THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN 
 
 AND OTHER TALES FROM THE FRENCH
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN 
 
 AND OTHER TALES FROM THE FRENCH 
 
 ANDREW LANG AND PAUL SYLVESTER 
 
 LONDON 
 
 SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO. 
 
 PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 
 1889
 
 BtJTtm * TABB. 
 
 TBI BSIATOOD Pwmrwo WORKS, 
 
 FROK, AITD LouixR'.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION . . . ... . . vii 
 
 THE DEAD LEHAN . . 1 
 
 HOW WE TOOK THE REDOUBT .... 56 
 
 THE TAPER 67 
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD . " . . . .86 
 
 A CONVERSION 169 
 
 THE ETRUSCAN YASE 248 
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY . 289 
 
 524377 
 
 LIBRAM
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 IN England, short stories tales which may be read in 
 half an hour are not so popular as they are in France 
 This may perhaps be explained, and certainly it 
 must be regretted. In a brief narrative, or romance, 
 nothing should be wasted, nothing should be super- 
 fluous, all should converge rapidly so as to produce 
 the desired effect, or to enhance the interest of the 
 given situation. Hence it is a misfortune that Eng- 
 lish taste is intolerant of short stories. They are 
 welcomed in a magazine or journal ; when collected 
 they are looked on with suspicion. Not long ago 
 a critic in Blackwood's Magazine rebuked Mr. Steven- 
 son for publishing a set of contes in a volume, as if 
 the performance were almost dishonourable. Some 
 strange prejudice whispers, apparently, that a short 
 
 vii
 
 Vlll INTKODUCTION. 
 
 story must be a "pot boiler," or at best a rough 
 sketch. Almost the reverse of this theory is often 
 true. 
 
 A writer has an idea, say, a set of characters, 
 or a given situation, which ought to be given in some 
 twenty pages. But he is made to understand that 
 he cannot afford thus to waste his idea. If he treats 
 it as it should be treated, he produces a magazine 
 tale which is not very remunerative ; and if he were 
 to write a dozen small master-pieces, and reprint them 
 in a volume, he would have, at best, a little praise as 
 the reward of his toil. The result is that the inventor 
 pads and bolsters his idea out into a three-volume 
 novel. He wastes his conception, he dilutes it, 
 he surrounds it with a mob of needless characters, 
 and a world of unnecessary incident ; but, at last, 
 he has a three- volume novel before him. It is 
 not, artistically, worth a fraction of what the brief 
 conte would have been worth ; but it is comparatively 
 prosperous in the commercial sense. So notorious is 
 this, that when an English author has accumulated 
 a budget of brief tales, his publisher often puts them 
 forth in three volumes, under the title of one or other
 
 INTRODUCTION. IX 
 
 of the narratives. Thus an unwary public may get 
 short stories from Mr. Mudie's without intending it, 
 under the impression that a regular novel has arrived. 
 In this way the art of fiction suffers, the author 
 suffers, and beginners feel obliged to write three 
 volumes of vast and wandering narrative before they 
 have proved, in less laborious fashion, and in a limited 
 field, whether or not they possess the right of telling 
 a story at all. 
 
 In France the conte, or short story, has always been 
 more fortunate. It is needless, here, to trace the 
 descent of the conte from the old fabliau, and from 
 the light rhymed tales of La Fontaine. Many 
 circumstances made the short story popular in 
 France. Perhaps the more quick and eager intellect 
 of the people does not dread, as we dread, the effort 
 of awakening the attention afresh a dozen times 
 in one volume. In England we seem to dislike this 
 effort. We prefer to make it only once, to get 
 interested in the characters once for all, and then to 
 loiter with them through, perhaps, 400,000 words of 
 more or less consecutive narrative. If this theory be 
 correct, short stories will never have much success
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 in England, and, consequently, will not often be well 
 written, because there is no prize in praise or money 
 offered to him who writes them well. It would be 
 hard to mention a single collection of conies which 
 has really prospered among English-speaking people, 
 except the stories of Poe. Experience proves that 
 the least excellent of Hawthorne's romances is better 
 liked than his volumes of little master-pieces. We 
 seem to hate literary kickshaws, and to clamour for 
 a round of literary beef. Older authors, Fielding and 
 Dickens, at first mixed up brief tales in their long 
 stories, but such tales were felt to be superfluous. 
 Only one of them is immortal, " Wandering Willie's 
 Tale," in Redgauntlet, that perfect model of a conte 
 in whose narrow range, humour, poetry, the gro- 
 tesque, the terrible are combined as in no other work 
 of man. 
 
 The French short story has for ally the agility 
 of the French mind, which does not decline the labour 
 of awaking its attention afresh at brief intervals. 
 The comparative licence of French art is also favour- 
 able to the conte. A short story needs a very power- 
 ful motive or situation, and the French can use motives
 
 INTRODUCTION. XI 
 
 and situations, both serious and ludicrous, which the 
 British author must avoid. It is not necessary to 
 discuss here the morality of many conies by M. Guy 
 de Maupassant, by " Gyp," by Theo Critt, and half a 
 dozen others. But it is plain to every observer that 
 these writers are permitted to approach sources of 
 mirth, of horror, of pity, of curiosity, which are closed 
 against their English contemporaries. Now the very 
 strength, or if any one prefers it, the very violence of 
 the emotions which the British author has to shun, 
 are congenial to the character of the short story. The 
 conte has little room for the links and loops of an 
 English love affair, whether it has to end in marriage 
 or in a broken heart. Adventure, accident, incident, 
 are more appropriate themes, and there are stores of 
 comic or tragic ideas, which we can only read about in 
 the comparative obscurity of a foreign language. The 
 supernatural offers motives well suited to the short 
 story, because in the short story you have not time to 
 become familiar with the strange and the terrible. On 
 the other hand, a ghost who pervades a whole novel, 
 like the White Lady of Avenel, or the spectre in the 
 Wizard's Son, ceases to alarm or greatly to interest.
 
 Xll INTRODUCTION. 
 
 We may use the supernatural in English, and our 
 tales -which deal with it Wandering Willie, Thrawn 
 Janet, The Beleaguered City are perhaps better than 
 anything of the kind in French. It would be difficult 
 to name a good ghost story in French, though George 
 Sand has a delicate touch in the supernatural. In 
 spite of our advantage here, it is curious that Poe, the 
 master of the conte in English, never introduces the 
 supernatural as an agent in his plots. 
 
 It is not probable that the stories in this little 
 collection will win many English readers to an 
 affection for the conte, though the translators hope 
 against hope for this result. There are, apparently, 
 people in this highly over- educated realm of England 
 who prefer to read French stories in English. To 
 them, if they care to leave their translations of 
 M. Fortune du Boisgobey and M. Zola, these versions 
 of tales more or less representative and classic are 
 respectfully offered. They are chosen from various 
 authors well known to fame, and it is curious that, in 
 one respect, they lack variety. The motive is usually 
 terrible and tragic, probably because, as we have said, 
 the short story needs powerful and striking situa-
 
 INTEODUCTION. Xlll 
 
 tions. Comic situations will also do, of course, but 
 here the difference between the French and the 
 English literary taste for jokes comes in. The anec- 
 dotes which we and the Americans "swap" in con- 
 versation, the " good stories " of oral tradition, and 
 of smoking rooms, are worked over by the French 
 with literary skill. But then they are " gentlemen's 
 stories," as one of Thackeray's ladies says, and shall 
 not by us be introduced to our audience, when the 
 British matron may be present, 
 
 A few words may be said about the tales of 
 which we offer versions. The Dead Leman is from 
 La Morte Amoureuse of Theophile Gautier. Yery 
 probably this is one of the tales concerning which 
 he told MM. de Goncourt that he often began 
 them in verse, but was forced after all, by the 
 public hatred of poetry, to tell them in prose. 
 It is rather a poetic impression, than a sense of 
 spiritual dread, (like that which haunts readers of 
 Mr. Stevenson's Thrawn Janet,} that Gautier meant to 
 produce. The two real elements of his genius, as he 
 said himself, were wild buffoonery and deep melan- 
 choly. He might have added, a singular love of
 
 XIV INTKODUCTION. 
 
 things rich, bright, coloured, and luxurious, of 
 gold, and roses, and ivory, and a rare skill in paint- 
 ing them with epithets. Examples of this are common 
 in La Morte Amoureuse. Had the tale been successful 
 enough, he would have been accused by spiteful 
 smatterers of stealing it from the famous and terrible 
 Greek ghost story which opens the book of Phlegon, 
 De Mirabilibus. But Phlegon's tale of the Dead 
 Bride is told with the " realism " of De Foe, and a 
 person with a taste for ghosts may shudder as he reads 
 Gautier scarcely aims at this result. From Balzac 
 we have only taken " The Doctor's Story," La Grande 
 Breteche. As this version may fall into the hands of a 
 reader who does not know the plot, it is only possible 
 to hint at its resemblances to one of Poe's best-known 
 tales. 
 
 From Merimee we take the spirited story of the 
 "Capture of the Kedoubt," and " The Etruscan Vase/' 
 chiefly because in the hero Merimee sketched him- 
 self, at least if M. de Goncourt's report is correct. 1 
 
 " They tell me that Merimee is a thing wholly 
 
 1 Journal, Jan. 3, 1864.
 
 INTRODUCTION. XV 
 
 compact of the fear of ridicule, which fell out thus : 
 When he was a child, he was scolded one day, 
 and as he left the room he heard his father and 
 mother laugh at his dolorous face. 
 
 " He swore that he would never be laughed at 
 again; he kept his word, and he dried up in the 
 process." 
 
 Saint Clair did not wholly "dry up" in "The 
 Etruscan Yase," and probably Merimee, when he 
 wrote the tale, was protesting in his own favour. 
 
 " These Lots to be Sold," is a fair example of About' s 
 lighter manner, and " A Conversion " is a specimen 
 of the lady's work who calls herself Th. Bentzon. 
 
 Perhaps a few words should be said on transla- 
 tion. Some arts have been lost ; the art of trans- 
 lation has never been discovered. All translators 
 labour after it ; we seek it like hidden treasure ; 
 we never find it. You cannot pour the wine with- 
 out spilling "from the golden cup to the silver." 
 Plenty of the original vintage has been spilt in 
 these attempts to pour it forth ; the English 
 language will not reply in tune to the touch of 
 the French. Perhaps this is most obvious in The
 
 XVI IJSTTEODUCTION. 
 
 Dead Leman, because the faint archaism, the perfume, 
 the poetry of Gautier's prose is the most difficult 
 to reproduce. An American attempt has been 
 made. We refrain from quoting this essay, in which 
 Romuald does not go to bed, but "retires," and 
 in which nothing begins, but everything <l com- 
 mences," The great and good-humoured shade of 
 Theophile will pardon the vain efforts of his alien 
 admirers. 
 
 A. L. 
 
 P. S.
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 (THEOPHILE GAUTIEB.) 
 
 HAVE I ever loved, you ask me, my brother? Yes, 
 I have loved ! The story is dread and marvellous, 
 and, for all my threescore years, I scarce dare stir 
 the ashes of that memory. To you I can refuse 
 nothing ; to a heart less steeled than yours this tale 
 could never be told by me. For these things were 
 so strange that I can scarce believe they came 
 into my own existence. Three long years was I the 
 puppet of a delusion of the devil. Three long 
 years was I a parish priest by day, while by night, 
 in dreams (God grant they were but dreams!), I
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 led the life of a child of this world, of a lost soul ! 
 For one kind glance at a woman's face was my 
 spirit to be doomed; but at length, with God to 
 aid and my patron saint, it was given to me to 
 drive away the evil spirit that possessed me. 
 
 I lived a double life, by night and by day. All 
 day long was I a pure priest of the Lord, con- 
 cerned only with prayer and holy things; but no 
 sooner did I close my eyes in sleep than I was 
 a young knight, a lover of women, of horses, of 
 hounds, a drinker, a dicer, a blasphemer, and, 
 when I woke at dawn, meseemed that I was fallen 
 on sleep, and did but dream that I was a priest. 
 From those years of dreaming certain memories yet 
 remain with me; memories of words and things 
 that will not down. Ay, though I have never left 
 the walls of my vicarage, he who heard me would 
 rather deem me one that had lived in the world 
 and left it, to die in religion, and end in the 
 breast of God his tumultuous days, than for a
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 priest grown old in a forgotten cure, deep in u 
 wood, and far from the things of this earth. 
 
 Yes, I have loved as never man loved, with a 
 wild love and a terrible, so that I marvel my 
 heart did not burst in twain. Oh, the nights of 
 long ago ! 
 
 From my earliest childhood had I felt the call 
 to be a priest. This was the end of all my studies, 
 and, till I was twenty- four, my days were one long 
 training. My theological course achieved, I took 
 the lesser orders, and at length, at the end of Holy 
 Week, was to be the hour of my ordination. 
 
 I had never entered the world; my world was 
 the college close. Vaguely I knew that womaii 
 existed, but of women I never thought. My heart 
 was wholly pure. Even my old and infirm mother 
 I saw but twice a year; of other worldly relations 
 I had none. 
 
 I had no regrets, and no hesitations in taking 
 the irrevocable vow ; nay, I was full of an impatient
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 joy. Never did a young bridegroom so eagerly 
 count the hours to his wedding. In my broken sleep 
 I dreamed of saying the Mass. To be a priest 
 seemed to me the noblest thing in the world, and 
 I would have disdained the estate of poet or of 
 king. To be a priest ! My ambition saw nothing 
 higher. 
 
 All this I tell you that you may know how little 
 I deserved that which befel me; that you may 
 know how inexplicable was the fascination by 
 which I was overcome. 
 
 The great day came, and I walked to church as 
 if I were winged or trod on air. I felt an angelic 
 beatitude, and marvelled at the gloomy and thought- 
 ful faces of my companions, for we were many. 
 The night I had passed in prayer. I was all but 
 entranced in ecstasy. The bishop, a venerable old 
 man, was in my eyes like God the Father bowed 
 above His own eternity, and I seemed to see heaven 
 open beyond the arches of the minster.
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 You know the ceremony : the Benediction, the 
 Communion in both kinds, the anointing of the 
 palms of the hands with consecrated oil, and finally 
 the celebration of the Holy Rite, offered up in 
 company with the bishop. On these things I will 
 not linger, but oh, how true is the word of Job, 
 tlat be is foolish who maketh not a covenant with 
 his eyes ! I chanced to raise my head, and saw 
 lefore me, so near that it seemed I could touch 
 her, though in reality she was at some distance, 
 and on the farther side of a railing, a youug 
 dame royally clad, and of incomparable beauty. 
 
 It was as if scales had fallen from my eyes; and 
 I felt like a blind man who suddenly recovers his 
 sight. The bishop, so splendid a moment ago, 
 seemed to fade; through all the church was dark- 
 ness, and the candles paled in their sconces of gold, 
 like stars at dawn. Against the gloom that lovely 
 thing shone out like a heavenly revelation, seeming 
 herself to be the fountain of light, and to give it
 
 6 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 rather than receive it. I cast down my eyes, vowing 
 that I would not raise them again ; my attention was 
 failing, and I scarce knew what I did. The moment 
 afterwards, I opened my eyes, for through my 
 eyelids I saw her glittering in a bright penumbra, 
 as when one has stared at the sun. Ah, how beau- 
 tiful she was ! The greatest painters, when they 
 have sought in heaven for ideal beauty, and have 
 brought to earth the portrait of our Lady, come 
 never near the glory of this vision ! Pen of poet, or 
 palette of painter, can give no idea of her. She was 
 tall, with the carriage of a goddess; her fair hair 
 flowed about her brows in rivers of gold. Like a 
 crowned queen she stood there, with her broad 
 white brow, and dark eyebrows; with her eyes that 
 had the brightness and life of the green sea, and 
 at one glance made or marred the destiny of a 
 man. They were astonishingly clear and brilliant, 
 shooting rays like arrows, which I could actually see 
 winging straight for my heart. I know not if the
 
 THE DEAD LEHAN. 
 
 flame that lighted them came from heaven or hell, 
 but from one or other assuredly it came. Angel or 
 devil, or both ; this woman was no child of Eve, the 
 mother of us all. White teeth shone in her smile, 
 little dimples came and went with each movement 
 of her mouth, among the roses of her cheeks. There 
 was a lustre as of agate on the smooth and shining 
 skin of her half- clad shoulders, and chains of great 
 pearls no whiter than her neck fell over her breast. 
 From time to time she lifted her head in snake- 
 like motion, and set the silvery ruffles of her raiment 
 quivering. She wore a flame- coloured velvet robe, 
 and from the ermine lining of her sleeves her 
 delicate hands came and went, as transparent as the 
 fingers of the dawn. As I gazed at her, I felt 
 within me, as it were, the opening of gates that 
 had ever been barred ; I saw sudden vistas of an 
 unknown future; all life seemed altered, new 
 thoughts wakened in my heart. A horrible pain 
 took possession of me; each minute seemed at once
 
 8 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 a moment and an age. The ceremony went on and 
 on, and I was being carried far from the world, at 
 whose gates my new desires were beating. I said 
 " Yes " when I wished to say " No," when my 
 whole soul protested against the words my tongue 
 was uttering. A hidden force seemed to drag them 
 from me. This it is perhaps which makes so many 
 young girls walk to the altar with the firm resolve 
 to refuse the husband who is forced on them, and 
 this is why not one of them does what she intends. 
 This is why so many poor novices take the veil, 
 though they are determined to tear it into shreds, 
 rather than pronounce the vows. None dares cause 
 so great a scandal before so many observers, nor 
 thus betray such general expectation. The will of 
 all imposes itself on you; the gaze of all weighs 
 upon you like a cope of lead. And, again, all is 
 so clearly arranged in advance, so evidently irre- 
 vocable, that the intention of refusal is crushed, 
 and disappears.
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 The expression of the unknown beauty changed as 
 the ceremony advanced. Tender and caressing at 
 first, it became contemptuous and disdainful. With 
 an effort that might have moved a mountain, I strove 
 to cry out that I would never be a priest ; it was in 
 vain, my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth, I 
 could not refuse even by a sign. Though wide-awake, 
 I seemed to be in one of those night-mares, wherein 
 for your life you cannot utter the word on which 
 your life depends. She appeared to understand the 
 torture which I endured, and cast on me a glance of 
 divine pity and divine promise. " Be mine," she 
 seemed to say, " and I shall make thee happier than 
 God and heaven, and His angels will be jealous of 
 thee. Tear that shroud of death wherein thou art 
 swathed, for I am beauty, and I am youth, and I 
 am life; come to me and we shall be love. What 
 can Jehovah offer thee in exchange for thy youth ? 
 Our life will flow like a dream in the eternity of a 
 kiss. Spill but the wine from that chalice, and
 
 10 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 thou art free, and I will carry thee to the unknown 
 isles, and thou shalt sleep on my breast in a bed of 
 gold beneath a canopy of silver, for I love thee and 
 would fain take thee from thy God, before whom 
 so many noble hearts pour forth the incense of their 
 love, which dies before it reaches the heaven where 
 He dwells." These words I seemed to hear singing 
 in the sweetest of tunes, for there was a music in 
 her look, and the words which her eyes sent to me 
 resounded in my heart as if they had been whispered 
 in my soul. I was ready to foreswear God, and yet 
 I went duly through each rite of the ceremony. She 
 cast me a second glance, so full of entreaty and 
 despair, that I felt more swords pierce my breast 
 than stabbed the heart of our Lady of Sorrows. 
 
 It was over, and I was a priest. 
 
 Then never did human face declare so keen a 
 sorrow : the girl who sees her betrothed fall dead at 
 her side, the mother by the empty cradle of her 
 child, Eve at the gate of Paradise, the miser who
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 11 
 
 seeks his treasure and finds a stone, even they look 
 less sorely smitten, less inconsolable. 
 
 The blood left her fair face pale, white as marble 
 she seemed ; her lovely arms fell powerless, her feet 
 failed beneath her, and she leaned against a pillar 
 of the church. For me, I staggered to the door, with 
 a white, wet face, breathless, with all the weight of 
 all the dome upon my head. As I was crossing the 
 threshold, a hand seized mine, a woman's hand. I 
 had never felt before a woman's hand in mine. It 
 was cold as the skin of a serpent, yet it burned 
 me like a brand. "Miserable man, what hast thou 
 done ? " she whispered, and was lost in the crowd. 
 
 The old bishop paused, and gazed severely at me, 
 who was a piteous spectacle, now red, now pale, 
 giddy and faint. One of my fellows had compassion 
 on me, and led me home. I could not have found 
 the way alone. At the corner of a street, while tbo 
 young priest's head was turned, a black page, 
 strangely clad, came up to me, and gave me, as he
 
 12 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 passed, a little leathern case, with corners of wrought 
 gold, signing to ine to hide it. I thrust it into my 
 sleeve, and there kept it till I was alone in my cell. 
 Then I opened the clasp ; there were but these words 
 written : " Clarimonde, at the Palazzo Concini." So 
 little of a worldling was I, that I had never heard 
 of Clarimonde, despite her fame, nay, nor knew 
 where the Palazzo Conciui might be. I made a 
 myriad guesses, each wilder than the other; but 
 truth to tell, so I did but see her again, I recked 
 little whether Clarimonde were a noble lady, or no 
 better than one of the wicked. 
 
 This love, thus born in an hour, had struck root too 
 deep for me to dream of casting it from my heart. 
 This woman had made me utterly her own, a glance 
 had been enough to change me, her will had passed 
 upon me; I lived not for myself, but in her and for 
 her. 
 
 Many mad things did I, kissing my hand where 
 hers had touched it, repeating her name for hours ;
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 13 
 
 Clarimonde, Clarimonde ! I had but to close my eyes, 
 and I saw her as distinctly as if she had been present. 
 Then I murmured to myself the words that beneath 
 the church porch she had spoken : " Miserable man, 
 what hast thou done ? " I felt all the horror of 
 that strait wherein I was, and the dead and terrible 
 aspect of the life that I had chosen was now 
 revealed. To be a priest ! Never to love, to know 
 not youth nor sex, to turn away from beauty, to 
 close the eyes, to crawl in the chill shade of a cloister 
 or a church ; to see none but deathly men, to watch 
 by the nameless corpses of folk unknown, to wear a 
 cassock like my own mourning for myself, my own 
 raiment for my coffin's pall ! 
 
 Then life arose in me like a lake in flood, my 
 blood coursed in my veins, my youth burst forth in 
 a moment ; like the aloe, which flowers but once in 
 a hundred years, and breaks into blossom with a 
 sound of thunder! 
 
 How was I again to have sight of Clarimonde?
 
 14 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 I had no excuse for leaving the seminary, for I knew 
 nobody in the town, and indeed was only waiting 
 there till I should be appointed to my parish. I 
 tried to remove the bars of the window, but to 
 descend without a ladder was impossible. Then, 
 again, I could only escape by night, when I should 
 be lost in the labyrinth of streets. These difficulties, 
 which would have been nothing to others, were enor- 
 mous to a poor priest like me, now first fallen in 
 love, without experience, or money, or knowledge 
 of the world. 
 
 Ah, had I not been a priest I might have seen 
 her every day, I might have been her lover, her 
 husband, I said to myself in the blindness of my heart. 
 In place of being swathed in a cassock I might have 
 worn silk and velvet, chains of gold, a sword and 
 feather like all the fair young knights. My locks 
 would not be tonsured, but would fall in perfumed 
 curls about my neck. But one hour spent before 
 an altar, and some gabbled words, had cut me off
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 15 
 
 from the company of the living. With my own 
 hand I had sealed the stone upon my tomb, and 
 turned the key in the lock of my prison ! 
 
 I walked to the window. The sky was heavenly 
 blue, the trees had clothed them in the raiment of 
 spring, all nature smiled with mockery in her smile. 
 The square was full of people coming and going: 
 young exquisites, young beauties, two by two, were 
 walking in the direction of the gardens. Workmen 
 sang drinking songs as they passed ; on all sides 
 were a life, a movement, a gaiety that did but in- 
 crease my sorrow and my solitude. A young mother, 
 on the steps of the gate, was playing with her child, 
 kissing its little rosy mouth, with a thousand of the 
 caresses, the childlike and the divine caresses that 
 are the secret of mothers. Hard by the father, with 
 folded arms above a happy heart, smiled sweetly 
 as he watched them. I could not endure the sight. 
 I shut the window, and threw myself on the bed 
 in a horrible jealousy and hatred, so that I gnawed
 
 16 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 my fingers and ray coverlet like a starved 
 wild beast. 
 
 How many days I lay thus I know not, but at 
 last, as I turned in a spasm of rage, I saw the 
 Abbe Serapion curiously considering me. I bowed 
 my head in shame, and hid my face with my 
 hands. 
 
 " Romuald, my friend/' said he, " some strange 
 thing hath befallen thee. Satan hath desired to 
 have thee, that he may sift thee like wheat ; he 
 goeth about thee to devour thee as a raging lion. 
 Beware and make thyself a breastplate of prayer, 
 a shield of the mortifying of the flesh. Fight, and 
 thou shalt overcome. Be not afraid with any dis- 
 couragement, for the firmest hearts and the most 
 surely guarded have known hours like these. Pray, 
 fast, meditate, and the evil spirit will pass away 
 from thee." 
 
 Then Serapion told me that the priest of C 
 
 was dead, that the bishop had appointed me to
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 17 
 
 this charge, and that I must be ready by the 
 morrow. I nodded assent, and the Abbe departed, 
 I opened my missal and strove to read in it, but 
 the lines waved confusedly, and the volume slipped 
 unheeded from my hands. 
 
 Next day Serapion came for me ; two mules were 
 waiting for us at the gate with our slender bag- 
 gage, and we mounted as well as we might. As 
 we traversed the streets I looked for Clarimonde, in 
 each balcony, at every window; but it was too early, 
 and the city was yet asleep. When "we had passed 
 the gates, and were climbing the height, I turned 
 back for a last glance at the place that was the 
 home of Clarimonde. The shadow of a cloud lay 
 on the city, the red roofs and the blue were mingled 
 in a mist, whence rose here and there white puffs 
 of smoke. By some strange optical effect, one 
 house stood up, golden in a ray of light, far 
 above the roofs that were mingled in the mist. 
 A league away though it was, it seemed quite 
 
 c
 
 18 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 close to us all was plain to see, turrets, balconies, 
 parapets, the very weather-cocks. 
 
 " What is that palace we see yonder in the 
 sunlight ? " said I to Serapion. 
 
 He shaded his eyes with his hand, looked, and 
 answered, 
 
 " That is the old palace which Prince Concini 
 has given to Clarimonde the harlot. Therein 
 dreadful things are done." 
 
 Even at that moment, whether it were real or 
 a vision I know not now, methought I saw a 
 white and slender shape cross the terrace, glance, 
 and disappeai*. It was Clarimonde ! 
 
 Ah, did she know how in that hour, at the height 
 of the rugged way which led me from her, even at 
 the crest of the path I should never tread again, 
 I was watching her, eager and restless, watching 
 the palace where she dwelt, and which a freak of 
 light and shadow seemed to bring near me, as if 
 inviting me to enter and be lord of all? Doubtless
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 19 
 
 she knew it, so closely bound was her heart to 
 mine; and this it was which had urged her, in the 
 raiment of the night, to climb the palace terrace 
 in the frosty dews of dawn. 
 
 The shadow slipped over the palace, and, anon, 
 there was but a motionless sea of roofs, marked 
 merely by a billowy undulation of forms. Serapion 
 pricked on his mule, mine also quickened, and a 
 winding of the road hid from me for ever the city 
 of S., where I was to return no more. At the end 
 of three days' journey through melancholy fields, 
 we saw the weather-cock of my parish church peep- 
 ing above the trees. Some winding lanes, bordered 
 by cottages and gardens, brought us to the building, 
 which was of no great splendour. A porch with 
 a few mouldings, and two or three pillars rudely 
 carved in sandstone, a tiled roof with counterforts of 
 the same stone as the pillars, that was all. To the 
 left was the graveyard, deep in tall grasses, with 
 an iron cross in the centre. The priest's house was
 
 20 THE DEAD 1LEMAN. 
 
 to the right, in the shadow of the church. Sim- 
 plicity could not be more simple, nor cleanliness 
 less lovely. Some chickens were pecking at a few 
 grains of oats on the ground as we entered. The 
 sight of a priest's frock seemed too familiar to 
 alarm them, and they scarcely moved to let us pass. 
 Then we heard a hoarse and wheezy bark, and an 
 old dog ran up to greet us. He was the dog of 
 the late priest dim-eyed, grey, with every sign of 
 a dog's extreme old age. I patted him gently, and 
 he walked along by my side with an air of inex- 
 pressible satisfaction. An elderly woman, my pre- 
 decessor's house-keeper, came in her turn to greet 
 us; and when she learned that I meant to keep her 
 in my service, to keep the dog and the chickens, 
 with all the furniture that her master had left her 
 at his death above all, when the Abbe Serapion 
 paid what she asked on the spot her joy knew no 
 bounds. 
 
 When I had been duly installed, Serapion returned
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 21 
 
 to the college, and I was left alone. Unsupported, 
 un comforted as I was, the thought of Clarimonde 
 again beset ine, nor could I drive her memory away 
 for all my efforts. One evening, as I walked among 
 the box-lined paths of my little garden, I fancied 
 that I saw among the trees the form of a woman, 
 who followed all my movements, and whose green 
 eyes glistened through the leaves. Green as the sea 
 shone her eyes, but it was no more than a vision, 
 for when I crossed to the other side of the alley, 
 nothing did I find but the print of a little foot on 
 the sand a foot like the foot of a child. Now tho 
 garden was girt with high walls, and, for all my 
 search, I could find no living thing within them. I 
 have never been able to explain this incident, which, 
 after all, was nothing to the strange adventures 
 that were to follow. 
 
 Thus did I live for a whole year, fulfilling every 
 duty of the priesthood, preaching, praying, fasting, 
 visiting the sick, denying myself necessaries that
 
 22 THE DEAD LEMAN 
 
 I might give to the poor. But within me all was 
 dry and barren, the fountains of grace were 
 sealed. I knew not the happiness which goes with 
 the consciousness of a holy mission fulfilled. My 
 heart was otherwhere ; the words of Clarimonde 
 dwelt on my lips like the ballad burden a man 
 repeats against his will. Oh, my brother, consider 
 this ! For the lifting up of mine eyes to behold a 
 woman have I been harried these many years, and 
 my life hath been troubled for ever. 
 
 I shall not hold you longer with the story of these 
 defeats and these victories, and the fresh defeats of my 
 soul ; let me come to the beginning of the new life. 
 
 One night there was a violent knocking at my 
 gate. The old housekeeper went to open it, and 
 the appearance of a man richly clad in an out- 
 landish fashion, tawny of hue, armed with a long 
 dagger, stood before her in the light of her lantern. 
 She was terrified, but he soothed her, saying that 
 he needs must see me instantly concerning a matter
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 23 
 
 of my ministry. Barbara brought him upstairs to 
 the room, where I was about going to bed. There 
 the man told me that his mistress, a lady of high 
 degree, was on the point of death, and desired to 
 see a priest. I answered that I was ready to follow 
 him, and taking with me such matters as are 
 needful for extreme unction, I went down hastily. 
 At the door were two horses, black as night, their 
 breath rising in white clouds of vapour. The man 
 held my stirrup while I mounted; then he laid one 
 hand on the pommel, and vaulted on the other 
 horse. Gripping his beast with his knees, he gave 
 him his head, and we started with the speed of 
 an arrow, my horse keeping pace with his own. 
 We seemed in running to devour the way; the 
 earth flitted grey beneath us, the black trees fled 
 in the darkness like an army in rout. A forest 
 we crossed, so gloomy and so frozen cold that I 
 felt in all my veins a shudder of superstitious 
 dread. The sparks struck from the flints by our
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 coursers' feet followed after us like a trail of fire, 
 and whoever saw us must have deemed us two 
 ghosts riding the nightmare. Will-o'-the-wisps 
 glittered across our path, the night birds clamoured 
 in the forest deeps, and now and again shone out 
 the burning eyes of wild cats. 
 
 The manes of the horses tossed more wildly on 
 the wind, the sweat ran down their sides, their 
 breath came thick and loud. But whenever they 
 slackened the groom called on them with a cry like 
 nothing that ever came from a human throat, and 
 again they ran their furious course. At last the 
 tempest of their flight reached its goal ; suddenly 
 there stood before us a great dark mass, with 
 shining points of flame. Our horses' hoofs clattered 
 louder on a drawbridge, and we thundered through 
 the dark depths of a vaulted entrance which gaped 
 between two monstrous towers. Within the castle 
 all was confusion, servants with burning torches 
 ran hither and thither through the courts, on the
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 25 
 
 staircases lights rose and fell. I beheld a medley 
 of vast buildings, columns, arches, parapet and 
 balcony, a bewildering world of royal or of fairy 
 palaces. The negro page who had given me the 
 tablets of Clarimonde, and whom I recognised at 
 a glance, helped me to alight. A seneschal in 
 black velvet, with a golden chain about his neck, 
 and an ivory wand in his hand, came forward to 
 meet me, great teai's rolling down his cheeks to his 
 snowy beard. 
 
 " Too late," he said ; " too late, sir priest ! But if 
 thou hast not come in time to save the soul, watch, I 
 pray thee, with the unhappy body of the dead." 
 
 He took me by the arm ; he led me to the hall, 
 where the corpse was lying, and I wept as bitterly 
 as he, deeming that the dead was Clarimonde, the 
 well and wildly loved. There stood a prie-dieu 
 by the bed : a blue flame flickering from a cup 
 of bronze cast all about the chamber a doubtful 
 light, and here and there set the shadows fluttering.
 
 26 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 In a chiselled vase on the table was one white rose 
 faded, a single petal clinging to the stem; the rest 
 had fallen like fragrant tears and lay beside the 
 vase. A broken black mask, a fan, masquerading 
 gear of every kind were huddled on the chairs, and 
 showed that death had come, unlocked for and 
 unheralded, to that splendid house. Not daring to 
 cast mine eyes upon the bed, I kneeled, and fer- 
 vently began to repeat the Psalms, thanking God 
 that between this woman and me He had set the 
 tomb, so that now her name might come like a 
 thing enskied and sainted in my prayers. 
 
 By degrees this ardour slackened, and I fell a- 
 dreaming. This chamber, after all, had none of 
 the air of a chamber of death. In place of the 
 fetid, corpse-laden atmosphere that I was wont to 
 breathe in these vigils, there floated gently through 
 the warmth a vapour of orient essences, a perfume 
 of woman and of love. The pale glimmer of the 
 lamp seemed rather the twilight of pleasure, than
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 27 
 
 the yellow burning of the taper that watches by the 
 dead. I began to think of the rare hazard that 
 brought me to Clarimonde in the moment when I 
 had lost her for ever, and a sigh came from my 
 breast. Then meseemed that one answered with 
 a sigh behind me, and I turned unconsciously. 
 'Twas but an echo, but, as I turned, mine eyes fell 
 on that which they had shunned the bed where 
 Clarimonde lay in state. The flowered and crimson 
 curtains, bound up with loops of gold, left the 
 dead woman plain to view, lying at her length, with 
 hands folded on her breast. She was covered with 
 a linen veil, very white and glistering, the more 
 by reason of the dark purple hangings, and so fine 
 was the shroud that her fair body shone through 
 it, with those beautiful soft waving lines, as of the 
 swan's neck, that not even death could harden. 
 Fair she was as a statue of alabaster carved by 
 some skilled man for the tomb of a queen ; fair as 
 a young maid asleep beneath new-fallen snow.
 
 28 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 I could endure no longer. The air as of a 
 bower of love, the scent of the faded rose intoxi- 
 cated me, and I strode through the chamber, 
 stopping at each turn to gaze at the beautiful dead 
 beneath the transparent shroud. Strange thoughts 
 haunted my brain. I fancied that she was not 
 really gone, that it was but a device to draw me 
 within her castle gates, and to tell me all her love. 
 Nay, one moment methoughfc I saw her foot stir 
 beneath its white swathings, and break the stiff 
 lines of the shroud. 
 
 " Is she really Clarimonde ? " I asked myself 
 presently. " What proof have I ? The black page 
 may have entered the household of some other lady. 
 Mad must I be thus to disquiet myself." 
 
 But the beating of my own heart answered me, 
 " It is she ! It is she ! " 
 
 I drew near the bed, and looked with fresh 
 attention at that which thus perplexed me. Shall 
 I confess it? The perfection of her beauty, though
 
 THE DJiAD LEMAN. 29 
 
 shadowed and sanctified by death, troubled my 
 heart, and that long rest of hers was wondrous 
 like a living woman's sleep. I forgot that I had 
 come there to watch by a corpse, and I dreamed 
 that I was a young bridegroom on the threshold 
 of the chamber of the veiled, half-hidden bride. 
 Broken with sorrow, wild with joy, shuddering 
 with dread and desire, I stooped toward the dead 
 and raised a corner of the sheet. Gently I raised 
 it, holding my breath as though I feared to waken 
 her. My blood coursed so vehemently that I heard 
 it rushing and surging through the veins of my 
 temples. My brow was dank with drops of sweat, 
 as if I had lifted no film of linen, but a weighty 
 grave-stone of marble. 
 
 There lay Clarimonde, even as I had seen her on the 
 day of mine ordination ; even so delightful was she, 
 and death in Clarimonde seemed but a wilful charm. 
 The pallor of her cheeks, her dead lips' fading rose, 
 her long downcast eyelids, with their brown lashes
 
 30 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 breaking the marble of her cheek, all gave her an 
 air of melancholy, and of purity, of pensive patience 
 that had an inexpressible winning magic. Her 
 long loose hair, the small blue flowers yet scattered 
 through it, pillowed her head, and veiled the splen- 
 dour of her shoulders. Her fair hands, clear and 
 pure as the consecrated wafer, were crossed in an 
 attitude of holy rest and silent prayer, that suffered 
 not the exquisite roundness and ivory polish of her 
 pearled arms to prove, even in death, too triumphant 
 a lure of men. 
 
 Long did I wait and watch her silently, and still 
 the more I gazed, the less I could deem that life 
 had left for ever her beautiful body. I knew not 
 if it were an illusion, or a reflection from the lamp, 
 but it was as if the blood began to flow again be- 
 neath that dead white of her flesh, and yet she lay 
 eternally, immovably still. I touched her arm; it 
 was cold, but no colder than her hand had been on 
 the day when it met mine beneath the church porch.
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 31 
 
 I fell into my old attitude, stooping my face above 
 her face, while down upon her rained the warm dew 
 of my tears. Oh bitterness of impotence and of 
 despair, oh wild agony of that death watch ! 
 
 The night crept on, and as I felt that the eternal 
 separation drew near, I could not deny myself the 
 sad last delight of one kiss on the dead lips that 
 held all my love. 
 
 Oh, miracle ! A light breath mingled with my 
 breath, and the mouth of Clarimonde answered to 
 the touch of mine ! Her eyes opened, and softly 
 shone. She sighed, she uncrossed her arms, and 
 folding them about my neck in a ravished ecstasy. 
 
 ' ' Ah, Romuald, it is thou ! " she said, in a voice 
 as sweet and languishing as the last tremblings of 
 a lyre. a Ah, Romuald, what makest thou here? 
 So long have I waited for thee that I am dead. Yet 
 now we are betrothed, now I may see thee, and 
 visit thee. Farewell, Romuald, farewell ! I love thee. 
 It is all that I had to tell thee, and I give thee again
 
 32 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 that life which thou gavest me with thy kiss. Soon 
 shall we meet again." 
 
 Her head sank down, but still her arms clung to 
 me as if they would hold me for ever. A wild gust 
 of wind burst open the window and broke into the 
 room. The last leaf of the white rose fluttered like 
 a bird's wing on the stem, and then fell and flew 
 through the open casement, bearing with it the 
 soul of Clarimonde. 
 
 The lamp went out, and I fell fainting on the 
 breast of the beautiful corpse. 
 
 When I came to myself I was lying on my own 
 bed in the little chamber of the priest's house; my 
 hand had slipped from beneath the coverlet, the old 
 dog was licking it. Barbara hobbled and trembled 
 about the room, opening and shutting drawers, and 
 shaking powders into glasses. The old woman gave 
 a cry of delight when she saw me open my eyes. 
 The dog yelped and wagged his tail, but I was too 
 weak to utter a word or make the slightest move-
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 33 
 
 ment. Later, I learned that for three days I had 
 lain thus, with no sign of life but a scarce percep- 
 tible breathing. These three days do not count in 
 my life ; I know not where my spirit went wander- 
 ing all that time, whereof I keep not the slightest 
 memory. Barbara told me that the same bronzed 
 man who had come for me at night, brought me back 
 in a closed litter next morning and instantly went 
 his way. So soon as I could recall my thoughts, I 
 reviewed each incident of that fatal night. At first 
 I deemed that I had been duped by art magic, but 
 presently actual, palpable circumstances destroyed 
 that belief. I could not suppose that I had been 
 dreaming, for Barbara, no less than myself, had 
 seen the man with the two coal-black steeds, and she 
 described them accurately. Yet no one knew of 
 any castle in the neighbourhood at all like that in 
 which I had found Clarimonde again. 
 
 One morning Serapion entered my room ; he had 
 come with all haste in answer to Barbara's message 
 
 D
 
 34 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 about my illness. Though this declared his affec- 
 tion for me, none the more did his visit give me 
 pleasure. There was somewhat inquisitive and pierc- 
 ing, to my mind, in the very glance of Serapion, 
 and I felt like a criminal in his presence. He it 
 was who first discovered my secret disquiet, and 
 I bore him a grudge for being so clear-sighted. 
 
 While he was asking about my health in accents 
 cf honeyed hypocrisy, his eyes, as yellow as a 
 lion's, were sounding the depths of my soul. 
 Presently, 
 
 " The famous harlot Clarimonde is dead/' says 
 he, in a piercing tone, "dead at the close of an 
 eight days' revel. It was a feast of Belshazzar or 
 of Cleopatra. Good God, what an age is ours ! 
 The guests were served by dusky slaves who spoke 
 no tongue known among men, and who seemed like 
 spirits from the pit. The livery of the least of 
 them might have beseemed an emperor on a corona- 
 tion day. Wild tales are told of this same Clari-
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 35 
 
 monde, and all her loves have perished miserably 
 or by violence. They say she was a ghost, a female 
 vampire, but I believe she was the devil himself." 
 
 He paused, watching me, who could not master 
 a sudden movement at the name of Clarimonde. 
 
 ec Satan's claw is long," said Serapion, with a 
 stern glance, "and tombs ere now have given up 
 their dead. Threefold should be the seal upon the 
 grave of Clarimonde, for this is not, men say, the 
 first time she hath died. God be with thee, Komu- 
 ald ! " 
 
 So speakiug, Serapion departed with slow steps, 
 and I saw him no more as at that time. 
 
 Time passed, and I was well again. Nay, I 
 deemed that the. fears of Serapion and my own 
 terrors were too great, till, one night, I dreamed a 
 dream. 
 
 Scarce had I tasted the first drops of the cup of 
 sleep, when I heard the curtains of my bed open 
 and the rings rang. I raised myself suddenly on
 
 36 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 my arm, and saw the shadow of a woman standing 
 by me. 
 
 Straightway I knew her for Clarimonde. 
 
 She held in her hand a little lamp, such as is 
 placed in tombs, and the light touched her slim 
 fingers to a rosy hue, that faded away in the milk- 
 white of her arms. She was clad on with naught 
 but the linen shroud that veiled her when she lay 
 in state; the folds were clasped about her breast, 
 as it were in pudency, by a hand all too small. So 
 white she was that her shroud and her body were 
 blended in the pallid glow of the lamp. 
 
 Swathed thus in the fine tissue that betrayed 
 every line of her figure, she seemed a marble image 
 of some lady at the bath rather than a living 
 woman. Dead or living, statue or woman, spirit or 
 flesh, her beauty was ever the same, only the glitter 
 of her sea-green eye was dulled, only the mouth, 
 so red of old, wore but a tender tint of rose, like 
 the white rose of her cheeks. The little blue flowers
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 37 
 
 that I had seen in her hair were sere now, and 
 all but bloomless; yet so winning was she, so 
 winning that, despite the strangeness of the adven- 
 ture, and her inexplicable invasion of my chamber, 
 I was not afraid for one moment. 
 
 She placed the lamp on the table, and sat down 
 by my bed-foot. Then, in those soft and silver 
 accents which. I never heard from any lips but 
 hers, 
 
 " Long have I made thee wait for me," she said, 
 "and thou must have deemed that I had forgotten 
 thee quite. But lo ! I come from far, very far, even 
 from that land whence no traveller has returned. 
 There is no sunlight nor moon in the country whence 
 I wander, only shadow and space. There the foot 
 finds no rest, nor the wandering wing any way; 
 yet here am I, behold me, for Love can conquer 
 Death. Ah, what sad faces and terrible eyes have 
 I seen in my voyaging, and in what labour hath 
 iny soul been to find my body and to make her home
 
 38 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 therein again ! How Lard to lift was the stone 
 that they had laid on me for a covering ! Lo, my 
 hands are sorely wounded in that toil ! Kiss them, 
 my love, and heal them." And she laid her chill 
 palms on my mouth, that I kissed many times, 
 she smiling on me with an inexpressible sweetness 
 of delight. 
 
 To my shame be it spoken, I had wholly for- 
 gotten the counsels of the Abbe Serapion, and the 
 sacred character of my ministry. I fell unresisting 
 at the first attack. Nay, I did not even try to bid 
 the tempter avaunt, but succumbed without a struggle 
 before the sweet freshness of Clarimonde's fair 
 body. Poor child ! for all that is come and gone, 
 I can scarce believe that she was indeed a devil; 
 surely there was naught of the devil in her aspect. 
 Never hath Satan better concealed his claws and 
 his horns ! 
 
 She was crouching on the side of my bed, her 
 heels drawn up beneath her in an attitude of care-
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 39 
 
 less and provoking grace. Once and again she 
 would pass her little hands among my locks, and 
 curl them, as if to try what style best suited my 
 face. It is worth noting that I felt no astonish- 
 ment at an adventure so marvellous, nay, as in a 
 dream the strangest events fail to surprise us, even 
 so the whole encounter seemed to me perfectly 
 natural. 
 
 " I loved thee long before I saw thee, Romuald, 
 my love, and I sought for thee everywhere. Thou 
 wert my dream, and I beheld thee in the church at 
 that fatal hour. ' It is he/ I whispered to myself, 
 and cast on thee a glance fulfilled of all the love 
 wherewith I had loved, and did love, and shall lovo 
 thee; a glance that would have ruiued the soul of 
 a cardinal, or brought a king with all his court to 
 my feet. 
 
 "But thou wert not moved, and before my love 
 thou didst place the love of God. 
 
 " Ah, 'tis of God that I am jealous, God
 
 40 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 whom thou hast loved and lovest more than 
 we. 
 
 " Miserable woman that I am! Never shall I 
 have all thy heart for myself alone, for me, whoir 
 thou didst awaken with one kiss; for me, Clari- 
 monde the dead ; for me, who for thy sake have 
 broken the portals of the grave, and am come to 
 offer to thee a life that hath been taken up again 
 for this one end to make thee happy." 
 
 So she spoke; and every word was broken in on 
 by maddening caresses, till my brain swam, and I 
 feared not to console her by this awful blasphemy, 
 namely, 
 
 That my love of her passed my love of God ! 
 
 Then the fire of her eyes was rekindled, and they 
 blazed as it had been the chrysoprase stone. 
 
 " Verily thou lovest me with a love like thy love 
 of God/' she cried, making her fair arms a girdle 
 for my body. " Then thou shalt come with me, and 
 whithersoever I go there wilt thou follow. Thou
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 41 
 
 wilt leave thine ugly black robes, thou wilt be of 
 all knights the proudest and the most envied. The 
 acknowledged lover of Clarimonde shalt thou be, 
 of her who refused a Pope ! Ah, happy life, 
 ah, golden days that shall be ours ! When do we 
 mount and ride, mon gentilhomme ? " 
 
 "To-morrow," I cried in my madness. 
 
 " To-morrow," she answered. ' ' I shall have time 
 to change this robe of mine that is somewhat scant, 
 nor fit for voyaging. Also must I speak with my 
 retainers, that think me dead in good earnest, and 
 lament me as well as they may. Money, carriages, 
 change of raiment, all shall be ready for thee ; at 
 this hour to-morrow will I seek thee. Good-bye, 
 sweetheart." - 
 
 She touched my brow with her lips, the lamp 
 faded into darkness, the curtains closed, a sleep 
 like lead came down on me, sleep without a dream. 
 
 I wakened late, troubled by the memory of my 
 dream, which at length I made myself believe
 
 42 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 was but a vision of the night. Yet it was not 
 without dread that I sought rest again, praying 
 Heaven to guard the purity of my slumber. 
 
 Anon I fell again into a deep sleep, and my 
 dream began again. The curtains opened, and 
 there stood Clarimonde, not pale in her pale 
 shroud, nor with the violets of death upon her 
 cheek ; but gay, bright, splendid, in a travelling 
 robe of green velvet with trappings of gold, and 
 kilted up on one side to show a satin undercoat. 
 Her fair, curled locks fell in great masses from 
 under a large black beaver hat, with strange white 
 plumes; in her hand she held a little riding- whip, 
 topped with a golden whistle. With this she 
 touched me gently, saying, 
 
 " Awake, fair sleeper ! Is it thus you prepare 
 for your voyage ? I had thought to find you alert. 
 Rise, rise quickly ; we have no time to lose ! " 
 
 I leaped out of bed. 
 
 " Come, dress, and let us be gone," she said,
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 43 
 
 showing me a little packet she had brought. " Our 
 horses are fretting and champing at the gate. We 
 should be ten leagues from here." 
 
 I arrayed myself in haste, while she instructed 
 me, handed me the various articles of a knight's 
 attire, and laughed at my clumsiness. She dressed 
 my hair, and when all was done, gave me a little 
 Venice pocket mirror in a silver frame, crying, 
 
 "What thiuk you of yourself now? Will you 
 take me for your valet de cliambre ? " 
 
 I did not know my own face in the glass, and 
 "was no more like myself than a statue is like the 
 uncut stone. I was beautiful, and I was vain of 
 the change. The gold embroidered gallant attire 
 made me another man, and I marvelled at the 
 magic of a few ells of cloth, fashioned to a certain 
 device. The character of my clothes became my 
 own, and in ten minutes I was sufficiently con- 
 ceited. 
 
 Clarimonde watched me with a kind of maternal
 
 44 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 fondness as I walked up and down the room, prov- 
 ing my new raiment, as it were; then, 
 
 " Come," she cried, " enough of this child's play ! 
 Up and away, my Rornuald ! We have far to go ; 
 we shall never arrive." 
 
 She took my hand and led me forth. The gates 
 opened at her touch; the dog did not waken, as we 
 passed. 
 
 At the gate we found the groom with three 
 horses like those he had led before : Jennets of 
 Spain, the children of the wind. Swift as the 
 wind they sped; and the moon, that had risen to 
 light us at our going, spun down the sky behind 
 us like a wheel broken loose from the axle; we 
 seemed to see her on our right, leaping from tree to 
 tree as she strove to follow our course. Presently 
 we came on a plain, where a carriage with four 
 horses waited for us ; and the postilion drove them 
 to a mad gallop. My arm was round the waisfc of 
 Clarimonde, her head lay on my shoulder, her breast
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 45 
 
 touched my arm. Never had I known such delight. 
 All that I had been was forgotten, like the months 
 before birth, so great was the power of the devil 
 over my heart. 
 
 From that date mine became a double life ; within 
 me were two men that knew each other not the 
 priest who dreamed that by night he was a noble, 
 the noble who dreamed that by night he was a 
 priest. I could not divide dreams from waking, 
 nor tell where truth ended and illusion began. Two 
 spirals, blended but touching not, might be a par- 
 able of my confused existence. Yet, strange as it 
 was, I believe I never was insane. The experience 
 of either life dwells distinct and separate in my 
 memory. Only there was this inexplicable fact 
 the feeling of one personality existed in both these 
 two different men. Of this I have never found an 
 explanation, whether I was for the moment the cure 
 
 of the village of , or whether I was il signor 
 
 Romualdo, the avowed lover of Clarirnonde.
 
 46 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 Certain it is that I was, or believed myself to 
 be, in Venice, in a great palace on the Grand 
 Canal, full of frescoes, statues, and rich in two 
 Titians of his best period, we dwelt, a palace 
 fit for a king. We had each our gondola, our 
 liveried men, our music, our poet, for Clarimonde 
 loved life in the great style, and in her nature 
 was a touch of Cleopatra. Custom could not 
 stale her infinite variety ; to love her was to love 
 a score of mistresses, and you were faithless to 
 her with herself, so strangely she could wear the 
 beauty of any woman that caught your fancy. She 
 returned my love a hundred-fold. She scorned the 
 gifts of young patricians and of the elders of the 
 Council of Ten. She refused the hand of a Foscari. 
 Gold enough she had, she desired only love ; a 
 young fresh love herself had wakened, a love that 
 found in her its first mistress and its last. 
 
 As for me, in the midst of a life of the wildest 
 pleasure, I should have been happy but for the
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 47 
 
 nightly horror of the dream wherein I was a cure, 
 fasting and mortifying myself in penance for the 
 sins of the day. Custom made my life with her 
 familiar, and ifc was rarely that I remembered (and 
 that never with fear) the words of the Abbe 
 Serapion. 
 
 For some time Clariuionde had not been herself, 
 her health failing, her complexion growing paler 
 day by day. The physicians were of no avail, and 
 she grew cold and dead as on the wondrous night in 
 the nameless castle. Sadly she smiled on my dis- 
 tress, with the fatal smile of those who know their 
 death is near. One morning I sat on her bed, break- 
 fasting at a small table hard by; as it chanced in 
 cutting a fruit I gashed my finger deeply ; the blood 
 came in purple streams, and spurted up on Clari- 
 monde. Her eyes brightened, her face took on a 
 savage joy and greed such as I had never seen. 
 She leaped from the bed like a cat, seized my 
 wounded hand, and sucked the blood with unspeak-
 
 48 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 able pleasure, slowly, gently, like a connoisseur 
 tasting some rare wine. 
 
 In her half-closed eyes the round pupil grew 
 long in shape. Again and again she stopped to 
 kiss my hand, and then pressed her lips once more 
 on the wound, to squeeze out the red drops. 
 
 When she saw that the blood was staunched, she 
 rose ; her eyes brilliant and humid, her face as rosy 
 as a dawn of May, her hand warm and moist; in 
 short, more lovely than of old, and in perfect 
 health. 
 
 " I shall not die ! I shall not die ! " she exclaimed, 
 wild with delight, as she embraced me. " I shall yet 
 love thee long ; for my life is in thine, and all that 
 is in me comes from thee. Some drops of thy rich 
 and noble blood, more precious than all the elixirs 
 in the world, have given me back my life." 
 
 This event, and the strange doubts it inspired, 
 haunted me long. When the night and sleep brought 
 me back to my priest's home, I beheld Serapion,
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 49 
 
 more anxious than ever, more careful and troubled. 
 He gazed on me steadfastly, and said, 
 
 "Not content with losing thy soul, thou art also 
 desirous of ruining thy body. Unhappy young man, 
 in what a net hast thou fallen ! " 
 
 The tone of his voice struck cold on me ; but a 
 thousand new cares made me forget his words. Yet, 
 one night, I saw in a mirror that Clarimonde was 
 pouring a powder into the spiced wine-cup she 
 mingled after supper. I took the cup, pretending 
 to drink, but really casting the potion away beneath 
 a table. Then I went to bed, intent on watching, 
 and seeing what should come to pass. Nor did 
 I wait long. Clarimonde entered, cast off her 
 night attire, and lay down by my side. When she 
 was assured that I slept, she uncovered my arm, 
 drew a golden pin from her hair, and then fell a- 
 murmuring thus, 
 
 " One drop, one little crimson drop, one ruby on 
 the tip of my needle ! Since thou lovest me yet, I 
 

 
 50 THE DEAD LEMAJN. 
 
 must not die. Sleep, my god, my child, my all; I 
 shall not harm thee ; of thy life I will but take what 
 is needful for mine. Alas ! poor love ; alas ! fair 
 purple blood that I must drink ! Ah, fair arm, so 
 round, so white, never will I dare to prick that pretty 
 violet vein." 
 
 So speaking-, she wept, and the tears fell hot on 
 my arm. At length she came to a resolve, pricked 
 me with the needle, and sucked the blood that flowed. 
 But a few drops did she taste, for fear of exhausting 
 me, then she anointed the tiny wound, and fastened 
 a little bandage about my arm. 
 
 I could no longer doubt it, Serapion had spoken 
 sooth. Yet must I needs love Clarinaonde, and 
 would willingly have given her all the blood in my 
 veins that then were rich enough. Nor was I 
 afraid, the woman in her was more than surety for 
 the vampire. I could have pricked my own arm and 
 said, " Drink ; let my love become part of thy being 
 with my blood. " I never spoke a word of the nar-
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN, 51 
 
 cotic that she had poured out for me, never a word 
 of the needle; we lived together in perfect union of 
 hearts. 
 
 It was my scruples as a priest that disquieted me. 
 How could I touch the host with hands polluted in 
 such debauches, real or dreamed of? At night I 
 struggled against sleep, holding mine eyelids open, 
 standing erect against walls; but mine eyes were 
 filled with the sand of sleep, and the wave carried 
 ine even where it would, down to the siren shores. 
 
 Serapion reproached me often : one day he came 
 and said, 
 
 " To drive away the devil that possesses thee there 
 is but one art ; great ills demand harsh remedies. 
 I know where Clarimonde is buried ; we must un- 
 earth her, and the sight of the worms and the dust 
 of death will make thee thyself again." 
 
 So weary was I of my double life, so eager to 
 know whether the priest or the noble was tho 
 true man, which the dream, that I accepted his
 
 52 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 plan, being determined to slay one or the other 
 of the beings that dwelt within me; ay> or to slay 
 them both, for such a life as mine could not 
 endure. 
 
 The Abbe Serapion took a lantern, a pick, a 
 crowbar, and at midnight we set out for the grave- 
 yard. After throwing the light of the lantern on 
 several tombs, we reached a stone half-hidden by 
 tall weeds, and covered with ivy, moss, and lichen. 
 Thereon we read these words graven : 
 
 Ici GIT CLAEIMONDE, 
 QUI FUT DE SON VIVANT 
 LA PLUS BELLE DU MONDE. 
 
 % % >H % % 
 
 '"Tis here!" said Serapion, who, laying down 
 his lantern, thrust the crowbar in a cleft of the 
 stone, and began to raise it. Slowly it gave place, 
 and he set to work with the pickaxe. For me, I 
 watched him, dark and silent as the night, while
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 53 
 
 his face, when lie raised it, ran with sweat, and his 
 labouring breath came like the death-rattle in his 
 throat. Methought the deed was a sacrilege, and I 
 would fain have seen the lightning leap from the 
 cloud, and strike Serapion to ashes. 
 
 The owls of the grave-yard, attracted by the light, 
 flocked and flapped about the lantern with their 
 wings ; their hooting sounded woefully, the foxes 
 barked their answer far away; a thousand evil 
 sounds broke from the stillness. 
 
 At length the pick of Serapion smote the coffin 
 lid ; the four planks answered sullenly, as the void 
 of nothingness replies to the touch. Serapion raised 
 the coffin lid, and there I saw Clarimonde, pale as 
 marble, her hands joined, the long white shroud 
 flowing unbroken to her feet. 
 
 On her pale mouth shone one rosy drop, and 
 Serapion, breaking forth in fury, cried, 
 
 "Ah, there thou liest, devil, harlot, vampire, 
 thou that drainest the blood of men! "
 
 54 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 With this he sprinkled holy water over my lady, 
 whose fair body straightway crumbled into earth, a 
 dreadful mingling of dust and the ashes of bones 
 half burned. 
 
 " There lies thy Leman, Sir Romuald," he said ; 
 " go now and dally at the Lido with thy beauty." 
 
 I bowed my head ; within me all was ruin. Back 
 to my poor priest's house I went; and Romuald, 
 the lover of Clarimonde, said farewell to the priest, 
 with whom so long and so strangely he had com- 
 panioned. 
 
 But, next night, I saw Clarimonde ! 
 
 "Wretched man that thou art," she cried, as of 
 old under the church-porch, " what hast thou 
 done ? Why hast thou hearkened to that foolish 
 priest? Wert thou not happy, or what ill had I 
 done thee that thou must violate my tomb, and lay 
 bare the wretchedness of the grave ? Henceforth i? 
 the link between our souls and bodies broker, 
 Farewell ! Thou shalt desire me."
 
 THE DEAD LEMAN. 
 
 Then she fled away into air, like a smolie, and I 
 saw her no more. 
 
 Alas ! ifc was truth she spoke ; more than once 
 have I sorrowed for her, nay, I long for her still. 
 Dearly purchased hath my salvation been, and the 
 love of God hath not been too much to replace 
 the love of her. 
 
 Behold, brother, all the story of my youth. 
 
 Let not thine eyes look ever upon a woman ; 
 walk always with glance downcast; for, be ye chaste 
 and be ye cold as ye may, one minute may damn 
 you to all eternity.
 
 HOW WE TOOK THE REDOUBT. 
 
 A FRIEND of mine, an officer who died of fever in 
 Greece, some years ago, told me this tale of his first 
 battle. The story struck me so much that, as soon as 
 I had the leisure, I wrote it down from memory. 
 
 " I joined my regiment at sunset, on September 4th. 
 The colonel received me roughly enough, but his 
 manner altered after he had read a letter I brought 
 
 from General B , and with a few good-humoured 
 
 words he introduced me to my captain. The captain 
 had just returned from a reconnaissance. I had 
 scant time, as it chanced, to make this officer's ac- 
 quaintance : he was tall, dark, and hard-featured, had
 
 HOW WE TOOK THE REDOUBT. 57 
 
 risen from the ranks, and had won his commission and 
 the Cross of Honour on the field of battle. There 
 was a curious contrast between his almost gigantic 
 height and the thin hoarse voice that he had spoken 
 in ever since he got a ball through the body at 
 Jena. 
 
 The captain smiled when he heard that 1 was 
 just come from the military school at Fontainebleau. 
 
 " My lieutenant fell yesterday/' said he, and I per- 
 fectly understood him to mean, " You will never fill 
 his place." A tart reply was on my lips, but I 
 kept it to myself. 
 
 About two gunshots from our bivouac, behind tbe 
 redoubt of Cheverino, the moon was rising, large and 
 red, as she usually is when she rises. But, that night, 
 she seemed to me far bigger than common. For a 
 moment the redoubt stood forth, black against 
 the moon's disc, like the cone of a volcano in 
 eruption. 
 
 " She's very red," said an old soldier hard by me ;
 
 58 HOW WE TOOK THE KEDOTJBT. 
 
 "that's a sign the famous redoubt will cost some 
 lives to take." 
 
 I have always been superstitious, and I felt the 
 omen keenly. I lay down, but could not sleep; 
 then I got up again and walked about for some 
 time, watching the long lines of fire which covered 
 the heights beyond the town of Cheverino. 
 
 When I thought that the fresh night air had cooled 
 my blood, I came back to the fire, wrapped myself 
 carefully in my cloak, shut my eyes, and never 
 thought to open them again before daybreak. But 
 sleep would not come near me. My thoughts grew 
 black enough. I remembered that among all the 
 hundred thousand men who covered the plain I had 
 not a single friend. If I were wounded, I should 
 be taken to a field hospital, and treated carelessly 
 by ignorant surgeons. Everything that I ever heard 
 about surgical operations rushed into my memory. 
 My heart beat loud, and almost automatically I 
 arranged my handkerchief and my pocket-book as
 
 HOW WE TOOK THE EEDOUBT. 59 
 
 a kind of breast-plate. Then fatigue overcame me ; 
 every moment I dozed off, and every moment some 
 ugly thought made me waken with a start. 
 
 At last my weariness had its way, and I was 
 sound asleep when they beat to arms. We fell into 
 our ranks, the roll was called, then ai*ms were piled, 
 and everything promised a quiet day. 
 
 About three o'clock an aide-de-camp rode up 
 with an order j we took our arms again, our skir- 
 mishers scattered over the plain, we followed 
 slowly, and at the end of twenty minutes we saw 
 the Russian outposts fall back and enter the 
 redoubt. 
 
 A battery of artillery took up position on our 
 leffc, another on our right, both well in advance of 
 us. They began a lively fire on the enemy, who 
 replied with vigour, and the redoubt of Cheverino 
 disappeared in clouds of smoke. 
 
 Our regiment was almost protected from the 
 Russian fire by a shallow valley. They did not
 
 60 HOW WE TOOK THE EEDOUBT. 
 
 often aim at us, but rather at our artillery, and 
 their balls passed over our heads, or at most 
 knocked up gravel and earth into our faces. 
 
 As soon as the order to march had been given, 
 my captain favoured me with a stare, which made 
 me stroke my budding moustache once or twice with 
 as careless an air as might be. I was not afraid, 
 except perhaps of being thought to be afraid. The 
 harmless cannonade helped me to keep up this heroic 
 attitude. My vanity whispered that I was in real 
 clanger, being at last under the fire of a battery. I 
 was delighted at feeling so cool, and thought how 
 
 I would charm Madame de B 's drawing-room, 
 
 in the Rue de Provence, with the story of how 
 we took the redoubt. 
 
 The colonel passed in front of our company, and 
 spoke a word to me. 
 
 "You'll see something worth seeing for your 
 first battle," he said. 
 
 I answered with a martial smile, and brushed
 
 HOW WE TOOK THE EEDOUBT. 61 
 
 off my sleeve some dust from a ball which had 
 fallen thirty paces off. 
 
 The Eussians appeared to see that their artil- 
 lery was a failure, for they now sent in some shells, 
 which dropped more easily into the hollow where 
 we were posted. A splinter knocked off my cap, 
 and killed a man beside me. 
 
 (( I congratulate you/' said the captain, as I 
 picked up my shako ; " you're safe for the 
 day." 
 
 I knew the military superstitions that non bis 
 in idem applies in battle as well as in the law 
 courts, and stuck on my shako with an air ! 
 
 " It's an unmannerly way of welcoming folk," 
 said I, as gaily as I might, and the joke seemed 
 good enough in the circumstances. 
 
 " I congratulate you," said the captain once 
 more. " You won't be touched again, and you'll 
 get your company to-night. My goose is cooked. 
 Every time I have been wounded, the officer next
 
 62 HOW WE TOOK THE BEDOUBT. 
 
 me has been grazed like you -with a spent ball, 
 and/' he added with rather a shamefaced look, 
 " their names always began with a P." 
 
 I passed it off with a jest ; many people would 
 have done the same, and probably many would 
 have been as much struck as I was by the prophecy. 
 A raw recruit, I felt that I must keep myself to 
 myself, and must always appear perfectly cool and 
 dauntless. 
 
 At the end of half an hour the Russian fire be- 
 gan to slacken, and then we sallied from our shelter 
 to march on the redoubt. 
 
 Oar regiment was composed of three battalions. 
 The second was to watch the redoubt on the side of 
 the gorge, the other two were to charge it. I 
 was in the third battalion. 
 
 On leaving the ground that had covered us, we 
 were greeted by some volleys of musketry which 
 did a good deal of damage. The screams of the 
 bullets took me aback. I kept turning my head,
 
 HOW WE TOOK THE EEDOUBT. 63 
 
 and my comrades, accustomed to the sound, laughed 
 at me gaily. 
 
 "After all," I thought, "a battle is nothing so 
 very dreadful." 
 
 We pressed on at the double, sharp-shooters 
 in advance ; suddenly the Russians gave three dis- 
 tinct cheers, and then waited, silent and holding 
 their fire. 
 
 " I don't like their silence," said my captain ; 
 " it means no good." 
 
 I thought our own men were a little too noisy, 
 and could not but contrast their clamour with the 
 imposing silence of the enemy. 
 
 We reached the foot of the redoubt, where our fire 
 had broken the palisades, and cut up the ground. 
 Oar fellows dashed over the ruins to the cry of " Vive 
 I'Empereur ! " You would not have expected men 
 who had shouted so long to have shouted so loud. 
 
 I chanced to look up, and I shall never forget 
 the sight I saw.
 
 64 HOW WE TOOK IliE BEDOUBT. 
 
 Most of the smoke had lifted, and hung like a 
 canopy about twenty feet above the redoubt. 
 Across a thin blue vapour you saw, behind their 
 half-ruined parapet, the Russian Grenadiers, their 
 muskets shouldered, motionless as statues. I think 
 I see them yet ; each soldier with his left eye on us, 
 his right hidden by his musket. In an embrasure, 
 some feet from us, a man with a lighted match 
 stood beside a gun. 
 
 I shuddered, thinking my last hour had come. 
 
 " The dance is beginning/' cried my captain. 
 "Good-night!" 
 
 It was his last good-night. 
 
 The drums beat in the redoubt. All the muskets 
 came to the level. I shut my eyes, and heard a 
 terrible roar and crash, followed by cries and groans. 
 Then I opened my eyes, amazed to find myself 
 alive. The redoubt was blind with smoke. Dead 
 and wounded men lay all around me. My captain 
 was stretched at my feet, his head blown to pieces
 
 HOW WE TOOK THE EEDOUBT. 65 
 
 by a ball. I was covered with his brains and 
 blood. Of all my company, there stood but six 
 men beside myself. 
 
 After this carnage came a moment of stupor. 
 The colonel put his cap on the point of his sword, 
 and was the first man over the parapet, shouting 
 "Vive I'Empereur!" All the survivors followed him. 
 I scarcely remember what happened next. We 
 got into the redoubt, I don't know how. Hand 
 to hand we fought in a blinding smoke. I believe 
 I kept striking, for my sword was all bloody. 
 
 " Victory ! " I heard at last. The smoke thinned 
 away; I saw dead men and blood all over the 
 redoubt. The guns especially were littered with 
 corpses. About two hundred soldiers, in the French 
 uniform, were clustered anyhow, here and there, 
 some loading their pieces, some wiping their 
 bayonets. With them were eleven Russian pri- 
 soners. 
 
 The colonel was lying in his blood beside a 
 
 F
 
 66 HOW WE TOOK THE KEDOUBT. 
 
 broken ammunition box. Some soldiers gathered 
 round him eagerly. I joined them. 
 
 " Where is the senior captain ? " he asked a 
 sergeant. 
 
 The sergeant merely shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " The senior lieutenant, then ? " 
 
 "This gentleman who joined yesterday/' said 
 the sergeant stoically. 
 
 The colonel smiled a bitter smile. 
 
 " Come, sir," said he ; " take the command. 
 Fortify the gorge of the redoubt with those 
 wagons, for the enemy is in force; but General 
 C will support you." 
 
 " Colonel," said I, " you are badly wounded ? " 
 
 " Done for, my boy ; but we have the redoubt."
 
 THE TAPER. 
 (LON TOLSTOI.) 
 
 " Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, 
 and a tooth for a tooth. But I say unto you, That ye resist 
 not evil." St. Matthew. 
 
 IT was the time when the lords owned serfs. There 
 were lords of different kinds. Some of them did not 
 forget that there is a God, and that they would have 
 to die one day. There were others who were dogs : 
 may God have mercy upon them. But there were no 
 worse masters than the old serfs, who had risen from 
 the gutter and become masters in their turn. It was 
 they more than any who made life hard to the poor 
 people. 
 
 On a certain estate there was a land-steward. The 
 peasants did the tasks which were set them. The 
 
 7
 
 68 THE TAPER. 
 
 lands were good and extensive, streams of running 
 water, fields, forests. There would have been enough 
 for every one for the estate and for the Moujiks ; but 
 the lord of the manor had insisted on choosing a 
 land- steward from among the servants of one of his 
 other estates. The land-steward immediately as- 
 sumed all authority, and weighed with all his weight 
 on the back of the Moujiks. 
 
 He had a family, his wife and two daughters whom 
 he had married, and he had already saved a great 
 deal of money. He might have lived well and lived 
 without sin, but he was insatiable, and already har- 
 dened in evil. He began by setting tasks which 
 were unreasonably hard for the Moujiks. He built 
 a tile factory, worked the people, men and women ; 
 up to the collar, and sold the tiles for his own profit. 
 The Moujiks went to Moscow to complain to the 
 lord of the manor ; but it was of no avail. He sent 
 them back, and allowed the steward to go on as he 
 liked. The latter heard that the Moujiks had com-
 
 THE TAPER. 69 
 
 plained, and chose to revenge himself. Life became 
 still harder for the peasants. Among them were 
 some false brethren : they denounced their comrades, 
 and strove to do harm to each other. But the people 
 were stirred up, and the master's rage increased. 
 
 And as time passed, matters went from bad to 
 worse, until the steward was hated and shunned like 
 a wild beast. When he passed through the village, 
 they shrank from him as from a wolf ; they hid them- 
 selves anywhere to fly from the sight of him. The 
 steward perceived this, and the fear he inspired in- 
 creased his irritation. He began to overwhelm his 
 people with blows and hard labour. And the Moujiks 
 suffered. 
 
 It sometimes happens that such monsters are 
 suppressed; the Moujiks began to talk of causing 
 the disappearance of the master. They often met 
 in a quiet nook, and the boldest would say : " Shall 
 we bear any longer with our oppressor ? A death 
 for a death; to kill such a being is no sin."
 
 70 THE TAPER. 
 
 One day there was a meeting in the woods, before 
 the Holy Week : the steward had sent the Moujiks to 
 prune the forest. They met at meal-time and held 
 counsel. "How shall we live now ?" they said. "He 
 will uproot us root and branch. We are harassed. 
 No more rest either day or night for us, or for our 
 women. And the lash if he is not satisfied. Simeon 
 died under the lash ; Anissim perished in the stocks. 
 What are we waiting for ? He will come again this 
 evening and have it out with us to his heart's con- 
 tent. We need but to drag him off his horse to 
 give him a blow with an axe, and all would be over. 
 We could bury him like a dog, and the water would 
 run over his grave. Only let us be of one mind, 
 let us all be steadfast ! No backsliding ! " So spake 
 Wassili Minaev. He was more furious than any one 
 against the steward. Wassili was beaten every week, 
 and his wife had been taken from him to become 
 cook to the steward. The Moujiks held counsel until 
 his arrival.
 
 THE TAPEE. 71 
 
 He appeared on horseback, aud picked a quarrel 
 with the workmen because they did not prune trees 
 according to his system. He discovered among the 
 piles of cut branches a small linden tree. "I have 
 not ordered the linden trees to be cut," said he. 
 " Who has done this ? Confess, or I will beat every- 
 body." 
 
 He began to search for the row in which the 
 linden-tree had stood. Sidow was pointed out to 
 him. The steward slashed his face until it bled. 
 He did the same to Wassili, under the pretext that 
 his faggot was not big enough : and he left. 
 
 In the evening the peasants met once more, and 
 Wassili spoke : 
 
 " Well now, fellows, you are not men, but spar- 
 rows. 'We are going to settle his business for 
 him ! ' you cried ; and when the moment came, you 
 backed out. It is in this wise that the sparrows 
 unite against the hawk ! No cowardice, no defec- 
 tion ! And when he arrives, nobody budges. And
 
 72 THE TAPER. 
 
 then the sparrow-hawk comes, seizes what he wants, 
 and away with it. Who is missing ? Ivan. All the 
 worse for him ; serves him right ; it is just like you. 
 When one does not choose to draw back, he does 
 not draw back. When he seized Sidow, we ought 
 to have closed round him and finished with him. 
 But you ! No cowardice, no backsliding ! And 
 when he came, every one of you bent his head ! " 
 
 Disputes cropped up more and more, and the 
 Moujiks swore to rid themselves of the steward. He 
 prescribed toil during the Easter feasts. This order 
 irritated the peasants extremely. They met at Was- 
 sili's, in Passion Week, and began to deliberate 
 again. 
 
 " If he has forgotten God," they said, " and acts 
 in this wise, he must be killed, once for all. We 
 shall die all the same if we do not do it." 
 
 Peter Mikhew came too. This Peter Mikhew was 
 a timid man, and he did not like to be drawn into 
 discussions. Still he came, listened, and said,
 
 THE TAPEE. 73 
 
 "It is a great sin, my brothers, which you are 
 premeditating. To lose one's soul is a grave matter. 
 One can bear the loss of another's soul, but how 
 about one's own ? He does evil ? The evil rests 
 with him. It must be borne, my brothers." 
 
 Wassili waxed wroth when he heard these words. 
 
 "He is always repeating the same tale, 'tis a crime 
 to kill a man ! To be sure it is, but what a man ! 
 It's a crime to kill a good man, but such a dog ! 
 God wills it. Mad dogs have to be killed in mercy 
 to men. It would be a greater crime not to kill 
 him. How many men will he harm unless we do ! 
 And if we have to pay for his death, we shall suffer 
 for others ; they will bless us for it. You are talk- 
 ing nonsense, Mikhew. Will it be a less crime to 
 work during Christ's feast ? How about yourself 
 you would not go to work ? " 
 
 And Mikhew answered, 
 
 "And why not ? If I am sent to it, I shall work. 
 It is not for myself that I shall work, and God will
 
 74 THE TAPER. 
 
 know whose is the crime. It is not I who speak to 
 put this, my brothers. Had it been said that we 
 should resist evil by evil, God would have proclaimed 
 it, but the contrary is said : If you strive to abolish 
 3vil yourselves, you take it on yourselves. It is easy 
 to kill a man, but the blood will stain your soul. To 
 kill a man is to steep one's soul in blood. You think 
 to abolish evil by bringing a bad man to his death, 
 but in truth you are burdening your own conscience 
 with a worse evil. Bear with misfortune and you will 
 conquer it." 
 
 After that the Moujiks came to no decision. 
 Opinions were divided. Some thought like Wassili, 
 others ranged themselves on Peter's side, to avoid 
 sin, to endure. 
 
 The first day, Sunday, the peasants were allowed 
 to keep the feast. The staroste * came in the even- 
 ing and said, 
 
 * A sort of representative of the peasants, chosen by them- 
 selves.
 
 THE TAPER. 75 
 
 " Mikhail Simenovitch, the steward, orders that 
 every one go to his work to-morrow/' 
 
 The staroste went all through the village and an- 
 nounced the morrow's work to every one, assigning 
 to some the lands lying on the further side of the 
 river, to others those which bordered the high-road. 
 They wept, the Moujiks, but they dared not disobey. 
 On the morrow they took out their ploughs and 
 began their labour. The church bells rang for mass ; 
 the whole world kept the feast; the Moujiks worked. 
 
 Mikhail Simenovitch, the steward, arose rather 
 late, and took a turn on his land. His wife and his 
 widowed daughter dressed themselves, a man-servant 
 harnessed a little carriage, and they drove to mass. 
 They returned ; a servant prepared a samovar. Mik- 
 hail Simenovitch. returned also, and they sat down to 
 tea. After tea, Mikhail Simenovitch lighted his pipe 
 and sent for the staroste. 
 
 " Well, hast thou set the Moujiks to their work ? " 
 
 "Installed, Mikhail Simenovitch."
 
 76 THE TAPER. 
 
 " Every one there ? " 
 
 "Every one is there. I conducted them thither 
 myself/' 
 
 " Installed, installed . . . are they working ? 
 Go and see, and tell them I shall be there after dinner. 
 They must drive a deciatme with two ploughs, and 
 it must be well done. If I find any bad work, I 
 shall not overlook it because of the feast." 
 
 "I understand." 
 
 The sfaroste was going to retire, but Mikhail 
 Simenovitch called him back. He recalled him, 
 Mikhail Simenovitch, he wanted to say something 
 more, but he was embarrassed, he did not know how 
 to begin: "This is what I mean. Listen, attentively, 
 to what these brigands say about me. Who are 
 they who menace, what they say, tell me everything. 
 I know them, the rascals, they won't work. They 
 would like to lie down doing nothing all day. 
 Eating and drinking, that is what they like, and 
 they do not consider that if we let seed-time go by
 
 THE TAPER. 77 
 
 ifc will be too late for anything. So listen to their 
 chatter, and tell me whatever they may say. I mast 
 know all. Go, and hide nothing from me." 
 
 The staroste turned to go, went out and mounted 
 his horse, and went towards the fields to the Moujiks. 
 
 The wife of the steward, having heard the conver- 
 sation between the staroste and her husband, ap- 
 proached the latter, and asked him to grant her a 
 favour. She was a gentle woman with a good heart. 
 
 Whenever she could, she calmed her husband's 
 temper and defended the peasants against him. 
 So she came to her husband and asked him for a 
 boon. 
 
 " My friend Mickenka, for the great day, for the 
 feast of our Lord, commit no sin, and for Christ's 
 sake, do not make the Moujiks work." 
 
 Mikhail took no heed of his wife's words, and 
 laughed in her face. " It must be a very long time 
 since thy shoulders have felt the spanker, for thou 
 hast become so bold ? It is no business of thine."
 
 78 THE TAPER. 
 
 "Mickenka, my friend, I have had a dream about 
 thee, a bad dream; listen to me, don't let the 
 Moujiks work." 
 
 " I tell thee thou must be too fat, and dost fancy 
 the spanker won't slash thy shoulders. Take care ! 
 Take care!" 
 
 He got angry, did Simenovitch. He put the fire 
 of his pipe close to his wife's mouth, sent her away, 
 and ordered her to have dinner served up. 
 
 Mikhail Simenovitch partook of stew, pie, pork, 
 chtchi,* roast sucking pig, milk soup with pasties 
 in it, drank cherry -brandy, and finished up with a 
 sweet cake. Then he called for the cook, and he 
 ordered her to sing while he accompanied her on 
 the guitar. So Mikhail Simenovitch passed his 
 time gaily, striking the strings and jesting with the 
 cook. The staroste entered, bowed, and proceeded 
 to make his report. 
 
 * A sort of soup made of cabbage and beetroot.
 
 THE TAPER. 79 
 
 "Well, they are working? Will they finish their 
 tasks ? " 
 
 " They have already done half." 
 
 " Is it well driven ? " 
 
 " I have seen nothing wrong. They are afraid." 
 
 " Does the soil open up well ? " 
 
 "Yes, very well; it crumbles like poppy-seed." 
 
 The steward held his peace for some moments. 
 
 t( And what do they say about me ? Do they call 
 me bad names ? " 
 
 The staroste appeared embarrassed. But Mikhail 
 Simenovitch ordered him to tell the whole truth. 
 
 " Speak without fear. Thou wilt not pronounce 
 thine own words, but theirs. If thou tellest the 
 truth, I will recompense thee; but if thou hidest 
 aught from me, I will beat thee. No offence meant. 
 Ho, Katucha ! give him a glass of brandy to en- 
 courage him." 
 
 The cook went to fetch the brandy, and handed 
 it to the staroste. The staroste drank a health, swal-
 
 80 THE TAPER. 
 
 lowed the contents of the glass, wiped his beard. 
 (" It's all the same to me/' he thought, " it's all the 
 same to me if they do speak ill of him; I will tell 
 the truth, if he wants it.") And he began : " There 
 is grumbling, Mikhail Simenovitch, much grumbling." 
 " But what do they say ? Speak." 
 " They say that lie does not believe in God." 
 The steward began to laugh. " Who said so ? " 
 "Everybody. They say too that Tie is in league 
 with the devil." 
 
 The steward laughed still louder. 
 " Good ! But give me the details. Who says these 
 things ? What does Wassili say ? " 
 
 The staroste did not like to speak against his com- 
 rades, but he had been on bad terms with Wassili 
 for some time. 
 
 " Wassili cries out louder than any one." 
 " But what does he say ? Will you speak ? " 
 " I am afraid to repeat it. He says that lie will 
 not escape from the death of the damned."
 
 THE TAPER. 81 
 
 " Oh, bravo ! Then why does he wait instead of 
 killing me at once ? Are his arms too short ? 'Tis 
 well, Wassili ; thou shalt have what is due to thee. 
 And Tchika, that dog, he too, I suppose ? " 
 
 "Every one speaks ill." 
 
 " But what do they say ? " 
 
 " It is not well to repeat it." 
 
 " Where is the harm ? Take courage. Speak." 
 
 " But they say : may his belly burst so that all his 
 entrails may fall out." 
 
 Then Mikhail Siinenovitch brimmed over with 
 gaiety. "We shall soon see the entrails that will 
 burst out first. Who said that ? Tchika ? " 
 
 "But nobody says any good; they all speak ill 
 and threaten." 
 
 " Well, and Peter Mikhew, what does he say ? He 
 curses me too, I hope ? " 
 
 " No, Mikhail Simenovitch, Peter does not curse." 
 
 " Then what does lie do ? " 
 
 " He is the only one of them all who says nothing. 
 
 G
 
 82 THE TAPEE. 
 
 He is strange. I looked at him with much surprise, 
 Mikhail Simenovitch." 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 " All the Moujiks are astonished at his conduct." 
 
 " Bat what does he do ? " 
 
 " It is quite an extraordinary thing. When I got 
 near to him he was working on a sloping deciatine 
 near Tourkine. I arrived where he was, and behold, 
 I heard him sing in so sweet a voice, so pleasant 
 . . . and on the plough something was burning." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " It burned like a little fire. I came up close tc 
 it, and I saw a taper of five kopecks stuck on the 
 plough. The taper burned, and the wind did not 
 blow it out. And he, in his new shirt, worked and 
 sang psalms. He tilted the plough before me and 
 changed furrows, and the taper did not go out." 
 
 ' ( And what did he say ? " 
 
 f< Nothing. Only when he saw me, he wished me 
 a good Easter, and began to sing again."
 
 THE TAPES. 83 
 
 " Didst thou chat with, him ? " 
 
 " No. Bat the Moujiks came up then, and they 
 laughed." 
 
 "Well/' they said, "Hikhew can never pray 
 enough to obtain pardon for the work done in the 
 Holy Week." 
 
 " And what did he answer ? " 
 
 " Only one thing : e Peace on earth and goodwill 
 unto men.' He turned back to his plough, pushed 
 his horse on, and took to singing again. And 
 the taper does not go out, but burns all the 
 time." 
 
 The steward laughed no longer. He put down 
 his guitar, let his head sink on his chest, and became 
 absorbed in thought. He remained so for a certain 
 time, then sent away the cook and the starostc, 
 passed behind the screen, threw himself on his bed, 
 and began to sigh and moan so loudly that it sounded 
 as if a cartload of trusses of straw were passing. 
 His wife drew near and tried to console him. He
 
 84 THE TAPER. 
 
 did not answer her. He only said : " He lias 
 conquered. But it has touched me/ J 
 
 " Go," she said ; " leave them free. It will pass 
 then perhaps. Thou hast done many such things, 
 and thou hast never been so frightened. What dost 
 thou fear now ? " 
 
 " I am lost/' he said ; " he has conquered me. Go 
 away, as I haven't yet killed thee ; this is no business 
 of thine." And he did not get up. 
 
 The next day he got up, and began to lead the 
 life he had led before, but he was not the same 
 Mikhail Simenovitch. He appeared to be oppressed 
 by a presentiment. He pined away and hardly went 
 out at all. He did not reign much longer. The 
 lord arrived. He asked for him. The steward was 
 ill. The next day he was still ill. The lord heard 
 that he drank, and took the stewardship from him. 
 Then Mikhail Simenovitch became quite inactive, 
 became wearier and wearier, became dirty in his 
 person and habits, and drank all his possessions, and
 
 THE TAPER. 85 
 
 fell so low, that at last he even stole his wife's 
 kerchiefs for drink. Even the Moujiks had pity 
 upon him and would give him drink. He died at 
 the end of the year from drink.
 
 TO BE 
 
 (EDMOND ABOUT.) 
 
 HENRI TODRNEUR, who had just won a first-class 
 medal at the Exposition Universelle, was not a painter 
 of genius, but his pictures were, without exception, 
 excellent. He drew nearly as well as Ingres, and 
 his colouring was nearly as rich as that of Diaz. 
 His painting had been the rage for four or five 
 years, and he had no need to fear the caprice of 
 fashion. He sold at English, i.e. exorbitant, prices. 
 The " Visit of Court Ladies to the atelier of Jean 
 Goujou " was purchased for eighteen thousand francs 
 for a Parisian museum. A banker of Rouen had 
 given six thousand francs for the "Kiss of Alain
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 87 
 
 Ghartier," kit-kat size, and " Mdlle. Doze Listening 
 to the Confessions of Mdlle. Mars " was bought for 
 eleven thousand francs by a wealthy Belgian amateur. 
 He had (at the time at which this history opens) 
 orders for more pictures than he could paint in two 
 years, and there was nothing to prevent his making 
 an income of fifty thousand francs. 
 
 His first success began with the exhibition of 1850. 
 Till then he had earned his bread in obscurity. 
 M. Tourneur, senior, a commission agent in wines, 
 retired on 400 a year, had neither helped nor 
 hindered his son's vocation. He had left him to 
 himself without money, but with the following 
 words of encouragement: "If you have any talent, 
 you will help yourself; if you haven't any, you will 
 give up painting, and I will start you in business. 1 ' 
 
 From the age of twenty to thirty, Henri made 
 woodcuts for cheap illustrated editions; he painted 
 fans, bonbon-boxes, china, and even fire-screens. 
 IS enfant au pot-au-feu was one of his youthful errors.
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 Those ten years of ill-paid work were of service to 
 him. They taught him economy. When he could 
 make sure of his daily bread for eighteen months, 
 he turned his back on commerce and began to 
 paint seriously. 
 
 He chose the largest studio in the Avenue Frocliot, 
 and one of the finest in Paris, and for a very 
 simple reason turned it into a sorb of museum, in 
 which you would have found a little of everything 
 except pictures. When Tourneur wanted to paint 
 a Louis XII. lady sealing a love-letter, he began by 
 visiting the curiosity shops : he would buy, either 
 a piece of tapestry of the time, or a stamped leather 
 hanging for the back-ground of the picture, and he 
 would send home with it a fine specimen of con- 
 temporary furniture. He would discover a richly 
 incrusted little cabinet in a dark little shop, buy 
 it, and carry it away under his arm. The costume 
 would be painted from antique silks and from lace 
 handed down through several centuries. He would
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 89 
 
 bid at public sales for Marion Delorme's writing- 
 desk, and for the seal of Ninon de Lenclos. Such 
 was his love of accuracy. His dummy was dressed 
 with scrupulous care, a fine model found for the 
 face and hands, and everything painted from nature. 
 At Tourneur's you would never light upon those 
 slight or finished sketches or daubs, nor that 
 fascinating confusion of half- finished studies, im- 
 pressions, and unsold pictm'es one likes to meet 
 with in a studio; but only one picture in process 
 of painting and already framed, for he never painted 
 but one picture at a time, finished it without in- 
 terruption, and only kept it until it was varnished. 
 But his walls were covered with splendid hangings, 
 and bristled with costly arms. The antique furniture 
 and etageres were crowded with porcelain, faience, 
 gres de Flandres, precious enamels, rare bronzes, and 
 artistic goldsmith's work. His house was a miniature 
 museum, like a branch of the Musee de Oluny. 
 
 As to his personal appearance, if you had not
 
 90 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 seen his portrait engraved by Calamatta, he would 
 not have attracted your attention had he passed you 
 in the street. With his regular, rather cold features, 
 his very fair complexion, light chestnut hair, and 
 whiskers worn in the English fashion of the year 
 18 , you would rather have taken him for a 
 young British merchant than a well-known artist. 
 
 Although he was of small stature, he was well 
 proportioned and remarkably well dressed in the 
 finest and best-cut cloth. He neither indulged in 
 eccentricities of form or colour, nor in any jewellery 
 but his Breguet watch. If he carried a stick, it 
 would be a five-guinea cane, with a tortoise-shell 
 knob worth a few pence. I have often met him in 
 the days when he was his own valet, and I never 
 remember seeing a speck of dust on him. He often 
 went to bed without dinner, but ho never went out 
 with dirty gloves, and when he took his meals afc 
 a dairy in the Rue Pigalle, he had his boots and his 
 hats in the Rue Richelieu. In his studio he wore
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 01 
 
 white cotton in summer arid woollen in winter, 
 which was always spotless ; he was as clean and 
 neat as his painting. An Englishman, on his way 
 home from Egypt, had left a young Nubian lad of 
 eighteen behind him in Paris. The Englishman 
 had even forgotten to give him a name. Tourneur 
 allowed himself the luxury of taking him into his 
 service and christened him Boule-de-Neige. He in- 
 structed him in those liberal arts that are within 
 the compass of black races, such as polishing a 
 parquet, dusting furaiture, brushing clothes and 
 boots, carrying letters to their destination, and 
 was soon (thanks to this system of education) the 
 best valeted man in Paris, for the sum of ten francs 
 per month. It was then said of him that he had 
 already saved a great deal of money ; but I, who 
 knew him well, can assure you that this was not the 
 case. Artists have a way of exaggerating everything, 
 and especially the savings of other artists. Tourneur 
 had spent too much on purchases of every kind to
 
 92 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 be rich in coin of the realm. And take into account, 
 if you please, that Boule-de-Neige devoured three 
 kilogrammes of bread daily, which will help you to 
 perceive why at this date his master's fortune 
 amounted to no more than fifty thousand francs, or 
 two thousand pounds invested in government stock?. 
 However modest this sum may appear, it must 
 prove to every reasonable person that M. Henri 
 Tourneur was a well-conducted artist. He frequented 
 neither balls nor theatres, with the exception of 
 the Gomedie Franqaise, where he had a free pass. 
 At thirty-five his habits were as regular as those of 
 a man of his age could possibly be. Still, I will not 
 assert that he was indifferent to the beauty of Mellina 
 Barni. When she broke off her engagement with 
 the director of La Scala to come and sing in Paris, 
 it was he who persuaded her to put off her debut. 
 You might often have met him at her house, arid, 
 what is more significant, you sometimes met her at 
 Lis. But that is no business of mine.
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 93 
 
 On the 15th of May of the year 18 , an hour 
 after the opening of the Exposition des beaux-arts, 
 Henri Tourneur was absorbed in the contemplation 
 of his own work and smiling at his picture of Alain 
 Chartier, when he experienced one of those friendly 
 and familiar digs in the ribs that would disturb 
 the equilibrium of a bull. He turned round as if a 
 spring in him had been touched, but his anger could 
 not withstand the broad smile on M. de Chingru's 
 red face ; he burst out laughing. 
 
 "Bonjour, Van Ostade, Miens, Terburg, Gerard 
 Dow ! " cried M. de Chingru, in so loud a tone that 
 five or six people had the advantage of hearing his 
 remarks. " I have seen thy three pictures, they don't 
 lose any of their charm, they are magnificent; in 
 fact, there is nothing else here. You ha-ve beaten 
 France, Belgium, and England; Meissonnier, Willems 
 and Mulready. You paint genre as well as Genre 
 himself, and you are as learned as Pinxit. If the 
 government doesn't order a hundred thousand franc
 
 i)4 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD, 
 
 picture of you and give you the Cross of the Legion 
 of Honour, I shall pull the Bastille about its ears ! " 
 
 He caught hold of Henri's arm, and added in a 
 whisper, 
 
 " Would you care to marry ? " 
 
 " Leave me alone, will you ? " 
 
 "A million?"* 
 
 " You are mad, a million wouldn't have me." 
 
 " Why not ? A million and you are of equal value. 
 What is the yearly interest of a million ? fifty thou- 
 sand francs. You can make as much as that. You 
 are therefore worth a million." 
 
 " But where did you discover that?" 
 
 " Ah, ah ! the tale interests you. Well, listen. 
 Once upon a time there was, there still exists, a 
 certain Monsieur Gaillard. . . ." 
 
 " Who gambles on the Stock Exchange. No, thank 
 you. I have seen the play of Ceinture dore'e." 
 
 * Forty thousand pounds.
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 95 
 
 " He no more gambles than I do ; he is a clerk 
 at the * * * office . . ." 
 
 u With a salary of ten thousand francs." 
 
 "With a salary of three thousand six hundred, 
 besides a never-failing gratuity of four hundred 
 francs, total four thousand. There is your future 
 father-in-law." 
 
 " And my million ? " 
 
 " Ah, my million ! You nibble, Van Ostade, you 
 nibble ! Monsieur Gaillard is a model employe. For 
 the last thirty years he has arrived at his office at 
 five minutes to ten, and left it at five minutes past 
 four, and he doesn't leave his hat to represent 
 himself in the interim, whilst he goes to play at 
 billiards." 
 
 " Chingru, you are intolerable." 
 
 " Patience ! To resume, this model clerk, this 
 phoenix of employes, lives in the Rue d' Amsterdam, 
 with his daughter, his sister, and his bonne. Their
 
 96 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 apartment is on the fourth floor, three bedrooms, 
 no sitting-room. The windows . . ." 
 
 " Good-bye, Chingru." 
 
 " Ta-ta, Gerard Dow. Their window overlooks ten 
 thousand square metres of land. You are still 
 there?" 
 
 " Go on ! " 
 
 " Ten thousand metres at a hundred francs, make 
 a million. Whoever denied this fact would be at 
 direct variance with Pythagoras ! This million, 
 my dear Terburg, is the property of M. Gaillard." 
 
 "But how did he get it ? " 
 
 " Don't be alarmed; he hasn't stolen it. A purse 
 may be stolen any day, but an acre or so of laud 
 cannot be stolen; there are no pockets big enough. 
 In the year of grace 1830, a few days after the 
 events of July, M. Gaillard, a supernumerary of 
 five years' service, found himself in possession 
 of seventy-five thousand francs, the inheritance 
 of an uncle in Narbonne. He was looking out
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 97 
 
 for an investment that no revolution could touch, 
 when he discovered those lucky plots of land, then 
 worth seven francs per metre. He soon made his 
 calculation, seventy thousand francs for the pur- 
 chase of land, five thousand for lawyers' fees, and 
 taxes. He paid money down, and thereby gained 
 some further advantage." 
 
 " But since, why hasn't he sold ? " 
 
 " Since ? He has never even taken down the 
 board, and I will show it you whenever you 
 choose. ' This site to be sold, as a whole or in lots.' 
 And please to observe that purchasers have not been 
 wanting. The day after the signature of the deed 
 he was offered a profit of ten thousand francs. He 
 said to himself, ' Humph ! I haven't made a bad bar- 
 gain,' and he kept his land. When the railway 
 station was built at Saint- Germain, a speculator 
 offered him two hundred thousand francs. He 
 scratched his nose (it is his only bad habit) and 
 replied that his wife did not wish to sell. In 1842, 
 
 H
 
 98 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 his wife was dead : a gas company made him the most 
 dazzling overtimes ; half a million ! ' Ma foi,' he re- 
 plied. ( As I have waited twelve years, I may as well 
 go on waiting. I am too well satisfied with the way 
 time works for me to interfere. When my daughter 
 is marriageable, we shall see what we shall see ! ' 
 I may as well tell you that his daughter is a contem- 
 porary of his landed property. In 1850, his daughter 
 was twenty, a charming age, and his land was 
 worth eight hundred thousand francs, a good price. 
 But he is so accustomed to keep both of them that 
 it would take a crusade to decide him for either 
 marriage or sale. It is useless to insinuate that the 
 two cases are not parallel, and that whilst building 
 lots are none the worse for waiting, girls after a 
 certain age are apt to become less marketable; he 
 stops his ears and returns to his desk, where he 
 continues his conscientious scribble." 
 
 " And his daughter ? " 
 
 " She bores herself at the rate of a hundred francs
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 99 
 
 per day, with all her heart, in fact to such an extent 
 that she will fall in love with the first man who 
 appears above the horizon." 
 
 " She never sees any one ? " 
 
 "No one who can be described as a human being. 
 An old country lawyer and five or six government 
 clerks, with grave and clerkly manners. You see 
 a man doesn't give balls in an apartment consisting 
 of three bedrooms. I am the only presentable man 
 who has access to the house." 
 
 " She isn't too ugly ? " 
 
 " She is magnificently beautiful ! that is all ! " 
 
 "Has she a human name? I warn you that if 
 she is called Euphrosyne " 
 
 " Rosalie ; what do you say to that ? " 
 
 " Yes, Rosalie Rosalie a pretty name. Has she 
 any sort of education ? " 
 
 " She ? An artist, my dear fellow, to her fingers' 
 ends, like you and me." 
 
 " Like which of us ? be good enough to specify,"
 
 100 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 " Monster of ingratitude ! She doesn't play any 
 musical instrument, and she doesn't copy the pictures 
 in the Louvre; but she understands painting, and 
 appreciates music as if she had invented it. Oh ! a 
 most severe education ; four concerts during Lent, 
 the play six times a year, public buildings twice a 
 month, a subscription to a serious library, few novels 
 and all English, no doves in the house, not a cousin 
 in the family ! " 
 
 " Go on, Chingru, I can bear with you ! And 
 when will you introduce me ? " 
 
 " To-morrow, if you like. I have already spoken 
 of you to her." 
 
 " And what have you said about me ? " 
 
 " That among all our great painters you were the 
 only one of whom I possessed no picture." 
 
 " I will begin you one to-morrow." 
 
 " Thanks ; and now I am going to ask you foi 
 another service " 
 
 " If it's not a service of plate "
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 101 
 
 " You know, my dear fellow, that I am nearly 
 forty, and have no occupation. At my age a man 
 ought to be settled, most men are. I don't like 
 to be an exception to the rule, and to hear people 
 whispering about me : ' Monsieur de Chingru, a 
 good name. What does he do ? ' ' Oh, nothing ; 
 he has private means a man who never asks you 
 for anything/ c Yes ; but what does he do with 
 himself and his time ? ' Parbleu ! I would do just 
 like everybody else, if I only had a post of say 
 three thousand francs ! Look here, my dear fellow, 
 I don't ask you for anything now; but later, if 
 you are satisfied. You have a certain influence 
 you know influential people, you visit at Cabinet 
 Ministers' houses. You'll say a good word for me, 
 won't you ? " 
 
 " What can you do ? " 
 
 " Anything, for I haven't confined myself to any 
 special study." 
 
 *' Well, I won't say no. What time to-morrow ? "
 
 102 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 "At two o'clock. She will be alone with her 
 aunt. You will call about the purchase of a ' site/ " 
 
 " Shall I call for you ? " 
 
 " No, no ; I will call at your studio. I am never 
 at home. Do you even know where I live ? " 
 
 " I don't quite remember." 
 
 " There, I told you so ! Well, all my friends 
 are in the same proud position. I don't live any- 
 where, I perch. I am so little at home, that I 
 hardly know my own address ! Ta-ta." 
 
 Monsieur de Chingru (Louis Theramene), of no 
 occupation, and of no known habitat, was what is 
 commonly called a studio-pest. He had a talent for 
 ingratiating himself with artists by swinging a 
 gigantic incense burner under their noses, and by 
 pooh-poohing the one to the other. He would establish 
 himself in their studios on terms of tutoiement, 
 and would manage to pick up and carry off such 
 crumbs as a sketch or a study. Without being 
 either an artist or a critic, he had the instinct of
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 103 
 
 a picture- dealer, and had a certain faculty for 
 singling out an unsuccessful picture. In the studios 
 where he had the entree, he would pose himself 
 against the wall like an exclamation stop, extolling 
 everything good and bad alike, until he pitched 
 upon the picture for which the artist cared the least. 
 He would then bring all the weight of his admiration 
 to bear on it ; he would make for it with all the 
 impetuosity of his enthusiasm ; he would leave it, 
 but to return to it ; he would compare a master- 
 piece to the object of his dominant passion to the 
 disadvantage of the former, then he would take 
 his leave. But he would fix his last regard on 
 the object of his desire. 
 
 The next day he would again appear, but this 
 time without noticing any one ; he would hardly pass 
 the time of day ; but would go straight to the same 
 picture. That would be his pole, and he would 
 be drawn to it as by a magnet. He would not 
 hesitate to say to the artist : " Behold thy first
 
 104 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 masterpiece. The day you achieved this you achieved 
 greatness. Before, you were merely a painter of 
 the calibre of Delacroix, Troyon, or Corot; after 
 this you became yourself, tu etais toi" 
 
 And he would look at it again, and take down 
 the frameless picture, carry it to the window, dust 
 it tenderly with the back of his sleeve, and put it 
 back in its place, with many a sneer against the 
 Philistines who refrained from covering it with gold. 
 He would return a week later, but to look in 
 another direction; that corner would be avoided, 
 or his eyes would only wander as if there against 
 their owner's will, while he stifled a sigh. 
 
 One morning he would arrive with the sun. He 
 had dreamt that his beloved picture was sold to 
 the Queen of England. He wanted to gaze on it once 
 more. Then the artist had but to lose patience, 
 and break into invective : 
 
 " Thou art but an ass ! Here are twenty not too 
 contemptible pictures, and you go into an ecstasy
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 105 
 
 over a daub. That sketch is idiotic. Nothing can 
 ever be made of it. I don't ever want to see it again. 
 Take it away, but don't ever mention it again to me." 
 Chingru never waited for this to be said twice 
 to him; he would rush to the picture with inarti- 
 culate cries of delight, and hold it up for the 
 artist's contemplation; then paeans of praise to the 
 painter, and a signature would be obtained that 
 trebled its value. No one much minded giving 
 him a picture, because it was known that he pos- 
 sessed a good many by good masters; it was not 
 derogatory to add to his collection. But where 
 was his collection ? Nobody had ever seen it. His 
 dwelling was like the lion's cave; you might know 
 what went in, but never what came out of it. All 
 the pictures bestowed on him were immediately sold 
 to a dealer, who sent them to the provinces, to 
 Belgium, or to England. If chance brought back 
 one to Paris, then Chingru unblushingly declared 
 that he had given it away.
 
 106 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 " I am too good-natured and easy-going to keep 
 anything for myself ; " or else, " I exchanged it for 
 a Van Dyck." 
 
 What painter would complain at having been 
 exchanged for a Van Dyck ? Thus did Louis 
 Theramene de Chingru create for himself a Be- 
 nevolent Association among the studios of Paris. 
 Henri Tourneur had never given him anything for 
 the best of all reasons. If you can sell your paint- 
 ings, why should you give them away ? But ho 
 promised himself he would repay him generously 
 if he served him well in this affair of the marriage. 
 
 On the morrow both were punctual, and the clock 
 of the railway station of the Rue St. Lazare was 
 just striking two when Chingru pulled Monsieur 
 Gaillard's bell. The old aunt had gone to market 
 with the bonne, and it was Rosalie who opened the 
 door. She led them into the dining-room, answered 
 Chingru's inquiries about her family, allowed Mon- 
 sieur Tourneur to be presented to her, received him as
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 107 
 
 a man of whom she had heard a great deal, and 
 listened graciously to what he had to say about the 
 thoice of a site, and the construction of a studio. 
 She did not know under what conditions her father 
 intended selling, nor whether he would consent to 
 divide a single plot ; but she showed a lithographed 
 plan, which Henri asked permission to take away 
 with him for a day or two : he would call again 
 to arrange with Monsieur Gaillard. The interview 
 lasted ten minutes, and the painter went away 
 dazzled. 
 
 " Well ? " questioned Chingru on the staircase. 
 
 " Don't talk to me ; my eyes smart. It seems to 
 me as if I had been in Italy." 
 
 "You are not very far out; the dynasty of the 
 Gaillards has its root in Narbonne, a Eoman city. 
 Pere Gaillard boasts a descent from the con- 
 querors of the world. You would humiliate him 
 severely by attempting to prove to him that his 
 name is but a very French adjective, which has
 
 108 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 attained the dignity of a surname; and if, follow- 
 ing the tradition of comic opera, you were to 
 accost him with, 'Bonjour, bonjour, Monsieur Gail- 
 lard ! ' he would start an endless dissertation to 
 prove to you that there once existed soldiers, 
 or camp-followers whose duty it was to take 
 charge of the helmets, galea, helmet, galearius, 
 hence Gaillard; Vegetius on Tactics, chapter and 
 verse so and so. That is how you are listening 
 to me." 
 
 Henri's eyes were fixed on the house of Mon- 
 sieur Gaillard. Chingru continued, 
 
 " Don't give yourself all that trouble; her 
 windows look out the other way. So you approve 
 of her ? " 
 
 "She is not a woman, Chingru; she is a 
 goddess. I expected to see a poor Eugenie 
 Grandet, worn by privations, and dried up by 
 melancholy. I could not have believed her to be 
 so tall, so well giown, of such splendid beauty,
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 109 
 
 and with such dazzling colouring. You said she 
 was five-and- twenty. Yes, she must be five-and, 
 twenty, the age of perfect womanhood. All the 
 Greek statues are twenty-five ! " 
 
 " Brrr ! whirr ! You are off like a covey of 
 partridges. Did you notice her eyes ? " 
 
 " I saw everything her large, dark eyes j her 
 beautiful chestnut hair; her divinely drawn eye- 
 brows ; her proud mouth, with the full, red lips ; 
 her little transparent teeth ; her pretty taper hands ; 
 her strong, rounded arms ; her foot, no bigger 
 that my hand, and no wider than my two fingers ; 
 her ear as pink as a shell. Did I see her 
 eyes ! But I even saw her dress, which is of 
 English alpaca; her collar and sleeves, worked 
 after her own design; for you would not find 
 that sort of pattern in a shop. She wears no 
 rings on her fingers, and her ears are not pierced. 
 Thou seest, I know her by heart." 
 
 " Diantre ! If the heart has already begun to
 
 110 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 speak, there is nothing more for me to busy 
 myself about." 
 
 " I must have talked a lot of nonsense. I did 
 not hear what I said ; I lived in my eyes ; I 
 revelled in the contemplation of perfect beauty for 
 the first time in my life." 
 
 " That will do. Now come and contemplate 
 something else." 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " The land for sale." 
 
 " What do I care for the land ! If that girl 
 is penniless, and she will have me, I will marry 
 her ! " 
 
 " Do no violence to your feelings, my dear 
 fellow j if the property is in your way, you can 
 hand it over to me. I have often regretted that 
 I was not born a landed proprietor." 
 
 When M. Gaillard returned from his office, 
 Rosalie informed him that M. de Chingru had 
 brought a young artist, M. Henri Tourneur, to
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. Ill 
 
 see the land; .that she had given him the plan; 
 that the latter gentleman would call again to see 
 him. 
 
 " But," she added, laughing, " I suspect he is 
 thinking of something else, for he only looked at 
 me; he didn't know what he was talking about. 
 And, besides, he is much too good-looking for a 
 mere would-be purchaser." 
 
 Monsieur Gaillard did not frown ; he only 
 scratched his nose (a handsome nose), and made 
 answer, 
 
 " Monsieur de Chingru should mind his own 
 business. I shall call to-morrow morning to get 
 my plan from that young man, and find out what 
 he wants of us."
 
 112 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 II. 
 
 AT eight o'clock next morning, Henri was in 
 the act of slipping on his painting coat, when 
 Boule-de-Neige introduced a very tall, very thin, 
 very polite, and rather timid man, preceded by a 
 magnificent nose. It was Monsieur Gaillard. He 
 sat down, and proceeded to explain with much 
 circumlocution that his land had been divided once 
 for all, for the greater convenience of purchasers ; 
 that it would be impossible to divide a lot equally, 
 because each lot had only fifteen metres of 
 frontage; that there would be great difficulty in 
 calculating the value of the remaining fraction, 
 which would not look out on the street; and if 
 Monsieur Tourneur was disinclined, or unable 
 to buy a whole lot, part of which he could 
 dispose of later, why it would be better to let the 
 matter drop. 
 
 " Sir/' replied Henri, almost as intimidated as his
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 113 
 
 interlocutor, " I am neither a very sagacious pur- 
 chaser, nor a very experienced vendor. I am an 
 artist, as you see, M. de Chingru, . . . but, really ! 
 I don't see why I shouldn't speak plainly to you, 
 although what I have to say is not easy to explain. 
 Sir, you are not only a landowner; you are a 
 parent. What I had heard of your daughter inspired 
 me with an unconquerable desire to know and speak 
 to her. That land was my pretext. I must confess 
 that I chose a moment in which I hoped to find her 
 alone. I took her by surprise, and had the honour 
 of a ten minutes' conversation with her. She is as 
 marvellously beautiful as she is charming and well- 
 bred ; and as you have just accorded me an inter- 
 view, I should have solicited to-day or to-morrow, 
 permit me to inform you that my highest ambition 
 is to obtain the hand of Mademoiselle Eosalio 
 Gaillard." 
 
 M. Gaillard's hand hurriedly found its way to his 
 nose. Henri continued :
 
 114 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 "I am aware how unusual is such a point-blank 
 and sudden proposal. You can hardly know my 
 name. I am thirty- four years old ; the public like my 
 painting, and pay me well for it. I have invested a 
 sum of fifty thousand francs in five years, and 
 besides have saved enough to purchase the 
 furniture you see here, which is worth about 
 the same sum. I can prove to you that I have 
 eighty thousand francs' worth of orders, which I shall 
 complete before the first of January, 1857, without 
 any undue haste. This to my credit, as my father 
 would say. As to the debit side of my account, I 
 do not owe a farthing. I might put down my father's 
 fortune to the good, ten thousand francs per annum, 
 honourably gained in commerce j but although I 
 mention it, I do not choose to count on it. My father 
 has the admirable habit of leaving me to my own 
 resources. I shall not ask him for a marriage por- 
 tion. On the other hand, if you honour me by 
 granting me your daughter's hand, I should entreat
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 115 
 
 you to keep all your fortune for your own use ; I 
 will undertake to support my wife and children. I 
 do not attempt to blind myself to the fact that 
 these conditions are far from equalizing our relative 
 positions. To this end I should have to be richer 
 or you poorer; but I know no means of enriching 1 
 myself in a day, and I am not egotistical enough to 
 desire your ruin. I think I can guarantee that by 
 the time your daughter comes into possession of her 
 property, I shall be so well off that I need not blush 
 for the addition an unearned million I don't 
 
 know, sir, if you understand me." 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied Monsieur Gaillard ; " and al- 
 though you are an artist, you appear to me to be 
 an honest man." 
 
 Henri Touracur blushed up to the eyes. 
 
 "Pardon me," said the worthy man, with some 
 feeling, "I don't want to talk badly of artists; I 
 don't know them. I only wanted to express to you 
 that you argue like a straightforward man, like a
 
 116 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 clerk, a merchant, or a lawyer, and you don't pro- 
 fess the slipshod morality of other members of 
 your profession. Besides, your appearance is in 
 your favour, and I think you would please my 
 daughter if she saw you often, She always had a 
 decided taste for painting, music, embroidery, and 
 all such little accomplishments. Your age is suit- 
 able to Rosalie's. Your disposition seems to me satis- 
 factory, being at the same time serious and cheerful. 
 You seem to be a good man of business, and I 
 should think you were capable of administering a 
 considerable fortune. In a word, sir, you please me, 
 and for this reason I have to request you not to 
 come to my house, sir, until you hear from me 
 again." 
 
 Henri felt as if he were falling from the spire 
 of Strasburg. After pausing to take breath, 
 Monsieur Gaillard hastened to take up the thread 
 of his discourse : 
 
 " I wouldn't say this to you if I looked upon
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 117 
 
 you as a nobody, like Monsieur de Ckingru. But 
 I am prudent, sir, and in your interest, as well as 
 in my daughter's, I must make inquiries about 
 you. I believe that your conduct is all that could 
 be desired ; but if you happened to have any con- 
 nection that later on might disturb my daughter's 
 happiness, you are not likely to enlighten me on 
 the subject, are you ? You tell me you make a 
 mint of money, and I believe it, although it seems 
 to me extraordinary for one man to be able to 
 manufacture eighty thousand francs' worth of pic- 
 tures in eighteen months. I believe you, but for 
 the satisfaction of my conscience, I must make 
 inquiries. I must have a talk with your respected 
 father, to ascertain if he has ever had cause to 
 complain of you. It would be well for me to in- 
 form mycelf in the neighbourhood if you have any 
 debts " 
 
 " Sir 
 
 " I believe all you have said, but sometimes ono
 
 118 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 Las debts without knowing it. Where were you 
 educated ? " 
 
 " At the College Charlemagne, Institution Jauf- 
 frct," 
 
 " Good ! I shall call on the heads of the College 
 and at the house of the professor where you boarded. 
 I will do nothing underhanded, but I am a cautious 
 man, sir. It is my strong point, or my weakness, 
 as you choose. I have no reason to complain of 
 it. Had I been less cautious, I should have sold 
 my property to the Saint Germain Company in '36. 
 That would have been a pretty business ! Had I 
 been a frivolous parent, like many others I could 
 name, I should have bestowed my child last year 
 on a stockbroker, who blew his brains out the other 
 day. Patience, young man; you will lose nothing 
 by waiting. If you are worthy of my daughter, 
 she shall be yours; but business is business. I 
 am prudent. You needn't come to the door with 
 me. If my father had been as prudent as myself,
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 119 
 
 I should bo a richer man than I am. Go back 
 to your work : go on with it. I am a cautious 
 man ! " 
 
 Henri spent a week in executing variations on 
 the well-known theme : Hang caution and all 
 cautious men ! But he acted with prudence and 
 promptitude in breaking off his acquaintance with 
 Mellina. He sent her a grand piano which he had 
 promised her, and told Boule-de-neiye that hence- 
 forward he was not at home to her. 
 
 Chingru came on the eighth day to announce 
 M. Gaillard's visit to him. He informed him that 
 M. Gaillard had been all over Paris, had inter- 
 viewed all the government officials (especially those 
 of the Beaux-arts), questioned all the picture 
 dealers, ransacked the catalogues of previous 
 exhibitions, re-read the five last Salons of Theophile 
 Gautier, and collected a vast amount of information. 
 " He knows everything ; he knows that you 
 got a fourth-class history prize at the general
 
 120 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD 
 
 competition on the organization of Homan 
 Colonies; he is greatly touched by this fact. Ho 
 came to me on a more personal and delicate 
 matter: I need not say that Mellina's name was 
 not mentioned." 
 
 Monsieur Gaillard arrived at half-past four. He 
 began the conversation by a hearty shake of the 
 hand, that rejoiced the painter's heart. "My 
 young friend," said he, " I have been to see 
 forty or fifty different people, who have told mo 
 a great deal about you : it now remains for me to 
 study you a little myself. I should have no 
 objection to your becoming better acquainted with 
 my daughter; for if you marry any one, it will not 
 be me, after all. We ought to see each other 
 every day for two or three months. After that 
 time we could talk of business. 
 
 Henri thanked him enthusiastically. "How good 
 you are, sir ! you authorize me to pay my court to 
 Mademoiselle Rosalie ? "
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 121 
 
 " Oh dear no, not at all ! Don't be too hasty ! 
 Why, the very idea would scandalize my household ! 
 A young man as a visitor every evening ! And 
 if the affair fell through, all Paris would know 
 that Monsieur Henri Tourneur had paid his ad- 
 dresses to Mademoiselle Rosalie Gaillard, had con- 
 templated marriage with her, and that the engage- 
 ment had been broken off. People would want to 
 know why ; they would invent reasons ; who can 
 foresee what gossip it would give rise to ? " 
 
 Henri managed to restrain a movement of violent 
 impatience. " Sir," said he, " do you know of 
 any other place where we could meet each other 
 every day ? " 
 
 " Faith, no ; and that is what puzzles me. Think 
 it out. You are young, you say you are in love : 
 it is for you to find a means ! " 
 
 " If it were a question of half a dozen inter- 
 views, there would be the theatres or concerts ; 
 but one cannot go to such places every day
 
 122 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 An idea ! I may not go to you, suppose you come 
 to me?" 
 
 " Young man ! with my daughter ? " 
 
 " Why not ? I am an artist, and therefore a 
 privileged person. Have you never seen any 
 studios ? " 
 
 "No; this is the first " 
 
 " Allow me to call your attention to the fact that 
 an artist's studio is neutral ground, a place of 
 public resort, shady in summer and heated in 
 winter. You enter it at any hour; you leave 
 it when you are tired of it ; you make appointments 
 there, and you meet your friends. The master of 
 the house receives visitors from early morning till 
 sunset. Strangers passing through Paris visit the 
 studios as they do the palaces and churches, with- 
 out tickets of admission, with the sole obligation . 
 of bowing when they enter, and expressing their 
 thanks when they leave. And then it is generally 
 the artist who expresses the thanks."
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 123 
 
 "But I don't choose all France and hordes of 
 foreigners to march past my daughter ! " 
 
 " Is that your only objection ? I will shut my 
 door to every one but you." 
 
 " But even then our visits must have a plausible 
 pretext." 
 
 " Nothing simpler : I will paint her portrait." 
 
 "Never, sir! I am incapable of accepting " 
 
 " You shall pay me for it ! " 
 
 " I am not rich enough to permit myself such 
 a freak." 
 
 " Perhaps you think a portrait is an expensive 
 object ? " 
 
 "I know the price your pictures fetch." 
 
 "Pictures, yes, not portraits. I hope you don't 
 take a portrait for a picture ! " 
 
 " What difference is there ? " 
 
 " Oh, a great difference, my dear Monsieur 
 Gaillard. What makes the value of a picture; 
 is it the paint ? No ! Is it the canvas ? No I
 
 124 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 Ib is its composition. Pictures are dear only 
 because so few men can compose them. But in a 
 portrait invention is useless, nay worse than useless, 
 dangerous ; you have but to copy your model faith- 
 fully. Any painter can produce a portrait. A 
 photographer, a common workman who may 
 neither read nor write can produce an admirable 
 portrait in ten minutes, price twenty francs, frame 
 included. In the face of this competition, we have 
 been obliged to lower our prices ; the pictures make 
 up for the loss in portraits. If you take a turn on 
 the Boulevards, you will see the price of portraits 
 marked up everywhere. They are no longer sold, 
 they are given away, fifty francs for a small one ; 
 a large one costs a hundred francs, but the frame 
 is not included ! " 
 
 "That would not be an obstacle, but what would 
 my friends say if they saw my daughter's portrait 
 by the celebrated Henri Tourneur in my posses- 
 sion?"
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 125 
 
 "You would tell them you had had it painted on 
 the boulevard." 
 
 " You promise not to sign it ? " 
 
 " I promise anything you please. When shall 
 we have the first sitting ? " 
 
 " Listen to my plan : I have a right to a fort- 
 night's holiday every year with full pay. I have not 
 availed myself of this right for two years; I was 
 saving up the time for a tour in Italy. So, 
 by arranging with my chief, I can take a 
 holiday of six weeks. Give me five or six days 
 to arrange the matter decorously. I don't care to 
 startle a whole department : I am a prudent man." 
 
 He then went away, leaving the painter to the 
 happy contemplation of the vanity of human wisdom. 
 "Here" (said he to himself) "is a worthy pater- 
 familias, bringing his daughter into the lion's den of 
 a painter's studio from prudence." 
 
 It is not possible to define the hold a fine 
 studio may take upon a woman's imagination;
 
 126 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 that is to say, a painter's studio, for the cold, 
 the damp, the pails of wet plaster, the harsh 
 tones and the all-permeating dust of the marble 
 spoil the charm of even the finest sculptor's studios. 
 If a painter has taste and is well off, you are 
 dazzled the instant you set foot on his threshold. 
 An abundant light straight from the sky 
 plays with its stuffs, its tapestries, the cos- 
 tumes hanging on its walls, the antique furniture 
 and trophies. A person accustomed to ordinary 
 furniture, where everything has its legitimate use, 
 is delightfully bewildered by this ordered dis- 
 order. His glance wanders from one object, 
 from one mystery to another ; probes the depth 
 of the great oaken cabinets ; glides lightly over 
 the polished surfaces of Japanese or Chinese 
 ware; rests here on a quiver full of long arrows, 
 or a large two-handed sword ; there on a 
 Roman cuirass covered with the rust of twenty 
 centuries. A stringless guzla, a hunting horn
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 127 
 
 enamelled with verdigris, a pifferaro's flute, a rudely 
 painted tambourine, become objects of interest 
 and curiosity. For an intelligent woman. (I think 
 all "women are so) all these trifles must have a 
 meaning, every piece of tapestry tells its own 
 tale, every old beer pot has its lied, every Etruscan 
 vase its romance, every steel blade its epic. 
 All those arrows must have been dipped in curare, 
 that South American poisou which would kill 
 with a prick of a pin. Those lay figures 
 crouching in corners are so many sphinxes, who are 
 silent only because they would have so much to say. 
 The possessor of all these marvels, the king of this 
 luminous empire, cannot be a man like ordinary 
 men. When he is seen, smilingly hospitable in the 
 midst of all those hieroglyphs which he can de- 
 cipher, he compels admiration. Whatever be his 
 garments they add to the charm. They are sure 
 to please as an original mode of dress, free from 
 the follies of fashion, and in perfect keeping with
 
 128 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 his surroundings. If he is clothed in cotton, the 
 Indies must have furnished it; if in flannel, it has 
 been woven in Scotland from Australian wool : you 
 would never dream of its coming from the 'Belle 
 Jardiniere. A pair of red slippers bought in the 
 Rue Montmartre transform themselves into babouches 
 from Cairo or Beyrout. The little sleeping room, 
 through whose open door you may catch a glimpse 
 of an Algerian bedcover, almost suggests a harem. 
 One would be only half surprised if five or six 
 odalisques, bearing amphorae and water-bottles, 
 were to step out of it. Even the faint smell of 
 the varnishes and other essences has its share in 
 the hallucination. Add to this a few drops of 
 Malaga in a Venetian glass, and Rosalie Gaillard, 
 who had never drunk anything but water iu her 
 life, might imagine herself to be many thousand 
 miles away from Paris. 
 
 The first sitting was a decisive one. Henri had 
 transplanted the whole stock of a Neuilly florist
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 129 
 
 into his garden ; banks of flowers bloomed even 
 in the studio. "If I visited at her house/' he 
 thought, "I should always take her a bouquet; 
 she shall not be the loser because I cannot do 
 so." Rosalie, like all Parisiennes, adored flowers 
 and had lived for many years on the hope of 
 having a garden of her own. By a singular caprice 
 of nature this child of uncultured parents had every 
 instinct of refined luxury. She would rather have 
 done without bread than music, and she believed 
 flowers to be more necessary than boots or shoes. 
 Her eyes shone at the sight of a fine equipage, 
 although the only carriage she had driven in was 
 an omnibus. She loved dress without ever having 
 indulged in it; every night she danced in her 
 dreams, although she had never been to a ball ; 
 she bought all the parks and country-houses that she 
 saw advertised on the fourth page of the Oonstitn- 
 tionnel. With these tastes, she would have been 
 much to be pitied had she not been buoyed np
 
 130 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD, 
 
 by certain well-founded hopes. The privations of 
 her existence, and the crushing of all her instincts, 
 might have embittered her to the heart's core, and 
 given to her mind the grey tint of old maidism. 
 But she was conscious of her father's fortune, and 
 being sure of the future, found her consolation in 
 looking out at that great piece of bare laud which 
 formed her mental horizon. She had taken as her 
 motto : Un temps viendra ! a day will come and 
 she lived on hope. She had built herself a delicious 
 retreat in her innermost soul. Nothing was wanting 
 there, not even the love of a handsome young man, 
 who was sure to present himself. Thus sustained, 
 she bore patiently the household drudgery, the 
 making of her own clothes^ the conversation of her 
 father's friends, and the eternal game of piquet 
 with which they enlivened their evenings. During 
 the last year M. de Chingru had appeared upon 
 the scene as an intermediary, to be classed between 
 those worthies and people of "society," just as in
 
 . THESE LOTS xU BE SOJLD. 131 
 
 the animal world the monkey is placed between 
 the dog and man. As soon as she saw Henri 
 Tourneur, she decided that he was her fate; she 
 had no need to seek further. His person, his 
 garden, his talk, and his studio represented ab- 
 solute perfection to her; and had any one said to 
 her, " There are better fish in the sea," she would 
 have thought he was laughing at her. 
 
 The painter, while sketching a full length portrait 
 of Rosalie, studied in every detail the perfect beauty 
 which had dazzled him at first sight. He did 
 not find his judgment at fault ; for you must be 
 something of an artist to guage the beauty of 
 a young girl. The glamour of youth, the freshness 
 of tint, and a moderate embonpoint often com- 
 pose a sort of unreal and temporary beauty that 
 disappears in the matron. One may have married 
 an adorable young girl, and yet be tied for life to 
 a plain woman. Real beauty does not lie in the 
 epidermis, but in the structure, whence it may be
 
 132 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 deduced that a really beautiful woman is beautiful 
 for life, despite the external ravages of time. 
 Rosalie had the unalterable beauty that need fear 
 no wrinkles and can defy all time. Those who 
 have travelled in Italy can easily picture her to 
 themselves when I say that she was like a Roman 
 girl with small feet. 
 
 The ice was soon broken, to the great astonish- 
 ment of Monsieur Gaillard, who no longer recognised 
 his daughter. He had never seen her so full of 
 life ; she had never been so bright or such a chat- 
 terer. Rosalie yielded herself up without constraint 
 to the influence of this love, whose course ran so 
 smoothly. She ran from studio to garden and from 
 garden to studio; she looked at everything and 
 touched it; she questioned, laughed, and chirped 
 like a thrush at the vintage. Her youth, so long 
 kept under, burst forth ; she was again fourteen. 
 Henri, rather more reserved, lived in a kind 
 of ecstasy. After having passed through the
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 133 
 
 privations to which poverty and economy had con- 
 demned him, here was heaven raining every de- 
 light, wealth, and happiness at once upon him. 
 During the past fifteen years he had made several 
 pleasant but expensive acquaintances, and he could 
 not believe in the good fortune which granted him 
 the love of a girl at once prettier and wittier than 
 any he had known. He had foreseen the possi- 
 bility of marrying for money, as a soldier in 
 the midst of a campaign might foresee the In- 
 valides ; but he had never invested the fortune in 
 his mind's eye with so much beauty, neither had he 
 ever heard of a million with such small hands and 
 such large eyes. Joy lent its light to his by no 
 means remarkable face, and he was positively hand- 
 some for about two months. Rosalie beheld in him 
 an inspired artist when, in the intervals of a sitting, 
 he took his violin and played the prettiest and gayest 
 airs from the Noces de Jeannette or the Trovatellcs. 
 Monsieur Gaillard played his part of nuisance con-
 
 134 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 scientiously. He insisted on being talked to by 
 Henri Tourneur. The good man belonged to that 
 deplorable tribe of ignoramuses who insist on 
 learning at an age when it is too late to learn. 
 Infatuated with Roman history as a schoolboy be- 
 comes infatuated with entomology or conchology, 
 he had read and re-read two or three volumes of 
 superannuated erudition j he quoted them on every 
 occasion, interrogating, discussing, seeking, in fact, 
 as he phrased it, to extend the modest field of his 
 acquirements. Henri paid him the attention due to 
 the age, fortune, and position of a future father-in- 
 law. When he was tired of dissertation, and the 
 young people would return to the chapter of 
 their love and their hopes, he would soon take up 
 the thread of his discourse again and embark on 
 endless admonitions that might all be concentrated 
 into, " Don't fall too much in love ; you know that 
 nothing has been settled." 
 
 Notwithstanding these minor precautions, Henri's
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 135 
 
 studio was a little earthly paradise with Boule-de- 
 Neige for its guardian. Monsieur de Chingru at- 
 tempted to force its entrance several times; he 
 divined a sort of mystery. But Boule-de-Neige 
 always informed him with brazen imperturbability, 
 " Massa gone out," " My massa dine out," or " Good 
 little white man gone country, hunt animile, draw 
 gun, bourn." His master had taught him a language 
 somewhat resembling the picturesque tongue of the 
 immortal Friday. Instead of sending him to school 
 where he would have learnt French, he took upon 
 himself the task of instructing him. Sometimes he 
 would say to him, " Take care not to become too 
 learned, nor to talk like other people ; you would 
 go off in style and colour ! " And Boule-de-Neige 
 was anxious to keep his colour, to his mind the 
 finest colour in the world. 
 
 The portrait was finished by the time Monsieur 
 Gaillard's holiday ended, towards the end of July. 
 Of course it was not allowed to go to the frainer's,
 
 136 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD 
 
 where a score of artists might have seen it. A work- 
 man came to measure it, and three weeks afterwards 
 brought home a twenty guinea frame, for which M. 
 Gaillard paid one louis, without bargaining. As ho 
 happened to be there, he also disbursed the fifty 
 francs for the portrait, for which he took a receipt. 
 
 The following Sunday, he invited all his friends 
 to a beer and hot patty soiree : they comprised 
 an old notary from Villers-le-Bel, three old com- 
 mission agents, Rosalie's writing-master, and an ex- 
 manufacturer of masks and foils who had retired 
 from business on a yearly income of three thousand 
 francs. The invitation was for half-past seven. At 
 nine, Monsieur Gaillard announced a surprise : he 
 carefully withdrew the shade from the lamp, while 
 his sister, drawing aside a green curtain, disclosed 
 the portrait of Rosalie. There was an unanimous 
 cry of admiration : 
 
 "What a splendid frame!" cried the ex- manu- 
 facturer.
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 137 
 
 " Oh, but it's the portrait of your young lady ! " 
 said the notary. 
 
 " And how like ! " said the chorus of government 
 clerks. 
 
 " That's my way of doing things/' said Monsieur 
 Guillard, as he imprinted a kiss on his 
 daughter's brow. 
 
 " If I may take the liberty of making a 
 remark/' began the writing-master, who had been 
 silent as yet, " why did not Monsieur Gaillard 
 wait till the fourth of September, the day of St. 
 Rosalie, so that Mademoiselle might have had this 
 surprise for her fete ? " 
 
 " Because I am preparing another for her birth- 
 day/' answered Monsieur Gaillard firmly. 
 
 " To be sure, you can afford it," said the 
 chorus. 
 
 " Might one venture to ask," said the notary 
 " what sum this image cost you ? " 
 
 " Seventy francs, frame included."
 
 138 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 "It is expensive, but not dear. Arid whom is 
 it by ? " 
 
 " It's by no one particular; it's a mere portrait." 
 
 " That/' said a deep voice which caused every- 
 one to start, "is a Tourneur, second manner, and 
 is worth 8,000 francs." 
 
 Monsieur Gaillard sank into his chair as if he 
 had been struck by a thunderbolt. 
 
 " Good evening, Papa Gaillard ! Ladies, I have 
 the honour ! Gentlemen, I am your very devoted ! " 
 added Monsieur de Chingru, whom the bonne had 
 admitted without waiting to announce him. "It 
 is deucedly hot." 
 
 " The weather is heavy," said the panting 
 notary. 
 
 "There is electricity in the atmosphere," re- 
 marked the writing-master, breathing heavily. 
 
 "It will rain to-morrow," said the chorus. 
 
 The conversation continued on this theme until 
 ten o'clock. Monsieur de Chingru retired, followed
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 139 
 
 by all the others. There had been a regular 
 scandal at Monsieur Gaillard's. 
 
 Next morning, Chingru presented himself at the 
 studio and was admitted by Boule-de-Neige : he 
 related the adventure of the previous evening, and 
 warmly congratulated his friend. " After such a 
 sensation/' said he, " the affair is safe enough. 
 The ancient Roman has passed the Eubicon. 
 Accept my heartfelt congratulations. If it hadn't 
 been for me " 
 
 " I know what I owe you, and I shall not forget 
 it." 
 
 "Faith, my dear fellow, if you mean to be 
 grateful, here's a fine opportunity. I have also 
 discovered a golden alliance for myself." 
 
 " Peste / there seems to be enough for every 
 one ! " 
 
 " A splendid business, I tell you. ... 1 
 have begun to pay my court." 
 
 " Bravo ! "
 
 140 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 " But there are preliminary expenses, the deuce 
 and all, bouquets, presents, and just now I haven't 
 a penny." 
 
 "I thought you had a good income." 
 
 "I can't get my rents in. Ah, my dear friend, 
 may Heaven ever protect you from farming 
 tenants ! " 
 
 " Do you want money ? Here." 
 
 " Two hundred francs ! what do you think I can 
 do with two hundred francs ? " 
 
 " Well, you can buy a good many bouquets 
 with them ; but if you need five hundred, call 
 again at twelve o'clock and I will give you 
 the rest." 
 
 "My dear good fellow, I am grieved to find 
 that we have not nearly hit upon the right figure. 
 If you wanted to be useful to me, you would 
 have to lend me ten thousand-franc notes/' 
 
 "For your bouquets?" 
 
 " For bouquets and other things. Can't you
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 141 
 
 trust me ? Am I not good for ten thousand 
 francs ? *' 
 
 " Softly ! don't excite yourself. You know that 
 I look forward to marrying at any moment. I 
 have declared my fifty thousand francs ; if they 
 are not forthcoming, Papa Gaillard would make a 
 row." 
 
 " You could give him my security/' 
 
 " Oh, that alters matters ! If you give me 
 security, I have no objection to make. Where is 
 your property ?" 
 
 " A mortgage ! Who do you take me for ? One 
 gives a mortgage to an usurer; but I thought a 
 signature would suffice between friends. I offer 
 tliee my signature \" 
 
 "Thanks!" 
 
 " You refuse ? " 
 
 " Positively." 
 
 "You don't know what might happen to you." 
 
 " Advienne que pourra Come what may!"
 
 142 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 "Your marriage is not yet an accomplished 
 fact." 
 
 "What do you mean? And what do you dare 
 to insinuate ? " 
 
 "I will give you twenty-four hours for reflection. 
 If to-morrow . . ." 
 
 The painter heard no more. He opened the 
 door, seized Chingru by the shoulders and hurled 
 him horizontally on to a bed of hortensias, that 
 never raised their heads again. 
 
 III. 
 
 MONSIEUR GAILLARD burst into lamentations after 
 the departure of his friends. His daughter and 
 sister consoled him as best they could. " What 
 does it matter?" said old Mademoiselle Gaillard. 
 " Sooner or later we should have had to announce 
 the marriage to them." 
 
 " What marriage ? " 
 
 " Mine, papa," said Rosalie boldly.
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 143 
 
 " You talk .as if it were settled. Thou art afraid 
 of nothing, rash child ! " 
 
 " One would indeed be a coward to be afraid of 
 happiness." 
 
 " You really love this young artist ? " The word 
 artist could not shape itself easily between those 
 venerable lips. 
 
 " I believe that I love him with all my heart." 
 
 "It is not enough to believe, one should be sure. 
 There is yet time for reflection; to weigh the pros 
 and cons," 
 
 " They have been sufficiently weighed, my father." 
 
 "Do you not feel the necessity of collecting 
 your thoughts for a month or two before so serious 
 a crisis ? " 
 
 " I have been collecting my thoughts for the 
 last twenty-five years and three months, my dear 
 father." 
 
 " Oh, these children ! If this marriage is to 
 take place, you will commence by signing me a
 
 144 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD., 
 
 holograph declaration ; that is to say, one written 
 entirely in your own hand, that it is your desire 
 to marry Monsieur Tourneur." 
 
 " I will sign with two hands, dearest father." 
 
 " In this way, I free myself from all responsibility, 
 so that if, ten years hence, you were to come to 
 me and say : ' Why have you married me to an 
 artist ? ' I should be able, with the proof in my 
 hand, to say: 'It was your own wish.'" 
 
 " I shall naver complain to my best of fathers. 
 But what have these poor artists done to you that 
 you judge them so severely ?" 
 
 " There is no denying that they form a caste 
 outside society. I understand manufacturers, who 
 produce, merchants who distribute produce, soldiers 
 who make their nation illustrious, and functionaries 
 who administer it. The artist's orbit is outside all 
 that. The Romans, our ancestors, held him in no 
 esteem ; they looked upon him as an excrescence 
 of the social body."
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 145 
 
 " Fie on those ugly set phrases ! When poor 
 Henri shuts himself up in his studio \vith his 
 canvas and his panels, what does he do ? " 
 
 " What does he do ? Nothing worth talking 
 abcut ; he manufactures pictures." 
 
 " Ah ! I have you there. He manufactures. He 
 is a manufacturer. A painter is a manufacturer of 
 pictures. He produces painted canvas, as your 
 friend Monsieur Cottiuet used to produce the visors 
 of helmets ! " 
 
 " That is quite another thing ! " 
 
 " There I agree with you. And when he has 
 finished a picture, what does he do with it does 
 he warehouse it ? " 
 
 " No ; he sells it." 
 
 " Of course he sells it ! He exhibits his merchan- 
 dise, he distributes his produce, he gives an impetus 
 to trade; he is a merchant." 
 
 "You are playing on words." 
 
 " By no means ; I am arguing. And when he
 
 146 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 has created a hundred masterpieces (for he does 
 create masterpieces), what will the world say of 
 him ? The world will say, ' Paris has the honour 
 of having given birth to the celebrated Henri 
 Tourneur; Henri Tourneur, whose paintings have 
 humbled the pride of old Holland, and made modern 
 France illustrious/ That is well worth a sub-lieu- 
 tenant's epaulette. The minister has promised him 
 that he will be decorated in two years. Now, what 
 do you mean by glory?" 
 
 " It is no good talking ; it is not " 
 
 "No, no, I will not spare you a single syllable; 
 and you must hear me out. You talk of function- 
 aries; but Henri is ten thousand " times more of a 
 functionary than you ! Functionary, indeed ! " 
 
 " Ah ! I should like you to explain that to 
 me." 
 
 " What is a functionary ? A man in the service 
 of the State, and who is paid out of the Budget. 
 The more he is paid, the greater the functionary.
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 147 
 
 And now, since Henri has received an order for 
 work to last him a year from the State, is he or 
 is he not in the service of the State? And when, 
 at the year's end, he goes to the treasury to 
 receive forty thousand francs, isn't he ten times a 
 bigger functionary than you, who only receive four 
 thousand francs ? " 
 
 " You great baby ! this proves clearly " 
 
 " That you must marry me to my dear Henri 
 if you wish me to marry a manufacturer, a mer- 
 chant, and a functionary all rolled in one ! " 
 
 "But, you tyrant, have I even the time to think 
 of your marriage ? There is my property to think 
 of again. Now they want to build a cite-ouvrierc 
 on it. I have seen the list of the members of the 
 committee all good people. They sent to sound 
 me through one of my chiefs. I should get a 
 million, money down, and they would leave me 
 a plot of twenty metres by fifteen to build upon. 
 It is a very good offer. What shall I do?"
 
 148 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 " Accept it, as it is such a good offer. " 
 
 " But in ten years it would be superb ! " 
 
 " But in a hundred years, papa, it would be 
 magnificent ! "Tis true that neither you nor I would 
 be any the better for it." 
 
 " All this is too much for me. Good-night ; I 
 arn going to bed." 
 
 " Without coming to any decision, papa ? " 
 
 "I shall sleep over it." 
 
 And the worthy man did sleep, as was his wont, 
 a deep and sonorous sleep, the noise whereof 
 sometimes imitated the rumbling of thunder, and 
 sometimes the roll of a stage-coach across a bridge. 
 He possessed two precious gifts, which the heaviest 
 cares could never imperil appetite and sleep. Next 
 morning he sallied forth to his office, more irresolute 
 than he had ever yet been, but sustained by a 
 couple of pounds of bread and an enormous bowl 
 of cafe-au-lait. 
 
 He had hardly reached the Rue Saint Lazare,
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 149 
 
 when his daughter and his sister heard the most 
 formidable rat-tat which had ever burst upon the 
 house in the memory of bells. Rosalie ran to the 
 door, crying, 
 
 " Something has happened to papa ! " 
 The bell-ringer was Monsieur do Chingru, wear- 
 ing a coat buttoned up to his chin, and a great 
 air of important secretiveness. He was admitted 
 by Rosalie and her aunt, who, like provincials, 
 were dressed by eight o'clock every morning. At 
 nine, the traces of breakfast had disappeared, and the 
 dining-room was transformed into a working-room. 
 "Ladies," said Chingru, "pardon me for dis- 
 turbing you at this early hour. It is in your 
 interest that I call to acquit myself of an honest 
 man's duty. It is I who brought Monsieur Henri 
 Tourneur here, with regard to some land he was 
 supposed to intend purchasing. May I yet be per- 
 mitted to arrest the consequences of my imprudence 
 while there is yet time ? "
 
 150 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 "Speak, sir; explain yourself at once," said 
 Rosalie. 
 
 "Mademoiselle, you can bear me witness that I 
 have always spoken of M. Henri Tourneur in flat- 
 tering terms." 
 
 " You have ; and what more have you to say ? " 
 
 "I told you, your aunt, and your excellent 
 father that Tourneur was an artist of talent, a 
 good-natured fellow in fact, what we men about 
 town call a thoroughly good fellow. I looked 
 upon him as a friend, and my opinion of him has 
 not altered. If you were to question me about 
 him on those points, I should still give you the 
 same answer. But why did I not learn sooner 
 that your respected father entertained other ideas 
 that he contemplated marrying you to him ? Cer- 
 tainly, I shouldn't have cried out, ' Do not marry 
 him ; he is not worthy of you. You will be sorry 
 for it some day/ No; I am not the sort of man 
 to betray a friend. But I should have spoken to
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 151 
 
 you gently, in your own interest. I should have 
 said, ' There is tliis obstacle : some women would 
 shrink from it, others might think nothing of it. 
 It is for you to decide if you can battle with a 
 certain person, and the memory of an intimacy of 
 long-standing and mutual pledges, and er other 
 consequences. If you can hope to be the winner, 
 why, then, marry ! ' ' 
 
 Monsieur de Chingru had no sooner spoken 
 than he reaped the fruits of his discourse. The 
 tears did not fall down Rosalie's cheeks; they 
 burst forth as if impelled by an invisible force. 
 But that was only for an instant. The brave girl 
 stifled her grief. 
 
 " Thank you for your kind intention," she said, 
 "but we knew all," adding, to mitigate the 
 effect of her too transparent fiction, " Monsieur 
 Tourneur has confided the history of this connec- 
 tion to us; and besides, as you know, everything 
 is broken off ! "
 
 152 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 "I should think so, Mademoiselle, as much 
 as " 
 
 "That is enough, sir; and if no further un- 
 fulfilled duty detains you here " 
 
 "I if you you understand. Mademoiselle, that, 
 placed as I was, between the necessity of speaking 
 or of holding my tongue " 
 
 "You held your tongue when you should have 
 spoken, and you spoke when you should have held 
 your tongue. Good-morning, sir." 
 
 And thus was Monsieur do Chingru dismissed. 
 
 At four o'clock in the afternoon of the same day 
 Monsieur Gaillard was putting his pens, his pen- 
 knife, and his black cotton sleeves away in his desk, 
 when a fine, tall woman, as yellow as an orange, 
 invaded his office. 
 
 " Monsieur," she cried, with a very marked accent, 
 " lie is a monster ! I loved him, I love him still. 
 For him I have left my country, my family, an<"l 
 the teatro della Sc?.la, where I was prima donna
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 153 
 
 assoluta. He is going to be married. He aban- 
 dons me and our two poor children, Enrico and 
 Enriclietta. What a monster, sir, an unnatural 
 father ! I forbid you to give your daughter to 
 him ! My dear Gaillard, thou hast the air of an 
 honest man; promise me that thou wilt not give 
 thy daughter to him ! I am mad, vois-iu. Under- 
 stand me well, my good Gaillard. I don't know 
 French, mi spiego male; but thou seest I have no 
 longer my head, that I ani ... If he marries 
 her, Vammazzero ... I will kill him and his 
 wife; I will kill myself afterwards; I will set fire 
 to the church, and I will go and do penance in 
 Rome ! Swear to me that thou wilt not give tby 
 daughter to him." 
 
 Monsieur Gaillard bowed his head under a storm 
 of words, in which Italian and French formed an 
 agreeable mixture. He interpreted as best he could 
 this medley of exclamations, and learnt that his 
 future son-in-law had betrayed and abandoned
 
 154 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 Mellina Barni. Having done his best to console 
 the fair disconsolate, he wrote, on the spur of the 
 moment, the following note, which he despatched 
 by a commissionnaire : 
 
 " PARIS, this Monday, 50th July, 18 , a quarter- 
 past four. 
 
 " SIR, 
 
 "Mademoiselle Mellina Barni has honoured me 
 by a visit at my office. I need say no more to you. 
 This young lady appears to me to be a most inter- 
 esting person, and I am not so inhuman as to wish 
 to separate her from the father of her children. 
 " Deign to accept, sir, the assurances of my most 
 
 distinguished consideration. 
 
 GAILLAED." 
 
 The signature had a most masterly flourish. The 
 paper was that fine, smooth, thick, heavy, lined,
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 155 
 
 and lordly paper which the Government pro- 
 vides expressly for the use of its offices and the 
 correspondence of its officials. 
 
 Henri Tourneur did not take note of so many 
 details. He hastily got into his clothes, took up 
 his cane, and rushed off to Mellina, -who received 
 him with open arms. 
 
 Mellina was an ethereal-looking, tiny blonde, as 
 white as a drop of milk. She spoke French withoub 
 any foreign accent, as a proof of which she was 
 preparing to make her debut in an exquisite little 
 three-act piece of Meyerbeer's at the Opera 
 Comique. 
 
 She wore a white peignoir, and was rehearsing a 
 magnificent Allegro. To her great surprise, Henri 
 rated her soundly, and taxed her with having taken 
 liberties with his name. She neither knew Monsieur 
 de Chingru nor Monsieur Gaillard. She had divined 
 that Henri had given her up because he intended 
 to marry, and although she had a right to feel
 
 156 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD 
 
 aggrieved, nothing would have induced her to put 
 obstacles in the way. The intervention of the two 
 children made her furious. She was indignant at 
 having, through no fault of hers, been made to play 
 the part of the Limousine or Picardc in Monsieur 
 de Pourceaugnac. She could hardly be restrained 
 from accompanying Henri to Monsieur Gaillard's 
 house, and the painter had some difficulty in per- 
 suading her that the cure would have been worse 
 than the disease. He went straight to the Rue 
 d' Amsterdam, and found the door shut against him. 
 They were at the play, at least the servant said 
 so. He went there every evening for a week, and 
 always met with the same answer. He went by 
 day. They were at a concert. So many plays and 
 concerts were equivalent to a formal dismissal. If 
 he had met Monsieur de Chingru on the stairs as he 
 turned away, the chances are that he would have 
 torn him to pieces. He wrote to Monsieur Gaillard, 
 and then to his sister. All his letters were put in
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 157 
 
 envelopes and returned to him. He lost patience, 
 and rushed to the Courts, where he interviewed the 
 Recorder on duty, a young man of thirty, pre- 
 cociously initiated in every mystery of Parisian 
 life. 
 
 " Sir," replied the magistrate, " this is not the 
 first case of the kind which has come before the 
 law-courts. You must have heard of those matri- 
 monial agencies, whose proceedings are sometimes 
 tolerated and sometimes put down by our tribunals. 
 There exists, besides the great houses who parade 
 their prospectuses, a class of individuals whose sole 
 profession is to run to earth large fortunes, colossal 
 dots, and any kind of money-bag that inhabits a 
 fourth floor, and take toll of them. They are 
 leagued together, and form limited companies, 
 whose only capital is intrigue, and whose statutes 
 have never been published. Some of them exact 
 ten per cent, on a marriage-portion ; some are 
 satisfied with a moderate commission, for there, as
 
 158 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 everywhere else, you meet with competition. M. 
 de Chingru, whatever be his real name, has cer- 
 tainly proved one of the moderate of them. When 
 he found himself baulked, he had the little scene you 
 describe played by one of his partners, or rather 
 accomplices. We will endeavour to trace the 
 actress and the author of the piece, but it is un- 
 likely that a woman of whom you have such a 
 slight account will be discovered; and were she 
 found, it would be difficult to prove the connivance 
 of Chingru." 
 
 When the painter got home, he found the fol- 
 lowing missive, dated from Havre, awaiting 
 him : 
 
 " MY POOR TOUBNEUR, 
 
 "If I had offered to give you 990,000 francs 
 and an adorable wife into the bargain, you would 
 have ranked me with the gods. I was stupid 
 enough to put the matter in a different form
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 159 
 
 before you ; I offered you a million, of which ten 
 thousand francs were for me. You lost your temper, 
 and you suffer for it. I have wreaked an artistic 
 vengeance. Monsieur Gaillard believes you to be 
 the father of two children and the quasi-husband 
 of a yellow woman ! ; Tis a blow from which 
 you will never recover, my poor Tourneur ! But 
 pray, when you threw me on to those hortensias, 
 was I on a bed of roses ? 
 
 "CeiNGBU & CO." 
 
 Henri was proceeding to tear the paper to shreds 
 in a moment of rage, but as he was blond, he altered 
 his mind : " Chingru, good Monsieur de Chingru," 
 thought he, "you are going to make it up between 
 Monsieur Gaillard and me ! I need but oblige him 
 to read this letter." 
 
 He coaxed Chingru's letter into a big en- 
 velope, sealed it with an enormous cornelian seal, 
 whereon were graven the arms of Ninon de
 
 160 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 Lenclos, and wrote the address in a bold, round 
 
 hand : 
 
 "A Monsieur, 
 
 " Monsieur Gaillard, Archiviste, 
 
 " Au Ministere de " 
 
 Monsieur Gaillard opened the letter as respect- 
 fully as if he were breaking the seal of a govern- 
 ment despatch. Chingru's signature piqued his 
 curiosity : he had resolved to return Tourneur's 
 letters, but not Chingru's. This singular document 
 completely reversed his ideas; he accused himself 
 of cruelty and injustice, and asked for permission 
 (for the first time in thirty years) to leave his 
 office at two o'clock ! 
 
 Rosalie bedewed Chingru's signature with her 
 tears. " I knew it/' she said ; " and had you 
 allowed me to influence you, you would have given 
 poor Henri a chance of defending himself!" 
 
 Then they all, Rosalie, her father, and her aunt, 
 agreed to go to him to his studio the following
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 161 
 
 day by way of making amends. This was certainly 
 due to him. Rosalie was wild with happiness. 
 
 " Why, I believe you loved him all the time ? " 
 questioned her father. 
 
 " More than ever. Something whispered to me 
 that he had been calumniated." 
 
 Suddenly the door opened, and the servant 
 announced Mademoiselle Mellina Barni. Rosalie 
 and her aunt had barely time to escape into the 
 next room. I don't know what they conversed 
 about when there, but I believe that it would 
 have been difficult to pass a hair between Rosalie's 
 ear and the door leading to the dining-room. 
 
 Monsieur Gaillard contemplated the real Mellina 
 like a child gazing at a magic lantern. For a 
 moment he thought a conspiracy to mystify him 
 had been hatched, and that a new Mellina Barni 
 would be sent to him every day. He began to 
 think of changing his residence, without leaving an 
 address behind him. 
 
 M
 
 162 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 Mellina had great difficulty in persuading him 
 that her name was really Mellina Barni, that she 
 was nineteen years of age, that she was not the 
 mother of a family, that she lived with her mother, 
 and that she had not come to complain of Monsieur 
 Henri Tourneur. She explained to him in excellent 
 French that her conduct was exemplary, and that 
 she had left the theatre of La Scala to appear 
 at the Opera Comique. She informed him that 
 ladies of the theatrical profession can pay visits, 
 receive presents, and see their friends, without either 
 compromising or being compromised. She owned 
 that she had loved Monsieur Henri Tourneur, and 
 had hoped to marry him ; but that since the middle 
 of last May, he had left off paying her visits, and 
 had honourably put an end to a connection which 
 had been honourable throughout. 
 
 " I will not say, sir," she added, " that I re- 
 nounced my hopes without regret ; but this is a fate 
 to which we must all submit. We are all more or
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 163 
 
 less courted by rich young geutlemen who admire us 
 sufficiently to make love to us, but who do not love 
 us well enough to marry us, and who, when they 
 are sure of our virtue, turn their backs upon us 
 to wed elsewhere. This is precisely the history of 
 Monsieur Tourneur; and because a tale has been 
 told you which is neither to his credit nor mine, 
 and you have shut your door to him, and because 
 I know that he is ill from grief, I have summoned 
 all my courage and come to you. I hope you 
 will know how to distinguish between truth and 
 falsehood." 
 
 When Mellina went away, Rosalie ran back to 
 her father. Perhaps she would have preferred 
 that Chingru's falsehoods had not been founded on 
 fact, and yet I am not sure that Mellina's visit 
 produced a bad impression on her. Mellina had 
 appeared very pretty to her through the keyhole, 
 and she forgave the painter for having been in love 
 with her. She knew that a girl who married a
 
 164 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 man past thirty had always some rivals in the past, 
 and she preferred not to have ugly ones ; nineteen 
 women out of twenty would be of her opinion. 
 She felt, from the ring of Mellina's voice, that she 
 spoke the truth, and that there had been nothing 
 to blush for in this love. Besides, she could no 
 longer doubt that she had dethroned the beautiful 
 Italian about the middle of May, that is to say, at 
 first sight. 
 
 But Monsieur Gaillard was once more overwhelmed 
 with perplexities. He would certainly not call on 
 Monsieur Tourneur; he reproached his daughter 
 for the obstinacy of her affection. 
 
 " I am willing to own," quoth he, " that this 
 young man is not so black as he has been painted ; 
 but he has associated with actresses. Qui a lu 
 boira ! I would as soon think of trusting a dipso- 
 manaic. You believe he will be faithful to you, 
 but he abandoned that young Italian ; he might 
 just as well play you the same trick. Besides,
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 1(35 
 
 we must not think about this marriage until my 
 land is sold." 
 
 When he was advised to sell his land, he 
 answered, 
 
 " There is no hurry ; I shall sell it to give my 
 daughter a marriage portion, and my daughter 
 isn't married jet." 
 
 The sight of the portrait annoyed him ; it vexed 
 him to be under an obligation to Henri Tour- 
 neur. 
 
 " What shall we do with this accursed portrait ? " 
 he asked Rosalie. " We cannot keep it after a 
 rupture. Suppose we send it back to him ? " 
 
 " How can you think of such a thing, papa ? I 
 should be for ever in his studio." 
 
 "To sell it and send him the proceeds would 
 be indelicate. Whom could I give it to ? I do 
 not choose either to give or sell my daughter's 
 portrait. It might get into the hands of the trade, 
 and at every sale at the Hotel Dronot, I should
 
 166 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 tremble to read in the paper : ' Portrait of Made- 
 moiselle R. G., by M. Henri Tourneur, price 8,000 
 fr/ I would rather scrape the paint off with my 
 own fingers." 
 
 "Destroy my portrait, all that remains to mo 
 of the happiest moments of my life ! " 
 
 "Hold thy peace. Dashed painter, dashed 
 Chingru ! dashed property ! I would give it to 
 any one who would take the trouble off my hands ! 
 Had we not been so rich, all this would never 
 have happened ! " 
 
 Monsieur Gaillard lost his appetite; he ate like 
 an ordinary man. His sleep became much lighter 
 and infinitely less noisy. He was no longer punctual 
 at his office; twice he got there after ten. This 
 was on the 1 7th and ] 8th of August. When he 
 came home, Rosalie's old aunt remarked to her : 
 
 " Your father must have thought a great deal ; 
 his nose is quite red on one side." 
 
 Henri left off working; he lived on the pavement
 
 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 167 
 
 of the Rue d' Amsterdam. Monsieur Gaillard care- 
 fully avoided him, and he did not dare to accost 
 Monsieur Gaillard. He would have dared to speak to 
 Rosalie, but she never went out without her father. 
 At last, on the 3rd of September, he received a note 
 from Monsieur Gaillard inviting him to call on him 
 to receive the remaining 7,950 francs that were 
 still owing for the portrait. He would be expected 
 to be there to receive the money at five o'clock. He 
 accepted this strange invitation, not for the sake of 
 the money, but of Rosalie. The three principal 
 founders of the die ouvriere were met at Monsieur 
 Gaillard's at the same hour to settle the business of 
 the purchase of M. Gaillard's property. The worthy 
 man had declined all responsibility in the matter ; 
 he left all to Rosalie, and she had treated with 
 the purchasers. Henri arrived just as the notary 
 was reading the last clause of the deed of sale. 
 
 " The purchasers agree to build on Lot F, belong- 
 ing to the vendor, a dwelling house for Monsieur
 
 168 THESE LOTS TO BE SOLD. 
 
 Gaillard and his family, with a painter's studio on 
 the first floor." 
 
 Monsieur Gaillard looked at his daughter, who 
 looked at Henri, who looked at no one. He was 
 terribly pale, and leant against the wall. 
 
 " Allons," said the worthy man, taking up his 
 pen, " here is a flourish that will put an end to all 
 my cares ! " 
 
 " Monsieur," remarked the notary, " yours is a 
 remarkably fine handwriting."
 
 A COJWEF^lOfl. 
 
 TH. BENTZON. 
 
 I. 
 
 "HERE'S a letter for M. le Cure,"* said a little 
 fellow in wooden shoes, who stood at the open 
 door of the presbytery. 
 
 The servant, busy, washing in her kitchen, wiped 
 the snowy lather off her hands and took the paper 
 held out to her. 
 
 " H. le Cure is reading his breviary; shall I 
 disturb him ? Is an answer required ? " 
 
 "I don't know," said the boy; "I was told to 
 wait." 
 
 * Parish priest. 
 
 169
 
 170 A CONVERSION. 
 
 She signed to him to enter and sit down, while 
 with the lagging step of age, she bent her way 
 towards the garden. 
 
 A cure's garden, in very deed, with its little 
 narrow, box-bordered walks, wherein to walk and 
 cherish abstract thought, and the high walls that 
 separated it from everything external, except the 
 highest cross of the neighbouring burying ground. 
 
 The black foliage of a yew tree marked the 
 angle of the flower beds, which were varied with 
 plots of vegetables, the whole carefully tended by 
 Monsieur le Cure himself. For he did not disdain, 
 by way of recreation, to turn up his cassock, and 
 dig and delve. On the sunny, ivy-garlanded curb- 
 stone of the old well a fat cat lay rolled up, 
 mingling its purr of enjoyment with the faint hum 
 of the bees which buzzed, as if intoxicated, above 
 and around the flowering lilies, whose perfume 
 loaded the air of a burning August afternoon. In 
 an arbour, where a statue of the Virgin gleamed
 
 A CONVERSION. I/I 
 
 white in the shade, Monsieur le Cure had sheltered 
 himself from the sunbeams which came down in a 
 rain of fire from a cloudless sky. 
 
 With his head resting against the leafy hedge, 
 the clear-cut sunburnt profile standing out like an 
 antique from the dark background, he sat and 
 meditated, with one finger between the leaves of 
 his book. For the last five years, although he 
 looked so young, this hour had found him regularly 
 absorbed in the contemplation of the daily duties 
 of his office, thinking of the good still to be done, 
 ever dissatisfied with himself, although he lavished 
 his time, his strength, and the little money he 
 possessed, without stint. The circle wherein he 
 spent his untiring activity was a very narrow one. 
 Without even owning it to himself, his ardent 
 spirit suffered from the curb. His vocation would 
 have drawn him towards the life of a missionary or 
 of an army chaplain, for there was something of 
 the soldier in him, the taste for heroic adventure.
 
 172 A CONVERSION. 
 
 But the father of the Abbe Fulgence, a tiller of the 
 soil in his own vineyard, had given his only son 
 to God on condition of not losing sight of him 
 altogether, and of his incurring as little danger as 
 possible. The sublime aspirations of this parish 
 priest were checked for the time being by his filial 
 obedience. He had not renounced the dreams of 
 his youth as far as the future was concerned. He 
 harked back to them involuntarily, while he 
 laboured on without respite but without much 
 success, teaching and catechising the village 
 scamps. The grief nearest his heart lay in th,e per- 
 ception that he could only hope to succeed iu 
 instilling the bare letter of religion. Not that 
 either men or women neglected attending mass; 
 but that their apparent devotion was merely due to 
 routine, and neither cured this one of avarice, nor 
 his neighbour of drunkenness, nor did it prevent their 
 marriages from being often merely an act of tardy 
 justice. To awaken the enthusiasm of virtue in
 
 A CONVERSION. 173 
 
 these gross natures would have been an impossible 
 task. The inhabitants of Arc-sur-Loire vegetated 
 from their cradle to their grave, greedy for gain, 
 solely pre-occupied with the hoarding of their savings, 
 quick to envy their neighbour's harvest, bent double 
 with the toil of wringing its produce from the soil, 
 without seeking aught beside; neither better nor 
 worse, taking all in all, than other peasants, and 
 superior to many of them in that they could read 
 and write. The midland departments of France 
 are supposed to be enlightened, but their lights, 
 as they do not bear on spiritual matters, were 
 far from satisfying his heart's desire. He had not 
 yet made any of the conquests his ambition had 
 promised him ; the good and evil around him were 
 devoid of grandeur, or rather could hardly be said 
 to exist. All the sheep of his flock had the same 
 uniform, unmeaning expression. There were neither 
 harassed consciences nor fruitful repentances. There 
 was no question of high aspirations; they all
 
 174 A CONVERSION. 
 
 dragged their steps in the common path without 
 other pre-occupation than the constant struggle for 
 daily bread. And yet far away there were the 
 heathen to convert and sinners to save! 
 
 A zeal as ardent as it was wasted possessed the 
 Abbe Fulgence. He towered alone of his kind 
 above his commonplace surroundings, as an oak 
 raises itself high above the undergrowth that 
 threatens to choke it. And, indeed, the comparison 
 to a noble oak suggested itself naturally in the 
 presence of the physical and moral solidity of fea- 
 tures, the voice, the whole person of a singularly 
 striking individuality. There was none of the ordi- 
 nary shy mannerism of an ecclesiastic at the outset 
 of his career, fresh from the seminary. 
 
 The steel grey eye of the Abbe Fulgence bent 
 on the women of his flock a regard whose frank- 
 ness was marred by no timidity. If you had ven- 
 tured to suggest to him that some of them remarked 
 the fine presence of Monsieur le Cure, the brilliant
 
 A CONVERSION. 175 
 
 smile which sometimes brightened the usually pen- 
 sive expression of his regular features, or the thick- 
 black, curly hair, where the tonsure made a small 
 bluish circle, he would have betrayed by a curt 
 or indifferent answer the secret contempt which a 
 priest, who has absolutely abjured all things mun- 
 dane, feels for the sex whose very weakness is 
 treachery, for the eternal stumbling-block in the 
 way of pious resolve; a contempt certainly veiled 
 aud softened by charity, but therefore deeper, be- 
 cause unmixed with fear. The temptations of the 
 Abbe Fulgence came from a higher plane; they 
 urged him forward to far-off apostolic perils. He 
 would have chosen martyrdom a hundred times in 
 preference to the tedious, inglorious drudgery im- 
 posed upon him by the present hour. His feelings 
 might have been compared to those of a youthful 
 bride, who, having built up a romance of her own, 
 suddenly finds herself imprisoned within the icy 
 walls of a marriage of convenience.
 
 176 A CONVERSION. 
 
 "Monsieur le Cure!" said the voice of Ursula, 
 tlio old servant, standing two steps away from him. 
 
 lie did not hear her. 
 
 The Abbe Fulgence was passing over in his own 
 mind for the hundredth time that chapter of dis- 
 appointments which each of us bears more or less 
 legibly imprinted on our conscience, and which 
 might be headed : Wasted energies. He told 
 himself sadly enough that, with or without his in- 
 tervention, the good people of Arc-sur-Loire would 
 continue to be good in a way which precluded all 
 progress, and that this notwithstanding, he must 
 continue to walk beside them, calling to them every 
 now and again with an appeal as monotonous as 
 the call of a cow-herd to his oxen. By degrees he 
 must fatally sink to their level. What had he to 
 occupy him to-day, for instance, while all the 
 thoughts of his hearers would be concentrated on 
 the important subject of carrying and garnering the 
 corn ? To settle some minor details of adminis-
 
 A CONVERSION. 177 
 
 tration, casual ones that he found particularly odious. 
 He shrugged his shoulders, and again took up 
 his breviary. 
 
 "Monsieur le Care a letter for you," repeated 
 Ursula, passing into the arbour this time. 
 
 "A letter?" 
 
 The hour for the postman to pass was long 
 over; epistolary correspondence with their pastor 
 had never obtained among the parishioners of Arc- 
 sur-Loire. 
 
 "Give it me," said he, quite surprised. 
 
 Something strange was happening to him, some- 
 thing out of the common. 
 
 "Is it possible? They have sent from La Free 
 for me." 
 
 " La Free ! " echoed Ursula. Those heretics ! 
 What an event, indeed ! " 
 
 " I want to know . . . Say that I will go, 
 as they wish it; or rather, no, do not send the 
 messenger away. I am ready to go with him."
 
 178 A CONVERSION. 
 
 He stood up as he spoke, rather agitated, and 
 crossing the garden in a few strides, re-read the 
 letter, a note of two lines written in a trembling 
 hand, from which he learnt nothing more than 
 that a sick and unhappy person wished to see him 
 without delay. 
 
 That was enough for the Abbe Fulgence. He 
 snatched up his hat and stick, and without a 
 question, followed the little peasant who had 
 come to seek him; while Ursula, standing on 
 the threshold of the presbytery, followed with her 
 eyes the tall figure that stood out from the blind- 
 ing glare of the white dust, as it passed along the 
 high road. 
 
 " What can they want with him ? " she asked 
 herself, with a vague sensation of uneasiness. 
 
 II. 
 
 LA PJJEE, an important domain situated far from the 
 village, in the midst of a rich zone of cornfields
 
 A CONVERSION. 179 
 
 and vineyards, was the last stronghold of Pro- 
 testantism where it had once been so powerful. 
 The cognomen of its owners, evidently derived from 
 a significant nickname, recalled the old times of 
 nocturnal preachings, and the popular belief in 
 the supernatural powers that protected them. The 
 family of Le Huguet had inhabited the country 
 from generation to generation since those remote 
 times, isolated in a manner which would have been 
 explicable in that bygone period of warlike per- 
 secution, but singular in this present day of 
 avowed liberty of creed. This isolation (which 
 nowise precluded public esteem, and the sort of 
 respect due to a higher status, more or less depen- 
 dent on a person's means) was certainly owed to the 
 peculiar attitude of this nest of Huguenots, living, 
 as it were, undpr the ban of old custom, and in the 
 shade of hereditary memories. 
 
 Not that the Le Huguets made any display of 
 the faith they alone adhered to; indeed, they were
 
 180 A CONVEKSION. 
 
 generally considered to belong to no sort of religion, 
 because they attended no place of worship. They 
 lived at a great distance from the principal town of 
 their department, and there only could they have 
 met with a minister of their own faith; so they 
 limited their calls on his services to the great 
 solemnities of life, marriage, baptism, or burial, re- 
 fraining at all other times from every external form 
 of worship. 
 
 " He is like ourselves nothing at all," asserted 
 the two or three Freethinkers, designated " Reds " by 
 the population of Arc-sur-Loire, when they mentioned 
 Francois Le Huguet. 
 
 But they were mistaken. The master of La Free, 
 although no longer called upon to attend secret 
 preachings, would sooner have suffered at the stake 
 or in exile, like his forefathers, than have denied 
 by word or deed the faith to which he clung, as 
 to his life's blood, by a dogged instinct. He was 
 himself the priest of his own home, and every
 
 A CONVERSION. 181 
 
 evening he read, for the edification of his wife and 
 children, a few verses from an ancient yellow-leaved, 
 well-worn edition of the Bible, which bore the date 
 of 1588. This Bible was a sacred relic. It repre- 
 sented the altar at which the household knelt, the 
 foundation-stone of a house where everything told 
 of its presence, for surely never did outer walls and 
 all they enclosed differ more entirely from their sur- 
 roundings. The other farms, from the poorest to 
 the richest, had an unvarying family likeness, with 
 their hedge of brambles the more or less picturesque 
 disorder of the yard, with its agricultural imple- 
 ments, its dung-heaps, its free and untrammelled 
 poultry and pigs, and its children, all unwashed 
 until the Sabbath day. The inhabitants of the 
 Orloanais are all comparatively clean. But at La 
 Prce, amidst the cold symmetry of those white- 
 washed walls, within those gates, painted so crude 
 a green, one might fancy oneself in Switzerland or 
 in Holland.
 
 182 A CONVERSION. 
 
 Every one was conscious, after the the first steps 
 across the yard devoted to the business of the farm, 
 that here was a difference which must extend from 
 external objects to the character of the inhabitants. 
 Vast stores of manure filled the pits ad hoc, without 
 a blade of straw passing their stone edges ; the 
 ground was carefully weeded, and the animals shut 
 up in their respective quarters, which formed scru- 
 pulously neat geometrical squares. The dairy pro- 
 duce of La Free, whether butter or cheese, had its 
 special market value, the servants who had lived 
 there were in request because they were accredited 
 with order, industry, and general good conduct. The 
 master passed for a man of austere and taciturn dispo- 
 sition. He associated as little as possible with the 
 villagers, neither did he make any advances to the 
 neighbouring townspeople, although his position as 
 a great agriculturist entitled him to rank with them. 
 Notwithstanding his horny hands and brusque 
 manners, his very reserve imposed respect; he
 
 A CONVERSION. 183 
 
 was not easily approached or understood, and none 
 appeared to be at ease with him. Although strictly 
 honest in his dealings, and chary of his words, he 
 never lost sight of his own interest. His every 
 action indicated a fund o sagacity, rigorous justice, 
 and secret distrust. The truth is, that he was 
 always on the defensive, standing as he did alone 
 against the world, regarded as an Anti-christ by 
 the pious, and as an alien by the mass of the popu- 
 lation, which formed, so to speak, one huge family 
 in the bonds of continued intermarriage; while for 
 the last century no Le Huguet had made any 
 alliance with his neighbours. Madame Le Huguet 
 was of Teuton extraction, stout and languid ; she 
 reminded one of Holbein's matrons. A silent 
 country bourgeoise, entirely given up to the direc- 
 tion of her household, she seemed almost to havo 
 fallen into double bondage to husband and chil- 
 dren. The latter was indeed a light and pleasant 
 one, and borne most willingly by an adoring
 
 184 A CONVERSION. 
 
 mother. They were three girls, real young ladies, 
 ttbo had been educated up to the age of fifteen at 
 a boarding school in the town, where they had 
 learnt to play the piano. Novels came for them by 
 post from the circulating library; all this was food 
 for no small amount of gossip. 
 
 They were decidedly original very proud, and yet 
 by no means vain, it was said. A certain puritan 
 simplicity in their dress prevented the vulgar from 
 perceiving their innate elegance. Shod in a manner 
 to defy the worst roads, generally clad in dark 
 woollen materials, their heads covered with little 
 mannish hats, they were outwardly not unlike 
 English girls, de jeunes misses. The eldest was al- 
 ready married to a wealthy tanner of Touraine, and 
 there was a marked difference of age between the 
 two younger ones. Little Suzette might often be 
 seen driving a be-ribboned donkey in a tiny English 
 cart all about the country. She responded to the 
 salutations that were addressed to her with a shy-
 
 A CONVERSION. 185 
 
 ness which was infinitely prepossessing 1 , and was, like 
 a true Le Huguet, of few words. 
 
 As to the other sister, Mademoiselle Siinone, she 
 had been invisible for months, and was known to 
 be ill. The doctor went to La Free regularly twice 
 a week, .and sometimes he was sent for oftener. 
 For the last eight days his cabriolet had been seen 
 to pass that way every day. 
 
 " It was such a pity ! such a pretty girl ! the 
 flower of the flock a queenly figure ! And what a 
 colour she had when she came home from school ! " 
 But she had fallen into consumption by slow de- 
 grees, and soon perhaps she would rejoin those dead 
 and gone Le Huguets who rested under the large 
 white stone at the farther end of the burying ground, 
 isolated in death as they had been in life, and even 
 there a mark for the tongue of scandal. The thick 
 turf of God's acre was planted with many crosses, 
 large and small. " Those people at La Free must be 
 downright heathen to renounce this symbol/' "Chris-
 
 186 A CONVERSION. 
 
 tians ? oh, dear, no ! They called themselves Chris- 
 tians, but nobody believed it." " Hadn't they told 
 Catherine, the girl who tended their poultry, who 
 had offered to make a neuvaine to the Holy Virgin for 
 Mademoiselle, that they did not tolerate such supersti- 
 tions under their roof?" Meanwhile they were.unhappy. 
 
 The father uubent less than ever. No complaint 
 escaped his close-shut lips, but there was a 
 heartbroken ring in his harsh voice when the im- 
 perious mouth had to frame an order; the mother 
 had suddenly aged ten years, and little Suzette, when 
 you asked her how her sister was, answered, while 
 she struggled to restrain her tears, 
 
 " She is no better." 
 
 The Cure, like every one else, had heard of this 
 illness. His first thought was naturally of the 
 stricken one. But what did she want of him ? His 
 brain began to work. Was it a last mysterious re- 
 quest, or a confession, perhaps, one of those con- 
 fessions which prove the human as well as the divine
 
 A CONVEESION. 187 
 
 need of the sacrament of repentance, and which is 
 said to have thrust certain Protestants, especially 
 women, into the confessional, where they can be 
 heard if not absolved? If it were more than that, 
 if grace had touched this erring soul, and melted 
 away its clouds ! if he were to have the signal glory 
 of leading it back to God ! The apostle's heart 
 within him swelled with hope. 
 
 Once he turned to speak to the little boy who was 
 guiding him, and whose feet tripped lightly over the 
 stubble, for as the harvests were over this side of 
 the farm they went across the fields. 
 
 "What is thy name?" 
 
 " Baptistin." 
 
 " Thou art in service at La Free ? " 
 
 " No, indeed ; I came with my mother from tho 
 hamlet of Guignes to glean. Madame Le Huguet, 
 who knows me by sight, gave me the scrap of paper 
 and told me not to tell any one where I was taking 
 it to."
 
 188 A CONVERSION. 
 
 " Some one is ill at the farm ? " 
 
 " Yes, one of the young ladies has been ill for a 
 long time." 
 
 " And she wishes to see me ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; I did as I was told. I met 
 Monsieur Le Huguet, who was overlooking the reap- 
 ers over by Petite-croix. He asked me where I was 
 running to so fast. I said I was going to the town 
 to fetch some stores. If he knew that I told a story, 
 I should get a good shaking. He hates lies worse 
 than anything, I think, Monsieur le Huguet does; 
 he'd rather be robbed, I think, and yet " 
 
 The boy stopped short and reddened up to his 
 eyes. He remembered the severest punishment 
 which had ever fallen to his lot, when one day the 
 owner of La, Free had discovered him in his orchard 
 in the act of eating his apples.
 
 A CONVERSION. 189 
 
 III. 
 
 MONSIEUR LE CURB, led by little Baptistin, walked 
 a long way. If the village of Arc, properly speak- 
 ing, is composed of but a few houses perched 
 high on the hill that overlooks the Loire and its 
 great sandy curves, the parish of Arc-sur-Loire 
 extends far into the plain, and the Le Huguet 
 property stood at its uttermost limit. The sun was 
 already sinking, when, in the turn of the road 
 which they had reached, the long green fence 
 revealed itself, surrounding a compact group of 
 simple one-storeyed buildings, devoid of any character 
 and staringly white-washed. 
 
 A woman was waiting on the threshold, and 
 looking impatiently from right to left. She was a 
 little woman, short and stout, whose black silk apron 
 peeped out from under the print skirt which had 
 been partly tucked up to preserve it. Her silver 
 grey hair was swathed in folds of muslin, and from
 
 190 A CONVERSION. 
 
 her waist there hung a large bunch of housewife's 
 keys. As he came nearer to her, the Abbe per- 
 ceived that her face bore traces of recent tears. 
 It was Madame le Huguet. After dismissing 
 little Baptistin, she said : 
 
 " Sir, I must confess to you that you are not 
 here by my desire, still less by the wish of my 
 husband, who must never hear of your visit. I 
 have managed for the moment to get every one out 
 of the way. Enter quickly." 
 
 "Still, madam," replied the astonished Cure, "this 
 letter is in your handwriting, I suppose ? " 
 
 Madame Le Huguet dried her eyes. She was 
 evidently agitated. 
 
 " I had to consent ! . . . I know that I am 
 wrong; . . . but when you are entreated by one 
 in the jaws of death, what can you do ? How 
 could I, her mother, hold out to the end ? Como 
 in quickly, I tell you. . . , He is the man to 
 kill you if he guessed . . ."
 
 A CONVEESION. 191 
 
 She led him across the courtyard, and round 
 a corner of the house. From this side a small 
 wooden outside staircase led to the first floor. 
 Madame le Huguet, still preceding the Cure, drew 
 a key from her pocket, and after looking once more 
 timidly and furtively around her, opened the little 
 door at the head of the stair, and then asked 
 the young priest to wait in the linen- closet, 
 littered all over, as she apologetically remarked, 
 with linen from the recent wash. From the next 
 room, when she entered, there came a weak cry, 
 almost immediately repressed; then a rustling of 
 stuffs and an interchange of rapid whispering before 
 Madame le Huguet returned, only to disappear 
 again, after showing the Abbe into the bedroom. 
 
 lie found himself in a large apartment, where- 
 in half-closed shutters made a twilight of the 
 light that passed through them. The window, 
 that overlooked the courtyard from between 
 the folds of its curtains, had been hermetically
 
 192 A CONVEESION. 
 
 closed ; it was from the garden that the odours 
 of carnations and of lavender, too pungent for the 
 nerves of an invalid, were wafted into the room. 
 At sight of the Cure, some one lying on the 
 wide chintz-hung bed made a feeble effort to 
 rise into an upright posture. This he did not 
 notice at first, as he had turned round to see if his 
 introductress had followed him. No; the door was 
 shut, and he was alone, alone with the pale appari- 
 tion, whose whiteness blended with the white of 
 the bed-linen in the gloom of the alcove. Bat 
 soon the eyes of the Abbe Fulgence grew accus- 
 tomed to the darkness and distinguished a woman, a 
 young woman with large eyes dulled by the deep 
 circles round them, and with a waxen skin. The 
 only life in her whole being seemed to cling to her 
 golden-brown hair; it had been plaited in two heavy, 
 shining plaits, which laid out on the bed by her side, 
 and formed a frame to her face and figure. But 
 for them, she might have been a statue on a tomb.
 
 A CONVEESTON. 193 
 
 Yet, as the priest approached her, a hectic flush 
 coloured the cheek bones, and the hands tightly 
 clasped together loosened themselves, as she mur- 
 mured : 
 
 " I thank you ! " 
 
 Then only did he recognise, or rather recall, a face 
 of which this was but the shadow, and that he had 
 often passed it without having so much as asked : 
 Who is she ? That face, forgotten until this moment 
 appeared to him by a rapid process of mental 
 evocation more distinctly than it had ever done in 
 reality; indeed, he was surprised never having 
 noticed it before or thought of it since to re- 
 member it so vividly all at once. 
 
 " You are Mademoiselle Simone ? " said he, taking 
 his seat by the bedside with an affectionate famili- 
 arity habitual to him in the sick room, without 
 waiting to be invited to do so. 
 
 She smiled a wan smile at her name, and 
 answered : 
 
 o
 
 194 A CONVERSION. 
 
 "I am nothing now, nothing but a girl who is 
 going to die." 
 
 "Who knows? There is God to lean upon, and 
 to His power there is no limit. It is you, my 
 child, who have sent for me ? " 
 
 A brighter burning red, painful to see, lighted 
 up the hollow cheeks, and she turned her head 
 aside and buried it in the pillow with a strange 
 confusion. Then a hoarse cough overcame her and 
 shook her emaciated shoulders. The cough, the 
 almost transparent thinness, other fatal signs, told 
 their tale but too clearly to the Cure. Consump- 
 tion in its last stage had worn the unhappy 
 creature's life away, leaving to the approaching 
 terrors of death but a frail shell, in itself almost 
 ethereal. As she lay back panting, with moist 
 brow, she fixed her eyes on his face with an ex- 
 pression which would have embarrassed him had 
 he not often encountered a like intensity in 
 the eyes of the dying, an intensity by which they
 
 A CONVEKSION. 195 
 
 seem to appropriate with their latest energies all 
 that they are about to lose for ever. 
 
 The clock on the mantelpiece struck the minutes 
 solemnly, and another muffled sound, like the des- 
 pairing thud of a breaking heart, mingled with its 
 regular ticking. For a long while it filled the 
 silent room. The Abbe waited : at last he at- 
 tempted to break through this timidity or inde- 
 cision. 
 
 " What can I do for you ? " 
 
 "Oh!" she said, "you have already done more 
 than I dared to hope in coming here." 
 
 " Charity is enjoined upon me by the God 
 whom I serve/' replied the young priest simply. 
 " It is my duty to hasten whither I am called, 
 without even trying to fathom the motives of those 
 who suffer and call upon me." 
 
 She moaned as if he had wounded her. A sad 
 echo repeated : 
 
 " Your duty ! "
 
 196 A CONVEESION. 
 
 And then there was once more silence for some 
 minutes. 
 
 " Your duty," she began again, " will doubtless 
 
 prevent your returning here. What does it matter ? 
 
 . . You will know, you will have read, . . . 
 
 for I could not possibly speak ... I dare 
 
 not, ... I should be ashamed. . . ." 
 
 Once more the little blood left to her rushed 
 to her brow, lighting up her dark, tearful eyes. 
 She succeeded in raising herself, but with a con- 
 traction of the features which betokened so much 
 suffering that the priest involuntarily drew nearer 
 to help her, but she put up her arm as if in 
 alarm ; and whilst she kept him at a distance, 
 searched for something under her pillow. 
 
 " You promise to read it ? " she said, as she 
 handed him a thin book bound in shagreen. A 
 little key hung from its clasp. " It is a confes- 
 sion, my dying confession, you see. There ought 
 to be indulgence for that."
 
 A CONVERSION. 197 
 
 In taking the book from her his hand touched 
 her slender fingers, which thrilled at the contact 
 like the leaves of a sensitive plant. 
 
 " Ah ! " she sobbed, " when you know, you will 
 not come back." 
 
 " Nothing shall prevent me from coming here to 
 minister to you," he replied, moved by a profound 
 pity. 
 
 Suddenly there was light on her despairing face. 
 
 " Do not doubt the mercy of the All- Merciful." 
 
 " I only doubt your mercy/' she broke in, and 
 would have added something more, when Madame 
 Le Huguet, opening the door without showing 
 herself, said, in a tone of anguish : 
 
 " This is the hour when thy father returns from 
 the fields." 
 
 " Adieu ! " murmured the sick girl. 
 
 a A u revoir ! " replied the Cure. 
 
 He perceived that she made a vague effort to 
 shake hands with him, and remembering that his
 
 198 A CONVERSION. 
 
 Divine Master would not have refused to toucli the 
 hand of the Canaanite, he took this poor hand iu 
 his with the awkwardness of a man who has never 
 permitted himself such familiarities. His surprise 
 to find his own hand drawn towards trembling lips 
 which printed a pressure as of fire upon it, partook 
 of dismay. A moment later he was on the high- 
 road, without knowing how he had left the room. 
 
 Then the idea that the poor girl's mind was 
 wandering, that she was delirious, came to him, and 
 he accepted it ; this spontaneous gesture was 
 surely due to fever. The whole adventure seemed 
 so strange to him that had it not been for the 
 locked book in his pocket, inviting him to read, 
 to know. . . . From one minute to another, 
 as he walked, his curiosity grew stronger. At 
 last he could withstand it no longer, and, sitting 
 down by the way under a group of trees that 
 overhung a grassy mound, he plunged into the 
 reading of the book which was to give him the
 
 A CONVERSION. 199 
 
 key of the mystery. It was the tranquil hour 
 immediately after sunset; the sonorous air rang 
 with the distant song of the reapers. 
 
 At that moment, Francois Le Huguet passed, 
 with his hands crossed behind his back and his 
 head bent down, to avoid raising his hat, and the 
 priest started like a burglar caught in the act. 
 
 IV. 
 
 WAS it the sudden apparition of this father who 
 was to be kept in the dark, or because the steel 
 clasp was difficult to open, that he felt a vague and 
 passing fear of committing an indelicate act, and 
 almost feared to encounter the secret which had been 
 voltmtai'ily placed in his hands ? It was a con- 
 fession, she had said. But this confession of a Pro- 
 testant was an extraordinary action, to which he had 
 perhaps not been justified in lending himself without 
 first ascertaining in what spirit it had been made. 
 To gain time, and also to reassure himself, ho first
 
 200 A CONVERSION. 
 
 glanced at the earliest, somewhat faded pages ; a 
 line across them in pencil showed that they were of 
 no importance or account : the ordinary young girl's 
 diary, insignificant and monotonous. The writing 
 was careful and regular : a pretty small handwrit- 
 ing, with capital letters of an elaborate design, 
 relieved by bold round hand for details of para- 
 mount interest. Under each date a few lines ac- 
 counted for the daily employment of time since the 
 first day of school-life, class triumphs, detailed 
 accounts of great functions, a competition, a dis- 
 tribution of prizes; and effusions inspired by the 
 naive passion of childish friendships ran like a thread 
 through all the artless recital of the small joys and 
 sorrows the joys and sorrows of an age when 
 everything is exaggerated by vivacity of imagina- 
 tion, warmth of heart, and the shallowness of 
 emotion. 
 
 These joys and these sorrows seemed in Simone's 
 case to be abnormally out of proportion to the
 
 A CONVEESION. 201 
 
 events which gave rise to them. Besides, there 
 seemed to have been shocks and contrasts in her 
 existence which could not have produced any very 
 healthy effect on the development of a character 
 whose chief elements appeared to have consisted in 
 a remarkable pride and a perilous tendency to 
 dreaminess. A young lady at the boarding school, 
 Simone le Huguet became once more a peasant 
 girl during her holidays at home, and this dual life 
 was for some time described with a lightness of 
 heart which betrayed a happy faculty for keen 
 enjoyment. By degrees, however, the young lady's 
 tastes predominated, the harvest and haymakings 
 gave her less pleasure; the homestead, overflowing 
 as it was with comfort, appeared to her to be 
 wanting in common necessaries. After her last, 
 especially brilliant year of study, she had claimed 
 a wardrobe with a mirror in it, and a rosewood 
 writing-table for her room, as a reward. 
 
 Her elder sister Julie, who had had the same
 
 202 A CONVEESION. 
 
 education, was much less exacting, and laughed a 
 little at her aspirations. Julie, although she had 
 no love of the country, did not form any too am- 
 bitious projects. She would have been satisfied to 
 marry a tradesman, and to have dwelt in a small 
 town. Simone did not think of marriage, but 
 her fancy spread open wings of boundless reach 
 towards a vague, perhaps inaccessible, and certainly 
 limitless future. Her style here became more inflated, 
 and acquired an emphatic, romantic ring. The con- 
 quest of a diploma had inspired her with the desire to 
 become a governess, to follow in the wake of a rich 
 and noble foreign family, and to see the world; a 
 means of escape from the commonplaces she foresaw, 
 of flight towards the unknown. Her parents opposed 
 this wish. She did not need to gain her living; she 
 was rich, thank goodness! She would marry prosper- 
 ously ! Then came the return to La Free, the weari- 
 ness of it, and the veiled lamentations, the injustice 
 of which she was the first to recognise. For her
 
 A CONVERSION. 203 
 
 father adored her, notwithstanding his severity, and 
 her mother granted her every wish except the liberty 
 to seek elsewhere a happiness she was unlikely to 
 attain. But without it how profound and intolerable 
 was the emptiness of her existence. . . . Bred 
 from her birth upwards to country pursuits, she could 
 not feel their poetry; it was all too simple. She 
 dreamt of mountains and seas that she had never 
 beheld, and in the midst of waving cornfields, of hills 
 bristling with vine-hung poles. Heart and brain 
 were pure, but fall of dreams of knowledge and 
 conquest. She would have revelled in the unfore- 
 seen, yet nothing ever came to pass, no new face, 
 no incident which differed from those of every day 
 came to change the current of her thoughts. The 
 people about her, even her sister who had nothing 
 but marriage in view, and who was already disposed 
 to accept the first suitable parti, were all too inferior 
 to her. At first there had been a lively correspond- 
 ence with several of her old schoolfellows, and then
 
 204 A CONVERSION. 
 
 it had come to a standstill, either through her own 
 fault, or that of her friends, who had no longer any 
 interests in common with her, and who, by telling 
 her of what was never to be her lot, only increased 
 her dissatisfaction. One who stood higher than her- 
 self in the social scale was passing her honeymoon 
 on the shores of an Italian lake ; another less 
 favoured by fortune was making a living by her 
 talent. She would fain have been a real lady like 
 the former, or absolute mistress of her actions like 
 the latter. Why had she no equals ? Her books 
 soon became her only resource ; but in immersing 
 herself in them she only called new wants and the 
 thirst of a higher ideal into being. This led her to 
 a hatred of the education she had received, the 
 culture which cut her off from her peaceful, well-fed 
 surroundings. Surrounded by material abundance, 
 she despised her commonplace comforts, and was, so 
 to speak, dying of spiritual hunger. Music, which 
 she adored, while far from excelling in it, and to
 
 A CONVERSION. 205 
 
 which she had owed so many delightful hours at 
 school, no longer consoled her; her piano was an 
 exile in the large rustic house, where the only listeners 
 were the swineherds and poultry-maids, who would 
 have listened to any other noise with the same open 
 round eyes and wide-open mouth. 
 
 " What is the good of it ? " repeated Simone to 
 herself, as she shut the instrument to which her 
 father bore a grudge for having cost so much, and 
 renouncing the studies which, instead of calming her 
 secret irritation had excited it, laid down her arms, 
 and let the life about her become gradually narrower 
 and more oppressive. 
 
 " What was the good of it ? " . . . This query 
 reappeared with or without commentary on every 
 page of the journal. Then she had apparently 
 wearied of the journal itself, for many pages were 
 left blank, and a long time elapsed before she again 
 wrote on the white space, which expressed better 
 than any words could have done the extent of her
 
 206 A CONVERSION. 
 
 discouragement and ennui. Nothing . . . she 
 had nothing more to say ? 
 
 
 
 " Poor child ! " thought the priest with a rush of 
 sympathy. He, too, had uttered the sad words, " Of 
 what avail ? " when he compared his aspirations to 
 his task. But the consciousness of duty accom- 
 plished, duty so humble that it was perhaps of 
 greater merit, had compensated him, whilst this 
 young girl seemed never to have given aught to God 
 who takes count of our ordeals ; here and there His 
 name showed in a hasty note, or in a desperate 
 appeal. This was not piety such as the Abbe Ful- 
 gence understood it, the piety which leads a tried 
 soul to the altar's step, which confides it to the 
 tender hands of that Virgin Mediator whom no Pro- 
 testant implores. 
 
 " Poor child ! " he repeated to himself, " had it but 
 been given to her to kneel in a church, had she but 
 submitted to an enlightened yoke, had the true faith 
 been hers, she could have borne her lot. She has
 
 A CONVEESTON. 207 
 
 divined the truth late, but still she has divined it, 
 seeing that she calls me to her aid ! 
 
 Just at that moment the wind blew a loose page 
 from the middle of the book on to the ground. 
 He picked it up and grew pale as he read : 
 
 "How did I begin to love so madly a man 
 condemned to celibacy by irrevocable vows, a 
 Catholic priest, the one being in the world against 
 whom I have been armed since my birth, whose 
 superstitions used to be abhorrent to me ? . . . 
 I have thought so much about it that now 1 
 cannot help understanding it. To begin with, it 
 was not a priest I saw in him that day, but a man 
 young, handsome, and intrepid in the voluntary 
 accomplishment of an heroic action which had no- 
 thing to do with his calling. Besides, he was the 
 only person here whose face, mind, and character 
 could possibly make any impression on me. 
 He was as unlike, more unlike the others, than 
 myself, and after all what love, worthy the name,
 
 208 A CONVERSION. 
 
 was ever turned from its course by the word ' Impos- 
 sible'? I have cursed the obstacle, I have shattered 
 myself against it, I am dying of it " 
 
 The Abbe Fulgence suddenly closed the book and 
 started to his feet, as if in alarm. Had he seen a 
 sacrilegious hand seize tho consecrated cup, his in- 
 dignation could not have been stronger. 
 
 " Miserable woman ! " he thought. " Miserable ? 
 She was right, I can do nothing for her I must 
 not even read her confession to the bitter end. 
 May God have mercy on her ! " 
 
 No merely human sentiment mingled in the young 
 priest's mind with the horror of this profanation. 
 His brow was clouded with the righteous anger of 
 an offended archangel; but this wrath was in itself 
 so like suffering that Ursula cried out when she saw 
 him enter the presbytery: 
 
 " Good Heavens what has happened to you, 
 Monsieur le Cure? Can you be ill? You are as 
 white as a sheet."
 
 A CONVERSION. 209 
 
 "' I am cnly a little tired, my good Ursula; do 
 not be anxious," he answered, as he passed on to 
 his room, without appearing to notice that the table 
 was laid. 
 
 " Really there is neither rhyme nor reason in 
 dining at this late hour ! Don't keep your soup 
 waiting any longer, Monsieur le Care. I had hard 
 work to keep it from burning." 
 
 " Thank you ; I shall not dine. Leave me alone. 
 All I want is a little rest; it's useless to insist, 
 Ursula." 
 
 And the Abbe Fulgence shut himself in and bolted 
 his door, while his gouvernante raised her hands to 
 Heaven in her efforts to guess what had happened 
 in that nest of heretics at La Free to put him 
 into such a state. She was still more puzzled in 
 the morning when she discovered that her master 
 had not gono to bed that night, and that his candle 
 had burned down to the socket. For all that, at six 
 o'clock he went to say Mass with his usual serenity. 
 
 p
 
 210 A CONVERSION. 
 
 V. 
 
 LIKE those fearsome souls who, to allay their own 
 cowardice, force themselves to face the phantom 
 the sight of which has nearly put them to flight, 
 thus to assure themselves of their own folly, the 
 Abbe Fulgence on his return to his own home 
 had argued with himself, probed the danger, and 
 finally found himself strong enough to vanquish it. 
 After all, what justified so violent an alarm ? Did 
 he feel any secret weakness in his innermost soul ? 
 Without hesitation he could answer No. That 
 woman already dead to this world was surely not 
 redoubtable; prudence had nought to do with the 
 sentiment which caused him to avoid her. And 
 why so severe to the poor misguided one? Was 
 she really criminal ? In her Protestant eyes he 
 was not the Anointed of the Lord, he was not 
 clothed with the indelible sanctity which should 
 silence profane thoughts; he was only a man like
 
 A CONVEKSION. 211 
 
 other men she had said so. He might as well 
 punish a stranger for not comprehending our lan- 
 guage, albeit unknown to him. 
 
 All at once it struck the Abbe Fulgence that his 
 conduct was absurd and cowardly; it appeared to 
 him that it was his duty to battle with the evil 
 spirit, or at least to decide on further investigation 
 whether the combat was possible. Resolutely he 
 reopened the book which had shocked him so pro- 
 foundly, and read without further intermittence from 
 the first to the last line. The journal was taken 
 up again towards the autumn of the year he had 
 been installed in his parish of Arc-sur-Loire. 
 
 "A Fire. The whole farm of Chesnayes, near the 
 village, has been devoured by fire. "We saw the sky 
 aflame for a great distance, enormous columns of red 
 smoke arose out of the night from behind the trees. 
 Father had the horse put to, to hasten to the spot; 
 I insisted on accompanying him, attracted, fascinated 
 by the frightful spectacle. . . . All the village
 
 212 A CONVEESION. 
 
 was abroad, dogs howled, the tocsin rang. 
 A confused and sinister noise of hurried steps, 
 clamour, lamentation. . . . The engines worked 
 badly, the buckets of water carried from hand to 
 hand came too slowly. "Whilst this inefficient aid 
 was being organized the flames raged, devouring 
 the walls, flashing through the door, bursting through 
 the roof. In the height of the danger he appeared 
 to me ! In a ringing voice he gave orders to the 
 frightened, helpless people, and with splendid cool- 
 ness he seemed to accomplish more than all the 
 others put together. What a crash ! Part of the 
 roof has just fallen in. He is buried, I think, under 
 the ruins. . . . But no; behold him a little 
 further on, mounting a ladder, whilst around him 
 heaps of straw and grain of every kind hiss as 
 they send up long jets of flame. The farmer's 
 family only think of saving their cattle and their 
 furniture. . . . All at once a childish voice sends 
 forth a piteous appeal. All eyes turn towards the
 
 A CONVERSION. 213 
 
 loophole of a barn, over the cattle yard. An orphan 
 from the charity school, brought up in the house, 
 is there, a prisoner of the flames. No one has 
 thought of him, but he awakes too late. Fire 
 blocks the way. Lost ! . . . he is lost ! . . . 
 and they turn away not to see the end. After all, 
 the existence of this unhappy child whom no one 
 claims is not of much importance. There are other 
 losses, serious, material ones. ... cowards ! 
 cowards ! One alone devotes himself. . . . Even 
 now I can see him plunge into the fiery furnace. 
 Now they all say, 'They are both lost/ My heart 
 stops beating. But soon he reappears, with singed 
 hair and garments and blackened face, carrying the 
 inanimate child in his arms. Hurrah ! hurrah ! I 
 ask, 'Who is this intrepid man ?' And they answer, 
 * It is the new Cure.' " 
 
 The Abbe Fulgeuce had often recalled that night, 
 to thank God who had permitted him to save the 
 life of a human being. But it seemed to him
 
 214 A CONVERSION. 
 
 that the recital of his achievement was a singular!/ 
 exaggerated one. 
 
 "Really," lie said to himself with a sarcastic 
 smile, " I should be justified in thinking myself 
 a hero, because I helped to make the chain in a 
 fire. What big words ! How much she must have 
 needed enthusiasm for some one or something ! " 
 
 Still, he knew what popularity his conduct at 
 the Chesnayes fire had won for him in the dis- 
 trict, a popularity of which he had guaged the 
 emptiness, for it lasted just as long as the memory 
 of a benefit conferred usually lasts, a few weeks. 
 But Simone's journal dwelt lovingly on this period 
 of popularity, and prolonged it. It was evident 
 that she sought every opportunity of speaking of 
 him, that she studied his every act, and gloried 
 in hearing that he was the most generous, the 
 most affable, and the most learned among men. 
 Each of their accidental meetings was inscribed, 
 11 This morning he passed me on the highroad.
 
 A CONVERSION. 215 
 
 lie immediately bowed to me with grave politeness. 
 The old Cure did not bow to us. He spoke of 
 us everywhere as the scourge of the parish, as 
 impious, accursed beings. There is nothing fanatical 
 about this one. But being what he is, by what 
 aberration can he have been led to join a clergy 
 which condemns all light, which excommunicates 
 all liberty of thought ? I like to think of hiui 
 as he might have been, with that black livery 
 stripped from him, free, with the right to love a 
 woman who would have adored him. What blind- 
 ness can have led him on to suicide ? A love 
 trouble perhaps. Would that be possible ? Who 
 would not have loved him?" 
 
 "Poor insane creature!" thought the Abbe 
 Fulgence; "how far she is from the truth, how 
 she raves ! " 
 
 And he remembered how easy had been the 
 road from the school to the great seminary. He 
 had never hesitated as to his vocation. The instinct
 
 21G A CONVEESION. 
 
 of faith and obedience was so natural to him that 
 he was unconscious of any merit in the entire 
 sacrifice of his personality. Secure on the im- 
 mutable Rock of Theology, he could defy error. 
 What enlightenment could she conceive of? He 
 knew himself to be, by the grace of God, the 
 dispenser of truth. Why had her search not led 
 her even to the Shrine ? His teaching might have 
 brought her conviction, the erring tortured mind 
 would, in listening to his words, have risen from 
 the servant to the master. She had been there, 
 she had entered the nave from curiosity, from a 
 longing to see him. Hidden behind a pillar, she 
 had witnessed the ceremonial of a creed from which 
 her reason repelled her, and it had not been 
 borne in upon her that an insurmountable obstacle 
 hedged in this young saint from all human affec- 
 tions, although she beheld him isolated, glorified 
 in the hieratic vestment of an older time, through 
 the incense clouds of the divine rites.
 
 A CONVERSION. 217 
 
 " Doubtless, he is eloquent," she continued, 
 "and full of faith, but I have listened to words 
 no less efficacious from the lips of ministers who 
 were just men in my sight, and yefc had not 
 broken with human nature, who, while they cared 
 for souls, did not repudiate the joys of family life, 
 cherishing their wives and educating their children. 
 How can one believe in the merit cf sterile, and 
 perhaps desolate celibacy?" It was evident that 
 while she looked upon it as an error, this sublime 
 folly, this superhuman idealism did but excite the 
 enthusiasm of Simone. She compared ordinary 
 mankind to the exceptional being estranged from 
 all earthly ties, with supreme contempt for this 
 country lawyer or for that rich neighbouring miller 
 who had made her an offer of marriage. How 
 coarse they were ! And how ugly and vulgar ! 
 With the record of every offer there reappeared the 
 portrait of the Abbe Fulgence, and he, who held 
 for beauty the passionate contempt of an early
 
 218 A CONVERSION. 
 
 Christian, felt tempted to mutilate liis own face, 
 rather than that face with which he had never 
 concerned himself should prove for him, as if he 
 were a woman, a stumbling-block, a danger ! 
 " Handsome ? was it possible that he was handsome ? 
 . . . what could it mean?" 
 
 " Lord/' he murmured, as he read on with a 
 mingling of embarrassment and contempt, " hasten 
 the day of my old age and all it briugs with 
 it!" 
 
 The growth and development of such a love, 
 unfed as it had been, attested the want of balance 
 of the feminine nature, where fancy has unbridled 
 sway. So might a microscopic germ fall by chance 
 into soil only too ready to receive it, germinate 
 into a living plant, and end by becoming the 
 poisonous tree whose indestructible roots and 
 sinister shade destroy all surrounding vegetation. 
 
 This life in love passed through a phase of 
 asceticism. Of her own free will Simone imposed
 
 A CONVEESION. 219 
 
 every kind of privation and sacrifice upon herself, 
 so that she might raise herself a little towards those 
 moral heights where dwelt the unconscious object 
 of her affections 3 she devoted herself to visiting 
 the poor and nursing the sick, in the hope, 
 occasionally realized, of meeting him in the presence 
 of those sufferings they both endeavoured to alle- 
 viate, and which she thought they would together 
 have been better able to cure. Her father said to 
 her: 
 
 "Now you are becoming so perfect, we must 
 make a minister's wife of you." 
 
 The effect of solitude, which Julie's marriage had 
 intensified was to turn her chimera into a mono- 
 mania, which took the form of projected letters, 
 alternately burning or timorous, although they never 
 came to anything. One, however, was thrown into 
 the post-box one day that her father had taken 
 her with him to town. No sooner was the letter 
 posted than she would have given anything to have
 
 220 A CONVERSION. 
 
 it back. If he guessed, she should die of 
 shame ! 
 
 Alas ! two days later she met him just outside 
 the village on his way to visit his parishioners. 
 She felt ready to swoon, so persuaded was she 
 that his glance would flash upon her like a "burning 
 brand. The look, before which she had trembled 
 in imagination, had not even been accorded to her. 
 He had not even perceived her, so absorbed was 
 he in his thoughts. What was he thinking of? 
 Of her letter perhaps. Had he not drawn it out 
 of his pocket to read it as he walked ? No, a 
 thousand times no ! what he was reading so intently 
 was his breviary. 
 
 What matter ? the first step had been made, 
 she resolved to continue, resolved to reach him, 
 despite the triple wall of the sanctuary, resolved 
 that nothing should keep her back . . . Oh, 
 how the regular schoolgirl's handwriting, so mono- 
 tonously even at first, had changed ! Now it was
 
 A CONVEESION. 221 
 
 impatience, anguish, passion which guided her hand, 
 now supplicating, now ready for menace. She 
 would see him, would find a pretext for speaking 
 to him. But what pretest ? In vain she sought 
 for one; she could find none. She was still seek- 
 ing and still hopeless, when on a certain evening 
 a blind desperate influence had drawn her to the 
 vicarage. As if to further her design, the garden 
 gate was open, the kitchen-door too, and Ursula 
 absent. She had crossed the little dining-room in 
 all its monastic simplicity, trembling lest she should 
 meet him she longed to see. She pushed open the 
 first door she came to, the Abie's room ; his narrow 
 bed, a deal table, a crucifix, some rushbottomed 
 chairs, on the walla many shelves crowded with 
 books, and on the bare table a forgotten rosary. 
 She seized upon this amulet the use of which she 
 was ignorant of, but which ho must have touched, 
 then snatching a rose from her bodice where it had 
 lain fading since the morning had left it in its place.
 
 222 A CONVERSION. 
 
 A sound of steps in the next room . . . sho 
 had fled. 
 
 Between the lines the Abbe Fulgence could 
 read his own almost forgotten memories. He re- 
 membered shrugging his shoulders whilst he burnt 
 the anonymous letter, and the disappearance of 
 the rosary he had sought for in vain for some 
 time. As for the flower, he had not noticed it, it 
 had had no meaning for him. All that was rather 
 Ursula's fault, who too often went out to gossip 
 with her neighbours, leaving the door open. Alto- 
 gether, these trifling details made little impression 
 upon him. On the other hand, he pitied the hidden 
 drama of which this soul was the stage. 
 
 Alas ! why, had not such an explosion of enthu- 
 siasm and love had God for its object ? And once 
 more he persuaded himself that he, the Abbo 
 Fulgence, had been but a pretext. Is it not a 
 law that the empty, neglected heart must attach 
 itself to something ? . . . especially a woman's heart,
 
 A CONVERSION. 223 
 
 \vliicli cannot be compensated by intellectual gifts. 
 Little girls have been known in the absence of a 
 real object to fall in love with the hero of a novel, 
 or even, when debarred from the complicity of a 
 novel, with a phantom created by their own imagi- 
 nation, and which fancy they believe they recognise 
 in the features of the first passer-by. He had been 
 in the way. In fact what Simone loved in him was 
 virtue, courage, all the perfections her own will had 
 endowed him with. She had lost her way in the 
 search for her ideal. Perhaps she but needed to 
 be led back into the right way, the way which 
 leads to God. Doubtless, like a true daughter of 
 Eve, she had shown herself irritated by obstacles 
 as well as tempted by forbidden fruit, but her purity 
 had never failed her. That refined instinct had 
 clung to her until the very gates of death, where 
 the mortal part of her being had perished, worn 
 out by fruitless waiting, undermined by vain dreams 
 never to be realized. Ill as she was, she concealed
 
 224 A CONVEKSION. 
 
 this suffering, of Avhich she alone knew the source, 
 as if it "were a crime. Her parents had been 
 alarmed to see her waste away under their eyes for 
 lack of sleep and appetite. The doctor they called 
 in could make nothing of her; he could only per- 
 ceive the external symptoms of the fatal passion 
 which was wearing her life away. A nervous child, 
 . that was all. Nerves gave you the fever, 
 nerves make you cough. But the cough, had become 
 obstinate and tenacious, and the mysterious malady 
 which, betrays itself in those attacked by it in a 
 gradual lessening of the vital forces, already de- 
 served the expressive name of consumption, which 
 covers so many causes. She had kept her own 
 counsel so long; but at last, mastered by desire 
 stronger than death, so strong that it took the 
 place of thought and reason in her brain, she had 
 sobbed out on her mother's bosom the secret it 
 had needed all her pride to conceal. To see him 
 from whom she was farther apart than ever, because
 
 A CONVERSION. 225 
 
 she could no longer leave the house, she needed 
 an accomplice; she trusted in maternal pity. For 
 a long time Madame Le Huguet in despair had 
 felt it her duty to resist ; at last, when she saw how 
 nearly extinguished was the fragile lamp she would 
 have given her own life to rekindle, she had for- 
 gotten all her prudence. How could she bear to 
 cull a supreme reproach, from the dying lips of her 
 child, with her last farewell ? Thus had it come to 
 pass that the Cure of Arc had been summoned, as 
 he surmised, although this last struggle had been 
 unchronicled, the hand which had filled these mad 
 burning, desperate pages, having for months past 
 lost the power of writing. 
 
 After he had read, reflected and meditated during 
 a long vigil, he closed the book, shook his head, 
 and, at last, said out loud, "I will return 
 there." 
 
 The calmness with which he uttered these words, 
 words she prayed for with all the power of her 
 
 Q
 
 226 A CONVERSION. 
 
 will, would have fallen like an icicle on the heart 
 of Simone Le Huguet, had she but heard them. 
 
 VI. 
 
 ON the afternoon of the same day, the Abbe Ful- 
 gence heard the short trot of a horse, and the easy 
 movement of a light vehicle, coming behind him 
 on the highroad. It was the doctor; and he 
 waited, for he wished to speak with him. Soon the 
 old white mare turned the corner on which his eyes 
 were fixed. He continued his way in apparent in- 
 difference. 
 
 " A fine day, doctor ! " he cried from afar ; 
 " weather which ought to cure sick people." 
 
 " Yes, if it didn't kill them/' broke in the doctor, 
 who had stopped his mare. " I can do no more at 
 La Free. Those people don't interest you, Monsieur 
 h Cure. They are not your parishioners. But you 
 must confess that it is cruel to lose a girl of
 
 A CONVERSION. 227 
 
 twenty-three, who is fading away like a drooping 
 rose, without being able to find out what wind 
 blows its leaves away ! The deuce, if I know ! 
 What is the use of thirty years of practice, if it 
 only leaves one contempt for medicine which leaves 
 so much in obscurity. She is dying of phthisis, 
 that is all I know about it. A fine achievement, to 
 name the ill which one is able neither to forestall 
 nor cure." 
 
 " She is dying ? Is she really dying ? Is there 
 no hope ? " asked the Cure pensively. 
 
 He only wanted to know whether the bold step 
 he contemplated was warranted by the extreme 
 gravity of the circumstances. 
 
 " To-morrow all may be over, and yet this misery 
 may last another week or more. Yesterday evening 
 I thought she would not have lived till sunrise. 
 She had the most frightful attack ! her mother 
 spoke vaguely of some excitement; so fragile, the 
 least thing moves her, the least thing upsets her; a
 
 228 A CONVERSION. 
 
 breath is enough. She vibrates like glass, she will 
 break as easily, poor little girl ! " 
 
 " Really, is there no hope ? " repeated the Cure, 
 with singular persistence. 
 
 " Yes, one the hope of a speedy end, that would 
 come upon her suddenly. Horrible, these struggles 
 of youth and death ! Now, I must be off to assure 
 myself of the fact that the old farmer of Petites- 
 Croix, who will be a hundred at Easter, is in perfect 
 health. What an irony of fate ! His children have 
 long since wearied of tending him ; they confine 
 themselves to letting him live on dry crusts and 
 he lives. Others die in their springtime. Oh, your 
 Providence plays many a pretty trick ! I had to 
 break it to the unhappy parents. They must have 
 known it for months; but the unexpected rallies in 
 these diseases are so deceptive. One is so ready to 
 believe that in the fight for existence the patient 
 will get the upper hand, so ready to believe what 
 one wishes for most. The father, all through his
 
 A. CONVEESION. 229 
 
 anxiety, never guessed at anything worse than a 
 weakness that could easily be counteracted. Now 
 he conies to me for help ; he offers me half of all 
 he possesses in exchange for his daughter's life. 
 Ob, if health could be bought, the rogue would 
 beggar mankind ! The mother says nothing ; I 
 think she can sorrow no more. Poor things, poor 
 things ! such grief makes one wish with all one's 
 heart that science ^were a real power ! " 
 
 The doctor tickled his mare with the end of his 
 whip, and she set off at a smart trot, whilst the 
 Abbe Fulgence turned his steps in the contrary 
 direction towards La Free. As he walked, he 
 thought with a certain repugnance he devised an 
 awkward expedient, in case the master of the house 
 should be in the way, a guardian of that green 
 gate which no Cure had passed through before him. 
 But he soon took heart of grace. There was no 
 one in the courtyard ; no one but Madame Le 
 Huguet, who sat knitting on the stone bench, and
 
 230 A CONVEKSION. 
 
 who came forward to meet him as if she had ex- 
 pected him. Her expression seemed to him sadder, 
 and more troubled than the day before. You might 
 have taken her for a sleep-walker, moving, although 
 passive, without any participation of her own will in 
 her movements, and, indeed, she was not her own 
 master, but the slave of a tyranny no mother may 
 resist. Her daughter, who had for so long shut 
 her heart to sympathy, who had been cold and 
 silent for such a weary time, had opened her heart 
 at last, had wept on her bosom, whilst she smothered 
 her with caresses, thus placing the consolation of her 
 last days (or its alternative despair) in her hands. 
 Tortured, she had yielded, knowing that she did 
 wrong, and that her cowardice would heap coals of 
 fire on her head; she took for granted her hus- 
 band's wrath, and the wrath of a more redoubtable 
 judge, to whom, throughout the livelong day, she 
 addressed her mute prayer:
 
 A CONVERSION. 231 
 
 " Lord, may the punishment be mine, mine alone, 
 Lord ! " 
 
 Without speaking to the priest, without looking 
 at him, she led the way, as she had done on the 
 previous day, and returned to watch in the court- 
 yard. 
 
 This time the windows were closed, and the blinds 
 drawn ; instead of the perfume of the carnations in 
 the garden, a smell of ether pervaded the room. The 
 Abbe read the fatal sign on the weary brow. He 
 had done well to come. 
 
 " Simone ! " he said in a whisper, for she did not 
 open her eyes when he entered. 
 
 She awoke suddenly out of her torpor, stretched 
 her arms, and would have spoken. A gleam of joy 
 had transfigured her, a joy still doubtful of itself, 
 a joy that was mingled with terror, but above all 
 with gratitude, an infinite gratitude. 
 
 " Oh, how good you are ! " she murmured at 
 last; "how good you are!"
 
 232 A CONVERSION. 
 
 And because she did not find in the eyes bent 
 upon her all she wished to find there : 
 
 " Yes, you are indeed good," she continued 
 timidly, "not to quite despise me. That book, 
 how I wished I codd have had it back after I had 
 given it to you ! They say I was delirious all night, 
 and that I cried out, ' Do not read ! ' My father 
 told me of it, without understanding. Perhaps you 
 have not read it, for you have come back." 
 
 "I have read I do not despise you, I pity you," 
 he answered, in a strong, deep voice, softened by 
 the pity he felt. 
 
 "You pity me?" she repeated. 
 
 Then after a pause, as if she had expected some- 
 thing else, 
 
 " That is all you have to say to me ? " 
 
 " No ; I have much besides to say to you, my 
 child, my sister. I have come to talk to you, as 
 we may talk, I who belong to God, and you who 
 are going to His presence, of a love denied to us
 
 A CONVERSION. 233 
 
 on earth, but which may, if it be your will, live 
 once more up there, where there is no death." 
 
 She listened to him leaning on her elbow, all her 
 soul in her eyes ; a shudder stirred the wasted limbs 
 that were defined by the sheets as by a shroud. 
 
 " Simone ! " he repeated. 
 
 Her name on his lips ! she smiled in an ecstasy 
 which might have transfigured the daughter of 
 Jairus in the hour of her resurrection. 
 
 " Simone, you have told me the tale of a poor 
 child who sinned, unconscious of her sin, and who 
 gave her life for the involuntary crime of loving a 
 man whose vows prohibited even the best joys this 
 world has to give, a man who would have sooner 
 died than perjure himself. Such love is no ordinary 
 love. It burns the soul, or purifies it ; it leads either 
 to Heaven or to Hell, there is no neutral ground, 
 for it attains to either eternal separation or eternal 
 reunion." 
 
 " Reunion ! " sighed Simone.
 
 234 A CONVERSION. 
 
 " Yes/' said the Abbe, his fine face aglow with 
 profound emotion. " 'Tis for you to choose ; my 
 Master is between us here below." He drew from 
 his girdle a little wooden crucifix which never left 
 him and placed it on the bed, an august witness of 
 their communion. "He forbids me to listen to a 
 word that may lead me astray from Him. But 
 what is this transient world ? Were I the poor 
 girl whose tortures you have confided to me, I would 
 not be satisfied with so transitory an union ; I should 
 aspire to eternal union ; I should wish to meet him. 
 who, instead of being the means of my fall had 
 striven to be a means of grace, in that realm where 
 sin is not, where obstacles do not exist, where all 
 is love and purity." 
 
 " How can I ? " she stammered, deceived by the 
 apostle's ardour that was so like passion, that 
 was in reality that strongest of passions, proselytism. 
 
 " Do you not know that the souls who meet again 
 are those who in this world have held one faith,
 
 A CONVERSION. 235 
 
 and the same hope for the next ? There is yet time. 
 Let me teach you ; or rather abandon yourself to 
 the celestial inspiration which warns you that by 
 strange and devious ways, God is leading you to 
 knowledge of Himself. 3 ' 
 
 " If your belief were mine, should we meet 
 again ? " she asked. 
 
 " I promise you we should." 
 
 " You believe it ? Do you really believe it ? " 
 
 " I am sure of it ! " he answered in a tone of 
 conviction. 
 
 " Speak then ! " she cried. 
 
 And he did speak with eloquent warmth ; without 
 effort he found words which could open the burning 
 wounded heart to the sublime tenderness, the mystic 
 delight, the unrivalled consolations of Catholicism. 
 
 She listened with all her might, only caring to 
 hear his voice as long as possible, to keep him 
 near her by any possible means. The wish he had 
 expressed to meet her in another life sufficed to
 
 236 A CONVERSION. 
 
 lend enchantment to her last hour. Time flew : for 
 her in the joy of his beloved presence, for him in 
 enthusiasm for the creed he had begun to teach 
 her. Of a sudden they heard Monsieur Le Huguet 
 in the garden, calling out : 
 
 "I am going up to see Simone." And his 
 wife answering in evident agitation : 
 
 ' ' Mind you don't ; she is sleeping." 
 
 Then a few moments later the mother said to 
 the priest : 
 
 " Take advantage of his back being turned ; leave 
 at once." 
 
 "But to-morrow/' murmured Simone; "to- 
 morrow ! " 
 
 " Yes, to-morrow," replied the Abbe Fulgence. 
 
 And Madame Le Huguet, as if in spite of herself, 
 repeated, " To-morrow ! " Glad in her sorrow of 
 the thread that bound her child to life, certain 
 that to-morrow, by the sovereign virtue of that 
 hope, she would still be with her.
 
 A CONVEKSION. 237 
 
 VII. 
 
 TWICE, thrice did the Cure of Arc return to La 
 Tree. He chose an hour when the father was 
 away; he crept with stealthy steps towards the 
 little back door mysteriously left on the latch ; his 
 wiles and precautions were as endless and varying 
 as those a lover would employ to deceive the most 
 jealous of guardians. His own intentions and the 
 state, daily more alarming, of her he called 
 his catechumen, justified this conduct in his own 
 eyes. No scruple arose to stay his hand in this 
 struggle, waged, as he thought, against the demon 
 of heresy. Saint Paul never entered a hero's 
 palace, where he too went to convert a woman, 
 with a better armed conscience or a more heroic 
 resolve : the young priest's only regret was that 
 he met with no greater peril. 
 
 All was but too easy, thanks to the mother's
 
 233 A CONVERSION. 
 
 complicity, but the interest of his work absorbed 
 him body and soul; those were the best filled 
 days of his life, for they furnished him with emotion, 
 the food he had most hungered for. In the 
 interval of his visits to Simone, he prepared irre- 
 sistible arguments; he strove to place the principle 
 of love in opposition to the principle of Protestant- 
 ism in which she had been bred; he condensed 
 the doctrine into a compact and substantial form, 
 measured to the requirements of those short inter- 
 views that were so soon to be interrupted. Be- 
 sides, it mattered little to expound the dogma or 
 to thoroughly reveal its symbolism; he only asked 
 for a rush of faith and confidence, one of those 
 inspired moments which leave their mark on 
 eternity. Was he gaining ground ? How could he 
 prove it to himself ? 
 
 She raised no objection, but listened on in 
 silence, apparently docile. Sometimes a big tear 
 fell from between her closed eyelids, sometimes
 
 A CONVERSION. 239 
 
 she would cast a despairing glance at the glass 
 placed opposite her bed, the glass of the famous 
 wardrobe mentioned in the book with the lock. 
 If, while he discoursed to the Christian of heaven, 
 the woman wept over her vanished beauty, he 
 knew it not, he did not look at her, so intent 
 was he on gaining an end from which nothing 
 could distract him. He never remarked the 
 funereal coquetry with which she draped herself 
 in folds of snowy white to receive him. One 
 day she said to him : 
 
 "I am no longer a woman, I'm a spectre." 
 
 " You are a soul," he replied, " a purified soul ; 
 that is why I come here." 
 
 And when she persisted, saying : " Since you 
 have taken pity on me, since I see you every day, 
 death, which has always frightened me, seems less 
 terrible." 
 
 He replied with his old austerity, " Do not regret 
 life ; it had nothing to give you," thus sending her
 
 240 A CONVEESION. 
 
 back in sad submission to the unknown strand 
 where she might await him. She feared the dark 
 passage through the valley of the shadow, and 
 would fain have turned her thoughts away from it; 
 and then she would revel jealously and exclusively 
 in the certainty of living in the memory of a 
 heart closed to every other human feeling; then 
 ngain, so faint a consolation would not suffice 
 her. Earthly thoughts and sensations kept their 
 hold on the dying girl, hidden though they were 
 from him who, in the fulness of his youth and 
 strength, was more dead than herself to mundane 
 impressions. One article, however, of this new faith 
 enchanted her, she hailed it with rapture ; it was 
 the invisible link, the near communion between 
 those who are no more and those who survive 
 them, leaving to one power over the other the 
 power of influencing destiny. 
 
 She said to the priest : " You will think of me, 
 you will speak to me in your prayers, and I shall
 
 A CONVERSION. 241 
 
 never be away from you, I shall never leave you 
 
 for a moment . . . nevermore " 
 
 These words were the last which passed her lips. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 HE had baptized her with her full consent. The 
 true faith he thought had at last, after centuries of 
 rebellion, reached one of that hardened tribe of 
 heretics. It would be a great example, a subject 
 of edification for the whole parish. One morning 
 when the Abbe Fulgence was alone in the sacristy, 
 offering up to heaven the glory of the triumph he 
 had been permitted to achieve, the door was pushed 
 violently open by a man that no one had ever 
 before seen in church. He was a thick-set and 
 vigorous old man, whose harsh expression was 
 heightened by a beard of some days' growth. 
 Those grey bristles on his bronzed face made him 
 look singularly fierce. The small hollow eyes under 
 his bushy eyebrows flashed bloodshot gleams; his 
 
 R
 
 242 A CONVERSION. 
 
 fist trembled as lie grasped a stick, whilst he 
 stood right in front of the Cure and looked 
 straight into his eyes. 
 
 " She belongs to you," he blurted out. " I leave 
 her to you, come and fetch her. Yes; take her 
 body, since you have stolen her soul. The crime 
 will be none the greater. Thief ! seducer ! that is 
 what you are; do you hear? When she left us, 
 she told us that she died a Catholic she, my daugh- 
 ter! Her mother has confessed all to me, her 
 mother, who has been the go-between for pity's 
 sake, she says for pity ! I, in pity for her honour, 
 for the honour of her people, in pity for her eternal 
 soul, I would sooner have shut the door of .our 
 family vault upon her before the time, and, armed 
 with my gun, I would have mounted guard over it. 
 But by my own people have I been betrayed ! And 
 my wife and daughter have conspired against me ! 
 they are as dead to me. Falsehood has entered into 
 my gates in your track. For your sake an unhappy
 
 A CONVERSION. 243 
 
 girl has denied her father ani her faith. Under the 
 pretext of turning her into a saint of your own 
 making, you have wrought her damnation. Yes, 
 damnation ; for it was not to your God that she gave 
 herself, 'twas to a man to you ! You you were 
 her god. If you did not know it, it was because 
 you would not know it. The soul of my daughter 
 is damned because she made unto herself an idol 
 of flesh and blood. Now take away the rest." 
 
 He shook his stick and went away, without having 
 allowed himself to be interrupted, without having 
 deigned to listen to a word. 
 
 The Abbe saw him once more, seated in the court- 
 yard at La Free, motionless, with arms crossed and 
 hat drawn down over his eyes, when he went, fol- 
 lowed by a long procession of peasants chanting the 
 psalms, to fetch the body which had been yielded 
 up to him with a curse. This time he entered by 
 the great door, which was thrown wide open. The 
 mother sobbed, hidden in the curtains of the bed
 
 244 A CONVERSION. 
 
 which had witnessed so long an agocy; she did 
 not raise her head. Little Suzette stood upright on 
 the stair and looked on terrified out of her large 
 black ryes the eyes of Simone ; those whom the 
 father had called thieves carried the body away. 
 And old Le Huguet, when the coffin was carried 
 past him, did not stir from his seat in the sun ; he 
 seemed petrified. The white banner carried by the 
 maidens waved over the green hedges at every turn- 
 ing in the road until it was out of sight; the distant 
 voices melted away and died, until the melancholy, 
 far-off sound of the bell tolling in the village was 
 the only one to be heard. 
 
 The old Huguenot was still there, meditating with 
 dry eye and clenched fist in the midst of the ruins 
 of his fallen pride, on the first defection of which 
 one of his race had given the example. 
 
 " To abjure ! " he murmured, in the tone in which 
 a soldier might have said, " To desert ! " 
 
 The fanatic had forbidden his family and his ser-
 
 A CONVEKSION. 2-45 
 
 vants to appear either in church or at the cemetery. 
 The crowd at Simone's funeral was all the greater. 
 The whole population of Arc-sur-Loire made it 
 the pretext of a religious demonstration; and, for 
 once, so far departed from its habitual parsimony 
 as to club together, the poorest giving his mite, 
 so that a beautiful stone cross on a corpse snatched 
 from the Protestant camp might recall the almost 
 miraculous conversion of a Le Huguet. 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE gravestone is blackened by many winters; the 
 farm of La, Free still maintains its old aspect of 
 hostile isolation and cold, symmetrical prosperity ; 
 bzs for all these years no one has heard of the 
 Abbe Fulgence. 
 
 After the conquest which had done him so much 
 "honour, every one noticed that he was not the same 
 man. Pale, sad, and ever preoccupied, was he 
 thinking of the father's fieice malediction, which
 
 24G A CONVERSION. 
 
 had fallen on Lirn at the very steps of the altar ? 
 Or, was ifc that the intangible betrothed he had 
 taken to himself for eternity returned too often 
 to remind him of a tryst that alarmed his con- 
 science ? Who can say whether during those ever- 
 lengthening hours of meditation spent in the arbour, 
 where he had received the letter that summoned him 
 to La Proe for the first time, there did not pass be- 
 tween him and his breviary the girl who had said : 
 "I will never leave you more!" 
 Perhaps she appeared henceforward not in her 
 shroud, wasted by prematurely hopeless passion, but 
 young, beautiful, living the Simone of the locked 
 book. One evening Ursula saw her master throw 
 into the fire, with a desperate gesture, as if he would 
 burn a wizard's charm, a little book bound in black 
 shagreen. This rite did not, however, give him back 
 his ease of mind, or his resolute, militant humour. 
 He had no longer faith in himself or in his vocation ; 
 thoughts possessed him which were not his own,
 
 A CONVEBSION. 247 
 
 but must have been those of iSimone, instilled 
 into him, whispered into his ear; the fine zeal which 
 had once inspired him had worn itself out in the 
 first excessive effort. Suddenly, that he might fly 
 from the sort of indefinable remorse which tortured 
 his cowed spirit, he asked to be sent to a smaller, 
 more isolated parish than Arc-sur-Loire. His bishop 
 granted a request which appeared to be dictated by 
 profound humility. And the Abbe Fulgence was 
 ere long to give a further proof of his renunciation 
 of self and his terror of responsibility. He soon 
 retired from active ministration. The rumour spread 
 that he had entered one of those chartreuses, where 
 the last fragment of human will is immolated, where 
 in the strait bonds of an iron rule there is no 
 room for wandering, no risk of mistaking evil for 
 good. But where be walls high enough and strong 
 enough to bar the way to memory, that ghost 
 which can never be laid ?
 
 THE 
 
 (PEOSPEB MIIIME.) 
 
 AUGUSTE SAINT CLAIR was not popular in what is 
 called society, chiefly because he did not choose to 
 be agreeable except with people whom he cared for. 
 These he would go out of his way to seek ; as to the 
 others, he kept out of their way. And Saint Clair 
 was indolent and absent-minded. One evening, when 
 
 he had just come from the opera, the Marquise A 
 
 asked him how Mademoiselle Sontag had sung. 
 
 "Yes, madame," answered Saint Clair, with a 
 sweet smile and with his thoughts leagues away. 
 This absurd answer could not be attributed to shy- 
 ness, for Saint Clair talked to the great, to great 
 
 248
 
 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 249 
 
 men, and even to women of fashion, with as much 
 aplomb as to his equals. The marquise made up her 
 mind that he was a prodigy of impertinence and 
 conceit. 
 
 Madame B asked him to dine on a Monday. 
 
 She talked to him a good deal, and he went home 
 declaring that he had never met a more agree- 
 able woman. Now it was the manner of this lady 
 to collect good things among her friends for a month, 
 and to fire them all off at home in one evening. 
 Saint Clair met her on the Thursday of the same 
 week. This time he was a little bored. After one 
 more visit he determined never to enter her drawing- 
 room again. Madame B went about declaring 
 
 that Saint Clair was an ill-mannered young man of 
 the worst style. 
 
 Saint Clair was born with a tender and affectionate 
 heart, but, at an age when we too readily take im- 
 pressions which we never get rid of, he had been 
 laughed at by his friends for his effusive sentiments.
 
 250 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 
 
 lie was proud, be was ambitious, lie was as sensi- 
 tive as a child about what people thought of him. 
 From that time he studiously tried to conceal what 
 he regarded as a discreditable weakness. He suc- 
 ceeded, but the victory cost him dear. He could 
 hide from the world the emotions of his heart, but 
 the more he pent them up the more cruel they be- 
 came. In society he had the unhappy reputation of 
 caring for nothing and for nobody; when he was 
 alone, his restless fancy caused him torments, none 
 the less bitter because they were never suspected. 
 
 Yerily it is hard to find a friend ! 
 
 Difficult ! Is it even possible ? Have two men 
 ever lived who had no secret from each other ? 
 
 Saint Clair did not believe in friendship, and his 
 scepticism was known. People said that he was cold 
 and reserved with men of his own age and set. He 
 never asked them about their secrets, and most of his 
 thoughts and actions were mysteries to them. The 
 French love to talk about themselves, and thus
 
 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 251 
 
 Saiut Glair, in his own despite, was entrusted with 
 many confidences. His friends the men whom one 
 meets twice a week I mean complained of this lack 
 of trustfulness, and indeed the man who volunteers 
 his own secret is usually offended when we do not 
 tell him ours. People think that indiscretion should 
 be reciprocal. 
 
 " He is buttoned up to the chin/' said Alphonse 
 de Themines, that handsome captain of horse, " I 
 never could have the slightest confidence in that 
 devil, Saint Clair." 
 
 "I believe he is a bit of a Jesuit/' said Jules 
 Lambert, " I have met him twice coming out of 
 Saint Sulpice. Nobody knows what he has on his 
 mind. I am never at my ease with him, for one." 
 
 The two friends parted company. Alphonse met 
 Saint Clair on the Boulevard des Italiens, walking 
 with his eyes on the ground and looking at nobody. 
 He stopped Saint Clair, seized his arm, and had told 
 him, before they reached the Rue de la Paix, all the
 
 252 THE ETEUSCAN VASE. 
 
 story of his flirtation with Madame X , whose 
 
 husband was such a jealous brute. 
 
 The same evening, Jules Lambert lost his money 
 at ecarte, and, having no more to lose, took to 
 dancing. In the waltz he jostled a man who had 
 also lost his money, and who was in a bad humour. 
 Sharp words followed, and a challenge. Jules Lam- 
 bert instantly asked Saint Clair to be his second, and 
 chose the opportunity to borrow money which he has 
 consistently forgotten to pay back. 
 
 After all, Saint Clair was easy enough to live with. 
 He was nobody's enemy but his own. He was 
 good-natured, often good company, seldom tedious. 
 He had travelled widely, had read widely, and his 
 knowledge of books and of the world were never 
 displayed when they had not been called for. For 
 the rest, he was tall and handsome, there was no lack 
 of nobility nor of genius in a face often too serious, 
 but sweet and kindly when he smiled. 
 
 One point I was forgetting. To women Saint
 
 THE ETKTJSCAN VASE. 253 
 
 Clair was always attentive, he preferred their con- 
 versation to that of his own sex. Was he in love ? 
 It was not easy to be certain, but, if that cold heart 
 were touched at all, the beautiful Comtesse Mathilde 
 de Coursy, a young widow at whose house he was a 
 constant visitor, was known to be the favoured 
 lady. 
 
 As to the closeness of their relations, there were 
 the following grounds for an opinion : first, Saint 
 Clair was ever most ceremoniously polite with the 
 Comtesse, and she with him. Next, he seemed to 
 make a point of never uttering her name, and cer- 
 tainly of never praising her in society. Third, 
 before Saint Clair was presented to her, he was pas- 
 sionately fond of music and she of painting. Since 
 their acquaintance began they had exchanged tastes. 
 Finally, when the Comtesse went to take the waters 
 last year, Saint Clair had followed her in a week. 
 ***** 
 
 The historian has his duties. Mine constrain me
 
 254 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 
 
 to admit that, just before the sun rose from a night 
 of July, the park gate of a country house opened, 
 and a man slipped out as carefully as if he had been 
 a burglar. Now this country house belonged to 
 Madame de Coursy, and that man was Saint Clair. 
 A woman, wrapped in a cloak, accompanied him to 
 the gate, and peeped out to watch him departing by 
 the path along the park wall. Saint Clair stopped, 
 looked cautiously about, and waved his hand to bid 
 the lady go back. In the clear summer night he 
 could see her pale face, and see her standing motion- 
 less by the gate. He retraced his steps, drew near 
 her, clasped her tenderly in his arms. He wished 
 to make her promise to go in, but he had a hundred 
 things to say to her. They may have talked together 
 some ten minutes when they heard the voice of a 
 peasant going forth to the labour of the fields. A 
 kiss was given and taken, and instantly Saint Clair 
 was at the end of the path. 
 
 He followed a road that seemed to be familiar to
 
 THE ETEUSCAN VASE. 255 
 
 him. Now he would leap for joy, would run like a 
 child, cutting at the bushes wich his cane; now 
 again, he would stop, or loiter slowly, watching the 
 purple light flush up the sky from the dawning. 
 Half an hour's walk brought him to the door of a 
 little lonely house which he had rented for the season. 
 He let himself in with his latch-key ; he threw him- 
 self on a sofa, and with fixed eyes and a smiling 
 mouth, he lost himself in day dreams. Nothing but 
 happiness was in his thoughts. " How happy I am, 
 how happy ! " he kept saying to himself. " At length 
 I have met a heart that can be at one with mine; 
 my ideal is found at last. She is friend and mistress 
 in one, and what a soul, what a heart of love! 
 Love ! no, she never loved another before me ! " 
 
 Presently, his vanity glided in, as into all the 
 things of this world it will glide. 
 
 " She is the most beautiful woman in Paris," he 
 thought, and memory drew the picture of all her 
 charms. ft She has chosen me out of all the world !
 
 256 THE ETEUSCAN VASE. 
 
 Every one was at her feet ! That Colonel of Hus- 
 sars, brave, handsome, not more than conveniently 
 conceited; that young writing fellow who sketches 
 and acts so well ; that Russian Lovelace with his 
 
 Balkan campaign ; Count de T with his wit, his 
 
 manners, his sabre scar on the brow, and she sent 
 them all about their business. Then I!" 
 
 Here the old burden of his thoughts came in again, 
 " How happy, how happy I am ! " 
 
 Then he rose, and opened the window, for he could 
 scarcely breathe ; then he walked up and down and 
 again fell back on the sofa. 
 
 We cannot be always in the clouds. Saint Clair 
 was tired ; he yawned, stretched himself. It was 
 broad daylight, and time to think of sleeping. 
 When he wakened, he saw by his watch that he 
 had barely an hour to dress in, and hurry to Paris, 
 where he was to lunch with some young men of 
 his acquaintance. 
 
 * * * * *
 
 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 257 
 
 Another bottle of champagne was uncorked. The 
 reader may guess how many had preceded it, 
 Suffice it that the moment had come when every 
 one wishes to speak all at once, and when strong 
 heads begin to be anxious about weak ones. 
 
 "I wish," cried Alphonse de Themines, who was 
 for ever talking about England, " that we had the 
 custom of toasting our mistresses here, in Paris. 
 Then we should find out who Sainb Clair sighs 
 for." And he filled his own glass and his friends*. 
 
 Saint Clair, a little vexed, was about to answer, 
 when Jules Lambert interrupted him. 
 
 " I like the custom, and I follow it." Then, 
 lifting his glass, "To all the milliners in Paris," 
 he cried, "except the old, the halt, and the blind." 
 
 "Hurrah!" cried the young friends of England. 
 
 Saint Clair rose, glass in hand. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said he, " my heart is not so 
 capacious as Jules'; but it is more constant, and 
 the more deserving, because I have been severed
 
 258 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 
 
 so long from the lady of my thoughts. But I an. 
 sure you will approve my choice, unless you are 
 my rivals. To Judith Pasta, gentlemen ! May we 
 soon see her back again, the first actress of 
 Europe ! " 
 
 Themines wanted to criticise the toast; but he 
 was interrupted by applause. 
 
 Saint Clair, having parried this thrust, fancied 
 himself safe for the rest of the day. 
 
 The conversation was directed to the play, to 
 politics, to Lord Wellington, to English horses ; 
 and thence, by an easy and obvious transition, to 
 women. A good horse first, a pretty mistress next; 
 those are the things desirable in a young man's 
 eyes. 
 
 Next began a discussion as to how those coveted 
 objects were to be procured. Saint Clair, after 
 modestly apologising for his want of experience 
 in such delicate negotiations, decided that to be 
 singular, to be unlike other people, was the shortest
 
 THE ETP.USCAN VASE. 259 
 
 way to the heart of woman. But is there any 
 general law, any short cut to singularity ? He 
 fancied not. 
 
 "According to you, then," said Jules, "a man 
 who limps, or a hunchback, is more likely to 
 succeed than a lover built on the usual lines ? " 
 
 "You push the notion rather far/ 5 said Saint 
 Clair ; " but if I must, I accept all the conse- 
 quences of my theory. For example, if I were a 
 hunchback, I would not blow my brains out, and 
 I would want to please the fair. In the first place, 
 then, I would plead my suit with two sorts of 
 women the really tender-hearted first, and next, 
 ladies who affect originality, eccentricity. To the 
 former I would paint the sorrows of my lot, the 
 cruelty of Nature, in my case. I would try to 
 make them pity me, and I would manage to per- 
 suade them that I was capable of a passionate 
 affection. I would shoot one of my rivals in a 
 duel, and then I would poison myself unsuccessfully
 
 260 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 
 
 with laudanum. In a few months my hump would 
 have vanished in that lady's eyes, and then I would 
 wait my chance. As for the women who affect 
 originality, their conquest is easy. Merely persuade 
 them that no hunchback yet was ever lucky in 
 love, and they will rush to provide that rule with 
 an exception." 
 
 " What a Don Juan ! " cried Jules. 
 
 "Let us get our legs broken/' said Colonel 
 Beaujeu, " as we have not the luck to be born 
 with humps." ' 
 
 "I agree with Saint Clair," said Hector Eoquan- 
 tin, who was under five feet in height. " Every 
 day one hears of fair ladies falling in love with 
 men whom you tall fellows would never think of 
 as rivals." 
 
 "Hector, would you mind ringing for another 
 bottle ? " said Themines. 
 
 The dwarf got up, and every one smiled as he 
 thought of the fable of ^he fox who lost his tail.
 
 THE ETEUSCAN VASE. 261 
 
 " For my part/' said TLeiniues, with a satisfied 
 glance at the mirror, " the longer I live, the more 
 clearly I see that a well- cut coat and a face which 
 will pass are the singularities that win hearts most." 
 And he flicked a crumb from his coat. 
 
 " Bah," said the little Koquantin, " a passable 
 face and a coat of Stulz's win a heart for a week. 
 For love, for what I call love, you need " 
 
 " Do you want a crucial instance ? " said Tbetnines, 
 interrupting. " You all knew Massigny ? You all 
 remember the kind of man he was ? The manners 
 of a groom ; no more conversation than his horse. 
 But he was as handsome as Adonis ; he tied a tie 
 like Brummell ! And he was the greatest bore I 
 ever knew." 
 
 "He nearly was the death of me," said the 
 Colonel. " I once had to travel six hundred miles 
 with him." 
 
 " He really was the death of poor Dick Thorn- 
 ton ! " said Saint Clair.
 
 262 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 
 
 " Why, Thornton was killed by brigands. Don't 
 you know, at Fondi ? " answered Jules. 
 
 "Yes, but Massigny was an accessory before the 
 fact. Thornton and a lot of other men had agreed 
 to travel to Naples together for fear of brigands. 
 Massigny wanted to join the caravan. No sooner 
 did Thornton hear of it than he set out alone, at 
 once, and you know what came of it." 
 
 " Thornton was right : of two deaths he chose 
 the gentler," said Themines. "Any fellow would 
 have done the same. . . . Well/' he said, after 
 a pause, "you admit Massigny was the greatest 
 bore on earth." 
 
 "Bight," cried everybody. 
 
 "Let us cause no man to despair," said Jules. 
 
 " Let us make an exception in favour of X 1 
 
 especially when he gets on politics." 
 
 " You will next grant/' said Themines, " that 
 Madame de Coursy is a woman of wit, if ever there 
 was one ? "
 
 THE ETEUSCAN VASE. 263 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Saint Glair took 
 an immense interest in the flowers painted on his 
 plate. 
 
 "I maintain," said Jules, raising his voice, "that 
 she is one of the three pleasantest women in Paris.'" 
 
 " I knew her husband," said the Colonel. " He 
 often showed me delightful letters of hers." 
 
 " Auguste," said little Eoquantin, " introduce me 
 to the Comtesse. They say you can do anything 
 with her." 
 
 "Next winter, perhaps," muttered Saint Clair, 
 " when she comes back to Paris : I I believe she 
 sees nobody in the country." 
 
 " Will you listen to me ? " cried Themines. 
 
 Silence was restored. Saint Clair fidgeted on 
 his seat like a prisoner at the bar. 
 
 " You did not know the Comtesse three years 
 ago, Saint Clair. You were in Germany then/ 1 
 said Themines, taking up his tale with provoking 
 deliberation. " You can't imagine how pretty she
 
 264 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 
 
 was then fresh as a rose, full of life, gay as a 
 butterfly. Well, of all her admirers, who do you 
 suppose was the fortunate man ? Massigny ! The 
 dullest man and the most dreary turned the heart 
 of the wittiest of women. Do you think a hunch- 
 back would have had the luck ? Nonsense ! Good 
 looks, a good tailor, enterprise, these suffice." 
 
 Saint Glair's position was cruel. To give Theinines 
 the lie direct was to compromise the Comtesse. He 
 might have said something on her side; but his 
 tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. His lips 
 trembled with rage, and he vainly cast about for 
 some other pretext of quarrel. 
 
 " What ! " cried Jules with an air of surprise ; 
 " Madame de Coursy was Massigny's mistress ? 
 'Frailty, thy name is woman'!" 
 
 "A woman's reputation," said Saint Glair, con- 
 temptuously; "what is it? Any one may play the 
 wit with it; any one may tear it to tatters." 
 
 As he spoke, he remembered with horror a
 
 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 265 
 
 certain Etruscan vase that he had seen hundreds of 
 times on the chimneypiece of the Comtesse in Paris. 
 He knew that it had been a present from Massigny, 
 on his return from Italy, and an aggravating cir- 
 cumstance this vase had been brought from Paris 
 to the country. Moreover, every evening Mathilde 
 put her bouquet in this very vase ! 
 
 The words died on his lips; he could see nothing, 
 he could think of nothing, but the Etruscan vase. 
 
 "Admirable proof!" cries the critic; "and a 
 gallant sort of testimony to suspect a mistress on ! " 
 
 Were you ever in love, dear critic ? 
 
 Themines was in too good humour to be offended 
 by the tone of Saint Glair. He answered with gay 
 good nature : 
 
 "I only repeat what every one says. When you 
 were in Germany, the case seemed a certainty. 
 However, I scarcely know Madame de Coursy. I 
 have not seen her for a year and a half. Everybody 
 may have been wrong. Massigny may have fabled ;
 
 266 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 
 
 but, to return to the subject, even if the example 
 is false, it does not follow that I am not right. 
 You know the cleverest woman in France, whose 
 
 works " 
 
 The door opened, and Theodore Neville entered : 
 home from Egypt. 
 
 "Theodore!" "Back already?" A shower of 
 questions fell about him. 
 
 " Have you brought a Turkish costume ? " asked 
 Themines. "Have you an Arab horse, and an 
 Egyptian groom ? " 
 
 "What is the Pasha like? When is he going 
 to assert his independence? Have you seen a head 
 fall at one sabre stroke ? " 
 
 "And the Almees?" cried Roquantin. "Are the 
 Cairo women pretty?" 
 
 "And the pyramids?" 
 
 "And the cataracts?" 
 
 "And the statue of Memnon?" 
 
 "And Ibrahim Pacha?"
 
 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 267 
 
 Everybody spoke at once. Saint Glair was brood- 
 ing on the Etruscan vase. 
 
 Theodore sat down crossed-1 egged, Egyptian 
 fashion; waited till the questioners were weary, and 
 then spoke quickly, not to be interrupted. 
 
 " The pyramids ! Regular humbug ! Not so high 
 as they say. The cathedral at Strasburg is within 
 twelve feet of it. I'm sick of antiquities; don't 
 speak of them. Show me a hieroglyph and I faint. 
 So many tourists worry over hieroglyphs. For my 
 part, I wanted to study the odd crowd that fills the 
 streets' of Alexandria and Cairo : Turks, Bedouins, 
 Copts, Fellahs, Arabs." 
 
 " How long were you in Egypt then ? " 
 
 "Six weeks." 
 
 And he went on describing everything, from the 
 cedar of Lebanon to the hyssop on the -wall. 
 
 Saint Clair left the room almost as soon as the 
 traveller entered it, and rode home, galloping too 
 hard to think consecutively. But he had a vague
 
 268 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 
 
 sense that his happiness in this world was lost for 
 ever, and nobody to blame but a dead man and a 
 vase of dead Etruria. 
 
 Once at home, he threw himself on the very sofa 
 where, in the morning, he had made that long 
 delicious analysis of his own happiness. The idea 
 which had given him the most exquisite delight 
 was this, that his mistress was not "a very, very 
 woman." Nay, she had never loved, could never 
 love another, but him only. And now this goodly 
 dream was taking flight before the cold reality. 
 
 "I have a pretty mistress, and there's an end of 
 it. Witty she is, and all the more blame to her 
 for having loved Massigny. True, she loves me 
 now with all the soul she has. To be loved as 
 Massigny was loved what a triumph ! She has 
 yielded to my importunity, my attentions. Nobody 
 has deceived me but myself. There was no sympathy 
 between our hearts ; Massigny or myself, it was all 
 one to her. He was handsome; she loved him for
 
 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 269 
 
 that. I am lucky enough to amuse her, so 'Let 
 me love Saint Glair/ says she, f as the other is 
 dead. And if Saint Clair dies, or begins to bore 
 me, then we shall see.'" 
 
 I firmly believe that the devil is present, invisible, 
 listening, listening while unhappy men torment 
 themselves thus. It is good sport for Satan, and 
 when the victim's wounds are beginning to close, 
 there is the devil present to open them again. 
 
 So it was with Saint Clair. He seemed to hear 
 a voice that murmured in his ear, 
 
 " rhonneur singuller 
 D'etre successeur ... 
 
 Up he leaped, and cast a wild glance round him. 
 Glad would he have been to find some one in his 
 room, and to slay him with his hands. 
 
 The clock struck eight. At half-past eight the 
 Comtesse expected him. Should he break tryst ? 
 
 "Why should I go back and see Massigny's 
 mistress ? " he asked himself.
 
 270 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 
 
 He lay down on the sofa, and shut his eyes. 
 "Let me sleep," he said, remaining motionless for 
 exactly half a minute. Then he leaped up, and ran 
 to the clock to see how the time went. " ITow 
 I wish it were half-past eight," he thought; "then 
 it would be too late to start." He had not the 
 courage to stay at home, without an excuse. He 
 would have liked to be ill. He walked the room, 
 he sat down, he took a book, he could not read 
 one syllable. He sat down before the piano, 
 without the energy to open it. He whistled, stared 
 at the clouds, thought of trying to count the 
 poplars in front of his window. At last he looked 
 at the clock again. He had succeeded in killing 
 just three minutes. 
 
 "I can't help loving her," he said, grinding his 
 teeth, and stamping his foot ; " she is my tyrant, 
 I am her slave, as Massigny was before me. Well, 
 wretch, obey, as you have not the courage to break 
 the chain you hate."
 
 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 271 
 
 He took his hat and rushed out, slowly climbing 
 the path which led to the park gate. Far off he saw 
 a white figure standing out against the darkness of 
 the trees. She waved a handkerchief; his heart 
 beat violently, his knees trembled, he could not have 
 spoken ; and was so nervous that he was afraid the 
 Comtesse might see his ill humour in his face. 
 
 She held out her hand, so he kissed it ; she threw 
 herself on his breast, so he kissed her brow ; she 
 led him on, and he followed, followed her to her 
 chamber, silent, struggling with the sighs that 
 seemed as if they would burst his breast. 
 
 A single candle gave all the light in the boudoir 
 of the Comtesse. The twain sat down, and Saint 
 Glair's eye fell on his lady's locks, and the one rose 
 in her hair. 
 
 The night before he had brought her an English 
 engraving, the Duchess of Portland, after Lely, in 
 which her Grace's hair is dressed in this way. "I 
 like that rose better than all your miracles of hair-
 
 272 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 
 
 dressing," Saint Clair had said, for he disliked jewels, 
 and agreed with the English peer's remark "The 
 devil himself is no judge of a horse in harness, or 
 of a woman in her war-paint." 
 
 The night before Saint Clair had said, as he played 
 with a pearl necklace (he liked to have something in 
 his hands when he spoke), "Jewels are of no use 
 but to hide blemishes. You are too beautiful to need 
 them, Mathilde." So this evening, the Comtesse, 
 who noted his lightest word, wore neither bracelets, 
 rings, earrings, nor necklace. Saint Clair looked at 
 a woman's chaussure before any other part of her 
 dress. Like many men, he had extreme ideas on 
 this matter. Now, as it chanced, a heavy shower 
 had fallen before sunset. The grass was still wet, 
 but the Comtesse was walking on the damp turf in 
 silk stockings and satin shoes. 
 
 " She loves me," thought St. Clair, and he sighed 
 for himself over his own folly. Nor could he choose 
 but smile when he looked at Mathilde, divided be-
 
 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 273 
 
 tween his black moods, and the pleasure of seeing 
 a beautiful woman striving to please him by all the 
 nothings that lovers love. 
 
 As for the Comtesse, her face was bright with 
 mingled love and mischief. She look some object 
 from a box of Japanese lacquer, and held out her 
 little hand, clenched, saying : 
 
 "I broke your watch some nights ago. Here it 
 is, mended." 
 
 She handed him the watch, biting her lips to 
 restrain her mirth. Ah, how white her teeth looked 
 on those lips of rose ! 
 
 A man makes a poor figure when he is cold to 
 the playfulness of a pretty woman. 
 
 Saint Clair thanked her, took the watch, and put 
 it in his pocket. 
 
 " Nay, look at it, open it," said she, " and see 
 whether it has been well mended. You should know 
 you, that are so learned, a pupil of the Ecole 
 Polytechnique." 
 
 T
 
 274 THE ETBUSCAN VASE. 
 
 " Oh, I'm no judge of the matter/' said Saint 
 Clair. He opened the case with an absent air. Lo, 
 there was a miniature of Madame de Coursy painted 
 on the interior of the case ! Who could sulk any 
 longer ? His face brightened ; he forgot Massigny, 
 he only remembered that he was with a charming 
 
 woman, and she loved him. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 The lark, that herald of the dawn, began to sing, 
 and long, pale lines of light furrowed the eastern 
 clouds. 'Tis the hour when Romeo bids farewell to 
 Juliet, the classic hour of lovers' partings. 
 
 Saint Clair was standing by a chimney-piece, the 
 key of the park gate in his hand, gazing at the 
 Etruscan vase, to which, at the bottom of his heart, 
 he still bore a grudge. However, he was in good 
 humour, and the simple idea that Thcmines might 
 have lied was beginning to occur to him. While 
 the Comtesse, who was to accompany him to the 
 gate, wrapped her head in a shawl, he gently struck
 
 THE ETBUSCAN VASE. 275 
 
 the detestable vase with the key, gradually increasing 
 the strength of each tap, so that it seemed as if he 
 would presently make it fly into a dozen fragments. 
 
 " Ah, take care ! " cried Mathilda, "you will. break 
 my beautiful Etruscan vase," and she snatched the 
 key from his hands. 
 
 Saint Clair was much displeased, but he submitted. 
 He turned his back to the chimney-piece to avoid 
 temptation, and began to examine the portrait which 
 had just been given to him. 
 
 " Who painted it ? " he asked. 
 
 tc Monsieur R . It was Massigny who told me 
 
 of him." (Massigny, since his tour to Rome, had 
 developed an exquisite taste in art, and was the 
 patron of all the young painters.) " I believe it is 
 like, though it is a little flattered." 
 
 Saint Clair was tempted to dash the watch against 
 the wall; but he mastered himself, and replaced it 
 in his pocket. Ther, becoming aware that it was 
 already day, he left the house, begging Mathilde to
 
 276 THE ETEUSCAN VASE. 
 
 let him go alone, crossed the park with long strides, 
 and was presently in the open country. 
 
 " Massigny, Massigny everywhere ! " he cried. 
 " Of course, the painter who did this made another 
 for Massigny. Idiot that I was for believing that I 
 was loved with a love like my own, merely because 
 she wore no jewels and a rose in her hair ! Jewels ! 
 she has a chest full of them; Massigny cared for 
 nothing else. Ah, she has a charmingly accommo- 
 dating humour, and readily falls in with the tastes 
 of her lovers. I would rather a hundred times that 
 she were a courtesan, selling herself for money ! " 
 
 Presently another, and not less unhappy, idea 
 occurred to him. In a few weeks the Comtesse 
 would be out of mourning. Now Saint Clair was 
 to marry her as soon as her first year of widowhood 
 was over. He had promised this, or not exactly 
 promised, for he had never spoken of it; but this 
 had been his intention, and so the Comtesse had 
 understood it. To Saint Clair this understanding was
 
 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 277 
 
 no less sacred than an oath. A niglit ago, and ho 
 would have given a throne to hasten the moment 
 when he might publicly avow his love. But now 
 he shuddered at the bare idea of uniting his lot with 
 that of the mistress of Massigny. 
 
 " And yet it is my duty, and I will," he muttered. 
 " No doubt she thought I knew the story of her old 
 intrigue; it seems to have been public enough. 
 Besides, she did not, she cannot understand me. 
 She thinks my love is like Massigny's ! " 
 
 Then he thought, and not without pride, "For 
 three months she made me the happiest of men, and 
 that deserves the sacrifice of the rest of my life." 
 
 He did not go home, but rode through the 
 forests all the morning. In the wood of Verrieres 
 he saw a man far off, mounted on an English 
 thoroughbred, and the man hailed him by name. 
 It was Alphonse de Themines. To any one in 
 Saint Glair's mood loneliness is as welcome as the 
 meeting with Themines was the reverse, St. Glair's
 
 278 THE ETKUSCAN VASE. 
 
 ill humour became a stitied passion of anger. The- 
 mines never noticed It, or took a malicious pleasure 
 in irritating Saint Clair. 
 
 He chatted, laughed, jested, without observing 
 that he was unanswered. Saint Clair turned his- 
 horse down, a narrow ride, hoping that the bore 
 would not follow him ; but a bore does not so lightly 
 release his prey. Themines turned and made better 
 speed to ride abreast with Saint Clair, and so con- 
 verse more easily. 
 
 The ride, as I said, was narrow. Two hoi'ses could 
 scarcely move abreast in it, so it is not surprising- 
 that Themines, though an excellent horseman, brushed 
 roughly against Saint Glair's foot, as he came level 
 with him. 
 
 Saint Clair could control himself no longer; he 
 rose in his stirrups, and brought his whip down with 
 all his might on the nose of Themines' horse. 
 
 " What the devil is the matter with you, Auguste?'* 
 cried Themines; "why do you strike my horse?"
 
 THE ETBUSCAN VASE. 279 
 
 " Why do you follow me ? " answered Saint Clair 
 in a terrible voice. 
 
 " Are you mad, Saint Clair ? Do you forget that 
 you are speaking to me ? " 
 
 " I know that I am speaking to a conceited fool." 
 
 " I believe you are out of your mind, Saint Clair. 
 Listen, to-morrow you will apologise, or you must 
 give me satisfaction." 
 
 "To-morrow be it, sir." 
 
 The mines reined in his horse, Saint Clair spurred 
 his on ; presently he disappeared in the wood. 
 
 He felt calmer now, for he believed in presenti- 
 ments, he had a presentiment that he would fall 
 to-morrow, and there would be an end. One more 
 day to live, and to-morrow, his torments, his doubts 
 would be over. He went home, sent his man with 
 a note to Colonel Beaujeu, wrote some letters, dined 
 with a good appetite, and, at half-past eight was 
 punctual at the gates of the park. 
 
 " What is the matter with you to-day, Auguste ? "
 
 280 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 
 
 said the Comtesse. " You are in strange high spirits, 
 and yet you don't make me laugh; yesterday you 
 were rather dismal, and I was merry; to-day we 
 have changed characters. For my part, I have a 
 headache." 
 
 " Yes, dear," he said, " I own I was dull yester- 
 day. But to-day, I have been riding, taking exercise ; 
 I never was better." 
 
 "I rose late, I slept long this morning, I had 
 horrible dreams." 
 
 " Dreams ! Do you believe in dreams ? " 
 
 " Nonsense, of course not ! " 
 
 "I believe in them, and I wager you have had 
 one that bodes calamity." 
 
 " Really, I never remember my dreams. Yet I 
 seem to remember, in my dream I saw Massigny, 
 so you see it could not have been very diverting !" 
 
 " Massigny ! I fancied you would have been de- 
 lighted to see him again ! " 
 
 " Poor Massigny ! "
 
 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 281 
 
 ' ' Poor Massigny ? " 
 
 "Auguste, I implore you tell me what is the 
 matter with you to-night. There is something dia- 
 bolical in your smile. You look as you do when you 
 are with people you dislike." 
 
 " Ah, now you are treating me as ill as your friends 
 the old dowagers ; give me your hand ! " 
 
 He kissed her hand with a mocking gallantry. 
 For a minute they gazed at each other. 
 
 Saint Clair was the first to look down. " How 
 hard it is/' he cried, "to live in this world, without 
 passing for ill-natured ! One should never speak of 
 anything but the weather, or sport, or talk over 
 the finance of their philanthropies with some of your 
 old friends." 
 
 He took a paper from a table. 
 
 " Look, here is your washerwoman's bill. Let us 
 talk about that, my angel, and you will not be able 
 to call me cruel." 
 
 " Auguste, you amaze me."
 
 282 THE ETKUSCAN VASE. 
 
 " Your washerwoman's handwriting makes mo 
 think of a letter which I found this morning, when 
 I was arranging my papers, a love-letter from a dress- 
 maker "whom I adored at sixteen. She has her 
 own way of writing every word, and that way is 
 always ^the most complicated. Her style is worthy 
 of her spelling. Well, as I was more or less con- 
 ceited then, I felt that I could not tolerate a mistress 
 who was not a Sevigne. I broke with her suddenly. 
 To-day, as I read her letter again, I saw that this 
 milliner had really loved me." 
 
 tf What, a woman whom you kept ? " 
 
 " In splendour ! on fifty francs a month. My 
 guardian did not make me a large allowance." 
 
 " And what became of the girl ? " 
 
 "How should I know? dead in a hospital, prob- 
 ably." 
 
 " Auguste, if it were so, you would not put on that 
 air of nonchalance." 
 
 " Well, to tell the strict truth, she married a decent
 
 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 283 
 
 sort of fellow, and when I came of age I gave her 
 a little dowry." 
 
 " How good you are ! and why do you prefer to 
 seem bad? " 
 
 " Oh, I am very, very good. The more I think of 
 it, the more I am sure that she really loved me. But 
 at that time I could not detect a real sentiment under 
 an absurd disguise." 
 
 "You should have brought me the letter. I should 
 not have been jealous. We women have more tact 
 than you, and the mere style of a note will tell us 
 whether the writer is serious or not." 
 
 "And yet how many times you let yourselves be 
 wheedled by fools or fops," and as he spoke he 
 looked at the Etruscan vase with a sinister ex- 
 pression which escaped Mathilde. 
 
 Oh, you men, you all wish to pass for Don 
 Juans ! You think you are deceiving women, when 
 just as often as not you meet Donna Juanas, as bad 
 as yourselves."
 
 284 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 
 
 " I fancied, madam, that with your wit, you de- 
 tected a dullard a mile off. Then I doubt not that 
 our friend Massigny, who was a stupid fop, died a 
 virgin martyr." 
 
 "But Massigny was not so very stupid; and be- 
 sides, there are the stupid women. I must tell you a 
 story about Massigny. But have I never told it to 
 you before ? " 
 
 " Never ! " said Saint Clair. His voice trembled 
 as he spoke. 
 
 "Well, Massigny fell in love with me when he 
 came back from Italy. My husband knew him, and 
 introduced him to me as a man of taste, a wit ! They 
 were born to appreciate each other. Massigny gave 
 me sketches he said were his own, he uttered art 
 criticisms in the most diverting way ; finally he sent 
 me a letter in which he said that I was the best 
 woman in Paris, and that therefore he wished me 
 to be his mistress. This letter I showed to my cousin 
 Julie, and as we were both wild girls, we determined
 
 THE ETRUSCAN VASE. 285 
 
 to play him a trick, Julie said to me one evening, 
 when Massigny was with us, 'I shall read you a 
 declaration that I got this morning/ and she actually 
 read it among peals of laughter. Poor Mas- 
 signy ! " 
 
 Saint Clair fell on his knees with a cry of joy. 
 He seized the Comtesse's hand, he covered it with 
 tears and kisses. 
 
 "I am the worst of men, and the maddest/' he 
 said ; " for two days I have been suspecting you, and 
 I have not asked you for an explanation." 
 
 " You suspected me, of what ? " 
 
 " Oh, I am a wretch, of having loved Massigny! " 
 
 " Massigny ! " 
 
 She began to laugh, and then more seriously : 
 "Auguste, were you really mad enough to suspect 
 such a thing, and unfair enough to hide your sus- 
 picions ? " 
 
 Tears came into her eyes as she spoke. 
 
 "Forgive me, I implore you."
 
 286 THE ETEUSCAN VASE. 
 
 " Of course, I shall forgive you, but first hear me 
 swear." 
 
 " Oh, I believe you, I believe you." 
 
 *' But, in heaven's name, what could make you 
 imagine such a thing ? " 
 
 " Nothing, but my own folly, and that confounded 
 vase, which I knew Massigny gave you." 
 
 The Comtesse clasped her hands in amazement; 
 then she broke out into peals of laughter. " My 
 Etruscan vase ! My Etruscan vase !" 
 
 Saint Clair could not but laugh himself, though 
 there were tears on his cheeks. He caught Mathilde 
 in his arms, crying, " I shall never let you go till you 
 pardon me." 
 
 "Yes, I forgive you, mon ami," she said, kissing 
 him tenderly. "You make me very happy; it is 
 the first time I have seen you weep ; I thought you 
 had no tears." 
 
 Then, slipping from his arms, she seized the vase 
 and dashed it into a thousand pieces on the floor.
 
 THE ETBUSCAN VASE. 287 
 
 It \vas a rare unpublished piece, with a combat of 
 a Centaur, and one of the Lapithas in three colours. 
 For some hours Saint Clair was the happiest and 
 humblest of men. 
 
 ###** 
 
 " Well/' said Roquantin to Colonel Beaujeu, whom 
 he met at Tortoni's in the evening, "the news is 
 true ! " 
 
 "Too true," said the Colonel sadly. 
 
 "How did it all happen?" 
 
 " All as it should. Saint Clair began by telling 
 me that he was in the wrong, but that ho wished 
 to stand Themines' fire before apologising. Of course 
 I had to agree. Themines wanted to draw lots for 
 first fire Saint Clair insisted that he should fire 
 first. Themines fired. I saw St. Clair turn round 
 once, and he fell stone dead. I have often noticed 
 that odd wheeling round in soldiers hit in battle." 
 
 " It is strange," said Roquantin. " And what did 
 Themines do?"
 
 288 THE ETRUSCAN VASE 
 
 " Oh, just what he should have done ! Throw 
 down his pistol and looked sorry. Indeed, he threw 
 it so hard that he broke the hammer, and as it was 
 a Manton, I doubt if there is a gunmaker in Paris 
 who can make him another." 
 
 For three years the Comtesse lived alone, and saw 
 nobody, except a mulatto woman, who was in the 
 secret of her liaison. At the end of three years 
 her cousin Julie, returned from a long tour, insisted 
 on seeing Mathilde, and found her the ghost of her- 
 self. She induced the Comtesse to winter at Hyeres, 
 where she languished for a few months, and died of 
 consumption, brought on by regret, according to 
 Dr. M , who attended her.
 
 THE DOCTOR TORY. 
 
 (HONOR6 DE BALZAC.) 
 
 ABOUT a hundred yards from the town of Vend6me, 
 on the borders of the Loir, there is an old grey 
 house, surmounted by very high gables, and so com- 
 pletely isolated that neither tanyard, nor shabby 
 hostelry, such as you may find at the entrance to 
 all small towns, exist in its immediate neighbour- 
 hood. 
 
 In front of this building, overlooking the river, is 
 a garden, where the once well-trimmed box borders, 
 that used to define the walks, now grow wild as they 
 list. Several willows that spring from the Loir have 
 grown as rapidly as the hedge that encloses it, and 
 half conceal the house. The rich vegetation of
 
 290 THE DOCTOE'S STOBY. 
 
 those weeds that we call foul adorns the sloping 
 shore. Fruit trees, neglected for the last ten years, 
 no longer yield their harvest, and their shoots form 
 coppices. The wall-fruit grows like hedges against 
 the walls. Paths once gravelled are overgrown with 
 moss, but, to tell the truth, there is no trace of a 
 path. From the height of the hill, to which cling 
 the ruins of the old castle of the Dukes of Yendome, 
 the only spot whence the eye can plunge into this 
 enclosure, it strikes you that, at a time not easy to 
 determine, this plot of land was the delight of a 
 country gentleman, who cultivated roses and tulips 
 and horticulture in general, and who was besides a 
 lover of fine fruit. An arbour is still visible, or 
 rather the debris of an arbour, where there is a 
 table that time has not quite destroyed. The aspect 
 of this garden of bygone days suggests the negative 
 joys of peaceful provincial life, as one might recon- 
 struct the life of a worthy tradesman by reading the 
 epitaph on his tombstone. As if to complete the
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 291 
 
 sweetness and the sadness of the ideas that possess 
 one's soul, one of the walls displays a sun-dial de- 
 corated with the following commonplace Christian in- 
 scription : " ULTIMAM COGITA ! " The roof of this house 
 is horribly dilapidated, the shutters are always closed, 
 the balconies are covered with swallows' nests, the 
 doors are perpetually shut, weeds have drawn green 
 lines in the cracks of the flights of steps, the locks 
 and bolts are rusty. Sun, moon, winter, summer 
 and snow have worn the panelling, warped the 
 boards, gnawed the paint. The lugubrious silence 
 which reigns there is only broken by birds, cats, 
 martins, rats and mice, free to course to and fro, 
 to fight and to eat each other. Everywhere an in- 
 visible hand has graven the word mystery. 
 
 Should your curiosity lead you to glance at this 
 house from the side that points to the road, you would 
 perceive a great door which the children of the place 
 have riddled with holes. I afterwards heard that 
 this door had been closed for the last ten years.
 
 292 THE DOCTOB'S STORY. 
 
 Through the holes broken by the boys you would 
 have observed the perfect harmony that existed be- 
 tween the faQades of both garden and courtyard. 
 In both the same disorder prevails. Tufts of weeds 
 encircle the paving stones. Enormous cracks furrow 
 the walls, round whose blackened crests twine the 
 thousand garlands of the pellitory. The steps are 
 out of joint, the wire of the bell is rusted, the spouts 
 are cracked. What fire from heaven has fallen here ? 
 What tribunal has decreed that salt should be strewn 
 on this dwelling ? Has God been blasphemed, has 
 France been here betrayed ? These are the ques- 
 tions we ask ourselves, but get no answer from the 
 crawling things that haunt the place. This empty 
 and deserted house is a gigantic enigma, of which 
 the key is lost. In bygone times it was a small 
 fief, and bears the name of the Grande Breteche. 
 
 During the time of my sojourn in Veudome, where 
 Despleins had left me in charge of a wealthy patient, 
 the sight of this singular dwelling became one of
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 293 
 
 my greatest pleasures. Was it not better than a 
 ruin? To a ruin belong certain memories of an 
 irrefutable authenticity. But this habitation which 
 was no ruin, albeit in slow process of demolition by 
 a vengeful hand, hid a secret, an unknown idea ; 
 to say the least, it spoke of unaccountable caprice. 
 More than once in the evening I paused at the over- 
 grown hedge that protected this enclosure. In de- 
 fiance of scratches, I entered the garden without a 
 master, the property which was no longer either 
 public or private, and I spent hours in the con- 
 templation of its disorder. Not even for the sake of 
 its history, to which doubtless this singular spectacle 
 was due, would I have consented to address a single 
 question to a loquacious native of Vend6rne. There 
 I wove delightful romances, I gave myself up to little 
 feasts of an enchanting melancholy. If I had learned 
 the possibly commonplace motive of this neglect, I 
 might have lost all the unpublished poesy that so 
 intoxicated my fancy.
 
 294 THE DOCTOB'S STORY. 
 
 This secluded spot represented to my mind the 
 most varied aspects of human life, overshadowed by 
 its misfortunes. At times it had the air of a cloister 
 without monks, at others it \vas the peace of the 
 graveyard, undisturbed by the mortuary eloquence 
 of the tombstone and the dead; to-day it was the 
 leper's dwelling, to-morrow it was the House of the 
 Atridso. But above all it represented provincial life 
 in its withdrawn meditation, its hourglass existence. 
 I have often wept, I have never smiled there. Many 
 a time as the fleet wings of a wild dove passed over 
 me with their dull, soft, whizzing sound, I have been 
 seized with an involuntary horror of fear. The soil 
 is damp ; you need to beware of lizards, vipers and 
 frogs, that disport themselves therein in the wild 
 freedom of nature. Above all, you must not mind 
 the cold, for in a few moments you will feel an icy 
 mantle descend upon your shoulders, like the hand 
 of the commander on the throat of Don Juan. One 
 evening I shuddered ; the wind had turned a rusty
 
 THE DOCTOB'S STOEY. 295 
 
 weather cock, whose cries were like a groan breathed 
 by the house itself, at the very moment that I ter- 
 minated a somewhat sombre drama, by the aid of 
 which I explained to myself the singular and en- 
 during melancholy of the scene. I returned to my 
 inn, a prey to gloomy thoughts. When I had 
 supped, the landlady entered my room with an air 
 of mystery and said to me, 
 
 " Sir, here is Monsieur Regnault." 
 
 "Who is Monsieur Regnault?" 
 
 " Why, Monsieur does not know Monsieur Eeg- 
 nault ? Ah ! that is curious/' she said, as she walked 
 away. 
 
 Suddenly I saw a long, spare man appear, clothed 
 in black and holding his hat in his hand, who pre- 
 sented himself like a ram about to rush at his rival, 
 while to me he exhibited a retreating forehead, 
 a little, pointed head, and a livid face, not unlike 
 a glass of dirty water. You would have taken him 
 for an usher in a Government office. The unknown
 
 296 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 wore an old coat, very worn at the seams ; but 
 there was a diamond in the jabot of his shirt, and 
 he had gold rings in his ears. 
 
 " Sir," I said, " with whom have I the honour 
 of speaking ? " 
 
 He seated himself on a chair, placed his hat on 
 my table, and replied, rubbing his hands, 
 
 " Ah ! it's very cold. Sir, I am Monsieur Reg- 
 nault." 
 
 I bowed, and said to myself, 
 
 "11 bondo cani. Find it " 
 
 "I am/' he added, "a notary of Vendome." 
 
 " Sir, I am charmed ! " I cried ; " but for reasons 
 known to myself, I am not disposed to make my 
 will." 
 
 "One moment!" he answered, raising his hand 
 as if to enjoin silence. " Permit me, sir, permit 
 me. I have heard that you sometimes walk in the 
 garden of the Grande Breteche." 
 
 "Yes, sir."
 
 THE DOCTOE'S STORY. 297 
 
 " One moment ! " he said, reiterating his gesture. 
 " This act is a regular misdemeanour. Sir, I come 
 in the name and as the testamentary executor of 
 the late Comtesse de Merret to beg you to discon- 
 tinue your visits. One moment ! I am not a Turk, 
 and I don't want to make a crime of it. Besides, 
 you are quite welcome to ignore the circumstances 
 that oblige me to let the finest hotel of Vendome 
 fall into decay. Yet, sir, you appear to be an edu- 
 cated person, and should therefore be aware that 
 the law prohibits, under penalty of condign punish- 
 ment, the invasion of enclosed property. A hedge 
 is as good as a wall. But the actual state of the 
 house may serve as an excuse for your curiosity. 
 I could wish for nothing better than to let you go 
 and come in the house; but as it is my office to 
 see that the will of the testatrix be respected, I 
 have the honour, sir, to request you not to enter 
 the garden again. I myself, sir, since the reading 
 of the will, I have not set foot in that house which
 
 _ - THE DOCTOB'S STOBY. 
 
 belongs, as I have had the honour of informing 
 you, to the estate of Madame de Merret, All we 
 did was to ascertain the number of the doors and 
 windows, so as to fix the taxes, which I pay an- 
 nually out of funds set aside for this purpose by 
 Madame la Comtesse. Ah ! my dear sir, her will 
 made a sensation in Vendome ! " 
 
 Here he stopped to blow Ins nose the worthy 
 man ! I respected his loquaciousness, understanding 
 as well as possible that the inheritance of Madame 
 de Merret was the most important event in his 
 life, his reputation, his glory, his Restoration. I 
 had to say farewell to my fine reveries and romances ; 
 I was therefore no longer averse to learning the 
 truth from an official source. 
 
 a Sir/' I said, " would it be indiscreet to ask you 
 the cause of this eccentricity ? " 
 
 At these words, an air that expressed all the 
 pleasure of mounting his hobby-horse passed over 
 the fton of the notary. He turned np his shirt
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STOBY. 899 
 
 collar with a sort of foppishness, drew oat his snuff- 
 box, opened ife, offered me snuff; and on my refusal 
 seized a huge pinch. Ha was happy. A man who 
 keeps no hobby does not know how much can be* 
 got out of life. A hobby is the middle course 
 between a passion and a monomania. At that 
 moment, I fully realized the delightful expression 
 of Sterne, and I had a perfect idea of the joy with 
 which Uncle Toby, aided by Trim, mounted his war- 
 horse. 
 
 " Sir/' said Monsieur Begnauit, " I have been 
 head clerk to Maitre Regain in Paris. Excellent 
 house, doubtless known to yon by name? No! 
 Yet it was celebrated through an unfortunate 
 failure. I had not sufficient capital for Paris, at the 
 price practices ware worth in 1816. I came here 
 and bought the practice of my predecessor. I 
 had some relations in Vendome, among others a 
 very rich aunt, who gave me her daughter to wife. 
 Sir," he continued after a short pause, "three
 
 300 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 months after I had been licensed by the Lord Keeper 
 of the Seals, I was summoned, just as I was going 
 to bed (I was not yet married) by the Comtesse 
 de Merret, to her chateau of Merret. Her maid, 
 a good creature who now serves in this inn, was 
 waiting at my door with the carriage of Madame la 
 Comtesse. 
 
 " Ah ! one moment ! I must tell you, sir, that the 
 Comte de Merret had gono to Paris to die, two 
 months before I arrived here. He there died a 
 miserable death, having given himself up to every 
 species of excess. You understand ? The day he 
 went the Countess had left the Grande Breteche and 
 had stripped it of its furniture. There are those 
 who aver that she burnt the furniture, the tapestry, 
 in fact all those articles whatsoever, of and pertaining 
 to the habitation at present let to the aforesaid. . . . 
 (Well, what am I talking about ? I beg your 
 pardon ; I fancied I was dictating a lease.) That 
 she burnt them," he continued, " in the meadow at
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 301 
 
 Merret. Have you been to Merret, sir ? No," 
 he said, replying to himself for me. " Ah ! it 
 is a fine spot. For about three months," he 
 continued, after a little shake of the head, " the 
 Count and the Countess had led a singular life. 
 They received nobody ; Madame lived on the ground 
 floor, Monsieur on the first When the Countess 
 was left alone, she went nowhere but to church. 
 Later, at her chateau, she refused to see the friends 
 who came to visit her. She was already very 
 changed at the time she left the Grande Breteche 
 for Merret. That dear woman. ... (I say 
 dear, because this diamond comes to me from her, 
 yet I have never seen her but once.) Well, the 
 good lady was very ill; she had doubtless given 
 herself up, for she died without consenting to call 
 in any doctors ; and indeed many of our ladies have 
 thought that she was not quite in her right mind. 
 Sir, my curiosity was uncommonly roused when I 
 heard that Madame de Merret needed my services.
 
 302 THE DOCTOR'S STORY 
 
 I was not the only person who was interested in that 
 story. That very evening, although it was late, 
 the whole town knew that I was going to Merret. 
 The maid replied very vaguely to the questions I put 
 to her on the way; still she told me that the Cure 
 of Merret had administered the Sacrament to her 
 mistress in the course of the day, and that she was 
 unlikely to live through the night. I arrived at the 
 chateau at about eleven o'clock, and went up the 
 grand staircase. After passing through several high, 
 dark rooms devilishly cold and damp, I reached the 
 state bedroom, where Madame la Comtesse was. 
 From the report that has been spread about the 
 lady, (sir, I should never end, were I to repeat 
 to you all the stories that were current about her,) 
 I imagined her to be a coquette. Would you believe 
 that I had some difficulty in making her out in the 
 great bed where she lay ? Indeed, the only light in 
 this enormous chamber, hung with old-world tapes- 
 tries, dusty enough to make you sneeze if you only
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 303 
 
 looked at them, was one of those antique argand 
 lamps. Ah ! but you have not been to Merret. 
 Well, sir, the bed is one of those beds of other 
 days, with a high tester, upholstered with flowered 
 chintz. A little table stood near the bed, and on it 
 I perceived an Imitation de Jesus Christ, which, by 
 the way, I bought for my wife, as well as the lamps. 
 There were also a large arm-chair, for the housekeeper, 
 and two chairs. No fire, however. That was the 
 furniture. It would not have made ten lines in an 
 inventory. 
 
 " Ah ! my dear sir, had you seen, as I then saw, 
 that vast chamber hung with sombre tapestry, you 
 would have fancied yourself transported into a 
 chapter of a romance. It was icy, and more than 
 that, funereal," he added, raising his hand with a 
 theatrical gesture and pausing. "By dint of 
 straining my sight, and after approaching the bed, 
 I at last discovered Madame de Merret, and then 
 only thanks to the light of the lamp that fell upon
 
 304 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 the pillows. Her face was as yellow as wax, and so 
 sharp that it looked like two clasped hands. Madame 
 la Comtesse wore a lace cap, which allowed her 
 beautiful hair, that was now snow-white, to escape. 
 She was in a sitting posture, that she appeared to 
 maintain with much difficulty. Her great dark eyes, 
 that were doubtless spent by fever and scarcely 
 living, hardly moved under the arch of her eye- 
 brows these," he said, showing me the orbit of 
 his eyes. " Her brow was moist. Her emaciated 
 hands were like bones, covered with soft skin; her 
 veins, her muscles were perfectly visible. She 
 must have been most beautiful ; but I cannot tell 
 you the impression her aspect made upon me at 
 that moment. According to those who buried her, 
 no mortal ever lived who was so wasted. In fact 
 it was a frightful sight ! Disease had so worn the 
 woman that she was no more than a shadow. Her 
 pale violet lips appeared motionless to me when 
 she spoke. Although my profession had familiar-
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 305 
 
 ized me with sights such as these, being frequently 
 called to the bedsides of the dying to attest their 
 last -wills, I confess that the weeping families and 
 the death struggles that I have witnessed were 
 nothing in comparison to that silent and solitary 
 woman, in that vast chateau. I heard not the 
 slightest sound, I did not perceive the movement 
 that the invalid's breathing should have commu- 
 nicated to the clothes that covered her, and I stood 
 motionless, absorbed in a contemplation that was 
 like a stupor. I can fancy I am there now. At 
 last her great eyes moved, she attempted to raise 
 her right hand, it fell back upon the bed, and 
 these words escaped her lips like a breath, for her 
 voice was no longer a voice : ' I have been expect- 
 ing you anxiously/ Her cheeks flushed violently. 
 Speaking, sir, was an effort to her. ' Madame/ I 
 said to her. She signed to me to be silent. Then 
 the old housekeeper rose and whispered in my ear : 
 ' Do not speak ; Madame la Comtesse is in no state 
 
 x
 
 306 THE DOCTOE'S STORY. 
 
 to bear the slightest noise ; anything you said to 
 her might agitate her.' I sat down. A few 
 moments later, Madame de Merret availed herself 
 of all her remaining strength to move her right 
 arm, and placed it, not without infinite trouble, 
 under her coverlid. She waited a moment; then, 
 with a last effort, she withdrew her hand with a 
 sealed paper. Drops of sweat fell from her brow. 
 'I give into your charge my last will and testa- 
 ment. Ah ! my God ! Ah ! ' That was all. She 
 grasped a crucifix that lay upon the bed, carried 
 it rapidly to her lips, and died. I still shiver 
 to think of the expression of her fixed eyes. 
 She must have suffered so much ! There was joy 
 in her dying gaze, a joy that remained imprinted 
 in her dead eyes. I took the will away, and when 
 it was opened, I found that Madame de Merret 
 had named me her testamentary executor. She 
 left the whole of her personalty to the hospital of 
 Vend6me, minus certain private legacies. But her
 
 THE DOCTOE'S STOEY. 307 
 
 disposal of the Grande Breteche is as follows : 
 She desired me to leave this house for the term of 
 fifty years, counting from the day of her death, 
 exactly as it would be found at the time of her 
 demise, refusing admittance to the apartments to 
 any person whatsoever, and with a prohibition as 
 to the smallest repairs. At the same time she 
 allowed an income, if necessary, to pay guardians 
 who would insure the carrying out of her intentions. 
 On the expiration of this term, if the wishes of the 
 testatrix have been respected, the house is to belong 
 to my heirs, for you are aware, sir, that a notary 
 may not accept a legacy. Otherwise the Grande 
 Breteche will pass to the heir-at-law, on condition of 
 his fulfilling the clauses indicated in a codicil annexed 
 to the will, which codicil is not to be read before 
 the expiration of the said fifty years. The will 
 has not been contested, therefore . . ." At these 
 words, without finishing his sentence, the oblong 
 notary regarded me with an air of triumph.
 
 308 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 I made him quite happy by the compliments I 
 then paid him. 
 
 " Sir," I said in conclusion, " you have produced 
 so vivid an impression on me, that I fancy I can 
 see the dying woman, paler than her sheets; her 
 shining eyes frighten me, I shall dream of her 
 to-night. But you must have formed some opinion 
 as to the conditions of this eccentric will." 
 
 " Sir," he replied with a kind of comic reserve, 
 "I never venture to judge the conduct of persons 
 who honour me by the gift of a diamond." 
 
 I soon unlocked the tongue of the scrupulous 
 notary of Vendome, who communicated to me, 
 not without long digressions, observations due to 
 the astute policy of the two sexes * who frame 
 the laws of Vendome. But so diffuse and con- 
 tradictory were these observations, that, despite 
 my interest in this authentic history, I nearly 
 
 * Women and priests.
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 309 
 
 went to sleep. The heavy tones and mono- 
 tonous accent of the notary, doubtless accustomed 
 to listen to himself and to be listened to by his 
 fellow citizens, got the better of my curiosity. 
 Fortunately, he took his departure. 
 
 " Ah ! all ! sir," he said on the staircase, 
 "many people would like to live another five-and- 
 forty years ; but, one moment ! " And with an 
 air of wisdom, he placed his right hand against 
 his nostrils, as if to say : " Now pay particular 
 attention to this ! " " To get so far," he said, 
 " one must needs be under sixty." 
 
 I closed my door, after being awakened from my 
 apathy by this last shaft which the notary con- 
 sidered very witty; then I seated myself in my 
 arm-chair, placing my feet on the two fire-dogs 
 of my hearth. I lost myself in a romance a la 
 Radcliffe, based on the legal data of Monsieur 
 Regnault, when my door, impelled by the cunning 
 hand of woman, turned on its hinges. I saw my
 
 310 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 hostess approach, a fat, good-tempered body, who 
 had missed her vocation, that of a Fleming in a 
 picture by Teniers. 
 
 " Well, sir," she said, " Monsieur Regnault has 
 doubtless treated you to his tale of the Grande 
 Breteche ? " 
 
 " Yes, Dame Lepas." 
 
 "What has he told you?" 
 
 I repeated to her in a few words the chill and 
 gloomy history of Madame de Merret. After every 
 sentence my landlady craned her neck, regarding 
 me the while with the perspicacity of an innkeeper, 
 a sort of medium between the instincts of a police- 
 man, the guile of a spy, and the cunning of a 
 tradesman. 
 
 "My dear Dame Lepas!" I added in conclusion, 
 " you appear to know more about it, hein ? If not, 
 what have you come here about ? " 
 
 " Ah ! on my honour as an honest woman, as 
 true as my name is Lepas "
 
 THE DOCTOB'S STORY. 811 
 
 " Don't swear ; your eyes are big with mystery. 
 You knew Monsieur de Merret ; what sort of a man 
 was he ? " 
 
 " Dame, you see, Monsieur de Merret was a fine 
 man you could never see enough of, he was so 
 long ! a worthy gentleman who came from Picardy, 
 and whose cap was a tight fit for his head, as we 
 say here. He paid ready money to avoid disputes 
 with any one. You see, he was so peppery ! Our 
 ladies all admired him." 
 
 " Because he was peppery ? " said I to my 
 landlady. 
 
 "Perhaps," she said. "You see, sir, that there 
 must have been something in him, so to speak, 
 for him to have married the greatest beauty and 
 heiress of the country. She had about twenty 
 thousand francs a year. All the town was at the 
 wedding. The bride was lovely and gracious, a 
 gem of a little woman. Ah ! they were a handsome 
 couple in their day 1 "
 
 SI 2 THE DOCTOR'S STOEY. 
 
 " Were they happy in their married life ? " 
 
 "So, so, yes and no, as far as we could tell, 
 for you can imagine that we did not live on terms 
 of equality with them ! Madame de Merret was a 
 good creature, so nice, who perhaps had a great 
 deal to put up with through her husband's temper; 
 but although he was rather proud, we were fond 
 of him. Bah ! that was his natural state to be 
 like that ! A noble, you see " 
 
 "Yet there must have been a catastrophe that 
 caused the violent separation of Monsieur and 
 Madame de Merret ? " 
 
 " I did not say that there had been a catastrophe, 
 sir, I know of none." 
 
 "That's right. Now I am sure that you know 
 all about it." 
 
 "Well, sir, I will tell you the truth. When I 
 saw Monsieur Regnault go upstairs to you, I did 
 think he would mention Madame de Merret to you 
 because of the Grande Breteche. That gave me
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 313 
 
 the idea of consulting you, sir, whom I take for a 
 sensible man and one not likely to betray a poor 
 woman like myself, who have never done any harm 
 to any one, and who yet am tormented by my 
 conscience. Till now I have never ventured to un- 
 burden myself to the people of this country, a 
 set of gossips with tongues like knives. Besides, 
 sir, I have never had a lodger who has stayed in 
 my inn as long as yourself, and to whom I could 
 tell the story of the fifteen thousand francs." 
 
 "My dear Dame Lepas," I replied, staying her 
 flood of words, "if what you are about to confide 
 to me is of a compromising nature, for all the world 
 I would not be burdened with it." 
 
 "Don't be afraid," she said, interrupting me. 
 "You'll see." 
 
 From this eagerness, I inferred that I was not 
 the only person to whom my good landlady had 
 communicated the secret of which I was to be the 
 sole recipient, and I prepared to listen.
 
 314 THE DOCTOB'S STOKY. 
 
 " Sir," she said, " when the Emperor sent the 
 Spanish prisoners of war and others here, the 
 government quartered on me a young Spaniard 
 who had been sent to Vendome on parole. Parole 
 notwithstanding, he went out every day to show 
 himself to the sous-prefet. He was a Spanish 
 grandee ! Nothing less ! His name ended in os 
 and dia, something like Burgos de Feredia. I have 
 his name on my books; you can read it, if you 
 like. Oh ! but he was a handsome young man for 
 a Spaniard, which they are all said to be ugly. 
 He was only five feet and a few inches high, but 
 he was well-grown; he had small hands that he 
 took such care of ; ah ! you should have seen ! He 
 had as many brushes for his hands as a woman for 
 her whole dressing apparatus ! He had thick black 
 hair, a fiery eye, his skin was rather bronzed, but 
 I liked the look of it. He wore the finest linen I 
 have ever seen on any one, although I have had 
 princesses staying here, and, among others, General
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 315 
 
 Bertrand, the Duke and Duchess d'Abrantes, 
 Monsieur Decazes and the King of Spain. He 
 didn't eat much; but his manners were so polite, 
 so amiable, that one could not owe him a grudge. 
 Oh ! I was very fond of him, although he didn't 
 open his lips four times in the day, and it was im- 
 possible to keep up a conversation with him. For 
 if you spoke to him, he did not answer. It was a 
 fad, a mania with them all, I heard say. He read 
 his breviary like a priest, he went to mass and to 
 all the services regularly. Where did he sit ? Two 
 steps from the chapel of Madame de Merret. As 
 he took his place there the first time he went to 
 church, nobody suspected him of any intention in 
 so doing. Besides he never raised his eyes from 
 his prayer-book, poor young man ! After that, 
 sir, in the evening he would walk on the moun- 
 tains, among the castle ruins. It was the poor 
 man's only amusement, it reminded him of his 
 country. They say that Spain is all mountains !
 
 316 THE DOCTOB'S STORY. 
 
 From the commencement of his imprisonment he 
 stayed out late. I was anxious when I found 
 that he did not come home before midnight; but 
 we got accustomed to this fancy of his. He took 
 the key of the door, and we left off sitting up for 
 him. He lodged in a house of ours in the Rue 
 des Casernes. After that, one of our stable-men 
 told us that in the evening when he led the 
 horses to the water, he thought he had seen the 
 Spanish grandee swimming far down the river like 
 a live fish. When he returned, I told him to take 
 care of the rushes ; he appeared vexed to have been 
 seen in the water. At last, one day, or rather 
 one morning, we did not find him in his room ; 
 he had not returned. After searching everywhere, 
 I found some writing in the drawer of a table, 
 where there were fifty gold pieces of Spain that 
 are called doubloons and were worth about five 
 thousand francs; and ten thousand francs' worth 
 of diamonds in a small sealed box. The writing
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 317 
 
 said, that in case he did not return, he left us the 
 money and the diamonds, on condition of paying 
 for masses to thank God for his escape, and for 
 his salvation. In those days my husband had not 
 been taken from me; he hastened to seek him 
 everywhere. 
 
 " And now for the strange part of the story. He 
 brought home the Spaniard's clothes, that he 
 had discovered under a big stone, in a sort of pile- 
 work by the river-side near the castle, nearly 
 opposite to the Grande Breteche. My husband 
 had gone there so early that no one had seen 
 him. After reading the letter, he burned the 
 clothes, and according to Count Feredia's desire we 
 declared that he had escaped. The sous-prefet sent 
 all the gendarmerie in pursuit of him ; but brust ! 
 they never caught him. Lepas believed that the 
 Spaniard had drowned himself. I, sir, don't think 
 so ; I am more inclined to believe that he had some- 
 thing to do with the affair of Madame de Merret,
 
 318 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 seeing that Rosalie told me that the crucifix that 
 her mistress thought so much of, that she had it 
 buried with her, was of ebony and silver. Now 
 in the beginning of his stay here, Monsieur de 
 Feredia had one in ebony and silver, that I never 
 saw him with later. Now, sir, don't you consider 
 that T need have no scruples about the Spaniard's 
 fifteen thousand francs, and that I have a right to 
 
 them?" 
 
 -. 
 
 " Certainly ; but you haven't tried to question 
 Rosalie?" I said. 
 
 " Oh, yes, indeed, sir ; but to no purpose ! The 
 girl's like a wall. She knows something, but it is 
 impossible to get her to talk." 
 
 After exchanging a few more words with me, my 
 landlady left me a prey to vague and gloomy 
 thoughts, to a romantic curiosity, and a religious 
 terror not unlike the profound impression produced 
 on us when by night, on entering a dark church, 
 we perceive a faint light under high arches ; a vague
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 319 
 
 figure glides by the rustle of a robe or cassock is 
 heard, and we shudder. 
 
 Suddenly the Grande Brefeche and its tall weeds, 
 its barred windows, its rusty ironwork, its closed 
 doors, its deserted apartments, appeared like a fan- 
 tastic apparition before me. I essayed to penetrate 
 the mysterious dwelling, and to find the knot of 
 its dark story, the drama that had killed three 
 persons. In my eyes, Rosalie became the most in- 
 teresting person in Vendome. As I studied her, I 
 discovered the traces of secret care, despite the 
 radiant health that shone in her plump countenance. 
 There was in her the germ of remorse or hope ; her 
 attitude revealed a secret, like the attitude of a 
 bigot who prays to excess, or of the infanticide 
 who ever hears the last cry of her child. Yet her 
 manners were rough and ingenuous her silly smile 
 was not that of a criminal, and could you but have 
 seen the great kerchief that encompassed her portly 
 bust, framed and laced in by a lilac and blue cotton
 
 320 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 gown, you would have dubbed her innocent. No, 
 I thought, I will not leave Vendome without learn- 
 ing the history of the Grande Breteche. To gain 
 my ends I will strike up a friendship with Rosalie, 
 if needs be. 
 
 " Rosalie," said I, one evening. 
 
 "Sir?" 
 
 " You are not married ? " 
 
 She started slightly. 
 
 " Oh, I can find plenty of men, when the fancy 
 takes me to be made miserable," she said, 'augh- 
 ing. 
 
 She soon recovered from the effects of her emo- 
 tion, for all women, from the great lady to the 
 maid of the inn, possess a composure that is pecu- 
 liar to them. 
 
 "You are too good looking and well favoured to 
 be short of lovers. But tell me, Rosalie, why did 
 you take service in an inn after leaving Madame 
 de Merret ? Did she leave you nothing to live on ? "
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STOEY. 321 
 
 " Oh, yes ! Bat, sir, my place is the best in all 
 Vend 6 me." 
 
 This reply Was one of those that judges and 
 lawyers would call evasive. Rosalie appeared to 
 me to be situated in this romantic history like 
 the square in the midst of a chessboard. She 
 was at the heart of the truth and chief interest ; 
 she seemed to me to be bound in the very 
 knot of it. The conquest of Rosalie was no 
 longer to be an ordinary siege, in this girl was 
 centred the last chapter of a novel; therefore from 
 this moment Rosalie became the object of my pre- 
 ference. 
 
 By dint of studying the girl, I discovered endless 
 good qualities in her, as one does in all women 
 who become the chief objects of our thought. She 
 was clean and tidy ; she was handsome, of course ; 
 she soon acquired all the graces that our desire 
 lends to women, in whatever grade they may happen 
 to be. 
 
 Y
 
 322 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 One morning, a fortnight after the notary's visit, 
 I said to Rosalie, 
 
 "Tell me all you know about Madame de Mer- 
 ret?" 
 
 " Oh ! " she replied, in terror, " do not ask that 
 of me, Monsieur Horace." 
 
 Her pretty face fell, her clear bright colour 
 faded, and her eyes lost their innocent brightness. 
 
 " Well, then," she said at last, " if you must have 
 it so, I will tell you about it j bub promise to keep 
 my secret ! " 
 
 " Va ! my dear girl, I must keep your secrets with 
 the honour of a thief, which is the most loyal in the 
 world." 
 
 "If it's the same to you," she said, "I prefer 
 that it should be with your own." Thereupon she 
 straightened her kerchief and assumed the attitude 
 of a narrator, for to be sure a confidential attitude 
 and a certain security are requisite to the telling of 
 a story. The best stories are told at a certain hour,
 
 THE DOCTOE'S STOBY. 323 
 
 at table, as we now are. No one has ever told a 
 story well fasting or standing. But were I to tran- 
 scribe Rosalie's diffuse eloquence faithfully, an entire 
 volume would scarcely contain it. Now as the event 
 she incoherently related to me, happens to be placed 
 between the chatter of the notary and that of Madame 
 Lepas, as exactly as the mean of a mathematical 
 position between its two extremes, I can tell it you in 
 a few words. So I shall abridge. The room occu- 
 pied by Madame de Merret at the Breteclie was on the 
 ground floor. A little closet about four feet deep, 
 built in the thickness of the wall served as her ward- 
 robe. Three months before the eventful evening of 
 which I am about to speak, Madame de Merret had 
 been so seriously indisposed that her husband had 
 left her to herself in her own apartment, while ho 
 occupied another on the first floor. By one of those 
 chances that it is impossible to foresee, he returned 
 home from the club (where he was accustomed to 
 read the papers and discuss politics with the inhabi-
 
 THE DOCTOR S STORY. 
 
 tants of the place) two hours later than usual. His 
 wife supposed him to be at home, in bed and asleep. 
 But the invasion of France had been the subject of 
 a most animated discussion ; the billiard match had 
 been exciting, he had lost forty francs, an enormous 
 sum for Vendome, where every one hoards, and where 
 manners are restricted within the limits of a praise- 
 worthy modesty, which perhaps is the source of the 
 true happiness that no Parisian covets. For some 
 time past Monsieur de Merret had been satisfied to 
 ask Kosalie if his wife had gone to bed : and on her 
 reply, which was always in the affirmative, had im- 
 mediately gained his own room with the good temper 
 engendered by habit and confidence. On entering 
 his house, he took it into his head to go and tell his 
 wife of his misadventure, perhaps by way of consola- 
 tion. At dinner he had found Madame de Merret 
 most coquettishly attired. On his way to the club it 
 had occurred to him that his wife was restored to 
 health, and that her convalescence had added to her
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 325 
 
 beauty. He was, as husbands are wont to be,, some- 
 what slow in making this discovery. Instead of call- 
 ing Rosalie, who was occupied just then in watching 
 the cook and coachman play a difficult hand at 
 brisqiie,* Monsieur de Merret went to his wife's room 
 by the light of a lantern that he deposited on the 
 first step of the staircase. His unmistakable step re- 
 sounded under the vaulted corridor. At the moment 
 that the Count turned the handle of his wife's door 
 he fancied he could hear the door of the closet I 
 spoke of close ; but when he entered, Madame de 
 Merret was alone before the fireplace. The husband 
 thought ingenuously that Rosalie was in the closet, 
 yet a suspicion that jangled in his ear put him on his 
 guard. He looked at his wife and saw in her eyes 
 I know not what wild and hunted expression. 
 
 "You are very late," she said. Her habitually 
 pure, sweet voice seemed changed to him. 
 
 Monsieur de Merret did not reply, for at that mo- 
 * A game of cards.
 
 326 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 ment Rosalie entered. It was a thunderbolt for him. 
 He strode about the room, passing from, one window 
 to the other, with mechanical motion and folded 
 arms. 
 
 " Have you heard bad news, or are you unwell ? " 
 inquired his wife timidly, while Rosalie undressed 
 her. 
 
 He kept silent. 
 
 " You can leave me," said Madame de Merret to 
 her maid ; " I will put my hair in curl papers my- 
 self." 
 
 From the expression of her husband's face she 
 foresaw trouble, and wished to be alone with him. 
 When Rosalie had gone, or was supposed to have 
 gone (for she stayed in the corridor for a few minutes), 
 Monsieur de Merret came and stood in front of his 
 wife, and coldly said to her, 
 
 " Madam, there is some one in your closet ! " She 
 looked calmly at her husband and replied simply, 
 
 "No, sir."
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 327 
 
 This answer was heartrending to Monsieur de 
 Merret ; he did not believe in it. Yet his wife had 
 never appeared to him purer or more saintly than 
 at that moment. He rose to open the closet door ; 
 Madame de Merret took his hand, looked at him 
 with an expression of melancholy, and said in a 
 voice that betrayed singular emotion, 
 
 " If you find no one there, remember this, all will 
 be over between us ! " The extraordinary dignity 
 of his wife's manner restored the Count's profound 
 esteem for her, and inspired him with one of those 
 resolutions that only lack a vaster stage to become 
 immortal. 
 
 "No/' said he, "Josephine, I will not go there, 
 in either case it would separate us for ever. Hear 
 me, I know how pure you are at heart, and that 
 your life is a holy one. You would not commit a 
 mortal sin, to save your life." 
 
 At these words, Madame de Merret turned a 
 haggard gaze upon her husband.
 
 328 THE DOCTOE'S STOET. 
 
 " Here, take your crucifix/' he added. " Swear 
 to me before God, that there is no one in there ; I 
 will believe you, I will never open that door." 
 
 Madame de Merret took the crucifix and said, 
 
 " I swear." 
 
 "Louder," said the husband, "and repeat, ( I 
 swear before God that there is no one in that 
 closet/" She repeated the sentence calmly. 
 
 " That will do," said Monsieur de Merret coolly. 
 After a moment of silence, 
 
 " I never saw this pretty toy before," ho said, 
 examining the ebony crucifix inlaid with silver, and 
 most artistically chiselled. 
 
 "I found it at Duvivier's, who bought it of a 
 Spanish monk when the prisoners passed through 
 Vendome last year." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Monsieur de Merret as he replaced 
 the crucifix on the nail, and he rang. Eosalie did 
 not keep him waiting. Monsieur de Merret went 
 quickly to meet her, led her to the bay window
 
 THE DOCTOE'S STOKY. 329 
 
 that opened on to the garden and whispered to 
 her, 
 
 " Listen! I know that Gorenflot wishes to marry 
 you, poverty is the only drawback, and you told 
 him that you would be his wife if he found the 
 means to establish himself as a master mason. 
 Well ! go and fetch him, tell him to 
 come here with his trowel and his tools. Manage 
 not to awaken any one in his house but himself; 
 his fortune will be more than your desires. Above 
 all, leave this room without babbling, otherwise 
 ." He frowned. Rosalie went away, he re- 
 called her. 
 
 " Here, take my latchkey," he said. 
 
 " Jean ! " then cried Monsieur de Merret in tones of 
 thunder in the corridor. Jean, who was at the same 
 time his coachman and his confidential servant, left 
 his game of cards and came. 
 
 " Go to bed, all of you," said his master, signing 
 to him to approach ; and the Count added under his
 
 330 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 breath : " When they are all asleep asleep, d'ye hear ? 
 you "will come down and tell me." Monsieur de 
 Merret, who had not lost sight of his wife, all the 
 time he was giving his orders, returned quietly to 
 her, at the fireside, and began to tell her the events 
 of the game of billiards, and the talk of the club. 
 When Rosalie returned, she found Monsieur and 
 Madame de Merret conversing very amicably. 
 
 The Count had lately had all the ceilings of his 
 reception rooms on the ground floor repaired. 
 Plaster of Paris is difficult to obtain in Vendotne ; 
 the carriage raises its price. The Count had 
 therefore bought a good deal, being well aware that 
 he could find plenty of .purchasers for whatever 
 might remain over. This circumstance inspired him 
 with the design he was about to execute. 
 
 "Sir, Gorenflot has arrived," said Eosalie in low 
 
 tones. 
 
 " Show him in," replied the Count in loud 
 
 tones.
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STOEY. 331 
 
 Madame de Herret turned rather pale when she 
 saw the mason. 
 
 " Gorenflot," said her husband, " go and fetch 
 bricks from the coachhouse, and bring sufficient to 
 wall up the door of this closet; you will use the 
 plaster I have over to coat the wall with." Then, 
 calling Rosalie and the workman aside, 
 
 " Listen, Gorenflot," said he in an undertone ; 
 "you will sleep here to-night. But to-morrow you 
 will have a passport to a foreign country, to a town 
 to which I will direct you. I shall give you six 
 thousand francs for your journey. You will stay ten 
 years in that town; if you did not like it, you might 
 establish yourself in another, providing it be in the 
 same country. You will pass through Paris, where- 
 you will await me. There I will insure you an 
 additional six thousand francs by contract, which will 
 be paid you on your return, providing you have ful- 
 filled the conditions of our bargain. This is the price 
 for your absolute silence as to what you are about to-
 
 332 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 do to-night As to you, Rosalie, I will give you ten 
 thousand francs on the day of your wedding, on con- 
 dition of your marrying Gorenflot ; but if you wish to 
 marry, you must hold your tongues ; or, no dowry." 
 
 "Bosalie," said Madame de Merret, "do my 
 hair." 
 
 The husband walked calmly up and down, 
 watching the door, the mason and his wife, but 
 without betraying any insulting doubts. Madame 
 de Merret chose a moment when the workman was 
 unloading bricks and her husband was at the other 
 end of the room, to say to Eosalie : " A thousand 
 francs a year for you, my child, if you can tell 
 Gorenflot to leave a chink at the bottom/' Then 
 out loud, she added coolly, 
 
 " Go and help him ! " 
 
 Monsieur and Madame de Merret were silent all 
 the time that Gorenflot took to brick up the door. 
 This silence, on the part of the husband, who did 
 not choose to furnish his wife with a pretext for
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STOEY. 333 
 
 saying tilings of a double meaning, had its 
 purpose ; on the parfc of Madame de Merret it was 
 either pride or prudence. When the wall was about 
 half way up, the sly workman took advantage of a 
 moment when the Count's back was turned, to strike 
 a blow with his trowel in one of the glass panes of 
 the closet-door. This act informed Madame de 
 Merret that Rosalie had spoken to Gorenflot. 
 
 All three then saw a man's face, it was dark and 
 gloomy with black hair and eyes of flame. Before 
 her husband turned, the poor woman had time to 
 make a sign to the stranger that signified : Hope ! 
 
 At four o'clock, towards dawn, for it was the 
 month of September, the construction was finished. 
 The mason was handed over to the care of Jean, and 
 Monsieur de Merret went to bed in his wife's 
 room. 
 
 On rising the following morning he said care- 
 lessly, 
 
 " The deuce ! I must go to the Mairie for the
 
 334 THE DOCTOE'S STORY. 
 
 passport. He put his hat on his head, advanced 
 three steps towards the door, altered his mind, and 
 took the crucifix. 
 
 His wife trembled for joy. " He is going to 
 Duvivier," she thought. As soon as the Count had 
 left Madame de Merret rang for Rosalie; then in a 
 terrible voice, 
 
 " The trowel, the trowel," she cried, " and quick to 
 work! I saw how Gorenflot did it; we shall have 
 time to make a hole and to mend it again." 
 
 In the twinkling of an eye Rosalie brought a sort 
 of mattock to her mistress, who with unparalleled 
 ardour set about demolishing the wall. She had 
 already knocked out several bricks, and was pre- 
 paring herself to strike a more decisive blow, when 
 she perceived Monsieur de Merret behind her. She 
 fainted. 
 
 "Lay Madame on her bed," said the Count 
 coolly. He had foreseen what would happen in his 
 absence, and had set a trap for his wife; he had
 
 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 335 
 
 simply written to the mayor, and had sent for 
 Duvivier, The jeweller arrived just as the room had 
 been put in order. 
 
 " Duvivier," inquired the Count, " did you buy 
 crucifixes of the Spaniards who passed through 
 here?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " That will do, thank you," he said, looking at his 
 wife like a tiger. " Jean," he added, " you will see 
 that my meals are served in the Countess's room j 
 she is ill, and I shall not leave her until she has 
 recovered." 
 
 The cruel gentleman stayed with his wife for twenty 
 days. In the beginning, when there were sounds 
 in the walled closet, and Josephine attempted to 
 implore his pity for the dying stranger, he replied, 
 without permitting her to say a word, 
 
 "You have sworn on the cross that there is no 
 one there." 
 
 After this story, all the ladies rose from table and
 
 336 THE DOCTOR'S STORY. 
 
 the spell cast over them by the Doctor * was broken 
 by this movement. Yet some of them nearly 
 felfc a cold shiver while they listened to his last 
 words. 
 
 * The Bianchon of the Scenes de la Vie Privee. 
 
 Bailor & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London . 
 
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