IF 1- ^xMa^m^-mn, (^) %j ^>^ '&) iS- w \!> RENEE MAUPERIN A REALISTIC NOVEL. EDiMOND AND JULES DE GON'COURT. Masterpieces of French fiction , lyit/i 17 hi-^h-clas^ Etchings. Price ioj. 6d., el\'i'i'.^v ''Oiind. MADEMOISELLE DE MAUPIN. By THKOPHILE OAUIIER. " The golden book of spirit an 1 sense, the Holy Writ of beauty." A. C. S;uiK- biime. Illustrated ivith Etchhi;<, hy Fre'i:h Artists. Price f)^., fl-jarilly bound. MADAME BOVARY: Provincial Manners. By (3USTAVE FLAUBERT. "' Madame Bov.iry' grips your very ntals with .an invincible power, like son-; scene you have really witnessed, some event which is actually hippening b^i'ori; your eyes." Einile Zola. With a Portrait 0/ the Author from a drawing by Flaudert's niece. Price ds. SALAMBO. By GU.STAVE FLAUBERT. "The Translator has thoroughly understood the original, and has succeeded in putting it into good English. The type, paper, and material execution of the volume, inside and out, leave nothing to be desired." iVestminster Reznew- Illustrated with highly-finished Etchings. Price 6s., handsomely bound. GERMIXIE LACERTEUX. By ED.MOXD and JULES DE (iOXCOURT. "The novelist throws a woman on to the slab of the amphithe.itre, patiently dissects her, shows each muscle, gives full play to the nerves, seeks for causes and relates results ; and this suffices to uncover .a whole bleeding corner of humanity." Entile Zola. In tasteful binding. Price 3i. 6d. A CRUEL ENIGMA. By p.\ul bourget. "M. Bourget's most remarkable work, ' .\ Cruel Enigma,' has placed him above ,-11 competitors." Athcnauni. Price 3^. (>d. Uniform with " \ Ch!;h:i, Emgma." A LOVE CRIME. Bv paul bourget Illustrated with highly-finished Etchings. Price 6s., handsoi/u iy REXEE MAUPERIN. By EDMO.Nn and JULE.S DK GOXCOURT. In tasteful binding. Price ^s. 6d. FANNY. By ERNEST FEYDEAU. Illustrated with i(< />agt: Engravings. Price is. Od., attractic. ly bound. PAPA, MAMMA, AND BABY. Bv gu>tave droz. "The lover who is a Inishand and the wife who is in love witli the man she ha marri'-d have never before been so attr.actively portrayed. " Pictorial iVorld. With 32 highly-finished page En^raiings, cloth gilt, firice 35. 6d. SAPPHO : Pari.sian Manners. P,y alpiioxse nAUHET. "The book is full of .ip-Ml!'.:);; rcil'sni. The cb.iractcrs p.iintcd by tiv. .I'lt'nor are sinc'ilarlv striking, vi\i(i. an'i .is 1 rue to nature as they are powcrfullyi'r.iwn." Daily l ele-'ra/'h. VIZI-yiELLY I- CO., 42 C.\'JH1:RIM: .STREF/J, LOXDOX. RENEE MAUPERIN. A REALISTIC NOVEL. BY EDMOND AND JULE^ DE GONCOURT. ILLUSTRATED WITH DEsIG.Ns DV JAMES TISSOT. LONDON : //zi:7Z"/,Zy e- CO.. 42, CATIIERIXE ST., STRAXU. 1S88. Sanson ^^ Co., Printers, Edinburgh. V9 NOTICE. " Renee Mauperin" is more of a novel than any other of the Brothers de Goncourt's works of fiction. It is a some- what complicated story, the characters in which are studied with great knowledge of the surroundings and the period selected by the authors. For many people, those who prefer analysis to art, this is Messieurs de Goncourt's masterpiece. The authors' object has been to depict a phase of contemporary middle-class life. Their heroine, Renee, the most prominent personage of the story, is a strange girl, half a boy, who has been brought up in the chaste ignorance of virgins, but who has divined life. Spoilt by her father, slie has grown upon the dunghill of advanced civilization with an artistic soul and a nervous, refined temperament. She is the most adorable little thing imaginable, she talks slang, slie paints and acts, her mind is awake to every form of curiosity, and she is possessed of masculine pride, straightforwardness, and honesty. By her side there is her brother, who is also marvellously true to life : a serious young man, the type of properly regulated ambition, the outcome of the manners and customs wliich have resulted from Parliamentaiy rule. lie is one of those very sharp fellows who make Icjve to mothers in view of marrying their daugliters. Tlien comes the whole gallery of middle-class folks of either sex, all delineated with one vi. NOTICE. Stroke of the pen, with a delightfully fine touch and without any approach to caricature. These people are enriched and satisfied revolutionists who have become conservatives, and who, of all their hatreds, only retain their animosity for Jesuits and priests. Some chapters of the book are of a comic character attaining to perfection, satirical without violence, extremely true to life. The tragedy begins in the second part of the work. Renee's brother has assumed a noble name in view of furthering his matrimonial plans. But a nobleman of that name is still living, and, having learnt through Renee of her brother's action, he challenges the young man and kills him. Then Renee, horrified by what she has done, slowly dies of heart disease, her dis- tressing agony lasting through nearly one-third of the volume. Never has the approach of death been studied with more painful patience ; and one finds here all the authors' literary art, all their power of happy expression employed to depict even the most fleeting tremors of the- disease. I know of nothing that is more touching or more terrible. e'mile Zola. RENEE MAUPERIN. ' YoTJ do not like soriety, mademoiselle ? " " You will not repeat what I say ? It chokes me. That is the effect the world has upon me. Perhaps it is that 1 have been unlucky. I have fallen among serious young- men, friends of my brother ; young- ' text books ' I call them. To the girls I ireet I can only talk of the last sermon they have heard, of the last piece of music they have been stud^-ing, or of the last dress the}' have worn ; my conversation with my contemporaries is limited." ' You spend all the year in the coimtry, do you not?" ' Yes, But we are so close to Paris. Have you seen the new piece at the Opc'ra-Comique? Is it pretty?" "Yes, mademoiselle, it is charming; the music is admirably written. All Paris was there the first night. I ouglit to explain to you that 1 never go to a play except on a first night." ' Could you believe that the Opera-Comique is the only theatre to which I am ever taken, besides the Francais and only there when they play a masterpiece. They bore mv to extinction those masterpieces I To think that they will not allow lae to go to the Palais-Royal I lint I read all the pieces that are played there, nevertheless. It took 8 RENEE MAUPERIN. me ever so long to learn ' Les Saltimbanques ' by heart. You are very fortunate ; you can go everywhere. A few evenings ago a great discussion was raised between my sister and my brother-in-law on the subject of the masked ball at the opera. Is it true that it is impossible to go there ? " " Quite impossible. Good gracious 1" " Come now, if you were married, would you take your wife there ? just once only to see what it is like ? " " If I were married I would not even take there " '* Your mother-in-law ? Is it really as bad as that ? " " Well, mademoiselle, you see that, firstly, the companj' is decidedly " " Miscellaneous ? Yes, I know that. But one finds that everywhere. But all the same one goes to La Marche, and one finds there a variegated company. Those ladies you know they are odd who drink champagne in their carriages and the Bois de Boulogne again ! Oh how dull it is to be a girl ; don't you think so ?" " Upon my word, mademoiselle ! I don't see why. On the contrary, I think " " I should like to see you turned mto one! You would soon find out then what a bore it is always having to behave ' properly.' 1 will give you an example. When we are dancing, do you suppose that we may talk to our partners ? ' Yes, no,' ' no, yes ' that is all we may say. We have to keep to those monosyllables the whole time. That is being well behaved ! There is one of the charms of our existence! And it's all like that in everything. 'Proper' is another word for simpleton. And then to be condemned to chatter with one's own sex. When one has the misfortune to run away from them to the society of men I have been well scolded by mamma for that ! One RENEE MAUPERIN. 9 more thing which is not ' proper,' and that is reading. It is only two years since I have been allowed to read the stories published in the newspapers. Then I am made to skip all the crimes which are reported; they are not 'proper' reading for me! It is the same with the accom- plishments that we are allowed to have ; they must not go beyond a certain point. Beyond a duet and a lead pencil, everything is regarded as affected and exaggerated. For instance, I paint in oils, and by so doing I make my family miserable. If they had their way, I should be only paint- ing roses in water colours. But what a stream there is here. It is difficult to hold on." This conversation took place in an arm of the Seine, between La Briche and the island of St. Denis. The girl and the young man who were thus talking were in the water. Tired of swimming, carried away by the stream, they had taken hold of a rope which fastened one of the barges anchored off the island. The strength of the water swung them about quite gently at the end of the tightened and quivering rope. Tliey floated down a short distance, and then came up again against the stream. The water flowed round the chest of the girl, filled her woollen bathing-gown up to the neck, then threw behind her a little wavelet which became, a moment later, nothing but a drop of dew ready to fall from the tip of her ear. As she was holding on to the rope, a little above the young man, her arms were out of the water, her wrists turned back that she might the better grip the rupe, her back against tlie black side of the barge. Some instinct of modesty made lier body shrink at every moment from that of her companion which was pushed against her by the stream. In her hanging and slninking attitude she some- what resembled one of those sea-guddesses who are some- 10 RENEE MAUPERIN. times twisted by carvers round the prows of ships. A slight tremor, caused by the movement of the river and the coldness of her bath, imparted to her something of the living undulation of the water. "By the way," she be;^an again, " it must be very improper for me to be bathing with you. If we were at the sea-side it would be very different. We should never- theless be dressed exactly as we are now ; we should have come out of a hut exactly as we have come down from the house ; we should have walked over the shingle exactl}^ as we walked across the bank ; we should l)e in the water up to our chins exactly as we are here ; the waves would toss us about exactly as the current does here ; but it would not be the same thing at all : the water of the Seine is not ' proper ! ' I am beginning to be very hungry. Are you ? " " Well, mademoiselle, I think I shall do honour to ray dinner." " I must warn you, I do eat." " What do you mean, mademoiselle ? " " Yes, at meal-times, I am absolutely without poetr\\ I should be only deceiving you if I hid from you the fact that I have a good healthy appetite. You belong to the same club as my brother-in-law, do 3'ou not? " " Yes, I belong to the same club as Monsieur Davarande." " Have you many married men amongst the members ?" " Very many, mademoiselle." ' It is extraordinary I never can understand why a man should marry. Had I been a man I should have never dreamed of marrying." " Happily you are a woman, mademoiselle." "Ah, yes! There is another of our misfortunes ! We cannot remain bachelors, we poor women ; but will you RENEE MAUPERIN. 11 tell me why a man joins a club when he is married ? " " Well, a man must belong to some club in Paris at least every man who is in society must if it is only that he may have somewhere to smoke." " What ! are there still in existence women who refuse to make any allowances for smokers ? I would allow any- thing even a halfpenny pipe ! " " Have you any neighbours near you ? " " We are very unsociable, and make few friends. There are the Bourjots at Sannois, and we go there sometimes." "Ah, the Bourjots ! but here there is nobody to make friends with ? " "Yes, there is the priest. TIa, ha! the first time he dined with us he drank the water out of his finger-glass ! But it is very naughty of me to say that. He is such a good man, and he always brings me flowers." " Riding would be a great distraction for you, I think. Are you fond of it? " " Oh, yes, I adore it ! It is my chief pleasure. 1 fancy I could not get on at all without it. What I like above everything is coursing. I was brought up to that in papa's country. I am mad about it. Do you know that one day I remained seven hours in my saddle without once getting down." Oh, I know what it is, mademoiselle. I course a great deal every year in Le Perche, with Monsieur de Beaulieu's pack. Perhaps you have heard of it? It is a pack tliat he got over from England. Last year we had some splen- did sport there. The Chantilly hunt must be within reach of you here ? " " Papa and I never miss a day. We had a glorious day the last time we were out. At one moment we all met there were at least forty horses, and you know how ex- 12 RENEE MAUPERIN. cited they become when they are together ; we went away at, full gallop I need say no more than that ! It was on that day that we saw the fine sunset over the pond. The air, the wind in one's hair, the hounds, the horns, the trees which seem to fly past one's eyes it is just as if one were tipsy. At those moments 1 am brave enough for anything." " Only at those moments ? " " Yes, in truth, only on horseback. For I must acknow- ledge that I am not brave on foot, that I am very much afraid of the dark, that I don't at all like thunder, and that I am very glad that three people have failed us for dinner to-night." " And why, mademoiselle ? " " Because we should have been thirteen. You would have seen me commit any meanness to secure a fourteenth. Ah, here comes my brother with Denoisel in the boat. Look bow beautiful all this is just at this moment ! " And, with a look, she made him notice the Seine, with its two banks and the sky. Little clouds, violet, grey, and silver, were tumbling and playing about on the horizon, some of them with flashes of light just touching their crests, and seeming to produce an effect of sea-foam in the far-off sky. Out of these clouds rose the sky itself, infinite and blue, splendid, and already beginning to pale, as at the hour when the stars are lighting themselves up behind the day. Right above their beads bung two or three clouds, hovering over them, solid and motionless. A bright light was poured down upon the water, sleeping here, twinkling there, lighting up the ripples of the river in the shadow of the boats, just touching here a mast, and there a rudder, catching as it passed the orange petticoat or the pink cap of a washer- woman. RENEE MAUPERIN. 13 The country and the outskirts and suburbs of the town all met on the two banks of the river. Long lines of pop- lars showed here and there between the detached houses, which marked the end of a town. One saw low cottages, hoardings, gardens, green shutters, wine-shops painted red, with acacias in front of their doors, old barrels lying on their side, and here and there blinding peeps of white walls ; then there came the hard lines of factories built of brick, with their roofs of tiles or zinc, and their large call bells. Smoke rose straight out of the mouths of their chimneys, and its shadow fell upon the river like the shadow of a column. On one chimney was written " Tobacco." On a plaster wall one saw the words, " Doremus, called Labiche, boat-builder." Over a canal, blocked up with barges, a revolving bridge raised its two black arms into the air. Fishermen were casting and drawing in their lines, wheels were creaking, carts were coming and going. Towing- ropes were being dragged along over the earth, which was rusty, hardened, blackened, d^^ed every colour by the coal- dust, the residuum from mineral works, and by deposits from chemical factories. A vague, indeterminate smell of grease and sugar, mixed with the emanations from the water and the smell of tar, rose from the candle factories, the glue factories, the tanneries, the sugar refineries, which were scattered about on the quay amongst thin, dried-up grass. The noise of foundries and the screams of steam-whistles broke, at every moment, the silence of the rrver. It was at once a picture of Asnieres, Saardam, and Puteaux, one of the Parisian landscapes of the banks of the Seine, such as Ilervier loves to paint, which are dirty and bright, miser- able and gay, populous and full of life, where Nature passes every now and then between the buildings and tl^e factories, as a blade of grass passes between the fingers of a man. U REXEE MAUPERIN. " Is not that view beautiful ? " " Well, frankly, mademoiselle, I cannot excite myself up to any pitch of enthusiasm over it it is fine up to a certain point." " Yes, it is beautiful. I assure you it is beautiful. Two years ago in the Exhibition there was a picture in exactly that style. I don't know how it is, but there are some thing-s that I feel." " You have an artist's nature, mademoiselle." " Pooh ! " was the only answer of the young lady, as she plunged into the water. When she reappeared on the surface, she began to swim towards the boat which was coming to meet her. Her hair, which had come undone, was soaked as it half floated behind her ; she shook it so as to scatter i-ound her the drops of water. Evening was coming down. The sky was slowly ting- ing itself with pink. A breeze had sprung up over the river. On the tops of the trees the leaves were shivering. A little windmill, which served as a sign to an inn, began to turn its sails. As the swimmer reached the steps put out for her at the stern of the boat, one of the rowers said to her : " Well, Renee, and how did you find the water ? " " Very pleasant, thank 3'ou. Denoisel." '' You are a nice young woman, upon my word," said the other; "you are going to the devil. I was getting quite uneasy about you. And what have you done with lleverchon? Ah! here he comes." II. (Jharler Louis ^[auperin was born in 1787. Son of a barrister, who was renowned and honoured in Lorraine and tlie Rarrois, he entered upon a military career at the age of sixteen, a.s a cadet at the Military School of Fontainebleau'. Appointed sub-lieutenant m the 35th reg-iment of line- infantry, afterwards lieutenant in the same corps, he dis- tinguished himself in Italy by his extraordinary bravery At the battle of Pordenona, when already wounded, he was surrounded by a bod}' of the enemy's cavalry, who called upon him to lay down his arms. He replied to their de- mand by an order to charg-e, killed with his own hand one of the horsemen who threatened him. and opened a passage with his men ; finally, he succumbed to numbers, and, re- ceiving on his head two new sword cuts, he fell back in his blood, and was left for dead. From captain in the 2nd Mediterranean regiment he became chief aide-de-camp to General Koussel d'llurbal, and with him went through the campaign in Russia, where he had his right shoulder broken by a shot the day after the battle of ^Eoskova. At twenty- six years of age. in 1813, he was an officer of the Legion of Honour, and in command of a squadron. In the arm^^ he was considered to have the finest future before him of anv of the young su])eri(- officers, when tlie battle of Waterloo came to bi-eak his sword and iiis hopes. Put on half-pay. he entered, with Colcjiiels Sauset and ^laziau, into tli(^ Bonapartist conspiracy, known as the " lUiznr Frdrirrn's." As a menilici of the directing comnntiee. lie was ct-'iidemned 16 RENEE MAUPERIN. to death by default, but was concealed by some friends, who helped him to escape to America. During the voyage he did not know how to pass his time, and began to study for a travelling companion of his who was going to take his doctor's degree in America, and, on his arrival, he passed his examination in the other's place. He remained for two years in the United States, and at the end of that time, by the brotherly friendship and the high influence of some of his old comrades who had returned to active ser- vice, he obtained his pardon, and permission to return to France. lie came home, and took up his abode in the little town of Bourmont, in companj'^ of his mother, who in- habited a house there belonging to his family. This mother was an excellent old woman, such as the 18th century produced in the provinces, who was always ready with a joke, and was not afraid of a little taste of wine. Her son adored her. He found her suffering from an illness, on account of which her doctors had forbidden her any stimu- lants ; he gave up wine, liqueurs, and coffee, so as not to tempt her, and to alleviate her privation by sharing it. It was out of tenderness for her, out of respect for her de- sires as an invalid, that he took a wife. He married, with- out any strong inclination, a cousin of his own, who was pointed out to his choice by his mother as possessing a little bit of property, some land which marched with his own ; in fact, by all the ties which, in the country, bind and unite families. After his mother's death, as nothing kept him in the little town where he felt his sphere was limited, and as he was forbidden to live in Paris, Monsieur Mauperin sold his house at Bourmont, and the property that he had in the neighbourhood, with the exception of a farm at Villarourt. -lUd went to live with his young wife on a large property RENEE MAUPERIN. 17 that he bought in the depths of the Bassig-ny, at Mori- mond. There were there some remauis of the great abbey, a piece of ground worthy of the name which the monks had given it Mort-au-monde (Dead to the world) a corner of rural and magnificent nature, terminating in a lake of a hundred acres, and in a forest of oaks whose age was forgotten, fields enclosed in canals banked with freestone, where the fresh water ran embowered by trees, where there was a vegetation which had been abandoned since the Re- volution, and which was as luxuriant as that of the bacrk- woods, where there were springs in the shade, wild flowers, paths made by animals, and ruins of gardens upon ruins of buildings. Here and there some stones survived. The door remained, and the bench at which the soup used to be given away to beggars ; here the apse of a chapel without a roof, there the seven stages of the walls, like those of Montreuil. The pavilion at the entrance, built at the be- ginning of last century, was alone still standing entire, almost intact : it was there that Monsieur Mauperin estab- lished himself. lie lived there until 1830, solitary and lost in study, plunged in his books, and drawing therefrom an immense education, a vast store of learning of all kinds : filling his mind with tlie works of historians, philosophers, and politi- cians, and ransacking all the mechanical sciences. He never left his books but to take the air to freshen his head, or to fatigue his body by long walks of eighteen miles across the fields and woods. In the neighbourhood the people were accustomed to see him walk like this ; from afar off tha peasants recognised his step, his lougbuttoned- up overcoat, his great cavalry officer's legs, his head, which was always sliglitly bent, and the branch broken off a vine which served him for a walking-stick. B 18 RENEE MAUPERIN. At election times only did Monsieur Mauperin leave his laborious and secluded life : then he appeared in every corner of the department. He drove about in a light cart, inflamed with the fire of his soldier's voice all meeting-s of electors, and ordered an onslaught upon all the Government candidates ; it was war over again to him. Then, the elec- tion over, he would leave Chaumont and come back to his daily avocations, and to the obscure tranquility of his studies. Two children were born to him, a boy in 1826, a girl in 1827. The Revolution of 1830 broke out; he was returned to Parliament. He came into his new life full of American theories, which gave him a point of resemblance with Armand Carrel, His speeches, which were excited, to the point, soldierly, and full of matter, created a sensa- tion. He became one of the inspirers of the National newspaper, of which he had been one of the founders, and primed it with articles attacking the budget and the man- agement of the finances. The Tuileries made advances to him ; some of his old comrades, who had become aides-de- camp of the new king, approached him with offers of a high military position, of an important command, of a future for which he was still young enough. He refused abso- lutely. In 1832 he signed the protest of the Opposition to the words, " subjects of the king," used by Monsieur de Montalivet, and he fought against the system until 1835. That year his wife gave him a child, a little girl, whose arrival disturbed his whole being. His two first children had only caused him a cold joy, a happiness without diver- sion. Something was wanting in them which makes the delight of a father and the merriment of a fireside. They had both made themselves loved by Monsieur Mauperin, without being adored by him. The hope of the father that be would be gladdened by them had been disappointed. RENEE MAUPERIN. 19 Instead of the son of his dreams, a real baby, a little scamp, a little rascal, one of those pretty little devils in whom old soldiers find once more their own youth, and seem to hear again, as it were, the noise of gunpowder. Monsieur Mau- perin had had to do with an orderly, well-behaved, little boy " a young lady," as he said; and it had been to him a great cause of sadness, mixed with some shame, that his heir was this little man who never broke his playthings. He had the same trouble with his daughter : she was one of those little girls who are born women. She seemed to play with him in order to amuse him. She had scarcely had any childhood. At five years old, when a gentleman came to see her father, she ran away to wash her hands. One had to kiss her only in certain places, and one would have said that she had come into the world with the fear of being rumpled by the caresses and love of her father. All the tenderness of Monsieur Mauperin, which had been thus repressed, and which had been for a long time saving itself up and concentrating itself, went out to the cradle of the new-comer, whom he had christened Renee, after her mother, who bore that old Lorraine name. He passed his days in delicious nonsense with his little Renee. At every moment he took off her little cap to see her silk J hair. He taught her to make little faces, which charmed him. He taught her to show how fat she was, by pinching with her little fingers the flesh of her little thighs. He would lie down with her on the carpet when she was rolling, half naked, with the pretty indifference of childhood. At night he would get up to look at her asleep, and passed hours in listening to the first breath of life, which is like the breathing of a flower. When she awoke, he came to catch her first smile that smile of tin}- girls which comes out of the night as out of Paradise. His 20 RENEE MAUPERIN. happiness momentarily increased to delight : he seemed to love a little angel. What fun he had with her at Morimond ! He used to drag her round the house in a little carriage, and would turn round, at every step, to see her lau^rhing until she cried, the sun shining on her cheeks, nursing in her hand her little pink, supple, and crumpled-up foot. Or else he would carry her away with him on his long walks. He would go into a village, and make the child kiss her band to the people who touched their hats to him, or he would go into a farm-house to exhibit the beautiful teeth of his little daughter. Often the child would fall asleep in his arms as in the arms of a nurse. At other times he would carry her off into the forest, and there, under the trees full of nightingales, at the hours of the end of the day, when the voices of the woods are louder than those of the roads, he experienced ineffable happiness in hearing his baby, penetrated with all the sounds through which he was walking, by her little voice, murmuring and cooing, as if to answer the birds and the heavens which were singing to her. Madame Mauperin, on the other hand, had not received this last daughter so warmly. She was a good woman and a good mother, but she was eaten up by the pride of provincial people the pride of money. Slie had arranged to have two children ; the third was one too many, and put out her calculations for the two others, and especially did her coming nibble away a little of the fortune of the son. This little girl represented to her motiier the division of the united lands, the necessity of sharing their wealth, and consequently a falling from their present posi- tion and a lessening of the importance of the family in the future. RENEE MAUPERIN. 21 Soon Monsieur Mauperin was allowed no rest: the mother of his children was perpetually assaulting the politician, reminding- the father that it was his duty to look after the fortune of his children. She tried to de- tach him from his friends, his party, his fidelity to his ideas. She laughed at him for a simpleton whose scruples prevented him from making the most of his position. Every day the same scenes were enacted attacks, entreaties, reproaches the terrible battle of the fireside against the conscience of a member of the Opposition. At last Monsieur Mauperin begged his wife to allow him two months' respite for reflection : he also wished his Renee to be rich. At the end of the two months he resigned his seat in Parliament, and came to La Briche to establish a sugar refinery. Twenty years had passed since then. The children had grown up and the business had prospered. Monsieur Mauperin was making money fast out of his refinery. His son had been called to the bar. His elder daughter was married. Renee's portion was ready. III. The party had returned to the ground-floor of the house In a corner of the drawing-room, hung with chintz and decorated with bouquets of wild flowers in little baskets fastened to the wall, Henry Mauperin, Denoisel, and Reverchon were talking. Near the chimney-piece, Madame Mauperin was receiving, with great demon- strations of affection, her son-in-law and her daughter, Monsieur and Madame Davarande, who had just arrived. She fancied herself obliged, under existing circumstances, to put forth all her family tenderness, and to make an exhibition of her mother's heart. The rustling caused by the embraces of Madame Mau- perin and Madame Davarande was scarcely over, when a little, old gentleman, who had quietly entered the drawing- room, said, " How d'ye do ? " with his eyes to Madame Mauperin, as he passed before her, and went straight to the group to which Denoisel belonged. This little, old man wore a black coat. He had white whiskers, and carried a portfolio under his arm. "Do you recognise that?" said he to Denoisel, as he carried him off into a bow window, and half opened his portfolio under his eyes. " That ? I know nothing but that it is the ' Myste- rious Swing,' engraved after Lavreince." The little man smiled : " Yes, but look at it." And he again opened his portfolio, but only so that Denoisel could just get his nose into it. RENEE MAUPERIN. 23 " An artist's proof, too an artist's proof ! Do you understand ? " " Perfectly." " And with a margin, too ! It is a brilliant specimen eh? But you may be sure the scoundrels did not make me a present of it! They ran up the price! and it was a woman, too, who did it " " Nonsense ! " " Yes, a cocotte, too, who asked each time how much I had bid. That rascally auctioneer kept saying, ' It is madame's.' At last, at a hundred and thirty-five franca oh, I would not have paid a penny more for it." " I believe you I wish I had known that, for I know a proof exactly like that at Spindler's the painter's, and with bijTger margins, too. Spindler does not care about Louis XVI. I could have had it for the asking." " Upon my word ! and an artist's proof like mine ? Are you quite sure of that ? " " An artist's proof before even yes, it is in a less ad- vanced state than your's. It is before " And the phrase which Denoisel finished in the ear of the old man caused his face to brighten up with pleasure, and made his mouth water. At this moment Monsieur ]Mauperin came into the draw- ing-room with his daughter. He had given her his arm. She, with her head thrown a little back, languid and coax- ing, was leaning on his arm, and was gently rubbing her hair on his sleeve, like a child wanting to be carried. " IIow are you ? " she said, kissing her sister. Then she put her forehead up to her mother, shook hands with her brother-in-law, and running to the man with the portfolio : * May I see, godfather ? " " No, goddaughter, you are not old enough yet." And 24 RENEE MAUPERIN. he gave her a little friendly tap on the cheek. *' Ah ! the thing-s that you buy are always like that," said Kene'e, turning- her back on the old man, who began to tie up the strings of his portfolio with those knowing knots, familiar to the fingers of collectors of engravings. "Well, what news has anyone got for me?" suddenly exclaimed Madame Mauperin, as she turned towards her daughter. She had made l\everchon take a chair quite close to her, so close that her gestures and her dress touched him, seemed to caress him. " You were carried away by the stream ? I am sure you were in danger ! Oh, that river ! I cannot understand how Monsieur Mau- perin allows " " Madame Mauperin," replied her husband, who with his daughter was turning over the leaves of an album on the table, " I allow nothing, I tolerate." " Coward I " said Mademoiselle Mauperin in a low voice to her father. " But, mamma, I assure you," intervened Henry Mau- perin, " I assure you there was no danger. They were carried a little way by the stream, and they preferred to hook themselves on to a boat to being carried down a mile or two. That is all. You see " '' You reassure me," said Madame Mauperin. upon whose countenance serenity had settled at each word of her son. " I know you are so careful. But do you see. Monsieur Keverchon, our dear I'eiK'e is so careless ! I am always in terror about her ! Oh, see, her hair is still wet. Come here, and let me dry it." " Monsieur Durdouillet ! " announced a servant. " One of our neighbours," said Madame Mauperin to Keverchon in an undertone. " Well, and how ai'e you getting (jn ? '' asked Monsieur RENEE MAUPERIN. 25 Mauperin of the new comer, as they shook hands. " Prettj' well, pretty well ; three hundred new stakes to-day." " Three hundred ? " " Three hundred. I think it will not be amiss. Do you see, from the greenhouse, I cut straight down to the piece of water, on account of the view. A slope of a foot and a half, not more. If we were on the ground I should not need to explain it to you. On the other side, you know, I go back one yard up the alley. When that is done, Mon- sieur Mauperin, do you know that there will not be an inch of my land that has not been turned up ? " " But when do you mean to plant, Monsieur Dardouillet?" asked Mademoiselle Mauperin. " For three years now you have had workmen in your garden : are you never going to put in any trees ? '' " Oh, the trees, mademoiselle, are nothing. There is al- ways time for them. The most important thing is, first, the plan of the ground, the slopes, and then, afterwards, the trees, if you like." Some one had come in by a door opening from an inner apartment into the drawing-room. He had made his bow without being noticed, lie was present without attracting any attention. Ills head was honest, and his hair tumbled like a pen-wiper. This was Monsieur Mauperin's cashier. Monsieur Bernard. ' Are we all here ? Has Monsieur Bernard come down ? Ail, there he is I" said Monsieur Mauperin when he noticed him. " Suppose you were to ring and order dinner. Madame Mauperin. These young people must be hungry.'' The respect due to fresh appetites had passed away. Chatter followed the silence of a dinner, which begins with the noise of spoons in the soup plates. 26 RENEE MAUPERIN. " Monsieur Reverchon," beg-an Madame Mauperin. She bad seated the young man next to herself, on her right, and one would have said that her amiabilities were rubbing themselves against him. She heaped attentions and flat- teries upon him. She had a smile spread over her whole face, and even her voice was not that of every-day ; it was a high treble voice, which she put on on occasions of great ceremony. Her eyes travelled perpetually from the young man to his plate, and from his plate to a servant. The mother had her eye upon a son-in-law. " Monsieur Reverchon, we recently met an acquaintance of yours, Madame de Bonnibres. She spoke most highly of you, most highly." " 1 had the honour of meeting Madame de Bonnieres in Italy. I was even fortunate enough to be able to render her a slight service." " Did you rescue her from brigands ? " cried Renee. *' No, mademoiselle, it was much less romantic. Madame de Bonnieres was in a difficulty about a hotel bill. She happened to be alone. I saved her from being too much robbed." " I call that a story of robbers," said Renee. " One might make a play out of it," said Denoisel, " and a new play how the discount of a bill brought about a marriage. And I have a pretty title for it : 'A Quarter- of-an-hour's Romance of Rabelais.' " " Madame de Bonnieres is a very pleasant person," con- tinued Madame Mauperin. " I think her face Do you know her, Monsieur Barousse ? " added she, turning towards Renee's godfather. " Oh, certainly, madaine ; she is very agreeable." "Godpapa, hoM' can you? she looks like a satyr," said Renee. And as soon as the word had left her lips, and RENEE MAUPERIN. 27 seeing- people smile, she felt herself become scarlet. " Oh, only as to her head, I mean ! " she added hastily. " That is what I call recovering oneself," said Denoisel." " Did you stay long in Italy, Monsieur Reverchon ? " asked Monsieur Mauperin, to create a diversion. " Six months," " And your impression ? " " It is a very interesting- country, but a very uncom- fortable one. I never could get accustomed to drink my coffee out of a glass." " Travelling in Italy," said Henry Mauperin, " is to my mind the most melancholy thing the least practi(-al thing one can do. What agriculture ! What commerce ! On the occasion of a masked ball, in Florence, I asked a waiter in a restaurant if they were to remain open all night. * Oh, no, sir ; we should have too many people,' was his answer. That was not told to me; I heard it niAself. That con- demns a country. When one thinks of England, of that collective and individual power of initiative ; when one has seen, in London, the real genius for business of the Eng- lish citizen ; in Yorkshire, the returns of a large farm there's a people indeed." " I agree with Henry," said Madame Davarande ; " England is so distinguished ! the people are so polite 1 I like their plan of introducing people to each other. And then the way they have of giving you your change wrapped in paper. And besides their stuffs have so much character ! My husband brought me home a poplin gown from the Exhibition. Ah, mamma, you know that I have settled upon my new cloak. I have been to Alberic. It was very funny. Imagine, he has a cloak put on to your shoulders, and then he begins to walk round you, and with an ebony ruler he points out the places where it does not 28 RENEE MAUPERIN. fit by just tapping you there! like that! little, tiny taps that he gives and at every touch of his ruler his assistant makes a little chalk mark. Oh, Alberic is a man with a great deal of character! Besides that, he stands alone. There is no one but him ; his cloaks are so smart. I recognised two by him at the races yesterday. But he does know how to charge." " Oh, these men can make what they like," said Rever- chon. " Edouard, my tailor, has just retired with a for- tune of three millions." " That is capital," said Monsieur Barnusse ; " I am always delighted when I see things like that. It is the hard- workers who have the fortunes nowadays ! It is the greatest revolution since the beginning of the world " "Yes," said Denoisel, "a revolution which reminds one of the speech of the famous robber, Chapon : ' Robbery, your worship, is the finest commerce in the world.' " " Were the races brilliant ? " asked Renee. " There were a great many people at them," answered Madame Davarande. " Very brilliant, mademoiselle," said Reverchon. " The Diana Stakes was a first-rate race. Cock's-tail, who started at 35, was beaten by Basilicate by two lengths. It was most exciting. The race for the Hack's Cup was very fine too, although the ground was rather hard." " Who is that Russian lady who always drives four horses. Monsieur Reverchon ? " asked Madame Davarande. " Madame de Rissleff. Iler horses are splendid of the pure Orloff breed." " You really ought to become a member of the Jockey Club, Jules, for the sake of the races," said Madame Davarande, turning to her husband. " I think it is so com- mon to have to herd with all the rest of the world. REN^E MAUPERIN. 29 Really, for a woman who respects herself there is nothing like the Jockey Club Stand." " How admirably your cook has done these mushrooms," said Monsieur Barousse ; " she has surpassed herself. She is a real Francatelli. I must congratulate her as I go out." " I thought you never ate mushrooms," answered Ma- dame Mauperin. " I never did in 1848. I did not until the 2nd of December. Do you think that during all that time the police had nothing else to do but to inspect mushrooms ? But since order has been restored " " Henrietta," said Madame Mauperin to Madame Dava- rande, "I want to scold your husband; he is neglecting us. It is almost three weeks since we saw you last, Monsieur Davarande." " I am very sorry, dear mother, but if you knew all I have had to do. You know that I am very intimate with George. His father is very busy in Parliament, As Pre- sident of the Cabinet, the work falls upon George. He has a thousand things to do which he can only pass on to friends and to persons whom he can trust. There was that first appearance at the opera ; it was a very im- portant matter, and required negotiations, interviews such goings and comings. It was necessary to avoid a conflict between the two ministries. Oh. I assure you that we have been very busy latterly. lie is so pleasant that I cannot " " So pleasant ? " said Denoisel ; " he ought at least to pay your cab hire. It is (juite two years since he pro- mised you a sub-prefectship." " My dear Denoisel, it is much more difficult than you fancy ; and besides as I do not wish to go too far from Paris. Besides, I may tell you, between ourselves, that 30 RENEE MAUPERIN. it is almost settled I have good reason to hope that within a month " "Of whose first appearance are you talking ? " asked Barousse. " Of Bradizzi's," said Davarande. ' Bradizzi ! wonderful ! said Reverchon. She dances with a lightness ! A few days ago I was in the director's box, on the stiige: one could not hear her feet fall as she danced." " We expected to see you last night, Henry," said Madame Davarande to her brother. " I was at my debating society," said Henry. " Henry has been appointed secretary," said Madame Mauperin, with pride. ' Ah," said Denoisel, "your Aguesseau debating society. Does that still go on, your little talkey-talkey ? How many members have you ? " " Two hundred." " And all statesmen ? It is alarming ! And upon what had you to report ? " ' On the National Guard Bill." " You refuse yourself nothing," said Denoisel. "I am sure that you do not belong to the National Guard, Denoisel," said Monsieur Barousse, " Certainly not." " But yet it is an institution." " So the drummer-boys say, Monsieur Barousse." " And I would bet that you never vote." " On no account." "Denoisel, I am sorry to say it. you are a bad citizen. I am not angry with you, it is in your blood, but the fact remains." " How a bad citizen ? " " Well you are always in opposition to the laws." RENEE MAUPERIN. 81 "I?" " Yes, you. Without going back very far, I will give you an instance, your uncle Frederick's money: the in- heritance that you left to his natural children." " Well ? " " That is what I call an illegal, a culpable, a deplorable action. What says the law ? It is clear ; it says that children born out of wedlock cannot inherit. You were not unaware of that; I had told you, your solicitor had told you, the code told you What do you do ? you make over the property to the children ! You send the code, the spirit of the law, everything, in fact, to the right about! But, Denoisel, to abandon your uncle's fortune in that manner is pandering to bad habits ; it is an en- couragement to " " Monsieur Barousse, I know your feelings upon that subject. But what would you have ? When I saw those three wretched little boys, I said to myself that the cigars I bought with their money would never taste good. No one is perfect." " All very fine, but that is not the law. When the law says something it says it with some object, I suppose. The law is opposed to immorality. What will happen if people take to imitating you ? " " You need not be afraid of that, Barousse," said Monsieur Mauperin, smiling. " No one should set a bad example," answered Barousse, sententiously. Then turning again towards Denoisel, he continued ; *' Understand me clearly, Denoisel, I do not think less well of you for doing it. On the contrary, I respect your disinterestedness ; but as for telling you you did well no ! It is so with your whole life : your life is not regular. ^Vhy, hang it, everyone works I 32 RENEE MAUPERIN, Everyone does something- goes into some public ofiBce, or in some way pays his debt to his country. If you had done that early in life you might by now have had a place worth three or four thousand francs a-year." " I had something better tijan that offered me, Monsieur Barousse." " Better than that ? " said Barousse. " Better than that," quietl}' answered Denoisel. Barousse looked at him with stupefaction. " Seriously, continued Denoisel, I had a splendid pros- pect once for five minutes. You shall hear. On the 24th of February 1848, I did not know what to do with myself. Storming the Tuilerie.s in the morning upsets all the rest of one's day. It occurred to me that I would go and see a friend of mine who was in a government office on the other side of the river. I arrive ; nobody there. I go upstairs into my friend's room ; no friend there. I light a cigarette and wait for him. A gentleman enters while I am smoking. He finds me seated and fancies I am employed in the office. He wears no hat ; I presume that he also belongs to the house. He asks mc very politely if I can tell him the way to some room that he wants. I show him ; we return. He asks me to write something whereof he points out to me the gist. I take my friend's pen and I write. He reads, and is delighted. We talk; he finds that I know how to spell. He shakes bands with me and observes that I wear gloves. In short, at the end of a quarter of an hour he begs me earnestly to be his private secretary. It was the new minister." " And you did not accept ? " "My friend came in I accepted for him. He after- wards obtained an excelleiit appointment in tlie Privy * Council Office. Neverthele'-'^ it was pleasant to have had RENEE MAUPERIN. 33 even half-a-day of supernuraeraryship." They had by this tuue come to the dessert. Monsieur Mauperin had drawn towards him a dish of cakes, into which lie thou.s^-htlessly plun^-ed his hand. 'Monsieur Muuperin?" said liis wife, siij^nalling' to him with her eyea. ' I beu: pardon, my dear symmetry you are quite rig^ht I was not tliinkino: ; " and he i eplaced the dish. " You have such a mania for disarran^-ing thing-s." "I was wronjr. my dear; I was wrong^. Do j-ou see, gentlemen, my wife is an excellent woman; hut on the r]iiestion of symmetry symmetry is one of my wife's reli.irions." "You are ridiculous. Monsieur Mauperin," said Madame Mauperin, blushinjr at being- caught committing a gross provincialism, and then she said sharply to her daughter : " Bless my soul, Renee, how badly you hold yourself. Sit up, my dear child." "That's it," muttered the girl to herself. " ]\ramma avenging herself upon me now." "Gentlemen," said Monsieur Mauperin, when they were all in tlie drawing-room, ' you know that smoking- is allowed here. Wa owe that to my son. lie was so lucky as to obtain that cou' ession from my wife." " Coffee, godpapa ? " asked Renee of Monsieur [)arousse. " No," replied he. " I should not sleep " *' Here." said Renee, linishing his phrase. ' Mon.;ieur Reven-lu)u ?" " Nu, thank you, mademoiselle." She came and went about the room, and the steatn from the cups, as she carried them, mounted into her face like the hot breath of tlie coffee. ' Is everyone helped? " 34 RENEE MAUPERIN. Slie did not wait, " Tra-tra, tra," the piano threw into the drawing-room the first bars of a polka. Then stopping: " Are we going- to dance ? Suppose we were tc dance ? Oh, let us dance ! " " Let us smoke quietly," said Monsieur Mauperin. " Yes, daddy ; " and quickly recommencing her polka, she danced it her.^elf, turning about on the music-stool, and only holding on to the ground by the tips of her toes. She played without looking, her head turned towards the room, animated, smiling, the excitement of dancing in her eyes and on her cheeks, like a little girl who, while she plays that others may dance, follows them and dances with them. She worked her shoulders. Her body undulated as though in the arms of her partner, her waist marked the rhythm. In her feet tliere was a slight suggestion of a step. Then she turned herself again to the piano ; she began to beat time gently with her head; her eyes followed her hands over the black and white keys. Leaning over the music that she was playing, she seemed alternately to heat the notes or to caress them, to speak to them, to scold them, to smile at them, to rock them, to send them to sleep. She leant upon the noise, she played with the melody ; her little movements were sometimes tender, sometimes passionate. She stooped and raised herself again, and the top of her mother-of-pearl comb at one moment flushed in the light, at the next was buried in the dark masses of her hair. The two candlesticks on the piano, rattling with the noise, tlirew their light on her cheek, or crossed their flames on her forehead or her chin. The shadow of her earrings, two coral balls, trembled un- ceasingly on the skin of her neck, and her fingers ran so rapidly over the piano that one could only see something pink and undefined, which seemed Uj fly. RENEE MAUPERIN. 36 " And that is her own," said Monsieur Mauperin to Reverchon. " She has had lessons from Quidant," added Madame Mauperin. " Ila ! I have done now!" And, leaving the piano, Renee went and sto(jd in front of Denoisel. ' Tell me a story, Denoisel, to amuse me ; anything you like." And she remained standing before him, her arms crossed, her head slightly thrown back, the weight of her body on one leg, with an impertinent little look and a sort of impu- dent courage which added tci the somewhat cavalier grace of her dress ; she wore a collar of white pique, a neck-tie of black riband ; the lappets of a white waistcoat fell back over her cloth gown, cut in the shape of a coat; on the front of her skirt she wore pockets like those of a great- coat. " When will you cut your wisdom-teeth, Rene'e ? " asked I )enoisel. 'Never!" and she began to laugh. "And how about my story ? " Denoisel looked round to see that no one was listening, and then, lowering his voice, began : " Once upon a time there were a papa and mamma, who had a little girl. Tlie papa and the mamma, who wanted to see her married, brought to their house several very nice gentlemen, but the little girl, who was very nice also " ' Oh, how stupid you are ! I am going to do some wf)rk now." And, taking her work-basket, she went and settled her- self near her mo i her. " Are we not to have any whist this evening ? " asked Monsieur Mauperin. " Certainly, my d(Mr." replied his wife. the table is 36 RENEE MAUPERIN. ready. You see there are the candles waiting- to be lighted." ' Gone ! " cried Denoisel into the ear of Ba; ousse, who was heg-inning- to slumber by the fire-place, nodding- his head like a traveller in a stag-e-coach. Monsieur Barousse jumped up. Denoisel offered him a card. ' The King- of Spades ; proof before letters ! They want you to play a rubber." " You are not too tired this evening, I hope, mademoi- selle?" said Reverchon, coming- nearer. " I, sir ? I could dance all nig-ht ! I am made like that." " You are making* something- very pretty there." "This? Oh, yes, very pretty. It is a stocking I am knitting for one of my poor children. It is warm, and that is all you can sa}'- for it I must admit that I am not g-ood at nf'cdlework. To do embroidery or wool-w^ork, one must give one's attention, while this you see only my fing-ers work once you have g-ot it started it seems to go alone ; one's mind is free to think of the Grand Turk, if one chooses." " Look here, Reni-e," said her father ; " this is curious. I lose in vain ; I cannot recover myself." " Ha, ha, that is very good ; I shall keep that for my collection," answered Ken('e. Then, all of a sudden: " Denoisel ! come here ! Will you come here ? neirer there nearer. Will you come at once? And now, on your knees " "Are you mad?" cried Madame >[ luperin. " Renc'e," said Denoisei, " I believe you have sworn an oath to make me miss any (-hance of marrying." " Kenee, come, come I " said M(jii.sieur Mauperin, from the card-table, in a fatherly voice. RENEE MAUPERIN. 87 " Well, what is the matter? " said Renee ; and, so say- ing, she playfully threatened Denoisel with a pair of scissors. " Now, if you stir ! Besides, Denoisel's hair is always so untidy; it is so badly cut. There is always a great ugly curl falling over his forehead. It makes every one squint to look at him. I am going to cut off his curl. Ha, now he's afraid ! But I am a first-rate hair-dresser ; ask papa ! " And thereupon she cut vigorously twice or thrice into Denoisel's hair, went up to the fire-place, shook off the hair on to the hearth, and turning round : " Did you think I wanted to steal a lock ? " she said. She hal paid no attention to the touch that her brother had given her witii his elbow as he passed. Her mother, an instant before crimson, was now quite pale. She had not noticed it. Her father, as the whist was over, came towards her with an embarrassed and cross look. She took the cigarette that he had just begun, put it to her lips, drew one puff, and, throwing it away, quickly turned her head, coughed, blinked, and exclaimed " Pah ! how nasty it is ! " " Really, Renee," said Madame Mauperin, in a severe and melancholy voice, "really, I do not understand you! I have never seen you behave in such a manner before." " Bring some tea," said Monsieur ^lauperin to a servant who came in answer to the bell. IV. " Already a quarter-past ten ! " said Madame Davarande. " We have only just time to g-et to the station. Renee, will you send for my hat ? " Everyone got up. Barousse, at the noise, awoke, and the little group of jruests from Paris started for Saint- Denis. " I will come with 3'ou," said Denoisel ; " the walk will do me g-ood." Barousse led the way ; Davarande following- with his wife. Henry Mauperin and Denoisel closed the procession. " Wh}' don't you sleep here?" said Denoisel to Henry; "you could I'eturn to Paris to-morrow." " No," answered Henry, " I do not wish to. I have some work to do to-morrow morning-. I should only rea".h Paris late, and my day would be lost." They were silent. Somo words of Barousse, singing- the praises of Rente, reached them now and again in the sileni-e. "Tell me, Denoisel ; I fear it is all over; what do you think ? " " I think so." " Well, my dear fellow, will you have the kindness to tell me why you lent yourself to all the f<;llies that entered my sister's brain this evening-? Your influence over her is great, and " RENEE MAUPERIX. 3"J " First of all, my boy," said Denoisel, pulling at his rig'ar, " allow me to open a historical, philosophical, and social parenthesis. We have done, have we not ? when I say ' we,' I mean the majority of the French people with the pretty little misses who used to talk like dolls with spring's inside them, who used to say ' papa ! ' ' mamma ! ' and wlio, when they danced, never lost siirht of the authors of their being. The little, shy, childish, timid, stammering- miss, wlio was taug-ht not to know any- thing-, who did not know how to stand uprig-ht nor how to sit down, is done with; it's old, worn-out; a thing- of the past. She was the kind of bread-and-butter miss of the Gymnase Theatre. Ncnvadays it is quite a different matter. The plan of cultivation has been changed: young women used to be like espalier apple-trees : now they g-row alone in the teeth of the wind. People expect a girl to form her own impressions, and to be able to cxpiess herself in her own lang-uage. She can talk, and she must talk about evei-ything. That has become part of her manners. She is no long-er re(iuired to display inno- cence, but intellectual origniality. As long as she shines in society her parents are charmed. Her motlier takes her to lectures, lias she a talent? How it is fostered I'.id cherished ! Instead of poor daily g-uvernesses, she lias I(>s8()iis from real masters, professors of the Con- servatoire, painters who have exhibited. Her mind takes an artistic- turn, and her parents are delighted thereat. Tell me. is tliat or is it not a faithful picture of our young middle c-lass women of to-d:iy ? " '' Whence you conclude ? " " Now, then," continued Henrji^el. Avithont answering, "add to that fine education which I have described, but which 1 do not judge, p'ease oli^erve add to that, I say. 40 RENEE MAUPERIN. an excellent, good fellow of a father, who is kindness and tenderness personified, who encoui-ages all this eman- cipation by his weakness and his adoration ; suppose that this father has smiled at all the impertinences, all the pretty little naughtinesses of this boy in petticoats ; that he has, little by little, allowed his daughter to assume these manly qualities wherein he discovers, with pride, a reflection of his own heart " " And so 3'ou you, my dear fellow, who know so well what m}' sister is, how she has been brought up, the style she has adopted thanks to the spoiling of my father all the difficulties in the way of her marriage, it is you, I say, who this evening allowed her to play a number of un- seemly tricks, when you could, with those few words which you, and you alone, can say to her, have stopped her completely." Denoisel, the friend to whom Henry Mauperin thus spoke, was the son of a man who came from the same part of the country as Monsieur Mauperin, and who had been his schoolfellow and companion-in-arms. Monsieur Mauperin and bis father had been side b}^ side in the same battles ; their blood had mingled on the same fields ; in the retreat from Russia they had both bitten into the same piece of horse-flesh, A year after his return to France. Monsieur Mauperin lost this friend who, on his death-bed, made him guardian of his son. The child found his father over again in his guardian. While at school, he had passed all his holidavs at Morimond, and the Mauperins' house had become to Lim a home. When ^lonsieur Mauperin's children were bom it seemed to Denoisel that he had until then missed a brother and a sister ; he felt like their elder brother, and became a child again to play with them. RENEE MAUPERIN. 41 His preference was naturally for Renee who, when quite a small child, began to worship him. She was already quick-tempered and obstinate ; he alone could make her listen and obey. By the time she was grown up he had become the moulder of her character, the con- fessor of her mind, the director of her tastes. And his influence over the young girl had increased day by day with his familiarity with her in that house where his room was always ready, his pla'-e at table always laid, and where he could come to pass a week at any time. " There are days," began Henry again, " on which my sister's nonsense does not signify; but this evening, before that man I am sure it will put, an end to the marriage. An excellent match he had very largo ex- pect tions. lie is a capital fellow from all accounts, pleat ant, well educated." " Do you think so? He frightened me on your sister's account. And that is why I behaved with her as I did to-night. That man only possesses the commonest refine- ment refinement made out of the vulgarisation of all that is eloquent. He is, both physically and morally, a fashion- plate, a tailor's model. There is absolutely nothing in a little mannikin like him. He, a husband for your sister ? Hut how the deuce do you expect him to understand lier ? By what power do you expect him to discover what a depth of generous, noble, and fine feeling there is in her under her eccentricity ? Do you fancy that they would have one i hot, violent, almost frenzied aft'ectiou. The mothers (if her family had been furiously mothers. llvv grand- mother had left behind her a legend in the district of the llaulL'-Mame : it was related that she had disligurctl with 48 RENEE MAUPERIN. a live coal a child who was said to be more beautiful than her owu. At the first little illnesses of her son, Madame Mauperin almost went mad ; slie cursed all strong children ; she wished God to kill them if her son were to die. Once he was seriously ill ; she passed forty-ei,^"ht nig-hts without going- to bed; her legs swelled from fatigue. When he began to run about he was allowed to do as he pleased. If anyone complained that he had beaten the village boys, she said, in a melancholy voice : " Poor darling ! " As the child grew older, the mother's heart seemed to go before him, anii already to fill with hopes the road that, as a man, he would have to travel. She thought of all the heiresses in the department whose ages w^ere about the same as his. She saw him living in castles, on horseback, hunting in a red coat. She dazzled herself with illusions and anticipations.' School-time came, and with it separation. Madame ]Nrauperin struggled for three months to be allowed to keep her child, and to have him taught by a tutor under her eye. But her husband was firm. All that Madame Mauperin could obtain was the choice of the school. She chose the softest she could find one of those schools for rich people at which the children are allowed cakes when they go out for a walk, and where the masters set more lessons than punishments. He remained there seven years, and during that time Madame ^lauperin did not let one day pass without going to see him during his play-hour. Rain, cold, fatigue, illness nothing stopped her. In the parlour, in the play- ground, other mothers pointed her out to each other. The child would kiss her, lake the cakes that she had brouglit him, and. saying that he had a lesson to finisli, would hasten to return to his play. But that was enough for his mother. RENEE MAUPERIX. 40 She had seen hira. He was well. She thoug-ht unceas- ingly of his health. She loaded hira with flannel. During his holidays lie stuffed him with meat beef-steaks, of which she gave him all the fresh g'ravy to make him big and strong. She bought him a little mat for fear the benches at school should bo too hard for him. Kach pupil was provided with a separate room ; she furnished his as though it were a man's. At twelve years old he had a dressing-table of rose-wood. The child bei-ame a young man, the young man left school, and ]\[adame ^Nlauperin's passion only increased with all the pride that a mother feels in a son, whose figure is changing and whose beard is sprouting. For- getting that she paid the tradesmen's bills, she marvelled at the manner in wliich her son dressed, did his hair, and at the boots he wore. In his tastes, in the luxury of his habits, in his appearance, in his life, there was an elegance before which she fell down and worshipped, as though she herself were not the source and the treasurer thereof. Her son's servant was not (|uite a servant. His horse was not merely a horse; it was her son's horse. She was always warned beforehand if her son was going for a drive, so that she might have the satisfaction of seeing him get into the carriage and start. Every day she becanie more and more taken up with this son. With no distractions, with nothing to occupy her thoughts, never reading, growing old beside the hus- band who had brought her no love, and whom she had always felt to live a life apart fr.MU licr immersed in study, in politirs, and in business; having beside her only one daughter, to wliom she had never given all her heart, she had ended by staking her whole life upon Hfiiry's chances, all her vanity on his future. D so RENEE MAUPERIN. And her only tlioug-ht lier thoug-lit of every waking hour, whether by day or by nig-ht her one idea, was how to get tliis adored son married married well, in such a rich and brilliant manner as to avenge her, and recoup her for all the sadness and obscurity of her existence, for her life of saving and solitude, for all her privations as wife and woman. " Do you know exa'-tly how old your son is. Monsieur Mauperin ? " asked Madame Mauperin. "Henry? Let me see ; Henry must be He Avas born in 182n, was he not?" "Oh, how like a father to ask! Yes, 1826 the 12th of July, 1820." " Ah, then, he is twenty-nine years of age. So he is ! Twenty-nine." " And you quietly stay where you are and do nothing ! You don't give a thought to his future career ! You say. Yes, he is twenty-nine;' (|uite quietly! Anyone else would take some steps would look about. Henry is not like his sister; he wants to be married. Have you ever thought of trying to find him a suitable wife? Xo more than 3'ou have for the King of Prussia! It was just the same with your eldest daughter. I ask you, what did you do to help on her marriage ? It really seemed as though it were all one to you whether she found a husband or whether she did not ! Didn't I have to urge you to make vou stir in the matter ! Ah ! 3'ou may wash 3'our hands of that marriage ; your daughter's happiness need not weigh upon your conscience. No doubt, without me, you would have found such a husband as Monsieur Davarande, who worships Henrietta. Such a man of the world, too! . a model husband." And Madame Mauperin, blowing out the candle, slid into RENEE MAUPERIN. 51 bed beside Monsieur Mauperin, who was turned towards his corner with his nose close to the weAI. " Yes," she continued, as she stretched herself under the sheets, " a model ! Do 3"ou suppose that all sons-in- law would pay us as much attention as he does? He does all in his power to be pleasant to us. You make him eat meat if he dines here on a Friday ; he does not complain. And so goo'3-natured ! A short time ag-o I wanted to match some wools for my work, and " " Pardon me, my dear, but what were we talking- about? I warn you that I am rather sleepy to-night. It began with your daughter. Now you have started the chapter of Monsieur Divarande's perfections. I knovv that chapter well. It will lasc till to-morrow morning. Come now; you want your son to marry, do j^ou not? That's it. Very well ; find him a wife. I ask nothing better." " And a great deal of help I shall have from you in the matter I You will take a lot of trouble about it! You so much like disturbing yourself! " ' Upon my word, my dear, you are unjust to me ! If I remember rightly, I g-ave a proof of my good disposition about a fortnight ago. Do you call it nothing' to go and hear an opera which bored me to death ; to eat ices at night, which I particularly dislike doing; talk about nothing to a provincial who publish d on the Boule- vards, at tlie top of his voice, what his daughter's fortune would be? You will tell me that it all <-ame to nothing! Hut was it my fault that this good gentle- man wanted for his daughter what ho called a ' line male'? Is it my fault, and mine alone, that our sou is not a Hercules ? " " Monsieur Mauperin ! " "Upon my soul it is quite true. According to you I 52 RENEE MAUPERIN. siru gruilty of everj'thing. You wouM make me pass for a selfish-^" " Yes indeed, like all men I " " Thank you for them." " No, it is a part of your nature ; one must not be angry with you for it. It is only mothers who worry themselves. Ah, if you were like me ! If you had before your eyes, da}' and nig-ht, a picture of all that ma}' happen to a 3'oung man. I know ver}' well that Henry is steady ; but an entanglement is so soon made a bad woman any wretched creature, no matter who ; one sees it every day. I should go mad! T^ook here, Mauperin, suppose we were to try to get at ]\Iadame Rosieres eh ? " There wns no ans'.ver. Madame Mauperin resigned herself to silence, turned this way and that, sought for sleep and only found it at daybreak. VI. 'Hulloa, where in the world are you going- to?" said Monsieur Mauperin to Madame Mauperin next morning, as she was putting on a black lace mantle before her looking-glass. " Where am I going?" repeated Madame Mauperin, us she fixed the cloak on one of her shoulders with one of the two pins that she had in her mouth. " Does my cloak fall too low ? Do look." " No." " Pull it a little." "But how smart you are!" said ]\Ionsicur ]\[auperii), stepping backwards a little and looking at his wife's toilet, which was ull black and of the most elegant severity, in good taste, and almost austere. " I am going to Paris." "So 3'ou are going to Paris? And pray what are you going 1o do in Pai is ? " ' Dear me, how tiresome you are, always asking-. 'Where are you going? What are you going to do?' I suppose you want to know, don't you?" 'Clearly, so that is why I asked the {}uestion." " Well, my dear, 1 am guing to confession," answered Madame Mauperin. dropping her eyes. At this answer ^lunsicur Mauperin l)ecame silent. Dui- ing the iii->t part of thuir married life, his wife had been pious to the extent of going to church once every Sunday ; l.iler on, she luul accompanied her uauglitcrs to the cate- 54 RENEE MAUPERIN. cliism classes ; and there ended all the religious duties that he had ever seen her perform. For the last ten ^ears he had felt that she was, like himself, indifferent, naturally and ingenuously. After the first moment of stupefaction had passed, he opened his mouth to speak to her, looked at her, and said nothing ; then, suddenly turning sharp round on his heels, he walked straight out of the room, hummhig a sort of tune to which nothmg was wanting save the air and the words. Madame Mauperin reached a fine, cheerful house in the Rue de la Madeleine, and mounted to the fourth floor ; there she rang at an unpretending door ; her bell vras answered. " The Abbe Blampoix ? " "Will you w^alk in, madame?" said a servant, who had a Belgian accent, a black livery, a respectable appearance, and who bowed low. He conducted Madame Mauperin through an ante-room faintly perfumed, then through a dining-room full of sunlight where one place was laid at table. Tlien Madame Mauperin found herself in a draw- ing-room gay with scented flowers. Above a harmonium which was handsomely ornamented with brass-work, hung a copy of Correggio's picture of " Night." On another wall there hung in a mourning frame, the " Communion of Marie-Antoinette and her guards at the Conciergerie," lithographed from a legend. Little tokens of all sorts, a number of things which resembled New Year's presents covered the brackets. A miniature cop}' in bronze of Can- ova's " Magdalen" stood on the table in the middle of the room. The furniture, covered with embroidery of different patterns and colours told its own tale and showed v.-hat it was; presents from various pious women to the priest. Men and woniPii were waiting there, opening the door of Ihu study, remaining inside a few minutes, coming out RENEE MAUPERIN. 55 again, bowing and disappearing. The last of these people, a woman, remained a long time. When she came out again, Madame Mauperin could not see her face for the thick veil which covered it. The priest was standing by the fire-place when Madame Mauperin entered. He held the skirts of his cassock stretched out before the fire, like the tails of a coat. The Abbe Blampoix had neither cure of souls nor parish. He had a following and a specialty ; he was the priest of the world, of the great world and the fashionable world. He heard all the drawing-room confessions, he directed all the well - born consciences, he consoled such souls as were worth the trouble. He brought Paradise and salvation within the reach of learned and rich people. " Every one has his part in the vineyard of the Lord," he would of I en say, when he seemed to groan and to bend under the burden of saving the Faubourg St. Germain, the Faubourg St. Honore, and the Chaussee d'Antin. He was a m;in of sense and wit, an easy-going priest, who adapted everything to the precept : " Tiie letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life." He was tolerant and intelligent. He knew how to understand and how to smile. He measured out faith according to people's tem- perament, and only in.sisted upon little doses at a time. He sweetened penance, planed away the knots from the cioss, sanded the way of salvation. From the hard, ugly, rigorous religion of the poor, he detached, as it were, the pleasant religion of the ricli light, ea.sy, ela.siic, suiting itself to things and to persons, to all the demands of society to its cu-stoms, to its habits, and even to its pre- judices. Out of the image of God he managed to mal\e something comfortable and elegant. The Al>le l^lanipoix had all the charm of a priest \\\ o is 66 RENEE MAUPERIN. cultivated, talented, and refined. He knew how to ming-le conversation and confession ; how to put salt into his exhortations, and pleasantness into his unction. He knew how to move and how to interest. He was acquainted with all the words which touch, the words which caress, and the words whicli tickle. His voice was musical, his style flowery. He called the devil the " prince of evil," and the eucharist the "divine nouiishment." He abounded in periphrases as highly coloured as pious engraving-s. He could talk of Kossini, and quote Kacine ; he said, " The Bois,"' for the Bois de Boulogne. If he spoke of divine love it was in language that excited his listeners; if of ihe vices of to-day, it A\as in a piquant style of his own ; if of the world, he used the language of the world. Now and then the most modern fasliicjnable expressions and the most intimate words in the language appeared in his spiritual discourses, like fragments from a newspaper in an ascetic Look. He was impregnated with the odatient and one fine day they threaten to disclose everything to the husband then, oh I then I imagine the misery. Do you know that just now a person was threatening 1o throw heiself into the river? I have had to promise to liiid thirty thousand fiancs. But ] beg your pardon, madame. 1 am talking of my oAvn affairs. T^et us return to j'ou. and your's You had a second daughter a charming girl. I prepared her for her first communion. Let n:e see what was her Christain name ? " ' Kenc'e ! " Exactly; that's it. A very intelligent child very (juii'k; an exceptional nature. She is not married?" No, sir, and it is a great trouble to me; you don't know what a curious character she has. She is not the least like her sister. She has one of those natures that are most trying to a mother. I had much rather she were less clever. We have tried to make the most suitable matches ior her; slie refuses them giddily, m.idly. It was only yesterday Besides whicli her father spoils her so terribly." Ah, tiiat is a pity I You would never believe wliat a 62 RE NEE MAUPERIW motherly interest one takes in children whom one has brought to Jesns and to ^[ary. But you tell me nothing' about your son a charming fellow, who is doing very well, and who is old enough now to think of marrying if I remember rightly ? " " Do you know hi.n, sir ? " " I had the pleasure of meeting him once at the house of his sister, Madame Davaraiide, when I went to see her during her illness ; for you must know that the only visits we ever pay are those to the sick. And besides, I hear on all sides good accounts of him. You are a happy mother, midame ; your son practises his religion. At Easter he communicated at the Jesuit Church. I daresay he did not tell you that that he was one of a number of truly Christian young men of the world, who waited nearly all night to make their confessions, so great was the crowd ! Yes, one would not belit^ve it, but, thank God, it is a fact. Young men, in the best society, waited until live in the morning to confess. I need not tell you how much tlie Church is touched by such zeal ; how grateful she is to those who. in these sad tim^s of demoralisation and unbelief, give her this consolation and pay her this homage ; in short, how we, her servants, are favourably disposed towards tliese young men who show such goodwill and so good an example, and how ready we are to give them all the little help in our power, and to support with the little influence that we may have in families " "Ah, sir, you are too good and our gratitude, mine and that of my son if you would only occupy your- self witli him. It was a hapjn* tliought of mine to come and see you. Dear me ! I came to you as a woman, but I also came as a mother. My son is an angel, sir. And then you can do so much I " RENEE MAUPERIN. 63 Tlie priest shook his h.ead with a smile of denial in which modesty was ming-lod with melancholy: "No, madame; you exap:g"erate. We are far from being- what you say. Sometimes we succeed in doing' some small good, but even that is very difficult! If you knew how little influence a priest has nowadays ! People are afraid of him ; they keep out of his way ; they will not meet him except in church, nor speak to him outside the confessional. Why, you yourself, madame, would be surprised if your director mixed himself up in your everyday affairs. So prejudiced is the world auainst us that it is always on the defensive, trying to keep us at arm's length." " Goodness ! here it is one o'clock already. I saw your table laid as I came in. 1 am ashamed of myself. You will let me come back in a few days." " My luncheon is made to wait," said the Abbe Bhimpoix. Then turning towards a writing-table covered with papers near him, he signed to Madame Mauperia to sit down again. An instant of silence, during which nothing- was to be heard but the rustling- of the papers as the abbe turned them over, followed. It ended by the abbe drawing- a visiting card, with the corner turned down, out of a heap of papers. He turned it towards the light and read : '* Three hundred thousand francs, stocks, government bonds. Fifteen thousand fran'-s a-year the day of marriage. Father and mother dead. Six hundred thousand francs on the deaths of uncles and aunts who are unm^irried and will not marry. Young- nineteen; charming prettier than she thinks." "Think that over." said the priest, replacing the < ard among his papers. " You see well 1 have yes. I have at this mitmte an orphan with five-and-twenty thousand francs a-vear the dav she marries. But that would not do. 64 REXEE MAUPERiX. Her guardian wants iiiHuence. lie is one of tlie second- class referendaries in the audit-office, and Avill only give liis ward to a son-in-law who can obtain his nomination as first-class referendary. Ah, wait a minute ; this might do." And. as he turned over his notes, he continued : "Twenty-two years of age; not pretty; accomplished, intellig-ent. dresses well ; father, fifteen hundred thousand francs ; three children ; fortune secure. The house in the Rue de Provence, where the offices of the 'Security' insurance company are, belongs to him ; property in the department of the Orne ; two hundred thousand francs in f^overnment stocks; a solid man, of Portuguese origin. The mother counts for nothing in the house. No relations, and the father would I e angry if you tried to see the few there are. You see I hide nothing- from you. They meet together once a-year. at dinner, and that is all. The father will give his daughter three hundred thousand francs, and wishes her to live with him." And. turning over his notes again : '" Yes." he went on, ' that is all that I have at this moment likely to suit you. Now talk it over with your son, dear madame. Consult your husband. I am entirely at your service. If you can, the next time I have the honour to receive a visit from 3-0U, will 3-ou bring me a few figures, a little memorandum, which might give me an idea of your intentions ns regards your son? And do bring your daughter to sue me; 1 should be delighted to see that dear child again." ' Would you be so kind, sir, as to name an hour at which 1 should in'-onvenience you somewhat less than I liHve done t(^-day ? " I belong, madame. to all who have need of me. and I am too much honoured. I would only ask you not to come in about a fortnight's time. I shall then be quite in RENEE MAUPERIN. 66 the country, and shall only come into Paris once a week. Yes, I have been obliged to make up my mind to it; hy the end of the winter I find myself so worn out. I have so much to do and besides these four floors kill me. But it cannot be helped one must pay something fo the privilege of having one's own chapel, the precious per- mission to say mass in one's own house. You know that no one may sleep over a chapel. But while I think of it, why not come and see me in the country, at Colombes ? It would be a little outing. I have fruit trees my only vanity as a land-owner. I would offer a simple luncheon, dear madame, to you and to your charming daughter. Will not your delightful son do me the pleasure of coming with you?"- VII. A QUAETER of an hour later, a servant in a red waistcoat opened, in answer to Madame Mauperin's bell, the door of some first floor rooms in the Rue Taitbout. " Good day, George ; is my son in ? " " Yes, madame, monsieur is in his room." Madame Mauperin had smiled at her son's servant. As she passed them, she smiled at his rooms, his ornaments, his furniture. She went into his study, where Henry was writing- and smoking-. He said, " Hulloa ! " took the cigar out of his mouth, threw his head on to the back of his arm-chair to be kissed by his mother, then beginning to smoke again : " Is it you, mamma ; in Paris to-day ? You had not told me you were coming. What has brought you ? " " Oh, some business, some visits you know I am always behindhand. How comfortable you are here." " Ah, true ! you have not seen my new arrangements." " But, dear me, how comfortable you know how to make yourself. Only you understand it. Are you sure it is not damp here ? " And Madame Mauperin laid her hand upon the wall. " Tell George to open the windows whenever you go out, won't you ? " " Yes, yes, mother," said Henry in the bored tone in which one answers a child. " Oh, why have you those things ? I do not like your liaving them " Madame Mauperin had just noticed two RENEE MAUPERIN. 67 duelling swords over a book-case " Only to look at them. When one thinks " Madame Mauperin shut her e3'es for an instant and sat down. " You do not know how your odious barhelor lift; makes us tremble. If you were married 1 think that I should no longer be so tormented. I wish I could see 30U married, Henry." " 1 too, I assure you." " Really ? Come now, you can have no secrets from your mother, you know. I am afraid, when I see you as you are, handsome, witty, possessed of all that can please, you who ao deserve to be loved ! Well, I am afraid " " Of what ? " *' That that you may have some reason for not " " For not marrying-, do you mean ? Some chain I sup- pose." Madame Mauperin nodded her head. Henry burst into a fit of laughter. " Oh, my dear mamma, if I did have one I would soon file it through ! A man who respects himself wears no other." " Well, then, will you explain to me about ]Mademoiselle ITerbault ? It was you who bi'oke it off," "Mademoiselle Herbault? The introduction with my father at the opera ? Ah, not that one ! Yes, yes. Made- moiselle Herbault the dinner at Madame Marquisat's, do you mean ? the last one, in short ? An ambush into which you let me walk without any warning ! I must say that you are simple. I am announced, Monsieur Ilcury ^laujx'iin ! in a sonorous voice, which seemed to say : 'Here is the future husband 1' I find all the candles liglited in the drawing-room. The mistress of the house, whom I had only seen twice in my life, cverwhelms me 68 RENEE MAUPERIN. with smiles; her son, whom I don't know, squeezes my hand. In the drawing--room are also a mother and daugh- ter, who seem not to see me. Very good ! Naturally, I take the young lady into dinner ; provincial family, fortune all in farms, tastes simple. I see all that with the soup. The mother, on the other side of the table, keeps her eyes fixed on us ; such a mother, in such a gown. I ask the daughter if she had seen the ' Prophete ' at the opera ? " " Yes, it is splendid especially that effect in the third act. Ah, yes ! that effect that effect." She had not seen it any more than I had. Untruthful to begin with. I amuse myself by teasing her a little about it. That makes her cross. We go into the drawing- room. " What a pretty gown ; have you noticed it ? " says the mistress of the house to me. " Would you believe it, I have known that gown for five years? Emmeline takes such care of her things ! So much method ! " Miserly curmudgeons, who wanted to catch me. " Do you think so ? Nevertheless, our information " " A woman who makes her gowns last for five years ! That is enough for me ! One can fancy her fortune in a woollen stocking ! One can fancy her property, two-and-a- half per cent., repairs, taxes, lawsuits, tenants who pay no rent, a father-in-law who regards you as unsaleable property ! No, no, I am not young enough for that. I want to marry, but to marry well. Leave me alone, and you will see. Let me be. I am not one of those who are caught by a ' She has such beautiful hair, and she is so fond of her mother ! ' Do you see, mamma, without appearing to do so, I have thought a great deal about marriage. What is the most difficult tiling to obtain in the world ? what does one pay the highest price for ? what does one fight for and only obtain by conquest ? RENEE MAUPERIN. 69 what can one only get by a stroke of genius, of luck ? by meannesses, by privations, by untiring efforts, by persever- ance, by resolution, by energy, by boldness, by work ? It's money, is it not ? To be rich is to be happy and honoured ; it is the best means of securing the respect of the public. Well, I have seen that there is a method by which one may arrive at all that, at money, directly and immediately, with- out fatigue, without struggles, without genius, simply, natu- rally, honourably ; that means is marriage. I have also observed this, that one need not be either suprisingly hand- some, nor astonishingly witty, to make a rich marriage ; all that one wants is the will, to will it coldly and with all one's strength, to stake everything upon that card ; in a word, to make one's marriage one's career. I have observed that in playing that game it is no more difficult to make a remark- able marriage than an ordinary one ; to marry a fortune of two hundred thousand francs than one of twelve hundred thousand; that depends simply upon one's calmness and one's luck ; one's stake is the same. In these days, when tenor singers can marry eight hundred thousand francs a year, arithmetic is at fault. That is what I wanted to say to you, and I am sure you have understood me." Henry Mauperin added, taking the hand of his mother, who was open-mouthed with astonishment, admiration, almost respect : " Do not worry yourself ; I will marry well, and perhaps even better than you expect." And when his mother was gone, he took up his pen again, and continuing the article he was engaged upon for the FinancidI Review, wrote : " The trajectory of humanity is a spiral, not a circle." VIII Henry Mauperin, like many young- men of the present day, was not the age of his life, but the ag-e of his time. The coldness of youth, the distinguishing- feature of the second half of the nineteenth century, was imprinted upon his whole person ; he appeared serious, and one felt that he was frozen. He possessed in himself all the elements g-enerally omitted in the French temperament, which con- stitute in our history those sects without enthusiasm, and those parties without youth, yesterday Jansenism, to-day doctrinarism. Henry ^Mauperin was a young- doctrinaire. He belong-ed to the generation of children who are astonished at nothing-, amused at nothing-, who g-o without excitement to a theatre, and come home without teing- dazzled. When still quite a boy, he was w^ell behaved and serious. At school it never occurred to him to dream in class, his head in his hands, his elbows on a dictionary, his eyes looking- forward into the future. He had none of the temptations of the unknown, and of those first visions of life which fill with commotion and delig-ht sixteen-year old imag-inations, between the four walls of a courtyard with barred windows, from which tlie balls i-elK)und, but over which the thoug-Jits fly. In Jiis class there wei-c some sons of political personag-es, and to these ho attached himself. AVhen he g-ot higlier up in school, he began to think of what clul) ho would Ix^Ljng- to. ^^'hen he left school, Henry contimied well behaved, and RENEE MAUPERIN. 71 hid himself. His bachelor life made no stir. He was never to be met where people play, nor where they drink, nor where they compromise themselves in any way, but in grave drawing--rooms he was to be found, attentive to and anxious for the comfort of middle-aged women. What would elsewhere have been disadvantag-eous to him, was of use to him there. His coldness was treated as an attraction, his seriousness was one of his charms. Men's charms have their fashions. The reign of Louis Philippe, with its great fortunes made in the universities, had just accustomed the large political and literary circles of Paris to value in their men of society, that I know not what of the peda- gogue's gown which every professor, even when he has become a minister, wears atout him in the world. Amongst the women of the highest middle classes the taste for language which suggests the schools, for science fresh from a desk, for a sort of learned amiability, had succeeded to the taste for more lively, witty, gay qualities of mind. A pedant frightened nobody, even when old ; when young, he charmed, and report said that Henry Mauperin charmed greatly. He had a practical mind. He professed the worship of the useful, of mathematical truths, of positive religions, and of exact sciences. He took pity upon art, and main- tained that Boule furniture was never better made than now. Political economy, that science that leads to every- thing, appeared to him, when he made his entry into society, as a vocation and a career, and he tecame a resolute economist. On this dry study he brouglit to bear an intelligence narrow indeed, but patient and laborious, and every fortnight he launched in a leading Review, some solid article, stuffed with figures, which the women skipped, and the men pretended to have read. Political ecouduiy, by th(> interest it takes in the poor 72 RENEE MAUPERIN. classes, by its preoccupation for their comfort, by the algebraical accounts that it keeps of their sufferings, had naturally tinged Henry Mauperin's mind with liberalism. His opposition was not very decided; his opinions were only ahead of governmental principles, in that mass of convictions which go to meet the future, prepare the way for them, and make advances to all that may happen. He limited his war against power to a word, a veiled allusion, of which he sent the interpretation into society by means of his friends. At heart he was rather coquetting with the actual state of things than in opposition to it. Drawing- room friendships and society acquaintanceships kept him within reach of government influences, and on the border- land of administrative patronage. He prepared the work, and corrected the proofs for a high functionary who had scarcely time to do more than put his name to his books. He was on very good terms with the prefect of his depart- ment, hoping, through him, to push himself into the Muni- cipal Council, and thence into the Chamber. He excelled in all double games, all compromises, all arrangements which gave him a hold upon everything, without making him quarrel with anything. A Liberal and an economist, he had found means to disarm the mistrust and the hostility which the Catholics felt for his person and his doctrines. Amongst them he had gained for himself some indulgence and some sympathies ; he had succeeded in making himself agreeable to the clergy, and in flattering the Chui-ch by reconciling spiritual with material progress, political with religious faith, Quesnay with St. Augustine. Bastiat with the Gospel, statistics with God. Then, in addition to this programme, this alliance between religion and political economy, he had a substratum of religion, certain habits of piety, hidden indeed but regulai-, which gained for him the RENEE MAUPERIN. 78 affectionate esteem of the Abbe Blampoix, and made him side secretly with the believing and practising- section of society. Henry Mauperin had taken his rooms in the Rue Taitbout, in order to g-ive evening- parties to young men serious evening" parties round a table resembling a writing-desk, at which his guests discussed natural rights, public assist- ance, productive forces, and the multiplicability of the human species. Henry tried to turn these parties into a sort of debating society He sorted his men, and picked out the elements from which to compose the great salon which he meant to have in Paris as soon as he was married. He attracted thither the authorities and nota- bilities of political economy ; he called to the honour of a sort of presidency, different members of the Institute, whom he pursued with his civilities and requests, and who should, according to his plans, some day call him to sit next to them in the section of political and moral sciences. But it was in all that he got out of the association that Henry had displayed all his talents, all his skill. He had attached himself, at first starting, to the great means of achieving success practised by all cyphers, which makes a .man to be no longer one, but a unit bound up with a num- ber. He had joined himself to associations of every kind. He had affiliated himself to the Aguesseau debating club, and had slipped in amongst all the young men who were learning to speak, getting up the tricks of the rostrum, going through their oratorical apprenticeship, learning the way to become statesmen, preparing for the parliamentary struggles of the future. Clubs, re-unions, and banquets of old fellow-students, lawyers' meetings, societies of his- torians, geographe'-s, men of science, charitable and good works, he had neglected none of them. Everywhere, in al] 74 RENEE MAUPERIN the centres which make the individual shine, and which also make him benefit by the collective influence of a number, he had shown and multiplied himself, increasing his ac- quaintance, tightening' connecting links, cultivating friend- ships and sympathies which might carry him far, throwing out far and wide the roots of his ambitions, marching on from charitable works to philosophical meetings, gradually increasing his importance, his subterranean notoriety, with the intention of ending one fine day in a name with which the political world should ring. Nothing was wanting in him for the perfect performance of this part. Talkative and restless, he made all the noise which leads to success in our present age; he was a splendid mediocrity. In society, he rarely quoted his articles. But he generally and naturally put one hand into his waistcoat, after the manner of Monsieur Guizot in the portrait of him by Delaroche. IX. " HULLOA ! " exclaimed Renee, panting like a child who has been running-, as she entered the dining-room at eleven o'clock " I thought everyone was down. What has be- come of mamma ? " " She is in Paris on business," answered Monsieur Mauperin. " Ah ! and Denoisel ? " " He has gone to see that garden-planning maniac, and will have stayed to breakfast. Let us begin." " Good morning, papa ! " And instead of sitting down, Kenee going up to her father, threw her arms round his neck and began kissing him. " Come, come, you mad child," said Monsieur Mauperin. And he smiled as he struggled. " Let me give you a baby kiss, see, like this," and she pinched his cheeks together in her fingers. " What a child you are, upon my Avord ! " " Look at me, so that 1 may see whether you love me a little." And Ixenee, moved a step backwards from her father, whose head she still lield at arm's length. They looked into each other's eyes, lovingly, deeply. The long window of the dining-room was wide open and gave entrance to the brightness from outside, the scents and the noises of the garden. A ray of sunshine danced upon the table, touching the china and glinting in the glasses. 76 RENEE MAUPERIN. A light breeze made itself felt in the outside air ; shadows of leaves fell softly upon the floor. One could hear in- distinctly the noise of wing-s in the trees, birds playing among the flowers far off. " Only our two selves. How delightful ! " said Renee, unfolding her napkin. " Oh, the table is too big; I am too far away." And taking up her glasses she came and sat beside her father. " Since I have my papa all to myself to-day, I intend to thoroughly enjoy him," she said, as she brought her chair close to his. " You remind me of the days when you always hunted in my pockets for your dinner. But you were eight years old then." Renee began to laugh. " I got a scolding yesterday," continued Monsieur Mauperin, after a moment's silence, laying down his knife and fork upon his plate. " Ah ! " merely said Renee, raising an innocent glance to the ceiling, then dropping upon her father her caressing eyes : " Really, poor papa. And why ? What had you done ? " " You had better not ask me that again. You know better than I do. What do you mean, you bad child ? " "Oh, if you are going to scold me, papa. I shall got up and kiss you." And, as she spoke, Renee half rose. " Sit down, Renee, if you please," said Monsieur Mauperin, in a voice which he tried to make severe. " You will admit that yesterday, my dear child " " Oh, papa, are you going to say ' you ' to me instead of ' thou ' on such a fine day ? " REN^E MAUPERIN. 77 " But really," said Monsieur Mauperin trying to remain dignified in face of the little impertinent look of his daughter, in which caress was mingled with defiance, " Will you explain to me ? for evidently you did it on purpose." Renee, winking her eyes maliciously, nodded her head affirmatively two or three times. " I intended to speak seriously to you, Renee." " But I am quite serious, I assure you and when I have told you that I acted as I did quite on purpose." " And pray why ? Will you tell me ? " Why ? yes I will, but on the condition of its not making you too conceited. It was because because " " Because what ? " " Because I am much fonder of you than I am of the gentleman who was here yesterday, there ! but much fonder, you know ! " " In that case we must not let people come here. If that young man was displeasing to you. We did not force you. It was you who allowed matters to go so far. We thought, on the other hand, your mother and I, that this mar- riage " " Pardon me, papa. If I had refused Monsieur Reverchon at first sight, straight away, you would have considered me giddy, foolish, idiotic. I can hear now all that mamma would have said. But as matters now stand, what have you to scold me for ? I saw Monsieur Reverchon, more than once, I gave myself plenty of time to appreciate him, and I finally convinced myself that I felt towards him an antipathy, which may perhaps be very stupid, but which nevertheless " " But why not have told us so ? We would have found a thousand ways of breaking off." " Papa, you are ungrateful. I saved you that trouble 78 RENEE MAUPERIN. The young man disappears without your havino; anj'thinw to do with it. It is all my doing-. And that is all the thanks I get for my devotion ! Another time " " Listen to me, dear child. If I speak to you in this tone, it is because your marriage is at stake. Your marriage. I have been a long time making up my mind to the idea of separating from you. Fathers are selfish, you see. They would like their daughters never to fly away. It is so difficult to them to picture their happiness without your smile, their house without the sound of your dress ! But one must make up one's mind to it. It seems to me now that I shall love my son-in-law. You see I am getting old, my dear Renee, " and Monsieur Mauperin took the two hands of his daughter into his own " Your father is sixty- eight my child. I have only just time to see you happy. Your future, believe me, is my constant thought ; it worries me. Your mother also loves you dearly, I know, but between your character and hers there is and then if anything were to happen to me ! One must look things straight in the face, and at my age do you see, the idea of leaving you without seeing you with a husband and children affections which might replace in your heart the affection of your poor, old father who would be with you no longer." Monsieur Mauperin could not continue; his daughter was embracing him, choking with sobs, crying on his shoulder. " Oh, it's wicked, wicked " said she in a stifled voice, "Why speak of it? Never! never!" And with a gesture she chased the vision from hor thoughts. Monsieur Mauperin had taken her on to his knees. Tie put his arms round her, kissed her forehead, and said: " Don't cry any more." RENEE MAUPERIN. 79 She went on repeating, "Never! wicked!' as though fighting with the end of a bad dream. Then drying her eyes on the back of her hand, she said to her father : " Let me go and cry a little, all alone " and ran away. " Dardouillet is certainly mad," said Denoisel, coming in " I thought I should never get away from him again ah, you are alone ? " " Yes, my wife has gone to Paris. Renee has just gone upstairs." " You look worried, Monsieur Mauperin." " I ? It's nothing. A little scene with Renee. I have just had one on account of this marriage, this Reverchon. I was stupid enough to tell her that I was in a hurry to see my grand-children that fathers are not immortal. Thereupon, the poor child is so easily upset, you know. She is now crying in her room. Don't go there. Leave her time to get over it. Meanwhile I am going to look after my workmen." Denoisel, left alone, lighted a cigar, took a book, and went to read on a bench in the garden. He had been there quite two hours when he saw Renee coming. She had on her hat, and on her animated face a sort of joy seemed to be sparkling, a sort of tender and loving ex- citement. " You have been out ? And where do you come from ? " " Where I come from ? " repeated Renee, untying the iibl)ons of her hat. Well, I will tell you, because you are my friend." And taking off her hat, and raising her head with the pretty movement of a woman shaking back her liair : " I have been to church, and if you wish to know what I liave been doing thoi'(\ I have boon praying (lod to let nic die befoio papa. 1 knolt In'foro a larg(> statue of tho 80 RENEE MAUPERIN. Virgin don't laug-h at me it would hurt me to be laug-hed at by you. It was perhaps the sun, or perhaps from look- ing- at her for so long, I do not know but at one moment I fancied she went like this." And Renee nodded her head in sign of yes. " I am very happy all the same and my knees are hurting me nicely 1:00, by the way for I prayed kneeling all the time, without a chair, without anything, on the pavement. Ah, T prayed in earnest that time. They ("annot refuse me that ! " A FEW days later Monsieur and Madame Mauperin, Henry. Renee, and Denoisel, were sitting-, after dinner, in the garden which stretched behind the house, squeezing- itself in between the walls of the buildings belonging to the refinery. The principal tree in the garden was a fir-tree. Roses had grown up amongst its lower branches, and its green anns swayed them to and fro. Near the tree was a swing, behind it a shrubbery composed of lilacs and horn-team ; in front of it, a circle of turf, a tench, and a little basin with a margin of white stone, and a fountain which played no longer ; it was full of water plants, and at the tettom, in the little water that remained, some black salamanders were swimming. " Are you still thinking of your private theatricals, Renee," asked Henry of his sister, " or has that plan teen given up ? " " Given up ? no ; but how can I help it ? it is not my fault. I would willingly act on my liead. But I can get notedy and unless 1 play a moncjlogue Denoisel has re- fused. It is no use asking a grave man like you," t^hc said to her brother. " I will gladly act," said Henry. " You, Heniy?" said Madame Mauperin, surprised. " But men are never difficult to get," contiiuied Renee : " one can always find men to act. But the women there's the rub I see none to act witli me." F 82 RENEE MAUPERIN. " Oh," said Henry, " if we think over all our acquaint- ances we shall easily find some one, I bet." "Let us see Monsieur Durand's daughter eh? Monsieur Durand's daughter. They are at Saint Denis it would be convenient for the rehearsals. She is rather a stick, but it seems to me that for the part of Madame de Chavigny " " So you are still bent upon playing ' The Caprice'?" said Denoisel. " And what of that, old morality ? since I shall act with my brother." " And the proceeds of the performance will go to the poor, I hope ? " said Denoisel. Why so ? " " Because you will thereby predispose your audience to be charitable." " We shall see, monsieur, we shall see. Mamma, what do you say to Emma Durand ? " " Those people are not in our set, my dear child," hastily rejoined Madame Mauperin ; " it is all very well to see them from time to time, but we know where they come from from the Rue St. Honore. Madame Durand used to go and take orders at the doors of her cus- tomers' carriages, and meanwhile, Monsieur Durand used to slip out by a back door and take the servants to drink at the nearest wine-shop. That is how the Durands made their fortune ! " Although at heart an excellent woman, Madame INIauperin rarely lost an opportunity of running down, with the most superb expressions of contempt and disgust, everyone of her acquaintance. It was not from a love of evil -speaking, nor for the pleasure of backbiting or calumniating, nor was it from envy ; but she i-efused all consideration to people. RENEE MAUPERIN. 83 She even denied them the wealth thoy were supposed to have, simply from a supreme middle-class pride, from a conviction that, except her blood, there was no such thing- as good blood in the world ; except her family, no respect- able family ; except her own people, nothing- but scoundrels ; except her own possessions, nothing- solid ; except what she had got, nothing merited. " And to think that my wife can tell a story of that kind of every creature we know ! " said Mjkdame Mauperin. *' Well, papa, suppose we try that pretty little Remoli girl ? " " Ask your mother. What have you to say, Madame Mauperin ? " " The little Remoli girl I Why. my dear, you know^" " I know nothing." " What ? The story of her father, don't you know ? A wretched Italian stucco-maker. He came to Paris without a shilling; bought, no one knows how, a ho%-el and a bit of land at ^Montparnasse, and found there, on his land, a real Montfaucon ! He sold upwards of eight hundred thousand francs' worth of stucco ! And then he cheated on the Stock Exchange. Bah ! " " It seems to me," said Henry, " that you are hunting very far afield. Why not ask Mademoiselle Bourjot ? They are at this moment at Sannois." " Mademoiselle Bourjot ? " asked Madame Mauperin. "Naomi?" chimed in Rence ; "of c(nirse I should be delighted. But I fancied her cold to me this winter. There is something wrong. I do not kimw." " What is the matter with her is that she will some day have three hundred thousand fi'ancs a-yeai-." iutcriiipted Denoisel ; "and muthers watch over such dauu'lit.ers as 84 RENEE MAUPERIN. that. They are not ready to allow them to become too intimate with girls who have brothers. She has learned her lesson, that is all." " And then they are always so haughty, those people ! One would think they were descended from " And Madame Mauperin suddenly broke off to ask Henry " But all the same, they have always been very kind to you, have they not, Henry ? Madame Bourjot is always very pleasant to you." " She has even complained to me, more than once, that she did not see you oftener at her parties, and that you did not let Renee see so much of her daughter." " Really ? " said Renc'e, quite happy. " Mauperin," said his wife, " wliat do you say to Henry's proposal, Mademoiselle Bourjot? " " AVhat objection do you expect me to make ? " " Then," said Madame Mauperin, " Henry's idea is carried unanimously. A\'e will go thei'e on Saturday. Will you come too, Mauperin ? Henry, you will go with us!" A few hours later every one was in bed. Heniy Mauperin alone awake, was walking up and down his room, puffing at a cigar that was out. One would have said that fi'om time to time he smiled at his thouo-jits. XI. Frequently, during the day-time, Renee would go and paint in a little studio, built out of the remains of a green- house, hidden in a corner of the garden, of rustic appearance, and looking as though it were part of the shrubbery, over- grown with ivy, partaking of the nature of a ruin and a nest. On a table, covered with an Algerian cloth, there were on the day in question a Japanese vase, covered with blue designs, a lemon, an old red almanac, with the arms of France upon its cover, and two or three other bright- coloured objects grouped as naturally as }X)ssible to make a picture, in the full glare of the sunlight that pierced the glass roof. Renee, at the table, was painting all this on a canvass, of which the other side had already done duty, with brushes as line as pins. The skirt of her gown, of white pique, stood out in large folds on either side of the stool on which she was seated. As she came through the garden, she had gathered a white rose, and had fastened it into a tuft of hair, just above her ear. Her foot, peeping out from under her petticoat, and shod with an open slipper, displayed a glimpse of her white stocking, as she rested it U]^X)u the cross-bar of hei- easel. Near her. Denoisel. watching her at work, was trying his hand on a sketch of her protik^ on a page of an album which he had picked up in a corner. " Well, you are a g()od model!" exclaimed he, sharp(Mi- ing his pencil. I would as soon try to catch an inunibus 86 RENEE MAUPERIN. as your likeness. You are never still. If you fidget like that" " Look here, Denoisel, no nonsense with your portrait. I hope you are going- to flatter me a little." "No more than the sun. My conscience is that of a camera." " Shew me," said she, leaning over towards Denoisel, and holding her maul-stick and palette crossed on her breast. " Well, I must be beautiful." And she turned to her paint- ing again. " Am I really, really like that ? " " A little. Now, Renee, tell me honestly. What do you think you are beautiful ? " " No." " Pretty ? '' " No no." " Ah ! this time you thought before you answered ? " " Yes, but I repeated it twice over." " Good. Well, if you think yourself neither beautiful nor pretty, I am sure that you neither consider yourself " " Ugly ? No ; that is true. It is very difficult to ex- plain to you. There are days on which, when I look at myself, I think myself how shall I put it? Well, I am pleased with myself. It is not my face, I know very well ; it is a look which I have on those days, something that is in me, and which I feel passes into my features. I do not know what it is happiness, pleasure, excitement, emotion call it what you will ! There are moments, 1 fancy, when I deceive my neighbjuis pretty thorouglily. But, all the same, I should like t(j have been Ix^autiful." Dear me, dear me." It must be so pleasant, I think. I should like to have Ix'cn tall, with very black hair. It is stupid to be so faii: It is like having a white skin. I should like to have a skin RENEE MAUPERIN. 87 like Madame Stavelot I declare I should rather orange. I like that ; it is to my taste. And then it would have given me pleasure to look at myself in my glass. I should have made a beautiful outline in bed. When I walk about barefoot on the carpet, when I get up, I feel that I should like to have feet like those of statues that I have seen it is my idea ! " " And so you would not care to be beautiful for others ? " " Yes and no ; not for everybody only for those I love. One ought to be ugly for people who are indifferent to one, or for those one does not like : do you not think so ? They would only have their deserts." Denoisel had begun to sketch again. " What a curious wish it is of yours to be dark ! " said he, after a minute's silence. " W'hat would be your dream ? " " If I were a woman, I should wish to be a little woman, neither fair nor dark." " Chestnut, then r " " And plump oh, plump as a quail." " Plump ? Ah, I breathe again ! For a moment I feared you were going to propose to me. It was lucky that the sun shining on your head reminded me that you were forty." " You do not make me older than I am, Renee ; that is my age. But do you know how old you are in my eyes ? " " No ? " " Twelve ; and you will always remain so." " Thank you, my friend ; I am glad to hear it," said Renee ; " for now I can say to you all the nonsense that comes into my head. Denoisel," continued she. after a pause, " were you ever in love ? " And stepping back from her canvas, she locked at it sideways, her head inclined 88 RENEE MAUPERIN. towards her shoulders, to see the effect of the colour she had just used. ' " Come, you are beginning well ! " answered Denoisel. " What a question to ask ! " " What is the matter with my question ? I ask it you as I should ask you anything else. I can see nothing wrong in it. May one not ask that in society ? Come, Denoisel ; you allow that I am twelve years old. Very good ; but I am also twenty. I am a girl, true ; but if you fancy that girls of my age have never read any novels or sung any songs, that's all nonsense, that is an affectation of inno- cence. After all, it's just as you like. If you do not think me old enough, I will withdraw my question. But I thought we were men talking to each other just now." " Well, since you wish to know yes, mademoiselle, I was once in love." " Indeed ! And what effect did being in love have upon you ? " " My dear child, you have only got to read again the words you have already read : you will And that effect described on every page " " Yes, and it is exactly that which makes me curious. Every book I read is full of love nothing but that and in real life one never sees it ; at least I never do. I see, on the contrary, the world doing very well indeed without it. There are days upon which I ask myself whether it was not invented simply for the sake of botjks if it is not the creation of authors' brains." Denoisel began to laugh : " Tell me, Renee, since we are talking like men, as you say, perfectly frankly and openly, like old friends, will you allow me, in my turn, to ask you wliether you have fver felt, not love, l)Ut a kindness for anyone ? " RENEE MAUPERIN. 89 "No, never," answered Renee, after an instant's reflection. ** But I I am not a good example. I believe that those things come chiefly to people with empty, unoccupied hearts and minds people who are not filled, possessed, guarded by an affection which seizes and keeps you entirely; such, for instance, as the love one feels for a father." Denoisel did not answer. " You do not believe in that as a preservative ? " con- tinued Renee. " I assure you, I search my memory vainly. I have made a most thorough and complete examination of conscience : I swear it. Well, in my childhood, I can find nothing no, nothing at all. But I had little friends who were no older than I. When no one was looking they used to kiss the tops of the caps of the little boys who played with us. They used to collect the stones of the peaches that these little boys had eaten and keep them in a box, and I remember very well that they used to sleep with these boxes under their pillows. By the way, Naomi, Mademoiselle Bourjot used to do that a great deal. But I played quite innocently." " And later on, when you were no longer a child ? " " Later on ? I was always a child in those matters. No, I can remember nothing, not the faintest impression ; that is to say I am going to be very honest with you I felt once a beginning, a quite little beginning of what you say, a little of that emotion which I afterwards recognised in novels. And do you know for whom ? " " No." " For you oh ! it only lasted an instant. I soon learned to love you very differently and much better too with esteem and gratitude. I loved you for correcting me of my faults .of a s^x)iled child, fur having opeued my mind. 90 RENEE MAUPERIN. for having raised me to appreciate fine things, noble things, generous things, you did all that by chaff, but by chaff chat laughed at everything that was ugly, everything that was mean, everything that was disgraceful, everything that was underhand and cowardly. You taught me to play at ball and to be bored by fools. I owe to you much of what I think, much of what I am, some of the little that I am worth ; I wanted to return it to you in a good and solid friendship ; giving you cordially, as to a comrade, some of the same kind of love that I feel for my father." And at these last words Renee's voice assumed a solemn, grave tone. " What in the world is that ? " asked Monsieur Mauperin, who came in at this moment, and casting his eyes over Denoisel's sketch ; " that my daughter. It is an abomin- able libel." And taking up the sketch-book he began to tear the page across. " Oh, papa ! " cried Kenee ; " I wanted to keep it as a souvenir." XII. A LIGHT carriage, drawn by one horse, carried the Mauperin family to Sannois, Renee had taken the reins and the whip out of the hands of her brother who was smoking beside her. Cheered by the drive, the fresh air, the movement Monsieur Mauperin joked about all they saw on the road, and gaily nodded to everyone whom they passed. Madame Mauperin was silent and self-absorbed. Buried in herself, she was preparing and working up her amiability to the proper pitch before arriving at the country house for which they were bound. " "Well, mamma," said Renee, " you are quite silent. Are you not enjoying yourself ? " " Yes, very much, very much," answered Madame Mauperin ; " but the fact is that this visit bores me a little and without Henry Madame Bourjot is some- times so cold. There is a frigidity in their house. All the same, they cannot impose uj^xjn me Their millions ! I know very well where they got them from ; they came from a business which they bought from a wretched work- ing man for nothing, for a few pence." " Come now, Madame Mauperin," said her husband, ' they must have bought more than one at that price." " Well, nevertheless, I am never comfortable in those people's house." Vou are really very goud It) occupy yourself about them." 92 RENEE MAUPERIN. " But Ave say ' rot ' tx) their fine airs," interrupted Made- moiselle Mauperin, whipping up the horse as she spoke, which drowned the word she had used with the noise of his hoofs. Madame Mauperin's uneasiness was quite to be accounted for. Her discomfort was justifiable. Everything-, in the house whither she was going, was combined to frighten people, to make them feel small, to crush, to penetrate and overpower them with a sense of their own inferiority. Their exhibition of wealth was studied, and their riches received the most careful stage-mountiug. Opulence aimed at the humiliation of others by every means of intimidation at its command: by the showy or refined forms of luxury, by the height of its ceilings, by the impertinent looks of its footmen, by its hall p(jrter with his silver chain, by the plate off which it ate, by a number of princely habits which made the mother and daughter, even when they were quite alone, dine together in low gowns, as in a little German court. The Bourjots enjoyed the tone of their household, and supported it. 1'he spirit of their home, of their everyday life, was, so to speak, incarnate in them. The man, with all that he had borrowed from English gentle people, his manners, his clothes, his curled whiskers, his veneer of good breeding, the woman with her manneiisms, her supreme elegance, all the hardness of the upper middle class, each of these represented admirably the Pride of Wealth. They seemed to wish to bring themselves down to the level of other people by their disdainful politeness, their condescending amial)ility. Even their tastes exhibited a sort of insolence. Monsieur Bourjot possessed neither pic- tures nor works of art ; he had made a colh^ction of precious stones, which included a ruby worth five-and-twenty tliMU- sand francs, and was one of the finest in Europe. RENEE MAUPERIN. SS Society had got over all this exhibition of wealth, and the Bourjots' house, brought into fashion and into light by a powerful opposition, was one of the three or four great houses of Paris. It had filled after two or three winters spent at Nice by Madame Bourjot, under pretext of delicate health, and during which she had turned her house into a hotel for travellers to Italy, opening it to all comers who were great, or rich, or celebrated, or well-known. On the days on which she gave her great concerts, at which ^Madame Bourjot would show off her fine voice and her reall}' remarkable musical talent, European celebrities met Parisian reputations ; the scientific world, the philosophical Avorld, the aesthetic world, rubbed shoulders with the political world which was represented by a compact body of Orleanists and a band of liberals out of work, amongst whose ranks Plenry Mauperin had figured continually during the past year. Amongst these were to be found a few legitimists, brought by the husband into his wife's drawing-room : for Monsieur Bourjot was a legitimist. Under the Restoration monarchy he had been a Carbonaro. Son of a draper, his origin, his very name of Bourjot had, at the outset of life, exasperated him against the nobility, the landed gentry, the BourlH)ns. lie had conspired. lie had first made the acquaintance of Monsieur Mauperin at various secret meetings. He took part in every rising. At that time he used to quote Berville, St. Just, and Dupin the elder. After 1S30 lie quieted down, and then contented himself with grumbling- at the royalty which had robbed him of his Republic. lie read the Xational. pitied the pe(iple. despised the Chambers, abused ^Lonsieur Guizot, ilew into a passion over the Pi'itchard affair. Suddenly 184S ai-rived ; the landowner startctl up. terri- fied and ousted tlie Carbonai'o of the Restorution, iho 94 RENEE MAUPERIN. liberal of Louis-Philippe's reign. The fall in the Funds, the depreciation of house property, socialism, increased taxation, the threats contained in the Public Debt Accounts, the days of June, all the terrors, in fact, that a revolution has for the owner of a five-franc piece, upset Monsieur Bourjot, while at the same time they g-ave him fresh ideas. His opinions changed all at once, and his political conscience veered round entirely on its own axis. He precipitated himself towards the doctrines of order, he threw himself into the arms of the Church as into those of the police, he hastened towards Divine Right as towards the safeguard of autho- rity, and as the guardian appointed by Providence to watch over his cash-boxes. Unfortunately for Monsieur Bourjot, in his sudden and sincere conversion, his education, his youth, his past, his whole previous life struggled, fought, and rebelled. When he came round to the Bourbons, he could not return to Christ. And the old mammon still broke out sometimes in attacks, in pranks, and in old songs. As one came near him one felt that he still was something of a Voltairian. In him Beranger, every now and then, superseded De Maistre. " Give the reins to your brother, Renee," said Madame Mauperin, " I do not wish them to see you driving." They had arrived at some magnificent gatee near which stood two large gas lamps which were lighted every evening and left to burn all night. The carriage drove over the red sand of an avenue, passed some large bushes of rhododen- drons and arrived at the steps of the front-door. Two servants opened the glass doors of the marble-paved hall. who.se high windows were screened by a large curtain of exotic shrubs. Thence, the Mauperins were shewn into a drawing-room hung with crimsrm silk, with nothing on the walls save one picture, the portrait of Madame Bourjot in RENEE MAUPERIN. 95 a ball-gt)wn, signed " Ingres." Through the open windows a stork was visible near a piece of water, the only animal that Monsieur Bourjot would tolerate in his pai-k, and that merely on account of its heraldic outline. When the Mauperins entered the drawing-room, Madame Bourjot, seated alone on a sofa, was listening to her daughter's governess, who was reading aloud to her; Monsieur Bourjot, leaning against the chimney-piece, was playing with his watch-chain ; Mademoiselle Bourjot, seated near the reader, was working at an embroidery frame. Madame Bourjot, with her large eyes of rather steely blue, her arched eyebrows, the droop of her eyelids, her aristocratic and rather prominent nose, the haughty pro- jection of the lower part of her face, and her imperious manner, reminded one of the young Georges in the part of Agrippina. Mademoiselle Bourjot had strongly pencilled brown eyebrows. Through her long, curved eyelashes one could see two blue eyes, bright, deep, and dreamy. A slight down, which was almost white, showed itself when she was in a strong light, just above her lip, near the corners. The governess, poor thing, had one of those battered-looking faces ; she was an old woman who had been knocked about, worn out by life, outwardly as well as inwardly, and had no more effigy than an old halfpenny. " But this is really delightful," exclaimed Madame Bourjot, rising and going as far as a particular join in the parquet floor just in the middle of the drawing-room. " Our dear neighbours. A charming surprise I It seems to me an age since I have had the pleasure of seeing you, dear madam, and were it not that your son has had the goodness not to neglect us, and to come to my Monday evenings," here she shook hands with Henry, who bowed " we 96 RENEE MAUPERIN. should not have known what had become of you, what had happened to this charming child and her mamma." " Oh, madame," said Madame Mauperin, seating herself at some distance from Madame Bourjot, " you are much too kind." " Do come and sit here," said Madame Bourjot, making room for her on the sofa beside herself. " We have put off coming from day to day ; we all wanted to come together." " It was very wrong of you," answered Madame Bourjot ; " we are not a hundred miles away, and it is a sin not to let those two children" pointing to Renee and Naomi " who grew up together, ever see each other. What ! haven't you kissed each other yet ? " Naomi, who was still standing, offered her cheek coMly to Renee, who kissed her much as a child bites at a fruit. " Dear madame," said Madame Bourjot to Madame Mauperin, " what a long time it seems since we used to take them to those classes in the Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin, which bored us nearly as much as they did the children. I can see them now, playing together. Your little girl, like quicksilver a regular imp I And mine oh ! they were like day and night. But your's always carried the day. Bless me ! do you remember the mania they had at one time for acting charades ? how they used to get all the napkins in the house to dress up in ? " " Ah, yes, madame ! " said Renee, laughing and turning to Naomi, " the best we ever acted was Marabout, with Marat in a bath too hot for him, who kept repeating, ' Je bous ! je bans ! ' (I am being boiled ! I am being bulled !) Do you remember ? " '* Oh. I rememter it well." said Naomi, suppressing a smile with difficulty; "liut you made up that one." RENEE MAUPERIN. 97 " Well, madame, I am enchanted at finding you so favourably inclined beforehand to what I am going- to ask you ; for my visit is an interested one. I come precisely with the object of bringing our two children together. Renee is dying to get up some private theatricals and naturally she thought of her old friend to help her. And if you would allow your daughter to act with mine. It will be an intimate little family party." At the first words of Madame Mauperin's request, Naomi hastily withdrew her hands from those of Renee, into which, as they were talking, she had let them fall. " T thank you very much for this idea, dear madame," answered Madame Bourjot. " I thank also your charming Renee. You could not have asked me anything which would give me greater pleasure, or be more agreeable to me. Resides, I think it will be very good for Naomi. She, poor child, is so timid it is most unlucky. It will accustom her to talk, and take her out of herself. It will also be an excellent spur to her mental powers." " But, mother, you know my memory is so bad. And the mere idea of acting. I should be terrified. No, I will not act." Madame Bourjot raised her cold eyes, and looked at her daughter. " But, mother, if I could. But I shall spoil the whole play. 1 am sure." You will act. I desire it, mademoiselle." Naomi hung her liead. Madame Mauperin, embarrassed, had, in order to give herself a countenance, let her eyes fall upon a Review which was lying open on a table near her. "Ah," said Madame Bourjot. recovering herself, "you will find a friend there; it is you!' s(mi's last article. ^\nd when do you think of having the play ? " G 98 RENEE MAUPERIN. ' But, madame, I am so sorry tx3 be the cause to be disagreeable to your daug-hter." " Please don't talk of that any more. My daughter is always afraid of making up her mind." " AW the same," chimed in Monsieur Bourjot, from the other end of the drawing^-room, where he was talking U) Monsieur Mauperin and Henry, " if Naomi has such a strong- feeling against it." " On the contrary, she will be very grateful to you," said Madame Bourjot to Madame Mauperin, without noticing Monsieur Bourjot's interruption. " We are always obliged to force her to amuse herself. And now, tell me, when is the play to be acted ? " " Renee," asked Madame Mauperiu, " When do you think ? " " It seems to me we shall want a month for our rehearsals at two a week. We would make our days and hours suit Naomi." And Renee turned to Naomi who remained silent. " Very well," said Madame Bourjot, " Then let us say Mondays and Fridays, if that suits you. at two o'clock, shall we ? Mademoiselle Gogois " and Madame I^ourjot turned to the governess, " You will accompany my daughter. Monsieur Bourjot, you hear me, you will give the orders about the carriage, the horses, and the servant, to go to La Bridie. You need only keep 'Terror' and John for me. There. Now you are going to stay to dinner ? " " We are extremely sorry. It is impossible. We have some people coming- to us to-day." " Allow me to say that I wish those people were at Jericho. But I do not think you have yet seen Monsieur Bourjot's new conservatories. I am going to make you a houjuet, Uenee. We have one flower. There are only RENEE MAUPERIN. 99 two like it. The other is at Ferrieres. It is a but 1 must tell you it is very up^ly. This way." " Shall we fome in here ? " said Monsieur Bourjot, point- ing- to the billiard-room, which they could see through the ung-round glass. " Monsieur Henry, we will leave you to look after the ladies. Here we may smoke," continued he, offering- a cig-ar to Monsieur Maupei in. " Shall we have a game ? " " Yes, by all means " said Monsieur Mauperin. Monsieur Boui-jot pulled up the blinds of the billiard-room. '' Twenty-four up ? " " Twenty-four up." " You have no billiard-room at home, have you. Monsieur Mauperin ? " " Dear me, no. My son never plays." " Are you looking for the plain ball ? " " Thank you ; and as my wife does not think it a proper game for a girl " ' Will you begin ? " " Oh, I am very much out of practice. Besides I was always a muff." "You leave nothing for me good! Now I liave broken my cue the only one I could ever play with," and Monsieur Bourjot gave vent to a round oath. " Those scoundrelly woi'kmen ! they haven't a scrap of conscience ! one can get nothing properly done now. Ilulloa, you're getting on ; three I have to mark you. The truth is that we are at their orders now. A few days ago T wanted to have some lamps hung up. Well. Monsieur ^lauperin, I could not get a man to do it. It was some feast day I don't know what feast and they would n(3t come. They are great lords nowadays. You fancy perhaps that tliey b.ring us all they kill or catch -* When they get a good 100 RENEE MAUPERIN. thing- they eat it. In Paris, I know what it is four, by jove! All they earn g-oes to the cafe. They will spend twenty francs on a Sunday. The locksmith here has bought a g'un by Lefaucheux ; and has taken some shoot- ing. Ha, two for me, at last and what wages they ask now ; they charge me five francs for reaping. I have some vines in Burgundy ; they offered to work them for me on the hire-system, by which means they would have obtained possession of them at the end of three years. That is where we are drifting to. Some day, happily I am too old to live to see it, but in a hundred years it will be impossible to get a servant there will be none left. I often tell my wife and daughter tliat they will some day be obliged to make their own beds five six you are playing very well. We have been killed by the Revolu- tion, do you see." And Monsieur i^ourjot began to hum 'Zonzon, zonzon, zonz m, Zonzon, zonzon.' " You did not entertain those ideas thirty years ago. when we met for the first time, do you lemember ? " said Monsieur Mauperin, with a slight smile. " That is true. I had some better ones too good they were at that time " said ^[onsieur Bourjot, leaning with his left hand on his cue. *' Ah, I was young then ! I should rather think I did I'emember. Gad, it was at Lalle- mand's funeral ! The best blow I ever gave with my fist in my life, a nasty one to parry ! I can still see the nails in the boots of that boscarved commissioner of police when 1 bowled him ovei- to got across the boulevard ! At the corner of the Rue Poissonniere I fell into the arms of a patrol ; they gave mo a toloraljlo thi-asliing to begin with. I was with Caminade you knew Caminade wol] ? lie was RENEE MAUPERIN. 101 a good fellow ; it was he who used to go and smoke hia meerschaum pipe, worth fifteen hundred francs, at the mis- sion lectures in the Church of the Petits-Peres, and who used to take a girl out of the Palais Eoyal with him for company. He had the good luck to escape. I was driven to the police station by blows from the stocks of their guns. Happily, Dulaurens noticed me " " Dulaurens, did you say ? " said Monsieur ^[aupei'in, ' He belonged to the same ' venta ' as I did. If I remem- ber rightly he sold shawls, did he not ? " " Yes, and you know how he finished ? " " No, I have lost sight of him." " Well, one fine day it was after all tlie other doings his paitner runs away to Belgium, carrying with him two hundred thousand francs. They send detectives after him : no results. My good Dulaurens goes into a church and makes a vow that he will reform if he gets his money back. He gets it. and his piety is now disgusting. I see nothing of him iidW. But at that time he was pretty keen, you know. Well, as I pass him. 1 tip him a wink. I had at home twenty-five guns and five hundred cartridges. By the time the police arrived he had cleared out everything. That did not save me, however, from three months in the prison of La Force, in the new buildings, and from being called up two or three times, at dead of night, to be ex- amined with a possibility always of being shot. You have l)een through it all, too : you know what it was. And all that to reach socialism at last! All the same, one spiech which was made to me ought to hav enlightened me. After 1 came out of gaol, one of my fellow-prisoners came to see me at Sedan. He said to me : ' What is this that I hear alwut you? It app(>ars tliat your father has property :ind money, aud yet you luive joined us. I tliought you 102 RENEE MAUPERIN. had nothing-.' When I think. Monsieur Mauperin, that even that did not open my eyes ! The fact is that, at that time, I was convinced that all those with whom I was acting- wanted simply what I wanted : equality in the eyes of the law, no more privileg-es, the end of the Kevolution of '89 ag-ainst the nobility, I thought we should stop there. Eleven did I mark you your last ? I think not. Let us call it twelve. But when I saw my republic, upon my soul I was disg-usted. "When I heard, in February, two men coming away from the barricades and saying- to one another : ' We oug-ht not to have come out of that until we had got five thousand francs a-year ! ' And tlien the rig-ht to work, and progressive taxation, an iniquity, the hypocrisy of communism ! But with their progressive taxation," ex- claimed Monsieur Bourjot eloquently, as he interrupted his phrase, " I defy them to find anyone who will take the trouble to make a fortune. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen capital! Oh, you are too good for me. All that up.set me, you see." " Perfectly," said Monsieur Mauperin. " Where is my ball ? There ? It completely upset me ; it actually made a legitimist of me. I liave slipped my cue again ! Only " Only ? " _ " Only there is one thing. Ah ! upon that point, by Geoi-ge ! I have never changed my opinions. I don't mind saying this to you ; ]ut anything- that has to do with a priest, in my eyes eigliteen. come; I am beaten. We asked this one hei'c to dinner Ix^cuuse he is a good fellow ; but the priests. Wlien one lias knf)wn one of them, as I Ikivp. wlio broke his leg one niglit in ti-ying to clamber ovc-i- the wall of the seminary. A lut of Jesuits, to my mind, Monsieur Mauperin. ' Black men, whence do you cf)me ? We come from beneath tlie i arth.' REN^E MAUPERIxX. 103 Ah, that's the man for my money ! The god of good people ! And all the rest of them ; and Judas : 'My friends, don't let us talk so loud : I see Judas, I see Judas.' Twenty-one ; you only want three more. Now, in the country round my iron-works, there is a bishop who is a capital fellow. Well, all the humbug's hate him. Ah ! if he were a bigot, or a hypocrite, if he were to go to mass " ' I have never seen Madame Bourjot so pleasant," said Madame ]Mauperin when they had all got into the carriage. " An odd chap, that Bourjot ! " said Monsieur Mauperin. ' What is the use of a billiard-table to him ? Why, I could have given him twelve points." " I," said Renee, " found Naomi quite odd. Did you notice. Henry, how she refused to act ? " Henry did not answer. XIII. Naomi had just come into the Mauperins' drawing'-room. followed by her governess, with a little troubled, restless, almost shamefaced manner. From the door she allowed her eye to travel all around the room ; then, as if reassured, and more at her ease, she had put up her forehead to be kissed by Madame Mauperin, and allowed herself to l)e warmly embraced by Renee. Renee, jokin<^ and laughing, with caressing and playful gestures, had taken the mantle off her shoulders, untied her ribands and removed lier hat. " Upon my word ! " said she, twisting round on 1Iie end of her little thumb the pretty hat of white net, trimmed with pink primulas, " Monsieur Denoisel, whom you must have seen I think in old days that does not make us any younger and whom I now inti'odure to you as our stage manager, professor of elocution, prompter and scene-shifter all that at once ! " " I have not forgotten how kind Monsieur Denoisel was to me when I was a little girl." And Naomi, blushing with emotion at this recollection of childhood, offered to Denoisel, with a gesture of pretty awkwardness, a timid hand whose fingers squeezed them- selves close one to the other. " Oh, what a lovely frock I " began Renee walking round her, " You are quite lovely ! " And as she spoke she lightly tapped her gown of shot silk so as to smooth out the little wrinkles, and then, giving u final pull to her skirt, she RENEE MAUPERIN. 105 made her a low curtsey and said : '' You will make a beautiful Mathilde. Do you know I shall be quite jealous of you ? And raising- herself again : " See, mamma, I told you so. She quite overtops me." She stood upright beside Naomi and put her arms round her waist : " Do you know that you are ever so much taller than I am ? " And still holding her she drew her in front of a glass, stood close beside her, and tried to reach her shoulder with her own : " Do you see ? " asked she. The governess had effaced herself in a corner of the drawing-room. She was looking at the pictures in a book, which she, modestly, only half opened. " Come, my dear children, had you not better begin to read the' piece?" asked Madame Mauperin. "It is no use waiting for Henry. He will only come to the lust rehearsals, when the actresses know their parts well." " Oh, presently, mamma ; let us talk a little. Come here, Naomi here ! We have a heap of secrets, so many things, to say to each other. It is such ages since we mot." And Rene'e and Naomi began one of those chattering little conversations, which sound like the noise of running water ; one of those fresh, limpid, endless prattlings, which suddenly break off in a burst of laughter, and die away in a whisper. Naomi, who at first had been on the defensive, soon gave herself up to the pleasure of this effusion, to the thoughts of all in the past, of which Kenee's voice reminded her. Each one, as after a separation, asked the other all that had happened to her, and where she had been. To listen to them, one would have said at the end of half-an- hour that tliey were two young women who were gradually renewing their spirit of childhood. " I paint," said Kem'e ; and you yon had a fine voice?" *' Oil, don't talk of it," said Naomi ; ' I am made to sing. 106 RENEE MAUPERIN. Mamma will make me sing at her large parties ; and you have no idea, when I see everyone looking at me, a shiver comes over me I am terrified. The first few times I began to cry." " Do you know that I have deprived myself of a green apple for you ? you must eat it you still like green apples. 1 hope ? " " No, thank you, thank you, dear Renee, I really am not hungry." " Now then, Denoisel, what do you find so interesting to study out of window ? " Denoisel was watching the Bourjot's servant in the garden. He had seen him fii'st dust the bench with a fine cambric pocket handkerchief, then spread the hand- kerchief over the green bars of the lx;'nch. sit down there- upon with the greatest precautions for the sake of his red plush breeches, cross his legs one over the other, produce a cigar from his pocket, and light it. At that moment he was watching him as he sat there smoking lazily and majestically, and casting round him. on the little property, the contemptuous glances of a man who serves in a chateau, and whose master owns a pai'k. " I ? oh, nothing," said Denoisel, turning from the window ; " I was afraid of being in your way." " Oh, now we have told each other all our little ad- ventures ; you may come and talk to us." " Do you know how late it is getting, Renee? If you mean to begin your rehearsals to-day " " Oil. mamma, it is so hot to-day Besides, it is a Fiiday." " And the year began on the thirteentli," said Demiisol seriously. " Really ? " said Naomi, turning towards him her eyes which expressed implicit faith in his stateincnt. RENEE MAUPERIN. 107 " Don't listen to liim, he is taking- you in. He sr ends his whole time in jokes of that kind, does Denoisel We will rehearse next time you come, won't we ? \V e have plenty of time." " As you like," said Naomi. " Very well, then, that is settled, Denoisel, be amusing at once ; and if you are very, very funny, I will give you a picture one of my own doing-." Another ? " " Well, you are polite. Thank you." " Mademoiselle," said Denoisel to Naomi, " you shall judge of my position. I possess already a tomato and a parsnip from Mademoiselle's pencil and as a pendant to that picture a slice of water-melon and a piece of cheese. 1 know it comes from the heart but my room looks like a greengrocer's shop." " See what men are." said Renee, laughing-, to Naomi, " Vll ungrateful, my dear. And to think that some day or other we liave to marry. Do you know that you and I are nearly old maids by now ? Twenty years old. Dear me, how time flies ! One used to think one would never be eighteen and then all of a sudden one tecomes eighteen, and one is that age no longer. Ah. well, it can't be helped. Mind you bring some music with you next time you come we will play a duet. 1 don't know now if 1 can." '' And you will rehearse when ? " (quand) asked Denoisel. *' In Normandy." replied IJenc'e. making- the kind of joke wliicli of late years lias risen from the studios and the stage to the mouth of society. Naomi looked astonished like a person who hears what is said without understanding the meaning of the words. "Yes." explained llent-e to hei'. Caui in Normaiuhi. Ah, 108 RENl^E MAUPERIN. you cannot make puns ? I had a mania for it at one time. I was quite unbearable, was I not, Denoisel ? And you go out a great deal ? Tell me where you went this winter. Tell me about the balls you were at." And Naomi answered, chattered, and, little by little, became quite animated. The smile had returned to her face, the ease to her manner. She seemed to open in this air of liberty, and under this warm breath of affection, near Tvenee, in the bright drawing-room happy and full of youth. It was four o'clock The governess jumped up as if moved by a spring. ' Mademoiselle," said she ; ' it is time ^o go. You know there is a dinner party at Sannois to- ght and you must have time to dress." XIV. " This time we have to work and not to play we are to rehearse seriously," said Denoisel. " Mademoiselle Naomi, come and sit here. That's right ; now we are ready one two three." He struck his hands together. " And away ! " " I do not think I am quite sure of the first scene," said Naomi, hesitatingly, " I don't think I quite know it. I know the other one better." " The second ? very good, let us try the second. I will do Henry's part : ' Good evening, my dear J " Denoisel was interrupted by a shout of laughter from Renee. " Oh, dear me ! " said she to Naomi ; " how funnily you are sitting. You look like a lump of sugar in the sugar- tongs." " I ? " said Naomi, embarrassed, and trying to improve her attitude. " Will you kindly not worry the actors, Renee," said Denoisel, and, making a fresh start : " Good evening, my dear, do I disturb you ? " " Oh ! and the purses ? " cried Renee. " Why, I thought that you were going to see to them." " I ? not at all it was you on the contrary you are a nice man to look after the properties, I must say. T(^ll mo, Naomi, if you were married, do you think it would ever occur to you to give your husband a purse? Isn't it like no RENEE MAUPERIN. a shopkeeper? Why not a smoking- cap while j^ou are about it ? " " Are we to rehearse or not ? " said Denoisel. " Look here, Denoisel, you say that exactly as if you wanted to go and smoke." "I always want to smoke, Renee," said Denoisel "es- pecially when I don't require it." " But that is a vice, you know." " I know. So I mean to keep it." " But what pleasure can you find in smoking- ? " " The pleasure of a bad habit ; that explains many pas- sions." And beg-inning anew with the appearance of Monsieur de Chavig-ny : " Good evening, my dear, do I disturb you ? " ^^ Me? Henry, tchat a question!" said Naomi. And so the rehearsal began. XV. " Three o'clock." said Renee, lifting; her eyes from the sock she was knitting and looking- at the clock. " I really begin to believe that Naomi will not come to-day. She is going to miss her rehearsal we must fine her." " Naomi ? " replied Madame Mauperin. appearing to wake up. " She is not coming. Oh, did I not tell you ? I don't know what has happened to my head, I forget everything now. Last time she was here she told me she would probably not be able to come to-day. They have people staying with them I believe I really am not sure." " That is pleasant. 1 know nothing so tiresome as wait- ing for people who do not come. x\s soon as I woke this morning I said to myself : This is Naomi's day. I was looking forward to it. Oh, of course she won't come now. It is odd how much I miss lier. since she has begun to love me again. I miss her as if she belonged to the house. I do not think she is lively she wants vivacity. She is not up to much fun and her intelligence is not brilliant she is so easily taken in. Well, explain it as you will, all the same, I think she is charming there is X)mething so sweet about her it seems to penetrate ont she rests one's nerves positively. She seems to warm che cockles of one's heart somelunv, does she not? simply by being wiih one. I have known lots of girls who were really superior to her; but all the same, they had not what she has; one felt as dull as ditclnvator in tlieii' coninanv." 112 RENEE MAUPERIN. " Bless me, it's very easily understood," said Denoisel "Mademoiselle Bourjot has a very tender, loving- nature. A sort of current of affection seems to pass from such natures to others." " Yes, but when she was qaite a little girl, I remember that she was just the same as she is now so sensitive. Her facility for tears and kisses was extraordinary. She never seemed to do anything else. And she has not changed in looks a bit, has she ? one might say that her beauty is composed of all the tenderness of her nature and all the childhood that still remains to her. She has one look in particular. One often feels malicious or spiteful in oneself ; but when she looks at one all one's spitefulness seems to vanish, as if it were melted. I have never dared to play an unkind trick on her and I was a terrible tease once upon a time." " But, all the same, such sensibility as that is very un- usual," said Madame Mauperin. "Oh no, it is easily explained," replied DenoiseL ' Ima- gine a girl who, at her birth, loves as she breathes, instinctively, kept down by the coldness of a mother whom she humiliates and makes to blush ; kept down by the egoism of a father, who has no other pride, no other affec- tion, no other child but his money I Well, such a fool will resemble Mademoiselle Bourjot : in return for any little interest you take in her, she will give you this affection and these demonstrations of which you speak. Tier heart will overflow of its own accord ; and you will find in her the look that Kenee has noticed a look that seems to shine throuf-'h a tear." XVI. The rehearsals had been going on for a fortnight when Madame Bourjot herself brought her daughter to Madame Mauperin's. After the first common-places, she expressed surprise at not seeing the principal actor. " Oh, Henry has a prodigious memory ! " said Madame Mauperin, " and in two rehearsals he will know his part perfectly." " And how is it getting on ? " asked Madame Bourjot, *' I tremble, I must admit, for my poor Xaomi. Are you at all pleased with her ? I came chiefly to see you, but also because I was not sorry to judge for myself." " Well, dear madame," said Madame Mauperin, " I think you will be made happy You will find, I think, that your daughter's natural talent her expression I assure you she is charming." The actors took their places, and began " The Caprice." " You flattered her," said Madame Bourjot to Madame Mauperin, after the first few scenes; and. turning to her daughter, she went on: '' You put no feeling into it, ray dear child you recite it. And yet I took 3-ou to see it at the Fran<;ais. But, go on, please." " Ah. madame,'" said Rent^e. * you will make the whole company nervous. We want a little encouragement." '' You need not speak for yourself, mademoiselle," re- turned Madame Bourjot. " If only my poor daughter could act like you." k 114 RENEE MAUPERIN. " AVell," said Denoisel to Mademoiselle Bourjot, '* let us take the sixth scene, mademoiselle. We will take our stand upon that, because I think that you act it extremely well, and as my professional vanity is at stake your mother will allow me ? " *' Oh, monsieur," said Madame Bourjot, " in all this I distinguish between the teacher and the pupil ; you are not responsible for " And, after the scene was acted : " Yes, on the whole," said she, " that is fairly g-ood it will pass muster. It is a snivelling scene, which just suits her ; and, besides, she does as well as she can. In that particular there is no fault to be found with her." '* Oh, you are too severe," said Madame Mauperin. " As severe as a mother should be," Madame Bourjot let fall, with a sort of sigh. " And you expect a very large audience?" " Oh, you know," said Madame Mauperin, " that on occasions of this kind one has always more people than one wants. There is always a certain amount of curiosity. We shall have fully one hundred and fifty people, I expect." " Look here, mamma, why should not I make out a list ?" said Renee, wishing to spare Naomi, whose embarrassment was evident, the continuation of the rehearsal. " That would be a means of introducing our guests to Madame Bourjot, I am going to make you acquainted with our friends, madame." " With pleasure," said Madame B(jurjot, " I mast warn you that you will find the dish rather mixed. One's friends, I always think, look rather like people whom one has met in a stage-coach." " That is charming, and very true," said Maaame Bourioi RENEE MAUPERIN. 115 Renee seated herself at the table, and, taking a pencil, Ix^gan to write down the names of the people, chattering all the time as she did so. " First, the family' we know them. Then, who ? Let us see. Madame and Mademoiselle Chanut, whose teeth look like those bits of broken g-lass on the top of a wall, you know. Monsieur and Madame de Belizard : they, you must know, have the reputation of feeding their horses on visiting cards." " Renee, Renee ! Come what an opinion you will give of yourself," began Madame Mauperin. " Oh, my reputation is already made. I have nothing to lose in that quarter. And besides, don't you suppose people give me as good as they get ? " " Let her go on, I beg," said Madame Bourjot to Madame Mauperin ; " and then ? " turning and smiling to Renee. ' Madame Jobleau. Ah what a wearisome woman that is with the story of her presentation to Louis Philippe at the Tuileries : ' Yct^, sire, yes, sire, yes, sii'e,' that is all she found to say. Monsieur Harambourg, who is upset by dust. In summer he leaves his servant in Paris to clean out the cracks in his parquet floor. MadeuKjiselle de la Boise, or the Policeman of Participles, an old governess, who in conversation will correct you upon the use of the sulijunctive. Monsieur Loriot, President of the Society for the Destruction of Vipers. The Clouqeuiins. father, mother, and children, a family who go up like that like panpipes. Ah ! I had forgotten tlie Vineux in Paris ; but it is useless to ask them; the}' only visit people who live on an omnibus route. And I was forgetting the Merhin trio three sisters the three graces of Batignolles. One is wantinji, one is "' 116 RENEE MAUPERIN. Aud Renee stopped as she noticed the terrified looks that Naomi was casting in her direction, like a poor loviug- and helpless creature suddenly frightened and disquieted by all these malicious remarks. Renee jumped up and ran to kiss her. " Silly ! " she said to her gently ; " bui all the^e are not people whom I love." XVII. Henry only came to the last rehearsals. He knew the play; in a week he was ready. But the "Caprice" was too short to fill up a whole evening, and it was decided to finish up with a farce of some kind. Two or three little Palais- Royal pieces were tried, then abandoned, the com- pany not being suflSciently numerous, and they fell back upon a sort of pantomine which was being played with great success at one of the theatres on the boulevards at the moment, and upon which Henry insisted despite the motiveless oppo.sition of Mademoiselle Bourjot, and a re- sistance, which, from her timidity, was quite unexpected. It seemed, too, that Mademoiselle Bourjot. since Henry had come, had completely clianged her character. Reuee occasionally tliought she had no longer the same feelings. She felt a coldness in the friendship of her friend. She was surprised to -(ind her contradictory, which she had never hefure known her to he. She was hurt besides at Naomi's manner to her brother; it was cold, and a slight touch of disdain rendered it almost contemptuous. Nevertlieless. her brotlier was always polite and attentive to her, but nothing more. And even in all his scenes with Naomi he acted with so mucli reserve, so much restraint and stiffness, that Rcnee, fearing for the success of tlie performance, and afraid of tlie coldness of his acting, joked him about it: Bah I " said he in reply, "I am like the great actors; I am reserving my strength fur tlie first night's performanee." XVill. A LITTLE stage had been erected at the end of the Mauperins' drawing'-room. The footlights were hidden behind a screen of foliage and flowering shrubs. Renee, with the help of her drawing-master, had painted the curtain, which represented a view on the banks of the Seine. On either side of the stage hung a bill, on which were these words, written by hand : LA BRICHE THEATRE. This Evening, THE CAPRICE, To conclude with HARLEQUIN, A BIGAMIST. And then followed the names of the actors. On all the chairs in the house, which had been seized and arranged in rows before the stage, women in low gowns were squeezed together, mixing their skirts, their lace, tlie sparkle of their diamonds, and the whiteness of their shoulders. The folding-doors of the drawing-room had been taken down, and siiowed, in the little drawing-room which led to the dining-room, a crowd of men in white neckties, standing on tiptoe. The curtain rose upon ' Tlie Caprice." Renee played with mucli spirit the part of Madame de Lery. Henry, as the husband, revealed one of those real theatrical talents which are often found in cold young men, and in grave men of the world. Naomi herself, carried awny by Henry's RENEE MAUPERIN. 11'.) acting, carefully prompted by Denoisel from behind the scenes, a little intoxicated by her audience, played her little part of a neglected wife very tolerably. This was a great relief to Madame Bourjot. Seated in the front row, she had followed her daughter with anxiety. Her pride dreaded a failure. The curtain fell, the applause burst out, and all the company were called for. Her daughter had not been ridiculous ; she was happy in this great success, and she composedly gave herself up to the speeches, opinions, congratulations, which, as in all repre- sentations of private theatricals, followed the applause and continued in murmurs. Amidst all that she thus vaguely heard, one sentence, pronounced close by her, reached her ears, clear and distinct above the buzz of general conver- sation : "Yes, it is his sister, I know but I think that, for the part, he is not sufficiently in love with her and really too much in love with his wife ; did you notice it ?" And the speaker, feeling that she was being overheard b}' Madame Bourjot, leaned over and whispered in her neighbour's ear. Madame Bourjot became serious. After a pause, the curtain went up again, and Henry Mauperin appeared as Pierrot or harlequin, not in the tradi- tional sack of white calico and black cap, but as an Italian harlequin, with a white three-cornered hat, and dressed entirely in white satin from head to foot. A shiver of interest ran through the women, proving that the costume and the man were both cliurmiug; and the folly began. It was the mad story of Pierrot, married to one woman and wishing to marry another, a farce intermingled with passion, whi'-li had been unearthed by a playwright with the help of a poet from a collection of old comic plays. Kenee. this time, acted the part of the neglected woman, 120 RENEE MAUPERIN. who in various disguises interfered between her husband and his gallant adventures, and Naomi that of the woman he loved. Henry, in his scenes of love with the latter, carried all before him. He played with youth, with bril- liancy, with excitement. In the scene in which he avows liis love, his voice was full of the passionate cry of a de- claration which overflows and swamps everything-. True, he had to act with the prettiest Columbine in the world : Naomi looked delicious that evening in her bridal costume of Louis XVI., copied exactly from the " Bride's Minuet," a print by Debucourt, which Barousse had lent for the purpose. A sort of enchantment filled the whole room, and reached Madame Bourjot, a sort of sympathetic complicity with the actors seemed to encourage the pretty couple to love one another. The piece went on. Now and again Henry's eyes seemed to look for those of Madame Bourjot, over tlie footlights. Meanwhile, Renee appeared disguised as the village bailiff; it only remained to sign the contract; Pierrot, taking the hand of the woman he loved, began to tell her of all the happiness he was going to have with her The woman who sat next to Madame Bourjot, felt her lean somewhat on her shoulder. Henry finished his speech, the piece disentangled itself and came to an end. All at once, Madame Bourjot's neighbour saw something glide down her arm : it was Madame Bourjot who had just fainted. XIX. "Oh, do, pray go indoors," said Madame Bourjot to the people who were standing- around her. She had been carried into the g-arden. " It is passed now, it is really nothing-, it was only the heat." She was quite pale, but she smiled. " I only want a little air. Let Monsieur Henry only stay with me." The audience retired. Scarcely had the sound of feet died away when : " You love lier ! " said Madame Bourjot, seizing- Henry's arm as though she were taking him prisoner with her feverish hands : " You love her ! " "Madame," said Henry. " Hold your tongue ! you lie ! " And she threw his arm from her. Henry bowed. -'I know all. I have seen all. But look at me ! " and with her eyes she closely scanned his face. Henry stood before her, his head bent. " At least speak to me ! You can speak at any rate ! Ah, I see it, you can only act in her company ! " " I have nothing to say to you, Laura," said Henry in his softest and clearest voice. Madame Bourjot started at this name of Laura as thougli he had touched her. " I have struggled for a year, madauie," began llunry, "I have no excuse to make. But my lieart is fast. We knew earh other as (-hildren. The charm has grown day by day, I am very unhappy, madame, at having to acknowledge tiie truth to you; 1 love your daughter, that is true." "But have yci over spoken to her? I blush for her 122 RENEE MAUPERIN. when there are people there ! Have you ever looked at her ? Do you think her pretty ? What possesses you men ? Come ! I am better looking than she is ! You men are fools. And besides, my friend, I have spoiled you. Go to her and ask her to caress your pride, to tickle your vanity, to flatter and to serve your ambitions, for you are ambitious, I know you! Ah, Monsieur Mauperin, one can only find that once in a lifetime ! And it is only women of my ag-e, old women, like me, do you hear me? who love the future of the people whom they love ! You were not my lover, you were my grandchild." And at this word, her voice sounded as thoug-h it came from the bottom of her heart. Then immediately changing her tone : " But don't be foolish ! I tell you you don't really love my daughter, it is not true : she is rich ! " " Oh, madame ! " " Good gracious, there are lots of people. They have been pointed out to me. It pays sometimes to begin with the mother and finish with tlie dower. And a million, you know, will gild a good many pills." " Speak lower, I implore you for your own sake someone has just opened a window." " Calmness is very fine, Monsieur Mauperin, very fine, very fine," repeated JMadame Bourjot. And her low, hissing voice seemed to stifle her. Clouds were scudding across the sky, and passed over the moon lo(jking like huge bats' wings. Madame Bourjot erazed fixedly into tlie darkness, straight in front of her. Iler elbows resting on her knees, her weight thrown on to her heels, she was beating with the points of her satin shoes the gravel of the path. After a few minutes she sat upright, stretched out her arms two or three times wildly RENEE MAUPERIN. 123 and as though but half awake; then hastily and with jerks, she pushed her hand down between her gown and her waistband, pressing- her hand against the riband as though she would break it. Then she rose and began to walk, Henry followed her. " I intend, sir, that we shall never see each other again," she said to him, without turning round. As they passed near the basin, she handed him her handkerchief : " Wet that for me." Henry put one knee on the margin and gave her back the lace which he had moistened. Slie laid it on her forehead and on her eyes. " Now let us go in," she said, " Give me your arm." " Oh, dear madame, what courage ! " said Madame Mauperin going to meet Madame Bourjot as she entered "but it is unwise of you. Let me order your carriage." " On no account," answered Madame Bourjot hastily, " I thank you. I promised that I would sing for you, I think. I am going to sing." And Madame Bouijot advanced to the piano, graceful and valiant, with the heroic smile on her face wherewith the actors of society hide from the public the tears that they shed within themselves, and the Avounds which are only known to their own hearts. XX. Married for the sake of the social advantages of two great houses of business, united by a community of interests to a man whom she did not know, Madame Bourjot felt, at the end of a week, all the contempt that a woman can feel for her husband. It was not that she had formed any ideal requirements, or that she had brought into the married state any romantic notions of young girlhood. Singularly intelligent, of a serious turn of mind which had been formed and nourished by reading, by studies, and by a depth of knowledge which was almost that of a man, this woman asked nothing of the companion of her life save that he should be capable, that he should be a man upon whose head she could found all her ambitions and her pride as a married woman, a man, in short, with a future ; knowing how to seize his opportunity in such a way as to crown his chances with a large fortune, able, through one of the holes of modern society, to jump into a ministry, into the Board of Works, or the Exchequer: all that fell to pieces in her hand with this husband whom day by day she discovered to be despairingly hollow, completely ineflScient, empty of all which ought to have been in him and which was in her, whose mind she found to be narrow, whose character was mean and composed of all the violence and instability of a child's temper. Pride had preserved Madame Bourjot from going wrong, pride which, besides, had been helped by circumstances. RKNKE MAUPERIN. 125 During her first youth, Madame Bourjot, whose nature was cold, whose blood was southern, had had features too strongly defined to be beautiful. It was only when she was nearly thirty-four years old that she began to get stout, and then another woman suddenly seemed to appear in her; her features, while they remained pro- nounced became softer and more amiable; the hardness seemed to melt out of her countenance, and her face began to smile. Hers was an autumnal beauty such as age sometimes gives to certain women whose face of twenty years old one would like to see again, a beauty which makes one think of the youth that the}' have never had. Until that time, also, Madame Bourjot had never passed through any serious dangers or any very trying temptations. The society into which she entered by taste, her surroundings, the men who frequented her house and with whom she was on terms of friendly intimacy, were not such as to oblige her to defend herself seriously. They were, for the most part, members of the institute, clever men, literary men, political men ; all of them seemed to be modest, rather worn out, and aged some of them by all that they had stirred up in the past, others by all that they were stirring up in the present. Any little attention pleased them, they wished for nothing, they were content to hear the rustle of a gown, a friendly word, or to see, by a look, that they were being listened to. Madame Bourjot had been surrounded by this academical adora- tion, and she had allowed it, without much danger, to rise up round her as though she had been the Egeria of the circle ; it had been to her a fhmie with which she might play without fearing to burn her fingers. But maturity came to Madame Bourjot. The groat change in her appearance and figure was finished. Tor- 126 RENEE MAUPERIN. mented by a superabundance of health, by an excess of life, it seemed as though her moral being lost the power that her physical being gained. While she admired her past, she felt less strength in her soul and less security in her pride. At this juncture Henry Mauperin was in- troduced to her. To her he seemed young, intelligent, serious, deep, armed for the victories of life, with all the cold and calculating qualities which she, before her mar- riage, had dreamed of finding a husband. At the outset, Henry seized the situation and foresaw his chances ; his plans immediately threw themselves upon that woman as upon a prey. He began to make love to her; and this woman, with a husband and a child, with her twenty years of virtue, with one of the best positions in Paris, scarcely allowed him time to attack her. She yielded at the first interview, she gave herself to him, like a common woman in a suburban restaurant, in a mad, stupid, almost grotesque manner, regardless of the ironical smiles of the waiters, who, at the sight of her forty years of age, had opened for her the door of a public dining-room. Thenceforward her love beca.ne more furious as it was satisfied ; it was one of those passions which take hold of women of that age, and seem to pass into their very blood. Henry, meanwhile, exerted all his genius in the endeavour to attach her to himself, and to chain her to her fault. No- tnmg betrayed him, nothing escaped him which could, for one moment, have shewn her that he was weary, or indiffe- rent, or that there was in him that spice of contempt which every man feels after too easy a conquest, tliat sort of dis- gust which he feels for certain ridiculous situations in which a woman who loves places herself. He was always affectionate, and his emotion always seemed real. He had RENEE MAUPERIN. 127 on Madame Bourjot's behalf the outbursts of tenderness and jealousy, the loving superstitions, the attentions, the kindnesses which a woman, after she has passed a certain ag'e, no longer expects from love or from a lover. He treated her like a girl. He asked her to give him a ring which she wore in memory of her first Communion. He bore all the childishness, the vanity, all the mockery of passion in this mother of a family, without a symptom of impatience upon his face, or a trace of sarcasm in his voice. At the same time he took possession of the whole woman, and moulded her to his will by giving her pleasures for which she felt both gratitude and pride, as she might have done for a victory gained by her person over this young man, who appeared to be so cold. Having thus become the master of this woman, and having entire possession of her, Henry intoxicated her still more by showing her the ap- parent danger of their interviews, by the risks they ran in their meetings, by all the emotions of criminal romance wherewith he stupefied with fear and danger the imagina- tion of this middle-class woman, who excited herself in her love by the thought of all she had to lose. She came at last to living only through him and for him, by his presence, by the thought of him, by his future, by his picture, hy all that she carried away from him after each of tlieir meetings. When they parted, she would pass her hands two or three times through his hair, and then would put on her gloves quickly. And all that day, and the next, beside her husband, near her daughter, in her own home, siie would smell the palms of her hands, which she had not washed ; she breathed the pt'rfume of her lover when slie kissed the scent from his hair ! That evening, that treacliery. that rupture at tlie end of one year broke down Madaniu Pxnirjot. She felt as if she 128 RENEE MAUPERIN. had received her death-wound, and she found comfort in the thoug-ht. The next day she looked out for Henry. She was conquered ready, if he had come, to beg his pardon, to acknowledge that she had been in the wrong-, to implore him to forget, to be kind to her, to let her pick up the crumbs of his love. She waited a week : Henry did not come. She begged for an interview in order to recover her letters ; Henry sent them to her. She wrote, begging him to see her for the last time, to bid him an everlasting farewell. Henry did not answer ; but through his friends, through newspaper articles, and through gossip, he sur- rounded Madame Bourjot with rumours of a prosecution that had been commenced against him on account of one of his last articles on behalf of the poor classes. During a week he haunted her, waking and sleeping, with visions of police-courts, prisons, everything that the dramatic imagi- nation of a woman foresees as the end of a trial ; and when the Solicitor-General gave Madame Bourjot an assur- ance that the trial would not take place, ashamed of all her former terrors, quite overcome by her emotions, and at the end of her strength, she wrote to Henry : " To-morrow at two o'clock. If you are not at home, I will wait on the staircase ; I will sit upon a step;" XXL Henkt was ready and waiting. He had dressed himself in a studiously careless costume, his apparent indifference was the result of anxious thought, his untidiness was in- tentional, in short his toilet was such that in it a young man would almost always look attractive. At the hour mentioned in the letter he heard the bell. He went to the door ; Madame Bourjot entered, and, passing" before him with that familiar manner of women who know their way well, she went and seated herself upon a divan at the far end of his study. At first neither spoke. There was a vacant place upon the divan ; Henry pulled up a writing-chair, turned it round, and seated himself astride upon it with his arms crossed on the back. Madame Bourjot had raised and thrown back her thick lace veil. Iler head resting on the back of the divan, one hand lazily occupied in ungloving the other, she was look- ing at all that surrounded her, the pictures on the wall, the things on the chimney-piece. She heaved a little sigh as though she had been alune, then looking as though she had just remembered Henry, she said to him : " Some of my life is here. All tliis is a little of myself." And she stretched her ungloved hand towards him, of which Henry respectfully kissed the tips of the lingers. '' I beg your pardon," she continued, " I did not mean to speak of myself. I did not come here for that. Oil, do not fear, I am ([uite reasonable to-day, really. The first moment, oh, the first moment was hard, I acknowledge, my friend. It was a wrench," she said with a tearful smile; I 130 RENEE MAUPERIN. " But that is all over now. I hardly suffer now, and I am quite strong, I assure you. Oh, of course I cannot wipe out everything in one day, and 1 do not mean to tell you that you are no longer anything to me you would not believe me if I did. But what I can swear to you, and what you must believe, Ilenry, is that in my heart there is no longer any passion, there is no weakness now. The woman is dead, quite dead, and my feeling for you now is very pure." The daylight troubled her as she spoke, as though it had been someone looking at her : " Will you pull down the blind for me ? " she said, '' the sun, my eyes have been so troublesome the last few days." And while Henry went to the window, she untied the strings of her bonnet, and let the large shawl in which she was wrapped slip from her shoulders. Slie continued, after the light in the room had been subdued : " Yes, Henry, after many struggles, many wi'enches, which you will never know of ; after nights such as 1 hope you may never have! by. dint of praying and weeping, I have triumphed over myself; I thought of the happiness of my daughter without being jealous of her, of yours as the only one that is now allowed me on earth ! " ''You are an angel, Laura!" said Henry; and leaving his chair he began to walk up and down the room as though much agitated. "But we must look at Ihiiigs as they are. You were (juite right when you said that we ought to part for ever and never meet again. To li\-e together! You cannot mean that! It takes so little to reopen wounds as slightly closed as ours are? And then, oven if you are so sure of yourself, how do you know that I am sure of mvself? How can I tell that this hourly intimacy, this temptation which will last all my life, near RENEE MAUPERIN. 131 you in short," he said tenderly, " an opportunity, a surprise ; how can I tell ? and I am a honest man." "No, Henry," said she, taking- his hands, and making him sit near her, "I fear nothing from you, and I am not afraid of myself. All is finished. Upon what shall I swear it ? And you will not refuse me. No, you would not refuse me the only happiness which remains to me, the only one, 1 repeat ; I have only that now in the world ! to see you, only to see you !" and throwing- her arms round the young man's neck she embraced him so tightly that he could feel that she wore no stays. After an embrace which lasted some seconds : " Ah, this is impossible ! Do not let us talk any more of it," said Henry hastily, as he rose, " I will be strong," said Madame Bourjot gravely. After this comedy of renunciation had been played out, both of them felt more at ease. " Now," began Madame Bourjot, " listen to me, Monsieur Bourjot will give you his daugliter." " Really, Laura, you are mad." " Do not interrupt me. Monsieur Bourjot will give you his daughter. 1 believe it is his intention to ask his son-in- law to live with him. But he would have perfect liberty : rooms, carriage, cook, all separate. You know how we live. Unless Monsieur Bourjot has changed his mind, she will have a million of francs down ; and unless he is ruined, which is scan-ely probable, slie will have, when we are no longer here, from four to live millions." " And how do you seriously expect Mademoiselle Bourjot, who has one million, and wlio will have five, to marry " I am her mother," replied Madame Bourjot, in a decided tone; "'and besides, do you not love her? Bless niy heart, it is a convenience like any other." And Madame 132 RENEE MAUPERIN. Bourjot smiled. " You will bring her happiness you." " But the world ? " "The world? Child!" She slightly shrugged her shoulders. " We will close the world's mouth with truffles." "Monsieur Bourjot ? " " He is my business. Before two months are over he will be devoted to you. Only, you know him. He will require a title ; he has always wanted a count for his daughter. All that I can do is to make him contented with the particle, with a simple "rfe." Nothing is easier now-a- days than to obtain permission to add to one's name the name of a wood, or of a property, or of a field, or of a bit of land somewhere or another. Have I not heard your mother speak of a farm called Villacourt that you have somewhere in the Haute-lVfarne ? Mauperin de Villacnurt that would do very well. You know how indifferent I am to all that sort of thing." " Oh, but it would be too absurd, with my principles, my liberalism, engaged as I am, and for myself." " Nonsense; you will tell people it was a caprice of your wife. But everyone takes some title or another now ; it's like the Cross of the Legion of Honour ! Shall I speak to the Minister of Justice for you ? " " By no means. No, I beg you. I did not know I had said anything which would make you think me disposed to accept. Indeed, I do not know, honestly. You will understand my wanting to reflect, to think it over, to see what is my duty, to belong more to myself and less to you, before giving you an answer." " I will go and see your mother this week, my dear friend," said Madame l3ourjot. rising and S(|Ueezing his hand. ' Farewell," said she sadly, " life is a sacrifice ! " XXII. " ReneE," said Madame Mauperin one evening- to her daug-liter ; " would you like to come to-morrow to see the exhibition of Lord Mansbury's thing's ? They say it will be very interesting. There is a picture there which oug-ht to fetch more than a hundred thousand francs. Monsieur Barousse thought it would amuse you. He has sent me a catalogue and a ticket of admission. Does it suit j^ou ? " "Indeed it does suit me," said Renee ; "it suits me down to the ground." Next day, Renee was surprised to see her mother superintend her toilet, busy herself about her, make her put on her best bonnet. You see that now these exhibitions are so fasliionable," said Madame Mauperin. as she re-tied the strings of her bonnet; " you must be dressed like ever^'one else." Although tlie exliibition was private, there was a crowd in the room in which was put out Lord Mansbury's collec- tion, on the first lloor of the large auction-rooms in Paris The celeltrity of the pictures, the very scandal of the sale itself, caused, people said, by the follies that Lord Mans- bury had committed for one of the Palais-Royal actresses, had attracted all the usual visitors of the Hotel Drouot, the world which fasliion has ])rought there during the last few years, the would-be artistic boobies, the well-known collectors, and nearly every inquisitive person in Paris. It had been found necessary to liang high on tlie walls, out of reach of the crowd, the three or four most precious 13+ RENEe mauperin. iHctures. In the hall itself, the sort of roar was audible which always accompanies the sales of rich men's goods the buzzing of prices always rising, of desires being kindled, of follies breaking bounds, of bankers' rivalries, of vanities of rich men who a^-e losing their tempers. A murmur of voices bidding on the sly ran from group to group. " The pot was getting hot," said the dealers. At the door of the hall, Madame Mauperin and her daughter found Barousse leaning on the arm of a young man of about thirty years of age. This man had large, soft eyes, which would have been fine had they not been rather silly. His figure, which was already showing symp- toms of future stoutness, made him look rather vulgar. " Here you are at last, ladies," said Barousse ; and, tuin- ing to Madame Mauperin, he continued : " Allow me to intro- duce to you my young friend. Monsieur Lemeunier. He knows the collection by heart, and if you require a guiije. he will take you to all that is most worth seeing. I will, with your leave, go to run up the price of something in room No. 3." They went round the hall. Monsieur Lemeunier conducted Madame Mauperin and her daughter to the pictures signed with the best known names, simply explained the sul)jects of tliem, and did not talk painting. Renee. in lier heart, without knowing why, was grateful to him. When they had been all through the exhilntion, ^ladame Mauperin let go of Monsieur Lemeunier's arm, thanked him, and Ijowed to him. Eenee wished to go into one of the side rooms. The first thing she saw on entering was the back of Monsieur Barousse, a back v.hich displayed every emotion wiiereof a collector in the full swing of a sale could be capable. lie was seated on the chair nearest to tlie auctioneer, close beside a female agent in a bonnet, and he was at every moment RENEE MAUPERIN, 135 jerking her elbow, pushing- her knee, prompting her fever- ishly as to the bids he would make and which he fancied were a secret from the auctioneer, his clerk, and the public generally. " Come along, now ; you have seen enoug-h of him," said Madame Mauperin after a short time. " And besides, this is your sister's reception-day it is not too late. We have not been there this year ; it will g-ive her pleasure." Renee's sister, .Madame Mauperin's eldest daughter, Madame Davarande, was essentially a worldly woman. Society filled her life and her head. As a child she dreamed of it. From the day of her lirst (,'omraunion she longed fcr it. She married very young. She had taken the first suitable man who had presented himself, without hesitation, without any worry, at the first suggestion. It was not Mmsicur Davarande. it was a position that she was marry- ing Marriage to her meant a carriage, diamonds, servants in 1 very, invitations, acquaintances, drives in the Bois de fJouldgne. She had all that, did without any children, love:l Iior gowns, and was happy. To her the height of hapi'iui'ss was to have to go to throe balls a night, to have fortv cnrds to leave during an afternoon drive, to go from DIM' o anotlier of her friends on their reception-days, and to li;ivc a day her-elf. As sli(^ gave all to the world, so ^[adame Davarande borrowed all from it. her ideas, lier judguients. her charities, her formulas, lun- manners and affectations. Her opinions were the same as those of all the women who had their hair dressed Iw Laure. She tliought what it was dis- tinguished to tliink just as she won> what it was fashionalile to wear. Everytliing. from her gesturt's down to her drawini:--roo!n fnrnitun\ from her favouritt^ g-ame of cards (1. iwn to her ahns-gi\iiig. fmui the newspaper she read 136 RENEE MAUPERIN. down to the dishes she ordered her cook to prepare, aimed at being' in the fashion; fashion was her rule of Hfe and her creed. Wherever fashion led the way, thither she followed even to the " Bouffes - Parisiens." She had learned to know by sight and by name a few of the celebrated women who drove in the Bois de Boulogne; it sounded well to talk of them. She spelled her name with a little d, an apostrophe, and a capital A, d'Avorande. Madame Davarande was pious ; to her, God seemed fashionable. It would have appeared to her almost as improper not to have a parish church as not to wear gloves. She frequented one of those churches where the smart marriages take place, where great names bow to each other, where the chairs are painted with coats of arras, where the verger is resplendent in gold embroidery, where the incense smells of patchdhili, where, on Sundays, after the High Mass the porch resembles the corridor of the opera- house when Mario has been singing. She went to hear the sermons of preachers whom it would be unfashionable not to have heard. She confessed, not in the public confes- sional, but in a convent. The name and appearance of a priest were, to her, of the greatest importance in the administration of the sacraments; she would not have thought herself properly married had anyone but the Abbe Blampoix performed the ceremony, and she doubted the efficacy of any baptism which was not followed by the gift of a two-hundred franc note to the priest in a box of sweetmeats. This woman, entirely given up to the world even in respect of her church and her salvation, was absolutely, naturally and fundamentally virtuous, without having, in her virtue, either effort, or merit, or conscience. Living as she did in a whirlpool, in a hot and unnatural atmosphere, open to all RENEE MAUPERIN. 137 the opportunities and solicitations of drawing-room life, she had neither enough heart to dream, nor enough mind to be bored. Desire and curiosity were not in her. She had one of those happy, narrow natures which have not in them the stuff whereof faults are made. She possessed that unassailable virtue that some women in Paris have ; temp- tation passes them by and touches them not ; she was virtuous just as marble is cold. Physically also, the world, as sometimes happens to lymphatic and delicate natures, wore out her streng-th, her nervous activity, and the movement of the little blood she had in her veins, by the excitement of visits and races, the work of amiability, the weariness of evening- parties, the fatigue of night, the lassitude of the next day, and thereby left her without desire. There are certain women in society in Paris who, by their expenditure of life and of power, by their struggles between activity and gracefulnes, almost resemble those circus-riders and tight-rope dancers whose natural desires are killed by the fatigue of their performances. Madame Mauperin and her daughter met Madame Davarande in her dining-room just as she was showing out, with much apparent friendliness, a pale man with blue spectacles. " I beg your pardon," she said, coming back and kissing her mother and sister; "that is Monsieur Lordonnot, the architect of the Church of the Sacred Heart. I am coax- ing him to collect for my poor. Last year he collected twelve hundred francs for me, do you know. That was very go id ; ^Nfadarae Berthival has never yet got beyond eiglit hundred. So you are come at last ; I am very glad to see you. Come in. I have nobody here to-day : .\radaine de Thesigny. ^[adanie de Champromard. and Madame de Saint Sauveur, that is all; and two pleasant little men. 188 RENEE MAUPERIX. little de Lorsac, whom I think you know, mamma, and his friend, de Maisoncelles. Wait a minute," said she to Renee, giving a httle pat to her hair so as to smooth it down. " your hair is all over the place." She opened the door of the drawing-room : " My mother and sister, mesdames." Every one got up, bowed, sat down again, and looked at each other. Madame Davarande's three friends, sitting in deep arm-chairs in the soft attitudes that soft furniture gives, seemed quite tiny, almost hidden, as they were, by the fulness of their gowns and their huge petticoats wliich swelled out under their arms. Their clothes were delicious, their little bonnets were adorable, their gloves would have fitted a doll's hands, their bodices were cut by an artist among dressmakers, their whole toilet and the thousand little trifles of which it is composed, their pretty attitudes, the charm of their l)earing, the little affectation of all their gestures, the little wilfulness of their movements, the rust- ling and noise of their silk gowns, they had all these Thin^is, and all that from which the Parisian woman draws her charm, and, without being beautiful, they managed to make themselves almost pretty by means of a smile, a look, details, appearance, glances, animation, a little sug- gestion of noisiness. The two yad ; it was Barousse, followed by the young man with wliom Madame Mauperin had met him at tlie sale of the pictures. "Here we are again," said he, placing upon a cliair the portfttlio without wliich he was never seen. Renee smiled. Tlie chatter began again : " Have you read the novel the novel ? " 142 REN'EE MAUPERIN. " In the Constitutionel?" " No." " By ; Ah, 1 can't remember the man's name. It is called wait a minute." " Everyone is talking of it." " You must read it." " My husband will get it for me from the club. ' " Is the new play amusing ? " " I only like dramas." " Shall we go and see it ? " ' Let us have a box." " Friday ? " " No, Saturday." " Shall we have some supper afterwards ? " " By all means." " At the Proven9eaux ? " " Will your husband come ? " "Oh, of course he will do as he is told." Everyone talked, everyone answered, nobodj' listened. They all chattered together. Words, questions, answers mingled together in the noise ; it was like the fluttering inside an aviary. The door opened. " Please don't move, anybody," said a tall, thin 3'oung woman, dressed in black, as she entered. " T only just looked in as I passed. I have only one minute to stay." She bowed to the ladies present, stood in front of the chimney-piece, her elbows on the marble, looked at herself in the glass, raised her petticoats slightly and stretched out towards the fire the thin sole of her little boot, and began : ' Ilenrietta, I have come to ask you to do me a favour, a great favour. You simply must undertake to send out the invitations for the ball that tlie Brodmers are going lo give, you know these Americans who have just come, and who RENEE MAUPERIN. 143 have taken an apartment in the Rue de la Paix at forty thousand francs a year," " Ah, the Brodmers," said Madame de Thesigny, " yes, yes." " But, my dear," said Madame Davarande, " it is very difficult. I do not know them. Do you even know who these people are ? " ' Well, they are Americans who have made a huge fortune in cotton, or tallow, or indigo, or negroes, or some- thing or another. But, I ask you, what in the world does that matter to us ? And besides Americans are quite re- ceived, now. For my part, 1 only require of people who give balls two things, first that they should not belong to the police ; and secondly, that they should provide a good supper. It appears that these people are going to do it well. The wife is prodigious. She talks the French of the primeval back-woods. They say that she can't wear a low gown because she was tattooed as a child. She is very funny, and will amuse you. They want to get smart people, you see. You will do it fur me, won't you ? I assure you that, had I not been, in mourning. I would have sent out the cards with Baroness de Lermont's compliments.' Besides, I am sure tliey will do the thing handsomely. They will certainly give you sometliing worth having." (iood gracious ! if I look after their invitations, I don't \\ ant their presents." How odd you are. But it is done every day; it is the commonest tiling in the world. It would be like refusing to accept a box of bon-bons from one of those young men there on New Year's Day. Now, I am off. I will liring my savages to see you to-morrow. Good-bye, good-bye. By the way. I am dying." And thereupon she disappeared. 144 RENEE MAUPERIN. " Is that true ? " Renee asked her sister. "What?" " That people provide society for balls in that way." " What ; didn't you know that ? " '* I was in the same benighted state of ignorance," said the young man who had been brought by Barousse. "It is very convenient for foreigners," said Madame Davarande. " Yes, but tolerably humiliating to Parisians, it appears to me ; don't you think so, mademoiselle ?" And the young man turned towards Mademoiselle Mauperin. " Oh, it's an understood thing," said Madame Dava- rande. XXIII Madame Bouejot had just arrived, with her daughter, at the house of the Mauperins. She had kissed Renee on the forehead, and seated herself on the sofa beside Madame Mauperin, near the fire. " Young people," she said, turning' towards the two girls, who were chattering in a corner, " suppose you were to let your mothers have a little talk. Kenee, I confide Naomi to you ; take her out for a walk." Renee seized Naomi round the waist, danced out of the room with her, picked up a Pyrenean hood off a chair in the hall and threw it over her head, put on a pair of tiny sabots, and began to run round the garden gaily, like a little girl, without letting go of her friend. Then, out of breath at last, she stopped short : " There is a secret ! there is a secret ! do you know the secret ? " Xaomi looked at her with two great, sad eyes, and made no reply. "Sill}'!" said Reni'e, Icissing her. " I have guessed it, T caught a few words here and there. Mamma is like a sieve. It concerns my noble brotlier. there! " " Let us sit down ; may we ? I am tired." vVnd Naomi seated herself on the bench, in the very place occupied by her mother on the niglit of the theatricals, " Hut you are crying ; what is the matter?" said Renee. and she sat down In-side her. Naomi let her head rest upon her friend's shoulder, and hurst into tears hot. salt tears, which Renee felt dropping on her hand. K 146 RENEE MAUPERIN. " What is it ? Tell me ! speak to me ! Naomi, come, my darling- Naomi." " Oh, you do not know," answered Naomi, in a broken voice, as if she were choking. " I will not leave me alone if you knew ! Save me !" And she threw herself despairingly on Renee's neck. " But I do love you," she said. '"What is it, Naomi? I understand nothing. Is it this marriage? Is it my brother ? I insist upon your answer- ing me ; do you hear ? " "Ah, that is true ; you are his sister I had forgotten that. You do not know ; I wish I were dead ! " "Dead! AVhy?" " Because your brother is " She hesitated in presence of the horrible thing she was going to say, finished her phrase by a murmur into Kenee's ear, and dropping her head on to the bosom of her friend she hid there the shame of her soul and the crimson of her cheeks, "My brother? You say? You lie!" And pushing her away, Renee sprang to her feet and faced her. " I ? " And for answer Naomi gently raised to Renee her eyes, wherein truth shone like a light. At that look Renee folded her arms. Slie remained foi some minutes standing uprifrht, silent, in an attitude whicli was resolute, energetic, and meditative. She felt in her- self the strength of a woman, and almost the duties of a mother towards this child. Then she said : " Hut wliat does your father say? ^Fy brother has no title." " But lie is going to take one." " Ah, he is going to give up our name. He is right." XXIV. ' nULLOA ! is that you ? haven't you gone to bed yet ? " said Henry to Renee that evening as she came into his room. He was smoking. He had reached that blessed moment when, his feet in slippers, resting on the chimney- piece, in a comfortable arm-chair, a man dreams his dreams as lie lazily blows towards the ceiling the smoke of his last cigar. lie was dreaming of all that had happened to him during the last year, lie was congratulating himself upon having played his cards so well. lie was cogitating over that idea of the private theatricals, that he had seemed to throw out as a mere suggestion that evening, in the garden, his absence from the first rehearsals ; the cold indifference which he had pretended to feel towards Naomi so as to reassure her, to lull her repugnance, to prevent her from refusing distinctly to act. lie was thinking over that master-stroke wherein he suddenly exposed his love to the mother's jealousy in all the splendour of his theatrical sur- roundings, and which seemed as though it were dragged from his heart, in spite of himself, by the part that he was playing. All that had f(jllowed came back to him the maimer in wiiich he had driven this last love to despera- tion, liis inanncr during tiieir last interview; and lie felt a cfitain piide in thinking that he had arranged, coinbiui'd. and foie-eeii all these circumstances which had been S(j naturally brought together and mingled l>y him with the passion of a woman of forty. 148 RENEE MAUPERIN. " It is I ; I am not sleepy this evening." And Kenee, drawing- a low chair up to the fire, sat down. " I want to have a talk such as we used to have in old days, do you remember ? when you had not your rooms in Paris. Ah, it was here that you accustomed me to every- thing to a pipe, to a cigar ! What talks we used to have when everyone else was in bed. We have laughed a great deal, and have made many silly jokes by this fireside. But now my brother is a serious man." " Most serious," said Henry, smiling ; " I am going to be mai'ried." " Oh," said she, " that is not done yet. I beseech you." And, throwing herself on her knees, she took his hands : " See, it is I. Oh, you would not, for mone}' ! I am at your feet, you see. And, besides, it is unlucky to leave the name of one's fathers. That name is our blood, Henry our brave, good father! Do not go on with this mar- riage, I entreat you if you love me, if you love us all oh, I entreat you I" "AVhat is this, are you going mad? AVhat is the mean- ing of this scene ? Come, I have had enougli of it, get up ! " Renee got up, and looking her brother straight in the face, said : Naomi has told me all." Her cheeks were scarlet. Henry was as pale as if some- one had spat in his face. " But you cannot marry her daughter,'' she cried. "My dear child," replied Henry in a voice which, though cold, trembled. " it seems to me that you are meddling with what does not concern you, and you will allow me to say that for a girl " "Yes, I ouirlit to know nothing aboiU sucli mud, and 1 never should have, had it not been for you ! " REN^E MAUPERIN. 149 " My dear child ! " And Henry advanced towards his sister. He was in one of those white passions which are terrifying, Kene'e, frightened, moved backwards. He seized her hand, pointed to the door, and said : " Go ! " For one moment, in the passage, he saw her support her self against the wall. XXV, " You go first, Henry," said Monsieur Mauperin to his son. And as Henry tried to make his father precede him : " Go first," repeated Monsieur Mauperin. After the lapse of half-an-hour, father and son descended together the steps leading from the ofiice of the keeper of the seals. " Well, you ought to be pleased with me, Henry," said Monsieur Mauperin, whose face was suffused with blood. " I have done what you and your mother wanted. You shall have this name." " Father." " It's done now. Let us say no more about it. Are you coming my way?" he asked, as be buttoned his great- coat with the military gesture wherewith old soldiers con- ceal their emotions. " No, father, I would ask your leave to quit you. I have several things to do. I will come to dinner to- morrow." "Very well goodbye till then. You will do well to come your sister is still poorly." "When he saw the carriage drive off with his father, Henry raised his head, looked at his watch, and walked to the Kue de la Paix with the easy, swinging step of a man who feels that the wind of fortune is blowing behind hiui. At the corner of tlie Chaussee d'Antin, lie turned into the Caf(' iiignon, where several fiurid young men, who looked ricli and provincial, were waiting for him. During luncheon, the talk was about district meetings; RENEE MAUPERIN. 151 afterwards, on the boulevards, whither they went to smoke a cigar, they discussed the rotation of crops, drainage, lime-burning, and thence they rose to the elections, to the state of feeling in the country, to the chances of success of various candidates who had been mentioned, proposed, or suggested at agricultural meetings. At two o'clock Henry quitted these men, promising one of them an article upon his model farm, and went to his club, looked at the papers, and then began to write slowly in his pocket-book some- thing that seemed to require very careful wording. Thence he hurried to read a report to an insurance company, on to the directorate of which he had succeeded in pushing himself, thanks to the well-known mercantile reputation of his father. At four o'clock he jumped into a cab and made a round of visits to women who habitually received, and who had influence and connexions at the disposal of a man wanting a career. He remembered that he had not paid his subscription to the " Society for encouraging the good use of Sunday by workmen : " he paid it. At seven o'clock, with friendly greetings on his lips, and his hand ready to be shaken, he ran up Lemardelay's staircase where the " Friendly Association" of his old schoolfellows was giving its annual dinner. At dessert he made a speech, recited the discourse which he had prepared at his club that afternoon, talked of the " brotherly agape, of an old family found again, of bonds between the past and the future, of help which should be given to old comrades who had met with undeserved misfortunes." He received loud applause, during which the orator withdrew. He looked in at the Debating Society of the Rue d'Ajruessau, quitted it again, drew from his pocket a white tie, which he put on in the cab, and made his appearance at three or four pai ties. XXVI. The blow which Renee had felt in her heart on leaving her brother's room,' and under which she had stag-gered for a moment, left its traces in palpitations. She was unwell for a week or more. The evil yielded to gentle treatment, to a few doses of digitalis. But she remained sad, with a sadness that seemed incurable. Seeing her ill, and knowing the origin of her illness, Henry did all in his power to make up with her. He was unremitting in his attentions and his caresses, and seemed thereby to shovv his repentance. He had tried to enter again into the favour of that heart, to disarm that conscience, to appease that indignant spirit. But he always felt in her a coldness, a repugnance, a sort of hard resolution which caused him undefined terror. He understood that she had only for- given the injury done to herself by his brutality : she had pardoned the brother and not the man. One day her mother had promised to take her to Paris to amuse her, but as she was suddenly taken ill at the moment of starting, Henry, who had several things to do, proposed to take charge of his sister. They started. When they reached Paris, Henry stopped the cab which he had called at the station, at the Library in the Rue Richelieu : " Will you wait for me a minute ? " said he to his sister ; " I have a question to ask of the registrar of titles, By-the-way, why should you not come in with me? You have always wished to see tlie manuscripts. They are in the same room. It will amuse you to see tliem. and I will mean- while erot my information." RENEE MAUPERIN. 153 Renee took her brother's arm, and they went together up to the room where the Manuscripts are kept. Henry placed her at the end of a table, found someone to bring her a Missal, and went to talk to a registrar in the bay ol a window. Renee slowly turned over the pages of her book. Behind her one of the attendants was warming himself. He was soon joined by another attendant who had just carried some books and papers over to the desk near which Henry was talking. And Renee heard this conversation take place about two feet from where she was sitting. ' Chamerot, do you see that little gentleman ? " " Yes, the one at Monsieur Rei.sard's desk ? " " Well he can boast of having got some very bad informa- tion ! He has just been asking whether there used not to be a family of the name of Villacourt, and whether it has died out. He has just been told that it has. Now, if he asked me, I could tell him a very different story, and that there ought to be some of them still. I don't know if they are the same. But certainly there were some when I left home, and one was a good strong fellow too. Monsieur Boisjorand. I remember that we had a fight once, and he could hit pretty hard. Their chateau is no distance from our house. From one of the towers one could see Saint Mihiel, and beyond that too. But even in my time it no longer belonged to them. Regular spendthrifts in that family a (jueer kind of nobles ! They lived with the charcoal- burners in the woods at Croix-du-Soldat, near the Black Mound, like satyrs." Saint Mihiel, the woods at Croix-du-Soldat, the Black ^Nlound; these words entered deep into Renee's mind. 'There, I have what I wanted." said Henry, gaily, as ho came towards her. And he carried her olT. XXVII. Denoisel had left Renee at her piano and was walking in the garden. As he returned to the house, he was sur- prised to hear her playing something which was not the piece she had been studying ; then all at once the music stopped short, and he heard no more. He went to the drawiijg-room, and pushed open the door; Renee, seated on the music-stool, had buried her face in her hands, and was crying bitterly. " Renee, my dear Rene'e, what is the matter with you ? " For a moment, sobs prevented Renee from answering; then she dried her eyes, as children do, on the back of her two hands, and said in a choking voice : " It is it is too stupid of me. It is that thing of Chopin's, you know, for his funeral his mass that he wrote. Papa always forbids me to play it. But to-day, as there was no one in the house, and I thouglit you were at the end of the garden I knew the effect it would have upon me, but I wanted to make myself cry over it ; and, you see, I have had my wish. But isn't it stupid, oh ? I who have such good spirits by nature." " Come, come, you arc not well, Renee. Something is the matter with you. People don't cry like that." " Xo, no ; I am (juite well. I am as right as a trivet. Really, there is nothing the matter with me. Don't you think I would tell you if it were otherwise ? It all comes from that horrid, stupid piece of music there. And to-day too, of all days, when papa has promised to take me to see RENEE MAUPERIN. 155 the ' Leghorn Hat ' a smile gleamed in her moist eyes at these words the 'Leghorn llat' only think, at the Palais- Royal ! I am sure I shall be amused ! Besides I only care for plays of that kind. Other pieces, dramas, senti- mental plays. For my part I think one gets so many emotions of one's own that one need not go in search of fresh ones. And besides, an emotion which one feels in common witli everyone else is, to my mind, very like crying in a pocket-handkerchief which does not belong to one. You are to come too, you know. A real bachelor party ! Papa has promised that we shall dine at a restaurant. And I promise you that I will, for this occasion only, bring out again my old little girl's laugh, the one I had when my English governess was here Miss , do you remember? who used to wear orange- coloured ribands, and get tipsy off Eau de Cologne ! Poor, dear English woman ! " And, her fingers twitching at this recollection, Kenee gaily attacked a fantasia on the " Carnival of Venice." Tlien stopping short, she said : ' Have you ever been to Venice 'i " " Yes." "Is it not curious that there should be. In the world, one place that one does not know, and yet which attracts one and of whii-h one dreams ? Some people feel it for one country, otliers for another. My one desire is to see Venice. Venice to my mind, now 1 am going to talk nonsense, but Venice always appears to me to be the place where all musicians ought to be buried." She replaced her hands upon the keys, but only touclied theui lightly so as to produce no sound, as if she were caressing, with the tips of her lingers, the silence of the piiuuj. Then, letting them drop upon her knees she I'ell 156 RENEE MAUPERIN. again into her thoughtful attitude, aud turning her head towards Denoisel, she recommenced. " There is sadness in the air to-day. I don't understand why. But on some bright days one has no troubles, no worries, no sorrows before on<^. Well, all of a sudden one wants to be melancholy ; one hunts up one's saddest thoughts. One feels that one must cry. Often I have gone to bed sa}ing that I had a headache, and it was simply in order to bury my head in my pillow and have a good cry ; and it has done me good. And in those moments one feels too much of a coward to shake oneself and get up. It is like the first feeling of a fainting fit; it is so pleasant to feel oneself going off." Come, come, I am going to have your horse saddled, my little Renee, and we will go for a ride "That's a good ideal But I warn you I shall go like the wind to-day." XXVUl. "How can you help it! that poor Montbreton has four children, and not a larg-e fortune," said Monsieur Mau- perin, si^hin';' as he folded up the newspaper in which he had just been reading the official nominations, and putting- it on the table far away from him. " Oh yes, that is what people always say. As soon as a man does anything low one is told : ' He has children.' One might almost fancy that in society people only have children for one purpose, to beg, and to do a heap of mean things. As though being the father of a family gave any- one a right to be a blackguard." " Renee, Renee." said ^[onsieur Mfiuperin. " No, it is quite true. I only know two kinds of people those who are honest, and the others. Four children, indeed! That might excuse a father for stealing a loaf. In that case. Mother Gigogne would have had a perfect right to poison people. I am sure that Denoisel agrees with mo." ' I ? Not at all ! I am strongly in favour of showing indulgence to married people, and to fathers of families. 1 should even like to see that indulgence extended to people with a favourite vice, a vice which may be rather expen- sive, but of which they are fond. As for other people who, having nothing to feed, nor wife, nor children, nor vice, sell themselves, ruin themselves, cringe, grovel, enrich them- selves and abase themselves. Those people I give you to do what you please with ! " 158 KENEE MAUPERIN. " I shall not talk to you any more," said Renee in a vexed tone. " All the same, papa, I do not understand how this does not make you jump, you who have always sacriGced everything to your opinions. AVhat that man has done is disg'usting-." " I do not say it is not. Only j^ou are getting too excited, too excited." "Yes, I am getting- excited, and with reason! What? I see a man who owed everything to the late government and never bad a good word for this one ! and now he has gone over! All the same, your friend Montbreton is a wretched creature, a wretched creature ! " " Ah, my dear child, that is all very easy to say. When you have lived a little longer, life will make you more indulgent. You must be more gentle, my child you are young." " No, I have it in my blood. I am too thoroughly your daughter! I shall never know how to conceal my dislikes. I am made so, more's the pity ! Hut whenever I see anyone whom I know, or for the matter of that, whom I don't know, fail in what you and all men call honour, well, then my feelings are too much for me. I feel as if I were looking at a toad ! It makes me sick, it disgusts me. I trample upon it ! Tell me, is a man honourable simply because he never does anything to bring him within the reach of the law ? Is a man honourable who has committed in his life one action for which he blushes in solitude? Is a man honourable who has done things which, although he cannot be reproached or punished for them, nevertheless stain his conscience ? To my mind there are worse meannesses than cheating at cards ! And the indulgence of the world revolts me as though it were an accomplice. But there are such things as mean, dirty RENEE MAUPERIN. 159 tricks! When I think of it, I feel almo^it indulf^ent towards criminals ! At least they risk something, Their skin, their liberty are at stake ! They play a fair game with pjood money ; they do not commit infamies in gloves ! I like that letter ! at any rate it is less cowardly ! " Seated on the sofa at the end of the drawing-room, her arms crossed, her hands burning, her whole body trembling, Rene'e thus spoke in a vibrating, sharp voice, which plainly showed all the anger she was feeling. Her eyes shone like fire out of the shadow which was cast upon her face. "Your Monsieur Montbreton is a fine fellow!" she began again. " He has at least fifreen or sixteen thousand francs a ^-ear ! If he had taken a less expensive house, or if he had not had his daughters dressed by Madame Carpentier." " Ah, that deserves consideration," said Denoisel, " a bachelor with more than five thousand francs a year, or a married man with more than ten, can perfectly well afford to remain attached to an outgoing government. He can affcrd himself the luxury of regrets." " And he will go on expecting politeness from you, shakes of the hand, salutes! xVh, it's too much! I hope that when he comes here, papa I for one. shall leave the room." " Let me get you a glass of Avater, Ki'iK-e," said >ron- sieur Mauperin smiling. " You know that speakers You were really fine during one moment. You were e]o(|uent, it semed to ilow naturally." " Oh. yes, laugh at me if you like. You know I am excitable, you always tell me so. And your Montbreton. lUit after all what does it matter ! Tliis gentleman is not one of us, is he ? Ah. if anyone l)elongii!g to me did any- 160 RENEE MAUPERIN. thing like that, anything dishonourable, anything " She stopped short. " I think," she resumed with an effort, and as if tears were rising to her eyes, " I think I could not love him any more. Yes, I really think my heart would close itself against him." " Good, now the pathetic stop is turned on. Just now we had the little orator, here is the little girl now ! It would be much better for you to come and look at this volume of caricatures that Davarande has sent your mother." " Oh, show me ! " said Renee, running towards him. And leaning on her father's shoulder, as he was turning over the pages of the book, she looked at two or three pictures ; then turning away : "I have had enough of them. How can anj'one find amusement in making things uglier than they have been made by nature ! AVliat a curious idea. In books, and in art, I am all in favour of the beautiful, and not of the hideous. And. besides, cari- catures do not amuse me at all. They are like hunchbacks. A hunchback does not make me laugh. Do you like cari- catures, Denoisel? " " I ' No ; they make me crv. Really that sort of fun makes me miserable," answered Denoisel, taking up a review which lay on the table near the album. " To my mind it is a fossil family amusement. I cannot see a cari- cature lying on a table without thinking of a heap of lugubrious things: the spirit of the Directory, the draw- ings of Carle Vernet, and the gaiety of the middle-classes." " Thank you," said Monsieur Mauperin. laughing. '' and that is why you cut my ' Revue des deux Mondes ' witli a match, I suppose ! Denoisel you are a queer fellow." "Do you want a knife. Denoisel?" said Renee, and, plunging her hand into her pocket, slie brought out a RENEE MAUPERIN. 161 whole collection of odds and ends which she spread out on the table. " By George ! " said Denoisel, " your pocket is like a museum. There is enough in it to stock an auction-room. What are all these things ? " '' Presents, from somebody. And they go everywhere with me. There is the knife you asked for," and, showing it to her father as she handed it to Denoisel : " Do you remember that one, and where you bought it for me ? At Langres while we were changing horses. Oh ! it is old now ! This one," and she took up another, " you brought me back from Nogent. It has got a silver blade too, if j'ou please. I gave you a halfpenny for it, do you remember ? " "If we are to begin making an inventory of everything," said Monsieur Mauperin, amused. '' And what have we here?" asked Denoisel, pointing to a little, worn, fat pocket-book, out of which peeped various ragged and dirty bits of paper. ' Ha, those are my secrets." And picking up everything she had scattered about on the table, she put it all back into her pocket, with the pocket-book. Then, bursting out laughing, she hunted again, bruuglit out the pocket-book, and, pressing the spring, spread out in front of Denoisel, on the table, all the little papers it contained, recognising them one by one : *' See. that is a prescription given to papa when he was ill. That one is a poem he wrote for me two years ago, on my birthday." "Come. come, pack up your reliquary. Hide all those things." said Monsieur ^lauperin, as the door opened and Danlouillet came in. And with his hand he swept together all the papers. "Oh. you are putting them all wrong." said Reiu'e in aa angry voice, as she n-placed tlieui in her pocket-book. 1, XXIX. A MONTH later, in the little studio, Renee said to Denoisel : " Tell me, do you think I am very romantic ? " " Romantic, romantic ; first explain what you mean by romantic ? " " Oh, you know what I mean. I mean having ideas not like other people, dreaming of a lot of things that can never come to pass. For instance, a girl is romantic when she finds it difficult to marry, as other girls do, a man like other men, who has nothing extraordinary about him, who comes in by the door, and who is presented to one by papa and mamma, and who has not even saved one's life at first sight, by stopping one's runaway horse, or by drag- ging one out of a river. You do not think that I am made of that sort of stuff, I hope ? " " No; that is to say I know nothing whatever about it, and I bet that you know nothing about it yourself." " Nonsense ! Perliaps it i.s that I have so little imagination, but it has always seemed to me so funny to have an ideal, to dream of any one man ! It is the same with heroes in novels ; they never have had any attraction for me. They appear to me too well educated, too beautiful, to;) accom- plished. They are sickening, in hort. But that is not what I mean. Now you, if you were called upon to pass all your life, side by side with a being a being. " " A being, what do you mean ? " " Let me explain, With a man who did not in the least RENEE MAUPERIN. 163 respond to certain little delicate requirements of your nature, who did not seem to you poetical, who had not a scrap of poetry in him, but who, at the same time, redeemed all that was wantinfj to the other sides of his nature by a kind- heartedness, a kind-heartedness such as one does not often meet." " So much kind-heartedness as that ? Oh, I should not hesitate, I should take the kind-heartedness with my eyes shut ! It is so awfully rare." " You think highly of kind-heartedness, then ? " " I think highly of it, Renee, as one does of things one has lost." " You ? but you are so kind." " I am not wicked, and that is all. Perhaps I should be envious, if I had more modesty and less pride. But as to being good ; I am not good. Life cures you of that, as it does of childhood. One throws away one's heart, you see, Renee, when one sows one's wild oats." " Then in your opinion, goodness " " Yes, the goodness that can resist men and experience, the kind-heartedness that I have met with in its virgin state, in some two or three middle-class people in my life, to my mind is tlie best and most divine thing remain- ing in man." " Very well. But now let us suppose that a very kind- hearted man, such as you have mentioned, had feet which looked as though they were cut short in his boots, like a bit of cake ? Supposing that such a man were fat ? " \Vell, what of that? One looks neither at his feet, nor at hi.-j stomach ; that is all. But I beg your pardon for having entirely forgotten." What ? " ' Nothing ; that you are a woman." 164 RENEE MAUPERIN. " Do you know that that speech is very uncompHmentarj to my sex ? " Denoisel made no reply, and the conversation dropped. Eenee began again : " Have 3'ou ever wished for a fortune ? " " Yes, frequently ; but simply in order to treat it accord- ing to its deserts, to show that I have no respect for it." " Why so ? " " Yes, I have often wished to be rich in order to display the contempt I feel for money, and I can remember having fallen asleep two or three times with the idea of going to seek a wife in Italy." " In Italy ? " " Yes, there are more Russian princesses there than any- where else. And as it is only Russian princesses who now-a-days can afford to marry a man without a sixpence. Besides I would have been satisfied with a princess who was rather pressed for money. I was not particular. I would have gone down with pleasure to eight hundred thousand francs a year, but that was the very least I would have taken." " Thank you," said Renee, laughing. " And pray what would you have done with all that money ? " " It would have simply been like a stream running- through my fingers. I would have done something dazzling, which I have never seen rich people do. I think all the arch-millionaires disgraceful. Do you see any difference in fortune between the life of a man with a hundred thousand francs a year and that of a man with ten thousand? But with me you sliould have seen. Dur- ing a year I would have flung my million about recklessly, in all sorts of whims, and fancies, and follies. I would have bewildered and crushed Paris. I would have appeared RENEE MAUPERIN. 165 before it like a sun, vomiting- forth bank-notes. I would have defiled my money by all sorts of prodigality and extravagance, and at the end of a year, to the very day, I would have left my wife." " Bah ! " " Certainly ; to prove to myself that I did not love money. If I had not left her, I should have considered myself dishonoured." ' What extraordinary ideas ! I must admit that I have not yet reached such a height of philosophy as you. I should like a large fortune, all that it gives, the pleasures, the luxury, the horses, the carriages, and besides these, the delight of IxMug able to snub people whom one does not like, to annoy them. I should enjoy being rich." ' I was right just now, Rence, when I told you that you were a wuman, nothing but a woman." XXX. Denoirel spoke as he thought. If he had sometimes wished for a large fortune, he had never envied one. He had a sincere and heartfelt contempt for money, the con- tempt of a man who is rich on little. Denoisel was a Parisian, or rather he was the Parisian. Broken in to all the experiences of Paris, wonderfully trained in the great art of living by the rules of Parisian life, he was the man of that life : he possessed all its in- stincts, its feelings, its cleverness. He represented per- fectly that modern personage, the civilised man, triumphing day by day, as in a forest of Bondy, over the price of things, over the dearness of capitals, as the savage triumphs over nature in a virgin forest. He seemed to have all the appearance and glitter of wealth. He lived among rich people, dined at their restaurants and clubs, shared their customs, joined in their pleasures. Through his relations, he was mixed up with some very large fortunes. All that money can open was open to him. He was to be seen at all the large subscription balls at the " Proven9aux," at lace meetings, and at first nights at the tlieatres. In sunimei' he went to watering-places or to the sea, or to .'^ome gambling-place. He dressed like a man who keeps a horse. Denoisel. however, possessed barely twenty thousand francs. Sprung from a family which was buried in (jld-fasliioned ideas upon the subject of pioperty, attached, RENEE MAUPERIN. 107 and so to speak nailed to landed property, always talking of bankruptcy, and as mistrustful of the funds as a peasant used to be of a bank-note, Denoisel had shaken off the pre- judices of his people. Without heeding- the advice, the remonstrances, the anger, the threats of old and distant relations, he had sold the little farms which his parents left him. In his eyes there was no longer any proportion be- tween the revenue to be derived from hmd and the expenses of every-day life. In his opinion, landed property might have done very well as a means of fortune in the days of which Paul de Kock wrote, when he said in one of his novels : " Paul was rich ; he had six thousand francs a year." But since that time property had become, according to him, an anachronism, a sort of archaic possession whereof only the rich could afford themselves the enjoyment. So he sold, and made out of his land a little capital, which he invested. l\y the advice of a stock-broker who was a friend of his, in foreign funds, sliares, and stocks, which doubled and tripled his revenue withcMit incurring any risk to his bread and butter. Having thus made of his capital a sum without significance, except in the eyes of a lawyer, and whicli no Icjiiger intei'fered with his well-being, Denoisel arranirod his life as he had arranged his fortune. He reo-u- lated his expenses. lie knew perfectly well the cost, in Paris, of all that is ruinous, such as vanity, savouries at diiuKM-, and cheap bai'gains. He was not ashamed to add up a l)ill before paying it. Out of doors he never smoked any- thing but cigars that cost him fourpence apiece ; but at lioint' lie smoked a pipe. He knew liow to tind the best place for everything, of houses which npen and treat tlieir customers well during the first thret^ months. He knew the cellai-s oi all the restaurants; he would ask for (,'ham- bertin at such and such a place on the bijiilevard. and would 168 RENEE MAUPERIN. never call for it except there. If he gave a dinner, he knew how to arrange his bill of fare so as to command the waiter's "respect. And he was, above all, capable of supping- for a few shilling's at the Cafe Anglais. In everything he showed the same understanding about expenditure. He was dressed by one of the best tailors in Paris ; but a friend of his in the Foreign Office got over from London for him, through the Embassy bags, all his autumn clothes. Had he a present to give either for a wedding or the New Year, he knew what shop had just received a cargo of pretty things from India or China, or he remembered an old curiosity which he had seen in some out-of-the way street, some old bit of Dresden or Sevres, a curio of some kind to which the recipient vainly tries to fix a price, and of which he vainly dreams about the cost. All that, in Denoisel, was spontaneous, natural, instinctive. This continual victory which his Parisian intelligence gained over daily life escaped altogether the miseries and mean- nesses of calculation. It was a conglomeration of condi- tions which had happily come together in a happy existence, and not the result of petty economies. And while he was so carefully regulating the use of his yearly fifteen thousand francs, the man remained open and noble : he warded off an expense, he did not bargain with it. Denoisel lived on the first floor of a clean house, which had a carpeted staircase. He only had three rooms, but the Boulevard des Italiens was at his very door. And his little drawing-i'oom, which he had turned into a smoking- room, was charming. It was just one of those little su;i;ar- plum ])0xes that upholsterers in Paris make so admirably, all lined and smiling with gay chintz, and with divans in it as largo as beds. Denoisel wished that the absence of any objects (jf ai't should complete the brightness of this nxjm. RENEE MAUPERIN. 169 The hall porter waited on him, bringing him his cup of chocolate in the morning and doing his rooms. In the evening he would dine either at his club or at a restaurant, or with friends. The smallness of his rent, the simplicity of his attend- ance and of his housekeeping, left Denoisel a great deal of that spare cash which the richest people are often without, and wliich is more necessary in Paris than anywhere else pocket money. Nevertheless, sometimes that superior force, the Unexpected, would fall into the middle of his life, and would disarrange its equilibrium and the budget. Then Denoisel would disappear from Paris for some time; he would go and ruralise in some inn in the country, near a river, where he paid three francs a day, and spent nothing else except on his tobacco. Finding himself quite without money during two or three winters, he had emigrated, and having found a town like Florence where happiness costs nothing, and where daily life costs but little more than happiness, he had stayed there six months, lodged in an attic, eating truffles and Parmesan cheese at a restaurant, passing his evenings in the smartest opera-boxes, going to the balls given by the Grand Duke, made much of, run after, always wearing white camellias, and economising merrily all the time. Denoisel spent little more on love than on anything else ; as he had divested it of all personal vanity, lie only paid his own price for it. However, on lii'st entering life, it had Ix'en his only attraction, but it was an attraction whicii he had always kept undtn- and within limits. lie liad wished to exporitMice the pleasure of living like a lord with the most cxjii'iisive woman in Paris. For this pleasure lie allowed himself sixty thousand francs out of the hundred and eighty tliousand that he then [possessed, and he lived for 170 RENEE MAUPERIN. six months with the Genicot in the way that a man with a hundred and twenty thousand francs a year, keeping' a woman who would give a tip of a hundred francs to a postilion coming back from the races, might live. At the end of six months he left this woman in love, for the first time in her life, with a man who had paid her. Tempered by this experience, he had thenceforward only allowed himself temporary bonds. Suddenly, when he was beginning to discover the monotony of venal love, there had come upon him not a great desire for adventures, but a great curiosity as to womankind. He began to pursue the unexpected, the unlocked for, and the unknown. Actresses all seemed to him the same courtesan, courtesans all seemed more or less the same actress. What attracted him was the unclassed woman, the woman who puzzles the observer and the oldest Parisian. He often took long- walks at night, vaguely and irresistibly attracted by one of those creatures who are neither all vice nor all virtue, and who walk so prettily through the mud. Sometimes he was dazzled by one of those beautiful Parisian girls, who seem to make daylight as they pass, and he would forget himself and stand looking for her long after she had disappeared in the darkness of a side street. His vocation was to pick stars out of the mud. Occasionally he would bring out of her slum one of those marvels of the people of nature, would make her talk, would look at her, would listen to her, would study her, and then, when he was tired of her, he would put her into circulation, and would amuse himself by bowing to her when she passed him in her carriage. Denoisel's appeai'ance of fortune had secured him a good reception from the world. He soon established himself in society on a good footing, and people soon began to want him on account of the gaiety he brought with him, the wit REN^E MAUPERIN. 171 that he scattered, and the kindnesses that he was always ready to perform. The friendship which he extended to foreigners, artists, and theatrical people, his knowledge of all the ins and outs of everything-, made him invaluable on many occasions. Did a person want a box at a theatre, or permission to visit a prison or a private picture gallery, or a place in the assize court for a lady, or a foreign decora- tion for a man, he applied to Denoisel. On the two or three occasions on which he had acted as second in duels he had displayed determination, decision, a manly care for the honour as well as for the life for which he was responsible. The obligations which many people were under to him were in no wise diminished by the knowledge that he was a past master of the art of fencing. His character had gained him esteem, and he had come to be respected even by rich people, for whose millions, however, he himself had little reverence. XXXI. Well, now, my wife wanted to liave her portrait painted by Monsieur Ingres. You have seen it. It is not the least hke her, but it is by Monsieur Ingres. Guess what he charged me for doing it ? Ten thousand francs ! I gave them to him, but I think it is a robbery ; everyone wars against capital. What, because a man has a reputa- tion, is he to charge me what he pleases ? Is he to have no scale of charges, no tariff, simply because he is an artist ? In that case he might ask a million ! It is the same with the doctors who charge their patients according to their fortunes. Besides, does anyone know how much I have got? It is iniquitous. Yes, ten thousand francs; what do you think of that ? " And Monsieur Bourjot, who was standing near the fire talking to Denoisel. shifted his position from one foot to the other. " Upon my word ! " said Denoisel quite gravely, " you are right. All those people take an unfair advantage of their reputation. 1 can only see one way of putting a stop to it, which would be to decree a legal maximum for talent, a maximum for masterpieces. It would be very simple." " Quite truc>." said Monsieur Bourjot, " that would be the way. And it would be perfectly fair, for really " The Bourjots had dined quietly that ('V(Miiiig with the Mauperins. The two families were talking over the mar- riage, of which, in order to fix the day, they were only waiting for the expiration of the delay of a year after the RENEE MAUPERIN. 173 first insertion of the name of Villacourt in the "Moniteur." Monsieur Bourjot had insisted upon this delay. The women were all talking of the trousseau, of the cashmere shawls, of the jewellery. Madame Mauperin, seated near Madame Bourjot, was contemplating' her as she might have contem- plated a person who had performed a miracle. Monsieur Mauperin's face was radiant with happiness. Monsieur Mauperin had at last allowed himself to be dazzled by money. This honest, pure, severe, rigid, incor- ruptible man, had little by little, allowed this great wealth of the Bourjots' to filter into his thoughts, to form part of his dreams, to whisper to, and to touch his instincts, which were those of a piactical and commercial man who was old, and tlie father of a family. He was seduced and disaimed. Since the success of his son's engagement, he had felt for him the sort of esteem that one feels for a talent or a fortune which suddenly reveals itself, and, without ac- knowledging the difference in his feeling towards him. he was no longer angry with him for changing his name. Fathers are human after all. Renee, who, for some time past had appeared bored, sad, and moody, was almost gay that evening. She was amus- ing herself by blowing alxiut the featliei's which Naomi wore in lu'r hair. The latter, idle and self-absorbed, her eyes half closed, answered by monosyllables the ceaseless chatter of ^Madame Davarande. '' Nowadays, everything is against money," said Monsieur Bouijot senteutiously. Thei'e is a league against it. Now. at Saiinois. 1 have just finislied making a road. Well, do you suppose they touch their hats to us? Not a bit of it. in '!'"' we gave them sacks of coi'u. and what do you sujipose tliey said? "That pig,' 1 beg your pardon, ladies. must Ih' in a fright ! ' That was the only thanks I 174 REN^E MAUPERIN. g-ot. I found a model farm, and ask the government to send me a director for it ; they send me down a red re- publican, a scoundrel who spends most of his time in blating ag-ainst the rich. And now I have on hand a tiresome piece of business with our wretched municipal council. I find work for them, do I not ? We are the wealth of the neighbourhood. Nevertheless, I feel positive that were a revolution to break out, they would set fire to my house. Oh, they w^ould not care ! You have no idea what a number of enemies you make in a place by paying- nine thousand francs in taxes every year. They would burn us without more ado. You saw them in February. Oh, the people ! I have changed all my old opinions about them, and they are preparing a pleasant future for us too. I know we shall be devoured by people without a halfpenny. I prophecy. You will see. Those ideas often come to me. If one had no cliildren, for I don't care about money. " What are you talking about, neighbour ? " said Mon- sieur Mauperin as he came up. " 1 am saying that I fear that some day our children will have no bread, Monsieur Mauperin. That is what I am talking alwut." " You will prevent them from marrying ! " said Monsieur Mauperin. " Oh, if Monsieur Bourjot is bringing out all his de- spondent views, and beginning to talk about the end of the world," said Madame Bourjot. " I congratulate you, madame, on not having my worries," said Monsieur Bourjot, bowing to his wife, ''but I assure you that, without being over-nervous, there is plenty to make one uneasy." " Certainly, certainly," said Denoisel, " I agree with Monsieur Bourjot in thinking that property is threatened, RENEE MAUPERIN. 175 seriously threatened, dangerously threatened, first of all by envy, which is the fount of nearly all revolutions, and then by progress, which baptises them." " But, sir, such progress as that will be infamous. For I am not suspected. I have been a liberal ; I am one still. 1 am a soldier of liberty. I am a republican by birth. I am in favour of all progress. But a revolution against money would be barbarous. It would be a return to a savage state. We must have justice, and good sense. Can you imagine a state of society without property ? " " No more than I can a greasy pole without a silver cup." " Do you mean to tell me," continued Monsieur Bourjot without overhearing Denoisel, and getting more and more excited, " that what I have gained by my hard work, and by my industry and honesty, what is mine, what I have ac- quired, the inheritance of my children, is not the most sacred thing in the world ? I already regard taxation as an attack upon property." " I entirely agree with you," said Denoisel in a tone of perfect good humour, " I quite agree with you, and I should he sorry," added he spitefully, ' to paint things to you in blacker colours than those in which you already see them. I5ut tlie first revolution was directed against the nobility, the next will be against the wealthy. They cut off tlie heads of all the fine old names, they will next suppress all the large fortunes. It was once a crime to be a Monsieur de ]\loiitomorency, it will soon be criminal to be Monsieur Fifty- tin msaiid-a-year. That is evidently tlie direction which things are taking. I am s^iecially qualified to speak to you upon the sul'ject. as I am a most disinterested person. In the old days there would have been no reason to guillotine me, now 1 have nothing to lose. Tlierefore " '* Allow me, sir," said Monsieur Bourjot with solemnity, 176 RENEE MAUPERIN. " You are jumping to a conclusion. No one deplores excesses more than I do. '93 was a great crime, sir. The aristocracy were abominably treated, and upon that point there can be but ine opinion amongst honest men." Monsieur Mauperin smiled, remembering the Bourjot of 1822. " But now," continued Monsiour Bourjot, " the situation is no longer the same. Society is renewed. Its foun- dations have been restored. Everything is changed. The people had reasons, pretexts, if you prefer it, against the aristocracy. The Revolution of '89 was directed against privileges, which it is not for me to condemn, but which existed. That was a very different state of affairs. The people wanted equality. It was more or less legiti- mate, but at any rate there was some sense in it. But now, I ask you, where are the privileges ? One man is as good as another. Have we not universal suffrage ? You say: 'Money.' But every one can make money all trades are open." " Except those which are not." " Well, at any rate, every one can attain to everything. Intelligence and hard work are the only requisites." " And circumstances," said Denoisel. " They can be created, sir ! but look at society now. We are all sprung from nothing. My father was a cloth-merchant, wholesale, it is true, and you see that is equality, sir, the real, true equality. Thei'e is no longer such a thing as caste. The middle-classes rise frmn the populace, the populace can rise to the middle-classes. I could have found a count for my daiiglitci' had I wished. But now, against fortune, we liave all the bad instincts, the bad passions, Communistic ideas ; people declaim alxjut RENEE MAUPERIN. 177 misery. Well, I declare to you, that never has so much been done for the people as now. Comfort is making- huge strides in France ! People who never used to taste meat, now eat it twice a week. Those are facts. I am sure that our young- economist. Monsieur Henry, will tell us," " Yes, yes," said Ilenry, " that is proved. In twenty-five years the increase in cattle has been twelve per cent. If you divide the population of France into twelve millions of townspeople, and twenty-four or twenty-five millions of country-people, you will find that the former consume, by the year and by person, about 65 kilog-rams, and the latter 20 kilograms, 26 centigrams. I will answer for the figures. What is quite certain is, that the most careful census shows, in France, since 1789, an increase of about ten years to the ordinary life of a man, and that progress is the surest pro man is as gotid as 178 RENEE MAUPERIN, another ? doubtless, in the eyes of God, and every one in this nineteenth century has the rig-ht to wear a black coat so long as he has the wherewithal to pay for it. Shall I sum up modern equality for you in one word? It is equality in presence of the conscription : every one takes his chance, but three thousand francs give you the rig-ht to send some one to be killed in your place. You speak of privileges, and say truly that there are none now ; but the Bastille is destroyed, only it has left little ones behind. For instance, take a Court of Law ; and I am the first to recog-nise that it is there that a man's position, his name, his money, g-o for the very least and are not considered ; very well, suppose you commit a crime and are a peer of France ; they will spare you the scaffold and allow you to take poison. Observe that I think they are quite right. I only quote it to show you how fast inequalities grow ; and, upon my word ! when I see how much g-round they cover now, I wonder where there was room for any others. Hereditary rights say you ? There is one of the things that the revolution hoped to have killed and buried, an abuse of the old state of things against Avhich enoug-h outcry w^as raised. I ask you now whether the son of a great political light does not inherit his father's name and all the advantages accompanying that name, his con- stituency, his acquaintances, his place in the world, his chair in the Academy ? We are overrun with sons at present ! We have got nothing else : they fill up every career ; their re- versionary interests bar the road to every one else. Customs, do you see, are stronger than laws. You are money, and you say: 'Money is sacred.' Pray why? You say: 'We have no caste.' No, but you are already a new aristocracy whose insolence lias already outdone the impertinence of the oldest aristociacies on the face of the earth. There is no court at this RENEE MAUPERIN. 179 moment, and there never has been one in history, I believe, where one Avould have to put up with more contempt than in the ofBce of some rich banker who has never accompanied to his door more than two people in his life ! You speak of bad instincts, of evil passions. What can you expect ? the middle-class rule is not likely to elevate minds. The upper ranks of society can digest and arrange matters ; the lower ranks cannot ; they have no ideas, only appetites. In former times when, by the side of money, there was something that was lx)th above it as well as beside it, people could afford, in a time of revolution, not to demand money too abruptly, not to require the common change of coai'se pleasure, they could satisfy themselves by changing the colours on a Hag, or by writing a few words over a l)arracks. or by gaining some generous and hollow victory. But nowadays ! nowadays we know where is the heart of Pans; they will stoim the Bank rather than the Hotel de Ville ! Ah ! the middle-class have made i^ne grand mistake." " Whicli is?" asked Monsieur Bourjot, quite taken aback by Dennisel's outbreak. " That of not leaving Paradise in Heaven, which was its proper place. Tlie day on which the poor no longer atnsdled themselves l)y saying that the next life would make up to them for this, the day on whicli [hv people gave up looking for happiness in the next world was a Lad day. Voltaire did a givat deal of harm to the ricli ! " All! how right you are I" exclaimed Mon>ieur Bourjot with enllmsiasin. "It is quite clear I All those black- guaids ought to be made to go to church." XXXII. There were great rejoicings at the Bourjots', who had determined to announce, by means of a ball, the approach- ing marriage of their daughter with Monsieui' Mauperin de Villacourt. " What a good time you seem to be having 1 How you are dancing!" said Rene'e to Xaomi, as she fanned herself with her pocket handkerchief in a corner of the big drawing- room. ' That is quite true ; I never danced so much before," and Naomi, taking her arm, dragged her away into a smallcr*foom. * No, never," she repeated. And dl'a^ving Rene'e toAvards her, she kissed her. " Oh, how good it is to bo happy !" And kissing her again witli feverish excitement, she con- tinued : " She no longer loves him ! I am sure she does not love him any more ! Foi'merly, do you see. she showed her love for him by the way she got up when he came in ; she loved him with her eyes, with her voice, with her breath, with the noise of hei- gown ! with everything ! When he was not there. I felt, 1 cannot explain how, that her thoughts and her silence were loving him I A stupid creature like T ! Are you not astonished that I should have noticed all that ? Rut there are some things that I understand through this." and she laid Renee's hand on her gown of white moii'e anti(iue, in the place of her heart, and this is never wrono." RENEE MAUPERIN. 181 " And now you love hira, yourself?" inquired Kenee. Naomi closed her mouth by laying- upon it gently her bouquet of roses. " Mademoiselle, you promised me the first polka." And a young- man carried off Naomi, who, as she passed througli the door, turned and kissed her hand to Renee. Naomi's avowal had sent a thrill of pleasure through Renee. She was penetrated with the laughter of her love. She felt an immediate relief. In a moment everything changed in her eyes ; and the thought, " She loves him ! " carried before it all other ideas. She lost sight of the shame and of the crime that she had hitherto teen only able to see in this marriage. She kept repeating to herself that Naomi loved him, that they loved each other. All the rest was the past; a past which they would both forget Naomi by dint of forgiving it, Henry by dint of atoning for it. Suddenly a flash of memory came over her, a thought which caused her disquiet, a vague fear. But at that moment she was determined not to see any black clouds upon the horizon, nor anything threatening in the future. Chasing it away, she returned veiy (piickly to Naomi and hei- brother. She thought of their wedding-day, of their hous(>li(ld ; and she seemed to hear little baby voices sayinu" to her, " Auntie .'" " .Mademoiselle, will you do me the honour of dancing any dance you like with me?" It was Denoisel who stdod bowing before her. ' We need not dance together, yuu and I ; we know eacli iither much too well. Come and sit here, and don't cnuni)lt> my gown. Well ! Why are you looking at me ?" Rent-e wore a gown of wliite tulle, trimmed with seven little tlounces. and spi'inkled over, lu're and tluM-(\ witli leaves of ivy and little red beri'ies, wliicli were repeated (ju 182 RENEE MAUPERIN. her g-athered bodice and on the tulle trimming-s of her sleeves. A long wreath of ivy, dotted with the same little red berries, was twisted round the plaits of her hair, and fell on her shoulders in two g-reen trails. Her head, some- what thrown back, rested on the sofa. Her beautiful chestnut hair, drawn to the front of her head, covered the upper part of her shining- forehead. A dark and tender lig-ht, a soft and deep fire escaped from her eyes, which were brown, veiled by their lashes, and swimming-, and from her g-lances, which were invisible. The lig-ht played upon her cheeks. Shadow tickled the corners of her mouth, and her lips, generally closed in a somewhat haughty little pout, were, this evening, open and unclosed, and half showed the smile of her soul. A reflection of light just touched her chin ; on her neck, a necklace of shadow seemed to flicker at every movement of her head. She looked charm- ing, her features lost in the brilliancy which fell from the lustres, the shape of her face concealed in a child-like happiness, as though in sunshine. " You are very pretty this evening, Renee." "Ah, this evening? " " Well, in truth, during these last days you have looked so bored and so sad. Pleasure suits you much better." ' Do you think so ? Can you dance ? " " As if 1 had learned : very badly. But a minute ago you refused me a turn." " Did I really ? I am very anxious to dance. Besides we have lots of time. Do not look at your watch. I do not want to know the time. So you think I am m'-ny? Well, you are wrong. I am not meiiy. I am liappy, very happy, there ! Denoisel, when y(ju are loitering a!^)Ut Paris, you must have seen those old women in white cotton caps, wlio sell matches at the street corners. RENEE MAUPERIN. 183 You will g-ive a sovereig-n to each of the fii'st five that you come across. I will pay you back. I have g-ot some saving's. Don't forg-et. Is the same valse still going' on ? Did I really refuse to dance with you ? Well, hencefor- ward I mean to dance everything without looking- at my partners ! They may be as ugly as you please, they may wear patched boots, they may talk to me about Shake- speare and the musical glasses, they may be too little or too tall, they may reach to my elbow, or I to their waists, they may have no ear for music, or they may have hot hands. I will take them all ! That is how I feel to-night, and now say, if you can, that I am not good-natured." A man's head appeared through the doorway (jf the little drawing-room. Davaiaude, come and give me a turn." cried Rene'e, and, as she passed Denoisel, she whi.spered to him : " You se<> I am l^eginuiug with the family." XXXIII. "What is the matter with your mother this evening-?" Denoisel asked Renee. They were alone. Madame Mau- perin had just g-one upstairs to her bedroom. Monsieur Mauperin was going- his rounds in the workshops, where the men were busy that night. " She seemed to be in a temper." " In a horrible temper ; out with it !" "What is the matter?" " Ah, that is the question." And Renee beg-an to laugh. " I have just refused another offer ; nothing- more." " Another ? It seems to be a specialty of yours ! " " Oh, this is only the fourteenth ; quite a moderate number still. And it is you who made me refuse it." ' I ? What do you mean ? ^Vhat had I to do with it ?" Renee rose from her chair, buried her hands in her pockets, and began to walk up and down the drawing- room. From time to time she stopped short, and pirouetted on her heels, emitting at the same time a sort of whistle. "Yes, you!" she repeated, coming back to Denuisel. "What should you say if 1 told you I had refused two millions r " " Those millions must have Ix^eii a good deal ast(jnished at you!" " I must say that I was not tempted. I don't wish to make myself out sti'onger than 1 am. I never pretend when I am with you. But, all tlif same. I was very nearly RENEE MAUPERIN. 185 caug-h tat one moment. It was Monsieur Barousse who had manag-ed it all very kindly. You will understand how they worked at me here. Mamma and Henry were for ever at me. I was worried the whole day long. And then, besides, I let myself dream a little too. At any rate, I slept very badly for two nig-hts. Millions seem to bring- sleeplessness. I must also say, to be just to myself, that all through it I thought a great deal of papa. Wouldn't he have been proud, eh ? How he would have revelled in my two hundred thousand francs a year ! You know how vain he is on my behalf. Do you remember his famous outburst: 'A son-in-law who would allow my daughter to go in an omnibus ! ' lie was splendid ! And then you come in yes, you ; your ideas, your paradoxes, your theories, all sorts of things that you have said to me. I remember your contempt for money ; it gains upon me as I think about it. And one fine morning, bang ! I kick over the traces. You are getting too much influence over me, my friend, decidedly." "1,1 am a fool. I am so sorry. I thought it was not catching. Really and truly it was I ! " " Yes, you. in a great measure, and also partly he" "Ah!" ' Yes. partly Monsieur Lemeunier. When I felt that fortune was beginning to intoxicate me, when I had too great a desire t(j become Madame Lemeunier, I looked at him. Little did you think how truly you spoke to me the olhiT day. I felt that I was a woman, and you don't know Imw much I felt it ! But against that. I saw huw good he was. I can't give you an idea of his g(jodness. It was in vain that 1 turm'd hiui round and I'ound again, studying hiiu from eveiy point of view, b(>cause at last, his p-Mt'ccti^n woriied nic. Well. I could lind noiliint;-: He whs "ood 186 RENEE MAUPERIN. wherever you looked at him. In that respect he was very different to Reverchon and the others ! Can you beheve that he said to me: 'Mademoiselle, I know that I do not please you; but let me wait until I displease you rather less.' He was too touching-. There were days on which I felt inclined to say to him : ' How would it be if we were to mingle our tears?' Fortunately, when he made me feel inclined to cry, papa, on the other hand, made me feel inclined to laugh. Poor father ! he did look so funny, half happy and half sad. I never saw such resigned happiness. His sorrow at losing me, and his happiness at seeing me make a good marriag-e, caused in his heart a curious mixty- maxty of feeling- ! Ah, well, it's all over now, thank g-oodness ! Have you noticed how papa looks crossly at me whenever mamma is looking our way ? But his cross- ness is all sham. lu his heart of hearts I know he is very pleased with me. I can see that." XXXIV. Denoisel was in Henry Mauperin's rooms. They were sitting near the fire, smoking-. They suddenly heard a noise of an altercation in the ante-room ; and, almost im- mediately, the door was burst violently open, and a man entered roughly, pushing- aside the servant who attempted to bar the passage. " Monsieur Mauperin de Villacourt ? " said he. '' I am he, sir." And Henry rose from his chair. " Good. My name is Boisjorand de Villacourt." And with the back of his huge hand he marked Henry Mauperin's face with blood. At the blow, and bleeding freely, Henry became as white as the silk necktie which he was wearing-. He stooped as if to spring upon his assailant ; but he suddenly drew himself up, stretched out his hand towards Denoisel, who had thnjwn himself betAveen them, calmly foldt'd his arms, and said in his coldest voice : " I think I understand you, sir. You are of opinion that there is a Villacourt too many in the world ; and so am I." The intruder, in pi'esence of this calm man (jf the world, became confused, took off his hat, wliich. TUitil then, he had kei)t on his head, and tried to stammer out a sentence. Will you be so kind, sir." broke in Heni-y, "as to leave your address with my servant ^ 1 will send to you to- morrow," 188 RENEE MAUPERIN. " What a tiresome business ! " said Henry, when he was alone with Denoisel. " But where does this Villacourt spring from ? They told me there were no more of them. Hulloa ! I am bleeding," continued he, wiping his face. " What a lout ! George," cried he to his servant, " bring me some water." " You will choose swords, will you not ? " asked Denoisel. " Give me a walking-stick. Now, listen to me. You put yourself on guard as far from him as you can, and engage very little of your sword. This man is hot-blooded, makes a rush at you, and you break with circular parries. And when you find yourself hard pressed, when he throws him- self wildly upon you, you recoil on the right side of your left foot by turning on the point of your right foot, like that. He has nothing in front of him then, you catch him sideways, and spit him like a frog." " No," said Henry, raising his head from the basin in which he was sponging his face, " no, not swords." " But, my dear fellow, evidently this man is a sportsman ; he must be accustomed to handle fire-arms." " My friend, circumstances alter cases. I have taken a name, which is always a ridiculous thing to do. A man appears and accuses me of having st(jlen it. I have enemies, in fact, I have a good many ; people will make a great talk about it. I must kill this gentleman ; that is evident ; it is the only means of clearing my position. Thereby I stop everything, the law-suit, the stories, the gossip, everything ! Why sh(nild you expect me to take the sword for that ? With a sword one kills a man who has had five years in a fencing-school, and who knows how to fence, who offei'S you his breast in the place in which you naturally lo(jk foi' it in a bout, but a man who does not know how to use his sword, wlio jumps, dances, RENEE MAUPERIN. 189 treats it like a stick, I should wound him, and that would be all. And besides, I am rather good with the pistol. I have taken pains with it. You will do "me the justice to acknowledge that I have chosen my accomplishments well. And besides, I want to hit him there," and he touched Denoisel just above the hip, "there, do you see? because, higher up, it is bad ; the arm saves you, whereas here, you catch a whole lot of little machines of primary importance ; there is especially that good bladder, and if you have the good luck to hit it, and it happens to be full, it means Carrel's peritonitis, my friend ! So you will choose the pistol for me ; a walking duel, do you under- stand ? And I wish to have it kept as secret as possible, that no one should know anything of it beforehand. Whom will you take with you ? " " Suppose I take Dardouillet ? He has served in the INrounted National Guard ; I will make an appeal to his military instincts." " Very good ; he will do. Go first to my mother ; she will be expecting me. Tell her I cannot go to see her bi'fore Thursday. We cannot have her coming in here just now. I shall not go out. I shall bathe my face so ;is tt) make myself more presentable. Is there a very bad mark ? I shall have some dinner brought up to me here, and 1 shall devote my evening to doing the little writing that has always to be dovic on these occasions. By-the- bye, if you see this gentleman's seconds to-morrow morn- ing, why should we not fight in the afternoon, at four o'clock? It is just as well to get it over. To-morrow, you will find me here all day. or else at the shooting- gallery. Make any ariangements you please alK)ut it. and thank you in advance. At four o'clock, eh, if possiole?" XXXV. The name of the farm that Henry Mauperin had added to his patronymic, in order to ennoble it, happened by a curious but not unprecedented chance, to be the name of a seiguorial property in Lorraine, and of a family once famous, but now so forg-otten that it was supposed to be extinct. The man who had just struck him was the last of the Villacourts, who took their name from the domain and castle of Yillacourt, situated about ten miles from Saint Mihiel, and owned by them from time immemorial. In 1303, Ulric de Villacourt was one of the three nobles who affixed their seals to the will of Ferry, Duke of Lorraine, at the express order of that prince. Under Charles the Bold, (xantonnet de Villacourt, who was taken prisoner while fighting against the Messinians, only obtained his liberty by giving his word not to mount a horse, or to carry warriors' arms any more ; thencefor- ward he rode a mule, clothed himself in hides, and armed with a heavy iron bar, returned to the field braver and more terrible than ever. To Maheu de Villacourt. who married successively Gigonne de Malain, and Christine de Gliseneuve, between whom, until the time of the Revolu- tion, he was to 1)0 seen represented in mai-hle in the church of the Cordeliers at Saint Mihiel. Duke Denci gave permission U) take eiglit hundred ilorins out of the con- RENEE MAUPERIN. 191 trilmtion levied from the town of Lig-ny, to repay him- self the ransom which he had had to pay after the dis- astrous battle of Bulg-neville. Remade de Villacourt, son of Maheu, was killed in 147G, in the battle given by Duke Rene, before Nancy, to Charles the Rash. Hubert de Villacourt, son of Remade, seneschal of the district of Barrois, and baillie of Bassig-ny, followed Duke Anthony, in the capacity of standard-bearer, through tlio wars in Alsace ; while his brother, Bonaventure, a monk of the strict order of St. Francis, became three times triennial superior of his order, confessor of the Dukes of Lorraine, Anthony and Francis; and one of his sisters, Salmone, was chosen abbess of Saint Glossinde of :\retz. Jean-Marie de Villacourt attached himself to the service of France. After the battle of Landrecies, the king knighted him and gave him the accolade. He was at once given the command of a body of three hundred foot soldiers, had an allttwance made to him as the king's master-of-the horse, afterwards promoted to be captain of Vaucouleurs. and finally governor of Langres. lie had married a sister of Jean de Chaligny. th( master-founder of artillery in F^orraine. who made the famous culverin that measured twenty-two feet. His bi-oiher. I'hililx'rr, was captain of Chai'les IX. 's reiters;" Ills Unit her (lasiun was cel<'bi-ated as a duellist ; it was he will) killed Captain Cliamln'ulard wilh two lilows of his sword, behind the Carthusian Chui'ch in Pai'is, and in pri'- sence (if four thousand peopl(\ Jean-!Mai-ie Iiad still anothei' l)roth(M', Agnus, wlio was canon of Toul and arch- deaeou of Tonnerrois ; and a sister. Archangel, who was abbess of .^aiiit-Maui'. at Vei'dun. Thi'U canu' William de Villacourt. wlio took part against Louis XIII. He was cil)liged to surrender at discretion 192 RENEE MAUPERIN. with Charles de Lenoncourt, who defended the town of Saint Mihiel, and he shared with him four years of im- prisonment in the Bastille. His son, Charles Mathias de Villacourt, married, in 1656, Marie Dieudonnee, daughter of Claude de Jeandelincourt, master of the salt mines at Chateau-Salins. By her he had fourteen children, of whom ten were killed in the service of Louis XIV. ; Charles, captain in the Regiment du Pont, killed at the siege of Philisbourg ; John, killed at the battle of Xerwiude ; Anthony, captain in the Normandy regiment, killed at the siege of Fontarabia ; James, killed at the sieg-e of Belle- garde, where he happened to be by special leave of the king ; Philip, captain of grenadiers in the dauphin's regi- ment, killed at the battle of ]\Iarsaille ; Thibalt, captain in the same regiment, killed at the battle of Hochstett ; Peter Francis, commanding the Lyons regiment, killed at the battle of Fleurus ; Claude Marie, commanding the Perigord regiment, killed at the passage of La Hague ; Edme. lieu- tenant in his brother's regiment, killed at his side in the same affair ; and, lastly, Gerard, knight of the order of St. John of Jerusalem, killed in 1700 in a fight between four galleys of the true faith against one Turkish man-of-war. Of the three daughters of Charles Mathias, one, Lydia, married the loi'd of Majastre. governor of Epinal ; the two others, Bertha and Phoibe, died unmarried. The eldest son of Charles Mathias. Louis Aime de Villa- court, who had served for eiglitecn years and had quitted the service after the battle of Malplaquet, died in 1702. His son quitted Villacourt, estalJished himself in Paris, took to gambling, and lost the remains of a fortune already seriously undermined by tlic failure of a lawsuit counnenced by his fathei' against tlie d"llarauc(>urt>^. He went on playing in the hope of recovering his fuitunc. iiin more deeply into RENEE MAUPERIN. 193 debt, and returned to Villacourt, married to a person of the name of Carroug-e, who had kept a gambling--he]l in Paris, lie died in 17i")2, owning- scarcely anything- except the walls of his castle, leaving- a name tarnished, and whose honour was waning. Of the two children of this marriag-e, a son and a daug'hter, the latter became maid-of -honour to the empress- queen ; the son remained at Villacourt, leading- in a paltry and ignoble manner the life of a country s(juire. At the time of the alx)lition of privileg-es, in 1790, lie renounced his seig-nory. and took to living- on a footing- of equality and companionship with the peasants until 171)2, the year of his death. His son. John, lieutenant in the Royal Liege regi- ment in 1787. chanced to find himself in the skirmish at Nancy, emigrated, went through the campaig-ns of 1792 to 1801 in the Miiabeau regiment, which was afterwards called the Rog-(n- de Damas. and in the J^ourbon grenadiers in CoikU-'s army. On the loth of August. 179G. he was wounded in the head at the battle of Oberkamlach. In 1M()2 he retuiiied to France, bring-ing- with him a wife whom he had married in tierniany. and who died leaving- him four sons. His wound had resulted in cerel)ral weakness which was almost softening- of the brain. Little by little, disorder in- creased in the house without a housekeeper, and the open tal)le tliat he kept t'oi-ced him gradually to sell the little land whicli still lieloun-ed to the castle. lV\t by bit. tlie stinetui-e itself was t'alHug away. It was no longer re- paifed. and there was no money wlKM>'with to pay tlio woiiuneii. 'I'lio wiml blew througli it, the rain came in every wliei'(\ 'I lie family gradi'.ally ret reated. g'oing- from I'oom to room, timling shelter wlii're\-er the roof was sound, biit this did imt trouble him in the least; he would 194 RENEE MAUPERIN. sit sunning himself on an old stone bench in the orchard, near an old sun-dial, the hours on which had long since been effaced, and after two or three cups of brandy he would amuse himself by ci'lling- over the hedge to any passers-by, and inviting them to come in and drink with him. Meanwhile misery and ruin were on the increase in the castle. Of the plate there only remained a silver salad- bowl, out of which an old horse named Brouska, which had been brought from Germany by the emigrant, and which was allowed to wander in perfect liberty through the ground floor of the house, used to eat. The four sons grew up as the castle was going to pieces, n the wind and the rain, in hardships, neglected, abandoned by their father, and receiving the most desultory lessons from the parish priest. Living the life of peasants, taking part in their work and in their games, they became real peasants, and the most renowned both for strengtii and courage in the neighbourhood. At the death of tlieir father, the four brothers agreed to sell to the first purchaser all that remained of the stones of their castle, in consideration of a few hundred francs where- with to pay the most pressing debts, and an annual sum of five hundred francs to 1)e paid until the death of the last of them. Tlien they dived into the woods which surrounded the property that had been tlieii's. and lived with the wood- cutters and like them, making of their huts theii' dwellings, making love t(j the same women as they did. and peopling the fcjrest with a bastard lace which was a cross between Villacourt and nature, and wiiosf very language was not even Fienrh. A few foimor comi'ados-in-arms of John de Villacourt had. indeed, after his deatli. tried to do something foi- liis children. People were intfrested in this name ^\hi(h had RENEE MAUPERIN. 195 fallen from such a height to such a depth. In 1826, the younp-pst of them was brought to Paris, being little more than sixteen years old. The little savage was dressed, and was presented to the Duchess d'Angouleme ; he put in two or three appearances in the drawing-rooms of the Minister for \Var, who was related to his family and very anxious to serve him ; but at the end of a week, feeling himself stifled in those drawing-rooms and in those clothes, he bolted like a young wolf; he returned straight to his lair, and never left it afterwards. Of the four Villacourts but one was alive twenty years latei' ; it was ]u\ His three brothei's had all died violent deaths successively, one from health, one from drink, and the last from lilows, beaten and tlii-aslied out oi life. Sur- I'ouuded by the bastards they liad left, this survivor (;f the Villacourts held, in the woods, the p)sition of a tribal chief when, in 18.')4, tlie law was passed relating- to shooting. The laws. tlH> guaids. the verdicts, tlie fines, the cctnfisca- tions, the slavery of spjrt, that is to say of his life, the fear of yielding to anger and of sending a bullet tln'ough a keeper, all helped to disgust liiui with his country, with France, with that corner of the earth which no longer be- longed to him. The idt'a occuiTed to him to go to America in oixler to be at lilx'ity. to have plenty of room, and to hunt in viigin forests without any gun licenses. He went as far as Paris, meaning to embaik at Havre; Imwcver, he had not sufli- cient money to defray tlu' cost of the voyage. He fell back upiii Africa. Itut there again he found Franci'. with its administiatiniis. its police, and its gamekeepeis. He oli- tained a coiicessidn and made a cleai'ing. lait he was not suifd to that work. besides, tlie country and the climate tried liiui ; in the heat of the sun and the unhealthiui'ss of 196 RENEE MAUPERIN. the soil, his strong- woodland constitution broke down. At the end of two years he returned. When he entered his hut, at the Black Mount, he found the only thing' that had arrived during- his absence a newspaper. It was a number of the " Mouiteur," and was already about a year old. He took it to light his pipe, and, as he twisted it up, his eye fell upon a mark in red pencil, which caused him to open it. He read at the place which was marked : " Monsieur Mauperin (Alfred Henry), better known under the name of Villacoart, intends to take the necessary steps, in the office of the keeper of the seals, to obtain the authori- sation to add to his name that of Villacourt, and to call himself, henceforward, Mauperin de Villacourt.''' He g(jt up, walked about, snorted, then sat down again, and slowly lighted his pipe. Three days later he was in Paris. At the first moment of reading- the newspaper, he had felt as though he had received a cut from a whip in the face. Then, he told himself that he was l)eing robbed of his name, and that that was all, that his name was no longer of any value, belonging as it now did to a pooi- scoundrel like himself. But this philosophical conditicm of mind did not last long- : the idea that he was being defrauded of his name had, little by little, come back to liim more painful, more bitter and more irritating. After all. lie had nothing- left but that, he could stand it no longei', and off he started. By the time he ai'iived he was in a frenzy f)f passion. His first thought was to go and thiasli Monsieur AJauperin. But when oiire he found himself in Paiis. in the streets, in presence of the crowd, and of this laigc nuiiilier of pc^ople, the shops, the passej-s by, the noise, he was as dazzled as a RENEE MAUPERlN. 197 wild Ix^ast when he is first turned loose in a circus, whose fuiv vanishes and who stops short after his first spring-. He went straight to the Law Courts, and in the Salle des Pas Perdus he addressed himself to one of the men in black wh') are always leaning- ag-ainst the pillars, and told him what had occuri-ed. The man in black told him that, as the d''lay of one yeai' had expired, he could do nothing- but make an appeal to the Council of State ag-ainst the decree authorising- tlie addition of the name, and gave him the addi'i'ss of a lawyer who practised before the Council of State and the Court of Appeal. .^[onsieur de Yillaonirt Hew direct to the lawyer. He found a ctild. polite man. wearing a wliite tie. who. leaning- back in his leather arm-chair, listened, with his eyes closed, to all liis story, his titles, his rig;hts. his indig-nation, and the crackling- of the pai-chment deeds that he was crumplliig- up in liis ncivous tingeis. On his listenei-'s face no sign appealed. When Monsieur de Villacourt had finished, he iliought he had not been undei'stood. and would liav(> I'ecommenced, but the lawyer stopped him liy a g-esture and said* "Sir, 1 think you will win your case." Vou think I Ai-e you not cei'tain 'l " - A lawsuit is always a lawsuit, sii-." said the lawyer with a smile wliicii exhiliiteicur de Villacourt. who was just going to jly iiuo a tVesh passion. - i>ut. in my opinion, sir. the chances are all in youi' favoui'. and I am prepared to undeitake youi' cast"." - 'I'lu'rc. then," saivl Monsirur de Villacourt. laying on the wriiing-ialili' the bundle of papers. "I am nuich obliged to you, sii'." lie rose and bowed. 198 RENEE MAUPERlN. " I beg your pardon, sir," said the lawyer, seeing him g-o towards the door. " I must point out to you that in cases of this kind, in an appeal to the Council of State, we are not only the advocates but also the attorneys of our clients. There are certain expenses connected with enquiries, and the examination of papers. I am obliged to ask you, if you wish me to undertake your case, to leave with me a sufficient sum to cover them for me. Oh, it is not serious, only five or six hundred francs ; five hundred, we will say, if you like." " Five or six hundred francs ! What ! " exclaimed Mon- sieur de Villacourt, reddening, " I am to be robbed of my name, and then because I do not happen to have seen the newspaper in which the man who robbed me gave me warning of his intention, I am fined five or six hundred francs to make the scoundrel give it me back ! Five or six hundred francs ! sir," said he, letting his arms fall, and hanging his head, ' I have not got them." " I regret it sincerely, monsieur, but the formality is indispensable. Oh! you cannot fail to find them. I am sure that among the descendants of those families that are related to youi's, you cannot have any difficulty. On occasions like this people cling together." " Sir, I know nobody : and, besides, the Count de Villacourt will ask for nothing. On my arrival I had three hundred francs. I paid forty-five for this coat in the Palais-Royal, on my way to see you. This hat C(jst me seven francs, my bill, at my lodging, will, 1 suppose, come to about twenty fr'ancs. 1 must put aside five-and-twenty f(jr my return journey. Could you not do with the remainder ? " " 1 am sorry 1 cannot, sir." Monsieur de Villacourt put on his hat, and left the room RENEE MAUPERIN. lH'.l Just as he reached the door of the ante-room, lie turned round abruptly, came back through the diuing--rooui, and, opening- the door of the study : " Sir," said he, in a hollow voice, which he tried to restrain, " can you g-ive me, for nothing-, the address of Monsieur Henry Mauperin. called de Villacourt ? " " Certainly ; he is a lawyer. I can find it for you directly. Here it is. Rue Taitbout, number 14. It was immediately aftci- this that Monsieui- de Villacourt appeared in Ilein-y Mauperin's rooms. XXXVT. That evenin<^-. wlien Denoisel entered the Mauperins' drawhig'-rooin, he found them nnusually gay. A look of happiness was on every countenance. Monsieur Mauperin's g-ood lunnour sparkled with smiling- malice in his eyes. Madame ^[aup;>riu's face beamed with expansive pleasant- ness and secret C(jntentment. Renee, dancing about the drawing-room, bi'oug-ht into it, with her g-irlish spirits, the movement, the life, and almost the Huttering of the wings of a bird. " Ilulloa ! Denoisel," exclaimed Monsieur Mauperin. " (}ood evening-, sir," said Jxenee, in an impertinent little voice. " Have y(ju not bi'oug-ht Henry r " asked Madame Maupeiin. ' He could not c-om(>. He will come th(; day after to-morrow, without fail." "That is very nice I H(jw sweet it is of you to have come this evening," Ci)ntinued Itcnce to Denoisel. using- little endearments to him as though he were a child whom she wished U) make laugh. 'So you have come at last, you bad fellow I Ah! my boy" i\nd ^Monsieur Maupi'rin, S(|uee/,ing- his hand, winked in the diiection of his wife. ' Yes, yes, C(nne here, Denoisel," said Madame Mauperin, * Sit down there and tell me whether what 1 hear of you is RENEE MAUPERIN. 201 true. It seems that you were seen, a few days since, drivini^ in a brougliam in the Bois de Jioulog-ne." And she stopped as a cat does when it is drinking- milk. " There, your mother is started now ! " said Monsieur Mauperiu to Renee. " I must warn you, Denoisel, that ray wife is in tearing" spirits to-day." Madame Mauperin had dropped her voice. Leaning- over towai'ds Denoisel, she told him a long- and (pesti(jnable story. Nothing- was to be heard save a few words inter- spersed with stifled laug-hter. ' Mamma, you know that laug-hing- in corners is for- bidden. (Jive me back my Denoisel, or else I shall beg-in to tell stori("s to papa." 'Oh dear, oh divii', how stupid it is. is it not?" said Madame Maupei'in when she had linished her story, and still biusMiig- with laug-hter, with that laug-hter of old women will) are amused at a rather free story, and which is so pleasant to listen to. What spirits you are all in this evening-!" Denoisel renr.irked. As m Mi-y as crickets." said Renee, "so we ai'e. And mean to be as merry as this to-morrow, and the next day, and always. Don't we papa ? " And running- towai'ds her fiUh T. slu' scati'd hers, 'It' ou his knee like a little g-irl. Darling- 1 "' said Monsieur Mauperin. Look, Madame MaupiU'in, do you remember? Tliis was her knee when she was a litllt> child." Ve>."' answered ^Lidame Mauperin, " and Henry had the other." 1 think 1 can set' them now." continued Monsieur ^Liu- perin. lleury was the girl, you, Renee, were the boy. To think that lifteen years have passed since then I How it used to anmse you when 1 passed your little fingers 202 RENEE MAUPERIN. over the s -ar.s of my sword-cuts. You wretched children ! You used to laug-h." And turning- to Madame Mauperin : " Mj dear wife, you had your share of trouble with them. All the same, De- noisel, home life does one good ; upon my word, it is the heart that makes the children ! " " So, here you are at last," said Renee ; " we do not mean to let you go again, Denoisel, your room has been pining for you too long." " I am very sorry, my dear Renee, but really, I have business in Paris this evening. I assure you I have, really and truly." " You ! business I What swagger ! " " Stay with us, Denoisel," said Monsieur Mauperin. " Madame Mauperin has a whole collection of stories like the last one she told you, and you sliall hear them all." "You will stay, won't y(ju ? " sail Renee. "We will have great fun. 1 will not touch the piano. I will not put too much vinegar in the salad. We will make lots of puns. Come now, Denoisel." " I accept, for next week." " Wretch," said Renee, turning her back upon him. " And Dardouillet ? " asked Denoisel, " he is not here this evening ? " "Oh, he is sure to come," said Mauperin. " Though all the same he may not. He is hard at wcn'k. and has just had a fresh lit of posts and rails. 1 believe he is moving his mountain into his lake and his lake on to his mcjuntain." " Yes, but he can't do that in the evening." "Oil, no one knows what he does in the evening," said Renee. " He is full of mystery is Monsieur Dardouillet. But how queer you look to-night, Denoisel." " I ? " RENEE MAUPERIN. 203 *' Yes, you. You do not look sprig'litly ; 3'ou are not sparkliny at all. What is wrong- with you ? " " Denoisel, something is the matter with you," said Madame Mauperin. " Nothing- whatever, madame," answered Denoisel. " What should be the matter with me ? I am not at all sad. I am only tired. For the last week Henry has made me fetch and carry for him. He wanted the benefit of my taste in choosing- his fui-niture." " That is true," said Madame ]Mauperin, whose face had become perceptibly brighter, ' that is true, the day is get- ting near. The 22nd. Ah ! if anyone had told me that two years ago ! I am afraid of being too happy that day. And t)nly think, Mauperin, what it will be when we have grand-children ! " Ami she gently closed her eyes at the idea of her future grand-motherhood. " It will be difhcult for me to spoil them, after you, mauuna I " said Kenee. ' Do you know that I am going to be extremely beautiful that day, Denoisel. I have a new gown ; 1 tried it on yesterday ; it fits me like a glove. Dy the way. papa, have you a new coat? " " I have my old new coat." ''Oh! you must get one even newer than that, to give me your arm. Ah. how stupid I am. you will not give it to me. Denoisel. 1 engage you for a country dance. We are going to give a ball, are we not. mamma ? " " A ball, and everything else I " said ^\[adame Mauperin. * People may not consider it a smart thing to do. but so much the worse. I mean to have a real wedding, a return from church such as we had on our wedding day. do you remember, ^lonsieur Mauperin ? Every one shall dance, and eat, and drink." ' That's right 1 " said Kenee, ' we will make all our work- 204 REXEE MAUPERIN. people tipsy ! and Denoisel, too ! Perhaps that will cheer him up ! " " Meanwhile, I don't s?e Dardouillet yet," said Denoisel rising;. " What in the world are j^ou so anxious to see Dar- douillet for, this evening- ? " asked Monsieur Mauperin. " Yes, that is true," said Renee. ' It requires explana- tion. Explain at once, Denoisel." " How inquisitive you are, Renee. A mere trifle. Noth- ing at all. I want him to lend me his terrier for a rat- fig-ht. at my club to-morrow. I have made a het that he will kill a hundred in two minutes. Thereupon I am off, g-ood night ! " " Good night I " " And my son. I shall see him the day after to-morrow, without fail?" inquired Madame Mauperin, as Denoisel was leaving- the room. Denoisel bowed, and made no answer. XXX VI I. On arriving- at Pardouillet's house, at the other end of the villag-e. Deiioisel rang-. The door was opened by an old housekeeper. Has Monsieur Dardouillet gone to bed yet ? " "He? Not Hkely," was the answer, "he is doing- the same as usual. Wandering- about the garden somewhere : you will easily find liiui." And she opened the long window of the dining'-room. A brilliant moonlight, iliuniiuated the garden whi(-h was absolutely bare, S([uare as a pocket handkerchief, and ploughed up like a held. In a coriKM'. on a little mound, stood a black outline, its arms crossetl, motionless; one might have lieen t^iken for a ghost in one of Biard's pictures. It was Monsieur Dardouillet. He was so absorbed as not to noti(-e Penoisel until the latter was close upon liiin. -'Ah. it's vou. my dear Monsieur T)enoisel." said he. -I am deli.uhtcd. book I " and lie pointed to the freshly turned carili. --What do you think of that? There are sonic lines! It is all as sofr as jiossihle. do you see?"' And he passed his hand through the air over the imagin- ary outline of his hill, as thoULi'li he had been caressing the ideal ci'upper of a liofsi'. '-Monsieur Ihirdouillet. pardon me I " said Denoisel. ' 1 have come on business."' 206 REN]^E MAUPERIN. " Moonlight, now remember that, if ever j'ou have a garden. That is the only light by which to inspect one's work properly ; by daylight one does not allow for the embankments." " Monsieur Dardouillet, I speak to you as to a man who has worn a uniform. You are on good terms with the Mauperins. I come to ask you to serve as second to Henry." " A duel ? " And Dardouillet buttoned up the black coat that he wore, winter and summer alike. '' By George ! " said he, " one cannot refuse those services." " I must carry you off, then," said Denoisel, taking him by the arm. " You shall sleep at my house. AVe must get it over quickly. It will be done to-morrow, or next day at latest." " Very good ! " said Dardouillet, casting an eye of regret upon a line of posts which had just been planted, and whose shadows lay on the ground in the moonlight. XXXVIII. Ox leaving; Henry Mauperin, Monsieur cle Villaconrt re- membered that he had no friends, no sefond.^. It had not occurred to him until tliat moment. He remembered two or tliree names whicli used to crop up now and again in his father's stories. He tried to find, by means of the streets, the houses to which he had been taken as a child when he came to Paris. He knocked at several doors ; but either the owners had chani^'ed. or would not see him. In the evening- he returned to his humble hotel. lie had never felt so much alone in the world. As he was taking- the key of his room, the mistress of the hotel asked him if he would not taste her beer, for the good of the house, and. opening a door in the wall, showed him into a cafe which ran along' the ground floor of the hotel. On the hooks round the wall swords and cocked hats were hanging. At the end of the room, through the thick clouds of smoke, he could see uniforms revolving round the patched cloth of a billiard table. A seedy-looking- litth^ waiter, in a white apron, ran hither anil thither, Ix'wildered and half out of his wits, slopping the coffee over the ' Army (la/ette" which was lying on the tables. Near the count t-r, a druni-uiajor was playing at back- gammon with the master of the establishment in his shirt sleeves, from all sides voices called to each other and answere(l i)ack in the guttural vnice peculiar to soldiers: " To-morrow I am on duty at the theatre." "I've got a week's leave." (Jaberiau, who is verger at Saint Sulpice 208 RENEE MAUPERIN. now ? " " He was put forward for examination at the last inspection." " Who is on duty at the Bourdon music-hall ? " " Imajrine a fellow blowing- out his brains when he hasn't a sing-lft punishment marked ao-ainst him ! " They were all " Gardes de Paris, " from the neighbouring barracks, awaiting the nine o'clock tattoo. "Waiter! a bowl of punch, and three glasses!" said Monsieur de Villacourt, seating himself at a table occu- pied by only two soldiers. When the punch was brought, he filled the three glasses, pushed one towards each man. and risi ug : " I drink your good health, gentlemen ! " said he, saluting them with his glass. " You are S(jkliers. I have to fight a duel to-morrow. I have nobody to stand by me, but I feel sure that I see two seconds before me now." *' What do you say, eh. Gaillourdot ? " said one of the men turning to his comrade, after looking into ^Monsieur de Villacourt's eyes. The other, without answering, took his glass and clinked it against that of Monsieur de Villacourt. " Good I to-morrow morning at ten o'clock. Kooni 27." " Done with you! " said the soldiers. Next morning, just as Denoisel was starting with Dardouillet to go to Monsieur I^oisjorand de Villacourt. his bell rang, and the two soldiers entered. Their directions being to agree to everything, conditions, weapons, dis- tances, tlie arrangements for the duel were very soon com- pleted. Tt was settled that they were io light with pistols. at a distance of thirtv-five paces, with po\ver to each adversary to advance ten steps. liciioiscl. in Henry's name, asked that everything should be got over as (juickly as possible. ^lonsieur de Villacourt's seconds were goins to make the same reut it is contrary to all laws, human, and divine, do you se(; that ? What! a scoundrel gives me a box on the ear, and I am to let him kill me as wi'll 1 Ah I I can promise you one thing, and that is that if ever 1 am on a jury and we have a case of duelling be- foic us for in my eyes a duel is a murder duellists are murdercis. Besides it is a cowardice." Which everyone has not the courage to commit. Mon- sieur Barousse. In that respect, it is like suicide." Oh. if you an' going to take up the cudgels for suicide." said IJarousse; and breaking off the discussion, lie continued in a melancholy voice: ' Such a good fellow I I'oor Henry I And besides there are ^laupei'in, and his wife, and his daughter; a whole family in tears. No, I 216 RENEE MAUPERIN. cannot restrain myself when I think. A child whom I have seen " As he spoke, Barousse had taken his watch out of his pocket and looked at it : " Just my luck ! " said he, sud- denly breakinjj: off, " I am sure it will have been sold. I shall have missed the ' Assembly at a concert,' a splendid proof ! Before the dedication ! " Denoisel broug-ht Monsieur Mauperin back to La Briche, and, immediately on his arrival, the latter went up to his wife's room. lie found her in bed, the shutters closed, and the curtains drawn, buried and stupefied in the blackness of her sorrow. Denoisel went into the drawing--room, where he found Renee, seated on a sofa, sobbing, with her handkerchief up to her mouth. ' Kenee," said he, taking her hands, " someone killed him." Rente looked at him and dropped her eyes. ' That man need never have known anything- about it. He read nothing, he saw nobody, he lived like a wolf. It is not likely that he subscribed to the ' Moniteur,' is it ? Do you understand me ? " ' No," stammered Renee. She was trembling. " Well, it was some enemy whose hand threw that paper in his way. Of course you cannot understand such treach- ery, naturally! lint 1 tell you that that is what happened. One of his seconds showed me the passage, scored with a red pencil." ReiK'c had risen from her seat, her eyes dilated with terror; her lips moved, she opened her nujuth, she would liavii cried: " It was 1 1" I)Ut suddenly, pressing Iier hand to lier heart as to a suddoi wound, she f(>ll s(Miseless on the rni'pet. XLI. Denoisel came every day to inquire after Eenee's health. When she was somewhat better, he felt surprised that she expressed no desire to see him. Was he not accustomed to be received by her when she was in bed, poorly, like a friend who really belongs to the family ? And in all her former illnesses, was it not he who had been always sent for at once by her, her jester, the buffoon whose mission it was t(j clieer her convalescence and to bring- back her healthy laughter? He sulked, and then returned to the charge. But Kenee's room remained closed to him. One day he was told that she was too tired : Another day that she was engaged with Abbe Blampoix. At last, aftex' a delay of a week, he was admitted. He expected an effusive greeting, one of those demonstra- tions of sick people in whom rises the wish for strength wlii'n they see those to whom they are attached. Her lieart. he said to himself, would jump to his neck. Rem-e shook hands with him, coldly, without any pres- sure, and said to him the same words as she would have said to any one else, and at tlie end of a quarter of an hour, she closed her eyes as if she were sleepy. This coldness, vvhirh to him was inexi:>lieable, left Denoisel in a state of irritation mingled with bitterness. He felt wounded and humiliated in the oldest, the purest, and the sinceit'st of his affections. He tried to think what could liav(! set IJem-e against him. Had iiarousse been putting iili'as into her head r Was she aveULring the death of jier lirdlliei' u[)oii the man who had acted as his second in the duel r And as one of his friends who had a vacht at (,'ainies. 218 RENEE MAUPERIN. proposed a voyage in the Mediterranean, Denoisel decided he would g-o. Renee, on her side, had been afraid of Denoisel, She could remember nothing- but the beginning of the attack that she had had in his presence, the instant which had preceded her fall and her fainting fit. She had seemed to feel that her brother's blood was stifling her. and that a cry was rising to her lips. Had she spoken ? Had her secret escaped from her unconscious mouth? Had she told him that it was she who had killed Henry, she who had sent that newspaper ? ITad her crime burst from her ? When Denoisel came in. she fancied that she could see that he knew all. The feeling of awkwardness which came over him and which had its origin in her, the coldness which he caught from her. helped to confirm her in this belief, in the certainty that she had spoken, and that it was a judge who was sitting' near her. When her mother wished to leave her for a minute, during his visit, she clung to her with a terrified g-esture. The idea occurred to her that she could easily defend her- self by saying that it was a fatality, that by sending the paper she had only intended to produce an action, to prevent her brother from taking that name, to break off his marriage ; but then she would have also been obliged to say why she had done all that, and why she wished to destroy the future and the fortune of her brotlier : she would have had to acknowledge everything. And the bare idea of having thus to defend herself, especially before the man, whom, of all others, she esteemed, teri-ified her and made her feel cold : all that slie could do for him wliom she had killed, was to leave his memory in peace, and his death in silence. When slie heard of Denoisel's d(,'parture she breathed more freely : she fancied that now her secret was her's only- XLir. Renee was o-ettinp,- better. A few months later, she seemed to be cured. Every appearance of health returned to her. She no loiifrer suffered any pain. She no longer even felt the discomfort that sufferino- leaves in the organs attacked by it, or in the life attempted by it. All of a sudden, her illness reappeared. When she went upstairs, she used to feel as Ihouo-h she were chokino-. The palpitations of her heart returned with renewed violence and frequency; then once aj^'ain. all was quiet, as sometimes happens in cases of deep- scared illnesses, which seem as though they had, for a time, forgdtten the sufferers. At the end of a few weeks, the doctor from St. Denis, who had cliaro-e of the case, called ^Fonsieur Mauperin aside and said to him : Something in this case puzzles me. The state of your daughter is not (juite clear to me. I should like to have the assistance of a doctor who has made a special study of illnesses of this kind. Those affections of the heart are sometimes so treacherous in their mcn'ements.'* Yes. those affections of the heart. You are ([uite right." murmured Monsieui- ^^aup^'rin. He could say no more. His ancient notions of medicine, the desperate (lo'-tiMiie> of the school of liis day. Corvisart, the motto of his work on the heart : Ifamt liitn-'i Uihnl'ni (tDiinii'' all ;hat. suddenly, liaslied through liis mind, dis- tinctly. He fancied he saw again those books with their pages full of tt!ri()r. 220 RENEE MAUPERIN. " The chief danger," continued the doctor, " of these ill- nesses is that they are always of long standing. They have generally gained so much ground before we are called in. They are accompanied by premonitory symptoms of which even the patient is often unaware. Now, your daughter has always been very impressionable from her childhood upwards, has she not ? Torrents of tears at the slightest word of reproach, her face flushing for nothing, and im- mediately afterwards, her heart beating a hundred to the minute, great excitement for the smallest trifles, her brain very active, outbursts of passion almost like convulsions, inclined to be feverish at very little ? Am I not right ? She brought passion into everything, into her friendships, her games, her dislikes, did she not ? Yes, yes, all children in whom this organ predominates, and who have an unhappy tendency to hypertrophy, have the same symptoms. Tell me, has she, to your knowledge, recently had any great emotion, or great grief ? " " Yes ! Oh, yes ! Her brother's death ! " " Iler brother's death, yes, no doubt," said the doctor, without appearing to attach great importance to the inform- ation : ' but I mean, perhaps, a disappointment in a love affair for instance ? " ' She ? " Monsieur Mauperin shrugged liis shoulders : ' Dis- appointed. God bless me ! " And half joining liis hands, he raised them in the air. " Well." said the d(X'tor, " I only asked you to satisfy my mind. Accidents, in such cases, only have the effect of developing the germ of the evil and (jf accelerating its steps. 'I'lie ph\-si'al influence of the passiijus upon the heart is a theory, it has had iiiuch douht thrown upon it during th(^ last twenty years, and rightly, according to my view. The RENEE MAUPERIN. 221 idea that the heart breaks in a fit of rage, or in any great moral upheaval " Monsieur Mauperin interrupted him : " Then a consulta- tion, you think, you believe, do you not ? " " Yes, Monsieur Mauperin, it will be much better, do you see. It will tranquillise every one, you as well as me. I suppose we had better have Monsieur Bouillaud. He has the best reputation." " Monsieur Bouillaud," repeated Monsieur Mauperin, mechanically, nodding his head in token of agreement. XLIII. It was five minutes past noon. Monsieur Mauperin, seated near Renee's bed, was holding his daughter's hands in his. Renee's eyes were fixed on the clock. " He will soon be here," said Monsieur Mauperin. She only answered by slowly dropping her eyelids ; and in the silence of the room one could hear, as in the night, the breathing of the patient, and her heart beating as loudly as a watch. An imperious, clear, and distinct bell sounded in the house. Monsieur Mauperin felt as though it rang in his body. A shiver passed all through him, even to the tips of his fingers, like the pricking of needles. lie went to the door. " It was some one who mistook the house, sir," said the footman. " How hot it is ! " said Monsieur Mauperin to his daughter, as he reseated himself. He was quite pale. Five minutes later, tlie servant knocked at the door. The doctor was waiting in the drawing-room. " Ah !" said Monsieur Mauperin. "Go!" said his daughter ; and then she called to him : '' Papa !" He came back to her. 'Is he going U) examine me?" she asked, looking frightened. " I do not know ; I do not think so. Perhaps he will not consider it necessary," said Monsieur Mauperin, feel- ing for the handle of tli(j door. REXEE MAUPERIN. 223 Monsieur ^rauperin liad brouj2:ht the doctor upstairs and had left him alone with his daug-hter. He was in the drawing--roora, waiting-. He had walked up and down, he had sat down. He had studied the pattern of the flowers in the carpet. He had been to the window and had drummed upon the glass with his fingers. Everything seemed suspended in him and around him. Had he been there an hour or a minute? He did not know. He was going- througli one of those periods of life whieh cannot be measured by the ordinary divisions of time. He had felt that his whole existence had flowed towards his heart. The emotions of a life-time were compressed for him into an instant which seemed eternal. He felt giddy, as a man does who, in a dream, falls over a precipice, and who is in an agony lest he should go on falling- for ever. All sorts of dark thoughts, of confused anxieties, of miserable terror, rose from the depths of his stomach and seemed to collect and buzz in his temples. Yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, the doctor, his daughter, her illness, all these whirled round and round in his head, mixed themselves up in his mind, and mingled with a physical sensation of sickness, uneasiness, terror and cowardice. Then, suddenly, an idea occurred to him. He had one of those lucid intervals which, at such moments, come into the soul. The doctor was there ; he could see him placing his ear against li(ni('e's back ; and he was listening with him. He seemed to hear the creaking of a bed, as though some one were being turned round on it. \t was all over, he was coming, but no one came I He began to walk about ngain; he could not remain still. He felt impatient and irritated. He thought that he was being kept waiting- a lung time; and then immediately 224 REXEE MAUPERIN. afterwards, he said to himself that it was a g-ood sign that a great physician would not merely waste his time and that he would have already come down stairs if he had found that he could do nothing. Flashes of hope crossed his mind ; his child was saved ; when the doctor came in he would see, by his countenance, that she was saved. lie watched the door ; no one coming yet ! Then he told himself that there would be lots of precautions to take ; that perhaps she would be always delicate, that many people lived with palpitations of the heart. And the words, the terrible words : " to die'' besieged him all this time. He drove them away and repeated to himself, for the hundredth time, his former ideas of convalescence, cure, health. He thought over all the people he had known, who had been ill, but who, nevertheless, were still living. And notwithstanding all this, he unceasingly repeated to himself : " What is he going to tell me r " He thought the doctor's visit would never end. And then, he would shudder at the idea of seeing the door open. He would have liked to remain for ever in that po-tiition. and not to know anything. At last hope took entire possession of him. The door opened. " Well r " said Monsieur Mauperin to the doctor, who appeared on the threshold. " Courage, sir," replied the doctor. Monsieur Mauperin raised his eya^, looked at the physician, moved his lips, but without emitting any sound: his mouth was quite dry. The doctor explained to him at great length the illness of his daughter, its gravity, and the complications against which they had to guard ; then he wrote a long prescrip- tion, saying to Monsieur Mauperin, as he named each ingredient: '' You understand r " RENEE MAUPERIN. 225 *' Perfectly," replied Monsieur Mauperin with a stupefied look. *' Well, my darling cliild, and so now we are going to get quite well ! " These were the words with which Monsieur Mauperin greeted his daughter on entering her room. Really ? " said she. " Kiss me." " What did he say to you ? " "See, look at me!" And Monsieur Mauperin smiled. But he felt death in his heart. " Ah ! " said he, suddenly jumping up and pretending to hunt for his hat. " I must be off to Paris to have your prescription made up." XLIV. At the railwa}^ station he caught sight of the doctor just as he was getting into a carriage. He g-ot into another. He felt that he had not the strengtli to speak to him or to look at him. On reaching Paris, he went to a chemist's. They told him it would take three hours to make up the prescription. He said : " Three hours I " but all the same he was glad that it would be so long : he had lots of time to spare before returning home. When he got into the street, he walked straight before him. He had no connected ideas, but he felt a constant pulsation in his head, like the pulsation of iieuralgia. His feelings were deadened, as though he were under the influence of a kind of torpor. He saw nothing except the legs of the passers-by and the wheels of the carriages. His head seemed to him to be both heavy and empty. Seeing- other people walk he walked also. The crowd carried him forward, and tcjssed him abcjut, as it were, in a whirlpool. Everything looked dark to him, and the same colour as things do the day after a night of intoxication. The liglit and the noise of the streets appeared to him as only a dream. Had it not been for the white trousers of a policeman, which occasionally caught his eye, he would not have known that the sun was shining. He did not care whether he turned lo the right or to the left. He had no wish for anything, no courage for anything. He was surprised at the activity that surrounded him^ RENEE MAUPERIN. 227 people hurrying, walking fast, going somewhere. For some hours past he had been without an object, without an interest. The world seemed to him to have come to an end. lie felt like a dead man over whose grave all the life of Paris was passing. He thought over all that may happen to a man and tried to find something therein which could move him, or even touch him, and he found no despair so deep as his (jwn. Sometimes, as though answering some one who had asked for news of his daughter, he said out loud : " Oh ! yes, very ill ! " and. as he said it. he felt as though it had been said by a person near him. Often, a young work-woman, with no shawl, with a rounded waist, a fine girl, pretty, and rejoicing in the strength of her class, passed before his eye: he would cross the street so as not to see her. At one mo- ment he would fly into a passion with every one who passed him by, with all these useless living people, who were not beloved as his daughter was, and who had no need to live. He found himself in a public garden. A child came and laid some mud pies on the skirt of his long coat; others, emboldened, approached him with the impertinence of sparrows. Then, little by little, amazed, laying down their spades, they left off playing and began to look timidly and gently, with the eyes of little men, at this big gentleman who seemed so sad. ^Monsieur ^[auperin rosi' and left the garden. His tongue felt parched, and his throat was dry: he entered a cafe. -lust opposite to him was a little girl in a straw hat and white frock. The child's little legs were visible, the liesh t)f her siilid little calves showed between her drawers and her open-worked socks. She was iidgetting about on her father's knee and did nothing but climb and jump altout 228 RENEE MAUPERIN. over him. She trampled his knees with her feet. A little cross danced up and down on the pink skin of her neck. Her father said to her continually : " Be quiet, do I " Monsieur Mauperin closed his eyes : his own six-year- old daughter appeared before him ! And pulling- towards him an illustrated paper, he leaned over it, and tried to fix his attention upon the pictures, and, at the last page, he stopped at the acrostic. When Monsieur Mauperin raised his head, he wiped his brow" with his handkerchief. lie had guessed tlie acrostic : ' Ajainst death there is no ajyieal." XLV. Then began for Monsieur ^Fauperin the painful life which those lead who hope for nothing- and who can only Avait, a life of terror and of anguish, a life of despair, filled with starts, a life spent in listening for death, a life which makes one fear the noises in the house, and which m;d\es one fear one's own silence, which makes one fear a sound in the next room, or the voices which one hears and which seem to be coming towards one, which makes one dread the look of the face that opens the front door to one when one returns home, and of which one asks, by a look, whether all are still alive in the house. Like all people who are in constant attendance upon a sick person who is dear to them, he buried himself in the bitterness of the reproaches he heaped upon himself. lie increased his grief by accusing himself, b}' saying that it was his fault, that he had not done all that he ought to have done, that she might perhaps have been saved if he had sent bn' a doctor sooner, if, at such and sucli a time, in such a month, on such a day. he had thought of such a thhig. At night, the heat of his bed seemed to increase the fever of his sorrow. Out of the shadows, the silence, the solitude, only one thoufrht rose before him. only one image ; his daughter, and always his daughter I llis imagination excited itself in its anxiety ; his terrors became too strong for him, and his sleeplessness ended by taking the intensity 230 RENEE MAUPERIN. of the painful sensations of a nightmare. In the morning he woke up in a cowardly manner, or else, like a man who is half asleep and instinctively turns his back upon the light, he buried himself again in sleep, drove away his first thoughts, tried not to remember anything and to escape for a moment longer from the entire consciousness of his existence. Then the day came with its tortures, and the father was obliged to hold himself in, to conquer himself, to be merry, to answer all those smiles of suffering, those melanchol}'' sallies, those faiHng illusions whirh look forward to the future, those lieart-l)reaking words with wliii-h the dying comfort themselves and try to inspire hope into those who are round them. She would siy to him in her weak, tender voice, which was gradually disappearing : " How happy one feels when one is not in pain. I am going to en- joy my life when I am quite cured again." And he would answer: ' Yes." and swallow down his tears. XLVI. Sick people believe in places where they will be better, and in countries which can cure them. There are places, nooks, and memories which come back to them, bringing- to them a smile from home, and the softness of the cradle. Like the fears of a child in the arms of its nurse, their hopes fly away into some country place, some garden, or, it may be, the village where they were born, and which will not allow them to die. Renee began to think of Morimond. She said to herself that, once there, she would suffer no more. She felt it, she was certain of it. The house at La Briche had brought her misfortune. She had been so happy at ^lorimond. And this idea increased in her, it grew more fixed and more keen in proportion to her longing for change, and the need of change that suffering often causes. She spoke to her father and teased him about it. It would not upset anything ; the refinery could do quite well without him ; Monsieur Bernard, his manager, was a man in whom he had every confidence, and who could do everything ; they would come back in the autumn. When are we to start, dear father ? " she repeated this question every day, with increasing impatience. Monsieur ALauperin yielded. His daughter so often promised him that she would be quite well there, that he, at last, allowed himself to believe it; in her wish, he fancied he saw an inspiration sent to a sick person. The 232 RENEE MAUPERIN. doctor whom he consulted said : " Yes, perhaps the country ma3'' do her good," like a man accustomed to these longings of dying people, who think they can distance death by going rather farther away. Monsieur Mauperin made haste to put all his affairs in order, and they started for Morimond. The pleasure of starting, the excitement of the journey, the nervous strength which it gives to the weakest, the fresh air blowing in through the open carriage window, supported the invalid as far as Chaumont. She reached it without being over-tired. Monsieur Mauperin made her rest there one day, and the next morning he placed her in the best carriage he had been able to hire in the town, and they went on to Morimond. The road was a bad, country road. The journey was painful and tedious. By nine o'clock it had begun to be hot. By eleven, the sun scorched the leather of the carriage. The horses sweated, panted, and could hardly get along. ISladame Mauperin nodded in her seat with her back to the horses. Monsieur Mauperin, seated beside his daughter, held against his side, with his arm, a pillow upon which she leaned, and against which she fell after each jerk. From time to time she asked what o'clock it was and said, " Is that all ?" At length, towards three o'clock, they drew near. They had only another league to travel. The sky was clouded over, it was cooler, tlie dust fell, and the earth breathed again. A water-wagtail began to fly along in front of the carriage, resting upon the heaps of stones about every thirty yards. A row of elms grew by the side of the road, the fields began to be divided by hedges. Rene'e seemed to improve with her native air. She raised herself, and resting on the door of the carriage, leaning her head on the back of her hand after the manner of children in a RENEE MAUPERIN. 233 carriage, she began to look about her ; she seemed to be breathing in all she saw. And as the carriage proceeded, she said : " Look, the big poplar at the Hermitage is broken ! There is the pond where the little boys used to fish for leeches! There are Monsieur Richet's cornel- trees ! " At the little wood, near the village, her father had to get down to pick her a little flower from the edge of a ditch, which she pointed out to him. The carriage passed the inn, the first houses of the village, the smith's forge, the great walimt tree, the church, the clockmaker who also sold antiquities, Pigeau's farm. All the villagers were at work in the fields. Some children stopped teasing a wet cat in order to watch the carriage pass. An old man, sitting on a bench in front of his house, in the sun, wrapped in a woollen comforter and shivering, touched his cap. Then the horses stopped. The door opened. A man who was waiting at the foot of the steps took Mademoiselle Mauperin in his arms and carried her into the house. " Ah ! " sighed he, as he lifted her. " Our poor young lady ; she weighs no more than a bundle of sticks ! " " How d'ye do, Chretiennot ! how d'ye do, my old friend," said Monsieur Mauperin, as he shook hands with the old gardener who had served him so many years. XL VI I. The next day, and those which followed it, she had delicious waking moments when the day which was beginning, the morning of the sky and of the earth, mingled themselves, in her dawning thoughts, with the early morning of her life, ller first recollections came to her with the first songs that reached her from the garden. The nests, in waking, re-awoke her childhood. Supported, almost carried, by her father, she insisted upon seeing everything, the garden, the espaliers, the meadow in front of the house, the shady canal, and the pond with its stagnant water. Gradually she recognised the trees, the alleys, as one remembers things seen in a dream, ller feet carried her, of their own accord, along the old paths which had almost disappeared, but which she had followed as a child. The ruins appeared to her older by the years that had passed since she had seen them. She recognised places in the grass where she had lain as a little child, and which had been under the shadow of her baby frock. She found the place where she had buried a little dog. lie was white, and was called *' Jewel." She had been very fond of him. She saw her father carrying her on his arm round the orchard, after she had been given physic. A thousand memories also came back to her from the house. Corners of the rooms seemed tu her like old play- things which she might have lighted upon in a lumber RENEE MAUPERIN. 235 room. It was a pleasure to her to hear ag-ain the creaking and plaintive old weathercock on the roof, which, with its noise, had so often calmed her childish dreams and terrors. She appeared to revive, to get better. The change, her native air, and her recollecticms seemed to diminish her sufferings. This lasted for some weeks. One morning her father was standing beside her on one of the paths, and was watching her. She was engaged in cutting off the dead flowers from a large white rosebush. Under her broad-brinnned straw hat, her thin little face had all the light of the day and the softness of the shade. She went merrily from one bush to another ; the thorns caught her gown as though they would play with her. And at each snap of her scissors, a dead rose, earth- coloured, resembling the corpse of a flower, would fall to the ground from a branch whereon the little living roses, with their pink hearts, were hanging. Suddenly, breaking off from her work, Rence threw herself into her fatliei's arms : "Ah, papa, how I love you," she exclaimed ; and burst into tears. XLVIII. From this day forward, the improvement began to disappear. Little b}- little, she lost the healthful colour which touched her cheeks with the last kiss of life. She no longer felt the pleasant restlessness of convalescence, or the wish to go here and there which had so recently made her take her father's arm. The gaiety which comes from forgotten suffering, the merry chatter of returning hope, rose no longer from her soul to her lips. She was lazy about speaking, and about answering. '' No, I want nothing ; I am quite comfortable." Those were the onl^'^ words which fell from her mouth now, and the}" were said with an accent of suffering, sadness, and patience. Her low spirits weighed her down. They felt like a heavy weight on her bosom, wliich her breathing could scarcely remove. A feeling of discomfort, a vague feeling of pain spread itself all through her being and enervated her. took from her all lier vital energy, destroyed in her every wish to move, and kept her crushed, bowed d(jwn. and without strength to rise and shake it off. Her father decided her to allow herself to be cupped. XLIX. She took off her muslin scarf with those slow movements of sick people, so slow a,s to be almost painful. Her shak- ing- and trembling- fing-ers sought her buttons and the shoulder-straps of her chemise to take tliera off. Her father and mother helped her to undo the flannel and the wadding- in which she was wrapped, and her poor little body, appearing" from among the linen which she pulled up and held firmly against her chest, was quite naked and quivering- with modesty and emaciation. She watched her father, who was lig-hting the candle, twisting- up paper, and preparing- the claret g-lass, with that disturbed look tliat arises from the terror the body feels for the fire or the iron that is being prepared for it. *' Am I right here? " she asked, trying- to smile. ' No ; put yourself like this," answered Monsieur Mau- perin. v^he turned herself round on the chair on which she was sitting, placed her two hands on the back of it. rested her check on her liaiid, gathered up her legs, crossed her feet, and. as it were, kneeling and crouching in the little arm-chair. Slie presented her shoulders, and her bones seemed to be Coming thnuigh the skin. Her hair, which had come down, fell over her iiack and cast its shadow on her. Her shoulder- bladt's stood out. Her back-bone showed all its knots. Be- low the shoulder-strap of her chemise, which had fallen to the benel oi her arm. a miserable little el!H)w peeped out. 238 REXEE MAUPERIN. Well, father ? " He was standing- there, railed to the place, not knowing what he was thinking about. At the sound of his daugh- ter's voice, he seized a g-lass ; then he suddenly remembered that he had bought those g'lasses for the dinner on the day of Renee's christening-. He lighted a piece of paper, threw it into the glass, and turned over the g-lass while he closed his eyes. Renee drew a sharp breath from the pain, a quiver ran throug-h all her bones ; and then she said : " Oh! well, I expected it would have hurt more." Monsieur Mauperin let g-o of the g-lass, which slipped and fell ; the blister had not risen. " Another," said he to his wife. Madame Mauperin broug-ht him one slowly. " Give it here !" said he, roug-hly, taking it from her. The perspiration was standing' on his forehead, but he no longer ti'embled. This time the vacuum was made; the skin wrinkled all round the g'lass. and rose within it, as thoug-h drawn up by the piece of charred paper. ' Oh, father, do not lean so heavily." said Renee, whose lips were clenched. ' Take away your hand." ' I am not touching- it," said her father. " Look;" and he showed her his hands. Renc'e's wliite skin was still rising- in the g-lass. and was therein becoming red, spotted, and purple. After the blisters had been put on, it was necessar}' to take them off ag-ain, and, in order to do this, it was necessary to draw the skin ag-ainst one of the sides of the glass, and to rock it over towards the other side. Monsieur Mauperin was obliged to make two or three attempts to do this, and to lean heavily (jn the poor skin which seemed so near to the bones. L. Illnesses do their work secretly, their ravap:es are often hidden. Then suddenly there appear those horrible ex- ternal chang-es, which g-radually alter the features and efface by degrees the person, and produce, by the first touch of death, the semblance of a corpse in the body that one loves. Every day Monsieur Mauperin looked at his daughter, as though to find something which he missed and which no long-er existed in her ; her eyes, her smile, her movements, her walk, her dress, which used to stand out proud of its young mistress of twenty ; her youth, which was like an atmosphere about her, and which breathed upon you as she passed. All those things were being- veiled, were fading, vanishing, as if every symptom of life were passing' from her. She no longer imparted life to all she touched. Her clothes fell in miserable, scanty folds upon her, as the clothes of old men do upon their bodies. Her step was slow and her heels no longer rang as she moved. Her gestures seemed to have become awkward, her caresses had lost their grace. All her movements had shrunk ; she huddled them up to herself like a person v/ho is cold, or who fears to take up too much room. Her arms, which hung down by her sides, looked like wet wings. She scarc(>ly resembled her former self. And when she walked in front of her father, her back bent, her wuist weak, her arms pendant, her gown hanging loosely about her. it seemed to him as though she were no longer his daughter; he remembered her as she had been ! A shadow had fallen round her moulh and seemed to enter into it whenever she smiled. The mole on her hand, near her little linger, had increased in si/e and had become quite black. LI. " MOTHEE, to-day is Henry's birthday." "I know," said Madame Mauperin, without moving-. " Suppose we g-o to Our Lady of Maricourt ? " Madame Mauperin rose, left the room, and returned with her bo net and shawl. Half -an -hour later. Monsieur Mauperin helped his daug-hter out of the carriage before the big- door of the church at Maricourt. Renee went to a little chapel and there found, on a marble altar, the little miraculous, wooden Madonna, quite black, to which, as a child, she used to pray with a feeling of terror. She sat down upon one of the school-children's seats, which were always there, and murmured a prayer. Her mother, standing beside her, looked round the church and did not pray. Then Renee rose, and refusing- her father's arm, crossed the church with a firm step, and went up to a little side- door which opened into the churchyard. " I wanted to si>e if that were still there," said she to her fatlier, pointing- to a bunch of artilicial llowers which was hung up amongst a number of other -'ex voto " offerings. ' Come, my child." said Monsieur Mauperin, " do not stand about too much. Let us go home now." " Oh, we have plenty of time." Li the porch stood a stone bench, on wliich the sun shone, RENEE MAUPERIN. 24l " It is warm," said she, laying her hand on it. " Give me my plaid, and let me sit here a minute. I shall have the sun (jn my back. There." " It is very unwise," said her father. "Oh, just to make me happy." And when he had arranged her comfortably, she leaned upon him, and in a voice as gentle as a sigh she said : ' IIow bright it is liere ! " The lime-trees, alive with bees, were murmuring gently. Some hens were picking and scratching in the short grass. At the foot of a wall, near some carts whose wheels were all white with dried mud, and on the trunks of some trees that had been barked, some chickens were playing, and some ducks were sleeping, rolled up into balls. The church seemed to be full of dead voices, the blue sky was reflected in its windows. Pigeons were continually flying in and out of the hollows in the carvings and the h(jles in the old masonry. The river rushed foaming past ; a white colt ran down to it, madly excited. ' Ah ! " said Rence, after a few minutes, ' we ought to have been made of something else. Why did God see fit to make us all of flesh ? It is horrible ! " Her eyes had fallen upon some pieces of ground which were raised here and there in a corner of the graveyard, and which were half hidden by two rows of barrel hoops of which a trellis had been formed, and over wliivli the convolvulus was climbin":- LIT. Her illness had not produced in Renee any of the quick- ness of temper, or of the changeability of mind, or the nervous irritability which so often puts some of the patient's sufferings into the hearts of those who tend them. She let herself be pleased by everything that came. Her life seemed to ebb away from her without any effort on her part to retain her hold upon it. She had remained affec- tionate and gentle. Her wishes had nothing in them of the unreasonableness of caprice. The shadow that enve- loped her was a shadow full of peace. She let death rise over her white soul, like a beautiful evening. But, nevertheless, there were moments in which nature woke in her, in which her mind bent under the weakness of her body, in which she listened to the blows which were gradually undermining her life. Then she would become profoundly silent. She would have long periods of alarm- ing meditation and of silent immobility, during which she resembled a statue. She passed long hours without ever hearing the clock strike, and gazing, with a steady and fixed look, into space, a little beyond her foot. And now her father never obtained a look from her ! Sometimes, after she had drooped her eyelids two or three times, she would hide her eyes by half shutting them, and he saw her sleep, with her eyes half open. He would talk to her, he racked his brains to think of anything that could amuse her, he invented jokes for her, in order to try and make RENEE MAUrERIN. 243 her listen to him and to be aware that he was there ; in the middlo of a sentence he would see the attention, the thoughts of his child wander away from him, and the lig-ht of intelligence itself g{) out of her countenance, lie no lon,i;-er felt the warmth of old days in his affection. Near her he felt cold now. It was as thoug-h her illness were robbing him, da}- by day, of a little of the heart of his child. Lin. Sometimes also, Renee let fall some of those words wherewith sick people bewail themselves, words which seem to bear in them the coldness of death. One day, while her father was reading the paper to her, she took it from him in order to read through the list of marriages ; and after an instant, " Twenty-nine ! How old that one was ! " said she, as though to herself. She was reading the deaths. Monsieur ^lauperin made no answer ; he walked up and down the room, and then went out. Left by herself, Renee got up in order to shut the door which her father had left ajar, and which was banging. She fancied she heard a groan in the passage ; she looked but could see nothing ; she listened, all was silent, and she was on the point of shutting the door when she again thought she heard the sound. She went out into the passage, and walked as far as her father's room ; the noise came from there. The key was not in the lock: Renee bent down, and through the keyhole she saw her father lying on his bed. weeping, and shaken with sobs, burying his face in his pillow in order to stifle his tears and his despair. LIV. Rexee would not make her father cry any more. Next day she said to him : " Look here, papa. We leave here, don't we, at the end of September ? That is quite settled. We will travel about everywhere, spending a month here, a fortnight there, just as the spirit moves us. And then I want you to take me to all the places where you have fought. A little bird once told me that you had been in love with a princess. Shall we go and look for her r It was at Pordenona, was it not. that you received these great sabre wounds ?" And, taking her father's hand in her two hands, Rene'e touched witli her lips the hollow, white marks made by the finger of CAovy. " I shall expect you to explain everything to me," con- tinued she, " it will be pleasant for you to fight all your battles again in company of your daughter. And if one winter is not enough for us, why, bless me, we will stay two I And then when I am all right again, you see, my sister and I are quite rich enough, and you have slaved (juite long enough, and then you shall sA\ tlie refiner}' and we will come and settle hen\ We will spend two months of every year in P.iris. just to amuse ourselves, and that will be ([uite enough for us, will it not? As you will want occupatir)n you shall take back the farm vou have let to Trtevuide's son-in-law. We will have 246 RENEE MAUPERIN. some cows, and a fine poultry yard for mamma : do you hear, mamma? I shall be out of doors the whole day, and I shall end by becoming too well, you will see ; and besides we will always have a few people staying here one can do that in the country without ruining oneself, and we shall be perfectly happy, you see if we are not ! " She talked of nothing but plans, journeys, and the future. She spoke of it as of a thing that was settled, and that was quite within her reach. She was the per- sonification of hope in the house ; and she hid away so carefully the possibility of her death, she made so good a pretence of wishing to live, that Monsieur Mauperin when he looked at her, and listened to her. began to dream with her of the years that awaited them, and that were all to be crowned with peace, tranquillity and happiness. Some- times even the sufferer herself was taken in by the pictures she drew, and by her own fibs, and forgetting herself for a moment, she would say to herself in a low voice : " All the same, suppose I were to get well." At other times she would gently turn towards her past. She told stories, anecdotes of what had happened, lier words described all the joys of her childhood that once again were passing before her eyes. Slie seemed to be raising herself in her agoiij' to kiss lier father for tlie last time with all her youth. She said to him : '' Oh. my first ball-dress I I can see it now, it was made of pink tulle. The dressmaker did not come ; it was raining, and there was no cab to Ix^ had. Ilow you did run ! And how funny you looked when you came back with the box- under your arm! You made u\v all wet when you kissed me. I remember." Renee was (juite alone, and had to depend entii'cly upon herself in her attempts to keep up tlu; spirits of Iut father RENEE MAUPERIN. 247 and her own spirits. Her mother, certainly, was near her, but since Henry's death she had been plunged in a silent apathy. She remained silent, indifferent, as it were, taken out of herself. She passed days and nights by her daughter's side, never complaining, patient and unvarying, ready to do everything, docile, humble as a servant, but there was always something mechanical in her tenderness. All the soul had gone out of her caresses, and all her affection was of the kind that only touches the body : nothing remained to her of motherhood, save the hands. LV. Renee once more dragged herself, with her father, as far as Ihe first trees of the little wood. Against an oak, in a certain place just on the fringe, she let herself down and sat upon the moss. From the fields around her, a smell of hay, of grass, of honey, and of sunshine came to her. The breath of the woods came to her, damp with the coolness of its springs, and with the moisture of its overgrown paths. Out of the depths of the silence rose a deep and many- tongued rustling, a winged buzzing, filling the ear with its noise which resembled the incessant sound of a bee-hive, or the infinite murmur of the sea. Eound Renee, near her, there appeared to be a great living atmosphere of peace, in which everything was moving, the fly in the air, the leaf on the tree, the shadow on the bark, the tops of the trees in the sky, the barren oats by the road-side. Then, out of this buzzing there came a breath, or a sigh; a breeze, which had sprung up afar off, threw, as it passed, a shiver over the trees, and the blue of the sky, above the quivering leaves, seemed more motionless than before. The branches swayed gently to and fro, a breath passed over the temples and the neck of Reni'e, a sigh kissed her and refreshed her. (iiadually she allowed the consciousness of her physical existence, tlie feeling and the fatigue of living, to slip from her and to escape her ; a delicious languor overcame her and she seemed already half detached from lier being, and leady to be absorbed in the divine sweetness that surroun- RENEE MAUPERIN. 249 ded her. Now and then she squeezed herself against her father, as a child does who is afraid of being- carried away by a gust of wind. In the g-arden there was a bench made of stone and covered with moss. After dinner, towards seven o'clock, Renee liked to go and sit there, stretching herself out, leaning her head back, and, her ear tickled by a spray of volubilis, she would remain gazing into vacancy. They had reached those beautiful days in summer which die away in evenings of silver. Insensibly, her ideas and her eyes would lose themselves in the infinite whiteness of the darkening sky. As she watched, more light, more brig-ht- ness would seem to reach her from the dying day, more brilliancy and more serenity would seem to fall upon her. Deep caverns seemed to open therein for her, in which she fancied she could see the light of myriads of stars, pale as the twinkling of a taper. And, presently, tired out with g-azing into this radiance which was g'radually being extin- g"uished, blinded by the sunbeams, she W(juld close her eyes for an instant before the abyss over which she was leaning, and which seemed to be calling her away. LVI. " MoTHEE." said she, " have you not noticed how smart I am ? Look, see all the trouble I have taken on your account." And lazily twisting her arms round her head, like a crown, she leaned back among- her pillows and stretched herself prettily on her couch, her waist supple, her body in an attitude of coquettish and painful grace. She thought that it made her look ill to remain in bed and to be buried under the sheets. She would not stay there, and put forth all her last strength to get up. She dressed towards eleven o'clock, slowly, painfully, heroically, stopping to take breath, resting her arms wearied with combing her hair. She threw over her head, a little veil of point-lace ; she put on a peignoir of white cashmere, wadded and lined, which fell in large folds. On her little feet she wore open slippers, with bunches of real violets that Chretiennot brought her every morning, in place of rosettes. And in order to keep up the appearance of life that sick people preserve as long as they are up and dressed, she remained until the evening in this white, virginal and perfumed toilet. ' Oh ! how odd it is to be ill ! " said she, casting her eyes over herself and into the room. " T only like pretty things now."^ They are a pleasure to me at present. I could not wear anything ugly. Do you know, T have a great long- ing. Do you remember that little water-jug, mounted in silver, which was so pretty, and which we saw in that RENEE MAUPERIN. 251 jeweller's shop in the Hue Saint-Honore, when we came out between the acts of the play at the Franpais ? If he have not sold it. if it be still there, you must get it for me. Oh, T feel that T am becoming- recklessly extravag-ant ; I warn you. I want to arrange everything here. I am becoming difficult to please, in all sorts of ways. My ideas are gettinof grand, and you know I used not to care before. Now, T have eyes for myself, and for everything that surrounds me, and such eyes ! There are colours which positively hurt me; should you have ever believed that ? And others which are quite new to me. That comes of being ill. of course : it is so ugly to be ill ! It makes one love all that is beautiful more than ever ! " Otiier senses seemed to come to Renee together with all the refinement, the coquetry, and the love of beauty that death brings. She became, and she felt herself becoming, more of a Avoman. Under the languor and the softening- influences of illness, her heart, which had always been afft^ctioiinte. albeit somewhat masculine and violent, became softer. g(Mitler, and more peaceful. Little by little, the manners, the tastes, the ideas of her sex reappeared in her. Tier mind underwent the same transformation as the rest of her. She lost her quickness of judgment and her bold- ness of language. It was very rare that one of her old expn^ssions passed her lips: if it did, she would say, smiling : Ah ! that is a remains of the old Ren(^e ! " She called to mind words s1h> Imd used, lier formor boldness, her tone in speaking to. aiid her familiarity with, young mnn ; slie would not have dared to do it again. She was a^tonislied at liorself. and could not nn-ognise hers(>lf. She had g-iven up rending both serious and amusing books; she only cared now for works that made her think, books which put tend(M' ideas before her. 252 RENEE MAUPERIN. WTien her father talked to her of the coursing- meetings she had been to, and of those which she would attend in the future, the mere idea of being- on horseback frightened her: she felt like some one who is just g-oing to fall off. The emotions, the faintness that she felt in the country, were quite new to her. Hitherto, she had never occupied herself with flowers ; now they were as dear to her as human beings. She, who used to be bored with needle- work, now undertook to emiiroider a petticoat elaborately, and took pleasure in the work. She was gradually waking up and being born again in the memories of her girlish life. Her thoughts travelled back to the comrades of her childhcjod, or her girlhood, to friends she had had, to places where she had been v/ith grown-up women, to faces which had knelt in the same row with her when she made her first communion. LVil. As she was looking- out of her window one day, she saw a woman sit down in the dust in the middle of the villag-e street, between a stone and a rut, and undress her baby. The child, lying on his stomach, the upper part of his body in shadow, was moving- his little legs, crossing his feet, kicking in the sunliglit ; the sun was whipping him tenderly, as it does whip naked children. Sunbeams caressed and tickled him, and seemed to tlirow at his feet the roses out of a basket in a Corpus Christi procession. When the mcjther and child moved away, Renee remained iMokiiit!' out of her window. LVIII. " Do you see," said she to her father, ' I never could love any one ; you have spoiled me. I felt so certain beforehand that nobody would love me as you did ! I saw so many things pass over your face, so much happiness, when I was there ! And when we used to go about together, were you not proud of me ? Did you not delight in giving me your arm? Ah, father, it would have been useless for any one else to try to love me, I should never have found my papa in any one else ; you have spoiled me too much ! " " But all the same, that will not prevent my darling from finding a handsome young man, one of these fine days, when she is quite strong again." " Your handsome young man is still a long way off ! " answered Renee, smiling Avith her eyes. Then she M'ent on : ' It may seem curious to you, does it not, that I have never wished to be married ? ^Vell. I will tell you this, it has been entirely your fault! Oh, I don't regret it! What did I want ? I had everything. I never pictured any other happiness to myself, I never thought of it. 1 did not want to change, 1 was so happy as 1 was! Dul, pray, what more could 1 wish for ? 'ilie life 1 led near you was so sweet, and my heart was so happy! Yes, perhaps," said she, after an instant's silence, " if 1 had been like other girls, with dull parents, with a father unlike you, yes, no doubt, 1 should have done as all of them have done. 1 should have wished to be loved, 1 should have wished my married life to RENEE MAUPERIN. 255 be what I had dreamed it might be. But all the same, I must say, that it would have been very difficult to rae to fall in love. It has never been my way, and it has always made me laugh a little. Do you remember when my sister and Davarande were engaged ? How I teased them ! Do you remember, they ended by calling me 'the wretch'? All the same, I have had my feelings like every one else ; my day-dreams, and my fancies. Otherwise 1 should not have been a woman. But it was simply like a tune running in my head which excited me a little. It came and went in my imagination, but it never rested on the head of any one in particular, never. And besides, as soon as I left my room, it was all over. If there were any one there, I could only use my eyes; I only thought of looking in order to laugh later on, and you know how your naughty daugh- ter could look ! You should have " " Sir," said Chrctiennot, opening the door, " Monsieur Magu is below, and wishes to know if mademoiselle can see him." *-0h, father," said Kenee in a tone of entreaty, "don't let me see the doctor to-day. I do not want him. I am quite well. And then he snuffles too nmch ! AVhy does he snuffle so, papa 'i " Monsieur ^lauperin could not help laughing. " I will tell you. It comes from driving about in a dog-cart in winter to pay his visits. As his two hands are occupied, one with his reins, and the other with his whip, he has got into the habit of never usin"; his handkerchief." LIX. " Is the sky blue everywhere, father ? Look out and see," said Renee one afternoon to her father, from her couch. " Yes, my child," answered Monsieur Mauperin from the window : " it is a beautiful day." " Really ? " " Why ? Are you in pain ? " " No; only I fancied there were some clouds about, and that the weather was going to change. It is curious, when one is ill, to feel how near the sky seems to be to one. Ah ! I am a splendid barometer now." And she began to read the book that she had laid down while she was speaking. " You will tire yourself with reading, my darling. Let us talk a little, (live me the book," and Monsieur Mau- perin stretched out his hand to take the volume which she passed to him. On opening it his eyes chanced upon some pages which he had folded down some years before, so that she should not read them ; the forbidden pages were still folded. Renee seemed to go to sleep. The storm which had not yet appeared in the !>ky, was already brewing in her. She was suffering from an intolerable heaviness which weighed her down, and at the same time her whole being was in a ^state of nervous tension. The electricity which was in the air, had got into her system and was exciting her. A great stillness, which seemed to have come from the horizon, had spread itself over everything, and the heavy atmosphere that lay over the whole country had filled her with an overwhelming restlessness. She watched the clock, with- out speaking, and kept clasping and unclasping her hands, RENEE MAUPERIN. 257 " Yes, you are quite right," said Monsieur Mauperin, ' there is a black cloud over Fresnoy. How fast it is travelling- ! It is coming in this direction, and will soon be here. Would you like me to shut the windows, the shutters, everything, and ring for lights ? Then my pet will be lean frightened." " No," said Renee, hastily, ' no lights ; let us keep the daylight. No, no ; besides I am not afraid now." " Oh, it is still far away," said her father, for the sake of saying something : his daughter's speech made him fancy he saw tapers burning in the room. " Ah, here comes the rain," said Renee, in a tone of relief, " this rain is like dew. One seems to drink it, does not one ? Come and sit here, quite close to me." Large drops fell one by one ; then the rain poured down from the sky as if some one above were emptying a huge water-ju;:. The storm enveloped Morimond. The thunder pealed and crackled. The country appeared, at one moment, to be (m fire, at the next to be buried in darkness. And continually the lightning, playing into the dark room, covered with its pale radiance the sick girl, v.ho lay there all clothed in white, motionless, her eyes closed, and seemed to throw a winding sheet over her body. The storm ended in a final peal of thunder, so violent, and so close tliat Ixeni'e threw her arms round her father's neck and hid her face on his shoulder. " Silly, it is all over now." said Monsieur Mauperin. She. like a bird which timidly draws its head from under its wing, raised her eyes towards him. and still holding him tiglitly enil)raced, said with a smile in which some regret seemed tt) be mingled: All. 1 thoiiLrht /''' had all died toizether ! " LX. One morning, on coming in to see Renee, who had passed a bad night, Monsieur Mauperin found her dozing. At the sound of his footsteps, she half opened her eyes, and turning round slightly, said : " Ah, is it you, papa ! " And she murmured a few con- fused words, amongst which her falher could distinguish the word '' journey " several times repeated. " What are you saying about a journey ?" " Yes, I feel as if I had come from a long way off, a very long way off, from a country of which I have even forgotten the name." And opening her eyes wide, she stretched out her hands upon the sheets, and seemed to be searching in her memory for the place where she had been, and whence she had come. A confused recollection, a pale remembrance re- mained to her of spaces, tracts of country, unknown places, of all tliose worlds and limbos whither sick people go during the last few nights they spend on earth, and whence they return quite astonished, bewildered with the glimpse that they have had of the infinite, as if during their for- gotten dream they had heard the first flutter of the wings of death ! " It is nothing," she continued, after an instant, " it was the opium that did it ; they gave me some last night to make me sleep." And, shaking herself a little, as though to get rid of her thoughts : " Hold the glass for me, so tliat I may tidy RENEE MAUPERIN. 259 myself, llig-her tliau that. Oh, how awkward you men are ! " She puffed out her hair by passing her thin hands through it. She arranged her lace scarf which liad come untied. " There, now," said she, " talk to me. I want to be talked to." And she almost shut her eyes while her father talked to her. You are tired, Renee ; I will leave you," said he, seeing that she did not seem to be listening. " No, I am in some pain. But go on talking, it amuses me." But you are not listening to me. What are you think- ing of, my dear little girl ? " " I am thinking of nothiug. I was trying to remember. Dreams are so curious. It was I don't know. Ah!" she exclaimed, at a sharp twinge of pain. " You are suffering ? " She made no reply. Monsieur Mauperin could not restrain a movement of his lips, and he cast a rebellious glance upward. " Poor father !" said Renee to him, after a pause. " But see, I am resigned. No, you must not be so angry as that with pain. It was sent to us for a good reason; we are not made to suffer simply for suffering's sake." And in a broken voice, stopping to take breath at every moment, she began to point out to him the good side of suffering, the springs of tenderness that it opens in us, the refinement and the sweetness of character tliat it gives to those who accept it with patience and do not allow it to make them bitter. She spoke to him of all the miseries and the littlenesses that are driven out of us by suffering, of that instinctive irony tliat we lose, of the 200 RENEE MAUPERIN. unkind laugh that it takes from us, of the pleasure we no' longer take in the small troubles of others, of the kindly feeling towards every one that it produces in us. " If you only knew how silly Avit seems to me now," she said. And Monsieur Mauperin overheard her thanking suffering for having come to her as a proof of lier election. She spoke of the egotism and of the earthly matter in whicb we are wrapped when we are in health, of the hardness which is produced by the comfort of our bodies, and she said that, in illness, there is a freedom and a deliverance,.- an interior lightness, and that t)ur aspirations are taken upwards and away from ourselves. She spoke of suffer- ing as removing from us our pride, as reminding us of our weakness, as humanising us, as making us one with all w'ho are in pain, as making us feel the need of charity in ourselves. " And besides, without sulTering," she added, " we should miss one thing ! Sadness ! '' And she smiled. Lxr. " My friend, we are very miserable," said Monsieur ]\[auperin to Denoisel, who had just jumped out of a dog- cart, a few evening-s later. * I had a presentiment that you would come. She is asleep now; you shall see her to-morrow. Oh ! you will find her sadly chang-ed. But you must be hungry ," and he led him into the dining--room, where supper had been hastily laid. 'Come, Monsieur Mauperin," said Denoisel, "she is young ; at her age there are always resources." ^[onsieur Mauperin put his two elbows on the table, and the tears ran slowly from his eyes. ' But. Monsieur Mauperin, you see she has not been g'iven up by the doctors. There is still hope." >ronsieur ^Fauperin sliook his head, made no answer, and continued to weep. " She has not been condemned ? " B)Ut can't you see that she has I "' burst out ^Eonsieur Mauperin at last, '-and that I do not wish to tell you so. One is afraid of everything, you see, when one has got to this state, and I fancy that some words are capable of bringing about events; and that word, 1 l)elieve. has the power to kill my daughter I And besides wliy should not a miracle be performed ! The doctors luive spoken to me of miracles. Slie still gets up. and tliat is a great deal. I have noticed an improvement during the last two days. And besides two in one year, it would be too liard I Oh, it would be foohardl lUit von ai-.' not eirl:ig. nhu rat nothinir," and 2G2 RENEE MAUPERIN. he put a large slice on to Denoisel's plate as he spoke^ " We must be men, you see. What news have you from Paris ? " " None ; I know nothing. I have just come from the Pyrenees. It was Madame Davarande who read me one of your letters, but she has no idea of how ill her sister is." " Have you any news of Barousse ? " " Yes ; I met him on my way to the railway-station. I wanted to bring him with me. but you know that nothing in the world would induce Barousse to leave Paris for a week. He must have his walk on the quays every morning. The idea of missing an engraving with an entire margin ! " " And the Bourjots," asked Monsieur Mauperiu, with an effort. " They say that Mademoiselle Bourjot will not marry." " Poor child ! She loved him ! " " As for her mother, it seems that her state is very bad indeed. I hear of excesses of all kinds, of madness even> They are talking now of shutting her up in an asylum." LXII. '' Renee," said Monsieur Mauperin next morning- on entering his daughter's room, ' There is somebody down- stairs who very much wants to see you." " Somebody ? " And she looked hard at her father for some time. " I know who it is ; it is Denoisel. Did you write to him ?" " Not at all. You never asked to see him. I did not know if it would give you pleasure. Does it vex you ? " " Mother, give me my little red scarf, there in the drawer," she said, without answering her father. " I must not frighten him." And when her scarf was tied in a bow, she said : " Now bring him here quickly." Denoisel came into the room, which smelled of the vague perfume of young sick people, and which impregnates a room with the smell of a faded bouquet, and of dying- Howers. It is good of 3'()U to have come. See. 1 have put on my red scarf for you ; you used to like me in it." Denoisel bent over her hands and kissed them, ' Here is Denoisel," said Monsieur ^Nlauperin to his wife at the end of the room. Madame ]\Iauperin did not seem to heed him. Then, after a minute, she rose, went up to Denoisel. gave him a cold kiss, and returned to the dark corner in which she had been sitting. 2G4 RENEE MAUPERIN. " Well ! and how do you think I am looking ? I am a good deal changed, am I not ? " And without giving him time to speak, she went on : " You see, I have a naughty father, who insists upon thinking I look ill, and who is so obstinate ! I tell him in vain that I am much better. He declares I am not. When I am quite cured, you will see that he will always want to treat me as an invalid." And observing that Denoisel was looking at her wrist, which was visible through the unbuttoned cuff of her night-gown : " Oh," said she, hastily buttoning it up, " I am a little thinner than I used to be, but I shall soon get my feathers back. Do you remember the funny story that always used to make us laugh so much, papa? The day we dined with the farmer at Breuvaunes with Tetevuide, you remember ? Imagine, Denoisel, the good man had been keeping some crawfish for us for two years. Well, just as we were sitting down to table, papa said to him : ' By-the-bye, where is your daughter, Tetevuide ? I insist upon her dining with us. Is she not here ? ' ' Yes, sir.' ' Very well, then, tell her to come, or I will not eat a morsel.' Thereupon the father goes into a neiglibouring room, and we hear sounds of voices and tears, which last about a quarter of an hour. He comes back alone and says : ' She dare not come ; she says that she is too thin ! ' But look here, papa, poor mamma has not been out of my room for two days. X(nv that I liave a sick-nurse, you must oblige her to lake some fresh air." " Ah, my dear Kenee," said Denoisel, when they were alone, "you do not know how much pleasure it gives me to find you like this, in such gr> and of your stupid old Denoisel, wlio, with your permission, is g'oing- to establish himself here." " You, too, my kind friend ? Look at me I " And she stretched out her hands so that he might help her to turn a little on one side, in such a manner aS to look straight at him, and to bring ber face into the daylight : ( 'an you see me well now ? " The smile had died away from her eyes and from her lips. Life had all at once fallen from her face like a mask. " Yes." she continued, lowering her voice, " It is nearly over, and I shall not have much longer to wait ! Oh, I wish it might be to-morrow ! I cannot go on much longer as I am doing at present, I cannot go on keeping up the spirits of every one in this house ; niy strength is exhausted, and my one desire is to have done with it all. He does not see me as I really am, you understand. I cannot kill him before- hand, can 1? When he sees me laugli, he knows that 1 am condemned, but he remembers nothing, he sees nothing, he knows nothing! Well, all I can do is to go on laughing! Ah 1 those who can die as they please are the happy people; to be quiet, to have finished with it all, to die, at one's own pleasure, in a corner, with one's head against the wall that would be pleasant it would be (]uite easy to die like that I But the worst is over now : and you have come, too. and will (>ncourage me. If I fail, you will be at hand to support me. And after, after I am gone. I c'ount upon you. You will stay with liini during the first few months. Ah ! do ncjt cry." she exclaimed. " you will make nii; cry too ! " There Avas an instant's silence. ' Already six months since my brother's fuiu'ral.'' recom- menced Renre. '' We have only met once since then. Do vou rcnu'Uiber the terrible fit that 1 had r "' 266 RENEE MAUPERIN. " Yes, yes, I remember it well," answered Denoisel. ' I have often thought of it since. I can see you now, poor child, making that gesture of horrible suffering, while your lips tried to speak, to call out, without being able to pro- nounce a word." " Without being able to pronounce a word," said Renee, repeating his last words. She closed her eyes, and her lips moved as though in prayer. Then, with an expression of joy that astonished Denoisel, she said to him : " Ah, how happy I am at seeing you again, m^' dear friend! To- gether we shall have lots of courage, j-ou shall see. And we will take them in finely, poor people ! " LXIII. The heat was stifling-. In the evening' they used to leave open the windows in Renee's room, and not light any lamp, so as not to attract the moths which frightened her very much. They talked, and, as the daylight faded, their words and thouglits gradually fell into the solemn strain that twilight, with its unspoken dreams, often brings. Soon all three would become silent ; they would sit, breathing in the Cdol air, thinking of the evening. Monsieur Mauperin would hold his daughter's hand, which he pressed from time to time. Darkness came on. The whole room became dim. laying on her couch, Renee's outline, in her white peignoir, gradually disappeared. Then a moment would come in which nothing was dis- tinguishable, in which the room seemed confounded with the sky. and then Renege would begin to talk in a low and penetrating voite. Her words were now gentle and lofty, now tender, grave or passionate ; at one time they seemed as though they were singing the last song of a pure conscience, and again they seemed to fall round her, on her listeners, like the consolation of an angel. Her thoughts raised themselves as she forgave everybody and everything ; sometinios. her words seemed to reach their ears as though they came from beyond this world, from above this life. and. by degrees, a kind of awe, born of the solemnity and of the darkness of these nidniciits of night and of death, would fall iip^ii the roiun wherein ^lonsieur Mauperin, his wit'e. and Oeiioisel listened to all that dropped from these dying lips. LXIV. The walls were papered with a pattern of bunches of wild flowers, ears of corn, corn-flowers, and poppies. A sky was painted on the ceiling-, light, a sky of early morning, full of fleecy clouds. Between the door and the window stood a prie-Dieu of carved wood, with a cushion of worsted- work ; its place seemed familiar, and it kept discreetly in its corner, like an old friend. Above it, g-listened a holy water stoup of polished copper, representing the baptism of < "hrist by St. John, In the opposite corner, a little book- case hanging to the wall by cords of silk, showed the backs of the books leaning against one another, and a few Eng- lish books bound in cloth. In front of the window, which was wreathed in creepers that seemed to dip their leaves in the sunlight, a looking-glass framed in blue velvet stood upon a dressing-table covered with silk and lace, and among several bottles with silver tops. The chimney- piece, which stood a little back from the room in a corner, was surmounted by a glass framed in velvet of the same shade as that on the dressing-table. On one side of the glass, hung a miniature of lven('e's mother when a girl, with a string of pearls round her neck, and on the other a daguerreotype of her mother in somewhat later life. Above il a portrait of her father, in uniform, painted by herself, leaned forward, and seemed to watch over tlie I'ooni. A rose-wood wash-hand-stand bore, in front of the fire-place, the last caprice of the poor child, the silver-mounted jug and the Dresden basin that slie had asked for. A little REXEE MAUPERIX. 2C0 fuither on, near the second window, hung all the sporting- recollections that Kenee had brought home in the pockets of her riding habit, her whips, a Pyrenean whip ; a stag's foot, mounted with blue and orange ribands, showed, on a card hanging from it, the day and place of the death. Beyond the window, stood a little writing-table, which had belonged to her father when he was at the military school. It was littered with the boxes, the M^ork-baskets and all her last New Year's Day presents. The bed con- sisted entirely of muslin. At the head of it, and as it were, under the shelter of its curtains, all the prayer-books which Renee had had since her childhood, were arranged on an Algerian shelf, from which hun^i her rosaries. Then there was a chest of drawers, on which stood a thousand trifles, little dolls' houses, little glass toys, little sixpenny bits of jewellery, toys won at lotteries, fairs, even down to some animals made of crumb of bread, with their legs made of matches, a whole museum of trifles whereof girls make up the sum oi their lives and the greater part of their hearts. The room was brilliant with sunlight. The southern sun filled it wMth w^armth and radiance. Near the bed. on a little table arranged as an altar and covered with a linen cloth, two candles burned, their flames flickering in the g(jlden sunshine. A silence, broken only by sohs. made audil)le the heav}' tread of the country priest, as he left the room. Then all was still, and the tears ceased around the dying girl, dried momentarily by the miracle which was exhibited in her last agony. In a few minutes, illness and all the signs of suffering and anxiety had completely vanished from Kcikh/s thin face. A bt>auty of ecstasy and of supreme happiin'ss. in piesence of which her father, her mother and her friend had fallen on their knce^. had succeeded it. Tiie sweet- 270 RENEE MAUPERIN. uess, the peace of a vision had fallen upon her, Her head seemed to have arranged itself upon her pillows, under the influence of a dream. Her eyes, wide open, seemed to be looking into infinity, her expression gradually took the fixed look of eternity. Every feature shone with a blessed look of hope, A remains of life, a last breath hovered round the corners of her mouth, motionless, half-open and smiling. Her com- plexion had become quite white. A silvery whiteness imparted to her skin and to her forehead a pallid splendour. One would have said that with her head she was already touching another day more glorious than our own : Death approached her like a light. It was the transfiguration which frequently accompanies death from disease of the heart, which seems to bury the dying in the beauty of their souls, and to carry heaven- wards the countenance of the youthful dead ! LXV. Those who travel far afield have perchance met in cities *^ .Vx r^': J^^-- ^^QM^'^ UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITV A A 000 068 036 3 nifBwaiB9BBiMnaHH uni c STA<