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■ GIFT or 
 
 ^lisabeth Whitney Putnai 
 

Digitized by tine Internet Archive 
 
 in 2008 witin funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 littp://www.archive.org/details/atticphilosopherOOsouvrich 
 
■'unfortunately the matches are bad, the chimney smokes, the wood 
 GOES out." — Page 1. 
 
AK 
 
 ATTIC PHILOSOPHER 
 IN PARIS; 
 
 OR, 
 
 A PEEP AT THE WORLD FROM A GARRET. 
 
 BEING THE JOURNAL OF A HAPPY MAN. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF 
 
 EMILE SOUVESTRE. 
 
 
 3 J 33J9JJJ3 J> V 
 
 J » , * 9 ^ t ' ' . > ' , 5 ' > J > , -> 
 
 NEW YORKt 
 A, L. BURT. PUBLISHER. 
 
c • •» • • e 
 
 t- c- » « c 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 "We know a man who, in the midst of the fever 
 of restlessness and of ambition which racks society in 
 our times, continues to fill his humble part in the 
 world without a murmur, and who still preserves, 
 so to speak, the taste for poverty. AVith no other 
 fortune than a small clerkship, which enables him 
 to live within the narrow limits which separate 
 competence from want, our philosopher looks from 
 the height of his attic upon society as upon a sea, 
 of which he neither covets the riches nor fears the 
 wrecks. Being too insignificant to excite the envy 
 of any one, he sleeps peacefully, wrapped in his 
 obscurity. 
 
 IS'ot that he retreats into egotism as a tortoise 
 into its shell ! He is the man of whom Terence 
 says that " nothing human seems foreign to him !" 
 All external objects and incidents are reflected in 
 his mind as in a camera obscura, which presents 
 their images in a picture. He " looks at society as 
 it is, in itself," with the patient curiousness whicl 
 
iv ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 belongs to recluses; and he writes a monthly 
 journal of what he has seen or thought. It is 
 the " Calendar of His Impressions," as he is wont 
 to call it. 
 
 We have been allowed to look over it, and have 
 extracted some pages which may make the reader 
 acquainted with the commonplace adventures of an 
 unknown thinker in those twelve hostelries of time 
 called months. 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 CHAPTER I. PAGE 
 
 The Attic New Year's Gifts 1 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 The Carnival 12 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 What We May Learn by Looking Out of Window 25 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 Let us Love One Another 37 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 Compensation 50 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 Uncle Maurice 64 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 The Price of Power and the Worth of Fame 80 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 Misanthropy and Repentance 97 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 The Family of Michael Arout 109 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 Our Country 127 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 Moral Use of Inventories 146 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 The End of the Year 166 
 
 In the Chimney Cokner 183 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE ATTIC NEW YEAr's GIFTS. 
 
 January \st. — The day of the month came into 
 my mind as soon as I awoke. Another year is 
 separated from the chain of ages and drops into the 
 gulf of the past ! The crowd hasten to welcome her 
 young sister. But while all looks are turned toward 
 the future, mine revert to the past. Every one 
 smiles upon the new queen ; but, in spite of myself, 
 I think of her whom time has just wrapped in her 
 winding-sheet. The past year ! — at least I know 
 what she was and what she has given me ; while 
 this one comes surrounded by all the forebodings of 
 the unknown. What does she hide in the clouds 
 which mantle her ? Is it the storm or the sunshine ? 
 Just now it rains, and I feel my mind as gloomy as 
 the sky. I have a holiday to-day ; but what can one 
 do with a rainy day % I walk up and down my attic 
 out of temper, and I determine to light m3^ fire. 
 
 Unfortunately the matches are bad, the chimney 
 smokes, the wood goes out ! I throw down my 
 bellows in disgust, and sink into my old arm-chair. 
 
2 AN A TTia 'Philosopher in pa bis. 
 
 In truth, wliy should I rejoice to see the birth of 
 a new year ? All those who are already in the 
 streets, with the holiday looks and smiling faces — ■ 
 do they understand what makes them so gay ? Do 
 they even know what is the meaning of this holi- 
 da}^ or whence comes the custom of New Year's 
 gifts ? 
 
 Here my mind pauses to prove to itself its supe- 
 riority over that of the vulgar. I make a parenthesis 
 in my ill-temper in favor of my vanity, and I bring 
 together all the evidence which my knowledge can 
 produce. 
 
 (The old Eomans divided the year into ten 
 months only ; it was Numa Pompilius who added 
 January and rebruar}^ The former took its name 
 from Janus, to whom it was dedicated. As it opened 
 the new year, they surrounded its commencement 
 with good omens, and thence came the custom of 
 visits between neighbors, of wishing happiness, and 
 of New Year's gifts. The presents given by the 
 Romans were symbolic. They consisted of dr}^ figs, 
 dates, honeycomb, as emblems of " the sweetness of 
 the auspices under which the year should begin its 
 course," and a small piece of money called stips, 
 which foreboded riches.) 
 
 Here I close the parenthesis, and return to my 
 ill-humor. The little speech^ I have just addressed 
 to myself has restored me my self-satisfaction, but 
 made me more dissatisfied with others. I could now 
 enjoy my breakfast ; but the portress has forgotten 
 
 * Switch in the original. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PAHIS. 3 
 
 my morning's milk, and the pot of preserves is 
 empty ! Any one else would have been vexed : as 
 for me, I aifect the most supreme indifference. 
 There remains a hard crust, which I break by main 
 strength, and which I carelessly nibble, as a man 
 far above the vanities of the world and of fresh 
 rolls. 
 
 However, I do not know why my thoughts should 
 grow more gloomy by reason of the difficulties of 
 mastication. I once read the story of an English- 
 man who hanged himself because the}^ had brought 
 him his tea without sugar. There are hours in life 
 when the most trifling cross takes the form of a ca- 
 lamity. Our tempers are like an opera-glass, which 
 makes the object small or great according to the 
 end you look through. 
 
 Generally, the prospect which opens out before 
 my window delights me. It is a mountain range of 
 roofs, with ridges crossing, interlacing, and piled on 
 one another, and upon which tall chimne3's raise 
 their peaks. It was but yesterday that they had an 
 Alpine aspect to me, and I waited for the first 
 snow-storm to see glaciers among them ; to-day, I 
 only see tiles and stone flues. The pigeons, \vhich 
 assisted my rural illusions, seem no more than mis- 
 erable birds which have mistaken the roof for the 
 back yard ; the smoke, which rises in light clouds, 
 instead of making me dream of the panting of 
 Vesuvius, reminds me of kitchen preparations and 
 dish-water ; and lastly, the telegraph, that I see far 
 off on the old tower of Montmartre, has the effect 
 of a vile gallows stretching its arms over the cityo 
 
4 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 My eyes, thus hurt by all they meet, fall upon the 
 great man's house which faces my attic. 
 
 The influence of New Year's Day is visible there. 
 The servants have an air of eagerness proportioned 
 to the value of their New Year's gifts, received or 
 expected. I see the master of the house crossing 
 the court with the morose look of a man who is 
 forced to be generous ; and the visitors increase, fol- 
 lowed by shop porters who carry flowers, band- 
 boxes, or toys. All at once the great gates are 
 opened, and a new carriage, drawn by thorough- 
 bred horses, draws up before the door-steps. They, 
 are, without doubt, the New Year's gift presented 
 to the mistress of the house by her husband; for she 
 comes herself to look at the new equipage. Yery 
 soon she gets into it with a little girl, all streaming 
 with laces, feathers, and velvets, and loaded with 
 parcels which she goes to distribute as New Year's 
 gifts. The door is shut, the windows are drawn up, 
 the carriage sets off. 
 
 Thus all the world are exchanging good wishes 
 and presents to-day : I alone have nothing to give 
 or to receive. Poor Solitary ! I do not even know 
 one chosen being for whom I might offer a prayer. 
 
 Then let my wishes for a happy New Year go, and 
 seek out all my unknown friends — lost in the multi- 
 tude which murmurs like the ocean at my feet ! 
 
 To you first, hermits in cities, for whom death 
 and poverty have created a solitude in the midst of 
 the crowd ! unhappy laborers, who are condemned 
 to toil in melancholy, and eat your daily bread in 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS, 5 
 
 Silence and desertion, and whom God has withdrawn 
 from the intoxicating pangs of love or friendship! 
 
 To you, fond dreamers, who pass through life 
 with your eyes turned toward some polar star, while 
 you tread with indifference over the rich harvests of 
 reality ! 
 
 To you, honest fathers, w^ho lengthen out the 
 evening to maintain your families! to you, poor 
 widows, weeping and working by a cradle ! to you, 
 young men, resolutely set to open for yourselves a 
 path in life, large enough to lead through it the 
 wife of your choice ! to you, all brave soldiers of 
 work and of self-sacrifice ! 
 
 To you, lastly, whatever your title and your 
 name, who love good, who pity the suffering; who 
 walk through the world like the symbolical Virgin 
 of Byzantium, with both arms open to the human 
 race! 
 
 Here I am suddenly interrupted by loud and 
 increasing chirpings. I look about me : my window 
 is surrounded with sparrows picking up the crumbs 
 of bread which in my brown-study I had just scat- 
 tered on the roof. At this sight a flash of light 
 broke upon my saddened heart. I deceived myself 
 just now when I complained that I had nothing to 
 give : thanks to me, the sparrows of this part of the 
 town will have their ]N^ew Year's gifts! 
 
 Twelve O^cloch. — A knock at m}^ door ; a poor girl 
 comes in and greets me by name. At first I do not 
 recollect her ; but she looks at me and smiles. Ah! 
 it is Paulette ! But it is almost a year since I have 
 
6 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 seen her, and Paulette is no longer the same : the 
 other day she was a child, now she is almost a young 
 woman. 
 
 Paulette is thin, pale, and miserably clad ; but she 
 has always the same open and straightforward look 
 — the same mouth, smiling at every word, as if to 
 court your sympathy — the same voice, somewhat 
 timid, yet expressing fondness. Paulette is not 
 pretty — she is even thought plain ; as for me, I 
 think her charming. Perhaps that is not on her 
 account, but on my own. Paulette appears to me 
 as a part of one of my happiest recollections. 
 
 It was the evening of a public holiday. Our 
 principal buildings were illumihated with festoons 
 of fire, a thousand flags waved in the night winds, 
 and the fireworks had just shot forth their spouts 
 of flame into the midst of the Champ de Mars. All 
 of a sudden, one of those unaccountable alarms 
 which strike a multitude with panic fell upon the 
 dense crowd : they cry out, they rush on headlong ; 
 the weaker ones fall, and the frightened crowd 
 tramples them down in its convulsive struggles. I 
 escaped from the confusion by a miracle, and was 
 hastening away, when the cries of a perishing child 
 arrested me : I reentered that human chaos, and, 
 after unheard-of exertions, I brought Paulette out 
 of it at the peril of my life. 
 
 That was two years ago : since then I had not 
 seen the child again but at long intervals, and I had 
 almost forgotten her ; but Paulette's memory was 
 that of a grateful heart, and she came at the begin- 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 7 
 
 ning of the year to offer me her wishes for my 
 happiness. She brought me, besides, a wallflower 
 in full bloom. She herself had planted and reared 
 it : it was something that belonged wholly to her- 
 self ; for it was by her care, her perseverance, and her 
 patience that she had obtained it. 
 
 The wallflower had grown in a common pot; but 
 Paulette, who is a bandbox maker, had put it into a 
 case of varnished paper, ornamented with ara- 
 besques. These might have been in better taste, 
 but I did not feel the attention and good- will the 
 less. 
 
 This unexpected present, the little girl's modest 
 blushes, the compliments she stammered out, dis- 
 pelled, as by a sunbeam, the kind of mist which had 
 gathered round ray mind ; my thoughts suddenly 
 changed from the leaden tints of evening to the 
 brightest colors of dawn. I made Paulette sit 
 down and questioned her with a light heart. 
 
 At first the little girl replied by monosyllables ; 
 but very soon the tables were turned, and it was I 
 who interrupted with short interjections her long 
 and confidential talk. The poor child leads a hard 
 life. She was left an orphan long since, with a 
 brother and sister, and lives with an old grand- 
 mother, who has " brought them up to poverty," as 
 she always calls it. 
 
 However, Paulette now helps her to make band- 
 boxes, her little sister Perrine begins to use the 
 needle, and her brother Henry is apprentice to a 
 printer. All would go well if it were not for losses 
 
8 AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHY li IN PARIS. 
 
 and want of vA^ork — if it were not for clothes which 
 wear out, for appetites w^hich grow larger, and for 
 the winter, when you cannot get sunshine for noth- 
 ing. Paulette complains that her candles go too 
 quickly and that her wood costs too much. The 
 fireplace in their garret is so large that a fagot 
 makes no more show in it than a match ; it is so 
 near the roof that the wind blows the rain down it, 
 and in winter it hails upon the hearth, so they 
 have left off using it. Henceforth they must be 
 content with an earthen chafing-dish, upon which 
 they cook their meals. The grandmother had 
 often spoken of a stove that w^as for sale at the 
 broker's close by; but he asked 7 francs for it, 
 and the times are too hard for such an expense : 
 the family, therefore, resign themselves to cold for 
 economy ! 
 
 As Paulette spoke, I felt more and more that I 
 was losing my fretfulness and low spirits. The first 
 disclosures of the little bandbox maker created 
 within me a wish that soon became a plan. I ques- 
 tioned her about her daily occupations, and she in- 
 formed me that on leaving me she must go, with 
 her brother, her sister, and grandmother, to the 
 different people for whom they work. My plan was 
 immediately settled. I told tne child that I would 
 go to see her in the evening, and I sent her away 
 with fresh thanks. 
 
 I placed the wallflower in the open window, 
 where a ray of sunshine bid it welcome ; the birds 
 were singing around, the sky had cleared up, and 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PAPU8. 9 
 
 the day, which began so loweringly, had become 
 bright. 1 sang as I moved about my room, and, 
 having hastily put on my hat and coat, I went out. 
 
 Three O'clock. — All is settled with mv neio^hbor, 
 the chimney-doctor ; he will repair my old stove, 
 and answers for its being as good as new. At five 
 o'clock we are to set out, and put it up in Faulette's 
 grandmother's room. 
 
 Midnight. — All has gone off well. At the hour 
 agreed upon I was at the old bandbox maker's; she 
 was still out. My Fiedmontese* fixed tlie stove, 
 while I arranged a dozen logs in the great fireplace, 
 taken from my winter stock. I shall make up for 
 them by warming myself with walking, or by going 
 to bed earlier. 
 
 My heart beat at every step which was heard on 
 the staircase ; I trembled lest they should interrupt 
 me in my preparations, and should thus spoil my 
 intended surprise. But no — see everything read}^ : 
 the lighted stove murmurs gently, the little lamp 
 burns upon the table, and a bottle of oil for it is 
 provided on the shelf. The chimney-doctor is gone. 
 Now my fear lest they should come is changed into 
 impatience at their not coming. At last I hear 
 children's voices ; here they are : they push open the 
 door and rush in — but they all stop in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 At the sight of the lamp, the stove, and the vis- 
 
 *In Paris a chimney-sweeper is named "Piedmontese " or 
 " Savoyard," as they usually come from that country. 
 
10 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PATllS. 
 
 itor, who stands there like a magician in the midst 
 of these wonders, they draw back almost fright- 
 ened. Paulette is the first to comprehend it, and 
 the arrival of the grandmother, who is more slowly 
 mounting the stairs, finishes the explanation. Then 
 come tears, ecstasies, thanks ! 
 
 But the wonders are not yet ended. The little 
 sister opens the oven, and discovers some chestnuts 
 just roasted ; the grandmother puts her hand on the 
 bottles of cider arranged on the dresser ; and I draw 
 forth from the basket that I have hidden a cold 
 tongue, a pot of butter, and some fresh rolls. 
 
 Now their wonder turns into admiration ; the lit- 
 tle family have never seen such a feast ! They lay 
 the cloth, they sit down, they eat ; it is a complete 
 banquet for all, and each contributes his share to it. 
 I had brought only the supper : and the bandbox 
 maker and her children supplied the enjoyment. 
 
 What bursts of laughter at nothing! What a 
 hubbub of questions which waited for no reply, of 
 replies which answered no question ! The old 
 woman herself shared in the wild merriment of the 
 little ones. I have always been struck at the ease 
 with which the poor forget their wretchedness. 
 Being only used to live for the present, they make 
 a gain of every pleasure as soon as it offers itself. 
 But the surfeited rich are more difficult to satisfy : 
 they require time and everything to suit before they 
 will consent to be happy. 
 
 The evening has passed like a moment. The old 
 woman told me the history of her life, sometimes 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHEn IN PABIS. H 
 
 smiliDg, sometimes drying her eyes. Perrine sang 
 an old ballad with her fresh young voice. Henry 
 told us what he knows of the great writers of the 
 day, to whom he has to carry their proofs. At last 
 we were obliged to separate, not without fresh 
 thanks on the part of the happy family. 
 
 I have come home slowly, ruminating with a full 
 heart and pure enjoyment on the simple events of 
 my evening. It has given me much comfort and 
 much instruction. JS^ow no New Year's Day will 
 come amiss to me ; I know that no one is so un- 
 happy as to have nothing to give and nothing to 
 receive. 
 
 As I came in, I met my rich neighbor's new 
 equipage. She, too, had just returned from her 
 evening's party ; and, as she sprang from the car- 
 riage-step wuth feverish impatience, I heard her 
 murmur — " At last !" 
 
 I, when I left Paulette's family, said — So "soon!" 
 
12 AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 CHAPTEK 11. 
 
 THE CARNIVAL. 
 
 February 20th. — What a noise out of doors! 
 What is the meaning of these shouts and cries? 
 Ah ! I recollect : this is the last day of the Carnival, 
 and the maskers are passing. 
 
 Christianity has not been able to abolish the 
 noisy bacchanalian festivals of the pagan times, 
 but it has changed the names. That which it has 
 given to these " days of liberty " announces the 
 ending of the feasts and the month of fasting which 
 should follow ; " carn-i-val" means literally " down 
 v/ith flesh meat !" It is a forty days' farewell to 
 the " blessed pullets and fat hams," so celebrated 
 by Pantagruel's minstrel. Man prepares for priva- 
 tion by satiety, and finishes his sin thoroughly be- 
 fore he begins to repent. 
 
 Why, in all ages and among every people, do we 
 meet with some one of these mad festivals ? Must 
 we believe that it requires such an effort for men to 
 be reasonable that the weaker ones have need of 
 rests at intervals ? The monks of La Trappe, who 
 are condemned to silence by their rule, are allowed 
 to speak once in a month, and on this day they all 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 13 
 
 talk at once from the rising to the setting of the 
 sun. 
 
 Perhaps it is the same in the world. As we are 
 obliged all the year to be decent, orderh', and rea- 
 sonable, we make up for such a long restraint dur- 
 ing the Carnival. It is a door opened to the incon- 
 gruous fancies and wishes which have hitherto been 
 crowded back into a corner of our brain. For a 
 moment the slaves become the masters, as in the 
 days of the Saturnalia, and everything is given up 
 to the " fools of the family." 
 
 The shouts in the square redouble ; the troops of 
 masks increase — on foot, in carriages, and on horse- 
 back. It is now who can attract the most atten- 
 tion by making a figure for a few hours, or by 
 exciting curiosity or envy ; to-morrow they will all 
 return, dull and exhausted, to the employments and 
 troubles of yesterday. 
 
 Alas ! thought I with vexation, each of us is like 
 these masqueraders ; our whole life is often but an 
 unsightly carnival ! And yet man has need of holi- 
 days, to relax his mind, rest his body, and open his 
 heart. Can he not have them, then, with these 
 coarse pleasures? Economists have been long in- 
 quiring what is the best disposal of the industry of 
 the human race. Ah ! if I could only discover the 
 best disposal of its leisure ! It is easy enough to 
 find it work ; but who will find it relaxation ? Work 
 supplies the daily bread ; but it is cheerfulness 
 w^hich gives it a relish. O philosophers ! go in quest 
 of pleasure ! find us amusements without brutality, 
 
14 AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 enjoyments without selfishness ; in a word, invent a 
 Carnival which will please everybody and bring 
 shame to no one. 
 
 Three O'^clock. — I have just shut my window and 
 stirred up my fire. As this is a holiday for every- 
 bod}^, I will make it one for myself too. So I light 
 the little lamp over which, on grand occasions, I 
 make a cup of the coffee that my portress' son 
 brought from the Levant, and I look in my book- 
 case for one of my favorite authors. 
 
 First, here is the amusing parson of Meudon ; but 
 his characters are too fond of talking slang : Vol- 
 taire ; but he disheartens men by always bantering 
 them : Moliere ; but he hinders one's laughter by 
 making one think: Lesage ; let us stop at him. 
 Being profound rather than grave, he preaches 
 virtue while ridiculing vice ; if bitterness is some- 
 times to be found in his writings, it is always in the 
 garb of mirth : he sees the miseries of the world 
 without despising it, and knows its cowardly tricks 
 without hating it. 
 
 Let us call up all the heroes of his book. Gil 
 Bias, Fabrice, Sangrado, the Archbishop of Granada, 
 the Duke of Lerma, Aurora, Scipio ! Ye gay or 
 graceful figures, rise before my eyes, people my 
 solitude ; bring hither for my amusement the world- 
 carnival, of wiiich you are the brilliant maskers ! 
 
 Unfortunately, at the very moment I made this 
 invocation, I recollected I had a letter to write 
 which could not be put off. One of my attic neigh- 
 bors came yesterday to ask me to do it. He is a 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PAIIIS. 15 
 
 cheerful old man and has a passion for pictures and 
 prints. He comes home almost every day with a 
 drawing or painting — probably of little value ; for 
 I know he lives penuriously, and even the letter 
 that 1 am to write for him shows his poverty. His 
 only son, who was married in England, is just dead, 
 and his widow — left without any means, and with 
 an old mother and a child — had written to beg for 
 a home. M. Antoine asked me first to translate the 
 letter, and then to write a refusal. I had promised 
 that he should have this answer to-day : before 
 everything, let us fulfill our promises. 
 
 The sheet of Bath paper is before me, I have 
 dipped mv pen into the ink, and I rub my forehead 
 to invite forth a sally of ideas, when I perceive that 
 I have not my dictionary. ]S"ow, a Parisian who 
 would speak English without a dictionary is like a 
 child without leadino^-strino:s : the trround trembles 
 under him and he stumbles at the first step. I run 
 then to the bookbinder's where I left my Johnson, 
 and who lives close by in the square. 
 
 The door is half-open ; I hear low groans ; I en- 
 ter without knocking, and I see the bookbinder by 
 the bedside of his fellow-lodger. This latter has a 
 violent fever and delirium. Pierre looks at him per- 
 plexed and out of humor. I learn from him that 
 his comrade was not able to get up in the morniug, 
 and that since then he has become worse every 
 hour. 
 
 I ask if they have sent for a doctor. 
 
 " Oh, yes, indeed !" replied Pierre roughly ; •' one 
 
16 AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PA RI8. 
 
 must have money in one's pocket for that, and this 
 fellow has only debts instead of savings.'' 
 
 " But you," said I, rather astonished ; " are you 
 not his friend ?" 
 
 " Friend !" interrupted the bookbinder. " Yes, as 
 much as the shaft-horse is friend to the leader — on 
 condition that each will take his share of the 
 draught and eat his feed by himself." 
 
 " You do not intend, however, to leave him with- 
 out any help ?" 
 
 " Bah ! he ma}^ keep in his bed till to-morrow, as 
 I'm going to the ball." 
 
 " Ycu mean to leave him alone ?" 
 
 " Well ! must I miss a party of pleasure at Court- 
 ville^" because this fellow is light-headed ?" asked 
 Pierre sharply. " I have promised to meet some 
 friends at old Desnoyer's. Those who are sick may 
 take their broth ; my physic is white wine." 
 
 So saying, he untied a bundle, out of which he 
 took the fancy costume of a waterman, and pro- 
 ceeded to dress himself in it. 
 
 In v^ain I tried to awaken some fellow-feeling for 
 the unfortunate man who lay groaning there, close 
 by him ; being entirely taken up with the thoughts 
 of his expected pleasure, Pierre would hardly so 
 much as hear me. At last his coarse selfishness 
 provoked me. I began reproaching instead of 
 remonstrating with him, and I declared him re- 
 sponsible for the consequences which such a 
 desertion must bring upon the sick man. 
 
 * A Paris Vauxhall. 
 
AN ATTIC PUILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 17 
 
 At this the bookbinder, who was just going, 
 stopped with an oath, and stamped his foot. "Am 
 I to spend my Carnival in heating water for foot- 
 baths, pray ?'' 
 
 " You must not leave your comrade to die with- 
 out help !" I replied. 
 
 " Let him go to the hospital, then !" 
 
 " How can he by himself ?" 
 
 Pierre seemed to make up his mind. 
 
 " Well, I'm going to take him," resumed he ; 
 " besides, I shall o^et rid of him sooner. Come, get 
 up, comrade !" He shook his comrade, who had 
 not taken off his clothes. I observed that he was 
 too weak to walk, but the bookbinder would not 
 listen : he made him get up, and half-dragged, half- 
 supported him to the lodge of the porter, who ran 
 for a hackney carriage. I saw the sick man get 
 into it, almost fainting, with the impatient water- 
 man ; and they both set off, one perhaps to die, the 
 other to dine at Courtville gardens! 
 
 Six O'clock. — I have been to knock at my neigh- 
 bor's door, who opened it himself ; and I have given 
 him his letter, finished at last, and directed to his 
 son's widow. M. Antoine thanked me gratefully, 
 and made me sit down. 
 
 It was the first time I had been into the attic of 
 the old amateur. Curtains stained with damp and 
 hanging down in rags, a cold stove, a bed of straw, 
 two broken chairs, composed all the furniture. At 
 the end of the room were a great number of prints 
 in a heap, and paintings without frames turned 
 against the wall. 
 
18 Ali ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 At the moment I came in, the old man was 
 making his dinner on some hard crusts of bread, 
 which he was soaking in a glass of eau sucree. He 
 perceived that my eyes fell upon his hermit fare, 
 and he looked a little ashamed. 
 
 " There is nothing to tempt you in my supper, 
 neighbor," said he with a smile. 
 
 1 replied that at least I thought it a very phil- 
 osophical one for the Carnival. 
 
 M. Antoine shook his head, and went on again 
 with his supper. 
 
 " Every one keeps his holidays in his own way," 
 resumed he, beginning again to dip a crust into his 
 glass. " There are several sorts of epicures, and all 
 feasts are not meant to regale the palate ; there are 
 some also for the ears and the eyes." 
 
 I looked involuntarily round me, as if to seek for 
 the invisible banquet which could make up to him 
 for such a supper. 
 
 Without doubt he understood me ; for he got up 
 slowly and, with the magisterial air of a man con- 
 fident in what he is about to do, he rummaged be- 
 hind several picture frames, drew forth a painting, 
 over which he passed his hand, and silently placed 
 it under the light of the lamp. 
 
 It represented a fine-looking old man, seated at 
 table with his wife, his daughter, and his children, 
 and singing to the accompaniment of musicians who 
 appeared in the background. At first sight I recog- 
 nized the subject, which I had often admired at the 
 Louvre, and I declared it to be a splendid copy of 
 Jordaens. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPUER IN PARIS. 19 
 
 ''A copy!" cried M. Antoine ; "say an original, 
 neighbor, and an original retouched by Rubens ! 
 Look closer at the head of the old man, the dress of 
 the young woman, and the accessories. One can 
 count the pencil strokes of the Hercules of painters. 
 It is not only a masterpiece, sir ; it is a treasure — a 
 relic ! The picture at the Louvre may be a pearl, 
 this is a diamond !" 
 
 And resting it against the stove, so as to place it 
 in the best liglit, he fell again to soaking his crusts, 
 without taking his eyes off the wonderful picture. 
 One would have said that the sio-ht of it o^ave the 
 crusts an unexpected relish, for he chewed them 
 slowly, and emptied his glass by little sips. His 
 shriveled features became smooth, his nostrils ex- 
 panded ; it was indeed, as he said himself, " a feast 
 of the eyes." 
 
 " You see that I also have my treat," resumed he, 
 nodding his head with an air of triumph. " Others 
 may run after dinners and balls ; as for me, this is 
 the pleasure I give mj'self for my Carnival." 
 
 "But if this painting is really so precious," re- 
 plied I, "it ought to be worth a high price." 
 
 " Eh ! eh !" said M. Antoine, with an air of proud 
 indifference. " In good times, a good judge might 
 value it at somewhere about 20,000 francs." 
 
 I started back. 
 
 " And you have bought it ?" cried I. 
 
 "For nothing," replied he, lowering his voice. 
 *' These brokers are asses ; mine mistook this for a 
 
20 AN A TTIG PHIL SOP HER IN PARTS. 
 
 student's copy ; he let me have it for 50 louis, 
 ready money ! This morning I took them to him. 
 and now he wishes to be off the bargain." 
 
 " This morning !" repeated I, involuntarily casting 
 my eyes on the letter containing the refusal that 
 M. Antoine had made me write to his son's widow, 
 and which \vas still on the little table. 
 
 He took no notice of my exclamation, and went 
 on contemplating the work of Jordaens in a kind of 
 ecstasy. 
 
 " What a knowledge of chiaroscuro !" murmured 
 he, biting his last crust in delight. " W hat relief ! 
 w^hat fire ! Where can one find such transparency 
 of color ! such magical lights ! such force ! such 
 nature !" 
 
 As I w^as listening to him in silence, he mistook 
 my astonishment for admiration and clapped me on 
 the shoulder. 
 
 *' You are dazzled," said he merrily ; " you did 
 not expect such a treasure ! What do you say to 
 the bargain 1 have made?" 
 
 ".Pardon me," replied I gravely ; " but I think 
 you might have done better." 
 
 M. Antoine raised his head. 
 
 "How !" cried he ; "do you take me for a man 
 likely to be deceived about the merit or value of a 
 painting?" 
 
 " I neither doubt your taste nor your skill ; but I 
 cannot help thinking that, for the price of this 
 picture of a family party, you might have had " 
 
 " What then ?" 
 
AN A TTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 21 
 
 "The family itself, sir." 
 
 The old amateur cast a look at me, not of anger, 
 but of contempt. In his eyes I had evidently just 
 proved myself a barbarian, incapable of understand- 
 ing the arts and unworthy of enjoying them. He 
 got up without answering me, hastily took up the 
 Jordaens, and replaced it in its hiding-place behind 
 the prints. 
 
 It was a sort of dismissal ; I took leave of him 
 and went away. 
 
 Seven O^cloch. — When I come in again I find my 
 water boiling over my little lamp, and I busy my- 
 self in grinding my Mocha and setting out my coffee 
 things. 
 
 The getting coffee ready is the most delicate and 
 most attractive of domestic operations to one who 
 lives alone : it is the grand w^ork of a bachelor's 
 housekeeping. 
 
 Coffee is, so to say, just the mid-point between 
 bodily and spiritual nourishment. It acts agreeably, 
 and at the same time, upon the senses and the 
 thoughts. Its very fragrance gives a sort of delight- 
 ful activity to the wits ; it is a genius w^ho lends 
 wings to our fancy and transports it to the land of 
 the Arabian lights. 
 
 When I am buried in my old easj^-chair, my feet 
 on the fender before a blazing fire, my ear soothed 
 by the singing of the coffee-pot, which seems to 
 gossip with my fire-irons, the sense of smell gently 
 excited by the aroma of the Arabian bean, and my 
 eyes shaded by my cap pulled down over them, it 
 
22 ^^ ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 often seems as if each cloud of the fragrant steam 
 took a distinct form. As in the mirages of the 
 desert, in each as it rises, I see some image of which 
 my mind had been longing for the reality. 
 
 At first the vapor increases and its color deepens. 
 I see a cottage on a hillside ; behind is a garden 
 shut in by a whitethorn hedge, and through the 
 garden runs a brook, on the banks of which I hear 
 the bees humming. 
 
 Then the view opens still more. See those fields 
 planted with apple-trees and in which I distinguish 
 a plow^ and horses waiting for their master ! 
 Further on, in a part of the wood which rings with 
 the sound of the ax, I perceive the woodsman's hut, 
 roofed with turf and branches; and in the midst of 
 all these rural pictures I seem to see a figure of 
 myself gliding about. It is my ghost walking in 
 my dream ! 
 
 The bubbling of the water, ready to boil over, 
 compels me to break off my meditations, in order to 
 fill up the coffee-pot. I then remember that I have 
 no cream. I take my tin can off the hook and go 
 down to the milkwoman's. 
 
 Mother Denis is a hale countrywoman from Sa- 
 voy, which she left w^hen quite young ; and, contrary 
 to the custom of the Savoyards, she has not gone 
 back to it again. She has neither husband nor 
 child, notwithstanding the title they give her ; but 
 her kindness, which never sleeps, makes her worthy 
 of the name of mother. 
 
 A brave creature ! Left by herself in the battle 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 23 
 
 of life, she makes good her humble place in it by 
 working, singing, helping others, and leaving the 
 rest to God. 
 
 At the door of the milk shop I hear loud bursts 
 of laughter. In one of the corners of the shop three 
 children are sitting on the ground. They wear the 
 sooty dress of Savoyard boys and in their hands they 
 hold large slices of bread and cheese. The youngest 
 is besmeared up to the eyes with his, and that is the 
 reason of their mirth. 
 
 Mother Denis points them out to me. 
 
 "Look at the little lambs, how they enjoy them- 
 selves !" said she, putting her hand on the head of 
 the little glutton. 
 
 " Pie has had no breakfast," puts in one of the 
 others by way of excuse. 
 
 "Poor little thing," said the milkwoman ; "he 
 is left alone in the streets of Paris, where he can 
 find no other father than the All-good God !" 
 
 "And that is why you make yourself a mother to 
 them f I replied gently. 
 
 " What I do is little enough," said Mother Denis, 
 measuring out my milk ; " but every day I get 
 some of them together out of the street, that for 
 once they may have enough to eat. Dear children ! 
 their mothers will make up for it in heaven. Not to 
 mention that they recall m}^ native mountains to 
 me ; when the}^ sing and dance I seem to see our 
 old father again." 
 
 Here her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " So you are repaid by your recollections for the 
 good you do them ?" resumed I. 
 
24 ^-ZV ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 '*' Yes ! yes !" said she, " and by their happiness 
 too ! The laughter of these little ones, sir, is like a 
 bird's song ; it makes you gay and gives you heart 
 to live." 
 
 As she spoke she cut some fresh slices of bread 
 and cheese and added some apples and a handful of 
 nuts to them. 
 
 " Come, my little dears," she cried, " put these 
 into your pockets against to-morrow." 
 
 Then turning to me — 
 
 " To-day I am ruining myself," added she ; " but 
 we must all have our Carnival." 
 
 I came away without saying a word : I was too 
 much affected. 
 
 At last I have discovered what true pleasure is. 
 After having seen the egotism of sensuality and of 
 intellect I have found the happy self-sacrifice of 
 goodness. Pierre, M. Antoine, and Mother Denis 
 had each kept their Carnival ; but for the two first 
 it was only a feast for the senses or the mind ; while 
 for the third it was a feast for the heart. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS, 25 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WHAT WE MAY LEARN BY LOOKING OUT OF WINDOW. 
 
 March 3d. — A poet has said that life is the dream 
 of a shadow ; he would better have compared it to 
 a night of fever ! What alternate fits of restless- 
 ness and sleep ! w^hat discomfort ! what sudden 
 starts ! what ever-returning thirst ! what a chaos of 
 mournful and confused fancies I We can neither 
 sleep nor wake ; we seek m vain for repose, and we 
 stop short on the brink of action. Two-thirds of 
 human existence are wasted in hesitation and the 
 last third in repenting. 
 
 When 1 say " human existence," I mean my own ! 
 We are so made that each of us regards himself as 
 the mirror of the community : what passes in our 
 minds infallibly seems to us a history of the 
 universe. Every man is like the drunkard who 
 reports an earthquake because he feels himself 
 staggering. 
 
 And why am I uncertain and restless — I, a poor 
 day-laborer in the world — who fill an obscure sta- 
 tion in a corner of it and whose work it avails itself 
 of without heeding the workman? I will tell you, 
 my unseen friend, for whom these lines are written ; 
 my unknown brother, on whom the solitary call in 
 
26 AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 sorrow ; my imaginary confidant, to whom all mono- 
 logues are addressed and who is but the shadow of 
 our own conscience. 
 
 A great event has happened in my life ! A cross- 
 road has suddenly opened in the middle of the 
 monotonous way along which I was traveling 
 quietly and without thinking of it. Two roads 
 present themselves, and I must choose between 
 them. One is only the continuation of that I have 
 followed till now ; the other is wider and exhibits 
 wondrous prospects. On the first there is nothing 
 to fear, but also little to hope ; on the other great 
 dangers and great fortune. In a word, the question 
 is whether I shall give up the humble office in 
 which I thought to die for one of those bold spec- 
 ulations in which chance alone is banker ! Ever 
 since yesterday I have consulted with myself ; I 
 have compared the two and I remain undecided. 
 
 Where shall I get any light — who will advise 
 me? 
 
 Sunday^ Uh. — See the sun coming out from the 
 thicii fogs of winter ; spring announces its approach ; 
 a soft breeze skims over the roofs, and my wall- 
 flower begins to blow again. 
 
 We are near that sweet season of fresh green, of 
 which the poets of the sixteenth century sang with 
 so much feeling: 
 
 Now the gladsome month of May 
 All things newly doth array ; 
 Fairest lady, let me too 
 In thy love my life renew. 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. g^ 
 
 The chirping of the sparrows calls me : they claim 
 the crumbs I scatter to them every morning. I open 
 my window, and the prospect of roofs opens out be- 
 fore me in all its splendor. 
 
 He who has only lived on a first floor has no idea 
 of the picturesque variety of such a view. He has 
 never contemplated these tile-colored heights which 
 intersect each other ; he has not followed with his 
 eyes these gutter-valleys, where the fresh verdure 
 of the attic gardens waves, the deep shadows which 
 evening spreads over the slated slopes, and the 
 sparkling of windows which the setting sun has 
 kindled to a blaze of fire. He has not studied the 
 flora of these Alps of civilization, carpeted by lich- 
 ens and mosses ; he is not acquainted with the thou- 
 sand inhabitants which people them, from the 
 microscopic insect to the domestic cat — that Rey- 
 nard of the roofs who is always on the prowl or in 
 ambush ; he has not witnessed the thousand aspects 
 of a clear or a cloudy sky ; nor the thousand effects 
 of light, which make these upper regions a theater 
 with ever-changing scenes ! How many times have 
 my days of leisure" passed away in contemplating 
 this wonderful sight; in discovering its darker or 
 brighter episodes; in seeking, in short, in this un- 
 known world for the impressions of travel that 
 Avealthy tourists look for lower down ! 
 
 JVine O'clock. — But why, then, have not my winged 
 neighbors picked up the crumbs I have scattered for 
 them before my window? I see them fly away, 
 come back, perch upon the ledges of the windows, 
 
28 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 and chirp at the sight of the feast they are usually 
 so ready to devour ! It is not my presence that 
 frightens them ; I have accustomed them to eat out 
 of my hand. Then why is this fearful suspense ? 
 In vain I look around : the roof is clear, the win- 
 dows near are closed. I crumble the bread that 
 remains from my breakfast to attract them by an 
 ampler feast. Their chirpings increase, they bend 
 down their heads, the boldest approach upon the 
 wing, but without daring to alight. 
 
 Come, come, my sparrows are the victims of one 
 of the foolish panics which make the funds fall at 
 the Bourse ! It is plain that birds are not more 
 reasonable than men ! 
 
 With this reflection I was about to shut my win- 
 dow, when all of a sudden I perceived, in a spot of 
 sunshine on my right, the shadow of two pricked- 
 up ears; then a paw advanced, then the head 
 of a tabby-cat showed itself at the corner of the 
 gutter. The cunning fellow was lying there 
 in wait, hoping the crumbs would bring him some 
 game. 
 
 And I had accused my guests of cowardice ! I 
 was so sure that no danger could menace them ! I 
 thought I had looked well everywhere ! I had only 
 forgotten the corner behind me ! 
 
 In life, as on the roofs, how many misfortunes 
 come from having forgotten a single corner ! 
 
 Ten 0^ clock. — I cannot leave my window; the 
 rain and the cold have kept it shut so long that I 
 must reconnoiter all the environs to be able to take 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS, 29 
 
 possession of them again. My eyes search in suc- 
 cession all the points of the jumbled and confused 
 prospect, passing on or stopping according to what 
 they light upon. 
 
 Ah\ see the windows upon which they formerly 
 loved to rest; they are those of two unknown 
 neighbors, whose different habits they have long 
 remarked. 
 
 One is a poor workwoman, w^ho rises before sun- 
 rise, and whose profile is shadowed upon her little 
 muslin window curtain far into the evening ; the 
 other is a young lady singer, w^hose vocal flourishes 
 sometimes reach my attic by snatches. When their 
 windows are open, that of the workwoman discovers 
 a humble but decent abode ; the other, an elegantly 
 furnished room. But to-dav a crowd of trades- 
 people throng the latter ; they take down the silk 
 hangings and carry off the furniture, and I now re- 
 member that the young singer passed under my 
 window this morning with her veil down, and walk- 
 ing with the hasty step of one who suffers some in- 
 w^ard trouble. Ah ! I guess it all. Her means are 
 exhausted in elegant fancies, or have been taken 
 away by some unexpected misfortune, and now" she 
 has fallen from luxury to indigence. While the 
 workwoman manages not only to keep her little 
 room, but also to furnish it with decent comfort by 
 her steady toil, that of the singer is become the 
 property of brokers. The one sparkled for a mo- 
 ment on the w^ave of prosperity ; the other sails 
 slowly but safely along the coast of a humble and 
 laborious industry. 
 
30 AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS, 
 
 • Alas ! is there not here a lesson for us all ? Is it 
 really in hazardous experiments, at the end of which 
 we shall meet with wealth or ruin, that the wise 
 man should employ his years of strength and free- 
 dom ? Ought he to consider life as a regular em- 
 ployment which brings its daily wages, or as a game 
 in which the future is determined by a few throws ? 
 Why seek the risk of extreme chances ? For what 
 end hasten to riches by dangerous roads ? Is it 
 really certain that happiness is the prize of brilliant 
 successes, rather than of a wisely accepted poverty ? 
 Ah ! if men but knew in what a small dwelling joy 
 can live, and how little it costs to furnish it! 
 
 Twelve O^doch. — I have been walking up and 
 down my attic for a long time, with my arms folded 
 and my eyes on the ground ! My doubts increase, 
 like shadows encroaching more and more on some 
 bright space ; my fears multiply ; and the uncer- 
 tainty becomes every moment more painful to me! 
 It is necessary for me to decide to-day, and before 
 the evening I I hold the dice of my future fate in 
 mv hands, and I dare not throw them. 
 
 Three 0^ clock. — The sky has become cloudy, and a 
 cold wind begins to blow from the west ; all the 
 windows which w^ere opened to the sunshine of a 
 beautiful day are shut again. Only on the opposite 
 side of the street the lodger on the last story has 
 not yet left his balcony. 
 
 One knows him to be a soldier by his regular 
 walk, his gray mustaches, and the ribbon which 
 decorates his button-hole. Indeed, one migbt have 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPnER IN PARIS. 31 
 
 guessed as much from the care he takes of the little 
 garden which is the ornament of his balcony in 
 mid-air ; for there are two things especially loved 
 by all old soldiers — flowers and children. They 
 have been so long obliged to look upon the earth as 
 a field of battle, and so long cut off from the peace- 
 ful pleasures of a quiet lot, that they seem to begin 
 life at an age when others end it. The tastes of 
 their early years, which were arrested by the stern 
 duties of war, suddenly break out again with their 
 white hairs, and are like the savings of youth which 
 they spend again in old age. Besides, they have 
 been condemned to be destroyers for so long that 
 perhaps they feel a secret pleasure in creating and 
 seeing life spring up again : the beauty of weakness 
 has a grace and an attraction the more for those 
 who have been the agents of unbending force ; and 
 the watching over the frail germs of life has all the 
 charms of novelty for these old workmen of death. 
 
 Therefore the cold wind has not driven my neigh- 
 bor from his balcony. He is digging up the earth 
 in his green boxes and carefully sowing in the seeds 
 of the scarlet nasturtium, convolvulus, and sweet 
 pea. Henceforth he will come every day to watch 
 for their first sprouting, to protect the young shoots 
 from weeds or insects, to arrange the strings for the 
 tendrils to climb by, and carefully to regulate their 
 supply of w^ater and heat ! 
 
 How much labor to bring in the desired harvest ! 
 For that how many times shall I see him brave cold 
 or heat, wind or sun, as he does to-day ! But then, 
 
32 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 in the hot summer days, when the blinding dust 
 whirls in clouds through our streets, when the eye, 
 dazzled by the glare of white stucco, knows not 
 where to rest, and the glowing roofs reflect their 
 heat upon us to burning, the old soldier will sit in 
 his arbor and perceive nothing but green leaves and 
 flowers around him, and the breeze will come cool 
 and fresh to him through these perfumed shades. 
 His assiduous care will be rewarded at last. 
 
 We must sow the seeds and tend the growth if 
 we would enjoy the flower. 
 
 Four O'clock. — The clouds which have been gather- 
 ing in the horizon for a long time are becoming 
 darker ; it thunders loudly and the rain pours 
 down ! Those who are caught in it fly in every di- 
 rection, some laughing and some crying. 
 
 I always find particular amusement in these 
 helter-skelters caused by a sudden storm. It seems 
 as if each one, when thus taken by surprise, loses 
 the factitious character the world or habit has given 
 him and appears in his true colors. 
 
 See, for example, that big man with deliberate 
 step, who suddenly forgets his indifference made to 
 order and runs like a school-boy ! He is a thrifty 
 city gentleman, who, with all his fashionable airs, is 
 afraid to spoil his hat. 
 
 That pretty lady yonder, on the contrary, whose 
 looks are so modest and whose dress is so elaborate, 
 slackens her pace with the increasing storm. She 
 seems to find pleasure in braving it, and does not 
 think of her velvet cloak spotted by the hail ! She 
 is evidently a lioness in sheep's clothing. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS 33 
 
 Here, a young man who was passing stops to 
 catch some of the hailstones in his hand, and ex- 
 amines them. By his quick and business-like walk 
 just now you would have taken him for a tax- 
 gatherer on his rounds, when he is a young philoso- 
 pher, studying the effects of electricity. And those 
 school-boys who leave their ranks to run after the 
 sudden gusts of a March whirlwind ; those girls, 
 just now so demure, and who now fly with bursts of 
 laughter ; those national guards, who quit the mar- 
 tial attitude of their days of duty to take refuge 
 under a porch ! The storm has caused all these 
 transformations. 
 
 See, it increases ! The hardiest are obliged to 
 seek shelter. I see every one rushing toward the 
 shop in front of my window, which a bill announces 
 is to let. It is for the fourth time within a few 
 months. A year ago all the skill of the joiner and 
 the art of the painter were employed in beautifying 
 it, but their works are already destroyed by the 
 leaving of so many tenants ; the cornices of the 
 front are disfigured by mud ; the arabesques on the 
 doorway are spoiled by bills posted upon them to 
 announce the sale of the effects. The splendid shop 
 has lost some of its embellishments with each 
 change of the tenant. See it now empty and left 
 open to the passers-by. How much does its fate re- 
 semble that of so many who, like it, only change 
 their occupation to hasten the faster to ruin ! 
 
 I am struck b}^ this last reflection : since the 
 morning everything seems to speak to me, and with 
 
34 AN^ ATTIC PBlLOSOPHEn IN PARIS. 
 
 the same warning tone. Everything says : " Take 
 care! be content with your happy, though humble, 
 lot ; happiness can only be retained by constancy ; 
 do not forsake your old patrons for the protection 
 of those who are unknown!" 
 
 Are they the outward objects which speak thus, 
 or does the warning come from within ? Is it not 
 I myself who give this language to all that sur- 
 rounds me ? The world is but an instrument, to 
 which we give sound at will. But what does it 
 signify if it teaches us wisdom ? The low voice 
 which speaks in our breasts is always a friendly 
 voice, for it tells us what we are, that is to say, 
 what is, our capability. Bad conduct results, for 
 the most part, from mistaking our calling. There 
 are so many fools and knaves, because there are so 
 few men who know themselves. The question is 
 not to discover what will suit us, but for what we 
 are suited ! 
 
 What should I do in the midst of these experi- 
 enced financial speculators ? I am a poor sparrow, 
 born among the housetops, and should always fear 
 the enemy crouching in the dark corner; I am a 
 prudent workman, and should think of the business 
 of my neighbors who so suddenly disappeared : I 
 am a timid observer, and should call to mind the 
 flowers so slowly raised by the old soldier, or the 
 shop brought to ruin b}^ constant change of masters. 
 Away from me, ye banquets, over which hangs the 
 sword of Damocles ! I am a countrj^ mouse. Give 
 me my nuts and hollow tree, and I ask nothing be- 
 sides — except security. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 35 
 
 And why this insatiable craving for ricnes ? 
 Does a man drinic more when he drinks from a 
 large glass? From whence comes that universal 
 dread of mediocrity, the fruitful mother of peace 
 and liberty? Ah! there is the evil which, above 
 every other, it should be the aim of both public and 
 private education to anticipate I If that were got 
 rid of, w^hat treasons would be spared, what base- 
 ness avoided, what a chain of excess and crime 
 would be forever broken ! AVe aw^ard the palm to 
 charity and to self-sacrifice ; but, above all, let us 
 award it to moderation, for it is the great social 
 virtue. Even when it does not create the others, it 
 stands instead of them. 
 
 Six O'clock. — I have written a letter of thanks to 
 the promoters of the new speculation and have 
 declined their offer. This decision has restored my 
 peace of mind. I stopped singing, like the cobbler, 
 as long as I entertained the hope of riches : it is 
 gone, and happiness is come back ! 
 
 O beloved and gentle Poverty ! pardon me for 
 having for a moment wished to fly from thee as I 
 would from Want. Stay here forever with thy 
 charming sisters, Pit}", Patience, Sobriety, and 
 Solitude ; be ye my queens and my instructors ; 
 teach me the stern duties of life ; remove far from 
 my abode the weakness of heart and giddiness of 
 head which follow prosperity. Holy Poverty ! 
 teach me to endure without complaining, to impart 
 without D:rudo^ino^, to seek the end of life hio^her 
 than in pleasure, further off than in power. Thou 
 
36 AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 givest the body strength, thou makest the mind 
 more firm ; and, thanks to thee, this life, to which 
 the rich attach themselves as to a rock, becomes a 
 bark of which death may cut the cable without 
 awakening all our fears. Continue to sustain me, 
 O thou whom Christ hath called " Blessed." 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. S"? 
 
 CHAPTER ly. 
 
 LET US LOVE ONE ANOTHER. 
 
 April 9th. — The fine evenings are come back ; the 
 trees begin to put forth their shoots ; hyacinths, 
 jonquils, violets, and lilacs perfume the baskets of 
 the flower-Dfirls : all the world have beo:un their 
 walks again on the quays and boulevards. After 
 dinner I, too, descend from my attic to breathe the 
 evening air. 
 
 It is the hour when Paris is seen in all its beauty. 
 During the day the plaster fronts of the houses 
 weary the eye by their monotonous whiteness ; 
 heavily laden carts make the streets shake under 
 their huge wheels; the eager crowd, taken up by 
 the one fear of losing a moment from business, 
 cross and jostle one another ; the aspect of the city 
 altogether has something harsh, restless, and flurried 
 about it. But as soon as the stars appear every- 
 thing is changed ; the glare of the w^hite houses is 
 quenched in the gathering shades ; you hear no 
 more any rolling but that of the carriages on their 
 w^ay to some party of pleasure ; you see only the 
 lounger or the light-hearted passing by ; work has 
 given place to leisure. ^N^ow each one may breathe 
 after the fierce race through the business of the 
 
38 A2f' ATTIC PEILOSOPEER IN IRAKIS. 
 
 day, and whatever strength remains to him he gives 
 to pleasure ! See the ball-rooms lighted up, the 
 theaters open, the eating-shops along the walks set 
 out with dainties, and the twinkling lanterns of the 
 newspaper criers. Decidedly Paris has laid aside 
 the pen, the ruler, and the apron ; after the day 
 spent in work, it must have the evening for enjoy- 
 ment ; like the masters of Thebes, it has put off all 
 serious matter till to-morrow. 
 
 I love to take part in this happy hour ; not to 
 mix in the general gayety, but to contemplate it. 
 If the enjoyments of others imbitter jealous minds, 
 they strengthen the humble spirit ; they are the 
 beams of sunshine which open the two beautiful 
 flowers called " trust" and '* hope." 
 
 Althouo^h alone in the midst of the smilino: multi- 
 tude, I do not feel m3^self isolated from it, for its 
 gayety is reflected upon me : it is my own kind, my 
 own family, who are enjoying life, and I take a 
 brother's share in their happiness. We are all 
 fellow-soldiers in this earthl}^ battle, and what does 
 it matter on whom the honors of the victory fall ? 
 If Fortune passes by without seeing us and pours 
 her favors on others, let us console ourselves, like 
 the friend of Parmenio, by saying, '' Those, too, are 
 Alexanders." 
 
 While making these reflections, I was going on as 
 chance took me. I crossed from one pavement to 
 another, I retraced my steps, I stopped before the 
 shops or to read the hand-bills. How many things 
 there are to learn in the streets of Paris ! What a 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 39 
 
 museum it is ! Unknown fruits, foreign arms, 
 furniture of old times or other lands, animals of all 
 climates, statues of great men, costumes of distant 
 nations ! It is the world seen in samples ! 
 
 Let us then look at this people, whose knowledge 
 is gained from the shop windows and the trades- 
 man's display of goods. Nothing has been taught 
 them, but they have a rude notion of everything. 
 They have seen the ananas at Chevet's, a palm tree 
 in the Jardin des Plantes, sugar-canes selling on the 
 Pont-Neuf. The redskins exhibited in the Valen- 
 tine Hall have taught them to mimic the dance of 
 the bison and to smoke the calumet of peace ; they 
 have seen Carter's lions fed ; they know the prin- 
 cipal national costumes contained in Babin's col- 
 lection ; Goupil's display of prints has placed the 
 tiger-hunts of Africa and the sittings of the English 
 Parliament before their e3^es ; they have become ac- 
 quainted with Queen Victoria, the Emperor of 
 Austria, and Kossuth, at the ofRce-door of the 
 Illustrated News. We can certainly instruct them, 
 but not astonish them ; for nothing is completely 
 new to them. You may take the Paris ragamuffin 
 through the five quarters of the world, and at every 
 wonder with which you think to surprise hira, he 
 will settle the matter with that favorite and con- 
 clusive answer of his class — "I know." 
 
 But this variety of exhibitions, which makes 
 Paris the fair of the world, does not merely offer a 
 means of instruction to him who walks through it ; 
 it is a continual spur for rousing the imagination, a 
 
40 AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PAU18. 
 
 first step of the ladder always set up before us in a 
 vision. When we see them, how many voyages do 
 we take in imagination, what adventures do we 
 dream of, what pictures do we sketch I I never look 
 at that shop near the Chinese baths, with its tapes- 
 try hangings of Florida jessamine and filled with 
 magnolias, without seeing the forest glades of the 
 New World, described by the author of " Atala," 
 opening themselves out before me. 
 
 Then, when this study of things and this discourse 
 of reason begin to tire you, look around you ! 
 What contrasts of figures and faces you see in the 
 crowd ! What a vast field for the exercise of medi- 
 tation ! A half -seen glance, or a few words caught 
 as the speaker passes by, open a thousand vistas to 
 your imagination. You wish to comprehend what 
 these imperfect disclosures mean, and, as the anti- 
 quary endeavors to decipher the mutilated inscrip- 
 tion on some old monument, you build up a history 
 on a gesture or on a word ! These are the stirring 
 sports of the mind which finds in fiction a relief 
 from the wearisome dullness of the actual. 
 
 Alas! as I was just now passing by the carriage 
 entrance of a great house, I noticed a sad subject 
 for one of these histories. A man was sitting in the 
 darkest corner with his head bare, and holding out 
 his hat for the charity of those who passed. His 
 threadbare coat had that look of neatness which 
 marks that destitution has been met by a long strug- 
 gle. He had carefully buttoned it up to hide the 
 want of a shirt. His face was half-hid under his 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 41 
 
 long gi'ay hair, and his eyes closed, as if he wished 
 to escape the sight of his own humiliation, and he 
 remained mute and motionless. Those who passed 
 him took no notice of the beggar, who sat in silence 
 and darkness ! They had been so lucky as to 
 escape complaints and importunities, and were glad 
 to turn away their eyes too. 
 
 All at once the great gate turned on its hinges ; 
 and a very low carriage, lighted with silver lamps 
 and drawn by two black horses, came slowly out 
 and took the road toward the Faubourg St. Germain. 
 I could just distinguish, within, the sparkling dia- 
 monds and the flowers of a ball-dress ; the glare of 
 the lamps passed like a bloody streak over the pale 
 face of the beggar, and showed his look as his eyes 
 opened and followed the rich man's equipage until 
 it disappeared in the night. 
 
 I dropped a small piece of money into the hat he 
 was holding out and passed on quickly. 
 
 I had just fallen unexpectedly upon the two sad- 
 dest secrets of the disease which troubles the age we 
 live in : the envious hatred of him who suffers want, 
 and the selfish forgetfulness of him who lives in 
 affluence. 
 
 All the enjoyment of my walk was gone ; I left 
 off looking about me and retired into my own 
 heart. The animated and movino^ sio-ht in the 
 streets gave place to inward meditation upon all the 
 painful problems which have been written for the 
 last four thousand years at the bottom of each 
 human struggle, but which are propounded more 
 clearly than ever in our days. 
 
42 -^^ A TTia PEILOSOPEEM IN PA HIS. 
 
 I pondered on the uselessness of so many con- 
 tests in which defeat and victory only displace each 
 other by turns, and on the mistaken zealots who 
 have repeated from generation to generation the 
 bloody history of Cain and Abel ; and, saddened 
 with these mournful reflections, I walked on as 
 chance took me, until the silence all around insensi- 
 bly drew me out from my own thoughts. 
 
 I had reached one of the remote streets, in which 
 those who would live in comfort and without osten- 
 tation, and who love serious reflection, delight to 
 find a home. There were no shops along the dimly 
 lit pavement ; one heard no sounds but of the dis- 
 tant carriages and of the steps of some of the in- 
 habitants returning quietly home. 
 
 I instantly recognized the street, though I had 
 only been there once before. 
 
 That was two years ago. I was walking at the 
 time by the side of the Seine, to which the lights on 
 the quays and bridges gave the aspect of a lake 
 surrounded by a garland of stars ; and I had reached 
 the Louvre, when I was stopped b}^ a crowd col- 
 lected near the parapet ; they had gathered round 
 a child of about six, who was crying, and I asked 
 the cause of his tears. 
 
 ' " It seems that he was sent to walk in the 
 Tuileries," said a mason, who was returning from 
 his work with his trowel in his hand ; " the servant 
 who took care of him met with some friends there, 
 and told the child to wait for him while he went to 
 get a drink ; but I suppose the drink made him 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 43 
 
 more thirsty, for he has not come back, and the 
 child cannot find his way home." 
 
 " Why do they not ask him his name and where 
 he lives ?" 
 
 " They have been doing it for the last hour ; 
 but all he can say is that he is called Charles and 
 that his father is M. Duval — there are twelve hun- 
 dred Duvals in Paris." 
 
 "Then he does not know in what part of the 
 town he lives?" 
 
 " I should think not, indeed ! Don't 3^ou see that 
 he is a gentleman's child ? He has never gone out 
 except in a carriage or with a servant ; he does not 
 know what to do b}^ himself." 
 
 Here the mason was interrupted by some of the 
 voices rising above the others. 
 
 " We cannot leave him in the street," said some. 
 
 " The child-stealers would carry him off," con- 
 tinued others. 
 
 " We must take him to the overseer." 
 
 *' Or to the police-office." 
 
 " That's the thing. Come, little one !" 
 
 But the child, frightened by these suggestions of 
 danger and at the names of police and overseer, 
 cried louder and drew black toward the parapet. 
 In vain they tried to persuade him ; his fears made 
 him resist the more, and the most eao^er beo^an to 
 get weary, when the voice of a little boy was heard 
 through the confusion. 
 
 "I know^ him well — I do," said he, looking at 
 the lost child ; " he belongs to our part of the 
 town." 
 
44 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 " What part is it ?" 
 
 " Yonder, on the other side of the Boulevards — 
 Rue des Magasins." 
 , "And you have seen him before?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ! he belongs to the great house at the 
 end of the street, where there is an iron gate with, 
 gilt points." 
 
 The child quickly raised his head and stopped 
 crying. The little boy answered all the questions 
 that were put to him, and gave such details as left 
 no room for doubt. The other child understood 
 him, for he went up to him as if to put himself 
 under his protection. 
 
 "Then you can take him to his parents ?" asked 
 the mason, who had listened with real interest to 
 the little boy's account. 
 
 " I don't care if I do," replied he ; " it's the way 
 I'm going." 
 
 " Then you will take charge of him ?" 
 
 " He has only to come with me." 
 
 And, taking up the basket he had put down on 
 the pavement, he set off toward the postern gate of 
 the Louvre. 
 
 The lost child followed him. 
 
 " I hope he will take him right," said I when I 
 saw them go away. 
 
 " Never fear," replied the mason ; " the little one 
 in the blouse is the same age as the other ; but, as 
 the saying is, ' he knows black from white ;' 
 poverty, you see, is a famous schoolmistress !" 
 
 The crowd dispersed. For my part, I went to- 
 
AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 45 
 
 ward the Louvre : the thought came into my head 
 to follow the two children, so as to guard against 
 any mistake. 
 
 I was not long in overtaking them ; they were walk- 
 ing side by side, talking, and already quite familiar 
 with one another. The contrast in their dress then 
 struck me. Little Duval wore one of those fanciful 
 children's dresses which are expensive as well as in 
 good taste ; his coat was skillfully fitted to his 
 figure, his trousers came down in plaits from his 
 waist to his boots of polished leather with mother- 
 of-pearl buttons, and his ringlets were half hid by a 
 velvet cap. The appearance of his guide, on the 
 contrary, was that of the class who dwell on the 
 extreme borders of poverty, but who there maintain 
 their ground with no surrender. His old blouse, 
 patched with pieces of different shades, indicated the 
 perseverance of an industrious mother struggling 
 against the wear and tear of time ; his trousers were 
 become too short, and showed his stockings darned 
 over and over again ; and it was evident that his 
 shoes were not made for him. 
 
 The countenances of the two children were not 
 less different than their dresses. That of the first 
 was delicate and refined ; his clear blue eye, his fair 
 skin, and his smiling mouth gave him a charming 
 look of innocence and happiness. The features of 
 the other, on the contrary, had something rough in 
 them ; his eye was quick and lively, his complexion 
 dark, his smile less merry than shrewd ; all showed 
 a mind sharpened by too early experience ; he bold- 
 
46 ^N ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS, 
 
 ly walked through the middle of the streets 
 thronged by carriages, and followed their count- 
 less turnings without hesitation. 
 
 I found, on asking him, that every day he carried 
 dinner to his father, who was then working on the 
 left bank of the Seine, and this responsible duty had 
 made him careful and prudent. He had learned 
 those hard but forcible lessons of necessity which 
 nothing can equal or supply the place of. Unfortu- 
 nately the wants of his poor family had kept him 
 from school, and he seemed to feel the loss, for he 
 often stopped before the print shops and asked his 
 companion to read him the names of the engravine^s. 
 In this way we reached the Boulevard Bonne Nou- 
 velle, which the little wanderer seemed to know 
 again ; notwithstanding his fatigue, he hurried on ; 
 he was agitated by mixed feelings ; at the sight of 
 his house he uttered a cry and ran toward the iron 
 gate w^ith the gilt points ; a lady who was standing 
 at the entrance received him in her arms, and from 
 the exclamations of joy and the sound of kisses I 
 soon perceived she was his mother, 
 
 Not seeing either the servant or the child return, 
 she had sent in search of them in every direction 
 and was waiting for them in intense anxiety. 
 
 I explained to her in a few words what had hap- 
 pened. She thanked me warmly, and looked round 
 for the little boy who had recognized and brought 
 back her son, but while we were talking he had dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 It was for the first time since then that I had 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 47 
 
 come into this part of Paris. Did the mother con- 
 tinue grateful ? Had the children met again, and 
 had the happy chance of their first meeting lowered 
 between them that barrier which may mark the 
 different ranks of men, but should not divide them? 
 
 While putting these questions to myself, I slack- 
 ened my pace and fixed my eyes on the great gate, 
 which I just perceived. All at once I sa\v it open 
 and two children appeared at the entrance. Al- 
 though much grown, I recognized them at first sight ; 
 they were the child who was found near the parapet 
 of the Louvre and his young guide. But the dress 
 of the latter was greatly changed : his blouse of 
 gray cloth was neat and even spruce, and was 
 fastened round the waist by a polished leather belt ; 
 he wore strong shoes, but made to his feet, and had 
 on a new cloth cap. 
 
 Just at the moment I saw him he held in his two 
 hands an enormous bunch of lilacs, to which his 
 companion was trying to add narcissuses and prim- 
 roses ; the two children laughed and parted with a 
 friendly good-by. M. Duval's son did not go in 
 till he had seen the other turn the corner of the 
 street. 
 
 Then I accosted the latter and reminded him of 
 our former meeting. He looked at me for a mo- 
 ment and then seemed to recollect me. 
 
 "Forgive me if I do not make you a bow," said 
 he merrily, " but I want both my hands for the 
 nosegay M. Charles has given me." 
 
 " You are, then, become great friends ?" said I. 
 
48 ^N ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 " Oh ! I should think so," said the child ; " and 
 now my father is rich too !" 
 
 " How's that ?" 
 
 "M. Duval lent him a little money ; he has taken 
 a shop, where he works on his own account ; and as 
 for me, I go to school." 
 
 " Yes," replied I, remarking for the first time the 
 cross which decorated his little coat ; " and I see 
 that you are head boy !" 
 
 " M. Charles helps me to learn, and so I am come 
 to be the first in the class." 
 
 " Are you now going to your lessons ?" 
 
 " Yes, and he has given me some lilacs, for he has 
 a garden where we play together and where my 
 mother can always have flowers." 
 
 " Then it is the same as if it were partly your 
 own." 
 
 " So it is ! Ah ! they are good neighbors indeed ! 
 But here I am ; good-by, sir." 
 
 He nodded to me with a smile and disappeared. 
 
 1 went on with my walk, still pensive, but with a 
 feeling of relief. If I had elsewhere witnessed the 
 painful contrast between affluence and want, here I 
 had found the true union of riches and poverty. 
 Hearty good-will had smoothed down the more 
 rugged inequalities on both sides and had opened a 
 road of true neighborhood and fellowship between the 
 humble workshop and the stately mansion. Instead 
 of hearkening to the voice of interest they had both 
 listened to that of self-sacrifice, and there was no 
 place left for contempt or envy. Thus, instead of 
 
AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 49 
 
 the beggar in rags that I had seen at the other door 
 cursing the rich man, I had found here the happy 
 child of the laborer loaded with flowers and blessing 
 him ! The problem, so difficult and so dangerous to 
 examine into with no regard but for the rights of 
 it, I had just seen solved by love. 
 
50 AJU ATTIG PHIL080PHEB IN PARIS, 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 COMPENSATION. 
 
 Sunday, May '^Ith. — Capital cities have one thing 
 peculiar to them : their days of rest seem to be the 
 signal for a general dispersion and flight. Like 
 birds that are just restored to liberty, the people 
 come out of their stone cages and joyfully fly 
 toward the country. It is who shall lind a green 
 hillock for a seat or the shade of a wood for a 
 shelter; they gather May flowers, they runabout 
 the fields ; the town is forgotten until the evening, 
 when they return with sprigs of blooming hawthorn 
 in their hats, and their hearts gladdened by pleasant 
 thoughts and recollections of the past day ; the 
 next day they return again to their harness and to 
 work. 
 
 These rural adventures are most remarkable at 
 Paris. When the fine weather comes, clerks, shop- 
 keepers, and workingmen look forward impatiently 
 for the Sunday as the day for trying a few hours 
 of this pastoral life ; they walk through six miles of 
 grocers' shops and public-houses in the faubourgs in 
 the sole hope of finding a real turnip-field. The 
 father of a family begins the practical education of 
 his son by showing him wheat which has not taken 
 
AN A Tl IG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 61 
 
 the form of a loaf and cabbage " in its wild state." 
 Heaven only knows the encounters, the discoveries, 
 the adventures that are met with ! What Parisian 
 has not had his Odyssey in an excursion through the 
 suburbs, and would not be able to write a companion 
 to the famous "' Travels by Land and by Sea from 
 Paris to St. Cloud ?" 
 
 We do not now speak of that floating population 
 from all parts, for whom our French Babylon is the 
 caravansary of Europe ; a phalanx of thinkers, 
 artists, men of business, and travelers, who, like 
 Homer's liero, have arrived in their intellectual 
 country after having seen " many peoples and 
 cities;" but of the settled Parisian, wdio keeps his 
 appointed place and lives on his own floor like the 
 oyster on his rock, a curious vestige of the credulit}^, 
 the slowness, and the simplicity of bygone ages. 
 
 For one of the singularities of Paris is that it 
 unites twenty populations completely different in 
 character and manners. By the side of the gypsies 
 of commerce and of art, who w^ander through all 
 the several stages of fortune or fancy, live a quiet 
 race of people with an independence, or with 
 regular w^ork, whose existence resembles the dial of 
 a clock, on which the same hand points by turns to 
 the same hours. H' no other citv can show more 
 brilliant and more stirring forms of life, no other 
 contains more obscure and more tranquil ones. 
 Great cities are like the sea : storms only agitate 
 the surface ; if you go to the bottom, you find a 
 region inaccessible to the tumult and the noise. 
 
52 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 For my part, I have settled on the verge of this 
 region, but do not actually live in it. I am removed 
 from the turmoil of the world and live in the 
 shelter of solitude, but without being able to dis- 
 connect my thoughts from the struggle going on. 
 I follow at a distance all its events of happiness or 
 grief; I join the feasts and the funerals; for how 
 can he who looks on and knows what passes do 
 other than take part? Ignorance alone can keep 
 us strangers to the life around us : selfishness itself 
 will not suffice for that. 
 
 These reflections I made to myself in my attic, 
 in the intervals of the various " household works" 
 to which a bachelor is forced when he has no other 
 servant than his own ready will. While I was 
 pursuing my deductions I had blacked my boots, 
 brushed my coat, and tied my cravat : I had at last 
 arrived at the important moment when we pronounce 
 complacently that all is finished, and that well. 
 
 A grand resolve had just decided me to depart 
 from my usual habits. The evening before I had 
 seen by the advertisements that the next day was a 
 holiday at Sevres, and that the china manufactory 
 would be open to the public. I was tempted by the 
 beauty of the morning and suddenly decided to go 
 there. 
 
 On my arrival at the station on the left bank I 
 noticed the crowd hurrying on in the fear of being 
 late. Railroads, besides many other advantages, 
 will have that of teaching the French punctuality. 
 They will submit to the clock when they are con- 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 53 
 
 vinced that it is their master ; they will learn to 
 wait when they find they will not be waited for. 
 Social virtues are in a great degree good habits. 
 How many great qualities are grafted into nations 
 by their geographical position, by political necessity, 
 and by institutions ! Avarice was destroyed for a 
 time among the Lacedaemonians by the creation of 
 an iron coinage too heavy and too bulky to be con- 
 veniently hoarded. 
 
 I found myself in a carriage with two middle- 
 aged sisters belong to the domestic and retired class 
 of Parisians I have spoken of above. A few civil- 
 ities were sufficient to gain me their confidence, and 
 after some minutes I was acquainted with their 
 whole history. 
 
 They were two poor women, left orphans at 
 fifteen, and had lived ever since, as those who work 
 for their livelihood must live, b}^ economy and 
 privation. For the last twenty or thirty years they 
 had worked in jewelry in the same house; they had 
 seen ten masters succeed one another and make 
 their fortunes in it, without any change in their 
 own lot. They had always lived in the same room, 
 at the end of one of the passages in the Itue St. 
 Denis, where the air and the sun are unkuown„ 
 They began their work before daylight, went on 
 with it till after nightfall, and saw year succeed to 
 year without their lives being marked by any other 
 events than the Sunday service, a walk, or an ill- 
 ness. 
 
 The younger of these worthy workwomen was 
 
54 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 forty, and obeyed her sister as she did when a child. 
 The elder looked after her, took care of her, and 
 scolded her with a mother's tenderness. At first it 
 was amusing ; afterward one could not help seeing 
 something affecting in these two gray-haired chil- 
 dren, one unable to leave off the habit of obeying, 
 the other that of protecting. 
 
 And it was not in that alone that my two com- 
 panions seemed younger than their years ; they 
 knew so little that their wonder never ceased. We 
 had hardly arrived at Clamart before they involun- 
 tarily exclaimed, like the king in the children's 
 game, that " they did not think the world was so 
 great !" 
 
 It was the first time they had trusted themselves 
 on a railroad, and it was amusing to see their sud- 
 den shocks, their alarms, and their courageous de- 
 terminations : everything was a marvel to them! 
 They had remains of youth within them, which 
 made them sensible to things which usually only 
 strike us in childhood. Poor creatures ! they had 
 still the feelirigs of another age, though they had 
 lost its charms. 
 
 But was there not something holy in this sim- 
 plicity, which had been preserved to them by ab- 
 stinence from all the joys of life ? Ah ! accursed 
 be he who first had the bad courage to attach ridi- 
 cule to that name of Old Maid, which recalls so 
 many images of grievous deception, of dreariness, 
 and of abandonment ! Accursed be he who can find 
 a subject for sarcasm in involuntary misfortune 
 and who can crown gray hairs with thorns ! 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 55 
 
 The two sisters were called Frances and Mad- 
 eleine. This day's journey was a feat of courage 
 without example in their lives. The fever of the 
 times had infected them unawares. Yesterday 
 Madeleine had suddenly proposed the idea of the 
 expedition, and Frances had accepted it immedi- 
 ately. Perhaps it w^ould have been better not to 
 have yielded to the temptation offered by her 
 young sister ; but " we have our follies at all ages," 
 as the prudent Frances philosophically remarked. 
 As for Madeleine, there are no regrets or doubts for 
 her ; she is the life-guardsman of the establishment. 
 
 " We really must amuse ourselves," said she ; "' we 
 do but live once." 
 
 And the elder sister smiled at this Epicurean 
 maxim. It was evident that the fever of independ- 
 ence was at its crisis in both of them. 
 
 And in truth it would have been a great pity if 
 any scruple had interfered with their happiness, it 
 was so frank and genial ! The sight of the trees, 
 which seemed to fly on both sides of the road, 
 caused them unceasing admiration. The meeting a 
 train passing in the contrary direction, with the 
 noise and rapidity of a thunderbolt, made them shut 
 their eyes and utter a cry ; but it had already dis- 
 appeared ! They look round, take courage again, 
 and express themselves full of astonishment at the 
 marvel. 
 
 Madeleine declares that such a sight is worth the 
 expense of the journey, and Frances would have 
 agreed with her if she had not recollected, with 
 
56 ^^ ATTIG PHtLOSOPEER IN PARIS. 
 
 some little alarm, the deficit which such an expense 
 must make in their budget. The 3 francs spent 
 upon this single expedition were the savings of a 
 whole week of work. Thus the joy of the elder of 
 the two sisters was mixed with remorse ; the prodi- 
 gal child now and then turned back its eyes toward 
 the back street of St. Denis. 
 
 But the motion and the succession of objects dis- 
 tract her. See the bridge of the Yal surrounded by 
 its lovely landscape : on the right, Paris with its 
 grand monuments, which rise through the fog or 
 sparkle in the sun ; on the left, Meudon, with its 
 villas, its w^oods, its vines, and its royal castle ! The 
 two workwomen look from one window to the other 
 with exclamations of delight. One fellow-passen- 
 ger laughs at their childish wonder ; but to myself 
 it is very touching, for I see in it the sign of a long 
 and monotonous seclusion : they are the prisoners 
 of work who have recovered liberty and fresh air 
 for a few" hours. 
 
 At last the train stops and we get out. I show 
 the two sisters the path that leads to Sevres, be- 
 tween the railway and the gardens, and they go on 
 before, while I inquire about the time of returning. 
 
 I soon join them again at the next station, where 
 they have stopped at the little garden belonging to 
 the gatekeeper ; both are already in deep conver- 
 sation with him while he digs his garden borders 
 and marks out the places for flower-seeds. He in- 
 forms them that it is the time for hoeing out weeds, 
 for making grafts and layers, for sowing annuals, 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 57 
 
 and for destroying the insects on the rose-trees. 
 Madeleine has on the sill of her window two wooden 
 boxes in which, for want of air and sun, she has 
 never been able to make anything grow but mus- 
 tard and cress ; but she persuades herself that, 
 thanks to this information, all other plants may 
 henceforth thrive in them. At last the gatekeeper, 
 Avho is sowing a border with mignonette, gives her 
 the rest of the seeds which he does not want, and 
 the old maid goes off delighted and begins to act 
 over again the dream of Perette and her can of 
 milk with these flowers of her imagination. 
 
 On reaching the grove of acacias, where the fair 
 was going on, I lost sight of the two sisters. I went 
 alone among the sights: there were lotteries going 
 on, mountebank shows, places for eating and drink- 
 ing, and for shooting with the cross-bow. I have 
 always been struck by the spirit of these out-of-door 
 festivities. In drawing-room entertainments peo- 
 ple are cold, grave, often listless, and most of those 
 who go there are brought together by habit or the 
 obligations of society ; in the country assemblies, 
 on the contrary, you only find those who are at- 
 tracted by the hope of enjoyment. There, it is a 
 forced conscription ; here, they are volunteers for 
 gayety ! Then, how easily the}'' are pleased ! How 
 far this crowd of people is yet from knowing that 
 to be pleased with nothing and to look down on 
 everything is the height of fashion and good taste ! 
 Doubtless their amusements are often coarse ; ele- 
 gance and refinement are wanting in them ; but at 
 
58 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 least they have heartiness. Oh that the hearty en- 
 joyments of these merry-makings could be retained 
 in union with less vulgar feeling ! Formerly reli- 
 gion stamped its holy character on the celebration of 
 country festivals and purified the pleasures with- 
 out depriving them of their simplicity. 
 
 The hour arrives at which the doors of the porce- 
 lain manufactory and the museum of pottery are 
 open to the public. I meet Frances and Madeleine 
 again in the first room. Frightened at finding 
 themselves in the midst of such regal magnificence, 
 they hardly dare walk ; they speak in a low tone, as 
 if they were in a church. 
 
 " We are in the king's house," said the eldest 
 sister, forgetting that there is no longer a king in 
 France. 
 
 I encourage them, to go on ; I w^alk first and they 
 make up their minds to follow me. 
 
 What wonders are brought together in this col- 
 lection ! Here v^e see clay molded into every shape, 
 tinted with every color, and combined with every 
 sort of substance ! 
 
 Earth and wood are the first substances worked 
 upon by man, and seem more particularly meant 
 for his use. They, like the domestic animals, are 
 the essential accessories of his life ; therefore there 
 must be a more intimate connection between them 
 and us. Stone and metals require long prepara- 
 tions ; they resist our first efforts, and belong less to 
 the individual than to communities. Earth and 
 wood are, on the contrary, the principal instruments 
 
AN ATTIC PUILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 59 
 
 of the isolated being who must feed and shelter 
 himself. 
 
 This, doubtless, makes me feel so much interested 
 in the collection I am examining. These cups, so 
 roughly modeled by the savage, admit me to a 
 knowledge of some of his habits ; these elegant yet 
 incorrectly formed vases of the Indian tell me of a 
 declining intelligence, in which still glimmers the 
 twilight of what w^as once bright sunshine; these 
 jars, loaded with arabesques, show the fancy of the 
 Arab rudely and ignorantly copied by the Spaniard! 
 We find here tlie stamp of every race, every 
 country, and every age. 
 
 My companions seemed little interested in these 
 historical associations ; they looked at all with that 
 credulous admiration which leaves no room for 
 examination or discussion. Madeleine read the 
 name written under every piece of workmanship, 
 and her sister answered with an exclamation of 
 wonder. 
 
 In this way we reached a little court-yard, where 
 they had thrown away the fragments of some 
 broken china. Frances perceived a colored saucer 
 almost whole, of which she took possession as a rec- 
 ord of the visit she was making ; henceforth she 
 would have a specimen of the Sevres china, " which 
 is only made for kings !" I would not undeceive 
 her by telling her that the products of the manu- 
 factory are sold all over the world, and that her 
 saucer, before it was cracked, was the same as those 
 that are bought at the shops for sixpence ! Why 
 
60 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 should I destroy the illusions of her humble exist- 
 ence ? Are we to break down the hedge-flowers 
 which perfume our paths? Things are oftenest 
 nothing in themselves ; the thoughts we attach to 
 them alone give them value. To rectify innocent 
 mistakes in order to recover some useless reality 
 is to be like those learned men who will see nothing 
 in a plant but the chemical elements of which it is 
 composed. 
 
 On leaving the manufactory, the two sisters, who 
 had taken possession of me with the freedom of 
 artlessness, invited me to share the luncheon they 
 had brought with them. I declined at first, but 
 they insisted with so much good nature that I 
 feared to pain them, and with some awkwardnesss 
 gave way. 
 
 We had only to look for a convenient spot. I 
 led them up the hill, and we found a plot of grass 
 enameled with daisies and shaded by two walnut- 
 trees. 
 
 Madeleine could not contain herself for joy. All 
 her life she had dreamed of a dinner out on the 
 grass ! While helping her sister to take the pro- 
 visions from the basket, she tells me of all her ex- 
 peditions into the country that had been planned 
 and put off. Frances, on the other hand, was 
 brought up at Montmorency, and before she became 
 an orphan she had often gone back to her nurse's 
 house. That which had the attraction of novelty 
 for her sister had for her the charm of recollection. 
 She told the vintage harvests to which her parents 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 61 
 
 had taken her ; the rides on Mother Luret's donkey, 
 that they could not make go to the right without 
 pulling him to the left ; the cherry-gathering ; and 
 the sails on the lake in the boat of the innkeeper. 
 
 These recollections have all the charm and fresh- 
 ness of childhood. Frances recalls to herself less 
 what she has seen than what she has felt. While 
 she is talking the cloth is laid, and we sit down un- 
 der a tree. Before us winds the valley of Sevres, 
 its many-storied houses abutting upon the gardens 
 and the slopes of the hill ; on the other side spreads 
 out the park of St. Cloud, with its magnificent 
 clumps of trees interspersed with meadows ; above 
 stretch the heavens like an immense ocean, in which 
 the clouds are sailing ! I look at this beautiful 
 country and I listen to these good old maids; I 
 admire and I am interested ; and time passes gently 
 on without my perceiving it. 
 
 At last the sun sets, and we have to think of re- 
 turning. While Madeleine and Frances clear away 
 the dinner, I walk down to the manufactory to ask 
 the hour. The merry-making is at its height ; the 
 blasts of the trombones resound from the band 
 under the acacias. For a few moments I forget 
 myself with looking about ; but 1 have promised the 
 two sisters to take them back to the Bellevue 
 station : the train cannot wait, and I make haste to 
 climb the path again which leads to the w^alnut- 
 trees. 
 
 Just before I reached them I heard voices on the 
 other side of the hedge. Madeleine and Frances 
 
62 AN ATTIC PniLOSOPBER IN PARIS. 
 
 were speaking to a poor girl whose clothes were 
 burned, her hands blackened, and her face tied up 
 with blood-stained bandages. I saw that she was 
 one of the girls employed at the gunpowder mills, 
 which are built higher up on the common. An ex- 
 plosion had taken place a few days before ; the girl's 
 mother and elder sister were killed ; she herself 
 escaped by a miracle and was now left without any 
 means of support. She told all this with the re- 
 signed and unhopeful manner of one who has 
 always been accustomed to suffer. The two sisters 
 were much affected ; I saw them consulting with 
 one another in a low tone : then Frances took 30 
 sous out of a little coarse silk purse, which was all 
 they had left, and gave them to the poor girl. 1 
 hastened on to that side of the hedge ; but before I 
 reached it I met the two old sisters, who called out 
 to me that they would not return by the railway, 
 but on foot ! 
 
 I then understood that the money they had meant 
 for the journey had just been given to the beggar ! 
 Good, like evil, is contagious : I run to the poor 
 wounded girl, give her the sum that was to pay for 
 my own place, and return to Frances and Made- 
 leine and tell them I will walk with them. 
 
 I am just come back from taking them home, and 
 have left them delighted with their day, the recol- 
 lection of which will long make them happy. 
 
 This morning I was pitying those whose lives are 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 63 
 
 obscure and joyless ; now, I understand that God 
 has provided a compensation with every trial. The 
 smallest pleasure derives from rarit}^ a relish other- 
 wise unknown. Enjoyment is only what we feel to 
 be such, and the luxurious man feels no longer : 
 satiety has destroyed his appetite, while privation 
 preserves to the other that first of earthly blessings, 
 the being easily made happy. Oh that I could per- 
 suade every one of this ! that so the rich might not 
 abuse their riches and that the poor might have 
 patience. If happiness is the rarest of blessings, it 
 is because the reception of it is the rarest of virtues. 
 Madeleine and Frances ! yQ poor old maids whose 
 courage, resignation, and generous hearts are your 
 only wealth, pray for the wretched who give them- 
 selves up to despair; for the unhappy who hate and 
 envy ; and for the unfeeling into whose enjoyments 
 no pity enters. 
 
64 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PAEI8, 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 UNCLE MAURICE. 
 
 June ^th, Four O'clock AM, — I am not surprised 
 at hearing, when I awake, the birds singing so joy- 
 fully outside my window ; it is only by living, as 
 they and I do, in a top story, that one comes to 
 know how cheerful the mornings really are up 
 among the roofs. It is there that the sun sends his 
 first rays and the breeze comes with the fragrance 
 of the gardens and woods ; there that a wandering 
 butterfly sometimes ventures among the flowers of 
 the attic and that the songs of the industrious 
 workwoman welcome the dawn of day. The lower 
 stories are still deep in sleep, silence, and shadow, 
 while here labor, light, and song already reign. 
 
 What life is around me ! See the swallow return- 
 ing from her search for food, with her beak full of 
 insects for her young ones ; the sparrows shake the 
 dew from their wings while they chase one another 
 in the sunshine ; and my neighbors throw open their 
 windows and welcome the morning with their fresh 
 faces 1 Delightful hour of waking, when everything 
 returns to feeling and to motion ; when the first 
 light of day strikes upon creation and brings it to 
 life again, as the magic wand struck the palace of 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 65 
 
 the Sleeping Beauty in the wood ! It is a moment 
 of rest from every misery ; the sufferings of the sick 
 are allayed, and a breath of hope enters into the 
 hearts of the despairing. But, alas ! it is but a short 
 respite! Everything will soon resume its wonted 
 course : the great human machine, with its long 
 strains, its deep gasps, its collisions, and its crashes, 
 will be again put in motion. 
 
 The tranquillity of this first morning hour reminds 
 me of that of our first years of life. Then, too, the 
 sun shines brightly, the air is fragrant, and the 
 illusions of youth — those birds of our life's morning 
 — sing around us. Why do they fly away when we 
 are older ? Where do this sadness and this solitude, 
 which gradually steal upon us, come from? The 
 course seems to be the same with individuals and 
 with communities : at starting, so readily made 
 happy, so easily enchanted ; and at the goal, the 
 bitter disappointment of reality ! The road, which 
 began among hawthorns and primroses, ends speedi- 
 ly in deserts or in precipices ! Why is there so 
 much confidence at first, so much doubt at last? 
 Has, then, the knowledge of life no other end but 
 to make it unfit for happiness ? Must we condemn 
 ourselves to ignorance if we would preserve hope ? 
 Is the world and is the individual man intended, 
 after all, to find rest only in an eternal childhood ? 
 
 How man}^ times have I asked myself these ques- 
 tions ! Solitude has the advantage or the danger of 
 making us continually search more deeply into the 
 same ideas. As our discourse is only with ourself, 
 
66 AK ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 we always give the same direction to the conversa- 
 tion ; we are not called to turn it to the subject 
 which occupies another mind or interests another's 
 feelings ; and so an involuntary inclination makes 
 us return forever to knock at the same doors ! 
 
 I interrupted my reflections to put my attic in 
 order. I hate the look of disorder, because it shows 
 either a contempt for details or an inaptness for 
 spiritual life. To arrange the things among which 
 we have to live is to establish the relation of prop- 
 erty and of use between them and us : it is to lay the 
 foundation of those habits without which man tends 
 to the savage state. What, in fact, is social organ- 
 ization but a series of habits, settled in accordance 
 with the dispositions of our nature ? 
 
 I distrust both the intellect and the morality of 
 those people to whom disorder is of no consequence 
 — who can live at ease in an Augean stable. What 
 surrounds us reflects more or less that which is 
 within us. The mind is like one of those dark 
 lanterns w^hich, in spite of everything, still throw 
 some light around. If our tastes did not reveal our 
 character, they would be no longer tastes, but 
 instincts. 
 
 While I was arranging everything in my attic, 
 my eyes rested on the little almanac hanging over 
 my chimney-piece. I looked for the day of the 
 month, and i saw these words written in large 
 letters : " Fete Dieu !" 
 
 It is to-day ! In this great city, where there are 
 no longer any public religious solemnities, there is 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARTS. 67 
 
 nothing to remind us of it; but it is, in truth, the 
 period so happily chosen by the primitive Church. 
 " The day kept in honor of the Creator," says Cha- 
 teaubriand, " happens at a time when the heaven and 
 the earth declare his power, when the woods and 
 fields are full of new life, and all are united by the 
 happiest ties ; there is not a single widowed plant 
 in the fields." 
 
 What recollections these words have just awak- 
 ened ! I left off what I was about, I leaned my 
 elbows on the window-sill, and, with my head be- 
 tween my two hands, I went back in thought to the 
 little town where the first days of my childhood 
 were passed. 
 
 The F te Die%i was then one of the great events 
 of ra}^ life ! It was necessary to be diligent and 
 obedient a long time beforehand to deserve to share 
 in it. I still recollect with w^hat raptures of ex- 
 pectation I got up on the morning of the day. 
 There was a holy joy in the air. The neighbors, up 
 earlier than usual, hung cloths with flowers or 
 figures worked in tapestry along the streets, I 
 went from one to another, by turns admiring relig- 
 ious scenes of the Middle Ages, mj^thological com- 
 positions of the Renaissance, old battles in the style 
 of Louis XIY., and the Arcadias of Madame de 
 Pompadour. All this world of phantoms seemed 
 to be coming forth from the dust of past ages to 
 assist — silent and motionless — at the holy ceremony. 
 I looked, alternately in fear and wonder, at those 
 terrible warriors with their swords always raised, 
 
68 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHEM IN PARIS. 
 
 those beautiful huntresses shooting the arrow which 
 never left the bow, and those shepherds in satin 
 breeches always playing the flute at the feet of the 
 perpetually smiling shepherdess. Sometimes, when 
 the wind blew behind these hanging pictures, it 
 seemed to me that the figures themselves moved, 
 and I watched to see them detach themselves from 
 the wall and take their place in the procession! 
 But these impressions were vague and transitory. 
 The feeling that predominated over every other was 
 that of an overflowing yet quiet joy. In the midst 
 of all the floating draperies, the scattered flowers, 
 the voices of the maidens, and the gladness which, 
 like a perfume, exhaled from everything, you felt 
 transported in spite of yourself. The joyful sounds 
 of the festival were repeated in your heart in a 
 thousand melodious echoes. You were more indul- 
 gent, more holy, more loving ! For God was not 
 only manifesting himself without, but also within 
 us. 
 
 And then the altars for the occasion ! the flowery 
 arbors ! the triumphal arches made of green boughs ! 
 What competition among the diff*erent parishes for 
 the erection of the resting-places* where the proces- 
 sion was to halt ! It was who should contribute 
 the rarest and the most beautiful of his posses- 
 sions ! 
 
 It was there I made my first sacrifice ! 
 
 * The reposoirs^ or temporary altars, on which the conse 
 crated elements are placed while the procession halts. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 69 
 
 The wreaths of flowers were arranged, the can- 
 dles lighted, and the tabernaclef dressed with 
 roses ; but one was wanting fit to crown the whole! 
 All the neighboring gardens had been ransacked. I 
 alone possessed a flower worthy of such a place. It 
 was on the rose-tree given me by my mother on my 
 birthday. I had watched it for several months, 
 and there was no other bud to blow on the tree. 
 There it was, half-open, in its mossy nest, the object 
 of such long expectations, and of all a child's pride ! 
 I hesitated for some moments. Ko one had asked 
 me for it ; I might easily avoid losing it. I should 
 hear no reproaches, but one rose noiselessly within 
 me. When everj^ one else had given all they had, 
 ought I alone to keep back my treasure ? Ought I 
 to grudge to God one of the gifts which, like all the 
 rest, 1 had received from him? At this last thought 
 1 plucked the flower from the stem and took it to 
 put at the top of the tabernacle. Ah ! why does 
 the recollection of this sacrifice, which was so hard 
 and yet so sweet to me, now make me smile? Is it 
 so certain that the value of a gift is in itself rather 
 than in the intention ? If the cup of cold water in 
 the Gospel is remembered to the poor man, why 
 should not the flower be remembered to the child ? 
 Let us not look down upon the child's simple acts 
 of generosity ; it is these which accustom the soul 
 to self-denial and to sympathy. I cherished this 
 moss-rose a long time as a sacred talisman ; I had 
 
 t An ornamental case or cabinet, which contains the bread 
 and wine. 
 
70 ^^ A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 reason to cherish it always, as the record of the first 
 victory won over myself. 
 
 It is now many years since I witnessed the cele- 
 bration of the Fete Dieii ; but should I again feel 
 in it the happy sensations of former days ? I still 
 remember how, when the procession had passed, 
 I walked through the the streets strewed with 
 liowers and shaded with green boughs. I felt in- 
 toxicated by the lingering perfumes of the incense, 
 mixed with the fragrance of syringas, jessamines, 
 and roses, and I seemed no longer to touch the 
 ground as I went along. I smiled at everything; 
 the whole world was Paradise in my eyes, and it 
 seemed to me that God was floating in the air ! 
 
 Moreover, this feeling was not the excitement of 
 the moment : it might be more intense on certain 
 days, but at the same time it continued through the 
 ordinary course of my life. Many years thus passed 
 for me in an expansion of heart and a trustfulness 
 which prevented sorrow, if not from coming, at 
 least from staving with me. Sure of not being" 
 alone, I soon took heart again, like the child who 
 recovers its courage because it hears its mother's 
 voice close by. Why have I lost that confidence of 
 my childhood ? Shall I never feel again so deeply 
 that God is here ? 
 
 How strange the association of our thoughts! A 
 day of the month recalls my infancy, and see, all 
 the recollections of my former years are growing 
 up around me ! Why was I so happy then ? I 
 consider well, and nothing is sensibly changed in 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 71 
 
 my condition. I possess, as I did then, health and 
 my daily bread ; the only difference is that I am 
 now responsible for myself ! As a child, I accepted 
 life when it came ; another cared and provided for 
 me. As long as I fullilled my present duties I 
 was at peace within, and I left the future to the 
 prudence of my father ! My destiny was a ship, in 
 the direction of which I had no share and in Avhich 
 I sailed as a common passenger. There was the 
 whole secret of childhood's happy security. Since 
 then worldly wisdom has deprived me of it. AYhen 
 my lot was intrusted to my own and sole keeping, I 
 thought to make myself master of it by means of a 
 long insight into the future. I have filled the 
 present hour with anxieties by occupying my 
 thoughts with the future; I have put my judgment 
 in the place of Providence, and the happy child is 
 changed into the anxious man. 
 
 A melancholy course, yet perhaps an important 
 lesson. Who knows that, if I had trusted more to 
 Him who rules the world, I should not have been 
 spared all this anxiety ? It may be that happiness 
 is not possible here below, but on the condition of 
 living like a child, giving ourselves up to the duties 
 of each day as it comes, and trusting in the good- 
 ness of our heavenly Father for all besides. 
 
 This reminds me of my Uncle Maurice ! When- 
 ever I have need to strengthen m^^self in all that 
 is good, I turn my thoughts to him ; I see again 
 the gentle expression of his half-smiling, half-mourn- 
 ful face ; I hear his voice, always soft and soothing 
 
72 AN A TTIC PniLOSOniEIi IN PAniS. 
 
 as a breath of summer! The remembrance of him 
 protects my life aiul gives it light, lie, too, was a 
 saint and martyr here below. Others liave pointed 
 out the path of heaven ; he has taught us to see 
 those of earth aright. 
 
 But except the angels, who are charged with 
 noting down the sacrihces performed in secret and 
 the virtues which are never known, who has ever 
 heard speak cf my Uncle Alaurice? Perhaps I alone 
 remember his name and still recall his histor3^ 
 
 AVell ! I will write it, not for others, but for 
 myself ! They say that at the sight of the Apollo 
 the body erects itself and assumes a more digni- 
 fied attitude : in the same way, the soul should 
 feel itself raised and ennobled by the recollection 
 of a good man's life ! 
 
 A ray of the rising sun lights up the little table 
 on which I write ; the breeze brings me in the scent 
 of the mignonette, and the swallows wheel about my 
 window with joyful tAvitterings! The image of my 
 Uncle Maurice will be in its proper place amid the 
 songs, the sunshine, and the fragrance. 
 
 Seven 0\'1oel\ — It is with men's lives as with 
 days: some dawn radiant with a thousand colors, 
 others dark with gloomy clouds. That of ni}^ Uncle 
 Maurice was one of the latter. He was so sickly 
 when he came into the world that they thought he 
 must die ; but notwithstanding these anticipations, 
 which might be called hopes, he continued to live, 
 sulTering and deformed. 
 
 lie was deprived of all joys as well as of all 
 
AN A TTIC PIIILOSOPUEU IN PARIS. 73 
 
 the attractions of childhood. lie was oppressed be- 
 cause be was weak and laughed at for his deform- 
 ity. In vain the little hunchback opened his arms 
 to the world ; the world scolfed at him and went its 
 way. 
 
 However, he still had his mother, and it was to 
 her that the child directed all the feelings of a heart 
 repulsed by others. AVith her he found shelter and 
 was liappy till he reached the age when a man 
 must take his place in life ; and Maurice had to 
 content himself with that which others had refused 
 with contempt. His education would have quali- 
 fied him for any course of life ; and he became an 
 octroi-clerk ^ in one of the little toll-houses at the 
 entrance of his native town. 
 
 lie was always shut up in this dwelling of a few 
 feet square, with no relaxation from the olHce ac- 
 counts but reading and his mother's visits. On fine 
 summer days she came to work at the door of his hut, 
 under the shade of a clematis planted by Maurice. 
 And even when she was silent her presence was a 
 pleasant change for the hunchback ; he heard the 
 clinking of her long knitting-needles ; he saw her 
 mild and mournful profile, which reminded him of 
 so many courageously borne trials ; he could every 
 now and then rest his hand affectionately on that 
 bowed-down neck and exchange a smile with her ! 
 
 This comfort was soon to be taken from him. 
 His old mother fell sick, and at the end of a few 
 
 * The octroi is the tax on provisions levied at the entrance 
 of the town. 
 
74 ^^ ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 days he had to give up all hope. Maurice was over- 
 come at the idea of a separation which would 
 henceforth leave him alone on earth, and abandoned 
 himself to boundless orief. He knelt bv the bed- 
 side of the dying woman, he called her by the 
 fondest names, he pressed her in his arms, as if he 
 could so keep her in life. His mother tried to re- 
 turn his caresses and to answer him ; but her hands 
 were cold, her voice already gone. She could only 
 press her lips against the forehead of her son, heave 
 a sigh, and close her eyes forever ! 
 
 They tried to take Maurice away, but he resisted 
 them and threw himself on that now motionless 
 form. 
 
 " Dead !" cried he ; " dead ! She who had never 
 left me, she who was the only one in the world who 
 loved me ! You, my mother, dead ! What, then, 
 remains for me here below ?" 
 
 A stifled voice replied : 
 
 " God !" 
 
 Maurice, startled, raised himself up! Was it a 
 last sigh from the dead or his own conscience that 
 had answered him ? He did not seek to know, but 
 he understood the answer, and accepted it. 
 
 It was then that I first knew him. I often went 
 to see him in his little toll-house. He mixed in my 
 childish games, told me his finest stories, and let me 
 gather his flowers. Deprived as he was of all ex- 
 ternal attractiveness, he showed himself full of kind- 
 ness to all who came to him, and though he never 
 would put himself forward, he had a welcome for 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHEn IN PARIS. 75 
 
 every one. Deserted, despised, he submitted to 
 everything with a gentle patience ; and while he 
 was thus stretched on the the cross of life, amid the 
 insults of his executioners, he repeated with Christ, 
 " Father, forgive them, for they know not what 
 they do." 
 
 No other clerk showed so much honesty zeal and 
 intelligence ; but those who otherwise might have 
 promoted him as his services deserved were repulsed 
 by his deformity. As he had no patrons, he found 
 his claims were always disregarded. They pre- 
 ferred before him those who were better able to make 
 themselves agreeable, and seemed to be granting 
 him a favor when letting him keep the humble office 
 which enabled him to live. Uncle Maurice bore 
 injustice as he had borne contempt ; unfairly treated 
 by men, he raised his eyes higher and trusted in 
 the justice of Him who cannot be deceived. 
 
 He lived in an old house in the suburb, where 
 many workpeople, as poor but not as forlorn as he, 
 also lodged. Among these neighbors there was a 
 single woman, who lived by herself in a little gar- 
 ret, into which came both wind and rain. She was 
 a young girl, pale, silent, and with nothing to rec- 
 ommend her but her wretchedness and her resigna- 
 tion to it. She was never seen speaking to any 
 other woman, and no song cheered her garret. She 
 worked without interest and without relaxation ; 
 a depressing gloom seemed to envelop her like a 
 shroud. Her dejection affected Maurice ; he at- 
 tempted to speak to her : she replied mildly, but in 
 
76 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 few words. It was easy to see that she preferred 
 her silence and her solitude to the little hunchback's 
 good-will ; he perceived it and said no more. 
 
 But Toinette's needle was hardly sufficient for 
 her support, and presently work failed her ! Mau- 
 rice learned that the poor girl was in want of 
 everything, and that the tradesmen refused to give 
 her credit. He immediately went to them, and 
 privately engaged to pay them for what they sup- 
 plied Toinette with. 
 
 Things went on in this way for several months. 
 The young dressmaker continued out of work, until 
 she was at last frightened at the bills she had con- 
 tracted with the shopkeepers. When she came to 
 an explanation with them, everything was dis- 
 covered. Her first impulse was to run to Uncle 
 Maurice and thank him on her knees. Her habitual 
 reserve had given way to a burst of deepest feeling. 
 It seemed as if gratitude had melted all the ice of 
 that numbed heart. 
 
 Being now no longer embarrassed with a secret, 
 the little hunchback could give greater efficacy to 
 his good offices. Toinette became to him a sister, 
 for whose wants he had a right to provide. It was 
 the first time since the death of his mother that he 
 had been able to share his life with another. The 
 young woman received his attentions with feeling, 
 but with reserve. All Maurice's efforts were insuf- 
 ficient to dispel her gloom : she seemed touched by 
 his kindness, and sometimes expressed her sense of 
 it with warmth ; but there she stopped. Her heart 
 
AN A TTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 77 
 
 was a closed book, which the little hunchback might 
 bend over, but could not read. In truth he cared 
 little to do so : he gave himself up to the happiness 
 of being no longer alone, and took Toinette such as 
 her long trials had made her ; he loved her as she 
 was, and wished for nothing else but still to enjoy 
 her company. 
 
 This thought insensibly took possession of his 
 mind, to the exclusion of all besides. The poor girl 
 was as forlorn as himself ; she had become accus- 
 tomed to the deformity of the hunchback, and she 
 seemed to look on him with an affectionate 
 sympathy! What more could he wish for? Until 
 then, the hopes of making himself acceptable to a 
 helpmate had been repelled by Maurice as a dream ; 
 but chance seemed willing to make it a reality. 
 After much hesitation he took courage and decided 
 to speak to her. 
 
 It was evening ; the little hunchback, in much 
 agitation, directed his steps toward the work- 
 woman's garret. Just as he was about to enter, he 
 thought he heard a strange voice pronouncing the 
 maiden's name. He quickly pushed open the door, 
 and perceived Toinette weeping and leaning on 
 the shoulder of a young man in the dress of a 
 sailor. 
 
 At the sight of my uncle, she disengaged herself 
 quickly and ran to him, crying out : 
 
 " Ah ! come in — come in ! It is he that I thought 
 was dead : it is Julien ; it is my betrothed !" 
 
 Maurice tottered and drew back. A single word 
 had told him all ! 
 
78 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PAItlS. 
 
 It seemed to hira as if the ground shook and his 
 heart was going to break ; but the same voice that 
 he had heard by his mother's death-bed again 
 sounded in his ears, and he soon recovered himself. 
 God was still his friend ! 
 
 He himself accompanied the newly married pair 
 on the road when they went away, and after hav- 
 ing wished them all the happiness which was denied 
 to him, he returned with resignation to the old 
 house in the suburb. 
 
 It was there that he ended his life, forsaken by 
 men, but not as he said by the "Father which is in 
 heaven." He felt his presence everywhere ; it was 
 to him in the place of all else. When he died, it 
 was with a smile and like an exile setting out for 
 his own country. He who had consoled him in 
 poverty and ill-health, when he was suffering from 
 injustice and forsaken by all, had made death a 
 gain and blessing to him. 
 
 Eight 0^ clock. — All I have just written has pained 
 me ! Till now I have looked into life for instruction 
 how to live. Is it, then, true that human maxims 
 are not always sufficient? that beyond goodness, 
 prudence, moderation, humility, self-sacrifice itself, 
 there is one great truth, which alone can face great 
 misfortunes % and that, if man had need of virtues 
 for others, he has need of religion for himself ? 
 
 When, in youth, we drink our wine with a merry 
 heart, as the Scripture expresses it, we think we are 
 sufficient for ourselves ; strong, happy, and beloved, 
 we believe, like Ajax, we shall be able to escape 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 79 
 
 every storm in spite of tke gods. But later in life 
 when the back is bowed, when happiness proves a 
 fading flower, and the affections grow chill — then, 
 in fear of the void and the darkness, we stretch out 
 our arms, like the child overtaken by night, and we 
 call for help to Him who is everywhere. 
 
 I was asking this morning, why this growing con- 
 fusion alike for society and for the individual ? In 
 vain does human reason from hour to hour light 
 some new torch on the roadside : the night continues 
 to grow ever darker ! Is it not because we are con- 
 tent to withdraw further and further from God, the 
 Sun of spirits ? 
 
 But what do these hermits' reveries signify to the 
 world ? The inward turmoils of most men are 
 stifled by the outward ones ; life does not give them 
 time to question themselves. Have they time to 
 know what they are, and what they should be, 
 whose whole thoughts are in the next lease or the 
 last price of stock ? Heaven is very high, and wise 
 men look only to the earth. 
 
 But I — poor savage amid all this civilization, who 
 seek neither power nor riches, and who have found 
 in my own thoughts the home and shelter of my 
 spirit — I can go back with impunity to these recol- 
 lections of my childhood ; and if this our great city 
 no longer honors the name of God with a festival, I 
 will strive still to keep the feast to him in my 
 heart. 
 
80 AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 CHxlPTEK YII. 
 
 THE PRICE OF POWER AND THE WORTH OF FAME. 
 
 Sunday^ Jidy 1st. — Yesterday the month dedicat- 
 ed to Juno {Junius^ June) bj the Eomans ended. 
 To-day we enter on July. 
 
 In ancient Rome this latter month was called 
 Quintilis (the fifth), because the year, which was 
 then only divided into ten parts, began in March. 
 When Numa Pompilius divided it into twelve 
 months this name of Quintilis was preserved, as 
 well as those that followed — Sextilis^ September, 
 October, November, December — although these 
 designations did not accord with the newly ar- 
 ranged order of the months. At last, after a time 
 the month Quintilis., in which Julius Caesar was 
 born, was called Julius^ from whence we have July. 
 Thus this name, placed in the calendar, is become 
 the imperishable record of a great man ; it is an im- 
 mortal epitaph on Time's highway, engraved by the 
 admiration of man. 
 
 How many similar inscriptions are there ! Seas, 
 continents, mountams, stars, and monuments have 
 all in succession served the same purpose ! We 
 have turned the whole world into a Golden Book, 
 like that in which the state of Venice used to enroll 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 81 
 
 its illustrious names and its great deeds. It seems 
 that mankind feels a necessity for honoring itself in 
 its elect ones, and that it raises itself in its own eyes 
 by choosing heroes from among its own race. The 
 human family love to preserve the memory of the 
 ^^ pcBi'vemts " of glory, as we cherish that of a re- 
 nowned ancestor or of a benefactor. 
 
 In fact, the talents granted to a single individual 
 do not benefit himself alone, but are gifts to the 
 world ; every one shares them, for every one suffers 
 or benefits by his actions. Genius is a lighthouse, 
 meant to give light from afar; the man who bears 
 it is but the rock upon which this lighthouse is 
 built. 
 
 I love to dwell upon these thoughts ; they explain 
 to me in what consists our admiration for glory. 
 When glory has benefited men, that admiration is 
 gratitude : when it is only remarkable in itself, it is 
 the pride of race ; as men, we love to immortalize 
 the most shining examples of humanity. 
 
 Who knows whether we do not obey the same 
 instinct in submitting to the hand of power ? Apart 
 from the requirements of a gradation of ranks or 
 the consequences of a conquest, the multitude de- 
 light to surround their chiefs with privileges — 
 whether it be that their vanity makes them thus to 
 aggrandize one of their own creations, or w^iether 
 they try to conceal the humiliation of subjection by 
 exaggerating the importance of those who rule 
 them. They wish to honor themselves through 
 their master ; they elevate him on their shoulders 
 
82 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 as on a pedestal ; they surround him with a halo of 
 light, in order that some of it may be reflected upon 
 themselves. It is still the fable of the doo: who 
 contents himself with the chain and collar, so that 
 they are of gold. 
 
 This servile vanity is not less natural or less com- 
 mon than the vanity of dominion. Whoever feels 
 himself incapable of command, at least desires to 
 obey a powerful chief. Serfs have been known to 
 consider themselves dishonored when they became 
 the property of a mere count after having been that 
 of a prince, and Saint-Simon mentions a valet who 
 would only wait upon marquises. 
 
 July ^th^ Seven C^ clock P.M. — Ihave justnow been 
 up the Boulevards ; it was the opera night, and 
 there was a crowd of carriages in the Rue Lepelle- 
 tier. The foot-passengers who were stopped at a 
 crossing recognized the persons in some of these as 
 they went by and mentioned their names ; they 
 were those of celebrated or powerful men, the suc- 
 cessful ones of the day. 
 
 Near me there was a man looking on with hollow 
 cheeks and eager eyes, and whose black coat was 
 threadbare. He followed with envious looks these 
 possessors of the privileges of power or of fame, and 
 I read on his lips, which curled with a bitter smile, 
 all that passed in his mind. 
 
 *' Look at them, the lucky fellows !" thought he ; 
 " all the pleasures of wealth, all the enjoyments of 
 pride, are theirs. Their names are renowned, all 
 their wishes fulfilled ; they are the sovereigns of 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 83 
 
 the world either by their intellect or their power ; 
 and while I, poor and unknown, toil painfully along 
 the road below, they wing their way over the 
 mountain-tops gilded by the broad sunshine of pros- 
 perity." 
 
 I have come home in deep thought. Is it true 
 that there are these inequalities, I do not say in the 
 fortunes, but in the happiness of men ? Do genius 
 and authority really wear life as a crown, while the 
 greater part of mankind receive it as a yoke ? Is 
 the difference of rank but a different use of men's 
 dispositions and talent's, or a real inequality in their 
 destinies ? A solemn question, as it regards the 
 verification of God's impartiality. 
 
 July Sth, Noon. — I went this morning to call upon 
 a friend from the same province as myself, and who 
 is first usher in waiting to one of our ministers. I 
 took him some letters from his family, left for him 
 by a traveler just come from Brittany. He wished 
 me to stay. 
 
 "To-day," said he, "the minister gives no au- 
 dience : he takes a day of rest with his family. His 
 younger sisters are arrived : he will take them this 
 morning to St. Cloud, and in the evening he has in- 
 vited his friends to a private ball. I shall be dis- 
 missed directly for the rest of the day. We can 
 dine together ; read the news while you are waiting 
 for me." 
 
 I sat down at a table covered with newspapers, 
 all of which I looked over by turns. Most of them 
 contained severe criticisms on the last political acts 
 
84 AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 of the minister ; some of them added suspicions as 
 to the honor of the minister himself. 
 
 Just as I had finished reading, a secretary came 
 for them to take them to his master. 
 
 He was then about to read these accusations, to 
 suffer silently the abuse of all those tongues which 
 were holding him up to indignation or to scorn ! 
 Like the Roman victor in his triumph, he had to 
 endure the insults of him who followed his car, re- 
 lating to the crowd his follies, his ignorance, or his 
 vices. 
 
 But among the arrows shot at him from every 
 side, would no one be found poisoned ? Would not 
 one reach some spot in his heart where the wound 
 would be incurable ? What is the worth of a life 
 exposed to the attacks of envious hatred or furious 
 conviction ? The Christians yielded only the frag- 
 ments of their flesh to the beasts of the amphi- 
 theaters ; the man in power gives up his peace, his 
 affections, his honor, to the cruel bites of the pen. 
 
 While I was musing upon these dangers of great- 
 ness, the usher entered hastil3\ Important news 
 has been received : the minister is just summoned 
 to the council ; he will not be able to take his 
 sisters to St. Cloud. 
 
 I saw, through the windows, the young ladies, 
 who were waiting at the door, sorrowfully go up- 
 stairs again, while their brother went off to the 
 council. The carriage, which should have gone 
 filled with so much family happiness, is just out of 
 sight, carrying only the cares of a statesman in it. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 85 
 
 The usher came back discontented and disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 The more or less of liberty which he is allowed 
 to enjoy is his barometer of the political atmos- 
 phere. If he gets leave, all goes well ; if he is kept 
 at his post, the country is in danger. His opinion 
 on public affairs is but a calculation of his own in- 
 terest. My friend is almost a statesman. 
 
 I had some conversation with him, and he told 
 me several curious particulars of public life. 
 
 The new minister has old friends, whose opinions 
 he opposes, though he still retains his personal 
 regard for them. Though separated. from them by 
 the colors he fights under, they remain united by 
 old associations ; but the exigencies of party forbid 
 him to meet them. If their intercourse continued, 
 it would awaken suspicion ; people would imagine 
 that some dishonorable bargain was going on ; his 
 friends would be held to be traitors desirous to sell 
 themselves, and he the corrupt minister prepared to 
 buy them. He has, therefore, been obliged to 
 break off friendships of twenty years' standing, and 
 to sacrifice attachments which had become a second 
 nature. 
 
 Sometimes, however, the minister still gives way 
 to his old feelings ; he receives or visits his friends 
 privately ; he shuts himself up with them and 
 talks of the times when they could be open friends. 
 By dint of precautions they have hitherto succeeded 
 in concealing this plot of friendship against policy ; 
 but sooner or later the newspapers will be informed 
 
86 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 of it and will denounce him to the country as an 
 object of distrust. 
 
 For whether hatred be honest or dishonest, it 
 never shrinks from any accusation. Sometimes it 
 even proceeds to crime. The usher assured me that 
 several warnings had been given the minister which 
 had made him fear the vengeance of an assassin, 
 and that he no longer ventured out on foot. 
 
 Then, from one thing to another, I learned what 
 temptations came in to mislead or overcome his 
 judgment ; how he found himself fatally led into 
 obliquities which he could not but deplore. Misled 
 by passion, over-persuaded by entreaties, or com- 
 pelled for reputation's sake, he has many times held 
 the balance with an unsteady hand. How sad the 
 condition of him who is in authority ! Not only 
 are the miseries of power imposed upon him, but its 
 vices, also, which, not content with torturing, 
 succeed in corrupting him. 
 
 "We prolonged our conversation till it was inter- 
 rupted by the minister's return. He threw himself 
 out of the carriage with a handful of papers, and 
 with an anxious manner went into his own room. 
 An instant afterward his bell was heard ; his 
 secretary was called to send off notices to all those 
 invited for the evening ; the ball would not take 
 place ; they spoke mysteriously of bad news trans- 
 mitted by the telegraph, and in such circumstances 
 an entertainment would seem to insult the public 
 sorrow. 
 
 I took leave of my friend, and here I am at 
 
AN- ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 87 
 
 home. What I have just seen is an answer to my 
 doubts the other clav. Now I know with what 
 pangs men pay their dignities ; 1 now understand 
 
 " That Fortune sells what we believe she gives." 
 
 This explains to me why Charles Y. aspired to 
 the repose of the cloister. 
 
 And yet I have only glanced at some of the suf- 
 ferings attached to power. What shall I say of the 
 falls in which its possessors are precipitated from 
 the heights of heaven to the very depths of the 
 earth ? of that path of pain along which they must 
 forever bear the burden of their responsibility ? of 
 that chain of decorums and ennuis which encom- 
 passes every act of their lives and leaves them so 
 little liberty ? 
 
 The partisans of despotism adhere with reason to 
 forms and ceromonies. If men wish to give un- 
 limited power to their fellow-man, they must keep 
 him separated from ordinary humanity ; they must 
 surround him with a continual worship, and by a 
 constant ceromonial keep up for him the super- 
 human part they have granted him. Our masters 
 cannot remain absolute but on condition of being 
 treated as idols. 
 
 But. after all, these idols are men, and if the ex- 
 clusive life the}^ must lead is an insult to the dignity 
 of others, it is also a torment to themselves. Every 
 one knows the law of the Spanish court, which 
 used to regulate, hour by hour, the actions of the 
 king and queen ; " so that," says Voltaire, " by 
 
88 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 reading it one can tell all that the sovereigns of 
 Spain have done, or will do, from Philip II. to the 
 day of judgment." It was by this law that Philip 
 III., when sick, was obliged to endure such an 
 excess of heat that he died in consequence, because 
 the Duke of Uzeda, who alone had the right to put 
 out the fire in the royal chamber, happened to be 
 absent. 
 
 When the wife of Charles II. was run away with 
 on a spirited horse she was about to perish before 
 any one dared to save her, because etiquette forbade 
 them to touch the queen. Two young officers en- 
 dangered their lives for her by stopping the horse. 
 The prayers and tears of her whom they had just 
 snatched from death were necessar}^ to obtain par- 
 don for their crime. Every one knows the anecdote 
 related by Madame Campan of Marie Antoinette, 
 wife of Louis XYL One day, being at her toilet, 
 when the shift was about to be presented to her hj 
 one of the assistants, a lady of very ancient family 
 entered and claimed the honor, as she had the right 
 by etiquette ; but at the moment she was going to 
 fulfill her duty, a lady of higher rank appeared, and 
 in her turn took the garment she was about to offer 
 to the queen ; when a third lady of still higher title 
 came in her turn, and was followed by a fourth, who 
 was no other than the king's sister. The shift was 
 in this manner passed from hand to hand, with 
 ceremonies, courtesies, and compliments, before it 
 came to the queen, who, half-naked and quite 
 ashamed, was shivering with cold for the great 
 honor of eti(juette» 
 
AN ATI JO PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 89 
 
 12th, Seven Cdock P.M. — On coming home this 
 evening I saw, standing at the door of a house, an 
 old man whose appearance and features reminded 
 me of my father. There was the same beautiful 
 smile, the same deep and penetrating eye, the same 
 noble bearing of the head, and the same careless 
 attitude. 
 
 I began living over again the first years of wly 
 life and recalling to myself the conversations of 
 that guide whom God hin is mercy had given me, 
 and whom in his severity he had too soon with- 
 drawn. 
 
 When my father spoke it was not only to bring 
 our two minds together by an interchange of 
 thought, but his words always contained instruc- 
 tion. 
 
 E'ot that he endeavored to make me feel it so : 
 my father feared everything that had the appear- 
 ance of a lesson. He used to say that virtue could 
 make herself devoted friends, but she did not take 
 pupils : therefore he was not anxious to teach 
 goodness ; he contented himself with sowing the 
 seeds of it, certain that experience would make them 
 grow. 
 
 How often has good grain fallen thus into a 
 corner of the heart, and when it has been long for- 
 gotten, all at once put forth the blade and come 
 into ear. It is a treasure laid aside in a time of 
 ignorance, and we do not know its value till the 
 day we find ourselves in need of it. 
 
 Among the stories wuth which he enlivened our 
 
90 ^N ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 walks or our evenings there is one which now re- 
 turns to my memory, doubtless because the time is 
 come to derive its lesson from it. 
 
 My father, who was apprenticed at the age of 
 twelve to one of those trading collectors who call 
 themselves naturalists, because they put all creation 
 under glasses that they may sell it by retail, had 
 always led a life of poverty and labor. Obliged to 
 rise before daybreak, by turns shop-boy, clerk, and 
 laborer, he was made to bear alone all the work of 
 a trade of w^hich his master reaped all the profits. 
 In truth, this latter had a peculiar talent for 
 making the most of the labor of other people. 
 Though unfit himself for the execution of any kind 
 of w^ork, no one knew better how to sell it. His 
 words w^ere a net, in which people found themselves 
 taken before they were aware. And since he was 
 devoted to himself alone and looked on the pro- 
 ducer as his enemy and the bu\^er as his prey, he 
 used them both up with that obstinate perseverance 
 which avarice teaches. 
 
 My father was a slave all the week and could 
 only call himself his own on Sunday. The master 
 naturalist, who used to spend the day at the house 
 of an old female relation, then gave him his liberty 
 on condition that he dined out and at his own 
 expense. But my father used secretly to take with 
 him a crust of bread, which he hid in his botanizing 
 box, and leaving Paris as soon as it was day, he 
 would wander far into the valley of Montmorency, 
 the wood of Meudon, or among the windings of the 
 
Air ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 91 
 
 Marne. Excited by the fresh air, the penetrating 
 perfume of the growing vegetation, or the fragrance 
 of the honeysuckles, he would walk on until hunger 
 or fatigue made itself felt. Then he would sit 
 under a hedge or by the side of a stream, and would 
 make a rustic feast by turns on water-cresses, wood 
 strawberries, and blackberries ])icked from the 
 hedges ; he would gather a few plants, read a few 
 pages of Florian, then in greatest vogue, of Gessner, 
 who was just translated, or of Jean Jacques, of 
 whom he possessed three odd volumes. The day 
 was thus passed alternately in activity and rest, in 
 pursuit and meditation, until the declining sun 
 warned him to take again the road to Paris, where 
 he would arrive, his feet torn and dusty, but his 
 mind invigorated for a whole week. 
 
 One day as he was going toward the wood of 
 Yiroflay he met close to it a stranger who was 
 occupied in botanizing and in sorting the plants he 
 had just gathered. He was an oldish man with an 
 honest face ; but his eyes, which were rather deep 
 set under his eyebrows, had a somewhat uneasy and 
 timid expression. He was dressed in a brown cloth 
 coat, a gray waistcoat, black breeches, and worsted 
 stockings, and held an ivory-headed cane under his 
 arm. His appearance was that of a small retired 
 tradesman who was living on his means, and rather 
 below the golden mean of Horace. 
 
 My father, who had great respect for age. civilly 
 raised his hat to him as he passed. In doing so, a 
 plant he held fell from his hand ; the stranger 
 stooped to take it up and recognized it. 
 
92 AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 *' It is a Deutaria heptapliyllos^^ said he. " I have 
 not yet seen any of them in these woods ; did you 
 find it near here, sir ?" 
 
 My father replied that it was to be found in 
 abundance on the top of the hill, toward Sevres, as 
 well as the great Laserpiiiimi. 
 
 " That, too !" repeated the old man more briskly. 
 " Ah ! I shall go and look for them ; I have gath- 
 ered them formerly on the hillside of Eobaila." 
 
 My father proposed to take him. The stranger 
 accepted his proposal w^ith thanks, and hastened to 
 collect together the plants he had gathered ; but all 
 of a suddea he appeared seized with a scruple. He 
 observed to his companion that the road he was go- 
 ing was half-way up the hill, and led in the direction 
 of the castle of the Dames Royales at Bellevue ; 
 that by going to the top he would consequently 
 turn out of his road, and that it was not right he 
 should take this trouble for a stranger. 
 
 My father insisted upon it with his habitual good 
 nature ; but the more eagerness he showed the 
 more obstinately the old man refused ; it even 
 seemed to my father that his good intention at last 
 excited his suspicion. He therefore contented him- 
 self with pointing out the road to the stranger, 
 whom he saluted, and he soon lost sight of him. 
 
 Many hours passed by, and he thought no more 
 of the meeting. He had reached the copses of Cha- 
 ville, where, stretched on the ground in a mossy 
 glade, he read once more the last volume of 
 " Emile." The delight of reading it had so com- 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 93 
 
 })letely absorbed him that he had ceased to see or 
 hear anything around him. With his cheeks flushed 
 and his eyes moist, he repeated aloud a passage 
 which had particularly affected him. 
 
 An exclamation uttered close by him awoke him 
 from his ecstasy ; he raised his head and perceived 
 the tradesman-looking person he had met before on 
 the cross-road at Yiroflay. 
 
 He was loaded with plants, the collection of 
 which seemed to have put him into high good 
 humor. 
 
 " A thousand thanks, sir," said he to my father. 
 *' I have found all that you told me of, and I am in- 
 debted to you for a charming walk." 
 
 My father respectfully rose and made a civil 
 reply. The stranger had grown quite familiar, and 
 even asked if his young brother botanist did not 
 think of returning to Paris. My father replied in 
 the affirmative, and opened his tin box to put his 
 book back in it. 
 
 The stranger asked him with a smile if he might 
 without impertinence ask the name of it. My fa- 
 ther answered that it was Rousseau's " Emile." 
 
 The stranger immediately became grave. 
 
 They walked for some time side by side, my 
 father expressing, with the warmth of a heart still 
 throbbing with emotion, all that this work had 
 made him feel ; his companion remaining cold and 
 silent. The former extolled the glory of the great 
 Genevese writer, whose genius had made him a 
 citizen of the world ; he expatiated on this privilege 
 
94 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 of great thinkers, who reign in spite of time and 
 space, and gather together a people of willing sub- 
 jects out of all nations; but the stranger suddenly 
 interrupted him : 
 
 "And how do you know," said he mildly, 
 " whether Jean Jacques would not exchange the rep- 
 utation which you seem to envy for the life of one 
 of the wood-cutters whose chimney's smoke we see ? 
 What has fame brought him except persecution? 
 The unknown friends whom his books may have 
 made for him content themselves with blessing him 
 in their hearts, while the declared enemies that they 
 have drawn upon him pursue him with violence and 
 calumny ! His pride has been flattered by success : 
 how many times has it been wounded by satire ? 
 And be assured that human pride is like the Syba- 
 rite who was prevented from sleeping by a crease 
 in a rose-leaf. The activity of a vigorous mind, by 
 which the world profits, almost always turns against 
 him who possesses it. He expects more from it as 
 he grows older ; the ideal he pursues continually 
 disgusts him with the actual ; he is like a man who, 
 with a too-refined sight, discerns spots and blem- 
 ishes in the most beautiful face. I will not speak 
 of stronger temptations and of deeper downfalls. 
 Genius, you have said, is a kingdom ; but what 
 virtuous man is not afraid of being a king ? He 
 who feels only his great powers is — with the 
 weaknesses and passions of our nature — preparing 
 for great failures. Believe me, sir, the unhappy 
 man who wrote this book is no object of admiration 
 
AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 95 
 
 or of envy ; but if you have a feeling heart pity 
 him !" 
 
 My father, astonished at the excitement with 
 which his companion pronounced these last words, 
 did not know what to answer. 
 
 Just then they reached the paved road which led 
 from Meudon castle to that of Versailles ; a carriage 
 was passing. 
 
 The ladies who were in it perceived the old man, 
 uttered an exclamation of surprise, and leaning out 
 of the window repeated : 
 
 " There is Jean Jacques — there is Eousseau 1" 
 
 Then the carriage disappeared in the distance. 
 
 My father remained motionless, confounded, 
 and amazed, his eyes wide open and his hands 
 clasped. 
 
 Eousseau, who had shuddered on hearing his 
 name spoken, turned tow^ard him : 
 
 " You see," said he, with the bitter misanthropy 
 which his later misfortunes had produced in him, 
 " Jean Jacques cannot even hide himself ; he is an 
 object of curiosity to some, of malignity to others, 
 and to all he is a public thing, at which they point 
 the finger. It would signif}^ less if he had only to 
 submit to the impertinence of the idle ; but as soon 
 as a man has had the misfortune to make himself a 
 name he becomes public property. Every one rakes 
 into his life, relates his most trivial actions, and in- 
 sults his feelings ; he becomes like those walls 
 which every passer-by may deface with some abu- 
 sive writing. Perhaps you will say that I have my- 
 
96 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 self encouraged this curiosity by publishing my 
 ' Memoirs.' But the world forced me to it. They 
 loolvcd into my house through the blinds and they 
 slandered me ; I have opened the doors and win- 
 dows, so that they should at least know me such as 
 I am. Adieu, sir. Whenever you wish to know 
 the worth of fame, remember that you have seen 
 Rousseau." 
 
 Nine 0"^ clock. — Ah ! now I understand my father's 
 story ! It contains the answer to one of the ques- 
 tions I asked myself a week ago. Yes, I now feel 
 that fame and power are gifts that are dearly 
 bought ; and that when they dazzle the soul both 
 of them are oftenest, as Madame de Stael says, but 
 " un deuil eclatant de bonheur !" * 
 
 * 'Tis better to be lowly born, 
 And range with humble livers in content, 
 Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief, 
 And wear a golden sorrow. 
 
 —Henry VIIL, Act 11. , Scene 3. 
 
AK ATTIC PHlLOSOPEEn IN PARIS. 97 
 
 CHAPTEE YIII. 
 
 MISANTHROPY AND REPENTANCE. 
 
 Aiigiost ?>d, Nine O'clock P.M. — The reare days 
 when everything appears gloomy to us ; the world 
 is, like the sky, covered by a dark fog. Nothing 
 seems in its place ; we only see misery, improvi- 
 dence, and cruelt}^ ; the world seems without God 
 and given up to all the evils of chance. 
 
 Yesterday I was in this unhappy humor. After 
 a long walk in the faubourgs I returned home, sad 
 and dispirited. 
 
 Everything I had seen seemed to accuse the 
 civilization of which we are so proud ! I had wan- 
 dered into a little by street, with which I was not 
 acquainted, and I found myself suddenly in the 
 middle of those dreadful abodes where the poor are 
 born, languish, and die. I looked at those decaying 
 walls which time has covered with a foul leprosy ; 
 those windows from which dirty rags hang out to 
 dry ; those fetid gutters which coil along the fronts 
 of the houses like venomous reptiles ! I felt op- 
 pressed with grief and hastened on. 
 
 A little further on was I stopped by the hearse 
 of a hospital ; a dead man, nailed down in his deal 
 coffin, was going to his last abode, without funeral 
 
98 A^ ATTIC PEILOSOPBER IN PARIS. 
 
 porap or ceremony and without followers. There 
 was not here even that last friend of the outcast — 
 the dog, which a painter has introduced as the sole 
 attendant at the pauper's burial ! He whom they 
 were preparing to commit to the earth was going 
 to the tomb, as he had lived, alone ; doubtless no 
 one would be aware of his end. In this great bat- 
 tle of society, what signifies a soldier the less? 
 
 But what, then, is this human society, if one of its 
 members can thus disappear like a leaf carried away 
 by the wind ? 
 
 The hospital was near a barrack, at the entrance 
 of which old men, women, and children were quar- 
 reling for the remains of the coarse bread which the 
 soldiers had given them in charity ! Thus beings 
 like ourselves daily wait in destitution on our com- 
 passion till we give them leave to live! Whole 
 troops of outcasts, in addition to the trials imposed 
 on all God's children, have to endure the pangs of 
 cold, hunger, and humiliation. Unhappy human 
 commonwealth ! where man is in a worse condition 
 than the bee in its hive or the ant in its subterra- 
 nean city ! 
 
 Ah ! what, then avails our reason ? What is the 
 good of so many high faculties if we are neither 
 the wiser nor the happier for them ? Which of us 
 would not exchange his life of labor and trouble 
 with that of the birds of the air, to whom the whole 
 world is a life of joy ? 
 
 How well I understand the complaint of Mao, in 
 the popular tales of the " Foyer Breton," who, when 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 99 
 
 dying of hunger and thirst, says, as he looks at the 
 bullfinches rifling the fruit-trees: 
 
 "Alas ! those birds are happier than Christians ; 
 they have no need of inns, or butchers, or bakers, 
 or gardeners. God's heaven belongs to them, and 
 earth spreads a continual feast before them ! The 
 tiny flies are their game, ripe grass their corn-fields, 
 and hips and haws their store of fruit. They have 
 the right of taking everywhere without paying or 
 asking leave : thus comes it that the little birds are 
 happy and sing all the livelong day !" 
 
 But the life of man in a natural state is like that 
 of the birds ; he equally enjoys nature. " The earth 
 spreads a continual feast before him." What, then, 
 has he gained by that selfish and imperfect associa- 
 tion which forms a nation ? Would it not be better 
 for ever}^ one to return again to the fertile bosom 
 of Xature, and live there upon her bounty in peace 
 and liberty ? 
 
 August lOthf Four G^ clock P.M. — The dawn casts 
 a red glow on my bed-curtains ; the breeze brings 
 in the fragrance of the gardens below. Here I am 
 again leaning on my elbows by the window, inlialing 
 the freshness and gladness of this first wakening of 
 the day. 
 
 JVIy e^^e always passes over the roofs filled with 
 flowers, w^arbling. and sunlight, with the same 
 pleasure ; but to-day it stops at the end of a buttress 
 which separates our house from tiie next. The 
 storms have stripped the top of its plaster covering, 
 and dust carried by the wind has collected in the 
 
100 ^^ ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 crevices, and, being fixed there by the rain, 
 has formed a sort of aerial terrace, where some 
 green grass has sprung up. Among it rises a stalk 
 of wheat, which to-day is surmounted by a sickly 
 ear that droops its yellow head. 
 
 This poor stray crop on the roofs, the harvest of 
 which will fall to the neighboring sparrows, has 
 carried my thoughts to the rich crops which are 
 now falling beneath the sickle ; it has recalled to me 
 the beautiful walks I took as a child through my 
 native province, when the threshing-floors at the 
 farm-houses resounded from every part with the 
 sound of the flail, and when the carts, loaded with 
 golden sheaves, came in by all the roads. I still re- 
 member the songs of the maidens, the cheerfulness 
 of the old men, the open-hearted merriment of the 
 laborers. There was, at that time, something in 
 their looks both of pride and feeling. The latter 
 came from thankfulness to God, the former from 
 the sight of the harvest, the reward of their labor. 
 They felt indistinctly the grandeur and the holiness 
 of their part in the general work of the world ; they 
 looked with pride upon their mountains of corn 
 sheaves, and they seemed to say, Next to God, it is 
 we who feed the world ! 
 
 What a wonderful order there is in all human 
 labor ! While the husbandman furrows his land 
 and prepares for every one his daily bread, the town 
 artisan, far away, weaves the stuff in which he is to 
 be clothed ; the miner seeks under ground the iron 
 for his plow ; the soldier defends him against the in- 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER m PAJi'M^ ' > ; \^l$ll' ] ,\ 
 
 vader ; the judge takes care that the law protects 
 his fields ; the tax-comptroller adjusts his private 
 interests with those of the public ; the merchant oc- 
 cupies himself in exchanging his products with 
 those of distant countries ; the men of science and 
 of art add every day a few horses to this ideal team, 
 which draws along the material world as steam im- 
 pels the gigantic trains of our iron roads ! Thus all 
 unite together, all help one another ; the toil of each 
 one benefits himself and all the world ; the work 
 has been apportioned among the different members 
 of the whole of society by a tacit agreement. If, 
 in this apportionment, errors are committed, if cer- 
 tain individuals have not been employed according 
 to their capacities, these defects of detail diminish 
 in the sublime conception of the whole. The poor- 
 est man included in this association has his place, 
 his work, his reason for being there ; each is some- 
 thing in the whole. 
 
 There is nothing like this for man in the state of 
 nature. As he depends only upon himself, it is 
 necessary that he be sufficient for everything. All 
 creation is his property ; but he finds in it as many 
 hindrances as helps. He must surmount these ob- 
 stacles with the single strength that God has given 
 him ; he cannot reckon on any other aid than chance 
 and opportunity. Ko one reaps, manufactures, 
 fights, or thinks for him ; he is nothing to an}^ one. 
 He is a unit multiplied by the cipher of his own 
 single powers ; Avhile the civilized man is a unit 
 multiplied by the powers of the whole of society. 
 
lOS ^A'N' li TTIC PHTLOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 Yet notwithstanding this, the other day, disgust- 
 ed by the sight of some vices in detail, I cursed the 
 latter and almost envied the life of the savae'e. 
 
 One of the infirmities of our nature is always to 
 mistake feelmg for evidence and to judge of the 
 season b}^ a cloud or a ray of sunshine. 
 
 Was the misery, the sight of which made me re- 
 gret a savage life, really the effect of civilization ? 
 Must we accuse society of having created these evils, 
 or acknowledge, on the contrary, that it has al- 
 leviated them ? Could the women and children 
 who w^ere receiving the coarse bread from the sol- 
 diers hope in the desert for more help or pity? That 
 dead man, whose forsaken state I deplored, had he 
 not found, by the cares of a hospital, a coffin and 
 the humble grave where he was about to rest? 
 Alone, and far from men, he would have died like 
 the wild beast in his den and would now be serving as 
 food for vultures ! These benefits of human society 
 are shared, then, by the most destitute. Whoever 
 eats the bread that another has reaped and knead- 
 ed is under an obligation to his brother and cannot 
 say he owes him nothing in return. The poorest of 
 us has received from society much more than his 
 own single strength would have permitted him to 
 wrest from nature. 
 
 But cannot society give us more ? Who doubts 
 it ? Errors have been committed in this distribution 
 of tasks and workers. Time will diminish the 
 number of them ; with new lights a better division 
 will arise ; the elements of society go on toward 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PA BIS. 103 
 
 perfection, like ever3^thing else. The difficulty is to 
 know how to adapt ourselves to the slow step of 
 time, whose progress can never be forced on with- 
 out danger. 
 
 Angud 14:th, Six O'clock P. 31. — My garret w^indow 
 rises upon the roof like a massive watch-tower. The 
 corners are covered by large sheets of lead, which 
 run into the tiles ; the successive action of cold and 
 heat has made them rise, and so a crevice has been 
 formed in an angle on the right side. There a 
 sparrow has built her nest. 
 
 I have followed the progress of this aerial habita- 
 tion from the first day. I have seen the bird suc- 
 cessively bring the straw, moss, and wool designed 
 for the construction of her abode ; and I have ad- 
 mired the persevering skill she expended in this 
 difficult work. At first, my new neighbor spent 
 her days in fluttering over the poplar in the garden 
 and in chirping along the gutters ; a fine lady's life 
 seemed the only one to suit her. Then, all of a 
 sudden, the necessity of preparing a shelter for her 
 brood transformed our idler into a worker ; she no 
 longer gave herself either rest or relaxation. I 
 saw her always either flying, fetching, or carrying ; 
 neither rain nor sun stopped her. A striking ex- 
 ample of the power of necessity ! We are not only 
 indebted to it for most of our talents, but for many 
 of our virtues ! 
 
 Is it not necessity which has giv^en the people of 
 less favored climates that constant activity which 
 has placed them so quickly at the head of nations ? 
 
104 AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 As they are deprived of most of the gifts of nature, 
 they have supphed them by their industry ; neces- 
 sity has sharpened their understanding, endurance 
 awakened their foresight. While elsewhere man, 
 warmed by an ever-brilliant sun and loaded with 
 the bounties of the earth, was remaining poor, 
 ignorant, and naked, in the midst of gifts he did 
 not attempt to explore, here he was forced by 
 necessity to wrest his food from the ground, to 
 build habitations to defend himself from the m- 
 temperance of the weather, and to warm his body 
 by clothing himself with the wool of animals. 
 "Work makes him both more intelligent and more 
 robust : disciplined by it, he seems to mount higher 
 on the ladder of creation, while those more favored 
 by nature remain on the step the nearest to the 
 brutes. 
 
 I made these reflections while looking at the bird, 
 whose instinct seemed to have become more acute 
 since she had been occupied in work. At last the 
 nest was linished ; she set up her household there, 
 and I followed her through all the phases of her 
 new existence. 
 
 When she had sat on the eggs and the young 
 ones were hatched, she fed them with the most at- 
 tentive care. The corner of my window had be- 
 come a stage of moral action, which fathers and 
 mothers might come to take lessons from. The lit- 
 tle ones soon became great, and this morning I have 
 seen them take their first flight. One of them, 
 weaker than the others, was not able to clear the 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 105 
 
 edge of the roof and fell into the gutter. I caught 
 hira with some difficulty and placed him again on 
 the tile in front of his house, but the mother has 
 not noticed him. Once freed from the cares of a 
 family, she has resumed her wandering life among 
 the trees and along the roofs. In vain I have kept 
 away from my window, to take from her every ex- 
 cuse for fear ; in vain the feeble little bird has called 
 to her with plaintive cries ; his bad mother has 
 passed by singing and fluttering with a thousand 
 airs and graces. Once only the father came near ; 
 he looked at his offspring with contempt and then 
 disappeared never to return ! 
 
 I crumbled some bread before the little orphan, 
 but he did not know how to peck it with his bill. 
 I tried to catch him, but he escaped into the for- 
 saken nest. What will become of him there if his 
 mother does not come back ! 
 
 August 16ihy Six O^dock. — This morning, on 
 opening my window, I found the little bird dying 
 upon the tiles ; his wounds showed rae that he had 
 been driven from the nest by his unworthy mother. 
 I tried in vain to warm him again with my breath ; 
 I felt the last pulsations of life ; his eyes were 
 already closed and his wings hung down ! I placed 
 him on the roof in a ray of sunshine and closed my 
 window. The struo^oie of life ao^ainst death has al- 
 ways something gloomy in it: it is a warning tons. 
 
 Happily I hear some one in the passage ; with- 
 out doubt it is my old neighbor ; his conversation 
 will distract my thoughts. 
 
106 ^N ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 It was my portress. Excellent woman ! She 
 wished me to read a letter from her son the sailor, 
 and begged me to answer it for her. 
 
 I kept it, to copy it in my journal. Here it is : 
 
 " Dear Mother : This is to tell you that I have 
 been very well ever since the last time, except that 
 last week I was nearly drowned witli the boat, 
 which would have been a great loss, as there is not 
 a better craft anywhere. 
 
 " A gust of wind capsized us ; and just as I came 
 up above water, I saw the captain sinking. I went 
 after him, as was my duty, and, after diving three 
 times, I brought him to the surface, which pleased 
 Ymw much ; for when Ave were hoisted on board and 
 he had recovered his senses, he threw his arms 
 round my neck, as he would have done to an 
 officer. 
 
 " I do not hide from you, dear mother, that this 
 has delighted me. But it isn't all ; it seems that 
 fishing up the captain has reminded them that I had 
 a good character, and they have just told me that I 
 am promoted to be a sailor of the first class ! 
 Directly I knew it, I cried out, ' My mother shall 
 have coffee twice a day !' And really, dear mother, 
 there is nothing now to hinder you, as I shall now 
 have a larg-er allowance to send you. 
 
 " I conclude by begging you to take care of your- 
 self if you wish to do me good ; for nothing makes 
 me feel so well as to think that 3^ou want for noth- 
 ing. 
 
 " Your son, from the bottom of my heart, 
 
 " Jacques." 
 
 This is the answer that the portress dictated to 
 me ; 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 107 
 
 "My Good Jacquot : It makes me very happy to 
 see that your heart is still as true as ever, and that 
 you will never shame those who have brought you 
 up. I need not tell you to take care of your life, 
 because you know it is the same as my own, and 
 that Avithout you, dear child, I should wish for 
 nothing but the grave ; but we are not bound to 
 live, while we are bound to do our duty. 
 
 " Do not fear for my health, good Jacques ; I 
 was never better ! I do not grow old at all, for 
 fear of making you unhapp3^ I want nothing, and 
 I live like a lady. I even had some money over 
 this year, and as my drawers shut very badly I put 
 it into the savings bank, where I have opened an 
 account in 3^our name. So, w^ien you come back, 
 you will find yourself w^ith an income. I have also 
 furnished your chest with new linen, and I have 
 knitted you three new sea-jackets. 
 
 "All your friends are w^ell. Your cousin is just 
 dead, leaving his widow in difficulties. I gave her 
 your 30 francs remittance, and said that you had 
 sent it her ; and the poor woman remembers you day 
 and night in her prayers. So, you see, I have put 
 that money in another sort of savings bank ; but 
 there it is our hearts which get the interest. 
 
 " Good-by, dear Jacquot. AVrite to me often, and 
 ahvays remember the good God and your old 
 mother, Phkosine Millot." 
 
 Good son and worthy mother! how such exam- 
 ples bring us back to a love for the human race ! 
 In a fit of fanciful misanthropy we may envy the 
 fate of the savage and prefer that of the bird to 
 such as he ; but impartial observation soon does 
 justice to such paradoxes. We find, on examina- 
 
108 AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 tion, that in the mixed good and evil of human 
 nature, the good so far abounds that we are not in the 
 habit of noticing it, while the evil strikes us pre- 
 cisely on account of its being the exception. If 
 nothing is perfect, nothing is so bad as to be 
 without its compensation or its remedy. What 
 spiritual riches are there in the midst of the evils of 
 society ! how much does the moral world redeem 
 the material ! 
 
 That which will ever distinguish man from the 
 rest of creation is his power of deliberate affection 
 and of enduring self-sacrifice. The mother who 
 took care of her brood in the corner of my window 
 devoted to them the necessary time for accomplish- 
 ing the laws which insure the preservation of her 
 kind ; but she obeyed an instinct and not a rational 
 choice. When she had accomplished the mission 
 appointed her by Providence she cast off the duty as 
 we get rid of a burden, and she returned again to her 
 selfish liberty. The other mother, on the contrary, 
 will go on with her task as long as God shall leave 
 her here below : the life of her son will still remain, 
 so to speak, joined to her own ; and when she dis- 
 appears from the earth she will leave there that 
 part of herself. 
 
 Thus the affections make for our species an exist- 
 ence separate from all the rest of creation. Thanks 
 to them, we enjoy a sort of terrestrial immortality ; 
 and if other beings succeed one another, man alone 
 perpetuates himself. 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 109 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE FAMILY OF MICHAEL AROrT. 
 
 SeptemherlUh^ Eight G^ clock. — This morning while 
 I was arranging my books Mother Genevieve came 
 in and brought me the basket of fruit I buy of her 
 every Sunday. For nearly twenty years that I 
 have lived in this quarter I have dealt in her little 
 fruit-shop. Perhaps I should be better served else- 
 where, but Mother Genevieve has but little custom ; 
 to leave her would do her harm and cause her un- 
 necessary pain. It seems to me that the length of 
 our acquaintance has made me incur a sort of tacit 
 obligation to her ; 1113^ patronage has become her 
 property. 
 
 She has put the basket upon my table, and as I 
 wanted her husband, who is a joiner, to add some 
 shelves to my bookcase, she has gone downstairs 
 again immediately to send him to me. 
 
 At first I did not notice either her looks or the 
 sound of her voice : but, now that I recall them, 
 it seems to me that she was not as jovial as usual. 
 Can Mother Genevieve be in trouble about any- 
 thing ? 
 
 Poor woman ! All her best years were subject 
 to such bitter trials that she might think she had 
 
110 AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 received her full share already. Were I to live a 
 hundred years I should never forget the circum- 
 stances which first made her known to me and 
 which obtained her my respect. 
 
 It was at the time of my first settling in the fau- 
 bourg. I had noticed her empty fruit-shop, which 
 nobody came into, and being attracted by its for- 
 saken appearance I made my little purchases in it. 
 I have always instinctively preferred the poor 
 shops; there is less choice in them, but it seems to 
 me that my purchase is a sign of sympathy with a 
 brother in poverty. These little dealings are 
 almost always an anchor of hope to those whose 
 very existence is in peril — the only means by which 
 some orphan gains a livelihood. There the aim of 
 the tradesman is not to enrich himself, but to live ! 
 The purchase you make of him is more than an 
 exchange — it is a good action. 
 
 Mother Genevieve at that time was still young, 
 but had already lost that fresh bloom of youth 
 which suffering causes to wither so soon among the 
 poor. Her husband, a clever joiner, gradually left 
 off working to become, according to the picturesque 
 expression of the workshops, "a worshiper of Saint 
 Monday." The wages of the week, which was 
 always reduced to two or three working days, were 
 completely dedicated by him to the worship of this 
 god of the EarrierS;"^^ and Genevieve was obliged 
 herself to provide for all the wants of the house- 
 hold. 
 
 * The cheap wine-shops are outside the Barriers, to avoid 
 the octroi^ or municipal excise. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. HI 
 
 One evening, when I went to make some trifling 
 purchases of her, I heard a sound of quarreling in 
 the back shop. There were the voices of several 
 women, among which I distinguished that of Gene- 
 vieve, broken by sobs. On looking further in, 1 
 perceived the fruit-woman with a child in her arms, 
 and kissing it, while a country nurse seemed to be 
 claiming her wages from her. The poor woman, 
 who without doubt had exhausted every explanation 
 and every excuse, was crying in silence, and one of 
 her neighbors was trying in vain to appease the 
 country woman. Excited by that love of money 
 which the evils of a hard peasant life but too well 
 excuse, and disappointed by the refusal of her ex- 
 pected wages, the nurse was launching forth in 
 recriminations, threats, and abuse. In spite of my- 
 self, I listened to the quarrel, not daring to inter- 
 fere, and not thinking of going away, when Michael 
 Arout appeared at the shop-door. 
 
 The joiner had just come from the Barrier, where 
 he had passed part of the day at the public-house. 
 His blouse, without a belt and untied at the throat, 
 showed none of the noble stains of work : in his 
 hand he held his cap, which he had just picked up 
 out of the mud ; his hair was in disorder, his eye 
 fixed, and the pallor of drunkenness in his face. He 
 came reeling in, looked wildly around him, and 
 called Genevieve. 
 
 She heard his voice, gave a start, and rushed into 
 the shop ; but at the sight of the miserable man, 
 who was trying in vain to steady himself, she 
 
112 Air ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 pressed the child in her arms and bent over it 
 with tears. 
 
 The country woman and the neighbor had fol- 
 lowed her. 
 
 " Come ! come ! do you intend to pay me, after 
 all ?" cried the former in a rage. 
 
 "Ask the master for the money," ironically an- 
 swered the woman from the next door, pointing 
 to the joiner, who had just fallen against the 
 counter. 
 
 The country woman looked at him. 
 
 "Ah! he is the father,*' returned she. "Well, 
 what idle beggars ! not to have a penny to pay 
 honest people, and get tipsy with wine in that 
 way." 
 
 The drunkard raised his head. 
 
 " What ! what !" stammered he ; " who is it that 
 talks of wine ? I've had nothing but brandy ! But 
 I am going back again to get some wine ! Wife, 
 give me your money ; there are some friends wait- 
 ing for me at the I^ere la Tuille.^'^ 
 
 Genevieve did not answer : he w^ent round the 
 counter, opened the till, and began to rummage 
 in it. 
 
 " You see where the money of the house goes !" 
 observed the neighbor to the country woman ; " how 
 can the poor unhappy woman pay you when he 
 takes all?" 
 
 " Is that my fault ?" replied the nurse angrily. 
 **They owe it to me and somehow or other they 
 must pay me !" 
 
AN A TTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 113 
 
 And letting loose her tongue, as those women out 
 of the country do, she began relating at length all 
 the care she had taken of the child and all the ex- 
 pense it had been to her. In proportion as she 
 recalled all she had done, her words seemed to con- 
 vince her more than ever of her rights and to 
 increase her anger. The poor mother, who no 
 doubt feared that her violence would frighten the 
 cliild, returned into the back shop and put it into 
 its cradle. 
 
 Whether it is that the country woman saw in this 
 act a determination to escape her claims, or that she 
 was blinded by passion, I cannot say ; but she 
 rushed into the next room, where I heard the sounds 
 of quarreling, with which the cries of the child were 
 soon mingled. The joiner, who was still rum- 
 maging in the till, was startled and raised his 
 head. 
 
 At the same moment Genevieve appeared at the 
 door, holding in her arms the baby that the 
 country woman was trying to tear from her. She 
 ran toward the counter, and throwing herself be- 
 hind her husband cried : 
 
 " Michael, defend your son !" 
 
 The drunken man quickly stood up erect, like one 
 who awakes with a start. 
 
 " My son !" stammered he ; " what son ?" 
 
 His looks fell upon the child ; a vague ray of in- 
 telligence passed over his features. 
 
 " Robert," resumed he ; " it is Robert !" 
 
 He tried to steady himself on his feet, that he 
 
114 Ali ATTIG PEILOtiOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 might take the baby, but he tottered. The nurse 
 approached him in a rage. 
 
 " My money, or I shall take the child away !" 
 cried she. " It is I who have fed and brought it 
 up : if you don't pay me for what has made it live, 
 it ought to be the same to you as if it were dead. I 
 shall not go until I have my due or the baby." 
 
 "And what would do with him?" murmured 
 Genevieve, pressing Robert against her bosom. 
 
 " Take it to the Foundling !" replied the coun- 
 try Avoman harshly ; " the hospital is a better 
 mother than you are, for it pays for the food of its 
 little ones." 
 
 At the word "Foundling," Genevieve had ex- 
 claimed aloud in horror. With her arms wound 
 round her son, whose head she hid in her bosom, 
 and her two hands spread over him, she had re- 
 treated to the wall, and remained with her back 
 against it, like a lioness defending her young ones. 
 The neighbor and I contemplated this scene, with- 
 out linowing how we could interfere. As for Mi 
 chael, he looked at us by turns, making a visible 
 effort to comprehend it all. When his eye rested 
 upon Genevieve and the child, it lit up with a gleam 
 of pleasure ; but when he turned toward us, he 
 again became stupid and hesitating. 
 
 At last, apparently making a prodigious effort, he 
 cried out, " Wait !' 
 
 And going to a tub full of water, he plunged his 
 face into it several times. 
 
 Every eye was turned upon him ; the country 
 
AN A TTIG PniLOSOPHER IN PARIS. 115 
 
 woman herself seemed astonished. At length he 
 raised his dripping head. This ablution had partly 
 dispelled his drunkenness ; he looked at us for a 
 moment, then he turned to Genevieve, and his face 
 brightened up. 
 
 " Robert !" cried he, going up to the child and 
 taking him in his arms. " Ah ! give him me, wife ; 
 I must look at him." 
 
 The mother seemed to give up his son to him 
 with reluctance, and stayed before him with her 
 arms extended, as if she feared the child would 
 have a fall. The nurse began again in her turn to 
 speak, and renewed her claims, this time threaten- 
 ing to appeal to law. At first Michael listened to 
 her attentively, and when he comprehended her 
 meaning he gave the child back to its mother. 
 
 " How much do we owe you ?" asked he. 
 
 The country woman began to reckon up the dif- 
 ferent expenses, which amounted to nearly 30 
 francs. The joiner felt to the bottom of his pock- 
 ets, but could find nothing. Ilis forehead became 
 contracted by frowns ; low curses began to escape 
 him. All of a sudden he rummaged in his breast, 
 drew^ forth a large watch, and holding it up above 
 his head — 
 
 " Here it is — here's your money !" cried he with 
 a joyful laugh ; " a watch, number one ! I always 
 said it would keep for a drink on a dry day ; but it 
 is not I who will drink it, but the young one. Ah! 
 ah ! ah ! go and sell it for me, neighbor, and if that 
 is not enough, I have my earrings. Eh ! Genevieve, 
 
116 AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS, 
 
 take them off for me ; the earrings will square all ! 
 They shall not say you have been disgraced on 
 account of the child — no, not even if I must pledge 
 a bit of my fiesh ! My watch, my earrings, and my 
 ring — get rid of all of them for me at the gold- 
 smith's ; pay the woman and let the little fool go 
 to sleep. Give him me, Genevieve ; I will put him 
 to bed." 
 
 And taking the baby from the arms of his 
 mother, he carried him with a firm step to his cradle. 
 
 It was easy to perceive the change which took 
 place in Michael from this day. He cut all his old 
 drinking acquaintances. He went early every 
 morning to his work, and returned regularly in the 
 evening to finish the day with Genevieve and 
 Robert. Yery soon he would not leave them at all, 
 and he hired a place near the fruit-shop and worked 
 in it on his own account. 
 
 They would soon have been able to live in com- 
 fort, had it not been for the expenses which the 
 child required. Everything was given up to his 
 education. He had gone through the regular school 
 training, had studied mathematics, drawing, and the 
 carpenter's trade, and had only begun to work a 
 few months ac]:o. Till now, thev had been exhaust- 
 ing every resource which their laborious industry 
 could provide to push him forward in bis business ; 
 but, happily, all these exertions had not proved use- 
 less : the seed had brought forth its fruits, and the 
 days of harvest were close by. 
 
 While I was thus recalling these remembrances 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 117 
 
 to my mind, Michael had come in and was occupied 
 in fixing shelves where they were wanted. 
 
 During the time I was writing the notes of my 
 journal, I was also scrutinizing the joiner. 
 
 The excesses of his youth and the labor of his 
 manhood have deeply marked his face ; his hair is 
 thin and gray, his shoulders stooping, his legs 
 shrunken and slightly bent. There seems a sort of 
 weight in his whole being. His very features have 
 an expression of sorrow and despondency. He an- 
 swered my questions by monosyllables, and like a 
 man who wishes to avoid conversation. From 
 whence is this dejection, when one would think he 
 had all he could wish for ? I should like to know ! 
 
 Ten C clock. — Michael is just gone downstairs 
 to look for a tool he has forgotten. I have at last 
 succeeded in drawing from him the secret of his 
 and Genevieve's sorrow. Their son Robert is the 
 cause of it ! 
 
 ]^ot that he has turned out ill after all their care — 
 not that he is idle and dissipated ; but both were in 
 hopes he would never leave them any more. The 
 presence of the young man was to have renewed 
 and made glad their lives once more ; his mother 
 counted the days, his father prepared everything 
 to receive their dear associate in their toils ; and at 
 the moment when they were thus about to be re- 
 paid for all their sacrifices, Robert had suddenly 
 informed them that he had just engaged himself to 
 a contractor at Versailles. 
 
 Every remonstrance and every prayer were use- 
 
118 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 less ; he brought forward the necessity of initiating 
 himself into all the details of an important contract, 
 the faciUties he should have in his new position of 
 improving himself in his trade, and the hopes he 
 had of turning his i^nowledge to advantage. At 
 last, when his mother, having come to the end of 
 her arguments, began to cry, he hastily kissed her 
 and went away that he might avoid any further 
 remonstrances. 
 
 He had been absent a year, and there was nothing 
 to give them hopes of his return. His parents 
 hardly saw him once a month, and then he only 
 stayed a few moments with them. 
 
 " I have been punished where I had hoped to be 
 rewarded," Michael said to me just now. " I had 
 wished for a saving and industrious son, and God 
 has given me an ambitious and avaricious one ! I 
 had always said to myself that when once he was 
 grown up we should have him always with us, to 
 recall our youth and to enliven our hearts. His 
 mother was always thinking of getting him married 
 and having children again to care for. You know 
 women always will busy themselves about others. 
 As for me, I thouo-ht of him workino^ near mv 
 bench and singing his new songs ; for he has learned 
 music and is one of the best singers at the Orpheon. 
 A dream, sir, truly ! Directly the bird was fledged, 
 he took to flight, and remembers neither father nor 
 mother. Yesterday, for instance, was the day we 
 expected him ; he should have come to supper with 
 us. JSTo Robert to-dav either ! He has had some 
 
AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PAUIS. 119 
 
 plan to finish, or some bargain to arrange, and his 
 old parents are put down hist in the accounts, after 
 the customers and the joiner's work. Ah ! if I 
 could have guessed kow it would have turned out ! 
 Fool ! to have sacrificed my likings and ray money, 
 for nearly twenty years, to the education of a 
 thankless son ! Was it for this I took the trouble 
 to cure myself of drinking, to break with my 
 friends, to become an example to the neighbor- 
 hood ? The jovial good fellow has made a goose 
 of himself. Oh ! if I had to begin again ! ]^o, 
 no ! 3'ou see women and children are our bane. 
 They soften our hearts ; they lead us a life of 
 hope and affection ; we pass a quarter of our lives 
 in fostering the growth of a grain of corn which is 
 to be evervthino^ to us in our old ao^e, and when 
 
 €-■0 o 7 
 
 the harvest-time comes — good-night, the ear is 
 empty !" 
 
 While he was speaking, Michael's voice be- 
 came hoarse, his eye fierce, and his lips quivered. 
 I wished to answer him, but I could only think of 
 commonplace consolations, and I remained silent. 
 The joiner pretended he wanted a tool and left 
 me. 
 
 Poor father ! Ah ! I know those moments of 
 temptation when virtue has failed to re^vard us and 
 we regret having obeyed her ! Who has not felt 
 this weakness in hours of trial, and who has not 
 uttered, at least once, the mournful exclamation of 
 Brutus? 
 
 But if virtue is only a word, what is there then 
 
120 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PAMIS. 
 
 in life which is true and real ? No, I will not be- 
 lieve that goodness is in vain ! It does not always 
 give the happiness we had hoped for, but it brings 
 some other. In the world everything is ruled by 
 order and has its proper and necessary conse- 
 quences, and virtue cannot be the sole exception to 
 the general law. If it had been prejudicial to those 
 who practice it, experience w^ould have avenged 
 them ; but experience has, on the contrary, made it 
 more universal and more holy. We only accuse it 
 of being a faithless debtor because we demand an 
 immediate payment, and one apparent to our senses. 
 We always consider life as a fairy tale, in which 
 every good action must be rewarded by a visible 
 wonder. We do not accept as payment a peaceful 
 conscience, self-content, or a good name among 
 men — treasures that are more precious than any 
 other, but the value of which we do not feel till 
 after we have lost them ! 
 
 Michael is come back and returned to his work. 
 His son had not yet arrived. 
 
 By telling me of his hopes and his grievious dis- 
 appointments, he became excited ; he unceasingly 
 went over again the same subject, always adding 
 something to his griefs. He has just wound up his 
 confidential discourse by speaking to me of a joiners 
 business which he had hoped to buy and work to 
 good account with Robert's help. The present 
 owner had made a fortune by it, and after thirty 
 years of business he was thinking of retiring to one 
 of the ornamental cottages in the outskirts of the 
 
AN A TTIO PHILOSOPHER IN PA IIIS. 121 
 
 city, a usual retreat for the frugal and successful 
 workingman. Michael had not indeed the 2,000 
 francs which must be paid down; but perhaps 
 he could have persuaded Master Benoit to wait. 
 Eobert's presence would have been a security for 
 him, for the young man could not fail to insure 
 the prosperity of a workshop; besides science and 
 skill, he had the power of invention and bringing to 
 perfection. His father had discovered among his 
 drawings a new plan for a staircase, which had 
 occupied his thoughts for a long time ; and he even 
 suspected him of having engaged himself to the 
 Yersailles contractor for the very purpose of execut- 
 ing it. The youth was tormented by this spirit of 
 invention, which took possession of all his thoughts 
 and while devoting his mind to study he had no 
 time to listen to his feelings. 
 
 Michael told me all this with a mixed feeling; of 
 pride and vexation. I saw he was proud of the son 
 he was abusing, and that his very pride made him 
 more sensible of that son's neo-lect. 
 
 Six O'clock F. M. — I have just finished a happy 
 day. How many events have happened within a 
 few hours, and what a change for Genevieve and 
 Michael ! 
 
 He had just finished fixing the shelves and telling 
 me of his son, while I laid the cloth for my break- 
 fast. 
 
 Suddenly we heard hurried steps in the passage, 
 the door opened, and Genevieve entered with 
 Robert. 
 
122 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 The joiner gave a start of joyful surprise, but he 
 repressed it immediately, as if he wished to keep up 
 the appearance of displeasure. 
 
 The young man did not appear to notice it, but 
 threw himself into his arms in an open-hearted 
 manner which surprised me. Genevieve, whose 
 face shone with happiness, seemed to wish to speak, 
 and to restrain herself with difficulty. 
 
 I told Robert I was glad to see him, and he an- 
 swered me with ease and civility. 
 
 " I expected you yesterday," said Michael Arout 
 rather dryly. 
 
 " Forgive me, father," replied the young work- 
 man, " but I had business at St. Germain's. I was 
 not able to come back till it was very late, and then 
 the master kept me." 
 
 The joiner looked at his son sideways, and then 
 took up his hammer again. 
 
 " All right," muttered he in a grumbling tone ; 
 " when we are with other people we must do as 
 they wish ; but there are some who would like 
 better to eat brown bread witli their own knife 
 than partridges with the silver fork of a master," 
 
 " And I am one of those, father," replied Robert 
 merrily ; " but, as the proverb says, ' 3^ou must shell 
 the peas before you can eat them.' It was neces- 
 sary that I should first work in a great work- 
 shop " 
 
 " To go on with your plan of the staircase," inter- 
 rupted Michael, ironicall}^ 
 
 " You must now say M. Raymond's plan, father," 
 replied Robert, smiling. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS, 123 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 ^' Because I have sold it to him." 
 
 The joiner, who was planing a board, turned 
 round quickly. 
 
 " Sold it !" cried he, with sparkling eyes. 
 
 " For the reason that I was not rich enough to 
 give it him." 
 
 Michael threw down the board and tool. 
 
 " There he is again !" resumed he angrily ; " his 
 good genius puts an idea into his head which would 
 have made him known, and he goes and sells it to 
 a rich man, who will take all the honor of it him- 
 self." 
 
 " Well, what harm is there done ?" asked Gen- 
 evieve. 
 
 "What harm!" cried the joiner in a passion. 
 "You understand nothing about it — you are a 
 woman ; but he — he knows well that a true work- 
 man never giv^es up his own inventions for money, 
 no more than a soldier Avould give up his cross. 
 That is his glory ; he is bound to keep it for the 
 honor it does him ! Ah ! thunder ! if I had ever 
 made a discovery, rather than put it up at auction I 
 would have sold one of my eyes ! Don't you see 
 that a new invention is like a child to a workman ? 
 He takes care of it, he brings it up, he makes a way 
 for it in the world, and it is only poor creatures who 
 sell it." 
 
 Robert colored a little. 
 
 " You will think differently, father," said he, 
 " when you know why I sold my plan." 
 
124 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 " Yes, and you will thank him for it," added 
 Genevieve, who could no longer keep silence. 
 
 " Never !" replied Michael. 
 
 " But, wretched man !" cried she, " he only sold 
 it for our sakes !" 
 
 The joiner looked at his wife and son with as- 
 tonishment. It was necessary to come to an expla- 
 nation. The latter related how he had entered into 
 a negotiation with Master Benoit, who had positive- 
 ly refused to sell his business unless one-half of the 
 2,000 f ranees were first paid down. It was in the 
 hopes of obtaining this sum that he had gone to 
 work with the contractor at Versailles ; he had had 
 an opportunity of trying his invention and of find- 
 ing a purchaser. Thanks to the money he received 
 for it, he had just concluded the bargain with Be- 
 noit, and had brought his father the key of the new 
 work-yard. 
 
 This explanation was given by the young work- 
 man with so much modesty and simplicity that I 
 was quite affected by it. Genevieve cried ; Michael 
 pressed his son to his heart, and in a long embrace 
 he seemed to ask his pardon for having unjustly ac- 
 cused him. 
 
 All was now explained with honor to Robert. 
 The conduct which his parents had ascribed to in- 
 difference really sprang from affection ; he had 
 neither obeyed the voice of ambition nor of avarice, 
 nor even the nobler inspiration of inventive genius; 
 his whole motive and single aim had been the hap- 
 piness of Genevieve and Michael. The day for 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 125 
 
 proving his gratitude had come, and he had returned 
 them sacrifice for sacrifice ! 
 
 After the explanations and exclamations of joy 
 were over, all three were about to leave me ; but 
 the cloth being laid, I added three more places, and 
 kept them to breakfast. 
 
 The meal was prolonged : the fare was only toler- 
 able, but the overflowings of affection made it de- 
 licious. Never had I better understood the un- 
 speakable charm of family love. What calm enjoy- 
 ment in that happiness which is always shared with 
 others; in that community of interests which unites 
 such various feeling ; in that association of exist- 
 ences which forms one single being of so many ! 
 "What is man without those home affections which, 
 like so many roots, fix him firmly in the earth and 
 permit him to imbibe all the juices of life ? Energy, 
 happiness — does it not all come from them ? With- 
 out family life where would man learn to love, to 
 associate, to deny himself? A community in little, 
 is it not this which teaches us how to live in the 
 great one ? Such is the holiness of home, that to 
 express our relation with God we have been obliged 
 to borrow the words invented for our family life. 
 Men have named themselves the sons of a heavenly 
 Father ! 
 
 Ah ! let us carefully preserve these chains of 
 domestic union ; do not let us unbind the human 
 sheaf and scatter its ears to all the caprices of 
 chance and of the wands ; but let us rather enlarge 
 this holy law; let us carry the principles and the habits 
 
126 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 of home beyond its bounds ; and, if it may be, let 
 us realize the prayer of the Apostle of the Gentiles 
 when he exclaimed to the new-born children of 
 Christ : 
 
 " Be ye like-minded, having the same love, being 
 of one accord, of one mind." * 
 
 * Philippians ii. 2. 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 127 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 OTIE COUNT K Y . 
 
 October ^th^ Seven O'clock A.M. — The nights are 
 already become cold and long ; the sun, shining 
 through ray curtains, no more wakens me long be- 
 fore the hour for work ; and even when my eyes 
 are open, the pleasant warmth of the bed keeps me 
 fast under my counterpane. Every morning there 
 begins a long argument between my activity and 
 my indolence ; and, snugly wrapped up to the eyes, 
 I wait, like the Gascon, until they have succeeded 
 in coming to an agreement. 
 
 This morning, however, a light which shone 
 from my door upon my pillow awoke me earlier 
 than usual. In vain I turned on my side ; the per- 
 severing light, like a victorious enemy, pursued me 
 into every position. At last, quite out of patience, 
 I sat up and hurled my nightcap to the foot of the 
 bed! 
 
 (I will observe, by way of parenthesis, that the 
 various evolutions of this pacific head-gear seem to 
 have been, from the remotest time, symbols of the 
 vehement emotions of the mind ; for our language 
 has borrowed its most common images from them. 
 Thus we say : Mettre son bonnet cle travers / jeter son 
 
128 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PAMIS. 
 
 bonnet par-dessus les moulins ; avoir la tete pres du 
 honnet^ etc.*) 
 
 But be this as it may, I got up in a ver}^ bad 
 humor, grumbling at my new neighbor, who took it 
 into his head to be wakeful when I wished to sleep. 
 "We are all made thus; we do not understand that 
 others may live on their own account. Each one of 
 us is like the earth according to the old system of 
 Ptolemy, and thinks he can have the whole universe 
 revolve round himself. On this point, to make use 
 of the metaphor alluded to : Tous les hommes ont 
 la tete dans le meme honnet.\ 
 
 I had for the time being, as I have already said, 
 thrown mine to the other end of my bed ; and I 
 slowly disengaged my legs from the warm bed- 
 clothes while making a host of evil reflections upon 
 the inconvenience of having neighbors. 
 
 For more than a month I had not had to com- 
 plain of those wiiom chance had given me ; most of 
 them only came in to sleep, and went away again on 
 rising. I was almost always alone on this top story 
 — alone with the clouds and the sparrows ! 
 
 But at Paris nothing lasts: the current of life 
 carries us along, like the seaweed torn from the 
 rock : the houses are vessels which take mere pas- 
 sengers. How many different faces have I already 
 seen pass along the landing-place belonging to our 
 
 * To be in a bad humor. 
 To brave the opinions of the world. 
 To be angry about a trifle, 
 t Said of those who are of the same opinions and tastes. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 129 
 
 attics ! How many companions of a few days have 
 disappeared forever ! Some are lost in that medley 
 of the living which whirls continually under the 
 scourge of necessity, and others in that resting-place 
 of the dead who sleep under the hand of God ! 
 
 Peter the bookbinder is one of these last. Wrapped 
 up in selfishness, he lived alone and friendless, and 
 he died as he had lived. His loss was neither 
 mourned by an}^ one nor disarranged anything in 
 the world ; there was merely a ditch filled up in the 
 graveyard and an attic emptied in our house. 
 
 It is the same which my new neighbor has in- 
 habited for the last few days. 
 
 To say truly (now that I am quite awake and my 
 ill-humor is gone to join my nightcap) — to say truly, 
 this new neighbor, although rising earlier than suits 
 my idleness, is not the less a very good man : he 
 carries his misfortunes as few know how to carry 
 their good fortunes, with cheerfulness and modera- 
 tion. 
 
 But fate has cruelly tried him. Father Chaufour 
 is but the wreck of a man. In the place of one of 
 his arms hangs an empty sleeve ; his left leg is 
 made by the turner, and he drags the right along 
 with difficulty ; but above these ruins rises a calm 
 and happy face. AVhile looking upon his counte- 
 nance, radiant with a serene energy, while listening 
 to his voice, the tone of which has, so to speak, the 
 accent of goodness, we see that the soul has re- 
 mained entire in the half-destro^^ed covering. The 
 fortress is a little damaged, as Father Chaufour 
 says, but the garrison is quite hearty. 
 
130 ^^ ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 Decidedly, the more I think of this excellent 
 man, the more I reproach myself for the sort of 
 malediction I bestowed on him when I awoke. 
 
 We are generally too indulgent in our secret 
 wrongs toward our neighbor. All ill-will which 
 does not pass the region of thought seems innocent 
 to us, and, with our clumsy justice, we excuse with- 
 out examination the sin which does not betray itself 
 by action ! 
 
 But are we, then, only bound to others by the en- 
 forcement of laws ? Besides these external rela- 
 tions, is there not a real relation of feeling between 
 men ? Do we not owe to all those who live under 
 the same heaven as ourselves the aid not only of our 
 acts, but of our purposes? Ought not every human 
 life to be to us like a vessel that we accompany with 
 our prayers for a happy voyage ? It is not enough 
 that men do not harm one another; they must also 
 help and love one another ! The papal benediction, 
 Urhi et orbi ! should be the constant cry from all 
 hearts. To condemn him who does not deserve it, 
 even in the mind, even by a passing thought, is to 
 break the great law, that which has established the 
 union of souls here below and to which Christ has 
 given the sweet name of charity. 
 
 These thoughts came into my mind as I finished 
 dressing, and I said to myself that Father Chaufour 
 had a right to a reparation from me. To make 
 amends for the feeling of ill-will I had against him 
 just now, I owed him some explicit proof of 
 sympathy. I heard him humming a tune in his 
 
Aisr A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 131 
 
 room ; he was at work, and I determined that I 
 would make the first neighborly call. 
 
 Eight O"^ dock P.M. — I found Father Chaufour ata 
 table lighted by a little smoky lamp, without a fire, 
 although it is alread}^ cold, and making large 
 pasteboard boxes ; he was humming a popular song 
 in a low tone. 1 had hardly entered the room 
 when he uttered an exclamation of surprise and 
 pleasure. 
 
 " Eh ! is it you, neighbor ? Come in, then ! I 
 did not think j^ou got up so early, so I put a dam- 
 per on my music ; I was afraid of waking you." 
 
 Excellent man ! while I was sendins: him to the 
 devil he was putting himself out of his way for me ! 
 
 This thought touched me, and I paid my compli- 
 ments on his having become my neighbor with a 
 warmth which opened his heart. 
 
 '' Faith ! you seem to me to have the look of a 
 good Christian," said he in a voice of soldier-like 
 cordiality and shaking me by the hand. " I do not 
 like those people who look on a landing-place as a 
 frontier line, and treat their neighbors as if they 
 were Cossacks. "When men snuff the same air and 
 speak the same lingo, they are not meant to turn 
 their backs to each other. Sit down there, neighbor ; 
 I don't mean to order you ; only take care of the 
 stool ; it has but three legs, and we must put good 
 will in the place of the fourth." 
 
 " It seems that that is a treasure which there is 
 no want of here," I observed. 
 
 " Good will !" repeated Chaufour ; " that is all my 
 
132 ^-ZV ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 mother left me, and I take it no son has received a 
 better inheritance. Therefore they used to call me 
 Mr. Content in the batteries." 
 
 " You are a soldier, then ?" 
 
 "I served in the Third Artiller}^ under the Re- 
 public, and afterward in the Guard through all the 
 commotions. I was at Jemappes and at "Waterloo ; 
 so I was at the christening and at the burial of our 
 glory, as one may say !" 
 
 I looked at him with astonishment. 
 
 "And how old were you, then, at Jemappes?" 
 asked I. 
 
 " Somewhere about fifteen," said he. 
 
 " How came you to think of being a soldier so 
 early ?" 
 
 " I did not really think about it. I then worked 
 at toy making, and never dreamed that France could 
 ask me for anything else than to make her draught- 
 boards, shuttlecocks, and cups and balls. But I 
 had an old uncle at Yincennes whom I went to see 
 from time to time — a Fontenoy veteran in the same 
 rank of life as myself, but with ability enough to 
 have risen to that of a marshal. Unluckily, in 
 those days there was no way for common people to 
 get on. My uncle, whose services would have got 
 him made a prince under the other, had then retired 
 with the mere rank of sub-lieutenant. But you 
 should have seen him in his uniform, his Cross of 
 St. Louis, his w^ooden leg, his w^hite mustaches, and 
 his noble countenance. You would have said he 
 was a portrait of one of those old heroes in pow- 
 dered hair which are at Yersailles I 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 133 
 
 "Every time I visited him he said something 
 which remained fixed in my memory. But one day 
 I found him quite grave. 
 
 " ' Jerome,' said he, ' do you know what is going 
 on on the frontier V 
 
 " ' No, lieutenant,' repHed I. 
 
 " ' Well,' resumed he, ' our country is in danger !' 
 
 "I did not well understand him, and yet it 
 seemed something to me. 
 
 u ' Perhaps you have never thought what your 
 country means,' continued he, placing his hand on 
 my shoulder ; ' it is all that surrounds you, all that 
 has brought you up and fed you, all that you have 
 loved ! This ground that you see, these houses, 
 these trees, those girls who go along there laughing 
 — this is your country ! The laws which protect 
 you, the bread which pays for your work, the words 
 you interchange with others, the joy and grief 
 which come to you from the men and things among 
 which 3^ou live — this is your country ! The little 
 room where you used to see your mother, the re- 
 membrances she has left you, the earth where she 
 rests — this is your country ! You see it, you 
 breathe it, everywhere ! Think to yourself, my 
 son, of your rights and your duties, your affections 
 and your wants, jour past and your present bless- 
 ings ; write them all under a single name — and that 
 name \vill be your country !' 
 
 "I was trembling with emotion, and great tears 
 were in my eyes. 
 
 " ' Ah ! I understand,' cried I ; ' it is our home in 
 
134 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS, 
 
 large ; it is that part of the world where God has 
 placed our body and our soul.' 
 
 " ' You are right, Jerome/ continued the old 
 soldier; 'so you comprehend also what we owe it/ 
 
 " ' Truly,' resumed I, ' we owe it all that we are ; 
 it is a question of love.' 
 
 " ' And of honesty, ray son,' concluded he. ' The 
 member of a family who does not contribute his 
 share of work and of happiness fails in his duty 
 and is a bad kinsman ; the member of a partnership 
 who does not enrich it with all bis might, with all 
 his courage, and with all his heart, defrauds of it 
 what belongs to it and is a dishonest man. It is 
 the same with him who enjoys the advantages of 
 having a country and does not accept the burdens 
 of it ; he forfeits his honor and is a bad citizen !' 
 
 " ' And what must one do, lieutenant, to be a 
 good citizen V asked I. 
 
 " ' Do for your country what you would do for 
 your father and mother,' said he. 
 
 "I did not answer at the moment; my heart 
 was swelling and the blood boiling in my veins : 
 but on returning along the road, my uncle's words 
 were, so to speak, written up before my eyes. I 
 repeated, ' Do for your country what you would do 
 for your father and mother.' And my country is 
 in danger ; an enemy attacks it, while I — I turn cups 
 and balls ! 
 
 " This thought tormented me so much all night 
 that the next day I returned to Yincennes to an- 
 nounce to the lieutenant that I had just enlisted 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 135 
 
 and was going off to the frontiers. The brave man 
 pressed me upon his Cross of St. Louis, and I went 
 away as proud as an ambassador. 
 
 "That is how, neighbor, I became a volunteer 
 under the Ee public before I had cut my wisdom 
 teeth." 
 
 All this was told quietly, and in the cheerful 
 spirit of him who looks upon an accomplished duty 
 neither as a merit nor a grievance. 
 
 While he spoke. Father Chautour grew animated, 
 not on account of himself, but of the general sub- 
 ject. Evidently that which occupied him in the 
 drama of life was not bis own part, but the drama 
 itself. 
 
 This sort of disinterestedness touched me. I 
 prolonged my visit and showed myself as frank as 
 possible, in order to win his confidence in return. 
 In an hour's time he knew my position and my 
 habits ; I was on the footing of an old acquaintance. 
 
 I even confessed the ill humor the light of his 
 lamp put me into a short time before. He took 
 Avhat I said with the touching cheerfulness which 
 comes from a heart in the right place and wnich 
 looks upon everything on the good side. He 
 neither spoke to me of the necessity which obliged 
 him to work while I could sleep, nor of the dep- 
 rivations of the old soldier compared to the luxury 
 of the young clerk; he only struck his forehead, 
 accused himself of thoughtlessness, and promised to 
 put list round his door ! 
 
 O great and beautiful soul ! with whom nothing 
 
136 AN A TTIG PHILOSOPEEIi IN PARIS. 
 
 turns to bitterness and who art peremptory only in 
 duty and benevolence ! 
 
 October 15th. — This morning I was looking at a 
 little engraving I had framed myself and hung 
 over my writing-table ; it is a design of Gavarni's, 
 in which, in a grave mood, he has represented " A 
 Yeteran and a Conscript."" "^ 
 
 By often contemplating these two figures, so 
 different in expression and so true to life, both 
 have become living in my eyes; I have seen them 
 move, I have heard them speak ; the picture has 
 become a real scene, at which I am present as 
 spectator. 
 
 The veteran advances slowly, his hand leaning on 
 the shoulder of the young soldier. His eyes, closed 
 forever, no longer perceive the sun shining through 
 the flowering chestunt-trees. In the place of his 
 right arm hangs an empty sleeve, and he walks with 
 a wooden leg, the sound of which on the pavement 
 makes those who pass turn to look. 
 
 At the sight of this ancient wreck from our 
 patriotic wars, the greater number shake their 
 heads in pity, and I seem to hear a sigh or an im- 
 precation. 
 
 " See the worth of glor}^ !" says a portly mer- 
 chant, turning away his eyes in horror. 
 
 " What a deplorable use of human life !" rejoins a 
 young man who carries a volume of philosophy 
 under his arm. 
 
 * See this beautiful composition in the Magasln Pitto- 
 resque for 1847. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 137 
 
 "The trooper would better not have left his 
 plow," adds a countryman with a cunning air. 
 
 " Poor old man !" murmurs a woman almost cry- 
 ing. 
 
 The veteran has heard and he knits his brow ; for 
 it seems to him that his guide has grown thoughtful. 
 The latter, attracted by what he hears around him, 
 hardly answers the old man's questions, and his 
 eyes, vaguely lost in space, seem to be seeking there 
 for the solution of some problem. 
 
 I seem to see a twitching in the gray mustaches 
 of the veteran; he stops abruptly, and holding back 
 his guide with his remaining arm — 
 
 " They all pity me," says he, " because they do 
 not understand it ; but if I were to answer them " 
 
 *' What would you say to them, father ?" asks the 
 young man with curiosity. 
 
 " I would say first to the woman who weeps when 
 she looks at me to keep her tears for other misfor- 
 tunes ; for each of my wounds calls to mind some 
 struggle for my colors. There is room for doubting 
 how some men have done their duty : with me it is 
 visible. I carry the account of my services, written 
 Avith the enemy's steel and lead, on myself ; to pity 
 me for having dene my duty is to suppose I would 
 better have been false to it." 
 
 " And what would you say to the countryman, 
 father?" 
 
 " I would tell him that, to drive the plow in peace, 
 we must first secure the country itself ; and that, as 
 long as there are foreigners ready to eat our harvest, 
 there must be arms to defend it." 
 
138 ^^ ATTIC PEtLOSOPHEU IN PARIS. 
 
 " But the young student, too, shook his head 
 when he lamented such a use of life." 
 
 '■' Because he does not know what self-sacrifice 
 and suffering can teach. The books which he 
 studies we have put in practice, though we never 
 read them : the principles he applauds we have 
 defended with powder and bayonet." 
 
 "And at the price of your limbs and your blood. 
 The merchant said, when he saw your maimed 
 body, ' See the worth of glory !' " 
 
 " Do not believe him, my son : the true glorj'' is 
 the bread of the soul ; it is this which nourishes self- 
 sacrifice, patience, and courage. The Master of all 
 has bestowed it as a tie the more between men. 
 When we desire to be distinguished by our breth- 
 ren, do we not thus prove our esteem and our 
 sympathy for them ? The longing for admiration 
 is but one side of love. No, no; the true glory 
 can never be too dearly paid for! That which we 
 should deplore, child, is not the infirmities which 
 prove a generous self sacrifice, but those which our 
 vices or our imprudence have called forth. Ah ! if 
 I could speak aloud to those who, when passing 
 cast looks of pity upon me, I should say to the 
 young man whose excesses have dimmed his sight 
 before he is old, 'What have you done with your 
 eyes?' To the slothful man who with difficulty 
 drags along his enervated mass of flesh, 'What have 
 you done with your feet V To the old man who is 
 punished for his intemperance by the gout, ' What 
 have you done with your hands V To all, ' What 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PATtlS. 139 
 
 have you clone with the cla3^s God granted you, 
 with the faculties you should have employed for 
 the good of your brethren V If you cannot answer, 
 bestow no more of your pity upon the old soldier 
 maimed in his country's cause ; for he — he at least 
 — can show his scars without shame." 
 
 October l(!4h. — The little engraving has made me 
 comprehend better the merits of Father Chaufour, 
 and I therefore esteem him all the more. 
 
 He has just now left my attic. There no longer 
 passes a single day \vithout his coming to work by 
 my tire or my going to sit and talk by his board. 
 
 The old artilleryman has seen much and likes to 
 tell of it. For twenty years he was an armed 
 traveler throughout Europe, and he fought without 
 hatred, for he was possessed by a single thought — 
 the honor of the national flag ! It might have been 
 his superstition, if you will ; but it w^as, at the same 
 time, his safeguard. 
 
 The word France, Avhich was then resounding 
 so gloriously through the w^orld, served as a talis- 
 man to him against all sorts of temptation. To 
 have to support a great name may seem a burden 
 to vulgar minds, but it is an encouragement to 
 vigorous ones. 
 
 '' I, too, have had many moments," said he to me 
 the other day, " when I have been tempted to 
 make friends with the devil. War is not precisely 
 the school for rural virtues. By dint of burning, 
 destroying, and killing you grow a little tough as 
 regards your feelings ; and when the bayonet has 
 
140 ^^ ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 made you king, the notions of an autocrat come 
 into your head a little strongly. But at these 
 moments I called to mind that country which the 
 lieutenant spoke of to me, and I whispered to 
 myself the well-known phrase, Toujours Franqais ! 
 It has been laughed at since. People who would 
 make a joke of the death of their mother have 
 turned it into ridicule, as if the name of our country 
 was not also a noble and a binding thing. For my 
 part, I shall never forget from how many follies the 
 title of Frenchman has kept me. When, overcome 
 with fatigue, I have found myself in the rear of the 
 colors, and when the musketry was rattling in the 
 front ranks, many a time I heard a voice, which 
 whispered in my ear, ' Leave the others to fight, 
 and for to-day take care of your own hide !' But 
 then, that word Fi^an^ais I murmured within me, 
 and I pressed forward to help my comrades. At 
 other times, when, irritated by hunger, cold, and 
 wounds, I have arrived at the hovel of some 
 Meinherr^ I have been seized by an itching to break 
 the master's back and to burn his hut; but I 
 whispered to myself Fran^ais I and this name 
 would not rhyme either with incendiary or mur- 
 derer. I have in this way passed through king- 
 doms from east to west and from north to south, 
 always determined not to bring disgrace upon my 
 country's flag. The lieutenant, you see, had taught 
 me a magic word — My country ! Not only must 
 w^e defend it, but we must also make it great and 
 loved." 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 141 
 
 October Vlih. — To-day I have paid my neighbor 
 a long visit. A chance expression led the way 
 to his telling me more of himself than he had yet 
 done. 
 
 I asked him whether both his limbs had been lost 
 in the same battle. 
 
 " No, no !" re])lied he ; " the cannon only took my 
 leg ; it was the Clamart quarries that my arm went 
 to feed." 
 
 And when I asked him for the particulars — 
 
 " That's as easy as to say good-morning," con- 
 tinued he. "After the great break-up at Waterloo, 
 I stayed three months in the camp hospital to give 
 my wooden leg time to grow. As soon as I was 
 able to hobble a little I took leave of headquarters 
 and took the road to Paris, where I hoped to find 
 some relation or friend ; but no — all were gone or 
 under ground. I should have found myself less 
 strange at Vienna, Madrid, or Berlin, And al- 
 though I had a leg the less to provide for, I was 
 none the better off ; my appetite had come back 
 and my last sous were taking flight. 
 
 " I had indeed met my old colonel, who recollect- 
 ed that I had helped him out of the skirmish at 
 Montereau by giving him my horse, and he had 
 offered me bed and board at his house. I knew that 
 the year before he had married a castle and no few 
 farms, so that I might become permanent coat- 
 brusher to a millionaire, which w^as not without its 
 temptations. It remained to see if I had not any- 
 thing better to do. One evening I set myself to 
 reflect upon it. 
 
142 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 " ' Let us see, Chaufour,' said I to myself ; ' the 
 question is to act like a man. The colonel's place 
 suits 3^ou, but cannot you do an^^thing better ? 
 Your body is still in good condition and your arms 
 strong; do you not owe all your strength to your 
 country, as your Yincennes uncle said ? Why not 
 leave some old soldier, more cut up than you are, 
 to get his hospital at the colonel's ? Come, trooper, 
 you are still fit for another stout charge or two I 
 You must not lay up before your time.' 
 
 " Whereupon I went to thank the colonel, and to 
 offer my services to an old artilleryman who had 
 gone back to his home at Clamart and who had 
 taken up the quarrvman's pick again. 
 
 " For the first few months I played the con- 
 script's part — that is to say, there was more stir 
 than work ; but with a good will one gets the better 
 of stones, as of everything else. I did not become, 
 so to speak, the leader of a column, but I brought 
 up the rank among the good workmen, and I ate 
 my bread w^ith a good appetite, seeing I had earned 
 it with a good will. For even under ground, you 
 see, I still kept m}^ pride. The thought that I was 
 working to do my part in changing rocks into 
 houses pleased my heart. I said to myself, 
 ' Courage, Chaufour, m}^ old boy ; 3"ou are helping 
 to beautify your country.' And that kept up my 
 spirit. 
 
 " Unfortunately, some of my companions \vere 
 rather too sensible to the charms of the brandy 
 bottle; so much so that one day one of them, who 
 
AN' ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 143 
 
 could hardly distinguish his right hand from his 
 left, thought proper to strike a light close to a 
 charged mine. The mine exploded suddenly and 
 sent a shower of stone grape among us, which 
 killed three men and carried away the arm of 
 which I have now only the sleeve." 
 
 " So you were again without means of living?" 
 said I to the old soldier. 
 
 "That is to sa}^ I had to change them," replied 
 he quietly. " The difficulty was to find one which 
 would do with five fingers instead of ten ; I found 
 it, however." 
 
 " How was that ?" 
 
 " Among the Paris street-sweepers." 
 
 " What ! you have been one " 
 
 " Of the pioneers of the health force for awhile, 
 neighbor, and that was not my worst time either. 
 The corps of sweepers is not so low as it is dirty, I 
 can tell you ! Tbere are old actresses in it who 
 could never learn to save their mone}'^, and ruined 
 merchants from the exchange ; we even had a pro- 
 fessor of classics, who for a little drink would recite 
 Latin to you, or Greek tragedies, as3"ou chose. They 
 could not have competed for the Monthyon prize ; 
 but we excused faults on account of poverty, and 
 cheered our poverty by our good humor and jokes. 
 I was as ragged and as cheerful as the rest, while try- 
 ing to be something better. Even in the mire of 
 the gutter I preserved my faith that nothing is dis- 
 honorable which is useful to our country. 
 
 " ' Chaufour,' said I to myself with a smile, ' after 
 
144 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 the sword, the hammer ; after the hammer, the 
 broom ; you are going downstairs, my old boy, but 
 you are still serving your country.' " 
 
 " However, you ended by leaving your new pro- 
 fession f said I. 
 
 " A reform was required, neighbor. The street- 
 sweepers seldom have their feet dry, and the damp 
 at last made the wounds in my good leg open again. 
 I could no longer follow the regiment, and it was 
 necessary to lay down my arms. It is now two 
 months since I left off working in the sanitary 
 department of Paris. 
 
 " At the first moment I was daunted. Of my 
 four limbs, I had now only my right hand, and even 
 that had lost its strength ; so it was necessary to 
 find some gentlemanly occupation for it. After try- 
 ing a little of everything, I fell upon cardbox 
 making, and here I am at cases for the lace and 
 buttons of the national guard ; it is work of little 
 profit, but it is within the capacity of all. By get- 
 ting up at four and working till eight I earn 65 
 centimes ; my lodging and bowl of soup take 
 50 of them, and there are 3 sous over for 
 luxuries. So I am richer than France herself, for I 
 have no deficit in my budget ; and I continue to 
 serve her, as I save her lace and buttons." 
 
 At these words Father Chaufour looked at me 
 with a smile, and with his great scissors began cut- 
 ting the green paper again for his cardboard cases. 
 My heart was touched and I remained lost in 
 thought. 
 
AN ATI 10 PniLOSOPHER IN PARIS. I45 
 
 Here is still another member of that sacred 
 phalanx who, in the battle of life, always march in 
 front for the example and the salvation of the world ! 
 Each of these brave soldiers has his war-cry ; for this 
 one it is " Country," for that " Home," for a third 
 *' Mankind :" but thev all follow the same standard 
 
 ' ml 
 
 — that of duty ; for all the same divine law" reigns 
 — that of self-sacrifice. To love something more 
 than one's self — that is the secret of all that is 
 great ; to know how to live for others — that is the 
 aim of all noble souls. 
 
146 ^N ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 CHAPTEK XI. 
 
 MORAL USE OF INVENTORIES. 
 
 November l^th, Nine O'clock P.M. — I had well 
 stopped up the chinks of my window ; my little 
 carpet was nailed down in its place ; my lamp, pro- 
 vided with its shade, cast a subdued light around ; 
 and my stove made a low murmuring sound, as if 
 some live creature was sharing my hearth with me. 
 
 All was silent around me. But out of doors the 
 snow and rain swept the roofs and with a low rush- 
 ing sound ran along the gurgUng gutters ; some- 
 times a gust of wind forced itself beneath the tiles, 
 which rattled together like castanets, and afterward 
 it was lost in the empty corridor. Then a slight 
 and pleasurable shiver thrilled through my veins : I 
 drew the flaps of my old wadded dressing-gown 
 round me, I pulled my threadbare velvet cap over 
 my eyes, and, letting myself sink deeper into my 
 easy-chair, while my feet basked in the heat and 
 light which shone through the door of the stove, I 
 gave myself up to a sensation of enjoyment, made 
 more lively b}^ the consciousness of the storm which 
 raged without. My eyes, swimming in a sort of 
 mist, wandered over all the details of my peaceful 
 abode ; they passed from my prints to my bookcase, 
 
AK ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 147 
 
 resting upon the little chintz sofa, the white curtains 
 of the iron bedstead, and the portfolio of loose 
 papers — those archives of the attics ; and then, re- 
 turning to the book I held in my hand, they at- 
 tempted to seize once more the thread of the reading 
 which had been thus interrupted. 
 
 In fact this book, the subject of which had at first 
 interested me, had become painful to me. I had 
 come to the conclusion that the pictures of the 
 writer were too somber. His descriptior of the 
 miseries of the world appeared exaggerated to me ; 
 I could not believe in such excess of poverty and of 
 suffering ; neither God nor man could show them- 
 selves so harsh toward the sons of Adam. The 
 author had yielded to an artistic temptation ; he 
 was making a show of the sufferings of humanity, 
 as Nero burned Rome for the sake of the pic- 
 turesque. 
 
 Taken altogether, this poor human house, so often 
 repaired, so much criticised, is still a pretty good 
 abode ; we may find enough in it to satisf}^ our 
 wants if we know how to set bounds to them ; the 
 happiness of the wise man costs but little and asks 
 but little space. 
 
 These consoling reflections became more and 
 more confused. At last my book fell on the ground 
 without my having the resolution to stoop and take 
 it up again ; and insensibly overcome by the luxury 
 of the silence, the subdued light, and the warmth, I 
 fell asleep. 
 
 I remained for some time lost in the sort of in- 
 
148 ^^ A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARTS. 
 
 sensibility belonging to a first sleep ; at last some 
 vague and broken sensations came over me. It 
 seemed to me that the da}^ grew darker, that the air 
 became colder. I half-perceived bushes covered 
 with the scarlet berries which foretell the coming 
 of winter. I walked on a dreary road, bordered 
 here and there with juniper-trees white with frost. 
 Then the scene suddenly changed. I was in the 
 dilio:ence : the cold wind shook the doors and win- 
 dows ; the trees, loaded with snow, passed by like 
 ghosts ; in vain I thrust my benumbed feet into the 
 crushed straw. At last the carriage stopped, and, 
 by one of those stage effects so common in sleep, I 
 found myself alone in a barn, without a fireplace, 
 and open to the winds on all sides. I saw again my 
 mother's gentle face, known only to me in my early 
 childhood, the noble and stern countenance of my 
 father, the little fair head of my sister, who was 
 taken from us at ten years old : all my dead family 
 lived again around me ; they were there, exposed to 
 the bitings of the cold and to the pangs of hunger. 
 My mother prayed by the resigned old man, and my 
 sister, rolled up on some rags of which they had 
 made her a bed, cried in silence and held her naked 
 feet in her little blue hands. 
 
 It was a page from the book I had just read 
 transferred into my own existence. 
 
 My heart was oppressed with inexpressible an- 
 guish. Crouched in a corner, with my e3^es fixed 
 upon this dismal picture, I felt the cold slowly 
 creeping upon me, and I said to myself with bit- 
 terness : 
 
AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHER W PARIS. 149 
 
 " Let us die, since poverty is a dungeon guarded 
 by suspicion, apathy, and contempt, and from which 
 it is vain to try to escape ; let us die, since there is 
 no place for us at the banquet of the living !" 
 
 And I tried to rise to join ray mother again and 
 to wait at her feet for the hour of release. 
 
 This effort dispelled ray dreara, and I awoke with 
 a start. 
 
 I looked around nie ; ray lamp was expiring, the 
 fire in ray stove extinguished, and ray half-opened 
 door was letting in an icy wind. I got up, with a 
 shiver, to shut and double-lock it; then I made for 
 the alcove and w^ent to bed in haste. 
 
 But the cold kept rae aw^ake a long time, and my 
 thoughts continued the interrupted dream. 
 
 The pictures I had lately accused of exaggeration 
 now seemed but a too faithful representation of 
 reality ; and I went to sleep without being able to 
 recover my optimism — or ray warrath. 
 
 Thus did a cold stove and a badly closed door 
 alter ray point of view. All went well when my 
 blood circulated properly ; all looked gloomy when 
 the cold laid hokl on rae. 
 
 This reminds me of the story of the duchess who 
 was obliged to pay a visit to the neighboring con- 
 vent on a winter's day. The convent was poor, 
 there was no wood, and the monks had nothing but 
 their discipline and the ardor of their prayers to 
 keep out the cold. The duchess, who was shivering 
 with cold, returned home greatly pitying the poor 
 monks. While the servants w^ere taking off her 
 
150 ^N ATTIC PHtLOSOPBER IN PAHIS. 
 
 cloak and adding two more logs to her fire, she 
 called for her steward, whom she ordered to send 
 some wood to the convent immediately. She then 
 had her couch moved close to the fireside, the 
 warmth of which soon revived her. The recollec- 
 tion of what she had just suffered was speedily lost 
 in her present comfort, when the steward came in 
 again to ask how many loads of wood he was to 
 send. 
 
 " Oh ! you may wait," said the great lady care- 
 lessly ; " the weather is very much milder.". 
 
 Thus man's judgments are formed Jess from rea- 
 son than from sensation ; and as sensation comes to 
 him from the outward world, so he finds himself 
 more or loss under its influence ; by little and little 
 he imbibes a portion of his habits and feelings from 
 it. 
 
 It is not, then, without cause that when we w^ish 
 to judge of a stranger beforehand we look for indi- 
 cations of his character in the circumstances which 
 surround him. The things among wdiich we live 
 are necessarily made to take our image, and we un- 
 consciously leave in them a thousand impressions of 
 our minds. As we can judge by an empty bed of 
 the height and attitude of him w^ho has slept in it, 
 so the abode of every man discovers to a close ob- 
 server the extent of his intelligence and the feelings 
 of his heart. Bernardin de St. Pierre has related 
 the story of a young girl who refused a suitor be- 
 cause he would never have flow^ers or domestic ani- 
 mals in his house. Perhaps the sentence was severe, 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 151 
 
 but not without reason. We ma}' presume that a 
 man insensible to beauty and to humble affection 
 must be ill prepared to I'eel the enjoyments of a 
 happy marriage. 
 
 14:th, Seven O^clock P.M. — This morning as I was 
 opening my journal to write I had a visit from our 
 old cashier. 
 
 His sight is not so good as it was, his hand be- 
 gins to shake, and the work he was able to do 
 formerl}' is now becoming somewhat laborious to 
 him. I had undertaken to write out some of his 
 papers, and he came for those I had finished. 
 
 We conversed a long time by the stove, while he 
 was drinking a cup of coffee which I made him 
 take. 
 
 M. Rateau is a sensible man, who has observed 
 much and speaks little ; so that he has always some- 
 thing to say. 
 
 While looking over the accounts I had prepared 
 for him his looks fell upon my journal, and 
 I was obliged to acknowledge that in this way I 
 wrote a diary of my actions and thoughts every 
 evening for private use. From one thing to another, 
 I began speaking to him of my dream the day be- 
 fore, and my reflections about the influence of out- 
 ward objects upon our ordinary sentiments. He 
 smiled. 
 
 '' Ah ! you too have my superstitions," he said 
 quietly. "I have always believed, like you, that 
 * 3'ou may know the game by the lair :' it is only 
 necessary to have tact and experience ; but without 
 
152 AN ATTIC PEtLOSOPHEB IN PARIS. 
 
 them we commit ourselves to many rash judgments. 
 For my part, I have been guilty of this more than 
 once, but sometimes I have also drawn a right con- 
 clusion. I recollect especially an adventure which 
 goes as far back as the first years of my youth " 
 
 He stopped. I looked at him as if I waited for 
 his story, and he told it me at once. 
 
 At this time he was still but third clerk to an at- 
 torney at Orleans. His master had sent him to 
 Montargis on different affairs, and he intended to 
 return in the diligence the same evening, after 
 having received the amount of a bill at a neighbor- 
 ing town ; but they kept him at the debtor's house, 
 and when he was able to set out the day had already 
 closed. 
 
 Fearing not to be able to reach Montargis in 
 good time, he took a cross-road they pointed out to 
 him. Unfortunately the fog increased, no star was 
 visible in the heavens, and the darkness became so 
 great that he lost his road. He tried to retrace his 
 steps, passed twenty foot-paths, and at last found 
 himself completely astray. 
 
 After the vexation of losing his place in the dili- 
 gence, came the feeling of uneasiness as to his 
 situation. He was alone, on foot, lost in a forest, 
 without any means of finding his right road again, 
 and with a considerable sum of money about him, 
 for which he was responsible. His anxiety was in 
 creased by his inexperience. The idea of a forest 
 was connected in his mind with so man}?^ adventures 
 of robbery and murder that he expected some fatal 
 encounter every instant. 
 
AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 153 
 
 To say the truth, his situation was not encour- 
 aging. The place was not considered safe, and for 
 some time past there had been rumors of the sud- 
 den disappearance of several horse-dealers, though 
 there was no trace of any crime having been 
 committed. 
 
 Our young traveler, with his eyes staring forward 
 and his ears listening, followed a footpath which he 
 supposed might take him to some house or road ; 
 but woods always succeeded to woods. At last he 
 perceived a light at a distance, and in a quarter of 
 an hour he reached the high-road. 
 
 A single house, the light from which had at- 
 tracted him, appeared at a little distance. He was 
 going toward the entrace gate of the court-yard, 
 when the trot of a horse made him turn his head. 
 A man on horseback had just appeared at the turn- 
 ing of the road, and in an instant was close to him. 
 
 The first words he addressed to the young man 
 showed him to be the farmer himself. He related 
 how he had lost himself, and learned from the 
 countryman that he was on the road to Pithiviers. 
 Montargis was three leagues behind him. 
 
 The fog had insensibly changed into a drizzling 
 rain, which was beginning to wet the young clerk 
 through ; he seemed afraid of the distance he had 
 still to go, and the horseman, who saw his hesita- 
 tion, invited him to come into the farm-house. 
 
 It had something of the look of a fortress. Sur- 
 rounded by a pretty high wall, it could not be seen 
 except through the bars of the great gate, which 
 
154 A^ ATTIC PHIL080PHER IN PARIS. 
 
 was carefully closed. The farmer, who had got off 
 his horse, did not go near it, but, turning to the 
 right, reached another entrance closed in the same 
 way, but of which he had the key. 
 
 Hardly had he passed the threshold when a 
 terrible barking resounded from each end of the 
 yard. The farmer told his guest to fear nothing, 
 and sliowed him the dogs chained up to their ken- 
 nels ; both were of an extraordinary size, and so 
 savao-e that the si^^ht of their master himself could 
 not quiet them. 
 
 A boy, attracted by their barking, came out of 
 the house and took the farmer's horse. The latter 
 began questioning him about some orders he had 
 given before he left the house, and went toward 
 the stable to see that they had been executed. 
 
 Thus left alone, our clerk looked about him. 
 
 A lantern which the boy had placed on the ground 
 cast a dim light over the court-yard. All around 
 seemed empty and deserted. Not a trace was 
 visible of the disorder often seen in a country farm- 
 yard, and which shows a temporary cessation of the 
 work which is soon to be resumed again. Neither 
 a cart forgotten where the horses had been unhar- 
 nessed, nor sheaves of corn heaped up ready for 
 threshing, nor a plow overturned in a corner and 
 half-hidden under the freshly cut clover. The yard 
 was swept, the barns shut up and padlocked. Not 
 a single vine creeping up the walls ; ever3Mvhere 
 stone, wood, and iron ! 
 
 He took up the lantern and went up to the corner 
 
AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHEH IN PARIS. 155 
 
 of the house. Behind was a second yard, where he 
 heard the barking of a third dog, and a covered well 
 was built in the middle of it. 
 
 Our traveler looked in vain for the little farm 
 garden, where pumpkins of different sorts creep 
 along the ground, or where the bees from the hives 
 hum under the hedges of honeysuckle and elder. 
 Verdure and flowers were nowhere to be seen. He 
 did not even perceive the sight of a poultry -yard 
 or pigeon-house. The habitation of his host was 
 everywhere wanting in that which makes the grace, 
 the life, and the charm of the country. 
 
 The young man thought that his host must be of 
 a very careless or a very calculating disposition to 
 concede so little to domestic enjoyments and the 
 pleasures of the eye; and judging, in spite of him- 
 self, by what he saw, he could not help feeling a 
 distrust of his character. 
 
 In the mean time the farmer returned from the 
 stables and made him enter the house. 
 
 The inside of the farm-house corresponded to its 
 outside. The whitewashed walls had no other 
 ornament than a row of guns of all sizes ; the mass- 
 ive furniture scarcely redeemed its clumsy appear- 
 ance by its great solidity. The cleanliness was 
 doubtful, and the absence of all minor conveniences 
 proved that a woman's care was wanting in the 
 household concerns. The young clerk learned that 
 the farmer, in fact, lived here with no one but his 
 two sons. 
 
 Of this, indeed, the signs were plain enough. A 
 
156 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 table with a cloth laid, that no one had taken the 
 trouble to clear away, was left near the window. 
 The plates and dishes were scattered upon it with- 
 out any order and loaded with potato-parings and 
 half-picked bones. Several empty bottles emitted 
 an odor of brandy, mixed with the pungent smell 
 of tobacco-smoke. 
 
 After having seated his guest the farmer lit his 
 pipe, and his two sons resumed their work by the 
 fireside, l^ow and then the silence was just broken 
 by a short remark, answered by a word or an ex- 
 clamation ; and then all became as m^ute as before. 
 
 '•From my childhood," said the old cashier,"! 
 had been very sensible to the impression of outward 
 objects ; later in life, reflection had taught me to 
 study the causes of these impressions rather than to 
 drive them away. I set myself, then, to examine 
 everything around me with great attention. 
 
 " Below the guns, I had remarked on entering, 
 some wolf-traps were suspended, and to one of them 
 still hung the mangled remains of a wolf's paw, 
 which they had not yet taken off from the iron 
 teeth. The blackened chimney-piece was ornament- 
 ed by an owl and a raven nailed on the wall, their 
 wings extended, and their throats with a huge nail 
 through each ; a fox's skin, freshly flayed, was 
 spread before the window ; and a larder hook, fixed 
 into the principal beam, held a headless goose, whose 
 body swayed about over our heads. 
 
 "My eyes w^ere offended by all these details, and 
 I turned them again upon my hosts. The father, 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 157 
 
 who sat opposite to me, only interrupted his smok- 
 ing to pour out his drink or address some repri- 
 mand to his sons. The eldest of these was scraping 
 a deep bucket, and the bloody scrapings, which he 
 threw into the fire ever}^ instant, tilled the room 
 with a disagreeable fetid smell ; the second son was 
 sharpening some butcher's knives. I learned from 
 a word dropped from the father that they were pre- 
 paring to kill a pig the next day. 
 
 "These occupations and the whole aspect of 
 things inside the house told of such habitual coarse- 
 ness in their way of living as seemed to explain, 
 while it formed the fitting counterpart of, the forbid- 
 ding gloominess of the outside. My astonishment 
 by degrees changed into disgust, and my disgust 
 into uneasiness. I cannot detail the whole chain of 
 ideas which succeeded one another in my imagina- 
 tion ; but, yielding to an impulse I could not over- 
 come, I got up, declaring I would go on my road 
 again. 
 
 " The farmer made some effort to keep me ; he 
 spoke of the rain, of the darkness, and of the length 
 of the way. I replied to all by the absolute neces- 
 sity there was for my being at Montargis that very 
 night ; and thanking him for his brief hospitality, I 
 set off again in a haste which might well have con- 
 firmed the truth of my words to him. 
 
 " However, the freshness of the night and the ex- 
 ercise of walking did not fail to change the direc- 
 tions of my thoughts. When away from the objects 
 which had awakened such lively disgust in me, I 
 
158 AN ATTtG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 felt it gradually diminishing. I began to smile at 
 the susceptibility of my feelings, and then, in pro- 
 portio?! as the rain became heavier and colder, these 
 strictures on myself assumed a tone of ill temper. 
 I silently accused myself of the absurdity of mistak- 
 ing sensation for admonitions of my reason. After 
 all, were not the farmer and his sons free to live 
 alone, to hunt, to keep dogs, and to kill a pig ? 
 Where was the crime of it '^ With less nervous 
 susceptibility, I should have accepted the shelter 
 they offered me, and I should now be sleeping snug- 
 ly on a truss of straw, instead of w^alking with 
 difficulty through the cold and drizzling rain. I 
 thus continued to reproach myself, until toward 
 morning I arrived at Montargis, jaded and be- 
 numbed with cold. 
 
 "When, however, I got up refreshed, toward the 
 middle of the next day, I instinctively returned to 
 my first opinion. The appearance of the farm-house 
 presented itself to me under the same repulsive 
 colors which the evening before had determined me 
 to make my escape from it. Reason itself remained 
 silent when reviewing all those coarse details, and 
 I was forced to recognize in them the indications of a 
 low nature, or, else the presence of some baleful in- 
 fluence. 
 
 " I went away the next day without being able 
 to learn anything concerning the farmer or his sons, 
 but the recollection of my adventure remained deep- 
 ly fixed in my memory. 
 
 " Ten years afterward I was traveling in the 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PAUIS. 159 
 
 diligence through the department of the Loiret ; I 
 was leaning from the window and looking at some 
 coppice ground now for the first time brought under 
 cultivation, and the mode of clearing which one of 
 my traveling companions was explaining to me, 
 when my eyes fell upon a walled inclosure, with an 
 iron-barred gate. Inside it I perceived a house 
 with all the blinds closed, and which I immediately 
 recollected ; it was the farm-house where I had 
 been sheltered. I eagerly pointed it out to my 
 companion and asked who lived in it. 
 
 '' ' Nobody just now,' replied he. 
 
 '"But was it not kept, some years ago, by a 
 farmer and his two sons V 
 
 '''The Turreaus,' said m}^ traveling companion, 
 looking at me ; ' did you know them V 
 
 " ' I saw them once.' 
 
 " He shook his head. 
 
 " ' Yes, yes !' resumed he ; ' for many years they 
 lived there like wolves in their den ; they merely 
 knew how to till land, kill game, and drink. The 
 father managed the house, but men living alone, 
 without women to love them, without children to 
 soften them, and without God to make them think 
 of heaven, always turn into wild beasts, you see ; so 
 one morning the eldest son, who had been drinking 
 too much brandy, would not harness the plow- 
 horses ; his father struck him with his whip, and the 
 son, who was mad drunk, shot him dead with his 
 gun.' " 
 
 16^A, P,M. — I have been thinking of the story of 
 
160 ^^ ATTIC PmLOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 the old cashier these two days; it came so op- 
 portunely upon the reflections my dream had sug- 
 gested to me. 
 
 Have I not an important lesson to learn from 
 all this 'i 
 
 If our sensations have an incontestable influence 
 upon our judgments, how comes it that we are so 
 little careful of those things which awaken or 
 modify these sensations ' The external world is 
 always reflected in us as in a mirror, and fills our 
 minds with pictures which, unconsciously to our- 
 selves, become the germs of our opinions and of 
 our rules of conduct. All the objects which sur- 
 round us are then, in realit}^, so many talismans 
 from whence good and bad influences are emitted. 
 It is for us to choose them wisely, so as to create a 
 healthy atmosphere for our minds. 
 
 Feeling convinced of this truth, I set about mak- 
 ing a surve}" of my attic. 
 
 The first object on which my eyes rest is an old 
 map of the history of the principal monastery in my 
 native province. I had unrolled it with much 
 satisfaction and placed it on the most conspicuous 
 part of the wall. Why had I given it this place? 
 Ought this sheet of old worm-eaten parchment to 
 be of so much value to me, who am neither an an- 
 tiquary nor a scholar? Is not its real importance 
 in my sight that one of the abbots who founded it 
 bore my name, and that I shall, perchance, be able 
 to make myself a genealogical tree of it for the 
 edification of my visitors? While writing this I 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPREH IN PARIS. 161 
 
 feel my own blushes. Come, clown with the map ! 
 let us banish it into my deepest drawer 
 
 As I passed my glass, I perceiv^ed several visiting 
 cards complacently displayed in the frame. By 
 what chance is it that there are only names that 
 make a show among them ? Here is a Polish 
 count — a retired colonel — the deput}^ of my depart- 
 ment. Quick, quick, into the fire with these proofs 
 of vanity ! and let us put this card in the handwrit- 
 ing of our office-boy, this direction for cheap din- 
 ners, and the receipt of the broker where I bought 
 my last arm-chair in their place. These indica- 
 tions of my poverty will serve, as Montaigne says, 
 mater 7na siijperle, and will always make me recol- 
 lect the modesty in which the dignity of the lowly 
 consists. 
 
 I have stopped before the prints hanging upon 
 the wall. This large and smiling Pomona, seated 
 on sheaves of corn, and whose basket is overflowing 
 with fruit, only produces thoughts of joy and plen- 
 ty ; I was looking at her the other day, when I fell 
 asleep denying such a thing as misery. Let us give 
 her as companion this picture of Winter, in which 
 everything tells of sorrow and suffering: one 
 picture will modify the other. 
 
 And this Happy Family of Greuze's ! What joy 
 in the children's eyes! what sweet repose in the 
 young woman's face ! what religious feeling in the 
 grandfather's countenance ! Ma\^ God preserve 
 their happiness to them ! but let us hang by its side 
 the picture of this mother, who weeps over an 
 
162 AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 empty cradle. Human life has two faces, both of 
 which we must dare to contemplate in their turns. 
 
 Let me hide, too, these ridiculous monsters which 
 ornament my chimney-piece. Plato has said that 
 " the beautiful is nothing else than the visible form 
 of the good." If it is so, the ugly should be the 
 visible form of the evil, and by constantly behold- 
 ing it the mind insensibly deteriorates. 
 
 But above all, in order to cherish the feelings of 
 kindness and pity, let me hang at the foot of my 
 bed this affecting picture of the Last Sleep ! Never 
 have I been able to look at it without feeling my 
 heart touched. 
 
 An old woman, clothed in rags, is lying by a 
 roadside ; her stick is at her feet, and her head 
 rests upon a stone ; she has fallen asleep ; her hands 
 are clasped ; murmuring a prayer of her childhood, 
 she sleeps her last sleep, she dreams her last 
 dream ! 
 
 She sees herself, again a strong and happy child, 
 keeping the sheep on the common, gathering the 
 berries from the hedges, singing, courtesyiug to 
 passers-by, and making the sign of the cross when 
 the first star appears in the heavens ! Happy time, 
 filled with fragrance and sunshine ! She wants 
 nothing yet, for she is ignorant of what there is to 
 wish for. 
 
 But see her grown up ; the time is come for 
 working bravely : she must cut the corn, thresh the 
 wheat, carry the bundles of flowering clover or 
 branches of withered leaves to the farm. If her toil 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 1G3 
 
 is hard, hope shines like a sun over eveiything and 
 it wipes the drops of sweat away. The growing 
 girl already sees that life is a task ; but she still 
 sings as she fulfills it. 
 
 By and by the burden becomes heavier ; she is a 
 wife, she is a mother ! She must economize the 
 bread of to-day, have her eye upon the morrow, 
 take care of the sick, and sustain the feeble ; she 
 must act, in short, that part of an earthly provi- 
 dence, so easy when God gives us his aid, so hard 
 when he forsakes us. The woman is still strong, 
 but she is anxious ; she sings no longer ! 
 
 Yet a few years, and all is overcast. The hus- 
 band's health is broken ; his wife sees him pine 
 away by the now fireless hearth; cold and hunger 
 finish what sickness had begun ; he dies, and his 
 widow sits on the ground by the coffin provided 
 by the charity of others, pressing her two half- 
 naked little ones in her arms. She dreads the 
 future, she weeps, and she droops her head. 
 
 At last the future has come ; the children are 
 grown up, but they are no longer with her. Her 
 son is fighting under his country's flag and his 
 sister is gone. Both have been lost to her for a 
 long time — perhaps forever ; and the strong girl, 
 the brave wife, the courageous mother is from 
 henceforth but an aged beggar-woman, without a 
 family and without a home ! She weeps no more ; 
 sorrow has subdued her ; she surrenders and waits 
 for death. 
 
 Death, that faithful friend of the wretched, is 
 
164 ^^ ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 come : not hideous and with mockery, as supersti- 
 tion represents, but beautiful, smiling, and crowned 
 with stars ! The gentle phantom stoops to the 
 beggar ; its pale lips murmur a few airy words, 
 which announce to her the end of her labors; a 
 peaceful joy comes over the aged beggar-woman, 
 and leaning on the shoulder of the great Deliverer, 
 she has passed unconsciously from her last earthly 
 sleep to her eternal rest. 
 
 Lie there, thou poor way-wearied woman ! The 
 leaves will serve thee for a winding-sheet, ISTight 
 w^ill shed her tears of dew over thee, and the birds 
 will sing sweetly by thy remains. Thy visit here 
 below will not have left more trace than their flio-ht 
 through the air ; thy name is already forgotten, and 
 the only legacy thou hast to leave is the hawthorn 
 stick lying forgotten at thy feet ! 
 
 Well ! some one will take it up — some soldier of 
 that great human host which is scattered abroad 
 by misery or by vice ; for thou art not an exception, 
 thou art an instance ; and under the same sun which 
 shines so pleasantly upon all, in the midst of these 
 flowering vineyards, this ripe corn, and these 
 wealthy cities, entire generations suffer, succeed 
 each other, and still bequeath to each the beggar's 
 stick ! 
 
 The sight of this sad picture shall make me more 
 grateful for what God has given me, and more com- 
 passionate for those whom he has treated with less 
 indulgence ; it shall be a lesson and a subject for 
 reflection for me. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPnER IN PA HIS. 1 65 
 
 Ah ! if we would watch for everything that 
 might improve and instruct us ; if the arrangements 
 of our daily life were so disposed as to be a constant 
 school for our minds ! but oftenest we take no heed 
 of them. Man is an eternal mystery to himself ; his 
 own person is a house into which he never enters 
 and of which he studies the outside alone. Each 
 of us need have continually before him the famous 
 inscription which once instructed Socrates, and 
 which was engraved on the walls of Delphi by an 
 unknown hand: 
 
 "know thyself." 
 
166 ^^ ^ TTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PA BIS. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE END OF THE YEAR. 
 
 Deceinber ZOth, F.M.—l was in bed, and hardly 
 recovered from the delirious fever which had kept 
 me for so long between life and death. My weak- 
 ened brain was making efforts to recover its 
 activity ; my thoughts, like rays of light struggling 
 through the clouds, were still confused and imper- 
 fect ; at times I felt a return of the dizziness which 
 made a chaos of all my ideas, and I floated, so to 
 speak, between alternate fits of mental wandering 
 and consciousness. 
 
 Sometimes everything seemed plain to me, like 
 the prospect which, from the top of some high 
 mountain, opens before us in clear weather. We 
 distinguish water, woods, villages, cattle, even the 
 cottage perched on the edge of the ravine ; then 
 suddenly there comes a gust of wind laden with 
 mist, and all is confused and indistinct. 
 
 Thus, yielding to the oscillations of a half-recov- 
 ered reason, I allowed my mind to follow its 
 various impulses without troubling myself to 
 separate the real from the imaginary ; I glided 
 softly from one to the other, and my dreams and 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PAMIS, 167 
 
 waking thoughts succeeded closely upon one an- 
 other. 
 
 Now, while my mind is wandering in this unset- 
 tled state, see, underneath the clock which measures 
 the hours with its loud ticking, a female figure ap- 
 pears before me ! 
 
 At first sight I saw enough to satisfy me that she 
 was not a daughter of Eve. In her eye was the last 
 flash of an expiring star, and her face had the pallor 
 of an heroic death-struggle. She was dressed in a 
 drapery of a thousand changing colors of the bright- 
 est and the most somber hues, and she held a with- 
 ered garland in her hand. 
 
 After having contemplated her for some mo- 
 ments, I asked ber name and what brought her 
 into my attic. Her eyes, which were following the 
 movements of the clock, turned toward me, and she 
 replied : 
 
 " You see in me the year which is just drawing to 
 its end ; I come to receive your thanks and your 
 farewell." 
 
 I raised myself on my elbow in surprise, which 
 soon gave place to bitter resentment. 
 
 " Ah ! you want thanks," cried I ; ^' but first let 
 me know what for. 
 
 " When I welcomed 3'our coming I was still 
 young and vigorous : you have taken from me each 
 day some little of my strength, and you have ended 
 by inflicting an illness upon me ; already, thanks to 
 you, my blood is less warm, my muscless less firm, 
 and my feet less agile than before ! You have 
 
168 ^-ZV -4 TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 planted the germs of infirmity in my bosom ; there, 
 where the summer flowers of life were growing, you 
 have wickedly sown the nettles of old age ! 
 
 " And, as if it was not enough to weaken my 
 body, you have also diminished the powers of my 
 soul: you have extinguished her enthusiasm; she 
 is become more sluggish and more timid. Formerly 
 her eyes took in the whole of mankind in their 
 generous survey ; but you have made her near- 
 sighted, and now she scarcely sees beyond herself ! 
 
 " That is what you have done for my spiritual 
 being : then as to my outward existence, see to 
 what grief, neglect, and misery you have reduced 
 it! 
 
 " For the many days that the fever has kept me 
 chained to this bed, who has taken care of this 
 home, in which I placed all my joy ? Shall I not 
 find my closets empty, my bookcase stripped, all 
 my poor treasures lost through negligence or dis- 
 honesty ? Where are the plants I cultivated, the 
 birds I fed ? All are gone ! my attic is despoiled, 
 silent, and solitary ! 
 
 " As it is only for the last few moment^ that I 
 have returned to a consciousness of what surrounds 
 me, I am even ignorant who has nursed me during 
 my long illness ! Doubtless some hireling, who will 
 leave when all my means of recompense are ex- 
 hausted ! 
 
 " And what will my masters, for whom I am 
 bound to work, have said to my absence ? At this 
 time of the year, when business is most pressing, 
 
AN A TTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 169 
 
 can they have done without me, will they even have 
 tried to do so ? Perhaps I am already superseded 
 in the humble situation by which I earned my daily 
 bread ! And it is thou — thou alone, wicked 
 daughter of Time — who has brought all these mis- 
 fortunes upon me : strength, health, comfort, work 
 — thou hast taken all from me. I have only re- 
 ceived outrage and loss from thee, and yet thou 
 darest to claim my gratitude ! 
 
 " Ah ! die then, since thy day is come ; but die 
 despised and cursed ; and may I write on thy tomb 
 the epitaph the Arabian poet inscribed upon that of 
 a king : 
 
 " ' Kejoice, thou passer by : he Avhom we have 
 buried here cannot live again.' " 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 I was awakened by a hand taking mine; and 
 opening my eyes, I recognized the doctor. 
 
 After having felt my pulse, he nodded his head, 
 sat down at the foot of the bed, and looked at me, 
 rubbing his nose with his snuff-box. I have since 
 learned that this was a sign of satisfaction with the 
 doctor. ^ 
 
 " AVell ! so we wanted old snub-nose to carr}^ us 
 off ?" said M. Lambert, in his half-joking, half-scold- 
 ing way. " What the deuce of a hurry we were in ! 
 It was necessary to hold you back with both arms 
 at least 1" 
 
 " Then you had given me up, doctor ?" asked I, 
 rather alarmed. 
 
 '^Not at all," replied the old physician. "We 
 
170 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PAItlS. 
 
 can't give up what we have not got ; and I make it 
 a rule never to have any hope. We are but instru- 
 ments in the hands of Providence, and each of us 
 should say with Ambroise Pare : * I tend him, God 
 cures him !' " 
 
 " Ma}^ he be blessed then, as well as you," cried 
 I ; " and may my health come back with the new 
 year !" 
 
 M. Lambert shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Begin by asking yourself for it," resumed he 
 bluntly. " God has given it you, and it is your 
 own sense, and not chance, that must keep it for 
 you. One would think, to hear people talk, that 
 sickness comes upon us like the rain or the sunshine, 
 without one having a word to say in the matter. 
 Before we complain of being ill we should prove 
 that we deserve to be well." 
 
 I was about to smile, but the doctor looked 
 angry. 
 
 " Ah ! you think that I am joking," resumed he, 
 raising his voice ; " but tell me, then, which of us 
 gives his health the same attention that he gives to 
 his business? Do you economize your strength as 
 you economize your money ? Do you avoid excess 
 and imprudence in the one case with the same care 
 as extravagance or foolish speculations in the other? 
 Do you keep as regular accounts of your mode of 
 living as you do of your income? Do you consider 
 every evening what has been wholesome or unwhole- 
 some for you, with the same care as you bring to 
 the examination of your expenditure ? You may 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 171 
 
 smile ; but have you not brought this illness on 
 yourself by a thousand indiscretions ?" 
 
 I began to protest against this, and asked him to 
 point out these indiscretions. The old doctor spread 
 out his fingers and began to reckon upon them one 
 by one. 
 
 " Prirao^'' cried he, " want of exercise. You live 
 here like a mouse in a cheese, without air, motion, 
 or change. Consequently, the blood circulates 
 badly, the fluids thicken, the muscles, being inac- 
 tive, do not claim their share of nutrition, the 
 stomach flags, and the brain growls weary. 
 
 ^' Secundo. Irregular food. Caprice is your cook ; 
 your stomach a slave who must accept what you 
 give it, but who presently takes a sullen revenge, 
 like all slaves. 
 
 " Tertio. Sitting up late. Instead of using the 
 night for sleep, you spend it in reading ; your bed- 
 stead is a bookcase, your pillow a desk ! At the 
 time when the wearied brain asks for rest, you 
 lead it through these nocturnal orgies, and you are 
 surprised to find it the worse for them the next 
 day. 
 
 " Quarto. Luxurious habits. Shut up in your 
 attic, you insensibly surround yourself with a 
 thousand effeminate indulgences. You must have 
 list for your door, a blind for your window, a car- 
 pet for your feet, an easy-chair stuffed with wool for 
 your back, your fire lit at the first sign of cold, and 
 a shade to your lamp ; and, thanks to all these pre- 
 cautions, the least draught makes you catch cold, 
 
172 AN ^ TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARI8. 
 
 common chairs give you no rest, and you must wear 
 spectacles to support the light of day. You have 
 thought you were acquiring comforts, and you have 
 only contracted infirmities. 
 
 " Quinto " 
 
 " Ah ! enough, enough, doctor!" cried I. " Pray 
 do not carry your examination further ; do not 
 attach a sense of remorse to each of my pleasures." 
 
 The old doctor rubbed his nose with his snuff- 
 box. 
 
 " You see," said he more gently, and rising at the 
 same time, " you would escape from the truth. You 
 shrink from inquiry — a proof that j'^ou are guilty. 
 Habemus conjitentem reurn ! But at least, my 
 friend, do not go on laying the blame on Time, like 
 an old woman." 
 
 Thereupon he again felt my pulse and took his 
 leave, declaring that his function was at an end and 
 that the rest depended upon myself. 
 
 When the doctor was gone I set about reflecting 
 upon what he had said. 
 
 Although his words were too sweeping, they 
 were not the less true in the main. How often we 
 accuse chance of an illness, the origin of which we 
 should seek in ourselves ! Perhaps it would have 
 been wiser to let him finish the examination he had 
 begun. 
 
 But is there not another of more importance — 
 that which concerns the health of the soul ? Am I 
 so sure of having neglected no means of preserving 
 that during the year which is now ending ? Have 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 173 
 
 I, as one of God's soldiers upon earth, kept my 
 courage and my arms efficient ? Shall I be ready 
 for the great review of souls which must pass before 
 Him who is in the dark valley of Jehoshaphat ? 
 
 Barest thou examine thyself, O my soul ! and 
 see how often thou hast erred ? 
 
 First, thou hast erred through pride ! for I have 
 not duly valued the lowly. I have drunk too deeply 
 of the intoxicating wines of genius, and have found 
 no relish in pure water. I have disdained those 
 words which had no other beauty than their 
 sincerity ; I have ceased to love men solely because 
 they are men — I have loved them for their endow- 
 ments ; I have contracted the world within the 
 narrow compass of a pantheon, and my sympathy 
 has been awakened by admiration only. The 
 vulgar crowd, which I ought to have followed with 
 a friendly eye because it is composed of my 
 brothers in hope or grief, I have let pass by me 
 with as much indifference as if it were a flock of 
 sheep. I am indignant with him who rolls in riches 
 and despises the man poor in worldly wealth ; and 
 yet, vain of my trifling knowledge, I despise him 
 who is poor in mind — I scorn the poverty of in- 
 tellect as others do that of dress ; I take credit for 
 a gift which I did not bestow on my myself, and 
 turn the favor of fortune into a weapon with which 
 to attack others. 
 
 Ah ! if, in the worst days of revolutions, igno- 
 rance has revolted and raised a cry of hatred against 
 genius, the fault is not alone in the envious malice 
 
174 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 of ignorance, but comes in part, too, from the con- 
 temptuous pride of knowledge. 
 
 Alas! I have too completely forgotten the fable 
 of the two sons of the magician of Bagdad. 
 
 One of them, struck by an irrevocable decree of 
 destiny, was born blind, while the other enjoyed all 
 the delights of sight. The latter, proud of his own 
 advantages, laughed at his brother's blindness and 
 disdained him as a companion. One morning the 
 blind boy wished to go out with him. 
 
 " To what purpose," said he, " since the gods have 
 put nothing in common between us? For me 
 creation is a stage, where a thousand charming 
 scenes and wonderful actors appear in succession ; 
 for you it is only an obscure abyss, at the bottom of 
 which you hear the confused murmur of an invisible 
 world. Continue then alone in your darkness, and 
 leave the pleasures of light to those upon whom the 
 day-star shines." 
 
 With these words he went away, and his brother, 
 left alone, began to cry bitterly. His father, who 
 heard him, immediately ran to him, and tried to 
 console him by promising to give him whatever he 
 desired. 
 
 " Can you give me sight ?" asked the child. 
 
 '• Fate does not permit it," said the magician. 
 
 " Then," cried the blind boy eagerly, " I ask you 
 to put out the sun !" 
 
 Who knows whether my pride has not provoked 
 the same wish on the part of some one of my 
 brothers who does not see ? 
 
AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 175 
 
 But how much oftener have I erred through 
 levity and want of thought ! IIow many resolutions 
 have I taken at random ! how many judgments 
 have I pronounced for the sake of a witticism ! how 
 many mischiefs have I not done without any sense 
 of my responsibility ! The greater part of men 
 harm one another for the sake of doing something. 
 We laugh at the honor of one and compromise the 
 reputation of another, like an idle man who saun- 
 ters along a hedgerow, breaking the young branches 
 and destroying the most beautiful flowers. 
 
 And nevertheless it is by this very thoughtless- 
 ness that the fame of some men is created. It rises 
 gradually, like one of those mysterious mounds in 
 barbarous countries to which a stone is added by 
 every passer-by : each one brings something at 
 random and adds it as he passes, without being able 
 himself to see whether he is raising a pedestal or a 
 gibbet. Who will dare look behind him, to see his 
 rash judgments held up there to view ? 
 
 Some time ao^o I was walkino^ alon^: the edo^e of 
 the green mound on which the Montmartre tele- 
 graph stands. Below me, along one of the zigzag 
 paths which wind up the hill, a man and a girl were 
 coming up, and arrested my attention. The man 
 wore a shaggy coat, which gave him some resem- 
 blance to a wild beast; and he held a thick stick in 
 his hand, with which he described various strange 
 figures in the air. He spoke very loud, and in a 
 voice which seemed to me convulsed with passion. 
 He raised his eyes every now and then with an ex- 
 
176 Air ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 pression of savage harshness, and it appeared to me 
 that he was reproaching and threatening the girl, 
 and that she was listening to him with a submissive- 
 ness which touched my heart. Two or three times 
 she ventured a few words, doubtless in the attempt 
 to justify herself ; but the man in the great-coat be- 
 gan again immediately with his loud and angry 
 voice, his savage looks, and his threatening evolu- 
 tions in the air. I followed him with my eyes, 
 vainly endeavoring to catch a word as he passed, 
 until he disppeared behind the hill. 
 
 I had evidently just seen one of those domestic 
 tyrants whose sullen tempers are excited b}^ the 
 patience of their victims, and who, though they 
 have the power to become the beneficent gods of a 
 family, choose rather to be their tormentors. 
 
 I cursed the unknown savage in my heart, and I 
 felt indignant that these crimes against the sacred 
 peace of home could not be punished as they deserve, 
 when I heard his voice approaching nearer. He 
 had turned the path, and soon appeared before me 
 at the top of the slope. 
 
 The first glance and his first words explained 
 everything to me : in place of what I had taken for 
 the furious tones and terrible looks of an angry 
 man and the attitude of a frightened victim, I had 
 before me only an honest citizen, who squinted and 
 stuttered, but who was explaining the management 
 of silk-worms to his attentive daughter. 
 
 I turned homeward, smiling at my mistake ; but 
 before I reached my faubourg I saw a crowd run- 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 177 
 
 ning, I heard calls for help, and every finger pointed 
 in the same direction to a distant column of flame. 
 A manufactory had taken fire, and everybody was 
 rushino^ forward to assist in extino:uishino: it. 
 
 I hesitated. Night was coming on ; I felt tired ; 
 a favorite book was awaiting me: I thought there 
 would be no want of help, and I went on my way. 
 
 Just before I had erred from want of consider- 
 ation ; now it was from selfishness and cowardice. 
 
 But what ! have I not on a thousand other oc- 
 casions forgotten the duties Avhich bind us to our 
 fellow-men ? Is this the first time I have avoided 
 paying society what I owe it ? Have I not always 
 behaved to my companions with injustice, and like 
 the lion ? Have I not claimed successively every 
 share ? If any one is so ill advised as to ask me to 
 return some little portion, I get provoked, I am 
 angr}^, I try to escape from it by every means. 
 How many times, when I have perceived a beggar 
 sitling huddled up at the end of the street, have I 
 not gone out of my way, for fear that compassion 
 would impoverish me by forcing me to be charita- 
 ble ! How often have I doubted the misfortunes of 
 others, that I might with justice harden my heart 
 against them ! With what satisfaction have I 
 sometimes verified the vices of the poor man, in or- 
 der to show that his misery is the punishment he 
 deserves ! 
 
 Oh ! let us not go further — let us not go further ! 
 I interrupted the doctor's examination, but how 
 much sadder is this one ! We pity the diseases of 
 the body ; we shudder at those of the soul. 
 
178 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 I was happily disturbed in my reverie by my 
 neighbor, the old soldier. 
 
 IS'ow I think of it, I seem always to have seen, 
 during my fever, the figure of this good old man, 
 sometimes leaning against my bed and sometimes 
 sitting at his table surrounded by his sheets of 
 pasteboard. 
 
 He has just come in with his glue-pot, his quire 
 of green paper, and his great scissors. I called him 
 by his name ; he uttered a joyful exclamation and 
 came near me. 
 
 " Well ! so the bullet is found again !" cried he, 
 taking my two hands into the maimed one which 
 was left him ; '^ it has not been without trouble, I 
 can tell you : the campaign has been long enough 
 to win two clasps in. I have seen no few fellows 
 with the fever batter windmills during my hospital 
 days : at Leipsic, I had a neighbor who fancied a 
 chimney was on fire in his stomach, and who was 
 always calling for the fire-engines ; but the third 
 day it all went out of itself. But with you it has 
 lasted twenty -eight days — as long as one of the Lit- 
 tle Corporal's campaigns." 
 
 " I an not mistaken, then ; you were near me V 
 
 " Well ! I had only to cross the passage. This 
 left hand has not made you a bad nurse for want of 
 the right ; but, bah ! you did not know what hand 
 gave you drink, and it did not prevent that beggar 
 of a fever from being drowned — for all the world 
 like Poniatowski in the Elster." 
 
 The old soldier began to laugh, and I, feeling too 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 179 
 
 much affected to speak, pressed his hand against 
 my breast. He saw my emotion and hastened to 
 put an end to it. 
 
 " By the bye, you know that from to-day you have 
 a right to draw 3^our rations again," resumed he 
 gayly ; " four meals, like the German meinherrs — 
 nothing more ! The doctor is 3^our house steward." 
 
 " We must find the cook, too," replied I, with a 
 smile. 
 
 " She is found," said the veteran. 
 
 "Who IS she?" 
 
 " Genevieve." 
 
 " The fruit-woman ?" 
 
 "While I am talking she is cooking for you, 
 neighbor ; and do not fear her sparing either butter 
 or trouble. As long as life and death were fight- 
 ing for you, the honest woman passed her time in 
 going up and down stairs to learn which way the 
 battle went. And, stay, I am sure this is she." 
 
 In fact, we heard steps in the passage, and he 
 went to open the door. 
 
 "Oh, well!" continued he, "it is Mother Millot, 
 our portress, another of j^our good friends, neighbor, 
 and whose poultices I recommend to you. Come 
 in, Mother Millot — come in ; we are quite bonny 
 boys this morning, and ready to step a minuet if we 
 had our dancing-shoes." 
 
 The portress came in, quite delighted. She 
 brought my linen, washed and mended by herself, 
 with a little bottle of Spanish wine, the gift of her 
 sailor son, and kept for great occasions. I would 
 
180 ^^' ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 have thanked her, but the good woman imposed 
 silence upon me, under the pretext that the doctor 
 had forbidden me to speak. I saw her arrange 
 everything in my drawers, the neat appearance of 
 which struck me ; an attentive hand had evidently 
 been there, and day by day put straight the un- 
 avoidable disorder consequent on sickness. 
 
 As she finished, Genevieve arrived with my din- 
 ner ; she was followed by Mother Denis, the milk- 
 woman over the way, who had learned, at the same 
 time, the danger I had been in, and that I was now 
 beginning to be convalescent. The good Savoyard 
 brought me a new-laid egg, which she herself wished 
 to see me eat. 
 
 It was necessary to relate minutely all my illness 
 to her. At every detail she uttered loud exclama- 
 tions ; then, when the portress warned her to be 
 less noisy, she excused herself in a whisper. They 
 made a circle around me to see me eat my dinner; 
 each mouthful I took was accompanied by their ex- 
 pressions of satisfaction and thankfulness. Never 
 had the King of France, when he dined in public, 
 excited such admiration among the spectators. 
 
 As they were taking the dinner away, my col- 
 league, the old cashier, entered in his turn. 
 
 I could not prevent my heart beating as I recog- 
 nized him. How would the heads of the firm look 
 upon my absence and what did he come to tell me ? 
 
 I waited with inexpressible anxiety for him to 
 speak ; but he sat down by me, took my hand, and 
 began rejoicing over my recovery, without saying a 
 
AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PA llIS. 181 
 
 word about our masters. I could not endure this 
 uncertainty any longer. 
 
 "And the Messieurs Durmer," asked I hesitat- 
 ingly, " how have they taken — the interruption to 
 my work?" 
 
 " There has been no interruption," replied the old 
 clerk quietly. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 " Each one in the oflBce took a share of your duty ; 
 all has gone on as usual, and the Messieurs Durmer 
 have perceived no difference." 
 
 This was too much. After so many instances of 
 affection, this filled up the measure. I could not 
 restrain my tears. 
 
 Thus the few services I had been able to do for 
 others had been acknowledged by them a hundred- 
 fold ! I had sown a little seed, and every grain had 
 fallen on good ground and brought forth a whole 
 sheaf. Ah ! this completes the lesson the doctor 
 gave me. If it is true that the diseases, whether of 
 the mind or body, are the fruit of our follies anH 
 our vices, sympathy and affection are also the re- 
 wards of our having done our duty. Every one of 
 us, with God's help and within the narrow limits 
 of human capability, himself makes his own dispo- 
 sition, character, and permanent condition. 
 
 Everybody is gone ; the old soldier has brought 
 me back my flowers and my birds, and they are my 
 only companions. The setting sun reddens my half- 
 
182 ^N ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PABIS. 
 
 closed curtains with its last raj^s. My brain is clear 
 and my heart lighter. A thin mist floats before my 
 my eyes, and I feel myself in that happy state 
 which precedes a refreshing sleep. 
 
 Yonder, opposite the bed, the pale goddess in her 
 drapery of a thousand changing colors, and with 
 her withered garland, again appears before me ; but 
 this time I hold out my hand to her with a grateful 
 smile. 
 
 " Adieu, beloved year ! whom I but now unjustly 
 accused. That which I have suffered must not be 
 laid to thee ; for thou wast but a tract through 
 which God had marked out my road — a ground 
 where I had reaped the harvest I had sown. I will 
 love thee, thou wayside shelter, for those hours of 
 happiness thou hast seen me enjoy ; I will love thee 
 even for the suffering thou hast seen me endure. 
 Neither happiness nor suffering came from thee ; 
 but thou hast been the scene for them. Descend 
 again, then, in peace, into eternity, and be blest, 
 thou who hast left me experience in the place of 
 youth, sweet memories instead of past time, and 
 gratitude as payment for good offices." 
 
 THE END. 
 
IN THE CHIMNEY CORNER 
 
 BY 
 
 EMILE SOUVESTRE. 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 A. W. AYER AND H. T. SLATE. 
 
TO THE EEADEE. 
 
 Apart from the direct lessons that experience 
 teaches us, there are others for which our imagina- 
 tion is entirely responsible. We learn not only by 
 what we see, but by what we imagine, and fables 
 teach as manv lessons as facts. 
 
 Ideal pictures of life called apologues, poems, 
 novels, according to people and period, have always 
 played an important part in the instruction of the 
 Avorld. In the Middle Ages tales of chivalry told by 
 firelight completed the education of the knights and. 
 damosels ; in these yahliaiix was given the solution 
 of all the problems of love or chivalry then being 
 discussed ; by imaginary examples the}^ educated 
 the mind to recognize what it should choose ; in 
 fact, the}^ caused the romantic to unite with this 
 home training of the character, the only training 
 that endures throughout the temptations of life and 
 constitutes the spirit of a nation. 
 
 In our day, when printing has taken the place of 
 oral tradition and has become the real instructor of 
 the world, the press, under another name and with 
 another purpose, continues to play the role of the 
 minstrels of the Middle Ages ; it is from the press 
 that the family demands romantic tales to shorten 
 leisure hours. These tales told beneath green arbors 
 in the last rays of the setting sun, or in the chimnev 
 
186 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHEIi IN PARIS. 
 
 corner during the long winter evenings, have be- 
 come at once a habit and a bond of union. Thanks 
 to this common nourishment, minds develop to- 
 gether and acquire the same temperament, so to 
 speak. By dint of associating in fancy we become 
 accustomed to associate in fact. 
 
 I^e vous soiivient-il plus, mon fils, de ces soirees 
 Oil, Toeil fixe sur vous et nos chaises serrees, 
 Kavis, nous ecoutions quelque recit frappant 
 Que vous lisiez tout haut, en vous interrompant? 
 Nous sentions s'allumer en nous les memes flammes 
 En prenant en commun ee doux repas des ames; 
 Memes pleurs, memes ris, memes pensers! Alors 
 Parmi nous s'exhalaient de merveilleux accords, 
 Et, vibrant dans nos seins a la meme secousse. 
 La lyre interieure elevait sa voix douce! 
 Oh! comme Ton s'airaait dans ces soirs d'abandon! 
 Quand ils n'irritent pas, les pleurs rendent si bon! 
 Alors, mon fils, nos coeurs n'avaient qu'une racine, 
 De tous vos sentiments je savais Forigine, 
 Et, nous tenant la main, dans le monde ideal 
 Ensemble nous marchions toujours d'un pas 4gal. 
 
 Even when the difference in natures does not per- 
 mit this union, some enlightenment is gained by 
 each ; the variety of sensations reveals the character 
 of each ; each is enabled to know the other better 
 and, consequently, to avoid painful collisions. 
 
 But the choice of books is difficult ! This family 
 reading assumes something of an official character; 
 it is an act of domestic magistracy, the responsi- 
 bility of which falls upon the head of the family 
 
AN A TTIG PUILOSOPUER IN PARIS. 187 
 
 and requires great discretion. Moreover, the human 
 mind has its tyrannies and its reserves. One book, 
 which deliglits or moves us when we read it to our- 
 selves, would lose its charm if we heard it read 
 aloud ! Now it is a subtle perfume that can be 
 breathed only in solitude, now emotions that touch 
 us so deeply that we are embarrassed by the looks 
 of a third person, now pictures too vivid to be easily 
 contemplated by more than one. Domestic in- 
 timacy has its own reservations ; it does not permit 
 anything to be read that it does not allow to be 
 said. Moreover, tiie lack of universal leisure necessi- 
 tates short stories ; people like to carry awa}^ with 
 them a complete impression which may serve as a 
 subject for reflection. It is difficult to read long 
 books and it is apt to lead to encroachments upon 
 one's duties, and then the ideal, instead of elevating 
 the real, ends by destroying it. 
 
 As to the character of ordinary novels, it is even 
 more unsuited to family reading. While some auth- 
 ors imitate " Amadis de Gaule '' and never emerge 
 from great passions or from great adventures ; 
 while others, mindful of the real world, but obliged 
 at all cost to rouse sated interest, seek in the un- 
 usual pictures that attract; the most powerful 
 writers enter the very heart of man and society and 
 unveil their somber depths before us! 
 
 For each of them there is doubtless some reason 
 for existence; but whatever verdict we may pass 
 upon their creations, we must at least admit that 
 they are not suited to the need above noted. Below 
 
188 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 these great dramas there is the familiar drama ; far 
 removed from the clamorous celebrities that weary 
 the press is the humble writer who does not seek 
 to go beyond the domestic circle : it is for the 
 former to shine, for the latter to be loved ! 
 
 The tales that foJlow are only an attempt, but 
 perhaps they will serve as an initiative. Among so 
 many delightful story-tellers, whose voices ring a 
 little false in shouting amid the crowd, there may 
 be some who will weary at last of the turmoil 
 called fame ; they will come to sit under the home 
 roof and, lowering their voices to the tone of truth, 
 they will let us hear some of those tales that are 
 eternally touching because eternally true. Then 
 the author of the '* Komans de Famille " will hold 
 his peace without regret, to give place to those who 
 are more worthy, and will resume his seat among 
 the listeners. 
 
AN ATTIC PEILOSOPEER IN PARIS, 189 
 
 THE POET AND THE PEASANT. 
 
 A YOUNG man was skirting the forest that sepa- 
 rates Sainte-Marie-aux-Mines from Eibauville, and 
 in spite of the approach of night, in spite of the 
 mist that grew denser every moment, he was 
 walking slowly, paying no heed either to the 
 weather or to the hour. 
 
 His dress of green cloth, his buckskin gaiters, 
 and the gun slung across his shoulder might have 
 caused him to be taken for a sportsman, had not 
 the book that half-protruded from his game-bag 
 betrayed the dreamer, for whom the pursuit of 
 game was only an excuse for solitude. At this 
 very moment the meditative unconcern of his bear- 
 ing contradicted his sportsmanlike appearance, and 
 proved that Arnold de Munster was less occupied 
 with observing the track of wild game than with 
 following in all their windings the vagaries of his 
 mind. 
 
 For some moments the latter had been filled with 
 thoughts of his family and of the friends ne had 
 left in Paris. He remembered the studio that he 
 had adorned with fantastic engravings, strange 
 
190 ^^ ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 paintings, curious statuettes ; the German songs that 
 his sister had sung, the melancholy verses that he 
 had repeated in the subdued light of the evening 
 lamps, and the long talks in which every one con- 
 fessed his inmost feelings, in which all the mysteries 
 of thought were discussed and translated into im- 
 passioned or graceful words ! Why had he aban- 
 doned these choice pleasures to bury himself in the 
 country ? Was necessity a sufficient excuse for this 
 sort of deterioration ? Would it not have been bet- 
 ter to face a loss of money rather than this prosaic 
 provincial existence ? What would become of the 
 young man's delicate and refined nature in the 
 midst of the vulgar minds that surrounded him ? 
 
 As he put these and many other questions to 
 himself, Arnold de Munster had walked on without 
 noticing the way he was taking. He was aroused 
 at last from his meditations by the consciousness 
 that the mist had changed into rain and was be- 
 ginning to penetrate his shooting-coat. He was 
 about to quicken his steps, but in looking around 
 him he saw that he had lost his way in the 
 intricacies of the forest, and he tried vainly to de- 
 termine the direction he must take. A first at- 
 tempt only succeeded in bewildering him still more. 
 The daylight faded, the rain fell more heavily, and 
 he continued to plunge at random into unknown 
 paths. 
 
 He had begun to be discouraged, when the sound 
 of bells reached him through the leafless trees. A 
 cart driven by a big man in a blouse had appeared 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 191 
 
 at an intersecting road and was coming toward the 
 one that Arnold had just reached. 
 
 Arnold stopped to wait for the man and asked 
 him if he ^vere far from Sersberg. 
 
 " Sersberg !" repeated the carter ; " you don't ex- 
 pect to sleep there to-night ?" 
 
 " Pardon me, but I do," answered the young man. 
 
 "At the Chateau de Sersberg?'' went on his inter- 
 locutor ; " you'll have to go by train, then ! It is 
 six good leagues from here to the gate ; and con- 
 sidering the weather and the roads, they are equal 
 to twelve." 
 
 The young man uttered an exclamation. He had 
 left the chateau that morning and did not think that 
 he had wandered so far; but the peasant saw from 
 his explanation that he had been on the wrong path 
 for hours, and that in thinking to take the road to 
 Sersberg he had continued to turn his back upon 
 it. It was too late to make good such an error: 
 the nearest village was a league distant and Arnold 
 did not know the way ; so he was forced to accept 
 the shelter offered by his new companion, whose 
 farm was fortunately within gunshot. 
 
 He accordingly regulated his pace to the carter's 
 and attempted to enter into conversation with him ; 
 but Moser w^as not a talkative man and was ap- 
 parently a complete stranger to the young man's 
 usual sensations. When, on issuing from the forest, 
 Arnold pointed to the magnificent horizon purpled 
 by the last rays of the setting sun, the farmer con- 
 tented himself with a grimace. 
 
192 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 "Bad weather for to-morrow," he muttered, 
 drawing about his shoulders the limousine that 
 served him as a cloak. 
 
 " One ought to be able to see the entire valley 
 from here," went on Arnold, striving to pierce the 
 gloom that already clothed the foot of the mountain. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Moser, shaking his head ; " the 
 ridge is high enough for that. There's an inven- 
 tion for you that isn't good for much." 
 
 " What invention ?" 
 
 " Eh, paMeii ! the mountains." 
 
 " You would rather have everything level ?" 
 
 " Tiens ! what a question !" cried the farmer, 
 laughing. " You might as well ask me if I would 
 not rather ruin my horses." 
 
 " True," said Arnold in a tone of somewhat con- 
 temptuous irony. " I had forgotten the horses ! It 
 is clear that God should have thought principally of 
 them when he created the world." 
 
 " I don't know as to God," answered Moser 
 quietly, " but the engineers certainly made a mis- 
 take in forgetting them when they made the roads. 
 The horse is the laborer's best friend, monsieur — 
 without disrespect to the oxen, which have their 
 value too." 
 
 Arnold looked at the peasant. 
 
 " So you see in your surroundings only the ad- 
 vantage you can derive from them ?" he asked 
 gravely. " The forest, the mountains, the clouds, 
 all say nothing to you ? You have never paused 
 before the setting sun or at the sight of the woods 
 lighted by the stars ?" 
 
AN ATTIC PEILOSOPUER IN PARIS. 193 
 
 "I?" cried the farmer. "Do you take me for a 
 maker of almanacs ? What should I get out of 
 your starlight and the setting sun ? The main 
 thing is to earn enough for three meals a day and 
 to keep one's stomach warm. Would monsieur 
 like a drink of hirschwasser f It comes from the 
 other side of the Rhine." 
 
 He held out a little wicker-covered bottle to 
 Arnold, who refused by a gesture. The positive 
 coarseness of the peasant had rekindled his regret 
 and his contempt. Were they really men such as 
 he was, these unfortunates, doomed to unceasing 
 labor, who lived in the bosom of nature without 
 heeding it and whose souls never rose above the 
 most material sensations ? What was the world of 
 poetry, to which the young man owed his greatest 
 happiness, to this pitiful portion of the human race? 
 Led by the halter of instinct, did it not seem con- 
 demned to browse outside of the Eden whose gates 
 a privileged nature had opened to him ? It seemed 
 to lead the same life as himself, but what a gulf 
 between their souls ! Had they even a few tastes 
 in common? Was there one point of resemblance 
 which could attest their original brotherhood ? 
 Arnold doubted this more and more each moment. 
 The more he pondered the more this immaterial 
 flower of all things, to which we have given the 
 name of poetry, seemed to him the privilege of a 
 chosen few, while the rest vegetated at random 
 within the limits of prose. 
 
 These thoughts had the effect of communicating 
 
194 ^^ ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PAPIS. 
 
 to his manner a sort of contemptuous indifference 
 toward tiis conductor, to whom he ceased to talk. 
 Moser showed neither surprise nor pain and set to 
 whistling an air, interrupted from time to time by 
 some brief word of encouragement to his horses. 
 
 Thus they arrived at the farm, where the noise 
 of the bells announced their coming. A young boy 
 and a woman of middle age appeared on the 
 threshold. 
 
 "Ah, it is the father !" cried the woman, looking 
 back into the house, where could be heard the 
 voices of several children, who came running to the 
 door with shouts of joy and pressed around the 
 peasant. 
 
 " Wait a moment, youngsters," interrupted the 
 father in his big voice as he rummaged in the cart 
 and brought forth a covered basket. *• Let Fritz 
 unharness." 
 
 But the children continued to besiege the farmer, 
 all talking at once. He bent to kiss them, one 
 after another ; then rising suddenly : 
 
 " Where is Jean ?" he asked with a quickness that 
 had something of uneasiness in it. 
 
 " Here, father, here," answered a shrill little 
 voice from the farm-house door ; " mother doesn't 
 want me to go out in the rain." 
 
 " Stay where you are," said Moser, throwing the 
 traces on the backs of the horses; "1 will go to 
 jou,Jiliot. Go in, the rest of you, so as not to 
 tempt him to come out." 
 
 The three children went back to the doorway, 
 "where little Jean was standing beside his mother. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPEEM IN PARIS. 195 
 
 He was a poor little creature, so cruelly deformed 
 that at the first glance one could not have told his 
 age or the nature of his infirmit}^ His whole 
 body, distorted by sickness, formed a curved, not to 
 say a broken line. His disproportionately large 
 head was sunken between two unequallj' rounded 
 shoulders, while his body was sustained by two 
 little crutches ; these took the place of the shrunken 
 legs, which could not support him. 
 
 At the farmer's approach he held out his thin 
 arms with an expression of love that made Moser's 
 furrowed face brighten. The father lifted him in 
 his strong arms with an exclamation of tender 
 delight. 
 
 "Come!" he cried, "hug your father — with both 
 arms — hard ! How has he been since yesterday V 
 
 The mother shook her head. 
 
 "Always the cough," she answered in a low tone. 
 
 " It's nothing, father," the child answered in his 
 shrill voice. " Louis had drawn me too fast in my 
 wheeled chair ; but I am well, very well ; I feel as 
 strong as a man." 
 
 The peasant placed him carefully on the ground, 
 set him upon his little crutches, which had fallen, 
 and looked at him with an air of satisfaction. 
 
 "Don't you think he's growing, wife?" he asked 
 in the tone of a man who wishes to be encouraged. 
 " Walk a bit, Jean ; walk, boy ! He walks more 
 quickly and more strongly. It'll all come right, 
 wife; we must only be patient." 
 
 The farmer's wife made no reply, but her eyes 
 
196 A^ ATTIG PEILOSOPHEU IN PARIS. 
 
 turned toward the feeble child with a look of 
 despair so deep that Arnold trembled ; fortunately 
 Moser paid no heed. 
 
 " Come, the whole brood of you," he went on, 
 opening the basket he had taken from the cart ; 
 " here is something for every one ! In line and 
 hold out your hands." 
 
 The peasant had displayed three small white 
 rolls glazed in the baking : three cries of joy burst 
 forth simultaneously and six hands advanced to 
 seiz6 the rolls, but they all paused as at a word of 
 command. 
 
 "And Jean ?" asked the childish voices. 
 
 " To the devil with Jean," answered Moser gayly ; 
 " there is nothing for him to-night. Jean shall have 
 his share another time. " 
 
 But the child smiled and tried to get up to look 
 into the basket. The farmer stepped back a pace, 
 took off the cover carefully, and lifting his arm with 
 an air of solemnity, displayed before the eyes of all 
 a cake of gingerbread garnished with almonds and 
 pink and white sugar-plums. 
 
 There was a general shout of admiration. Jean 
 himself could not restrain a cry of delight; a slight 
 flush rose to his pale face and he held out his hands 
 with an air of joyful expectancy. 
 
 " Ah, you like it, petite taupe .^" cried the peasant, 
 whose face was radiant at the sight of the child's 
 pleasure ; " take it, 7no7i vieiix, take it ; it is nothing 
 but sugar and honey." 
 
 He placed the gingerbread in the hands of the little 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 197 
 
 hunchback, who trembled with happiness, watched 
 him hobble off, and turning to Arnold when the 
 sound of the crutches was lost in the house, said 
 with a slight break in his voice : 
 
 " He is my eldest. Sickness has deformed him a 
 little, but he's a shrewd fellow and it only depends 
 upon us to make a gentleman of him." 
 
 While speaking he had crossed the first room on 
 the ground-floor and led his guest into a species of 
 dinino:-room, the whitewashed walls of which were 
 decorated onl}^ with a few rudely colored prints. 
 As he entered, Arnold saw Jean seated on the floor 
 and surrounded by his brothers, among whom he 
 was dividing the cake given him by his father. But 
 each one objected to the size of his portion and 
 wished to lessen it ; it required all the little hunch- 
 back's eloquence to make them accept what he had 
 given them. For some time the 3'oung sportsman 
 watched this dispute with singular interest, and 
 when the children had gone out again he expressed 
 his admiration to the farmer's wife. 
 
 '' It is quite true," she said with a smile and a 
 sigh, " that there are times when it seems as though 
 it were a good thing for them to see Jean's infirm- 
 ity. It is hard for them to give up to each other, 
 but not one of them can refuse Jean anything ; it 
 is a constant exercise in kindness and devotion." 
 
 " Tiens ! great virtue, that !" interrupted Moser. 
 "Who could refuse anything to such a poor, afflict- 
 ed little innocent ? It's a silly thing for a man to 
 say ; but, look you, monsieur, that child there 
 
198 AI^ ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 always makes me want to cry. Often when I am 
 at work in the fields, I begin all at once to think 
 about him. I say to myself Jean is ill ! or Jean 
 is dead ! and then I have to find some excuse for 
 coming home to see how it is. Then he is so weak 
 and so ailing ! If we did not love him more than 
 the others, he would be too unhappy." 
 
 '* Yes," said the mother gently, " the poor child is 
 our cross and our joy at the same time. I love all 
 my children, monsieur, but whenever I hear the 
 sound of Jean's crutches on the floor, I always feel 
 a rush of happiness. It is a sign that the good God 
 has not yet taken our darling away from us. It 
 seems to me as though Jean brought happiness to 
 the house just like swallows' nests fastened to the 
 windows. If I hadn't him to take care of, I should 
 think there was nothing for me to do." 
 
 Arnold listened to these na'ive expressions of 
 tenderness with an interest that was mingled with 
 astonishment. The farmer's wife called a servant 
 to help set the table ; and at Moser's invitation, the 
 young man approached the brushwood fire which 
 had been rekindled. 
 
 As he was leaning against the smoky mantel- 
 piece, his eye fell upon a small black frame that 
 inclosed a withered leaf. Moser noticed it. 
 
 " Ah ! you are looking at my relic. It's a leaf of 
 the weeping-willow that grows down there on the 
 tomb of VAncien!"^ I got it from a Strasbourg 
 
 * Napoleon. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 199 
 
 merchant who had served in the Vieille.^ I 
 wouldn't part with it for a hundred crowns." 
 
 " Then there is some particular sentiment attached 
 to it ?" 
 
 " Sentiment, no," answered the peasant ; " but I 
 too was discharged from the Fourth Eegiment of 
 Hussars, a brave regiment, monsieur, which made a 
 strange showing at Montmirail ! There were only 
 eight men left of our squadron, so when the Little 
 Corporal passed in front of the line he saluted us — 
 yes, monsieur, raised his hat to us ! Tonerre ! 
 That was something to make us ready to die to the 
 last man, look you. Ah ! he was the father of the 
 soldier !" 
 
 Here the peasant began to fill his pipe, looking 
 the while at the black frame and the withered leaf. 
 In this reminder of a marvelous destiny there was 
 evidently for him a whole romance of youth, 
 emotion, and regret. He recalled the last struggles 
 of the Empire, in which he had taken part, the 
 reviews held by the emperor, when his mere pres- 
 ence aroused confidence in victory ; the passing 
 successes of France's famous campaign, so soon ex- 
 piated by the disaster at Waterloo ; the departure 
 of the vanquished general and his long agony on 
 the rock of St. Helena. All these pictures in suc- 
 cession crossed the farmer's mind, his brow became 
 furrowed, his thumb pressed more heavily upon the 
 pipe that had long been filled, and he whistled 
 through his teeth a march of his old regiment. 
 
 * Old Guard. 
 
200 ^N ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 Arnold respected the old soldier's silent preoccu- 
 pation and waited until he should resume the con- 
 versation. 
 
 The arrival of supper roused him from his reverie ; 
 he drew up a chair for his guest and took his place 
 at the opposite side of the table. 
 
 " Come ! fall to on the soup," he cried brusquely. 
 " I have had nothing since morning but two swallows 
 of Mrschwasser. I could eat an ox whole to-night." 
 
 To prove his words, he began to empty the huge 
 porringer of soup before him. 
 
 For several moments nothing was heard but the 
 clatter of spoons followed by that of the knives cut- 
 ting up the flitch of bacon served by the farmer's 
 wife. His walk and the fresh air had given Arnold 
 himself an appetite that made him forget his 
 Parisian daintiness. Moser's bacon seemed to have 
 an unknown savor and his wine qualities that led 
 Arnold to eat that he might drink better and to 
 drink that he might eat better. The supper grew 
 gayer and gayer, when all at once the peasant 
 raised his head. 
 
 " And Farraut ?" he asked. " I have not seen 
 him since my return." 
 
 His wife and the children looked at each other 
 without answering. 
 
 " Well, what is it ?" went on Moser, who saw 
 their embarrassment. *' Where is the dog? What 
 has happened to him ? Why don't you answer, 
 Dorothee V 
 
 " Don't be angry, father," interrupted Jean; " we 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PAUIS. %{)l 
 
 didn't dare tell you, but Farraut went away and 
 has not come back." 
 
 " Mille diables ! You should have told me !" 
 cried the peasant, striking the table with his fist. 
 "What road did he take?" 
 
 " The road to Garennes." 
 
 " "When was it ?" 
 
 " After dinner : we saw him go up the little 
 path." 
 
 " Something must have happened to him," said 
 Moser, getting up. " The poor animal is almost 
 blind and there are sand pits all along the road ! 
 Go fetch my sheepskin and the lantern, wife. I 
 must find Farraut, dead or alive." 
 
 Dorothee went out without making any remark 
 either about the hour or the weather, and soon re- 
 appeared with what her husband had asked of her. 
 
 " You must think a great deal of this dog," said 
 Arnold, surprised at such zeal. 
 
 " It is not I," answered Moser, lighting his pipe • 
 "but he did good service to Dorothee's father. One 
 day when the old man was on his way home from 
 Poutroye with the price of his oxen in his pocket, 
 four men tried to murder him for his money, and 
 they would have done it if it had not been for 
 Farraut ; so when the good man died two years ago, 
 he called me to his bedside and asked me to care 
 for the dog as for one of his children — those 
 were his words. I promised, and it would be 
 a crime not to keep one's promise to the dead. 
 Me ! Fritz, give me my iron-shod stick. I wouldn't 
 
202 ^^ ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 have anything happen to Farraut for a pint of 
 my blood. The animal has been in the family for 
 twenty years — he knows us all by our voices 
 — and he recalls the grandfather. I shall see 
 you again, monsieur, and good-night until to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Moser wrapped himself in his sheepskin and went 
 out. They could hear the sound of his iron-shod 
 stick die away in the soughing of the wind and the 
 falling of the rain. 
 
 After awhile the farmer's wife offered to con- 
 duct Arnold to his quarters for the night, but Ar- 
 nold asked permission to await the return of the 
 master of the house^ if his return were not delayed 
 too long. His interest in the man who had at first 
 seemed to him so vulgar, and in the humble family 
 whose existence he had thought to be so valueless, 
 continued to increase. 
 
 The vigil was prolonged, however, and Moser did 
 not return. The children had fallen asleep one 
 after another, and even Jean, who had held out the 
 longest, had to seek his bed at last. Dorothee, un- 
 easy, went incessantly from the fireside to the door 
 and from the door to the fireside. Arnold strove 
 to reassure her, but her mind was excited by 
 suspense. She accused Moser of never thinking of 
 his health or of his safety ; of always being ready 
 to sacrifice himself for others ; of being unable to 
 see a human being or an animal suffer without risk- 
 ing all to relieve it ; and as she went on with her 
 complaint, which sounded strangely like a glorifi- 
 
AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 203 
 
 cation, her fears grew more vivid ; she had a thou- 
 sand gloomy forebodings. The dog had howled all 
 through the previous night ; an owl had perched 
 upon the roof of the house ; it was a Wednesday, 
 always an unfortunate day in the family. Her fears 
 reached such a pitch at last that the young man 
 volunteered to go in search of her husband, and she 
 was about to waken Fritz to accompany him, when 
 the sound of footsteps was heard outside. 
 
 *' It is Moser !" said the peasant woman, stopping 
 short. 
 
 " Hold ! he! open quickly wife," cried the farmer 
 from without. 
 
 She ran to draw the bolt, and Moser appeared, 
 carrying in his arms the old blind dog. 
 
 " Here he is," he said gayly. " God help me ! I 
 thought I should never find him : the poor brute 
 had rolled to the bottom of the big stone quarry." 
 
 " And you went there to get him V asked Doro- 
 thee, horror-stricken. 
 
 "Should I have left him at the bottom to find 
 him drowned to-morrow ?" asked the old soldier. 
 " I slid down the length of the big mountain and I 
 carried him up in my arms like a child : the lantern 
 was left behind, though." 
 
 " But you risked your life, you miserable man !" 
 cried Dorothee, who was shuddering at her hus- 
 band's explanation. 
 
 The latter shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Ah, bah !" he said with careless gayety ; " who 
 risks nothing has nothing ; I have found Farraut — 
 
204 AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PABIS. 
 
 that's the principal thing. If the grandfather sees 
 us from up there, he ought to be satisfied." 
 
 This reflection, made in an almost indifferent tone, 
 touched Arnold, who held out his hand impetuous- 
 ly to the peasant. 
 
 " What you have done was prompted by a good 
 heart," he said with feeling. 
 
 " What ? Because I have kept a dog from drown- 
 ing ?" answered Moser. " Pardieu ! dogs and men 
 — thank God I have helped more than one out of a 
 hole since I was born ; but 1 have sometimes had 
 better w^eather than to-night to do it in. Say, 
 wife, there must be a glass of cognac left ; bring the 
 bottle here ; there is nothing that dries you better 
 when you're wet." 
 
 Dorothee brought the bottle to the farmer, who 
 drank to his guest's health, and then each sought 
 his bed. 
 
 The next morning the weather was fine again ; 
 the sky was clear and the birds, shaking their 
 feathers, sang on the still dripping trees. 
 
 When he descended from the garret, where a bed 
 had been prepared for him, Arnold found near the 
 door Farraut, who was warming himself in the sun, 
 while little Jean, seated on his crutches, was making 
 him a collar of eglantine berries. A little further 
 on, in the first room, the farmer was clinking glasses 
 with a beggar who had come to collect his weekly 
 tithe ; Dorothee was holding his wallet, which she 
 was filling. 
 
 " Come, old Henry, one more draught," said the 
 
Air ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 205 
 
 peasant, refilling the beggar's glass ; " if you mean 
 to finish your round you must take courage." 
 
 "That one always finds here," said the beggar 
 with a smile ; " there are not many houses in the 
 parish where they give more, but there is not one 
 where they give with such good will." 
 
 " Be quiet, will you, Pere Henriot ?" interrupted 
 Moser ; " do people talk of such things? Drink and 
 let the good God judge each man's actions. You, 
 too, have served ; \\q are old comrades." 
 
 The old man contented himself with a shake of 
 the head and touched his glass to the farmer's ; but 
 one could see that he was more moved by the hearti- 
 ness that accompanied the alms than the alms them- 
 selves. 
 
 When he had taken up his wallet again and bade 
 them good-by, Moser watched him go until he had 
 disappeared around a bend in the road. Then draw- 
 ing a loud breath, he said, turning to his guest : 
 
 " One more poor old man w^ithout a home. You 
 may believe me or not, monsieur, but when I see 
 men with shaking heads going about like that, beg- 
 ging their bread from door to door, it turns my 
 blood. I should like to set the table for them all 
 and touch glasses with them all as I did just now 
 with Pere Henri. To keep your heart from break- 
 ing at such a sight, you must believe that there is a 
 w^orld up there where those who have not been 
 summoned to the ordinary here will receive double 
 rations and double pay." 
 
 " You must hold to that belief," said Arnold ; " it 
 
206 ^N ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 will support and console you. It will be long be- 
 fore I shall forget the hours I have passed in your 
 house, and I trust they will not be the last." 
 
 " Whenever you choose," said the old soldier ; ^-'if 
 you don't find the bed up there too hard and if you 
 can digest our bacon come at your pleasure, and we 
 shall always be under obligations to you." 
 
 He shook the hand that the young man had ex- 
 tended, pointed out the way that he must take, and 
 did not leave the threshold until he had seen his 
 guest disappear in the turn of the road. 
 
 For some time Arnold walked with lowered head, 
 but upon reaching the summit of the hill he turned 
 to take a last backward look, and seeing the farm- 
 house chimney, above which curled a light wreath 
 of smoke, he felt a tear of tenderness rise to his 
 eye. 
 
 " May God always protect those who live under 
 that roof !" he murmured ; ^' for where pride made 
 me see creatures incapable of understanding the 
 finer qualities of the soul, I have found models for 
 myself. I judged the depths by the surface and 
 thought poetry absent because, instead of showing 
 itself without, it hid itself in the heart of the things 
 themselves ; ignorant observer that I was, I pushed 
 aside with my foot what I thought were pebbles, 
 not guessing that in these rude stones were hidden 
 diamonds." 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHBU IN PARIS. 207 
 
 THE SCULPTOE OF THE BLACK 
 FOEEST. 
 
 It is impossible to travel through the duchy of 
 Baden without being impressed by the peaceful and 
 at the same time savage aspect of the country. 
 There is no other country, perhaps, where the con- 
 trasts are more happily combined. It is all har- 
 monious and effective, like a vast park of which 
 God has been the desio:ner and where he has brouo^ht 
 together all the beauties of nature. 
 
 But it is on the outskirts of the Black Forest that 
 the scenery is especially impressive. There the 
 valleys that extend to the Rhine narrow all at once 
 and end by being nothing but clefts in the rock, 
 barely giving passage to the small horses of the 
 manufacturers of Mrschioasser. Seen from a height, 
 they form a huge triangle whose base borders the 
 river and whose apex joins the mountain in a nar- 
 row path. 
 
 The grass in these valleys, watered by warm min- 
 eral springs, grows to the height of grain, always 
 undulating and dotted with more flowers than a 
 botanist could classify in a day ; a carpet of velvet 
 and silk stretched at the edge of the forest. 
 
208 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 The latter covers the hills, about which it winds, 
 forming a thousand spirals of verdure, and stopping 
 short of the highest summits, which here and there 
 raise their bald and snow-whitened heads. 
 
 It was between two of these hills at the bottom 
 of one of the narrow gorges where the valleys 
 ended that there lived some years ago a young 
 man called Herman Cloffer, whose story the old 
 . men still repeat to their children. We give it here, 
 not as it is told in the mountains, but as we heard 
 it from the pastor at Baden wilier, with all its de- 
 tails and all its moral; for the pastor had loved 
 Herman from his childhood, and on his death-bed 
 the young man had made him his confidant. 
 
 Herman was the son of a schoolmaster. His 
 father had given him some instruction : he knew a 
 little Latin, played the violin, and spoke French 
 quite fluently ; so he came to be known in the 
 country as Maister Cloft'er. 
 
 Being occupied from childhood with wood-carv- 
 ing, as were all the mountaineers, he had gradually 
 acquired a taste for the work and had come to carve 
 children's toys with considerable skill ; but a trip to 
 Bale, where he saw some Gothic wainscoting, w^as 
 a revelation to him. He understood what art was 
 and what human patience could accomplish. From 
 that moment his vocation was decided upon. 
 Leaving in Bale the toys to which he had once 
 devoted himself, he began to carve in wood every- 
 thing that struck his eye, studjang the smallest de- 
 tails, finishing only to begin again, and beginning 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 209 
 
 again only to finish again ; in short, leaving nothing 
 incomplete and working with a fervent love for the 
 work and for it alone. 
 
 This conscientious application was not long in 
 having its result. His attempts, at first confused 
 and faulty, became more true to nature, more clear, 
 more bold ; the diflficulties of execution disappeared 
 to give place to the difficulties of art. Soon Her- 
 man had no longer to strive for form, but for action ; 
 the science had been acquired it now remained to 
 prove his genius. 
 
 Then began for the young man that struggle be- 
 tween the sentiment that wishes to express itself 
 and in ertmatter that resists : a struggle so full of joy 
 when it is successful and the work of creation 
 accomplished ! 
 
 One would have said, indeed, that the wood obeyed 
 Herman's every conception ; he seemed to mold 
 and fashion it by the simple contact of his thought. 
 Occupied solely with his \vork, wishing to produce 
 it as perfect as he imagined it, he lost himself in it 
 completely, he quickened it with his desires. Noth- 
 ing that he did was the result of a combination or 
 of a S3^stem, but of an impression ; he understood 
 art as the visible expression of a human soul face 
 to face with nature. 
 
 His carvings, originally confounded with the rude 
 work of the forest herdsmen, ended by attracting 
 attention. There was a demand for them from 
 Baden at first, then from Munich, Vienna, Berlin. 
 The dealer who had bought the first at a miserable 
 
210 AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER m PARIS. 
 
 sum urged the young man to supply him with more, 
 promising to pay him a better price. 
 
 Herman, who since his father's death had been 
 his mother's sole support, was happy to see that by 
 his work he could assure her a peaceful old age. 
 Indeed, an unaccustomed ease soon began to make 
 itself felt in the hut : they were able to add a few 
 modest bits of furniture to the humble household, 
 renovate the holiday wardrobe, and sometimes in 
 the evenings, when their neighbors came in, to 
 offer them a dish of ]i:neft and a bottle of Ehine 
 wine. At such times Herman would take up his 
 violin and accompany his mother, who sang in a 
 voice still resonant old Swabian airs or some of 
 Schiller's ballads, which the schoolmaster had 
 taught her. 
 
 Thus Cloffer's days were divided between work 
 and quiet pleasures : he left all money matters to 
 Dorothee. Free from all material care, his life was 
 one continual and fruitful meditation ; nothing drew 
 him from his ideal world but the simple pleasures 
 of the neighborhood and family affection. He 
 could give himself up completely to the delights of 
 creating, talk long and familiarly with his genius. 
 Two-thirds of his time was devoted to its sole in- 
 spiration, and absorbed in art as the saints in pious 
 contemplation, he felt none of the buffetings of real 
 life. 
 
 One summer evening as he was seated at the 
 door of his hut, smoking his meerschaum pipe and 
 holding on his knees his violin, from which he 
 
AN A TTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PA RIS. 211 
 
 occasionally drew a few vague strains, a horseman 
 turned suddenly into the path. 
 
 He was a stranger, of about forty, and his dress 
 and bearing showed him to be a man of the world. 
 He drew rein a few paces from the hut and looked 
 about him with an eyeglass ; at last his glance fell 
 upon the young man. 
 
 "Ah, here is what I am looking for," he ex- 
 claimed in French, and coming forward : 
 
 ^' Can you tell me where I can find Herman the 
 sculptor ?" he asked in almost unintelligible German. 
 
 " I am he," answered Cloffer, rising. 
 
 " You !" cried the stranger. " Pardieu ! that's a 
 coincidence !" 
 
 And dismounting from his horse, he tossed the 
 reins to a servant in livery who had joined him. 
 
 " 1 was looking for you, maister," he went on 
 easily. " I am a Frenchman — you doubtless guessed 
 as much from my German — and a collector. I 
 have seen your carvings. I have come to buys ome." 
 
 Herman led him into the hut. 
 
 " Is this where you work ? asked the Frenchman, 
 casting a surprised glance about the smoky room. 
 
 " Near that window," answered Cloffer. 
 
 And he showed the stranger a long table upon 
 which lay several finished carvings. Beneath the 
 table were piled rough-hewn blocks of pine ; his few 
 tools were hung upon the wall. 
 
 " What ! You have no other work-room ?" 
 
 " No, monsieur." 
 
 The collector raised his glass to his right eye. 
 
212 ^^ ^ TTIO PHILOSOPHER IN PA MIS. 
 
 " Marvelous !" he murmured ; " such masterpieces 
 in this hole. But, Maister Herman — that is what 
 they call you, I believe — you lack everything here : 
 vou have no stimulus, no advisers." 
 
 " I try to reproduce what I see as I feel it," an- 
 swered Cloffer simply ; " here are goats copied from 
 nature, a bull and a child " 
 
 " Charming !" interrupted the stranger, taking the 
 two carvings which Herman handed to him ; " such 
 delicacy, such a touch — I will buy them. Your 
 price ?" 
 
 Herman mentioned it. 
 
 *' Done," answered the Frenchman, who seemed 
 amazed at the lowness of the price ; " but, my dear 
 maister, do you know I have moved heaven and 
 earth to find you? The dealers who sell your work 
 in Germany either don't know your name or con- 
 ceal it, and I could not discover the Jew who buys 
 from you at first hand. I had to apply to our am- 
 bassador at Yienna, who caused the police to make 
 inquiries. In short, I learned your name, and as I 
 was passing through Badenwiller I wished to see 
 you." 
 
 Herman bowed. 
 
 " You have no idea of the reputation you already 
 have in Germany," went on the stranger ; " people 
 fight over your carvings. I saw some in M. de 
 Metternich's study. You do not intend to remain 
 here, of course ?" 
 
 "Excuse me, monsieur," Herman answered, "I 
 have no idea of leaving the forest." 
 
- AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 213 
 
 " What ! But that means giving up your future ; 
 think of vegetating here forever !" 
 
 " I am happy here, monsieur." 
 
 "Happy !" repeated the stranger, staring through 
 his eyeglass at Herman's rough dress ; " that proves 
 that 3^ou are a philosopher, my dear maister : but 
 you haven't even a studio here. Think of sculptur- 
 ing three paces from a fire-place where bacon and 
 sauerkraut are cooked! No one but a German 
 could lead such a life." 
 
 " What should I gain by changing it ?" asked 
 Herman. 
 
 " Fame, first of all! So far your work is known, 
 but not your name. You must take your place, my 
 dear maister ; above all, you must make your for- 
 tune." 
 
 " Make my fortune !" repeated Cloffer in astonish- 
 ment ; " by what means ?" 
 
 " Why, pardieu^ by your toys," cried the French- 
 man. " Don't you know that nowadays our artists 
 live like young men of good family ? You must 
 profit by the progress of the century, Herman ; you 
 must come to Paris ! I w^ill introduce you to a set 
 of journalists who will make a Michael Angelo in 
 miniature of you ; before two years are up you will 
 have a groom and a tilbury." 
 
 " Is it possible ?" 
 
 " It is certain, and since chance has brought us 
 together, I want you to profit by it. Light will not 
 
 remain hidden under a bushel ; believe me come 
 
 to Paris," 
 
214 ^N A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 " I cannot think of it," murmured the sculptor, 
 shaking his head. 
 
 " Why not V 
 
 '' I have my habits, my friends, above all my 
 mother " 
 
 "In Paris you will find something to take the 
 place of all these." 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 " Reflect, I beg of you," went on the Frenchman, 
 who in trying to convince Cloffer had convinced 
 himself ; " reflect that here you will always live as a 
 peasant. You remind me of a prince brought up in 
 exile, ignorant that a crown awaits him elsewhere ; 
 it is this crown that I have come to offer you. You 
 are asked only to renounce your old dress, your old 
 roof, and you are promised riches, success ! You 
 are not a German for nothing ; you are fond of the 
 theater and of champagne, I suppose ; you shall 
 have all that, maister, in exchange for your small 
 beer. Make up your mind, then, and I will take you 
 with me in my post-chaise." 
 
 Herman was about to answer, but he trembled 
 suddenly and stopped; his eyes had just met 
 Dorothee's. 
 
 She had entered a few moments before, and al- 
 though she did not understand French, her mother's 
 eye had divined from Herman's agitation that 
 something extraordinary \vas passing. 
 
 " What is the stranger saying to you ?" she asked 
 in German. 
 
 " He is telling me about his country, mother," 
 answered Cloffer. 
 
AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 215 
 
 "And he proposes that you should go there, 
 perhaps ?" 
 
 Herman gave a sign of assent. 
 
 "Remember that those who love you live here," 
 said the old woman quicklj^ 
 
 " I shall not forget it," answered Herman. 
 
 " Well ?" asked the Frenchman, who had tried in 
 vain to understand. 
 
 " I cannot leave my mother, monsieur," answered 
 Cloffer gravely. 
 
 And as the stranger was about to insist : 
 
 " My mind is made up," he went on brusquely ; 
 " nothing will change it." 
 
 The Frenchman made a movement of his shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 "As you will, raaister," he said, " but you are 
 sacrificing your fortune." 
 
 Then he added : 
 
 " I left some ladies at Badenwiller, as they were 
 too tired to come with me. They will buy all you 
 have left. Would you not like to take the carvings 
 to the ladies yourself ? We still have time to get 
 there for dinner." 
 
 Cloffer consented after some hesitation. 
 
 It was late when he returned ; the strangers had 
 kept him to dinner at the hotel. His mother tried 
 to question him, but he answered her shortly and in 
 a tone of suppressed impatience. 
 
 The following morning he went to work deject- 
 edly and did not speak the entire day. It was 
 easy to see that his soul was no longer filled with 
 
216 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 that contentment that formerly found expression in 
 words. Dorothee hoped that his sadness would be 
 only temporary and neglected no means of dissi- 
 pating it. 
 
 But a great revolution was going on within the 
 young sculptor. As long as he had seen no one 
 but his friends and neighbors, he had allowed him- 
 self to live as they did, without ambition, confining 
 his desires to the simple pleasures with which he 
 was familiar and imagining nothing beyond. The 
 appearance and the words of the stranger had 
 transformed him. 
 
 He had at first listened to his account as to the 
 fairy tales that had delighted him as a child ; but 
 the ladies whom he had seen at the hotel had 
 confirmed all that their companion had said : one 
 of them had done more, she had offered herself as 
 an example. A few years ago, poor as Herman 
 was then, she owed to her singing the wealth with 
 which he saw her surrounded ; and by this wealth 
 the young sculptor had been dazzled. 
 
 The thought that he himself could attain to it 
 made his brain whirl. In vain I know not what 
 wise instinct whispered to him to fly from these 
 illusive temptations; all the bad passions, so long 
 dormant, were roused within him, singing in chorus 
 like the witches in Macbeth : " Thou shalt be rich, 
 thou shalt be famous !" and Herman was ready to 
 yield to these intoxicating promises. 
 
 It was not long before he became indifferent to 
 what had once delighted him : the picture of Paris 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPUER TN PARIS. 217 
 
 interposed itself between him and all things ; it 
 was like a fatal shadow that prevented the sun of 
 happiness from reaching him. He worked abstract- 
 edly, began a thousand sketch*es, finishing none of 
 them and finding distaste in everything. 
 
 His health began to sufl'er from these new pre- 
 occupations, and a slow fever began to undermine 
 it. Until then his mother had kept silent, but 
 when she saw him fall into this languor, more 
 dangerous than despair, she hesitated no longer. 
 
 "May God forgive these strangers for what they 
 have done, Herman !" she said. " They came here, 
 like the serpent into the earthly paradise, to tempt 
 you to eat the fruit of the tree of knowledge. But 
 the evil is done, my son, and you cannot remain 
 here. Go, since we can no longer make you 
 happy." 
 
 Cloffer tried to protest, but the old woman had 
 not spoken until she had made the sacrifice in her 
 own heart. She removed all obstacles with the 
 ingenious ease God gives only to mothers and that 
 self-abnegation that women show us without being 
 able to teach us. The pre])arations were completed 
 in a fe\v days. Dorothee herself washed Herman's 
 linen, mended his clothes, and saw to all the details, 
 so that it would be a long time before he should 
 feel the need of her. She had given him the 
 greater part of her savings and advised him not to 
 economize them, but to deprive himself of nothing. 
 
 " What I keep with me is yours like the rest," 
 she added. " Be happy if you can : I have no other 
 wish." 
 
218 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 Herman accepted all this care and forethought 
 with gratitude, but at the same time with a joy that 
 wrung his mother's heart. Since it had been decid- 
 ed that he should go to Paris he had regained his 
 health ; he talked more loudly, sang incessantly, 
 and worked with ardor. He did not wish to arrive 
 in the great city with empty hands, and he expend- 
 ed all his art on a group of children, which he 
 meant to show as a proof of his skill. 
 
 At last the day of departure arrived : the separa- 
 tion was heart-rending. Herman twice laid down 
 his staff, declaring that he would not go ; but his 
 mother overcame her own anguish that she might 
 give him courage. 
 
 The novelty of scene and the stir of travel soon 
 created a diversion in the young man's thoughts. 
 As he went further from his native place, regret 
 gave place to curiosity. On foot, his blackthorn 
 staff in his hand and on his shoulders his leathern 
 knapsack, he hastened on faster and faster, asking 
 every night what distance still separated him from 
 Paris. The way seemed hopelessly long, but he 
 felt neither fatigue nor ennui ; strengthened by im- 
 patience, he walked on without stopping, commun- 
 ing all the time with his hopes. Whenever a hand- 
 some carriage drawn by a fast horse passed him, he 
 said to himself : 
 
 " I too shall soon be traveling like that." 
 
 Whenever his eyes w^ere attracted by a country 
 house partly hidden among the acacias^ he mur- 
 mured : 
 
AN ATTIC PIIILOSOPHEU IN PARIS. 219 
 
 " A little while longer and I shall have one like 
 it." 
 
 And thus he went on joyously, taking possessiuii, 
 in the future, of all that pleased his eye or aroused 
 his desires. 
 
 At last, after twenty days of journeying, he saw 
 before him a confused mass that hid the horizon 
 and above which floated a cloud of vapor; it was 
 Paris. 
 
 The stranger on taking leave of him at Baden- 
 willer had given his address to Herman, urging him 
 to make use of it if he should ever decide to come 
 to Paris. The young sculptor, imm.ediately upon 
 his arrival, hastened to the Rue Saint-Lazare, where 
 M. de Riol had his apartments. 
 
 The latter uttered an exclamation of amazement 
 at the sight of Cloffer. 
 
 ^' You here, maister !" he cried. '' Has the moun- 
 tain slid into your valley ? Have the charcoal- 
 burners of your forest burned down 3"our hut ? Or 
 are you a fugitive for political reasons ?" 
 
 " My hut is still in its place," answered Herman, 
 smiling, " and the duke has no more faithful subject 
 than I am." 
 
 " So you are in Paris voluntarily ?" 
 
 " Voluntarily." 
 
 "And what has worked this miracle?" 
 
 " Your words, monsieur." 
 
 The Frenchman looked with surprise at the 
 young German, who proceeded to explain all that 
 had passed. 
 
29.0 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 '* So/^ went on De Eiol when Herman had finished, 
 "so, my dear maister, you have come to Paris to 
 make your fortune ?" 
 
 " I have come to make myself known." 
 " That's what I mean ; we will help you do it." 
 " Indeed, I rely upon your advice and upon your 
 protection." 
 
 " You are right ; but first of all I want you to see 
 our famous artists. I shall have several of them 
 here to-morrow ; come and dine, with us and bring 
 some of your work." 
 
 " Agreed." 
 
 "Until to-morrow, then, but late; for we dine 
 here at the time you have supper in your Germany." 
 
 " Until to-morrow at seven." 
 
 " That's right." 
 
 They shook hands and separated. 
 
 Herman employed a part of the day in seeking a 
 lodging. He then strolled through the public 
 gardens, admiring the statues and pausing in ecstasy 
 before the monuments. 
 
 The following day he was at De Kiol's at the 
 hour indicated and found his friend surrounded by a 
 dozen or so young men to whom he was introduced. 
 
 He had brought with him his group of children, 
 which aroused general admiration ; one artist de- 
 clared that there were touches of Benvenuto and 
 Goujon combined ; a sculptor compared Herman to 
 Dominiquin ; and a journalist who was present 
 came to press his hand, declaring that on the follow- 
 ing day he would proclaim him in his fouilleton as 
 the Canova of the Black Forest. 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 221 
 
 Then they sat down to table and the conversation 
 turned almost exclusively upon painting and sculp- 
 ture. Herman was profoundly astonished at what 
 he heard said on these subjects. All the guests com- 
 plained of the decadence of art and of the bad taste 
 of the public, which forced them to follow a wrong 
 path. If the old masters had been so great and 
 they themselves were so little, it was to be attrib- 
 uted, they said, to the difference of the times. Now- 
 adays genius was misunderstood, talent impossible ! 
 And all repeated in chorus in melancholy tones as 
 they emptied their long glasses, where the cham- 
 pagne was frothing : " Art is dying ! Art is dead !" 
 
 As to the causes of this decadence, some accused 
 civilization, others the constitutional government, 
 some the newspapers. 
 
 " Themselves are the only ones they won't accuse," 
 said the journalist in an undertone, bending toward 
 Herman ; " they do not suspect that, after all, public 
 taste is formed by what is given it, and that if it 
 has degenerated they must blame themselves alone, 
 because it is for them to shape and guide it. You 
 believe, perhaps, that all these fine talkers are 
 worshipers of art ; but not one of them would be 
 willing to be a Correggio upon condition of having 
 to work and die as he did. What kills art is that 
 no one lives for it or with it ; it is because all of us, 
 whatever we are, have more vanity or ambition 
 than enthusiasm and because we look not for the 
 beautiful, but for the useful." 
 
 After dinner they returned to the saloon, where 
 
222 AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 Herman's group was again examined and praised ; 
 but all regretted that the young sculptor had not 
 chosen a different subject. Children were no longer 
 in fashion ; there had been two or three successes in 
 this field that forbade the treatment of the same 
 subject. For the moment public taste was in favor 
 of subjects of the Middle Ages, and Herman was 
 advised to depict some scene taken from the old 
 ballads of his country. 
 
 " That surprises you," remarked the journalist 
 w4th a smile. 
 
 " It does, indeed," said Cloffer. ^' I had thought 
 that what gave value to a work was its perfection." 
 
 " That is an idea of the Black Forest, my dear 
 maister ; we are more advanced here. What gives 
 value to a work is not its merit, but its opportune- 
 ness. Ten years ago an artist made his reputation 
 by painting a little hat on a rock the shape of a 
 cheese : the picture was absurd, but responded to the 
 fancy of the moment, and we ask no more." 
 
 *' So it is not art one must study, but the caprices 
 of the public ?" 
 
 " As you say, maister. Painters, sculptors, writers 
 are only sellers of novelties ; if the fashion takes, 
 their fortune is made ; if not, they try a new 
 one." 
 
 "- Ah, that is not what I had understood," mur- 
 mured Herman. 
 
 And he returned to his hotel discouraged. 
 
 M. de E-iol, however, was true to his promise : he 
 introduced the young German everywhere ; he 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 22o 
 
 brought him into contact with collectors and dealers 
 who gave him numerous orders. Herman had 
 never been so rich, but he paid for these riches with 
 his liberty. He was told what subjects he was to 
 treat — a programme was made out for him. It was 
 a species of torture as painful as it was novel. 
 Hitherto he had followed all the impulses of his 
 fancy, transferring with his chisel the impressions of 
 the moment, creating, without knowing it, what he 
 felt, what he saw, and seeking in his work only the 
 joy of perfect expression of what was in him. Like 
 the wild bird, he had become accustomed to have the 
 range of the entire heavens, and now they left him 
 onl}^ a narrow and fixed circle. No more capricious 
 attempts, nothing unexpected, no freedom, and 
 therefore no happiness. The inspiration was suc- 
 ceeded by the sense of the task, and for the first 
 time he learned that distaste could be found in 
 work. 
 
 One morning as Cloffer was engaged in finishing 
 a statuette that had been ordered from him, the 
 journalist whom he had met at De Eiol's entered 
 his room. 
 
 Charles Duvert brought the review in which the 
 promised article had just appeared. 
 
 " I don't know whether you will be pleased with 
 it," he said, " but it has made a sensation." 
 
 " I am anxious to know what you can have found 
 to say about a poor carver of wood like me," an- 
 swered Herman, opening the paper. 
 
 " I think I have posed you pretty well," observed 
 Duvert. 
 
224 ^N ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 ^' I cannot understand how." 
 
 " Kead." 
 
 Cloffer approached the window and began to read 
 the article. It was a fantastic study in which, under 
 the pretext of analyzing the talent of the unknown 
 artist, the writer made of his life a romance full of 
 marvelous circumstances as new to Herman as they 
 were to the public. Charles Duvert noticed the 
 young German's astonishment. 
 
 " 1 was sure of it, maister," he cried, laughing. 
 " There is a biography such as you never expected. 
 I have made of you a hero after the pattern of 
 Hoffmann." 
 
 " Indeed," answered Herman, wounded, " I cannot 
 imagine the reason for it." 
 
 "The reason, my great man, is the folly of the 
 world, which likes fairy tales only. An artist whose 
 life is like everybody's else would not pique curios- 
 ity ; he must have his story. If I were to make my 
 dShit over again, I should proclaim myself as a 
 Gaspard Hauser or an Orinoco savage rather than 
 the son of my father. You remember Paganini's 
 success? Yery well ; of the crowds that flocked after 
 him scarcely a third went to hear him ; the rest 
 went to see the man whose strange adventures had 
 filled the feuilletons and whose genius, it was said, 
 was the result of a compact with Satan." 
 
 " So lying," said Herman, amazed, " is the first 
 condition of glory." 
 
 " No, but of celebrit}^ maister. Glory has no need 
 of all this noise, but goes to the great man in his 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 225 
 
 obscure corner or even in the tomb. She would 
 have passed through your Black Forest some day, 
 to-morrow perhaps, perhaps in a hundred years, and 
 she would have written your name on her great 
 tablets ; but here it is a question only of success 
 and of fortune. We do in art as we do in business, 
 and the first condition for every tradesman is to 
 have a sign that will attract the purchaser. You 
 will soon see the effect of my article." 
 
 At this point the hotel porter entered, announc- 
 ing that M. Lorieux wished to see the young 
 sculptor. 
 
 " Lorieux !" repeated Duvert ; '' what did I say ? 
 He has read the paper and has come to give you a 
 commission." 
 
 " You think so ?" 
 
 " I am sure of it. But depend upon it, the more 
 you ask him the greater will be his faith in your 
 talents." 
 
 The dealer was introduced. He had, indeed, 
 come to make a business proposal to Herman, but 
 he seemed to be struck by the modest furnishings of 
 the room where the young sculptor worked. He 
 looked coldly upon the statuettes that Herman 
 showed him. Duvert observed this. 
 
 " I am sorry that you should show these here, 
 maister," he said to Herman ; '' the day is bad and 
 one cannot judge of the delicacy of the work. If 
 monsieur will come to the studio " 
 
 "Ah, the maister has a studio?" asked the dealer. 
 
 "It is being made ready for him; that is why 
 
226 AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 you find him camped in a hotel. But in a few 
 days he will have the finest quarters of any sculptor 
 in Paris ; a real Italian gallery overlooking a gar- 
 den ; 3,000 francs rent ! Our artists nowadays 
 live like grand seigneurs.-' 
 
 " And it is we who are their bankers," remarked 
 the dealer with a loud laugh. 
 
 " Say their money-lenders, monsieur, their stew- 
 ards. In passing through your hands their works 
 enrich you. But, excuse me, maister — you know 
 who is w^aiting for you ; settle with monsieur 
 quickly, I beg of you." 
 
 All this was said with such briskness and assur- 
 ance that Cloffer w^as bewildered. The dealer, 
 W'hose whole manner had been altered by these re- 
 marks, hastened to make to Herman proposals 
 which the latter accepted, and retired with great 
 demonstrations of politeness. 
 
 Hardly had he vanished when Duvert threw him- 
 self into a chair with a shout of laughter. 
 
 ^' Pour Dieu ! what does this jest mean and 
 what have ^''ou been saying to him ?" asked Cloffer. 
 
 " It isn't a joke," answered the journalist, ** be- 
 cause if you haven't the studio I told him of, you 
 must have it." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Didn't you see the impression your hotel room 
 made upon that honest tradesman ? Seeing you so 
 poorly lodged, he was on the point of not making 
 you an offer." 
 
 " But what had my lodging to do with it as long 
 as he saw my work ?" 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 221 
 
 " Mo?i Dieu ! maister, you are really too much 
 of a German. Don't you understand that to be able 
 to judge of the work one must have more knowl- 
 edge and taste than that man has ? Moreover, 
 what does M. Lorieux care for merit ? What he 
 wants is a sculptor who is in vogue, whose produc- 
 tions he can sell well ; and the artist's wealth is the 
 best proof of his success. You still forget, Herman, 
 that you are no longer in the Black Forest, working 
 according to your fancy, but in Paris, where you 
 work at the pleasure of others." 
 
 " Alas ! you are right," said Cloffer, sighing. 
 
 " You have an apprenticeship to serve," went on 
 Duvert, " Neither can 3'ou continue to live in soli- 
 tude. You must be seen in society ; one evening in 
 certain saloons will do more for your reputation than 
 a masterpiece." 
 
 " So," said Herman, ^* it is not enough to have 
 lost the right to follow my inspiration, but I must 
 also give up the right to live according to my 
 tastes ?" 
 
 " You must succeed," answered Duvert \ " it's all 
 in that. In future you must have but one thought 
 and one object : make yourself talked about." 
 
 Cloffer tried to follow Duvert's advice and be 
 was not long in finding out its correctness. In a 
 few months his reputation increased beyond all ex- 
 pections, and the value of his works increased ac- 
 cordingly. 
 
 Duvert's article had been accepted as a biograph- 
 ical sketch ; the young German's name was heard 
 
^28 ^N ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 on ever}^ side in connection with the romantic cir- 
 cumstances of his life ; he was pointed out at first 
 nights at the theater ; his habits and opmions were 
 repeated in detail. 
 
 Herman let himself drift on on this pleasant tide 
 of fashion, which lifted him up without his having 
 any need to aid himself. All the instincts of pride 
 that had hitherto remained dormant in his soul 
 awoke insensibly. The world talked so loudly of 
 his genius that he ended by believing in it and ac- 
 cepting the universal admiration as homage that 
 was due to him. 
 
 Unfortunately, as always, his success had aroused 
 keen enmity. Until then he had known only the 
 sweetness of success ; he was not long in feeling the 
 bitterness. 
 
 An article published in a newspaper unfriendly to 
 the one upon which Duvert worked began the 
 attack with an analysis of Herman's works. The 
 majority of those he had executed since his coming 
 to Paris lacked that naivete that had rendered the 
 first so priceless. Hampered in his inspiration, 
 obeying the necessity of gain, constantly distracted 
 by the demands of society, he had worked rapidly 
 and without heart. They reproached him for it 
 with hypocritical regret; they pointed out, one 
 after another, the faults in these hasty creations, 
 stigmatizing with the name of greed the sentiment 
 that had produced them. 
 
 These accusations cut Herman to the heart. His 
 enemies doubtless learned this and renewed their 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 229 
 
 attacks every month, every week, every day. Soon 
 the young sculptor could not cast his eyes upon 
 certain sheets without finding his name coupled 
 with some offensive epigram. Ridiculous actions 
 and speeches were attributed to him ; caricatures of 
 him were held up to public ridicule. 
 
 Herman, maddened by such persecution, wished 
 to avenge himself ; Duvert calmly protested that 
 this was one side of success. Why should he be 
 surprised that the same means employed by his 
 friends to make him famous should be used by his 
 enemies to make him ridiculous? This was an 
 inevitable result of fame ; but Herman was too un- 
 used to the custom that exposes the work and the 
 person of the artist to the mercy of the critics to 
 accept any such conclusion. He felt, moreover, that 
 there was at the bottom of the raillery that pursued 
 him an exaggerated but just reproach. Jealousy 
 had rendered his enemies clear-sighted, and they 
 struck at the sensitive part of his conscience. 
 
 Cloffer struggled for a long time in vain against 
 the attacks of the gnats that tormented him ; in 
 vain he tried to forget the persecution to which he 
 was exposed ; his soul, accustomed to the peace 
 that comes from obscurit}^, was too dee])ly dis- 
 turbed ; he fell into a profound melancholy, followed 
 by a sickness to which he nearly succumbed. It 
 needed all the skill of the physicians and several , 
 months of convalescence to bring him back to life. 
 De Riol persuaded him to take a trip to Italy, 
 which completed his recovery. 
 
230 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 "When he returned he had reo^ained his streno^th, 
 and the long idleness to which he had been perforce 
 condemned had given him an ardent longing for 
 work ; but when he presented himself to the dealers 
 the latter scarcely recognized him. There had 
 come from Florence a worker in terra-cotta and the 
 fashion had veered toward that quarter. 
 
 Herman went to see Duvert, whom he told 
 of this change. The journalist shrugged his 
 shoulders. 
 
 "What would you have, maister?" he said. 
 " Success is like fortune — you must seize it by the 
 forelock ; six months of absence are enough to 
 make a man forgotten. You were wrong to go." 
 
 " But my health required it." 
 
 " A man who is the fashion has no right to be 
 ill ; society is a melee, and whoever drops out of the 
 ranks, even for an hour, finds his place filled on his 
 return. 
 
 "But cannot I regain my position ?" 
 
 Duvert shook his head. 
 
 " Your face and your name are known ; your gift 
 has lost its novelty ; you cannot count in future 
 upon that inquisitive interest that in society takes 
 the place of admiration ; you are already spoken of 
 as if you were dead." 
 
 " It is horrible !" cried Herman. " What ! a year 
 has been enough to deprive me of " 
 
 '* All that a year has been enough to give you." 
 
 " Eut what is to become of me ?" 
 
 " You have only to choose, my dear maister ; you 
 
^JV^ ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 231 
 
 can become a painter, a poet, or a comedian ; that 
 will be a transformation, and perhaps public favor 
 will return to you." 
 
 Herman made no reply and left the journalist. 
 He could not yet believe that the latter had not 
 exa Of ere rated, but he soon recoojiiized the truth of all 
 he had said. 
 
 After being accustomed to the intoxication of 
 success, he was forced to meet again with the re- 
 buffs to which he had grown unaccustomed, accept 
 all the pain and all the shame of oblivion. 
 
 These trials were too much for Herman's strength. 
 He struggled for a time ; but one day, after a fresh 
 rebuff even more palpable than the rest, he hurried 
 to his studio, summoned a dealer, sold off everything, 
 paid what he owed, and taking the blackthorn 
 stick, which he had hung above his door as a 
 trophy : 
 
 *' Enough of humiliation," he murmured; "let 
 us go back to the forest." 
 
 He left Paris by the same harriere by which he 
 had entered four years before ; but, alas ! all the 
 hopes that he had brought with him had vanished ; 
 enthusiastic, young, and strong when he had come, 
 he left despairing, aged, and mortally stricken. 
 
 The way was painful for him. Enervated by 
 Parisian life, he had lost the habit of taking long 
 walks in the sunshine ; he no longer felt within him 
 that joyous strength that loves to expend itself in 
 the open air ; and more than once he was forced to 
 halt in order to rest. He took advantage of one of 
 these stops to prepare his mother for his return. 
 
23JJ AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 One can imagine Dorotliee's joy upon receiving 
 this letter, which preceded Herman by only a few 
 hours. But her joy was soon tempered at the sight 
 of the change that had taken place in her son. She 
 easily understood by his pallor and his melancholy 
 abstraction that his plans had failed and that his 
 return was due less to affection than to despair. 
 She did not ask a single question, however. As he 
 threw himself into her arms he had said : 
 
 " I have come back to you, mother, and I shall 
 never leave you again." 
 
 This was enough ; she busied herself in doing all 
 she could that her son might recover at her side the 
 peace of mind he had lost. 
 
 Gathering about Herman, with the ingenuity of 
 a woman and a mother, all that he had once loved, 
 she had a separate room furnished for him, asked 
 her old friends to visit him, and got the 3^oung girls 
 of the neighborhood to pass their evenings at his 
 fireside. Thus every day became 2ifete day at 
 Dorothee's house. But Herman did not notice it. 
 What was all this to the world in which he had 
 moved ? He compared the obscurity into which he 
 had relapsed to the brilliance that had one instant 
 surrounded him. His soul had lost its simplicit}^ 
 at the same time that it had lost its calm, and, dis- 
 abused of the false joys of the world, he was unable 
 to return to the simple joys of home. 
 
 Dorothee finally saw that all her efforts were in 
 vain. Herman grew each day more sad, more ail- 
 ing. His malady soon made such progress that he 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PAHIS. 233 
 
 could not leave the hut. The poor, frightened 
 mother hurried in search of the doctor. 
 
 The latter examined the joung man closely, 
 questioned him, prescribed rest, diversion, and took 
 his leave. Dorothee hastened after him. 
 
 "You sa}' nothing, monsieur?" she faltered, look- 
 ing with anguish at the doctor. 
 
 He seemed embarrassed. 
 
 " The truth, in God's name," went on the dis- 
 tracted mother. 
 
 " The truth V stammered the physician. 
 
 " I wish to know it." 
 
 " Yery well ! 1 am going to notify the pastor." 
 
 Dorothee uttered a cry and fell upon her knees. 
 
 The following day the pastor came, under the 
 pretext of ordering some work from Herman, but 
 the young man smiled sadly . Feeling the progress 
 of the disease, he had understood what had brouofht 
 the pastor. He opened his heart to him and told 
 him all that we have told. When he had finished, 
 the pastor tried to offer some consolation, but 
 Herman interrupted him. 
 
 "My malady is cured, monsieur," he said with 
 emotion. " On the point of death, the truth has 
 come to me : all that has happened is just. I wished 
 to exchange the immaterial delights of art for the 
 advantages of fortune and the vanities of fame ; I 
 have sacrificed my affections and my peace to an 
 ambitious delirium ; sooner or later I had to suffer 
 for my mistake. H it could only serve as a lesson ! 
 If some one else tempted by vain promises should 
 
234 ^N ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 wish to leave our valleys for the great cities, tell 
 him my story, monsieur ; tell him what success costs 
 without making one happier or better; tell him, 
 lastly, to train his heart and mind with a view not 
 to profit, but to duty ; for joy here on earth is only 
 for simple souls." 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PABIS. 235 
 
 THE DESIRES. 
 
 Antoine Likeux, the tenant of Joncheres, was 
 standing before his house, examining its thatched 
 roof with a troubled air. 
 
 "There's the moss showing on the ridge pole 
 again," he muttered. " The stuff will be over every- 
 thing and the granaries will be damp as cellars ; but 
 the townsfolk think it's quite good enough for 
 peasants." 
 
 " Whom do you mean by townsfolk, my good 
 man ?" inquired a voice behind him. 
 
 The farmer turned abruptly and found himself 
 face to face with M. Favrol, who had heard his dis- 
 contented reflections. The peasant saluted his 
 landlord with a somewhat disconcerted air. 
 
 " I didn't know the master was there," he said, 
 without replying to his interlocutor's question. 
 
 "But you were thinking of him, were you not?" 
 answered M. Favrol, smiling. " I see that you will 
 always be the same, my poor Antoine, seeing noth- 
 ing but thorns in roses and nothing but vexations 
 in life." 
 
 Lireux shook his head. 
 
236 ^N ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 " It is easy for the master to talk," he said dog- 
 gedly; " he is rich enough to do as he pleases." 
 
 " Because I please to do only what I can," re- 
 marked the landlord ; ^' but to limit one's desires to 
 one's means is a precept that was forgotten in your 
 catechism, perhaps." 
 
 " It would have been better not to have forgotten 
 to put a good income into my pocket," answered 
 the peasant. "Poor people ought not to be re- 
 proached for their desires, because they haven't the 
 means of satisfying them. It seems to me that it 
 would not be too much to ask the good Lord for a 
 roof that sheds the water and doesn't draw vermin 
 like this cursed thatch." 
 
 " That is to say, you keep constantly returning to 
 your old idea of having a tile roof ?" 
 
 "Yes ; and if I wasn't so poor I should have it 
 done at my own expense, and I should make by it, 
 seeing that the house would be more healthy and 
 my grain better kept." 
 
 "But you — would you be any better satisfied ?" 
 
 " I wouldn't ask anything more of the good Lord 
 or of the master." 
 
 " Parbleu^ we shall see," said M. Favrol. " Al- 
 though I consider the expenditure unprofitable for 
 you and useless for me, I wish to find out if it is 
 possible to satisfy you. You shall have your tile 
 roof, Maitre Antoine, and as soon as fine weather 
 sets in I will send the workmen." 
 
 Lireux, surprised by this unexpected concession, 
 thanked his landlord with effusion, and as soon as 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 237 
 
 the latter had left, he went into the house to tell 
 the family of his good fortune. 
 
 Part of the day was emploj^ed in considering the 
 advantages in this change of roof. Aside from the 
 novel aspect that it would give to the farm-house, 
 great benefit ought to be derived from the preserva- 
 tion of the grain ; but Antoine soon saw that this 
 could be doubled by slightly raising the walls upon 
 which the frame rested. This discovery completely 
 changed the current of his thoughts. He no longer 
 thought of anything but this enlargement and of 
 the profit that he would derive from it. Without 
 this modification, the new roof was only an unim- 
 portant change ; things might just as well be left as 
 they were! 
 
 So here was our peasant fallen back into his old 
 dark mood, bitterly deploring the lack of money 
 that constantly balked him in the execution of his 
 plans. 
 
 He was obliged to go to M. Favrol in order to 
 pay his rent. The landlord noticed his troubled air 
 and asked the cause. After hesitating some time, 
 Lireux admitted his new preoccupation. 
 
 " It is not a request that I make of the master," 
 he went on ; " it was quite enough for him to prom- 
 ise to do away with the thatch ; he was not 
 obliged to do it, and poor people have a right only 
 to what is due them." 
 
 " You may add that they have this in common 
 with the rich," answered M. Favrol ; " but I see tliat 
 you are hard to cure of your discontent ; one desire 
 
238 ^N ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 fulfilled gives birth to a second. I mean to under- 
 take the cure, however ; we will raise the walls of 
 the granary." 
 
 The farmer declared that this promise surpassed 
 all his hopes, and he went gayly home. 
 
 A few days later a builder, sent by M. Favrol, 
 came to examine the work to be done. In the 
 course of conversation Antoine asked him what 
 they were going to do with the old roof. 
 
 " E'othing, I suppose," said the builder. " It is the 
 sort of framework for country buildings only and 
 cannot support anything but thatch ; at most it 
 could be used for a barn." 
 
 "The very thing — ours is too small," said the 
 farmer. 
 
 "Have vou room for a laro^er one?" 
 
 " At the entrance to the stables ; we could take a 
 little from the garden. I will show you. Come." 
 
 The two went to look over the ground, which the 
 builder did not fail to find admirably adapted to a 
 new building. He showed Lireux the advantage 
 there would be in putting up large sheds, in enlarg- 
 ing the stables a little, and digging a pit for the 
 manure. Antoine adopted the plan with enthusiasm. 
 Here was the means of completing the improve- 
 ments undertaken, of giving the farm a visible 
 superiority over all others in the neighborhood, and 
 of making use of the old frame that was to be re- 
 placed. Without this further expenditure the pro- 
 jected changes would not have results propor- 
 tionate to the cost, and M. Favrol ought, in his own 
 interest, to decide upon them. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 239 
 
 Lireux added, however, that he did not dare 
 make the suggestion himself. 
 
 " I should be accused ao:ain of never beino: satis- 
 fied," he said, " and the master wouldn't understand 
 that what I propose is as much for the farm as for 
 me. If I had the monev I should have built with- 
 out asking any one, but poor people are obliged to 
 stop at good ideas." 
 
 " Don't be afraid," said the builder, who did not 
 understand how people could spend money on any- 
 thing but building. ^' I will speak to the master and 
 he can't help deciding upon doing it." 
 
 Antoine encouraged him eagerly and begged him 
 to let him know the landlord's answer as soon as 
 possible. 
 
 Left to himself, he began to ruminate upon the 
 builder's ideas, which had become his own, and to 
 calculate the profit he would derive from these 
 changes. Thanks to the sheds, he could substitute 
 winter threshing for summer threshing ; the en- 
 larging of the stables would enable him to keep a 
 larger number of cattle for market, and the manure 
 pit would utilize the drainage from the stables. 
 Plainly these changes, which he had not thought of 
 before, w^ere indispensable additions ; if he had not 
 asked for them sooner, it was owing to his unwilling- 
 ness to make complaints ; but M. Favrol could not 
 refuse them without hardness and injustice. 
 
 Several days elapsed, however, and he heard 
 nothing from the builder. His impatience grew 
 into torture. He went to see the man, who lived 
 
240 ^^ ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 in a distant village, but he could not find him. He 
 returned, more uneasy than ever. To all appear- 
 ances M. Favrol had refused ; he could no longer 
 count upon larger outbuildings ; he must go on put- 
 ting up with makeshifts and miss being rich for the 
 lack of a little money on his part or a little good will 
 on the part of others. 
 
 Lireux had wholly abandoned himself to these re- 
 flections, when he heard his name called. It was 
 the builder, who had caught sight of him from the 
 top of a scaffolding, where he was superintending 
 his workmen. 
 
 " Well, the matter is settled, Pere Antoine !" he 
 cried. 
 
 " What matter ?" asked the farmer, who dared not 
 hope. 
 
 " Parbleu ! The granar}^ and the stables." 
 
 " The master consents ?" 
 
 " We begin next month." 
 
 " Come and tell me about it over a glass !" cried 
 Antoine joyfully ; " you must tell me how it all 
 came about." 
 
 The builder left the scaffolding and joined Lireux 
 at the tavern. Antoine learned that the owner of 
 Joncheres had only laughed without making any 
 objections, and that he had asked the builder for a 
 detailed estimate of the changes. 
 
 Antoine went home completely reassured. Upon 
 his arrival he went at once to look at the site of the 
 new buildings, planning everything beforehand with 
 regard to the greatest convenience. The old en- 
 trance being impossible in the new plan, it was 
 
AN" ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PAUIS. 241 
 
 necessary to make a passage through the garden ; 
 there was a hedge to be cut through and a ditch to 
 be filled : he decided that he would do it at his own 
 expense, without speaking to M. Favrol. But this 
 arrangement cut off still more of the little garden, 
 already reduced by the erection of the barn ; it 
 would be a loss that the proprietor of Joncheres 
 could not refuse to make good. An unused piece 
 of land lay on the further side of the road ; Pere 
 Lireux considered that he might claim it by way of 
 compensation. He betook himself accordingly to 
 M. Favrol, under the pretext of wishing to know 
 when the building was to begin. 
 
 " Well, honhomme Lireux," said the landlord on 
 seeing him, " I hope you are satisfied ?" 
 
 " Poor people have no right to complain as long 
 as they have bread," answered Antoine with reserve. 
 
 "A maximum of truly Christian resignation," said 
 M. Favrol ; " but it seems to me, Maitre Antoine, 
 that you have some other reasons for satisfaction. 
 Have I not granted you everything you asked, in- 
 cluding the new outbuildings?" 
 
 '' I am much indebted to the master," said the 
 farmer coldly ; " but the master knows that the 
 farmer lives by the soil, and to take away several 
 furrows is like taking av/ay a piece of bread." 
 
 "And who thinks of taking any away from 
 you ?" asked M. Favrol. 
 
 " Your pardon," said Antoine somewhat abashed, 
 " it is the master's barn and the passage leading to 
 it that take up a part of the garden. I don't 
 want to complain ; but if the master would let me 
 
242 ^N ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 cultivate the little strip of land opposite the farm it 
 would be a compensation." 
 
 " Ah, very good !" answered M. Favrol, looking 
 at the farmer. " I believe there is about an acre 
 in this little strip of land ?" 
 
 " I couldn't say," answered Lireux with an inno- 
 cent air. " I never measured it ; but it is something 
 for poor people like us, while it is nothing to the 
 master." 
 
 " One moment," said the landlord ; "let us count 
 up, my good man. Here is the estimate of what 
 you have asked of me ; it amounts to 2,430 francs. 
 Add to that the acre of ground and it would make 
 about 3,500 francs' worth of desires gratified in a 
 month ! At that rate, Maitre Antoine, it would take 
 to satisfy a * poor man ' like you some 40,000 
 francs income — that is to say, as much again as 
 I receive. Even then you would not be happy, for 
 ever since my promise to roof your farm-house you 
 have passed from one desire to another, always as 
 restless and complaining as ever. You see now 
 that riches can do nothing for the man who cannot 
 limit his desires to what he has. The ancients tell 
 in one of their fables of a king's sons who were 
 condemned in purgatory to fill a bottomless cask; 
 this is exactly what you are trying to do, Antoine. 
 The happiness after which you have been running 
 in vain ever since your childhood is not to be found 
 where you think ; it is not in wealth or in power, 
 or in anything that surrounds our lives ; God has 
 placed it more nearly within our grasp ; he has 
 placed it in ourselves !" 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 243 
 
 USELESS THINGS. 
 
 " The diligence from Paris !" cried a waiter, 
 opening the door of tlie dining-room of the Grand 
 Pelican at Colmar. 
 
 A traveler of middle age who had just finished 
 his breakfast rose quickly at this announcement 
 and ran to the hotel entrance, where the heavy 
 coach had stopped. 
 
 At the same instant a young man thrust his 
 bead out of the door of the coupe. The two 
 travelers recognized eacb other and uttered an 
 exclamation of deligbt. 
 
 " Father !" 
 
 " Camille !'' 
 
 The door was hurriedly opened ; the new arrival 
 cleared the step at a bound and fell into the arms 
 of the older man, who held him to his breast for 
 several moments. 
 
 The father and son met for the first time after a 
 separation of eight years, which period the son had 
 been obliged to spend in London with an uncle of 
 his mother. The death of this uncle, whose heir he 
 was, left him at liberty to return to his fathers 
 house, which he had left when almost a child and to 
 which he now returned of age. 
 
^44 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 After the first questions and the first expressions 
 of affection, M. Isidor Berton proposed to Camille 
 that they should go at once to the country seat near 
 Kebeauville ; Camilie, anxious to see once more the 
 home in which he was born, assented ; the cabriolet 
 was ordered and the father and son resumed their 
 journey. 
 
 After a long separation there is often in first 
 meetings a sort of curious embarrassment, and con- 
 versation is broken by involuntary silences. Un- 
 accustomed to one another, each studies and ob- 
 serves the other, trying to discover the changes that 
 time has made in the character as well as in the 
 person. With a kind of uneasy uncertainty, we 
 seek the past in the present. M. Berton, especially, 
 was anxious to know the vouno: man who had re- 
 turned to him in the place of the child he had seen 
 go away. Like the physician who examines a pa- 
 tient, he questioned him slowly, watched his every 
 expression, and analyzed the least of his words. 
 
 Still continuing his observations, he entered into 
 the conversation and began to talk of his own tastes 
 and pursuits since his son's departure. 
 
 The owner of Eibeauville was neither a scientist 
 nor an artist ; but though powerless to create, he 
 loved what others bad created — like a mirror 
 which reflects creation without itself creating! IN"© 
 invention was a matter of indifference to him, no 
 emotion strange to him. He was interested in every 
 discovery, was present at every experiment, en- 
 couraged every effort. To him life meant not 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PAULS. 245 
 
 only to keep alive the spark that God has placed in 
 each of us, but to spread it and kindle it by other 
 sparks. Thanks to the leisure afforded him by his 
 wealth, his activity had been able to develop itself 
 freely. Not being bound to any one path, he had 
 followed all in the footsteps of the workers, keeping 
 up their courage by his aid and by his sympathy. 
 Alsace had seen him at the head of every enterprise 
 formed for the benefit of letters, science, or art, and 
 the museums of Strasbouro: had been enriched bv 
 his gifts. 
 
 At this very moment he was making costly exca- 
 vations on a hillside where some vestiges of ancient 
 potteries had been discovered. He pointed out the 
 " Koman hillock" to his son in passing, and told him 
 that in order to obtain it from its owner he had 
 given in exchange an acre of his best meadow-land. 
 
 Camille looked surprised. 
 
 *' You think I have gone mad, do you not ?" asked 
 M. Berton, who had been watching him. 
 
 " 1^0, father," said the young man, " I was only 
 surprised at the bargain." 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 " Because I think one ought to consider the use- 
 ful in everything, and that this bleak hillside cannot 
 be worth an acre of meadow-land." 
 
 " I see that you are not an archaeologist." 
 
 " Quite true. I have never quite understood what 
 old potteries were good for and what interest peo- 
 ple could take in bygone generations." 
 
 M. Berton looked at his son, but said nothing. 
 
246 ^^ ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 Anxious to know him thoroughly, he did not wish 
 to alarm his confidence by a discussion. There 
 were some moments of silence that was suddenly 
 broken by an exclamation from Camille. He had 
 caught sight of the main tower of the manor-house 
 among the trees. 
 
 " Ah, yes, it's my observatory," said his father, 
 smiling ; " for I am not only an antiquarian, my 
 poor boy, but an astronomer likewise." 
 
 " You, father !" 
 
 " I have transformed the tower into a work-room 
 and have had set up a telescope with which I ex- 
 amine what passes among the stars." 
 
 " And you find pleasure in busjang yourself with 
 things that are beyond your reach, that you cannot 
 change, and that bring you nothing in return ?" 
 
 " It takes up my time," said M. Berton, still 
 evading a serious discussion. " Besides, you will 
 see many other changes. The old poultry-yard has 
 been transformed into an aviary and the orchard into 
 a botanical garden." 
 
 " All these changes must have cost you a great 
 deal" 
 
 '•' And bring me in nothing." 
 
 "Then you condemn them yourself?" 
 
 " I do not say that I don't. But here we are." 
 
 The ofroom ran forward to take the reins, and while 
 he drove the cabriolet around to the stables the two 
 travelers entered the house. 
 
 Camille found the hall incumbered with old ar- 
 mor, geological specimens, and herbariums filled 
 with Alsacian flora. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 5^47 
 
 ^^ You are looking for a rack to hang your coat 
 on?" said M. Berton, seeing him looking around 
 with some disappointment ; "it would be more use- 
 ful than my curiosities, truly ; but let us go on to 
 the salonP 
 
 The salon was decorated from floor to ceilino^ 
 with with paintings, rare engravings, and cabinets 
 filled with medals. Their owner asked his son to 
 admire certain collections, but the latter excused 
 himself on the plea of ignorance. 
 
 " True, all these things are of little importance," 
 said M. Berton good-naturedly. "A¥e are nothing 
 but big children who are amused by curiosities ; 
 but I am glad to see that you look at life from a 
 practical standpoint." 
 
 "I owe it to Uncle Barker," said Camille with some- 
 what theatrical modesty; " he often used to complain 
 of the time and money spent upon the frivolities of 
 art, and used to try in vain to discover what profit 
 humanity could find in a blackened paper or a 
 painted canvas." 
 
 They were interrupted by the entrance of a 
 servant, who announced dinner and handed M. 
 Berton a book that had just come b}^ post : it was 
 the eagerly expected work of a favorite poet. He 
 began to glance over it, but stopped suddenly and 
 closed the book. 
 
 " Come," he said, " 1 am not going to delay your 
 dinner for verses! Uncle Barker would not have 
 forgiven me." 
 
 " I am afraid not," answered Camille, smiling ; 
 " he often used to ask what poetry was good for," 
 
248 ^N ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 The father and son seated themselves at table, 
 where the conversation was continued upon the 
 same subject. Camille expounded freely the opinions 
 that he owed to Uncle Barker, for the latter had 
 taught him to be frank, though the frankness of the 
 old economist came less from the love of truth 
 than from the love of utility. He respected the 
 straight line, not because it was straight, but be- 
 cause he knew it to be the shortest. To him, lying 
 was a false calculation, vice a bad investment, 
 passion an exaggerated expenditure ! In all things, 
 utility was the supreme law. In consequence, 
 there was an indefinable barrenness in even the good 
 actions of the young man's uncle ; his virtues 
 seemed no more than well-worked out problems. 
 
 Camille had adopted his uncle's doctrines with the 
 enthusiasm with which youth accepts the absolute. 
 Gradually bringing everything down to this definite 
 question, ^' Of what use is it?" his reasoning (which 
 he took for reason) had reduced all social duties to 
 mathematical problems. Cured of the mental 
 derangement called poetry, as he expressed it, he 
 had treated life as the Jew who scraped a picture by 
 Titian so as to have a clean piece of canvas that 
 would be good for something. 
 
 M. Berton expressed neither anger nor impatience 
 as his son aired his opinions. He advanced several 
 objections which the young man refuted victori- 
 ously, seemed impressed by his reasoning, and 
 when they separated for the night declared that 
 they must discuss the question again. 
 
AN ATTIG PHlLOiSOPHEB IN PARIS. ^49 
 
 And the next day and the days that followed, M. 
 Berton led the conversation to the same subject, 
 3^ielding more and more, as a man gained over by 
 persuasion. Camille, become his father's teacher, 
 rejoiced in that singular role, and finding himself 
 triumphant, redoubled his eloquence. When he 
 was obliged, at last, to make a visit to some relatives 
 who lived in the neighborhood, he left M. Berton 
 completeh^ converted. 
 
 Camille's absence lasted a week : this time had 
 sufficed to burst the buds and cover the country- 
 side with flowers. When he returned, the swallows 
 were darting in the blue heavens with joyous cries ; 
 the peasant women's songs rising from the wash- 
 houses answered those of the herdsmen wandering 
 over the fallow fields, and the warm breezes that 
 swayed the unripe grain bore upon every road the 
 scent of hawthorne, primrose, and violet. 
 
 In spite of his systematic indifference to poetry, 
 Camille could not altogether escape the influence 
 of that of the reawakening of nature. AVithout 
 knowing it, he gave himself up to the charm of 
 sunshine, song, and perfume ; an involuntary emo- 
 tion seized him, and he reached the manor-house in 
 ^ species of intoxication. 
 
 He met his father in the middle of the parterre 
 that formed the entrance court. M. Berton was 
 surrounded by workmen who were pulling up 
 flowers and cutting down shrubs. Two lilacs 
 whose perfumed clusters had shaded the windows 
 on the ground-floor had been cut down to make 
 into fire- wood. 
 
250 ^^ ^ TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 The young man could not restrain a cry of sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "- Ah ! There you are," said M. Berton on seeing 
 him. '' Parhleii! you have come just in time to 
 enjoy your triumph !" 
 
 " My triumph !" repeated Camille, who did not 
 understand. 
 
 " Don't you see that I have become your disciple ?" 
 answered the master of Ribeauville. "I have been 
 thinking a great deal of what j^ou have said to me, 
 onon cher, and I see that you and Uncle Barker 
 were right. We must leave useless things out of 
 life. Flowers and shrubs are in a garden what 
 poetry is in a library ; and, as you \QYy justlj^ said, 
 What is poetry good for? Unless it is to light a 
 fire with, like my lilacs. But come, come, you shall 
 see many other changes. I have taken advantage 
 of your absence and I hope you will be pleased." 
 
 So saying, M. Berton passed his arm familiarly 
 through Camille's and led him into the manor- 
 house. 
 
 The hall had been stripped of the curios that had 
 formerly filled it and they had been replaced by 
 umbrella-stands, spittoons, and hat-racks. In the 
 salon all the drawings and paintings had been 
 removed and the bare walls whitewashed. Furni- 
 ture all of one pattern and perfectly plain had 
 taken the place of the Louis XIII. chairs, the 
 Gothic chests, and the Renaissance cabinets. M. 
 Berton cast a beaming glance at his son. - 
 
 " Well," he said, " you can't accuse me this time 
 
'AN A TTIG PEILOSOPHEU IN PARIS. 251 
 
 of sacrificing usefulness to the frivolities of art ; our 
 salon has now nothing but four white walls whose 
 utility no one can deny. AVe couldn't have a better 
 place for hanging our guns or leaving our boots." 
 
 Camille attempted to venture some objections, 
 but his father closed his lips by reminding him of 
 the anathema he had pronounced against " black- 
 ened paper and painted canvases which had never 
 been of any use to humanity." 
 
 The changes, moreover, had not been confined to 
 the salon ; the whole house had undergone the same 
 transformation. Everything that was intended only 
 to please had been pitilessly sacrificed. Everything 
 had a daily and definite use; the pleasant had 
 everywhere given way before the practical. 
 
 M. Berton, who displayed this new order of 
 things with considerable pride, informed Camille 
 that he did not mean to stop here. The despoiled 
 parterre was to be converted into a poultry-yard, 
 his botanical garden into a manure-yard. He had 
 not yet decided to what new use he should put his 
 observatory. He was hesitating between a dove- 
 cote and a windmill. 
 
 Camille, stunned by the exaggeration of the 
 reform, but withheld by the principles he had him- 
 self professed, abstained from expressing approval, 
 being unable to blame. 
 
 Wishinof to extricate himself from the dilemma 
 b}^ talking of other things, he asked if he had had 
 any letters from England. 
 
 " I believe some came," said his father, " but as 
 
252 AN ATTIG PHILOISOPHER IN PARIS, 
 
 you have no interests there now I gave orders to 
 have them returned." 
 
 " "What !" cried Camille. " I was expecting news 
 from one of my best friends, who had promised to 
 keep me informed upon the Irish question." 
 
 " Bah !" retorted M. Berton indifferently ; " what 
 pleasure can you take in things that are beyond 
 your reach ? Isn't Ireland the same to you as the 
 stars were to me ? Its revolutions profit you noth- 
 ing, and you cannot change them." 
 
 " But I have the interest of my sympathies." pro- 
 tested the young man. 
 
 "Can they be of use to you or to Ireland ?" asked 
 M. Berton calmly. " Do you think that your fore- 
 sight can have any influence upon her destiny, that 
 your wishes can be of any help to her ?" 
 
 " I do not say that." 
 
 " Then the expenditure for mailage does no good 
 to anybody. To admit this is to condemn it your- 
 self." 
 
 Camille bit his lips; he was beaten with his own 
 weapons, and this irritated him all the more. This 
 rigorous application of his doctrines had the appear- 
 ance of a punishment. Without attacking the 
 principle he began to criticise in detail the proposed 
 or accomplished improvements, but M. Berton had 
 anticipated everything and found an answer for 
 every objection. Finally Camille, at the end of his 
 arguments, pretended that the parterre was not 
 suited to its new purpose and that a poultrj^-yard 
 should be paved. His father struck his forehead. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PAPIS. 253 
 
 ^'Parhleu! you. are right!" he cried. "I have 
 the very thing I need for that — six-foot slabs." 
 
 " Where are they ?" asked the young man. 
 
 " In the little chapel cemetery ; there are the 
 family tombs that are no use to any one." 
 
 "And you mean to use them for paving?" cried 
 Camille. 
 
 " Why not ? Do you happen to be interested in 
 old stones, and are you attached to bygone genera- 
 tions ?" 
 
 "Ah, this is too much !" cried Camille. " You 
 cannot be speaking serioush^, father. You cannot 
 believe that instincts, tastes, sentiments can be sub- 
 jected to the rude arithmetic of interest ; you cannot 
 wish that the human soul should become a book of 
 double entry where the figures alone decide. I 
 understand all now : this is a lesson." 
 
 " Or, rather, an example," said M. Berton, taking 
 his son's hand. " I wished to show you to what 
 Uncle Barker's doctrines would lead and in what 
 destitution an abundance of merely useful things 
 would leave us. Never forget the holy words that 
 you heard in your childhood : ' Man does not live 
 by bread alone.' That is to say, by what is neces- 
 sar}^ for his material existence. He needs, besides, 
 all that feeds the soul ; he needs science, art, 
 poetry. What you call useless things are precisely 
 those that give value to useful things. The latter 
 sustain life, the former make it beautiful. AVithout 
 them the moral world would become like a country 
 without verdure, without flowers, and without birds. 
 
254 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 One of the principal differences between man and 
 the brute is this very need of an immaterial super- 
 fluity. It proves our higher aspirations, our leaning 
 toward the infinite, and the existence of that portion 
 of ourselves that seeks its satisfaction beyond the 
 real world in the supreme joys of the ideal." 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 255 
 
 A JOUKNEY BY DILIGENCE. 
 
 It was one of the last days of September. The 
 rain, after pouring in torrents all day, had ceased ; 
 but a thick mist hid the sky, and although scarcely 
 four o'clock, night seemed to have already fallen. 
 
 A heavy diligence was struggling painfully up 
 one of the steep ascents that separate Belleville 
 from Lyon, and the postillions walked on either 
 side of the vehicle, stopping every fifty paces to let 
 the animals take breath. The passengers themselves 
 had dismounted at the guard's invitation, and fol- 
 lowed on foot, cursing the horses, the rain, and the 
 bad roads. 
 
 Two of the passengers who came last stopped 
 suddenlv in a turn in the ascent. One was a man 
 of about fifty, with a smiling and kindly face ; the 
 other, younger, had a careworn expression. He let 
 his eyes wander over the landscape, half-obliter- 
 ated by the mist, and said to his companion : 
 
 ''What weather and what a year. Cousin Grugel ! 
 The Saone ha s scarcely settled back into its bed, 
 and now the valleys will be flooded again." 
 
 " Heaven preserve us from that, Gontran !" an- 
 swered man with the pleasant face ; " the Ark of the 
 
356 -^-^ ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 Covenant may appear at any moment upon the 
 flood." 
 
 " Yes," answered the other, with a touch of irony. 
 " I know you have a mania of hope, Jacques." 
 
 " As you have of despondency, Darvon." 
 
 " Am I not justified when I see how things are 
 going in the world ? Where do you see peace, 
 order, prosperity ? 1 hear nothing talked of but 
 murders, floods, disease! Whatever is spared from 
 the wickedness of man, the wickedness of nature 
 destroys ; for matter, brute itself, seems to have the 
 instinct of destruction ; the elements are like kings 
 — they cannot be neighbors without making war 
 upon one another." 
 
 " That is one side of the picture, cousin, the sad 
 side, but there is another of which you never speak. 
 Your eyes are always fixed upon the volcano that 
 smokes upon the horizon, and never look down upon 
 the fields of ripe grain that sway at your feet. 
 There is happiness in the world, after all." 
 
 *' I know nothing about it," answered Gontran 
 peevishly. 
 
 " But you yourself, are you not one of the fortu- 
 nate ones of the earth ?" 
 
 " True, Jacques, and yet, among all the blessings 
 that have been allotted one, I have never found 
 peace or contentment." 
 
 "What more can you want? You are rich, 
 honored, you have a sister who loves 3^ou." 
 
 " Yes," answered Gontran, " but my fortune has 
 cost me the wearisome lawsuit that has called me 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARTS. 257 
 
 three times to Ma^on ; my good reputation has not 
 prevented my opponent from insulting me through, 
 his lawyer, and as to my sister " 
 
 " Well ?" demanded Jacques. 
 
 ^' My sister, with whom I have always lived so 
 affectionately — I have had a quarrel with her." 
 
 " It will be a short quarrel." 
 
 " No. I am tired of uselessly trying to establish 
 order in her affairs ; I have suffered too much from 
 her want of logic and reason." 
 
 " Think of her good heart and you will forgive 
 her." 
 
 "" Oh, I know you will always find some reason 
 for my taking my troubles patiently ; you have a 
 salve for every mental wound, and if I were to stir 
 you up a little you would prove to me that I am 
 vrrong to complain ; that everything in this world 
 is right." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," answered Grugel ;" there 
 are things in the management of the world that 
 hurt me as they do you ; but I am not at all sure of 
 being able to judge them rightly. Life is a great 
 mystery of which we understand so little. Must I 
 even admit to you ? There are times when I per- 
 suade myself that God has not afflicted mankind 
 with so many burdens without intention. Happy 
 and invulnerable we would become hardened ; each 
 would count upon his individual strength, would 
 delight in his isolation, and would be without 
 sympathy for his fellow-man. AVeakness, on the 
 contrarv, has forced men to seek each other's 
 
258 ^^ ^ TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 society, to help each other, to love each other ; suf- 
 fering has become a bond ; it is to it that we owe 
 the noblest and sweetest sentiments : gratitude, de- 
 votion, pity." 
 
 " Quite right !'- said Darvon, smiling ) " not being 
 able to prove that everything is good, you are going 
 to prove to me that there is good in evil." 
 
 *' Sometimes," said Grugel ; "you may be sure 
 that evil itself is not absolute. Science owes rem- 
 edies to the juice of poisonous plants ; why cannot 
 one derive some benefit from misfortunes, an- 
 noyances, and passions? Believe me, Darvon, there 
 is no human mineral so poor but that one can find 
 in it some grains of gold." 
 
 •' Parhleu ! I should like to know how much you 
 would find in our traveling companions !" cried 
 Gontran. " Come, cousin, let us place in the retort 
 these curious specimens of the race which we claim 
 to be the highest in intelligence." 
 
 " It is certain," replied Gontran, smiling, " that 
 fate has not been kind to us." 
 
 " ]^ever mind, never mind !" answered Darvon, 
 whose misanthropy made him malicious ; " let us 
 extract the gold from the mineral, as you say. 
 And to begin with, how many grains do you expect 
 to find in the cattle dealer there walking ahead 
 of us ?" 
 
 Grugel raised his head and saw a few paces in 
 front of them the traveler of whom his cousin had 
 spoken. He was a big man in a blue blouse, and he 
 was trudging up the ascent with a heavy tread, 
 munching the while at a wing of fowl. 
 
AN A TTIC PHILOSOPHEll IN PARIS. 259 
 
 " That is the seventh meal I have seen hira make 
 since morning,'' went on Darvon, " and the pockets 
 of the coach are still stuffed with his provisions. 
 When he has eaten he sleeps, then eats, then goes 
 to sleep, to begin over again. He isn't even an im- 
 becile, he is an eating machine ! You have seen, 
 him yourself ; impossible to get an answer or a bit 
 of information out of him !" 
 
 " Our friend in the felt cap acquits himself better 
 in that respect." 
 
 '' Ah ! let us take hira and extract his grain of 
 gold ! We have had him with us only since this 
 morning, and the guard has already sent him from 
 the imperial back to the passengers in the coiqye, 
 who have sent him to those inside. He has been 
 with us only two hours and he has told us his 
 history and that of his family to the fifth degree. I 
 know that his name is Pierre Lepre, that he has 
 traveled through the departments of Saone-et- 
 Loire, Ain, Fere, and the Hhone for twenty years 
 selling colonial commodities, and that he has been 
 married three times. If one were only not obliged 
 to submit to his questions, but he is as curious as he 
 is voluble and when he has finished his confidences 
 he expects you to make yours. If you are trying to 
 think, he talks to you ; if you talk, he interrupts; 
 his voice is like a rattle always going and the noise 
 ends by setting your nerves on edge." 
 
 " Poor Lepre!" said Grugel ; " he is a good fellow 
 at bottom, after all." 
 
 " He has one merit," went on Darvon, " which is 
 
260 ^N ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS, 
 
 of annoying Mademoiselle Athenai's de Locherais ; 
 we were about to forget that amiable traveling com- 
 panion, who, after crying that w^e must get out in 
 order to lighten the coach, remained there alone for 
 fear of wetting her feet." 
 
 " You must forgive her," remarked Jacques ; 
 " retirement has accustomed her to think of no one 
 but herself; her heart has grown narrow." 
 
 " Narrow !" repeated Gontran ; " you are mis- 
 taken, cousin. Mademoiselle Athenai's de Locherais 
 has a tremendous love — for herself ! The whole 
 world was created for her particular use ; she does 
 not understand that anything can happen in it that 
 does not regard her. She is one of those sweet 
 creatures who, when they hear people shouting 
 murder in the street, turn over on their pillows, 
 grumbling at having been awakened." 
 
 Grugel was about to answer, but they had 
 reached the top of the hill, the coach had stopped, 
 and the guard called to the passengers to remount. 
 He had just been joined by a mounted messenger, 
 who announced that the overflowing of the Saone 
 rendered the crossing by Yillefranche impossible 
 and warned them to turn to the right to cross the 
 Niseran higher up and enter Anse by a roundabout 
 way. The diligence that preceded them had not 
 taken this precaution and had been overtaken by the 
 flood ; there was a rumor that several persons had 
 been drowned. This last report was, fortunately, 
 not communicated to the passengers, but all pro- 
 tested when they heard of the long detour that 
 must be made. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 261 
 
 " There's a curse upon us," said Gontran, already 
 exasperated by the slowness of the journey. 
 
 " I expected as much, monsieur," exclaimed Pierre 
 Lepre, from whom the two postilions had made 
 their escape and who now fell back upon his com- 
 panions. " I heard on the way that the Ardiere 
 and the Yauzanne had overflowed their banks; it 
 even remains to be seen whether we can cross at 
 Anse, where we find the rivers Azergues and 
 Brevanne. AVhat road are we to take, guard ? 
 Shall we go by the forest of Oingt ? I know the 
 maire — a tall thin man, always smoking. By the 
 way, though, aren't we going to stop before we 
 reach Anse ?" 
 
 ^' Impossible," answered the guard. " We're 
 already eight hours late." 
 
 " Well, but where are we to have supper ?" cried 
 the cattle dealer. 
 
 " We shall not have supper, monsieur." 
 
 '^I insist upon having some bouillon," interrupted 
 Mademoiselle Athenais de Locherais in a shrill 
 voice, putting her head out of the coach door. 
 "I always have my bouillon at five o'clock.'' 
 
 " We have had nothing since morning !" protested 
 all the passengers. 
 
 " Get in, messieurs !" answered the guard sharply ; 
 " an hour's delay may prevent our arriving at all. 
 There's no joking with a flood, especially at night. 
 I've no desire to have my coach swept away." 
 
 '• Swept away 1" cried Mademoiselle Athenais ; 
 " horrible ! We should have been warned. Guard, I 
 
262 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 demand that you leave the valley ; you are re- 
 sponsible for me, guard ; I shall complain to the 
 management." 
 
 The starting of the diligence cut the spinster's 
 words short and she fell back into her corner with 
 a moan. 
 
 Jacques Grugel felt called upon to tell her that 
 the detour they were making led them away from 
 the Saone and there was therefore nothing to be 
 feared. 
 
 " But where am I to get my bouillon ?" she asked, 
 somewhat reassured. 
 
 "We shall not stop until we reach Anse," an- 
 swered Lepre. " the guard said so, and Heaven 
 knows what roads w^e shall find ! Department 
 roads, and that's all you need say ! And yet I 
 know the engineer. He's a clever fellow ; his son 
 was married the same day as my eldest daughter. 
 But we shan't reach Anse before to-morrow." 
 
 There was a general exclamation : the majority 
 of the passengers had not eaten since morning, 
 counting upon the stop that was usually made at 
 Yillefranche, and Gontran with characteristic im- 
 petuosity was about to propose that they should 
 stop the coach by force at the next village and have 
 supper served them, when the cattle dealer cried : 
 
 " Supper ! I have one at your service." 
 
 "What! for every one?" asked Lepre. 
 
 " For every one, hourgeois. I can offer you three 
 courses with dessert and a drop of schnich on top 
 of it." 
 
AN A TTia PHILOSOPHER IN PA RiS. 263 
 
 So saying, he drew from the pockets of the 
 coach half a dozen packages, which he began to 
 open, moistening his lips the while : provisions of 
 all kinds, neatly wrapped up and tied with care. 
 
 "It will be a regular feast," said Lepre, who had 
 helped the cattle dealer in making an inventory of 
 the packages. " Peste ! monsieur. Excuse me, 
 but what is your name ?" 
 
 " Baruau." 
 
 " Pesie ! Monsieur Baruau, you live well !" 
 
 " What would be the use of having money if one 
 didn't eat of the best?" said the big man with some 
 show of pride. " For the rest, messieurs and made- 
 moiselle, you shall judge of my cuisine." 
 
 Gruo^el turned to Gontran with a sio:nificant 
 look. 
 
 " Well," he said smilingly and in an undertone, 
 " here are the grains of gold that you were looking 
 for !" 
 
 " Grains of gold !" repeated Baruau, who did not 
 understand; "your pardon, monsieur, these are 
 truffle sausages." 
 
 " The gentlemen mean that they are gold to 
 hungry people," answered Lepre, laughing; "it is a 
 figure of speech, Monsieur Baruau. I have a son 
 who learned about figures in studying rhetoric ; he 
 explained the thing to me. But, pardon — made- 
 moiselle must be served first." 
 
 The provisions were presented to Mademoiselle 
 de Locherais, who turned over every piece, choosing 
 the daintiest morsels, which she ate, complaining all 
 
264 ^N A TTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PA MIS. 
 
 the while of the privations to which one was ex- 
 posed in traveling. By way of consolation, Baruau 
 offered her a glass of old cognac, but Mademoiselle 
 de Locherais uttered a cry of horror. 
 
 " Cognac to me !" she cried indignantly. " What 
 do you take me for, monsieur ?" 
 
 " Perhaps you would prefer currant wine ?" per- 
 sisted the cattle dealer innocently. 
 
 "I do not drink either currant wine or brandy!" 
 retorted Mademoiselle Athenais haughtily ; " I 
 never drink anything but water." 
 
 And turning to Grugel : 
 
 " Fancy such a thing !" she murmured. " To offer 
 rae brandy ! As if the spices in what he has made 
 us eat were not enough to ruin one's stomach ! I 
 am sure I shall be ill." 
 
 As she said this, she settled herself in her corner 
 so as to turn her back upon the cattle dealer, took 
 out a pillow she had brought with her, leaned her 
 head against it, and fell into a doze. 
 
 The diligence advanced painfully along the gul- 
 lied roads. The air, although damp, was cold and 
 the night was starless. Inspired by the repast 
 which Baruau's gastronomic precautions had pro- 
 vided, Lepre recovered all his loquacity, and al- 
 though his companions had long since ceased to an- 
 swer him, he went on talking without troubling 
 himself as to whether any one were listening to 
 him. 
 
 The monotonous sound of his voice, the slowness 
 of their progress, the darkness, the cold, had filled 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PAUIS. 265 
 
 all the passengers with an irritable discontent that 
 expressed itself every moment by yawns, shivers, 
 and smothered complaints. Darvon, especially 
 seemed to be prey to a nervous irritability that 
 increased from moment to moment. He had al- 
 ready pulled up and drawn down ten times the shade 
 of the coach door, rested his head first to one side 
 and then to the other, placed his legs in every posi- 
 tion permitted by the narrow space at his disposal, 
 and finally, at daybreak, his patience was ex- 
 hausted. 
 
 " I would giv^e ten of the days still left me to 
 live, to be at the end of this journey !" he cried. 
 
 "Here we are at Anse," answered Grugel. 
 
 " Mafoi I That's so !" cried Lepre, who had dozed 
 off for a moment. "Hola! guard, how long do we 
 stay here ?" 
 
 " Five minutes." 
 
 " Open the door ! I shall have time to say how 
 do you do to the maitre de lyosteP 
 
 The door was opened and Baruau got out with 
 Lepre to renew his stock of provisions. At the 
 same instant the booking agent approached to ask 
 if there were any seats. 
 
 " Only one," answered Grugel. 
 
 "What!" cried Mademoiselle de Locherais, who 
 had awakened with a start. "Does monsieur mean 
 to put any one else in here ?" 
 
 " A passenger for Lyons." 
 
 "But it is impossible!" went on the spinster; 
 **we are already horribl}^ crowded, monsieur; your 
 
266 ^^ A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PA ItlS. 
 
 coaches are too small. 1 shall complain to the 
 management." 
 
 " Doubtless this is our new companion," remarked 
 Gontran, who was looking out of the window. 
 " Monsieur Lepre has already taken possession of 
 him." 
 
 " A soldier !" cried Mademoiselle de Locherais. 
 
 " A non-commissioned officer of chasseurs." 
 
 " Ah, Dieu ! And he is going to get in here ! 
 Why don't they oblige soldiers to travel on foot ?" 
 
 " It would be a cruel and exhaustino: thino^ in 
 such weather, mademoiselle." 
 
 ^' It is their business, is it not ? Such people don't 
 get tired. Public conveyances expose one to such 
 odious company, without taking into consideration 
 that all one's habits are upset. JSTothing hot to eat ; 
 to pass the night without sleep ; to be crowded, 
 smothered. I don't see w^hy one of these gentle- 
 men does not ride outside." 
 
 " In spite of the mist ?" 
 
 " What does it matter for men ?" 
 
 " Mademoiselle would certainly be less crowded," 
 observed Darvon ironically. " She might suggest 
 it to our new companion." 
 
 " I ! speak to a soldier ?" said Mademoiselle 
 Athenai's proudly. " I ^vould rather suffer, mon- 
 sieur." 
 
 " Here he is !" interposed Jacques. 
 
 The officer, indeed, had made his appearance at 
 the door, followed by the booking agent, with whom 
 he was disputing. He was a young man of alert 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 267 
 
 bearing, but his swaggering manner repelled Darvon 
 at the first glance. He was complaining at the 
 delay of the coach for which he had been waiting 
 since the previous night, and was belaboring with 
 words the booking agent, whose answers were 
 timid and embarrassed. Finally, upon the guard's 
 announcing that the coach was about to start, the 
 young man approached the door and looked in. 
 
 "A magnificent assemblage!" he muttered: "if 
 the coupe and the rotonde are only as well pro- 
 vided!" 
 
 And he got in. 
 
 "This completes our collection of absurdities," 
 saidGontran in a low voice, leaning toward Grugel. 
 
 " Take care that he doesn't hear you," answered 
 Jacques. 
 
 Darvon lifted his shoulders. 
 
 "Blusterers have always filled me with more 
 contempt than fear," he said, "and this one needs a 
 lesson in politeness." 
 
 Baruau had returned without Lepre. The guard 
 had sent for him to the tavern, and, after waiting 
 several minutes, the coach had started without him, 
 to the great joy of Mademoiselle de Locherais, who 
 now hoped that she would have more comfort. 
 But her joy was of short duration, for the officer, 
 who had first seated himself on the other seat, sat 
 down at her side. The old maid drew herself up 
 angrily and let down her veil. The soldier turned 
 toward her. 
 
 "•Tiens .^" he said mockingly ; " madame is afraid 
 of being looked at, it seems !" 
 
268 ^^ ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 " Perhaps, monsieur," said Athenais dryly. 
 
 " I understand her reason," went on the officer ; 
 " but she may be quite easy ; I will deprive myself 
 of the pleasure." 
 
 And, seeing Mademoiselle de Locherais' start of 
 indignation : 
 
 " What I say," he went on, " is in the interest of 
 mademoiselle's health and to enable her to breathe 
 with uncovered face, especially as there is a lack of 
 air in this box. The window^ must be let down." 
 
 " T object," answered Mademoiselle de Locherais 
 vehemently ; " my physician has forbidden me to 
 expose myself to the morning air." 
 
 "And mine has forbidden me to smother," re- 
 torted the 3^oung man, reaching out bis hand to 
 lower the glass. 
 
 But the spinster declared that the window was on 
 her side, that she had the right to keep it closed, 
 and she appealed to the other passengers. 
 
 Little as Darvon was disposed in favor of Made- 
 moiselle de Locherais, he thought himself obliged 
 to take her part, and there followed betvveen him 
 and the chasseur a discussion that would have 
 grown violent had not Grugel relinquished to the 
 soldier his own place by the other window. 
 
 The officer accepted with a bad grace, retaining a 
 dull irritation against Gontran. 
 
 The reader has already perceived that the latter's 
 dominant qualities were neither patience nor resig- 
 nation. The mishaps of the journey, moreover, 
 had excited his morbid irascibility ; thus the dissen- 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 269 
 
 sion that had already broken out between him and 
 the chasseur was renewed several times with in- 
 increasing bitterness, until a final incident pre- 
 cipitated it into an open quarrel. 
 
 Darvon had placed several small pieces of luggage 
 in the net overhead ; the officer pretended that he 
 was inconvenienced by them and demanded their 
 removal. Gontran refused. 
 
 " You are determined to leave them ?" cried the 
 soldier after a discussion in which he had grown 
 more and more heated. 
 
 " Determined," answered Gontran. 
 
 " Yery good ; I will rid myself of them b}^ fling- 
 ing them out of the window," answered the young 
 man, reaching up to the net. 
 
 Darvon seized his hand. 
 
 " Take care what you do, monsieur," he said in an 
 altered tone. " Ever since you joined us you have 
 tried repeatedly to make me lose patience. You 
 have acted as though 3^ou were privileged to insult 
 and bully ; but understand that I, for one, am not 
 the man to put up with it." 
 
 " Is that a threat ?" casting a disdainful glance at 
 Gontran. 
 
 "By no means," interrupted Grugel, alarmed by 
 the turn the discussion was taking. " My cousin is 
 only reminding you " 
 
 " I take no reminders from peki7is,^^ interrupted 
 the soldier. 
 
 "And peJcms will not accept your insolence," an- 
 swered Gontran. 
 
270 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 At the word insolence the officer trembled; a 
 sudden flush spread over his face. 
 
 " Where do you stop, monsieur ?" he asked Dar- 
 von in a voice shaking with anger. 
 
 "At Lyon," answered the latter. 
 
 " Very well. We will finish our explanations 
 there." 
 
 " Be it so." 
 
 Jacques in dismay tried to interpose, but his 
 cousin and the chasseur cut him short simultane- 
 ously, repeating that they would settle the affair at 
 Lyon. 
 
 Just then a great shouting was heard and a 
 wagonette covered with mud appeared in the dis- 
 tance. Mademoiselle de Locherais put her head out 
 of the door. 
 
 " Ah, mon Dieu ! What a misfortune," she cried. 
 " M. Pierre Lepre has overtaken us ; we shall be 
 full." 
 
 As soon as he had reached the mail coach Lepre 
 sprang from the wagonette and presented himself 
 at the door, which the guard had opened. 
 
 " Ah, so this is how you go off without waiting 
 for the passengers !" he cried furiously. 
 
 " I notified you three times," protested the guard. 
 
 " You should have notified me six times, monsieur ; 
 twelve times : you are miserly of your words, are 
 you ? What do words cost ? Perhaps I could not 
 leave the maetre de posts while he was telling me of 
 the disaster that overtook yesterday's diligence ; for 
 you do not know, messieurs, that the coach that 
 preceded this one was swept away." 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARTS. 271 
 
 " Swept away !" repeated every voice. 
 
 " Good," interrupted the guard, " but get in- 
 
 "Not at all, it isn't good at all," went on Pierre 
 Lepre ; " every one is in consternation." 
 
 " I beg of 3^ou, monsieur, get in at once." 
 
 " And what will our families think when they 
 hear of the disaster?" 
 
 " Come, be quick !" 
 
 " I was just about to learn the details when they 
 told me the dilio^ence had o-one without me." 
 
 " And we will do the same again," said the guard 
 impatiently. 
 
 " Par exe?nple .'" cried Lepre, who hurriedly got 
 in. "I've had enough of that wagonette; here I 
 am, guard, go ahead !" 
 
 The commercial traveler was overwhelmed with 
 questions, and he told all he knew ; then interrupt- 
 ing himself as his habit was, he exclaimed on recog- 
 nizing the young officer : 
 
 " Eh ! it is monsieur I had the honor of meeting 
 at Anse ?" 
 
 " The same," answered the chasseur. 
 
 " Delighted to meet you again," said Lepre. 
 " I am a friend of all soldiers ; I should even have 
 served myself if a substitute had not been found for 
 me." 
 
 He was interrupted by Mademoiselle Athenais, 
 who had just observed that he was wet. 
 
 "It's this accursed mist," he said, mopping himself 
 with his handkerchief. 
 
 *' But people should not get into a carriage in 
 
a72 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 such a state," objected Mademoiselle de Locherais 
 pettishly ; " when people are damp, they should re- 
 main outside." 
 
 " To get dry ?" asked Lepre, laughing ; "thank you, 
 I have had enough of it ; then, too, my coachman 
 was drunk ; he almost drove us into the river." 
 
 " Ah ! dialler 
 
 " Something more to add to yesterday's diligence : 
 that is, unless there had been some brave fellow to 
 fish us out ! Such a thing did happen once. Three 
 years ago, at the time of the great inundation, a 
 workman, by his own efforts, saved five people who 
 were drowning in a carriage, near La Guillotiere." 
 
 "We know about it even better than you," said 
 Grugel ; " my cousin's best friend was one of them." 
 
 " Indeed ?" asked the chasseur. 
 
 " And he owed his life to the bravery of this young 
 man." 
 
 " Oh, it was a noble deed from beginning to end," 
 broke in Darvon warmly ; " the terrified horse had 
 dragged the carriage into the strongest part of the 
 current ; the crowd looked on from the shore with- 
 out daring to offer help ; there was no hope for the 
 five people in the carriage." 
 
 " Bah !" interrupted the chasseur ; " there were 
 some who could swim, perhaps, and would have 
 saved themselves." 
 
 Gontran did not deign to answer. 
 
 " The carriage was beginning to sink," he went 
 on, " when a workman appeared in a little boat 
 which he guided with difficulty to the middle of the 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS, 273 
 
 Rhone ; three times he was on the point of upset- 
 ting. The people on the shore cried : ' Don't go on ! 
 Come back, you will be drowned !' But he did not 
 listen to them and continued to make his way to the 
 carriage, which he reached at last by dint of 
 courage and skill." 
 
 " And good luck," added the soldier. 
 
 " Doubtless," answered Grugel, who had noticed 
 Gontran's impatient gesture ; " but only brave hearts 
 have luck like that." 
 
 " It was a brave deed," interrupted Mademoiselle 
 Athenai's de Locherais, '* and should have profited 
 its author." 
 
 *' Excuse me, madame," said Darvon, " the work- 
 man doubtless thought that the real reward of our 
 generous actions is to be found in ourselves ; for, the 
 people saved, he disappeared without waiting to 
 accept either money or thanks." 
 
 " Pardieii ! It would have been a fine thing to 
 take pay !" cried the officer. 
 
 " And his name is not known ?" asked Lepre. 
 
 "His name was Louis Duroc." 
 
 " Hein ! You say Louis " 
 
 " Duroc." 
 
 Lepre turned to the officer. 
 
 " Why, it's your name !" he cried. 
 
 " Monsieur's name ?" echoed all the passengers. 
 
 " Louis Duroc, called VAfricain ; I asked him at 
 Anse while we were chatting at the tavern, and I 
 saw it on his valise besides." 
 
 " Well, what then ?'- asked the chasseur, laughing. 
 " It is certainly my name." 
 
2H ^N ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 " Is it possible ?" broke in Gontran ; " and you 
 are " 
 
 " The workman in question. Yes, messieurs ; 
 there's no need of proclaiming it, but there's no 
 need of hidmg it, either. I entered the service a 
 week later and my regiment left for Algeria, so 
 that the people in the carriage and 1 have lost sight 
 of each other ; but I hope to renew the acquaintance 
 during my stay in Lyon." 
 
 " I shall take you to them myself !" said Darvon 
 eagerly, holding out his hand ; " for I hope that 
 we shall be friends, Monsieur Louis." 
 
 " We ?" repeated the soldier, looking hesitatingly 
 at Gontran. 
 
 "Ah, forget what has passed," answered the 
 latter ; " I am ready, if need be, to admit that I 
 was wrong." 
 
 "No!" interrupted Duroc. '^l^o^parble^t! it was 
 I who was wrong and I am sorry for it, upon my 
 word ! A foolish habit of the regiment, you see ! 
 Because we're not afraid we wish to proclaim it at 
 every turn, but we're good children at bottom ; so, 
 no malice, monsieur." 
 
 He had pressed Gontran's hand cordially ; Lepre 
 pressed the young soldier's with equal friendliness. 
 
 "^ la honne heure P^ he cried ;" 3^ou're a true 
 Frenchman — and so is monsieur — and Frenchmen 
 ought always to agree. Enchanted to have made 
 your acquaintance, M. Louis Duroc. But do you 
 know that it is very fortunate I made you tell me 
 your name — which you didn't want to do, by the 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 275 
 
 way ! If it hadn't been for me, we shouldn't have 
 known your worth." 
 
 "Quite right," said Grugel, looking at Darvon ; 
 "if monsieur had been less talkative, this explana- 
 tion would never have taken place, and without it 
 my cousin would have been mistaken in M. Louis' 
 real character. You see that fate seems to have 
 taken upon itself the task of proving my theory 
 correct, and that all the honors of the day are 
 mine." 
 
 As he finished speaking, the coach stopped : they 
 had reached their destination. 
 
 The passengers on alighting found the court-yard 
 of the Messageries filled with waiting relations and 
 friends. The disaster of the previous day was 
 known and had aroused the keenest apprehensions. 
 
 Just as Darvon was stepping to the ground, he 
 heard his name spoken and he turned : it was his 
 sister, whose anxiety had made her forget their 
 quarrel, and she ran to meet him with cries of joy. 
 
 The two held each other for some time in silence, 
 their e3'es wet with tears, and when they took each 
 other by the hand and looked at each other, they 
 w^ere reconciled. 
 
 As they went out of the court-yard of the Mes- 
 sageries they met their traveling companions. 
 Baruau and Lepr saluted them ; Louis Duroc re- 
 newed his promise to visit them ; Mademoiselle 
 Athena'is de Locherais alone passed without rec- 
 ognizing them, wholly occupied in looking out for 
 her luggage. Jacques Grugel turned to Gontran. 
 
276 ^-^ ATTIG PHILOISOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 " There is the only flaw in my doctrine," he said, 
 pointing to the spinster. " All our other com- 
 panions have been more or less transformed in our 
 eyes: the gourmand by procuring us a supper, the 
 chatterer by revealing a useful secret, the braggart 
 by giving us a proof of generous bravery ; but how 
 have we been benefited by the cold egoism of 
 Mademoiselle de Locherais?" 
 
 "It has made me feel the value of tenderness and 
 devotion," answered Gontran, pressing his sister's 
 arm. "Ah! I shall adopt your system, cousin: 
 henceforth I shall believe that there is a good side 
 to everything and that we must only know how to 
 find the vein of gold." 
 
AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 277 
 
 THE TREASURE. 
 
 A YOUNG girl and an old man were seated in a lit- 
 tle garret, the more than modest but carefully kept 
 furnishings of which bore evidence of a self-respect- 
 ing poverty. 
 
 Cleanliness, neatness, and taste gave a sort of 
 elegance to the poor interior. Everything was in 
 its place ; the brick floor was carefully scrubbed, the 
 faded upholstery spotless, and the window was hung 
 with little curtains of coarse muslin where numerous 
 darns formed a species of pattern. Some pots of 
 cheap flowers adorned the front of the half-open 
 window and scented the air with their perfume. 
 
 The sun was setting: a purple light brightened 
 the humble dwelling, touching the sweet face of 
 the young girl and playing in the white hair of the 
 old man. 
 
 The latter was half-reclining in a rush-bottomed 
 arm-chair which loving hands had garnished with 
 cushions stufifed with tow and covered with old bits 
 of printed calico. An old foot- warmer transformed 
 into a stool supported his crippled feet, and his re- 
 maining arm rested on a small round table where 
 
278 ^^ ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 were a meerschaum pipe and a tobacco pouch 
 embroidered in colored beads. 
 
 The roughness of the old soldier's stern and fur- 
 rowed face was softened by an expression of 
 frankness. A gray mustache hid the half-smile 
 that parted his lips as his glance rested absently 
 upon the young girl. 
 
 The latter might be twenty years old ; she was 
 a brunette with gentle but mobile features which 
 betrayed their owner's feelings by quick and sudden 
 changes of expression. Her face was like one of 
 those fair sheets of water which reveal to their 
 very depths all that they contain. 
 
 She held a newspaper in her hand and was read- 
 ing aloud to the invalid; suddenly she interrupted 
 herself to listen. 
 
 " What is it ?" asked the old man. 
 
 "Nothing," answ^ered the girl, whose face be- 
 trayed disappointment. 
 
 " You thought you heard Charles ?" went on the 
 soldier. 
 
 " Yes," said Suzanne, flushing slightly ; " his day's 
 worl<: must be over; it is the time that he re- 
 turns " 
 
 " When he does return," added Yincent in a tone 
 of annoyance. 
 
 Suzanne opened her lips to defend her cousin ; 
 but her better judgment doubtless made her change 
 her mind, for she stopped in confusion and then fell 
 into a reverie. 
 
 The invalid passed his remaining hand over his 
 
AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 279 
 
 mustache and began to twist it impatiently, as was 
 his usual gesture in his fits of discontent. 
 
 "Our conscript is making a bad march," he re- 
 sumed at last ; " he comes home sullen, he breaks 
 into his work to spend his time at the public-houses 
 and the fetes de harrieres ; it'll end badly for him 
 and for us." 
 
 "Don't say that, uncle, you will bring misfortune 
 upon him," answered the young girl tremulously. 
 " He will get over it, I hope. For some time my 
 cousin has had such strange ideas ! He takes no in- 
 terest in his work." 
 
 " And why not ?" 
 
 " Because, he says, he has nothing to hope from 
 it. He thinks that all effort on the part of a work- 
 man is useless and that the best he can do is to live 
 from day to day without hope or thought of the 
 future." 
 
 " Ah, so that's his system, is it ?" replied the old 
 man, whose forehead had darkened. "Well, he 
 cannot claim the honor of having invented it. We 
 had reasoners like him in the regiment, who got 
 out of going with the rest under the pretext that 
 the distance was too great, and stayed behind in the 
 depots while their companies were entering Madrid, 
 Eerlin, and Vienna. Your cousin doesn't know that 
 by dint of placing one foot before the other even 
 the shortest legs can make the journey to Rome." 
 
 " Ah, if you could only make him understand it !" 
 cried Suzanne with anxious fervor ; " I have tried to 
 convince him by reckoning up what a good book- 
 
280 -^N ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 binder like him could save ; but when I reached the 
 total he shrugged his shoulders and said that women 
 knew nothing about such things." 
 
 " And so you gave up in despair, poor child," 
 went on Yincent with a tender smile ; " I see now 
 why your eyes are red so often." 
 
 " Uncle, indeed " 
 
 " And why you forget to water your gilliflowers 
 and why you don't sing." 
 
 " Uncle " 
 
 Suzanne dropped her eyes in confusion and twisted 
 the corner of the newspaper. 
 
 The old man laid his hand upon her head. 
 
 "Come, she doesn't think I am scolding her," he 
 said with brusque kindness. "Is it not quite 
 natural that you should take an interest in Charles, 
 who is your cousin now, and who some day, I 
 hope " 
 
 The young girl made a gesture. 
 
 "Well, we won't say any more about that," said 
 the invalid, breaking off. " I forget that with you 
 women one must always be ignorant of what one 
 knows. We won't say anything more about it, I 
 say^ and let us go back to that good-for-nothing for 
 whom you have a certain amount of friendship — 
 that is the proper word, isn't it ? — and who has an 
 equal amount for you." 
 
 Suzanne shook her head. 
 
 " He did have, once," she said ; " but for some 
 time — ah, if you only knew how cold he has been, 
 how listless !" 
 
Ai^ ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 281 
 
 *^ Yes," answered Yincent thoughtfully, " when 
 one has had a taste of noisy amusements home 
 pleasures seem tame ; it's like unfermented wine 
 after schnick. Many of us have experienced it." 
 
 "But they have been cured," said Suzanne ; "and 
 Charles will be cured, too. Perhaps if you speak 
 to him, uncle, it will be enough." 
 
 The old man made a motion of incredulity. 
 
 " Such maladies cannot be treated with words, 
 but with acts," he answered. "You cannot make a 
 reasonable man in a moment any more than you 
 can a good soldier : they must have experience, the 
 test of fatigue, and the baptism of the cannon ! 
 Your cousin lacks the will, because he sees no 
 object. We must show him one that will give him 
 courage ; but it is no small matter. I will think it 
 
 over." 
 
 " This time it is really he !" interrupted the young 
 girl, who had recognized upon the stair her cousin's 
 hasty footstep. 
 
 " Silence in the ranks, then !'' said the invalid. 
 "Don't let us appear to be thinking of anything in 
 particular, and go on with your reading." 
 
 Suzanne obeyed, but the trembling of her voice 
 would have betrayed her emotion to an attentive 
 observer. While her eyes followed the printed 
 lines and her lips mechanically pronounced the 
 words, her thoughts were wholly with her cousin, 
 who had opened the door and had placed his cap 
 upon the table in the middle of the room. 
 
 Not wishing to interrupt the reading, the young 
 
282 AK A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PA BIS. 
 
 man saluted neither his uncle nor his cousin, and 
 going to the window he leaned against it with 
 folded arms. 
 
 Suzanne went on without understanding what 
 she read. 
 
 She was reading that collection of varied and 
 often contradictory bits of news grouped under the 
 general heading of ^''faits diversP Charles, who 
 had at first seemed preoccuppied, began in spite of 
 himself to pay attention. The young girl, after 
 reading several announcements of thefts, fires, and 
 accidents, reached the following : 
 
 " A poor peddler of Besangon called Pierre Le- 
 fevre, wishing to make a fortune at an}^ cost, con- 
 ceived the idea of going to India, which he had 
 heard spoken of as a country of gold and diamonds. 
 He sold the little he possessed, went to Bordeaux, 
 and took passage on an American ship in the 
 capacity of second cook. Eighteen years passed 
 without anything being heard of Pierre Lefevre. 
 His relations have at last received a letter announc- 
 ing his near return and informing them that the ex- 
 peddler, after indescribable suffering and reverses of 
 fortune, has arrived in France, blind of one eye and 
 with only one arm, but possessor of a fortune esti- 
 mated at two millions." 
 
 Charles, who had been listening to the article 
 with increasing attention, could not restrain an 
 exclamation. 
 
 "Two millions!" he repeated wonderingly. 
 
 " They will help him to buy a glass eye and an 
 artificial arm," observed the old soldier ironically. 
 
AN A TTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PA RIS. 283 
 
 "There's good fortune for you," went on the 
 young bookbinder, paying no heed to his uncle's 
 renaark. 
 
 " Which he has not gotten on credit," added 
 the invalid. 
 
 "Eighteen years of inexpressible suffering!" re- 
 peated Suzanne, laying stress upon the words. 
 
 " What does it matter so long as there is a fortune 
 at the end of it?" replied Charles impetuously. 
 "The hard thing is not the walking on a bad road 
 nor the putting up with bad weather to reach a 
 good shelter, but to go on walking without getting 
 anywhere." 
 
 "Then you envy the peddler's lot?" asked the 
 young girl, who had raised her eyes timidly to her 
 cousin's. " You would give up your youth, one of 
 your eyes, one of your hands " 
 
 " For two millions ?" interrupted Charles ; " most 
 certainly ! You have only to find a purchaser for 
 me at that price, Suzanne, and I'll guarantee you a 
 dowry for pin-money." 
 
 The young girl turned away her head without 
 replying ; her heart contracted and the tears rose to 
 her ej^es. Vincent also Avas silent, but he had 
 begun to twist his mustache again with a morose 
 air. 
 
 There was a long silence : each of the three actors 
 in this scene was following his or her train of 
 thought. 
 
 The sound of the clock striking eight roused 
 Suzanne from her preoccupation. She rose quickly 
 and began to make preparations for supper. 
 
284 ^N ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 It was a short and depressed meal. Charles, who 
 had passed the last third of the day with his friends 
 at the public-house, did not care to eat, and Suzanne 
 had lost her appetite. Vincent alone did justice to 
 the frugal repast. The vicissitudes of war had ac- 
 customed him to respect his stomach in the midst of 
 all emotions, but he was soon satisfied, and returned 
 to his arm-chair by the window. 
 
 After putting everything to rights, Suzanne, who 
 felt the need of being alone, took a light, kissed 
 her uncle, and retired to the little room which she 
 occupied overhead. Vincent and the young book- 
 binder were left alone. 
 
 Charles was also about to bid his uncle good- 
 night, when the old soldier made a sign to him to 
 draw the bolt and to approach. 
 
 " I have something to say to you," he said grave- 
 
 Charles, who foresaw reproaches, remained stand- 
 ing before the old man, but the latter motioned 
 him to be seated. 
 
 *' Did you consider w^ell w^hat you said awhile 
 ago'f he asked, looking fixedly at his nephew. 
 " Would you really be capable of a prolonged effort 
 to attain to fortune ?" 
 
 " I ? Can you doubt it, uncle V asked Charles, 
 surprised at the question. 
 
 '" So you would consent to be patient, to work 
 speadily, to change your habits ?" 
 
 *' If I were to gain anything by it. But why do 
 you ask such a question ? 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 285 
 
 "You shall see,'' said the veteran, opening the 
 drawer of a small cabinet in which he kept the old 
 newspapers lent him by one of the lodgers. 
 
 He searched for some time among the printed 
 sheets, took up one, opened it, and pointing to a cer- 
 tain article, handed it to Charles. 
 
 The young man read in a low tone : 
 
 " ' Propositions have been made to the Spanish 
 government relative to a treasure buried on the 
 banks of the Duero after the battle of Salamanca. 
 It would seem that during this famous retreat, a 
 company which belonged to the first division and 
 which was intrusted with the care of a number of 
 caissons, was separated from the main body of the 
 army and hemmed in by such superior numbers that 
 resistance was impossible. The officer in command, 
 seeing that there was no hope of forcing their way 
 through the enemy's ranks, took advantage of the 
 night to have the caissons buried by some of the 
 soldiers in whom he had the most confidence ; then, 
 sure that no one could find them, he ordered his 
 little band to disperse so that each could try separate- 
 ly to escape though the enemy's lines. Some, in- 
 deed, succeeded in reaching the division, but the 
 officer and the men who knew the spot where the 
 caissons were buried all perished in attempting to 
 escape. It is said that these caissons contained the 
 army funds, that is to say, a sum of about three 
 millions.' " 
 
 Charles stopped and looked at the veteran with 
 sparkling eyes. 
 
286 ^^ ^ TTIG PHILOSOPHEU IN PARIS. 
 
 "Could you have been one of this company?" 
 he cried. 
 
 "I was," answered Yincent. 
 
 " You know of the existence of this treasure?" 
 
 "I was one of those whom the captain intrusted 
 with its conceahnent, and the only one who escaped 
 the Spanish bullets." 
 
 " Then you could give information that would 
 aid in recovering it?" cried Charles, still more 
 eagerly. 
 
 " All the more easily since the captain made us 
 take the line of two hills and a rock as point of re- 
 connaissance ; I would recognize the spot as easily 
 as the place where the bed stands in this room." 
 
 Charles sprang up with a bound. 
 
 '' Then your fortune is made !" he cried exultant- 
 ly ; " wliy haven't you spoken ? The French 
 government would have accepted all your prop- 
 ositions." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Yincent ; " but in any case, they 
 would have been useless." 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 "Because Spain has refused the required per- 
 mission ; see for ^^ourself." 
 
 He handed the young man a second paper, which 
 reported that the request relative to the search for 
 the treasure hidden by the French in 1812 on the 
 banks of the Duero had been refused by the 
 government at Madrid. 
 
 "But what is the need of permission ?" argued 
 Charles. " What is the use of making an official 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. '287 
 
 search when we can make it privately and quietly? 
 Once on the spot and the ground bought, what 
 would prevent our digging for the treasure? Who 
 would suspect the discovery ?" 
 
 '*I have thought of that many times in these 
 thirty years," answered the soldier ; " but where are 
 we to find the sum necessary for the journey and 
 the purchase?" 
 
 "Couldn't we apply to those who are richer than 
 we are and let them into the secret ?" 
 
 " But how to make them believe or to prevent 
 an abuse of confidence if they did believe ? And 
 what if we should not be successful ? Or if it should 
 turn out, as in the fable you were reading to your 
 cousin the other day, that in the moment of shar- 
 ing the lion kept the entire booty? AYe should 
 then have to face the annoyance of a lawsuit besides 
 the fatigue of the journey and the uncertainty of 
 success. What is the use ? Is it worth so much 
 trouble, considering the little time I have to live ? 
 To the devil with the millions that we must go in 
 search of ! I have a pension of 200 francs ; thanks 
 to the little one, it's enough for the daily rations 
 and for tobacco ; I snap my fingers at the rest as I 
 would at a company of Cossacks !" 
 
 " So you mean to let this chance escape ?" went 
 on Charles with feverish animation ; ' you refuse 
 these riches ?" 
 
 ' For myself, certainly," answered the old man ; 
 " but for you, it is another matter. I have seen 
 that you are ambitious, that nothing would be 
 
288 ^N ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 easier for you than to pass into the society of 
 millionaires. Yery well; get together the sum 
 necessary for our journey and I will go with you.'' 
 
 " You ? Is it possible." 
 
 " Make 2,000 francs and I will give you a fortune ; 
 is it agreed ?" 
 
 " Agreed, uncle !" cried Charles exultantly. Then, 
 collecting himself, he added in dismay : " But how 
 am I to get so much money ? I can never do it." 
 
 " Work with zeal and bring me your week's pay 
 regularly ! I promise you that you will succeed." 
 
 ''Remember, uncle, a journeyman bookbinder's 
 savings amount to very little." 
 
 *' That is my affair." 
 
 " How many years will it take ?" 
 
 " You offered to give eighteen awhile ago, with 
 an eye and an arm thrown in." 
 
 " Ah, if I were only sure !" 
 
 " Of gaining a treasure ? I swear it upon the 
 ashes of the Little Corporal." 
 
 This was the veteran's most sacred oath ; 
 Charles could not but regard the matter as serious. 
 Yincent encouraged him afresh, repeating that he 
 held his fortune in his own hands, and the vouns: 
 man went to bed resolved to make every effort. 
 
 But his uncle's confidences had aroused within 
 him such magnificent hopes that he was unable to 
 sleep. He passed the night in a sort of fever, re- 
 volving in his mind the most rapid means of earning 
 the necessary sum, deciding upon the disposition of 
 his future riches, and rehearsing one after another, 
 
AN" ATTIC PHFLOSOPHER IN PARIS, 289 
 
 as realities, all the chimerical plans of which he had 
 hitherto delighted to dream. 
 
 When Suzanne came down the foUowino^ morninof, 
 he had already gone to his work. 
 
 Yincent, who saw the young girl's astonishment 
 shook his head with a smile but said nothing ; he 
 had enjoined the young man to keep the secret and 
 meant to keep it himself. It remained to be seen, 
 moreover, how much persistence Charles would show 
 in his new resolutions. 
 
 The first months were the most tryinof. The 
 young bookbinder had acquired habits which he 
 strove in vain to break ; continued work was in- 
 supportable to him. It was necessar}^ to renounce 
 that capriciousness which had alone regulated his 
 actions, overcome fatigue and disgust, resist the im- 
 portunities of his former boon companions. It was 
 a difficult task at first. Many times he lost courage ; 
 he was on the point of relapsing into his old wild 
 ways, but the importance of the object in view re- 
 inspired him. In bringing to the old soldier the 
 wages that increased from week to week, he always 
 felt a redoubled hope which restored his courage ; it 
 was a very small step toward his goal, but still it 
 was a step. 
 
 Each day, moreover, the effort grew easier. Man 
 is a vessel whose sails are passions. Abandoned to 
 the winds of the world, borne along by every cur- 
 rent it will dash ahead against every rock ; but 
 ballasted with good sense, the navigation will be 
 less dangerous, and when the anchor of habit is 
 
290 ^N A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 finally dropped in the destined port, there will be 
 nothing more to fear. 
 
 Thus it proved with the young apprentice. As 
 his life became more regular his tastes took a new 
 direction. Close application to work during the 
 entire day made his leisure at night more pleasant ; 
 the abandoning of noisy company lent an entirely 
 new charm to that of his uncle and cousin. The 
 latter had recovered all her friendliness. Occupied 
 solely with Vincent and Charles, she succeeded in 
 transforming every evening into difete. Each day 
 there was some fresh surprise, some sweet attention 
 that strengthened the bonds of affection by added 
 ties of tenderness and joy. Charles was astonished 
 to find in his cousin qualities and charms that he 
 had never taken time to notice. She grew insensi- 
 bly more necessary to him. Without his knowing 
 it, the object of his life was changed ; the hope of 
 the treasure promised by Vincent was not his only 
 incentive ; in every action he thought of Suzanne ; 
 he wished to deserve her approbation, to become 
 more dear to her. The human soul is a sort of 
 moral daguerreotype: surround it with pictures of 
 order, devotion, courage, illuminate it with the sun 
 of tenderness, and each image will become detached 
 of itself and remain indelibly imprinted. The life 
 that Charles led gradually extinguished his ardent 
 ambitions; he saw a more simple happiness nearer 
 at hand : his paradise was no longer an enchanted 
 land of the Arabian Kights, but a little place peopled 
 with affections that he could encircle with his two 
 arms. 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 291 
 
 All this came about, however, without his ex- 
 plaining it to himself, without his paying heed to 
 it. The young bookbinder let himself drift along 
 the current of his nature without seeking to study 
 each wave that carried him either backward or for- 
 ward. His transformation, visible to those who 
 lived with him, had remained a secret to him : he 
 did not know that he was changed, he only felt 
 that he was happier, more content. The only new 
 element that he noticed in his feelings was his love 
 for Suzanne. She entered into all his plans and he 
 could not imagine life without her. 
 
 This element of happiness, brought into his 
 future, had modified all the others. The millions, 
 instead of being the principal object, were nothing 
 more than the means ; he looked upon them as an 
 important addition, but accessory to his hopes ; he 
 wished to know, moreover, with certainty whether 
 his love was returned. 
 
 He was pacing the little garret one evening while 
 Yincent and Suzanne chatted at the fireside. The}^ 
 were talking about Charles' first master, who after 
 thirty years of an honest and laborious life had 
 placed on sale his bookbinder's stock before retiring 
 to the country with his wife. 
 
 " There is a couple who knew how to make their 
 paradise upon earth," said the old soldier; "always 
 agreed, always good-tempered, always at work !" 
 
 "Yes," answered Suzanne with conviction; "the 
 richest might envy their lot !" 
 
 Charles, who was passing near the young girl, 
 stopped abruptly. 
 
292 A^ ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 "Then you want your husband to love you, 
 Suzanne ?" he asked, looking at her. 
 
 " Of course — if I can," answered the young girl, 
 smiling and flushing a little. 
 
 " You can," answered Charles more eagerely, 
 " and you have only to say one word !" 
 
 "What word, cousin?" faltered Suzanne with 
 increased agitation. 
 
 " That you will be my wife," answered the young 
 bookbinder. 
 
 And as he saw his cousin's start of surprise and 
 confusion : 
 
 " Don't be troubled, Suzanne," he went on with 
 respectful tenderness; "I have been wanting to ask 
 you this question for a long time. I have kept 
 waiting and waiting for a reason that my uncle 
 knows : but, you see, it came out in spite of me ! 
 And now, be frank as I am ; don't hide anything 
 that you feel ; uncle is here to hear us and will re- 
 prove us if we say anything wrong." 
 
 The young man had approached his cousin and 
 held one of her hands clasped in his ; his voice was 
 trembling, his eyes were moist. Suzanne, quivering 
 with joy, stood with drooping head, and the old 
 soldier watched them both with a smile half-tender, 
 half-bantering. 
 
 At last he pushed the young girl gently toward 
 Charles : 
 
 " Come, speak, you sly little puss !" he said gayly. 
 
 " Suzanne, a word, only one word, I implore you!" 
 went on the young man, who continued to hold his 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 293 
 
 cousin's hand: " will you have me for your hus- 
 band ?" 
 
 With an inarticulate "yes," she hid her face up- 
 on the young apprentice's shoulder. 
 
 " Eh !" cried Vincent, slapping his knees, " it was 
 hard work to get it out. Your hands — give me 
 your hands and kiss me. I will leave you this 
 evening for your confidences; to-morrow^ we will 
 talk business." 
 
 The next day he took his nephew aside and in- 
 formed him that the sum necessary for their 
 journey was complete and that they could start for 
 Spain W'henever they chose. 
 
 This news, \vhich should have delighted Charles, 
 gave him a painfu) shock. He must leave Suzanne 
 just as they w^ere beginning to exchange their first 
 vows of love ; run all the risks of a journey, long, 
 difficult, uncertain, when it would have been so 
 sweet to remain. The young man almost cursed 
 the millions that he must go so far to seek. Since 
 the great object of his life had been changed, his 
 desire for riches had been singularly diminished. 
 What w^as the need in future of so much money 
 wherewith to purchase happiness? He had found 
 it! 
 
 He said nothing to his uncle, however, and de- 
 clared himself ready. 
 
 The old soldier took charge of the preparations ; 
 for this purpose he w^ent out several days in suc- 
 cession, accompanied by Suzanne ; at last he an- 
 nounced that there was nothing left to be done but 
 
294 AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 engage their places. As the young girl was absent, 
 he asked Charles to go with him, and as the fatigues 
 of the last few days had rendered his wounds pain- 
 ful, he got into a cab with his nephew. 
 
 Yincent had been careful to procure the news- 
 papers that had spoken of the famous treasure on 
 the banks of the Duero ; when he was alone with 
 Charles he handed them to him, asking him to see 
 if they did not contain some information that might 
 be of use to them. 
 
 The young man reread the details that were al- 
 ready familiar to him, then the announcement of 
 the refusal of the Spanish government, finally the 
 account of several fruitless searches undertaken by 
 Barcelona merchants. He thought the reports at 
 an end when his eyes fell upon a letter signed by 
 one Pierre Dufour. 
 
 a Pierre Dufour !" repeated Yincent. " It was the 
 name of the quartermaster of the regiment !" 
 
 " Yes, that is his rank," answered Charles. 
 
 " God help me ! I thought the good fellow in the 
 other world ! Let us hear what he has to say ; he 
 was in the captain's confidence." 
 
 Instead of replying, Charles uttered a cry. He 
 had glanced over the letter and his face had 
 changed. 
 
 " Well, what is the matter ?" quietly aslced Yin- 
 cent. 
 
 "The matter?" repeated the young man. "The 
 matter is that if what this Dufour says is true our 
 journey is useless." 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 295 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 " Because the caissons were not filled with money, 
 but with powder!" 
 
 Yincent looked at his nephew and burst out laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 "Ah ! it was powder !" he cried; " then that was 
 why they took cartridges out before burying the 
 caissons !" 
 
 " You knew it ?" interrupted Charles. 
 
 " I saw^ it !" answered the old man genially. 
 
 "But you have deceived me!" cried the 
 bookbinder; "you did not believe in the existence 
 of the buried millions, and your promise was a 
 farce !" 
 
 "It was the truth," answered the soldier gravely. 
 " I promised you a treasure ; you shall have it, only 
 w^e are not going to Spain for it." 
 
 " What do you mean f 
 
 " You shall see.'.' 
 
 The cab had stopped before a shop ; the two got 
 out and entered. Charles recognized his old 
 master's shop, but repaired, repainted and fitted with 
 all the necessary furnishings. He was about to ask 
 an explanation, when his glance fell upon the pro- 
 prietor's name printed in gold letters above the 
 counter. It was his own name ! At the same 
 moment the door of the back shop opened ; he saw 
 a fire blazing merrily on the hearth, a table ready 
 spread, and Suzanne, who smilingly made a sign for 
 him to enter. 
 
 Yincent leaned toward him, and grasping his arm 
 said: 
 
296 ^^ ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PAPIS. 
 
 " Here is the treasure I promised you : a good 
 business tliat will enable you to live and a good 
 wife who will make you happy. All that you see 
 here has been earned by you and belongs to you. 
 Don't be unhappy if I have deceived you ; you 
 would not drhik happiness, so I did as nurses do, 
 who, when their charges refuse to drink, rub the 
 cup with honey. Now that you know where hap- 
 piness is and have tasted it, I hope that you will 
 not refuse it." 
 
AN ATTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 297 
 
 THE OLD PORTRAITS. 
 
 1 WAS still young then and, wholly absorbed in 
 the engrossing interests of the present, I had noth- 
 ing but contempt for the past. Proud, as all of my 
 ao^e, of a streno^th that life had not yet tested, I 
 had no fear of anything ; I was well content to have 
 been born in ray time ; I admired myself in my 
 contemporaries. Whenever I looked backward I 
 saw nothing but prejudice, superstition, servility; 
 my generation seemed, indeed, to begin history and, 
 like Atlas, to bear the world upon its shoulders. 
 
 Hence my superb disdain for all that was not of 
 my time. I ridiculed bygone fashions ; old customs 
 made me shrug my shoulders. I fled before gray 
 hairs. Orphan from the cradle, almost, I had 
 grown up among companions of my own age, 
 without relations and without friends whose affec- 
 tion could reconcile me to old age : it displeased 
 me equally in persons and in things ; when it did 
 not make me laugh it filled me with repulsion. 
 
 My life was gay although arduous. Drawn into 
 the feverish activity of modern society, I took 
 pleasure in putting myself to the test. I was like a 
 young swimmer who loves to battle against the 
 
298 ^^ ^ TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 waves ; but at times weariness overcame me and I 
 would have wished for a quiet spot on the shore in 
 which to rest, for a ray of sunlight to warm me. 
 Shut in by the limits of a narrow mediocrity, I 
 would have longed for those wings of gold that 
 overcome all space; obliged to think of myself 
 above all in order to live, I would have wished for 
 the leisure to think of serving others. 
 
 An unexpected event roused me from my labors 
 and from ray dreams. I was notified of the death 
 of a country cousin of \vhom 1 had never heard and 
 who had left me a legacy. The notary declared 
 my presence indispensable in the settling of the 
 estate, and I decided to take the Bourgogne dili- 
 gence that would carry me to the village formerly 
 the home of my cousin. 
 
 The journey passed pleasantly enough. A fine 
 autumn sun brightened the landscape, the trees 
 were crowned with their last leaves, and on every 
 side could be heard the bells of the teams that were 
 carrying in the harvests or the songs of the 
 peasants who were guiding the plow. On the 
 whole, I was by no means ill pleased with the 
 province until my arrival at . Here, how- 
 ever, I was told that I must leave the diligence and 
 proceed on foot to the village where I was expected. 
 There were two leagues to be traversed, over cross- 
 roads that had been gullied by the preceding rains ! 
 The daylight was beginning to fade, and a cold 
 October mist was already creeping up from the 
 valley. I set out on my way in a sufiiciently bad 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 299 
 
 humor, cursing the country where there are no 
 cabs to be had and stumbling as best I could along 
 the ruts. 
 
 Unfortunately the directions given me at the 
 post-house were insufficient ; all the roads through 
 the vineyards looked alike to me ; I lost my way 
 several times, and it was dark when I reached the 
 village. I was obliged to go from door to door to 
 find my cousin's house, and when I reached it I 
 found no one there ! 
 
 A passer-by informed me that Dame Felicite (the 
 housekeeper) was praying at the church. I had to 
 await her return and pace up and down outside the 
 court-yard, my hands in my pockets and my nose 
 buried in the collar of my overcoat. 
 
 This sentr}^ duty before the door of my own 
 house would have been pleasant had it not been for 
 my fatigue and the mist that had turned imper- 
 ceptibly into a fine rain. My patience had come to 
 an end, when there appeared an old servant, half- 
 hoiirgeoise in appearance, whom I recognized by her 
 prayer-book. 
 
 At the sight of a stranger standing at the door 
 she stopped and asked me what I wanted. 
 
 "Madame Felicite," I answered, shaking with 
 cold. 
 
 '' You mean mademoiselle," answered the old 
 woman in a sour tone ; " 1 am she. What does 
 monsieur want?" 
 
 " First of all, that you open this door !" I cried ; 
 "and then that you provide me with the means of 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 drying myself!" And to forestall any further 
 objections, I gave my name. 
 
 I had expected that on hearing my name the 
 old housekeeper would break into apologies ; but 
 S'he looked at me with a sort of defiant hostility. 
 
 " Ah ! It is monsieur who inherits," she answered 
 slow^ly. " Then I will go and inform the notary." 
 
 " Au diable P^ I interrupted impatiently; "the 
 first thing is to get under cover ; let us go in, Dame 
 Felicite." 
 
 " Your pardon, monsieur. I have been put in 
 charge of the house," she answered resolutely. " I 
 mean to put my responsibility under cover first. 
 Monsieur may stay here ; Maitre Boisseau himself 
 shall decide what I am to do." 
 
 And without awaiting my reply, she turned on 
 her heel and disappeared into a narrow lane. 
 
 I returned to my sentry duty before my inherit- 
 ance. At the end of half an hour Felicite reap- 
 peared with a little man in spectacles, who intro- 
 duced himself as Maitre Boisseau, and to him I 
 handed the letter he had written me and the papers 
 that testified to my identity. After inspecting them 
 by the light of a lantern, he was good enough to 
 recognize that I was the " person in question," and 
 gave orders that I be admitted. 
 
 During these formalities I had been tapping my 
 foot impatiently against the doorstep and cursing 
 the village tahellions."^ When the door was opened 
 
 * A scrivener or notary, A functionary that existed in 
 France during the old monarchy. 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPnER IN PARIS. 301 
 
 at last, I told M. Boisseau curtly that I would go to 
 his house on the following day to arrange matters, 
 and I plunged into the dark passage without asking 
 him to follow. 
 
 The old servant soon appeared with her lantern 
 and escorted me to an ancient salon furnished with 
 an arm-chair and four straw-bottomed chairs, and 
 for only ornament, two plaster casts of Paul and 
 Virginia standing on the chimney-piece between 
 four marble colocynths. 
 
 The difficulty I had had in obtaining recognition, 
 added to the walk and the mist, had put me in a bad 
 humor. I made no attempt to hide it, and curtly 
 ordered the housekeeper to make a fire and prepare 
 supper while I took a survey of the rest of the 
 house. 
 
 Arming myself with an old tarnished candle- 
 stick, I started on a tour of ni}^ deceased cousin's 
 home. 
 
 Everything was in keeping with the salon in 
 which I had been received. The discolored hang- 
 ings were spotted ; here and there newer pieces gave 
 them the look of patched-up rags ; the furniture, old- 
 fashioned in form and of rude workmanship, imper- 
 fectly furnished the closed rooms ; care, comfort, 
 elegance, all were lacking in these old apartments. 
 I saw in them an eloquent testimony to the barbar- 
 ism of our ancestors and a fresh proof that good 
 sense and good taste had indeed begun only with 
 our generation. 
 
 The bedroom was especially curious. The bier- 
 
302 A^ -4 TTIC PHILOSOPHER m PABIS. 
 
 like bed was inclosed by four moth-eaten green 
 serge curtains ; on a table, the drawer of which was 
 missing, was a cracked water-jug and a basin of dif- 
 ferent color ; lastly, along the wall hung some old 
 family portraits calculated to make a connoisseur 
 shudder. Painted at different epochs, they repre- 
 sented personages of various professions ; among 
 them I noticed an ecclesiastic, a merchant, a judge, 
 an officer, and, lastly, a big man hsiU-hourgreois, 
 half-peasant, who, Dame Felicite informed me, was 
 her late master. 
 
 The honest housekeeper had rejoined me to tell 
 me that my supper was ready ; I followed her to 
 the salon. 
 
 I was struck by the appearance of the table. The 
 linen, taken from a reserve store to do me honor, 
 was crossed with yellow streaks; the earthenware 
 plates seemed to be illustrated with dirty arabesques 
 which bore witness to the use of knives and forks ; 
 the stemless glasses were not unlike the cups of our 
 old argand lamps ; lastly, two infirm salt-cellars 
 offered to the guest by way of seasoning kitchen 
 salt and coarse pepper. 
 
 Dame Felicite served me a thin soup in which 
 the butter had been forgotten, and the remains of a 
 setting hen to whom maternal solicitude had left 
 nothing but skin and bones. The housekeeper in- 
 formed me that this was her departed master's 
 usual supper, but, in a spirit of hospitalit3% she had 
 added three potatoes on a fair way to decomposi- 
 tion and a morsel of cheese covered with a greenish 
 mold. 
 
AN A TTIG PHILOSOPUER IN PA JUS. 303 
 
 I asked for wine ; it was a sour, muddy liquid 
 made from the refuse vintage. 
 
 More than ever disgusted with my j.ourney, I 
 made up my ra«ind to go to bed. The old servant 
 lighted me to the sleeping-room. The big funereal 
 bed, the smoky old portraits were ev^en more dis- 
 agreeable to me than at first. I turned abruptly 
 to my conductress and asked if there was an 
 auctioneer in . 
 
 " An auctioneer ?" she repeated; " we don't know 
 any such thing here." 
 
 " Then you never have public sales ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 '' How do you manage, then ?" 
 
 " The beadle announces the sale at all the public 
 places in the commune." 
 
 "Very well. Notify the beadle to-morrow to an- 
 nounce the sale of everything here." 
 
 " Everything ? Monsieur keeps nothing ?" 
 
 " :N'othing." 
 
 " Not even the pictures ?" 
 
 " Not even the pictures." 
 
 " Ah, monsieur, you cannot think of it ; they are 
 family portraits." 
 
 "I tell you I shall sell everything. Good-night." 
 
 And I took the candle from F6licite, who went 
 out with hands upraised to heaven. 
 
 What would she have me do with these daubs? 
 Yes, I will sell you, you absurd caricatures, if it 
 were only out of hatred for the times you repre- 
 sent. This melancholy room is yours; these habits 
 
304 ^^ ^ TTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PA MM 
 
 of inelegance and parsimon}^ are those that you 
 have bequeathed ; this life, robbed of all the charm 
 of our modern civilization, is your life perpetuated 
 by tradition ! Away from here, barbarians ! We 
 are not of the same race— there is nothing in com- 
 mon between us. 
 
 Talking thus to myself, I had gotten into bed ; 
 but exhaustion and ill humor drove sleep slwslj. I 
 took up the volume of history that I had brought 
 to distract me on the journey, then the inventory 
 of my inheritance which the notary had submitted 
 to me. 
 
 Here a surprise more agreeable than the others 
 awaited me. The sum total rose to a figure that I 
 was far from anticipating and that made me almost 
 rich. This unexpected discovery singularly di- 
 minished my vexation and began to render easier 
 the digestion of my bad supper. I set about ex- 
 amining the inventory in detail, until tho figures 
 began to dance before my eyes ; finally I lost con- 
 sciousness of my surroundings. 
 
 It soon seemed to me that I heard the sound of 
 footsteps at my bedside. I opened my eyes again 
 and saw a dozen figures grouped about my couch. 
 All wore ancient and diverse costumes, in which I 
 recognized in surprise those of the old portraits that 
 adorned the bedroom. I glanced at the wall to com- 
 pare them. The frames alone were hanging there ! 
 Some miracle had infused the old family portraits 
 with life ! 
 
 At their head was an old man whom I had not 
 
AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS. 305 
 
 noticed among the collection. My eyes rested upon 
 him with a curiosity that he appeared to under- 
 stand. 
 
 " You will look in vain for my portrait among 
 these pictures," he said ; " in my time no brush 
 would have taken the trouble to reproduce the fea- 
 tures of a common serf such as I. But I appreciated 
 the miseries of my condition and by dint of work 
 I succeeded in purchasing my freedom. It is thanks 
 to this that one of my descendants, whom you see 
 here, was enabled to teach himself and become a 
 priest." 
 
 The tigure indicated approached. 
 
 " The poor and the oppressed had need of succor," 
 he said gently. " In the name of Christ I have 
 striven to serve them. I have helped to teach the 
 people, to make them love the good, to fortify them 
 by probity, hope, patience, while my family rose 
 slowly in my shadow and took its place among the 
 honest merchants of the province." 
 
 A third speaker here raised his voice. 
 
 " This position, handed down by our fathers, I 
 have made greater," he said with some importance . 
 •' [N^amed syndic of my corporation, I obtained new 
 privileges for it ; we joined together to defend the 
 fruits of labor against violence, and I was one of the 
 founders of that hourgeoisie which united public in- 
 terests under the name of coinmunesP 
 
 "And I," went on his neighbor, who from his 
 dress and bearing was plainly a magistrate, " I have 
 contributed toward making law prevail over caprice 
 
306 -4iV A TTIG PHILOSOPHER IN PA HIS. 
 
 and equity over influence. The most powerful have 
 had to submit to the decisions of unarmed judges; 
 force has bowed before justice/' 
 
 "And has become its auxiliary 1" added an oflBcer 
 with bronzed skin. " The descendants of the 
 former serf have ended b}^ buckling on the sword 
 and by becoming the defenders of the country and 
 of the law ! Since both have belonged to the entire 
 nation, the entire nation has spilled its blood to 
 defend them ; in becoming soldiers we have all 
 become gentlemen !" 
 
 " Yes," w^ent on another, in whom I recognized 
 my cousin, " my ancestors had won justice and 
 liberty for their descendants. There remained for 
 them to procure riches. I have accepted this role 
 of ant. Thanks to my labors and to my savings, I 
 have enlarged the estate. I shall leave behind me 
 six times more than I received, and, thanks to the 
 defiant probity of Dame Felicite, all will reach my 
 heir intact. I shall have thus insured him leisure to 
 cultivate his mind, liberty to do good ; finally, the 
 happiness of not having to think of himself alone, 
 but of being able to devote his life to others. If he 
 is w^orthy of such a privilege he will know how to 
 profit by it. He will retain at the bottom of his 
 heart some little gratitude for the man who has 
 prepared this noble task for him; instead of ridi- 
 culing him he will know how^ to sanctify what his 
 old cousin has refrained from spending upon him- 
 self by spending it generously upon others." 
 
AN A TTIG PHILOSOPHEU IN PARIS. 307 
 
 These last words were spoken so earnestly and 
 with so much feeling that I trembled in snite of 
 myself, and — I awoke! 
 
 The light was going out, the old portraits were 
 in their places, the inventory and the history had 
 slipped to the foot of the bed : my vision had been 
 nothing but a dream ! 
 
 A dream, or rather the voice of conscience and 
 of good sense. These old portraits were indeed the 
 symbols of the past ; each one of them reminded 
 me of services rendered by an epoch and by a class. 
 They marked the steps of time along the path of 
 progress. For whosoever knew how to understand 
 them, there was here a glorification of the work 
 accomplished by our ancestors. 
 
 Filled with a sudden light, I stretched out my 
 hand to the half-obliterated canvases as though they 
 could hear and see me. 
 
 "Ah, forgive me !" I cried; " forgive me, old 
 soldiers of the ages ! I understand now the re- 
 spect that is due you. All the harvests gathered to- 
 day in which I took such pride were sown by your 
 hands; the present is only the consequence of the 
 past and tradition the instrument of progress. 
 Foro:ive me, vou who knew the tree of knowledge 
 when it was onl}^ young, but have watered it with 
 your sweat and with your blood. I understand 
 now that my pride was ingratitude, and hence- 
 forth I will reserve for you a sacred place in my 
 memory." 
 
a08 ^N ATTIG PHILOISOPHER IN PARIS. 
 
 And you, too, vestiges of a time that we do not 
 understand, rusticities of our fathers, long-forgotten 
 customs, you shall no longer excite my mockery or 
 my anger, for I shall know that you are the still 
 visible ruins of a civilization that has fulfilled its' 
 purpose. 
 
 THE END. 
 
BURT'S HOME LIBRARY 
 
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 A-bbe Constantin. By Ludovic 
 
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 Abbot. The. By Sir Walter 
 
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 A.dam Bede. By George Eliot, 
 ^sop's Fables. 
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 Attic Philosopher. By Emile 
 
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 Auld Licht Idylls. By James M.. 
 
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 Aurelian. By William Ware. 
 Autobiography of Benjamin 
 
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 Averil. By Rosa N. Carey. 
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 Rosa N. Carey. 
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 George Ebers. 
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 By Order of the King. By Vio 
 
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 Children of Gibeon. By Walter 
 
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 Complete Angler. By Walton 
 
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 B5 Thomas De Quincey. 
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 Countt'ss Gisela, The. By E 
 
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 Crown of Wild Olive, The. By 
 
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 Daniel Deronda. By George 
 
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 Data of Ethics. By Herbert 
 
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 Daughter of an Empress, The 
 
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 David Copperrleld. By Charles 
 
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 Deerslayer, The. By James 
 
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 ^^^|S,.,?and; or, A Captain at 
 
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 Divme Comedy, Tr:e. (Dante.) 
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 Do\-e in the Eagle's Nest. By 
 
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 Ei^rht Hundred Leagues on the 
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 Walter Scott. 
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 Arabella B. Buckley. 
 Far from the Madding Crowd. 
 
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 Faust. (Goethe.) Translated by 
 
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 Felix Holt. By George Eliot 
 titteen Decisive Battles of the 
 
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 File No. 113. By Emile Ga- 
 
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 Grandfather's Chair. By Na^ 
 
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 History of a Crime. By Victor 
 
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 Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. 
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