f ANATOLE FRANCE 
 k CRAINQUBBILLE
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 Carey UcA'illiams

 
 CRAINQUEBILLE
 
 me DEFINITIVE: 
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 
 
 *ANAT.QLQ 
 
 DODD-MEAD 6? COMPANY
 
 Published in U. S. A., 1922 
 
 by 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC. 
 
 rmnrrro IK tr. B. A. 
 
 V*PL-BLLOU COMPANY 
 mcxANTofi mo ro
 
 College* 
 Library 
 
 PQ 
 
 TO 
 
 ALEXANDRE STEINLEN 
 
 AND TO 
 
 LUCIEN GUITRY 
 
 WHO, THE FORMER IN A SERIES OF 
 ADMIRABLE DRAWINGS, THE LATTER 
 IN A FINE DRAMATIC CREATION, 
 HAVE INVESTED WITH A TRAGIC 
 GREATNESS THE HUMBLE FIGURE 
 OF MY POOR COSTERMONGER
 
 NOTE 
 
 The section entitled "JRiquet" forms Chapter II 
 of "Monsieur Bergeret a Part's" and is here included 
 as an introduction to Riquefs "Meditations"
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE i 
 
 PUTOIS 47 
 
 RIQUET 75 
 
 THE MEDITATIONS OF RIQUET 85 
 
 THE NECKTIE 93 
 
 THE MONTIL MANCEUVRES 103 
 
 EMILE 117 
 
 ADRIENNE BUQUET 127 
 
 THE INTAGLIO 141 
 
 LA SIGNORA CHIARA 161 
 
 UPRIGHT JUDGES 167 
 
 THE OCEAN CHRIST 177 
 
 JEAN MARTEAU 187 
 
 I. A DREAM 189 
 
 II. THE LAW is DEAD BUT THE JUDGE is LIVING 196 
 
 MONSIEUR THOMAS 205 
 
 A SERVANT'S THEFT 217 
 
 EDME'E, OR CHARITY WELL BESTOWED 227
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 
 
 I 
 
 N every sentence pronounced by a 
 judge in the name of the sovereign 
 people, dwells the whole majesty of 
 justice. The august character of 
 that justice was brought home to 
 Jerome Crainquebille, costermonger, when, accused 
 of having insulted a policeman, he appeared in the 
 police court. Having taken his place in the dock, 
 he beheld in the imposing sombre hall magistrates, 
 clerks, lawyers in their robes, the usher wearing his 
 chains, gendarmes, and, behind a rail, the bare 
 heads of the silent spectators. He JL Jymielf 1 oc- 
 cupied a raised seat, as if some sinister honour were 
 conferred on the accused by his appearance before 
 the magistrate. At the end of the hall, between 
 two assessors, sat the President Bourriche. The 
 palm-leaves of an officer of the Academy decorated 
 his breast. Over the tribune were a bust repre- 
 senting the Republic and a crucifix, as if to indicate 
 that all laws divine and human were suspended over 
 Crainquebille's head. Such symbols naturally in-
 
 4 CRAINQUEBILLE 
 
 spired him with terror. Not being gifted with a 
 philosophic mind, he did not inquire the meaning 
 of the bust and the crucifix; he did not ask how 
 far Jesus and the symbolical bust harmonized in 
 the Law Courts. Nevertheless, here was matter 
 for reflection; for, after all, pontifical teaching and 
 canon law are in many points opposed to the consti- 
 tution of the Republic and to the civil code. So far 
 as we know the Decretals have not been abolished. 
 To-day, as formerly, the Church of Christ teaches 
 that only those powers are lawful to which it has 
 given its sanction. Now the French Republic 
 claims to be independent of pontifical power. 
 Crainquebille might reasonably say: 
 
 "Gentlemen and magistrates, in so much as Presi- 
 dent Loubet has not been anointed, the Christ, 
 whose image is suspended over your heads, repudi- 
 ates you through the voice of councils and of Popes. 
 Either he is here to remind you of the rights of the 
 Church, which invalidate yours, or His presence has 
 no rational signification." 
 
 Whereupon President Bourriche might reply: 
 "Prisoner Crainquebille, the kings of France 
 have always quarrelled with the Pope. Guillaume 
 de Nogaret was excommunicated, but for so trifling 
 a reason he did not resign his office. The Christ of 
 the tribune is not the Christ of Gregory VII or of
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 5 
 
 Boniface VIII. He is, if you will, the Christ of 
 the Gospels, who knew not one word of canon law, 
 and had never heard of the holy Decretals." 
 
 Then Crainquebille might not without reason 
 have answered: 
 
 "The Christ of the Gospels was an agitator. 
 Moreover, he was the victim of a sentence, which 
 for nineteen hundred years all Christian peoples 
 have regarded as a grave judicial error. I defy 
 you Monsieur le President, to condemn me in His 
 name to so much as forty-eight hours' imprison- 
 ment." 
 
 But Crainquebille did not indulge in any con- 
 siderations either historical, political or social. He 
 was wrapped in amazement. All the ceremonial, 
 with which he was surrounded, impressed him with 
 a very lofty idea of justice. Filled with reverence, 
 overcome with terror, he was ready to submit to 
 his judges in the matter of his guilt. In his own 
 conscience he was convinced of his innocence; but 
 he felt how insignificant is the conscience of a cos- 
 termonger in the face of the panoply of the law, 
 and the ministers of public prosecution. Already 
 his lawyer had half persuaded him that he was not 
 innocent. 
 
 A summary and hasty examination had brought 
 out the charges under which he laboured.
 
 II 
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE'S MISADVENTURE 
 
 P and down the town went Jerome 
 Crainquebille, costermonger, push- 
 ing his barrow before him and cry- 
 ing: "Cabbages! Turnips! Car- 
 rots !" When he had leeks he cried : 
 "Asparagus!" For leeks are the asparagus of the 
 poor. Now it happened that on October 20, at 
 noon, as he was going down the Rue Montmartre, 
 there came out of her shop the shoemaker's wife, 
 Madame Bayard. She went up to Crainquebille's 
 barrow and scornfully taking up a bundle of leeks, 
 she said: 
 
 "I don't think much of your leeks. What do 
 you want a bundle?" 
 
 "Sevenpence halfpenny, mum, and the best in the 
 market!" 
 
 "Sevenpence halfpenny for three wretched 
 leeks?" 
 
 And disdainfully she cast the leeks back into the 
 barrow. 
 
 Then it was that Constable 64 came and said to 
 
 Crainquebille: 
 
 6
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 7 
 
 "Move on." 
 
 Moving on was what Crainquebille had been do- 
 ing from morning till evening for fifty years. Such 
 an order seemed right to him, and perfectly in ac- 
 cordance with the nature of things. Quite pre- 
 pared to obey, he urged his customer to take what 
 she wanted. 
 
 "You must give me time to choose," she retorted 
 sharply. 
 
 Then she felt all the bundles of leeks over again. 
 Finally, she selected the one she thought the best, 
 and held it clasped to her bosom as saints in church 
 pictures hold the palm of victory. 
 
 "I will give you sevenpence. That's quite 
 enough; and I'll have to fetch it from the shop, 
 for I haven't anything on me." 
 
 Still embracing the leeks, she went back into the 
 shop, whither she had been preceded by a customer, 
 carrying a child. 
 
 Just at this moment Constable 64 said to Crain- 
 quebille for the second time: 
 
 "Move on." 
 
 "I'm waiting for my money," replied Crainque- 
 bille. 
 
 "And I'm not telling you to wait for your money; 
 I'm telling you to move on," retorted the constable 
 grimly.
 
 8 CRAINQUEBILLE 
 
 Meanwhile, the shoemaker's wife in her shop was 
 fitting blue slippers on to a child of eighteen 
 months, whose mother was in a hurry. And the 
 green heads of the leeks were lying on the counter. 
 
 For the half century that he had been pushing 
 his barrow through the streets, Crainquebille had 
 been learning respect ^or authority. But now his 
 position was a peculiar one: he was torn asunder 
 between what was his due and what was his duty. 
 His was not a judicial mind. He failed to under- 
 stand that the possession of an individual's right in 
 no way exonerated him from the performance of a 
 social duty. He attached too great importance to 
 his claim to receive sevenpence, and too little to the 
 duty of pushing his barrow and moving on, for ever 
 moving on. He stood still. 
 
 For the third time Constable 64 quietly and 
 calmly ordered him to move on. Unlike Inspector 
 Montauciel, whose habit it is to threaten constantly 
 but never to take proceedings, Constable 64 is slow 
 to threaten and quick to act. Such is his character. 
 Though somewhat sly he is an excellent servant and 
 a loyal soldier. He is as brave as a lion and as 
 gentle as a child. He knows naught save his offi- 
 cial instructions. 
 
 "Don't you understand when I tell you to move 
 on?"
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 9 
 
 To Crainquebille's mind his reason for standing 
 still was too weighty for him not to consider it suf- 
 ficient. Wherefore, artlessly and simply he ex- 
 plained it: 
 
 "Good Lord! Don't I tell you that I am wait- 
 ing for my money." 
 
 Constable 64 merely replied: 
 
 "Do you want me to summons you? If you do 
 you have only to say so." 
 
 At these words Crainquebille slowly shrugged 
 his shoulders, looked sadly at the constable, and 
 then raised his eyes to heaven, as if he would say: 
 
 "I call God to witness! Am I a law-breaker? 
 Am I one to make light of the by-laws and ordi- 
 nances which regulate my ambulatory calling? At 
 five o'clock in the morning I was at the market. 
 Since seven, pushing my barrow and wearing my 
 hands to the bone, I have been crying: 'Cabbages! 
 Turnips! Carrots!' I am turned sixty. I am 
 worn out. And you ask me whether I have raised 
 the black flag of rebellion. You are mocking me 
 and your joking is cruel." 
 
 Either because he failed to notice the expression 
 on Crainquebille's face, or because he considered it 
 no excuse for disobedience, the constable inquired 
 curtly and roughly whether he had been under- 
 stood.
 
 io CRAINQUEBILLE 
 
 Now, just at that moment the block of traffic in 
 the Rue Montmartre was at its worst. Carriages, 
 drays, carts, omnibuses, trucks, jammed one against 
 the other, seemed indissolubly welded together. 
 From their quivering immobility proceeded shouts 
 and oaths. Cabmen and butchers' boys grandilo- 
 quent and drawling insulted one another from a 
 distance, and omnibus conductors, regarding Crain- 
 quebille as the cause of the block, called him "a 
 dirty leek." 
 
 Meanwhile, on the pavement the curious were 
 crowding round to listen to the dispute. Then the 
 constable, finding himself the centre of attention, 
 began to think it time to display his authority: 
 
 "Very well," he said, taking a stumpy pencil and 
 a greasy notebook from his pocket. 
 
 Crainquebille persisted in his idea, obedient to a 
 force within. Besides, it was now impossible for 
 him either to move on or to draw back. The wheel 
 of his barrow was unfortunately caught in that of 
 a milkman's cart. 
 
 Tearing his hair beneath his cap he cried: 
 
 "But don't I tell you I'm waiting for my money I 
 Here's a fix! Misere de miseref Bon sang de 
 bon sang/" 
 
 By these words, expressive rather of despair than 
 of rebellion, Constable 64 considered he had been
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 11 
 
 insulted. And, because to his mind all insults must 
 necessarily take the consecrated, regular, tradi- 
 tional, liturgical, ritual form so to speak of Mori 
 aux vaches,* thus the offender's words were heard 
 and understood by the constable. 
 
 "Ah! You said: Mort aux vaches. Very 
 good. Come along." 
 
 Stupefied with amazement and distress, Crain- 
 quebille opened his great rheumy eyes and gazed 
 at Constable 64. With a broken voice proceeding 
 now from the top of his head and now from the 
 heels of his boots, he cried, with his arms folded 
 over his blue blouse: 
 
 "I said 'Mort aux caches'? I? ... Oh!" 
 
 The tradesmen and errand boys hailed the arrest 
 with laughter. It gratified the taste of all crowds 
 for violent and ignoble spectacles. But there was 
 one serious person who was pushing his way through 
 the throng; he was a sad-looking old man, dressed 
 in black, wearing a high hat; he went up to the 
 constable and said to him in a low voice very gently 
 and firmly: 
 
 "You are mistaken. This man did not insult 
 you." 
 
 "Mind your own business," replied the police- 
 
 *It is impossible to translate this expression. As explained on 
 p. 19, it means "down with spies," the word spies being used to 
 indicate the police.
 
 12 CRAINQUEBILLE 
 
 man, but without threatening, for he was speaking 
 to a man who was well dressed. 
 
 The old man insisted calmly and tenaciously. 
 And the policeman ordered him to make his dec- 
 laration to the Police Commissioner. 
 
 Meanwhile Crainquebille was explaining: 
 
 'Then I did say 'Mort aux vaches/' Ohl . . ." 
 
 As he was thus giving vent to his astonishment, 
 Madame Bayard, the shoemaker's wife, came to 
 him with sevenpence in her hand. But Constable 
 64 already had him by the collar; so Madame 
 Bayard, thinking that no debt could be due to a 
 man who was being taken to the police-station, put 
 her sevenpence into her apron pocket. 
 
 Then, suddenly beholding his barrow confiscated, 
 his liberty lost, a gulf opening beneath him and the 
 sky overcast, Crainquebille murmured: 
 
 "It can't be helped!" 
 
 Before the Commissioner, the old gentleman de- 
 clared that he had been hindered on his way by the 
 block in the traffic, and so had witnessed the inci- 
 dent. He maintained that the policeman had not 
 been insulted, and that he was labouring under a 
 delusion. He gave his name and profession: Dr. 
 David Matthieu, chief physician at the Ambroisc- 
 Pare Hospital, officer of the Legion of Honour. 
 At another time such evidence would have been
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 13 
 
 sufficient for the Commissioner. But just then 
 men of science were regarded with suspicion in 
 France. 
 
 Crainquebille continued under arrest. He 
 passed the night in the lock-up. In the morning 
 he was taken to the Police Court in the prison van. 
 
 He did not find prison either sad or humiliating. 
 It seemed to him necessary. What struck him as 
 he entered was the cleanliness of the walls and of 
 the brick floor. 
 
 "Well, for a clean place, yes, it is a clean place. 
 You might eat off the floor." 
 
 When he was left alone, he wanted to draw out 
 his stool; but he perceived 'that it was fastened to 
 the wall. He expressed his surprise aloud: 
 
 "That's a queer idea! Now there's a thing I 
 should never have thought of, I'm sure." 
 
 Having sat down, he twiddled his thumbs and 
 remained wrapped in amazement. The silence and 
 the solitude overwhelmed him. The time seemed 
 long. Anxiously he thought of his barrow, which 
 had been confiscated with its load of cabbages, 
 carrots, celery, dandelion and corn-salad. And he 
 wondered, asking himself with alarm: "What 
 have they done with my barrow?" 
 
 On the third day he received a visit from his 
 lawyer, Maitre Lemerle, one of the youngest mem-
 
 14 CRAINQUEBILLE 
 
 bcrs of the Paris Bar, President of a section of La 
 Ligue de la Patrie Franchise. 
 
 Crainquebille endeavoured to tell him his story; 
 but it was not easy, for he was not accustomed to 
 conversation. With a little help he might perhaps 
 have succeeded. But his lawyer shook his head 
 doubtfully at everything he said; and, turning over 
 his papers, muttered: 
 
 "Hm! Hm! I don't find anything about all 
 this in my brief." 
 
 Then, in a bored tone, twirling his fair moustache 
 he said: 
 
 "In your own interest it would be advisable, per- 
 haps, for you to confess. Your persistence in ab- 
 solute denial seems to me extremely unwise." 
 
 And from that moment Crainquebille would have 
 made confession if he had known what to confess.
 
 y 
 in 
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE BEFORE THE 
 MAGISTRATES 
 
 RESIDENT BOURRICHE devoted 
 six whole minutes to the examina- 
 tion of Crainquebille. This exam- 
 ination would have been more en- 
 lightening if the accused had replied 
 to the questions asked him. But Crainquebille was 
 unaccustomed to discussion; and in such a company 
 his lips were sealed by reverence and fear. So he 
 was silent: and the President answered his own 
 question; his replies were staggering. He con- 
 cluded: "Finally, you admit having said, 'Mort 
 aux vaches.' " 
 
 "I said, 'Mart aux vaches f because the police- 
 man said, 'Mort aux vaches P so then I said 'Mort 
 aux vaches !' " 
 
 He meant that, being overwhelmed by the most 
 unexpected of accusations, he had in his amazement 
 merely repeated the curious words falsely attributed 
 to him, and which he had certainly never pro- 
 nounced. He had said, "Mort aux vaches f" as he 
 
 15
 
 1 6 CRAINQUEBILLE 
 
 might have said, "I capable of insulting any onel 
 how could you believe it?" 
 
 President Bourriche put a different interpreta- 
 tion on the incident. 
 
 "Do you maintain," he said, "that the policeman 
 was, himself, the first to utter the exclamation?" 
 
 Crainquebille gave up trying to explain. It was 
 too difficult. 
 
 "You do not persist in your statement. You 
 are quite right," said the President. 
 
 And he had the witness called. 
 
 Constable 64, by name Bastien Matra, swore he 
 spoke the truth and nothing but the truth. Then 
 he gave evidence in the following terms: 
 
 "I was on my beat on October 20, at noon, 
 when I noticed in the Rue Montmartre a person 
 who appeared to be a hawker, unduly blocking the 
 traffic with his barrow opposite No. 328. Three 
 times I intimated to him the order to move on, but 
 he refused to comply. And when I gave him warn- 
 ing that I was about to charge him, he retorted by 
 crying: 'Mart aux vaches/' Which I took as an 
 insult." 
 
 This evidence, delivered in a firm and moderate 
 manner, the magistrates received with obvious ap- 
 probation. The witnesses for the defence were 
 Madame Bayard, shoemaker's wife, and Dr. David
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 17 
 
 Matthieu, chief physician to the Hospital Ambroise 
 Pare, officer of the Legion of Honour. Madame 
 Bayard had seen nothing and heard nothing. Dr. 
 Matthieu was in the crowd which had gathered 
 round the policeman, who was ordering the coster- 
 monger to move on. His evidence led to a new 
 episode in the trial. 
 
 "I witnessed the incident," he said, "I observed 
 that the constable had made a mistake; he had 
 not been insulted. I went up to him and called 
 his attention to the fact. The officer insisted on 
 arresting the costermonger, and told me to follow 
 him to the Commissioner of Police. This I did. 
 Before the Commissioner, I repeated my dec- 
 laration." 
 
 "You may sit down," said the President. 
 "Usher, recall witness Matra." 
 
 "Matra, when you proceeded to arrest the ac- 
 cused, did not Dr. Matthieu point out to you that 
 you were mistaken?" 
 
 "That is to say, Monsieur le President, that he 
 insulted me." 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 "He said, 'Mart aux vaches!' ' 
 
 Uproarious laughter arose from the audience. 
 
 "You may withdraw," said the President hur- 
 riedly.
 
 1 8 CRAINQUEBILLE 
 
 And he warned the public that if such unseemly 
 demonstrations occurred again he would clear the 
 court. Meanwhile, Counsel for the defence was 
 haughtily fluttering the sleeves of his gown, and for 
 the moment it was thought that Crainquebille would 
 be acquitted. 
 
 Order having been restored, Maitre Lemerle 
 rose. He opened his pleading with a eulogy of 
 policemen: "those unassuming servants of society 
 who, in return for a trifling salary, endure fatigue 
 and brave incessant danger with daily heroism. 
 They were soldiers once, and soldiers they remain; 
 soldiers, that word expresses everything. . . ." 
 
 From this consideration Maitre Lemerle went on 
 to descant eloquently on the military virtues. He 
 was one of those, he said, who would not allow 
 a finger to be laid on the army, on that national 
 army, to which he was so proud to belong. 
 
 The President bowed. Maitre Lemerle hap- 
 pened to be lieutenant in the Reserves. He was 
 also nationalist candidate for Les Vieilles Haudri- 
 ettes. He continued: 
 
 "No, indeed, I do not esteem lightly the in- 
 valuable services unassumingly rendered, which the 
 valiant people of Paris receive daily from the 
 guardians of the peace. And had I beheld in Crain- 
 quebille, gentlemen, one who had insulted an ex-
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 19 
 
 soldier, I should never have consented to repre- 
 sent him before you. My client is accused of hav- 
 ing said: 'Mort aux vaches/' The meaning of 
 such an expression is clear. If you consult Le Dlc- 
 t'wnnaire de la Langue Verte (slang) you will find: 
 'Fachard a sluggard, an idler, one who stretches 
 himself out lazily like a cow instead of working. 
 Vache, one who sells himself to the police; spy.' 
 Mort aux vaches is an expression employed by cer- 
 tain people. But the question resolves itself into 
 this: how did Crainquebille say it? And, further, 
 did he say it at all? Permit me to doubt it, gentle- 
 men. 
 
 "I do not suspect Constable Matra of any evil 
 intention. But, as we have said, his calling is ardu- 
 ous. He is sometimes harassed, fatigued, over- 
 done. In such conditions he may have suffered 
 from an aural hallucination. And, when he comes 
 and tells you, gentlemen, that Dr. David Matthieu, 
 officer of the Legion of Honour, chief physician at 
 the Ambroise-Pare Hospital, a gentleman and a 
 prince of science, cried: 'Mort aux vaches/ then 
 we are forced to believe that Matra is obsessed, 
 and if the term be not too strong, suffering from 
 the mania of persecution. 
 
 "And even if Crainquebille did cry: 'Mort aux 
 vaches,' it remains to be proved whether such words
 
 20 CRAINQUEBILLE 
 
 on his lips can be regarded as an offence. Crain- 
 quebille is the natural child of a costermonger, de- 
 praved by years of drinking and other evil courses. 
 Crainquebille was born alcoholic. You behold him 
 brutalized by sixty years of poverty. Gentlemen 
 you must conclude that he is irresponsible." 
 
 Mattre Lemerle sat down. Then President 
 Bourriche muttered a sentence condemning Jerome 
 Crainquebille to pay fifty francs fine and to go to 
 prison for a fortnight. The magistrates convicted 
 him on the strength of the evidence given by Con- 
 stable Matra. 
 
 As he was being taken down the long dark pas- 
 sage of the Palais, Crainquebille felt an intense de- 
 sire for sympathy. He turned to the municipal 
 guard who was his escort and called him three 
 times: 
 
 '"Cipal! . . . 'cipal! ... Eh! 'cipal!" And 
 he sighed: 
 
 "If anyone had told me only a fortnight ago that 
 this would happen!" 
 
 Then he reflected: 
 
 "They speak too quickly, these gentlemen. They 
 speak well, but they speak too quickly. You can't 
 make them understand you. . . . 'cipal, don't you 
 think they speak too quickly?"
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 21 
 
 But the soldier marched straight on without re- 
 plying or turning his head. 
 
 Crainquebille asked him: 
 
 "Why don't you answer me?" 
 
 The soldier was silent. And Crainquebille said 
 bitterly : 
 
 "You would speak to a dog. Why not to me? 
 Do you never open your mouth ? Is it because your 
 breath is foul ?"
 
 IV 
 
 AN APOLOGY FOR PRESIDENT 
 BOURRICHE 
 
 FTER the sentence had been pro- 
 nounced, several members of the 
 audience and two or three lawyers 
 left the hall. The clerk was already 
 calling another case. Those who 
 went out did not reflect on the Crainquebille affair, 
 which had not greatly interested them; and they 
 thought no more about it. Monsieur Jean Ler- 
 mite, an etcher, who happened to be at the Palais, 
 was the only one who meditated on what he had 
 just seen and heard. Putting his arm on the shoul- 
 der of Maitre Joseph Aubarree, he said: 
 
 "President Bourriche must be congratulated on 
 having kept his mind free from idle curiosity, and 
 from the intellectual pride which is determined to 
 know everything. If he had weighed one against 
 the other the contradictory evidence of Constable 
 Matra and Dr. David Matthieu, the magistrate 
 would have adopted a course leading to nothing 
 but doubt and uncertainty. The method of exam-
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 23 
 
 ining facts in a critical spirit would be fatal to the 
 administration of justice. If the judge were so im- 
 prudent as to follow that method, his sentences 
 would depend on his personal sagacity, of which he 
 has generally no very great store, and on human 
 infirmity which is universal. Where can he find a 
 criterion? It cannot be denied that the historical 
 method is absolutely incapable of providing him 
 with the certainty he needs. In this connexion you 
 may recall a story told of Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 
 " 'One day, when Raleigh, a prisoner in the 
 Tower of London, was working, as was his wont, 
 at the second part of his "History of the World," 
 there was a scuffle under his window. He went 
 and looked at the brawlers; and when he returned 
 to his work, he thought he had observed them very 
 carefully. But on the morrow, having related the 
 incident to one of his friends who had witnessed 
 the affair and had even taken part in -it, he was 
 contradicted by his friend on every point. Reflect- 
 ing, therefore, that if he were mistaken as to events 
 which passed beneath his very eyes, how much 
 greater must be the difficulty of ascertaining the 
 truth concerning events far distant, he threw the 
 manuscript of his history into the fire.' 
 
 "If the judges had the same scruples as Sir 
 Walter Raleigh, they would throw all their notes
 
 24 CRAINQUEBILLE 
 
 into the fire. But they have no right to do so. 
 They would thus be flouting justice; they would be 
 committing a crime. We may despair of knowing, 
 we must not despair of judging. Those who de- 
 mand that sentences pronounced in Law Courts 
 should be founded upon a methodical examination 
 of facts, are dangerous sophists, and perfidious en- 
 emies of justice both civil and military. President 
 Bourriche has too judicial a mind to permit his 
 sentences to depend on reason and knowledge, the 
 conclusions of which are eternally open to question. 
 He founds them on dogma and moulds them by 
 tradition, so that the authority of his sentences is 
 equal to that of the Church's commandments. His 
 sentences are indeed canonical. I mean that he 
 derives them from a certain number of sacred can- 
 ons. See, for example, how he classifies evidence, 
 not according to the uncertain and deceptive qual- 
 ities of appearances and of human veracity, but ac- 
 cording to intrinsic, permanent and manifest qual- 
 ities. He weighs them in the scale, using weapons 
 of war for weights. Can anything be at once sim- 
 pler and wiser? Irrefutable for him is the evidence 
 of a guardian of the peace, once his humanity be 
 abstracted, and he conceived as a registered num- 
 ber, and according to the categories of an ideal 
 police. Not that Matra (Bastien), born at Cinto-
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 25 
 
 Monte in Corsica, appears to him incapable of er- 
 ror. He never thought that Bastien Matra was 
 gifted with any great faculty of observation, nor 
 that he applied any secret and vigorous method to 
 the examination of facts. In truth it is not Bastien 
 Matra he is considering, but Constable 64. A man 
 is fallible, he thinks. Peter and Paul may be mis- 
 taken. Descartes and Gassendi, Leibnitz and New- 
 ton, Bichat and Claude Bernard were capable of 
 error. We may all err and at any moment. The 
 causes of error are innumerable. The perceptions 
 of our senses and the judgment of our minds are 
 sources of illusion and causes of uncertainty. We 
 dare not rely on the evidence of a single man : 
 Testis unus, testis nullus. But we may have faith 
 in a number. Bastien Matra, of Cinto-Monte, is 
 fallible. But Constable 64, when abstraction has 
 been made of his humanity, cannot err. He is an 
 entity. An entity has nothing in common with a 
 man, it is free from all that confuses, corrupts and 
 deceives men. It is pure, unchangeable and unal- 
 loyed. Wherefore the magistrates did not hesitate 
 to reject the evidence of the mere man, Dr. David 
 Matthieu, and to admit that of Constable 64, who 
 is the pure idea, an emanation from divinity come 
 down to the judgment bar. 
 
 "By following such a line of argument, President
 
 26 CRAINQUEBILLE 
 
 Bourriche attains to a kind of infallibility, the only 
 kind to which a magistrate may aspire. When the 
 man who bears witness is armed with a sword, it 
 is the sword's evidence that must be listened to, not 
 the man's. The man is contemptible and may be 
 wrong. The sword is not contemptible and is al- 
 ways right. President Bourriche has seen deeply 
 into the spirit of laws. Society rests on force; 
 force must be respected as the august foundation 
 of society. Justice is the administration of force. 
 President Bourriche knows that Constable 64 is an 
 integral part of the Government. The Govern- 
 ment is immanent in each one of its officers. To 
 slight the authority of Constable 64 is to weaken 
 the State. To eat the leaves of an artichoke is to 
 eat the artichoke, as Bossuet puts it in his sublime 
 language. (Politique tiree de V'Ecriture sainte, 
 passim.) 
 
 "All the swords of the State are turned in the 
 same direction. To oppose one to the other is to 
 overthrow the Republic. For that reason, Crain- 
 quebille, the accused, is justly condemned to a fort- 
 night in prison and a fine of fifty francs, on the 
 evidence of Constable 64. I seem to hear Presi- 
 dent Bourriche, himself, explaining the high and 
 noble consideration which inspired his sentence. I 
 seem to hear him saying:
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 27 
 
 ' 'I judged this person according to the evidence 
 of Constable 64, because Constable 64 is the emana- 
 tion of public force. And if you wish to prove my 
 wisdom, imagine the consequences had I adopted 
 the opposite course. You will see at once that it 
 would have been absurd. For if my judgments 
 were in opposition to force, they would never be 
 executed. Notice, gentlemen, that judges are only i 
 obeyed when force is on their side. A judge with- 
 out policemen would be but an idle dreamer. I 
 should be doing myself an injury if I admitted a 
 policeman to be in the wrong. Moreover, the very 
 spirit of laws is in opposition to my doing so. To 
 disarm the strong and to arm the weak would be to 
 subvert that social order which it is my duty to 
 preserve. Justice is the sanction of established in- 
 justice. Was justice ever seen to oppose con- 
 querors and usurpers? When an unlawful power 
 arises, justice has only to recognize it and it be- 
 comes lawful. Form is everything; and between j 
 crime and innocence there is but the thickness of j 
 a piece of stamped paper. It was for you, Crain- 
 quebille, to be the strongest. If, after having 
 cried: "Mort aux caches!" you had declared your- 
 self emperor, dictator, President of the Republic 
 or even town councillor, I assure you you would 
 not have been sentenced to pass a fortnight in
 
 28 CRAINQUEBILLE 
 
 prison, and to pay a fine of fifty francs. I should 
 have acquitted you. You may be sure of that.' 
 
 "Such would have doubtless been the words of 
 President Bourriche; for he has a judicial mind, 
 and he knows what a magistrate owes to society. 
 With order and regularity he defends social prin- 
 ciples. Justice is social. Only wrong-headed per- 
 sons would make justice out to be human and rea- 
 sonable. Justice is administered upon fixed rules, 
 not in obedience to physical emotions and flashes of 
 intelligence. Above all things do not ask justice 
 to be just, it has no need to be just since it is justice, 
 and I might even say that the idea of just justice 
 can have only arisen in the brains of an anarchist. 
 True, President Magnaud pronounces just sen- 
 tences; but if they are reversed, that is still justice. 
 
 "The true judge weighs his evidence with weights 
 that are weapons. So it wa3 in the Crainquebille 
 affair, and in other more famous cases." 
 
 Thus said Monsieur Jean Lermite as he paced 
 up and down the Salle des Pas Perdus. 
 
 Scratching the tip of his nose, Maitre Joseph 
 Aubarree, who knows the Palais well, replied: 
 
 "If you want to hear what I think, I don't be- 
 lieve that President Bourriche rose to so lofty a 
 metaphysical plane. In my opinion, when he re- 
 ceived as true the evidence of Constable 64, he
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 29 
 
 merely acted according to precedent. Imitation 
 lies at the root of most human actions. A respect- 
 able person is one who conforms to custom. Peo- 
 ple are called good when they do as others do."
 
 J v 
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE SUBMITS TO THE 
 LAWS OF THE REPUBLIC 
 
 A.VING been taken back to his prison, 
 Crainquebille sat down on his 
 chained stool, filled with astonish- 
 ment and admiration. He, himself, 
 was not quite sure whether the mag- 
 istrates were mistaken. The tribunal had con- 
 cealed its essential weakness beneath the majesty 
 of form. He could not believe that he was in the 
 right, as against magistrates whose reasons he had 
 not understood: it was impossible for him to con- 
 ceive that anything could go wrong in so elaborate 
 a ceremony. For, unaccustomed to attending Mass 
 or frequenting the Elysee, he had never in his life 
 witnessed anything so grand as a police court trial. 
 He was perfectly aware that he had never cried 
 "Mart aux vaches!" That for having said it he 
 should have been sentenced to a fortnight's impris- 
 onment seemed to him an august mystery, one of 
 those articles of faith to which believers adhere 
 without understanding them, an obscure, striking, 
 adorable and terrible revelation. 
 
 30
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 31 
 
 This poor old man believed himself guilty of 
 having mystically offended Constable 64, just as the 
 little boy learning his first Catechism believes him- 
 self guilty of Eve's sin. His sentence had taught 
 him that he had cried: "Mort aux caches!" He 
 must, therefore have cried "Mort aux vachesf" in 
 some mysterious manner, unknown to himself. He 
 was transported into a supernatural world. His 
 trial was his apocalypse. 
 
 If he had no very clear idea of the offence, his 
 idea of the penalty was still less clear. His sen- 
 tence appeared to him a solemn and superior ritual, 
 something dazzling and incomprehensible, which is 
 not to be discussed, and for which one is neither 
 to be praised nor pitied. If at that moment he 
 had seen President Bourriche, with white wings and 
 a halo round his forehead, coming down through 
 a hole in the ceiling, he would not have been 
 surprised at this new manifestation of judicial 
 glory. He would have said: "This is my trial 
 continuing!" 
 
 On the next day his lawyer visited him: 
 
 "Well, my good fellow, things aren't so bad after 
 all ! Don't be discouraged. A fortnight is soon 
 over. We have not much to complain of." 
 
 "As for that, I must say the gentlemen were very 
 kind, very polite: not a single rude word. I
 
 32 CRAINQUEBILLE 
 
 shouldn't have believed it. And the clpal was 
 wearing white gloves. Did you notice?" 
 
 "Everything considered, we did well to confess." 
 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 "Crainquebille, I have a piece of good news for 
 you. A charitable person, whose interest I have 
 elicited on your behalf, gave me fifty francs for 
 you. The sum will be used to pay your fine." 
 
 "When will you give me the money?" 
 
 "It will be paid into the clerk's office. You 
 need not trouble about it." 
 
 "It does not matter. All the same I am very 
 grateful to this person." And Crainquebille mur- 
 mured meditatively: "It's something out of the 
 common that's happening to me." 
 
 "Don't exaggerate, Crainquebille. Your case is 
 by no means rare, far from it." 
 
 "You couldn't tell me where they've put my bar- 
 row?"
 
 N* VI 
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE IN THE LIGHT OF 
 PUBLIC OPINION 
 
 FTER his discharge from prison, 
 Crainquebille trundled his barrow 
 along the Rue Montmartre, crying: 
 "Cabbages, turnips, carrots!" He 
 was neither ashamed nor proud of 
 his adventure. The memory of it was not painful. 
 He classed it in his mind with dreams, travels and 
 plays. But, above all things, he was glad to be 
 walking in the mud, along the paved streets, and to 
 see overhead the rainy sky as dirty as the gutter, 
 the dear sky of the town. At every corner he 
 stopped to have a drink; then, gay and uncon- 
 strained, spitting in his hands in order to moisten 
 his horny palms, he would seize the shafts and push 
 on his barrow. Meanwhile a flight of sparrows, 
 as poor and as early as he, seeking their livelihood 
 in the road, flew off at the sound of his familiar 
 cry: "Cabbages, turnips, carrots!" An old house 
 wife, who had come up, said to him as she felt his 
 celery : 
 
 "What'c happened to you, Pere Crainquebille? 
 
 33
 
 34 CRAINQUEBILLE 
 
 We haven't seen ycu for three weeks. Have you 
 been ill? You look rather pale." 
 
 "I'll tell you, M'ame Mailloche, I've been doing 
 the gentleman." 
 
 Nothing in his life changed, except that he went 
 oftener to the pub, because he had an idea it was 
 a holiday and that he had made the acquaintance 
 of charitable folk. He returned to his garret 
 rather gay. Stretched on his mattress he drew 
 over him the sacks borrowed from the chestnut- 
 seller at the corner which served him as blankets 
 and he pondered: "Well, prison is not so bad; one 
 has everything one wants there. But all the same 
 one is better at home." 
 
 His contentment did not last long. He soon per- 
 ceived that his customers looked at him askance. 
 
 "Fine celery, M'ame Cointreau!" 
 
 "I don't want anything." 
 
 "What! nothing! do you live on air then?" 
 
 And M'ame Cointreau without deigning to reply 
 returned to the large bakery of which she was the 
 mistress. The shopkeepers and caretakers, who 
 had once flocked round his barrow all green and 
 blooming, now turned away from him. Having 
 reached the shoemaker's, at the sign of 1'Angc Gar- 
 dien, the place where his adventures with justice 
 had begun, he called:
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 35 
 
 "M'ame Bayard, M'ame Bayard, you owe me 
 sevenpence halfpenny from last time." 
 
 But M'ame Bayard, who was sitting at her 
 counter, did not deign to turn her head. 
 
 The whole of the Rue Montmartre was aware 
 that Pere Crainquebille had been in prison, and the 
 whole of the Rue Montmartre gave up his acquaint- 
 ance. The rumour of his conviction had reached 
 the Faubourg and the noisy corner of the Rue 
 Richer. There, about noon, he perceived Madame 
 Laure, a kind and faithful customer, leaning over 
 the barrow of another costermonger, young Martin. 
 She was feeling a large cabbage. Her hair shone 
 in the sunlight like masses of golden threads loosely 
 twisted. And young Martin, a nobody, a good-for- 
 nothing, was protesting with his hand on his heart 
 that there were no finer vegetables than his. At 
 this sight Crainquebille's heart was rent. He 
 pushed his barrow up to young Martin's, and in 
 a plaintive broken voice said to Madame Laure: 
 "It's not fair of you to forsake me." 
 
 As Madame Laure herself admitted, she was no 
 duchess. It was not in society that she had ac- 
 quired her ideas of the prison van and the police- 
 station. But can one not be honest in every sta- 
 tion in life? Every one has his self-respect; and 
 one does not like to deal with a man who has just
 
 36 CRAINQUEBILLE 
 
 come out of prison. So the only notice she took of 
 Crainquebille was to give him a look of disgust. 
 And the old costermonger resenting the affront 
 shouted : 
 
 "Dirty wench, go along with you." 
 
 Madame Laure let fall her cabbage and cried: 
 
 "Eh I Be off with you, you bad penny. You 
 come out of prison and then insult folk!" 
 
 If Crainquebille had had any self-control he 
 would never have reproached Madame Laure with 
 her calling. He knew only too well that one is 
 not master of one's fate, that one cannot always 
 choose one's occupation, and that good people may 
 be found everywhere. He was accustomed dis- 
 creetly to ignore her customers' business with her; 
 and he despised no one. But he was beside him- 
 self. Three times he called Madame Laure 
 drunkard, wench, harridan. A group of idlers 
 gathered round Madame Laure and Crainquebille. 
 They exchanged a few more insults as serious as the 
 first; and they would soon have exhausted their 
 vocabulary, if a policeman had not suddenly ap- 
 peared, and at once, by his silence and immobility, 
 rendered them as silent and as motionless as him- 
 self. They separated. But this scene put the fin- 
 ishing touch to the discrediting of Crainquebille in 
 the eyes of the Faubourg Montmartre and the Rue 
 Richer.
 
 VII 
 
 ^ RESULTS 
 
 JHE old man went along mumbling: 
 "For certain she's a hussy, and 
 none more of a hussy than she." 
 
 But at the bottom of his heart 
 that was not the reproach he brought 
 against her. He did not scorn her for being what 
 she was. Rather he esteemed her for it, knowing 
 her to be frugal and orderly. Once they had liked 
 to talk together. She used to tell him of her par- 
 ents who lived in the country. And they had both 
 resolved to have a little garden and keep poultry. 
 She was a good customer. And then to see her 
 buying cabbages from young Martin, a dirty, good- 
 for-nothing wretch; it cut him to the heart; and 
 when she pretended to despise him, that put his 
 back up, and then . . . ! 
 
 But she, alas ! was not the only one who shunned 
 him as if he had the plague. Every one avoided 
 him. Just like Madame Laure, Madame Coin- 
 treau the baker, Madame Bayard of TAnge Gardien 
 scorned and repulsed him. Why! the whole of so- 
 ciety refused to have anything to do with him. 
 
 37
 
 38 CRA1NQUEBILLE 
 
 So because one had been put away for a fortnight 
 one was not good enough even to sell leeks! Was 
 it just? Was it reasonable to make a decent chap 
 die of starvation because he had got into difficulties 
 with a copper? If he was not to be allowed to sell 
 vegetables then it was all over with him. Like a 
 badly doctored wine he turned sour. After having 
 had words with Madame Laure he now had them 
 with every one. For a mere nothing he would tell 
 his customers what he thought of them and in no 
 ambiguous terms, I assure you. If they felt his 
 wares too long he would call them to their faces 
 chatterer, soft head. Likewise at the wine-shop he 
 bawled at his comrades. His friend, the chestnut- 
 seller, no longer recognized him; old Pere Grain- 
 quebille, he said, had turned into a regular porcu- 
 pine. It cannot be denied : he was becoming rude, 
 disagreeable, evil-mouthed, loquacious. The truth 
 of the matter was that he was discovering the im- 
 perfections of society; but he had not the facilities 
 of a Professor of Moral and Political Science for 
 the expression of his ideas concerning the vices of 
 the system and the reforms necessary; and his 
 thoughts evolved devoid of order and moderation. 
 
 Misfortune was rendering him unjust. He was 
 taking his revenge on those who did not wish him 
 ill and sometimes on those who were weaker than
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 39 
 
 he. One day he boxed Alphonse, the wine-seller's 
 little boy, on the ear, because he had asked him 
 what it was like to be sent away. Crainquebille 
 struck him and said: 
 
 "Dirty brat! it's your father who ought to be 
 sent away instead of growing rich by selling 
 poison." 
 
 A deed and a speech which did him no honour; 
 for, as the chestnut-seller justly remarked, one 
 ought not to strike a child, neither should one re- 
 proach him with a father whom he has not chosen. 
 
 Crainquebille began to drink. The less money 
 he earned the more brandy he drank. Formerly 
 frugal and sober he himself marvelled at the 
 change. 
 
 "I never used to be a waster," he said. "I sup- 
 pose one doesn't improve as one grows old." 
 
 Sometimes he severely blamed himself for his 
 misconduct and his laziness: 
 
 "Crainquebille, old chap, you ain't good for any- 
 thing but liftin' your glass." 
 
 Sometimes he deceived himself and made out 
 that he needed the drink. 
 
 "I must have it now and then; I must have a 
 drop to strengthen me and cheer me up. It seems 
 as if I had a fire in my inside; and there's nothing 
 like the drink for quenching it."
 
 40 CRAINQUEBILLE 
 
 It often happened that he missed the auction in 
 the morning and so had to provide himself with 
 damaged fruit and vegetables on credit. One day, 
 feeling tired and discouraged, he left his barrow in 
 its shed, and spent the livelong day hanging round 
 the stall of Madame Rose, the tripe-seller, or loung- 
 ing in and out of the wine-shops near the market. 
 In the evening sitting on a basket, he meditated 
 and became conscious of his deterioration. He re- 
 called the strength of his early years: the achieve- 
 ments of former days, the arduous labours and the 
 glad evenings: those days quickly passing, all alike 
 and fully occupied; the pacing in the darkness up 
 and down the Market pavement, waiting for the 
 early auction; the vegetables carried armfuls and 
 artistically arranged in the barrow; the piping hot 
 black coffee of Mere Theodore swallowed standing, 
 and at one gulp; the shafts grasped vigorously; 
 and then the loud cry, piercing as cock crow, rend- 
 ing the morning air as he passed through the 
 crowded streets. All that innocent, rough life of 
 the human pack-horse came before him. For half 
 a century, on his travelling stall, he had borne to 
 townsfolk worn with care and vigil the fresh 
 harvest of kitchen gardens. Shaking his head he 
 sighed : 
 
 "No! I'm not what I was. I'm done for.
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 41 
 
 The pitcher goes so often to the well that at last 
 it comes home broken. And then I've never been 
 the same since my affair with the magistrates. No, 
 I'm not the man I was." 
 
 In short he was demoralized. And when a man 
 reaches that condition he might as well be on the 
 ground and unable to rise. All the passers-by tread 
 him under foot.
 
 xj VIII 
 THE FINAL RESULT 
 
 OVERTY came, black poverty. The 
 old costermonger who used to come 
 back from the Faubourg Mont- 
 martre with a bag full of five-franc 
 pieces, had not a single coin now. 
 Winter came. Driven out of his garret, he slept 
 under the carts in a shed. It had been raining 
 for days; the gutters were overflowing, and the shed 
 was flooded. 
 
 Crouching in his barrow, over the pestilent water, 
 in the company of spiders, rats and half-starved cats, 
 he was meditating in the gloom. Having eaten 
 nothing all day and no longer having the chestnut- 
 seller's sacks for a covering, he recalled the fort- 
 night when the Government had provided him with 
 food and clothing. He envied the prisoner's fate. 
 They suffer neither cold nor hunger, and an idea oc- 
 curred to him: 
 
 "Since I know the trick why don't I use it?'* 
 He rose and went out into the street. It was a 
 little past eleven. The night was dark and chill. 
 
 42
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 43 
 
 A drizzling mist was falling colder, and more pene- 
 trating than rain. The few passers-by crept along 
 under the cover of the houses. 
 
 Crainquebille went past the Church of Saint- 
 Eustache and turned into the Rue Montmartre. It 
 was deserted. A guardian of the peace stood on 
 the pavement, by the apse of the church. He was 
 under a gas-lamp, and all around fell a fine rain 
 looking reddish in the gaslight. It fell on to the 
 policeman's hood. He looked chilled to the bone; 
 but, either because he preferred to be in the light or 
 because he was tired of walking he stayed under 
 the lamp, and perhaps it seemed to him a friend, a 
 companion. In the loneliness of the night the flick- 
 ering flame was his only entertainment. In his im- 
 mobility he appeared hardly human. The reflection 
 of his boots on the wet pavement, which looked like 
 a lake, prolonged him downwards and gave him 
 from a distance the air of some amphibious mon- 
 ster half out of water. Observed more closely he 
 had at once a monkish and a military appearance. 
 The coarse features of his countenance, magnified 
 under the shadow of his hood, were sad and placid. 
 He wore a thick moustache, short and grey. He 
 was an old copper, a man of some two-score years. 
 Crainquebille went up to him softly, and in a weak 
 hesitating voice, said: "Mort aux vaches!"
 
 44 CRAINQUEBILLE 
 
 Then he waited the result of those sacred words. 
 But nothing came of them. The constable re- 
 mained motionless and silent, with his arms folded 
 under his short cloak. His eyes were wide open; 
 they glistened in the darkness and regarded Crain- 
 quebille with sadness, vigilance and scorn. 
 
 Crainquebille, astonished, but still resolute, mut- 
 tered : 
 
 "Mori anx vachesf I tell you." 
 There was a long silence in the chill darkness and 
 the falling of the fine penetrating rain. At last 
 the constable spoke: 
 
 "Such things are not said. . . . For sure and for 
 certain they are not said. At your age you ought 
 to know better. Pass on." 
 
 "Why don't you arrest me?" asked Crainque- 
 bille. 
 
 The constable shook his head beneath his drip- 
 ping hood : 
 
 "If we were to take up all the addle-pates who 
 say what they oughn't to, we should have our work 
 cut out! . . . And what would be the use of it?" 
 Overcome by such magnanimous disdain, Crain- 
 quebille remained for some time stolid and silent, 
 with his feet in the gutter. Before going, he tried 
 to explain: 
 
 "I didn't mean to say: A/or/ aux vaches/ to you.
 
 CRAINQUEBILLE 45 
 
 It was no more for you than for another. It was 
 only an idea." 
 
 The constable replied sternly but kindly: 
 "Whether an idea or anything else it ought 
 not to be said, because when a man does his duty 
 and endures much, he ought not to be insulted with 
 idle words. ... I tell you again to pass on." 
 
 Crainquebille, with head bent and arms hanging 
 limp plunged into the rain and the darkness.
 
 PUTOIS
 
 TO GEORGES BRANDES
 
 PUTOIS 
 I 
 
 HEN we were children, our tiny gar- 
 den, which you could go from end 
 to end of in twenty strides, seemed 
 to us a vast universe, made up of 
 joys and terrors," said Monsieur 
 Bergeret. 
 
 "Do you remember Putois, Lucien?" asked Zoe, 
 smiling as was her wont, with lips compressed and 
 her nose over her needlework. 
 
 "Do I remember Putois! . . . Why, of all the 
 figures which pass before my childhood's eyes, that 
 of Putois remains the clearest in my memory. Not 
 a single feature of his face or his character have I 
 forgotten. He had a long head. . . ." 
 
 "A low forehead," added Mademoiselle Zoe. 
 Then antiphonally, in a monotonous voice, with 
 mock gravity, the brother and sister recited the 
 following points of a kind of police description : 
 "A low fore-head." 
 "Wall-eyed." 
 "Furtive looking." 
 
 49
 
 50 PUTOIS 
 
 "A crow's foot on his temple." 
 
 "High cheek-bones, red and shiny." 
 
 "His ears were ragged." 
 
 "His face was blank and expressionless." 
 
 "It was only by his hands, which were constantly 
 moving, that you divined his thoughts." 
 
 "Thin, rather bent, weak in appearance." 
 
 "In reality of unusual strength." 
 
 "He could easily bend a five-franc piece between 
 his thumb and forefinger." 
 
 "His thumb was huge." 
 
 "He spoke with a drawl." 
 
 "His tone was unctuous." 
 
 Suddenly Monsieur Bergeret cried eagerly: 
 
 "Zoe! We have forgotten his yellow hair and 
 his scant beard. We must begin again." 
 
 Pauline had been listening with astonishment to 
 this strange recital. She asked her father and her 
 aunt how they had come to learn this prose passage 
 by heart, and why they recited it like a Litany. 
 
 Monsieur Bergeret replied gravely: 
 
 "Pauline, what you have just heard is the sacred 
 text, I may say the liturgy of the Bergeret family. 
 It is right that it should be transmitted to you in 
 order that it may not perish with your aunt and me. 
 Your grandfather, my child, your grandfather, Eloi 
 Bergeret, who was not one to be amused with trifles,
 
 PUTOIS 51 
 
 set a high value on this passage, principally on 
 account of its origin. He entitled it 'The Anatomy 
 of Putois.' And he was accustomed to say that in 
 certain respects he set the anatomy of Putois 
 above the anatomy of Quaresmeprenant. 'If the 
 description written by Xenomanes,' he said, 'is 
 more learned and richer in rare and precious terms, 
 the description of Plutois greatly excels it in the 
 lucidity of its ideas and the clearness of its style.' 
 Such was his opinion, for in those days Doctor 
 Ledouble, of Tours, had not yet expounded 
 chapters thirty, thirty-one and thirty-two of the 
 fourth book of Rabelais." 
 
 "I can't understand you," said Pauline. 
 
 "It is because you don't know Putois, my 
 daughter. You must learn that, in the childhood of 
 your father and your Aunt Zoe, there was no more 
 familiar figure than Putois. In the home of your 
 grandfather Bergeret, Putois was a household word. 
 We all, in turn, believed that we had seen him." 
 
 "But who was Putois?" asked Pauline. 
 
 Instead of replying her father began to laugh, 
 and Mademoiselle Bergeret also laughed, though 
 her lips were closed. 
 
 Pauline looked first at one and then at the other. 
 It seemed to her odd that her aunt should laugh so 
 heartily, and odder still that she should laugh at the
 
 52 PUTOIS 
 
 same thing as her brother; for strange to say the 
 minds of the brother and sister moved in different 
 grooves. 
 
 "Tell me who Putois was, papa. Since you want 
 me to know, tell me." 
 
 "Putois, my child, was a gardener. The son of 
 honest farmers of Artois, he had set up as a nursery- 
 man at Saint-Omer. But he was unable to please 
 his customers and failed in business. He gave up 
 his nursery and went out to work by the day. His 
 employers were not always satisfied." 
 
 At these words, Mademoiselle Bergerct, still 
 laughing, remarked: 
 
 "You remember, Lucien, when father couldn't 
 find his ink-pot, his pens, his sealing-wax or his 
 scissors on his desk, how he used to say: 'I think 
 Putois must have been here.' ' 
 
 "Ah!" said Monsieur Bergeret, "Putois had not 
 a good reputation." 
 
 "Is that all?" asked Pauline. 
 
 "No, my child, it is not all. There was some- 
 thing odd about Putois; we knew him, he was 
 familiar to us and yet . . ." 
 
 .... "He did not exist," said Zoe. 
 
 Monsieur Bergeret looked reproachfully at her. 
 
 "What a thing to say, Zoe ! Why thus break the
 
 PUTOIS 53 
 
 charm? Putois did not exist! Dare you say so, 
 Zoe? Can you maintain it? Before affirming 
 that Putois did not exist, that Putois never was, you 
 should consider the condition of being and the 
 modes of existence. Putois existed, sister. But it 
 is true that his was a peculiar existence." 
 
 "I understand less and less," said Pauline, grow- 
 ing discouraged. 
 
 "The truth will dawn upon you directly, child. 
 Know that Putois was born in the fullness of age. 
 I was still a child; your aunt was a little girl. We 
 lived in a small house, in a suburb of Saint-Omer. 
 Our parents led a quiet retired life, until they were 
 discovered by an old lady of Saint-Omer, Madame 
 Cornouiller, who lived in her manor of Monplaisir, 
 some twelve miles from the town, and who turned 
 out to be my mother's great aunt. She took advan- 
 tage of the privilege of friendship, to insist on our 
 father and mother coming to dine with her at 
 Monplaisir every Sunday. There they were bored 
 to death. But the old lady said it was right for 
 relatives to dine together on Sundays, and that only 
 ill-bred persons neglected the observance of this 
 ancient custom. Our father was miserable. His 
 sufferings were pitiful to behold. But Madame 
 Cornouiller did not see them. She saw nothing.
 
 54 PUTOIS 
 
 My mother bore it better. She suffered as much as 
 my father, and perhaps more, but she contrived to 
 smile." 
 
 "Women are made to suffer," said Zoe. 
 
 "Every living creature in the world is born to 
 suffer, Zoe. It was in vain that our parents refused 
 these terrible invitations; Madame Cornouiller's 
 carriage came to fetch them every Sunday after- 
 noon. They were bound to go to Monplaisir; it 
 was an obligation which they could not possibly 
 avoid. It was an established order which only 
 open rebellion could disturb. At length my father 
 revolted, and swore he would not accept another of 
 Madame Cornouiller's invitations. To my mother 
 he left the task of finding decent pretexts and vary- 
 ing reasons for their repeated refusals; it was a task 
 for which she was ill fitted; for she was incapable of 
 dissimulation." 
 
 "Say, rather, Lucien, that she was not willing to 
 dissimulate. Had she wished she could have fibbed 
 like anyone else." 
 
 "It is true that when she had good reasons she 
 preferred giving them to inventing bad ones. You 
 remember, sister, that one day she said at table: 
 'Fortunately Zoe has whooping-cough : so we shall 
 not have to go to Monplaisir for a long time.' ' 
 
 "Yes, that did happen," said Zoe.
 
 PUTOIS 55 
 
 "You recovered, Zoe. And one day Madame 
 Cornouiller came and said to our mother: 'My 
 dear, I am counting on you and your husband to 
 dine at Monplaisir on Sunday.' Our mother had 
 been expressly enjoined by her husband to give 
 Madame Cornouiller some plausible pretext for re- 
 fusing. In her extremity the only excuse she could 
 think of was absolutely devoid of probability: 'I 
 am extremely sorry, madame, but it will be im- 
 possible. On Sunday I expect the gardener.' 
 
 "At these words Madame Cornouiller looked 
 through the glazed door of the drawing-room at the 
 wilderness of a little garden, where the spindle- 
 trees and the lilacs looked as if they never had and 
 never would make the acquaintance of a pruning- 
 hook. 'You are expecting the gardener! What 
 for? To work in your garden !' 
 
 "Then, our mother, having involuntarily cast eyes 
 on the patch of rough grass and half-wild plants, 
 which she had just called a garden, realized with 
 alarm that her excuse must appear a mere invention. 
 'Why couldn't this man come on Monday or Tues- 
 day to work in your . . . garden? Either of these 
 days would be better. It is wrong to work on Sun- 
 day. Is he occupied during the week?' 
 
 "I have often noticed that the most impudent 
 and the most absurd reasons meet with the least
 
 56 PUTOIS 
 
 resistance ; they disconcert the opponent. Madame 
 Cornouiller insisted less than might have been ex- 
 pected of a person so disinclined to give in. 
 Rising from her chair she asked: 'What is your 
 gardener's name, dear?' 
 
 " 'Putois,' replied our mother promptly. 
 
 "Putois had a name. Henceforth he existed. 
 Madame Cornouiller went off mumbling: 'Putois I 
 I seem to know that name. Putois? Putois! 
 Why, yes, I know him well enough. But I can't 
 recall him. Where does he live? He goes out to 
 work by the day. When people want him, they 
 send for him to some house where he is working. 
 Ah! Just as I thought; he is a loafer, a vagabond 
 ... a good-for-nothing. You should beware of 
 him, my dear.' 
 
 "Henceforth Putois had a character."
 
 II 
 
 ONSIEUR GOUBIN and Monsieur 
 Jean Marteau came in. Monsieur 
 Bergeret told them the subject of 
 the conversation: 
 
 "We were talking of the man 
 whom my mother one day caused to exist, and 
 created gardener at Saint-Omer. She gave him a 
 name. Henceforth he acted." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir?" said Monsieur Goubin, 
 wiping his eye-glasses. "Do you mind saying that 
 over again?" 
 
 "Willingly," replied Monsieur Bergeret. "There 
 was no gardener. The gardener did not exist. 
 My mother said : 'I expect the gardener !' Straight- 
 way the gardener existed and acted." 
 
 "But, Professor," inquired Monsieur Goubin, 
 "how can he have acted if he did not exist?" 
 
 "In a manner, he did exist," replied Monsieur 
 Bergeret. 
 
 "You mean he existed in imagination," scorn- 
 fully retorted Monsieur Goubin. 
 
 "And is not imaginary existence, existence?" ex- 
 claimed the Professor. "Are not mythical person- 
 
 57
 
 5 8 PUTOIS 
 
 ages capable of influencing men? Think of myth- 
 ology, Monsieur Goubin, and you will perceive that 
 it is not the real characters, but rather the imag- 
 inary ones that exercise the profoundest and the 
 most durable influence over our minds. In all 
 times and in all lands, beings who were no more 
 real than Putois, have inspired nations with love 
 and hatred, with terror and hope, they have coun- 
 selled crimes, they have received offerings, they 
 have moulded manners and laws. Monsieur Gou- 
 bin, think on the mythology of the ages. Putois 
 is a mythological personage, obscure, I admit, and 
 of the humblest order. The rude satyr, who used 
 to sit at a table with our northern peasants, was 
 deemed worthy to figure in one of Jordaens' pic- 
 tures, and in a fable of La Fontaine. The hairy 
 son of Sycorax was introduced into the sublime 
 world of Shakespeare. Putois, less fortunate, will 
 be for ever scorned by poets and artists. He is 
 lacking in grandeur and mystery; he has no distinc- 
 tion, no character. He is the offspring of too ra- 
 tional a mind; he was conceived by persons who 
 knew how to read and write, who lacked the en- 
 chanting imagination which gives birth to fables. 
 Gentlemen, I think what I have said is enough to 
 reveal to you the true nature of Putois." 
 "I understand it," said Monsieur Goubin.
 
 PUTOIS 59 
 
 Then Monsieur Bergeret continued: 
 "Putois existed. I maintain it. He was. Con- 
 sider, gentlemen, and you will conclude that the 
 condition of being in no way implies matter; it sig- 
 nifies only the connexion between attribute and sub- 
 ject, it expresses merely a relation." 
 
 "Doubtless," said Jean Marteau, "but to be with- 
 out attributes is to be practically nothing. Some 
 one said long ago: 'I am that I am.' Pardon 
 my bad memory; but one can't recollect everything. 
 Whoever it was who spoke thus committed a great 
 imprudence. By those thoughtless words he im- 
 plied that he was devoid of attributes and without 
 relation, wherefore he asserted his own non-exis- 
 tence and rashly suppressed himself. I wager that 
 he has never been heard of since." 
 
 "Then your wager is lost," replied Monsieur 
 Bergeret. "He corrected the bad effect of those 
 egotistical words by applying to himself a whole 
 string of adjectives. He has been greatly talked 
 of, but generally without much sense." 
 
 "I don't understand," said Monsieur Goubin. 
 
 "That does not matter," replied Jean Marteau. 
 
 And he requested Monsieur Bergeret to tell them 
 about Putois. 
 
 "It is very kind of you to ask me," said the Pro- 
 fessor. "Putois was born in the second half of the
 
 60 PUTOIS 
 
 nineteenth century, at Saint-Omer. It would have 
 been better for him had he been born some cen- 
 turies earlier, in the Forest of Arden or in the 
 Wood of Broceliande. He would then have been 
 an evil spirit of extraordinary cleverness." 
 
 "A cup of tea, Monsieur Goubin," said Pauline. 
 
 "Was Putois an evil spirit then?" inquired Jean 
 Marteau. 
 
 "He was evil," replied Monsieur Bergeret; "in 
 a certain way, and yet not absolutely evil. He 
 was like those devils who are said to be very wicked, 
 but in whom, when one comes to know them, one 
 discovers good qualities. I am disposed to think 
 that justice has not been done to Putois. Madame 
 Cornouiller was prejudiced against him; she imme- 
 diately suspected him of being a loafer, a drunkard, 
 a thief. Then, reflecting that since he was em- 
 ployed by my mother, who was not rich, he could 
 not ask for high pay, she wondered whether it might 
 not be to her advantage to engage him in the place 
 of her own gardener, who had a better reputation, 
 but also, alas! more requirements. It would soon 
 be the season for trimming the yew-trees. She 
 thought that if Madame Eloi Bergeret, who was 
 poor, paid Putois little, she who was rich might 
 give him still less, since it is the custom for the 
 rich to pay less than the poor. And already in her
 
 PUTOIS 6 1 
 
 mind's eye she beheld her yew-trees cut into walls, 
 spheres and pyramids, all for but a trifling outlay. 
 'I should look after Putois,' she said to herself, 'and 
 see that he did not loaf and thieve. I risk nothing 
 and save a good deal. These casual labourers 
 sometimes do better than skilled workmen.' She 
 resolved to make the experiment, she said to my 
 mother: 'Send Putois to me, my dear. I will give 
 him work at Monplaisir.' My mother promised. 
 She would willingly have done it. But really it 
 was impossible. Madame Cornouiller expected 
 Putois at Monplaisir and expected him in vain. 
 She was a persistent person, and, once having made 
 a resolve, she was determined to carry it out. 
 When she saw my mother, she complained of having 
 heard nothing of Putois. 'Did you not tell him, 
 my dear, that I was expecting him?' 'Yes, but he 
 is so strange, so erratic . . .' 'Oh! I know that 
 sort of person. I know your Putois through and 
 through. But no workman can be so mad as to 
 refuse to come to work at Monplaisir. My house 
 is well known, I should think. Putois will come 
 for my instructions, and quickly, my dear. Only 
 tell me where he lives; and I will go and find him 
 myself.' My mother replied that she did not know 
 where Putois lived, he was not known to have a 
 home, he was without an address. 'I have not seen
 
 62 PUTOIS 
 
 him again, Madame. He seems to have gone into 
 hiding.' She could not have come nearer the truth. 
 And yet Madame Cornouiller listened to her with 
 mistrust. She suspected her of beguiling Putois 
 and keeping him out of sight for fear of losing him 
 or rendering him more exacting. And she men- 
 tally pronounced her overselfish. Many a judg- 
 ment generally accepted and ratified by history has 
 no better foundation." 
 
 "That is quite true," said Pauline. 
 
 "What is true?" asked Zoe, who was half asleep. 
 
 "That the judgments of history are often false. 
 I remember, papa, that you said one day: 'It was 
 very naive of Madame Roland to appeal to an im- 
 partial posterity, and not to see that if her con- 
 temporaries were malevolent, those who came after 
 them would be equally so.' ' 
 
 "Pauline," inquired Mademoiselle Zoe, sternly, 
 "what has that to do with the story of Putois?" 
 
 "A great deal, aunt." 
 
 "I don't see it." 
 
 Monsieur Bergeret, who did not object to di- 
 gressions, replied to his daughter: 
 
 "If every injustice were ultimately repaired in 
 this world, it would never have been necessary to 
 invent another for the purpose. How can poster- 
 ity judge the dead justly? Into the shades whither
 
 PUTOIS 63 
 
 they pass can they be pursued, can they there be 
 questioned? As soon as it is possible to regard 
 them justly they are forgotten. But is it possible 
 ever to be just? What is justice? At any rate, 
 in the end, Madame Cornouiller was obliged to 
 admit that my mother was not deceiving her, and 
 that Putois was not to be found. 
 
 "Nevertheless, she did not give up looking for 
 him. Of all her relations, friends, neighbours, 
 servants and tradesmen she inquired whether they 
 knew Putois. Only two or three replied that they 
 had never heard of him. The majority thought 
 they had seen him. 'I have heard the name,' said 
 the cook, 'but I can't put a face to it.' 'Putois! 
 Why! I know him very well,' said the road sur- 
 veyor, scratching his ear. 'But I couldn't exactly 
 point him out to you.' The most precise informa- 
 tion came from Monsieur Blaise, the registrar, 
 who declared that he had employed Putois to chop 
 wood in his yard, from the igth until the 23rd of 
 October, in the year of the comet. 
 
 "One morning, Madame Cornouiller rushed 
 panting into my father's study: 'I have just seen 
 Putois,' she exclaimed. 'Ah! Yes. I've just seen 
 him. Do I think so? But I am sure. He was 
 creeping along by Monsieur Tenchant's wall. He 
 turned into the Rue des Abbesses; he was walking
 
 64 PUTOIS 
 
 quickly. Then I lost him. Was it really he? 
 There's no doubt of it. A man about fifty, thin, 
 bent looking like a loafer, wearing a dirty blouse.' 
 'Such is indeed Putois' description,' said my father. 
 'Ah! I told you so! Besides, I called him. I 
 cried: Putois! and he turned round. That is 
 what detectives do when they want to make sure 
 of the identity of a criminal they are in search of. 
 Didn't I tell you it was he ! ... I managed to get 
 on his track, your Putois. Well! he is very evil 
 looking. And it was extremely imprudent of you 
 and your wife to employ him. I can read charac- 
 ter; and though I only saw his back, I would swear 
 that he is a thief, and perhaps a murderer. His 
 ears are ragged; and that is an infallible sign.' 
 'Ah! you noticed that his ears were ragged?' 
 'Nothing escapes me. My dear Monsieur Ber- 
 geret, if you don't want to be murdered with your 
 wife and children, don't let Putois come into your 
 house again. Take my advice and have all your 
 locks changed.' 
 
 "Now a few days later it happened that Madame 
 Cornouiller had three melons stolen from her 
 kitchen garden. As the thief was not discovered, 
 she suspected Putois. The gendarmes were sum- 
 moned to Monplaisir, and their statements con- 
 firmed Madame Cornouiller's suspicions. Just
 
 PUTOIS 65 
 
 then gangs of thieves were prowling around the 
 gardens of the countryside. But this time the theft 
 seemed to have been committed by a single person, 
 and with extraordinary skill. He had not damaged 
 anything, and had left no footprint on the moist 
 ground. The delinquent could be none other than 
 Putois. Such was the opinion of the police ser- 
 geant who had long known all about Putois, and 
 was making every effort to put his hand on the 
 fellow. 
 
 "In the Journal de Saint-Omer appeared an ar- 
 ticle on the three melons of Madame Cornouiller. 
 It contained a description of Putois, according to 
 information obtained in the town. 'His forehead 
 is low,' said the newspaper, 'he is wall-eyed; his 
 look is shifty, he has a crow's foot on the temple, 
 high cheek-bones red and shiny. His ears are 
 ragged. Thin, slightly bent, weak in appearance, 
 in reality he is extraordinarily strong: he can easily 
 bend a five-franc piece between his thumb and fore- 
 finger. 
 
 u 'There were good reasons,' said the newspaper, 
 'for attributing to him a long series of robberies 
 perpetrated with marvellous skill.' 
 
 "Putois was the talk of the town. One day it 
 was said that he had been arrested and committed 
 to prison. But it was soon discovered that the
 
 66 PUTOIS 
 
 man who had been taken for Putois was a pedlar 
 named Rigobert. As nothing could be proved 
 against him, he was discharged after a fortnight's 
 precautionary detention. And still Putois could 
 not be found. Madame Cornouiller fell a victim 
 to another robbery still more audacious than the 
 first. Three silver teaspoons were stolen from her 
 sideboard. 
 
 "She recognized the hand of Putois, had a chain 
 put on her bedroom door and lay awake at night."
 
 Ill 
 
 BOUT ten o'clock, when Pauline had 
 gone to bed, Mademoiselle Bergeret 
 said to her brother: 
 
 "Don't forget to tell how Pu- 
 _______ tois seduced Madame Cornouiller's 
 
 cook.""" 
 
 "I was just thinking of it, sister," replied her 
 brother. "To omit that incident would be to omit 
 the best part of the story. But we must come to it 
 in its proper place. The police made a careful 
 search for Putois but they did not find him. When 
 it was known that he could not be found, every 
 one made it a point of honour to discover him; and 
 the malicious succeeded. As there were not a few 
 malicious folk at Saint-Omer and in the neighbour- 
 hood, Putois was observed at one and the same time 
 in street, field and wood. Thus, another trait was 
 added to his character. To him was attributed 
 that gift of ubiquity which is possessed by so many 
 popular heroes. A being capable of travelling long 
 distances in a moment, and of appearing suddenly 
 in the place where he is least expected, is naturally 
 alarming. Putois was the terror of Saint-Omer. 
 
 67
 
 68 PUTOIS 
 
 Madame Cornouiller, convinced that Putois had 
 robbed her of three melons and three teaspoons, 
 barricaded herself at Monplaisir and lived in per- 
 petual fear. Bars, bolts and locks were powerless 
 to reassure her. Putois was for her a terribly 
 subtle creature, who could pass through closed 
 doors. A domestic event redoubled her alarm. 
 Her cook was seduced; and a time came when she 
 could conceal her fault no longer. But she ob- 
 stinately refused to indicate her betrayer." 
 
 "Her name was Gudule," said Mademoiselle 
 Zoe. 
 
 "Her name was Gudule; and she was thought 
 to be protected against the perils of love by a long 
 and forked beard. A beard, which suddenly ap- 
 peared on the chin of that saintly royal maiden 
 venerated at Prague, protected her virginity. A 
 beard, which was no longer young, sufficed not to 
 protect the virtue of Gudule. Madame Cornouiller 
 urged Gudule to utter the name of the man who 
 had betrayed her and then abandoned her to dis- 
 tress. Gudule burst into tears, but refused to 
 speak. Threats and entreaties were alike useless. 
 Madame Cornouiller made a long and minute in- 
 quiry. She diplomatically questioned her neigh- 
 bours both men and women the tradesmen, the
 
 PUTOIS 69 
 
 gardener, the road surveyor, the gendarmes; noth- 
 ing put her on the track of the culprit. Again she 
 endeavoured to extract a full confession from 
 Gudule. 'In your own interest, Gudule, tell me 
 who it is.' Gudule remained silent. Suddenly 
 Madame Cornouiller had a flash of enlightenment: 
 'It is Putois!' The cook wept and said nothing. 
 'It is Putois! Why did I not guess it before? It 
 is Putois! You unhappy girl! Oh you poor, un- 
 happy girl!' 
 
 "Henceforth Madame Cornouiller was persuaded 
 that Putois was the father of her cook's child. 
 Every one at Saint-Omer, from the President of the 
 Tribunal to the lamplighter's mongrel dog, knew 
 Gudule and her basket. The news that Putois had 
 seduced Gudule filled the town with laughter, aston- 
 ishment and admiration. Putois was hailed as an 
 irresistible lady-killer and the lover of the eleven 
 thousand virgins. On these slight grounds there 
 was ascribed to him the paternity of five or six 
 other children born that year, who, considering the 
 happiness that awaited them and the joy they 
 brought to their mothers, would have done just as 
 well not to put in an appearance. Among others 
 were included the servant of Monsieur Marechal, 
 who kept the general shop with the sign of 'Le
 
 70 PUTOIS 
 
 Rendezvous des Pecheurs,' a baker's errand girl, 
 and the little 'cripple of the Pont-Biquet, who had 
 all fallen victims to Putois' charms. 'The mon- 
 ster!' cried the gossips. 
 
 "Thus Putois, invisible satyr, threatened with 
 woes irretrievable all the maidens of a town, 
 wherein, according to the oldest inhabitants, vir- 
 gins had from time immemorial lived free from 
 danger. 
 
 "Though celebrated thus throughout the city and 
 its neighbourhood, he continued in a subtle manner 
 to be associated especially with our home. He 
 passed by our door, and it was believed that from 
 time to time he climbed over our garden wall. He 
 was never seen face to face. But we were con- 
 stantly recognizing his shadow, his voice, his foot- 
 prints. More than once, in the twilight, we 
 thought we saw his back at the bend of the road. 
 My sister and I were changing our opinions of him. 
 He remained wicked and malevolent, but he was 
 becoming child-like and simple. He was growing 
 less real, and, if I may say so, more poetical. He 
 was about to be included in the naive cycle of chil- 
 dren's fairy tales. He was turning into Croque- 
 mitaine, into Pere Fouettard, into the dustman who 
 shuts little children's eyes at night. He was not 
 that sprite who by night entangles the colt's tail in
 
 PUTOIS 71 
 
 the stable. Not so rustic or so charming, yet he 
 was just as frankly mischievous ; he used to draw ink 
 moustaches on my sister's dolls. In our beds we 
 used to hear him before we went to sleep : he was 
 caterwauling on the roofs with the cats, he was 
 barking with the dogs ; he was groaning in the mill- 
 hopper; he was mimicking the songs of belated 
 drunkards in the street. 
 
 "What rendered Putois present and familiar to 
 us, what interested us in him was that his memory 
 was associated with all the objects that surrounded 
 us. Zoe's dolls, my exercise-books, the pages of 
 which he had so often blotted and crumpled, the 
 garden wall over which we had seen his red eyes 
 gleam in the shadow, the blue flower-pot one win- 
 ter's night cracked by him if it were not by the 
 frost; trees, streets, benches, everything reminded 
 us of Putois, our Putois, the children's Putois, a 
 being local and mythical. In grace and in poetry 
 he fell far short of the most awkward wild man 
 of the woods, of the uncouthest Sicilian or Thes- 
 salian faun. But he was a demi-god all the 
 same. 
 
 "To our father Putois' character appeared very 
 differently, it was symbolical and had a philosophi- 
 cal signification. Our father had a vast pity for 
 humanity. He did not think men very reasonable.
 
 72 PUTOIS 
 
 Their errors, when they were not cruel, entertained 
 and amused him. The belief in Putois interested 
 him as a compendium and abridgment of all the 
 beliefs of humanity. Our father was ironical and 
 sarcastic; he spoke of Putois as if he were an actual 
 being. He was sometimes so persistent, and de- 
 scribed each detail with such precision, that our 
 mother was quite astonished. 'Anyone would say 
 that you are serious, my love,' she would say 
 frankly, 'and yet you know perfectly . . .' He re- 
 plied gravely, 'The whole of Saint-Omer believes 
 in the existence of Putois. Could I be a good citi- 
 zen and deny it? One must think well before sup- 
 pressing an article of universal belief.' 
 
 "Only very clear-headed persons are troubled by 
 such scruples. At heart my father was a follower 
 of Gassendi. He compromised between his indi- 
 vidual views and those of the public: with the Saint- 
 Omerites he believed in the existence of Putois, but 
 he did not admit his direct intervention in the theft 
 of the melons and the seduction of the cook. In 
 short, like a good citizen he professed his faith in 
 the existence of Putois, and he dispensed with Putois 
 when explaining the events which happened in the 
 town. Wherefore, in this case as in all others, he 
 proved himself a good man and a thoughtful. 
 
 "As for our mother, she felt herself in a way re-
 
 PUTOIS 73 
 
 sponsible for the birth of Putois, and she was right. 
 For in reality Putois was born of our mother's tara- 
 diddle, as Caliban was born of a poet's invention. 
 The two crimes, of course, differed greatly in magni- 
 tude, and my mother's guilt was not so great as 
 Shakespeare's. Nevertheless, she was alarmed and 
 dismayed at seeing so tiny a falsehood grow indefi- 
 nitely, and so trifling a deception meet with a success 
 so prodigious that it stopped nowhere, spread 
 throughout the whole town, and threatened to 
 spread throughout the whole world. One day she 
 grew pale, believing that she was about to see her 
 fib rise in person before her. On that day, her 
 servant, who was new to the house and neighbour- 
 hood, came and told her that a man was asking for 
 her. He wanted, he said, to speak to Madame. 
 'What kind of a man is he?' 'A man in a blouse. 
 He looked like a country labourer.' 'Did he give 
 his name?' 'Yes, Madame.' 'Well, what is it?' 
 'Putois.' 'Did he tell you that that was his name?' 
 'Putois, yes Madame.' 'And he is here?' 'Yes, 
 Madame. He is waiting in the kitchen.' 'You 
 have seen him?' 'Yes, Madame.' 'What does he 
 want?' 'He did not say. He will only tell 
 Madame.' 'Go and ask him.' 
 
 "When the servant returned to the kitchen, 
 Putois was no longer there. This meeting between
 
 74 PUTOIS 
 
 Putois and the new servant was never explained. 
 But I think that from that day my mother began 
 to believe that Putois might possibly exist, and that 
 perhaps she had not invented."
 
 RIQUET
 
 TO A. J.-A. COULANGHEON
 
 RIQUET 
 
 UARTER-DAY had come. With 
 his sister and daughter, Monsieur 
 Bergeret was leaving the dilapi- 
 dated old house in the Rue de Seine 
 to take up his abode in a modern 
 flat in the Rue de Vaugirard. Such was the de- 
 cision of Zoe and the Fates. 
 
 During the long hours of the morning, Riquet 
 wandered sadly through the devastated rooms. 
 His most cherished habits were upset. Strange 
 men, badly dressed, rude and foul-mouthed, dis- 
 turbed his repose. They penetrated even to the 
 kitchen where they stepped into his dish of biscuit 
 and his bowl of fresh water. The chairs were car- 
 ried off as fast as he curled himself up on them; 
 the carpets were pulled roughly from under his 
 weary limbs. There was no abiding-place for him, 
 not even in his own home. 
 
 To his credit, be it said, that at first he at- 
 tempted resistance. When the cistern was carried 
 off he barked furiously at the enemy. But no one 
 responded to his appeal; no one encouraged him, 
 there was no doubt about it his efforts were re- 
 
 77
 
 78 RIQUET 
 
 garded with disapproval. Mademoiselle Zoe said 
 to him sharply: "Be quiet!" And Mademoiselle 
 Pauline added: "Riquet, you are silly!" 
 
 Henceforth he would abstain from useless warn- 
 ings. He would cease to strive alone for the pub- 
 lic weal. In silence he deplored the devastation 
 of the household. From room to room he sought 
 in vain for a little quiet. When the furniture re- 
 movers penetrated into a room where he had taken 
 refuge, he prudently hid beneath an as yet unmo- 
 lested table or chest of drawers. But this precau- 
 tion proved worse than useless; for soon the piece 
 of furniture tottered over him, rose, then fell with 
 a crash threatening to crush him. Terrified, with 
 his hair all turned up the wrong way, he fled to 
 another refuge no safer than the first. 
 
 But these inconveniences and even dangers were 
 as nothing to the agony he was suffering at heart. 
 His sentiments were the most deeply affected. 
 
 The household furniture he regarded not as 
 things inert, but as living benevolent creatures, be- 
 neficent spirits, whose departure foreshadowed 
 cruel misfortunes. Dishes, sugar-basins, pots and 
 pans, all the kitchen divinities; arm-chairs, carpets, 
 cushions, all the fetishes of the hearth, its lares and 
 its domestic gods had vanished. He could not be-
 
 RIQUET 79 
 
 lieve that so great a disaster would ever be repaired. 
 And sorrow filled his little heart to overflowing. 
 Fortunately Riquet's heart resembled human hearts 
 in being easily distracted and quick to forget its 
 misfortunes. 
 
 During the long absence of the thirsty workmen, 
 when old Angelique's broom raised ancient dust 
 from the floor, Riquet breathed an odour of mice 
 and watched the flight of a spider; thus was his 
 versatile mind diverted. But he soon relapsed into 
 sadness. 
 
 On the day of departure, when he beheld things 
 growing hourly worse and worse, he grew des- 
 perate. It seemed to him above all things disas- 
 trous when he saw the linen being piled in dark 
 cases. Pauline with eager haste was putting her 
 frock into a trunk. He turned away from her, as 
 if she were doing something wrong. He shrank 
 up against the wall and thought to himself: "Now 
 the worst has come; this is the end of everything." 
 Then, whether it were that he believed things 
 ceased to exist when he did not see them, or whether 
 he was simply avoiding a painful sight, he took care 
 not to look in Pauline's direction. It chanced that 
 as she was passing to and fro she noticed Riquet's 
 attitude. It was sad: but to her it seemed funny,
 
 80 RIQUET 
 
 and she began to laugh. Then, still laughing, she 
 called out: "Come here! Riquet, come to me!" 
 But he did not stir from his corner, and would not 
 even turn his head. He was not then in the mood 
 to caress his young mistress, and, through some se- 
 cret instinct, through a kind of presentiment, he 
 was afraid of approaching the gaping trunk. 
 Pauline called him several times. Then, as he did 
 not respond, she went and took him up in her arms. 
 "How unhappy we are!" she said to him; "what is 
 wrong then?" Her tone was ironical. Riquet did 
 not understand irony. He lay in Pauline's arms, 
 sad and inert, affecting to see nothing and to hear 
 nothing. "Riquet, look at me!" She said it three 
 times and three times in vain. Then, pretending to 
 be in a rage: "Silly creature," she cried, "in with 
 you"; and she threw him into the trunk and shut 
 the lid on him. At that moment her aunt having 
 called her, she went out of the room, leaving Riquet 
 in the trunk. 
 
 He was seized with wild alarm; for he was very 
 far from supposing that he had been playfully 
 thrown into the trunk for a mere joke. Esteeming 
 his situation about as bad as it could be, he was 
 desirous not to make it worse by any imprudence. 
 So he remained motionless for a few moments, hold- 
 ing his breath. Then he deemed it expedient to
 
 RIQUET 8 1 
 
 explore his dark prison. With his paws he felt the 
 skirts and the linen on to which he had been so 
 cruelly precipitated, endeavouring to find some way 
 out of this terrible place. He had been thus en- 
 gaged for two or three minutes, when he was called 
 by Monsieur Bergeret, who had been getting ready 
 to go out. 
 
 "Riquet! Riquet! Come for a walk on the 
 quays, that is the land of glory. True they have 
 disfigured it by erecting a railway station of hideous 
 proportions and striking ugliness. Architecture is 
 a lost art. They have pulled down a nice looking 
 house at the corner of the Rue du Bac. They will 
 doubtless put some unsightly building in its place. 
 I trust that at least our architects may abstain from 
 introducing on to the Quai d'Orsay that barbarous 
 style of which they have given such a horrid ex- 
 ample at the corner of the Rue Washington and the 
 Champs filysees! . . . Riquet! Riquet! Come 
 for a walk on the quays. That is a glorious land. 
 But architecture has deteriorated sadly since the 
 days of Gabriel and of Louis. . . . Where is the 
 dog? . . . Riquet! Riquet?" 
 
 The sound of Monsieur Bergeret's voice was a 
 great consolation to Riquet. He replied by mak- 
 ing a noise with his paws, scratching frantically 
 against the wicker sides of the trunk.
 
 82 RIQUET 
 
 "Where is the dog?" her father asked Pauline 
 as she was returning with a pile of linen in her 
 arms. 
 
 "He is in the trunk, Papa." 
 
 "What, in the trunk! Why is he there?" asked 
 Monsieur Bergeret. 
 
 "Because he was silly," replied Pauline. 
 
 Monsieur Bergeret liberated his friend. Riquet 
 followed him into the hall, wagging his tail. Then 
 a sudden thought occurred to him. He went back 
 into the room, ran up to Pauline and rubbed against 
 her skirt. And not until he had wildly caressed 
 her as evidence of his loyalty did he rejoin his 
 master on the staircase. He would have felt him- 
 self deficient in wisdom and religious feeling had he 
 failed to display these signs of affection to one who 
 had been so powerful as to plunge him into a deep 
 trunk. 
 
 In the street, Monsieur Bergeret and his dog 
 beheld the sad sight of their household furniture 
 scattered over the pavement. The removers had 
 gone off to the public-house round the corner, leav- 
 ing the plate-glass mirror of Mademoiselle Zoe's 
 wardrobe to reflect the passing procession of girls, 
 workmen, shopkeepers, and Beaux Arts students, of 
 drays, carts and cabs, and the chemist's shop with
 
 RIQUET 83 
 
 its bottles and its serpents of ^Esculapius. Lean- 
 ing against a post was Monsieur Bergeret senior, 
 smiling in his frame, mild, pale and delicate looking, 
 with his hair ruffled. With affectionate respect the 
 son contemplated his parent whom he moved away 
 from the post. He likewise lifted out of harm's 
 way Zoe's little table, which looked ashamed at 
 finding itself in the street. 
 
 Meanwhile Riquet was patting his master's legs 
 with his paws, looking up at him with sorrowing 
 beautiful eyes, which seemed to say: 
 
 "Thou, who wert once so rich and so powerful, 
 canst thou have become poor? Canst thou have 
 lost thy power, O my Master? Thou permittest 
 men clothed in vile rags to invade thy sitting-room, 
 thy bedroom, thy dining-room, to throw themselves 
 upon thy furniture and pull it out of doors, to drag 
 down the staircase thy deep arm-chair, thy chair 
 and mine, for in it we repose side by side in the eve- 
 ning and sometimes in the morning too. I heard 
 it. groan in the arms of those tatterdemalions; that 
 chair which is a fetish and a benignant spirit. 
 Thou didst offer no resistance to the invaders. But 
 if thou dost no longer possess any of those genii 
 who once filled thy dwelling, if thou hast lost all, 
 even those little divinities, which thou didst put on
 
 84 RIQUET 
 
 in the morning when getting out of bed, those slip- 
 pers which I used to bite in my play, if thou art 
 indigent and poor, O my Master, then what will 
 become of me?"
 
 THE MEDITATIONS OF RIQUET
 
 THE MEDITATIONS OF RIQUET 
 
 I 
 
 EN, beasts and stones grow great as 
 they come near and loom enormous 
 when they are upon me. It is not 
 so with me. I remain equally great 
 wheresoever I am. 
 
 II 
 
 When my master places for me beneath the table 
 the food which he was about to put into his own 
 mouth, it is in order that he may tempt me and that 
 he may punish me if I yield to temptation. For I 
 cannot believe that he would deny himself for my 
 sake. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The smell of dogs is sweet in the nostrils. 
 
 87
 
 88 THE MEDITATIONS OF RIQUET 
 
 IV 
 
 My master keeps me warm when I lie behind him 
 in his chair. It is because he is a god. In front of 
 the fire-place is a hot stone. That stone is divine. 
 
 I speak when I please. From my master's 
 mouth proceed likewise sounds which make sense. 
 But his meaning is not so clear as that expressed by 
 the sounds of my voice. Every sound that I utter 
 has a meaning. From my master's lips come forth 
 many idle noises. It is difficult but necessary to 
 divine the thoughts of the master. 
 
 VI 
 
 To eat is good. To have eaten is better. For 
 the enemy who lieth in wait to take your food is 
 quick and crafty. 
 
 VII 
 
 All is flux and reflux. I alone remain.
 
 THE MEDITATIONS OF RIQUET 89 
 
 VIII 
 
 I am in the centre of all things; men, beasts and 
 things, friendly and adverse, are ranged about me. 
 
 IX 
 
 In sleep one beholdeth men, dogs, horses, trees, 
 forms pleasant and unpleasant. When one awaketh 
 these forms have vanished. 
 
 X 
 
 Reflection. I love my master, Bergeret, because 
 he is powerful and terrible. 
 
 XI 
 
 An action for which one has been beaten is a bad 
 action. An action for which one has received 
 caresses or food is a good action. 
 
 XII 
 
 At nightfall evil powers prowl round the house.
 
 90 THE MEDITATIONS OF RIQUET 
 
 I bark in order that my master may be warned and 
 drive them away. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Prayer. O my master, Bergeret, god of courage, 
 I adore thee. When thou art terrible, be thou 
 praised. When thou art kind be thou praised. I 
 crouch at thy feet: I lick thy hands. When, seated 
 before thy table spread, thou devourest meats in 
 abundance, thou art very great and very beautiful. 
 Very great art thou and very beautiful when, strik- 
 ing fire out of a thin splint of wood, thou changest 
 night into day. Keep me in thine house and keep 
 out every other dog. And thou, Angelique, the 
 cook, divinity good and great, I fear thee and I 
 venerate thee in order that thou mayest give me 
 much to eat. 
 
 XIV 
 
 A dog who lacketh piety towards men and who 
 scorneth the fetishes assembled in his master's house 
 liveth a miserable and a wandering life. 
 
 XV 
 One day, from a broken pitcher, filled with water
 
 THE MEDITATIONS OF RIQUET 91 
 
 which was being carried across the parlour, water 
 ran on to the polished floor. A thrashing must 
 have been the punishment of that dirty pitcher. 
 
 XVI 
 
 Men possess the divine power of opening all 
 doors. I by myself am only able to open a few. 
 Doors are great fetishes which do not readily obey 
 dogs. 
 
 XVII 
 
 The life of a dog is full of danger. If he would 
 escape suffering he must be ever on the watch, dur- 
 ing meals and even during sleep. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 It is impossible to know whether one has acted 
 well towards men. One must worship them with- 
 out seeking to understand them. Their wisdom is 
 mysterious. 
 
 XIX 
 
 Invocation. O Fear, Fear august and maternal,
 
 92 THE MEDITATIONS OF RIQUET 
 
 Fear sacred and salutary, possess me, in danger fill 
 me, in order that I may avoid that which is harm- 
 ful, lest, casting myself upon the enemy, I suffer for 
 my imprudence. 
 
 XX 
 
 Vehicles there are which horses pull through the 
 street. They are terrible. Other vehicles there 
 are which move themselves breathing loudly. 
 These are also fearful. Men in rags are detest- 
 able, likewise such as carry baskets on their heads 
 or roll casks. I do not love children who utter 
 loud cries and flee from and pursue each other 
 swiftly in the streets. The world is full of hostile 
 and dreadful things.
 
 THE NECKTIE
 
 TO MADAME FELIX DECORI
 
 THE NECKTIE 
 
 ONSIEUR BERGERET was ham- 
 mering nails into the wall of his new 
 flat. Becoming aware that he was 
 enjoying the work, he began to won- 
 der why it gave him pleasure to 
 knock nails into the wall. He found the reason and 
 lost the pleasure. For the pleasure had consisted 
 in hammering the nails without thinking of the rea- 
 son of anything. Then, as he hung his father's 
 portrait in the place of honour in the drawing- 
 room, he meditated on the sorrows of a philosophi- 
 cal mind. 
 
 "It tips forward too much," said Zoe. 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 "I am sure of it. It looks as if it were going to 
 fall." 
 
 Monsieur Bergeret shortened the cord from 
 which the picture hung. 
 
 "It isn't straight," said Mademoiselle Bergeret. 
 "Is it not?" 
 
 "No it hangs perceptibly too much to the left." 
 Monsieur Bergeret carefully readjusted it. 
 "And now how is it?" 
 
 95
 
 96 THE NECKTIE 
 
 "It hangs too much to the right." 
 
 Monsieur Bergeret did his best to bring the 
 picture-frame into line with the horizon, and then 
 drew back three steps in order to inspect his handi- 
 work. 
 
 "I think it is right," he said. 
 
 "It is all right now," said Zoe. "It worries me 
 when a picture isn't straight." 
 
 "You are not the only one whom it worries, 
 Zoe. There are many who feel like you. Any 
 irregularity in simple matters is irritating because 
 it is so easy to see the difference between what is 
 and what ought to be. Some people cannot bear 
 to see a badly hung wall-paper. The conditions 
 of our humanity are indeed terrible and atrocious 
 when a crooked picture frame upsets us." 
 
 "There is nothing extraordinary in that, Lucien. 
 Little things occupy a large place in life. You 
 yourself are constantly interested in trifles." 
 
 "All the years that I have been gazing at this 
 portrait I have never remarked before what strikes 
 me at this moment. I have just perceived that this 
 portrait of our father is the portrait of a young 
 man." 
 
 "Why, of course, Lucien. When the artist 
 Gosselin on his return from Rome, painted father, 
 he was not more than thirty."
 
 THE NECKTIE 97 
 
 "True, sister. But when I was a boy the por- 
 trait appeared to me that of a man well on in years, 
 and that impression clung to me. Now it has sud- 
 denly vanished. The colours of Gosselin's picture 
 have lost their brightness; the flesh has assumed 
 an amber tint under the varnish; the lines have 
 grown vague, merging into shadow of an olive hue. 
 Our father's face seems to retreat further and fur- 
 ther into a far-distant background. But that 
 smooth forehead, those large bright eyes, the clear 
 pure line of the delicate cheeks, the black hair thick 
 and shining, belong, I see it now for the first time, 
 to a man in the flower of his youth." 
 
 "Certainly," said Zoe. 
 
 "His dress and the style of his hair are those of 
 the old days when he was young. He wears his 
 hair ruffled. His bottle-green coat has a high col- 
 lar, he wears a nankin waistcoat and his broad black 
 silk stock tie is wound three times round his neck." 
 
 "Ten years ago old men were still to be seen 
 wearing ties like that," said Zoe. 
 
 "Possibly," said Monsieur Bergeret. "But it is 
 certain that Monsieur Malorey never wore any 
 others." 
 
 "You mean the Dean of the Faculte des Lettres 
 at Saint-Omer, Lucien. ... It is thirty years and 
 more since his death."
 
 98 THE NECKTIE 
 
 "He was over sixty, Zoe, when I was less than 
 twelve but it was then that I committed a most 
 daring outrage on his tie." 
 
 "I think I remember that rather stupid joke," 
 said Zoe. 
 
 "No. Zoe, you do not remember my joke. If 
 you did you would not speak of it like that. You 
 know that Monsieur Malorey was very particular 
 about his personal appearance and that he was al- 
 ways very dignified. You remember also that he 
 was extremely decorous. He had an old-fashioned 
 way of speaking, which was delightful. One day 
 when he had invited our parents to dinner for the 
 second time he himself offered a dish of artichokes 
 to our mother, saying: 'Just a little more of the 
 underpart, Madame.' He was speaking according 
 to the best traditions of politeness and of language. 
 For our ancestors never spoke of 'the bottom of an 
 artichoke.' But the term was antiquated and our 
 mother had great difficulty to keep from laughing. 
 I cannot remember, Zoe, how we came to know the 
 artichoke story." 
 
 Zoe, who was hemming white curtains, replied: 
 "We heard it because our father related it one day 
 without noticing that we were present." 
 
 "And ever afterwards, Zoe, you could never see 
 Monsieur Malorey without wanting to laugh."
 
 THE NECKTIE 99 
 
 "You laughed also." 
 
 "No, Zoe, I did not laugh at that. That which 
 amuses other men does not make me laugh, that 
 which amuses me does not make other men laugh. 
 I have often noticed it. I see the ludicrous where 
 no one else perceives it. I am gay and I am sad in 
 the wrong places, and it has often made me look like 
 a fool." 
 
 Monsieur Bergeret climbed a ladder in order to 
 hang a view of Mount Vesuvius by night, during an 
 eruption; the picture was a water-colour which he 
 had inherited from a paternal ancestor. 
 
 "But I have not told, you sister, what I said to 
 Monsieur Malorey." 
 
 "Lucien, while you are on the ladder, please put 
 up the curtain-rods," said Zoe. 
 
 "I will," said her brother. "We were then liv- 
 ing in a little house in a suburb of Saint-Omer." 
 
 "The curtain-rings are in the nail-box." 
 
 "I have them. ... A little house with a gar- 
 den." 
 
 "A very pretty garden," said Zoe. "It was full 
 of lilac bushes. On the lawn was a vase in terra 
 cotta, at the end a maze, and a grotto rockery, 
 and on the wall two large blue pots." 
 
 "Yes, Zoe, two large blue pots. One morning, 
 one summer morning, Monsieur Malorey came to
 
 ioo THE NECKTIE 
 
 our house to consult some books that were not in 
 his own library and which he could not have found 
 in the town library, because it had been destroyed 
 in a fire. My father had placed his study at the 
 Dean's disposal and the offer had been accepted. 
 It was arranged that when he had collated his texts 
 he would stay and lunch with us." 
 
 "Just see if the curtains are too long, Lucien." 
 "I will. . . . 
 
 "That morning the heat was stifling. Among 
 the still leaves even the birds were silent. Sitting 
 under a tree in the garden, I perceived in the shaded 
 study the back of Monsieur Malorey and his long 
 hair resting on the collar of his frock-coat. Save 
 that his hand was moving over a sheet of paper, 
 he did not stir. There was nothing extraordinary 
 in that. He was writing. But what did appear to 
 me unusual . . ." 
 
 "Well, are they long enough?" 
 "Not by four inches, my good Zoe." 
 "What, four inches? Show me, Lucien." 
 "Look. . . . What did appear to me unusual 
 was to see Monsieur Malorey's tie on the window- 
 sill. Overcome by the heat, the Dean had unwound 
 the black cravat that three times encircled his neck. 
 And the long piece of black silk hung from side to 
 side out of the open window. I was seized with an
 
 THE NECKTIE 101 
 
 uncontrollable desire to take it. I crept softly up 
 to the wall of the house, I stretched my arm to- 
 wards the tie, I pulled it; nothing stirred in the 
 study; I pulled it again; there it was in my hand; 
 I went and hid it in one of the large blue pots in 
 the garden." 
 
 "It was not a very brilliant joke, Lucien." 
 "No. ... I hid it in one of the large blue pots 
 and I took care to cover it with leaves and moss. 
 Monsieur Malorey continued for some time at work 
 in the study. I watched his motionless back and 
 the long white hair flowing over the collar of his 
 frock-coat. Then the servant called me to lunch. 
 As I entered the dining-room the most unexpected 
 sight met my gaze. Between our father and 
 mother I saw Monsieur Malorey grave, calm, but 
 without his necktie. He had all his usual dignity. 
 He was even august. But he was not wearing his 
 tie. This filled me with surprise. I knew he could 
 not be wearing it since it was in the blue pot. And 
 yet I was prodigiously astonished to see him with- 
 out it. 'I cannot think, Madame,' he said softly 
 to our mother. . . . She interrupted him: 'My 
 husband will lend you one, dear sir.' 
 
 "And I reflected: 'I hid it in jest, he failed to 
 find it in earnest.' But I was astonished."
 
 THE MONTIL MANOEUVRES
 
 TO OCTAVE MIRBEAU
 
 THE MONTIL MANCEUVRES 
 
 [HE engagement had begun; every- 
 thing was going well. At ten 
 o'clock in the morning General 
 Decuir, of the southern army, whose 
 brigade occupied a strong position 
 beneath the woods of Saint-Colomban, effected a 
 brilliant reconnaissance which demonstrated the 
 absence of the enemy. Then the soldiers broke 
 their fast, and the General, leaving his escort at 
 Saint-Luchaire, drove, accompanied by Captain 
 Varnot, in the motor-car which had come to fetch 
 him, to the Chateau de Montil, where the Baronne 
 de Bonmont had invited him to lunch. The vil- 
 lage of Montil was hung with flags. At the en- 
 trance to the park, the General passed beneath a 
 triumphal arch erected in his honour and decorated 
 with flags, trophies and branches of oak interwoven 
 with boughs of laurel. 
 
 On the steps of her castle the Baronne de Bon- 
 mont received the General and led him into a vast 
 hall hung with weapons and glittering with steel. 
 "Your residence is superb, Madame, and the 
 country is beautiful," said the General. "I have 
 
 105
 
 io6 THE MONTIL MANOEUVRES 
 
 often been to shoot about here, chiefly with the 
 Breces, where I had the pleasure of meeting your 
 son, if I am not mistaken." 
 
 "No, you are not mistaken," said Ernest de Bon- 
 mont, who had driven the General from Saint- 
 Luchaire. "And to say one is bored at the Breces 
 is to put it mildly!" 
 
 It was a small luncheon party. Besides the Gen- 
 eral, the Captain, the Baronne and her son, there 
 were only Madame Worms-Clavelin and Joseph 
 Lacrisse. 
 
 "You must take things as you find them !" said 
 Madame de Bonmont placing the General on her 
 right at a table decorated with flowers over which 
 towered an equestrian statue of Napoleon in Sevres 
 porcelain. 
 
 At a glance the General took in the long gallery 
 hung with the finest Van Orley tapestries. 
 
 "You have plenty of room here!" 
 
 "The General might have brought his brigade," 
 said the Captain. 
 
 "I should have been delighted to receive it," 
 replied the Baronne smiling. 
 
 The talk was simple, quiet and cordial. Every 
 one had the good taste to avoid politics. The Gen- 
 eral was a royalist. He did not say so, but it was
 
 THE MONTIL MANOEUVRES 107 
 
 well known. His manners were perfect. His two 
 sons had been arrested for crying: "Panama!" on 
 the boulevards when President Loubet came into 
 office. The General's own attitude had always 
 been discreet. Horses and cannon were the topics 
 of conversation. 
 
 "The new 75 is a gem," said the General. 
 
 "One cannot too highly commend the ease with 
 which the firing is regulated. It is really wonder- 
 ful," added Captain Varnot. 
 
 "And during the manoeuvres," said Madame 
 Worms-Clavelin, "by a new and ingenious arrange- 
 ment the covers of the ammunition wagons serve 
 as a shelter for the gunners." 
 
 Madame la Prefete was congratulated on her 
 military knowledge. 
 
 Madame Worms-Clavelin appeared to equal ad- 
 vantage when she spoke of Notre-Dame des Belles- 
 Feuilles. 
 
 "You know, General, that in this department, no 
 further away than Brece, we have a miraculous 
 statue of the Blessed Virgin." 
 
 "I have heard of it," replied the General. 
 
 "Before he was made a Bishop," continued 
 Madame Worms-Clavelin, "the Abbe Guitrel was 
 greatly interested in the apparitions of Notre-Dame
 
 io8 THE MONTIL MANCEUVRES 
 
 des Belles-Feuilles. He even wrote a little book to 
 prove that Notre-Dame des Belles-Feuilles is the 
 special protectress of the French army." 
 
 "Tell me where I can procure a copy and I will 
 read it," said the General. 
 
 Madame Worms-Clavelin promised to send him 
 the book. 
 
 In short throughout the meal not a word was 
 uttered that could be called offensive or tending 
 to the malicious. After lunch, there was a walk 
 in the park. Then Captain Varnot took his 
 leave. 
 
 "Let my escort wait for me at Saint-Luchaire, 
 Captain," said the General. And turning to La- 
 crisse, he said: 
 
 "Manoeuvres are a picture of war, but they are 
 not a true picture because everything is thought 
 out and planned whereas in war it is the unexpected 
 that happens.^ 
 
 "Will you come and see the pheasantry, Gen- 
 eral?" said Madame de Bonmont. 
 
 "With pleasure, Madame." 
 
 She turned round. 
 
 "Are you not coming, Ernest?" 
 
 Ernest had been stopped on his way by the 
 worthy Raulin, mayor of Montil. 
 
 "Excuse me, Baron," he was saying. "But if
 
 THE MONTIL MANOEUVRES 109 
 
 you could say a word to General Decuir for me, if 
 only the artillery would pass over St. John's Hill, 
 across my lucerne field." 
 
 "What! Haven't you a good crop, Raulin? Is 
 that why you want it trampled on?" 
 
 "Not at all, not at all. The crop is excellent, 
 Baron; the harvest next month promises to be good. 
 But compensation is good also. Last time it was 
 Houssiaux who had it. Isn't it my turn now? I 
 am mayor, I bear all the burdens of the commune, 
 is it not fair therefore that when there is any bonus 
 to be given. . . . ?" 
 
 The General was taken to the pheasantry. 
 
 "It is time," he said, "that I rejoined my bri- 
 gade." 
 
 "Oh! You will reach it in no time with my 
 thirty horse-power," said the young baron. 
 
 They inspected the kennels, the stables and the 
 gardens. 
 
 "Your roses are superb," said the General, who 
 was fond of flowers. Through the perfumed air 
 there boomed the sound of cannon. 
 
 "It has a festal sound and uplifts the heart," 
 said Lacrisse. 
 
 "Like the sound of bells," said Madame Worms- 
 Clavelin. 
 
 "You are a true Frenchwoman, Madame," said
 
 no THE MONTIL MANOEUVRES 
 
 the General. "Every word you utter breathes the 
 purest patriotism." 
 
 It was four o'clock. The General could not stay 
 a minute longer. Fortunately in "the thirty horse- 
 power" he would reach his brigade in no time. 
 
 With the young baron, Lacrisse and the chauf- 
 feur he entered the car, and once again passed be- 
 neath his triumphal arch. 
 
 In forty minutes he was at Saint-Luchaire. But 
 his escort was not there. In vain the four motor- 
 ists looked for Captain Varnot. The village was 
 deserted. Not a soldier to be found. A butcher 
 was passing in his cart. They asked him where 
 Decuir's division was: he replied: 
 
 "Try the Cagny road. Just now I heard firing 
 in the direction of Cagny, and it was loud too, I 
 can assure you." 
 
 "Cagny, where is that?" inquired the General. 
 
 "Don't you trouble, I know," said the Baron. 
 "I will drive you there." 
 
 And, as the drive would be a long one, he gave 
 the General a dust-coat, a cap and goggles. 
 
 They started on the departmental road; they 
 passed Saint-Andre, Villeneuve, Letaf, Saint- 
 Porc.ain, Trupheme, Mirange, and they saw the 
 Cagny pond shining like brass in the light of the
 
 THE MONTIL MANOEUVRES in 
 
 setting sun. On the high-road, they met dragoons 
 of the northern army who knew nothing of the 
 whereabouts of the Decuir brigade, but they main- 
 tained that the southern army was engaged at Saint- 
 Paulain. 
 
 Saint-Paulain was forty-five kilometres distant, 
 in the direction of Montil. 
 
 The car turned round, went back the depart- 
 mental road, returned through Mirange, Trupheme, 
 Saint-Porgain, Letaf, Villeneuve and Saint-Andre. 
 
 "Put on more speed," ordered the Baron. 
 
 And the car passed through the streets of Verry- 
 les-Fougerais, Suttieres and Rary-la-Vicomte, rais- 
 ing a cloud of dust golden like a glory and crushing 
 pigs and poultry. Two kilometres from Saint- 
 Paulain, they came on the outposts of the southern 
 army holding La Saulaie, Mesville and Le Sourdais. 
 There they learned that the whole of the northern 
 army was on the other side of the Ilette. 
 
 They drove towards Torcy-la-Mirande in order 
 to strike the river by the heights of Vieux-Bac. 
 
 When in the course of an hour they began to per- 
 ceive by the evening light a sheet of white mist 
 hanging over the low lying meadows : 
 
 "Gad," said the young Baron, "we can't cross: 
 the Ilette Bridge is destroyed."
 
 ii2 THE MONTIL MANOEUVRES 
 
 "What!" exclaimed the General, "the Ilette 
 Bridge destroyed? What's that you say? The 
 Bridge destroyed!" 
 
 "Why, General! yes. In the plan of the man- 
 oeuvers the Bridge is destroyed in theory." 
 
 The General did not appreciate the joke. 
 
 "I admire your wit young man," he said sharply. 
 
 At Vieux-Bac they thundered across the iron 
 bridge and followed the ancient Roman road, which 
 connects Torcy-la-Mirande with the chief town of 
 the department. In the sky, Venus was kindling 
 her silver flame close by the crescent moon. They 
 travelled about thirty kilometres without meeting 
 any troops. At Saint-variste there was a terrible 
 hill to climb. The car groaned like a tired beast, 
 but did not stop. Coming down it went over some 
 stones and was on the point of capsizing in a ditch. 
 Then the road was excellent as far as Mallemanche, 
 where they arrived at night, during a surprise. 
 
 The sky was glittering with stars. Trumpets 
 were sounding. Lanterns were casting a yellow 
 gleam on the blue road. Foot soldiers were pillag- 
 ing the houses. The inhabitants were at the win- 
 dows. 
 
 "Although merely theoretical it is all extremely 
 impressive," said Lacrisse. 
 
 The General was told that his brigade was in
 
 THE MONTIL MANOEUVRES 113 
 
 possession of Villeneuve on the left wing of the vic- 
 torious army. The enemy was in full retreat. 
 
 Villeneuve is at the junction of the Ilette and the 
 Claine, twenty kilometres from Mallemanche. 
 
 "We must make for Villeneuve !" said the Gen- 
 eral. "At last we know what we have to do, and 
 a good thing too." 
 
 The Villeneuve road was so encumbered with ar- 
 tillery, ammunition wagons and gunners asleep and 
 wrapped in their great cloaks, that it was very diffi- 
 cult for the car to thread its way. A canten-woman 
 sitting in a cart decorated with Chinese lanterns 
 hailed the motorists and offered them coffee and 
 liqueurs. 
 
 "We won't say no," replied the General. 
 
 "We have swallowed dust enough during the 
 manoeuvers." 
 
 They drank a liqueur and pressed on to Ville- 
 neuve, which was occupied by the infantry. 
 
 "But where is my brigade?" cried the General, 
 who was growing anxious. 
 
 They questioned eagerly all the officers they met. 
 But no one could give them news of the Decuir bri- 
 gade. 
 
 "What! no news? Then it is not at Villeneuve? 
 Incredible !" 
 
 "Gentlemen," they heard in a woman's voice,
 
 ii4 THE MONTIL MANOEUVRES 
 
 shrill and bell-like. They looked up and beheld a 
 head studded with curl-papers; it belonged to the 
 postmistress. 
 
 "Gentlemen, there are two Villeneuves. This is 
 Villeneuve-sur-Claine. Perhaps it is Villeneuve-la- 
 Bataille that you want." 
 
 "Perhaps," said the Baron. 
 
 "That is a long way off," said the postmistress. 
 "You must go first to Montil. . . . Do you know 
 Montil?" 
 
 "Yes," replied the Baron, "we know Montil." 
 
 "Then you go on to Saint-Michel-du-Mont ; you 
 take the main road and . . ." 
 
 From the window of a neighbouring house with 
 gilded scutcheons came out a head wrapped in a 
 comforter: 
 
 "Gentlemen . . ." 
 
 And the notary of Villeneuve-sur-Claine gave his 
 advice : 
 
 "To reach Villeneuve-la-Bataille, you would do 
 better to cross through the Forest of Tongues. . . . 
 You go to La Croix du Perron, you turn to the 
 right . . ." 
 
 "That's enough. I know the Forest of 
 Tongues," said the Baron, "I have hunted there 
 with the Breces. . . . Thank you, sir. . . . 
 Thank you, Mademoiselle."
 
 THE MONTIL MANOEUVRES 115 
 
 "Don't mention it," said the postmistress. 
 
 "At your service, gentlemen," said the notary. 
 
 "What if we went to the inn and had a cocktail?" 
 said the Baron. 
 
 "I should like something to eat," said Lacrisse, 
 "I am done up." 
 
 "Courage, gentlemen," said the General. "We 
 will make up for it at Villeneuve-la-Bataille." 
 
 And they started. They passed through Vely, 
 La Roche, Les Saules, Meulette, La Taillerie and 
 entered the Forest of Tremble. A dazzling light 
 ran before them into the shades of night and of the 
 forest. They reached La Croix-du-Perron, then the 
 Roi-Henri cross-roads. They fled wildly through 
 the silence and solitude. They saw the deer glide 
 by and the lights in the charcoal-burners' huts. 
 Suddenly in a deep cutting the ominous noise of an 
 explosion made them shudder. The car skidded and 
 knocked up against a tree. 
 
 "What is the matter?" asked the General, who 
 had been thrown head over heels. 
 
 Lacrisse groaned; he was lying on a bed of fern. 
 
 But Ernest, lantern in hand, was saying dis- 
 mally : 
 
 "The tyre has burst. . . . But worse than that 
 the front wheel is twisted."
 
 EMILE
 
 EMILE 
 
 JADEMOISELLE BERGERET was 
 
 silent. She smiled, which was un- 
 usual. 
 
 "Why are you laughing, Zoe?" 
 asked Monsieur Bergeret. 
 "I was thinking of fimile Vincent." 
 "What Zoe ! You can think of that excellent 
 man, whom we have just lost, whom we loved and 
 whom we mourn, and you can laugh !" 
 
 "I laugh because I can see him again as he used 
 to be, and the old memories are the strongest. But 
 you should know, Lucien, that all smiles are not 
 joyful any more than all tears are sorrowful. It 
 takes an old maid to explain that." 
 
 "I am not unaware, Zoe, that laughter is the 
 result of nervous agitation. Madame de Custine 
 as she bade adieu in the prison to her husband con- 
 demned to death by the Revolutionary Tribunal, 
 was seized with a fit of uncontrollable laughter at 
 the sight of a prisoner walking past her in dressing- 
 gown and night-cap, with his face painted and a 
 candle in his hand." 
 
 "That is not the same thing," said Zoe. 
 119
 
 iio EMILE 
 
 "No," replied Monsieur Bergeret. "But I re- 
 member what happened to me when I heard of the 
 death of poor Demay who used to sing comic songs 
 al the cafes concerts. It was one evening during 
 a reception at the Prefecture. Worms-Clavelin 
 said: 'Demay is dead.' 
 
 "I for my part received the tidings in decorous 
 sadness. And, reflecting that never again should 
 I hear that wondrous woman sing: Je cas' des 
 noisett's en m'asseyant d'ssus* I tasted to the dregs 
 all the melancholy the thought engendered. I let 
 it drip into my soul and relapsed into silence. The 
 Chief Secretary, Monsieur Lacarelle, exclaimed in 
 his deep voice, through his military moustache: 'De- 
 may dead! What a loss to the gaiety of France!' 
 'It was in the evening paper,' said Judge Pilloux. 
 'True,' added General Cartier de Chalmot gently, 
 'and I am informed that she died consoled by the 
 rites of the Church.' 
 
 "At the General's simple words suddenly a 
 strange, incongruous vision flashed before my eyes. 
 I imagined the end of the world as it is described 
 in the 'Dies Irae,' according to the testimony of 
 David and the Sibyl. I beheld the age reduced to 
 ashes; I saw the dead issuing forth from their 
 tombs, and, at the angel's summons, crowding be- 
 
 I crack nuts by sitting on them.
 
 EMILE 121 
 
 fore the Judgment Seat, and the massive Demay 
 mother-naked at the Lord's right hand. At this 
 conception I burst out laughing in the presence of 
 the astonished officials civil and military. But 
 worse still, the vision obsessed me and I added 
 between bursts of laughter: 'You will see that by 
 her very presence, she will upset the solemnity of 
 the Last Judgment.' Never, Zoe, were words less 
 comprehensible, less relevant." 
 
 "You are absurd, Lucien. I never have those 
 curious visions. I smiled because I imagined our 
 poor friend Vincent just as he was in life. That 
 was all. It was quite natural. I mourn for him 
 with all my heart. We never had a better friend." 
 
 "I too was very fond of him, Zoe, and I too when 
 I think of him am tempted to smile. It was strange 
 how so much military ardour came to reside in so 
 small a body and how a soul so heroic could dwell in 
 a form so spruce and plump. His life passed quietly 
 in the suburb of a provincial town. He was a 
 brushmaker at Les Tintelleries. But there was 
 room in his heart for something besides his busi- 
 ness." 
 
 "He was even smaller than Uncle Jean," said 
 Mademoiselle Bergeret. 
 
 "And he was martial, he was civic, he was im- 
 perial," said Monsieur Bergeret.
 
 EMILE 
 
 "He was a very excellent man," said Mademoi- 
 selle Bergeret. 
 
 "He was in the war of 1870, Zoe. In that year 
 he was twenty. I was only twelve. He seemed to 
 me old and full of years. One day in the Terrible 
 Year, he entered our peaceful provincial dwelling 
 with the clashing of steel. He came to bid us fare- 
 well. He was dressed in the startling uniform of a 
 franc-tireur. Protruding from his scarlet belt were 
 the butts of two horse-pistols. And because a smile 
 must enter even into the most tragic moments, the 
 unconscious humour of some unknown armourer had 
 hitched him to an enormous cavalry sword. Do not 
 blame me for the expression, Zoe; it occurs in one 
 of Cicero's letters. 'Whoever,' says the orator, 
 'hitched my son-in-law to that sword?' 
 
 "What astonished me most in the equipment of 
 cur friend mile Vincent was this huge sword. To 
 my childish mind it seemed to augur victory. You, 
 Zoe, I believed, were more impressed by his boots, 
 for you looked up from your work and cried : 'Why 
 it is Puss in Boots!' " 
 
 "Did I say 'Puss in Boots'? Poor mile." 
 
 "You said 'Puss in Boots'; and you need not re- 
 gret it, Zoe. Madame d'Abrantes in her Memoirs 
 relates how a young girl seeing Napoleon, then 
 young and slender, ridiculously accoutred as a Gen-
 
 EMILE 123 
 
 eral of the Republic, likewise called him 'Puss in 
 Boots.' Bonaparte never forgave her for it. Our 
 friend was very magnanimous; the title did not of- 
 fend him. fimile Vincent and his company were 
 placed under the command of a general who did not 
 like francs-tireurs, and who thus harangued them: 
 'It is not everything to be dressed for a carnival. 
 You must know how to fight.' 
 
 "The caustic speech did not trouble my friend 
 Vincent. He was splendid throughout the cam- 
 paign. One day he was seen to approach the en- 
 emy's outposts with all the calm of a short-sighted 
 man and a hero. He could not see three steps 
 before him. Nothing could make him retreat. 
 For the remaining thirty years of his life, while 
 he was making carpet-brooms, he lived on the mem- 
 ory of that campaign. He read military news- 
 papers, presided over meetings of his former com- 
 panions in arms, was present at the unveiling of 
 monuments raised to the soldiers of 1870. When 
 from time to time there were erected on French 
 soil monuments to Vercingetorix, to Jeanne d'Arc, 
 to the soldiers of the Loire, at the head of the 
 workmen in his factory, fimile defiled before them. 
 He made patriotic speeches. And, here Zoe, we 
 approach a scene in the comedy of life, the melan- 
 choly humour of which may one day be appre-
 
 i2 4 EMILE 
 
 ciated. During the Dreyfus Affair it occurred to 
 mile Vincent to say that Esterhazy was a fraud 
 and a traitor. He said it because he knew it was 
 so and because he was far too candid ever to con- 
 ceal the truth. From that day he was regarded 
 as the enemy of his country and of the army. He 
 was treated as a traitor and an alien. He suffered 
 from 'heart disease, and his grief at this treatment 
 aggravated the malady. He died of sorrow and 
 of shock. The last time I saw him he was talking 
 of military tactics and strategy. They were his 
 favourite topic of conversation. Although the 
 campaign of '70, in which he had served, was con- 
 ducted with the greatest disorder and confusion, 
 he was persuaded that the art of war is the finest 
 of all arts. And I fear that I must have vexed him 
 by saying that properly speaking there is no art 
 of war, for the arts that are really employed in 
 campaigns are those of peace; baking, farriery, the 
 maintenance of order, chemistry, etc." 
 
 "Why did you say such things, Lucien?" asked 
 Mademoiselle Bergeret. 
 
 "Because I was convinced of their truth," replied 
 her brother. "What is called strategy is really the 
 art practised by Cook's agency. It consists in 
 crossing rivers by way of bridges and getting the
 
 feMILE 125 
 
 other side of mountains through passes. As for 
 military tactics, the rules are childish. Great Cap- 
 tains pay no attention to them. Although they 
 would never admit it, they leave much to chance. 
 Their art is to create prejudices in their favour. 
 Conquest becomes easy to them when they are be- 
 lieved to be unconquerable. It is only on a plan 
 that a battle assumes that aspect of order and regu- 
 larity which reveals a dominant will." 
 
 "Poor fimile Vincent!" sighed Mademoiselle 
 Bergeret. "He was indeed passionately fond of 
 the army. And I agree with you that he must have 
 suffered cruelly when he found military society 
 treating him as an enemy. General Cartier de 
 Chalmot's wife was very hard on him. She knew 
 better than anyone that he subscribed largely to 
 military charities. And yet she would have nothing 
 to do with him when she heard that he had called 
 Esterhazy a fraud and a traitor. She broke with 
 him in the most undisguised fashion. One day 
 when he came to her house, she went close up to 
 the hall where he was waiting and exclaimed so 
 that he might hear her: 'Tell him that I am not 
 at home.' Nevertheless she is not a malicious 
 woman." 
 
 "No certainly," replied Monsieur Bergeret.
 
 EMILE 
 
 "She acted according to that holy simplicity of 
 which still better examples may be found in earlier 
 times. Only commonplace virtues are left to us 
 nowadays. And poor mile died of nothing but 
 grief."
 
 ADRIENNE BUQUET
 
 TO DR. GEORGES DUMAS
 
 ADRIENNE BUQUET 
 
 E were finishing our dinner at the 
 tavern when Laboullee said to me: 
 "I admit that second-sight, hyp- 
 notic suggestion from a distance, 
 presentiments subsequently fulfilled, 
 all those phenomena dependent on a condition of 
 the organism at present ill-defined, are not for the 
 most part proved in such a manner as to satisfy the 
 demands of scientific criticism. They nearly all 
 rest on evidence which, though genuine, permits of 
 some uncertainty as to the nature of the phenom- 
 ena. That the facts about them are vague, I 
 admit. But that they are possible I cannot doubt 
 since I myself have witnessed one. By a happy 
 chance I was myself enabled to make the minutest 
 scrutiny. You may believe me when I tell you that 
 I proceeed methodically and that I was careful 
 to eliminate every possibility of error." 
 
 As he uttered this sentence, the young doctor 
 with both hands smote his hollow chest padded with 
 pamphlets and inclined towards me across the table 
 his bald head with its projecting forehead. 
 
 "Yes, my good fellow," he added, "by a wonder- 
 129
 
 130 ADRIENNE BUQUET 
 
 ful stroke of luck one of those phenomena described 
 by Myers and Podmore as 'phantoms of the living' 
 took place in all its phases before the very eyes of a 
 man of science. I observed everything and noted 
 everything down." 
 
 "I am listening." 
 
 "The time of the occurrence," resumed Laboul- 
 lee, "was the summer of '91. My friend, Paul 
 Buquet, of whom I have often spoken to you, was 
 then living with his wife in a little flat in the Rue 
 de Crenelle, opposite the fountain. You did not 
 know Buquet?" 
 
 "I have seen him two or three times. A big 
 fellow, bearded up to the eyes. His wife was dark, 
 pale, large features with long grey eyes." 
 
 "Exactly: a bilious temperament, nervous but 
 fairly well balanced. However, when a woman 
 lives in Paris her nerves get the upper hand and 
 then the deuce is in it. Did you ever sec 
 Adrienne?" 
 
 "I met her one evening in the Rue de la Paix, 
 standing with her husband in front of a jeweller's 
 window, her eyes fixed on some sapphires. A 
 good-looking woman and deucedly well dressed for 
 the wife of a poor wretch buried in the cellars of a 
 manufacturing chemist. Buquet was never success- 
 ful, was he?"
 
 ADRIENNE BUQUET 131 
 
 "For five years Buquet had been working for the 
 firm of Jacob, manufacturers of photographic mate- 
 rials and apparatus in the Boulevard Magenta. 
 From day to day he expected to be made a partner. 
 Although he did not earn his thousands, he had a 
 fairly good position. His prospects were not bad. 
 He was a patient, simple fellow and hard working. 
 He was the kind to succeed in the long run. 
 Meanwhile his wife cost him little. Like a true 
 Parisian, she was an excellent manager, for ever 
 making wonderful bargains in linen, frocks, laces 
 and jewels. She astonished her husband by her 
 cleverness in dressing extremely well on nothing at 
 all and Paul was gratified to see her always look- 
 ing so nice and wearing such elegant under- 
 linen. But these details cannot interest you." 
 "My dear Laboullee, I am very interested." 
 "At any rate all this chatter is beside the point. 
 As you know I was Paul Buquet's schoolfellow. 
 We knew each other in the second class at Louis-le- 
 Grand; and we had not lost sight of one another 
 when, at the age of twenty-six, before he had made 
 his position, he married Adrienne for love, and 
 with nothing but what she stood up in, as we say. 
 Our friendship did not cease with his marriage. 
 Rather, Adrienne was kind to me, and I used often 
 to dine with the young couple. As you know, I
 
 132 ADRIENNE BUQUET 
 
 am doctor to the actor Laroche; I mix with theatri- 
 cal folk, who from time to time give me tickets. 
 Adrienne and her husband were very fond of the 
 theatre. When I had a box for the evening I used 
 to go and dine with them and take them afterwards 
 to the Comedie-Francaise. At dinner time I was 
 always sure to find Buquet, who came home from 
 his factory regularly at half-past six, his wife and 
 their friend Geraud." 
 
 "Geraud," I inquired, "Marcel Geraud who was 
 in a bank and who used to wear such beautiful 
 ties?" 
 
 "The very same. He was a constant visitor at 
 the house. Being a confirmed bachelor and so- 
 ciable, he dined there every day. He used to bring 
 lobsters, pates and all kinds of dainties. He was 
 pleasant, amiable and taciturn. Buquet could not 
 get along without him, and we used to take him 
 to the theatre." 
 
 "How old was he?" 
 
 "Geraud? I don't know. Between thirty and 
 forty. . . . One day when Laroche had given me a 
 box, I went as usual to the Rue de Crenelle, to my 
 friends, the Buquets. I was rather late, and when 
 I arrived dinner was ready. Paul was complain- 
 ing of being hungry; but Adrienne could not make 
 up her mind to sit down to table in Geraud's ab-
 
 ADRIENNE BUQUET 133 
 
 sence. 'My children,' I cried, 'I have a box in the 
 second row for the Frangais! They are playing 
 "Denise" P 'Come,' said Buquet, 'let us have din- 
 ner quickly and try not to miss the first act.' The 
 servant put dinner on the table. Adrienne seemed 
 anxious, and it was evident that she turned against 
 every mouthful. Buquet was noisily swallowing 
 vermicelli, catching the threads hanging from his 
 moustache with his tongue. 'Women are extraor- 
 dinary,' he exclaimed. 'Just fancy, Laboullee, 
 Adrienne is anxious because Geraud has not come 
 to dinner this evening. She imagines all manner 
 of things. Tell her how absurd she is. Geraud 
 may have been detained. He has his business. 
 He is a bachelor; no one has a right to ask him 
 how he spends his time. What surprises me is that 
 he should devote nearly all his evenings to us. It is 
 very good of him. The least we can do is to leave 
 him some liberty. My principle is never to worry 
 about what my friends are doing. But women are 
 different.' Madame Buquet in a trembling voice 
 rejoined: 'I am anxious. I fear something may 
 have happened to Monsieur Geraud.' Meanwhile 
 Buquet was hurrying on the meal. 'Sophie !' he 
 called to the servant, 'bring in the beef, the salad! 
 Sophie ! the cheese ! the coffee.' I observed that 
 Madame Buquet had eaten nothing. 'Come,' said
 
 134 ADRIENNE BUQUET 
 
 her husband, 'go and dress; and don't make us lose 
 the first act. A play by Dumas is very different 
 from an operetta of which all you want is to catch 
 an air or two. Every play of Dumas' is a series 
 of logical deductions, not one of which must be 
 lost. Go, my love; as for me I have only to put 
 on my frock-coat.' She rose, and slowly, as if al- 
 most against her will, passed into her room. 
 
 "We drank our coffee, her husband and I, smok- 
 ing our cigarettes. 'That good Geraud,' said Paul, 
 'I am vexed all the same that he isn't here this 
 evening. He would have been glad to see "Den- 
 ise." But can you understand Adrienne's worry- 
 ing over his absence? I have tried in vain to make 
 her understand that the good fellow may have 
 business which he does not confide to us. Who 
 can tell? Why it may be a love affair! She won't 
 understand. Give me a cigarette.' Just as I was 
 handing him my case, we heard proceeding from the 
 next room a long cry of terror followed by a dull 
 bumpish thud, the sound of something falling. 
 'Adrienne!' cried Buquet. And he rushed into the 
 bedroom. I followed. We found Adrienne lying 
 full length on the floor, motionless, her face white 
 and her eyes turned up. There was no epileptic or 
 kindred symptom, no foam on the lips. The limbs 
 were extended but not rigid. The pulse was rapid
 
 ADRIENNE BUQUET 135 
 
 and unequal. I helped her husband to put her 
 into an arm-chair. Almost immediately her circu- 
 lation was restored; the blood rushed to her face, 
 which was generally of a dull white. 'There,' she 
 said, pointing to her wardrobe mirror, 'there ! I 
 saw him there. As I was fastening my bodice, I 
 saw him in the glass. I turned round, thinking he 
 was behind me. But seeing no one I understood 
 and fell.' 
 
 "Meanwhile I was trying to ascertain whether she 
 had sustained any injury from her fall and I found 
 none. Buquet was giving her sugared eau des 
 carmes. 'Come, my love,' he was saying, 'gather 
 yourself together! Who was it you saw? What 
 do you say?' She turned white again. 'Oh! I 
 saw him, him, Marcel.' 'She saw Geraud! that is 
 odd,' cried Buquet. 'Yes, I saw him,' she resumed 
 gravely: 'he looked at me without speaking, like 
 that.' And she assumed a haggard look. Buquet 
 turned towards me wonderingly. 'Don't be anx- 
 ious,' I replied, 'such illusions are not serious, they 
 may proceed from indigestion. We will consider 
 the matter at leisure. For the moment we may 
 put it on one side. At La Charite I know a patient 
 suffering from gastric disease who used to see cats 
 under all the furniture.' 
 
 "In a few minutes Madame Buquet having com-
 
 136 ADRIENNE BUQUET 
 
 pletely recovered, her husband took out his watch 
 and said: 'If you think that the theatre will not 
 do her any harm, Laboullee, it is time we started. 
 I will tell Sophie to go for a cab.' Adrienne 
 quickly put on her hat. 'Paul! Paul! Doctor I 
 do listen: let us go to Monsieur Geraud's first. I 
 am anxious, more anxious than I can tell you.' 
 
 'You are mad!' cried Buquet. 'Whatever do 
 you imagine is wrong with Geraud? We saw him 
 yesterday in perfect health.' 
 
 "She gave me a look so imploring that the burn- 
 ing intensity of it went straight to my heart. 
 'Laboullee, my friend let us go at once to Mon- 
 sieur Geraud's.' 
 
 "I could not refuse her, she asked so entreatingly. 
 Paul was grumbling: he wanted to see the first act. 
 I said to him: 'We had better go to Geraud's, it 
 will not take us far out of our way.' The cab was 
 waiting for us. I called to the driver: '5 Rue du 
 Louvre. And as quick as you can.' 
 
 "Geraud lived at number 5 Rue du Louvre, not 
 far from his bank, in a little three-roomed flat filled 
 with neckties. They were the good fellow's weak- 
 ness. Barely had we stopped at the door when 
 Buquet leaped from the cab and looking in at the 
 porter's lodge, asked: 'How is Monsieur Geraud?' 
 The concierge replied: 'Monsieur Geraud re-
 
 ADRIENNE BUQUET 137 
 
 turned at five o'clock and took his letters. He has 
 not gone out since. If you want to see him, it is 
 the back staircase, on the fourth floor, to the right.' 
 But Buquet was already at the cab door, crying: 
 'Geraud is at home. You see, my love, how ab- 
 surd you were. To the Comedie-Francais, driver.' 
 Then Adrienne almost threw herself out of the gab. 
 'Paul, I implore you, go up to Geraud's. See him. 
 See him, you must.' 
 
 " 'Go up four flights !' he said, shrugging his 
 shoulders. 'Adrienne you will make us miss the 
 play. Really, when a woman once gets an idea into 
 her head. . . .' 
 
 "I remained alone in the cab with Madame 
 Buquet, and I saw her eyes turned towards the house 
 door and gleaming in the darkness. At length Paul 
 returned: 'Well,' he said, 'I rang three times and 
 without an answer. After all, my love, he must 
 have had his reasons for not wishing to be dis- 
 turbed. He may be with a woman. There would 
 be nothing astonishing in. that.' Adrienne's look 
 became so tragic, that I myself felt anxious. When 
 I came to think of it, it was unnatural for Geraud, 
 who never dined at home, to remain up there from 
 five o'clock in the afternoon until half-past seven. 
 'Wait here for me,' I said to Monsieur and 
 Madame Buquet, 'I will go and speak to the con-
 
 138 ADRIENNE BUQUET 
 
 cierge! The woman also thought it strange that 
 Geraud should not have gone out to dinner as usual. 
 It was she who waited on the fourth-floor tenant, 
 so she had the key of the flat. She took it down 
 from the rack and offered to go up with me. When 
 we had reached the landing, she opened the door, 
 and from the vestibule called three or four times: 
 'Monsieur Geraud !' Receiving no reply, she ven- 
 tured to enter the first room which was the bed- 
 room. Again she called: 'Monsieur Geraud! 
 Monsieur Geraud!' No reply. It was quite dark. 
 We had no matches. 'There must be a box of 
 Swedish matches on the table de mtit' the woman 
 said, beginning to tremble and afraid to move. I 
 began to feel on the table and my fingers came in 
 contact with a sticky substance. 'There is no mis- 
 take about that,' I thought. 'It is blood.' 
 
 "When at length we had lit a candle, we saw 
 Geraud stretched on his bed, with a wound in his 
 head. His arm was hanging down on to the carpet 
 where his revolver had fallen. A letter stained 
 with blood was open on the table. It was in his 
 handwriting and addressed to Monsieur and 
 Madame Buquet. It began thus: 'My dear 
 friends, you have been the charm and joy of my 
 life.' It went on to tell them of his resolve to die 
 without clearly explaining for what reason, but he
 
 ADRIENNE BUQUET 139 
 
 hinted that financial embarrassment was the cause 
 of his suicide. I perceived that death had taken 
 place about an hour ago. So that he had killed 
 himself at the very moment when Madame Buquet 
 had seen him in the glass. 
 
 "Now is not this just what I was telling you, a 
 perfectly authentic case of second sight, or to use 
 a more exact term, an instance of that curious 
 psychical synchronism which science is studying to- 
 day with a zeal which far surpasses its success." 
 
 "It may be something quite different," I replied. 
 "Are you quite sure that there was nothing between 
 Marcel Geraud and Madame Buquet?" 
 
 "Why? ... I never noticed anything. And 
 after all, what would that prove? . . ."
 
 THE INTAGLIO
 
 THE INTAGLIO 
 
 HAD come to him at noon by invita- 
 tion. We lunched in the dining- 
 room long as a church nave, a veri- 
 table treasure-house filled with the 
 ancient gold and silver work he has 
 collected. I found him not exactly sad but medita- 
 tive. His conversation now and again suggested 
 the light and graceful turn of his wit. An occa- 
 sional word revealed the rare delicacy of his artistic 
 tastes and his passion for sport, by no means al- 
 layed by a terrible fall from his horse which had 
 split his head open. But constantly the flow of his 
 ideas was checked as if they had been barred by 
 some obstacle. 
 
 From this conversation, which was somewhat 
 fatiguing to follow, all I retain is that he had just 
 sent a couple of white peacocks to his chateau of 
 Raray and that without any special reason he had 
 for three weeks been neglecting his friends, forsak- 
 ing even the most intimate, Monsieur and Madame 
 N. 
 
 It was plain enough to me that he had not asked 
 me to come and listen to confidences such as those. 
 
 143
 
 144 THE INTAGLIO 
 
 While we were taking our coffee, I asked him what 
 it was he had to tell me. He looked at me rather 
 surprised : 
 
 "Had I anything to tell you?" 
 
 "Dame! You wrote: 'Come and lunch to- 
 morrow. I want to talk to you.' ' 
 
 As he was silent I took the letter from my pocket 
 and showed it to him. The address was in his 
 attractive running hand, somewhat irregular. On 
 the envelope there was a seal in violet wax. 
 
 He passed his hand over his forehead. 
 
 "I remember. Be so kind as to go to Feral's, 
 he will show you a study by Romney; a young 
 woman; golden hair the reflection of which gilds 
 her cheeks and forehead. . . . Pupils dark blue, 
 giving a bluish tinge to the whole eye. . . . The 
 warm freshness of her complexion. ... It is de- 
 licious. And an arm like a gold-beater's skin. 
 However, look at it and see if . . ." 
 
 He paused. And with his hand on the door 
 handle : 
 
 "Wait for me. I will put on my coat and we 
 will go out together." 
 
 Left alone in the dining-room, I went to the 
 window, and, more attentively than before, ex- 
 amined the seal of violet wax. It bore the imprint
 
 THE INTAGLIO 145 
 
 of an antique intaglio, representing a satyr raising 
 the veil of a nymph who was asleep at the foot of 
 a pillar, under a laurel-tree. During the best 
 Roman peroid the subject was a favourite one with 
 painters and with engravers of precious stones. 
 This representation appeared to me excellent. The 
 purity of the style, the perfect feeling for form, 
 the harmonious grouping, converted this scene no 
 longer than one's finger-nail, into a composition vast 
 and imposing. 
 
 I was under the spell when my friend appeared 
 through the half-open door. 
 
 "Come, let's be off," he said. 
 
 He had his hat on and seemed to be in a hurry 
 to go out. 
 
 I congratulated him on his seal. 
 
 "I was not aware that you possessed this beau- 
 tiful gem." 
 
 He replied that he had not had it long, only 
 about six weeks. It was a find. He took it from 
 the finger on which he wore it set in a ring, and 
 put it in my hand. 
 
 It is well known that stones engraved in this fine 
 classic style are generally cornelians. I was some- 
 what surprised therefore to see a dull gem, of a 
 dark violet.
 
 146 THE INTAGLIO 
 
 "What!" I cried, "an amethyst." 
 
 "Yes, a melancholy stone and unlucky. Do you 
 think it is a genuine antique?" 
 
 He called for a magnifying glass. And now I 
 was better able to admire the carving of the in- 
 taglio. It was obviously a masterpiece of Greek 
 glyptography dating from the early Empire. 
 Among all the precious stones in the Museum at 
 Naples I had never seen anything more beautiful. 
 With the glass it was possible to distinguish on the 
 pillar an emblem often found on monuments dedi- 
 cated to some subject of the Bacchic cycle. I 
 pointed it out to him. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. The gem 
 was in an open setting. It occurred to me to ex- 
 amine the reverse; and I was very surprised to find 
 thereon an inscription of a clumsy crudity dating 
 evidently from a period much less remote than that 
 of the intaglio. In a measure these signs resembled 
 the engraving on those Abraxas stones * so familiar 
 to antiquaries. In spite of my inexperience I be- 
 lieved them to be magic signs. That was also my 
 friend's opinion. 
 
 "It is thought," he said, "to be a cabalistic for- 
 mula, imprecations taken from a Greek poet . . ." 
 
 Stones so called because they bore the mystic words Abraxas, 
 Abrasax, known also as Basilidian stones because they were t!-e 
 symbol of the Basilidians, a gnostic sect.
 
 THE INTAGLIO 147 
 
 "Which poet?" 
 
 "I am not very well up in them." 
 "Theocritus." 
 "Theocritus perhaps." 
 
 Through the glass I could make out distinctly a 
 group of four letters : 
 
 KHPH 
 
 "That doesn't spell a name," said my friend. 
 I pointed out to him that in Greek it is the 
 equivalent of: 
 
 KERE 
 
 And I gave him back the stone. He looked at 
 it long in a dazed manner and then put it on to 
 his finger. 
 
 "Come," he said briskly. "Come." 
 
 "Where are you going?" 
 
 "Towards the Madeleine. And you?" 
 
 "I? Where am I going? Parbleu! I am go- 
 ing to Gaulot's to see a horse which he refuses to 
 buy until I have looked at it. For, as you know, 
 I am an authority on horses and something of a 
 veterinary surgeon to boot. I may describe myself 
 also as a furniture broker, an upholsterer, an archi- 
 tect, a gardener, and if need be a stock-jobber. 
 Ah! my friend if only I had the energy I would 
 cut out all the Jews."
 
 148 THE INTAGLIO 
 
 We went out into the faubourg; and, as we 
 walked my friend assumed a gait very different 
 from his habitual nonchalance. His pace soon be- 
 came so rapid that I had difficulty in keeping up 
 with him. In front of us was a woman rather well 
 dressed. He called my attention to her. 
 
 "Her back is round, and she is heavy of figure. 
 But look at her ankle. I am sure the leg is charm- 
 ing. Have you not noticed that the build of horses, 
 of women, and of all fine animals is very much the 
 same? Coarse and large in the fleshy parts, their 
 limbs become thin towards the joints, where they 
 display the fineness of the bones. Look at that 
 woman; above her waist she is not worth a glance. 
 But her limbs! How free, how powerful! How 
 well balanced the movement of her walk! And 
 how fine the leg just above the ankle ! And the 
 thigh I am sure is nervously supple and really beau- 
 tiful." 
 
 Then he added with that acquired wisdom which 
 he was ever ready to communicate: 
 
 "You must not ask everything from one woman; 
 you must take beauty where you find it. It is 
 deucedly rare, is beauty!" 
 
 Whereupon, through a mysterious association of 
 ideas, he raised his left hand and looked at his 
 intaglio. I said to him:
 
 THE INTAGLIO 149 
 
 "Then have you abandoned your little armorial 
 tree and taken as your crest that marvellous Bac- 
 chante ?" 
 
 "Ah! Yes, the beech, the fan of Du Fau. In 
 Poitou, under Louis XVI, my great grandfather 
 was what was then called a nobleman, that is he was 
 an ennobled commoner. Later he joined a revolu- 
 tionary club at Poitiers and acquired national prop- 
 erty, which procures for me to-day, in a society 
 of Jews and Americans, the friendship of princes 
 and the rank of an aristocrat. Why did I forsake 
 the fan of the Du Fau? Why? It was worth 
 almost as much as the chene * of Duchesne de la 
 Sicotiere. And I have exchanged it for a bac- 
 chante, a barren laurel and an emblematical stone." 
 
 Just as with ironical emphasis he was uttering 
 these words, we reached the house of his friend 
 Gaulot; but Du Fau passed the two copper knockers 
 representing Neptune, gleaming on the door like 
 bath taps. 
 
 "I thought you were so eager to go and see 
 Gaulot?" 
 
 He appeared not to hear me and quickened his 
 step. He continued breathlessly as far as the Rue 
 Matignon, down which he turned. Then suddenly 
 he stopped in front of a tall, melancholy, five- 
 
 *0ak.
 
 150 THE INTAGLIO 
 
 storied house. In silence he looked anxiously at 
 the flat stucco faqade with its numerous windows. 
 
 "Are you going to be there long?" I asked him. 
 "Do you know that Madame Cere lives in this 
 house?" 
 
 I knew that name would annoy him. Madame 
 Cere was a woman whose artificial beauty, well- 
 known venality and obvious stupidity he had always 
 detested. Old and of neglected appearance she 
 was suspected of being a shop-lifter and appropriat- 
 ing lace. But in a weak almost plaintive voice, he 
 replied: 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 "I am sure of it. Look at those windows on the 
 second story and those hideous curtains with red 
 leopards." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "But certainly Madame Cere lives there. At 
 this very moment she is probably behind one of 
 those red leopards." 
 
 He seemed as if he would like to call on her. I 
 expressed my surprise. 
 
 "Once you could not tolerate her. That was 
 when every one considered her beautiful and orna- 
 mental; when she inspired fatal passion and tragic 
 love you used to say: 'If it were only for the 
 coarseness of her skin the woman would fill me with
 
 THE INTAGLIO 151 
 
 insurmountable disgust. But besides she is flat- 
 chested and big-jointed.' Now, when all her 
 charms have faded, have you succeeded in discover- 
 ing one of those little points of beauty, with which 
 as you were saying just now, we ought to be con- 
 tented? What do you make of the fineness of her 
 ankle- and the nobility of her heart? A tall gawky 
 woman without bust or hips, who, as she entered a 
 salon, cast a sweeping gaze round the room, and 
 by this simple trick attracted a crowd of those vain 
 and imbecile creatures who ruin themselves for 
 women devoid of natural charms." 
 
 I paused, rather ashamed of having spoken thus 
 of a woman. But this woman had given such abun- 
 dant proof of her revolting malice, that I could not 
 resist the feeling of repugnance she inspired. In 
 truth I should not have expressed myself thus, had 
 I not been convinced of her falseness and her evil 
 disposition. Moreover I had the satisfaction of 
 perceiving that Du Fau had not heard a single word 
 of what I had said. 
 
 He began to talk as if to himself. 
 
 "Whether I call on her or not it is all the same. 
 For six weeks I have visited nowhere without meet- 
 ing her. Houses, which I have not entered for 
 many years, I now return to, why I know not! 
 Queer houses too !"
 
 152 THE INTAGLIO 
 
 Unable to comprehend the lure which drew him, 
 I left him there, standing in front of the open door. 
 That Du Fau, who had loathed Madame Cere when 
 she was beautiful, that he, who had repulsed her 
 advances when she was in her prime, should seek 
 her now that she was old and a victim of drugs, 
 must result from a deterioration which I had not 
 expected in my friend. Such an uncommon vagary 
 I should have declared impossible if in the obscure 
 domain of sensual pathology one could ever be sure 
 of anything. 
 
 A month later, I left Paris without an oppor- 
 tunity of again meeting Paul Du Fau. After 
 spending a few days in Brittany, I went to stay 
 
 with my cousin B at Trouville. Her children 
 
 were there with her. The first week of my visit 
 to the Chalet des Alcyons was spent in giving les- 
 sons in water-colours to my nieces, in teaching my 
 nephews to fence and in hearing my cousin play 
 Wagner. 
 
 On Sunday morning I went with the family as far 
 as the church, and while they were at mass I wan- 
 dered about the town. Walking along the beach 
 road lined with toy stalls and curiosity shops, I saw 
 in front of me Madame Cere. Languid, solitary 
 and forlorn, she was going down to the bathing-
 
 THE INTAGLIO 153 
 
 huts. The dragging of her feet suggested that her 
 shoes were down at heel. Her frock, torn and 
 crumpled, seemed to be dropping off her body. 
 For one moment she looked round. Her hollow 
 vacant eyes and her hanging lip positively alarmed 
 me. While the women cast sidelong glances at 
 her, she went on her way dismal and indifferent. 
 
 Obviously the poor woman was poisoned with 
 morphia. At the end of the street she stopped 
 before the shop window of Madame Guillot, and, 
 with her long thin hand, began to feel the laces. 
 Her eager glance at that moment reminded me of 
 the tattle that circulated about her in the big shops. 
 The stout Madame Guillot, who was showing out 
 some customers, appeared at the door. And 
 Madame Cere, putting down the lace, resumed her 
 dreary walk to the beach. 
 
 "You haven't bought anything for a long time! 
 What a bad customer you are !" cried Madame 
 Guillot as she saw me. "Come, look at some 
 buckles and fans which the young ladies, your nieces, 
 thought very pretty. How good looking they 
 grow, the young ladies!" 
 
 Then she looked at the disappearing form of 
 Madame Cere and shook her head as if to say: 
 
 "Isn't it unfortunate? Eh?" 
 
 I had to buy some paste buckles for my nieces.
 
 154 THE INTAGLIO 
 
 While my purchase was being wrapped up, through 
 the shop window I saw Du Fau going down to the 
 beach. He was walking very quickly with an anx- 
 ious air. In the manner of agitated persons, he 
 was biting his nails, which enabled me to observe 
 that he wore the amethyst on his finger. 
 
 I was surprised to see him, especially as he said 
 he was going to Dinard. He has a chalet there 
 and harriers. When I fetched my cousin from 
 church, I asked her whether she knew that Du Fau 
 was at Trouville. She nodded. Then, slightly 
 embarrassed: 
 
 "Our poor friend is quite absurd. He is tied to 
 that woman. And really . . ." 
 
 She paused and then resumed: 
 
 "It is he who pursues her. I can't understand 
 it." 
 
 Du Fau was indeed pursuing her. In a few days 
 I had certain proof of it. I saw him constantly 
 dogging the steps of Madame Cere and of Mon- 
 sieur Cere, whom no one knows whether to regard 
 as a stupid or an obliging husband. His dulness 
 saves him and makes it possible to give him the 
 benefit of the doubt. Once this woman was blindly 
 set on attracting Du Fau, who is a useful friend in 
 households ostentatious but not wealthy. But Du 
 Fau made no attempt to conceal his dislike for her.
 
 THE INTAGLIO 155 
 
 He used to say in her presence: "An artificially 
 beautiful woman is more detestable than an ugly 
 woman. The latter may offer pleasant surprises. 
 The other is naught but a fruit filled with ashes.'* 
 On that occasion the strength of Du Fau's feeling 
 imparted to its expression a biblical elevation of 
 style. Now Madame Cere ignored him. Grown 
 indifferent to men, she now cared only for her De 
 Pravaz syringe * and her friend, the Countess 
 
 V . These two women were inseparable; and 
 
 the innocence of their friendship was thought to 
 be rendered possible by the circumstance that they 
 were both moribund. Nevertheless Du Fau was 
 always with them on their excursions. One day I 
 saw him carrying Monsieur Cere's heavy field- 
 glasses slung over his shoulders. He persuaded 
 Madame Cere to go out in a boat with him, and 
 the whole beach fixed its eyes upon them with an 
 unholy glee. 
 
 Naturally enough while he was in such an igno- 
 minious position I had little desire for his society. 
 And as he was perpetually in a kind of somnambu- 
 listic state, I quitted Trouville without having ex- 
 changed a dozen words with my unhappy friend, 
 
 whom I left a prey to the Ceres and Countess 
 
 y ^ 
 
 * A morphia syringe.
 
 156 THE INTAGLIO 
 
 One evening in Paris I met him again. It was 
 at the house of his friends and neighbours, the 
 N 's, who are charming hosts. In the arrange- 
 ment of their beautiful house in the Avenue Kleber, 
 
 I recognized the excellent taste of Madame N 
 
 united to that of Du Fau, and blending very har- 
 moniously together. There were not many pres- 
 ent, only a few friends. As in the past, Paul Du 
 Fau displayed that turn of wit peculiar to him, 
 that refined delicacy touched with a flavour of the 
 most picturesque brutality. Madame N is in- 
 telligent and the conversation in her salon is quite 
 good. Nevertheless when I first entered the talk 
 was extremely commonplace. A magistrate, Mon- 
 sieur le Conseiller Nicolas, was relating at length 
 that hackneyed tale of the sentry box, wherein every 
 sentinel in turn committed suicide, and which had 
 to be pulled down in order to put a stop to this 
 
 novel epidemic. After which Madame N 
 
 asked me if I believed in talismans. Monsieur le 
 Conseiller Nicolas relieved my embarrassment by 
 saying that I, being an unbeliever, was bound to be 
 superstitious. 
 
 "You are quite right," replied Madame N . 
 
 "He believes neither in God nor the devil. And 
 he adores stories of the other world."
 
 THE INTAGLIO 157 
 
 I looked at this charming woman while she was 
 speaking; and I admired the unobtrusive grace of 
 her cheeks, her neck and her shoulders. Her whole 
 person gives one the idea of something rare and 
 precious. I do not know what Du Fau thinks of 
 Madame N 's foot. ' To me it is beautiful. 
 
 Paul Du Fau came and shook hands with me. 
 I noticed that he was no longer wearing his ring. 
 
 "What have you done with your amethyst?" 
 
 "I have lost it." 
 
 "What! An intaglio more beautiful than any in 
 Rome and Naples! You have lost it?" 
 
 Without giving him time to reply, N , who is 
 
 always at his side, exclaimed: 
 
 "Yes, it is a curious story. He has lost hi3 
 amethyst." 
 
 N is an excellent fellow, very self-confident, 
 
 a trifle diffuse, and of a simplicity which sometimes 
 provokes a smile. Noisily he called to his wife : 
 
 "Marthe, my love, here is some one who has not 
 yet heard that Du Fau has lost his amethyst." 
 
 And turning to me: 
 
 "Why, it is quite a story. Would you believe 
 it? Our friend had absolutely forsaken us. I 
 used to say to my wife : 'What have you done to 
 Du Fau?' She would reply: 'What have I done?
 
 158 THE INTAGLIO 
 
 Why nothing, my love.' It was incomprehensible. 
 But our astonishment doubled when we heard that 
 he was always with that poor Madame Cere." 
 
 Madame N interrupted her husband: 
 
 "What has that got to do with it?" 
 
 But N insisted: 
 
 "Excuse me, my love! But I must mention it 
 in order to explain the history of the amethyst. 
 Well, this summer our friend Du Fau refused to 
 come with us to the country as he had been in the 
 habit of doing. My wife and I had given him a 
 very hearty invitation. But he remained at Trou- 
 ville, with his cousin de Maureil, in very dull so- 
 ciety." 
 
 Madame N protested. 
 
 "It is true," repeated N , "very dull society. 
 
 He spent his time going out in a boat with Madame 
 Cere." 
 
 Du Fau calmly observed that there was not one 
 
 word of truth in what N was saying. The 
 
 latter putting his hand on his friend's shoulder said: 
 
 "I defy you to contradict me." 
 
 And he finished his story. 
 
 "Day and night Du Fau went out with Madame 
 Cere, or with her ghost, for it is said that Madame 
 Cere is nothing but the ghost of her former self. 
 Cere stayed on the beach with his field-glasses.
 
 THE INTAGLIO 159 
 
 During one of these excursions Du Fau lost his 
 amethyst. After this mischance he declined to stay 
 a day longer at Trouville. He left the place with- 
 out bidding anyone farewell, took train and came 
 to us, at Les Eyzies, where we had given up expect- 
 ing him. It was two o'clock in the morning. 
 'Here I am,' he said calmly. There's eccentricity 
 for you !" 
 
 "And the amethyst?" I asked. 
 
 "It is true," replied Du Fau, "that it fell into 
 the sea. It lies buried in the sand. At least no 
 fisherman has in the traditional manner brought it 
 to land in the belly of a fish." 
 
 A few days later, I paid one of my customary 
 visits to Hendel in the Rue de Chateaudun. And 
 I inquired whether he had not some curiosity with 
 which to tempt me. He knows that I am so old 
 fashioned as to collect ancient bronzes and marbles. 
 Silently he opened a glass case, reserved for ama- 
 teurs, and took out a little Egyptian scribe in pietra 
 dura, of primitive workmanship, a veritable treas- 
 ure ! When I heard its price, I myself put it back, 
 not without a longing glance. Then in the case I 
 perceived the imprint in wax of the intaglio I had 
 so much admired at Du Fau's. I recognized the 
 nymph, the pillar, the laurel. It was beyond the 
 possibility of a doubt.
 
 160 THE INTAGLIO 
 
 ."Did you ever have the gem?" I asked Hendcl. 
 
 "Yes, I sold it last year." 
 
 "A fine gem! Where did you get it?" 
 
 "It came from the collection of Mark Delion, 
 the financier, who five years ago committed suicide 
 on account of a society lady. . . . Madame . . . 
 perhaps you know her . . . Madame Cere."
 
 LA SIGNORA CHIARA
 
 TO UGO OJETTI
 
 ROFESSOR GIACOMO TEDES- 
 CHI of Naples is a doctor well 
 known in the town. His house, 
 which is decidedly odoriferous, is 
 near the Incoronata. It is fre- 
 quented by all kinds of persons, and particularly by 
 the beautiful maidens who at Santa Lucia traffic in 
 the harvest of the sea. He sells drugs for all 
 maladies; he is not above extracting a decayed 
 tooth; he is an adept, the day after a festival, at 
 sewing up the gaping skin of a bravo ; and he knows 
 how to use the longshore dialect interpersed 
 with academical Latin so as to impart confidence to 
 his patients laid out on the longest, the most rickety, 
 the most creaking and the dirtiest operating-chair 
 to be found in any seaport in the universe. He is 
 a man of slender build, of full face, with little green 
 eyes and a long nose overhanging a thin-lipped 
 mouth; his round shoulders, his pot belly and his 
 thin legs recall the pantaloon of bygone times. 
 
 Late in life Giacomo married the young Chiara 
 Mammi, daughter of an old convict highly esteemed 
 in Naples, who, having become a baker on the 
 
 163
 
 1 64 LA SIGNORA CHIARA 
 
 Borgo di Santo, died lamented by the whole town. 
 Ripened by the sun which gilds the grapes of Torre 
 and the oranges of Sorrento, the beauty of Chiara 
 blossomed in glowing splendour. 
 
 Professor Giacomo Tedeschi held the fitting be- 
 lief that his wife was as virtuous as she was beauti- 
 ful. Moreover he knew how strong is the senti- 
 ment of feminine honour in a bandit's family. But 
 he was a doctor and aware of the disturbances and 
 weaknesses to which the nature of woman is liable. 
 He felt some anxiety when Ascanio Ranieri of 
 Milan, who had set up as ladies' tailor on the 
 Piazza dei Martiri, took to visiting his house. As- 
 canio was young, handsome and always smiling. 
 The daughter of the heroic Mammi, the patriot 
 baker, was certainly too good a Neapolitan to for- 
 get her duty with a townsman of Milan. Never- 
 theless Ascanio showed a preference for visiting 
 the house near the Incoronata during the doctor's 
 absence, and the signora willingly received him un- 
 chaperoned. 
 
 One day when the Professor came home earlier 
 than he was expected, he surprised Ascanio on his 
 knees to Chiara. While the signora departed with 
 the measured step of a goddess, Ascanio rose to 
 his feet.
 
 LA SIGNORA CHIARA 165 
 
 Giacomo Tedeschi approached him with every 
 sign of the most anxious solicitude. 
 
 "My friend, I see that you are ill. You did well 
 to come to see me. I am a doctor and vowed to 
 the relief of human suffering. You are in pain, 
 do not deny it. Your face is aflame. It is head- 
 ache, an acute headache, doubtless. How wise of 
 you to come to see me. You were waiting for me 
 impatiently, I am sure. Yes, a terrible headache." 
 While uttering these words, the old man, strong 
 as a Sabine bull, was pushing Ascanio into his con- 
 sulting-room and forcing him to recline in that 
 famous operating-chair, which for forty years had 
 borne the weight of suffering Neapolitans. 
 
 Then holding him inexorably there : 
 
 "I see what it is, your tooth is aching. That's 
 it! Yes, your toothache is very bad." 
 
 He took from a case an enormous dentist's 
 forceps, prised open his capacious mouth and with 
 a turn of the forceps pulled out a tooth. 
 
 Ascanio fled, spitting blood from his streaming 
 jaw, and Professor Giacomo Tedeschi shrieked 
 after him with savage joy: 
 
 "A fine tooth! a fine, a very fine tooth! . . ."
 
 UPRIGHT JUDGES
 
 TO MADAME MARCELLE TINAYRE
 
 UPRIGHT JUDGES 
 
 FRIGHT judges I have indeed seen," 
 said Jean Marteau. "It was in a 
 picture. I had gone to Belgium to 
 escape from an inquisitive magis- 
 trate, who insisted that I had con- 
 spired with anarchists. I did not know my accom- 
 plices and my accomplices did not know me. But 
 that presented no difficulty to the magistrate. 
 Nothing embarrassed him. Though he was per- 
 petually weighing evidence his sense of values re- 
 mained undeveloped. His persistence terrified me. 
 I went to Belgium and stopped at Antwerp, where 
 I became a grocer's assistant. In the picture gal- 
 lery one Sunday I saw two upright judges in a paint- 
 ing by Mabuse. They are of a type now extinct. 
 I mean the type of peripatetic judges who used to 
 travel at a jog-trot on their ambling nags. Foot 
 soldiers, armed with lances and partisans form their 
 escort. Bearded and hairy, these two judges, like 
 the kings in old Flemish Bibles, wear an eccentric 
 yet magnificent headdress suggestive at once of a 
 nightcap and a diadem. Their brocaded robes are 
 richly adorned. The old master has succeeded in 
 
 169
 
 170 UPRIGHT JUDGES 
 
 imparting to them a grave, calm and gentle air. 
 Their horses are as mild and calm as they. Never- 
 theless these two judges differed both in character 
 and in point of view. You can see that at once. 
 One holds a paper in his hand and with his finger 
 points to the text. The other, his left hand on the 
 pommel of his saddle, is raising his right with more 
 benevolence than authority. Between thumb and 
 forefinger he appears to be holding an impalpable 
 powder. And the hand thus carefully posed for 
 this gesture suggests an intellect cautious and subtle. 
 They are upright both of them, but obviously the 
 first adheres to the letter, the second to the spirit. 
 Leaning against the rail which separates them from 
 the public, I listened to their talk. Said the first 
 judge : 
 
 " 'I hold to the written word. The first law was 
 written on stone as a sign that it would last as long 
 as the world.' 
 
 "The other judge made answer: 
 
 " 'Every law is out of date as soon as it is 
 written. For the hand of the scribe is slow, the 
 mind of man is nimble and his destiny is uncertain.' 
 
 "Then these two excellent old men pursued their 
 sententious discussion : 
 
 First judge. The law is stable. 
 
 Second judge. The law is never fixed.
 
 UPRIGHT JUDGES 171 
 
 First judge. Coming forth from God it is im- 
 mutable. 
 
 Second judge. Proceeding naturally from society 
 it is dependent upon the changing conditions of this 
 life. 
 
 First judge. It is the will of God, which 
 changeth not. 
 
 Second judge. It is the will of man which 
 changeth ever. 
 
 First judge. It was before man and is superior 
 to him. 
 
 Second judge. It is of man, infirm as he, and 
 like unto him capable of perfection. 
 
 First judge. Judge, open thy book and read 
 what is written therein. For it is God who dictated 
 to such as believed in Him : Sic locutus est patribus 
 nostris, Abraham et semini ejus in specula. 
 
 Second judge. That which is written by the dead 
 will be erased by the living. Were it not so, 
 the will of those who have passed away would im- 
 pose itself upon those who yet survive; and 
 the dead would be the living and the living the 
 dead. 
 
 First judge. To laws prescribed by the dead 
 the living owe obedience. The quick and the 
 dead are contemporary before God. Moses and 
 Cyrus, Caesar, Justinian and the Emperor of Al-
 
 i 7 2 UPRIGHT JUDGES 
 
 maine yet reign over us. For in the sight of the 
 Eternal One we are their contemporaries. 
 
 Second judge. The living owe obedience to the 
 laws prescribed by the living. For our instruction 
 in that which is permitted and that which is for- 
 bidden Zoroaster and Numa Pompilius rank below 
 the cobbler of Saint Gudule. 
 
 First judge. The first laws were revealed to us 
 by the Infinite Wisdom. The best laws are those 
 which are nearest to that source. 
 
 Second judge. Do you not see that every day 
 new laws are made and that Constitutions and codes 
 differ according to time and place? 
 
 First judge. New laws proceed from those that 
 are ancient. They are young branches of the 
 same tree nourished by the same sap. 
 
 Second judge. From the ancient tree of the law 
 there is distilled a bitter juice. Ceaselessly is the 
 axe laid unto that tree. 
 
 First judge. It is not for the judge to inquire 
 whether the laws are just, since they must neces- 
 sarily be so. He has only to administer them justly. 
 
 Second judge. It is for us to inquire whether 
 the law that we administer be just or unjust, because 
 if we discover it to be unjust, it is possible for us to 
 introduce some modification into the application 
 we are forced to make of it.
 
 UPRIGHT JUDGES 173 
 
 First judge. The criticism of laws is not compat- 
 ible with the respect we owe to them. 
 
 Second judge. If we do not recognize the se- 
 verity of the law how can we temper it? 
 
 First judge. We are judges, not legislators or 
 philosophers. 
 
 Second judge. We are men. 
 
 First judge. A man is incapable of judging men. 
 A judge, when he goes to the seat of justice, puts 
 off his humanity. He assumes divinity and no 
 longer tastes either joy or sorrow. 
 
 Second judge. When justice is not dis- 
 pensed with sympathy it becomes the cruellest in- 
 justice. 
 
 First judge. Justice is perfect when it is literal. 
 
 Second judge. When justice is not spiritual it is 
 absurd. 
 
 First judge. The principle of laws is divine and 
 the consequences which flow from them are no less 
 divine. But even if law were not wholly of God, 
 if it were wholly of man, it would still be necessary 
 to administer it according to the letter. For the 
 letter is fixed, the spirit is fleeting. 
 
 Second judge. Law is wholly of man. It was 
 born foolish and cruel in the early glimmerings of 
 human reason. But were it of divine essence, it 
 should be followed according to the spirit not ac-
 
 i 7 4 UPRIGHT JUDGES 
 
 cording to the letter, for the letter is dead and the 
 spirit is living. 
 
 "Having thus conversed, the two upright judges 
 dismounted and with their escort approached the 
 Tribunal, whither they must go, in order to render 
 unto each man his due. Their horses, tied to a 
 stake, under a great elm, conversed together. The 
 first judge's horse spoke first: 
 
 " 'When horses inherit the earth,' he said (and 
 the earth will doubtless belong to them one day, for 
 the horse is obviously the ultimate end and the final 
 object of creation), 'when the earth is the horse's 
 and we are free to act as we will, we will live under 
 laws like men and we will take delight in imprison- 
 ing, hanging and breaking on the wheel our fellow 
 creatures. We will be moral beings. It shall be 
 proved by the prisons, the gibbets and the strap- 
 pados which shall be erected in our towns. There 
 shall be legislative horses. What do you think 
 Roussin?' 
 
 "Roussin, who was the second judge's steed, re- 
 plied that in his opinion the horse was the king of 
 creation and he confidently hoped that sooner or 
 later his kingdom would come. 
 
 '* 'And when we have built towns, Blanchet,' 
 he added, 'we must, as you say, establish a system 
 of police in them. In those days I would have the
 
 UPRIGHT JUDGES 175 
 
 laws of horses equine, that is favourable to horses 
 and for the equine weal.' 
 
 " 'What do you mean by that, Roussin?' asked 
 Blanchet. 
 
 " 'My meaning is the natural one. I demand 
 that the law shall secure for each his share of corn 
 and his place in the stable, and that each be per- 
 mitted to love as he will during the season. For 
 there is a time for everything. In short I would 
 have the laws of horses in conformity with nature.' 
 
 " 'I hope,' replied Blanchet, 'that the ideas of 
 our legislators will be more elevated than yours, 
 Blanchet. They will make laws according as they 
 are inspired by that celestial horse who has created 
 all horses. He is all good since he is all powerful. 
 Power and goodness are his attributes. He fore- 
 ordained his creatures to endure the bit, to drag 
 at the halter, to feel the spur and to die beneath 
 the whip. You talk of love, comrade; he ordained 
 that many of us should be made geldings. It is his 
 command. The laws must maintain this worshipful 
 behest.' 
 
 " 'But are you quite sure, my friend,' inquired 
 Roussin, 'that these evils proceed from the celestial 
 horse that has created us, and not merely from man 
 his inferior creation?' 
 
 " 'Men are the ministers and the angels of the
 
 1 76 UPRIGHT JUDGES 
 
 celestial horse,' replied Blanchet. 'His will is 
 manifest in everything that happens. His will is 
 good. Since he wishes us ill, it must be that ill 
 is good. If therefore the law is to do us good it 
 must make us suffer. And in the Empire of horses 
 we shall be constrained and tortured in every way, 
 by means of edicts, decrees, sentences, judgments 
 and ordinances in order to please the heavenly 
 horse. 
 
 " 'Roussin,' added Blanchet, 'you must have the 
 head of an ass not to understand that the horse was 
 brought into the world to suffer, and that if he does 
 not suffer he fails to fulfil his destiny and that from 
 happy horses the heavenly horse turns away his 
 face.' "
 
 THE OCEAN CHRIST
 
 TO IVAN STRANNIK
 
 THE OCEAN CHRIST 
 
 |HAT year many of the fishers of 
 Saint-Valery had been drowned at 
 sea. Their bodies were found on 
 the beach cast up by the waves with 
 the wreckage of their boats; and for 
 nine days, up the steep road leading to the church 
 were to be seen coffins borne by hand and followed 
 by widows, who were weeping beneath their great 
 black-hooded cloaks, like women in the Bible. 
 
 Thus were the skipper Jean, Lenoel and his son 
 Desire laid in the great nave, beneath the vaulted 
 roof from which they had once hung a ship in full 
 rigging as an offering to Our Lady. They were 
 righteous men and God-fearing. Monsieur Guil- 
 laume Trupheme, priest of Saint-Valery, having 
 pronounced the Absolution, said in a tearful voice : 
 "Never were laid in consecrated ground there to 
 await the judgment of God better men and better 
 Christians than Jean Lenoel and his son Desire." 
 And while barques and their skippers perished 
 near the coast, in the high seas great vessels foun- 
 dered. Not a day passed that the ocean did not 
 
 179
 
 i8o THE OCEAN CHRIST 
 
 bring in some flotsam of wreck. Now one morn- 
 ing some children who were steering a boat saw a 
 figure lying on the sea. It was a figure of Jesus 
 Christ, life-size, carved in wood, painted in natural 
 colouring, and looking as if it were very old. The 
 Good Lord was floating upon the sea with arms 
 outstretched. The children towed the figure ashore 
 and brought it up into Saint-Valery. The head 
 was encircled with the crown of thorns. The feet 
 and hands were pierced. But the nails were miss- 
 ing as well as the cross. The arms were still out- 
 stretched ready for sacrifice and blessing, just as 
 He appeared to Joseph of Arimathea and the holy 
 women when they were burying him. 
 
 The children gave it to Monsieur le Cure 
 Trupheme, who said to them: 
 
 "This image of the Saviour is of ancient work- 
 manship. He who made it must have died long 
 ago. Although to-day in the shops of Amiens and 
 Paris excellent statues are sold for a hundred francs 
 and more, we must admit that the earlier sculptors 
 were not without merit. But what delights me 
 most is the thought that if Jesus Christ be thus 
 come with open arms to Saint-Valery, it is in order 
 to bless the parish, which has been so cruelly tried, 
 and in order to announce that he has compassion 
 on the poor folk who go a-fishing at the risk of
 
 
 THE OCEAN CHRIST 181 
 
 their lives. He is the God who walked upon the 
 sea and blessed the nets of Cephas." 
 
 And Monsieur le Cure Trupheme, having had 
 the Christ placed in the church on the cloth of the 
 high altar, went off to order from the carpenter 
 Lemerre a beautiful cross in heart of oak. 
 
 When it was made, the Saviour was nailed to it 
 with brand new nails, and it was erected in the nave 
 above the churchwarden's pew. 
 
 Then it was noticed that His eyes were filled with 
 mercy and seemed to glisten with tears of heavenly 
 pity. 
 
 One of the churchwardens, who was present at 
 the putting up of the crucifix, fancied he saw tears 
 streaming down the divine face. The next morning 
 when Monsieur le Cure with a choir-boy entered 
 the church to say his mass, he was astonished to find 
 the cross above the churchwarden's pew empty and 
 the Christ lying upon the altar. 
 
 As soon as he had celebrated the divine sacrifice 
 he had the carpenter called and asked him why he 
 had taken the Christ down from his cross. But the 
 carpenter replied that he had not touched it. 
 Then, after having questioned the beadle and the 
 sidesmen, Monsieur Trupheme made certain that 
 no one had entered the church since the crucifix 
 had been placed over the churchwarden's pew.
 
 1 82 THE OCEAN CHRIST 
 
 Thereupon he felt that these things were mirac- 
 ulous, and he meditated upon them discreetly. 
 The following Sunday in his exhortation he spoke 
 of them to his parishioners, and he called upon 
 them to contribute by their gifts to the erection of 
 a new cross more beautiful than the first and more 
 worthy to bear the Redeemer of the world. 
 
 The poor fishers of Saint-Valery gave as much 
 money as they could and the widows brought their 
 wedding-rings. Wherefore Monsieur Trupheme 
 was able to go at once to Abbeville and to order 
 a cross of ebony highly polished and surmounted 
 by a scroll with the inscription I. N.R.I, in letters 
 of gold. Two months later it was erected in the 
 place of the former and the Christ was nailed to it 
 between the lance and the sponge. 
 
 But Jesus left this cross as He had left the other; 
 and as soon as night fell He went and stretched 
 Himself upon the altar. 
 
 Monsieur le Cure, when he found Him there in 
 the morning, fell on his knees and prayed for a 
 long while. The fame of this miracle spread 
 throughout the neighbourhood, and the ladies of 
 Amiens made a collection for the Christ of Saint- 
 Valery. Monsieur Trupheme received money and 
 jewels from Paris, and the wife of the Minister
 
 THE OCEAN CHRIST 183 
 
 of Marine, Madame Hyde de Neuville, sent him a 
 heart of diamonds. Of all these treasures, in the 
 space of two years, a goldsmith of La Rue St. 
 Sulpice, fashioned a cross of gold and precious 
 stones which was set up with great pomp in the 
 church of Saint- Valery on the second Sunday after 
 Easter in the year 18 . But He who had not 
 refused the cross of sorrow, fled from this cross 
 of gold and again stretched Himself upon the white 
 linen of the altar. 
 
 For fear of offending Him He was left there 
 this time; and He had lain upon the altar for 
 more than two years, when Pierre, son of Pierre 
 Caillou, came to tell Monsieur le Cure Trupheme 
 that he had found the true cross of Our Lord on 
 the beach. 
 
 Pierre was an innocent; and, because he had not 
 sense enough to earn a livelihood, people gave him 
 bread out of charity; he was liked because he never 
 did any harm. But he wandered in his talk and 
 no one listened to him. 
 
 Nevertheless Monsieur Trupheme, who had 
 never ceased meditating on the Ocean Christ, was 
 struck by what the poor imbecile had just said. 
 With the beadle and two sidesmen he went to the 
 spot, where the child said he had seen a cross, and
 
 i8 4 THE OCEAN CHRIST 
 
 there he found two planks studded with nails, which 
 had long been washed by the sea and which did 
 indeed form a cross. 
 
 They were the remains of some old shipwreck. 
 On one of these boards could still be read two let- 
 ters painted in black, a J and an L; and there was 
 no doubt that this was a fragment of Jean LenoeTs 
 barque, he who with his son Desire had been lost 
 at sea five years before. 
 
 At the sight of this, the beadle and the sidesmen 
 began to laugh at the innocent who had taken the 
 broken planks of a boat for the cross of Jesus 
 Christ. But Monsieur le Cure Trupheme checked 
 their merriment. He had meditated much and 
 prayed long since the Ocean Christ had arrived 
 among the fisherfolk, and the mystery of infinite 
 charity began to dawn upon him. He knelt down 
 upon the sand, repeated the prayer for the faithful 
 departed, and then told the beadle and the sides- 
 men to carry the flotsam on their shoulders and to 
 place it in the church. When this had been done 
 he raised the Christ from the altar, placed it on the 
 planks of the boat and himself nailed it to them, 
 with the nails that the ocean had corroded. 
 
 By the priest's command, the very next day this 
 cross took the place of the cross of gold and pre- 
 cious stones over the churchwarden's pew. The
 
 THE OCEAN CHRIST 185 
 
 Ocean Christ has never left it. He has chosen to 
 remain nailed to the planks on which men died in- 
 voking His name and that of His Mother. There, 
 with parted lips, august and afflicted He seems to 
 say: 
 
 "My cross is made of all men's woes, for I am in 
 truth the God of the poor and the heavy-laden."
 
 JEAN MARTEAU
 
 JEAN MARTEAU 
 
 I 
 A DREAM 
 
 HE talk fell on sleep and dreams. 
 
 Jean Marteau said that one dream 
 had left an indelible impression on 
 his mind. 
 
 "Was it a prophetic dream?" 
 inquired Monsieur Goubin. 
 
 "In itself," replied Jean Marteau, "the dream 
 was not remarkable, not even for its incoherence. 
 But its images presented themselves with a painful 
 vividness which is quite unique. Nothing I ever 
 experienced, nothing, was ever so real to me, so 
 actual as the visions of this dream. In that lies its 
 interest. It enabled me to understand the illusions 
 of a mystic. Had I been less rational I should 
 certainly have taken it to be an apocalypse and a 
 revelation, and I should have derived therefrom 
 principles of conduct and a rule of life. I ought to 
 tell you that I dreamed this dream under peculiar 
 circumstances. It was in the spring of 1895; I 
 was twenty. Having recently arrived in Paris I 
 
 189
 
 i 9 o JEAN MARTEAU 
 
 was in difficulties. That night I had lain down in a 
 copse of the Versailles wood. I had eaten nothing 
 for twenty-four hours. I suffered no pain. I was 
 in a state of calm and ease, disturbed occasionally 
 by a feeling of anxiety. It seemed to me as if I 
 was neither asleep nor awake. A little girl, quite 
 a little girl in a blue-hooded cape, and a white 
 apron, was walking with crutches over a plain. 
 With every step she took her crutches grew and 
 raised her like stilts. They soon became higher 
 than the poplars on the river's bank. A woman 
 who saw my surprise said to me : 'Don't you know 
 that in the spring crutches grow? But there are 
 times when the size increases with alarming ra- 
 pidity.' 
 
 "A man whose face I could not see, added: 'It 
 is the climacteric hour.' 
 
 "Then with a soft and mysterious sound which 
 alarmed me, all around me the grass began to grow. 
 I arose and reached a plain covered with wan plants, 
 cottony and dead. There I met Vernaux, who was 
 my only friend in Paris, where he lived as penu- 
 riously as I. Long we walked side by side in si- 
 lence. In the sky the stars, huge and rayless, were 
 like discs of pale gold. 
 
 "I knew the cause of this appearance and I ex-
 
 JEAN MARTEAU 191 
 
 plained it to Vernaux: 'It is an optical phenom- 
 enon,' I said, 'our eyes are out of focus.' 
 
 "And with infinite care and minuteness I engaged 
 in a demonstration which chiefly turned upon the 
 exact correspondence between the human eye and 
 the astronomical telescope. While I was reasoning 
 thus, Vernaux found on the ground some leaden- 
 coloured grass, an enormous black hat, boat shaped, 
 with a brim, a band of gold braid and a diamond 
 buckle. Putting it on his head, he said : 'It is the 
 lord mayor's hat.' 'Obviously,' I replied, and I 
 resumed my demonstration. So arduous was it that 
 the perspiration dropped from my forehead. I was 
 always losing the thread and beginning again 
 vaguely with the phrase : 'The great saurians who 
 swam in the tepid waters of the primitive ocean had 
 eyes constructed like a telescope. . . .' 
 
 "I continued until I perceived that Vernaux had 
 disappeared. It was not long before I found him 
 again in a hollow. He was on a spit, roasting over 
 a brushwood fire. Indians with their hair tied on 
 the tops of their heads were basting him with a 
 long-handled spoon and were turning the spit. In 
 a clear voice Vernaux said to me: 'Melanie has 
 been here.' 
 
 "Then only did I perceive that he had the head
 
 i 9 2 JEAN MARTEAU 
 
 and neck of a chicken. But all I could think of was 
 how to find Melanie, who, by a sudden inspiration 
 I knew to be the most beautiful of women. I ran, 
 and, having reached the edge of a wood, by the 
 moonlight I saw a white form fleeting before me. 
 Hair of a glorious red fell over her neck. A silver 
 light caressed her shoulders, a blue shadow filled 
 the hollow in the middle of her gleaming back; and, 
 as she ran, her dimples in their rise and fall seemed 
 to smile with a divine smile. I distinctly saw the 
 azure shadow on her leg augment or diminish ac- 
 cording to the motion of the limb. I noticed also 
 the pink soles of her feet. Long did I pursue her 
 without fatigue and with a step light as the flight 
 of a bird. But a dark shadow veiled her, and her 
 perpetual flight led me into a path so narrow that 
 it was blocked completely by a little iron stove. 
 It was one of those stoves with long bent pipes 
 which are used in studios. It was at a white heat. 
 The door was incandescent and all around the metal 
 was red hot. A cat with its hair all shorn was sit- 
 ting on it and looking at me. As I drew near I 
 perceived through the cracks in its scorched skin 
 an ardent mass of liquid metal which filled its body. 
 It was miauling, and I understood that it was ask- 
 ing for water. In order to find some, I descended 
 the slope on which was a cool wood of birch and
 
 JEAN MARTEAU 193 
 
 ash trees. A stream ran through it at the bottom 
 of a ravine. But I could not approach it on ac- 
 count of the blocks of sandstone and tufts of dwarf 
 oaks by which it was overhung. As I slipped on a 
 mossy stone my left arm came away from my shoul- 
 der without causing a wound or any pain. I took it 
 in my right hand ; it was cold and numb ; its touch 
 made me shudder. I reflected that now I was in 
 danger of losing it and how wearisome a drudgery 
 it would be for the rest of my life to have to watch 
 ceaselessly over it. I resolved to order an ebony 
 box wherein I might keep it when it was not in use. 
 As it was very cold in this damp hollow I quitted it 
 by a rustic path which led me on to a wind-swept 
 plateau, where all the trees were bent as if in sor- 
 row. There along a yellow road a procession was 
 passing. It was countrified and humble, just like 
 the Rogation procession in the village of Brece, 
 which our Master, Monsieur Bergeret, knows so 
 well. There was nothing singular about the clergy, 
 the confraternities, or the faithful except that no 
 one had any feet and that they all moved upon little 
 wheels. Under the canopy I recognized Monsieur 
 1'Abbe Lantaigne, who had become village priest 
 and was weeping tears of blood. I wanted to call 
 out to him: 'I am ministre plenipotentiaire.' 
 But my voice choked in my throat, and a great
 
 194 JEAN MARTEAU 
 
 shadow coming down upon me caused me to raise 
 my head. It was one of the little lame girl's 
 crutches. They had now ascended into the sky 
 some thousand metres and I perceived the child like 
 a little black spot against the moon. The stars had 
 grown still larger and paler, and among them I 
 distinguished three planets, the spherical form of 
 which was quite visible to the eye. I even thought 
 I could recognize spots on their surface. But these 
 spots did not correspond to the drawings of those 
 on Mars, Jupiter and Saturn which I had once seen 
 in astronomical books. 
 
 "My friend Vernaux having come up, I asked 
 him whether he could not see the canals on the 
 planet Mars. 'The Ministry is defeated,' he said. 
 
 "He bore no sign of the spit I had seen trans- 
 fixing him, but he still had a chicken's head and 
 neck, and he was dripping with gravy. I felt an un- 
 controllable desire to demonstrate my optical 
 theory to him and to resume my argument where I 
 had left it. 'The great saurians,' I said, 'which 
 swam in the tepid waters of the primitive ocean had 
 eyes constructed like a telescope. . . .' 
 
 "Instead of listening to me, he went up to a 
 reading-desk, which was there in the Held, opened 
 an anti-phonary and began to crow like a cock. 
 
 "Out of all patience, I turned my back on him
 
 JEAN MARTEAU 195 
 
 and jurrped into a tram that was passing. Inside I 
 found a vast dining-hall, like those in great hotels 
 or on board Atlantic liners. It was all flowers and 
 glass. As far as one could see there were seated 
 at table women in low frocks and men in evening 
 dress in front of candelabra and crystal chandeliers 
 forming an infinite vista of light. A steward came 
 round with meat to which I helped myself. But it 
 emitted a disgusting odour and it made me feel sick 
 before I tasted it. Besides I was not hungry. The 
 diners left the table before I had swallowed a 
 mouthful. While the servants were taking away 
 the candles Vernaux came up to me and said: 
 'You did not notice the lady in the low-necked dress 
 who was sitting next you. It was Melanie. 
 Look.' 
 
 "And through the door he pointed to shoulders 
 flooded with a white light, out in the darkness under 
 the trees. I leapt out, I rushed in pursuit of the 
 charming form. This time I caught it up, I touched 
 it. For one moment I felt a delicious throbbing 
 beneath my fingers. But she slipped from my arms 
 and I was embracing briars. 
 
 "That was my dream." 
 
 "Truly your dream was sad," said Monsieur Ber- 
 geret, "to quote the simple Stratonice : 
 
 " 'A vision of oneself may arouse no little 
 disgust.' "
 
 II 
 
 THE LAW IS DEAD BUT THE JUDGE 
 IS LIVING 
 
 FEW days later," said Jean Mar- 
 teau, "I happened to be lying in a 
 thicket of the Bois de Vincennes. 
 I had eaten nothing for thirty-six 
 hours." 
 
 Monsieur Goubin wiped his eyeglasses. His 
 eyes were kind but his glance was keen. He looked 
 hard at Jean Marteau and said to him reproach- 
 fully: 
 
 "What? Again you had eaten nothing for 
 twenty-four hours?" 
 
 "Again," replied Jean Marteau, "I had eaten 
 nothing for twenty-four hours. But I was wrong. 
 One ought not to go without food. It is not right. 
 Hunger should be a crime like vagrancy. But as 
 a matter of fact the two offences are regarded as 
 one and the same; article 269 inflicts from three 
 to six months' imprisonment on those who lack 
 means of subsistence. Vagrancy, according to the 
 code, is the condition of vagrants, of vagabonds, 
 persons without any fixed dwelling or means of sub- 
 
 196
 
 JEAN MARTEAU 197 
 
 sistence, who exercise no specific trade or profes- 
 sion. They are great criminals." 
 
 "It is curious," said Monsieur Bergeret, "that the 
 state of vagrancy, punishable by six months' impris- 
 onment and ten years' police supervision, is pre- 
 cisely the same as that in which the good St. Francis 
 placed his companions at St. Mary of the Angels 
 and the daughters of St. Clare. If St. Francis of 
 Assisi and St. Anthony of Padua came to preach in 
 Paris to-day they would run great risk of being 
 clapped into the prison van and carried off to the 
 police court. Not that I mean to denounce to the 
 authorities the mendicant monks who now swarm 
 among us. They possess means of livelihood; they 
 exercise all manner of trades." 
 
 "They are respectable because they are rich," 
 said Jean Marteau. "It is only the poor who are 
 forbidden to beg. Had I been discovered beneath 
 my tree I should have been thrown into prison and 
 that would have been justice. Possessing nothing, 
 I was assumed to be the enemy of property; and 
 it is just to defend property against its enemies. 
 The august task of the judge is to assure to every 
 man that which belongs to him, to the rich his 
 wealth, to the poor his poverty." 
 
 "I have reflected on the philosophy of law," said 
 Monsieur Bergeret, "and I have perceived that the
 
 198 JEAN MARTEAU 
 
 whole structure of social justice rests upon two 
 axioms: robbery is to be condemned: the result of 
 robbery is to be respected. These arc the princi- 
 ples which assure the security of individuals and 
 maintain order in the State. If one of these tute- 
 lary principles were to be disregarded the whole of 
 society would fall to pieces. They were established 
 in the beginning of time. A chief clothed in bear- 
 skin, armed with an axe of flint and with a sword 
 of bronze, returned with his comrades to the stone 
 entrenchments, wherein were enclosed the children 
 of the tribe and the troops of women and of rein- 
 deer. They brought back with them youths and 
 maidens from the neighbouring tribe and stones 
 fallen from the sky, which were precious because 
 out of them could be made swords which would not 
 bend. The chief ascended a hillock in the middle 
 of the enclosure and said: 'These slaves and this 
 iron, which I have taken from men weak and con- 
 temptible are mine. Whosoever shall lay hands 
 upon them shall be struck down by my axe.' Such 
 is the origin of law. Its spirit is ancient and bar- 
 barous. And it is because justice is the ratification 
 of all injustice that it reassures every one. 
 
 "A judge may be benevolent, for men are not all 
 bad; the law cannot be benevolent because it is 
 anterior to all ideas of benevolence. The changes
 
 JEAN MARTEAU 199 
 
 which have been introduced into it down the ages 
 have not altered its original character. Jurists 
 have rendered it subtle, but they have left it bar- 
 baric. Its very ferocity causes it to be respected 
 and regarded as august. Men are given to worship 
 malevolent gods, and that which is not cruel seems 
 to them not worth their adoration. The judged 
 believe in the justice of laws. Their morality is 
 that of the judges; both one and the other believe 
 that a punished action is penal. In the police court 
 or at the assizes I have often been touched to see 
 how the accused and the judge agree perfectly in 
 their ideas of good and evil. They have the same 
 prejudices and a common morality." 
 
 "It cannot be otherwise," said Jean Marteau. 
 "A poor creature who has stolen from a shop win- 
 dow a sausage or a pair of shoes has not on that 
 account looked deeply and boldly into the very 
 origin of law and the foundation of justice. And 
 those who like ourselves are not afraid to behold 
 in the origin of Codes a sanction of violence 
 and iniquity, are incapable of stealing a half- 
 penny." 
 
 "But after all," said Monsieur Goubin, "there 
 are just laws." 
 
 "Do you think so?" inquired Jean Marteau. 
 
 "Monsieur Goubin is right," said Monsieur Ber-
 
 200 JEAN MARTEAU 
 
 gcrct. "There are just laws. But law having been 
 instituted for the defence of society, in its spirit 
 cannot be more equitable than that society. As 
 long as society is founded upon injustice the func- 
 tion of laws will be to defend and maintain that 
 injustice. And the more unjust they are the 
 worthier of respect they will appear. Notice also 
 that, ancient as most of them are, they do not ex- 
 actly represent present unrighteousness but past un- 
 righteousnesses which is ruder and crasser. They 
 are monuments of the Dark Ages which have lin- 
 gered on into brighter days." 
 
 "But they are being improved," said Monsieur 
 Goubin. 
 
 "They are being improved," said Monsieur Bcr- 
 geret. "The Chamber and the Senate work at 
 them when they have nothing else to do. But the 
 heart of them remains; and it is bitter. To be 
 frank, I should not greatly fear bad laws if they 
 were administered by good judges. The law is 
 unbending, it is said, I do not believe it. There 
 is no text which may not receive various interpreta- 
 tions. The law is dead. The magistrate is living: 
 he possesses this great advantage over the law. 
 Unfortunately he seldom uses it. Generally he 
 schools himself to be colder, more insensible, more 
 dead than the code he applies. He is not human;
 
 JEAN MARTEAU 20 1 
 
 he knows no pity. In him the caste spirit stifles all 
 human sympathy." 
 
 "I am only speaking now of honest judges." 
 
 "They are in the majority," said Monsieur 
 Goubin. 
 
 "They are in the majority," replied Monsieur 
 Bergeret, "if we refer to common honesty and 
 every-day morals. But is an approach to common 
 honesty sufficient equipment for a man who, with- 
 out falling into error or abuse has to wield the 
 enormous power of punishing? A good judge 
 should possess at once a kind heart and a philo- 
 sophic mind. That is much to ask from a man who 
 has his way to make and is determined to win ad- 
 vancement in his profession. Leaving out of ac- 
 count the fact that if he displays a morality superior 
 to that of his day he will be hated by his fellows 
 and will arouse universal indignation. For we con- 
 demn as immoral all morality which is not our own. 
 All who have introduced any novel goodness into 
 the world have met with the scorn of honest folk. 
 That is what happened to President Magnaud. 
 
 "I have his judgments here, collected in a little 
 volume with commentaries by Henri Leyret. 
 When these judgments were pronounced they pro- 
 voked the indignation of austere magistrates and 
 virtuous legislators. They are stamped with noble
 
 202 JEAN MARTEAU 
 
 thoughts and tender kindness. They are full of 
 pity, they are human, they are virtuous. In the 
 Law Courts President Magnaud was thought not 
 to have a judicial mind, and the friends of Monsieur 
 Meline accused him of lacking respect for property. 
 And it is true that the considerations on which the 
 judgments of President Magnaud repose are sin- 
 gular, for at every line one meets the thoughts of an 
 independent mind and the sentiments of a generous 
 heart." 
 
 Taking from the table a little crimson volume, 
 Monsieur Bergeret turned over the pages and read: 
 
 "Honesty and delicacy are two virtues infinitely 
 easier to practise when one lacks nothing than when 
 one is destitute of everything." 
 
 "That which cannot be avoided ought not to be 
 punished." 
 
 "In order to judge equitably the crime of the poor 
 the judge should for the moment forget his own 
 well-being, in order as far as possible to place him- 
 self in the sad situation of a being whom every one 
 has deserted." 
 
 "In his interpretation of the law the judge should 
 not merely bear in mind the special case which is
 
 JEAN MARTEAU 203 
 
 submitted to him, he should take into consideration 
 the wider consequences for good or for evil which 
 his sentence may involve" 
 
 "It is the workman alone who produces and who 
 risks his health or his life for the exclusive profit 
 of his master, who endangers nothing but his 
 capital." 
 
 "I have quoted almost haphazard," added Mon- 
 sieur Bergeret, closing the book. "These are novel 
 words. They are the echo of a great soul."
 
 MONSIEUR THOMAS
 
 MONSIEUR THOMAS 
 
 ONCE knew an austere judge. His 
 name was Thomas de Maulan. 
 He was a country gentleman. 
 During the seven years ministry of 
 Marshal MacMahon he had be- 
 come a magistrate in the hope that one day he would 
 administer justice in the king's name. He had prin- 
 ciples which he believed to be unalterable, having 
 never attempted to examine them. As soon as one 
 examines a principle one discovers something be- 
 neath it and perceives that it was not a principle 
 at all. Both his religious and his social principles 
 Thomas de Maulan kept outside the range of his 
 curiosity. 
 
 He was judge in the court of first instance in 
 
 the little town of X , where I was then living. 
 
 His appearance inspired esteem and even a certain 
 sympathy. His figure was tall, thin, and bony, his 
 face was sallow. His extreme simplicity gave him 
 a somewhat distinguished air. He liked to be 
 called Monsieur Thomas, not that he despised his 
 social position, but because he considered himself 
 too poor to support it. I knew enough of him to 
 
 207
 
 208 MONSIEUR THOMAS 
 
 recognize that his appearance was not deceptive and 
 that though weak in character and narrow in in- 
 telligence he had a noble soul. I discovered that 
 he possessed high moral qualities. But, having had 
 occasion to observe him in the fulfilment of his 
 functions as examining magistrate and judge, I per- 
 ceived that his very uprightness and his conception 
 of duty rendered him cruel and sometimes com- 
 pletely deprived him of insight. His extreme piety 
 caused him to be unconsciously obsessed by the ideas 
 of sin and expiation, of crime and punishment; and 
 it was obvious that in punishing criminals he ex- 
 perienced the agreeable sensation of purifying them. 
 Human justice he regarded as a faint yet beautiful 
 reflection of divine justice. In childhood he had 
 been taught that suffering is good, that it is a merit 
 in itself, a virtue, an expiation. This he believed 
 firmly; and he held that suffering is the due of 
 whomsoever has sinned. He loved to chastise. 
 His punishments were the outcome of his kindness 
 of his heart. Accustomed to give thanks to the 
 God who, for his eternal salvation, afflicted him with 
 toothache and colic as a punishment for Adam's 
 sin, he sentenced vagrants and vagabonds to im- 
 prisonment and reparation as one who bestows ben- 
 efits. His legal philosophy was founded upon his 
 catechism; his pitilessness proceeded from his di-
 
 MONSIEUR THOMAS 209 
 
 rectness and simplicity of mind. One could not 
 call him cruel. But not being sensual neither was 
 he sensitive. He had no precise physical idea of 
 human suffering. His conception of it was purely 
 moral and dogmatic. There was something mystic 
 in his preference for the system of solitary confine- 
 ment, and it was not without a certain joyfulness 
 of heart and eye that one day he showed me over 
 a fine prison which had recently been built in his 
 district: a white thing, clean, silent, terrible; cells 
 arranged in a circle, and the warder in the centre 
 in an observation chamber. It looked like a labora- 
 tory constructed by lunatics for the manufacture of 
 lunatics. And malevolent lunatics indeed are those 
 inventors of the solitary system who in order to 
 convert a wrongdoer into a moral being subject 
 him to a regime which turns him into an imbecile 
 or a savage. That was not the opinion of Mon- 
 sieur Thomas. He gazed with silent satisfaction 
 on those atrocious cells. At the back of his mind 
 was the idea that the prisoner is never alone since 
 God is with him. And his calm, self-satisfied glance 
 seemed to say: "Here I have brought five or six 
 persons face to face with their Creator and Sov- 
 ereign Judge. There is no more enviable fate in 
 the world." 
 
 It fell to this magistrate's lot to conduct the in-
 
 210 MONSIEUR THOMAS 
 
 quiry in several cases, among others in that of a 
 teacher. Lay and clerical education were then at 
 open war. The republicans having denounced the 
 ignorance and brutality of the priests, the clerical 
 newspaper of the district accused a lay teacher of 
 having made a child sit on a red-hot stove. Among 
 the country aristocracy this accusation found cre- 
 dence. Revolting details were related and the com- 
 mon gossip aroused the attention of justice. Mon- 
 sieur Thomas, who was an honest man, would never 
 have listened to his passions, had he known them to 
 be passions. But he regarded them as duties be- 
 cause they were religious. He believed it to be his 
 duty to consider complaints urged against a godless 
 school, and he failed to perceive his extreme eager- 
 ness to consider them. I must not omit to say that 
 he conducted the inquiry with meticulous care and 
 infinite trouble. He conducted it according to the 
 ordinary methods of justice, and he obtained won- 
 derful results. Thirty school children, persistently 
 interrogated, replied at first badly, afterwards bet- 
 ter, and finally very well. After a month's exam- 
 ination, they replied so well that they all gave the 
 same answer. The thirty depositions agreed, they 
 were identical, literally identical, and these children 
 who on the first day said they had seen nothing, now 
 declared with one unfaltering voice, employing ex-
 
 MONSIEUR THOMAS 211 
 
 actly the same words, that their little schoolfellow 
 had been seated bare-skinned, on a red-hot stove. 
 Monsieur le Juge Thomas was congratulating him- 
 self on so satisfactory a result, when the teacher 
 proved irrefutably that there had never been a stove 
 in the school. Then Monsieur Thomas began to 
 suspect that the children were lying. But what he 
 never perceived was that he himself had unwittingly 
 dictated their evidence and taught it to them by 
 heart. 
 
 The prosecution was nonsuited. The teacher was 
 dismissed from the court after having been severely 
 reprimanded by the judge, who strongly urged him 
 in the future to restrain his brutal instincts. Out- 
 side his deserted school the priest's scholars made a 
 hullaballoo. And when he went out he was greeted 
 with cries of "Ha ! ha! Grille-Cul (Roast-back)"; 
 and stones were thrown at him. The Inspector of 
 Primary Schools being informed of the state of 
 affairs, drew up a report stating that this teacher 
 had no authority over his pupils and concluding 
 that his immediate transference to another school 
 would be advisable. He was sent to a village 
 where a dialect was spoken which he did not under- 
 stand. Even there he was called Grille-Cul. It 
 was the only French term that was known there. 
 
 During my intercourse with Monsieur Thomas I
 
 212 MONSIEUR THOMAS 
 
 learnt how all evidence given before an examining 
 magistrate comes to be uniform in style. He re- 
 ceived me in his room whilst with .the assistance of 
 his clerk he was examining a witness. I was about 
 to withdraw, but he begged me to remain, saying 
 that my presence would in no way interfere with a 
 proper administration of justice. 
 
 I sat down in a corner and listened to the ques- 
 tions and answers: 
 
 "Duval, did you see the accused at six o'clock in 
 the evening?" 
 
 "That is to say, Monsieur le Juge, my wife was 
 at the window. Then she said to me: 'There's 
 Socquardot going by!' ' 
 
 "His presence under your window must have 
 struck her as remarkable since she took the trouble 
 to mention it to you particularly. And did the gait 
 of the accused arouse your suspicion?" 
 
 "I will tell you how it was, Monsieur le Juge. 
 My wife said to me: 'There's Socquardot going 
 by!' Then I looked and said 'Why yes, it's Soc- 
 quardot !' " 
 
 "Precisely! Clerk, write down: At six o'clock 
 in the evening, the couple Duval saw the accused 
 loafing round the house and walking with a suspi- 
 cious gait." 
 
 Monsieur Thomas put a few more questions to
 
 MONSIEUR THOMAS 213 
 
 the witness, who was a day labourer by occupation : 
 he received replies and dictated to his clerk their 
 translation into judge's jargon. Then the witness 
 listened to the reading of his evidence, signed it, 
 bowed and withdrew. 
 
 "Why," I asked, "do you not record the evi- 
 dence as it is given you instead of translating it into 
 words never used by the witness?" 
 
 Monsieur Thomas gazed at me with astonish- 
 ment and replied calmly: 
 
 "I do not understand your meaning. I record 
 the evidence as faithfully as possible. Every mag- 
 istrate does. And in all the law reports there is 
 not a single instance of evidence having been altered 
 or distorted by a judge. If, in conformity with 
 the invariable custom of my colleagues, I modify 
 the exact terms used by the witnesses, it is because 
 such witnesses as this Duval, whom you have just 
 heard, express themselves badly, and it would be 
 derogatory to the dignity of justice to record in- 
 correct, low and frequently gross expressions when 
 there is no point in doing so. But, my dear sir, I 
 think you fail to realize the conditions of a judicial 
 examination. You must bear in mind the object 
 of the magistrate in recording and classifying evi- 
 dence. It is not for his own enlightenment alone 
 but for that of the tribunal. It is not enough for
 
 214 MONSIEUR THOMAS 
 
 him to sec the case clearly, it must be equally clear 
 to the minds of the judges. He has therefore to 
 bring into prominence those charges which are 
 sometimes concealed beneath the incoherent or dif- 
 fuse story of a witness or confused by the ambiguous 
 replies of the accused. If it were to be registered 
 without order or method the most convicting evi- 
 dence would lose its point and the majority of crim- 
 inals would escape punishment." 
 
 "But surely," I asked, "a proceeding which con- 
 sists in fixing the wandering thoughts of witnesses 
 must be very dangerous." 
 
 "It would be if magistrates were not conscien- 
 tious. But I never yet met a magistrate who was 
 not deeply conscious of his duty. And yet I have 
 sat on the Bench with Protestants, Deists and Jews. 
 But they were magistrates." 
 
 "At least you must admit, Monsieur Thomas, 
 that your method possesses one disadvantage : when 
 you read the written account of his evidence to the 
 witness, he can hardly understand it, since you have 
 introduced into it terms he is not accustomed to em- 
 ploy and the sense of which escapes him. What 
 does your expression 'suspicious gait' convey to the 
 mind of this labourer?" 
 
 He replied eagerly: 
 
 "I have thought of that, and against this danger
 
 MONSIEUR THOMAS 215 
 
 I have taken the greatest precautions. I will give 
 you an example. A short time ago a witness of a 
 somewhat limited intelligence and of whose morals 
 I was ignorant, appeared not to attend to the clerk's 
 reading of the witness's evidence. I had it read a 
 second time, having urged the deponent to give it 
 his sustained attention. By what I could see he 
 did nothing of the kind. Then in order to bring 
 home to him a more correct appreciation of his duty 
 and his responsibility I made use of a stratagem. I 
 dictated to the clerk one final phrase which contra- 
 dicted everything that had gone before. I asked 
 the witness to sign. Then, just as he was putting 
 pen to paper, I seized his arm. 'Wretch !' I cried, 
 'you are about to sign a declaration contrary to the 
 one you have made and by so doing to commit a 
 crime.' " 
 
 "Well! and what did he say to you?" 
 "He replied piteously: 'Monsieur le Juge, you 
 are cleverer than I, you must know best what I 
 ought to write.' 
 
 "You see," added Monsieur Thomas, "that a 
 judge anxious to fulfil his function well can guard 
 himself against any danger of making a mistake. 
 Believe me, my dear sir, judicial error is a myth."
 
 A SERVANT'S THEFT
 
 TO HENRI MONOD
 
 A SERVANT'S THEFT 
 
 BOUT ten years ago, perhaps more, 
 perhaps less, I visited a prison for 
 women. It was an old chateau 
 built in the reign of Henry IV; 
 and its high slate roofs frowned 
 down upon a dark little southern town on the banks 
 of a ' river. The governor of the prison had 
 reached the age of superannuation. He wore a 
 black wig and a white beard. He was an extraor- 
 dinary governor. He had ideas of his own and 
 kindly feelings. He had no illusions concerning the 
 morals of his three hundred prisoners, but he did 
 not consider them to be greatly inferior to the 
 morals of any three hundred women collected hap- 
 hazard in a town. 
 
 "Here as elsewhere we have all sorts and condi- 
 tions," his gentle, tired glance seemed to say. 
 
 As we crossed the courtyard, a long string of 
 prisoners was returning from a silent walk and go- 
 ing back to the workshops. Many of them were 
 old and of hard, sullen aspect. My friend Dr. 
 Cabane, who was with us, pointed out to me that 
 nearly all these women had characteristic physical 
 
 219
 
 220 A SERVANT'S THEFT 
 
 defects, that squinting was not uncommon among 
 them, that they were degenerates and that nearly 
 all were marked with the stigma of crime or at 
 least of misdemeanour. 
 
 The governor slowly shook his head. I saw that 
 he was disinclined to admit the theories of crim- 
 inologists. He was evidently still convinced that 
 in our social groups the guilty do not greatly differ 
 from the innocent. 
 
 He took us to the workshops. We saw the 
 bakers, the laundresses and the needlewomen at 
 their tasks. The atmosphere of work and neatness 
 imparted almost a cheerful air to the place. The 
 governor treated the women kindly. The most 
 stupid and the most perverse failed to exhaust his 
 patience and his benevolence. His opinion was that 
 one should excuse many things in those with whom 
 one lives and that one should not ask too much even 
 from misdemeanants and criminals. Unlike most 
 persons, he did not require thieves and procuresses 
 to be perfect because they were being punished. 
 He had little faith in the moral efficacy of punish- 
 ment, and he despaired of making his prison a 
 school of virtue. Being far from the belief that 
 persons arc rendered better by suffering, he spared 
 these unfortunate women as much suffering as pos- 
 sible. I do not know whether he was religious, but
 
 A SERVANT'S THEFT 221 
 
 for him the idea of expiation had no moral sig- 
 nificance. 
 
 "I give my own interpretation to the rules," he 
 said, "before applying them. I myself explain 
 them to the prisoners. For example, one rule is 
 absolute silence. Now if they were to be absolutely 
 silent they would become mad or imbecile. That 
 such is the object of the rule I cannot think for one 
 moment. I say to them: the rule commands you 
 to keep silent. What does that mean? It means 
 that the wardresses must not hear you speak. If 
 you are heard you will be punished; if you are not 
 heard you will incur no reproach. You have not 
 to give me an account of your thoughts. If your 
 words make no more sound than your thoughts then 
 your words are no affair of mine. Thus admon- 
 ished, they endeavour to speak without, if one may 
 say so, uttering any sound. They are not driven 
 mad and the rule is kept." 
 
 I inquired whether his superiors approved of his 
 interpretation of prison rules. He replied that in- 
 spectors frequently reproached him, and that then 
 he conducted them to the outer gate and said: 
 "You see this railing; it is of wood. If you con- 
 fined men here, in a week's time there would not 
 be one left. The idea of escaping never occurs to 
 women. But it is prudent not to make them fu-
 
 222 A SERVANTS THEFT 
 
 rious. As it is, prison life conduces neither to phys- 
 ical nor to moral health. I resign my governorship 
 if you subject them to the torture of silence." 
 
 The infirmary and the dormitories, which we vis- 
 ited next, were in great white-washed halls which 
 retained nothing of their ancient splendour except 
 monumental mantelpieces in grey stone and black 
 marble surmounted by pompous Virtues in high re- 
 lief. The figure of Justice, the work of some 
 Italianate Flemish artist of about 1600, with bare 
 neck and hip protruding through parted drapery, 
 held suspended from one stout arm its unequally 
 balanced scales, the plates of which clinked against 
 each other like cymbals. This goddess seemed to 
 menace with the point of her sword a little sickly 
 form lying on an iron bedstead, upon which was a 
 mattress as thin as a folded towel. It looked like 
 a child. 
 
 "Well! And are you better?" asked Dr. 
 Cabane. 
 
 "Oh! yes, sir, much better." 
 
 And she smiled. 
 
 "Come then, you must be good and you will get 
 well." 
 
 She looked at the doctor with wide eyes full of 
 joy and hope.
 
 A SERVANT'S THEFT 223 
 
 "This little girl has been very ill," said Dr. 
 Cabane. 
 
 And we passed on. 
 
 "What was her offence?" 
 
 "It was no mere offence, it was a crime." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "Infanticide." 
 
 At the end of a long corridor, we entered an al- 
 most cheerful little room, furnished with cupboards 
 and with windows which, devoid of iron bars, 
 looked on to the country. Here a very pretty 
 young woman was writing at a desk. Standing 
 near her another with a good figure was looking for 
 a key in a bunch hanging from her waist. I might 
 have taken them for the governor's daughters. He 
 informed me that they were two prisoners. 
 
 "Did you not notice that they wear prisoner's 
 dress?" 
 
 I had not noticed it, doubtless because they did 
 not wear it like the others. 
 
 "Their dresses are better made and they wear 
 smaller caps which show their hair." 
 
 "It is very difficult," replied the old governor, 
 "to prevent a woman showing her hair when it is 
 beautiful. These two are subject to the ordinary 
 regulations and compelled to work."
 
 224 A SERVANT'S THEFT 
 
 "What arc they doing?" 
 
 "One is keeper of the records and the other is 
 librarian." 
 
 There was no need to ask: their offences were 
 crimes of passion. The governor made no secret 
 that he preferred criminals to misdemeanants. 
 
 "I know some criminals," he said, "who are as 
 it were aloof from their crime. It was a flash in 
 their life. They are capable of straightforward- 
 ness, courage and generosity. I could not say as 
 much for my thieves. Their mediocre and com- 
 monplace wrongdoing is woven into the very tissue 
 of their existence. They are incorrigible. And 
 the baseness which was the cause of their misde- 
 meanour reveals itself over and over again in their 
 conduct. The penalty imposed on them is rela- 
 tively light, and, as they have little sensibility either 
 physical or moral, they generally bear it easily." 
 
 "But it does not follow," he added quickly, "that 
 these unhappy creatures are unworthy of pity and 
 do not deserve to have an interest taken in them. 
 The longer I live the more clearly do I see that 
 the so-called criminal is in reality merely unfor- 
 tunate." 
 
 He took us into his room and told a warder to 
 bring him prisoner 503. 
 
 "I am going to show you something," he said,
 
 A SERVANT'S THEFT 225 
 
 "which I entreat you to believe has not been ar- 
 ranged purposely for you ; it will inspire you doubt- 
 less with some novel reflections on lawbreaking and 
 its punishment. What you are about to see and 
 hear I have seen and heard a hundred times in my 
 life." 
 
 A prisoner accompanied by a wardress entered 
 the room. She was a young peasant girl, rather 
 pretty, sweet and simple looking. 
 
 "I have some good news for you," said the gov- 
 ernor. "The President of the Republic, having 
 been told of your good conduct, remits the re- 
 mainder of your sentence. You will be liberated 
 on Saturday." 
 
 She was listening with her mouth half open, her 
 hands clasped below the waist. But she was not 
 quick to grasp ideas. 
 
 "Next Saturday you will leave this place. You 
 will be free." 
 
 This time she understood, her hands rose in a 
 gesture of distress, her lips trembled. 
 
 "Is it true that I must go away? Then what 
 will become of me? Here I was fed, clothed and 
 everything. Could you not tell the good gentleman 
 that it is better for me to stay where I am?" 
 
 Gently but firmly the governor showed her that 
 she could not refuse the mercy shown her; then he
 
 226 A SERVANT'S THEFT 
 
 informed her that on her departure she would re- 
 ceive a certain sum, ten or twelve francs. 
 
 She went out weeping. 
 
 I inquired what she had done. 
 
 He turned over a register. 
 
 "503. She was servant in a farmhouse. . . . 
 She stole a petticoat from her mistress. ... A 
 theft committed by a servant. . . . On such of- 
 fences, you must know, the law is very severe."
 
 EDMEE, OR CHARITY WELL 
 BESTOWED
 
 TO H. HARDUIN
 
 EDMEE, OR CHARITY WELL 
 BESTOWED 
 
 ORTEUR, the founder of I'Etoilc, 
 the political and literary editor of 
 La Revue Nationale and of Le 
 Nouveau Siecle Illustre, Horteur, 
 having received me in his editorial 
 room, from the depths of his editorial arm-chair 
 addressed me thus: 
 
 "My good Martean, write me a story for the 
 special number of Le Nouveau Siecle. Three hun- 
 dred lines for New Year's Day. Something amus- 
 ing with a high society atmosphere." 
 
 I told Horteur that that was not in my line, at 
 least not in the sense in which he understood it, but 
 that I was prepared to write him a story. 
 
 "I should like it to be entitled," he said, "a tale 
 for the rich." 
 
 "I should prefer a tale for the poor." 
 "That is what I mean. A tale to inspire the 
 rich with pity for the poor." 
 
 "But that is precisely what I object to. I do 
 not want the rich to have pity on the poor." 
 "Curious!" 
 
 229
 
 230 CHARITY WELL BESTOWED 
 
 "No, it is not curious, but scientific. In my 
 opinion the pity of the rich for the poor is an insult 
 and a denial of human brotherhood. If you wish 
 me to address the rich I shall say: 'Spare the poor 
 your pity: they have no use for it. Wherefore pity 
 and not justice? You have an account with them. 
 Settle it. This is no question of sentiment. It is 
 a matter of economics. If that which you are 
 pleased to give them is calculated to prolong their 
 poverty and your wealth, the gift is iniquitous and 
 the tears you mingle with it will not render it just. 
 "You must make restitution," as the attorney said 
 to the judge after good Brother Maillard's sermon. 
 You give alms in order to avoid making restitution. 
 You give a little in order to keep much, and you 
 gloat over it. For a like reason the tyrant of 
 Samos threw his ring into the sea. But the Neme- 
 sis of the gods declined to receive the offering. A 
 fisherman brought back the tyrant his ring in a 
 fish's belly. And Polycrates was despoiled of all his 
 wealth.' " 
 
 "You are joking." 
 
 ''I am not joking. I want to make the rich 
 understand that they are benevolent on the cheap, 
 that their generosity costs them little, that they only 
 make the creditor curl his lip, and that such is not
 
 231 
 
 the way to conduct business. It is an opinion which 
 may be of use to them." 
 
 "And these are the ideas you propose to express 
 in Le Nouveau Siecle in order to increase the circu- 
 lation! Not a bit of it my friend! Not a bit of it !" 
 
 "Why do you insist on the rich man assuming 
 towards the poor an attitude different from that 
 which he assumes towards the rich and powerful? 
 He pays the rich what he owes them, and if he owe 
 them nothing he pays them nothing. That is hon- 
 est. If he be honest let him do the same for the 
 poor. And do not say that the rich owe the poor 
 nothing. I do not believe that a single rich man 
 thinks so. It is upon the extent of the debt that 
 opinions begin to differ. And no one is in a hurry 
 to solve the problem. It is thought better to leave 
 the matter vague. Every one is aware that he is 
 in debt. But what he owes is uncertain, and so 
 from time to time a little is paid on account. That 
 is called philanthropy, and it is profitable." 
 
 "But, my dear fellow, there is no common sense 
 in what you have been saying. Possibly I am more 
 of a Socialist than you, but I am practical. To re- 
 lieve suffering, to prolong a life, to redress some 
 particle of social injustice is to attain a result. 
 The little good one does is at any rate done. It
 
 232 CHARITY WELL BESTOWED 
 
 is not everything but it is something. If the story 
 I ask you to write goes home to the hearts of a 
 hundred of my rich subscribers and induces them 
 to give it will be so much won from evil and suffer- 
 ing. Thus little by little the lot of the poor is ren- 
 dered bearable." 
 
 "Is it good for the lot of the poor to be bearable? 
 Poverty is indispensable to wealth and wealth to 
 poverty. These two evils beget one another and 
 foster one another. The condition of the poor 
 does not need to be improved, but to be suppressed. 
 I will not encourage the rich to give alms, because 
 their alms are poisoned, because their alms do good 
 to the giver and harm to the receiver, because in 
 short, wealth being itself hard and cruel it must not 
 put on the deceitful appearance of kindness. Since 
 you wish me to write a story for the rich, I will say 
 to them: 'Your poor are your dogs whom you feed 
 in order that they may bite. Your bedesmen be- 
 come the hounds of the propertied classes who bay 
 at the proletariat. The rich give only to those who 
 ask. The workers ask nothing, and they receive 
 nothing.' " 
 
 "But the infirm, the aged and the or- 
 phaned? . . ." 
 
 "They have the right to live. For them I would 
 not excite pity, I would appeal to justice."
 
 CHARITY WELL BESTOWED 233 
 
 "All this is mere theorizing! To return to 
 reality, you will write me a New Year's Story, 
 and you may introduce a suggestion of Socialism. 
 Socialism is quite fashionable. It is even distinc- 
 tion. Of course I am not referring to the Socialism 
 of Guesde or of Jaures, but to a moderate Socialism 
 such as men of the world intelligently and rightly 
 oppose to collectivism. Have some young faces 
 in your story. It will be illustrated and readers 
 like pictures to be pleasing. Bring a young girl on 
 the scene, a charming young girl. It will not be 
 difficult." 
 
 "No, it is not difficult." 
 
 "Could you not introduce a little chimney-sweep ? 
 I have an illustration ready, a coloured engraving, 
 which represents a young girl giving alms to a little 
 chimney-sweep on the steps of the Madeleine. 
 This would be an opportunity for using it. ... It 
 is cold, the snow is falling: the pretty girl is drop- 
 ping a coin into the chimney-sweep's hand. Can you 
 see it?" 
 
 "I see it." 
 
 "You will develop that theme." 
 
 "I will develop it. The little sweep, in a trans- 
 port of gratitude throws his arms round the girl's 
 neck. She happens to be the daughter of the Comte 
 de Linotte. He gives her a kiss, imprinting on the
 
 234 CHARITY WELL BESTOWED 
 
 charming child's cheek a little round O of soot. A 
 perfectly enchanting little O, quite round and quite 
 black. He loves her. Edmee (her name is 
 Edmee) is not indifferent to so sincere and in- 
 genuous an attachment. ... I fancy the idea is 
 sufficiently pathetic." 
 
 "Yes. You will be able to make something of 
 it." 
 
 "You encourage me to continue. On her return 
 to her sumptuous home in the Boulevard Males- 
 herbes, for the first time in her life Edmee is re- 
 luctant to wash her face: she would like to preserve 
 the imprint of those lips on her cheek. Meanwhile 
 the little sweep has followed her to her door. 
 Rapt in ecstasy he stands beneath the adorable 
 young girl's window. . . . Will that do?" 
 
 "Why, yes!" 
 
 "I continue. The next morning, lying on her 
 little white bed, Edmee sees the little sweep coming 
 down the chimney. Without any ado he throws 
 himself on the charming child and covers her with 
 little round O's of soot. I omitted to tell you that 
 he is extremely handsome. While thus delightfully 
 occupied he is surprised by the Comtesse de Linotte. 
 She screams, she calls for help. But so absorbed is 
 he that he neither sees nor hears." 
 
 "My dear Marteau. . . ."
 
 CHARITY WELL BESTOWED 235 
 
 "So absorbed is he that he neither sees nor hears. 
 The Comte hastens into the room. He has the soul 
 of a true aristocrat. He takes up the little sweep 
 by the seat of his breeches . . . and throws him 
 
 out of the window " 
 
 "My dear Marteau. . . ." 
 
 "I hasten to conclude. . . . Nine months later 
 the little sweep married the high-born maiden. 
 And it was high time too. Such was the result of 
 charity well bestowed." 
 
 "My dear Marteau, you have amused yourself 
 long enough at my expense." 
 
 "Not a bit of it. I must finish. Having married 
 Mademoiselle de Linotte, the little sweep became a 
 papal count and was ruined on the Turf. To-day 
 he is a stove dealer at Montparnasse in the Rue de 
 la Gaite. His wife keeps his shop and sells stoves 
 at eighteen francs apiece payable in eight months." 
 "My dear Marteau it isn't the least bit funny." 
 "Beware, my dear Horteur. What I have just 
 told you is really Lamartine's Chute d'un Ange and 
 Alfred de Vigny's Eloa. And, taking it all round, 
 it is better than your tearful tales, which make folk 
 believe that they are very kind when they are not 
 kind at all, that they do good when they do nothing 
 of the sort, that it is easy for them to be benevolent 
 when it is the most difficult thing in the world. My
 
 236 CHARITY WELL BESTOWED 
 
 story is moral. Moreover it is optimistic and ends 
 well. For, in her shop in the Rue de la Gatte, 
 Edmee found the happiness which in amusements 
 and festivities she would have sought in vain, had 
 she been married to a diplomat or an officer. . . . 
 My dear editor, are we agreed: Will you have 
 Edmee, or Charity well Bestowed for the Nouveau 
 Siecle Illustre?" 
 
 "You ask me that in all seriousness? . . ." 
 
 "In all seriousness I ask you. If you will not 
 have my story, I will publish it elsewhere." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "In some high class journal." 
 
 "I dare you to do so." 
 
 "You will see." 
 
 The Figaro, under the editorship of Monsieur de 
 Rodays, published Edmee ou La Charite bein 
 placee. It was, so to speak, offered as a New 
 Year's gift to the readers of that paper.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES 
 
 COLLEGE LIBRARY 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below. 
 
 Apr 
 
 OcH2 
 
 1965 
 Oc* ! 1 6 5 
 
 AUG 20.1968 
 MAY 09 '81 14 
 
 MAY 3 181 'ECCL 
 
 Book 81ip-15m-8, 1 58(58904)4280 
 
 DAY
 
 College 
 Library 
 
 PQ 
 
 2254 
 C84E5w 
 1922 
 
 A 001 146482 3