THE NOVELS AND ROMANCES 
 
 ALPHONSE DAUDET 
 
 D«inD)i ilibrarp CDition 
 
 MONDAY TALES 
 
 LETTERS FROM MY MILL 
 
 LETTERS TO AN ABSENT ONE 
 

The Jfdveh 
 and "Roptances 
 
 1LPHQNSE DM/DET 
 
 9t03(to*fiY < Tc4LES 
 
 LETTERS F^OSM SMY 8MILL 
 
 LETTERS TO cA3( cABSE^KT 
 0&(E 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 Little 'Brown 
 £L Company 
 
Copyright, 1899, 1900, 
 
 -Tfcri Little, BkOvrrr, and Company. 
 • • • • > 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 JJrintrrf 
 J. Park hill A Co.. Boston. U. 8. A. 
 
TO MY DEAR 
 
 * 
 
 ERNEST DAUDET 
 
 41504k 
 
8J£ 
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 There are offspring of genius that start upon a 
 separate existence of their own, without sponsors, 
 quite independent of their paternity, of which they 
 make no betrayal that may throw light upon the 
 relation which must always exist between the man 
 of letters and his art. On the whole, very few are 
 the works in English that possess an autobio- 
 graphical flavor. Our greatest men are strangely 
 silent about themselves. A dumb devil of incom- 
 municableness and reticence possesses them. In- 
 terrogate their writings, and these scarcely answer, 
 or answer at times in a half-shamefaced, halting, 
 and awkward fashion, as if to talk of one's self at 
 all were, in some sort, a deadly sin. This reserve 
 is perhaps inseparable from a race that regan 
 literature as a most serious profession, mere causerie 
 in print as a trivial thing, but it springs more natu- 
 rally from the conviction that, however a man's 
 work may belong to mankind, his life belongs to 
 himself alone, not to the afterworld, is a thing of 
 value to no one save himself, — that curiosity o^ 
 the part of the public is an intrusion. Genius, 
 especially English genius, decrees for itself a 
 strangely isolated path. 
 
viii Introduction. 
 
 Our Gallic brother, on the contrary, recognizes 
 that, once the children of his brain have seen the 
 light of day, he has indeed given " hostages V to 
 Fame, and accepts good-humoredly the inevitable 
 consequences, assumes the fact that the world is 
 henceforth interested in him, regards its curiosity 
 not as an impertinent emotion, but a most laudable 
 one, deserving to be gratified. He realizes, too, 
 that not the most kindly, intelligent, and grateful 
 of all critics among his posterity shall ever be able 
 to throw a more brilliant and sympathetic light 
 upon an author's life and work and leanings than 
 he himself can. Nor does he consider a playful 
 na'rve egotism incompatible with the dignity of a 
 litterateur. Hugo, Dumas, Daudet, are merely 
 instances of that which is so peculiarly a French 
 characteristic. If the Saxon is a nation of con- 
 querors, the French is peculiarly a nation of talk- 
 ers ; and literature, after all, is merely conversation 
 in print, a delightful monologue, where the writer's 
 public is also his friend. 
 
 The Frenchman, whether he writes merely for 
 the Parisian, for France, or for a still larger repub- 
 lic, is en rapport with his public, and assumes it is 
 interested in himself. Hence the spontaneity and 
 charm of what he has to say, often one of manner, 
 rather than of matter. Is he his own biographer? 
 Then his artistic sense will save him from sins 
 against good taste. He suppresses here, adds a 
 touch there, is nowhere too literal. His the power 
 to embellish, ornament facts, interweave fancies, 
 interpolate just that element of the picturesque, 
 
Introduction. ix 
 
 the fabulous, which adds flavor. Always an enemy 
 to dull literalness, in order to entertain you he 
 merely begs that you will not take him too seri- 
 ously. He does not ask you to believe all he tells 
 you, or to probe too minutely, merely to discover 
 just how much is fact, and what is fiction. You 
 may smile at him, and he is not offended, for often 
 a smile at his own expense has anticipated yours. 
 And if at times he seems to wear the cap and 
 bells of a jester, his real mood is perhaps too sad 
 for weeping. A laugh may lurk behind the tear; 
 the tear quite as often hides beneath the smile. 
 This was at times the charm of Heine's prose, its 
 wit and humor, at best, more French than Ger- 
 man ; the charm of Jean Paul's, — the Midas 
 touch that poetizes minor miseries and petty pains. 
 This, too, is the quality of Daudet's Short Stories. 
 
 Yet Daudet was a realist. He wrote of little 
 that had not come under his observation, was all 
 his life a laborious taker of notes. Fromont Jenne, 
 The Nabob, Jack, Sapko, — these are contemporary 
 studies, realistic enough, of life as he saw it. The 
 background is ever a familiar one. 
 
 But it is true that in these longer works the per- 
 sonal note is rarely struck. The realist was also 
 too much an artist to confound the office of 
 biographer and of novelist. 
 
 And that is why — to the student for whom life 
 and literature are inseparable — Daudet's longer 
 novels are not the most interesting of his works, 
 since there is always a certain fascination in seek- 
 ing behind names and titles and events that un- 
 
x Introduction. 
 
 known quantity, the writer himself, — a delight in 
 the book about which clings the delicate perfume 
 of a personality not purely fictitious. As we love 
 to trace those resemblances, real or fancied, of 
 children to their parents, so we delight in those 
 mannerisms of a writer peculiarly his. own, — those 
 confidences, stray bits of information that reveal 
 the man through his writings. 
 
 In some few of his works, not the longer ones, 
 Daudet has left the reader this legacy, about which 
 lingers the charm of all dear, personal, familiar 
 things. In Le Petit Ckose, Souvenirs d'uu Homme 
 de Lettres, in Trente Ans de Paris, it is Daudet who 
 speaks. Le Petit Chose is the narrative of a youth 
 not as yet quite sure of himself. Its very strength 
 is also its weakness. As Daudet himself said, " At 
 twenty-five one is scarcely mature enough to review 
 and annotate his own life ! " In the Souvenirs and 
 in Thirty Years of Paris, the personal note is struck 
 again, but this time in stronger, manlier fashion, 
 by a man sure of himself, his art. In Lettres de 
 mon Mdulin and Contes du Lundi are the inter- 
 mediate experiences that bridge the gap between 
 the dreams of a youth of twenty and the maturer 
 views and soberer vision of the man of fifty. 
 
 Reading these chapters of Daudet's life written 
 by himself, one almost wishes that every man of 
 letters might be his own biographer — and with a 
 touch as kindly and tolerant of himself and others 
 as was Alphonse Daudet. It is a loving, altogether 
 lovable personality that is revealed to us in The 
 Letters from my Mill and The Monday Tales. 
 
Introduction. xi 
 
 Little What 's His Name grown a few years older, 
 that is all ; still the Child of Provence, impulsive, 
 warm-hearted, — a child who has not yet outgrown 
 his fondness for playing at Crusoe ; though he has 
 parted with Friday and the parrot, he is still a soli- 
 tary Robinson with all Paris for his Desert Island. 
 
 It is Little What 's His Name whose voice is heard 
 again in The Monday Tales in a strain as prophetic 
 as tender when he stands at the bedside of a dead 
 friend : — - 
 
 " It was heartrending to gaze at the lifeless head, 
 drooping so heavily upon the pillow, asleep in 
 death, while at his side lay that book which so 
 soon would be seen in the shop-windows ; whose 
 title passers-by would read mechanically, and carry 
 away in the memory, vividly impressed there, with 
 the name of its author inscribed now upon that 
 sadder leaf of the city's register, — that name whose 
 letters looked so gay upon the cover, the cover still 
 fresh, unfaded. The entire problem of the soul and 
 the body was there : that rigid corpse would so 
 soon be given to earth and forgotten; while the 
 book, starting forth on its life apart from him, like 
 a visible soul, was full of vitality, and perhaps a 
 thing immortal." 
 
 With the shock of Daudet's death still fresh in 
 the memory, the title of his Last Book still ring- 
 ing in the ears, the words have a deeper signifi- 
 cance than before. " The least page he has ever 
 written will preserve the vibration of his soul as 
 long as our language shall exist," said Zola at the 
 grave of Daudet. Strong and deep words from 
 
xii Introduction, 
 
 the grim realist whose theories of life and art seem 
 often so opposed to his own. Did Daudet antici- 
 pate this verdict in The Last Book ? 
 
 Whether so or not, no more lasting legacy to the 
 French language than the various series of short 
 stories which appeared from time to time during 
 the middle period of his life in Paris. Had he 
 written not another line, his place in literature 
 would have been assured. For each of these 
 stories bears the stamp of a classic, is a book in 
 miniature. Nothing more finished, more perfect, 
 in literary form than these contes, — not even the 
 prose of De Maupassant. For De Maupassant's 
 short stories are prose always, prose of the cruellest, 
 bitterest sort, which cuts, sears, corrodes, — art in- 
 deed for art's sake, but stripped of every generous 
 illusion. Cruel motive, mean thought, ignoble de- 
 sire, are so often the theme of him who has penned 
 the most perfect prose ever written. The short 
 stories of Daudet, on the contrary, are poems in 
 prose. 
 
 Daudet is not an optimist through indifference 
 or ignorance, but through conviction. He saw as 
 plainly as did De Maupassant the frailty and mean- 
 ness and misery of life. His ear was equally 
 sensitive to every strain of the world's minor music ; 
 yet, after all, it is a world of rich and generous 
 emotions Daudet would have us believe. Life is 
 a goodly thing. The sunshine — how blessed a 
 gift ! The peasant's rags need not of necessity 
 hide a beggar's soul. For Daudet, thought has 
 wings. The convulsive heaving of a shawl above 
 
Introduction, xiii 
 
 the poor, thin shoulders it covers but scantily, is 
 sufficient to reveal to him all the domestic tragedy 
 of a simple bourgeoise. A mere pantomime of 
 the street, a little dumb show as expressive as 
 the pantomime of two of Seraphin's marionettes, 
 often suggests to him a drama of the hearth. 
 
 Daudet was, in a certain sense, the pioneer of 
 the modern Short Story in France. The conte, the 
 nouvelle, has indeed been the special inheritance 
 of the descendants of the Latins, and in France 
 the short story is centuries old. 
 
 Yet with Daudet the short story acquired a new, 
 purely modern significance. He was perhaps the 
 first to apply this form of literary art to a passing 
 phase of thought, to a momentary emotion, and 
 to incidents that are psychological in character, 
 rather than anecdotic. La Conie'die Humaine Balzac 
 called that tremendous drama prolonged through 
 volume after volume. Une chronique humaine, 
 Daudet might have' called those short stories ex- 
 tending over some of the best, most productive years 
 of his life, — a human chronicle of contemporary 
 life and manners, on a humbler, far less pretentious 
 scale than Balzac's Comedy, — yet a chronicle 
 that appeals to all classes, finds its subjects among 
 all classes, and even among the de'classe'. The Paris 
 ouvrier, the little bourgeois, the poet, the Aca- 
 demician, agas, Turkos, provincials, all are familiar 
 figures for Daudet. And note how every super- 
 fluous detail, every repetition, is brushed away. 
 Never a phrase too much. Each sketch is as clear- 
 cut as a cameo, upon whose brilliant back* 
 
xiv Introduction. 
 
 ground stands in fine, bold relief the figure, the 
 event, he wishes to describe. 
 
 " Un peu trop de papier, mon fils ! " says Flaubert 
 after a perusal of Jack. This charge cannot be 
 brought against the short stories. Each is com- 
 plete in itself, and contains material that, if ampli- 
 fied, might serve for many a novel or drama. 
 
 Yet how slight in themselves are often the details 
 of the story. A mere newspaper clipping, a 
 chance paragraph, no more. And yet so much of 
 life is made up of the seemingly insignificant hap- 
 penings. Daudet rarely deals with the exceptional, 
 rarely descends to extravagance or caricature in 
 his portrayals of character. It is in the average, 
 ordinary, seemingly commonplace man and woman 
 that he frequently finds all the elements of a tragedy, 
 a domestic drama. Here at least he is one with 
 the realists, with Tourguenef, Zola, Tolstoi, Ibsen. 
 But he differs from them all as completely as 
 the atmosphere of his own sunburned Provence 
 differs from the cold, gray dawn of a winter morn- 
 ing in Paris. He touches commonplace events to 
 transfigure them ; he does not see life through rose- 
 hued spectacles, but he views many things through 
 the luminous, tender mist of fancy. For the great 
 man who reads life deeply, the humblest, least im- 
 portant event is full of solemn significance, the small- 
 est life holds in itself, potentially, the elements of 
 the sublimest drama, the profoundest tragedy. 
 
 It was this deep, underlying sense of the vast 
 possibilities of life that made Daudet's mirth a 
 far different thing from the humor of Dickens. 
 
Introduction. xv 
 
 Daudet's mirth is sometimes scarcely more than a 
 suppressed trembling of the muscles, his humor 
 as delicate as the quiver of a butterfly's wing. It 
 springs from subtler perceptions of the incon- 
 gruous, the ludicrous, than those which made 
 Dickens a popular idol. Daudet states often 
 from a humorous standpoint a truth that has a 
 deeper side, but the smile is scarcely more than 
 a ripple of the surface. A wave may break into 
 innumerable, tiny flowers of foam, but the deep 
 undercurrent remains unchanged. Daudet's humor 
 is never the Gargantuan laugh. 
 
 The short stories are Daudet at his best, a style 
 tense, virile, full of suppressed energy. The pic- 
 tures he sees are clearly conveyed to the mental 
 retina, and focused there. His sense of color 
 and form is at times as vivid and keen as Gautier's. 
 Sometimes he lays on the colors broadly, again 
 with all the minuter delicacy of touch. He has 
 always the painter's instinct for a fitting back- 
 ground which shall bring his figures into relief. 
 
 In a charming chapter of Thirty Years of Paris > 
 Daudet has given us the story of his Letters from 
 my Mill. Concerning The Monday Tales he has 
 said little. Possibly this is because they are some- 
 what of the nature of isolated sketches, not bound 
 together by one central idea. Possibly they had 
 not, in his view, the scope and value of the longer 
 works, yet it is true that they helped to build that 
 solid structure of Daudet's reputation, and are as 
 finished in workmanship as anything he has ever 
 written , 
 
xvi Introduction, 
 
 The Monday Tales first appeared as occasional 
 contributions to Figaro. A portion of them were 
 brought into volume-form in 1871, and published 
 under the title of Lettres a mi Absent, dedicated to 
 Daudet's poet-friend, Paul Arene, a captain of the 
 Mobiles. 
 
 In 1873, all the stories were brought together 
 and then published under the title of Les Conies 
 du Lundi. The story entitled The Three Low 
 Masses has also appeared in Letters from my Mill. 
 Those which originally formed part of the Lettres 
 d mi Absent are The Mothers, At the Outposts, Coun- 
 try-folk in Paris, The Boy Spy, Be'lisaire's Prussian, 
 The Defence of Tarascon, The Siege of Berlin, and 
 The Clock of Bougival, published originally as Our 
 Clocks. 
 
 The writer was a man of more than thirty, to 
 whom success had come, who had found his public. 
 The events of the Franco-Prussian War had sobered 
 him, and given a new tinge of earnestness to his 
 work. 
 
 There is a nobler strain in these stories than 
 speaks from the pages of Le Petit Chose, — the ring 
 of passionate patriotism, no longer the voice of 
 Provence, or of Paris, but the voice of France. 
 
 These stories, offered to the most captious of 
 editors who has ever catered to the most capricious 
 of publics, were polished and repolished with the 
 utmost care before they reached the columns of 
 Le Figaro. In Thirty Years of Paris, Daudet has 
 left his impressions of De Villemessant, the terrible 
 ogre of Figaro, who after numerous disastrous 
 
Introduction. xvii 
 
 literary enterprises, the last of which had been 
 suppressed by the police at the time of the famous 
 coup-d'e'tat, was devoting all his energies to the 
 exploitation of the novelty in literature, every- 
 thing most article among literary wares bearing the 
 genuine stamp article de Paris. De Villemessant 
 would not seem as unusual a figure to-day as at 
 the time when Daudet first met him. Ernest 
 Daudet, in Mon Frere et Moi, has described his 
 brother's relations with him. Daudet has related 
 with what trembling he committed to the letter- 
 box of Figaro that delightful, fantastic, symbolic 
 thing, the Romance of Little Red Riditig Hood, 
 which first attracted the ogre's attention, and 
 caused him to recognize the appearance of a new 
 force in literature. 
 
 Fortunate for Daudet that so early in his career 
 he found favor in the eyes of this formidable char- 
 acter. True, the connection with Figaro brought 
 him no great pecuniary gain : money did not come 
 in very fast; and the author of Little Red Riding- 
 hood's Romance had not a few unromantic, very 
 realistic interviews with a very grim Wolf. At this 
 time he had quitted the dismal attic in the Grand 
 Hotel du Senat; but the garret was none too 
 warm, in which he sat muffled in an old blanket 
 writing for Figaro. And yet he was assured of a 
 public, and a public to which he was compelled to 
 give nothing but his best. 
 
 To return to The Monday Tales. Roughly 
 classified, they fall into three divisions, — those 
 which are autobiographical, in the nature of remi- 
 
x vi i i In Iroduclion. 
 
 niscence; those which are chronicles, bird's ey< 
 pictures of contemporaneous events; and those 
 which are more purely imaginative and fantastic 
 They have been classified in this volume as fantas} 
 and history, — caprices and souvenirs. The lin< 
 that separates fact from fiction must not be drawi 
 too closely. Daudet, like all artists, took occa 
 sional liberties with history, modified here, alterec 
 slightly there, — as in the Battle of Pere-La-Chais 
 and the story of Les Petits P&tfc. Nor is i 
 always easy to say how far fiction mingles witl 
 fact in these stories. Such stories as The Siege q 
 Parts, The Mothers, are stamped with the spirit o 
 truth, with a vitality which makes one forget to in 
 quire how literally they may be true. Occasionally 
 the use of coincidences seems a little overdrawn 
 as in The Siege of Berlin, where the death of th< 
 old cuirassier, simultaneous with the entry of th< 
 Germans into Paris, savors just a trifle of the melo 
 dramatic and improbable. But, after all, The Sieg< 
 of Paris had not a little of melodrama minglec 
 with its tragedy, and no fiction could seem mon 
 extravagant than much of the truth concerning it 
 In the death of Chauvin, " the Last Frenchman,' 
 we have grim, sad truth regarding the siege, — truth 
 however, from the standpoint of an eye-witness 
 who, in spite of the fact that he was a minor acto: 
 in the drama, never lost his power of viewing 
 events from the standpoint of a disinterested out 
 sider. 
 
 The touching story, La Derniere Classe, migh 
 have come from the lips of an 'Alsatian, so true i 
 
Introduction. xix 
 
 it to the spirit of Alsace during those sorrowful 
 days that followed the Franco-Prussian War. 
 
 The part that Daudet played in this war it is 
 not necessary to dwell upon here, except to em- 
 phasize the value it gives to those historic sketches 
 in the Contes du Lundi, which relate to the siege 
 of Paris. The narration of an eye-witness of 
 events while history is in process of making has 
 always a significance far beyond that possessed 
 by the commentary of the most brilliant historian, 
 who must rewrite history from musty archives. 
 When the eye-witness is Alphonse Daudet, the 
 value of the chronicle is still greater. A man with 
 a passion for new scenes and events, whose mental 
 notes were copious, keen, and accurate ; a man 
 who sees a thousand subtile, impalpable things that 
 escape coarser powers of vision, who possesses 
 the rare gift of using words with such exactness 
 that others can see with his eyes, pictures so vivid 
 they need but little by way of text, — such an eye- 
 witness of the Siege of Paris cannot fail to make 
 valuable contributions to its history. With a good 
 map of Paris and its fortifications, and these histor- 
 ical sketches of The Monday Tales, the general 
 reader may glean more of the actual events of the 
 siege than from many a history. 
 
 The first days and weeks of the Terrible Year, 
 the life at the outposts, the subsequent days of the 
 Commune, — all are touched upon. Needless per- 
 haps to say that Daudet had small sympathy with 
 the events and leaders of the Commune, and left 
 Paris during those troublous days. 
 
xx Introduction, 
 
 In that mighty upheaval of Paris which brought 
 so many turbid elements to the surface, — that drama 
 wherein the ludicrous so often jostles the tragic, 
 the profound, — Daudet's perceptions of the farcical 
 and incongruous are as keen as his perception ol 
 the noble, the pathetic, and heroic. He sees Pari? 
 as Englishmen have seen and described it during 
 the siege. No unprejudiced, impartial outsider 
 ever saw the inherent weak points of French life 
 and character more keenly than he. Politics he 
 hated. Officialism, though he had studied it froir 
 the inside, possessed no glamour for him. He 
 dared to describe things as he saw them, yet the 
 patriotic note in his writings is as strong as the 
 critical and ironic. Daudet is French indeed in hi* 
 seeming inability to understand the conquering 
 Teuton. His prejudice at times moves a smile 
 It is so naive, so intensely Parisian, that contempi 
 for a conqueror who could not even pronounce the 
 language of the vanquished ! He can see onl) 
 grossness, coarseness, and ignorance, in " Attik 
 encamped about Paris." He regards the Berlines( 
 with all the inbred repugnance of a Parisian //^ 
 gant. So De Montpavan, had he outlived his Duk< 
 long enough, might have lamented the utter ab 
 sence of Tenue — on the part of the conqueror 
 Bulwer-Lytton, in his novel of " The Parisians," see: 
 the German from quite another than the Gallic 
 standpoint. 
 
 The tremendous principles at work beneath tha 
 invasion of France, the irr.i, inexorable energ) 
 of the Great Chancellor, the mighty forces back o 
 
Introduction, xxi 
 
 the movement, — if Daudet realized anything of 
 these things, he does not let us suspect the fact. 
 Possibly he did understand far better than he lets 
 us believe in Les Contes du Lundi. Possibly if he 
 could speak, his last word concerning the Teuton 
 would be something profounder than the delicate 
 raillery of The Clock of Bougival, or the less kindly 
 satire of The Blind Emperor. 
 
 The siege of Paris left its ineffaceable influence 
 upon Daudet's life. The war of 1870 was for him 
 a revelation, writes L6on Daudet. At the Out- 
 posts and My Kepi contain some of his personal 
 recollections of the days of the siege. 
 
 With the exception of the sketches relating to 
 the siege, the stories in this volume which are 
 reminiscences of the writer are not many. The Pope 
 is Dead contains recollections of Daudet's child- 
 hood. Readers of Le Petit Chose will remember 
 the sale of the factory, and the heartbreak of 
 Little Crusoe at seeing his desert island transformed. 
 Shortly afterward, the Daudet family removed to 
 Lyons, exchanging its fog and gloom for their 
 beloved Nimes. Alphonse found delight and con- 
 solation upon the river. To spend long afternoons 
 upon it he played truant again and again, the 
 motherly Ernest shielding the younger brother from 
 blame. When reports of the boy's absence were 
 sent home, Ernest would intercept them and an- 
 swer them in his father's name. Often he would 
 aid the younger in inventing excuses, privately 
 lecturing the little brother, who, in the deep con- 
 trition of the moment, would solemnly promise 
 
xxii Introduction, 
 
 never to sin again. The imagination of Ernest was 
 not always equal to the strain of inventing these 
 repeated excuses, but the imaginative powers of 
 the future author of Tartarin never failed him, and 
 upon one occasion he tells us he actually invented 
 the death of the visible Head of the Church to 
 divert from himself the suspicions of that dear 
 mother, — no Roman of them all more devout 
 Roman Catholic than she. And, most startling 
 fact, the ingenious young Provencal, the future 
 father of Tartarin, was so deeply overcome by the 
 emotion which his story had called forth that on 
 the sorrowful evening, when, seated about the table, 
 the family recalled the history of popes past and 
 present, he almost came to believe his own inven- 
 tion. Those who love to think that the child is 
 father to the man will see in this young meridional 
 the promise of the novelist who describes the feats 
 of his lion-hunting countryman with such sympa- 
 thetic and loving irony of soul; and the very, 
 very good people will remember that in the south 
 of France the Lie is not regarded too seriously, and 
 that, indeed, all France is un pen de Tarascon. 
 
 In The Caravansary and in Decorated the i$t/i 
 of August we have detached pages from Daudet's 
 notes taken during his journey in Algeria. 
 
 In 1 86 1 the evil effects of the privations Daudet 
 had endured since his coming to Paris, four years 
 before, began to manifest themselves. He fell seri- 
 ously ill. De Morny, who had no little fondness 
 for his young attache' du cabinet, sent for him, and 
 gave him leave of absence to travel. " I must ap< 
 
Introduction. xxiii 
 
 point you sub-prefect somewhere in the South," 
 he said graciously. " You are very young, and 
 you will not cut your hair, but that will not mat- 
 ter." And he sent him, at the doctor's suggestion, 
 to Algeria, with money to defray the expenses of 
 the tour. New and picturesque surroundings, nov- 
 elty of scenery, the rich and brilliant coloring of 
 the picture, made a strong impression. To this 
 journey we owe two of the most beautiful of The 
 Monday Tales. 
 
 He returned to Paris just in time to be present 
 at the performance of his first play, La Derniere 
 Idole. In spite of the fact that his patron was 
 there, that the Duchess broke her fan, so vigorous 
 her applause, Daudet tells us that he found it a 
 relief when the curtain fell, and hurried away, 
 edging along the walls, his collar turned up, 
 ashamed and furtive as a thief. 
 
 In Un Soir de premiere he gives us a painful bit 
 of confidence as to his varied emotions on a first 
 night performance of one of his plays, and describes 
 in his vivid way the agonies of an unsuccessful 
 dramatist. Daudet's imagination had nerves, as 
 well as wings. He suffered at times from an ex- 
 cess of it ; and it must be remembered, as regards 
 this sensitiveness concerning his plays, that he had 
 cause for it; they have been the least successful 
 of his writings, — his genius was not of the sort to 
 accommodate itself readily to the exigencies of the 
 stage. 
 
 In 1862 his health failed again, and he was 
 granted another absence. During a sea-voyage, 
 
xx iv Introduction. 
 
 he visited Corsica and Sardinia. He made many 
 notes during this journey, which were afterwards 
 used in The Nabob. Reminiscences of it in The 
 Monday Tales are contained in the Scenes Gas- 
 tronomiques. 
 
 On his return some memorable days were spent 
 with Mistral and the FeMibres. 
 
 In 1863 began the first series of Letters from my 
 Mill. In the death of the Due de Morny, 1865, 
 Daudet lost a protector and friend. He at once 
 and forever severed his connection with things offi- 
 cial. Though the duties of his position were not 
 onerous, they had proved irksome to him. 
 
 Incidentally, during those first years in Paris, 
 Daudet had seen not a little of the life of Bohemia. 
 Among those who met in the Brasserie des 
 Martyres, in the street of the same name, back of 
 Notre Dame, was one whom Daudet refers to more 
 than once in the Contes du Lundi, Alfred Delvau, 
 a young author, better known, however, to col- 
 lectors of rarities than to the ordinary reader. 
 
 Upon the death of Dc Morny, Daudet and Del- 
 vau planned a journey together, which the latter 
 has described in a little book now very rare. In 
 this Daudet is referred to as Fortunio! 
 
 Fortunio has not a great deal to say of his com- 
 rade, but refers to him now and then as a not too 
 talkative companion. It seems they were not 
 always in harmony, as the " not too talkative com- 
 panion " insisted always on retiring to bed imme- 
 diately after supper, precisely at the moment when 
 Fortunio was widest awake. 
 
Introduction. xxv 
 
 Recollections of a portion of this journey are to 
 be found in Alsace! Alsace! The Judge of Colmar 
 contains more impressions. 
 
 It was this friend Delvau to whom reference is 
 again made in The Blind Emperor as the wild com- 
 rade with whom Daudet travelled through Baden, 
 asking for food in divers inns in phrases whose 
 poverty of words was concealed by a most moving 
 musical setting. Startling indeed to the good inn- 
 keepers over the Rhine must have seemed the 
 melodious phrases of the two mad Frenchmen. 
 
 The Blind Emperor also revives other memories 
 of a journey made in 1866, before France had 
 occasion to become more intimately acquainted 
 with the Germans and their language. 
 
 Finest perhaps of all the flowering of Daudet's 
 genius are those tales which are purely fictitious or 
 fanciful. They have been likened to Hauff's, Hoff- 
 man's, Andersen's ; but Daudet's style is peculiarly 
 his own and inimitable. He plays upon the entire 
 gamut of thought and feeling, passing from grave 
 to gay, and striking music everywhere. Here is a 
 thought as light, as evanescent, as the play of a sun- 
 beam on the wing of a humming-bird, or the flash- 
 ing of spray on an oar, as it dips into the ocean ; — 
 again the fine, strong breath of the mistral. 
 
 A charm that eludes analysis, or literal transla- 
 tion, — 
 
 " Li vagoun dins de canestello 
 Carrejon tout, e leu, leu, leu ! 
 Mais carrejon pas lou souleu, 
 Mai carrejon pas lis estello ! " 
 
xxvi Introduction. 
 
 Sunshine and starlight are here, the soul of 
 Provence, its vigor and joy incarnate. Speech is a 
 clumsy, lumbering vehicle at best. " So many 
 things are lost in that journey from the brain to 
 the hand," says Daudet. And how shall one 
 translate into speech, fire and laughter and tears? 
 
 That which has endeared the writer of these 
 short stories to the world is the charm of the 
 insaisissable. More difficult to say what that is, 
 than to state definitely all it is not. It is some- 
 thing as subtle as the symbolism of Maeterlinck, a 
 quality that eludes the mere logician, the scientist, 
 the prosateur. Even the wisdom of the sage shall 
 not compass it. There are finer vibrations of this 
 old planet than those to which our ears are accus- 
 tomed ; but to hear, the inner sense must be at- 
 tuned to the music of an invisible orchestra, one 
 must have spent long^ lazy hours in Nature's dear 
 hostelry a la belle Etoile ! — must have spelled 
 out the book-lore written in quaint arabesques in 
 that Bibliotheque des Cigales, whose next door 
 neighbor is the Poet. 
 
 In this volume Tarascon appears — perhaps for 
 the first time, for this may have been written in 
 1 87 1, while the first of the Tartarin series is dated 
 1872, — Tarascon itself appears in all its glory of 
 sunshine and river. 
 
 Henry James tells us that the little town received 
 its name from an ancient legend of a terrible 
 dragon known as the Tarasque. Saint Martha 
 with her own hands tamed this fearful beast, which 
 
Introduction. xxvii 
 
 once had its cavern among the rocks, where now 
 a castle stands, and has given its name to the 
 town of Tartarin, the Formidable ! Whether this 
 mythical creature was as noisy a beast as the 
 dreadful dragon that belches fire and noise in the 
 Wagnerian Trilogy, Mr. James has not told us; 
 but certainly Tarascon has made no small amount 
 of noise in the world since the day of the Dragon ; 
 and the Tarasconian of Alphonse Daudet is quite as 
 formidable as the Wagnerian dragon, — with eyes 
 that bulge ferociously, and lips that belch noise 
 and fire. 
 
 Near by is the castle of good King R6n6, a 
 fortress of yellow stone, overlooking the river. 
 Hither, in the middle of the fifteenth century, King 
 Rene himself retired, grown weary of fighting and 
 enamoured of his dear Provence, which, with a 
 proper showing of gratitude, has embalmed his 
 memory in many a legend. Beaucaire, separated 
 from Tarascon by a little footbridge, was endeared 
 to Daudet by many a childish recollection. 
 
 Tartarin himself does not appear in the Defence 
 so feelingly described in this volume. A figure of 
 too majestic, heroic proportions to be disposed of 
 in a few brief pages — or perhaps at the time he 
 was away lion-hunting. 
 
 Tarascon has long since forgiven " the mocking 
 child of Nimes," if indeed it was ever greatly indig- 
 nant with him. How would it have been possible 
 to remain churlishly vexed with Alphonse Daudet? 
 
 " And, besides, he is one of ourselves 1 " said a 
 
xxviii Introduction. 
 
 son of the Midi ; he had begun by abusing the 
 creator of Tartarin with furious zeal, yet could not 
 restrain his laughter in recalling the hero's prodi- 
 gious feats, — that frank southern laughter en large 
 which Daudet tells about ; questioned, he admitted 
 there was not a little of Tartarin in the South, and, 
 gently led on, ended with a glorification of Daudet, 
 claiming him as the true, unique product of the 
 Midi — in whom the North had no share ! 
 
 And this is the general attitude of the southerner 
 towards Tartarin. They forgive in the southerner, 
 in one of themselves, what they would never have 
 pardoned in the Parisian, the bourgeois. 
 
 And no mere Parisian, no northerner, could have 
 written the Defence of Tarascon. He would have 
 passed by the sleepy little town with a glance of 
 indifference. Only the humor and imagination of 
 a southerner ever could have thought of rescuing 
 it from oblivion, to make it live forever as the 
 object of the most delicious and kindly irony ever 
 penned, irony that leaves no sting. Only a me- 
 ridional, one steeped in the sunshine, the intense 
 warm atmosphere of the land of olives, could pene- 
 trate the emotions of so extraordinary a being as 
 the Tarasconnais. " lis e'taient si extraordinaires, 
 ces nie'ridionaux ! " writes Daudet. One can al- 
 most fancy how, with that adorable smile of his, 
 he might have added, " Who should know better 
 than I? Who more of a meridional than I 
 myself? " 
 
 And because of this quality, Daudet cannot see 
 his Provence with the eyes of the realist. It is not 
 
Introduction, xxix 
 
 a great bare stretch of country washed with sun- 
 shine, but the Land of Mirage, the Provence of 
 the Nineteenth-Century Troubadours, the Land of 
 Roumanille and Mathieu and Mistral, of flower- 
 fetes and contests, the Provence of legend and 
 song, of tender, glowing fancy, — an empire of 
 simple, kindly hearts. 
 
 To the Felibres and his friendship with them, 
 Daudet owed the revival of boyish associations 
 and the formation of new ties. He has repaid the 
 debt, and aided not a little in the fusion of north 
 and south, — the breaking down of those barriers 
 which sympathy and sentiment decree, rather than 
 politics. 
 
 But if Daudet was and remained a southerner, 
 life in Paris taught him to note, to analyze, to avoid 
 excess, tempered the exuberance of the south- 
 erner, gave his art a poise, strength, and self- 
 restraint of character which otherwise it might 
 have lacked. He owed much to the literary envi- 
 ronment of Paris, and, above all, his comradeship 
 with Flaubert, De Goncourt, and Zola. 
 
 Daudet never quite overcame his first impression 
 of Paris. In writing of it and of things Parisian, he 
 speaks somewhat from the standpoint of an out- 
 sider. The mighty maelstrom of modern life fas- 
 cinates him, but his curiosity seems somewhat 
 akin to that of a foreigner. The great city, with 
 its varied scenes and ever-changing life, becomes 
 for him at times a personified thing almost. 
 Sometimes this Paris wears for him the face of a 
 cruel inexorable monster that rends and devours; 
 
xxx Introduction, 
 
 again, the face of a courtesan, — without heart, 
 whose smile is merely a grimace. 
 
 The life of the streets, of the home, impresses 
 him profoundly. He starts for a walk and returns 
 wearied, impregnated with all the wretchedness 
 and sorrow of the great city. His soul is like a 
 sensitized plate which records every impression. 
 His sympathies, never effeminate, strike at times 
 a note of the feminine, maternal almost in its 
 tenderness. 
 
 This sympathy with wretchedness and suffering 
 everywhere is the strongest, almost the only point 
 of resemblance between Daudet and Dickens. 
 One smiles with amazement to think that Daudet 
 should have ever thought it necessary to disclaim 
 such knowledge of Dickens as might warrant a 
 charge of plagiarism, the resemblances of style 
 are so superficial. 
 
 One lays aside The Monday Tales convinced that 
 Daudet was possessed of a Sixth Sense, which per- 
 haps may be imperfectly defined as the rudiments 
 of the Five, and the Soul that interprets them, that 
 intuitive faculty that marks the poet. 
 
 No musician, in the strict technical sense of the 
 term, yet Daudet's prose is always musical, 
 rhythmic, lyrical in quality. Not a poet in the 
 sense in which Hugo was a poet, yet the poetic 
 touch is upon all he has fashioned. His myopic 
 eye saw innumerable fine things that escape ordi- 
 nary eyes. Not a painter, yet he has left pen- 
 pictures that will live when the canvas of many a 
 modern masterpiece shall have faded. 
 
Introduction, xxxi 
 
 If it may sometimes be said of Genius that all 
 the Muses have presided over its destiny, may we 
 not say that all the Graces were present at the 
 cradle of Alphonse Daudet? 
 
 Fortunate and happy and blessed in his life, a 
 sufferer too beyond most men, unsoured by suffer- 
 ing, unspoiled by success, this teller of stories — 
 this Child of Provence, whose nervous, delicate 
 fingers, wasted by disease, all the Graces guided, — 
 he who could express with such surpassing tender- 
 ness and grace the things he saw, and, finest of 
 fine things, added that touch of mirage, that 
 gleam, — 
 
 " The light that never was on sea or land, 
 The consecration and the poet's dream." 
 
 M. M. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 gart I. 
 
 FANTASY AND HISTORY. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Last Lesson i 
 
 A Game of Billiards 9 
 
 The Vision of the Judge of Colmar 16 
 
 The Boy Spy 23 
 
 The Mother 34 
 
 "The .Siege of Berlin 42 
 
 A Re jegade Zouave 53 
 
 The Clock of Bougival 60 
 
 The Defence of Tarascon 69 
 
 Belisaire's Prussian 80 
 
 Country-folk in Paris during the Siege 87 
 
 At the Outposts: Memories of the Siege ^ . . . 93 
 
 Glimpses of the Insurrection , 104 
 
 The Ferry in 
 
 The Color Sergeant 117 
 
 The Death of Chauvin 125 
 
 Alsace! Alsace! .... 131 
 
 The Caravansary • ... 138 
 
 Decorated the Fifteenth of August 144 
 
 My Kepi 154 
 
xxxiv Contents. 
 
 Pagb 
 
 A TURCO OF THE COMMUNE l6o 
 
 The Concert of Company Eight 166 
 
 The Battle of Pere-Lachaise . 172 
 
 ~% The Little Pates 178 
 
 Aboard: A Monologue 186 
 
 The Fairies of France 192 
 
 d 
 
 $art EL 
 
 CAPRICES AND SOUVENIRS. 
 
 A Book-keeper 199 
 
 "With the Three Hundred Thousand Francs which 
 
 Girardin Promised me!" 2od 
 
 Arthur 212 
 
 The Third Reading 220 
 
 A First-Night Performance 227 
 
 Cheese-Soup 232 
 
 The Last Book 237 
 
 House for Sale! 243 
 
 Yule-tide Stories: 
 
 &' I. A Christmas-Eve Revel in the Marais . . . 251 
 
 II. The Three Low Masses 258 
 
 The Pope is Dead 270 
 
 Gastronomic Scenes 2 77 
 
 A Sea-side Harvest 283 
 
 The Emotions of a Young Red Partridge .... 291 
 
 The Mirror 3°° 
 
 The Blind Emperor: 
 
 I. Colonel Von Sifbqtdt 3°4 
 
 II. South Germany 3°? 
 
Contents. xxxv 
 
 The Blind Emperor {continued) : Pagb 
 
 III. In a Drosky 311 
 
 IV. The Blue Country 315 
 
 V. A Sail across Lake Starnberg 319 
 
 VI. Bavaria 3 21 
 
 VII. The Blind Emperor 324 
 
PART I. 
 FANTASY AND HISTORY. 
 
MONDAY TALES. 
 
 THE LAST LESSON. 
 A YOUNG ALSATIAN'S NARRATIVE. 
 
 That morning it wa~ quite late before I started 
 for school, and I was terribly afraid I should be 
 scolded, for Monsieur Hamel had told us that he 
 would question us upon participles, and I did not 
 know the first thing about them. For a moment 
 I thought of escaping from school and roving 
 through the fields. 
 
 The day was so warm, so clear ! The blackbirds 
 were whistling on the outskirts of the woods. In 
 Rippert Meadow, behind the sawmill, the Prus- 
 sians were drilling. 'Ml these things were far 
 more attractive to me than the rule for the use of 
 participles. But I mustered up strength to resist 
 temptation, and hurried on to school. 
 
 As I reached the town hall, I saw a ^roup of 
 people; they loitered before the little grating, 
 reading the placards posted upon it. For two 
 years every bit of bad news had been announced 
 to us from that grating. There we read what bat- 
 tles had been lost, what requisitions made ; there 
 we learned what orders had issued from head- 
 
2 Monday Tales. 
 
 quarters. And though I did not pause with the 
 res L , I wondered to myself, " What can be the 
 matter now? " 
 
 As I ran across the square, Wachter, the black- 
 smith, who, in company with his apprentice, was 
 absorbed in reading the nottce, exclaimed, — 
 
 " Not so fast, child ! You will reach your school 
 soon enough ! " 
 
 I believed he was making game of me, and I was 
 quite out of breath when I entered Monsieur 
 Hamel's small domain. 
 
 Now, at the beginning of the session there was 
 usually such an uproar that it could be heard as 
 far as the street. Desks were opened and shut, 
 lessons recited at the top of our voices, all 
 shouting together, each of us stopping his ears 
 that he might hear better. Then the master's big 
 ruler would descend upon his desk, and he would 
 say,— 
 
 " Silence ! " 
 
 I counted upon making my entrance in the midst 
 of the usual babel and reaching my seat unob- 
 served, but upon this particular morning all was 
 hushed. Sabbath stillness reigned. Through the 
 open window I could see that my comrades had 
 already taken their seats; I could see Monsieur 
 Hamel himself, passing back and forth, his for- 
 midable iron ruler under his arm. 
 
 I must open that door. I must enter in the 
 midst of that deep silence. I need not tell you 
 that I grew red in the face, and terror seized me. 
 
 But, strangely enough, as Monsieur Hamel scru- 
 
The Last Lesson, 3 
 
 tinized me, there was no anger in his gaze. He 
 said very gently, — 
 
 " Take your seat quickly, my little Franz. We 
 were going to begin without you." 
 
 I climbed over the bench, and seated myself. 
 But when I had recovered a little from my fright, I 
 noticed that our master had donned his beautiful 
 green frock-coat, his finest frilled shirt, and his 
 embroidered black silk calotte, which he wore only 
 on inspection days, or upon those occasions when 
 prizes were distributed. Moreover, an extraordi- 
 nary solemnity had taken possession of my class- 
 mates. But the greatest surprise of all came when 
 my eye fell upon the benches at the farther end of 
 the room. Usually they were empty, but upon 
 this morning the villagers were seated there, sol- 
 emn as ourselves. There sat old Hauser, with his 
 three-cornered hat, there sat the venerable mayor, 
 the aged carrier, and other personages of impor- 
 tance. All of our visitors seemed sad, and Hauser 
 had brought with him an old primer, chewed at the 
 edges. It lay wide open upon his knees, his big 
 spectacles reposing upon the page. 
 
 While I was wondering at all these things, Mon- 
 sieur Hamel had taken his seat, and in the same 
 grave and gentle tone in which he had greeted me, 
 he said to us, — 
 
 " My children, this is the last day I shall teach 
 you. The order has come from Berlin that hence- 
 forth in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine all in- 
 struction shall be given in the German tongue only. 
 Your new master will arrive to-morrow. To-day 
 
4 Monday Tales, 
 
 you hear the last lesson you will receive in French, 
 and I beg you will be most attentive." 
 
 My " last" French lesson ! And I scarcely knew 
 how to write ! Now I should never learn. My 
 education must be cut short. How I grudged at 
 that moment every minute I had lost, every lesson 
 I had missed for the sake of hunting birds' nests 
 or making slides upon the Saar ! And those books 
 which a moment before were so dry and dull, so 
 heavy to carry, my grammar, my Bible-history, 
 seemed now to wear the faces of old friends, whom 
 I could not bear to bid farewell. It was with them 
 as with Monsieur Hamel, the thought that he was 
 about to leave, that I should see him no more, 
 made me forget all the blows of his ruler, and the 
 many punishments I had received. 
 
 Poor man ! It was in honor of that last session 
 that he was arrayed in his finest Sunday garb, and 
 now I began to understand why the villagers had 
 gathered at the back of the class-room. Their 
 presence at such a moment seemed to express a 
 regret that they had not visited that school-room 
 oftener ; it was their way of telling our master they 
 thanked him for his forty years of faithful service, 
 and desired to pay their respects to the land whose 
 empire was departing. 
 
 I was busied with these reflections when I heard 
 my name called. It was now my turn to recite. 
 Ah ! what would I not have given then, had I been 
 able to repeat from beginning to end that fagaeus 
 rule for the use of participles loudlj 
 and without a single mistake; but I 
 
The Last Lesson. 5 
 
 tangled in the first few words, and remained stand- 
 ing at my seat, swinging from side to side, my 
 heart swelling. I dared not raise my head. Mon- 
 sieur Hamel was addressing me. 
 
 " I shall not chide thee, my little Franz ; thy 
 punishment will be great enough. So it is ! We 
 say to ourselves each day, ' Bah ! I have time 
 enough. I will learn to-morrow.' And now see 
 what results. Ah, it has ever been the greatest 
 misfortune of our Alsace that she was willing to 
 put off learning till To-morrow ! And now these 
 foreigners can say to us, and justly, ' What ! you 
 profess to be Frenchmen, and can neither speak 
 nor write your own language ? ' And in all this, 
 my poor Franz, you are not the chief culprit. 
 Each of us has something to reproach himself 
 with. 
 
 " Your parents have not shown enough anxiety 
 about having you educated. They preferred to 
 see you spinning, or tilling the soil, since that 
 brought them in a few more sous. And have I 
 nothing with which to reproach myself? Did I 
 not often send you to water my garden when you 
 should have been at your tasks ? And if I wished 
 to go trout-fishing, was my conscience in the least 
 disturbed when I gave you a holiday? " 
 
 One topic leading to another, Monsieur Hamel 
 began to speak of the French language, saying 
 it was the strongest, clearest, most beautiful lan- 
 guage in the world, which we must keep as our 
 heritage, never allowing it to be forgotten, telling 
 us that when a nation has become enslaved, she 
 
6 Monday Tales. 
 
 holds the key which shall unlock her prison as 
 long as she preserves her native tongue. 1 
 
 Then he took a grammar, and read our lesson 
 to us, and I was amazed to see how well I under- 
 stood. Everything he said seemed so very simple, 
 so easy ! I had never, I believe, listened to any 
 one as I listened to him at that moment, and never 
 before had he shown so much patience in his ex- 
 planations. It really seemed as if the poor man, 
 anxious to impart everything he knew before he 
 took leave of us, desired to strike a single blow 
 that might drive all his knowledge into our heads 
 at once. 
 
 The lesson was followed by writing. For this 
 occasion Monsieur Hamel had prepared some 
 copies that were entirely new, and upon these were 
 written in a beautiful round hand, " France, Alsace! 
 France, Alsace /" 
 
 These words were as inspiring as the sight of 
 the tiny flags attached to the rod of our desks. It 
 was good to see how each one applied himself, and 
 how silent it was ! Not a sound save' the scratch- 
 ing of pens as they touched our papers. Once, 
 indeed, some cockchafers entered the room, but no 
 one paid the least attention to them, not even the 
 tiniest pupil; for the youngest were absorbed in 
 tracing their straight strokes as earnestly and con- 
 scientiously as if these too were written in French ! 
 On the roof of the schoolhouse the pigeons were 
 cooing softly, and I thought to myself as I listened, 
 
 1 " S'il tient sa langue il tient la cle qui de ses chaines le 
 delivre." F. Mistral. 
 
The Last Lesson, 7 
 
 "And must they also be compelled to sing in 
 German? " 
 
 From time to time, looking up from my page, I 
 saw Monsieur Hamel, motionless in his chair, his 
 eyes riveted upon each object about him, as if he 
 desired to fix in his mind, and forever, every detail 
 of his little school. Remember that for forty years 
 he had been constantly at his post, in that very 
 school-room, facing the same playground. Little 
 had changed. The desks and benches were pol- 
 ished and worn, through long use ; the walnut-trees 
 in the playground had grown taller; and the 
 hop-vine he himself had planted curled its tendrils 
 about the windows, running even to the roof. What 
 anguish must have filled the poor man's heart, as 
 he thought of leaving all these things, and heard 
 his sister moving to and fro in the room overhead, 
 busied in fastening their trunks ! For on the mor- 
 row they were to leave the country, never to 
 return. Nevertheless his courage did not falter; 
 not a single lesson was omitted. After writing 
 came history, and then the little ones sang their 
 " Ba, Be, Bi, Bo, Bu" together. Old Hauser, at 
 the back of the room, had put on his spectacles, 
 and, holding his primer in both hands, was spelling 
 out the letters with the little ones. He too was ab- 
 sorbed in his task; his voice trembled with emo- 
 tion, and it was so comical to hear him that we all 
 wanted to laugh and to cry at the same moment. 
 Ah ! never shall I forget that last lesson ! 
 
 Suddenly the church clock struck twelve, and 
 then the Angelus was heard. 
 
8 Monday Tales, 
 
 At the same moment, a trumpet-blast under our 
 window announced that the Prussians were return- 
 ing from drill. Monsieur Hamel rose in his chair. 
 He was very pale, but never before had he seemed 
 to me so tall as at that moment. 
 
 " My friends — " he said, " my friends — I — 
 I— •" 
 
 But something choked him. He could not finish 
 his sentence. 
 
 Then he took a piece of chalk, and grasping it 
 with all his strength, wrote in his largest hand, — 
 
 " Vive La France ! " 
 
 He remained standing at the blackboard, his 
 head resting against the wall. He did not speak 
 again, but a motion of his hand said to us, — 
 
 " That is all. You are dismissed." 
 
A Game of Billiards, 
 
 A GAME OF BILLIARDS. 
 
 Even soldiers are exhausted after two days' 
 fighting, especially if they have passed the night, 
 knapsacks upon their backs, torrents of rain de- 
 scending upon them. And yet for three mortal 
 hours they had been left to wait in the puddles 
 along the highway, in the mire of fields soaked 
 with rain. 
 
 Heavy with fatigue, weakened by the effects of 
 previous nights, their uniforms drenched, they 
 pressed closer together for warmth and support. 
 Here and there, leaning upon a neighbor's knap- 
 sack, a man had fallen asleep standing ; and upon 
 the relaxed faces of these men, overcome by sleep, 
 might be read more plainly than before the traces 
 which weariness and privations had made. In the 
 mud and rain, without fire, without food, over- 
 head a sky heavy and lowering — around them, on 
 every side, the enemy ! Dismal indeed ! 
 
 What are they doing yonder? What is going 
 on? 
 
 The guns, their mouths turned towards the 
 woods, seem to be lying in wait. The mitrail- 
 leuses from their hiding-places stare fixedly at the 
 horizon. All is ready for an attack. Why is none 
 made? For what are they waiting? 
 
IO Monday Tales. 
 
 They await orders from headquarters, but none 
 come. 
 
 And yet it is only a short distance to headquar- 
 ters, to that beautiful Louis XIII. chateau whose 
 red-brick walls, washed by the rain, are seen half- 
 way up the hill, glistening through the thickets. 
 Truly a princely dwelling, well worthy of bearing 
 the fanion of a Marshal of France. Separated 
 from the main road by a big trench and a ramp of 
 stone, are green, smooth-shaven lawns extending 
 even to the stone steps of the chateau, and bor- 
 dered with vases of flowers. On the side of the 
 house farthest away from the road, the daylight 
 darts through the leafage of the arbors, making 
 bright openings in them. Upon an artificial pond 
 which sparkles like a mirror, swans are swimming, 
 and under the pagoda-shaped roof of a large aviary 
 peacocks and golden pheasants strut about, spread- 
 ing their wings and sending their shrill cries through 
 the foliage. Though the owners of the house have 
 departed, there is nowhere a perceptible sign of 
 that ruin and utter desolation which war brings in 
 its train. Under the oriflamme of the chief of 
 the army not the smallest flower dotting the lawn 
 has been destroyed, and it is indescribably charm- 
 ing to discover, so near the field of battle, that calm 
 and opulence that result from systematic care, — to 
 observe such evenly trimmed shrubberies, such 
 silent avenues of shade. The rain, which in its 
 descent elsewhere has rutted the roads and heaped 
 them with mire, in this quarter has been nothing 
 more than an aristocratic shower. Nothing vulgar 
 
A Game of Billiards, I i 
 
 about it. It has revived the red tints of the bricks, 
 the verdure of the lawns, it has added fresh lustre 
 to the leaves of the orange-trees, to the swans' 
 white plumage. Everything glistens. The scene 
 is peaceful. In fact, were it not for the flag float- 
 ing from the top of the roof, and the sight of two 
 sentinels before the gate, one would never believe 
 headquarters were here. 
 
 The horses are resting in the stables ; here and 
 there officers' servants are seen, and orderlies in 
 undress, lounging about the kitchens of the chateau, 
 and now and then a gardener tranquilly dragging 
 his rake through the sand of the grounds. 
 
 In the dining-room, whose windows front the 
 entrance of the chateau, is seen a table partly 
 cleared, bottles uncorked, glasses tarnished, empty 
 and dimmed, resting upon the wrinkled cloth, — 
 \n short, every indication that the repast is ended. 
 The guests have departed, but in a side room 
 loud voices are heard, peals of laughter, the rolling 
 of billiard balls, and the clinking of glasses. The 
 Marshal has just started upon his game, and that 
 is why the army is waiting for orders. Once the 
 Marshal has begun, the heavens might fall, but 
 nothing on earth would hinder him from finishing 
 his game. 
 
 For if the mighty soldier has a single weakness, 
 it is his fondness for billiards. There he stands, as 
 grave as though a battle had begun ; he is in full 
 uniform, his breast covered with decorations; his 
 repast, the grog he has drunken, and the excite- 
 ment of the game animate him. His eyes sparkle^ 
 
12 Monday Tales. 
 
 and his cheek-bones are flushed. About him 
 gather his aides-de-camp, most assiduous in their 
 attentions, deferential, and overcome with admi- 
 ration at each of his shots. When the Marshal 
 makes a point, they rush towards the mark. Is 
 the Marshal thirsty? Each one desires to prepare 
 his grog ! Such a rustling of epaulettes and pa- 
 naches, such a rattling of crosses and aiguillettes ! 
 How they bow and smile, these courtiers ! What 
 elegance and charm of manner ! And then to see 
 such embroideries, so many new uniforms, in this 
 lofty chamber carved in oak, opening upon parks 
 and courts of honor ! It reminds one of those 
 autumns of Compiegne, and makes him forget for 
 a moment those figures in muddied cloaks, gathered 
 yonder in the roads, making such sombre groups, 
 as they wait in the rain. 
 
 The Marshal's adversary is an officer of his staff, 
 a little captain who curls and laces and wears light 
 gloves; he is an excellent shot at billiards, and 
 could beat all the marshals on earth, but he under- 
 stands how to keep at a respectful distance from 
 his chief, and exercises all his skill in playing so 
 that he shall neither win, nor seem to lose, too 
 readily. Evidently an officer with an eye for the 
 future. 
 
 Attention, young man, look out ! The Marshal 
 is five points ahead. If you can end the game as 
 you have begun it, your promotion is surer than it 
 would be, were you standing outside with the 
 others, beneath those torrents of water that darken 
 the horizon. It would be a pity, too, to soil that 
 

 A Game of Billiards. 1 3 
 
 fine uniform, and tarnish the gold of its aiguillettes, 
 waiting for orders that never come. 
 
 The game is extremely interesting. The balls 
 roll, graze each other, and pass; they rebound. 
 Every moment the play grows more exciting. 
 But suddenly a flash of light is seen in the sky and 
 the report of a cannon is heard. A heavy, rum- 
 bling sound shakes the windows. Every one starts 
 and casts an uneasy glance about him. The Mar- 
 shal alone remains unmoved. He sees nothing, 
 hears nothing, for, leaning over the table, h£ is about 
 to make a magnificent draw-shot. Draw-shots are 
 his forte ! 
 
 But again that flash, and again ! From the can- 
 non fresh reports, and nearer together now. The 
 aides-de-camp run to the window. Can it be that 
 the Prussians are attacking? 
 
 " Let them ! " says the Marshal, chalking his 
 cue. " Your turn, captain ! " 
 
 The staff thrills with admiration. Turenne asleep 
 upon a gun-carriage was nothing compared to this 
 marshal, so calmly absorbed in his game at the 
 moment of action ! But all this time the tumult in- 
 creases. With the shock of the cannon mingles 
 the rattling of the mitrailleuses, and the rumbling 
 of volley upon volley ; a reddish cloud dark at the 
 edges rises from the further end of the lawn. All 
 the rear of the park is on fire. Frightened pea- 
 cocks and pheasants clamor in the aviary, Arabian 
 horses, away in the stables, scent the powder and 
 rear in their stalls. At headquarters a general 
 commotion begins. Despatch follows despatch. 
 
14 Monday Tales. 
 
 Messengers arrive at a gallop. Everywhere they 
 are asking for the Marshal. 
 
 But the Marshal is unapproachable. Have I not 
 told you that nothing in the world could hinder 
 him from finishing a game once begun? 
 
 " Your play, captain — " 
 
 But the captain is distracted. Ah ! Youth is 
 youth. He loses his head, forgets what he is 
 about, and makes two successive runs which almost 
 win the game for him. And now the Marshal is 
 furious. Surprise and indignation are visible upon 
 his manly features. At this very moment a horse 
 rushes into the courtyard at full speed and drops 
 exhausted. An aide-de-camp, covered with mud, 
 forces the sentry, makes one bound over the stone 
 steps, crying, " Marshal, Marshal ! " And this is 
 his reception : the Marshal, red as a cock, and 
 swelling with anger, appears at the window, cue in 
 hand. 
 
 " Who is there? What is it? Is there no sentry 
 here?" 
 
 " But, Marshal — " 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes — later — let them wait for my 
 orders — in God's name ! " 
 
 And the window closes with a bang. 
 
 Let them wait for his orders ! And that is ex 
 actly what they are doing, these poor fellows. 
 The wind drives rain and grapeshot in their faces. 
 Whole battalions are slaughtered, whilst others, 
 perfectly useless, stand bearing arms, unable to 
 understand why they remain inactive. Nothing 
 else to do. They wait for orders. But men may 
 
A Game of Billiards. 15 
 
 die without word of command, and these men die 
 in hundreds, falling behind bushes, dropping in 
 trenches in front of that great silent chateau. And 
 even after death, the grapeshot continues to 
 lacerate their bodies, and from those gaping wounds 
 flows a silent stream, — the generous blood of 
 France. And above, yonder, in the billiard-room, 
 all is as excited as upon the battle-field, for the 
 Marshal has regained his advantage, and the little 
 captain is playing like a lion. 
 
 Seventeen ! eighteen ! nineteen ! Scarcely time 
 to mark the points. The sound of battle grows 
 nearer and nearer. The Marshal has but one 
 more point to play for. Already shells are falling 
 in the park. One has burst in the pond. Its 
 glassy sheet reddens, and a terrified swan is 
 seen swimming amid a whirl of bloody plumage. 
 And now the last shot. 
 
 And then — deep silence. Only the sound of 
 rain falling upon the leafage of the arbors, only an 
 indistinct rumbling noise at the foot of the hill, and 
 along the muddy roads a sound like the tramping 
 of hurrying herds. The army is utterly routed. 
 The Marshal has won his game. 
 
1 6 Monday Tales. 
 
 THE VISION OF THE JUDGE OF 
 COLMAR. 
 
 Before he had taken the oath of allegiance to 
 Emperor William, there was nowhere a happier 
 man than little Judge Dollinger of the Court of 
 Colmar; when he arrived in the court-room, full- 
 lipped, big-bellied, his toque pushed jauntily side- 
 wise, his triple chin resting placidly upon his 
 muslin neckband, he seemed to say, as he seated 
 himself, " Ah ! a nice little nap I shall have ! " 
 and it was a pleasure to see him stretch his plump 
 little legs, burying himself in his great armchair, 
 while he reposed upon that fair, soft leather 
 cushion to which he owed the fact that his com- 
 plexion was as fresh as ever, and his temper as 
 unruffled, although he had occupied a judge's seat 
 for more than thirty years. 
 
 Unfortunate Dollinger ! 
 
 From the moment he touched that leather cir- 
 cumference he was lost. He found it so comfort- 
 able, grew so attached to that cushion of moleskin, 
 that sooner than budge from it, he became a Prus- 
 sian. Emperor William said to him, " Keep your 
 seat, Monsieur Dollinger! " and Dollinger kept it; 
 and here we behold him at the Court of Golmar, 
 dispensing justice as ably as ever, but in the name 
 of His Berlinese Majesty. 
 
The Vision of the Judge of Colmar. lj 
 
 About him nothing has changed, — the same tri- 
 bunal, faded and dull, the same court-room, with its 
 shiny benches and hum of lawyers' voices, the same 
 dim, subdued light falling through the high win- 
 dows with their serge curtains, the same majestic 
 figure of the Christ, covered with dust, His head 
 bowed, His arms outstretched. But the Court of 
 Colmar has lost no whit of its former dignity in 
 passing over to Prussia. There is still an Em- 
 peror's bust back of the judges' bench. Yet, in 
 spite of all these things, Dollinger does not feel at 
 home. Vainly he rolls from side to side in his 
 armchair, buries himself in it angrily: he can no 
 longer enjoy those nice little naps of other days ; 
 and when he chances, as of old, to fall asleep at a 
 hearing, he has frightful dreams ! 
 
 Dollinger dreams that he is seated upon a high 
 mountain ; it reminds him somewhat of Honeck, 
 or the Balloon of Alsace. What is he doing there 
 alone, in his judge's robe, at that vast height where 
 nothing can be seen but stunted trees and swarms 
 of flies? Dollinger does not know why he is there. 
 Cold drops of sweat rise upon him ; he trembles in 
 suspense, and suffers all the agony of a nightmare. 
 
 Across the Rhine, behind the firs of the Black 
 Forest, the sun is rising, large and red ; and as it 
 rises, below, in the valleys of Munster and Thann, 
 is heard from one end of Alsace to the other an 
 indistinct rumble, the sound of footsteps and of 
 wagons in motion ; it grows louder and nearer. 
 Dollinger's heart sinks within him. Soon, upon 
 the long, winding road ascending the sides of the 
 
1 8 Monday Tales. 
 
 mountain, the Judge of Colmar sees approaching 
 him a mournful, interminable train ; all Alsace has 
 chosen this pass of the Vosges as the starting-point 
 of its solemn emigration ! 
 
 Leading the procession, come long wagons drawn 
 by four oxen, those long, open wagons which at 
 harvest-time are seen overflowing with sheaves; 
 now, however, they are loaded with furniture, tools, 
 and luggage of all sorts. Big beds, tall presses, 
 calico hangings, chests and spinning-wheels, chil- 
 dren's chairs, ancestral armchairs, piles of ancient 
 relics dragged from their corners, and scattering 
 to every wind along the highway the sacred dust 
 of the hearth. Entire households depart in these 
 wagons, groaning as they advance. The oxen are 
 scarcely able to drag their burden, for it seems as 
 if the very earth clung to the wheels, as if these 
 handfuls of dust clinging to plough and harrow, 
 to rake and pickaxe, increased the burden they 
 bore, — as though this departure were indeed an 
 uprooting of the soil. 
 
 Then followed a silent train of people, of all con- 
 ditions and ages: the aged grandfather with his 
 three-cornered hat, — tremulous, leaning upon his 
 staff; boys with flaxen curls, a single suspender 
 supporting their trousers of fustian ; the paralytic 
 grandmother stout lads are bearing upon their 
 shoulders; mothers, pressing their nursing babes 
 closer to the breast; all are there, the brave- 
 hearted, and the infirm, soldiers to be, and those 
 who have faced the horrors of many a battle-field ; 
 cuirassiers, who have lost their limbs, dragging 
 
The Vision of the Judge of Colmar, 19 
 
 themselves upon crutches ; artillery-men, emaciated, 
 broken-down, the damps of the casemates of Span- 
 dau still clinging to their uniforms. And all this 
 host moves on its way with heads erect; at the 
 side of that very road over which they are passing, 
 the Judge of Colmar is seated, and as they pass 
 him by he reads upon each averted face an awful 
 look of anger and loathing. 
 
 Oh, unhappy Dollinger ! he longs to hide, to 
 flee, but it is impossible. For his armchair can- 
 not be moved from that mountain, and his leather 
 cushion is fastened to the armchair, and he is as 
 firmly attached to that leather cushion. And now 
 he understands that a sort of pillory stands there, 
 and he is in it, and his pillory has been erected 
 so high in order that all the world may witness 
 his shame. 
 
 The emigrants move on, village after village; 
 those of the Swiss frontier leading enormous herds 
 of cattle ; those of the Saar carrying their heavy 
 iron tools in ore-wagons. Then the larger towns 
 arrive, spinners, tanners, weavers and warpers, 
 burghers and priests, rabbis, magistrates, black 
 robes and red robes. The tribunal of Colmar 
 appears, its venerable president at the head. And 
 Dollinger, overwhelmed with shame, seeks to hide 
 his face, but his hands are paralyzed ; tries to close 
 his eyes, but his eyelids are stiff and immovable. 
 There he is compelled to remain, the most ob- 
 served of observers ; he may not be spared a single 
 one of those contemptuous glances which his col- 
 leagues cast at him as they pass. 
 
20 Monday Tales. 
 
 A judge in the pillory ! Terrible indeed ! And, 
 worst of all, all his dear ones are in that concourse, 
 and not one of them appears to recognize him. His 
 wife, his children, pass before him, their eyes fixed 
 on the ground. It would seem that they too are 
 ashamed of him ! Even little Michel, whom he loves 
 so dearly, passes him by, never to return, and casts 
 not a single glance in his direction. But the aged 
 president pauses a moment, and whispers to him, — 
 
 " Come with us, Dollinger. Do not remain 
 there, my friend ! " 
 
 But Dollinger is unable to rise. He tries to move 
 his limbs ; he calls. All day long the procession 
 moves on ; and as the daylight fades, it has disap- 
 peared in the distance, and silence descends upon 
 those fair valleys dotted with factories and belfry 
 towers. All Alsace has departed. Only the Judge 
 of Colmar remains. And there he sits at the top of 
 the mountain, riveted in his pillory, immovable. 
 
 Suddenly the scene changes. Yew-trees are 
 seen, black crosses, rows of tombs, and an assem- 
 blage of mourners. It is the cemetery of Colmar. 
 Some one of note has come to his last resting-place. 
 All the bells of the city are tolling. Councillor 
 Dollinger is dead ! That which honor could not 
 effect, death has accomplished. It has unscrewed 
 the immovable magistrate from his leather cushion, 
 and he lies at full length, this man whose sole 
 ambition was to remain seated forever ! 
 
 What sensation more horrible than to dream 
 that one is dead and his own chief mourner? His 
 heart overcome with grief, Dollinger assists at his 
 
The Vision of the Judge of Colmar. 21 
 
 own burial-service. And that which afflicts him 
 more than his death is the fact that in this immense 
 crowd which presses about him is neither friend 
 nor relative. No one from Colmar, — only the 
 Prussians ! Prussian soldiers escort the bier ; 
 Prussian magistrates are the chief mourners ; and 
 the words that are spoken over his grave are 
 Prussian; and the cold, cold earth thrown over 
 him is, alas ! Prussian earth. Suddenly the crowd 
 stands respectfully aside. A magnificent white 
 cuirassier approaches, concealing under his cloak 
 something which looks not unlike a crown of im- 
 mortelles. All about him voices are heard, saying, 
 
 " Look ! There is Bismarck ! There is Bis- 
 marck ! " 
 
 And the Judge of Colmar thinks sadly, " A great 
 honor, Count, you bestow upon me, but if I only 
 had my little Michel — " 
 
 He does not end his sentence. A mighty burst 
 of laughter interrupts him, — wild, mad, uncon- 
 trollable laughter, scandalizing to hear. 
 
 "What are they laughing about?" wonders the 
 terrified judge. He raises himself and looks. It 
 is his cushion, his own leather cushion, that Count 
 Bismarck has placed religiously upon his grave, 
 and around its moleskin circumference runs this 
 inscription, — 
 
 To JUDGE DOLLINGER, 
 
 The Glory of the Bench, 1 
 Souvenirs and regrets ! 
 
 * " La Magistrature Assise" The play upon words is scarcely 
 translatable. 
 
22 Monday Tales. 
 
 From one end of the cemetery to the other ring 
 peals of laughter, convulsive laughter; and the 
 boisterous mirth of the Prussians echoes even tc 
 the floor of the vault where the dead man lies 
 weeping with shame, overwhelmed, covered with 
 endless ridicule. 
 
The Boy Spy. 23 
 
 / 
 
 THE BOY SPY. 
 
 They called him Stenne, " little Stenne." He 
 was a child of Paris, puny and pale. He might 
 have been ten, possibly fifteen years old. It is 
 hard to tell the age of such midges. His mother 
 was dead, and his father, an old marine, was on 
 guard in the Quartier du Temple. Babies and 
 nursemaids, old women carrying their camp-stools, 
 poor mothers, in short, all that portion of Paris that 
 jogs along on foot, found a safe retreat from 
 carriages in those gardens bordered by sidewalks ; 
 they were well acquainted with Father Stenne, and 
 they adored him. For they knew well that, in 
 spite of that ferocious mustache, the terror of 
 stray dogs and of many a lounger who frequented 
 the benches, the old soldier's smile was full of 
 kindness, almost maternal in its tenderness ; and to 
 see that smile, one had merely to ask the good 
 man, " How is your little boypjf 
 
 For Father Stenne loved hi? boy dearly. It 
 gladdened his heart to have the little fellow call for 
 him towards evening, after school was out; and 
 together they promenaded the walks, stopping at 
 every bench to reply to the polite greetings of the 
 frequenters of the gardens. 
 
 But, alas ! after the siege began, all was changed. 
 Father Stenne's square was closed, and petroleum 
 
24 Monday Tales. 
 
 was stored there ; the poor man was compelled to 
 be on guard ceaselessly, passing his days in those 
 deserted groves, where everything was in confusion 
 and disorder. He was not allowed even a smoke. 
 He could not see his boy until he reached home, 
 late in the evening. You should have seen his 
 mustache when he mentioned the Prussians ! but 
 little Stenne was not at all averse to this new 
 life. 
 
 For these gamins a siege furnishes considerable 
 diversion. No more lessons, no more school ! 
 Vacation every day, and the streets full of life as 
 a field on a fair-day ! 
 
 The boy roamed the streets all day long, and 
 never went in until nightfall. He accompanied the 
 battalions of the neighborhood as they marched 
 to the rampart, with a preference for those where 
 the bands played the liveliest music, and on that 
 subject little Stenne was quite an authority. He 
 would tell you with an air of conviction that the 
 band of the Ninety-sixth did not amount to much, 
 but that of the Fifty-fifth was excellent. When he 
 was not on the march, he would watch the mobiles 
 at drill ; and then there were those hours of waiting, 
 when, his basket under his arm, he joined the long 
 lines of people forming in front of butchers' and 
 bakers' shops, in the unlighted streets, in the dull 
 gray dawn of those winter days. And there, feet in 
 the water, one stood, and made new acquaintances. 
 Politics were discussed, and, being the son of 
 Monsieur Stenne, he was asked his opinion on 
 every hand. But most amusing of all he found 
 
The Boy Spy. 25 
 
 those bouchon 1 -games, especially that famous game 
 of galocke, which the Breton soldiers had made 
 quite fashionable during the siege. When little 
 Stenne was not at the rampart or waiting in front 
 of some baker's shop, you were sure of finding 
 him watching a game of galoche in the Place du 
 Chateau-d'Eau. Of course you will understand 
 that he never played himself; it cost too much 
 money. He contented himself merely with devour- 
 ing the players with his eyes. 
 
 A big fellow who wore a coat and blue overalls, 
 and never staked less than a hundred-sou piece, 
 excited his special admiration. Whenever he ran, 
 one could hear his money jingling in the depths of 
 his pockets. 
 
 One day, picking, up a piece of money which 
 had rolled directly in front of little Stenne's feet, 
 this fellow whispered to the little one, — 
 
 " That makes you squint, eh? Well, now, if you 
 like, I can tell you where there are more of them." 
 
 And when the game was ended, he led little 
 Stenne to a corner of the Place, and proposed the 
 latter should join him in selling newspapers to the 
 Prussians, thirty francs for each trip they made. 
 At first little Stenne indignantly refused ; and for 
 three days in succession he was not seen watching 
 the game, — three terrible days for him. He nei- 
 ther ate nor slept. At night he saw great heaps 
 of galoches lying at the foot of his bed, and the 
 floor paved with shining lines of hundred-sou 
 
 1 Bouchon. A game in which pieces of money are placed upon 
 a cork, — which is to be knocked over with a quoit. 
 
26 Monday Tales. 
 
 pieces ! The temptation was too strong ; and the 
 fourth day he returned to Chateau-d'Eau, saw the 
 big fellow again, and allowed himself to be seduced. 
 
 They set out one snowy morning, carrying a 
 canvas bag, their newspapers hidden in their 
 blouses. They reached the Porte de Flandres just 
 before daybreak. His companion took Stenne's 
 hand, and, approaching the sentinel, — a worthy 
 sedentary, with a red nose and a benevolent air, — 
 he said in a whining voice, — 
 
 " Let us pass, my good sir. Our mother is sick ; 
 papa is dead. We are going, my little brother and 
 I, to dig potatoes in the field." 
 
 He began to cry. Stenne, feeling very much 
 ashamed, hung his head. The sentinel looked at 
 both of them for a moment, then glanced at the 
 road, white and deserted. 
 
 " Pass, but be quick ! " he said, standing aside, 
 and then they found themselves on the Auber- 
 villiers road. How the rascal laughed ! 
 
 Vaguely, as if in a dream, little Stenne saw fac- 
 tory after factory turned into barracks, deserted 
 barricades stuffed with mouldy rags, and tall chim- 
 neys cutting the fog ; but from those chimney tops, 
 lost in the sky, no smoke ascended, and they were 
 dented in places. Along the road sentinels were 
 posted, and muffled officers stood, looking through 
 their field-glasses ; small tents soaked with melted 
 snow were pitched in front of the dying fires. 
 Stenne's companion knew the road well, and took 
 a cross-cut to avoid passing the guard ; but they 
 were obliged to pass the advance-guard of sharp' 
 
The Boy Spy. 27 
 
 shooters. There they were in their capes, squatted 
 in the bottom of a watery ditch which ran along 
 the railroad to Soissons. But this time the big 
 fellow tried to tell his story all in vain. They were 
 not allowed to pass. While he was lamenting, 
 there issued from the gate-keeper's house an old 
 sergeant, white-haired and wrinkled, who looked 
 not unlike Father Stenne himself. 
 
 " Come, you rascals, don't cry any more," he said 
 to the boys. " You may go and dig your potatoes, 
 but first come in and warm yourselves a little ; that 
 young vagabond there looks as if he were frozen ! " 
 
 Alas ! little Stenne way not trembling from cold, 
 but from fear and shame. Inside they found some 
 soldiers squatting around a wretched fire; a 
 widow's fire it might well have been called, but at 
 its warmth they were endeavoring to thaw out 
 their biscuits at the point of their bayonets. They 
 crowded closer, to make room for the boys, and 
 gave them a swallow of brandy and some coffee. 
 While they were drinking, an officer appeared at 
 the door, called the sergeant, whispered something 
 in a very low voice, and suddenly disappeared. 
 
 " Boys ! " said the sergeant, returning with a 
 radiant face, 'f there '11 be fighting jthis night ! The 
 watchword of the Prussians is discovered. This 
 time I believe we shall recapture that cursed 
 Bourget." 
 
 There was an outburst of bravos and laughter, 
 dancing and singing and polishing of sword- 
 bayonets ; taking advantage of the general uproar, 
 the boys disappeared. 
 
28 Monday Tales. 
 
 When they had passed the trench, they came to 
 the open plain, and at its extremity ran a long 
 white wall, pierced with loop-holes. Towards this 
 wall the boys directed their footsteps, stopping at 
 every step and making believe that they were 
 gathering potatoes. 
 
 " Let us return. Don't go any further," said 
 little Stenne, again and again. 
 
 The other shrugged his shoulders, and pushed 
 on without pause. 
 
 Suddenly they heard the sharp click of a gun. 
 
 " Down ! " said the elder, and dropped to the 
 ground. He lay at full length, and whistled. An 
 answering whistle was heard through the snow. 
 They advanced on all fours. In front of the wall 
 and level with the ground, appeared a pair of yel- 
 low mustachios, surmounted by a greasy cap. 
 Stenne's companion jumped into the trench and 
 stood by the Prussian's side. " That 's my brother," 
 he said, pointing to his companion. 
 
 This brother of his was so small that the Prus- 
 sian burst out laughing as he looked at him, and 
 was obliged to lift him in his arms to get him as 
 far as the breach. 
 
 On the other side of the wall were huge earth- 
 works, felled trees, black holes dug in the snow, 
 and in each hole was a head like the first, with its 
 yellow mustaches, which quivered with laughter 
 as the boys passed by. In one spot stood a gar- 
 dener's house, casemated with tree-trunks. Down- 
 stairs it was filled with soldiers playing cards and 
 making soup before a big fire which burned 
 
 \ 
 
The Boy Spy. 29 
 
 merrily. A savory odor of bacon and cabbage 
 ascended. How different all this from the sharp- 
 shooters' bivouac ! Overhead were the officers' 
 quarters. The sound of a piano was heard. Cham- 
 pagne flowed freely. When the Parisians entered, 
 a joyous hurrah greeted them. They distributed 
 their newspapers. The officers made the boys 
 drink and talk. The bearing of all these officers 
 was proud and insolent, but the elder of the boys 
 amused them with his vulgar wit and street-Arab's 
 vocabulary. They roared as they repeated his 
 words after him, rolling delightedly in the mud of 
 Paris he had brought them. 
 
 Little Stenne would have liked to put in a word 
 here and there, to show them he was no fool, but 
 something stopped his tongue. Opposite him, apart 
 from the rest, sat a Prussian who was older, more 
 serious than the others. He was reading, or seemed 
 to be, but his eyes never left the two boys. There 
 was something both tender and reproachful in that 
 look. Had this man a child of his own at home, a 
 child of the same age as Stenne, and did his look 
 say, " I would rather die than see a son of mine 
 bent on such an errand as this" ? 
 
 From the moment those eyes met his, Stenne 
 felt as if a hand had laid a weight upon his heart 
 and stopped its beating. To forget his agony, he 
 began to drink. Soon everything swam about him. 
 Amid loud bursts of laughter, he could hear in a 
 dazed fashion what his comrade was saying. 
 The latter was ridiculing the National Guard ; he 
 mimicked a muster in the Marais and a night- 
 
30 Monday Tales. 
 
 alarm on the ramparts. Then he lowered his voice, 
 the officers came up closer, and their faces grew 
 grave. The young wretch was about to warn them 
 of the intended attack of the sharpshooters. 
 
 But now little Stenne roused himself in a fury. 
 He had suddenly sobered. 
 
 " Stop that ! " he said. " I won't have it." 
 
 The other smiled merely and continued. Before 
 he had finished, all the officers were standing. One 
 of them showed the boys the door, saying, — 
 
 " Off with you ! " 
 
 They began to talk among themselves very 
 rapidly, and in German. The big boy marched 
 out, proud as a doge, jingling his money. Stenne 
 followed him, hanging his head. And as he passed 
 by the Prussian whose glance had disturbed his 
 peace of mind so greatly, he heard a sad voice 
 saying, — 
 
 " Bas choli, ga. Bas chdli!' * 
 
 Tears sprang to his eyes. 
 
 Once on the plain again, the boys began to run, 
 and their return was rapid. Their bag was full of 
 potatoes the Prussians had given them, and carry- 
 ing it they passed the trench where the sharp- 
 shooters were, without being stopped. The men 
 were preparing for the attack of the coming night. 
 Troops were arriving silently, and forming behind 
 the walls. The old sergeant was there, busied in 
 arranging his men. How happy he looked ! As 
 the boys passed, he recognized them and smiled 
 kindly. 
 
 1 " That was a mean business 1 a mean business I " 
 
The Boy Spy, 31 
 
 Oh, how that smile tortured little Stenne ! 
 For a moment he longed to cry out, " Don't go 
 there to-night ! We have betrayed you." But 
 the other had said, " If you speak, we shall be 
 shot," and fear kept him silent. 
 
 At La Corneuve they went into a deserted house 
 to share their money. Truth compels me to state 
 that the division was an honest one, and that when 
 little Stenne heard all those fine franc-pieces 
 rattling in his blouse and thought of all those 
 games of galoche which he saw in the near future, 
 his crime did not so much appall him. 
 
 But when at last the wretched child was alone ! 
 After they had passed the gates and his compan- 
 ion left him, then his pockets began to grow heavy 
 indeed. And the hand which had pressed so 
 heavily upon his heart, pressed more heavily than 
 ever. And Paris no longer seemed to him the 
 same Paris. Passers-by seemed to gaze at him 
 severely, as if they knew whence he came. Even 
 the sound of carriage-wheels and the flourish of 
 drums, where the troops were drilling along the 
 canal, seemed to be saying that one word " Spy ! " 
 At last he reached his home, glad to discover that 
 his father had not yet returned. He ascended 
 quickly to their chamber, and hid the money which 
 weighed him down so heavily. 
 
 Never had Father Stenne felt more amiably dis- 
 posed or happier than he did, returning home that 
 evening. For good news had just come from the 
 country outside of Paris ; affairs were going better. 
 And as he ate, the old soldier looked at his gun 
 
32 Monday Tales. 
 
 hanging on the wall, and said to the child, with 
 that charming smile of his, — 
 
 " Well, boy ! you should fight the Prussians if 
 you were old enough ! " Towards eight o'clock the 
 cannonade began. 
 
 " It is at Aubervilliers. They are fighting at 
 Bourget," said the worthy man, who knew all his 
 forts well. Little Stenne grew pale, and, pretend- 
 ing that he was very tired, he went to bed, but he 
 could not sleep. For the booming of the cannons 
 never ceased. He pictured to himself the sharp- 
 shooters, reaching by night the spot where they 
 were to surprise the Prussians and falling into an 
 ambuscade themselves. He recalled the sergeant 
 who had smiled at him, and thought of him lying 
 out there in the snow, and so many, so many 
 beside him. And the blood-money was there, 
 concealed under his pillow; and it was he, the 
 son of Monsieur Stenne, a soldier who had — 
 tears choked him. In the side room, he heard 
 his father pace to and fro. He opened a win- 
 dow. In the square below, the call to arms 
 sounded. A battalion of mobiles, about to set 
 out, were calling their numbers. Yes, this was a 
 battle in real earnest. The wretched child could 
 not restrain a sob. 
 
 " What ails you ? " asked Father Stenne, entering 
 the room. 
 
 The child could control himself no longer. He 
 jumped from his bed and would have thrown 
 himself at his father's feet. But his sudden move- 
 ment sent the money rolling upon the floor. 
 
The Boy Spy. 33 
 
 "What is that? Have you been stealing?" 
 asked the old man, and he trembled. 
 
 Then without pausing to take breath, little 
 Stenne told him all that had happened in that 
 visit to the Prussians, and what share he had had 
 in it. And, by degrees, as he told his story he 
 seemed to breathe more freely, that silent accuser 
 in his heart ceased to torture him. 
 
 Father Stenne's face, as he listened, was terrible. 
 When he had heard the last word, he buried his 
 face in his hands and wept. 
 
 " Father, father ! " the child tried to say. 
 
 But the old man pushed the boy away from him 
 without a word, and began to pick up the money. 
 
 "Is this all?" he asked. 
 
 Little Stenne nodded. The old man took down 
 his gun and his cartridge-box, and put the money 
 in his pocket. 
 
 " Very well," he said ; " I will return it to them." 
 
 And withqut another word, without looking back 
 a single time, he descended, and went out into the 
 night, and mingled with the mobiles who were 
 leaving. He was never seen again. - 
 
34 Monday Tales. 
 
 THE MOTHER. 
 A SOUVENIR OF THE SIEGE. 
 
 THAT morning I bad gone to Mont Valerien to 
 see our artist-friend, Monsieur B , then a lieu- 
 tenant in the mobile of the Seine. I found that 
 fine fellow on guard. No way of getting out of it ! 
 And there he was, compelled to pace back and 
 forth, before the postern of the fort, like a sailor 
 on watch, while we talked of Paris, of the war, and 
 of dear ones far away. Suddenly my lieutenant, 
 who, in spite of his military coat, was as tremendous 
 a dauber as ever, stopped short in the middle of 
 his sentence, and caught my arm. 
 
 " There 's a fine Daumier ! " he whispered. He 
 was looking at something out of the corner of one 
 eye, and that small gray eye of his kindled like a 
 hunting-dog's, as he pointed to the silhouette of 
 two venerable figures that had just made their ap- 
 pearance upon the plateau of Mont Valerien. 
 
 And indeed the couple suggested some fine 
 sketch fresh from Daumier's hand. The man wore 
 a chestnut-colored surtout, with a collar of greenish 
 velvet, that looked like old wood-moss; he was 
 short and lean and ruddy, with a low forehead, 
 round eyes, and nose like an owl's beak; his head 
 was like a shrivelled bird's head, and his air was at 
 
The Mother. 35 
 
 once silly and solemn. To complete the picture, 
 he carried on one arm a bag, embroidered with 
 flowers, from which protruded the neck of a bottle, 
 and under the other arm a box of preserves, that 
 everlasting tin box, which Parisians of those days 
 will never see again without recalling that five 
 months' siege of theirs. Of the woman all that one 
 saw at first was an enormous hood-like bonnet and 
 an old shawl whose scanty folds wrapped her from 
 head to foot, revealing all the more plainly the 
 poverty it attempted to conceal ; now and then, 
 however, the tip of a sharp nose peered out from 
 the faded ruches of her bonnet, and a few spare 
 and grizzled locks could be seen. 
 
 When they reached the plateau, the man paused 
 to regain his breath, and to wipe his forehead. 
 They certainly could not have been too warm in 
 that foggy, keen November air, but they had 
 walked very quickly. 
 
 The woman never paused, not she ! Advancing 
 directly towards the postern, she looked at us a 
 moment, with some hesitation, and as if she would 
 speak with us ; but, doubtless intimidated by an 
 officer's uniform, she preferred to address the sen- 
 tinel, and I heard her ask timidly that she might 
 be allowed to see her son, a Paris mobile in Com- 
 pany Six, Third Battalion. 
 
 " Stay here," said the guard, " and I will call 
 him." 
 
 She gave a joyous sigh of relief, and returned to 
 her husband, and both seated themselves at a short 
 distance, on the side of a talus. 
 
36 Monday Tales. 
 
 They waited there an interminable time. Mont 
 Valerien is so big, such a complicated affair, with 
 its various enclosures, its bastions, glacis, barracks, 
 and casemates! No easy task to find a mobile of 
 the Sixth in the mazes of that town suspended be 
 tween heaven and earth, hanging its huge spiral 
 in the midst of the clouds, like Laputa's island. 
 Moreover, at that hour from one end to the other 
 of the fort drums and trumpets are sounding, can- 
 teens rattling. The sentry is relieved, duty-service 
 begins, supplies arc distributed ; the sharp-shooters 
 are bringing in a spy, covered with blood, beating 
 him with their gun-butts. Some peasant folk of 
 Nanterre are come to complain to the General ; an 
 estafette comes galloping in, the man chilled, and 
 the beast dripping with sweat. Litters arrive from 
 the outposts with the wounded suspended upon 
 the backs of mules, and moaning softly like sick 
 lambs. Sailors are seen hauling a new cannon to 
 the music of a fife, with cries of " Heave ho ! " A 
 shepherd in red trousers is driving in before him 
 the cattle belonging to the fort, a rod in his hand, 
 his chassepot slung across his shoulder. In the 
 yards of the fort an incessant coming and going, 
 men passing one another, and disappearing through 
 the postern like figures vanishing through the low 
 door of some caravansary of the ICast. 
 
 " I hope they have not forgotten my boy," the 
 poor mother's eyes are saying all this time; and as 
 the minutes lengthen she rises .and discreetly ap- 
 proaches the entrance, casting a furtive glance 
 towards the front yard, while; she edges along the 
 
The Mother. 37 
 
 wall, but she dares not ask any more questions, 
 lest she should reflect discredit upon her son. 
 lier companion, more timid even than herself, 
 does not budge once from the spot where he is 
 seated; and when she returns again and again, to 
 seat herself beside him, her heart swelling, and a 
 I >uk of deep discouragement visible upon her fca- 
 tures, it is plain that he is chiding her for her im- 
 p iiience, and giving her no end of explanations as 
 1<> the exigencies of a soldier's life, information 
 imparted with the imbecile air of one who would 
 have you think he knows it all. 
 
 I have always regarded with the deepest curiosity 
 those little domestic scenes enacted amid the ut- 
 most silence, scenes of whose significance one 
 often divines more than is actually seen, — in those 
 pantomimes of the street, which elbow us on every 
 side during our walks abroad, the merest gesture 
 often revealing to us the history of a lifetime; but 
 what specially charmed me here was the awkward- 
 ness, the naYvctd of my principal characters, and it 
 was with real emotion I witnessed all the incidents of 
 a delightful drama of the hearth, as I followed that 
 little dumb-show, as expressive and transparent as 
 the pantomime of two of Seraphin's marionettes. 
 I seemed to hear the mother remark one fine 
 morning, " I am sick of this Monsieur Trochu, 
 and his orders. I have not seen my boy for three 
 months. I want to see him, to kiss him." 
 
 And the father, timorous, with an eternal air of 
 apology for the fact of his existence, is frightened 
 at the mere thought of what must be done in order 
 
38 Monday Tales. 
 
 to obtain permission to see the son. and at first 
 attempts to dissuade her. " But, my dear, you 
 don't stop to think ! Mont Valerien — deuce take 
 it ! — is a long way off. How could you ever get 
 there without a carriage? Besides, it is a citadel. 
 Women are not allowed to enter." 
 
 " But — I will enter — " answers the wife ; and as 
 he obeys all her commands, he undertakes this new 
 errand. He goes to the Secteur, to the mairie, to 
 the headquarters of the Army of Paris, to the com- 
 missary, clammy with fear, shivering with the cold, 
 knocking at every door, stumbling into the wrong 
 one again and again, waiting in line two hours be- 
 fore the office of one department, and that not the 
 right one. But at last he returns towards evening 
 with the Governor's permit in his pocket. The 
 next day they rise very early, and dress in the 
 cold, by lamp-light. The father nibbles a bit of 
 bread, to fortify himself, but the mother is not 
 hungry. She prefers to breakfast later with her 
 son. And to cheer the poor mobile a little, they 
 pile into the bag both the ordinary provisions of 
 the siege and those reserved for special occasions, 
 chocolate, sweetmeats, and a bottle of wine ; they 
 remember everything, even the famous box, an 
 eight-franc box, which they had laid aside religi- 
 ously for a day of need. At last they have started. 
 When they reach the ramparts, and the gates are 
 opened, they must show their permit. And now it 
 is the wife's turn to be frightened. But she is re- 
 assured. The permit, it seems, is quite e?i rtgle. 
 
 " You may pass," says the adjutant on duty. 
 
The Mother. 39 
 
 And not until then does she breathe freely. 
 
 " How polite that officer was to us ! " 
 
 She toddles on, as agile as a young partridge. 
 The man can scarcely keep up with her. 
 
 " How fast you walk, my dear ! " 
 
 But she is not listening to him. Above hei 
 Mont Valerien looms against the misty horizon, 
 and beckons to her. 
 
 " Come quickly. He is here ! " 
 
 And now they have reached Mont Valerien, a 
 fresh cause for anxiety. Suppose she should not 
 find him ! What if he is not coming, after all ! 
 
 Suddenly I saw her tremble, clutch the old man's 
 arm, and spring to her feet. In the distance foot- 
 steps were heard echoing along the vaulted pass- 
 age, footsteps which she recognized. It was her 
 son ! When he appeared, the entrance to the fort 
 was suddenly illumined for her eyes. 
 
 And indeed he was a big, splendid fellow, his 
 bearing erect and vigorous. He came, gun in 
 hand and knapsack on his back. His greeting was 
 sincere, as the joyous, virile voice exclaimed, — 
 
 " Good-morning, mamma." 
 
 And suddenly knapsack, blanket, chassepot, and 
 all disappeared from sight, and were lost in that 
 enormous bonnet. Then the father's turn came, 
 but it did not last so long, for the bonnet wanted 
 everything for itself. It was insatiable. 
 
 "And how are you? Are you clad warmly 
 enough? How are you off for linen?" 
 
 And beneath the ruches of that bonnet I could 
 see her eyes, and their prolonged and loving glance 
 
40 Monday Tales, 
 
 which embraced him from head to foot, amid a 
 shower of tears and little laughs and kisses. For 
 there was an arrearage of three long months due 
 him, — an arrearage which maternal tenderness 
 was striving to pay him all at once. The father too 
 seemed deeply moved, but he did not desire that 
 any one should suspect the fact. He understood 
 that we were watching him, and blinked once or 
 twice in our direction, as if to say, — 
 
 " You must excuse her. She 's a woman." 
 
 As if I could excuse her ! 
 
 But the sound of a bugle interrupted all this joy 
 unexpectedly. 
 
 " The call ! " said the youth. " I must go." 
 
 " What ! You will not take your breakfast with 
 us?" 
 
 " I cannot. I am on duty for the next twenty- 
 four hours, above, at the fort." 
 
 " Oh ! " said the poor woman, and she was 
 speechless. 
 
 And in consternation each gazed at the other for 
 a moment. Then the father was spokesman. 
 
 " At least you will take the box," he said in a 
 heart-broken voice, with an air of gluttony and of 
 martyrdom which was at once touching and ludi- 
 crous. But in the agitation and emotion of leave- 
 taking, that infernal box was nowhere to be found ! 
 It was pathetic to see those feeble and trembling 
 hands groping for it, and to hear two voices, 
 broken by sobs, inquiring: " The box ! Where is 
 the box?" — evidently considering this petty and 
 homely detail not unworthy of their great sorrow. 
 
The Mother. 
 
 41 
 
 But at last the box was found, there was one long, 
 last embrace, and then the son returned to the fort 
 on the run. 
 
 But recall how far they had come to breakfast 
 with him, and that it was to have been a great 
 affair in their lives, that the mother had not slept 
 one minute the night before, in anticipation of it, 
 and tell me whether anything could be more pa- 
 thetic than that little party which never came off, 
 that momentary glimpse of a paradise whose door 
 was so suddenly, so brutally, closed against them. 
 
 They lingered for some minutes, standing mo- 
 tionless in the spot where the boy had left them, 
 their eyes riveted upon the postern through which 
 he had disappeared from their sight. At length 
 the man roused himself, and made a move towards 
 departure. He coughed very courageously two or 
 three times, and his voice gaining confidence, he 
 said quite audibly and cheerfully, — 
 
 " Come, mother, let us go." Then he made us 
 an overwhelming courtesy, and took his wife's arm. 
 My eyes followed them as far as the turn in the 
 road. The good man's air was furious. He bran- 
 dished his bag, and his gestures were full of de- 
 spair. The mother herself appeared to be calmer. 
 She walked beside him, her head sunken upon her 
 breast, her arms at her side. But I fancied that 
 from time to time the shawl which covered her thin 
 shoulders rose and fell convulsively. 
 
4 2 Monday Tales. 
 
 THE SIEGE OF BERLIN. 
 
 WE ascended the Avenue des Champs Elys^es 
 
 with Doctor V ,( reading, upon those wa]*s 
 
 pierced with shells and sidewalks dug up with 
 grapeshot, the story of the Siege of Paris, j Just 
 before we reached the Rondpoint de l'Stoile, the 
 Doctor paused, and pointing out to me on e -ef 
 those great corner-house^ which face the Arc de 
 Triomphe with such a pompous air,) he said, — 
 
 " Do you see those four closed windows up there 
 over the balcony? In -the early part of the month 
 -of August of last year, that awful month full of 
 storm and disaster, I was summoned to that apart- 
 ment to attend a severe case of apoplexy. My 
 patient was Colonel Jouve, an old cuirassier of the 
 First Empire. Love of country was his ruling 
 passion, and his mistress was Glory. At the be- 
 ginning of the war he had taken up quarters in 
 the Champs iJlys^es in that apartment with the 
 balcony. ^ D o y ou g u e ss— ytWy ? That he might 
 witness the triumphal re-entry of our troops. Poor 
 old man ! The news of Wissembourg reached his 
 ears just as he was rising from table. He saw the 
 name of Napoleon at the end of that bulletin of 
 defeat, and the sudden shock prostrated him. 
 
 " When I reached the old cuirassier, he was 
 stretched at full length upon the carpet of his 
 
1 
 
 The Siege of Berlin. 43 
 
 "00m. His face gave no signs of life, but it was 
 bleeding as if he had received a tremendous blow 
 upon the head. (Standing he must have presented 
 «n imposing figure. As he lay there, he looked 
 like a giant. His features were so noble, his sil- 
 very locks curled so thickly, he had such splendid 
 teeth, that this octogenarian looked scarcely more 
 than sixty years of age. ) Near him knelt his grand- 
 daughter in tears. ( She resembled him strongly. 
 The sight of both together suggested two beauti- 
 ful Greek medals struck from the same impression ; 
 but one was old and dull, its outlines somewhat 
 worn, while the other was bright and clear-cut, 
 having all the smoothness and brilliancy of a first 
 impression. J . 
 
 " The child's grief touched me. ( Her grandfather 
 had been a soldier. Her father too was a soldier, 
 an officer of MacMahon's staff; and at sight of this 
 stately old hero prostrate, my imagination pictured 
 a scene not less terrible/ I did my, best to reassure 
 her, but at heart I felt no hope. I We had to deal 
 with a severe case of hemiplegia, and at eighty 
 recovery is extremely doubtful. And, in fact/ for 
 three days the sick man never rallied from the 
 stupor in which I had found him. Meanwhile news 
 of the battle Reichshoffen had just reached Paris. 
 You will remember how strangely we were deceived. 
 Until evening we all believed a great victory had 
 been gained, twenty thousand Prussians slain, the 
 prince royal a prisoner. Through some agency 
 scarcely less than miraculous, some echo of the 
 nation's joy must have reached the patient, deaf 
 
44 Monday Tales, 
 
 and dumb though he was, some magnetic current 
 must have penetrated even that paralyzed frame, 
 for that evening, when I approached his bedside, I 
 saw that he was a new man. His eye was clear 
 almost, his tongue no longer thick. He wis able 
 to smile, and twice he stammered ' Vic-to-ry ! ' 
 
 " ' Yes, colonel, a great victory ! ' 
 
 " And as I acquainted him with the details of 
 MacMahon's glorious success, his features relaxed, 
 his face brightened. 
 
 " As I was about to leave the apartment, I found 
 the young girl waiting for me. She was weeping. 
 ' But he is out of danger ! ' I said, taking her 
 hands in mine. 
 
 " The unhappy child scarcely ventured a reply. 
 The bulletins had just announced the true story of 
 Reichshoffen. MacMahon was retreating, the 
 army cut to pieces. Our eyes could not conceal 
 the consternation both felt. The child was heart- 
 broken. She was thinking of her father. But I 
 trembled at thought of the old man. Surely he 
 could not survive this fresh shock. But what should 
 we do? Leave him to enjoy that happiness, those 
 illusions which had breathed new life into him? 
 But in that case we must feed him upon lies. 
 1 Very well, I will lie to him ! ' said the young 
 heroineAquickly drying her eyes, and her face was 
 wreathed in smiles when she returned to her 
 grandfather's chamber.. * 
 
 " She had undertaken no light taski During the 
 first days it was not so difficult a matter, for the 
 good man's head was very weak, and he was as 
 
The Siege of Berlin, 45 
 
 easily deceived as a child. But as health returned, 
 his ideas grew clearer. ! It was necessary to keep 
 him informed of the movement of the various 
 armies, and to manufacture military bulletins for 
 him.( And it was truly pitiable to see that lovely 
 childvburied night and day in a map of Germany; 
 pinning tiny flags upon it, endeavoring to invent 
 the details of a glorious campaign. Bazaine had 
 advanced upon Berlin, Froissart was in Bavaria, 
 MacMahon on the Baltic ! Sometimes she con- 
 sulted me, and I aided her as far as I could, but in 
 carrying out this imaginary invasion no one ren- 
 dered us greater assistance than the grandfather 
 himself. He had conquered Germany so many 
 times during the First Empire ! He knew every 
 move in advance. ' This is where they will go 
 next ! ' * This will be their next move,' he would 
 say; and his anticipations never failing to prove 
 themselves correct, he took not a little pride in 
 them. 
 
 " ' But, alas ! to no avail did we take cities, win 
 battles. We did not move rapidly enough to suit 
 him. /That old man was simply insatiable. Every 
 day 1 visited him I heard news of some fresh 
 exploit. 
 
 " ' Doctor, we have taken Mayence,' said the 
 young girl, advancing towards me with a heart- 
 rending smile, and through the door I heard a 
 joyous voice exclaiming, ' We move ! we move ! 
 in a week more we shall enter Berlin.' 
 
 " As a matter of fact, the Prussians would reach 
 Paris in another week, f We asked ourselves at 
 
46 Monday Tales. 
 
 first whether it would not be better to remove our 
 patient from the city, but, once outside of Paris, 
 the condition of France would have told him all ; 
 moreover, he was too weak, too much benumbed 
 from the effect of the first shock, to learn the truth 
 then. It was decided to remain.y 
 
 " The first day of the investment of the city, I 
 climbed up to my patient's apartment. (Well I 
 remember that day y My heart was heavy, full of 
 anguish. For the gates of Paris were closed, the 
 enemy under her very walls, and even her out- 
 skirts converted into frontiers. I found the in- 
 genuous old man sitting up in bed, proud and 
 jubilant. 
 
 " ' Well,' he said, ' at last the siege has begun ! ' 
 
 " I looked at him ; I was stunned. ' Why, colonel,' 
 I asked, ' how do you know that?' 
 
 " His granddaughter glanced in my direction. 
 
 " ' Oh, yes, doctor ; this is great news ! The 
 siege of Berlin has begun.' 
 
 vAnd as she spoke, she plied her needle with a 
 little affectation of composure. How should he 
 suspect anything? Though the cannons were fir- 
 ing from the forts, he could not hear them. And 
 although unhappy Paris was turned upside down, 
 and filled with gloom and forebodings, he saw 
 nothing of it all. But where he lay, he could get 
 a glimpse of the Arc de Triomphe, and his chamber 
 was filled with bric-a-brac of the First Empire, ad- 
 mirably fitted to nourish his illusions. Portraits 
 of marshals were there, engravings of battles; 
 there was a picture of the King of Rome in baby 
 
The Siege of Berlin. 47 
 
 robes. There were tall, stiff consoles ornamented 
 with trophied brass, and loaded with imperial 
 relics, medallions, bronzes ; there was a bit of the 
 rock of St. Helena under a glass globe ; there were 
 numerous miniatures always representing the same 
 lady, in ball-room costume, in a yellow robe with 
 leg-of-mutton sleeves, a pair of bright eyes glanc- 
 ing from beneath her carefully curled locks. 
 
 " All these ornaments, the King of Rome, the mar- 
 shals, the yellow ladies, those short-waisted, high- 
 girdled figures whose stiff and artificial lines were 
 considered the very embodiment of grace in 1 806 — 
 gallant colonel! — it was such things as those, it 
 was that atmospheie of victory and conquest, which, 
 far more than any words of oursJmade him accept 
 the story of the siege of Berlin with such childlike 
 simplicity. 
 
 " From that day, our military operations were far 
 less complex. To take Berlin was simply a ques- 
 tion of patience. From time to time, when the old 
 man grew weary of waiting, we would read him a 
 letter from his son, of course, an imaginary letter, 
 for Paris was cut off from the outer world then, and, 
 besides, since the battle of Sedan, MacMahon's 
 aide-de-camp was confined In a German fortress. 
 You may imagine that pooi child's despair, living 
 from day to day with no news of ner father, but 
 knowing that he was a prisoner, deprived of every- 
 thing, sick, perhaps, — imagine her agony knowing 
 all this, but compelled to speak for him, to invent 
 such joyous epistles in his behalf, a trifle brief, 
 perhaps, but the brevity of a soldier in the field, 
 
48 Monday Tales. 
 
 who answers his country's cry, ' Forward ! ' and 
 sees her arms everywhere victorious. Sometimes 
 she had not the heart for these letters, and then 
 weeks passed without news. But the old man 
 would grow restless and could not sleep. Then a 
 letter would at once arrive from Germany, and she 
 would .read it gayly at his bedside, repressing her 
 tears. I The colonel always listened religiously, 
 with a^ very wise air; he approved, criticised, ex- 
 plained to us here and there a passage which 
 seemed slightly obscure. But his finest efforts 
 were replies he sent his son. ' Never forget that 
 you are a Frenchman/ he would say. ' Be gen- 
 erous to these poor people. Invade their country, 
 but not as an oppressor.' Then followed sugges- 
 tions without end, delightful twaddle concerning a 
 right observance of propriety, and what constituted 
 courtesy towards women, — in short, a whole mili- 
 tary code for the guidance of these conquerors ; he 
 added some reflections upon politics in general, 
 and outlined the conditions of peace which must 
 be imposed upon the vanquished. I must add that, 
 as regards the last subject, his demands were not 
 severe. 
 
 " ' A war indemnity, only that ; what good would 
 it do to seize their provinces? A France could 
 never be made out of Germany ! ' 
 
 " He dictated these words with a steady voice, 
 with such candor, and such noble faith in his 
 country, that it was impossible to listen to him 
 unmoved. 
 
 " And all the while the siege was progressing, not, 
 
The Siege of Berlin. 49 
 
 alas ! that of Berlin. There were days of severe 
 cold, of bombardment, of epidemics and famine. 
 But, thanks to our cares, our efforts, and all those 
 proofs of indefatigable tenderness which were mul- 
 tiplied about him, the old man never felt a moment's 
 anxiety. To the very end I was able to obtain 
 white bread and fresh meat for him. Of course 
 there was none for any one else, and you cannot 
 imagine anything more touching than this grand- 
 father's breakfasts of which he partook with such 
 innocent egotism, the old man sitting up in bed, 
 fresh and smiling, his napkin under his chin, the 
 granddaughter ever at his side, her pale face re- 
 vealing the privation she had suffered ; she guided 
 his hands, compelled him to drink, aided him as 
 he ate all the good things saved specially for him. 
 Enlivened by his repast, enjoying the comfort of 
 his warm chamber while the cold winter wind blew 
 without, and the snow whirled about his windows, 
 the aged cuirassier would recall his campaigns in 
 the North and related to us for the hundredth 
 time the tale of that mournful retreat from Moscow, 
 when there was no other food than frozen biscuit 
 and horse-flesh. 
 
 "'Do you know what that means, child? We 
 ate horse-flesh ! ' I think she understood perfectly. 
 She had been eating no other meat for two months. 
 From day to day, as convalescence approached, 
 the patient began to make our task a more difficult 
 one. That lethargy of all his senses, of all his 
 limbs,, had aided us up to this time, but was begin- 
 ning to leave him. Several times those terrible 
 4 
 
50 Monday Tales. 
 
 volleys from the Porte Maillot made him start sud- 
 denly, his ear as alert as a hound's : we were 
 obliged to invent a final victory for Bazaine before 
 Berlin, and to explain that the salutes in front of 
 Les Invalides were in honor of the event. Another 
 day, when we had pushed his bed close to the win- 
 dow, I think it was the Thursday the battle of Bu- 
 zenval occurred, he saw the National Guard quite 
 distinctly as it formed in front of the Avenue de la 
 Grande Arm6e. 
 
 "'What troops are those?' asked our colonel, 
 and we heard him mutter to himself, — 
 
 " ' Badly drilled ! badly drilled ! ' 
 
 " Nothing came of this incident, but we realized 
 that it now behooved us to take greater precautions 
 than before. Unfortunately we were not cautious 
 enoughJ 
 
 " One evening on my arrival, the child came to 
 me, her face full of anxiety. 
 
 " ' To-morrow they enter,' she said. 
 
 "Was the door of the grandfather's room ajar? 
 I do remember, and have often thought in recalling 
 that evening, that his features wore an unusual ex- 
 pression. / It is very likely that he had heard what 
 we were saying. But we were speaking of the 
 Prussians, and he was thinking of the French army, 
 and of that triumphal entry he had been expecting 
 for many a day, — MacMahon descending the 
 avenue to martial music, along a path strewn with 
 flowers, his son at the marshal's sideband there 
 upon the balcony, the old warrior himself in full 
 uniform, as upon the field of Lutzen, saluting the 
 
The Siege of Berlin. 5 1 
 
 flags that had many a rent in them, and our eagles 
 blackened with powder.J 
 
 " Poor Father Jouve t Doubtless he fancied we 
 would not permit him to assist at that entry of 
 our troops, anxious to spare him the excitement 
 of so great an event. For he said nothing to any 
 one, but the following day, just at the hour when 
 the Prussians advanced somewhat timidly upon the 
 long avenue leading from the Porte Maillot to the 
 Tuileries, an upper window opened softly, and 
 the colonel himself appeared upon the balcony, 
 wearing his helmet, his long cavalry sword, and all 
 the antiquated but glorious toggery of an old 
 cuirassier of Milhaud. f I still ask myself what 
 tremendous effort of his will, what sudden start of 
 life, had put him on his feet again, and in all his 
 war trappings. But one fact is certain.) There he 
 stood upon the balcony, amazed to fina the avenue 
 so wide and still, the blinds of the houses closed, and 
 Paris itself as gloomy as a vast lazaretto ^ilags every- 
 where, but strangely enough, only white flags with 
 red crosses, and no one to meet our soldiers. 
 
 " For a moment he must have believed he had 
 made a mistake, — but, no ! yonder, behind the Arc 
 de Triomphe, issued an indistinct rattle, a black 
 line advanced steadily into the morning light. 
 Then by degrees the tops of helmets could be seen 
 flashing in the sunlight, and the drums of Jena 
 began to beat. And then beneath the Arc de 
 l'fitoile, accented by the rhythmic tramp of the 
 regiments and the clashing of sabres, resounded 
 the strains of Schubert's triumphal march. 
 
52 Monday Tales. 
 
 " Then through the dismal silence of the place 
 was heard an awful cry, ' To arms ! to arms ! the 
 Prussians ! ' and the four uhlans of the advance- 
 guard, looking towards the balcony above, could 
 see the majestic figure of an old man reeling, his 
 arms outstretched. He fell heavily. This time the 
 shock had indeed proved fatal. Colonel Jouve 
 was dead." 
 
A Renegade Zouave. 53 
 
 A RENEGADE ZOUAVE. 
 
 That evening the big blacksmith Lory of Sainte- 
 Marie-aux-Mines was not in the best of humors. 
 Usually after the forge-fire was out, and the sun 
 had set, he would sit upon a bench before his 
 doorway, tasting all the delight of that weariness 
 which comes to one who has borne the heat and 
 burden of the day. And before dismissing his 
 apprentices, he would linger with them for a few 
 draughts of fresh beer, watching the people going 
 home from the factories. But this evening the 
 worthy smith remained in his shop until meal-time, 
 and then he seemed reluctant to go. His good 
 old wife thought as she looked at him, "What ails 
 him? Has he received some bad news he is un- 
 willing to tell me, from the regiment? Perhaps 
 our oldest is ill." But she did not venture to ask 
 any questions, and confined all her efforts to quiet- 
 ing three little laughing, fair-haired lads with locks 
 the color of ripened wheat, who were crunching a 
 fine salad of black radishes and cream. 
 
 At length the blacksmith pushed away his plate 
 angrily. 
 
 " Oh, what beggarly knaves, what scoundrels 
 they are ! " 
 
 " Whom do you mean, tell us, Lory?" 
 
54 Monday Tales, 
 
 "Whom do I mean?" he exclaimed. "Five or 
 six vagabonds who straggled into the town this 
 morning, wearing the uniforms of French soldiers, 
 but hand in glove with the Bavarians: some of 
 that mob which has — what do they call it? — 
 declared in favor of Prussia; and to think that 
 every day will witness the return of more of these 
 false Alsatians ! What do you suppose they gave 
 them to drink? " 
 
 The mother attempted a defence. 
 
 11 What would you have, my poor man? These 
 boys are not so much to blame. Away in Algeria, 
 in Africa, they are so far from home that they 
 grow sick for a sight of it. The temptation to 
 return, to give up a soldier's life, is too strong for 
 them." 
 
 Lory's fist descended heavily upon the table. 
 
 " No more, mother ! You women do not know 
 what you are talking about. So much of your life 
 is spent among children, and for them alone, that 
 you come to see all things through the eyes of 
 your puppets. But I tell you, those men we saw 
 this morning are knaves, renegades, cowards of the 
 worst sort; and if in an evil hour our Christian 
 could be capable of such infamy as theirs, as sure 
 as my name is George Lory, and I was for seven 
 years a chasseur in the service of France, I would 
 run him through the body with my sabre." 
 
 Partly risen from his chair, the blacksmith 
 pointed with a terrible glance to his long cavalry 
 sword, hanging upon the wall under his son's pic- 
 ture, the portrait of a zouave, done in Africa. 
 
A Renegade Zouave, 55 
 
 But as he looked at that honest Alsatian face, dark 
 and sunburnt, viewed in the strong relief which is 
 shown when vivid colors are seen in a strong light, 
 suddenly he grew calm. 
 
 " I am foolish to work myself into a passion ! 
 As if our Christian could dream of becoming a 
 Prussian, — he who has killed so many of them dur- 
 ing the war." 
 
 Restored to good humor by this thought, the 
 worthy man finished his meal with a light heart, 
 and set forth at once for the Ville de Strasbourg, 
 to empty a pot or two of beer. 
 
 The old wife was alone. She put the little ones 
 to bed, while they chirped like a nestful of birds 
 going to rest, and then she took her darning, and 
 seated herself before the door leading to the gar- 
 den. She sighed from time to time, and thought 
 to herself, — 
 
 14 Oh, yes ; that is all true enough. They are 
 cowards, renegades. All the same, their mothers 
 must be glad enough to see them again." 
 
 And she recalled the time when her boy, before he 
 left for the army, stood in that little garden, tending 
 it, at that very hour. She looked at the well where 
 he had refilled his watering-pots, — that boy in the 
 blouse and long locks, those locks which had to be 
 cut when he entered the ranks of the zouaves. 
 
 Suddenly she trembles. The little back door 
 that leads to the fields is opened. 
 
 The dogs do not bark, though the new-comer 
 steals along the walls, among the beehives, like a 
 robber. 
 
56 Monday Tales. 
 
 " Good-day, mamma ! " 
 
 Her Christian himself stands before her, shame- 
 faced, confused ; his tongue is thick, his uniform 
 disordered. 
 
 The miserable creature has come with the others, 
 and for a whole hour he has been prowling about, 
 waiting for his father to leave the house, that he 
 might enter it. She would chide him, but has 
 not the heart. It is such a long while since she 
 saw him, embraced him last. And then he has so 
 many and such excellent reasons to give for re- 
 turning, — he longed for home, for the forge, was 
 weary of living so far away from his people ; the 
 discipline grew severer every day, and the others 
 nicknamed him " Prussian ! " because of his Alsa- 
 tian accent. Of course she believes everything he 
 says. How can she help it when she looks in his 
 face? They continue to talk, as they enter the 
 house. 
 
 The little ones are awake by this time, and, bare- 
 footed, in their night-shirts, they patter into the 
 room, eager to welcome their big brother ! He 
 must eat something, but, no, he is not hungry. 
 His thirst, however, knows no end ; he has been 
 drinking in the pothouse since morning, treated to 
 round upon round of beer and white wine, and now 
 he washes it all down with great gulps of water. 
 
 But a step is heard in the yard. The blacksmith 
 is returning. 
 
 " Christian, it is your father ! Quick, hide, until 
 I have had time to speak to him, to explain ! " 
 
 And she pushes him behind the tall porcelain 
 
A Renegade Zouave, 57 
 
 stove, and then turns to her sewing again with 
 trembling hands. But, unfortunately, his zouave's 
 cap is still upon the table, and that is the first ob- 
 ject Lory's eyes meet as he enters. He observes, 
 too, the mother's embarrassment, her pale face, and 
 he understands everything. 
 
 " Christian is here ! " he says ; and the tone of 
 his voice strikes terror to their hearts. He seizes 
 his sabre with the gesture of a maniac, and rushes 
 towards the stove behind which the zouave cowers, 
 a ghastly figure, suddenly sobered, but leaning 
 against the wall, lest he should fall. 
 
 The mother throws herself between them. 
 
 " Lory, Lory, do not kill him ! It is my fault. 
 I wrote him to return, wrote him that you needed 
 him in the forge." 
 
 She clings to his arm and drags herself along, 
 sobbing. In the darkness of their chamber the 
 children hear sobs and angry words ; these voices, 
 overcome with emotion, they no longer recognize, 
 and they too begin to cry. Suddenly the black- 
 smith pauses, and looks at his wife. 
 
 " Then he returned because you made him ! 
 Very well ! Let him get to bed. To-morrow I 
 will consider what shall be done." 
 
 On awaking the next morning from a heavy 
 slumber, full of nightmare and baseless terrors, 
 Christian finds himself in the very chamber he oc- 
 cupied in childhood. The flowering hop-vines, 
 climbing along the tiny leaden-framed panes of his 
 window, shut out some of the daylight, but the sun 
 is warm, for already it is high in the heavens 
 
58 Monday Tales. 
 
 Below, the anvils are ringing. At the head of his 
 bed sits his mother. Through the long night, she 
 has not quitted his side one moment, for her hus- 
 band's wrath has made her fear. And the old 
 man himself has not slept. Till daybreak his foot- 
 steps are heard through the house ; he opens and 
 closes one closet after another, weeping and sigh- 
 ing. And now he enters his son's room. His face 
 is stern. It seems that he is dressed for a journey. 
 He wears a tall hat and long gaiters ; he carries a 
 thick mountain-staff tipped with iron. He pro- 
 ceeds at once to the bed where his son lies, saying, 
 " Come, rise ! It is time to get up ! " 
 
 The youth, a trifle confused, is about to put on 
 his Zouave trappings. 
 
 " Oh, no, not those ! " the father says severely. 
 
 The mother, all apprehension, replies, " But, my 
 friend, he has no others to wear." 
 
 " Give him some of mine. I shall not need them 
 any more." 
 
 And as his son dresses, Lory carefully folds the 
 uniform, the big red trousers, the short jacket, 
 and having made a bundle of them, he passes about 
 his neck the tin box which contains his soldier's- 
 papers. 
 
 " And now let us go down," he says. Then the 
 three descend into the blacksmith's shop. No 
 word is spoken. As they enter, they hear the 
 bellows blowing. Every one is at work. And as 
 he sees that open shed which he had so often 
 recalled while he was far away, the Zouave remem- 
 bers his childhood, and how he played there many 
 
A Renegade Zouave. 59 
 
 an hour in the heat of the road, and how the 
 sparks glittered against the black, powdery dust of 
 the forge. Sudden tenderness fills his heart. He 
 longs for his father's forgiveness, but the look which 
 meets his is inexorable. 
 
 And now the smith finds words. 
 
 " Boy," he says, " the forge and the tools are 
 yours. And that too," he adds, pointing to the 
 little garden in the rear, which is seen from the 
 smoke-blackened door, bathed in sunshine, and 
 swarming with bees. 
 
 " The hives, the vines, the house, all belong to 
 you. Since it was for these things you sacrificed 
 your honor, you will at least look after them. You 
 are master here now. I go. You owe France five 
 pears more of service. I will pay your debt." 
 
 " Lory, Lory, where are you going?" cries the 
 poor wife. 
 
 " Father ! " exclaims the son, his voice full of 
 entreaty. But the blacksmith is gone while they 
 are speaking. He strides out of sight without one 
 glance backward. 
 
 At Sidi-bel-Abbes, where the Third Regiment of 
 Zouaves is stationed, there enlisted some days ago 
 a volunteer aged fifty-five years. 
 
6o Monday Tales. 
 
 THE CLOCK OF BOUGIVAL. 
 FROM BOUGIVAL TO MUNICH. 
 
 It was a clock of the Second Empire, one of 
 those timepieces in Algerian onyx, ornamented with 
 Campana designs, — such a clock as may be pur- 
 chased on the Boulevard d'es Italiens, its tiny gilt 
 key dangling crosswise at the end of a pink ribbon. 
 A genuine Parisian novelty, the frailest, daintiest, 
 most modern of things, — a real opera bouffe clock, 
 chiming with a charming silvery sweetness, but 
 possessing not one least grain of common-sense, 
 and full of caprices and crotchets, striking the 
 hours after an impossible fashion of its own, skip- 
 ping the half-hours, just knowing enough to an- 
 nounce for Monsieur the hour when he must go to 
 the Bourse, and for Madame the propitious, eagerly 
 awaited moment. When the war broke out, this 
 timepiece was rusticating at Bougival, created 
 especially for one of those fragile summer-palaces, 
 those butterfly cages, with paper frills, — migratory 
 establishments that are not meant to outlast a 
 season, but adorned with lace, muslin, and light 
 silken transparencies. After the arrival of the 
 Bavarians it was one of the first prizes to be carried 
 off, and really it must be acknowledged that 
 these people from over the Rhine had no little 
 
 i 
 
The Clock of Bougival. 61 
 
 skill at packing, for that plaything of a clock, 
 scarcely bigger than a turtle-dove's egg, was able 
 to make that journey from Bougival to Munich, in 
 the midst of Krupp guns and carts loaded with 
 grapeshot, arriving safe and sound, and on the 
 very next day showed its face in the shop-window 
 of Augustus Cahn, dealer in curiosities, Odeon- 
 Platz, as fresh, as coquettish as ever, with its two 
 delicate hands black and curved as two eyelashes, 
 and its gilt key still dangling crosswise at the end of 
 a new ribbon. 
 
 THE ILLUSTRIOUS DOCTOR-PROFESSOR OTTO 
 VON SCHWANTHALER. 
 
 This arrival was an event for Munich. No one 
 there had ever seen a Bougival clock before ; every 
 one came to look at it, regarding it with as much 
 curiosity as the Japanese shells in the Siebold 
 museum afforded. In front of Augustus Calm's 
 store spectators stood three rows deep, smoking 
 their pipes from morning till night, and the good 
 people of Munich, their eyes bulging out of their 
 heads, asked each other with many an astounded 
 " Mein Gott /" to what use this singular little ma- 
 chine might be put. Illustrated journals printed 
 pictures of it. Its photograph was in every window, 
 and in its honor did the illustrious Doctor-Professor 
 Otto von Schwanthaler compose his famous Paradox 
 7/pon Clocks, a philosophico-humoristic study of six 
 
62 Monday Tales. 
 
 hundred pages, which treats of the influence of 
 clocks upon the character of various nationalities, 
 and logically demonstrates that a nation so sense- 
 less as to regulate the employment of its time by 
 such erratic chronometers as that clock of Bougival, 
 could no more expect to escape every sort of 
 catastrophe than a ship which should put to sea 
 with its compass gone astray. (The phrase is a 
 trifle long, but I have translated it literally.) 
 
 Once engaged upon an investigation, the 
 Germans do not trifle with it, and before writing 
 his Paradox, the illustrious Doctor-Professor was 
 anxious to have the subject of his researches under 
 his eyes, that he might study it thoroughly, and 
 analyze it to the minutest details, with the zeal of 
 an entomologist; and so he purchased the clock, 
 and that explains how it passed from Augustus 
 Cahn's store into the salon of the illustrious Doctor- 
 Professor Otto von Schwanthaler, custodian of the 
 Pinakothek, and member of the Academy of 
 Sciences and Fine Arts, and was installed in his 
 private residence, 24 Ludwigstrasse. 
 
 THE SCHWANTHALER SALON. 
 
 THAT which one was sure to observe first of all 
 in entering the Schwanthaler salon, solemn and 
 academic as a conference-hall, was a tall marble 
 clock, severely classic in detail, but having a bronze 
 Polymnia, and extremely complicated machinery. 
 
The Clock of Bougival. 63 
 
 Its large face encircled a number of smaller ones ; 
 the hours, the minutes, and the seasons were rep- 
 resented ; the equinoxes and even the phases of 
 the moon could be seen in a bright blue cloud on 
 the base of this timepiece, in the centre. The 
 sound of this mighty machine filled the whole 
 house. Even at the foot of the stairs, its pendulum 
 could be heard, swinging ponderously to an i fro, 
 with solemn emphasis, seeming to measure and 
 divide life itself into fragments of equal length. 
 Through that sonorous tick-tock throbbed the 
 vibrations of the hand which marked the seconds, 
 as it went round and round its face, with the fever- 
 ish energy of a spider fully aware of the value of 
 time. 
 
 Then the hour would strike sadly and slowly as a 
 college-clock, and its striking always announced 
 some event in the Schwanthaler household. At 
 that precise moment Herr von Schwanthaler set 
 out for the Pinakothek, loaded with papers, or his 
 honored lady had just returned from a sermon with 
 her daughters, three lank, much-befrilled girls, who 
 looked like hop-poles ; sometimes the clock an- 
 nounced that it was time for the dancing-lesson, 
 the zither lesson, or for gymnastics; prompt on 
 the hour, the piano was opened, the embroidery- 
 frame brought forth, or music-stands were rolled 
 into the salon, and ensemble-music began ; and 
 every act of this household was so methodical, 
 orderly, and well-regulated that the spectator who 
 observed all these Schwanthalers set in motion on 
 the exact stroke of the clock, coming in or going 
 
64 Monday Tales. 
 
 out through the opened folding-doors, might have 
 fancied he saw before him that procession of the 
 Apostles in the Clock of Strasbourg, might have 
 expected that upon the last stroke the entire 
 Schwanthaler family would re-enter and disappear 
 forever in their clock. 
 
 SINGULAR INFLUENCE OF THE BOUGIVAL 
 
 CLOCK UPON AN HONEST FAMILY OF 
 
 MUNICH. 
 
 Now it was beside that monument they placed 
 the clock from Bougival, and you can easily imagine 
 the effect that saucy bit of fragile finery produced ! 
 One evening, as the Schwanthaler ladies were busied 
 with their embroidery in the large salon, and the 
 illustrious Doctor- Professor was reading to some ot 
 his colleagues of the Academy of Sciences the first 
 pages of the Paradox, pausing from time to time 
 to lift the little clock and to make, as it were, a 
 blackboard demonstration concerning it, suddenly 
 Eva von Schwanthaler, impelled by I know not 
 what accursed curiosity, said to her father, blushing 
 slightly, — 
 
 " O papa, make it ring ! " 
 
 The doctor detached the key, turned it twice, 
 and a crystalline sound was heard, so silvery, clear, 
 and bright that a sudden quiver of gaiety passed 
 through that solemn assemblage. All eyes 
 sparkled. 
 
The Clock of BougivaL 65 
 
 " Is n't it pretty, is n't it pretty? " exclaimed the 
 young ladies, tossing their braids with such a lively 
 little air that one could scarcely recognize them. 
 
 Then Herr von Schwanthaler observed trium- 
 phantly, — 
 
 " Look at that crazy little French clock ! It has 
 just struck eight, and the hour-hand is at three." 
 
 Every one laughed at this, and notwithstanding 
 the lateness of the hour, the gentlemen plunged 
 into philosophical theories and interminable re- 
 flections upon the frivolity of the French people. 
 Every one forgot that it was time to go home, deaf 
 even to Polymnia's dial announcing ominously that 
 it was ten o'clock, the hour which ordinarily dis- 
 persed the assembled guests. The great clock 
 could not understand what it all meant. Never 
 before had it seen such hilarity in the Schwan- 
 thaler residence ; never had it seen people linger- 
 ing so late in the salon. And, shocking to relate, 
 when the Misses Schwanthaler had retired to their 
 room, they had sat up so late, and laughed so 
 much, that they felt a hollow, empty sensation in 
 the stomach, as if they were really hungry, and 
 the sentimental Minna herself, with arms out- 
 stretched, exclaimed, — 
 
 " Ah, I believe I could eat a lobster-claw ! " 
 
 "LET US BE GAY, CHILDREN, LET US BE 
 GAY ! " 
 
 ONCE it was wound up, the Bougival clock fell 
 into its old, irregular life, its habits of dissipation. 
 5 
 
66 Monday Tales. 
 
 They had begun by laughing at its crotchets, but 
 by degrees, growing accustomed to that charming 
 chime, which sounded according to caprice and 
 never told the right time, the serious Schwanthaler 
 family lost all regard for time, and spent their days 
 with delightful unconcern. They thought now of 
 nothing but amusement. Human life seemed so 
 short, since they no longer kept run of the hours. 
 Everything was turned upside down. No more 
 sermons, no more studies ! They felt the need of 
 excitement, of stir. Mendelssohn and Schumann 
 had grown too monotonous, and were replaced with 
 La Grande Duchesse, and Le Petit Faust, and the 
 Frauleins strummed and strummed and danced, 
 while even the illustrious Doctor-Professor, seized 
 with a sort of vertigo, was able only to say, " Let 
 us be gay, children, let us be gay ! " As for the 
 big clock, it was a thing of the past. The young 
 ladies had stopped the pendulum, pretending that 
 it kept them from sleeping, and the household was 
 run according to the caprice of that timepiece 
 which struck one hour when it marked another. 
 
 And then appeared the famous Paradox upon 
 Clocks. On this occasion the Schwanthalers gave 
 a great soiree, not one of those academic evenings 
 such as they once enjoyed, quiet, and not too bril- 
 liant, but a magnificent masquerade-ball, at which 
 Frau von Schwanthaler and her three daughters 
 appeared as canotieres of Bougival, bare-armed 
 and in short skirts and tiny hats with gaudy rib- 
 bons. All this was soon the talk of the town, but 
 it was merely the beginning. Tableaux-vivants, 
 
The Clock of BougivaL 67 
 
 late suppers and baccarat, — scandalized Munich 
 witnessed one thing after another that winter in 
 the academician's salon. " Let us be gay, chil- 
 dren, let us be gay ! " repeated the poor man, 
 utterly distracted, and, indeed, they were all ex- 
 tremely gay. Frau von Schwanthaler, become 
 fashionable since her success as a canotiere, passed 
 her days upon the Isar, wearing extravagant cos- 
 tumes. Her daughters, left at home, took French 
 lessons of some hussar officers imprisoned in the 
 city, and the little clock, having every reason for 
 believing itself still at Bougival, continued to ring 
 at random, always striking eight when the hand 
 stood at three. At last, one morning, this mad 
 whirl of folly carried off the entire Schwanthaler 
 family to America, and the finest Titians of the 
 Pinakothek followed their illustrious custodian in 
 his flight. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 After the departure of the Schwanthalers, a 
 perfect epidemic of scandals broke out in Munich. 
 First, a canoness eloped with a baritone ; the Dean 
 of the Institute wedded a ballet-dancer ; an Aulic 
 councillor was caught cheating at cards; and the 
 convent established for noble women was closed 
 because of a nocturnal disturbance. 
 
 Oh, depravity of inanimate things ! It would 
 seem that this little clock had some magic power, 
 and that it had resolved to bewitch all Bavaria. 
 Wherever it went, wherever that giddy but charm- 
 
68 Monday Talcs. 
 
 ing little chime sounded, it distracted people, turned 
 their heads. At last, passing from one plac* 3 : to 
 another, it took up its abode in the Royal Resi- 
 dence. And since that day, do you know the 
 name of that score which lies, always open, upon 
 the piano of King Louis, the rabid Wagnerian? 
 
 " Die Meistet stinger ? " 
 
 " No ! Le Phoque a ventre blanc! Just the 
 »:hing to teach them how to use our clocks ! " 
 
The Defence of Tarascon. 69 
 
 THE DEFENCE OF TARASCON. 
 
 God be praised ! at last, news of Tarascon ! 
 For five months I have merely existed, such was 
 my state of suspense ! Knowing the exaltation of 
 that good town, knowing the bellicose humor of its 
 inhabitants, I said to myself again and again, Who 
 can tell what Tarascon has been doing? May it 
 not have rushed in a body upon the barbarians, 
 been bombarded like Strasbourg, burned alive like 
 Chateaudun? Perhaps, like Paris, it is dying of 
 hunger ! Perhaps, like Laon and its intrepid cita- 
 del, it has been blown up in a savage paroxysm of 
 patriotism. None of these things, my friends. 
 Tarascon has not been burned, Tarascon is not 
 blown up ! Tarascon is where it has always been, 
 its peaceful site surrounded by vineyards, the glad 
 sunshine flooding its streets, its cellars full of fine 
 Muscat, and the Rhone, which bathes that amiable 
 locality, bears to the sea, as of old, the image of a 
 prosperous town; and on the river's shining sur- 
 face may still be seen the reflection of green blinds, 
 and well-raked gardens, and militia, in new coats, 
 drilling all along the quay. 
 
 But do not suppose for a moment that Tarascon 
 has been sitting with hands folded during the war 
 On the contrary, it has behaved admirably, and its 
 
70 Monday Tales. 
 
 heroic resistance, which I shall attempt to describe 
 to you, deserves its place in history as a type of 
 local resistance, a living symbol of the defence of 
 the South! 
 
 THE SINGING-SOCIETIES. 
 
 I WILL admit that, until Sedan was fought, our 
 gallant Tarasconians stayed at home, and their sen- 
 timents were quite peaceful. These proud sons of 
 the Alpilles never considered that possibly the 
 Fatherland had received its death-blow on this 
 battlefield. It was the Empire, and the Emperor's 
 soldiers that were perishing. But once the Fourth 
 of September had come and the Republic, with 
 Attila encamped about Paris, ah ! then it was that 
 Tarascon awoke, and perceived this was naught 
 else than a national war ! Of course it began with 
 a demonstration on the part of the Singing-Socie- 
 ties. You know what a passion for music they 
 have in the South. At Tarascon especially it be- 
 comes a perfect frenzy. In the streets, as you pass, 
 all the windows are singing at you, and every 
 balcony drops romantic lays upon your head ! 
 
 No matter what shop you enter, at the desk there 
 is always a guitar sighing, and even the apothe- 
 cary's boys, as they serve you, whistle " The Night- 
 ingale," and " The Spanish Lute " — Tra la la! la 
 la la! And, as if these private concerts were not 
 enough, the Tarasconese have also a town brass 
 band, a college band, and I dare not say how many 
 singing-societies. 
 
The Defence of Tarascon. Ji 
 
 It was Saint Christopher's singing-society and 
 its admirable three-part chorus, " On, to save 
 France ! '* which struck the first note of the national 
 movement. 
 
 " Yes, yes ! — On to save France ! " cried the 
 worthy Tarasconian, and handkerchiefs were waved 
 from the windows, and men clapped their hands, 
 and women threw kisses to the harmonious 
 phalanx, which paraded the Esplanade, marching 
 four rows deep, keeping step proudly, a banner at 
 its head. An impetus had been given to the move- 
 ment. From that day no more barcarolles, no 
 more pensive sighing of guitars. Everywhere 
 " The Spanish Lute " yielded to "The Marseillaise," 
 and twice every week people were almost smoth- 
 ered upon the Esplanade, where they gathered to 
 listen to the college band playing the Chant du 
 Depart. Fabulous prices were paid for seats. 
 
 But the Tarasconese did not stop at that. 
 
 THE CAVALCADES. 
 
 AFTER the demonstration of the singing-socie- 
 ties, there were historical cavalcades for the benefit 
 of the wounded. What more pleasing sight than 
 that presented upon a bright Sabbath-day, when 
 all the valorous youth of Tarascon might be seen, 
 in hunting-boots and light tights, soliciting con- 
 tributions from' door to door, and caracoling under 
 the balconies, armed with halberds and butterfly- 
 nets ! But finest of all was a patriotic tournament, 
 
72 Monday Tales. 
 
 — Francis I. at the battle of Pavia. This was held 
 thrice in succession on the Esplanade by the gentle- 
 men of the Club. He who missed that sight has not 
 lived ! The Marseilles Theatre loaned the costumes. 
 Gold and silk and velvet, embroidered standards, 
 shields and helmets, caparisons, ribbons, bow-knots, 
 rosettes, lance-heads, and breastplates, made the 
 Esplanade flash and glitter like a mirror for entic- 
 ing larks. And then a strong, sudden breath of the 
 Mistral, which handled all this splendor some- 
 what roughly. It was indeed a magnificent sight. 
 But, unfortunately, when, after a fierce contest, 
 Francis I. — Monsieur Bompard, director of the 
 Club — found that he was surrounded by a body 
 of Reiters, the luckless Bompard, in surrendering 
 his sword, did so with a shrug of the shoulders so 
 enigmatic that, instead of announcing " All is lost 
 save honor ! " it seemed rather to say : " Digo-li 
 que vengue, moun bon ! " 1 But the Tarasconese 
 were not too close observers, and patriotic tears 
 sparkled in every eye. 
 
 THE BREACH. 
 
 With such spectacles as these, such songs, amid 
 such glory of river and sky, no wonder all heads 
 were turned. And their exaltation reached its 
 highest point upon reading the Government Bulle- 
 tins. People accosted each other upon the Espla- 
 nade with a threatening air, their teeth tightly 
 closed, chewing their words like bullets. Their 
 
 1 Provencal. " Tell him to come on, my brave I " 
 
The Defence of Tarascon. 73 
 
 conversations smelt of powder. There was salt- 
 petre in the air ! And, above all, one should have 
 heard these effervescent Tarasconians at a break- 
 fast in the Cafe de la Come'die. 
 
 They would exclaim, " What are they doing, these 
 Parisians, with that tron de Dieu General Trochu 
 of theirs ? They will never, never cut through the 
 enemy ! Coquin de bon sort / If now it was 
 Tarascon ! Trrr ! Long ago we would have made 
 a breach ! " and while Paris was choking upon its 
 oat-bread, these gentlemen devoured succulent 
 red-legged partridges, washing them down with the 
 good wine of Avignon, and when they had eaten 
 till they could eat no more, their shining faces 
 steeped in gravy up to the ears, they would shout 
 like deaf men, striking the table vigorously, " A 
 breach there! Make a breach, why don't you?" 
 And really, they were quite right about it ! 
 
 THE CLUB'S DEFENCE. 
 
 Meanwhile the barbarian invasion was grad- 
 ually gaining southward. Dijon taken, Lyon was 
 threatened, and already the Uhlans' mares had 
 caught a whiff of the fragrant fields of the Rhone 
 Valley, and neighed longingly for them. " Let us 
 organize our defence," said the Tarasconese, and 
 every one set to work. In an instant the town was 
 protected, barricaded, casemated. Every house 
 became a fortress. At Costecalde's, the gunsmith, 
 there was in front of the shop, a trench two metres 
 
74 Monday Tales. 
 
 wide, with a drawbridge too, — really a charming 
 affair ! At the Club the defensive works were of 
 such magnitude that every one visited them, moved 
 by curiosity. Monsieur Bompard, the Club's 
 director, stood at the head of the stairway, his 
 chassepot in one hand, and furnished explanations 
 to the ladies. " If they should approach on this 
 side, piff! paff! If, on the other hand, they come 
 from that direction, piff! paff! " And at every 
 street-corner people would stop you with a myste- 
 rious air, and tell you, " The Cafe' de la Come'die is 
 impregnable ! " or even more mysteriously, " They 
 have just put torpedoes under the Esplanade ! " 
 Certainly the barbarians might do well to reflect ! 
 
 THE SHARP-SHOOTERS. 
 
 At the same time companies of sharp-shooters 
 were organized with an enthusiasm amounting to 
 frenzy. Brothers of Death, Narbonnese Jackals, 
 Blunderbiissers of the Rhone, — they had all sorts 
 of titles and colors, like the centaurea in a field of 
 oats ; and such panaches, and cock's-plumes, 
 gigantic hats, and enormous belts ! That he might 
 have a more formidable air, every sharp-shooter 
 allowed his moustache and beard to grow, so that 
 one acquaintance could no longer recognize 
 another if they met, out for a walk. At a distance 
 you would sight a brigand of the Abruzzi, bear- 
 ing down upon you with flaming eyes, bristling 
 moustache, and a rattling of sabres, revolvers, and 
 
The Defence of Tarascon. 75 
 
 yataghans; and when he came nearer it was only 
 Pegoulade, the collector. Another time you would 
 encounter on the stairway Robinson Crusoe him- 
 self, with his pointed hat, saw-toothed cutlass, and 
 gun upon his shoulder, but, after all, it was only the 
 gunsmith Costecalde, returning from town where 
 he had been dining. But, the worst of it was that 
 in giving themselves such a ferocious appearance, 
 the Tarasconese actually became frightened of 
 themselves, and soon no one dared walk abroad. 
 
 WILD RABBITS AND TAME RABBITS. 
 
 The Bordeaux decree for the organization of 
 the national guards put an end to this intolerable 
 situation. At the powerful bidding of the tri- 
 umvirs, prrrt! the cock's-plumes suddenly van- 
 ished, and Jackals, Blunderbussers, and others 
 presented themselves to be made into honest 
 militia-men, under orders of the gallant General 
 Bravida, aged Captain of the Wardrobe. Now en- 
 sued new complications. The Bordeaux decree, 
 as you know, recognized two classes in the national 
 guards, the national guard that was to form part 
 of the moving army, and the sedentaires, — "the wild 
 rabbits, and the tame rabbits," as Pegoulade the 
 collector observed drolly enough. At first, while 
 the companies were forming, those of the guard 
 who were wild rabbits naturally had the leading 
 role to play. Every morning they drilled upon 
 the Esplanade, gallant General Bravida at their 
 
76 Monday Tales. 
 
 head; there was firing and skirmishing — 
 " Couchez-vous! levez-vous!" — and divers orders. 
 These sham- fights attracted crowds of spectators. 
 The ladies of Tarascon would not miss a single one 
 of them, and even the ladies from Beaucaire would 
 sometimes cross the bridge, just to admire our 
 rabbits. All this time, those poor tame rabbits of 
 the national guard modestly did duty-service in the 
 town, and were on guard before the museum, where 
 there was nothing to guard but an old lizard stuffed 
 with moss, and two falcons of the time of good King 
 Rene; and besides, the Beaucaire ladies never 
 crossed the bridge to see them ! But after three 
 months of skirmishing, when it was perceived that 
 the wild rabbits of the national guard never once 
 budged from the Esplanade, the popular enthusiasm 
 began to cool. 
 
 All in vain did General Bravida cry to his rab- 
 bits, "Couchez-vous! levez-vous ! " No one watched 
 them now, and soon these mock-skirmishes were 
 the laughing-stock of the town. Heaven knows, 
 it was not the fault of these unfortunate rabbits 
 that they received no marching orders. They 
 were mad enough about it. At last one day they 
 refused to drill. 
 
 " No more parade ! " they cried with patriotic 
 fervor ; " we are the moving army, and we want to 
 march ! " 
 
 " And so you shall, or my name will not be Bra- 
 vida ! " exclaimed the gallant general, and swelling 
 with anger he went to the tnairie, and demanded 
 an explanation. At the mairie, he was told no 
 
The Defence of Tarascon. yy 
 
 orders had been received ; it was for the prefecture 
 to give them. 
 
 11 To the prefecture, then, I will go," said Bravida ; 
 and a little later he was on the express, bound for 
 Marseilles, in search of the prefect. Now this was 
 no easy matter, for at Marseilles there are five or 
 six prefects permanently located, and none who 
 can tell you which one of them all is the special 
 prefect with whom you have to do. However, by 
 a stroke of good luck, Bravida put his hand upon 
 the right one at the first moment, for all the pre- 
 fects were assembled in council, when the gallant 
 general addressed them in the name of his men, 
 and with all the authority of a veteran Captain of 
 the Wardrobe. 
 
 But after he had spoken a few words, the prefect 
 interrupted him, — 
 
 " Pardon, general, but how is it that your soldiers 
 ask you that they may be allowed to move, while 
 they ask me for permission to stay at home ! Read 
 this." 
 
 And with a smile upon his lips, he tendered the 
 general a most pathetic petition addressed to the 
 prefecture, emanating from two of the wild rabbits, 
 the very ones who had displayed the most furious 
 zeal for marching ; the petition contained a post- 
 script from the doctor, from the priest, and from 
 the notary of the town, and the petitioners re- 
 quested that on account of physical infirmities they 
 might be permitted to join the ranks of the tame 
 rabbits. 
 
 " And I have more than three hundred just like 
 
78 Monday Tales. 
 
 them," added the prefect, still smiling. " Now you 
 understand, general, why we have not pressed your 
 men to march. Unfortunately, too many already 
 have been compelled to move, when they wanted 
 to stay at home. No more of that ! And so, God 
 save the Republic ! and — good luck to your 
 rabbits ! " 
 
 THE FAREWELL PUNCH. 
 
 It need not be said that the general returned to 
 Tarascon crestfallen. But now for another story ! 
 What had the Tarasconese done during his absence ? 
 They had actually completed all the arrangements 
 for a farewell punch, by subscription, for the rabbits 
 who were about to leave ! All to no purpose did 
 the gallant General Bravida inform them that they 
 need not take the trouble, that no one was going 
 to leave. The punch was subscribed for, ordered ; 
 nothing remained now but to drink it, and they 
 did. And so, one Sunday evening, that touching 
 ceremony of drinking the farewell punch took 
 place in the rooms of the mairie> and through the 
 small hours toasts, vivats, addresses, and patriotic 
 songs made the windows of the municipal building 
 tremble. Every one knew, of course, how much 
 significance this farewell punch had. The tame 
 rabbits of the guard, who had paid for it, were 
 strongly convinced that their comrades had no in- 
 tention of leaving. The wild rabbits, who drank 
 the punch, were of the same conviction, and the 
 
The Defence of Tarascon. jg 
 
 venerable deputy-mayor, who, in a voice trembling 
 with emotion, protested in the hearing of all these 
 braves that he was ready to march at their head, 
 knew better than any other there that they were 
 not to march at all. But what difference did that 
 make ? These meridionaux are such extraordinary 
 creatures that before the farewell punch was fin- 
 ished everybody was in tears, every one embracing 
 his neighbor, and, strangest of all, everybody was 
 sincere about it, even the general. 
 
 At Tarascon, as indeed throughout all the South 
 of France, I have frequently observed this result of 
 mirage. 
 
8o Monday Tales. 
 
 BELISAIRE'S PRUSSIAN. 
 
 Here is an incident I heard related in a pot- 
 house at Montmartre. To repeat it to you as it 
 was told, I ought to have the local vocabulary of 
 Master Bdlisaire, his big carpenter's apron, and two 
 or three draughts of that fine white wine of Mont- 
 martre, which can give a Parisian accent even to a 
 Frenchman from Marseilles ! Then I should be 
 sure the same shiver would pass through your 
 veins as thrilled mine in hearing Belisaire narrate 
 to a tableful of companions this lugubrious and 
 veritable story. 
 
 " It was the day after the amnesty n (" the armis- 
 tice" Belisaire would say). " My wife had sent 
 us both, the boy and me, to take a walk around 
 Villeneuve-la-Garenne, for we had a little shanty 
 there, at the river's edge, and we had been without 
 news of it ever since the siege began. I was both- 
 ered at having to take the boy along, for I knew 
 we should run into the Prussians, and as I had 
 never met any of them before, I felt sure that some- 
 thing would happen. But the mother stuck to her 
 idea, and said ' Go, go ! then the child will get an 
 airing.' 
 
 " And indeed the poor thing needed one badly 
 enough, after five months of siege and mildew! 
 
Belisaires Prussian. 81 
 
 And so we both started out for the country. 
 Maybe the brat was n't pleased to find out that 
 there were still trees and birds ; maybe he did n't 
 paddle through the plough-lands ! But I did n't 
 enjoy myself quite so much. There were too many 
 helmets along the road. From the canal to the 
 Island I saw nothing else. Insolent dogs ! one 
 had to hold on to himself with all his might to keep 
 from hammering one or two ! But, you may be- 
 lieve, I nearly boiled over when I entered Ville- 
 neuve, and saw our poor gardens completely ruined, 
 our houses open, turned inside out, and those ban- 
 dits making themselves at home in our quarters, 
 calling from window to window, hanging their 
 woollen shirts upon our shutters and trellises. 
 Luckily the child was at my side, and when my 
 hand itched too much I thought as I looked at 
 him : ' Keep cool, Belisaire. Look out that no 
 harm happens to the youngster ! ' Only that saved 
 me from making a fool of myself. I understood 
 then why the mother wanted me to take him along. 
 " Our shanty stood at the end of the road, last 
 one on the right hand, on the quay. I found it 
 had been emptied from top to bottom, just like the 
 others. Not a bit of furniture, not so much as a 
 pane of glass left. Only a few bundles of straw ; 
 the last leg of the big arm-chair was crackling in 
 the chimney-place. I scented Prussians every- 
 where, but could n't see one. Then it did seem to 
 me that I heard something stirring down in the 
 basement. I had a little bench there, where I 
 amused myself of a Sunday at odd jobs. I told 
 6 
 
82 Monday Tales. 
 
 the boy to wait for me where he was, and I went 
 downstairs to look for myself. 
 
 " No sooner had I opened the door than one of 
 William's soldiers, a big brute of a fellow, sprang 
 with a snort from beneath a pile of shavings, and 
 rushed towards me, his eyes starting from his head, 
 and with all manner of oaths I understood not a 
 word of! He must have felt out of sorts when he 
 awoke, for at the first word I attempted to say, he 
 started to draw his sword. 
 
 " I was struck of a heap. All the spleen which 
 had been gathering for the last hour was upper- 
 most. I gripped the big iron clamp of the bench, 
 and I struck. You know, comrades, that Belisaire's 
 fist is no light one on ordinary occasions, but that 
 day it seemed as if I had the Almighty's thunder- 
 bolts at the end of my arm. The very first blow 
 knocked my Prussian silly. There he lay, sprawl- 
 ing at full length. I thought he was only stunned. 
 Well, yes ! stunned he was, done for, my boys. 
 The neatest, cleanest bit of work ! — as if he 'd 
 been washed in potash. What do you say to that, 
 eh? 
 
 " And I, who had never killed anything in my life 
 before, not so much as a lark ! It seemed queer 
 enough to see that big carcass stretched in front of 
 me. My word for it, he was a fair, handsome fel- 
 low, with a funny little beard, that curled just like 
 ash shavings. My legs shook under me as I looked 
 at him. By this time, the boy had grown tired up- 
 stairs, and I heard him crying at the full strength 
 of his lungs, ' Papa, papa ! ' 
 
Belisaires Prussian. 83 
 
 " The Prussians were passing along the road ; I 
 could catch a glimpse of their sabres and their big 
 legs through the air-hole of the basement. Sud- 
 denly it occurred to me : ' If they get in, the child 
 is lost! They'll kill every one they find. That 
 was the end of it. I trembled no longer. I shoved 
 my Prussian hastily under the bench, covering him 
 with everything I could find, boards and sawdust 
 and shavings ; then I went upstairs to find the boy. 
 
 " ' Come along.' 
 
 "'What's the matter, papa? How pale you 
 look ! ' 
 
 " ' Come, come ! ' 
 
 " And I can tell you, if those Cossacks had turned 
 me upside down, searched me through and through, 
 I 'd have offered no objection. It seemed to me 
 every moment that I heard some one running, 
 crying, at our backs; once I heard a horse, close 
 upon us, going at a gallop. It startled me so I 
 thought I should drop. But after the bridge was 
 passed, I dared to look about me, and knew where 
 I was again. Saint-Denis was full of people. 
 There was no danger of our being fished out of 
 that crowd. Then for the first time I thought of 
 our poor shanty. Very likely the Prussians would 
 set fire to it when they discovered their comrade ; 
 and besides, my neighbor Jacquot, the river-keeper, 
 was the only Frenchman in that neighborhood 
 now, and it would surely make trouble for him 
 when it was found that a soldier had been killed 
 almost at his door. It was a shabby trick I had 
 served him, running off in that fashion. 
 
84 Monday Tales. 
 
 " I might at least have put my man where he 
 would n't be found. As I came nearer Paris, that 
 thought pestered me more and more. I don't 
 deny it made me uneasy to think I had left that 
 Prussian there in my cellar. When I reached the 
 rampart, I could n't stand it any longer. 
 
 " ' Go ahead,' I said to the youngster. ' I have a 
 customer I must see at Saint-Denis.' 
 
 " Then I kissed him, and turned back. My heart 
 beat a little faster than usual, but what did that 
 matter? I was relieved to think the boy was not 
 with me. 
 
 "As I approached Villeneuve, night was coming 
 on. I kept my eye open, you may be sure, anc? 
 my head looked out for my heels. The country 
 was quiet enough. I could see the shanty, just 
 where it always was, there in the fog. Along the 
 quay stretched a long, black line. It was the 
 Prussians, mustering. I had a good chance of 
 finding the house empty. 
 
 " As I slipped along the enclosures, I saw Father 
 Jacquot in his yard, spreading his nets. Surely 
 nothing had been discovered so far. I entered 
 our place, and went down cellar, feeling my way 
 along. I found my Pruss, a was still under his 
 shavings. Two big rats were tugging away at his 
 helmet, and it gave me quite a start to hear that 
 chin-piece moving. For a moment I thought that 
 the dead man had come to life again, but no ! his 
 head was heavy and cold. I hid in a corner, and 
 waited. My idea was to throw the body into the 
 Seine, after the others had fallen asleep. 
 
Belisaircs Prussian. 85 
 
 " I don't know whether it was because that corpse 
 was so close to me, but the tattoo of the Prussians 
 sounded infernally doleful to me that evening. 
 Three great trumpet blasts at once, and ' Ta, ta, 
 ta — 'a regular frog-concert ! Our soldiers of the 
 line would never want to turn in to such music as 
 that! 
 
 " For five minutes I heard the noise of sabres, 
 rapping upon the doors. Then some soldiers 
 entered the yard, and began to call, — 
 
 " ' Hoffman, Hoffman ! ' 
 
 " Poor Hoffman lay there under his shavings, 
 quiet enough. It was I who was ready to drop ! 
 Every moment I expected to hear them enter that 
 cellar. I had dug out the dead man's sword, and 
 there I waited, never daring to budge, saying all to 
 myself; ' If you get out of this alive, my boy, you 
 owe a splendid candle to St. John the Baptist at 
 Belleville ! ' 
 
 " All the same, after they had called Hoffman 
 often enough, my tenants decided to enter. I heard 
 their heavy boots tramping over the stairs, and in 
 a few minutes the entire barrack of them was snor- 
 ing soundly, making as much noise as a country 
 clock. That was what I had been waiting for ! I 
 started out. The bank was deserted, the lights in 
 the houses were out. So much the better. I went 
 down into the basement again. I dug out my 
 Hoffman from under that bench, stood him up, 
 and hoisted him over my shoulders as a porter 
 might his pack. Oh ! but he was heavy, the rascal ! 
 And what with fear, and nothing in my crop since 
 
$6 Monday Tales. 
 
 morning I never thought I 'd have strength enough 
 for what I had to do. And then, just on the mid- 
 dle of the quay, I thought I felt some one behind 
 me. I turned around. Not a soul ! But the moon 
 was rising. I said to myself, ' Look out ! the 
 sentry may fire upon you any moment.' 
 
 " To make matters worse, the Seine was low. If 
 I threw him in near the bank, he'd stay there, as 
 if he 'd been dropped into a basin. I went in my- 
 self. On and on ! But nowhere water enough. 
 My strength was gone. My limbs were cramped. 
 At last, when I thought I was deep enough in, I 
 let my man drop. But what do you think? He 
 stuck in the mud. Could n't move him. I shoved 
 and shoved. Get up, get up there ! But luckily an 
 east wind sprang up. The Seine swelled, and I 
 felt that the dead man slipped lightly from his 
 mooring. A pleasant voyage ! I swallowed a 
 mouthful of water and clambered on to the bank 
 again. 
 
 " As I crossed the Villeneuve bridge I saw a black 
 object in the middle of the Seine. From a dis- 
 tance it looked like a wherry. It was my Prussian, 
 floating towards Argenteuil, following the current 
 of the river." 
 
Country- Folk in Paris, 87 
 
 COUNTRY-FOLK IN PARIS DURING 
 THE SIEGE. 
 
 At Champrosay, these people were happy in- 
 deed. Their farmyard was just under my windows, 
 and for six months of the year my life brought me 
 somewhat in contact with theirs. Before day- 
 break, the goodman of the house would proceed 
 to the stable, harness his wagon, and set out for 
 Corbeil, where he sold his vegetables ; a little later 
 the wife rose, dressed the children, fed the poul- 
 try, and milked the cow; all morning long there 
 was such a clatter of sabots over the wooden stair- 
 case ! In the afternoon all was silent. The father 
 was in the fields, the children were at school, and 
 the mother busied herself silently, spreading out 
 linen in the yard, or sat and sewed before her 
 door, watching her youngest. From time to time 
 some passer-by would stop on the road, and then 
 she would have a chat, plying her needle all the 
 while. 
 
 But one day — it was towards the end of the 
 month of August, ever that memorable month ! — 
 I heard the goodwife saying to one of her 
 neighbors, — 
 
 " What! you don't mean it? The Prussians? 
 but they 've merely reached France ! — nothing 
 more ! " 
 
88 Monday Tales. 
 
 " They are at Chalons, Mother Jean ! " I ex- 
 claimed from my window. And that made her 
 smile not a little. In that small, out-of-the-way 
 corner of Seine-et-Oise the country-people could 
 not believe in an invasion at all. 
 
 And yet every day wagons were seen passing, 
 loaded with luggage. People had closed their 
 houses, and through that beautiful month, when 
 the days are so long, gardens blossomed in dreary 
 solitude, and no one so much as opened a gate to 
 look at them. By degrees my neighbors them- 
 selves grew alarmed. Each fresh departure from 
 the neighborhood made them sad. They felt they 
 were forsaken. 
 
 One morning a flourish of drums was heard 
 through the village. An order had come from the 
 mairie. They must go to Paris, sell their cow, 
 their fodder, leave nothing behind for the Prus- 
 sians. And so the goodman set out for Paris, and 
 it was a mournful journey indeed. Along the 
 paved highway, one heavy van of furniture fol- 
 lowed another, a long procession, and helter-skelter 
 ran troops of swine and sheep, dazed and con- 
 fused, getting between the wheels, while oxen, tied 
 together, bellowed after the wagons. On the side of 
 the road, along the ditch, poor wretches were hurry- 
 ing on foot, behind handcarts full of antiquated furni- 
 ture, faded easy-chairs, Empire-tables, and mirrors 
 draped in chintz ; it was impossible not to feel what 
 distress had entered these homes, at having to re- 
 move all these dusty things, all these relics, and to 
 drag load upon load of them along the highways. 
 
Country-Folk in Paris. 89 
 
 At the gates of Paris it was suffocating. There 
 was a wait of two hours. All this time the poor 
 farmer, pushed against his cow, gazed in terror 
 at the embrasures, where cannon were mounted, 
 at ditches filled with water, the fortifications which 
 rose before him, and tall Italian poplars, cut down 
 and withering along the roadside. That evening 
 he returned, utterly dismayed, and told his wife all 
 he had seen. The wife was terrified, and wanted 
 to leave the very next day. But something always 
 occurred to delay their departure from one day to 
 another. There was a new harvesting, or a piece 
 of land that must be ploughed, — and would they 
 not have time to gather the vintage ? And deep 
 down in their hearts was a vague hope that per- 
 haps the Prussians would not visit their part of the 
 world. 
 
 One night they were awakened by an awful 
 report! The Corbeil bridge had been blown up. 
 Men were running about the country, knocking 
 from door to door, with the cry, — 
 
 "The Uhlans! the Uhlans! Flee for your 
 lives ! " 
 
 They rose as quickly as they could, harnessed 
 the wagon, dressed the children, still half-asleep, 
 and fled along the crossroads with some of their 
 neighbors. Just as they climbed the hill, the clock 
 rang three. They looked back one last time. 
 There was the watering-place, the church-square, 
 there were the roads they knew so well, one de- 
 scending towards the Seine, the other winding 
 among the vineyards. Already everything began 
 
90 Monday Tales. 
 
 to look strange to them, and in the gray mist of 
 the early morning the little deserted village itself, 
 each house closed against its neighbor, seemed to 
 shiver as if it too were filled with some terrible 
 foreboding. 
 
 And now they are in Paris. Two rooms in the 
 fourth story, in a dismal street. The man himself 
 might be worse off; work has been found for him, 
 and besides, he is in the national guard. He has 
 the life on the ramparts, the daily drill, and diverts 
 himself as best he can, that he may forget his 
 empty granary, and his unsown fields. But the 
 woman, less amenable to the influences of civiliza- 
 tion, is wretched, weary of it all, does not know 
 what to do with herself. She has sent the two 
 oldest children to school ; but in that dreary day- 
 school, not brightened by a single flower-plot, the 
 little girls cannot breathe freely, and they remem- 
 ber their own pretty convent-school in the country, 
 as busy and full of life and happiness as a beehive. 
 They remember the half-mile walk they took 
 through the woods every morning to reach that 
 school. It pains the mother to see them so un- 
 happy, but she worries most of all about the 
 youngest child. 
 
 At home, he went back and forth, following her 
 everywhere, through the yard, through the house, 
 passing across the threshold as many times as her- 
 self, dabbling his tiny, reddened hands in the wash- 
 tub, seating himself at the door when she would 
 rest herself for a little while with her knitting. But 
 here, they must climb four stories, over a dark stair- 
 
Country- Folk in Paris. 91 
 
 way where the feet slip ; there is only a miserable 
 fire in the narrow chimney-place, and through the 
 high windows is seen only a gray, smoky horizon, 
 and roof-tops of wet slate. 
 
 There is, however, a yard where he might play, 
 but this the concierge will not permit. These con- 
 cierges are another invention of city life. At home, 
 in the village, every man is his own master, and 
 every one has at least a little corner he may call his 
 own. And all day long the door is ajar ; at night- 
 fall a big wooden latch is enough for safety, and 
 soon the entire household is wrapped in the dark- 
 ness of night in the country, a night which knows 
 no fear, and is filled with refreshing slumber. Now 
 and then a dog may bark at the moon, but no one 
 loses his rest on that account. Here in Paris, in 
 these houses of the poor, the concierge is the real 
 proprietor. Her boy dares not go downstairs 
 alone, he is so afraid of this ill-natured woman, 
 who has even compelled them to sell their goat, 
 pretending that it dragged straw and peelings over 
 the stones of the yard. 
 
 The poor mother has no stories left with which 
 to divert the child when he is tired. After their 
 meal is over, she wraps him as if they were going 
 for a walk in the fields. Together, hand in hand, 
 they pass through the streets, along the boulevards. 
 Startled, jostled against, bewildered, the child 
 scarcely casts a glance around him. He sees 
 nothing that interests him except horses. They 
 are the only objects that look familiar to him, and 
 he smiles when he sees one. Neither does the 
 
92 Monday Tales. 
 
 mother take the least pleasure now in anything she 
 sees. She walks on with slow steps, dreaming of 
 her house, her little homestead. And as they pass 
 by, — the mother with her open, honest expression, 
 her neat attire, her smooth and shining hair, the 
 child with his chubby figure, his big galoshes, — one 
 who looks at them closely must feel that they are 
 two aliens, exiles, who long, with all their hearts, 
 for the fresh air and the solitude of their country 
 lanes. 
 
At the Outposts. 93 
 
 AT THE OUTPOSTS. 
 MEMORIES OF THE SIEGE. 
 
 The following notes were written from day to 
 day, while passing from one outpost to another. 
 In offering them, I am merely detaching a leaf 
 from my note-book, before the Siege of Paris has 
 become a thing of the past. It is only a sketch, 
 desultory and abrupt, dashed off upon my knee 
 from time to time, and with no more smoothness 
 than the splinter of a shell. But I give these notes 
 just as they are, without altering one word, without 
 even rereading them for myself, lest in so doing I 
 might attempt to lend interest to them by adding 
 fiction to fact, and so mar the whole. 
 
 AT LA CORNEUVE, A MORNING IN DECEMBER. 
 
 A WHITE, wintry plain, rugged and chalky, across 
 which every sound echoes. Along the frozen mud 
 of the road the infantry of the line are advancing, 
 pell-mell, with the artillery. A slow and dreary 
 march. There will be fighting soon. The men 
 stumble again and again, walk with lowered heads, 
 shivering with the cold, their guns strapped, their 
 
94 Monday Tales. 
 
 hands concealed within their blankets, as in a muff. 
 From time to time is heard the cry of " Halt ! " 
 
 The frightened horses neigh. The ammunition 
 wagons rumble, and artillery-men, raising them- 
 selves in the saddle, anxiously scan the great white 
 wall of Bourget. 
 
 " Can you see them? " ask the soldiers, striking 
 their feet together to warm them. And then 
 " Forward march ! " and that human wave, driven 
 back for a moment, moves onward in silence, never 
 quickening its pace. 
 
 On the horizon, in front of the fort of Auber- 
 villiers, and sharply outlined against the cold sky in 
 which the sun is rising like a leaden disc, a little 
 group is seen. It is the governor and his staff; 
 against the gray sky they stand in strong relief, 
 like Japanese figures upon a background of mother- 
 of-pearl. In nearer view, stationed along the road 
 like a flock of crows, black-robed figures are seen, 
 ministering brothers of charity, ready for duty at 
 the ambulances. Standing there, their hands 
 crossed beneath their capes as they watch the long 
 line moving on to become food for the cannon, 
 devotion, humility, and sorrow speak from their 
 eyes. 
 
 Same day. — Villages deserted, abandoned 
 houses wide open, roofs demolished, windows 
 with their weatherboards gone, staring at you like 
 the eyes of a corpse. 
 
 Now and then, in one of these ruins where every 
 sound reverberates, something is heard stirring, the 
 sound of footsteps perhaps, or a door rattling on 
 
At the Outposts. 95 
 
 its hinges ; and after you have passed, a soM ; er of 
 the line appears on the threshold, hollow-eyed- 
 suspicious, — some marauder perhaps, who is mak- 
 ing a search, or some deserter seeking a hiding 
 place. Upon entering one of these country-houses r 
 towards noon, it appears to be empty and bare- 
 A vulture's claws could not scrape it cleaner ! Or* 
 the lower floor the big kitchen, windowless, door- 
 less, opens upon the back yard, and at the end of 
 the yard is a green hedge ; behind the hedge the 
 open country is seen. At one end there is a little 
 spiral stairway of stone. I seat myself upon one 
 of its steps, and remain there for some time. How 
 good a gift this sunshine, this deep calm every- 
 where ! Two or three big flies of last summer, 
 revived by the sunlight, buzz about the rafters of 
 the ceiling. At the fireplace, a few traces of a fire 
 remain, and the hearthstone is reddened with con- 
 gealed blood. This blood-stained hearth, those 
 cinders still warm, tell the mournful story of the 
 preceding night. 
 
 ALONG THE MARNE. 
 
 December^. — Went out through the Porte de 
 Montreuil. A heavy sky, piercing wind, — fog 
 everywhere. 
 
 No one to be seen in Montreuil. Doors and 
 windows closed. Behind their enclosure, a flock 
 of geese were cackling. Plainly, the master him- 
 self is still here, but in hiding. A little further on, 
 
96 Monday Tales. 
 
 a cabaret, open. It is warm within, and there is a 
 roaring fire. Three provincials, mobiles, it ap- 
 pears, are seated as close to it as possible, break- 
 fasting. They speak not a word ; their eyes are 
 swollen, their faces inflamed; they rest their 
 elbows upon the table, and the poor moblots 
 almost fall asleep as they eat. 
 
 Left Montreuil, and crossed the Bois de Vin- 
 cennes, blue with the dense smoke of bivouac fires. 
 Ducrot's army is there. The men are cutting trees 
 to warm themselves. It is a shame to see poplars 
 and birches and young ash-trees flying into the 
 air, root and all, and trailing their delicate golden 
 foliage along the road. 
 
 At Nogent, more soldiers, — artillery-men in 
 great cloaks, Norman mobiles, with plump bodies, 
 rounded as apples, little Zouaves, well-muffled, but 
 agile enough, soldiers of the line, bent almost 
 double, their blue handkerchiefs tied about their 
 ears, beneath their kepis. Loungers swarm the 
 streets, people jostle each other at the doorways 
 of the two grocery-shops still open. One is 
 reminded of some tiny Algerian village. 
 
 At last the open country. A long, deserted 
 road descending towards the Marne. A beautiful 
 sky, pearly in tint, trees whose bare boughs shiver 
 in the mist ; below, the great viaduct of the railway, 
 presenting a sinister appearance, like a huge jaw 
 in which a tooth is gone here and there, for the 
 arches of the viaduct have been destroyed in 
 places. 
 
 Passing through Le Perreux, ruined gardens 
 
At the Outposts. 97 
 
 everywhere, houses devastated and dreary ; in one 
 of those tiny villas bordering the roadside, I saw 
 behind the gate three great white chrysanthemums, 
 full-blown, which had escaped the general massacre. 
 I pushed open the gate and entered, but they were 
 so beautiful that I could not bear to pluck them. 
 
 Took a cross-road, and descended towards the 
 Marne. When I reached the riverside, the sun 
 came out, and shone in full glory upon the river. 
 It was a lovely sight. Just across the river was 
 Petit-Bry, where there had been so much fighting 
 the day before; on the hillside, surrounded by 
 vineyards, its little white houses nestle peacefully, 
 row upon row. Near me, on the river, a boat 
 among the reeds. A group of men are talking 
 upon the bank, while they watch the opposite 
 slope. They are scouts who are going to Petit- 
 Bry to discover whether the Saxons have returned. 
 I cross with them. As we are rowed over the 
 stream, one of the scouts, sitting behind me, says 
 to me in a low voice, — 
 
 " If you wish chassepots — the mairie is full of 
 them. They have left a colonel of the line there 
 too, a big, fair-haired fellow, with a skin as white as 
 a woman's ; and he had on yellow boots that were 
 quite new 1 " 
 
 The boots of the dead soldier had evidently 
 impressed him more than anything else. He was 
 constantly referring to them. 
 
 " Vingt dieux ! but that was a fine pair of 
 boots ! " and his eyes sparkled as he spoke. 
 
 As we entered Petit-Bry, a sailor shod with 
 7 
 
98 Monday Tales. 
 
 Spanish sandals and carrying four or five chasse- 
 pots, came rolling out of an alley and approached 
 us on the run. 
 
 " Keep your eyes open ! there are the Prus- 
 sians ! " he said. 
 
 We crouched behind a little wall and watched. 
 Above us, and higher than the vineyards them- 
 selves, a horseman was seen, quite a melodramatic 
 figure, outlined against the horizon. He was lean- 
 ing forward in the saddle, his helmet upon his 
 head, his carbine in his hand. Then other horse- 
 men appeared, and foot-soldiers crouched in various 
 places among the vines. 
 
 One of them, quite near us, had taken position 
 behind a tree, and never once moved. He was a 
 huge fellow, in a long brown coat, and a colored 
 handkerchief was tied about his head. From the 
 spot where we stood he would have made a splendid 
 target, but what good would that have done ? The 
 scouts knew what they were about. And so we 
 hastily entered the boat. The boatman began to 
 swear. We recrossed the Marne without mishap. 
 But scarcely had we landed when we heard muffled 
 voices calling from the opposite bank, — 
 
 " Holloa, holloa there ! the boat ! " 
 
 It was my acquaintance who had taken such a 
 fancy to the boots a while before ; with three or 
 four of his companions, he had attempted to reach 
 the mairie, and was obliged to return precipitately. 
 Unfortunately, there was no one to return for him 
 and his companions. Our boatman had disap- 
 peared. 
 
At the Outposts. 99 
 
 " I do not know how to row," says to me, pite- 
 ously enough, the sergeant of the scouts, who is 
 crouching at my side in a hole at the water's edge. 
 All this time the others are growing impatient. 
 
 " Come, come ! " they call ; some one must get 
 them. Not an agreeable task. The Marne is 
 rough and swollen. I pull across with all my 
 might, and every moment I feel, back of me, that 
 Saxon above, watching me, motionless, from behind 
 his tree. 
 
 In boarding the boat, one of the scouts jumps 
 in so hastily that it is filled with water. It becomes 
 impossible to take on all the men without running 
 the risk of sinking the boat. The bravest one 
 remains to wait upon the bank. He is a corporal 
 of the franc-tireurs, a handsome boy in blue, a little 
 bird worked upon the front of his cap. I would 
 have returned for him gladly, but just then a fusil- 
 lade from one bank to another began. He waited 
 a few moments without a word ; then he took him- 
 self off towards Champigny, keeping close to the 
 walls. I do not know what became of him. 
 
 Same day. — It is the same with things as with 
 persons; a union of the grotesque with the 
 dramatic adds peculiar intensity to the thrill of 
 horror we experience. To see great suffering 
 stamped upon a face whose outline at other times 
 would cause a smile, does not this move you more 
 profoundly than it would to read the same story 
 elsewhere? Picture to yourself a bourgeois of 
 Daumier's in the last agonies of death, or weeping 
 his heart out beside the dead body of a son 
 
lOO Monday Talcs. 
 
 brought home to him slain. Is there not peculiar 
 poignancy in that anguish? Ah, well! to look at 
 all those bourgeois villas along the Marne, toy- 
 gingerbread cottages, gaudy caricatures in rose- 
 pink, apple-green, canary-yellow, and mediaeval 
 turrets roofed with zinc, kiosks of imitation brick, 
 rococo gardens, in the centre of each a white metal 
 ball, — when I see them now, blackened with the 
 smoke of battle, their roofs splintered with shells, 
 their weather-vanes broken, their walls dented, 
 blood and straw everywhere, there is something 
 horrible in the sight. 
 
 The house which I entered was a fair type of 
 them all. I ascended to the first story and entered 
 the little parlor, done in red and gold. The paper- 
 hangers had not finished their work upon it. Rolls 
 of paper and gilded mouldings were lying about, 
 but there was not a trace of furniture. Bits of 
 broken bottles were scattered over the floor, and 
 in a corner, upon a straw mattress, a man was 
 sleeping in his blouse. Moreover, an indescribable 
 odor of wine, powder, candles, and musty straw; 
 which of these the strongest, it would be hard 
 to say. To warm myself, I toss the leg of a centre- 
 table into the fireplace. Such an idiotic fireplace, 
 stuccoed in pink, and resembling some marvel of 
 the confectioner's art ! 
 
 While I look at it, for a moment it seems to me 
 that I am merely spending a Sunday afternoon 
 in the country in some prosperous little bour- 
 geois establishment. Is not some one playing 
 backgammon behind me there, in the parlor? 
 
At the Outposts. xoi 
 
 No ! those are riflemen, loading and discharging 
 their chassepots. Except'- for 1 "the frequertf re- 
 ports, one might mistake the sound for the tossing 
 of dice. 
 
 Upon each report, there is a reply from the 
 opposite bank. The sound borne across the water 
 ricochets back and forth, and echoes ceaselessly 
 among the hills. 
 
 Through the loopholes in the parlor, the gleam 
 of the Marne may be seen, its bank bathed in sun- 
 light, and between the poles of the vineyards, like 
 great greyhounds, move the Prussians. 
 
 SOUVENIR OF FORT MONTROUGE. 
 
 High above, upon the bastion of the fort, in the 
 embrasure formed by sandbags, long marine guns 
 raise themselves proudly, almost erect in their car- 
 riages, pointing towards Chatillon. Thus aimed, 
 with their mouths in the air, their handles protrud- 
 ing like ears on each side, they make one think of 
 immense hunting-dogs baying at the moon, bel- 
 lowing in the face of death. A little lower, upon a 
 terreplein, the sailors are amusing themselves, as if 
 aboard ship, by making an English garden in mini- 
 ature. There is a bench, an arbor, lawns, and 
 rockeries, and even a banana-tree, not a very tall 
 one, to be sure, scarcely higher than a hyacinth ; 
 but all the same it is a welcome sight, and its small 
 green tuft, seen in the midst of sandbags and piles 
 of shells, refreshes the eye. 
 
IQ2 Mpnday Talcs. 
 
 . OIU A^t:^ little garden at Fort MontrougeJ 
 .Wcuid X might ,-sco; it again, surrounded by a pal- 
 ing, and in that garden a memorial stone, on which 
 were inscribed the names of Carves, Desprez, 
 Saisset, and all those brave sailors who fell at their 
 post of honor on yonder bastion. 
 
 AT LA FOUILLEUSE. 
 
 The morning of the twentieth of January. A 
 pleasant morning, mild and cloudy. Great stretches 
 of plough-land, undulating at a distance, like the 
 sea. On the left, high sand-hills, which serve as 
 a buttress for Mont Valerien. On the right, 
 Gibet Mill, a little stone mill, its sails broken and 
 a battery upon its platform. 
 
 Walked for a quarter of an hour beside the long 
 trench leading to the mill. Over it rested a light 
 veil, like a river mist. It was smoke from the biv- 
 ouac fires. Soldiers were squatting about, making 
 coffee. The smoke of the green wood they were 
 inhaling blinded and choked them. From one end 
 to the other of the trench, a prolonged cough was 
 heard. La Fouilleuse, — a farm, bordered by small 
 timber. Arrived there just in time to see the last 
 of our lines beating a retreat. It was the Third 
 Regiment of Paris mobiles. It marched in good 
 order, none missing, a commander at its head. 
 After the incomprehensible confusion and disorder 
 I had seen since yesterday evening, this sight reas- 
 sured me a little. After the men, came two horse- 
 
At the Outposts. 103 
 
 men, — a general and his aide-de-camp. They 
 were quite near me as they passed. The horses 
 were trotting leisurely, the two men were talking to 
 each other, and loudly enough to be heard. The 
 aide-de-camp said, in a fresh young voice, a trifle 
 obsequious, — 
 
 " Yes, general ! — oh, no ! general — certainly, 
 my general." 
 
 And the general, in mild, but heart-broken 
 tones, — 
 
 "What! he is slain? Oh! the poor boy, the 
 poor boy ! " 
 
 Then the voices were silent, and nothing was 
 heard but the tramping of horses in the soft earth. 
 
 For a moment I remained there alone, looking 
 at that vast, melancholy landscape. One was re- 
 minded somewhat of the plains of Ch&if or of 
 Mitidja. Lines of ambulance men in gray blouses 
 were climbing a hollowed road. Seeing their white 
 banner, with its red cross, one might have believed 
 he was in Palestine, at the time of the Crusades. 
 
104 Monday Tales. 
 
 GLIMPSES OF THE INSURRECTION. 
 
 IN THE MARAIS. 
 
 In the dampness and provincial gloom of these 
 long, tortuous streets, through which are wafted 
 odors of drugs and logwood, in the midst of 
 these ancient h6tels of the time of Henry II., of 
 Louis XIII., which modern industry has caricatured 
 by converting them into establishments for the 
 manufacture of seltzer-water, bronzes, and chemical 
 products, these mouldy gardens filled with packing- 
 cases, these courts of honor, over which heavy 
 trucks are rumbling, these swelling balconies, tall 
 windows, worm-eaten gables, as blackened with 
 smoke as church extinguishers, — in this quarter, 
 the insurrection, especially during those first days, 
 has a unique physiognomy, all its own, an air of 
 primitive simplicity.   Rough attempts at barri- 
 cading every street-corner, but not a soul to 
 guard the barricade. No cannons, no mitrailleuses. 
 Heaps of stones piled up without method or intelli- 
 gence, simply for the delight of obstructing a 
 passage, leaving big puddles of water for swarms 
 of gamins to paddle in, sailing flotillas of paper 
 boats. Every shop is open, and the shop-keepers 
 are standing at their doors, laughing and discussing 
 politics, from one sidewalk to another. It is not 
 
Glimpses of the Insurrection. 105 
 
 such people as these who are raising riots, but 
 it is plainly to be seen that they regard the 
 work of the insurgents well-pleased, as though, 
 in disturbing the stones of this peaceful neigh- 
 borhood, the revolt had aroused the very soul 
 of the ancient bourgeois of Paris in all its riotous 
 levity. 
 
 What might have been called, in other days, 
 the spirit of the Fronde, animates the Marais at 
 this hour. Upon the frontons of these proud 
 houses, grotesque faces of sculptured stone, gri- 
 mace joyously, as if to say, " We have seen all this 
 before ! " And my fancy runs away with me and 
 in spite of myself clothes in flowered coats, knee- 
 breeches and big cocked hats this little world of 
 bustling druggists, gilders, and grocers, who with 
 the air of mere spectators watch the tearing up of 
 their streets, their sides shaking with laughter, and 
 are proud to think they have a barricade close to 
 their very shops. 
 
 Now and then, at the end of a long, dark alley, I 
 I can see bayonets gleaming upon the Place de 
 Greve. I catch a glimpse of the ancient town-hall, 
 gilded by the sun. In this blaze of light, horsemen 
 are seen galloping by, in long gray cloaks, with 
 floating plumes. 
 
 A crowd follows them, shouting and waving their 
 hats. Is it Mademoiselle Montpensier or General 
 Cremer? Epochs begin to grow confused in my 
 brain. In the sunlight, at a distance, a red-shirted 
 Garibaldian orderly rushes by at full speed, and I 
 can almost fancy that I see the red cloak of the 
 
106 Monday Tales. 
 
 Cardinal de Retz. I can scarcely tell whether that 
 shrewdest of shrewd schemers, of whom all these 
 groups of people are talking, is M. Thiers or 
 Mazarin. I seem to be in a past three hundred 
 years removed from to-day. 
 
 AT MONTMARTRE. 
 
 As I was climbing the Rue Lepic the other 
 morning, I saw in a cobbler's shop an officer of 
 the national guard, with sabre at his side, and lace 
 up to the elbow. He was tapping a pair of boots, 
 protected by his leather apron that he need not 
 soil his coat. One glance at that shop-window was 
 enough to suggest the whole of insurgent Mont- 
 martre. 
 
 Imagine an immense village, armed to the teeth, 
 mitrailleuses in front of the watering-trough, the 
 church-square bristling with bayonets, a barricade 
 in front of the schoolhouse, milk-cans and canister 
 side by side ; every house is converted into a bar- 
 rack, at every window soldiers' gaiters are hanging 
 to dry, kepis lean forward, waiting to hear the call ; 
 in the little shops where old clothes are sold, a vig- 
 orous pounding of gun-butts is heard, and from 
 the foot of the hill to the top, a clatter of platters 
 and sabres and canteens. Yet, in spite of all these 
 things, Montmartre does not look as fierce as when 
 it marched upon the Boulevard des Italiens, rifles 
 shouldered, and chin-straps under the chins, mark- 
 ing time ferociously, and seeming to say, " Our 
 
Glimpses of the Insurrection. 107 
 
 best behavior now ! the Reaction is watching us." 
 Here the insurgents are at home, and in spite of 
 cannon and barricades, there is little of a formal or 
 formidable nature in this revolt. It seemed rather 
 a family affair. 
 
 A painful sight it was, however, to see the swarms 
 of red trousers, deserters of all sorts — Zouaves, 
 HgnardSy mobiles — obstructing the square in front 
 of the mairie, lying about on the benches, sprawling 
 along the sidewalks, drunken, filthy, tattered, and 
 unshaven for a week. As I was passing, one of 
 these luckless rascals, who had climbed up into 
 a tree, began to harangue the crowd. His tongue 
 did not move very freely, and laughter and hoot- 
 ings greeted his efforts. In another part of the 
 Place, a battalion was in motion, on its way up to 
 the ramparts. 
 
 " Forward ! " cried the officers, waving their 
 swords. The drums beat the charge, and the 
 worthy militiamen, with ardent zeal, rushed to the 
 assault of a long, deserted street, at the end of 
 which could be seen a few terrified, cackling hens, 
 — nothing more ! 
 
 ShX. the top of the hill a vista of green gardens 
 and yellow roads ; rising in their midst La Galette 
 mill, transformed into a military post, with rows of 
 tents, the smoke of tiny bivouac-fires, and, outlined 
 against this background, figures of the national 
 guard are seen. Every object as sharply defined 
 as if sighted from the end of a spyglass, between 
 the sky, black and full of rain, and the shining 
 ochre of the hill.^ 
 
io8 Monday Tales, 
 
 AT THE FAUBOURG SAINT-ANTOINE. 
 
 A NIGHT in January, during the Siege of Paris, 
 I stood upon the Place de Nanterre, in the midst 
 of a battalion of Franc-tireurs : The enemy had 
 just attacked our outposts, and men hastily arming 
 to go to the relief of their comrades were forming, 
 groping their way as best they could through the 
 wind and snow; we saw a patrol emerge from a 
 street-corner, preceded by a lantern. 
 
 " Halt ! who goes there?" 
 
 " Mobiles of '48," replied the tremulous voice of 
 an old man. They were tiny fellows in short cloaks, 
 kepis askew, and something almost infantile in their 
 appearance. At a little distance they might have 
 been mistaken for children of the regiment, but 
 when the sergeant went closer to see who they 
 were, the light of our lanterns revealed a tiny old 
 man, wrinkled, faded, with blinking eyes and a 
 snow-white chin-beard. This child of the regiment 
 was at least a hundred years old. His companions 
 were scarcely younger. And then that Parisian 
 accent and swashbuckler air of these venerable 
 old gamins ! 
 
 Arrived the day before at the outposts, the un- 
 happy mobiles had lost their way on their first 
 patrol. They were quickly despatched upon their 
 business. 
 
 " Make haste, comrades ! the Prussians are at- 
 tacking us." 
 
Glimpses of the Insurrection. iog 
 
 " Ah ! ah ! the Prussians are attacking us ! " re- 
 peated the poor old creatures, quite dismayed ; and 
 turning upon their heels, they were soon lost in 
 the night, their lantern dancing and flickering 
 under the fusillade. 
 
 I cannot tell you the fantastic impression these 
 tiny gnomes produced upon me. They looked so 
 aged, so bewildered, so weary ! They seemed to 
 have come from some great distance, — and I 
 could almost imagine this was a phantom-patrol, 
 wandering through the land since 1848, a patrol 
 that had lost its way twenty-three years ago, and 
 in search of it ever since. 
 
 The insurgents of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine 
 recalled this apparition to me. I found these 
 ancients of '48 forever going astray — a little older 
 now than they were then, but as incorrigible as 
 ever, hoary-haired rioters playing at their old 
 game of civil war with a classic barricade two or 
 three stories high, a red flag floating from its sum- 
 mit, melodramatic attitudes at the cannon's breech, 
 sleeves rolled up, gruff voices exclaiming, — 
 
 " Keep on the move, citizens ! " and then their 
 bayonets were pointed. 
 
 All is bustle and commotion upon this great 
 Babel-like faubourg. From the Place du Trone 
 to the Bastille, surprises, scuffles, searches, and 
 arrests, open-air meetings, pilgrimages to the 
 Column ; 1 tipsy patrollers have forgotten the pass- 
 word ; chassepots go off of themselves ; ribalds 
 are led to the comite" of the Rue Basfroid ; the 
 
 1 La Colonne de Juillet, on the Place de la Bastille. — Tr. 
 
HO Monday Tales. 
 
 drum beats to arms ; the general and the tocsin are 
 heard. Oh ! that tocsin. With what delight these 
 madmen set their bells a-ringing. As soon as 
 twilight sets in, in every belfry a mad dance begins, 
 incessant as the tinkling of a jester's bells ! Hark ! 
 the drunken tocsin, fantastic, uncertain, panting in 
 broken tones, stammering and hiccoughing. And 
 the earnest tocsin ! ringing out fiercely with all its 
 might, peal upon peal, till the bell-rope breaks ! 
 And then the muffled tocsin, lifeless and dead, its 
 sleepy notes falling as heavily upon the ear as the 
 curfew's toll. 
 
 In the midst of all this tumult of distracted bells 
 and brains, I am impressed by the tranquillity of 
 the Rue Lappe and the alleys and passages which 
 radiate from it. The neighborhood is a species of 
 Auvergnese ghetto where the children of Cantal 
 traffic peacefully their old iron, as little concerned 
 with thoughts of an insurrection as though it were 
 located a thousand leagues away. As I pass, I note 
 that all these brave R&nonencques are very busy 
 in their dark shops. The women squat upon the 
 stone step in front of their doorways, and knit and 
 jabber in broken French, while their little ones 
 tumble about in the passage, their frizzly locks full 
 of iron-dust. 
 
The Ferry. Ill 
 
 THE FERRY. 
 
 BEFORE the war, a fine suspension-bridge crossed 
 the river at this point, with two lofty piers of white 
 stone, and its tarred cordage, spanning the horizon 
 from one river-bank to the other, presented that 
 aerial appearance which adds such beauty to vessels 
 or balloons. Beneath the great middle arches of 
 the bridge, a line of boats passed twice a day, in 
 clouds of smoke, without having to lower a smoke- 
 stack. On either bank, washerwomen's boats 
 and beaters were seen, and small fishing-boats 
 anchored to rings. 
 
 A road shaded with poplars led to the bridge, 
 stretching from meadow to meadow, like a great 
 green curtain, fluttering with every breeze that 
 blew from the river. It was a charming sight. 
 
 But this year all is changed. The poplars are 
 still standing, but they no longer lead to the bridge, 
 for the bridge is gone. The two piers have been 
 blown up, scattering fragments of stone in all di- 
 rections. The stones are lying there still. The 
 little white toll-house, half destroyed by the ex- 
 plosion, wears the appearance of a new ruin, a 
 "barricade, or some pile of rubbish. Cordage and 
 iron wires are drenched with water. The platform 
 of the bridge, sunk in the sand, water all about it, 
 
H2 Monday Tales. 
 
 looks like a huge wreck, surmounted by a red flag 
 to warn mariners; all that the Seine has to offer, 
 cut grass and mouldy planks, is caught here, as if 
 by a dam, eddying and whirling. There is a rent 
 in the landscape, an open wound that tells of dis- 
 aster. And to make the sight still sadder, the 
 poplars along the walk leading to the bridge have 
 been shorn of their leafage. All those beautiful 
 tufted poplars are literally devoured by larvae, for 
 trees themselves are subject to invasion. There is 
 not a single shoot to be seen on the branches, the 
 trees are cut, their foliage thinned. And through 
 the great avenue, useless and deserted now, big 
 white butterflies float lazily. 
 
 While waiting for the bridge to be rebuilt, a 
 ferry has been established near-by. It is an im- 
 mense raft, and upon it are ferried across horses 
 and carriages, plough-horses and ploughs, and cows 
 rolling their placid eyes at sight of the moving 
 waters. Beasts and equipages are placed in the 
 middle of the raft; on the sides, passengers of 
 various sorts, country people, children going to 
 school in the village, Parisians off for a holiday. 
 Ribbons and veils flutter beside horses' tethers. 
 The little company upon the raft might have been 
 dropped from some wreck. The boat advances 
 slowly. 
 
 The passage across the Seine seems longer than 
 ever now, the river wider than before, and with the 
 ruins of that broken bridge in the foreground, the* 
 horizon bounding those banks, each almost a 
 stranger to the other, expands with a sad solemnity. 
 
The Ferry. 113 
 
 That morning I reached the ferry very early. 
 As yet there was no one on the bank. The ferry- 
 man's little house, an old van, standing in the 
 moist sand, was closed. It was dripping from the 
 fog. Children were coughing inside. 
 
 " Hallo ! — Eugene ! " 
 
 " Coming, coming ! " called the ferryman ; and he 
 came, dragging himself along. He was an excel- 
 lent ferryman, still young, but he had served in the 
 artillery during the last war, and he came out of it 
 crippled with rheumatism, the splinter of a shell in 
 his leg, his face all scarred. The brave fellow 
 smiled when he saw me. 
 
 "We shall have plenty of room this morning, 
 sir ! " 
 
 And indeed I was the only one on the ferry, 
 but before he had unfastened his rope more pas- 
 sengers arrived. First came a stout, bright-eyed 
 farmer's wife, going to market at Corbeil, with a 
 big basket upon each arm, which straightened her 
 rustic figure, and helped her to walk firmly and 
 erectly. Behind her, in the hollow road, came 
 others whose figures were seen indistinctly through 
 the mist, though their voices could be heard. One 
 of these voices was a woman's, gentle and tearful. 
 
 " Oh, Monsieur Chachignot, I beseech you, do 
 not press us so hard. You know he has work now. 
 Only give him time enough to pay you. That is 
 all he asks." 
 
 " I have given him time enough ; I have given 
 him altogether too long," answered the voice of an 
 old peasant. The words were mumbled through 
 8 
 
H4 Monday Tctles. 
 
 his toothless jaws ; the tone of the voice was cruel. 
 "The sheriff must tend to this matter now. He 
 may do as he chooses. Hallo ! — Eugene ! " 
 
 " 'T is that scoundrel, Chachignot," the ferry- 
 man whispered to me. " Here ! here ! " 
 
 At that moment I saw arrive upon the bank a 
 tall old man, tricked out in a frock-coat of coarse 
 cloth, and a silk hat very tall and very new. This 
 sunburned and wrinkled peasant, with his knotted 
 finger-joints, deformed by hard work, looked more 
 sunburned and sinister than ever, in the clothes of a 
 gentleman. Obstinacy stamped his features, and a 
 big hooked nose like an Apache Indian's, pinched 
 lips, and wrinkles that maliciousness had written 
 upon his face, lent to his countenance a ferocity 
 quite in keeping with the name of Chachignot. 
 
 " Come, Eugene, make haste," he said, stepping 
 on to the ferry, his voije trembling with anger. 
 The farmer's wife approached him, as the ferry- 
 man was saying, " What 's the matter, Father 
 Chachignot?" 
 
 "Oh! is it you, Bla he? Don't speak to me 
 about it. I am furious. I hose beggarly Maziliers ! " 
 And he pointed out with his fist a tiny, stunted, dark 
 figure, going back along the hollow road, weeping. 
 
 " What have these people done to vex you? " 
 
 " What have they done ? They owe me four 
 quarters' rent, and all my vintage besides, and I 
 can't get a single sou from them. And now I '11 
 put it in the sheriff's hands, and he will throw the 
 blackguards into the street." 
 
 " But this Mazilier is a worthy fellow. Perhaps it 
 
The Ferry. 115 
 
 is not his fault that he cannot pay you. So many 
 people have lost so much through this war." 
 
 The old peasant exploded. 
 
 " He 's a fool ! He might have made his for- 
 tune with the Prussians, but he would n't do it, 
 not he ! From the day the Prussians arrived, he 
 closed his tavern, took down his sign. At other 
 cafes they 've done a fine business during the war, 
 but he refused to sell a single sou's worth. Worse 
 even than that. He managed to get himself put 
 in prison through his insolence. He's a fool, I 
 tell you. Why did he meddle with affairs that 
 were no concern of his? Was he one of the 
 military? All he had to do was to furnish wine 
 and brandy to his customers. Then he would 
 have been able to pay me, the rascal ! Well ! I '11 
 teach him how to play patriot ! " 
 
 And red with indignation, he moved about in 
 his frock-coat, in the clownish fashion of a country- 
 man used only to the blouse. 
 
 As he continued, the clear eyes of the farmer's 
 wife, filled a few moments before with compassion 
 for these Maziliers, grew hard and almost scornful. 
 She was a peasant herself, and such entertain no 
 very high opinion of those who refuse to make 
 money when opportunity offers. At first she had 
 said, " It 's very hard for the wife," but a moment 
 later she observed, " Yes, that 's true, one should 
 not turn his back upon his luck." Her conclusion 
 was, " You are right, old man ; when one owes he 
 must pay." Chachignot repeated again and again 
 through his clenched teeth, — 
 
n6 Monday Tales, 
 
 " He 's a fool ! He'sa fool ! " 
 
 The ferryman, who was listening td them both, 
 although busied in steering the raft along with his 
 pole, felt that he ought to speak now. 
 
 "Don't be so cruel, Father Chachignot; what 
 good will it do you to go to the sheriff? What 
 would you gain by making these poor wretches 
 sell their all? Wait a little. You can afford to 
 do that." 
 
 The old man turned upon him as if bitten. 
 
 " Yes, I 'd advise you to talk, you, a good-for- 
 nothing ! You are another of those patriots ! 
 
 Is n't it a shame ? Five children and not a sou for 
 them, but he must amuse himself firing off cannons, 
 which no one compelled him to do ; and I put it 
 to you, monsieur " (I believe the miserable wretch 
 addressed myself!)," what good has all that sort of 
 thing done us? Himself for example, what did he 
 gain by it? He got his face battered and lost a 
 good position he had. And now look at him, liv- 
 ing like a gypsy in a hole open to every wind that 
 blows, his children sickening from it, his wife 
 breaking her back over the wash-tub. Is n't he a 
 fool too?" 
 
 Anger flashed in the ferryman's eyes. I saw the 
 scar upon his wan face deepen, and grow whiter, 
 but he was able to restrain himself, and vented his 
 rage upon the pole, which he shoved into the sand 
 so roughly that he almost twisted it. A word more 
 might have cost him even the place he had, for 
 M. Chachignot is an authority in that part of the 
 country. He is one of the municipal council. 
 
The Color Sergeant. I17 
 
 THE COLOR SERGEANT. 
 
 I. 
 
 The regiment was fighting upon an embank- 
 ment of the railroad, and served as a target for the 
 whole Prussian army, massed opposite them, under 
 shelter of the woods. Officers cried, " Lie down ! " 
 but no one was willing to obey, and the valiant 
 regiment remained standing at its post, grouped 
 about the ensign. Under that expanse of sky 
 reddened by the setting sun, with pasture-lands 
 and fields of ripening wheat in their rear, this body 
 of soldiers, harassed by the enemy, enveloped in 
 dense clouds of smoke, reminded one of a herd of 
 cattle surprised upon the open plain by the first 
 whirlwind announcing the approach of a terrible 
 storm. 
 
 A fire of shot and shell rained upon the talus 
 formed by the embankment. Nothing could be 
 heard but the crackling of the fusillade, the sound 
 of canteens falling heavily into the ditch, and 
 the lingering echo of bullets, which vibrated 
 from one end of the battlefield to the other, like 
 the tense strings of some sinister, resounding 
 instrument. 
 
 From time to time the flag, borne aloft above 
 all, stirred by the breath of the fusillade, fell amid 
 
ix8 Monday Tales. 
 
 clouds of smoke. And then, drowning the sound of 
 the firings, of the death-rattle and the curses of the 
 wounded, rose a stern and dauntless voice, " To 
 the flag, boys ! to the flag ! " And through the 
 red mist could be seen, dimly, the shadowy form 
 of an officer rushing forward, and the heroic ensign, 
 restored to life again, soared once more above the 
 field of battle. 
 
 Twenty-two times it fell; twenty-two times its 
 staff, still warm from the clasp of the dying hand 
 which relinquished it, was seized again, and borne 
 aloft, and when the sun had set, and all that re- 
 mained of the regiment, a mere handful of men, 
 slowly beat the retreat, all that was left of the flag 
 was a mere shred in the hands of Sergeant Hornus, 
 the twenty-third standard-bearer of that day. 
 
 II. 
 
 THIS Sergeant Hornus was an old fellow who 
 had served three terms, scarcely knew enough to 
 sign his own name, and had taken twenty years to 
 win his sergeant's stripes. All the wretchedness 
 of a foundling's life, all the brutalizing influences of 
 the barracks showed themselves in his low, over- 
 hanging forehead, and back bent beneath the con- 
 stant burden of his knapsack, — showed themselves 
 too in that stolid bearing characteristic of a soldier 
 in the ranks. And besides, he had a slight impedi- 
 ment in his speech ; but to be color-sergeant does 
 not require much eloquence. The very evening of 
 
The Color Sergeant. no, 
 
 the battle his colonel said to him, " You have the 
 flag, my brave fellow ; keep it." 
 
 And then, upon his poor field-cloak that had 
 weathered so many battles and storms, upon that 
 cloak all faded and worn, the cantiniere sewed the 
 golden stripe of a sub-lieutenant. 
 
 Henceforth that humble life had but one proud 
 aim. Suddenly the old soldier's form grew erect. 
 That poor creature, who had marched all his life 
 with bent shoulders and downcast eyes, from that 
 day bore himself boldly, his glance constantly up- 
 raised towards that bit of tattered cloth, that he 
 might see it fluttering above him, and carry it erect 
 and high — so high that not death, nor treason, nor 
 defeat could touch it. 
 
 You never saw a happier man than Hornus upon 
 the day when a battle occurred, his staff clasped 
 tightly in both hands, and firmly held in its 
 leather sheath. He never spoke, he scarcely 
 moved. He was as solemn as a priest. It seemed 
 as though he carried some consecrated thing. All 
 his energy, all hie strength was in the fingers that 
 curled about that beautiful gilded tatter of a flag 
 against which the bullets rushed ; his whole soul 
 flashed in the eyes which hurled defiance at the 
 Prussians, facing them squarely, with a look that 
 seemed to say, " Come on ! Try to take it from 
 me ! " But no one made the attempt, not even 
 death itself. After Borny, after Gravelotte, the 
 most murderous battles of the campaign, the flag 
 emerged, gashed, rent, pierced with wounds, but 
 no one bore it for a moment except old Hornus. 
 
120 Monday Tales. 
 
 III. 
 
 THEN September came, with the army before 
 Metz, — the blockade, and that long halt in the mire, 
 when the cannon rusted, while the first soldiers in 
 the world, demoralized by inaction, without food, 
 without news, died of fever and ennui at the foot 
 of their guns. Both commanders and soldiers had 
 lost all confidence ; not so old Hornus. He alone 
 still had faith. That tattered tricolor was all in all 
 to him, and as long as he perceived that it was still 
 there, he could not realize that anything had been 
 lost. Unfortunately, as there was no longer any 
 fighting, the colonel kept the colors in his own 
 quarters, outside Metz, and the brave Hornus, was 
 almost like a mother that has put her child out to 
 nurse. He thought of his flag ceaselessly. And 
 when he grew weary and could endure it no longer, 
 he set out for Metz as fast as he could, and merely 
 because of the fact that he had seen it, and always 
 in the same place, resting quietly against the wall, 
 he returned thence full of courage and patience, and 
 under his wet tent dreamed dreams of battle and 
 of marching on to victory, with the tricolors un- 
 furled to the breeze, and floating yonder above 
 the Prussian trenches. 
 
 But one day, at an order of Marshal Bazaine's, 
 all these illusions crumbled. That morning, when 
 Hornus awoke, he found the entire camp in an up- 
 roar, the soldiers standing in groups, greatly ex- 
 
The Color Sergeant. 121 
 
 cited and incensed, uttering cries of rage, and all 
 raising their clenched fists towards the same quar- 
 ter of the town, as though their anger were aimed 
 at one culprit alone. Cries of " Away with him ! 
 Shoot him ! " were heard. They said what they 
 would. The officers did not attempt to hinder, but 
 walked apart from them, and with bent heads, as 
 if ashamed to look their men in the face. And 
 indeed there was cause for shame, for to one hun- 
 dred and fifty thousand men, well-armed and still 
 able for service, had just been read the marshal's 
 order, which handed them over to the enemy, 
 without even a combat. 
 
 "And the colors?" demanded Hornus, growing 
 pale. 
 
 The colors were to be delivered with the rest, 
 the guns, what remained of the equipages, — in 
 short, everything. 
 
 " To . . . To . . . Tonnerre de Dien ! " stam- 
 mered the poor man. " But they shall never have 
 mine ! " and he started on a run towards the city. 
 
 IV. 
 
 There, too, all was excitement and stir. Na- 
 tional guards, citizens, the militia were shouting 
 and gesticulating. Deputations passed by on their 
 way to the marshal murmuring as they went. But 
 Hornus saw and heard nothing of all this. He 
 was busy talking to himself, as he climbed the Rue 
 du Faubourg. 
 
122 Monday Tales. 
 
 " Take my colors from me ! Ah ! we shall 
 see. Impossible ! Who has the right to do 
 that? Let him give to the Prussians what is 
 his to give, his gilded coaches, his silver plate 
 brought from Mexico ; but this thing is my own, 
 — it is my honor. I forbid any one to lay hands 
 upon it." 
 
 He ran so fast, and his tongue stuttered so, that 
 those bits of phrases were chopped in pieces. But 
 all the same, lodged somewhere in his brain, he 
 had an idea of his own, this old man ! And it 
 was clear enough, and it could not be driven out ! 
 He had resolved to seize the colors, run into the 
 midst of the regiment with them, and rush upon 
 the Prussians, with all who were ready to follow 
 him. 
 
 When he reached the colonel's quarters, he was 
 not allowed to enter. The colonel, furious himself 
 at what had happened, would see no one. But 
 Hornus could not take this hint. 
 
 He swore, shouted, bullied the orderly, insisting, 
 " My colors ! I will have them ! " 
 
 Finally a window was opened. 
 
 " Is that you, Hornus? " 
 
 " Yes, my colonel, I." 
 
 " All the flags are at the Arsenal. You have onlv 
 to go there, and you will get a receipt." 
 
 " A receipt? What is that for? " 
 
 " It is the marshal's order." 
 
 "But, colonel — " 
 
 " Oh, get out ! and give us peace." 
 
 Old Hornus staggered like a drunken man. 
 
The Color Sergeant 123 
 
 " A receipt, a receipt," he repeated mechanically. 
 |At last he set out again, understanding one thing 
 [only, his colors were now at the Arsenal, and he 
 [must recover them at any cost. 
 
 V. 
 
 The doors of the Arsenal stood wide open, that 
 the Prussians' wagons might pass. There they 
 waited, drawn up in line, in the courtyard. Hornus 
 shuddered, as he entered. All the other color- 
 bearers were there too, fifty or sixty officers, de- 
 jected and silent. And those sombre carts waiting 
 in the rain, the men grouped, bare-headed, behind 
 them; there was something funereal about it all ! 
 
 In one corner were heaped all the flags of 
 |Bazaine's army, lying in utter confusion upon the 
 muddy pavement. Nothing was more saddening 
 than to see those gaudy shreds, those fragments of 
 gold fringe, carved staffs, all those glorious trap- 
 pings thrown upon the ground and soiled with 
 mud and rain. An officer in charge lifted them 
 one by one, and as his regiment was called each 
 color-bearer advanced for his receipt. Two Prus- 
 sian officers watched the loading of the flags, rigid 
 and unmoved. 
 
 And thus ye departed, O sacred shreds of Glory, 
 baring your wounds, trailing your folds along the 
 pavement, like a bird with broken wings. So ye 
 departed, bearing with you that shame which is the 
 portion of all beautiful things, once they have been 
 sullied ; and a bit of France herself went with the 
 
1 24 Monday Tales, 
 
 going of each flag ; the sun of many a long day's 
 march still lingered in your faded folds, where the 
 mark of many a bullet guarded the memory of 
 the nameless dead, slain by the shots chance hurled 
 igainst the banner they defended. 
 
 " Hornus, it 's your turn. They are calling you„ 
 ?ro and get your receipt." 
 
 As if he cared about that ! 
 
 His flag was before him — his very own — the 
 most beautiful, the most mutilated of all, and as he 
 saw it again it seemed to him that he stood once 
 more upon the talus. He heard the bullets whistle, 
 the dented canteens, the voice of his colonel, " To 
 the flag, boys ! to the flag ! " There he saw his 
 twenty-two comrades stretched upon the field, and 
 he the twenty-third, rushing on to raise the colors, 
 to support the flag which tottered, for the arm that 
 had held it had relaxed its hold. Ah, on that day 
 he had sworn to defend, to protect that flag, even 
 into death! and now — 
 
 Thinking of that, all his heart's blood seemed to 
 surge to his brain. Intoxicated, dazed, he rushed 
 upon the Prussian officer, seized that beloved ensign, 
 and grasped it in both hands. He attempted to raise 
 it as of old, erect and high, crying, "To the flag ! " 
 but his voice was lost in his throat. He felt the staff 
 tremble, slip from his hands. In that enervating, 
 deathlike atmosphere which weighs so heavily upon 
 a conquered city, the flag itself was powerless to 
 float ; no valiant heart could breathe such an atmos- 
 phere and live. Old Hornus fell to earth, as though 
 a stroke of lightning had crushed him. 
 
The Death of Chauvin. 125 
 
 THE DEATH OF CHAUVIN. 
 
 One Sunday in August, travelling in a railway 
 coach just at the beginning of what was then termed 
 the Hispano-Prussian Incident, I met him for the 
 first time. Although I had never seen him before, 
 I had no difficulty in recognizing him at once. 
 Tall, lean, grizzled, a fiery face, nose like a buz- 
 zard's beak, and rolling eyes with an angry flame 
 in them, and never relenting to amiability save for 
 the illustrious gentleman who sat in the corner, 
 decorated with the Cross of the Legion. As I 
 noted the low, narrow forehead, stamped with ob- 
 stinacy, — one of those foreheads which the same 
 thought, working ceaselessly and ever in the same 
 place, has at last dented with a single deep 
 wrinkle, — something of over-credulity in his bear- 
 ing, something of the political precisian in his 
 manner, especially the terrific fashion in which he 
 rolled the letter "r w when speaking of " Fr-r : rance," 
 and of the " Fr-r-rench flag," caused me to exclaim 
 to myself, " Here is Chauvin ! " 
 
 And Chauvin indeed it was, Chauvin at his best, 
 declaiming, gesticulating, belaboring the Prussians 
 from the pages of his newspaper, Chauvin enter- 
 ing Berlin, his cane upraised, an intoxicated, deaf, 
 blind, furious lunatic. Conciliation or delay impos- 
 sible ! — War ! war ! at any cost ! 
 
1 26 Monday Tales, 
 
 "But what if we are not prepared for that, 
 Chauvin? " 
 
 " Monsieur, Frenchmen are always prepared for 
 anything ! " responded Chauvin, drawing himself 
 up to his full height; from beneath his bristling 
 moustache, an explosion of r's rushed with such 
 energy that the windows fairly trembled. 
 
 Irritating, foolish personage ! How quickly I 
 understood all the jeers, all the jesting songs that 
 tradition had woven about his name, making a 
 celebrity of this absurd creature ! 
 
 After that first meeting I swore I would flee 
 him, but through some singular fatality he seemed 
 ever to be dogging my footsteps. On the very 
 day in the Senate when M. de Grammont had 
 solemnly announced to our conscript-fathers, 
 " War is declared ! " in the midst of forced accla- 
 mations, a formidable cry of " Vive la France ! " 
 rose from the galleries. And looking upward near 
 the friezes, I saw Chauvin brandishing his lank 
 arms. Some days later I ran across him again in 
 the Opera, standing in Girardin's box, demanding 
 to hear " le Rhin Allemand," 1 and observing to the 
 singers who had not as yet learned that classic, "To 
 learn it will take longer than to take it ! " 2 
 
 Soon it appeared that this ubiquitous Chauvin 
 had taken complete possession of Paris. Every- 
 where, at street-corners, on the boulevards, always 
 perched upon some bench or table, this absurd 
 
 1 Poem written in reply to Die Wacht am Rhein. — Tr. 
 
 2 Chauvin puns : " 77 fandra done plus de temps pour Vap> 
 prendre que pour le prendre I ' ' — Tr. 
 
The Death of Chauvin. 127 
 
 Chauvin appeared before me; wherever drums 
 were beating, flags floating, the strains of some 
 Marseillaise sounding, there was Chauvin, distribut- 
 ing cigars to the soldiers about to leave, hailing the 
 ambulances, that hot head of his rising above the 
 crowd, inciting them whilst he roared, clamored, 
 and invaded every spot, until it almost seemed that 
 there were six hundred thousand Chauvins in 
 Paris. Truly, one could not have escaped this 
 intolerable figure, unless he had shut himself up 
 at home, and locked doors and windows. 
 
 And how was it possible to remain in one place 
 after Wissembourg, Forbach, and all that series of 
 disasters which made that mournful month of 
 August seem like one long nightmare, with scarcely 
 a waking moment, the nightmare of a feverish, op- 
 pressive summer? How could one refrain from 
 mingling with that restless, moving multitude, run- 
 ning in search of news, of fresh bulletins, prome- 
 nading all night long beneath the gas-jets, their 
 faces full of terror and consternation. And no night 
 of all that I did not encounter Chauvin. He passed 
 along the boulevards, advancing from group to 
 group, delivering a peroration in the midst of a 
 silent crowd, — overflowing with hope, with good 
 news, sure of success despite everything, repeating 
 to you twenty times in succession that Bismarck's 
 white cuirassiers had been crushed to the last man ! 
 
 Singular fact. Already Chauvin had ceased to 
 impress me as before. He no longer seemed to me 
 as ridiculous as of old. I did not believe a single 
 word he was saying, but what of that? It delighted 
 
128 Monday Tales. 
 
 me merely to listen to him. In spite of his blind- 
 ness, his insane pride, his ignorance, there was in 
 this diabolical creature a passionate, persistent 
 energy which acted like a vital flame warming the 
 heart. 
 
 And we had need of such a flame, during the 
 long months of the siege, during that terrible win- 
 ter when we lived upon horse-flesh and bread fit 
 only for the dogs. The very aspect of Parisians 
 seemed to say, " Were it not for Chauvin, Paris 
 would not have held out for a week ! " From the 
 beginning Trochu had said, " They can enter when 
 they will ! " 
 
 " They will never enter ! " said Chauvin. Chau- 
 vin had faith, Trochu had none. What was that 
 to Chauvin? He still believed in notaries' plans, 
 in Bazaine, in sorties ; every night he listened to 
 Chanzy's cannons booming at fitampe, the sharp- 
 shooters of Faidherbe behind Enghien, and, what 
 was most wonderful of all, even the rest of us heard 
 them, so deeply had the spirit of this heroic imbe- 
 cile entered our souls. 
 
 Brave Chauvin ! Who but he was ever the first 
 to sight in a sky livid, overhanging, and full of 
 snow, the tiny white wing of some carrier pigeon ! 
 When Gambetta sent us one of his eloquent Taras- 
 connades, it was Chauvin's powerful voice that de- 
 claimed it at the door of every mairie. During 
 the keen December nights, when the long lines of 
 people stood shivering before the butchers' shops, 
 chilled and weary with waiting, Chauvin bravely 
 led the line, and thanks to him, that famished crowd 
 
The Death of Chauvin. 129 
 
 found they still had strength enough to laugh and 
 sing, and dance in the snow. 
 
 " Le> Ion, /a, laisscz-les passer ■, les Prussiens dans 
 la Lorraine" chanted Chauvin, and galoshes clat- 
 tered, beating time, and for a moment the warm 
 >f health returned to poor wan faces framed in 
 woollen hoods. Alas! of what avail was it all? 
 One evening, crossing Rue Drouot, I saw an anx- 
 ious crowd pressing silently towards the mairie, ami 
 in that mighty Paris, where now not a light or a 
 carriage was to be seen, I heard the grandiloquent 
 voice of Chauvin, solemnly proclaiming, " We hold 
 the heights of Montretout ! " A week later, all 
 was over. 
 
 From that day Chauvin appeared to me only at 
 rare intervals. Two or three times I saw him on 
 the boulevard, gesticulating, talking of r-r-revenge, 
 — for that letter "r" still rolled upon his tongue. 
 But no one listened to him any longer. Fashion- 
 able Paris languished, pined for its former pleas- 
 ures ; laboring Paris was in no pleasant mood. 
 Vainly did poor Chauvin brandish his long arms ; 
 the former groups, instead of surrounding him, 
 scattered at his approach. 
 
 14 A regular bore ! " said some. " Spy ! " cried 
 others. Then came the days of insurrection, of the 
 red flag, and the Commune, — Paris in the power 
 of riotous mobs. Chauvin, himself a suspect, no 
 longer dared to stir abroad. Then came the fa- 
 mous day when the Vendome Column was pulled 
 down. Of course he had to be there, in a corner 
 of the Place. The crowd guessed it was he. The 
 
 9 
 
130 Monday Tales. 
 
 street-Arabs insulted him, though they did not see 
 him. 
 
 " Hallo ! there 's Chauvin ! " they exclaimed, 
 and when the Column fell, the Prussian officers, 
 drinking champagne before a window at head- 
 quarters, raised their glasses, roaring " Ha, ha, ha ! 
 Mossie Chaufin." 
 
 Till the twenty-third of May, Chauvin gave no 
 further sign of life. Crouching at the bottom of a 
 cellar, the unfortunate was reduced to despair when 
 he heard French shells go whizzing over the roofs 
 of Paris. At last one day, between two cannonades, 
 he ventured to set foot outside. 
 
 The street was deserted, and seemed wider than 
 when he had seen it last. On one side rose the 
 barricade, full of menace, with its cannons and red 
 flag, on the other two short chasseurs of Vincennes 
 advanced, keeping close to the wall, and stooping, 
 their guns pointed. The troops of Versailles had 
 just entered Paris. 
 
 Chauvin's heart bounded. u Vive la France ! " 
 he cried, darting towards the soldiers. His voice 
 was lost in the midst of a fusillade from opposite 
 sides. Through some sinister misunderstanding, 
 this unfortunate was a target for both sides, the 
 victim of a twofold hate which slew him. Upon 
 that road whose stones had been uptorn, his body 
 fell. It lay there for two days, with arms out- 
 stretched, and with rigid face. 
 
 Thus perished Chauvin, martyr of our civil wars 
 He was the last Frenchman ! 
 
Alsace! Alsace! 131 
 
 ALSACE! ALSACE! 
 
 I HAVE most delightful memories of a journey I 
 made some years ago through Alsace. Not that 
 insipid railroad-journey which leaves naught be- 
 hind but the recollection of a country cut by rails 
 and telegraph wires. My journey was afoot, 
 knapsack upon my shoulders, with a good, stout 
 stick for my comrade, and a companion who was 
 not too talkative. The best way to travel ; and 
 what vivid memories one retains of all he has seen 
 in that fashion ! 
 
 Especially of late, now that Alsace is closed 
 against us, all my former impressions of that lost 
 land return to me. What delicious surprises 
 awaited one upon those long rambles through that 
 beautiful country, where the woods raised their 
 dark background like great, green curtains, in the 
 rear of peaceful villages flooded with sunshine ! 
 Where, at some winding of the mountains, one 
 would sight belfry- towers and factories, well sup- 
 plied with streams, saw-mills, wind-mills, and here 
 and there some striking figure in unfamiliar cos- 
 tume, darting up from the fresh verdure of the 
 plain. 
 
 Every morning we were up with the sun. 
 
 " Mossie, Mossie ! it is four o'clock ! " the inn- 
 servant would call to us. We jumped out of bed 
 
132 Monday Tales, 
 
 quickly, and our knapsacks buckled, groped our 
 way down the frail little stairway, over which every 
 step echoed. Downstairs, before setting out we 
 drank a glass of kirsch in one of those big inn- 
 kitchens, where an early fire was kindling with a 
 crackling of twigs that brought to mind the remem- 
 brance of the fog clinging to damp windows. 
 We set out. 
 
 It requires an effort at first. At that early hour 
 all the weariness of the preceding night returns. 
 Our eyes, and the air as well, are full of slumber. 
 By degrees the damps of the early dew are scat- 
 tered, the morning mist evaporates in the sun. 
 Once started, we trudge on. When the heat be- 
 comes too oppressive, we halt, and breakfast by a 
 spring, or a brook, and then fall asleep in the grass, 
 lulled by the murmuring of the water. We are 
 awakened by the noise of a big bee which just 
 grazes us, whizzing by like a bullet. Cooler than 
 before, we set out again. After the sun has begun 
 to descend, the road does not seem as long as be- 
 fore. We seek a resting-place, an asylum for the 
 night, and thoroughly weary, fall asleep, sometimes 
 in the bed of an inn, sometimes in a barn left open, 
 at the foot of a haystack, in the open air, disturbed 
 by no other sounds than the murmur of birds, the 
 chirping of insects among the leaves, light, spring- 
 ing steps and silent flocks, all that nocturnal music 
 which, when one is very weary, falls upon his ear 
 as if part of a dream. 
 
 What were the names of those charming Alsatian 
 villages which we met at regular intervals at the 
 
Alsace! Alsace! 133 
 
 road's end ? I cannot now recall the name of one 
 of them, and in fact they all resembled each other 
 so closely, especially as we travelled through Haut- 
 Rhin, that after we had passed through a number 
 of them at different times, it did not seem to me 
 that we had seen more than one. There was the 
 main road, and the houses looking upon it all had 
 windows with tiny panes, encased in leaden frames, 
 garlanded with hop and rose vines ; over the lat- 
 ticed gates leaned old men, smoking their big pipes, 
 or women stooped, calling their children, playing 
 upon the road. In the morning when we passed 
 by, all was wrapped in slumber ; we could scarcely 
 hear the rustling of straw in the stables, or the 
 panting breath of the dogs under the gates. 
 
 The village we reached two leagues further on 
 is just awaking. The sound of the opening of 
 shutters is heard, the splashing of bucketfuls of 
 water ; gutters overflow ; the cows troop lazily to 
 the watering-troughs, brushing away the flies with 
 their long tails. Farther on, the next village looks 
 just like the preceding one, but about it broods the 
 deep silence of a summer afternoon, interrupted 
 only by the drowsy sing-song of the village school, 
 and the monotonous hum of bees scaling the 
 clambering vines which reached to the very top of 
 each chalet. And always one is sure of lighting 
 upon some little corner which reminds him that 
 the village is merely a part of the province, — 
 sometimes a white, two-story house with a new, shin- 
 ing insurance-sign upon it, or one sights a notary's 
 scutcheon, or a doctor's bell. The passer-by 
 
134 Monday Tales. 
 
 hears the notes of a piano, and strains of a waltz, 
 somewhat antiquated it is true, float to him through 
 the green blinds, as he stands upon the sunny 
 road. Later, twilight descends; the cattle come 
 home, spinners are returning, all is bustle and com- 
 motion ! The doorways are full of people, troops 
 of little flaxen-heads in the streets. The windows 
 are aflame with the last ray of the dying sun, com- 
 ing one knows not whence. 
 
 I still recall with delight a Sabbath morning in 
 an Alsatian village, — service-time, the streets de- 
 serted, the houses emptied, but here and there an 
 old man sunning himself before some doorway; 
 the church full of people, and, streaming through 
 its panes, the delicate rose-tints of tapers burning 
 by day, — the plain-chant coming in fitful bursts 
 along the passage, a choir-boy in scarlet cassock 
 hurriedly crossing the Place, bare-headed, censer 
 in hand, to get a light at the baker's shop. 
 
 Sometimes for whole days we would not enter 
 a single village. We sought the shade of many 
 a coppice, of untrodden byways and delicate 
 thickets fringing the Rhine, spots where its beau- 
 tiful green waters were lost in marsh land swarming 
 with insects. Through the slender tracery of many 
 a branch we could see the great river for miles 
 and miles, laden with rafts, floats loaded with grass 
 cut on the islands, and seeming themselves like 
 tiny floating islands borne on by the current; 
 farther on, the canal leading from the Rhone to 
 the Rhine — with its long border of poplars, their 
 green tops almost touching each other, reflected 
 
Alsace! Alsace! 135 
 
 in those familiar waters, narrowed, hemmed in by 
 artificial banks. Here and there the small lodge 
 of the lock-keeper was seen, and children running 
 barefoot over the bars of the lock, and amidst 
 splashing of foam huge floats loaded with wood 
 advanced slowly across the entire breadth of the 
 canal. 
 
 After we had had enough of zigzag and rambling 
 paths, we would retrace our steps along the white 
 main road which leads straight towards Basle, a 
 cool, refreshing road, shaded by walnut trees — the 
 chain of the Vosges on the right, the Black Forest 
 on the opposite side. 
 
 And when the July sun grew too oppressive, oh ! 
 what delightful halts I have made at the edge of 
 that road leading to Basle, stretched at full length 
 in the dry grass of some ditch, listening to the 
 music of partridges calling from field to field, and 
 overhead the main road with its dismal sounds — 
 a carter's oath, a passing bell, the creaking of an 
 axle, the sound of a pickaxe breaking stones, the 
 hurried gallop of a gendarme, — at which a flock of 
 geese scatter in terror, — peddlers bent beneath 
 their packs, the letter-carrier, his blue blouse 
 trimmed with red braid, suddenly leaving the high- 
 way, to disappear from sight upon a little cross- 
 road bordered with wild hedges, at the end of 
 which one feels sure of coming upon a hamlet, a 
 farmhouse, an isolated life. 
 
 And then those delightful surprises of a journey 
 afoot, — those short cuts that lengthen indefi- 
 nitely, the deceptive tracks of carriage-wheels, the 
 
136 Monday Tales. 
 
 trail of horses' hoofs which lead straight to some 
 field, the deaf gates which will not open at your 
 call, the inns full of people when you arrive — and 
 the sudden shower, that delicious summer-shower 
 which the warm air evaporates so quickly, though 
 the steaming plains, the fleece of flocks, and even 
 the herdsman's coat attest its presence. 
 
 I remember how a terrific storm surprised us 
 in this fashion as we were crossing the woods, 
 descending the Ballon d'Alsace. As we quitted 
 the inn at its summit, the clouds were literally 
 beneath us. A few pines raised their tops above 
 them, but as we descended we actually entered a 
 land of wind and rain and. hail. Soon we were 
 imprisoned, enmeshed in a perfect network of 
 lightnings. Almost at our feet a fir fell with a 
 crash, struck by lightning; and whilst we went 
 tumbling down a short schlitage, we saw through a 
 film of gushing water a group of tiny maidens who 
 had sought shelter amongst the rocks. Terrified, 
 pressing closely against each other, their hands had 
 all they could do to hold their calico aprons and 
 their small wicker-baskets filled with black bilberries 
 freshly picked. On each tiny berry glistened a 
 point of light, and the little black eyes which 
 darted at us from that hiding-place in the rocks 
 resembled those shining berries. The great fir 
 lying prone upon the descent, the reverberation of 
 the thunder, the sight of these tiny rovers of the 
 forest so charming in their tatters, — it all reminded 
 one of some tale of Canon Schmidt's. 
 
 And what a delightful flame welcomed us when 
 
Alsace! Alsace! 137 
 
 we reached Rouge-Goutte ! What a splendid fire 
 to dry our clothing, while we heard an omelette 
 crackling, — that inimitable omelette of Alsace, 
 crisp and golden as a cake. 
 
 The morning after the storm I saw a sight which 
 impressed me. 
 
 On the road to Dannemarie at a turn of the 
 hedge was a magnificent field of wheat, cut down, 
 despoiled, soaked with the rain, its broken stalks 
 spreading upon the ground in all directions. The 
 heavy and ripened ears had dropped their treasure 
 in the mud, and hosts of tiny birds were feeding 
 upon that lost harvesting, hopping about the 
 hollows filled with wet straw, scattering the wheat 
 far and wide. A sinister sight, this pillaging 
 beneath that clear sky and in the bright sunshine. 
 Regarding his ruined field, stood a great, tall 
 peasant, bent in figure, clothed in the costume of 
 ancient Alsace. Genuine sorrow could be read 
 upon his features, yet at the same time a certain 
 calm and resignation and I know not what vague 
 hope — as if he would tell himself that though his 
 harvest was despoiled, the earth beneath belonged 
 to him always, — fertile, quickening, faithful, and 
 that while the soil remained his own he need not 
 despair. 
 
1 38 Monday Tales, 
 
 THE CARAVANSARY. 
 
 I CANNOT recall without a smile the sense of dis- 
 enchantment I experienced on catching my first 
 glimpse of an Algerian caravansary. That de- 
 lightful word, which casts a spell over all the 
 Oriental and enchanted Land of the Thousand and 
 One Nights, had conjured in my imagination long 
 vistas of arched galleries, Moorish courts planted 
 with palm trees, cool and refreshing streamlets 
 dripping, with melancholy music, upon mosaic 
 pavements, and everywhere, stretched upon mats, 
 travellers in Turkish slippers, smoking their pipes 
 in the shade of some terrace, while from caravans 
 halting under the noonday sun, arose the heavy 
 odor of musk, of scorched leather, attar of roses, 
 and golden tobacco. 
 
 Words are always more poetic than the objects 
 they describe. Instead of the caravansary I 
 imagined, I found an ancient inn, of the Ile-de- 
 France type, located on the highway, a stopping- 
 place for carriers and post-chaises, with its branch 
 of holly, its stone bench at the doorway, and sur- 
 rounded with courtyards, sheds, barns, and stables. 
 
 Far enough removed it was from my dream of 
 the Thousand and One Nights, but after the first 
 sense of disillusion had passed away, I was quick 
 
The Caravansary, 139 
 
 to perceive the picturesque charm of this out-of- 
 the-way Frankish inn, a hundred leagues from 
 Algiers, and standing in the midst of an immense 
 plain, against which rose in relief innumerable tiny 
 hills, crowding closely together, and blue as the 
 waves of the sea. On one hand, a pastoral of the 
 Orient fields of maize, a stream bordered with 
 oleander, and rising here and there the white 
 cupola of some ancient tomb ; on the other side, 
 the main road, lending the bustle and animation 
 of European life to this Old Testament scene. It 
 was this blending of the Orient with the Occident, 
 this flavor of modern Algeria, which gave to the 
 caravansary of Madame Schontz such an amusing 
 and original physiognomy. 
 
 I can still see the Tlemcen diligence entering the 
 grand courtyard, in the midst of camels squatted 
 about, heavy laden with burnouses and ostrich eggs. 
 In the sheds negroes are making their couscous, 
 planters are unpacking a model plough, and Mal- 
 tese are playing cards upon a wheat-measure. 
 Travellers alight, and fresh relays of horses are 
 brought. The courtyard is completely blocked. 
 A red-coated spahi is performing a fantasia for the 
 benefit of the maids of the inn. Two gendarmes 
 have halted in front of the kitchen, and are drain- 
 ing a bumper without dismounting. In a corner 
 some Algerian Jews in blue hose, and caps on their 
 heads, are sleeping upon woollen bales, waiting 
 for the market to open ; for twice a week the 
 Arabs hold a great fair before the walls of the 
 caravansary. 
 
1 40 Monday Tales. 
 
 On those days, when I opened my windows 1 
 saw before me a forest of tents scattered about in 
 confusion, a surging, clamorous crowd in gay 
 colors; the red chechias of the Kabyles blazed 
 like wild poppies in a field, and until evening there 
 were continual cries, disputes, and a swarm of 
 dusky figures moved back and forth in the sun- 
 light. As twilight came on, they folded their 
 tents; men, horses, and all disappeared, as might 
 one of those tiny worlds of innumerable motes 
 which are lodged in a sunbeam. The plateau was 
 deserted, the plain grew silent again, and the twi- 
 light of the Orient tinged the sky with its tender 
 iris-tints, as fugitive as the colors upon a soap- 
 bubble. For ten minutes the sky was tinged with 
 rose. There was, I remember, at the entrance to 
 the caravansary, an old well, and it was so com- 
 pletely bathed in the glimmering sunset that its 
 well-worn curbstone seemed to be of rosy marble ; 
 the well-bucket looked a flame, and drops of fire 
 glistened upon the rope. Then that wonderful 
 light, like the flashing of rubies, died down, and 
 lilac hues grew in the sky. These too faded out, 
 and the sky became dark and sombre. Indistinct 
 sounds began to traverse the plain, and suddenly 
 in the silence and darkness burst forth the savage 
 music of an African night, — the bewildered clamor 
 of storks, the barking of jackals and hyenas, and 
 at long intervals a sullen roar almost solemn, which 
 made the horses quiver in their stables, the camels 
 tremble in their sheds. 
 
 Oh ! how pleasant it seemed, after shivering 
 
The Caravansary, 141 
 
 amid the hosts of darkness, to emerge, and to 
 descend into the dining-room of the caravansary, 
 and find there laughter, warmth, light, and the 
 charming display of fresh linen and sparkling 
 crystal which is so in keeping with French 
 taste. And to do the honors of the table, were 
 Madame Schontz, an ancient Mulhouse beauty, 
 and pretty Mademoiselle Schontz, her blooming 
 cheeks slightly tanned, her Alsacian head-dress 
 with its black tulle wings reminding one of a wild 
 rose of Guebviller or Rouge-Goutte upon which 
 a butterfly had alighted. Was it the charm of the 
 young girl's eyes? Was it because of that light 
 Alsatian wine which her mother poured for you 
 at dessert, sparkling and golden as champagne? 
 Certain it is that the dinners of this caravansary 
 were famed far and wide among the camps of the 
 South; sky-blue tunics mingled with the short 
 coats of hussars, braided and decorated with frogs, 
 and far into the night lights might be seen burning 
 in the windows of the great inn. 
 
 The repast ended, the table removed, the old 
 piano which had peacefully slumbered in a corner 
 for twenty years, was opened and French airs were 
 played, or to a Lauterbach of some sort, a young 
 Werther, sabretache at his side, would dance a 
 waltz with Mademoiselle Schontz. In the midst of 
 the somewhat noisy, military gayety, the rattling of 
 aiguillettes, of long-swords and brandy-glasses, rose 
 the languorous rhythm of the dance, two hearts 
 beating in unison to its measure and absorbed in 
 the mazes of the waltz, their vows of eternal love 
 
142 Monday Tales. 
 
 ceasing only with the last strain. It would be hard 
 to picture a more charming scene. 
 
 Sometimes, of an evening, the great double-door 
 of the inn would open, and horses pranced into the 
 courtyard. It was some aga of the neighborhood, 
 who, wearying of his wives, desired to taste of oc- 
 cidental life, listen to the piano of the roumis, and 
 drink the wine of France. " One drop of wine is ac- 
 cursed" says Mohammed in the Koran, but there 
 are compromises even with the Law. As each 
 glass was poured him, the aga, before drinking, 
 took one drop upon his finger, shook it off gravely, 
 and, that accursed drop once disposed of, he drank 
 the rest without compunction of conscience. Then, 
 quite dazed by the music and the lights, the Arab 
 would recline upon the floor, enveloped in his bur- 
 nous, — not uttering a word, but showing his white 
 teeth with a laugh, and following the whirls of the 
 dance with kindling eyes. 
 
 Alas ! where are they now, — Mademoiselle 
 Schontz's partners in the dance? Where are the 
 sky-blue tunics, the charming hussars, with slender 
 waists? Sleeping in the hop-fields of Wissenbourg, 
 in the grassy meadows of Gravelotte. And no one 
 comes now to drink the light wine of Alsace at 
 Madame Schontz's caravansary. Both women are 
 gone ; they died, musket in hand, defending their 
 inn, set on fire by the Arabs. Of the ancient 
 hostelry once so full of life, nothing remains but 
 the walls, the great crumbling framework of a build- 
 ing, so suggestive of death : these are still standing, 
 but they are completely calcined. Jackals prowl 
 
The Caravansary. 143 
 
 about in the courtyards. Here and there the frag- 
 ment of a stable or a shed, which the flames have 
 spared, rises like a living apparition, and the wind, 
 that wind of evil omen, which for two years has 
 stormed against our unhappy France, sweeping 
 from the farthermost borders of the Rhine unto 
 Laghouat, rushing from the Saar to the Sahara, 
 passes on filled with plaintive echoes, wails 
 through the ruins of the caravansary, beating 
 against its gates mournfully. 
 
144 Monday Tales, 
 
 DECORATED THE FIFTEENTH OF 
 AUGUST. 
 
 One evening in Algeria, at the close of a day's 
 hunt, a violent storm surprised me on the plain of 
 Chelif, at some leagues from Orleansville. No- 
 where the shade of a village or even of a caravan- 
 sary in sight. Nothing but dwarf-palms, lentisk- 
 thickets, and great stretches of plough-land reaching 
 as far as eye could see. Moreover, the Chelif, 
 swollen by the shower, had begun to roll in an 
 alarming fashion, and I stood in some danger of 
 passing the night out in a swamp. Fortunately, 
 the civil-interpreter of the Bureau at Milianah, who 
 accompanied me, chanced to remember that quite 
 near us, hidden behind a slight elevation, there was 
 a tribe whose aga he knew, and we decided to go 
 thither, and throw ourselves upon his hospitality 
 for a night. 
 
 These Arab villages of the plain are so com- 
 pletely concealed among cactuses and Barbary fig- 
 trees, their gourhis of dried earth are built so close 
 to the ground, that we were in the midst of the vil- 
 lage before we had perceived it. Was it the hour, 
 the rain, the intense silence that impressed me? I 
 do not know, but an air of sadness seemed to brood 
 over the land, as if the burden of some terrible 
 anxiety had suspended every activity. All about, 
 
Decorated the Fifteenth of August. 145 
 
 scattered in the fields, was the neglected harvest. 
 The wheat and barley had been gathered elsewhere, 
 but here it was rotting upon the ground. Rusted 
 ploughs and harrows lay about in the rain, appar- 
 ently forgotten. All the tribe seemed to wear the 
 same air of sadness, raggedness, and indifference. 
 The dogs scarcely barked at our approach. From 
 time to time, from within one of the gourbis, were 
 heard the cries of a child, and a boy's shaven head, 
 or the ragged haik of an old man could be seen in 
 the thicket. Here and there young asses stood 
 shivering among the bushes ; but not a man, not a 
 horse, was in sight ; it seemed as if one had fallen 
 upon war-times, as if every cavalier had departed 
 from the place months before. 
 
 The aga's house, a species of long farm-building, 
 with white walls and without windows, seemed as 
 destitute of life as were the surroundings. We 
 found the stables open, boxes and mangers empty, 
 and not a groom in sight to receive our horses. 
 
 " Let us go into the Moorish cafe," said my com- 
 panion. The cafe' maure of an Arabian castellan 
 serves as a sort of reception-salon, a house within 
 a house, reserved for transient guests, — a place 
 where these good Mussulmans, courteous and affable 
 to an extreme, find opportunity to exercise their 
 hospitable virtues, while preserving that privacy 
 of family life which the Law commands. The cafe 1 
 maure of Aga Si-Sliman was open and silent, like 
 the stables. The high walls were coated with 
 lime, decorated with trophies of war and ostrich- 
 feathers ; a long low divan ran about the hall, and 
 
146 Monday Tales. 
 
 it was dripping from the torrents of rain with which 
 the storm had pelted the entrance. Yet the cafe 
 was not empty. First we saw the cafetier himself, 
 an old Kabyle, in tatters, squatting with his head 
 between his knees, beside a brazier turned upside 
 down. Then we caught a glimpse of the aga's 
 son, a beautiful boy, but feverish and pale ; he re- 
 clined upon the divan, rolled up in a black burnous, 
 two great greyhounds at his feet. 
 
 As we entered, there was no sound or sign of 
 life. At the utmost, the head of one of the grey- 
 hounds may have moved, the boy perhaps deigned 
 to glance in our direction, his beautiful dark eyes 
 feverish and languid. 
 
 "And Si-Sliman, where is he?" asked the inter- 
 preter. 
 
 The old servant made a vague motion of the 
 head in the direction of the horizon. The gesture 
 seemed to say that his master had gone far, very 
 far. We understood that Si-Sliman had departed 
 upon some long and important journey, but as the 
 rain would not permit of our setting out again, the 
 interpreter, addressing a few words in Arabic to 
 the aga's son, told him that we were friends of his 
 father, and asked shelter for the night. The boy 
 at once rose, and in spite of the fever which was 
 consuming him, gave orders to the cafetier; then 
 motioning us towards the divan, with a courteous 
 air that seemed to say, " You are my guests," 
 he saluted us, Arab-fashion, his head bowed, a 
 kiss at the tip of his fingers, and wrapping his 
 burnous proudly about him, left the hall with all 
 
Decorated the Fifteenth of August. 147 
 
 the gravity of one who was an aga and master 
 of the house. 
 
 Left behind, the cafetier relighted his brazier, set 
 upon it two boilers of microscopic size, and whilst 
 he was making the coffee, we sought to obtain from 
 him some details concerning his master's voyage, 
 and the cause of the wretched condition of the tribe. 
 The Kabyle spoke quickly, with the gestures of an 
 old woman, but in a beautiful guttural, which was 
 sometimes precipitated, sometimes interrupted by 
 fits of silence, when we could hear the rain drop- 
 ping upon the mosaic of the interior courtyards, 
 the boilers singing, and the barking of jackals, 
 scattered in thousands upon the plain. 
 
 This is what had befallen the unfortunate Si- 
 Sliman. Four months before, on the 15th of 
 August, he had received that famous decoration of 
 the Legion of Honor, which he had awaited many 
 years. He was the only aga of the province who 
 had not already received it. All the others were 
 knights, officers ; two or three even wore about 
 their haiks the big ribbon of Commander, and 
 blew their noses upon it, innocently enough (many 
 a time have I seen Bach' Aga Boualem make this 
 use of his ribbon). What had prevented Si- 
 Sliman from receiving the decoration was a quarrel 
 he had had with his chef de bureau arabe, over a 
 game of cards, and the military fraternity is so 
 all-powerful in Algeria that, although the name of 
 the aga had for ten years stood upon the list of 
 proposed recipients, it was all to no avail. Conse- 
 quently you can perhaps imagine the joy of brave 
 
1 48 Monday Tales. 
 
 Si-Sliman when, the morning of the 15th of August, 
 a spahi from Orleansville came to bring him the tiny 
 gilded casket containing the brevet of Legionary,and 
 Baia, best-beloved of his four wives, fastened upon 
 his camel's-hair burnous the cross of France. This 
 furnished the tribe with the occasion for numerous 
 revels and interminable fantasias. All night long, 
 tambourines and reed-pipes resounded. There 
 were dances, rejoicings, bonfires ; I know not how 
 many sheep were slain for the feast ; and that noth- 
 ing might be lacking on the occasion, a famous im- 
 provisator of Djendel composed in honor of Si- 
 Sliman a magnificent cantata which began thus : 
 
 " Saddle thy coursers, O Wind ! 
 Bear the glad tidings afar ! " 
 
 The next morning, at break of day, Si-Sliman 
 called to arms his contingent forces, both the ordi- 
 nary and the reserve, and set out for Algiers with 
 his cavaliers, that he might thank the governor in 
 person. At the gates of the city his band paused 
 according to custom. The aga presented himself 
 unaccompanied at the Government Palace, saw the 
 Duke of Malakoff, and assured the latter of his 
 devotion to France, in a few pompous phrases of 
 that Oriental style which is considered figurative 
 and poetic, since for three thousand years it has 
 likened all youths to palm trees, all women to 
 gazelles. Having performed his duty at the palace, 
 he proceeded to the upper town, permitting him- 
 self to be seen paying his devotions to the mosque 
 as he passed on, distributing silver among the 
 
Decorated the Fifteenth of August. 149 
 
 poor, visiting barbers and embroiderers, buying 
 for his wives perfumed waters, brocaded, flowered 
 silks, blue corselets adorned with golden passe- 
 menterie, and red cavalier's-boots for his young 
 aga, paying for everything without questioning the 
 price, and scattering his joy abroad in beautiful 
 douros. He was to be seen in the bazaars, seated 
 upon Smyrna rugs, drinking coffee at the doors of 
 Moorish shops, the shop-keepers offering him con- 
 gratulations. A crowd pressed about him curiously, 
 whispering, " Look ! that is Si-Sliman ! The 
 Emberour has just sent him the Cross." And 
 many a little Morisca, returning from the bath and 
 nibbling pastry, from beneath her white veil sent 
 prolonged glances of admiration towards that beau- 
 tiful new silver cross worn so proudly. Ah ! life 
 has indeed its great moments ! 
 
 Evening come, Si-Sliman prepared to rejoin his 
 band, and he had just mounted when a chaouch 
 from the prefecture rushed towards him, quite out 
 of breath. 
 
 " Here you are, Si-Sliman ! — I have been hunt- 
 ing for you everywhere. Be quick ! The governor 
 wishes to speak with you." 
 
 Si-Sliman followed him, not disquieted in the 
 least. But in crossing the Moorish courtyard of 
 the palace he chanced to encounter his chef de 
 bureau Arabe, who regarded him with an evil smile. 
 That smile upon the face of an enemy terrified him, 
 and he trembled as he entered the governor's 
 chamber. The marshal, sitting astride a chair, 
 received him. 
 
1 50 Monday Tales, ' 
 
 " Si-Sliman ! " he said with his usual brutality, 
 and in that famous nasal voice that ever caused 
 those about him to tremble, " Si-Sliman, my boy, 
 I am very sorry. There has been a mistake. The 
 decoration was not intended for you at all. It was 
 for the kaid of the Zoug^Zougs. You must return 
 the cross. " 
 
 The beautiful bronze face of the aga was tinged 
 with sudden red, as if from the reflection of some 
 forge fire. A convulsive movement shook his tall 
 body. His eyes flamed. But the flash lasted 
 only for a second. His eyes were lowered almost 
 instantly; he bowed before the governor. 
 
 " Thou art master here, my Lord," he said, and 
 unfastening the cross from his breast, he placed it 
 upon a table. His hands trembled. Tears quiv- 
 ered at the end of his long eyelashes. Even old 
 Pelissier was touched. 
 
 " Come, come, my brave, you will receive it 
 next year; " and he extended his hand with an air 
 almost friendly. The aga feigned that he did not 
 see it, bowed without responding, and departed. 
 He knew just how much value to attach to this 
 promise of the marshal's, and suddenly realized that 
 a mere bureau intrigue had brought this humilia- 
 tion upon him. 
 
 News of his disgrace had already spread through 
 the city. The Jews of Rue Bab-Azoun chuckled 
 as they saw him pass. The Moorish merchants, on 
 the contrary, looked away from him, pity stamped 
 upon their faces ; and it was this very pity that 
 pained him more than the sneers of the others. 
 
Decorated the Fifteenth of August. 1 5 1 
 
 He hastened on, keeping close to the walls, seeking 
 the lanes that were darkest, most secluded. The 
 spot from which his cross had been plucked 
 seemed to burn him, as though an open wound 
 were there. And all the time he thought to him- 
 self, "What will my horsemen say? What will my 
 wives say?" 
 
 Then followed wild outbursts of rage. He im- 
 agined himself waging a holy war yonder, upon 
 the frontiers of Maroc ever reddened with incen- 
 diary fires and battle, or rushing through the streets 
 of Algiers at the head of his band, pillaging the 
 Jews, massacring .the Christians, and at length slain 
 himself, amidst a general tumult in which his 
 shame should be blotted out. All these things 
 seemed to him far less impossible than to return to 
 his tribe. Suddenly, in the midst of his schemes 
 of vengeance, a thought of the Emperor occurred 
 to him like a sudden gleam of light. 
 
 The Emperor ! For Si-Sliman, as for all the 
 Arabs, that name was the embodiment of the high- 
 est justice and power. For these Mussulmans of 
 the decadence he was the true pillar of their faith ; 
 that other head at Stamboul appeared to these dis- 
 tant sons as an imaginary being, a sort of invisi- 
 ble pope who had preserved for himself no other 
 power than the purely spiritual. And in the 
 Hegira of to-day, we know how much value that 
 power possesses. 
 
 But the Emberour, with his big cannon, his 
 zouaves, his iron-clad navy ! From the moment 
 he thought of the Emperor, he felt that he was 
 
152 Monday Tales. 
 
 saved. Surely the Emperor would restore Si- 
 SHman's cross to him. There would be a week's 
 journey, but he was so sure of the result that he 
 desired his band to remain at the gates of Algiers 
 to await his return. The packet-boat left the next 
 day, bearing him towards Paris, and he was as 
 serene and composed as though departing on a 
 pilgrimage to Mecca. 
 
 Poor Si-Sliman ! Four months ago he left, and 
 the letters he sends to his wives do not hint of 
 return as yet. For four months the unhappy aga 
 has been wandering through the fogs of Paris, his 
 days spent in running from one department to 
 another, laughed at everywhere, caught within the 
 formidable machinery of the French Administra- 
 tion, sent from bureau to bureau, soiling his bur- 
 nouses against the wood-boxes of antechambers, 
 anxiously awaiting an interview that will never 
 come ; and in the evening he is seen again — his 
 tall, sombre figure ridiculous because of its very 
 majesty — waiting for a key in the office of some 
 lodging-house; and then he ascends to his own 
 room, weary with tramping, with attempts that 
 came to nothing, but lofty and proud as ever, 
 clinging to a last hope, as furious in his zeal as 
 some gambler who has staked his all, in pursuit of 
 his honor. 
 
 All this time his cavaliers squatted about the 
 Porte Bab-Azoun await him with the true Oriental 
 fatalism of their race. His horses, tied to their 
 pickets, neigh towards the sea. Among the tribe, 
 all is suspense. The harvests rot upon the ground 
 
Decorated the Fifteenth of August. 153 
 
 for want of arms to gather them. Women and 
 children count the days, their eyes ever turned 
 towards Paris. And it is pathetic to see what ruin, 
 how many hopes, how many fears, hang by that 
 bit of red ribbon. And when will it all end ? 
 
 " God alone knows," said the cafetier with a 
 sigh, and looking through the open door he 
 pointed with his bare arm across the sombre plain 
 wrapped in violet mists, pointed towards the pale 
 and slender crescent of the moon, climbing a 
 cloudy sky. 
 
1 54 Monday Tales. 
 
 MY KUPI. 
 
 This morning I came across it again, where it 
 had lain forgotten at the bottom of a closet ; it was 
 dust-stained, frayed at the edges, the figures were 
 rusted, the color had faded, and it was almost 
 shapeless. I could scarcely restrain a smile, and 
 exclaimed, — 
 
 " Ah ! There you are, my k6pi." 
 
 And suddenly I remembered that day towards 
 the end of autumn, the warmth of the sunshine, the 
 kindling of enthusiasm, — how I had gone down 
 the street, proud of my new head- gear, knocking 
 my gun against the shop-windows, as I went on 
 my way to join the battalions of the Quarter and 
 do service as citizen-soldier ! Ah ! he who had 
 told me then that I was not going to save Paris, 
 deliver France by my own unaided strength, would 
 certainly have run the risk of receiving the point 
 of my bayonet straight in the stomach. 
 
 There was such absolute faith in the national 
 guard. In the public gardens and squares, along 
 the avenues, at every corner, companies were gather- 
 ing and numbering, — long lines in which blouses 
 and uniforms, caps and kepis, were seen side by 
 side, for there was great haste. Every morn- 
 ing we who were new recruits assembled upon the 
 
My Kepi. 155 
 
 Place, beneath the low arcades, standing at the 
 great gates in the draught and fog. After the roll- 
 call, where hundreds of incongruous names mingled 
 in a grotesque chaplet, the drill began. Arms 
 straight at the sides, teeth clenched, the various 
 divisions set out, keeping step, " Left, right ! left, 
 right ! " and short and tall, infirm, poseurs, figures 
 clad in uniforms that brought back memories of 
 the stage, some of the new soldiers encumbered 
 with immense blue bands that gave them the 
 appearance of choristers, — all of us, however dif- 
 ferent our uniforms were, marched and faced about 
 within our limited space with the utmost spirits 
 and confidence. 
 
 All this would have seemed absurd enough had 
 it not been for the deep bass of the cannon, a 
 continual accompaniment, which lent freedom and 
 scope to our manoeuvres, drowned many a shrill 
 and feeble command, atoned for many an awk- 
 wardness, many a blunder, and in this great melo- 
 drama of Paris Besieged lent just that sort of 
 stage-music which proves itself so effective in the 
 theatre, when the pathetic is to be added to a 
 situation. 
 
 Finest sight of all when we mounted to the 
 rampart! I still can picture myself on those 
 foggy mornings, passing proudly before the 
 Colonne de Juillet, and paying it military honors. 
 " Carry — arms ! " And then those long streets of 
 Charenne, full of people, those slippery pavements 
 where it was so difficult to mark step. Approach- 
 ing the bastions, our drums would beat the charge, 
 
156 Monday Tales. 
 
 Ran! Ran! I fancy now I am in the midst of it 
 all again. It was so enchanting, that frontier of 
 Paris, the green taluses with excavations for the 
 cannon, the open tents full of animation, the 
 smoke of bivouac fires, figures darkly outlined on 
 the heights, — looking so diminutive as they wan- 
 dered back and forth, — the tops of kepis, and the 
 points of bayonets rising here and there above the 
 bags piled about. 
 
 Oh ! my first night on guard, groping my way in 
 the dark, in the rain, while the patrol passed on, 
 jostling each other on the wet embankment, slip- 
 ping out one by one, and leaving me, the last, 
 perched above the Porte Montreuil at a formidable 
 height. What beastly weather it was that night ! 
 In the deep silence that enfolded city and country 
 nothing could be heard but the wind sweeping 
 over the ramparts, making the sentinels bend be- 
 fore it, carrying away the password, and causing 
 the panes of an old street-lamp on the road at the 
 foot of the talus to rattle dismally. That infernal 
 street-lamp ! Every time I heard it I fancied it 
 was the sabre of an Uhlan rattling, and I remained 
 there, supporting arms, — "Who goes there?" 
 ever on my lips. Then the rain grew colder. The 
 gray of dawn began to appear in the direction of 
 Paris. A tower, a cupola, could be distinguished. 
 A cab was heard rumbling in the distance, a bell 
 struck. The mighty city awoke from slumber, and 
 shivering at the first moment of awaking, tossed 
 about and gave signs of returning life. A cock 
 crowed on the opposite side of the talus. At my 
 
My Kept. 157 
 
 feet, beneath the still dark road over which my 
 rounds were made, a sound of footsteps was heard,, 
 a rattling of iron, and in reply to my " Halt ! who 
 goes there ? " uttered in a terrible tone, rose a 
 little, timid, tremulous voice reaching me through 
 the fog, — 
 
 " A woman selling coffee." 
 
 You smile? But what could be expected of us? 
 These were the first days of the siege, and we 
 fancied to ourselves, poor raw militia that we were, 
 we imagined that the Prussians, under fire from the 
 forts, would come to the foot of the ramparts, set 
 their ladders there and scale them some fine night, 
 in the midst of huzzas, with port fires moving to 
 and fro in the darkness. Imagination anticipating 
 such things as these, you can conceive that 
 there were frequent alarms. Scarcely a night that 
 the cry " To arms ! to arms ! " did not startle us 
 from our sleep. Then men would shove and jostle 
 each other in their haste to reach their guns, over- 
 turning them, while the startled officers exclaimed, 
 " Keep cool ! keep cool ! " endeavoring thus to 
 calm themselves. Later, at daybreak, we would 
 perhaps discover that the enemy had been merely 
 a runaway horse, capering about the fortification 
 and nibbling the grass of the talus, and that our 
 imaginations had mistaken one innocent animal for 
 a whole troop of white cuirassiers, allowing it to 
 serve as a target for an entire bastion in arms. 
 
 All these things my kepi recalled to me — multi- 
 tudinous emotions, various adventures and scenes : 
 Nanterre, la Corneuve, le Moulin-Saquet, and 
 
158 Monday Tales. 
 
 that delightful bend of the Marne where the in- 
 trepid Ninety-sixth saw fire for the first and last 
 time. The Prussian batteries faced us, planted at 
 the end of a road behind a thicket, and the smoke 
 rising through the branches reminded one of some 
 tranquil hamlet. Upon the unprotected track of 
 the railroad where our chiefs had forgotten us, 
 shells rained upon us with loud and terrible force, 
 and ominous flashes were seen. Ah ! my poor 
 k£pi, there was no boasting that day, and again 
 and again you made the military salute, lower per- 
 haps than was fitting. 
 
 No matter ! those are delightful memories ; it is 
 all slightly grotesque, no doubt, — still, a feather in 
 the cap of patriotism. But alas ! you recall other 
 memories ! Unhappily there were also those night- 
 watches in Paris, our post some shop that was to 
 let; within, the suffocating heat of a stove, the 
 shiny benches; there were monotonous watches 
 before the doors of some mairie, the Place covered 
 with the slush of winter, which, melting, reflected the 
 city in its gutters. While doing police-duty in the 
 streets amid puddles of water, we would carry off 
 drunken soldiers who had lost their way, women, 
 and thieves ; in the gray light of early morning we 
 would return to our quarters weary, covered with 
 dust, the smell of pipes and petroleum clinging to 
 our clothing. And then there were those long 
 days so foolishly spent, with elections of officers, 
 attended by lengthy discussions, the tittle-tattle of 
 each company, the farewell punches, and round 
 upon round of brandy, men explaining each to the 
 
My K'epL 159 
 
 other the plan of campaign, using matches to make 
 their explanations clearer; there was the excite- 
 ment of voting. Politics entered upon the scene, 
 with her sister, righteous idleness. Hours were 
 spent merely in lounging ; difficult indeed to know 
 what to do with one's self! And all that time wasted 
 weighed upon a man as if he were surrounded by a 
 lifeless atmosphere, making him desire to gesticu- 
 late, to keep in motion. There were hunts for 
 spies, men entertained absurd suspicions of each 
 other, and confidence equally exaggerated ; they 
 dreamed of a sortie en masse, of making a breach ; 
 all the follies and delirium of an imprisoned people 
 had sway. These were the memories, hideous kepi, 
 that returned to me at sight of you. You too had 
 your share in all these follies, and if on the day 
 after Buzenval I had not tossed you to the top of 
 a closet, had I done as so many others, who in- 
 sisted on keeping their kepis, decorating them with 
 immortelles and gold stripes, merely to remain an 
 odd number in some scattered battalion, who 
 knows upon what barricade you might have 
 dragged me at last? Ah! decidedly, k6pi of revolt 
 and indiscipline, k6pi of idleness and drunkenness, 
 of club life and gossip, kepi of civil war, you de- 
 serve not even the waste corner which I allowed 
 you in my closet. 
 
 Away with you ! Into the waste-basket ! 
 
160 Monday Tales. 
 
 A TUkCO OF THE COMMUNE. 
 
 He was a little drummer of the tirailleurs indi- 
 genes} His name was Kadour, he came from the 
 tribe of Djendel, and he was one of that handful 
 of turcos who dropped into Paris, following the 
 fortunes of Vinoy's army. From Wissembourg 
 to Champigny he had served through the cam- 
 paign, crossing one battlefield after another, like a 
 storm-bird, with his iron snappers and his derbouka 
 (Arabian drum) ; so full of life he was, he seemed 
 to be in so many places at once, that no bullet knew 
 where to take him. But when winter came, the 
 little bronzed African, glowing under the fire of 
 grapeshot, could not endure those nights at the 
 outposts, and the hours of immobility in the snow. 
 One January morning he was picked up on the 
 bank of the Marne, writhing with cold, his feet 
 frozen. For a long time he remained in a hospital. 
 It was there I saw him for the first time. 
 
 Sad, dumbly patient as a sick dog, the turco 
 gazed about him with wide-open, gentle eyes. 
 When some one spoke to him he smiled and showed 
 his teeth. This was the only reply he could make, 
 for our language was unknown to him, and he 
 could scarcely even speak the Sabir y that Algerian 
 1 Native African regiment. 
 
A Tttrco of the Commune. 161 
 
 patois composed of Provencal, Italian, Arabian, — 
 made of that strange medley of words which time 
 has gathered like sea-shells along many a Latin 
 shore. 
 
 To divert himself, Kadour had only his derbouka. 
 From time to time, when his weariness was too 
 much for him, the drum was brought to his bed- 
 side and he was permitted to play upon it, but not 
 too loudly, for fear of disturbing the other patients. 
 Then his poor dark face, so lifeless and dull in the 
 yellow daylight and amid the dismal wintry sur- 
 roundings of the street, would grow animated 
 again, covered with grimaces, as he followed the 
 rhythm of each movement. Presently he would 
 beat the charge, and his gleaming white teeth 
 would show more and more, and he would smile 
 ferociously; sometimes his eyes moistened as he 
 beat a Mussulman morning-serenade, his nostrils 
 would quiver, and breathing the foul air of the 
 hospital, in the midst of phials and compresses, he 
 saw once again the groves of Blidah, laden with 
 oranges, the little Moriscas coming from the bath, 
 enveloped in white and perfumed with vervain. 
 
 Thus two months passed. During that time 
 much had occurred in Paris, but Kadour had not 
 the slightest suspicion of all this. He heard the 
 troops passing beneath his windows, weary and un- 
 armed, the guns paraded, rolled about from morn- 
 ing till night, the tocsin, the cannonade. Of all 
 this he understood nothing except that war had not 
 ended, and that as soon as his limbs were healed 
 he too would be able to fight again. At length, 
 ii 
 
1 62 Monday Tales. 
 
 one day he set out, his drum upon his back, in 
 quest of his company, and he had not long to 
 search. A group of Communists passing by led 
 him to the Place. After a lengthy examination, as 
 nothing could be gotten, out of him except fre- 
 quent repetitions of " Bono bezef, machache bono" 
 the general of the day finally presented him with 
 ten francs and an omnibus-horse, and attached the 
 turco to his own staff. 
 
 In the various staffs during the Commune, there 
 was a little of everything, red blouses, Polish jack- 
 ets, Hungarian jerkins, sailors' coats, gold, velvet, 
 embroidery, and spangles. With his blue coat 
 embroidered in yellow, his turban, and his derbonka, 
 the turco added the finishing touch to the mas- 
 querade. Overjoyed to find himself in such fine 
 company, intoxicated with the sunshine, the can- 
 nonading, and the turmoil of the streets, this con- 
 fusion of arms and of uniforms, persuaded more- 
 over that it was the war against Prussia that was 
 being prosecuted with such inexpressible license 
 and vigor, this deserter, who did not even know 
 he had deserted, mingled narvely in that great 
 Bacchanal of Paris, and was the celebrity of the 
 hour. Wherever he went, the Commune hailed 
 him and feasted him. It felt such pride in pos- 
 sessing him that it exhibited, placarded, bore him 
 about, as though he were a cockade. Twenty 
 times a day the Place sent him to La Guerre, La 
 Guerre despatched him to the Hotel de Ville. For 
 it had been so often observed that their sailors 
 were no sailors at all, their artillery make-believe ! 
 
A Turco of the Commune. 163 
 
 This at least was the real thing, a genuine turco. 
 To be convinced of the fact, one need only look at 
 the lively phiz of the young ape, and the savage 
 strength of that little body rushing from place to 
 place on his huge horse, pirouetting, capering 
 about as if performing a fantasia. 
 
 One thing, however, was lacking to complete the 
 happiness of Kadour. He longed to fight, to 
 smell powder. Unfortunately, under the Commune, 
 as before under the Empire, the staff saw little of 
 that. Except during the time when he was parad- 
 ing, or busy upon errands, the poor turco passed 
 his time on the Place Vendome, or in the court- 
 yards outside the war department, or in the midst 
 of disorderly camps Yull of barrels of brandy 
 always on tap, and tubs of bacon which had been 
 smashed open, eating and drinking bouts follow- 
 ing close upon the famine of the siege. Too true 
 a Mussulman to take part in these orgies, Kadour 
 held himself aloof, remained tranquil and sober, 
 performing his ablutions in a corner, making his 
 couscous with a handful of semolina, and after 
 drumming a little upon his derbouka, would roll 
 himself up in his burnous, and fall asleep upon a 
 stone step, by the light of some bivouac fire. 
 
 One morning in the month of May, the turco 
 was awakened by a terrific fusillade. At the war 
 department all was commotion, men were running, 
 fleeing. Mechanically he did as the others were 
 doing, jumped upon his horse and followed the 
 staff. The streets were full of terrified buglers, 
 whole battalions were in utter confusion. Pave- 
 
164 Monday Tales. 
 
 ments had been torn up to form barricades. Evi- 
 dently something extraordinary was going on. 
 As one approached the quay the fusillade was 
 more distinct, the tumult greater. On the bridge 
 of La Concorde, Kadour lost sight of the staff. 
 A little farther on, his horse was taken from him. 
 It was for an officer whose kepi boasted eight 
 stripes. He was in haste to witness what was hap- 
 pening at the Hotel de Ville. Furious at losing 
 his horse, the turco proceeded to run towards the 
 thick of the fray. Rushing on, he loaded his 
 chassepot as he went, muttering between his 
 clenched teeth, " Machache bono, Brissien ; " for 
 all this tumult meant to him that the Prussians 
 were entering Paris. Already the bullets had be- 
 gun to whistle about the Obelisk and in the leaf- 
 age of the Tuileries. At the barricade of the Rue 
 de Rivoli the avengers of Flourens called out, 
 " Hallo there ! turco, turco ! " There were not 
 more than a dozen of them, but Kadour was worth 
 an entire army. 
 
 Standing upon a barricade, gaudy and proud as 
 a flag itself, leaping, crying, he fought amid a 
 shower of grapeshot. The cloud of smoke rising 
 from the earth lifted for a moment between two 
 cannonades, and he could see red trousers massed 
 about in the Champs Elys^es. Then all became 
 confused again. He thought he was mistaken, 
 and let the powder speak once more in choicest 
 accents. 
 
 Suddenly the barricade was silent. The last 
 of the artillery had fled, despatching its final volley. 
 
A Turco of the Commune. 165 
 
 But the turco never budged. In his hiding-place, 
 ready to spring, he adjusted his bayonet firmly, and 
 waited for the pointed helmets. But what was this 
 he saw? The line advancing! He heard the 
 heavy tramp of the soldiers marching at quick pace, 
 and above that the voices of officers exclaiming : 
 
 " Surrender ! " 
 
 For a moment the turco was stupefied ; then he 
 advanced, his gun held aloft. 
 
 " Bono, bono, Franche ! " 
 
 Vaguely to his savage brain had come the idea 
 that this was the army of deliverance, Faidherbe, 
 or Chanzy, for which the Parisians had waited 
 so long. How delighted he was ! how he laughed, 
 showing all his white teeth ! In an instant the 
 barricade was crowded. Men surround him, push 
 him about. 
 
 " Let us see your gun." 
 
 It was still warm, 
 
 " Let us see your hands." 
 
 They were black with powder. The turco dis- 
 played them proudly, and still with that fine expan- 
 sive smile of his. Then they shoved him against a 
 wall, and — bang! 
 
 He died without once suspecting what it all 
 meant. 
 
1 66 Monday Tales. 
 
 THE CONCERT OF COMPANY EIGHT. 
 
 All the battalions of the Marais, and of the 
 Faubourg Saint- Antoine were encamped that night 
 in the barracks, along the Avenue Daumesnil. 
 For three days the army of Ducrot had been fight- 
 ing upon the heights of Champigny, and the rest 
 of us had been prevailed upon to believe that we 
 formed the reserve. 
 
 Nothing could have been more dismal than this 
 encampment upon the boulevard exte'rieur, sur- 
 rounded by factory-chimneys, closed stations, and 
 deserted lumber-yards, lighted only by a few wine- 
 sellers' shops. Nothing more glacial, more sordid, 
 could be pictured than these long rows of wooden 
 barracks, erected upon a ground dried and hard- 
 ened by the cold of December; the frames of 
 their windows were badly joined, the doors were 
 always open, and the smoky lamps dimmed with 
 the fog, like lanterns in the open air. It was im- 
 possible to read, to sleep, to remain seated. It 
 was necessary to invent street urchins' games, 
 merely to keep warm; men were seen beating 
 their feet together, and running around the bar- 
 racks. Such absurd inaction, so close to the field 
 of battle, was as ignominious as it was enervating, 
 especially on that night. Although the cannonade 
 
The Concert of Company Eight. 167 
 
 had ceased, all felt that something terrible was 
 about to happen above, and from time to time, 
 when the electric search-lights of the forts flashed 
 upon that side of Paris in their circular movement, 
 silent troops could be seen massed along the edge 
 of the pavements, and others ascending the avenue 
 in sombre masses, apparently crouching close to 
 the ground, and looking like pygmies, beside the 
 high columns of the Place du Trdne. 
 
 I was standing, almost frozen, hid in the dark- 
 ness which wrapped those great boulevards, when 
 some one said to me, — 
 
 " Come and see Company Eight. It seems they 
 are having a concert ! " 
 
 I went. Each of our companies had its own 
 barrack. That of Company Eight was much bet- 
 ter lighted than the others, and crammed with 
 people. Candles fastened to the end of bayonets 
 were flaming, clouded with black smoke. They 
 shone in full upon these vulgar mechanics' faces, 
 brutalized by drunkenness, cold, fatigue, and that 
 wretched sleep taken while standing, — sleep which 
 makes pale, sallow faces. In a corner, her mouth 
 wide open, the cantiniere was dozing curled up 
 upon a bench, before her small table loaded with 
 empty bottles and dirty glasses. 
 
 Some one was singing. As their turns came, 
 Messieurs les amateurs mounted a stage improvised 
 in the back of the room, and there they attitudi- 
 nized, declaimed; draped in their blankets, they 
 recalled melodramatic memories. I listened again 
 to those robustious, ear-splitting voices, such as one 
 
1 68 Monday Tales. 
 
 hears resounding from the extremity of some pas~ 
 sage, or from those working-men's quarters, filled 
 with clamorous children, noisy workshops, and 
 bird-cages. Such a voice is charming to hear 
 when it mingles with the music of tools, with an 
 accompaniment of plane or hammer. But there 
 upon that stage the sound was as absurd as it was 
 painful. 
 
 First of all, we had the pensive working-man, a 
 mechanic with a long beard, droning the woes of 
 the proletary. " Panvro prolttair-o-o-o " issued from 
 deep down in his throat, in a song in which the 
 Holy International has located its angers. 
 
 Then another came on, half asleep ; he sang to 
 us the famous song of the Canaille, but to an air 
 so wearisome, slow, and doleful that one might 
 have mistaken it for a lullaby, — " Oest la canaille, 
   — eh bien ! j y en suis ; " and while he was chant- 
 ing, we could hear the snoring of those who had 
 sought corners determined to sleep, and with a 
 grunt turned about trying to avoid the light. 
 
 Suddenly a white flash passed between the 
 boards, and caused the red flame of the candles to 
 pale. At the same time a heavy sound shook the 
 barrack, followed by other sounds, heavier and 
 farther away, which rumbled among the hills of 
 Champigny, and then grew fitful and faint. The 
 battle was beginning again. But Messieurs les 
 amateurs scoffed at the very idea of a battle. 
 
 The stage itself and those four candles had stirred 
 in all these people the indescribable instincts of the 
 low comedian. It was curious to see how each lay 
 
The Concert of Company Eight, 169 
 
 in wait for the last couplet of a predecessor, ready 
 to snatch the ballad from his lips. They felt the 
 cold no longer. Those who were upon the stage, 
 those who descended it, and those who were await- 
 ing their turn, a ballad at their tongue's end, all 
 were perspiring, red in the face, their eyes kindled. 
 Vanity kept them warm. 
 
 There were local celebrities present, among them 
 an upholsterer-poet, who asked permission to sing 
 a little song of his own composition, entitled the 
 Egoist, with a refrain, Chacun pour soi. 1 And as 
 he had an impediment in his speech, he could only 
 say, " egoift" and " facun pour foi." It was a satire 
 upon the big-bellied bourgeois, who would rather 
 sit by his own fireside than go to the outposts. I 
 can still seem to see the fine head of this fabulist, 
 who, with his k^pi askew, his chin-piece strapped 
 about his chin, emphasized every word of his chan- 
 sonnette, hurling maliciously at us that refrain, — 
 
 " Facun pour foi — facun pour foil* 
 
 During this time cannon were making music too, 
 mingling that profound bass with the roulades of 
 the mitrailleuses. They told of the wounded dy- 
 ing of cold in the snow, they spoke of the agony 
 upon the roadsides amid pools of frozen blood, they 
 told of blinding shells, of shadowy death, stealing 
 through the night on every hand. But the concert 
 of Company Eight continued. 
 
 And now obscene songs began. An old rigolo 
 with bloodshot eyes and red nose frisked about 
 upon the stage, followed by a mad stamping of 
 1 Each for himself. 
 
170 Monday Tales. 
 
 feet, eries of " Again ! " and bravos. The broad 
 grin which greets obscenities permitted among men 
 spread over all these faces. Suddenly the cantiniere 
 awoke, and hemmed in by the crowd, devoured by 
 all those eyes, contorted her features into the sem- 
 blance of a smile, while the old man shouted in his 
 husky voice, " Le bon Dieu, saoill comme un — ." 
 
 I could stand it no longer. I left. My turn to 
 be on duty was coming. So much the worse. I 
 needed room, and air. I walked straight ahead, 
 but slowly, towards the Seine. The river was dark, 
 the quay deserted. Paris, wrapped in gloom, de- 
 prived of gas, was slumbering, encircled with fires. 
 Everywhere the flash of the cannon, and from place 
 to place, on the heights, the ruddy light of incen- 
 diary fires. Quite near to me, I heard low hurried 
 voices, sounding quite distinctly through the cold 
 air. They panted for breath, they cheered each 
 other on. 
 
 " Ho ! heave there — " 
 
 Suddenly the voices stopped, as if suspended 
 because of some arduous and mighty labor which 
 requires all one's strength. As I approached the 
 edge of the quay, I was able to distinguish in that 
 vague light, rising from the still darker waters, a 
 gunboat which had been stopped at the Bercy 
 bridge, and was trying to ascend the current. 
 The lanterns, which shook with every movement 
 of the water, the grating of the cables, which sailors 
 were hauling, indicated the falls, the recoils, all the 
 shocks of that struggle against the malevolence of 
 the river and the night. Valiant little boat ! how 
 
The Concert of Company Eight. 171 
 
 impatient all these delays made her. She churned 
 the water furiously with her wheels, making it splash 
 and bubble where she stood. At last a supreme 
 effort pushed her forward. " Courage, boys ! " And 
 when she had passed, and was advancing directly 
 onward through the fog towards the battle which 
 had summoned her, there rose a mighty cry of 
 " Vive la France ! " and echoed under the bridge. 
 Ah ! that concert of Company Eight, how far 
 away it seemed ! 
 
f 72 Monday Tales, 
 
 THE BATTLE OF PE RE-LAC HAISE. 
 
 The guard began to smile. 
 
 " A battle here? — but there never was one. It 
 was merely an invention of the newspapers. Listen, 
 and I will tell you all that really happened. On 
 the evening of the twenty-second, which was a 
 Sunday, we saw thirty of the artillery of the Com- 
 mune approaching, with a battery of two-inch guns, 
 and mitrailleuse of the newest pattern. They sta- 
 tioned themselves on the highest ground of the 
 cemetery, and as I was on guard in that especial 
 section, I received them myself. Their mitrailleuse 
 was at this part of the walk, near my sentry-box, 
 their cannon a little lower, upon this terreplein. 
 On their arrival, they compelled me to open several 
 chapels. I thought they were going to smash 
 everything to pieces and pillage in general. But 
 arranging them in good order, and placing himself 
 in their midst, their chief delivered this little dis- 
 course for their benefit : ' If one blackguard of 
 you all touches anything, I will blow off his jaw. 
 Break ranks.' He was an old white-haired fellow, 
 with medals received for his services in Italy and 
 the Crimea; his manner said he would permit no 
 trifling. His men understood that he meant what 
 he said, and I will do them the justice to say that 
 
The Battle of Pere-Lachaise. 173 
 
 they did not take a single thing from one of the 
 tombs, not even the crucifix of the Due de Morny, 
 which alone is worth two thousand francs. 
 
 " Nevertheless, they were a villanous rabble, these 
 artillerymen of the Commune. The gunners of 
 the occasion thought of nothing except how to 
 spend their three francs and a half of extra pay. 
 You should have seen the life they led in that 
 cemetery ! They piled in together to sleep in the 
 vaults. They occupied the Morny tomb and the 
 Favronne, that beautiful tomb where the Emperor's 
 nurse is interred. They cooled their wine in the 
 Champeaux tomb, where there is a fountain. They 
 brought in women, and all night long they drank 
 and made merry. Ah ! I can assure you that our 
 dead must have heard curious things. 
 
 " All the same, in spite of their want of skill 
 those bandits did not a little harm to Paris. Their 
 position was admirable. From time to time they 
 would receive orders, — 
 
 " ' Fire upon the Louvre ! ' ' Fire upon the 
 Palais-Royal ! ' 
 
 " Then their old leader would direct the guns, and 
 shells filled with petroleum descended upon the 
 city at random. What was going on elsewhere 
 below, none of us could tell. We heard the 
 fusillade coming nearer and nearer, but the Com- 
 munists were not in the least disturbed about that. 
 With the battery-fires of Chaumont, Montmartre, 
 and Pere-Lachaise, it did not seem possible to them 
 that the Versailles forces could advance. But that 
 which sobered them a little was the first shell 
 
174 Monday Tales. 
 
 which a naval regiment sent our way on arriving 
 upon the hill at Montmartre. 
 
 " They had expected it so little ! I myself was in 
 their midst, leaning against the Morny monument, 
 and smoking my pipe. Seeing the bombs coming, 
 I had no more than time enough to throw myself 
 upon the ground. At first our gunners believed it 
 was a false aim, or that some one of their colleagues 
 was drunk, but I can tell you, at the end of five 
 minutes another flash from Montmartre, and another 
 plum of the same sort arrived, aimed straighter 
 than the first. That very moment these jolly 
 blades dropped their guns and their mitrailleuse, 
 and took to their heels without ceremony. The 
 cemetery was not large enough to hold them. 
 They cried as they ran, ' We are betrayed ! We 
 are betrayed ! ' 
 
 " The old man alone remained there, exposed to 
 all the fire, worked like the very devil in the midst 
 of his battery, and wept with rage to see that his 
 gunners had all fled. 
 
 " However, towards evening, when paytime 
 arrived, a few of them returned. Look, Monsieur, 
 upon my sentry-box ; the names of those who re- 
 turned to get their money that night are still here." 
 The old man called their names, inscribing them as 
 he did so. 
 
 " ' Sidaine, present ; Chondeyras, present ; Billot \ 
 Volt 'on— ' 
 
 " As you see, there are not more than four or five, 
 but they had brought women with them. Ah ! I 
 shall never forget that evening they were paid. 
 
The Battle of Pere-Lachaise. 175 
 
 Below, Paris was in flames, the Hdtel de Ville, the 
 Arsenal, the public granaries. In Pere-Lachaise 
 one could see as plainly as by daylight. The Com- 
 munists attempted to return to their guns, but 
 there were not enough of them; and besides, 
 Montmartre terrified them. So they retreated into 
 a tomb, and began to drink and to sing with their 
 wenches. The old man had seated himself between 
 those two great stone figures that stand at the 
 portal of the Favronne tomb, and his face was 
 terrible to behold as he watched Paris burning. 
 He looked as though he knew his last night had 
 come. 
 
 " After that moment I scarcely know just what 
 happened. I returned to my own quarters, — that 
 little shanty which you see yonder, hidden among 
 the branches. I was very tired, and I threw myself 
 upon the bed, still dressed, keeping my lamp 
 lighted as though it was a stormy night. Suddenly 
 rough knocking was heard at the door. My wife 
 went to open it, all in a tremble. We thought it 
 was the Communists, but they were marines, — a 
 commandant, ensigns, and a physician. They said 
 to me, — 
 
 " ' Get up ; make us some coffee.' 
 
 " I got up ; I made their coffee. A murmur was 
 heard in the cemetery, an indistinct movement as 
 if all the dead had awakened for the last Judgment- 
 day. The officers drank very quickly, all standing ; 
 then they took me out with them. 
 
 " The cemetery was filled with soldiers and sailors. 
 I was placed at the head of a squad, and we began 
 
1 76 Monday Tales. 
 
 to search the cemetery, tomb after tomb. From 
 time to time, when the soldiers saw something 
 stirring in the foliage, they would fire a shot towards 
 the end of a walk, and it would graze a bust, or 
 pass through some grating. Here and there they 
 discovered some poor wretch hiding in the corner 
 of a chapel. They made short work of him. That 
 was what was in store for my artillery-men. I 
 found them all, men and women huddled about my 
 sentry-box, the old fellow with the medals standing 
 beside them. It was no pleasant sight in that cold 
 gray dawn. Brrr ! But what stirred me most was 
 to see a long line of the national guards, who at this 
 very moment were being led from the prison of La 
 Roquette, where they had passed the night. They 
 climbed the broad pathway slowly, like a funeral 
 procession. Not a word, not a complaint could be 
 heard. These unfortunates were utterly crushed, 
 exhausted. There were some who were asleep 
 while they marched, and even the thought that 
 they were about to die did not seem to awaken 
 them. They were forced to march on to the ex- 
 tremity of the cemetery, and the fusillade began. 
 One hundred forty-seven of them there were. You 
 can imagine whether it lasted very long. And 
 that is what is called the battle of Pere-Lachaise." 
 
 Here the worthy man, perceiving his sergeant, 
 left me quite abruptly, and I remained there alone, 
 looking at his sentry-box and those names written 
 upon it, by the light of Paris in flames, — the names 
 of those who had returned to receive their last 
 pay. 
 
The Battle of Pere-Lachaise. 177 
 
 I pictured that night in May, pierced with shells, 
 red with blood and flames, that great, lonely ceme-' 
 tery illuminated like some city on a day of festi- 
 val, the guns left in the middle of the paths 
 around the open vaults, — that orgy in the tombs, 
 while near-by, surrounded by innumerable domes, 
 columns, and stone images, which seemed alive in 
 the light of those leaping flames, was that bust 
 with the broad forehead, and the large eyes, — the 
 Sust of Balzac regarding the scene. 
 
1 78 Monday Tales. 
 
 THE LITTLE PAT£S 
 
 I. 
 
 THAT Sunday morning, the pastry-cook Sureau, 
 of the Rue Turenne called his apprentice and said 
 to him,-— 
 
 " Here are Monsieur Bonnicar's little patis. 
 Carry them to him, and return at once, for they 
 say the army from Versailles has entered Paris." 
 
 The boy, who understood nothing of politics, 
 put the pates, still warm, into his tart-dish, the tart- 
 dish in a white napkin, and balancing pates, dish, 
 and all upon his cap, set out on a run for lie Saint- 
 Louis, where Monsieur Bonnicar resided. The 
 morning was glorious, sunshine everywhere, — 
 that warm May sunshine that fills the fruit shops 
 with bunches of lilacs and clusters of cherries. 
 
 In spite of the distant fusillade and the bugle 
 calls at street-corners, all that venerable quarter of 
 the Marais preserved its peaceful physiognomy. 
 There was a suggestion of Sabbath in the air; 
 voices of children were heard in the courtyards, tall 
 girls were playing shuttlecock in front of their 
 doors, and that little white outline trotting along 
 the deserted street, a delicious perfume of hot pate 
 accompanying him, succeeded in imparting to this 
 
The Little Pates. 179 
 
 morning of battle, a certain naive and Sunday aspect. 
 All the animation of the quarter seemed to be there 
 in the Rue de Rivoli. Cannons were dragged about, 
 men were working upon the barricades ; at every 
 step one came across groups of the national guards, 
 very much busied. But the pastry-cook's boy did 
 not lose his head. These youngsters are so accus- 
 tomed to making their way through a crowd, so 
 used to the hubbub of the street ! It is on feast- 
 days, when all is noise and bustle, on New Year's 
 Days and Shrove Sundays, that they are kept 
 busiest, running about ; revolutions are scarcely a 
 surprise to them. 
 
 It was really delightful to see that little white 
 cap insinuating its way through kepis and bayonets, 
 avoiding collisions, keeping that tart-dish nicely 
 balanced, sometimes hastening, sometimes com- 
 pelled to move slowly, when one could plainly 
 see it wished to rush on. What did it care about 
 the battle ? The chief thing was to reach the Bon- 
 nicars' just as twelve struck, and to receive as 
 quickly as possible the little pourboire which was 
 waiting there upon a shelf in the anteroom. 
 
 Suddenly the crowd began to push and shove 
 terribly, and the pupils of the Republic passed by 
 at a run, singing. They were from twelve to fifteen 
 years of age, decorated with chassepots, red 
 girdles, and big boots ; no Mardi Gras masquer- 
 aders, running along a muddy boulevard, wearing 
 paper caps and carrying a grotesque pink shred of 
 a parasol, could have been prouder than they to 
 be disguised as soldiers. And this time the jost- 
 
180 Monday Tales. 
 
 ling was so great that the pastry-cook's boy found 
 it difficult to maintain his equilibrium ; but his tart- 
 dish and he had slid along the ice so many times, 
 had taken part in so many games of hop-scotch 
 upon the sidewalk, that the little pat£s had ceased 
 to feel any fear. 
 
 Unfortunately, all that excitement, those songs 
 and red girdles, and his admiring curiosity, sud- 
 denly inspired the pastry-cook's boy with a desire 
 to go farther in such fine company, and passing 
 beyond the Hotel de Ville and the bridges of lie 
 Saint-Louis without even perceiving them, he him- 
 self borne onward, following that dust-stained, wind- 
 swept, mad procession — how far he was carried, I 
 do not know. 
 
 II. 
 
 FOR at least twenty-five years it had been the 
 custom of the Bonnicars to partake of those little 
 pat^s every Sunday. Exactly on the stroke of 
 twelve, when the entire family — large and small 
 — were assembled in the dining-room, a lively, 
 cheery ring of the bell was heard, and every one 
 would say, — 
 
 " Ah ! it is the pastry-cook ! " 
 
 Then there would be great bustling, the move- 
 ment of chairs would be heard, the rustling of 
 Sunday frocks; the children distributed them- 
 selves joyously about the table, already set, and all 
 these happy bourgeois would seat themselves 
 
The Little Pates. 181 
 
 around those little pat6s symmetrically piled upon 
 a silver warming-dish. 
 
 But upon that Sunday the bell remained mute. 
 Scandalized, Monsieur Bonnicar looked at his 
 clock, a venerable affair surmounted by a stuffed 
 heron, a clock which never in its lifetime had been 
 either a moment fast or a moment slow. The 
 children stared through the windows, watching the 
 corner of the street where the pastry-man's appren- 
 tice usually appeared first. Conversation lan- 
 guished, and that hunger which noon with its 
 twelve strokes of the clock usually awakes over- 
 came every one, making the dining-room seem 
 very large, very dreary, in spite of the antique 
 silver gleaming upon the damask cloth, and the 
 napkins twisted in the form of tiny horns, white 
 and stiff. 
 
 Several times already the old servant had come 
 to whisper in her master's ear that the roast was 
 burnt, the little green peas overcooked ; but Mon- 
 sieur Bonnicar was determined not to sit down at 
 table without the little pat6s, and furiously angry 
 with Sureau, he determined to go and learn for 
 himself what this unheard-of delay might mean. 
 As he went out, brandishing his cane and very 
 angry, his neighbors gave him warning, — 
 
 " Look out, Monsieur Bonnicar ! People say 
 the Versaillais have entered Paris." 
 
 But he would hear nothing, not even the sounds of 
 the fusillade, which were coming from Neuilly across 
 the water, not even the alarm-gun of the Hotel de 
 Ville, which shook every window of the quarter. 
 
1 82 Monday Tales. 
 
 " Oh ! that Sureau ! that Sureau ! " 
 
 And in the excitement and speed of his walk he 
 talked to himself, imagining that he was already in 
 the middle of the shop, hammering the floor with 
 his cane, making the glass of the showcase and the 
 plates of pium-cake tremble. The barricade of 
 Pont Louis-Philippe interrupted his anger for a 
 moment. Some Communists with ferocious mien 
 were there, sprawling in the sunlight upon the 
 pavement, whose stones had been removed. 
 
 11 Where are you going, citizen? " 
 
 The citizen explained, but the story of the little 
 pat6s appeared to arouse suspicion, especially as 
 M. Bonnicar wore his fine Sunday-coat, his gold 
 spectacles, and had every appearance of being an 
 old re actio nnaire. 
 
 " He is a spy," said the f/de're's, " he must be sent 
 to Rigault." 
 
 Whereupon, very willingly, four men who were 
 not at all sorry to leave the barricade drove the 
 exasperated and wretched man before them with 
 the butt-ends of their guns. I do not know how 
 they managed it, but half an hour later they 
 were all captured by the Line, and were sent to 
 join a long file of prisoners who were about to 
 be marched to Versailles. M. Bonnicar protested 
 more and more, raised his cane, and related his 
 tale for the hundredth time. Unfortunately, that 
 story concerning the little pates appeared so ab- 
 surd, so incredible, in the midst of the great 
 upheaval of the city, that the officers merely 
 smiled at it. 
 
The Little Pates. 18 
 
 " That 's a fine story, old fellow. You shall ex- 
 plain all about it at Versailles." 
 
 And through the Champs £lys6es, white with 
 the smoke of repeated firings, the column moved 
 on between two lines of chasseurs. 
 
 III. 
 
 The prisoners marched five abreast, their ranks 
 closed and compact. To prevent the procession 
 from scattering, they were compelled to walk arm 
 in arm, and as the long column passed on, that 
 human herd trampling the dust of the road, the 
 sound resembled that of a heavy rain-storm. 
 
 The unhappy Bonnicar believed he must be 
 dreaming. Panting, perspiring, dizzy with fear and 
 fatigue, he dragged himself on at the end of the 
 column, between two old hags who reeked of petro- 
 leum and brandy, and those about him who heard 
 those words, " pastry-cook," " little pat£s," repeated 
 again and again, amid imprecations, thought he had 
 gone mad. 
 
 And indeed the poor man had lost his head. As 
 they ascended the road, descended it again, when 
 the ranks of the procession would open a little, did 
 he not fancy he saw yonder, in the dust which filled 
 the open space, the white jacket and the cap of 
 that boy of Sureau's? And ten times at least M. 
 Bonnicar seemed to see him upon the road. That 
 tiny white flash passed before his eyes, as if to 
 
1 84 Monday Tales, 
 
 mock him, then it would disappear again in the 
 midst of a surging multitude of figures, some clad 
 in uniforms, some in blouses, and others in tatters. 
 At last, just at sunset, they arrived at Versailles, 
 and when the crowd saw that old, spectacled bour- 
 geois, haggard, untidy, and covered with dust, with 
 one accord they discovered that he was a scoun- 
 drel of the deepest dye. They said, " It is Felix 
 Pyat — no ! it is Delescluze." 
 
 The chasseurs of the escort had some difficulty 
 in conducting him safe and sound to the courtyard 
 of the Orangerie. There for the first time that 
 wretched procession was allowed to scatter, to 
 stretch their limbs on the ground, and to regain 
 their breath. Some were half asleep, others were 
 swearing, coughing, weeping. But Bonnicar nei- 
 ther wept nor slept. Seated upon a stone stairway, 
 his head buried in his hands, three fourths of him 
 dead from hunger, shame, and fatigue, his mind 
 reverted to all the incidents of that unhappy day, 
 his departure from home, his companions at table 
 anxiously waiting, the table standing until evening, 
 expecting him still, and then the humiliation, the 
 injuries, those gun-butts directed at him, and all 
 this merely on account of an unpunctual pastry- 
 cook ! 
 
 " Monsieur Bonnicar ! here are your little pates ! " 
 a voice near-by suddenly exclaimed; and raising 
 his head, the worthy man was much surprised 
 when he saw that pastry-cook's boy of Sureau's — 
 who, it seems, had been captured along with the 
 pupils of the Republic — uncover and present to 
 
The Little Pates. 185 
 
 him the tart-dish concealed behind his white 
 apron ! And thus it happened that, in spite of 
 the ^meute and imprisonment, upon this Sabbath 
 as on every other, Monsieur Bonnicar ate his little 
 pates. 
 
1 86 Monday Tales, 
 
 ABOARD: A MONOLOGUE. 
 
 Two hours ago every light was extinguished, 
 every porthole closed. On the lower gun-deck, 
 which serves us for sleeping-room, all is dark, op- 
 pressive, and stifling. I hear my comrades turning 
 about in their hammocks, dreaming aloud, and 
 groaning in their sleep. These days spent in utter 
 idleness, where only the brain works until it is 
 weary, lead to 'restless nights of fevered slumber, 
 from which one starts again and again. And even 
 that slumber will not come to me. I cannot sleep ; 
 my thoughts will not let me. 
 
 On the deck above the rain is falling. The 
 wind is high. From time to time, when the watch 
 changes, a bell at the bow of the ship rings through 
 the fog. Every time I hear it I am reminded of 
 Paris, and the six o'clock bell ringing in the fac- 
 tories all about us. There are plenty of factories 
 in our neighborhood. I see our little lodging, the 
 children returning from school, the mother seated 
 in the back of the workshop, just finishing some- 
 thing which she holds up to the window, availing 
 herself of the last bit of the waning daylight, until 
 she comes to the end of her thread. Alas ! what is 
 to become now of everything there ? 
 
 Perhaps it would have been better for me to take 
 them with me, since I had permission. But then, 
 
Aboard: A Monologue, 187 
 
 what could one expect? They would be so far 
 away from home. I feared the effect of the 
 voyage and change of climate upon the children. 
 And then we would have had to sell our stock of 
 trimmings, our little property brought together 
 with such effort, collected piece by piece for ten 
 years. And my boys could not have gone to school 
 any longer. And their mother would have been 
 compelled to live among a parcel of trulls ! No, 
 indeed ! I would rather endure it all alone. And 
 yet when I climb to the deck above, and see all 
 those families seated there, as if they were quite at 
 home, the mothers sewing, the children clinging to 
 their skirts, I could almost cry every time. 
 
 The wind increases, the sea swells. The frigate 
 sails on, pitching sidewise ; the masts creak, the 
 sails crack. We must be going very quickly. So 
 much the better. I am almost anxious now to 
 reach that lie des Pins, the mere thought of which 
 terrified me so when I was sentenced. It will be 
 the end of my journey, it will be a resting-place. 
 And I am so weary. There are moments when all 
 that I have seen during the past twenty months 
 rises before my eyes again, and makes my head 
 swim. The Prussian siege, the ramparts, the drill, 
 the clubs, the civil interments, immortelles in one's 
 button-hole, the addresses at the foot of the Col- 
 umn, the feasts of the Commune at the Hotel de 
 Ville, the reviews of Cluseret, those sorties, the 
 battle, the station at Clamart, and all those low 
 walls where we knelt to fire upon the gendarmes ; 
 and then Satory, the prison-hulks, the police, the 
 
1 88 Monday Tales. 
 
 transportations from one ship to another, the goings 
 and comings which made one ten times a prisoner 
 in exchanging prisons ; and lastly the chamber of 
 the Council of War, with all those officers in 
 full dress, seated at the rear, in the shape of a 
 horseshoe, and then those prisoners' barges, the 
 embarkation, the farewell, — all these are jumbled, 
 confused in that bewildered state which comes after 
 tossing about a few days at sea. 
 
 Oh! 
 
 Hardship, dust, and what else besides I do not 
 know, have covered my face, like a mask. It 
 seems to me that I have not washed for ten years. 
 
 Ah, yes ! it will seem good indeed to set foot 
 somewhere, to halt at last. They say that when I 
 get there I shall have a bit of ground, tools, a 
 little house. A little house ! yes, we dreamed of 
 such a one, my wife and I, on the hill at Saint 
 Mand6, a little, low house, with a garden spread 
 in front like an open drawer, full of vegetables 
 and flowers. There on Sundays, from morning 
 till night, we would have taken our airing, sunned 
 ourselves for the whole week to come, and when 
 the children were grown, and each had learned his 
 trade, there we would have retired to enjoy a 
 peaceful old age. Ah, poor fool, see where you 
 are now ! on the retired list to be sure, and you 
 will have your house in the country ! 
 
 Oh, misery ! when I think that politics was the 
 cause of it all ! And I always mistrusted their in- 
 fernal politics, was always afraid of it. At first I 
 was not rich, and with my stock to pay for I had 
 
Aboard: A Monologue. 189 
 
 not much time for reading the papers, or listening 
 to all the fine speakers at different meetings. But 
 the cursed siege came, and the national guard, — 
 nothing to do but to brawl and to drink. Of course 
 I must go to their clubs with the others, and all 
 their fine words ended by turning my head, — 
 " The working-man's rights ! The welfare of the 
 People ! " 
 
 When the Commune came, I believed that the 
 Golden Age for the poor had arrived. Not long 
 after, I was made a captain, and as all the staff 
 must have new clothes, all that lace, those frogs 
 and aiguillettes gave plenty of work to our es- 
 tablishment. Later, when I saw how things were 
 going, I wanted to get out of it all, but I was afraid 
 every one would think me a coward. 
 
 What are they doing now overhead? I hear a 
 rumbling sound — a voice through the speaking- 
 tubes. Jack-boots are tramping the slippery deck. 
 These sailors, what hard lives they lead ! There 
 is the quartermaster's whistle, rousing them from 
 their sleep. They climb upon the deck, not yet 
 awake, and moist with sweat. They must hurry 
 to and fro, in the dark, in the cold. The boards 
 are slippery, the riggings are frozen, and cause the 
 hands that cling to them to smart. And while 
 they hang there upon the yard-arms, between the 
 sky and the sea, hauling those great stiffened sails, 
 a sudden squall seizes them, sweeps them off, and 
 scatters them upon the high sea, as though they 
 were merely a flock of sea-gulls. Ah ! a sailor's 
 life is somewhat rougher than that of a Paris work* 
 
1 90 Monday Tales. 
 
 ing-man, and not as well paid. And yet these 
 fellows do not complain, do not rebel at it. They 
 look perfectly content, their clear eyes are resolute 
 enough ; and how they respect those who command 
 them ! It is plain to see that they have not fre- 
 quented our clubs ! 
 
 This is a storm indeed ! The frigate tosses 
 horribly, — leaping and creaking in all her timbers. 
 Floods of water pour upon the deck, with a roar 
 like thunder; after that, for five minutes at least, 
 tiny gutters overflow on every side. There is a 
 sudden stir about me. Some are sea-sick, others 
 are afraid. 
 
 This enforced immobility in the hour of danger 
 is the worst form of imprisonment. And to think 
 that while we are huddled here like so many cattle, 
 groping and tossed about in this sinister tumult 
 which surrounds us, so many of those charming 
 sons of the Commune with gilt tassels and red 
 plastrons — all those play soldiers* cowards who 
 drove us to the front — are placidly enjoying them- 
 selves in their caf<£s, in theatres at London, Geneva, 
 and so near France. When I think of that it 
 makes me furious. 
 
 Upon the gun-deck, all are awake now. They 
 call from hammock to hammock, and as all of 
 them are Parisians, they begin to joke and laugh, 
 and chaff each other. I pretend I am still asleep 
 so that they may let me alone. How horrible, 
 what torture it is never to have a moment to one's 
 self, to live in such a hive as this, to be obliged 
 to grow angry when these others are, to talk as 
 
Aboard: A Monologue. 191 
 
 they talk, make believe one hates what he does 
 not, — all this that he need not be taken for a spy. 
 And that endless, endless jesting of theirs ! Good 
 Lord ! what a sea ! Surely the gale is hollowing 
 out great black chasms, into which the frigate 
 plunges as it is whirled onward. Yes, surely, it 
 was best that I did not take them with me. It is 
 good to think in this hour that they are at home, 
 safely sheltered in our little chamber. Deep in the 
 gloom of the gun-deck, I fancy I catch the gleam 
 from a lamp ; it seems to fall upon the foreheads 
 of the children, fast asleep ; and their mother, lean- 
 ing over them, muses, and works the while. 
 
192 Monday Tales. 
 
 THE FAIRIES OF FRANCE. 
 A FANTASTIC TALE. 
 
 "The prisoner may rise," said the presiding 
 judge. 
 
 There was a sudden stir upon that hideous bench, 
 where were seated the women accused of trying to 
 set fire to the city with petroleum. A misshapen, 
 shivering creature rose and leaned against the bar. 
 She was a bundle of rags and tatters, patches, 
 strings, old flowers and feathers, and above them 
 all a poor faded face, brown and shrivelled and 
 wrinkled ; two tiny black eyes peered out from the 
 wrinkles, twisting round and round like some lizard 
 in the crevice of an old wall. 
 
 " What is your name? " she was asked. 
 
 "Melusine — " 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 She repeated very gravely, " Melusine." 
 
 Under the heavy moustache of a colonel of dra- 
 goons quivered a smile which the president con- 
 cealed, and he continued without moving a muscle : 
 
 "Your age?" 
 
 " I have forgotten." 
 
 "Your calling?" 
 
 Mama fairy S " 
 
The Fairies of France. 193 
 
 For one sudden moment the court, the counsel, 
 even the government commissary himself, all burst 
 out laughing ; but that did not disturb her, and her 
 clear, shrill, tremulous voice rose through the hall, 
 and lingered like a voice heard in a dream. She 
 continued, — 
 
 "Ah! the Fairies of France, where are they 
 now? They are dead, all of them, my good sirs. 
 I am the last. After me, none will remain. And 
 in truth it is a great pity, for France was more 
 beautiful when she had still her fairies. We were 
 the poesy of the land, its faith, its candor, and its 
 youth. All our favorite haunts, the hidden recesses 
 of parks, overgrown with brambles, the stones 
 about each fountain, the turrets of ancient castles, 
 the mists shrouding each pool, and the great fens, 
 all received from our presence a nameless magic 
 gift which ennobled them. Through the luminous 
 mist of legend and fantasy might be caught 
 glimpses of us everywhere, trailing our skirts in a 
 ray of the moon, flitting across the meadows, 
 touching the tip of each grass-blade. The country- 
 folk loved us, reverenced us. And fancy bred of 
 innocence adored us, and even feared us a little, 
 when she caught sight of our wands, our distaffs, 
 our foreheads crowned with pearls. And so our 
 springs remained unsullied. Even the plough 
 would pause at the haunts we guarded, and as we, 
 the oldest people in the world, made all respect old 
 age from one end of France to the other, lofty 
 forests were allowed to flourish, and stones crumbled 
 into dust undisturbed. 
 
 13 
 
194 Monday Tales. 
 
 " But the age has progressed. The days of racl- 
 roads have come. Men hollowed out tunnels, filled 
 up our ponds, and hewed down so many trees that 
 we no longer knew where we might rest. And by 
 degrees the country-folk themselves ceased to be- 
 lieve in us. One evening, -when we knocked at his 
 shutters, Robin said, " It is only the wind," and fell 
 asleep again. Women came to dabble their washing 
 in our pools. From that day all was ended for us. 
 As we lived only in the popular faith, losing that 
 we lost all. The virtue of our wands has vanished. 
 Puissant queens we once were ; now we appear to be 
 old, old women merely, wrinkled, malicious, as are all 
 forgotten fairies. Moreover, we must win our bread, 
 and with hands that never yet learned to do aught. 
 For a time we were to be seen in the forests, drag- 
 ging loads of dead wood, or gleaning by the roadside. 
 But the foresters were hard with us, the country- 
 folk threw stones at us. Then, like the poor, when 
 they can no longer earn their living in the country, 
 we departed to seek work in the great cities. 
 
 " Some went into the mills, others sold apples at 
 the bridges during the winter, stood at the church- 
 doors selling beads. We pushed carts of oranges 
 along, we offered to passers-by at a sou apiece bou- 
 quets that nobody wanted. The children mocked 
 at us because of our hanging chins, the police made 
 us move on, and omnibuses knocked us down. 
 Then came sickness, privations, the hospital-sheet 
 over us. That is how France has left her fairies to 
 die. She has been punished for that. 
 
 " Yes, yes, smile, my good people. But, all the 
 
The Fairies of France, 195 
 
 same, we have seen what a country without fairies 
 may become. We have seen our well-fed, sneering 
 peasants open their chests for the Prussians, and 
 direct them along our roads. You see, Robin no 
 longer believes in sorcery, but he has also lost his 
 faith in his country. Ah ! if we had been there, 
 we fairies, of all those Germans who entered France, 
 not one should have returned alive. Our draks, 
 our will-o'-the-wisps would have led them into the 
 quagmires. Into every pure spring named for us 
 we would have poured an enchanted potion that 
 would have made them go mad. And at our meet- 
 ings by moonlight, with a single magic word we 
 would have confused the roads and rivers for them, 
 entangled so thick with brambles and briars those 
 hiding-places in the woods where they were always 
 squatting that even the little cat-eyes of Monsieur 
 de Moltke could not have told him where he was. 
 Had we been there, the peasants too would have 
 marched to fight. From the gorgeous flowers 
 about our pools, we would have extracted balms to 
 heal many a wound ; gossamer-threads we would 
 have used for lint, and on the battle-field the sol- 
 dier would have beheld the fairy of his own canton 
 hovering above his half-closed eyelids, to show him 
 some glade, some hidden byway that might remind 
 him of his native land. So we should have waged 
 a national war, a holy war. But alas ! in a country 
 whose faith is dead, a land that no longer believes 
 in fairies, such a war is impossible." 
 
 Here the thin, shrill voice paused for a moment 
 and the judge interposed a word, — 
 
196 Monday Tales. 
 
 " All this does not tell us what you were doing 
 with the petroleum that was found upon you when 
 the soldiers arrested you." 
 
 " I was setting fire to Paris, my good sir," 
 answered the old " fairy," calmly enough. " I was 
 setting fire to Paris — because I hate it, because 
 its laugh spares nothing, because it is Paris that 
 slew us, Paris that has sent its savants to ana- 
 lyze our beautiful, miraculous springs, and to say 
 exactly how much iron and sulphur they contain, 
 Paris that has mocked at us from its theatres. Of 
 our enchantments it has made mere stage tricks, 
 our miracles it has perverted into vulgar jests. So 
 many vile beings have masqueraded in our rose- 
 tinted robes, sat in our winged chariots, with Ben- 
 gal fires for moonlight, that no one can think of us 
 now without a smile. Once little children knew 
 us by name, loved us, feared us a little, but instead 
 of the beautiful gilded books full of pictures, 
 wherein they learned to know our history, Paris 
 to-day places in their hands Science adapted to 
 children, big, musty volumes which make their 
 heads tired and fill their baby-eyes with a dull 
 dust that effaces every image of our enchanted 
 palaces and magic mirrors. Oh, yes ! I should 
 have been overjoyed to see it in flames — your 
 Paris. It was I that filled the cans of the petroleum- 
 women, I myself that led them to the best places, 
 saying, 'Come, my children, burn everything, — 
 burn! burn!'" 
 
 "Decidedly this old woman is mad," said the 
 judge. " Lead her away." 
 
PART II. 
 
 CAPRICES AND SOUVENIRS. 
 
CAPRICES AND SOUVENIRS. 
 
 A BOOK-KEEPER. 
 
 " Br-R-R ! how foggy it is ! " said the good man, 
 as he stepped into the street. He pulled up his 
 collar quickly, drew his muffler over his chin, and 
 with bent head, and hands buried in his back- 
 pockets, he set out for his office, whistling as he 
 went. 
 
 And foggy indeed it was. In the streets this 
 fog is not so noticeable ; in the heart of a great 
 city it vanishes as quickly as the snow does. 
 Roofs intercept it, walls absorb it, some of it finds a 
 way into the houses every time the door is opened ; 
 it clings to the steps, making them slippery and 
 the railings humid. The rolling of carriages, the 
 coming and going of passers-by — those poor way- 
 farers of early morning, always in haste — cut the 
 fog, scatter it, and carry some of it onward. It 
 clings to the shabby, scant clothing of petty 
 clerks on their way to work ; it clings to the water- 
 proofs of shop-girls, to their flimsy little veils, to 
 the big oil-cloth boxes in which they carry their 
 work. But on the still deserted quays, upon the 
 bridges, the banks, the river, rests a heavy mist, 
 opaque, immovable; through it the sun is rising 
 
200 Monday Tales, 
 
 yonder, behind Notre-Dame, its light dimmed as 
 that of a watch-lamp seen through a globe of 
 ground glass. 
 
 In spite of the wind and the fog, the man of 
 whom we have already spoken passes along the 
 quays, never for a moment leaving them ; he could 
 have taken another road, but the river appeared to 
 have some mysterious attraction for him. It afforded 
 him a species of delight to walk along the parapets, 
 graze those stone railings worn by the elbows of 
 many a lounger. At that hour, in such weather, 
 loungers were few. But here and there a woman 
 carrying a bundle of linen rests against the para- 
 pet, or some poor devil, leaning upon his elbows, 
 hangs over the water with an air of weariness. 
 And the man as he passes on looks about, watch- 
 ing them curiously, and then casts a glance towards 
 the water as if some hidden chain of thought linked 
 tin se people with the river itself. 
 
 And the river was not a cheerful sight that morn- 
 ing. The fog rising between its waves seemed to 
 make it heavier. The dark roofs rising above its 
 banks, the reflection of all those irregular chimney- 
 tops, leaning and cutting each other on the river's 
 surface, made one think of some dismal factory 
 located at the bottom of the Seine, and sending all 
 its smoke aloft to Paris in fog. But our worthy 
 man seems to find nothing sad in the sight. The 
 moisture penetrates every portion of his body, he 
 has not a dry thread of clothing, but he continues 
 on his way whistling, a happy smile upon his lips. 
 Long ago he became accustomed to the Seine 
 
A Book-keeper. 201 
 
 fogs. And then, he knows that when he reaches 
 his destination he will find his pleasant fur-lined 
 foot-warmer, a roaring stove awaiting him, and the 
 warm little plate in which he makes his breakfast 
 every morning. These are the pleasures of an 
 employ^, such are the only joys of these im- 
 prisoned and stunted beings whose whole lives are 
 passed in one little corner. 
 
 " I must not forget to buy some apples," he says 
 to himself again and again, and whistling he hurries 
 on. You never saw any man go to his labor more 
 gayly. 
 
 The quays, and still the quays; then comes a 
 bridge, and now he has passed to the rear of Notre- 
 Dame. At this point of the Island the fog is 
 thicker than ever. It rises on three sides at once, 
 partly obscures the high towers, gathers at the 
 corner of the bridge, as if there were something 
 there it would conceal. The man pauses. This is 
 the place. 
 
 Not too plainly may be distinguished sinister 
 and shadowy figures, squatting upon the sidewalk, 
 who seem to await something. And as at the 
 railings of hospitals and squares, here also may 
 be seen flat baskets outspread with their rows of 
 cakes, oranges, and apples. Oh ! those beautiful 
 apples, — so fresh, so rosy, with the mist upon 
 them. He fills his pockets with them, smiling 
 at the vendor, who sits shivering, her feet upon 
 her foot-stove. Then he opens a door shrouded 
 in fog, and crosses a little yard where a cart is 
 standing harnessed. 
 
202 Monday Tales. 
 
 " Anything for us?" he asks as he passes. The 
 wagoner replies, — 
 
 " Yes, sir, and something pretty this time." 
 
 He enters his office quickly. How comfortable 
 and warm it is within ! In a corner the stove 
 roars ; his foot-warmer is in its place ; his little 
 arm-chair awaits him in the brightest part of the 
 room, by the window ; the fog curtains its panes, 
 making a subdued; even light, and big books with 
 green backs, stand in a methodical row upon their 
 rack. A genuine notary's cabinet. 
 
 The man breathes freely. He is at home. 
 
 Before setting to work he opens a great closet, 
 brings out his lustrine sleeves which he puts on 
 carefully, draws forth a little, red earthen-ware 
 plate and some lumps of sugar, which came from 
 some cafe, and begins to peel his apples, gazing 
 about him with a satisfied air. And surely it would 
 have been impossible anywhere to find a cheer- 
 fuller, brighter office, or one more orderly in every 
 arrangement. But there was one singular thing, 
 and that was the sound of water which one could 
 not help hearing on every side — water everywhere, 
 enveloping you as though you were in the cabin 
 of a ship. Below lay the Seine, roaring, dashing 
 against the arches of the bridge, breaking in bil- 
 lows of foam at that point of the lie, always en- 
 cumbered with planks and piles and wreckage. 
 And even within and around the office there was 
 the drip ! drip ! of water thrown in pitcherfuls, the 
 plash of water washing heavily upon something 
 within. Why, I know not, but the very sound of 
 
A Book-keeper. 203 
 
 that water made one shiver just to hear it. One 
 felt that it fell upon a hard floor, upon great slabs, 
 upon marble tables which made it still colder than 
 before. 
 
 What, then, do they wash again and again in this 
 strange house? What ineffaceable stain is here? 
 
 At moments, when the splashing ceases below, 
 drops are heard falling one by one as after a thaw 
 or a heavy rain. One might think that the fog 
 gathered upon roofs and walls were melting from 
 the heat of the stove, and trickling ceaselessly. 
 
 But the man takes no notice of it. He is com- 
 pletely absorbed in his apples, which begin to sing 
 in the red earthen-ware plate, exhaling a delicate 
 perfume of caramel ; and that delightful song pre- 
 vents his hearing the drip of the water, the sinister 
 drip of the water. 
 
 "Whenever you choose, recorder," speaks a 
 husky voice from a side-room. He glances at his 
 apples, and leaves the room regretfully. Where is 
 he going? Through the door which opens for a 
 minute, comes a chilly and unwholesome breath, 
 smelling of reeds and marshes, and there is seen 
 what seems to be a glimpse of clothes drying upon 
 a line, faded blouses, smocks, a calico robe hang- 
 ing at full length by the sleeves, and dripping, 
 dripping. 
 
 That part disposed of, he returns to his office, 
 and places upon his table a few small articles soaked 
 with water ; and, chilled, he turns towards the stove 
 to warm his hands, which are red with cold. 
 
 " Any one must be crazy to choose such weather 
 
204 Monday Tales. 
 
 as this," he says with a shiver ; " what ails them all, 
 I wonder?" 
 
 And as he is warm again, and his sugar has 
 begun to form little crystal drops around his plate, 
 he sits down to eat his breakfast upon a corner of 
 his desk. As he eats, he opens one of his registers, 
 and turns its leaves complacently. The big book 
 is so well kept! — ruled lines, entries in blue ink, 
 minute reflections of gold powder, blotters at every 
 page, care and order apparent everywhere. It 
 seems that his business is thriving, for the worthy 
 man's face wears a satisfied air, like that of an ac- 
 countant after an annual stock-taking that has 
 turned out well. And while he turns over the 
 pages of his book with delight, the doors of the 
 side-chamber open, the sound of many footsteps is 
 heard upon the flagstones, and voices saying in a 
 half-whisper, as if in church, — 
 
 " Oh ! how young she is ! What a pity ! " 
 
 And they elbow and push forward, whispering 
 still. 
 
 What does it matter to him that she is young? 
 Tranquilly finishing his apples, he sets before him 
 the articles he brought in a little while ago. A 
 thimble, full of sand, a pocketbook with a single 
 sou in it, a little pair of rusty scissors, so rusty that 
 they will never be used again, oh ! never again ; 
 the little book which registers her as working-girl 
 — its leaves glued together ; a tattered letter, 
 almost effaced, of which may be deciphered a few 
 words : " The child ... no money ... a month's 
 nursing ..." 
 
A Book-keeper. 205 
 
 The book-keeper shrugs his shoulders with an 
 air that seems to say, — 
 
 " We have heard that before." Then he takes 
 his pen, brushes away carefully the crumbs of 
 bread which have fallen upon his ledger, makes a 
 movement preparatory to placing his fingers in 
 good position, and in his best hand writes the 
 name he has just deciphered upon the mouldy 
 book. 
 
 FUicie Rameau y burnisher : age, seventeen years. 
 
2o6 Monday Tales. 
 
 "WITH THE THREE HUNDRED THOU- 
 SAND FRANCS WHICH GIRARDIN 
 PROMISED ME!" 
 
 After a two hours' walk in Paris, when you 
 had left home with light tread, and gay-hearted, 
 have you never returned out of sorts, depressed by 
 a sadness for which you could ascribe no cause, an 
 incomprehensible weariness? You ask yourself 
 what ails you, but seek in vain for an answer to the 
 question. Your walk had led you through pleas- 
 ant paths; it was dry underfoot, and the sun 
 shone brightly, and yet your heart is touched with 
 a pain and sorrow that linger like the memory of 
 some past grief. 
 
 For in this mighty Paris, with its multitude of 
 people who feel themselves free and unobserved, 
 it is impossible to take a step without jostling 
 against some intrusive misery that bespatters the 
 passer-by, leaving its ineffaceable mark. I am 
 speaking not merely of those misfortunes with 
 which we are familiar, in which we are interested, 
 of those disappointments of some friend, which 
 seem in some slight degree our disappointments 
 also, which oppress our hearts with a pang almost 
 of remorse when we encounter them suddenly; 
 neither do I speak of the troubles of those for 
 
Three Hundred Thousand Francs, 207 
 
 whom we feel mere indifference, to whom we listen 
 with one ear only, scarcely suspecting that we are 
 distressed at all ; I speak of those sorrows which 
 are quite alien to our lives, of which we catch only a 
 passing, momentary glimpse while rambling about 
 through the crowded streets. 
 
 Fragments of dialogues are heard, interrupted 
 by the noise of vehicles ; some of these wayfarers 
 are preoccupied, deaf, and dumb ; they soliloquize 
 loudly, with wild gestures ; their eyes glitter fever- 
 ishly, and their shoulders droop from weariness. 
 Others there are whose pale faces are swollen with 
 weeping, black-veiled mourners whose recent tears 
 are scarcely dried. And then those trivial details 
 which seem to elude notice ! That figure whose 
 well-worn coat, shiny from frequent brushings, 
 shuns the bright daylight ; another seated beneath 
 a porch turning a barrel-organ that has lost its 
 notes ; a hunchback who wears about her neck a 
 velvet ribbon, stiffly tied between her misshapen 
 shoulders. You sight these unfortunates, strangers 
 to you, merely for a moment, and forget them as 
 you pass on, but they have brushed against you, 
 you have felt some passing contact with their 
 wretchedness, your very garments are impregnated 
 with the weariness that follows in their footsteps, 
 and at the day's end, you feel a restlessness, a sense 
 of depression; for at some street-corner, at the 
 threshold of some home, unconsciously you have 
 touched the invisible thread that binds so closely 
 the existence of all these wretched ones that the 
 least shock to one is felt by all. 
 
208 Monday Tales, 
 
 I was thinking of this the other morning, for it 
 is especially during the morning that the misery of 
 Paris may be seen at its worst. I saw, walking in 
 front of me, a poor lean devil in a coat much too 
 small for him, which seemed to make his long legs 
 still longer, and to exaggerate tremendously all his 
 gestures. He was walking very fast, bent almost 
 double, swaying like a tree tossed by the wind. 
 From time to time he would put his hand in one of 
 his back pockets and break off a bit of a small 
 roll concealed there, devouring it furtively, as if 
 ashamed to eat in the street. 
 
 When I see masons seated upon the sidewalks, 
 nibbling the heart of a fine fresh loaf, it gives me 
 an appetite. I envy too, each humble clerk rush- 
 ing back from the bake-shop to his work, pen 
 behind his ear, and his mouth full, quite exhila- 
 rated by this meal in the open air. But this man 
 wore the shamefaced air of one who knows what 
 real hunger means, and it was pitiful to see this 
 unfortunate afraid to eat more than the tiniest 
 morsels of the bread he was crumbling within his 
 pocket. I followed him for a moment, but sud- 
 denly, brusquely, as frequently happens with these 
 dazed beings, the trend of his thought was 
 changed, and turning around, he found himself 
 face to face with me. 
 
 " Holloa, is it you ? " I chanced to recognize 
 him as an acquaintance, one of those fomenters of 
 schemes that spring up in innumerable numbers 
 from the very pavement of Paris, an inventor, a 
 founder of impossible journals, which for a space 
 
Three Hundred Thousand Francs. 209 
 
 make no end of talk in print, and are advertised on 
 every side. Three months ago he had disappeared 
 in a formidable plunge. After a few days' bubbling 
 of the waters where he fell, the surface of the tide 
 was as smooth as ever, the waters closed again, and 
 no one thought further about him. He was dis- 
 turbed at seeing me, and in order to cut short all 
 questioning, and doubtless also to divert attention 
 from his sordid appearance, his half-pennyworth 
 of bread, he began to talk very rapidly, in a tone 
 of assumed gayety. His affairs were progressing 
 finely, finely ! A little at a standstill just at pres- 
 ent, but this would not be for long. At this very 
 moment he was considering a magnificent under- 
 taking, nothing less than a great industrial journal, 
 illustrated ! Much money in it, and a splendid 
 contract, superb advertising ! His face grew more 
 and more animated as he talked. His figure 
 straightened itself. By degrees, he began to as- 
 sume a protecting tone, as though he fancied him- 
 self already seated at his editor's-desk. He even 
 asked me to furnish some articles, adding in a tri- 
 umphant voice, — 
 
 " And you know, it 's an assured thing ; I shall 
 begin with the three hundred thousand francs that 
 Girardin has promised me ! " 
 
 Girardin ! 
 
 That is the name forever upon the tongue of all 
 these visionaries. When I hear it pronounced, I 
 seem to see new quarters, huge buildings never 
 completed, journals just fresh from print, with lists 
 of subscribers and directors. How often I have 
 
2 1 o Monday Tales, 
 
 heard it said of some senseless project, " We must 
 speak about that to Girardin ! " 
 
 And in this poor devil's brain also had come the 
 idea that he must mention his scheme to Girardin ! 
 All night long he had been preparing his plan, 
 figuring upon it. Then he had started out, and as 
 he went on, to his excited fancy it had all looked 
 so fine that at the moment of our encounter it 
 seemed absolutely impossible to him that Girardin 
 could think of refusing that three hundred thous- 
 and francs. And in stating that they had been 
 promised to him the poor wretch told no false- 
 hood, for his words were merely the continuation 
 of his dream. 
 
 While he was talking, we were jostled and pushed 
 against a, wall.. We stood upon the sidewalk of 
 one of those bustling streets leading to the Bourse 
 and the Bank; it was filled with people rushing 
 on distractedly and absorbed in their own affairs, 
 anxious shop-keepers in haste to pay their notes, 
 petty speculators, with coarse faces, hurling quota- 
 tions in each other's ears as they passed by. And 
 listening to all these fine projects in the midst of 
 that crowd, in that quarter where speculation runs 
 riot, where all these players of the game of chance 
 impart their feverish haste to every one, I shud- 
 dered as one might to hear the tale of some ship- 
 wreck recited in mid-ocean. For I saw all that 
 this man was telling me actually written upon the 
 faces of those about us ; all his catastrophes, all his 
 radiant hopes could be read in their wild, dazed 
 eyes. He left me as suddenly as he had accosted 
 
Three Hundred Thousand Francs. 2 1 1 
 
 me, and plunged headlong into that whirl of folly 
 and illusions and lying hopes, all that which men 
 of this sort refer to in a serious tone as " affairs." 
 
 At the end of five minutes I had forgotten him, 
 but at night after I had returned home, when I had 
 dispelled the memory of all the sad sights of the 
 day in shaking the dust of the streets off my feet, 
 I seemed to see again that wan, worried face of the 
 man with his morsel of bread, seemed to see the 
 gesture that emphasized those pompous words, 
 " With the three hundred thousand francs which 
 Girardin has promised me 1 " 
 
2 1 2 Monday Tales. 
 
 ARTHUR. 
 
 Some years ago I occupied a tiny box of a house 
 in the Champs Elysees, in the Passage des Douze- 
 Maisons. Picture to yourself an out-of-the-way 
 corner of that faubourg, nestling in the midst of 
 those great, aristocratic avenues, so cold, -so tran- 
 quil, along which it seems that no one ever passes 
 except in an equipage. Whether the caprice of 
 their owner was some insane freak of avarice or a 
 mania for old things, I do not know, but there in 
 the midst of this beautiful quarter, he had allowed 
 those waste spaces to remain, with little mouldy 
 gardens, low houses crookedly built, the staircase 
 on the outside, and wooden terraces covered with 
 linen spread to dry, rabbit-cages here and there, 
 lean cats, and famished tame crows. Here also 
 had installed themselves mechanics, petty pension- 
 ers, some few artists — the latter always to be 
 found where trees are left — and in addition to all 
 this, there were two or three lodging-houses of 
 sordid aspect, which looked as if begrimed with 
 the poverty of generations. All around was the 
 stir and splendor of the Champs filys^es, an inces- 
 sant rumbling, the clatter of horses' hoofs, and 
 the sound of portes-cochtres opening heavily ; ba- 
 rouches roll by, shaking the portals as they pass, 
 
Arthur, 213 
 
 the muffled sound of pianos and the violins of 
 Mabille Garden are heard ; outlined against the 
 horizon stand great, silent houses, with swelling 
 fronts, their windows shaded with light, silken cur- 
 tains, while behind the tall panes of spotless glass 
 gleam golden candelabra and jardinieres filled 
 with rare flowers. 
 
 To enter that dark passage-way of the Douze- 
 Maisons, standing in the midst of the beautiful 
 scenery of the neighborhood, and lighted at one 
 end by a single street-lamp, seemed like stepping 
 behind the scenes in a theatre. The spangles that 
 decorated all this luxury found a refuge there : 
 liveried lace, the clown's tights, a vagabond world 
 of circus-riders, English ostlers, two tiny postilions 
 of the Hippodrome, with their twin ponies and 
 advertising - placards ; goat-carts, punchinellos, 
 wafer-sellers, and a whole tribe of blind men re- 
 turned at evening, loaded with camp-stools, accor- 
 dions, and bowls. One of these blind men was 
 married while I lived in the passage, and the event 
 was the occasion of a concert which lasted all night 
 long ; a fantastic concert where clarionets, hautboys, 
 hand-organs, and accordions mingled, while that 
 procession paraded the various bridges of Paris, to 
 the droning sound of their various instruments. 
 But ordinarily the passage was very quiet. These 
 nomads of the street never returned till dusk, and 
 then they were tired enough. There was rarely a 
 racket except on Saturday, when Arthur received 
 his week's pay. 
 
 Arthur was my neighbor. A tiny wall, pro- 
 
2 1 4 Monday Tales. 
 
 longed by a trellis, separated my pavilion from the 
 lodging-house in which he dwelt with his wife, and 
 so, in spite of myself, his life and mine came in 
 contact for a time, and every Saturday I was com- 
 pelled, without losing a single word of it all, to lis- 
 ten to the horrible drama so often enacted in the 
 homes of mechanics of this sort, a drama so Paris- 
 ian in its details. It always began the same way. 
 The wife would prepare dinner, the children gath- 
 ering about her. She talked to them in a gentle 
 voice, and was very busy. Seven o'clock, eight 
 o'clock, and no one came. As the hours passed 
 her voice changed in tone, became nervous and 
 tearful. The children grew hungry and sleepy, 
 and began to whine. But the husband did not 
 return. They ate without him. Then, the little 
 brood in bed, the children asleep, she would ap- 
 pear upon the wooden balcony, and I could hear 
 her whisper between her sobs, " Oh, the blackguard, 
 the blackguard ! " 
 
 Neighbors would find her there, and try to 
 sympathize. 
 
 " Come, come, go to bed, Madame Arthur. You 
 know he '11 not be home to-night. It 's pay-day." 
 
 Then advice and gossip would follow. 
 
 " I know what I 'd do if I were in your place. 
 Speak to his employer about it. Why don't 
 you? " 
 
 All this talk merely made her weep the more, 
 but she persisted in hoping and waiting ; and, com- 
 pletely worn out, after every door was shut and the 
 passage silent she would remain there leaning 
 
Arthur. 215 
 
 upon her elbow, believing herself quite alone; 
 absorbed by a single, fixed idea, she would repeat to 
 herself quite loudly the story of all her misfortunes, 
 with the abandon of one who has lived half her life 
 in the streets. They were behindhand with their 
 rent, every tradesman harassed them, the baker 
 refused them bread, — and what would she do if 
 her husband returned again without money? At 
 last she was too weary to do more than count the 
 hours and watch belated passers-by. She would 
 re-enter, but long afterwards, when I thought all 
 was over, I would hear a cough quite close to me 
 upon the balcony. The poor woman was there 
 again. Her restlessness would not permit her to 
 remain within. She peered into the dark street, 
 ruining her eyes, and seeing nothing but her own 
 wretchedness. 
 
 Towards one or two o'clock, and sometimes 
 much later, some one would be heard singing at 
 the end of the lane. Arthur was returning. More 
 frequently than not he would come dragging a 
 boon-companion along with him to the very door, 
 insisting, " Come in, come in." And even at the 
 door he loitered, unable to decide whether or not 
 he would enter, for he knew well what awaited 
 him within. As he climbed the stairs the heavy 
 sound of his footsteps echoed through the silence 
 of the slumbering house, and filled him with an 
 uneasy sensation, not unlike remorse. He talked 
 aloud, pausing before each hovel to remark, " Good 
 evening, Ma'me Weber; good-evening, Ma'me 
 Mathieu." If no one answered, he burst forth with 
 
2 1 6 Monday Tales. 
 
 a volley of abuse, and all the windows opened to 
 return his maledictions. That was what he wished. 
 In his drunken state he loved brawling and noise ; 
 and all this warmed him so that he became quite 
 angry, less afraid to enter, when he reached his 
 own quarters. 
 
 For that moment of entering was a terrible one. 
 
 " Open : it is I." 
 
 Then I would hear the woman's bare feet upon 
 the floor, the striking of matches, and the story the 
 man attempted to tell her as he entered ; it was 
 always the same : his comrades had led him away. 
 " What 's-his-name — you know whom I mean — 
 he works on the railroad — Well ! he — " 
 
 The wife paid not the slightest attention to this. 
 
 " And your money? " 
 
 " There is none left," Arthur's voice would reply. 
 
 " You lie ! " 
 
 And he did. No matter how deeply under the 
 influence of liquor, he always left a few sous un- 
 spent, anticipating the return of his thirst on Mon- 
 day. And it was this small remnant of his week's 
 earnings that she tried to wrest from him. Arthur 
 struggled, disputed the point. 
 
 "Didn't I tell you I drank it all?" he would 
 cry. Without response she would descend upon 
 him with all the strength her indignation and over- 
 strung nerves had gathered. She shook him, ran- 
 sacked, turned his pockets inside out. In a few 
 moments the sound of money rolling upon the 
 ground would be heard ; the woman would grasp 
 it eagerly with a triumphant laugh. 
 
Arthur, 217 
 
 " There ! you see now ! " 
 
 Then followed an oath, the sound of blows 
 descending heavily ; the drunkard was taking his 
 revenge. Once he had set out to beat her, he never 
 paused. All that was vilest, most pernicious in 
 these dreadful pothouse wines mounted to his 
 brain, and those fumes must work off their effects 
 in some way. The woman howled, the last bits of 
 furniture in their hovel were smashed to pieces, the 
 children, startled from their sleep, cried with fright, 
 and all along the passage windows opened, and 
 listeners remarked, — 
 
 " It is Arthur ! It is Arthur ! " Sometimes the 
 father-in-law, an old rag-picker who lived in the 
 neighboring lodging-house, would come to his 
 daughter's rescue. But Arthur would lock the 
 door that he need not be disturbed in his task. 
 Then, through the locked door, a frightful dialogue 
 would ensue between father and son-in-law, and we 
 would catch charming fragments such as these : 
 
 " Your two years in prison were not enough for 
 you, you scoundrel ! " the old man would exclaim. 
 And the drunkard would reply in a superb tone : 
 
 " Well ! — I did spend two years in prison ! 
 What of that? At least I have paid my debt to 
 society ! Try to pay your own." 
 
 It seemed a very simple matter to him : " I stole 
 — you put me in prison. We are quits." 
 
 However, when the old man was too persistent 
 Arthur would grow impatient, open his door, and 
 fall upon father-in-law, mother-in-law, and neigh- 
 bors, and like Punchinello fight the whole world. 
 
2 1 8 Monday Tales. 
 
 And yet he was .not badly disposed. Many a 
 Sabbath, on the day after one of these murderous 
 assaults, this pacified drunkard, with not a sou left 
 for a drink, would pass the day at home. Chairs 
 were brought forth from various rooms. Ma'me 
 Weber, Ma'me Mathieu, and indeed all the lodging- 
 house, would install themselves upon the balcony 
 and converse. Arthur played the agreeable, was 
 the leading spirit ; you would have taken him for 
 one of those model mechanics who are constant 
 attendants at evening-school. He assumed for the 
 occasion a lamb-like, mild voice, declaimed frag- 
 ments of ideas gathered a little from every source, 
 thoughts concerning the rights of the working- 
 man, the tyranny of capital. His poor wife, some- 
 what subdued from the effects of the beating 
 received the night before, regarded him admiringly ; 
 nor was she his only admirer. 
 
 " Ah, that man, Arthur ! if he only would ! " 
 Ma'me Weber often murmured with a sigh. To 
 add the finishing touch, these ladies would ask 
 him to sing. And he would sing that song of M. 
 de Belanger, " The Swallows." Oh ! that throaty 
 voice, full of artificial tears, the working-man's 
 inane sentimentality ! Beneath the tarred-paper, 
 mouldy veranda, old clothes were spread out in 
 every direction, but between the lines a glimpse of 
 the blue sky was seen, and all that vulgar crowd, 
 charmed with the unreality of his attitudinizing, 
 rolled their moistened eyes heavenward. 
 
 But all this did not hinder Arthur from spending 
 his week's pay for drink on the following Saturday 
 
k 
 
2 20 Monday Tales. 
 
 THE THIRD READING. 
 
 As true as my name is B61isaire, and I have my 
 plane in my hand at this moment, if Papa Thiers 
 imagines that the fine lesson he has taught us will 
 be of the slightest use to us, it is because he does n't 
 know the people of Paris. You see, monsieur, 
 they may shoot us wholesale, transport us, export 
 us, add Cayenne to Satory, and pack the prison- 
 ships as close as sardines in a barrel, but the true 
 Parisian loves a riot, and nothing can destroy that 
 taste of his. We have it in our blood. What 
 would you? It isn't politics so much that amuses 
 us, but the noise it makes, the closed workshops, 
 the gatherings, the lounging here and there ; yes, 
 and there's another thing I scarcely know how to 
 explain to you. 
 
 To understand it, one should have been born 
 where I was born, Rue de l'Orillon, in a carpen- 
 ter's work-shop, should have served an apprentice- 
 ship from the time he was eight until he was fifteen 
 years old, trundling a hand-barrow filled with chips 
 along the faubourg. Ah ! well ! I can truly say I 
 had my fill of revolutions in those days. Little 
 though I was then, standing no higher than these 
 boots of mine, — there was nothing lively astir in 
 Paris but I was sure to be found on the spot. And 
 
The Third Reading* 221 
 
 generally I knew in advance what was afoot. 
 When I saw workmen walking arm in arm through 
 the faubourg, taking up the entire sidewalk, while 
 women stood at their doorways, chattering, gesticu- 
 lating, and a great mob of people issued from the 
 barrieres, I said to myself as I wheeled on my chips, 
 " We are in for it now ! Good enough ! some- 
 thing 's up!" 
 
 And in fact there always was. Going home of 
 an evening, I would enter the shop, and find it full 
 of people ; friends of my father's were discussing 
 politics around his bench; some neighbors had 
 brought him in the newspaper, for in those days 
 you could not buy one for a sou, as at present. 
 Those in the same house who wished to take it 
 clubbed together, a number of them, and passed it 
 round from story to story. Papa Belisaire, who 
 was never idle no matter what happened, kept his 
 plane angrily at work as he listened to the latest 
 news, and I remember, too, that on such days as 
 those the moment we seated ourselves at the table 
 the mother never failed to say to us, — 
 
 " Keep quiet, children, your father is out of 
 sorts on account of political affairs." 
 
 You may well believe I did not understand very 
 much of their cursed politics. All the same there 
 were a few words that would force themselves into 
 my head through hearing them so often, as for in- 
 stance, — 
 
 " That rascally Guizot, who has gone to Gand — " 
 
 I did n't understand very clearly who that Guizot 
 was, nor what going " to Gand " might mean, but 
 
222 Monday Tales, 
 
 what odds ! I repeated again and again with the 
 others, — 
 
 " Canaille de Guizot ! canaille de Guizot ! " 
 And I was all the more pleased to refer to that 
 poor Monsieur Guizot as " canaille" on account of. 
 the fact that in my mind I had confounded him 
 with a big scoundrel of a policeman who was on 
 duty at the Rue de l'Orillon, and made my life 
 miserable for me on account of my barrow of chips. 
 There was no love lost between the quarter and 
 that big, red-faced fellow. Children, dogs, every 
 one was at his heels ; there was, however, a wine- 
 seller who used to try to gain him over by slipping 
 a glass of wine to him through a small opening in 
 his shop. The big red face would come nearer 
 and nearer, with an innocent air, and glance from 
 right to left to see that none of his superiors were 
 about, then, as he passed — whew ! I 've never 
 seen any one else toss down a glass of wine as 
 quickly as he did ! Sly fellow ! one had only to lie 
 in wait for the moment when his elbow was raised 
 to his mouth, steal behind him, and cry out, — 
 " Look out ! sergo! The officer 's coming." 
 The people of Paris are all just like that. The 
 policeman bears the brunt of everything. For 
 every one is accustomed to hate these poor devils, 
 to regard them as curs. If the ministry commit 
 follies, the police pay the penalty, and once a 
 glorious revolution is in progress, the ministry de- 
 part for Versailles, the policemen are thrown into 
 the canal. 
 
 But to return to what I was telling you.— 
 
The Third Reading. 223 
 
 whenever there was anything of importance going 
 on in Paris, I was one of the first to know it. On 
 those days all the small fry of the quarter would 
 hold their meetings too, and together we would go 
 down the faubourg. We could hear people ex- 
 claiming, " It is at Rue Montmartre ! no — at Porte 
 Saint-Denis." Others, whose business took them 
 in that direction, would return, furious, because 
 they had been unable to pass. Women were seen 
 running towards the bakers' shops. Carriage en- 
 trances were closed. All this excitement went to 
 our heads. We sang as we passed by, we jostled 
 the little street vendors, who were quickly gather- 
 ing up their goods and their baskets, as if it were 
 some terribly stormy day. Sometimes when we 
 reached the canal the bridges of the locks were 
 already turned. Fiacres and trucks were com- 
 pelled to wait there. Cabmen were cursing, and 
 every one was uneasy. On the run we would scale 
 the steps of the foot-bridge which at that time 
 separated the faubourg from the Rue du Temple, 
 and then we reached the boulevards. 
 
 Oh ! what fun upon the boulevard on the day 
 of mardi gras or on the day of a riot! Scarcely a 
 carriage to be seen. One could rush along at his 
 ease upon the driveway. When they saw us pass, 
 the shopkeepers of every quarter knew well what 
 it meant, and closed their shops quickly. We 
 heard the clatter of shutters, but once their stores 
 were closed these people would occupy the side- 
 walk in front of their doors, for with the Parisian 
 no feeling is stronger than that of curiosity. 
 
224 Monday Tales. 
 
 At last we would perceive a black mass, the mo\> 
 itself, obstructing all travel. There it was! But 
 to see it properly one must stand in the first row; 
 and I can tell you, one was well thumped before 
 he got there. However, by dint of shoving, jost- 
 ling, sliding between the legs of others, we at last 
 got where we wanted to be. Once we had taken 
 our places in front of everybody, we breathed more 
 freely, and were proud enough. And indeed the 
 spectacle was worth all the trouble of getting there. 
 No, believe me, neither Monsieur Bocage nor 
 Monsieur Melingue ever gave me such a flutter 
 of the heart as that I felt when, looking ahead, 
 in an open space at the end of the street I saw 
 the chief of police advancing, decorated with his 
 sash. 
 
 I heard the others exclaim, " The commissaire ! 
 the commissaire ! " 
 
 But I said nothing. My teeth were tightly closed 
 through pleasure and terror combined ; what I 
 felt was indescribable. I thought to myself, — 
 
 " The commissaire has come ! Now look out for 
 blows from his club." 
 
 It was not so much the blows from his club that 
 impressed me as that big devil of a man himself, 
 with his sash upon his black swallow-tail coat and 
 that huge hat de monsieur he wore, which gave 
 him the appearance of being out visiting, as it 
 rose in the midst of all those shakos and cocked 
 hats. That made a tremendous impression upon 
 me. After a flourish from the drum, the chief of 
 police began to mumble something. He was so 
 
The Third Reading. 225 
 
 far from us that in spite of the intense silence his 
 voice was lost in air, and all we could hear was — 
 
 " Mn — mn — mn — " 
 
 But we were as thoroughly posted as himself 
 about the riot laws. We knew that we were en- 
 titled to three readings of the Riot Act before his 
 stick could whack us. At the first reading no one 
 budged an inch. We stood there undisturbed, our 
 hands in our pockets. It is true that when the 
 drum beat the second time some began to grow 
 green, and to look right and left, to see which way- 
 he would pass. When the third time came, p-r-r-t / 
 It was like the flight of a flock of partridges. There 
 were howls, cat-cries; aprons, caps, and hats be- 
 gan to disappear, while behind them clubs pro- 
 ceeded to belabor on every side. Ah ! no ! there 
 is no play on the stage that could ever give you 
 such emotions as those. It was food for seven 
 days' talk, when we related all this to the others 
 who had not seen it ; and how proud they were who 
 could say, — 
 
 " I heard the third reading ! " 
 
 It must be said, however, that for the sake of 
 the fun one often risked losing some of his hide. 
 Just imagine ! One day — it was at Pointe Saint- 
 Eustache — I don't know how the commissaire 
 had reckoned, but no sooner was the second read- 
 ing disposed of than the constables set to work, 
 clubs in the air. I did not remain in waiting for 
 them very long, you may believe. But all in vain 
 I stretched my small legs to the utmost ; one of 
 those big devils fell upon me, and went for me at 
 
226 Monday Tales. 
 
 such very short notice that after I had felt his 
 stick whiz about me two or three times, he ended 
 by giving it to me straight upon the head. Lord ! 
 what a whack ! I had never seen so many stars in 
 my life before. They brought me home with a 
 broken head. But if you think that made me 
 mend my ways — ah well ! hardly ; all the time 
 poor Mamma Belisaire was making compresses for 
 me, I never once ceased exclaiming, — 
 
 " It isn't my fault. It is that rascally commis- 
 saire, who played a trick upon all of us. He read 
 the Riot Act only twice ! " 
 
A First- Night Performance. 227 
 
 A FIRST-NIGHT PERFORMANCE. 
 IMPRESSIONS OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 It was to begin at eight. In five minutes the 
 curtain would rise. Stage-carpenters, manager, 
 and property-man, every one was at his post. The 
 actors in the first scene had placed themselves, and 
 taken appropriate attitudes. I peeped for one last 
 time through the gap of the curtain. The house 
 was crowded, — fifteen hundred heads, one row 
 rising above another ; the lights fell upon a smiling 
 and animated audience. I recognized a few faces 
 in it, but only vaguely ; their physiognomies seemed 
 to me quite changed. Their faces wore a quizzical 
 expression, their manner was arrogant, dogmatic, 
 and already I could see lorgnettes aimed in my di- 
 rection like pistols. In one part of the house I did 
 discern a few dear faces, grown pale with anxiety 
 and expectation ; but how many were purely in- 
 different, and even unfavorably disposed ! 
 
 And all that these people brought with them 
 from the outer world, all their recklessness, preoc- 
 cupation, listlessness, and mistrust, must be dis- 
 pelled ; that atmosphere of ennui and disaffection 
 must be penetrated, — a common idea move all these 
 human beings ; my drama, to live, must draw its in- 
 spiration from those inexorable eyes. I would have 
 
228 Monday Tales. 
 
 delayed, prevented the curtain from rising, but no ! 
 it is too late now. I hear the three taps of the 
 stick, a prelude from the orchestra, and then there 
 is a deep silence. From the wings comes a voice 
 which sounds hollow and far away, lost in the im- 
 mensity of the house. My play has begun. Ah, 
 wretched one ! what have I done ? 
 
 An awful moment ! I know not where to turn, 
 or what will become of me. Should one remain 
 there, leaning against a gas-wing, ears strained to 
 hear, and heart refusing to beat? — encourage the 
 actors when he so greatly needs some encourage- 
 ment himself ? — talk, scarcely knowing what he is 
 saying, and smile when the dazed look in his eyes 
 betrays that his thought is far away? Confound it 
 all, I would rather slip into the house somewhere, 
 and stand face to face with danger ! 
 
 Concealed in a box in the pit, I try to seem an 
 indifferent spectator, quite apart from it all, and as 
 if I had not seen the dust of those boards clinging 
 to my play for the past two months, as if I myself 
 had not decided upon every gesture, every least 
 detail of the mounting of the piece, from the mech- 
 anism of entrances and exits even to the turning up 
 of the gas. A singular feeling possesses me. I 
 wish to listen, and yet cannot. I am uneasy, com- 
 pletely upset. I hear the quick turning of keys in 
 the box-doors, the moving of stools, fits of con- 
 tagious coughing, one voice answering another, — 
 whispered conversations behind fans, the rustling 
 of gowns, a multitude of insignificant sounds that 
 seem of enormous dimensions to me; gestures and 
 
A First-Night Performance. 229 
 
 attitudes that seem to show hostility, backs that 
 appear to wear a discontented air, and sprawling 
 elbows, intercept the entire scene. 
 
 In front of me a very young man wearing eye- 
 glasses, who is taking notes with a grave air, 
 observes, — 
 
 " It is puerile ! " 
 
 In a box at my side a low voice is saying, — 
 
 " To-morrow, you remember." 
 
 " Is it to-morrow?" 
 
 " Yes, to-morrow without fail." 
 
 It would appear that great importance is attached 
 to to-morrow in the minds of these people. I am 
 thinking only of to-day. In the midst of all this 
 confusion, not a point of my play tells, nothing 
 makes the least impression. The voices of the 
 actors, instead of rising, filling the house, are lost 
 before they reach the footlights, fall with a dull 
 sound into the prompter's box, amid an inane clap- 
 ping of hands from the claque. What ails that 
 gentleman who sits up aloft? What vexes him? 
 I am really intimidated. I go out. 
 
 When I reach the street I find it is dark and 
 rainy, but I scarcely perceive that. Boxes and gal- 
 leries with luminous rows of heads are whirling be- 
 fore me, and in their midst one fixed and shining 
 point, — the scene on the stage. This grows 
 fainter as I get farther away from it. I walk on, 
 in fruitless effort to pull myself together ; I cannot 
 efface that accursed scene, and the drama, which I 
 know by heart, continues to play itself out, — drags 
 on lugubriously in my brain. It is as though I 
 
230 Monday Tales. 
 
 carried about with me some evil dream, with which 
 mingle the people who jostle against me, and the 
 slush and noise of the street. At the edge of the 
 boulevard a sharp whistle stops me, and I grow 
 pale. Imbecile ! It is merely a whistle starting an 
 omnibus. As I walk on, the rain increases. I im- 
 agine that in the theatre too it must be raining 
 upon my drama, that its own weight has killed it, 
 that it falls to pieces, and that my heroes, ashamed 
 and worn out, are plodding after me along the wet 
 sidewalks which glisten beneath the gaslight. 
 
 To dispel these gloomy ideas, I enter a cafe. I 
 try to read, but the letters run together, dance, 
 spread apart, and whirl. I cannot even tell what 
 these words are trying to say ; they seem bizarre, 
 devoid of meaning. This reminds me of an inci- 
 dent of some years ago. It was at sea, the weather 
 very stormy. I tried to read. Beneath a roof 
 flooded with water, where I lay, I had found and 
 tried to read an English grammar. There with the 
 roar of the waves in my ears and the sound of the 
 wrenching of masts, — to divert myself from dan- 
 ger, to avoid seeing those torrents of greenish 
 water that fell upon the deck, pouring all over it, 
 I devoted all my energies to the absorbing study of 
 the English th. But vainly did I read aloud, repeat 
 the words, shouting them almost; my brain was 
 deafened with the howling of the sea, the sharp 
 whistling of the blast through the yards. 
 
 The paper I am holding at this moment seems 
 to me as incomprehensible as was my English 
 grammar ; however, perhaps because I have stared 
 
A First-Night Performance. 231 
 
 so closely at the big sheet spread out before me, 
 I seem to see printed in sharp, concise lines to- 
 morrow's articles, and my own name discussed in 
 phrases that stick like thorns, written with a pen 
 dipped in gall. Suddenly the gas is turned down. 
 The cafe is closing. 
 
 Is it time for that? What can be the hour? 
 
 The boulevards are full of people. The theatres 
 are emptied. Doubtless I pass some who have 
 seen my play. I would like to question them, 
 know what they thought, but at the same time I 
 pass on quickly, that I need not overhear reflec- 
 tions aloud, whole feuilletons in the streets. Ah ! 
 how happy are they who can return homeward 
 with the consciousness that they have never written 
 a play ! 
 
 I stand before the theatre. It is closed. The 
 lights are extinguished. Decidedly I shall gain 
 no information to-night, but, as I look at the 
 damp bill-boards and the great candelabra whose 
 lights blink at the entrance, an intense sadness 
 comes over me. That great building, which a while 
 ago lent light and animation to all this part of the 
 boulevard, is dull and lifeless now, gloomy, deserted, 
 and dripping as though after a fire. Ah, well ! At 
 last it is over. Six long months of labor, of dreams, 
 weariness alternating with hope, all they meant is 
 lost, shrivelled, melted into nothingness in a single 
 evening, under the glaring gaslight. 
 
232 Monday Talcs. 
 
 CHEESE-SOUP. 
 
 It was a little chamber in the fifth story, one of 
 those attics where the rain beats straight upon the 
 skylight ; at the present hour, when night has come, 
 such rooms seem to be lost, roof and all, in gloom 
 and storm. And yet this chamber is pleasant, 
 cozy, and upon entering it, one feels an indescriba- 
 ble sensation of comfort, which the gusts of wind 
 without, and the torrents of rain dripping from the 
 gutters only increase. Yon might almost believe 
 yourself to be in a warm nest at the top of some 
 tall tree. For the moment the nest is empty ; its 
 occupant is not there, but you feel sure he will soon 
 return. Everything within seems to await his 
 coming. Upon a smothered fire a little soup- 
 kettle is boiling tranquilly with a murmur of satis- 
 faction. It keeps rather a late vigil, and although 
 accustomed to that, judging by its sides browned 
 through frequent contact with the flames, it becomes 
 impatient now and then, and its cover rises, stirred 
 by the steam ; then a warm, appetizing whiff as- 
 cends, and permeates the whole chamber. 
 
 Oh ! the delicious odor of cheese-soup ! 
 
 At times too the fire clears itself of cinders, 
 which come tumbling down through the logs, while 
 a tiny flame darts out its tongue from beneath, 
 
Cheese-Soup. 233 
 
 lighting the lower part of the room, as if making a 
 tour of inspection to be assured that everything is 
 in order. Ah, yes, order itself reigns there, and 
 the master may return any moment he chooses. 
 The Algerian curtains are drawn in front of the 
 windows, and draped comfortably about the bed. 
 There is the big arm-chair spreading itself at full 
 length in front of the fire ; the table stands in one 
 corner, the cloth spread, dishes set for one solitary 
 diner, the lamp ready to be lighted, and beside the 
 plate is a book, the companion of that lonely re- 
 past. And not only is the soup-pot worn through 
 frequent contact with the fire, but the flowers upon 
 each dish are also faded, through repeated wash- 
 ings, and the book is worn at the edges. Age and 
 long use have softened the appearance of all these 
 well-worn things. One feels too that this lodger is 
 obliged to return very late each evening, and that 
 it pleases him, when he enters, to find that little 
 supper simmering away, perfuming and warming 
 the chamber to which he returns. 
 
 Oh ! the savory odor of cheese-soup ! 
 
 Observing the neatness of that bachelor apart- 
 ment, I imagine that its tenant must be some em- 
 ployc", one of those beings whose devotion to the 
 minutest details compels them to regulate all their 
 living with the same punctuality with which they 
 dispose of things official, and as methodically as 
 they label each portfolio. 
 
 The extreme lateness of his return would seem 
 to indicate that he is one of the night force in the 
 postaj or telegraph service. I fancy I see him, 
 
234 Monday Tales, 
 
 seated behind a grating, his half-sleeves of lustrine 
 drawn up to the elbow, his velvet calotte upon his 
 head, while he sorts and stamps letters, winds the 
 blue banderoles of despatches, preparing for Paris 
 asleep, or awake in pursuit of pleasure, the affairs 
 of to-morrow. 
 
 But no — this is not his business. For, as it 
 penetrates each recess of the chamber, the tiny 
 flame of the hearth gleams upon large photo- 
 graphs hanging on the walls. Emerging from the 
 shadow, framed in gold and magnificently draped, 
 may be seen the Emperor Augustus, Mahomet, 
 F61ix, Roman knight, Armenian governor, crowns, 
 helmets, tiaras, and turbans, while beneath all these 
 different head-dresses there is always the same 
 head, erect and solemn, the head of the master of 
 the place, the fortunate and lordly personage for 
 whom that fragrant soup simmers away, bubbling 
 gently upon the warm cinders. 
 
 Oh ! the delicious odor of that cheese-soup ! 
 
 Ah, no ! this is no employe of the post-office. 
 This is some emperor, a world-master, one of 
 those providential beings who on those evenings 
 when the repertoire is given causes the roof of the 
 Od^on to tremble, one who has merely to com- 
 mand, " Seize him, guards ! " and the guards obey 
 on the instant. At this present moment he is 
 there in his palace, across the water. With bus- 
 kined heels, his chlamys upon his shoulder, he 
 wanders beneath porticos, declaiming with por- 
 tentous frown, wearing a wearied air through all 
 his tragic tirades. And indeed it is dispiriting to 
 
Cheese- Soup, 235 
 
 play to empty benches. And the auditorium of 
 the Odeon seems so vast, so cold, on the evening 
 of a* tragedy ! Suddenly the emperor, half- frozen 
 beneath his purple, feels a warm thrill run through 
 his body. His eye kindles, his nostrils dilate. 
 For he is dreaming of the warm room to which he 
 will return, the table set, the lamp ready to light, 
 all his little belongings arranged in order, with that 
 homely attention to trifles shown by the actor 
 who in private life makes amends for stage extrav- 
 agances and irregularities. He fancies himself un- 
 covering that soup-pot and filling his flowered 
 plate. 
 
 Oh, the savory odor of that cheese-soup ! 
 
 From that moment he is no longer the same 
 man. The stiff folds of his chlamys, the marble 
 stairs, the coldness of the porticos, these things 
 vex him no longer. He becomes animated, has- 
 tens the play, precipitates the action. For what if 
 his fire should go out ! As the evening advances, 
 the vision grows nearer, and puts new life into him. 
 Miraculous ! the Od6on itself seems to be thawing. 
 The old habitues of the orchestra, aroused from 
 their torpor, find this Marancourt truly magnifi- 
 cent, especially in the last scenes. And indeed, as 
 the dtnoiiment approaches the decisive hour when 
 the traitors are to be poniarded, and princesses to 
 be married, the face of the emperor wears a beatific 
 expression, an air of singular serenity. His stom- 
 ach hollow with hunger after so many emotions 
 and tirades, he fancies he is at home again, seated at 
 his little table, and his glance wanders from Cinna 
 
236 Monday Tales, 
 
 to Maximus with a kindly and tender smile, as 
 though already he saw those charming white threads 
 which lengthen on the end of a spoon when cheese- 
 soup, after simmering properly, is just cooked, and 
 poured out piping-hot. 
 
The Last Book, 237 
 
 THE LAST BOOK. 
 
 " He is dead ! " some one said to me on the 
 stairway. 
 
 For some days past I had been expecting this 
 sad news. I knew that at any moment the tidings 
 might greet me upon the threshold, and yet there 
 was something of unexpectedness in the blow when 
 it came. With heavy heart and trembling lips I 
 entered the humble apartment of a man of letters. 
 The room in which his work had been done was 
 the most prominent of all, for the despotism of 
 learning had monopolized whatever comfort or 
 light the home possessed. 
 
 He lay there upon an iron bed — very low and 
 small it was; his table was loaded with papers; 
 his large handwriting cut short in the middle of 
 the page, his pen still standing in his ink-bottle, 
 told how suddenly death had smitten him. Behind 
 the bed, a tall, oaken press, overflowing with papers 
 and manuscripts, stood half open, almost at his 
 head. About him on every side, books, — noth- 
 ing but books ; in every corner, on shelves, on chairs,- 
 on the desk, piled upon the floor, in corners, even 
 to the foot of the bed. When he was writing, seated 
 at his table, these piles of books, this litter upon 
 which no dust had gathered, could please the eyes. 
 
2 $8 Monday Tales, 
 
 They seemed to be alive, they suggested the activity 
 of labor. But in this chamber of death the sight of 
 them was mournful. All these poor books piled 
 up and toppling over looked now as though they 
 too were ready to start upon a journey, to be lost 
 in the great library of chance, scattered in auction- 
 rooms, upon the quays, in shop-windows, their 
 leaves fingered by the wind and by the passing 
 lounger. 
 
 I embraced him where he lay, and stood gazing 
 at him, startled as I touched his forehead, cold and 
 heavy as stone. Suddenly the door opened. A 
 clerk from some publisher entered joyously, loaded 
 down, out of breath, and threw upon the table a 
 package of books fresh from the press. 
 
 " Bachelin sent these," he exclaimed; then ob- 
 serving the figure upon the bed, he recoiled, raised 
 his cap, and retired discreetly. 
 
 It seemed horribly ironic that this package, whose 
 sending had been delayed for a month, this pack- 
 age awaited by the sick man with so much impa- 
 tience, should have been received by the dead. 
 Poor friend ! it was his last book, the one for which 
 he expected most. With what minute carefulness 
 his hands, trembling even then with fever, had cor- 
 rected the proof-sheets. How he longed to hasten 
 the day when he would handle that first edition ! 
 During the last days of his illness, when he could 
 no longer speak, his eyes gazed fixedly towards the 
 door, and if the printers, proof-readers, binders, and 
 all that world of people employed in bringing into 
 the world the work of one individual could have seen 
 
The Last Book, 239 
 
 that anguished and expectant glance, every hand 
 would have hastened its work; the type would have 
 been set in pages more rapidly, the pages would 
 have grown into volumes, that they might have 
 reached him in time, that is to say, a day earlier, 
 and thus have given the dying man the delight 
 of recognizing, in well-printed sentences, about 
 which clung all the fragrance of a new book, those 
 ideas which he felt were already fading, vanishing 
 from his memory. 
 
 And even in the very plenitude of life that pleas- 
 ure is one of which a writer never wearies. To 
 open a first copy of his work, to see it assume 
 definite form, which stands out in bold outline, his 
 thoughts no longer seething in the brain, no longer 
 in that first ebullition where all is as yet somewhat 
 vague, — what a delightful sensation ! In youth, 
 it simply dazzles one ; the letters almost blind him, 
 run together, look blue and yellow at once, as 
 though his very brain were intoxicated with sun- 
 shine. Later, with this joy of the author mingles 
 a tinge of sadness, of regret that he has not said 
 all he wished to say. That within him which has 
 never said itself in words seems always far more 
 beautiful than that which is already accomplished. 
 How much is lost in that journey from the brain 
 to the hand ! In his deepest dreaming, the con- 
 ception of the book seems to resemble one of those 
 lovely medusce of the Mediterranean, which flit 
 through the sea like floating phantoms, but when 
 they lie upon the sand, nothing is seen but water, a 
 few discolored drops that are soon dried in the air. 
 
240 Monday Tales. 
 
 Alas! of these joys and disillusions the poor 
 fellow received none from his last work. It was 
 heart-rending to gaze at this lifeless head, droop- 
 ing so heavily upon the pillow, asleep in death, 
 while at his side was that book, so fresh and new, 
 that book which would soon be seen in the shop- 
 windows, form a part of the talk of the street, the 
 life of the day, — whose title passers-by would 
 read mechanically, carrying it away in the memory, 
 impressed upon the retina, with the name of its 
 author inscribed now upon that sadder leaf of the 
 city's register — that name whose letter looked so 
 bright, so gay on the cover, its color still fresh, 
 unfaded. The entire problem of the soul and the 
 body seemed to be there ; that rigid corpse would 
 so soon be given to earth and forgotten, while the 
 book, starting forth on its life apart from him, like 
 a visible soul, was full of vitality, and perhaps — a 
 thing immortal. 
 
 " He promised me a first edition," I heard a 
 lachrymose voice near me whisper. I looked 
 around, and my glance met the keen eye of a gold- 
 spectacled enthusiast. I was acquainted with him, 
 and you also are, my friends who write. He was 
 the bibliophile who knocks at your door as soon 
 as your volume is announced, — two timid but per- 
 sistent knocks that resemble himself. He enters 
 smiling, bowing low, wriggling about you, and he 
 addresses you as " dear master ! " and does not 
 depart without carrying away your last book. 
 Merely the last ! He has all the others. This 
 only he still lacks. And how can one refuse him? 
 
The Last Book. 241 
 
 He arrives so opportunely, he knows just when 
 to catch you, while you are still in the midst of 
 that joy of which we were speaking, full of the 
 abandon of the Envoy or the Dedication. Ah ! 
 that terrible little man, whom nothing rebuffs, 
 neither heavy doors nor frozen greetings, neither 
 wind, rain, nor distance. Of a morning you en- 
 counter him in the Rue de la Pompe, knocking 
 at the low door of the Patriarch of Passy. At 
 nightfall he returns from Marly with Sardou's 
 latest drama under his arm. And so, forever 
 upon the go, always in quest, he fills his hours, 
 though he works not, fills his shelves, though he 
 buys not. 
 
 Surely this passion for books must have been 
 very strong in the man, to have brought him even 
 to the bedside of the dead. 
 
 " Here is your copy — take it," I said impa- 
 tiently. He not merely took it, he swallowed it 
 up. Once the volume had quite disappeared in 
 his pocket he remained there without budging, 
 without speaking ; his head leaning upon his elbow, 
 he wiped his glasses with a softened air. What 
 was he waiting for? What kept him there? Per- 
 haps some passing feeling of shame, embarrass- 
 ment at the thought of leaving so suddenly, as if he 
 had merely come for the book? 
 
 Ah, no ! 
 
 Upon the table, the wrapper half removed, he 
 
 had perceived copies the book-lover prizes — their 
 
 edges rough, uncut, wide margins, vignettes, and 
 
 tailpieces. In spite of his meditative attitude, his 
 
 16 
 
242 Monday Tales. 
 
 pensive absorption, all was revealed. The wretch 
 had caught sight of them. 
 
 Oh, this mania for seeing things ! Even I myself 
 was distracted for a moment from my emotion. 
 Through my tears I could not help following that 
 painful bit of comedy played at the dead man's 
 bedside. Slowly, with little invisible jerks, the 
 book-lover approached the table. His hand, as if 
 by chance, closed upon one of those volumes ; he 
 turned it about, opened it, fingered the leaves. By 
 degrees his eye kindled, the blood mounted to his 
 cheeks. The magic of the book operated upon 
 him. At last he could no longer contain his emo- 
 tion. He captured a copy. " It is for Monsieur 
 de Sainte-Beuve," he said half audibly ; and in his 
 feverish anxiety and fear lest some one should take 
 it from him, perhaps, too, to convince me that it 
 was indeed intended for Monsieur de Sainte-Beuve, 
 he added, very gravely, in a tone of indescribable 
 compunction, " of the Acadhnie francaise ! " and 
 disappeared. 
 
House for Sale! 243 
 
 HOUSE FOR SALE! 
 
 Above the gate, a wooden gate, badly put 
 together, and not preventing the sandy soil of the 
 little garden from mingling with the earth of the 
 road, a sign had hung for some time, scarcely 
 stirred under the sun of summer, but twisted and 
 shaken by every gale of autumn : House for Sale I 
 And something seemed to say that it was a deserted 
 house as well, so deep was the silence surround- 
 ing it. 
 
 And yet some one dwelt there. A tiny bluish 
 ring of smoke ascending from the brick chimney 
 which rose slightly above the wall, betrayed that 
 an existence was in hiding here, — an existence as 
 sad, as inobtrusive as the smoke of that meagre 
 fire. Through the loose and rickety boards of 
 that gate could be seen, not the abandon and 
 emptiness, that indescribable something in the air 
 which precedes and announces an auction sale and 
 departure, but instead were trim walks, rounded 
 arbors, water-cans near an artificial basin, and 
 gardener's tools leaning against the side of the tiny 
 house. It was merely a peasant's cottage built 
 on an incline, propped by a tiny stairway, which 
 placed the first story on the shady side, the ground- 
 floor facing the south. On that side it looked like 
 
244 Monday Tales, 
 
 a hothouse. There were bell-glasses piled up 
 along the walks, empty flower-pots turned upside 
 down ; others, in rows and filled with geraniums 
 and verbenas, stood in the warm, white sand. Ex- 
 cept for the shade of three great plane trees, the 
 garden basked in sunshine. A fruit-wall, and 
 fruit trees with fan-shaped props of iron wire 
 stood in the sunshine, somewhat robbed of their 
 leafage, but merely for the sake of the fruit. 
 There were strawberry-beds too, and peas well 
 propped ; in the midst of all these things, sur- 
 rounded by order and calm, an old man in a straw 
 hat went up and down through the walks all day 
 long, watering his garden through the early 
 hours of the day, pruning branches, and trimming 
 borders. 
 
 The old man knew no one in the neighborhood. 
 Except for the baker's wagon, which stopped at 
 every door of the only street in the village, he 
 never received a visit. Sometimes, in search of 
 one of those lots of land half-way up the hill, 
 always fruitful, and making such charming or- 
 chards, some passer-by would sight the sign, and 
 pause to ring. 
 
 At first the house would remain deaf. At the 
 second ring there was heard the sound of wooden 
 shoes approaching slowly from the farthest end of 
 the garden, and the old man opened the door half- 
 way with a furious air. 
 
 " What do you want? " 
 
 " Is this house for sale? " 
 
 "Yes," answered the worthy man, with some 
 
House for Sale / 245 
 
 ffort. " Yes, it is for sale, but I will tell you in 
 .dvance that the price is very high;" and his 
 land was placed upon the door, ready to close it 
 nd obstruct all entrance. And his eyes com- 
 piled you to go away, they showed such anger ; 
 le remained there, guarding like a dragon his 
 dots of vegetables and his little sand-yard. Peo- 
 >le passed on their way, asking themselves what 
 naniac this might be with whom they had to deal, 
 nd what was meant by this folly of putting up 
 hat sign " For Sale," and showing such desire that 
 lis house should remain unsold. 
 
 The mystery was explained to me. One day as 
 
 passed the little house, I heard the sound of ani- 
 mated voices in eager discussion. 
 
 " It must be sold, papa, it must be sold. You 
 >romised." 
 
 And the tremulous voice of the old man was 
 leard, — 
 
 " But, my children, I ask nothing better than to 
 ell it. Look! Have I not put up a sign? " 
 
 I thus learned that these were his sons and his 
 laughters-in-law, petty Parisian shopkeepers, who 
 vere compelling him to dispose of this well-loved 
 ;pot. For what reason? I do not know. But 
 >ne thing was certain : they had begun to find that 
 natters were moving too slowly ; and from that day 
 :hey appeared regularly every Sunday to harass 
 :he unfortunate man, and oblige him to keep his 
 Dromise. In that deep Sabbath stillness, when 
 *ven the earth itself rests after sowing and laboring 
 ill week long, I could hear those voices very 
 
246 Monday Tales. 
 
 plainly from the road. The shopkeepers were 
 talking, arguing among themselves, as they played 
 tonneauy and that word " money," spoken by those 
 sharp voices, had all the hard metallic sound of the 
 quoits they were tossing. In the evening they 
 would all depart again, and after the old man had 
 reconducted them along the road for a few steps 
 he returned quickly, and gladly closed his big gate, 
 with another week of respite before him. For 
 seven days' space the house was silent again. In 
 the little sun-baked garden nothing could be heard 
 but the sound of sand crushed under a heavy foot, 
 and the dragging of a rake. 
 
 But as weeks went on the old man was tor- 
 mented and pressed more and more. The shop- 
 keepers employed every means. Little children 
 were brought there to seduce him. 
 
 "Don't you see, grandpapa? when the house 
 is sold you shall live with us ! We shall all be so 
 happy together." And there were whispered 
 asides in every corner, endless promenades along 
 the walks, calculations made in a loud voice. 
 On one occasion I heard one of the daughters 
 exclaim, — 
 
 " The shanty is not worth a hundred sous. It is 
 only fit to be torn down." 
 
 The old man listened silently. They talked of 
 him as though he were already dead, of his house 
 as if it were already demolished. He walked 
 about, his body bent, his eyes full of tears, through 
 force of habit feeling for a branch he might prune, 
 a fruit he might care for, in passing, and it was 
 
House for Sale / 247 
 
 evident that his life was so firmly rooted in this 
 ittle spot of earth that he had not strength to tear 
 limself away from it. And, indeed, no matter 
 vhat was said to him, he always contrived to put 
 }ff the moment of departure. In summer, with the 
 'ipening of those slightly acid fruits which exhale 
 :he freshness of the season, as the cherries and the 
 ;urrants black and red ripened, he said, — 
 
 " We must wait till after they have been gath- 
 ered. I will sell it immediately after that." 
 
 But after the gathering, when the cherry season 
 lad gone by, came the peaches, then the grapes, 
 md after the grapes those beautiful brown medlars 
 which may be gathered almost up to the time of 
 :he first snow-fall. Then winter arrived. The 
 :ountry was dismal then, the garden had nothing 
 eft in it. No passers-by, no purchasers. The 
 shopkeepers themselves no longer appeared of a 
 Sunday. Three long months of rest in which to 
 prepare for the sowing, to prune the fruit trees 
 while that useless sign rocked back and forth upon 
 the road, swayed by wind and rain. 
 
 At length, grown impatient, and persuaded that 
 the old man was striving to drive away every pur- 
 chaser, his children took a decided step. One 
 of the daughters-in-law proceeded to install her- 
 self in the house, — a little shopwoman, finely 
 arrayed from early morning, comely in appear- 
 ance, and possessing that artificial sweetness, that 
 obsequious amiability cultivated by people accus- 
 tomed to a commercial life. The very highway 
 seemed to belong to her. She opened the gate 
 
248 Monday Tales, 
 
 wide, talked loudly, smiling at every passer-by, as 
 if to say, — 
 
 " Come in. Don't you see that the house is for 
 sale?" 
 
 No more respite for the poor old man. At 
 times he would endeavor to forget her presence, 
 dig his garden-plots, and sow them once more, 
 as a man who stands in the presence of death, 
 and loves to delude even his fears by devising 
 new plans. But all the time the shopwoman fol- 
 lowed him about, tormenting him : " Bah ! what 
 good is that? — You are taking all this trouble 
 for others ! " 
 
 He never replied to her, but continued his work 
 with a singular obstinacy. Had he let his garden 
 alone, he would have felt that already it was partly 
 lost to him, that he must begin to wean himself 
 from it; therefore he did not permit a single blade 
 of grass in the walks, or a single gourmand among 
 his rose bushes. 
 
 Meanwhile purchasers did not present them- 
 selves. The war was in progress, and all in vain 
 did the woman keep that gate wide open, and 
 make eyes affably at the road. She saw loads of 
 furniture moved away, nothing more. Only dusl 
 entered at the gate. From day to day the woman's 
 temper grew more sour. Her business in Paris 
 needed her presence. I heard her heap reproaches 
 upon her father-in-law, make genuine scenes with 
 him, slamming the doors. The old man bent his 
 back and said nothing, but consoled himself with 
 watching his little peas beginning to climb, and 
 
House for Sale / 249 
 
 with seeing always in the same place that sign, 
 House for Sale ! 
 
 That year, when I arrived in the country, I rec- 
 ognized the house, but alas ! the sign was no 
 longer there. Torn, mouldy placards still hung 
 along the walls, but all was over ! The house 
 had been sold. Instead of the great gray entrance 
 was a green gate, freshly painted, with a swelling 
 fronton, and a small grated opening through 
 which one could peep into the garden. It was no 
 longer the fruit-orchard of other days, but a bour- 
 geois heap of flower-beds, of lawns and cascades, 
 and everything was reflected in a huge metal ball 
 which swayed back and forth in front of the steps. 
 Reflected in this ball the walks were seen bordered 
 with gaudy flower-beds, and two figures whose 
 size was even exaggerated ; one was a big, red- 
 faced man, dripping with perspiration, and buried 
 in a rustic chair; the other was an enormous 
 woman, who cried, quite out of breath, as she 
 brandished a watering-pot, — 
 
 " I have put fourteen canfuls upon the balsams ! " 
 They had built for themselves, renovated the 
 palisades, and in this little house, completely re- 
 modelled and still smelling of paint, a piano was 
 playing familiar quadrilles and polkas and dance- 
 hall airs at full speed. This dance-music, which 
 could be heard out on the road, making one warm 
 to listen, the thick dust of that July day, the 
 vulgar display of big flowers and fat women, this 
 excessive and trivial gayety rent my heart. I was 
 thinking of the poor old man who used to walk 
 
250 Monday Tales, 
 
 there, so happy and peaceful. I pictured him in 
 Paris, his straw hat upon his head ; I seemed to see 
 the bent shoulders of the old gardener as he wan- 
 dered about in the middle of some back shop, 
 weary, timid, tearful, while his daughter-in-law, the 
 triumphant owner of a new counter, jingled the 
 money the little house had brought. 
 
Yule- Tide Stories, 251 
 
 YULE-TIDE STORIES. 
 
 I. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS-EVE REVEL IN THE MARAIS. 
 
 M. Majeste, manufacturer of seltzer-water in 
 the Marais, has been celebrating Christmas-eve 
 with a little party of friends in the Place Royale, 
 and now is returning homeward, humming a tune 
 to himself. Saint Paul strikes two. " How late it 
 is ! " says the good man, and he hastens. But 
 trie pavement is slippery, the streets dark, and, 
 besides, in that infernal old quarter, which dates 
 ftorn the days when vehicles were rare, there are so 
 many windings, corners, and spur-stones in front 
 of the gates for the convenience of horsemen, that 
 all these things prevent a man from making speed, 
 especially when his legs are a little heavy, and his 
 eyes somewhat dimmed, after all the toasts of the 
 evening. However, M. Majeste reaches home at 
 last. He pauses before a tall, decorated portal 
 where a scutcheon lately gilded, gleams in the 
 light of the moon ; the ancient armorial bearings 
 have been re-painted, and now serve as the sign of 
 his manufacturing establishment, — 
 
 Former Hotel de Nesmond. 
 
 MAJESTE Junior, 
 
 Manufacturer of Seltzer-Water, 
 
252 Monday Tales. 
 
 Upon all the siphons of the factory, on bill-heads 
 and letter-heads also, are displayed the ancient, 
 resplendent arms of Nesmond. 
 
 The portal passed, the courtyard is entered ; it 
 is large, bright, and airy, and in the day-time, when 
 its entrance is opened, all the street is lighted by 
 it. At the farther end is a great building, very 
 ancient, the dark walls carved and decorated, 
 swelling balconies of iron, stone balconies with 
 pilasters, immense, lofty windows, surmounted with 
 frontons, their capitals rising even to the top story ; 
 there was roof within roof, and, crowning all, dor- 
 mer windows looked out from masses of slate, each 
 encircled with garlands like a mirror. There was 
 also a great stone stairway, corroded from many a 
 rain ; a poor lean vine clung to the walls, as black 
 as the cord hanging from the pulley in the loft; 
 an indescribable air of sadness and decay clung 
 to everything. This was the ancient Hotel de 
 Nesmond. By day the aspect of the place wa^ 
 different. The words " Office, Shop, Workman'' s 
 Entrance" standing in gilded letters upon the old 
 walls, make them look alive and modern. Teams 
 from the railway stations pass and shake the portal. 
 Clerks come to the stone steps, each with pen be- 
 hind his ear, and ready to receive merchandise. 
 The courtyard is loaded with cases, baskets, straw, 
 and packing-cloth. It is easily perceived that this 
 is a factory. But in the deep silence of the night, 
 when the wintry moonlight darts through that 
 mass of complicated roofs, its light interwoven 
 with shadows, the ancient house of the Nesmonds 
 
Yule-Tide Stories. 253 
 
 assumes once more its seigniorial aspect. The 
 carving of the balconies looks like lace-work, the 
 court of honor seems larger than before, and 
 the old staircase, unequally lighted, has nooks 
 which remind you of dim cathedral corners, empty 
 niches and hidden steps like those of an altar. 
 
 And on this special evening M. Majeste finds 
 that his house presents a singular appearance. As 
 he crosses the deserted courtyard the sound of his 
 footsteps impresses him. The staircase seems 
 immense to him, and difficult to climb. No doubt 
 the festivities of the evening have something to do 
 with this. Arrived at the first story he stops to 
 regain breath, and approaches a window. Ah ! see 
 what it is to inhabit an historic house. Monsieur 
 Majeste - is not poetical, no, indeed ! and yet, as he 
 looks upon that beautiful, aristocratic courtyard, 
 where the moon spreads a veil of blue light, as he 
 looks at this venerable place, once a nobleman's 
 residence and now appearing as if asleep, its roofs 
 benumbed beneath their hood of snow, thoughts of 
 the other world come to him. 
 
 " Well, now ! what if the Nesmonds returned? " 
 At this moment a loud ringing of bells reaches 
 his ears; the folding-doors at the entrance of the 
 house open so quickly and brusquely that the 
 street-lamp is extinguished, and for some moments 
 there is heard below, in the doorway wrapped in 
 shadow, an indistinct sound, the sound of voices 
 whispering, that mingle with a rustling noise. 
 They dispute, press forward, hasten to enter. 
 Lackeys, innumerable lackeys are there, coaches 
 
254 Monday Tales. 
 
 with plate-glass doors and windows gleam in the 
 moonlight, sedan-chairs move to and fro, a torch 
 on each side flaming up as the current of air from 
 the portal strikes them. In no time the courtyard 
 is full of people. But at the foot of the stone steps 
 the confusion ceases. People are seen descending 
 from their carriages, bowing to each other ; they 
 enter, talking together as if they are acquainted 
 with the house. There is a rustling of silk on the 
 steps, a clatter of swords. Only white heads are 
 seen, locks so heavily powdered that they look dull 
 and dead ; all these voices are thin and clear, and 
 slightly tremulous ; their tiny peals of laughter are 
 hollow, without volume; their footsteps scarcely 
 seem to touch the ground. All these men and 
 women appear to be old, very old. Their eyes are 
 sunken ; their jewels have no glow of fire ; the 
 ancient silks they wear shimmer softly with chang- 
 ing tints which gleam faintly beneath the light 
 from the torches ; and above all this splendor floats 
 a little cloud of powder, which rises from all these 
 heads with coiffures piled up high and rolled into 
 little ringlets; at each of their charming courtesies, 
 somewhat stiff because of swords and big pan- 
 niers, that tiny cloud rises. Soon the entire house 
 appears to be haunted. Torches gleam from 
 window to window, go up and down along the 
 winding stairs, and are seen even in the dormer 
 windows of the roof, which catch a gleam of all this 
 animation and merry-making. The entire Hotel de 
 Nesmond is illumined as if a bright ray from the 
 setting sun had kindled its windows. 
 
Yule- Tide Stories. 255 
 
 " Ah, mon Dien ! they will set the house afire ! " 
 said Monsieur Majeste. And, awakened from his 
 stupor, he tries to shake the numbness out of his 
 legs, and descends quickly into the courtyard, 
 where the lackeys have just lighted a big, bright 
 fire. M. Majeste approaches and speaks to them. 
 The lackeys do not answer him, but continue to 
 talk in a whisper among themselves ; yet, as they 
 talk, not the slightest vapor escapes from their lips 
 into the glacial darkness of the night. Monsieur 
 Majeste" is not very well pleased, but one thing re- 
 assures him. That great fire which leaps straight 
 into the air to such a height is a most singular fire, 
 a flame without warmth, a fire which is bright, but 
 does not burn. His mind set at rest on that score, 
 the good man climbs the steps, and enters his store- 
 rooms. 
 
 These store-rooms on the ground-floor were in 
 former days magnificent reception-rooms. Bits of 
 tarnished gold still glitter at every corner. Myth- 
 ological figures circle about the ceiling, surround 
 the mirrors, float above the doors in vague tints 
 somewhat dimmed, like the memories of by-gone 
 years. Unfortunately there are, no curtains, no 
 furniture left. Only baskets and big packing-cases 
 full of siphons with pewter heads ; behind the win- 
 dows the blackened, withered branches of an old 
 lilac tree rise. When M. Majeste" enters, he finds 
 his store-room lighted and full of people. He 
 salutes them, but no one pays the slightest atten- 
 tion to him. The women, each leaning on the arm 
 of her cavalier, continue to rustle their satin pel- 
 
256 Monday Tales. 
 
 isses as they make little, mincing, ceremonious 
 gestures. They promenade, talk, and disperse. 
 Verily, all these ancient marquises seem to find 
 themselves quite at home. Before a painted pier- 
 glass one tiny apparition pauses, all of a tremble, 
 and whispers, " To think that this is I ! — just look 
 at me ! " and she glances with a smile towards a 
 Diana who is seen in the wainscoting, slender, rose- 
 tinted, a crescent upon her forehead. 
 
 " Nesmond ! come here and look at your coat 
 of arms ! " and every one laughs to see the Nesmond 
 arms blazoned upon a packing-cloth, and the name 
 of Majeste" underneath. " Ha, ha, ha ! — Majestt 7 
 What ! have their Majesties still a corner in 
 France?" 
 
 And endless gayety greets this discovery, tiny, 
 flute-like peals of laughter, fingers tossed in the air, 
 and fantastic grimaces. 
 
 Suddenly some one exclaims, — 
 
 " Champagne, champagne ! " 
 
 " But — it cannot be." 
 
 "But — it is." 
 
 " Yes, yes, it is champagne ! Come, Countess, 
 quick ! a little for the sake of Christmas-eve ! " 
 
 It is M. Majesty's seltzer-water they have mis- 
 taken for champagne. They find it slightly flat, 
 but — bah! they drink it just the same, and as 
 these poor little ghosts are somewhat light-headed, 
 by degrees that foaming seltzer animates, excites 
 them, and fills them with a longing to dance. 
 Minuets are formed. 
 
 Four fine violins Nesmond has summoned com- 
 
Yule- Tide Stories. 257 
 
 mence an air of Rameau's, all in triolets ; its quick, 
 short steps have a melancholy ring in spite of the 
 vivacity of the rhythm. It was delightful to see all 
 these charming old couples turn about slowly, sa- 
 luting each other to the measure of that solemn 
 music. The very garments of the dancers seemed 
 to renew their youth, even those golden waistcoats, 
 brocaded coats, and diamond-buckled shoes; the 
 walls themselves seemed alive as they listened to 
 those ancient airs. The old mirror, confined in 
 the wall for two hundred years, scratched and black- 
 ened at the corners, recognized them also, and re- 
 flected the image of each dancer, — a reflection 
 slightly dimmed, as if with the tender emotion of a 
 regret. In the midst of all this elegance, M. 
 Majeste" feels uneasy. He squats behind a pack- 
 ing-box, and watches them. By slow degrees day 
 arrives. Through the glass doors of the store- 
 room he sees the courtyard grow lighter ; then the 
 light begins to come through the top of the win- 
 dows, and at last one whole side of the room is 
 lighted. As the light grows brighter, the figures 
 fade, and become indistinct. After a while, M. 
 Majeste can see only two small violins lingering in 
 a corner, and as the daylight touches them, they, 
 too, vanish. In the courtyard he can still perceive, 
 but vaguely, the shape of a sedan-chair, a powdered 
 head sown with emeralds, and the last spark from 
 a torch which the lackeys have thrown on the pave- 
 ment, mingling with the sparks from the wheels of 
 a wagon which passes heavily through the portal, 
 rumbling as it enters. 
 
 17 
 
258 Monday Tales. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE THREE LOW MASSES, 
 I. 
 
 " TWO truffled turkeys, Garrigou ? " 
 
 " Yes, rMrend, two magnificent turkeys, stuffed 
 with truffles. I should know something about 
 them, for I myself helped to fill them. It seemed 
 as if their skin must crack in roasting, they were 
 so well-filled. ,, 
 
 " fesus-Maria ! How I love truffles. Quick, 
 Garrigou ! bring me my surplice. And with the 
 turkeys, did you see aught else in the kitchen?" 
 
 " Oh, all sorts of good things. Since noon we 
 did nothing but pluck pheasants, hoopoes, pullets, 
 and grouse ; feathers were flying in every direction ; 
 then from the fish-pond were brought eels and 
 golden carp, trout and — " 
 
 " How large were those trout, Garrigou? " 
 
 " As large as that, reverend father, enormous ! " 
 
 " Dieu / methinks I see them at this moment. 
 Have you filled the flagons with wine ? " 
 
 " Yes, rMrend, I have filled them with wine, but 
 indeed it is no such wine as that you will drink 
 immediately the midnight mass is over. If you 
 could see all that is in the dining-hall of the castle, 
 the decanters flaming with wine of all colors, and the 
 silver plates, the carved epergnes, the flowers, 
 
Yule-Tide Stories, 259 
 
 the candelabra ! Never again will the world see the 
 like ! Monsieur le— M- a rqui s h as iftvite4-all the 
 lo^ds-of-the -neighborhood. There will be at least 
 &>r-tyof you at table, without counting either the 
 bailiff or the notary; Ah ! you are fortunate indeed 
 to be one of them, re've'rend. I merely caught a 
 whiff of those fine turkeys, and the odor of the 
 truffles follows me everywhere. Meuh!" 
 
 " Come, come, my son. Let us beware of the 
 sin of gluttony, especially upon the Eve of the 
 Nativity. Make haste to light the candles upon 
 the altar, and ring the first bell for mass ; for the 
 hour of midnight approaches, and we must not be 
 late." 
 
 This conversation took place in the Christmas- 
 season of the year of grace one thousand six hun- 
 dred — and it matters not how many years beside 
 — between the Reverend Dom Balaguere, ancient 
 prior of the Order of Barnabas, at that time chap- 
 lain of the Sires of Trinquelague, and his petty- 
 clerk, Garrigou, or to be more exact, him whom the 
 prior believed to be his clerk Garrigou ; for you will 
 see that the Evil One, on that evening, had assumed 
 the round face and undecided features of the young 
 sacristan, that he might the more easily lead the 
 reverend father into temptation and force him to 
 commit the frightful sin of gluttony. The self-styled 
 Garrigou {Jium ! hum !) began to ring the bells of 
 the seigniorial chapel with all his might ; the rever- 
 end father at last invested himself with his chasuble 
 in the small sacristy of the castle. But, his spirit 
 already somewhat disturbed by all those gastro- 
 
260 Monday Tales. 
 
 nomic descriptions, he repeated to himself while 
 donning his vestments, — 
 
 " Roast turkeys, golden carps, and trouts as 
 big as that ! " Without, the night-wind blew, scat- 
 tering the music of the bells, and one after another, 
 lights began to appear along the sides of Mont 
 Ventoux* clooo to wh o se summit r o se the ancien t 
 tQwcra o f Trinquelagu - e . The neighboring farmers 
 were going to mitfnight mass in the castle. They 
 climbed the hill in groups of five and six, singing as 
 they went, the father leading, a lantern in his hands, 
 the women wrapped in their great brown cloaks, 
 in which their children too cuddled, and sought 
 shelter. In spite of the lateness of the hour and 
 the coldness of the night, all these good people 
 walked briskly, sustained by the one thought that 
 after mass was done there would be, as had always 
 been the yearly custom, a table spread for them in 
 the kitchens below. jFrom time to time, upon the 
 rude ascent, some nobleman's carriage, preceded 
 by torch-bearers, was sighted, the glass gleaming 
 in the moonlight ; or a mule would be seen trotting 
 past, jingling its bells, and by the light of torches 
 enveloped in vapor, the farmers recognized their 
 bailiff, and saluted him as he passed by. 
 
 " Good-evening, good-evening, Master Arnoton." 
 " Good-evening, good-evening, my children." 
 The night was clear, the stars sparkled frostily, 
 the wind nipped keenly, and the fine sleet which 
 clung to garments without wetting them, preserved 
 former traditions of a Christmas white with snow. 
 Above, on the hill, loomed the castle, their visible 
 
Yule- Tide Stories. 261 
 
 goal, an enormous pile, with towers and gables, 
 with the belfry of the chapel rising into the dark 
 blue sky, and a host of tiny lights flashing, moving 
 to and fro, waving at every window, and appearing 
 not unlike sparks from a charred mass of paper, 
 when seen against the sombre background of the 
 building. The drawbridge and the postern passed, 
 the chapel must be entered by crossing the outer 
 courtyard, full of coaches, lackeys, and sedan-chairs, 
 brightly lighted by the torch-fires and the blaze 
 from the kitchens ; various sounds were heard, the 
 jingling of spits as they turned, the clatter of 
 saucepans, the clinking of glasses, and silver moved 
 about in preparing the repast. There was wafted 
 upward a warm vapor which smelt so deliciously of 
 roast meat, of the savory herbs used for sauces 
 formed of various compounds, that the farmers, the 
 chaplain, the bailiff, and every one else observed : 
 " What a feast there will be after mass is oveHJ 
 
 II. 
 
 TiNG-A-LlNG ! Ting-a-ling-a-ling ! 
 
 The midnight mass has begun. In the chapel 
 of the castle, a miniature cathedral, with its vaulted 
 roof and oaken wainscoting reaching to the ceiling, 
 all the tapestries have been hung, all the tapers 
 lighted. And what an illustrious assemblage ! 
 what toilets ! Chief and first of all, in the sculp- 
 tured stall which surrounds the chancel, sits the 
 Sire de Trinquelague, -arrayed in salmon-colored 
 
262 Monday Tales, 
 
 taffeta, and about him all the noble lords who are 
 his invited guests. Opposite, upon a velvet prie- 
 Dieu, the dowager marchioness takes her place, 
 robed in flame-colored brocade, and at her side the 
 youthful Lady of Trinquelague, with a high lace 
 head-dress, ^aaffcitnjaccording to the latest fashion 
 at the French court. ^Farther down sat two men 
 clothed in black, with big pointed perruques and 
 smooth-shaven faces. These were the bailiff, mas- 
 ter Thomas Arnoton, and the petty-notary, master 
 Ambroy, two dark notes in that bright-hued har- 
 mony of silks and figured damask. Below them 
 sat fat major-domos, pages, huntsmen, stewards, 
 and Dame Barbe herself, all her keys hanging at 
 her side upon a fine silver ringl At the very end 
 of the chapel, upon the benches, sat the lower 
 servants and the farmers with their families ; and, 
 last of all, quite close to the door, which they 
 opened and closed discreetly, came the lords of 
 the kitchen, the scullions themselves, slipping out 
 between the making of two sauces to catch what 
 they could of the mass, bringing a whiff of the 
 supper into the church, which wore a festive air, 
 and was quite warm from the blaze of so many 
 tapers. Was it the sight of those little white caps 
 that so distracted the celebrant? More likely it was 
 that bell of Garrigou's, that mad little bell, which 
 tinkled at the foot of the altar with such infernal 
 speed, and seemed to say every second : "We must 
 hasten, hasten ! The sooner we are through with 
 this, the sooner we shall be seated at table." For it 
 is a fact that every time that wicked little bell rang, 
 
Yule- Tide Stories. 263 
 
 the chaplain forgot the mass and thought only of the 
 supper. He fancied he saw those bustling kitchens, 
 the fires burning like those of a forge, the warm 
 vapor rising when a pot-lid was uncovered, and in 
 that vapor two magnificent turk eys, stuffed, dis- 
 tended, and mottled with truffles, jp^nd he seemed 
 to see long rows of little pages pass, carrying big 
 platters from which arose a tempting steam, and 
 with them he entered the great hall prepared for 
 the feast. Oh, how delicious ! There stands an im- 
 mense table, gleaming with lights, laden with good 
 things, peacocks dressed with their feathers, pheas- 
 ants spreading their golden-brown wings, decanters 
 the color of rubies, pyramids of fruit, shining amid 
 green branches, and those marvellous fishes of 
 which Garrigou had made mention (ah! was it 
 Garrigou?) lying upon a bed of fennel, their scales 
 as pearly as if they had just come out of the water, 
 and a bunch of odorous herbs in the monsters' 
 nostril^/ So vivid is the vision of these marvellous 
 things that it seems to Dom Balaguere as if all 
 those wonderful platters were placed before him 
 upon the embroidered altar-cloth ; and two or three 
 times instead of the Dominus Vobiscum he finds 
 himself almost repeating the Betiedicite. Except 
 for these slight mistakes, the worthy man gets 
 through the service very conscientiously, without 
 skipping a line, or omitting a single genuflection ; 
 all goes very well, and the end of the first mass is 
 reached, for you remember that on Christmas-eve 
 the same celebrant must say three consecutive 
 masses. 
 
264 Monday Tales. 
 
 " One is finished," whispered the chaplain with 
 a sigh of relief, and then, without losing a moment 
 he motions to his clerk, the person he supposed to 
 be h is clerk, and — 
 
 Ting-a-ling ! Ling-a-ling-a-ling ! 
 
 The second mass is beginning, and with it the 
 sin of Dom Balaguere. " Quick, quick, let us 
 hasten," cries Garrigou's bell, with its little shrill 
 voice ; and this time the wretched officiant, suc- 
 cumbing completely to the demon of gluttony, 
 plunges into his missal, and devours its pages with 
 all the avidity of his over-excited appetite. He 
 bows frenetically, rises again, hurriedly makes the 
 sign of the cross, the necessary genuflections, and 
 curtails all his gestures that he may finish the 
 sooner. He scarcely extends his arm when he 
 reaches the Gospel, nor beats his breast at the 
 Confiteor. There is a race between himself and 
 his clerk to see which one can go the fastest. 
 Verses and responses rush headlong, tumbling 
 over each other in their haste. Words are 
 half pronounced through closed lips to save 
 time, and nothing is heard save incomprehensible 
 murmurs : — 
 
 " Oremus ps . . . ps . . . ps . . . " 
 
 " Mea culpd . . . pd . . . pd . . . " 
 
 Like vintagers hastily crushing the contents of 
 the vat, both of them plunge through the Latin of 
 the mass, splashing fragments of it in every di- 
 rection. 
 
 " Dom . . . scum! " says Balaguere. 
 
 " Stutuo!" Garrigou responds: and all the time 
 
Yule- Tide Stories. 265 
 
 that accursed little bell is there, tinkling in their 
 ears like the little round bells hung about post- 
 horses to spur them to a gallop. You can easily 
 imagine that with that sound jingling in the 
 ears, a low mass is celebrated with all possible 
 expedition. 
 
 " Two ! " says the chaplain, panting, and without 
 taking time to regain his breath, red in the face 
 and dripping with perspiration, he tumbles over 
 the altar-steps, and — Ting-a-ling ! Ling-a-ling- 
 a-ling ! The third mass begins. It is only the 
 work of a few moments now, and then the dining- 
 hall ! But, alas ! as the moment of the feast ap- 
 proaches, the unfortunate Balaguere is possessed 
 by a perfect frenzy of impatience and gluttonous 
 longing. The vision becomes more clearly de- 
 fined, the golden carps and roast turkeys seem to 
 be there, in that very spot ! He touches them, he 
   — oh ! Dieu ! the platters are steaming, the fra- 
 grance of the wines ascends, and that little bell 
 cries out as if mad, — 
 
 " Quicker, quicker, quicker ! " 
 
 But how is it possible to go more quickly? His 
 lips scarcely move. He no longer pronounces a 
 word. Unless he should cheat the good Lord com- 
 pletely and rob Him of His mass ? — and that is 
 what the wretched man does. Yielding to one 
 temptation after another, he begins by omitting a 
 verse, then two more. The Epistle is too long, he 
 does not end it ; he merely skims the Gospel, omits 
 the Credo, skips the Pater Noster, salutes the Preface 
 at a distance, and with spasmodic jumps rushes 
 
266 Monday Tales. 
 
 into eternal damnation, followed in each movement 
 by the infamous Garrigou (vade retro, Satanas) ; 
 the latter seconds his efforts with marvellous 
 understanding, relieves him of his chasuble, turns 
 over the leaves, two at a time, upsets the read- 
 ing-desk, overturns the flagons, and rings that 
 bell incessantly, ever more and more loudly and 
 .rapidly. 
 
 The terror depicted on the faces of all that con- 
 gregation cannot be described ! Compelled to fol- 
 low the pantomime of the priest, in that mass of 
 which they understood not a word, some rose 
 whilst others knelt, some were seated whilst others 
 remained standing, and the various phases of this 
 singular celebration resulted, upon the benches, in 
 absolute confusion, in a multitude of diverse atti- 
 tudes. The Star of Bethlehem, in its course among 
 the paths of heaven, moving towards the lowly 
 manger, paled with fright as it beheld this shame- 
 ful sight. 
 
 "The abbe" goes too fast. One cannot follow 
 him," murmurs the aged dowager, with a bewil- 
 dered shake of her head-dress.f"*Master Arnoton, 
 his huge steel-rimmed spectacles astride his nose, 
 fumbles in his prayer-book, seeking to discover 
 where the deuce they are. But at heart all these 
 good people, who are also anticipating the mid- 
 night feast, are not at all sorry that th^mass pro- 
 ceeds at such break-neck speed; -aftd-whefpDom 
 Balaguere turns with radiant face towards his flock, 
 crying with all his strength, " lie, missa est" all 
 within the chapel answer, as with one voice, and 
 
 
Yule- Tide Stories. 267 
 
 with a Deo gratias so overjoyed, so full of enthusi- 
 asm, that one might well believe himself seated 
 already at table, and responding to the first toast 
 of the Christmas-eve feast. 
 
 III. 
 
 Five minutes later that assemblage of noblemen 
 were seated in the great hall, the chaplain in their 
 midst. The castle, brilliantly lighted throughout, 
 re-echoed with songs, cries, laughter, and uproar ; 
 the venerable Dom Balaguere planted his fork in 
 the wing of a grouse, drowning remorse for his sin 
 in draughts of good vin du pape, and fine meat- 
 gravies. He ate and drank so much, this poor 
 holy man, that he died during the night, after a 
 terrible attack, and without having a single mo- 
 ment given him for repentance. When on the 
 morrow he arrived in heaven, which was still ringing 
 with rumors of the feasting of the preceding night, 
 I leave you to imagine what was his reception. 
 
 " Depart from my sight, thou faithless Christian," 
 said the sovereign Judge and Master of us all, " for 
 thy sin is so great that it blots out the memory of 
 a whole life of virtue. Ah ! thou hast robbed me 
 of a midnight mass. Even so ! thou shalt atone 
 for this with three hundred masses in its stead, and 
 into Paradise thou shalt not enter till thou hast 
 celebrated within thine own chapel, and on Christ- 
 mas-eve, three hundred masses, which shall be in 
 
268 Monday Talcs. 
 
 the presence of all those who have sinned with 
 thee and because of thy sin." 
 
 And that is the true legend of Dom Balaguere as 
 it is told to this day in the land of olives. The 
 castle of Trinquelague exists no longer now, but 
 the chapel still rises erect as ever, by the summit 
 of Mont Ventoux, amid a thicket of green oaks. 
 The wind beats against its disjointed door, grass 
 grows upon the threshold, birds nest about its 
 altar and in the embrasures of its lofty windows 
 whose colored panes disappeared long ago. And 
 yet it seems that every year, as often as Christmas- 
 eve returns, an unearthly light wanders among 
 those ruins, and on their way to mass or to some 
 Christmas-eve merrymaking, the country-folk see 
 that spectral chapel illumined with invisible tapers, 
 which burn in the open air and cannot be quenched 
 even by the snow or the wind, lyou may smile at 
 this if you wish, but a vine-dresser of the neigh- 
 borhood, one Garrigue by name, and without 
 doubt a descendant of Garrigou, assured me that 
 one Christmas- eve, being a little light-headed after 
 the revel of the evening, he was lost upon the 
 mountain near Trinquelague, and this is what hap- 
 pened : up to one o'clock he saw nothing. All 
 was silent, wrapped in darkness, inanimate. Sud- 
 denly, towards midnight, bells began to chime 
 in the belfry above ; it was an old, old carillon, 
 that sounded as if ten leagues distant. Very 
 soon, upon the ascent of the road, Garrigue 
 saw torches flickering, waving to and fro, and 
 borne by indistinct shadowy forms. Beneath 
 
Yule -Tide Stories. 269 
 
 the chapel-porch footsteps were heard, and voices 
 whispered* — 
 
 " Good-evening, Master Arnoton." 
 " Good-evening, good-evening, my children." 
 When all had entered, my vine-dresser, being 
 very brave, approached with soft steps, and beheld 
 through the broken door a singular spectacle. 
 All the forms he had seen pass were arranged 
 about the choir, in the ruined nave, as if the 
 ancient benches still existed. Fair ladies in bro- 
 cade, and lace-covered coifs, noble lords, embroi- 
 dered from head to foot, peasants in flowered coats 
 such as our grandsires wore were there, and all 
 looked old, faded, dust-stained, and weary. From 
 time to time night-birds, the habitual guests of the 
 chapel, awakened by all the lights, hovered about 
 these candles, whose flame ascended straight 
 towards heaven, but seemed indistinct as if seen 
 burning through a film; what amused Garrigue 
 vastly was a certain personage with great steel- 
 rimmed spectacles, who shook his high black 
 perruque from time to time, — one of those 
 birds clinging to it firmly, and flapping its wings 
 noiselessly. 
 
 In the farther end of the chapel was- a little old 
 man, of infantile appearance, on his knees in the 
 midst of the choir and shaking desperately a little 
 mute, tongueless bell, while a priest, robed in faded 
 gold-cloth, Weafc back and forth before the altar, 
 reciting orisons of which none beard "a single word. 
 Surely this Was Dom Balaguere, reciting his third 
 low mass. 
 
270 Monday Tales. 
 
 THE POPE IS DEAD. 
 
 / My childhood was passed in a large provincial 
 * town which is bisected by a river crowded with 
 crafts, and full of stir and bustle ; there I acquired 
 while still young a fondness for voyages, and the 
 passion for a nautical life. There is one especial 
 corner of the quay, near a certain footbridge, Saint 
 Vincent, it is called, and I never think of it, even 
 to-day, without emotion. I remember that sign 
 nailed to the end of a yard, " Cornet, boats to let" 
 the little staircase which went down even to 
 the water, slippery and black from frequent wet- 
 tings, the flotilla of little boats, freshly painted with 
 gay colors, standing in a row at the foot of the 
 ladder, rocking gently side by side, as if the 
 charming names which decorated the stern in white 
 letters, " The Humming-bird" " The Swallow" 
 really lent the boats themselves new buoyancy/ 
 Long oars glistening with white paint were dry- 
 ing against the wall, and among them walked Father 
 Cornet with his paint-pot and big paint-brushes ; 
 his face was tanned, furrowed, and wrinkled with in- 
 numerable tiny depressions, like the river itself 
 when an evening breeze springs up. Oh ! Father 
 Cornet ! That worthy man was the tempter of my 
 childhood, my joy and sorrow combined, my sin, 
 
The Pope is Dead. 271 
 
 my remorse. How many crimes be led me to 
 commit with those boats of his ! I played truant 
 from school, I sold my books. What would I not 
 have sold for an afternoon's boating ! 
 
 All my exercise-books at the bottom of the boat, 
 my jacket off, my hat pushed back, a delicious 
 breeze from the water fanning my hair, I pulled the 
 oars firmly, my brows knitted in a frown, trying to 
 cultivate the air of an old sea-dog. As long as I 
 was in the town I kept to the middle of the river, at 
 equal distance from either bank, where the old sea- 
 dog might have been recognized ! What a sense 
 of triumph I felt, mingling with the movement of 
 boats and rafts and floats loaded with wood, steam- 
 boats moving side by side, but never touching each 
 other, though separated merely by a slender strip 
 of foam ! And then there were heavier boats 
 which had to turn about to follow the current, 
 while a host of smaller ones were obliged to move 
 out of their way. 
 
 Suddenly the wheels of a steamboat would be- 
 gin to churn the water around me ; a huge shadow 
 would loom above me ; it was the bow of a boat 
 loaded with apples. " Look out, youngster," a 
 hoarse voice shouted ; dripping with perspiration 
 I tugged away, entangled in that current of life 
 upon the river which mingled incessantly with 
 the life of the street at every bridge and foot- 
 bridge, while reflections from passing omnibuses 
 darkened the water as I pulled my oars. 
 
 The current of the river was very strong about 
 the arches of the bridge, and there were such 
 
272 Monday Tales. 
 
 eddies, such whirlpools, among them that famous 
 one to which the name of "Death the Deceiver" 
 had been given. You can understand that it was 
 no light matter for a child to pilot himself through 
 that part of the river, pulling with the arms of a 
 twelve-year-old, and no one to hold the rudder. 
 
 Sometimes I chanced to encounter the chain. 
 As quickly as possible I would catch on to the end 
 of the line of boats as it was tugged along, and 
 letting my oars lie motionless, spread like wings 
 about to alight, I allowed myself to be borne on- 
 ward by that swift, silent movement which broke 
 the river's surface into long ribbons of foam, while 
 the trees along the bank and the houses upon the 
 quay glided by us. A long, long distance ahead 
 I could hear the monotonous turning of the screw, 
 and on one of the boats, where a tiny thread of 
 smoke was rising from a low chimney, I could 
 hear a dog's bark ; at such times I really fancied 
 that I was aboard ship, and off for a long cruise. 
 
 Unfortunately, those meetings with that line of 
 boats were rare. Most of the time I rowed and 
 rowed, through the hours when the sun was hottest. 
 Oh, that noonday sun beating straight down upon 
 the river ; I can still seem to feel it burning me ! 
 Everything glistened beneath those fiery rays. In 
 that dazzling, sonorous atmosphere, which rested, 
 a floating mass, above the waves vibrating with 
 their every movement, with every dip of my oars, 
 and from the fisherman's lines raised, dripping, 
 from the water, I could see vivid gleams, as from 
 some surface of polished silver. Then I would 
 
The Pope is Dead. 273 
 
 close my eyes while I rowed on. From the energy 
 of my efforts and the bound of the waves beneath 
 my boat, I thought for the moment that I must be 
 moving very rapidly, but upon raising my head to 
 look, I was sure to see the same tree, the same wall 
 facing me from the river-bank. 
 
 At last, completely exhausted, covered with 
 perspiration, crimson with heat, I succeeded in 
 leaving the city behind me. The din that came 
 from bath-houses, washerwomen's boats, and boat- 
 landings, grew fainter; the bridges were farther 
 apart upon the widening river. A few suburban 
 gardens and a factory chimney were reflected 
 here and there. On the horizon the fringe of 
 verdant islands fluttered, and now, unable to go 
 any farther, I would pull close to the bank; there, 
 in the midst of the reeds, full of buzzing life, over- 
 come with the sun, fatigue, and that oppressive 
 heat which rose from the water dotted with great 
 yellow flowers, the old sea-dog would have an at- 
 tack of the nose-bleed, which lasted for hours. 
 My voyages always ended with that catastrophe ; 
 but then — one must not ask too much ! De- 
 lightful enough these excursions were to me. 
 
 But the terrible part was the return, the moment 
 when I must enter the house. No matter how fast 
 I pulled the oars as I rowed homeward, I always 
 arrived too late, and long after school was out. 
 Impressed with the decline of day, the sight of the 
 first few gaslights twinkling through the mist, the 
 Soldiers' Retreat, my apprehension and remorse 
 grew ever greater as I neared home. I envied the 
 
 18 
 
274 Monday Talcs. 
 
 people I met, tranquilly turning homeward. My 
 head dull and heavy, full of the effects of sun and 
 water, a murmur of sea-shells in my ears, I ran on, 
 my face already reddening with the lie I was about 
 to tell. 
 
 For on each occasion it was necessary to con- 
 front that terrible " Where were you ? " which 
 awaited me upon the threshold. It was that ques- 
 tion which terrified me most, upon my home-com- 
 ing. Standing upon the stairs I must answer upon 
 the spur of the moment, and always have a story 
 ready, something to say so astounding, so over- 
 whelming, that surprise must cut short all further 
 questioning. This left me time to enter, to regain 
 breath. And for the sake of that moment I 
 counted no cost too dear. I invented sinister 
 events, revolutions, terrible things ; one whole side 
 of the city was burning, the railway bridge had 
 collapsed, and fallen into the river ! But the most 
 startling of all my inventions was the following : 
 
 That evening I reached home very late. My 
 mother, who had awaited me a whole hour, was on 
 the watch, standing at the head of the stairway. 
 
 " Where have you been? " she exclaimed. 
 
 Tell me who can from what source children ob- 
 tain the impish ideas that enter their heads. I had 
 prepared no excuse, discovered none, — for I had 
 returned too quickly. Suddenly a wild thought 
 occurred to me. I knew that dear mother was 
 very pious, most zealous of Roman Catholics, and 
 I answered her with the breathless haste born of a 
 deep emotion, — 
 
The Pope is Dead. 275 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! If you knew ! !' 
 
 " Knew what? Has anything happened ? " 
 
 " The pope is dead." 
 
 " The pope is dead ! " repeated my poor mother, 
 and very pale she leaned against the wall. 
 
 I passed quickly into my own room, somewhat 
 frightened at my success, and the enormity of the 
 lie ; and yet I had the courage to persist in it to 
 the end. I still remember that subdued funereal 
 evening ; my father looked very grave, my mother 
 was prostrated. They talked around the table in 
 low voices. I kept my eyes lowered all the while ; 
 but my escapade had been so completely forgotten 
 in the general sorrow that no one thought further 
 of it. 
 
 Each one was pleased to call to mind some virtu- 
 ous trait of that poor Pius IX. ; then, by degrees, 
 the conversation wandered, and reverted to Papal 
 History. Aunt Rose began to speak of Pius VII., 
 whom she recalled very well, having seen him when 
 he passed through the Midi, in the back of a post- 
 chaise, between gendarmes. They recalled that 
 famous scene with the Emperor: Come'diante ! . . . 
 trage'diante ! . . . For the hundredth time I heard 
 them describe that terrible scene, ever with the same 
 intonations, the same gestures, with all those stereo- 
 typed expressions which are a part of family tra- 
 dition, as such bequeathed to the next generation, 
 remaining with it, and like some monastic history, 
 preserving all their puerilities and localisms. 
 
 Notwithstanding, the incident never appeared to 
 me more interesting than upon this occasion. 
 
276 Monday Tales. 
 
 With hypocritical sighs, with questionings, and 
 an assumption of interest, I listened to every word, 
 but all the time I was thinking to myself, — 
 
 " To-morrow morning, when they learn the pope 
 is not dead, they will be so glad that no one will 
 have the heart to scold me." 
 
 And as I thought of that, my eyes closed in 
 spite of my efforts to keep them open, and visions 
 of tiny boats, painted blue, appeared, and every 
 nook along the Saone drowsing beneath the heat, 
 and argyronHes darting forth their long feet in 
 every direction, cutting the glassy water like 
 diamond-points. 
 
 «?. 
 
Gastronomic Scenes. 277 
 
 GASTRONOMIC SCENES. 
 
 BOUILLABAISSE. 
 
 We were sailing along the Sardinian coast 
 towards La Madeleine Island. It was an early 
 morning excursion. Our oarsmen pulled slowly; 
 leaning over the side of our boat, I looked at the 
 sea, transparent- as some spring, the sunlight diving 
 to the very bottom. Medusae and starfish sprawled 
 among the seaweed. Big lobsters lay motionless, 
 their long claws buried in the fine sand. All these 
 might be seen at a depth of from eighteen to twenty 
 feet, in a sort of aquarium, clear as crystal. At 
 the bow of the boat a fisherman, standing with a 
 long cleft reed in his hand, made a sign to the oars- 
 men, " Softly, softly ! " and suddenly between the 
 points of his fork he held a beautiful lobster sus- 
 pended, spreading out its claws with a terrified 
 movement, though still asleep. At my side another 
 sailor let his line drop upon the water's surface in 
 the wake of the boat, and brought in a haul of 
 marvellous little fishes, which as they died were 
 colored with a thousand bright and changing tints 
 — a death-agony beheld through a prism. 
 /The fishing ended, we landed among the high, 
 gray rocks. A fire was quickly kindled, which 
 
278 Monday Tales. 
 
 burned with a pale light in the bright sunshine; 
 bread cut in big slices was placed upon small plates 
 of red earthen-ware, and we sat about the soup- 
 kettle, plates held out and nostrils distended. 
 Was it because of the landscape, the sunshine, or 
 that horizon of sea and sky? I have never eaten 
 anything that tasted better than that lobster bouilla- 
 baisse. And afterwards that delightful siesta upon 
 the sand, — a slumber filled with the lulling mur- 
 murs of the sea, while the wavelets, as if covered 
 with innumerable shining scales, flash and glitter, 
 even although the eyes are closed. 
 
 AIOLI. 
 
 One might have almost believed it to be the hut 
 of some fisherman of Theocritus on the Sicilian 
 coast ; but the scene was merely in Provence, on 
 the island of Camargue, the home of a river-keeper. 
 A reed cabin, nets hanging upon the walls, guns, 
 oars, apparently the tackle of a trapper, of one who 
 hunts both on land and sea. 
 
 Before the open door, against which appeared a 
 level landscape that seemed even vaster when the 
 gale swept across it, the wife of the river-keeper 
 was skinning some fine eels, which were still alive. 
 The fish wriggled in the sunlight, and yonder, in 
 the wan light of the squall, slender trees were 
 bending like fugitives before the storm, the white 
 surfaces of their leaves exposed. Bits of marsh, 
 
Gastronomic Scenes. 279 
 
 Reaming here and there among the reeds, looked 
 ike fragments of a broken mirror. Farther away 
 1 long and shining line bounded the horizon. It 
 vas the Lake of Vaccares. 
 
 Within the hut, a fire of twigs was burning 
 >rightly and crackling loudly; the keeper was 
 eligiously pounding cloves of garlic in a mortar, 
 ind adding olive-oil drop by drop. Later we ate 
 xioli upon our eels, seated on high stools before a 
 .mail wooden table, in that snug little cabin where 
 :he largest space of all was reserved for the ladder 
 vhich climbed to the loft ; and one felt that beyond 
 md about that tiny room lay the horizon swept by 
 :he gale, and hurrying flocks of wandering birds, — 
 :hat all the encircling space might be measured by 
 the bells of herds, of horses and cattle, their ring- 
 ing at first loud and sonorous, and then sounding 
 more faintly in the distance, till the last notes were 
 lost, borne away in a gust of the mistral. 
 
 COUSCOUS. 
 
 It was in Algeria ; we were visiting an aga of 
 the plain of Chelif ; in the great magnificent tent 
 pitched for us before the aga's house we watched 
 the night descend, clad in hues of half-mourning, 
 dark violet at first, which deepened into the purple 
 of a magnificent sunset; through the freshness 
 of the evening a Kabyle candlestick of palm- 
 wood was lighted in the centre of the half-open 
 
280 Monday Tales. 
 
 tent, and the motionless flame from its branches 
 attracted night insects, who hovered about it with a 
 rustling of timid wings. Squatted upon mats we 
 ate in silence ; whole sheep, all dripping in butter, 
 were brought in at the end of poles, honeyed pastry 
 and perfumed confections followed, and, last of all, 
 a great wooden platter, upon which were chickens 
 in the golden semolina of couscous. 
 
 Meanwhile night had fallen. Over the neighbor- 
 ing hills the moon was rising, a tiny Oriental cres- 
 cent, near which a solitary star nestled. Out of 
 doors a big bonfire was flaming in front of the tent, 
 surrounded by dancers and musicians. I recall a 
 gigantic negro, quite naked but for the ancient 
 tunic of the light regiment; he jumped about, 
 causing long shadows to dart all over the tent. 
 This cannibal dance, those small Arabian drums, 
 rattling breathlessly when the beat was hastened, 
 the sharp barking of jackals responding from every 
 side of the plain, — all these things made the ob- 
 server feel that he was in a savage country. How- 
 ever, in the interior of the tent, that refuge of these 
 nomadic tribes, which resembles a motionless sail 
 upon a waveless sea, the aga in his white woollen 
 burnouses, seemed to me an apparition of primi- 
 tive times, and as he gravely swallowed his cous- 
 cous, I was wondering whether this national 
 Arabian dish were not indeed that miraculous 
 manna of the Hebrews of which so much is written 
 in the Bible. 
 
Gastronomic Scenes. 281 
 
 POLENTA. 
 
 THE Corsican coast, an evening in November. 
 We landed beneath torrents of rain, in a part of 
 the country which was completely deserted. Some 
 charcoal-burners of Lucca made room for us at 
 their fire. Then a native shepherd, a species of 
 savage, clad entirely in goatskins, invited us to 
 eat polenta in his hut. We entered, stooping and 
 making ourselves as small as possible, a hovel 
 where it was impossible to stand upright. In the 
 centre some bits of green wood are kindling, be- 
 tween four blackened stones. The smoke which 
 escapes from this fire mounts towards a hole cut in 
 the top of the hut; then it spreads everywhere, 
 driven about by the wind and rain. A tiny lamp, 
 the caleil of Provence, blinks timidly in this stifling 
 atmosphere. A woman and children appear from 
 time to time, when the smoke clears a little, and 
 hidden away somewhere a pig is heard grunting. 
 Some rubbish left from a shipwreck is seen, a 
 bench made of bits of vessels, a wooden packing- 
 case with lettering upon it, the painted wooden 
 head of a mermaid torn from some prow, the paint 
 washed away by the sea- water. 
 
 Polenta is frightful stuff. The badly crushed 
 chestnuts have a mouldy taste ; it would seem that 
 they had remained too long under the trees dur- 
 ing heavy rains. The national bruccio followed the 
 polenta, with a wild taste reminding one of vagrant 
 
282 Monday Talcs, 
 
 goats. In this spot the very climax of Italian pov- 
 erty is seen. Neither house nor home. The cli- 
 mate is so favorable, a livelihood so easily gained ! 
 Nothing more is needed than a retreat for rainy- 
 weather days. And what does it matter that the 
 place is smoky, that the lamp burns dimly, when a 
 house is regarded merely as a prison, and the 
 only life that seems life at all is lived in the open 
 sunshine-* 
 
A Sea- side Harvest 283 
 
 A SEA-SIDE HARVEST. 
 
 We had been travelling across the plain since 
 morning in quest of the sea, which constantly 
 eluded us, in those winding paths, headlands, and 
 peninsulas which form the coast of Britanny. 
 
 From time to time a bit of marine blue would 
 appear on the horizon, like a patch of sky, though 
 deeper in tint and less stable ; but advancing along 
 the capricious meanderings of those roads, which 
 made one call up a picture of ambuscades and 
 Chouan warfare, the momentary glimpse of the sea 
 was soon shut out again. At length we arrived at 
 a tiny village, rustic and ancient in appearance, 
 with gloomy streets as narrow as if built in Alge- 
 rian fashion, and full of dung, geese, cattle, and 
 swine. The houses resembled huts, with their low 
 arched doorways, encircled with white and marked 
 with lime crosses; the shutters were firmly fast- 
 ened by long transverse bars, a custom seen only 
 in windswept countries. And yet this little Breton 
 town looked sheltered enough; the air was still, 
 and even stifling. One might have believed him- 
 self twenty leagues inland. But suddenly, as we 
 came upon the square in front of the church, we 
 found ourselves enveloped in a dazzling light, felt 
 
284 Monday Tales. 
 
 a tremendous sweep of air, and in our ears was the 
 sound of illimitable waves. The ocean spread be- 
 fore us, the immense, infinite ocean, with its salt, 
 fresh scent, and that strong breeze which rises 
 from each bounding wave as the tide comes in. 
 The village rose before us, nestling along the edge 
 of the quay, the main street continued by the 
 jetty, till it reached a tiny port where fishing-boats 
 were moored. Close to the waves the belfry of 
 the church rises like a sentinel, and around it, 
 ai the very extremity of this bit of the world, is 
 the cemetery with its crosses leaning forward, its 
 wild waste-grass, and its low. crumbling wall, 
 against which stone benches are placed. 
 
 It would be difficult to find a more delightful or 
 secluded place than this little village hidden away 
 in the midst of the rocks, and interesting both as a 
 pastoral and a bit of marine landscape. All of them 
 fishers or laborers, the people of the neighborhood 
 have a rude, scarcely prepossessing exterior. They 
 do not invite you to be their guest, quite the con- 
 trary. But by degrees they yield to humanizing 
 influences, and you are surprised to find, in spite of 
 their rough welcome, that these people are simple- 
 hearted and kindly. They resemble their land, 
 that stubborn and rocky soil, so mineral that the 
 roads even, when exposed to the sun, have a black- 
 ish hue, spangled with glittering particles of cop- 
 per or of tin. This rocky soil along the coast, bare 
 and exposed, looks wild, austere, and bristling. 
 There are places where it has fallen down and 
 caved in ; there are perpendicular cliffs, grottos 
 
A Sea-side Harvest 285 
 
 hollowed out by the waves, which rush in engulfing 
 them with a roar of waters. When the tide has 
 gone out the rocks appear again, as far as the eye 
 can see their monstrous backs emerging from the 
 waves, glistening and white with foam, like gigantic 
 cachalots run aground. 
 
 Only a few steps away from the water's edge, 
 the scene affords a singular contrast; fields of 
 wheat and lucerne, and vineyards extend, inter- 
 secting each other, separated by little walls as 
 high as hedgerows, and green with brambles. 
 The eye wearied even to dizziness at sight of those 
 tall cliffs, those foaming breakers, those chasms 
 into which one must descend with ropes fastened 
 to the rocks, can find rest in the midst of the 
 unbroken surface of the plain, and the friendlier, 
 more familiar aspects of nature. The least detail 
 of the rural scene is heightened when seen against 
 the gray-green background of the sea, which pre- 
 sents itself at every turn of the road, and appears 
 between the houses, through each cranny of a 
 wall, and at the foot of the street. Even the 
 crowing of the cock sounds clearer when sur- 
 rounded by so much space. But what is most 
 beautiful of all is the harvest-gathering at the sea- 
 side, the golden stacks piled up so close to the 
 blue waves, the threshing-floors where the rhyth- 
 mic beat of the flail is heard, those groups of 
 women on the steep rocks, seeking which way the 
 wind blows, and winnowing the wheat between 
 their outstretched hands with gestures of evoca- 
 tion. The grains rain down with a regular, brisk 
 
286 Monday Tales, 
 
 movement, while the sea-breeze carries away the 
 chaff and sets it whirling. This winnowing goes 
 on upon the square in front of the church, upon 
 the quay, as far as the jetty itself, where great 
 fish-nets are spread out to dry, their meshes all 
 entangled with aquatic plants. 
 
 Meanwhile there is another harvest at the foot of 
 the rocks, in that neutral space invaded each day, 
 and then left bare, by the tide. Here the seaweed 
 is gathered. Each wave, as it breaks in foam upon 
 the shore, leaves its traces in an undulating line of 
 that marine vegetation known as goemon or varccJi. 
 When the wind blows, these algae are carried the 
 entire length of the beach with a rustling sound, 
 and as far as the ebb of the sea leaves the rocks 
 uncovered, these long, wet masses of sea-foliage 
 are deposited everywhere. They are gathered 
 into great heaps along the coast and piled up in 
 dark-purplish stacks, which preserve all the hues 
 of the waves, and the bizarre iris-tints of dead 
 fishes and faded vegetation. When the stack is 
 dry it is burned, and the soda is extracted from it. 
 
 This singular harvest is gathered by the bare- 
 legged villagers at low tide among the innumer- 
 able limpid little pools which the ebbing waters 
 leave behind; men, women, and children appear 
 among the slippery rocks, armed with immense 
 rakes. As they pass, terrified crabs attempt to 
 escape, crawl into hiding-places, spreading out 
 their claws, and shrimps with transparent bodies 
 can scarcely be distinguished from the ruffled 
 water. After the seaweed is obtained, it is gath- 
 
A Sea-side Harvest. 287 
 
 ered into piles and loaded upon wagons to which 
 yoked oxen are harnessed ; they cross the hilly 
 and broken ground laboriously, with heads bent. 
 Wherever the eye chances to glance, these wagons 
 are seen; sometimes in spots that seem almost 
 inaccessible, which are reached only by abrupt 
 paths, a man will appear leading by the bridle a 
 horse loaded with drooping, dripping vegetation. 
 You will also see children carrying upon sticks, 
 crossed to form a handbarrow, their gleanings from 
 this marine harvest. 
 
 All this forms a melancholy but fascinating 
 picture. Terrified sea-gulls are seen circling about 
 their eggs, and screaming. The menace of the sea 
 is here, and what adds a final touch of solemnity to 
 the scene is the, silence which broods about every- 
 thing, the same silence that marks a gleaning of the 
 fruits of the soil, the silence of activity, full of the 
 efforts of a people struggling against rebellious and 
 parsimonious nature. A call to the cattle, a sharp 
 " t-r-r-r " echoing through the grottos, is the only 
 sound that is heard. The spectator seems to have 
 encountered some Trappist community, one of those 
 monastic brotherhoods which labor in the open air 
 with a vow of everlasting silence imposed upon them. 
 Those who are directing the work never look 
 about, even to so much as glance at you when you 
 pass ; the cattle alone fix their great, placid eyes 
 upon you. And yet this is not a sad people, and 
 when the Sabbath comes they know how to make 
 merry, and dance their old Breton dances. Of an 
 evening, towards eight o'clock, they assemble at 
 
288 Monday Tales. 
 
 the end of the quay, before the church and the 
 cemetery. That word " cemetery " has a dismal 
 sound, but the spot itself, if you should see it, 
 looks anything but dismal. Not a boxwood-tree, 
 nor a single yew, nor monuments of marble ; noth- 
 ing here is formal or solemn. Only crosses are 
 seen, the same names repeated again and again 
 as in all small settlements where the inhabitants 
 are closely allied. The tall grass grows every- 
 where with equal favor, and the walls are so low 
 that the children can climb over them in their 
 play, and upon the day of an interment the spec- 
 tator from without can see the kneeling mourners 
 within. 
 
 At the foot of those low walls the aged come to 
 sit in the sun, spinning or dozing, upon one side 
 of them that wild and silent enclosure, in front of 
 them the eternal and restless sea. 
 
 And there, too, the young gather to dance of a 
 Sabbath evening. When the light gleams faintly 
 above the waves along the jetty, groups of youths 
 and maids approach. Rings are formed, and a 
 shrill voice rises, at first alone, repeating a line 
 whose rhythm is easily caught, and summoning the 
 chorus : — 
 
 " C'est dans la cour du Plat-d'£tain." 
 All the voices repeat together, — 
 
 " C'est dans la cour du Plat-d'Etain." 
 
 The roundel grows livelier, one catches glimpses 
 of white caps, their flaps whirling about like butter- 
 
A Sea-side Harvest 289 
 
 flies' wings. Almost invariably the wind snatches 
 and bears off half of the words, — 
 
 ". . . perdu mon serviteur . . . 
 . . . portera mes couleurs . . ." 
 
 the song all the more naTve and charming, be- 
 cause one catches only fragments of it, with those 
 odd elisions so common in folk-songs set to dance- 
 tunes with more regard for the rhythm of the meas- 
 ure than thought for the meaning of the words. 
 With no other light than the feeble ray of the 
 moon, the dance seems fantastic. All is gray, 
 black, or white, in that neutrality of tint which ac- 
 companies things dreamed about, not seen. By 
 degrees, as the moon rises, the crosses in the 
 cemetery, especially that of High Calvary, which 
 is at one side, lengthen till they seem to touch 
 the ring of dancers and mingle with them. At 
 last ten o'clock rings. The dancers separate. 
 Each returns homeward, along the lanes of the 
 little village, which wears a strange aspect at this 
 moment, with its broken steps of outer staircases, 
 roof corners, and a confused mass of bent, tumble- 
 down, open sheds, black with the dense gloom 
 of night. 
 
 We pass along old walks, just grazed by fig 
 trees, and, as we walk on, crushing underfoot the 
 empty chaff from the winnowed wheat, the scent 
 of the sea comes to us, mingling with the warm 
 perfume of the harvest, and the breath of cattle 
 asleep in the stables. 
 
 The house where we are living is in the country, 
 19 
 
?.go Monday Tales. 
 
 a short distance from the village. As we return, 
 we can see along the road, just above the hedges, 
 beacons gleaming from all parts of the peninsula, a 
 flash-light, a revolving, a stationary one ; and as we 
 cannot now see the ocean, all these watch-towers 
 rising above yonder black reefs seem lost in this 
 peaceful country. 
 
Emotions of a Young Red Partridge. 291 
 
 THE EMOTIONS OF A YOUNG RED 
 PARTRIDGE. 
 
 You know that partridges travel in flocks, and- 
 make their nests together in the hollows of the 
 fields, so that they may be able to disappear at the 
 least alarm, an entire flock dispersing like a hand- 
 ful of wheat scattered by the sower. Our own 
 covey is large in numbers, and merry ; our home 
 is upon the plain on the border of a great forest, 
 well sheltered on two sides, and full of booty. Ever 
 since I knew how to run, being well fed and full- 
 fledged, my life was a very happy one. But one 
 thing disturbed -me somewhat, and that was the 
 famous beginning of the chase ; our parents began 
 to talk of it among themselves, in whispers; a 
 veteran of our company would tell me on such 
 occasions, — 
 
 " Do not fear, Rouget," — I was named Rouget 
 because of my bill, and my legs the color of the 
 red berries of the rowan, — " do not fear, Rouget. 
 I will take you with me the day the hunt begins, 
 and I am sure no ill will befall you." He was an 
 old fellow, very sly, and still nimble, although he 
 had the horseshoe already marked upon his breast, 
 and a few white feathers here and there. When he 
 was young he received a grain of lead in one wing, 
 
292 Monday Tales, 
 
 making it rather heavy, and he looks about him 
 more than once before flying, takes his time about 
 it, and gets out of harm's way. He had often led 
 me as far as the entrance of the woods, where 
 there stands an odd little house, nestling close to 
 chestnut-trees, silent as an empty burrow, and 
 always closed. 
 
 " Look well at that house, little one," said the 
 old fellow one day ; " when you see smoke rising 
 from the roof, when the shutters and the door are 
 opened, it bodes ill for us." 
 
 I placed myself completely in his charge, know- 
 ing that this was not the first hunting-season for 
 him. 
 
 And, in fact, the very next morning, at break of 
 day, I heard some one calling very softly amid the 
 furrows, — 
 
 " Rouget, Rouget ! " 
 
 It was the old fellow himself. His eyes had an 
 extraordinary expression. 
 
 " Come quickly," he said, " and do exactly as I 
 do." 
 
 I followed him, still half asleep, gliding along 
 the clumps of turf, not flying and scarcely hop- 
 ping, but creeping like a mouse. We reached the 
 border of the woods, and in passing I saw smoke 
 ascending from the chimney of the little house ; 
 the windows were no longer closed, the door stood 
 wide open, and before it were huntsmen, thoroughly 
 equipped for the chase, and surrounded by dogs 
 bounding about them. As we passed, one of these 
 huntsmen exclaimed, — 
 
Emotions oj a Young Red Partridge, 293 
 
 " We will scour the plain this morning, and leave 
 the woods until after dinner." 
 
 Then I understood why my old comrade had 
 first of all sought a spot where we would be shel- 
 tered. Nevertheless, my heart was jumping quickly, 
 especially when I thought of our poor friends. 
 
 Suddenly, just as we passed the outskirts of the 
 woods, the dogs began to gallop in our direction. 
 
 " Keep close to the ground, close to the ground," 
 said my old comrade, dropping to the earth ; and 
 at the same moment, ten paces from us a terrified 
 quail spread out his wings, opened wide his beak, 
 and flew, uttering a frightened cry. I heard a for- 
 midable sound, and we were enveloped in dust 
 which had a strange odor, and was white and warm 
 although the sun had scarcely risen. I was so 
 frightened that I was no longer able to run. For- 
 tunately, we had entered the woods. My comrade 
 hid behind a small oak, and I took my position 
 near him, and there we remained in hiding, peep- 
 ing through the leaves. 
 
 In the fields there was a terrific firing. At every 
 shot I closed my eyes, quite dazed ; when at last 
 I resolved to open them, I saw before me the plain, 
 vast and bare; dogs were running about, prying 
 in the grass, among the sheaves, running about as 
 if mad. Behind them came the hunters, cursing 
 and shouting. Their guns flashed in the sunlight. 
 One moment, in a tiny cloud of smoke, I fancied I 
 could see, although there was not a single tree in 
 the neighborhood, something flying that looked 
 like scattered leaves. But the old cock assured me 
 
294 Monday Tales. 
 
 that what I saw was feathers, and in fact, a hun- 
 dred feet in front of us we saw a superb young 
 gray partridge fall in the furrows, his bleeding 
 head upturned. When the sun was high and the 
 heat intense, the firing suddenly paused. The 
 huntsmen returned towards the little house, where 
 a fine fire of twigs was soon burning. They 
 talked among themselves, guns slung across their 
 shoulders, arguing about their shots, while the 
 dogs followed close at their heels, exhausted, their 
 tongues hanging. 
 
 " They are going to dine," said my companion ; 
 " let us do the same." 
 
 And we entered a field of buckwheat which is 
 close to the woods, a big field dark in places, white 
 in others, partly in flower, partly gone to seed, and 
 scented like almond. Beautiful pheasants with 
 reddish-brown plumage were pecking there as well 
 as ourselves, dropping their red crests lest they 
 should be seen. Ah ! they were not so valiant as 
 of old. As they ate they asked us for news, and 
 wished to learn whether any of their kin had fallen. 
 Meanwhile the meal of the sportsmen, at first silent, 
 became more and more boisterous ; we could hear 
 glasses clinking and the corks of bottles flying. 
 My old comrade thought it was time to seek our 
 covert again. 
 
 At this hour the forest seemed as if asleep. 
 The little pool where the roebucks come to drink 
 was not troubled by a single tongue lapping the 
 water. Not even the snout of a rabbit in the wild 
 thyme of the warren. Only a mysterious shudder 
 
Emotions of a Young Red Partridge, 295 
 
 was felt, as if every leaf, every grass-blade, shel- 
 tered an existence that was endangered. These 
 hunted ones of the forest have so many hiding- 
 places in burrows, thickets, fagots, and brushwood ; 
 and then there are those ditches, those tiny ditches 
 in the woods, that hold the water so long after a 
 rain. I confess that I would gladly have sought 
 one of those holes, but my companion preferred 
 not to remain in hiding, but to have the country 
 before him, able to look far and wide in the open 
 air. It was lucky for us, for soon the huntsmen 
 arrived in the woods. 
 
 Oh ! that first shot in the forest, that fire which 
 pierced the leaves like an April hail-storm, denting 
 the bark of the trees. Never shall I forget it. A 
 rabbit scampered across the road, tearing off tufts 
 of grass with his paws. A squirrel tumbled down 
 a chestnut tree, the still green chestnuts tumbling 
 with him. The heavy flight of some big pheasants 
 was heard, and a tumult ensued in the low branches, 
 among the dry leaves, at the shock of this fire, 
 which startled, awoke, and frightened every living 
 thing in the woods. Field-mice ran out of their 
 holes. A stag-beetle crawled from a crevice in the 
 tree where we were crouching, and rolled his big 
 stupid eyes, fixed with terror. Blue dragon-flies, 
 humble-bees, butterflies, tiny creatures of all sorts 
 fled terrified in every direction. A little cricket 
 with scarlet wings even went so far as to crawl close 
 to my beak, but I was too frightened myself to take 
 advantage of its terror. 
 
 But my old comrade remained calm. Constantly 
 
296 Monday Tales. 
 
 attentive to the firing and the barking of the dogs, 
 when they came nearer he would signal to me, 
 and we would withdraw a little, beyond reach of 
 the dogs and well-hidden in the foliage. And yet, 
 on one occasion I really believed that we were 
 lost. The passage we must cross was guarded at 
 every step by a hunter lying in wait. On one side 
 stood a big, determined, black-whiskered fellow, 
 whose every movement set a mass of old iron ring- 
 ing; he was armed with a hunting-knife, cartridge- 
 pouch, powder-box, and with high-buttoned gaiters 
 reaching to his knees, making him look even taller ; 
 on the other side a little old man leaning against 
 a tree, tranquilly smoking a pipe, blinking his 
 eyes as if he wished to doze. He did not frighten 
 me in the least ; it was the big fellow who terrified 
 me. 
 
 "You know nothing at all, Rouget," said my 
 comrade, with a smile ; and advancing fearlessly with 
 outspread wings, he flew past, almost touching the 
 legs of the terrible black-whiskered huntsman. 
 
 And the fact is, the poor man was so encum- 
 bered with his hunting-rig, so absorbed in admiring 
 himself from top to toe, that when he aimed his 
 gun, we were already beyond his range. Ah ! if 
 the huntsman only knew, when he thinks himself 
 alone in a corner of the woods, how many tiny, 
 fixed eyes are watching from every bush, how 
 many tiny, pointed bills are trying to hold in their 
 laughter at his awkwardness ! 
 
 We went on and on. Having nothing better to 
 do than to follow my comrade, my wings fluttered 
 
Emotions of a Young Red Partridge, 297 
 
 to every motion of his own, and folded silently 
 when he alighted. I can still see every place we 
 passed — the warren, pink with heath, full of bur- 
 rows at the foot of the yellow trees, and then that 
 great curtain of oaks where I seemed to see death 
 concealed everywhere, the little green lane where 
 Mother Partridge had so often walked with her tiny 
 brood in the May sunshine, where we hopped 
 about, pecking at the red ants that clambered up 
 our legs, and where we met snobbish little pheas- 
 ants, dull as chickens, who would not play with us. 
 
 I see, as if in a dream, that little lane at the 
 moment a roe would cross it, erect upon her slender 
 legs, her eyes wide open, her body ready to spring. 
 And then there was that pool we visited in parties 
 of fifteen to thirty, all of the same flock, passing 
 across the plain in a minute to drink the water of 
 the spring and splash its droplets which rolled 
 down our lustrous plumage. In the midst of this 
 pond there was a clump of young alders, that 
 formed quite a thicket, and upon that little island 
 we took refuge. The dogs must have had a keen 
 scent to have come there in search of us. We had 
 been there a moment when a roebuck arrived 
 dragging three legs along, and leaving a red track 
 upon the moss behind him. It was such a sad 
 sight that I hid my head beneath the leaves ; but 
 I could hear the wounded animal drinking in the 
 pool, panting and consumed with fever. 
 
 The sun was setting. The firing sounded at a 
 distance now, the shots few and far between. At 
 length there was silence. The day's hunt was over. 
 
298 Monday Tales. 
 
 Then we returned very softly across the plain for 
 news of our covey. As we passed by the little 
 wooden house, I saw a horrible sight. 
 
 On the edge of a ditch, russet-coated hares and 
 little, gray, white-tailed rabbits were lying side by 
 side. Their tiny paws, bent together in death, 
 seemed to beg for mercy; their dim eyes seemed 
 about to weep ; we saw red partridges also, and 
 gray ones, who had a horseshoe marked upon their 
 breasts, like my comrade, and young ones of this 
 year's brood, who like myself still had down upon 
 their wings. Do you know any sadder sight in the 
 world than a dead bird ? What seems more alive 
 than the wings of a bird? But to see them folded 
 and cold causes one to shudder. There was also 
 a huge roebuck lying there ; it was a magnificent 
 animal, and lay there quietly, as if it had fallen 
 asleep, its little red tongue outstretched as if about 
 to lick. 
 
 The huntsmen too were there, leaning over all this 
 slaughtered booty, counting and drawing towards 
 their game-bags broken wings and bleeding legs, 
 with no respect for those wounds, still fresh. The 
 dogs, tied-up to go back, were scowling and point- 
 ing, as if ready to spring again into the thicket. 
 
 Oh ! while that great sun was sinking yonder, 
 as they went off wearily, casting long shadows upon 
 the clods and the paths wet with the evening-dews, 
 how I cursed, how I hated them, men and brutes, 
 that entire band. Neither my companion nor my- 
 self had the heart for piping our usual farewell 
 note to the departing day. 
 
Emotions of a Young Red Partridge. 299 
 
 Upon our way we came across more unfortunate 
 little beasts, slain by a chance bullet, and lying 
 there, abandoned to ants and field-mice, their 
 muzzles full of dust ; we saw magpies and swallows, 
 suddenly struck in their flight ; they lay head up, 
 upon the ground, and their little claws curled stiffly 
 upward, while the night descended swiftly, — an 
 autumn night, clear, cold, and damp. And more 
 heart-rending than aught else were the cries which 
 rose from the outskirts of the woods, from deep 
 in the meadow, from the willows fringing the river, 
 calls that were uttered far and wide, sad anxious 
 cries which no call answered. 
 
30O Monday Tales. 
 
 THE MIRROR. 
 
 In the North, on the bank of the Niemen, ap- 
 peared one day a little creole, fifteen years of age, 
 pink and white as the blossoms of the almond tree. 
 She had come from the land of humming-birds, 
 and a breath of love wafted her hither. True, the 
 people of her island had said to her, " Do not go. 
 It is cold on the continent. When winter comes 
 it will kill you." But the little creole did not be- 
 lieve there was such a thing as winter, and she did 
 not know what cold was except as she had tasted 
 it in sherbets ; besides, she was in love, and had no 
 fear of death. And so it happened that she landed 
 northward, among the fogs of the Niemen, with 
 her fans, her hammock, mosquito-nettings, and a 
 gilded, latticed cage, filled with the birds of her 
 country. 
 
 When old Father North saw this island-flower 
 the South had sent him in a sunbeam, his heart 
 stirred within him for pity ; and as he thought that 
 the cold would make but a single mouthful of the 
 maiden and her humming-birds, he quickly lighted 
 his great yellow sun, and disguised himself in sum- 
 mer's garment to receive the strangers. And so 
 the creole was deceived, and she mistook this 
 
The Mirror. 301 
 
 northern heat, so harsh and oppressive, for constant 
 warmth, and its dark evergreen for the verdure of 
 spring-time, and hanging her hammock in the park 
 between two fir trees she swung and fanned herself 
 all day long. 
 
 " It is very warm in the North," she said with a 
 smile. But one thing troubled her. Why in this 
 strange country have the houses no verandas? 
 Why those thick walls, those carpets and heavy 
 hangings? Those great porcelain stoves, and huge 
 piles of wood heaped up in the yards, those blue 
 fox-skins, lined cloaks, and furs laid away at the bot- 
 tom of wardrobes, — what are all these things for ? 
 Poor child, she will soon learn. 
 
 One morning, on awaking, the little creole feels 
 a sudden chill pass through her. The sun has dis- 
 appeared, and from the darkened overhanging sky, 
 which seems to have descended upon the earth dur- 
 ing the preceding night, flakes are falling, forming 
 a woolly covering, white and silent as that which 
 falls from the cotton tree. Winter is come ! Winter 
 is come ! The wind whistles, the stoves roar. In 
 their big cage with its gilded lattice, the humming- 
 birds chirp no longer. Their tiny wings, blue, rose- 
 hued, ruby-red, and sea-green, are motionless now. 
 It is pitiful to see them huddling against each 
 other, their bodies benumbed and swollen with the 
 cold, — such slender beaks, and eyes like pin-heads. 
 Yonder, in the park, frost has eaten into the ham- 
 mock, and it, too, shivers with the cold. The 
 branches of the pine tree are sheathed in a cover- 
 ing that looks like spun glass. The little creole 
 
302 Monday Tales, 
 
 feels the cold, and does not care to venture out 
 of doors. 
 
 Curled up snugly beside the fire, like one of her 
 birds, she whiles away the hours making sunshine 
 of her memories. In the great fireplace a bright 
 fire burns, and in its flames she seems to see all 
 the scenes of her native land, the great quays 
 basking in sunshine, the dripping sugar-cane, and 
 the floating, golden dust of grains of maize ; then 
 the afternoon siesta, the light blinds and straw 
 mattings, — and those starlit evenings, with fire- 
 flies, and millions of tiny wings buzzing among the 
 flowers, and the tulle meshes of mosquito-netting. 
 
 And while she dreams at the fireside, the winter 
 days follow each other, growing shorter and 
 gloomier. Every morning a dead humming-bird 
 is picked up in the cage ; soon there are but two 
 of them left, two tufted bits of green plumage 
 that lean, bristling, against each other in a corner 
 of the cage. That morning the little Creole her- 
 self was unable to rise. Like a Turkish felucca 
 lodged fast in Northern ice-fields, she is griped 
 and paralyzed by the cold- The day is sombre, 
 the chamber dreary. The frost has curtained the 
 window-panes with a heavy covering, like lustreless 
 silk; the city itself seems dead, and through the 
 silent streets the steam snow-plough wheezes dole- 
 fully. The creole, lying in bed, tries to divert 
 herself by watching the flash from the spangles 
 of her fan, and passes hours gazing at herself in 
 the mirrors of her native land, fringed with tail 
 Indian plumes. 
 
The Mirror, 303 
 
 Growing ever shorter, ever gloomier, the winter 
 days follow each other. Surrounded by her lace 
 curtains, the little Creole droops, is wretched. 
 What saddens her most of all is to find that from 
 her bed she cannot see the fire. It seems to her 
 that she has lost her country a second time. From 
 time to time she asks, " Is there a fire in the 
 room?" "Why, of course there is, little one. 
 The fireplace is aflame ! Don't you hear the logs 
 crackling, the fir-cones bursting? — Oh, look, 
 look ! " But though she leans forward, the flames 
 are too far away for her ; she cannot see them, and 
 the thought renders her disconsolate. But one 
 evening, as she lies there, pensive and pale, her 
 head barely touching her pillow, and her eyes 
 ceaselessly directed towards that beautiful invisible 
 flame, her beloved approaches her bedside, and 
 lifts one of the mirrors lying upon the bed : " You 
 want to see the flame, mignonne f Well, then, 
 wait a moment," and kneeling before the fire, he 
 tries to hold the mirror so that she shall receive 
 a reflection of the magic flame. " Can you see 
 it? " " No ! I see nothing." — " How now ? " "I 
 cannot see it yet." Then suddenly receiving full 
 upon her face a flash of light that envelops her, 
 "Oh, I see it!" cries the Creole, overjoyed, and 
 she dies with a smile on her lips, two tiny flames 
 leaping from the depths of her eyes. 
 
304 Monday Tales. 
 
 THE BLIND EMPEROR, OR A JOURNEY 
 
 IN BAVARIA IN SEARCH OF A 
 
 JAPANESE TRAGEDY. 
 
 I. 
 
 COLONEL VON SIEBOLDT, 
 
 In the spring of 1866, Colonel Sieboldt, a Bava- 
 rian in the service of Holland, well known in the 
 scientific world through his charming works upon 
 the Japanese flora, came to Paris to submit to the 
 Emperor a vast project for an international associa- 
 tion for the exploitation of that marvellous Nipon- 
 Jepon-Japon (Land of the Rising Sun), where he 
 had resided for thirty years. While awaiting an 
 audience in the Tuileries, the illustrious traveller, 
 who had remained decidedly Bavarian in spite of 
 his sojourn in Japan, passed his evenings in a little 
 beer-shop of the Faubourg Poissonniere, in com- 
 pany with a young lady of Munich who travelled 
 with him, and whom he introduced as his niece. 
 There it was I first ran across him. The physiog- 
 nomy of this tall old man, erect and sturdy in spite 
 of his sixty-two years, his long white beard, his 
 interminable fur-lined coat, its button-hole decked 
 with ribbons of various colors presented by divers 
 academies of science, his foreign manner, in which 
 
The Blind Emperor, 305 
 
 there were at once timidity and boldness, his whole 
 appearance was sufficient to cause all eyes to turn 
 in his direction whenever he entered. The colonel 
 would seat himself solemnly, and draw from his 
 pocket a big black radish ; then the little lady who 
 accompanied him, decidedly German in the cut of 
 her short skirt, her fringed shawl, and her little tour- 
 ist's-hat, would proceed to cut that radish in thin 
 slices after the fashion of her country, cover it with 
 salt, and offer it to her " otitic^" as she called him in 
 her thin voice, as small as a mouse's, and both of 
 them would begin to nibble, sitting vis-a-vis, tran- 
 quilly, and with perfect simplicity, without the 
 slightest suspicion that to behave in Paris exactly 
 as if in Munich might cause ridicule. Truly this 
 was an original and sympathetic couple, and it did 
 not take long for us to become great friends. The 
 worthy man, perceiving how well inclined I was to 
 listen when he talked of Japan, asked me to revise 
 his Memoir, and I hastened to accept the task, 
 prompted as much by regard for this aged Sinbad 
 as by the desire to plunge more deeply into the 
 study of that beautiful country, for which he had 
 communicated his own love to me. This labor of 
 revision was by no means a light one. The entire 
 Memoir was written in the same bizarre French 
 that Colonel Sieboldt spoke. 
 
 " Si j'aurais des actionnaires, — si je re'unirais 
 des fonds," and those blunders of pronunciation 
 which made him say regularly, " Les grandes boites 
 de VAsie" for " Les grandes poetes de VAsie" and 
 " le Chabon " for " le Japon" Add to this, many 
 
306 Monday Tales, 
 
 of his phrases were fifty lines in length, without a 
 period, a single comma, nowhere a breathing-place, 
 — and yet the whole so well arranged in the brain of 
 the author that to omit a single word seemed to him 
 impossible ; if it occurred to me to cut out a line, 
 he very quickly transferred it to another place. 
 
 Notwithstanding, this terrible man was so inter- 
 esting with his Chabon that I forgot to be tired 
 while I labored, and when the letter arrived grant- 
 ing an audience, the Memoir was already fairly 
 well in shape. 
 
 Poor old Sieboldt ! I can still see him walking 
 towards the Tuileries, all his crosses upon his 
 breast, in his uniform with that fine colonel's coat of 
 scarlet and gold, which he brought from his trunk 
 only upon great occasions. In spite of his oft- 
 repeated " brum, brum," as he straightened his tall 
 figure again and again, as I felt his arm tremble 
 against mine, and noted the unusual pallor of his 
 nose, the fine, big nose of a scientist, crimsoned by 
 study and the beer of Munich, I knew that he was 
 deeply moved. That evening, when I saw him 
 again, he was triumphant. Napoleon III. had 
 received him between two doors, listened for five 
 minutes, and dismissed him with that favorite 
 phrase, " I will see. I will consider." As result 
 of which, the narve Japanese was already talking of 
 renting the first story of the Grand H6tel, writing 
 to the journals, and issuing a prospectus. I had 
 great difficulty in making him understand that his 
 Majesty's reflections might require some time, and 
 that meanwhile it would be better to return to 
 
The Blind Emperor. 307 
 
 Munich, where Parliament had just voted funds for 
 the purchase of his great collection. My remarks 
 finally convinced, him, and on his departure he 
 promised me, in return for the trouble I had taken 
 with his famous Memoir, a Japanese tragedy of the 
 sixteenth century, entitled The Blind Emperor, a 
 precious masterpiece, absolutely unknown in 
 Europe, and translated by him expressly for his 
 friend Meyerbeer. The master was about to write 
 the music for the choruses at the time of his death. 
 You perceive that the gift the good man wished 
 to make me was a valuable one. 
 
 Unfortunately, some days after his departure, 
 war broke out in Germany, and I heard nothing 
 more of my tragedy. The Prussians having in- 
 vaded Wiirtemberg and Bavaria, it was quite 
 natural, in his patriotic excitement and the confu- 
 sion attending an invasion, that the colonel should 
 have forgotten my Blind Emperor. But I thought 
 of it myself more than ever, and — I confess — 
 partly stirred by a longing for my Japanese trag- 
 edy, partly moved by curiosity to see what war 
 and invasion at close range were like, — O ye 
 gods ! how the horror of it all remains in my 
 memory, — I decided one fine morning to set out 
 for Munich. 
 
 II. 
 
 SOUTH GERMANY. 
 
 TALK of your phlegmatic nations! In the 
 midst of war and burning beneath that intense 
 
308 Monday Tales. 
 
 August sun, all the country beyond the Rhine, from 
 the bridge of Kehl to Munich itself, — how tranquil 
 and cold it all seemed. Through the thirty win- 
 dows of the Wurtemberg car, which took me 
 slowly, sluggishly across Swabia, landscape after 
 landscape was unrolled, mountains, ravines, masses 
 of rich verdure, which suggested the presence of re- 
 freshing streams. Upon many a slope which would 
 disappear as the train moving on passed through 
 some wind of the road, peasant-girls were seen, 
 standing stiffly in the mid^t of their cattle, clad in 
 red petticoats and velvet bodices, and the trees 
 around them were so green that one might almost 
 fancy he saw a miniature landscape taken from one 
 of those tiny fir-boxes fragrant with the resinous 
 odors of Northern forests. Now and then we would 
 see a dozen foot-soldiers, clad in green, covering 
 step in a meadow, heads erect, legs raised, bearing 
 their guns as if they were cross-bows, perhaps the 
 army of some Nassau prince. Sometimes other 
 trains passed, as slowly as our own, loaded with 
 big boats, where the Wurtemberg soldiery, huddled 
 as if in some allegoric chariot, sang three-part bar- 
 carolles as they fled before the Prussians. There 
 were halts at every refreshment-station, and one 
 saw major-domos with rigid smiles, and those fat, 
 good-natured faces, napkins tucked under their 
 chins, standing before enormous hunches of meat, 
 served with sweetmeats ; then came the royal Park 
 of Stuttgard, full of coaches, toilets, cavalcades, 
 waltz-music playing about the fountains, quadrilles 
 while a battle was in progress at Kissingen. Really, 
 
The Blind Emperor. 309 
 
 when I recall all this, and think of what I saw four 
 years later in that same mouth of August, locomo- 
 tives madly rushing no one knew where, as if the 
 great sun itself had bewitched their boilers, railroad 
 cars pulling up on the very battlefield, rails cut, 
 trains in distress, France reduced day by day, as 
 the Eastern Line grew shorter and shorter, — all 
 along the route abandoned tracks, and a dismal as- 
 semblage of railway-stations, which were left in their 
 loneliness, in a deserted land full of wounded men, 
 forgotten like so much luggage — I begin to believe 
 that the war between Prussia and the Southern 
 States was but a sham war after all, and that, in 
 spite of all which could be told us, the German 
 wolves do not devour each other. 
 
 To see Munich was to be convinced of this. 
 The evening when I arrived, a beautiful Sunday 
 evening, the sky thick with stars, all the city was 
 out of doors. A vague, joyous rumor was floating 
 in the air, as indistinct beneath the light, as dust 
 raised by the footsteps of all these promenaders. 
 In the cool, vaulted beer-cellars, in the beer-gardens 
 where colored lanterns swayed to and fro with a 
 dim light, everywhere was heard, mingling with the 
 noise of the covers of beer-mugs dropping heavily, 
 the sound of brass and wood instruments, uttering 
 triumphal notes. It was in one of these harmonic 
 beer-shops I discovered Colonel Sieboldt, seated 
 with his niece, before that everlasting black radish 
 of his. 
 
 At a side-table, the Minister of Foreign Affairs 
 was drinking bock in company with the king's 
 
310 Monday Tales. 
 
 uncle. All around us were seated the worthy citi- 
 zens of Munich with their families, officers in spec- 
 tacles, students wearing little caps, red, blue, and 
 sea-green ; all were grave and silent, and listened 
 religiously to Herr Gungl's orchestra, as they 
 watched the clouds of smoke rising from their 
 pipes, with no more concern about Prussia than if 
 it did not exist. The colonel seemed slightly dis- 
 turbed when he saw me, and I believe that he 
 lowered his voice perceptibly when he addressed 
 me in French. Around us were whispers of 
 " Frantzose ! Frantzose!" and I could feel the ill-will 
 every glance conveyed. " Let us go," said Colonel 
 Sieboldt, and once we were outside, his smile was 
 as frank as of old. The worthy man had not for- 
 gotten his promise, but he had been very much ab- 
 sorbed in the arrangement of his Japanese collection, 
 which he had sold to the State. That was the reason 
 why he had not written. As for my tragedy, it was 
 at Wurtzbourg, in the hands of Frau von Sieboldt, 
 and to reach that place it was necessary to obtain 
 a special permission from the French Embassy, 
 for the Prussians were approaching Wurtzbourg, and 
 it was now very'difficult to gain entry. But I had 
 so strong a desire to obtain my Blind Emperor 
 that I would have gone to the Embassy that very 
 evening had I not feared that M. de Trevise would 
 have gone to bed. 
 
The Blind Emperor, 311 
 
 III. 
 
 IN A DROSKY. 
 
 EARLY the following morning, the landlord of 
 the Grappe-Bleue persuaded me to climb to the top 
 of one of those small conveyances which stand in 
 hotel-courtyards, and can always be hired by trav- 
 ellers who wish to be shown the curiosities of the 
 city, from which equipage monuments and avenues 
 appear exactly as if you had encountered them upon 
 the pages of a guide-book. On this occasion the 
 city was not to be shown to me, but I was to be 
 conducted to the French Embassy, " Frantzsosiche 
 Ambassad ! " the hotel-keeper repeated twice. The 
 coachman, a little man in blue livery, a gigantic 
 hat upon his head, seemed much astonished at 
 the new destination of his fiacre, or his droschken, 
 as they call it in Munich. But I was even more 
 astounded than he when I saw him turn his back 
 upon the noble quarter where we were, and enter a 
 poorer part of the city, which for a long distance 
 was lined with factories, working-men's lodgings, 
 and tiny gardens ; then he passed beyond the gates 
 and out of the city. 
 
 " Ambassad Frantzsosiche f " I asked uneasily 
 from time to time. 
 
 " Ya, Ya" answered the little man, and we rolled 
 on and on. I would have gladly received further 
 information, but what the deuce was to be done? 
 
3 1 2 Monday Tales. 
 
 My guide could not speak French, and I myself 
 at this epoch knew only two or three phrases of 
 the German language, very elementary ones at 
 that, which related merely to bread, bed, meat, and 
 had naught to do with such words as " ambassador." 
 And even these few words I could only deliver set 
 to music, and this is the reason : — 
 
 Some years before, with a comrade almost as 
 mad as myself, I had travelled across Alsace, 
 Switzerland, and the Duchy of Baden, — a real 
 colporteur's journey, knapsacks strapped upon our 
 shoulders, striding across the country, a dozen 
 leagues at a stretch, turning aside from the cities, of 
 which we wished to see nothing more than the 
 gates, following each tiny by-way, never knowing 
 whither it would lead us. Often the result would 
 be that we had to pass a night, unexpectedly, in 
 the open field, or in some barn whose roof was 
 the sky, but what made our journeys still more 
 eventful was the fact that neither of us knew a sin- 
 gle word of German. By the aid of a little pocket- 
 dictionary purchased as we were passing through 
 Basle, we had been able to construct a few ex- 
 tremely simple phrases, quite na'fve in character, 
 such as " Vir v'ollen trinken Bier'' "We want beer 
 to drink," " Vir vollen essen Kase," " We want some 
 cheese to eat." Unfortunately, though they may 
 not seem at all complex to you, it cost us much 
 labor to retain these accursed phrases. We did 
 not, in the comedian's language, " have them at 
 our tongue's end." Then it occurred to us that we 
 would set them to music, and the little air we had 
 
The Blind Emperor. 313 
 
 composed was so well adapted to the purpose that 
 the words entered our heads along with the notes, 
 and it was impossible to utter these phrases without 
 dragging along the music. It was indeed a sight, 
 to see the expression on the face of the Baden 
 inn-keepers, when of an evening we would enter 
 the great hall of the Gasthaus, and immediately 
 our knapsacks were unbuckled chant in resonant 
 voices : — 
 
 " Vir vollen trinken Bier (repeat), 
 Vir vollen, ya, vir vollen, 
 
 • Ya! 
 Vir vollen trinken Bier." 
 
 Since that time I have become most proficient in 
 German ; I have had so many opportunities to 
 learn the language. My vocabulary has been en- 
 riched by a host of expressions and phrases ; but I 
 say them, I sing them no longer ! Ah, no ! I 
 have not the least wish to sing them. 
 
 But to return to my droschken. 
 
 We went at a slow trot down an avenue bordered 
 with trees and white houses. Suddenly the coach- 
 man paused. " Da" he said pointing out to me a 
 little white house, hidden among the acacias, which 
 seemed to me somewhat secluded and quiet for an 
 embassy. Three copper knobs, one above the 
 other, gleamed in a corner of the wall beside the 
 door. I pulled the first one I chanced to touch; 
 the door opened, and I entered an elegant and 
 comfortable vestibule, flowers and carpets every- 
 where. On the staircase half a dozen Bavarian 
 
3 14 Monday Tales. 
 
 chambermaids came running to answer my ring, 
 standing in line, with that awkward appearance of 
 birds without wings that characterizes all the women 
 beyond the Rhine. 
 
 I inquired, " Ambassad Frantzosiche ? " They 
 made me repeat this twice, and then began to 
 laugh, so loudly that they shook the banister. I 
 returned to my coachman furious, and endeavored 
 to make him understand, with an abundance of 
 gestures, that he was mistaken, and the Embassy 
 was not there. " Ya, ya," responded the little man, 
 without the slightest show o£ emotion, and we re- 
 turned toward Munich. 
 
 I must believe that our ambassador then at 
 Munich changed his domicile very frequently, or 
 else my coachman, unwilling to depart from custom 
 with regard to his droschken, was determined I 
 should see, if possible, the city and its environs. At 
 all events, our entire morning was passed in driving 
 over Munich in every direction, in search of that 
 fantastic Embassy. After two or three attempts I 
 ended by refusing to descend from the carriage. 
 The coachman went in search, returned, stopped 
 in certain streets, and appeared to ask information. 
 I allowed myself to be driven on, no longer occu- 
 pied except in looking about me. What a weari- 
 some, cold city, this Munich, with its great avenues, 
 its rows of palaces, its over-sized streets, where 
 every footstep resounds, its open-air museum of 
 Bavarian celebrities, who seem so very dead as one 
 glances at their effigies in white marble. 
 
 What colonnades, arcades, frescos, obelisks, 
 
The Blind Emperor. 315 
 
 Greek temples, propylaea, with distichs in golden 
 letters upon their frontons ! So much effort at 
 grandeur ; but one cannot help feeling the empti- 
 ness and pomposity of it all, finding at the end of 
 each avenue a triumphal arch where the horizon 
 alone passes, and porticos open to the blue sky. 
 So I picture to myself those imaginary cities, Italy 
 mingling with Germany, where Musset parades the 
 incurable ennui of his Fantasio and the solemn, 
 stupid, bewigged head of the Prince of Mantua. 
 
 This drive in the droschken lasted five or six 
 hours, at the end of which time the coachman 
 brought me back triumphantly to the courtyard of 
 the Grappe-Blene, cracking his whip, quite proud to 
 have shown me Munich. As for the Embassy, I 
 finally found it two streets from my hotel ; but it did 
 me little good, for the chancellor was unwilling to 
 give me a passport for Wurtzbourg. It seems that 
 we were not very favorably regarded in Bavaria at 
 this time; it would have been dangerous for a 
 Frenchman to venture beyond the outposts. I 
 was consequently obliged to wait in Munich until 
 Frau yon Sieboldt should find occasion to send me 
 the Japanese tragedy. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE BLUE COUNTRY. 
 
 Singular fact ! These worthy Bavarians, who 
 bore us so much ill-will because we did not espouse 
 their cause in this war, felt not the least animosity 
 
316 Monday Tales. 
 
 towards the Prussians, — neither shame at defeat, 
 nor hatred for their conqueror. " They are the 
 finest soldiers in the world," the landlord of the 
 Grappe-Bleue said to me with a certain pride 
 the morning of Kissingen, and that was the general 
 sentiment in Munich. In the cafes there was a rush 
 for the Berlin newspapers, and side-splitting 
 laughter at the pleasantries of Kladderadatsch, 
 those heavy Berlin jests, as ponderous as that 
 famous pile-hammer of the Krupp factory, which 
 weighs fifty thousand kilogrammes. As every one 
 was certain that the Prussians would soon enter the 
 city, all were disposed to receive them well. The 
 beer-shops laid in special supplies of sausages 
 and meat-balls, and houses in the city began to 
 prepare chambers for the officers. 
 
 Only the museums manifested some uneasiness. 
 One day, upon entering the Pinakothek, I saw that 
 the walls were bare, and the guardians of the place 
 busied in nailing away the paintings in great pack- 
 ing-cases, ready to be sent to the South. It was 
 feared that the conquerors, extremely scrupulous 
 regarding personal property, would not be quite so 
 respectful of the collections of the State, and of all 
 the museums of the city, only Colonel Sieboldt's re- 
 mained open. In his capacity as a Dutch officer, 
 decorated with the Eagle of Prussia, the colonel 
 felt assured that none would dare touch his collec- 
 tion, and while awaiting the arrival of the Prussians 
 he merely walked back and forth in full uniform 
 through the three long halls which the king had 
 given him, fronting upon the court-garden, a sort 
 
« The Blind Emperor, 317 
 
 of Palais-Royal, but greener and gloomier than ours, 
 surrounded by cloistered walls painted in fresco. 
 
 In that great, dismal palace, that exhibition of 
 curiosities, all carefully labelled, did indeed form a 
 museum, a melancholy assemblage of things come 
 from far-away lands, and snatched from the sphere 
 in which they belonged. And old Sieboldt himself 
 seemed to form part of the collection. I went to 
 see him every day, and together we passed long 
 hours turning over the leaves of those Japanese 
 manuscripts ornamented with plates, those scientific 
 and historic works, the former so immense that it 
 was necessary to spread them out upon the floor in 
 order to open them, the others about as long as a 
 finger-nail, legible only with the aid of a magnifying- 
 glass, gilded, exquisitely done, and very valuable. 
 Herr von Sieboldt aroused my admiration with his 
 Japanese encyclopaedia in eighty-two volumes, and 
 even translated for me an ode of Hiak-nin, a 
 marvellous work, published under the supervision 
 of the Emperors of Japan, and containing the biog- 
 raphies, portraits, and lyric fragments of one hun- 
 dred of the most famous poets of the Empire. 
 Then we arranged his collection of armor, golden 
 helmets with huge chin-pieces, cuirasses, coats of 
 mail, great two-handed swords, which suggested the 
 days of Knight-templars, and with which a body 
 could be ripped open so easily. 
 
 He explained, too, the amorous devices painted 
 upon gilded shells, introduced me to Japanese 
 interiors, showing me the model of his house 
 at Yedo, a lacquered miniature where everything 
 
3 1 8 Monday Tales, 
 
 was represented, from the silken window-shades to 
 the rock-work of the garden, a Lilliputian garden, 
 decorated with tiny plants and indigenous flora. 
 But more than anything else I was interested in 
 those objects of Japanese worship, those tiny, 
 painted, wooden gods, chasubles, consecrated vases, 
 portative chapels, veritable pupazzi theatres, which 
 every faithful worshipper has in some corner of 
 his house. Tiny red idols are placed in the rear. 
 A slender knotted cord hangs in front of them. 
 Before commencing his prayer, the son of Japan 
 bows, and by means of this cord strikes a bell 
 which shines at the foot of the altar. It is thus he 
 attracts the attention of his gods. I took a childish 
 pleasure in ringing these magic bells, and allowing 
 my fancy to wander, carried onward by that wave 
 of sound, even to the heart of those Oriental Asias 
 where the rising sun seems to have gilded all things, 
 from the blades of great swords to the edges of 
 tiny books. 
 
 When I left the museum my eyes were still 
 sated with all those reflections of lacquer and jade, 
 and the brilliant coloring of geographical charts, 
 especially on the days when the colonel had read to 
 me one of those Japanese odes, of a poetic form 
 both chaste and distinguished, original and pro- 
 found, the streets of Munich produced a singular 
 effect upon me. Japan and Bavaria were countries 
 entirely new to me, both of which I became ac- 
 quainted with at the same time, depending on the 
 latter for my knowledge of the former ; the two 
 were mingled confused, in my brain, until they 
 
The Blind Emperor. 319 
 
 seemed one, an indistinct, shadowy land where 
 everything was tinged with the color blue. That 
 wandering blue line which I had just seen upon 
 Japanese cups, sketched in cloudy outline, I 
 found again traced upon the blue frescos of 
 the walls of Munich; blue soldiers were drilling 
 in the public squares, with Japanese helmets on 
 their heads ; the vast tranquil vault overhead was 
 tinged with the blue of the forget-me-not; and it 
 was a coachman in blue livery who had taken me 
 to that hotel, the Grappe-Bleue ! 
 
 A SAIL ACROSS LAKE STARNBERG. 
 
 In the blue country also was that shining lake 
 whose sparkling image I still recall. Merely in 
 writing the word " Starnberg " I saw again that 
 great sheet of water close to Munich, its smooth 
 surface reflecting all the sky above ; the smoke of a 
 little streamer which sails along its shores lends a 
 certain life and homelike air to the picture. On 
 every side rise the sombre masses formed by the 
 foliage of extensive parks, separated from each 
 other in places by villas, which make white, gleam- 
 ing gaps here and there. At a still greater ele- 
 vation, villages with roofs crowded close together, 
 nest-like houses, built upon every acclivity; and 
 looming above these rise the distant Tyrol moun- 
 tains, the color of the atmosphere in which they 
 
320 Monday Tales. 
 
 seem to float, and in one corner of this picture a 
 scarcely classic but very charming figure in long 
 gaiters and red, silver-buttoned waistcoat, — the 
 old, old ferryman who cruised about with me one 
 whole Sunday, and seemed so proud to have a 
 Frenchman in his boat. 
 
 It was not the first time he had had this honor. 
 He remembered very well that in his youth he had 
 once ferried an officer across the lake. That was 
 sixty years ago, and from the respectful fashion in 
 which the worthy fellow spoke to me, I could judge 
 what impression had been made upon him by that 
 Frenchman of 1806, some gallant Oswald of the 
 First Empire, in tights and hunting-boots, wearing 
 a gigantic schapska, and all the insolence of a con- 
 queror ! If the ferryman of Starnberg is alive to- 
 day, I doubt whether he has so much admiration 
 for Frenchmen. 
 
 Upon that beautiful lake and in the open parks 
 surrounding the residential part of the city, the 
 citizens of Munich disported themselves of a Sab- 
 bath, on pleasure bent. The war had not caused 
 the slightest departure from this custom. On the 
 shore of the lake, I saw in passing that the inns 
 were full of people. Corpulent dames were seated 
 in a circle, their skirts appearing upon the lawn 
 like balloons. Between the branches, which almost 
 touched each other above the blue sheet of water, 
 groups of Gretchens and students passed by, 
 wreathed in a nimbus of smoke from their pipes. 
 A little farther on, in a glade of Maximilian Park, 
 a bridal party of gaudily dressed, boisterous peas- 
 
The Blind Emperor. 321 
 
 ants were drinking before long, trestle-like tables, 
 while a green-coated game-keeper, standing with 
 his gun in his hand, in the attitude of one about to 
 fire, was demonstrating the power of that marvel- 
 lous needle-gun of which the Prussians had made 
 use so successfully. But for that sight, I would 
 scarcely have remembered that fighting was in 
 progress but a few leagues from us. Yet so it 
 was, and the fact was perfectly credible ; for that 
 very evening on my return to Munich, I saw upon 
 a little place, as sheltered and isolated as some 
 church-nook, candles burning around the Marien- 
 Saule, and women were kneeling before it, their 
 prayers shaken by prolonged sobs. 
 
 VI. 
 
 BAVARIA. 
 
 In spite of all that has been written for some 
 years past upon French chauvinism and our patri- 
 otic follies, vanities, and fanfaronades, I do not 
 believe that there is in all Europe a more boastful, 
 vainglorious people, or one more infatuated with 
 themselves, than the people of Bavaria. All its 
 small history, ten detached pages of the history of 
 Germany, is inscribed upon the streets of Munich 
 in gigantic, disproportionate features, in paintings 
 and monuments, like one of those toy Christmas- 
 books meant merely for children, with scarcely 
 anything by way of text, but full of pictures. In 
 
322 Monday Tales, 
 
 Paris we have only one Arc de Triomphe, — there 
 they have ten triumphal arches, a Gate of Victory, 
 a Marshals' Porch, and I dare not say how many 
 obelisks stand there, erected in commemoration of 
 the bravery of Bavarian warriors. 
 
 It is something to be a great man in that 
 country. One is sure of having his name engraved 
 everywhere in stone and bronze ; at least one statue 
 of him will stand in some public place, or sur- 
 mounting some frieze, amid white marble figures 
 of victory. This insane fondness for statues, 
 apotheoses, and commemorative monuments is 
 carried to such an extent that at every street- 
 corner there are empty pedestals, erected in readi- 
 ness for the unknown celebrities whom to-morrow 
 may bring forth. By this time every place must 
 be occupied, — the war of 1870 furnished them with 
 so many heroes, so many glorious episodes. 
 
 For instance, it pleases me to fancy that I see 
 the illustrious General von der Than, clad in 
 antique undress, standing in the midst of a verdant 
 square, upon a beautiful pedestal, ornamented with 
 bas-reliefs representing on one side Bavarian 
 Warriors setting fire to the town of Bazeilles, on the 
 other, Bavarian Warriors assassinating wounded 
 French soldiers at the field-hospital of Woerth. 
 What a splendid monument that would make ! 
 
 Not content with having their great men scat- 
 tered in this fashion over the entire city, the 
 Bavarians have reunited them all in a Temple 
 situated at the city gates, and named the Ruhmes- 
 halle (Hall of Fame). Beneath a vast portico 
 
The Blind Emperor. 323 
 
 of marble columns whose projecting angles form 
 three sides of a square, arranged upon consoles, 
 are the basts of electors, kings, generals, juriscon- 
 sults, etc. A catalogue may be obtained in the 
 custodian's room. 
 
 Slightly in front rises a colossal statue, Bavaria 
 herself, ninety feet high, standing at the summit oi 
 one of those great gloomy staircases which are 
 open to the air on all sides, and rise in the midst 
 of verdurous public gardens. With a lion-skin 
 upon her shoulders, her sword clenched in one 
 hand, in the other the crown of Fame {Fame 
 always!) this immense bronze figure, at the hour 
 when I saw it, towards the close of one of those 
 August days when the shadows lengthen enor- 
 mously, filled the silent plain with its emphatic 
 gesture. All around, a stretch of columns, and 
 profiles of celebrated men grimacing in the setting 
 sun. The scene was so deserted, so dismal ! And 
 as I heard the sound of my own footsteps echoing 
 upon the flaggings, there returned to me again 
 that impression of emptiness and grandeur com- 
 bined which had pursued me since the moment of 
 my arrival in Munich. 
 
 Through the interior of Bavaria runs a little 
 winding, cast-iron staircase. The whim seized me, 
 and I climbed to the very top and seated myself 
 for a moment in the head of the colossus, a tiny 
 rotunda-like room, lighted by two windows which 
 formed the eyes of Bavaria. In spite of those 
 open eyes facing the blue horizon of the Alps, it 
 was very hot in that little room. The bronze, 
 
324 Monday Tales. 
 
 warmed by the sun, enveloped me in an oppres- 
 sive heat, and I was obliged to descend again very 
 quickly. Nevertheless, I was there long enough 
 to know thee, O mighty Bavaria ! big-voiced and 
 grandiloquent. I have seen thy chest without a 
 heart, thy huge arms, like those of some singer, 
 puffy and without muscles, thy sword of wrought 
 metal, and I have discovered in thy hollow head 
 the dull drunkenness and torpor of the beer- 
 drinker's brain. And to think that, in embarking 
 upon that mad war of 1870, our diplomats counted 
 upon thee ! Ah ! if they too had only taken the 
 trouble to ascend Bavaria. 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE BLIND EMPEROR. 
 
 I HAD been ten days in Munich without receiv- 
 ing the slightest news of my tragedy. I had begun 
 to despair, when one evening in the little beer- 
 garden where we were taking our meals, I saw my 
 colonel appear with a radiant countenance. " I 
 have it," he said ; " come to-morrow morning to 
 the museum. We will read it together ; you shall 
 see for yourself how fine it is." He was very ani- 
 mated that evening. His eyes sparkled as he 
 spoke. He declaimed quite loudly whole passages 
 of the tragedy, trying to sing the choruses. Two 
 or three times his niece was obliged to make some 
 
The Blind Emperor, 325 
 
 attempt at restraining him, with her " Ouncle", 
 ouncU ! " I attributed this fever and exaltation to 
 genuine lyric enthusiasm. And indeed the frag- 
 ments that he recited to me seemed very beautiful, 
 and I was in haste to obtain possession of my 
 masterpiece. 
 
 The following day, when I arrived in the court- 
 garden I was much surprised to find the collection 
 hall closed. For the colonel to be absent from his 
 museum was so extraordinary an event that as I 
 hastened to his quarters a vague fear took posses- 
 sion of me. The street where he dwelt was a little 
 out of the city, a short, quiet street, with gardens 
 and low houses ; it was less quiet than usual ; 
 groups of people were talking in the doorways. 
 The door of the Sieboldt house was closed, the 
 shutters open. People were entering it, leaving it, 
 with sorrow in their mien. One could feel that 
 this was one of those catastrophes too large for a 
 single home to hold it, and that it had overleaped 
 its confines and invaded the street as well. As I 
 entered I heard sobs. They came from the rear 
 of a little passage, where was a large room as 
 well-lighted and crowded with objects as a school- 
 room. In it was a long, white, wooden table, 
 books, manuscripts, glass cases for collections, 
 albums covered with embroidered silk, and upon 
 the wall, Japanese armor, engravings, big geograph- 
 ical charts, and amid all this disorder of study 
 and travel the colonel lay stretched upon his 
 bed, his long, straight beard resting upon his 
 chest, while weeping, at one side, knelt the poor 
 
326 Monday Tales, 
 
 little " ouncleT Colonel Sieboldt had died sud- 
 denly in the night. 
 
 I left Munich the same evening, not having the 
 heart to disturb so much sorrow merely for the 
 sake of a literary fantasy, and so it was that I never 
 knew more of that marvellous Japanese tragedy 
 than the mere title: The Blind Emperor ! Since 
 that day we have seen another tragedy enacted for 
 which that title imported from Germany would 
 have been most appropriate ; sinister indeed it 
 was, K ut not Japanese, that tragedy full of blood 
 and tears. 
 
LETTERS FROM MY MILL 
 LETTERS TO AN ABSENT ONE 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 LETTERS FROM MY MILL. 
 
 Page 
 
 Preamble . ; vii 
 
 Taking Possession i 
 
 The Beaucaire Diligence -5 
 
 The Secret of Maitre Cornille 10 
 
 M. Seguin's Goat 18 
 
 The Stars 27 
 
 The Arlesian Girl 35 
 
 ^ The Pope's Mule 41 
 
 The Lighthouse 55 
 
 The Wreck of the " S6millante " . 63 
 
 Custom-house People 72 
 
 I The Cure of Cucugnan 78 
 
 Aged Folk 86 
 
 Prose Ballads: 
 
 The Death of the Dauphin . , 96 
 
 The Sub-prefect in the Fields 100 
 
 Bixiou's Portfolio 105 
 
 The Legend of the Man with the Golden Brain . 112 
 
 The Poet Mistral Il8 
 
 Oranges 127 
 
 |L The Two Inns *3 2 
 
 At Milianah * , . . 138 
 
 The Locusts * > *53 
 
 / 
 
vl Contents. 
 
 The Elixir of the Reverend Pere Gaucher . , 
 
 In Camargue 
 
 Barrack Homesickness 186 
 
 Pagk 
 
 172 
 
 LETTERS TO AN ABSENT ONE. 
 
 The Surrender ,<>, 
 
 The Dictators I9g 
 
 A Mushroom Bed of Great Men 204 
 
 ROCHEFORT AND ROSSIGNOL 211 
 
 The Sentry-box 2I g 
 
 The Tricoteuse 225 
 
 A Year of Trouble . . 233 
 
PREAMBLE. 
 
 BEFORE Maitre Honorat Grapazi, notary of the 
 district of Pampe>igouste 
 
 Appeared : 
 
 The Sieur Gaspard Mitifio, husband of Vivette 
 Cornille, owner of the property called " Les 
 Cigalieres" and there residing: 
 
 The same t>y these presents has sold and con- 
 veyed under warranty of right and possession, free 
 of all debt, claims and mortgages, 
 
 To the Sieur Alphonse Daudet, poet, residing 
 in Paris, here present and accepting, 
 
 A windmill for flour, situated in the valley of the 
 Rhone, and in the heart of Provence, on a hillside, 
 wooded with pine and live-oak ; the said mill being 
 abandoned for twenty years or more, and therefore 
 unfit for grinding, as appears from the wild vines, 
 mosses, rosemarys, and other parasitical growths 
 which have climbed its sails ; 
 
 Notwithstanding which, such as it is and appears 
 with its great wheel broken and its platform where 
 the grass is growing between the bricks, the Sieur 
 Daudet declares that finding the said mill to his 
 liking and serviceable to his works of poesy, he 
 
vm Preamble, 
 
 accepts the same at his risks and perils, and with- 
 out any claim whatsoever against the vendor for 
 repairs which may have to be made. 
 
 This sale is concluded in the lump for the sum 
 agreed upon, which the Sieur Daudet placed and 
 deposited on the desk in current coin, the which 
 sum was immediately touched and withdrawn by 
 the Sieur Mitifio, within sight of the undersigned 
 notary and witnesses, for which receipt is given. 
 
 Deed done at Pamperigouste in the office of 
 Honorat Grapazi, in presence of Francet Mamaf, 
 fife-player, and Louiset, called le Quique, cross- 
 bearer of the White Penitents ; 
 
 Who have signed with the parties and the no- 
 tary after reading of the deed. 
 
LETTERS FROM MY MILL 
 
 I. 
 
 TAKING POSSESSION. 
 
 'TWAS the rabbits who were astonished! So 
 long had they seen the mill-door closed, the walls 
 and the platform invaded by verdure, that they had 
 come to think the race of millers was extinct ; and 
 finding the place convenient, they made it, as it 
 were, a sort of headquarters, a centre of strategi- 
 cal operations, — the Jemmapes mill of rabbits. 
 The night of my arrival, there were fully, with- 
 out exaggeration, a score sitting in a circle on 
 the platform, warming their paws in the moon- 
 shine. One second to open a window, and, scat ! 
 away went the bivouac, routed ; all the little white 
 behinds scurrying away, tails up, into the thicket. 
 I hope they will come back again. 
 
 Another much astonished individual was the 
 tenant of the first floor, a solemn old owl with 
 the head of a thinker, who has lived in the mill 
 for over twenty years. I found him in the upper 
 chamber, motionless and erect on the horizontal 
 shaft, in the midst of the plaster rubbish and fallen 
 rpof-tiles. He looked at me for a moment with his 
 I 
 
2 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 round eye ; then, alarmed at not knowing me, he 
 began to say, " Hoo ! hoo ! " and to shake his 
 wings heavily, gray with dust — those devilish 
 thinkers ! they never brush themselves. . . Well ! 
 never mind, whatever he is, with his blinking eyes 
 and his scowling look, this silent tenant pleased 
 me, and I hastened to beg him to renew his lease. 
 He now occupies, as before, the whole upper part 
 of the mill with an entrance from the roof; I re- 
 serve to myself the lower room, a small white- 
 washed room, low and vaulted like a convent 
 refectory. 
 
 It is from there that I write to you, with the 
 door wide open to the good sun. 
 
 A pretty pine wood, sparkling with light, runs 
 down before me to the foot of the slope. On the 
 horizon, the Alpilles outline their delicate crests. 
 No noise. Faintly, afar, the sound of a fife, a cur- 
 lew amid the lavender, the mule-bells on the high- 
 way. . . All this beautiful Provencal landscape 
 lives by light. 
 
 And now, think you I could regret your noisy, 
 darksome Paris? I am so well-off in my mill ! It 
 is so exactly the spot I was looking for, a warm 
 little fragrant corner, far from newspapers, cabs, 
 and fog ! . . And what pretty things about me ! 
 It is scarcely a week since I came, and yet my 
 head is already stuffed full of impressions and 
 memories. Tenez ! no later than last evening I 
 watched the return of the flocks to the mas (farm) 
 which stands at the foot of the slope; and I de- 
 
Taking Possession. 3 
 
 clare to you I would not give that sight for all the 
 u first nights " that you have had in Paris this 
 week. You shall judge. 
 
 I must tell you that in Provence it is the custom, 
 as it is in Switzerland, to send the flocks to the 
 mountains on the coming of hot weather. Ani- 
 mals and men spend five or six months up there 
 under the stars, in grass to their bellies; then, 
 at the first chill of autumn, down they come to the 
 mas and feed after that on the little gray foot-hills 
 that are fragrant with rosemary. So last night 
 they came. The gates awaited them, wide open ; 
 the folds were filled with fresh straw. From hour 
 to hour the people said : " Now they are at Eygui- 
 eres — now at the Paradou." Then, all of a sud- 
 den, towards evening, a great shout : " Here they 
 come ! " and away off in the distance I could see 
 the flocks advancing in a halo of dust. The whole 
 road seemed to be marching with them. The old 
 rams came first, horns in front with a savage air; 
 after them the ruck of the sheep, the mothers 
 rather weary, their nurslings beside them; the 
 mules, with red pompons, carrying in baskets 
 the day-old lambkins, which they rocked as they 
 walked; then came the dogs, their tongues to 
 earth, perspiring, and two tall shepherd rascals 
 swathed in red serge mantles which fell to their 
 heels like copes. 
 
 All this defiles before me joyously with a pat- 
 tering sound like rain, and is swallowed through 
 the gateway. You should see what excitement 
 in the farm ! From their high perches the green 
 
4 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 and gold peacocks with their tulle crests, have 
 recognized the new-comers and hail them with 
 a formidable trumpet-blast. The poultry yard, 
 which was going to sleep, wakes up with a start. 
 All are afoot, pigeons, ducks, turkeys, guinea-fowl. 
 They all seem crazy; even the hens talk of sitting 
 up all night! One would really think that each 
 sheep had brought back in its wool with the fra- 
 grance of the wild Alp a little of that keen moun- 
 tain air which intoxicates and sets one dancing. 
 
 In the midst of all this racket, the flocks regain 
 their abode. Nothing can be more charming than 
 this re-entrance. The old rams are tenderly moved 
 at seeing their old cribs ; the lambs, even the little 
 ones born on the journey who had never seen the 
 farm, look about them in amazement. 
 
 But most touching of all are the dogs, those 
 brave shepherd dogs, full of business about their 
 flocks and seeing nought else in the mas. In vain 
 does the watch-dog call to them from his kennel ; 
 the well-bucket full of fresh water entices them in 
 vain ; they see nothing, hear nothing till the flocks 
 are housed, the big bolt run on the wicket gate, 
 and the shepherds at table in the lower room. 
 Then and not till then, they consent to go to 
 kennel, and there, while lapping their porringers 
 of soup, they tell their farm comrades what things 
 they have done up there on the mountains, a 
 gloomy place, where there are wolves, and great 
 crimson foxgloves full of dew to the brim* 
 
The Beaticairc Diligence, 
 
 II. 
 
 THE BEAUCAIRE DILIGENCE. 
 
 It was the day of my arrival at this place. I 
 had taken the diligence of Beaucaire, a worthy 
 old vehicle that has no great distance to go before 
 she gets home, but which loiters, nevertheless, by 
 the way, to have an air, in the evening, of coming 
 from afar. We were five on the imperial, not 
 counting the conductor. 
 
 First, a keeper of the Camargue, a small, stock)'', 
 hairy man, smelling of his wild life, with big, 
 bloodshot eyes and silver ear-rings. Then two 
 Beaucairese, a baker and his journeyman, both 
 very red, very short-winded, but splendid in profile, 
 two Roman coins bearing the effigy of Vitellius. 
 Lastly, on the front seat, beside the conductor, a 
 man — no, a cap, an enormous squirrel-skin cap, 
 who said little or nothing and gazed at the road 
 with a melancholy air. 
 
 All these persons knew each other, and talked 
 aloud of their affairs very freely. The man of the 
 Camargue told that he was coming from Ntmes, 
 where he had been summoned before an examin- 
 ing-judge to answer for a blow with a scythe given 
 to a shepherd. They have such hot blood in 
 Camargue ! — and in Beaucaire too ! Did not 
 these very two Beaucairese try to cut each other's 
 
6 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 throats apropos of the Blessed Virgin? It seemed 
 that the baker belonged to a parish church that 
 was vowed to the Madonna, the one whom the 
 Provencals call " the good mother " and who car- 
 ries the little Jesus in her arms. The journeyman, 
 on the contrary, sang in the choir of a new church 
 dedicated to the Immaculate Conception, that beau- 
 tiful smiling image represented with pendent arms 
 and her hands full of sun-rays. Hence the quarrel. 
 You ought to have seen how those two good 
 Catholics treated each other, they and their 
 madonnas : — 
 
 " She is a pretty one, your immaculate ! " 
 
 " Get away with your good mother ! " 
 
 " She saw queer things, that one of yours, in 
 Palestine ! " 
 
 " And yours, hoo ! the fright ! Who knows 
 what she didn't do? Ask Saint Joseph." 
 
 As if to remind me of the harbour of Naples, 
 knives were on the point of glittering, and, upon 
 my word, I believe the theological battle would 
 have ended that way if the conductor had not 
 come to the rescue. 
 
 " Let us alone with your madonnas," he said, laugh- 
 ing, to the two Beaucairese ; " all that is women's 
 talk, men should n't meddle in such things." 
 
 Thereupon he cracked his whip with a scepti- 
 cal little air which brought every one round to his 
 opinion. 
 
 The discussion ended ; but the baker, set a-go- 
 ing, felt the need of letting out the remains of 
 
The Beaucaire Diligence, 7 
 
 his ardour ; so, turning to the unfortunate cap, sad 
 and silent in his corner, he said with a jeering air : 
 
 " And your wife, knife-grinder, what parish does 
 she belong to now? " 
 
 It is to be supposed that some very comical 
 meaning was in those words, for the whole impe- 
 rial went off into roars of laughter. The knife- 
 grinder alone did not laugh. He seemed not to 
 hear. Observing that, the baker turned to me. 
 
 " You don't know about his wife, monsieur ; a 
 queer one, I can tell you. There are not two like 
 her in all Beaucaire." 
 
 The laughs redoubled. The knife-grinder did 
 not stir ; he contented himself by saying in a low 
 voice : — 
 
 " Hold your tongue, baker." 
 
 But that devil of a baker had no idea of holding 
 his tongue, and he began again, more jeering than 
 ever : — 
 
 " Vtidase ! The comrade is not to be pitied for 
 having a wife like that. Can't be bored one minute 
 with her. Just think ! a beauty who gets some one 
 to elope with her every six months has plenty to 
 tell you when she comes back. But for all that, 
 it is a queer little household. Just imagine, mon- 
 sieur, they hadn't been married a year when, paf! 
 away went the wife to Spain with a chocolate- 
 maker. The husband, he stayed at home, weep- 
 ing and drinking. He was almost crazy. By and 
 by the wife came home, dressed as a Spanish girl 
 and carrying a tambourine. We all said to her: 
 * Hide, hide, he '11 kill you ! ' Kill her, indeed ! not 
 
8 Letters from My Mill 
 
 he ! They lived together as tranquil as ever, and 
 she taught him to play the tambourine." 
 
 Here a fresh explosion of laughter. In his 
 corner, without raising his head, the knife-grinder 
 murmured again : — 
 
 " Hold your tongue, baker." 
 
 The baker paid no attention, but continued : — 
 
 " You may perhaps think, monsieur, that after 
 her return from Spain the beauty would have kept 
 quiet. Not she ! The husband had taken the 
 thing so well, she thought she would try again. 
 After the Spaniard came an officer, then a Rhone 
 boatman, then a musician, then a — I don't know 
 who. The funny thing is that each time it is the 
 same comedy. The wife elopes, the husband 
 weeps; she returns and he's consoled. And still 
 she is carried off, and still he takes her back. Don't 
 you think he has patience, that husband? It must 
 be said that she is mighty pretty, that little woman, 
 a cardinal's dainty bit, lively, dimpled, plump, with 
 a white skin and a pair of nut-brown eyes that look 
 at the men with a laugh. I' faith, Parisian, if you 
 ever come back through Beaucaire — " 
 
 " Oh ! hold your tongue, baker, I beg of you," 
 said the unfortunate man again, in a heart-rending 
 tone of voice. 
 
 At this moment the diligence stopped. We 
 had reached the mas des Angloires. The two 
 bakers got out, and I assure you I did not regret 
 them. Sorry jester ! We could hear him still 
 laughing in the farm-yard. 
 
 The bakers having departed and the Camargue 
 
The Beaucaire Diligence. 9 
 
 man being left at Aries, the imperial seemed empty. 
 The conductor got down and walked beside his 
 horses. We were alone in our corners, the knife- 
 grinder and I, without speaking. It was hot ; the 
 leather hood of the vehicle seemed burning. At 
 times I felt my eyes closing and my head getting 
 heavy, but I could not sleep. Always in my ears 
 I heard that " Hold your tongue, I beg of you," 
 so gentle yet so agonizing. Neither could he, the 
 poor soul, sleep. From behind I saw his big 
 shoulders shudder and his hand — a long, pallid, 
 stupid hand — trembling on the back of the seat, 
 like the hand of an aged man. He wept. 
 
 " Here you are, at your place, Parisian," cried 
 the conductor, suddenly, pointing with the end of 
 his whip to my green hill with the windmill 
 pinned upon it like a big butterfly. 
 
 I hastened to get out. Passing the knife-grinder 
 I tried to look at him beneath his cap ; I wanted 
 to see him before I left. As if he had fathomed 
 my thought, the unhappy man raised his head 
 abruptly and planting his eyes in mine he said in 
 a hollow voice : — 
 
 " Look at me well, friend ; and if, one of these 
 days, you hear there has been trouble in Beaucaire 
 you can say that you know the man who struck the 
 blow." 
 
 The face was dull and sad, with small and faded 
 eyes. There were tears in those eyes ; but in the 
 voice there was hatred. Hatred is the anger of 
 the weak ! If I were that wife, I should beware 
 of it. 
 
IO Letters from My Mill. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE SECRET OF MAITRE CORNILLE. 
 
 FRANCET MAMAI, an old fife-player, who comes 
 from time to time to make a night of it with me, 
 drinking boiled wine, related the other evening 
 a little village drama of which my mill was the wit- 
 ness some twenty years ago. The old man's story 
 touched me, and I shall try to tell it to you just as 
 I heard it. 
 
 Imagine, for the moment, my dear readers, that 
 you are sitting before a pot of fragrant wine and 
 that an old Provencal fife-player is speaking to 
 you. 
 
 Our countryside, my good monsieur, was not 
 always such a dead region and without renown as 
 it is to-day. There was a time when the millers 
 did a great trade, and from ten leagues round the 
 farmers brought us their wheat to grind. The 
 hills all about the village were covered with wind- 
 mills. To right and left one saw nothing but sails 
 twirling to the mistral above the pines, strings of 
 little donkeys laden with sacks going up and down 
 the roads ; and all the week it was a pleasure to 
 hear on the heights the crack of the whips, the 
 rattle of the sails and the Dia hue I of the millers' 
 
The Secret of Maitre Cornille, 1 1 
 
 men. On Sundays we went to the mills in parties. 
 The millers, they paid for the muscat. The wives 
 were as fine as queens, with their lace kerchiefs 
 and their gold crosses. I took my fife and till 
 it was pitch-dark night they danced the farandole. 
 Those mills, you see, they made the joy and the 
 wealth of our parts. 
 
 Unluckily the Paris Frenchmen took an idea 
 to establish a steam flour-mill on the road to Taras- 
 con. Fine thing, great novelty ! People took a 
 habit of sending their wheat to the flour-dealers, 
 and the poor windmills were left without work. 
 For some time they tried to struggle, but steam 
 was the stronger, and, one after the other, pfoaire ! 
 they were forced to shut up. No more files of 
 little donkeys. The handsome wives had to sell 
 their gold crosses. No more muscat ! no more 
 farandole ! The mistral might blow, but the sails 
 stood still. And then, one fine day, the village 
 rulers ordered all those mills pulled down and 
 their place to be sown with vines and olives. 
 
 But in the midst of this general downfall one 
 mill held good and continued to turn courageously 
 on its knoll before the very nose of the steam- 
 millers. That was Maitre Cornille's mill, the very 
 one where we are at this moment. 
 
 Maitre Cornille was an old miller, living for 
 sixty years in flour and mad for his business. 
 The coming of the steam-millers had really made 
 him half crazy. For a week he ran about the 
 village inciting the people and shouting with all 
 
1 2 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 his might that they wanted to poison Provence 
 with steam flour. " Don't go there," he cried ; 
 " those brigands in making bread use steam, an 
 invention of the devil, whereas I work by the 
 mistral and the tramontana, which are the breath 
 of the good God." And he spoke out a lot of fine 
 sayings like that in praise of the windmills, but 
 nobody listened to them. 
 
 Then, in a fury, the old fellow shut himself up in 
 his mill and lived alone, like a savage beast. He 
 would not even keep his little granddaughter, 
 Vivette, with him, a child of fifteen, who, since 
 the death of her parents, had no one but her 
 grand in the world. The poor little thing was now 
 obliged to earn her living, and to hire herself out 
 in the farms wherever she could, for the harvest, 
 the silk-worm times, and the olive-picking. And 
 yet her grandfather seemed to love her, that child. 
 He would often go his four leagues afoot, in the 
 hot sun to see her at the farm where she worked ; 
 and when he was near her he would spend whole 
 hours gazing at her and weeping. 
 
 In the neighbourhood, people thought that the 
 old miller was niggardly in sending Vivette away, 
 and they said that it did not do him credit to let 
 his granddaughter roam from one farmhouse to 
 another, exposed to the brutality of the bailiffs 
 and to all the miseries of young girls in her condi- 
 tion. And they also thought it very wrong of 
 Maitre Cornille, who up to this time had respected 
 himself, to go about the streets like a regular 
 gypsy, barefooted, cap in holes, and trousers 
 
The Secret of Mattre Cornille. 1 3 
 
 ragged. In fact, on Sundays, when we saw him 
 come in to mass, we were ashamed of him, we 
 old fellows ; and Cornille felt it so much that he 
 dared not come and sit upon the workmen's bench. 
 He always stayed at the end of the church, close 
 to the holy-water basin, among the paupers. 
 
 In Maitre Cornille's life there was something 
 we could not make out. For a long time past no 
 one in the village had taken him wheat, yet the 
 sails of his mill were always turning, as before. 
 At night the old miller was met upon the roads, 
 driving before him his donkey laden with stout 
 sacks of flour. 
 
 " Good vespers, Maitre Cornille ! " the peasants 
 would call to him. " So the mill is going still? " 
 
 " Going still, my sons," the old fellow answered 
 with a lively air. " Thank God, it is not work that 
 we lack." 
 
 Then, if any one asked him where the devil he 
 found all that work, he would lay a finger on his 
 lips and answer, gravely : " Mum 's the word ! I 
 am working for exportation." And never could 
 anything further be got out of him. 
 
 As for putting your nose in his mill, that was not 
 to be thought of. Little Vivette herself was not 
 allowed to enter. 
 
 If we passed in front of it, the door was always 
 seen to be closed, the heavy sails were in motion, 
 the old donkey was browsing on the turf of the 
 platform, and a tall, thin cat, taking the sun on the 
 sill of the window, looked at us malignantly. 
 
 All this had the scent of some mystery about it, 
 
14 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 and made people gossip. Every one explained in 
 his own way the secret of Maitre Cornille, but the 
 general rumour was that there were even more 
 sacks of silver crowns in the mill than sacks of 
 flour. 
 
 In the end, however, all was found out; and this 
 was how: — 
 
 I discovered, one fine day, while making the 
 young people dance with my fife, that the eldest 
 of my sons and little Vivette were in love with each 
 other. In my heart I was n't sorry, because, after 
 all, the name of Cornille was held in honour among 
 us, and, besides, I knew it would give me pleasure 
 to see that pretty little sparrow of a Vivette hop- 
 ping about my house. Only, as the lovers had 
 many occasions to be together, I wished, for fear 
 of accidents, to settle the thing at once. So up I 
 went to the mill to say a word or two to the grand- 
 father. Ah ! the old wizard ! you should just 
 have seen the way he received me ! Impossible 
 to make him open the door. I explained the mat- 
 ter as well as I could through the keyhole; and 
 all the while that I was speaking, that rascally lean 
 cat was puffing like a devil above my head. 
 
 The old man did n't give me time to finish, but 
 shouted to me, most uncivilly, to get back to my 
 fife, and that if I was in such a hurry to marry my 
 son, I could go and get a girl at the steam-mill. 
 You can think if my blood did n't rise to hear such 
 words ; but, all the same, I had wisdom enough to 
 control myself, and, leaving the old madman in his 
 
The Secret of Maitre Cornille. 15 
 
 mill, I returned to tell the children of my failure. 
 Poor lambs ! they could not believe it ; they begged 
 me, as a favour, to let them go to the mill them- 
 selves and speak to grandpapa. I had n't the 
 courage to refuse, and prrrt ! off went my lovers. 
 
 When they got to the mill, Maitre Cornille had 
 just gone out. The door was locked and double- 
 locked, but the old man had left his ladder outside, 
 and immediately the idea came to the children to 
 get in through the window and see what was really 
 going on inside of the famous mill. 
 
 Singular thing ! the room of the millstone was 
 empty. Not a sack, not a grain of wheat, not the 
 slightest sign of flour on the walls or the spiders' 
 webs ! There was not even that good warm smell 
 of crushed wheat that scents a mill so pleasantly. 
 The horizontal bar was covered with dust, and the 
 great lean cat was sleeping on it. 
 
 The lower room had the same air of utter pov- 
 erty and abandonment, — a wretched bed, a few 
 rags, a morsel of bread on a step of the stair- 
 way, and, in a corner, three or four worn-out 
 sacks, from which oozed plaster rubbish and chalky 
 earth. 
 
 There was the secret of Maitre Cornille ! It was 
 planter rubbish that he carried in the evening 
 along the roads to save the honour of the mill and 
 to make believe it was grinding flour ! Poor mill ! 
 Poor Cornille ! For many a long day the steam- 
 mill had robbed them of their last customer. The 
 sails still turned, but the millstone revolved in a 
 void. 
 
1 6 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 The children returned in tears, and told me 
 what they had seen. My heart almost burst as I 
 listened. Not losing a minute, I ran to the neigh- 
 bours ; I told them the thing in a word, and we all 
 agreed that we must at once carry what wheat 
 there was in the village to Cornille's mill. No 
 sooner said than done. The whole village started, 
 and we arrived at the top with a procession of don- 
 keys laden with wheat, — real wheat, that was ! 
 
 The mill was wide open. Before the door 
 Maitre Cornille, seated on a sack of plaster, was 
 weeping, his head in his hands. He had just dis- 
 covered, on returning, that during his absence 
 some one had entered the mill and surprised his 
 sad secret. 
 
 " Poor me ! " he was saying. " There 's nothing 
 for me to do now but to die. The mill is dis- 
 honoured." 
 
 And he sobbed to break one's heart, calling his 
 mill all sorts of names, and talking to it as if to a 
 real person. 
 
 At this moment the donkeys appeared on the 
 terrace, and we all began to shout very loud, as in 
 the good old days of the millers : — 
 ' " Ohe ! the mill ! Ohe ! Maitre Cornille ! " 
 
 And there were the sacks piled up before*the 
 door, and the fine ruddy grain spilling over to 
 the ground on all sides. 
 
 Maitre Cornille opened his eyes very wide. In 
 the hollow of his old hand he scooped up some of 
 the wheat and said, laughing and weeping to* 
 gether : — 
 
The Secret of Mattre Cornille. i? 
 
 " It is wheat ! . . Lord God ! . . Good vheat ! 
 Let me alone, let me look at it." 
 
 Then, turning towards us, he added : — 
 
 " Ah ! I knew you would all come back to me. 
 Those steam-mill fellows are thieves." 
 
 We wanted to carry him off in triumph to the 
 village. 
 
 " No, no, children," he said. " I must first feed 
 my mill. Just think how long it is since she had a 
 morsel between her teeth ! " 
 
 And we all had tears in our eyes to see the poor 
 old fellow wandering right and left, opening the 
 sacks, watching the millstone, while the wheat was 
 being crushed and the fine powdery flour flew up 
 to the ceiling. 
 
 To do ourselves justice, I must tell you that 
 from that day we never let the old miller lack for 
 work. Then, one morning, Maitre Cornille died, 
 and the sails of our 1-ast mill ceased to turn — for- 
 ever, this time. Cornille dead, no one took his 
 place. But what of that, monsieur? All things 
 come to an end in this world, and we must believe 
 that the days of windmills are over, like those of 
 the barges on the Rhone, the parliaments, and the 
 grand flowered jackets. 
 
18 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 IV. 
 
 M. SEGUIN'S GOAT. 
 TO M. PIERRE GRINGOIRE, LYRIC POET IN PARIS, 
 
 YOU will always be the same, my poor Grin- 
 goire ! 
 
 What ! a place is offered to you as reporter on 
 one of the best Parisian newspapers, and you have 
 the coolness to refuse it? Look at yourself, you 
 luckless fellow ! look at your shabby jacket, those 
 dilapidated breeches, and that thin face that cries 
 out hunger. It is to this that your passion for 
 noble verse has brought you ! This is what your 
 loyal ten years' service as page to Sire Apollo has 
 won! On the whole, are you not ashamed of it? 
 
 Come, make yourself a reporter, imbecile ; make 
 yourself a reporter. You will earn good crown- 
 pieces, and have your knife and fork at Brebant's, 
 and you can exhibit yourself on all first nights with 
 a new feather in your cap. 
 
 No? What, you won't? You insist on living 
 free and as you please to the end of the chanter? 
 Well, then ! listen to the history of M. Serin's 
 goat. You will see what is gained by wishing to 
 live at liberty. 
 
 M. Seguin never had luck with his goats. He 
 lost them in all kinds of ways. One fine morning 
 
M. Seguins Goat. 19 
 
 they broke their tether and wandered away to the 
 mountain, where a wolf ate them. Neither the 
 caresses of their master nor fear of the wolf, noth- 
 ing could restrain them. They were, it appeared, 
 independent goats, wanting at any cost free air 
 and liberty. 
 
 The worthy M. Seguin, who did not understand 
 the nature of his animals, was ' shocked. He 
 said : 
 
 " That 's enough ; goats are bored by living with 
 me ; I won't keep another." 
 
 However, after losing six in that way, he was 
 not discouraged, and he bought a seventh ; but 
 this time he was careful to get her quite young, so 
 young that she might the better get accustomed to 
 live with him. 
 
 Ah ! Gringoire, she was pretty, that little goat 
 of M. Seguin's, so pretty with her soft eyes, her 
 little tuft of beard like a sub-officer, her black and 
 shiny hoofs, her ribbed horns, and her long, white 
 hair which wrapped her like a mantle ! She was 
 almost as charming as that kid of Esmeralda's — 
 you remember, Gringoire ? — and then, so docile, 
 so coaxing, letting herself be milked without 
 budging, and never putting her foot in the bowl ! 
 A love of a little goat ! 
 
 Behind M. Seguin's house was a field hedged 
 round with hawthorn. It was there that he put 
 his new boarder. He fastened her to a stake, at 
 the very best part of the meadow, taking care to 
 give her plenty of rope ; and from time to time he 
 went to see if she was satisfied. The goat seemed 
 
20 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 very happy, and cropped the grass with such heart- 
 iness that M. Seguin was delighted. 
 
 " At last," thought the poor man, " here 's one 
 at least that is n't bored by living with me ! " 
 
 M. Seguin deceived himself; the goat was bored. 
 
 One day she said to herself, looking at the 
 mountain : — 
 
 " How nice it must be up there ! What a 
 pleasure to skip in the heather, without this cursed 
 rope, which rubs my neck ! It is all very well for 
 asses and cattle to browse in a field, but goats ! 
 why, they want the open." 
 
 From that moment the grass of the meadow 
 seemed to her insipid. Ennui seized her. She 
 grew thin, her milk was scanty. It was really pite- 
 ous to see her, straining at the tether all day, her 
 head turned to the mountain, her nostril flaming, 
 and she saying " Ma-e " so sadly. 
 
 M. Seguin saw that something was the matter 
 with his goat, but he did not know what. One 
 morning, after he had milked her, the goat turned 
 round and said to him in her patois : — 
 
 " Listen, M. Seguin ; I am so weary here with 
 you ; let me go on the mountain." 
 
 " Ah ! mon Dieu / She, too ! " cried poor M. 
 Seguin, stupefied, and he let fall the bowl ; then, 
 sitting down on the grass at the side of his goat 
 he said : — 
 
 " Oh ! Blanchette, would you leave me?" 
 
 And Blanchette answered : — 
 
 " Yes, M. Seguin." 
 
M. Seguiris Goat. 21 
 
 * Is n't there grass enough here to please you ? * 
 
 "Oh! plenty, M. Seguin." 
 
 "Do I tie you too short? shall I lengthen the 
 rope ? " 
 
 " It is n't worth while, M. Seguin." 
 
 "Then what is the matter? what do you want?" 
 
 " I want to go on the mountain, M. Seguin." 
 
 " But, you unhappy little thing, don't you know 
 there are wolves on the mountain? What would 
 you do if a wolf attacked you ? " 
 
 " I 'd butt him with my horns." 
 
 " A wolf would n't care for your horns. He 
 has eaten up goats of mine with much bigger 
 horns than yours. Don't you remember that 
 poor old Renaude who was here last year? 
 Strong and spiteful as a ram. She fought all 
 night with the wolf, but, in the morning, the wolf 
 ate her." 
 
 " Pecaire!' Poor Renaude ! But that does not 
 matter, M. Seguin; let me go to the mountain." 
 
 " Merciful powers ! " exclaimed M. Seguin, 
 " what is the matter with my goats ? Another 
 one for the wolf to eat ! Well, no, I shall save 
 you in spite of yourself, you slut ! and for fear you 
 should break your rope I shall put you in the 
 stable, and there you will stay." 
 
 Whereupon M. Seguin led the goat into his 
 brand-new stable, and double-locked the door. 
 Unfortunately, he forgot the window, and hardly 
 had he turned his back before the little one was 
 out and away. 
 
 You laugh, Gringoire ? Parbleu ! I suppose 
 
22 Letters from My MilL 
 
 so ; you take the side of the goats against that 
 good M. Seguin. We '11 see if you laugh presently. 
 
 When the white goat reached the mountain there 
 was general delight. Never had the old fir-trees 
 seen anything so pretty. They received her like a 
 little princess. The chestnut-trees bent to the 
 ground to kiss her with the tips of their branches. 
 The golden gorse opened wide to let her pass, and 
 smelt just as sweet as it could. In fact, the whole 
 mountain welcomed her. 
 
 You can imagine, Gringoire, how happy she 
 was ! No more rope, no stake, nothing to prevent 
 her from skipping and browsing as she pleased. 
 My dear fellow, the grass was above her horns ! 
 and such grass ! — luscious, delicate, toothsome, 
 made of all sorts of plants. -J-Quite another thing 
 from that grass in the meadow. And the flowers, 
 oh ! Great blue campanulas and crimson fox- 
 gloves with their long calyxes, a perfect forest of 
 wild-flowers giving out an intoxicating sweetness. 
 
 The white goat, a little tipsy, wallowed in the 
 thick of them with her legs in the air, and rolled 
 down the banks pell-mell with the falling leaves 
 and the chestnuts. Then, suddenly, she sprang 
 to her feet with a bound, and hop ! away she 
 went, head foremost, through thicket and bushes, 
 now on a rock, now in a gully, up there, down 
 there, everywhere. You would have said that 
 ten of M. Seguin's goats were on the mountain. 
 
 The fact is, Blanchette was afraid of nothing. 
 
 She sprang with a bound over torrents that 
 spattered her as she passed with a dust of damp 
 
AT. Seguins Goat. 23 
 
 spray. Then, all dripping, she would stretch her- 
 self out on a nice flat rock and dry in the sun. 
 Once, coming to the edge of a slope with a bit 
 of laurel between her teeth, she saw below, far 
 below on the plain, the house of M. Seguin with 
 the meadow behind it; and she laughed till she 
 cried. 
 
 " How small it is ! " she said ; " how could I ever 
 have lived there? " 
 
 Poor little thing! being perched so high she 
 fancied she was tall as the world. 
 
 Well ! it was a good day for M. Seguin's goat 
 About noon, running from right to left, she fell in 
 with a herd of chamois munching a wild vine with 
 all their teeth. Among them our little white- 
 gowned rover made quite a sensation. They gave 
 her the choicest place at the vine, and all those 
 gentlemen were very gallant. In fact, it appears 
 — but this is between ourselves, Gringoire — that 
 a young chamois with a black coat had the great 
 good fortune to please Blanchette. The pair 
 wandered off in the woods for an hour or so, and 
 if you want to know what they said to each other, 
 go ask those chattering brooks that are running 
 invisible through the mosses. 
 
 Suddenly the wind freshened. The mountain 
 grew violet ; it was dusk. 
 
 " Already ! " said the little goat ; and she stopped, 
 quite surprised. 
 
 Below, the fields were drowned in mist. M. 
 Seguin's meadow disappeared in the fog, and 
 
24 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 nothing could be seen of the house but the roof 
 and a trifle of smoke. She heard the little bells of 
 a flock that was on its way home, and her soul 
 grew sad. A falcon, making for his nest, swept 
 her with his wings as he passed. She shud- 
 dered. Then came a howl on the mountain: 
 
 "Hoo! hoo!" 
 
 She thought of the wolf; all day that silly young 
 thing had never once thought of it. At the same 
 moment a horn sounded far, far down the valley. 
 It was that good M. Seguin, making a last effort. 
 
 " Hoo ! hoo ! " howled the wolf. 
 
 * Come back ! come back ! " cried the horn. 
 
 Blanchette felt a wish to return, but remember- 
 ing the stake, the rope, the hedge of the field, she 
 thought that she never could endure that life again 
 and 'twas better to remain where she was. 
 
 The horn ceased to sound. 
 
 The goat heard behind her the rustling of leaves 
 She turned and saw in the shadow two short ears, 
 erect, and two eyes shining. It was the wolf. 
 
 Enormous, motionless, seated on his tail, he 
 was looking at the little white goat and smack- 
 ing his lips in advance. As he knew very well he 
 should eat her up, the wolf was not in a hurry; 
 but when she turned round and saw him he began 
 to laugh wickedly : " Ha ! ha ! M. Seguin's little 
 goat ! — " and he licked his great red tongue 
 round his wily chops. 
 
 ►lanchette felt she was lost. For an instant, re- 
 membering the story of old Renaude, who had 
 
1VL Seguifis Goat, 25 
 
 fought all night only to be eaten in the morning, 
 she said to herself that 'twas better, perhaps, to be 
 eaten at once; but then, thinking otherwise, she 
 put herself on guard, head low, horns forward, like 
 the brave little goat that she was. Not that she 
 had any hope of killing the wolf, — goats can't kill 
 wolves, — but only to see if she, too, could hold 
 out as long as old Renaude. 
 
 Then the monster advanced, and the pretty little 
 horns began the dance. 
 
 Ah ! the brave goatling ! with what heart she 
 went at it! More than ten times — I'm not ex- 
 aggerating, Gringoire — more than ten times she 
 forced the wolf back to get breath. During each 
 of these momentary truces the dainty little thing 
 nibbled one more blade of her dearly loved grass ; 
 then, with her mouth full, she returned to the com- 
 bat. It lasted all through the night. From time 
 to time M. Seguin's goat looked up at the stars as 
 they danced on the cloudless sky and said to her- 
 self: — 
 
 " Oh ! if I can only hold out till dawn." 
 
 One after another, the stars went out. Blan- 
 chette redoubled the blows of her horns, and the 
 wolf the snap of his teeth. A pale gleam showed 
 on the horizon. The hoarse crowing of a cock 
 rose from a barnyard. 
 
 "At last!" said the poor little goat, who had 
 only awaited the dawn to die ; and she stretched 
 herself out on the ground in her pretty white fur 
 all spotted with gore. 
 
 Then the wolf fell upon her and ate her up. 
 
26 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 Adieu, Gringoire ! 
 
 The story you have now heard is not a tale of 
 my own invention. If ever you come to Provence, 
 our farmers will often tell you of la cabro de Moussu 
 Seguin, que se batte'gue touto la neui emi lou loup, e 
 piei lou matin lou loup la mange'. 
 
 You understand me, Gringoire : " And then, in 
 the morning, the wolf ate her up." 
 
The Stars, 27 
 
 THE STARS. 
 
 TALE OF A PROVENCAL SHEPHERD. 
 
 In the days when I kept sheep on the LubeVon, 
 I was often for weeks together without seeing a liv- 
 ing soul, alone in the pastures with my dog Labri 
 and the flock. From time to time the hermit of 
 the Mont-de-1'Ure passed that way in search of 
 simples ; or occasionally I saw the blackened face 
 of some Piedmontese charcoal-burner; but these 
 were quiet folk, silent by force of solitude, having 
 lost their liking for talk, and knowing nothing of 
 what went on below in the towns and villages. So 
 when I heard, every fortnight, on the road coming 
 up the mountain, the bells of our farm mule bring- 
 ing me food for the next two weeks, and when I 
 saw, appearing little by little above the slope, the 
 lively head of our miarro (farm-boy) or the red 
 coif of old Aunt Norade, I was really very happy. 
 I made them tell me all the news of the world down 
 below, the baptisms, the marriages, etc. ; but that 
 which interested me above all was to know what 
 the daughter of my master was about, our Demoi- 
 selle Stephanette, the prettiest young lady in all 
 the country round. Without seeming to take great 
 interest, I managed to find out when she went to 
 
28 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 fetes and dances, and whether she had new lovers ; 
 and if others asked me what such things mattered 
 to me, a poor shepherd on a mountain, I answered 
 that I was twenty years old, and that Mademoiselle 
 Stephanette was the loveliest thing I had ever seen 
 in my life. 
 
 Now one Sunday, when I was expecting my two 
 weeks' provisions, it happened that they did not 
 come until very late. In the morning I said to 
 myself, " Tis the fault of high mass; " then, about 
 mid-day, there came up a great storm, and I thought 
 that the mule could not start on account of the 
 roads. At last, about three o'clock, when the sky 
 was washed clear and the mountain was shining 
 with sun and water, I heard amid the dripping 
 from the leaves and the gurgle of the overflowing 
 brooks, the tinkle of the mule-bells, as gay and 
 alert as the grand church chimes of an Easter-day. 
 But it was not our little miarro, nor old Aunt 
 Norade who was leading him. It was — guess 
 who ? Our demoiselle, my children ! our demoiselle 
 in person, sitting up straight between the osier 
 baskets, quite rosy with the mountain air and the 
 refreshing coolness of the storm. 
 
 The boy was ill; Aunt Norade was off for a 
 holiday with the children. The beautiful Stepha- 
 nette told me all this as she got off the mule, and 
 also that she came late because she had lost her 
 way ; but to see her dressed in her Sunday best, 
 with her flowered ribbon, her brilliant petticoat, 
 and her laces, I must say she had more the look 
 of having lingered at some dance than of search- 
 
The Stars. 29 
 
 ing for a path among the bushes. Oh, tne dainty 
 creature ! My eyes never wearied of looking at 
 her. It is true that I had never before seen her 
 quite so near. Sometimes, in winter, when the 
 flocks had come down upon the plains and I 
 returned to the farmhouse at night for my supper, 
 she would cross the hall quickly, scarcely speak- 
 ing to the servants, always gayly dressed and 
 perhaps a little haughty. And now I had her 
 before me, all to myself! Was it not enough to 
 turn my head? 
 
 When she had taken the provisions from the 
 basket Stephanette looked about her with curi- 
 osity. Lifting her handsome best petticoat slightly, 
 for it might have got injured, she entered the 
 cabin, asked to see where I slept, — in a trough 
 full of straw with a sheepskin over it, — looked at 
 my big cloak hanging to the wall, my crook, and 
 my gun. All of which amused her. " So this is 
 where you live, my poor shepherd?" she said. 
 " How bored you must be all alone. What do 
 you do? What do you think about?" I had a 
 great mind to answer, " Of you, my mistress," and 
 I should n't have lied ; but my trouble of mind 
 was so great that I could n't so much as find a 
 word. I think she noticed this and the mischiev- 
 ous creature took pleasure in doubling my embar- 
 rassment by her teasing. " And your sweetheart, 
 shepherd ; she comes to see you sometimes, does 
 she not? I am sure she must be the golden kid, or 
 that fairy Estrella who flits along the summits of 
 the mountains." And she herself as she spoke to 
 
30 Letters from My Mill 
 
 me had quite the air of the fairy Estrella, with 
 that pretty laugh from her head tossed back, and 
 her haste to be off, which made her visit seem 
 much like a vision. " Adieu, shepherd." 
 
 " Your servant, mistress." And away she went, 
 with the empty baskets. 
 
 When she passed out of sight down the sloping 
 path it seemed to me that the stones rolled away 
 by the hoofs of the mule were falling, one by one, 
 on my heart. I heard them a long, long time; 
 and till late in the day I sat as if dozing, not 
 daring to stir for fear lest my vision should leave 
 me. 
 
 Towards evening, as the depths of the valleys 
 were beginning to grow blue, and the creatures 
 were pressing together and bleating to enter the 
 fold, I heard myself called from below, and I saw 
 our young lady, no longer laughing as before, but 
 trembling with fear and cold and dampness. It 
 seems she had found at the base of the slope the 
 river Sorgue so swollen by the storm that, being 
 determined to cross it, she came near getting 
 drowned. The terrible part was that at that hour 
 of the night there was no use attempting to return 
 to the farm, because she never could have found 
 her way by the cross road all by herself, and, as 
 for me, I could not leave my flock. The idea of 
 passing the night on the mountain worried her 
 greatly, especially on account of her people's 
 anxiety. I soothed her as best I could. "The 
 nights are so short in July, mistress — it is only a 
 moment's trouble," And I lighted a big fire 
 
The Stars, 31 
 
 quickly to dry her little feet and her gown all 
 soaked in the river. After which I brought her 
 some milk and cheese; but the poor little thing 
 thought neither of warmth nor of food ; and when 
 I saw the big tears welling up in her eyes I 
 wanted to cry myself. 
 
 And now the darkness was really coming. 
 Nothing remained on the crest of the mountain 
 but a dust of the sun, a vapour of light to the 
 westward. I asked our young lady to enter and 
 rest in the cabin ; and then, having stretched a 
 fine new sheepskin on a pile of fresh straw, I 
 wished her good-night and went out to sit by my- 
 self before the door. God is my witness that, in 
 spite of the fire of love that burned my blood, no 
 evil thought came into my mind, — nothing but a 
 great pride to think that in a corner of my hut, 
 quite close to the flock that eyed her inquisitively, 
 the daughter of my master, a lamb more precious 
 and snow-white than they, was sleeping, intrusted 
 to my care. Never did the heavens seem to me 
 so deep, the stars so bright. 
 
 Suddenly the wicket opened and Stephanette 
 appeared. She could not sleep. The creatures 
 had crackled the straw as they moved, or else 
 they were bleating as they dreamed. She pre- 
 ferred to come out to the fire. Seeing this I 
 threw my goatskin round her shoulders and blew 
 up a flame, and there we stayed, sitting side by 
 side, without saying a word. If you have ever 
 passed a night beneath the stars you know that 
 during the hours when people sleep a mysterious 
 
32 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 world wakes up in the solitude and silence. The 
 springs sing clearer, the ponds are lighted by- 
 little flames. All the spirits of the mountain go 
 and come freely ; there 's rustling in the air, im- 
 perceptible noises as if we could hear the branches 
 grow and the grass springing. Day is the life of 
 beings, but night is the life of things. If you are 
 not accustomed to it 't is alarming ; and so our 
 young lady shuddered and pressed against me at 
 the slightest noise. Once a long, melancholy cry 
 came from the pond that shone below us, rising 
 in undulations. At the same instant a beautiful 
 shooting star glided above our heads in the same 
 direction, as if that plaint which we had just 
 heard had brought light with it. 
 
 " What is that? " asked Stephanette in a whisper. 
 
 " A soul that enters paradise, my mistress," and I 
 made the sign of the cross. She too crossed her- 
 self, and sat for a moment with her head turned 
 upward to the sky, reflecting. Then she said to 
 me : " Is it true, shepherd, that all of you are 
 wizards?" 
 
 " Not so, mistress. But here we live closer to 
 the stars, and we know what goes on among them 
 better than the people of the plains." 
 
 She still looked upward, resting her head upon 
 her hand, wrapped in the goatskin, like a little 
 celestial shepherd. " How many there are ! how 
 beautiful ! Never did I see so many. Do you 
 know their names, shepherd ? " 
 
 "Why, yes, mistress... See! just above us, 
 that's the Path of Saint James fthe Milky Way). 
 
The Stars. $?> 
 
 It goes from France to Spain. T was Saint James 
 of Galicia who marked it out to show the way to 
 our brave Charlemagne when he made war upon the 
 Saracens. 1 Farther on, there's the Chariot of Souls 
 (Great Bear), with its four resplendent axles. The 
 three stars before it are its three steeds, and the 
 little one close to the third is the charioteer. Do 
 you see that rain of stars falling over there? Those 
 are the souls that the Good God won't have in 
 heaven. . . Lower down there 's the Rake or the 
 Three Kings (Orion). That serves us for a clock, 
 us shepherds. Merely by looking at them now I 
 know 't is past midnight. Still lower, over there 
 to the southward, shines John of Milan, the torch 
 of the stars (Sirius). Here 's what the shepherds 
 say about that star: It seems that one night John 
 of Milan with the Three Kings and the Pouciniere 
 (the Pleiad) were invited to the wedding of a 
 star, a friend of theirs. The Pouciniere, being in a 
 hurry, started, they say, the first and took the 
 upper road. Look at her, up there, in the depths 
 of the sky. The Three Kings cut across and 
 caught up with her, but that lazy John of Milan, 
 who slept too late, stayed quite behind, and being 
 furious, tried to stop them by flinging his stick. 
 That 's why the Three Kings are sometimes called 
 the Stick of John of Milan. . . But the most 
 beautiful of all the stars, mistress, is ours, the 
 Shepherd's Star, which lights us at dawn of day 
 when we lead out the flock, and at night when we 
 
 1 All these details of popular astronomy are translated from the 
   Provencal Almanach," published at Avignon. 
 
 3 
 
34 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 gather it in. We call that star the Magtielonne, 
 the beautiful Maguelonne which runs after Pierre 
 de Provence (Saturn), and marries him every seven 
 years." 
 
 " Why, shepherd ! do stars really marry?" 
 
 " To be sure they do, mistress." 
 
 And as I tried to explain to her what such mar- 
 riages were I felt something fresh and delicate lie 
 softly on my shoulder. T was her head, weighed 
 down by sleep, which rested upon me with a dainty 
 rustle of ribbons and laces and waving hair. She 
 stayed thus, never moving, till the stars in the sky 
 grew pale, dimmed by the rising day. As for me, 
 I looked at her sleeping, a little shaken in the 
 depths of my being, but sacredly protected by that 
 clear night, which has never given me any but 
 noble thoughts. Around us the stars continued 
 their silent way, docile as a flock, and at times I 
 fancied that one of them, the most delicate, the 
 most brilliant, had lost its way and had come 
 down to rest upon my shoulder and sleep. 
 
The Artesian Girl 35 
 
 THE ARLESIAN GIRL. 
 
 Going down from my mill to the village I pass 
 a farmhouse built close to the road at the end of a 
 great courtyard planted with hazel-trees. It is the 
 true home of a Provencal farmer, with its red tiles, 
 its broad brown front and irregular windows, and 
 above, at the peak of the garret, a weather-vane, 
 pulleys to hoist the forage, and a few tufts of hay 
 caught in the transit. 
 
 Why did that house so affect me? Why did 
 that closed portal seem to wring my heart? I 
 could not have told why, and yet that home always 
 gave me a chill. There was silence around it. 
 When any one passed, the dogs did not bark, the 
 guinea-fowls fled without screaming. Within, not 
 a voice! Nothing, not so much as a mule-bell. 
 If it were not for the white curtains at the windows 
 and the smoke that rose from the roof, the place 
 might have seemed uninhabited. 
 
 Yesterday, on the stroke of midday, I was return- 
 ing from the village and, to escape the sun, I was 
 hugging the walls of the farm in the shade of the 
 hazel-trees. On the road, directly in front of 
 the courtyard, silent serving-men were loading a 
 waggon with hay. The gates were open. I cast 
 
36 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 in a look as I passed, and I saw, at the farther end 
 of the courtyard, his head in his hands and his 
 elbows on a large stone table, a tall old man, 
 white-headed, in a jacket too short for him, and 
 ragged breeches. I stopped. One of the men 
 said to me in a low voice : — 
 
 " Hush ! 't is the master. He is like that since 
 the misfortune of his son." 
 
 At this moment a woman and a little boy dressed 
 in black, passed near to us carrying large gilt 
 prayer-books, and entered the farmhouse. 
 
 The man added : — 
 
 "That's the mistress and Cadet, returning from 
 mass. They go there every day since the lad 
 killed himself. Ah ! monsieur, what desolation ! 
 The master still wears the dead boy's clothes; 
 they can't make him quit them. Dia ! hue ! 
 Gee up!" 
 
 The waggon started. I, vvhc wanted to know 
 more, asked the driver to let me get up beside 
 him ; and it was there, seated on the hay, that I 
 heard this heart-breaking story. 
 
 He was called Jan. A fine young peasant, twenty 
 years of age, virtuous as a girl, firm, with a frank 
 face, and very handsome ; so the women looked at 
 him ; but as for him he had only one woman in his 
 head, — a little Arlesian girl, all velvet and laces, 
 whom he met one day at Aries, on the Lice. At 
 the farmhouse this acquaintance was not viewed, 
 at first, with satisfaction. The girl was thought 
 coquettish, and her parents were not of the neigh 
 
The Artesian Girl. 3 J 
 
 bourhood. But Jan wanted his Arlesian love with 
 all his might. He said : — 
 
 " I shall die if they don't give her to me." 
 
 They had to come to it. It was settled that the 
 marriage should take place after harvest. 
 
 One Sunday evening, in the large courtyard, the 
 family were finishing dinner. It was almost a wed- 
 ding-feast. The bride was not present, but toasts 
 had been drunk in her honour. Suddenly a man 
 appeared at the gate and asked, in a trembling voice, 
 to speak to Maitre Esteve in private. Esteve rose 
 and went out upon the highway. 
 
 " Master," said the man, " you are marrying your 
 son to a slut who has been my mistress for the last 
 two years. What I say I prove ; here are letters. 
 Her parents knew all, and promised her to me, but 
 since your son has courted her neither she nor her 
 parents will have me. But I think, after that, she 
 ought not to be the wife of another." 
 
 "Very well," said Maitre Esteve, after he had 
 read the letters. " Come in, and drink a glass of 
 muscat." 
 
 The man replied : — 
 
 " Thank you ! no ; I am more sorrowful than 
 thirsty." And he went away. 
 
 The father returned, impassible. He resumed 
 his place at the table, and the meal ended gayly. 
 
 That evening Maitre Esteve and his son went 
 to walk in the fields. They were out a long time ; 
 when they returned the mother awaited them. 
 
 " Wife," said the farmer, leading his son to her, 
 " Kiss him ; he is very unhappy." 
 
38 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 Jan never spoke again of his Arlesian girl. But 
 he still loved her, and more than ever after she 
 was shown to him in the arms of another. Only, 
 he was too proud to speak of it ; and it was that 
 which killed him, poor lad ! Sometimes he would 
 spend whole days in a corner without moving. 
 At other times he would dig with fury and do him- 
 self, alone, the work of ten labourers. But as soon 
 as evening came he took the road to Aries ; walk- 
 ing straight before him till he saw the slender 
 spires of the town rise in the sunset glow. Then 
 he returned. Never did he go any farther. 
 
 Seeing him thus, always sad and solitary, the 
 people of the farmhouse knew not what to do. 
 They feared some danger. Once, at table, his 
 mother, looking at him with eyes full of tears, 
 said : — 
 
 " Listen, Jan, if you wish for her all the same, 
 we will give her to you." 
 
 The father, red with shame, lowered his head. 
 
 Jan made sign of refusal and went away. 
 
 From that day forth he changed his way of liv- 
 ing, affecting to be gay in order to reassure his 
 parents. He was seen once more at balls, in the 
 wine-shops, at the races. At the election in 
 Fonvieille it was he who led the farandole. 
 
 The father said : " He is cured." The mother 
 still had fears and watched her child more than 
 ever. Jan slept with Cadet close to the silk-worm 
 attic ; the poor old woman had her bed made up 
 beside their chamber, — the silk-worms might need 
 her, she said. 
 
The Arlesian Girl. 39 
 
 And now came the fete of Saint-Eloi, the patron 
 of farmers. 
 
 Great joy at the farmhouse. There was chdteau- 
 neuf for every one, and boiled wine seemed to rain. 
 Then, fire-crackers and fire-barrels, and coloured 
 lanterns in the hazel trees. Vive Saint-Eloi ! 
 They farandoled to death. Cadet burned his new 
 blouse. Jan himself seemed happy ; he insisted 
 on making his mother dance, and the poor woman 
 wept with joy. 
 
 By midnight they all went to bed. They 
 needed sleep. Jan did not sleep, and Cadet said 
 the next day he had sobbed all night. Ah ! I teU 
 you he was deeply bitten, that lad. 
 
 The next day, at dawn, the mother heard some one 
 cross her room running. She had a presentiment. 
 
 " Jan, is that you ? " 
 
 Jan did not answer ; he was already on the stair- 
 way. 
 
 Quick, quick the mother rose. 
 
 " Jan, where are you going? " 
 
 He ran to the hayloft ; she followed him. 
 
 " My son, for God's sake ! " 
 
 He closed the door and bolted it. 
 
 " Jan, my little Jan ! answer ! What are you 
 doing?" 
 
 Her old hands, trembling, felt for the latch. 
 A window opened, the sound of a fall was heard 
 on the stones of the courtyard, and that was all. 
 
 He had said to himself, poor lad : " I love her 
 too much — I must go." 
 
40 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 Ah ! miserable hearts that we have ! And yet, 
 it is hard that contempt is unable to kill love. 
 
 That morning the people in the village wondered 
 who it was that cried out so terribly down there, 
 toward the Esteve farm. 
 
 In the courtyard, before the stone table, all 
 covered with dew and blood, the mother, naked, 
 <*at lamenting with her dead boy in her arms. 
 
The Popes Mule. 41 
 
 THE POPE'S MULE. 
 
 Of all the pretty sayings, proverbs, adages, with 
 which our Provencal peasantry decorate their dis- 
 cou- Z[ I know of none more picturesque, or 
 more peculiar than this : — for fifteen leagues 
 around my mill, when they speak of a spiteful and 
 vindictive man, they say : " That fellow ! distrust 
 him ! he 's like the Pope's mule who kept her kick 
 for seven years." 
 
 I tried for a long time to find out whence that 
 proverb came, what that Pope's mule was, and why 
 she kept her kick for seven years. No one could 
 give me any information on the subject, not even 
 Francet Mamaf, my old fife-player, though he 
 knows his Provencal legends to the tips of his 
 fingers. Francet thought, as I did, that there 
 must be some ancient chronicle of Avignon behind 
 it, but he had never heard of it otherwise than as 
 a proverb. 
 
 " You won't find it anywhere except in the 
 Grasshoppers' Library," said the old man, laughing. 
 
 The idea struck me as a good one ; and as the 
 Grasshoppers' Library is close at my door, I shut 
 myself up there for 'over a week. 
 
 It is a wonderful library, admirably stocked, 
 open to poets night and day, and served by little 
 
42 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 librarians with cymbals who make music for you 
 all the time. I spent some delightful days there, 
 and after a week of researches (on my back) I 
 ended by discovering what I wanted, namely: 
 the story of the mule and that famous kick which 
 she kept for seven years. The tale is pretty, 
 though rather naive, and T shall try to tell it to 
 you just as I read it yesterday in a manuscript 
 coloured by the weather, smelling of good dried 
 lavender and tied with the Virgin's threat-— as 
 they call gossamer in these parts. 
 
 -—W hoso did not see Avignon in the days of the 
 Popes has seen nothing. For gayety, life, anima- 
 tion, the excitement of festivals, never was a town 
 like it. From morning till night there was nothing 
 but processions, pilgrimages, streets strewn with 
 flowers, draped with tapestries, cardinals arriving 
 by the Rhone, banners in the breeze, galleys 
 dressed in flags, the Pope's soldiers chanting Latin 
 on the squares, and the tinkling rattle of the beg- 
 ging friars ; while from garret to cellar of houses 
 that pressed, humming, round the great papal 
 palace like bees around their hive/ came the tick- 
 tack of lace-looms, the to-and-fro of shuttles weav- 
 ing the gold thread of chasubles/the tap-tap of 
 the goldsmith's chasing-tools tapping on the chal- 
 ices, the tuning of choir-instruments at the lute- 
 makers,/the songs of the spinners at their work; 
 and above all this rose the ' sound of bells, and 
 always the echo of certain tambourines coming 
 from away down there on the bridge of Avignon. 
 
The Popes Mule. 43 
 
 Because, with us, when the people are happy they 
 must dance — they must dance ; and as in those 
 days the streets were too narrow for the farandole> 
 fifes and tambourines posted themselves on the 
 bridge of Avignon in the fresh breeze of the 
 Rhone, and day and night folks danced, they 
 danced. Ah ! the happy times ! the happy town ! 
 Halberds that did not wound, prisons where the 
 wine was out to CGol; no hunger, no war. That's 
 nr !vv the Popes of the Comtat governed their 
 P fc ople; and that's why their people so deeply 
 re &retted them. 
 
 There was one Pope especially, a good old man 
 called Boniface. Ah ! that one, many were the 
 tears shed in Avignon when he was dead. He was 
 so amiable, so affable a prince ! He laughed so 
 merrily on the back of his mule ! And when you 
 passed him, were you only a poor little gatherer of 
 madder-roots, or the grand provost of the town, he^ 
 gave you his benediction so politely ! A real Pope 
 of Yvetot, but a Yvetot of Provence, with some- 
 thing delicate in his laugh, a sprig of sweet marjoram 
 in his cardinal's cap, and never a Jeanneton, — the 
 only Jeanneton he was ever known to have, that 
 good Father, was his vineyard, his own little vine- 
 yard which he planted himself, three leagues from 
 Avignon, among the myrtles of Chateau-Neuf. 
 
 Every Sunday, after vespers, the good man paid 
 court to his vineyard ; and when he was up there, 
 sitting in the blessed sun, his mule near him, his 
 cardinals stretched out beneath the grapevines, 
 
44 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 he would order a flask of the wine of his 
 own growth to be opened,— that beautiful wine, 
 the colour of rubies, which is now called the 
 Chateau-Ncuf des Papcs, and he sipped it with 
 sips, gazing at his vineyard tenderly. Then, the 
 flask empty, the day fading, he rode back joyously 
 to town, the Chapter following; and when he 
 crossed the . bridge of Avignon through the 
 tambourines and the jdranaoLtl; xvkIo™^ ' # se 
 going by the music, paced along in a skippi n £ 
 little amble, while he himself beat time to r 
 dance with his cap, which greatly scandali ze 
 the cardinals but made the people say : " J^t 1 ' 
 the good prince ! Ah ! the kind Pope ! " 
 
 What the Pope loved best in the world, next to 
 his vineyard of Chateau-Neuf, was his mule. The 
 good man doted on that animal. Every evening 
 before he went to bed he went to see if the stable 
 was locked, if nothing was lacking in the manger; 
 and never did he rise from table without seeing 
 with his own eyes the preparation of a great bowl 
 of wine in the French fashion with sugar and spice, 
 which he took to his mule himself, in spite of the 
 remarks of his cardinals. It must be said that the 
 animal' was worth the trouble. She was a hand- 
 some black mule, with reddish points, sure-footed, 
 hide shining, back broad, and full, carrying proudly 
 her thin little head decked out with pompons and 
 ribbons, silver bells and streamers ; gentle as an 
 angel withal, innocent eyes, and two long ears, 
 always shaking, which gave her the look of a down- 
 
The Popes Mule, 45 
 
 right good fellow. All Avignon respected her, 
 and when she passed through the streets there 
 were no civilities that the people did not pay her ; 
 for every one knew there was no better way to 
 stand well at court, and that the Pope's mule, 
 for all her innocent look, had led more than one 
 man to fortune, — witness Tistet V^dene and his 
 amazing adventure. 
 
 This Tistet V6dene was, in point of fact, an im- 
 pudent young rogue, whom his father, Guy Vedene, 
 the goldsmith, had been forced to turn out of his 
 house, because he would not work and only de- 
 bauched the apprentices. For six months Tistet 
 dragged his jacket through all the gutters of 
 Avignon, but principally those near the papal 
 palace ; for the rascal had a notion in his head 
 about the Pope's mule, and you shall now see 
 what mischief was in it. 
 
 One day when his Holiness was riding all alone 
 beneath the ramparts, behold our Tistet approach- 
 ing him and saying, with his hands clasped in 
 admiration : — 
 
 " Ah ! mon Dieu, Holy Father, what a fine mule 
 you are riding X Just let me look at her. Ah ! 
 Pope, what a mule ! The Emperor of Germany 
 has n't her equal." 
 
 And he stroked her and spoke to her softly as if 
 to a pretty young lady : — 
 
 " Come here, my treasure, my jewel, my 
 pearl — " 
 
 And the good Pope, quite touched, said to 
 himself: — 
 
46 Letters from My Mill, 
 
 * " What a nice young fellow ; how kind he is to 
 my mule ! " 
 
 And the next day what do you think happened ? 
 Tistet Vedene changed his yellow jacket for a 
 handsome lace alb, a purple silk hood, shoes with 
 buckles ; and he entered the household of the Pope, 
 where no one had ever yet been admitted but sons 
 of nobles and nephews of cardinals. That 's what 
 intriguing means! But Tistet was not satisfied 
 with that. 
 
 Once in the Pope's service, the rascal continued 
 the game he had played so successfully. Insolent 
 to every one, he showed attentions and kindness 
 to none but the mule, and he was always to be 
 met with in the courtyards of the palace with a 
 handful of oats, or a bunch of clover, shaking its 
 pink blooms at the window of the Holy Father as 
 if to say: " Hein ! who's that for, hey?" Time 
 and again this happened, so that, at last, the good 
 Pope, who felt himself getting old, left to Tistet 
 the care of looking after the stable and of carrying 
 to the mule his bowl of wine, — which did not 
 cause the cardinals to laugh. 
 
 Nor the mule either. For now, at the hour her 
 wine was due she beheld half a dozen little pages 
 of the household slipping hastily into the hay with 
 their hoods and their laces ; and then, soon after, 
 a good warm smell of caramel and spices pervaded 
 the stable, and Tistet Vedene appeared bearing 
 carefully the bowl of hot wine. Then the poor 
 animal's martyrdom began. 
 
The Popes Mule, 47 
 
 That fragrant wine she loved, which kept hef 
 warm and gave her wings, they had the cruelty to 
 bring it into her stall and let her smell of it ; then, 
 when her nostrils were full of the perfume, away ! 
 and the beautiful rosy liquor went down the throats 
 of those young scamps ! And not only did they 
 steal her wine, but they were like devils, those 
 young fellows, after they had drunk it. One pulled 
 her ears, another her tail. Quiquet jumped on her 
 back, Beluguet put his hat on her head, and not 
 one of the rascals ever thought that with one good 
 kick of her hind-legs the worthy animal could send 
 them all to the polar star, and farther still if she 
 chose. But no ! you are not the Pope's mule for 
 nothing — that mule of benedictions and plenary 
 indulgences. The lads might do what they liked, 
 she was never angry with them ; it was only Tistet 
 V^dene whom she hated. He, indeed ! when she 
 felt him behind her, her hoofs itched ; and reason 
 enough too. That good-for-nothing Tistet played 
 her such villanous tricks. He had such cruel 
 ideas and inventions after drinking.^ 
 
 One day he took it into his head to make her 
 go with him into the belfry, high up, very high 
 up, to the peak of the palace! What I am telling 
 you is no tale ; two hundred thousand Provencal 
 men and women saw it. Imagine the terror of 
 that unfortunate mule, when, after turning for an 
 hour, blindly, round a corkscrew staircase and 
 climbing I don't know how many steps, she found 
 herself all of a sudden on a platform blazing with 
 light, while a thousand feet below her she saw a 
 
48 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 diminutive Avignon, the booths in the market no 
 bigger than nuts, the Pope's soldiers moving about 
 their barrack like little red ants, and down there, 
 bright as a silver thread, a microscopic little bridge 
 on which they were dancing, dancing. Ah ! poor 
 beast ! what a panic ! At the cry she gave, all the 
 windows of the palace shook. 
 
 "What's the matter? what are they doing to 
 my mule?" cried the good Pope, rushing out 
 upon his balcony. 
 
 Tistet Vedene was already in the courtyard pre- 
 tending to weep and tear his hair. 
 
 " Ah ! great Holy Father, what 's the matter, 
 indeed! Mon Dieu ! what will become of us? 
 There 's your mule gone up to the belfry." 
 
 "All alone?" 
 
 "Yes, great Holy Father, all alone. Look up 
 there, high up. Don't you see the tips of her ears 
 pointing out — like two swallows ? " 
 
 " Mercy ! " cried the poor Pope, raising his eyes. 
 " Why, she must have gone mad ! She '11 kill herself ! 
 Come down, come down, you luckless thing ! " 
 
 Pecaire! she wanted nothing so much as to come 
 down; but how? which way? The stairs? not to 
 be thought of; they can be mounted, those things ; 
 but as for going down ! why, they are enough to 
 break one's legs a hundred times. The poor mule 
 was in despair, and while circling round and round 
 the platform with her big eyes -furl I of vertigo she 
 thought of Tistet Vedene. 
 
 "Ah! bandit, if I only escape — what a kick 
 to-morrow morning ! " 
 
The Popes Mule. 49 
 
 That idea of a kick put some courage into her 
 heart ; without it she never could have held good. 
 . . At last, they managed to save her ; but 't was 
 quite a serious affair. They had to get her down 
 with a derrick, ropes, and a sling. You can fancy 
 what humiliation it was for a Pope's mule to see 
 herself suspended at that height, her four hoofs 
 swimming in the void like a cockchafer hanging 
 to a string. And all Avignon looking at her ! 
 
 The unfortunate beast could not sleep at night. 
 She fancied she was still turning round and round 
 that cursed platform while the town laughed below, 
 and again she thought of the infamous Tistet and 
 the fine kick of her heels she would let fly at him 
 next day. Ah ! friends, what a kick ! the dust of 
 it would be seen as far as Pamperigouste. 
 
 Now, while this notable reception was being made 
 ready for him in the Pope's stable what do you think 
 Tistet Vedene was about? He was descending 
 the Rhone on a papal galley, singing as he went 
 his way to the Court of Naples with a troop of 
 young nobles whom the town of Avignon sent 
 every year to Queen Jeanne to practise diplomacy 
 and fine manners. Tistet Vedene was not noble; 
 but the Pope was bent on rewarding him for the 
 care he had given to his mule, and especially for 
 the activity he displayed in saving her from her 
 perilous situation. 
 
 The mule was the disappointed party on the 
 morrow ! 
 
 " Ah ! the bandit ! he suspected something," she 
 thought, shaking her silver bells. "No matter for 
 4 
 
50 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 that, scoundrel ; you '11 find it when you get back, 
 that kick ; I '11 keep it for you ! " 
 
 And she kept it for him. 
 
 After Tistet's departure the Pope's mule returned 
 to her tranquil way of life and her usual proceed- 
 ings. No more Quiquet, no more Beluguet in 
 the stable. The good old days of the spiced wine 
 came back, and with them good-humour, long 
 siestas, and the little gavotte step as she crossed 
 the bridge of Avignon. Nevertheless, since her ad- 
 venture a certain coldness was shown to her in the 
 town. Whisperings were heard as she passed, old 
 people shook their heads, children laughed and 
 pointed to the belfry. The good Pope himself no 
 longer had quite the same confidence in his friend, 
 and when he let himself go into a nice little nap 
 on her back of a Sunday, returning from his vine- 
 yard, he always had this thought latent in his 
 mind: "What if I should wake up there on the 
 platform ! " The mule felt this, and she suffered, 
 but said nothing; only, whenever the name of 
 Tistet V6dene was uttered in her hearing, her 
 long ears quivered, and she struck the iron of her 
 shoes hard upon the pavement with a little snort. 
 
 Seven years went by. Then, at the end of 
 those seven years, Tistet V6dene returned from 
 the Court of Naples. His time was not yet fin- 
 ished over there, but he had heard that the Pope's 
 head mustard-bearer had died suddenly at Avignon, 
 and as the place seemed a good one, he hurried 
 back in haste to solicit it. 
 
 When this intriguing Vedene entered the pal- 
 
The Popes Mule, 51 
 
 ace the Holy Father did not recognize him, he 
 had grown so tall and so stout. It must also be 
 said that the good Pope himself had grown older, 
 and could not see much without spectacles. 
 Tistet was not abashed. 
 
 " What, great Holy Father ! you don't remem- 
 ber me? It is I, Tistet Vedene." 
 " Vedene?" 
 
 " Why, yes, you know the one that took the 
 wine to your mule." 
 
 " Ah ! yes, yes, — I remember. A good little 
 fellow, that Tistet Vedene ! And now, what do 
 you want of me? " 
 
 " Oh ! very little, great Holy Father. I came to 
 ask — By the bye, have you still got her, that 
 nule of yours? Is she well? Ah! good! I 
 came to ask you for the place of the chief mustard- 
 bearer who lately died." 
 
 " Mustard-bearer, you ! Why you are too 
 young. How old are you? " 
 
 " Twenty-two, illustrious pontiff; just five years 
 older than your mule. Ah ! palm of God, what a 
 fine beast she is ! If you only knew how I love 
 her, that mule, — how I pined for her in Italy! 
 Won't you let me see her?" 
 
 " Yes, my son, you shall see her," said the 
 worthy Pope, quite touched. " And as you love 
 her so much I must have you live near her. 
 Therefore, from this day I attach you to my per- 
 son as chief mustard-bearer. My cardinals will 
 cry out, but no matter ! I 'm used to that. Come 
 and see me to-morrow, after vespers, and you 
 
52 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 shall receive the insignia of your rank in presence 
 of the whole Chapter, and then I will show you 
 the mule and you shall go to the vineyard with us, 
 hey ! hey ! " 
 
 I need not tell you if Tistet Wdene was con- 
 tent when he left the palace, and with what impa- 
 tience he awaited the ceremony of the morrow. 
 And yet there was one more impatient and more 
 content than he : it was the mule. After V^dene's 
 return, until vespers on the following day that ter- 
 rible animal never ceased to stuff herself with oats, 
 and practise her heels on the wall behind her. 
 She, too, was preparing for the ceremony. 
 
 Well, on the morrow, when vespers were said, 
 Tistet Vedene made his entry into the papal court- 
 yard. All the grand clergy were there; the cardi- 
 nals in their red robes, the devil's advocate in black 
 velvet, the convent abbots in their small mitres, 
 the wardens of Saint-Agrico, the violet hoods of 
 the Pope's household, the lower clergy also, the 
 Pope's guard in full uniform, the three penitential 
 brotherhoods, the hermits of Mont-Ventoux, with 
 their sullen faces, and the little clerk who walks 
 behind them with a bell, the flagellating friars 
 naked to the waist, the ruddy sextons in judge's 
 gowns, all, all, down to the givers of holy water, 
 and the man who lights and him who puts out the 
 candles — not one was missing. Ah ! 'twas a fine 
 ordination ! Bells, fire-crackers, sunshine, music, 
 and always those frantic tambourines leading the 
 farandole over there, on the bridge. 
 
 When V6dene appeared in the midst of this 
 
The Popes Mule. 53 
 
 great assembly, his fine bearing and handsome 
 face sent a murmur of admiration through the 
 crowd. He was truly a magnificent Provencal ; 
 but of the blond type, with thick hair curling at 
 the tips, and a dainty little beard, that looked like 
 slivers of fine metal fallen from the chisel of his 
 father, the goldsmith. The rumour ran that the 
 fingers of Queen Jeanne had sometimes played in 
 the curls of that golden beard ; and, in truth, the 
 Sieur de Vedene had the self-glorifying air and the 
 abstracted look of men that queens have loved. 
 On this day, in order to do honour to his native 
 town, he had substituted for his Neapolitan clothes 
 a tunic edged with pink, a la Proven$ale, and 
 in his hood there quivered a tall feather of the 
 Camargue ibis. 
 
 As soon as he entered the new official bowed 
 with a gallant air, and approached the high portico 
 where the Pope was waiting to give him the insig- 
 nias of his rank, namely, a wooden spoon and a 
 saffron coat. The mule was at the foot of the 
 steps, saddled and bridled, all ready to go to the 
 vineyard ; as he passed beside her, Tistet Vedene 
 smiled pleasantly, and stopped to give her a friendly 
 pat or two on the back, glancing, as he did so, out 
 of the corner of his eye to see if the Pope noticed 
 it. The position was just right, — the mule let fly 
 her heels. 
 
 " There, take it, villain ! Seven years have I 
 kept it for thee ! " 
 
 And she gave him so terrible a kick, — so ter- 
 rible that even at Pamperigouste the smoke was 
 
54 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 seen, a whirlwind of blond dust> in which flew the 
 feather of an ibis, and that was all that remained of 
 the unfortunate Tistet Vedene ! 
 
 Mule kicks are not usually so destructive ; but 
 this was a papal mule ; and then, just think ! she 
 had kept it for him for seven years. There is no 
 finer example of ecclesiastical rancour. 
 
The Lighthouse. 55 
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE. 
 
 That night I could not sleep. The mistral was 
 angry, and the roar of its great voice kept me 
 awake till morning. The mill cracked, heavily 
 swaying its mutilated wings, which whistled to the 
 north wind like the shrouds of a ship. Tiles flew 
 off the roof, and, afar, the serried pines with which 
 the hill is covered waved and rustled in the shad- 
 ows. I might have thought myself on the open 
 sea. . . 
 
 All this reminded me of my beautiful insomnias 
 three years ago, when I lived in the phare des San- 
 guinaires [lighthouse of the Sanguinaires], down 
 there, off the Corsican coast, at the entrance of the 
 gulf of Ajaccio, — one more pretty corner that I 
 have found in which to dream and live alone. 
 
 Imagine a ruddy isle, savage of aspect; the 
 lighthouse on one point, on the other an old Geno- 
 ese tower, where, in my day, lived an eagle. 
 Below, on the shore, was a ruined lazaretto, over- 
 grown with herbage ; and everywhere ravines, 
 clusters of great rocks, a few wild goats, the little 
 Corsican horses galloping about, their manes 
 streaming in the wind ; and above, far above, in a 
 whirl of sea-birds, the house of the beacon, with its 
 
56 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 platform of white masonry where the keepers 
 walk up and down, its green arched doorway, and 
 its cast-iron tower, at the top of which the great 
 lantern with facets shines in the sun, giving light 
 by day as well as by night. . . That is the lie 
 des Sanguinaires, as I saw it again this wakeful 
 night, while I listened to the snoring of my pines. 
 It was in that enchanted isle that I shut myself up 
 at times, before I came to my mill, when I needed 
 the free air and solitude. 
 
 What did I do there? 
 
 Just what I do here, only less. When the mistral 
 or the tramontana did not blow too hard, I lay be- 
 tween two rocks at the sea-level, amid the gulls 
 and the petrels and the swallows, and there I 
 stayed nearly all day long in that species of stupor 
 and delightful dejection which comes with the con- 
 templation of the sea. You know, don't you, 
 that lovely intoxication of the soul? We do not 
 think, we do not dream. All our being escapes 
 us, flits away, is scattered. We are the gull that 
 dives, the dust of foam that floats in the sunlight 
 between two waves, the vapour of that steamer 
 over there in the distance, that pretty little coral- 
 boat with its ruddy sail, that pearl of the water, 
 that flake of mist, — all, we are all, except ourself. 
 Oh ! what precious hours of semi-slumber and 
 self-dispersion have I spent upon my island ! 
 
 /On the strong windy days when the shore was 
 x.ot tenable, I shut myself up in the quarantine 
 courtyard, a melancholy little courtyard, fragrant 
 with rosemary and wild absinthe ; and there, 
 
The Lighthouse. 57 
 
 crouching in a projection of the old wall, I let 
 myself be softly invaded by the vague essence of 
 loneliness and sadness which floated with the sun- 
 shine into those stone cells, open at one end like 
 ancient tombs. From time to time a gate would 
 clap, a light spring bound upon the grass ; 't was 
 a goat coming in to browse under shelter from the 
 wind. When she saw me she stopped abashed, 
 and stood still, horns erect, air alert, looking at 
 me with an infantine eye. J 
 
 Toward five o'clock thfc trumpet of the keepers 
 called me to dinner. Then I took a little path 
 through the tangle of rock overhanging the sea, 
 and went slowly up to the lighthouse, turning at 
 every step to that vast horizon of water and light 
 which seemed to enlarge the higher I went. 
 
 Above, it was charming. I still see that beauti- 
 ful dining-room with broad tiles and oak panels, 
 the bouillabaisse smoking in the middle of it, the 
 door wide open to the white terrace, and the whole 
 setting sun pouring in. The keepers were there, 
 waiting until I came to sit down to table. There 
 were three of them, a Marseillais and two Corsicans ; 
 all were small men, bearded, their faces tanned, 
 fissured; wearing the same pe lone — short, hooded 
 cloak of goatskin — but each man had a gait and 
 a temperament unlike the others. 
 
 By the way these men moved, one could in- 
 stantly feel the difference between the two races. 
 The Marseillais, industrious and lively, always 
 busy, always in motion, roved the isle from morn- 
 
58 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 ing till night, gardening, fishing, gathering the 
 gulls' eggs, hiding in the rocks to catch a goat and 
 milk her, and always with some aioli or bouilla- 
 baisse a-cooking. 
 
 The Corsicans, on the other hand, beyond their 
 regular service, did absolutely nothing. They 
 considered themselves functionaries, and passed 
 their days in the kitchen playing interminable 
 games of scopa, never interrupting them except to 
 relight their pipes with a grave air, and to cut up 
 into the hollow of their hands, with scissors, the big 
 green tobacco-leaves. 
 
 In other respects, Marseillais and Corsicans, 
 they were all three good fellows, simple, artless, 
 full of attentions for their guest, though in their 
 hearts they must have thought him a very ex- 
 traordinary gentleman. 
 
 Just think ! to come and shut himself up in a 
 lighthouse for pleasure ! They, who found the 
 days so long, and felt so happy when their turn 
 came to go ashore. In the summer season this 
 great happiness was allowed them once a month. 
 Ten days ashore for thirty days of lighthouse ; 
 that is the rule ; but in winter and bad weather no 
 rule holds good. The wind blows, the waves rise, 
 the Sanguinaires are white with foam, and the 
 keepers on duty are kept confined for two or three 
 months together, and sometimes under terrible 
 conditions. 
 
 " Here 's what happened to me, monsieur," said 
 old Bartoli one day as we were dining. " Here 's 
 what happened to me five years ago of a winter's 
 
The Lighthouse. 59 
 
 evening, at this very table where we are now. That 
 night there were only two of us in the lighthouse, 
 I and a comrade called Tcheco. The others were 
 ashore, ill, or on their holiday, I forget which. 
 We were finishing dinner, very quietly, when, all 
 of a sudden, my comrade stopped eating, looked 
 at me for a moment with such queer eyes, and, 
 poof! he fell upon the table his arms stretched 
 out. I ran to him, shook him, called him : — 
 
 "<OTch6! OTche!' 
 
 " Not a word ! he was dead. You can think what 
 emotion. I stood more than an hour stupid and 
 trembling before that corpse, then suddenly the 
 thought came to me — the beacon ! I had only 
 time to climb to the lantern and light it before 
 night fell. And what a night, monsieur! The 
 sea, the wind did not have their natural voices. 
 Every second it seemed to me that some one called 
 me from below. And such fever ! such thirst ! 
 But you could n't have made me go down — I was 
 so frightened of death. However, by dawn, a 
 little courage came back to me. I carried my 
 comrade to his bed ; a sheet above him, a bit of 
 a prayer, and then, quick ! the danger signal. 
 
 "Unfortunately, the sea ran high ; in vain I called, 
 called ; no one came. And there I was, alone in 
 the lighthouse with my poor Tch6co for God knows 
 how long. I hoped to be able to keep him near me 
 till the arrival of the boat; but after three days 
 that was impossible. What should I do? Carry 
 him outside? Bury him? The rock was too hard, 
 and there are so many crows on the island. It 
 
60 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 would have been a shame to abandon that Chris- 
 tian to their maws. Then I bethought me of tak- 
 ing him down to one of those cells of the lazaretto. 
 It took me a whole afternoon to make that sad 
 procession, and, I tell you, it needed courage, too. 
 Do you know, monsieur, that even now when I go 
 down on that side of the island in a high wind I 
 fancy that I still have that corpse on my shoulders." 
 Poor old Bartoli ! the perspiration stood out on 
 his forehead for merely thinking of it. 
 
 Our meals were passed in chatting thus: the 
 beacon, the sea, with tales of shipwreck and of 
 Corsican pirates. Then as daylight faded, the 
 keeper of the first watch lighted his lamp, took 
 his pipe, his flask, a little red-edged Plutarch (the 
 entire library of the Sanguinaires) and disappeared 
 in the darkness. In a minute we heard in the 
 depths below a rattle of chains and pulleys, and the 
 heavy weights of a clock that was being wound up. 
 
 As for me during this time, I sat outside on the 
 terrace. The sun, now very low, was descending 
 quickly into the water, carrying the horizon with 
 it. The wind freshened, the island became violet. 
 In the sky, a big bird passed heavily quite near 
 me ; it was the eagle of the tower coming home. 
 Little by little the sea-mist rose. Soon I could 
 see only the white fringe round the isle. Sud- 
 denly, above my head, a soft flood of light gushed 
 out. ' Twas the beacon. Leaving the rest of the 
 island in shadow, the clear broad ray fell full upon 
 the water, and I was lost in darkness below that 
 
The Lighthouse. 6 1 
 
 luminous great flood, which scarcely spattered me 
 in passing. . . But the wind is freshening still. I 
 must go in. Feeling my way I enter and close the 
 great door. I put up the iron bars ; then, still feel- 
 ing before me, I go up the cast-iron stairway, which 
 trembles and sounds beneath my feet ; and thus I 
 reach the summit of the lighthouse. Here indeed 
 is brilliancy. 
 
 Imagine a gigantic Carcel lamp with six rows 
 of wicks, around which slowly revolve the sides of 
 the lantern ; some are filled with an enormous lens 
 of crystal, others open on a stationary sash of glass 
 which shelters the flame from the breeze. On 
 entering, I was dazzled. The brasses, pewters, 
 tin reflectors, the walls of convex crystal turning 
 with those great bluish circles, all this glitter and 
 clash of lights gave me a moment of giddiness. 
 
 Little by little, however, my eyes grew accus- 
 tomed to the glare, and I seated myself at the foot 
 of the lamp beside the keeper, who was reading his 
 Plutarch aloud to keep himself from going to sleep. 
 
 Without, darkness, the abyss. On the little 
 balcony which runs round the lantern the wind is 
 rushing like a madman, howling. The lighthouse 
 cracks, the sea roars. At the point of the isle, on 
 the reefs, the waves make a noise like cannon. 
 Invisible fingers rap now and then on the glass — 
 some night-bird, allured by the light, which beats 
 out its brains on the crystal. Within the warm 
 and sparkling lantern nothing is heard but the 
 crackling of the flame, the sound of the oil drop- 
 ping, of the chain winding, and the monotonous 
 
62 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 voice of the reader intoning the life of Demetrius 
 of Phalaris. 
 
 At midnight the keeper rises, casts a final look 
 at his wicks, and we both go down. On the stair- j 
 way we meet the comrade of the second watch, 
 who is coming up, rubbing his eyes. We pass him 
 the flask and the Plutarch. Then before we seek 
 our beds we go for a moment to the lower chamber, 
 encumbered with chains, heavy weights, reserves 
 of tin, of cordage, and there, by the gleam of his 
 little lamp the keeper writes in the big book of the 
 beacon, the log, always open : — 
 
 " Midnight. Heavy sea. . Tempest. Ship in 
 the offing." 
 
The Wreck of the " Semillante. )y 6$ 
 
 THE WRECK OF THE " SEMILLANTE." 
 
 As the mistral of the other night cast us on the 
 Corsican coast let me tell you a terrible tale of the 
 sea which the fishermen over there often relate in 
 their night watches, and about which chance sup- 
 plied me with very curious information. 
 
 It was two or three years ago that I was roving 
 the Sea of Sardinia with six or seven custom-house 
 sailors. A rough trip for a novice. Through- 
 out the month of March we had but one fine day. 
 The east wind pursued us and the sea never ceased 
 to rage. 
 
 One night that we were running before the gale, 
 our boat took shelter among a crowd of little islands 
 at the entrance to the Straits of Bonifacio. The 
 aspect of those islands was not engaging: great 
 barren rocks covered with birds, a few tufts of ab- 
 sinthe, thickets of mastic-trees, and here and there 
 in the swamps logs of wood in process of rotting. 
 But for passing the night, i' faith those dangerous- 
 looking rocks seemed safer than the cabin of a 
 half-decked old boat where the sea entered as if it 
 were at home ; and so we were quite contented to 
 go ashore. 
 
 We had barely landed and the sailors were light- 
 ing a fire to cook the bouillabaisse, when the skip- 
 
64 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 per called me, and, said pointing to a little inclosure 
 of white masonry almost hidden in the fog at the 
 end of the island : — - 
 
 " Will you come to the cemetery? " 
 
 " Cemetery, Captain Lionetti ! Where are we, 
 then?" 
 
 "At the Lavezzi Islands, monsieur. This is 
 where the six hundred men of the •' S6millante ' 
 are buried, exactly where their frigate was wrecked 
 just ten years ago. Poor fellows ! they don't have 
 many visitors, and the least we can do is to say 
 good-day to them, now we are here." 
 
 " With all my heart, captain." 
 
 How sad it was, that cemetery of the " S6mil- 
 lante ! " I see it still with its little low wall, its 
 rusty iron door, hard to open, its silent chapel, and 
 its hundreds of black crosses half-hidden by the 
 grass. Not a crown of immortelles, not a sou- 
 venir ! nothing. Ah ! the poor abandoned dead, 
 how cold they must be in those chance graves. 
 
 We remained a few moments on our knees. 
 The skipper prayed aloud. Enormous gulls, sole 
 guardians of the cemetery, circled above our 
 heads, mingling their hoarse cries with the lamen- 
 tations of the ocean. 
 
 The prayer ended, we returned sadly to the end 
 of the island, where our boat was moored. Dur- 
 ing our absence the sailors had not lost their time. 
 We found a great fire flaming in the shelter of a 
 rock, and a smoking sauce-pan. Every one sat 
 down in a circle, his feet to the flame, and each 
 
The Wreck of the " Semillante" 65 
 
 received in a red earthen bowl two slices of black 
 bread thoroughly steeped. The meal was silent; 
 we were wet, we were hungry, and then, the 
 neighbourhood of the cemetery! . . However, 
 when the bowls were empty we lighted our pipes, 
 and talk began. Naturally we spoke of the 
 | Semillante." 
 
 " But how did it happen?" I asked the skipper, 
 who was gazing at the flames with a pensive air, 
 his head in his hands. 
 
 " How did it happen? " replied the good Lion- 
 etti with a heavy sigh. " Alas ! monsieur, no one 
 in the world can tell you that. All we know 
 is that the ' Semillante,' carrying troops to the 
 Crimea, sailed from Toulon one evening in bad 
 weather. It grew worse at night. Wind, rain, and 
 a sea the like of which was never seen. Towards 
 morning the wind fell a little but the sea was wild, 
 and with it a devilish cursed fog in which you 
 could n't see a light at four steps off. Those fogs, 
 monsieur, you have no idea how treacherous they 
 are. But for all that, my idea of the ' Semillante ' 
 is that she lost her rudder that morning, for there 's 
 no fog that holds on without lifting a little, and 
 that captain of hers would have seen enough not 
 to lay himself out on these rocks. He was an old 
 salt and we all knew him. He had commanded 
 the Corsica Station for three years and knew the 
 coast as well as I who know nothing else." 
 
 "What time of day is it thought that the 
 \ Semillante ' perished ? " 
 
 " It must have been midday ; yes, monsieur, just 
 5 
 
66 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 midday. But goodness ! with that sea-fog midday 
 was no better than midnight. A custom-house 
 man ashore told me that about half-past eleven on 
 that day, coming out of his hut to fasten the shut- 
 ters, his cap was carried off by the wind, and at the 
 risk of being blown himself into the sea he scram- 
 bled after it along the shore on his hands and knees. 
 You understand ! custom-house folks are not rich, 
 and Caps cost dear. It seems that once when he 
 raised his head he saw, quite close to him in the 
 fog, a big ship under bare poles running before the 
 wind toward the Lavezzi Islands. She went so 
 fast, so fast that the man had scarcely time to 
 see her. But every one believes she was the 
 ' Semillante,' for half an hour later a shepherd 
 found her lying on these rocks. And here he is, 
 monsieur, that shepherd, just as I am speaking 
 of him, and he will tell you the thing himself. 
 Good-day, Palombo ! come and warm yourself a 
 bit; don't be afraid." 
 
 A man in a hooded mantle whom I had noticed 
 for the last few minutes hovering around our fire, 
 and whom I thought to be one of the crew, being 
 ignorant that a shepherd was on the island, now 
 came forward timidly. 
 
 He was a leprous old fellow, three-quarters 
 idiotic, the victim of some scorbutic disease which 
 gave him thick swollen lips very horrible to see. 
 The skipper made him understand with difficulty 
 what we wanted of him, and then, raising with one 
 finger his diseased lip, the old man related how on 
 the day in question, being in his hut about midday, 
 
The Wreck of the " Semillanter 67 
 
 he heard an awful crash upon the rocks. As the 
 island was covered with water he could not leave 
 the hut, and it was not until the next day that, on 
 opening his door, he saw the shore piled up with 
 wreckage and with corpses washed in by the sea. 
 Horrified, he ran to his boat and went to Boni- 
 facio in search of help. 
 
 Tired with having talked so much the shepherd 
 sat down, and the skipper resumed the tale: — 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, that poor old fellow came to 
 warn us. He was almost crazy with terror, and 
 ever since then his brain has been off the track 
 — and good reason, too. Imagine six hundred 
 bodies in a heap on that beach, pell-mell with 
 splintered woodwork and rags of sail. Poor 
 1 Semillante ' ! the sea had crushed her at one 
 blow and torn her to such fragments that Palombo 
 could scarcely find enough to build him a fence 
 around his hut. As for the bodies, they were 
 nearly all disfigured and horribly mutilated ; it 
 was piteous to see them grappling to one another. 
 We found the captain in full uniform, and the 
 chaplain with his stole round his neck ; in a corner 
 between two rocks, was a little cabin-boy with his 
 eyes wide open ; you might have thought he was 
 alive, but no ! It was written above that no one 
 should escape — M 
 
 Here the skipper interrupted himself. 
 
 " Attention, Nardi ! " he cried ; " the fire is go- 
 ing out." 
 
 Nardi thereupon threw two or three tarred 
 
68 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 planks upon the embers, which flamed up brightly, 
 and Lionetti continued : — 
 
 " The saddest part of the whole story is this : 
 Three weeks before the disaster a little corvette, 
 on her way, like the ' Semillante,' to the Crimea, 
 was wrecked in the same way and almost at the 
 same spot ; only, that time we succeeded in saving 
 the crew and twenty artillery men who were 
 aboard. We took them to Bonifacio and kept 
 them two days. But once dry and afoot, good- 
 night and good-luck ! the artillery men returned 
 to Toulon, where, soon after, they were again em- 
 barked for the Crimea — guess on what ship? 
 On the   Semillante ' monsieur ! We found them 
 all, the whole twenty, lying among the dead just 
 about where we now are. I myself picked up 
 a pretty little corporal with a delicate moustache, 
 a Paris dandy, whom I had had in my own house 
 and who had kept us laughing the whole time with 
 his tales. To see him lying here, dead, almost 
 broke my heart. Ah ! Santa Madre ! " 
 
 Thereupon the worthy Lionetti, shaking the 
 ashes from his pipe and rolling himself up in his 
 hooded cloak wished me good-night. For some 
 time longer the sailors talked together in low 
 tones. Then, one after another, the pipes went 
 out. No one spoke. The old shepherd went 
 away. And I was left alone to dream in the midst 
 of the sleeping crew. 
 
 Under the impression of the lugubrious tale I 
 have just heard, I try to reconstruct in thought 
 
The Wreck of the " StimUlante? 69 
 
 the poor lost frigate and the story of the death- 
 throes that the gulls alone had witnessed. Certain 
 details which have struck my mind — the captain 
 in full uniform, the chaplain's stole, the twenty 
 artillery men — help me to divine the various vicis- 
 situdes of the drama. . . I see the frigate leaving 
 Toulon at dusk . . . she comes out into the offing. 
 The sea is rough, the wind terrible ; but the 
 captain is a valiant sailor, and every one aboard 
 is confident. . . 
 
 In the morning the sea-fog rises. Uneasiness is 
 felt. The crew are aloft. The captain does not 
 quit the bridge. Below, where the soldiers are 
 shut up, it is dark ; the atmosphere is hot. Some 
 are ill, lying with their heads upon their knap- 
 sacks. The ship rolls horribly; impossible to 
 keep their feet. They talk as they sit, in groups 
 on the floor, and clinging to the benches ; they 
 shout in order to be heard. A few are begin- 
 ning to feel afraid. Shipwrecks are so frequent 
 in these latitudes; the artillery men are there 
 to say so, and what they tell is not reassuring. 
 Their corporal especially, a Parisian, always jest- 
 ing, though he makes your flesh creep with his 
 jokes. 
 
 "Shipwreck? why, it is very amusing, a ship- 
 wreck. We shall get off with an icy bath, and 
 they '11 take us to Bonifacio ; capital eating at old 
 Lionetti's." 
 
 And his comrades laugh. 
 
 Suddenly, a crash. What's that? What has 
 happened? 
 
jo Letters from My Mill. 
 
 "The rudder has gone," says a dripping sailor, 
 crossing between decks at a run. 
 
 " Bon voyage ! " cries that incorrigible corporal, 
 but no one laughs with him now. 
 
 Great tumult on deck. The fog obstructs all 
 view. The sailors go and come, frightened, and 
 feeling their way. . . No rudder! Impossible 
 to work the ship ! The " Semillante," drifting, 
 goes with the wind. It is then that the custom- 
 house sailor sees her pass; it is half-past eleven 
 o'clock. Ahead of the frigate something sounds 
 like the roar of cannon. . . Breakers ! breakers ! 
 'T is over, all hope is gone, they are driving ashore. 
 The captain goes down into his cabin. The next 
 moment he returns to his place on the bridge, 
 wearing his full uniform. He will meet death with 
 dignity. 
 
 Between decks the soldiers look at one another 
 anxiously, but say nothing. The sick ones try to 
 rise; the corporal laughs no longer. It is then 
 that the door opens and the chaplain in his stole 
 appears upon the threshold. 
 
 " Kneel down, my sons." 
 
 They all obey. In a ringing voice the priest 
 reads the prayer for the dying. 
 
 Suddenly an awful shock, a cry, a single cry, 
 an immense cry, arms stretched out, hands that 
 clutch, eyes aghast, o'er which the vision of death 
 passes in a flash — 
 
 Oh, mercy ! . . 
 
 It was thus that I spent the whole night in dream- 
 ing, in evoking, after a space of ten years, the soul 
 
The Wreck of the " Senzillante" •) i 
 
 of that poor ship whose fragments surrounded me. 
 Afar, in the straits, the storm was raging; the 
 flame of the bivouac bent to the blast ! and I heard 
 our boat tossing below at the foot of the rocks and 
 straining at her hawser. 
 
7 * Letters from My Mill. 
 
 CUSTOM-HOUSE PEOPLE. 
 
 A FEW years ago, the inspector-general of cus- 
 toms in Corsica took me on one of his rounds 
 along the coast. Without seeming to be so, it 
 was really a. very long voyage. Forty days at sea, 
 almost as long as it takes to go to Havana, and 
 this in an old boat with a half-deck where nothing 
 sheltered us from wind, waves, and rain but a 
 little tarred roof scarcely large enough to cover 
 two berths and a table. It was a sight to see the 
 sailors in bad weather. Their faces streamed; 
 their soaked jackets smoked like linen in the 
 drying-room. In mid-winter the poor fellows 
 passed whole days in this condition, and even 
 nights, crouched on their wet benches, shivering 
 in that unhealthy dampness; for it was quite 
 impossible to light a fire on board and the shore 
 was sometimes difficult to reach. Well, not a 
 single one of those men complained. In the 
 roughest weather I always saw them just as placid, 
 and in just the same good-humour. And yet, 
 what a melancholy life it is, that of custom-house 
 sailors ! 
 
 Nearly all of them are married, with wife and chil- 
 dren ashore, yet they stay months at sea, cruising 
 
Custom-House People. 73 
 
 around those dangerous coasts. By way of food 
 they have nothing but damp bread and wild 
 onions. Never wine or meat, for wine and meat 
 cost dear and all they earn is five hundred francs 
 a year. Five hundred francs a year ! you can 
 imagine what the hovel must be on the Marina and 
 whether the children go barefoot. No matter ! 
 they all seem happy, those people. In front of 
 the cabin, aft, stood a great cask of rain-water, at 
 which the crew drank; and I remember that 
 when they had taken their last swallow, each of 
 the poor devils shook out his glass with an 
 " Ah ! " of satisfaction, an expression of comfort 
 both comical and affecting. 
 
 The gayest and most contented of all was a 
 little Bonifacian, squat and swarthy, called Palombo. 
 He was always singing, even in the worst weather. 
 When the waves were high and the sky, dark and 
 lowering, was full of sleet, and all were standing, 
 their noses in the air, hands to the sheet, watching 
 the coming gust, then, in the great silence and 
 anxiety of all on board, the tranquil voice of 
 Palombo would begin : — 
 
 " Non, monseigneur, 
 Cest trop d y honneur y 
 Lisette est sa-age y 
 Reste au villa-age" 
 
 And the squall might blow, shaking and sub- 
 merging the vessel and making the rigging moan, 
 the sailor's song continued, floating like a gull on 
 the breast of the waves. Sometimes the wind 
 played too strong an accompaniment and the 
 
74 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 words were drowned; but between each dash of 
 the seas as the water ran out of the scuppers, the 
 chorus was heard again : — 
 
 " Lisette est sa-age t 
 Reste au villa-age? 
 
 One day, however, it rained and blew so hard I 
 did not hear it. This was so extraordinary that I 
 put my head out of the cabin. " Hey ! Palombo, 
 why don't you sing?" Palombo did not answer. 
 He was motionless, lying on his bench. I went 
 out to him. His teeth were chattering; his 
 whole body trembled with fever. " He has got the 
 pountoura" said his comrades, sadly. What they 
 called pountoura is a stitch in the side, a pleurisy. 
 The great leaden sky, the streaming vessel, the 
 poor feverish soul wrapped in an old india-rubber 
 coat which glistened in the rain like a seal's 
 back — I never saw anything more lugubrious. 
 Soon the cold, the wind, the dashing of the waves 
 aggravated his trouble. Delirium seized him ; it 
 was necessary to put him ashore. 
 
 After much time and many efforts we entered, 
 towards evening, a little harbour, silent and barren, 
 where nothing stirred but the circular sweep of a 
 few gulls. Around the shore rose high, scarped 
 rocks and impermeable thickets of shrubs of a dull 
 green, perennial and without season. Low down, 
 near the water, was a little white house with gray 
 shutters, the custom-house post. In the midst of 
 this desert, the government building, numbered 
 like a uniform cap, had something sinister about it. 
 
Custom-House Peoftie. 75 
 
 There poor Palombo was put ashore. Melancholy 
 haven for a sick man. We found the custom-house 
 official in charge of the place supping with his wife 
 and children in the chimney-corner. All these 
 people had haggard, yellow faces, and large eyes 
 circled with fever. The mother, still young, with 
 a baby in her arms, shivered as she spoke to us. 
 " It is a terrible post," the inspector said to me in 
 a low voice. " We are obliged to renew our men 
 here every two years. The fever of that marsh 
 eats them up." 
 
 It was necessary to get a doctor. There was 
 none nearer than Sartena, and that was six or eight 
 leagues distant. What was to be done? Our 
 sailors were tired out and could do no more, and 
 it was too far to send a child. Then the wife, 
 looking out of the door, called " Cecco ! Cecco ! " 
 and a tall, well set-up young fellow entered, true 
 type of a smuggler or a bandit, with his brown 
 woollen cap and his goatskin mantle. As we landed 
 I had noticed him sitting before the door, his red 
 pipe in his mouth and his gun between his legs ; 
 but he disappeared, I knew not why, at our 
 approach. Perhaps he thought gendarmes were 
 with us. As he entered, the wife coloured a little. 
 " This is my cousin," she said. " No danger that 
 he will get lost in the thicket." Then she spoke 
 to him in a low voice and showed him the patient. 
 The man nodded without replying, went out, 
 whistled to his dog, and started, his gun on his 
 shoulder, springing from rock to rock with his 
 long legs. 
 
76 Letters from My Mill 
 
 During this time the children, whom the presence 
 of the inspector seemed to terrify, finished their 
 dinner of chestnuts and bruccio (white cheese). 
 Water, nothing but water on the table! And yet 
 what good a drop of wine would have done them, 
 poor little things. Ah, poverty ! . . At last the 
 mother took them up to bed; the father lighted 
 his lantern and went to inspect the coast, and we 
 sat still by the fire to watch our sick man, who 
 tossed on his pallet as if at sea shaken by the 
 waves. To quiet his poantoitra a little we warmed 
 pebbles and bricks and laid them at his side. 
 Once or twice when I approached his bed the poor 
 fellow knew me, and to thank me stretched out his 
 hand with difficulty, a large hand, rough and burn- 
 ing as one of those bricks we took from the fire. 
 
 Sad watch ! Outside, the bad weather had re- 
 turned with the close of day. All was uproar, the 
 rolling of waves, the dashing of spray, the battle of 
 rocks and water. From time to time the tempest 
 on the open sea succeeded in entering the bay and 
 swirling around the house. We felt it in the sud- 
 den rise of the flame which lighted the mournful 
 faces of the sailors grouped around the chimney 
 and looking at the fire with that placidity of ex- 
 pression given by the habitual presence of great 
 expanse and far horizons. Sometimes Palombo 
 gently moaned ; and then all eyes were turned to 
 the dark corner where the poor comrade was dying 
 far from his family and without succour ; the chests 
 heaved and I heard great sighs. That was all that 
 the sense of their unfortunate lot drew from these 
 
Custom-House People. J J 
 
 gentle and patient toilers of the sea. A sigh, and 
 nothing more ! Stay, I am wrong. Passing before 
 me to throw a clod on the fire, one of them said 
 in a low and heart-breaking voice : " You see 
 monsieur, we have sometimes great troubles in our 
 business." 
 
78 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 THE CURE OF CUCUGNAN. 
 
 EVERY year at Candlemas the Provencal poets 
 publish at Avignon a jovial little book full to the 
 brim of merry tales and pretty verses. That of 
 this year has just reached me, and in it I find an 
 adorable fabliau which I shall try to translate for 
 you, slightly abridging it. Parisians ! hold out 
 your sacks. It is the finest brand of Provencal 
 flour that I serve you this day. 
 
 The Abb6 Martin was cure" of Cucugnan. 
 
 Good as bread, honest as gold, he loved his 
 Cucugnanese paternally. To him, Cucugnan would 
 have been heaven upon earth if the Cucugnanese 
 had given him a little more satisfaction. But alas ! 
 the spiders spun their webs in his confessional, and 
 on the glorious Easter-day the Host remained in 
 the holy pyx. This harrowed ^the heart of the 
 worthy priest, and he was always asking God to 
 grant that he might not die until he had brought 
 back to the fold his scattered flock. 
 
 Now you shall see how God listened to him. 
 
 One Sunday, after the Gospel, M. Martin went 
 up into the pulpit. 
 
 " Brethren," he said, " you may believe me if 
 you like : the other night I found myself, I, a 
 miserable sinner, at the gates of Paradise. 
 
a « 
 
 The Cure of Cucugnan. 79 
 
 I rapped ; Saint Peter came. 
 Bless me ! is it you, my worthy Monsieur 
 Martin?' he said to me. 'What good wind has 
 brought you ? what can I do for you ? ' 
 
 " ' Great Saint Peter, you who hold the big book 
 and the keys, would you tell me, if I am not 
 too curious, how many Cucugnanese you have in 
 Paradise ? ' 
 
 " ' I can't refuse you anything, Monsieur Martin ; 
 sit down ; we will look the thing out together.' 
 
 " And Saint Peter got out his big book, opened 
 it, and put on his spectacles. 
 
 " ' Let me see : Cucugnan, did you say? Cu . . . 
 Cu . . . Cucugnan. Here we are, Cucugnan. . . 
 My dear Monsieur Martin, it is a blank page. Not 
 a soul. . . No more Cucugnanese in Paradise than 
 fishbones in a turkey.' 
 
 " ' What ! No one from Cucugnan here ? No 
 one? It is n't possible ! Do look again.' 
 
 " ' No one, holy man. Look yourself if you 
 think I am joking.' 
 
 " ' I, pfaaire ! ' I stamped my feet and I cried 
 for mercy with clasped hands. Whereupon Saint 
 Peter said : — 
 
 " ' Monsieur Martin, you must not turn your heart 
 inside out in this way, or you'll have a fit of some' 
 kind. It is n't your fault, after all. Those Cu- 
 cugnanese of yours, don't you see, they '11 have to 
 do their quarantine in purgatory.' 
 
 " ' Oh ! for pity's sake, great Saint Peter, let 
 me just go to purgatory for a minute to see them 
 and comfort them.' 
 
80 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 " ' Willingly, my friend. . . Here, put on these 
 sandals, for the roads are none too good. That 's 
 right. Now go straight before you. Don't you 
 see a turning a long way down? There you '11 
 find a silver door all studded with black crosses — 
 on your right. Knock, and they '11 open to you. 
 Adieu ! Keep well and lively.' 
 
 "Down I went — down, down! What a strug- 
 gle ! My flesh creeps for only thinking of it. 
 A narrow path, full of briers and big shiny 
 beetles and snakes hissing, brought me to the 
 silver door. 
 
 "Pan! pan! 
 
 " ' Who knocks?' said a hoarse and dismal voice. 
 
 " ' The cure" of Cucugnan.' 
 
 "'Of—?' 
 
 " ' Of Cucugnan.' 
 
 " ' Ah ! . . Come in.' 
 
 " I went in. A tall, handsome angel with wings 
 black as night and a garment resplendent as day, 
 and a diamond key hanging to his belt, was writ- 
 ing, cra-cra, in a big book — bigger than that of 
 Saint Peter. 
 
 "'Now then, what do you want?' asked the 
 angel. 
 
 " ' Noble angel of God, I want to know — per- 
 haps you'll think me very inquisitive — whether 
 my Cucugnanese are here.' 
 
 "'Your—?' 
 
 " ' Cucugnanese, the inhabitants of Cucugnan. 
 I am their prior.' 
 
The Cure of Cucugnan. 81 
 
 " * Ah, yes ! the Abbe Martin, isn't it? ' 
 " * At your service, Monsieur Angel.' 
 
 " * You say Cucugnan — ' 
 
 " And the angel opened his big book, wetting 
 his finger with his spittle to turn the leaves easily. 
 
 " ' Cucugnan,' he said, with a heavy sigh. * Mon- 
 sieur Martin, we have n't a soul in purgatory from 
 Cucugnan.' 
 
 " ' Jesu ! Marie ! Joseph ! not a soul from Cu- 
 cugnan in purgatory ! Then, great God ! where 
 are they ? ' 
 
 " ' Eh ! holy man ! they are in paradise. Where 
 the deuce do you suppose they are ? ' 
 
 " ' But I have just come from there, from para- 
 dise.' 
 
 " ' You have come from there ! Well ? ' 
 
 " ' They are not there ! . . Ah ! merciful mother 
 of angels ! . .' 
 
 " ' But, holy man, if they are not in paradise and 
 not in purgatory, there is no middle place, they 
 are in — ' 
 
 " ' Holy Cross ! Jesus, son of David ! Aie' ! 
 aie! aie! it isn't possible? Can it be that the 
 great Saint Peter lied to me ? I did n't hear a 
 cock crow. . . Aie ! poor people ! and poor me ! 
 for how can I go to paradise if my Cucugnanese 
 are not there ? ' 
 
 " ' Listen to me, my poor Monsieur Martin. 
 
 As you want to be so sure about this thing, cost 
 
 what it may, and to see with your own eyes what 
 
 there is to it, take this path and run fast, if you 
 
 6 
 
82 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 know how to run. You will come to a great big 
 portal on your left. There you can find out every- 
 thing. God grants it.' 
 
 " And the angel shut his gate. 
 
 " 'T was a long path, paved all the way with red 
 embers. I tottered as if I were drunk ; at every 
 step I stumbled ; I was bathed in perspiration ; 
 every hair of my body had its drop of sweat; I 
 panted with thirst. But thanks to the sandals that 
 good Saint Peter lent me, I did not burn my feet. 
 
 " After I had made many a limping misstep 1 
 saw at my left hand a gate — no, a portal, an 
 enormous portal, gaping wide .open, like the door 
 of a big oven. O ! my children, what a sight ! 
 There, no one asked my name ; there, no register. 
 In batches, in crowds, people entered, just as you, 
 my brethren, go to the wineshops on Sunday. 
 
 "I sweated great drops, and yet I was chilled 
 to the bone and shuddering. My hair stood erect. 
 I smelt burning, roasting flesh, something like the 
 smell that fills all Cucugnan when Eloy the black- 
 smith burns the hoof of an old donkey as he shoes 
 her. I lost my breath in that stinking, fiery air ; 
 I heard an awful clamour, moans, howls, oaths. 
 
 " ' Well ! are you, or are you not coming in, 
 you?' said a horned demon, pricking me with his 
 pitchfork. 
 
 "'I? I don't go in there. I am a friend of God,' 
 
 " ' A friend of God ! Hey ! you scabby rascal \ 
 what are you doing here? ' 
 
 H ' I have come — ah ! I can't talk of it, my legs 
 
The Cure of Cucugnan. 83 
 
 are giving way under me. I have come — I have 
 come a long way — to humbly ask you — if — if 
 by chance — you have here — some one — some 
 one from Cucugnan — ' 
 
 " ' Ha ! fire of God ! ' you are playing stupid, 
 are you ? Just as if you did n't know that all 
 Cucugnan is here. There, you ugly crow, look 
 there, and see how we treat 'em here, your 
 precious Cucugnanese — ' 
 
 " I looked, and saw, in the midst of awful, whirl- 
 ing flames, — 
 
 " That long Coq-Galine, — you all knew him, my 
 brethren, — Coq-Galine, who got drunk so often 
 and shook his fleas on his poor Clairette. 
 
 " I saw Catarinet — that little slut with her nose 
 in the air — who slept alone in the barn — you 
 remember, you rascals ? But that 's enough — 
 enough said. 
 
 " I saw Pascal Doigt-de-Pois who made his oil 
 of M. Julien's olives. 
 
 " I saw Babette the gleaner, who, when she 
 gleaned, grabbed handfuls from the sheaves to 
 fill her bundle. 
 
 " I saw Maitre Grabasi, who oiled the wheel of 
 his barrow so slick ; 
 
 " And Dauphine, who sold the water of his well 
 so dear; 
 
 " And Tortillard, who, when he met me carrying 
 the Good God, kept on his way as if he had only 
 met a dog, — pipe in his mouth, cap on his head, 
 proud as Artaban. 
 
84 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 " And I saw Coulau with his Zette, and Jacques, 
 and Pierre, and Toni. . . " 
 
 Livid with fear, the audience groaned, beholding, 
 through the opened gates of hell, this one his father, 
 that one her mother, some their grandmothers, some 
 their brothers and sisters. 
 
 " You feel now, my brethren," said the good 
 abb6, " that this must not go on any longer. I 
 have the charge of souls, and I wish to save you, 
 I wi/lsave you, from the abyss to which you are all 
 rolling head-foremost. To-morrow I shall set to 
 work — no later than to-morrow. And I shall have 
 my hands full. This is what I shall do. In order to 
 do it well, it must be done methodically. We will 
 go row by row, as at Jonquieres when you dance. 
 
 "To-morrow, Monday, I shall confess the old 
 men and the old women. That 's nothing. 
 
 " Tuesday, the children. Soon done. 
 
 "Wednesday, the lads and lasses. May take 
 long. 
 
 " Thursday, the men. Cut them short. 
 
 " Friday, the women. I shall say : No rigmaroles. 
 
 " Saturday, the miller ! One whole day is not too 
 much for him alone. 
 
 " And Sunday it will all be done, and we shall 
 be happy. 
 
 " You know, my children, that when the wheat 
 is ripe it must be cut ; when the wine is drawn it 
 must be drunk. Here 's a lot of dirty linen to 
 wash, and it must be washed, and well washed. 
 
 " That is the good I wish you. Amen." 
 
The Cure of Cucugnan. 85 
 
 What was said was done. The wash came off. 
 And since that memorable Sunday the fragrance 
 of the virtues of Cucugnan can be smelt in an area 
 of ten leagues round. 
 
 And the good pastor, M. Martin, happy and gay, 
 dreamed the other night that, followed by his whole 
 flock, he mounted, in resplendent procession, amid 
 gleaming torches, and clouds of incense wafted by 
 the choir-boys chanting the Te Deum, the great 
 lighted road to the City of our God. 
 
 Now there 's the tale of the cure of Cucugnan, 
 such as that great rascal Roumanille ordered me 
 to tell it to you ; he himself having got it from 
 some other good fellow. 
 
86 Letters from My MilU 
 
 AGED FOLK. 
 
 " A letter, Pere Azan? " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur ; and it comes from Paris." 
 
 He was quite proud, that worthy old Azan, that 
 it came from Paris. I was not. Something told 
 me that that Parisian missive from the rue Jean- 
 Jacques, dropping thus upon my table unexpect- 
 edly, and so early in the morning, would make me 
 lose my whole day. I was not mistaken, — and 
 you shall see why. 
 
 " You must do me a service, my friend," said 
 the letter. " Close your mill for a day, and go to 
 Eyguieres. Eyguieres is a large village, three or 
 four leagues from your mill, — a pleasant walk. 
 When you get there, ask for the Orphans' Con- 
 vent. The first house beyond the convent is a 
 low building with gray shutters, and a small garden 
 behind it. Enter without knocking, — the door is 
 always open, — and as you enter, call out very 
 loud : ' Good-day, worthy people ! I am a friend 
 of Maurice.' On which you will see two little old 
 persons — oh ! but old, old, ever so old — stretch- 
 ing out their hands to you from their big arm- 
 chairs ; and you are to kiss them for me, with all 
 your heart, as if they were yours, your own friends. 
 Then you will talk. They will talk to you of me, 
 
Aged Folk 87 
 
 and nothing else; they will say a lot of foolish 
 things, which you are to listen to without laughing. 
 You won't laugh, will you? They are my grand- 
 parents; two beings whose very life I am, and 
 who have not seen me these ten years. . . Ten 
 years, a long time ! But how can I help it? Paris 
 clutches me. And they, they are so old that if 
 they came to see me they would break to bits on 
 the way. . . Happily, you are there, my dear 
 miller, and, in kissing you, these poor old people 
 will fancy they are kissing me. I have so often 
 told them about you, and of the good friendship 
 that—" 
 
 The devil take good friendship ! Just this very 
 morning, when the weather is so beautiful ! but not 
 at all fit to tramp along the roads ; too much mis- 
 tral, too much sun, a regular Provence day. When 
 that cursed letter came, I had just picked out my 
 shelter between two rocks, where I dreamed of 
 staying all day like a lizard, drinking light and 
 listening to the song of the pines. Well, I could not 
 help myself. I shut up the mill, grumbling, and hid 
 the key. My stick, my pipe, and off I went. \ 
 
 I reached Eyguieres in about two hours. The 
 village was deserted ; everybody was in the fields. 
 From the elms in the courtyards, white with dust, 
 the grasshoppers were screaming. To be sure, in 
 the square before the mayor's office, a donkey was 
 sunning himself, and a flock of pigeons were dab- 
 bling in the fountain before the church, but no one 
 able to show me the Orphans' Convent. Happily, 
 
88 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 an old witch suddenly appeared, crouching and 
 knitting in the angle of her doorway. I told her 
 what I was looking for ; and as she was a witch of 
 very great power, she had only to raise her distaff, 
 and, behold ! the Orphans' Convent rose up before 
 me. It was a large, sullen, black house, proud of 
 exhibiting above its arched portal an old cross of 
 red freestone with Latin around it. Beside this 
 house, I saw another, very small; gray shutters, 
 garden behind it. I knew it directly, and I entered 
 without knocking. 
 
 All my life I shall remember that long, cool, 
 quiet corridor, the walls rose-tinted, the little gar- 
 den quivering at the other end, and seen through a 
 thin blind. It seemed to me that I was entering 
 the house of some old bailiff of the olden time of 
 Sedaine. At the end of the passage, on the left, 
 through a half-opened door, I heard the tick-tack 
 of a large clock and the voice of a child — a child 
 in school — who was reading aloud, and paus- 
 ing at each syllable: "Then — Saint — I-re-ne-us 
 — cri-ed — out — I — am — the — wheat — of — the 
 Lord — I — must — be — ground — -by — the — teeth 
 — of — these— an-i-mals." I softly approached the 
 door and looked in. 
 
 In the quiet half-light of a little room, an old, 
 old man with rosy cheeks, wrinkled to the tips of 
 his fingers, sat sleeping in a chair, his mouth open, 
 his hands on his knees. At his feet, a little girl 
 dressed in blue — with a great cape and a linen 
 cap, the orphans' costume — was reading the life 
 of Saint Irenaeus in a book that was bigger than 
 
Aged Folk. 89 
 
 herself. The reading had operated miraculously 
 on the entire household. The old man slept in 
 his chair, the flies on the ceiling, the canaries in 
 their cage at the window, and the great clock 
 snored : tick-tack, tick-tack. Nothing was awake 
 in the room but a broad band of light, which came, 
 straight and white, between the closed shutters, full 
 of lively sparkles and microscopic whirlings. 
 
 Amid this general somnolence, the child went 
 gravely on with her reading : — 
 
 " Im-me-di-ate-ly — two — li-ons — dart-ed — up- 
 on — him — and — ate — him — up." At this moment 
 I entered the room. The lions of Saint Irenaeus 
 darting into the room could not have produced 
 greater stupefaction. A regular stage effect ! The 
 little one gave a cry, the big book fell, the flies 
 and the canaries woke, the clock struck, the old 
 man started up, quite frightened, and I myself, 
 being rather troubled, stopped short on the sill of 
 the door, and called out very loud : " Good-day, 
 worthy people ! I am Maurice's friend." 
 
 Oh, then ! if you had only seen him, that old 
 man, if you had only seen how he came to me with 
 outstretched arms, embracing me, pressing my 
 hands, and wandering about the room, crying 
 out: — 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! mon Dieu ! " 
 
 All the wrinkles of his face were laughing. He 
 was red. He stuttered : — 
 
 " Ah ! monsieur — ah ! monsieur." 
 
 Then he went to the back of the room and 
 called : — 
 
90 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 " Mamette ! " 
 
 A door opened, a trot of mice in the corridor — it 
 was Mamette. Nothing prettier than that little old 
 woman with her mob-cap, her brown gown, and the 
 embroidered handkerchief which she held in her 
 hand in the olden fashion. Most affecting thing ! 
 the two were like each other. With a false front 
 and yellow bows to his cap, he too might be called 
 Mamette. Only, the real Mamette must have wept 
 a great deal in her life, for she was even more 
 wrinkled than he. Like him, she too had an or- 
 phan with her, a little nurse in a blue cape who 
 never left her ; and to see these old people pro- 
 tected by those orphans was indeed the most 
 touching thing you can imagine. 
 
 On entering, Mamette began to make me a deep 
 curtsey, but a word of the old man stopped her in 
 the middle of it: — 
 
 " A friend of Maurice." 
 
 Instantly she trembled, she wept, dropped her 
 handkerchief, grew red, very red, redder than he. 
 Those aged folk ! who have hardly a drop of 
 blood in their veins, how it flies to their face at 
 the least emotion ! 
 
 " Quick, quick, a chair," said the old lady to her 
 little girl. 
 
 " Open the shutters," said the old man to his. 
 
 Then taking me each by a hand they led me, 
 trotting along, to the window the better to see me. 
 The armchairs were placed ; I sat between the two 
 on a stool, the little Blues behind us, and the ques- 
 tioning began : — 
 
Aged Folk. 91 
 
 " How is he ? What is he doing? Why does n't 
 he come? Is he happy?" 
 
 Patati, patata ! and so on for two hours. 
 
 I answered as best I could all their ques- 
 tions, giving such details about my friend as 
 I knew, and boldly inventing others that I did 
 not know; being careful to avoid admitting that 
 I had never noticed whether his windows closed 
 tightly and what coloured paper he had on his 
 walls. 
 
 "The paper of his bedroom? blue, madame, light 
 blue, with garlands of flowers — " 
 
 " Really ! " said the old lady, much affected ; 
 then she added, turning to her husband : " He is 
 such a dear lad ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes ! a dear lad ! " said the other, with 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 And all the time that I was speaking they kept 
 up between them little nods, and sly laughs and 
 winks, and knowing looks; or else the old man 
 came closer to say in my ear : — 
 
 " Speak louder, she is a little hard of hearing." 
 
 And she on her side : — 
 
 " A little louder, if you please. He does n't hear 
 very well." 
 
 Then I raised my voice, and both of them 
 thanked me with a smile ; and in those faded 
 smiles, — bending toward me, seeking in the depths 
 of my eyes the image of their Maurice, — I was, 
 myself, quite moved to see that image, vague, 
 veiled, almost imperceptible, as if I beheld my 
 friend smiling to me from afar through a mist 
 
92 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 Suddenly the old man sat upright in his chair. 
 
 " I have just thought, Mamette, — perhaps he 
 has not breakfasted ! " 
 
 And Mamette, distressed, throws up her arms. 
 
 " Not breakfasted ! oh, heavens ! " 
 
 I thought they were still talking of Maurice, and 
 I was about to say that that worthy lad never 
 waited later than noon for his breakfast. But no, 
 it was of me they were thinking; and it was in- 
 deed a sight to see their commotion when I had to 
 own that I was still fasting. 
 
 " Quick ! set the table, little Blues ! That table 
 in the middle of the room — the Sunday cloth — 
 the flowered plates. And no laughing, if you 
 please ! Make haste, make haste ! " 
 
 And haste they made. Only time to break 
 *hree plates and breakfast was served. 
 
 "A good little breakfast," said Mamette, leading 
 me to the table ; " only, you must eat it alone. We 
 have eaten already." 
 
 Poor old people ! at whatever hour you took 
 them, they had " eaten already." 
 
 Mamette's good little breakfast was a cup of 
 milk, dates, and a barquette, a kind of shortcake, 
 no doubt enough to feed her canaries for a week ; 
 and to think that I, alone, I ate up all their provi- 
 sions ! I felt the indignation around the table ; the 
 little Blues whispered and nudged each other ; and 
 those canaries in their cage, — I knew they were 
 saying : " Oh ! that monsieur, he is eating up the 
 whole of the barquette! " 
 
 I did eat it all, truly, almost without perceiving 
 
Aged Folk. 93 
 
 that I did so, preoccupied as I was by looking 
 round that light and placid room, where floated, 
 as it were, the fragrance of things ancient. Espe^ 
 cially noticeable were two little beds from which I 
 could not detach my eyes. Those beds, almost 
 two cradles, I pictured them in the morning at 
 dawn, still inclosed within their great fringed cur- 
 tains. Three o 'clock strikes. That is the hour 
 when old people wake. 
 
 "Are you asleep, Mamette?" 
 
 " No, my friend." 
 
 " Is n't Maurice a fine lad? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, a fine lad." 
 
 And from that I imagined a long conversation 
 by merely looking at the little beds of the two old 
 people, standing side by side. . 
 
 During this time a terrible drama was going on 
 at the other end of the room before a closet. It 
 concerned reaching up to the top shelf for a cer- 
 tain bottle of brandied cherries which had awaited 
 Maurice's return for the last ten years. The old 
 people now proposed to open it for me. In spite 
 of Mamette's supplications the husband was deter- 
 mined to get the cherries himself, and, mounted on 
 a chair to the terror of his wife, he was striving to 
 reach them. You can see the scene from here: 
 the old man trembling on the points of his toes, the 
 little Blues clinging to his chair, Mamette behind 
 him, breathless, her arms extended, and, pervading 
 all, a slight perfume of bergamot exhaled from the 
 open closet and the great piles of unbleached linen 
 therein contained. It was charming. 
 
94 Letters from My Mill, 
 
 At last, after many efforts, they succeeded in 
 getting it from the closet, that famous bottle, and 
 with it an old silver cup, Maurice's cup when he 
 was little. This they filled with cherries to the 
 brim — Maurice was so fond of cherries ! And 
 while the old man served me, he whispered in my 
 ear, as if his mouth watered : — 
 
 "You are very lucky, you, to be the one to eat 
 them. My wife put them up. You '11 taste some- 
 thing good." 
 
 Alas ! his wife had put them up, but she had 
 forgotten to sweeten them. They were atrocious, 
 your cherries, my poor Mamette — But that did 
 not prevent me from eating them all without 
 blinking. 
 
 The meal over, I rose to take leave of my 
 hosts. They would fain have kept me longer to 
 talk of that dear lad, but the day was shortening, 
 the mill was far, and I had to go. 
 
 The old man rose when I did. 
 
 " Mamette, my coat ; I will accompany him as 
 far as the square." 
 
 I felt very sure that in her heart Mamette 
 thought it too cool for the old man to be out, but 
 she did not show it. Only, as she helped him to 
 put his arms into the sleeves of his coat, a hand- 
 some snuff-coloured coat with mother-of-pearl but- 
 tons, I heard the dear creature say to him softly : — 
 
 * You won't be late, will you ? " 
 
 And he, with a roguish air : — 
 
 " Hey ! hey ! I don't know — perhaps not." 
 
Aged Folk. 95 
 
 Thereupon they looked at each other, laugh- 
 ing, and the little Blues laughed to see them laugh, 
 and the canaries laughed too, in their cage, after 
 their fashion. Between ourselves I think the smell 
 of those cherries had made them all a little tipsy. 
 
 Daylight was fading as we left the house, . 
 papa and I. A little Blue followed at a distant 
 to bring him back; but he did not see her, and 
 seemed quite proud to walk along, arm in arm 
 with me, like a man. Mamette, beaming, watched 
 us from the sill of her door with pretty little nods 
 of her head that seemed to say : " See there ! my 
 poor man, he can still walk about." 
 
96 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 PROSE BALLADS. 
 
 When I opened my door this morning I saw 
 around my mill a carpet of hoar-frost. The turf 
 cracked and glittered like glass; the hillside 
 shivered. For a single day my dear Provence 
 disguised herself as a Northern land ; and it was 
 among pines draped with frost and tufts of laven- 
 der looking like crystal bouquets that I wrote two 
 ballads of rather Germanic fantasy, while the ice- 
 dew sparkled before me, and away up there in the 
 clear blue sky triangular flocks of storks, coming 
 from the country of Henri Heine, flew towards 
 the Camargue, crying hoarsely : " It is cold — cold 
 — cold." 
 
 I. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE DAUPHIN. 
 
 The little Dauphin is ill ; the little Dauphin will 
 die. In all the churches of the kingdom the Holy 
 Sacrament is exposed day and night, and great 
 tapers burn for the recovery of the royal child. 
 The streets of the old Residenz are sad and silent; 
 the bells no longer ring; carriages are driven at 
 a foot-pace. Around the palace anxious burghers 
 watch, through the iron railings, the Swiss porters 
 
Prose Ballads. 97 
 
 with gilded paunches talking in the courtyard with 
 airs of importance. 
 
 The whole castle is a-quiver. Chamberlains, 
 majordomos are running up and down the marble 
 staircases. The galleries are filled with pages 
 and courtiers in silken garments going from one 
 group to another, asking for news in whispers. On 
 the wide porticos ladies of honour in despair are 
 dropping deep curtseys to one another and wiping 
 their eyes with embroidered handkerchiefs. 
 
 In the Orangery is a numerous assemblage of 
 physicians in their robes. They are seen through 
 the sashes to shake their long black sleeves and 
 lean their clubbed wigs doctorally to one another. 
 The preceptor and the equerry of the little Dau- 
 phin are pacing up and down before the door 
 awaiting the decision of the Faculty. Scullions 
 pass them without bowing. The equerry swears 
 like a pagan ; the preceptor recites Horace. And 
 all this while, from the stables over there, comes 
 a plaintive neigh. T is the chestnut pony of the 
 little Dauphin, forgotten by the grooms, which is 
 whinnying sadly before its empty manger. 
 
 And the king? Where is Monseigneur the 
 king? The king is shut up all alone in a room 
 at the farther end of the castle. Majesties do not 
 like to be seen to weep. As for the queen, that 
 is another thing. Seated by the pillow of the 
 little Dauphin, her beautiful face is bathed in tears, 
 and she sobs aloud as any shopkeeper's wife 
 might do. 
 
 Among the laces of his couch the little Dauphin, 
 7 
 
98 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 whiter than the pillows on which he lies, is resting, 
 his eyes closed. They think he sleeps. But no, 
 the little Dauphin is not asleep. He turns to his 
 mother, and seeing her tears, he says to her : — 
 
 " Madame la reine, why do you weep? Do you 
 really think I am going to die?" 
 
 The queen tries to answer. Sobs prevent her 
 from speaking. 
 
 "Do not weep, Madame la reine ; you forget 
 that I am the Dauphin, and that Dauphins can- 
 not die in this way." 
 
 The queen sobs more than ever, and the little 
 Dauphin begins to be frightened. 
 
 " Hola ! " he said, " I will not let Death take 
 me ; I will find a way to keep him out. Send, 
 at once, for forty of my soldiers, the strongest 
 men ; let them mount guard around my bed. Let 
 a hundred cannon be ready, day and night, with 
 lighted matches, beneath my windows, and sorrow 
 to Death if then he dare approach me ! " 
 
 To please the royal child the queen made signs. 
 Cannon were heard to roll into the courtyard, and 
 the forty tallest soldiers, halberds in hand, stood 
 ranged around the room. They were all old vet- 
 erans, with gray moustaches. The Dauphin clapped 
 his hands on seeing them. One he recognized, 
 and called to him : — 
 
 "Lorrain ! Lorrain ! " 
 
 The soldier advanced toward the bed. 
 
 " I love you, my old Lorrain. Show me your 
 big sabre. If Death comes here to take me, you 
 must kill him — won't you?" 
 
Prose Ballads. 99 
 
 Lorrain replied : — 
 
 " Yes, monseigneur." 
 
 But two big tears rolled down his weather- 
 beaten cheeks. 
 
 At this moment the chaplain approached the 
 little Dauphin, and spoke to him in a low voice, 
 showing him a crucifix. The little Dauphin listened 
 with a surprised air; then, suddenly interrupting 
 the priest, he said : — 
 
 " I understand very well what you are saying, 
 Monsieur Vabbe ; but, after all, could not my little 
 friend Beppo die in my place if I gave him plenty 
 of money? " 
 
 The chaplain continued to speak in a low voice, 
 and the little Dauphin seemed more and more 
 astonished. 
 
 When the chaplain had finished, the little Dau- 
 phin said, with a heavy sigh: — 
 
 " All that you tell me is very sad, Monsieur Vabbe'y 
 but one thing comforts me ; it is that up there, in 
 the paradise of stars, I shall still be the Dauphin. 
 I know that the Good God is my cousin, and he 
 will not fail to treat me according to my rank." 
 
 Then he added, turning to his mother : — 
 
 " Tell them to bring me my finest clothes, my 
 ermine mantle, and my velvet shoes. I wish to 
 make myself gorgeous for the angels and to enter 
 paradise as the Dauphin should." 
 
 Again, for the third time, the chaplain leaned 
 down to the little Dauphin and spoke to him in a 
 low voice. Suddenly, in the middle of his discourse 
 the royal child interrupted him angrily : — 
 
ioo Letters from My Mill. 
 
 " Then to be Dauphin," he cried, " is just noth- 
 ing at all ! " 
 
 And — not willing to hear another word — the 
 little Dauphin turned his face to the wall and wept 
 bitterly. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE SUB-PREFECT IN THE FIELDS. 
 
 The sub-prefect is on his rounds. Coachman 
 before, footman behind, the caleche of the sub- 
 prefecture bears him majestically to the district 
 assembly of Combe-aux-F6es. For this memo- 
 rable journey the sub-prefect has put on his fine 
 embroidered coat, his little opera-hat, his tight 
 breeches that are silver-striped, and his gala sword 
 with a mother-of-pearl handle. On his knees re- 
 poses a great portfolio of crinkled leather, at which 
 he gazes sadly. 
 
 The sub-prefect gazes sadly at his leather case ; 
 he thinks of the famous speech he is about to de- 
 liver before the inhabitants of Combe-aux-Fees : — 
 " Messieurs, and dear constituents — " 
 But in vain does he twist the silk of his blond 
 moustache and repeat a score of times : — 
 " Messieurs, and dear constituents — " 
 Not another word will come. It is so hot in 
 that caleche. The high-road to Combe-aux-F6es 
 stretches dustily as far as eye can reach beneath 
 that Southern sun. The air is like a furnace ; on 
 the elms, white with dust, that line the road, thou- 
 
Prose Ballads. 101 
 
 sands of grasshoppers are discoursing shrilly from 
 one tree to another. Suddenly the sub-prefect 
 quivers. Over there, at the foot of a slope, he 
 perceives a little wood of live-oaks which seems to 
 be making him a sign. 
 
 The little wood of live-oaks seems to be making 
 him a sign : — 
 
 u Come this way, monsieur, come this way to 
 compose your speech; you will be much more 
 comfortable under my trees." 
 
 The sub-prefect is persuaded. He jumps from 
 his caleche and tells his servants to wait for him ; 
 he is going to compose his speech in the little 
 wood of live-oaks. 
 
 In the little wood of live-oaks there are birds 
 and violets, and brooks purling through the turf. 
 When the birds caught sight of the prefect in his 
 handsome breeches carrying his leather case they 
 were frightened and stopped singing, the brooks 
 dared not purl, and the violets hid in the grass. 
 All that little world had never seen a sub-prefect, 
 and they asked one another in whispers who the 
 grand gentleman could be who walked about in 
 silver-laced breeches. 
 
 Whispering beneath the leafage, they asked one 
 another who that grand gentleman in the silver- 
 laced breeches could be. During this time the 
 sub-prefect, delighted with the silence and the 
 coolness of the wood, lifted the tails of his coat, 
 laid his opera-hat on the grass, and sat himself 
 down in the moss at the foot of a fine young live- 
 oak. Then he opened his leather portfolio and 
 
1O2 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 took therefrom a very large sheet of ministerial 
 paper. 
 
 " He is an artist," said a redwing. 
 
 " No," said a bullfinch, " he is not an artist be- 
 cause he wears silvered breeches ; he is a prince." 
 
 " Neither prince nor artist," interrupted an old 
 nightingale who had sung in the gardens of the 
 sub-prefecture for one whole season. " I know 
 who he is — he is a sub-prefect." 
 
 And all the little wood began to whisper and 
 murmur: — 
 
 " He 's a sub-prefect ! he'sa sub-prefect ! " 
 
 " How bald he is ! " observed a lark with a big 
 tuft. 
 
 The violets asked : — 
 
 " Is he cross ? " 
 
 " Is he cross? " asked the violets. 
 
 The nightingale answered : — 
 
 " Not at all." 
 
 On this assurance the birds began to sing, the 
 brooks to purl, the violets to exhale their fragrance 
 just as if the monsieur were not there. 
 
 Impassible in the midst of the pretty racket, 
 the sub-prefect sat invoking in his heart the 
 Muse of agricultural comitias, and he presently 
 began, with pencil uplifted, to declaim his speech 
 in his voice of ceremony. 
 
 " Messieurs, and dear constituents — " 
 
 " Messieurs, and dear constituents," said the sub* 
 prefect, in his voice of ceremony. 
 
 A burst of laughter interrupted him ; he turned 
 round and saw nothing but a green woodpecker, 
 
Prose Ballads. 103 
 
 perched on his opera-hat, which looked at him 
 smiling. The sub-prefect shrugged his shoulders, 
 and attempted to resume his speech; but the 
 woodpecker stopped him again, crying out : — 
 
 " What 's the good ? " 
 
 " What is the good ? " said the sub-prefect, be- 
 coming very red. Then waving away with a 
 gesture that insolent beast, he began once 
 more : — 
 
 " Messieurs, and dear constituents — " 
 
 " Messieurs, and dear constituents," resumed the 
 sub-prefect. 
 
 But just then, all the little violets raised their 
 heads to the tops of their stalks and said to him 
 softly : — 
 
 " Monsieur, do smell how good we smell." 
 
 And the brooks purled a music divine in the 
 mosses ; and above, in the branches over his head, 
 the red-throated warblers were singing their pretti- 
 est tunes, as if the whole little wood had conspired 
 to prevent him from composing his speech. 
 
 Yes, the whole little wood had conspired to 
 prevent him from composing his speech. The 
 sub-prefect, tipsy with perfume and drunk with 
 music, tried in vain to resist the new spell that 
 seized him. He leaned his elbows on the grass, 
 unbuttoned his fine lace coat, and stammered again 
 two or three times : — 
 
 " Messieurs, and dear — " 
 
 Then he sent his dear constituents to the devil, 
 and the Muse of agricultural comitias was forced 
 to veil her face. 
 
104 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 Veil thy face, O Muse of agricultural comitias ! 
 When at the end of an hour the servants of the 
 sub-prefecture, uneasy about their master, entered 
 the little wood, they saw a sight that caused them 
 to recoil with horror. The sub-prefect was lying 
 on his stomach in the grass, his clothes loose, his 
 coat off, as disorderly as a bohemian, and — all 
 the while chewing violets — he, the sub-prefect, 
 was writing poetry ! 
 
Bixiou s Portfolio. 105 
 
 BIXIOU'S PORTFOLIO. 
 
 ONE morning in the month of October, a few 
 days before leaving Paris, a man entered my room 
 while I was at breakfast, an old man in a shabby, 
 muddy coat, his spine bent, and trembling on his 
 long legs like an unfledged heron. This was 
 Bixiou. Yes, Parisians, your Bixiou, the malicious, 
 fascinating Bixiou, — that frantic jester, who de- 
 lighted you for fifteen years with his pamphlets and 
 his caricatures. Ah ! the poor fellow, what distress ! 
 Were it not for a grimace he made as he entered 
 the room I should never have recognized him. 
 
 With his head bent sideways to his shoulder, a 
 cane at his teeth like a flute, the illustrious and 
 lugubrious jester advanced to the middle of the 
 room, striking against my table, and saying in a 
 doleful voice: — 
 
 " Have pity on a poor blind man ! " 
 
 The mimicry was so good that I could not help 
 laughing. But he, very coldly : — 
 
 " You think I am joking — look ! " 
 
 And he turned to me a pair of white eyes, 
 sightless. 
 
 " I am blind, my dear fellow, blind for life. 
 That is what comes of writing with vitriol. I 
 have burned out my eyes at that pretty trade, 
 
106 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 yes, burned them to the socket — to the 
 bobhhes ! " he added, showing me his calcined 
 eyelids, in which not the vestige of a lash re- 
 mained. 
 
 I was so moved that I could not speak to him. 
 My silence made him uneasy. 
 
 " Are you at work? " 
 
 " No, Bixiou, I am at breakfast. Will you have 
 some?" 
 
 He did not answer, but by the quivering of his 
 nostrils I saw his desire to accept. I took him by 
 the hand and seated him beside me. 
 
 While they served him, the poor devil breathed 
 in, as it were, the food with a laugh. 
 
 " It smells good, all that. I shall feast well ; it is 
 so long since I gave up breakfasting. A two-sous 
 loaf every morning while I haunt the ministries, — 
 for you know I haunt the ministries now-a-days ; 
 that 's my only profession. I am trying to hook 
 a tobacco license. You are shocked, but what am 
 I to do ? They must have food at home. I can't 
 design any longer; I can't write. Dictate? But 
 what? I have nothing in my head now; I can't 
 invent. My business was to see the grimaces of 
 Paris and show them up, and I can't do that any 
 longer. So I bethought me of a tobacco license — 
 not on the boulevards, you understand. I have 
 no claim to that favour, not being the mother of 
 a danseuse, nor the widow of an officer. No, 
 simply some little provincial tobacco office, far 
 away, in a corner of the Vosges. There I shall 
 set up a big porcelain pipe and call myself Hans 
 
Bixious Portfolio. 107 
 
 or Zeb6d£, as in Erckmann-Chatrian, and I shall 
 console myself for not writing any longer by mak- 
 ing cornucopias for snuff out of the works of my 
 contemporaries. 
 
 "That is all I ask for. Not much, is it? Well, 
 it is the devil and all to get it. And yet I ought 
 not to be without influence. Think how I used 
 to be in the thick of everything ! I dined with 
 the marshal, and the prince, and the ministers ; all 
 those people wanted me because I amused them, 
 or else because they were afraid of me. Now, I 
 can't make any one afraid. Oh, my eyes ! my poor 
 eyes ! No one invites me now. It is too dismal 
 to have a blind head at table. Pass me the bread, 
 if you please. Ah ! those bandits ; they are mak- 
 ing me pay dear for that wretched tobacco license. 
 For six months I have lobbied the ministries with 
 my petition. I get there every morning when the 
 servants are lighting the fires and exercising their 
 Excellencies' horses in the courtyards, and I don't 
 leave till night, when the lamps are brought in and the 
 kitchens begin to smell good. My whole life is spent 
 on the wooden chests of antechambers. The ushers 
 know me well, I can tell you ! At the Interior 
 they call me ' That kind monsieur ! ' because, 
 to get their good word, I make puns or sketch 
 them some of the big-wigs on a corner of their 
 tablets, which makes them laugh. That 's what I 've 
 come to after twenty years of rollicking successes ! 
 that's the end of an artist's life. And to think 
 that there are forty thousand young rascals in 
 France whose very mouths water to take up that 
 
108 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 profession ! To think that every day in the prov- 
 inces a locomotive gets up steam to bring batches 
 of imbeciles hungry for literature and printed rub- 
 bish to Paris ! Ah ! deluded provinces, if Bixiou's 
 miserable fate could only teach you a lesson ! " 
 
 So saying, he dropped his nose into his plate and 
 began to eat with avidity, without another word. 
 It was piteous to see him. Every second he 
 lost his bread, his fork, and felt about for his 
 glass. Poor man ! he had not yet got the habit of 
 blindness. 
 
 After a while, he resumed : — 
 
 " Do you know what is most horrible of all to 
 me? It is that I can no longer read the papers. 
 You have to belong to the newspaper business to 
 understand that. Sometimes, in the evening when 
 I go home I buy one, only to smell that odour of 
 damp paper and fresh news. It is so good ! but 
 there 's no one to read it to me. My wife might, 
 but she won't ; she pretends that in the ' diverse 
 facts ' there is so much that is improper. Ha ! 
 those former mistresses ! once married, there are 
 none more prudish than they. Ever since I made 
 her Madame Bixiou she thinks herself bound to 
 be a bigot — and to such a point ! Did n't she 
 want to have me wash my eyes with water from 
 the Salette? and then, holy bread, and holy water, 
 and collections, and Foundlings and Chinese orphans 
 and I don't know what all. We are in good works 
 up to our chin. I think it would be a good work 
 to read me my newspaper, but no, she won't. If 
 
Bixioits Portfolio. log 
 
 my daughter were at home she would read it to 
 me, but after I became blind I sent her to Notre- 
 Dame-des-Arts, to have one less mouth to feed. 
 She 's another who gives me comfort ! not nine 
 years in the world, and she has had every known 
 disease ! And sad ! and ugly ! uglier than I, if 
 that 's possible — a fright ! Well, I never could 
 make anything but caricatures, and she is one of 
 them — Ah ca ! I 'm a fine fellow to be telling 
 you my family histories. What are they to you? 
 Come, give me a little more of that brandy. 
 I must brace myself up ; I am going from here to 
 the ministry of Public Instruction, and the ushers 
 there are not so easy as some to amuse — they are 
 all retired professors." 
 
 I poured him out his brandy. He began to 
 drink it with little sips and a gentler air. Pres- 
 ently I don't know what fancy took him, but he 
 rose, glass in hand, turned on all sides that head 
 of a blind adder, with the cajoling smile of a man 
 about to speak, and said, in a strident voice, as if 
 haranguing a banquet of two hundred guests : — 
 
 " To Art ! To Letters ! To the Press ! " 
 
 And thereupon he launched into a ten minutes' 
 speech, the craziest, most marvellous improvisation 
 which ever issued from that satirical brain. 
 
 Imagine a review of events at the end of a year, 
 entitled, "The Bohemia of Letters in 18-" —   
 our so called literary meetings, our disquisitions, 
 our quarrels, all the absurdities of an eccentric 
 society, a sewer of ink, hell without grandeur, 
 where the denizens throttle, and gut, and rob one 
 
1 10 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 another, and talk interest and sous (far more than 
 they do among the bourgeois), which does not 
 hinder many from dying of hunger — in short, an 
 epitome of all our meanness, all our paltriness; old 
 Baron T. . . of the Tombola going about saying 
 " gna, gna, gna " in the Tuileries gardens with his 
 wooden bowl and his bottle-blue coat ; together 
 with the deaths of the year, the burials pro tern., 
 the funeral orations, always the same " dear and 
 regretted " over a poor devil whose grave no one 
 will pay for ; and the suicides, and those who have 
 gone mad — imagine all that related, detailed, 
 gesticulated, by a humourist of genius, and you 
 will have an idea of Bixiou's improvisation. 
 
 His speech ended and the brandy drunk, he 
 asked me what time it was and went away without 
 bidding me good-bye. I don't know what the 
 ushers of M. Duruy thought of his visit that morn- 
 ing, but I know that never in all my life did I feel 
 more sad or so ill at ease for the work of the day 
 as I did that morning after the departure of my 
 terrible visitor. My inkstand sickened me, my 
 pen was a horror to me. I wanted to rush away, 
 afar, to see trees, to smell something good. What 
 hatred, great God ! what gall ! what a need to 
 slaver all things ! to soil all things ! Ah ! the mis- 
 erable man ! 
 
 I paced up and down my room in a fury, fancy- 
 ing I still heard the sneer of disgust with which he 
 had spoken of his daughter. 
 
 Suddenly, near the chair where the blind man 
 
Bixious Portfolio. 1 1 1 
 
 had been sitting, I felt something touch my foot. 
 Stooping I saw his portfolio, a big, shiny wallet 
 with broken edges, which never left him, and 
 which he called in jest his "venom pocket." That 
 pocket was as renowned among us as the famous 
 boxes of M. de Girardin. It was said there were 
 terrible things within it. The opportunity now 
 offered itself to ascertain if this were so. In fall- 
 ing, the old portfolio, stuffed too full, had burst, 
 and the papers lay scattered on the carpet. I 
 was forced to pick them up, one by one ; and so 
 doing I saw : — 
 
 A number of letters, written on flowered paper, 
 all beginning : " My dear papa," and signed Cttine 
 Bixiou of the Children of Marie. 
 
 Old prescriptions for children's ailments ; croup, 
 convulsions, scarlatina, measles ; the poor little 
 thing had not been spared a single one. 
 
 Finally, from a large sealed envelope, a few 
 strands of yellow curly hair were escaping, and on 
 the paper was written, in big, straggling writing, 
 the writing of a blind man : — 
 
 "Celine's hair, cut off May 13th; the day 
 she entered over there." 
 
 That is what there was in Bixiou's portfolio. 
 
 Ah, Parisians, you are all alike. Disgust, sar- 
 casm, infernal laughter, ferocious jeers, and then— « 
 Celine's hair y cut off May 13th. 
 
ii2 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE MAN WITH THE 
 GOLDEN BRAIN. 
 
 TO THE LADY WHO ASKS FOR GAY STORIES. 
 
 On reading your letter, madame, I felt some- 
 thing like remorse. I blamed myself for the half- 
 mourning colour of my tales, and I resolved to 
 offer you to-day something joyous, even wildly 
 joyous. 
 
 Why should I be sad, after all ? I am living a 
 thousand leagues from Parisian fogs, on a luminous 
 hill, in a land of tambourines and muscat wine. 
 Around me is nought but sun and music ; I have 
 orchestras of finches, choral societies of tom-tits ; 
 in the morning, curlews are saying : Coureli ! cou- 
 reli ! at midday come the cicadas ; and then the 
 shepherds playing their fifes, and the pretty young 
 brunettes laughing among the vines. In truth, 
 this place is ill-chosen to rub-in black. I ought 
 rather to send to a lady rose-coloured poems and 
 tales of gallantry. 
 
 But, no ! I am still too near Paris. Every day 
 that city sends me, even among my pines, spatter- 
 ings of her sadness. At the moment when I write 
 these lines, the news reaches me of poor Charles 
 Barbara's miserable death, and my mill is a place 
 of mourning. Adieu, curlews and cicadas ! I have 
 
The Afan with the Golden Brain. 1 1 3 
 
 no heart now for gayety. This is why, madame, 
 instead of the lively, jesting story that I meant to 
 write for you, you must accept to-day one more 
 melancholy legend. l. 
 
 There was once a man with a golden brain ; yes, 
 *«iulain& a brain all golden. 'When he came into 
 the world the doctors thought 4fe«fc the babe could 
 not live, so heavy was his head and his cranium so 
 developed. He did live , however, and he grew in 
 the sun like a beautiful olive-tree. ^>But his big 
 head dragged him about, and it was pitiable to see 
 how he knocked against the furniture as he went 
 along. *He often fell* Once he rolled from the 
 top of a portico and struck his forehead on the a 
 
 marble steps, and his skull rang like an ingot of 
 metal. They thought him dead ; but, on picking 
 him up, only a slight wound was found, out of 
 which two or three tiny drops of gold oozed into 
 his hair. This was how his parents first knew that 
 his brain was gold. ; 
 
 The thing was kept secret. The poor little fel- 
 low himself did not know it. Now and then he 
 would ask why they no longer let him run out to 
 play with the children in the street. 
 
 " They would steal you , my dear treasure," «^ * 
 plied his mother. 
 
 That gave the little one a great fear of being 
 stolen. He played alone, and said no more ; stag- 
 gering heavily from one room to another. 
 
 When he was eighteen years of age his parents 
 6*sfr- revealed to him the abnormal gift he had 
 8 
 
H4 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 received from fate; and as they had brought him 
 • up and fed him until that day, they asked him, in 
 return, for a little of his gold. \. The lad did not 
 hesitate. Instantly — how, or by what means, the 
 legend does not say — he tore from his brain a 
 morsel of massive gold, a piece as big as a nut, 
 and proudly flung it on his mother's lap.-VThen, 
 quite dazzleql by the thought of the riches he 
 r -^ < ; carried in his brain, mad with desires, drunk with 
 his power, he quitted his father's house and went 
 out into the world, squandering his treasure. /s)ij*\ 
 
 At the pa\:e he4ed~4Hs4*£g in royal fashion, sow- 
 ing gold without counting it, one would have 
 thought that his brain was inexhaustible. It did 
 exhaust itself, however^ and by degrees his eyes 
 &t^ grew dim, his cheeks hollow. At las*, one morn- 
 •' ing after a wild debauch, the unfortunate fellow, 
 left alone amid the fragments of the feast and the 
 lamps that were paling, was horrified at the enor- 
 mous breach he had made in his ingots.: It was 
 time to stop.^ J .1 
 
 Henceforth, a new existence. // The man with 
 the golden brain went away, to live apart, -hy+he 
 work of his hands; auspicious and timid as a 
 miser, fleeing from temptation, striving to forget^ 
 himself- the fatal riches which he desired never 
 to touch again. Unfortunately, a friend followed 
 imo his solitude ; aacl that friend knew his 
 / 
 
 secre 
 
 [ —J One night the poor n*an was awakened by a pain 
 in/his head, a dreadful pain ; he sprang up terri- 
 
The Man with the Golden Brain. 115 
 
 [led, and saw, in a moon ray, his friend hastily de- 
 basing and hiding something beneath his cloak. - 
 
 A piece of his brain which was stolen from him ! // |K 
 L'Some time later, the man with the golden brain 
 Fell in love. This time all was over with him. 
 He loved with the best of his soul a fair-haired 
 ittle woman, who loved him in return, but never- 
 ;heless preferred bow-knots and feathers and pretty 
 )ronze tassels to her boots. fcrgjSkJ 
 
 Between the fingers of this dainty creature, half 
 Dird, half doll, the gold slipped gayly away. She 
 tiad all the caprices ;~ he never could say her 
 gay.; I for fear of troubling her, he never told her 
 to the last about the melancholy source of his 
 fortune. <■ — - 
 
 r " We must be very rich," she would say. 
 - And the poor fellow answered : — f 
 
 " Oh, yes ! very rich indeed ! "--> 
 
 And so saying he smiled with love at the little 
 feiry bird that was eating his brain out innocently. 
 Sometimes, how#¥er, fears took possession of him ; 
 he longed to become a miser ; but then the little 
 woman would come to him,, skipping, and say : 
 
 " My husband, you are so rich, buy me some- 
 thing that is very costly.'' . - 
 
 And he bought her something that was very 
 costly. • 
 
 This lasted two years ; then, one morning, the 
 little woman died, no one knew why, Jike a bird^ 
 The gold was almost at an end, and with what re- 
 mained of it the widower gave his 4&a* lost love a 
 fine interment. Bells all ringing^ mourning coaches 
 
 \MA 
 
1 1 6 Letters from My Mill 
 
 draped with black^horses caparisoned, sil ver t e ar s 
 upon -the .velv&tfoflrafrgreat black plumes upon their 
 heads.- Nothing seemed to him too magnificent.- 
 What was his gold to him now ?~ He gave it to the 
 church, to the bearers, to those who sold the im- 
 \s\WQrtelles-; he gave it/to every one^without ^- ques- 
 tion. So, on leaving the cemetery^almost nothing 
 remained to him of that marvellous brain, except a 
 few atoms in the corners of the cranium. . > 
 
 Then he was seen to go away through the 
 streets, with a wild look, his hands held out be- 
 fore him, stumbling along like a drunken man.« 
 At night, when the arcades were brilliant, he 
 stopped before a large show-window in which a 
 
 it r o 
 
 mass of stuffs and adornments glittered under the 
 gaslight, arrtr fixing his eyes on two pairs of blue 
 satin slippers lined with swan's-down, }'l wonder 
 which she would like best," he said to himself, 
 smiling. Then, forgetting already that the little 
 wife was dead, he entered to buy them. / 
 
 At the fa rther , end of the shop the owner heard 
 a loud cry ; rushing forward she recoiled with fear 
 on seeing a tall man leaning on the counter and 
 gazing at her stupefied. In one hand he was hold- 
 ing a pair of blue slippers lined with swan's-down;, 
 the other he held out to her, all cut and bleedings 
 with fragments of gold at the tips of the nails. 
 
 k>i$ - 
 
 That, madame, is the legend of the man with the 
 golden brain. 
 
 In spite of its fantastic air, this legend is true 
 from beginning to end. There are in this world 
 
The Man with the Golden Brain. 117 
 
 poor fellows who are compelled to live by their 
 brains, and to pay in the fine gold of their marrow 
 and substance for the smallest things of life. It is 
 their daily martyrdom '; and when they are weary 
 of suffering — 
 
Ii3 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 THE POET MISTRAL. 
 
 Last Sunday, on rising, I fancied I had waked 
 in the rue du Faubourg-Montmartre. It rained, 
 the sky was gray, the mill melancholy. I was afraid 
 to spend that cold, rainy day at home, and suddenly 
 a desire came to me to go and warm myself up be- 
 side Frederic Mistral, that great poet, who lives 
 three leagues away from my pines in his little 
 village of Maillane. 
 
 No sooner thought than gone; a myrtle-wood 
 stick, my Montaigne, a wrap, and I am off! 
 
 No one in the fields. Our noble Catholic Pro- 
 vence leaves the earth to rest on Sundays. The 
 farmhouses are closed, the dogs are alone in the 
 yards. Now and then I meet the waggon of a car- 
 rier with its streaming hood, or an old woman 
 wrapped in her mantle, colour of dead leaves, or 
 mules in their gala trappings, saddle-cloths of blue 
 and white matweed, scarlet pompons and silver 
 bells, drawing at a trot a carriole of the farm hands 
 going to mass ; and away over there, through the 
 fog, I see a boat on the pond and a fisherman 
 standing to cast his net. 
 
 No possibility of reading on the way. The rain 
 is falling in torrents and the tramontana is dashing 
 it in bucketfuls on my face. I do the way at a 
 
The Poet Mistral. 119 
 
 rush ; and after a walk of three hours I see before 
 me the little cypress wood in the middle of which 
 Maillane shelters itself in dread of the wind. 
 
 Not a cat in the village streets ; everybody is at 
 high-mass. As I pass before the church the trom- 
 bones are snorting and I see the lighted candles 
 through the panes of coloured glass. 
 
 The poet's house is at the extreme end of the 
 village, the last house to the left on the road to 
 Saint-Remy, — a tiny house of one storey with a 
 garden in front. I enter softly. No one ! The 
 door of the salon is closed, but I hear behind it 
 some one who is walking about and talking. The 
 voice and step are known to me. I stop a moment 
 in the little whitewashed passage, my hand on the 
 button of the door, quite agitated. My heart is 
 beating. He is there. At work. Must I wait till the 
 strophe is composed ? F faith, no. I will enter. 
 
 Ah ! Parisians, when the poet of Maillane went 
 to you to show Paris to his Mireille, and you saw 
 him in your salons, that Chactas in a dress coat, 
 a stiff collar, and the tall hat which hampered him, 
 as did his fame, you thought that was Mistral. 
 No, it was not he. There is but one Mistral in 
 the world, he whom I surprised last Sunday in his 
 village with a felt hat on one ear, a jacket, no 
 waistcoat, a red Catalan waistband round his loins, 
 his eye blazing, the fire of inspiration on his 
 cheek-bones, superb, with a kind smile, graceful 
 as a Greek shepherd, and walking up and down, 
 his hands in his pockets, making poetry. 
 
1 20 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 "What? is it you?" cried Mistral, springing to 
 embrace me. " What a good idea of yours to come ! 
 This is the fete day of Maillane. We have a band 
 from Avignon, bulls, a procession, the farandole ; 
 it will all be magnificent. My mother will soon be 
 home from mass ; we shall have breakfast, and then, 
 zou ! we '11 go and see the pretty girls dance." 
 
 While he spoke, I looked with emotion at the 
 little salon hung in light colours, which I had not 
 seen for a long time, but where I had passed so 
 many glorious hours. Nothing was changed. Still 
 the same sofa with yellow squares, the two arm- 
 chairs of straw, the Venus without arms, the 
 Venus of Aries on the mantel, the portrait of the 
 poet by Hebert, his photograph by fitienne Carjat 
 and, in a corner, near the window, the desk (a 
 shabby little registration-clerk's desk) piled with 
 old volumes and dictionaries. At the centre of 
 the desk I saw a large open manuscript. This 
 was Calendal, — Mistral's new poem, which will 
 appear on Christmas-day of the present year. 
 This poem, Mistral has been working at for seven 
 years, and it is now six months since he wrote the 
 last line of it; but he dares not part from it yet. 
 You understand, there is always a verse to polish, 
 a rhyme more sonorous to find. Though Mistral 
 composes wholly in the Provencal language, he 
 writes and rewrites his lines as if all the world 
 could read them in their own tongue and do jus- 
 tice to his labour as a good workman. Oh ! the 
 noble poet ! it is surely of Mistral that Montaigne 
 might have said : — 
 
The Poet Mistral. 121 
 
 " Do you remember him of whom it was asked 
 why he took such trouble about an art which 
 could reach the knowledge of so few persons? 
 ' The few are enough for me/ he answered. ' One 
 is enough. None is enough.' " 
 
 I took the manuscript of Calendal in my hand, 
 and I turned its leaves with emotion. Suddenly 
 a burst of fifes and tambourines sounded in the 
 street beneath the windows, and behold, my Mis- 
 tral rushing to his closet, bringing out glasses and 
 bottles, dragging the table to the middle of the 
 salon, and opening the door to the musicians, say- 
 ing to me as he did so : — 
 
 " Don't laugh. They have come to serenade me. 
 I am a municipal counsellor." 
 
 The little room became crowded with people. 
 They laid their tambourines on the chairs and put 
 their old banner in a corner. Boiled wine cir- 
 culated. Then, when several bottles had been 
 emptied to the health of M. Frederic and they 
 had gravely conversed together about the festival 
 — would the farandole be as fine as last year? 
 would the bulls behave properly? — the musicians 
 retired to go and greet the other members of the 
 Council with a like serenade. At this moment 
 Mistral's mother appeared. 
 
 In a turn of the hand the table is laid with a fine 
 white cloth and two places. I know the customs 
 of the house. I know that when Mistral has com- 
 pany his mother never sits at table. The poor 
 old woman speaks only Provencal, and would feel 
 
122 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 very ill at her ease with Frenchmen. Besides, she 
 is wanted in the kitchen. 
 
 Dieu ! the good meal I made that morning : a 
 bit of roast kid, some mountain cheese, grape jelly, 
 figs, and muscat grapes. The whole washed down 
 with that good Chdteau-neuf des Popes that has so 
 fine a rosy colour in the glasses. 
 
 At dessert, I fetched the poem and laid it on 
 the table before Mistral. 
 
 " But we said we would go out," said the poet, 
 smiling. 
 
 " No, no ! Calendal ! Calendal ! " 
 
 Mistral resigned himself, and in his soft and 
 musical voice, beating time to his lines with his 
 hand, he sang the first quatrain : " Of a girl mad 
 with love, — I have told the sad adventure, — and 
 I now will sing, if God so wills, a child of Cassis — 
 a poor little sardine fisher." 
 
 Without, the bells were ringing for vespers, the 
 fire-crackers burst in the square, the fifes and the 
 tambourines marched up and down, and the bulls 
 of the Camargue, held ready for the race, bellowed 
 loudly. 
 
 I, my elbows on the cloth, and with tears in my 
 eyes, I listened to the tale of the little Provencal 
 fisher-lad. 
 
 Calendal was only a fisher-lad ; love made him 
 a hero. To win the heart of his darling, the lovely 
 Este>ella, he undertook marvellous things, beside 
 which the labours of Hercules, those twelve labours, 
 were nothing. 
 
The Poet Mistral. 123 
 
 Once, taking a notion to be rich, he invented a 
 formidable fishing-net, and with it he brought into 
 port all the fish of the sea. 
 
 Again, 't was the terrible bandit of the gorges 
 of Ollioules, Count S^veran, whom he drove to 
 his eyrie on the heights, with his cut-throats and 
 concubines. 
 
 What a bold little chap, this Calendal ! One day 
 at Sainte-Baume, he met two parties of knights, 
 come to settle their quarrel by orthodox blows at 
 the tomb of Mattre Jacques, — a Provencal who, 
 an it please you, built the frame of the temple of 
 Solomon. Calendal, fearing nothing, rushed head- 
 long in the midst of the killing, appeasing the 
 knights with his tongue. 
 
 Other superhuman undertakings ! Among the 
 rocks of Lure, was a forest of cedars, inaccessible, 
 where never a woodsman dared to go. Calendal 
 went. There he lived all alone for thirty days. 
 During those thirty days the sound of his axe was 
 heard, driven deep in the trees. The forest moaned ; 
 one after another its old, giant trees fell and were, 
 rolled to the foot of the precipice, so that when 
 Calendal came down not a cedar remained on the 
 mountain. 
 
 At last, in reward for such prowess, the sardine 
 fisher obtains the love of Esterella, and is named 
 first consul by the dwellers in Cassis. That is 
 the tale of Calendal; but Calendal matters but 
 little. What there is above all in the poem is — 
 Provence; Provence of the sea, Provence of the 
 mountain; with its history, legends, manners, cus- 
 
124 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 toms, landscapes — a whole people, naive and free, 
 who have found their great poet before he dies. 
 And now, line out your railways, plant those tele- 
 graph poles, drive the Provencal tongue from the 
 schools! Provence will live eternally in Mireille 
 and in CalendaL 
 
 " Enough of poesy ! " cried Mistral, closing his 
 manuscript. " Let us go and see the fete." 
 
 We started ; the whole village was in the streets ; 
 a great north wind had swept the sky, which was 
 gleaming, joyous, on the dark red roofs that were 
 damp with rain. We got there in time to see the 
 return of the procession. For an hour it was one 
 interminable defiling of cowled penitents, white 
 penitents, blue penitents, gray penitents; sister- 
 hoods of veiled women, rose-coloured banners with 
 golden flowers, great gilded wooden saints, much 
 tarnished, carried on the shoulders of men, female 
 saints in earthenware, coloured like idols, with bou- 
 quets in their hands, copes, monstrances, a green 
 yelvet dais, a crucifix swathed in white silk undulat- 
 ing to the breeze in the light of sun and torches, 
 amid psalms, litanies, and bells madly ringing. 
 
 The procession over, the saints put back in their 
 chapel, we went to see the bulls, then the games on 
 the barn-floors, the wrestling, the three jumps, the 
 strangle-cat, the bottle-game, and the whole of the 
 pretty fun of a Provence fete. Night was coming 
 on when we returned to Maillane. On the square, 
 before the little cafe" where Mistral goes in the even- 
 ing to play a game with his friend Zidore, a great 
 
The Poet Mistral. 125 
 
 bonfire was lighted. The farandole was organized. 
 Open-work paper lanterns were lighted in the dark 
 corners : youth took the field ; and soon, at the 
 call of the tambourines, began, around the flame, a 
 whirling, noisy dance, which would last all night. 
 
 After supper, too weary to go about any longer, 
 Mistral and I went up to his chamber, a mod- 
 est peasant's-chamber, with two large beds. The 
 walls are not papered, the rafters of the ceiling are 
 visible. Four years ago, when the Academy gave 
 to the author of Mireille that prize of three thou- 
 sand francs, Madame Mistral had an idea. 
 
 " Suppose we paper and ceil your room?" 
 
 " No ! no ! " cried Mistral, " that 's the money 
 of poets, don't touch it." 
 
 So the room was left bare ; but so long as the 
 money of poets lasted those who rapped at Mis- 
 tral's door found his purse open. 
 
 I had brought up the sheets of Calendal, for I 
 wanted to make him read me a passage before I 
 went to sleep. Mistral chose the pottery incident ; 
 and here it is in a few words : — 
 
 The scene is a great repast, I know not where. 
 They bring upon the table a magnificent service 
 of the glazed pottery of Moustiers. In the centre 
 of each plate, designed in blue on the enamel, is 
 a Provencal subject ; a whole history of the region 
 is there. It is wonderful to see with what love the 
 beautiful service is described, a verse to every 
 plate, and each a little poem of naive and learned 
 workmanship, finished as an idyll of Theocritus. 
 
1 26 Letters from My Mill, 
 
 While Mistral was repeating his poems in that 
 beautiful Provencal language, more than three- 
 fourths Latin, the language that queens once spoke 
 and none but shepherds can now understand, I 
 admired within me that man ; and, reflecting on the 
 condition of ruin in which he found his mother- 
 tongue and what he had made of it, I fancied myself 
 in one of those old palaces of the princes of Baux, 
 such as we still see in the Alpilles, roofless, with- 
 out rails to the porticos, without sashes to the 
 windows, the trefoil of the arches broken, the 
 blazon on the doorways eaten by mosses, hens 
 marauding in the courts of honour, porkers wallow- 
 ing beneath the dainty columns of the galleries, 
 donkeys browsing in the chapel where the grass 
 is green, and pigeons drinking from the holy-water 
 basins now filled by rain, while among these dilapi- 
 dated remains of the past, two or three families 
 have built themselves huts in the flanks of the old 
 palace. Then, some fine day, the son of a peasant 
 is seized with admiration for these grand ruins; 
 he is indignant at seeing them so profaned : quick, 
 quick, he drives out the cattle and the poultry 
 from the court of honour and — the fairies lending 
 him a hand — he reconstructs the great staircase, 
 replaces the panels of the walls, the sashes of the 
 windows, builds up the towers, regilds the throne 
 and its hall, and raises once more upon its base 
 the vast old palace of other days, where popes and 
 empresses lodged and lived. 
 
 That restored palace is the Provencal language. 
 
 That son of a peasant is Mistral. 
 
Oranges, 127 
 
 ORANGES. 
 
 In Paris oranges have the melancholy air of 
 fruit that is dropped from the tree and picked up 
 from the ground. At the time when they arrive, 
 in the cold and rainy midwinter, their high-coloured 
 skins, their excessive perfume in our land of tran- 
 quil tastes, give them an exotic aspect, a little 
 bohemian. Of a misty night they perambulate 
 the side-walks, heaped in their little handcarts, by 
 the dull light of a red paper lantern. A monoto- 
 nous and feeble cry escorts them, lost in the roll 
 of carriages and the rattle of omnibuses: "Two 
 sous a Valentia ! " 
 
 To three-fourths of all Parisians, this fruit gath- 
 ered afar, monotonous in its roundness, in which the 
 tree has left nothing but a small green twig, seems 
 to belong to confectionery, to sweetmeats. The 
 tissue paper which wraps it, the fetes it accom- 
 panies, contribute to this impression. Toward the 
 last of the year especially, thousands of oranges 
 disseminated through the streets, the peels that lie 
 about in the mud of the gutters, make one think 
 of some gigantic Christmas tree shaking over Paris 
 its branches laden with imitation fruit. Not a 
 corner where we do not find them. In the large 
 
128 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 show windows selected and arranged ; at the door 
 of prisons and hospitals, among packages of biscuit 
 and piles of apples; before the entrances to the 
 Sunday balls and theatres. Their exquisite per- 
 fume mingles with the odour of gas, the scraping 
 of fiddles, the dust of the benches in paradise. 
 We have come to forget that oranges grow on 
 orange-trees, for while the fruit arrives from the 
 South in boxes, the trimmed, transformed, dis- 
 guised tree of the greenhouse where it has passed 
 the winter, makes but a short apparition in our 
 gardens. 
 
 To know oranges well, you must see them at 
 home, in the Balearic Isles, in Sardinia, Corsica, 
 Algeria, in the blue, gilded air and the warm 
 atmosphere of the Mediterranean. I remember a 
 little grove of orange-trees at the gates of Blidah ; 
 ah ! it is there that they are beautiful. Amid the 
 dark, lustrous, varnished foliage the fruits have the 
 splendour of coloured glass ; they gild the envi- 
 roning air with the dazzling halo that surrounds a 
 glowing flower. Here and there little clearings 
 through the branches showed the ramparts of the 
 town, the minaret of a mosque, the dome of a saint's 
 tomb, and, towering above them all, the enormous 
 mass of Atlas, green at its base, and crowned with 
 snow like a fleece or a white fur softly fallen. 
 
 One night while I was there, I do not know by 
 what phenomenon, unknown for thirty years, that 
 upper zone of wintry hoar-frost shook itself down 
 upon the sleeping town, and Blidah awoke trans- 
 formed, powdered to white. In that Algerine air, 
 
Oranges. 129 
 
 so light, so pure, the snow was like a dust of 
 mother-of-pearl. It had all the reflections of a 
 white peacock's plume. Most beautiful of all was 
 the orange grove. The solid leaves held the snow 
 intact, like sherbet on a lacquered dish; and the 
 fruit, all powdered with the hoar-frost, had a soft- 
 ened splendour, a discreet glow, like gold veiled 
 lightly in gauze. The scene had vaguely the 
 effect of a church festival, of red cassocks under 
 robes of lace, the golden altars swathed in guipure. 
 But my best memory of oranges comes to me 
 from Barbicaglia, a great garden near Ajaccio, 
 where I went for my siesta in the heat of the day. 
 Here the orange-trees, taller and more spreading 
 than those of Blidah, come down to the main road, 
 from which the garden is separated by only a ditch 
 and an evergreen hedge. Immediately beyond is 
 the sea, the vast blue sea. . . Oh ! what good hours 
 did I pass in that garden ! Above my head the 
 orange-trees, in bloom and in fruit, exhaled the 
 perfume of their essence. From time to time a 
 ripe orange, as though weighed down by the heat, 
 fell beside me with a flat, echoless sound on the 
 fecund earth. I had only to put out my hand. 
 The fruit was superb, of a crimson red within. It 
 seemed to me exquisite — and then, the horizon 
 was so beautiful ! Between the leaves the sea put 
 azure spaces, dazzling as pieces of broken glass 
 shimmering in the quiver of the air. And with 
 all that, the motion of the waves stirring the at- 
 mosphere at a great distance with a cadenced 
 murmur which rocked you like an unseen boat, 
 9 
 
130 Letters from My Mill, 
 
 and the warmth, and the odour of the oranges ! 
 Ah ! how good it was to sleep in the garden of 
 Barbicaglia ! 
 
 Sometimes, however, at the pleasantest moment 
 of the siesta, the roll of drums would rouse me with 
 a start. It was those wretched little drummers, 
 practising below on the main-road. Through gaps 
 in the hedge I could see the brass of their instru- 
 ments and their great white aprons on their red 
 trousers. To shelter themselves a little from the 
 blinding light which the dust of the road reflected 
 pitilessly, the poor young devils would plant them- 
 selves at the foot of the garden in the scanty 
 shadow of the hedge. And they drummed ! and 
 they were so hot ! Then, wrenching myself forcibly 
 from my hypnotism, I amused myself by flinging 
 them some of that beautiful golden-red fruit which 
 hung close to my hand. The drummer first aimed 
 at stopped. There was a moment's hesitation, a 
 look went round to see whence came that splendid 
 orange rolling before him into the ditch ; then he 
 picked it up very fast and bit into it with his teeth 
 without peeling off the skin. 
 
 I remember also that close to Barbicaglia and 
 separated from it by a low wall, was a queer little 
 garden that I could look into from the height where 
 I lay. 'Twas a small corner of earth laid out in 
 bourgeois fashion. Its paths, yellow with sand 
 and bordered with very green box, and the two 
 cypresses at its entrance gave it the appearance 
 of a Marseillaise surburban villa garden. Not an 
 atom of shade. At the farther end was a building 
 
Ora?iges. 1 3 1 
 
 of white stone with cellar windows on a line with 
 the ground. At first, I thought it a country- 
 house ; then looking closer, a cross that sur- 
 mounted it, an inscription cut into the stone that 
 I could see from a distance without distinguishing 
 the letters, made me recognize it as the tomb 
 of a Corsican family. All around Ajaccio, there 
 are many of these mortuary chapels, built in 
 gardens of their own. The family comes on 
 Sunday to pay a visit to its dead. Thus treated, 
 death is less lugubrious than amid the confusion 
 of cemeteries. The feet of friends alone break 
 the silence. 
 
 From my station above, I could see a good old 
 man coming and going tranquilly along the paths. 
 Every day he trimmed the trees, he spaded, watered, 
 and picked off the faded flowers with infinite care ; 
 then, when the sun was setting, he always entered 
 the little chapel where the dead of his family were 
 sleeping; and he put away his spades and rakes 
 and watering-pots, with the tranquillity, the serenity 
 of a cemetery gardener. And yet, without himself 
 being aware of it, the good man worked with a cer- 
 tain gravity ; he subdued all noises and closed the 
 door of the vault discreetly, as if fearing to awaken 
 an inmate. In the great glowing silence the neat- 
 ness of the little garden was never troubled by even 
 a bird, and its neighbourhood had nothing sad about 
 it. Only, the sea seemed more immense, the 
 heavens higher, and the endless siesta shed around 
 the place, amid a troubled nature oppressive in its 
 strength of life, the feeling of eternal repose. 
 
132 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 THE TWO INNS. 
 
 IT happened when returning from Nlmes, one 
 July afternoon. The heat was exhausting. As 
 far as the eye could reach the white road, smok- 
 ing, powdered along between olive-gardens and 
 scrub-oaks, beneath a silvery sun-glare that filled 
 the whole sky. Not a patch of shade, not a breath 
 of wind. Nothing but the vibration of that hot air, 
 and the strident noise of the grasshoppers, a crazy, 
 deafening music to quick time, which seemed like 
 the actual sonority of that vast luminous pulsa- 
 tion. I had walked, as it were in the desert, for 
 two whole hours when suddenly, before me, a 
 group of white houses defined themselves in the 
 dust from the road. This was what was called the 
 "relay of Saint Vincent;" five or six buildings, 
 long barns with red roofs, a drinking trough with- 
 out water, in a clump of spindling fig-trees ; and, 
 quite at the farther end, two large inns facing each 
 other from opposite sides of the road. 
 
 The neighbouring of these two inns had some- 
 thing peculiar about it. On one side a great new 
 building, full of life and animation ; all doors open, 
 the diligence stopping before it, the smoking 
 horses there unharnessed, the travellers getting 
 out to drink in haste on the road in the scanty 
 
The Two Inns. 133 
 
 shadow of the walls, the courtyard crowded with 
 mules and carts and the carters lying under the 
 sheds for coolness. Within, shouts, oaths, fists 
 pounding on the tables, the rattling of glasses 
 and billiard-balls, lemonade bottles popping ; and 
 above this din a joyous, ringing voice, singing in 
 a tone that shook the windows : — 
 
 '* My pretty Margoton 
 Early has risen, 
 Taken her silver bowl, 
 Gone to the cistern." 
 
 The inn directly opposite, on the contrary, was 
 silent and as if abandoned. Grass was under the 
 gateway, shutters were broken ; above the door a 
 rusty twig of box hung down like a broken feather, 
 the step of the door was lower than the stones of 
 the street. It was all so poor, so pitiable, that it 
 was really a charity to stop there and drink a drop. 
 
 On entering I found a long hall, silent and 
 gloomy, which the dazzling light of three large 
 windows seemed to render gloomier and more 
 silent still. A few lame tables on which were 
 glasses dim with dust, a ragged billiard-table hold- 
 ing out its pockets like almsbags, a yellow divan, 
 an old counter, were slumbering there in heavy, 
 unwholesome heat. And flies ! flies ! never did I 
 see so many ; on the ceilings, sticking to the win- 
 dows, to the glasses, in clusters. When I opened 
 the door there was a buzz, and a humming of wings 
 as if I had entered a bee-hive. 
 
 At the farther end of the hall, in the embrasure 
 
1 34 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 of a window stood a woman, her face against the 
 panes, quite absorbed in looking out into the street. 
 I called her twice : — 
 
 "Hey! hostess!" 
 
 She turned round slowly, and showed me a poor 
 peasant face, wrinkled, fissured, the colour of the 
 soil, framed in long lappets of rusty lace, such as 
 the old women wear in these parts. And yet she 
 was not an old woman; but tears had withered 
 her. 
 
 "What do you want?" she asked, wiping her 
 eyes. 
 
 " To sit down a minute, and drink something." 
 
 She looked at me much surprised, without mov- 
 ing from her place, as if she did not understand me. 
 
 " Is not this an inn?" 
 
 The woman sighed. 
 
 " Yes — it is an inn, if you choose. But why 
 don't you go, like others, over the way? It is 
 gayer there." 
 
 " It is too gay for me. I prefer to stay here." 
 . And without waiting for any reply I seated my- 
 self at a table. 
 
 When she was sure that I meant what I said, the 
 landlady bustled about with a very busy air, open- 
 ing drawers, moving bottles, dusting glasses, dis- 
 turbing the flies. One felt that the arrival of a 
 traveller to serve was quite an event. Now and then 
 the poor creature paused and put her hand to her 
 head as if she despaired of accomplishing anything. 
 
 Then she went into a room at the end of the 
 hall, and I heard her jingling keys, trying them in 
 
The Two Inns. 135 
 
 the locks, opening the bread-box, blowing, dust- 
 ing, washing plates. From time to time, a heavy 
 sigh or a stifled sob. 
 
 After a quarter of an hour of this- performance 
 I had before me a dish of passerilles (dried grapes) 
 an old loaf of Beaucaire bread as hard as sand- 
 stone, and a bottle of sour wine. 
 
 "You are served," said the strange creature; 
 and she turned away hastily to resume her station 
 at the window. 
 
 While I drank I tried to make her talk. 
 
 " You don't have many people here, do you, my 
 poor woman ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, monsieur, never any one. When we 
 were alone in the business, things were very differ- 
 ent. Then we had the relays, and the hunters to 
 dine in the duck-season, and carriages all the year 
 round. But since our neighbours came and set- 
 tled here we have lost everything. People prefer 
 to go opposite. They think it is too gloomy 
 here. The fact is, this house is not very agree- 
 able. I am not handsome, I have fever and ague, 
 and my two little ones are dead. Over there, on 
 the contrary, they are laughing all the time. It is 
 an Arlesian woman who keeps that inn, a hand- 
 some woman with laces and three rows of gold 
 chain round her neck. The conductor is her lover, 
 and he takes the diligence there. Besides which, 
 there 's a lot of cajolers as chamber-maids. And 
 that brings her such custom ! She gets all the 
 young men of Bezouces, Redessan, and Jon- 
 
1 36 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 quieres. The bagmen come out of their way to 
 stop there. As for me, I am left all day alone, 
 doing nothing." 
 
 She said it with an absent, indifferent air, her 
 forehead still leaning against the panes. Evi- 
 dently, there was something in that opposite inn 
 which absorbed her mind. 
 
 All of a sudden, on the other side of the way, a 
 great commotion took place. The diligence was 
 preparing to start. I heard the cracks of the 
 whip, the postilion's horn, and the maids about the 
 doorway crying out : " Adiousas ! Adiousas ! " and 
 louder than all, that strong voice I had heard be- 
 fore, singing more vigorously than ever : — 
 
 " Taken her silver bowl, 
 Gone to the cistern, 
 Sees not approaching her 
 Three cavaliers." 
 
 At the sound of that voice the landlady's whole 
 body quivered, and, turning to me, she said in a 
 low voice : — 
 
 "Do you. hear him? That is my husband. 
 Does n't he sing well? " 
 
 I looked at her, amazed. 
 
 " Your husband ! Does he go over there, too ? " 
 
 Then she, with a heart-broken air, but very 
 gently : — 
 
 " It can't be helped, monsieur. Men are like 
 that ; they hate to see tears ; and I am always cry- 
 ing since I lost my little ones. Besides, this great 
 barrack where no one comes is so gloomy. And 
 when he is quite tired of it my poor Jos£ goes over 
 
The Two Inns. 137 
 
 there to drink, and as he has a fine voice tfye 
 Arlesian woman makes him sing. Hush ! there he. 
 is again."' 
 
 And, trembling, her hands outstretched, with 
 big tears rolling down her cheeks, making her look 
 uglier than ever, she stood there as if in ecstasy to 
 hear her Jose singing for the Arlesian woman : — 
 
 " My pretty Margoton 
 Early has risen." 
 
138 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 AT MILIANAH. 
 NOTES OF TRAVEL. 
 
 THIS time I take you to spend a day in a pretty 
 little town of Algeria, two or three hundred leagues 
 from my mill. That will make a little change from 
 tambourines and grasshoppers. 
 
 It is going to rain, the sky is gray, the crests of 
 Mont Zaccar are swathed in fog. A melancholy 
 Sunday. In my little hotel-chamber with its window 
 looking to the Arab ramparts, I try to amuse my- 
 self by lighting cigarettes. The library of the hotel 
 has been placed at my disposal. Between a full 
 and detailed history of the registration and a novel 
 of Paul de Kock I discover a dilapidated volume 
 of Montaigne. I open the book at random and 
 re-read the admirable letter on the death of the 
 Boetie. I am now more dreamy and sombre than 
 ever. A few drops of rain are beginning to fall. 
 Every drop, as it falls on the window sill, makes a 
 great star in the dust that has settled there since 
 the rains of last year. The book slips from my 
 fingers, and I spend long minutes in gazing at that 
 melancholy splash. 
 
 Two o'clock rings from the tower of the town — 
 the former tomb of a saint, the frail white walls of 
 which I can see from here. Poor devil of a saint ! 
 
At Milianak. 139 
 
 how little he thought thirty years ago, that he 
 would carry on his breast the huge face of a 
 municipal clock, and that every Sunday at two 
 o'clock he would give to the churches of Milianah 
 the signal to ring for vespers. Ding dong ! there 
 go the bells S and long will they ring. Decidedly, 
 this room is melancholy. Those big matutinal 
 spiders called philosophical thoughts are spinning 
 their webs in every corner. I shall go out. 
 
 I reach the great square. The band of the 3rd 
 infantry, which a little rain does not frighten, is 
 gathering round its leader. At one of the windows 
 of headquarters the general appears, surrounded 
 by his young ladies ; on the square the sub-prefect 
 is walking about arm in arm with the justice of 
 peace. Half a dozen little Arabs, nearly naked, 
 are playing marbles in a corner with ferocious 
 yells. Over there is an old Jew in rags seeking 
 for the sunshine he left on that spot yesterday, and 
 quite surprised not to find it. " One, two, three ! " 
 and the band starts off with an old mazurka by 
 Talexy which the barrel organs were playing 
 under my window a year ago. That mazurka 
 annoyed me then; to-day it moves me to tears. 
 
 Oh ! how lucky they are those musicians of the 
 3rd infantry. Their eyes fixed on their semi- 
 quavers, tipsy with rhythm and racket, they are 
 thinking of nothing but counting their time. 
 Their soul, their whole soul is in that square 
 of paper the size of my hand which trembles at 
 the end of their instruments between two brass 
 
1 40 Letters from My Mill, 
 
 pins. " One, two, three ! " That 's the whole 
 of it for those worthy fellows; never do the 
 national airs they play give them a thought of 
 home-sickness. Alas ! I, who am not of the band, 
 am distressed by the band, and I depart. 
 
 Where shall I spend it, this dismal Sunday after- 
 noon?.. Good! Sid' Omar's shop is open. I'll 
 spend it with Sid' Omar. 
 
 Though he has a shop, Sid' Omar is not a shop- 
 keeper. He is a prince of the blood, the son of 
 a former Dey of Algiers who was strangled by 
 the janissaries. On the death of his father, Sid' 
 Omar took refuge in Milianah with his mother, 
 whom he adored, and there he lived some years 
 philosophically as a great seigneur, among his 
 hounds and falcons, his horses and his women, 
 in pretty, airy palaces full of orange-trees and 
 fountains. Then came the French. Sid' Omar, 
 at first our enemy and the ally of Abd-el-Kader, 
 ended by quarrelling with the emir and making 
 his submission to us. Abd-el-Kader, to avenge 
 himself, entered Milianah, during Sid' Omar's 
 absence, pillaged his palaces, cut down his orange- 
 trees, carried off his horses and women, and caused 
 his mother's throat to be crushed by the shutting 
 down of the lid of a great coffer. The anger of 
 Sid' Omar was terrible. Instantly he entered the 
 French service, and we had no better or more 
 ferocious soldier than he during all the time the 
 war against the emir lasted. That war over, 
 Sid' Omar returned to Milianah; but even to-day 
 
At Milianak. • 141 
 
 if you mention the name of Abd-el-Kader in his 
 presence, he turns pale, and his eyes blaze. 
 . Sid' Omar is sixty years old. In spite of years 
 and the smallpox, his face is still handsome ; long 
 lashes, the glance of a woman, a charming smile, 
 the air of a prince. Ruined by the war, nothing 
 is left of his former # opulence but a farm on the 
 Chelif plain, and a house at Milianah, where he 
 lives in bourgeois fashion with his three sons, 
 whom he is bringing up under his own eye. The 
 native chieftains hold him in great veneration. 
 When a discussion arises they willingly take him 
 as umpire; and his decision is almost always re- 
 garded as law. He seldom goes out; you will 
 find him every afternoon in a shop adjoining his 
 house, which opens on the street. The furniture 
 of this place is not splendid, — white-washed walls, 
 a circular wooden bench, cushions, pipes, and two 
 foot-warmers. That is where Sid' Omar gives au- 
 dience and lays down the law. Solomon in a shop. 
 
 To-day, being Sunday, the company is numerous. 
 A dozen sheiks are crouched in their burnous, 
 round the room. Each has beside him a large 
 pipe and a little cup of coffee in a delicate filigree 
 holder. I enter; no one stirs. From his place 
 Sid' Omar sends me his most charming smile 
 and invites me with his hand to sit near him on 
 a large cushion of yellow silk. Then, with his 
 finger on his lips, he makes me a sign to 
 listen. 
 
 This is why: The caid of the Benizougzougs 
 
142 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 having a dispute with a Milianah Jew about a bit of 
 ground, both parties had agreed to carry the 
 matter to Sid' Omar and submit to his decision. 
 Appointment was made for the same day; the 
 witnesses were summoned ; when, all of a sudden, 
 the Jew changed his mind, and came alone, with- 
 out witnesses, to declare that he preferred to sub- 
 mit the matter to the French justice of peace, 
 rather than Sid' Omar. That was how the affair 
 stood at my entrance. 
 
 The Jew — old, with a dirty beard, maroon 
 jacket, blue stockings, velvet cap — raised his nose 
 to heaven, rolled supplicating eyes, kissed the 
 slippers of Sid' Omar, bowed his head and knelt 
 with clasped hands. I don't understand Arabic, 
 but from this pantomime, during which the words 
 " joustice of peace, joustice of peace " recurred 
 incessantly, I could guess the whole of the shrewd 
 meaning : — 
 
 " We do not doubt Sid' Omar ; Sid' Omar is wise, 
 Sid' Omar is just. But the joustice of peace will 
 do better by us." 
 
 The audience, indignant, remained impassible, 
 as Arabs are wont to be. Stretched out upon his 
 cushion, eyes hazy, the amber-mouth-piece be- 
 tween his lips, Sid' Omar — god of irony — smiled 
 as he listened. Suddenly, in the midst of his wiliest 
 sentence, the Jew is interrupted by an energetic 
 " Caramba ! " which stops him short ; and at the 
 same instant a Spanish colonist, who was there as 
 a witness for the caYd, left his place, and approach- 
 ing Iscariot poured upon him a deluge of impreca- 
 
At Miliauak. 143 
 
 tions in all tongues and all colours — among them 
 a certain French vocable too gross, monsieur, to 
 repeat here. The son of Sid' Omar, who under- 
 stood French, blushed at hearing such a word in 
 his father's presence and left the place. (Remem- 
 ber this trait of Arab education.) 
 
 The audience was still impassible, Sid* Omar 
 still smiling. The Jew rose and backed towards 
 the door, trembling with fear, but still warbling his 
 eternal " joustice of peace, joustice of peace." He 
 went out. The Spaniard furious, rushed after him 
 and twice — vli ! vlan ! — struck him in the face. 
 Iscariot fell on his knees, his arms crossed. The 
 Spaniard, rather ashamed, returned to the shop. 
 As soon as he had entered, the Jew picked himself 
 up, and turned an artful eye on the variegated 
 crowd that surrounded him; a crowd in which 
 there were men of all skins — Maltese, Mahonese, 
 negroes, Arabs, all united in hatred to a Jew and 
 delighting in seeing him maltreated. Iscariot hesi- 
 tated a moment; then, taking an Arab by the flap 
 of his burnous, — 
 
 " You saw it, Achmed, you saw it ; you were 
 there. The Christian struck me. Vou must be 
 witness — yes, yes, you shall be witness." 
 
 The Arab freed his burnous and pushed away 
 the Jew. He knows nothing; he saw nothing; 
 he was looking the other way. 
 
 " But you, Kadour, you saw it ; you saw the 
 Christian strike me," cries the luckless Iscariot to 
 a big negro who was peeling a Barbary fig. 
 
 The negro spat in sign of contempt, and walked 
 
1 44 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 away — he had seen nothing. Neither had a little 
 Maltese fellow seen anything with his coal-black 
 eyes glittering malignantly beneath his beretta; 
 nor she, that Mahonese woman with the brick- 
 coloured skin, who ran off laughing, carrying a 
 basket of pomegranates on her head. 
 
 In vain did Iscariot shout, beg, beseech — not 
 a witness, no one had seen anything. By great 
 good luck two of his co-religionists happened to 
 come by at this moment, skirting the walls with a 
 hang-dog look. The Jew spied them. 
 
 " Quick, quick, brothers ! quick to the joustice 
 of peace! You saw him, you two; you saw him 
 how he struck the old man." 
 
 Had they seen it? I should think so ! 
 
 Great excitement in Sid' Omar's shop. The 
 coffeeman refilled the cups and relit the pipes. 
 They talked, they laughed with all their teeth. It 
 is so amusing to see a Jew beaten ! In the midst 
 of the general clatter I slipped softly to the door ; I 
 wanted to wander about the Jewish quarter and 
 see how Iscariot's co-religionists were taking the 
 affront thus put upon their brother. 
 
 " Come and dine to-night, moussieu" called out 
 the good Sid' Omar. 
 
 I accepted, thanked him, and went out. 
 
 In the Jewish quarter every one was afoot. 
 The affair had already made a great noise. No 
 one was inside the booths. Embroiderers, tailors, 
 harness-makers — all Israel was in the streets. 
 The men, wearing velvet caps and blue stockings. 
 
At Milianah. 145 
 
 gesticulated noisily in groups. The women, pale, 
 puffy, stiff as wooden idols in their tight gowns 
 with gilded stomachers, their faces framed in 
 heavy black bandeaux, were going from group to 
 group, caterwauling. Just as I arrived a great 
 impulse was given to the crowd. They pressed 
 together and hurried along. Accompanied by his 
 witnesses, the Jew, the hero of the adventure, 
 passed between two hedges of his co-religionists 
 under a rain of exhortations : — 
 
 " Avenge yourself, brother ! Avenge us ! 
 Avenge the Jewish people! Fear nothing; you 
 have the law on your side." 
 
 A frightful dwarf, smelling of pitch and old 
 leather, came up to me with a piteous air and said, 
 sighing heavily : — 
 
 " You see how they treat us poor Jews. He 
 is an old man ! look at him. They have nearly 
 killed him." 
 
 And, in truth, poor Iscariot did look more dead 
 than alive. He passed in front of me — eyes 
 dulled, face ghastly; not walking but dragging 
 himself along. A good indemnity alone could 
 cure him. Consequently, they did not take him 
 to a doctor, but to a lawyer. 
 
 There are many lawyers in Algeria, almost as 
 many as there are grasshoppers. The trade is 
 a good one, they say. At any rate, it has this 
 advantage, it can be taken up at any time, without 
 examinations, without sureties, without probation. 
 Just as in Paris we make ourselves men of letters, 
 
 19 
 
146 Letters from My Mill, 
 
 in Algeria they make themselves lawyers. It is 
 enough to know a little French, Spanish, Arabic, 
 to have a code at your fingers' ends, and, above 
 all, the temperament of the trade. 
 
 As for the functions of this agent, they arc 
 varied ; by turns solicitor, barrister, court official, 
 expert, interpreter, book-keeper, commissioner, 
 public writer, he is the Maitre Jacques of the 
 colony. Only, Harpagon had but one Maitrc 
 Jacques, and the colony has more than it wants. 
 At Milianah alone they count by dozens. As a 
 general thing, these gentlemen, to avoid the cost 
 of an office, receive their clients at the cafe" in the 
 great square, and hold their consultations — do 
 they consult at all ? — between absinthe and 
 champoreau. 
 
 It was towards the cafe" in the great square that 
 the worthy Iscariot was now proceeding, flanked by 
 his two witnesses. We will not follow him. 
 
 In leaving the Jewish quarter I passed before 
 the house of what is called the Arab Bureau. 
 Outside, with its slate roof and the French flag 
 floating above it, you would take it for the town- 
 hall of some village. I know the interpreter, and 
 I enter to smoke a cigar with him. One way or 
 another I shall manage to kill it, this sunless 
 Sunday ! 
 
 The courtyard in front of the bureau is en- 
 cumbered with Arabs in rags. Fifty, at least, are 
 in attendance, crouching along the walls in their 
 burnous. This Bedouin antechamber exhales — 
 
At Milianah. 147 
 
 though in the open air — a strong odour of human 
 skins. Let us pass through quickly. In the 
 bureau I find the interpreter involved with two 
 big brawlers, entirely naked under long greasy 
 coverlets, who are relating with savage gestures 
 some story, I know not what, of a stolen chaplet. 
 I seat myself on a mat in the corner, and look on. . . 
 A pretty costume that of interpreters, and how 
 jauntily the interpreter of Milianah wears it! 
 Clothes and man, they look as if they had been 
 invented for each other. The costume is sky- 
 blue, with black froggings and gilt buttons that 
 shine. The interpreter himself is fair, rosy, and 
 curled ; a charming blue hussar, full of humour 
 and whimsicality; quite talkative — he speaks all 
 languages — and rather sceptical, having known 
 Renan at the Oriental College: he is a great 
 lover of sport; as much at his ease in an Arab 
 bivouac as he is in the salons of the sub-prefecture, 
 mazurking better than any one and making kouss- 
 kouss better still. A Parisian, — to say it all in 
 one word, — and you need not be surprised that 
 the women dote upon him. In the matter of 
 dandyism, he has but one rival — the sergeant of 
 the Arab Bureau. The latter, in his broadcloth 
 tunic and his gaiters with mother-of-pearl buttons, 
 is the despair and envy of the whole garrison. 
 Detailed to the Arab Bureau he is relieved from 
 fatigue duty, and shows himself about the streets 
 in white gloves, hair freshly curled, with registers 
 under his arm. He is admired, and feared. He 
 is an authority. 
 
148 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 Decidedly, this tale of the stolen chaplet threat- 
 ens to be very long. Good-bye ! I won't wait for 
 the end of it. 
 
 As I depart I find the courtyard antechamber 
 in commotion. The crowd is pressing round a 
 tall Arab, pale and proud, draped in a black 
 burnous. This man had a tussle in the Zaccar 
 a week earlier with a panther. The panther is 
 dead, but the man has an arm badly bitten. Night 
 and morning he comes to have his wound dressed 
 at the Arab Bureau, and every time he comes he 
 is stopped in the courtyard and made to relate the 
 whole adventure. He speaks slowly, in a beauti- 
 ful deep voice. Now and then he opens his 
 burnous and shows, fastened to his breast, the left 
 arm bound with bloody bandages. 
 
 I was hardly in the street before a storm burst vio- 
 lently. Rain, thunder, lightning, sirocco. Quick ! 
 to shelter ! I darted through a gate, hap-hazard, 
 and fell into the midst of a nest of bohemians, 
 crouching under the arcades of a Moorish court. 
 This court is next to the mosque of Milianah ; it is 
 the habitual refuge of Mussulman vagrants, and is 
 therefore called the " court of the paupers." 
 
 Great gaunt hounds, covered with vermin, came 
 snuffing round me with a wicked air. Leaning 
 against one of the pillars of the gallery, I endeav- 
 oured to put a good face on the matter, and, 
 without speaking to any one, I watched the rain 
 ricochetting on the coloured tiles of the court- 
 yard. The beggars were on the ground in piles. 
 
At Milianah. 149 
 
 Near me a young woman, almost handsome, with 
 bare neck and legs, and heavy iron bracelets on 
 wrists and ankles, was singing a strange air on 
 three sad, whining notes. As she sang, she nursed 
 at her breast a little naked child of a bronze-red 
 colour, while with her one free arm she pounded 
 barley in a stone mortar. The rain, driven by the 
 cruel wind, soaked at times the legs of the woman 
 and the body of her nursling. She paid no heed 
 to it, but continued to sing through the storm, 
 crushing the barley and suckling the child. 
 
 The tempest slackened. Profiting by a break 
 in the clouds, I hastened away from the Moorish 
 court in the direction of Sid' Omar and his dinner. 
 It was high time. Crossing the great square, I 
 again met the old Jew. He was leaning on the 
 lawyer's arm, his witnesses walked joyfully after 
 him, and a band of villanous little Jew boys skipped 
 along with the party. Their faces were radiant. 
 The lawyer had taken charge of the affair, and 
 was on his way to ask for an indemnity of two 
 thousand francs. 
 
 At Sid' Omar's a sumptuous dinner. The dining- 
 room opens on an elegant Moorish court, where 
 two or three fountains are singing. Excellent 
 Turkish repast, recommended to Baron Brisse. 
 Among other dishes, I remember a chicken with 
 almonds, kouss-kouss a la vanille, a turtle stuffed 
 with meat — a little heavy perhaps, but very appe- 
 tizing — and biscuits made of honey, called bouchees 
 de cadi. By way of wine, champagne only. In 
 
1 50 Letters from My Mill, 
 
 spite of the Mussulman law, Sid' Omar drank a lit- 
 tle of it, when the servants' backs were turned. 
 After dinner we removed to our host's bedcham- 
 ber, and there they brought us confectionery, pipes, 
 and coffee. The furniture of this room is of the 
 simplest : a divan, a few mats, at the farther end a 
 very high large bed, on which red cushions em- 
 broidered in gold are scattered about. Hanging 
 to the wall is an old Turkish picture representing 
 the exploits of a certain admiral, Hamadi. It 
 seems that in Turkey painters use but one colour 
 to each picture; this picture is vowed to green. 
 The sea, the sky, the ship, Admiral Hamadi him- 
 self, all are green — and what a green ! 
 
 Arab customs require you to retire early. Coffee 
 taken and the pipes smoked, I wished good-night 
 to my host, and left him with his women. 
 
 Where shall I finish my evening? It is too early 
 to go to bed; the bugles of the spahis have not 
 yet sounded taps. Besides, the golden cushions of 
 Sid' Omar dance fantastic farandoles about me, 
 and would hinder me from sleeping. Lo ! here 
 I am before a theatre; suppose I enter for a 
 moment? 
 
 The theatre of Milianah is an old forage store- 
 house, more or less disguised for stage purposes. 
 Huge glass cups which they fill with oil between 
 the acts serve as lustres. The pit stands; the 
 occupants of the orchestra sit on benches. The 
 galleries are very proud because they have straw 
 chairs. All around the audience chamber is a long 
 
At Milianah. 151 
 
 dark passage, unfloored, where one might think 
 one's self in the street. The play has already begun 
 when I enter. To my great surprise, the actors 
 are not bad ; I speak of the men; they have spirit 
 and animation, life. Nearly all are amateurs, sol- 
 diers of the third infantry ; the regiment is proud 
 of them, and comes nightly to applaud their per- 
 formance. 
 
 As for the women, alas ! they are ever and al- 
 ways that "eternal feminine" of the little provin- 
 cial stage — pretentious, exaggerated, and false. 
 Among them, however, there are two who in- 
 terest me, two Milianah Jewesses, very young, 
 who are making their first appearance in public. 
 Their parents are in the hall and seem enchanted. 
 They are convinced that their daughters will earn 
 millions of douros in the business. The legend of 
 Rachel, Israelite, millionaire, and actress, has spread 
 among the Jews of the Orient. Nothing could be 
 more comical, yet affecting, than those two little 
 Jewesses on the stage. They kept themselves tim- 
 idly in a corner of it, painted, powdered, low-necked, 
 and perfectly rigid. They were cold; they felt 
 ashamed. Now and then, they sputtered a speech 
 without understanding . it, and while they spoke 
 their great black Hebrew eyes wandered round 
 the audience-chamber, stupefied. 
 
 I leave the theatre. Amid the darkness that 
 surrounds me, I hear cries in the corner of the 
 square. A few Maltese, no doubt, who are en- 
 gaged in explaining something with knives. 
 
152 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 I return to my hotel, slowly, by way of the ram- 
 parts. Adorable odours of orange-trees and 
 thuyas rise from the plain. The air is soft, the 
 sky almost cloudless. Below, at the farther end 
 of the road, rises the ghost of an old wall, the re- 
 mains of some ancient temple. That wall is sacred. 
 Every day the Arab women flock there to hang 
 their votive offerings upon it, — fragments of stuffs, 
 long tresses of ruddy hair tied with silver threads, 
 pieces of burnous. All this is floating in the moon- 
 rays to the soft breath of the balmy night. 
 
The Locus Is. 153 
 
 THE LOCUSTS. 
 
 One more recollection of Algeria, and then we 
 will return to my mill. 
 
 The night of my arrival at that farm-house in the 
 Sahel I could not sleep. The novelty of the country, 
 the agitation of the voyage, the barking of the jack- 
 als, also an enervating oppressive heat, a choking 
 atmosphere as if the meshes of the mosquito net 
 did not allow of the passing of a breath of air. 
 When I opened my window at dawn a heavy sum- 
 mer fog, slowly moving, fringed at its edges with 
 black and rose, floated in the air like a cloud of 
 smoke on a battlefield. Not a leaf stirred, and in 
 the beautiful gardens which lay before my eyes, the 
 vines planted at regular distances on the slopes ex- 
 posed to the sun which makes those sugary wines, 
 the fruits of Europe sheltering in a shady corner, 
 the little orange-trees, the mandarins in long micro- 
 scopic lines — all these wore the same mournful 
 aspect, the stillness of leaves expecting a storm. 
 The banana-trees themselves, those great reeds of 
 a tender green, always shaken by a breeze ruffling 
 their delicate fine hair, now rose silent and erect in 
 regular bunches. 
 
1 54 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 1 stood a moment looking at this marvellous 
 plantation, where all the trees in the world were 
 collected, giving, each in its season, their flowers 
 and their exiled fruits. Between the wheat-fields 
 and the groves of cork-trees, a stream of water 
 shone, refreshing to the sight on this suffocating 
 morning ; and while I admired the luxury, the per- 
 fect order of all before me, and the beautiful farm- 
 house with its Moorish arcades, the terraces white in 
 the dawn, the stables and sheds around it, I reflected 
 that twenty years earlier, when the good people 
 who owned the place had come to settle in this 
 valley of the Sahel, they had found nothing but a 
 wretched hut and a barren land bristling with 
 dwarf palms and cactus. All to create, all to con- 
 struct. At every moment revolts of the Arabs. 
 The plough was left in the furrow to fire the 
 musket. Besides this, diseases, ophthalmias, fevers, 
 failure of crops, the groping of inexperience, 
 struggles with a narrow-minded administration 
 forever changing. What efforts ! What fatigue ! 
 What incessant watchfulness ! 
 
 And even now, though the bad times were over, 
 and fortune was dearly won, they both, the man and 
 his wife, were the first to be up in the morning. 
 At this early hour I heard them going and coming 
 in the great kitchens of the lower floor, superin- 
 tending the coffee of the labourers. Soon a bell 
 rang, and a moment later workmen defiled along 
 the road, — vineyard men from Burgundy, Kabyle 
 labourers in rags wearing the red fez, Mahonese 
 navvies with bare legs, Maltese, Italians; an in- 
 
7^ he Locusts. 155 
 
 congruous, dissimilar populace, difficult to man- 
 age. To each of them the farmer, standing before 
 the door, gave his task for the day in a curt voice, 
 rather roughly. When this was over, the good man 
 raised his head, examined the sky with an anxious 
 air, and seeing me at the window he said : " Bad 
 weather for farming ; here 's the sirocco." 
 
 And sure enough, as the sun rose, puffs of burn- 
 ing, sufTocating air came to us from the South as 
 if from the door of an oven opening and shutting. 
 Presently one knew not where to put one's self, or 
 what to do. The whole morning passed thus, 
 We took coffee on the straw mats in the gallery, 
 without courage to speak or stir. The dogs lying 
 at full length in exhausted attitudes sought cool- 
 ness on the flags. Breakfast revived us a little, a 
 plentiful and singular breakfast, in which there 
 were carp, trout, wild boar, hedgehog, Staoueli 
 butter, wines of Crescia, guavas, bananas, a mass 
 of strange food in keeping with the complex Nature 
 that surrounded us. . . We were about to rise from 
 table. Suddenly at the glass-door, closed to pro- 
 tect us from the furnace heat of the garden, loud 
 cries were heard : " The locusts ! the locusts! " 
 
 My host turned pale, like a man to whom a 
 great disaster is told, and we rushed out hastily. 
 During the next ten minutes the house, lately so 
 calm, was filled with the sound of rushing feet, 
 confused voices, lost in the agitation of that warn- 
 ing. From the shade of the vestibules where some 
 were still sleeping, the servants sprang forth, with 
 sticks, scythes, flails, making them ring on all the 
 
156 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 metal utensils they could lay their hands on, copper 
 caldrons, warming-pans, saucepans. The shep- 
 herds blew their pipes in the pastures. Others 
 had conch-shells and hunting-horns. The uproar 
 was frightful, discordant, while high above it all 
 rang the shrill high note, the " Yoo ! yoo ! yoo ! " 
 of the Arab women rushing in from a neighbour- 
 ing douar. It seems that often a great noise, a 
 sonorous jarring of the air, is sufficient to drive oft' 
 the locusts and prevent them from alighting. 
 
 But where were they, these terrible beasts ? In 
 the sky, pulsing with heat, I saw nothing but a 
 cloud on the horizon, brassy, compact as a hail- 
 cloud, coming on with the noise of a wind-storm 
 through the branches of a forest. This was the 
 locusts. Supporting one another with their dry 
 extended wings they flew in a mass ; and in spite 
 of our shouts, our efforts, on they came in a cloud 
 casting upon the plain an enormous shadow. Soon 
 they arrived above us and we saw for a second on 
 the edges of the cloud a fringe, a rent. Like the 
 first stones of a hailstorm, a few detached them- 
 selves, distinct, reddish; then the whole cloud 
 broke up and the rain of insects fell thick and 
 noisily. The fields, as far as the eye could reach, 
 were covered with locusts, enormous locusts, thick 
 as my finger. 
 
 Now the massacre began. A horrid sound of 
 crushing, like that of trampled straw. With harrows, 
 spades, ploughs, they broke up that living soil ; but 
 the more they killed, the more there were to kill. 
 The insects swarmed in layers, their long legs laced 
 
The Locusts. 157 
 
 together. Those at the top made leaps of fear, 
 jumping at the noses of the horses harnessed for 
 this strange labour. The farm-dogs, those of the 
 douar, driven into the fields, sprang upon them and 
 ground them furiously with their teeth. At this 
 moment two companies of Turcos, bugles sound- 
 ing, came to the succour of the luckless colonists 
 and the butchery changed aspect. 
 
 Instead of crushing the locusts the soldiers 
 spread long trains of gunpowder and blew them 
 up. 
 
 Weary with killing, sickened by the fetid odour, 
 I returned to the house. Within it there were 
 almost as many locusts as without. They had 
 entered by the doors, the windows, the flues of 
 the chimney. Along the panels and wainscot- 
 ings, in the curtains already riddled, they crawled, 
 fell, flew, and climbed the white walls, casting 
 gigantic shadows that doubled their ugliness. 
 And always that horrifying odour. We were 
 forced, at dinner, to go without water. The cis- 
 terns, basins, wells, fish-pond were all infected. 
 That night in my room where quantities had been 
 killed, I heard them swarming under the furniture, 
 with that crackling of their shell-like wings which 
 sounds like the bursting of pods under heat. 
 This night again I could not sleep. Besides, 
 every one on the farm was astir. Flames were 
 running along the surface of the ground in all 
 directions from one end of the plain to the other. 
 The Turcos were still killing. 
 
 The next day, when I opened my window the 
 
158 Letters from My Mill, 
 
 locusts were gone; but what ruin they had left 
 behind them ! Not a flower, not a blade of grass ; 
 all was black, devoured, calcined. The banana, 
 the apricot, the peach-trees, the orange-trees 
 could only be recognized by the shape of their 
 stripped branches; the charm and the floating 
 grace of foliage which is the life of the tree were 
 gone. The pieces of water and the cisterns were 
 being cleaned. Everywhere labourers were dig- 
 ging the earth to kill the eggs laid by the insects. 
 Every turf was turned, and carefully broken up. 
 And one's heart ached to see the thousand white 
 roots full of sap which appeared in this destruction 
 of the fruitful earth. 
 
The Elixir of Pere Gaucher. 159 
 
 THE ELIXIR OF THE REVEREND PERE 
 GAUCHER. 
 
 " Drink that, neighbour, and you will tell -tales JV^ 
 of it." 
 
 And drop by drop, with the minute care of a 
 lapidary counting pearls, the cure of Graveson 
 poured me out a glassful of a green, gilded, 
 warm, sparkling, exquisite ttqt*euil_ My stomach 
 was all sunlit by it. 
 
 " That is the elixir of Pere Gaucher, the joy and 
 health of our Provence," added the worthy man 
 with a triumphant air. " It is made at the convent 
 of the Premontres, two leagues from your mill. 
 Isn't it worth all the chartreuse in the world? If 
 you only knew how amusing it is, the history of 
 that elixir ! Listen, and I will tell it to you." 
 
 Then, very artlessly and without the slightest 
 malice, sitting there in the dining-room of his par- 
 sonage, so innocent and so calm, surrounded by 
 the Way of the Cross in little pictures and his white 
 curtains starched like a surplice, the abbe told 
 me the following rather sceptical and irreverent 
 narrative after the style of a tale of Erasmus 
 or d'Assoucy : — 
 
 Twenty years ago the Premontres, or rather " the 
 White Fathers " as they are called in Provence, 
 
1 60 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 had fallen into great poverty. If you had seen 
 their house in those days you would have grieved 
 over it. 
 
 The great wall and the Pacome tower, were dis- 
 appearing in fragments. All around the cloister, 
 overgrown with grass, the columns were splitting 
 and the stone saints crumbling in their niches. 
 Not a window left; not a door that closed. 
 Through the yards, in the chapels, the Rhone 
 wind blew as it does in Camargue, extinguishing 
 the tapers, bending the lead of the sashes, driving 
 the water from the holy basins. But, saddest of 
 all, was the steeple of the convent, silent as an 
 empty pigeon-house; and the fathers, for want 
 of money to buy them a bell, were forced to ring 
 for matins with wooden castanets. 
 
 Poor White Fathersil can^see them now in 
 the procession of the FeTe-Dieu, aefiling sadly in 
 their ragged cloaks, pale, thin, fed on pumpkins 
 and water-melons ; and behind them Monseigneur 
 the abbot, coming along with his head down, 
 ashamed to show in the sun his tarnished cross 
 and his white woollen mitre, all moth-eaten. The 
 ladies of the Confraternity wept for pity in the 
 ranks, and the portly standard-bearers scoffed 
 among themselves under their breaths as they 
 pointed to those poor monks : — * 
 
 C " Starlings get thin when they live in flocks.*/ 
 
 The fact is, the unfortunate White Fathers had 
 themselves begun to ask whether it were not better 
 to break up the community, and each take his flight 
 alone through the world in search of a living. 
 
The Elixir of Pere Gaucher. 1 6 1 
 
 One day, when this grave question was being 
 discussed by the Chapter, someone entered anpL 
 announced to the prior that ^rerei^u^erasked ^ 
 to be heard before the council. You must know, 
 to guide you, that Frere Gaucher was the cattle- 
 keeper of the convent; that is to say, he spent S 
 his days going from arcade to arcade of the clois- 
 ters, driving before him two emaciated cows to 
 browse upon the grass in the cracks of the pave- 
 ment. Brought up till he was twelve years old by 
 an old crazy woman of the region, who was called 
 Tante Begon, received at that age into the con- 
 vent, the luckless lad had never learned anything 
 except how to drive his beasts and say his Pater- 
 noster ; and the latter he said in Provencal, for his 
 brain and his mind were as hard and dull as a 
 leaden dirk. Fervent Christian, however, though 
 a little visionary; living with comfort in a hair 
 shirt, and flagellating himself with robust convic- 
 tion, and with such an arm ! 
 
 When he was seen to enter the Chapter room, 
 simple and stolid, bowing to the assembly with his 
 leg behind him, prior, canons and bursar they all 
 began to laugh. That was usually the effect pro- 
 duced, wherever seen, of that good, kind face with 
 its grizzled goat's-beard and its rather crazy eyes. 
 Frere Gaucher himself was unmoved. 
 
 " My Reverends," he said in his simple way, 
 twisting his chaplet of olive-stones^ *( it is a true 
 saying that empty casks hum loudest. ^ Would you 
 believe it, by dint of digging into my poor head, 
 which was hollow enough already, I believe I have 
 
1 62 Letters from My Mill.. 
 
 found a way to get us out of our difficulties. This 
 is how: You all knew Tante Begon, that worthy 
 woman who took care of me when I was young 
 (God rest her soul, the old slut! she used to sing 
 villanous songs when drunk). I have to tell you, 
 my reverend fathers, that Tante Begon, in her 
 lifetime, knew as much and more, about moun- 
 tain herbs as a Corsican blackbird ; so that in her 
 last days she concocted an incomparable elixir by 
 mixing together five or six species of simples 
 which she and I used to go and gather on the 
 Alpilles. That 's many fine years agone ; but I 
 think that with the help of Saint Augustine and 
 the permission of our Father-abbot, I may be able, 
 by careful search, to remember the composition 
 of that mysterious elixir. If so, we should need 
 only to put it in bottles and sell it rather dear to 
 enrich the community gently, gently, like our 
 brethren of La Trappe and the Grand — " 
 
 He was not allowed to finish. The prior rose 
 and fell upon his neck. The canons grasped his 
 hands. The bursar, more excited than even the 
 others, kissed respectfully the ragged edge of his 
 cassock. Then they all returned to their seats to 
 deliberate; and before the session broke up the 
 Chapter decided to intrust the cows to Frere 
 Thrasybulus, in order to enable Frere Gaucher to 
 give himsejf wholly to the making of his elixir. 
 
 How did the good brother manage to recover 
 the recipe of Tante B6gon ? — at the cost of what 
 efforts? what vigils? History saith not. But what 
 
The Elixir of Pere Gaucher. 163 
 
 is certain is, that by the end of six months the 
 liqueur of the White Fathers was already very 
 popular. Throughout the Comtat, throughout the 
 whole region of Aries, not a farm, not a granary 
 that did not have in its storeroom, among bottles L^*"" 
 of boiled wine and jars of pickled olives, a little 
 brown flask, sealed with the arms of Provence, and 
 bearing the effigy on a silver ticket of a monk in 
 ecstasy. Thanks to the vogue of its elixir, the 
 convent of the Premontres grew rich very rapidly. 
 The Pacome tower was rebuilt; the prior had a 
 new mitre, the church certain handsome painted 
 windows; and within the delicate tracery of the 
 steeple a whole company of bells alighted one fine 
 Easter morning, carolling and tintinnabulating in 
 joyful peals. 
 
 As for Frere Gaucher, that poor lay brother, 
 whose rusticities had so long enlivened the Chapter, 
 there was no thought of him any longer. Hence- 
 forth he was known as the Reverend Pere Gaucher, 
 man of intellect and great learning, who lived com- 
 pletely apart from the petty and manifold occu- 
 pations of the cloister, shut up all day in his 
 laboratory, while thirty monks were roaming the 
 hills in search of his odorous srmpSes. This labora- 
 tory, into which no one, not even the prior, was 
 allowed to enter, was an old abandoned chapel at 
 the farther end of the canons' garden. The sim- 
 plicity of the good fathers made something mys- 
 terious and formidable out of it ; and if, by way of 
 adventure, an occasional little monk, bold and 
 inquisitive, climbed among the vines to the rose- 
 
r64 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 window of the portal, he slid down very hastily, 
 terrified, on catching sight of Pere Gaucher, with 
 a necromantic beard, stooping over his boilers, 
 hydrometer in hand, and, all around him, retorts 
 of rose-marble, gigantic stills, coils of crystal pipe, 
 — a fantastic medley which flamed like witchcraft 
 through the red glare of the painted window. 
 
 At close of day, while the last Angelus was 
 ringing, the door of this place of mystery opened 
 discreetly, and the Reverend took his way to the 
 church for evening service. 'T was a sight to see 
 the greeting he received as he crossed the monas- 
 tery ! The brethren lined up in hedges along his 
 way, whispering: — 
 
 " Hush ! he knows the secret ! . . " 
 
 The bursar followed and spoke to him with 
 bowed head. In the midst of all this adulation the 
 worthy father advanced, mopping his forehead, his 
 three-cornered shovel hat tipped back around his 
 head like a halo, while he himself looked com- 
 placently about him on the great courtyards now 
 full of orange-trees, the blue slate roofs where the 
 new vanes were twirling, and the cloister — daz- 
 zlingly white between its elegant and floriated 
 columns — where the canons in their new gowns 
 filed along, two and two with placid faces. 
 
 " It is to me that they owe it all ! " thought the 
 Reverend, and every time he did so, the thought 
 sent puffs of pride into his heart. 
 
 The poor man was well punished for it. You 
 shall see feesK. 
 
The Elixir of Pere Gaucher. 165 
 
 Picture to yourself that one evening after the 
 
   service had begun, he arrived at the church in a 
 
   state of extraordinary agitation: red, out of breath, 
 
   his hood awry, and so bewildered that in taking 
 
   holy water he soaked his sleeves to the elbow. 
 I At first it was thought to be emotion at coming 
 I late to church ; but when he was seen to bow low 
 
 to the organ and to the stalls instead of doing rever- 
 | ence to the altar, to rush through the nave like a 
 whirlwind and wander about the choir unable to 
 find his stall, and then, once seated, to bow to right 
 and left, smiling beatifically, a murmur of amaze- 
 ment ran through the aisles. From breviary to 
 breviary the whisper flew : — 
 
 "What is the matter with Pere Gaucher? What 
 can be the matter with our Pere Gaucher?" 
 
 Twice the prior, much annoyed, dropped the 
 end of his crozier on the pavement to order silence. 
 In the choir the psalms were going on all right, 
 but the responses lacked vigour. 
 
 All of a sudden, in the middle of the Ave verum, 
 behold Pere Gaucher flinging himself back in his 
 stall and singing out in a startling voice : — 
 
 " Dans Paris, il y a un Pere Blanc, 
 Patatin, patatan, tarabin, taraban. . ." 
 
 General consternation. Every one rose, shout- 
 ing out : — 
 
 " Take him away ! he 's possessed of the devil ! " 
 
 The canons crossed themselves. Monseigneur's 
 
 crozier rapped furiously. But Pere Gaucher saw 
 
 nothing, heard nothing; and two vigorous monks 
 
1 66 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 were forced to drag him away through the little 
 door of the choir fighting like a maniac and shout- 
 ing louder than ever his patatin, taraban. 
 
 The next day, at dawn, the unhappy man was 
 y ^on his knees in the prior's oratory, making his mea 
 culpa with torrents of tears. 
 
 " 'T was the elixir, Monseigneur ; the elixir over- 
 came me," he said, striking his breast. And see- 
 ing him so heart-broken, so repentant, the good 
 prior himself was much moved. 
 
 " Come, come, Pere Gaucher, be calm ; it will 
 all dry up like dew in the sun. After all, the 
 scandal was not as great as you think. It is true 
 the song was a little — hum ! hum ! But let us 
 hope the novices didn't understand it. And now, 
 tell me, please, how the thing happened. . . In 
 trying the elixir, was it? You must have had too 
 heavy a hand. . . Yes, yes, I understand. Like 
 Schwartz, inventor of gunpowder, you were the vic- 
 tim of your own invention. But tell me, my good 
 friend, is it really necessary that you should try the 
 elixir on yourself? " 
 
 " Unfortunately, Monseigneur, though the gauge 
 will give me the strength and degree of the alco- 
 hol, I can't trust anything but my own palate for 
 the taste, the velvet of the thing." 
 
 "Ah! very well. . . But listen to me. When you 
 taste the elixir thus, from necessity, does it seem to 
 you nice? Do you take pleasure in tasting it? " 
 
 " Alas ! yes, Monseigneur," cried the hapless 
 father, turning scarlet. "For the last two nights 
 
The Elixir of Pere Gaucher, 167 
 
 it has had an aroma, a bouquet ! . . I am cer- 
 tain it is the devil himself who has played me this 
 vile trick. And that 's why I am fully determined 
 to use nothing but the gauge henceforth. No 
 -matter if the liqueur is not as good. . . " 
 
 "That will never do," interrupted the prior 
 eagerly. " We must n't expose ourselves to the 
 discontent of customers. You must be careful, 
 now that you are warned, to be upon your guard. 
 Come, how much do you need for the test? Fif- 
 teen, or twenty drops ? call it twenty. The devil 
 will be pretty clever to catch you with twenty 
 drops. . . Besides, to avoid all accidents, I ex- 
 empt you from coming to church any more. You 
 will say the evening service by yourself in the lab- 
 oratory. . . And now, go in peace, my Reverend, 
 but, above all, — count your drops." 
 
 Alas ! — in vain did the poor Reverend count 
 his drops ; the demon had him fast and would not 
 let him go. 
 
 The laboratory heard queer things ! 
 
 In the daytime all went well. Pere Gaucher 
 was calm; he prepared his chafing-dishes, his 
 distillers, sorted his herbs carefully — all of them 
 Provencal herbs, delicate, gray, dentelled, full of 
 fragrance and sunshine. But at night, when the 
 simples were infused, and the elixir was simmering 
 in those great copper basins, the martyrdom of the 
 poor man began. 
 
 " Seventeen . . . eighteen . . . nineteen , , « 
 twenty ! . ." 
 
1 68 Letters from My Mill 
 
 The drops fell one by one into the silver-gilt 
 goblet. Those twenty, the Father swallowed at a 
 gulp, almost without any pleasure. It was only the 
 twenty-first which he coveted. Oh ! that twenty- 
 first drop ! . . To escape temptation he went and 
 knelt at the farther end of the laboratory and buried 
 himself in his paternosters. But the warm liqueur 
 still sent up a little steam laden with aromatic per- 
 fumes, which floated around and brought him, 
 nolens volens, back to the pans. . . The liqueur was 
 then of a beautiful golden green. . . Stooping 
 over it, with flaring nostrils, Pere Gaucher stirred 
 it gently with his blowpipe and in the golden 
 sparkles that rolled in that emerald stream he 
 seemed to see the eyes of Tante B6gon, laughing 
 and snapping out as she looked at him. 
 
 " Come, take another drop ! " 
 
 And from drop to drop, the luckless man ended 
 by filling his goblet to the brim. Then,. overcome 
 at last, he let himself fall into a big arm-chair, and 
 there, helpless in body, with eyelids half-closed, 
 he sipped his sin slowly, saying to himself in whim- 
 pered tones with delicious remorse : — 
 
 " Ah ! I Ve damned myself — I 'm damned." 
 
 The worst of it was that at the bottom of that 
 diabolical elixir he found, by I don't know what 
 witchcraft, all the vile songs of Tante Begon, and 
 among them, invariably, the famous rondo of the 
 White Fathers : Patatin, patatan. 
 
 Imagine what confusion the next day when his 
 cell neighbours would say, maliciously : — 
 
 " Hey ! hey ! Pere Gaucher, you had grasshop- 
 
The Elixir of Pere Gaucher. 169 
 
 »ers in your head when you went to bed last 
 light" 
 
 Then followed tears, despair, fasts, hair-shirts, 
 nd flagellations. But nothing availed against the 
 lemon of that elixir. Every evening at the same 
 lour the demoniacal possession was renewed. 
 
 During this time, orders rained on the monastery 
 ike a benediction. They came from Nimes, Aix, 
 \vignon, Marseille. Day by day the place as- 
 sumed, more and more, the air of a manufactory. 
 There were packing brothers, labelling broth- 
 ers, corresponding brothers, and carting brothers. 
 God's service lost, this way and that, a good many 
 strokes of the bell ; but the poor of the region lost 
 nothing at all, I can tell you that. 
 
 However, one fine Sunday morning, just as the 
 bursar was reading to the assembled Chapter his 
 account for the end of the year, and while all the 
 good canons were listening with sparkling eyes and 
 smiles upon their lips, Pere Gaucher burst in upon 
 the conference, crying out : — 
 
 " Enough, enough ! I '11 do it no more ! Give 
 me back my cows." 
 
 "What's the matter, Pere Gaucher?" asked the 
 prior, who suspected what it was. 
 
 " What's the matter, Monseigneur? Why this: 
 that I am on the road to a fine eternity of flames 
 and pitchforks. The matter is that I drink, and 
 drink like a wmrink — ,y y^y^kjl<^ij-\_ 5 >. * „ 
 
 " But I told you to count your drops." 
 
 " Count my drops, indeed ! It is goblets I count 
 
170 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 by now. . . Yes, my Reverends, I 've come to 
 that. . . Three flasks a night. . . You see for 
 yourselves it can't go on. . . Therefore, make the 
 elixir by whom you will. May God's fire burn me 
 if I touch it again." 
 
 The Chapter did not laugh this time. 
 
 " But, unhappy man, you will ruin us," cried 
 the bursar, flourishing his big book. 
 
 " Do you prefer that I should damn myself ? " 
 
 On that the prior rose. 
 
 " My Reverends," he said, extending his hand- 
 some white hand on which shone the pastoral ring. 
 " There is a way to arrange all this. . . It is in 
 the evening, is it not, my dear son, that the demon 
 tempts you?" 
 
 "Yes, Monseigneur, regularly, every evening. 
 So that now, when evening comes, I have, saving 
 your presence, great sweats, like Capitou's donkey 
 when she sees her load." 
 
 " Well, be comforted. In future, every even- 
 ing at service-time, we will recite on your behalf 
 the orison of Saint Augustine, to which plen- 
 ary indulgence is attached. With that, whatever 
 happens, you are safe. It is absolution during 
 the sin." 
 
 " Oh ! if that is so, thank you, Monseigneur." 
 
 And without another word Pere Gaucher re- 
 turned to his distillery as gay as a lark. 
 
 From that moment, every evening at the end 
 of complines, the officiating priest never failed to 
 say: — 
 
 " Let us pray for our poor Pere Gaucher, who 
 
The Elixir of Pere Gaucher, 171 
 
 is sacrificing his soul for the interests of the com- 
 munity: OremuSy Domine . . " 
 
 And while over all the white hoods prostrate 
 in the shadows of the nave Saint Augustine's 
 prayer passed quivering, like a little breeze over 
 snow, on the other side of the convent, behind the 
 glowing windows of the laboratory Pere Gaucher 
 could be heard singing at the top of his lungs : — 
 
 " Dans Paris il y a un Pere Blanc, 
 
 Patatin, patatan, taraban, tarabin ; 
 
 Dans Paris il y a un Pere Blanc 
 
 Qui fait danser des moinettes, 
 
 Trin, trin, trin, dans un jardin 
 
 Qui fait danser des — " 
 
 Here the good father stopped, terrified. 
 " Mercy upon me ! suppose my parishioners 
 were to overhear that ! " 
 
172 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 IN CAMARGUE. 
 
 TO MY FRIEND TlMOLEON AMBROY. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE DEPARTURE. 
 
 GREAT excitement at the chateau. A messenger 
 has just brought a line from the gamekeeper, half 
 in French, half in Provencal, announcing that 
 already three or four flocks of galejons and char- 
 lottines have passed, and that birds of prime were 
 not lacking. From that instant everybody had 
 the fever. One got ready the cartridges, another 
 tried on the leggings. In large baskets, carefully 
 handled on account of the bottles wrapped in 
 straw, provisions were heaped, heaped, as if we 
 were starting for the desert. At last, all was 
 ready. One morning, in a four o'clock dawn, the 
 break drew up before the portico. 
 
 In the yards, only half awake, the dogs were 
 leaping with joy and pressing against the railings 
 at sight of the guns. Old Miracle, the dean of the 
 kennels, Ramette, Miraclet, take their places be- 
 tween our legs, and presently we are bowling along 
 the road to Aries, a little dusty and a little barren 
 on this December morning when the pallid verdure 
 
In Camargue, 173 
 
 of the olive-trees is scarcely visible, and the crude 
 green of the scarlet oak looks unreal and wintry. 
 The stables are all astir. Risers before dawn are 
 lighting up the windows of the farmhouses ; and 
 beneath the arches of the abbey of Montmajour 
 ospreys, still torpid with sleep, flap their wings 
 among the ruins. Already we are meeting old 
 peasant-women trotting slowly to market on their 
 donkeys. They come from Ville-des-Baux. Six 
 full leagues to sit an hour upon the steps of Saint- 
 Trophyme and sell their little bunches of simples 
 gathered on the mountain ! 
 
 And now here we are at the ramparts of Aries ; 
 low crenelated ramparts, such as we see in old 
 engravings where warriors armed with lances ap- 
 pear above battlements that are smaller than they. 
 We crossed at a gallop the marvellous little town, 
 one of the most picturesque in France with its 
 carved and rounded balconies overhanging the 
 roadway almost to the centre of the narrow street, 
 and its old black houses with the little Moorish por- 
 tals, low and pointed, which carry you back to the 
 days of William Short-Nose and the Saracens. 
 
 At this hour no one is in the streets. The 
 quay of the Rhone alone is lively. The steamer 
 that plies to the Camargue is puffing at the foot 
 of the steps, ready to be off. " Men of all work " 
 in jackets of a sort of brown drugget, girls from 
 the Roquette going to hire themselves out on the 
 farms, went on board when we did, laughing and 
 chattering. Under the long, brown, and hooded 
 mantle, drawn close because of the sharp morning 
 
i 74 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 air, the tall Arlesian head-dress gives a small and 
 graceful look to the head, with a touch of pretty 
 sauciness and a desire to toss it, as if to fling the 
 laugh or the jest still farther. . . The bell rings ; we 
 start. With the triple speed of the Rhone, the screw, 
 and the mistral the two shores unfold themselves 
 rapidly. On one side is Crau, an arid, stony plain. 
 On the other the Camargue, greener, and con- 
 tinuing to the sea its short grass and its marshes 
 full of reeds. 
 
 From time to time the vessel stopped near a 
 wharf, to right or left, " to empire or kingdom," 
 as was said in the middle-ages, in the days of the 
 Kingdom of Aries, and as the old mariners of the 
 Rhone still say. At each wharf, a white farm- 
 house and cluster of trees. The labourers go 
 ashore with their tools, the women, baskets on 
 their arms, pass erect down the gangway. Toward 
 the empire or toward the kingdom, little by 
 little the boat empties; and by the time it arrives 
 at Mas-de-Giraud, where we landed, there was 
 scarcely any one on board. 
 
 The Mas-de-Giraud is an old farm-house of the 
 Seigneurs of Barbentane, which we now entered to 
 await the arrival of the gamekeeper, who was to 
 fetch us at that point. In the lofty kitchen, labour- 
 ers, vineyard-dressers, shepherds were at table; 
 grave, silent, eating slowly and served by women 
 who only ate after them. Soon the keeper ap- 
 peared with the carriole. True type a la Feni- 
 more, trapper on earth and water, fishkeeper and 
 gamekeeper, the people of the country round 
 
In Camargue. 175 
 
 called him " lou Roude'irou " \le rodeur, the 
 prowler] because he was always to be seen in the 
 mists of dawn or the twilight hour on watch, hid- 
 den among the bushes or else motionless in his 
 little boat, employed in observing his nets on the 
 clairs [the ponds] and the roubines [canals for 
 irrigation]. It was perhaps this business of per- 
 petual watching that made him so silent, so self- 
 contained. Still, while the little carriole loaded 
 with guns and baskets rolled along in front of us, 
 he gave us news of the hunting, the number oi 
 passing flocks, and the places where the migratory 
 birds had alighted. As we talked we were ad- 
 vancing deeper into the country. 
 
 The cultivated land once passed, we found our- 
 selves in the heart of the wild Camargue. As far 
 as the eye could reach among the pastures, 
 marshes and irrigating streams glittered through 
 the herbage. Bunches of reeds and tamarisks lay 
 like islands on the bosom of a calm sea. No tall 
 trees. The uniform aspect of the vast plain is 
 unbroken. Here and there were cattle-sheds and 
 sheepfolds, stretches of low roofs almost level with 
 the ground. The scattered herds lying on the 
 salty grass, or the flocks pressing closely round 
 the russet cape of the shepherd, did not interrupt 
 the great uniformity, diminished as they were by 
 the infinite space of blue horizons and the open 
 sky. Like the sea, uniform in spite of its waves, 
 the plain conveys a sense of solitude, of immensity, 
 increased by the mistral, which blows without re- 
 laxing and without obstacle and by its powerful 
 
/ 
 
 in 
 
 1 76 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 breath seems to flatten and so widen the land- 
 scape. Everything bends before it. The smallest 
 shrubs keep the imprint of its passage, and con- 
 tinue twisted and bent toward the south in an 
 attitude of flight. 
 
 n. 
 
 THE HUT. 
 
 A ROOF of reeds, walls of reeds, dry and yellow, 
 that is the hut. This is the name we give to our 
 hunting-box. Type of a Camargue house, it has 
 but one room, lofty, vast, and no window, getting 
 its light from a glass door, closed at night with 
 solid shutters. Along the great plastered walls 
 freshly whitewashed, racks await the guns, game- 
 bags, and marsh boots. At the farther end five or 
 six cots are ranged around a real mast planted in 
 the ground and rising to the roof, which it sup- 
 ports. At night, when the mistral blows and the 
 house cracks everywhere, and the wind brings 
 with it the roar of the distant sea, increasing and 
 swelling the sound, one might think one's self 
 lying in the cabin of a boat. 
 
 But in the afternoon it is that the hut is charm- 
 ing. On our fine days of Southern winter, I like 
 to be left all alone near the high chimney where a 
 few roots of tamarisk are smouldering. Under 
 the assaults of the mistral or the tramontane, the 
 door bursts in, the reeds cry out, and all these 
 
In Camargue. 177 
 
 little shocks are a mere echo of the great agita- 
 tions of Nature going on around me. The winter 
 sun lashed by the wind scatters itself, joins its 
 beams, and again disperses. Great shadows flit 
 beneath a glorious blue sky. Light comes in 
 jerks, noises also, and the bells of the flocks heard 
 suddenly, then forgotten, lost in the wind, return 
 to sing at the shaken door with the charm of a 
 chorus. The exquisite moment is the twilight 
 hour, just before the hunters come back. Then 
 the wind calms down. I go out for an instant. 
 In peace the great red sun descends, flaming, yet 
 without heat. The night falls; it brushes me in 
 passing with its damp black wing. Over there, at 
 the level of the soil, the flash of a gun runs along 
 with the light of a ruddy star, brightened by the 
 environing darkness. For the rest of the day, life 
 hastens. A long triangle of ducks fly low, as if 
 they meant to take to earth, but the hut, where the 
 lantern is now lighted, keeps them away. He who 
 heads the column draws in his neck and mounts, 
 while others behind him utter savage and angry 
 cries. \ 
 
 Presently an immense pattering is heard like a 
 noise of rain. Thousands of sheep, called in by 
 the shepherd, and driven by the dogs whose con- 
 fused gallop and panting breath can be heard, are 
 hurrying to the fold, timid and undisciplined. I 
 am invaded, brushed against, surrounded by this 
 cloud of curly wool, all bleating; a perfect mob, in 
 which the shepherds and their shadows seem borne 
 along in a bounding flood. Behind the flock come 
 
1 78 Letters from My Mill 
 
 well known voices, joyous voices. The hut be- 
 comes animated, noisy. The roots flame. They 
 laugh the most who are most weary. It is a 
 laughter of happy fatigue, guns in the corner, the 
 great boots flung away pell-mell, the gamebags 
 emptied, and close beside them, plumages, red, 
 golden, green, silvery, all stained with blood. The 
 table is laid, and in the fumes of a good eel-soup 
 silence reigns; the silence of robust appetites, 
 interrupted only by the ferocious growls of the 
 dogs lapping their porringers before the door. 
 
 The evening will be short. Already no one is 
 left but the keeper and myself beside the fire, and 
 that is blinking. We talk, or rather, we toss to each 
 other, now and then, the half-words that charac- 
 terize the peasantry, interjections almost Indian, 
 short and quickly extinct, like the sparkles of the 
 now consumed roots. At last the keeper rises, 
 lights his lantern, and I hear his heavy step going 
 out into the darkness. 
 
 III. 
 
 a l'espere! (on the watch.) 
 
 L'Espere! — hope! — what a pretty name by 
 which to describe the watch, the expectation of 
 the ambushed huntsman and those undecided hours 
 when everything waits, hopes, hesitates between 
 day and night. The watch of the morning a little 
 before sunrise, the watch of the evening in the 
 
In Camargue, 179 
 
 twilight ! It is the latter that I prefer, especially 
 in this marshy region, where the ponds hold the 
 light so long. 
 
 Sometimes the watch is kept in the negochin, a 
 very small boat, narrow, without keel, and rolling at 
 the slightest motion. Sheltered by the reeds, the 
 sportsman watches for the ducks lying in his boat, 
 above which nothing is seen but the visor of a cap, 
 the muzzle of a gun, and the head of a dog snuff- 
 ing the wind, snapping at the gnats, or else, with 
 his big paws extended, hanging over the side of 
 the boat and filling it with water. That watch is 
 too complicated for my inexperience. So I usu- 
 ally go to the esphe on foot, paddling through 
 the marsh in those enormous boots that are cut 
 from the whole length of the leather. I walk 
 slowly, cautiously, for fear of being sucked in. I 
 push through the reeds full of briny odours where 
 the frogs are hopping. 
 
 At last here 's an island of tamarisks, a spot of 
 dry earth, where I install myself. The keeper, to 
 do me honour, leaves me his dog, a huge dog of 
 the Pyrenees with a great white coat, hunter and 
 fisher of the highest order, whose presence does 
 not fail to intimidate me slightly. When a water- 
 fowl passes within aim of my gun he has a certain 
 sarcastic way of looking at me ; throwing back, 
 with an artist's toss of the head, the long, limp 
 ears that overhang his eyes ; then he poses to a 
 point with a quivering motion of his tail and a 
 whole pantomime of impatience, which says to me, 
 " Fire ! Come, fire ! " I fire and miss. Then, 
 
i8o Letters from My Mill 
 
 lying down at full length, he yawns and stretches 
 with a weary, discouraged, and insolent air. 
 
 Well, yes ! I admit that I am a bad sportsman. 
 The watch, for me, means the falling day, the fad- 
 ing light taking refuge in the water, in the ponds 
 that gleam, polishing to silvery tones the gray 
 tints of a sombre sky. I love that smell of water, 
 the mysterious rustle of insects in the reeds, the 
 little murmur of the long leaves waving. From 
 time to time a sad note passes, rolling through 
 the sky like the rumbling sounds in a sea-shell. 
 It is the bittern, plunging into the water his im- 
 mense, fisher-bird's beak and snorting — rrrououou ! 
 Flocks of cranes file above my head. I hear the 
 rustle of wings, the ruffling of down in the clear 
 air; then nothing. It is night, profound darkness, 
 except for a gleam still lingering on the/^ater. 
 
 Suddenly I am conscious of a quiver, a sort of ner- 
 vous sensation, as if some one were behind me. I 
 turn, and see the companion of beautiful nights, the 
 moon, a large moon, quite round, rising gently with 
 an ascending motion, at first very perceptible, then 
 apparently diminishing as she leaves the horizon. 
 
 Already the first ray is distinct beside me, and 
 another is a little farther off. . . . Presently the 
 whole swamp ,'s illuminated. The smallest tuft of 
 grass casts its shadow. The watch is over, the 
 birds see us ; we return. We walk in the midst of 
 an inundation, a dust, of vaporous blue light, and 
 every step in the pools and the marches scatters 
 the stars and the moon-rays which lie in the watef 
 to its depths. 
 
In Camargue, 181 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE RED AND THE WHITE. 
 
 CLOSE to us, within gunshot of the hut is an- 
 other hut which resembles ours, but is more rustic. 
 It is there that the gamekeeper lives with his wife 
 and elder children. The daughter attends to the 
 feeding of the men and mends the fishing-nets; 
 the son helps his father to take up the seines and 
 watch the sluices of the ponds. The two younger 
 children are at Aries with their grandmother, and 
 there they will stay till they have learned to read and 
 have made their bonjour [good day, first commun- 
 ion] ; for here their parents are too far from church 
 and school, and besides, the air of the Camargue 
 would not be good for the little ones. The fact is 
 that in summer, when the marshes dry up and 
 the white clay of the pools cracks in the great 
 heat, the island is scarcely habitable. 
 
 I saw that once in the month of August when I 
 came to shoot young wild-duck; and I shall never 
 forget the sad, ferocious aspect of the burnt-up 
 landscape. From place to place the empty ponds 
 smoked in the sun like monstrous vats, keeping 
 low at their bottom a remainder of water, of life, 
 which stirred with a crawling swarm of salaman- 
 ders, spiders, and water-beetles seeking for damp 
 spots. At the keeper's house all were shivering, 
 
1 82 Letters from My Mill, 
 
 each had the fever; and it was really piteous to 
 see those drawn, yellow faces, the black-circled 
 eyes of those poor unfortunates, compelled to drag 
 themselves about for three months under an inex- 
 orable sun which burned the sufferers but did not 
 warm them. Dreary and painful life is that of a 
 gamekeeper in Camargue ! This one at least had 
 his wife and children with him; but two leagues 
 farther on, in a marsh, lives a horse-keeper, abso- 
 lutely alone from one end of the year to the other 
 — a Robinson-Crusoe existence. In his hut of 
 reeds, which he built himself, there is not a utensil 
 he did not make, from the braided osier hammock, 
 the fireplace of three stones, the roots of tama- 
 risk cut into stools, to even the lock and key of 
 white wood which close this singular habitation. 
 
 The man is as strange as his dwelling. He is a 
 species of philosopher, silent as a hermit, shelter- 
 ing his peasant distrust of every one behind his 
 bushy eyebrows. When he is not in the pastures 
 you will find him seated before his door, decipher- 
 ing slowly, with childish and touching application, 
 one of those little pink, blue, or yellow pamphlets 
 which wrap the pharmaceutical phials he procures 
 for his horses. Though the huts are near together, 
 our keeper and he never visit each other. They 
 even avoid meeting. One day I asked the rou- 
 deirou the reason of this antipathy. He answered 
 gravely: "On account of opinions: he is red; I 
 am white." 
 
 So in this desert, where solitude might have 
 brought them together, these two savages, both 
 
In Camargue. 183 
 
 ignorant, both naive, these two herdsmen of The- 
 ocritus, who go to the city scarcely once a year, 
 and to whom the little cafes of Aries, with their 
 mirrors and their gilding, are as dazzling as the 
 palace of the Ptolemies, have found means to hate 
 each other on account of their political convictions. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE VACCARES. 
 
 The finest thing in the Camargue is the Vac- 
 cares. Often, abandoning the hunt, I go and sit 
 on the shore of that salt lake, a little sea like a bit 
 of the ocean captured and shut in by earth and 
 content with its captivity. In place of the dryness, 
 the aridity that casts sadness everywhere, the 
 Vaccares, with its rather high banks, green with a 
 velvety fine grass, exhibits an original and charm- 
 ing flora, centaureas, water-trefoil, gentians, and 
 the pretty saladelle, blue in winter, red in summer, 
 which changes colour with change of atmosphere, 
 and in its ceaseless blooming marks the seasons 
 with diverse tints. 
 
 Towards five in the afternoon, as the sun de- 
 clines, these three leagues of water, without a boat, 
 without a sail to limit them, transform their extent 
 and take on a charming aspect. It is no longer 
 the charm of the pools and the ponds appearing 
 now and then in a dip of the marly soil, beneath 
 which one feels the water percolating. Here the 
 
184 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 impression is broad and fine. From afar this radi- 
 ance of water allures great flocks of divers, bitterns, 
 herons, flamingoes with white bosoms and rose- 
 coloured wings, all standing in line to fish along the 
 shore in a manner that exhibits their various tints 
 in a long even strip. Also the ibis, the true Egyp- 
 tian ibis, who feel themselves much at home in the 
 silent landscape beneath that splendid sun. From 
 the place where I lay I could hear nothing but the 
 water rippling and the voice of the keeper, calling 
 to his scattered horses on the brink. They all had 
 resounding names : " Cifer ! (Lucifer) Estello ! 
 Estournello ! " Each animal, hearing itself called, 
 came galloping up, mane streaming, to eat his oats 
 from the hand of the keeper. 
 
 Farther on, still on the same shore, was a vast 
 herd of cattle peacefully feeding like the horses. 
 Now and then I could see above the clumps of 
 tamarisk the line of their bent backs and their 
 small horns as they raised their heads. Most of 
 these oxen of the Camargue are raised to run in 
 the ferrades, the village fetes, and some have 
 names that are even celebrated in the circuses 
 of Provence and Languedoc. Our neighbouring 
 herd counts among others the " Roman " who has 
 ripped up I know not how many men and horses 
 in the races at Nismes, Aries, Tarascon. Conse- 
 quently, his comrades have accepted him as leader. 
 For in these strange herds, the animals govern 
 themselves by laws, grouped around some old bull 
 whom they take for leader. When a hurricane 
 falls upon Camargue, terrible in that great plain 
 
In Camargue. 185 
 
 where nothing diverts it, it is a sight to see the 
 herd pressing together behind its leader, all heads 
 turning to the wind their broad foreheads where 
 the strength of the ox is concentrated. The Pro- 
 vencal herdsmen call that manoeuvre vira la bano 
 an giscle — turning horn to the wind ; and sorrow 
 to the herd that does not do so. Blinded by rain, 
 driven by wind, the routed herd turns upon itself, 
 is terrified, dispersed, and the distracted animals, 
 rushing before them to escape the tempest, plunge 
 into the Rhone, the Vaccares, or the sea. 
 
1 86 Letters from My Mill. 
 
 BARRACK HOMESICKNESS. 
 
 This morning, at the first gleam of dawn, the 
 loud roll of a drum awoke me with a start : Ron 
 plon plon ! Ron plon plon ! 
 
 A drum among my pines at such an hour ! Sin- 
 gular, to say the least of it. 
 
 Quick, quick, I jumped out of bed, and ran to 
 open the door. 
 
 No one. The noise has stopped. From among 
 the wet creepers two or three curlews fly out, shak- 
 ing their wings. A slight breeze sings in the leaf- 
 age. To eastward, on the delicate summit of the 
 Alpilles lies a golden dust from which the sun is 
 slowly issuing. A first ray touches already the roof 
 of the mill. At that instant the drum, invisible, 
 begins to beat again in the covert : Ron — plon 
 — plon, plon, plon ! 
 
 The devil take that ass's skin ! I had forgotten 
 it. But who can the savage be who salutes Au- 
 rora in these woodland wilds with a drum? In 
 vain I looked about me; I saw nothing — nothing 
 but tufts of lavender and pine-trees racing down- 
 ward to the road. In that thicket there must be 
 some imp, engaged in making fun of me — Ariel, 
 no doubt, or Master Puck. The scamp has said 
 to himself as he passed my mill : — 
 
Barrack Homesickness, 187 
 
 "That Parisian is too tranquil here. I '11 give 
 him a serenade." 
 
 On which he takes a big drum, and — Ron plon 
 plon ! Ron plon plon ! Will you be quiet, you 
 rascal of a Puck ? you '11 wake my grasshoppers. 
 
 It was not Puck. 
 
 It was Gouguet Francois, called Pistolet, drummer 
 of the 31st infantry, off on a fortnight's furlough. 
 Pistolet is bored in the country ; he is homesick, 
 that drummer, and when the village is willing to 
 lend him its drum, he goes off to the woods in 
 melancholy mood to beat it and dream of his 
 barracks. 
 
 It was on my little green hill that he had come to 
 dream on this occasion. There he stands against 
 a fir-tree, his drum between his legs, rejoicing his 
 heart. Coveys of startled partridges rise at his feet 
 without his seeing them. The wild thyme is balmy 
 about him, but. he does not smell it. 
 
 Neither does he notice those delicate spider- 
 webs trembling in the sunshine among the branches, 
 nor the spicy pine-needles that skip on his drum. 
 Absorbed in his dream and his music, he lovingly 
 watches his sticks as they tap, and his big, silly 
 face expands with delight at each loud roll. 
 
 Ron plon plon ! Ron plon plon ! 
 
 " How fine it is, our big barrack, with its paved 
 courtyard, its rows of windows, all in a line, the 
 men in their forage-caps, and the low arcades 
 where the canteens rattle ! " 
 
 Ron plon plon ! Ron plon plon ! 
 
1 88 Letters from My Mill 
 
 " Oh ! that echoing staircase, the white-washed 
 corridors, the close dormitory, the belts that one 
 pipe-clays, the blacking-pots, the iron bedsteads 
 with their gray coverlets, the guns that glitter in 
 the rack ! " 
 
 Ron plon plon ! Ron plon plon ! 
 
 " Oh ! the good days in the guard-house, the 
 cards that stick to one's fingers, that hideous 
 queen of spades with feather furbelows, and the 
 old tattered Pigault-Lebruns lying round on the 
 camp beds." 
 
 Ron plon plon ! Ron plon plon ! 
 
 " Oh ! the long nights mounting guard at the 
 gates of the ministries, the chinks in the sentry-box 
 which let in the rain, the feet that are always cold, 
 and the fine gala coaches that spatter you as they 
 go by. Oh ! that extra duty, the days in the 
 stocks, the vile-smelling bucket, the wooden pillow, 
 the cold reveille of a rainy morning, and the taps 
 of a foggy night, when the gas is lighted and the 
 roll-call brings every one in all breathless ! " 
 
 Ron plon plon ! Ron plon plon ! 
 
 " Oh ! the forest of Vincennes, the white cotton 
 gloves, the walks on the ramparts. Oh ! the 
 Barriere de l'ficole, the soldier's girl, the cornet 
 in the Salon de Mars, the absinthe in the garden, 
 the secrets between two hiccoughs, the sabres 
 unsheathed, the sentimental song — sung with a 
 hand on one's heart ! " 
 
 Dream, dream, poor man ; it is not I who will 
 prevent you ; tap your drum boldly, tap hard with 
 
Barrack Homesickness. 189 
 
 all your might. I have no right to think you 
 ridiculous. 
 
 If you are homesick for your barrack, have not 
 I, I myself, a longing for mine? 
 
 My Paris pursues me even here — like yours. 
 You drum beneath the pines and I make copy. — 
 Fine Provencals we are, i' faith! Down there, 
 in the barracks of Paris we regret our blue 
 Alpilles and the fresh wild odour of lavender; 
 but here, in the heart of Provence we miss our 
 barracks, and all that recalls them to us is 
 precious. 
 
 Eight o'clock is striking in the village. Pistolet, 
 not relinquishing his drumsticks, starts to go back. 
 I hear him, descending through the pines, still drum- 
 ming. And I, lying on the grass, sick with nos- 
 talgia, I fancy I see, to the sound of the drum as 
 it recedes, my Paris, the whole of my Paris defiling 
 among the firs. 
 
 Ah Paris ! . . Paris ! . . Forever Paris ! 
 
LETTERS TO AN ABSENT ONE. 
 
LETTERS TO AN ABSENT 
 ONE. 
 
 THE SURRENDER. 
 
 Written Feb. 6, 187 1. 
 
 I DO not know what bravura air they will sing 
 to you in the theatre at Bordeaux apropos of the 
 siege and the surrender of Paris ; but if you want 
 to know, once for all, my sentiments on that 
 lamentable affair, here they are in two words : — 
 
 Our valiant generals — may the devil take them ! 
 — defended the ex-capital just as they might have 
 defended Mezieres, Toul, or Verdun, after a certain 
 military code which on leaving school each one 
 carries under the lining of his k6pi : " Article 
 I. A besieged city never unbesieges itself." Yet 
 they parted from that precept and attempted to 
 raise the siege. 
 
 Remark in passing that these same tacticians, 
 eight days before the siege, told us with adorable 
 self-sufficiency that we might be carried by assault, 
 but never invested — never. 
 
 Oh yes ! generals of the Good God, we could be 
 
 invested. The Prussians have broad paws, and 
 
 although Paris has a big waist she found herself, 
 
 in less than a week, pinched in like a wasp by those 
 
 13 
 
194 Letters to cut Absent One. 
 
 old veterans; but if you generals had had the 
 pluck we might even then have got out of the 
 difficulty. Paris is a giant; and you ought to 
 have let her fight as a giant; you ought to have 
 given freedom to her genius and put in motion all 
 her muscles. When the Marne hampered you, 
 Paris should have swallowed the Marne. Those 
 terrible heights of Chatillon, Meudon, Champigny, 
 all those mills, all those knolls, the ridiculous and 
 bloody names of which pursue us in our dreams, 
 Paris, with one kick, could have sent them to 
 the moon. It was a matter of four hundred 
 thousand spades working for a month behind a 
 hundred thousand muskets; but you would not 
 hear of it. 
 
 Ah ! the true history of that siege, it is not in 
 newspapers or in books that we must look for it ; 
 we should go to the ministry of war. There were 
 fought the great battles before Paris. There were 
 wrecked against the leathern bucklers of military 
 bureaucracy all individual efforts, all good wills, all 
 ardent enthusiasms, all great ideas for the defence 
 of the city. It was pitiful to see Minister Dorian 
 and his staff of the Public Works so active, so 
 intelligent, going from bureau to bureau, making 
 himself humble, even small, and supplicating, with 
 clasped hands : — 
 
 " For pity's sake, gentlemen of the War Depart- 
 ment! We know how insignificant we are; the 
 cleverest of us cannot serve to even brush your 
 Guiods and your Frebaults. Yes, you are right, 
 our engineers are asses, our contractors under- 
 
The Surrender. 195 
 
 stand nothing; but never mind that, — do try our 
 little pieces of 7 loaded at the breech, and our 
 flying supply-waggons, which can pour hogsheads 
 of hot coffee and wine down your soldiers throats 
 even on the battlefield, and our stationary balloons 
 which, without costing you the life of a single man, 
 can reconnoitre and make sure whether the bat- 
 teries on the Chatillon are really only stove-pipes, 
 as it is said they are." 
 
 And how proud they were, those brave Public 
 Works men, when, after five months of entreaty, 
 efforts, and documents of all kinds, they succeeded 
 in getting to the front a few of those " pieces of 
 7 " — about which one of our great generals said 
 in his slightly cracked faubourg voice : — 
 
 " Not so bad, this commercial artillery ! I really 
 must see about buying some." 
 
 Too late, general. The Prussians have got them 
 
 all. 
 
 Now, the end is come. Pans has once more 
 eaten white bread and butter. There is no going 
 back to the past. At first I raged, — my God! 
 how I raged, — but of late, I feel within me, in the 
 depths of me, something relaxed, something rest- 
 ful. It was so long, my dear friend, so long, that 
 siege ! so agonizing, so monotonous ! It seems to 
 me as if I had just spent five months at sea in 
 a dead and almost continual calm. 
 
 And to think that for certain persons those five 
 months of enervating sadness were intoxicating — 
 a perpetual fete. From the privates of the National 
 Guard, earning their forty-five sous a day for doing 
 
196 Letters to an Absent One, 
 
 nothing, to the majors with seven stripes, construc- 
 tors of barricades in chambers, ambulance fellows 
 of Gamache, all shiny with good meat juice, fan- 
 tastic free-lances parading in cafes and calling the 
 waiters with omnibus whistles, commanders of the 
 National Guard billeted with their mistresses in 
 the public apartments, all the hucksters, all the 
 tricksters, the dog-stealers, the cat-hunters, the sel- 
 lers of horse-hoofs, albumen, gelatine, the pigeon- 
 raisers, the owners of milch cows, all those having 
 notes in the sheriff's hands and those who dislike 
 to pay their rent, — to every one of them the end 
 of the siege is desolation ; there is not a patriotic 
 thought among them. Paris free, they were forced 
 to return to the ranks, to work, to face life, to give 
 up the gold lace, the public apartments, and return 
 to their kennels, — ah ! it was hard. 
 
 Certainly I do not wish to calumniate the Re- 
 public. In the first place, I do not yet know what 
 it is ; then, having seen very closely the men and 
 the things of the empire, I have no right to cavil. 
 Nevertheless, what has been going on around me 
 since the fourth of September has filled my soul 
 with bitterness, and made me more sceptical than 
 ever. All those that I knew to be fools, loafers, 
 idlers, incapables have come to the surface and 
 found offices. Be it understood that I am not 
 speaking of republicans by conviction, faithful men, 
 men of the night before ; they have had their turn, 
 and it was just; but I speak of the others, those whom 
 that sad empire would not have had in its lowest 
 offices, — they are provided for now, — even to 
 
The Surrender. 197 
 
 that miserable, that pitiable N. . . whom we saw 
 during the death-struggle of the late reign begging 
 from all the ministries an office, no matter what; 
 here he is now commissary of police in a blood- 
 thirsty arrondissement. 
 
 Another strange thing is to see — in the midst 
 of the great political hurly-burly — the immutabil- 
 ity of certain men and certain situations. The 
 most complete type of these hommes-bou^es — hu- 
 man buoys, who float in all weathers and come to 
 the surface of the water no matter what may hap- 
 pen — is the worthy secretary-general of the ci-de- 
 vant legislative body. All the journalists of Paris 
 know this long individual with the livid face, thin 
 lips, sad smile, head of an acrobat and a beadle, 
 who is always to be seen seated at a little table, 
 above the tribune and behind the presidential 
 chair. I like to think that the place is a good 
 one, for it is now more than thirty years that the 
 worthy man has clung to it ; it would need a bold 
 wind-sweep to topple him from that height. Kings 
 have gone, empires have crumbled, the torpedoes 
 of the republic have blown the Assembly to bits, 
 but the little table of M. Valette has not budged, 
 and never will budge. 
 
 Talk to me of in-dis-pen-sa-ble men ! He is 
 one ; or at least he makes us believe he is, and 
 that is why he is so strong. It seems that no one 
 in France, not even M. Thiers, knows parliamentary 
 law as he does. So that if he were not here the 
 parliamentary machine would be unable to perform 
 its functions. Outside of those terrible rules and 
 
igS Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 regulations, as to which he is pitiless, he is a man 
 all suppleness and all concession. " If your Excel- 
 lency desires it," he says in a sugary voice, bowing 
 to the ground before M. Palikao. This was said 
 on September 4, at midday. September 6, at the 
 same hour, he entered the salons of the Place 
 Beauvau and, with the same obsequious smile, the 
 same bend of his courtier hips, he said to M. Gam- 
 betta : " If your Excellency will kindly permit me." 
 And this time — as ever before — they have left 
 him tranquil at his little table, with the keys of 
 the Palais in his pocket, a picket of the National 
 Guard before his door to do him honour; and for 
 the last five months he has had nothing to do but 
 to pick violets on the beautiful lawns of the presi- 
 dency and draw his pay regularly. Now that the 
 Chamber has opened at Bordeaux he is down there, 
 smiling as usual, at his little table behind the presi- 
 dential arm-chair. 
 
 A saying of this amiable personage will complete 
 his portrait. One of his subordinates attempted 
 on some occasion to oppose him, openly relying on 
 the protection of M. Schneider, then president of 
 the legislative body. M. Valette summoned the 
 poor devil into his cabinet, and there, gently and 
 without anger, he slipped into him between skin 
 and flesh, as they say, this memorable remark: — 
 
 " Take care what you are about, my friend ; 
 presidents are not eternal." 
 
 M. Valette is eternal. 
 
 He is called " The Administration." 
 
The Dictators. 199 
 
 THE DICTATORS. 
 
 Do you remember No. 7 rue de Tournon and 
 that famous Hotel du Senat where we have eaten 
 so many Reims biscuits in the dust? I passed 
 before it this morning on my way to look at the 
 bombarded quarter. The house is still the same ; 
 the courtyard as black and damp, the great win- 
 dows of the dining-room as cloudy as they were 
 a dozen years ago, but the room itself seemed to 
 me less noisy. 
 
 What a racket was there — in our day — at din- 
 ner-time ! Always a dozen Southern students — 
 of the worst South — with rusty beards too black, 
 too shiny, shrill tones, extravagant gestures, and 
 long, drooping noses which gave them the look 
 of a horse's head. Heavens ! how insufferable 
 those young Gascons were ! What excitement out 
 of nothing, what silliness, what assurance, what 
 turbulence ! One of them especially, the loudest 
 bawler, the most gesticulating of the band, remains, 
 more particularly, in my memory. I can see him 
 now as he entered the room, round-backed, rolling 
 his shoulders, blind of one eye, and his face all 
 inflamed. 
 
 As soon as he entered, the other horse-heads 
 sprang up around the table and greeted him with 
 a formidable neigh : — 
 
200 Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! here 's Gambetta ! " 
 
 They pronounced it, the monsters ! Ghambetthdh, 
 and a mouthful it was ! 
 
 He, sitting noisily down, spread himself over the 
 table, or threw himself back in his chair, perorated, 
 rapped with his fist, laughed till the windows shook, 
 dragged the table-cloth about him, spat to a dis- 
 tance, got drunk without drinking, snatched the 
 dishes from your hands, the words from your 
 mouth, and, after having talked the whole time, 
 went away without having said a single thing; 
 Gaudissart and Gazonal in one; that is to say, all 
 that can be imagined most provincial, most sono- 
 rous, and most tiresome. I remember that once I 
 invited to our table a little employe of the city, a 
 cold lad, very self-contained, who had just made 
 his debut in the Charivari, signing the name of 
 Henri Rochefort to theatre articles in a prose 
 as sober and reserved as his own person. Gam- 
 betta, to do honour to the journalist, seated him 
 on his right, the side of his sound eye, and 
 soaked him all the evening with his eloquence, so 
 well and so long that the future chairman of the 
 Committee on Barricades, carried away from my 
 dinner a stupendous headache which cut short our 
 relations. Since then I have greatly regretted him. 
 
 You see, my dear absent friend, how mistaken 
 we can be about men. How many times did we 
 say that that flower of the Tarn-et-Garonne would 
 return to his own region and flatten himself day 
 by day between the heavy folios of a provincial 
 code in the neighbourhood of Auch or P^zenas, 
 
The Dictators. 201 
 
 We never once suspected then that we had before 
 us a great orator in the germ, a deputy, a minister, 
 a dictator; and that from that disorderly brain, 
 that flux of language, thick and muddy as the 
 waters of a pool, would one day gush a word of 
 power which seemed to some the very breath itself 
 of the Nation. 
 
 How came it so? By what mysterious opera- 
 tion did this Tholomyes of the table d'hote turn 
 into a great man so suddenly? I have my own 
 idea about it; but it is a poetical idea, and you 
 will laugh when I tell it to you. Nevertheless, 
 nothing can be more real. It came from the day 
 when he acquired a glass eye, a beautiful blue eye, 
 with an inalterable iris — from that day dates the 
 metamorphosis and the high destiny of Gambetta. 
 That glass eye was probably a fairy ; and in bring- 
 ing light to the cyclops face she gave him, by the 
 same stroke of her wand, intellect, power of ex- 
 pression, the gift of command, and, above all, the 
 gift of malice. For he is malicious, that Gascon ! 
 No other proof is needed than that galloping con- 
 sumption about which he made us all so pitiful 
 last year, and which will certainly take its place in 
 history, a little lower than the crutches of Sixtus 
 V. in the storehouse of the properties and artifices 
 of great men. 
 
 But what his glass eye never could relieve him 
 of were his terrible Southern accent and his epilep- 
 tic gesticulation. In those respects he was always 
 the former Gambetta of the rue de Tournon ; and 
 persons who knew him well were able, without 
 
202 Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 leaving Paris, to follow him, step by step, in his 
 provincial heroics. We could see him thumping 
 his fist on the balcony of prefectures and casting 
 to the astounded echoes of the market-places or 
 the great squares a formidable and roaring : " Ci- 
 toyefns ! " Also we could imagine him inspecting 
 a camp of Mobiles, or heading a patriotic funeral, 
 head down, back rounded, gait rolling, a red fou- 
 lard knotted crookedly round his throat, and his 
 right arm flung carelessly on the shoulder of one 
 of his Mamelukes, — Spuller, Pipe-en-Bois, or 
 Chose. 
 
 Just think ! if one had the heart to laugh, what 
 a jolly vaudeville one might make with that title : 
 " The Mamelukes of Gambetta." What airs and 
 bedizenment they gave themselves, all those ninnies, 
 those obscurities, those incapables, whom that glass 
 eye dragged for one moment out of their native 
 dusk ! What junketings ! what fetes ! and how 
 hard it must" have been to renounce it all. It 
 should, in justice, be said that the business of 
 mameluke had, at times, a cruel side. I remember 
 seeing, some four or five months ago, the head of the 
 cabinet, Spuller, in a terrible position. It was on 
 the Place Saint-Pierre at Montmartre, one windy 
 afternoon under a broiling sun. In the middle of 
 the square, Nadar, wearing his aeronaut's helmet, 
 was flaming away. In a corner, the enormous 
 yellow balloon, lying on its side, was slowly inflat- 
 ing. All around, stood an immense crowd come 
 to see the minister of the Interior mount up into 
 the sky with the head of his cabinet. In the dis- 
 
The Dictators. 203 
 
 tance, a dull but incessant cannonading was 
 heard. 
 
 I don't know why it was, but that vast blue sky, 
 the yellow balloon, that Delegate of the Defence 
 about to fly upward like a bird, the giant city with 
 its many quarters in which the thunder of the 
 siege guns was lost among the myriad street noises 
 — all these things had something fantastic and 
 Chinese about them which made me think vaguely 
 of the siege of Pekin. To complete the illusion, 
 the worthy M. Spuller, in a long furred coat, opened 
 wide his eyes like circumflex accents and gazed 
 with horror at the preparations for this unusual 
 departure — the vast sky, Paris below it in a fog, 
 and the great yellow creature swelling up to sight 
 and dragging at its ropes. The poor mameluke 
 was piteous to behold. He was pale, his teeth 
 chattered. Once or twice I heard him say, quite 
 low, in a daft voice : — 
 
 " It is, truly, a most extraordinary thing." 
 Most extraordinary, indeed, Monsieur Spuller. 
 
204 Letters to an Absent One, 
 
 A MUSHROOM BED OF GREAT MEN. 
 
 ABOUT the year LXVII. of the republican hegira, 
 in the middle of the month floreal, when the trees 
 of the boulevard Montmartre were beginning to 
 tint with green, the citizen Carjat, amiable poet 
 and photographer, and behind him a whole covey 
 of young lyricals, thinking that the absinthe of the 
 Cafe des Variet.es tasted of straw, crossed the 
 roadway with a dignified step and hung up their 
 lyres and their hats on the hooks of the opposite 
 cafe. It was thus, that the great future destiny of 
 the Cafe de Madrid began. 
 
 Up to that time it was only a large, rather mel- 
 ancholy tavern, with faded divans and clouded 
 mirrors, where one found old numbers of " Iberia " 
 lying about, and a few Spaniards, gilt and 
 wrinkled as Cordova leather, drinking choco- 
 late bavaroise silently. The noisy invasion of the 
 lyric poets dispersed these hidalgos, but the 
 tavern-keeper lost nothing. That machine for 
 shaking hands called Carjat, once installed near 
 the cafe window, harpooned the passers in the 
 streets, and, thanks to his adroit and continual fish- 
 ing, the Cafe de Madrid became in a very short 
 time the fashionable literary drinking-place ; some- 
 thing like the divan Lepelletier, but more mixed, 
 more lively — the little bourse of the Beaux-Arts. 
 
A Mushroom Bed of Great Men. 205 
 
 A newspaper in process of being founded, a book 
 about to appear, the opening of the Salon, an ex- 
 hibition at Martinet's, now and then an exchange 
 of slaps between two lyricals, a little duel on the 
 lie Saint-Ouen with effusion of sour wine, these 
 were, in those days, the great events of the place. 
 As for politics, they were little thought of. And 
 yet, the fine flower of the Commune was there, 
 expanding on the benches ; but who the devil 
 would have thought it? All those young fellows 
 seemed so little cut out for dictators, and they 
 were still so far from thinking of it themselves. 
 
 Valles, his nose in his absinthe, joked, sneered, 
 spied on others from the corner of his eye, and 
 watched the cafe, seeking types for his book on 
 " Refractories." He had talent, that Valles, before 
 the Commune; but a talent without suppleness, 
 without imagination ; very limited as to dictionary ; 
 the words " flags, rags, bayonets," recurring con- 
 tinually and merely to give a false ring to his sen- 
 tences. But with it all, a very individual way of 
 seeing and saying things, a certain joyous ferocity, 
 wit that was wholly his own, and a sufficiency of 
 literature. In those lugubrious tales to which he 
 devoted himself we could guess the bitter laugh, 
 the eyes suffused with bile, of a man whose child- 
 hood was wretched, and who hates humanity be- 
 cause, when he was young, he was forced to wear 
 ridiculous garments made from his father's old 
 overcoats. 
 
 Beside Valles, the big painter Courbet, con- 
 ventional peasant, puffy with pride and beer, 
 
206 Letters to an Absent One, 
 
 laughed in his beard and shook his fat, saying evil 
 of Rophoel. 
 
 Farther on, a tall thin fellow in spectacles, with 
 the curled and silly head of a lawyer's clerk and a 
 look as if he had just come from Fortunio's office, 
 was going about from table to table distributing 
 copies of his first book, — " Desperanza" by Ver- 
 morel, a work with a philosophic purpose, written 
 in the groves of Bullier with the sentimentality of 
 the Latin quarter. As literary promise it was 
 scarcely worth more than the novels of Paschal 
 Grousset. 
 
 The latter often came to the Cafe" de Madrid. 
 A pretty little gentleman, gloved, pomatumed, and 
 curled with tongs, having, both for speech and 
 writing, that deplorable gift which is called facil- 
 ity, and with it a craving to make the world turn 
 on that curious given name of his — Paschal. 
 Poor Villemessant, who was always open to the 
 seductions of dress, and who, in his last years 
 especially, looked less to the talent of his writers 
 than to the tying of their cravats, was charmed with 
 this perfumed Corsican. Novels, items, science for 
 a sou, Don Pasquale did them all for the " Figaro," 
 and as many as he pleased. But inasmuch as what 
 he specially desired to do was to make a noise, 
 and his literature made none, he ended by getting 
 tired of it and went over, as they said at Madrid, 
 to the table of the Politicals. 
 
 Here 's what that famous table was. It happened 
 that one day the machine called Carjat, swinging 
 his great arms in the cafe window, caught on the 
 
A Mushroom Bed of Great Men. 207 
 
 fly a young law- student, named Gambetta, already 
 celebrated in all the plum-shops of the boulevard 
 Saint-Michel — the law-students and licentiates go 
 there in flocks like starlings. Behind Gambetta 
 was Laurier, then Mossieu Floquet, then Spuller, 
 then Lannes, then Isambert, all of them great poli- 
 ticians, and consumers of beer. These gentlemen, 
 on arriving, took possession of a corner of the cafe 
 and never left it until the revolution of Septem- 
 ber 4. It was there, on that " table of the Politi- 
 cals," a noisy, gesticulating table, that Gambetta's 
 fist exercised itself for five years in parliamentary 
 pugilism; the marble is still there, split like the 
 rock of Roland. 
 
 Later, at the farther end of the cafe, was formed 
 what was called " the corner of the Pure." There, 
 among a group of old sachems with long beards, 
 solemn and dogmatic ventriloquists, snorted Pere 
 Delescluze, nervous and high-strung as an Arab 
 steed. With his cameo profile, his feverish ges- 
 ture, his fanatical blue eyes — eyes so young be- 
 neath those white eyebrows — he reminded me of 
 a certain commander of the regulars of Abd-el- 
 Kader, whom I had formerly known in Algeria, 
 whom the Arabs venerated as a saint because he 
 had made, I don't know how many times, the 
 journey to Mecca. 
 
 Pere Delescluze had never been to Mecca, but 
 he had returned from Cayenne, and among his 
 own party that counted to him for quite as much. 
 He was the Hadji of the democracy. There were 
 men in the departments who had travelled two 
 
2o8 Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 hundred leagues merely to look at him and lay 
 their hand upon the skirt of his coat 
 
 That fact gave us at times very delectable come- 
 dies. One day I saw a man from Narbon, familiar 
 and hail-fellow-well-met as they are down there, 
 lead up to the table of the saint a whole delega- 
 tion of Narbonese. Never shall I forget that 
 presentation. 
 
 The man from Narbon, proud of his Delescluze, 
 tapped him on the back, leaned upon his shoulder, 
 hooked him by the buttonhole, and called him 
 from one end of the caf<£ to the other : Delesse- 
 cluzh! winking to his compatriots as if to say 
 " Hein ! you see how I speak to him." During 
 this time the worthy Narbonese gazed at the saint 
 with humid eyes, sighing, raising their arms to 
 heaven, and giving way to all sorts of naive and 
 exaggerated expansions, like the savage Friday 
 when he found his old father at the bottom of the 
 boat. The saint, who is a clever man, did not 
 know where to poke himself, and seemed much 
 displeased. Near him, a little man with a gray tuft 
 of beard under his chin, the head of a kind goat, 
 and light-coloured humourous eyes, smiled with a 
 touched air as he drank his absinthe. This was 
 that brave Razoua, a former spahi, who flung him- 
 self into politics to please Revillon, and never 
 doubted that some day he should be deputy of 
 Paris and director of the ficole Militaire. 
 
 Little by little, however, without any one taking 
 notice of it, the physiognomy of the cafe was 
 
A Mushroom Bed of Great Men. 209 
 
 Iransformed. Of the men of letters of the first 
 leriod, some, like Banville, Baboii, Monselet, had 
 led, frightened away by the stupid racket ; others 
 Irere dead, such as Baudelaire, Delvau, and Charles 
 kataille. Some, like Castagnary and Carjat him- 
 lelf, had gone over to Gambetta. Politics had 
 Ividently seized upon all the tables. 
 I But worst of all was when Rochefort founded 
 1 The Marseillaise." Then a cloud rained down 
 ipon us of students, old and pretentious, im- 
 >rovised journalists, without wit, without spelling, 
 is ignorant of Paris as Patagonians, children with 
 >eards, who thought themselves called upon to 
 egenerate the world, pedants of republicanism, 
 ill wearing waistcoats a la Robespierre, cravats a 
 'a Saint-Just, — the Raoul Rigaults, the Tridons, 
 he youth of Schools who had no youth and no 
 scholarship, did not love to laugh, and were sulky 
 md savage; celebrities of Belleville, such as the 
 "amous planner of the club of things, pawn-heads, 
 greasy collars, greasy hair; and all the cracked- 
 Drains, the trainers of snails, the saviours of the 
 Deople, all the discontented, all the good-for-noth- 
 ings, all the idlers, the incapables — 
 
 And to think that those are the men who for 
 a year past have guided France ! To think that 
 from the coarsest to the silliest there was not one 
 frequenter of the Cafe de Madrid who has not 
 been something — dictator, minister, deputy, gen- 
 eral, commissary of police, inspector of camps, 
 colonel of the National Guard ! And how luck 
 has favoured them ! A few, it is true, got nothing 
 14 
 
2 to Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 after September 4; but March 18 repaired that 
 injustice. That time nothing was allowed to go 
 begging. They are all members of the Commune 
 now, even that poor devil of an Andrieux, a chiro- 
 manician with a corroded face, who used to wander 
 timidly behind our chairs, begging for our hands 
 and calling us "dear master." 
 
 The place may truly be termed an historical 
 cafe. If the revolution triumphs it is on the tables 
 of the Cafe" de Madrid that the new laws will be 
 written. 
 
Rochefort and RossignoL 211 
 
 ROCHEFORT AND ROSSIGNOL. 
 
 The Rochefort whom I knew on my arrival in 
 Paris was a worthy youth of rather melancholy 
 temperament, living modestly with his father on 
 a fourth floor of the rue des Deux-Boules, and 
 using himself very hard to earn the bread of the 
 household. A petty employment at the Hotel de 
 Ville, a few articles in the Charivari paid for at 
 six farthings a line (which, to tell the truth, were 
 not worth more), from time to time a "curtain- 
 raiser " for Plunkett or Cogniard — these were the 
 makings of a gray and tranquil half-life, which 
 resembled his writings, but did not go with that 
 very eccentric countenance, those thin and peevish 
 lips, that great worn brow, and a head always ach- 
 ing, pale, tortured, nervous, which formed at that 
 time his only originality. 
 
 What I liked in that Rochefort was a certain 
 bravado of demeanour, a very keen taste for poesy, 
 for pictures, and especially for that science of 
 Paris, that boulevard experience which he had 
 even then in the highest degree as the son of a 
 vaudevillist, brought up at Charlemagne and the 
 Cafe" du Cirque. With that exception, there was 
 nothing marked about him : cleverness without 
 excess, regularity in his work, the manners and 
 
212 Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 ways of a clerk, and no other ambition than t< 
 see his name often on the posters in compan) 
 with that of Clairville or Siraudin. Such was th< 
 Henri Rochefort of i860. The other, the Roche 
 fort of the Lanterne, came later, and it is to Ros 
 signol that we owe him. 
 
 This Rossignol was a clerk of the city whon 
 one met everywhere, — at first representations, a 
 funerals ; who was always asking, with an anxiou; 
 air, "Have you seen Rochefort?" and who spen 
 his life in following him, missing him, awaiting 
 him, fetching him his cabs, carrying his copy tc 
 the papers, repeating his sayings, imitating hi; 
 gestures ; and who finally ended by cutting out o 
 Rochefort's shadow a species of personality of his 
 own. The type is rather frequent on the boulevard 
 All men who become a little known drag Ros- 
 signols after them. Such individuals, who hold ar 
 intermediate place between servants and confidants 
 need an equable temper, the instincts of a hanger- 
 on, and some means ; for the business is all-absorb- 
 ing and ill-rewarded, and sometimes requires out- 
 lay. It so chanced that Rochefort's Rossigno! 
 had, over and above these necessary qualification* 
 for his part, a certain originality of his own. 
 
 He was a great Panurge with long flat hair, a 
 singular mixture of artlessness and cynicism, o 
 timidity and impudence, stupidity and satire 
 youth and decrepitude — twenty-two years old and 
 the whims of an old man, a cane with an ivory 
 handle and a snuff-box. The most silent and 
 gloomy of beings, and then, suddenly, an excess 
 
Rochefort and Rossignol. 213 
 
 of wild gayety, cold excitement, outrageous jests 
 a la Bache ; insulting persons in the streets with- 
 out motive, simply for the pleasure of gabbling; 
 foaming, saying everything, either droll or inde- 
 cent, that came into his head, with the gestures of 
 an epileptic, the eyes of a Pierrot, and the sad 
 laugh, the prolonged laugh, of emaciated men. 
 
 I still ask myself how this demoniac ever pene- 
 trated into the peaceful life and intimacy of Roche 
 fort. Certain it is that they were never apart. 
 When Rossignol committed follies Rochefort was 
 there to repair them ; he fetched him from the 
 guard-house, took him back to his parents, stuffed 
 him with theatre tickets, walked about with him 
 on the boulevard — which made my Rossignol very 
 proud, and gave him early a taste for celebrity. 
 One fine day he too wanted to write, or, at any 
 rate to see his name in a newspaper. Rossignol, 
 a man of letters ! It was so droll that Rochefort 
 could not resist. He put him in that establish- 
 ment of lunatics called Le Tintamarre, and know- 
 ing him incapable of writing a single line — even 
 there — he amused himself by writing his articles 
 for him. 
 
 Then occurred a singular thing. This Roche- 
 fort, stiff and dull when he wrote for himself, 
 assumed in behalf of another a trivial, crazy liveli- 
 ness which resembled Rossignol's own personality ; 
 incarnating himself in that burlesque type, he 
 acquired all its eccentricities, all its effrontery. 
 The maddest things that came into his head, the 
 things one dares not say, the scum of the pen, the 
 
214 Letters to an Adsent One. 
 
 mud of the ink, seemed to him good enough fo: 
 Rossignol ; and as he mingled with them his owi 
 flair of Paris and his clever vaudevillist knack o 
 managing effects, there resulted a species of facetiou 
 literature, coldly frenzied, illustrative to indecency 
 not French at all, but very Parisian, dislocated ii 
 style, sentences turning summerset, which secure< 
 the fortune of Le Tintamarre and made Rossigno 
 famous from the Cafe" de Suede to Bobino. Oi 
 that day Rochefort found his manner. He did no 
 deceive himself as to that ; and after a few month 
 of such exercise, when he knew his trapeze thor 
 oughly, he said to the other, " Go alone ! " an< 
 henceforth he did Rossignol on his own accounl 
 
 The unfortunate satellite, abandoned to himseli 
 did not do so badly, — living a little on his reputa 
 tion and a little on what he had learned from hi 
 master. Then some money was bequeathed t< 
 him, and hey ! the ladies of Bobino, the journalists 
 the suppers, the gay bohemian life ! In short, th 
 poor fellow came to the end he wished for: h 
 killed himself by sitting up o' nights, and wen 
 away to die in the gentle land of Cannes, ii 
 the neighbourhood of Victor Cousin and othe 
 celebrated persons, which caused him a certaii 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Rochefort had various reasons for not throwini 
 himself into the same way of life. In the firs 
 place, his stomach, — one of those terrible gastral 
 gic stomachs, always irritated, ruined at birth, b; 
 which the Michelets of the future will not fail % 
 explain his literary temperament. Besides, wher 
 
Rochcfort and Rossignol. 215 
 
 would he have found the time to dissipate? He 
 had enough to do to keep up with that hurricane 
 of Parisian vogue which fell upon him like a thun- 
 derbolt, uplifted him, shook him, scattered his 
 budding fame from the Jockey-Club to the wilds 
 of America, spreading about him a tremen- 
 dous and laughable popularity by which he 
 was himself dumbfounded. People pointed him 
 out to one another, and fought for him. Race- 
 horses bore his name. Courtesans pursued him. 
 Show me your Rochefort," said the Due de 
 Morny whenever he met Villemessant. For it is 
 well to know that if Rochefort is culpable all Paris 
 has been his accomplice. We spoilt him. We 
 said too often : " How droll he is, that Roche- 
 fort ! " You, yourself, O Veuillot ! you laughed. 
 And how determined he was, that fellow, to make 
 us laugh ! How afraid that his fame would escape 
 him ! Which of us has not seen him biting his 
 nails, the day after one of his articles, asking him- 
 self anxiously: "What can I tell them next?" 
 And so, when he felt that his vein was exhausted, 
 when he had nothing more to say, he did as Ros- 
 signol had done ; he relied on audacity and said 
 all, all — in the Rossignol language. Hence the 
 success of the Lantern*. 
 
 Ah ! my friend, God keep us from a success like 
 that. When a man has once tasted it he never 
 ceases to drink it, no matter at what price, and no 
 matter in what glass. In hospitals you can see 
 unfortunate men cursed with alcoholic madness, 
 flinging themselves thus on anything they can find; 
 
216 Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 vitriol, eau de Cologne, all is good to them, pro 
 vided they can drink it. This is Rochefort': 
 condition. If that man of intelligence, if tha 
 gentleman is picked up of a morning in the gut 
 ter of the Pere Duchene, believe me, it is not polit 
 ical passion that drove him into it. Politics ! di< 
 he ever even know what they are ? Nor is it lov< 
 of gain ; I know him to be above that. No, it is ai 
 inextinguishable thirst for popularity, the alcohol 
 ism of success, with all its symptoms, — taste lost 
 stammering, mind wandering, madness. 
 
 At one moment we thought him saved. During 
 the five months of the siege he had the courage tc 
 let himself be forgotten, to write no more ; anc 
 this should be remembered in his favour. Bu 
 after that, what a falling back ! In his absence 
 others had done Rochefort, and done it better thar 
 he. In vain he shouted and gesticulated, his popu 
 larity was lost, gone to the Maroteaus and the Ver- 
 mesches. . . This is how I explain his anger, his 
 delirium during the last days, that temporary in- 
 sanity, that overflow of bile which drowned every- 
 thing and blinded him as if his gall-bladder hac 
 burst. 
 
 In spite of all, rid him of his bile and his foam, 
 and Rochefort will always remain a figure of this 
 period. He came at his right time ; he found the 
 house wide open, as if he were expected. He was 
 the providential missile — if providence there be 
 about it — sent to break the first window of the 
 Empire and give the signal of the general demoli- 
 tion. . . Even from the point of view of our pro- 
 
Rochefort and RossiguoL 217 
 
 fession, we ought to pay attention to him. His 
 pamphlets often have fire, wit, and comic power. 
 He gives me the effect of an exasperated Paul- 
 Louis Courier, exactly on the level of his epoch 
 and speaking to it in a language it understands. 
 The two pamphleteers resemble each other in the 
 part they have played, in their implacable hatreds, 
 and in the artificiality of their style —   for neither 
 write naturally. But there is this difference be- 
 tween them, the same difference that there was be- 
 tween the two Courts, the one, where Horace was 
 translated, the other where Theresa was invoked. 
 Courier takes the affectation of his language 
 from the old towers of the sixteenth century; 
 Rochefort has picked up his in the brand-new 
 slang of the nineteenth. In reading Paul-Louis 
 I see old Amyot laughing at me between the 
 lines. In reading Rochefort I think all the 
 while of Rossignol. 
 
218 Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 THE SENTRY-BOX. 
 
 " THE impression made upon me by places is 
 one of my troubles. I am affected by them be- 
 yond all reason." 
 
 These words of a nervosity wholly contemporan- 
 eous, which one might think were written yesterday, 
 are really those of Mme. de Sevigne ; and never, to 
 my thinking, did she say anything more deeply felt 
 or more profound. 
 
 There is, in truth, in the places where we live, a 
 mysterious influence, issuing from wood, from stone ; 
 a malignancy in surrounding things which takes de- 
 light in troubling our souls, upsetting our ideas, and 
 impressing our miserable brains beyond all reason. 
 I don't remember now which little town in Algeria 
 it was where the soldiers mounting guard at a cer- 
 tain point of the ramparts felt themselves seized, in 
 less than an hour, with an insurmountable disgust 
 for life. Two or three times a week some one or 
 other of these poor devils was found hanging to a 
 nail of the sentry-box; and the proof that there 
 was something more in this than the mere nostal- 
 gia of recruits lay in the fact that as soon as the 
 sentry-box was pulled down the epidemic of 
 suicides ceased. 
 
The Sentry- Box. 219 
 
 This was certainly a specimen of the jettatura 
 mentioned by Mme. de Sevigne; but I know a 
 still more striking instance. Don't you remember 
 Smile Ollivier arriving from Saint-Tropez in the 
 month of April, 1870, to construct that marvellous 
 public building of a composite order called the 
 Liberal Empire? He too, unfortunate fellow, had 
 the malady of the sentry-box ; and it was to evade 
 its pernicious influence, to put himself as much as 
 possible under shelter from the bad air which per- 
 vades great buildings in charge of the State, that he 
 was firmly resolved not to take up his abode at 
 the ministry. 
 
 11 1 shall go there in the morning," he said to his 
 friends, " as an Englishman goes to his counting- 
 room in the city. In the evening, business over, I 
 shall shut up the office, and come back to the rue 
 Saint-Guillaume." 
 
 And then, exciting himself with the idea of his 
 coming liberalism, he continued enthusiastically: 
 
 " I will show them what a minister of Justice 
 should be. No style in his household, no equi- 
 pages. I shall go to the Chamber on foot, to the 
 Tuileries on foot, and never then except to the 
 Council of ministers. I am determined not to 
 attend either the grand receptions or to the little 
 suppers. That is where consciences are lost; 
 and I intend to keep mine. . . Ah ! they accuse 
 me of having sold myself! well they shall see, 
 they shall see." 
 
 In saying this the worthy man was sincere, and 
 the execution of this fine programme was actually 
 
220 Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 begun. For some time the ministry of Justice, so 
 stiff, so formal, was open to the public like any 
 other vast assemblage of offices. Everything 
 went on in American fashion. The minister re- 
 ceived you without letters of audience. The 
 antechambers stood empty, the ushers crossed 
 their arms; in the gloom of the great deserted 
 salons they could be heard wandering about with 
 melancholy steps shaking their chains like captives. 
 The head of the staff, one of those fat fathers with 
 troublesome digestions who are always afraid of 
 apoplexy, received the head-clerks in the courtyard, 
 a cigar between his teeth, and wrote his signatures* 
 on his knees at the edge of the portico ; which 
 greatly scandalized the office servants of Monsieur 
 Delangle, all of them as grave and pompous as 
 magistrates. 
 
 As for his Excellency, had you seen him arrive 
 in the morning through the arcades of the rue de 
 Castiglione, spectacles on his nose, cravat awry, 
 his long overcoat of the last provincial cut, and 
 that fine new portfolio swelling with the projects of 
 the Liberal Empire, you would have thought him 
 an inspector of primary schools rather than the 
 minister of Justice. This modest behaviour did 
 him great harm at the Tuileries, where his crooked 
 cravat kept the ladies of honour and the chamber- 
 lains a-laughing; but that did not trouble him. 
 Faithful to his scheme of independence, the new 
 minister had nothing to do with any one except 
 the emperor, and he always left the imperial palace 
 with his head high and his glance proud, having 
 
The Sen try- Box. 221 
 
 not so much as a glass of eau sucre'e on his 
 conscience. 
 
 It was at the height of these great ministerial 
 reforms that the killing of Victor Noir occurred. 
 Poor Victor Noir ! by merely writing his name, I 
 see him crossing the boulevard in two strides, with 
 his tall hat of rough gray nap, his pink cheeks, his 
 athletic shoulders, that exuberance of strength and 
 joy which he knew not how to give vent to, and 
 that good, hearty desire to please that shone in his 
 boyish eyes. If he were still living he would be 
 only twenty-three years old ! . . 
 
 But what is the good of talking of these things ? 
 The case has been judged and decided ; the death 
 of that lad is nothing to us now but a date in 
 history — an unforgetable date, however. On that 
 day a new personage, on whom the makers of 
 plans never count, that tragical shuffler of cards 
 called the Unexpected, entered suddenly upon the 
 stage and since then has never left it. 
 
 At the first news of the drama at Auteuil, before 
 the lawyers had taken possession of the corpse 
 and paraded it everywhere on the tumbril of 
 democratic exhibition, all Paris was roused to 
 indignation, — fimile Ollivier more than any one. 
 The night of the crime he walked up and down 
 his office brandishing the letter in which Prince 
 Piefre wrote to M. Conti, with the careless ease of 
 a noble of the fifteenth century : " I believe I have 
 killed one of them." 
 
 " Ah ! he has killed one of them, has he ? " cried 
 the luckless minister in spectacles. " And he 
 
222 Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 thinks he can call it killing? — it is murder. Bona- 
 parte though you be, you shall go to the galleys, 
 monseigneur." 
 
 Meantime as it grew very late and the ministry 
 was still full of people,— M. Grandperret, prefect 
 of police, reporters, messengers, — the minister 
 could not return home as usual to the rue Saint- 
 Guillaume, and towards morning, dropping with 
 fatigue, he went to the bed of his predecessor. 
 
 The next day, when he woke, he was no longer 
 the same man. The indignation of the evening 
 before had given place to conventional sadness, 
 uttered in administrative language. The murder 
 was nothing more than a dreadful misfortune, a 
 very regrettable affair ; one must wait ; one must 
 see. The influence of the sentry-box was begin- 
 ning to be felt. On the following day, worse still. 
 Paris was not yet pacified ; it was judged necessary 
 to remain pro tern, at the ministry. Little by little 
 the habit was taken, so that after the miserable 
 Noir affair was smothered, the minister's residence 
 there became permanent. Ushers and halberdiers 
 resumed their pompous pose at the doors of the 
 reception-rooms ; the bags of the chandeliers were 
 removed, and the founder of the Liberal Empire 
 was delivered over, without being himself aware of 
 it, to the malignancy of furniture and of local 
 officials. 
 
 From that day he became a perfect minister of 
 Justice; suppressed newspapers, sequestrated indi- 
 viduals, supped at the Tuileries, watched his 
 cravats, did all that he did not mean to do, and 
 
The Sentry- Box. 223 
 
 burned all that he had formerly adored. His voice 
 changed ; from shrill it became sour. Contradic- 
 tion was intolerable to him. Despotic to others, he 
 became the courtier of the master, and when the 
 war began, seeking for nought but favour, halluci- 
 nated by the air of the sentry-box, he could 
 neither will anything, nor hinder anything. It 
 'was thus that he ruined France, and all of us, 
 and himself, and his dream of a Liberal Empire 
 as well. 
 
 Oh ! the fatal influence of official sentry-boxes ; 
 who can feel himself sufficiently strong to resist it? 
 Moderate liberals, irreconcilables, indecousables, the 
 purest of the pure, in less than one year they all 
 passed that way. I have before my eyes the pom- 
 pous posters of the Central Committee on the 
 morrow of March* 1 8, also that species of pastoral 
 letter, well floured with philanthropy, in which they 
 disavowed with such indignation the murders in 
 the rue des Rosiers. What protestations and 
 promises did they not make to us ! How often 
 they said, " You will see." And what did we 
 see? They had hardly entered the Hotel de Ville, 
 masters of the mayors and the ministers, before 
 those givers of the holy water of political clubs 
 became the most execrable of tyrants. Does this 
 mean that all those fellows were rascals? No! 
 Besides ferocious gamins, delirious rhetoricians 
 who played at '93 and put their reading into action, 
 besides adventurers, cynics, roysterers, there were 
 men who believed themselves republicans, illuminati 
 of socialism whose lives had hitherto been honest 
 
224 Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 and honourable. For them I ask some clemency. 
 Borne suddenly into power, and overtaken by its 
 vertigo, all the more because they were so little 
 prepared for it, they are scarcely responsible for 
 their acts. The atmosphere of the sentry-boxes 
 had turned them into madmen. 
 
Thi Tricoteuse* 225 
 
 THE TRICOTEUSE. 
 
 Somk eighteen or twenty years ago certain very 
 young fellows from the provinces, arriving in Paris 
 
 to seek their fortunes with their heads full of 
 Ril/.ic and their teeth of a fine length, were very 
 seriously bent on reconstituting tin* Society of the 
 Thirteen. They distributed the parts among 
 themselves, and assigned to each his battle 
 
 ground: "You — you are a handsome fellow ; you 
 
 shall be our de Marsay, you will succeed through 
 women ,\\u\ salons. You, Blondct, by the news- 
 papers. You Raatignac, in politics." All efforts, 
 all resources were to be held in common. Those 
 Who had line linen and varnished boots were to 
 i;ive them to de Marsay to enable him to go into 
 society. All the wit they each possessed, their 
 invention of clever sayings and ideas were to be 
 
 scrupulously laid aside for the journalist. Clients 
 were to be found for Doctor Bianchon; the politi- 
 cal man must be brought forward and talked about 
 in the cafes, — all this being wrapped in masonic 
 mystery, passwords, private signals, and the rest 
 of the pretty nonsense beneath which Hal/a< con 
 ( ealed at will the gravity mu\ depth ol his inarvel- 
 lous studies. 
 
 "5 
 
226 Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 Unfortunately, such things may be dreamed and 
 written, but they never live. Our Thirteen were 
 not long in finding this out. At the end of about 
 a week the agreement weakened ; those who had 
 fine linen preferred to wear it; the journalist had 
 to make his wit for himself; the political man 
 talked* alone in the cates, while his brethren 
 thought only of emptying their mugs. In short, 
 as our young men were not without intelligence 
 (and the air of Paris gave them more and more 
 daily), they ended by laughing in one another's 
 faces and going off, each on his own line, to make 
 their way. I don't know how they succeeded. I 
 only remember that one of them — the one selected 
 as the political man and from whom I received 
 these details — found, after a while, his career and 
 his adventures suddenly interrupted ; his name 
 was Jules Valles. 
 
 Balzac, Mme. Sand, and all the great novel- 
 writers of the modern school have often been re- 
 proached for having bcmuddled quantities of young 
 brains and ruined whole lives by turning them 
 into fiction. But is that the fault of our novelists ? 
 Is it not more just to lay the blame on that need 
 of imitation inherent in youth, especially French 
 youth, impressionable and vain to excess, eter- 
 nally tormented by the desire to play a part, to put 
 on a celebrated skin, to be some one — as if the 
 best means of being some one were not to remain 
 one's self. 
 
 And as for this, if we are to make our novelists 
 responsible for all these aberrations of young 
 
The Tricoteusc. 227 
 
 brains what shall be said of our historians? They 
 too, they have caused great ravages, especially 
 of late years. Ever since this rage for historical 
 studies came to us from England and from over 
 the Rhine, ever since this avalanche of histories of 
 die Revolution, of memoirs of Robespierre, Saint- 
 Just, I Ami du penple the old Cordelier, descended 
 upon us have we not seen the springing up of a 
 whole generation of Young France, swathed in 
 huge Jacobin waistcoats, carrying their heads en 
 Saint Sacrament, and recalling the Convention 
 by the multiplied folds of their muslin cravats? 
 They do not now say: M You shall be de Marsay ; 
 I will be Rastignac." No, these say : " You shall 
 be Saint-Just ; I will be Robespierre " — which is 
 quite as comical and much more dangerous. I 
 positively heard four years ago, in a restaurant 
 in the Latin quarter, young Gascons declaring in 
 their devilish accent: " Hein ! that Raoul Ri- 
 gaut! what a fine Fouquier-Teinville he would 
 make ! " He did not fail to do so, the wretch ! 
 and we ought to do him the justice to say that 
 he thoroughly filled his part. Vermorel played 
 Robespierre and made no concealment about it, 
 copying the man with the pointed nose in even his 
 private life, his puritan morals, and the arrange- 
 ment of his home like that of a country curate. 
 They all had their '93 type at which they aimed. 
 Sometimes there were two of the same; Robes- 
 pierre-Vermorel had his double in the lawyer 
 Floquet, who was called, among his intimates, Max- 
 imilien. At other times they cumulated, and one 
 
228 Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 man played two personages. I met last winter 
 a pretty little officer of chasseurs, whom Young 
 France had taught to think he was Hoche and 
 Marceau in one. Not Hoche only, nor Mar- 
 ceau only. No ! Hoche and Marceau ! And he 
 believed it, that innocent ! You could not have 
 made him laugh. Grave and proud, teeth clenched, 
 gesture feverish, you had only to see him drink his 
 absinthe to feel that within him were the terrible 
 preoccupations of a man who hides beneath his 
 overcoat the two great swords of the future repub- 
 lic, and is always in fear of losing one of them. 
 
 These things amused us then. None of us im- 
 agined that the comedy would end so tragically. 1 
 For my part, I regarded it all as a play, and when 
 I could slip into their coulisses I delighted in 
 watching the actors of the coming revolution 
 delving at their parts, rehearsing, practising stage 
 business, getting themselves up, and vamping over 
 the old decorations for this renewal of '93, which 
 they intended to give some day or other, but 
 which I myself then thought impossible. 
 
 It was in this way that I chanced to be present 
 at the formation of a corps of tricoteuses [knitters], 
 of whom I just escaped being one of the organizers. 
 The circumstances were as follows : — 
 
 It was during the siege, at the hardest moment 
 of that hard winter of black cold and of black 
 
 1 Strange to say, little is generally known, speaking compara- 
 tively, of the Commune of Paris, the horrors of which equalled 
 those of '93. The reader is referred to M. Maxime Ducamp's hi* 
 tory of it. — » Tr. 
 
The Tricoteuse. 229 
 
 bread, when one could not step without jostling 
 some baby's coffin carried in the arms and hur- 
 ried along by the walls of houses. " It is heart- 
 breaking, the number of children who are dying at 
 Montmartre," said to me one of the most frantic of 
 the Ninty-three-ers of the Cafe de Madrid. " The 
 poor little things go barefooted in the snow. The 
 cold is killing them like sparrows. It would be 
 charity to give them stockings, good, warm, wool- 
 len stockings. I am organizing a subscription for 
 it — how much will you give ? " 
 
 The Ninety-three-er, of his own nature, is not 
 sentimental. In the steel-blue regions where he 
 soars there are no little children ; there are only 
 ideas, abstractions, and a few geometrical figures, 
 such as the triangle and the guillotine. Conse- 
 quently, I was rather astonished. My man per- 
 ceived it, and in order to convince me, he added : 
 " Come to-night to Montmartre. I am to speak in 
 behalf of the object. You shall subscribe then if 
 you feel inclined." 
 
 It was worth the trouble, and I made the journey 
 to Montmartre. 
 
 The affair took place in a ballroom on the ex- 
 terior boulevard ; some Boule-Noir, or Elys6e, or 
 other, which had been transformed into a " club." 
 It is to be remarked that the political education 
 of the people of Paris takes place, as a rule, in the 
 dance-halls. 
 
 When I arrived the session had already begun, 
 the hall was full, — an immense hall of great length, 
 well arranged for squads of quadrilles and the 
 
230 Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 glorification of the cavalier sent performance. A 
 few petroleum lamps (Paris being now without 
 gas) ; a little stove around which laurestinus in 
 boxes were shivering like old men ; on the seats an 
 audience of workmen, lesser bourgeois, National 
 Guards, Civic Guards, a few Mobiles, a few jupillons 
 in velvet caps, five or six cocottes in ragged silk 
 gowns; some had come for the club, others for 
 the stove, and the cocottes from the habit of going 
 to dance-halls every evening. And in truth there 
 was something pervading the atmosphere like an 
 echo of the former frou-frou ; bits of mazurkas, 
 bars of waltzes humming about the ceiling like last 
 year's flies. Above it all, a thick mist, smelling of 
 pipes and moist flesh. 
 
 Perched on the raised platform of the orchestra 
 was my Ninety-three-er, speaking with melancholy 
 emotion of the great misery of the people and the 
 terrible mortality among little children. Suddenly 
 he interrupted himself, retreated one step back- 
 ward on the platform, arms outstretched, mouth 
 open, eyes staring, the classic amazement of ex- 
 pressive heads. 
 
 "What do I behold, citizens?" he cried. 
 " There, there, in the midst of you, a woman, 
 that woman, who knits — " 
 
 He stopped for a moment as if suffocated by 
 emotion, and stood still, arm extended. We all 
 turned round and I saw, where he pointed, an old 
 woman with a canaille head and that crooked lip 
 and twist of the mouth from which one hears in 
 the faubourg the tones of a blackguard of any 
 
The Tricoteuse. 231 
 
 sex before he speaks. Under her cap and through 
 her grizzled hair was a knitting-needle which 
 ! stuck out like a dart and gave her the look of 
 a dangerous beast. Her bony hands, which she 
 lifted high, held the half-knitted stocking of a 
 child. 
 
 While we looked at her the orator continued : 
 "Who is this brave woman, this citizen who 
 comes to the club with her knitting, to listen while 
 she works to patriotic words ? Ah ! now I recog- 
 nize her ! She is a knitter of Montmartre — one 
 of those who knit, O people ! that your children 
 may be warm like the children of the rich; she 
 knits that cold — in the person of Badinguet — 
 may not cut the throats of all of them {laughter 
 and shouts of Good ! good /) ; that a few be 
 left to see the dawn of a better day {Bravo ! 
 bravo f). O saintly knitters of Montmartre! you 
 are worthy of your elder sisters; like them you 
 will have your place in history. Knit, knit there- 
 fore, like them, for the People, for liberty! knit, 
 knit, knit ! " 
 
 There was no need to tell her to knit. Under 
 the eyes of that crowd the old woman knitted 
 without pause, energetically, and I caught a wink 
 which she gave to her confederate. From that 
 wink I understood the whole affair. I saw that the 
 little children of Montmartre were only a pretext, 
 and that the sole object was to raise a battalion of 
 tricoteuses, to float once more a musty vocable of 
 the dictionary of '93, to vamp over an old catch- 
 word of the first revolution. 
 
232 Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 Well, well ! In spite of all, their revolution has 
 turned out more original than they expected to 
 make it. They wanted the tricoteuse and they got 
 the petroleuse. That ought to teach this Young 
 France something. 
 
A Year of Trouble. 233 
 
 A YEAR OF TROUBLE. 
 
 NOTES OF A PARISIAN WOMAN. 
 
 BY MADAME DAUDET. 
 
 FACTS do not strike me, only the atmosphere 
 which they create about them, the time of day 
 when I became cognizant of them, the peculiar 
 impression of which they ever after retain for me. 
 That is what I shall now try to relate to you — I 
 mean that singular emotion made up of the lessen- 
 ing echoes of great battles and the distant murmur 
 of dying towns. 
 
 In the May of last year, fleeing from Paris already 
 in trouble and saddened by an epidemic, we found 
 at the little house in Seine-et-Oise the flowering 
 trees and the usual quiet. Every day news reached 
 us, accounts of riots every evening, those boulevard 
 riots in which the railings of a theatre become a 
 refuge and the newspaper kiosks attempts at bar- 
 ricades. These nightly tumults, which one drove 
 to see in carriages, made me feel the triviality of 
 that hurrying, shouting crowd, singing as if for a 
 festival at an hour when the boulevard lamps give 
 to the leafage of the trees the reflections of a vil- 
 lage ball. The word " Revolution," then, pro- 
 nounced recalled to me my earliest childhood, a 
 
234 Letters to an Absent One, 
 
 flight through torn-up suburbs, and courtyards 
 laid open by cannon-balls; also the emotion of 
 those about me; emotion which children feel in 
 the trembling of the arms that carry them, and the 
 voice that speaks to them ; and lastly, the country, 
 which I saw again in sunshine, all blue like the 
 mist of a dream, the arrival, the rest, all danger 
 passed. This was like a lightning flash from the 
 bottom of my memory ; but the great moral shock, 
 the deaths at the street corners, all those sinister 
 things that my childish eyes had not perceived, I 
 still did not imagine. 
 
 In this sad month of May Parisians were hurrying 
 to the railway stations as they always do in spring. 
 For many, who expected to return in the autumn, 
 exile was actually beginning, a bathing-season pro- 
 longed to a year, a life in hotels far away from the 
 home. Mothers were departing, little aware that 
 they would never again see the beloved home, the 
 family nest where they had warmly nurtured their 
 dispersed children, and all unthinking that they 
 should die away from it in a land of passage. 
 Here a child is starting for a holiday who will be 
 thought of later with regret for the hasty adieus and 
 the long revoirs. Everywhere separated beings; 
 and later, for all, a poignant uncertainty. 
 
 The small-pox, which had driven us from Paris, 
 rapidly invaded our tranquil refuge. The few 
 houses between the forest and the Seine were 
 made uneasy by it for several days. Whole fam- 
 ilies were attacked, and twice I met the same 
 
A Year of Trouble. 235 
 
 woman in mourning, who had walked a league in 
 the dust and heat to attend the death-bed of a 
 relation. I was working one afternoon at my 
 window. The weather was fine; all was youth 
 and song, the trees in their verdure, the flowers 
 in bud. Some one said : " A man has just died 
 close by you." 
 
 I had seen that man sometimes as he came along 
 the road from the fields, carrying his tools, bent, 
 weary, humble, and obscure. I don't know what 
 great feeling moved me all of a sudden ; without 
 thinking about it, it seemed to me that death went 
 past me, quite close, beautiful death; and as it 
 passed it enlarged the sky, the horizon, suspend- 
 ing for a second all that springtide of life, respect- 
 ful before the eternal silence. 
 
 Summer came, a superb summer of long days, 
 rich and flowery. The air of the garden grew 
 tinted, perfumed with blossoms that opened to the 
 sun. The harvests promised to be magnificent. 
 How many were left standing that year ! How 
 many ripened and were never gathered, but were 
 lost, scattered, or burned in barns and granaries 
 open to the winds ! At this time the sunsets seemed 
 to glow like conflagrations, and we felt, passing 
 through our tranquil hours and deserted fields, a 
 stormy breath that bent the wheat and made the 
 dust of the high-roads whirl as if from a charge of 
 cavalry. War had been declared. 
 
 The Marseillaises at the street corners ; battalions 
 crossing Paris and beating time with their steps " to 
 
2 36 Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 Berlin," lines of ambulances, collections taken up 
 by the wayside for the white banners with the red 
 cross. And then that sad departure of young lads, 
 Mobiles, still mere school-boys, whom their mothers 
 brought in carriages, with how many .tears ! And 
 that formidable throng at the railway stations, that 
 sad concourse as if the whole city were depopulat- 
 ing itself, in which one has so fully the sensation 
 of crowds; the exhaustion, the bewildering lassitude 
 of that great uproar. What a hum of departing 
 trains ! . . Hasten ! they are cutting the rails over 
 there, they are burning the stations. It seems as 
 though each train were lost in the darkness ; as if 
 the battalions sown along the great plains might 
 seek in vain to come together, to reunite. All is 
 trouble and confusion. From time to time a word 
 in the newspapers which chills the heart : " The 
 enemy are pillaging the French waggons at Reims." 
 We scent defeat, rout. 
 
 Every family felt the counter-blow of our disas- 
 ter. I remember at a birthday fete how the flowers 
 were quickly hidden and all eyes filled with tears ; 
 anxiety for the absent one, the dread of fresh de- 
 partures ; the table seemed too large, the house 
 empty. 
 
 Soon we were forced to return to Paris. Never 
 in my life shall I forget that August day; the 
 peasant-women weeping at their doors as they 
 watched the laden carriages and flocks of animals 
 passing pell-mell along the roads ; oxen fastened 
 upon carts, and hand-barrows on the highway. 
 Near to Paris the trees were cut down, the ram- 
 
A Year of Trouble, 237 
 
 parts strengthened, crowded by workmen; and, 
 in spite of the defeat, as it was Sunday and the 
 sun was shining, women in white waists and light- 
 coloured skirts who had come to look on at the 
 works. 
 
 It is now September 4. A morning of expecta- 
 tion ; something in the air like the vague shadow, 
 foretold, which precedes a great eclipse. Towards 
 midday the bakers close their shops, the streets 
 empty. Fighting, they said, was going on in the 
 Place de la Concorde. Paris is so vast that one 
 never knows exactly what is happening. . . But 
 no ! from the boulevard a band of men are com- 
 ing down singing at the top of their voices. The 
 Republic is proclaimed. I feel very sad. It 
 seems, however, that this is fortunate, but I do not 
 like these songs of a crowd which take you by the 
 throat, force emotion, and make it nervous. I 
 would rather hear a clear, calm voice announce 
 great things. 
 
 The next day, a visit to the camp at Saint-Maur. 
 What flags ! Paris was still gay, or rather, giddy. 
 The war seemed forgotten. Perhaps because the 
 Prussians were felt to be steadily advancing, and a 
 trip beyond the gates — gates that were being 
 armed and fortified and would soon be closed like 
 those of a prison — was almost a boon. Much 
 noise and dust. We went along the race-course, 
 and the whole way resounded with the noisy gay- 
 ety of Parisians who come out once a week to look 
 at trees. 
 
238 Letters to an Absent One, 
 
 The lines of tents, under shelter of Vincennes, 
 the little wars, the volleys of which escaped in a 
 white smoke at the foot of low hills, and the dips 
 in the ground, so well fitted to group episodes of 
 battle, this going and coming of uniforms, of artil- 
 lery, of people in Sunday clothes, of traders of all 
 sorts, this morrow of revolution, driving with great 
 noise in over-crowded char-a-bancs, remain fixed 
 in my memory. 
 
 A few days later, still of a Sunday, the first can- 
 non sounded under a clear blue sky. The very 
 early hour, the quiet of the streets and neighbour- 
 ing courtyards, the stillness of all the manufactories, 
 of the thousand noises that one hears, and which 
 fill the work-days, conversations at doors — signs 
 of stoppage or of fete — everything about me made 
 me think of former I5ths of August; the balconies 
 decked with little lanterns, lines of gas-jets, and 
 flowered with flags, the long avenue of the Champs- 
 filys6es, the great quays of the Seine bathed in 
 Bengal lights and a rain of gold. . . This time the 
 cannon signified other things. 
 
 Again an appearance of fete, these pilgrimages 
 to the statue of the city of Strasburg, bouquets in 
 hand, bands at their head. Later that stone face 
 was veiled in crape. And yet they did not swathe 
 in black the statues of the tombs ; their mourning 
 garb was white, strewn with immortelles. 
 
 It was during these last days of sunshine that I 
 saw, in the Palais-Royal, seated against a tree on 
 the hard gravel of the public garden, two poor 
 
A Year of Trouble. 239 
 
 women, two working-women, employed in making 
 caps Children were playing around them, two 
 handsome, chubby children, rather sun-burned. 
 The women were not Parisians, nor peasants 
 cither Looking at them, one thought of the 
 outskirts of Paris, some village square, doorways 
 encumbered with linen drying, children playing, 
 women working, of melancholy streets ending in 
 fields, pavements full of grass, and horizons of for- 
 tifications. Poor people! they were all coming in, 
 dragging their household goods with them, to lodge 
 in Paris in I know not what dark hole ; and, im- 
 pelled by the habits of open air and outdoor life, 
 these two had come to sit at the foot of trees, while 
 the Mobiles were being drilled before the shops of 
 the jewellers and the tables of the cafe. Exiles 
 everywhere I These sad, homeless women, those 
 tall fellows in blue blouses, all under their guns in 
 the bent, patient attitude of beings accustomed to 
 delve, to toil in the earth ; listening to commands 
 with the puckered brow of narrow intellects which 
 have to collect themselves wholly before they 
 slowly understand ; after which they remember 
 well. Such were the exiles from the provinces. 
 Where are those from Paris? Great cases full 
 of light-coloured gowns, morning gowns, toilets 
 for the seashore, for Casinos, canes of Louis Seize, 
 little hats with enormous feathers — all had been 
 taken away for a trip of two months. October 
 comes ; the rain falls ; the sea is high ; the weather 
 melancholy. Let us move on. Accordingly they 
 change their abode, thinking all the while of Paris. 
 
240 Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 Artillery caissons, ambulances, concerts for the 
 wounded, a noisy and lugubrious boulevard. At 
 night, the shops lighted by a single lamp, the 
 houses, the trees having ample space to spread 
 their shadows, and the moonlight superb in this 
 extinguished city — which makes the corners of 
 the streets dangerous, the roofs wan, Paris too 
 large — it is thus that we must see it in dreaming 
 of it. 
 
 Each house has its anguish. The children no 
 longer have milk. We tremble for those on the 
 ramparts. We fear for those afar off, in that 
 gloomy line which surrounds the city, an engage- 
 ment of the outposts and those watches of the 
 grand'garde, where the slightest rustle of foliage, 
 a pebble rolling to the water brings the hissing of 
 bullets. Danger everywhere, and day by day less 
 hope. Oh ! those dark days, the pigeons lost, 
 the provinces so far off, the mud of Bourget, the 
 cannon always belated, the square of the Hdtel de 
 Ville foggy and tumultuous. 
 
 And yet, perhaps never did one feel that force, 
 that living soul of Paris, more active, — in spite of 
 the very cold winter, the waitings before the 
 butcher's-shops, begun in the night-time and in 
 snow, when the cannon of the forts were thunder- 
 ing, when we dreamed of French battalions ad- 
 vancing in haste through a devastated country, 
 the woods rased, and having but one battle left 
 to fight, one river left to cross ; we breathed every- 
 where an air of high courage, as if in Paris, already 
 
A Year of Trouble. 241 
 
 delivered, the gates opened, Liberty were hover- 
 ing above the whole city, laden with conquering 
 
 banners. . ~ 
 
 But beyond the ramparts what distress! De- 
 serted roads, abandoned manufactories, great 
 •gloomy plains already looking like battle-fields, 
 the earth torn-up and hollowed. Loop-holes in the 
 walls of the manufactories, intrenchmcnts in the 
 parks, battalions of Mobiles encamped in all, 
 the villages, some installed in pretty bourgeois 
 residences with gilded railings, porticos, balco- 
 nies where uniforms were drying the day after 
 mounting guard; others were shivering lighting 
 great fires in the one-storey houses where the 
 smaller tradesmen of Paris go out in summer to 
 spend one day a week, and where from the garden 
 and the low-windowed chambers they can talk and 
 call to one another in the peace of a Sunday 
 
 evening. 
 
 All around, overlooking this melancholy zone, 
 woods, mills, hillsides, scarcely distinct in the fogs 
 of winter, where the enemy's cannon keep arriving 
 daily in spite of the snow and the bad roads; 
 planting themselves in ambush, pointing at Pans, 
 rendering forever lugubrious the names of little 
 villages, so gay to read in the sunshine on the 
 railway stations, at the corners of roads when they 
 were to Parisians the objects of a drive and a 
 rendezvous for fetes. 
 
 The days become shorter, bread more scarce. 
 One evening, in the twilight of shops lighted by 
 one lamp only, there are gilt things, bright ribbons, 
 16 
 
242 Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 sugar-plums in tender colours. This is Christmas ! 
 The humble cradle sheltered in corners of chapels, 
 rocked with canticles and flowered with lilies — 
 adorable symbols of infancy — gives eternal joy 
 to all the little ones. They ought to see in dreams 
 at least once a year that smiling Jesus lying in the 
 manger, the straw scattered round him, like lumi- 
 nous rays. 
 
 1 For children likewise, this New Year's Day in 
 a beleaguered city spreading playthings out among 
 the encumbering masses of battalions in arms. On 
 little tables the height of a child's eye, we see 
 once more the little articles of furniture (which 
 look like a pauper's house-moving), and the 
 chubby-faced dolls, to which snow and the north 
 wind are giving such lively colours. The shops 
 are filling with marvels. And yet those heavy 
 drays we are wont to see arriving at the stations 
 of the Eastern railroad, laden with white wooden 
 boxes retaining, as it were, a perfume of the 
 forests of the North, are not coming this year; 
 perhaps they will never come again. But do not 
 feel alarmed. Paris can suffice unto herself, and 
 our children will never lack playthings. In the 
 depths of the sad little courtyards in the poorer 
 quarters, in corners of the faubourg without light 
 or air there are tall houses five storeys high filled 
 with patient needles and delicate looms which 
 scatter threads of gold lace and shavings of rose- 
 wood into the dust of attics. 
 
 Paris still found strength to smile. Two days 
 later, on three sides at once, the bombardment 
 
A Year of Trouble. 243 
 
 broke forth, lugubrious, continual. The earth was 
 shaken as well as the air, and hearths that were 
 sheltered and far from disaster felt their windows 
 shaken like a warning or a threat. In that great 
 city, where the closed manufactories were silent, 
 their strength and life expending themselves on 
 the ramparts and at the outposts, in the streets 
 almost deserted, where carriages were rare and 
 passers sad, this great bombardment resembled 
 those storms which make silence around them, 
 arrest the rustle of leaves and the murmur of 
 fields, as if to render more sinister the thunderbolt 
 that falls and the house that crumbles. 
 
 The first lightning of this great storm had shone 
 upon the blue line of the frontiers on a fine sum- 
 mer's day. The wheat was not reaped, the vines 
 lined the slopes, the great trees quivered full of 
 life. The rivers sang beneath the arches of the 
 bridges, and the town surrounded by fortresses, 
 the villages surrounded by water, composed with 
 their daily life an atmosphere of noise or of calm- 
 ness, which rose into their corner of the sky, and 
 seemed as if it must envelop them forever. 
 
 " The enemy is crossing the Rhine all along the 
 front." 
 
 I remember the shudder that I felt on reading 
 that little despatch, slender as the line that marks 
 the frontier on a map, with such great horizons be- 
 yond it. After that day nothing could stop them, 
 and that enormous power, invasion, irresistible as 
 water, which flows the stronger and more terrible 
 from each obstacle, drove in the ramparts, and 
 
244 Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 forced the passages. Paris, for five months, was 
 indeed the Isle of France in the midst of a torrent 
 which roared around its gates. 
 
 The struggle is over. As the forts must be 
 surrendered, and the arms delivered up, the sol- 
 diers return to Paris. They march without order, 
 disbanded. We feel the tumult of that return, 
 which lets us see, confused, confounded, dragging 
 their feet, those masses of men, usually so alike in 
 gait and costume, a unit in marching, that we seem 
 to hear a giant's step upon the way. But near the 
 Observatory at the corner of one of those streets 
 lined with trees which end Paris, I saw a whole 
 battalion of Bretons marching in line as they did on 
 their departure. From time to time the commander 
 who marched at their head turned round to them : 
 * Come on, my gars, come on ! " This was said 
 with the intonation of a shepherd gathering and 
 encouraging a wearied flock. All around were bat- 
 tered houses, twisted balconies, and burned sheds. 
 That day was heart-breaking. Emotion trembled 
 in all voices. Discouragement was in the air, a 
 lassitude that was felt even more than defeat, the 
 despair of the useless weapon, broken, and flung 
 into the moats of the fortress. 
 
 Trouble entered Paris at that moment and never 
 left it again. It was perpetual agitation — the 
 agitation that fills the streets and leaves the work- 
 shops empty. Processions without end went up 
 to the Bastille, grouped themselves around the 
 column of July, which was decorated with red 
 
A Year of Trouble. 245 
 
 flags and crowns of immortelles. Cannon rumbled 
 along the pavements as if casting a defiance to 
 that accursed place. One felt that a great impetus 
 had been given, and that a city stirred for four 
 months by so many songs, trumpet-blasts, and 
 drums, could not return to labour and to calmness 
 without a shock. Paris still kept up its appearance 
 of a besieged city living from day to day. The 
 sidewalks were noisy, encumbered with articles of 
 all kinds as on the morrow of a conflagration, 
 when, the house being destroyed, the household 
 goods which have been saved cast hurriedly from 
 the windows, the women and children camp in the 
 streets and settle there for the life of a day. 
 
 I do not know what uncertainty keeps us at the 
 windows, drags us to noises. Bayonets glitter 
 everywhere, though nothing more was said of bat- 
 tles, barricades at the bridges, defiances of Paris 
 against Paris, those dangerous misunderstandings, 
 when tocsins and volleys answer each other with 
 the obstinacy of a signal. We felt the pavements 
 tremble, hatreds quiver. With it all, the caprice of 
 a Parisian springtime, the most capricious of all. 
 The March sun, that hot sun which comes before 
 the buds put forth, scorches and does harm, glid- 
 ing between two showers upon crazy posters. 
 While in the deserted shops the long idle shop- 
 keepers are hastening to dress their windows, clean 
 the panes, and sweep away the dust, sole visitor 
 from without for months, carriages are passing 
 silently, hurriedly, bearing away the life of Paris, 
 the fortunes of Paris. 
 
246 Letters to an Absent One, 
 
 Behold her delivered over to herself, shut up 
 anew, that terrible Paris. We, who have all left 
 her, we live with our eyes turned to the hills that 
 hide her from us and knowing nothing now of 
 what goes on within her. We are here in a con- 
 quered country ; the roads are free, the gates wide 
 open, the house is no longer its own. The rail- 
 ings have gaps for the passage of cavalry, and 
 around the lawns, which are turning green, and 
 the groves, that are budding, soldiers are walking 
 about, crushing the flowers, cutting the branches 
 with the careless indifference of idler and victor. 
 Near-by are other country-houses, completely 
 abandoned for the last year; their owners de- 
 parting when the war broke out, and never return- 
 ing to see the miseries of the invasion. 
 
 The house is plundered, the hedges ruined, grass 
 is growing in the paths. In a corner of the garden 
 is a woman in charge of a child, her eyes turned 
 to the highway, rendering the solitude that hangs 
 about her sadder still by her own air of expectant 
 waiting and idleness. The bridges had all been 
 destroyed and the great trees felled where their 
 shadows had lain, and yet by the shore road which 
 swept round the slope the Prussians arrived in spite 
 of all precautions, without the loss of either man or 
 horse. 
 
 For the last four months they have been there. 
 Battalions succeed each other, marching toward 
 Paris or returning to Germany, and, after a short 
 halt and a summons on the high-road (for all 
 doors are marked in advance), the men enter, in- 
 
A Year of Trouble. 247 
 
 stall themselves, clean their arms, set the watches, 
 and go in and out at all hours. 
 
 Nothing is usually more charming than to be 
 the last to go to sleep in a silent house which we 
 feel to be full of loved ones. A great calm after 
 the bustle of the day pervades the walls, the furni- 
 ture; the air of the garden and all the breezes 
 heard in the tranquillity of the night seem the 
 breathing of the house itself, slumbering in the 
 moonlight, the doorway mute, the windows closed. 
 But to feel close by an imposed guest, one who 
 has come of himself, gun in hand, bloodying 
 hedges and rivers, a guest who has entered by 
 force, to whom grief and pride gave free way as 
 soon as he arrived ! Who knows from how many 
 battles he is resting, and with how many dreams 
 of victories and massacres he is troubling the invis- 
 ible soul of the home? There is a corner in the 
 house that one would fain wall up. 
 
 It was in the midst of all this sadness that we 
 heard cannon thundering in Paris. In the wood 
 still leafless the shells fell like hail ; the nightin- 
 gales uttered their limpid notes in the white-thorn 
 bushes, the frogs hopped about in the little pools 
 which the rain had left in the ruts ; the noise was 
 too great and too distant to disturb those little lives 
 that were only made uneasy by the breaking of a 
 branch, or the fall of a leaf. 
 
 The Tuileries and the Louvre are burned ! 
 The Tuileries, a beautiful memory of childhood ! 
 Parisian Sundays, sombre skies above the gray slate 
 
248 Letters to an Absent One. 
 
 roofs, the basins where the alleys widen and branch, 
 the sad clock, the statues, the great terrace skirt- 
 ing the quay, the water so near, the soft melan- 
 choly of the declining day, and the mist which rises 
 while Paris is illuminating around it. Flocks of 
 children, blue velvets, white furs, and later the joy, 
 so great, of making the little feet run in the sand 
 where we have set our own. 
 
 And the Louvre ? Why no ! The Louvre was 
 saved. The next day people said : " Paris is 
 burned, all Paris." 
 
 I saw it later, riddled with balls, in that terrible 
 hour when the calcined walls, still standing, seemed 
 to be protected against the flames, while from the 
 smoking ruins rose an odour of conflagration. 
 
 On that day the weather was superb. At the 
 top of the Hotel de Ville the sun was putting gal- 
 leries of light behind the vacant windows, and the 
 statues stood erect and whole, as if their proud 
 deportment had saved them from the general 
 overthrow. 
 
I 
 
14 DAY USE 
 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
 on the date to which renewed. 
 
 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
 &hn , 60 fG 
 
 3Feb'M0| 
 
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 FFR 3 1961 
 
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 JUN7 1960 
 
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 0EC2 1960 
 
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 (A9562sl0)476B 
 
YB 54554 
 
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