled.
 
 OLDCHOGNE 185 
 
 "Oh, you can take it; I have twenty similar 
 proofs, and the plate is in a safe place." 
 
 It was the younger who took the print and car- 
 ried it to the window. The proof was plain; the 
 bed-curtains, the sheets, and the pillows were 
 rounded up in hazy folds around a very typical 
 but undecided profile, one without age. But in 
 the foreground, at the spot where the window 
 poured in the light more abundantly, beneath the 
 bed, could be seen, could be distinguished, two 
 white surfaces, spreading, joined, which ended by 
 indentations. 
 
 " I have examined the plate with a magnifying- 
 glass," said Monsieur Biolaz, "and there is no 
 doubt that those are human feet, the feet of the 
 dead, you understand, you two Chognes? The 
 feet of your dead father,, whom you had thrown 
 under the bed!" 
 
 Anthelme and Francis did not turn round; they 
 looked at each other, and in this look there was 
 the command to Anthelme to keep silent, and the 
 confession of a moment of confusion. Francis 
 turned the print over, examined it, at close range 
 and far off, to gain time. Finally he spoke : 
 
 "No one could swear that they were the feet 
 of a dead person, Monsieur Biolaz. Neither 
 would it be possible for any one to recognise the 
 face in the bed; it is too small. No, there is no 
 danger for us. But the world is so envious; these 
 things would make a noise; people would talk 
 about it. So then, my brother and I, we will let 
 the will drop." 
 
 The notary made no reply; he pointed to the
 
 186 OLDCHOGNE 
 
 door. They went out, but at the moment of 
 parting, before going down the steps of the porch, 
 Anthelme turned around and said, as if he were 
 confiding a secret: 
 
 "You are sharp in your trade, Monsieur Biolaz, 
 for all that; I do not say but that we may call 
 upon you again just the same." 
 
 "Can't you hold your tongue?" cried Francis 
 leading him away. 
 
 Monsieur Biolaz pushed the door and heard 
 with satisfaction the click of the latch, which 
 ended the visit.
 
 THE LITTLE SISTERS OF THE POOR.
 
 THE LITTLE SISTERS OF THE POOR. 
 
 I. 
 
 PERE HONORE LE BOLLOCHE, having no more 
 work at all, came out of the shed where he worked, 
 took a few steps outside and seated himself on 
 the chair which he had just reseated; for he was 
 by trade a chair-mender. First he stretched out 
 his wooden leg, then the other, looked in his 
 pouch for some tobacco, and, not finding any, felt 
 that he was poor. 
 
 Poor, Le Bolloche had always been, but he had 
 not always realised it, which constitutes, in the 
 main, the true way of not being so. In the army, 
 for instance, when he was sergeant of zouaves, 
 what had he lacked? The handsomest man in the 
 regiment, a long, bronzed face, with straight nose 
 slightly flattened and widened at the base, an im- 
 perial which would have made more than one cap- 
 tain envious at that Napoleonic era when there 
 were such decorative captains, shoulders thrown 
 back, neck tanned and furrowed with white 
 grooves, chest swelled out, he enjoyed the esteem 
 of his comrades in arms and pay ample for his 
 wants. His record bore to his debit only a few 
 
 189
 
 190 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 insignificant punishments for a few strong military 
 outbreaks on glorious anniversaries : a hen snatched 
 from the Bedouins; two or three too hasty retorts 
 to his superiors, younger than he mere trifles! 
 The credit side was magnificent: five campaigns, 
 all the chevrons possible, honourable mention in 
 the order of the day, a military medal, a bugle 
 for marksmanship, the small coin of a general in 
 chief. Several times he had marched in triumph 
 through towns, under arches of laurel, walking over 
 flowers and applauded by women, on the return 
 from Italy or from the Crimea. On those occa- 
 sions he was put forward on account of his im- 
 posing bearing and certain wounds, which he had 
 the wit to receive at favourable moments and in 
 good places : a sabre cut on his temple at Solf erino 
 and a ball in the calf of his leg at MalakofF. Le 
 Bolloche loved glory. Young soldiers, while ad- 
 miring him, also credited him with a crabbed dis- 
 position, but his superior officers, better informed 
 doubtless, declared that it was only his keen sense 
 of honour. Heaven had given him a constitu- 
 tion proof against anything. Le Bolloche was 
 happy. 
 
 Later even, struck by the age limit, according 
 to his expression, he met after leaving the regi- 
 ment with many pleasant experiences in this civil 
 life which before he had daily abused. Accustomed 
 to be commanded and to be surrounded by com- 
 rades, his liberty weighed upon him no less than 
 his solitude. Still hale and hearty, and with agree- 
 able manners besides, he had no difficulty in find- 
 ing a wife. His wife was not very young, but
 
 OFTHEPOOR 191 
 
 he was beginning to grow old. She brought him, 
 however, what passes for youth in the eyes of 
 many people : a dot a small house built on a low 
 piece of ground beyond the octroi, a few square 
 yards of meadow-land, or, to speak more clearly, 
 two strips of grass on a slope, crossed in winter 
 by a small stream of water, of which there re- 
 mained in summer a round marsh large as a 
 thrashing-floor. 
 
 The vicinity of the rushes growing there, the 
 ignorance of any trade, and a certain deftness of 
 hand were the reasons which led the old soldier 
 to take up the trade of new-bottoming chairs. 
 His prices were not excessive. Business came to 
 him in plenty from the faubourg, where children 
 took it upon themselves to give him work. He 
 kept his health and for several years Le Bolloche 
 had no reason to complain. 
 
 On the contrary, a joy, the greatest that he had 
 ever known, came to him, and one of those which 
 lasts : a child. He had wished more than anything 
 for a daughter. The one his wife gave to him 
 was rosy, fair, and gay. Le Bolloche recognised 
 himself in her at once. It was an instant adora- 
 tion. Although far from being a devout man, 
 he wished to carry the child to church himself, 
 and when the priest asked the name with which 
 she was to be baptised "Name her Desiree," he 
 answered, "for I have never desired anything as 
 much as I desired her." He took care of her and 
 had more to do with raising her than the mother. 
 When a mere baby, before she could walk even, 
 she crept about in the shed while he worked.
 
 192 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 She laughed and he was happy. If she cried he 
 had wonderful ways of consoling her: he rocked 
 her, sang to her like a nurse songs which have 
 only three notes, like those that one hears in the 
 trees at nesting time. 
 
 She had barely sense enough to keep still and 
 strength enough to bend a rush before he taught 
 her to braid cages, baskets, and boats, which they 
 went to launch together on the pond. Later the 
 amusement became an art. She soon knew all 
 that her father knew and more besides. He was 
 not jealous of this; he trusted to her the fine 
 work, which demanded a deft hand, taste and 
 invention. And whenever a bourgeois chair, that 
 is, one not coarsely woven of rushes, but of fine 
 rye straw, braided in one or two colours, was 
 sent to the shop with a seat to be replaced or 
 merely a break to be mended, Le Bolloche trusted 
 it to De'siree. Raised tenderly in this way among 
 three persons, who spoiled her to her heart's con- 
 tent, for Le Bolloche had brought his very old, 
 blind mother home, it was scarcely possible that 
 the child should not be amiable. In fact, a more 
 comely girl could not be found in the whole fau- 
 bourg or in the neighbouring country. She might 
 have passed for a woman at fifteen. She was tall, 
 well formed, rosy-cheeked, and slightly freckled. 
 It was not that her eyes were longer or larger than 
 another's, but that she looked so frankly at you 
 that you divined in her a perfectly sincere nature. 
 
 She laughed readily, and her laugh lingered, like 
 a fresh thing, in your memory. She did not wear 
 a cap, partly from economy, still more to show her
 
 OFTHEPOOR 193 
 
 hair, rolled back from her forehead in two gold 
 waves, which she twisted up roughly in the back. 
 Her taste led her to wear light colours, and she 
 often pinned a sprig of red fuchsia on her calico 
 waist. 
 
 Provided he could see her or only hear her near 
 him, Le Bolloche found nothing to find fault with 
 hi life. As D6sire"e did not stop twisting straw 
 when talking, they chattered while they worked; 
 as she was already at the age which dreams, they 
 talked almost always of the future. 
 
 It was at this time precisely that the ordeal 
 began for Pere Le Bolloche. First, the wound of 
 his leg, which had never entirely healed, became in- 
 flamed. There was no use swearing; gangrene set 
 in, and after weeks of suffering the leg had to be 
 amputated. The whole reserve fund of the house- 
 hold was spent in surgeon's fees, in little vials 
 which were lined up on the mantel, empty, with 
 their red labels. The sick man did not grow 
 more patient lying in bed and seeing his money 
 melt away. There was an entire season of con- 
 valescence, and when he resumed his place in the 
 shed he very soon realised that he had lost much 
 more of his body than he had thought. Alas! 
 sickness had consumed the suppleness and the en- 
 ergy, the valour of the muscles which in short is 
 the good humour of our limbs. 
 
 Desire'e was there, certainly, each day more 
 capable of earning the bread for the household. 
 Thanks to the activity of his daughter and to a 
 slight advance in price, Le Bolloche hoped that 
 the three women, the donkey, hens, and cat, which
 
 194 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 made up the personnel confided to his care, would 
 not feel too severely the results of this accident, 
 which from a mere wounded man had made of 
 him an invalid. He might earn less, perhaps, 
 but his daughter would earn a little more, and the 
 result would be the same. He was deceived. A 
 second obstacle and an invincible one arose. Nei- 
 ther father nor daughter refused work; it was the 
 work which began to fail. From one season to 
 another the diminution of the orders became more 
 sensible. At first there were hours without work, 
 then entire days. In vain Le Bolloche, with his 
 donkey and cart, continued to scour the subur- 
 ban quarters and call up to the windows, where 
 fan-shaped ivy geraniums and pyramids of pinks 
 bloomed, his traditional cry: "Chairs to mend; 
 chairs to mend!" Less and less frequently did 
 his cry find an echo. What was the reason? 
 Progress, the invasion of luxury which, from place 
 to place, from chateau to bourgeois house, and 
 even to farmhouse, supplants old tradition and 
 introduces, in the place of massive framed chairs 
 with rush-covered seats, the light and cheap fur- 
 niture made in the factories of Paris or Vienna. 
 The triumph of rattan, of upholstered chairs, of 
 woven reed, of white willow rockers by which 
 chair-menders were slowly evicted. A trade was 
 dying! How many others have disappeared in 
 the same way! How many humble workmen, 
 with a desperate astonishment, have felt the tool 
 slipping from their hands and the trade learned 
 in childhood's days, the trade which had honour- 
 ably supported their father and had sufficed for
 
 OFTHEPOOR 195 
 
 them for the half of their life, become thus progres- 
 sively hazardous and unproductive ! Is there any- 
 thing so cruel? Some, without doubt, can seek 
 another trade. But the old, for whom the time 
 of apprenticeship is passed, nailed to these ruined 
 trades, have now only to disappear with them! 
 Such was the case with Pere Le Bolloche. The 
 worthy man realised it fully. He let things go 
 with that reservation of hope which we have as 
 long as things still go. Grass began to invade the 
 workshop under the bundles of yellow rye which 
 were rotting under foot. The rushes and reeds 
 in the marsh, formerly cut to the ground, now 
 grew large, swelled and mounted in tufts. And as 
 the majority of our sorrows here below have a 
 reverse side of joy for some one, the song-birds 
 of the quarter did not complain, never having, 
 no, nor those before them, found so much down 
 on the edge of the pond for their young. He 
 waited until the end, until the last cent of their 
 savings was spent. And behold, that hour had 
 arrived! The grandmother, who kept the ac- 
 counts in her memory, of course, and guarded 
 the purse, had warned her son that very morn- 
 ing. A resolution must be taken, an expedient 
 found, for the next day's bread was no longer 
 assured. That was what Le Bolloche, his long 
 face lengthened still more by sadness, was think- 
 ing of this spring day, seated at a little distance 
 from the shed. 
 
 To delude his passion for smoking he drew 
 two or three puffs of air through the empty bowl 
 of his pipe, and the first idea which came to him
 
 196 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 was that he might do without tobacco; he felt 
 that he was capable of this sacrifice. But it did 
 not take him long to perceive that this was not 
 a solution. Then what was to be done? Place 
 Desiree out at service? He would never consent 
 to that; rather, he would beg his bread. Say to 
 the old mother: "We are not able to keep you 
 longer. Seek a home; ask for public charity . . ."? 
 Away with the thought ! Could a child even think 
 of it? Sell the house? It would be necessary 
 to rent another, and rents had doubled, tripled, 
 since Le Bolloche had lived in his meadow cor- 
 ner. Where would be the advantage? Plainly, 
 there was but one solution, that of which his wife 
 and he had already spoken. They would both go 
 away; they would leave the house to the grand- 
 mother, who was too old, and to Desire"e, who 
 was too young and too much loved, to bear such 
 a grief. 
 
 Go away! When he had reached this conclu- 
 sion, Le Bolloche leaned his elbow on his good leg 
 and looked slowly around him, with that glance 
 freighted with farewells which always discovers 
 some new beauty in the most familiar things. 
 The meadow, where the grass was springing up, 
 where the buttercups, escaped from the donkey, 
 were beginning to open, appeared to promise him 
 an abundant hay harvest. The hedges, which on 
 three sides ran around it, no longer had a puny 
 and withered air and those lamentable holes 
 which they once showed. Well supplied with full- 
 fledged thorns, supported with iron wire in the 
 weak places, they defended the house better than
 
 OFTHEPOOR 197 
 
 a wall. And the wall, which went along the road, 
 although a little moss-grown, was still solid and 
 upright. Le Bolloche had often dreamed of build- 
 ing a house there for his son-in-law, a house like 
 the other which was on the half slope. Ah! if 
 trade had not betrayed him! What a pretty 
 view they would have had, from the windows, of 
 the street which, lighted with gas, leads up to 
 the octroi, so gay on a Sunday, so coquettish with 
 its wine-shops, painted in bright colours, its 
 games of bowls, its yoke-elms, and its great gar- 
 dens all pink with peach-trees in bloom! 
 
 At this moment Desiree appeared at the top 
 of the meadow, returning from the town. The 
 wind had tossed her hair about; she was walking, 
 one hand hanging down, the other passed through 
 the broken seat of a chair, which, hung from her 
 arm, surrounded her with an uneven disk of yel- 
 low rays. The young girl had walked two miles 
 to find this work. She came back uncomplain- 
 ing, happy even, in the light of the setting sun 
 which trailed over the meadow. When Le Bol- 
 loche saw her he understood better still that 
 separation from her would be the hardest thing 
 of all, that in comparison with that the others 
 were nothing. 
 
 "Well!" she said with her good-humoured tone, 
 "you were asking for work; here is some! A 
 chair such as you like to new-bottom in coarse 
 rush." 
 
 " No, little one," the good man answered sadly. 
 "I have just finished my last chair and I am sit- 
 ting on it."
 
 198 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 She drew near without comprehending what 
 he was saying, astonished simply that he should 
 be so gloomy. He was joyous usually when she 
 was joyous. What was the matter with him? 
 
 "Call your mother," Le Bolloche added; "I 
 have something to say to her." 
 
 She went into the house, and her mother, so 
 tiny under her enormous cap, came out. Le Bol- 
 loche led his wife to the edge of the stream which 
 ran along the path. He told her his plan, not 
 roughly at all as he was wont to do when he told 
 her the least thing, but almost softly, much troub- 
 led himself and out of his usual temper. Desiree 
 watched them from the distance. She saw them 
 side by side, he stooping down a little, her figure, 
 on the contrary, stiffened and her head uplifted. 
 They were conversing in tones low in spite of the 
 calm of the evening, and nothing but the alter- 
 nate buzzing of their voices and the regular grind- 
 ing of the leather sheath in which his amputated 
 leg was encased was heard. 
 
 When they went into the house, Le Bolloche 
 seated himself in front of the grandmother, sunk 
 down in her armchair provided with pillows, on 
 the right of the chimney-place, and he lifted his 
 hand to his forehead, to salute her with the fa- 
 miliar movement of the old soldier. 
 
 "Mother," he said, "the work does not prosper 
 any more." 
 
 "That is true, my son!" 
 
 "I still eat much for my age," continued Le 
 Bolloche, "more than I earn. This state of things 
 cannot last. I must go away with Victorine."
 
 OFTHEPOOR 199 
 
 The old woman of ninety, heavy as she was, 
 began to tremble. With an instinctive move- 
 ment she tried to open her dead eyes, which now 
 made only a slender slit in the wrinkled recess of 
 the orbit. 
 
 "Go away!" she exclaimed, "and where would 
 you go, Honore"?" 
 
 Le Bolloche turned half-way around, as if the 
 grandmother were really looking at him and he 
 could not endure her glance. He answered with 
 some confusion: 
 
 "To the Little Sisters of the Poor; Victorine 
 claims that one is well taken care of there." 
 
 The old woman pulled herself up by the arm 
 of her chair. 
 
 "I am the one who will go!" she said with that 
 same harsh tone which she had transmitted to 
 her son. 
 
 "No, mother, no! You are too used to this 
 place. We are younger, we two, sorrow will not 
 kill us!" 
 
 "But, my child, nothing belongs to me here. 
 I am in " 
 
 "Your own house," said Le Bolloche quickly. 
 And this man, who was himself old and infirm, 
 had the inspiration of a child to convince his 
 mother. He encircled her with his arms and 
 whispered in her ear with a playfulness half 
 feigned, half real: 
 
 "Mamma, when I was with the regiment and 
 when I went through the hundred battles, I spent 
 more than my pay, didn't I?" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 200 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 "Hundreds of sous, ten francs a week. Who 
 paid for it?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "Have I paid you the money back?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then you see clearly that you are in your own 
 house, since I owe you that!" 
 
 She remained a moment without saying any- 
 thing, then answered: 
 
 "Yes, I am willing, only you must take with you 
 some clothes and some furniture so as not to ar- 
 rive there like a beggar." 
 
 "Provided that you have enough left," said 
 Le Bolloche; "I do not ask for anything better." 
 
 The grandmother did not say anything more. 
 It was ended. Among the poor, effusive thanks 
 are unknown. There were none in this case. The 
 grandmother, who held her hands clasped across 
 her bosom, raised them twice only to show how 
 deeply she was touched. That was all. 
 
 They seated themselves for supper around a 
 salad, which the meadow had furnished them. 
 Saddened by the thought of a change, so great 
 and so near, they did not speak. What was the 
 use? The same regret weighed on them all. 
 They had struggled to the end. Poverty was 
 the strongest. What was the use? 
 
 However, Le Bolloche noticed that the grand- 
 mother ate nothing. She moved her lips, as if 
 she dared not ask a question which troubled her. 
 Several times, the words stopped thus upon her 
 lips. At last, she made an effort to control her- 
 self, and with a voice full of anguish, asked :
 
 OFTHEPOOR 201 
 
 "Honore, are you going to leave me De*siree?" 
 
 Two deep sighs answered her, yes. 
 
 Then one could have seen the countenance of 
 the aged woman, unexpressive and relaxed like 
 all faces to whom impressions no longer arrive 
 through the eyes, light up with a sudden light. 
 Joy broke the darkness of this blind face. It 
 seemed as if the soul drew near and smiled through 
 it. At the same time, the old couple looked at 
 De"sire"e with the same dejected look. The place 
 which the young girl held in their hearts was 
 shown thus, without speech, more eloquently than 
 by words. For a child can be shared. One is 
 enough for several old people. And when these 
 poor people had come to live under the same roof, 
 mother, son and daughter-in-law, it was not only 
 their small patrimony, which they had put in 
 common, nor the courage which goes from one 
 to the other of those who work together, nor the 
 mutual aid which their poverty lends, it was 
 more, it was most of all the youth of Desire"e. 
 
 The supper over, Le Bolloche shook himself a 
 little to chase away this sadness unworthy of a 
 man. While his wife helped the grandmother to 
 bed, he drew Desiree outside and, in the warmth 
 of the night already come, began walking with 
 her from the shed, which ended the house on the 
 right, to the hutch in the latticework nailed to 
 the wall on the left. 
 
 Perceiving that her eyes were red, he said: 
 
 "Come, come, Desiree, that will pass! Cour- 
 age! Look at me. I do not cry, and yet I am 
 sorry to leave you, believe me, especially to 
 leave you unmarried!"
 
 202 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "Because it was my wish to see you established. 
 We would have chosen your husband together, 
 an old soldier like myself. While down there, 
 you understand 
 
 He did not finish his thought, and, crossing his 
 arms, he stood still, fixing his eyes in the eyes of 
 his daughter: 
 
 "At least, tell me, before I go, a thing which 
 I would like to know." 
 
 In her turn, she looked at him with her frank 
 glance in which there shone the brightness of the 
 stars. 
 
 "Have you a sweetheart?" 
 
 The question struck De*siree as droll; she re- 
 plied, laughing in spite of her sadness : 
 
 "Why, no, father, I have no one." 
 
 "It is true, you hardly ever go anywhere, and 
 they never see you. If those who are of the age 
 to seek a wife had seen you! Well, Desiree, if 
 you are of my blood, as I believe, you will never 
 marry any one but a retired soldier." 
 
 "A retired soldier?" 
 
 "Oh! he may be retired without being old! 
 Provided that he has carried arms and made a 
 campaign, that will be enough for me, I shall be 
 satisfied. Every soldier is not decorated as I 
 
 am." 
 
 "Surely." 
 
 "About the regiment, I leave you the choice. 
 A zouave, naturally, would suit me best, but you 
 can also marry a cavalryman. There are some 
 fine little dragoons."
 
 OFTHEPOOR 203 
 
 "Well, then," replied the young girl, "a zouave 
 or a dragoon." 
 
 "Even a rifleman, that is a choice corps," re- 
 sumed Le Bolloche, "but not an infantryman, 
 you understand? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Above all not a civilian! What would I find 
 to talk about with him, when I saw him? Re- 
 member that, Desiree, if you bring me a 'Blue/ 
 a man who has never seen service, I refuse!" 
 
 He became quite pompous in saying that, one 
 arm extended toward the town. This old non- 
 commissioned officer had never been able to get 
 rid of a certain leaning to melodrama. The pom- 
 pousness of his speech meant nothing, however; 
 De'sire'e knew that. She was about to answer 
 "no," doubtless to please him, but Le Bolloche, 
 letting his eyes follow the direction of his uplifted 
 arm, saw the slate roofs, one above the other 
 shining under the moonlight like silver shells; the 
 rising line of street lamps which, in the blue im- 
 mensity of the night, look like miserable yellow 
 points the whole quarter, which he had so often 
 traversed for so many years. How many tran- 
 quil people he knew, behind those lighted windows, 
 certain of sleeping to-morrow in the same room, 
 where they were still awake this evening! The 
 thought hurt him; he turned abruptlv away say- 
 ing: 
 
 "Let us go in, Desiree, the dew is falling."
 
 204 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 II. 
 
 The next day, on the road leading to the Little 
 Sisters of the Poor, to Jeanne Jugan, as they 
 called it in the faubourg, a donkey dragged the 
 strangest load which had ever weighed upon his 
 pack-saddle of poverty. In the first place, upon 
 the seat of the low cart, Le Bolloche in a brown 
 frock coat, his zouave cap on his head, and by 
 his side his wife in her best dress of checked fus- 
 tian, her eyes wet with tears behind her horn 
 spectacles; then, exactly upon the line of the axle, 
 a pyramid, made up of a box in which their every- 
 day clothes were placed; a second box, pierced 
 with holes, which contained a family of rabbits, 
 accustomed to the dim light; and crowning all a 
 basket, from which emerged, in white and black 
 tufts, the feathers of a couple of Barbary fowls, 
 who were kept in the basket by rods; lastly, three 
 pots of sweet basil, one large one flanked by two 
 smaller ones of luxuriant, rounded, superb growth, 
 lashed by a cord to the floor of the vehicle, ended 
 the load in the back. There was besides, between 
 the two good people, a small, thin grey cat, the 
 companion of the chair-mender, who occasionally 
 rubbed her head like a viper along her master's 
 leg. 
 
 They were on their way, people, animals, fur- 
 niture, to the dwelling where so many similar 
 wrecks had preceded them. It took three-quar- 
 ters of an hour to reach there on foot and more 
 than an hour at the donkey's gait. But what
 
 OF THE POOR 205 
 
 mattered that to Le Bolloche? He was in no 
 hurry to get to the end of that journey. He did 
 not cry, as formerly, through the streets: "Chairs 
 to mend; chairs to mend!" He was no longer 
 anything in the world, not even a weaver of rushes, 
 and he felt it cruelly. When he raised his eyes 
 to the houses of his former clients, on one side or 
 the other, his heartrending smile answered the 
 astonishment which his turnout provoked. Small 
 boys standing barefoot on thresholds laughed; tall 
 girls appeared at the windows and with a shrug 
 of the shoulders, still holding in their arms the 
 straw mattresses which they were beating, leaned 
 out to catch a glimpse at what was passing below. 
 This move excited their mirth. They did not 
 suspect the sorrow of these two travellers. Still 
 the woman, more gentle by nature, had become 
 a little resigned, but the man felt a violent grief 
 in which much wounded pride was mingled. The 
 idea of shutting himself up, a man who had com- 
 manded a section, under the authority of a woman, 
 especially of a nun, irritated him to the highest 
 degree. He had a spite in advance against the one 
 who was going to receive him. And as he neared 
 the end of his journey his face became more stern, 
 his eyebrows knit together, he had his grand air 
 of the days of a review. Le Bolloche meant to 
 impose it on them from the first. They should 
 not take him for a drone at the end of his resources, 
 tired of roaming about and begging shelter; cer- 
 tainly not, nor for a man without character, who 
 can be ordered about like a child. The first nun 
 to see him would not make a mistake!
 
 206 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 Finally the road began to ascend. A white 
 mill rose on the right, and the mill adjoined the 
 hospital ; with a strip of meadow separating them, 
 they occupied the entire top of the hill. The travel- 
 lers stopped for a moment. In front, at the end 
 of the road, two very high buildings projected at 
 an open angle, hiding the rest of the house, which 
 revealed thus only its two outstretched arms. 
 An encircling wall turned and followed the slope 
 on the other side. Above it tops of trees, with 
 new leaves, rose here and there. All the win- 
 dows were open. Le Bolloche urged the donkey 
 to the foot of a flight of steps and waited. 
 
 A hospital is like a beehive: one never waits 
 long without seeing a bee come out. A sister's 
 cap appeared and beneath it a very tiny, very 
 young, and very dark sister. 
 
 "What do you want?" she asked. 
 
 "To see the one in command here." replied Le 
 Bolloche austerely. 
 
 "Is it to sell anything to her? The good 
 mother is very busy, you see; and if it is for 
 that- 
 
 "Have I the air of a travelling merchant?" 
 replied Le Bolloche. "You do not understand 
 at all, Mademoiselle." He insisted on the word, 
 knowing very well that he emancipated himself 
 from a respectful tradition. "I wish to speak 
 with her, to make a business proposition to her. 
 and a good one, too." 
 
 The sister glanced at the travellers, the box, 
 the three pots of sweet basil. 
 
 "I understand," she said, "my worthy man;
 
 OFTHEPOOR 207 
 
 I will go in and fetch her." And she turned 
 away so swiftly that he could not tell whether she 
 had disappeared behind the pillar of the right or 
 that to the left. 
 
 "Worthy man, indeed!" he grumbled; "there's 
 a silly jade for you, to call me 'worthy man'!" 
 
 He slipped down the length of the step and 
 stood erect, the reins of cord wrapped around his 
 arm, the saucy zouave cap perched on the back 
 of his head, a little to one side. 
 
 A shadow flitted by the arched window of the 
 cloister and a second sister appeared on the 
 threshold of the door; she was of average height, 
 but so frail that she appeared small. Her hands, 
 which she held clasped on her black gown, were 
 white and transparent. It would have been dif- 
 ficult to have told her age. All the features of 
 her delicate face were made still thinner by fa- 
 tigue and the consuming struggle of an ardent 
 soul. There was not, however, a wrinkle to be seen. 
 There was something infantine in her glance, and 
 at the same time she had the compassionate smile 
 of a person who has lived. Her cap concealed the 
 colour of her hair. She was the "good mother," 
 a great lady, who governed two hundred poor peo- 
 ple and sixty nuns with a move of her fingers. 
 
 She looked at the equipage standing in front 
 of her for a moment. The corners of her thin lips 
 curled up involuntarily, by a surprise of her na- 
 ture, which was gay and sprightly in the world. 
 But her will immediately repressed this unruly 
 movement, and she said with her voice, which 
 had neither tone nor song, but was very soft 
 nevertheless :
 
 208 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 "You have come to enter with us?" 
 
 Le Bolloche, somewhat disconcerted, answered : 
 "Yes, Madame, if you have room." 
 
 "We will make room, my friend, and we will 
 serve you to the best of our ability." 
 
 "Moreover, I do not ask for charity; I bring 
 my household things." 
 
 "And even your cat!" 
 
 "All that is yours," he continued, including in 
 a sweeping motion the donkey, wagon, and load. 
 "I place only two conditions." 
 
 "What are they?" 
 
 "Just now, one of your inferiors ' 
 
 "You mean to say one of our sisters?" 
 
 "Yes; I am an old soldier, you see; all that is 
 not superior is inferior. Well, then, your sister 
 called me 'worthy man.' I do not like that." 
 
 "You must pardon us if we do it again," said 
 the sister, upon whose face the same light smile 
 reappeared; "it is a sort of habit with us." 
 
 "And then I would like to know whether one 
 has the liberty of his belief here? I prefer to tell 
 you at once, I do not believe much, I am not de- 
 vout. I am not a hypocrite. And if one has 
 not the liberty of his opinions here, I do not stay!" 
 
 Le Bolloche said this with his grandest air. 
 He saw with astonishment that the sister smiled 
 openly, with a smile so beaming, so deep, so fresh 
 that he lost countenance. 
 
 "Well!" he exclaimed, "since it is my opin- 
 ion- 
 
 "Fear nothing," she replied; "we have several 
 v/orthy men here who think as you do." 
 
 Then she came down the steps and gave her
 
 OF THE POOR 209 
 
 hand to help Mere Le Bolloche, who was quite 
 frightened by the boldness of her husband, get 
 down from the wagon. 
 
 He had already begun to unharness the donkey. 
 
 "Lead him to the stable/' said the sister, "yon- 
 der; yes, that is it turn to the left straight 
 ahead before you now." 
 
 On all sides of Le Bolloche numerous service 
 buildings, stable, pig-pen, hen-house, cow-shed, 
 were extended, and upon the slope of the hill on 
 the side opposite the entrance lay a large field of 
 rye, with borders of dwarf apple-trees. 
 
 A whole population of slow, bent, broken, stum- 
 bling old men were walking about in the paths. 
 There were as many crutches as sound legs. The 
 sullen wind which, above, was chasing the grey- 
 ish-brown clouds would have been able, without 
 difficulty, to topple these poor human ruins to 
 the ground. Looking at them, Le Bolloche began 
 pitying his own fate. He unharnessed the don- 
 key and fastened it to a manger which he filled 
 with hay. 
 
 "You, at least," said he, "will not suffer." 
 
 Afterward he set himself to the task of unload- 
 ing the wagon, and, beginning with the basket, 
 he lifted up the rods which held captive the cock 
 and hen. As soon as he was out the cock flapped 
 his wings and began crowing. The hen scratched 
 her beak among the tufts of grass in the court and 
 pecked without the least perturbation. Old Le 
 Bolloche, who was inclined at this moment to 
 make sad comparisons, shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Animals," he murmured, "do not see any dif-
 
 210 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 ference; here or there, it is all the same to them!" 
 And with the back of his sleeve he wiped away a 
 tear which no one, happily, had seen falling. 
 
 III. 
 
 These pensioners of Jeanne Jugan were indeed 
 ruins, ruins of all kinds and all origins. Some 
 had been poor all their life, others had fallen 
 from a small competency or even from a fortune. 
 The causes which had brought them there, in this 
 refuge where charity blinded its eyes to receive 
 them, varied little; it was misfortune for some, 
 misconduct for many. Certain ones had worn 
 out twenty professions, run all over Europe and 
 America, taken photographs for Paris shopkeep- 
 ers, gathered snails for restaurants, picked moss 
 for florists in the woods of Viroflay, and lassoed 
 wild animals on the prairies of La Plata; they 
 had tried their hand at everything, had taken 
 root nowhere, and, driven by hunger, had gone 
 to the Little Sisters with the secret hope of leav- 
 ing there again. 
 
 They all lived a common life, but not in the same 
 way. Discoveries of like tastes and origin, sim- 
 ilarities of trade or even of suffering, grouped them 
 into little companies for walk or work. For they 
 worked at the hospital; oh! as a play, children's 
 work, which, deserted at their whim, did not last 
 long and brought in nothing. A few weavers 
 plied the loom for an hour or two in a low room; 
 half a dozen tailors sewed the rents in coats that- 
 had been already mended; the farmers took care
 
 OF THE POOR 211 
 
 of the horse and cows, cut grass, or braided 
 baskets; the hay-making in fine weather brought 
 the strongest together for a fortnight in the small 
 meadow; from one end of the year to the other, 
 those able to hold a spade dug up a bit of ground 
 or cut the weeds in a small garden which was 
 assigned to them as their own and of which they 
 parcelled out the cultivation as they pleased, one 
 into a kitchen garden, another into a tiny orchard, 
 another into a flower-plot. There were also the 
 incorrigible drones or the feeble who did nothing. 
 Charity watched over them and for them, la- 
 boured and smiled; she took no rest that they 
 might enjoy complete repose. She could have 
 been called rich, she found so many ways to be 
 amiable and helpful. Her patience had no limit. 
 She practised the thankless art of being motherly 
 to the old. 
 
 Le Bolloche quickly had his group of followers. 
 They were all the old soldiers, scattered until 
 then and floating about in the population of the 
 hospital. The eloquence of the old non-commis- 
 sioned officer, his imposing bearing, the magic 
 brightness of the corporal's and sergeant's chev- 
 rons which they imagined they saw in rays of 
 gold on his pensioner's sleeve, attracted them. 
 They listened to him willingly. In their midst 
 Le Bolloche had again the illusion of the barracks 
 and of command. A most mixed battalion with- 
 out doubt, where all branches of the service were 
 mingled and of which several officers came from 
 disciplinary companies. But what mattered it? 
 They belonged to the profession. They put their
 
 212 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 campaigns together. Each told his story, often the 
 same one, but never in the same way. They had 
 a way of their own of talking of war. Each had 
 seen but a small corner of the field of battle. 
 Many of them had remained under arms half a 
 day exposed to the rain of bursting shells. Their 
 accounts gave a poor and mutilated idea of mil- 
 itary things. They delighted in them, however, 
 and continually returned to them apropos of some 
 detail which they did not remember to have told. 
 On days of going out those who returned from 
 town with a paper read marvellous news to the 
 others. They grew heated over the prodigious 
 armaments of Russia or Germany, the guns ca- 
 pable of piercing trunks of oak-trees, fifty inches 
 through, the smokeless powder, the submarine 
 boats, the trials of torpedoes. The most ultra- 
 patriotic gave the tone, the old renewed their 
 youth, a ferment of ancient, glorious fevers ran 
 through their veins. Then, what defiances against 
 all hostile peoples, what oaths of love for their 
 France, what predictions of victory! They all 
 saw the victorious army crossing the frontier and 
 falling upon the villages of the Rhine. They 
 imagined themselves a part of it, they pillaged, 
 they killed, they became intoxicated and fell 
 asleep in the little white sheets of the conquered. 
 At such times Le Bolloche was superb. He com- 
 manded them all, with his voice still resonant 
 with the alcohol of the canteen. Steps were ha- 
 stened, canes uplifted, rheumatic arms stretched 
 out in front. Poor old men ! Their French 
 troopers' hearts had not grown old.
 
 OF THE POOR 213 
 
 They talked of these exciting questions usually 
 in the rye-field, where the ears were beginning to 
 appear. When a sister passed on the terrace of 
 the hospital above, she stopped for a moment, 
 astonished at such great animation. She fol- 
 lowed these warriors with a tranquil eye, always 
 counting them, fearful that the count was not 
 exact " There are our little old men, who are 
 talking of war," she thought. The kind of pleas- 
 ure which they took in it was completely foreign 
 to her, but she was not sorry to see them so mar- 
 tial. It gave her the feeling which boys playing 
 noisily with leaden soldiers give to their mothers. 
 Then, satisfied with her inspection, the white cap 
 went away. The little old men had not seen 
 her. 
 
 The rule was not severe. Le Bolloche ac- 
 knowledged even that it did not displease him. 
 He had the illusion of activity and the reality of 
 repose. His comrades gave full satisfaction to 
 his taste for praise. He had a good appetite, suf- 
 fered little from his leg, breathed the air of the 
 hills for eight hours a day, to which the near 
 course of a great river, stretched and ramified to 
 infinity in the green country, like the blue veins 
 of a thistle-leaf, gave life. But for all that he 
 pined visibly away; the hollow wrinkles of his 
 cheeks sunk deeper still. He had periods of 
 dumbness and moroseness, which the sisters did 
 not mistake. Sister Dorothee tried a supple- 
 mentary ration of tobacco, usually a most effica- 
 cious remedy. Le Bolloche accepted it, thanked 
 her, and smoked it; but he was not cheered up.
 
 214 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 "Perhaps he would like to see his wife oftener?" 
 the sister thought, and, in place of twice a week, 
 Le Bolloche was allowed to meet daily, in a cor- 
 ridor of the hospital, his wife, who was quite at 
 home and very gentle and retiring there as else- 
 where. They talked a little; but they had not 
 much to say to each other, never having had the 
 same turn of mind and having no longer the same 
 life. The good man did not return from these 
 visits of favour any more gay. 
 
 By dint of thinking about it, Sister Dorothe"e 
 had an inspiration. 
 
 Observing him standing motionless in the mid- 
 dle of the garden, his foot on his spade, looking 
 fixedly toward the lower part of the town, the 
 veiled horizons where houses, streets, and gardens 
 have no longer a distinct shape and become but 
 shadows in the softened scale of distances, she 
 guessed his thought : 
 
 "It is your daughter that you miss?" she said. 
 
 Le Bolloche, who had not seen the sister, trem- 
 bled at this word. His old face became hard, his 
 eyes kindled with a sombre fire; he did not like 
 to have any one know his affairs, and the dis- 
 covery of a grief, which he was too proud to 
 confide to any one, wounded him as an indiscre- 
 tion. 
 
 daughter" caused him was the strongest. He 
 could not master it, it carried him away entirely, 
 it changed him. His features relaxed and, hum- 
 bly, softly, in a tone through which the confes- 
 sion of his long suffering pierced, he replied :
 
 OFTHEPOOR 215 
 
 "It is true!" 
 
 "Why did you not say so sooner?" continued 
 the sister. "You have not seen her during the 
 five weeks that you have been here?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Would you like me to write to her to come?" 
 
 "Oh! yes!" 
 
 "You love this De'sire'e so much?" 
 
 He had not the strength to reply. His hands 
 trembled on the handle of his shovel, and his 
 eyes, which he turned away, saw doubtless in imag- 
 ination standing in the grass of the meadow the 
 child who came to him. 
 
 That evening when Sister Dorothe"e asked per- 
 mission of the superior to write, she added: 
 
 "This little old man is incredible; you would 
 say that he was the mother!" 
 
 And covering a sheet of paper with an irregular 
 and hurried handwriting, she posted it to the 
 address of Desire'e. 
 
 IV. 
 
 If the young girl had not yet visited her 
 parents, it had not been for want of thinking 
 of it. But her grandmother had fallen quite 
 seriously ill, and she was, like many persons when 
 they are ill, extremely exacting. Solitude inspired 
 her with horror. It had been necessary to nurse 
 her, watch her, and never leave her. She barely 
 gave De'sire'e time to go to the edge of the village 
 for supplies. How would she have permitted a visit 
 to the hospital, which, considering the long dis-
 
 216 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 tance, would have taken a whole morning? D6- 
 sire"e had to wait and the weeks had slipped by. 
 
 Sister DorotheVs letter came when the invalid 
 was in full convalescence, and these two causes 
 combined, the entreaties on one side, the reviving 
 health on the other, decided the grandmother. 
 
 "Go, my child," she said. "Be as quick as 
 possible. You will bring me news of Honore." 
 
 She hardly thought of her daughter-in-law, 
 any more in the present than she had in the 
 past. Honore alone filled her thoughts. 
 
 Desiree started at once. She was happy in the 
 thought of seeing her parents again, happy also 
 to be free and in the beauty of the day. The 
 sky was covered with fleecy grey clouds through 
 which all the rays pierced, one of those skies of 
 the end of May, which accustom the flowers to the 
 intense sun of summer. Starflowers dotted the 
 slopes of the suburbs. The sparrows, perched on 
 the roofs and the old walls on both sides of the 
 road, flew away in flocks, when Desired passed, 
 with a little cry of appeal, so gay and so quick 
 that it seemed to Desire"e that her heart was fly- 
 ing away too. It did not fly very far, however, 
 no more than they. Hers was not a dreamy 
 nature, but rather an active and a courageous 
 one. She thought about the orders that must be 
 delivered during the week, of some washing that 
 she would soon have, of a sowing of convolvulus 
 which she had made along the house and which 
 was beginning to sprout, but most of all of a way 
 to braid rattan and willow now that her child- 
 hood's trade was dying out. She had put on her
 
 OF THE POOR 217 
 
 blue dress, a white collar fastened by a cornelian 
 brooch and a hat for so long a journey com- 
 posed of a single blue ribbon crumpled upon some 
 black tulle. It was the finest thing she had. Any 
 one else would have thought her toilet very poor. 
 But about that she cared little; her only care, for 
 the moment, was that of pleasing those whom she 
 was going to see. She was sure of succeeding 
 there. And thus dressed, thinking of the ever- 
 complicated problem of her life of work, trying 
 to solve it, she walked without haste, along the 
 road, where silly breezes, blowing through the 
 hedges, amused themselves by whirling up pinches 
 of dust. 
 
 Before entering the hospital Desire"e, a little 
 tired, a little red, stopped in front of the mill 
 to get her breath and to knot up her hair, whose 
 too heavy mass, loosened by her walk, fell upon 
 her neck. The road stopped a few paces from 
 there. A knoll on the grass, trampled by the feet 
 of mules, bore the white mill. Its four great 
 wings turned with a powerful movement, with a 
 soft creaking of bending wood, such as comes from 
 the masts of ships, or from the yokes of oxen in 
 ploughing. The wind swept up from the river. 
 Desiree, with her head bare, her figure bent back, 
 her arms upstretched twisting her golden hair, 
 was charming. 
 
 That is precisely what a young miller was think- 
 ing who, without her seeing him, was leaning on 
 his elbows out of the garret window of the mill. 
 
 Millers have, in all ages, been considered phi- 
 losophers and contemplative persons. I speak of
 
 218 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 those who live on heights. Their trade makes 
 them so. They combine the nature of the hermit 
 and the lighthouse-keeper. One part of their life 
 is spent in waiting, the other in letting the wind 
 do their work. They see vast horizons and also the 
 little things beneath them. When their nature 
 is not averse to it, millers have a fine oppor- 
 tunity for dreaming. 
 
 This one was not inconsistent with tradition. 
 His wide felt hat, white with flour, covered a rather 
 fine head; he was a young man, a little indolent 
 but intelligent, with brown eyes, colourless cheeks, 
 and a mouth slightly raised at the corners, giving 
 to his face a good-natured teasing air, a distinctive 
 sign of the class. He leaned a little farther out 
 of the window and said: 
 
 "You don't appear to be hurried, Mademoi- 
 selle?" 
 
 Such are the commonplace phrases with which, 
 among the people, persons who are not acquainted 
 try each other and show their willingness to en- 
 gage in a bit of conversation. Surprised, she 
 looked up at him, and not finding his look too 
 bold, answered: 
 
 "Nor you, either, from what I see." 
 
 "What is there to do?" he resumed; "when the 
 mill is going, millers have nothing better to do 
 than to look at the passing girls. It is a fine trade ; 
 even when work goes best, one has some free- 
 dom." 
 
 "All trades are not the same," said De"siree, 
 sighing. 
 
 She knotted the faded strings of her hat and
 
 OFTHEPOOR 219 
 
 turned to go. But evidently she pleased him, for 
 he detained her, saying: 
 
 "What do you do, then?" 
 
 "I am a chair-mender," she answered. "The 
 trade was good once and we earned our living. 
 Then it died away. My father was obliged to 
 go to the hospital. He was a good workman, 
 however, I assure you; never behindhand and not 
 a spendthrift. Everybody liked him." 
 
 "He is at Jeanne Jugan?" 
 
 "Yes, and so is my mother; I am going to see 
 them." 
 
 " Then you are like an orphan at home, Madem- 
 oiselle Rose?" 
 
 "No, not Rose," she said, laughing; "De"sire*e." 
 
 They looked at each other a moment, both 
 laughing at the droll manner in which he had 
 asked her name. She added : 
 
 "I am not so alone as you think; my grand- 
 mother is with me." 
 
 "Do you live far from here?" 
 
 " On the other side of the town, near the octroi. 
 My grandmother is blind." 
 
 " Blind ! " repeated the young man ; " that cannot 
 be very gay for you." 
 
 "It is especially sad for her." 
 
 "Then you go out but little." 
 
 "Scarcely at all." 
 
 " On a Sunday, don't you? A turn at the fair, 
 or perhaps in the assemblies?" 
 
 "Never!" exclaimed Desire"e, as if that suppo- 
 sition had offended her. "I never go there." 
 
 She began blushing, becoming suddenly con-
 
 220 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 fused at the intimate turn which the conversa- 
 tion was taking. He, on the contrary, showed 
 his white teeth. He looked perfectly satisfied. 
 
 "I believe you, Mademoiselle Desiree; one can 
 see that without your saying so. Au revoir then ! " 
 
 "Good evening, Monsieur." 
 
 Scarcely had she turned the corner of the 
 hedge before she felt vexed with herself. To stop 
 thus to talk on the road! How came she to do 
 such a thing? And how many things she had 
 talked about in a short time! About her father, 
 her mother, her grandmother, the life they led at 
 home. He had made her tell all that he wished, 
 and he prudently knew how to keep silent. How 
 cunning he was, that fellow, in wheedling girls! 
 Before entering the court, as she was hidden by 
 the wall, she turned her head quickly and cast a 
 glance in the direction of the mill. The garret 
 window was empty, all black on the white wall. 
 "Happily," Desiree thought, "he had an honest 
 look and no one saw me." 
 
 She went up the flight of steps and asked for 
 her father. 
 
 Le Bolloche was outside in the centre of an 
 open and sandy place which lay at the foot of 
 the field of rye. They had chosen him for um- 
 pire of a doubtful play at bowls, and, bent over, 
 he was measuring the disputed distance with his 
 cane. Half a score of players, his comrades, 
 stooping in a circle, were absorbed by the interest 
 of this verification. They all rose up together, 
 and Le Bolloche saw Desiree, who was walking 
 along the field, her blue frock grazing the dwarf
 
 OF THE POOR 221 
 
 apple-trees and the border of strawberry-plants 
 blooming freely beneath. 
 
 "My daughter!" he exclaimed. 
 
 It was an event, the arrival of those twenty years 
 in an asylum of old men, that radiant health in the 
 midst of all those human infirmities. The comrades 
 of Le Bolloche, ball in hand, looked at the young 
 girl coming. Almost all without family, having 
 roved everywhere, without taking root anywhere, 
 isolated besides by their age and already shut up in 
 that semi-death of the refuge, which charity can 
 never completely disguise, they took in, like a per- 
 fume, this apparition which was advancing. All 
 were gladdened by it. To each one she recalled 
 some pleasant memory. 
 
 "She looks like a pretty canteen girl I used to 
 know," said one. 
 
 "If she wore her hair on her forehead, would 
 not one swear that she was an actress of the cafe of 
 the Dajo promenade?" said another, an old sailor, 
 whose memory flowed very far back at the sight 
 of Desire'e. A third murmured a name, which 
 no one heard. His head, twitching with spas- 
 modic jerks, dropped on his chest and two tears 
 fell upon the woollen rags with which his sore 
 feet were wrapped, and no one knew what distant 
 image of a woman or of a young girl, the emotion 
 of this forsaken one was saluting through the 
 past years. 
 
 They watched Le Bolloche go to meet Desire'e, 
 pass his arm in hers and disappear in the path 
 which cut the fields half-way. Roused from their 
 rapture, they looked at each other then with a
 
 222 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 hard air. They were jealous of the former ser- 
 geant. No one came thus for them. The game 
 of bowls was abandoned. Le Bolloche and his 
 daughter both walked at first in the path. He 
 was radiant, his happiness doubled by the pride 
 of walking by her side. He enjoyed the aston- 
 ishment which she aroused. He looked at her as 
 if to accustom his eyes to each of the features of 
 his child. 
 
 "Ah, little one!" he cried. "Little one, how 
 happy I am! I cannot live without seeing you!" 
 He could not utter a word more. 
 
 Then Mere Le Bolloche came to find them. 
 They walked up toward the hospital of which 
 it was necessary to make the tour to the large 
 orchard surrounded by walls and only opened 
 by favour to visiting relatives. And then the talk 
 began. 
 
 De*sire*e had to place herself between the two 
 old people, talking to her at the same time, each 
 of what interested them. The most unimpor- 
 tant things came to life again in their memory 
 with a marvellous intensity of tenderness and of 
 regret. It is incredible how many questions a 
 meadow, a house, and a poor grandmother whom 
 one has left can furnish. Desire*e replied as best 
 she could; their joy made her expansive too. She 
 had no time to think of herself. And yet, every 
 time that she came to the turn of a certain path, 
 the shadow of the wings of the mill leaping the 
 walls ran before her, enveloped her, seemed to 
 wish to carry her away in passing. Desiree felt 
 a little thrill; she imagined very wrongfully, per-
 
 OF THE POOR 223 
 
 haps, and without having the right to think of it 
 so, that these great shadowy arms beckoned to 
 her and that there were two brown eyes down 
 there which were following her through an un- 
 known crevice of the mill. 
 
 V. 
 
 When Desire*e returned home, she found the 
 old grandmother less anxious than she had ex- 
 pected. Happy to tell her: 
 
 "Little one, there came a fine order during 
 your absence; twelve chairs to be new-bottomed 
 in black and white! One would say that business 
 is going to look up again." 
 
 De'sire'e had no illusions on this subject, but the 
 work was none the less welcome. The very next 
 day, wholly rested and refreshed by the afternoon 
 of the day before, she set herself to work. She had 
 to carry out of the shed the sheaves of sorted rye, 
 which a too long stay in the shade had rendered 
 damp, to loosen them and spread them out in 
 regular rows on a mowed corner of the meadow. 
 And while the sun and air were drying them she 
 busied herself removing the worn seats from the 
 chairs, with strengthening their bars and stain- 
 ing some handfuls of stalks, which would make 
 regular spots upon the new seats, like ermine 
 tails upon white fur. All that occupied two days. 
 
 During this time she thought, indeed several 
 times, of the meeting which she had had with the 
 miller, without displeasure, but without emotion, 
 either; just as we think of things which will have
 
 224 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 no continuation. In going to buy her supplies 
 in the quarter of the octroi, she looked for the 
 wings of the mill on the horizon, and she saw them 
 turning, very tiny, like a child's toy. 
 
 The third day, in the evening, seeing that the 
 straw was dry and that it had regained its beau- 
 tiful pale-gold tint, she thought that it was time 
 to gather it together again. In slender sheaves 
 and carefully, in order not to crush the straight 
 stalks of rye, she picked it up and carried it under 
 the shed. One would have thought her a harvester. 
 She loved to handle this supple and quivering 
 straw, which every step made tremble under her 
 arm; it pleased her to run thus the length of the 
 meadow, through the grass which was still warm 
 from the scorching rays of the sun it had absorbed. 
 
 The least thing which took her out of doors 
 seemed a diversion to this industrious girl. At the 
 moment when she was picking up the last armfuls 
 of straw, the sun had long since set, and twi- 
 light was invading the faubourg. And just then, 
 in straightening up, Desiree saw the shape of a 
 man's head above the wall, which was painted 
 like a brown ribbon along the west. She was not 
 at a loss for a moment; it was he! A blush 
 mounted to her face. She bent quickly down, 
 seized the rest of her straw, and, without turning 
 toward the gate, re-entered the shed. 
 
 When she came out the young man, or the 
 form that she had taken for him, had vanished. 
 What had he come for? How long a time had 
 he been looking at her? Oh! this was a serious 
 thing! Why was he, who had called her the first
 
 OFTHEPOOR 225 
 
 day from the window of his mill, afraid of her 
 now? For he had disappeared as soon as she 
 had looked at him. Disappeared? Perhaps he 
 had hidden himself. All these questions followed 
 in rapid succession in the mind of Desiree. 
 
 "After all," she said to herself, "that boy can- 
 not wish me any harm. I would like to know 
 what has become of him, and I will go and see." 
 
 She went up the meadow in the tall grass, walked 
 along the wall, and bravely, at the spot where the 
 apparition had vanished, placing her foot upon 
 a projecting stone, she raised herself up so that 
 half her body was above the wall. The road fled 
 flaky and grey. No one was in sight but a peas- 
 ant, who was trotting down the slope in his cov- 
 ered cart. Yet she had not been mistaken. She 
 examined the top of the wall the sprigs of moss 
 which covered it, and the starry branches of a yel- 
 low plant blossoming there, were crushed at that 
 spot ; some one had been leaning there. She looked 
 farther along, and, upon a naked piece of slate, 
 torn from the wall, she recognised vaguely by the 
 last ray of daylight that some letters had been 
 traced. She picked up the stone, turned it toward 
 the west which a last fringe of pale gold lighted 
 up, and read: "Desiree." Who else could have 
 written that name there? The dew of a single 
 night would have sufficed to efface the characters 
 traced by the point of the knife, while, on the con- 
 trary, upon the edge of each stroke, a down of dust 
 raised by the cut still remained. It was he then 
 who, a little before, had looked at her, when she 
 picked up the sheaves of rye, and, to make her
 
 226 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 understand what he dared not say to her, to show 
 her that he thought of her, had written: "De"- 
 sire*e." In short, this word was a letter. 
 
 A love-letter! What does "De*siree" signify, 
 if not "I love you"? 
 
 He loved her then? The young girl took up 
 the piece of slate and went into the house. Her 
 grandmother was waiting. 
 
 "You have been a long time," she said; "the 
 angelus has rung in two parishes!" 
 
 Desiree read for the tenth time, by the light of 
 a candle, the word written on the stone. 
 
 "Were you only anxious to work?" continued 
 the grandmother. " Come, eat a little. Why don't 
 you answer? Are you tired? " 
 
 But she only answered with some careless words, 
 and the grandmother, at the altered sound of her 
 granddaughter's voice, confirmed in the thought 
 that the child was jaded out, said coaxingly: 
 
 "You give yourself too much trouble, my poor 
 child, you stay too late in the shed, and that 
 changes your voice." 
 
 Desiree declared that she was tired, exhausted; 
 and the grandmother pretended to be sleepy 
 earlier than usual on that evening. 
 
 Then, free to think, to reflect on what had hap- 
 pened, and on what she experienced herself, the 
 young girl gave herself up to imagination. She 
 was then loved! That seemed to her very cer- 
 tain and very sweet. Suspicion did not once 
 suggest to her that he had meant to joke. The 
 first uncertain and veiled word of love, the first 
 homage paid to her charm as a young girl, had
 
 OF THE POOR 227 
 
 touched the depths of this primitive nature. She 
 responded to it at once by great heart-throbs which 
 surprised her. And, little by little, she realised 
 that these thoughts which rilled her now were 
 born the very day when she had met this youth. 
 A deep and delicious agitation succeeded. To- 
 morrow, the future, to be married, to be happy! 
 She was agitated by these magic and vague pic- 
 tures, as tiny streams, with shadowy banks, which 
 feel to their very source the call of the invisible 
 sea. All the details of their brief interview re- 
 vived. She recalled the questions which he had 
 asked, the slightest words that he had spoken, so 
 as to discover in them also a new meaning. She 
 succeeded but too well. 
 
 One thing which Desire"e had not noticed at 
 first began to trouble her. She had said that she 
 never went to assemblies. 
 
 "I believe you," he had said, smiling. "One 
 can see that without your saying so." 
 
 How then had he guessed it? No doubt, he 
 thought her too poor and too meanly dressed. 
 Girls who go for a walk on Sunday, those who 
 can pretend to be pleasing, are differently dressed. 
 He had warned her of that. 
 
 "One can see plainly that you have not pretty 
 ways and that you do not know how to dress 
 yourself." 
 
 Yes, that was what the phrase and the accom- 
 panying smile meant. If he should see her again 
 thus, when she returned to see her father and 
 passed near the white mill, the passing fancy 
 which she had been able to inspire would dis-
 
 228 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 appear. Desire"e le Bolloche was not well enough 
 dressed, not attractive enough, for a man to be 
 proud of walking with her on his arm. Above all 
 this, for he must be rich, he must like pretty 
 dresses, gloves, and hats with feathers, and the 
 small reddish-brown shoes which the work-girls 
 of the town and even the young dairy-maids from 
 the country wore. While she! Ah, bitter pov- 
 erty ! Ah, the happiness of those who have a little 
 money with which to make themselves beauti- 
 ful! 
 
 Soon this sad reflection chased away all the 
 others. The love-song, barely begun, degenerated 
 into a wail. De"siree remained awake half of the 
 night. Then slowly a plan matured. She hesi- 
 tated, rejected it, then entertained it again. 
 
 She was at work the next day before dawn. 
 She hurried so feverishly that she had never before 
 accomplished so much. In less time than they 
 had allowed her, the twelve chairs were ready to 
 be delivered and paid for. Desiree, when she 
 brought home the money, said to her grand- 
 mother: 
 
 "Grandmother, if you are willing, I will go to 
 Jeanne Jugan to-morrow." 
 
 "To-morrow, child that is very soon. It is 
 not ten days since you saw them!" 
 
 "Grandmother, let me go; I have finished the 
 work." 
 
 The grandmother replied after a moment : 
 
 "I see plainly that you are no longer happy 
 here, my child. I am too old, and you are too 
 young. I knew that would be the way when your
 
 OF THE POOR 229 
 
 father went away. Go then, as it will give you 
 pleasure!" 
 
 Neither spoke again of this absence on the next 
 day. 
 
 De'sire'e tried to be gentle and kind. She helped 
 her grandmother undress, and, on the pretext of 
 some sewing to do, she waited, seated by the table. 
 
 When her grandmother was asleep, the young 
 girl dressed, threw a small cape over her shoul- 
 ders, went cautiously out of the room and, cross- 
 ing the meadow, was soon on the road which 
 led to the town. She hastened her steps, a little 
 anxious at being alone at this already late hour. 
 Some workmen who passed her looked boldly at 
 her. She felt afraid of the dark hollows of the 
 path. It seemed to her at every moment that 
 some one was following her. And yet the thought 
 never occurred to her to turn back. Her plan 
 gave her courage, and made her smile at times. 
 She walked on. The streets soon became better 
 lighted. The fronts of shops gleamed on the 
 right and the left. She walked more peacefully. 
 The people passing protected her by their num- 
 ber. At last she stopped before the door of a 
 large shop for novelties, which threw the light of 
 its electric lamps at the two corners of the boule- 
 vard. 
 
 That was the place. With a little hesitation, 
 she went in, dazzled, her eyes half closed. There 
 were but a few customers in the immense shop. 
 A clerk came to her and asked, with that imperti- 
 nent air which they readily assume when a girl 
 is alone, poor, and pretty:
 
 230 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 "What department does Mademoiselle wish to 
 visit? Silks, laces, trousseaux, layettes?" 
 
 "What department?" Desiree had never been 
 in a large shop. 
 
 "Yes," he repeated, "what do you wish to 
 see?" 
 
 Then her secret escaped from her, and she said, 
 not at all as a reply, but speaking to herself in a 
 dreamy tone and as if she saw some far-off, 
 strangely beautiful thing: 
 
 "I would like a red parasol!" 
 
 She had not far to go. She was shown at first 
 the high-priced parasols, those covered with silk, 
 fringed, and mounted on carved handles. Among 
 the number there were some red ones, but Desiree 
 had not much money. She had to go where the 
 lowest-priced ones were kept. Finally she found 
 what she was looking for a parasol of ordinary 
 material, white on the outside, lined with a rather 
 bright mauve, which could pass for red. The 
 curved handle was white. Desiree bought it. She 
 also bought a pair of open-worked lisle-thread 
 gloves of simple design, having noticed that even 
 poor girls like herself began to be unwilling to go 
 out on Sundays with their hands bare. 
 
 And she began to walk back toward the suburb, 
 along the streets less and less lighted and peopled 
 with passers-by. But she felt no more fear now. 
 She carried the parasol rolled up in a case of grey 
 paper under her arm. She would not have carried 
 a treasure more joyously. It was a treasure to 
 her, since it was to make herself more beautiful, 
 to win better the love of this young miller, that
 
 OFTHEPOOR 231 
 
 she had spent, without telling her grandmother, a 
 great part of her earnings of the whole week. How 
 fine she would look to-morrow, when at midday 
 she would walk up to Jeanne Jugan, toward the 
 mill which perhaps would have its window open 
 again! She thought of that and the return road 
 seemed short to her. 
 
 She entered the house in the darkness. Her 
 grandmother had not awakened. All the crickets 
 of the meadow were singing around the house, 
 under the blades of tall grass. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The following day, in the afternoon, De'sire'e 
 went to the hospital. In so short a time, how 
 everything had grown ! The dahlias of the court- 
 yard towered a foot above their supports, the 
 climbing roses, open altogether in the June sun- 
 shine, overflowed in red and yellow waves the 
 mossy edge of the walls. On seeing that the visitor 
 was his former mistress, the Barbary cock, whose 
 small body enjoyed the right of free passage, came 
 out from the shelter of a spindle-tree, following 
 the young girl as if she had still some small grain 
 in her apron. 
 
 De'sire'e, who was in a good humour, turned 
 toward it and asked: 
 
 "Little one, do you know where Pere Le Bol- 
 loche is?" He answered with such a kirikiki, 
 with so droll and so decided a tone, that she could 
 not help laughing. 
 
 "Gone out!" she repeated; "what are you tell-
 
 232 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 ing me? At least he is in the orchard, is he not, 
 Sister?" 
 
 "Really, Mademoiselle, I do not know," an- 
 swered the nun, who was passing, " I do not know 
 indeed; at this season all our little old men are 
 stirring." 
 
 The sun gave new life in truth to the pension- 
 ers of Jeanne Jugan. With the exception of cer- 
 tain ones, too faded to freshen up again, who 
 would have recognised them? They raked paths, 
 weeded beds, walked with a gait twice as brisk 
 as that of winter. Several made drawings on the 
 sand with their crutches. There was one gath- 
 ering cherries, astride of a branch. All wore a 
 light jacket made out of pieces of ticking, by hands 
 which suffered nothing to go to waste. 
 
 Day of respite, of illusion which spreads a great 
 sweet light over human sufferings ! 
 
 Desiree questioned the one gathering cherries. 
 
 "Are you asking for the sergeant, my pretty 
 girl?" 
 
 "Yes, Pere Le Bolloche." 
 
 "He is mowing in the meadow." 
 
 "What do you say?" 
 
 "I say that he is mowing in the meadow. He 
 even commands the squad. You see he is full of 
 vigour and youth, that man!" 
 
 And the good man gallantly slipped down to 
 the ground to direct the daughter of Honore le 
 Bolloche. 
 
 "You do not know the way," he said seriously, 
 "and, you see, we do not work by the hour here! 
 One has always time to do the work."
 
 OF THE POOR 233 
 
 They went up the slope, turned to the right of 
 the hospital and, through a bar which cut the wall 
 of the enclosure, penetrated into a long meadow 
 following the enclosure. This meadow, shaped 
 like a crown and with a growing hedge like a green 
 ring, enclosed the domain of the Sisters and bor- 
 dered upon the miller's knoll. 
 
 When she reached there, De"sire*e saw a new 
 sight. Eight old men, armed with eight scythes, 
 their shirt-sleeves rolled up, were mowing in a line 
 in the tall grass. Le Bolloche in the middle, the 
 tallest of all, his wooden leg forward, was working 
 like a young man. It was wonderful to see the 
 width of the circular swath which went down be- 
 fore him at each stroke of his scythe. He did 
 not stop as the others did, who, under pretext of 
 sharpening their scythes, whetted a short quarter 
 of an hour on their blade. He was on fatigue duty 
 and took the work seriously. Chief of the squad, 
 imagine it! It was a matter of pride with him 
 to appear indefatigable, to round out his arm to 
 its full extent, and especially not to allow himself 
 to be distracted; no, not even when an old sister 
 passed behind the line of mowers, a jug of cider 
 in her hand, and said : 
 
 " Come, my friends, do not work too much ; drink 
 a little. It is so warm!" 
 
 Desire*e approached. He looked at her with 
 a vexed air. 
 
 " You can see very well," he said, "that I have 
 some work to do! Go wait for me down yonder. 
 Mowing, my child, is like furbishing: it cannot be 
 interrupted!"
 
 234 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 And, as he said that, he was superb, his head up- 
 right, his hand leaning upon his lifted scythe; he 
 felt that he was admired by his comrades, ruins 
 more dilapidated than he. 
 
 "Down yonder!" he repeated. 
 
 Desiree went to the place which the gesture of 
 the good man indicated, a little farther off in the 
 meadow, by the side of the hedge. There she 
 seated herself on the grass, not without noticing 
 that the mill was close by and that it was not 
 turning. The thought of the miller had scarcely 
 left her; it had occupied her all along the way; 
 it made her heart beat more quickly now than 
 usual, under her flowered cotton bodice. And 
 the thought which holds us, you know, poses and 
 shapes us to its fancy. The young girl did not 
 look at the hedge, certainly, but she watched it 
 from the corner of her bright eyes, wandering 
 over the meadow. She expected something which 
 was coming from there. She felt herself very 
 near a serious moment, and a mysterious one too, 
 of her life. She trembled at a breath of air in the 
 brambles. The gliding of a field-mouse over the 
 dead leaves seemed to her a step which was ap- 
 proaching. At times she closed her eyes to recover 
 herself, and not to yield to a kind of vertigo which 
 seized her. She felt a wish to say to the daisies, 
 (a foolish idea which she had never had before !) : 
 "Do not look at me so, all together, with your 
 eyes of gold. I am a poor girl whom usually you 
 do not care for!" It seemed to her that these 
 thousands of witnesses were observing her agitated 
 air. She clasped then, with her gloved hand, the
 
 OF THE POOR 235 
 
 parasol which bathed her cheeks, her forehead, all 
 her fair person, with a pink reflection. The idea 
 that her parasol made her prettier, and gave her 
 the look of a young lady, passed through her mind. 
 And, smiling, happy and anxious at the same time, 
 among the daisies which surrounded her with their 
 flowers or sowed the down of their seeds upon her 
 dress, she was more charming still. 
 
 The intense midday heat warmed the meadow; 
 the perfume of the hay rose from it like the in- 
 cense of summer. The mowers advanced, swing- 
 ing their arms. How long did she remain thus? 
 She had no idea at all. Love does not count the 
 length of its dreams. Suddenly, without her per- 
 ceiving the least noise of steps or of tossed leaves, 
 she heard a voice from the other side of the hedge, 
 calling: 
 
 "De'sire'e!" 
 
 All the blood in her veins rushed back to her 
 heart. She remained motionless, pale as if she 
 were going to swoon. Through the hawthorn 
 the same voice repeated : 
 
 "DSsiree!" 
 
 She rose slowly then and turned around. 
 
 It was he. He had come as she had foreseen. 
 He looked at her half hidden by the hedge, and, 
 in his eyes, there was the confession of his love 
 and the pride of feeling himself loved. A sprig 
 of broom hung from the ribbon of his cap. He 
 had not dressed himself up. He had run, on see- 
 ing her, he, the rich man, in his work-day clothes, 
 like an honest lad who does not try to deceive. 
 
 Strange to say, it was this contrast between her-
 
 236 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 self and him which first struck Desire*e, and her 
 agitation was increased. She, who barely earned 
 her living, had decked herself out; she, whose 
 parents, for want of bread, had had to have re- 
 course to the charity of the Sisters. Her parasol 
 and her lisle-thread gloves, two luxuries which 
 she had never had before, gave her the effect of a 
 falsehood. She was troubled. She was ashamed. 
 Her pleasure of a moment before, her vanity at 
 being well dressed, seemed to her ridiculous, guilty 
 even. She began to despise herself. Without 
 ceasing to look at the hedge, without saying a 
 word, she took off her gloves and let them fall 
 to the ground. The red parasol escaped from 
 her hands and rolled on the grass. Then, when 
 she had become again the simple work-girl, with 
 bare hands, with cheeks exposed to the sun, in the 
 dress which she had worn for a long time, with 
 nothing pretentious, the true daughter of the 
 chair-mender, a single phrase fell from her lips, a 
 word of humble and sad love : 
 
 "I am very poor!" she said. 
 
 But he began to smile, with a kind, tender 
 smile. Poor? He knew it very well. He liked 
 her so. And as she stood motionless, all blush- 
 ing in the growing joy of welcomed love, he put 
 aside the branches better to see her and said : 
 
 "Come, Desiree!" 
 
 She obeyed as if he had the right to command 
 her. Already she belonged to him. A few yards 
 from there she found a gap ; he stretched his hand 
 to her; she passed through the hedge. A whole 
 cloud of butterflies passed before her.
 
 OF THE POOR 237 
 
 Once on the other side, Desired did not with- 
 draw the hand which she had given, and, holding 
 each other thus, they began a walk around the 
 mill, the pleasantest walk that either had ever 
 taken. 
 
 However, Le Bolloche, coming to the place in 
 the meadow which he had pointed out to his 
 daughter, stopped before the red parasol, which, 
 resting on its handle and two of its whalebones, 
 only shaded a bunch of daisies and buttercups. 
 He naturally concluded that De"sire*e was not far 
 away; he looked for her in the meadow, found 
 nothing there, looked over the hedge and saw her 
 on the arm of the miller. He was not more ex- 
 cited than he had reason to be, knowing that his 
 daughter was prudent and finding that the other 
 had an honest look. His first impulse was to call 
 them, but there were too many people around. 
 He preferred to go and find them. So five min- 
 utes later Pere Le Bolloche, De*sire*e, and the mil- 
 ler were all three talking together. 
 
 Ten minutes later it was the same. An hour 
 passed without the subject, it appears, being 
 exhausted. The shadow of the mill lengthened 
 out on the knoll. The remaining seven mowers 
 rested more and more. The chief of the squad 
 did not return. A sister was obliged to recall 
 him, saying: 
 
 "Well! well! Pere Le Bolloche, to-day is not the 
 day for going out!" 
 
 Then the group separated; the old man went 
 back to the hospital. De'sire'e took the road to 
 the town and the miller mounted his ladder.
 
 238 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 When night came and the little old men were in 
 bed, Le Bolloche, whom the moonlight prevented 
 from sleeping, awoke his neighbour to tell him : 
 
 "Pere Lizourette, I am going to marry my 
 daughter!" 
 
 " D&iree? With a zouave? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then with a cavalryman?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Is he only in the line?" continued the neigh- 
 bour, with an air of commiseration; "you are going 
 to many her into the line?" 
 
 " Not even that. He only did two months serv- 
 ice, as the son of a widow. I know that is not 
 much, but what can you do? He plays the fife 
 in a band, where there are many old soldiers." 
 
 "Ah! he plays the fife!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It is a fine instrument!" 
 
 "Rather small," replied Le BoUoche. "But 
 the children suit each other. I saw that, and 
 then- 
 
 "You have done well," said Lizourette senten- 
 tiously; "one must not be hard upon the young." 
 
 And the two old soldiers, satisfied, having ex- 
 hausted all their opinions, went to sleep. The ray 
 of moonlight which looked on Le Bolloche moved 
 over to Lizourette and thence on to the neigh- 
 bouring beds, whose arrangement resembled a row 
 of white stones. When Sister Dorothe"e, on her 
 tour of inspection, passed Le Bolloche, she thought : 
 
 "How happy this old man looks; that gives ma 
 pleasure!"
 
 OF THE POOR 239 
 
 At the same hour the young miller, leaning on 
 his elbows out of his round window, was thinking, 
 his head bathed in the bracing air which blew up 
 from the river; and he was so happy to be alive 
 that he, calm and taciturn by nature and not a 
 poet at all, felt a desire to sing. He gazed far 
 away, above the city, to a point of the horizon 
 where the tiny gas-jets, farther apart than hi 
 other places, marked the beginning of the coun- 
 try. There his heart pictured to him the girl, 
 radiant, laying out the straw in the sunshine, the 
 girl whom he had chosen, the one who just now 
 had given him her hand, the one who soon would 
 be his wife. 
 
 And yet it was deep night and in the enclosure 
 Desire"e was not spreading out rye straw. She 
 was standing by the bed of her grandmother, who 
 had wished to go to bed as usual but who did not 
 wish to go to sleep. 
 
 "Tell me again something about him," said the 
 blind mother. "Is his hair light?" 
 
 "Rather dark," replied Desire"e, laughing. 
 
 "A jolly face?" 
 
 "Rather." 
 
 "I like that," continued the old woman. "My 
 departed was the same. Does he talk much?" 
 
 " That depends. With me, he scarcely stopped." 
 
 "Look at her, this child, how proud she is to 
 be young! And you say that he has some prop- 
 erty?" 
 
 "Oh, yes! a great deal, Grandmother, much 
 more than we!" 
 
 "But do you know, I cannot get used to the
 
 240 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 idea, my daughter! What did you do to please 
 him?" 
 
 De*siree laughed with all her heart, with a laugh 
 which said: "Why, Grandmother, if you could 
 see me!" And in truth the humble mender of 
 chairs was beautiful, all beaming with a deep 
 and calm joy. When the grandmother had ceased 
 to chatter, when she herself succeeded in going 
 to sleep in the early hours of the morning, she 
 dreamed charming dreams : that the mill had new 
 wings; that there were four bouquets of orange 
 blossoms at the end of the arms; that she stood 
 in the door, beautifully dressed, and that the 
 children, coming out of school, passed before her 
 and bowed to her saying: 
 
 "Good day, Madame!" 
 
 VII. 
 
 The grandmother had reason to be glad, for it 
 had been agreed, by express stipulation, at the 
 request of Desire*e, that the young household 
 should live in the house of the meadow. Her old 
 age would be well sheltered between these two, 
 who would take care of her. She would assuredly 
 have her share in their happiness, as an old-topped 
 tree in an orchard, upon which others, full of sap, 
 let their petals fall, so that one imagines that it 
 still has blossoms. This miller of the white mill 
 was an honest youth, accommodating and very 
 much in love, since he was willing to go every 
 morning and every evening over the road which 
 separated his mill from the faubourg. All was
 
 OFTHEPOOR 241 
 
 rose-coloured in that quarter; there were no peo- 
 ple so happy to be young as Desiree and her 
 fiance, nor any old woman less sad to be old than 
 Grandmother Le Bolloche. But at the Little Sis- 
 ters of the Poor a cloud darkened the humour of 
 the old sergeant. After a few days of perfect 
 content he had suddenly sunk into a profound 
 melancholy. What was the matter? Was he 
 sorry to give up his daughter? Why, no! The 
 sacrifice was consummated, he was even more and 
 more accustomed to the hospital, to his comrades, 
 to the abundant coffee of the sisters, to their 
 cares, to the sunny far nienie of the field of rye. 
 Had his future son-in-law offended him? In no 
 way. Le Bolloche suffered from what had held 
 and still held so great a place in his life: from 
 the want of the plume. He was vain. In his 
 limited mind, the mind of a former sergeant 
 decked with braid and with chevrons, he turned 
 over now at every hour of the day the same com- 
 plaint, which he confided to no one. 
 
 "What sort of a figure will I cut at DesireVs 
 wedding, fitted out as I am, with a chopped-off 
 jacket, my trousers too short, my shoes, my 
 zouave cap worn out and without a crown? Is 
 that full dress? The relatives and friends that 
 they will invite in numbers will laugh at me, for 
 it will be a beautiful fete. Those who have not 
 seen me for twenty years will be ashamed to 
 recognise me, and even Desiree, good daughter 
 as she is, will not be flattered in her new wedding- 
 dress, to have such a sorry-looking father by her 
 side. Better not to go. No, I will not go!"
 
 242 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 And already he had begun to prepare his com- 
 rades in arms and in the last asylum for this des- 
 perate resolution. 
 
 "I shall probably not go," he said to them. "I 
 have a deuce of a rheumatism in my shoulder!" 
 But they did not believe a word of it. Rheuma- 
 tism, he! Go along! When he was walking by 
 himself, they saw him from the distance twirl his 
 cane about, cutting off with a sharp blow the heads 
 of thistles growing on the edge of the field. The 
 very vigour of the twirl was enough to prove that 
 Le Bolloche lied; it also showed a violent state of 
 mind, which the sisters, naturally, were not with- 
 out remarking. 
 
 " I do not know what ails our little Pere Le Bol- 
 loche?" remarked Sister Dorothee; "he eats well, 
 he drinks well, he sleeps well, he had his supply of 
 tobacco again day before yesterday; and yet he 
 does not seem happy!" 
 
 As a matter of fact, the poor pensioners who are 
 thus cared for usually find nothing to complain 
 of. As she was a woman and a very inquisitive one, 
 which no vow prevents she wished to know. 
 One morning as she was dressing one of his com- 
 panions for Le Bolloche dressed himself with- 
 out help she plied the latter with adroitly put 
 questions. She did not ask him outright : "What 
 is the matter?" No, but already suspecting that 
 the wedding of Desiree was the cause of his trouble, 
 she said : 
 
 "I hope, Le Bolloche, that you will be happy 
 to see your daughter a bride." 
 
 "Without doubt," growled Le Bolloche.
 
 OFTHEPOOR 243 
 
 "And where will the wedding take place? In 
 the meadow, I wager." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "They will dance?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you will open the dance, of course?" 
 
 Le Bolloche could contain himself no longer. 
 
 "Dressed like this, yes, will I?" he cried. 
 "A former non-commissioned officer of zouaves! 
 I look as if I should dance there I shall not 
 even go!" 
 
 "Oh," said the sister, smiling, "how vain you 
 are!" 
 
 She who had never been vain! Le Bolloche 
 did not take the jest in good part. The wrinkle 
 at both corners of his mouth deepened. 
 
 "I am nothing but a beggar here," he cried; 
 "my time is past, past. I have no wish to appear 
 in the world any more, and that is it!" 
 
 He walked away with long strides, fuming with 
 rage. Sister Dorothee followed him with her 
 eyes, a smile lengthened her lips, a smile in which 
 there was pity and pleasure at having been adroit, 
 and also the radiance of a sweet thought which 
 she had just had. She made haste to dress Pere 
 Lizourette; she tied his cravat, which she amused 
 herself in arranging like the wings of a butterfly, 
 and, handing him his cane, said: "You are hand- 
 some as a star, go amuse yourself." Then she 
 left the ward, directing her steps toward the 
 superior's room. Along the broad silent corri- 
 dors she glided lightly as if borne on the wings 
 of the thought which had come to her.
 
 244 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 Three weeks passed in this way, during which 
 Le Bolloche became more and more sad. 
 
 At last the day fixed for the wedding of De*- 
 siree arrived. 
 
 On that morning Le Bolloche, who had scarcely 
 slept, rose a little before the others and went out 
 under the pretext of going to dig in his garden. 
 But scarcely outside, he stopped ; he sought in the 
 distance the country where his poor mind had 
 wandered all night. From the hill of the hospital, 
 old as he was, he could not distinguish the house. 
 But in the blue mist of the morning he made out 
 the white spot which the faubourg made, and the 
 pale-green masses which were the orchards. A 
 pure breath of air came from them. The poor old 
 man felt his eyes fill with tears, and he imagined 
 that he heard, carried by the wind, a voice which 
 said: 
 
 "Come, Father, get up; come, it is my wedding- 
 day. Grandmother has a new dress, which my 
 fiance* gave her. For me, I am beautiful as the 
 day. I have a wreath of wax flowers, a figured 
 shawl and a brooch to fasten it; above all, my 
 heart is full of joy, for in three hours we will start 
 to be married. Come, I wish to kiss you very- 
 hard for having given me life, which is so sweet 
 now, life which opens like a fete. Come and see 
 my happiness!" 
 
 Le Bolloche, agitated, his mind half wandering, 
 hesitated a moment; then he recovered his senses, 
 shook his head, gave the faubourg a last look and 
 repeated what he had not ceased to say : 
 
 "No, I will not go!"
 
 OFTHEPOOR 245 
 
 He began walking down to the rear of the en- 
 closure, where his garden was, but he had not taken 
 thirty steps when some one tapped him on the 
 shoulder. He turned around. It was his wife. 
 
 "Husband," she said, "come with me!" 
 
 "Whereto?" 
 
 "Come to the parlour before going home!" 
 
 "We have no home." 
 
 "Come just the same; you will see." 
 
 Usually he did not comply readily with the 
 requests of his wife, but he was so dejected and 
 she seemed to be in such good spirits that, partly 
 from indifference, partly from the attraction of a 
 partial surprise, he followed her. When they 
 reached the door of the parlour near the entrance, 
 Mere Le Bolloche stood by the wall and let her 
 husband pass. 
 
 "Enter, Le Bolloche," she said, "and let us 
 dress for the wedding." 
 
 The good man entered and stopped stupefied. 
 He had just discovered, carefully folded on the 
 back of a chair, a complete suit, handsomer than 
 any he had worn since he had been in civil life: 
 a grey pair of trousers, still fresh; a waistcoat, a 
 black frock coat, a light cravat with blue polka 
 dots, and a silk hat which had endured more than 
 one ironing, but was still upright on its base and 
 very similar in form to that of the former shako, 
 which could not fail to please an old soldier like 
 Le Bolloche. The latter, without more hesitation, 
 began to dress. Everything fitted well ; one would 
 have sworn that a tailor had taken his measure. 
 When he put his hand in his trousers pocket, he
 
 246 THE LITTLE SISTERS 
 
 drew out a piece of silver. When he crossed the 
 wide lapels of his frock coat upon his breast, his 
 military medal shone there, attached by a new 
 ribbon. 
 
 During this time the little old woman put on a 
 cotton dress with wide plaits; pinned a yellow 
 handkerchief with brown stripes, brilliant and 
 shaded like an African pink, upon her breast; 
 fastened the ties of a niched cap, ornamented 
 with two blue bows. Decidedly, Sister Dorothee 
 had forgotten nothing. So many fine things rep- 
 resented for her many hours of work, many late 
 nights, since the sisters have no leisure in the day- 
 time for these exceptional, fond indulgences. 
 
 Le Bolloche felt his heart swell with emotion 
 in thinking of it. He recalled the harsh words 
 which he had many times spoken. Tears came 
 to his eyes, and he had all the trouble in the world 
 to keep them back; for an old sergeant never 
 weeps. 
 
 But when they came out of the parlour and he 
 saw in the courtyard his cart freshly painted, the 
 donkey harnessed, combed, dressed for Sunday 
 too, with red pompons on the blinders, the poor 
 old man could not control his feelings; great tears 
 rolled down his cheeks. He went straight up to 
 Sister Dorothee, who was standing at the head of 
 the equipage, and took her hand. 
 
 "Sister!" he exclaimed with a stifled voice. 
 
 "What is it, my good man?" 
 
 "Sister, this is religion and the true kind. I 
 know it, you can believe me, for I have travelled 
 much! Yes, the true "
 
 OFTHEPOOR 247 
 
 He could not finish. But the sister understood 
 perfectly. He got into the cart, made his wife 
 sit down beside him, and touched up the donkey. 
 
 After a few paces he stopped the animal, turned 
 around and, with a face this time beaming, called 
 again : 
 
 "Sister Dorothee, since it appears that it will 
 give you pleasure, I will dance at the wedding of 
 DesireV 
 
 "Be good!" replied the sister. 
 
 And as she watched the couple ride off to the 
 slow trot of the donkey between the walls of the 
 neighbouring street, the sister felt a longing to 
 weep in her turn, feeling indeed that she had won 
 the heart of the old zouave, the most difficult of 
 her "little old men."
 
 THE RAPHAEL OF MONSIEUR 
 PRUNELIER.
 
 THE RAPHAEL OF MONSIEUR 
 PRUNELIER. 
 
 I. 
 
 WHY was he walking along the bank of the Aulne, 
 he who never walked for pleasure? Why saun- 
 tering leisurely along the pleasant path, bordered 
 with beech-trees, which leads from Port-Launay 
 to Chateaulin, with beaming countenance, nod- 
 ding with a paternal gesture to the washerwomen 
 who were kneeling at intervals on the sloping 
 bank and who stopped beating the linen long 
 enough to say: "Bon jour, Monsieur Piedouche!" 
 That is a point which no one can explain. Mon- 
 sieur Piedouche, for thirty years banker at Cha- 
 teaulin, wealthy, influential, and esteemed, never 
 confided his affairs to any one. A despatch from 
 the Stock Exchange that afternoon had put him in 
 a good humour; that is all that the best-informed 
 of his clerks knew. He left his office and after 
 an hour's walk was now returning, pleased with 
 himself, the weather, the landscape filled with 
 overflowing sympathy for the beggars of the street. 
 His joy found expression in every way, in alms, 
 bows, smiles, in humming or whistling refrains 
 
 251
 
 252 THE RAPHAEL OF 
 
 of his youth. Bubbling over with happiness, he 
 was seized with an irresistible desire to buy some- 
 thing, and an engraving in the rue du Tribunal 
 catching his eye, he stopped. 
 
 The engraving, exposed with several others in 
 the low window of an old house, was plainly a 
 Nicholas Berghem. The subject was a group of 
 trees half stripped of their leaves, a ford, a woman 
 on a donkey, a fleecy sky the whole in the most 
 pleasing style and precisely in the key in which 
 the spirit of Monsieur Pie"douche was pitched. 
 
 "I am going to give pleasure to two persons," 
 he thought: "to myself, in the first place, and 
 then to poor Monsieur Prunelier." 
 
 He ascended the three moss-grown steps, worn 
 on the edges where so many generations had trod, 
 and rung the bell. The mistress of the house 
 answered the bell. She was plainly not a woman 
 of the country. Her fair hair rolled back over a 
 shell comb, something alert and quick in her 
 movements, a youthful look, in spite of the forty 
 years which had marked the rosy face with fine 
 crossed lines, her speech, too, so quick and with- 
 out accent in short, her whole personality was 
 different from that of the provincial woman. As 
 soon as she had ushered Monsieur Piedouche into 
 the drawing-room, she seated herself upon a low 
 chair, her back against the light. 
 
 "You wish to see Monsieur Prunelier?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "No, Madame." 
 
 "What a pity!" she continued, without heed- 
 ing the reply; "my husband is out, I do not ex-
 
 MONSIEUR PRUNELIER 253 
 
 pect him home before six o'clock this evening. 
 But he will go to your house, you know. His 
 terms are the very lowest : for a simple crayon five 
 francs only for a sitting, and likeness guaranteed; 
 naturally oil is dearer. I strongly advise you to 
 have oil. Oil is Monsieur Prunelier's specialty. 
 Felix has so much talent!" 
 
 "You are mistaken," interrupted the banker. 
 "I have no intention of having my portrait 
 painted. I came in merely to ask the price of the 
 engraving in the window below." 
 
 The poor woman had hoped something more 
 from the visit of the banker. Sensitive, like those 
 who have known better days, she held up her 
 head and replied with a somewhat piqued air: 
 
 "The Berghem of Monsieur Prunelier is not 
 for sale." 
 
 The banker, who was a kind-hearted man, rose 
 and, desiring to take his leave graciously, pointed 
 to three paintings hanging above the sofa of worn 
 cretonne: "Samples of your famous collection, 
 Madame Prunelier? They are beautiful paint- 
 ings!" 
 
 "They are by Lancret," she replied with indif- 
 ference; "the French school. Lancret is a mas- 
 ter much sought after at sales." 
 
 "Very much sought after," repeated the banker 
 vaguely, not knowing much about it, -but still 
 desirous of leaving an agreeable impression. 
 
 "Would you care to visit the gallery?" asked 
 Madame Prunelier at once. 
 
 He accepted. He was not sorry to see this col- 
 lection which had a reputation throughout Finis-
 
 254 THE RAPHAEL OF 
 
 tre and which caused the people of Chateaulin 
 to say: "You know, whenever the Pruneliers want 
 to have an income, it will be easy for them." 
 
 Madame Prunelier led the way; she left him 
 for an instant standing before a door, while she 
 went for the key, came back, opened the door 
 and stood aside that the banker might enter first 
 and receive better "the shock of the masters." 
 
 It was dazzling, in fact, at first sight. From 
 the four walls of the room hung with paintings 
 in gilded frames, sparks flashed forth, a diffusion 
 of red and yellow gold, and mingled with tiny 
 glints from the varnish, with reflections from 
 brilliant draperies, trailing from the inclined can- 
 vases and stretching out on the white and brown 
 parquetry, a fine inlaid floor on which the three 
 windows of the fagade were reflected as in a mirror. 
 
 A second surprise followed. Each picture bore 
 the name of the artist upon a scroll. And what 
 names! The greatest of all schools, of all ages, 
 grouped together by a magic wand which had not 
 forgotten any! Ruysdael elbowed Hobbema; a 
 beggar of Ribera invoked a Virgin of Leonardo; 
 two paintings of Perugini flanked a triptych of 
 the elder Holbein. There were smaller canvases 
 by Teniers, Potter, Fragonard. Certain ones, a 
 very few, joined with an "Anonymous" which 
 greatly lessened their importance, were placed 
 in the corners, bearing the legend: "Venetian 
 School," "Florentine School," "Flemish School." 
 
 "All these have been discovered, restored, and 
 retouched by Monsieur Prunelier," said the lady 
 after a moment; "Felix has so much talent!"
 
 MONSIEUR PRUNELIER 255 
 
 Then perceiving how little artistic discernment 
 was shown by Monsieur Pie"douche, who only 
 paused before the carved frames, she exclaimed 
 amiably : 
 
 "This one is our Poussin, French school, 'The 
 Kiss of Saint Dominic and Saint Francis. ' ' 
 
 The banker thought to himself that the two 
 saints looked like two rogues, but was not rude 
 enough to say so. 
 
 "This one here," continued the hostess, "is a 
 painting of the first order: 'The Combat,' by Sal- 
 vator Rosa. Notice what relief, what lif e ! Roths- 
 child would have had this long ago had we been 
 willing." 
 
 This seemed greatly to impress Monsieur Pie"- 
 douche. He examined the painting very closely. 
 The rumps of three horses occupied the fore- 
 ground, and behind these dappled-grey rotundi- 
 ties a frightful conflict of factions appeared to 
 be taking place. 
 
 "Then you were not willing?" he asked. 
 
 "Naturally." 
 
 He lifted his eyebrows in a way which showed 
 that he did not comprehend in the least why 
 Monsieur Prunelier had not yielded to the en- 
 treaties of Rothschild. 
 
 "Where is it signed?" he asked. "I have so 
 little knowledge of paintings that I do not know 
 even whether one should look for the signature 
 on the right or the left." 
 
 The poor man was ignorant that these searches 
 for paternity in private collections are usually in 
 the worst taste. Madame Prunelier made him 
 conscious of this.
 
 256 THE RAPHAEL OF 
 
 "You should know," she said, "that Salvator 
 rarely ever signed. After all, what does a signa- 
 ture amount to? It is the brush, Monsieur, the 
 composition, the colouring, which are the true 
 signature, that which cannot be imitated!" 
 
 Under this shower of censures, Monsieur Pie- 
 douche continued his way along the same wall. 
 Only he made more haste. 
 
 Madame Prunelier was silent, and let him walk 
 along. But when she saw that her visitor was 
 approaching the last panel, that he was on the 
 point of passing perhaps without noticing it, 
 this masterpiece, enshrined in an open-worked, 
 carved ebony frame, she could not resist the 
 temptation of rejoining him and resuming her 
 r61e of cicerone. 
 
 "A Raphael!" she murmured in a slow, dreamy 
 voice, suffused with emotion. She waited. 
 
 However determined Monsieur Piedouche was 
 not to show the slightest sign of scepticism again, 
 he gave a slight start at this name. 
 
 "You are amazed! Every one feels the same!" 
 continued Madame Prunelier in the same stifled 
 tone. " Yes, Monsieur, a Raphael Sanzio ! a copy 
 of this Madonna is in the Naples Museum." 
 
 The banker bowed. 
 
 "I say a copy truly. Some amateurs of Cha- 
 teaulin recently visited Naples and saw the copy; 
 on their return, they declared to me, standing here 
 in the very place where you are: 'It is beauti- 
 ful, Madame Prunelier, but it is not like this! 
 In your gallery one feels that they are in the pres- 
 ence of the original.' That is exactly what you 
 have just experienced. I watched for that move-
 
 MONSIEUR PRUNELIER 257 
 
 ment of the shoulders, that shiver of authenticity, 
 as my husband terms it." 
 
 The worthy man, grown prudent, did not 
 breathe a word. She looked at him for an in- 
 stant and concluded with this phrase, which was 
 a warning: 
 
 "Besides, the Raphael of Monsieur Prunelier 
 has never been questioned!" 
 
 Monsieur Piedouche had no desire to question 
 the Raphael. He passed down the stairs and was 
 on the point of taking leave of Madame Prunelier 
 when the door opened and Monsieur Prunelier, 
 tall and ungainly, his hat on his head, came 
 in like a whirlwind. Monsieur Prunelier's eyes 
 were set wide apart, giving him a grim look. He 
 fastened one of them on the banker and his 
 glance asked: "What kind of a man is he? Oil? 
 Crayon? Simple cockney ! " 
 
 "Monsieur has just visited our gallery," re- 
 plied his wife. 
 
 Monsieur Prunelier shrugged his shoulders, 
 vexed no doubt at having wasted so much time 
 on a bourgeois, pushed open the door of the draw- 
 ing-room with his hand and disappeared, saying: 
 
 " I wish to speak to you, Valentine." 
 
 Then as soon as he was alone with her in the 
 dining-room adjoining the drawing-room, where 
 she had followed in haste and anxious, he cried, 
 still tragic : 
 
 "Valentine, there is going to be an Exposition 
 of Fine Arts at Chateaulin!" 
 
 She divined the unexpressed thought of the 
 master. Something sorrowful and tender passed
 
 258 THE RAPHAEL OF 
 
 over her face and, wishing to be certain, she said : 
 "Well, Fe-lix?" 
 
 He was still theatrical when he answered : 
 
 "I have decided! I will exhibit it! I wish to 
 sell it. Do not forbid me ! " 
 
 But she was natural and touching when she 
 thanked him, saying, her eyes moist with great 
 tears: 
 
 "You are generous, Felix, you are brave. It 
 is well!" 
 
 But emotion was not lasting with either of 
 them. They sat down to table before a slice of 
 pate" and a plate of cherries, found that they were 
 hungry, and began talking and laughing about 
 Monsieur Pie"douche, about the provincial bour- 
 geois, as they had not talked or laughed for 
 twenty years, not since the golden age when, on 
 Sunday, in a corner of Clamart or Meudon, fa- 
 tigued by a long walk through the woods, with 
 pockets full of nuts and hearts full of hope, they 
 dined under sunny trellises, facing hazy Paris. 
 
 II. 
 
 It is a long way from Paris to Chateaulin! 
 How had they, he Gascon, she Parisienne, both 
 Bohemians and crazy about the great city, ever 
 come to run aground there? What reason had 
 led them to choose this corner of Brittany the 
 most common one, alas? After ten years spent 
 in expectation of a medal from the Salon, the 
 medal failed to come; the dot of Madame Pru- 
 nelier was consumed; Monsieur Prunelier was
 
 MONSIEUR PRUNELIER 259 
 
 soured. During the winter they lived a life of 
 makeshifts; in summer, for the sake of econ- 
 omy, they travelled in the poor districts, where 
 they found hotels at four francs, candles included. 
 Prunelier continued his work of painting land- 
 scapes which never sold. It happened that once, 
 at Chateaulin to be precise, some one ordered a 
 portrait from him. The order was scarcely fin- 
 ished when there came a second, then a third. 
 People begged him to restore the portraits of 
 their ancestors. Women of the world addressed 
 him as: "My dear Monsieur Prunelier," and 
 many suggested that he should open a school of 
 design. He was flattered. He fancied that the 
 vein would never be exhausted, and he settled 
 down in the midst of his models. 
 
 And now he had lived at Chateaulin for ten 
 years, less and less occupied. His wife took care 
 of him, nursed him in the tepid atmosphere of 
 illusions which suited his childish nature. She 
 was a worthy woman, endowed with the energy of 
 the Parisian women, who are models of patience, 
 of invention, of courage in the struggle with pov- 
 erty. You can readily guess that she had often 
 thought of selling the Raphael. It would have 
 been so good to have no more debts, to live lib- 
 erally, to be able to buy curtains for the windows, 
 and the fur cape which she coveted; to have 
 flowers in profusion, and who knows to dare to 
 say to Monsieur Prunelier on waking some morn- 
 ing: "Felix, your youth and mine are calling us 
 yonder. Do you hear them singing on both 
 banks of the Seine our twenty years of love, our
 
 260 THE RAPHAEL OF 
 
 long hopes, our many friendships and many de- 
 lightful hours, the poorest of which I regret now? 
 Come, let us be off, will you, since we are rich?" 
 Yes, she had dreamed of all that very often, with- 
 out ever putting it in words. The sacrifice of 
 alienating the gem of his collection would have 
 been too cruel for Monsieur Prunelier, and the 
 worthy woman displayed not a little of her ten- 
 derness in never hinting at such a separation. 
 
 But now! Now that he had resolved of his 
 own accord to exhibit his masterpiece, to sell it, 
 witness this human weakness: she had no longer 
 the courage to say no; she felt a joy for which 
 she reproached herself; the Raphael became odious 
 to her; she would be glad to know that it was far 
 away, in the chateau of one of those English lords 
 who pay fabulous prices for rare works of art. 
 Would this exposition never begin? 
 
 The day came, however, as all days, desired or 
 not, do come. In the great hall of the civil court, 
 then in recess, artists of every class, especially 
 those who frequent the Breton coast, had sent 
 countless apple-trees in bloom, numbers of marine 
 views with a flame of light trailing over the 
 waters, fisherwomen of Feyen-Perrin, peasant 
 girls bearing a likeness to those of Jules Breton, 
 and five or six canvases, huge since they treated 
 of history, and a still life. Upon a panel reserved 
 in the midst of old paintings loaned from the cha- 
 teaux of Finistere, and filling its space, were the 
 three pearls of Monsieur Prunelier: the Pous- 
 sin, the Salvator Rosa, and the Raphael. These
 
 MONSIEUR PRUNELIER 261 
 
 three names, freshly gilded, glistened at the foot 
 of the frames. A pennant of cardboard under 
 them, extending out three yards in length, bore 
 the inscription: "From the gallery of M. Prunelier 
 (Felix), artist, at Chateaulin. For sale." 
 
 The artist, his exhibitor's card fastened by 
 a rubber and dangling from his buttonhole, 
 came and went as in his own house, at any 
 hour, without paying, which fact rejoiced him 
 every time. People stared at him a great deal. 
 He remained there whole afternoons, mingling 
 with groups of visitors, trying to seize a word of 
 praise, if need be to call it forth, and ready to 
 reply to the offers of purchasers, for crowds of 
 people visited the exposition. Bills placarded in 
 all the towns of the west summoned the people 
 to visit the "Fetes of Chateaulin on the occasion 
 of the Fine Arts Exposition." The newspapers, 
 even those of Paris, applauded this trial of "ar- 
 tistic decentralisation" and Monsieur Prunelier, 
 exultant, had read to his wife these lines taken 
 from one of them: "The gem of the Exposition 
 is without dispute the Raphael from the collec- 
 tion of Monsieur Prunelier, one of the most dis-; 
 tinguished amateurs of Chateaulin. This superb 
 canvas is for sale. We would like to hope that the 
 Administration of the Fine Arts will not a second 
 time let itself be forestalled by foreign competi- 
 tion, and that our Louvre, so poor ..." etc. 
 
 From that moment, Madame Prunelier never 
 left the house. 
 
 "You understand, Valentine," the painter had 
 said, " a delegate from the Fine Arts Administra-
 
 262 THE RAPHAEL OF 
 
 tion may come here. He must find some one to 
 talk with. I shall be at the Exposition. Do not 
 budge from the house, so that we shall not miss 
 him." 
 
 She had faithfully observed the order; she 
 trembled at every peal of the bell, imagined a 
 hundred times that she saw him pass the house, 
 as her husband fancied that he recognised him 
 among the visitors. 
 
 "That must have been he/' she said; "that tall, 
 slender man with decorations, and with a port- 
 folio. He seemed to be a stranger in Chateaulin." 
 
 "He did not come in?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Doubtless he went to the hotel. He will 
 come to-morrow, Valentine." 
 
 The month passed; the Exposition closed; the 
 delegate had not appeared. Monsieur Prunelier 
 began to speak in the harshest terms of "that 
 Administration, the most indifferent in Europe," 
 when, one morning, as he was working alone in 
 the little dining-room, the postman brought a let- 
 ter of elongated form bearing a foreign stamp. 
 At once Monsieur Prunelier comprehended that 
 the decisive hour had come. There was the 
 printed address of the sender upon the envelope: 
 "Thos. Shepherd and Sons, dealers in antique 
 paintings, 253 Southampton Street, London." 
 Beneath this, in an admirable English handwri- 
 ting : " Monsieur Prunelier (Felix)," and in a corner 
 the word " Confidential." The painter tore it open, 
 uttered a cry, and began dancing about the room. 
 
 Ten minutes seemed an hour to him. When he
 
 MONSIEUR PRUNELIER 263 
 
 heard the grating of the key in the lock, he threw 
 himself in front of his wife, who had returned from 
 market. 
 
 "Sold! "he cried, "sold!" 
 
 She turned very pale, and staggering, without 
 saying a word, followed her husband into the di- 
 ning-room. He closed the doors, made her sit 
 down near the table, took both her hands in his, 
 and while his eyes, his mobile nostrils, his mouth, 
 hidden in the waves of his grey beard, and his 
 whole face beamed, he repeated : 
 
 " Do you understand? Sold ! " 
 
 She smiled with an effort like a person who is 
 not mistress of her first emotion and who still 
 doubts : 
 
 "Really, Felix! He came then while I was 
 out?" 
 
 " No, a letter came from a large firm in London. 
 So much the worse for the Administration! You 
 do not think that I should wait any longer?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" she cried eagerly, "I beseech you!" 
 
 "It is a sacrifice for me, Valentine. My pa- 
 triotism suffers at the thought of it; to see a 
 masterpiece like that pass into the hands of for- 
 eigners, a masterpiece!" 
 
 "How much do they offer you?" she inter- 
 rupted. And in the glance she fixed upon her 
 husband one could have read that it was the ques- 
 tion of poverty or of a happy life which she was 
 asking. He turned away his eyes and said, let- 
 ting his fingers slip over the table : 
 
 " Mon Dieu! it is not a fortune much less than 
 it is worth eight hundred francs."
 
 264 THE RAPHAEL OF 
 
 Madame Prunelier bounded from her chair: 
 
 " Eight hundred francs ! The Raphael ! " 
 
 "No, my dear/' replied Monsieur Prunelier, 
 lowering his voice, "the Raphael with the Pous- 
 sin and the Salvator. I confess it it is very 
 
 "What are you saying? For the three! Why, 
 it is a joke, a frightful cheat or indeed then your 
 collection is 
 
 "Valentine!" 
 
 "Well, what is one to think? That passes the 
 limit indeed ! Eight hundred francs for a Raphael 
 that has never been questioned ! How many times 
 have you told me that it had never been " 
 
 "They do not question it, my dear! They 
 write explicitly: 'Your Raphael, your Poussin, 
 your Salvator!' Look at it. The trouble is that 
 there is no demand for art any longer; no more 
 at London than at Chateaulin! Is it my fault? 
 Oh! why did you come in? I was so happy a 
 few moments ago!" 
 
 Great tears rolled down the cheeks of the 
 painter, dropping upon his shaggy beard. He 
 looked so unhappy that his wife pitied him. She 
 went up to him and kissed him. 
 
 "My poor Felix," she cried, "I had foolish 
 ideas, you see. That Madonna represented a for- 
 tune to me. After all, eight hundred francs is 
 something certainly! It will help us veiy much." 
 
 Already he was consoled, this old baby whom 
 a caress appeased and a word of hope carried off 
 into dreamland. 
 
 "You are an admirable woman!" he exclaimed, 
 "a true wife for an artist! You may be sure that
 
 MONSIEUR PRUNELIER 265 
 
 I am going to work hard, yes, indeed! You will 
 see. It gives me courage to see a little water come 
 to the mill. For you have just said with truth 
 eight hundred francs is something! I shall buy 
 you a cloak for the winter, the first thing." 
 
 "No, no, Felix, I do not want one." 
 
 "But since I offer it to you, Valentine! We 
 will discuss that later. Let us go for a walk now, 
 will you?" 
 
 Monsieur Prunelier took his wife's arm and 
 drew her outside. He needed to show his joy. 
 And the day without was truly of exquisite and 
 tempting clearness; the gillyflowers along the 
 worn walls of the old courts were drinking in the 
 sunshine. The streams of light, which searched 
 every place, silvered the fragments of mica in the 
 granite of the sombre houses. The large windows, 
 with their tiny panes, were open on each side of 
 the street; and the housewives, whom the mere 
 sound of footsteps attracts, looked down aston- 
 ished to see Monsieur Prunelier, who was walking 
 slowly, contrary to his custom, his head uplifted, 
 rejuvenated, with the air of a new man among 
 new things. 
 
 They were not mistaken. He was walking in 
 the full vision of the future. It is true he was no 
 longer twenty, but life still stretched out a long 
 way before him; above all, he was happy. With 
 the price of his Raphael, he was buying a bond 
 and likewise a suit of blue fine-twilled flannel, 
 ample and soft, a morning suit fit for a gentleman 
 artist. 
 
 He even saw a pupil in his enlarged studio; a
 
 266 THE RAPHAEL OF 
 
 pupil with a pointed beard, come to study under 
 his direction, to learn how to transfer and to re- 
 store works of art. For in these days he thought 
 much less of making himself the head of a school 
 and of preparing for the Prix de Rome. Madame 
 Prunelier listened to him, still sad from the dis- 
 appointment that she had experienced, but also 
 pleased to see his happiness. They met Monsieur 
 Piedouche, and Monsieur Prunelier accosted him 
 f amiliarly : 
 
 "You remember that Raphael that you did 
 not take seriously?" he said. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "It is sold to England." . 
 
 "Is it possible?" 
 
 "As I tell you. All the profits, you see, are 
 not in banks, Monsieur Piedouche: art has its 
 returns, too!" 
 
 The banker was a kind man. He replied with 
 sincerity : 
 
 "So much the better, Monsieur Prunelier, so 
 much the better!" 
 
 The couple continued their walk. They crossed 
 the Aulne, turned to the left, and went up by the 
 path which the pardon processions follow, to the 
 hills overlooking the little town. They sat down. 
 The river made a bend at their feet ; a double wall 
 of trees turned with it; here and there wooded 
 heights loomed up in the vast horizon; the sky 
 was blue. 
 
 "It looks a little like Saint-Germain," said 
 Monsieur Prunelier. "Do you recollect the day 
 after our marriage when we walked upon the
 
 MONSIEUR PRUNELIER 267 
 
 terrace? I was twenty-four. How pretty you 
 were, Valentine! It was a bright day like this; 
 do you remember it?" 
 
 For the moment Madame Prunelier was caught 
 in the snare of recollections. Both travelled far 
 back into the joyous past; both agreed that life 
 has its sweet hours, and when they went down 
 the hill, a long time after, Chateaulin received a 
 little smile like that of former days from Madame 
 Prunelier, a smile that was intended for Saint- 
 Germain-en-Laye. 
 
 From that time Monsieur Prunelier began to 
 expect the payment for his Raphael with the 
 confiding tranquillity of those who have usually 
 only creditors. 
 
 III. 
 
 Three months later the painter, sick with pov- 
 erty and with grief, was forced to keep his bed. 
 Alas! That great English firm! It had had the 
 audacity, some weeks after the delivery of the 
 paintings, to claim the frames, all three antique, 
 which Monsieur Prunelier had believed himself 
 authorised to keep, in view of the low price for 
 the paintings. The firm gave him to understand 
 that, as soon as this condition was fulfilled, pay- 
 ment would follow. The poor man had sent the 
 frames on to rejoin Salvator, Raphael, and Pous- 
 sin. But nothing had come back in return; not 
 one penny! Wasted and dejected, he was lying 
 in his curtainless iron bed a prey to fever. The 
 famous cloak of imitation fur, bought on credit,
 
 268 THE RAPHAEL OF 
 
 which covered his feet in the guise of an eider- 
 down, the paper of the room, loose and hanging 
 from the wall in places, the chair rounds and bits 
 of board smouldering in the chimney-place, every- 
 thing around him proclaimed a poverty against 
 which one struggles no more. 
 
 It was the end! What was the use of mending; 
 what was the good of keeping things? The mas- 
 ter was dying! In order to buy medicine for 
 him, or some sweets which he liked, Madame Pru- 
 nelier deprived herself of food. 
 
 She forced herself to give him courage and, 
 although she had not had the slightest ray of hope 
 for a long tune, she often talked as if she had. 
 Her turn had come to call the future to the aid 
 of the present; twenty times a day she would go 
 up to the invalid and say with a faint smile : 
 
 " I do not know why, Felix, but I have an idea 
 that we shall be paid? Some one was saying 
 yesterday that nothing was lost! What a pleas- 
 ure it will be, will it not, as soon as you are better, 
 to go and cash the bill of exchange? We will 
 pay our debts, Felix, all our debts, and there is 
 sure to be something left; I have calculated that 
 there would be something left." 
 
 But he had lost faith in life. She looked at 
 him, turned away; already the smile had van- 
 ished. 
 
 One evening the bell rang, and Monsieur Pi- 
 douche was ushered up. His face wore a dis- 
 creetly beaming smile as he entered the sick-cham- 
 ber; his watch-charms moved upon his panting 
 breast. On seeing him seat himself at the foot
 
 MONSIEUR PRUNELIER 269 
 
 of the bed, the sick man raised himself upon his 
 elbow. A lightning-flash of his proud youth as 
 a fierce artist, a gleam of his old dislike for the 
 bourgeois, blazed in his eyes. 
 
 "How are you, Monsieur Prunelier?" asked 
 the banker. 
 
 "Poorly, Monsieur." 
 
 "What is the trouble?" 
 
 " My mainspring is broken." 
 
 "Sapristi! This is not the moment for that! 
 Our affairs are going well." 
 
 " Not mine always " 
 
 "But here is the proof, my dear sir." 
 
 The banker took four bank-notes from his 
 pocketbook and tendered them to the poor Bo- 
 hemian. Monsieur Prunelier, who had instinc- 
 tively reached out his hand, withdrew it with 
 dignity. 
 
 "By what right, if you please?" he demanded. 
 
 The other coloured slightly and said : 
 
 "Why it is an instalment from the English 
 firm." * 
 
 "Shepherd & Sons?" 
 
 "Precisely." 
 
 "That is all right, Monsieur; pardon me, I 
 thought that it might be charity." 
 
 The poor man seized the bank-bills, counted 
 them, turned them over, arranged them one after 
 the other on his bed. You would have said that 
 he had taken a new lease of life. The despondency 
 from which nothing had roused him until then 
 disappeared by degrees; he began to talk and 
 chatted for more than a quarter of an hour. A
 
 270 MONSIEUR PRUNELIER 
 
 glimmer of gaiety even touched him, and he recov- 
 ered his bantering studio tone enough to say to 
 the banker when he was taking his leave : 
 
 "Joker! You see now that I was not mistaken! 
 It was a large firm!" 
 
 Illusions, smiling queens of the world, how this 
 man belonged to you! 
 
 He died. But he left by will to his widow, "In 
 return for her unalterable devotion in good as in 
 evil fortune," all his property, personal and real 
 estate, in full ownership, notably the balance of 
 the credit of Shepherd & Sons, of London. 
 
 The banker paid a second time, with the same 
 money doubtless as the first, without requiring 
 a commission. 
 
 Madame Prunelier, grateful for his kind treat- 
 ment, begged Monsieur Piedouche to accept the 
 Berghem engraving. 
 
 It was in his house that I saw it, hanging in the 
 banker's library above the scales with which he 
 weighs gold a pretty Dutch landscape, with its 
 mill, its river, its pale sun, discreet as a smile 
 of pity. 
 
 Monsieur Piedouche prizes it highly. He looks 
 at it with a pleasure in which its art has little 
 share, for one day when some one asked him : 
 
 "How much did you give for it?" 
 
 He answered thoughtlessly: 
 
 "Eight hundred francs." 
 
 And at the other's exclamation of surprise, the 
 worthy man added : 
 
 "I would not sell it for double the money."
 
 Books by RENE BAZIN 
 
 PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 THE BARRIER 
 
 (LA BARRIERE) 
 $1.00 net 
 
 "The author has never shown greater perfection of 
 style." London Athenaum. 
 
 " The human soul is laid bare with the skill of the surgeon. 
 The author tenderly unfolds its mysteries, awakening the 
 sympathy and holding the interest of the reader to the 
 last, regardless of his creed or of his personal beliefs." 
 
 Philadelphia Ledger, 
 
 " No one will read it without being made the better 
 by it." The Pilot. 
 
 THIS, MY SON 
 
 (LES NOELLETS) 
 $1.25 net 
 
 " One of the author's strong books, tingles with a hidden 
 electric power. Father and son front each other like 
 angry wave and beetling rock. ... A masterpiece of 
 pathos. " America. 
 
 " One of the most powerful of the Bazin creations. It 
 is vibrant with life and strong in passion and in con- 
 trasts." Philadelphia Record.
 
 BOOKS BY RENE BAZIN 
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 $1.25 net 
 
 "To read his books is much like viewing a picture by 
 Millet. There is the same pervading sense of religious 
 sentiment, the same unobtrusive little touches that give 
 life and atmosphere to the picture, and the same refresh- 
 ing quality of pastoral simplicity." Philadelphia Press. 
 
 " There is not a dull or hackneyed page between its 
 covers." Chicago Record- Herald. 
 
 REDEMPTION 
 
 (DE TOUTE SON AME) 
 $1.25 net 
 
 " A fascinating story. Simple in construction, common- 
 place in incident, it is a superb delineation of the glory 
 of consecration and sacrifice exemplified in the life of 
 a young girl of the people." Catholic World. 
 
 " The work is remarkable for its literary beauty and 
 strength. Once read it will never be forgotten." 
 
 Cleveland Plain Dealer.
 
 BOOKS BY RENE BAZIN 
 
 THE 
 COMING HARVEST 
 
 (LE BLE QUI LEVE) 
 $1.25 net 
 
 "He gives us the everyday life of the work- 
 ing men and women of France. . . . Rene 
 Bazin makes pictures on every page of this 
 story that ought to be inspiration for a thou- 
 sand painters." 
 
 New York Freeman s Journal. 
 
 "It is so far out of the ordinary run of books 
 published to-day that it causes a distinct sur- 
 prise. Bazin has indeed touched the heights 
 of human emotion and the depths of human 
 sorrow. On every page are the unmistakable 
 earmarks of greatness." 
 
 Louisville Evening Post. 
 
 "We shall not be the worse for such a book 
 as this. A novel well made and also (mirabile 
 dictu) well translated; a novel instinct with 
 human sympathy and withal a novel of ideas 
 and sentiment." Philadelphia Public Ledger.
 
 BOOKS BY RENE BAZIN 
 
 THE NUN 
 
 (L'ISOLEE) 
 $1.00 net 
 
 "It is the epic of the persecuted church, terrible 
 in its truth, terrible in its portent, terrible in its 
 indictment." The Monitor. 
 
 "The Nun is a book which no one who reads it 
 will ever forget." Westminster Gazette. 
 
 "This work eats into the heart, and lives in the 
 memory as do but few books from modern 
 authors." London Daily Telegraph. 
 
 "M. Bazin gives some beautiful pictures of 
 life in a convent, of the order, the discipline, 
 the labors and the sacrifice of the gentle women 
 of the Sisterhood." Philadelphia Record. 
 
 "Told simply yet with such power that one 
 cannot get away from the scenes he depicts nor 
 forget the portrait he draws." 
 
 Donahoe's Magazine.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 -URU 
 
 K 
 
 ; 
 
 131970 
 
 Form L9-17m-8,'55(B3339s4)444
 
 A 000629416 9