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 THE WIND OF DESTINY. A Novel. i6mo, 
 $1.25- 
 
 BUT YET A WOMAN. A Novel. i6mo, $1.25; 
 paper covers, 50 cents. 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY, 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN 
 
 Novel 
 
 
 BY 
 
 ARTHUR SHERBURNE HARDY 
 
 Love is too young to know what conscience is; 
 Yet who knows not, conscience is born of love ? 
 SHAKESPEARE, Sonnet CLI. 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 1886 
 
Copyright, 1883, 
 Br ARTHUR S. IIARET 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge : 
 Eleetrotyped and Printed by II. 0. Houghton & Co. 
 
; 
 
 The Dedication of this Book to 
 
 but the acknowledgment of the debt of 
 both it and its 
 
 AUTHOR. 
 
 233095 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 I. 
 
 THERE are some men who reach the down* 
 ward slope of life without succumbing to Penelope, 
 Phyllis, or Phryne. Such men are rare , never 
 theless they exist, for M. Michel was one. Not 
 that any strange play of chances had made his 
 life exceptional ; in its outward circumstances it 
 had not differed from that of most men. It was 
 M. Michel himself who was exceptional. During 
 the forty years that had elapsed since he left the 
 Lyce*e Louis-le-Grand many women had crossed 
 his path, of whose charms he was not ignorant 
 and to whose influence he was a debtor. More 
 than once they had softened his convictions and 
 purified his ideals, for he was neither a hermit nor 
 a scoffer. Of that little circle of friends in which 
 he moved, which the years had narrowed only to 
 render it more essential, they formed an alto 
 gether necessary part, whose banishment would 
 have dismayed him. 
 
 Still, for M. Michel, woman existed as it were 
 en masse. As says the proverb, he admired the 
 
2 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 forest without seeing the trees. Indispensable to 
 society as the flowers of the Luxembourg to the 
 gardens in which he took his daily walk, it had 
 never occurred to him to appropriate either the 
 one or the other. 
 
 " Is not this delicious ! " his niece said, one 
 morning, showing him a rose wet with dew. 
 
 " Exquisite, but I prefer the violet." 
 
 " Ah, how provoking! Yesterday we had vio 
 lets, and you preferred roses." 
 
 Yet M. Michel was far from being difficile. On 
 the contrary, a certain large-heartedness dissipated 
 his affections. He preferred neither roses nor vio 
 lets, but loved only flowers. He admired neither 
 one nor many women, but only woman. Indeed, 
 some of M. Michel s friends had affirmed that it 
 was precisely this eccentricity which rendered him 
 so agreeable. In his society they escaped for a 
 time that mania of appropriation which even a 
 coquette tires, at times, of provoking ; with him 
 one could lower one s guard without danger, and 
 indulge in a certain abandon with security. 
 
 If this man had ever inspired certain senti 
 ments of another kind he had remained ignorant 
 of them, if only because he did not reciprocate 
 them. Doubtless, like others, he had had his op 
 portunities without making them. With a good 
 figure and manners, a loyal heart and gentle dis 
 position, to say nothing of his rentes, it were 
 strange had it been otherwise. But his sixtieth 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 3 
 
 year found him still alone with his young orphan 
 niece Re*nee. 
 
 Without ever having thought of it, M. Michel s 
 feelings of love and admiration for his niece, 
 while genuine and sincere, were, apparently at 
 least, of the same somewhat abstract character. 
 His life, it is true, would have been desolate with 
 out her. She managed his household admirably; 
 she presided at those little reunions of friends so 
 dear to him at his age. In entering that large 
 salon, whose tones were so subdued, everything in 
 dicated indefinably a reigning presence, and that, 
 too, of a woman. A certain grace and refine 
 ment hovered, like the fragrance of a flower, over 
 every trifle. He was far, too, from esteeming his 
 niece only as an excellent housekeeper. Her 
 wishes, her whims even, were law to him, and had 
 need been he would have done a chivalrous deed 
 as gallantly as any knight of the Round Table. 
 For her he unlocked the doors of that library, 
 that other world of unbroken silence, of which he 
 once said, " It is a little space fenced off from 
 illusions, maskings, and shadows ; here are no 
 voices, only echoes, no action^ only its photo 
 graph ; here no events transpire* but here is the 
 record of all, and this alone is real and durable." 
 Moreover, for her he stopped every Saturday night 
 at the Oonfiserie of the Rue de 1 Ecole de Mede- 
 cine, and brought away a white package tied with 
 a blue ribbon. 
 
4 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 Yet for all this, one night his niece said to him, 
 " Be a little less good to me, and love me more, 
 my uncle." Such a philosophy so puzzled the 
 worthy man that he could only make a gesture of 
 remonstrance. 
 
 But Mademoiselle Rdnde was thoroughly in ear 
 nest, and had vaguely come to understand that 
 life is not composed of generalities. So far from 
 being content with the even affection and gener 
 osity of her uncle, she would have preferred him 
 more exacting. In her quiet retirement with this 
 old n -an her young heart rebelled against a peace 
 for which it was not made ; unconsciously she had 
 learned that happiness is only a relative. Look 
 ing one night from her window on the lights and 
 glare of the great city, she exclaimed, " If he loved 
 me, RSnee, I would make him cry with despair 
 and happiness ! " So true is it that the human 
 heart craves that tyrannous love which is selfish 
 and imperious even, which in giving all takes 
 everything, and is like an exarch s sword, with 
 pain and pleasure for its two edges. 
 
 It had been raining all day, and a mist hung 
 over the city. Wrapped in its folds, dome and 
 spire assumed colossal proportions, and as the 
 night advanced seemed to sway with their gigantic 
 shadows. Water was dripping from every projec 
 tion ; the doors of the cafds were closed, and their 
 lights struggled feebly with the storm and dark 
 ness. This outside gloom made the salon of the 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 5 
 
 Rue du Bac even more attractive than usual. 
 Dinner was over, the open fire was lighted, and 
 Re" nee was serving the coffee with her own hands. 
 
 Opposite her uncle, near the fire, sat M. Lande, 
 an old friend and playmate of fifty years ago, now 
 first violin at the Opera. The son of a farmer, 
 Ernest Lande had never forgotten the kindness of 
 his companion, the only son of the mayor at Bri- 
 enne, at that time a great dignitary in his eyes. 
 Widely different as had been their paths in life, 
 he had sought out this friend of his childhood 
 after thirty years of buffeting, and found him un 
 changed. Thus it happened that for nearly twen 
 ty years he had enjoyed almost without interrup 
 tion his regular evening before M. Michel s fire. 
 
 On accepting his coffee from the hand of Rene"e, 
 he always rose. He remembered well the little 
 girl who had put out her cheek for a kiss at his 
 coming, and lain asleep in his arms before that 
 same fire. One day, when this little girl, instead 
 of Baptiste, brought him his coffee, he was aston 
 ished to find her a little girl no longer. From 
 that time he said " Mademoiselle," and a shade of 
 constraint, mingled with deference, characterized 
 his manner. This at first amused Re ne e, and 
 finally won her. It was a kind of homage, direct 
 without ceasing to be dignified, to whose use her 
 uncle was a stranger. 
 
 " Ah, mademoiselle," he said, taking his coffee, 
 " how many more times will you do this for me ! " 
 
6 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " One would suppose you were going on a long 
 journey, M. Lande." 
 
 " It is true, mademoiselle," lie said half to him 
 self ; " some day I am going on a long journey." 
 
 " You, a journey ! " exclaimed Rene e. " Are 
 you to leave Paris ? " 
 
 He looked up with a smile. " You forget how 
 old I am growing." 
 
 Renee was touched. M. Lande had not with 
 stood well his years of buffeting. A tired heart is 
 a poor ally, and his had been early tired. He had 
 been well described by a critic as "one who would 
 have achieved great things in Paradise." 
 
 " You are no older than my uncle," said Re ne e, 
 gently. 
 
 " And is your uncle then inviolable ? " said M. 
 Michel, coming to the rescue. 
 
 Re ne e laughed as she went to the farther end 
 of the room, where, in her favorite chair by the 
 low lamp, she used to read while the friends con 
 versed by the fire. This intimacy between her 
 uncle and M. Lande she respected as if by in 
 stinct, nnd, once with her book, state secrets might 
 have been discussed with impunity at the hearth 
 stone. 
 
 The conversation to-night, if not upon state 
 secrets, was somewhat confidential in its nature, 
 and in these confidences between man and man 
 there was something almost pathetic. Over mat 
 ter,* on which women prattle innocently together 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 7 
 
 like children, men philosophize in the third per 
 son. Open the inner doors of your heart and ex 
 perience, and your friend grows silent ; but sink 
 your personality in abstractions, and he will dis 
 cover your need, and cheer without wounding. In 
 our strong need of each other we open the door 
 \vide to woman, unbandage our wounds, and cry 
 " Give ! " for we know her tenderest of nurses, if 
 not wisest of physicians. But to our friend, with 
 whom we sit before the fire over our pipes, we 
 put on our best robes, though we be beggars, and 
 ask alms for humanity. Playing this little farce 
 together, which we both so well understand, how 
 many hurts are soothed without once being 
 named ! 
 
 The room was yet unlighted, for the rays ot 
 ReneVs lamp in the corner hardly reached the 
 fire. The flickering flames were going out; the 
 fire itself was in its pensive stage, and threw a 
 sunset glow upon the faces of its watchers. If it 
 be true that the world we see reflects itself upon 
 the face, it is also certain that there are some 
 faces over which it seems to have little power. 
 Furrow and sadden them as it will, a native light 
 shines from the eye, which shadows and wrinkles 
 serve only to intensify. Strangely, too, it is oft- 
 enest the simplest, one might almost say the soft 
 est, nature which refuses the world s seal, and 
 wears its own to the end ; and Ernest Lande, gen 
 tle and timid as his eyes showed him to be, though 
 
g BUT YET A WOMAN, 
 
 he had seen more of the world than falls to the 
 lot of many men, bore on his face fewer traces of 
 its influence than does many a stouter heart, 
 whose prided stoicism is often only a strait-jacket 
 which that very world it affects so lightly to de 
 spise has woven and hammered out for it as the 
 years went by. Practically his working days were 
 over ; yet he was only the first violin at the Opera. 
 < If you had left your provincial heart at Bri- 
 enne," a friend once said to him, " they would be 
 applauding you to-day at St. Petersburg." At 
 duch a remark M. Lande would smile, and, like 
 Certain monosyllables, his smile was a reproach, a 
 protest, an assent, or a denial, as occasion de 
 manded. 
 
 From his earliest childhood he had given evi 
 dence of that passionate love of music which was 
 to dominate his whole life. He was the despair 
 of his father, who, loving him deeply, could never 
 seriously and determinedly thwart his natural pro 
 clivity, yet never understood his nature, at once 
 timid and expansive, a dreamer, who thought 
 more of the rustle of the corn than the fullness of 
 the harvest ; so awkward in the duties to which 
 circumstances had assigned him ; stealing away, 
 after the tasks of the day, in the shadows of the 
 hedges, to gain the town, where, perhaps, some 
 wandering musicians were singing the operas of 
 Scarlatti, or, silent and shy, with his beloved vio 
 lin, to the secret places of nature, to listen to the 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 9 
 
 voices of the forest birds or the sounds of rushing 
 waters. 
 
 But Pere Lande was not severe. All this was 
 a misfortune to be pitied, not a crime to be pun 
 ished. Often, at vespers, something in Ernest s 
 rapt face, as he sang in the collegiate choir, some 
 thing in that clear and tremulous voice, spoke to 
 him in a tongue he but dimly understood of a 
 region other than that narrow one of raw prod 
 ucts in which he lived, and made him silent and 
 thoughtful as he walked home, with his son s 
 hand in his broad palm. It was thus partly from 
 a natural kindness of heart, partly also because he 
 saw only too plainly that the hand which held 
 the bow was not fashioned for the plow, that 
 he yielded to Ernest s entreaties, joined with the 
 influence of the curd, and consented to his depart 
 ure for Italy. In this consent there was an un 
 dercurrent of silent protest, an almost mournful 
 resignation prophetic of disaster, not wholly con 
 cealed that spring morning, when he waved his 
 hand in adieu to the slender figure disappearing 
 over the hillside with the light step of twenty 
 years yet unsoiled and crowned with hope. And 
 a year later it was with a certain irritable despair 
 that he received tidings of Ernest s departure for 
 Paris. " To seek his fortune ! " he murmured bit 
 terly. And who shall say that Pere Lande s idea 
 of fortune, broad, sunny lands, fields of yellow 
 wheat sown with scarlet coquelicots, a snug roof 
 
10 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 ?overing vessels of golden cream and white cheeses, 
 was an unworthy one ? 
 
 Gerard might have taken him as a model for 
 Youth in " Les Trois Ages " had he seen him, still 
 light-hearted after his long foot-journey, with eyes 
 fixed upon the thousand lights of the great city, 
 which flashed and vanished as he followed the 
 winding road, and whose distant hum seemed to 
 call him also thitherward. 
 
 Thereafter matters went badly. With the un 
 concern of youth he married early a pretty face 
 and a sour heart, and forthwith embarrassed gen 
 ius with five children. Producing works des 
 tined some day to be discovered, he had none of 
 those qualities which force the smiles of fortune 
 or gain the ears of managers. Only after many 
 years had an opera, begun in Rome and finished 
 later in Paris, been produced through the exer 
 tions of friends, securing to him at the close of 
 life a tardy fame and favor. But long before this 
 the spirit had been broken, broken by the pros 
 titution of his talents to those ways and means of 
 bare subsistence which his large family made nec 
 essary ; broken by the gradual flight for it was 
 not abandonment of his hopes and ideals, and 
 not least by the wife who early learned that art 
 of subtle taunt which harasses a genius that can 
 not minister to coarse ambitions. Here was some 
 thing more than what his friend called provincial 
 ism. For even a provincial knows how to steer, 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 11 
 
 and garners experience with his harvests. But M. 
 Lande could neither steer nor beat. The tricks 
 of success were beyond, nay, rather beneath, his 
 mastery. His friends rightly claimed for him 
 genius, but it was a genius that would have no 
 trade ; and amid the rivalries, the deceits, the fol 
 lies of this great capital, his life went in and out 
 like the streams among the hills on which he was 
 nurtured, darkened by the shadows of the for 
 est, but pure and untainted. 
 
 Upon his eldest son, Roger, this simple but 
 thwarted life had made a profound impression. 
 Accustomed from his earliest remembrance to the 
 querulous tones of his mother, the disorder and 
 often need which resulted from her improvidence ; 
 drawn to his father by a love which had no other 
 outlet, and which in later years ripened into a 
 deep sympathy, he had read in his eyes a warn 
 ing of which in truth his father was unconscious, 
 and which for this very reason was more impress 
 ive. At once studious and ambitious, this life of 
 domestic un happiness and struggle with poverty, 
 under which a weaker nature would have suc 
 cumbed, or from which a more volatile one would 
 have turned in quest of diversion, slowly forced 
 him back upon himself. He wished to be inde 
 pendent of all this, to conquer success ; and this 
 conquest seemed possible only by the suppression 
 of those instincts of the heart to which his father 
 ever yielded, innocently, but with the abandon oi 
 
12 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 a child. The influence of woman, the strain of 
 the affections, the toil wasted in meeting wants 
 incessantly renewed, all that in his own home he 
 had seen frittering away the energies of talent 
 and weighting the wings of genius, he wished to 
 sacrifice, if sacrifice it was. He wished to live 
 like Carlyle s Professor in his tower seat among 
 the stars, above the city sweltering in passion and 
 want below. It was this ambition which had 
 driven him early from home into a bare attic in 
 the Latin Quarter, which had kept closed for him 
 the door of Bullier and the Valentino, and which 
 gave him among his associates of the Ecole de 
 Medecine, who, in spite of their studies, were not 
 insensible to the joys of the present, the sobri 
 quet of " the man of the future." 
 
 This habit of thought developed with the in 
 tensity natural to his age into an intellectual 
 cynicism, without bitterness because without real 
 experience. His theory of life was an a priori 
 one, but it worked well. He passed with credit, 
 though without brilliancy, through his prepara 
 tory studies ; and after his professional training 
 in the hospital began to make himself felt as a 
 man of resource and careful judgment, and sub 
 sequently, in his surgeon s practice, as the surest 
 operator in Paris. Others were more famous, but 
 in his reputation was that element of steady 
 growth which already made him an oracle in the 
 lecture room. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 13 
 
 The glow of the fire had almost disappeared 
 when the door opened, and Baptiste announced 
 M. Roger Lande. Engrossed in his professional 
 studies, he had resolutely avoided all society, even 
 that of his father s friends. To his father s so 
 licitations he said, " Of the world I see enough 
 under the counterpanes," and to his friends he 
 pleaded his duties. Summoned the month before 
 to Beauvais to see an old nobleman stricken with 
 the gout, he had met there M. Michel, who for 
 twenty years had never missed passing August in 
 Beauvais. While waiting the train for Paris, 
 under the trees of the garden in front of the Ca 
 sino, M. Michel had introduced himself as the old 
 friend of his father, the surest passport to Roger s 
 favor. Charmed, as was every one, with his man 
 ner and conversation, Roger had promised to renew 
 at Paris their chance acquaintanceship, a promise 
 which, perhaps, would not have been given had 
 he known that it involved a presentation to Ma 
 demoiselle Re*nee. On this his father s sixtieth 
 birthday he made his second entrance into M. 
 Michel s salon. 
 
 He was now a man of about twenty-five, his 
 face pale but striking, though not handsome after 
 the schools. His mouth was compressed and firm, 
 his forehead narrow, his eye sad but resolute, 
 brilliant but without vivacity. As he came into 
 the light of the lamp and bowed to Rene*e, one 
 might have judged this man narrow in nature, even 
 
14 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 domineering, but daring, ambitious, and possessed 
 of that rare power which to a certain extent con 
 trols events, but is not controlled. 
 
 He shook hands cordially with M. Michel, who 
 said, " Monsieur, you see two old fogies talking 
 treason. I was just saying that the price of suc 
 cess was happiness." 
 
 " Sometimes, also, it is that of knowledge," re 
 joined Roger. 
 
 ReneVs eyes were on her book, still she was 
 not reading. Ordinarily the sententious wisdom 
 of the old habitue s of her uncle s salon troubled 
 her but little. For her it had none of that mean 
 ing which experience alone imparts to it. Amid 
 all those reflections which escaped so often from 
 the lips of the old she moved serenely. But the 
 advent of Roger Lande into the quiet and orderly 
 routine of the Rue du Bac was the apparition of 
 a new planet in the system. His voice forced her 
 attention, and she found herself listening for his 
 replies with expectancy. In the presence of this 
 young stranger she felt a sympathy and an in 
 terest which his youth alone was sufficient to in 
 spire by contrast with his surroundings. 
 
 Moreover, there comes a time when the spring 
 buds are ready to open. It matters little whether 
 it be the long summer sun, or but one of those 
 hours of capricious warmth which are succeeded 
 by frost and blight ; when their time is come they 
 follow blindly the laws of their own growth. It 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 15 
 
 is the moment for which they have lived, and 
 under that warm breath they yield without re 
 serve all those treasures so long prepared. It is 
 so with the human heart. How many times an 
 April sun violates its tender blossoms, which do 
 not hesitate to obey the mysterious instincts of 
 their nature ! Counsels of experience, wise plead 
 ings, stern commands, how powerless are they all 
 to imprison this young heart, to combat that sub 
 tle force, at once so gentle and so persistent, under 
 which resolutely and fearfully it unfolds and sur 
 renders ! Prudence, human conventions, reason 
 itself, are all too fragile to contain this infinite 
 need and desire, to restrain this hope, to tether 
 and pinion this young life which must needs enter 
 the struggle even with the certainty of being van 
 quished. 
 
 " Think of it ! it is fifty years," said M. Michel, 
 " since your father and myself played together in 
 the fields about Brienne. Those were the days 
 of illusions. We entered every door as if it were 
 the gate of Paradise, for they were then all gar 
 landed with roses." 
 
 " Some of which are not yet faded," said M. 
 Lande. 
 
 " That is because we have put on the spectacles 
 of philosophers." 
 
 " In which case the roses are in the spectacles," 
 said Roger. 
 
 "You are wrong, my son," said M. Lande, 
 
16 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 gently. " See here my best friend, this five and 
 this chair which I love, this hand which presses 
 mine, these are no illusions." 
 
 " I will not dispute with a man who has his 
 proofs at hand," replied Roger, smiling. " More 
 over, I am incompetent either as a witness or a 
 judge. At my age we have companions ; at yours, 
 perhaps, they become friends." 
 
 " You think so because you will to think so, 1 
 continued M. Lande gently. It was not his first 
 argument with Roger on this subject. " But con 
 fess, now, it is not your desire. You have devoted 
 yourself to your work, and you make light of sen 
 timent, as if," he added, looking up into his son s 
 face, " it were not the source of some good ac 
 tions ; but you will not confess that you have a 
 heart without needs or without treasures. Last 
 night was the close of the season, and the leader 
 of the orchestra was sick. I took his place. Guess 
 now what fancy entered the heads of these Pa 
 risians ! You would never imagine it. At the 
 end of the overture they rose on their feet and 
 applauded the first violin, for a moment become 
 leader. This gave me pleasure, after living so 
 many years with these good people. But pres 
 ently all this noise is over, the music is silent, 
 the lights are extinguished, and this bit of favor 
 thrown to an old man is forgotten. Not ten in 
 the house will think of him again. And this is 
 just ; man grows old, but the world is ever young, 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 17 
 
 full of new thoughts and plans, in which the old 
 have no share. But should I not go out of that 
 empty and darkened house to brood over these 
 sad thoughts but for this fireside to which I come, 
 but for this friend who has the strange merit of 
 being old also ? For, believe me, in this world,, 
 which is ever slipping from under our feet, it is 
 the prerogative of friendship to grow old with 
 one s friend." 
 
 Touched by this simple eloquence, the two men 
 remained silent. 
 
 " Nature provides well for us," pursued M. 
 Lande. " Youth is the season of friendships, 
 when we are prodigal with our affections, and 
 thus it happens that of all those bonds so thought 
 lessly formed some endure. It is an instinct of 
 the heart which provides a store for the winter." 
 
 He spoke with an ease which was unusual, and, 
 having finished, he rose, a little embarrassed at 
 having said so much. 
 
 " You are going already ! " exclaimed M. Mi 
 chel. " But at least we will have our sono*. Come, 
 
 O 
 
 Renee, help us to convince this young heretic." 
 
 Re* nee put down her book and went to the 
 piano, Roger would have assisted her. 
 
 " There is no music, monsieur," she said. " I 
 know it by heart." 
 
 And, without prelude, she began in a soft but 
 clear voice to sing. Roger stood silently watch 
 ing this peaceful scene. That voice penetrated the 
 
18 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 deep recesses of his heart, calling forth echoes 
 which he did not seek to control. It was an old 
 story of Switzerland, of the time of good Queen 
 Bertha, a picture of childhood, home, and peace. 
 To this man of the hospitals it opened horizons, 
 which hung, like the mirage of the desert, over 
 wastes of sand. 
 
 The song was over ; he had bidden M. Michel 
 good-night, who said, " You see, monsieur, we still 
 live dans le temps que la Reine Berthe filait ; " 
 he was in the street again, buttoning up his coat 
 against the mist and rain. 
 
 " Bonsoir, M. le Docteur" said the concierge, 
 as he turned into his own door. His reply opened 
 her eyes with wonder : 
 
 Bah I it is all a dream." 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 19 
 
 n. 
 
 THE following week occurred one of M. Mi 
 chel s reunions, and M. Lande was surprised to 
 find, on bis return from rehearsal, a note from 
 Roger, begging he would accompany him. In fact, 
 Roger himself was surprised to find he had writ 
 ten it. Accustomed to accumulate work, and to 
 substitute a pressure of professional duty as a bar 
 rier between himself and society, bis entrance into 
 M. Michel s Saturday evening salon was an event 
 for which certain malicious persons gave Made 
 moiselle Renee the credit. And in this respect they 
 were partly right, as he himself would have ad 
 mitted. Quick to read cbaracter, none better than 
 he could have dissected Roger Lande, for it is 
 not so difficult to know one s self as to confess to 
 the knowledge, and beneath his desire to lose 
 himself in his profession, behind the armor which 
 he wore, he knew the man, like other men, with 
 nerves ready to tremble and pulses that obey 
 smiles and frowns. Of the two classes who are 
 cynics, one from observation, the other from ex 
 perience, he belonged to the former. He was 
 what he was because he wished to be, not because 
 he could not help it. But, like many another, he 
 
20 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 had not counted on the unexpected. It was the 
 old fable of the sun and the wind. In the strug 
 gle of life, amid the misery of the hospitals and 
 the secrets of his profession, he buckled up his 
 armor and lowered his visor; but the glimpse of 
 that sunny home and quiet fireside of the Rue du 
 Bac was a window opened out of heaven, and 
 through Renee s eyes he beheld this other self, 
 which uprose, a sudden apparition, saying, " Thou 
 shalt not serve two masters ! " 
 
 When they entered M. Michel s salon the guests 
 had already assembled. Most of its habitue s were 
 of long standing. It had grown as a circle of in 
 timate friends grows, slowly, and was emphatically 
 conservative. It possessed no representatives from 
 the gay society of the capital, for whom these 
 people would have been objects of curiosity pre 
 served in alcohol. With the exception of M. de 
 Marzac, a well-known journalist, and Madame 
 Milevski, M. Michel s young half-sister, recently 
 returned from Russia, this little society repre 
 sented the sediment of a life-time of social inter 
 course. It was the residue of the evaporation of 
 forty years, and it had settled in M. Michel s salon 
 because in this quiet place there was no danger 
 that it Avould be disturbed. 
 
 To most of these people Roger was a stranger. 
 M. Michel, greeting him cordially, presented him 
 to two gentlemen with whom he was conversing, 
 M. de Marzac and the Baron Scherer, the lat- 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 21 
 
 ter a cynic because he could not help it, a member 
 of the Academy, and possessing the order of the 
 Holy Ghost. 
 
 " M. Lande has but one fault," said M. Michel, 
 " that of being still young." 
 
 " It is one he will have the misfortune to over 
 come," said the baron with his smile ; for notwith 
 standing his cynicism, the baron, who belonged to 
 a past generation, possessed a smile which was 
 part of a manner in which he wrapped himself, 
 like a Spanish beggar in his cloak, and in which 
 he secretly took more pride than in the cross of 
 the Holy Ghost. 
 
 " Misfortune ! On the contrary ; and I have 
 brought him to you that he may see in the man 
 of sixty, two others whom I used to know and still 
 recognize, the man of twenty and the man of 
 forty." 
 
 " You give M. Lande a long time to wait for 
 canonization," said a voice behind Roger. 
 
 He turned to recognize a woman whom he had 
 not before noticed. 
 
 " Stephanie Milevski ! " he exclaimed, half 
 aloud. 
 
 " Is this sanctity only reached at sixty ? " and 
 in her voice there was the sweetness and the 
 mockery of a bird s. 
 
 44 What we barely win at sixty, my sister, you 
 surely will not dispute with us, since you may 
 claim it already." 
 
22 BUT YET A WOMAA. 
 
 " Oh, with us sanctity is a birthright." 
 
 " Anu, being lightly acquired, is lightly held," 
 said M. de Marzac. 
 
 It was a remark he would have recalled, but it 
 was too late. Stephanie turned quickly with the 
 look and gesture of one who notices an adversary 
 only to punish him. 
 
 " Interpret your riddle, M. de Marzac ; we are 
 dying to hear it. You protest ? Well, I know its 
 meaning, and you are right. It is a birthright 
 which is often sold for a mess of pottage. You 
 did not know, M. Lande," she continued, turning 
 to Roger, " that M. de Marzac was a moralist. 
 To tell the truth, neither did I. He is a continual 
 surprise ; he has always a leaf unturned. And 
 that reminds me," she added to M. de Marzac, 
 " have you seen Sartain s new book ? No ? It 
 is very amusing. It is even said that you figure 
 in it yourself." 
 
 " Ah! and in what guise? " he asked. He had 
 begun in ill humor with some one, and had finished 
 by becoming so with himself. Having lost his 
 temper, he had lost also his guard. 
 
 " Well, if you are curious, of a lover with the 
 motto, J en vis et je I 1 Steins" with which thrust 
 she joined Rdne e, who was talking with old M/ 
 Lande. 
 
 " In love as in war all is fair, is it not, M. de 
 Marzac ?" said the baron, compassionately. 
 
 " Certainly," he replied, coldly, " for love h 
 war." 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 23 
 
 "You know Madame Milevski?" the baron 
 asked Roger. 
 
 " I have met her professionally." 
 
 " A very safe way," said M. de Marzac, dryly. 
 
 " Is she so very dangerous ? " 
 
 " Pardon me, here is the cur of St. Eustache; 
 he will answer you. Shall I present you ? " 
 
 " I have the honor to know him already," said 
 Roger. " We also meet professionally, too 
 often, I fear, monsieur," he said to the priest. 
 
 " Nob here, at all events," said Father Le Blanc ; 
 " and here we will teach you a secret not in your 
 books, that of perpetual youth. I tell you be 
 forehand that you may follow the cue. You might 
 misconduct yourself. Seriously, you have fallen 
 into the pleasantest room in Paris." 
 
 "And its charm?" 
 
 " Faith, if you do not discover it, I cannot tell 
 you. We are not paragons. Here, for example, 
 is M. le Baron, an old courtier who somehow 
 manages to believe in the present " 
 
 " And Madame Stephanie, who believes in the 
 past," interposed the baron. 
 
 " Ah ! Madame Milevski is here ? " said the 
 priest, putting on his glasses, and abandoning his 
 classification of the guests which the baron s re 
 mark had interrupted. 
 
 She was standing in the centre of the room 
 with Ren de. The most striking thing about her 
 was a simplicity which had always been the de* 
 
24 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 spair of her imitators. In a close-fitting dress of 
 black, relieved by none of the accessories of a role 
 a la mode, there was an extraordinary freshness, 
 almost girlishness, in her appearance, which did 
 not suffer even from the close proximity of Renee. 
 She wore no jewelry except a dagger of brilliants 
 fastening a lace scarf on her bosom. 
 
 When the cure* had adjusted his glasses it was 
 to receive one of those smiles which appear to the 
 recipient as if vouchsafed to him only. 
 " Yes, it is she," he said. 
 
 " She tells me Sartain has a new book. Have 
 you read it ? " asked the baron. 
 " Yes, it is very witty." 
 
 " Tell us about it," and* the baron drew the 
 two men to the sofa, where he sat down between 
 them. 
 
 " It is a book destined to be popular," said the 
 priest; "a book which, without breaking with 
 morality, tolerates evil, makes conscience the child 
 of custom, and prescribes to every one what he 
 most likes. It is called a Romance of the Cen 
 tury. Well, it is also its philosophy." 
 "And that philosophy ? " 
 
 " Is the study of self," said the curd ; " a philos 
 ophy which M. Sartain seeks to make also a re 
 ligion." 
 
 " I thought he was a good Catholic," said M. do 
 Marzac. 
 
 " If so, he holds his faith in reserve, like your* 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 25 
 
 self," the priest replied, laughing good-naturedly, 
 "for a time of danger." 
 
 " Good-evening, father," said Stdphanie, ap 
 proaching them, and holding out her white hand 
 in her frank English fashion. " No," she added, 
 as he rose ; " to tell the truth, I am afraid of you. 
 I know you have been reading a homily. M. de 
 Marzac betrays you. Ah, for a diplomat, mon 
 sieur, what a tell-tale face you have ! " 
 
 " I congratulate you on the skill with which you 
 compliment your own divination," he replied, 
 stiffly. 
 
 Roger, seeing Rdnde left alone at this instant, 
 crossed over to the table at which she sat. Bap- 
 tiste was arranging some curious Sevres cups des 
 tined for the coffee. " What a pretty picture ! " 
 he thought as he approached her. 
 
 " Will you allow me to sit down beside you, 
 mademoiselle? I have been trying to reach you 
 ever since I came." 
 
 " If you will be content with a divided atten 
 tion, M. Lande. You see I must give to each one 
 his proper allowance of sugar. I am obliged to 
 think very carefully. Now this cup is for Father 
 Le Blanc. You see I put three lumps into it. 
 Think how sweet it must be, in such a tiny cup ! 
 There is scarcely room for the coffee. Baptiste," 
 she said, leaning forward, "this is for M. Le 
 Blanc, and this for M. Scherer. And ask my aunt 
 If she will have coffee," 
 
26 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 "Stephanie Milevski ! Is she your aunt?" 
 asked Roger in surprise. 
 
 " Yes. Do you know her ? " 
 
 * Oh, I meet a great many people whom I do 
 not know," he replied, evasively. 
 
 " But you seemed so surprised," persisted Rene*e. 
 
 " Did l ? Well, she appears so young. No one 
 would ever suppose her to be M. Michel s sister." 
 
 " She is young," said Renee, looking over to 
 where she stood. " Then, you know, she is only 
 a half-sister. Where did you meet her, M. Lande ? 
 Here in Paris ? " 
 
 " No, at Aix-les-Bains. Aix is one of my spe 
 cifies. Have you ever been there ? " 
 
 RSneVs manner had the ease and fearlessness of 
 innocence. In this she differed from Stephanie, 
 whose self-possession was evidently also an accom 
 plishment. She did not, therefore, notice Roger s 
 evasion, which to the mere accomplishment would 
 have been a note of alarm. 
 
 "No, never. St6phanie has been almost a 
 stranger to me. I have not seen her many times 
 in my whole life. But M. Michel is very fond of 
 her. Do you not think she is very charming ? I 
 feel already as if I had known her for years." 
 
 " That is probably one secret of her charm." 
 
 "Is it? "said R6nde, reflectively, and looking 
 over at Stephanie again. That is M. de Marzac 
 with whom she is talking." 
 
 " I have just been presented," said Roger, fol 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 27 
 
 lowing ReneVs eyes. " They must be either the 
 best or worst of friends, mademoiselle." 
 
 " And why, monsieur ? " 
 
 "Because they seem to be continually at 
 sword s points." 
 
 "Do they?" said Rende, laughing. "If you 
 had said M. Scherer, I should not have been sur 
 prised. They are political enemies. That is, M. 
 Scherer has just given in his allegiance to the 
 Orleans princes, and I think Stephanie could more 
 easily love the Bonapartists than forget treason 
 to the king." 
 
 " You think it treason, then, to become an Or- 
 leanist ? " Renee s assurance amused him. 
 
 " M. Le Blanc says that change is always trea 
 son. But there ! every one is served except M. 
 Lande, and I must carry this myself," and she 
 took up a little silver tray. " Pardon me ; it is 
 an old custom." 
 
 Roger watched her slender form as she went, 
 and saw his father s face light up with pleasure. 
 He had hoped she would return, but she lingered 
 at the farther end of the room, and he saw Father 
 Le Blanc approaching. 
 
 " I trust we shall see you here often, M. Lande," 
 said the priest, seating himself beside Roger. " We 
 old habitues have the right of invitation." 
 
 " It is a pleasure I fear I cannot often enjoy. 
 My time is not my own, and, in fact, I have an 
 appointment to-night which I must soon meet." 
 
28 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " Yes, yours is a busy profession and a hard 
 one/ the priest said, settling himself comfortably, 
 and resting his fat hands on his knees. 
 
 " Yet I would not for that reason exchange 
 with you, M. le Curd," said Roger, turning to 
 wards his companion, and looking into the black 
 eyes which gave the lie a little to his thin white 
 hair. 
 
 " And why not for that reason ? " 
 
 " Because, while we are both at the call of 
 men s needs, I go only to see those of the body, 
 but you to know those of the soul." 
 
 "They are often the same, my son," the priest 
 answered, sighing. " The flesh lusteth against 
 the spirit, and," he added, as if perhaps he had 
 made a dangerous admission, "the spirit lusteth 
 against the flesh. We are too much discouraged 
 because we are not able to do what we will to 
 do ; as if even in willing there were no spiritual 
 victory." 
 
 "It is a victory which counts for little in this 
 
 life." 
 
 " There is no life but the life to come," said the 
 priest, solemnly. " You were speaking of an ap 
 pointment," he resumed, after a moment s silence ; 
 " it is the excuse of the day. I will wager you are 
 going to the conference of the Medical Society. 
 Yes ? See now, I thought so ! In the next gen 
 eration society will be given over to the fops ; but 
 in my day men of merit had also their appoint- 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 29 
 
 merits with leisure. Leisure, do I say ? Such a 
 salon as this was a school of instruction, where, 
 without weariness, in an atmosphere of wit, learn 
 ing, and beauty, men acquired wisdom as well as 
 knowledge. The best of us, M. Lande, need an 
 other society than that of the faculties of science 
 and philosophy, the society which polishes with 
 out disintegrating, which warms as well as enlight 
 ens. Do you remember the maxim of Vauve- 
 nargues? 4 One cannot be just if one is not 
 human. Well, the school of humanity is society. 
 It is dangerous to become a savant at the risk of 
 ignoring the interests of the heart." 
 " One has not the time for everything." 
 4 That is only saying one is not rich enough to 
 buy everything. Time is a standard coin in every 
 marked, and that with which men make the worst 
 of bargains ! " 
 
 Evidently you think I am to make a bad in 
 vestment to-night, since I am going to exchange 
 
 two hours of it for the memoir of M. X . 
 
 But you are mistaken. It is precisely upon the 
 affections of the heart." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Father Le Blanc, lifting his shoul 
 ders, " science has all the vocabulary of the pas 
 sions ; but it produces only the moonlight of the 
 theatre. You must go? " he said, as Roger rose. 
 I am sorry, but I count upon seeing you here 
 again ; and this time," he added gracefully, " I 
 ask you not on your account, but on my own." 
 
30 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 Roger acknowledged the compliment with a 
 bow, and went in search of M. Michel, to bid him 
 good-night. 
 
 " I did not know you had met M. Lande be 
 fore," Re ne e was saying to Stephanie. The lat 
 ter stooped to arrange a bud that had become 
 misplaced on ReneVs dress. " Oh, never mind 
 that little flower," said Renee ; " it is always fall 
 ing off. He told me that he met you at Aix-les- 
 Bains." 
 
 A shade of anxiety passed over Stephanie s face. 
 " Yes, at Aix. There he comes now. I think 
 he is going, and is looking for you ; " and, cross 
 ing the room, she walked slowly towards the 
 door. 
 
 After making his excuses to Rene*e, Roger saw 
 her standing at the coffee-table, which w&s near 
 the vestibule. 
 
 She had taken one of the Sevres cups from the 
 tray, in an abstracted way, but a sudden, earnest 
 thoughtfulness overspread her face, which that 
 act alone certainly did not warrant. It was a not 
 uncommon look, which sometimes transformed 
 her ; the soft eyes grew full of purpose ; it was a 
 transfiguration. " The reverie of a woman s eyes 
 is always mistaken for thoughtfulness," M. de Mar- 
 zac had said sneeringly ; but in this case, at least, 
 he was wrong. It was no woman in dreamland 
 who stood playing with the china cup, in Roger s 
 passage to the door ; and even M. de Marzac 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 31 
 
 himself had felt that subtle strength, a sort of 
 reserve force, which, like the fragrance of a lace 
 handkerchief, too delicate to be analyzed, yet too 
 real not to be perceived, emanated from that lithe 
 form. 
 
 As Roger passed her, her manner changed al 
 most to indifferentisrn. 
 
 " Will you fill my cup, M. Lande ? " she said, 
 languidly. 
 
 Roger lifted the quaint silver urn from its 
 stand over the flame, and slowly filled the cup 
 which Stephanie still held in her hand. 
 
 " So it seems we have met before," she contin 
 ued in a low voice. 
 
 " Well, is it not true ? " he asked, quietly. 
 
 There was a moment s silence, and as he re 
 placed the urn he looked into her face. 
 
 " I have given you the word of a gentleman," 
 he said, as if in answer to something he saw 
 there. Their eyes met an instant. 
 
 " And I trust .you with the faith of a woman," 
 she replied, turning away. 
 
 On reaching the doorway at the foot of the 
 stairs, Roger took his right to the quay, in 
 stead of turning up towards the Ecole de Mdde- 
 
 cine. 
 
 " After all, I will not go," he said to himself. 
 
 On reaching the end of the Rue du Bac, he 
 crossed the street to the sidewalk along the para 
 pet overlooking the river. It was still early, and 
 
32 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 the streets were full of people. The lamps from 
 the opposite bank threw their broad lines of light 
 over the dark waters, and made a glare overhead, 
 through which the stars shone as through a fine 
 mist. He walked up the river, crossed the Pont 
 ie la Concorde, and entered under the trees of 
 the Cours de la Reine. Here the lights and the 
 loungers grew less frequent, and finding at last a 
 bench in a secluded spot, he lighted a cigar and 
 
 sat down. 
 
 A few weeks before, he was sitting in the gar 
 den of the H6tel du Nord, at Aix-les-Bains. He 
 had been summoned to attend a patient, whom 
 he had sent to the baths, and, having returned 
 from the consultation, was taking his coffee, after 
 the table d hote, in the evening air. His table 
 was in a distant corner, remote from the note 
 entrance, through which the waiters were hurry 
 ing in and out, serving the many groups scattered 
 in the less shaded portion of the garden, under the 
 lanterns. The garden itself extended behind him 
 still farther, but, at this time, was already deserted 
 and lost in obscurity. Nevertheless, in the pauses 
 of the conversation which floated out to him on 
 the licrht wind, he thought at times he heard 
 voices behind him. At last, in a lull of voices, 
 when the rustle of the leaves ceased, he hean 
 woman s voice, asking, 
 
 "But will the king consent? " 
 
 An unwilling listener, he took a match from 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 3ft 
 
 the table and lighted a cigar. Presently a woman 
 emerged from the shadow. It was Stephanie Mi- 
 levski. Still concealed in the darkness in which 
 he sat, he saw her distinctly as she followed the 
 gravel path towards the hotel. At her side 
 walked a priest, with a pale, intellectual face, who, 
 on reaching the entrance, waited to permit her to 
 enter first, bowed, and, passing through the hall 
 way, disappeared into the street. 
 
 In all this there was an air of mystery which 
 piqued his curiosity. What was the meaning of 
 this strange interview, and who was this woman 
 who talked with a priest of the consent of a 
 king? Sooner than he anticipated, this riddle, 
 which occupied him as he finished his cigar, had a 
 partial answer. 
 
 As he followed the path along which Stephanie 
 had preceded him, his eye was caught by a white 
 object, which proved to be a letter. The en 
 velope was large, and carefully sealed. On enter 
 ing the hotel he sought for some evidence of its 
 owner. But there was no address ; only, on the 
 back, written across one end in pencil, " To be 
 forwarded to the king." 
 
 Who has not felt that resistless pressure which 
 we call the force of events, which, without, often 
 against, the voice of reason, impels us forward ? 
 
 He called a passing waiter, and asked who was 
 the lady that had just entered. 
 
 " A young lady, with a priest ? " 
 
34 BUT YET A WOMAN 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " Madame Milevski, monsieur." 
 
 " Take her this card, and say that I am wait 
 
 ing" 
 
 During the delivery of the message he took his 
 tablets from his pocket, and wrote a prescription. 
 When he followed his guide to Madame Milevski s 
 salon, he held it in bis hand. The room was 
 rather dimly lighted by a single lamp, instead of 
 candles, and its soft light gave an appearance of 
 luxury to the apartment. In the shadow, at the 
 open window overlooking the garden in the rear, 
 sat its only occupant. Through the thin lace cur 
 tain he could see the outline of her form against 
 the black sky. As he entered she rose, and stood 
 for a moment between the parted curtains, evi 
 dently expecting him to speak. 
 
 Sitting under the trees of the Cours de la 
 Reine, recalling these circumstances of his first 
 meeting with Stephanie Milevski, he saw before 
 him the same woman from whom he had just 
 parted. As she stood silently holding in either 
 hand the lace hangings, she made upon him then 
 the snme impression he had received a few mo 
 ments before, as he filled her cup in M. Michel s 
 salon. In her voice, in her manner, in her atti 
 tudes even, there was a strange confidence and 
 naturalness, which, except in children, is usu 
 ally only the fruit of intimacy, blended with a 
 dignity which was almost imperious. But for tho 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 35 
 
 former, the latter might have been mistaken fof 
 the reserve of society ; but for the last, the first 
 might have been the innocence of girlhood. 
 There was about her that fascination which in 
 vites yet restrains ; under which men both dare 
 and tremble. 
 
 " Madame," he said, glancing at his card> which 
 she held in her hand, " I am a physician. Will 
 you permit me to offer you the advice of one ? " 
 
 She was looking at him curiously. Certainly 
 he was not a fool, nor did he have the air of a 
 madman. 
 
 " Taking my coffee to-night in the garden," he 
 continued, looking steadily in her eyes, " I no 
 ticed that you were hoarse. A mere nothing, I 
 admit," in answer to the interest he was awaken 
 ing ; " still, if you follow carefully the directions 
 of this prescription, you will only have done a 
 duty which you owe to yourself," and he laid the 
 folded leaf on the table. 
 
 " Your interest, monsieur," she answered for 
 the first time, coming nearer to him, " does me 
 honor." There was a trace of irony in her voice. 
 
 " On the contrary, madame ; and, by the way, 
 this letter," taking it from his pocket and placing 
 it in her hands, "does it perchance belong to 
 you ? " 
 
 A sudden pallor overspread her face, but she 
 recovered herself instantly. 
 
 " Where did you possess yourself of this let* 
 
86 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 ter?" the irony deepening, though her voice 
 trembled a little. 
 
 "It seems to me that is unimportant, since I 
 have given it to you." 
 
 " Then I ought to thank you," she said, after a 
 pause, in which she did not lower her eyes. 
 44 I did not say so." 
 
 Despite her anxiety, an amused smile hovered 
 about her mouth, as, taking the prescription from 
 the table, she replied, 
 
 44 True, it is a professional secret." 
 He bowed, without answering, and took his hat 
 from the table. 
 
 44 Monsieur," she said, impulsively, " I have to 
 thank you." 
 
 44 No," he replied, as he stood at the door ; 
 " you have yourself said it is a professional se 
 cret." 
 
 44 What you will not permit me to say, then, I 
 shall feel," she said, softly. " One cannot be a 
 friend, M. Lande, without having one." 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN 87 
 
 III. 
 
 THE morning after Roger s visit to M. Michel s 
 salon was that of the clinic at the H6tel-Dieti St. 
 Luc. It was that part of his practice which he 
 most loved, for in it he was most master. There 
 was none of the preliminary parleying, none of 
 the diplomacy, indispensable to the private sick 
 room. 
 
 After the lecture was over and he bad walked 
 through the wards, he retired, as usual, into what 
 had once been a consulting-room, but which he 
 had transformed into a private office and library. 
 Here the assistants made their reports and re 
 ceived his instructions, and here the Mother 
 Superior sometimes conferred with him on the 
 details of the hospital. 
 
 Scenr Ursule, three times chosen Superior, was 
 what is ordinarily called a "remarkable" woman. 
 All the mechanism of this vast establishment was 
 under her Q ye. She overlooked everybody and 
 everything, from the notary who managed the 
 property owned by the Order in the city down to 
 the smallest administrative details of the hospital 
 proper. 
 
 "One would suppose," said Roger to a friend 
 
38 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 who once made bis morning round with him, 
 u that this office of Superior would be much 
 sought for. In the world this would naturally 
 be the case. On the contrary, it is much feared. 
 It is an honor, if you will; but also a respon 
 sibility. Do you see this motto written over 
 the door of every room through which we pass? 
 GOD ONLY. It contains the secret of these sweet 
 faces unmarked by worldly care or passion. You 
 know well enough what disease and suffering will 
 do for us ; yet, for the five years in which I have 
 daily passed in and out of these rooms, amid com 
 plaints and impatience, among the querulous and 
 the bitter, I have not heard from these women a 
 single reproach, or seen a glance of vexation. 
 You do not live one such day in your own family. 
 But what do they care for all these trifles which 
 worry us ! For them, they are trifles. This life 
 is as nothing, and < the pleasure of dying without 
 pain is worth the pain of living without pleas- 
 ure. But to accomplish this miracle there is ab 
 solutely nothing adequate short of the faith which 
 does not stop to reason." 
 
 On this morning Soeur Ursule followed him, 
 after the clinic, into his private room. , 
 
 She was nearly old enough to be his mother, 
 yet in reality appeared as young as he. Her 
 cheeks were like the south side of a peach, and 
 if she had gray hairs they were hidden under her 
 bandeau. She ordinarily said little, but her sin* 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 39 
 
 plest utterances had force and beauty, for they 
 were backed by her own personality. One always 
 felt, when she spoke, as when one sees a shadow, 
 that something more real lies behind it. 
 
 "Doctor," she said, entering quietly behind 
 him, and closing the door, "you were very suc 
 cessful this morning." 
 
 Roger himself had been well satisfied. The 
 two operations of the morning had passed off 
 well, his thoughts had been clear, and his words 
 at his command, as the applause of the students 
 had testified. 
 
 "Yes, everything went off well," he said, sit 
 ting down at his table, and taking up the reports 
 awaiting inspection. 
 
 " Moreover, you spoke well, doctor." 
 "Ah! you think so? I am glad of it;" and 
 he began to open his papers. 
 
 " How much, in all this, did you think of the 
 glory of God, doctor?" pursued Sceur Ursule, 
 quietly. 
 
 " Pouf ! so much only, I m afraid, sister," he 
 said, with a puff of imaginary smoke in the air. 
 
 " And that only will be left at the day of judg 
 ment," she replied, calmly. 
 
 Roger had learned not to argue with the Mother 
 Superior. Having intuitions for premises, her 
 logic was irresistible. " You are a bundle of fore 
 gone conclusions," he once said to her. 
 
 " I wish to see M. Laferme, if he is in," he said, 
 
40 BUT YET A \VOMAN. 
 
 looking up from his papers. M. Laferme was the 
 first assistant surgeon. 
 
 " I am going away for a week. Is there any 
 thing you wish to say to me ? " 
 
 " No, monsieur, nothing, except this bill. It 
 is from Chatellier ; the new instrument which you 
 used this morning. It seemed to me that, as you 
 said it was to be very rarely used, it did not prop 
 erly belong to the hospital equipment." 
 
 It was not Roger s first experience with Sceur 
 Ursule s prudent and economic management. 
 " True. I will attend to it." 
 " Is it a vacation you are taking ? " she asked, 
 her hand on the door. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose I may call it so." 
 " It is the first for a long time, and you need 
 it. May it bring you happiness." 
 
 " Thanks, sister. And I know you mean it. 
 If I had not a mother already " 
 But Soeur Ursule had closed the door. 
 The explanation of Roger s sudden determina 
 tion was a note from M. Michel. 
 
 " After you had left us, last night," it ran, "we 
 formed an altogether unexpected project. M. 
 Le Blanc and your father remained with us after 
 all the others had gone, for to-morrow we go to 
 Beauvais for a month or more, as usual; and this 
 year Madame Milevski will be with us. Rdnde 
 begged M. Lande to accompany us, and he con 
 sented, provided M. Le Blanc would go also. TG, 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 41 
 
 oar surprise and delight, he too consented for a 
 week. It was now my turn to propose something ; 
 that you should join us. Your father shook his 
 head dubiously ; still, I do not despair. Further 
 more, let me add, you owe a duty to the ladies, 
 who will otherwise be in the hands of three ante 
 diluvians." 
 
 Baptiste handed him the note at the door of the 
 hospital. A vacation was something which had 
 never occurred to him. "After all, why not?" 
 he said to himself. " It will make me glad to get 
 back ; " and, tearing a leaf from his tablets, he 
 wrote, 
 
 " I accept with pleasure. But I must make 
 some arrangements, and will come down to 
 morrow." 
 
 The following day he was walking down the 
 platform of the station, in search of an empty 
 compartment. As he passed the long line of 
 coaches, he perceived in one of them the red face 
 and white hair of Father Le Blanc. 
 
 " Ah, what good fortune ! " the latter exclaimed, 
 making room for him. 
 
 Roger was equally pleased at the prospect of 
 companionship. He had made a favorable im 
 pression upon the old priest, and those whom we 
 please are apt to please us. 
 
 " I thought you had gone already, monsieur." 
 
 " Well, well, well ! How pleasant this is ! " the 
 priest said, folding his glasses and laying them in 
 
42 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 the book he was reading. " You understand, I 
 was to go yesterday. Beauvais, I thought it 
 was in the west, and went to the St. Lazare sta 
 tion. So I missed our friends altogether." 
 
 " Then you have never been to Beauvais." < 
 
 " Never, never ! " said the priest, energetically. 
 44 And you?" 
 
 " Yes, I have been there, but not for pleasure. 
 M. Michel, I understand, has a beautiful house on 
 the lake." 
 
 "Ah! there is a lake? Yes, we shall enjoy 
 ourselves," said Father Le Blanc, with evident 
 satisfaction. " We have a charming party." 
 
 u ,You are an old friend of M. Michel s." 
 
 " Yes, since he first came to Paris. That is 
 saying much and little : much, because he is the 
 most agreeable of friends ; little, because he 
 makes friends of every one." 
 
 " That is an art few possess." 
 
 " True. Only with M. Michel it is not an art 
 at all. That art by which one never disputes the 
 qualities which those about us pretend to possess, 
 and, on the other hand, never asserts any for one s 
 self, like other arts, requires calculation ; and M. 
 Michel has none. He fulfills its conditions with 
 out suspecting it." 
 
 "Pel-Imps it is a family trait. I should think 
 M. Mii-ht l s sister possessed the art also." 
 
 " Madame Stephanie? Oh, she is quite another 
 person." 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 43 
 
 * 4 Yet she appears to make friends easily." 
 " Yes, but in a different way. And against 
 what odds! " said Father Le Blanc, lifting up his 
 eyes with an expressive gesture of his hands, 
 44 For woman the art of pleasing is a kingdom for 
 which all her sex arc pretenders; and as for ours, 
 with such a woman as Stephanie Milevski, one is 
 not content with friendship." 
 
 " You have arraigned the whole world against 
 her," said Roger, laughing. 
 
 44 Yet I take the world only as I find it. Women 
 make friends like princes, by gaining thrones and 
 dispensing favors. Only, more generous than 
 princes, finally they surrender their thrones also." 
 
 " And M. Milevski ? I do not hear of him." 
 
 " M. Milevski is dead. M. Michel s father mar 
 ried, late in life, a second time, in Russia. Oi 
 this marriage Stephanie was the only child, and 
 to M. Michel she has been much like a daughter. 
 She was educated here in Paris under his super 
 vision, after which she returned to Russia, to live 
 with her mother on her estates near Kief." 
 
 44 And her mother is dead ? " 
 
 44 Also. But, before dying, she married St& 
 phanie to a Russian nobleman of the new school, 
 who, shortly after, became compromised with the 
 emperor, and was exiled to Siberia." 
 
 44 Then rnadame has a title ? " 
 
 44 She had one, but it was forfeited on her hus 
 band s exile. It is said that the estates were also 
 
44 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 confiscated, and that madame was forbidden to 
 reside in Russia. On receiving the Czar s order, 
 she drove alone, in the dead of winter, from Kief 
 to St. Petersburg, with a single servant. Notwith 
 standing this defiance, she obtained an audience, 
 and kept her estates. There is a story that the 
 Czar gave her a cross set with diamonds, as a 
 token of his good-will, and that she asked per 
 mission to have the cross changed to a dagger, 
 4 lest your majesty s clemency make me forget my 
 husband, she said. The Count Milevski was 
 already dead ; he died on the journey to Siberia. 
 But then, we cannot believe all that is said. 
 Still," added M. Le Blanc, reflectively, " I would 
 believe many things of her. She puzzles me ; 
 and, for an old man, that is saying a good deal. 
 The young look into women s eyes to see their 
 own reflections ; the old, to see the woman." 
 
 "You make a very agreeable definition of age," 
 said Roger. " Most men, in that classification, 
 die young." 
 
 Father Le Blanc laughed, which he did with 
 his shoulders and trunk. As a laugh it was not 
 infections, but conveyed a sense of satisfaction. 
 As Rdnde said, " When Father Le Blanc laughs, 
 I feel happy myself." 
 
 "Yes, she puzzles me," he resumed. "Now, 
 with Mademoiselle Rcnde it is different. She is 
 like the brook at its source ; one sees the bottom. 
 But Stephanie ! " and he shook his head, " it is 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 45 
 
 the river; one sees the reflection of everything* 
 but of what is beneath the surface, nothing 
 except that there is something." 
 
 Roger was not averse to giving M. Le Blanc the 
 reins of the conversation; partly because he was 
 interested, and partly because he was curious. 
 
 "She is certainly very beautiful." 
 
 " Ah ! " said the priest, holding up his hands, 
 " and what beauty ! I am a bit of an artist, M. 
 Lande ; indeed, I was an artist before I was a 
 priest. I will tell you why she is beautiful. Do 
 you know ? " 
 
 "I have not studied her," said Roger. 
 
 4 Well, do so. It will repay you. Her beauty 
 is not faultless ; that is, it is not absolutely reg 
 ular, not the style magnifique, as the Greeks 
 have it. They knew what they were about, those 
 Greeks, and gave such to the gods alone, and to 
 certain of them only. Such beauty pleases the 
 judgment ; it is too correct for the heart. But of 
 Madame Milevski, my friend, the judgment must 
 beware. She does not please it ; she destroys it," 
 he said, with a little shrug : "for in her beauty is 
 that factor of weakness and incompleteness which 
 touches the heart." 
 
 " She does not appear to know all this. At 
 least, no one would suspect her of it." 
 
 "Nonsense!" exclaimed Father Le Blanc* 
 " There is a spirit which whispers in the ear of 
 every beautiful woman as she leaves Paradise. 
 
46 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 But, as you say, she does not appear to. Now, T 
 will prove the contrary. Have you noticed her 
 dress ? " 
 
 " Hardly ; except, possibly, that it was sim 
 ple." 
 
 "Exactly, but designedly so. It fulfills the 
 condition of a perfect dress, which is only an 
 accessory, having little value in itself, covering 
 what it does not conceal, and calling attention to 
 that which it embellishes. But, without beauty, 
 such a style would be frightful ! What are all 
 the eccentricities of fashion but the devices to 
 conceal and supplement nature? Madame Ste 
 phanie flies in the face of all these follies : first, 
 because she knows she can dare to ; and second, 
 because, like a king who has the air of one, she 
 has the good taste to dispense with her decora 
 tions." 
 
 . At this instant the train emerged from the for 
 est, disclosing the valley of the Seine. 
 
 " Ah ! la belle France ! " cried Father Le Blano. 
 
 Half-way up the slope of the hills, the view of 
 the valley below, bathed in the warm sunshine, 
 with the broad river, like a ribbon of gold on its 
 green bosom, was indeed beautiful. The priest 
 leaned his head back upon the cushion, lost in 
 contemplation, and neither spoke. Presently 
 the little worn volume on his knee dropped to 
 the floor. Father Le Blanc had fallen asleep. 
 
 Roger took up the book, and, as he laid it on 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 47 
 
 the seat, glanced at its title. It was the " Phsedo " 
 of Plato. For a long time he watched the placid 
 breathing of his reverend companion. "After 
 learning to live, we have no longer the time," he 
 thought. "After all, in learning to live, wo learn 
 also bow to die." 
 
 Then there was a scream from the engine, a 
 rush of steam, a babel of echoes from the station 
 buildings, and the guard, opening the door, 
 shouted, " Beauvais ! messieurs; Beauvais ! " 
 
 " Bless me ! " exclaimed Father Le Blanc, " we 
 have arrived already ? I owe you a thousand 
 apologies. The sun being full in my face, I closed 
 my eyes, and must have slept a little." 
 
 At the station they found a phaeton and Re- 
 neVs two Breton ponies. 
 
 " How far is it ? " the priest asked the driver. 
 
 " A short half hour, monsieur," said the latter, 
 touching his cap. 
 
 " Ah, that will be delightful. We shall see 
 the sunset." 
 
 Beauvais was one of those places of which the 
 traveler sees nothing. The railway, after thread 
 ing its way among the houses of the lower town, 
 between high walls of stone and across narrow 
 streets, ill-paved and unattractive, plunges at once 
 into a tunnel through the promontory which juts 
 out into the lake, as if in contempt of the beau 
 ties of nature. Rende s ponies dashed down one 
 of these steep, narrow lanes at a pace which 
 
48 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 caused Father Le Blanc s hand to tighten on his 
 "Phaedo," and took the wide street along the lake, 
 called the Avenue dti Quai. There was no ripple 
 on the blue waters. A few pleasure-boats floated 
 at their buoys, their silken flags hanging idly, and 
 the columns of thin white smoke from the barges 
 moored at the quay rose undisturbed by any 
 breath of air. Beyond, the spur of Mont St. 
 Jean, from whose wooded sides appeared here and 
 there the red roofs and awnings of half-hidden 
 villas, stood out like a challenge into the lake, 
 making a little bay for the boats of Beauvais. 
 Imagine an arm, bent; the closed hand is the 
 promontory of St. Jean, which slopes backward 
 gently, and nestling in the curve of the elbow is 
 Beauvais. 
 
 At the end of the quay the ponies turned under 
 the trees into a broad avenue leading up the hill, 
 which they took gallantly. On one side was a 
 soft earthen road for cavaliers ; on the other they 
 passed, now and then, the high iron gates of a 
 villa. A sharp turn to the left led them into a 
 wood almost black, so dense were the trees, and 
 so thick the foliage overhead. 
 
 " A little slower, my friend," said Father Le 
 Blanc ; " we wish to enjoy the scenery." 
 
 " Oh, there is no danger," responded the dri 
 ver ; " we are there." 
 
 A gleam of light ahead broadened, the trees 
 became more open, and suddenly, almost without 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 49 
 
 warning, the ponies passed through a gate into 
 the glow of sunset, circled a level stretch of lawn 
 dotted with trees, and stopped, pawing and shak 
 ing their shaggy manes, at M. Michel s door. 
 
 " Doubtless it is safe," said the priest, alight 
 ing, " nevertheless, they have wicked eyes, those 
 ponies." 
 
 M. Michel was on the steps, and hastened down 
 to greet them. 
 
 " Why, my good friend, it is you, after all," 
 he exclaimed, taking Father Le Blanc s satchel ; 
 " we thought you had abandoned us. And you 
 have brought M. Lande with you." 
 
 " Faith, it was not I who brought him," laughed 
 the priest ; " quite the reverse. At all events, we 
 are here," and he led the way up the steps with 
 the air of a man who is at home everywhere. 
 Re ne e met him at the door. 
 
 " We had given you up," she said, with sur 
 prise and pleasure on her face. " I have been 
 scolding you terribly. How did it happen? 
 Where were you yesterday ? " Then she caught 
 sight of Roger. " We are very glad you have 
 come," she said, naively ; " we had begun to have 
 doubts of you both." 
 
 "Come, now," interposed M. Michel, "let these 
 travelers rest ; they must be tired, and will have 
 barely time before dinner. Baptiste ! take these 
 bags, and show the gentlemen their rooms." 
 
 Going up the stairs together, following Bap- 
 
50 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 tiste, Father Le Blanc made a little explanation. 
 44 She obeys her impulses, like a child, then, 
 you see, with M. Michel, who knows so much and 
 sees so little, what can you expect ! She has no 
 mother." 
 
 " One is tempted to say, so much the better ! 
 Roger answered. 
 
 While dressing for dinner he had an opportu 
 nity for reflection. Except for the fops, as M. 
 Le Blanc would say, who give all their mind to it, 
 dressing soon becomes purely mechanical, an 
 automatic process which leaves the mind a rover. 
 Like those of most workers, his reflections took 
 the form of plans : in thinking, he matured some 
 thing. But here, in Beauvais, sleeping quietly on 
 the lake, with all his professional cares forty 
 miles away, he could think only of M. Michel, 
 in whose house he was ; of Father Le Blanc, who 
 carried " Phiedo " for a breviary ; and of Rdnde 
 and Stephanie, with whom he was to dine. Still, 
 he formed plans. To talk much with Father Le 
 Blanc, whom he liked; and as to that brook and 
 that river of which the priest had spoken, not to 
 listen too long to the music of the one or search 
 too curiously into the depths of the other ; thus 
 making plans like the rest of the world, ignoring 
 that potent factor, self, whose value remains still 
 unknown, even when, after three-score years and 
 ten of vain endeavor, it reenters the impenetrable 
 darkness whence it came. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 51 
 
 IV. 
 
 PERCHED on the crest of Mont St. Jean, M. 
 Michel s villa overlooked the lake on three sides. 
 From its wide veranda one might almost throw a 
 stone into the waters at the base of the cliff, where 
 a narrow beach received the miniature surf which 
 the southeast wind dashed upon its slope of peb 
 bles. Wreathed in vines, the posts and arches of 
 this veranda formed so many frames for the land 
 scape. 
 
 " This is my picture gallery," said M. Michel 
 to his guests, who had adjourned, after dinner, to 
 the piazza. " Why should I pay twenty thou 
 sand francs for a Corot or a Bouguereau, when I 
 have hers these pictures which never need retouch 
 ing, and *vhich change with every passing cloud ; " 
 and while he was speaking, the shadow of a great 
 cloud, like some monster of the lake, moved in 
 the glitter of the moonlit waves over its surface. 
 
 Leaning on the railing, Renee stood under one 
 of the arches, the shadows of the vines over her. 
 
 44 You have no softer web of lace, mademoiselle, 
 than the moonlight makes for you," Roger said, 
 joining her. 
 
 " Yes, how pretty it is," answered Renee, look- 
 
52 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 ing down on the tracery it bad woven over her 
 dress. " Do you see that black tuft of trees, M. 
 Lande, just beyond that point of land where the 
 boat is ? " 
 
 " It looks to me like a ruin." 
 
 " Yes, it is a ruin. You can see the gray tower 
 very plainly in the sunlight ; but it is so buried 
 in the foliage, I did not think you could distin 
 guish it now. We often go and take dinner 
 there." 
 
 " Ah ! Then it is inhabited." 
 
 " No, we take our dinner with us. It is a real 
 ruin, and it has a real story, which makes it more 
 interesting." 
 
 "Is it too long a story to ask you to repeat, 
 mademoiselle ? " 
 
 "It is not so very long, but it is very romantic." 
 
 " Then I am the more interested to hear it." 
 
 " You are ? " she said, giving him a look of 
 grave surprise, u I did not think so." 
 
 " You did not think so ? Why ? " 
 
 " I hardly know why," Renee said, a little 
 shyly. " I suppose I did not think you were a 
 very romantic person," she added, laughing. "I 
 read the story in an M book I found in my un 
 cle s library. It was such a surprise to me to think 
 that it had all happened here, so near to us. Our 
 own lives seern very commonplace beside those of 
 such a story." 
 
 " Except as such lives, when brought so close 
 to ours, remind us of what is possible for us all." 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 53 
 
 " I carried the book to my uncle, and read the 
 story aloud to him. He was as still as a mouse," 
 said Renee, smiling. "But what do you think he 
 said after I had finished ? k Thank you, my child, 
 it is very amusing. 
 
 " Then you think it would only amuse me ? 
 Your conclusion rests on a premise which I should 
 dispute." 
 
 " What premise ? " 
 
 " That you know me better than you do." 
 
 " We often know people very well, whom, in 
 the ordinary sense, we do not know at all," Renee 
 answered, straightforwardly. " You make a cer 
 tain impression on me, as every one else does, 
 without any will of my own, that is all." 
 
 " Then it is my misfortune to have made a 
 wrong one," said Roger; "but I can readily dis 
 abuse you." 
 
 "Readily? How?" 
 
 " By telling you, though you have not told me 
 this story, why I should be interested in it, and 
 and why you are." 
 
 " You think it is some romantic folly," said 
 Re ne e, resentfully. 
 
 " I do not know what it is ; but certainly I 
 think better things of you than you do of me." 
 
 " Well, then, disabuse me. I am waiting." 
 
 "Now you are disposed to. laugh at me, while 
 I, on the contrary, am very serious," said Roger. 
 u Every day, almost, in my profession, I read 
 
54 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 such stories as you find in the old book. Th3 
 characters do not live in castles, and the heroes 
 are not knights, but the drama is the same ; the 
 accessories only differ. And these accessories, ot 
 time, and place, and manners, they are only the 
 frame of the picture ; it is the vulgar eye that is 
 attracted by them solely. How many times, as I 
 have set out on my morning visits or entered the 
 door of the HOtel-Dieu St. Luc, I have wished 
 that I had some poet with me, who should strip 
 all that I was about to see of what was local and 
 accidental, and write anew the story of human 
 suffering and endurance. Besides the inheritance 
 of suffering, transmitted from age to age, there is 
 another, the capacity to suffer. Is not the con 
 sciousness of this capacity the secret of your in 
 terest in the story of the ruin ? " 
 
 " I do not wish to suffer." 
 
 " No, not for the sake of suffering ; but, as 
 Lamennais says, there is something wanting to 
 the perfect life, which does not finish on the field 
 of battle, the scaffold, or in prison. And when 
 we read of such lives, we feel we are in the line 
 of succession ; the consciousness of our own pow 
 ers fills us with a nameless longing ; we rebel 
 against a life which offers us no opportunities to 
 die, to suffer, to be silent, for that love of kindred, 
 country, or God, which redeems us. I know this 
 enthusiasm has a morbid side ; but it commands 
 sympathy, for its source is in the recognition of 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 55 
 
 our own nobility, and the sublime consciousness 
 that we are all eldest sons in the heritage of hu 
 manity, in its virtues as well as its follies." 
 
 " How strange jou are," said Ren^e, looking 
 at him. 
 
 " Why ? Is not what I have said true ? " 
 
 " That makes it all the stranger." 
 
 " I do not understand you." 
 
 " I mean, as I said before, that you make a cer 
 tain impression upon me. It is not necessary for 
 one to speak to make a declaration of faith ; there 
 is the manner, the tone, the not speaking, which 
 are more eloquent still. You surprise me, because 
 you contradict that general impression. I don t 
 know how to explain myself better ; and I can 
 not, without telling tales, that is, without gos 
 siping." 
 
 " Well, then, let us gossip a little." 
 
 " You contradict yourself," Rene*e said, after a 
 pause. " M. Lande says that you are altogether 
 absorbed in your profession. Yet you leave it sud 
 denly, for no reason whatever." 
 
 " For no reason, mademoiselle ? " 
 
 44 For a reason you have never tolerated before 
 Sis sufficient. You astonished M. Lande by ac 
 cepting our invitation. Then, at Paris, at my 
 uncle s, you say sharp things, like M. de Marzac, 
 which do not at all agree with what you have 
 been telling me. I had begun to think you were 
 very cynical." 
 
56 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 "It is possible to have very little respect for 
 individuals, and at the same time to build a creed 
 on faith in humanity," said Roger. " Men are 
 like the planets ; as parts of a system they behave 
 themselves well enough, but any one of them, 
 freed from the restraints of all the others, would 
 rush to destruction. But I interrupt you." 
 
 " M. Lande says that you hate society, and 
 Father Le Blanc that you were made for it." 
 
 " I might admit them both right without con 
 tradiction ; but what do you say, mademoiselle ? " 
 
 " How should I know ? " 
 
 " Well, is there anything more? " 
 
 " Oh, a great deal," said Rdnde, laughing. " I 
 heard some one say that you were cold " 
 
 "Yes, I know her." 
 
 " And another, that you had no religion " 
 
 " Him, also," said Roger. 
 
 " But Sceur Ursule says quite contrary things 
 of you." 
 
 " Then you know Soeur Ursule." 
 
 " Yes, indeed, very well, M. Lande. You know 
 when I go back to Paris, in the autumn, I am 
 going to enter the Congregation of St. Luc." 
 
 " You, mademoiselle ! " Roger cried, with a sud 
 den movement towards her, as if he were about 
 to seize her by both wrists, " what is M. MicheJ 
 thinking of ? " 
 
 "Of my wishes and my happiness," she an 
 swered, quietly. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 57 
 
 " But I cannot- believe it," he said, impatiently. 
 " Have you reflected ? Have you thought " 
 " What questions you are asking, M. Lande." 
 44 True ! I acknowledge it. But you do not 
 understand, you do not know what I do." 
 
 " Your father once told us you had the greatest 
 reverence for the Sisters of St. Luc. Then I have 
 five years of novitiate in which to learn all those 
 things which you know and of which I am igno 
 rant, and and to know myself better." 
 
 Standing opposite her, Roger was looking 
 straight into her face. It was a searching look, 
 and for the first time ReneVs eyes avoided his, 
 fend fell. 
 
 "It is a sublime folly !" he said, in a tone of 
 mingled weariness and protest. 
 
 ^"Did I not say rightly you were inconsistent? " 
 said Rende, looking up again. " You bring us 
 back to what we were speaking of. I see lives of 
 sacrifice and devotion, which I wish to emulate. 
 I feel that very capacity to endure of which you 
 spoke, and which you just called sublime, without 
 adding that it was folly ; and I wish to consecrate 
 that endurance to the highest service." 
 
 " Mademoiselle, you have the right to silence 
 me, for I have none to criticise or to deter you. 
 Nevertheless, understand me, for I am not incon 
 sistent. If, like the Sisters of St. Luc, you believe 
 this life was given us to abjure, you are right. 
 Forget it, abjure it, shut your eyes to all it holds, 
 
58 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 and fix them only upon the world to come. But 
 if, on the other hand, it be given us, not to re 
 nounce, but to conquer " 
 
 But, M. Lande," interrupted Rcnde, " have 
 you ever seen those who have better conquered 
 self and the world than the Sisters of St. Luc? " 
 
 "It is not conquest; it is crucifixion. Strong 
 character, like a strong muscle, comes from activ 
 ity, from warfare, not from retreat." 
 
 " You live in a world wider than mine ; I do not 
 pretend to know it. But mine, if narrower, is the 
 same. I think it would be the same in the clois 
 ters of St. Luc, and that there, also, would be op 
 portunity for conquest. Do you think that, in the 
 world you know, one can better prepare for the 
 world to come than in those cloisters ? " 
 
 " Mademoiselle," said Roger, " we use the same 
 words and phrases, but with different meanings ; 
 so different that it seems hopeless for me to at 
 tempt the reconciliation which I believe is possi 
 ble. For your future world, I answer, no for 
 mine, yes. You remind me of Soeur Ursule. 
 She talks of renouncing this life, of the life to 
 come, of absorption in God ; and I, too, use the 
 same phrases, while our thoughts are far different. 
 Of that life to come, of which she speaks, I, per 
 haps, know less than she; but, whatever it may 
 be, I shall enter it myself, and not another, else 
 for me it has no personal interest. I do not 
 understand Soeur Ursule s transformation. The 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 59 
 
 worm, in becoming the butterfly, loses its iden 
 tity. The moment after, as the moment before, 
 my death, I shall be I, with such strength after 
 as before, and with such weakness, courageous 
 then, as now, by subduing fear ; knowing then 
 the pleasures of duty, as here, by sacrifice; gener 
 ous then only as now, by conquering selfishness, 
 and winning victories only by fighting battles. 
 Goodness and virtue ! I cannot value nor com 
 prehend them, if they cost nothing. Costing 
 nothing, they disappear altogether. Without the 
 struggle and temptation of Gethsemane, Calvary 
 itself would have no meaning. Give me some 
 other view of this life to come, mademoiselle. I 
 will not ask to understand it, but only to conceive 
 of it. But as it is, I wish to enter it a man, not 
 an anchorite ; and in it I expect to be strong only 
 as I conquer weakness, and able to grow only as 
 there is weakness to conquer." 
 
 " And heaven ? " said Rene e. 
 
 " When you say heaven, it is as if you said 
 eternity. I admit it, but I do not comprehend it. 
 It is the goal ; but, when reached, it is the end of 
 every thing. " 
 
 " And I wish it to be the beginning," said Re- 
 ne e, looking over the lake, as if she would dis 
 cover the everlasting hills on its farther shore. 
 Her voice had a troubled tone in it. Was it 
 moonlight or tears which Roger saw in her eyes ? 
 
 " Re ne e ! " said M. Michel, " we are going in. 
 
60 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 There is a dew to-night, and we wish you to make 
 a game of cards with us." 
 
 " Not to-night, uncle. I am tired." 
 
 44 Ah, true ! " said this worthy man, " you are 
 tired. Well, rest yourself, and sleep well, for to 
 morrow we shall be busy." 
 
 But Re ne e lay awake a long time that night, 
 thinking, within the white folds of her bed-cur 
 tains, which, in a serious pleasantry, she used to 
 call her cell. And this novice-to-be fell asleep, 
 saying, " I know him better than they all." 
 
 When Roger approached Re ne e on the piazza, 
 for what proved to be the longest talk they had 
 ever had together, it was with that feeling, " here 
 is some one whom I shall like, and who is worth 
 knowing." Yet he had not expected to entev at 
 once upon a subject so personal, or, at least, so 
 serious. There is usually an ascent, more or less 
 difficult, more or less obstructed with banalitfo, 
 which must be climbed before one reaches the 
 upper levels of conversation upon which Re ne e 
 had entered so naively. She had no fund of 
 empty phrases, none of the current coin of soci 
 ety; and, if she was not easily embarrassed, it 
 was because one had intuitively the good sense 
 not to compliment her. When she spoke, her 
 words were the exact reflection of herself , there 
 was no doubt of their sincerity. 
 
 From the very first, this young face in the cor 
 ner of M. Michel s salon had interested him. As 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 61 
 
 he talked with her uncle before the fire, he looked 
 over at times to find those gray eyes, at once so 
 grave and so sweet, and to see that smile which 
 came and went as a ripple passes over still water, 
 while she turned the leaves of her book. But if 
 he was interested in Re*nee, he had not then be 
 gun to wonder what she thought of him. Not 
 until she told him so quietly of her approaching 
 novitiate, did he say to himself, with that secret 
 annoyance which betrayed him, " she tells me as 
 if it would give me pleasure." When he found 
 himself alone in his room, that evening, demon 
 strating to an imaginary M. Michel the unwisdom 
 of yielding to her wishes, and finding fault with 
 the world in general for its topsy-turvy condition, 
 ReneVs face, in the black veil and white bandeau 
 of the Sisters of St. Luc, came so often before his 
 eyes, that it was not easy to believe his argument 
 altogether abstract and impersonal. And when 
 he woke the next morning, it was with the con 
 sciousness of something on his mind which would 
 not keep the truce of silence and forgetfulness 
 he had resolved upon. 
 
 The dew was still on the leaves, when, after 
 finding the salon empty, he stepped out upon the 
 piazza. It was not Renee, but Father Le Blanc, 
 who stood under the arches. 
 
 " Bonjour, M. Lande," he said. " It seems we 
 two are the early risers." 
 
 " Are we the first ? " asked Roger. 
 
62 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " Yes, it seems so. Habit is incorrigible. But 
 what a reward we have! " said Father Le Blanc, 
 with a gesture which took in the whole scene. 
 "Nature is like a woman. In the morning she is 
 fresh from her bath, at noon she is in her work 
 ing dress, and at night she wears her jewels. As 
 for me, I like them both best in the morning." 
 As he spoke, Baptiste appeared at the door. 
 " Will you have breakfast here, messieurs? " 
 " Nothing could be better. That is " turn^ 
 Ing to Roger. 
 
 "Oh, by all means," he said; and on a light 
 wicker table was soon laid a white cloth, fresh 
 strawberries with creme St. Gervais, rolls from the 
 morning s baking, and two fragrant cups of coffee. 
 * We are altogether too early, I fear," said the 
 priest to Baptiste. " At what time does M. Mi 
 chel breakfast in the country?" 
 
 " He has his coffee at six, monsieur." 
 "Diantre! at six ! " 
 
 " And breakfast at ten. He keeps exactly the 
 same hours as at Paris." 
 
 " The same as at Paris I Then he is now writ- 
 
 ing 9 " 
 
 "Yes, monsieur." 
 
 " M. Michel is writing a book, is he not?" asked 
 Roger. 
 
 " Yes, he is writing a book." 
 
 Roger had asked the question with the thought 
 hat Father Le Blanc would give him some infor- 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 63 
 
 mation about M. Michel s labors, of which he was 
 ashamed to be ignorant ; bufc the priest s answer 
 seemed to imply a profound secret. Looking up 
 inquiringly, Roger caught his eye, which twinkled 
 with amusement. 
 
 " Ma foi ! " he laughed, " I know no more than 
 you. It is about Egypt. They say, when he 
 took the first volume to the Librarie Bailliere, the 
 publisher said to him, M. Michel, I have an 
 
 idea. Take your MSS. to M. X ; he is the 
 
 only man who can read your book, and you will 
 thus save yourself the trouble of having to pub 
 lish it. " 
 
 Roger laughed. There was a vein of kindly 
 humor in the priest s composition which endeared 
 him to every one ; and, as he knew him better, 
 the courtesy which distinguished him mellowed 
 into a sort of comradeship. 
 
 " I believe I could sit on this piazza all my 
 life," said the priest, helping himself to the straw 
 berries. 
 
 " You would soon begin to miss your daily 
 work." 
 
 " True enough ; I shall miss that long after I 
 can no longer do it. Work is a great blessing," 
 passing the cream to Roger, "after evil 
 came into the world, work was given as an anti 
 dote, not a punishment. The punishment is pain, 
 a rascal whom I feel even now in the joints of my 
 limbs," said Father Le Blanc, drawing his soutane 
 
64 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 elose over his knees, and finishing his sentence 
 with a shake of the head. " Better there than 
 in the heart," he added. His heart evidently 
 troubled him little then, as he finished his coffee 
 with a smack of satisfaction. 
 
 After breakfast he proposed a walk down the 
 path to the lake. Winding among the trees, 
 broken now and then by irregular flights of stone 
 steps, this path was a succession of sudden views 
 at different heights, till, turning at last the steep 
 base of the cliff by a long detour, it opened from 
 under a thicket of acacias, upon the beach. The 
 sun, now far above the horizon, had dissipated 
 the morning mist, of which stray thin remnants 
 only hovered here and there in the curves of the 
 shore. Father Le Blanc sat down on a wooden 
 bench under the projecting rock, overhung with 
 mosses and glistening myrtles. 
 
 The sudden view was so beautiful that neither 
 felt the necessity of speaking. To break the 
 peace of that summer morning required an effort, 
 as if one feared the ripple of the beach, the songs 
 of the birds, and the dripping of the dew from 
 the leaves, would all cease at the sound of one s 
 voice. On the farther shore Roger saw the bro 
 ken masses of the ruin just above the rounded 
 outlines of the forest. Gray and sombre amid the 
 green foliage, under the blue sky, it seemed to 
 him almost a prison into which Rcnde was about 
 to enter. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 65 
 
 " I see only the back of your bead, still I fancy 
 tbere is speculation in your eyes, M. Lande," said 
 his companion, at last. 
 
 " I was thinking, M. Le Blanc," replied Roger, 
 turning around, "of what Mademoiselle Rdnee 
 said to me last night." 
 
 " Ah ! " said the priest, with a quick look, 
 " and what did she tell you ? " 
 
 " That she was about to enter the Congrega 
 tion of St. Luc," answered Roger, looking in 
 tently at his companion. 
 
 " Yes, it is an old project." 
 
 " And you approve of it ? " 
 
 "My approval has not been asked, that is, 
 formally." 
 
 " Yet you are an old family friend." 
 
 "True," said Father Le Blanc; and he might 
 have added, " older than you," thought Roger to 
 himself. Still he persisted. 
 
 " She is very young to take such a step ; very 
 young, and very ignorant. * 
 
 "She has a long time ; there is a long novi 
 tiate." 
 
 " But that novitiate is passed altogether under 
 such influences as to leave no real choice. It 
 would have only one result." 
 
 Father Le Blanc shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Then, as to ignorance," he continued, without 
 noticing the interruption, " Mademoiselle Rene e 
 is innocent, bub innocence is not ignorance. Ig 
 5 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 ngrance, if you will, of the lesser and worser 
 things of life ; but such ignorance is often only 
 one side of a profound knowledge." 
 
 " When I said ignorant, I meant ignorant of 
 herself, of her own nature, capacities, and heart." 
 
 " Oh ! if one were to wait for that reason, there 
 would be no Sisters and no doctors. In all 
 choice of this kind there is an element of uncer 
 tainty." 
 
 "Which, if action is not forced upon us, and 
 events give us time, is a reason for prudence and 
 deliberation." 
 
 " Exactly so. I admit it. But here is a case, 
 a special one, we are not talking generalities. 
 You counsel reflection and prudence. Good ! But 
 this has a limit. Mademoiselle has this plan for 
 years, though she has but recently announced it; 
 and she is twenty. How much more time do you 
 counsel for her? " 
 
 " Knowledge comes from experience, not time 
 alone," replied Roger. " Twenty years with M. 
 Michel, of this strange, quiet life, will not dis 
 close to the heart of a young girl what the woman 
 will be. She is a young plant, growing alone in a 
 secluded garden. Such a life tells her, perhaps, 
 that she has needs, but is not able to name them. 
 It is precisely this ignorance which is dangerous, 
 when, conscious only that something is lacking, 
 she listens to the first voice that breaks the 
 silence, or follows the delusions of her own imag 
 ination." 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 67 
 
 The priest made no answer, though he did not 
 have the appearance of one who was convinced. 
 
 " Shall we go in ? " he said, presently. 
 
 Half-way up the path he stopped, and, turning, 
 laid his hand on Roger s shoulder. 
 
 " My son, this first voice that speaks to made 
 moiselle seems to her a voice from heaven. Let 
 us wait a while patiently, lest, perchance, we strive 
 against God." 
 
 Long afterwards Roger remembered these words, 
 and thought of Father Le Blanc s delicate use of 
 the plural. 
 
 Had he been accused of loving Mademoiselle 
 Re ne e already, he would probably have resented 
 the charge energetically, and, in so doing, would 
 have made a confession. At the mere thought of 
 her, as she stood a picture in one of M. Michel s 
 frames, the world seemed larger to him. Her face 
 was not more fair, her eyes no clearer, than many 
 another s ; and certainly it would not have been 
 to this little girl, who said, " how pretty it is ! " 
 so simply, that Roger Lande would have gone for 
 the secrets of life. Yet she held in her hand the 
 key to that world which he thought to ignore, 
 the world of a woman s love and dreams. What 
 a mission has this woman who meets us unfore 
 seen, and who, standing in our narrow pathway, 
 silent, with her finger on her lips, yet says, " Lo ! 
 all things are made new." 
 
 Nature suffers no infringement of her laws with 
 
68 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 impunity. Resolute and ambitious, this man will 
 check the outward flow of his feelings, and isolate 
 himself from human sympathy. Straightway she 
 curses him with vanity, and in his prudence even 
 he becomes a slave to his own illusions ! Contact 
 with his fellows is the source of his life, and with 
 out it self-dependence becomes self-consumption. 
 This contact is the moment of generation, when 
 the circuit closes and the sparks appear. 
 
 Old M. Lande, at the fireside of the Rue du 
 Bac, was a beggar for this food of life. Onoe he 
 said to Roger, 
 
 " You are going to make your profession, and 
 what is incident to it, everything " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You will make a mistake, I have tried it. 
 There is no mistress who will compensate for soli 
 tude. I say I have tried it. Music ! the divine 
 priestess whose lyre echoes the harmonies of 
 heaven, is sufficient ! But, no ! The revelation is 
 fragmentary, and, in satisfying, it also saddens. 
 She brings melody into life, but cannot make life 
 melodious. What, then, will you expect, if I 
 have found her wanting ? " 
 
 Poor M. Lande ! Nothing daunted by experi 
 ence, for he knew all the while that somewhere in 
 the wide world was one who, God willing, might 
 have made out of the broken sounds of life a 
 song, and of life itself a melody. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 V. 
 
 WHEN M. Michel was selected as the guardian 
 of his young step-sister, and given to Rene e as 
 a substitute for her natural parents, Providence 
 moved in one of those mysterious ways which no 
 one understands, and which, in this case, some 
 people even openly called in question. 
 
 Yet M. Michel least of all was impressed by his 
 new responsibilities. In the case of Stephanie this 
 responsibility was somewhat less direct, and was 
 mainly limited to the selection of a school at 
 which she was to receive her French education. 
 When, every month, he had visited his young sis 
 ter at the Convent of Notre Dame, and had re 
 ceived the report of the Superior, he wrote to 
 madame at Kief that " her daughter was all that 
 could be desired," as if this was a matter of 
 course, and there was nothing to be thankful for. 
 
 As for Renee, when his brother besought his 
 protection for his only child, he simply went to 
 Lyons to bring her to Paris, and requested Bap- 
 tiste to find a maid for mademoiselle. 
 
 " If he had charge of the MSS. in the National 
 Library," said Madame Valfort, one of his friends, 
 
70 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " he would not close his eyes out of the room." 
 For she did not share M. Michel s optimism. 
 
 Fortunately Re ne e did not belie the wisdom 
 of Providence. There was more truth than M 
 Michel suspected in his oft-repeated remark, " You 
 are a good girl, my child." And, for a good girl, 
 Rence s life had its advantages. She had the best 
 masters, and, at twenty, was far better educated 
 than others of her age. If she lacked the com 
 panionship of her sex and years, with its inev 
 itable mixture of good and bad, serious and silly, 
 on the other hand she had passed, in the freedom 
 of her uncle s salon, the narrow confines of the 
 conventional system of education. From child 
 hood to the verge of womanhood she had grown 
 up among these friends of her uncle without ever 
 making a formal entrde into society. To the ques 
 tion of a new-comer, there was always some one 
 to answer, " That young girl ? Oh, that is the 
 niece of M. Michel." And this society had been 
 a second education, which kept pace, year by year, 
 with her books, and was not the least of her teach 
 ers. If it wanted some elements of childish pleas 
 ure, still, among these older companions, it afforded 
 her glimpses of a broader and larger life than is 
 to be seen in the school-room, for all its descrip 
 tions of China and definitions of the soul. So that 
 while still inexperienced she could, in some re 
 spects, have entered that hot -bed called society 
 with a sturdier constitution and with less danger 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 71 
 
 than usual. Among these older people, in this 
 somewhat stately circle, she had not been exposed 
 to those sudden intimacies which ripen the fruit 
 too fast, and exhaust the heart by foolish and false 
 emotions. 
 
 M. Michel s friend, Madame Valfort, long ago 
 had been a great beauty. But her intelligence 
 and good sense was beyond the reach of years, 
 and saved her from living only on a remembrance. 
 Equally with M. Lande, but in a different way, 
 she demonstrated the fact that age does not de 
 pend upon years, but upon temperament. 
 
 Re nee had been for her a source of perplexity, 
 not to say anxiety ; and many a kind word and 
 motherly hint had she given to M. Michel s niece, 
 for which the latter had been grateful. If, thanks 
 to Renee, her uncle had discharged his trust in a 
 manner that gave Madame Valfort an agreeable 
 surprise, the time had at last come when her per 
 plexity was redoubled. She had seen the lorg 
 nettes directed to M. Michel s box, when Renee, 
 ignorant of all that passed around her, had ears 
 only for the song of Romeo, or eyes only for the 
 dagger of Phaedra. More than once she had been 
 importuned for an introduction, though far too 
 loyal to so presume upon her privileges as to in 
 troduce a lover into her friend s salon. 
 
 " Really," she said to him, one spring day, " all 
 this must have an end. You cannot go on so for 
 ever." And after some conversation designed to 
 
72 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 assist M. Michel s mental vision, it was arranged 
 that in the following winter Re*ne*e should make 
 her social ddbut under her auspices. 
 
 When she made her announcement, Rene*e 
 seemed le^s pleased than she anticipated. Still, 
 she gave Madame Valfort a kiss, which reassured 
 her. 
 
 " I have told Re*nde of our plans," she said to 
 M. Michel, shortly afterwards. 
 
 " Oh, by the way ! " he said, lifting his spectacles 
 over his eyes, " since I saw you she tells me that 
 she has a plan a serious one." 
 
 " A plan ! What do you mean ?" 
 
 " She wishes to enter a convent." 
 
 " A convent ! " said Madame Valfort, smiling 
 faintly. What an idea ! " 
 
 " The dear child is very determined. It seems 
 she has thought of it for a long time." 
 
 Who can have put such a thought into her 
 head? It is preposterous." 
 
 " It may be so," replied M. Michel, who in an 
 emergency always seemed unexpectedly to know 
 what he was about; " but she has settled it." 
 
 "Settled it! Why, what can you mean, my 
 friend?" hardly knowing whether to be most as 
 tonished at Renee s audacity or at M. Michel s 
 complacency. 
 
 " She has talked with Soeur Ursnle of St. Luc, 
 where she goes sometimes vvitli clothing and food 
 for the sick, and she wishes to begin her novitiate 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 73 
 
 Boon this winter even. It would be a great 
 sacrifice for me, my dear friend " 
 
 " And a greater one for herself ! " 
 
 " That is what I do not know. You think 
 so?" 
 
 " Decidedly," said Madame Valfort, with em 
 phasis, having regained her composure. " But 
 leave her to me. We have at least six months, 
 and in that time she will change her mind." 
 
 " It is quite possible, I admit," M. Michel an 
 swered, letting his spectacles fall again. 
 
 In the mean time Roger entered on the scene. 
 When he first came into the salon of the Rue du 
 Bac, he was not altogether a stranger to Rene*e. 
 His name certainly was a familiar one. Often had 
 she heard M. Lande speak of him to her uncle as 
 they conversed before the fire, and this introduc 
 tion of the son by the father was sure to have 
 been a flattering one. All that his own life had 
 failed to realize, M. Lande saw in Roger. He 
 nf.ver tired of rehearsing those qualities which he 
 himself lacked, but which Roger possessed ; and 
 the success and reputation which had been denied 
 him were even dearer in his eyes as achieved by 
 his son. When he thought of him it was always 
 with this halo of honor about his head, as he 
 would think of one of the apostles. Not that he 
 was wholly blind to his defects, but he spoke of 
 them tenderly, as the shadows necessary to the 
 relief of a strong character and as something 
 
74 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 which time would soften or transform. When, 
 then, Roger himself appeared, R6ne*e knew him 
 already. 
 
 In nothing did Rene*e so thoroughly reveal her 
 self as in this desire to enter the cloister. She 
 had been nurtured in solitude, and in solitude the 
 soul declares its true faith, it is a candidate for 
 nothing. If Roger was right in calling her desire 
 a folly, he was also right in calling it sublime. 
 This offer of her life was, indeed, neither a renun 
 ciation nor a flight. She knew too little of life s 
 pleasures for true sacrifice, too little of its sorrows 
 to wish to avoid them. The act she contemplated 
 was simply an aspiration, but this aspiration was 
 the index of her soul. The vows of chastity, hu 
 mility, or poverty would have been for her only a 
 declaration of faith. To many a tear-stained suf 
 ferer this convent door is the Jordan, over which 
 it passes into the Land of Promise and of Peace ; 
 and to many a sin-stained penitent it is, like the 
 Rubicon, the symbol of a new and great resolve. 
 But for Renee it was only the door, nothing else, 
 leading into a new room surely, but as easily as 
 when from ten years old she became eleven. It 
 was simply a matter of a new dress and a birth 
 day cake. 
 
 In the way of this aspiration suddenly appeared 
 two obstacles Madame Valfort and Roger Lande. 
 The former troubled her but little. As an ob 
 stacle her opposition was like a hill over which 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 75 
 
 our road winds, but to which we scarcely give a 
 thought. As to the latter she felt a vague uncer 
 tainty and anxiety, as when launching upon an 
 unknown sea we perceive its horizon veiled in mys 
 tery, and feel the strength of those great currents 
 which hurry us resistlessly we know not where, 
 
 While Roger was breakfasting with M. Le Blanc 
 on the piazza the morning after his arrival in Beau- 
 vais, and M. Michel was writing his second volume 
 on Egypt, Renee, in her white morning dress and 
 slippers, stole quietly down from her chamber to 
 Stephanie s door. 
 
 Evening thoughts grow cold in the night. That 
 which then troubles us, when the imagination is 
 most active, increases the pulse and produces 
 fever; in the morning the fever abates, the mind 
 is more clear, reflection more dispassionate, but 
 this reaction produces despondency. Renee had 
 been troubled by her conversation with Roger. 
 Maturing quietly in her own mind, her plan had 
 appeared to her in that conversation in a new 
 light. She had seen it from a different stand 
 point, and, while she had not been convinced, she 
 was perplexed, like all who, having settled a 
 question satisfactorily, are disturbed at the appear 
 ance of unlooked-for factors, and are thus obliged 
 to doubt a decision which before seemed natural 
 and simple. 
 
 For the first time in her life she felt keenly the 
 need of some one besides M. Michel, some one to 
 
76 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 whom a long explanation, a statement prepared 
 as for a referee, would not be necessary, some one 
 who would divine her trouble without making her 
 confess it. It is a long time before we outgrow 
 that childish indecision which renders choice so 
 difficult ; and in this first great responsibility she 
 turned instinctively to one who should, in deciding 
 with her, help her to share it. 
 
 But M. Michel, when he kissed her cheek at 
 breakfast, never knew whether it was hot or cold. 
 Even had she been in Paris it is doubtful if she 
 would have consulted Soeur Ursule. Partly for 
 the reason that she felt that Soeur Ursule s de 
 cision would necessarily be incomplete, and, being 
 very honest, this would not satisfy her ; partly, it 
 must be confessed, because when she thought of 
 So3ur Ursule the color in her cheeks deepened, 
 and she felt a little frightened. Living so long 
 without thoughts which frightened her, this first 
 secret one, which she hardly knew how to name, 
 almost made her ashamed. 
 
 When she knocked at the door she had not 
 really thought of speaking with Stephanie of this, 
 though she would have feared less to talk with 
 her than with any one else whom she knew. Yet 
 in this morning visit she was making one of those 
 shy advances which a friend would so quickly per 
 ceive. 
 
 " Where are we going to-day, Rdnde ? asked 
 Stephanie. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 77 
 
 " My uncle wished to go to the chateau," said 
 Re*nee, looking about the room. Two days be 
 fore it had been like her own, very pretty, but 
 very simple, with its fresh white bed and curtains 
 that gave it a modest and maidenly air. What 
 had Stephanie done to it ? It seemed more cosy, 
 even luxurious. Perhaps it was only the effect of 
 Stephanie herself in her pale blue surah role de 
 chambre, trimmed with white lace, as she sat be 
 fore the dressing glass while Lizette combed her 
 hair. 
 
 44 How do you go ? By carriage? " she asked. 
 
 " That is the best way," said Renee, " because 
 at night the wind often dies out, and we should be 
 obliged to row back. We will send to the town 
 for our carriage, and I will drive over the ponies 
 with M. Lande." 
 
 " What a manager you are." 
 
 " There must be some management. You know 
 my uncle would not think of such things, and, 
 when the carriages came, no one would know his 
 place." 
 
 4i True enough," said Stephanie, smiling. " And 
 coming back, have you arranged that ? " 
 
 44 Would you like to drive my ponies ? " 
 
 Stephanie was watching Lizette s fingers as they 
 gave the last touches to that simple coiffure which 
 men pronounced classic, and certain women, after 
 having endeavored in vain to imitate it, pro 
 nounced childish, even ugly. For not all face* 
 
78 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 lend themselves to that rare agreement between 
 the subject arid the style, which gave to Stepha 
 nie s toilette that natural accent which, more than 
 anything else, was the secret of its success. 
 
 " Very much. I have not driven since I left 
 Russia. And I will take M. Roger back with 
 me, and surrender M. Lande to the others. I want 
 to talk with him." 
 
 Following Lizette s fingers, she caught ReneVs 
 eyes in the glass, and there was that in them 
 which caused her to say, " That will do. You 
 may go down for my chocolate." 
 
 When Lizette had closed the door, she went 
 over to Renee. 
 
 " What is the matter, my child ? " she said, kiss 
 ing her cheek and sitting down beside her in the 
 large easy chair. 
 
 Rende looked at her silently, as if to say, " Why 
 do you ask me ? " 
 
 Stephanie s manner was winning, not because it 
 was tender, like a mother s, but because it in 
 spired confidence. She knew Renege well enough 
 to feel that the shortest way was the best, and 
 that circumlocutions were needless. 
 
 "Something troubles you," she continued, tak 
 ing her hands. " Do I add to it in speaking to 
 you ? " 
 
 " Not yet," said Renee, courageously. 
 
 44 1 do not wish to do so at all, my dear," said 
 Stephanie, drawing Renee towards her to hide a 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 79 
 
 smile; "but I think I know what troubles you. 
 Is it not Roger Lande ? " 
 
 44 Partly." 
 
 " And what else? Tell me, dear." 
 
 " Sceur Ursule." 
 
 " Renee, do you love him ? " 
 
 " No ! " she said, releasing herself suddenly. 
 
 44 When one thinks as you are thinking, one 
 is beginning to love." 
 
 44 1 was afraid so," Rende said, looking up. 
 
 44 Afraid ? Why should you be afraid ? Are 
 you afraid of loving ? " 
 
 44 1 had not thought of it. Moreover, I have 
 my doubts whether you are right." 
 
 " Ah, Renee, you make me only the more sure. 
 I do not think you are a thoughtless child to be 
 deceived by a passing emotion, and something else 
 which I have in mind I know you are not. One 
 does not question one s heart seriously, except it 
 is already lost." 
 
 44 How can you say so," said Renee, half rebel 
 lious, half ashamed. 44 You talk to me as if you 
 wished to persuade me to believe it." 
 
 There was certainly more than curiosity in the 
 question. 
 
 44 No," said Stephanie, quietly. 44 1 wish you 
 to know yourself." 
 
 44 1 should not know myself, if you were right." 
 
 44 Tell me truly, Renee, have you begun to ques 
 tion your plan to enter the convent? " 
 
80 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " Not really. I was thinking of it. * 
 
 " But what leads you to think of it again ? Is 
 it not he ? " 
 
 "No." said Rdnde, quickly, "it is what he 
 said." 
 
 " And if I said it, would it have the same 
 weight with you ? " 
 
 "I do not know," Rene*e answered, after a 
 pause. 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 " Perhaps I do not say it rightly, but it seemed 
 to me as if he said that besides devoting one s 
 self to God, there was something better. Only I 
 know he meant there was a better way than 
 mine." 
 
 " Well, is that impossible ? " 
 
 " I do not know. I know one can live a good 
 life in the world, but I thought of a better one." 
 
 " But why should we not all choose this better 
 one ? Do you think God has made a world which 
 can be maintained only on the condition that nine 
 ty-nine live a lower life, while but one lives the 
 higher?" 
 
 " I did not say that because the world would 
 stop we cannot all enter a convent, but because 
 not all are able to live this better life." 
 
 " It is the same thing," said Stephanie. "God 
 made the world." 
 
 "Aunt Stephanie," said Re ne e, very earnestly, 
 after a pause. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 81 
 
 " What did I ask you, Renee ? " 
 
 " Do you really believe, Stephanie, that I can 
 live a better life in the world than in the con 
 vent ? " 
 
 " I believe that better lives are so lived, and 
 that God has given us love to make it possible. 
 Now will you answer me a question as frankly ? " 
 
 What is it ? " 
 
 " Would it make you glad if you believed my 
 answer true ? " 
 
 " I cannot believe it yet, I do not know, 
 whether it is true or not." 
 
 " No, but if it were." 
 
 Had Lizette been there she would have no 
 ticed this strange pertinacity, and would have 
 looked in the glass to see her mistress face. 
 
 " I am not good enough to become a Sister," 
 said Renee, impulsively. * I believe I should be 
 glad." 
 
 " Have I troubled yon, R^nee ? " 
 
 " If you have, it is my fault," she said. " I 
 have no right to ask you to agree with me. I 
 wanted you to help me." 
 
 " Well, now I am going to. I see farther than 
 you do. In some respects, at least, I know bet 
 ter, and I am going to advise you. The convent 
 is a long way off ; you have really six months to 
 decide in, more if you wish. But Roger Lande 
 is close at hand. What if he should begin to love 
 you ? " 
 
 e 
 
82 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " But he has no right " 
 
 " It is not a question of right, but of fact. 
 Could you prevent it if you wished to ? I do not 
 mean that you are at the mercy of every man 
 who should say he adored you. Fortunately most 
 men are so .constituted," she said, with a trace of 
 bitterness, " that we can dispose of ourselves with 
 out incurring much risk of destroying them. But 
 Roger Lande is not a common man, Rende. If 
 once he had begun to love you, it would be too 
 late. He could not say then, as you do now, 
 6 No, I am going to retire from life. 
 
 " But what can I do, Stephanie? I cannot 
 
 fly-" 
 
 " No, you cannot fly. That would be absurd." 
 
 " It seems to me that, instead of helping me 
 out of trouble, you wished to convince me that I 
 was surrounded by it," said Rene e. 
 
 " Renee," said Stephanie, taking her hand in 
 both her own, and looking into her eyes, " I have 
 been in trouble myself, and I have found that 
 the way out is to recognize first that one is in." 
 
 " You make me laugh in spite of myself," said 
 Renee, almost in tears. 
 
 " Then we are quits, dear ; only you are more 
 honest than I, for just now, when you amused me, 
 I did not dare to. I mean this," she resumed, " I 
 do not say to you, * Wait ! Time will decide foi 
 you ; it is nothing. Just fears cannot be reasoned 
 away, or kissed away, and time never decides any- 
 
BUT ;ET A WOMAN. 83 
 
 thing. On the contrary, look into your own heart ; 
 listen to what it tells you. It will advise you in 
 this better than Soeur Ursule or than I. Yours, 
 and his, they are both alike. Hide from them, 
 and they will find you ; thwart them, and you will 
 break them. You would know then what you 
 now call trouble ; and between this and that there 
 is the difference between the mist that the morn 
 ing sun drinks up and the clouds that hide his 
 face at night." 
 
 "Stephanie," said Renege, after a little, "had 
 you been thinking of me, or of of M. Lande, 
 I mean before this morning ? " 
 
 " A little," she said, smiling. 
 
 " Was it because of anything anything that 
 I" 
 
 " My dear child, no ! Never ! Here is Lizette 
 
 coming." 
 
 Rene*e threw both arms round her neck. 
 
 44 Promise me not to speak of it again. I must 
 think it out for myself. Will you come down 
 with me and prepare the lunch we are going to 
 take ? " she said, as Lizette opened the door. 
 
 "Love, love, love!" said Stephanie, sitting 
 down, when she had gone, in the chair before her 
 dressing-table, and looking at the face reflected 
 in the glass. " It will drag him out of his seclu 
 sion, and prevent her from entering hers." But 
 if this was all she said, she was evidently think 
 ing of more than this. 
 
84 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " Is not madame satisfied ? " asked Lizette, aftei 
 standing with her tray what seemed a long time. 
 
 4 Yes," said Stephanie, letting drop the silk 
 screen over the glass, like a curtain that falls upon 
 a play that is finished. " Put it here beside me. 
 I am very hungry." 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 85 
 
 VL 
 
 THE day of the excursion to the Chateau of 
 Beauyais was all that its morning promised. Na 
 ture was in her generous mood, and filled it with 
 happy surprises. She sent cool breezes from the 
 lake to temper the midday air, and while, seated 
 around the wooden table in the smoke-browned 
 room of the farmer s house attached to the chateau, 
 ReneVs guests were doing justice to her luncheon, 
 one of those brief showers, which fill the air with 
 perfumes, and from which the landscape emerges 
 with fresh coloring and sharpened outlines , and 
 when the evening sun, streaming through the 
 trees on the crest of Mont St. Jean, furrowed the 
 water with crimson lines, she had stilled the breeze 
 and scattered the clouds, and had made ready one 
 of those summer nights in which the silent proc 
 esses of growth make the very air warm with a 
 luxurious life, and our own pulses throb with hers 
 to a nameless sense of desire and peace. 
 
 " I am going to drive ReneVs ponies home/ 
 said Stephanie, as the carriages drove up to the 
 door. " Will you trust yourself with me, M. 
 Lande ? " she asked, turning to Roger, as she 
 stepped into the phaeton and took the reins. 
 
86 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 She had scarcely spoken with him all the day 
 long, and her invitation surprised him ; but he 
 accepted it with pleasure. In spite of his resolve, 
 Stephanie excited his curiosity, and, while he had 
 exchanged so few words with her since their first 
 meeting at Aix, her very reserve was a fascina 
 tion. 
 
 As Re*nee had said, there was an ease in her 
 manner which made one feel as though one had 
 known her a long time ; still, he agreed more and 
 more with Father Le Blanc, that this knowledge, 
 like the reflection in the river, apparently so real 
 in its perspective, was only a surface illusion. 
 Perhaps, too, in fortifying himself against curi 
 osity, he had anticipated the manner in which it 
 would be aroused, and, coming from an unex 
 pected quarter, the enemy s force is not always 
 recognized. 
 
 The process of becoming acquainted with some 
 people is a restful one : every day brings its own 
 disclosure, which completes the intimacy and fills 
 out the character ; one by one appear those ten 
 der tones and melting shades which soften and 
 fuse its contrasts. And there are others, like a 
 picture whose foreground we feel to be unimpor 
 tant, whose horizon aloue fascinates and entices 
 us. What is near and apparent but renders us 
 the more eager to penetrate this encircling mys 
 tery. M. Michel certainly seemed insensible to 
 any such peculiarity in his sister. He treated her. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 87 
 
 as he did every one, with that charming courtesy, 
 almost gallantry, belonging to certain of his race, 
 that race of literary men who, absorbed in 
 their ideal world, slip out into life occasionally 
 only, as one would make a visit, to say, " Ma 
 dame, I trust you are well," or, " Accept my con 
 gratulations." 
 
 Roger was not guilty of a vulgar curiosity to 
 know her life, or her past. But the woman, 
 what was she? What he had heard from Father 
 Le Blanc, what he had seen at Aix, these things 
 he thought of, not for themselves, but only as they 
 contrasted with her quiet dignity and reserve, and 
 increased the desire to understand the woman 
 The question he asked himself, as he thought of 
 her, was less what she had done or been, and 
 rather what she might do and be. Indeed, those 
 very occasions on which he had observed her, so 
 different were they; her moods, too, so variable 
 were they, that one might well ask for the single 
 answer to all the forms of this enigma. In the 
 garden of the HQtel du Nord he might have seen 
 a woman meeting her lover ; delivering the letter 
 to Stephanie Milevski, the actor in some court in 
 trigue ; trifling with M. de Marzac, she was only 
 a woman, beautiful and brilliant, a little venom 
 ous, even, but ever mysterious ; later, as he poured 
 her coffee, imperious, distrustful, even dangerous ; 
 and then, suddenly, as once before, at Aix, trust 
 ful, frank, with a trace of tenderness. Doubtless, 
 
88 BUT YET A WOMAti. 
 
 to this nature, as to all, there was the one skele 
 ton key which unlocks all its wards, the one word 
 which explains all its contradictions. What was 
 it ? For natures, like melodies, have their key 
 note, and through one s moods, however varied, 
 runs a central fibre of character, like the string in 
 a necklace of many-colored beads. 
 
 After the ponies had started she gave him the 
 reins, and leaned back against the cushions. 
 
 " What a night ! " she said. 
 
 The stars were beginning to come out ; not 
 clear and cold, as in winter, but veiled in an air 
 heavy with warmth and odors, and filled with 
 murmuring sounds. The silence of a winter s 
 night suggests the temporary death that reigns 
 over nature ; the mother s bosom is still because 
 it is cold. But in this summer silence her warm 
 breath is on our cheeks, and we hear the very 
 buds swell. 
 
 " I supposed you wished to drive," he said, tak 
 ing the reins. 
 
 " No, I wish to talk with you." 
 
 " I thought so," replied Roger, to whom this in 
 vitation began to have a significance. 
 
 " Why ? Is your conscience so sensitive ? " 
 
 "It is about myself, then, that you wish to 
 talk." 
 
 " Yes, and no. I am going to commence with 
 an allegory. You remember you once did me a 
 favor." 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 89 
 
 " For which you thanked me." 
 
 " Are you so afraid of having me as your debtor ? 
 If you insist upon reversing the r61es, I warn you 
 I might prove an exacting creditor." 
 
 " I think the account is closed. * 
 
 44 You amuse me," she said, laughing. " Do you 
 intend to go through life with your accounts al 
 ways balanced? But seriously, M. Lande," she 
 said, sitting up, " I have something to say to you, 
 and I wish you to listen to me patiently. I re 
 turn to Paris to-morrow. Letters which I received 
 this morning call me back unexpectedly, and it 
 may be I shall travel. At all events, it is uncer 
 tain when I shall see you again, and I cannot 
 make up my mind to be silent, even if my concern 
 should prove groundless, or if, in discharging this 
 duty, I am less delicate than you were. I have a 
 friend a young girl. She has a strong charac 
 ter, and is capable of strong feeling; but she has 
 lived apart from the world, almost in solitude. 
 The very angels would smile to hear her confes 
 sion. Left to herself, she will continue her life 
 as it begins." 
 
 " You mean that she will enter the cloister." 
 
 " Precisely ; and on that question I do not wish 
 to exert any influence. I might regret to see her 
 take the veil ; for though her character, develop 
 ing thus in all its purity, should so remain un- 
 ecarred, I should miss something in it. I admire 
 moral beauty most when it is also moral heroism. 
 
90 BUT YET A WOMAJST. 
 
 That is, I prefer character beautiful because 
 strong, and strong because capable of resistance, 
 not because superior to temptation. Be that as it 
 may, the latter is more difficult. Should she enter 
 her convent, however much I might regret it, con 
 cern for her would cease. And if she did not " 
 
 " Well ? " said Roger. 
 
 Stephanie paused a moment. She was approach 
 ing the more difficult part of her undertaking. 
 
 " A friend of yours, M. Lande," she continued 
 presently, " meets this friend of mine. Carry 
 him this message. Do not ask for an explanation, 
 for he might refuse your right to it, and you 
 would thus offend him ; but ask him to reflect 
 upon what he may do, even unconsciously, on 
 the responsibility he may assume. Tell him to 
 remember how, from morning to night, we are 
 ever scattering the seeds whose harvest we cannot 
 foretell, and oftenest never know. Tell him to 
 remember that soil in which they full, the human 
 heart, that soil so rich that of all these seeds 
 none utterly perish. Will you tell him this ? " 
 she said, earnestly. 
 
 "Yes, I will tell him." 
 
 " And if," she said more gayly, looking intt 
 Roger s grave face, " he should even then be 
 offended, tell him he is wrong to be so, since, in. 
 stead of preaching a sermon, you were content 
 with simply repeating the text." 
 
 " I will answer for him," said Roger. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 91 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say so. You increase 
 my confidence. You must use the whip, M. 
 Lande ; our friends are overtaking us." 
 
 " They will be sorry to lose you so soon." 
 
 " And I shall be sorry to go, for some reasons. 
 But in one respect I have an unfortunate temper 
 ament. I exhaust things too quickly. Now that 
 I have been in Beauvais a day, I am not sorry to 
 go ; in a week it would almost be necessary." 
 
 " That is not temperament, but only a habit." 
 
 "Perhaps so," she replied. " Bat temperament 
 lies back of habit, and determines it. One is the 
 mould of the other. I thought of it this after 
 noon as I was looking with M. Le Blanc at the 
 view from the chateau tower. I saw it all in a 
 glance, while he discovered its beauties gradually, 
 one by one. I was ready to go when he was in 
 the midst of his enjoyment. When one takes in 
 everything so rapidly, there is no time for real 
 pleasure, everything becomes a matter of 
 course." 
 
 " That is weariness ; every temperament can be 
 harnessed," said Roger, for the sake of the argu 
 ment. " The power to take in rapidly ought no 
 to prevent us from enjoying." 
 
 " Well, it does ; if only because possession al 
 ways diminishes enjoyment. Besides, it makes 
 very little difference, in such a case, what ought 
 to be. You cannot prescribe an enjoyment to a 
 patient who has no capacity for it. It would be ft 
 
92 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 great advance in your art if you could ; inasmuch 
 as we live in its midst, and are obliged to see it 
 constantly, even when we cannot feel it. But our 
 conversation is very doleful ; let us change it." 
 
 A long pause followed, which would have been 
 embarassing, only there was no self-consciousness 
 in it. 
 
 " How strange we are ! " said Stdphanie, break 
 ing the silence. " We sometimes tell strangers 
 more than we do our best friends." 
 
 " That is only natural," he replied. " To our 
 friends we are either known so well that we have 
 no need to speak, or so little that we fear to." 
 
 Then followed another silence, an important 
 part of some conversations, and one in which the 
 argument makes the most progress. 
 
 " We talk a great deal about friends and friend- 
 ships," Stdphanie said, thoughtfully, " and after all 
 we have none. It is easy to describe the ideal 
 friendship, and it is because we are not ready for 
 our part of the compact that it is not realized. 
 But we are prone to lay the blame on others, if 
 blame there is. Ideal friendships are for ideal 
 people. As we are, pride and self-respect forbid 
 our tearing away all the veils of the soul that 
 friends, such as they are, may know us completely: 
 and when we complain that there are none, we 
 are lamenting our own unfitness, and in recogniz 
 ing that clearly, we ought to find reserve a virtue. 
 Too much friendship is dangerous, even fatal" 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 93 
 
 " 4 Be at peace with many, nevertheless have 
 but one counselor of a thousand. : 
 
 " Are you quoting ? You are so often epigram 
 matic that I am doubtful." 
 
 " Your compliment is a dubious one. Epigrams 
 are brilliants usually bought at the expense of 
 truth." 
 
 " But you do not answer me." 
 
 " Was I quoting ? Yes." 
 
 " Who ? " asked Stephanie. 
 
 " Jesus, the son of Sirach." 
 
 " That is really curious. That book is one of 
 my brother s favorites. He says it is a complete 
 code of morality. And he sometimes quotes from 
 it very appositely. Do you know Madame Bre 
 da? No? Well, she is very bright and, in a 
 superficial way. well-read and agreeable. When 
 M. Michel published his first volume on Egypt, 
 she took an immense interest in it, and the amount 
 of torture she inflicted upon him must have been 
 incalculable, since it resulted in what, for him, 
 was so keen a thrust. She is a tireless talker. 
 She bought the volume, and insisted on conversing 
 with him about Egypt on every occasion, and, 
 finally, even on his writing something on the fly 
 leaf. I happened in his study one day, and, see 
 ing the book on the table, was curious to know 
 how he had gratified her. Opening the cover, I 
 found this : 
 
 " 4 As the climbing up a sandy way is to the 
 
94 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 feet of the aged, so is a wife full of words to a 
 quiet man. 
 
 " Did he send it ? " asked Roger, laughing. 
 
 " No. I remonstrated, and he yielded. He had 
 written it in a moment of exasperation, and had 
 then forgotten all about it. But, to go back, your 
 proverb is a wise one, and I would add to it, 
 a thousand times listen to his counsel, but seek it 
 once only. Friendship, here, is a staff, and when 
 it breaks it is under the load of our own infirmi 
 ties." 
 
 " It seems to me you are returning to a doleful 
 subject." 
 
 " Yes," she said, impetuously; "I cannot help 
 it." Then, leaning back in her corner, and look 
 ing up to the stars, " It is the night, it is 
 stronger than I." 
 
 " When my mother was dying, M. Lande," she 
 continued after a moment, in a voice so quiet it 
 seemed that of another person, u a street singer, 
 under the window, sang the prison song from 4 11 
 Trovatore. I did not notice it especially at the 
 time, though I was conscious of it. From that 
 day I cannot hear that song without feeling again 
 as I did at that moment. It has the power to 
 reproduce, against my will even, the conditions of 
 that mental state, and when it reaches my ear, no 
 matter where, no matter how suddenly, I have the 
 very sense of suffocation in the throat, and that 
 strange swelling at the heart which oppressed me 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 95 
 
 then. I can think of that scene, even dwell upon 
 it, without experiencing these sensations; but this 
 song seems to have become wrought into my very 
 body and to control it, so that now, when the first 
 cause of these sensations no longer exists, when 
 even the remembrance of it cannot renew them, 
 at its first note I feel as I then felt, and as I should 
 feel if suddenly brought face to face with a mortal 
 peril. This is what I mean when I say this sum 
 mer night is stronger than I. Like that song, it 
 has the power to remind me of another night, 
 no ! not to remind me of it, to reproduce it ! " 
 
 44 Life would be hard for you in any event," ex 
 claimed Roger, involuntarily; "it makes upon you 
 such deep impressions." 
 
 She laughed with one of those swift changes of 
 voice and manner which characterized her, and, as 
 the ponies turned under the trees of Mont St. 
 Jean, turned the conversation to lesser things. 
 
 At the steps he gave her his hand to alight. 
 
 " Good-night and good-by," she said. " I shall 
 take the early train. Of our ride remember only 
 this, that you gave me a promise and are an am 
 bassador." 
 
 "But I shall see you this evening." 
 
 " Oh, certainly," she said, as he opened the 
 door. 
 
 When Lizette that evening went, as was her 
 wont, to undo her morning s work, she found her 
 mistress leaning upon the window which over- 
 
96 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 looked the sleeping lake, with her head bowed 
 down in her hands, and her face bathed in tears. 
 If she was surprised she did not show it, and to 
 the order to pack the trunks and to be ready for 
 an early start, she answered as usual, " Yes, ma- 
 dame." 
 
 The next morning at breakfast Stephanie was 
 absent. 
 
 Several times during the week telegrams from 
 desperate or impatient patients arrived for Roger ; 
 but he remained faithful to his plan, and resisted 
 all appeal. This brief rest was grateful to him, 
 and he missed less than lie had anticipated the 
 pressure of his daily routine. 
 
 Having discovered each other s habits of early 
 rising, the little party of five gathered every morn 
 ing about the table on the piazza, and, alike to 
 the younger and the older, the long day without 
 duties or engagements was a pleasant vista. 
 
 "Nee cupias, nee metuas" said Father Le Blanc, 
 one morning. 
 
 The second volume on Egypt progressed, it is 
 to be presumed, satisfactorily, for M. Michel ap 
 peared every morning at the door of his library 
 with a genial smile, and spent the remainder of 
 his day in France with his guests. A boat ride 
 on the lake ; a drive through the environs ; a visit 
 with Re ne e to her sick poor; "I am doubly 
 armed against misfortune," she said ; " I have my 
 priest and my physician ; " a hard-fought strug 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 97 
 
 gle at piquet after dark ; long talks about nothing 
 and short ones on the state of politics or the drift 
 of religious and scientific thought ; a duet in the 
 evening, when M. Lande opened the dingy box 
 which contained his treasure and Rene*e uncovered 
 the piano ; these were the simple pleasures which, 
 for such different reasons, made the days happy 
 ones for each. Hoec olim meminisse juvabit, was 
 Father Le Blanc s constant refrain. 
 
 With that fine perception which is not acquired 
 if it is not native, both Re* nee and Roger had 
 avoided all reference to the subject of their first 
 conversation. It was a question for events, not 
 for arguments, to decide. Either would have felt 
 a moral jar had the other reopened it so soon, 
 while each knew the other had not forgotten it. 
 
 In this quiet life, regulated so simply by the 
 natural tastes of these five people, some of what 
 Madame Valfort would have called the proprie 
 ties of society were lost out of sight. On the part 
 of M. Michel, because, if left to himself, he natu 
 rally dispensed with them ; on the part of Re*nee, 
 because untrained to their slavery ; and as to Fa 
 ther Le Blanc, this society was ideal enough to 
 ignore conventionalities, and he would have apol 
 ogized for their absence only to a stranger. Thus 
 it happened that Roger often found an hour alone 
 with Rende on the piazza, acted as assistant gar 
 dener, and filled with her the morning vases, or 
 strolled with her to the wood-cutter s cottage iff 
 7 
 
98 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 visit the paralytic boy to whom Rdnee was a guar 
 dian angel, happy hours ! which Madame Val- 
 fort, with all her tact and good nature, would 
 have marred, even had she herself assumed the 
 role of dragoness. 
 
 But all things come to an end ; only, when the 
 end comes, things are no longer the same. Father 
 Le Blanc and M. Lande, two old men who knew 
 ho\v to appreciate true happiness, bad laid in a 
 store of sweet recollections ; in this sunny atmos 
 phere the armor which Roger had worn as the am 
 bitious, even selfish, physician, proved cumber 
 some, and some of its pieces were laid aside ; in 
 the spring-time of life, he, with some deliberation, 
 Renee, with some dream-like consciousness, had 
 sown hopes; and M. Michel had added two impor 
 tant chapters to his second volume. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 99 
 
 VII. 
 
 AFTER the departure of her guests, Beauvais 
 did not seem to Renee quite the same place. Nor 
 would it ever again be what it had been. 
 
 Since first, as a little girl, she had passed the 
 summer months among its cool forests and beside 
 its placid lake, it had been a sort of Paradise for 
 which she yearned all through the winter, and of 
 which an excursion now and then into the envi 
 rons of Paris reminded her tantalizingly. There 
 she came closer to the great heart of Nature, to 
 which as children we are so near, whose con 
 stant beat of sympathy the noise of the world may 
 indeed drown for a time, but which in later years 
 we hear again gladly, falling asleep at last to its 
 loving murmur. 
 
 All kinds of bonds and fetters tied her literally 
 hand and foot in Paris ; pavements and sidewalks, 
 asphalt and Macadam, all kept her feet from the 
 warm, moist earth which they loved ; roar of wheels 
 and clatter of hoofs drowned all the inarticulate 
 speech of wood and stream which address the 
 heart in their own alphabet; and through the 
 blaze of the gaslit night, or the smoke and dust 
 of the day, scarce a moonbeam or a sun ray could 
 filter pure and uncontaminated. K 
 
100 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 And there were fetters of another kind, conven 
 tionalities and proprieties, which put the very res 
 idue of nature, left in that hive of artificial life, be 
 yond her reach. No wonder that we laugh at the 
 rustic, and no wonder that he laughs at us. Our 
 education has made us aliens to the brotherhood 
 of Nature, and only Nature s touch makes us kin. 
 But at Beauvais, if the lake invited her, she 
 could go out to it ; not in a carriage, to stare at it, 
 as in the Bois de Boulogne, but to dip her hands 
 in its cool waters, and let its waves rise and fall 
 about her ankles ; if the woods called her, she had 
 only to open her window and listen, or go out 
 under their shadows and dream. Here she was 
 free. There were no eyes, prying or cold, to cen 
 sure her or to laugh at her. For Nature is like a 
 mistress, we love to be alone with her ; even as 
 our mother, there is between us and her the sanc 
 tity of close relationship and communion. Before 
 the world of houses and carpets with which our 
 factitious wants have surrounded us ; before the 
 world of towers and spires which our heavenly as 
 pirations have builded us, we are ashamed to 
 stretch ourselves out at full length upon the soft 
 damp mosses, lest we hear the sneer of the dilet 
 tante or the reproach of the pietist. 
 
 R6ne*e did not philosophize over her pleasures. 
 She was not yet beginning to lose them or the love 
 of them. And, deprived as she had been of those 
 ties which sweeten girlhood, perhaps the overflow 
 
BUT YET 
 
 of her soul was more than usually directed into 
 this channel. Certainly there was one injunction 
 of So3ur Ursule s which she did not fully under 
 stand, and against which she found it hard not to 
 rebel. 
 
 " It will be all the easier for you," said this holy 
 teacher, who have not felt in all their intensity 
 the power of earthly ties, to develop and purify 
 the influences which unite us to Heaven. Do 
 some appear to abjure these ties readily ? This 
 power is bought at a great price. For they had 
 first placed in them all their reliance, to find them 
 in the end stained with sin and dimmed with tears. 
 You, my child, are spared this ordeal, and Nature 
 will be easily conquered ; not because you have 
 found her a broken reed, but because you have 
 not learned to lean upon her." 
 
 Conquer Nature I Yes, it was well enough to 
 say so in Paris, among the sick and suffering of 
 the H6tel-Dieu St. Luc, but in Beauvais ! under 
 the branches of those great trees, it was as if one 
 should say to the bud swelling in spring-time, 
 Conquer this force which expands your petals 
 and works in your thousand cells, for it is the 
 principle of disease and decay, and only when you 
 have subdued it shall the true flower blossom in 
 an immortal life and bear fruit in eternity. 
 
 This was a mystery which Re mae solved by not 
 thinking of it. 
 
 And yet Beauvais was no longer the same. Not 
 
&lfT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 a ripple had deserted the lake ; every star was 
 faithful, and appeared at night in its surface as 
 before ; the waters on the shore, the wind among 
 the leaves talked still with one another, and Fa 
 ther Le Blanc had not carried away in his cassock 
 a star, a leaf, or a pebble. Yet all was changed. 
 After all, .the wealth of Nature is not hers, and 
 her face is but the mirror in which we see our 
 own. Love has but to shoot a single arrow, and 
 straightway we charge the universe with hope, and 
 dewdrops become opals. 
 
 M. Michel remarked that when the migration 
 season arrived Rdnee made none of the usual ob 
 jections. He had delayed his return later than 
 customary, for he had become very much absorbed 
 in the land of the Pharaohs ; and this delay was 
 due to the absolute quiet of Beauvais, for social 
 requirements were few, a quiet which left him 
 undisturbed on the Upper Nile. There was also 
 another circumstance which prolonged his stay. 
 He was growing old, and yet had got no further 
 than Neferkara of the Vlth dynasty. He felt that 
 time was pressing, and that he must hasten. Cer 
 tain admonitions were not wanting. They were, 
 it is true, gentle ones ; a little unsteadiness of 
 vision, i little dullness of touch ; but they foretold 
 the time when judgment too would waver, and 
 imagination and memory grow dull. But M. Mi 
 chel kept all this to himself. It was one of the 
 aggravations of his character that he did not seek 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 108 
 
 sympathy. All relationships become closer and 
 dearer through our poverty as well as our wealth. 
 A friend must need sympathy as well as be ca 
 pable of giving it, else we never have the pleas 
 ure of giving, which is the golden side of the 
 shield of gifts. 
 
 But if M. Michel was ever ill, he turned his 
 face to the wall. Unlike most of those who live 
 in health on independent resources, but who in 
 sickness are either fretful and exacting or gentle 
 and craving, he enjoyed neither fretting nor wor 
 rying, and craved only to be let alone. On doc 
 tors, as a species, he placed no reliance. " A wise 
 physician," he used to say, u is a John the Bap 
 tist, who recognizes that his only mission is to pre 
 pare the way for a greater than he, Nature." 
 This, however, would not have prevented him 
 from summoning all the doctors in France for 
 Re ne e, if she were ill ; and he would have ex 
 plained this inconsistency by saying that Rene e, 
 more fortunate than he, could respond to that most 
 potent medicine of the materia medica, faith in 
 the physician, a remedy which a wise physician, 
 however conscious of his impotence, carefully hus 
 bands to the last. 
 
 But the leaves were beginning to fall ; the winds 
 were growing colder ; certain sessions of other 
 spectacled worthies were about to take place in 
 Paris, and the return could no longer be delayed. 
 
 " I wonder whether Stephanie has returned," 
 
104 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 said Re*ne*e to her uncle, as they rode up together 
 in the train. 
 
 " Returned? Where has she been ? " asked M, 
 Michel. 
 
 Why, don t you remember ? I read you her 
 letter only the other day. She did not say where 
 she was going." 
 
 " To Kief, perhaps." 
 
 " I wish we might see more of her, uncle." 
 
 " Probably we shall, my child. There have 
 been reasons for the contrary in the past. After 
 the count s death she remained at Kief, secluded. 
 Moreover the health of her mother gave way sud 
 denly, and she devoted herself to her care. When 
 she died," and M. Michel laid down his papei and 
 looked out of the window, as if he could see the 
 event of which he was speaking, " there was an 
 other reason for retirement. You know it is not 
 long since she came out from this seclusion, and 
 in that time, quite naturally, she has traveled a 
 good deal. Probably, as I said, this winter we 
 shall see her more frequently." 
 
 " Did you know the Count Milevski, uncle?" 
 
 " I went to Kief to the wedding. Do you re 
 member ? It was not long ago." 
 
 " I remember you went away. Tell me some 
 thing about it, uncle ; I am interested." 
 
 " There is nothing to tell, especially," said M. 
 Michel. " They were married, and the wedding 
 was as usual." 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 105 
 
 Re ne e, who was a little tired, in one of those 
 moods of tenderness which sometimes came to her 
 when with M. Michel, and which embarrassed him 
 not a little, had nestled close to his side and laid 
 her head upon his shoulder. These appeals to him 
 in his capacity as father really touched him, and 
 he usually responded by a more than ordinarily 
 tender kiss on her forehead, after which he re 
 lapsed into constraint, and, putting his arm around 
 her awkwardly, sat very still without moving a 
 muscle. 
 
 "And then?" said Rdne e. 
 
 " The count took his wife to St. Petersburg to 
 present her at court. It was shortly after their 
 return that he was arrested." 
 
 " You know I never asked you about these 
 things. I never should dare to speak of them with 
 Stephanie. Why was the count arrested?" 
 
 " No one knows fully why it was. He had 
 been in high favor with the emperor, and it was 
 said that Stephanie was warmly received at court. 
 Her mother wrote me of her reception, and of 
 how the emperor gave her some token of his good 
 will. Then, suddenly, her husband was de 
 nounced, by whom, no one knows. Such things 
 are done very quickly in Russia. He was sum 
 moned to St. Petersburg, and in less than a week 
 was on his way to Siberia. All this broke the 
 good mother s heart. Stephanie was the child of 
 her old age, and she had planned for her a great 
 future. Then, on the journey, the count died." 
 
106 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " I should think ifc would have broken Stdpha- 
 nie s," said Re*nee. 
 
 " It was a terrible shock ; but hers was younger. 
 At her mother s age it is more sad to have our 
 plans fail, for we have no longer the time, then, 
 to repair them, or to form new ones." 
 
 " But what had M. Milevski done ? " 
 
 " No one knows exactly ; except that he was 
 associated with the Socialists. The trial was a 
 secret one." 
 
 " But could not Stephanie do something? Had 
 the count no friends ! " 
 
 " Ah ! Russia is not France, my child. More 
 over, it appears that she did everything. She 
 appealed herself to the emperor. The count had 
 hardly left St. Petersburg before she arrived there 
 to plead for him. But it was useless. Then he 
 died, suddenly. After that, what remedy was 
 there, even if the emperor had been willing to 
 apply it ? " 
 
 "One can have justice," said Re*ne*e, indig 
 nantly. 
 
 "After all the worst is done? Justice can 
 not restore life. In such a case reparation is be 
 yond the power of man, and is in the hands of 
 God." And then, after a pause, 4 * The count s 
 estates were also forfeited, but they were after 
 wards restored." 
 
 " I would not have accepted them ! " said Rene*e. 
 
 " Well, no ; neither did Stephanie. But her 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 107 
 
 mother arranged that. She did not wish to see 
 her daughter left a beggar. She was prudent, 
 and looked into the future, and the proposal which 
 Stephanie would have rejected, unbeknown to her, 
 she accepted. In lieu of the estates, she received 
 a sum of money; not an equivalent, still a large 
 sum ; and, at her death, this came to Stephanie 
 as a part of her inheritance." 
 
 " She must have loved her husband very much," 
 said Re* nee, after a long interval of silence. 
 
 " Oh, undoubtedly," replied M. Michel. 
 
 Evidently this last step in the conversation had 
 carried him beyond his depth. Even Renee 
 laughed to herself over the calm assumption of 
 his answer. She remained so long thinking over 
 what she had heard, that M. Michel supposed her 
 asleep, and being unable to open his paper with 
 out disturbing the head on his shouldej, resigned 
 himself to his own thoughts, and was soon in the 
 land of the Pharaohs. 
 
 Thus it happened that two people, while making 
 the journey from Beauvais to Paris, passed the 
 time, one in Russia, the other in Egypt. 
 
 Baptiste, who had preceded them by a train, 
 met them at the station on their arrival at Paris. 
 
 " Madame Milevski called this morning to in 
 quire when you were to return, mademoiselle," 
 said the old servant, " and learning that it was 
 to-day, she wrote this note." 
 
 " Ah, I am so glad ! " exclaimed Rene*e, tearing 
 \t open eagerly. It was very short. 
 
108 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 I am delighted that I am to see you so soon. I 
 shall come to-night to kiss you, and to propose a 
 plan to you. STEPHANIE. 
 
 " What can it be ? " thought Rdne e. 
 
 In the evening, after dinner, she listened at 
 every roll of wheels in the Rue du Bac, till at 
 last a carriage stopped in the street, and a mo 
 ment later Stephanie herself appeared at the 
 door. Re ne e threw her arms around her neck. 
 
 44 I am so glad to see you again ! " 
 
 Stephanie kissed both her cheeks, and they sat 
 down together before the fire. For very different 
 reasons, these two women were beginning to lean 
 upon each other. 
 
 44 And Beauvais ; is it charming as ever ? " asked 
 Stephanie. 
 
 " Yes, but I missed you very much." 
 
 " What ! with your ponies, your boat, and your 
 chateau ? " 
 
 44 When I think that perhaps I have seen them 
 for the last time!" Stephanie noted the 4 per 
 haps." 44 I really love my ponies; this morning 
 I laid my cheeks on their warm noses and thought 
 of Sancho." 
 
 44 How would you like to play Sancho in re 
 ality?" 
 
 44 What do you mean, Stephanie ? " 
 
 44 I mean that I should be the Knight of the 
 Woful Countenance," not in search of adventures, 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 109 
 
 but to forget them, she thought, " and that you 
 should be my squire, and that we should take a 
 little journey together into Spain, under the cork 
 trees." 
 
 -Really?" 
 
 " Why, yes, really," said Stephanie, smiling at 
 Renee s enthusiasm. 
 
 " What do you think M. Michel would say?" 
 
 " What I do ; that it would be delightful." 
 
 " Is this the plan you spoke of in your note ? " 
 
 " Yes. But I shall not go without you ; it rests 
 with you." 
 
 " Oh, if it only depended on me ! " 
 
 "Well, does it" not?" 
 
 " Madame Valfort " 
 
 " Leave that to me," interrupted Stephanie. 
 
 " I would rather arrange it myself," Re* nee said, 
 after thinking a moment. " You know she wished 
 me to be presented this winter. Of course, I am 
 under no obligation, except as she meant it kind 
 ly; but, under the circumstances, if I should decide 
 to go with you, it would be better for me to tell 
 her ; otherwise, she would think that I went sim 
 ply to thwart her projects. If I left you to see 
 her, it would appear as if I was afraid or ashamed 
 to I mean, as if I avoided her." 
 
 " I do not wish to interfere with Madame Val- 
 fort s projects ; on the contrary, I approve of 
 them. But if I should take charge of her projects, 
 would you object?" 
 
110 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " No, and yes." 
 
 * l Let us see. When does your novitiate be 
 gin ? " asked Stephanie, without replying to R& 
 nee s double answer. 
 44 In January." 
 44 That is settled, is it ? " 
 
 44 1 had settled it in my own mind. I am afraid 
 Sceur Ursule would not think my going to Spain 
 a very wise idea." 
 
 41 Since I am to lose you so soon, I think you 
 ought to give me a place in these next three 
 months. That would not be too much to ask 
 would it? But you must decide for yourself ; I 
 do not wish to argue with you. If you went to 
 please me simply, you would not enjoy yourself, 
 nor would I either." 
 
 44 Oh, I want to go, Stephanie." 
 44 What a silly girl you are ! You have actually 
 committed yourself to Madame Val fort s salon 
 against your wish, and yet you hesitate to go with 
 me, although you desire to." 
 
 44 1 have not really committed myself." 
 44 It amounts to the same thing." 
 44 To be frank with you, Stephanie, I am not 
 afraid of Madame Valfort. It is perfectly evi 
 dent that she wishes to divert me from what I 
 have in view. If I did exactly what I wished to, 
 I should not accept her invitations ; but then, I 
 know that if I do it will not affect me. But I 
 am not so sure of myself with you," she added, 
 
BUT^YET A WOMAN. Ill 
 
 playfully, though with an undercurrent of ear 
 nestness. " I wish to go with you more than I 
 ought to." 
 
 "Why do you wish to?" said Stephanie. "I 
 am curious to know what these bad motives are 
 that trouble your conscience. Is a little love for 
 me one of them ? Because, if it is." she contin 
 ued in the same earnest pleasantry, " I am in need 
 of some, and you can begin your work of charity 
 without delay." 
 
 The undertone of Stephanie s words did not es 
 cape Renee, in whose memory was still fresh her 
 conversation with her uncle. 
 
 " I wish you would promise me something," 
 she said, a little reluctantly. 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " Not to speak to me of my plans unless I do." 
 
 " As a condition of your going ? " 
 
 Renee was a little ashamed to say yes, and so 
 remained silent. 
 
 " Well, no, my dear child, I will make no such 
 engagement ; not because I wish to argue with 
 you or to influence you, but because I do not wish 
 you to distrust me even if I do. You are pro 
 posing a truce, as if I were your enemy. Now, if 
 I should happen to differ from you on any point, 
 you must first respect my views, and then you 
 must give me credit for enough delicacy and good 
 sense not to importune or to wound you by forcing 
 them on your notice. That is the condition that 
 
112 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 I should propose to you, and the only one under 
 which we can make any progress together." 
 
 ."Yes, you are right; I know you are," said 
 Re nee, sitting down on the hassock at her feet. 
 "But I was not suspicious, Stephanie; of you, I 
 mean. And if you only know," she said, laying 
 her head down in her lap, " it was myself I wns 
 doubtful of. I don t know- I am perplexed 
 sometimes I want to talk with you. I have 
 been thinking of it ever since you went away. 
 Sometimes I feel terribly lonely." 
 
 Stephanie s hand was on her head, and its soft 
 pressure, as it moved over her hair, was a message 
 of love and sympathy. 
 
 " We won t talk of these things to-night, Renee 
 dear. Put them all out of your thoughts, if you 
 can. You are troubled and nervous. We wiJ 
 make our excursion to Spain together, and when 
 you come back it will be like waking from a 
 sleep ; you will feel refreshed, and your way will 
 appear clearer to you." 
 
 " The only way out of perplexity is decision," 
 said poor Re ne e, resolutely. 
 
 " Yes, my dear, but our perplexity is often the 
 result of too much thinking. Wait a little, and 
 let your mind rest. Do you accept my plan ? " 
 
 " It seems a perfect dream to me." 
 
 " Well, then, we will realize it. When can you 
 get ready ? " 
 
 " I am all ready, that is, there are only a few 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 118 
 
 little things, one of them is to tell M. Mi 
 chel." 
 
 " Do his friends come as usual, on Saturday ? " 
 " I had not thought of it ; we are only just ar 
 rived ; no one knows it." 
 
 " If you go, it hardly seems worth the while. 
 Suppose you should suggest to him that he invite 
 those who were at Beauvais, and perhaps one or 
 two more, and wait until you return to commence 
 his usual receptions. I am anxious to go at once. 
 If you send your invitations to-morrow, perhaps 
 we shall be able to start on Monday. I shall take 
 Lizette, and she will answer for both of us. How 
 little luggage can you take? I will show you 
 what restrictions I put upon myself, if you can 
 come to see me to-morrow." 
 " At what hour?" 
 " At any time in the afternoon." 
 "And what about Madame Valfort?" 
 " You will do as you please, of course ; but if 
 you ask my advice, it would be to leave it with 
 me. You can hardly see her without raising the 
 very question you wish to avoid, while I can ar 
 range it without her even thinking of it." 
 
 " You make all the difficulties vanish," said 
 Renee, lifting her head and looking up into the 
 face above her. 
 
 " Often, dear, they are only imaginary, and 
 sometimes our best road lies round them, not 
 over them." 
 
 8 
 
114 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 Just then the library door opened, and M. 
 Michel appeared on the threshold, the gold rim of 
 his spectacles shining in his gray hair. 
 
 " Why, sister, is it you?" he said, advancing 
 to greet her ; " what a charming tableau ! " 
 
 Rende was still sitting at Stephanie s feet, her 
 elbows in her lap, and her head resting in her 
 hands. 
 
 " Baptiste did not tell me you were here." 
 
 " No, I did not ask him to. I wished to ap 
 proach you by a flank movement." 
 
 " By a flank movement ? " he said, looking from 
 one pair of bright eyes to the other ; " I capitu 
 late beforehand." 
 
 As, in fact, he did ; and when Rende fell asleep 
 that night, it was to build veritable castles in 
 Spain. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 115 
 
 VHI. 
 
 STEPHANIE had not forsaken the pleasant party 
 at Beauvais simply to revisit Kief, and the epi 
 sode at Aix might have enabled Roger to answer 
 Renee s question better than M. Michel. While 
 the latter had been writing history, Madame Mi- 
 levski had had some share in making it, and had 
 narrowly escaped playing therein an important 
 part. 
 
 The political situation in France at this time 
 was disturbed and perplexing. The humiliation 
 of a disastrous war, the bitterness of a terrible 
 civil strife, were still fresh in the public mind. 
 The tread of a foreign host had scarcely died 
 upon the ear, and ruins, yet blackened by smoke 
 and torn by shells, met the eye in the very centre 
 of the capital. 
 
 Republican for eighty years, France still worked 
 persistently at the gigantic task of organization. 
 But for a moment progress again seemed doomed 
 to another check, and once more France faltered 
 between her traditions and her aspirations. 
 
 In the Assembly, factions were numerous. They 
 formed and reformed about important measures, 
 like the battalions of an army about its stand- 
 
116 BUT YET A WOMAN 1 . 
 
 ards ; ever in motion, but without making progress* 
 A vote was the vote of a coalition ; a coalition 
 which straightway thereafter fell asunder. There 
 were those who still rallied round the eagles of 
 that great comedian whose feet, from Boulogne to 
 Sedan, were wet with blood ; there were still 
 those who uncovered their heads before the re 
 cluse of Frohsdorf, and asserted the divine right 
 of kings ; there were the personal adherents of 
 the princes and the constitutional monarchy, the 
 fanatical devotees to the radical republic, and 
 that old guard of democratic conservatism, the 
 flower of French politics, which stood firm amid 
 this chaos around the " liberator of the terri 
 tory." 
 
 Fused for a moment by a common hate, all 
 these factions save one had united against the 
 common enemy, the conservative republic, and M. 
 Thiers was overthrown in May by the Assembly 
 which had apotheosized him in March. 
 
 In the name of order and public security, evok 
 ing the red spectre of revolution before a peo 
 ple which had not yet forgotten the horrors of 
 the Commune, this coalition had called to the^ 
 presidency a tried soldier, whose disinterestedness 
 and nobility of character were unquestioned. 
 But this coalition, held together only by a com 
 mon animosity, was destitute of principles, and 
 therefore had no programme. Successful in its at 
 tempt to overload the Left Centre with the follies 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 117 
 
 and crimes of the extreme republican wing, it had 
 awakened the fears of the people by the old rally 
 ing cry of " social order." But the people asked, 
 What next ? Conservatism, on the 24th, meant 
 social order ; but on the 25th it might mean the 
 monarchy or the empire. Fused for a day, after 
 the skirmish the coalition segregated about the 
 old centres. The Assembly had adjourned ; the 
 people watched and waited. 
 
 It was at this time that one, who for years had 
 been forgotten, was remembered, the First 
 Gentleman of France, and that words almost 
 lost to memory were repeated on every lip, the 
 legitimate monarchy and Henri Cinq. This reac 
 tion was intensified, after the adjournment, by 
 many favoring influences. The cry, " Beware the 
 Red Spectre ! " had a temporary success ; the 
 horrors of the Commune, the follies of the radicals, 
 the errors of the republic itself, inspired fear; ru 
 mors of another Bonapartist coup d etat filled the 
 public heart with uncertainty ; the Orleans princes, 
 representing the constitutional monarchy, had 
 given in their allegiance to their chief, and the 
 royal house of France was again united under its 
 legitimate head ; satisfactory guaranties were ru 
 mored abroad, that the rights acquired by the 
 Revolution would be respected by the throne, 
 liberty of the press, universal suffrage, the right 
 of assembly ; the fleur-de-lys was to be blazoned 
 on the tri-color of the Revolution ; moreover, it 
 
118 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 was the season of pilgrimages to Lourdes, to La 
 Salette, pilgrimages not altogether destitute of 
 political significance ; the vieille noblesse emerged 
 from the retirement into which, during the empire, 
 pride and disgust had led them ; while lovers of 
 tranquillity, who had money in their stockings, 
 hesitated between the uncertain stability of the re 
 public and these promises of a liberal monarchy. 
 
 On the 5th of August took place that interview 
 between the French princes which brought the 
 slowly elaborated plans of the royalists to that 
 point at which they must either succeed or mis 
 carry. 
 
 It was the day before Stephanie Milevski re 
 ceived her summons to Paris. On the 7th, at 
 eleven in the morning, she reached the city, and 
 drove to her hotel in the Boulevard St. Germain ; 
 and, still in her traveling dress, without ascend 
 ing to her own rooms, she entered the door of the 
 salon, where a half score of gentlemen waited to 
 receive her. 
 
 During the period of royalist revival there 
 were numerous salons famous as the rendezvous 
 of the monarchical party, and having a certain 
 political significance. They were graced by the 
 presence of party chiefs, of church dignitaries, of 
 the representatives of the old nobility. They 
 were the foci of attraction for all who dared to 
 hope, for the king; their themes of conversation 
 were the restoration, the salvation of France, and 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 119 
 
 the triumph of the Church over her enemies. 
 But there was another, frequented by few, un 
 known to the many, whence had secretly ema 
 nated many of those favoring influences which had 
 once more turned the public eye in the direction 
 of Frohsdorf, composed of a small circle of sec 
 ondary but important personages, inspired by and 
 under the direction of the great chiefs, instruments 
 in their hands, yet not passive ones, in the forma 
 tion of public opinion and the shaping of public 
 events. It was a small but select circle of men, 
 devoted, intelligent, resolute ; it comprised a gen 
 eral of the army, an emissary of the Order of 
 Jesus, deputies of the Assembly, and journalists, 
 among the latter, M. de Marzac. For more 
 than a year since first the glittering structure of 
 the empire began to give evidence of that rotten 
 ness which predetermined its sudden collapse, this 
 company, united by a common aspiration, had 
 planned and waited. Personally known to their 
 chiefs, but acting without compromising mandate 
 or authority, they had gradually passed from the 
 stage of loyal supporters to that of active agents. 
 On the morning of August 7th they had been 
 charged with a special mission ; none other than 
 the preparations for the entry of the king into his 
 capital. The hour for action was approaching, 
 and the plan was as follows : 
 
 The king was to proceed incognito to Versailles 
 End remain in seclusion ; at a favorable moment, 
 
120 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 when the tide was highest, he was to gather about 
 him the House of France, and appeal to the na 
 tion ; the president was pledged to maintain order 
 and execute the will of the Assembly ; the people 
 wavered between fear of anarchy and love for 
 pence ; it needed only, therefore, that, at such an 
 auspicious moment, the king himself, with his 
 Buite and generals, should enter the gates of Paris, 
 that France herself should recognize him as her 
 safety, and resound once more to the echoes of 
 that old cry, " Vive le roi ! " 
 
 This plan, fully matured in all its details, was 
 not to be submitted to the approval of the king 
 till the decisive hour had come. Subject to con 
 tingencies, it might even be abandoned. This 
 reticence on the part of the conspirators towards 
 the chief actor proceeded from uncertainty as to 
 his own preferences. It was a resource to be 
 held in reserve for the time when, if lie had not 
 himself already taken the initiative, there would 
 be no choice save between it and failure. Nothing 
 indeed had been more remarkable in the history 
 of this illustrious exile than the calm assumption 
 of his divine rights and the complete absence of 
 all thirst for power. He had waited, incapable of 
 intrigue ; the king, but never the pretender. 
 
 The summer passed in uncertainty and nervous 
 ness. The tone of the radical press served to in 
 tensify the reaction. Further concessions to the 
 spirit of the Revolution inclined the people still 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 121 
 
 more to listen to the promise of a wise and stable 
 administration. The Assembly was to convene 
 early in the autumn. It seemed best to take the 
 tide at the flood, and to profit alike by the conser 
 vative union and the political uncertainties which 
 the opening of the Assembly might dispel, It was 
 decided, therefore, to force the issue and to sound 
 the king through an emissary to Frohsdorf. 
 
 " I am going," Stephanie had written to Re nee, 
 late in September, " to make a little journey. 
 You will soon return to Paris. I also. We will 
 then talk together." 
 
 There were reasons, both in the character of the 
 king and in the history of Stephanie s family, why 
 she, a woman, was selected for this mission. Her 
 mother, Rose de Vigny, was the daughter of a 
 leader in the war of La Vendee, who yielded to 
 none of nobler blood in the fervor of his devotion 
 to the cause in which he at last laid down his life. 
 To Rose his only legacy was his uncompromising 
 character, which she in turn had transmitted to 
 her daughter, purified but unimpaired. Sent into 
 Russia for safety while a child, Rose s only mem 
 ory of her father was that of his exploits in the 
 field and his last words on the scaffold : " I com 
 mit my soul to God, whom I do not fear, and my 
 daughter to the king whom I serve." 
 
 But it was an age when royalty was no longer 
 able to pay its debts, and the daughter of De 
 Vigny would have died unremembered had not 
 
122 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 M. Michel s father, who had abandoned France on 
 the fall of Charles X., found bis fair countrywoman 
 living in poverty with an aged aunt in Kief, where 
 he had taken up his abode. M. Michel married 
 her, the phrase is apt, and if she was not 
 altogether happy, it was not his fault, nor hers. 
 Disparity of years is like a grain of sand between 
 the axle and the bed, which, harder than either, 
 cannot be gotten rid of, and scores its furrow in 
 spite of the best lubricants. But God provides a 
 recompense for this, and worse evils ; he had given 
 Rose Michel a daughter. Poverty and exile had 
 reduced her life to a cipher ; when Stephanie 
 came, God wrote a figure before it, and gave it 
 value ; and in this daughter Rose watched for all 
 those qualities which she associated with the mem 
 ory of her father, and in this young shoot her hope 
 foresaw the blossom and the fruit of her own bar* 
 ren tree. 
 
 Soon after Stephanie s birth, M. Michel s death 
 left Rose a large fortune. Upon the soil of France 
 she had resolved never again to step ; and it was 
 with some reluctance, and no little heroism, that 
 she parted from her daughter, and sent her to 
 Paris, to be educated under the care of her 
 brother. 
 
 When, after the completion of her education, 
 Stephanie was summoned from Paris to Kief, it 
 was for the express purpose of being given away ; 
 and all the world admitted that madame, her 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 123 
 
 mother, had made a judicious and fortunate selec 
 tion. As for the Count Milevski, he had barely 
 been presented to the person thus, selected for him 
 unawares before he lost his heart ; there were de 
 signing matrons to aver that he lost his head at 
 the same time, for Stdphanie Michel was not his 
 peer in lineage. But the count, who- wits an en 
 thusiast, thought of but one thing at a- time, and 
 this young girl, fresh from her Paris convent, with 
 her alternate moods of dignity and radiant com 
 radeship, reduced the diplomacy of match-making 
 to the mere minimum of a presentation. 
 
 Father Le Blanc had said of Madame Milevski, 
 when, after an interval of sudden and sharp expe 
 rience, marriage, death, and retirement, she 
 reappeared at Paris : " Whether the sky be clear 
 or full of clouds, the stars continue to rise tran 
 quilly ; she is one of them, and has a destiny to 
 accomplish." Father Le Blanc s simile was not an 
 unhappy one ; but had he seen her at Kief in those 
 earlier days, how might he have likened her to a 
 very star indeed, when, newborn, its exultant 
 pulse of light throbs in the rose-blue of the twi 
 light sky ! 
 
 Stephanie had dreamed some dreams in her con 
 vent school at Paris ; and, like all first dreams, they 
 contained a supernatural element. In some out 
 ward respects tney were surpassed by the reality. 
 The count made a good prince, and the wedding 
 at Kief was a page from the Arabian Nights, even 
 
124 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 if M. Michel had pronounced it like all others. 
 Her lover had been devoted, her husband gene 
 rous and kind. Still she was conscious that some 
 thing was lacking, of falling short of her capaci 
 ties. One might have enumerated to her all her 
 blessings and privileges, still she would have asked 
 in secret, as if the one essential thing was absent, 
 " Is this then all ? " 
 
 Certainly there is this disadvantage in the mar 
 riage system to which Stephanie had been an offer 
 ing, that it reveals what it does not always give, 
 love. It is often a stage trick, wherein the 
 only dupe is the chief personage, who believes all 
 is reality, and wakes to find herself also one of 
 the actors in a comedy. What wonder, after hav 
 ing seen all the court assembled, and every puppet 
 in its place go through with its part in the cer 
 emony ; what wonder, after having discovered 
 what love might be and found an alien on the 
 throne, this comedy should turn into a tragedy on 
 the arrival of the king who comes to claim his 
 own ! 
 
 The experiences through which Stephanie had 
 passed developed her suddenly. There are pe 
 riods in life when circumstances conspire to a 
 growth rapid as that of a week in May ; when 
 influences focus and work sudden transformations. 
 A grief, a disappointment, a success, is a new 
 lens to the eye, changing the entire aspect of na 
 ture. The world spoke of Madame Milevski s 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 125 
 
 affliction without in the least understanding it. 
 Conceding the count to have possessed all which 
 should make his loss an irreparable one, it was 
 still true that he personally counted for little in 
 her feelings. We love the virtues, but we do not 
 fall in love with them. They confirm and nur 
 ture love, but at Stephanie s age they do not give 
 it birth. Other mothers than hers have secured 
 in their white-haired years model husbands for 
 their daughters, as if there were no subtler in 
 fluences in nature than those of sober worthiness 
 and eminent propriety. But if Love is blind, it 
 is because Nature, who will not risk the life of 
 the race on sober second thoughts, is not. We 
 may sip the wine of a forty years experience and 
 descant wisely the while with Joan, who fortu 
 nately possessed the seven cardinal virtues ; but 
 Florimel will still sing beneath Phyllis window 
 panes, and, after leading our Chloe up to the per 
 fect paragon, we discover that she is looking over 
 her shoulder, and that the magnet is in another 
 quarter. 
 
 The world pitied Stephanie as one who had lost 
 the earthly paradise ; and not one of all its dupes 
 read aright this serious-eyed woman, who saw be 
 neath the dominos and could not feed on illusions. 
 The show was well enough, the fiction well sus 
 tained ; the trouble lay in this all too serious spec 
 tator, who came like an intruder into the midst 
 of a joyous carnival. The revelers could not 
 
126 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 gauge the heart of this alien, in which, as the 
 mists of illusion rolled away, there remained the 
 conscious capacity to be and to make the great 
 reality of this caricature. 
 
 The death of Madame Michel, occurring shortly 
 after that of her son-in-law, prolonged and deep 
 ened Stephanie s seclusion. This was a real and 
 serious loss, for, though long separated from her 
 by school life in Paris, absence does not strain or 
 sever the bond of a mother s love ; and no one 
 shall ever know what sacred communion these 
 two held in those silent days when the house at 
 Kief was closed to visitors and the mother s health 
 was failing. Madame Michel herself could re 
 member spring days, and although she had long 
 since learned to take life as she found it, and had 
 been less rebellious than her child, misgivings arose 
 in these closing hours ; there was a resurrection of 
 some forgotten things that had been put away 
 with her wedding slippers, and her last look at 
 the world was through the eyes of her daughter. 
 As she grew more feeble, her anxiety for this 
 child (whom she could not believe to be a woman, 
 and who, alas ! if she were, was only one woman, 
 beginning life alone) increased. When the thought 
 first came clearly before her, that she was soon to 
 leave Stephanie, not for a time, or even a long 
 time, but forever, she was utterly overwhelmed. 
 But before she died this fever of solicitude and 
 apprehension gradually wore away, as she saw the 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 127 
 
 silent development of a self-reliance which had its 
 origin at once in sadness, indifference, and the 
 pride of race. Sitting in her sick-chair at the 
 window, in the summer nights of her last illness, 
 her daughter s hand in hers, Stephanie s wide eyes 
 fascinated her more than the stars; many a time 
 her own sought them furtively and wonderingly, 
 and they filled her heart with both peace and 
 awe. 
 
 At the death of madame, M. Michel had gone 
 to Kief again, and had unhesitatingly urged Ste 
 phanie to return with him to Paris. The thought 
 of leaving her alone in that great house troubled 
 him. He had a vague idea that Paris possessed 
 the balm for all wounds ; a curious, almost pa 
 thetic compound of his salon, a walk in the Bois, 
 a month of Beauvais quiet and boxes of bonbons, 
 plus Renee and himself, constituted the relief in 
 this case, and he shook his head and sighed be 
 tween Kief and Paris as many times as there 
 were stations, over the refusal of his young step 
 sister. 
 
 But Stephanie followed her bent. She enjoyed 
 solitude as one who has so many things to think 
 of, so many questions to settle, that it is indis 
 pensable. She felt as if she had escaped from the 
 toils of a vast net, from the pressure of a great 
 throng, and, like a planet broken loose from its 
 system and freed from all restraints, she went her 
 way through the immense and lonely spaces of 
 
128 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 her own thoughts with a sense of independence 
 and freedom. 
 
 As the months wore away, however, this unnat 
 ural existence stole the color from her cheeks. 
 One day an old physician, who had attended her 
 -ii other and whom she often met in the visits of 
 charity which occupied much of her time, one 
 of those homely country practitioners who make 
 up their arrearage in science by a big heart, large 
 sense, and wide experience, advised her to travel. 
 Madame la Comtesse, as he persisted in calling 
 her notwithstanding the imperial edict, should 
 take her maid and go to Nice, to a thousand 
 places of which this somewhat rusty old gentle 
 man would not be suspected of knowing. But 
 though he had the appearance of a moss-grown 
 stone which had seen the building of Kief, he had 
 rolled over many lands before gathering his moss, 
 and knew how to open up the horizons of travel 
 to Stephanie s eyes. 
 
 When she yielded, and set out from Kief, she 
 thought to preserve her incognito, and to carry 
 the cloud of solitude with her. But the star was 
 too bright to be so hidden. Moreover, society had 
 not lost sight of her; her name revived the story 
 of her marriage and memories of La Vendee. The 
 circle into which that marriage had introduced 
 her was a large one ; one, too, which does not for 
 get wealth and beauty even in misfortune. No 
 sooner had she set foot within its precincts than 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 129 
 
 it sought to reclaim her. At A the wife of 
 
 M. P called upon her ; and at B her 
 
 name was added to the invitation list of Madame 
 la Princesse X . Lizette s duties began to in 
 crease, and she sometimes secretly found fault 
 with madarne for the indifference she evinced for 
 the flowers laid on her dressing-table. 
 
 At Vienna she became acquainted with a French 
 colony of those voluntary exiles to whom France 
 with the empire was not France at all, and with 
 certain pilgrims to the shrine of Frohsdorf. Maj 
 esty itself, though fallen from its high estate, had 
 not lost the habit of blessing, and was very gra 
 cious to her. 
 
 The tranquil atmosphere of this miniature court, 
 its sense of superiority and calm, revived in this 
 heart riot yet full grown, stunned but not broken, 
 something of its old faith in the world and its love 
 of life. Kief, which she had thought never to 
 leave, and which she at first kept in mind as a 
 refuge, was less frequently remembered, and, as is 
 often the case, having once fairly broken with 
 her surroundings, she looked back with dread to 
 that silent house, the very memory of which awak 
 ened so sad a train of recollections. She had be 
 gun to forget them, and to desire forgetfulness. 
 
 Afterwards, on establishing herself in Paris, she 
 fell naturally into the same circle and under the 
 same influences, and when the events which at 
 tended the breaking up of the empire and its fall 
 
130 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 gave shape and life to the long dormant projects 
 for a restoration, she yielded to them with an en 
 thusiasm and interest which at times brought a 
 smile of fine irony to her own face. Perhaps even 
 more than her position, her wealth, her standing 
 at Frohsdorf, and the episode of La Vendee, her 
 peculiar influence and personal magnetism had des 
 ignated her as a leader in the Paris intrigue, and 
 had led to her selection for the task of persuading 
 the king. This personal power gave her a kind 
 of pleasure. Father Le Blanc was rightly puzzled, 
 for she was at a turning point, when it was a ques 
 tion what things in life were to engross her, what 
 her mission was to be, into what definite and final 
 unit the elements of her character were to group 
 themselves under the forces of experience and cir 
 cumstance. This was the mystery which had both 
 interested and perplexed him, as also Roger Lande. 
 The etiquette of Frohsdorf was simple but se 
 vere. Its inmate, readily accessible to all French 
 men, fulfilled to the letter the role of king. All 
 were his subjects upon whom he looked, as upon 
 France, with the love and pity of a true monarch. 
 But the granddaughter of De Vigny possessed 
 titles to more than ordinary favor. Young, beau 
 tiful, courageous, simple and frank in manner, she 
 had made a deep impression upon him during the 
 sojourn of the previous winter in Vienna, and her 
 reappearance at Frohsdorf awakened emotions 
 plainly visible on the calm but indolent face of 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 131 
 
 the Bourbon. Her eyes, never free from a trace 
 of melancholy, were lighted by an unusual fire. 
 
 He addressed her kindly, holding in his hand 
 the papers which she had presented to him. They 
 contained the details of the plan and the assur 
 ances of success. They sketched briefly and rap 
 idly the state of affairs, the readiness of the peo 
 ple, the hopes of old France. They contained the 
 prayers of the Church, the oaths of an army, the 
 pledges of the nobility. As opening them he began 
 to read, a shade of annoyance passed over his face, 
 succeeded by a look of mingled pity, weariness, 
 and dignity. Then he laid them on the table-, 
 and regarded her with that air of sympathy and 
 authority which he had so often breathed into his 
 letters. 
 
 44 All this is impossible." 
 
 " Sire," said Stephanie, who misconceived his 
 meaning, " I come to bring you the devotion of 
 faithful servants, and to such nothing is impossi 
 ble." 
 
 44 I repeat it, it is impossible," he said ; and, 
 taking from the table a letter, he extended it to 
 her. She took it from his hand. 
 
 44 Read it," he said. 
 
 It was that last and famous letter, in which, 
 with the serenity of unalterable conviction, the 
 Count de Chambord ignored the work of the Rev 
 olution without deigning to argue, and declared 
 that as there was no other flag than that white 
 
132 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 one which he had received from the hands of Henry 
 the Fourth, so there was no monarchy beside that 
 which comes not from the people but from God ; 
 that letter replete with the pride, not of arro 
 gance but of calm, which caused the royalist 
 camp, so formidable, so gay with hope and prom 
 ise, to melt away in a day from the political arena, 
 and left its chief, like a feudal castle in the midst 
 of modern civilization, a relic of the past and an 
 object only of curiosity. 
 
 " Sire," said Stephanie, " it is an abdication." 
 u The monarchy of France," he continued tran 
 quilly, as if not hearing her, " is not only a po 
 litical institution, it is a religion. The throne is 
 not the gift of the nation nor a prize for the am 
 bitious, and he who ascends it assists, as did my 
 ancestors, at a sacrament of Heaven. France is 
 not yet ready for the king, and the king cannot 
 be controlled. She still suffers from the frenzy 
 and the stupor of the Revolution, when in hu 
 miliating so cruelly her appointed head she hu 
 miliated herself. To-day, like a drunken man, the 
 fumes of license and scepticism obscure her vision ; 
 she still vacillates and suffers. God grant the ex 
 piation of her sins may soon be finished ! But she 
 is still troubled and agitated. The king is not 
 the head of a privileged class whom you might 
 represent to me, but of France. And France, 
 countess, yet wishes to impose conditions upon her 
 savior. The trust which I received from my 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 133 
 
 ancestors cannot be thus dishonored. When it 
 shall rippear sacred to France as to me ; when the 
 illusions of the present shall have disappeared and 
 she perceives the hollo wn ess of all she now in 
 vokes, she will herself demand without reserve the 
 regime she has dishonored, and will recognize that 
 only in the stainless standard which I represent 
 can she find true security and true liberty. Do 
 not permit your desires to delude you. Repub 
 lican institutions cannot take root in a monarch 
 ical soil. The marriage of two such principles 
 would be monstrous. Bear to the noble defenders 
 of my cause my profound esteem. I am proud of 
 them, for they are France. In these sad days it 
 is sweet to me to remember their faithfulness, and 
 to assure them of my constant friendship. And 
 if you do not survive these times, when so long 
 you have stood in the breach without truce or re 
 pose, God will yet reward you, my child." 
 
 Stephanie listened to these words overwhelmed 
 with dismay and astonishment. Carried away by 
 her hopes, she, with others, had forgotten the un 
 alterable convictions of the king. 
 
 " I was not thinking of rewards, but of France, 
 sire." 
 
 From this interview she came out as one rudely 
 shaken awakes from a dream. No further illusion 
 was possible. All was over. Yet she could not 
 bring herself to reproach the king. Differing from 
 him in her views as she did profoundly, in this 
 
134 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 act there was nothing unkingly, and too much 
 self-abnegation for the suspicion of cowardice. 
 
 All the way back in her long ride from Vienna, 
 she saw this edifice, so long prepared and so ma 
 jestic, crumbling again and again before her eyes. 
 Once, two fellow-travelers, conversing over a news 
 paper, aroused her. 
 
 " It seems Henri Cinq has committed suicide," 
 said one. 
 
 " Well, what difference does it make ! " rejoined 
 the other. " Monks no longer rule the world from 
 monasteries." 
 
 She looked from her window upon the shifting 
 landscape, but observed nothing ; all seemed a 
 blank. So long intent on one object, her mind 
 possessed no rallying centre of thought when that 
 object was withdrawn : so long filled with one 
 figure, her vision seemed to gaze upon vacancy. 
 She recurred again and again to the old theme, 
 only to find it elude her very thoughts. Yet no 
 deep personal interest underlay her disappoint 
 ment. This failure did not compromise her, had 
 not ruined her ; but it had taken out of her life 
 the one absorbing object of thought and activity 
 which had long occupied it, and as the distance 
 from Vienna increased, she dwelt more and more 
 upon this and less upon the king. A sense of 
 personal isolation took possession of her. Had 
 she lived so much upon this intrigue that the se 
 cret of its enjoyment had been self-forgetf ulness f 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 135 
 
 " It would be all the same," she said to herself, 
 " had we succeeded. It was the pleasure of the 
 chase ; in either case, success or failure, I should 
 have been left alone at last with myself." 
 
 She arrived late in Paris. It was a clear night. 
 The streets were full of people and carriages. The 
 lights of the lamps and the cafe s were never 
 brighter. But an aspect of unreality pervaded 
 everything. The carriage taken at the station 
 moved through all these lights and sounds with 
 a horrible slowness. The night was warm, but 
 her hands were cold. She was obliged to wait at 
 the door of her hotel, for the porter did not ex 
 pect her. There was a carriage before it which 
 she did not notice. To the servant who opened 
 the inner door she said, "Send me Lizette." He 
 followed her as if he had something to say to 
 her, but at the head of the large stairway she 
 stopped, there was a light in the small salon 
 where she received her intimate friends, and she 
 entered the room. 
 
 A man was waiting there, M. de Marzac. 
 
136 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " You here ! " she said. 
 
 There was more of weariness than of surprise 
 in her manner. She sank into a chair, as if no 
 one was there to see her, and, leaning her head 
 upon its back, looked vacantly before her. The 
 light above fell on her bare throat, not whiter 
 than her face which, though bearing traces of 
 fatigue, possessed that beauty of pallor belonging 
 to clearly defined features. It was not a happy 
 face, with its weary, restless eyes ; but it was not 
 ennui one saw there, for ennui results from lack 
 of resources, or their exhaustion, but restless 
 ness, that restlessness which belongs to desire with 
 out an object ; and between these two there is 
 the difference of satiety and hunger. 
 
 " Yes, I was expecting you," replied her vis 
 itor, rising and standing before her. His hands 
 were crossed behind his back, but, if one might 
 read his eyes, they were around her. 
 
 "Then you know," she said, without moving 
 except to turn her head till her eyes fell upon 
 him, " it is all over." 
 
 " Yes, I have read the count s letter. All the 
 journals have it." 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 137 
 
 " I have nothing more to tell yon, then," she 
 answered, turning her head away again. 
 
 " I did not come to speak of this ; it is already 
 an affair of the past." He stood still, but his 
 voice seemed to reach out after her as his hands 
 did. 
 
 " You wish to speak of something else ? It is 
 late, and I am very tired." 
 
 M. de Marzac mistook a warning for an excuse. 
 This woman had puzzled him as she had Father 
 Le Blanc, with this difference, that she had also 
 deceived him. He interpreted the oracle before 
 it had spoken. With his natural vanity and ar 
 rogance, he read the puzzle in the light of his own 
 reason, which said, " This woman, beautiful, 
 young, is, to begin with, a woman," and this alpha 
 was also M. de Marzac s omega, and the conclu 
 sion of the whole matter. 
 
 " Do you wish me to defer it ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. Since you are here." 
 
 " Stephanie ! " he said. At the sound of her 
 name, a little shiver of cold ran through her. 
 4 Have you forgotten what day this is? " 
 
 A faint flush rose to her cheeks, and she went 
 to the glass and began to remove her hat. 
 
 " What day ? " she replied, her back towards 
 him. Her manner annoyed him, and a gesture 
 of anger escaped him which she could not see. 
 But he made an effort to control himself and to 
 speak calmly. 
 
138 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " No, you have not forgotten, Stephanie 
 Women do not forget such things. Will you not 
 look at me and let me speak to you? " 
 
 Still she stood before the mirror ; was it his 
 eyes or her own that she wished to avoid? for 
 hers were not lifted. Her bent head, her down 
 cast eyes, the trembling fingers that wandered 
 over the plume in her hat, did not escape him. 
 u They are all the same," he thought to himself, 
 44 in sorrow or danger they will not falter, but 
 when they love " and he drew a step nearer. 
 
 At the sound of his step she suddenly turned 
 full upon him, with that in her eyes and attitude 
 that bade him stop. 
 
 " Stephanie," he began again, pleadingly, " why 
 will you torture me? Have I not waited faith 
 fully ? Why should I be here now, at this hour, 
 the first, after so many, in which my lips are un 
 sealed, if if I did not" But he could not 
 finish. There was that in her eyes which bade 
 him stop again. 
 
 " You are tired," he said, gently. " I am a 
 fool to weary you to-night. No, not a fool" 
 witli a passionate gesture " a madman ! I will 
 come to-morrow." 
 
 Still she stood with one hand resting on the 
 mantel, facing him like a statue, silent and im 
 movable. Perhaps he had expected her to say, 
 " Yes, to-morrow, my friend ; " perhaps he looked 
 to see her lips tremble, or her eyes turn away; 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN, 139 
 
 perhaps that would have satisfied him to-night. 
 But there was no such signal. Her fixed gaze 
 seemed to look him through and through. What 
 she might see there was not a pleasant sight ; 
 that mad thirst for possession which he had stifled 
 and crushed down so many times. M. de Marzac 
 called it love, but it was a love not to be laid 
 bare too soon, this love of self which to his own 
 eyes could make crimes seem virtues, and has made 
 demons appear martyrs. Whatever he wished to 
 say, prudence would at least have bidden him 
 wait, and prudence was M. de Marzac s guiding 
 star. It was even on the point of triumphing at 
 this moment, when she spoke. 
 
 " Well, M. de Marzac, is this all you have to 
 say to me ? 
 
 There was a faint smile hovering about her 
 month that at once annoyed and allured him. It 
 is at times a disadvantage to be a man of the 
 world, for the experience of such is often at fault, 
 even to the extent of misleading innate judgments. 
 In secret, M. de Marzac always had felt this 
 woman to be mistress of herself and beyond his 
 touch, but there were always at hand those for- 
 muke of his creed which weighed and ganged 
 everything, leaving no unknown quantities, her 
 with the rest. And, in the light of this creed, 
 that faint smile said to him, " Patience, and per 
 severance ! " and silenced his misgivings* How 
 strong it was, this creed ! it had become a second 
 
140 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 nature. Aye, and strange, too, for while it led M. 
 de Marzac to sneer at woman, it would have led 
 him also, and for no other reason, to sneer at one 
 who did not bear it witness. 
 
 u A year ago I told you that I loved you, Ste 
 phanie. You would not listen ; you imposed si 
 lence upon me ; you asked the greatest tiling a 
 woman asks of a man, how great, you did not 
 know, a nd I consented. The rOle was not new 
 to me. The Count Milevski was my friend, and 
 I his 9 " he said this proudly, "ask yourself, is 
 it not so? Do you wish to force me to parade 
 that friendship pitiably before your eyes ? No ! 
 it would then cease to be sacred. You would even 
 revolt against the confession that since I first saw 
 you But why ? Do we command our hearts ? 
 No, we can only wall up their cry lest it be heard, 
 or break them. When I brought you back that 
 miniature of yourself which I took from his heart 
 on the way to Siberia, where I accompanied him 
 oh ! then it would have been an outrage ! But 
 I felt it next my own, and when I gave it into 
 your hands it seemed as if in that long journey 
 it had become rooted there, and that in giving it 
 to you I gave you my life. I listened to your 
 inquiries, I saw your tears that did not fall, and 
 you did not know that they lay in my heart like 
 drops of burning lead, and that at every sob you 
 repressed I myself shuddered. What miserable 
 friendship ? Well, I admit it. One does not dis- 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 141 
 
 pute with love one crushes it. And I crushed 
 \t. But tell rne, honestly, will you say that of 
 ill those who paid you the cold courtesy of the 
 world ; who left their cards of sympathy at your 
 door and went to their baccarat without thinking 
 twice of you, I alone was unworthy because, hav 
 ing the misfortune to love you, I could leave Kief 
 with my hand at the throat of this love, bidding 
 it be silent forever? But that is the code of the 
 world," he said, bitterly ; " the man who does not 
 tremble is brave, while he who trembles and con 
 quers is a coward." 
 
 He turned to the window to hide his emotion. 
 The smile on Stephanie s mouth deepened, only, 
 had M. de Marzac seen it now, he would no longer 
 have been at a loss as to its meanin^. 
 
 o 
 
 "Long after," he continued, chance threw us 
 together. Confess that I did not seek it that 
 I even avoided it. I saw you again young, 
 beautiful, unhappy. What reason then prevented 
 me? The debt to propriety was paid, and I 
 spoke to you. Why did you exact from me that 
 promise, that for a year I should not speak to 
 you again of this ? Did you, perchance, imagine 
 that I was a boy to whom a year sufficed for for- 
 get fulness ? Certainly, in fixing that time, you 
 jad some reason; but I did not demand it. I 
 asked no question. I went back simply as a pris 
 oner returns to the solitude from which for a mo 
 ment he dared hope to escape, because you 
 
142 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 asked me. I promised, and that promise has been 
 kept. Day after day I have seen you ; day after 
 day you whom I loved tempted me by your very 
 confidence. Ah, Stephanie, do not believe that a 
 promise is easy, simply because it is kept." 
 
 All the while that smile, half curious, half scorn 
 ful, was on her face ; his words struggled with it 
 as the oar struggles with the current. 
 
 " How do you expect one to love you, M. de 
 Marzac, when one knows you ? " 
 
 It was now too late for prudence. Those words 
 were a challenge. Hate must, indeed, be very 
 close to love; if M. de Marzac s face at that mo 
 ment meant anything he was very near wishing 
 to crush out forever that smile on the lips which 
 goaded him. 
 
 " Insults are not worthy a woman," he said, 
 hoarsely. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders impatiently. 
 
 " M. de Marzac, I would tell you frankly that 
 I do not love you," she said it with a nervous 
 spasm, as when one swallows an unpleasant 
 draught, " if you did not know it already. Your 
 language bears witness to it. But .that does not 
 appear to satisfy you. You have the weakness to 
 protest, to demand an explanation. Have you the 
 courage to wish me good-night ? For, if not, I 
 shall answer the reproaches you have addressed 
 to me." 
 
 " Let us finish with it, madame," he said, be 
 tween his teeth, losing sight of his object. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 143 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 " It is such men as you who give rise to the 
 proverb that the sublime touches the ridiculous. 
 You can stand here before me trembling with in 
 dignation, appealing to every noble sentiment, 
 oh, I give you credit for them ! Noble sentiments, 
 M. de Marzac, are so real, they exist so truly, that 
 even you, when you invoke them, acknowledge 
 their power. You have told your story with such 
 vividness that it appals you : for the time you be 
 lieve it true. You admire and pity yourself even 
 more than you love me. But the clubs are still 
 open. You will yet have your baccarat also to 
 night. I will even allow that you play to distract 
 yourself, and will give you till to-morrow to lay 
 these ghosts of momentary feeling that have dis 
 turbed you." 
 
 " If you were a man I should know how to an 
 swer you." 
 
 " And yet you love me ! Doubtless you would 
 tell me that only those whom we love best have 
 the power to render us completely mad. And you 
 are right, M. de Marzac ; it is yourself with whom 
 you are most incensed, because it is you who have 
 obliged me to unveil that self which you worship, 
 and to expose its character, which your vanity does 
 not always permit you to recognize. I am not 
 the object of your anger except as I am the spec 
 tator of your ignominy. Yes, M. de Marzac, I 
 repeat it," she said, passionately, " your ignominy I 
 
144 BUT YET A WOMAN, 
 
 Do you wish me in addition to telling you that 1 
 do not love yon, to tell you why ? That is a ques 
 tion of which lovers like yourself should beware. 
 Well, no, I will not thus degrade myself. Oh, 
 the insolence of some men ! whose honor is a little 
 circle of ground traced with the point of a sword, 
 and whose love is that miserable counterfeit which 
 they scatter so freely. Do you wish me to tell 
 you what it is that makes your heart quicken its 
 beat and your brain reel, and which you call love ? 
 It is not 1, M. de Marzac, but this perfume which 
 lingers in my glove, and which lasts longer than 
 the passion which it inspires." 
 
 " For a woman who has discovered the value 
 of perfumes, you set your standards high, ma- 
 dame." 
 
 " Yes, M. de Marzac," she replied, calmly, " they 
 are high, higher than you understand ; and when 
 you have learned to respect the shrine without 
 desiring to violate it, you will know how high and 
 how different. Love does not ask for perfec 
 tions," she said, turning away from him and ad 
 dressing herself rather, in a tone from which all 
 anger had vanished, "it asks only for its own. 
 You cannot propitiate it with gifts, nor satisfy it 
 with all the virtues, if you cannot pay it back 
 value for value in its own coin ; and if this tribute 
 be paid," and an expression of exaltation irradiated 
 her face, " it will forgive every weakness. You 
 shrug your shoulders, you no longer understand 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 145 
 
 me. Why should you ! " she said, striking the 
 bell on the table, " every man measures the world 
 with his own measure." 
 
 " You speak with the conviction of experience," 
 he said, with a sneer. " Permit me to congratu 
 late you." 
 
 " What we seek we shall find, M. de Marzac, 
 and when we come to our own we shall know 
 each other." 
 
 As she spoke, the servant, answering the bell, 
 appeared at the door. 
 
 " M. de Marzac s carriage, Jacques," she said, 
 in her usual tone. 
 
 " It is ready, monsieur." 
 
 At the door M. de Marzac paused, as if about 
 to say something, then left the room abruptly. 
 44 Monsieur has forgotten his gloves," said Jacques, 
 following him down the stairs. 
 
 " Keep out from under my heels ! " was the 
 reply. 
 
 " Thanks, monsieur," said Jacques, as he closed 
 the heavy door. " They are perfectly &ew, and " 
 drawing them on "they fit me irarvelously 
 
 well." 
 
 10 
 
146 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 M. DE MARZAC drove through life in his car- 
 riage. He had in his stables all the virtues, 
 blooded animals of the purest race, and on the 
 driver s seat a whip who knew how to control 
 them, called Selfishness. 
 
 With this turnout he gained admission to places 
 from which good honest vices were excluded. 
 
 The idea was not altogether original with M. 
 de Marzac, but he had perfected it to a marvel 
 ous degree. His appointments were faultless, 
 and his driver understood his business ; and no 
 one ever dreamed that it was M. de Marzac him 
 self who sat upon the box, or suspected that the 
 real occupant of the carriage was a lay figure. 
 Nor was M. de Marzac to be blamed for this de 
 ception. Nature had endowed him with a strong 
 imagination, and, as is well known, this faculty 
 creates what it imagines. 
 
 This method of making the journey of life has 
 so many advantages that it is difficult to enumer 
 ate them. Some of his friends, for example, who 
 had boldly harnessed the vices into their equipages, 
 found it difficult at times to prevent them from 
 kicking over the traces. Well-trained and care- 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 147 
 
 fully domesticated as were these wild animals, 
 harnessed with the glittering restraints of society, 
 bred for this most civilized Parisian market, 
 groomed till their coats shone soft and glossy as> 
 the polish of the society which they drew, their 
 wild instincts often proved ungovernable, and led 
 to a catastrophe on the very highway of social 
 display. How much better these quiet and less 
 fiery virtues, a little slow at times, but which, on 
 the other hand, never committed the impropriety 
 of running away with their owner. Their value 
 to M. de Marzac was, of course, wholly due to the 
 peculiar genius of their driver, who had these doc 
 ile animals completely under his control. There 
 was no by-way or cul-de-sac into which he would 
 not venture, and where he could not gracefully 
 turn : and between the hypothetical M. de Mar* 
 zac and the real one, for he, like every man, 
 was an hypothesis which his neighbor never com 
 pletely verified, there was the most perfect un 
 derstanding. Yet this intimacy was not one of 
 which he even admitted the existence. Perhaps, 
 in the earlier stages of his career, he had been 
 more or less aware of the double role he was 
 playing ; but, like all true actors, he had lost him 
 self in his part, till in his eyes, as in those of the 
 spectators, there was no other M. de Marzac than 
 that correct and respectable cue constantly before 
 the footlights. 
 
 He was thus more than the mere juggler who 
 
148 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 deceives the audience, for he deceived also him 
 self. Selfishness, like a robber crab, had taken 
 complete possession of this shell of propriety in 
 which, as in a state carriage, he made the journey 
 of life ; and, at last, he had lost track of his own 
 identity. He? He was himself this varnished, 
 satin-lined vehicle of propriety, which had grown 
 to him like a skin, and the virtues which drew it 
 coursed with his own blood in his veins ! 
 
 He had acquired the habit of doing what was 
 proper, and finally what was right, from mixed 
 motives. Tolerating at first the mixture, he grad 
 ually ignored its unworthy elements, to deny them 
 at last altogether. The propriety of his acts slowly 
 overspread the motives also, and a kind of auto 
 matic process resulted. It was a mill to which 
 any grist might be carried; so that when M. de 
 Marzac, like other honest people, secretly confessed 
 himself not so good as he ought to be, he was des 
 perately worse than he thought lie was. He car 
 ried with him a reversible glass; in observing 
 others he used the large end at the eye ; where 
 self was concerned, the small one. Thus it was 
 that the whole question of right had resolved it 
 self into one of rights, that is, the rights of M. 
 de Marzac. 
 
 He was the last of a good family, and, if one 
 does not mind it one s self, this is rather desirable 
 than otherwise ; if only for the reason that it is not 
 generally so regarded, and thus furnishes an oo- 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 149 
 
 casional opportunity for a feeling allusion. If 
 only M. de Marzac could have displayed for the 
 living the affection which he felt for the dead ! 
 But this was impossible. All the force of his af 
 fection was retroactive. With him it seemed nec 
 essary to have lost, to love at all. He had the 
 air of a man solitary and alone ; far too sensible 
 to seek an open sympathy, or even to pretend a 
 desire for it, still obtaining it and producing a 
 good effect. For this solitude he consoled himself 
 in various ways. Fortunately for his tranquillity 
 these consolations were more agreeable than that 
 for which they consoled him ; but this fact he had 
 forgotten. In his own eyes he was what he ought 
 to have been under the circumstances, and having 
 established this fact he could condone certain 
 efforts to forget this imaginary and unhappy self 
 of his own creation. The transition from indul 
 gence, through compensation, to right, was thus 
 made easy. 
 
 It would be no easy matter to explain the inti 
 macy between M. de Marzac and the young Count 
 Milevski. It was one of those things for which, 
 there is no raison d etre, yet whose existence is 
 beyond question. The theory of the attraction of 
 opposites would not explain it, nor would that of 
 the affinity between similars. It is moro conven 
 ient to fall back upon some unknown principle, 
 as was the custom of the early physicists, and in 
 voke a sentimental caloric. Otherwise one would 
 
160 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 never understand how the Count Milevski, young^ 
 generous, and enthusiastic, should have threaded 
 his way through all the currents of personal mag 
 netism and attached himself to M. de Marzac. 
 
 This attachment began on the occasion of a 
 visit of the count to Paris, during the latter days 
 of the empire. M. de Marzac was then well 
 known through the columns of " L/Univers " as an 
 ardent defender of the monarchy. The articles 
 which appeared over his signature were bold, 
 haughty, and uncompromising; but dignified, fer 
 vent, and forceful. He put a certain honest 
 effort into all he wrote, which won respect even 
 where it did not carry conviction, and which was 
 frequently a source of astonishment to himself. 
 lie was often surprised at the strength of his own 
 arguments. Behind M. de Marzac s mixed mo 
 tives was, of course, a mixed character. Did any 
 one ask why he was a royalist, there was, first, the 
 answer that, as a gentleman of fortune and leisure, 
 with great energies and high principles, he must 
 be something ; that, as a man of prudence and 
 foresight, he was far too sagacious to take passage 
 in the imperial ship of state, already among the 
 breakers ; radical republicanism was a crime, the 
 Left Centre was too prosaic. For M. de Marzac 
 had a vein of romance in his composition ; a true 
 Gallic love for glory, external effect, and decora 
 tive detail. This element of his character passed 
 for chivalry and fearlessness, whereas it was in 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 151 
 
 reality pure vanity. He had the courage of his 
 convictions, in so far as he was convinced they 
 deified him. Before the altars of great principles 
 he did not bow, he stood upon them ; they 
 were the pedestals of a statue. He could contem 
 plate heroic deeds; his dreams for M. de Mar* 
 zac dreamed were woven of imaginary exploits 
 which he was ready to execute at the risk of his 
 life, provided that death rendered him immortal. 
 Let us do him justice ; he would have led a for 
 lorn hope, only it mattered little on which side, 
 provided he led it, and men marveled. There 
 was thus a real foundation for the admiration 
 he inspired, although the warp of good and the 
 woof of evil would have taxed Minos to unravel. 
 Habit had fused them into one solid texture, to 
 analyze and separate which one would have to 
 follow the method of Solomon s famous judgment, 
 and cut the whole asunder with the sword, and, 
 with a like result, it would have destroyed M. de 
 Marzac. 
 
 The count had exacted from him the promise 
 to return his visit at Kief, and, on the eve of the 
 former s marriage, he was urgently reminded of 
 it ; so that when M. de Marzac first saw Stephanie 
 Michel, it was just as she was about to wear the 
 orange blossoms. 
 
 He did not escape the fever of admiration for 
 the young bride which swept over the circle of the 
 count s friends. She bewildered them all. Some 
 
152 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 glances, and some words even, were dropped at 
 her feet which a coquette might have dallied 
 with; but all this admiration was to Stdphanie a 
 part of the pageant. She was bewildered her 
 self. 
 
 The ceremonies terminated with a ball, at 
 which M. de Marzac was, of course, present. As 
 he drives away from the fete in his carriage, a 
 conscience long since subdued, the very clank of 
 whose fetters has become applause, sets his mind 
 at peace with all the world. Once thoroughly 
 mastered, there is no better slave; for none knows 
 better the rough places that need smoothing and 
 the sore spots that need balm. It was a pleasure 
 in which he often indulged, to go on the witness- 
 stand before this conscience, to play the criminal 
 in order to be acquitted ; and, on his way home, 
 he amused himself with this game of solitaire. 
 
 " Well," he thought, " Mademoiselle Michel is 
 now the Countess Milevski." She had made a 
 wonderful bride ; not the least overdressed, for 
 M. de Marzac was a man of faultless taste, and 
 her lithe figure reappeared before him in the dark 
 ness of his carriage as he had seen it under the 
 lights of the ball-room. Oh, yes ! he admired 
 her, as must all men who saw her. A few glasses 
 of champagne, the glitter and perfume of the ball, 
 a clinging fold of lace or the contours of a piece 
 of satin, lustrous and soft as what it covers, 
 what an empire they have I and M. de Marzac 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 153 
 
 smiled. The count, his friend, was a happy man, 
 and deserved to be ; a man of promise, perhaps a 
 little enthusiastic, a little extreme in his views, as 
 the young are apt to be. This " Young Russia " 
 had a great work and a great future before it, 
 if it did not go too far. Parties acquire so terri 
 ble a momentum ! and, if anything, the count was 
 certainly a little too radical, a little over zealous. 
 Patience is a very difficult virtue. It was a pity 
 that he should be so rash in his utterances ; for 
 words and actions, when unripe, destroy one s le 
 gitimate influence. But then, conservatism comes 
 with age. Did she love him ? Why not ! All 
 these accessories of wealth and position, his youth 
 and devoted ness, might well turn the head of one 
 just out from the walls of the convent school of 
 Notre Dame. It was so easy for M. de Marzac 
 himself to fall in love, that he might have been 
 pardoned for drawing a hasty inference. But he 
 was a shrewd observer, and had discovered that a 
 woman s first love does not require such bait, and 
 is an altogether irrational and capricious passion, 
 which sometimes tears usages and conventional 
 proprieties into tatters ! How beautiful she was ! 
 What depths there were in her eyes, how placid 
 and serious they were ! The fire was there, but it 
 had not been lighted ; he had not seen a single one 
 of those glances which betray love. and, in the 
 corner of his carriage, M. de Marzac indulged in a 
 long reverie. What wild, improbable thoughts, or 
 
154 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 hopes, flitted through his mind ! Whatever they 
 were, let us not laugh at them, for are not bold 
 thoughts and hopes, oftener than is supposed, the 
 only parents of great successes ? 
 Envy ? Jealousy ? M. de Marzac never de 
 scended so low. His passions were too shallow. 
 If fate had not predestined the Count Milevski to 
 wake this slumbering princess, why should any 
 one wonder ? The law of chances was against it. 
 
 O 
 
 Still, she was his ; this, at least, was a fact. What 
 an absurd machinery society had invented for 
 pairing the race I It was a matter of pure luck 
 whether or no the parts fitted. Inclinations 
 important elements were like friction, lost sight 
 of till it began its work of bringing the machine 
 to rest. Envy? Nonsense! To think of the 
 good fortune of one s friend is not a crime ! And 
 
 as for what he said to M. Z , whom he had 
 
 known at Paris, where the latter had been in 
 trusted with certain delicate matters of the secret 
 political service of the Russian Empire, and with 
 whom he chatted for a moment before leaving the 
 ball-room, what folly ! He had said nothing 
 which compromised the count. Did not Milevski 
 talk freely with every one ? a little too freely, 
 possibly : but never in confidence. He could not 
 flatter himself that he had been to any degree his 
 confidant; on the contrary, the hint he had dropped 
 
 in the ear of M. Z might reach the count, 
 
 and prove a useful check ; he had himself warned 
 him to be more prudent. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 155 
 
 Do not imagine that M. de Marzac would have 
 permitted another to ask these self-imposed ques 
 tions. So imprudent an intruder upon the domain 
 of private rights would have received a peremp 
 tory challenge, and, on the way to the ground, M. 
 de Marzac would have said to his second, " Bah ! 
 what object could I have ? It is folly to imagine 
 it ! A mere pretext for a quarrel." 
 
 From Kief he went to St. Petersburg, where he 
 soon heard with astonishment of the count s arrest 
 and exile. Ah ! well, then, he was right ; his 
 friend had gone too far, and the police must have 
 had this matter in hand for a long time. He 
 
 would appeal to M. Z , who, of course, knew 
 
 nothing and could do nothing, as he, in fact, told 
 him over coffee and cognac. Could he not obtain 
 a pass for him to accompany the count over the 
 Ural Mountains to Tobolsk, or at least to Perm ? 
 He desired to travel in Russia, and might thus 
 also console a friend. 
 
 In the subjugation of conscience, M. de Marzac 
 wore gloves and avoided brutality. His was the 
 instinct of perversion, not of murder. Instead of 
 slaying that inward monitor outright, he con 
 fronted it with expediency, and taught it to doubt 
 its own dictates. He thus managed to preserve 
 the fountain of fine emotions and noble senti 
 ments, although the waters were soon contami 
 nated and polluted. He was ever looking abroad, 
 and ran the impulses of his better nature into the 
 
156 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 mould of expediency. He walked on the sands, 
 where footprints never linger long, so that when 
 any one said to him, " See ! this is the way you 
 must have passed," he could answer simply, 
 " Show me the proofs ; there are none, and you 
 are mistaken." 
 
 When, with his passport duly signed, he joined 
 the escort of the count, there was in his heart a 
 spark of real pity and sympathy, and the capacity, 
 oh, only the capacity ! for an equally real 
 treachery. 
 
 He had no plan ; M. de Marzac never had any ; 
 his theory of life did not include the creation of 
 opportunities. Events, like torrents, rushed down 
 the slope of time under laws beyond his control ; 
 man -was the leaf in the stream, fortunate indeed 
 if he desired to go whither he was perforce obliged 
 to. This did not prevent him from acting at times 
 m his own behalf, prudently and deliberately, as 
 every struggling swimmer would, who was bound 
 to make the best of his situation. But, weighed 
 in the force of the torrent, what mattered in the 
 long run such insignificant efforts? Life was a 
 vast machine, intricate, delicate in its infinite de 
 tails, but ponderous and remorseless; a machine 
 altogether out of joint, for which he was not ac 
 countable; with which a thousand busybodies 
 were forever interfering, and of which he was an 
 irresponsible part ; irresponsible, not because he 
 could not do his part well, but because the whole 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 157 
 
 affair was in such a chaotic jungle of cross pur 
 poses that it made no difference. 
 
 The count would have gone to destruction en- 
 tirelv independent of M. de Marzac ; and if, in 
 the loneliness and privations of Siberia, a wife 
 was made a widow it was not an unreasonable 
 supposition. God forbid it should come to pass ! 
 Madame could not have learned to love her hus 
 band very deeply, a mere child out of a con 
 vent, and, moreover, not a woman who was 
 owned simply because she had been bought. 
 What compensations life brought I And M. de 
 Marzac fell asleep in the wagon beside his friend, 
 whose buoyant nature had been crushed at the 
 first blow, and who made the entire journey in a 
 stupor. 
 
 All that is known of that journey is what M. 
 de Marzac told on his return ; and while he came 
 back with the prestige of faithfulness to a friend 
 in disgrace, and devotion at the couch of a malig 
 nant fever, he was to his annoyance, strangely 
 enough taken at his own price, granted a pain 
 ful half-hour with the countess and her mother, 
 and dismissed with the latter s blessing. 
 
 He returned to Paris to reswne control of L Uni- 
 vers ; " to fill its feuilleton with brilliant sketches 
 of life in Russia, to wage a literary war on the 
 empire, and to defend the Church against the rad 
 icals. He illustrated the saying, " The nearer the 
 throne, the farther from royalty ; the nearer the 
 Church, the farther from God " 
 
158 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 When, later, his ability, prudence, and pen des 
 ignated him as one of the u petite societe " of the 
 h6tel in the Boulevard St. Germain, he was aston 
 ished to find its mistress and his coadjutor none 
 other than the woman whom he had left at Kief, 
 and whom he had forgotten as a dog sleeps, 
 with one eye open till it should be worth while 
 to remember her. 
 
 Clearly it was Fate that had thrown this woman, 
 free and alone, in all the splendor of matured 
 beauty, across his path. For the first time he 
 now really began to love her, although he could 
 afterwards say to her as he did, and believe it, that 
 he had loved her all the while. M. de Marzac 
 must have played baccarat well, if he shuffled 
 cards as he did words. He had indeed desired 
 her from the first ; and between now and then 
 the difference in the possibilities of success was 
 the only difference. In weighing these possibili 
 ties, he had this excuse, that with him Stephanie 
 was really provocative. It was not long before 
 sha read both his passion and his nature. Her 
 insight was keen, and this, with her tact, made 
 her at times appear to him reckless, or at least 
 daring, when in reality she was so sure of herself 
 and so indifferent to him that he counted for noth 
 ing. In exacting from him the promise of a year s 
 silence, after his offer, she gave some ground for 
 the reproaches he made her the night of her return 
 from Frohsdorf. Waiting always taxes patience, 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 159 
 
 and he had been waiting to no purpose. Had he 
 not composed himself, like a fox in the sun, under 
 the fruit that is destined to fall in due season ? 
 But Stephanie felt an instinctive aversion to him. 
 If there was any bitterness in her nature, he ex 
 cited it. The honey of his words and the gilt of 
 his exterior was a perpetual reminder of what she 
 was endeavoring to forget , he stood for her as 
 the symbol of what she despised, and she could 
 not forbear to play with him. To this little com 
 edy she consented as the lioness, sleeping disdain 
 fully with half-closed eyes, consents to the gam 
 bols of a mouse in her cage. 
 
 M. de Marzac had not thus lived in vain, . 
 since he extracted and conveyed away the gall and 
 bitterness of a great nature. 
 
160 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 XI. 
 
 MADAME VALFOKT had resigned her claims 
 over Rdne e, as Stephanie had prophesied. 
 
 " 1 am very glad that you are to remain near 
 her," she had said to Stephanie, " and that she will 
 have your experience to direct her. You can over 
 see and counsel her so much better than I, and 
 with so much more propriety. I really owe you 
 an apology for venturing to intrude at all ; but M. 
 Michel did not seem to realize that she might be 
 making a great mistake, and it seemed to me that 
 before so young a girl takes a step as decisive as 
 that she had in mind, her knowledge and her vision 
 of life ought to be enlarged and widened. This 
 journey with you will be admirable for her in 
 every way, and I congratulate you on the thought 
 of it, as I shall do her on the delightful prospect 
 before her." 
 
 " You must not congratulate her too warmly," 
 Stephanie said, quietly. 
 
 " Oh, I fancy she has read me already. She 
 is very quick and clear-sighted, that is, as far 
 as she sees, and I had no idea of deceiving her. 
 Indeed, I did not rely upon myself at all. I sim 
 ply wanted her to meet people, in short, to coino 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 161 
 
 out of herself, and, if these influences had failed 
 to divert her, I could have used no others." 
 
 Renee had followed Stephanie s suggestion, and, 
 >esicle the party which was at Beauvais, only the 
 Baron Scherer and Madame Valfort had been in 
 vited to the Rue du Bac. But for an unexpected 
 incident, this last gathering before her departure 
 would have been a reunion en famille. But M. 
 Lande had met M. de Marzac the- night before, 
 and, in the innocence of his heart, had imparted 
 to him the information that M. Michel had re 
 turned, and would receive the next evening as 
 usual. 
 
 It might be supposed that M. de Marzac would 
 not care to go where he was quite sure to meet 
 the woman who had so cruelly repulsed him. The 
 rebuff had been so unexpected, so full of scorn, 
 that many a man in his place would have avoided 
 the encounter. But in defeat pride is the back 
 bone of courage. The salon of M. Michel was 
 not one of those crowded ones, in the perpetual 
 coming and going of whose guests his absence 
 would have been unnoticed. Its habitues were 
 few and constant, and in the eyes of one woman 
 at least his absence might be construed in a man 
 ner mortifying to his vanity. 
 
 And then M. de Marzac s emotional nature re- 
 3tnbled somewhat India-rubber, which, after re 
 ceiving a deep impression, regains its form readily. 
 When the first smart of his interview had passed 
 
 11 
 
162 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 he began to reproach himself angrily for his lack 
 of restraint and loss of temper. He had thrown 
 the game away ; and he felt now more keenly this 
 his own folly than the caustic words of Stephanie. 
 He had chosen the very day on which his pro 
 bation ended, partly because he was impatient, 
 but mainly because it was a day of defeat and 
 disappointment, and he had calculated the effect 
 of failure and despair upon this mind, so long oc 
 cupied with a great ambition. When the storms 
 blow about the great peaks of achievement and 
 ambition, the heart seeks shelter in the green val 
 leys of affection which lie at their base. It were 
 a fit time, indeed, for the lover to open his arms ; 
 but a lover who is not loved is no better than a 
 statue ; and when he made this discovery, instead 
 of offering that mnte sympathy which inspires grat 
 itude, that disinterested love which may yet win 
 something by resigning everything, he had pressed 
 his own interests, and a moment of impatience 
 had destroyed the work of a whole year. It was 
 the mistake of a tyro to allow a look, a word, to 
 overcome prudence and to convert him into a 
 madman consumed .by his own passion. To a 
 sense of the ignominy of his defeat succeeded an 
 angry self-exasperation for the folly which had 
 contributed to it, and the desire to retrieve him 
 self. Pride, more than love, had been outraged, 
 and wounded pride is like a general who sacks the 
 city he cannot keep. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 163 
 
 But M. de Marzac had not yet wholly given 
 himself over to thoughts of revenge. He still 
 hoped. The picture of himself which Stephanie 
 had so mercilessly unveiled had become indistinct. 
 He thought less and less of himself as she painted 
 him, and more and more of her. He remembered 
 that if he had lost his self-control, she had also. 
 " In anger, divide by two," he thought. " Women 
 are so intense ! A little heat, and directly they 
 are sublimated ! " By dint of repeating this he 
 succeeded in dulling the sense of certain words of 
 hers which he could not altogether forget. And 
 that which made these lame excuses walk, and 
 gave body to this thin argument, was the thought 
 of her, his love for her he would have said; 
 and it is a word to which he has the right, as 
 have other people, the thought of her as he had 
 seen her so many times in the year just passed. 
 On the sensitive plate of his senses all these images 
 were stamped indelibly, and they drew him back 
 to her, and asserted their power over him, as on 
 that evening when he stood in her presence. That 
 very presence which filled his eyes had been more 
 potent than the words which rung in his ears. 
 
 M. de Marzac was hungry ! He had been starv 
 ing for a whole year. 
 
 There were times, it is true, when the recollec 
 tion of that evening was so vivid that it seemed 
 he must admit that his theory of woman, based 
 though it was upon some actual experiences in 
 
164 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 which a stormy and protracted contest had ter- 
 
 ainated in capitulation, had its exceptions. But 
 
 1 M. de Marzac s theory there were no exceptions, 
 
 _*nd what seemed to be such fortified the rule. 
 
 There was another lover ! 
 
 Who was he ? It was not the first time M. de 
 Marzac had thought of such a contingency ; but 
 this thought now possessed a new force, and on 
 his way to M. Michel s he searched the list of his 
 acquaintances, but in vain. Madame Milevski s 
 name was not one of those which circulate at the 
 club, between a smile and an innuendo, not the 
 less understood because it lacks precision. Still, 
 the lover must exist. The logic of his theory was 
 irresistible. If he failed, it was because another 
 succeeded. Well, then, perseverance, or revenge! 
 
 As he entered the room, a rapid glance assured 
 him that she had not yet come. 
 
 Rene*e received him with her usual grace and 
 simple-hearted cordiality. She was not yet old 
 enough to know the wolf from the lamb, except as 
 each wore his own skin. She was looking remark 
 ably well that evening. The prospect of so sud 
 den and complete a change, as her journey with 
 Stephanie involved, added to her face what it had 
 to her thoughts, anticipation and exhilaration. 
 
 " Mademoiselle has been so improved by her 
 immer at Beauvais," old M. Lande had said as 
 8 greeted her that evening, " I can hardly rec 
 ognize her. That is a compliment not very well 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 165 
 
 turned, but I was not thinking of paying you 
 one." 
 
 Re ne e was none the less pleased with it, how< 
 ever. She had not reached that period which 
 comes to a woman, when every line and contour 
 of the face is known by heart ; and, before her 
 dressing-table that evening, the tall candles had 
 shown her in the glass a face which was a veri 
 table surprise ; and M. Lande s expression of pleas 
 ure was no more sincere or harmless than her own 
 had been, when, standing before the long mirror, 
 a figure she had never before seen stepped out 
 from its dark background, fastening about its neck 
 the pearls M. Michel had given her that very aft 
 ernoon. This was a custom he had observed 
 ever since she was a little girl, to bring her 
 Saturday evening some gift, a book, a box of 
 bonbons, a plant for her window, or a flower only. 
 It was, perhaps, his way of making good a con 
 scious deficiency in attention to his niece, or, per 
 haps, it was, constitutionally, the only way in 
 Avhich he could evince a secret tenderness for her. 
 Many a nature which, like his, seems sealed to 
 the ordinary observer, has these back windows 
 which it opens shyly now and then to a few priv 
 ileged ones, disclosing the same heart which oth 
 ers, with equal naturalness, wear on their sleeve. 
 Usually, on Saturday evening, M. Michel brought 
 his offering in person : but these pearls he had 
 quietly placed on ReneVs table, where she found 
 
166 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 them on going to dress; and no one will ever know 
 whether this bashfulness was due to the unusual 
 magnitude of the gift, or whether both the gift 
 and the giving were the confession of an affection 
 which insisted upon escaping restraint now that 
 its object was about to take wing. 
 
 Yes, she looked really charming to-night. Her 
 beauty had suddenly assumed a value which it 
 had not before possessed, as when a statue, seen 
 in some new or stronger light, seems all at once to 
 breathe; and it caused M. de Marzac to say to 
 Madame Valfort, 
 
 " Mademoiselle Michel is no longer a child ; she 
 is a woman." 
 
 " And that surprises you? " 
 " The transformation is common enough, to be 
 sure, but it is not always so ravishing. * 
 " You are late in discovering it." 
 "I? late?" 
 
 " Yes, late, as usual ; but not you particularly. 
 You gentlemen see only what is thrust under your 
 very eyes." 
 
 " There is not sun or light enough in the Rue 
 du Bac for such a flower," said M. de Marzac, fol 
 lowing Rdnde with his eyes. 
 
 " She will find enough of both in Spain." 
 " In Spain ? " he said, looking up with sm> 
 prise. 
 
 " Do you not know she is going to Spain ? She 
 leaves next week, with Madame Milevski." And 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 167 
 
 while Madame Valforfc was confiding to M. de 
 Marzac the history of this proposed journey, the 
 door opened, and Roger entered. 
 
 On coming back from Beauvais, Roger had en 
 deavored to persuade himself that he had been 
 dreaming. The realities of life, and his work, 
 seemed on his return more than ever attractive ; 
 for he had really been in need of rest, and he came 
 back with that zest and elasticity which an active 
 man always experiences after a temporary relax 
 ation. When a vision of that wooden seat by the 
 water s edge under the rocks of Mont St. Jean 
 came to him, he put it away with thoughts of the 
 long row of cots at the H5tel-Dieu St. Luc, the 
 lecture he was to deliver, or the appointments 
 which filled his calendar. And yet, when first he 
 saw the black figure of Soeur Ursule ag;iin, he 
 started, as if he expected to see Renee s face under 
 its black veil ; and when the day, with its absorb 
 ing work, was over, and night came with its mo 
 ments of quiet loneliness or weariness, it required 
 sometimes the hurried ring of his door-bell to 
 banish a pair of gray eyes and drown the tones of 
 a sweet voice. 
 
 M. Lande had not expected so ready an acqui 
 escence when he called at his son s room to urge 
 his acceptance of M. Michel s invitation. He was 
 accustomed to meet with an excuse and a refusal. 
 But men of strong will and firm purposes make 
 sudden changes which are thoroughly in keeping 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 with their character. Inflexible as they are, for 
 this very reason when they yield, it is like a brit 
 tle bar which snaps, but does not bend. They 
 give none of the external signs of resistance ; all 
 their tension is within. When M. Lande an 
 nounced ReneVs departure for Spain, Roger laid 
 down his book and promised to follow him. He 
 was on the watershed of resolution, and this sin 
 gle remark, accidental and trivial as the stone 
 which, in the path of the current, determines its 
 direction, had decided him. The pros and cons 
 are often so evenly balanced in our lives that the 
 decision depends upon whether the next event be 
 odd or even. M. Lande was pleased. This man 
 was still "his little Roger." He was always de 
 lighted to accompany him anywhere, for he was 
 proud of him, and at such times had the air of 
 saying, " This great man is my son." But, be 
 sides this pardonable vanity, the fact that Roger 
 appeared in the least to be letting go some theories 
 and views of life he had always combated gave him 
 the greater pleasure, and he went away saying to 
 himself, " After all, it is not what he does, but 
 what he snys only, which troubles me." 
 
 Roger thought Reside received him coolly. As 
 if the phases of our feelings always matched I Or, 
 were this the case with Rdne e, as if she would 
 havo permitted him to know ifc ! There was no 
 lack of warmth in the greeting he received from 
 M. Michel or from Father Le Blanc, neither of 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 169 
 
 whom he had seen since his return ; but the con 
 versation into which he was drawn for the 
 gentlemen were discussing the political events of 
 the day failed to interest him. He looked over 
 constantly to the corner where Renee had joined 
 Madame Valfort and was chatting with M. de 
 Marzac, to no purpose, however, for M. Scherer 
 was speaking, and, like an ancient oracle, must be 
 listened to with respect. 
 
 " No," he was saying, " even if the monarchy 
 had been restored, it would have had a brief day. 
 The chiefs shook hands, to be sure, but the armies 
 never united." 
 
 "Then you were not deceived by all these pour 
 parlers," said M. Lande. 
 
 " Not in the least." 
 
 " I am glad of it. I do not like to wake in the 
 morning to find I have changed my domicile. Last 
 night I lived in the Rue du Deux Decembre, this 
 morning in the Rue du Quatre Septembre, and I 
 was afraid to-morrow it would be Rue Henri 
 Cinq." 
 
 " We make history so fast in our dear France," 
 said Father Le Blanc. 
 
 " Too fast ! too fast ! One is obliged to ask 
 like Greuze, And who is king to-day ? 
 
 " The monarchy of Henri V., messieurs, is to 
 day an impossibility," continued M. Scherer. 
 "The alliance between the count and the princes 
 was a mere formality, as one pauses at a door 
 
170 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 to say, * You first, monsieur, and then enters. 1 
 have known the count too long to share the belief, 
 so seriously entertained, that he was about to give 
 France a liberal monarchy. It seemed for a time, 
 perhaps, that he was about to yield," he said with 
 a shrug, "but those who assumed to speak for him 
 did not comprehend him. In the hope of success, 
 they promised too much, and in the end would 
 themselves have been no less royal than the king. 
 In politics, temperament is stronger than promises, 
 and outlives them." 
 
 " And principles are stronger than tempera 
 ment," said Father Le Blanc. 
 
 " Principles regulate governments, but do not 
 determine them. Governments are like garments ; 
 we outgrow them and seek new ones." 
 
 u Exactly," said the priest ; "and I, who always 
 wear the same one, quarrel with the fashion." 
 
 " You make my comparison go on all fours," 
 said M. Soberer, with a deprecatory gesture. 
 " Humanity is the determining factor ; the gov 
 ernment follows where it leads. If you wish per 
 manence in this form and society which envelops 
 man, arrest his development. One is only the 
 expression of the other. Between the two there 
 is the sign of equality ; or, if not," with another 
 shrug, u why, then, revolution restores the equi 
 librium. I hold to my simile in its original sense. 
 The nation is a growing child; if his government 
 does not fit him, he will burst the seams, and the 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 171 
 
 only remedy is to give him a new one, or, like the 
 Bonapartists, put him in a strait jacket." 
 
 The door opened again, and Stephanie entered. 
 There was a hush as if by magic. M. de Marzac, 
 who had been waiting for this moment, with eyes 
 riveted upon her face, watched her every move 
 ment, as he would scrutinize an adversary at a 
 distance, before advancing to engage his sword. 
 Renee went forward to meet her eagerly. He felt 
 her eyes as, in their survey of the guests, they 
 passed over him without recognition, and saw 
 them rest for a moment upon Roger Lande. Was 
 it only his jealous fancy ? Or did they rest there 
 as on the person for whom they were searching ? 
 
 Roger profited by this interruption to approach 
 Rene e ; and Stephanie, after exchanging a few 
 words with the gentlemen who had come forward 
 to meet her, advanced straight to the sofa where 
 Madame Valfort was sitting with M. de Marzac. 
 
 " Quelle diable de femme ! " thought the latter. 
 But he was a man of self-possession. The swords 
 were crossed, and he felt the nerve which the du 
 elist gains when he feels the strength of his op 
 ponent s wrist. 
 
 " M. de Marzac has been amusing me by rela 
 ting the discoveries which he has made," said 
 Madame Valfort. 
 
 41 He has been entertaining me in a similar 
 manner. What is this new one which you find so 
 amusing ? " 
 
172 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 44 He has just found out that our little Re*ne*e is 
 adorable." 
 
 44 You give me a credit which I see does not be 
 long to me only," replied M. de Marzac. "Look! 
 It would seem that M. Lande has also made this 
 discovery." He was still watching Stephanie s 
 eyes, and, although they neither met his nor 
 avoided them, he was confident that he had made 
 a second discovery of far more importance. 
 
 44 Really," said Madame Valfort, looking at the 
 two young people, who were in a most earnest 
 conversation, 44 it seems so. What Argus eyes you 
 have ! " and, turning to Stephanie, 44 Your voyage 
 to Spain may not prove necessary." 
 
 44 Or more than ever so," said M. de Marzac. 
 
 " Why so ? You have accorded to mademoi 
 selle beauty, and you must admit M. Lande has 
 talent. It would be an admirable match." 
 
 44 Shall I offer you a glass of Malaga, madame ?" 
 said M. de Marzac to Stephanie, taking the silver 
 flagon from the tray which Baptisle presented 
 him. 
 
 44 Ask M. Michel what vintage it is," she replied, 
 coolly. <4 New Malaga is intolerable." 
 
 M. de Marzac flushed. This question, so im 
 possible for a guest to ask of his host, was an 
 intimation he could but accept. But he did not 
 flinch, and, appearing to accept the mission as 
 naturally as it had been given to him, bowed and 
 retired. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 173 
 
 " Ma chSre, vous etes un pen mordante," said 
 Madame Valfort, laughing. " But the temptation 
 excuses you. And the wonder is he will value 
 YOU none the less for it. By being too good one 
 becomes actually stupid." 
 
 But Stephanie scarcely heard her. On M. de 
 Marzac s withdrawal she had for the first time 
 looked over at Renee. 
 
 " So you are going away, to leave us, made- 
 moiselle," Roger was saying to her. 
 
 " I can hardly do one and not the other," she 
 replied. " And it takes away from my pleasure 
 in going to think that my uncle will miss me. He 
 does not say so, but I know he will." 
 
 44 And so shall I." 
 
 " You ! M. Lande ? " 
 
 " Why not? " he said, gently. " Am I to be 
 the exception to all your friends ? You will not 
 deny my claim to the title, will you, mademoi 
 selle ? " 
 
 Words are nothing, save as we dwell in them. 
 The same sentence may be a sword of flame or of 
 steel, as we ourselves are cold or hot, or, if indif 
 ferent, as we often are in going through the sham 
 fights and parades of society, a stage weapon with 
 neither edge, point, nor weight. Any of ReneVs 
 acquaintances might thus have claimed admission 
 to the circle of her friendship, or expressed a regret 
 at her departure, in those self-same words, without 
 sending the blood up where the pearls lay about 
 
174: BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 her throat. In Roger s question, simple as it was, 
 and quietly asked, there was a meaning which lay 
 neither in its form or its tone, and it pressed like 
 a strong arm against the door of her heart. 
 
 And Father Le Blanc, who at that moment 
 happened to be looking at Madame Milevski, 
 for her face always attracted him, discovered a 
 sadness in it he had not seen before. Was it only 
 that, being supposed to have had her day, the 
 scene which was passing under her eyes, and which 
 Father Le Blanc saw also, made her realize it ? 
 But she seemed herself too young, and too beau 
 tiful, to have had all her day. Or was there 
 something in that past of hers, thought he, which 
 dragged upon her even more heavily as she 
 looked at Rende ? Time, it is true, covers over our 
 pains and our sorrows ; experience overlies them 
 in layers ; but they are there, even when forgot 
 ten ; and we drag them after us as weights, or 
 carry them as scars, no matter how easily Time 
 may bribe Memory. " A woman begins to grow 
 old as soon as her dream is over," he thought. 
 " But then," said this shrewd old observer to him 
 self, looking from Roger to Stephanie again, " ono 
 may grow sad because a dream just begun cannot 
 be realized ! It is quite possible ; they would be 
 worthy of each other. Bah ! This wise Nature 
 of whom we hear so much nowadays sows at ran 
 dom, with her eyes shut ! 
 
 Roger was unconscious of both Stephanie s gaze 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 175 
 
 and the priest s reflections; as also of Baptiste, 
 who had brought a message, and was finally obliged 
 to say, " Monsieur ! " aloud, to make known his 
 presence. 
 
 44 Say that I cannot go," said Roger, on hearing 
 it; "that I will come to-morrow." 
 
 44 The messenger says that it is urgent, and that 
 his master will take no refusal." 
 
 Roger s eyebrows contracted, but he said noth 
 ing, and Baptiste retired. 
 
 " I wish you would go, M. Lande," said Renee, 
 timidly. 
 
 " Why ? " he said, surprised. " If I were to 
 obey every call, I should neither eat nor sleep." 
 
 44 But the call of distress. I could never ac 
 custom myself to it, and, after refusing it, could 
 neither eat nor sleep. Time, monsieur, is so pre 
 cious to the sick and to the dying." 
 
 Her earnestness disconcerted him. 
 
 44 If you should regret it, if, on my ac^ 
 count " 
 
 44 1 do not refuse on your account. I stay to 
 please myself. But," he added, for he saw Rende 
 vvas in earnest, 44 1 will go to please you." 
 
 44 You make me appear unreasonable, where 
 as " 
 
 " No ! on the contrary," he interrupted again, 
 " it is I who appear selfish, for it will give me 
 more pleasure to go, now, than to stay. Good- 
 by/ he said, rising. 4t I shall not see you again." 
 
176 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " Good-by," she said. 
 
 That was all. But she was conscious for the 
 first time of a sovereignty, and the sense of pleas 
 ure in her heart escaped to her face. He saw it 
 there as she looked up, and it repaid him. 
 
 He made his excuses to M. Michel, and then 
 crossed the room to say good-by to Stephanie. 
 He felt towards her that sympathy which we have 
 for the woman who knows our secret and has thus 
 become our confidante. But she did not take up 
 the conversation where it had been left that sum 
 mer night on the ride back from the Chateau of 
 Beauvais. She seemed a little railleuse ; why, he 
 did not know; and, as he left, this provoked him 
 to say : 
 
 " I gave your message to my friend." 
 
 " Ah ! " she replied. " I hope he proved ra 
 tional." 
 
 " Would you consider him irrational if he dif 
 fered from you ? " 
 
 " Why make needless suppositions ? " 
 
 " To see what you would say." 
 
 " I should say nothing." 
 
 "Yet you once gave him advice." 
 
 " Only to take counsel with himself, which is 
 very simple if one is honest." 
 
 " Will you permit me to ask you a question? " 
 he said, bluntly. 
 
 kk A second one ? Certainly." 
 
 "Are you taking Mademoiselle Rene*e to Spain 
 because of me ? " 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 177 
 
 " I might say yes, and not be your enemy,* 
 Bhe replied. 
 
 He hesitated a moment, and their eyes met. 
 He thought of what Father Le Blanc had said. 
 " One never sees the bottom." But this did not 
 inspire distrust. The light of those eyes was as 
 pure and steadfast as that of a planet. If he had 
 been in doubt as to her meaning, that look scat 
 tered every misgiving. 
 
 " Madame, it is impossible for you to deceive 
 me!" 
 
 She misunderstood him willfully. 
 
 " I think you could be deceived very easily, M. 
 Lande." 
 
 " Not by you. You are incapable of it." 
 
 " On the contrary, I am deceiving you this in 
 Btant." 
 
 She laughed nervously, and he regretted the 
 directness of his compliment. 
 
 " And yet I am content. Well, I wish you a 
 pleasant journey. Good-night," he said, reluc 
 tantly. He wished the wall were broken down. 
 
 " Good-by," she replied. 
 
 1* 
 
178 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 xn. 
 
 ON the afternoon of the day preceding that of 
 Madame Milevski s departure with Renee, Father 
 Le Blanc set out from his lodgings in the Rue 
 Tiquetonne, and crossing the Rue de Montmartre 
 which led to St. Eustache, turned into the Rue 
 J. J. Rousseau. This was a sign that he was going 
 out for a promenade, wherein he always blended 
 pleasure with duty ; and Stephanie, in her account 
 of the manner in which he surveyed the view from 
 the chateau at Beauvais, had exactly described 
 the manner in which he took his enjoyment. 
 
 For all the many times he had passed down the 
 Rue J. J. Rousseau, he had by no means ex 
 hausted its resources. He stopped before every 
 window, in which he was ever discovering some 
 thing new, and he kept up a running commentary 
 upon all he saw, mingled with a soliloquy on things 
 human and divine. At the corner of the Rue 
 Coquilliere he hesitated, as usual : he was mak 
 ing up his mind whether he should turn to the 
 right and pass by the Palais Royal through the 
 Place du Carrousel, or to the left over the Pont 
 au Change. The former route would have led him 
 to the bookstalls on the Quai Voltaire, the latter 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 179 
 
 through the lie du Palais, both of which places 
 possessed for him a strong attraction. He decided 
 on the first, and entered the Palais Royal by the 
 Rue Baillif. Here it was not so much the glit 
 tering shops which interested him, as the garden 
 with its children and shaded seats; nevertheless, 
 with his hands crossed behind his back, he never 
 failed to examine the brilliant display of wares 
 multiplied by the reflecting mirrors, or to stand 
 for a moment, as if he saw it for the first time, 
 before the glass dial plate over whose transparent 
 face the skeleton hands moved mysteriously, urged 
 by an invisible power. 
 
 But Father Le Blanc used his eyes judiciously 
 For certain windows he had a supreme contempt. 
 Paste diamonds failed to hold him for a moment ; 
 he had no love for vases simply because they were 
 made by an Arab in Tangiers, or for sleepy-look 
 ing women, sitting tranquilly upon nothing, sim 
 ply because they were painted in Japan. The 
 novel and the bizarre never blinded his keen eye 
 for the beautiful, and he did not tarry long before 
 objects whose claims to consideration rested only 
 on their being old, or from over-seas. If one would 
 know what retained him longest, search for that 
 which, with age, possessed beauty also ; with in 
 trinsic worth, old associations. Before a bronze 
 lamp, with fragile silver chains, before a reliquary 
 from the hands of the Flemish goldsmith, he 
 would linger a good half hour ; for they led him 
 
180 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 back to the charming villas of Rome or to the 
 vast world of Gothic manner and adventure. 
 
 Many a child in the garden knew this venerable 
 face, and could distinguish this portly figure and 
 somewhat slow step from among the crowds which 
 thronged the corridors ; and many of them had 
 felt the kindly pressure of his heavy hand upon 
 their heads. 
 
 After a half-hour s rest, he passed out by the 
 front entrance and traversed the Place du Carrou 
 sel, in the middle of which he might -be seen stop 
 ping now and then, like some stranger, with eyes 
 fixed meditatively upon the pile which surrounded 
 him, as though he were reading that history, som 
 bre and momentous, which belongs fco the palace 
 of the French kings. Another halting-place was 
 on the bridge beyond, from whose life and move 
 ment he betook himself to the musty but beloved 
 bookstalls of the Quai Voltaire. 
 
 But to-day, as he crossed the bridge, he was 
 thinking of other things. He was wondering why 
 Madame Milevski should suddenly carry off Rdnce 
 to Spain. "It is restlessness," he said to him 
 self; then, as his thoughts recurred to what he 
 had seen in M. Michel s salon, he sighed. " Bah!" 
 he continued half aloud, with the air of one who 
 wishes to persuade himself against his fears, 
 " I am imagining a tragedy. And yet, if it be 
 true Well, I believe in her ! She is capable 
 of this heroism. What paths God traces out foi 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 181 
 
 as ! If only we know that it is He who leads us, 
 we can follow." 
 
 Father Le Blanc had a profound belief in hu 
 man agencies. He loved to play the ministering 
 angel, for his heart was a well of sympathy. There 
 was even a latent chiding of Providence at the 
 bottom of this well sometimes, when the sight of 
 the poor and the suffering stirred its depths with 
 pity for those lonely wayfarers who, neglected by 
 this world, seem forgotten also of God. This 
 was but one of those many themes which this 
 mind, at once simple, honest, and profound, turned 
 over and over reflectively, never seeing its one 
 aspect except as on the way to the other. " The 
 difficulty does not lie in believing the truths of the 
 Church," he once said, " but in those other things 
 which we must believe also." Or again, u Belief 
 is an edifice never completed, because we do not 
 yet comprehend its plan, and every day some work 
 man brings a new stone from the quarry." So 
 that while Father Le Blanc was very devout, he 
 was not a devotee. He flavored his religious be 
 lief with the salt of a good sense, against which 
 he endeavored to be on his guard, as he was even 
 against his charity and compassion. The vision 
 of Milton s fallen Spirit, beating its wings vainly 
 in a non-resisting air, drew from his heart a pro 
 found sigh. 
 
 His thoughts turned very naturally to Stdpha- 
 nie and her journey, that day, for he was on the 
 
182 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 way to secure the nineteenth volume of the " Vi* 
 aje de Espafia," of Pontz, for which he had been 
 long on the search, and which awaited him at last 
 on the Quai Voltaire. Those old books which 
 filled the shelves of his room in the Rue Tique- 
 tonne had left his purse a light one. "lint," said 
 Father Lc Blanc, " I am not poor, since I have 
 what I want." 
 
 After possessing himself of his coveted book, he 
 took up his way along the quai, with his treasure 
 under his arm. " I have a mind to call on her," 
 he said, still thinking of Stephanie. " The art of 
 knowing when one is needed is more difficult than 
 
 O 
 
 that of helping ; " and he paused on the curb 
 stone to watch a company of the line, coming 
 from the caserne of the Citd. A carriage, ar 
 rested a moment by the passage of the troops, 
 approached the spot where he was standing, and 
 he recognized M. de Marzac. The priest was evi 
 dently sauntering, and M. de Marzac called to his 
 driver to stop. 
 
 " I see you are out for a promenade," he said. 
 " Accept this seat beside me, and take a turn with 
 me in the Bois." 
 
 Father Le Blanc was not in his second child 
 hood, for he had not yet outgrown his first; con 
 sequently the temptation was a strong one. But 
 M. de Marzac was no favorite of his, and not even 
 the fine day, nor this opportunity to enjoy it, could 
 counterbalance M. de Marzac s company. Dis- 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 183 
 
 like at first sight is more common than love, as 
 discord is more common than harmony. So he 
 excused himself as about to make a visit. " Well, 
 then, that decides it," lie said to himself, as he 
 trudged down the quai with the gait of a man 
 with an object in view. "Now I must go." 
 
 At the door of the h3tel in the Boulevard St. 
 Germain he stopped a moment, before entering, 
 and took a deep inspiration. To tell the truth, 
 the day was so fine he regretted going indoors. 
 " I feel that I have a pair of lungs," he said, as 
 he rang the porter s bell. 
 
 Stephanie was not expecting a visit from Father 
 Le Blanc, yet was glad to see him. She was in 
 that period which lies after decision and before 
 action, when, having made all her preparations 
 for an early start in the express of the next morn 
 ing, there was nothing to be done but sit down 
 and wait for the hour of departure. 
 
 " The air is so pure that I feared to find you 
 were out. And you go to-morrow ! " 
 
 " Yes," Stephanie said, " Si Dios quiere, as the 
 Spaniards say." 
 
 " But I shall be there before you. I leave this 
 evening." 
 
 " This evening ! " 
 
 " And without fatigue/ said the priest, myste 
 riously, drawing his volume from under his arm. 
 
 It is my nineteenth journey." 
 
 "You have been to Spain?" said Stephanie, 
 taking the book, but still perplexed. 
 
181 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " Oh, never! except in those leaves which you 
 are turning; and for two reasons," he added, 
 laughingly ; " the guide-books tell us that there 
 are in Spain priests by the thousand, but not a 
 single cook ! Still, you perceive that I am about 
 to follow you, and who knows ! shall, perhaps, 
 lodge at the same inn. That is a country in which 
 nothing becomes obsolete, and I have no doubt 
 but that, if you inquire for it, they will show you 
 in Toboso the very fonda at which Don Quixote 
 dismounted." 
 
 Stephanie thought she heard in this pleasantry 
 something more than was said. Certainly Father 
 Le Blanc had not even whispered, " Though you 
 are going away, my child, I shall follow you in 
 my thoughts and in my prayers : " and yet, that 
 is what she heard. Some of his most common 
 place sentences were so many half-hidden channels, 
 such as the brooks make under the grass of the 
 meadows, into which overflowed the currents of 
 his sympathy and kindliness. In spite of a strong 
 natural reserve, an invincible trust in this homely 
 face, crowned with white hairs, mastered her. 
 
 "You are very good to think of me, father, 
 she said, in a voice so full that it brought straight 
 from his heart the message he had come to de 
 liver. 
 
 " All who suffer are my children ; and you suf 
 fer, and that grieves me. The Master who 
 took upon himself the sorrows of the world, bade 
 
BUT YET A WOMA\. 185 
 
 his followers imitate him. Why will you not 
 lean a little upon me, daughter ? I am an old man 
 who has traveled the path before you." 
 
 She turned her eyes upon him, and they said, 
 " I do not speak, but read, and comfort me." 
 
 "Sorrow is a very real thing," he continued in 
 a voice full of sweetness and authority. "It is 
 neither a morbid nor an unhealthy state. When 
 it seems deepest ; when, after the world has failed 
 us, self also proves insufficient, it may even be a 
 blessed one. I do not chide, I even agree with 
 you. But I wish you also to agree with me. Be 
 our life wide or narrow, whether we live humbly 
 or sit on a throne, whether we dwell in our own 
 thoughts, in the midst of action or in the search 
 of pleasure, we come to the verdict of the He 
 brew king, that verdict which I read in your 
 face and which broods over your life. All is 
 emptiness and vanity ! It is not the range but the 
 depth of our experience which convinces us, and 
 from the first we apprehend this truth dimly. We 
 own this sad statue of Sorrow in the block from 
 the outset, before experience chisels it out for us ; 
 and in our first search for happiness, when we 
 look on the splendors of the young world for what 
 they do not contain, it is this intimation of what 
 they cannot yield, and the capacity of our own 
 natures, which both allure and deceive us." 
 
 She seemed to be listening to the story of her 
 own life. 
 
186 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " And, as we live on, this conviction deepens. 
 The voices without echo and reinforce those 
 within. We are ever looking to something better 
 than we have or are, and whether we attain it or 
 lose it, there is no rest for our feet. It is the man 
 who is fooled and deluded that is to be pitied. 
 He who finds life and self sufficient is either a 
 monster or a caricature. Do you not see that 
 I do not argue with your tears? But do not think 
 to dry them in Spain, my child. Sorrow is the 
 handmaid of God, not of Satan. She would lead 
 us, as she did the Psalmist, to say, Who will 
 show us any good ? that, after having said this, 
 we may also say with him, 4 Lord, lift thou the 
 light of thy countenance upon us. " 
 
 " All else is a broken cistern," said Father Le 
 Blanc, taking up his thoughts after a pause. " See 
 how time deceives us ! He covers the sore, he 
 even heals the wound, but he gives no immunity 
 from a fresh one." Stephanie s eyes fell. " God 
 only renders us superior to calamity. Honestly," 
 said he, lifting his hands as if he appealed to his 
 own conscience, " priest of God though I am, in 
 understanding I am as a child. I cannot explain, 
 I testify. I witness to you this mystery, that 
 out of the very hurt which brings me low, the spir 
 itual life is developed. And," he added, as he 
 would the benediction to a discourse at St. Eus- 
 tache, "Blessed are the poor in spirit, blessed are 
 they which mourn, blessed" are they which hunger 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 187 
 
 and thirst, for these are they which shall be filled, 
 for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." 
 
 How much soever of gratefulness she felt for 
 these words, she could not answer them. Had he 
 held her hand, her answer would have been a 
 pressure. But Father Le Blanc was not hurt by 
 her silence. Though- words bubbled easily over 
 his lips, none better knew the difficulty of some 
 times saying, "Thank you." He sat quietly, 
 smoothing the wrinkles of his soutane over his 
 broad knee, with his eyes on the floor. 
 
 " When you return," he said at last, looking 
 up, " I shall ask you all the questions which are 
 not answered in my nineteen volumes. Think of 
 it, at my age ! never to have seen the sea. Yet 
 I have lain stretched out on its yellow sands, in 
 the sun, listening to the music of its blue waves 
 in the Rue Tiquetonne ! And when I go to 
 my window at night, it is to stand on the sum 
 mit of some high cliff, and the roar of the city 
 is that of the sea at its base. Chained as we are 
 to our little patrimony in the Rue Tiqwetonne, the 
 imagination is a free rover in space and time. I 
 wager you are surprised to hear an old man talk 
 of imagination," he said, taking her share of the 
 conversation, and putting in her mouth the replies 
 which he wished to answer, "imagination, which 
 is supposed to belong only to youth. I say rather 
 youth belongs to imagination, which is then a wild 
 Barbary colt, and carries one wherever it wills ; 
 
188 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 but at my age it has become domesticated, and it 
 is on its back that I have ridden, as did Sancho on 
 that of his patient donkey, over all the by-ways 
 of Spain. And when you see some worthy col 
 league of mine on his ass, plodding before you 
 with a shovel hat on his head a metre in length, 
 you will say to yourself, 4 There is my friend ahead 
 of me. " 
 
 Her hands crossed on her knees, plunged in a 
 delicious revery which this voice penetrated with 
 out disturbing, Stephanie raised her eyes to his 
 face and smiled. 
 
 He took his book from the table where she had 
 laid it, and put it under his arm again. He had 
 dropped his few seeds of comfort, and was ready 
 to permit God to water them. So he sought an 
 excuse to go. 
 
 41 I am like a school- boy/ he said, tapping the 
 volume, " with a new copy-book, who cannot rest 
 till he has written something on the first page. 
 What a good friend this book will be ! I count 
 upon him in advance," and his eyes spoke to 
 hers, " he will not speak unless I question him ; 
 we shall, perchance, differ profoundly, but he will 
 not reproach me ; I shall rifle his pockets and put 
 him aside at my pleasure, yet he will not feel 
 neglected. I shall invite him to-night to a tete- 
 a-tete before my fire, and fall asleep while he is 
 doing his best to entertain me ; but when I awake, 
 his countenance will be unruffled. Doubtless be- 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 189 
 
 cause all the while he is aware that I still prize 
 him. What strange things we do to those whom 
 we love ! Absolutely, madame," said Father Le 
 Blanc, rising, and with a self-accusing gesture, " I 
 am an inveterate sermonizer, and I have not given 
 you even the opportunity to interrupt me." 
 
 Stephanie followed him to the door of the room, 
 and at the threshold put her hand softly upon 
 his arm. 
 
 " Thanks, father, for this visit," she said. Her 
 voice was low ; it was all she said, but her look, 
 and that gesture, were more eloquent than words. 
 
 u I say to you as they will say to you in Spain," 
 replied Father Le Blanc, " go your way with God, 
 m} 7 daughter." 
 
 When he had gone, she went to the window 
 and watched him as he crossed the court-yard, fol 
 lowing him out through the gates, where he stopped 
 to say something to the porter, who touched his 
 hat to him. She seated herself there in the wide 
 open window which projected over the area, as 
 did its counterpart at the other end of the room 
 over the garden in the rear. Flanked by two long 
 and narrow projections, this court-yard with its 
 large paving-blocks of stone was not very invit 
 ing in its aspect. It was in the other window, 
 overhanging the garden, whose casement the trees 
 brushed, over which the vines swayed with the 
 wind, that she loved to sit. But her thoughts 
 were far away. 
 
190 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 It was still early in the afternoon, but the sun 
 went slowly down behind the tall roofs of the 
 neighboring houses before she rose to do what 
 greatly surprised Lizette, who thought madame 
 altogether too murh of a saint for a woman who 
 neglected mass and confession. When madame 
 was dressed, and Lizette had taken her place be 
 side her in the carriage, she wondered at the route 
 taken by the coachman, whose instructions she 
 had not overheard. She supposed they were go 
 ing to the Bois, or the Pare Monceau. And still 
 greater was her surprise when she found herself a 
 little later in St. Eustache, placing a chair for ma- 
 darne at the vesper service. 
 
 It was nearly over. Father Le Blanc himself 
 in the pulpit was finishing his exhortation. Here 
 the day had almost gone. The shafts of the col-? 
 umns rose into the shadows, which had begun to 
 gather overhead, like massive trunks which lose 
 themselves in the sombre foliage of the forest. 
 The lamp, suspended by a black line which van 
 ished in the darkness above, hung like a star on 
 the horizon. All these people about her were si 
 lent, and the words of the preacher gathered force 
 from the immense space in which they were ut 
 tered ; from those dim, aspiring vaults into which 
 they were gathered, and where they died away 
 without a confusing murmur. 
 
 Break your theological rocks, O ritual-hating 
 brother, on the King s highway, and worship Him 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 191 
 
 after your own fashion. For every way-faring 
 heart over-fed upon these symbols, you shall show 
 us one starved on your formula. Not only for 
 thy weaker brother, to whom God has not given 
 the brains of the doctors in the Temple, shall these 
 vaults of stone be the very arches of heaven ; not 
 only for thy frailer sister, in the keeping of whose 
 warm heart God has placed the sacred things of 
 this life, shall the incense of this swinging censer 
 be the very fragrance of celestial fields ; but unto 
 many of thine own dignity, also, shall this star 
 above the altar be the very star of Bethlehem. 
 
 Stephanie sat in the outer circle of the congre 
 gation. Directly in front of her was an old woman 
 with thin white hair straggling out from beneath 
 her cap ; close beside the rich fold of her dress 
 she saw a plain, blue-and- white checked apron. 
 She listened. 
 
 " My children," Father Le Blanc was saying, 
 " you put all your treasures into earthen vessels. 
 Your aspirations, so noble, soar upward like the 
 branches of the tree, but your roots are in the 
 earth that you must certainly leave. All your 
 faith which will not take denial ; all your hopes 
 which will not be gainsaid ; all your wide-em 
 bracing affections, you place in humanity, in a 
 few frail hearts which cannot meet the infinity of 
 your need and of your desire. And all these 
 things which must fail you and pass away, which 
 you have, perchance, already gauged and found 
 
192 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 wanting, why will you put them in the place of 
 heaven, to which you go to live forever ; in the 
 place of God, whose love knows no variableness 
 nor shadow of turning? It is not I who under 
 value them; it is you who overestimate them. 
 Measure them rightly, and I shall no longer be to 
 you a prophet of woe, or a sorrowful comforter. 
 Love them without sacrificing yourself to them. 
 Make them the rivers that water your life, and 
 also the rivers that bear you to the infinite sea into 
 which they shall be merged. Then shall this life 
 cease to be for you a vale of tears walled about 
 witli tombs, and become the pathway to your abid 
 ing country. Its beauties shall not satiate, if you 
 see behind them the world of spiritual beauty. 
 What will it matter to you that its fetters chafe, 
 that the soul discovers it is imprisoned, when that 
 end, in which every beauty of flesh and color is 
 engulfed, is not an end but a beginning ? Verily, 
 verily, I say unto you, whoso loseth his life for my 
 sake, shall find it ! " 
 
 " For my sake," thought Stephanie. 
 
 And Father Le Blanc, who had not seen this 
 listener, who, having sown the seed, had left it 
 humbly to God, was thus himself permitted to 
 water it. 
 
 The candles were lighted in the parlor when 
 Stdphanie returned. She extinguished half of 
 them and sat down in the recess over the garden. 
 Presently Lizette entered. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 193 
 
 Lizette was not wanting in assurance ; still she 
 advanced hesitatingly. The darkness was unusual 
 and made her timid ; moreover, madame had not 
 called her, and yet it was time for her dinner toi 
 lette. 
 
 " Pardon, madame," she said. " Madame does 
 not dress for dinner? " 
 
 " No, I dine as I am. Mademoiselle Rene*e dines 
 with me, and she will sleep here also. Have the 
 room next to mine ready for her. We shall start 
 from here early in the morning. Is everything 
 ready ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame. Does madame require me this 
 evening ? " 
 
 " No, not till I retire. Do you wish to go 
 out ? " 
 
 " Before leaving for so long, I have a visit to 
 make." 
 
 " Well, make your visit ; and, as you go out, 
 tell Jacques that, when mademoiselle comes, I shall 
 be here." 
 
 kt Merci, madame." 
 
 And Lizette that night told her lover, with 
 whom she went to the Cirque, that madame, who 
 she thought was recovering her gayety, was again 
 as she used to be at Kief. 
 
 " This time, at last, she has a lover," said Li- 
 zette s companion. 
 
 " Idiot ! " she replied, with ineffable scorn, " you 
 think she is no better than myself ? " 
 
 13 
 
194 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " Aliens done ! perhaps she is not a woman/ 
 was the incredulous reply. " Elle a ses nerfs 
 alors." 
 
 " Her nerves are stronger than yours," rejoined 
 Lizette, tartly ; and this episode nearly spoiled her 
 evening. Her thoughts reverted again and again 
 to her mistress, whom she had left in the twilight 
 of the great salon, and she thought, " I am glad 
 Mademoiselle Renee is coming. 
 
 Stephanie was waiting for her. All the light 
 had faded out of the sky. The window had be 
 come a black surface in which she saw her own 
 outline and the slender flames of the candles. 
 Suddenly another form appeared in this mirror. 
 She turned with a cry of pleasure. But it was 
 not R6iee. 
 
 It was M. de Marzac. 
 
 Accustomed to admit M. de Marzac so fre 
 quently, Jacques had not even followed him up 
 the stairs. He knew madarae was in the salon 
 waiting for Mademoiselle Renee, and M. de Mar 
 zac glided up the stairway as if he had an ap 
 pointment. In reality, the latter had not lingered 
 lest he should hear Jacques transmit the orders 
 which his mistress had very probably given him. 
 As lie ascended the staircase he expected to hear 
 the formula, "Madame ne re^ oit pas, monsieur;" 
 but Stephanie had not thought of it. The reap 
 pearance of M. de Marzac for a tete-a-tete was 
 inconceivable, and he had dropped out of her 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 195 
 
 thoughts. When, expecting to see Re ne e, she 
 turned to find him standing so near to her, he was 
 as it were an apparition. 
 
 He had a sentence prepared, but the cry of 
 pleasure which escaped her disconcerted him. For 
 a moment he appropriated it to himself. 
 
 " It seems the dead come to life, monsieur," she 
 said, coldly. 
 
 " It is said so, madame, when they die with a 
 fault on their conscience." 
 
 " M. de Marzac," she said, looking at him stead 
 ily, " why do you persist in playing a comedy with 
 me?" 
 
 Her words were like ice. If they swept away 
 the hope that always rose in his heart when he 
 was near her, they also confirmed him in his sus 
 picions, and the tide of his anger rose to his very 
 throat, It was indeed a comedy, which, persisted 
 in, would become a farce. But M. de Marzac was 
 cool : he had his reserves, and the savage pleasure 
 of destruction slaked his passion. He no longer 
 felt impotent. 
 
 " Have patience, madame ; the comedy is over, 
 We will now have a little tragedy." 
 
 The tone of his voice struck her. It was quite 
 natural, and he laughed composedly. 
 
 ! So you go to Spain," he said, seating himself, 
 quietly. " What an original idea ! Spain is such 
 an interesting country. It lies between France 
 and Africa, as it does between civilization and 
 barbarism." 
 
196 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 Stephanie was self-possessed, and she did not 
 yet understand him. But this swift change of 
 base disturbed her. She felt a vague sense of 
 coming peril. 
 
 " And you have so charming a companion," 
 pursued M. de Marzac, playing with the ivory 
 paper-cutter on the table. " Really, I congratu 
 late you." 
 
 " It seems we are still in the last act of the 
 comedy," she said, with an effort to appear calm, 
 " and I am tired of it." 
 
 "Do you think so?" he replied, with a smile 
 fine as that of a mask. " Shall we make Made 
 moiselle Michel, whom you are waiting for, the 
 
 judge? " 
 
 "Whom I am waiting for!" repeated Stdpha- 
 nie, carried away by surprise. Then, with a 
 quiver of indignation, " You employ spies, mon 
 sieur." 
 
 " Yes, two, madame ; and they are looking at 
 you. You do not comprehend me," lie said, still 
 smiling. "You are too impatient. We are only 
 in the first act. Your plan is so ingenious, this 
 little journey to Spain! There is nothing like 
 absence, spiced with a little novelty, to wean a 
 young girl from her lover." 
 
 " M. de Marzac ! " 
 
 -What! She does not love him?" he asked, 
 in a tone of well-feigned incredulity, affecting to 
 misunderstand her. "You do not believe, me? 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 197 
 
 Well, it is not pleasant to admit it-- I do not 
 blame you that she should love this maker of 
 pills, the son of a music- teacher. It is ridicu 
 lous ! " 
 
 The very walls seemed to reel as she listened to 
 him. 
 
 " Come," said M. de Marzac, clapping his 
 hands softly, " you are admirable ; in the first act, 
 too! But if you are surprised at what I am tell 
 ing you," he pursued, confidentially, " we will ask 
 mademoiselle, when she comes. She is very frank, 
 and very innocent. I am confident she will 
 avow it. That would afford an excellent opportu 
 nity to furnish mademoiselle a little surprise in 
 her turn, also. If, for example, I should admit 
 her into our secret, and explain to her this excur 
 sion to Spain, which has for its object to make her 
 .forget one whom another will remember." 
 
 " It is a lie ! " cried Stephanie, white as death, 
 springing to her feet, overborne by terror and in 
 dignation. 
 
 " At all events, it is a lie in which you appear 
 marvelously interested. But I lack precision ; 
 let us be more definite. Is it, then, a lie that 
 Madame Milevski loves M. Lande? And to think 
 that you call this a comedy ! A comedy of er 
 rors, truly ! One which would doubtless prove as 
 surprising to M. Lande as to Mademoiselle Michel, 
 if I should perchance change my mind, and ad 
 mit him into our confidence." 
 
198 BUT YET A WOMAN: 
 
 " You would not dare to," she said. The attack 
 was so sudden, surprise and terror benumbed her. 
 
 " Pouf ! Dead men have no fears," replied M. 
 de Marzac, tranquilly. 
 
 He rose and walked the length of the room, 
 stopping before the mirror to adjust his cravat. 
 He was quite content with himself. He had taken 
 her unawares, and was now sure of what he had 
 only suspected. The game was a risky one, but 
 it had succeeded beyond his expectations. 
 
 " So you imagined that, having rung the bell 
 for Jacques, our affair was well settled. Your 
 r81e was a very pretty one to insult a gentle 
 man while you rely on his remaining one to follow 
 your servant s heels meekly out of the door. What 
 a pity that you could not call a brother, or a hus 
 band, or even a lover," ho added with a sneer ; 
 u some on 3 whom I should have the pleasure to 
 run through with my sword, as I may yet do 
 for a certain doctor. Think how many resources 
 I have," he said, coming back to where she stood. 
 
 This allusion to her defenseless position was a 
 masterstroke. It brought the tears to her eyes. 
 He saw them glisten, and for an instant he pitied 
 her. Without a doubt, he would have thrown 
 himself at the feet of this woman if she would 
 have permitted him. 
 
 Rudely and suddenly shaken as she had been, 
 she began to collect her thoughts. This insult 
 ;ave her strength. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 199 
 
 "M. de Marzac," she said, slowly, "you are a 
 coward." 
 
 " We are a pair of them," he laughed. " But 
 calm yourself, madame, for I, at least, am a rea 
 sonable one. It is not necessary that I should 
 consult the physician to-night, or even make 
 friends with Mademoiselle Michel. We have 
 plenty of time before us. We might wait until 
 
 Mademoiselle Re ne e becomes Madame Lande, 
 
 that is, if you will permit it. To-night you fear 
 the denouement; but I can conceive that you may 
 in time welcome, even pray for it, after a long 
 suspense, for example. You will make your ex 
 cursion to Spain, and I I will wait here in 
 Paris. It is not I who am impatient. Having 
 practised patience for a whole year, I have become 
 an adept." 
 
 " You are more than a coward," she said, as if 
 she did not hear him, "for you think to trade on 
 cowardice." 
 
 " On yours, or mine, madame ? Explain your 
 self. Nothing is changed since yesterday, and 
 yesterday, when I saw you, you did not seem to 
 be afraid. Ah ! to be sure, at that time we were 
 ignorant that we were discovered. That makes a 
 difference. As to trading on anything, what have 
 I to gain ? Absolutely nothing. Divest yourself, 
 I beg of you, of all thoughts of me. I have no 
 longer any interest, except that of the spectator. 
 But observe the proprieties! The mise-en-scene 
 
200 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 is changed. Scorn became you very well the otbet 
 night ; you chose a good weapon, and you used it 
 admirably. But to-day it is different. Docs 
 what I say displease you ? Very likely ! I have 
 had the misfortune to displease you once already ; 
 but I was appealing then to a heart of stone, 
 to day I address one of flesh and blood. That 
 makes a difference again, whether one invokes 
 a love that does not exist, or one that does. And 
 therefore it is that I say scorn does not become 
 you to-night. Against calumny I would not dis 
 pute your right to it, but against the truth * 
 and M. deMarzac indulged again in his fine smile. 
 
 While she heard every word of this reasoning 
 which was the very perversion of reason, Ste*pha- 
 nie could think of Father Le Blanc, who so short 
 a time ago had been seated in the \ery chair be 
 fore her. She had even time to wonder at her 
 self, to wonder that, as she looked at this man, at 
 his pale, aristocratic face and faultless dress, no 
 detail of which escaped her, her mind could thus 
 wander back to St. Eustaehe, and that before her 
 eyes should appear the blue and white checked 
 apron of the bourgeoise who sat beside her. 
 
 " You have nothing to say ? " said M. de Mar- 
 zac. "Parbleu! and yet it is worth the trouble 
 of a denial. Let us recapitulate. First, a young 
 girl and her lover, indispensable to every piece. 
 Second, a woman who loves the latter. The 
 characters are few, the plot is simple, but ainus- 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 201 
 
 ing. For this woman has lofty ideas ! She in 
 dulges in lectures on tho morals of love. One 
 wonders what she will do. Ah ! I forget ! there 
 is also the rejected lover to whom she delivers 
 these lectures, and whom she thought herself well 
 rid of. As to the denouement, that is undecided, 
 and we will not yet hasten it; that would be tc 
 diminish the interest ; one can only conjecture. 
 Love may prove stronger than morals, in which 
 case, this poor lover, who profits by his instruc 
 tion, interferes in the name of society and virtue ; 
 or this woman conquers her love and makes a sub 
 lime sacrifice, there is again this poor lover, 
 who looks on and applauds. In any event, she 
 suffers, in any event he is rewarded ; her suffer 
 ings avenge him. Whatever she does, he is a wit 
 ness. And if this little piece, which you deign 
 to dignify with the title of comedy, moves too 
 slowly, if the scenes are delayed, he reserves the 
 right to hasten the action, and to ring the bell for 
 the finale." 
 
 M. do Marzac had not prepared any definite 
 plan, and, for this reason, this impromptu scene 
 did him the more credit. Ho had no idea what 
 he should do. He had made a discovery which so 
 burned in his heart that he could not wait to de 
 liberate ; he could not resist trying a little, d lim- 
 proviste, the edge of this weapon which fate had 
 given him. He had dealt his blow and had en 
 joyed its effect ; but he saw that it was time to 
 
202 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 go. He did not propose to repeat his former mis 
 take, and to wait again for Jacques to hand him 
 his gloves. Like the lion-tamer when the per 
 formance is over, he cast an uneasy thought in the 
 direction of the door. 
 
 He rose quickly, made a sudden movement as if 
 he would approach her, then turned abruptly, and 
 before she could have prevented him, had she de 
 sired to, was gone. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. $08 
 
 xin. 
 
 Two things in life are absolutely certain,- 
 Death and Sorrow ; and these two, about which 
 there is nothing contingent, alone possess the 
 power to surprise us. All that is problematical 
 we are ready for, and accept without lifting our 
 eyebrows ; but this figure of Sorrow, whose shadow 
 falls athwart our path a few days journey ahead, 
 and Death, who waits at its end without clamor, 
 since he is sure of us, to these we say, " It can 
 not be ! it is impossible ! " We count upon the 
 uncertain ; the inevitable surprises us. 
 
 After the echoes of M. de Marzac s footsteps 
 had died away, after the great door below was 
 closed, and silence had settled down upon the 
 room again, it all seemed a dream ; and, of that 
 afternoon, only the voice and fnce of Father Le 
 Blanc and the incense of St. Eustache were the 
 realities. M. de Marzac was a phantom, which in 
 vanishing had carried away the only proofs of its 
 brief existence. No ! there was the dull monotone 
 of her own heart ; there were his words, still ring 
 ing in her ears, and there was that from which 
 those words had torn away the veil. Why should 
 fihe feel surprise? M. de Marzac had not created 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 this love, which till now had been a delicious 
 dream, like the mother s hope ere she feels the 
 strong, new life at the very core of her own. 
 
 M. de Marzac had but brought the vague image 
 into the focus. He was not a friend to paint a 
 fancy portrait and deal in flesh tints, but the 
 enemy who goes deeper and hits upon the joints 
 of the skeleton that is within. Before this thought 
 her first indignation and outraged pride lapsed 
 into a stupor, in the thick of which, nevertheless, 
 her mind thought on, as her heart beat on, like a 
 galley-slave in chains. 
 
 Suddenly Renee, whom she had forgotten, came ; 
 the freshness of an autumn evening in her hair, 
 the light of expectation in the depths of her gray 
 eyes, and the matin song of happiness in her heart. 
 Ah, si jeunesse savait ! says the poet. 
 
 Stdphariic was not yet mistress of herself, and 
 the less so because she knew it. She was perpet 
 ually rousing herself from her thoughts, to see 
 Rcnce and fall back again. At dinner she alter 
 nated between silence and a forced gayety. Her 
 eyes had the dry brilliancy of anxiety. 
 
 Rene*e, who had a good appetite and was full of 
 anticipation, chatted away innocently. She had 
 never before possessed a friend like Stephanie ; ol 
 her own sex, one for whom she felt just that mod 
 icum of awe which dignifies love without chilling 
 it ; and she reveled in the possession. Somehow, 
 she found it very easy to talk to her. How sur 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 205 
 
 prised M. Michel would have been to hear her I 
 She asked a hundred questions about their jour 
 ney, for which Stephanie thanked her. Twenty 
 times the latter glanced at her furtively, unper- 
 eeived. How unconsciously pretty she was ! She 
 gave no support to the satirist who said, " II faut 
 souffrir pour etre belle." There were no mys 
 teries in her toilette which were not innocent, for 
 Nature was her maid. She had fairly startled 
 the solemn Jacques that evening, though lie had 
 been her usher times enough before. As she 
 looked at her, Stephanie felt to a certain degree 
 responsible both for her beauty and her happi 
 ness. She noticed that some of her suggestions, 
 made during the week s preparations, in the mat 
 ter of this very travelling dress which she wore, 
 for example, had been followed. She had vetoed 
 some ideas of the modiste, who can more easily 
 spoil a good subject than remedy the defects of a 
 poor one, though the latter is her trade. In more 
 senses than one, she had begun the task of bring 
 ing Renee out. Since that conversation at Beau- 
 vais, Renee had leaned upon her with a somewhat 
 shy but happy confidence which touched her ; and 
 the mere fact that she was about to exchange the 
 quiet and solitary life of the Rue du Bac for ono 
 so new and strange as that into which the jour 
 ney to Spain ushered her, deepened this relation 
 of wardship which had insensibly grown up be 
 tween them. It was manifest in ReneVs manner, 
 
206 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 in the questions which she asked, and the expec 
 tant curiosity of inexperience which they revealed. 
 From the moment she entered the room, she had 
 been unconsciously exerting on Stephanie that im 
 mense influence which lies in the faith of the child 
 who, with his hand in his father s, laughs in the 
 face of danger. 
 
 And this was why, after dinner, Stephanie, with 
 a sudden impulsiveness, went up behind ReneVs 
 chair, and with her arms about her neck, said, 
 
 " Do you promise to obey me, little daughter, 
 in everything, if I take you with me ? " 
 
 And Re ne e, who could not see her face, replied, 
 in mock gravity : 
 
 " Absolument ! ma petite mere." 
 
 " Well, then, if you mean it, since we are both 
 tired to-night, or, rather, since we must make 
 an early start, go up to my room, take off your 
 dress, Lizette is out, but you will find my dress 
 ing-gown and a fire. Sit down before it, take a 
 book, and wait for me. I have some affairs to 
 arrange, and will join you in a half hour. Have 
 you all your instructions fast? " 
 
 It seemed to Stephanie that she must have this 
 half hour s breathing time ; that before going up 
 stairs with Re ne e, some resolution should take 
 shape out of the chaos into which M. de Marzac s 
 sudden threat had thrown her. She felt that need 
 of putting her hand on the lever of events, and 
 arresting their progress till she had looked them 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 207 
 
 and herself in the face. Making up one s mind, 
 even if it can only be to meet what comes cour 
 ageously, is the secret of 4 taking heart. 
 
 What would she not have given for a friend . 
 Not for sympathy, not for words, not for comfort 
 ing assurances ; not to sit down with her in sack 
 cloth like those of Job ; but one of flesh and blood, 
 who should rise up and smite the Sabeans, even 
 as they had smitten, with the sword of a righteous 
 indignation. Father Le Blanc s voice still lin 
 gered in her ears, but it sounded afar off, as in a 
 dream, and stood her in no help. There are times 
 when we seem to have more need of ourselves 
 than of God ; when life is too real and too short 
 for the measuring rod of eternity ; when the soul 
 scorns a far-away retribution equally with re 
 venge; and will not even own that Justice, hav 
 ing permitted injustice, can restore equilibrium 
 by rebalancing her scales. What coin is there in 
 the mint that shall pay back the debt of a great 
 wrong ! She had gotten so near to the brutal 
 facts, that the language of the spiritual world was 
 a pure mysticism. Sorrow is often misquoted. 
 It is only one step in a long journey, one stage 
 in a long growth. It is the furnace from which 
 the steel emerges hard ; another process softens it. 
 Many a brave soul finds itself first, God after 
 wards. 
 
 She sat down on the lotf causeuse in the win 
 dow ; on her hot brow the cool pane against which 
 
208 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 it pressed was like ice. She tried to think ; but 
 her mind, so prompt, so energetic, seemed para 
 lyzed. Like the deer which, dozing in the shade 
 of the wood, hears suddenly the bay of hounds, 
 and does not know whither to turn, but only that 
 it must flee, she felt at once a feverish impatience 
 for action and the indecision of sudden terror : 
 terror, not of M. de Marzac, but of those mighty 
 energies of her own heart which, so long crushed, 
 had been ripening silently, till she felt their power 
 as that of a clutched hand on het conscience. 
 How could she shut the door against herself ! Yet 
 that door must be shut, and soon. Amid the al 
 ternate pleadings and commands of her heart, she 
 heard the voice of this conscience, saying to her, 
 " Soon ! soon ! soon ! " All the present was a 
 whirl of conflict which blinded her eyes and hid 
 the future ; but the past was brilliant with a su 
 pernatural light. It defiled before her with all its 
 half-forgotten scenes like the platoons of an army 
 which emerge from the darkness of some obscure 
 street to pass in review before its chief in the 
 blaze of a lighted square, and vanish again into 
 obscurity. She saw again those sun-kissed heights 
 of dream on which her child s eyes had gazed. 
 How bright they were then! What hopes bios 
 som there where the sun shines forever and ca 
 pacities bear their fruit ! Something of the old 
 splendor yet lingered about those peaks which 
 her young imagination had piled to the very gates 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 209 
 
 of heaven, glimpses of which had grown so rare 
 to her from the lonely path which a miscarried 
 life follows in the sombre forests. As she sat 
 lost in that past, the bells of St. Severin struck 
 the hour. They brought back to her tho prayers 
 of her mother, the sweet faces of the Convent of 
 Notre Dame, and the words of Father Le Blanc ; 
 and, for an instant, she longed to throw herself 
 upon her knees. But her pride revolted. 
 
 She rose from her seat and went to the mirror 
 above the fireplace. The candles burned brightly 
 upon the mantel, and she looked at the face they 
 revealed in the glass as though it were that of 
 another person which she could analyze curiously. 
 She saw its beauty ; not a line that an artist would 
 have seen was unnoticed : she saw its trouble and 
 anxiety ; not a sign that a friend would have de 
 tected escaped her ; and, as she looked, she felt 
 the warm flood of tears rising to her eyes. If she 
 had buried her head in her hands, they would 
 have vanquished her. But the sight of this weak 
 ness turned pity into a scorn that froze them at 
 their very sources, and fired the eyes into which 
 she gazed with a light of defiance. There was 
 almost a sneer in the smile of self-contempt which 
 swept her face as she turned away, and when she 
 opened the door of her room where Rcnce waited 
 her, it had settled into the cold expression of self- 
 mastery and resolute determination. 
 
 14 
 
210 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 Patience, good father ! this strength is the sign 
 of the steel. Have no fear for the temper ! 
 
 Wrapped in blue cashmere, her head thrown 
 back on the cushion of the chair and her book 
 on the floor, Rene e had fallen asleep. Stephanie 
 stood for a moment silently in the open door. 
 This picture of loveliness and happiness made 
 her both cold and hot, hard and pitiful. Under 
 the arm that guards there must always be that 
 which is guarded ; beside the watcher who waits, 
 the sleeper who dreams. What! could ye not 
 watch with me one hour ! 
 
 " How unjust I am," she said to herself, think 
 ing of the resolute gray eyes under the fallen lids. 
 " She does not dream of it." 
 
 Though she closed the door noiselessly, Re*ne*e 
 
 awoke. 
 
 " What, are you here!" she said, rousing her. 
 self. u When did you come ? How long have I 
 been asleep ? " 
 
 " Just now," said Stephanie, sitting down be 
 side her. 
 
 " A fire always makes one dozy," Rene e said, 
 
 apologetically. 
 
 " Or a book, sometimes," suggested Stephanie, 
 looking at the one on the floor. 
 
 " No, I was reading something which interested 
 me intensely," replied Rdn<3e, stooping to pick up 
 the book. " I did not fall asleep reading it, but 
 to thinking of it afterwards." 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 211 
 
 "What was it about?" asked Stephanie, hold 
 ing out her hand for the book. " Pliny ! and 
 Latin ! Where did you get it, pray ? " 
 
 " Why, I found it here on the table, with the 
 leaf turned down." 
 
 " With the leaf turned down?" 
 
 " Yes. Were you not reading it ? this page 
 I mean the letter about Arria ? " 
 
 "No, my little blue-stocking; I cannot read 
 Latin," looking at the book curiously. It was 
 small and thin ; well-worn, but it had no name 
 on the fly-leaf to tell its owner. 
 
 " Read me the story which interested you. I 
 am going to take down my hair, but I shall hear 
 you." 
 
 "I will tell it to you," Rnee said. "Arria 
 was the wife of the Consul Paetus, who took sides 
 with I have forgotten the name but he was 
 defeated and made prisoner, and sent to Rome. 
 Arria went with him " 
 
 " With whom?" 
 
 " With her husband, whom the Emperor Clau 
 dius condemned to die by his own hand. But 
 Foetus had not the courage to kill himself; till 
 one day, to give him courage, Arria snatched the 
 poniard he wore from his side, and plunged it in 
 her own breast. And then, O Stephanie, think 
 of it ! drawing it out, she gave it to him, saying, 
 It does not hurt, Pastus. I see the very smile 
 with which she said it." 
 
212 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 Stephanie, taking out the pins from her hair, 
 kept her face turned away. 
 
 " I do not believe there are such women to 
 day," said Re-ne e. 
 
 " Could you not do it ? " asked Stephanie, after 
 a pause. 
 
 " Only to read of it makes rne think I could. 
 It would inspire a coward, as it did. But with 
 out the example I don t know. It is so much 
 easier to follow an example than to set one. I 
 should have tried to save him." 
 
 " But suppose that were impossible." 
 
 * How can you ask me, Stephanie ! I should 
 not like to have been Paetus," she added, thought 
 fully. " No one has a right to such a sacrifice." 
 
 " Perhaps you would not be consulted." 
 
 " After all," said Renee, breaking an interval 
 of silence, " how many heroic deeds are done that 
 we never know of, even to-day, and greater 
 ones than Arria s." 
 
 " What ones ? " 
 
 " Those that are inspired by duty, instead of 
 affection. For how Arria must have loved Pse- 
 tus ! It was her love which made it easy. When 
 I think of that, her death does not seem a sacri 
 fice, but a consummation. I was thinking of it 
 when I fell asleep. If you read the whole story, 
 Stephanie, how she followed him to Rome, sub 
 mitting to hardships and degradation to be near 
 him, and remember how she loved him, she does 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 21S 
 
 not surprise you when she says, * It does not hurt, 
 Psetus ; her death is like the crown on the head 
 of a great king it dazzles you, bu t you expect 
 to see it there." 
 
 " You will not always find what you look for, 
 even in kings." 
 
 "I should in Arria, because she loved. She was 
 born to do this thing. Besides, she had no motive 
 to live ; her husband s doom was her own. She 
 had the motive to die ; and when she struck the 
 blow, she lived most and best, and knew it. Be 
 fore you came up-stairs, I was wondering whether 
 she thought of it beforehand, whether she had to 
 make up her mind to it. I do not believe she 
 did. It was a burst of love, not of courage. I do 
 not want to think the less of her, but would it not 
 have been harder for her to see Paetus die and 
 live than to die with him ? Do you understand 
 me, Stephanie ? " 
 
 44 Yes, I understand you." 
 
 " Arria did not have to endure. She reached 
 the mark with one act ; all her heroism was con 
 centrated in a single moment of time. That make? 
 it more brilliant, perhaps " 
 
 " More brilliant than what ?" 
 
 " Than that lonely courage which has to en 
 dure," said Renee, sitting up and speaking very 
 earnestly, "that cannot reach the mark with one 
 burst only, but has to keep steadily there; that 
 does not give a life which has become worthless, 
 
214 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 but one which is precious. I am sure I could do 
 greater things out of my love for you, Stephanie, 
 than out of my duty to you. Love earns its re 
 ward so quickly, it is its own reward. But 
 that of duty, sometimes only faitli can see any 
 reward at all. Don t you think so ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " That was what I meant by greater deeds than 
 Arria s. Her love inspired her and satisfied her 
 at the same time ; and she had Pawns knowledge 
 of it besides. But is there not heroism which 
 must be lonely, that is fit for an example, but, 
 because unknown, can never be one, would, per 
 haps, cease to be such, if known? One does not 
 think of Arria s life as cut short, like a broken 
 column ; her death was the capital which made 
 it perfect and complete. But there must be lives 
 which love and duty deform instead of crown, 
 destroy all their happiness, I mean. Don t you 
 know Arria was happy in dying? I think it was 
 the happiest moment in her life. But oh, Std- 
 phanie ! " and in her earnestness Renee came over 
 to the dressing-table and sat down beside her, 
 " think of those lives whose whole mission is to 
 hide, and yield their place ; to surrender not mere 
 living, but all life s opportunities, and yet live 
 on when rightful happiness is gone, while the ca 
 pacity for it remains. There must be such lives, 
 which cannot achieve all by ending all, as Arria 
 did ; which have no choice but to endure. For 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 215 
 
 these, Arria s poniard would be cowardice, or 
 flight." 
 
 She sought Stdphanie s face as she spoke, but 
 the hand, unfastening the coils of hair, hid it. 
 
 " You discriminate like a professor giving a les 
 son," said Stephanie, with that rashness which 
 had sometimes disconcerted M. de Marzac. 
 
 " You have not answered me at all," replied 
 Hence. Her enthusiasm was a little dampened by 
 Stephanie s manner. "But you agree with me; I 
 know you do." 
 
 " I admit that, though a little pitcher, you are 
 running over." 
 
 Renee laughed, and went back to her chair, put 
 ting out her feet to the warmth of the coals. 
 
 " I have ever so many things I want to talk 
 over with you. I have been stopping to think 
 ever since I can remember. Where shall we be 
 at this time to-morrow night, Stephanie ? " 
 
 " At Lyons/ 
 
 " And the next night ? " 
 
 " On the Mediterranean." 
 
 That word plunged her in a revery from which 
 she did not wake till Lizette came to show her to 
 her room, unfasten her traveling-bag, for the 
 heavy luggage was already at the station, and 
 make ready her chamber for the night. 
 
 " You may goto madame ; I do not need you," 
 she said to Lizette, after the latter had completed 
 these preparations. 
 
21b BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " Very well, mademoiselle. When you ire 
 ready I will come in and put out the candles, 
 
 Presently Renee appeared at the door between 
 the two chambers. , 
 
 " Stephanie, my prayer-book is in my trunk. 
 May I have yours to-night ? " 
 
 " Here itjs, mademoiselle," said Lizette, adroitly 
 taking her own from her pocket. 
 
 Lizette ought to have known better ; but she 
 was quick-witted, and in the emergency for she 
 knew well enough that her mistress had none 
 her instincts naturally went to the front. 
 
 " Who taught you to answer for your mistress, 
 mademoiselle?" said Stephanie, when Rende had 
 closed the door. 
 
 " Madame," stammered Lizette. Older than 
 Stephanie by ten years, she nevertheless stood in 
 awe of her. 
 
 Stephanie laughed impatiently. 
 
 " You are too zealous. There are worse faults, 
 but it will be worth while to conquer this one." 
 
 Lizette took up her brush and resumed her 
 work over her mistress hair, nervously. 
 
 44 Who left the book on my table, Lizette ? " 
 
 " Madame," said Lizette, expecting a second 
 reproof, "I" 
 
 " Well, what is the matter ? It was Father 
 Le Blanc, was it not ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame, he told me to place it there." 
 
 "When?" 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 217 
 
 " This evening, as I was going out." 
 
 " Well, you did rightly. What is the mat 
 ter?" 
 
 " Ah ! Madame, you startled me. You asked 
 me so suddenly." 
 
 " Why should I startle you ? He did not for 
 bid you to say that it was he, I presume." 
 
 No, madame. But when I asked if I should 
 say who sent it, he said, 4 If she does not know, 
 there is no need to tell her. 
 
 " And that perplexed you ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame ; I confess it." 
 
 " No wonder," said Stephanie, tranquilly. 
 
 And Lizette, though she took the first occasion 
 to scrutinize this mysterious book, delivered a 
 message which she does not to this day under 
 stand. 
 
218 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 EIGHT o clock of the next morning found out 
 travelers comfortably ensconced by themselves in 
 a compartment of the Marseilles express. 
 
 The shrill "En voiture, messieurs!" of the 
 guards, the shutting of doors, the first Titan 
 breathings of the locomotive as the train drew 
 slowly out of the station, had drowned the voice 
 of M. Michel. There was only to be seen his be 
 nevolent face and the glitter of his spectacles, a 
 last wave of the hand, somewhat disconsolate, and 
 the platform on which he stood slid away with 
 all its bustle like a river. 
 
 M. Michel had provided Re ne e with a guide 
 book, between which and the two windows she 
 was in perpetual trouble. Like an ill-matched 
 pair of horses, the chateau out of the window and 
 its description in the book were never together. 
 
 " Give it to Lizette, and let her read aloud," 
 suggested Stephanie, as a compromise. 
 
 So Lizette read volubly, undaunted by statistics, 
 omitting not a line, beginning with the Lunatic 
 Asylum and the Forts of Charenton, much con- 
 cerned over the names of certain worthies unknown 
 to her, Monaldeschi, Queen Christina, Dukes of 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 219 
 
 Burgundy, and Csesar s Commentaries, noting 
 with gravity that the viaduct of Avon, passed 
 some time before, was thirty-three feet wide, and 
 that at Fontainbleau the Hdtel de France was 
 clean, comfortable, and moderate. 
 
 Renee gave Stephanie an amused glance, where 
 upon Lizette was released from her task, not a 
 little proud of her success as a reader, and quite 
 satisfied with having so well gotten over the pit 
 falls of pronunciation. 
 
 " It is useless," Renee whispered, despairingly. 
 " I shall keep the left side till we come back, and 
 sit down with you at your window, and enjoy my 
 self in my own fashion." 
 
 Down the yellow Seine crept the barges ; the 
 walls and roofs of Thomery, covered with vines, 
 swept past the window ; a peasant, standing in 
 the road with a basket of grapes packed in heather, 
 caught IleneVs eye for an instant ; village and 
 town succeeded each other swiftly; till, at last, 
 the plain of Dijon unrolled like a mantle, fringed 
 with the faint blue outlines of fche Jura, the 
 city, with its frowning palace and churches, lying, 
 a strong black shadow, in the foreground. 
 
 Stephanie could but tease Renee a little at the 
 dinner-table of the Dijon station, where, as Rende 
 said, nothing was lacking but time. Neither 
 Chambertin nor Romance were needed to quicken 
 her appetite. 
 
 " Between hunger and the desire to appear at 
 
220 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 least decently," she whispered to Stephanie, as 
 they were hurried back to their carriage, " 1 am 
 half starved." 
 
 Out of the dark station, through the straggling 
 skirts of the town, they rushed on, among those 
 rich terraces of the Cote d Or, long coveted by 
 France of the Dukes of Burgundy, where the 
 vines left scarce a glimpse of the yellow-red soil ; 
 the clustering villages, thickly sown as the almond 
 trees that dot its fields, fled past the window ; the 
 tops of the tall chimneys of the iron works of Creu- 
 zot blazed with blue and red fires in the face of 
 the sun ; Macon came and vanished ; sunset touched 
 the hills of Charolois and reddened the white 
 chateaux of the Sa6ne, which narrowed to a rib 
 bon s width under the wooded heights of the Mont 
 d Or ; then, with a shriek, the train plunged into 
 the tunnel of Notre Dame, that announces the 
 approach to Lyons. 
 
 Stephanie had planned to break the long ride 
 at Lyons, passing the night there, and taking the 
 train on the followirg morning, so as to reach 
 Marseilles in season to embark on the Spanish 
 steamer sailing in the late afternoon. In this 
 way, also, the scenery along their route was all 
 passed in the daytime, which has both its advan 
 tages and its drawbacks. It at once surfeits and 
 tantalizes. Against the former, to close one s 
 eyes is but a poor relief ; while against the latter 
 there is none whatever. The rigid rails which 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 221 
 
 permit no wandering, the iron steed which brooks 
 no dallying, how sorely would they have tried the 
 spirit of Montaigne, who said, "If the way is bad 
 on my right band, I turn on my left ; if I find 
 myself unfit to ride, I stay where I am ; have 1 
 left anything behind me unseen, I go back to see 
 it; tis still my way; I trace no certain line, 
 either straight or crooked." 
 
 Still, Rene e stored away many a fresh and 
 pleasant picture ; of the turbulent Rhone, braid 
 ing its yellow strand of waters from the torrents 
 of Drome and Ardeche, to unweave it again 
 among the gravel beds and salt lagoons of Ca- 
 margue ; now broad as a sash on the wide plains 
 lined with avenues of poplar and willow, now 
 narrowed and pushed aside by naked cliffs, girdled 
 with hamlets all but lost in the shade of the mul 
 berry, and crowned by roofless gables and towers ; 
 of the valley of the Isere, cradled among the Alps 
 of Dauphine, which, in the distance, buttress the 
 white peak of Mont Blanc ; of Avignon s spires 
 and Papal towers; and last, but not least^of that 
 first evening on the Mediterranean, in the twi 
 light an indigo sea, when, walking the deck of the 
 steamer with Stephanie, she breathed for the first 
 time that indescribable freshness of the night pe 
 culiar to those countries which border this sea, 
 and watched under the stars the receding lights on 
 the mole and quays of Marseilles. 
 
222 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 XV. 
 
 HUGGING the sides of the buildings in the short 
 
 O 
 
 shadows of ten o clock, Antonio, el Moro, guide 
 and courier de place, might have been seen on his 
 way to the H6tel of the Alameda, to meet the 
 two French ladies to whom he was engaged. In 
 any other land than Spain this curious figure 
 would have attracted attention. Beardless, yet 
 always unshaven, gaurrt, but with an air of rug- 
 gedness, he pursued his way leisurely, with that 
 shiftless gait of the Spaniard, who has always the 
 day before him, and religiously employs it in do 
 ing nothing. His garments were a peculiar mix 
 ture of Barbary and Spain, loose, awkward, and 
 ill-fitting, and had the appearance of being con 
 scious that they were despised by their owner, and 
 tolerated only from necessity. No one knew 
 whether the stoop of his shoulders was due to age 
 or weariness, any more than whether this alien to 
 the brotherhood of guides was in reality a Moor, 
 as he was called, or a Spaniard : solemn, not to 
 say cadaverous, taciturn, and dignified, he little 
 resembled the type of his genus, so generally full 
 of yarns, ditties, loquacity, and lies. 
 
 Sitting in the shade, on the wooden bench out- 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 223 
 
 side the door of the hotel, mine host of the Ala- 
 meda saluted him effusively, receiving a nod of 
 recognition in return. Although making his 
 headquarters in Granada, A ntonio was known to 
 every man, woman, and child in Andalusia. He 
 took a seat gravely by the innkeeper s side, and 
 rolled the cigarette offered him between a thumb 
 and finger yellow as parchment. 
 
 " You come from Granada ? " inquired mine 
 host. 
 
 " Last night," replied Antonio, with a puff of 
 smoke from his nostrils resembling the breath of 
 a laboring horse on a cold day, an act of energy 
 forming a solitary exception to the usual air of 
 tranquillity and repose. 
 
 " You go back again soon? " 
 
 " That depends." 
 
 " Ah, dolt that I am ! you have come for the 
 two French ladies who arrived in the steamer of 
 yesterday." 
 
 If silence gives assent, Antonio s answer was 
 affirmative. 
 
 "Jesus! Would they were to remain with 
 me! I should have all the gallants of Malaga for 
 company." 
 
 Antonio made a grimace; possibly at the 
 thought of having them all at his heels. 
 
 " Which way do you go ? Granada, I suppose." 
 
 " God knows," was the reply, and it would have 
 been difficult to tell whether this proverbial expres- 
 
224 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 sion betokened in his case indifference or Christian 
 resignation. 
 
 From the open balcony directly above him Ro*- 
 ne*e was looking out through the narrow vista at 
 the end of the Alameda, on the sea, which melted 
 into the sky in a band of azure mist scarcely de 
 finable. In this belt of soft color the white sail of 
 a fishing-boat caught the sunlight, and shone like 
 the under side of a bird s wing in the clouds. 
 
 The conversation below had not troubled her, 
 inasmuch as she had not understood it; but the 
 strange sounds of another tongue were in them 
 selves an attraction, to say nothing of Antonio s 
 pointed hat with broad velvet rim, which, from 
 above, completely concealed all but his legs. 
 
 Breakfast was just finished, and Stephanie had 
 sent to inquire if this guide, well recommended 
 and reliable, had yet arrived. When, then, this 
 pointed hat and pair of leathern leggings vanished, 
 to reappear at the door of the room, it seemed to 
 Renee as if she were at the opera, and one of the 
 actors had just entered from the flies. 
 
 Wherever he went, Antonio carried with him an 
 ir which had the effect of an interrogation point. 
 He might have been some decayed Castilian gen 
 tleman whom reverses had driven from home, and 
 who in vain sought to accommodate himself to the 
 gaudier dress and livelier manners of the Southern 
 province ; or some professor of languages in re 
 duced circumstances, wearing the badges of his 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 225 
 
 unworthy calling with an ill-disguised awkward 
 ness ; or a very Moor indeed, the sad relic of 
 other days, of which he was always thinking. 
 
 " At your service, senor-itas," he said, removing 
 his opera hat, and changing the termination of the 
 word during the instant that he glanced at the 
 young faces of the French ladies. " Here are two 
 fillies who will lead me a pretty jig ! " he thought 
 beneath his grizzled pate. 
 
 During the settlement of the preliminaries with 
 Stephanie, Rene e gazed at this specimen of di 
 lapidated dignity with wonder. Left to herself, it 
 is quite likely he would have overawed her; from 
 the mere fact that he said nothing, lie claimed re. 
 spect and excited curiosity; and, at the same 
 time, like a prickly pear, which, for all its nee 
 dles, has within what is not bad eating, his man, 
 ner seemed to say, "Provided you handle me 
 carefully, I am not such a bad fellow." 
 
 Stephanie encountered this rough surface at the 
 outset. They were to go to Granada that night 
 by diligence. Antonio suggested the hiring of a 
 calesa; he had relations, doubtless, with the ven 
 dor of these vehicles, and had a thought to his 
 pocket, which was ever empty, " because it is so 
 capacious," he said. But the pleasure and novelty 
 of a diligence ride over the Sierras was precisely 
 one of those experiences which Stephanie had no 
 mind to forego. 
 
 " You fancy the springs of a diligence are tern- 
 
 15 
 
226 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 pered in Toledo," said Antonio, determined not 
 to begin by submitting to a caprice. " I promise 
 you your bones will ache for a month." 
 
 " Secure us seats just the same," replied Ste*pha- 
 nie, laughing in spite of his brusqueness. 
 
 " It will consume twice the time ; and if it 
 rains " 
 
 " We will not go." 
 
 " But I assure you " 
 
 " Antonio ! " said Stephanie, quietly, " am I to 
 travel with you, or are you to travel with me ? " 
 
 " Better be a fool than obstinate," grumbled 
 Antonio, as he went out ; though, in reality, she 
 had risen immeasurably in his estimation by this 
 display of decision. Grim, singular, and opinion 
 ated as he was, like any lonely old eccentric long 
 lost to settled moorings, he knew the real metal 
 When he found it, and had himself a mellow, kindly 
 side which his new mistresses were not long in 
 discovering. 
 
 It will be many a year before Re ne e forgets 
 this her first ride in one of the last strongholds of 
 picturesque Europe. How many illusions a jour- 
 nev dispels, in this century, before whose wire 
 and rails and press variety gives way to unifor 
 mity ; which has a universal solvent for all the 
 picturesque remnants of older civilizations, and 
 which pushes persistently and relentlessly into the 
 past all those figures and images which once de 
 lighted us, the fluted cap and gold plate of the 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 227 
 
 Friesland peasant, the conical hats and bright hues 
 of the cantonal costumes, the spurs, leggings, and 
 sheepskin of the herdsman. 
 
 To Re^iee, especially, it was a land of enchant 
 ment. That lumbering old vehicle, with its faded 
 colors and dusty coat ; its leathern baggage-cover, 
 pulled down like a cap over the eyes; with its 
 half-dozen pairs of mules, whose trappings were 
 covered with innumerable little tufts of red wool 
 and silk, interspersed with bells, was the very 
 coach of Cinderella ; the driver coming out from 
 the stone archway of the stables, with his peaked 
 and tasseled hat, broad red sash, and broidered 
 jacket, was the prince of the opera. 
 
 As they climbed the outlying hills, not a single 
 shaft of palm or bristling leaf of aloe escaped her 
 eye. Up from the fertile valleys,, amid the green, 
 flat foliage of the cactus, twisted and misshapen, 
 into the denies of the ashen and desolate moun 
 tains, she seemed about to enter the land of Dore\ 
 
 Despite the predictions of Antonio, she at last 
 fell asleep with her head on Stephanie s shoulder ; 
 but it was long after the night had let loose its 
 leash of stars. 
 
 When, with a mellow note upon the horn, this 
 vehicle drew up, after midnight, at a relay station, 
 where supper might be had, and, on its stoppage, 
 all the noises attendant upon its motion creak- 
 ings, groanings, and tinkling of bells ceased 
 also, it was as if the world had been arrested in its 
 
228 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 flight. When one goes to sleep to a motion that 
 is positively infernal in its ingenuity, sudden peace 
 is a nightmare. The ladies did not alight, but 
 Antonio brought them some white bread, with 
 creamy cheese of goat s milk, burnt almonds fresh 
 from the fire, muscatels from Malaga, and pome 
 granates from Granada. 
 
 " I wish we might live in the Alhambra itself," 
 said Renee, in the morning, when Antonio, ap 
 pearing mysteriously at the window while the 
 coach was at a full gallop, pointed out the vermil 
 ion towers. 
 
 " The sefiorita can do so if she wishes. I have 
 a friend who keeps an inn by the Torre de los Siete 
 Suelos ; it is as good as being in the palace." 
 
 44 What sort of an inn is it, Antonio?" asked 
 Stephanie. 
 
 " An inn without fleas, and God wot there be, 
 few such in Spain, sefiora." 
 
 " Then you counsel our going there." 
 " After I have first arranged for you. Things 
 do not go there on a grand scale," he said, rolling 
 the r in a way which conveyed an impression of 
 unparalleled magnificence. " Pears do not grow 
 on elms ; but you will be comfortable." 
 
 So that night found them installed under the 
 shadow of the Torre de los Siete Suelos. 
 
 Although the diligence ride had been fatiguing, 
 >*ey were both ready to listen to the proposition 
 of Antonio, seconded by the allurements of a 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 229 
 
 moonlight night, to cross the dark forest of oaks 
 to the Torre de la Vela. For a long two hours 
 they sat on the top of this old Moorish watch- 
 tower, which stands on the crest of the hill of the 
 Alhambra, and almost throws its shadow on tfife 
 city below. Decked with a thousand lights, this 
 city glittered like a fairy one at their feet ; faintly 
 to their ears came up the tinkle of mule-bells and 
 the twang of guitars from the gypsy caves of the 
 Darro ; fresh from their sources in the snowy Si 
 erras, the twin rivers, mingled in the Vega beyond, 
 ran till, a silver thread, they were lost to view 
 among its rich and level gardens. Behind them, 
 in the yellow light of the moon, slept the Alham 
 bra and palace of Charles V. ; over the gorge of 
 Los Molinos, the white walls of the Generalife 
 shone in their dark setting of orchards ; and round 
 about this Paradise stood the mountains, a girdle 
 of safety. What might not these silent witnesses 
 tell of what they had seen on this plain, once the 
 battle-field of two faiths ! How might they not 
 recall the time when the ruins which are now its 
 chief attraction were mosque and palace and 
 bridge, thronged with life ; when this capital vied 
 with the opulent cities of Italy ; when its waters 
 flowed through a thousand irrigating channels ; 
 when the Arabian was the teacher of Europe? 
 Who can wander now over that plain, still a gar 
 den basking in the same soft climate, but from 
 which the bloom of its once varied husbandry is 
 
230 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 gone, or look upon that decimated city on which 
 has fallen the lethargy of idleness and poverty, 
 without a vain regret for the splendor and pros 
 perity of the Mohammedan rule ? Rome, aa head 
 of the Church and capital of the State, still pos 
 sesses elements of greatness, and, in presence of 
 the Forum or Coliseum, the dominant feeling is 
 one of solemnity and awe ; but in Granada there 
 is room only for sadness. What sounds float up 
 from this summer palace of the Moor ! of cymbals 
 that reverberate in its domes, and of fountains 
 that plash in its open courts. Listen, R<3nee ! 
 you will hear the stately tread of silver-bearded 
 men ; Linderaxas is singing in the gardens of the 
 Generalife, Zara dallies with her earrings at 
 the well, and, over all, a voice is crying, " Al 
 lah is great ! there is no conqueror but God! " 
 
 It was a scene which Stephanie could not take 
 in as rapidly as that from the chateau at Beau- 
 vais, if only because of the recollections lingering 
 here like the fragrance of fallen flowers. R6ne e 
 responded to it as the instrument does to the hand 
 of the player; but Stephanie was out of tune. 
 
 She had looked forward to this journey with 
 pleasure. After the failure of those projects in 
 which for a time she had immersed herself, that 
 secret restlestness, only temporarily appeased, 
 tugged again at her heartstrings. Like Hippom- 
 enes, who heard behind him the steps of the swift- 
 footed Atalanta, she knew the approach of this 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 231 
 
 enemy, and like him, also, she had thrown to it 
 the golden apples of a momentary diversion. But 
 M. de Marzac s visit had put on this voyage a 
 deux a new face. Whatever her feelings for 
 Roger had been, or her attitude in regard to his 
 relations to Re*ne*e, up to that time she had floated 
 purposelessly. Perhaps she had M. de Marzac to 
 thank. In Roger s presence she had at least be 
 gun to dream, to taste a draught so refreshing, 
 so delicious to her thirsty lips, that it would per 
 haps have mastered her, as the wine that quicken* 
 the admonishing pulse also clouds the brain. 
 
 She really loved Renee. The bond of their af 
 fection was a strand of common nobility and 
 purity of character ; even of common weakness. 
 Some friends are such through mutual balance ; 
 what one lacks the other has to offer ; when one 
 needs restraint or urging, the other is there with 
 the curb or the spur. By this opposition of influ 
 ences, they maintain a truce which passes for 
 peace, a sort of statical equilibrium which has 
 more of rest in it than of progress. But Rene e 
 and Stephanie journeyed in the same direction, saw 
 with the same eyes, and were wrought out of the 
 same stuff. The equilibrium was dynamical. 
 
 Under ordinary circumstances, these two women, 
 climbing the same height, might have reached the 
 summit by a common path. But this path had 
 suddenly narrowed ; there was room for one only 
 to pass, one must go first, the other follow. 
 
232 BUT YET A WOMAtf. 
 
 To Stephanie s decisive and resolute nature un 
 certainty and delay was not easy to endure. Even 
 heroism, when it has once chosen, prefers a sharp 
 axe and a sure, quick hand. A comforter who 
 should have essayed with her what the priest does, 
 when he drowns the voice of the headsman with 
 exhortations and hides the scaffold with the cru. 
 cifix, would have been a long way out of his road. 
 Her mind was intent upon the thing in hand. She 
 could think with a heart full of bitterness of the 
 cruel destiny which had marked her for its own, 
 dwelling upon the things that could not be, except 
 at the price of her own shame and treachery to 
 Rene"e, only to set her facethe more resolutely and 
 with the cold pleasure of pride against that dream 
 which could never be realized. She had struck 
 its death-blow with her own hand, and found a 
 cruel joy in her own strength. She could meet 
 the world with a laugh on her lips, though her 
 heart was full of tears, as can many a one who 
 lives, and yet stands upon the sod which overlies 
 a grave. How many are those secret burials of 
 hopes and early ventures, which come back to us 
 after their short flight, bruised and dying, and are 
 laid away without other service or hymn than the 
 moan of our own hearts. 
 
 But she was not alone. As she laid her treas 
 ure away she heard the laugh of her enemy fore 
 boding she knew not what of evil, " I shall be 
 there, to take my revenge ! " What would he do ? 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 233 
 
 What might he not do, to betray her, to drag into 
 the light of the world s eyes what she had hid 
 den from her own, to poison the lives of those 
 most dear to her, and to make unavailing a costly 
 sacrifice ? 
 
 Antonio, who had sat quietly in a corner, wrapped 
 in his cloak, while the ladies enjoyed the view, but 
 who knew the dangers of the night air, had whis 
 pered a word to the custodian and returned to the 
 inn for " more clothes," as he said to Lizette, who 
 had appeared to him a very fit subject for mild 
 persecution. 
 
 " The moon laughs at you," he said to Stepha 
 nie, apologetically, as he presented her a shawl. 
 
 " It is late ; we must go, Renee," said her com 
 panion, rising. 
 
 RdneVs answer was a long sigh, " Deep as Bo- 
 abdil s," she said ; adding, laughingly, " only it is 
 not my last." 
 
 On the way down, Antonio showed them the 
 bell which once gave warning to the irrigators on 
 the plain below. 
 
 " If you strike it you will see how sweet a 
 tongue it has," he said to Rene e, with a peculiar 
 gesture to the custodian. 
 
 " Shall I, Stephanie ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, if you wish to." 
 
 The sound was silvery, and seemed to give An 
 tonio especial satisfaction. 
 
 " I can hear that bell yet in my ears," said Re*- 
 <*e*e, as they passed out the gateway. 
 
234 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " It is a good sign," said Antonio from behind ; 
 " to the maiden who strikes it, God sends a good 
 husband." 
 
 Stephanie, who was leading, turned and gave 
 a quick glance at Re nee, whose eyes halted raid- 
 way between a frown and a smile, the latter at 
 last coming off victor. It is so easy to smile when 
 one is happy. 
 
 " Antonio," she said, as they reached the wood 
 again, " you must show us a ghost before we go, 
 a real Moor with a turban and scimitar." 
 
 Antonio shot a swift glance at her from under 
 his eyebrows. 
 
 " You have seen them, have you not, An 
 tonio ? " 
 
 " They say so," he replied, cautiously. 
 
 " Surely you believe in ghosts, here in the Al- 
 
 hambra ! " 
 
 " Every hair casts a shadow, senorita," was the 
 
 laconic answer. 
 
 They were crossing an open space in the moon 
 light. A rude cross under a tree caught the light 
 on its naked arms, and Antonio crossed himself 
 piously. 
 
 " Why is it here, Antonio ? " asked Rene e. 
 
 " A man was killed there, senorita." 
 
 They found Lizette waiting. She was not 
 wholly at ease in that lonely inn. She had al 
 ready made up her mind as to this land of dili 
 gences, mules, and garlic, as one fit only for bar 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 barians. Not unlike her class, she could be more 
 difficult to please than her mistress. Descending 
 to the kitchen that night on some errand, she 
 found Antonio relating to his friend, mine host, 
 how the young French lady had struck the bell 
 with the silver tongue. Spanish was for Lizette 
 a jargon to be held in contempt by all civilized 
 people ; and in conversing with Antonio, who 
 spoke French fairly well, she dealt him out a pa 
 tois of short phrases and ellipses, such as one uses 
 with babies. 
 
 Antonio repeated the incident of the bell for 
 her benefit in French. 
 
 " So your women have need of charmed bells to 
 get married," said Lizette. u No wonder ! " 
 
 " The bell is a good one ; still, it will not work 
 miracles," replied Antonio, pointedly. 
 
 " A silver tongue, truly ! it has more need of 
 a golden one." 
 
 " True," replied he, with a shrug. " But what 
 will you have ? Fools are not so plenty in Spain, 
 and they are more wary than those of France." 
 
 " Rubbish ! " retorted Lizette, tartly. 
 
 "At our age you may well say so," Antonio 
 answered, with a well-feigned sigh, a parting shot 
 which Lizette did not deign to answer. 
 
 " She is hot as pepper," said mine host, with a 
 grin as if his mouth was full of that article, when 
 she had gone. 
 
 " Ay, and spiced with spleen," said Antonio, 
 relapsing into smoke and silence. 
 
236 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 M. MICHEL had received a letter from Re*ne*e, 
 written on her arrival at Malaga. A few days 
 ]ater came another, which. Father Le Blanc read 
 in this wise. 
 
 He was sitting one evening in his easy chair, 
 for he did not despise comfort, so deep in the 
 delights of his book that he did not even lift his 
 eyes from the page on hearing the timid knock 
 which he knew so well. As the door opened softly, 
 in his mind s eye there stood on the threshold a 
 short little figure clothed in blue serge, and wear 
 ing a tight-fitting cap about a face brown as a 
 walnut and wrinkled as the sea. If the two small 
 round eyes of this face were closed, it contained 
 no suggestion of vitality ; when open, however, 
 their perpetual sparkle, sharp as the sword of 
 Saladin, was the evidence of a wiry constitution 
 which had survived unimpaired the wreck of its 
 external trappings. For whatever may have been 
 true in the past, Rosalie had certainly outgrown 
 her name. 
 
 Every want and way of her master, this inten- 
 dant knew by heart, and every detail of the sim 
 ple nidnage was intrusted to her care ; a fact which 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 237 
 
 did not in the least prevent her from knocking 
 timidly at his door, nor from laying before him 
 her plans for a gigot a la jardiniere, as if she 
 expected a veto in respect to this his favorite 
 dish. 
 
 This apparent timidity on the part of Rosalie 
 was half real, and grew out of a habit of defer 
 ence to all her superiors which was natural to 
 her as a servant of the old regime, and was kept 
 alive further by her profound respect for her mas 
 ter, not only as such but as priest and man. But 
 for this she would have been an autocrat of the 
 most pronounced type. When, at the close of 
 these rather one-sided consultations, Father Le 
 Blanc said, " C est parfait ! " Rosalie was as sat 
 isfied and delighted as though he had not said it a 
 hundred times before in the very same tone ; and 
 Father Le Blanc had grown so familiar with the 
 nature of these councils that he had contracted the 
 habit of not listening; he continued whatever he 
 happened to be doing at the time, and hud only 
 to ratify with his customary phrase the propositions 
 submitted by Rosalie, when the cessation of her 
 voice announced that the sitting was over. 
 
 In response to his " Entrez !" the door opened, 
 but, in front of Rosalie s blue serge, Father Le 
 Blanc on raising his eyes perceived the figure of 
 M. Michel. 
 
 He brought a letter from Renee, written the 
 day following that of their arrival in Granada. 
 
238 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " We reached here yesterday. I should write 
 you of our ride from Malaga, but for graver 
 events. 
 
 " Last evening we were tempted out by a beau 
 tiful night, and were probably too lightly clad. 
 This morning we thought to take a day of rest 
 before attempting any sight-seeing or excursions, 
 and walked down to the Zacatin only, to make a 
 few purchases. Stephanie seemed unusually tired. 
 She lay down in the afternoon, and woke with a 
 chill which frightened me. She has forbidden me 
 to mention it in my letter, but she is more restless 
 and feverish, and I feel such a sense of helpless 
 ness and responsibility that I could not promise 
 her I would not do so. 
 
 " We have sent for an English doctor, and are 
 comfortably located, and our guide is very faith 
 ful. Still, I wish we were among friends. 
 
 " RENEE. 
 
 " Antonio takes this at the last moment to the 
 post. The doctor has been here. He says her 
 symptoms indicate a fever, but he cannot yet say 
 much. What he says is not reassuring." 
 
 " I think I ought to go," said M. Michel, as Fa 
 ther Le Blanc looked up from the letter. He 
 stood holding it in his hand, thinking. " It may 
 prove to be nothing," continued M. Michel. " On 
 the other hand, if it be serious " 
 
 Father Le Blanc, lost in reflection, made no 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 239 
 
 reply. M. Michel took the letter again and re 
 read it. 
 
 44 I have a better plan," said the priest at 
 length. 
 
 What one ? " 
 
 " Let us send M. Lande." 
 
 He watched the effect of this proposition, but 
 M. Michel s face betrayed nothing unusual. 
 
 " The son ? He would not go," he replied, 
 emphatically. " Think of it ! So far, and with 
 his engagements." 
 
 44 But if he would ? " 
 
 " Ah, if he would ! I do not say." 
 
 " You do not object." 
 
 " On the contrary. But " 
 
 44 Well, then, leave that to me. I answer for 
 him." 
 
 44 You think so ? " 
 
 44 1 am sure of it. I will go this instant and 
 bring you his consent to-night." 
 
 He put on his hat and cloak, and descended 
 with M. Michel. Rosalie, at the door, followed 
 him out the entrance way. Never before to her 
 remembrance had he gone out without speaking 
 to her, or saying at what hour he would return ; 
 and she trudged back over the wooden stairs 
 somewhat bewildered at this sudden depart 
 ure, and set to work knitting vigorously. Her 
 needles were the thermometer of her feelings. 
 When lying idle in her laj> they indicated the 
 
l-LQ BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 eero point of mental energy, and at every degree 
 of rise in her mental activity she added a stitch 
 to the number per minute. 
 
 " You see no objection," repeated Father Le 
 Blanc, as they walked down the Rue Tiquetonne. 
 He saw that M. Michel did not comprehend him, 
 so he added : " Nothing could be better, it is true. 
 You have, entire confidence in the doctor: he 
 would do all you could, and much more. But it 
 is a young man we are sending to care for two 
 young women." 
 
 Father Le Blanc spoke bluntly, first, because it 
 was his proposition, and he felt the responsibility 
 of it ; and, second, because he knew there were 
 some things which M. Michel never perceived 
 without assistance. 
 
 " I do not see things as you do," replied M. 
 Michel. " M. Lande goes as the physician of the 
 family. But I will go also." 
 
 " That seems to me unnecessary," said tiis 
 friend ; " at least for the present." 
 
 After crossing the Seine, M. Michel offered to 
 accompany him to M. Lande s. 
 
 " No, it is needless. I carry your entreaty with 
 me, and on my return I will pass by the Rue du 
 Bac and inform you of my success." 
 
 " Tres bien ! tres bien," said M. Michel, as he 
 went his way much relieved ; for with all his 
 readiness to go to Spain, he none the less dreaded 
 so long a journey. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 241 
 
 " Yes, M. le Docteur was at home," said the 
 servant in reply to Father Le Blanc s query. The 
 latter gave a sigh of relief, and followed him up 
 the polished stairs. 
 
 To Roger s greeting he replied by handing to 
 him Re*neVs letter. 
 
 " M. Michel proposes to go to Granada," he 
 said, when Roger reached the last line. " It is a 
 long journey for him, and it is doubtful how he 
 would bear it ; especially if there were trouble in 
 store for him at its end." 
 
 Roger looked at him inquiringly. 
 
 " You are the family physician " 
 
 " Not of very long standing," interposed the 
 other. 
 
 " True. Fortunately there has been little need 
 of one in the past. But no one knows what kind 
 of services can be had in Granada, and if things 
 go badly with Madame Milevski, there would be 
 Mademoiselle Renee also in a sad plight." Father 
 Le Blanc was a little embarrassed by the force 
 of his own logic, and went to the window, where 
 he stood looking out into the street with his back 
 to Roger. 
 
 " You mean, then, that I should go," said the 
 latter, after a pause. 
 
 " That is what I propose." 
 
 Roger looked at Father Le Blanc s back, which 
 at that instant was quite as expressive as his 
 face. 
 
 10 
 
242 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " Monsieur, let us be frank with one another. 
 Does M. Michel propose this?" 
 
 " He sends me to you," said the priest, turn 
 ing quickly. 
 
 " And does he know, what you do, that I 
 love Renee?" 
 
 " Faith, I did not know it myself," said Father 
 Le Blanc, laughing. All his embarrassment had 
 vanished. 
 
 " You may call this accidental ; the sickness of 
 Madame Milevski is accidental, and you come to 
 me in my capacity of physician. That is natural. 
 But, at the same time, you throw upon my pro 
 tection and into my care the woman whom I 
 love." 
 
 " You express word for word my own thoughts," 
 said Father Le Blanc. " Some one must love her," 
 he added, apologetically, shrugging his shoulders. 
 
 Roger walked the room agitatedly. All this was 
 a dream, with a possibly bad as well as alluring 
 side. 
 
 " When will you go ? To-morrow, I suppose." 
 
 " I wish you to see M. Michel," said Roger, 
 at length. u Tell him what you please ; but if I 
 do not see you again before the express of to 
 morrow morning, I shall go in it. Meanwhile I 
 shaL have much to do. I must see my assistant, 
 and make my preparations." 
 
 u I promise to see him ; and," added Father Le 
 Blanc, with his hand on the door, " say to Made- 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 243 
 
 moiselle Rdne e that M. Michel sent you, and to 
 Madame Milevski, that it was I." 
 
 Roger scanned the priest s face, perplexed. 
 
 " Ingrate ! " said Father Le Blanc, at the door. 
 " Do as I bid you. Believe less in accidents, and 
 have more respect for Providence ; " and, before 
 the door was closed these two men exchanged a 
 handshake which meant so many things that it is 
 useless to attempt to tell them. 
 
 The priest returned, as he had promised, by the 
 Rue du Bac. 
 
 " He goes," he said, as soon as the door was 
 closed. 
 
 " 1 feel an immense relief," replied M. Michel, 
 with a long breath which bore witness to his ve 
 racity. " He will not only give help, but confi 
 dence, which is the best of help." 
 
 " And you are not solicitous for for what I 
 said to you ? Perhaps you would not thank me 
 for this suggestion which I have carried out, if M. 
 Lande, finding Madame Milevski recovered, should 
 steal from us Rende." 
 
 " Do you speak seriously, my friend ? " 
 
 44 Why not?" 
 
 " Why not ! Because you know very well R- 
 neVs projects." 
 
 " The convent ? " 
 
 " Yes, certainly, the convent." 
 
 " She is not yet in it," said Father Le Blanc. 
 
 M. Michel took off his spectacles and rubbed 
 them meditatively. 
 
244 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " You begin to regret the step we have taken ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Not in the least ! " exclaimed Father Le Blanc, 
 warmly. 
 
 " Let us say no more about it, then. For my 
 part, I believe Renee altogether too seriously in 
 clined." 
 
 " Love is a serious business," replied the priest, 
 " and God has steeped our hearts in it." 
 
 u And God be thanked," said M. Michel. 
 
 " He does not in the least know what he is 
 talking about," Father Le Blanc said to himself ; 
 and on his way home he was well nigh forgetting 
 his own instrumentality in the thought of a Prov 
 idence that had given to an uncle a niece need 
 ing so little the safeguards which this uncle did 
 not know of, and had sent her a lover who had 
 no need of them either. 
 
 The next morning came, but Father Le Blanc 
 did not appear, and the Marseilles express carried 
 off with it Roger Lande. 
 
 On that same day Stephanie entered the crisis 
 of a fever. ReneVs apprehensions had proved 
 well grounded ; and, as usual, hers, beside the 
 couch, were graver and more poignant than those 
 of Stephanie, who lay stretched upon it. 
 
 At a sudden summons we are led out of the 
 sun and air to the edge of that narrow opening 
 into which this warm and living body is to be 
 laid, covered up forever and forgotten in damp 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 245 
 
 ness and night. No man has ever come up from 
 that place ; eye nor ear has ever detected faint- 
 est sound or lightest stir of life after the last re 
 luctant breath is gone out from the home, so long 
 tenanted, into space ; in all the universe no flower, 
 or seed, or fruit that has come up from the cham 
 bers of decay is that one which was sown ; and 
 we, entering them also, carry no hope, however 
 life has answered it, which has not beaten echo- 
 less against the gates of death. Yet on the brink 
 of this grave, we neither shrink nor struggle. In 
 the full tide of life s current we move too swiftly 
 to realize this absolute rest, and as we enter the 
 swirl of the vortex the swirl mounts to the brain. 
 As Renee had written, on their return from the 
 Zacatin Stephanie only felt more than usually 
 tired, and resorted to the usual remedy. On wak 
 ing, she had a chill. 
 
 " It is nothing," she said to Renege, whose first 
 thought was for the physician ; against which 
 Stephanie protested. But as the afternoon wore 
 away, bringing headache and thirst, Rdne e had her 
 way. 
 
 The next morning matters were no better. 
 44 An inflammatory fever," said the English doc 
 tor, " with possibilities of something worse," he 
 added, bluntly. " We must have a good nurse," 
 and he suggested to Renee a Sister of Charity, 
 mentioning a French one whom he could recom 
 mend. 
 
246 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 Rdnde saw that Stephanie was really sick, and 
 looked the situation in the face with misgiving. 
 But there was a kindly interest and hopeful in 
 spiration in this Englishman which gave her cour 
 age. 
 
 "You must not worry," he had said to her. 
 " Keep a good heart. In sickness we are all of 
 the same country." 
 
 She was not conscious of his large hand patting 
 her back cheerily, but she was conscious of his 
 sympathy, though it had an accent and lived be 
 hind a rather cold exterior. 
 
 Meanwhile Stephanie had a word with Lizette. 
 She felt a great lassitude conquering her, and it 
 began to blur the issues and interests of life, over 
 which she had been so anxious. 
 
 " Lizette." 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 She was sitting at the bedside. Antonio was 
 probably right as to the spleen ; still she loved her 
 mistress with that love peculiar to those of widely 
 different ranks and conditions, the love which 
 the dog knows for its master who falls sick, when 
 it whines at the door without need of the chain 
 or thought of its dinner. 
 
 "If I should be sick" it evidently cost her 
 an effort to say this "I might be light 
 headed. You understand me," she said, looking 
 at Lizette, who understood, but did not know what 
 to say. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 247 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 " She must not hear anything," she said, glanc 
 ing at the door at which Renee had gone out 
 with the doctor. 
 
 " I promise you, madame." 
 
 " Manage it somehow," she said, turning 
 restlessly and closing her eyes. 
 
 A little after, Re nee, opening the door, waked 
 her from a light sleep into which she had fallen. 
 
 " Remember ! " she said to Lizette, and Lizette s 
 intelligent eyes answered significantly, 
 
 " I promise." 
 
248 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 IMPATIENT with the steamer which for a week 
 had been creeping along the Spanish coast, Roger 
 experienced a delight as he stepped into the calesa 
 he had hired to convey him from Malaga to Gran 
 ada. Here, at last, was something whose velocity 
 he could to some extent control. 
 
 More than a week had elapsed since he left 
 Paris, more than two since the letter he carried 
 in his pocket had been written ; time enough for 
 how much to have happened ! 
 
 On arriving at Granada, he stopped at the hotel 
 long enough only to deposit his baggage and to 
 learn the address of the English doctor. He found 
 the latter a tall, large-featured man, with iron- 
 gray side whiskers, whose look seemed to say to 
 him, u Well, and what malady have you ! " 
 
 " I have just arrived from Paris in behalf of 
 M. Michel, the brother of Madame Milevski. My 
 last information dates from the evening of your 
 first summons, and Roger presented his card. 
 
 The Englishman s face and manner relaxed as 
 Roger introduced himself. 
 
 " 1 shall be very glad to surrender the case into 
 your hands, monsieur, especially now that ma- 
 dame is better/ 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 249 
 
 " She is better, then ? " 
 
 " Decidedly so ; but the road up the hill is the 
 longest." 
 
 " But all danger is over ? " 
 
 " Entirely, without accidents. The crisis was 
 passed several days ago," and he detailed at length 
 the progress of the fever and the treatment he 
 had pursued. 
 
 " And now, monsieur," he said, when he had 
 finished, " I am happy to express my pleasure at 
 your coming, and to resign madame to your care." 
 
 " On the contrary," said Roger, " you are to do 
 me the favor to continue your visits as if I had 
 not come. In what time do you think madame 
 might travel ? " . 
 
 " In two weeks she might begin to think of it." 
 
 " She sits up at present?" 
 
 "To-day, a half hour, for the first time." 
 
 " And mademoiselle ? " 
 
 " Is perfectly well, a little tired, but that 
 soon passes." 
 
 " These ladies, in a strange land, owe much to 
 you," said Roger, warmly; "but it is a debt 
 which I, and many others, share with them, and 
 which I acknowledge in their behalf. And now, 
 if you please, their address." 
 
 " I am just about to make my mornirtg visit ; 
 \f you will permit me, I will conduct you." 
 
 They passed together out the Puerta de las Gra- 
 nadas, following the path which ascends the hilJ 
 
250 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 under the lofty trees. Nestling close to the walls, 
 the inn seemed asleep in the delicious coolness of 
 the forest. A wide-thatched roof extended like an 
 awning in front of and on either side of the door, 
 encircling some of the nearest trees, which, with 
 a few slender posts, formed its supports. Under 
 this covering were scattered some tables, at one 
 of which Antonio was sitting, contemplating an 
 other twenty-four hours of idleness with profound 
 satisfaction. On another Lizette had laid a white 
 cloth, and was making ready a breakfast. Beside 
 Antonio, whose somewhat picturesque costume suf 
 fered on a close examination, and who appeared 
 asleep, although, like a dog, with one eye open, 
 this brisk figure of Lizette, with fresh white 
 cap, formed the contrast of two races. She had 
 in her hair a red blossom of the rose bay, and 
 was arranging a basket of fresh figs with their 
 own shiny leaves ; an occupation which did not 
 prevent her from observing with curiosity the 
 stranger approaching with the doctor, whose air 
 and dress announced to her some one who did not 
 belong to Granada. 
 
 When, as he drew nearer, she recognized him, 
 the pyramid of figs she had been constructing 
 suddenly gave way ; at which Antonio laughed. 
 On hisfpart, this laugh was a challenge. He 
 laughed at an adversary whom he wished to pro 
 voke, as the lackeys of Verona bit their thumbs 
 at one another. But Lizette was far too agitated 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 251 
 
 to notice this provocation. Roger had recognized 
 her, and had made her a sign. 
 
 " Oblige me by entering as usual," he said to 
 the doctor ; " but say nothing of me, if you please. 
 I will wait here till you return/ He wanted the 
 pleasure of a surprise. " Your mistress is better, 
 Lizette." 
 
 " Dieu merci, oui, monsieur." 
 
 " And you are preparing a breakfast for some 
 one ? " 
 
 " For mademoiselle, monsieur." 
 
 " Go ask her if she will permit a hungry trav 
 eler to share it with her. And Lizette," he said, 
 calling to her, as she hurried away so full of her 
 errand she could hardly wait to deliver it, " say 
 nothing to madame." 
 
 At the door she met Rende, who was in the 
 habit of waiting here for the doctor, when he came 
 out from the sick chamber. 
 
 It was the last thing she had thought of, to see 
 Roger Laude, sitting at this table where she was 
 to breakfast, under the oak trees of the Alham- 
 bra. But Lizette had no need to hurry or to ex 
 plain, as Rdnee had no need to scrutinize this 
 stranger now advancing to meet her. Had she 
 been alone she would instinctively have put her 
 hand on her heart. A week ago, when Stephanie 
 hovered between life and death, this self-same 
 place was lonely and desolate to her, and she 
 would have welcomed this face from home with 
 
252 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 intense thankfulness, but with scarcely any other 
 emotion, as one leans, in faintness, on one does 
 not know what. But now that danger was over, 
 this lovely spot, filled with the freshness of morn 
 ing, not only regained in her eyes its true value, 
 but by contrast an additional one ; and, as she 
 came to the door, the sunshine filtering through 
 the leaves was not brighter or warmer than that 
 which filled her heart. After all, why should not 
 Roger Lande be there! When the heart is full 
 nothing surprises. 
 
 " Oh, Monsieur Lande, I am so glad to see 
 you ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 The color mounted to her face. It was because 
 sne felt it there that she stopped short in a pretty 
 confusion. She knew it now, this joy which, at 
 the first encounter, had won a victor} 7 over her 
 self-control, which surged, like a flood let loose, 
 from her heart, in every vein, and swelled exult- 
 ingly in her throat. Refuse it belief, argue with 
 it, disown it and laugh at it now, Ren^e, if you 
 can ! Nothing is left but to be angry and to con 
 ceal it. But this effort at concealment was not 
 very successful. It was well enough for the eyes 
 of a lover who sees nothing, but not for those of 
 Antonio, though he had but one open. What 
 wonder ! It is so easy to be natural when one 
 does not desire to, that is, when one has no 
 reason to be otherwise. 
 
 They sat down together at one of the tables in 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 253 
 
 the shade. After the first surprise was over, she 
 had so much to tell, of those first days of appre 
 hension and the hours of suspense and uncertainty 
 which had succeeded them ; of the turn in the 
 tide ; of how much better Stephanie now was each 
 day ; of how kind the doctor had been ; and of 
 faithful Antonio even. 
 
 " Then I have nothing to do but to return to 
 Paris." 
 
 Lovers court rebuffs as heroes do danger. 
 
 " You must consult Stephanie," said Re ne e, de 
 murely. 
 
 " I certainly shall not think of it until I can 
 report to M. Michel that she has passed all the 
 turning points and is on the highway again ; " 
 and he told her of her uncle s anxiety, and how, 
 within twelve hours after receiving her letter, he 
 was in the train. 
 
 " But when did you arrive ? " 
 
 " This moment. I came over the mountains in 
 the night." 
 
 "And you have not breakfasted?" 
 
 "No, nor dined," said Roger, laughing. "I 
 confess I am hungry." 
 
 And with that Re ne e disappeared in the door 
 way. How pleasant it was to wait her return, 
 to be conscious she was to return, and to hear her 
 say, ~ 
 
 " I have ordered you a breakfast." 
 
 In a short half -hour a cover was laid at a table 
 
254 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 near hers ; but they were lost in conversation, and 
 Roger had forgotten his appetite. 
 
 " It is all ready," mine host said to Antonio. 
 His puchero was steaming, and he was solicitous 
 that it should be eaten hot. 
 
 " So you have not even visited the Alhambra," 
 Roger was saying. 
 
 " Pardon, sefior," said Antonio, taking off his 
 hat and pointing to the table ; " in soups and love 
 the first is the best." 
 
 The imperturbable gravity of Antonio s coun 
 tenance disarmed criticism, and he retreated in 
 good order, under cover of the doctor, who had 
 returned from the sick chamber. 
 
 "Better, always better," he said in reply to 
 Rene e. " At this rate she will soon eat her 
 breakfast here with you." 
 
 " I am going to see her," Rene e said to Roger. 
 " Monsieur," she explained, pointing to the doc 
 tor, " is very rigid, and he has a subaltern in the 
 nurse he sent us, who carries out his orders. I am 
 allowed only so many minutes in the room. I 
 shall tell her you are here." 
 
 But Lizette was before her. The doctor had 
 not taken three steps down the stairs before she 
 had glided into the room. 
 
 What a bright and cheerful aspect this room 
 had ! The morning toilette was over, the window 
 was open to the sun and air, and Stephanie, pale 
 but with the signs of returning strength, was 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 255 
 
 propped up in a reclining chair which the doctor 
 had sent from the city. The chamber itself, so 
 long filled with a heavy atmosphere and oppres 
 sive silence, and which, as if instinct with appre 
 hension and sympathy for the being who occupied 
 it, had so long worn that aspect of dread expec 
 tancy which has so sinister a meaning, had become 
 transformed. Through the window came the 
 myriad sounds of life; of waters trickling among 
 the moss and roots of the forest, the hum of in 
 sects, and the song of birds. The very sunlight 
 danced for joy on the wooden floor among the 
 shadows of the leaves, and played over the gray 
 dress of Soeur Marie as she sat reading her prayers ; 
 for Sceur Marie was never idle, when her hands 
 or feet were not busy, her eyes were fixed on God. 
 Stephanie often wondered, as she lay in the 
 dreamy quiescence of convalescence, too weak for 
 aught beyond a passive surrender to that sense of 
 peace which the slow incoming tide of life brings 
 with it, whether or no Soeur Marie had ever 
 dreamed. 
 
 Lizette took her seat quietly beside her mis 
 tress. She had kept the promise whose import 
 had been but vaguely comprehended when it was 
 given ; but it had not proved unnecessary, and she 
 knew its meaning now. So did Sceur Marie, as 
 any one who could have heard her prayers would 
 know. Those prayers of hers ran over her lips 
 continuously, like the water over a dam, and, like 
 
256 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 it also, set in motion all the machinery of her life, 
 which thus became itself a prayer. 
 
 " He is here, madame," said Lizette in a whisper. 
 
 Lizette was a good maid, who loved her mis 
 tress. But this did not prevent her from feel- 
 Ing a certain importance as the confidante of ma- 
 dame and the possessor of an important secret. In 
 the first surprise of Lizette s announcement, the 
 thought of this humiliation was more to Stdphanio 
 than the fact of Roger s arrival. The sense of 
 danger under which she had spoken, when the 
 dizziness and confusion of fever began to master 
 her will and rob her of self-control, had all passed 
 away. Her pride leaped out like a sword from its 
 scabbard, with the words, " What is that to thee ! 
 I know not this man." But Lizette was quick 
 witted, and the tact which had once led her to 
 offer her own prayer-book to Re*ne*e, led her now, 
 having forewarned her mistress, discreetly to with 
 draw. 
 
 It was a few minutes before Rdnde came in, aiul 
 in those few moments Stephanie abandoned her 
 self to a dream. It was a wild, foolish dream, and 
 she knew it, but it was a sweet one. Strange ! 
 though side by side with this dream the reality 
 was also present, she found a keen pleasure in this 
 moment of surrender to it, as returning health it 
 self seemed doubly sweet to her after the fever. 
 
 So close is the alliance between pain and pleas 
 ure I Each is the true child only of the other. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 257 
 
 " Stdphanie," said Rdne*e, who had stolen in 
 unnoticed, and, standing behind her chair, had 
 stooped over and kissed her hair, "you do not 
 know how happy I am to think you are getting 
 better." 
 
 Leaning over the back of the chair, she had put 
 her arms about her, and Stephanie took in he* 
 own one of the hands crossed on her breast. 
 
 44 Who do you think my uncle has sent to bring 
 you home ? " 
 
 " Baptiste ! " 
 
 "What an idea! Try again. But you will 
 never guess." 
 
 " Tell me, then." 
 
 "I want the pleasure of telling you after you 
 have made a dozen trials." 
 
 " I shall deprive you of thQ whole of it by guess 
 ing rightly the first time." 
 
 " Try ! I defy you." 
 
 "Roger Lande." 
 
 " How did you know, Stephanie ? " 
 
 " You told me." 
 
 "You are getting well, for you are trying to 
 tease me," said Rende, kissing her hair ; " but I 
 submit to it on that condition." 
 
 "It was a needless journey. He must be dis 
 appointed." 
 
 "Stephanie ! you are positively wicked." 
 
 " Have you seen him ? " 
 
 "Yes, just now." 
 ir 
 
258 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " Does lie return directly ? " 
 " I suppose he will, if you wish him to ; but if 
 he thought that he could be of service to you I 
 think he would stay." 
 
 Of service to her ? Why not ? Fortune had 
 thrown this opportunity into her hands, if she had 
 only the courage to take it. Were there not yet 
 before her long days of weakness and waiting, in 
 which, if Re ne e loved him, ah ! if Rende loved 
 him ! All this battle had been fought once, and 
 in a decision once made there is a tremendous in 
 ertia, although it has practically to be made over 
 again a second time. Why should he not stay ? or 
 why should she hesitate at this which she had 
 desired ? 
 
 " Yes, he ought to, if he can, at least, till I 
 am a little stronger. - Say to him that I wish it." 
 " You will not see him ? " 
 
 "No," said Stephanie, letting go of RdneVs 
 hand. 
 
 " You must not talk to madame too long," said 
 Sceur Marie. 
 
 " No, I am going." 
 
 " ReneV said Stephanie, " you must take An- 
 tonio with M. Lande, and see Granada while I am 
 getting better. You have had anxiety for an ex 
 cuse long enough," she said, smiling faintly, " but 
 you have it no longer. It is absurd for you to 
 stay here at my door all the day long. You must 
 recover lost time, and compensate M. Lande foi 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 259 
 
 his journey. Antonio must be fairly rusting 
 away." 
 
 " Madame, je vous en prie," said Soeur Marie. 
 " See, mademoiselle, how pale her face is." 
 
 This second warning set Re ne e in motion. 
 Stephanie watched her as she went, and it seemed 
 to be her own self she saw standing in the door 
 way with a happy smile on its face, sending her 
 a bright glance of good-by. " If I were dying," 
 she thought, with a bitter irony in her heart, u but 
 I am getting better." 
 
 When Stephanie advised Rene e to make good 
 the time lost during her sickness, she knew she 
 was giving, not advice, hut a permission; and 
 when. Roger came, as he did every morning, to in 
 quire for Stephanie, he had no need to give Rene e 
 formal invitations. Did not everything invite 
 them on those mornings ? In a week they had 
 explored every nook of the palace, and knew every 
 path on the hill of the Alhambra. If Madame 
 Valfort would have protested against the freedom 
 of Beauvais, that of Granada certainly would have 
 rendered her mute. Even Antonio seemed in 
 league with the rest, and, finding his services in no 
 great demand, preferred the siestas and cigarettes 
 of the Posada of the Siete Suelos to walks and 
 excursions in which he might have been cicerone 
 had he been asked. 
 
 In these rambles Roger found a pleasure apart 
 from that of being with Rene e the pleasure of 
 
260 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 peace and restfulness, so deep and tranquil that he 
 was content simply to enjoy it. Could Re*ne*e 
 have been transferred to Paris and surrounded 
 with society, this charm would have vanished. 
 Here were no prior engagements, no disappoint 
 ments, no division of favors. From the time he 
 first found her in her fresh white morning dress 
 under the trees, she was his for all the day. 
 These were days to hurry which would have been 
 a crime. Why are we in such a fever to finish ! 
 There was no press of society and contention of 
 aspirants, no jealousies, no heart-burnings, no an 
 noyances. Renee knew that Roger loved her. If 
 she did not fully know also that she loved him, it 
 was because as yet nothing had forced her to an 
 swer this question ; so that she still preserved the 
 subtle pleasure of reluctance, which, once aban 
 doned, cannot be recalled. It was this reluctance 
 which told her most she was loved. She knew 
 the path, though she had never seen it ; and she 
 followed it with her eyes half shut, in a blessed 
 awe, holding back for very happiness against the 
 hand which drew her on, and finding, in the very 
 sense of being led, that happiness. 
 
 When she followed with him the road which 
 wound up the ravine of Los Molinos, it was in 
 reality this other road she traversed, leading to 
 other gardens than those of the Generalife. Was 
 it not fortunate that Antonio was not with them ? 
 For his instinct would have gotten the better oi 
 
BUT YET A WOMAJS. 261 
 
 his tact, and he would have made Re*nee start as 
 from a dream by saying, under the cypress-tree 
 of the Generalife, " This, mademoiselle, was the 
 trysting-place of Zoraya." What a revealer is 
 love. Does the heart open to its influences, as the 
 flower opens to the sun, to yield its treasures to a 
 wind that steals and scatters them forever? So, 
 too, like the flower, it opens its eye then, for the 
 first time, upon the wide world, and sees the 
 mystery of life and deatli and destiny. 
 
 But this was a lesson which both read, Roger 
 not less than Rnee. She had the instinctive fac 
 ulty of revelation. She reached the heart of 
 things by a feminine apprehension so delicate and 
 so natural that she might almost seem herself to 
 dwell there. She saw in everything something he 
 had not seen ; for him she was the interpreter. 
 There were problems and questions before which 
 he had planted his siege batteries of heavy artil 
 lery, to conquer by the parallels and approaches 
 of a regular investment, which, if she had not 
 always the key to them, she could illuminate with 
 a word, or rob them of all importance. 
 
 How many times this young heart, so keenly 
 susceptible to good impressions, received them 
 from that which had passed him by, to reflect 
 them, with the added grace of her own sweet na 
 ture, upon his. She was ever a little grave, and 
 more sedate than most are, and this inheritance of 
 the Rue du Bac never wholly forsook her. But 
 
262 BUT YET A WOMAN, 
 
 i 
 
 in the unrestraint of the present, amid the fresh 
 ness of all that surrounded her and the novelty of 
 her situation, the deeper impulses of her nature 
 pushed up as flowers through the sod, and these 
 impulses, springing from the woman s heart, how 
 often they outran the calculations of the man. 
 
 More things than were dreamt of in his phi 
 losophy she showed him, from the white star of 
 the jessamine in the path they trod, up to the finer 
 aspirations of his own soul, which ambition had 
 well-nigh choked with its thorns. 
 
 She was at her best, for she was happy. While 
 not forgetting the convent or Soeur Ursule, she 
 had the feeling that everything was right. Once, 
 in the city, a file of nuns, moving two by two 
 down a narrow street, obliged her to wait with 
 Roger in a doorway until they had passed ; and 
 for the moment it seemed to her there was a re 
 proach in their grave averted eyes. Sometimes, 
 too, after Roger had gone, when, in the quiet of 
 her own room, she opened the clasped prayer-book 
 Soeur Ursule had given her, she lapsed between 
 the prayers into reverie, with the book open on 
 her lap. No, she had not forgotten. Soeur Marie, 
 going about her daily round of duties, was a con 
 stant reminder. But her doubts were fugitive, 
 like birds of passage. Was it that, on the thresh 
 old of love, she saw within the portal such possi 
 bilities as made the monotonous, almost menial, 
 life of Sosur Marie seem unworthy? Possibly it 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 263 
 
 was Sceur Ursule s poverty of experience that had 
 led her to overestimate the ease with which Re ne e 
 should conquer nature. For before this portal 
 hung with orange blossoms, timorous, shy, igno 
 rant, she nevertheless stood knocking, drawn 
 thitherward, yet gladly, too happy for doubts? 
 or fears, rather than happy because she had none. 
 
 Stephanie did not verify the doctor s prediction 
 that she would breakfast with Rende under the 
 trees in a week ; but one morning Lizette was told 
 to order the table laid for dejeuner in the garden. 
 
 Every morning M. Lande had sent fresh flowers, 
 which were placed on a stand beside Stephanie; 
 and to-day Lizette would have had her mistress 
 wear one, but did not dare suggest it. This was 
 her only grievance, that madame never consulted 
 her. She would have counselled her appearance 
 several days ago, the traces of sickness were 
 well-nigh gone, and that this was what she was 
 waiting for Lizette was confident, but madame 
 had not asked her opinion. Lizette had had mis 
 tresses whom she feared without loving, and even 
 despised ; whom she knew better than their cour 
 tiers did ; who did not attempt to impose upon 
 her with those artifices to which they resorted 
 with others through fear of being understood. 
 But madame had no artifices. It disturbed Li 
 zette much, in the early period of her service, that 
 she could never take Stephanie by surprise ; but 
 she had at last realized that there might be a dif- 
 
264 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 ference between maid and mistress, due neither 
 to rank, wealth, nor education, accidental differ 
 ences which she scorned, because generally her own 
 shrewdness and her mistress weaknesses enabled 
 her to surmount them, a difference of nature, 
 which seems always to render its possessor supe 
 rior to her company. 
 
 And yet Lizette was quite likely right ; for after 
 she had gone, Stephanie took up the hand-glass, 
 and searched it as for something lost. 
 
 It must have been through a mere sense of duty 
 that observant Soeur Marie said gently, " What 
 matters it ? " for the image in the glass called 
 neither for condolence nor resignation. 
 
 " Nothing, ma sceur," said Stephanie, and she 
 thought of the flowers on her dressing-table, which 
 the evening before had closed and this morning 
 had opened, as if the scissors of the gardener had 
 not cut them off from the sources of life. 
 
 Her sudden determination had taken every one 
 by surprise. Ren6~e had gone down to the Za- 
 catin with Antonio, and M. Lande had not yet 
 come up from the city. Only a flower-girl, on 
 whose brown cheek flamed a color vivid as 
 those of her wares, disputed the solitude with a 
 little beggar-boy coiled up asleep in his shady am 
 buscade like a bent wire. From the trees festoons 
 of creepers hung drowsily in a delicious air ; a 
 faint breeze lifted at intervals the frond;ige scaling 
 the tower wall, to die away in the effort. The 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 265 
 
 long aisles under the elms, into which, now and 
 then, sunbeams ventured, to vanish on the instant 
 like fear-stricken intruders, opened vistas over 
 terraces of orange and cypress upon the Vega 
 glistening with intersecting waters. Soeur Marie 
 had followed Stephanie, and sat quietly by her 
 side during breakfast. The nun s pale face and 
 thin lips seemed strangely out of place. The 
 natural product of that air and sky was the little 
 flower-girl, whose brown skin was lustrous as the 
 bloom of the Andalnsian grape, and in whose dark 
 eye shone the dangerous fires of its wine. 
 
 " How beautiful the world is ! " said Stephanie. 
 
 In the cant of the convent, " the world " meant 
 only one thing to Soeur Marie. 
 
 " The world, always the world," she said, with 
 a little smile and moue. Despite her gravity, she 
 had naturally a playful way, which, overlaid as it 
 was by the serenity of her calling, gave a charm 
 even to her reproofs. 
 
 " What do you know of it, little sister ? " said 
 Stephanie, amused at her superficial wisdom. 
 
 " I have seen a great deal of it," replied Soeur 
 Marie, with a sigh of conviction. 
 
 " From the outside. Moreover," after a pause, 
 tt seeing is not knowing." 
 
 "It is a prison, but no home. It is full of 
 pleasures which, like sweet wine, double the thirst 
 but never satisfy ; oftenest not really such pleas 
 ures, only the hope of them fleeing before like to 
 
266 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 morrow. The world is a garden full of sweet 
 poisons, without a single antidote." 
 
 " There are moments of pleasure worth a life 
 time, my sister." 
 
 " Life-time means eternity," replied Soeur Marie. 
 The flower-girl had approached them with her 
 tray full of what might be had for the picking in 
 this garden of nature, " ambient in perfume, ex 
 quisite in fruits." But begging in Spain wears 
 all masks, even that of flowers. Standing with 
 pleading attitude and beseeching eyes, she was a 
 true child of the south, bare, dirty feet and 
 cheeks of velvet ; lazy limbs and blood of fire ; 
 tattered rags over the contours of a model. 
 
 " You love flowers, sister," said Stephanie. 
 
 " Our Lady loves them." 
 
 " Don t you love them for themselves, of your 
 own accord? " 
 
 " Ah ! madame, what is sweeter than to love 
 what our blessed Mother loves? " 
 
 " Why does she love them, sister ? " 
 
 " For el amor de Dios," chimed in the flower- 
 girl. 
 
 Stdphanie bought a spray of mimosa, woven in 
 with myrtle and roses. 
 
 " Let us take a walk. I feel it will do me 
 good," she said to Sceur Marie. 
 
 " 1 am afraid you are not strong enough." 
 
 " Yes, a little way. This air is an elixir." 
 
 They passed down the avenue, under the my& 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 267 
 
 tic hand and key of the great gate, through the 
 Court of Myrtles, into the Hall of Ambassadors, 
 and seated themselves in its alcoved window. 
 
 " You are tired ; you have come too far," said 
 her companion. 
 
 " No, I feel stronger than you think. Every 
 thing refreshes me." 
 
 She leaned over the window and looked into the 
 green depths below, a mass of vegetation ; of or 
 ange, pomegranate, and cypress, amid which the 
 waters of the Darro hastened ; of myrtle, laurel, 
 fire-plant, and rose bay, scaling the walls guarding 
 the river, climbing the very battlements of the 
 fortress, an army of luxuriant verdure, a mosaic 
 of moisture and sunlight, dark shadow and blos 
 soming flame. 
 
 Looking at this view, she forgot So3ur Marie, 
 who, left to herself, reopened her prayer-book. 
 What a companion Father Le Blanc would have 
 been for her in this recessed window ! Looking 
 up from the gray dress and pale moving lips of 
 the sister, into the roof, whose gorgeous hues had 
 been to its inmates an undying remembrance of 
 the flowers on the upp^r plains of Arabia, was 
 like taking an upward flight from a narrow self- 
 denial and fruitless obedience into a region of 
 freedom and splendid achievement. This dome 
 was the symbol of brilliant audacity and tender 
 phantasy. Where was duty? Did it overarch 
 her simple companion with a radiance too bright 
 
268 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 for her eyes, or had she it fast between the dingy 
 covers of her book ? 
 
 Suddenly the book was closed. Footsteps were 
 heard in the Court of Myrtles, then a voice, sin 
 gularly clear and sweet, which made her start. 
 
UT YET A WOMAN. 269 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 M. LANDE was that morning writing his letters 
 in the cafe* of the hotel. He had begun seriously 
 to ask himself why Madame Milevski, who was 
 now so much better, had not permitted him to see 
 her. His position embarrassed him. He could 
 neither go, nor remain. Two weeks had flown by 
 like a dream, and he felt that with regard to Re- 
 nee lie owed a duty to madame which her seclu 
 sion would not allow him to discharge. Letters 
 and telegrams afforded him ample excuse to re 
 turn to Paris, but to leave without speaking to 
 Re*nee was impossible, and this step delicacy for 
 bade him to take, notwithstanding his warning to 
 Father Le Blanc, without the authority of ReneVs 
 present protectress. 
 
 His letters finished, he took his way up the hill, 
 preoccupied with these thoughts. He was almost 
 inclined to classify Madame Milevski among the 
 eccentrics, and to demand an audience. Walking 
 rapidly, as was his wont, he overtook a priest f<l 
 lowing leisurely the same path. A priest was no 
 unusual sight in Spain, nor would this one have 
 attracted his attention but for certain peculiarities 
 in his walk and bearing not characteristic of the 
 
270 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 Spanish monk. It seemed to him that he had 
 somewhere seen this figure before. 
 
 What are those nameless accents, so distinct 
 and yet so difficult to define, which mark off the 
 individual from the million, even at a distance ? 
 
 As he approached, the priest turned and saluted 
 him. It was the face he had seen at Aix in the 
 garden of the Hotel du Nord with Madame Mi- 
 levski. 
 
 " Good morning, senor," he said in Spanish, lift 
 ing his hat. 
 
 Roger answered in French, in which language 
 the conversation was continued. 
 
 The priest s face was an attractive one, although 
 composed of discordant elements. It was not thin, 
 yet clear cut, wearing in repose a high and noble 
 expression which, when he spoke, produced an 
 effect of authority, without the least pretension. 
 On removing his hat, as he did later in the shaded 
 walk which they traversed, the tonsured head to 
 gether with the straight lines of his robe height 
 ened an air of resolve peculiar to his face. Its 
 predominant trait was a marked intellectuality, 
 never indeed wholly absent, yet at times so trans 
 figured by a persuasive sweetness as to destroy 
 any impression of coldness which might first have 
 been made. So the soft lights of a crystal hide its 
 angles without causing us to forget its hardness. 
 
 They fell into a conversation upon the many 
 events suggested by the place. Perhaps the pen- 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 271 
 
 etration of Father Roche detected in his com 
 panion a spirit of criticism, or regret, which in 
 this tomb of Moorish splendor is not uncommon 
 to the traveler. He replied for a time in mono 
 syllables, not distinctly of assent, yet placing no 
 check upon his companion s utterance. He had 
 a way of making one feel at one s best and of 
 opening the lips of another without opening his 
 own. 
 
 " History, * said he at last, " is the most impor 
 tant and the most dangerous of studies. The 
 zealot and the liberal alike find in its pages their 
 arguments, while the inquirer sees at first only a 
 vast flux without apparent order or stability. Out 
 of it theorists gather what they need, or construct 
 what they desire, and the evil-minded find there 
 every excuse at hand. The most enthusiastic and 
 conscientious student will rise from its study only 
 with weariness and disappointment, if not disgust 
 for all those party strifes undertaken in the name 
 of God and truth, but embittered by selfishness 
 and ambition, for all those creeds whose very lof 
 tiness is the proof of man s need and misery, if he 
 does not bring to that study the maturity of an 
 experience which has outgrown the illusions of 
 youth, and a faith which enables him to see the 
 Divine purpose. History is not an ice-floe of 
 fragments, which clash aimlessly and melt away, 
 to him who discovers the drift of the current; it 
 is rather a ladder upon which one may ascend 
 
272 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 into the council chamber of God. Yes, it is easiei 
 to prophesy the future than to interpret the past." 
 
 They passed some curious plants by the way 
 side, which Father Roche paused to examine, and 
 on which he made some observations surprising 
 to Roger. 
 
 "You have studied botany, monsieur?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " A little," replied the priest, modestly. " I 
 love much the sciences." 
 
 * k Then you do not fear them ? " 
 
 " Those who fear science live in ruts so deep 
 that they cannot see over them." 
 
 " And yet Religion to-day is losing treasures 
 which she must regret, and of which Science alone 
 despoils her. Like the foolish virgin of the par 
 able, she wakes from dreams to find that her com 
 panion has bought oil and kept her lamp trimmed, 
 while she was lost in visions." 
 
 Father Roche made no reply, and they walked 
 on for a time in silence. 
 
 " I do not say," continued Roger, u that science 
 destroys religion, that it even affects those great 
 focal lines of probability which converge towards 
 one centre. But those poems on which the world 
 has fed, so full of mystery and promise, those 
 dreams in which everything appeared great be 
 cause we were children, does it give you no 
 pain to see them fade away ? Science has no 
 quarrel with religion, but with religions. Aspira- 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 273 
 
 tion cannot live upon generalities ; it defines and 
 specifies ; it clothes itself with the creations of its 
 own enthusiasm and revery, and transmutes each 
 hint and hope into a certainty. Have you no fear 
 of that colder, rational method which cheeks every 
 conjecture by a thousand experiments, and con 
 fronts, not the native desires of the soul, but the 
 creed into which they have crystallized, with the 
 spectre of verification ? " 
 
 " There are the phenomena of spiritual expe 
 rience." 
 
 44 A sea on which the wind blows," replied 
 Roger. " I cannot there watch your experiment, 
 or repeat it myself under like conditions." 
 
 44 Therefore yon suppress those phenomena al 
 together," said Father Roche, smiling. 
 
 44 No, I do not deny them ; experience is not 
 limited to sensation, and science herself raises the 
 questions which she cannot answer. But, within 
 her province, verification justifies induction and 
 furnishes a unit of certainty. In that very tu 
 mult of opinion and change, with which men 
 reproach her, goes on, as in the alembic of the 
 chemist, a constant precipitation which increases 
 her capital. Without, there is inference, but no 
 verification ; motion, but no progress. The ques 
 tions remain, for the answers never emerge from 
 the region of hypothesis. It is the wheel of 
 Ixion." 
 
 Father Roche made no answer, though he did 
 
 18 
 
274 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 not have the air of one who was silenced. He 
 walked slowly, with his hands behind his back 
 and his eyes on the ground. They were close to 
 the inn when, as if there had not been an inter 
 val of five minutes silence, he said, quietly, " You 
 were speaking of religion. Philosophy is not re 
 ligion." 
 
 Roger thought of Re*ne*e, at this reply. 
 
 His curiosity was excited by the recollection of 
 the circumstances under which he had first seen 
 his companion. He was not, therefore, surprised 
 to hear him inquire for Madame Milevski, though 
 he was not a little astonished to hear that the lat 
 ter was walking in the Alhambra. 
 
 " Since we are seeking the same person, with 
 your permission I will accompany you," said 
 Roger. The priest bowed, and they followed to 
 gether the path already taken fry Stephanie. It 
 was the voice of Father Roche in the Court of 
 Myrtles which had caused her to start. 
 
 Despite the emotion with which she had antici 
 pated this meeting with Roger, her interest seemed 
 altogether absorbed by the priest, who, on the 
 other hand, after saluting her and inquiring after 
 the state of her health, addressed himself to Soeur 
 Marie. Stephanie began to speak before Roger 
 had time to address her. 
 
 " You were very kind to come so far, M. Lande, 
 and very considerate. M. Michel is so easily 
 alarmed for others. * 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 276 
 
 " I came very gladly. After danger is over, it 
 is easy to smile at our fears, but when mademoi 
 selle s letter reached M. Michel " 
 
 " Yes, I know. I forbade her to write. I knew 
 it would alarm him. He thinks so little for him 
 self, and is so readily made anxious about others, 
 He was your real patient all the while." 
 
 " I should have been glad to have rendered you 
 a service, madame," said Roger. " In coming to 
 Spain, to be honest, M. Michel did not enter my 
 thoughts." 
 
 " Do you regret I was not at death s door ? " 
 she said, with a smile. 
 
 " I merely wished to say what I did," he re 
 plied, a little haughtily, " that to have assisted 
 you would have given me pleasure, more even than 
 to have pacified the alarm of M. Michel." Feeling 
 is contagious. 
 
 " Oh, doubtless you were entirely disinterested," 
 she replied. She was sorry for these words, even 
 while uttering them. 
 
 " No, I was not wholly disinterested. I had 
 something in mind." 
 
 She stood in the recess looking over towards 
 the caves of the gypsies in the opposite hill, with 
 out appearing in the least to understand him, 
 Her reserve piqued him. Certainly she knew 
 what he meant. Did she really wish to make a 
 nun of Renee ? He was on the point of speak 
 ing, when she turned abruptly and put her hand 
 on his arm. 
 
276 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " Do you really wish to do me a service ? " 
 
 She spoke with so much earnestness that she 
 startled him. It was not a question, but a prop 
 osition. 
 
 " Go back to Paris," she said, rapidly, " to 
 morrow." 
 
 The thought that in some way the presence of 
 Father Roche concerned Re* ne e flashed through 
 his mind, but it was only a flash. Stephanie s 
 eyes were full upon him. Their very appeal in 
 spired trust. For some reason which he could not 
 fathom, she seemed to be throwing herself upon 
 his generosity. 
 
 " I do not in the least understand you, but I 
 will go," he said. " Only, I shall see Runee be 
 fore going." 
 
 " 1 shall give you no reason but a woman s 
 whim," she said, with an attempt at levity, and 
 not noticing his last words. 
 
 " 1 have asked for none." He did not know 
 whether, as she turned away, the light in her 
 eyes signified triumph or gratitude. 
 
 " Father, will you give me your arm," she said 
 to the priest ; and the four left the room. 
 
 Father Roche had not seen Madame Milevski 
 since her journey to Frohsdorf, and the failure 
 of those projects in which he also had taken an 
 active part. So thoroughly had she entered into 
 the hopes of the hour that he was not prepared 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 277 
 
 to find her indifferent to the new plans which 
 were ever forming in his busy brain. But he be 
 trayed no surprise. In the interview which he 
 had with her that afternoon, his chagrin (for he 
 had corne expressly from Madrid without doubt 
 ing the success of what he had in view) was not 
 apparent. He was very skillful in adapting him 
 self to a new situation. He had definite pur 
 poses, but, when once moulded, he never allowed 
 them to harden beyond the point of readjustment. 
 In this respect he possessed a quality of mind 
 the lack of which has brought ruin on otherwise 
 great strategists ; a quality which enabled him. 
 not only to seize the essential and disembarrass 
 himself of all those trivialities which perplex the 
 action and obscure the judgment, but to make his 
 often devious way through those contingencies 
 which beset the wisest plans, and, if they be too 
 rigidly set, destroy them altogether. He made 
 vhat was to have been a communication to an 
 associate, a confidence to a friend ; and although 
 sincerity had dropped out of this confidence, it 
 was none the less a tribute to the good faith of his 
 listener. He consulted her judgment, her opinion 
 of men, her knowledge of the world, and he showed 
 that interest in herself which a man accustomed 
 to society knows so well how to offer without in 
 trusion or indiscretion. 
 
 Stephanie was not blind to his ways, yet she 
 enjoyed his visit. Much that gives pleasure is 
 
278 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 only that exterior with which intelligence and 
 good breeding disguise the unreal. There was a 
 refinement in this intriguer, a fascination in this 
 mixture of the courtier and the priest who, if not 
 so honest as Father Le Blanc, was less gross, pre 
 cisely because he was less natural. 
 
 " No one is better fitted than you are," he said 
 to Stephanie, " to take part in this work in which 
 I am engaged, but I should do you wrong to urge 
 upon you a course-you are not inclined to follow. 
 Few of those who labor with us are free from 
 motives of self-interest and ambition. Some seek 
 position and favor, some are happy only in satis 
 fying the spirit of adventure, others risk their for 
 tunes and their lives through their pride in the 
 hierarchy, an instinct of birth and caste. They 
 believe they have renounced self, whereas it is 
 encased in that very pride to which they sacrifice 
 fortune. But towards the Divine purpose, all 
 contribute. He who will not ride in His chariot, 
 drags it in chains." 
 
 She had said that she could be of no assistance 
 to him. 
 
 " It were possible for you to be of the great 
 est," he replied. " Not in your present state of 
 mind, but in one to which I would lead you." 
 
 Stephanie raised her eyes and looked at him. 
 
 " We wish above all to be happy. Dees he who 
 embraces the highest cause, for what it brings, at- 
 tain happiness ? No, not so long as there exists 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 279 
 
 in the motive which animates him the slightest 
 alloy of selfishness. In the pure gold of God s 
 furnace there is no trace of it. The fruifc of hap 
 piness comes on!y of that which dies to itself. I 
 have seen those who in disappointment and mis 
 fortune have entered the path of sacrifice and de 
 votion to some great principle, when in the very 
 desire to forget self, selfishness was supreme. Set 
 happiness before you as an end, no matter in 
 what guise of wealth, or fame, or oblivion even, 
 you will not attain it. Renounce it, seek the 
 pleasure of God, and that instant is the birth of 
 your own. But I have seen men seek the pleas 
 ure of God as they seek that of kings." 
 
 " It seems I am very transparent," said Ste*- 
 phanie. 
 
 Had not Father Roche, during all his life-time, 
 analyzed the heart of woman ? Had she not her 
 self bared the springs of life to the eye of his 
 confessional? How many interests are there to 
 snare the soul of a man ! But with woman, he 
 had only to look at this one in her youth, her 
 beauty, to put his finger on the hurt. 
 
 " Pardon me," he said. And then, after a 
 while, " Can you not forget the man in the priest? 
 To the one, confession may outrage pride and en 
 danger self-respect, but to the other " 
 
 " They are never separate, father." 
 
 " Seek God, then," he answered, gently. 
 
 "Do you go to Frohsdorf?" she asked, after 
 
280 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 another pause. Yes, he was going, and they began 
 to talk of those whom she knew there, the ladies- 
 in-waiting of the queen, as she was called. 
 
 When he went away, she descended the stairs 
 with him. In the garden it was already dark. 
 Coming from the lighted room, the warm air, the 
 perfume of flowers, and, above all, the mysterious 
 potency of night, overpowered her. They filled 
 her senses and swept her away as in a current. 
 
 " You are still weak ; you must go no farther," 
 said Father Roche. She stopped, leaning upon 
 one of the trees. He would have supported her, 
 but she recovered herself, and with one of those 
 impulses which sometimes broke down her re 
 serve, she said : 
 
 " What you said to me is true. Pray for me, 
 and remember, even in the death of the body, the 
 heart stops last." 
 
 Long after she had gone, Father Roche stood 
 meditatively in the place whence she had vanished, 
 then walked slowly down the hill under the lofty 
 trees, and disappeared in the darkness as he came. 
 He never saw her but once again. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 281 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ANTONIO had evidently taken a great fancy to 
 Re*nee. His natural antipathy to all exertion 
 vanished at the sound of her voice. He accom 
 panied her with the solemn dignity of a mastiff 
 guarding a treasure, consenting even to walk in 
 the sun when she led the way. Lizette had dubbed 
 him u Monsieur Fange tutelaire." Mine host of the 
 Siete Snelos, who seemed Antonio s especial friend, 
 evidently knew more than he cared to tell, for on 
 one occasion, when Lizette was making fun of his 
 friend, he explained that Antonio had once a 
 daughter of ReneVs age ; but, to Lizette s ques 
 tion what had become of her, he answered only, 
 " Eso va largo " (that s a long story). 
 
 " By the porch of the cathedral 
 I dare not pass to-day ; 
 
 I see ray mother s face, 
 
 Tears fall apace ; 
 I pass some other way." 
 
 Re ne e wished to buy a fan, that " second 
 tongue" of the Andalusian, and had set out with 
 Antonio, on the morning of Father Roche s visit, 
 to purchase one. It was her second search after 
 that ideal which always haunts the mind of tha 
 
282 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 feminine shopper, the first having proved fruit 
 less. 
 
 Did the sefiorita desire one of sandal-wood ? 
 Here was a marvel, with rice paper from Japan, 
 enlivened with spangles. Or did she prefer ivory, 
 delicately carved ? Ah, here now was the para 
 gon of i ans! of tortoise-shell, painted in water- 
 colors, with gold mountings of filagree work. 
 
 But no. the senorita was not easily satisfied, 
 and abandoned the quest for another day. In the 
 mean time Antonio had not been idle. Had one 
 been able to look in upon him at night when the 
 rest of the household were asleep, he might have 
 been seen taking from a small black box, con 
 taining apparently other treasures, an object which 
 he handled with reverence. It was a long time 
 before he closed the box, but, when he did so, he 
 had not replaced what he took from it. It was 
 a small fan of exquisite workmanship in mother- 
 of-pearl, covered with vellum on which was painted 
 a landscape which might have been a scene from 
 the isle of Cythera or the gardens of Calypso. 
 
 The next day he took it to the bazaar, and re 
 quested that, when Rdne*e came again, it should 
 be shown her. 
 
 " Not at first," he said, significantly. " Show 
 it last of all." 
 
 " Jesus ! que lindeza ! " exclaimed the shop 
 keeper. " It is worth at least a hundred pese 
 tas." 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 283 
 
 < Ask what you will," said Antonio. 
 
 " I will give you that myself," replied the dealer, 
 examining it. 
 
 " No, it is for the senorita." 
 
 " And how much do you give me? " 
 
 " At a hundred pesetas, five," replied Antonio. 
 
 " It is not much, but to oblige yoji " and, 
 folding the fan, he found for it a case of scented 
 leather. " With the case, ten pesetas," he said, 
 holding it out in his hand. 
 
 " Corriente," said Antonio. 
 
 This time, the extravagant praises with which 
 the " most beautiful thing in all Andalusia " was 
 produced were not belied by the dainty fan as it 
 was drawn from its leathern case. 
 
 Antonio s eyes shone with pleasure at Re*neVs 
 rapture. He took his pesetas when her back was 
 turned, but it was the full hundred that he dropped 
 in the box under the plaster Virgin of the Plaza 
 de Vivarambla. 
 
 " Do you give alms to the Church, Antonio ? " 
 asked Renee, in surprise. Antonio passed for a 
 heretic ; some even said that he was a Jew. 
 
 "A cuarto for a blessing on my lottery ticket." 
 
 Rende looked at him wonderingly. Did he 
 really thus buy the blessing of Heaven on his 
 gambling venture ? Or was he more devout than 
 his detractors would have him ? She inclined to 
 believe the latter. 
 
 On the way home she could not refrain from 
 
284 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 examining again her purchase. She drew it from 
 its hiding-place, and spread it wide open. 
 
 " We saw nothing like it before. Antonio. It 
 is a gem, so strong, and yet so delicate." She 
 turned it over, and held it out at arm s length. 
 " The case is certainly a new one, but the fan 
 looks old,"^he said. " See ! is it not worn a little 
 on the folds ? " and she held it up. 
 
 44 Yes, senorita. They do not make such fans 
 nowadays." 
 
 " I like it the better for that. It must have 
 belonged to some one, I wish I knew to whom. 
 It is smaller than most, is it not, Antonio? " 
 
 44 A little, senorita." 
 
 " Is it Spanish ? The painting looks French. 
 How fresh the colors are ! " 
 
 44 Spanish, senorita." 
 
 4 * I shall always wonder whose hand once held 
 it, and believe that it has a history. Why will 
 you not invent one, Antonio? I will tell it to 
 its admirers in Paris." 
 
 She laughed, a silvery little laugh, Antonio 
 looked so perplexed. It was wicked to tease him, 
 that good old Antonio ! 
 
 * 4 Do you never grow tired of your life, An- 
 ton o ? " asked Rcnde, at the fountain where she 
 lingered to rest and to drink some of the cool 
 water. " I should think you would, going the 
 same round and showing the same things over 
 and over to so many." 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 285 
 
 " First of all, one must eat," said Antonio. It 
 embarrassed him when any one spoke of himself. 
 
 " I suppose you have very little love for us 
 French, who have done you so much injury," she 
 continued, looking down into the well. She little 
 thought what chords she was touching. " Soult 
 was a monster !" she added, energetically. 
 
 When they reached the inn, Lizette was at the 
 door. 
 
 " I have bought the loveliest fan, Lizette," said 
 Rende. " I am going to show it to my aunt." 
 
 " Madame is asleep, mademoiselle," said Lizette. 
 " She has been taking a walk " 
 
 " A walk ! What a surprise ! When did she 
 go?" 
 
 " This morning, and she took her breakfast 
 here." 
 
 "I never once thought of it, or I should not 
 have gone out. Let me know when she wakes, 
 Lizette. I am going to dress for dinner." 
 
 " M. Lande has been here, mademoiselle," said 
 Lizette. 
 
 " Ah," said Re*ne*e, nonchalantly. " I was out." 
 
 " He wished to know where you had gone. He 
 returns to Paris to-morrow." 
 
 ReneVs heart gave a bound. " What sur 
 prises ! " she said. She thought Lizette was look 
 ing at her. She was not in the least afraid of 
 her, and had no fault to find with her ; still, sh 
 never wholly liked her. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 She went to her room, and began her toilette. 
 From being perfectly happy, she had suddenly 
 become nervous, and she knew it. She took out 
 her fan again, but it did not interest her. There 
 were some things she was trying not to think of. 
 She was a very orderly little being, and usually 
 dressed very leisurely ; but she put on her dinner 
 dress hurriedly, and slipped the yellow Christ 
 Soeur Ursule had given her in her bosom. She 
 had not worn it for days. 
 
 When she came down again, Soenr Marie said 
 Stephanie would dine in her chamber; she was 
 tired after her walk. Rdnee said she would go to 
 her. 
 
 " Madame has a visitor," replied Soeur Marie. 
 
 Who? A priest, from Paris. Renee remem 
 bered to have seen him sitting outside the door 
 when she returned with Antonio. When dinner 
 was served he had not gone, and Renee ate hers 
 alone, Lizette waiting upon her. After it was 
 finished, she wandered out into the gallery in tlm 
 rear of the house where Soeur Marie was reading. 
 She did not wish to be alone. 
 
 For a long time she sat quietly by the sister s 
 side, watching a little fountain whose water, after 
 falling noisily into an upper shallow basin, dripped 
 softly into a black pool below. 
 
 Presently Antonio brought a cup of chocolate, 
 which she sipped silently while Soeur Marie read 
 on in her book. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 287 
 
 She wanted to see Stephanie, to talk with some 
 one, to divert herself, but Father Roche was still 
 there. The minutes slipped away, and the sun 
 crept slowly towards the white horizon lines of 
 the mountains. lu an hour only the snow-peak of 
 the Mulahacen would emerge from the shadows, 
 and mine host would then light the lamps that 
 hung in the gallery. 
 
 " Read aloud to me, sister, please," said Re ne e. 
 
 " And the three Marys brought precious spices 
 to anoint our Lord. Take good heed now, my 
 dear sisters : these three Marys denote three bit 
 ternesses, as the name signifieth. The first bit 
 terness is remorse and making amends for sin, and 
 this is the first Mary, Mary Magdalene, for she in 
 great bitterness of heart left off her sins and turned 
 to our Lord. The second bitterness is in wrestling 
 and struggling against temptation, and this is that 
 other Mary, the mother of Jacob, which meaneth 
 wrestling. This wrestling is very bitter to many 
 who are well advanced in the way to heaven, for 
 they still waver in temptation. And the third 
 bitterness consists in longing for heaven and wear 
 iness of this world, when one is of such piety that 
 his heart is at rest with the war of vice, and is 
 as it were in the gates of heaven, where all worldly 
 tilings seem bitter to him. And this bitterness 
 is to be understood by the third Mary, Mary Sa 
 lome, which signifieth peace. " 
 
288 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 Soeur Marie bent her head over her book as 
 she read. All her thoughts were there ; one might 
 know from the tones of her voice that, though she 
 read aloud, she was reading to herself. For her 
 it was as if there were no fountain splashing 
 cheerily in the patio, or any snow dyed with sun 
 set colors on the mountains. Re*ne"e heard the 
 words, but her thoughts struggled up and min 
 gled with their meanings till the trickling waters 
 of the fountain and the reader s voice blended in 
 a confused murmur. 
 
 " c But now observe here, my dear sisters, how 
 after bitterness cometh sweetness. Bitterness 
 buyeth it, for, as the Gospel saith, these three 
 Marys brought sweet-smelling spices to anoint our 
 Lord. By spices, which are sweet, is to be under 
 stood the sweetness of a devout heart. These 
 three Marys buy it, that is, through bitterness we 
 arrive at sweetness. So saith God s dear spouse, 
 I will go to the hill of frankincense by the moun 
 tain of myrrh. Observe : which is the way to 
 the sweetness of frankincense? By the myrrh 
 of bitterness " 
 
 kt It is growing too dark, it pains my eyes," said 
 Soeur Marie at length, closing her book. "I will 
 go and see whether madame is alone." 
 
 Renee sat for a while with her hands in her 
 lap, then she took the cross from her bosom ; its 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 289 
 
 weight seemed to oppress her. By and by she rose 
 and stepped out from under the gallery into the 
 patio. 
 
 Just beyond the fountain, beneath a cluster of 
 bays, a little path led round to the ruined tower. 
 She followed it mechanically until she came to the 
 loose stones which, fallen from above, and now 
 overgrown with moss and creepers, formed so 
 many rough-hewn seats at the base of the wall. 
 She had been used to come here in the early days 
 of Stephanie s sickness, when she longed for air 
 and space, yet did not dare to go far from her 
 chamber. 
 
 How long she sat there she could not have told, 
 if indeed she knew she was there at all till his 
 footsteps roused her. Had she not listened for 
 them all that afternoon ? And yet now, after the 
 first leap of her heart, she was perfectly calm. 
 When they stopped close beside her she looked 
 up into Roger s face. 
 
 It was the last of the twilight, yet at that dis 
 tance one could see distinctly. She was sitting 
 on a fragment of stone, with the cross of Soaur 
 Ursule in her hands. Roger saw its gilt image, 
 which still reflected the faint light. Her eyes 
 looked into his without shrinking, they were 
 wet with tears that had not fallen. 
 
 " Re ne e, there is nothing in all this wide world 
 which can keep you from me, if you love me. * 
 
 She did not answer ; he bent over and took her 
 19 
 
290 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 hand. She did not resist him ; then he took her 
 in his arms. She lay there quietly, her eyes 
 closed. He drew her closer to him and kissed her 
 lips. She opened her eyes and smiled. 
 
 Then suddenly, springing to her feet, her hand 
 still in his, she cried, 
 
 44 Kneel down and pray with me ! " 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 291 
 
 XX. 
 
 WHEN Roger left the tavern of the Siete Suelos 
 that evening he would have given his purse to a 
 bandit, and said, " Thank you ! " He had lin 
 gered for a while about the place, with the reluc 
 tance of a true lover. Philosophy and reason, 
 what had they to do with instinct and sentiment 1 
 
 He would have returned by that path under the 
 rose bays, to that place at the thought of which 
 every other forsook him, had not mine host inter 
 cepted him with many bows and apologies. 
 
 " Did the senor go to Malaga the next morn 
 ing ? He had some business there. That rascal 
 Villegas ! who failed to send him his janqueta 
 white bait and who owed him sixty duros. The 
 diligence was full, every place was taken. What 
 luck ! it burns the blood ! Would the senor per 
 mit his unworthy servant to occupy the seat be~ 
 side him ? A thousand thanks ; he threw himself 
 at the feet of the senor ; all that he possessed was 
 his." 
 
 Mine host, who took tithes from travelers, under 
 the name of Matias, proved no disagreeable com 
 panion for the twelve hours ride. He had been 
 a muleteer before the days of his prosperity, and 
 
292 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 had slept on his mule-cloth in every market-place 
 in Andalusia. A cigar opened the heart of this 
 Spanish Gascon, full of childish good-humor, vi 
 vacity, boasting, credulity, and wit. The sun 
 under which he lived, and which luid made his 
 skin into a tawny leather, had also volatilized his 
 nature and painted his apparel. He shone in 
 velvet and buttons as he stepped into the calesa. 
 He had a story for every turn in the road, and at 
 every venta a jest for its landlord, a compliment 
 for its maid, and a tip for its hostler. 
 
 From some of Matias adventures, related in 
 loco, Roger inferred that he had once relieved 
 travelers of their duros in a less legitimate fashion 
 than at present. This was, however, an unwor 
 thy suspicion. The contrabandista is no footpad. 
 It is the exciseman that is the robber and defrauds 
 the people. The smuggler is at the worst but a 
 venial sinner whom the padre absolves almost as 
 readily as the bright eyes for whom he brings his 
 calico or the dandy whom he keeps in cigars. 
 
 From Alhama, where the horses were baited, 
 they followed the bed of the Marchan, white with 
 rage over the obstacles in its rocky descent; on 
 the ledges above clung the houses, embowered in 
 vines and gardens, making more striking the 
 ragged rent swept by the torrent and the barren 
 desolation of the mountains. As they passed over 
 a bridge where the noise of the waters drowned the 
 Toice, Matfas touched his companion with a sig- 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 293 
 
 nificant look ; and afterwards, divested of many 
 exclamations as well as gestures, with which he 
 garnished his narratives, this is the story, in 
 substance, which he told as they climbed the pass. 
 
 He and Antonio were at Ronda. They were 
 associates in business. Those were good days, 
 though pocket and stomach were often both 
 empty. They lived at Granada, he and Anto 
 nio, with the latter s daughter. It was said her 
 mother was a gypsy who had paid with her life 
 for this liaison with one outside of her tribe. God 
 only knew, one might as well try to open the 
 teeth of a donkey as the mouth of Antonio. At 
 all events, it was not unlikely. Felisa was a true 
 gitana; one could more easily hold water in the 
 hand than control her. She was like a flame, 
 blown with the wind, yet which no man could 
 handle. Then, again, she would be gentle as a 
 dove. Ah ! if the senor could have seen her ! 
 Eyes liquid as an oriental sapphire and limpid as 
 the pool of los Algibes. He, Matias, bending over 
 the well, once threw down a stone, and the flashing 
 ripples had made his head swim. Well, it was 
 the same when one looked into the eyes of Felisa. 
 
 Of course she had lovers. Every one who gave 
 her a look gave his heart with it ; but she would 
 have none of them. Not one ever touched her 
 heart. He thought then she had none. She was 
 wild and gay as a bird, and sang on every tree. 
 Many a one was snared at the sight of her face at 
 
294 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 the grating. On the street she would lift her 
 brown lashes for a second, and shoot a glance swift 
 as an arrow, it was the work of a second, like 
 the flash of the matador s sword. But no lover s 
 hand had ever reached through the grating, or 
 lover s foot had crossed the threshold. She left 
 them all at the door, as she took off her red rib 
 bons at bed-time, and never lost a second s sleep 
 for the sound of guitars under the window. 
 
 Antonio was so proud of her ! No wonder. If 
 she loved any one, it was he. He was her lover. 
 When he came home from the mountains she hung 
 on his neck. What a necklace they made, those 
 arms ! There were those ready to be strangled 
 by them. She had always kind words for him 
 then, and he could refuse her nothing. He 
 brought her little red shoes from Tangiers, and 
 stockings of open lace embroidery from Seville. 
 
 "We always left her alone when we were off on 
 our business to Ronda, Gibraltar, or Malaga," said 
 Matfas. " In those days Antonio was young. 
 To molest Felisa would be to try the edge of his 
 knife, which he could handle very prettily. I 
 should have been in love with her like the rest, 
 only I was twice her age. She treated me like a 
 brother. Once I was near making a fool of my- 
 gelf, she sat on the floor mending the fringe of 
 her petticoat, she looked at me and laughed till 
 I was angry, the little sorceress ! 
 
 " Well, at the first we were at Cadiz. We went 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 295 
 
 fco bring some silk over the mountains. But our 
 enterprise failed, the coast-guards were on the 
 lookout, so we returned sooner than we expected. 
 Felisa was gay as a lark. I noticed it, for when 
 we were unsuccessful, she was sympathetic, and 
 consoled us with promises of better luck the next 
 time. But this time she asked no questions, nor 
 seemed at all interested in our undertaking ; only 
 she danced about like a madcap, and got four 
 reals from Antonio to buy a silver pin she had 
 seen at the silversmith s, to fasten her mantilla. 
 When we set out again, to try our venture the 
 second time, she stood in the doorway, with the 
 mantilla on her head, her hair shining smooth on 
 her forehead, where it was fastened at each tem 
 ple with a crimson pink. Antonio asked her 
 where she was going in all her fine clothes, she 
 had on her best, but she only laughed and 
 pouted her lips at him, and bade him mind his 
 mule and she would mind the geese. Well, we 
 came back after three weeks. It was evening, 
 and we saw Felisa s light when we turned the 
 corner. It happened I was first, so I entered as 
 usual, without knocking. 
 
 ** Felisa sat on a bench by the wall, and beside 
 her was a man. He was dressed in the Spanish 
 fashion. But he was not one of us, the gavacho! 
 \ knew by the cut of his cloak and the little 
 mustache which turned up at the ends. He was 
 one of your countrymen, senor. Before I was in- 
 
296 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 side the door he was on his feet, and before 1 
 had taken a step Felisa had pushed him out of 
 the back door, leading into a sort of court-yard 
 with a low wall, by which one might gain the 
 street in the rear. I was so astonished that I 
 stood still till Antonio behind me pushed me to 
 one side. I knew by his face he had seen every 
 thing. But he said nothing. He looked at Fe 
 lisa, who stood with her back to the door where 
 the Frenchman had gone, she was confused for 
 a moment, then he went out to look after the 
 mules in the yard. I knew not which to do, to 
 stay or to follow him, till he had shut the door, 
 then I stayed. Felisa had recovered herself. She 
 plied me with questions, laughing and singing as 
 if nothing had happened. I replied the best way 
 I could, not daring to catch her eye. She began 
 to get our supper. I was so nervous that I over 
 threw a pile of oranges on the table. How awk 
 ward you are ! she said, laughing and showing 
 her pretty teeth, white as almonds. When An 
 tonio returned she ran up to him and kissed him. 
 But he said not a word. When she asked ques 
 tions I answered them, for the silence was terri 
 ble. It must have been the devil that kept up 
 her spirits while we ate supper. She chatted with 
 me who felt like a dead man ; told me about the 
 f a i r? it was the feast of St. John, and how 
 the people had hissed Miguel, who had broken 
 his sword on a bull in the plaza. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 297 
 
 " When supper was over she crossed the room 
 to where Antonio was sitting silent in the corner, 
 and began to fondle and talk to him as she used 
 to when he returned from the mountains. Had 
 he brought her anything from Cadiz ? I knew 
 what he had in his sash, but when he took it out 
 I thought it was his knife. It was a fan, and 
 when he gave it to her he looked in her eyes as 
 one looks in the sun, with a dazed expression. 
 But she was gay as a bird. She examined the 
 fan minutely, opening and shutting it rapidly. 
 Jt fluttered in her hands like the wings of a mart 
 let. When she went up to bed she kissed him, 
 paying no attention to his silence and gravity. I 
 dreaded to have her go and leave me alone with 
 him. For a while I could not open my throat, 
 but I made some remarks at last about our affairs, 
 to which he replied by a shake of the head, a nod, 
 or a monosyllable. He never moved except to 
 roll a cigarette. I was worn with fatigue, and, 
 rolling my cloak into a pillow, I went to sleep on 
 the wooden seat. 
 
 " The next morning it was just the same. Fe- 
 lisa came down singing, but I could see there was 
 wickedness in her eyes. The humor of Antonio 
 began to wear upon her. She went after break 
 fast over to the door leading out into the court 
 yard, but it was locked. She looked at Antonio, 
 who sat by the other, with a laugh. She wore a 
 pink in her corsage, which she unfastened and 
 
298 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 threw to him with a gesture of reconciliation. 
 But it lay on the floor where it fell. She gazed 
 at him for a moment in dismay. Perhaps his re 
 volt astonished her who had led him always like 
 a lamb. I saw the storm coming in her eyes. 
 "Have your own way! she exclaimed, contempt 
 uously, dropping all her airs and running up to 
 her room. 
 
 " All this would wear out the patience of a 
 saint. I perspired with anxiety. I rushed into 
 the street to breathe and see the sun. Old Raquel, 
 who sold fruits and nuts, was on the corner. She 
 knew everything that happened in Granada. Fe- 
 lisa had met the Frenchman at the bazaar ; she had 
 Seen him follow her down the Carrera del Darro. 
 But she paid no attention. Every one knew Fe- 
 lisa was no sleeping weasel. This was some weeks 
 ago, when we were first away. After that she 
 saw them together often. Pedro Ximenez, who 
 brought snow from the mountains, swore to her 
 that he had seen them together beyond the ravine 
 of Los Molinos. Well, then she began to watch. 
 The gavacho came to the house several times. He 
 lived at the Leon de Oro ; she had seen him at 
 the cafe* eating ices. 
 
 " Well, evening came, and Antonio had not left 
 the house. I began to be alarmed. So I went 
 back again ; but the lower room was empty. The 
 pink on the floor made me start. I thought it 
 was blood. The door to the stairs leading to Fe- 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 299 
 
 lisa s chamber was open, and I went up with a 
 fear in my heart that kept it from beating. An 
 tonio was there, he had just gone up, no one 
 else. The bird had flown. My tongue was loosed, 
 I felt relieved, for Antonio s manner had fright 
 ened me. I told him what Raquel had said to me. 
 It was clear Felisa had gone by the window into 
 the court-yard, and escaped by the little door into 
 the street. I was for going here, there, every 
 where ; but Antonio bade me to follow him. He 
 has the gift of second sight," said Matias, with 
 simplicity. 
 
 " He went straight to the Leon de Oro. The 
 man whom we described had been gone several 
 hours. No one could tell us where, but he had 
 paid his account and had left orders to send his 
 trunk to Malaga. That gave me an idea. If 
 Felisa had gone with him, she would get horses 
 at the Venta San Rafael, where there was one she 
 always rode. She could ride with the best of us. 
 And true enough ! Felisa had taken two horses, 
 and was gone about three hours. 
 
 " In the wink of an eye we were in the saddle, 
 and on the road we have just passed over. But 
 luck was against us. It was the rainy season, and 
 the river was swollen. In that gorge which we 
 passed, the bridge was gone. The water boiled 
 like a witch s pot ; no horse could stand in it. 
 We were obliged to retrace our steps and make 
 a long circuit. When we reached the venta at 
 
300 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 Alhama it was three hours past midnight ; I knew 
 by the stars on the top of the Tejada. Our horses 
 were jaded, and we stopped to exchange them for 
 fresh ones and to make inquiries. I struck a Hint 
 at the door of the stables, and the first thing I saw 
 was the horse of Felisa. It was for this we had 
 come, but now my heart began to beat again 
 against my vest, it misgave me for what was 
 to happen. Stay where you are, said Antonio, 
 and he went out with the look in his eye which 
 he had when Felisa threw the pink at him. Two 
 minutes were as long as two hours. I could wait 
 no longer, and went into the house. Hut I had 
 time to see that only one horse stood in the stable, 
 Felisa s. There were some others, sorry nags 
 fit only for the plaza, which had never eaten 
 hay in the stable of San Rafael. 
 
 " While I was waiting, this had happened. Fe 
 lisa, doubtless, was wakened by the noise which 
 Antonio had made at the door. Every one was 
 asleep. God knows what the poor little one 
 thought when she opened her eyes and found her 
 self alone ! The villainous rascal had left her ; 
 he had gotten up in the night and stolen off like 
 a thief, and she lying there asleep ! Poor Fe 
 lisa ! When I saw her she stood in the middle 
 of the room, her face looking as though she had a 
 knife in her heart. She had on only her red pet 
 ticoat and her black mantilla wrapped about her 
 bosom and shoulders. Mother of God ! the sight 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 301 
 
 wrung my heart, which had not a tear in it for 
 twenty years. I had no anger but for the wretch 
 who was fleeing like a coward over the mountains. 
 This was the thought, too, of Antonio. He stood 
 trembling, with his eyes full of pity. All this 
 takes time to tell, but it was the affair of a min 
 ute. While I looked, Felisa went up jto him as 
 she used to when we were back from an expedi 
 tion. She drew from the pocket of her petticoat 
 the fan he had brought her from Cadiz, making 
 believe to put it in his sash, and looking all the 
 while in his eyes. He put out his hands, when 
 she made a spring backwards out of their reach. 
 It was all over, before one could move a step. I 
 was watching the handle of his knife, which pro 
 truded above his sash. I was afraid, in a moment 
 of anger, lie would use it. I saw her fingers about 
 it, and then she was lying on the floor with the 
 blade in her heart. She knew the blow, a down 
 stroke between the shoulders," said Matfas, with 
 an explanatory gesture. 
 
 " Pardon, seiior, permit me to use your fire." 
 His cigar had gone out while he was telling his 
 story. 
 
 " And the other ? " asked Roger, who was 
 profoundly affected. 
 
 " Never," replied Matfas, between his teeth, 
 " He escaped us." 
 
 He was less talkative during that part of the 
 ride which remained. The memories which he 
 
302 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 had so vividly revived checked the flow of his 
 spirits. As for Roger, this story, related in the 
 dreary defile, haunted him. He went over it again 
 and again, walking the deck of the steamer and 
 dozing in the compartment of his carriage during 
 the long night ride to Paris ; till, once more in the 
 press of his duties, it faded from his mind and 
 Antonio was forgotten. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 303 
 
 XXT. 
 
 BEFORE the fireplace of the Rue du Bac, one 
 autumn evening, were gathered three men who 
 had reached the same stage as the fire which il 
 lumined their faces. It no longer blazed fiercely. 
 There were no more any showers of sparks, or hot, 
 leaping flames ; but only a red glow, shining with 
 out a flicker, and changing slowly into ashes white 
 as the hair of those beside it. 
 
 " I received a visit to day, M. Lande, from your 
 son," said M. Michel. 
 
 " The good boy ! " said M. Lande, out of his 
 dark corner. " I can never be too grateful to 
 that old gourmand whose gout first led him to 
 Beauvais, and who was the means of making him 
 known to yon." 
 
 " Ah, you think so ! Well, listen. To-day, I 
 repeat, he makes me a visit. If he wished to 
 borrow of me a thousand francs at a good inter 
 est, that would not surprise me ; or a book which 
 I value, but which he will replace if he tear so 
 much as a single leaf. That happens every day 
 But not a bit of it ! He says simply, Monsieur, 
 you have a niece, give her to me ! " 
 
 " God be praised ! " exclaimed M. Lande. " Ah, 
 my good friend " 
 
304 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " Your good friend ! " interrupted M. Michel, 
 testily ; " to what use will you put him, your 
 good friend ? You are a pair, you two." 
 
 M. Lande, unprepared for such an explosion, 
 was half persuaded that it was serious. 
 
 " And Mademoiselle Re ne e, what " he begar 
 to say. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Rene e ! Parbleu ! c est tin fait 
 accompli. It is not a request but a confession 
 that he makes, your good boy." 
 
 " To grant absolution is a privilege, is it 
 not," said M. Lande, appealing to Father Le 
 Blanc. 
 
 " When it is not a necessity," interposed M. 
 Michel. " Do you think I did not see the point 
 of the rapier under the robe of the penitent? 
 4 Monsieur, the hand of your niece, if you please, 
 which, being translated, is, 4 Come, old miser, she 
 is mine ; surrender! 
 
 Father Le Blanc laughed aloud. 
 
 " And you also laugh, you who are at the bot 
 tom of this marriage ! " 
 
 " I ? a marriage ? " exclaimed Father Le Blanc. 
 " I do not make them ; I bless them." 
 
 " That is to say, you make the best of them, 
 as I do. When the rains have fallen on the Up 
 per Nile, one cannot dam the river at Cairo." 
 
 Then you consent," said M. Lande, taking 
 heart. 
 
 " Consent ! No, I do not consent ; I am pil 
 laged ! " 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 305 
 
 M. Lande said nothing, from pure satisfaction. 
 He had waited so long for the realization of 
 dreams that, now one had come true, happiness 
 stifled him, and he drugged it with silence lest it 
 should render him beside himself. To the demon 
 of disappointment and frustration which had so 
 long mocked him without subduing him, he kept 
 repeating softly, " I knew it ; I told you so." 
 
 "When do they return ?" asked Father Le 
 Blanc, breaking the silence. He was thinking 
 neither of Roger nor of Renee. 
 
 " This week. And do you know what I have 
 done, old fool that I am ! Come and see." 
 
 He lighted a candle and led the way through 
 the library into the vestibule, where he opened a 
 door, and, holding the light above his head, mo 
 tioned them to enter. The room was a boudoir, 
 recently furnished. One could see the new lustre 
 of pearl-gray satin, and, between the curtains of 
 a door beyond, a bed white as innocence. 
 
 " I have made a nest for a bird that will not 
 stay in it," said M. Michel. 
 
 ;4 And the convent," said Father Le Blanc; 
 " had you forgotten that ?" 
 
 " No, I remembered it. But when I close the 
 door, the bird flies out of the window," he replied, 
 leading the way back to the fire, and replacing 
 the candle on the mantel. 
 
 " Put it out," suggested Father Le Blanc ; "it 
 is more pleasant. You remember," he continued, 
 
 flO 
 
306 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 when the light was extinguished, " I warned you 
 I even prophesied." 
 
 44 Do you offer that as a consolation ? Well, 
 at least I am more favored than Job, who had 
 three friends, while I have but two." 
 
 44 Come, come ! " said Father Le Blanc, " be 
 honest with us. Is there nothing which condones 
 this robbery ? Have you no no recollections 
 which " 
 
 He hesitated, shading his eyes with his large 
 hand. The semi-obscurity of the room and his 
 own sincerity had led him upon delicate ground. 
 
 44 No," replied M. Michel. 44 When all the gar 
 den was budding, I was in the shade." 
 
 44 God forgot you, my friend," said M. Lande, 
 gently. 
 
 Father Le Blanc looked at the speaker specu- 
 latively, from under the shade of his hand. How 
 was it that this man who, deceived by the sirens, 
 had plunged so early into the sea of disappoint 
 ment, could keep his eyes fixed upon the stars ? 
 
 44 Yes, I suppose so," replied M. Michel, mus 
 ingly. 44 For I, too, must have been capable of 
 folly, and might have had in my drawer a faded 
 rose, or an old glove, whose perfume could still 
 intoxicate. But I have none," he added, naively. 
 
 44 Listen to this appeal of your own heart. It 
 is stronger than the young lover s, for he has no 
 past, and you have one. It is stronger than the 
 voice of wisdom, or the arguments of experience 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 307 
 
 Why ? Because first love is an instinct ; every 
 other is a philosophy. It is at once a gift and a 
 sacrifice, every other is a bargain." 
 
 " Good bargains are always good bargains," 
 hazarded M. Michel, thinking of Madame Lande. 
 He did not dare employ too boldly the aryumen* 
 turn ad hominem. 
 
 " A gift is never a bargain," replied M. Lande, 
 warmly. " What a dull, miserable business, to 
 go to a shop, to exchange values at fixed rates, to 
 be exact to a centime ! Love, trust, veneration, 
 are not made for buying and selling. The man 
 who seeks for one worthy of them is the man who 
 is deceived. They are the wealth of his own na* 
 ture, and he must give them freely, without after 
 thought. And this gift increases tho world s 
 stock ; it enriches the poorest heart. It is such 
 offerings, from the depth of our own nature, which, 
 received by us from heaven and given again to the 
 world, increase its capital. Nothing comes of a 
 bargain. Oh, I know of what you aro thinking! 
 All this, you say, is very fine in principle, but de 
 tails are melancholy ; in theory we hit the mark 
 fairly, but in experience every stroke glances. 
 And what of that ? Will you ask our friend hero 
 to discard all those beautiful symbols which ho 
 made use of at mass this morning, and which, 
 like lenses, aid our eyes to apprehend the great 
 tragedy of redemption, because our poor eyes still 
 remain blind? You will Kot be able to stop 
 
808 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 there," he continued, following up his simile, " you 
 will send the good God himself back to heaven 
 because He makes a poor bargain." 
 
 44 My friend," said M. Michel, slowly, " you are 
 at once the saddest and the happiest of men." 
 
 Continually carried away by his feelings, M. 
 Lande was easily recalled to a sense of his au 
 dacity, between which and timidity he swayed 
 like a pendulum. 
 
 " The man who is truly happy is the man who 
 has seen the truth and is not dismayed by it," said 
 Father Le Blanc, replying for him. 
 
 " I wish," said M. Michel, after a long silence, 
 " I wish your maxim was also a recipe. I know 
 some one to whom I would give it." 
 
 44 To whom ? " asked Father Le Blanc, stirring 
 the embers. 
 
 " To my sister Stephanie." 
 
 "She. is not happy?" said the priest, looking 
 up from the fire, and wondering how much this 
 man really saw who said so little. 
 
 "Well," replied M. Michel, " do you think so?" 
 
 " Perhaps it is so." 
 
 44 1 do not know; it is only a thought that J 
 have." 
 
 M. Lande, who was not a close observer, lis 
 tened. 
 
 4(1 She will not find happiness in lovers," Father 
 Le Blanc continued, after a pause ; 44 nor any. 
 where else till she seeks it where she is now un 
 willing to look for it." 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. S09 
 
 " I always thought she would make a better 
 nun than Renee. She has a good deal of the re. 
 ligious element in her nature," said M. Michel. 
 
 Father Le Blanc s astonishment grew as he lis 
 tened. " I never thought of it," he said, candidly 
 " She lias a great deal of religious principle, if you 
 will, but no religious sentiment." 
 
 " Well, that is better than to be all religious sen 
 timent without any religious principle, like M. 
 de Marzac, for example. You see," continued M. 
 Michel, watching the priest s efforts to reconstruct 
 the fire, "there are some to whom God reveals 
 himself in the world, in its beauty or in its love. 
 They cannot look in the sun. But to some He 
 unveils his own person, and speaks face to face. * 
 
 " Yes, you are right," said Father Le Blanc, 
 abstractedly. "But sentiment is of great value. 
 There is more religion in the Litany than in all 
 the encyclopaedia of theology." To tell the truth, 
 he was thinking so intently of Stephanie that he 
 hardly knew what he was saying. 
 
 "Who said anything of theology, my friend?" 
 replied M. Michel. 
 
 Father Le Blanc made no answer. He had 
 gathered together the charred pieces of wood and 
 had at last succeeded in coaxing from them a little 
 blaze, which played furtively among the fragments. 
 "She comes back with Renee, I suppose," he said, 
 sitting up in his chair and watching the flames. 
 
 " Yes, next week." 
 
310 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 "And does she remain in Paris this winter? " 
 " She does not say. But why not ? There ia 
 the marriage of Renee" 
 
 O 
 
 " True," replied Father Le Blanc, leaning back 
 and closing his eyes, " I had forgotten." His lit 
 tle blue flame had disappeared again. 
 
 " Suppose," said M. Lande, after another si 
 lence, " that in losing a niece you should gain a 
 sister." 
 
 M. Michel looked at him in the fadmg !y,ttt, in 
 credulously. 
 
 " Oh, I know you," replied M. Landto v with a 
 nod of complete understanding. " You would not 
 move to the Boulevard St. Germain, but Madame 
 Milevski, who is to reside in Paris all the winter, 
 might preside over the Rue du Bac." 
 
 "I should not think of it," said M. Michel, 
 quickly, u nor she either. We love each other at 
 a distance." 
 
 Father Le Blanc laughed again. 
 
 " I am such an old fellow, you know. With 
 Re ne e it was different ; I began when she was 
 yonng. Besides, madaine has too many servants, 
 They would distract me ; and she brings a new 
 one from Spain, a sort of courier you remember 
 Antonio of whom Re ne e wrote to us." 
 
 " Oh yes, I recollect," said M. Lande. " I see 
 him alrendy, in his sash and leggings." 
 
 Here Bnptiste and candles put an end to then 
 talk. He brought the coffee, and there was also 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 311 
 
 a little flagon of brandy for Father Le Blanc, with 
 which he flavored his. 
 
 M. de Marzac, Baptiste said, had called in the 
 afternoon to inquire when Madame Milevski would 
 return. 
 
 To M. Michel this inquiry was only an act of 
 politeness, but in reality it was much more. M. 
 de Marzac bad latterly been undergoing a process 
 of which this inquiry was, in a sense, the culmina 
 tion ; a process begun, indeed, long ago, at Kief, 
 where the idea, " how beautiful she is ! " had 
 dropped like a ferment into his affective nature, 
 and that had now developed into a fever which 
 prevented judgment from holding the balance be 
 tween his thoughts and his emotions. Men like 
 M. de Marzac, whose moral principles are not 
 wrought into their nature as moral qualities, but 
 are put on, as garments are, to adorn or to con 
 ceal, fall more easily a prey to such fevers. They 
 are like bubbles of air, mere shells of external 
 decoration without resisting power, swaying in the 
 lightest air and collapsing in the storm. A stern 
 moralist would have classified him, without the 
 slightest scruple, among the thoroughly bad. 
 And it is true that he was brave only so long as 
 he had the advantage ; that he possessed an un 
 limited number of fine moral sayings, which fell 
 from his lips under his feet ; that he was resolute 
 and persevering only because selfish and vindic 
 tive ; that his prudence was but caution, his prin- 
 
812 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 ciple but policy, and his wealth and influence the 
 means of self-gratification only. But to stop here 
 would certainly be doing him injustice. Stand 
 ards may be set too high. It is well to have high 
 ideals for one s self, but in dealing with one s 
 neighbors it is indispensable to forget them. Did 
 not M. de Marzac discharge the ordinary duties 
 and debts of life with regularity and precision ? 
 Tradespeople pronounced him just, servants called 
 him generous ; and what his wealth did for this 
 class, his ability (ever enlisted on the side of pub 
 lic security, moral order, and religion) did for 
 another. There were hundreds who only knew 
 him by the signature at the end of his articles in 
 the " Univers," who read the man in his utter 
 ances. M. de Marzac might have died quietly in 
 his bed in the Avenue Friedland, after receiving 
 the sacraments, leaving no one the wiser. Does 
 not many a man with the heel of Achilles escape 
 a wound in the vulnerable spot, and die unsus 
 pected of weakness ? 
 
 The truth is, M. de Marzac had heretofore man 
 aged to escape strong fire. He was not easily 
 stirred. He took life quietly, with a philosophy 
 that accommodated itself without revolt to every 
 rircumstance. His passions were not deeply or 
 readily excited, and, says one, "If you wish to 
 know the man, stir his passions." M. de Sacy, 
 who won from him forty thousand francs at a 
 sitting, had not been able to ; he lost with sanf 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 313 
 
 froid and a perfect equanimity. Neither the Rad 
 icals nor the Bonapartists, whom he fought with 
 his pen, had ever betrayed him into an imprudence 
 which required him to draw his sword. Mademoi 
 selle Celimene, of the Theatre Comique, broke 
 with him and went to Berlin with a German 
 banker without having had a scene. How did it 
 happen that Stephanie Milevski could make him 
 betray himself? He had often asked the same 
 question. His fever had begun with an appetite 
 which rose and fell with the presence and absence 
 of the excitant, In the Kief ball-room it was 
 only a pleasant emotion, barely lingering through 
 the drive back to his lodgings. In the year of his 
 intimacy with her which preceded the visit to 
 Frohsdorf, this appetite had been more constantly 
 excited, and he had grown more definitely con 
 scious of it, till, at the close of the year, it was 
 no longer an appetite, but a desire. Moreover, 
 long continued and long thwarted, it had ceased 
 to produce pleasure ; it was now a discomfort and 
 a pain. On the way back from the ball M. de 
 Marzac had played with it, smiled at it, now it 
 stood over him with a whip of fire. He would 
 gladly have escaped this tyranny ; but, at the first, 
 vanity precluded retreat from a course in which 
 he had taken so many steps, and he moved in the 
 line of least resistance. The same was still true, 
 but to a greater degree. To retreat now, in the 
 strength of his heightened desire and wounded 
 
314 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 pride, required unselfishness and virtue. M. de 
 Marzac had a strong will, but how should any one 
 expect him to will an act of unselfishness and he 
 roic virtue when neither unselfishness, heroism, or 
 virtue were within the range of his reflection or 
 experience ? Pears, as Antonio said, do not grow 
 on elms, and will is only another name for intelli 
 gence. All the thoughts and feelings of his past, 
 even those which, at the time, had seemed most 
 ephemeral, were stored up in his organization, and 
 were now the forces latent in certain springs of 
 action, or the chains which bound others. 
 
 During the year alluded to, his close intimacy 
 with Stephanie, a long concentration of thought 
 and desire upon her, together with an overween 
 ing confidence in himself, had led to a habit of 
 mind, that of looking upon her as a part of his 
 own life, and the sudden destruction of his hope 
 had destroyed his reason, or, as he said, his tem 
 per. After Stephanie s departure for Spain, he 
 often looked back to those interviews he had had 
 with her as acts of folly. But these lucid inter 
 vals were neither long nor frequent. What had 
 at first been a spasm of anger and disappointment 
 gradually became a chronic sullenness and morose- 
 ness, less violent but more persistent. Madame 
 Milevski had come to be his right after having so 
 long been his desire. Pride, obstinacy, caprice, 
 these were sufficient to explain her. He him 
 self had been abused. Were not lovers masters, 
 who only played the part of slaves ? 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 315 
 
 M. de Marzac WHS especially fond of two things, 
 government and irresponsibility. His life was a 
 more or less unconscious effort to marry them, to 
 enjoy enough of one to save the other. While 
 Stephanie was in Paris he could, he thought, con 
 trol events ; but in Spain, with Rdnee, she es 
 caped him ; his hand missed the lever. His plans 
 were too vague, too unsettled, for confidence. He 
 mistrusted everything. Shut off by the interrup 
 tion to M. Michel s receptions from all sources of 
 information, he had remained ignorant of her ill 
 ness until after Roger s return, and this episode 
 disconcerted him. Roger s journey and delayed 
 return still further irritated him. There was no 
 one who could tell him what he wanted to know, 
 except, possibly, Madame Valfort, and she had 
 gone to Rome for the winter with her husband. 
 He waited like a mariner who, having lost his 
 compass, and being driven on by the wind, listens 
 anxiously for the sound of breakers, and waits im 
 patiently for the morning. 
 
 When he inquired of Baptiste the day of ma- 
 dame s return, he had reached the limit of his en 
 durance, and the few days which still intervened 
 he spent in a restless wandering between the club, 
 the cafe*, the bureau, and the Avenue Friedland. 
 On the evening of her arrival he walked down the 
 Boulevard de Sebastopol, not actually going to 
 the station, yet impelled in that direction, hop 
 ing, perhaps, to see without being seen. Then 
 
816 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 followed a day of indecision. On the next one 
 he passed by her house in the Boulevard St. Ger 
 main, and saw the gate was open and the per 
 siennes drawn. She had returned. To his relief 
 he received, the next morning, an invitation from 
 M. Michel, who resumed his reunions. He had 
 yet forty- eight hours to kill, and, on the day in 
 question, he anticipated the evening by dining 
 earlier than usual, and commencing his toilette 
 immediately after dinner. All this caused Fran- 
 (jois, his valet, to wonder. When at last Bap- 
 tiste had taken his hat, and he stood at the door 
 of M. Michel s salon, he hesitated. When he 
 thought of action everything became confused, 
 and, as he steadied himself, seemed to melt away 
 and elude reflection. He glanced at his attire, 
 made an effort, and entered smiling. 
 
 The rooms were full, and there were faces un 
 familiar to him. Something unusual seemed to 
 be going on. Renee was a centre of attraction. 
 In her rear stood M. Lande, looking very happy 
 and much pleased with himself. There were no 
 quiet groups of causeurs ; an unusual animation 
 prevailed. He did not see Stephanie, so he pressed 
 forward with others and paid his compliments to 
 mademoiselle. 
 
 " It is worth while to have gone to Spain," he 
 said afterwards to M. Michel, " to meet witn such 
 a reception." 
 
 "It seems to please everyone except myself," 
 was the reply. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 317 
 
 M. de Marzac did not understand it, but as he 
 passed on he met Father Le Blanc, who told him 
 of Renee s betrothal. It was not wholly unex 
 pected, yet it set him a-thinking. 
 
 " Did not Madame Milevski return with made 
 moiselle ? " 
 
 " Yes, she has entirely recovered. That is, I 
 am told so ; I have not seen her." 
 
 " Then she is not present to-night." 
 
 "No, M. Michel says she desired to be ex 
 cused." 
 
 " Ah! " said M. de Marzac. What wonder! he 
 thought to himself. This was Renee s u day." It 
 could hardly be an agreeable one for Stephanie. 
 What ! able to make a journey from Granada to 
 Paris, but unable to ride from the Boulevard St. 
 Germain to the Rue du Bac ! Bah ! he knew bet 
 ter. A little flutter of hope stirred in his heart. 
 He pictured to himself a woman alone, forgotten, 
 and unhappy, and he determined to go at once. 
 He saw Roger, but avoided him. He waited his 
 opportunity when Re ne e was less occupied, and 
 approached her to make his adieux with some 
 thing of his old assurance. 
 
 As he did so, he stopped suddenly, his eyes riv 
 eted upon an object which she held in her hand. 
 It was a fan, small but of striking beauty, which 
 a young blonde, the niece of M. Scherer, was ex 
 amining with expressions of admiration. 
 
 " I never saw one at all like it," she was say- 
 
518 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 ing. " What is this covering ? It is not silk, 
 no, nor paper. Ah ! here is M. de Marzac," she 
 exclaimed, looking up ; " he is a connoisseur in such 
 matters. What is this material ? " she asked, hold 
 ing out the fan to him ; " we cannot decide." 
 
 His fingers trembled as he took it in his hand. 
 A flood of recollection rushed over him. He was 
 no longer in the Rue du Bac. The hum of his 
 quickened blood sounded in his ears like the rush 
 ing of a river which he had once heard smiting 
 the rocks in the defile of the Sierra. He was flee 
 ing again amid gusts of rain, listening above the 
 wind for the voices of pursuers, holding hard to 
 the saddle on a road lost in the blackness of 
 night. 
 
 " Well," said Mademoiselle Scherer, impatient 
 ly, "you cannot tell us?" 
 
 " Yes, mademoiselle," replied M. de Marzac, 
 rallying as he knew how to, and in his politest 
 manner ; " it is vellum, but it is not common. 
 Where, may I ask, did you find it, mademoiselle ?" 
 looking at Rene e. 
 
 " I bought it in Granada." 
 
 44 What pretty ones they make in Spain," ex- 
 laimed Mademoiselle Scherer, taking the fan again. 
 
 " Not prettier than in France," replied M. de 
 Marzac; "only, in Spain they know how to use 
 them." 
 
 44 Have you been there ? " asked 
 
 A No, never," he replied, calmly 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 319 
 
 44 How do you know, then, that the Spanish 
 ladies use the fan so much better than we do ? " 
 asked Mademoiselle Scherer, who was studying 
 the picture painted on the vellum. 
 
 " By reading M. Gautier, who says so." 
 
 44 I do not believe your Monsieur Gautier. At 
 all events, he is very ungallant. But see v Rd- 
 ne*e, here is a name on the trunk of this tree, 
 F-e " 
 
 44 The artist s," said M. de Marzac, leaning over 
 and examining it in his turn also. 
 
 " No, it is a woman s, Fe-li-sa, besides, it 
 is written in pencil." 
 
 44 1 knew it ! " exclaimed Renee, with anima 
 tion. 44 1 told Antonio it was not a new fan. 
 The folds are a little worn with use do you 
 see ? " she said, pointing to the marks on the 
 seams. 44 Do you think this could be the name 
 of its owner ? " 
 
 " At all events, it is a very pretty one," said 
 Mademoiselle Scherer. 44 Felisa ! Felicite ! She 
 ought to have been happy with such a fan. Let 
 me look again, Renee," she continued, with a mis 
 chievous smile in her eyes ; " there ought to be 
 another name there on the tree, after the fashion 
 of lovers. No, nothing. What a pity ! It was 
 almost a romance. N importe ! we can write two 
 others, can we not, M. de Marzac ? Have yon, 
 perchance, a pencil ? " and she laughed gayly. 
 
 44 Anne ! " said Re*nee, endeavoring to be stern 
 
320 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 and beginning to grow red. She had seen Roger 
 approaching. 
 
 " What is it that amuses you, Mademoiselle 
 Scherer?" he asked of the young girl, who was 
 dying of laughter. 
 
 " Ah, M. Lande, is it you ? We have found on 
 ibis fan of RcneVs, which she thinks has belonged 
 already to some one, the name of its owner. Do 
 you see, there, on the trunk of that tree by the 
 fountain?" 
 
 Roger, who had the fan in his band, and could 
 read the name easily, started involuntarily. Ma- 
 tias story came back to him. 
 
 " Oh, have no fear!" exclaimed Anne, laugh 
 ing again, " it is a woman s look, Felisa." 
 
 " Where does this fan come from ? " asked 
 Roger, gravely. 
 
 u Why, it is RdneVs, I have told you. She 
 bought it in Malaga, in Granada, in Spain some 
 where. Well, what is the matter ! " she exclaimed, 
 looking from Roger, whose face was flushed, to M. 
 de Marzae, whose lips were bloodless. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," said Roger to Rcnde, who, 
 perceiving his emotion, was as much astonished 
 as her companion, "will you give me this fan ? 
 It has a history; some time I will tell it to you. 
 Not now," lie said, curtly, to Mademoiselle Scherer, 
 whose amazement was becoming a curiosity, "have 
 a little patience ; it is worth it." And he offered 
 his arm to Rdnee. 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 321 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! what a mystery ! " exclaimed 
 Mademoiselle Scherer, after they had gone. 
 
 " A lover s quarrel already ! " said M. de 
 Marzac, with a fine smile of irony. 
 
 The young girl shot a swift glance of dissent 
 from her wondering eyes, and turned, perplexed 
 and troubled, at the result of her discovery, to 
 M. Scherer. 
 
 Left alone, M. de Marzac sought the door. On 
 hearing of ReneVs betrothal, he had resolved to 
 go to Stephanie. But this incident had driven 
 her completely from his thoughts. When he went 
 out, he turned down the Rue du Bac to the river, 
 and then up the street along the quay. What did 
 he know ? this man who had stepped uncon 
 sciously between Stephanie and him, and who now 
 held in his hand Felisa s fan. And Antonio ! that 
 name, in his thoughts only, it made him shiver. 
 All this was so sudden ; like light poured into a 
 chamber he thought locked forever. The quiet 
 and solitude of the quay, the dull noise of the 
 river, oppressed him. He crossed the bridge and 
 took the Rue de la Paix to the Boulevards. It 
 was broad noon there ; but the brilliant shops, the 
 thronged sidewalks, the cafes overflowing with 
 lights and the hum of voices, the roar of wheels 
 on the roadway, all this tumult so familiar and 
 so dvar to him, could not drown the haunting 
 voices of fear which pursued him. Even con 
 science, wasted to a superstition, dogged him re- 
 21 
 
322 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 vengefully. He passed the door of the club. 
 There was the carriage of M. de Sacy, whose liv 
 ery he recognized, standing at the curbstone in 
 the blaze of gaslight, the coachman on his box 
 with his whip on his knee. But he went on with 
 out pausing. Behind the plate glass of the Cafe* 
 Anglais he saw some of his friends, who saluted 
 him and beckoned him to a place at their table. 
 But lie sent them back a forced smile, with a nod 
 of recognition, and kept on. Now and then he 
 gave a glance at the windows whose reduplicating 
 mirrors were arranged to catch the eye of the 
 loiterer, and which formed the background to all 
 this tide of life passing before them, seeing 
 everything, yet recognizing nothing. This wide 
 street through which, like an artery, poured the 
 feverish blood of civilization, how different from 
 that narrow crevice of the Zacatin ! Yet it was 
 there lie was loitering. An array of fans, sus 
 pended from their silken tassels and spread open 
 on velvet cushions, made him shudder, and urged 
 him forward again down the Boulevard. He 
 straightened up, occasionally quickening his gait, 
 with a smile of self-contempt. 
 
 Still he went on, by the Maison Dore"e, across 
 the street, down the Rue de Choiseul, into the Rue 
 de Richelieu, circuitously, yet ever towards the 
 river, like a man who has an appointment but is 
 in advance of the hour. And this was the fact. 
 M. de Marzac had an appointment. Whether he 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 323 
 
 knew it or not, it drew him on to the place and 
 the hour fixed. Fate, which he had so often pic 
 tured as the current of life, enveloped him, sweep 
 ing him on he knew not where with the steady 
 set of a tide. 
 
 Arrived at the Pont des Arts he lingered a 
 moment, leaning on the railing; then, with a ges 
 ture of impatience that seemed to say, " Well, be 
 it so! I yield to you!" he recrossed the river 
 and took his way straight to the Boulevard St. 
 Germain. 
 
 The gates were closed, but a light burned in the 
 concierge s window. He rang the bell firmly, his 
 eyes fixed on the polished brass knob till it turned 
 to the pull of the cord. He entered the passage 
 way, exchanging a look with the concierge through 
 the window, and crossed the court-yard. Jacques 
 himself opened the door. Was Madame Milevski 
 at home ? 
 
 " No, monsieur, but she is expected? every in 
 stant. Will monsieur wait ? " 
 
 Yes, he would wait. 
 
 He ascended the stairs to the little room he 
 knew so well. At the door his courage had begun 
 to fail him ; now he was more easy. Nothing was 
 changed in this room. He knew every article of 
 furniture. There was the seat in the window 
 overlooking the garden, and a handkerchief, deli 
 cate, with its faint perfume, on the cushion. He 
 sat down there and waited. How many things it 
 
324 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 said to him, that handkerchief, abandoned care 
 lessly, within his reach ! The clock ticked on 
 the mantel with its familiar timbre. He seemed 
 at home ; everything was so cosy and natural, 
 and lost in his thoughts he waited patiently in 
 the window. What should he care for a fan ! 
 Spain was leagues away. He was thinking of 
 Stdphanie. She must be his now ; they would 
 go they would go far away, and he began 
 to dream. 
 
 Suddenly he remembered everything. 
 
 It was no longer Stephanie for whom he was 
 waiting, but Felisa, dark with vengeance and re 
 proach. He started to his feet and looked at the 
 clock. He had been there an hour. He rang the 
 bell, but no one answered. Was it a silly terror 
 which benumbed his feet and chilled his blood in 
 this warm and pleasant room ? No one was there 
 to alarm him. No one hid in the curtains hang 
 ing motionless before the window. Yes, some one 
 was there. At the hour appointed, the senses 
 become, acute. He seized his hat and gloves, and 
 opened the door. The stairway was dimly lighted, 
 and he descended noiselessly. His hand was on 
 the door when he turned, did not some one call 
 him? to see the face of Antonio at his shoul 
 der. All his courage leaped into his muscles. At 
 bay, nature came to the rescue. He turned with 
 a mighty spring upon his assailant, but it was 
 too late. A shock, cold as an icicle and changing 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 325 
 
 in an instant to a stinging heat, paralyzed the 
 muscles of his neck ; everything swirled before 
 his eyes, and he sank with a gasp on the stone 
 floor of the vestibule. 
 
326 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 LYING on his bed in the chamber of the Avenue 
 Fried land, his face white, his eyes closed, M. de 
 Marzac called for pity. To-morrow, as he makes 
 his last earthly journey, those who have never 
 heard his name will take off their hats, not to 
 him, indeed, but to the monarch whom all his 
 courtiers know and to whom they uncover when 
 the cortege passes by. Even M. de Sacy, who 
 really cared but little for his friend, was here at 
 his bedside, with that mingled awe and tenderness 
 which Death inspires. The summons possessed 
 majesty, because it was one he also in his turn 
 should hear. 
 
 He met the physician as he ascended the stair 
 way. 
 
 " Has he no chance ? " 
 
 " None." 
 
 There was a momentary pause of embarrass 
 ment. 
 
 " What a frightful catastrophe ! " said M. de 
 Sacy, with a gesture of helplessness. 
 
 The doctor nodded gravely. He was chary of 
 words. He had made a dozen visits that morn- 
 Ing, and had yet as many more before him, be- 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 827 
 
 sides a room in which people were already begin 
 ning to gather, awaiting their turns. 
 
 M. de Sacy opened the door of the salon. Fran- 
 ^ois, M. de Marzac s valet, was there, standing at 
 the window looking drearily into the street. He 
 had the appearance of one who is waiting for some 
 thing to happen. He replied by a sign of the 
 head to the question which M. de Sacy asked with 
 his eyes, and the latter pushed gently the door 
 leading into the chamber, and entered on tiptoe. 
 M. de Marzac opened his eyes and exchanged with 
 him a glance of recognition. 
 
 " My dear friend," began M. de Sacy, standing 
 at the bedside. He wore his light gloves, and had 
 his hat still in his hand. Brilliant, witty, never 
 at a loss for a word, M. de Sacy could say abso 
 lutely nothing. Did his friend enjoy his embar 
 rassment ? From out those hollow eyes, darkened 
 already by the shadows of the night to come, he 
 looked at him curiously. 
 
 44 Water ! " he said at last, lifting his hand. 
 
 M. de Sacy filled the glass on the table, and 
 handed it to him timidly. 
 
 " Let go. I can hold it," 
 
 44 What a frightful catastrophe ! " repeated M. 
 fie Sacy ; 44 but you will soon be better in a few 
 days " 
 
 M. de Marzac on his pillows, the glass at his 
 lips, gave him a peculiar look. 
 
 44 1 am sure of it," continued his friend, reraon- 
 
328 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 stratingly. " I did not expect to see you. You 
 are looking " 
 
 " What did he tell you ? " interrupted M. de 
 Marzac, glancing at the door. 
 
 "The doctor? Absolutely nothing. I only 
 passed him on the stairway." 
 
 " And you asked him no questions ? You had 
 so little curiosity ? " 
 
 "You are unreasonable. When one throws 
 away hope, one throws away the last chance. 
 Have courage." 
 
 The sick man closed his eyes. 
 
 " What can I do for you, my poor friend," said 
 M. de Sacy, with emotion. " The cowardly vil 
 lain ! But he will be found ! " 
 
 M. de Marzac opened his eyes again. 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 " How can you doubt it ! In Paris, in broad 
 daylight almost ! I myself will " 
 
 " On the contrary, you will do nothing." 
 
 The two men looked fora moment at each other 
 without speaking. 
 
 " You know him ? " said M. de Sacy. 
 
 u I have just made a deposition, and T know 
 nothing. But you, my best friend," in a tone in 
 which it was impossible not to detect a faint 
 irony, "naturally you would do all in your powor 
 to aid justice, to bring the guilty to retributi ^n. 
 Do nothing, I tell you. The retribution is accom 
 plished." 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 329 
 
 He paused, for the effort of speaking exhausted 
 him. 
 
 "The papers will say that justice is defeated, 
 and that the police are imbecile. And they will 
 be rioht. The one is blind, and the other leads 
 
 o 
 
 her into the ditch. The blood is paid for with 
 blood." 
 
 M. de Sacy listened in astonishment. 
 
 " I repeat, you are my friend ; you wish to do 
 something. Do nothing. Do you understand ? " 
 
 The noise of a door opening in the adjoining 
 room caught his ear, and he stopped to listen. In 
 the low murmur of voices which followed, there 
 was one which was a woman s. 
 
 " Do you promise ? " he said, still listening. 
 
 " Most certainly." 
 
 "One tiling more, it is the last. Pardon me* 
 time presses ; I wish to save my strength. Go 
 out by that door, no, the other, through the 
 dining-room ; you know the way. But give me 
 your hand." 
 
 M. de Sacy s shook as he gave it. 
 
 " Bah!" said the sick man ; "have courage, as 
 you say. It is only another comedy finished. 
 Adieu!" 
 
 It was a dismissal, not a farewell. But it was 
 a relief to M. de Sacy to go. 
 
 The door had scarcely closed behind him, when 
 Francois appeared at the other. 
 
 " Yes, let her come in," said his master, antici 
 pating him, " and shut the door." 
 
330 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 " Wait for me here," said Stephanie, in the ad 
 joining room to M. Michel, who had accompanied 
 her. 
 
 "As you please," replied her brother, who un 
 derstood nothing of this visit she had asked him 
 to make with her. 
 
 She entered the door which Frangois held open 
 for her. M. de Marzac, reclining on his pillows, 
 motionless, pale, his hair clinging to his temples 
 damp with perspiration, still possessed his air of 
 the salon. 
 
 " I cannot rise, madame, to receive you. Will 
 you do me the honor to be seated ? " 
 
 Mechanically Stephanie took the chair near his 
 bed, and a silence followed in which he watched 
 her attentively. 
 
 " You sent for me, M. de Marzac," she said at 
 length. She was a woman, and the spectacle 
 touched her heart. 
 
 " Yes, to look at you," he replied, slowly, his 
 eyes still fixed upon her. " I do not thank you 
 for what would not be given except as one hap 
 pens to be dying. Oh, do not justify yourself," 
 he said, in answer to her movement. " I know 
 what you said to yourself: this man, assassinated 
 in my house, and about to die, I must go to him ; 
 it is the least I can do. I do not misunderstand 
 you. I have said already that I only wished to 
 look at } T ou." 
 
 His manner checked her utterance. " Why will 
 you speak of these things," she said, imploringly. 
 
BUT YT A WOMAN. 331 
 
 " Because they interest me. Did you come to 
 compose a sermon with me for the 4 Univers ? 
 
 Do not interrupt me," he said, closing his eyes 
 with impatience ; " can you not see every word 
 costs an effort ? I have only a few hours. Give 
 me the liberty of disposing of them as I please ; it 
 is a luxury. Moreover, I know your catechism by 
 heart." 
 
 " Do you think I came to reproach, to judge 
 you?" she asked, sadly. 
 
 " Naturally not, for you no longer fear me." 
 
 Her pride rose up at his words, but the place 
 and the hour triumphed. " I have given you un- 
 happiness. I wish to ask your forgiveness. Look 
 into the past, and search for me." 
 
 "You think you have a duty to perform, and 
 you set about it bravely. But it is needless. I 
 do not complain of you. When a man risks all 
 for a woman who cannot help it, who does not 
 even know it, why blame her ? It is in the sys 
 tem. She is only a tool like the rest." 
 
 She did not reply. In the presence of death 
 one cannot quarrel, and argument becomes en 
 treaty. Perhaps M. de Marzac detected a differ 
 ence in her demeanor; she was not wont to re 
 ceive insults so calmly. 
 
 "Something has changed you. What is it ? 
 
 Have no fear. Dead men tell no tales well, 
 never mind, then," he said, after a pause. " You 
 were very good to come. Were you not afraid 
 
332 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 that to-morrow Paris would be talking about you ? 
 People are so thoughtless, and then the gossips, 
 you know, they stop at nothing." 
 
 " Why will you speak of these things, M. de 
 Marzac?" she said, clasping her hands on her 
 knees, and bending towards him. Her voice trem 
 bled. " I came to help you." 
 
 "True; I believe you. But the gossips, 
 will they see in you the Sister of Mercy ? " 
 
 She turned wearily to the window. The cold 
 persistency of his banter chilled more than it 
 pained her. 
 
 " You would make a very pretty one," he con 
 tinued ; " it is not a bad idea. I advise you to 
 think seriously of it." 
 
 She came back to the bedside. He had touched 
 a deeper chord than he knew. " Ah ! so you have 
 thought of it already?" he said, reading her 
 thought in her eyes. " But it s too late. To 
 morrow it would be needless." 
 
 She felt ashamed of her pity. Could he really 
 see only such motives, or was he still playing with 
 her? 
 
 44 And your diamonds, what will you do with 
 them? The Church is fond of diamonds, or 
 will you give them to Rene e ? " 
 
 She rose with a sense of helplessness and hu 
 miliation. 
 
 " Forgive me," he said, quickly; " I am selfish. 
 Are you going?" 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 333 
 
 " I cannot stay." 
 
 " Because what I say pains you ? You do not 
 know what a luxury frankness is. But the test is 
 too great. Try it yourself, on the next person 
 whom you meet, on Mademoiselle Renee, for 
 example. Well, then, on me. Tell me, frankly, 
 why did you come here ? " 
 
 "You cannot dream," she said, as if speaking 
 to herself. 
 
 " Yes, I can," he replied. " You were, to be 
 gin with, a little glad ; then you also pitied me a 
 little ; and then, since you are to become a nun f 
 you wished to pray, I suppose." 
 The tears started to her eyes. 
 " Do you remember," he said, abruptly, " that 
 night at Kief when I first saw you? It seems so 
 long ago, except as I see you. You have not 
 changed." 
 
 " Can you not think of the future, M. de Mar- 
 zac ? It is nearer than the past." 
 
 44 The future ? It is like a white page with 
 nothing written upon it. What interest is there 
 in a blank leaf? But the past is a book we 
 read over and over. Each has his own volume. 
 Did you ever think what curious things would 
 happen if we could exchange them with each 
 other? What prices they would command in the 
 market ? And when you enter the convent, do 
 you expect to rid yourself of the past?" 
 44 No," said Stephanie, " nor when I die." 
 
334 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 44 You wish to frighten me." 
 
 44 1 wish to talk seriously with you, to influence 
 you, as I might have done in the past, when I 
 thought only of myself. Life, after all, is so little 
 a thing." 
 
 44 You did not once think so." 
 
 44 1 was wrong. I have wasted it." 
 
 44 You have been talking with the priests," he 
 rjaid, angrily. " They wish to persuade you, who 
 are an angel, that you are a miserable wretch. 
 I tell you you are a saint. Do you think I do ^iot 
 know!" 
 
 44 Hush," she said, gently. " You do not know 
 what you are saying." 
 
 44 Mon Dieu ! it is enough to raise the dead ! 
 Why have I sent for you, but to kiss the hem of 
 your dress; to tell you, not that I love you, but 
 worship you ! And this is the very thing which 
 hurts you most ! Ah ! if I had the time," he said, 
 in a hoarse whisper, exhausted by his long effort, 
 u I would undeceive you ! I would tell you a 
 story which would put an end to your humility." 
 
 44 It is not you, but God, who is my judge, M. 
 4e Marzac," said Stephanie. 
 
 He lay quietly, breathing heavily, till, his ex- 
 dtement subsided, he scarcely seemed to breathe 
 at all. 44 Priests ! " she heard him mutter. 44 As 
 for prayers, I would rather have yours than a 
 thousand priests ." Then he began to wander, 
 opening his eyes at times without seeming to reo- 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 385 
 
 ognize her. She heard strange names and places, 
 confused sentences of which she understood noth 
 ing. She grew alarmed, and rose to call some 
 one ; but he heard her movement, and put out his 
 hand. "No, kneel down pray something 
 what you will." She burst into tears ; and when, 
 after a time, kneeling at his bedside, she tried to 
 pray, his hand stole along the coverlid and took 
 hers. And when the door opened again softly, 
 and the priest entered with the sacraments, she 
 knelt there still, praying. 
 
836 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 
 " I AM alone. 
 
 " Alone ! Is not this why I find my pen in my 
 hand when, after Baptiste has wished me good 
 night, I seat myself in this chair? I have no 
 longer my dear Egypt before me. The last 
 proof-sheet has passed from my hands. In good 
 reason I ought to close the ink-pot and rest the 
 pen. Twenty years ! How well I remember 
 the first word on the first page. What a task ! 
 But it is done. It is a long flight a posse ad esse, 
 so long that the wing continues to flutter though 
 the work is done. Rest ? What ! for a pen that 
 has traveled over the lines for twenty years ? 
 There is no more rest for it than for the Wander 
 ing Jew. Then I am alone except Father Le 
 Blanc. Good father ! he waits for the last office. 
 
 * In harvest ti^ie, the farmer, tired with his 
 day s work, sits a while by the door. The milk 
 ing is done, the cattle fed, the cheeses turned. 
 Between labor and sleep comes this hour of twi 
 light and evening, when he lights his pipe and 
 thinks, or dreams. I can see Maitre Lande now, 
 in the farm-house at Brienne. And I am arrived 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 337 
 
 at the same point. My work is finished, and be 
 fore I sleep God gives me these evening days in 
 which to think and to remember. Tis a blessed 
 thought to compare death with sleep, sleep, the 
 rewarder of to-day s toil and the mother of to 
 morrow s labor. For surely, Maitre Lande is 
 thinking of to-morrow; of the field he will plow, 
 the Breton cow he will buy. Would he lay down 
 his pipe and put on his night-cap so complacently, 
 if, in going to sleep, he was to surrender all these? 
 And I, in my twilight, will be complacent also. 
 I will purchase, to-morrow, a new pasture. Who 
 knows into what ink-pot I shall dip my pen? I 
 heard a man yesterday, at Pere-la-Chaise, deliver 
 ing an oration. Death, he said, is an eternal 
 sleep. That was enough. I came away. It is 
 so easy to deal in infinities. How grandly these 
 fellows abdicate the kingdom of self ! 
 
 " A year ! How much has happened in this 
 year. I do not complain of it ; I only state it. 
 Confession of sorrow eases the heart, as confession 
 of sin lightens the conscience. First, Renee. She 
 pretends she is still mine, little sophist! Then, 
 M. Lande. 
 
 " L took a walk the other day with Stephanie 
 to St. Cloud, and we talked of these things. 
 There are some pines there which must have wan 
 dered from the north. They make a strange con 
 trast among our chestnuts and limes, and they talk 
 
338 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 a strange language, too. They do not rustle and 
 gesticulate as we Frenchmen do. They have a 
 stately manner up there in the north, and these 
 pines have a speech in keeping with their grave 
 forms. It is said that even when there is no wind 
 they sigh and whisper just the same. We sat 
 down in the sombre shade. It was one of my 
 sombre days. I used to be even-tempered, but 
 now in my old age, with no occupation to absorb 
 my attention and keep my thoughts from my 
 losses, I am sometimes fretful. Are there not 
 some axioms for bald heads, which to curly ones 
 are paradoxes ? Is not labor rest, and work the 
 synonym for Eden ? Do you know what they 
 say, my brother? said Stephanie. Who? I 
 asked. 4 The pines, she replied, gazing up into 
 the branches over us. 4 No, what do they say ? 
 Peace! peace! life is very short, she answered. 
 From her lips these words had more weight than 
 if read on the page of a philosopher. If I had 
 heard them at first hand, from the pines, perhaps 
 I should not have remarked them. Since that 
 day I hear often the murmur of these trees, rising 
 at intervals and subsiding again into a whisper, 
 and this is veritably what they say. And now 
 she, too, is gone. Ah ! but that makes me angry. 
 Hence, it was natural, M. Lande, it was time, 
 but Stephanie! it is not right. I will never 
 admit it. 
 
 " It seems that I have been loving more than I 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 339 
 
 suspected. Occupation has also its disadvantages. 
 It closes the door of the library, and shuts out 
 laughter with strife, the sun as well as the cold. 
 Fancy an old man who thought himself in love 
 with Thothmes and Psammetichus, waking up at 
 near seventy, to find that, while absent in Egypt, a 
 little girl had crept into his heart and curled her- 
 self up on its hearthstone. Ah, these loves and 
 friendships ! I thought them lamps to light my 
 pathway, and lo ! they were the stars in the firma 
 ment, growing brighter as the night deepened. 
 
 " Roger, he is a good boy, but he is not 
 worthy of her. Doubtless she chose him for that 
 reason. The use to which the good are put seems 
 to bo chiefly that of a leaven. A good work, 
 surely, but I am something of an aristocrat. I 
 would have them soar in their own heaven. I 
 defy any one to remember one of those children of 
 light without a pang for their condition. They 
 all we;ir a ball and chain. Was I not myself Re 
 nte s first? Has she not dragged me up these 
 fifteen years who knew nothing of it till the lift 
 ing power of her wings was withdrawn ? What 
 stuff did not the child read to me when, after my 
 sickness, I thought my eyes had given out Eu 
 tychius and Hartmann ! Heaven forgive me 1 
 Probably she did not understand a word of it, and 
 it had no more power over her than the flames of 
 the king s furnace over the ang<4. Hut what a 
 risk ! Wisdom comes so late in life that is my 
 
340 BUT YET A WOlfAN. 
 
 chief complaint. Misfortune, pain, I will not 
 struggle with such giants of mystery, but tell 
 me why wisdom comes when the feast is over, the 
 wine drunk, and the guests under the table, 
 she, the hostess, who prepared the viands, pressed 
 the vines, and knew the good from the evil ? For 
 my part, I would not quarrel with that personage 
 who gave to us the knowledge of good and evil, 
 but that he withheld the secret of discerning be 
 tween them. 
 
 " No, I say, he is not worthy of her. He is 
 neither a villain nor a rogue, but he is blind. 
 All her life must be spent in opening his eyes. 
 Of what use is it to her that he cuts off a leg well 
 and lectures in the Ecole de Medicine? she is 
 not ambitious! But I am incompetent to argue. 
 I have not loved, and have no premises. Then I 
 am a man who grows by appropriating, by absorb 
 ing everything, like a tree, from the air and soil. 
 Woman has a different principle of existence, 
 she comes like a pure stream from the springs of 
 the mountain to waste itself in the valleys. 
 
 "How gay I was the day of the wedding! 
 Should I spoil everything with a gloomy face? 
 Moreover, no one would have believed me if I 
 had shed tears. At the door of the church they 
 stepped into a carriage and whirled away, leaving 
 me standing alone on the sidewalk in my white 
 gloves and waistcoat. Then the smiles were of no 
 use, and disappeared. There was a great crowd 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 341 
 
 I heard some one in the throng say, 4 Marriage de 
 fille, funerailles de pere ! M. Lande walked home 
 with me, he was not sad, not he! It must be 
 very easy to marry a son, but a daughter, there 
 is somewhere there a difference. He was gay 
 enough for two on the way home, and I would not 
 confess to him. So we went along merrily together, 
 and drank a toast to the bride at Vefour s, and in 
 the evening we sat down before the fire, we two 
 alone, and played at being merry. Baptiste 
 brought in the coffee. i I will smoke a pipe, if 
 you please, said M. Lande, now that there are no 
 longer any ladies. 4 By all means, I said to him, 
 bravely ; 4 make yourself at your ease. 
 
 " Then after a while the children came back. 
 They had gone to Beauvais, it was ReneVs 
 wish, and after a week there they sent for me. 
 Rende, especially, implored me to come ; but I 
 was too wise. Is she happy ? Certainly she is 
 happy. The bud is wide open in the sunshine; 
 God grant it do not drink up its dew! She runs 
 about, from home to the Rue du Bac, from the 
 Rue du Bac to the Bois, among the shops, to the 
 opera. Does she think ever of her Breton ponies 
 and Beauvais, I wonder? Certainly she is happy. 
 Only she thinks all these treasures of happiness 
 lie scattered about the streets for whoever will 
 gather them ; but they are all in her own heart. 
 When nothing but a vintage of 1800 will warm 
 it, when feet are cold away from the fire, and eyes 
 
342 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 are blind without spectacles, it makes a huge dif 
 ference. M. Lande would dispute this a 1 outrance, 
 were he here. I am safe in grumbling. More- 
 over, one does not believe all that one says. 
 
 " They asked me to pronounce a eulogy over my 
 friend. I refused. I loved him too well. It is 
 strangers who write eulogies. For that reason, 
 also, I do not speak here of him. I find it easier 
 to go at noon, when the sun is warm, and sit among 
 the violets at Pere-la-Chaise. It is Hence who 
 plants these violets. Sometimes we meet there, 
 but I endeavor to avoid it. It gives her pain to 
 see me there. . . . 
 
 " There is something in Stephanie which I do 
 not understand. I am persuaded that Father Le 
 Blanc knows this mystery, that assassination 
 which no one comprehends, that visit to M. de 
 Marzac. I did not think gentleness could so be 
 come her till after she came back from Spain ; 
 and after Ilene*e was married I began to believe 
 God had sent her to me in my old age. But that 
 dream is over also. 
 
 " Yes, yes, Baptiste, I am coming! Here, at 
 least, is a faithful old dog who extinguishes my 
 candle and says, k Good-night. Mon Dieu, what an 
 tngrate I am ! No, I am not alone, 
 
 . . . " cornme 1111 flambeau celeste 
 La bonte de Dieu nous reste, 
 Elle nous garde et nous suit 
 Bonne nuit ! Bonne iiuit 1 " 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 343 
 
 The convent church was crowded. In the tragic 
 play of human destiny there are always the spec 
 tators. They climbed the steps and poured down 
 the aisles, an eager, curious throng, filling the 
 chairs while yet the sacristan was lighting the 
 lamps in the great gallery along the nave. From 
 that loi ty place, where his taper moved like a 
 wandering star, and above which the arches rose 
 into a gloom the lamps could not dissipate, they 
 appeared so many pigmies whose bustle and mur 
 mur the vast spaces overhead swallowed up and 
 silenced. 
 
 The choir alone was brilliant with light. It 
 shone in the faces of those nearest the railing, 
 and reached up to the white statuo of the Holy 
 Mother high above the altar. 
 
 Near the great aisle some seats had been re 
 served. People looked at them and whispered. 
 When an old man with white hair came into the 
 light, leaning on the arm of Renee, whose face 
 was very pale, every one leaned forward to look 
 at them. Presently came Father Le Blanc with 
 another priest whom Renee did not know. Ifc was 
 Father Roche, who had just returned from Rome. 
 
 Seated between her uncle and Roger, Rnee 
 moved her chair close to her husband s. She had 
 not yet recovered from the surprise of the day 
 before, when Father Le Blanc had told her of 
 what was to be. She had chosen her part out of 
 a pure heart, and misgivings rarely shadowed it. 
 
344 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 except as now and then some thought of the 
 past, or of Soeur Ursule, came to her when alone. 
 But that Stephanie, who had herself pacified her 
 doubts, should step into the place she had once 
 thought to take, filled her again with trouble. 
 She clung to her husband with a feeling of min 
 gled happiness, reproach, and awe. She had often 
 imagined this scene, and what she thought once 
 herself to do gladly she now waited for another to 
 accomplish with a nervous fear. It seemed cruel 
 to her now. She had grown to love Stephanie, in 
 spite of that unknown barrier to her heart, which 
 she knew she could not pass. Some tender words 
 and kindly acts of Stephanie s in the days before 
 her marriage, a kiss on the marriage day which 
 she had never forgotten, these things came back 
 to her as she sat there waiting, and a mist blurred 
 the lights about the altar. 
 
 The silence had now become complete. Those 
 who came late, and endeavored in vain on the out 
 skirts of the throng to reach a better position, 
 could scarce be heard by those who, near the chan 
 cel, watched the glass doors of the choir whence 
 the procession would issue. It was a winter night, 
 clear and cold. All the stars looked down on the 
 great city without, whose streets were full of lights 
 and people. It was the hour of the theatres, of 
 music and revelry, when the jester puts on the 
 mask of Pleasure and the fool shakes his bells. 
 But within the church no light or sound pene 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN 845 
 
 (rated from without. The rose window above the 
 organ was dark ; no one would ever dream of the 
 symphony of color imprisoned in its great out 
 lines. From one window only, high in the tran 
 sept, a pale light from the moon traversed the 
 glass and painted a cold blue lozenge on the black 
 wall above the yellow shimmer of the candles. 
 
 Suddenly, without warning, the organ sounded, 
 the cantors burst into song, " O Gloriosa Virgi- 
 num, sublimis inter sidera," and the procession en 
 tered the choir doors. How exultant the voices, 
 as they rose and echoed overhead like the tide of 
 a sea on the shore. " Thou art the gate of the 
 Supernal King; thou the refulgent palace of light." 
 As Renee saw the long files of the Religious, hab 
 ited in their black church-cloaks and bearing their 
 tapers, follow the cross-bearer to their places, this 
 triumphant song buoyed up her heart; and often 
 again the hymns of the cantors and the peal of 
 the organ gave her courage, as the martial strains 
 inspire the soldier in the long day of battle. She 
 had seen the figure, between the Mother Superior 
 ess and assistant, whom she knew by its secular 
 dress to be Stdphanie ; but she had not dared to 
 look in its face, and, as the procession approached 
 the sanctuary steps, she had shut her eyes, strug 
 gling with the sob that rose from her heart to her 
 throat. When she heard the words of the bishop, 
 " Pray for her, O Holy Mother of God," she opened 
 them wide again. 
 
346 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 Stephanie was alone in the middle of the choir, 
 the Religious kneeling on either side. She saw 
 the bishop sprinkle the candle, and the novice- 
 elect, led by the Mother Superioress, rise and re 
 ceive it from his hand at the altar. But Avhen 
 she turned again to resume her place in the centre 
 of the choir, Rene e shut her eyes and held fast to 
 Roger s arm. She could not look yet into the 
 face she loved. All through the sermon she sat 
 motionless Sometimes the voice of the preacher 
 reached her, but he could not chain her thoughts. 
 They went backwards to the days that were over, 
 and when she lifted her eyes it was not to the 
 preacher s face, but to that figure sitting alone in 
 the great choir, on whose hair the lights shone 
 and on whom the Mother above looked down. 
 
 From these dreams she awoke with a start when, 
 in reply to the question of the bishop, " 4 MY child, 
 what do you demand ? " she heard a voice which 
 thrilled her : " The mercy of God and the holy 
 habit of religion." Clear and sweet it fell upon 
 her troubled heart as the words of the Master 
 upon the waters of Galilee, " Peace, be still ! * 
 and, when clothed in the habit, Stephanie reen- 
 tered the choir, ani the joyful words of the An- 
 tiphon rose above the organ, " Who is she that 
 cometh up from the desert, flowing with delights, 
 leaning upon her beloved ? " she could look into 
 her face. How true the words were, u Thou art 
 all fair, my beloved, meek and beautiful. Come, 
 
BUT YET A WOMAN. 347 
 
 my spouse from Libanus ; come, thou shalt be 
 crowned." Would Stephanie not look at her? 
 She was hungry now for a blessing from those 
 eyes. She saw the cincture girded about her, and 
 the veil placed on her head. She watched her as 
 she received the black church-cloak and took her 
 taper in her hand. She heard again the clear 
 voice rising like the morning star above the mists 
 of earth and fading in the celestial day : 
 
 " The empires of the world, and all the grand 
 eur of this earth, I have despised for love of our 
 Lord Jesus Christ, whom I have seen, whom I 
 have loved, in whom I have believed, and towards 
 whom my heart inclineth." 
 
 The choir caught up the words : 
 
 " Whom I have seen, whom I have loved, in 
 whom I have believed, and towards whom my 
 heart inclineth." 
 
 Renee watched her with an eagerness of hope 
 and desire. Would she not look upon her now 
 before she received, prostrate at the steps of the 
 altar, the last benediction, and passed forever be 
 yond earthly eyes ? Yes, as she turned to the 
 vast audience, her gaze rested for the first time 
 upon the little group near the chancel rail. Fa 
 ther Le Blanc crossed himself and sighed. Did 
 he think of the part he had played in this human 
 life ? Was he thinking of the woman at whose 
 white throat he had so often seen the flash of the 
 czar s diamonds? Whose heart he, better than 
 
848 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 any other, had known and gauged, and whose eyea 
 said to him now, " It does not hurt, O Psetus I " 
 It would be difficult to tell whether the good fa 
 ther s sigh was one of anguish or exultation. It 
 was only for a moment, but for that moment 
 all the light of the choir seemed to radiate from 
 that single face. Then the veil fell over it, the 
 Religious rose from their knees, the acolytes took 
 their places, the procession moved again to the 
 song of the cantors and disappeared, file by file, 
 through the choir doors. 
 
 Still the audience remained silent, till the cur 
 tain fell behind the screen, shutting from view the 
 moving lights, and the last echoes from within, 
 heard faintly as from a world invisible, had ceased. 
 " In thee, O Lord, have I put my trust : let me 
 not be confounded forever." 
 
 In the great throng of the porch, Re ne e, cling 
 ing to her husband s side, whispered, " Did you 
 see her face at the last ? It was a prayer." 
 
 And Roger, who in the compass of that last 
 look had seen the past, from its first unknown 
 pain to its final peace, answered, " It was more 
 than a prayer; it was a benediction." 
 
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