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 \ VI 
 
Turn to the End of This 
 Volume for a Complete 
 List of Titles in the Mod- 
 ern Library 
 
UNE VIF, 
 
 By 
 
 GUY DF, MAUPASSANl' 
 
 
 
 
 Or 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 THE 
 
 MODERN LIBRARY 
 
 PUBLISHERS :• :; NEW YORK 
 
^ ^Sl 7^/ 
 
 O 
 
 MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 FOR THE MODERN LIBRARY, INC., BY H. WOLFF 
 

 INTRODUCTION 
 
 It is so embarrassing to speak of the writers of one 
 country to the readers of another that I sometimes won- 
 der at the complacency with which the delicate task 
 is entered upon. I'hese are cases in which the difficult 
 art of criticism becomes doubly difficult, inasmuch as they 
 compel the critic to forfeit what I may call has natural 
 advantages. The first of these natural advantages is that 
 those who read him shall help him by taking a great many 
 things for granted; shall allow him his general point of 
 view and his terms — terms which he is not obliged to 
 define. The relation of the American reader to the French 
 writer, for instance, is, on the contrary, so indirect that 
 it gives him who proposes to mediate between them a 
 great deal more to do. Here he has in a manner to define 
 his terms and establish his point of view. 
 
 The first simplification he is prompted to effect is there- 
 fore to ask the reader to make the effort to approach the 
 author as nearly as possible in the supposed spirit of one 
 of his o\vn (one of the author's) fellow-countrymen. If 
 the author be French, remember that, as it is to French- 
 men he addresses himself, it is profitless to read him with- 
 out a certain displacement of tradition. If he be German, 
 reflect in the same way that it was far from his business 
 to write in such a manner as would conciliate most the 
 habits and prejudices of the English-speaking mind. 
 There are doubtless many people all ready to regard them- 
 selves as injured by a suggestion that they should for the 
 hour, and even in the decent privacy of the imagination, 
 comport themselves as creatures of alien (by which we 
 usually understand inferior) race. To them it is only to 
 be answered that they had better never touch a foreign 
 book on any terms, but lead a contented life in the homo- 
 geneous medium of the dear old mother-speech. That life, 
 
ii INTRODUCTION 
 
 by compensation, they will of course endeavor to make as 
 rich as possible; and there is one question they will always 
 be able to ask without getliing an immediate answer, so 
 that the little inquiry will retain more or less its triumph- 
 ant air. "Why should we concern ourselves so much about 
 French literature, when those who produce it concern 
 themselves so little about ours?" 
 
 That strong argument will always be in order, especially 
 among those who do not really know how little the French 
 are, as they say, preoccupied with English and American 
 work; and on some occasions it will be supported by the 
 further inquiry: "Is not the very perfection of French 
 literature to-day an exemplary consequence of the fact 
 that its principal exponents stay at home and mind their 
 business — shut their doors and 'take care of (soigner) 
 their form? They don't waste lime," it will be added, 
 "in superficial excursions, nor have they any confidence 
 in the lessons that are to be learned beyond the frontier. 
 Watch them a little and you will see plenty of examples 
 of that want of confidence. They accept their own order 
 of things as their limit, and in that order they dig, as we 
 know, very deep. To speak only of fiction, there are mul- 
 titudes of tales by English and American vsTiters which, 
 profess to deal with French and with Italian life, yet prob- 
 ably not one of which, unless it be George Eliot's 'Romola,' 
 has any verisimilitude or any value for Frenchmen or for 
 Italians. Few indeed are the works of fiction which they 
 on their side have dedicated to the portraiture of the 
 Anglo-Saxon world; and great, doubtless, do they deem 
 the artistic naivete of a race whiohi can content itself with 
 that sort of stuff as a substitute for thoroughness." Thus, 
 it will be seen, the very "perfection" of French literature 
 (which a hundred observers will also of course contest) 
 may, oddly enough, be offered as a reason for having 
 nothing to do with it. 
 
 These are the embroilments of a flirtation — an expres- 
 sion which is really the only proper one to apply to our 
 interest in the "sort of stuff" which has enabled such a 
 writer as M. Guy de Maupassant, whose name I have 
 |)refixed to these remarks, to be possible. To a serious 
 
INTRODUCTION iii 
 
 and well-regulated union with such a writer the American 
 public must, in the nature of things, shrink from pretend- 
 ing; but nothing need prevent it — not even the sense of 
 danger (often it must be said, much rather an incentive), 
 from enjoying those desultory snatches of intercourse 
 which represent, in the world of books, the broken oppor- 
 tunities of Rosina or Juliet. These young ladies, it is true, 
 eventually went much further, and the situation of the 
 Anglo-Saxon reader, when craning over the creaking fourth 
 or fifth balco'Py of a translation, must be understood as 
 that to which the romance of curiosity would have been 
 restricted if the Guardian and the Nurse — in other words 
 public opinion — had succeeded in keeping the affair within 
 limits. M. de Maupassant is an Almaviva who strums his 
 guitar with the expectation of raising the street, and he 
 performs most skilfully under those windows fror* which 
 the flower of attention at any price is flung down to him. 
 If he is a capital specimen of the foreign writer with whom 
 the critic has most trouble, there could at the same time be 
 no better exhibition of the force which sets this inquiring, 
 admiring spirit in motion. 
 
 The only excuse the critic has lor braving the embar- 
 rassments I have mentioned is that he \Wshes to perform 
 a work of recommendation, and indeed there is no profit 
 in talking, in English, of M. de Maupassant unless it be 
 in the sense of recommending him. One should never go 
 out of one's way to differ, and translation, interpretation, 
 the business of adjusting to another medium, are a going 
 out of one's way. Silence is the best disapproval, and to 
 take people up, with an earnest grip, only to put them 
 down, is to add to the vain gesticulation of the human 
 scene. That reader will therefoi'e be most intelligent who, 
 if he does not leave M. de Maupassant quite alone, makes 
 him a present, as it were, of the conditions. My purpose 
 was to enumerate these, but I shall not accomplish it 
 properly if I fail to recognize that they are manifold. 
 
 The first of them to be mentioned is doubtless that he 
 came into the literary world, as he himself Ijas related, 
 under the protection of the great Flaubert. This was but 
 a dozen years ago, for Guy de Maupassant belongs, among 
 
iv '^ INTRODUCTION 
 
 the distinguished Frenchmen of his period, to the new 
 generation. His celebrity has been gathered in a short 
 career, and his experience, which, in certain ways, sug- 
 gests the helping hand of time, in a rapid life, inasmuch as 
 he was born in 1850. These things go fast in France, and 
 there is already a newer generation still, with its dates 
 and its notabilities; but we need scarcely yet open a paren- 
 thesis for the so-called decadents: they have produced no 
 talent that seems particularly alive — to do so would indeed 
 be a disloyalty to their name. Besides tlie link of the 
 same literary ideal, Gustave Flaubert had with his young 
 pupil a strong community of local sense — the sap of the 
 rich old Norman country was in the veins of both. It is 
 not too much to say that there is a large element in 
 Maupassant that the reader will care for in proportion as 
 he has a kindly impression of the large, bountiful Norman 
 land, with its abbeys and its nestling farms, its scented 
 hedges and hard white roads, where thei Sunday blouse 
 of the rustic is picked out in color, its succulent domestic 
 life, and its canny and humorous peasantry. There is 
 something in the accumulated heritage of such a province 
 which may well have fed the imagination of an artist 
 whose vision was to be altogether of this life. 
 
 That is another of M. de Maupassant's conditions: 
 what is clearest to him is the immitigability of our mortal 
 predicament, with its occasional beguilements and its in- 
 numerable woes. Flaubert would have been sorry to blur 
 this sha;rpness, and indeed he ministered to it in helping 
 to place his young friend in possession of a style which 
 completely reflects it. Guy de Maupassant, from his own 
 account (in the preface to "Pierre et Jean"), devoted much 
 time to the moral that to prove that you have a first-rate 
 talent you must have a first-rate style. He therefore 
 learned to write, and acquired an instrument which emits 
 no uncertain sound. He is Vv^onderfully concise and direct, 
 yet at the same time it would be difficult to characterize 
 more vividly. To have color and be sober with it is an 
 ideal, and this ideal M. de Maupassant constantly touches. 
 The complete possession of his instrument has enabled him 
 to attack a great variety of subjects — usually within rigid 
 
INTRODUCTION v 
 
 limits of space. He has accepted the necessity of being 
 brief, and has made brevity very full, through making it 
 an energetic selection. He has published less than half a 
 dozen novels and more than a hundred tales, and it is 
 upon his tales that„his-r^ulaticn\\ill mainly rest. The 
 ^loH tale IS infinitely relisiied in France, which can show, 
 in this form, an array of masterpieces; and no small part 
 of Maupassant's success, I think, comes from^ his country- 
 men's pride in seeing him add to a collection which is 
 already a national glory. He has done so, as I say,- by' 
 putting selection really upon its mettle— by going, in 
 every picture, straight to the strongest ingredients, and to 
 them alone. 
 
 The turn of his mind has helped him to do this, an 
 extraordinary perceptive apparatus of the personal, ma- 
 terial, immed'ate sort. M. de Maupassant takes his stand 
 on everything that solicits the sentient creature who lives 
 in his senses; gives the impression of the active, inde- 
 pendent observer who is ashamed of none of his faculties, 
 describes what he sees, renders, with a rare reproduction of 
 tone, what he hears, and is more anxious to see and to hear 
 than to m^ake sure, in advance, of propping up some 
 particular theory of things. He has indeed a theory to 
 the effect that they are pretty bad, but practically the air 
 of truth in the given case is pJmost never sacrificed to it. 
 His strong, hard, cynical, slightly cruel humor can scarcely 
 be called a theory; w'hat one may say of this rather is 
 that his drollery is a direct emanation from, the facts, and 
 especially from the rural facts, which he knmvs with ex- 
 traordinary Imowledge. His most brilliantly clever tales 
 deal with the life, pervaded, for the most part, by a 
 strong smell of the barn-yard and the wine-shop, of the 
 Norman cottage and market-place. Such a little picture 
 as "La Ficelle" ("The Piece of String") is a pure gem, 
 so caught in the fact are the whimsicalities of the thick- 
 witted rustic w^orld. 
 
 For "the last ten years M. de Maupassant has con- 
 tributed an almost weeklv nouvelle to some Parisian sheet 
 which has allowed him a luxurious liberty. They have 
 been very unequal, too numerous, and occasionally bad 
 
vi INTRODUCTION 
 
 enough to be by an inferior hand (an inevitable accident, 
 in copious production) ; but they have contained an im- 
 mense element of delightful work. Taken all together, 
 they are full of life (of life as the author conceives it, of 
 course — ^he is far from having taken its measure in all 
 directions), and between the lines of them we seem to 
 read of that partly pleasant and wholly modem invention, 
 a roving existence in which, for art, no impression is 
 wasted. M. de Maupassant travels, explores, navigates, 
 shoots, goes up in balloons, and writes. He treats of the 
 north and of the south, evidently makes "copy" of every- 
 thing that happens to him, and, in the interest of sudi 
 copy and such happenings, ranges from Etretat to the 
 depths of Algeria. Lately he has given signs of adding a 
 new cord to his bow — a silver cord, of intenser vibration. 
 His two last novels, "Pierre et Jean" and "Fort comme la 
 Mort," deal with shades of feeling and delicacies of ex- 
 perience to which he had shown himself rather a stranger. 
 They are the work of an older man, and of a man who 
 has achieved the feat of keeping his talent fresh when 
 other elements have turned stale. In default of other 
 convictions it may still, for the artist, be an adequate 
 working faith to turn out something fine. Guy de Mau- 
 passant is a striking illustration of this curious truth and 
 of the practical advantage of having a first-rate ability. 
 Such a gift may produce surprises in the mere exercise of 
 its natural health. The dogmatist is never safe with it. 
 
 Henry James. 
 London, August 6, iS^^ 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 Introduction i 
 
 I The Home by the Sea i 
 
 II Happy Days 1 1 
 
 III M. De Lamare 15 
 
 IV Marriage and Disillusion .... 28 
 V Corsica and a New Life . . . . . 41 
 
 VI Disenchantment 53 
 
 VII Jeanne's Discovery 69 
 
 VIII Maternity 92 
 
 IX Death of La Baronne 103 
 
 X Retribution 122 
 
 XI The Development of Paul . . . . 139 
 
 XII A New Home . 160 
 
 XIII Jeanne in Paris 169 
 
 XIV Light at Eventide 182 
 
UNE .VIE^ '.•-'•'-^^'^ 
 
 OR, THE HISTORY OF A HEART 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE HOME BY THE SEA 
 
 The weather was most distressing. It had rained all 
 night. The roaring of the overflowing gutters filled the 
 deserted streets, in which the houses, like sponges, ab- 
 sorbed the humidity, which penetrating to the interior, 
 made the walls sweat from cellar to garret. Jeanne had 
 left the convent the day before, free for all time, ready to 
 seize all the joys of life, of which she had dreamed so 
 long. She was afraid her father would not set out for the 
 new home in bad weather, and for the hundredth time 
 lirice daybreak she examined the horizon. Then she no- 
 ticed that she had omitted to put her calendar in her 
 travelling bag. She took from the wall the little card 
 which bore in golden figures the date of the current year, 
 1819. Then she marked with a pencil the first four col- 
 "umns, drawing a line through the name of each saint up 
 to the 2d of May, the day that she left the convent. A 
 voice outside the door called "Jeannette." Jeanne replied, 
 "Come in, papa." And her father entered. Baron Simon- 
 Jacques. Le Perthuis des Vauds was a gentleman of the 
 last century, eccentri c and g ood. An enthusiastic disciple 
 J oTJean Jacques Rousseau, he had the tenderness of a lover 
 
 I 
 
2 UNE VIE 
 
 for nature, in the fields, in the woods and in the animals. 
 Of aristocratic birth, he hated instinctively the year 1793, 
 but being a philosopher by temperament and liberal by 
 education, he execrated, tyranny with an inoffensive and 
 declamatory hatred. His great strength and his great 
 weakness was his kind-h«artedness, which had not arms 
 enough to caress, to give, to embrace; the benevolence of 
 a god, that gave freely, without questioning; in a word, a 
 kindness of inertia that became almost a vice. A man 
 of theory, he thought out a plan of education for his 
 daughter, to the end that she might become happy, good, 
 upright and gentle. She had lived at |iome until the age 
 of twelve, when, despite the tears of her mother, she was 
 placed in the Convent of the Sacred Heart. He had kept 
 her severely secluded, cloistered, in ignorance of the secrets 
 of life. He wished the Sisters to restore her to him pure at 
 seventeen years of age, so that he might imbue her mind 
 with a sort of rational poetry, and by means of the fields, 
 in the midst of the fruitful earth, unfold her soul, enlighten 
 her ignorance through the aspect of love in nature, through 
 the simple tenderness of the animals, through the placid 
 laws of existence. She was leaving the convent radiant, 
 full of the joy of life, ready for all the happiness, all the 
 charming incidents which her mind had pictured in her 
 idle hours and in the long, quiet nights. She was like a 
 portrait by Veronese with her fair, glossy hair, which 
 seemed to cast a radiance on her skin, a skin with the 
 faintest tinge of pink, softened by a light velvety down 
 which could be perceived when the sun kissed her cheek. 
 Her eyes were an opaque blue, like those of Dutch porce- 
 lain figures. She had a tiny mole on her left nostril and 
 another on the right of her chin. She was tall, well de- 
 veloped, with willowy figure. Her clear voice sounded at 
 times a little too sharp, but her frank, sincere laugh spread 
 joy around her. Often, with a familiar gesture, she would 
 raise her hands to her temples as if to arrange her hair. 
 
UNE VIE 3 
 
 She ran to her father and embraced him warmly. 
 "Well, are we going to start?" she said. He smiled, shook 
 his head and said, pointing toward the window, "How 
 can we travel in such weather?" But she implored in a 
 cajoling and tender manner, "Oh, papa, do let us start. 
 It v;ill clear up in the afternoon." "But your mother will 
 never consent to it." "Yes, I promise you that she will, 
 I will arrange that." "If you succeed in persuading your 
 mother, I am perfectly willing." In a few moments she 
 returned from her mother's room, shouting in a voice that 
 could be heard all through the house, "Papa, papa, mamma 
 is willing. Have the horses harnessed." The rain was not 
 abating; one might almost have said that it was raining 
 harder when the carriage drove up to the door. Jeanne 
 was ready to step in when the baroness came downstairs, 
 supported on one side by her husband and on the other by 
 a tall housemaid, strong and strapping as a boy. She was 
 a Norman woman of the country of Caux, who looked at 
 least twenty, although she 'was but eighteen at the most. 
 She was treated by the family as a second daughter, for 
 she was Jeanne's foster sister. Her name was Rosalie^ 
 and her chief duty lay in guiding the steps of her mistress,, 
 who had grown enormous in the last few^ years and also 
 had an affection of the heart, which kept her complaining 
 continually. The baroness, gasping from over-exertion, 
 finall}' reached the doorstep of the old residence, looked 
 at the court w^here the w^ater was streaming and remarked: 
 "It really is not wise." Her husband, ahvays pleasant, 
 replied: "It was you who desired it, Madame Adelaide.'* 
 He always preceded her pompous name of Adelaide with 
 the title madame with an air of half respectful mockery. 
 Madame mounted with difficulty into the carriage, causing 
 all the springs to bend. The baron sat beside her, w^hile 
 Jeanne and Rosalie w^ere seated opposite, with their backs 
 to the horses. Ludivine, the cook, brought a heap of wraps 
 to put over their knees and tw^o baskets, which w^ere placed 
 
4 UNE VIE 
 
 under the seats; then she climbed on the box beside Father 
 Simon, wrapping herself in a great rug which covered her 
 completely. The porter and his 'wife came to bid them 
 good-by as they closed the carriage door, taking the last 
 orders about the trunks, which were to follow in a 
 wagon. So they started. Father Simon, the coachman, 
 with head bowed and back bent in the pouring rain, was 
 completely covered by his box coat with its triple cape. 
 The howling storm beat upon the carriage windows and 
 inundated the highway. 
 
 . They drove rapidly to the wharf and continued along- 
 side the line of tall-masted vessels until they reached the 
 boulevard of Mont Riboudet. Then they crossed the 
 meadows, where from time to time a drowned willow, its 
 branches drooping limply, could be faintly distinguished 
 through the mist of rain. No one spoke. Their minds 
 themselves seemed to be saturated with moisture like the 
 earth. 
 
 The baroness leaned her head against the cushions and 
 closed her eyes. The baron looked out with mournful 
 eyes at the monotonous and drenched landscape. Rosalie, 
 with a parcel on her knee, was dreaming in the dull 
 reverie of a peasant. But Jeanne, under this downpour, 
 felt herself revive like a plant that has been shut up and 
 has just been restored to the air, and so great was her 
 joy that, like foliage, it sheltered her heart from sadness. 
 Although she did not speak, she longed to burst out sing- 
 ing, to reach out her hands to catch the rain that she 
 might drink it. She enjoyed to the full being carried along 
 rapidly by the horses, enjoyed gazing at the desolate land- 
 scape and feeling herself under shelter amid this general 
 inundation. Beneath the pelting rain the gleaming backs 
 of the two horses emitted a warm steam. 
 
 Little by little the baroness fell asleep, and presently 
 began to snore sonorously. Her husband leaned over and 
 placed in her hands a little leather pocketbook. 
 
UNE VIE - 5 
 
 This awakened her, and she looked at the pocketbook 
 with the stupid, sleepy look of one suddenly aroused. It 
 fell off her lap and sprang open and gold and bank bills 
 were scattered on the floor of the carriage. This roused 
 her completely, and Jeanne gave vent to her mirth in a 
 merry peal of girlish laughter. 
 
 The baron picked up the money and placed it on her 
 knees. ''This, my dear," he said, "is all that is left of 
 my farm at Eletot. I have sold it — so as to be able to 
 repair the 'Poplars,' where we shall often live in the fu- 
 ture." ) 
 
 She counted six thousand four hundred francs and 
 quietly put them in her pocket. This was the ninth of 
 thirty-one farms that they had inherited which they had 
 sold in this way. Nevertheless they still possessed about 
 twenty thousand livres income annually in land rentals, 
 which, with proper care, would have yielded about thirty 
 thousand francs a year. 
 
 Living simply as they did, this income would have suf- 
 ficed had there not been a bottomless hole always in their 
 house — kind-hearted generosity. It dried up the money 
 in their hands as the sun dries the water in marshes. It 
 flowed, fled, disappeared. How? No one knew. Fre- 
 quently one would say to the other, 'T don't know how 
 it happens, but I have spent one hundred francs to-day, 
 and I have bought nothing of any consequence." This 
 faculty of giving was, however, one of the greatest pleas- 
 ures of their life, and they all agreed on this point in a 
 superb and touching manner. 
 
 Jeanne asked her father, "Is it beautiful now, my 
 castle?" The baron replied, "You shall see, my little 
 girl." 
 
 The storm began to abate. The vault of clouds seemed 
 to rise and heighten and suddenly, through a rift, a long 
 ray of sunshine fell upon the fields, and presently the 
 clouds separated, showing the blue firmament, and then, 
 
6 UNE VIE 
 
 like the tearing of a veil, the opening grew larger and the 
 beautiful azure sky, clear and fathomless, spread over the 
 world. A fresh and gentle breeze passed over the earth 
 like a happy sigh, and as they passed beside gardens or 
 woods they heard occasionally the bright chirp of a bird 
 as he dried his wings. 
 
 Evening was approaching. Everyone in the carriage 
 was asleep except Jeanne. They stopped to rest and feed 
 the horses. The sun had set. In the distance bells were 
 heard. They passed a little village as the inhabitants 
 were lighting their lamps, and the sky became also illum- 
 inated by myriads of stars. Suddenly they saw behind 
 a hill, through the branches of the fir trees, the moon ris- 
 ing, red and full as if it were torpid with sleep. 
 
 The air was so soft that the windows were not closed. 
 Jeanne, exhausted with dreams and happy visions, was 
 now asleep. Finally they stopped. Some men and women 
 were standing before the carriage door with lanterns in 
 their hands. They had arrived. Jeanne, suddenly awak- 
 ened, was the first to jump out. Her father and Rosalie 
 had practically to carry the baroness, who was groaning 
 and continually repeating In a weak little voice, "Oh, my 
 God, my poor children!" She refused all offers of refresh- 
 ment, but went to bed and immediately fell asleep. 
 Jeanne and her father, the baron, took supper together. 
 They were in perfect sympathy with each other. Later, 
 seized with a childish joy, they started on a tour of in- 
 spection through the restored manor. It was one of those 
 high and vast Norman residences that comprise both farm- 
 house and castle, built of white stone which had turned 
 gray, large enough to contain a whole race of people. 
 
 An immense hall divided the house from front to rear 
 and a staircase went up at either side of the entrance, meet- 
 ing in a bridge on the first floor. The huge drawing-room 
 was on the ground floor to the right and was hung with 
 tapestries representing birds and foliage. All the furniture 
 
UNE VIE (.'/ 
 
 .^ 
 
 was covered with fine needlework tapestry illustrating La 
 Fontaine's fables, and Jeanne was delighted at finding a 
 chair ,she had loved as a child, which pictured the story 
 of "The Fox and the Stork." 
 
 Beside the drawing-room were the library, full of old 
 books, and two unused rooms; at the left was the dining- 
 room, the laundry, the kitchen, etc. 
 
 A corridor divided the whole first floor, the doors of ten 
 rooms opening into it. At the end, on the right, was 
 Jeanne's room. She and her father went in. He had had 
 it all newly done over, using the furniture and draperies 
 that had been in the store-room. 
 
 There were some very old Flemish tapestries, with 
 their peculiar looking figures. At sight of her bed, the 
 young girl uttered a scream of joy. Four large birds 
 carved in oak, black from age and highly polished, bore 
 up the bed and seemed to be its protectors. On the sides 
 were carved two wide garlands of flowers and fruit, and 
 four finely fluted columns, terminating in Corinthian capi- 
 tals, supported a cornice of cupids with roses intertwined. 
 The tester and the coverlet were of antique blue silk, em- 
 broidered in gold fleur de lys. When Jeanne had suf- 
 ficiently adrnire3ril", she lifted up the candle to examine 
 the tapestries and the allegories they represented. They 
 were mostly conventional subjects, but the last hanging 
 represented a drama. Near a rabbit, which was still nib- 
 bling, a young man lay stretched out, apparently dead. 
 A young girl, gazing at him, was plunging a sword into 
 her bosom, and the fruit of the tree had turned black. 
 Jeanne gave up trying to divine the meaning underlying 
 this picture, when she saw in the corner a tiny little animal 
 which the rabbit, had he lived, could have swallowed like 
 a blade of grass; and yet it was a lion. Then she recog- 
 nized the story of "Pyramus and Thisbe," and though 
 she smiled at the simplicity of the design, she felt happy 
 to have in her room this love adventure which would 
 
8 UNE VIE 
 
 continually speak to her of her cherished hopes, and 
 every night this legendary love would hover about her 
 dreams. 
 
 It struck eleven and the baron kissed Jeanne good- 
 night and retired to his room. Before retiring, Jeanne 
 cast a last glance round her room and then regretfully 
 extinguished the candle. Through her window she could 
 see the bright moonlight bathing the trees and the won- 
 derful landscape. Presently she arose, opened a window 
 and looked out. The night was so clear that one could see 
 as plainly as by daylight. She looked across the park 
 with its two long avenues of very tall poplars that gave 
 its name to the chateau and separated it from the two 
 farms that belonged to it, one occupied by the Couillard 
 family, the other by the Martins. Beyond the enclosure 
 stretched a long, uncultivated plain, thickly overgrown 
 with rushes, where the breeze whistled day and night. 
 The land ended abruptly in a steep white cliff three hun- 
 dred feet high, with its base in the ocean waves. 
 
 Jeanne looked out over the long, undulating surface 
 that seemed to slumber beneath the heavens. All the 
 fragrance of the earth was in the night air. The odor of 
 jasmine rose from the lower windows, and light whiffs of 
 briny air and of seaweed were wafted from the ocean. 
 
 Merely to breathe was enough for Jeanne, and the rest- 
 ful calm of the country jvas like a soothing bath. She 
 felt as though her heart was expanding and she began 
 dreaming of love. What was it? She did not know. She 
 only knew that she would adore him with all her soul 
 and that he would cherish her with all his strength. They 
 would walk hand in hand on nights like this, hearing the 
 beating of their hearts, mingling their love with the sweet 
 simplicity of the summer nights in such close communion 
 of thought that by the sole power of their tenderness they 
 would easily penetrate each other's most secret thoughts. 
 This would continue forever in the calm of an enduring 
 
UNE VIE ^ 
 
 affection. It seemed to her that she felt Mm there beside 
 her. And an unusual sensation came over her. She re- 
 mained long musing thus, when suddenly she thought 
 she heard a footstep behind the house. "If it were he'' 
 But it passed on and she felt as if she had been deceived. 
 The air became cooler. The day broke. Slowly bursting 
 aside the gleaming clouds, touching with fire the trees, the 
 plains, the ocean, all the horizon, the great flaming orb 
 of the sun appeared. 
 
 Jeanne felt herself becoming mad with happiness. A 
 delirious joy, an infinite tenderness at the splendor of 
 nature overcame her fluttering heart. It was her sun, 
 her dawn! The beginning of her life! Thoroughly fa- 
 tigued at last she flung herself down and slept till her 
 father called her at eight o'clock. He walked into the 
 room and proposed to show her the improvements of the 
 castle, of her castle. The road, called the parish road, 
 connecting the farms, joined the high road between Havre 
 and Fecamp, a mile and a half further on. 
 
 Jeanne and the baron inspected everything and returned 
 home for breakfast. When the meal was over, as the 
 baroness had decided that she would rest, the baron pro- 
 posed to Jeanne that they should go down to Yport. They 
 started, and passing through the hamlet of Etouvent, where 
 the poplars were, and going through the wooded slope by 
 a winding valley leading down to the sea, they presently 
 perceived the village of Yport. Women sat in their door- 
 ways mending linen ; brown fish-nets were hanging against 
 the doors of the huts, where an entire family lived in one 
 room. It was a typical little French fishing village, with 
 all its concomitant odors. To Jeanne it was all like a scen§ 
 in a play. On turning a comer they saw before them the 
 limitless blue ocean. They bought a brill from a fisherman 
 and another sailor offered to take them out sailing, re- 
 peating his name, "Lastique, Josephin Lastique," several 
 times, that they might not forget it, and the baron prom- 
 
10 UNE VJE 
 
 ised to remember. They walked home, chattering like two 
 children, carrying the big fish between them, Jeanne hav- 
 ing pushed her father's walking cane through its gills. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 HAPPY DAYS 
 
 A DELIGHTFUL life Commenced for Jeanne, a life in the 
 open air. She wandered along the roads, or into the little 
 winding valleys, their sides covered with a fleece of gorse 
 blossoms, the strong sweet odor of which intoxicated her 
 like the bouquet of wine, while the distant sound of the 
 waves rolling on the beach seemed like a billow rocking 
 her spirit. 
 
 A love of solitude came upon her in the sweet freshness 
 of this landscape and in the calm of the rounded horizon, 
 and she would remain sitting so long on the hill tops that 
 the wild rabbits would bound by her feet. 
 
 She planted memories everywhere, as seeds are cast 
 upon the earth, memories whose roots hold till death. It 
 seemed to Jeanne that she was casting a little of her heart 
 into every fold of these valleys. She became infatuated 
 with sea bathing. When she was well out from shore, she 
 would float on her back, her arms crossed, her eyes lost in 
 the profound blue of the sky which was cleft by the flight 
 of a swallow, or the white silhouette of a seabird. 
 
 After these excursions she invariably came back to the 
 . castle pale with hunger, but light, alert, a smile on her lips 
 and her eyes sparkling with happiness. 
 
 The baron on his part was planning great agricultural 
 enterprises. Occasionally, also, he went out to sea with the 
 sailors of Yport. On several occasions he went fishing 
 
 II 
 
12 UNE VIE 
 
 for mackerel and, again, by moonlight, he would haul in 
 the nets laid the night before. He loved to hear the masts 
 creak, to breathe in the fresh and whistling gusts of wind 
 that arose during the night; and after having tacked a 
 long time to find the buoys, guiding himself by a peak of 
 rocks, the roof of a belfry or the Fecamp lighthouse, he 
 delighted to remain motionless beneath the first gleams of 
 the rising sun which made the slimy backs of the large 
 fan-shaped rays and the fat bellies of the turbots glisten 
 on the deck of the boat. 
 
 At each meal he gave an enthusiastic account of his 
 expeditions, and the baroness in her turn told how many 
 times she had walked down the main avenue of poplars. 
 
 As she had been advised to take exercise she made a 
 business of walking, beginning as soon as the air grew 
 warm. Leaning upon Rosalie's arm and dragging her left 
 foot, which was rather heavier than the right, she wan- 
 dered interminably up and down from the house to the 
 edge of the wood, sitting down for five minutes at either 
 end. The walking was resumed in the afternoon. A 
 physician, consulted ten years before, had spoken of hyper- 
 trophy because she had suffered from suffocation. Ever 
 since, this word had been used to describe the ailment of 
 >:he baroness. The baron would say "my wife's hyper- 
 trophy" and Jeanne "mamma's hypertrophy" as they 
 would have spoken of h^ hat, her dress, or her umbrella. 
 She had been very pretty in her youth and slim as a reed. 
 Now she had grown older, stouter, but she still remained 
 poetical, having always retained the impression of "Co- 
 rinne," which she had read as a girl. She read all the 
 sentimental love stories it was possible to collect, and her 
 thoughts wandered among tender adventures in which she 
 always figured as the heroine. Her new home was infin- 
 itely pleasing to her because it formed such a beautiful 
 framework for the romance of her soul, the surrounding 
 woods, the waste land, and the proximity of the ocean re- 
 
UNE VIE 13 
 
 calling to her mind the novels of Sir Walter Scott, which 
 she had been devouring for some months. On rainy days 
 she remained shut up in her room, sending Rosalie in a 
 special manner for the drawer containing her "souvenirs," 
 which meant to the baroness all her old private and family 
 letters. 
 
 Occasionally, Jeanne replaced Rosalie in the walks with 
 her mother, and she listened eagerly to the tales of the 
 latter's childhood. The young girl saw herself in all these 
 romantic stories, and was astonished at the similarity of 
 ideas and desires; each heart imagines itself to have been 
 the first to tremble at those very sensations that awakened 
 the hearts of the first beings, and that will awaken the 
 hearts of the last. 
 
 One afternoon as the baroness and Jeanne were resting 
 on the beach at the end of the walk, a stout priest who 
 was moving in their direction greeted them \vith a bow, 
 while still at a distance. He bowed when within three 
 feet and, assuming a smiling air, cried: "Well, Madame la 
 Baronne, how are you?" It was the village priest. The 
 baroness seldom went to church, though she liked priests, 
 from a sort of religious instinct peculiar to women. She 
 had, in fact, entirely forgotten the Abbe Picot, her priest, 
 and blushed as she saw him. She made apologies for not 
 having prepared for his visit, but the good man was not 
 at all embarrassed. He looked at Jeanne, complimented 
 her on her appearance and sat down, placing his three- 
 cornered hat on his knees. He was very stout, very red, 
 and perspired profusely. He drew from his pocket every 
 moment an enormous checked handkerchief and passed it 
 over his face and neck, but hardly was the task completed 
 when necessity forced him to repeat the process. He was 
 a typical country priest, talkative and kindly. 
 
 Presently the baron appeared. He was very friendly 
 to the abbe and invited him to dinner. The priest was 
 well versed in the art of being pleasant, thanks to the un- 
 
14 *- ^ ^ UNE VIE 
 
 conscious astuteness which the guiding of souls gives to the 
 most mediocre of men who are called by the chance of 
 events to exercise a power over their fellows. Toward 
 dessert he became quite merry, with the gaiety that fol- 
 lows a pleasant meal, and as if struck by an idea he said: 
 "I have a new parishioner whom I must present to you, 
 Monsieur le Vicomte de Lamare." The baroness, who 
 was at home in heraldry, inquired if he was of the family 
 of Lamares of Eure. The priest answered, "Yes, madame, 
 he is the son of Vicomte Jean de Lamare, who died last 
 year." After this, the baroness, who loved the nobility 
 above all other things, inquired the history of the young 
 vicomte. He had paid his father's debts, sold the family 
 castle, made his home on one of the three farms which he 
 owned in the town of Etouvent. These estates brought 
 him in an income of five or six thousand livres. The 
 vicomte was economical and lived in this modest manner 
 for two or three years, so that he might save enough to 
 •cut a figure in society, and to marry advantageously, with- 
 out contracting debts or mortgaging his farms. The priest 
 added, "He is a very charming young man, so steady and 
 quiet, though there is very little to amuse him in the coun- 
 try." The baron said, "Bring him in to see us, Monsieur 
 I'Abbe, it will be a distraction for him occasionally." 
 After the coffee the baron and the priest took a turn about 
 the grounds and then returned to say good-night to the 
 ladies. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 M. DE LAMARE 
 
 The following Sunday the baroness and Jeanne went 
 to mass, prompted by a feeling of respect for their pastor, 
 and after service waited to see the priest and invite him 
 to luncheon the following Thursday. He came out of the 
 sacristy leaning familiarly on the arm of a tall young 
 man. As soon as he perceived the ladies, he exclaimed: 
 
 "How fortunate! Allow me, baroness and Mile. Jeanne, 
 to present to you your neighbor, M, le Vicomte de La- 
 
 mare." 
 
 The vicomte said he had long desired to make their 
 acquaintance, and began to converse in a well-bred man- 
 ner. He had a face of which women dream and that men 
 dislike. His black, wavy hair shaded a smooth, sunburnt 
 forehead, and two large straight eyebrows, that looked 
 almost artificial, cast a deep and tender shadow over his 
 dark eyes, the whites of which had a bluish tinge. 
 
 His long, thick eyelashes accentuated the passionate 
 eloquence of his expression which wrought havoc in the 
 drawing-rooms of society, and made peasant girls carrying 
 baskets turn round to look at him. The languorous fasci- 
 nation of his glance impressed one with the depth of his 
 thoughts and lent weight to his slightest words. His 
 beard, fine and glossy, concealed a somewhat heavy jaw. 
 
 Two days later, M. de Lamare made his first call, just 
 as they were discussing the best place for a new rustic 
 bench. The vicomte was consulted and agreed with the 
 baroness, who differed from her husband. 
 
1 6 UNE VIE 
 
 M. de Lamare expatiated on the picturesqueness of the 
 country and from time to time, as if by chance, his eyes 
 met those of Jeanne, and she felt a strange sensation at 
 the quickly averted glance which betrayed tender admi- 
 ration and an awakened sympathy. 
 
 M. de Lamare's father, who had died the preceding 
 year, had known an intimate friend of the baroness's 
 father, M. Cultaux, and this fact led to an endless con- 
 versation about family, relations, dates, etc., and names 
 heard in her childhood were recalled, and led to 
 reminiscences. 
 
 The baron, whose nature was rather uncultivated, and 
 whose beliefs and prejudices were not those of his class^ 
 knew little about the neighboring families, and inquired 
 about them from the vicomte, who responded: 
 
 "Oh, there are very few of the nobility in the district,'^ 
 just as he might have said, "there are very few rabbits on 
 the hills," and he began to particularize: There was the 
 Marquis de Coutelier, a sort of leader of Norman aris- 
 tocracy, Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Briseville, people of 
 excellent stock, but living to themselves, and the Comte de 
 Fourville, a kind of ogre, who was said to have made his 
 wife die of sorrow, and who lived as a huntsman in his 
 chateau of La Vrillette, built on a pond. There were a 
 few parvenus among them who had bought properties here 
 and there, but the vicomte did not know them. 
 
 As he left, his last glance was for Jeanne, as if it were 
 a special tender and cordial farewell. The baroness was 
 delighted with him, and the baron said: "Yes, indeed, he 
 is a gentleman." And he was invited to dinner the fol- 
 lowing week, and from that time came regularly. 
 
 He generally arrived about four o'clock in the after- 
 noon, went to join the baroness in "her avenue," and of- 
 fered her his arm while she took her "exercise," as she 
 called her daily walks. When Jeanne was at home she 
 would walk on the other side of her mother, supporting 
 
UNE VIE 17 
 
 her, and all three would walk slowly back and forth from 
 one end of the avenue to the other. He seldom addressed 
 Jeanne directly, but his eye frequently met hers. 
 
 He went to Yport several times with Jeanne and the 
 baron. One evening, when they were on the beach, Pere 
 Lastique accosted him, and without removing his pipe, 
 the absence of which would possibly have been more re- 
 markable than the loss of his nose, he said: 
 
 "With this wind, m'sieu ^e baron, we could easily go to 
 Etretat and back to-morrow." 
 
 Jeanne clasped her hands imploringly. 
 
 "Oh, papa, let us do it!" 
 
 The baron turned to M. de Lamare: 
 
 "Will you join us, vicomte? We can take breakfast 
 down there." 
 
 And the matter was decided at once. From daybreak 
 Jeanne was up and waiting for her father, who dressed 
 more slowly. They walked in the dew across the level 
 and then through the wood vibrant with the singing of 
 birds. The vicomte and Pere Lastique were seated on a 
 capstan. 
 
 Two other sailors helped to shove off the boat from 
 shore, which was not easy on the shingly beach. Once the 
 boat was afloat, they all took their seats, and the two 
 sailors who remained on shore shoved it off. A light, 
 steady breeze was blowing from the ocean and they hoisted 
 the sail, veered a little, and then sailed along smoothly 
 with scarcely any motion. To landward the high cliff 
 at the right cast a shadow on the water at its base, and 
 patches of sunlit grass here and there varied its monoto- 
 nous whiteness. Yonder, behind them, brown sails were 
 coming out of the white harbor of Fecamp, and ahead of 
 them they saw a rock of curious shape, rounded, with gaps 
 in it looking something like an immense elephant with its 
 trunk in the water; it was the little port of Etretat. 
 
 Jeanne, a little dizzy from the motion of the waves, 
 
i8 UNE VIE 
 
 held the side of the boat with one hand as she looked out 
 into the distance. It seemed to her as if only three things 
 in the world were really beautiful: light, space, water. 
 
 No one spoke. Pere Lastique, who was at the tiller, 
 took a pull every now and then from a bottle hidden under 
 the seat; and he smoked a short pipe which seemed inex- 
 tinguishable, although he never seemed to relight it or 
 refill it. 
 
 The baron, seated in the bow, looked after the sail. 
 Jeanne and the vicomte seemed a little embarrassed at 
 being seated side by side. Some unknown power seemed 
 to make their glances meet whenever they raised their 
 eyes; between them there existed already that subtle and 
 vague sympathy which arises so rapidly between two 
 young people when the young man is good looking and 
 the g'^1 is pretty. They were happy in each other's so- 
 ciety, perhaps because they were thinking of each other. 
 The rising sun was beginning to pierce through the slight 
 mist, and as its beams grew stronger, they were reflected 
 on the smooth surface of the sea as in a mirror. 
 
 "How beautiful!" murmured Jeanne, with emotion. 
 
 "Beautiful indeed!" answered the vicomte. The serene 
 beauty of the morning awakened an echo in their hearts. 
 
 And all at once they saw the great arches of Etretat, 
 like two supports of a cliff standing in the sea high enough 
 for vessels to pass under^'them ; while a sharp-pointed white 
 rock rose in front of the first arch. They reached shore, 
 and the baron got out first to make fast the boat, while 
 the vicomte lifted Jeanne ashore so that she should not 
 wet her feet. Then they walked up the shingly beach side 
 by side, and they overheard Pere Lastique say to the 
 baron, "My! but they would make a pretty couple!" 
 
 They took breakfast in a little inn near the beach, and 
 while the ocean had lulled their thoughts and m.ade them 
 silent, the breakfast table had the opposite effect, and 
 
UNE VIE 19 
 
 they chattered like children on a vacation. The slightest 
 thing gave rise to laughter. 
 
 Pere Lastique, on taking his place at table, carefully 
 hid his lighted pipe in his cap. That made them laugh. 
 A fly, attracted no doubt by his red nose, persistently 
 alighted on it, and each time it did so they burst into 
 laughter. Finally the old man could stand it no longer, 
 and murmured: "It is devilishly persistent!" whereupon 
 Jeanne and the vicomte laughed till they cried. 
 
 After breakfast Jeanne suggested that they should take 
 a walk. The vicomte rose, but the baron preferred to 
 bask in the sun on the beach. 
 
 "Go on, my children, you will find me here in an hour." 
 
 They walked straight ahead of them, passing by several 
 cottages and finally by a small chateau resembling a large 
 farm, and found themselves in an open valley that ex- 
 tended for some distance. They now had a wild longing 
 to run at large in the fields. Jeanne seemed to have a 
 humming in her ears from all the new and rapidly chang- 
 ing sensations she had experienced. The burning rays of 
 the sun fell on them. On both sides of the road the crops 
 were bending over from the heat. The grasshoppers, as 
 numerous as the blades of grass, were uttering their thin, 
 shrill cry. 
 
 Perceiving a wood a little further on to the right, they 
 walked over to it. They saw a narrow path between two 
 hedges shaded by tall trees whicli shut out the sun. A 
 sort of moist freshness in the air was perceptible, giving 
 them a sensation of chilliness. There was no grass, owing 
 to the lack of sunlight, but the ground was covered with 
 a carpet of moss. 
 
 "See, we can sit down there a little while," she said. 
 
 They sat down and looked about them at the numerous 
 forms of life that were in the air and on the ground at 
 their feet, for a ray of sunlight penetrating the dense fol- 
 iage brought them into its light. 
 
20 UNE VIE 
 
 *^How beautiful it is here! How lovely it is in the 
 country! There are moments when I should like to be 
 a fly or a butterfly and hide in the flowers," said Jeanne 
 with emotion. 
 
 They spoke in low tones as one does in exchanging con- 
 fidences, telling of their daily lives and of their tastes, and 
 declaring that they were already disgusted with the world, 
 tired of its useless monotony; it was always the same 
 thing; there was no truth, no sincerity in it. 
 
 The world! She would gladly have made its acquaint- 
 ance; but she felt convinced beforehand that it was not 
 equal to a country life, and the more their hearts seemed '\ 
 to be in S3mipathy, the more ceremonious they became, 
 the more frequently their glances met and blended smil- 
 ing; and it seemed that a new feeling of benevolence was 
 awakened in them, a wider affection, an interest in a 
 thousand things of which they had never hitherto thought. 
 
 They wended their way back, but the baron had al- 
 ready set off on foot for the Chambre aux Demoiselles, a 
 grotto in a cleft at the summit of one of the cliffs, and 
 they waited for him at the inn. He did not return until 
 five in the evening after a long walk along the cliffs. 
 
 They got into the boat, started off smoothly with the 
 wind at their backs, scarcely seeming to make any head- 
 way. The breeze was irregular, at one moment filling 
 the sail and then lettiiTg it flap idly along the mast. The 
 sea seemed opaque and lifeless, and the sun was slowly 
 approaching the horizon. The lulling motion of the sea 
 had made them silent again. Presently Jeanne said, "How 
 I should love to travel!" 
 
 "Yes, but it is tiresome to travel alone; there should be 
 at least two, to exchange ideas," answered the vicomte. 
 She reflected a moment, 
 
 "That is true — I like to walk alone, however — ^how 
 pleasant it is to dream all alone " 
 
 He gazed at her intently. 
 
UNE VIE 21 
 
 "Two can dream as well as one." 
 
 She lowered her eyes. Was it a hint? Possibly. She 
 looked out at the horizon as if to discover something be- 
 yond it, and then said slowly: 
 
 "I should like to go to Italy — and Greece — ah, yes, 
 Greece — and to Corsica, it must be so wild and so beau- 
 tiful!" 
 
 He preferred Switzerland on account of its chalets and 
 
 its lakes. 
 
 "No," said she, "I like new countries like Corsica, or 
 very old countries full of souvenirs, like Greece. It must 
 be delightful to find the traces of those peoples whose his- 
 tory we have known since childhood, to see places where 
 great deeds were accomplished." 
 
 The vicomte, less enthusiastic, exclaimed: 
 
 "As for me, England attracts me very much; there is 
 so much to be learned there." 
 
 Then they talked about the world in general, discussing 
 the attractions of each country from the poles to the 
 equator, enthusing over imaginary scenes and the peculiar 
 manners of certain peoples like the Chinese and the 
 Lapps; but they arrived at the conclusion that the most 
 beautiful country in the world was France, with its tem- 
 perate climate, cool in summer, mild in winter, its rich 
 soil, its green forests, its worship of the fine arts which 
 existed nowhere else since the glorious centuries of Athens. 
 Then they were silent. The setting sun left a wide daz- 
 zling train of light which extended from the horizon to the 
 edge of their boat. The wdnd subsided, the ripples disap- 
 peared, and the motionless sail was red in the light of the 
 dying day. A limitless calm seemed to settle do\ATi on 
 space and make a silence amid the conjunction of ele- 
 ments; and by degrees the sun slowly sank into the 
 ocean. 
 
 Then a fresh breeze seemed to arise, a little shiver went 
 over the surface of the water, as if the engulfed orb cast 
 
22 UNE VIE 
 
 a sigh of satisfaction across the world. The twilight was 
 short, night fell with its myriad stars. Pere Lastique took 
 the oars, and they saw that the sea was phosphorescent. 
 Jeanne and the vicomte, side by side, watched the fitful 
 gleams in the wake of the boat. They were hardly think- 
 ing, but simply gazing vaguely, breathing in the beauty 
 of the evening in a state of delicious contentment; Jeanne 
 had one hand on the seat and her neighbor's finger touched 
 it as if by accident; she did not move; she was surprised, 
 happy, though embarrassed at this slight contact. 
 
 When she reached home that evening and went to her 
 room, she felt strangely disturbed, and so affected that 
 the slightest thing impelled her to weep. She looked at 
 her clock, imagining that the little bee on the pendulum 
 was beating like a heart, the heart of a friend; that it was 
 aware of her whole life, that with its quick, regular tick- 
 ings it would accompany her whole life; and she stopped 
 the golden fly to press a kiss on its wings. She would have 
 kissed anything, no matter what. She remembered having 
 hidden one of her old dolls of former days at the bottom 
 of a drawer; she looked for it, took it out, and v/as de- 
 lighted to see it again, as people are to see loved friends; 
 and pressing it to her heart, she covered its painted cheeks 
 and curly wig with kisses. And as she held it in her arms, 
 she thought: 
 
 Can he be the husban'd promised through a thousand 
 secret voices, whom a superlatively good Providence had 
 thus thrown across her path? Was he, indeed, the being 
 created for her — the being to whom she would devote her 
 existence? Were they the two predestined beings whose 
 affection, blending in one, would beget love? 
 
 She did not as yet feel that tumultuous emotion, that 
 mad enchantment, those deep stirrings which she thought 
 were essential to the tender passion; but it seemed to her 
 she was beginning to fall in love, for she sometimes felt 
 a sudden faintness when she thought of him, and she 
 
UNE VIE 23 
 
 thought of him incessantly. His presence stirred her 
 heart ; she blushed and grew pale when their eyes met, and 
 trembled at the sound of his voice. 
 
 From day to day the longing for love increased. She 
 consulted the marguerites, the clouds, and coins which 
 she tossed in the air. 
 
 One day her father said to her: 
 
 *'Make yourself look pretty to-morrow morning." 
 
 ''Why, papa?" 
 
 "That is a secret," he replied. 
 
 And when she came downstairs the following morning, 
 looking fresh and sweet in a pretty light dress, she found 
 the drawing-room table covered with boxes of bonbons, 
 and on a chair an immense bouquet. 
 
 A covered wagon drove into the courtyard bearing the 
 inscription, "Lerat, Confectioner, Fecamp; \Vedding 
 Breakfasts," and from the back of the wagon Ludivine 
 and a kitchen helper were taking out large flat baskets 
 which emitted an appetizing odor. 
 
 The Vicomte de Lamare appeared on the scene, his 
 trousers were strapped dovm under his dainty boots of 
 patent leather, which m.ade his feet appear smaller. His 
 long frock coat, tight at the waist line, \vas open at the 
 bosom showing the lace of his ruffle, and a fine neckcloth 
 wound several times round his neck obliged him^to hold 
 erect his handsome brown head, with its air of serious dis- 
 tinction. Jeanne, in astonishmert, lookr-^ -^t him as 
 though she had never seen him before. She thoiisjht he 
 looked the grand sei.gneur from his head to his feet. 
 
 He bowed and said, smiling: 
 "Well, comrade, are you ready?" 
 "But what is it? What is going on?" she stammered. 
 "You will know presently," said the baron. 
 The carriage drove up to the door, and Madame Ade- 
 laide, in festall array, descended the staircase, leaning on 
 the arm of Rosalie, who was so much affected at the sight 
 
24 UNE VIE 
 
 of M. de Lamare's elegant appearance that the baron 
 whispered: 
 
 "I say, vicomte, I think our maid admires you." 
 
 The vicomte blushed up to his ears, pretended not to 
 have heard and, taking up the enormous bouquet, handed 
 it to Jeanne. She accepted it, more astonished than ever. 
 They all four got into the carriage, and Ludivine, who 
 brought a cup of bouillon to the baroness to sustain her 
 strength, said: 
 
 "Truly, madame, one would say it was a wedding!" 
 
 They alighted as soon as they entered Yport, and as 
 they walked through the village the sailors, in their new 
 clothes, still showing the creases, came out of their homes, 
 and shaking hands with the baron, followed the party as 
 if it were a procession. The vicomte, who had offered his 
 arm to Jeanne, walked with her at the head. 
 
 When they reached the church they stopped, and an 
 acolyte appeared holding ur "^ht the large silver crucifix, 
 followed by another boy in red and white, who bore a 
 chalice containing holy water. 
 
 Then came three old cantors, one of them limping; then 
 the trumpet ("serpent"), and last, the cure with his gold 
 embroidered stole. He smiled and nodded a greeting; 
 then, with his eyes half closed his lips moving in prayer, 
 his beretta well over his forehead, he followed his sur- 
 pliced bodyguard, walking in the direction of the sea. 
 
 On the beach a crowd was standing around a new boat 
 wreathed with flowers. Its mast, sail and ropes were 
 covered with long streamers of ribbon that floated in the 
 breeze, and the name, "Jeanne," was painted in gold let- 
 ters on the stern. 
 
 Pere Lastique, the proprietor of this boat, built with the 
 baron's money, advanced to meet the procession. All the 
 men, simultaneously, took off their hats, and a row of 
 pious persons wearing long black cloaks falling in large 
 
UNE VIE 25 
 
 folds from their shoulders, knelt down in a circle at sight 
 of the crucifix. 
 
 The cure walked, with an acolyte on either side of him, 
 to one end of the boat, while at the other end, the three 
 old cantors, in their white surplices, with a serious air and 
 their eyes fixed on the psalter, sang at the top of their 
 voices in the clear morning air. Each time they stopped 
 to take breath, the "serpent" continued its bellowing alone, 
 and as he puffed out his cheeks the musician's little gray 
 eyes di^ppeared, and the skin of his forehead and neck 
 seemed to distend. 
 
 The motionless, transparent sea seemed to be taking 
 part meditatively in the baptism of this boat, rolling its 
 tiny waves, no higher than a finger, with the faint sound of 
 a rake on the shingle. And the big white gulls, with their 
 wings unfurled, circled about in the blue heavens, flying 
 off and then coming back in a curve above the heads of 
 the kneeling crowd, as if to see what they were doing. 
 
 The singing ceased after an Amen that lasted five min- 
 utes; and the priest, in an unctuous voice, murmured some 
 Latin words, of which one could hear only the sonorous 
 endings. He then walked round the boat, sprinkling it 
 with holy water, and next began to murmur the "Oremus," 
 standing alongside the boat opposite the sponsors, who 
 remained motionless, hand in hand. 
 
 The vicomte had the usual grave expression on his 
 handsome face, but Jeanne, choking with a sudden emo 
 tion, and on the verge of fainting, began to tremble so vio- 
 olentlv that her teeth chattered. The dream that had 
 haunted her for some time was suddenly beginning, as if 
 in a kind of hallucination, to take the appearance of 
 reality. They had spoken of a wedding, a priest was 
 present, blessing them; men in surplices ^vere singing 
 psalms; was it not she whom they were giving in mar- 
 riage? 
 
26 UNE VIE 
 
 Did her fingers send out an electric shock, did the 
 emotion of her heart follow the course of her veins until 
 it reached the heart of her companion? Did he under- 
 stand, did he guess, was he, like herself, pervaded by a sort 
 of intoxication of love? Or else, did he know by experi- 
 ence, alone, that no woman could resist him? She 
 suddenly noticed that he was squeezing her hand, gently 
 at first, and then tighter, tighter, till he almost crushed it. 
 And without moving a muscle of his face, without anyone 
 perceiving it, he said — yes, he certainly said: 
 
 "Oh, Jeanne, if you would consent, this would be our 
 betrothal." 
 
 She lowered her head very slowly, perhaps meaning it 
 for "yes." And the priest, who was still sprinkling the 
 holy water, sprinkled some on their fingers. 
 
 The ceremony was over. The women rose. The return 
 was unceremonious. The crucifix had lost its dignity in 
 the hands of the acolyte, who walked rapidly, the crucifix 
 swaying to right and left, or bending forward as though 
 it would fall. The priest, who was not praying now, 
 walked hurriedly behind them; the cantors and the mu- 
 sician with the "serpent" had disappeared by a narrow 
 street, so as to get off their surplices without delay; and 
 the sailors hurried along in groups. One thought prompted 
 their haste, and made their mouths water. 
 
 A good breakfast was awaiting them at "The Poplars." 
 
 The large table was set in the courtyard, under the 
 apple trees. 
 
 Sixty people sat fdown to table, sailors and peasants. 
 The baroness in the middle, with a priest at either side 
 of her, one from Yport, and the other belonging to "The 
 Poplars." The baron seated opposite her on the other 
 side of the table, the mayor on one side of him, and his 
 wife, a thin peasant woman, already aging, who kept 
 smiling and bowing to all around her, on the other. 
 
 Jeanne seated beside her co-sponsor, was in a sea of 
 
UNE VIE 27 
 
 happiness. She saw nothing, knew nothing, and remained 
 silent, her mind bewildered with joy. 
 
 Presently she said: 
 
 "What is your Christian name?" 
 
 "Julien," he replied. "Did you not know?" 
 
 But she made no reply, thinking to herself. 
 
 "How often I shall repeat that name!" 
 
 When the feast was over, the courtyard was given up 
 to the sailors, and the others went over to the other side 
 of the chateau. The baroness began to take her exercise, 
 leaning on the arm of the baron and accompanied by the 
 two priests. Jeanne and Julien went toward the wood 
 and walked along one of the mossy paths. Suddenly 
 seizing her hands, the vicomte said: 
 
 "Tell me, will you be my wife?" 
 
 She lowered her head, and as he stammered: "Answer 
 me, I implore you! " she raised her eyes to his timidly, and 
 he read his answer there. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 MARRIAGE AND DISILLUSION 
 
 The baron, one morning, entered Jeanne's room before 
 she was up, and sitting down at the foot of her bed, said: 
 
 "M. le Vicomte de Lamare has asked us for your hand 
 in marriage." 
 
 She wanted to hide her face under the sheets. 
 
 Her father continued: 
 
 "We have postponed our answer for the present." 
 
 She gasped, choking with emotion. At the end of a 
 minute the baron, smihng, added: 
 
 "We did not wish to do anything without consulting 
 you. Your mother and I are not opposed to this marriage, 
 but we would not seek to influence you. You are much 
 richer than he is; but, when it is a question of the hap- 
 piness of a life, one should not think too much about 
 money. He has no relations left. If you marry him, then, 
 it would be as if a son should come into our family; if it 
 were anyone else, it would be you, our daughter, who 
 would go among strangers. The young fellow pleases us. 
 Would he please you?" 
 
 She stammered, blushing up to the roots of her hair: 
 
 "I am willing, papa." 
 
 And the father, looking into her eyes and still smiling, 
 murmured : 
 
 "I half suspected it, young lady." 
 
 She lived till evening in a condition of exhilaration, not 
 
 28 
 
UNE VIE 29 
 
 knowing what she was doing, mechanically thinking of 
 one thing by mistake for another, and with a feeling of 
 weariness, although she had not walked at all. 
 
 Toward six o'clock, as she was sitting with her mother 
 under the plane tree, the vicomte appeared. 
 
 Jeanne's heart began to throb wildly. The young man 
 approached them apparently without any emotion. When 
 he was close beside them, he took the baroness' hand and 
 kissed her fingers, then raising to his lips the trembling 
 hand of the young girl, he imprinted upon it a long, ten- 
 der and grateful kiss. 
 
 And the radiant season of betrothal commenced. They 
 would chat together alone in the comer of the parlor, or 
 else seated on the moss at the end of the wood overlooking 
 the plain. Sometimes they walked in Little Mother's 
 Avenue; he, talking of the future, she, with her eyes cast 
 down, looking at the dusty footprints of the baroness. 
 
 Once the matter was decided, they desired to waste no 
 time in preliminaries. It was, therefore, decided that the 
 ceremony should take place in six weeks, on the fifteenth 
 of August; and that the bride and groom should set out 
 iniilxtdiately on their wedding journey. Jeanne, on being 
 consulted as to which country she would like to visit, de- 
 cided on Corsica where they could be more alone than in 
 the cities of Italy. 
 
 They awaited the moment appointed for their marriage 
 without too great impatience, but enfolded, lost in a de- 
 licious affection, expressed in the exquisite charm of insig- 
 nificant caresses, pressure of hands, long passionate glances 
 in which their souls seemed to blend; and, vaguely tor- 
 tured by an uncertain longing for they knew not what. 
 They decided to invite no one to the wedding except 
 Aunt Lison, the baron's sister, who boarded in a convent 
 at 'ersailles. After the death of their father, the baroness 
 wished to keep her sister with her. But the old maid, 
 possessed by the idea that she was in every one's way, 
 
30 UNE VIE 
 
 was useless, and a nuisance, retired into one of those re- 
 ligious houses that rent apartments to people that live a 
 sad and lonely existence. She came from time to time 
 to pass a month or two with her family. 
 
 She was a little woman of few words, who always kept 
 in the background, appeared only at mealtimes, and then 
 retired to her room where she remained shut in. 
 
 She looked like a kind old lady, though she was only 
 forty-two, and had a sad, gentle expression. She was 
 never made much of by her family as a child, being neither 
 pretty nor boisterous, she was never petted, and she would 
 stay quietly and gently in a comer. She had been neg- 
 lected ever since. As a young girl nobody paid any at- 
 tention to her. She was something like a shadow, or a 
 familiar object, a living piece of furniture that one is ac- 
 customed to see every day, but about which one does not 
 trouble oneself. 
 
 Her sister, from long habit, looked upon her as a fail- 
 ure, an altogether insignificant being. They treated her 
 with careless familiarity which concealed a sort of con- 
 temptuous kindness. She called herself Lise, and seemed 
 embarrassed at this frivolous youthful name. When they 
 saw that she probably would not marry, they changed it 
 from Lise to Tison, and since Jeanne's birth, she had be- 
 come "Aunt Lison," a poor relation, very neat, frightfully 
 timid, even with her sister and her brother-in-law, who 
 loved her, but with an uncertain affection verging on in- 
 difference, with an unconscious compassion and a natural 
 benevolence. 
 
 Sometimes, when the baroness talked of far away things 
 that happened in her youth, she would say, in order to 
 fix a date: "It was the time that Lison had that attack." 
 
 They never said more than that; and this "attack" re- 
 mained shrouded, as in a mist. 
 
 One evening, Lise, who was then twenty, had thrown 
 herself into the water, no one knew why. Nothing in her 
 
UNE VIE 31 
 
 life, her manner, gave any intimation of this seizure. They 
 fislied her out half dead, and her parents, raising their 
 hands in horror, instead of seeking the mysterious cause 
 of this action, had contented themselves with calling it 
 "that attack," as if they were talking of the accident that 
 happened to the horse "Coco," who had broken his leg 
 a short time before in a ditch, and whom they had been 
 obliged to kill. 
 
 From that time Lise, presently Lison, was considered 
 feeble-minded. The gentle contempt which she inspired 
 in her relations gradually made its way into the minds of 
 all those who surrounded her. Little Jeanne herself, with 
 the natural instinct of children, took no notice of her, 
 never went up to kiss her good-night, never went into her 
 room. Good Rosalie, alone, who gave the room all the 
 necessary attention, seemed to know where it was situ- 
 ated. 
 
 When Aunt Lison entered the dining-room for breakfast, 
 the little one would go up to her from habit and hold up 
 her forehead to be kissed; that was all. 
 
 If anyone wished to speak to her, they sent a servant 
 to call her, and if she was not there, they did not bother 
 about her, never thought of her, never thought of troubling 
 themselves so much as to say: 
 
 "Why, I have not seen Aunt Lison this morning!" 
 
 When they said "Aunt Lison," these two words awak- 
 ened no feeling of affection in anyone's mind. It was as 
 if one had said: "The coffee pot, or the sugar bowl." 
 
 She always walked with little, quick, silent steps, never 
 made a noise, never knocking up against anything; and 
 seemed to communicate to surrounding objects the faculty 
 of not making any sound. Her hands seemed to be made 
 of a kind of wadding, she handled everything so lightly 
 and delicately. 
 
 She arrived about the middle of July, all upset at the 
 idea of this marriage. She brought a quantity of presents 
 
32 UNE VIE 
 
 which, as they came from her, remained almost unnoticed. 
 On the following day they had forgotten she was there 
 at all. 
 
 But an unusual emotion was seething in her mind, and 
 she never took her eyes off the engaged couple. She inter- 
 ested herself in Jeanne's trousseau with a singular eager- 
 ness, a feverish activity, working like a simple seamstress 
 in her room, where no one came to visit her. 
 
 She was continually presenting the baroness with hand- 
 kerchiefs she had hemmed herself, towels on which she 
 had embroidered a monogram, saying as she did so: "Is 
 that all right, Adelaide?" And little mother, as she care- 
 lessly examined the objects, would reply: "Do not give 
 yourself so much trouble, my poor Lison." 
 
 One evening, toward the end of the month, after an 
 oppressively warm day, the moon rose on one of those 
 clear, mild nights which seem to move, stir and affect one, 
 apparently awakening all the secret poetry of one's soul. 
 The gentle breath of the fields was wafted into the quiet 
 drawing-room. The baroness and her husband were play- 
 ing cards by the light of a lamp, and Aunt Lison was sit- 
 ting beside them knitting ; while the young people, leaning 
 on the window sill, were gazing out at the moonlit gar- 
 den. 
 
 The linden and the plane tree cast their shadows on the 
 lawn which extended beyond it in the moonlight, as far as 
 the dark wood. Attracted by the tender charm of the 
 night, and by this misty illumination that lighted up the 
 trees and the bushes, Jeanne turned toward her parents 
 and said: 
 
 "Little father, we are going to take a short stroll on the 
 grass in front of the house." 
 
 The baron replied, without looking up: "Go, my chil- 
 dren," and continued his game. 
 
 They went out and began to walk slowly along the 
 moonlit lawn as far as the little wood at the end. The 
 
UNE VIE 33 
 
 hour grew late and they did not think of going in. The 
 baroness grew tired, and wishing to retire, she said: 
 
 "We must call the lovers in." 
 
 The baron cast a glance across the spacious garden 
 where the two forms were wandering slowly. 
 
 "Let them alone," he said; "it is so delicious outside! 
 Lison will wait for them, will you not, Lison?" 
 
 The old maid raised her troubled eyes and replied in her 
 timid voice: 
 
 "Certainly, I will wait for them.'^ 
 
 Little father gave his hand to the baroness, weary him- 
 self from the heat of the day, 
 
 "I am going to bed, too," he said, and went up with his 
 wife. 
 
 Then Aunt Lison rose in her turn, and leaving on the 
 arm of the chair her canvas with the wool and the knit- 
 ting needles, she went over and leaned on the window sill 
 and gazed out at the night. 
 
 The two lovers kept on walking back and forth between 
 the house and the wood. They squeezed each other's 
 fingers without speaking, as though they had left their 
 bodies and formed part of this visible poetry that exhaled 
 from the earth. 
 
 All at once Jeanne perceived, framed in the window, the 
 silhouette ^f the aunt, outlined by the light of the lamp 
 behind her. 
 
 "See," she said, "there is Aunt Lison looking at us." 
 
 The vicomte raised his head, and said in an indifferent 
 tone without thinking: 
 
 "Yes, Aunt Lison is looking at us." 
 
 And they continued to dream, to walk slowly, and to 
 love each other. But the dew w^s falling fast, and the 
 dampness made them shiver a little. 
 
 "Let us go in now," said Jeanne. And they went into 
 the house. 
 
 When they entered the drawing-room. Aunt Lison had 
 
34 UNE VIE 
 
 gone back to her work. Her head was bent over her work, 
 and her fingers were trembling as if she were very tired. 
 
 "It is time to go to bed, aunt," said Jeanne, approach- 
 ing her. 
 
 Her aunt turned her head, and her eyes were red as if 
 she had been crying. The young people did not notice it; 
 but suddenly M. de Lamare perceived that Jeannie's thin 
 shoes were covered with dew. He was worried, and asked 
 tenderly: 
 
 "Are not your dear little feet cold?" 
 
 All at once the old lady's hands shook so violently that 
 she let fall her knitting, and hiding her face in her hands, 
 she began to sob convulsively. 
 
 The engaged couple looked at her in amazement, with- 
 out moving. Suddenly Jeanne fell on her knees, and tak- 
 ing her aunt's hands away from her face, said in per- 
 plexity: 
 
 "WTiy, what is the matter, Aunt Lison?" 
 
 Then the poor woman, her voice full of tears, and her 
 whole body shaking with sorrow, replied: 
 
 "It was when he asked you — are not your — your — dear 
 little feet cold? — no one ever said such things to me — to 
 me — never — never " 
 
 Jeanne, surprised and compassionate, could still hardly 
 help laughing at the idea of an admirer showing tender 
 solicitude for Lison; and tEe vicomte had turned away to 
 conceal his mirth. 
 
 But the aunt suddenly rose, laying her ball of wool 
 on the floor and her knitting in the chair, and fled to her 
 room, feeling her way up the dark staircase. 
 
 Left alone, the young people looked at one another, 
 amused and saddened. Jeanne murmured: "Poor aunt!" 
 Julien replied: "She must be a little crazy this evening." 
 
 They held each other's hands and presently, gently, 
 very gently, they exchanged their first kiss, and by the 
 following day had forgotten all about Aunt Lison's tears. 
 
UNE VIE 35 
 
 The two weeks preceding the wedding found Jeanne 
 very calm, as though she were weary of tender emotions. 
 She had no time for reflection on the morning of the 
 eventful day. She was only conscious of a feeling as if 
 her flesh, her bones and her blood had all melted beneath 
 her skin, and on taking hold of anything, she noticed that 
 her fingers trembled. 
 
 She did not regain her self-possession until she was 
 in the chancel of the church during the marriage ceremony. 
 
 Married! So she was married! All that had occurred 
 since daybreak seemed to her a dream, a waking dream. 
 There are such moments, when ail appears changed 
 around us; even our motions seem to have a new mean- 
 ing; even the hours of the day, which seem to be out of 
 their usual time. She felt bewildered, above all else, be- 
 wildered. Last evening nothing had as yet been changed 
 in her life; the constant hope of her life seemed only 
 nearer, almost within reach. She had gone to rest a young 
 girl ; she was now a married woman. She had crossed that 
 boundary that seems to conceal the future with all its 
 joys, its dreams of happiness. She felt as though a door 
 had opened in front of her ; she was about to enter into the 
 fulfillment of her expectations. 
 
 Wlien they appeared on the threshold of the church 
 after the ceremony, a terrific noise caused the bride to 
 start in terror, and the baroness to scream; it was a rifle 
 salute given by the peasants, and the firing did not cease 
 until they reached "The Poplars." 
 
 After a collation served for the family, the family chap- 
 lain, and the priest from Yport, the mayor and the wit- 
 nesses, who were some of the large farmers of the district, 
 they all walked in the garden. On the other side of the 
 chateau one could hear the boisterous mirth of the peas- 
 ants, who were drinking cider beneath the apple trees. 
 The whole countryside, dressed in their best, filled the 
 courtyard. 
 
36 UNE VIE . 
 
 Jeanne and Julien walked through the copse and then 
 up the slope and, without speaking, gazed out at the sea. 
 The air was cool, although it was the middle of August; 
 the wind was from the north, and the sun blazed down 
 unpityingly from the blue sky. The young people sought 
 a more sheltered spot, and crossing the plain, they turned 
 to the right, toward the rolling and wooded valley that 
 leads to Yport. As soon as they reached the trees the air 
 was still, and they left the road and took a narrow path 
 beneath the trees, where they could scarcely walk abreast. 
 
 Jeanne felt an arm passed gently round her waist. She 
 said nothing, her breath came quick, her heart beat fast. 
 Some low branches caressed their hair, as they bent to 
 pass under them. She picked a leaf; two ladybirds were 
 concealed beneath it, like two delicate red shells. 
 
 "Look, a little family," she said innocently, and feeling 
 a little more confidence. 
 
 Julien placed his mouth to her ear, and whispered: 
 "This evening you will be my wife." 
 
 Although she had learned many things during her so- 
 journ in the country, she dreamed of nothing as yet but 
 the poetry of love, and was surprised. His wife? Was 
 she not that already? 
 
 Then he began to kiss her temples and neck, little light 
 kisses. Startled each time afresh by these masculine kisses 
 to which she was not accustomed, she instinctively turned 
 away her head to avoid them, though they delighted her. 
 But they had com.e to the edge of the wood. She stopped, 
 embarrassed at being so far from home. What would 
 they think? 
 
 "Let us go home,'^ she said. 
 
 He withdrew his arm from her waist, and as they turned 
 round they stood face to face, so close that they could 
 feel each other's breath on their faces. They gazed deep 
 into one another's eyes with that gaze in which two souls 
 seem to blend. They sought the impenetrable unknown 
 
UNE VIE 37 
 
 of each other's being. They sought to fathom one an- 
 other, mutely and persistently. What would they be to 
 one another? What would this life be that they were 
 about to begin together? What joys, what happiness, or 
 what disillusions were they preparing in this long, indis- 
 soluble tete-a-tete of marriage? And it seemed to them as 
 if they had never yet seen each other. 
 
 Suddenly, Julien, placing his two hands on his wife's 
 shoulders, kissed her full on the lips as she had never be- 
 fore been kissed. The kiss, penetrating as it did her very 
 blood and marrow, gave her such a mysterious shock that 
 she pushed Julien wildly away with her two arms, almost 
 falling backward as she did so. 
 
 "Let us go away, let us go away," she faltered. 
 
 He did not reply, but took both her hands and held 
 them in his. They walked home in silence, and the rest 
 of the afternoon seemed long. The dinner was simple 
 and did not last long, contrary to the usual Norman cus- 
 tom. A sort of embarrassment seemed to paralyze the 
 guests. The two priests, the mayor, and the four farm- 
 ers invited, alone betrayed a little of that broad mirth 
 that is supposed to accompany weddings. 
 
 They had apparently forgotten how to laugh, when a 
 remark of the mayor's woke them up. It was about nine 
 o'clock; coffee was about to be served. Outside, under 
 the apple-trees of the first court, the bal champetre was 
 beginning, and through the open window one could see 
 all that was going on. Lanterns, hung from the branches, 
 gave the leaves a grayish green tint. Rustics and their 
 partners danced in a circle shouting a wild dance tune 
 to the feeble accompaniment of two violins and a clarinet, 
 the players seated on a large table as a platform. The 
 boisterous singing of the peasants at times completely 
 drowTied the instruments, and the feeble strains torn to 
 tatters by the unrestrained voices seemed to fall from 
 the air in shreds, in little fragments of scattered notes. 
 
^S UNE VIE 
 
 Two large barrels surrounded by flaming torches were 
 tapped, and two servant maids were kept busy rinsing 
 glasses and bowls in order to refill them at the tap whence 
 flowed the red wine, or at the tap of the cider barrel. On 
 the table were bread, sausages and cheese. Every one 
 swallowed a mouthful from time to time, and beneath the 
 roof of illuminated foliage this wholesome and boisterous 
 fete made the melancholy watchers in the dining-room long 
 to dance also, and to drink from one of those large bar- 
 rels, while they munched a slice of bread and butter and 
 a raw onion. 
 
 The mayor, who was beating time with his knife, cried: 
 "By Jove, that is all right; it is like the wedding of Gana- 
 che." 
 
 A suppressed giggle was heard, but Abbe Picot, the 
 natural enemy of civil authority, cried: "You mean of 
 Cana." The, other did not accept the correction. "No, 
 monsieur le cure, I know what I am talking about; when 
 I say Ganache, I mean Ganache." 
 
 They rose from table and went into the drawing-room, 
 and then outside to mix with the merrymakers. The 
 guests soon left. 
 
 The baron and the baroness were disputing in a low 
 voice. Madame Adelaide, more out of breath than ever, 
 seemed to be refusing to do something; at last she said in 
 a louder tone: "No, mon "ami, I cannot do it, I should 
 not know how to begin." 
 
 The baron then, leaving her abruptly, approached 
 Jeanne. 
 
 "Will you come with me, daughter?" he said. 
 
 "If you wish, papa," she answered tenderly, and they 
 walked out. A little cold, dry wind was blowing up from 
 the sea, one of those cool summer winds that have a breath 
 of autumn. Clouds were scudding across the sky, hiding 
 the stars at intervals. 
 
 The baron held Jeanne's arm close to his side, while he 
 
UNE VIE 39 
 
 pressed her hand tenderly. They had walked a few min- 
 utes. He seemed unc^ecided, embarrassed. At length he 
 said: 
 
 "Darling, I am going to undertake a difficult task that 
 should fall to your mother, but as she objects to it, I must 
 take her place. I do not know how much you know of 
 the things of real Hfe. There are mysteries that are care- 
 fully hidden from children, young girls especially, young 
 girls who should remain pure in mind, irreproachably pure 
 imtil the moment we give them over into the arms of the 
 man who is to take charge of their future happiness. It 
 will be his place to lift the veil that conceals the sweet 
 secret of life. But unless some suspicion has entered their 
 minds they are disgusted at the somewhat brutal reality 
 hidden beneath their dreams. Wounded in their sensibili- 
 ties, they refuse to their husbands what the law, human 
 as v/ell as natural, accords him as an absolute right. I 
 cannot tell you any more, dearie; but do not forget this, 
 only this, that you belong entirely to your husband." 
 
 What did she know? What did she guess? She began 
 to tremble, oppressed by an overwhelming and painful 
 melancholy, like a presentiment. 
 
 They went into the house. They were surprised to see 
 Madame Adelaide sobbing on Julien's shoulder. Her 
 tears, noisy tears, as if blown out by a pair of bellows, 
 seemed to come from her nose, her mouth and her eyes 
 at the same time; and the young man, dumfounded, awk- 
 ward, was supporting the heavy woman who had sunk 
 into his arms to commend to his care her darling, her 
 little one, her adored daughter. 
 
 The baron rushed toward them, saying: "Oh, no scenes, 
 no tears, I beg of you," and, taking his wife to a chair, 
 he made her sit down, while she wiped away her tears. 
 Then, turning to Jeanne: "Come, little one, kiss your 
 mother and go to bed." 
 
 What happened then? She could hardly have told, for 
 
40 UNE VIE 
 
 she seemed to have lost her head, but she felt a shower of 
 little grateful kisses on her lips. 
 
 Day davmed. Julien awoke, yawned, stretched, looked 
 at his wife, smiled and asked: "Did you sleep well, darl- 
 ing?" 
 
 She noticed that he now said "thou," and she replied, 
 bewildered, "Why, yes. And you?" "Oh, very well," he 
 answered. And turning toward her, he kissed her and then 
 began to chat quietly. He set before her plans of living, 
 with the idea of economy, and this word occurring several 
 times, astonished Jeanne. She listened without grasping 
 the meaning of his words, looked at him, but was think- 
 ing of a thousand things that passed rapidly through her 
 mind hardly leaving a trace. 
 
 The clock struck eight. "Come, we must get up," he 
 said. "It would look ridiculous for us to be late." When 
 he was dressed he assisted his wife with all the little de- 
 tails of her toilet, not allowing her to call Rosalie. As 
 they left the room he stopped. "You know, when we are 
 alone, we can now use 'thou,' but before your parents it is 
 better to wait a while. It will be quite natural when we 
 come back from our wedding journey." 
 
 She did not go down till luncheon was ready. The day 
 passed like any ordinary day, as if nothing new had oc- 
 curred. There was one man more in the house, that was 
 all. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 CORSICA AND A NEW LIFE 
 
 Four days later the travelling carriage arrived that was 
 to take them to Marseilles. 
 
 After the first night Jeanne had become accustomed to 
 Julien's kisses and caresses, although her repugnance to 
 a closer intimacy had not diminished. She thought him 
 handsome, she loved him. She again felt happy and 
 cheerful. 
 
 The farewells were short and without sadness. The 
 baroness alone seemed tearful. As the carriage was just 
 starting she placed a purse, heavy as lead, in her daugh- 
 ter's hand, saying, "That is for your little expenses as a 
 bride." 
 
 Jeanne thrust the purse in her pocket and the carriage 
 started. 
 
 Toward evening Julien said: "How much money did 
 your mother give you in that purse?" 
 
 She had not given it a thought, and she poured out the 
 contents on her knees. A golden shower filled her lap: 
 two thousand francs. She clapped her hands. 'T shall 
 commit all kinds of extravagance," she said as she replaced 
 it in the purse. 
 
 After travelling eight days in terribly hot weather they 
 reached Marseilles. The following day the Roi-Louis, a 
 little mail steamer which went to Naples by way of Ajac- 
 cio, took them to Corsica. 
 
 41 
 
42 UNE VIE 
 
 Corsica! Its "maquis," its bandits, its mountains! The 
 birthplace of Napoleon! It seemed to Jeanne that she 
 was leaving real life to enter into a dream, although wide 
 awake. Standing side by side on the bridge of the 
 steamer, they looked at the cliffs of Provence as they 
 passed swiftly by them. The calm sea of deep blue seemed 
 petrified beneath the ardent rays of the sun. 
 
 "Do you remember our excursion in Pere Lastique's 
 boat?" said Jeanne. 
 
 Instead of replying, he gave her a hasty kiss on the 
 ear. 
 
 The paddle-wheels struck the water, disturbing its tor- 
 por, and a long track of foam like the froth of champagne 
 remained in the wake of the boat, reaching as far as the 
 eye could see. Jeanne drank in with delight the odor 
 of the salt mist that seemed to go to the very tips of her 
 fingers. Everywhere the sea. But ahead of them there 
 was something gray, not clearly defined in the early dawn ; 
 a sort of massing of strange-looking clouds, pointed, 
 jagged, seemed to rest on the waters. 
 
 Presently it became clearer, its outline more distinct 
 on the brightening sky; a large chain of mountains, peaked 
 and weird, appeared. It was Corsica, covered with a light 
 veil of mist. The sun rose behind it, outlining the jagged 
 crests like black shadows. Then all the summits were 
 bathed in lis^ht, while the rest of the island remained cov- 
 ered with mist. 
 
 The captain, a little sun-browned ' man, dried up, 
 stunted, toughened and shrivelled by the harsh salt winds, 
 appeared on the bridge and in a voice hoarse after twenty 
 years of command and worn from shouting amid the 
 storms, said to Jeanne: 
 
 "Do you perceive it, that odor?" 
 
 She certainly noticed a strong and peculiar odor of 
 plants, a wild, aromatic odor. 
 
 "That is Corsica that sends out that fragrance, 
 
UNE VIE 43 
 
 madame," said the captain. "It is her peculiar odor of 
 a pretty woman. After being away for twenty years, I 
 should recognize it five miles out at sea. I belong to it. 
 He, down there, at Saint Helena, he speaks of it always, 
 it seems, of the odor of his native country. He belongs 
 to my family." 
 
 And the captain, taking off his hat, saluted Corsica, 
 saluted down yonder, across the ocean, the great captive 
 emperor who belonged to his family. 
 
 Jeanne was so affected that she almost cried. 
 
 Then, pointing toward the horizon, the captain said: 
 "Les Sanguinaires." 
 
 Julien was standing beside his wife, with his arm round 
 her waist, and they both looked out into the distance to 
 see what he was alluding to. They at length perceived 
 some pyramidal rocks which the vessel rounded presently 
 to enter an immense peaceful gulf surrounded by lofty 
 summits, the base of which was covered with what looked 
 like moss. 
 
 Pointing to this verdant growth, the captain saiil: "Le« 
 maquis." 
 
 As they proceeded on their course the circle of moun- 
 tains appeared to close in behind the steamer, which 
 moved along slowly in such a lake of transparent azure 
 that one could sometimes see to the bottom. 
 
 The town suddenly appeared perfectly white at the 
 end of the gulf, on the edge of the water, at the base of 
 the mountains. Some little Italian boats were anchored in 
 the dock. Four or five rowboats came up beside the 
 Roi-Louis to get passengers. 
 
 Julien, who was collecting the baggage, asked his wife 
 in a low tone: "Twenty sous is enough, is it not, to give 
 to the porter?" For a week he had constantly asked the 
 same question, which annoyed her each time. She replied 
 somewhat impatiently: "When one is not sure of giving 
 enough, one gives too much." 
 
44 UNE VIE 
 
 He was always disputing with the hotel proprietors, 
 with the servants, the drivers, the' vendors of all kinds, 
 and when, by dint of bargaining, he had obtained a reduc- 
 tion in price, he would say to Jeanne as he rubbed his 
 hands: "I do not like to be cheated." 
 
 She trembled whenever a bill came in, certain before- 
 hand of the remarks that he would make about each item, 
 humiliated at this bargaining, blushing up to the roots of 
 her hair beneath the contemptuous glances of the servants 
 as they looked after her husband, while they held in their 
 hand the meagre tip. 
 
 He had a dispute with the boatmen who landed him. 
 
 The first tree Jeanne saw was a palm. They went to 
 a great, empty hotel at the corner of an immense square 
 and ordered breakfast. 
 
 After an hour's rest they arranged an itinerary for their 
 trip, and at the end of three days spent in this little town, 
 hidden at the end of the blue gulf, and hot as a furnace 
 enclosed in its curtain of mountains, which keep every 
 breath of air from it, they decided to hire some saddle 
 horses, so as to be able to cross any difficult pass, and se- 
 lected two little Corsican stallions with fiery eyes, thin and 
 unwearying, and set out one morning at daybreak. A 
 guide, mounted on a mule, accompanied them and 
 carried the provisions, for Jnns are unknown in this wild 
 country. 
 
 The road ran along the gulf and soon turned into a kind 
 of valley, and on toward the high mountains. They fre- 
 quently crossed the dry beds of torrents with only a tiny 
 stream of water trickling underthe stones, gurgling faintly 
 like a wild animal in hiding. /^^'' '^ 
 
 The uncultivated country seemed perfectly barren. The 
 sides of the hills were covered with tall weeds, yellow from 
 the blazing sun. Sometimes they met a mountaineer, 
 either on foot or mounted on a little horse, or astride a 
 donkey about as big as a dog. They all carried a loaded 
 
UNE VIE 45 
 
 rifle slung across their backs, old rusty weapons, but re- 
 doubtable in their hands. 
 
 The pungent odor of the aromatic herbs with which the 
 island is overgrowTi seemed to make the air heavy. The 
 road ascended gradually amid the long curves of the 
 mountains. The red or blue granite peaks gave an ap- 
 pearance of fairyland to the wild landscape, a|id on the 
 foothills immense forests of chestnut trees looked like 
 green brush, compared with the elevations above them. 
 
 Sometimes the guide, reaching out his hand toward 
 some of these heights, would repeat a name. Jeanne and 
 Julien would look where he pointed, but see nothing, until 
 at last they discovered something gray, like a mass of 
 stones fallen from the summit. It was a little village, a 
 hamlet of granite hanging there, fastened on like a veri- 
 table bird's nest and almost invisible on the huge moun- 
 tain. 
 
 Walking their horses like this made Jeanne nervous. 
 "Let us go faster," she said. And she whipped up her 
 horse. Then,- as she did not hear her husband following 
 her, she turned round and laughed heartily as she saw 
 him coming along, pale, and holding on to his horse's mane 
 as it bounced him up and down. His very appearance of 
 a ''beau cavalier" made his awkwardness and timidity all 
 the more comical. 
 
 They trotted along quietly. The road now ran between 
 two interminable forests of brush, which covered the whole 
 side of the mountain like a garment. This was the "Ma- 
 quis," composed of scrub oak, juniper, arbutus, mastic, 
 privet, gorse, laurel, myrtle and boxwood, intertwined with 
 clematis, huge ferns, honeysuckle, cytisus, rosemary, lav- 
 ender and brambles, which covered the sides of the moun- 
 tain with an impenetrable fleece. 
 
 They were hungry. The guide rejoined them and led 
 them to one of those charming springs so frequent in 
 rocky countries, a tiny thread of iced water issuing from 
 
46 UNE VIE 
 
 a little hole in the rock and flowing into a chestnut leaf 
 that some passerby had placed there to guide the water 
 into one's mouth. 
 
 Jeanne felt so happy that she could hardly restrain 
 herself from screaming for joy. 
 
 They continued their journey and began to descend the 
 slope winding round the Bay of Sagone. Toward evening 
 they passed through Cargese, the Greek village founded 
 by a colony of refugees who were driven from their coun- 
 try. Tall, beautiful girls, with rounded hips, long hands 
 and slender waists, and singularly graceful, were grouped 
 beside a fountain. Julien called out, "Good evening," and 
 they replied in musical tones in the harmonious language 
 of their own land. 
 
 When they reached Plana they had to beg for hospi- 
 tality, as in ancient times and in desert lands. Jeanne 
 trembled with joy as they waited for the door to be opened 
 after Julien knocked. Oh, this was a journey worth while, 
 with all the unexpected of unexplored paths. 
 
 It happened to be the home of a young couple. They 
 received the travellers as the patriarchs must have re- 
 ceived the guest sent by God. They had to sleep on a 
 corn husk mattress in an old moldy house. The wood- 
 work, all eaten by worms, overrun with long boring-worms, 
 seemed to emit sounds, to be alive and to sigh. 
 
 They set off again at daybreak, and presently stopped 
 before a forest, a veritable forest of purple granite. There 
 were peaks, pillars, bell-towers, wondrous forms molded 
 by age, the ravaging wind and the sea mist. As much as 
 three hundred metres in height, slender, round, twisted, 
 hooked, deformed, unexpected and fantastic, these amaz- 
 ing rocks looked like trees, plants, animals, monuments, 
 men, monks in their garb, horned devils, gigantic birds, 
 a whole population of monsters, a menagerie of nightmares 
 petrified by the will of some eccentric divinity. 
 
 Jeanne had ceased talking, her heart was full. She took 
 
UNE VIE 47 
 
 Julien's hand and squeezed it, overcome with a longing for 
 love in presence of the beauty of nature. 
 
 Suddenly, as they emerged from this chaos, they saw 
 before them another gulf, encircled by a wall of blood-red 
 granite. And these red rocks were reflected in the blue 
 waters. 
 
 "Oh, Julien!" faltered Jeanne, unable to speak for 
 wonder and choking with her emotion. Two tears fell 
 from her eyes. Julien gazed at her in astonishment and 
 said: 
 
 ''What is the matter, my pet?" 
 
 She wiped away her tears, smiled and replied in a rather 
 shaky voice: 
 
 "Nothing — I am nervous — I do not know — it just came 
 over me. I am so happy that the least thing affects 
 
 me." 
 
 He could not understand these feminine attacks of 
 "nerves," the shocks of these vibrant beings, excited at 
 nothing, whom enthusiasm stirs as might a catastrophe, 
 whom an imperceptible sensation completely upsets, driv- 
 ing them wild with joy or despair. 
 
 These tears seemed absurd to him, and thinking only 
 of the bad road, he said: 
 
 "You would do better to watch your horse." 
 
 They descended an almost impassable path to the shore 
 of the gulf, then turned to the right to ascend the gloomy 
 Val d'Ota. 
 
 But the road was so bad that Julien proposed that they 
 should go on foot. Jeanne w^as delighted. She was en- 
 chanted at the idea of walking, of being alone with him 
 after her late emotion. 
 
 The guide went ahead with the mule and the horses 
 and they walked slowly. 
 
 The mountain, cleft from top to bottom, spreads apart. 
 The path lies in this breach, between two gigantic walls. 
 A roaring torrent flows through the gorge. The air is icy, 
 
48 UNE VIE 
 
 the granite looks black, and high above one the glimpse 
 of blue sky astonishes and bewilders one. 
 
 A sudden noise made Jeanne start. She raised her 
 eyes. An immense bird flew away from a hollow; it was 
 an eagle. His spread wings seemed to brush the two walls 
 of the gorge and he soared into the blue and dis- 
 appeared. '"'^^^ 
 
 Farther on there was a double gorge and the path lay 
 between the two in abrupt zigzags. Jeanne, careless and 
 happy, took the lead, the pebbles rolling away beneath her 
 feet, fearlessly leaning over the abysses. Julien followed 
 her, somewhat out of breath, his e3^es on the ground for 
 fear of becoming dizzy. 
 
 All at once the sun shone down on them, and it seemed 
 as if they were leaving the infernal regions. They were 
 thirsty, and following a track of moisture, they crossed a 
 wilderness of stones and found a little spring conducted 
 into a channel made of a piece of hollowed-out wood for 
 the benefit of the goatherds. A carpet of moss covered the 
 ground all round it, and Jeanne and Julien knelt down to 
 drink. 
 
 As they were enjoying the fresh, cold water, Julien tried 
 to draw Jeanne away to tease her. She resisted and their 
 lips met and parted, and the stream of cold v/ater splashed 
 their faces, their necks, th^ir clothes and their hands, and 
 their kisses mingled in the stream. 
 
 They Vv^ere a long t'me reaching the summit of the de- 
 clivity, as the road v/as so winding and uneven, and they 
 did not reach Evisa until evening and the house of Paoli 
 Palabretti, a relative of their guide. 
 
 He was a tall man, somewhat bent, with the mournful 
 air of a consumptive. He took them to their room, a 
 cheerless room of bare stone, but handsome for this coun- 
 try, v/here all elegance is ignored. He expressed in his 
 language — the Corsican patois, a jumble of French and 
 Italian — his pleasure at welcoming them, when a shrill 
 
UNE VIE 49 
 
 voice interrupted him. A little swarthy woman, with large 
 black eyes, a skin warmed by the sun, a slender waist, 
 teeth alw^ays showing in a perpetual smile, darted for- 
 ward, kissed Jeanne, shook Julien's hand and said: "Good- 
 day, madame; good-day, monsieur; I hope you are well." 
 
 She took their hats, shawls, carrying all on one arm, 
 for the other was in a sling, and then she made them all 
 go outside, saying to her husband: "Go and take them for 
 a walk until dinner time." 
 
 M. Palabretti obeyed at once and walked between the 
 two young people as he showed them the village. He 
 dragged his feet and his words, coughing frequently, and 
 repeating at each attack of coughing: 
 
 "It is the air of the Val, which is cool, and has struck 
 my chest." 
 
 He led them on a by-path beneath enormous chestnut 
 trees. Suddenly he stopped and said in his monotonous 
 voice: "It is here that my cousin, Jean Rinaldi, w^as killed 
 by Mathieu Lori. Sec, I was there, close to Jean, when. 
 Mathieu appeared at ten paces from us. 'Jean,' he cried, 
 'do not go to Albertacce; do not go, Jean, or I will kill 
 you. I warn you!' 
 
 "I took Jean's arm: 'Do not go there, Jean; he will 
 do it.' 
 
 "It was about a girl whom they were both after, Paulina 
 Sinacoupi. 
 
 "But Jean cried out: 'I am going, Mathieu; you will 
 not be the one to prevent me.' 
 
 "Then Mathieu unslung his gun, and before I could 
 adjust mine, he fired. 
 
 "Jean leaped tw^o feet in the air, like a child skipping, 
 yes, monsieur, and he fell back full on me, so that my 
 gun went off and rolled as far as the big chestnut tree 
 over yonder. 
 
 "Jean's mouth was wide open, but he did not utter a 
 word; he was dead." 
 
50 UNE VIE 
 
 The young people gazed in amazement at the cahn 
 witness of this crime. Jeanne asked: 
 
 ''And what became of the assassin?" 
 
 Paoli Palabretti had a long fit of coughing and then 
 said: 
 
 "He escaped to the mountain. It was my brother who 
 killed him the following year. You know, my brother, 
 Philippi Palabretti, the bandit." 
 
 Jeanne shuddered. 
 
 "Your brother a bandit?" 
 
 With a gleam of pride in his eye, the calm Corsican re- 
 plied : 
 
 "Yes, madame. He was celebrated, that one. He laid 
 low six gendarmes. He died at the same time as Nicolas 
 Morali, when they were trapped in the Niolo, after six 
 days of fighting, and were about to die of hunger. 
 
 "The country is worth it," he added with a resigned 
 air in the same tone in which he said: "It is the air of the 
 Val, which is cool." 
 
 Then they went home to dinner, and the little Corsican 
 woman behaved as if she had known them for twenty 
 years. 
 
 But Jeanne was worried. When Julien again held her 
 in his arms, would she experience the same strange and 
 intense sensation that she had felt on the moss beside the 
 spring? And when they were alone together that evening 
 she trembled lest she should still be insensible to his kisses. 
 But she was reassured, and this was her first night of 
 love. 
 
 The next day, as they were about to set out, she de- 
 cided that she would not leave this humble cottage, where 
 it seemed as though a fresh happiness had begun for her. 
 
 She called her host's little wife into her room and. while 
 making clear that she did not mean it as a present, she 
 insisted, even with some annoyance, on sending her from 
 Paris, as soon as she arrived, a remembrance, a remem- 
 
UNE VIE SI 
 
 brance to which she attached an almost superstitious sig- 
 nificance. 
 
 The Httle Corsican refused for some time, not wishing 
 to accept it. But at last she consented, saying: 
 
 "Well, then, send me a little pistol, a very small one." 
 
 Jeanne opened her eyes in astonishment. The other 
 added in her ear, as one confides a sweet and intimate 
 secret: "It is to kill my brother-in-law." And smiling, 
 she hastily unwound the bandages around the helpless 
 arm, and showing her firm, white skin with the scratch 
 of a stiletto across it, now almost healed, she said: "If I 
 had not been almost as strong as he is, he would have 
 killed me. My husband is not jealous, he knows me ; and, 
 besides, he is ill, you know, and that quiets your blood. 
 And, besides, madame, I am an honest woman; but my 
 brother-in-law believes all that he hears. He is jealous 
 for my husband and he will surely try it again. Then I 
 shall have my little pistol; I shall be easy, and sure of 
 my revenge." 
 
 Jeanne promised to send the weapon, kissed her new 
 friend tenderly and they set out on their journey. 
 
 The rest of the trip was nothing but a dream, a contin- 
 ual series of embraces, an intoxication of caresses. She 
 saw nothing, neither the landscape, nor the people, nor 
 the places where they stopped. She saw nothing but 
 Julien. 
 
 On arriving at Bastia, they had to pay the guide. Julien 
 fumbled in his pockets. Not finding what he wanted, he 
 said to Jeanne: "As you are not using your mother's two 
 thousand francs, give them to me to carry. They will be 
 safer in my belt, and it will avoid my having to make 
 change." 
 
 She handed him her purse. 
 
 They went to Leghorn, visited Florence, Genoa and 
 all the Comici. They reached Marseilles on a morning 
 when the north wind was blowing. Two months had 
 
52 UNE VIE 
 
 elapsed since they left the "Poplars." It was novv the 
 15 th of October. 
 
 Jeanne, affected by the cold wind that seemed to come 
 from yonder, from far-off Normandy, felt sad. Julien 
 had, for some time, appeared changed, tired, indifferent, 
 and she feared she knew not what. 
 
 They delayed their return home four days longer, not 
 being able to make up their minds to leave this pleasant 
 land of the sun. It seemed to her that she had come to 
 an end of her happiness. 
 
 At length they left. They were to make all their pur- 
 chases in Paris, prior to settling down for good at the 
 "Poplars," and Jeanne looked forward to bringing back 
 some treasures, thanks to her mother's present. But the 
 first thing she thought of was the pistol promised to the 
 little Corsican woman of Evisa. 
 
 The day after they arrived she said to Julien: "Dear, 
 will you give me that money of mamma's? I want to 
 make my purchases." 
 
 He turned toward her with a look of annoyance. 
 
 "How much do you want?" 
 
 "Why — whatever you please." 
 
 "I will give you a hundred francs," he replied, "but do 
 not squander it." 
 
 She did not know what to say, amazed and confused. 
 At length she faltered: "But — I — handed you the money 
 to- " 
 
 He did not give her time to finish. 
 
 "Yes, of course. Whether it is in my pocket or j^ours 
 makes no difference from the moment that we have the 
 same purse. I do not refuse you, do I, since I am giving 
 you a hundred francs?" 
 
 She took the five gold pieces without saying a word, 
 but she did not venture to ask for any more, and she 
 bought nothing but the pistol. 
 
 Eight days later they set out for the "Poplars." 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 DISENCHANTMENT 
 
 The family and servants were awaiting them outside 
 the white gate with brick supports. The postchaise drew 
 up and there were long and affectionate greetings. Little 
 mother wept; Jeanne, affected, wiped away some tears; 
 father nervously walked up and down. 
 
 Then, as the baggage vras being unloaded, they told of 
 their travels beside the parlor fire. Jeanne's words flowed 
 freely, and everything was told, everything, in a half hour, 
 except, perhaps, a few little details forgotten in this rapid 
 account. 
 
 The young wife then went to undo her parcels. Rosalie, 
 also greatly affected, assisted her. When this was fin- 
 ished and everything had been put away, the little maid 
 left her mistress, and Jeanne, somewhat fatigued, sat 
 down. 
 
 She asked herself what she was now going to do, seeking 
 some occupation for her mind, some work for her hands. 
 She did not care to go down again into the drawing-room, 
 where her mother was asleep, and she thought she would 
 take a walk. But the country seemed so sad that she felt 
 a weight at her heart on only looking out of the window. 
 
 Then it came to her that she had no longer anything 
 to do, never again anything to do. All her young life 
 at the convent had been preoccupied with the future, 
 busied with dreams. The constant excitement of hope 
 
 S3 
 
54 UNE VIE 
 
 filled her hours at. that time, so that she was not aware 
 of their flight. Then hardly had she left those austere 
 walls, where her illusions had unfolded, than her expec- 
 tations of love were at once realized. The longed-for lover, 
 met, loved and married within a few weeks, as one marries 
 on these sudden resolves, had carried her off in his arms, 
 without giving her time for reflection. 
 
 But now the sweet reality of the first days was to be- 
 come the everyday reality, which closed the door on vague 
 hopes, on the enchanting worries of the unknown. Yes, 
 there was nothing more to look forward to. And there 
 was nothing more to do, to-day, to-morrow, never. She 
 felt all thiis vaguely as a certain disillusion, a certain 
 crumbling of her dreams. 
 
 She rose and leaned her forehead against the cold win- 
 dow panes. 
 
 Then, after gazing for some time at the sky across which 
 dark clouds were passing, she decided to go out. 
 
 Was this the same country, the same grass, the same 
 trees as in May? What had become of the sunlit cheer- 
 fulness of the leaves and the poetry of the green grass, 
 where dandelions, poppies and moon daisies bloomed and 
 where yellow butterflies fluttered as though held by in- 
 visible wires? An^ this intoxication of the air teeming 
 with life, with fragrance, with fertilizing pollen, existed 
 no longer! 
 
 The avenues, soaked by the constant autumnal down- 
 pours, were covered with a thick carpet of fallen leaves 
 which extended beneath the shivering bareness of the al- 
 most leafless poplars. She went as far as the shrubbery. 
 It was as sad as the chamber of a dying person. A green 
 hedge which separated the little winding walks was bare 
 of leaves. Little birds flew from place to place with a 
 little chilly cry, seeking a shelter. 
 
 The thick curtain of elm trees that formed a protection 
 against the sea wind, the lime tree and the plane tree with 
 
UNE VIE 55 
 
 their crimson and yellow tints seemed clothed, the one 
 in red velvet and the other in yellow silk. 
 
 Jeanne walked slowly up and down petite mere's avenue, 
 alongside the Couillards' farm. Something weighed on 
 her spirit like a presentiment of the long boredom of the 
 monotonous life about to begin. 
 
 She seated herself on the bank where Julien had first 
 told her of his love and remained there, dreaming, scarcely 
 thinking, depressed to the very soul, longing to lie dowrl^ 
 to sleep, in order to escape the dreariness of the day. 
 
 All at once she perceived a gull crossing the sky, carried 
 away in a gust of wind, and she recalled the eagle she had 
 seen down there in Corsica, in the gloomy vale of Ota. 
 She felt a spasm at her heart as at the remembrance of 
 something pleasant that is gone by, and she had a sudden 
 vision of the beautiful island with its wild perfume, its 
 sun that ripens oranges and lemons, its mountains with 
 their rosy summits, its azure gulfs and its ravines through 
 which the torrents flowed. 
 
 And the moist, severe landscape that surrounded her, 
 with the falling leaves and the gray clouds blown along 
 by the wind, enfolded her in such a heavy mantle of misery 
 that she went back to the house to keep from sobbing. 
 
 Her mother was dozing in a torpid condition in front 
 of the fire, accustomed to the melancholy of the long 
 daysy and not noticing it any longer. Her father and 
 Julien had gone for a walk to talk about business matters. 
 Night was coming on, filling the large drawing-room with 
 gloom lighted by reflections of light from the fire. 
 
 The baron presently appeared, followed by Julien. As 
 soon as the vicomte entered the room he rang the bell, 
 saying: "Quick, quick, let us have some light! It is 
 gloomy in here." 
 
 And he sat down before the fire. Whiie his wet shoes 
 were steaming in the warmth and the mud was drying 
 on his soles, he rubbed his hands cheerfully as he said; 
 
56 UNE VIE 
 
 "I think it is going to freeze; the sky is clearing in the 
 north, and it is full moon to-night; we shall have a stinger 
 to-night." 
 
 Then turning to his daughter: "Well, little one, are 
 you glad to be back again in your own country, in your 
 own home, with the old folks?" 
 
 This simple question upset Jeanne. She threw herself 
 into her father's arms, her eyes full of tears, and kissed 
 him nervously, as though asking pardon, for in spite of 
 her honest attempt to be cheerful, she felt sad enough 
 to give up altogether. She recalled the joy she had prom- 
 ised herself at seeing her parents again, and she was sur- 
 prised at the coldness that seemed to numb her affection, 
 just as if, after constantly thinking of those one loves, 
 when at a distance and unable to see them at any moment, 
 one should feel, on seeing them again, a sort of check of 
 affection, until the bonds of their life in common had been 
 renewed. 
 
 Dinner lasted a long time. No one spoke much. Julien 
 appeared to have forgotten his wife. 
 
 In the drawing-room Jeanne sat before the fire in a 
 drowsy condition, opposite little mother, who was sound 
 asleep. Aroused by the voices of the men, Jeanne asked 
 herself, as she tried to rouse herself, if she, too, was going 
 to become a slave to this dreary lethargy of habit that 
 nothing varies. 
 
 The baron approached the fire, and holding out his 
 hands to the glowing flame, he said, smiling: '^Ah, that 
 burns finely this evening. It is freezing, children; it is 
 freezing." Then, placing his hand on Jeanne's shoulder 
 and pointing to the fire, he said: "See here, little daugh- 
 ter, that is the best thing in life, the hearth, the hearth, 
 with one's own around one. Nothing else counts. But 
 supposing we retire. You children must be tired out." 
 
 When she was in her room, Jeanne asked herself how 
 she could feel so differently on returning a second time 
 
UNE VIE 57 
 
 to the place that she thought she loved. Why did she 
 feel as though she were wounded? Why did this house, 
 this beloved country, all that hitherto had thrilled her 
 with happiness, now appear so distressing? 
 
 Her eyes suddenly fell on her clock. The little bee 
 was still swinging from left to right and from right to left 
 with the same quick, continuous motion above the scarlet 
 blossoms. All at once an impulse of tenderness moved 
 her to tears at sight of this little piece of mechanism that 
 seemed to be alive. She had not been so affected on kiss- 
 ing her father and mother. The heart has mysteries that 
 no arguments can solve. 
 
 For the first time since her marriage she was alone, 
 Julien, under pretext of fatigue, having taken another 
 room. 
 
 She lay awake a long time, unaccustomed to being alone 
 and disturbed by the bleak north wind which beat against 
 the roof. 
 
 She was awakened the next morning by a bright light 
 that flooded her room. She put on a dressing gown and 
 ran to the window and opened it. 
 
 An icy breeze, sharp and bracing, streamed into the 
 room, making her skin tingle and her eyes water. The 
 sun appeared behind the trees on a crimson sky, and the 
 earth, covered with frost and dry and hard, rang out 
 beneath one's footsteps. In one night all the leaves had 
 blown off the trees, and in the distance beyond the level 
 ground was seen the long green line of water, covered 
 with trails of white foam. 
 
 Jeanne dressed herself and went out, and for the sake 
 of an object she went to call on the farmers. 
 
 The Martins held up their hands in surprise, and Mrs. 
 Martin kissed her on both cheeks, and then they made 
 her drink a glass of noyau. She then went to the other 
 farm. The Couillards also were surprised. Mrs. Couil- 
 lard pecked her on the ears and she had to drink a 
 
58 UNE VIE 
 
 glass of cassis. Then she went home to breakfast. 
 
 The day went by like the previous day, cold instead 
 of damp. And the other days of the week resembled these 
 two days, and all the weeks of the month were like the 
 first week. 
 
 Little by little, however, she ceased to regret far-off 
 lands. The force of habit was covering her life with a 
 layer of resignation similar to the limestone formation de- 
 posited on objects by certain springs. And a kind of in- 
 terest for the thousand-and-one little insignificant things 
 of daily life, a care for the simple, ordinary everyday 
 occupations, awakened in her heart. A sort of pensive 
 melancholy, a vague disenchantment with life was growing 
 up in her mind. What did she lack? What did she want? 
 She did not know. She had no worldlv desires, no thirst 
 for amusement, no longing for permissible pleasures. 
 What then? Just as old furniture tarnishes in time, so 
 everything was slowly becoming faded to her eyes, every- 
 thing seemed to be fading, to be taking on pale, dreary 
 shades. 
 
 Her relations with Julien had completely changed. He 
 seemed to be quite different since they came back from 
 their honeymoon, like an actor who has played his part 
 and resumes his ordinary manner. He scarcely paid any 
 attention to her or even spoke to her. All trace of love 
 had suddenly disappeared7 and he seldom came into her 
 room at night. 
 
 He had taken charge of the money and of the house, 
 changed the leases, worried the peasants, cut down ex- 
 penses, and having adopted the costume of a gentleman 
 farmer, he had lost his polish and elegance as a fiance. 
 He always wore the same smt, although it was covered 
 with spots. It was an old velveteen shooting jacket with 
 brass buttons, that he had found among his former ward- 
 robe, and with the carelessness that is frequent with those 
 who no longer seek to please, he had given up shaving, 
 
UNE VIE 59 
 
 and his long beard, badly cut, made an incredible change 
 for the worse in his appearance. His hands were never 
 cared for, and after each meal he drank four or five glasses 
 of brandy. 
 
 Jeanne tried to remonstrate with him gently, but he 
 had answered her so abruptly: "Won't you let me alone!" 
 that she never ventured to give him any more advice. 
 
 She had adapted herself to these changes in a manner 
 that surprised herself. He had become a stranger to her, 
 a stranger whose mind and heart were closed to her. She 
 constantly thought about it, asking herself how it was that 
 after having met, loved, married in an impulse of affection, 
 they should all at once find themselves almost as much 
 strangers as though they had never shared the same room. 
 
 And how was it that she did not feel this neglect more 
 deeply? Was this life? Had they deceived themselves? 
 Did the future hold nothing further for her? 
 
 If Julien had remained handsome, carefully dressed, 
 elegant, she might possibly have suffered more deeply. 
 
 It had been agreed that after the new year the young 
 couple should remain alone and that the father and mother 
 should go back to spend a few months at their house in 
 Rouen. The young people were not to leave the "Pop- 
 lars" that winter, so as to get thoroughly settled and to 
 become accustomed to each other and to the place where 
 all their life would be passed. They had a few neighbors 
 to whom Julien would introduce his wife. These were the 
 Brisevllles, the Colteliers and the Fourvilles. 
 
 But the young people could not begin to pay calls be- 
 cause they had not as yet been able to get a painter to 
 alter the armorial bearings on the carriage. 
 
 The old family coach had been given up to his son-in- 
 law by the baron, and nothing would have induced him 
 to show himself at the neighboring chateau if the coat-of- 
 arms of the De Lamares were not quartered with those 
 of the Le Perthuis des Vauds. 
 
6o ' UNE VIE 
 
 There was only one man in the district who made a 
 specialty of heraldic designs, a painter of Bolbec, called 
 Bataille, who was in demand at all the Norman castles 
 in turn to make these precious designs on the doors of 
 carriages. 
 
 At length one morning in December, just as they were 
 finishing breakfast, they saw an individual open the gate 
 and walk toward the house. He was carrying a box on 
 his back. This was Bataille. 
 
 They offered him some breakfast, and, while he was eat- 
 ing, the baron and Julien made sketches of quarterings. 
 The baroness, all upset as soon as these things were dis- 
 cussed, gave her opinion. And even Jeanne took part in 
 the discussion, as though some mysterious interest had 
 suddenly awakened in her. 
 
 Bataille, while eating, gave his ideas, at times taking 
 the pencil and tracing a design, citing examples, describing 
 all the aristocratic carriages in the countryside, and seemed 
 to have brought with him in his ideas, even in his voice, 
 a sort of atmosphere of aristocracy. 
 
 As soon as he had finished his coffee, they all went 
 to the coach house. They took off the cover of the car- 
 riage and Bataille examined it. He then gravely gave hi? 
 views as to the size he considered suitable for the design, 
 and after an exchange of ideas, he set to work. 
 
 Notwithstanding the cold, the baroness had her chair 
 brought out so as to watch him working, and then her 
 foot-stove, for her feet were freezing. She then began 
 to chat with the painter, on all the recent births, deaths 
 and marriages of which she had not heard, thus adding 
 to the genealogical tree which she carried in her memory. 
 
 Julien sat beside her, astride on a chair. He was smok- 
 ing, spitting on the ground, listening and following with 
 his glances the emblazoning of his rank. 
 
 Presently old Simon, who was on his way to the vege- 
 table garden, his spade on his shoulder, stopped to look 
 
UNE VIE 6i 
 
 at the work; and as Bataille's arrival had become known 
 at the two farms, the farmers' wives soon put in an ap- 
 pearance. They went into raptures, standing one at either 
 side of the baroness, exclaiming: "My! it requires some 
 cleverness all the same to fix up those things." 
 
 The two doors could not be finished before the next 
 day about eleven o'clock. Every one was on hand; and 
 they dragged the carriage outside so as to get a better 
 view of it. 
 
 It was perfect. Bataille was complimented, and went 
 off with his box on his back. They all agreed that the 
 painter had great ability, and if circumstances had 
 been favourable would doubtless have been a great 
 artist. 
 
 Julien, by way of economy, had introduced great re- 
 forms which necessitated making some changes. The old 
 coachman had been made gardener, Julien undertaking 
 to drive him.self, having sold the carriage horses to avoid 
 buying feed for them. But as it was necessary to have 
 some one to hold the horses when he and his wife got out 
 of the carriage, he made a little cow tender named Marius 
 into a groom. Then in order to get some horses, he in- 
 troduced a special clause into the Couillards' and Mar- 
 tins' leases, by which they were bound to supply a horse 
 each, on a certain day every month, the date to be fixed 
 by him; and this would exempt them from their tribute 
 of poultry. 
 
 So the Couillards brought a big yellow horse, and the 
 Martins a small white animal with long, undipped coat, 
 and the two were harnessed up together. ?^Iarius, buried 
 in an old livery belonging to old Simon, led the carriage 
 up to the front door. 
 
 Julien, looking clean and brushed up, looked a little 
 like his former self; but his long beard gave him a common 
 look in spite of all. He looked over the horses, the car- 
 riage, and the little groom, and seemed satisfied, the only 
 
62 UNE VIE 
 
 .^.'*% 
 
 really important thing to him being the newly painted 
 escutcheon. 
 
 The baroness came down leaning on her husband's 
 arm and got into the carriage. Then Jeanne appeared. 
 She began to laugh at the horses, saying that the white 
 one was the son of the yellow horse; then, perceiving 
 Marius, his face buried under his hat with its cockade, 
 his nose alone preventing it from covering his face alto- 
 gether, his hands hidden in his long sleeves, and the tail 
 of his coat forming a skirt round his legs, his feet encased 
 in immense shoes showing in a comical manner beneath 
 it, and then when he threw his head back so as to see, and 
 lifted up his leg to walk as if he were crossing a river, she 
 burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. 
 
 The baron turned round, glanced at the little bewildered 
 groom and he, too, burst out laughing, calling to his wife: 
 "Look at Ma-Ma-Marius! Is he not comical? Heavens, 
 how funny he looks!" 
 
 The baroness, looking out of the carriage window, was 
 also convulsed, so that the carriage shook on its springs. 
 
 But Julien, pale with anger, asked: "What makes you 
 laugh like that? Are you crazy?" 
 
 Jeanne, quite convulsed and unable to stop laughing, 
 sat down on the doorstep; the baron did the same, while, 
 in the carriage, spasmodic sneezes, a sort of constant 
 chuckling, told that the baroness was choking. Presently 
 there was a motion beneath Marius' livery. He had, 
 doubtless, understood the joke, for he was shaking with 
 laughter beneath his hat. 
 
 Julien darted forward in exasperation. With a box on 
 the ear he sent the boy's hat flying across the lawn; then, 
 turning toward his father-in-law, he stammered in a voice 
 trembling with rage: "It seems to me that you should be 
 the last to laugh. We should not be where we are now if 
 you had not wasted your money and ruined your prop- 
 erty. Whose fault is it if you are ruined?" 
 
UNE VIE 63 
 
 The laughter ceased at once, and ho one spoke. 
 Jeanne, now ready to cry, got into the carriage and sat 
 beside her mother. The baron, silent and astonished, 
 took his place opposite the two ladies, and Tulien sat on 
 the box after lifting to the seat beside him the weeping 
 boy, whose face was beginning to swell. 
 
 The road was dreary and appeared long. The occu- 
 pants of the carriage were silent. All three sad and em- 
 barrassed, they would not acknowledge to one another 
 what was occupying their thoughts. They felt that they 
 could not talk on indifferent subjects while these thoughts 
 had possession of them, and preferred to remain silent 
 than to allude to this painful subject. 
 
 They drove past farmyards, the carriage jogging along 
 unevenly with the ill-matched animals, putting to flight 
 terrified black hens who plunged into the bushes and dis- 
 appeared, occasionally followed by a barking wolf-hound. 
 
 At length they entered a wide avenue of pine trees, at 
 the end of which was a white, closed gate. Marius ran 
 to open it, and they drove in round an immense grass 
 plot, and drew up before a high, spacious, sad-looking 
 building with closed shutters. 
 
 The hall door opened abruptly, and an old, paralyzed 
 servant wearing a black waistcoat with red stripes par- 
 tially covered by his working apron slowiy descended the 
 slantinsr steDS. He took the visitors' names and led them 
 into an im.mense reception room, and opened with difficulty 
 the \^enetian blinds which vrere ahvays kept closed. The 
 furniture had covers on it, and the clock and candelabra 
 were wrapped in white muslin. An atmosphere of mildew, 
 an atmosphere of forrp.er daj^s, damp and icy, seemed to 
 permeate one's lungs, heart and skin with melancholy. 
 
 They all sat dowm and waited. They heard steps in 
 the hall above them that betokened unaccustomed haste. 
 The hosts were hurriedly dressing. The baroness, who 
 was chilled, sneezed constantly. Julien paced up and 
 
64 UNE VIE 
 
 down. Jeanne, despondent, sat beside her mother. The 
 baron leaned against the marble , mantelpiece with his 
 head bent down. 
 
 Finally, one of the tall doors opened, and the Vicomte 
 and Vicomtesse de Briseville appeared. They were both 
 small, thin, vivacious, of no age in particular, ceremonious 
 and embarrassed. 
 
 After the first greetings, there seemed to be nothing 
 to say. So they began to congratulate each other for no 
 special reason, and hoped that these friendly relations 
 would be kept up. It was a treat to see people when one 
 lived in the country the year round. 
 
 The icy atmosphere pierced to their bones and made 
 their voices hoarse. The baroness was coughing now and 
 had stopped sneezing. The baron thought it was time to 
 leave. The Brisevilles said: "What, so soon? Stay a 
 little longer." But Jeanne had risen in spite of Julien's 
 signals, for he thought the visit too short. 
 
 They attempted to ring for the servant to order the 
 carriage to the door, but the bell would not ring. The 
 host started out himself to attend to it, but foimd that 
 the horses had been put in the stable. 
 
 They had to wait. Every one tried to think of some- 
 thing to say. Jeanne, involuntarily shivering with cold, 
 inquired what their hosts did to occupy themselves all the 
 year round. The Brisevilles were much astonished; for 
 they were always busy, either writing letters to their aris- 
 tocratic relations, of whom they had a number scattered 
 all over France, or attending to microscopic duties, as 
 ceremonious to one another as though they were strangers, 
 and talking grandiloquently of the most insignificant 
 matters. 
 
 At last the carriage passed the windows with its ill- 
 matched team. But Marius had disappeared. Thinking 
 he was off duty until evening, he had doubtless gone for 
 a walk. 
 
UNE VIE 65 
 
 Julien, perfectly furious, begged them to send him home 
 on foot, and after a great many farewells on both sides, 
 they set out for the "Poplars." 
 
 As soon as they were inside the carriage, Jeanne and 
 her father, in spite of Julien's brutal behaviour of the 
 morning which still weighed on their minds, began to 
 laugh at the gestures and intonations of the Brisevilles. 
 The baron imitated the husband, and Jeanne the wife. 
 But the baroness, a little touchy in these particulars, said: 
 "You are wrong to ridicule them thus; they are people 
 of excellent family." They were silent out of respect for 
 little mother, but nevertheless, from time to time, Jeanne 
 and her father began again. The baroness could not for- 
 bear smiling in her turn, but she repeated: "It is not nice 
 to laugh at people who belong to our class." 
 
 Suddenly the carriage stopped, and Julien called out 
 to someone behind it. Then Jeanne and the baron, leaning 
 out, saw a singular creature that appeared to be rolling 
 along toward them. His legs entangled in his flowing 
 coattails, and blinded by his hat which kept falling over 
 his face, shaking his sleeves like the sails of a windmill, 
 and splashing into puddles of water, and stumbling against 
 stones in the road, running and bounding, Marius was 
 following the carriage as fast as his legs could carry him. 
 
 As soon as he caught up with it, Julien, leaning over, 
 seized him by the collar of his coat, sat him do\yn beside 
 him, and letting go the reins, began to shower blows on 
 the boy's hat, which sank down to his shoulders with the 
 reverberations of a drum. The boy screamed, tried to get 
 away, to jump from the carriage, while his master, holding 
 him with one hand, continued beating him with the 
 other. 
 
 Jeanne, dumfounded, stammered: "Father — oh, father!" 
 And the baroness, wild with indignation, squeezed her 
 husband's arm. "Stop him. Jack!" she exclaimed. The 
 baron quickly lowered the front windov/, and seizing hold 
 of his son-in-law's sleeve, he sputtered out in a voice 
 
66 UNE VIE 
 
 trembling with rage: "Have you almost finished beating 
 that child?" 
 
 Julien turned round in astonishment: "Don't you see 
 what a condition his livery is in?" 
 
 But the baron, placing his head between them, said: 
 "Well, what do I care? There is no need to be brutal like 
 that!" 
 
 Julien got angry again: "Let me alone, please; this is 
 not your affair! " And he was raising his hand again when 
 his father-in-law caught hold of it and dragged it down so 
 roughly that he knocked it against the wood of the seat, 
 and he roared at him so loud: "If you do not stop, I shall 
 get out, and I will see that you stop it, myself," that Julien 
 calmed down at once, and, shrugging his shoulders with- 
 out replying, he whipped up the horses, who set out at 
 a quick trot. 
 
 The two women, pale as death, did not stir, and one 
 could hear distinctly the thumping of the baroness' 
 heart. 
 
 At dinner Julien was more charming than usual, as 
 though nothing had occurred. Jeanne, her father, and 
 Madame Adelaide, pleased to see him so amiable, fell in 
 with his mood, and when Jeanne mentioned the Brisevilles, 
 he laughed at them himself, adding, however: "All the 
 same, they have the grand air." 
 
 They made no more visits, each one fearing to revive 
 the Marius episode. They decided to send New Year's 
 cards, and to wait until the warm days of spring before 
 paying any more calls. 
 
 At Christmas they invited the cure, the mayor and his 
 wife to dinner, and again on New Year's Day. These 
 were the only events that varied the monotony of their 
 life. The baron and his wife were to leave "The Pop- 
 lars" on the ninth of January. Jeanne wanted to keep 
 them, but Julien did not acquiesce, and the baron sent 
 for a post-chaise from Rouen, seeing his son-in-law's cool- 
 ness. 
 
UNE VIE 67 
 
 The day before their departure, as it was a clear frost, 
 Jeanne and her father decided to go to Yport, which they 
 had not visited since her return from Corsica. They 
 crossed the wood where she had strolled on her wedding- 
 day, all wrapped up in the one whose lifelong companion 
 she had become; the wood where she had received her 
 first kiss, trembled at the first breath of love, had a pre- 
 sentiment of that sensual love of which she did not become 
 aware until she was in the wild vale of Ota beside the 
 spring where they mingled their kisses as they drank of 
 its waters. The trees were now leafless, the climbing vines 
 dead. 
 
 They entered the little village. The empty, silent 
 streets smelled of the sea, of wrack, of fish. Huge brown 
 nets were still hanging up to dry outside the houses, or 
 stretched out on the shingle. The gray, cold sea, with its 
 eternal roaring foam, was going out, uncovering the 
 green rocks at the foot of the cliff toward Fecamp. 
 
 Jeanne and her father, motionless, watched the fisher- 
 men setting out in their boats in the dusk, as they 
 did every night, risking their lives to keep from starv- 
 ing, and so poor, nevertheless, that they never tasted 
 meat. 
 
 The baron, inspired at the sight of the ocean, mur- 
 mured: "It is terrible, but it is beautiful. How magnifi- 
 cent this sea is one which the darkness is falling, and 
 on which so many lives are in peril, is it not, Jean- 
 nette?" 
 
 She replied with a cold smile: "It is nothing to the 
 Mediterranean." 
 
 Her father, indignant, exclaimed: "The Mediterranean! 
 It is oil, sugar water, bluing water in a washtub. Look 
 at this sea, how terrible it is with its crests of foam! 
 And think of all those men who have set out on it, and 
 who are already out of sight." 
 
 Jeanne assented with a sigh: "Yes, if you think so." 
 But this name, "Mediterranean," had wrung her heart 
 
 n 
 
68 UNE VIE 
 
 afresh, sending her thoughts back to those distant lands 
 where her dreams lay buried. 
 
 Instead of returning home by the woods, they walked 
 along the road, mounting the ascent slowly. They were 
 silent, sad at the thought of the approaching separation. 
 As they passed along beside the farmyards an odor of 
 crushed apples, that smell of new cider which seems to 
 pervade the atmosphere in this season all through Nor- 
 mandy, rose to their nostrils, or else a strong smell of the 
 cow* stables. A small lighted window at the end of the 
 yard indicated the farmhouse. 
 
 It seemed to Jeanne that her mind was expanding, was 
 beginning to understand the psychic meaning of things; 
 and these little scattered gleams in the landscape gave her, 
 all at once, a keen sense of the isolation of all human 
 lives, a feeling that everything detaches, separates, draws 
 one far away from the things they love. 
 
 She said, in a resigned tone: "Life is not always cheer- 
 ful." 
 
 The baron sighed: "How can it be helped, daughter? 
 We can do nothing." 
 
 The following day the baron and his wife went away, 
 and Jeanne and Julien were left alone. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 Jeanne's discovery 
 
 Cards now became a distraction in the life of the 
 young people. Every morning after breakfast, Julien 
 would play several games of bezique with his wife, smoking 
 and sipping brandy as he played. She would then go 
 up to her room and sit down beside the window, and as 
 the rain beat against the panes, or the wind shook the 
 windows, she would embroider away steadily. Occasion- 
 ally she would raise her eyes and look out at the gray 
 sea which had white-caps on it. Then, after gazing list- 
 lessly for some time, she would resume her work. 
 
 She had nothing else to do, Julien having taken the 
 entire management of the house, to satisfy his craving for 
 authority and his craze for economy. He was parsimoni- 
 ous in the extreme, never gave any tips, cut down the 
 food to the merest necessaries; and as Jeanne since her 
 return had ordered the baker to make her a little Nor- 
 man "galette" for breakfast, he had cut do^Mi this extra 
 expense, and condemned her to eat toast. 
 
 She said nothing in order to avoid recriminations, argu- 
 ments and quarrels; but she suffered keenly at each fresh 
 manifestation of avarice on the part of her husband. It 
 appeared to her low and odious, brought up as she had 
 been in a family where money was never considered. How 
 often had she not heard her mother say: "^Vhy, money is 
 made to be spent." Julien would now say: "Will you 
 
 69 
 
70 UNE VIE 
 
 never become accustomed to not throwing money away?" 
 And each time he deducted a few -sous from some one's 
 salary, or on a note, he would say with a smile, as he 
 slipped the change into his pocket: "Little streams make 
 big rivers." 
 
 On certain days Jeanne would sit and dream. She 
 would gradually cease sewing and, with her hands idle, 
 and forgetting her surroundings, she would weave one 
 of those romances of her girlhood and be lost in some en- 
 chanting adventure. But suddenly Julien's voice giving 
 some orders to old Simon would snatch her abruDtlv from 
 her dreams, and she would take up her work again, say- 
 ing: "That is all over," and a tear would fall on her hands 
 as she plied the needle. 
 
 Rosalie, formerly so cheerful and alv/ays sinsjing, had 
 changed. Her rounded cheeks had lost their color, and 
 were now almost hollow, and sometimes had an earthy 
 hue. Jeanne would frequently ask her: "Are you ill, my 
 girl?" The little maid would reply: "No, madame," 
 while her cheeks would redden slightly and she would 
 retire hastily. 
 
 At the end of January the snow came. In one night 
 the whole plain was covered and the trees next morning 
 were white with icy foam. 
 
 On one of these mornings, Jeanne was sitting warm- 
 ing her feet before the fire In her room, while Rosalie, who 
 had changed from day to day, was making the bed. Sud- 
 denly hearing behind her a kind of moan, Jeanne asked, 
 without turning her head: "What is the matter?" 
 
 The maid replied as usual: "Nothing, madame"; but 
 her voice was weak and trembling. 
 
 Jeanne's thoughts were on something else, when she no- 
 ticed that the girl was not moving about the room. She 
 called: "Rosalie!" Still no sound. Then, thinking she 
 might have left the room, she cried in a louder tone: 
 "Rosalie!" and she was reaching out her arm to ring the 
 
UNE VIE 71 
 
 bell, when a deep moan close beside her made her start 
 up with a shudder. 
 
 The little servant, her face livid, her eyes haggard, was 
 seated on the floor, her legs stretched out, and her back 
 leaning against the bed. Jeanne sprang toward her. 
 "What is the matter with you — what is the matter?" she 
 asked. 
 
 The girl did not reply, did not move. She stared va- 
 cantly at her mistress and gasped as though she were in 
 terrible pain. Then, suddenly, she slid down on her back 
 at full length, clenching her teeth to smother a cry of 
 anguish. 
 
 Jeanne suddenly understood, and almost distracted, 
 she ran to the head of the staars, crying: "Julien, 
 Julien!" 
 
 "What do you want?" he replied from below. 
 
 She hardly knew how to tell him. "It is Rosalie, 
 who " 
 
 JuHen rushed upstairs two steps at a time, and, go-ing 
 abruptly into the room, he found the poor girl had just 
 been delivered of a child. He looked round with a wicked 
 look on his face, and pushing his terrified wife out of the 
 room, exclaimed: "This is none of your affair. Go away. 
 Send me Ludivine and old Simon." 
 
 Jeanne, trembling, descended to the kitchen, and then, 
 not daring to go upstairs again, she went into the drawing- 
 room, in which there had been no fire since her parents 
 left, and anxiously awaited news. 
 
 She presently saw the man-servant running out of the 
 house. Five minutes later he returned with Widow Dentu, 
 the nurse of the district. 
 
 Then there Yms a great commotion on the stairs as 
 though they -"^-^-re carrying a wounded person, and Julien 
 came in and t. Id Jeanne that she might go back ta her 
 room. 
 
 She trembled as if she had witnessed some terrible acci- 
 
72 UNE VIE 
 
 dent. She sat down again before the fire, and asked: 
 "How is she?" 
 
 Julien, preoccupied and nervous, was pacing up and 
 down the room. He seemed to be getting angry, and did 
 not reply at first. Then he stopped and said: "What do 
 you intend to do with this girl?" 
 
 She did not understand, and looked at her husband. 
 "Why, what do you mean? I do not know." 
 
 Then suddenly flying into a rage, he exclaimed: "We 
 cannot keep a bastard in the house." 
 
 Jeanne was very much bewildered, and said at the end 
 of a long silence: "But, my friend, perhaps we could put 
 it out to nurse?" 
 
 He cut her short: "And who will pay the bill? You 
 will, no doubt." 
 
 She reflected for some time, trying to find some way 
 out of the difficulty; at length she said: "Why, the father 
 will take care of it, of the child ; and if he marries Rosalie, 
 there will be no more difficulty." 
 
 Julien, as though his patience were exhausted, replied 
 furiously: "The father! — the father! — do you know him 
 —the father? No, is it not so? Well then ?" 
 
 Jeanne, much affected, became excited: "But you cer- 
 tainly would not let the girl go away like that. It would 
 be cowardly! We will inquire the name of the man, and 
 we will go and find him, and he will have to explain mat- 
 ters." 
 
 Julien had calmed down and resumed his pacing up 
 and down. "My dear," he said, "she will not tell the 
 name of the man ; she will not tell you any more than she 
 will tell me — and, if he does not want her? . . . We 
 cannot, however, keep a woman and her illegitimate child 
 under our roof, don't you understand?" 
 
 Jeanne, persistent, replied: "Then he must be a wretch, 
 this man. But we must certa'nly find out who it is, and 
 then he will have us to deal with." 
 
UNE VIE 73 
 
 Julien colored, became annoyed again, and said: "But 
 — meanwhile ?" 
 
 She did not know what course to take, and asked: 
 "What do you propose?" 
 
 "Oh, I? That's very simple. I would give her some 
 money and send her to the devil with her brat." 
 
 The young wife, indignant, was disgusted with him. 
 "That shall never be," she said. "She is my foster-sister, 
 that girl; we grew up together. She has made a mistake, 
 so much the worse; but I will not cast her out of doors 
 on that account; and, if it is necessary, I will bring up 
 the child." 
 
 Then Julien 's wrath exploded: "And we should earn 
 a fine reputation, we, with our name and our position! 
 And they would say of us everywhere that we were pro- 
 tecting vice, harboring beggars; and decent people would 
 never set their foot inside our doors. What are you think- 
 ing of? You must be crazy!" 
 
 She had remained quite calm. "I shall never cast off 
 Rosalie; and if you do not wish her to stay, my mother 
 will take her; and we shall surely succeed in finding out 
 the name of the father of the child." 
 
 He left the room in exasperation, banging the door 
 after him and exclaiming: "WTiat stupid ideas women 
 have!" 
 
 In the afternoon Jeanne went up to see the patient. 
 The little maid, watched over by W^idow Dentu, was lying 
 still in her bed, her eyes wide open, while the nurse held 
 the new-born babe in her arms. 
 
 As soon as Rosalie perceived her mistress, she began 
 to sob, hiding her face in the covers and shaking with her 
 sorrow. Jeanne wanted to kiss her, but she avoided it 
 by keeping her face covered. But the nurse interfered, 
 and, drawing away the sheet, uncovered her face, and she 
 let Jeanne kiss her, weeping still, but more quietly. 
 
 A meagre fire was burning in the grate; the room was 
 
74 UNE VIE 
 
 cold; tlie child was crying. Jeanne did not dare to speak 
 of the little one, for fear of another attack, and she took 
 her maid's hand as she said mechanically: "It will not 
 matter, it will not matter." The poor girl glanced fur- 
 tively at the nurse, and trembled as the infant cried, and 
 the remembrance of her sorrow came to her mind occa- 
 sionally in a convulsive sob, while suppressed tears choked 
 her. 
 
 Jeanne kissed her again, and murmured softly in her 
 ear: ''We will take good care of it, never fear, my girl." 
 Then as she was beginning to cry again, Jeanne made her 
 escape. 
 
 She came to see her every day, and each time Rosalie 
 burst into tears at the sight of her mistress. 
 
 The child was put out to nurse at a neighbor's. 
 
 Julien, however, hardly spoke to his wife, as though 
 he had nourished anger against her ever since she refused 
 to send away the maid. He referred to the subject one 
 day, but Jeanne took from her pocket a letter from the 
 baroness asking them to send the girl to them at once if 
 they would not keep her at the "Poplars." Julien, furious, 
 cried: "Your mother is as foolish as vou are!" but he did 
 not insist any more. 
 
 Two weeks later the patient was able to get up and 
 take up her work again. 
 
 One morning, Jeanne made her sit down and, taking 
 her hands and looking steadfastly at her, she said: 
 
 "See here, my girl, tell me everything." 
 
 Rosalie began to tremble, and faltered: 
 
 "What, madame?" 
 
 "Whose is it, this child?" 
 
 The little maid was overcome with confusion, and she 
 sought wildly to withdraw her hands so as to hide her 
 face. But Jeanne kissed her in spite of herself, and con- 
 soled her, saying: "It is a misfortune, but cannot be 
 helped, my girl. You were weak, but that happens to 
 
UNE VIE 75 
 
 many others. If the father marries you, no one will think 
 of it again." 
 
 Rosalie sighed as if she were suffering, and from time 
 to time made an effort to disengage herself and run 
 away. 
 
 Jeanne resumed: "I understand perfectly that you are 
 ashamed; but you see that I am not angry, that I speak 
 kindly to you. If I ask you the name of the man it is 
 for your own good, for I feel from your grief that he has 
 deserted you, and because I wish to prevent that. Julien 
 will go and look for him, you see, and we will oblige him 
 to marry you; and as we will employ you both, we will 
 oblige him also to make you happy." 
 
 This time Rosalie gave such a jerk that she snatched 
 her hands away from her mistress and ran off as if she 
 were mad. 
 
 That evening at dinner Jeanne said to Julien: "I tried 
 to persuade Rosalie to tell me the name of her betrayer. 
 I did not succeed. You try to find out so that we can 
 compel this miserable man to marry her." 
 
 But Julien became angry: "Oh! you know I do not 
 wish to hear anything about it. You wish to keep this 
 girl. Keep her, but do not bother me about her." 
 
 Since the girl's illness he appeared to be more irritable 
 than ever; and he had got into the way of never speaking 
 to his wife without shouting as if he were in a rage, while 
 she, on the contrary, would lower her voice, be gentle and 
 conciliating, to avoid all argument; but she often wept at 
 night after she went to bed. 
 
 In spite of his constant irritability, her husband had 
 become more affectionate than customary since their re- 
 turn. 
 
 Rosalie was soon quite well and less sad, although she 
 appeared terrified, pursued by some unknown fear, and 
 she ran away twice when Jeanne tried to question her 
 again. 
 
76 UNE VIE 
 
 Julien all at once became more amiable, and the young 
 wife, clinging to vain hopes, also -became more cheerful. 
 The thaw had not yet set in and a hard, smooth, glittering 
 covering of snow extended over the landscape. Neither 
 men nor animals were to be seen; only the chimneys of 
 the cottages gave evidence of life in the smoke that as- 
 cended from them into the icy air. 
 
 One evening the thermometer fell still lower, and Julien, 
 shivering as he left the table — for the dining-room was 
 never properly heated, he was so economical with the 
 wood — rubbed his hands, murmuring: "It will be warmer 
 to-night, won't it, my dear?" He laughed with his jolly 
 laugh of former days, and Jeanne threw her arms around 
 his neck: "I do not feel well, dear; perhaps I shall be 
 better to-morrow." 
 
 "As you wish, my dear. If you are ill you must take 
 care of yourself." And they began to talk of other 
 things. 
 
 She retired early. Julien, for a wonder, had a fire 
 lighted in her room. As soon as he saw that it was burn- 
 ing brightly, he kissed his wife on the forehead and left 
 the room. 
 
 The whole house seemed to be penetrated by the cold; 
 the very walls seemed to be shivering, and Jeanne shiv- 
 ered in her bed. Twice she got up to put fresh logs on 
 the fire and to look for dresses, skirts, and other gar- 
 ments which she piled on the bed. Nothing seemed 
 to warm her; her feet were numbed and her lower limbs 
 seemed to tingle, making her excessively nervous and 
 restless. 
 
 Then her teeth began to chatter, her hands shook, there 
 was a tightness in her chest, her heart began to beat with 
 hard, dull pulsations, and at times seemed to stop beat- 
 ing, and she gasped for breath. 
 
 A terrible apprehension seized her, while the cold seemed 
 to penetrate to her marrow. She never had felt such a 
 
UNE VIE 77 
 
 sensation, she had never seemed to lose her hold on life 
 like this before, never been so near her last breath. 
 
 "I am going to die," she thought, ''I am dying " 
 
 And, filled with terror, she jumped out of bed, rang for 
 Rosalie, waited, rang again, waited again, shivering and 
 frozen. 
 
 The little maid did not come. She was doubtless asleep, 
 that first, sound sleep that nothing can disturb. Jeanne, 
 in despair, darted toward the stairs in her bare feet, and 
 groping her way, she ascended the staircase quietly, found 
 the door, opened it, and called, "Rosalie!" She went for- 
 ward, stumbled against the bed, felt all over it with her 
 hands and found that it was empty. It was empty and 
 cold, and as if no one had slept there. Much surprised, 
 she said: "What! Has she gone out in weather like 
 this?" 
 
 But as her heart began to beat tumultuously till she 
 seemed to be suffocating, she went downstairs again with 
 trembling limbs in order to wake Julien. She rushed into 
 his room filled with the idea that she was going to die, 
 and longing to see him before she lost consciousness. 
 
 By the light of the dying embers she perceived Rosalie's 
 head leaning on her husband's shoulder. 
 
 At the cry she gave they both started to their feet; 
 she stood motionless for a second, horrified at this dis- 
 covery, and then fled to her room; and when Julien, at 
 his wit's end, called "Jeanne!" she was seized with an 
 overmastering terror of seeing him, of hearing his voice, 
 of listening to him explaining, lying, of meeting his gaze; 
 and she darted toward the stairs again and went do\A'n. 
 
 She now ran along in the darkness, at the risk of fall- 
 ing downstairs, at the risk of breaking her neck on the 
 stone floor of the hall. She rushed along, impelled by an 
 imperious desire to flee, to know nothing about it, to see 
 no one. 
 
 When she was at the bottom of the stairs she sat down 
 
78 UNE VIE 
 
 on one of the steps, still in her nightdress, and in bare 
 feet, and remained in a dazed condition. She heard Julien 
 moving and walking about. She started to her feet in 
 order to escape him. He was starting to come down- 
 stairs and called:- "Listen, Jeanne!" 
 
 No, she would not listen nor let him touch her with the 
 tips of his fingers; and she darted into the dining-room as 
 if fleeing from an assassin. She looked for a door of 
 escape, a hiding place, a dark corner, some way of avoid- 
 ing him. She hid under the table. But he was already 
 at the door, a candle in his hand, still calling: "Jeanne!" 
 She started off again like a hare, darted into the kitchen, 
 ran round it twice like a trapped animal, and as he came 
 near her, she suddenly opened the door into the garden 
 and darted out into the night. 
 
 The contact with the snow, into which she occasionally 
 sank up to her knees, seemed to give her the energy of 
 despair. She did not feel cold, although she had little on. 
 She felt nothing, her body was so numbed from the emo- 
 tion of her mind, and she ran along as white as the 
 snow. 
 
 She followed the large avenue, crossed the wood, crossed 
 the ditch, and started off across the plain. 
 
 There was no moon, the stars were shining like sparks 
 of fire in the black sky; but the plain was light with a 
 dull whiteness, and lay in infinite silence. 
 
 Jeanne walked quickly, hardly breathing, not knowing, 
 not thinking of anything. She suddenly stopped on the 
 edge of the cliff. She stopped short, instinctively, and 
 crouched down, bereft of thought and of will power. 
 
 In the abyss before her the silent, invisible sea exhaled 
 the salt odor of its wrack at low tide. 
 
 She remained thus some time, her mind as inert as her 
 body; then, all at once, she began to tremble, to tremble 
 violently, like a sail shaken by the wind. Her arms, 
 her hands, her feet, impelled by an invisible force. 
 
UNE VIE 79 
 
 throbbed, pulsated wildly, and her consciousness awakened 
 abruptly, sharp and poignant. 
 
 Old memories passed before her mental vision: the sail 
 with him in Pere Lastique's boat, their conversation, his 
 nascent love, the christening of the boat; then she went 
 back, further back, to that night of dreams when she first 
 came to the "Poplars." And now! And now! Oh, her 
 life was shipwrecked, all joy was ended, all expectation at 
 an end; and the frightful future full of torture, of decep- ' 
 tion, and of despair appeared before her. Better to die, 
 it would all be over at once. 
 
 But a voice cried in the distance: "Here it is, here are 
 her steps; quick, quick, this way!" It was Julien who 
 was looking for her. 
 
 Oh! she did not wish to see him again. In the abyss 
 down yonder before her she now heard a slight sound, 
 the indistinct ripple of the waves over the rocks. She 
 rose to her feet with the idea of throwing herself over the 
 cliff and bidding life farewell. Like one in despair, she 
 uttered the last word of the dying, the last word of the 
 young soldier slain in battle: "Mother!" 
 
 All at once the thought of little mother came to her 
 mind, she saw her sobbing, she saw her father on his 
 knees before her mangled remains, and in a second she 
 felt all the pain of their sorrow. 
 
 She sank down again into the snow; and when Julien 
 and old Simon, followed by Marius, carrying a lantern, 
 seized her arm to pull her back as she was so close to the 
 brink, she made no attempt to escape. 
 
 She let them do as they would, for she could not stir. 
 She felt that they were carrying her, and then that she was 
 being put to bed and rubbed with hot cloths; then she 
 became unconscious. 
 
 Then she had a nightmare, or was it a nightmare? She 
 was in bed. It was broad daylight, but she could not get 
 up. Why? She did not know. Then she heard a little 
 
8o UNE VIE 
 
 noise on the floor, a sort of scratching, a rusthng, and 
 suddenly a mouse, a little gray mouse, ran quickly across 
 the sheet. Another followed it, then a third, who ran to- 
 ward her chest with his little, quick scamper. Jeanne was 
 not afraid, and she reached out her hand to catch the 
 animal, but could not catch it. Then other mice, ten, 
 twenty, hundreds, thousands, rose up on all sides of her. 
 They climbed the bedposts, ran up the tapestries, covered 
 the bed completely. And soon they got beneath the cov- 
 ers; Jeanne felt them gliding over her skin, tickling her 
 I'mbs, running up and down her body. She saw them run- 
 ning from the bottom of the bed to get into her neck under 
 the sheets; and she tried to fight them off, throwing her 
 hands out to try and catch them, but always finding them 
 empty. 
 
 She was frantic, wanted to escape, screamed, and it 
 seemed as if she were being held down, as if strong arms 
 enfolded her and rendered her helpless; but she saw no 
 one. 
 
 She had no idea of time. It must have been long, 
 a very long time. 
 
 Then she awoke, weary, aching, but quiet. She felt 
 weak very weak. She opened her eyes and was not sur- 
 prised to see little mother seated in her room with a man 
 whom she did not know._ 
 
 How old was she? She did not know, and thought she 
 was a very little girl. She had no recollection of any- 
 thing 
 
 The big man said: "Why, she has regained conscious- 
 ness.' Little mother began to weep. Then the big man 
 resumed: "Come, be calm, baroness; I can ensure her 
 recovery now. But do not talk to her at all. Let her 
 sleep, let her sleep." 
 
 Then it seemed to Jeanne that she remained in a state 
 of exhaustion for a long time, overcome by a heavy sleep 
 as soon as she tried to think; and she tried not to remem- 
 
UNE VIE 8 1 
 
 ber anything whatever, as though she had a vague fear 
 that reality might come back to her. 
 
 Once when she awoke she saw Julien, alone, standing 
 beside her; and suddenly it all came back to her, as if 
 the curtain which hid her past life had been raised. 
 
 She felt a horrible pain in her heart, and wanted to 
 escape once more. She threw back the coverlets, jumped 
 to the floor and fell down, her limbs being too weak to 
 support her. 
 
 Julien sprang toward her, and she began to scream for 
 him not to touch her. She writhed and rolled on the 
 floor. The door opened. Aunt Lison came running in 
 with Widow Dentu, then the baron, and finally little 
 mother, puffing and distracted. 
 
 They put her back into bed, and she immediately closed 
 her eyes, so as to escape talking and be able to think 
 quietly. 
 
 Her mother and aunt watched over her anxiously, say- 
 ing: "Do you hear us now, Jeanne, my little Jeanne?" 
 
 She pretended to be deaf, not to hear them, and did 
 not answer. Night came on and the nurse took up her 
 position beside the bed. She did not sleep; she kept 
 trying to think of things that had escaped her memory as 
 though there were holes in it, great white empty places 
 where events had not been noted down. 
 
 Little by little she began to recall the facts, and she 
 pondered over them steadily. 
 
 Little mother. Aunt Lison, the baron had come, so she 
 must have been very ill. But Julien? What had he 
 said? Did her parents know? And Rosalie, where was 
 she? And what should she do? What should she do? 
 An idea came to her — she would return to Rouen and 
 live with father and little mother as in old days. She 
 would be a widow; that's all. 
 
 Then she waited, listening to what was being said 
 around her, understcmding everything without letting 
 
82 UNE VIE 
 
 them see it, rejoiced at her returning reason, patierit a-:d 
 crafty. 
 
 That eveni.^g, at last, she found herself alone with the 
 baroness and called to her in a low tone: "Little 
 mother!" Her own voice astonished her, it seemed 
 strange. The baroness seized her hands: "My daughter, 
 my darling Jeanne! My child, do you recognize me?" 
 
 "Yes, little mother, but you must not weep; v^e have a 
 great deal to talk about. Did Julien tell you why I ran 
 away in the snow?" 
 
 "Yes, my darling, you had a very dangerous fever." 
 
 **It was not that, mamma. I had the fever afterward; 
 but did he tell you what gave me the fever and why I 
 ran away?" 
 
 "No, my dearie." 
 
 "It was because I found Rosalie in his room." 
 
 Her mother thought she was delirious again and soothed 
 her, saying: "Go to sleep, darling, calm yourself, try 
 to sleep." 
 
 But Jeanne, persistent, continued: "I am quite sen- 
 sible now, little mother. I am not talking wildly as I 
 must have done these last days. I felt ill one night and 
 I went to look for Julien. Rosalie was with him in his 
 room. I did not know what I was doing, for sorrow, 
 and I ran out into the snow to throw myself off the 
 cliff." 
 
 But the baroness reiterated, "Yes, darling, you have 
 been very ill, very ill." 
 
 "It is not that, mamma. I found Rosalie in with Julien, 
 and I will not live with him any longer. You will take 
 me back with you to Rouen to live as we used to do." 
 
 The baroness, whom the doctor had warned not to 
 thwart Jeanne in any way, replied: "Yes, my darling." 
 
 But the invalid grew impatient: "I see that you do 
 not believe me. Go and fetch little father, he will soon 
 understand." 
 
UNE VIE 83 
 
 The baroness left the room and presently returned, 
 leaning on her husband's arm. They sat down beside 
 the bed and Jeanne began to talk. She told them all, 
 quietly, in a weak voice, but clearly; all about Julien's 
 peculiar character, his harshness, his avarice, and, finally, 
 his infidelity. 
 
 When she had finished, the baron saw that she was 
 not delirious, but he did not know what to think, w^hat 
 to determine, or w^hat to answer. He took her hand, 
 tenderly, as he used to do when he put her to sleep with 
 stories, and said: "Listen, dearie, we must act with 
 prudence. We must do nothing rash. Try to put up 
 with your husband until we can come to some decision — 
 promise me this?" 
 
 "I will try, but I will not stay here after I get well," 
 she replied. 
 
 Then she added in a lower tone: "WTiere is Rosalie 
 now?" 
 
 "You will not see her any more," replied the baron. 
 But she persisted: "Where is she? I wish to know." 
 Then he confessed that she had not left the house, but 
 declared that she was going to leave. 
 
 On leaving the room the baron, filled with indignation 
 and wounded in his feelings as a father, Vv-ent to look for 
 Julien, and said to him abruptly: "Sir, I have come to 
 ask you for an explanation of your conduct toward my 
 daughter. You have been unfaithful to her with your 
 rnaid, v;hich is a double insult." 
 
 Julien pretended to be innocent, denied everything 
 positively, swore, took God as his witness. Wh3it proof 
 had they? he asked. Was not Jeanne delirious? Had 
 she not had brain fever? Had she not run out in the 
 snow, in an attack of delirium, at the very beginning of 
 her illness? And it was just at this time, when she was 
 running about the house almost naked, that she pretends 
 that she saw her maid in her husband's room! 
 
84 UNE VIE 
 
 And he grew angry, threatened a lawsuit, became furi- 
 ous. The baron, bewildered, made excuses, begged his 
 pardon, and held out his loyal hand to Julien, who refused 
 to take it. 
 
 When Jeanne heard what her husband had said, she 
 did not show any annoyance, but replied: "He is lying, 
 papa, but we shall end by convicting him." 
 
 For some days she remained taciturn and reserved, 
 thinking over matters. The third morning she asked to 
 see Rosalie. The baron refused to send her up, saying 
 she had left. Jeanne persisted, saying: "Well, let some 
 one go and fetch her." 
 
 She was beginning to get excited when the doctor 
 came. They told him everything, so that he could form 
 an opinion. But Jeanne suddenly burst into tears, her 
 nerves all unstrung, and almost screamed: "I want 
 Rosalie; I wish to see her!" 
 
 The doctor took hold of her hand and said in a low 
 tone: "Calm yourself, madame; any emotion may lead 
 to serious consequences, for you are enceinte." 
 
 She was dumfounded, as though she had received a 
 blow; and it seemed to her that she felt the first stirrings 
 of life within her. Then she was silent, not even listening 
 to what was being said, absorbed in her own thoughts. 
 She could not sleep that night for thinking of the new 
 life that VN^as developing in her, and was sad at the 
 thought that it was Julien 's child, and might resemble 
 him. The following morning she sent for the baron. 
 "Little father," she said, "my resolution is formed; I wish 
 to know everything, and especially just now; you under- 
 stand, I insist, and you know that you must not thwart 
 me in my present condition. Listen! You must go and 
 get M. le Cure. I need him here to keep Rosalie from 
 telling a lie. Then, as soon as he comes, send him up to 
 me, and you stay downstairs with little mother. And, 
 
UNE VIE 85 
 
 above all things, see that Julien does not suspect any- 
 thing." 
 
 An hour later the priest came, looking fatter than 
 ever, and puffing like the baroness. He sat down in an 
 arm-chair and began to joke, wiping his forehead as usual 
 with his plaid handkerchief. "Well, baroness, I do not 
 think we grow any thinner; I think we make a good 
 pair." Then, turning toward the patient, he said: "Eh, 
 what is this I hear, young lady, that we are soon to 
 have a fresh baptism? Aha, it will not be a boat this 
 time." And in a graver tone he added: "It will be a 
 defender of the country; unless" — after a moment's re- 
 flection — "it should be the prospective mother' of a family, 
 like you, madame," bowing to the baroness. 
 
 The door at the end of the room opened and Rosalie 
 appeared, beside herself, weeping, refusing to enter the 
 room, clinging to the door fram.e, and being pushed for- 
 ward by the baron. Quite out of patience, he thrust 
 her into the room. She covered her face with her hands 
 and remained standing there, sobbing. 
 
 Jeanne, as soon as she saw her, rose to a sitting pos- 
 ture, whiter than the sheets, and with her heart beating 
 wildly. She could not speak, could hardly breathe. At 
 length she said, in a voice broken with emotion: "I — I — 
 will not — need — to question you. It — it is enough for 
 me to see you thus — to — to see your — your shame in my 
 presence." 
 
 After a pause, for she was out of breath, she con- 
 tinued: "I had M. le Cure come, so that it might be like 
 a confession, you understand." 
 
 Rosalie, motionless, uttered little cries that were almost 
 screams behind her hands. 
 
 The baron, whose anger was gaining ground, seized 
 her arms, and snatching her hands from her face, he 
 threw her on her knees beside the bed, saying: "Speak I 
 Answer!" 
 
86 UNE VIE 
 
 She remained on the ground, in the position assigned 
 to Magdalens, her cap awry, her apron on the floor, and 
 her face again covered by her hands. 
 
 Then the priest said: "Come, my girl, listen to what 
 is said to you, and reply. We do not want to harm you, 
 but we want to know what occurred." 
 
 Jeanne, leaning over, looked at her and said : "Is it 
 true that you were with Julien when I surprised you?" 
 
 Rosalie moaned through her fingers, "Yes, madame." 
 
 Then the baroness suddenly began to cry in a choking 
 fashion, and her convulsive sobs accompanied those of 
 Rosalie. 
 
 Jeanne, with her eyes fixed on the maid, said: "How 
 long had this been going on?" 
 
 "Ever since he came here," faltered Rosalie. 
 
 Jeanne could not understand. "Ever since he came — 
 then — ever since — ever since the spring?" 
 
 "Yes, madame." 
 
 "Ever since he came into this house?" 
 
 "Yes, madame." 
 
 And Jeanne, as if overflowing with questions, asked, 
 speaking precipitately: 
 
 "But how did it happen? How did he approach you? 
 How did he persuade you? What did he say? When, 
 how did you ever yield to him? How could you ever 
 have done it?" 
 
 Rosalie, removing her hands from her face, and over- 
 whelmed also with a feverish desire to speak, said: 
 
 "How do I know, myself? It v/as the day he dined 
 here for the first time, and he came up to my room. He 
 had hidden himself in the loft. I did not dare to scream 
 for fear of making a scandal. I no longer knew what I 
 was doing. Then I said nothing because I liked him. 
 
 Then Jeanne exclaimed with almost a scream: 
 
 "But — your — your child — is his child?" 
 
 Rosalie sobbed. 
 
UNE VIE 87 
 
 C(\} 
 
 Yes, madame." 
 
 Then they were both silent. The only sound to be 
 heard was the sobs of Rosalie and of the baroness. 
 
 Jeanne, quite ove.rcome, felt her tears also beginning 
 to flow; and they fell silently down her cheeks. 
 
 The maid's child had the same father as her child! 
 Her anger was at an end; she now was filled with a 
 dreary, slow, profound and infinite despair. She pres- 
 ently resumed in a changed, tearful voice, the voice of a 
 woman who has been crying: 
 
 "When we returned from — from down there — from our 
 journey — when did he begin again?" 
 
 The little maid, who had sunk down on the floor, fal- 
 tered: "The first evening." 
 
 Each word wrung Jeanne's heart. So on the very first 
 right of their return to the "Poplars" he left her for this 
 girl. That was why he wanted to sleep alone! 
 
 She now knew all she wanted to know, and exclaimed: 
 "Go away, go away!" And as Rosalie, perfectly crushed, 
 did not stir, Jeanne called to her father: "Take her 
 away, carry her away!" The priest, who had said noth- 
 ing as yet, thought that the moment had arrived for him 
 to preach a little sermon. 
 
 "What you have done is ^'ery v.Torg, my daughter, very 
 wrong, and God wdll not pardon you so easily. Consider 
 the hell that awaits you if you do not alv.ays act right. 
 Now that you have a child you must belinve yourself. 
 No doubt madame la baronne will do something for you. 
 and we will find you a husband." 
 
 He w^ould have continued speaking, but the baron, 
 having again seized Rosalie by the shoulders, raised her 
 from the floor and dragged her to the door, and threw 
 her like a package into the corridor. As he turned back 
 into the room, looking paler than his daughter, the priest 
 resumed: "Wliat can one do? They are all like that 
 in the district. It is shocking, but cannot be helped, and 
 
88 UNE VIE 
 
 then one must be a little indulgent toward the weaknesses 
 of our nature. They never get married until they have 
 become enceinte, never, madame." He. added, smiling: 
 "One might call it a local custom. So, you see, monsieur, 
 your maid did as all the rest do." 
 
 But the baron, who was trembling with nervousness, 
 interrupted him, saying, "She! what do I care about her! 
 It is Julien with whom I am indignant. It is infamous, 
 the way he has behaved, and I shall take my daughter 
 away." 
 
 He walked up and down excitedly, becoming more and 
 more exasperated: "It is infamous to have betrayed my 
 child, infamous! He is a wretch, this man, a cad, a 
 wretch! and I will tell him so. I will slap his face. I 
 will give him a horsewhipping!" 
 
 The priest, who was slowly taking a pinch of snuff, 
 seated beside the baroness still in tears, and endeavoring 
 to fulfill his office of a peacemaker, said: "Come, mon- 
 sieur le baron, between ourselves, he has done what every 
 one else does. Do you know many husbands who are 
 faithful?" And he added with a sly good humor: "Come 
 now, I wager that you have had your turn. Your hand 
 on your heart, am I right?" The baron had stopped in 
 astonishment before the priest, who continued: "Why, 
 yes, you did just as others did. Who knows if you did 
 not make love to a little sugar plum like that? I tell 
 you that every one does. Your wife was none the less 
 happy,. or less loved; am I not right?" 
 
 The baron had not stirred, he was much disturbed. 
 What the priest said was true, and he had sinned as 
 much as any one and had not hesitated when his wife's 
 maids were in question. Was he a wretch on that ac- 
 count? Why should he judge Julien 's conduct so severely 
 when his own had not been above blame? 
 
 The baroness, still struggling with her sobs, smiled 
 faintly at the recollection of her husband's escapades, for 
 
UNE VIE 89 
 
 she belonged to the sentimental class for whom love 
 adventures are a part of existence. 
 
 Jeanne, exhausted, lay with wide-open eyes, absorbed 
 in painful reflection. Something Rosalie had said had 
 wounded her as though an arrow had pierced her heart: 
 "As for me, I said nothing, because I liked him." 
 
 She had liked him also, and that was the only reason 
 why she had given herself, bound herself for life to him, 
 why she had renounced everything else, all her cherished 
 plans, all the unknowTi future. She had fallen into this 
 marriage, into this hole without any edges by which one 
 could climb out, into this wretchedness, this sadness, this 
 despair, because, like Rosalie, she had liked him! 
 
 The door was pushed violently open and Julien ap- 
 peared, with a furious expression on his face. He had 
 caught sight of Rosalie moaning on the stairs, and sus- 
 pected that something was up, that the maid had prob- 
 ably told all. The sight of the priest riveted him to the 
 spot. 
 
 "Why, what's the matter?" he asked in a trembling 
 but quiet tone. 
 
 The baron, so violent a short while ago, did not venture 
 to speak, afraid of the priest's remarks, and of what his 
 son-in-law might say in the same strain. Little mother 
 was weeping more copiously than ever; but Jeanne had 
 raised herself with her hands and looked, breathing 
 quickly, at the one who had caused her such cruel sorrow. 
 She stammered out: "The fact is, we know all, all your 
 rascality since — since the day you first entered this house 
 — we know that the child of this maid i^ your child, just 
 as — as — mine is — they will be brothers." Overcome with 
 sorrow at this thought, she buried herself in the sheets and 
 wept bitterly. 
 
 Julien stood there gaping, not knowing what to say or 
 do. The priest came to the rescue. 
 
 "Come, come, do not give way like that, my dear young 
 
90 UNE VIE 
 
 lady, be sensible." He rose, approached the bed and 
 placed his warm hand on the despairing girl's forehead. 
 This seemed to soothe her strangely. She felt quieted, as 
 if this strong peasant's hand, accustomed to the gesture 
 of absolution, to kindly consolations, had conveyed by its 
 touch some mysterious solace. 
 
 The good man, still standing, continued: "Madame, we 
 must always forgive. A great sorrow has come to you ; but 
 God in His mercy has balanced it by a great happiness, 
 since you will become a mother. This child will be your 
 comfort. In his name I implore you, I adjure you to for- 
 give M. Julien's error. It will be a new bond between 
 you, a pledge of his future fidelity. Can you remain apart 
 in your heart from him whose child you bear?" 
 
 She did not reply, crushed, mortified, exhausted as she 
 was, without even strength for anger or resentment. Her 
 nerves seemed relaxed, almost severed, she seemed to be 
 scarcely alive. 
 
 The baroness, who seemed incapable of resentment, and 
 whose mind was unequal to prolonged effort, murmured: 
 "Come, come, Jeanne." 
 
 Then the priest took the hand of the young man and 
 leading him up to the bed, he placed his hand in that of 
 his wife, and gave it a little tap as though to unite them 
 more closely. Then laying aside his professional tone and 
 manner, he said with a satisfied air: "Well, now, that's 
 done. Believe me, that is the best thing to do." The 
 two hands, joined for a moment, separated immediately. 
 Julien, not daring to kiss Jeanne, kissed his mother-in-law 
 on the forehead, turned on his heel, took the arm of the 
 baron, who acquiesced, happy at heart that the thing had 
 been settled thus, and they went out together to smoke a 
 cigar. 
 
 The patient, overcome, dozed off, while the priest and 
 little mother talked in a low tone. 
 
 The priest explained and propounded his ideas, to which 
 
UNE VIE 91 
 
 the baroness assented by nodding her head. He said in 
 conclusion: "Well, then, that is understood; you will give 
 this girl the Barville farm, and I will undertake to find 
 her a husband, a good, steady fellow. Oh! with a prop- 
 erty worth twenty thousand francs we shall have no lack 
 of suitors. There will be more than enough to choose 
 from." 
 
 The baroness was smiling now, quite happy, with the 
 remains of two tears that had dried on her cheeks. 
 
 She repeated: "That is settled. Barville is worth at 
 least twenty thousand francs, but it will be settled on the 
 child, the parents having the use of it during their life- 
 time." 
 
 The cure rose, shook little mother's hand, saying: "Do 
 not disturb yourself, Madame la Baronne, do not disturb 
 yourself; I know what an effort it is." 
 
 As he went out he met Aunt Lison coming to see her 
 patient. She noticed nothing; they told her nothing; and 
 she knew nothing, as usual. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 MATERNITY 
 
 Rosalie had left the house. Jeanne felt no joy at the 
 thought of being a mother, she had had so much sorrow. 
 She awaited the advent of her child without curiosity, still 
 filled with the apprehension of unknown misfortunes. 
 
 A big woman, big as a house, had taken Rosalie's place 
 and supported the baroness in her monotonous walks 
 along her avenue. The baron gave his arm to Jeanne, 
 who was now always ailing, while Aunt Lison, uneasy, 
 and busied about the approaching event, held her other 
 hand, bewildered at this mystery which she would never 
 know. 
 
 They all walked along like this almost in silence for 
 hours at a time, while Julien was riding about the country 
 on horseback, having suddenly acquired this taste. Noth- 
 ing ever came to disturb their dreary life. The baron, 
 his wife, and the vicomte^paid a visit to the Fourvilles, 
 whom Julien seemed to be already well acquainted with, 
 without one knowing just how. Another ceremonious visit 
 was exchanged with the Brisevilles, who were still hidden 
 in their manor house. 
 
 One afternoon, about four o'clock, two persons, a lady 
 and gentleman on horseback, rode up into the courtyard 
 of the chateau. Julien, greatly excited, ran up to Jeanne's 
 room. "Quick, quick, come downstairs; here are the 
 Fourvilles. They have just come as neighbors, knowing 
 
 92 
 
UNE VIE 93 
 
 your condition. Tell them that I have gone out, but that 
 I will be back. I will just go and make myself present- 
 able." 
 
 Jeanne, much surprised, went downstairs. A pale, 
 pretty young woman with a sad face, dreamy eyes, and 
 lustreless, fair hair, looking as though the sunlight had 
 never kissed it, quietly introduced her husband, a kind 
 of giant, or ogre with a large red mustache. She added: 
 "We have several times had the pleasure of meeting M. 
 de Lamare. We heard from him how you were suffering, 
 and we would not put off coming to see you as neighbors, 
 without any ceremony. You see that we came on horse- 
 back. I also had the pleasure the other day of a visit from 
 madame, your mother, and the baron." 
 
 She spoke with perfect ease, familiar but refined. 
 Jeanne was charmed, and fell in love with her at once. 
 "This is a friend," she thought. * 
 
 The Comte de Fourville, on the contrary, seemed like 
 a bear in the drawing-room. As soon as he was seated, he 
 placed his hat on the chair next him, did not know what 
 to do with his hands, placed them on his knees, then on 
 the arms of the chair, and finally crossed his fingers as if 
 in prayer. 
 
 Suddenly Julien entered the room. Jeanne Vv^as amazed 
 cmd did not recognize him. He was shaved. He looked 
 handsome, elegant, and attractive as on the day of their 
 betrothal. He shook the comte's hairy paw, kissed the 
 hand of the comtesse, w^hose ivory cheeks colored up 
 slightly w^hile her eyelids quivered. 
 
 He be^ian to speak ; he was charming as in former days. 
 His large eyes, the mirrors of love, had become tender 
 again. And his hair, lately so dull and unkempt, had 
 regained its soft, glossy wave, with the use of a hairbrush 
 and perfumed oil. 
 
 At the moment that the Fourvilles were taking their 
 
94 UNE VIE 
 
 leave the comtesse, turning toward him, said: "Would 
 you like to take a ride on Thursday, dear vicomte?" 
 
 As he bowed and murmured, "Why, certainly, madame," 
 she took Jeanne's hand and said in a S3niipathetic and 
 affectionate tone, with a cordial smile: "Oh! when you are 
 well, we will all three gallop about the country. It will 
 be delightful. What do you say?" 
 
 With an easy gesture she held up her riding skirt and 
 then jumped into the saddle with the lightness of a bird, 
 while her husband, after bo\\ing awkwardly, mounted his 
 big Norman steed. As they disappeared outside the gate, 
 Julien, who seemed charmed, exclaimed: "What delightful 
 people! those are friends who may be useful to us." 
 
 Jeanne, pleased also without knowing why, replied: 
 "The little comtesse is charming, I feel that I shall love 
 her, but the husband looks like a brute. Where did you 
 meet them?" • 
 
 He rubbed his hands together good humoredly. "I met 
 them by chance at the Brisevilles'. The husband seems 
 a little rough. He cares for nothing but hunting, but he 
 is a real noble for all that." 
 
 The dinner was almost cheerful, as though some secret 
 happiness had come into the house. 
 
 Nothing new happened until the latter days of July, 
 when Jeanne was taken ill. As she seemed to grow worse, 
 the doctor was sent for and at the first glance recognized 
 the symptoms of a premature confinement. 
 
 Her sufferings presently abated a little, but she was 
 filled with a terrible anguish, a despairing sinking, some- 
 thing like a presentiment, the mysterious touch of death. 
 It is in these moments when it comes so near to us that 
 its breath chills our hearts. 
 
 The room was full of people. Little mother, buried 
 in an armchair, was choking with grief. The baron, his 
 hands trembling, ran hither and thither, carrying things, 
 consulting 'the doctor and losing his head. Julien paced 
 
UNE VIE 95 
 
 up and down, looking concerned, but perfectly calm, and 
 Widow Dentu stood at the foot of the bed with an ap- 
 propriate expression, the expression of a woman of expe- 
 rience whom nothing astonishes. The cook, Ludivine, 
 and Aunt Lison remained discreetly concealed behind the 
 door of the lobby. 
 
 Toward morning Jeanne became worse, and as her in- 
 voluntary screams escaped from between her closed teeth, 
 she thought incessantly of Rosalie, who had not suffered, 
 who had hardly moaned, who had borne her child without 
 suffering and without difficulty, and in her wretched and 
 troubled mind she continually compared their conditions 
 and cursed God, whom she had formerly thought to be just. 
 She rebelled at the wicked partiality of fate and at the 
 wicked lies of those who preach justice and goodness. 
 
 At times her sufferings were so great that her mind was 
 a blank. She had neither strength, life nor knowledge for 
 anything but suffering. 
 
 All at once her sufferings ceased. The nurse and the 
 doctor leaned over her and gave her all attention. Pres- 
 ently she heard a little cry and, in spite of her weakness, 
 she unconsciously held out her arms. She was suddenly 
 filled with joy, with a glimpse of a new-found happiness 
 which had just unfolded. Her child was bom, she w^as 
 soothed, happy, happy as she never 3^et had been. Her 
 heart and her body revived; she w^as now- a m.other. She 
 felt that she was saved, secure from all despair, for she 
 had here something to love. 
 
 From now on she had but one thought — her child. She 
 was a fanatical mother, all the more intense because she 
 had been deceived in her love, deceived in her hopes. She 
 would sit whole days beside the window, rocking the little 
 cradle. 
 
 The baron and little mother smiled at this excess of 
 tenderness, but Julien, whose habitual routine had been 
 interfered with and his overweening importance diminished 
 
96 UNE VIE 
 
 by the arrival of this noisy and all-powerful tyrant, un- 
 consciously jealous of this mite of a-man who had usurped 
 his place in the house, kept on saying angrily and impa- 
 tiently: "How wearisome she is with her brat!" 
 
 She became so obsessed by this affection that she would 
 pass the entire night beside the cradle, watching the child 
 asleep. As she was becoming exhausted by this morbid 
 life, taking no rest, growing weaker and thinner and be- 
 ginning to cough, the doctor ordered the child to be taken 
 from her. She got angry, wept, implored, but they were 
 deaf to her entreaties. His nurse took him every evening, 
 and each night his mother would rise, and in her bare feet 
 go to the door, listen at the keyhole to see if he was 
 sleeping quietly, did not wake up and wanted nothing. 
 
 Julien found her here one night when he came home 
 late, after dining with the Fourvilles. After that they 
 locked her in her room to oblige her to stay in bed. 
 
 The baptism took place at the end of August. The 
 baron was godfather and Aunt Lison godmother. The 
 child was named Pierre-Simon-Paul and called Paul for 
 short. 
 
 At the beginning of September Aunt Lison left without 
 any commotion. Her absence was as little felt as her 
 presence. 
 
 One evening after dinner the priest appeared. He 
 seemed embarrassed as if he were burdened by some mys- 
 tery, and after some idle remarks, he asked the baroness 
 and her husband to grant him a short interview in pri- 
 vate. 
 
 They all three walked slowly down the long avenue, 
 talking with animation, while Julien, who was alone with 
 Jeanne, was astonished, disturbed and annoyed at this 
 secret. 
 
 He accompanied the priest when he took his leave, and 
 they went off together toward the church where the An- 
 gelus was ringing. 
 
UNE VIE 97 
 
 As it was cool, almost cold, the others went into the 
 drawing-room. They were all dozing when Julien came 
 in abruptly, his face red, looking very indignant. 
 
 From the door he called out to his parents-in-law, with- 
 out remembering that Jeanne was there: "Are you crazy, 
 for God's sake! to go and throw away twenty thousand 
 francs on that girl?" 
 
 No one replied, they were so astonished. He contin- 
 ued, bellowing with rage: "How can one be so stupid as 
 that? Do you wish to leave us without a sou?" 
 
 The baron, who had recovered his composure, attempted 
 to stop him: "Keep still! Remember that you are speak- 
 ing before your wife." 
 
 But Julien was trembling with excitement: "As if I 
 cared; she knows all about it, anyway. It is robbing 
 her." 
 
 Jeanne, bewildered, looked at him without understand- 
 ing. She faltered: "What in the vv^orld is the matter?" 
 
 Julien then turned toward her, to try and get her on 
 his side as a partner who had been cheated out of an un- 
 expected fortune. He hurriedly told her about the con- 
 spiracy to marry off Rosalie and about the gift of the 
 Barville property, which was worth at least twenty thou- 
 sand francs. He said: "Your parents are crazy, my dear, 
 crazy enough to be shut up! Twenty thousand francs! 
 twenty thousand francs! Why, they have lost their heads! 
 Twenty thousand francs for a bastard!" 
 
 Jeanne listened without emotion and without anger, as- 
 tonished at her own calmness, indifferent now to everything 
 but her o\^ti child. 
 
 The baron was raging, but could find nothing to say. 
 He finally burst forth and, stamping his foot, exclaimed: 
 "Think of what you are saying; it is disgusting. Whose 
 fault was it if we had to give this girl-mother a dowry? 
 Whose child is it? You would like to abandon it now!" 
 
 Julien, amazed at the baron's violence, looked at him 
 
98 UNE VIE 
 
 fixedly. He then resumed in a calmer tone: "But fifteen 
 hundred francs would be quite entDugh. They all have 
 children before they are legally married. It makes no 
 difference whose child it is, in any case. Instead of giving 
 one of your farms, to the value of twenty thousand francs, 
 in addition to making the world aware of what has hap- 
 pened, you should, to say the least, have had some regard 
 for our name and our position." 
 
 He spoke in a severe tone like a man who stood on his 
 rights and was convinced of the logic of his argument. 
 The baron, disturbed at this unexpected discussion, stood 
 there gaping at him. Julien then, seeing his advantage, 
 concluded: "Happily, nothing has yet been settled. I 
 know the 3^oung fellow who is going to marry her. He is 
 an honest chap and we can make a satisfactory arrange- 
 ment with him. I will take charge of the matter." 
 
 And he went out immediately, fearing no doubt to con- 
 tinue the discussion, and pleased that he had had the last 
 word, a proof, he thought, that they acquiesced in his 
 views. 
 
 As soon as he had left the room, however, the baron 
 exclaimed: "Oh, that is going too far, much too far!" 
 
 But Jeanne, happening to look up at her father's be- 
 wildered face, began to laugh with her clear, ringing laugh 
 of former days, when anything amused her. She said: 
 "Father, father, did you hear the tone in which he said: 
 'Twenty thousand francs?' " 
 
 Little mother, whose mirth was as ready as her tears, 
 as she recalled her son-in-law's angry expression, has in- 
 dignant exclamations and his refusal to allow the girl 
 whom he had led astray to be given money that did not 
 belong to him, delighted also at Jeanne's mirth, gave way 
 to little bursts of laughter till the tears came to her eyes. 
 The baron caught the contagion, and all three laughed to 
 kill themselves as they used to do in the good old days. 
 
UNE VIE 99 
 
 As soon as they quieted down a little Jeanne said: "How 
 strange it is that all this does not affect me. I look upon 
 him now as a stranger. I cannot believe that I am his 
 wife. You see how I can laugh at his — ^his — want of 
 delicacy." 
 
 And without knowing why they all three embraced each 
 other, smiling and happy. 
 
 Two days later, after breakfast, just as Julien had 
 started away from the house on horseback, a strapping 
 young fellow from twenty-one to twenty-five years old, 
 clad in a brand-new blue blouse with wide sleeves button- 
 ing at the wrist, slyly jumped over the gate, as though 
 he had been there awaiting his opportunity all the morn- 
 ing, crept along the Couillards' ditch, came round the 
 chateau, and cautiously approached the baron and his 
 wife, who were still sitting under the plane-tree. 
 
 He took off his cap and advanced, bowing in an awk- 
 ward manner. As soon as he was close to them he said: 
 "Your servant. Monsieur le Baron, madame and the com- 
 pany." Then, as no one replied, he said: "It is I, I am 
 Desire Lecocq." 
 
 As the name conveyed nothing to them, the baron asked, 
 "What do you w^ant?" 
 
 Then, altogether upset at the necessity of explaining 
 himself, the young fellow stuttered out as he gazed alter- 
 nately at his cap, which he held in his hands, and at the 
 roof of the chateau: "It was M'sieu le Cure w^ho said 
 
 sometiiing to me about this matter " And then he 
 
 stopped, fearing he might say too much and compromise 
 his own interests. 
 
 The other, lowering his voice, blurted out: "That mat- 
 ter of your maid — Rosalie " 
 
 Jeanne, w^ho had guessed what was coming, had risen 
 and moved away with her infant in her arms. 
 
 "Come nearer," said the baron, pointing to the chair 
 
loo UNE VIE 
 
 his daughter had just left. The peasant sat down, mur- 
 muring: "You are very good." Theji he waited as though 
 he had no more to say. After a long silence, he screwed 
 up courage, and looking up at the sky, remarked: "There's 
 fine weather for the time of year. But the earth will be 
 none the better for it, as the seed is already sown." And 
 then he was silent again. 
 
 The baron was growing impatient. He plunged right 
 into the subject and said drily: "Then it is you who are 
 going to marry Rosalie?" 
 
 The man at once became uneasy, his Norman caution 
 being on the alert. He replied with more anim.ation, but 
 with a tinge of defiance: "That depends; perhaps yes, 
 perhaps no; it depends." 
 
 The baron, annoyed at this hedging, exclaimed angrily: 
 "Answer frankly, damn it! Was this what you came here 
 for? Yes or no! Will you marry her? Yes or no!" 
 
 The bewildered man looked steadfastly at his feet: "If 
 it is as M'sieu le Cure said, I will take her, but if it is as 
 M'sieu Julien said, I will not take her." 
 
 "What did M. Julien tell you?" 
 
 "M'sieu Julien told me fifteen hundred francs and 
 M'sieu le Cure told me that I should have twenty thou- 
 sand. I will do it for twenty thousand, but I will not do 
 it for fifteen hundred." 
 
 The baroness, who wasTjuried in her easy chair, began 
 to giggle at the anxious expression of the peasant, who, 
 not understanding this frivolity, glanced at her angrily 
 out of the corner of his eye and waited in silence. 
 
 The baron, who was embarrassed at this bargaining, 
 cut it short by saying: "I told M. le Cure that you should 
 have the Barville farm during your lifetime and that then 
 it would revert to the child. It is worth twenty thousand 
 francs. I do not go back on my word. Is it settled? Yes 
 
 or no!" 
 
 The man smiled with a humble and satisfied expression, 
 
UNE VIE loi 
 
 and suddenly becoming loquacious, saM: "Oh, in that 
 case, I will not say no. That was all that stood in my 
 way. When M'sieu le Cure spoke to me, I was ready at 
 once, by gosh! and I was very pleased lo acccmmodaie 
 the baron who was giving me that. I said to myself, Ts 
 it not true that when people are willing to do each other 
 favors, they can always find a way and can make it worth 
 while?' But M'sieu Julien came to see me, and it was 
 only fifteen hundred francs. I said to myself: T must 
 see about that,' and so I came here. That is not to say 
 that I did not trust you, but I wanted to know. Short 
 accounts make long friends. Is not that true, M'sieu le 
 Baron?" 
 
 The baron interrupted him by asking, "When do you 
 wish to get married?" 
 
 The man became timid again, very much embarrassed, 
 and finally said, hesitatingly: "I will not do it until I get 
 a little paper." 
 
 This time the baron got angry: "Doggone it! you will 
 have the marriage contract. That is the best kind of 
 paper." 
 
 But the peasant was stubborn: "Meanwhile I might 
 take a little turn; it will not be dark for a while." 
 
 The baron rose to make an end of the matter: "Answer 
 yes or no at once. If you do not wish her, say so; I have 
 another suitor." 
 
 The fear of a rival terrified the crafty Norman. He 
 suddenly made up his mind and held out his hand, as after 
 buying a cow, saying: "Put it there, M'sieu le Baron; it 
 is a bargain. Whoever draws back is a skunk!" 
 
 The baron shook his hand, then called out: "Ludivine!" 
 The cook appeared at the window. "Bring us a bottle of 
 wine." They clinked glasses to seal the matter and the 
 young peasant v;ent off with a light tread. 
 
 Nothing was said to Julien about this visit. The con- 
 tract was drawn up with all secrecy and as soon as the 
 
102 UNE VIE 
 
 banns were piib,li=>hed the wedding took place one Mon- 
 >iay morning,. » , . , 
 
 . /V^ neighbor carried the child to church, walking behind 
 tlie bride aud groom,, as a sure sign of good luck. And 
 no one in all the district was surprised; they simply en- 
 vied Desire Lecocq. "He was bom with a caul," they 
 said, with a sly smile into which there entered no resent- 
 ment. 
 
 Julien was terribly angry and made such a scene that 
 his parents-in-law cut short their visit to the "Poplars." 
 Jeanne was only moderately sad at their departure, for 
 little Paul had become for her an inexhaustible source of 
 happiness. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 DEATH OF LA BARONNE 
 
 As Jeanne's health was quite restored, they determineu 
 to go and return the Fourvilles' visit and also to call on 
 the Marquis de Coutelier. 
 
 Julien had bought at a sale a new one-horse phaeton, 
 so that they could go out twice a month. They set out 
 one fine December morning, and, after driving for two 
 hours across the plains of Normandy, they began to de- 
 scend a little slope into a little valley, the sides of which 
 were wooded, while the valley itself was cultivated. After 
 an abrupt turn in the valley they saw the Chateau of 
 Vrillette, a wooded slope on one side of it and a large pond 
 on the other, out of which rose one of its walls and w^hich 
 was bounded by a wood of tall pine trees that formed 
 the other side of the valley. 
 
 Julien explained all the portions of the building to 
 Jeanne, like one w^ho knows his subject thoroughly, and 
 went into raptures over its beauty, adding: "It is full of 
 game, this country. The comte loves to hunt here. This 
 is a true seignorial residence." 
 
 The hall door was opened and the pale comtesse ap- 
 peared, coming forward to meet the visitors, all smiles, 
 and wearing a long-trained dress, like a chatelaine of 
 olden times. She looked a fitting lady of the lake, bom 
 to inhabit this fairy castle. 
 
 The comtesse took both Jeanne's hands, as if she had 
 
 103 
 
104 UNE VIE 
 
 known her all her life, and made her sit down beside her 
 in a low chair, while Julien, all of whose forgotten elegance 
 seemed to have revived within the past five months, chatted 
 and smiled quietly and familiarly. 
 
 The comtesse and he talked of their horseback rides. 
 She was laughing at his manner of mounting a horse and 
 called him "Le Chevalier Trebuche," and he smiled also, 
 having nicknamed her "The Amazon Queen." A gun 
 fired beneath the windows caused Jeanne to give a little 
 sr^p^^m. It was the comte, who had killed a teal. 
 
 His wife called to him. A sound of oars was heard, 
 a boat grinding against the stones, and he appeared, enor- 
 mous, booted, followed by two drenched dogs of a ruddy 
 color like himself, who lay down on the mat outside the 
 door. 
 
 He seemed more at ease in his own home, and was 
 delighted to see his visitors. He put some wood on the 
 fire, sent for madeira and biscuits and then exclaimed 
 suddenly: "Why, you will take dinner with us, of course." 
 
 Jeanne, whose child was never out of her thoughts, de- 
 clined. He insisted, and as she could not be persuaded, 
 Julien made a gesture of annoyance. She feared to arouse 
 his ugly, quarrelsome temper, and although she was very 
 unhappy at the thought that she should not see Paul until 
 the next day, she consented to stay. 
 
 The afternoon was delightful. They first visited the 
 springs which bubbled up at the foot of a mossy rock and 
 then took a row on the pond. At one end of the boat 
 Julien and the comtesse, wrapped in shawls, were smiling 
 happily like those who have nothing left to wish for. 
 
 A huge fire was blazing in the spacious reception room, 
 which imparted a sense of warmth and contentment. The 
 comte seized his wife in his arms and lifted her from the 
 floor as though she had been a child and gave her a hearty 
 kiss on each cheek, like a man satisfied with the world. 
 
 Jeanne, smiling, looked at this good giant whom one 
 
UNE VIE 105 
 
 would have thought was an ogre at the very sight of his 
 mustaches, and she thought: "How one may be deceived 
 each day about everybody." Then, almost involuntarily, 
 she glanced at Julien standing in the doorway, looking 
 hort-ibly pale and with his eyes fixed on the comte. She 
 approached him and said in a low tone: "Are you ill? 
 What is the matter with you?" He answered her angrily: 
 "Nothing. Let me alone! I was cold." 
 
 When they went into the dining-room the count asked 
 if he might let his dogs come in, and they settled them- 
 selves one on either side of their master. 
 
 After dinner, as Jeanne and Julien were preparing to 
 leave, M. de Fourville kept them a little longer to look 
 at some fishing by torchlight. When they finally set out, 
 wrapped up in their cloaks and some rugs they had bor- 
 rowed, Jeanne said almost involuntarily: "WTiat a fine 
 man that giant is!" Julien, who was driving, replied: 
 "Yes, but he does not always restrain himself before com- 
 pany." 
 
 A week later they called on the Couteliers, who were 
 supposed to be the chief noble family in the province. 
 Their property of Remenil adjoined the large town of 
 Cany. The new chateau built in the reign of Louis XIV. 
 was hidden in a magnificent park enclosed by walls. The 
 ruins of the old chateau could be seen on an eminence. 
 They were ushered into a stately reception room by men 
 servants in livery. In the middle of the room a sort of 
 column held an immense bowl of Sevres ware and on the 
 pedestal of the column an autograph letter from the king, 
 under glass, requested the Marquis Leopold-Herve-Joseph- 
 Germer de Vameville de Rollebosc de Coutelier to receive 
 this present from his sovereign. 
 
 Jeanne and Julien were looking at this royal gift when 
 the marquis and marquise entered the room. 
 
 They were very ceremonious people whose minds, senti- 
 ments and words seemed always to be on stilts. They 
 
io6 UNE VIE 
 
 spoke without waiting for an answer, smiling complacently, 
 appearing always to be fulfilling th'e duty imposed on them 
 by their position, of sihowing civilities to the inferior no- 
 bility of the region. 
 
 Jeanne and Julien, somewhat taken aback, endeavored 
 to be agreeable, but although they felt too embarrassed to 
 remain any longer, they did not know exactly how to take 
 their leave. The marquise herself put an end to the visit 
 naturally and simply by bringing the conversation to a 
 close like a queen giving a dismissal. 
 
 On the way home Julien said: "If you like, we will 
 make this our first and last call; the Fourvilles are good 
 enough for me." Jeanne was of the same opinion. De- 
 cember passed slowly and the shut-in life began again as 
 in the previous year. But Jeanne did not find it weari- 
 some, as she was always taken up with Paul, whom Julien 
 looked at askance, uneasy and annoyed. Often when the 
 mother held the child in her arms, kissing it frantically as 
 women do their children, she would hold it up to its father, 
 saying: "Give him a kiss; one would suppose you did not 
 love him." He would hardly touch with his lips the child's 
 smooth forehead, walking all round it, as though he did 
 not wish to touch the restless little fists. Then he would 
 walk away abruptly as though from something dis- 
 tasteful. 
 
 The mayor, the doctor and the cure came to dinner 
 occasionally, and sometimes it was the Fourvilles, with 
 whom they were becoming more and more intimate. The 
 comte appeared to worship Paul. He held him on his 
 knees during the whole visit and sometimes during the 
 whole afternoon, playing with him and amusing him and 
 then kissing him tenderly as mothers do. He always la- 
 mented that he had no children of his own. 
 
 Comtesse Gilberte again mentioned the rides they all 
 four were going to take together. Jeanne, a little weary 
 of the monotonous days and nights, was quite happy in 
 
UNE VIE 107 
 
 antidpation of these plans, and for a week amused herself 
 making a riding habit. 
 
 They always set out two and two, the comtesse and 
 Julien ahead, the count and Jeanne a hundred feet behind 
 them, talking quietly, like good friends, for such they had 
 become through the sympathy of their straightforward 
 minds and simple hearts. The others often spoke in a 
 low tone, sometimes bursting into laughter and looking 
 quickly at each other, as though their eyes were expressing 
 what they dared not utter. And they would suddenly 
 set off at a gallop, impelled by a desire to flee, to get away, 
 far away. 
 
 Then Gilberte would seem to be growing irritable. Her 
 sharp voice, borne on the breeze, occasionally reached the 
 ears of the loitering couple. The comte would smile and 
 say to Jeanne: "She does not always get out of bed the 
 right side, that wife of mine." 
 
 One evening as they were coming home the comtesse 
 was teasing her mount, spurring it and then checking it 
 abruptly. They heard Julien say several times: "Take 
 care, take care; you will be thrown." "So much the 
 worse," she replied; "it is none of your business," in a 
 hard clear tone that resounded across the fields as though 
 the words hung in the air. 
 
 The animal reared, plunged and champed the bit. The 
 comte, uneasy, shouted: "Be careful, Gilberte!" Then, 
 as if in defiance, \Aith one of those impulses of a woman 
 whom nothing can stop, she struck her horse brutally 
 between the ears. The animal reared in anger, pawed the 
 air with his front feet and, landing again on his feet, 
 gave a bound and darted across the plain at full speed. 
 
 First it crossed the meadow, then plunging into a 
 ploughed field kicked up the damp rich earth behind it, 
 going so fast that one could hardly distinguish its rider. 
 Julien remained transfixed with astonishment, calling out 
 in despair: "Madame, madame!" but the comte was 
 
io8 UNE VIE 
 
 rather annoyed, and, bending forward on his heavy 
 mount, he urged it forward and sta'rted out at such a pace, 
 spurring it on with his voice, his gestures and the spur, 
 that the huge horseman seemed to be carrying the heavy 
 beast between his legs and to be Hfting it up as if to fly. 
 They went at incredible speed, straight ahead, and 
 Jeanne saw the outline of the wife and of the husband 
 fleeing getting smaller and disappearing in the distance, as 
 if they were two birds pursuing each other to the verge of 
 the horizon. 
 
 Julien, approaching Jeanne slowly, murmured angrily: 
 "I think she is crazy to-day." And they set out together 
 to follow their friends, who were now hidden by the rising 
 ground. 
 
 At the end of about a quarter of an hour they saw them 
 returning and presently joined them. The comte, per- 
 spiring, his face red, but smiling, happy and triumphant, 
 was holding his wife's trembling horse in his iron grasp. 
 Gilberte was pale, her face sad and drawn, and she was 
 leaning one hand on her husband's shoulder as if she 
 were going to faint. Jeanne understood now that the 
 comte loved her madly. 
 
 After this the comtesse for some months seemed hap- 
 pier than she had ever been. She came to the "Poplars" 
 more frequently, laughed -continually and kissed Jeanne 
 impulsively. One might have said that some mysterious 
 charm had come into her life. Her husband was also 
 quite happy and never took his eyes off her. He said 
 to Jeanne one evening: "We are very happy just now. 
 Gilberte has never been so nice as this. She never is out 
 of humor, never gets angry. I feel that she loves me; 
 until now I was not sure of it." 
 
 Julien also seemed changed, no longer impatient, as 
 though the friendship between the two families had 
 brought peace and happiness to both. The spring was 
 singularly early and mild. Everything seemed to be 
 
UNE VIE 109 
 
 coming to life beneath the quickening rays of the sun. 
 Jeanne was vaguely troubled at this awakening of nature. 
 Memories came to her of the early days of her love. Not 
 that her love for Tulien was renewed; that was over, over 
 forever. But all her being, caressed by the breeze, filled 
 with the fragrance of ^pring, was disturbed as though in 
 response to some invisible and tender appeal. She loved 
 to be alone, to give herself up in the sunlight to all kinds 
 of vague and calm enjoyment which did not necessitate 
 thinking. 
 
 One morning as she was in a reverie a vision came to 
 her, a swift vision of the sunlit nook amid the dark foliage 
 in the little wood near Etretat. It was there that she 
 had for the first timj trembled, when beside the young 
 man who loved her then. It was there that he had uttered 
 for the first time the timid desire of his heart. It was 
 there that she thought that she had all at once reached the 
 radiant future of her hopes. She wished to see this wood 
 again, to make a sort of sentimental and superstitious pil- 
 grimage, as though a return to this spot might somehow 
 change the current of her life. Julien had been gone since 
 daybreak, she knew not whither. She had the little Vv^hite 
 horse, which she sometimes rode, saddled, and she set out. 
 It was one of those days when nothing seemed stirring, not 
 a blade of grass, not a leaf. All seemed wrapped in a 
 golden mist beneath the blazing sun. Jeanne vralked her 
 horse, soothed and happy. 
 
 She descended into the valley which leads to the sea, 
 between the great arches in the cliff that are called the 
 "Gates" of iEtretat, and slowly reached the wood. The 
 sunlight was streaming through the still scanty foliage. 
 She wandered about the little paths, looking for the spot. 
 
 All at once, as she was going along one of the lower 
 paths, she perceived at the farther end of it tw^o horses 
 tied to ^ iree and recognized them at once; they belonged 
 :o Gilbertt. and Julien, The loneliness of the place was 
 
no UNE VIE 
 
 beginning to be irksome to her, and she was pleased at 
 this chance meeting, and whipped up her horse. 
 
 When she reached the two patient animals, who were 
 probably accustomed to these long halts, ^he called. 
 There was no reply. A woman's glove and two riding 
 wL.ns lay on the beaten-do\^Ti grass. So they had no 
 doubt sat down there awhile and then walked away leaving 
 their horses tied. 
 
 She waited a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, sur- 
 
 scd, not understanding what could be keeping them. 
 Sne had dism.ounted. She sat there, leaning against a 
 tree trunk. Suddenly a thought came to her as she 
 glanced again at the glove, the whips and ihe two horses 
 left tied there, and she sprang to her saddle with an 
 irresistible desire to make her escape. 
 
 She started off at a gallop for the "Poplars." She was 
 turning things over in her mind, trying to reason, to put 
 two and tv/o together, to compare facts. How was it 
 that she had not suspected this sooner? How was 't that 
 she had not noticed anything? How was it she nad not 
 guessed the reason of Julien's frequent absences, ihe re- 
 newal of his former attention to his appearance and the 
 improvement in his temper? She now recalled Gilberte's 
 nervous abruptness, her exaggerated affection and the 
 kind of beaming happiness in which she seemed to exist 
 latterly and that so pleased the comte. 
 
 She reined in her horse, as she wanted to ihink, and the 
 quick pace disturbed her ideas. 
 
 As soon as the first emotion was over she became al- 
 most calm, without jealousy or hatred, but filled with 
 contempt. She hardly gave Julien a thought; nothing he 
 might do could astonish her. But ihe douDle treachery 
 of the comtesse, her friend, disgusted hef Everyone, 
 then, was treacherous, untruthful and false. And leari 
 came to her eyes. One sometimes mourns lost illusluns 
 as deeply as one does the death of a friend. 
 
UNE VIE III 
 
 She resolved, however, to act as though she knew noth- 
 ing, to close the doors of her heart to all ordinary affection 
 and to love no one but Paul and her parents and to 
 endure other people with an undisturbed countenance. 
 
 As soon as she got home she ran to her son, carried 
 him up to her room and kissed him passionately for an 
 hour. 
 
 Julien came home to dinner, smiling and attentive, and 
 appeared interested as he asked: "Are not father and 
 little mother coming this year?" 
 
 She w^as so grateful to him for this little attention that 
 she almost forgave him for the discovery she had made 
 in the wood, and she was filled all of a sudden with an 
 intense desire to see without delay the two beings in the 
 world whom she loved next to Paul, and passed the whole 
 evening writing to them to hasten their journey. 
 
 They promised to be there on the 20th of May and it 
 was now the 7th. 
 
 She aw^aited their arrival with a growing impatience, 
 as though she felt, in addition to her filial affection, the 
 ne^d of opening her heart to honest hearts, to talk with 
 frankness to pure-minded people, devoid of all infamy, 
 all of whose life, actions and thoughts had been upright 
 at all times. 
 
 What she now felt was a sort of moral isolation, amid 
 all this immorality, and, although she had learned sud- 
 denly to dissimulate, although she received the comtesse 
 with outstretched hand and smiling lips, she felt this . 
 consciousness of hollo wness, this contempt for humanity 
 increasing and enveloping her, and the petty gossip of 
 the district gave her a still greater disgust, a still lower 
 opinion of her fellow creatures. 
 
 The immoralit)^ of the peasants shocked her, and this 
 warm spring seemed to stir the sap in human beings as 
 well as in plants. Jeanne did not belong to the race of 
 peasants v/ho are dominated by their lower instincts. 
 
112 UNE VIE 
 
 Julien one day awakened her aversion anew by telling 
 her a coarse story that had been told to him and that he 
 considered very amusing. 
 
 When the travelling carriage stopped at the door and 
 the happy face of the baron appeared at the window 
 Jeanne was stirred with so deep an emotion, such a tumul- 
 tuous feeling of affection as she had never before ex- 
 perienced. But when she saw her mother she was shocked 
 and almost fainted. The baroness, in six months, had 
 aged ten years. Her heavy cheeks had grown flabby 
 and purple, as though the blood were congested ; her eyes 
 were dim and she could no longer move about unless sup- 
 ported under each arm. Her breathing was difficult and 
 wheeezing and affected those near her with a painful 
 sensation. 
 
 When Jeanne had taken them to their room, she retired 
 to her own in order to have a good cry, as she was so 
 upset. Then she went to look for her father, and throw- 
 ing herself into his arms, she exclaimed, her eyes still 
 full of tears: "Oh, how mother is changed! What is 
 the matter with her? Tell me, what is the matter?" He 
 was much surprised and replied: "Do you think so? 
 What an idea! Why, no. I have never been away from 
 her. I assure you that I do not think she looks ill. She 
 always looks like that." -' 
 
 That evening Julien said to his wife: "Your mother 
 is in a; pretty bad v/ay. I think she will not last long." 
 And as Jeanne burst out sobbing, he became annoyed. 
 "Come, I did not say there was no hope for her. You 
 always exaggerate everything. She is changed, that's all. 
 She is no longer young." 
 
 The baroness was not able to walk any distance and 
 only went out for half an hour each day to take one 
 turn in her avenue and then she would sit on the bench. 
 And when she felt unequal to walking to the end of her 
 avenue, she would say: "Let us stop; my hypertrophy 
 
UNE VIE 113 
 
 is breaking my legs to-day." She hardly ever laughed 
 now as she did the previous year at anything that amused 
 her, but only smiled. As she could see to read excellently, 
 she passed hours reading "Corinne" or Lamartine's 
 "Meditations." Then she would ask for her drawer of 
 "souvenirs," and emptying her cherished letters on her 
 lap, she would place the drawer on a chair beside her and 
 put back, one by one, her "relics," after she had slowly 
 gone over them. And when she was alone, quite alone, 
 she would Idss some of them, as one kisses in secret a 
 lock of hair of a loved one passed away. 
 
 Sometimes Jeanne, coming in abruptly, would find her 
 weeping and would exclaim: "WTiat is the matter, little 
 mother?" And the baroness, sighing deeply, would 
 reply: "It is my 'relics' that make me cry. They stir 
 remembrances that were so delightful and that are now 
 past forever, and one is reminded of persons whom one 
 had forgotten and recalls once more. You seem to see 
 them, to hear them, and it affects you strangely. You 
 will feel this later." 
 
 When the baron happened to come in at such times 
 he would say gently: "Jeanne, dearie, take my advice 
 and burn your letters, all of them — your mother's, mine, 
 everyone's. There is nothing more dreadful, when one is 
 growing old, than to look back to one's youth." But 
 Jeanne also kept her letters, was preparing a chest of 
 "relics" in obedience to a sort of hereditary instinct of 
 dreamy sentimentality, although she differed from her 
 mother in every other way. 
 
 The baron was obliged to leave them some days later, 
 as he had some business tliat called him away. 
 
 One afternoon Jeanne took Paul in her arms and went 
 out for a walk. She was sitting on a bank^ gazing at the 
 infant, whom she seemed to be looking at for the first 
 time. She could hardly imagine him grovm up, walk- 
 ing with a steady step, with a beard on his face and 
 
 C 
 
114 UNE VIE 
 
 talking in a big voice. She heard someone calling and 
 raised her head. Marius came running toward her. 
 
 "Madame, Madame la Baronne is very bad!" 
 
 A cold chill seemed to run down her back as she started 
 up and walked hurriedly toward the house. 
 
 As she approached she saw a number of persons 
 grouped around the plane tree. She darted forward and 
 saw her mother lying on the ground with two pillows 
 under her head. Her face was black, her eyes closed and 
 her breathing, which had been difficult for twenty years, 
 now quite hushed. The nurse took the child out of 
 Jeanne's arms and carried it off. 
 
 Jeanne, with dra\vn, anxious face, asked: "What hap- 
 pened? How did she come to fall? Go for the doctor, 
 somebody." Turning round, she saw the old cure, who 
 had heard of it in some way. He offered his services 
 and began rolling up the sleeves of his cassock. But 
 vinegar, eau de cologne and rubbing the invalid proved 
 ineffectual. 
 
 "She should be undressed and put to bed," said the 
 priest. 
 
 Joseph Couillard, the farmer, was there and old Simon 
 and Ludivine. With the assistance of Abbe Picot, they 
 tried to lift the baroness, but after an attempt were 
 obliged to bring a large^ easy chair from the drawing- 
 room and place her in it! In this way, they managed to 
 get her into the house and then upstairs, where they 
 laid her on her bed. 
 
 Joseph Couillard set out in hot haste for the doctor. 
 As the priest was going to get the holy oil, the nurse, 
 who had "scented a death," as the servants say, and 
 was on the spot, whispered to him: "Do not prt your- 
 self out, monsieur; she is dead. I know all about these 
 things." 
 
 Jeanne, beside herself, entreated them to do something. 
 The priest tliought it best to pronounce the absolution. 
 
UNE VIE 115 
 
 They watched for two hours beside this lifeless, dis- 
 colored body. Jeanne, on her knees, was sobbing in an 
 agony of grief. 
 
 When the door opened and the doctor appeared, Jeanne 
 darted toward him. stammering out what she knew of 
 the accident, but seeing the nurse exchange a meaning 
 glance with the doctor, she stopped to ask him: "Is it 
 serious? Do you think it is serious?" 
 
 He said presently: "I am afraid — I am afraid — it is 
 all over. Be brave, be brave." 
 
 Jeanne, extending her arms, threw herself on her 
 mother's body. Julien just then came in. He stood there 
 amazed, visibly annoyed, without any exclamation of 
 sorrow, any appearance of grief, taken so unawares that 
 he had not time to prepare a suitable expression of coun- 
 tenance. He muttered: "I was expecting it, I felt that 
 the end was near." Then he took out his handkerchief, 
 wiped his eyes, knelt down, crossed himself, and then ris- 
 ing to his feet, attempted to raise his wife. But she was 
 clasping the dead body and kissing it, and it became 
 necessary to carry her away. She appeared to be out of 
 her mind. 
 
 At the end of an hour she was allowed to come back. 
 There was no longer any hope. The room was arranged 
 as a death chamber. Julien and the priest were talking 
 in a low tone near the window. It was growing dark. 
 The priest cam.e over to Jeanne and took her hands, 
 trying 10 console her. He spoke of the defunct, praised 
 her in pious phrases and offered to pass the night in 
 prayer beside the body. 
 
 But Jeanne refused, amid convulsive sobs. She wished 
 to be alone, quite alone on this last night of farewell. 
 Julien came forward: "But you must not do it; we will 
 stay together." She shook her head, unable to speak. 
 At last she said: "It is my mother, my mother. I wish 
 to watch beside her alone." The doctor murmured: 
 
ii6 UNE VIE 
 
 "Let her do as she pleases; the nurse can stay in the 
 adjoining room." 
 
 The priest and Julien consented, more interested in 
 their own rest. Then Abbe Picot knelt down in his 
 turn, and as he rose and left the room, he said: "She 
 was a saint'' in the same tone as he said "Dominus 
 vobiscum." 
 
 The vicomte in his ordinary tone then asked: "Are 
 you not going to eat something?" Jeanne did not reply, 
 not knowing he was speaking to her, and he repeated: 
 "You had better eat something to keep up your stomach." 
 She replied in a bewildered manner: "Send at once for 
 papa." And he went out of the room to send someone on 
 horseback to Rouen. 
 
 She rema-ned plunged in a sort of motionless grief, 
 seeing nothing, feeling nothing, understanding nothing. 
 She onl}^ wanted to be alone. Julien came back. He had 
 dined and he asked her again: "Won't you take some- 
 thing?" She shook her head. He sat down with an air 
 of resignation rather than sadness, without speaking, 
 and they both sat there silent, till at length Julien arose, 
 and approaching Jeanne, said: "Would you like to stay 
 alone now?" She took his hand impulsively and replied: 
 "Oh, yes! leave me!" 
 
 He kissed her forehead, murmuring: "I will come in 
 and see you from time to time." He went out with 
 Widow Dentu, who rolled her easy chair into the next 
 room. 
 
 Jeanne shut the door and opened the windows wide. 
 She felt the soft breath from the mown hay that lay in 
 the moonlight on the lawn. It seemed to harrow her 
 feelings like an ironical remark. 
 
 She went back to the bed, took one of the cold, inert 
 hands and looked at her mother earnestly. She seemed 
 to be sleeping more peacefully than she had ever done, 
 and the pale flame of the tapers which flickered at every 
 
UNE VIE 117 
 
 breath made her face appear to be alive, as if she had 
 stirred. Jeanne remembered all the little incidents of 
 her childhood, the visits of little mother to the "parloir" 
 of the convent, the manner in which she handed her a 
 little paper bag of cakes, a multitude of little details, 
 little acts, little caresses, words, intonations, familiar ges- 
 tures, the creases at the corner of her eyes when she 
 laughed, the big sigh she gave when she sat down. 
 
 And she stood there looking at her, repeating half me- 
 chanically. "She is dead," and all the horror of the 
 word became real to her. It was mamma lying there — 
 little mother — Mamma Adelaide who was dead. She 
 would never move about again, nor speak, nor laugh, nor 
 sit at dinner opposite little father. She would never 
 again say: "Good-mornl-^^ Jeannette." She was dead! 
 
 And she fell on her knees in a paroxysm of despair, 
 her hands clutching the sheet, her face buried in the 
 covers as she cried in a heartrending tone: "Oh, mamma, 
 my poor mamma!" Then feeling that she was losing 
 her reason as she had done on the night when she fled 
 across the snow, she rose and ran to the window to drink 
 in the fresh air. The soothing calmness of the night 
 entered her soul and she began to weep quietly. 
 
 Presently she turned back into the room and sat down 
 again beside her mother. Other remembrances came to 
 her: those of her own life — Rosalie, Gilberte, the bitter 
 disillusions of her heart. Everything, then, was only mis- 
 ery, grief, unhappiness and death. Everyone tried to 
 deceive, everyone lied, everyone made you suffer and weep. 
 Where could one find a Httle rest and happiness? In 
 another existence no doubt, when the soul is freed from 
 the trials of earth. And she began to ponder on this in- 
 soluble mystery. 
 
 A tender and curious thought came to her mind. If 
 was to read over in this last watch, as though they were 
 a litany, the old letters that her mother loved. It seemed 
 
ii8 UNE VIE 
 
 to her that she was about to perform a delicate and 
 sacred duty which would give pleasure to little mother in 
 the other world. 
 
 She rose, opened the writing desk and took from the 
 lower drawer ten little packages of yellow letters, tied 
 and arranged in order, side by side. She placed them all 
 on the bed over her mother's heart from a sort of senti- 
 ment and began to read them. They were old letters 
 that savored of a former century. The first began, "My 
 dear little granddaughter," then again "My dear little 
 girl," "My darling," "My dearest daughter," then "My^ 
 dear child," "My dear Adelaide," "My dear daughter," 
 according to the periods — childhood, youth or young 
 womanhood. They were all full of little insignificant 
 details and tender words, about a thousand little matters, 
 those simple but important events of home life, so petty 
 to outsiders: "Father has the grip; poor Hortense burnt 
 her finger; the cat, 'Croquerat,' is dead; they have cut 
 down the pine tree to the right of the gate; mother lost 
 her prayerbook on the way home from church, she thinks 
 it was stolen." 
 
 All these details affected her. They seemed like reve- 
 lations, as though she had suddenly entered the past 
 secret heart life of little mother. She looked at her lying 
 there and suddenly began to read aloud, to read to the 
 dead, as though to distract, to console her. 
 
 And the dead woman appeared to be pleased. 
 
 Jeanne tossed the letters as she read them to the foot 
 of the bed. She untied another package. It was a new 
 handwriting. She read: "I cannot do without your 
 caresses. I love you so that I am almost crazy." 
 
 That was all; no signature. 
 
 She put back the letter without understanding its 
 meaning. The address was certainly "Madame la Baronne 
 Le Perthuis des Vauds." 
 
 Then she opened another: "Come this evening as 
 
UNE VIE 119 
 
 soon as he goes out; we shall have an hour together. I 
 worship you." In another: "I passed the night longing 
 in vain for you, longing to look into your eyes, to press 
 my lips to yours, and I am insane enough to throw 
 myself from the window at the thought that you are 
 another's ..." 
 
 Jeanne was perfectly bewildered. What did that 
 mean? To whom, for whom, from whom were these 
 words of love? 
 
 She went on reading, coming across fresh impassioned 
 declarations, appointments with warnings as to prudence, 
 and always at the end the six words: "Be sure to bum 
 this letter!" 
 
 At last she opened an ordinary note, accepting an 
 invitation to dinner, but in the same handwriting and 
 signed: "Paul d'Ennemare," whom the baron called, 
 w.henever he spoke of him, "My poor old Paul," and 
 whose wife had been the baroness' dearest friend. 
 
 Then a suspicion, which immediately became a cer- 
 tainty, flashed across Jeanne's mind: He had been her 
 mother's lover. 
 
 And, almost beside herself, she suddenly threw aside 
 these infamous letters as she would have thrown off some 
 venomous reptile and ran to the window and began to 
 cry piteously. Then, collapsing, she sank down beside 
 the wall, and hiding her face in the curtain so that no 
 one should hear her, she sobbed bitterly as if in hopeless 
 despair. 
 
 She W'Ould have remained thus probably all night, if 
 she had not heard a noise in the adjoining room that 
 made her start to her feet. It might be her father. 
 And all the letters were lying on the floor I He would 
 have to open only one of them to know^ all! Her father! 
 
 She darted into the other room and seizing the letters 
 in handful s, she threw them all into the flreplace, those 
 of her grandparents as well as those of the lover; some 
 
120 UNE VIE 
 
 that she had not looked at and some that had remained 
 tied up in the drawers of the desk'. She then took one 
 of the tapers that burned beside the bed and set fire to 
 this pile of letters. When they were reduced to ashes she 
 went back to the open window, as though she no longer 
 dared to sit beside the dead, and began to cry again 
 with her face in her hands: "Oh, my poor mamma! oh, 
 my poor mamma!" 
 
 The stars were paling. It v/as the cool hour that pre- 
 cedes the dawn. The moon was sinking on the horizon 
 and turning the sea to mother of pearl. The recollection 
 of the night she passed at the window when she first 
 came to the "Poplars" came to Jeanne's mind. How 
 far away it seemed, how everything was changed, how 
 different the future now seemed! 
 
 The sky was becoming pink, a joyous, love-inspiring, 
 enchanting pink. She looked at it in surprise, as at some 
 phenomenon, this radiant break of day, and asked her- 
 self if it were possible that, on a planet where such 
 dawns were found, there should be neither joy nor hap- 
 piness. 
 
 A noise at the door made her start. It was Julien. 
 "Well," he said, "are you not very tired?" 
 
 She murmured, "No," happy at being no longer alone. 
 "Go and rest now," he said. She kissed her mother a 
 long, sad kiss; then she went to her room. 
 
 The next day passed in the usual attentions to the dead. 
 The baron arrived toward evening. He wept for some 
 time. 
 
 The funeral took place the following day. After press- 
 ing a last kiss on her mother's icy forehead and seeing 
 the coffin nailed down, Jeanne left the room. The in- 
 vited guests would soon arrive. 
 
 Gilberte was the first to come, and she threw herself 
 sobbing on her friend's shoulder. Women in black pres- 
 ently entered the room one after another, people whom 
 
UNE VIE 121 
 
 Jeanne did not know. The Marquise de Coutelier and 
 the Vicomtesse de Briseville embraced her. She suddenly 
 saw Aunt Lison gliding in behind her. She turned round 
 and kissed her tenderly. 
 
 Julien came in, dressed all in black, elegant, very im- 
 portant, pleased at seeing so many people. He asked 
 his wife some question in a low tone and added confiden- 
 itally: "All the nobility are here; it will be a fine affair." 
 And he walked away, gravely bowing to the ladies. Aunt 
 Lison and Comtesse Gilberte alone remained with Jeanne 
 during the service for the dead. The comtesse kissed 
 her repeatedly, exclaiming: "My poor dear, my poor 
 dear!" 
 
 When Comte de Fourville came to fetch his wife he 
 was also crying as though it w^re for his own mother. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 RETRIBUTION 
 
 The following days were very sad and dreary, as they 
 always are when there has been a death in the house. 
 And, in addition, Jeanne was crushed at the thought of 
 what she had discovered ; her last shred of confidence had 
 been destroyed with the destruction of her faith. Little 
 father, after a short stay, went away to try and distract 
 his thoughts from his grief, and the large house, whose 
 former masters were leaving it from time to time, resumed 
 its usual calm and monotonous course. 
 
 Then Paul fell ill, and Jeanne was almost beside her- 
 self, not sleeping for ten days, and scarcely tasting food. 
 He recovered, but she was haunted by the idea that he 
 might die. Then what should she do? What would 
 become of her? And there gradually stole into her heart 
 the hope that she might have another child. She 
 dreamed of it, became obsessed with the idea. She longed 
 to realize her old dream of seeing two little children 
 around her; a boy and a girl. 
 
 But since the affair of Rosalie she and Julien had lived 
 apart. A reconciliation seemed impossible in their pres- 
 ent situation. Julien loved some one else, she knew it; 
 and the very thought of suffering his approach filled her 
 with repugnance. She had no one left whom she could 
 consult. She resolved to go and see Abbe Picot and tell 
 
 122 
 
UNE VIE 123 
 
 him, under the seal of confession, all that weighed upon 
 her mind in this matter. 
 
 He was reading from his breviary in his little garden 
 planted with fruit trees when she arrived. 
 
 After a few mnutes' conversation on indifferent mat- 
 ters, she faltered, her color rising: "I want to confess, 
 Monsieur I'Abbe." 
 
 He looked at her in astonishment, as he pushed his 
 spectacles back on his forehead; then he began to laugh. 
 "You surely have no great sins on your conscience." 
 This embarrassed her greatly, and she replied: "Xo, but 
 I want to ask your advice on a subject that is so — so — so 
 painful that I dare not mention it casually." 
 
 He at once laid aside his jovial manner and assumed 
 his priestly attitude. "Well, my child, I will listen to 
 you in the confessional; come along." 
 
 But she held back, undecided, restrained by a kind of 
 scruple at speaking of these matters, of which she was half 
 ashamed, in the seclusion of an empty church., 
 
 "Or else, no — Monsieur le Cure — I might — I might — 
 if you wish, tell you now what brings me here. Let us 
 go and sit over there, in your little arbor." 
 
 They walked toward it, and Jeanne tried to think how 
 she could begin. They sat down in the arbor, and then, 
 
 as if she were confessing herself, she said: "Father " 
 
 then hesitated, and repeated: "Father " and was 
 
 silent from emotion. 
 
 He waited, his hands crossed over his paunch. Seeing 
 her embarrassment, he sought to encourage her: "Why, 
 my daughter, one would suppose you were afraid; come, 
 take cnura<ie." 
 
 She plucked up courage, like a coward who plunsjes 
 headlong into danger. "Father, I should like to have 
 another child." He did not reply, as he did not under- 
 stand her. Then she explained, timid and unable to 
 express herself clearly: 
 
124 UNE VIE 
 
 "I am all alone in life now; my father and my hus- 
 band do not get along together; my mother is dead; and 
 
 — and " she added with a shudder, "the other day I 
 
 nearly lost my son! What would have become of me 
 then?" 
 
 She was silent. The priest, bewildered, was gazing at 
 her. ''Come, get to the point of your subject." 
 
 "I want to have another child," she said. Then he 
 smiled, accustomed to the coarse jokes of the peasants, 
 who were not embarrassed in his presence, and he re- 
 plied, with a sly motion of his head: 
 
 "Well, it seems to me that it depends only on your- 
 self." 
 
 She raised her candid eyes to his face, and said, hesi- 
 tating with confusion: "But — but — you understand that 
 since — since — what you know about — about that maid— 
 my husband and I have lived — have lived quite apart." 
 
 Accustomed to the promiscuity and undignified rela- 
 tions of the peasants, he was astonished at the revelation. 
 All at once he thought he guessed at the young woman's 
 real desire, and looking at her out of the comer of his 
 eye, Avith a heart full of benevolence and sympathy for 
 her distress, he said: "Oh, I understand perfectly. I 
 know that your widowhood must be irksome to you. 
 You are young and in good health. It is natural, quite 
 natural." 
 
 He smiled, bearing out his easy-going character of a 
 country priest, and tapping Jeanne lightly on the hand, 
 he said: "That is permissible, very permissible indeed, 
 according to the commandments. You are married, are 
 you not? Well, then, what is the harm?" 
 
 She, in her turn, had not understood his hidden mean- 
 ing; but as soon as she saw through it, she blushed 
 scarlet, shocked, and with tears in her ej^es exclaimed: 
 "Oh, Monsieur le Cure, what are you saying? What 
 
UNE VIE 125 
 
 are you thinking of? I swear to you — I swear to 
 you " And sobs choked her words. 
 
 He was surprised and sought to console her: "Come, 
 I did not mean to hurt your feelings. I was only ioking 
 a little; there is no harm in that whefl one is decent. 
 But you may rely on me, you may rely on me. I will 
 see M. Julien." 
 
 She did not know what to say. She now wished to 
 decline this intervention, which she thought clumsy and 
 dangerous, but she did not dare to do so, and she went 
 away hurriedly, faltering: "I am grateful to you, Mon- 
 sieur le Cure." 
 
 A week passed. One day at dinner Julien looked at 
 her with a peculiar expression, a certain smiling curve of 
 the lips that she had noticed when he was teasing her. 
 He w^as even almost ironically gallant toward her, and 
 ,as they w^ere walking after dinner in little mother's ave- 
 nue, he said in a low tone: "We seem to have made up 
 again." 
 
 She did not reply, but continued to look on the ground 
 at a sort of track that was almost effaced now that the 
 grass was sprouting anew. They were the footprints of 
 the baroness, which were vanishing as does a memory. 
 And Jeanne was plunged in sadness; she felt herself lost 
 in life, far away from everyone. 
 
 "As for me, I ask nothing better. I was afraid of 
 displeasing you," continued Julien. 
 
 The sun was going do^vn, the air w^as mild. A longing 
 to weep came over Jeanne, one of those needs of un- 
 bosoming oneself to a kindred spirit, of unbending and 
 telling one's griefs. A sob rose in her throat; she opened 
 her arms and fell on Julien 's breast, and wept. He 
 glanced down in surprise at her head, for he could not 
 see her face which was hidden on his shoulder. He 
 supposed that she still loved him, and placed a conde- 
 scending kiss on the back of her head. 
 
126 UNE VIE 
 
 They entered the house and he followed her to her 
 room. And thus they resumed their former relations, he, 
 as a not unpleasant duty, and she, merely tolerating him. 
 
 She soon noticed, however, that his manner had changed, 
 and one day with her lips to his, she murmured: "Why 
 are you not the same as you used to be?" 
 
 "Because I do not want any more children," he said 
 jokingly. 
 
 She started. "Why not?" 
 
 He appeared greatly surprised. "Eh, what's that you 
 say? Are you crazy? No, indeed! One is enough, 
 always crying and bothering everyone. Another baby! 
 No, thank you!" 
 
 At the end of a month she told the news to everyone, 
 far and wide, with the exception of Comtesse Gilberte, 
 from reasons of modesty and delicacy. 
 
 What the priest had foreseen finally came to pass. She 
 became enceinte. Then, filled with an unspeakable hap- 
 piness, she locked her door every night when she retired, 
 vowing herself from henceforth to eternal chastity, in 
 gratitude to the vague divinity she adored. 
 
 She was now almost quite happy again. Her children 
 would grow up and love her; she would grow old quietly, 
 happy and contented, without troubling herself about her 
 husband. 
 
 Toward the end of September, Abbe Picot called on a 
 visit of ceremony to introduce his successor, a young priest, 
 very thin, very short, with an emphatic way of talking, 
 and with dark circles round his sunken eyes. 
 
 The old abbe had been appointed Dean of Goderville. 
 
 Jeanne was really sorry to lose the old man, who had 
 been associated with all her recollections as a young 
 woman. He had married her, baptized Paul, and buried 
 the baroness. She could not imagine Etouvent ^'vithout 
 Abbe Picot and his paimch passing along by the farms, 
 and she loved him because he was cheerful and natural. 
 
UNE VIE 127 
 
 But he did not seem very cheerful at the thought of 
 his promotion. "It is a wrench, it is a wrench, madame 
 la comtesse. I have been here for eighteen years. Oh, 
 the place does not bring in much, and is not wealthy. 
 The men have no more religion than they need, and the 
 women, look you, the women have no morals. But never- 
 theless, I loved it." 
 
 The new cure appeared impatient, and said abruptly: 
 "When I am here all that will have to be changed." He 
 looked like an angry boy, thin and frail in his somewhat 
 worn, though clean cassock. 
 
 Abbe Picot looked at him sideways, as he did when 
 he was in a joking mood, and said: "You see, abbe, in 
 order to prevent those happenings, you will have to chain 
 up your parishioners; and even that would not be of 
 much use." The little priest replied sharply: "We shall 
 see." And the older man smiled as he took a pinch of 
 snuff, and said: "Age will calm you down, abbe, and 
 experience also. You will drive away from the church 
 the remaining faithful ones, and that is all the good it 
 will do. In this district they are religious, but pig-headed; 
 be careful. Faith, when I see a girl come to confess who 
 looks rather stout, I say to myself: 'She is brindng me 
 a new parishioner,' and I try to get her married. You 
 cannot prevent them from making mistakes; but you 
 can go and look for the man, and prevent him from 
 deserting the mother. Get them married, abbe, get them 
 married, and do not trouble yourself about anything else." 
 
 "We think differently," said the young priest rudely; 
 "it is useless to insist." And Abbe Picot once more began 
 to regret his village, the sea which he saw from his par- 
 sonage, the little valleys where he walked while repeating 
 his breviary, glancing up at the boats as they passed. 
 
 As the two priests took their leave, the old man kissed 
 Jeanne, who was on the verge of tears. 
 
 A week later Abbe Tolbiac called again. He spoke of 
 
128 UNE VIE 
 
 reforms which he intended to accomplish, as a prince 
 might have done on taking possession of a kingdom. Then 
 he requested the vicomtesse not to miss the service on 
 Sunday, and to communicate at all the festivals. ''You 
 and I," he said, "we are at the head of the district; we 
 must rule it and always set them an example to follow. 
 We must be of one accord so that we may be powerful 
 and respected. The church and the chateau in joining 
 forces will make the peasants obey and fear us." 
 
 Jeanne's religion was all sentiment; she had all a 
 woman's dream faith, and if she attended at all to her 
 religious duties, it was from a habit acquired at the con- 
 vent, the baron's advanced ideas having long since over- 
 thrown her convictions. Abbe Picot contented himself 
 with what observances she gave him, and never blamed 
 her. But his successor, not seeing her at mass the pre- 
 ceding Sunday, had come to call, uneasy and stem. 
 
 She did not wish to break with the parsonage, and 
 promised, making up her mind to be assiduous in attend- 
 ance the first few weeks, out of politeness. 
 
 Little by little, however, she got into the habit of going 
 to church and came under the influence of this delicate, 
 upright and dictatorial abbe. A mystic, he appealed to 
 her in his enthusiasm and zeal. He set in vibration in her 
 soul the chord of religious poetry that all women possess. 
 His unyielding austerity, his disgust for ordinary human 
 interests, his love of God, his youthful and untutored 
 inexperience, his harsh words, and his inflexible will, gave 
 Jeanne an idea of the stuff martyrs were made of; -and 
 she let herself be carried away, all disillusioned as she 
 was, by the fanaticism of this child, the minister of God. 
 
 He led her to Christ, the consoler, showing *her how 
 the joy of religion will calm all sorrow; and she knelt at 
 the confessional, humbling herself, feeling herself small 
 and weak in presence of this priest, who appeared to be 
 about fifteen. 
 
UNE VIE 129 
 
 He was, however, very soon detested in all the country- 
 side. Inflexibly severe toward himself, he was implaca- 
 bly intolerant toward others, and the one thing that espe- 
 cially roused his wrath and indignation was love. The 
 young men and girls looked at each other slyly across 
 the church, and the old peasants who liked to joke about 
 such things disapproved his severity. All the parish was 
 in a ferment. Soon the young men all stopped going to 
 church. 
 
 The cure dined at the chateau every Thursday, and 
 often came during the week to chat with his penitent. 
 She became enthusiastic like himself, talked about spirit- 
 ual matters, handling all the antique and complicated 
 arsenal of religious controversy. 
 
 They walked together along the baroness' avenue, talk- 
 ing of Christ and the apostles, the Virgin Mary and the 
 Fathers of the Church as though they were personally 
 acquainted with them. 
 
 Julien treated the new priest with great respect, say- 
 ing constantly: "That priest suits me, he does not back 
 down." And he went to confession and communion, set- 
 ting a fine example. He now went to the Fourvilles' 
 nearly every day, gunning with the husband, who was 
 never happy without him, and riding with the com- 
 tesse, in spite of rain and storm. The comte said: 
 "They are crazy about riding, but it does my wife 
 good." 
 
 The baron returned to the chateau about the middle 
 of November. He was changed, aged, faded, tilled with 
 a deep sadness. And his love for his daughter seemed 
 to have gained in strength, as if these few months of 
 dreary solitude had aggravated his need of affection, con- 
 fidence and tenderness. Jeanne did not tell him about 
 her new ideas, and her friendship for the Abbe Tolbiac. 
 The first time he saw the priest he conceived a great 
 aversion to him. And when Jeanne asked him that eve- 
 
130 UNE VIE 
 
 ning how he liked him, he replied: "That man is an 
 inquisitor! He must be very dangerous." 
 
 When he learned from the peasants, whose friend he 
 was, of the harshness and violence of the young priest, 
 of the kind of persecution which he carried on against all 
 human and natural instincts, he developed a hatred 
 toward him. He, himself, was one of the old race of 
 natural philosophers who bowed the knee to a sort of 
 pantheistic Divinity, and shrank from the Catholic con- 
 ception of a God with bourgeois instincts, Jesuitical wrath, 
 and tyrannical revenge. To him reproduction was the 
 great law of nature, and he began from farm to farm 
 an ardent campaign against this intolerant priest, the 
 persecutor of life. 
 
 Jeanne, very much worried, prayed to the Lord, en- 
 treated her father; but he always repT-ied: "We must 
 fight such men as that, it is our duty and our right. 
 They are not human." 
 
 And he repeated, shaking his long -white locks: "They 
 are not human; they understand nothing, nothing, noth- 
 ing. They are moving in a morbid dream; t"hey are anti- 
 physical." And he pronounced the word "anti-physical" 
 as though it were a malediction. 
 
 The priest knew who his enemy was, but as he wished 
 to remain ruler of the chateau and of Jeanne, he tem- 
 porized, sure of final victory. He was also haunted by a 
 fixed idea. He had discovered by chance the amours of 
 Julien and Gilberte, and he desired to put a stop to them 
 at all costs. 
 
 He came to see Jeanne one day and, after a long con- 
 versation on spiritual matters, he asked her to give her 
 aid in helping him to fight, to put an end to the evil in 
 her own family, in order to save two soiils that were in 
 danger. 
 
 She did not understand, and did not wish to know. 
 
UNE VIE 131 
 
 He replied: "The hour has not arrived. I shall see you' 
 some other time." And he left abruptly. 
 
 The winter was coming to a close, a rotten winter, as 
 they say in the country, damp and mild. The abbe 
 called again some days later and hinted mysteriously at 
 one of those shameless intrigues between persons whose 
 conduct should be irreproachable. It was the duty, he 
 said, of those who were aware of the facts to use every 
 means to bring it to an end. He took Jeanne's hand and 
 adjured her to open her eyes and understand and lend him 
 her aid. 
 
 This time she understood, but she was silent, terrified 
 at the thought of all that might result in the house that 
 was now peaceful, and she pretended not to understand. 
 Then he spoke out clearly. 
 
 She faltered: "What do you wish me to do, Monsieur 
 I'Abbe?" 
 
 "Anything, rather than permit this infamy. Anything, 
 I say.- Leave him. Flee from this impure house!" 
 
 "But I have no money: and then I have no longer 
 any courage; and, besides, how can I go without any 
 proof? I have not the right to do so." 
 
 The priest arose trembling: "That is cow^ardice, 
 madame; I am mistaken in you. You are unworthy of 
 God's mercy!" 
 
 She fell on her knees: "Oh, I pray you not to leave 
 me, tell m_e what to do!" 
 
 "Open M. de Fourville's eyes," he said abruptly. "It 
 is his place to break up this intrigue." 
 
 This idea filled her vrith terror. "AVhy, he would 
 kill them, ^lonsieur I'Abbe! And I should be guilty of 
 denouncing them! Oh, never that, never!" 
 
 He raised his hand as if to curse her in his fury: 
 "Remain in your shame and your crime; for you are 
 more guilty than they are. You are the complaisant 
 
132 UNE VIE 
 
 wife! There is nothing more for me to do here." And 
 he went off so furious that he trembled all over. 
 
 She followed him, distracted and ready to do as he 
 suggested. But he strode along rapidly, shaking his large 
 blue umbrella in his rage. He perceived Julien standing 
 outside the gate superintending the lopping of the trees, 
 so he turned to the left to go across the Couillard farm, 
 and he said: "Leave me alone, madame, I have nothing 
 further to say to you." 
 
 Jeanne was entreating him to give her a few days for 
 reflection, and then if he came back to the chateau she 
 would tell him what she had done, and they could take 
 counsel together. 
 
 Right in his road, in the middle of the farmyard, a 
 group of children, those of the house and some neigh- 
 bor's children, were standing around the kennel of Mirza, 
 the dog, looking curiously at something with silent and 
 concentrated attention. In the midst of them stood the 
 baron, his hands behind his back, also looking on with 
 curiosity. One would have taken him for a schoolmaster. 
 When he saw the priest approaching, he moved away so 
 as not to have to meet him and speak to him. 
 
 The priest did not call again; but the following Sun- 
 day from the pulpit he hurled imprecations, curses and 
 threats against the chateau, anathematizing the baron, 
 and making veiled allusions, but timidly, to Julien's latest 
 intrigue. The vicomte was furious, but the dread of a 
 shocking scandal kept him silent. At each service there- 
 after the priest declared his indignation, predicting tne 
 approach of the hour when God would smite all his 
 enemies. 
 
 Julien wrote a firm, but respectful letter to the arch- 
 bishop; the abbe was threatened with suspension. He 
 was silent thereafter. 
 
 Gilberte and Julien now frequently met him during 
 their rides reading his breviary, but they turned aside so 
 
UNE VIE 133 
 
 as not to pass him by. Spring had come and reawakened 
 their love. As the foliage was still sparse and the grass 
 damp, they used to meet in a shepherd's movable hut 
 that had been deserted since autumn. But one day when 
 they were leaving it, they saw the Abbe Tolbiac, almost 
 hidden in the sea rushes on the slope. 
 
 "We must leave our horses in the ravine," said Julien, 
 "as they can be seen from a distance and would betray 
 us." One evening as they were coming home together 
 to La Vrillette, where they were to dine with the comte, 
 they met the cure of Etouvent coming out of the chateau. 
 He stepped to the side of the road to let them pass, and 
 bowed without their eyes meeting. They were uneasy for 
 a few moments, but soon forgot it. 
 
 One afternoon, Jeanne was reading beside the fire 
 while a storm of wind was raging outside, when she sud- 
 denly perceived Comte Fourville coming on foot at such 
 a pace that she thought some misfortune had happened. 
 
 She ran downstairs to meet him, and when she saw 
 him she thought he must be crazy. He wore a large 
 quilted cap that he w^ore only at home, his hunting jacket, 
 and looked so pale that his red mustache, usually the 
 color of his skin, now seemed like a flame. His eyes 
 were haggard, rolling as though his mind were vacant. 
 
 He stammered: "My wife is here, is she not?" 
 Jeanne, losing her presence of mind, replied: "Why, no, 
 I have not seen her to-day." 
 
 He sat down as if his legs had given way. He then 
 took off his cap and wiped his forehead with his hand- 
 kerchief mechanically several times. Then starting up 
 suddenly, he approached Jeanne, his hands stretched out, 
 his mouth open, as if to speak, to confide some great 
 sorrow to her. Then he stopped, looked at her fixedly 
 and said as though he were wandering: "But it is your 
 
 husband — you also " And he fled, going toward the 
 
 sea. 
 
134 UNE VIE 
 
 Jeanne ran after him, calling him, imploring him to 
 stop, her heart beating with apprehension as she thought: 
 "He knows all! What will he do? Oh, if he only does 
 not find them!" 
 
 But she could not come up to him, md he disregarded 
 her appeals. He went straight ahead without hesitation, 
 straight to his goal. He crossed the ditch, then, stalk- 
 ing through the sea rushes like a giant, he reached the 
 cliff. 
 
 Jeanne, standing on the mound covered with trees, fol- 
 lowed him v/ith her eyes until he was out cf sight. Then 
 she went into the house, distracted with grief. 
 
 He had turned to the right and started to run. Threat- 
 ening waves overspread the sea, big black clouds were 
 scudding along madly, passing on and followed by others, 
 each of them coming down in a furious downpour. The 
 wind whistled, moaned, laid the grass and the young 
 crops low and carried away big white birds that looked 
 like specks cf foam and bore them far into the land. 
 
 The hail v/hich followed beat in the comte's face, filling 
 his ears with noise and his heart witii tumult. 
 
 Down yonder before him w^as the deep gorge of the 
 Val de Vauccttte. There was nothing before him but a 
 shepherd's hut beside a deserted ^heep pasture. Two 
 horses v/ere tied to the shafts of the hut on wheels. Wliat 
 might not happen to one m such a tempest as this? 
 
 As soon as he saw them the comte crouched on the 
 ground and crawled along en his hands and knees as far 
 as the lonely hut and hid himself beneath the hut that he 
 might not be seen through the cracks. The horse on 
 seeing him became restive. He slowly cut tlieir reins 
 with the knife which he held open in his hand, and a 
 sudden squall coming up, the animals fled, frightened 
 at the hail w'hidh rattled on the sloping roof of the wooden 
 hut and made it shake on its wheels. 
 
 The comte then kneeling upright, put his eye to the 
 
UNE VIE 135 
 
 bottom of the door and looked inside. He did not stir; 
 he seemed to be waiting. 
 
 A little time elapsed and then he suddenly rose to his 
 feet, covered with mud from head to foot. He frantic- 
 ally pushed back the bolt which closed the hut on the 
 outside, and seizing the shafts, he began to shake the 
 hut as though he would break it to pieces. Then all at 
 once he got between the shafts, bending his huge frame, 
 and with a desperate effort dragged it along like an ox, 
 panting as he went. He dragged it, with whoever was 
 in it, toward the steep incline. 
 
 Those inside screamed and banged with their fists on 
 the door, not understanding what v/as going on. 
 
 \Vhen he reached the top of the cliff he let go the 
 fragile dwelling, which began to roll dov/n the incline, 
 going faster and faster, plunging, stumbling like an anim.al 
 and striking the ground with its shafts. 
 
 An old beggar hidden in a ditch saw it flying over his 
 head and heard frightful screams coming from the w^ooden 
 box. 
 
 All at once a wheel was vv'renched off and it fell on 
 its side and began to roll like a ball, as a house torn from 
 its foundations mi^ht roll from the summit of a mountain. 
 Then, reaching the ledge of the last ravine, it described a 
 circle, and, falling to the bottom, burst open as an 
 egg might do. It was no sooner smashed on the stones 
 than the old beggar, v\'ho had seen it going past, w'ent 
 down toward it slowly amid the rushes, and with the 
 customary caution of a peasant, not daring to go directly 
 to the shattered hut, he went to the nearest farm to tell of 
 the accident. 
 
 They all ran to look at it and raised the wreck of the 
 hut. They found two bodies, bmised, crushed and bleed- 
 ing. The man's forehead was split open and his whole 
 face crushed; the w^oman's jaw was hanging, dislocated 
 
136 UNE VIE 
 
 in one of the jolts, and their shattered limbs were soft 
 as pulp. 
 
 "What were they doing in that shanty?" said a woman. 
 
 The old beggar then said that they had apparently taken 
 refuge in it to get out of the storm and that a furious 
 squall must have blown the hut over the cliff. He said 
 he had intended to take shelter there himself, when he 
 saw the horses tied to it, and understood that some one 
 else must be inside. "But for that," he added in a 
 satisfied tone, "I might have rolled down in it." Some 
 one remarked: "Would not that have been a good 
 thing?" 
 
 The old man, in a furious rage, said: "Why would 
 it have been a good thing? Because I am poor and they 
 are rich! Look at them now." And trembling, ragged 
 and dripping with rain, he pointed to the two dead bodies 
 with his hooked stick and exclaimed: "We are all alike 
 when we get to this." 
 
 The comte, as soon as he saw the hut rolling down the 
 steep slope, ran off at full speed through the blinding 
 storm. He ran in this way for several hours, taking short 
 cuts, leaping across ditches, breaking through the hedges, 
 and thus got back home at dusk, not knowing how 
 himself. 
 
 The frightened servants were awaiting his return and 
 told him that the two horses had returned riderless some 
 time before, that of Julien following the other one. 
 
 Then M. de Fourville reeled and in a choked voice said: 
 "Something must have happened to them in this dreadful 
 weather. Let every one help to look for them." 
 
 He started off himself, but he was no sooner out of 
 sight than he concealed himself in a clump of bushes, 
 watching the road along which she whom he even still 
 loved v/ith an almost savage passion was to return dead, 
 dying or maybe crippled and disfigured forever. 
 
UNE VIE 137 
 
 And soon a carriole passed by carrying a strange 
 burden. 
 
 It stopped at the chateau and passed through the gate. 
 It was that, it was she. But a fearful anguish nailed 
 him to the spot, a fear to know the worst, a dread of 
 the truth, and he did not stir, hiding as a hare, starting 
 at the least sound. 
 
 He waited thus an hour, two hours perhaps. The 
 buggy did not come out. He concluded that his wife was 
 expiring, and the thought of seeing her, of meeting her 
 gaze filled him with so much horror that he suddenly 
 feared to be discovered in his hiding place and of being 
 compelled to return and be present at this agony, and he 
 then fled into the thick of the wood. Then all of a sudden 
 it occurred to him that she perhaps might be needing his 
 care, that no one probably could properly attend to her. 
 Then he returned on his tracks, running breathlessly. 
 
 On entering the chateau he met the gardener and 
 called out to him. "Well?" The man did not dare an- 
 swer him.. Then M. de Fourville almost roared at him: 
 "Is she dead?" and the servant stammered: "Yes, M. le 
 Comte." 
 
 He experienced a feeling of immense relief. His blood 
 seemed to cool and his nerves relax somewhat of their 
 extreme tension, and he walked firmly up the steps of his 
 great hallway. 
 
 The other wagon had reached "The Poplars." Jeanne 
 saw it from afar. She descried the mattress: she (Tuessed 
 that a human form was lying upon it, and understood 
 all. Her emotion was so vivid that she swooned and fell 
 prostrate. 
 
 When she regained consciousness her father was hold- 
 ing her head and bathing her temples with vinegar. Re 
 said hesitatingly: "Do you know?" She murmured: 
 "Yes, father." But when she attempted to rise she found 
 herself unable to do so, so intense was her agony. 
 
138 UNE VIE 
 
 That very night she gave birth to a stillborn infant, a 
 girl. 
 
 Jeanne saw nothing of the funeral of Julien; she knew 
 nothing of it. She merely noticed at the end of a day 
 or two that Aunt Lison was back, and in her feverish 
 dreams which haunted her she persistently sought to 
 recall when the old maiden lady had left "The Poplars," 
 at what period and under what circumstances. She could 
 not make this out, even in her lucid moments, but she was 
 certain of having seen her subsequent to the death of 
 "little mother." 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE DEVELOPMENT OF PAUL 
 
 Jeanne did not leave her room for three months and 
 was so wan and pale that no one thought she would 
 recover. But she picked up by degrees. Little father 
 and Aunt Lison never left her; they had both taken up 
 their abode at "The Poplars." The shock of Julien's 
 death had left her with a nervous malady. The slightest 
 sound made her faint and she had long swoons from the 
 most insignificant causes. 
 
 She had never asked the details of Julien's death. 
 What did it matter to her? Did she not know enough 
 already? Every one thought it was an accident, but she 
 knew better, and she kept to herself this secret which 
 tortured her: the knowledge of his infidelity and the 
 remembrance of the abrupt and terrible visit of the 
 comte on the day of the catastrophe. 
 
 And now she was filled with tender, sweet and melan- 
 choly recollections of the brief evidences of love shown 
 her by her husband. She constantly thrilled at unex- 
 pected memories of him, and she seemed to see him as he 
 was when they were betrothed and as she had known 
 him in the hours passed beneath the sunlight in Corsica. 
 All his faults diminished, all his harshness vanished, his 
 very infidelities appeared less glaring in the widening 
 separation of the closed tomb. And Jeanne, pervaded 
 by a sort of posthumous gratitude for this man who had 
 
 139 
 
140 UNE VIE 
 
 held her in his arms, forgave all the suffering he had 
 caused her, to remember only .moments of happiness 
 they had passed together. Then, as time went on and 
 month followed month, covering all her grief and rem- 
 niscences with forgetfulness, she devoted herself entirely 
 to her son. 
 
 He became the idol, the one thought of the three beinr^s 
 who surrounded him, and he ruled as a despot. A kind 
 of jealousy even arose among his slaves. Jeanne watched 
 with anxiety the great kisses he gave his grandfather 
 after a ride on his knee, and Aunt Lison, neglected by him 
 as she had been by every one else and treated often like 
 a servant by this little tyrant who could scarcely speak 
 as yet, would go to her room and weep as she compared 
 the slight affection he showed her with the kisses he gave 
 his mother and the baron. 
 
 Two years passed quietly, and at the beg"nning of the 
 third winter it was decided that they should go to Rouen 
 to live imtil spring, and the whole family set out. But 
 on their arrival in the old damp house, that had been 
 shut up for some time, Paul had such a severe attack of 
 bronchitis that his three relatives in despair declared that 
 he could not do without the air of '^The Poplars." They 
 took him back there and he got well. 
 
 Then began a series of quiet, monotonous years. Al- 
 ways around the little one, they went into raptures at 
 everything he did. His mother called him Poulet, and 
 as he could not pronounce the word, he said "Pol," which 
 amused them immensely, and the nickname of 'Toulet" 
 stuck to him. 
 
 The favorite occupation of his "three mothers," as the 
 baron called his relatives, was to see how much he had 
 grown, and for this purpose they made little notches in 
 the casing of the drawing-room door, showing his prog- 
 ress from month to month. This ladder was caJled 
 "Poulet's ladder," and was an important affair. 
 
UNE VIE 141 
 
 A new individual began to play a part in th'e affairs 
 of the household — the dog "Massacre," who became Paul's 
 inseparable companion. 
 
 Rare visits were exchanged with the Brisevilles and 
 the Coutellers. The mayor and the doctor alone were 
 regular visitors. Since the episode of the mother dog and 
 the suspicion Jeanne had entertained of the priest on the 
 occasion of the terrible death of the comtesse and Julien, 
 Jeanne had not entered the church, angry with a divinity 
 that could tolerate such ministers. 
 
 The church v/as deserted and the priest came to be 
 looked on as a sorcerer because he had, so they said, 
 driven out an evil spirit from a woman who was pos- 
 sessed, and although fearing him the peasants came to 
 respect him for this occult power as well as for the unim- 
 peachable austerity of his life. 
 
 \\Tien he met Jeanne he never spoke. This condition 
 of affairs distressed Aunt Lison, and when she was alone, 
 quite alone with Paul, she talked to him about God, tell- 
 ing him the wonderful stones of the early history of the 
 world. But when she4:old him that he must love Plim very 
 much, the child would say: "WTiere is He, auntie?" 
 "Up there," she would say, pointing to the sky; "up 
 there, Poulet, but do not say so." She was afraid of the 
 baron. 
 
 One day, however, Poulet said to her: "God is every- 
 where, but He is not in church." He had told his grand- 
 father of his aunt's wonderful revelations. 
 
 When Paul vras tv/elve years old a great difficulty arose 
 on the subject, of his first communion. 
 
 Lison came to Jeanne one morning and told her that 
 the little fellow should no longer be kept without re- 
 ligious instruction and from his religious duties. His 
 mother, troubled and undecided, hesitated, saying that 
 there was time enough. But a month later, as she was 
 returning a call at tlie Brisevilles', the comtesse asked her 
 
142 UNE VIE 
 
 casually if Paul was going to make his first communion 
 that year. Jeanne, unpren-^red for this, answered, "Yes," 
 and this simple word decided her, and without saying a 
 word to her father, she asked Aunt Lison to take the boy 
 to the catechism class. 
 
 All went well for a month, but one day Paul came 
 home with a hoarseness and the following day he .coughed. 
 On inquiry his mother learned that the priest had sent 
 him to wait till the lesson was over at the door of the 
 church, where there was a draught, because he had mis- 
 behaved. So she kept him at home and taught him 
 herself. But the Abbe Tobiac, despite Aunt Lison's 
 entreaties, refused to admit him as a communicant on the 
 ground that he was not thoroughly taught. 
 
 The same thing occurred the following year, and the 
 baron savagely swore that the child did not need to 
 believe all that tomfoolery, so it was decided that he 
 should be brought up as a Christian, but not as an active 
 Catholic, and when he came of age he could believe as he 
 pleased. 
 
 The Brisevilles ceased to call on her and Jeanne was 
 surprised, knowing the punctiliousness of these neighbors 
 in returning calls, but the Marquise de Coutelier haughtily 
 told her the reason. Considering herself, in virtue of her 
 husband's rank and fortune, a sort of queen of the Norman 
 nobility, the marquise ruled as a queen, said what she 
 thought, was gracious or the reverse as occasion de- 
 manded, admonishing, restoring to favor, congratulating 
 whenever she saw fit. So when Jeanne came to see her, 
 this lady, after a few chilling remarks, said drily: "Society 
 is divided into tvv^o classes: those who believe in God 
 and those who do not believe in Him. The former, even 
 the humblest, are our friends, our equals; the latter are 
 nothing to us." 
 
 Jeanne, perceiving the insinuation, replied: "But may 
 one not believe in God Avithout going to church?" 
 
UNE VIE 143 
 
 "No, madame," answered the marquise. ''The faith- 
 ful go to worship God in His church, just as one goes to 
 see people in their homes." 
 
 Jeanne, hurt, replied: "God is everywhere, madame. 
 As for me, who believes from the bottom of my heart in 
 His goodness, I no longer feel His presence w^en certain 
 priests come between Him and me." 
 
 The marquis rose. "The priest is the standard bearer 
 of the Church, madame. Whoever does not follow the 
 standard is opposed to Him and opposed to us." 
 
 Jeanne had risen in her turn and said, trembling: "You 
 believe, madame, in a partisan God. I believe in the 
 God of upright people." She bowed and took her leave. 
 
 The peasants also blamed her among themselves for 
 not having let Poulet make his first communion. They 
 themselves never attended service or took the sacrament 
 unless it might be at Easter, according to the rule or- 
 dained by the Church; but for boys it was quite another 
 thing, and they would have all shrunk in horror at the 
 audacity of bringing up a child outside this recognized 
 law, for religion is religion. 
 
 She saw how they felt and was indignant at heart at 
 all these discriminations, all these compromises with con- 
 science, this general fear of everything, the real cowardice 
 of all hearts and the mask of respectability assumed in 
 public. 
 
 The baron took charge of Paul's studies and made him 
 study Latin, his mother merely saying: "Above all 
 things, do not get over tired." 
 
 As soon as the boy was at liberty he went dovm to 
 work in the garden with his mother and his aunt. 
 
 He now loved to dig in the ground, and all three 
 planted young trees in the spring, sowed seed and watched 
 it growing with the deepest interest, pruned branches and 
 cut flowers for bouquets. 
 
 Poulet was almost fifteen, but was a mere child in 
 
144 UNE VIE 
 
 intelligence, ignorant, silly, suppressed between petticoat 
 government and this kind old man who belonged to an- 
 other century. 
 
 One evening the baron spoke of college, and Jeanne 
 at once began to sob. Aunt Lison timidly remained in a 
 dark comer. 
 
 "Why does he need to know so much?" asked his 
 mother. "We will make a gentleman farmer of him. 
 He can cultivate his land, as many of the nobility do. 
 He will live and grow old happily in this house, where 
 we have lived before him and where we shall die. What 
 more can one do?" 
 
 But the baron shook his head. "What would you say 
 to him if he should say to you when he is twentj^-five: 
 'I amount to nothing, I know nothing, all through your 
 fault, the fault of your maternal selfishness. I feel that 
 I am incapable of worldng, of making something of 
 myself, and yet I was not intended for a secluded, simple 
 life, lonely enough to kill one, to which I have been 
 condemned by your short-sighted affection.' " 
 
 She was weeping and said entreatingly: "Tell me, 
 Poulet, you will not reproach me for having loved you 
 too well?" And the big boy, in surprise, promised that 
 he never would. "Swear it," she said. "Yes, mamma." 
 "You want to stay here, don't you?" "Yes, mamma." 
 
 Then the baron spoke Up loud and decidedly: "Jeanne, 
 you have no right to make disposition of this life. What 
 you are doing is cowardly and almost criminal; you 
 are sacrificing your child to your own private happiness." 
 
 She hid her face in her hands, sobbing convulsively, 
 and stammered out amid her tears: "I have been so 
 unhappy — so unhappy! Now, just as I am living peace- 
 fully with him, they want to take him away from me. 
 What will become of me now — all by myself?" Her 
 father rose and, sitting down beside her, put his arms 
 round her. "And how about me, Jeanne?" 
 
UNE VIE 145 
 
 She put her arms suddenly round his neck, gave him 
 a hearty kiss and with her voice full of tears, she said: 
 "Yes, you are right perhaps, little father. I was foolish, 
 but I have suffered so much. I am quite willing he should 
 go to college." 
 
 And w^ithout knowing exactl}^ what they were going 
 to do \^ith him, Poulet in his turn began to \veep. 
 
 Then the three mothers began to kiss him and pet 
 him and encourage him. When they retired to their 
 room,s it was with a weight at their hearts, and they all 
 wept, even the baron, who had restrained himself up to 
 that. 
 
 It was decided that when the term began to put the 
 young boy to school at Havre, and during the summer 
 he was petted more than ever; his mother sighed often 
 as she thought of the separation. She prepared his ward- 
 robe as if he were going to undertake a ten years' voyage. 
 One October morning, after a sleepless night, the two 
 women and the baron got into the carriage with him and 
 set out on their journey. 
 
 They had previously selected his place in the dormitory 
 and his desk in the school room. Jeanne, aided by Aunt 
 Lison, spent the whole day in arranging his clothes in 
 his little wardrobe. As it did not hold a quarter of what 
 they had brought, she went to look for the superintendent 
 to ask for another. The treasurer was called, but he 
 pointed out that all that amount of clothing would only 
 be in the way and would never be needed, and he re- 
 fused, on behalf of the directors, to let her have another 
 chest of drawers. Jeanne, much annoyed, decided to hire 
 a room in a small neighboring hotel, begging the pro- 
 prietor to go himself and take Poulet ^^'hatever he required 
 as soon as the boy asked for it. 
 
 They then took a walk on the pier to look at the ships 
 com.ing and going. They went into a restaurant to dine, 
 but they were none of them able to eat, and looked at 
 
146 UNE VIE 
 
 one another with moistened eyes as the dishes were 
 brought on and taken away unt-ouched. 
 
 They now returned slowly toward the school. Boys 
 of all ages were arriving from all quarters, accompanied 
 by their families or by servants. Many of them were 
 crying. 
 
 Jeanne held Poulet in a long embrace, while Aunt 
 Lison rem.ained in the background, her face hidden in 
 her handkerchief. The baron, however, who was be- 
 coming affected, cut short the adieus by dragging his 
 daughter away. They got into the carriage and went 
 back through the darkness to "The Poplars," the silence 
 being broken by an occasional sob. 
 
 Jeanne wept all the following day and on the day 
 after drove to Havre in the phaeton. Poulet seemed to 
 have become reconciled to the separation. For the first 
 time in his life he now had playmates, and in his anxiety 
 to join them he could scarcely sit still on his chair when 
 his mother called. She continued her visits to him every 
 other day and called to take him home on Sundays. Not 
 knowing what to do with herself while school was in 
 session until recreation time, she would remain sitting in 
 the reception room, not having the strength or the courage 
 to go very far from the school. The superintendent sent 
 to ask her to come to his office and begged her not to 
 come so frequently. She paid no attention to his re- 
 quest. He therefore informed her that if she continued 
 to prevent her son from taking his recreation at the 
 usual hours, obliging him to work without a change of 
 occupation, they would be forced to send him back home 
 again, and the baron was also notified to the same effect. 
 She was consequently watched like a prisoner at "The 
 Poplars." 
 
 She became restless and worried and would ramble 
 about for whole days in the country, accompanied only 
 by Massacre, dreaming as she walked along. Sometimes 
 
UNE VIE 147 
 
 she would remain seated for a whole afternoon, looking 
 out at the sea from the top of the cliff; at other times 
 she would go down to Yport through the wood, going 
 over the ground of her former walks, the memory of 
 which haunted her. How long ago — ^how long ago it was 
 — the time when she had gone over these same paths 
 as a young girl, carried away by her dreams. 
 
 Poulet was not very industrious at school; he was kept 
 two years in the fourth form. The third year's work 
 was only tolerable and he had to begin the second over 
 again, so that he was in rhetoric when he was twenty. 
 
 He was now a big, fair young man, with downy 
 whiskers and a faint sign of a mustache. He now came 
 home to "The Poplars" every Sunday, riding over in a 
 couple of hours, his mother, Aunt Lison and the baron 
 starting out early to go and meet him. 
 
 Although he was a head taller than his mother, she 
 always treated him as though he were a child, and w^hen 
 he returned to school in the evening she would charge 
 him anxiously not to go too fast and to think of his 
 poor mother, who would break her heart if anything hap- 
 pened to him. 
 
 One Saturday morning she received a letter from Paul, 
 saying that he would not be home on the following day 
 because some friends had arranged an excursion and 
 had invited him. She was tormented with anxiety all 
 day Sunday, as though she dreaded some misfortune, 
 and on Thursday, as she could endure it no longer, she 
 set out for Havre. 
 
 He seemed to be changed, though she could not have 
 told in what manner. He appeared excited and his 
 voice seemed deeper. And suddenly, as though it were 
 the most natural thing in the world, he said: "I say, 
 mother, as long as you have come to-day, I want to tell 
 you that I will not be at 'The Poplars' next Sunday, for 
 we are going to have another excursion." 
 
148 UNE VIE 
 
 She was amazed, smothering, as if he had announced 
 his departure for America. At last, recovering herself, 
 she said: "Oh, Poulet, what is the matter with you? 
 Tell me what is going on." 
 
 He began to laugh, and kissing her, replied: "Why, 
 nothing, nothing, mam.ma. I am going to have a good 
 time with my friends; I am just at that age." 
 
 She had nothing to say, but when she was alone in 
 the carriage all manner of ideas came into her mind. 
 She no longer recognized him, her Poulet, her little Poulet 
 of former days. She felt for the first time that he was 
 grown up, that he no longer belonged to her, that he 
 was going to live his life without troubling himself about 
 the old people. It seemed to her that one day hat. wrought 
 this change in him. Was it possible that this was her son, 
 her poor little boy who had helped her to replant the 
 lettuce, this great big bearded youth who had a will of his 
 own! 
 
 For three months Paul came home only occasionally, 
 and always seemed impatient to get away again, trying 
 to steal off an hour earlier each evening. Jeanne was 
 alarmed, but the baron consoled her, saying: "Let him 
 alone; the boy is twenty years old." 
 
 One morning, however, an old man, poorly dressed, 
 inquired in German- French for "Matame la Vicom- 
 tesse," and after many ceremonious bows, he drew 
 from his pocket a dilapidated pocketbook, saying: "Che 
 un betit bapier bour fous," and unfolding as he handed 
 it to her a piece of greasy paper. She read and reread 
 it, looked at the Jew, read it over again and asked: 
 "What does it mean?" 
 
 He obsequiously explained: "I will tell you. Your 
 son needed a little money, and as I knew that you are a 
 good mother, I lent him a trifle to help him out." 
 
 Jeanne was trembling. "But why did he not ask me?^* 
 The Jew explained at length that it was a question of a 
 
UNE VIE 149 
 
 debt that must be paid before noon the following day; 
 that Paul not being of age, no one would have lent him 
 anything, and that his "honor would have been compro- 
 mised" without this little service that he had rendered the 
 young man. 
 
 Jeanne tried to call the baron, but had not the strength 
 to rise, she was so overcome by emotion. At length she 
 said to the usurer: "Would you have the kindness to 
 ring the bell?" 
 
 He hesitated, fearing seme trap, and then stammered 
 out: "If I am intruding, I will call again." She shook 
 her head in the negative. He then rang, and they w^aited 
 in silence, siting opposite each other. 
 
 \^^en the baron came in he understood the situation 
 at once. The note was for fifteen hundred francs. He 
 paid one thousand, saying close to the man's face: "And 
 on no account come back." The other thanked him and 
 went his way. 
 
 The baron and Jeanne set out at once for Havre. On 
 reaching the college they learned that Paul had not been 
 there for a month. The principal had received four letters 
 signed by Jeanne saying that his pupil w^as not well and 
 then to tell how he was getting along. Each letter was 
 accompanied by a doctor's certificate. Thev were, of 
 course, all forged. They were all dumfounded, and stood 
 there looking at each other. 
 
 The principal, very much worried, took them to the 
 commissary of police. Jeanne and her father stayed at a 
 hotel that night. The following day the young man was 
 found in the apartment of a courtesan of the town. His 
 grandfather and mother took him back to "The Poplars" 
 and not a w^ord was exchanged betw^een them during the 
 whole journey. 
 
 A week later they discovered that he had contracted 
 fifteen thousand francs' worth of debts within the last three 
 
ISO UNE VIE 
 
 months. His creditors had not come forward at first, 
 knowing that he would soon be of age. 
 
 They entered into no discussion about it, hoping to 
 win him back by gentleness. They gave him dainty 
 food, petted him, spoiled him. It was spring and they 
 hired a boat for him at Yport, in spite of Jeanne's fears, 
 so that he might amuse himself on the water. 
 
 They would not let him have a horse, for fear he should 
 ride to Havre. 
 
 He was there with nothing to do and became irritable 
 and occasionally brutally so. The baron was worried at 
 the discontinuance of his studies. Jeanne, distracted at 
 the idea of a separation, asked herself what they could do 
 with him. 
 
 One evening he did not come home. They learned that 
 he had gone out in a boat with two sailors. His mother, 
 beside herself with anxiety, went down to Yport without 
 a hat in the dark. Some men were on the beach, waiting 
 for the boat to come in. There was a light on board an 
 incoming boat, but Paul was not on board. He had 
 made them take him to Havre. 
 
 The police sought him in vain; he could not be found. 
 The woman with whom he had been found the first time 
 had also disappeared without leaving any trace; her furni- 
 ture was sold and her rent paid. In Paul's room at "The 
 Poplars'' were found two letters from this person, who 
 seemed to be madly in love with him. She spoke of a 
 voyage to England, having, she said, obtained the neces- 
 sary funds. 
 
 The three dwellers in the chateau lived silently and 
 drearily, their minds tortured by all kinds of suppositions. 
 Jeanne's hair, which had become gray, now turned per- 
 fectly white. She asked in her innocence why fate had 
 thus afflicted her. 
 
 She received a letter from the Abbe Tolbiac: "Ma- 
 dame, the hand of God is weighing heavily on you. You 
 
UNE VIE 151 
 
 refused Him your child; He took him from you in His 
 turn to cast him into the hands of a prostitute. Will 
 not you open your eyes at this lesson from Heaven? 
 God's mercy is infinite. Perhaps He may pardon you if 
 you return and fall on your knees before Him. I am 
 His humble servant. I will open to you the door of His 
 dwelling when you come and knock at it." 
 
 She sat a long time with this letter on her lap. Per- 
 haps it was true what the priest said. And all her 
 religious doubts began to torment her conscience. And 
 in her cowardly hesitation, which drives to church the 
 doubting, the sorrowful, she went furtively one evening 
 at twilight to the parsonage, and kneeling at the feet of 
 the thin abbe, begged for absolution. 
 
 He promised her a conditional pardon, as God could 
 not pour down all His favors on a roof that sheltered a 
 man like the baron. "You will soon feel the effects of 
 the divine mercy," he declared. 
 
 Two days later she did, indeed, receive a letter from 
 her son, and in her discouragement and grief she looked 
 upon this as the commencement of the consolation prom- 
 ised her by tlie abbe. 
 
 The letter ran: 
 
 "My Dear Mamma: Do not be imeasy. I am in 
 London, in good health, in very great neei of money. 
 We have not a sou left, and we do not have anything 
 to eat some days. The one who is with m.e, and whom 
 I love with all my heart, has spent all that she had so 
 as not to leave me — five thousand francs — and you see 
 that I am bound in honor to return her this sum in 
 the first place. So I wish you w^ould be kind enough 
 to advance me fifteen thousand francs of papa's for- 
 tune, for I shall soon be of age. This will help me out 
 of very serious difficulties. 
 
152 UNE VIE 
 
 "Good-by, my dear mamma. I embrace you with 
 all my heart, and also grandfather and Aunt Lison. 
 I hope to see you soon. 
 
 "Your son, 
 
 "VicoMTE Paul de Lamare." 
 
 He had written to her! He had not forgotten her then. 
 She did not care anything about his asking for money! 
 She would send him some as long as he had none. What 
 did money matter? He had written to her! And she 
 ran, weeping for joy, to show this letter to the baron. 
 Aunt Lison was called and read over word by word this 
 paper that told of him. They discussed each sentence. 
 
 Jeanne, jumping from the most complete despair to a 
 kind of intoxication of hope, took Paul's part. "He will 
 come back, he will come back as he has written." 
 
 The baron, more calm, said: "All the same he left us 
 for that creature, so he must love her better than us, as 
 he did not hesitate about it." 
 
 A sudden and frightful pang struck Jeanne's heart, and 
 immediately she was filled with hatred of this woman who 
 had stolen her son from her, an unappeasable, savage 
 hate, the hatred of a jealous mother. Until now all her 
 thoughts had been given 4o Paul. She scarcely took into 
 consideration that a girl had been the cause of his va- 
 garies. But the baron's words had suddenly brought be- 
 fore her this rival, had revealed her fatal power, and she 
 felt that between herself and this woman a struggle was 
 about to begin, and she also felt that she would rather 
 lose her son than share his affection with another. And 
 all her joy was at an end. 
 
 They sent him the fifteen thousand francs and heard 
 nothing more from him for five months. 
 
 Then a business man came to settle the details of Julien's 
 inheritance. Jeanne and the baron handed over the ac- 
 
UNE VIE 155 
 
 counts without any discussion, even giving up the interest 
 that should come to his mother. When Paul came back 
 to Paris he had a hundred and twenty thousand francs. 
 He then wTote four letters in six months, giving his news 
 in concise terms and ending the letters with coldly affec- 
 tionate expressions. "I am working," he said; "I have 
 obtained a position on the stock exchange. I hope to go 
 and embrace you at 'The Poplars' some day, my dear 
 parents." 
 
 He did not mention his companion, and this silence im- 
 plied more than if he had filled four pages with news of 
 her. Jeanne, in these cold letters, felt this woman in 
 ambush, the implacable, eternal enemy of mothers, the 
 courtesan. 
 
 The three lonely beings discussed the best plan to fol- 
 low in order to rescue Paul, but could decide on nothing. 
 A voyage to Paris? What good would it do? 
 
 "Let his passion exhaust itself. He will come back 
 then of his own. accord," said the baron. 
 
 Some time passed without any further news. But one 
 morning they were terrified at the receipt of a despairing 
 letter: 
 
 "My Poor Mamma: I am lost. There is nothing 
 left for me to do but to blow out my brains unless 
 you come to my aid. A speculation that gave every 
 prospect of success has fallen through, and I am 
 eighty-five thousand dollars in debt. I shall be dis- 
 honored if I do not pay up — ruined — and it will 
 henceforth be impossible for rre to do anything. I 
 am lost. I repeat tliat I would rather blow out my 
 brains than undergo this disgrace. I should have 
 done so already, probably, but for the encourage- 
 ment of a w^oman of whom I never speak to you, 
 and who is my providence. 
 
154 UNE VIE 
 
 "I embrace you from the bottom of my heart, my 
 dear mamma — perhaps for the 'last time. Good-by. 
 
 "Paul." 
 
 A package of business papers accompanying the letter 
 gave the details of the failure. 
 
 The baron answered by return mail that they would 
 see what could be done. Then he set out for Havre to 
 get advice and he mortgaged some property to raise the 
 money which v*^as sent to Paul. 
 
 The young man wrote three letters full of the most 
 heartfelt thanks and passionate affection, saying he was 
 coming home at once to see his dear parents. 
 
 But he did not come. 
 
 A whole year passed. Jeanne and the baron were about 
 to set out for Paris to try and make a last effort, when 
 they received a line to say that he was in London again, 
 setting an enterprise on foot in connection with steam- 
 boats under the name of "Paul de Lamare & Co." He 
 wrote: "This will give me an assured fortune, and perhaps 
 great wealth, and I am risking nothing. You can see at 
 once what a splendid thing it is. When I see you again I 
 shall have a fine position in society. There is nothing but 
 business these days to help you out of difficulties." 
 
 Three months later th^ steamboat compainy failed and 
 the manager was being sought for on account of certain 
 irregularities in business methods. Jeanne had a nervous 
 attack that lasted several hours and then she took to her 
 bed. 
 
 The baron again went to Havre to make inquiries, saw 
 some lawyers, some business men, some solicitors and 
 bailiffs and found that the liabiHties of the De Lamare con- 
 cern were two hundred and thirty-five thousand francs, 
 and he once more mortgaged some property. The chateau 
 of "The Poplars" and the two farms and all that went 
 with them were mortgaged for a large sum. 
 
UNE VIE 155 
 
 One evening as he was arranging the final details in 
 the office of a business man, he fell over on the floor 
 with a stroke of apoplexy. 
 
 A man was sent on horseback to notify Jeanne, but 
 when she arrived he was dead. 
 
 She took his body back to "The Poplars," so overcome 
 that her grief was numbness rather than despair. 
 
 Abbe Tolbiac refused to permit the body to be brought 
 to the church, despite the distracted entreaties of the two 
 women. The baron was interred at twilight without any 
 religious ceremony. 
 
 Paul learned of the event through one of the men who 
 was settling up his affairs. He was still in hiding in Eng- 
 land. He wrote to make excuses for not having come 
 home, saying that he learned of his grandfather's death 
 too late. "However, now that you have helped me out of 
 my difficulties, my dear mamma, I shall go back to France 
 and hope to embrace you soon." 
 
 Jeanne was so crushed in spirit that she appeared not 
 to understand anything. Toward the end of the winter 
 Aunt Lison, who was now sixty-eight, had an attack of 
 bronchitis that developed into pneumonia, and she died 
 quietly, murmuring with her last breath: "My poor little 
 Jeanne, I will ask God to take pity on you." 
 
 Jeanne followed her to the grave, and as the earth fell 
 on her coffin she sank to the ground, v.ishing that she 
 might die also, so as not to suffer, to think. A strong 
 peasant woman lifted her up and carried her away as if 
 she had been a child. 
 
 When she reached the chateau Jeanne, who had spent 
 the last five nights at Aunt Lison 's bedside, allowed her- 
 self to be put to bed without resistance by this unloiown 
 peasant woman, \a^o handled her with gentleness and 
 firmness, and she fell asleep from exhaustion, overcome 
 with weariness and suffering. 
 
 She awoke about the middle of the night. A night light 
 
156 UNE VIE 
 
 was burning on the mantelpiece. A woman was asleep 
 in her easy chair. Who was this 'woman? She did not 
 recognize her, and leaning over the edge of the bed, she 
 sought to examine her features by the dim light of the 
 wick floating in oil in a tumbler of water. 
 
 It seemed to her that she had seen this face. But when, 
 but where? The woman was sleeping peacefully, her 
 head to one side and her cap on the floor. She might be 
 about forty or forty-five. She was stout, with a high 
 color, squarely built and powerful. Her large hands hung 
 down at either side of the chair. Her hair was turning 
 gray. Jeanne looked at her fixedly, her mind in the dis- 
 turbed condition of one awakening from a feverish sleep 
 after a great sorrow. 
 
 She had certainly seen this face! Was it in former 
 days? Was it of late years? She could not tell, and the 
 idea distressed her, upset her nerves. She rose noiselessly 
 to take another look at the sleeping woman, walking over 
 on tiptoe. It was the woman who had lifted her up in 
 the cemetery and then put her to bed. She remembered 
 this confusedly. 
 
 But had she met her elsewhere at some other time of 
 her life or did she only imagine she recognized her amid 
 the confused recollections of the day before? And how 
 did she come to be there 4n her room and why? 
 
 The woman opened her eyes and, seeing Jeanne, she 
 rose to her feet suddenly. They stood face to face, so 
 close that they touched one another. The stranger said 
 crossly: "What! are you up? You wifl be ill, getting 
 up at this time of night. Go back to bed!" 
 
 "Who are you?" asked Jeanne. 
 
 But the woman, opening her arms, picked her up and 
 carried her back to her bed with the strength of a man. 
 And as she laid her do"\vn gently and drew the covers 
 over her, she leaned over close to Jeanne and, weeping 
 as she did so, she kissed her passionately on the cheeks, 
 
UNE VIE 157 
 
 her hair, her eyes, the tears falling on her face as she 
 stammered out: "My poor mistress, Mam'zelle Jeanne, 
 my poor mistress, don't you recognize me?" 
 
 "Rosalie, my girl!" cried Jeanne, throwing her arms 
 round her neck and hugging her as she kissed her, and 
 they sobbed together, clasped in each other's arms. 
 
 Rosalie was the first to regain her calmness. "Come,'^ 
 she said, "you must be sensible and not catch cold." And 
 she covered her up warm and straightened the pillow under 
 her former mistress' head. The latter continued to sob, 
 trembling all over at the recollections that were awakened 
 in her mind. She finally inquired: "How did you come 
 back, my poor girl?" 
 
 "Pardi! do you suppose I was going to leave you all 
 alone like that, now?" replied Rosalie. 
 
 "Light a candle, so I may see you," said Jeanne. And 
 when the candle was brought to the beds' de they looked 
 at each other for some time without speaking a word. 
 Then Jeanne, holding out her hand to her former maid, 
 murmured: "I should not have recognized you, my girl, 
 you have changed greatly; did you know it? But not as 
 much as I have." And Rosalie, looking at the white- 
 haired woman, thin and faded, whom she had left a beauti- 
 ful and fresh young woman, said: "That is true, you have 
 changed, Madame Jeanne, and more than you should. 
 But remember, however, that we have not seen each other 
 for twenty-five years." 
 
 They were silent, thinking over the past. At length 
 Jeanne said hesitatingly: "Have you been happy?" 
 
 Rosalie, fearful of awakening certain painful souvenirs, 
 stammered out : "Why — yes — yes — madame. I have noth- 
 ing much to complain of. I have been happier than you 
 have — that is sure. There was only one thing that always 
 weighed on my heart, and that was that I did not stay 
 here " And she stopped suddenly, sorry she had re- 
 ferred to that unintentionally. But Jeanne replied gently: 
 
158 UNE VIE 
 
 "How could you help it, my girl? One cannot always do 
 as one wishes. You are a widow now, also, are you not?" 
 Then her voice trembled with emotion as she said: "Have 
 you other — other children?" 
 
 "No, madame." 
 
 "And he — your — your boy — what has become of him? 
 Has he turned out well?" 
 
 "Yes, madame, he is a good boy and works indus- 
 triously. He has been married for six months, and he can 
 take my farm now, since I have come back to you." 
 
 Jeanne murmured in a trembling voice: "Then you will 
 never leave me again, my girl?" 
 
 "No, indeed, madame, I have arranged all that." 
 
 Jeanne, in spite of herself, began to compare their lives, 
 but without any bitterness, for she was now resigned to 
 the unjust cruelty of fate. She said: "And your husband, 
 how did he treat you?" 
 
 "Oh, he was a good man, madame, and not lazy; he 
 knew how to make money. He died of consumption." 
 
 Then Jeanne, sitting up in bed, filled with a longing 
 to know more, said: "Come, tell me everything, my girl, 
 all about your life. It will do me good just now." 
 
 Rosalie, drawing up her chair, began to tell about her- 
 self, her home, her people, entering into those minute 
 details dear to country people, describing her yard, laugh- 
 ing at some old recollection that reminded her of good 
 times she had had, and raising her voice by degrees like 
 a farmer's wife accustomed to command. She ended by 
 saying: "Oh, I am well off now. I don't have to worry." 
 Then she became confused again, and said in a lower 
 tone: "It is to you that I owe it, anyhow; and you know 
 I do not want any wages. No, indeed ! No, indeed ! And 
 if you will not have it so, I will go." 
 
 Jeanne replied: "You do not mean that you are going 
 to serve me for nothing?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, indeed, madame. Money! You give me 
 
UNE VIE 159 
 
 money! Why, I have almost as much as you. Do you 
 know what is left to you with all your jumble of mort- 
 gages and borrowing, and interests unpaid which are 
 mounting up every year? Do you know? No, is it not 
 so? Well, then, I can promise you that you have not 
 even ten thousand francs income. Not ten thousand, do 
 you understand? But I will settle all that for you, and 
 very quickly." 
 
 She had begun talking loud again, carried away in her 
 indignation at these interests left unpaid, at this threaten- 
 ing ruin. And as a faint, tender smile passed over the 
 face of her mistress, she cried in a tone of annoyance: 
 ''You must not laugh, madame, for without money we 
 are nothing but laborers." 
 
 Jeanne took hold of her hands and kept them in her 
 own; then she said slowly, still full of the idea that 
 haunted her: "Oh, I have had no luck. Everything has 
 gone against me. Fate has a grudge against my life." 
 
 But Rosalie shook her head: "You must not say that, 
 madame. You married badly, that's all. One should not 
 marry like that, anyway, without kno^ving anything about 
 one's intended." 
 
 And they went on talking about themselves just as two 
 old friends might have done. 
 
 The sun rose while they were still talking. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 A NEW HOME 
 
 In a week's time Rosalie had taken absolute control 
 of everything and everyone in the chateau. Jeanne was 
 quite resigned and obeyed passively. Weak and dragging 
 her feet as she walked, as little mother had formerly done, 
 she went out walking leaning on Rosalie's arm, the latter 
 lecturing her and consoling her with abrupt and tender 
 words as they walked slowly along, treating her mistress as 
 though she were a sick child. 
 
 They always talked of bygone days, Jeanne with tears 
 in her throat, and Rosalie in the quiet tone of a phlegmatic 
 peasant. The servant kept referring to the subject of 
 unpaid interests; and at last requested Jeanne to give 
 her up all the business papers that Jeanne, in her ignorance 
 of money matters, was hiding from her, out of consider- 
 ation for her son. 
 
 After that, for a week, Rosalie went to Fecamp every 
 day to have matters explained to her by a lawyer whom 
 she knew. 
 
 One evening, after having put her mistress to bed, she 
 sat down by the bedside and said abruptly: "New that 
 you are settled quietly, madame, we will have a chat." 
 And she told her exactly how matters stood. 
 
 Wlien everything was settled, there would be about 
 seven thousand francs of income left, no more. 
 
 "We cannot help it, my girl," said Jeanne. "I feel that 
 
 1 60 
 
UNE VIE i6i 
 
 I shall not make old bones, and there will be quite enough 
 for me." 
 
 But Rosalie was annoyed: "For you, madame, it might 
 be; but M. Paul — will you leave nothing for him?" 
 
 Jeanne shuddered. "I beg you not to mention him 
 again. It hurts me too much to think about him." 
 
 "But I wish to speak about him, because you see you 
 are not brave, Madame Jeanne. He does foolish things. 
 Well! what of it? He will not do so always; and then 
 he will marry and have children. He will need money to 
 bring them up. Pay attention to me: you must sell 'The 
 Poplars.' " 
 
 Jeanne sprang up in a sitting posture. "Sell 'The Pop- 
 lars'! Do you mean it? Oh, never, never!" 
 
 But Rosalie was not disturbed. "I tell you that you 
 will sell the place, madame, because it must be done." 
 And then she explained her calculations, her plans, her 
 reasons. 
 
 Once they had sold "The Poplars" and the two farms 
 belonging to it to a buyer whom she had found, they 
 would keep four farms situated at St. Leonard, which, free 
 of all mortgage, would bring in an income of eight thou- 
 sand three hundred francs. They would set aside thirteen 
 hundred francs a year for repairs and for the upkeep of 
 the property; there would then remain seven thousand 
 francs, five thousand of which would cover the annual 
 expenditures and the other two thousand would be put 
 away for a rainy day. 
 
 She added: "All the rest has been squandered; there is 
 an end of it. And then I am to keep the key, you under- 
 stand. As for M. Paul, he will have nothing left, nothing; 
 he would take your last sou from you." 
 
 Jeanne, who was weeping silently, murmured: 
 
 "But if he has nothing to eat?" 
 
 "He can come and eat with us if he is hungrv. There 
 will always be a bed and some stew for him. Do vou 
 
i62 UNE VIE 
 
 believe he would have acted as he has done if you had 
 not given him a sou in the first place?" 
 
 "But he was in debt, he would have been dis- 
 graced." 
 
 "When you have nothing left, will that prevent him 
 from making fresh debts? You have paid his debts, that 
 is all right; but you will not pay any more; it is I who am 
 telling you this. Now good-night, madame." 
 
 And she left the room. 
 
 Jeanne did not sleep, she was so upset at the idea of 
 selling "The Poplars," of going away, of leaving this 
 house to which all her life was linked. ' 
 
 When Rosalie came into the room next morning she 
 said to her: "My poor girl, I never could make up my 
 mind to go away from here." 
 
 But the servant grew angry: "It will have to be, how- 
 ever, madame; the lawyer will soon be here with the man 
 who wants to buy the chateau. Otherwise, in four years 
 you will not have a rap left." 
 
 Jeanne was crushed, and repeated: "I could not do it; 
 I never could." 
 
 An hour later the postman brought her a letter from 
 Paul asking for ten thousand francs. What should she 
 do? At her wit's end, she consulted Rosalie, Who threw 
 up her hands, exclaiming: "What was I telling you. 
 madame? Ah! You would have been in a nice fix, both 
 of you, if I had not come back." And Jeanne, bending to 
 her servant's will, wrote as follows to the young man: 
 
 "My Dear Son: I can do nothing more for you. 
 You have ruined me; I am even obliged to sell 'The 
 Poplars.' But never forget that I shall always have 
 a home whenever you want to seek shelter with your 
 old mother, to whom you have caused much suffer- 
 ing. Jeanne." 
 
UNE VIE 163 
 
 When the notary arrived with M. Jeoffrin, a retired 
 sugar refiner, she received them herself, and invited them 
 to look over the chateau. 
 
 A month later, she signed a deed of sale, and also bought 
 herself a little cottage in the neighborhood of Goderville, 
 on the high road to Montiviliers, in the hamlet of Batte- 
 ville. 
 
 Then she walked up and down all alone until evening, 
 in little mother's avenue, with a sore heart and troubled 
 mind, bidding distracted and sobbing farewells to the 
 landscape, the trees, the rustic bench under the plane tree, 
 to all those things she knew so well and that seemed to 
 have become part of her vision and her soul, the grove, 
 the mound overlooking the plain, where she had so often 
 sat, and from ^\^ere she had seen the Comte de Fourville 
 running toward the sea on that terrible day of Julien's 
 death, to an old elm whose upper branches were missing, 
 against which she had often leaned, and to all this fa- 
 miliar garden spot. 
 
 Rosalie came out and took her by the arm to make 
 her come into the house. 
 
 A tall young peasant of twenty-five was waiting outside 
 the door. He greeted her in a friendly manner as if he 
 had known her for some time: "Good-morning, Madame 
 Jeanne. I hope you are well. Mother told me to come 
 and help you move. I would like to know what you are 
 going ^o take away, seeing that I shall do it from time to 
 time so as not to interfere with my farm work." 
 
 It was her maid's son, Julien's son, Paul's brother. 
 
 She felt as if her heart stopped beating; and yet she 
 would have liked to embrace this young fellow. 
 
 She looked at him, trying to find some resemblance to 
 her husband or to her son. He \va.s ruddy, vigorous, with 
 fair hair and his mother's blue e3^es. And yet he looked 
 like Julien. In what way? How? She could not have 
 
1 64 UNE VIE 
 
 told, but there was something Uke him in the whole makeup 
 of his face. 
 
 The young man resumed: "If you could show me at 
 once, I should be much obliged." 
 
 But she had not yet decided what she was going to 
 take with her, as her new home was very small; and she 
 begged him to come back again at the end of the week. 
 
 She was now entirely occupied with getting ready to 
 move, which brought a little variety into her very dreary 
 and hopeless life. She went from room to room, picking 
 out the furniture which recalled episodes in her life, old 
 friends, as it were, who have a share in our life and almost 
 of our being, whom we have known since childhood, and 
 to which are linked our happy or sad recollections, dates 
 in our history; silent companions of our sad or sombre 
 hours, who have grown old and become worn at our side, 
 their covers torn in places, their joints shaky, their color 
 faded. 
 
 She selected them, one by one, sometimes hesitating 
 and troubled, as if she were taking some important step, 
 changing her mind every instant, weighing the merits of 
 two easy chairs or of some old writing-desk and an old 
 work table. 
 
 She opened the drawers, sought to recall things; then, 
 when she had said to herself, "Yes, I will take this," the 
 article was taken down into the dining-room. 
 
 She wished to keep all the furniture of her room, her 
 bed, her tapestries, her clock, everything. 
 
 She took away some of the parlor chairs, those that she 
 had loved as a little child; the fox and the stork, the fox 
 and the crow, the ant and the grasshopper, and the mel- 
 ancholy heron. 
 
 Then, while wandering about in all the comers of this 
 dwelling she was going to forsake, she went one day up 
 into the loft, where she was filled with amazement; it 
 was a chaos of articles of every kind, some broken, others 
 
UNE VIE • 165 
 
 tarnished only, others taken up there for no special reason 
 probably, except that they were tired of them or that 
 they had been replaced by others. She saw numberless 
 knick-knacks that she remembered, and that had disap- 
 peared suddenly, trifles that she had handled, those old 
 little insignificant articles that she had seen every day 
 without noticing, but which now, discovered in this loft, 
 assumed an importance as of forgotten relics, of friends 
 that she had found again. 
 
 She went from one to the other of them with a little 
 pang, saying: "WTiy, it was I who broke that china cup 
 a few evenings before my wedding. Ah ! there is mother's 
 little lantern and a cane that little father broke in trying 
 to open the gate when the wood was swollen with the 
 rain." 
 
 There were also a number of things that she did not 
 remem.ber that had belonged to her grandparents or to 
 their parents, dusty things that appeared to be exiled in 
 a period that is not their own, and that looked sad at their 
 abandonment, and whose history, whose experiences no 
 one knows, for they never saw those who chose them, 
 bought them, owned them, and loved them; never knew 
 the hands that had touched them familiarly, and the eyes 
 that looked at them with delight. 
 
 Jeanne examined carefully three-legged chairs to see if 
 they recalled any memories, a copper warming pan, a 
 damaged foot stove that she thought she remembered, and 
 a number of housekeeping utensils unfit for use. 
 
 She then put together all the things she \\^shed to take, 
 
 and going do\\Tistairs, sent Rosalie up to get them. The 
 
 servant indignantly refused to bring down "that rubbish." 
 
 ' But Jeanne, who had not much will left, held her own 
 
 this time, and had to be obeyed. 
 
 One morning the young farmer, Julien's son, Denis 
 Lecoq, came with his wagon for the first load. Rosalie 
 
1 66 UNE VIE 
 
 went back with him in order to superintend the unloading 
 and placing of furniture where it "was to stand. 
 
 Rosalie had come back and was waiti -g for Jeanne, 
 who had been out on the cliff. She was enchanted with 
 the new house, declaring it was much more cheerful than 
 this old box of a building, which was not even on the side 
 of the road. 
 
 Jeanne wept all the evening. 
 
 Ever since they heard that the chateau was sold, the 
 farmers were not more civil to her than necessary, calling 
 her among themselves ''the crazy woman," without know- 
 ing exactly why, but doubtless because they guessed with 
 their animal instinct at her morbid and increasing senti- 
 mentality, at all the disturbance of her poor mind that 
 had undergone so much sorrow. 
 
 The night before they left she chanced to go into the 
 stable. A growl made her start. It was Massacre, whom 
 she had hardly thought of for months. Blind and para- 
 lyzed, having reached a great age for an animal, he ex- 
 isted in a straw bed, taken care of by Ludivine, who never 
 forgot him. She took him in her arms, kissed him, and 
 carried him into the house. As big as a barrel, he could 
 scarcely carry himself along on his stiff legs, and he barked 
 like the wooden dogs that one gives to children. 
 
 The day of departures finally came. Jeanne had slept 
 in Julien's old room, as hers was dismantled. She got up 
 exhausted and short of breath as if she had been running. 
 The carriage containing the trunks and the rest of the 
 furniture was in the yard ready to start. Another two- 
 wheeled vehicle was to take Jeanne and the ser\^ant. Old 
 Simon and Ludivine were to stay until the arrival of a new 
 proprietor, and then to go to some of their relations, Jeanne 
 having provided a little income for them. They had also 
 saved up some money, and being nov/ very old and garru- 
 lous, they were not of much use in the house. Marius 
 had, long since married and left. 
 
UNE VIE 167 
 
 About eight o'clock it began to rain, a fine icy rain, 
 driven by a light breeze. On the kitchen table some cups 
 of cafe au lait were steaming. Jeanne sat down and 
 sipped hers, then rising, she said, "Come along." 
 
 She put on her hat and shawl, and w^hile Rosalie was 
 putting on her overshoes, she said in a choking voice: "Do 
 you remember, my girl, how it rained when we left Rouen 
 to come here?" 
 
 As she said this, she put her two hands to her breast 
 and fell over on her back, unconscious. She remained 
 thus over an hour, apparently dead. Then she opened her 
 eyes and was seized with convulsions accompanied by 
 floods of tears. 
 
 WTien she was a little calmer she was so weak that she 
 could not stand up, and Rosalie, fearing another attack 
 if they delayed their departure, w^ent to look for her son. 
 They took her up and carried her to the carriage, placed 
 her on the wooden bench covered with leather ; and the old 
 servant got in beside her, wrapped her up \^ith a big 
 cloak, and holding an umbrella over her head, cried: 
 "Quick, Denis, let us be off." The young man climbed 
 up beside his mother and \\iiipped up the horse, whose 
 jerky pace made the two women bounce about vigorously. 
 
 As they turned the comer to enter the village, they saw 
 some one stalking along the road; it was Abbe Tolbiac, 
 who seemed to be watching for them to go by. He stopped 
 to let the carriage pass. He was holding up his cassock 
 with one hand, to keep it out of the mud, and his thin 
 legs, encased in black stockings, ended in a pair of enor- 
 mous muddy shoes. 
 
 Jeanne lowered her eyes so as not to meet his glance, 
 and Rosalie, who had heard all about him, flew into a 
 rage. "Peasant! Peasant I" she murmured; and then 
 seizing her son's hand: "Give him a good slash with the 
 whip." 
 
 But the young man, just as they were passing the 
 
1 68 ' UNE VIE 
 
 priest, made the wheel of the wagon, which was going at 
 full speed, sink into a rut, splashing the abbe with mud 
 from head to foot. 
 
 Rosalie was delighted and turned round to shake her 
 fist at him, while the priest was wiping off the mud with 
 his big handkerchief. 
 
 All at once Jeanne exclaimed: "We have forgotten 
 Massacre!" They stopped, and, getting down, Denis ran 
 to fetch the dog, while Rosalie held the reins. He pres- 
 ently reappeared, carrying in his arms Ihe shapeless and 
 crippled animal, which he placed at the feet of the two 
 women. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 JEANNE IN PARIS 
 
 Two hours later the carriage stopped at a Httle brick 
 house built in the middle of a lot planted with pear trees 
 at the side of the high road. 
 
 Four trellised arbors covered with honeysuckle and 
 clematis formed the four corners of the garden, which was 
 divided into little beds of vegetables separated by narrow 
 paths bordered with fruit trees. 
 
 k very high box hedge enclosed the whole property, 
 which was separated by a field from the neighboring farm. 
 There was a blacksmith's shop about a hundred feet fur- 
 ther along the road. There w^ere no other houses within 
 three-quarters of a mile. 
 
 The house commanded a view of the level district of 
 Caux, covered with farms surrounded by their double rows 
 of tall trees w^hich enclosed the courtyard planted with 
 apple trees. 
 
 As soon as they reached the house, Jeanne wanted to 
 rest; but Rosalie would not allow her to do so for fear 
 she would begin to think of the past. 
 
 The carpenter from Goderville was there, and they be- 
 gan at once to place the furniture that had already arrived 
 w^hile waiting for the last load. This required a good deal 
 of thought and planning. 
 
 At the end of an hour the wagon appeared at the gate 
 and had to be unloaded in the rain. When night fell the 
 
 169 
 
170* UNE VIE 
 
 house was in utter disorder, with things piled up anyhow. 
 Jeanne, tired out, fell asleep as soon as she got into bed. 
 
 She had no time to mourn for some days, as there was 
 so much to be done. She even took a certain pleasure in 
 making her new house look pretty, the thought that her 
 son would come back there haunting her continually. The 
 tapestries from her old room were hung in the dining-room, 
 which also had to serve as a parlor; and she took special 
 pains with one of the two rooms on the first floor, which 
 she thought of as "Poulet's room." 
 
 She kept the other room herself, Rosalie sleeping above, 
 next to the loft. The little house, furnished with care, 
 was very pretty, and Jeanne was happy there at first, 
 although she seemed to lack something, but she did not 
 know what. 
 
 One morning the lawyer's clerk from Fecamp brought 
 her three thousand six hundred francs, the price of the 
 furniture left at "The Poplars," and valued by an uphol- 
 sterer. She had a little thrill of pleasure at receiving this 
 money, and as soon as the man had gone, she ran to put 
 on her hat, so as to ge.t to Goderville as quickly as pos- 
 sible to send Paul this unexpected sum. 
 
 But as she was hurrying along the high road she met 
 Rosalie coming from market. The servant suspected 
 something, without at once guessing the facts; and when 
 she discovered them, for Jeanne could hide nothing from 
 her, she placed her basket on the ground that she might 
 get angry with more comfort. 
 
 She began to scold with her fists on her hips; then tak- 
 ing hold of her mistress with her right arm and taking her 
 basket in her left, and still fuming, she continued on her 
 way to the house. 
 
 As soon as they were in the house the servant asked to 
 have the money handed over to her. Jeanne gave all but 
 six hundred francs, which she held back; but Rosalie soon 
 saw through her tricks, and she was obliged to hand it all 
 
UNE VIE 171 
 
 over. However, she consented to her sending this amount 
 to the young man. 
 
 A few days later he wrote: "You have rendered me a 
 great service, my dear mother, for we were in the greatest 
 distress." 
 
 Jeanne, however, could not get accustomed to Batte- 
 ville. It seemed to her as if she could not breathe as she 
 did formerly, that she was more lonely, more deserted, 
 more lost than ever. She went out for a walk, got as far 
 as the hamlet of Vemeuil, came back by the Trois-Mares, 
 came home, then suddenly wanted to start out again, as if 
 she had forgotten to go to the very place she intended. 
 
 And every day she did the same thing without knowing 
 why. But one evening a thought came to her unconsciously 
 w'hich revealed to her the secret of her restlessness. She 
 said as she was sitting down to dinner: "Oh, how I long 
 to see the sea!" 
 
 That was what she had missed so greatly, the sea, her 
 big neighbor for twenty-five years, the sea with its salt 
 air, its rages, its scolding voice, its strong breezes, the 
 sea which she sought from her window at "The Poplars" 
 every morning, whose air she breathed day and night, the 
 sea which she felt close to her, which she had taken to 
 loving unconsciously as she would a person. 
 
 Winter was approaching, and Jeanne felt herself over- 
 come by an unconquerable discouragement. It was not 
 one of those acute griefs which seemed to wring the heart, 
 but a dreary, mournful sadness. 
 
 Nothing roused her. No one paid any attention to her. 
 The high road before her door stretched to right and left 
 with hardly any passersby. Occasionally a dogcart passed 
 rapidly, driven by a red-faced man, with his blouse puffed 
 out by the wind, making a sort of blue balloon; sometimes 
 a slow-moving wagon, or else two peasants, a man and a 
 woman, who came near, passed by, and disappeared in 
 the distance. 
 
172 UNE VIE 
 
 As soon as the grass began to grow again, a young girl 
 in a short skirt passed by the gd,te every morning with 
 two thin cows who browsed along the side of the road. 
 She came back every evening with the same sleepy face, 
 making a step every ten minutes as she walked behind 
 the animals. 
 
 Jeanne dreamed every night that she was still at ^'The 
 Poplars." She seemed to be there with father and little 
 mother, and sometimes even with Aunt Lison. She did 
 over again things forgotten and done with, thought she 
 was supporting Madame Adelaide in her walk along the 
 avenue. And each awakening was attended with tears. 
 
 She thought continually of Paul, wondering what he 
 was doing — how he was — whether he sometimes thought 
 of her. As she walked slowly in the by-roads between 
 the farms, she thought over all these things which tor- 
 mented her, but above all else, she cherished an intense 
 jealousy of the woman who had stolen her son from her. 
 It was this hatred alone which prevented her from taking 
 any steps, from going to look for him, to see him. It 
 seemed to her that she saw that woman standing on the 
 doorsill asking: "What do you want here, madame?" 
 Her mother's pride revolted at the possibility of such a 
 meeting. And her haughty pride of a good woman whose 
 character is blameless made her all the more indignant at 
 the cowardice of a man subjugated by an unworthy pas- 
 sion. 
 
 When autumn resumed with its long rains, its gray 
 sky, its dark clouds, such a weariness of this kind of life 
 came over her that she determined to make a great effort 
 to get her Poulet back ; he must have got over his infatu- 
 ation by this time. 
 
 She wrote him an imploring letter: 
 
 ''My Dear Child: I am going to entreat you to 
 come back to me. Remember that I am old and deli- 
 
UNE VIE 173 
 
 cate, all alone the whole year round except for a 
 servant maid. I am now living in a little house on 
 the main road. It is very lonely, but if you were 
 here all would be different for me. I have only you 
 in the world, and I have not seen you for seven years! 
 You were rny life, my dream, my only hope, my one 
 love, and you failed me, you deserted me! 
 
 "Oh, come back, my little Poulet — come and em- 
 brace me. Come back to your old mother, who holds 
 out her despairing arms towards you. 
 
 "Jeanne." 
 
 He replied a few days later: 
 
 "My Dear Mother: I would ask nothing better 
 than to go and see you, but I have not a penny. Send 
 me some money and I will come. I wanted, in any 
 case, to see you to talk to you about a plan that would 
 make it possible for m.e to do as you ask. 
 
 "The disinterestedness and love of the one who has 
 been my companion in the dark days through v\rhich 
 I have passed can never be forgotten by me. It is 
 not possible for me to remain any longer without pub- 
 licly recognizing her love and her faithful devotion. 
 She has very pleasing manners, which you would ap- 
 preciate. She is also educated and reads a good deal. 
 In fact, you cannot understand what she has been to 
 me. I should be a brute if I did not show her my 
 gratitude. I am going, therefore, to ask you to give 
 me your permission to marry her. You will forgive 
 all my follies and we will all live together in your new 
 house. 
 
 "If you knew her you would at once give your 
 consent. I can assure you that she is perfect and 
 very distingue. You will love her, I am sure. As 
 for me, I could not live without her. 
 
174 UNE VIE 
 
 "I shall expectyour reply with impatience, my dear 
 mother, and we both embrace you with all our heart. 
 
 '^Your son, 
 "VicoMTE Paul de Lamare." 
 
 Jeanne was crushed. She remained motionless, tlie 
 letter on her lap, seeing through the cunning of this girl 
 who had had such a hold on her son for so long, and had 
 not let him come to see her once, biding her time until the 
 despairing old mother could no longer resist the desire to 
 clasp her son in her arms, and would weaken and grant 
 all they asked. 
 
 And grief at Paul's persistent preference for this crea- 
 ture wrung her heart. She said: "He does not love me. 
 He does not love me." 
 
 Rosalie just then entered the room. Jeanne faltered: 
 "He wants to marry her now." 
 
 The maid was startled. "Oh, madame, you will not 
 allow that. M. Paul must not pick up that rubbish." 
 
 And Jeanne, overcome with emotion, but indignant, 
 replied: "Never that, my girl. And as he will not come 
 here, I am going to see him, myself, and we shall see which 
 of us will carry the day." 
 
 She wrote at once to Paul to prepare him for her visit, 
 and to arrange to meet him elsewhere than in the house 
 inhabited by that baggage. 
 
 AVhile awaiting a reply she made her preparations for 
 departure. Rosalie began to pack her mistress' clothes 
 in an old trunk, but as she was folding a dress, one of 
 those she had worn in the country, she exclaimed: "Why, 
 you have nothing to put on your back. I will not allow 
 you to go like that. You would be a disgrace to everyone; 
 and the Parisian ladies would take you for a servant." 
 
 Jeanne let her have her own way, and the two women 
 went together to Goderville to choose some material, which 
 was given a dressmaker in the village. Then they went 
 
UNE VIE 175 
 
 to the lawyer, M. Roussel, who spent a fortnight in the 
 capital every year, in order to get some information; for 
 Jeanne had not been in Paris for twenty-eight years. 
 
 He gave them lots of advice on how to avoid being run 
 over, on methods of protecting yourself from thieves, ad- 
 vising her to sew her money up inside the lining of her 
 coat, and to keep in her pocket only what she absolutely 
 needed. He spoke at length about moderate priced restau- 
 rants, and mentioned two or three patronized by women, 
 and told them that they might mention his name at the 
 Hotel Normandie. 
 
 Jeanne had never yet seen the railroad, though trains 
 had been running between Paris and Havre for six years, 
 and were revolutionizing the whole country. 
 
 She received no answer from Paul, although she waited 
 a week, then two weeks, going every morning to meet the 
 postman, asking him hesitatingly: "Is there anything for 
 me, Pere Malandain?" And the man always replied in 
 his hoarse voice: "Nothing again, my good lady." 
 
 It certainly must be this woman who was keeping Paul 
 from writing. 
 
 Jeanne, therefore, determined to set out at once. She 
 wanted to take Rosalie with her, but the maid refused for 
 fear of increasing the expense of the journey. She did not 
 allow her mistress to take more than three hundred francs, 
 saying: "If you need more you can write to me and I 
 will go to the lawyer and ask him to send it to you. If I 
 give you any more, M. Paul will put it in his pocket." 
 
 One December morning Denis Lecoq came for them in 
 his light wagon and took them to the station. Jeanne wept 
 as she kissed Rosalie good-by, and got into the train. 
 Rosalie was also affected and said: "Good-by, madame, 
 bon voyage, and come back soon!" 
 "Good-by, my girl." 
 
 A whistle and the train was off, beginning slowly and 
 gradually going ^\ith a speed that terrified Jeanne. In 
 
176 UNE VIE 
 
 her compartment there were two gentlemen leaning back 
 in the two corners of the carriage! 
 
 She looked at the country as they swept past, the trees, 
 the farms, the villages, feeling herself carried into a new 
 life, into a new world that was no longer the life of .her 
 tranquil youth and of her present monotonous existence. 
 
 She reached Paris that evening. A commissionaire took 
 her trunk and she followed him in great fear, jostled by 
 the crowd and not knowing how to make her way amid 
 this mass of moving hum-anity, almost running to keep up 
 with the man for fear of losing sight of him. 
 
 On reaching the hotel she said at the desk: "I was 
 recommended here by M. Roussel." 
 
 The proprietress, an immense woman with a serious 
 face, who was seated at the desk, inquired: 
 
 "Who is he— M. Roussel?" 
 
 Jeanne replied in amazement: "Why, he is the lawyer 
 at Goderville, v/ho stops here every year." 
 
 "That's very possible," said the big woman, "but I do 
 not know him. Do you wish a room*?" ^ 
 
 "Yes, madame." 
 
 A boy took her satchel and led the way upstairs. She 
 felt a pang at her heart. Sitting down at a little table she 
 sent for some luncheon, as she had eaten nothing since 
 daybreak. As she ate, she was thinking sadly of a thou- 
 sand things, recalling her stay here on the return from 'her 
 wedding journey, and the first indication of Julien's char- 
 acter betrayed while they were in Paris. But she was 
 young then, and confident and brave. Now she felt old, 
 embarrassed, even timid, weak and disturbed at trifles. 
 When she had finished her luncheon she went over to the 
 window and looked down on the street filled with people. 
 She wished to go out, but was afraid to do so. She would 
 surely get lost. She went to bed, but the noise, the feel- 
 ing of being in a strange city, kept her awake. About two 
 o'clock in the morning, just as she was dozing off, she 
 
UNE VIE 177 
 
 heard a woman scream in an adjoining room; she sat 
 up in bed and then she thought she heard a man laugh. 
 As daylight dawned the thought of Paul came to her, and 
 she dressed herself before it was light. 
 
 Paul lived in the Rue du Sauvage, in the old town. 
 She wanted to go there on foot so as to carry out Rosalie's 
 economical advice. The weather was delightful, the air 
 cold enough to make her skin tingle. People were hur- 
 'rying along the sidewalks. She walked as fast as she 
 could, according to directions given her, along a street, 
 at the end of which she was to turn to the right and then 
 to the left, when she would come to a square where she 
 must make fresh inquiries. She did not find the square, 
 and went into a baker's to ask her way, and he directed 
 her differently. She started off again, went astray, in- 
 quired her way again, and finally got lost completely. 
 
 Half crazy, she now walked at random. She had made 
 up her mind to call a cab, when she caught sight of the 
 Seine. She then walked along the quays-. 
 
 After about an hour she found the Rue Sauvage, a 
 sort of dark alley. She stopped at a door, so overcome 
 that she could not move. 
 
 He was there, in that house — Poulet. 
 
 She felt her knees and hands trembling; but at last 
 she entered the door, and walking along a pasasge, saw 
 the janitor's quarters. She said, as she held out a piece 
 of money: "Would you go up and tell M. Paul de 
 Lamare that an old lady, a friend of his mother's, is down- 
 stairs, and \\dshes to see him?" 
 
 "He does not live here any longer, madame," repKed 
 the janitor. 
 
 A shudder went over her. She faltered: 
 
 "Oh! Where — where is he living now?" 
 
 "I do not know." 
 
 She grew dizzy as though she were about to fall over, 
 and stood there for some moments without being able to 
 
178 UNE VIE 
 
 speak. At length, with a great effort, she collected her 
 senses and murmured: 
 
 "How long is it since he left?" 
 
 "About two weeks ago. They went off like that, one 
 evening, and never came back. They were in debt every- 
 where in the neighborhood, so you can understand that 
 they did not care to leave their address." 
 
 Jeanne saw lights before her eyes, flashes of flame, 
 as though a gun had been fired off in front of her eyes. 
 But she had one fixed idea in her mind, and that sustained 
 her, and kept her outwardly calm and rational. She 
 wished to find Poulet and know all about him. 
 
 "Then he said nothing when he was going away?" 
 
 "Nothing at all; they ran off to escape their debts, 
 that's all." 
 
 "But he surely sends someone to get his mail." 
 
 "More frequently than I send it. He never got more 
 than ten letters a year. I took one up to them, however, 
 two days before they left." 
 
 That was probably her letter. She said abruptly: 
 "Listen! I am his mother, his own mother, and I have 
 come to look for him. Here are ten francs for you. If 
 you can get any news or any particulars about him, come 
 and see me at the Hotel Normandie, Rue du Havre, and 
 I will pay you well." > 
 
 "You may count on me, madame," he replied. 
 
 She left him and began to walk away without caring 
 whither she went. She hurried along as thoui^h she were 
 on some important business, knocking up against people 
 with packages, crossing the streets without paying atten- 
 tion to the approaching vehicles, and being sworn at by 
 the drivers, stumbling on the curb of the sidewalk, and 
 tearing along straight ahead in utter despair. 
 
 All at once she found herself in a garden, and was so 
 tired that she sat down on a bench to rest. She stayed 
 there some time apparently, weeping without being con- 
 
UNE VIE 179 
 
 scious of it, for passersby stopped to look at her Then 
 she felt very cold, and rose to go on her way; but her 
 legs would scarcely carry her, she was so weak and 
 distressed. 
 
 She wanted to go into a restaurant and get a cup of 
 bouillon, but a sort of shame, of fear, of modesty at her 
 grief being observed held her back. She would pause at 
 the door, look in, see all the people sitting at table eating, 
 and would turn away, saying: "I will go into the next 
 one." But she had not the courage. 
 
 Finally she went into a bakery and bought a crescent 
 and ate it as she walked along. She was very thirsty, but 
 did not know where to go to get something to drink, so 
 did without it. 
 
 Presently she found herself in another garden sur- 
 rounded by arcades. She recognized the Palais Royal, 
 Being tired and warm, she sat down here for an hour 
 or two. 
 
 A crowd of people came in, a well-dressed crowd, chat- 
 ting, smiling, bowing to each other, that happy crowd of 
 beautiful women and wealthy men who live only for dress 
 and amusement. Jeanne felt bewildered in the midst of 
 this brilliant assemblage, and got up to make her escape. 
 But suddenly the thought came to her that she might 
 meet Paul in this place; and she began to wander about, 
 looking into the faces, going and coming incessantly with 
 her quick step from one end of the garden to the other. 
 
 People turned round to look at her, others laughed as 
 they pointed her out. She noticed it and fled, thinking 
 that they were doubtless amused at her appearance and 
 at her dress of green plaid, selected by Rosalie, and made 
 according to her ideas by the dressmaker at Goderville. 
 
 She no longer dared even to ask her way of passersby, 
 but at last she ventured to do so and found her way back 
 to the hotel. 
 
 The following day she went to the police department 
 
i8o UNE VIE 
 
 to ask them to look for her child. They could promise 
 her nothing, but said they would' do all they could. She 
 wandered about the streets hoping that she might come 
 across him. And she felt more alone in this bustling 
 crowd, more lost, more wretched than in the lonely 
 country. 
 
 That evening when she came back to the hotel she was 
 informed that a man had come to see her from M. Paul, 
 and that he would come back again the following day. 
 Her heart began to beat violently and she never closed 
 her eyes that night. If it should be he! Yes, it assuredly 
 was, although she would not have recognized him from 
 the description they gave her. 
 
 About nine o'clock the following morning there was a 
 knock at the door. She cried: "Come in!" ready to 
 throw herself into certain outstretched arms. But an 
 unknown person appeared; and while he excused himself 
 for disturbing her, and explained his business, which was 
 to collect a debt of Paul's, she felt the tears beginning to 
 overflow, and wiped them away with her finger before 
 they fell on her cheeks. 
 
 He had learned of her arrival through the janitor of 
 the Rue Sauvage, and as he could not find the young 
 man, he had come to see his mother. He handed her a 
 paper, which she took without knowing what she was 
 doing and read the figures — ninety francs — which she 
 paid without a word., ^. 
 
 She did not go out that day. 
 
 The next day other creditors came. She gave them 
 all that ^e had left except twenty francs and then wrote 
 to Rosalie to explain matters to her. 
 
 She passed her days wandering about, waiting for Ro- 
 salie's answer, not knowing what to do, how to kill the 
 melancholy, interminable hours, having no one to whom 
 she could say an affectionate word, no one who knew her 
 sorrow. She now longed to return home to her little house 
 
UNE VIE i8i 
 
 at the side of the lonely high road. A few days before she 
 thought she could not live there, she was so overcome 
 with grief, and now she felt that she could never live 
 anjrwhere else but there where her serious character had 
 been formed. 
 
 One evening the letter at last came, enclosing two hun- 
 dred francs. Rosalie wrote: 
 
 "Madame Jeanne: Come back at once, for I shall 
 not send you any more. As for M. Paul, it is I who 
 will go and get him when we know where he is. 
 
 "With respect, your servant, 
 
 "Rosalie." 
 
 Jeanne set out for Batteville one very cold snowy 
 morning. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 LIGHT AT EVENTIDE 
 
 Jeanne never went out now, never stirred about. She 
 rose at the same hour every day, looked out at the weather 
 and then went downstairs and sat before the parlor fire. 
 
 She would remain for days motionless, gazing into the 
 fire, thinking of nothing in particular. It would grow 
 dark before she stirred, except to put a fresh log on the 
 fire. Rosalie would then bring in the lamp and exclaim: 
 "Come, Madame Jeanne, you must stir about or you will 
 have no appetite again this evening." 
 
 She lived over the past, haunted by memories of her 
 early life and her wedding journey down yonder in Cor- 
 sica. Forgotten landscapes in that isle now rose before 
 her in the blaze of the fire, and she recalled all the little 
 details, all the little incidents, the faces she had seen down 
 there. The head of the guide, Jean Ravoli, haunted her, 
 and she sometimes seemed to hear his voice. 
 
 Then she remembered the sweet years of Paul's child- 
 hood, when they planted salad together and when she 
 knelt in the thick grass beside Aunt Lison, each trying 
 what they could do to please the child, and her lips mur- 
 mured: "Poulet, my little Poulet," as though she were 
 talking to him. Stopping at this word, she would try to 
 trace it, letter by letter, in space, sometimes for hours 
 at a time, until she became confused and mixed up the 
 
 182 
 
UNE VIE 1 8 
 
 '> 
 
 letters and formed other words, and she became so nerv- 
 ous that she was almost crazy. 
 
 She had all the peculiarities of those who live a solitary 
 life. The least thing out of its usual place irritated her. 
 
 Rosalie often obliged her to walk and took her on the 
 high road, but at the end of twenty minutes she declared 
 she could not take another step and sat down on the side 
 of the road. 
 
 She soon became averse to all movement and stayed 
 in bed as late as possible. Since her childhood she had 
 retained one custom, that of rising the instant she had 
 drunk her cafe au lait in the morning. But now she 
 would lie down again and begin to dream, and as she was 
 daily growing more lazy, Rosalie would come and oblige 
 her to get up and almost force her to get dressed. 
 
 She seemed no longer to have any will power, and each 
 time the maid asked her a question or wanted her advice 
 or opinion she would say: "Do as you think best, my 
 girl." 
 
 She imagined herself pursued by some persistent ill 
 luck and was like an oriental fatalist, and having seen her 
 dreams all fade away and her hopes crushed, she would 
 sometimes hesitate a whole day or longer before under- 
 taking the simplest thing, for fear she might be on the 
 wrong road and it would turn out badly. She kept re- 
 peating: "Talk of bad luck — I have never had any luck 
 in Hfe." 
 
 Then RosaHe would say: "What would j^^ou do if you 
 had to work for your living, if you were obliged to get 
 up every morning at six o'clock to go out to your work? 
 Many people have to do that, nevertheless, and when they 
 grow too old they die of want." 
 
 Jeanne replied: "Remember that I am all alone; that 
 my son has deserted me." And Rosalie would get very 
 angry: "That's another thing! WeU, how about the 
 
1 84 UNE VIE 
 
 sons who are drafted into the army and those who go to 
 America?" 
 
 America to her was an undefined country, where one 
 went to make a fortune and whence one never returned. 
 She continued: ''There always comes a time when people 
 have to part, for old people and young people are not 
 made to live together." And she added fiercely: "Well, 
 what would you say if he were dead?" 
 Jeanne had nothing more to say. 
 One day in spring she had gone up to the loft to look 
 for something and by chance opened a box containing 
 old calendars which had been preserved after the manner 
 of some country folks. 
 
 She took them up and carried them downstairs. They 
 were of all sizes, and she laid them out on the table in 
 the parlor in regular order. Suddenly she spied the ear- 
 liest, the one she had brought with her to "The Poplars." 
 She gazed at it for some time, at the days crossed off by 
 her the morning she left Rouen, the day after she left 
 the convent, and she wept slow, sorrowful tears, the tears 
 of an old woman at sight of her wretched life spread out 
 before her on this table. 
 
 One morning the maid came into her room earlier than 
 usual, and placing the bowl of cafe au lait on the little 
 stand beside her bed, she said: "Come, drink it quickly. 
 Denis is waiting for us at the door. We are going to 
 'The Poplars' for I have something to attend to down 
 there." 
 
 Jeanne dressed herself with trembling hands, almost 
 fainting at the thought of seeing her dear home once 
 more. 
 
 The sky was cloudless and the nag, who was inclined 
 
 to be frisky, would suddenly start off at a gallop every 
 
 now and then. As they entered the commune of Etou- 
 
 vent Jeanne's heart beat so that she could hardly breathe. 
 
 They unharnessed the horse at the Couillard place, and 
 
UNE VIE 1 8s 
 
 while Rosalie and her son were attending to their own 
 affairs, the farmer and his wife offered to let Jeanne go 
 over the chateau, as the proprietor was away and they had 
 the keys. 
 
 She went off alone, and when she reached the side of 
 the chateau from which there was a view of the sea she 
 turned round to look. Nothing had changed on the out- 
 side. When she turned the heavy lock and went inside 
 the first thing she did was to go up to her old room, which 
 she did not recognize, as it had been newly papered and 
 furnished. But the view from the window was the same, 
 and she stood and gazed out at the landscape she had 
 so loved. 
 
 She then wandered all over the house, walking quietly 
 all alone in this silent abode as though it were a cemetery. 
 All her life was buried here. She went down to the draw- 
 ing-room, which was dark with its closed shutters. As her 
 eyes became accustomed to the dim light she recoo^iized 
 some of the old hangings. Two easy-chairs were drawn 
 up before the fire, as if some one had just left them, and 
 as Jeanne stood there, full of old memories, she suddenly 
 seemed to see her father and mother sitting there, warming 
 their feet at the fire. 
 
 She started back in terror and knocked up against the 
 edge of the door, against which she leaned to support 
 herself, still staring at the arm-chairs. 
 
 The vision had vanished. 
 
 She remained bewildered for some minutes. Then she 
 slowly recovered her composure and started to run away, 
 for fear she might become insane. She chanced to look 
 at the door against which she had been leaning and saw 
 there "Poulet's ladder." 
 
 All the little notches were there showing the age and 
 growth of her child. Here was the baron's writing, then 
 hers, a little smaller, and then Aunt Lison's rather shaky 
 characters. And she seemed to see her boy of long ago 
 
1 86 UNE VIE 
 
 with his fair hair standing before her, leaning his little 
 forehead against the door while they measured his 
 height. 
 
 And she kissed the edge of the door in a frenzy of 
 affection. 
 
 But some one was calling her outside. It was Rosalie's 
 voice: "Madame Jeanne, Madame Jeanne, they are wait- 
 ing breakfast for you." She went out in a dream and 
 understood nothing of what they were saying to her. She 
 ate what they gave her, heard them talking, but about 
 what uie knew not, let them kiss her on the cheeks and 
 kissed them in return and then got into the carriage. 
 
 When they lost sight of the chateau behind the tall 
 trees she felt a wrench at her heart, convinced that she 
 had bid a last farewell to her old home. 
 
 When they reached Batteville and just as she was going 
 into her new house, she saw something white under the 
 door. It was a letter that the postman had slipped under 
 the door while she was out. She recognized Paul's writ- 
 ing and opened it, trembling with anxiety. He wrote: 
 
 "My Dear Mother: I have not written sooner 
 because I did not wish you to make a useless journey 
 to Paris when it was my place to go and see you. I 
 am just now in great 'borrow and in great straits. 
 My wife is dying after giving birth to a little girl 
 three days ago, and I have not one sou. I do not 
 know what to do with the child, whom my janitor's 
 wife is bringing up on the bottle as well as she can, 
 but I fear I shall lose her. Could you not take charge 
 of it? I absolutely do not know what to do, and I 
 have no money to put her out to nurse. Answer by 
 return mail. 
 
 "Your son, who loves you, 
 
 "Paul." 
 
UNE VIE 187 
 
 Jeanne sank into a chair and had scarcely strength to 
 call Rosalie. When the maid came into the room they 
 read the letter over together and then remained silent for 
 some time, face to face. 
 
 At last Rosalie said: "I am going to fetch the little 
 one, madame. We cannot leave it like that." 
 
 "Go, my girl," replied Jeanne. 
 
 Then they were silent until the maid said: "Put on 
 your hat, madame, and we will go to Goderville to see 
 the lawyer. If she is going to die, the other one, M. Paul 
 must marry her for the little one's sake later on." 
 
 Jeanne, without replying, put on her hat. A deep, in- 
 expressible joy filled her heart, a treacherous joy that she 
 sought to hide at any cost, one of those things of which 
 one is ashamed, although cherishing it in one's soul — her 
 son's sweetheart was going to die. 
 
 The lawyer gave the servant minute instructions, mak- 
 ing her repeat them several times. Then, sure that she 
 could make no mistake, she said: "Do not be afraid. I 
 will see to it now." 
 
 She set out for Paris that very night. 
 
 Jeanne passed two days in such a troubled condition 
 that she could not think. The third morning she received 
 merely a line from Rosalie saying she would be back on 
 the evening train. That was all. 
 
 About three o'clock she drove in a neighbor's light 
 wagon to the station at Beuzeville to meet Rosalie. 
 
 She stood on the platform, looking at the railroad track 
 as it disappeared on the horizon. She looked at the clock. 
 Ten minutes still — five minutes still — two minutes more. 
 Then the hour of the train's arrival, but it was not in 
 sight. Presently, however, she saw a cloud of white 
 smoke and gradually it drew up in the station. She 
 looked anxiously and at last perceived Rosalie carrying a 
 sort of white bundle in her arms. 
 
1 88 UNE VIE 
 
 She wanted to go over toward her, but her knees seemed 
 to grow weak and she was afraid of falling. 
 
 But the maid had seen her and came forward with her 
 usual calm manner and said: "How do you do, madame? 
 Here I am back again, but not without some difficulty." 
 
 "Well?" faltered Jeanne. 
 
 "Well," answered Rosalie, "she died last nigEt. They 
 were married and here is the little girl." And she held 
 out the child, who could not be seen under her wraps. 
 
 Jeanne took it mechanically and they left the station 
 and got into the carriage. 
 
 "M. Paul will come as soon as the funeral is over — 
 to-morrow about this time, I believe," resumed Rosalie. 
 
 Jeanne murmured "Paul" and then was silent. 
 
 The wagon drove along rapidly, the peasant clacking 
 his tongue to urge on the horse. Jeanne looked straight 
 ahead of her into the clear sky through which the swal- 
 lows darted in curves. Suddenly she felt a gentle warmth 
 striking through to her skin; it was the warmth of the 
 little being who was asleep on her lap. 
 
 Then she was overcome with an intense emotion, and 
 uncovering gently the face of the sleeping infant, she 
 raised it to her lips and kissed it passionately. 
 
 But Rosalie, happy though grumpy, stopped her: 
 "Come, come, Madame Jeanne, stop that; you will make 
 it cry." 
 
 And then she added, probably in answer to her own 
 thoughts: "Life, after all, is not as good or as bad as we 
 believe it to be." 
 
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