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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