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AFTER-DINNER STORIES 
 FROM BALZAC 
 
 DONE INTO ENGLISH BY MYNDART VERELST 
 
 Wiiti an Jntroiiuctioii 
 
 EDGAR SALTUS 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THB PHILOSOPHY OF DISBNCHANTMBNT," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 GEORGE J. COOMBES 
 
 No. 5 East Seventeenth Street 
 
 M DCCC LXXXVI. 
 
Copyright, 1886, 
 By GEORGE J. COOMBES. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press^ Cambridge : 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. 0. Houghton & Co. 
 

 To 
 
 V. A. B. 
 
 ivi58I3y87 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PASS 
 
 Introduction — Balzac 5 
 
 The Red Inn 29 
 
 Madame Firmiani 87 
 
 The "Grande Breteche" .... 125 
 Madame db BsAUstANT . . .163 
 
INTRODUCTION — BALZAC. 
 
BALZAC. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 In one of the quietest streets of Brussels, 
 within a stone's throw of flashy boulevards, 
 there stands a house whose frontage is so 
 quaintly Brabantine that the passer does not 
 need to be an architect to halt before it, nor 
 a dreamer to wonder what is going on in- 
 side. Like men and women, houses too have 
 characters. Sometimes they are good, some- 
 times they are bad, often they are indiffer- 
 ent, but now and then the observer happens 
 upon one that possesses a refreshing indi- 
 viduality of its own. This theory, which, 
 while not quite so haggard as the Wandering 
 Jew, is yet not one that the writer has any 
 wish to represent as drawing its first breath, 
 may still perhaps serve to bring into relief 
 the idea whose conveyance is sought, and 
 which is simply that the house alluded to 
 has originality enough to excite the interest 
 
8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of a tax-gatherer. Indeed, one may say with- 
 out any attempt at the pictorial that it is 
 precisely such a house as this that a fol- 
 lower in Hoffmann's footsteps would choose 
 as the dwelling of a hero. 
 
 The street itself is a charming accessory. 
 It has that suggestion of moss-grown tran- 
 quillity that the clatter of a sabot accentu- 
 ates, and in wandering through it any imag- 
 inative loiterer might fancy himself in the 
 mouldering avenue of a forgotten town. But 
 to return to the point, or rather to the house. 
 In it lives a gentleman and with him a mem- 
 ory and a library. The gentleman himself 
 may be spared any personalities. The mem- 
 ory which he cultivates is that of Balzac, 
 while the library contains very nearly every- 
 thing that is in any way connected with the 
 history and works of the French realist. 
 
 Curiously enough, Balzac hated the Bel- 
 gians. He was wont to assert that through 
 their piracy of his works he had been robbed 
 of millions, and in a playfully indignant 
 allusion to their misdeeds, he dubbed the 
 first Leopold Counterfeit I. Nevertheless, 
 it is to the capital of that monarch's king- 
 dom that all believers now make their pil- 
 grimage, and the library in the quiet street 
 
BALZAC. 9 
 
 is the one shrine and sanctuary that has been 
 erected in Balzac's honor. 
 
 Regarding Balzac there has been of late 
 much enthusiasm. Posterity, in her indolent 
 way, has tried to make up for the neglect of 
 earlier years ; there is a project dawdling 
 along to give him a monument, and in Paris 
 nowadays not a few men have become quasi- 
 celebrities from the mere fact of having 
 known him. But then, both as man and 
 writer, Balzac is a figure well fashioned to 
 excite admiration. He came in, as one may 
 say, with a new rSgime^ and out of the new 
 regime he made a newer one for himself. 
 The date of his appearance coincides with 
 that of the victorious riot of the romantics. 
 
 At that time, or to speak more exactly, a 
 little before that time, the French language 
 was in such poverty that writers stammered 
 through their phrases with the hesitancy of 
 paralyzed old age. In the place of words to 
 express thoughts there were a number of 
 conventional prejudices that choked free ut- 
 terance ; for that matter the direct mention 
 of any ordinary object, such for instance as 
 a handkerchief, would have denoted that the 
 writer was ignorant of the delicacies of style 
 and form. Then suddenly, with bai'ely a 
 
10 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 note of warning, a band of young enthu- 
 siasts swept down on the sleepy classicists, 
 tossed their rules and rubbish to the winds, 
 tore the modern melodrama from the breast 
 of dead tragedy, breathed a new and whole- 
 some life into an expiring dictionary, and 
 invented rhymes that were millionaires in 
 their opulence and heroic in their audacity. 
 During this revolution, M. de Banville says 
 that the world of literature was made up of 
 two clans, romantics and imbeciles. To this 
 it is permissible to take exception : Balzac 
 was neither the one nor the other. The part 
 he took in the fray was that of free lance. 
 He fired many a shot at the enemy, but he 
 fired them in the interest of his own cause, 
 which had nothing whatever to do with 
 gorgeous fictions and freedom in verse. 
 
 Baudelaire used to say that romanticism 
 was the most recent expression of the Beau- 
 tiful, and it is probable that, had the ques- 
 tion been raised, he would have defined the 
 school which Balzac was inaugurating as the 
 most recent expression of the True. Paren- 
 thetically it may be noted that of late the 
 Beautiful has gotten sadly bedraggled, while 
 on the other hand the True seems to have 
 been gaining in stronger and surer signifi- 
 
BALZAC. 11 
 
 cance. Contemporary readers have utterly 
 refused to be interested in the mediaeval 
 bric-^brac which the turbulency of 1830 un- 
 earthed. To them the effect of what was 
 termed local color, and which seems to have 
 been little more than a love of the historical 
 heightened by a passion for sonorous adjec- 
 tives, is about as entertaining as are the ad- 
 ventures of Harlequin and Columbine to one 
 no longer a child. It is facts that are asked 
 for now, and in France the more unpleas- 
 ant they are the more palatable they seem 
 to be. ^^ 
 
 The manufacture of fiction from facts was 
 begim by Balzac. And here perhaps the 
 distinction may be drawn between his school 
 and that of later comers in adjoining fields. 
 In realism there i s both fact and sugges- 
 tion, whereas in the decadent naturalism of 
 to-day the reader is offered but facts alone. 
 There is no dream, no beyond. In Balzac 
 there is both and more besides. To be pro- 
 lific, he used to say, one has but to study 
 life. And it was from his study of life, and 
 his knowledge of its inscrutable possibilities, 
 that he built the structure which is known 
 as the " Comddie Humaine." 
 
 The " Com^die Humaine " is not imlike a 
 
12 INT ROD UC TION. 
 
 wooded labyrinth. There are in it many tall 
 and towering trees, not a few that have been 
 stunted in their growth, while through it all 
 is a great luxuriance of underbrush. On a 
 first visit its expansive diffuseness is well- 
 nigh disheartening. There is seemingly no 
 highway across its tortuous divagations, and 
 there does not seem to be so much as a 
 beaten track. Certainly there are few finger- 
 posts, and in attempting to grasp the fullness 
 of the entire work the only plan is to cir- 
 cle it with a mental cordon and then beat 
 through it to the centre. 
 
 When this has been successfully accom- 
 plished the result is highly satisfactory. The 
 reader then finds himself in possession of a 
 description of life and manners in France 
 from the Eestoration to the Coup d'fetat 
 which is at once complex and unique. Bal- 
 zac used to be very bitter about the his- 
 torians of ancient monarchies. The bald- 
 ness and aridity of their chronicles disgusted 
 him. They gave no personal traits, no ac- 
 count of habits and customs, in short no 
 anecdotes, and has not a wise man said that 
 anecdotes are the best part of history ? 
 
 This defect Balzac tried to remedy, or at 
 least to do so, so far as lay in his power, and 
 
BALZAC. 18 
 
 with the " Com^die Humaine " he proposed 
 to present posterity with a complete picture 
 of French civilization in the first half of the 
 present century. In this he partially suc- 
 ceeded, but in setting about the task, he had 
 to overcome an obstacle which other histo- 
 rians did not even encounter. Where they 
 chronicled successive facts he was obliged to 
 describe a simultaneous action. To take for 
 instance such an example as Suetonius. It 
 was easy for him to tell of Caesar, and when 
 he came to the apotheosis to close the chap- 
 ter, begin another about Augustus, and so 
 on, through the list of emperors. But with 
 Balzac it was different: the action, being 
 simultaneous, was necessarily more or less 
 intercalated, and it is for this reason that on 
 a first visit the work seems unordered and 
 confused, but, as it has been hinted, once 
 circled the confusion gives way to order and 
 each page is found related to others. 
 
 Trollope tried something of this kind, but 
 on a much narrower and shallower scale. It 
 has been said of him that he increased the 
 number of our acquaintances without adding 
 to our visiting lists, and, indeed, there are 
 few of his characters that are not exception- 
 ally well-bred, and pleasant to know. Even 
 
14 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 when prosy, their prosiness is that which 
 comes of uninterrupted good living ; almost 
 all of them are socially unobjectionable, and 
 if his women share in common the same 
 mild sense of what is proper, and seem fated 
 to say the same things, who shall say that 
 they are not refined and affectionate people ? 
 
 When Balzac told of people of like ilk he 
 ptiade them a trifle more vivacious, but not 
 a whit less refined. The Duchess of Om- 
 nium might have had her doubts about 
 Madame de Beaus^ant, but we may be quite 
 sure that she would have been glad to know 
 Madame Firmiani. But with the men it is 
 a different story. Trollope never knew a 
 villain, or if he did he kept the fact to him- 
 self. His heroes are sometimes scampish, 
 but they are seldom entirely forgetful of 
 Mrs. Grundy. Mr. Burgo Fitzgerald, for 
 instance, was certainly depraved, and his de- 
 pravity is made very patent when he is found 
 breakfasting off curagoa^ and pate defoie- 
 gras : anything more suggestive than that 
 would be hard to narrate to ears polite, and, 
 consequently, Mr. Fitzgerald was the Eng- 
 lish novelist's chief representative of shame- 
 less dissipation. 
 
 In this lies TroUope's great charm. In 
 
BALZAC. 16 
 
 taking up one of his books the reader knows 
 beforehand that he will meet only well-bred 
 people, and that their vices, if they have any, 
 will never be wantonly distressing. But as 
 has been hinted, TroUope's plan, though 
 fashioned after Balzac's, was yet much nar- 
 rower. Where the one depicted a fraction 
 of the higher classes of English society, the 
 other took all humanity, or, to speak more 
 exactly, all French humanity for his province, 
 and analyzed each of its vices and virtues 
 with microscopic eye. Then too, where Trol- 
 lope introduces us to a number of people 
 whom it is pleasant to know, but who sel- 
 dom have the power to move us, Balzac 
 makes his characters so thoroughly human 
 that their vicissitudes, their triumphs and 
 failures thrill the reader with an excited in- 
 terest which the failures and triumphs of 
 friends in the flesh and the blood are often 
 unable to arouse. 
 
 It is this ability to make the reader grieve 
 and exult that has given to Balzac the posi- 
 tion which he holds to-day. Cei-tainly he 
 has other claims to fame, but these claims 
 he does not hold alone. There are many 
 moralists and many thinkers as clear-sighted 
 as he, but it is a matter of general agree- 
 
16 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ment tliat in the delineation of character 
 and the painting of scenery, Balzac has em- 
 ployed a realism such as no other writer has 
 had the power to suggest. 
 
 In spite of this there are many people 
 who have declared the " Comedie Humaine " 
 to be indigestible. Perhaps it is, but then 
 what about truffles? A publisher of Bal- 
 zac's, Poulet-Malassis, the same who, led by 
 a flamboyant fancy, took as trade-mark a 
 chicken uncomfortably seated, refused to be 
 disturbed by any such verdict as that. " In- 
 digestible, is it ? " he exclaimed with what, 
 for a publisher, was rare good sense. " Well, 
 I should hope so ; who ever thinks of a din- 
 ner that is n't?" 
 
 Another objection to the " Comedie Hu- 
 maine " is that there are too many weeds be- 
 tween the pavements, that it is too full of 
 detail. But the details are so easy to skip ! 
 No one is forced to read them who does not 
 want to, and they who do, enjoy them much 
 in the same way as the amateurs who look 
 at a Denner through a magnifying glass. At 
 the same time it is not the writer's wish to 
 represent the " Comedie Humaine " as impec- 
 cable nor its author as unsurpassed. Balzac 
 never knew half so well as Gautier how drar 
 
BALZAC. 17 
 
 pery should be handled ; he lacked the inso- 
 lence of Dumas' gayety ; Baudelaire's ability 
 to have an attack of nerves on paper was not 
 possessed by him ; Hugo could plant adjec- 
 tives in such a fashion that they exploded 
 like bombs before his reader's eyes, and in 
 this art Balzac was uninstructed. In none of 
 these accomplishments was he adept, but he 
 had something worth them all — solidity. 
 What he built was constructed with a ce- 
 ment of his own invention. The cement is 
 still obtainable, but the secret of its appli- 
 cation died with him. Demande?^ plutdt d 
 Zola. 
 
 Personally considered, Balzac was the an- 
 tithesis of the typical Frenchman. He was 
 pure in morals and sincerely religious. A 
 few months before he died he wrote to his 
 mother in reference to the Countess Han- 
 ska, a Polish widow of great beauty and 
 wealth : " Three days ago I married the 
 only woman I have ever loved, whom I love 
 more than ever, and whom I shall love until 
 death. I believe that this union is the rec- 
 ompense that God has held in reserve for 
 me through so many difficulties suffered and 
 overcome." 
 
 When a man expresses himself in such 
 2 
 
18 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 a manner it is not easy to accuse him of 
 atheism and immorality, yet, through the 
 innate perversity of the superficial, Balzac 
 has been arraigned for both. The reason is 
 not hard to find. Balzac was an innovator, 
 and when has an innovator been well re- 
 ceived ? The number of people who regard 
 a new idea or a fresh theory as a personal 
 insult is curiously large ; indeed they are 
 more frequent to-day than when Socrates 
 quaffed the hemlock. As an innovator, 
 therefore, Balzac was necessarily attacked ; 
 he was called a literary filibuster, and be- 
 cause some of his characters were depraved 
 and others irreligious, it was asserted that 
 their negations and vices were the simu- 
 lacra of his own thought. Sainte-Beuve 
 wrote him down with something of the pride 
 of a eunuch whose heel is on his sultan's 
 throat. Other critics swelled the chorus. 
 But for this abuse he cared very little, ex- 
 cept so far as it enhanced the market value 
 of his wares. He was fond of saying that 
 mediocrity may be praised but it is never 
 discussed. When, therefore, he found him- 
 self the object of polemics, he made no di- 
 rect reply, and contented himself with put- 
 ting up the price of his manuscripts. This, 
 
BALZAC. 19 
 
 of course, was highly philosophic, and in the 
 end his detractors were silenced, but mean- 
 while their voices were so loud and so vi- 
 brant, that even to-day there are many who 
 look upon Balzac as a Sade and a Holbach 
 rolled into one. 
 
 Balzac produced slowly and in a manner 
 which was peculiar to himself. A plot was 
 nothing to him, and scenes were details, but 
 in the passage from brain to paper his 
 thought continually halted in a search of the 
 term that would best express his meaning. 
 When he had thoroughly considered the 
 subject which he proposed to treat, and col- 
 lected all available data, he would shut him- 
 self up for months at a time and work from 
 twelve to twenty-one hours a day. After 
 much labor spent in the effort to keep ex- 
 ecution on a par with conception, and hours 
 lost in the torturing pursuit of an adjective, 
 he would manage to cover thirty or forty 
 sheets with an outline of ideas and phrases. 
 These he sent to his publisher, who, by 
 agreement, returned them narrowly printed 
 on large placards. 
 
 The work, freed in this way from any per- 
 sonality, and its errors at once apparent, was 
 then corrected and strengthened. As the 
 
20 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 present writer has elsewhere explained/ the 
 forty pages grew, on a second reading, to a 
 hundred, two hundred on a third, while on 
 the proof-sheets themselves new lines would 
 start from the beginning, the middle, or the 
 end of a phrase, and if the margins were 
 insufficient, other sheets of paper were 
 pinned or glued to the placards, which were 
 again and again returned, corrected, and 
 reprinted until at last the work was satis- 
 factorily completed. 
 
 This little eccentricity was not one that 
 could be indulged in without expense. 
 From the sum which he was paid for his 
 work a deduction was usually made for type 
 corrections. In one instance this deduction 
 not only swallowed the whole sum which he 
 was to receive, but left him in debt besides. 
 
 Now Balzac was not rich. His life was 
 a struggle with want and a combat with the 
 public. In the end he throttled the one and 
 conquered the other, but the long conflict 
 shattered his nerves, and when at last fame 
 and riches came, so too did death. From 
 the day when, a mere boy, he left his 
 father's house, up to within less than a year 
 of his death, in fact for a period that ex- 
 
 1 Balzac. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston. 
 
BALZAC. ^^ 
 
 tended over thirty years, he was ceaselesr®'" 
 engaged in battle-axing difficulties. 
 
 In place of a guard of honor he had a 
 cortSge of creditors ; his debts were not large 
 but they were many, and Balzac, who was 
 not a man to let anything go to waste, eyed 
 them uneasily for a while and then turned 
 them into capital. Secretly he envied Du- 
 mas, not for the work he did, nor for its 
 quality, but for the sums that he received 
 for it, and for his consequent and immense 
 prodigality. To outdo him, therefore, Bal- 
 zac represented that his debts were some- 
 thing fabulous ; that he owed millions ; that 
 had he the Bank of England in one hand 
 and the Bank of France in the other, their 
 united coffers would be insufficient to pay 
 his creditors. The stratagem, if petty, was 
 none the less successful, and Balzac was as 
 much admired for the money he owed as 
 Dumas was for the money he spent. 
 
 The French Academy, meanwhile, which 
 had accepted Alfred de Musset, not because 
 he was a poet but because he was a man 
 about town, blackballed Balzac on account 
 of these self-same debts. In the end they 
 were paid, and had he lived longer the 
 Academy might have reconsidered its de- 
 
2Q INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Aon. Yet then again it might not have, 
 jjiautier had a theory to the effect that to be 
 a member of the Academy was simply and 
 solely a matter of predestination. "There 
 is no need to do anything," he would say, 
 " and so far as the writing of books is con- 
 cerned, that is entirely useless. A man is 
 born an Academician as he is born a bishop 
 or a cook. He can abuse the Academy in 
 a dozen pamphlets, if it amuses him, and be 
 elected all the same ; but if he is not predes- 
 tined, three hundred volumes and ten mas- 
 terpieces, recognized as such by the genu- 
 flections of an adoring universe, and even by 
 the Academy itself, will not aid him to open 
 its doors." Evidently Balzac was not pre- 
 destined, but then neither was Moliere, and 
 there must have been some consolation for 
 him in that. 
 
 In spite of his debts Balzac spent but 
 little time in Bohemia. He did not have so 
 much as a bowing acquaintance with Mu- 
 sette. Mimi Pinson knew him not, and that 
 lady who was so dainty that she took an om- 
 nibus whenever she went out, did not num- 
 ber him among her conquests. Certain of 
 his heroes, freshly arrived from the prov- 
 inces, gravitated toward the penniless indo- 
 
BALZAC. 23 
 
 lence of that fantastic land which Murger 
 called the preface to the Academy, the hos- 
 pital or the morgue, but the spell was mo- 
 mentary. Balzac made them work for a 
 living. The purple and fine underclothing 
 with which Gautier garmented his heroes 
 was not bestowed on them. More than this, 
 they were all too young to have read the 
 " Chansons des rues et des bois " and the 
 alluring maxim, — 
 
 £tre riche n'est pas I'affalre, 
 Toute I'afEaire est de charmer, — 
 
 had left them uncorrupted. Oh ! they were 
 willing enough to charm, and exceptionally 
 well built for that occupation, but their 
 great effort was to fill their pockets. In 
 this they generally succeeded, but as the 
 filling of pockets is a feat never accom- 
 plished in Bohemia, Balzac has given his 
 readers but a vague geography of it. 
 
 There is another reason for this omission. 
 In his quality of realist Balzac never de- 
 scribed a- place which he had not visited. 
 Now Bohemia is the easiest place in the 
 world to go to, but it is one for which but 
 few return tickets are issued. Murger him- 
 self never got one. Early in life, Petrus 
 Borel, the rex poetce minores^ — and the 
 
24 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 reader is enjoined not to let any one persuade 
 him that the title is insignificant, — Petrus 
 Borel lost his way there. Gautier, who went 
 everywhere, even to church, made a rapid 
 incursion to this Arcadia of chimeras, and 
 came back with a dozen or more jars of local 
 color in his luggage. But Gautier was the 
 ideal pantheist. He loved lanes better than 
 mansards. Among other travelers was Jules 
 Vabre, a youth of singnilar promise which 
 Bohemia gave him no time to fulfill. Of 
 him nothing survived except the plaintive 
 title of the unwritten essay on " The Incom- 
 modity of Commodes." 
 
 In the face of dangers such as these Bal- 
 zac hesitated, if at all, only for a moment. 
 He had many a chase after that coyest of 
 game, the coin of the realm, and the hunt 
 often carried him very near the frontiers ; 
 but once the quarry bagged, he gave a wide 
 berth to taverns where the paradoxes were 
 so lurid that waiters in the flush of manhood 
 were reduced to idiocy, and, plunging into 
 the abysses of reflection, cogitated on the 
 most intricate of all problems — how in a 
 given time to turn a ream of paper, a bot- 
 tle of ink and a bundle of quills into a bag 
 of gold weighing ten thousand francs — and 
 solved it ! But liot at once. 
 
BALZAC. 26 
 
 Genius does not fall from the skies in 
 evening dress. The gardenia that is to 
 adorn its button - hole is a flower whose 
 growth is proportioned to its longevity. It 
 took Balzac ten years to form a style that 
 suited him, and almost as many more to 
 form another that pleased the public. And 
 yet there are people who think that litera- 
 ture is an easy trade I " To live by the 
 pen," Balzac said, " is a labor that galley- 
 slaves would refuse. They would prefer 
 death. To live by the pen consists in cre- 
 ating, creating to-day, to-morrow, forever, or 
 to appear to, and the appearance is as hard 
 as the reality." Nevertheless he continued 
 to create, not with the rapidity of Dumas, 
 nor with the magnificence of Hugo, but with 
 the continuous effort of the tortoise that dis- 
 tances the hare in the end. 
 
 There is an aphorism which was as cur- 
 rent thirty years ago as it is to-day, to the 
 effect that there is nothing new under the 
 sun. A statement such as this, which to 
 ninety and nine people out of a hundred is 
 an article of belief, is rarely taken by the 
 thinker to be an echo of the voice of God. 
 To him the vox populi is not unfrequently 
 the vox stulti. One day, therefore, when this 
 
26 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 phrase was more than usually insistent, Bal- 
 zac revolted. "Nothing new under the sun? 
 allons done ! what about interesting vir- 
 tue ? " That day he wrote " Madame Firmi- 
 ani," which pleased him so well that soon 
 after he wrote " Eugenie Grandet." This 
 latter story contributed as much as anything 
 to make him famous. Somewhat to his dis- 
 gust, however, his authorship was given him 
 as a title. " Why do they speak of me 
 as the author of ' Eugenie Grandet ' ? " he 
 would ask. " Does no one ever read ' Ma- 
 dame Firmiani ' ? " A great many did read 
 "Madame Firmiani," and all who did so 
 liked it. But " Eugenie Grandet " is much 
 longer : it is the real novel, or rather the 
 model of what the real novel should be, 
 while " Madame Firmiani " is merely an 
 episode, a sketch which is as pure as it is 
 delightful ; an after-dinner story in fact, but 
 one perhaps best told en tete-d-tSte. 
 
 Another work which added greatly to Bal- 
 zac's reputation is " Le P^re Goriot." In 
 this novel, Rastignac, a character well known 
 to all of Balzac's readers, is introduced 
 to Parisian life. This fascinating young 
 scoundrel rioted through the " Comddie Hu- 
 maine" with such disinvoltura that traces 
 
BALZAC. 27 
 
 of him are everywhere discoverable. He 
 was cousin to Madame de Beaus^ant, the 
 recital of whose adventures constitutes one 
 of the accompanying translations, and he 
 is so narrowly connected with the climax 
 in another of them that a brief biography 
 will not, perhaps, be found amiss. In " The 
 Red Inn "it is related that Taillefer's son 
 was killed in a duel, whereupon he acknowl- 
 edged a daughter whom he had previously 
 refused to have anything to do with. Now 
 MUe. Taillefer once lodged in the Pension 
 Vauquer, a boarding-house where Rasti- 
 gnac also lived. Rastignac was poor, MUe. 
 TaiUefer was known to be the daughter of 
 a rich man. Rastignac, though poor, was 
 good - looking, and Mile. Taillefer, though 
 unhappy, was susceptible. Another lodger, 
 Vautrin, the Machiavelli of the gaUeys, not- 
 ing these facts, approached Rastignac and 
 addressed him somewhat as foUows : " I will 
 have Mile. Taillefer's brother kiUed in a 
 duel. Her father will then recoo:nize her. 
 She loves you : marry her, and we wiU share 
 the dower." Rastignac refused, but not be- 
 fore the brother was killed. Taillefer there- 
 upon becomes reconciled with his daughter, 
 and both reappear in the story of " The Red 
 
28 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Inn." Finally, the story of " The ' Grande 
 Bret^che,' '' — in the core of which will be 
 found a hitherto unimagiued shudder, — is 
 told by Bianchon, a young physician, with 
 whom Rastignac was on terms of intimacy. 
 
 Readers to whom Rastignac has been 
 something more than a fiction will doubtless 
 be interested in knowing that he recently 
 died, millionaire and peer of France. A 
 personal friend of Balzac's, M. Alb^ric 
 Second, the well-known author, is the writ- 
 er's authority for this statement. 
 
 These four stories, which are now for the 
 first time presented to English readers, have 
 been selected from others of equal value, 
 first, because their connection with the hub- 
 bub of the " Com^die Humaine " is but 
 slight : second, because there is little if any- 
 thing in them which could offend the Ameri- 
 can matron, or, for that matter, even her 
 British cousin. Any special praise of th^m 
 is unnecessary. They have been received 
 with warm welcome in other lands and other 
 tongues, and it is only fair to suppose that 
 they will not go a-begging now. 
 
 Edgar Saltus. 
 
THE RED INN. 
 
THE RED INN. 
 
 Some time ago a Paris banker, whose 
 commercial relations with Germany were 
 widespread, gave a dinner to one of those 
 acquaintances that business men make here 
 and there through correspondence. 
 
 This particular acquaintance, the senior 
 partner of an important firm in Nuremberg, 
 was a fat, good-natured German, a man of 
 taste and erudition, and one who was very 
 devoted to his pipe. His face was broad, 
 his forehead high and square ; his hair was 
 light and scattered, his laugh unaffected ; he 
 was a good listener and also a good drinker ; 
 for that matter he seemed as fond of cham- 
 pagne as Johannisberg : in brief, he was the 
 typical child of that pure and noble country 
 where honest men are frequent and whose 
 simplicity seven invasions have left undis- 
 turbed. 
 
 As is the case with all other Germans 
 
32 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 that French writers have introduced, his 
 name was Hermann. When he took his 
 seat at table he did so with the air of a man 
 to whom nothing is unimportant. After 
 that he ate with the Tudesque appetite 
 which has become famous in Europe, and 
 bade thereby as best he might a conscien- 
 tious farewell to the dishes and sauces of the 
 great Careme. 
 
 To do him honor, his host had invited 
 several capitalists, and with them a few 
 pretty women whose amiability was in thor- 
 ough harmony with Bavarian frankness. 
 If, as I did, you could have seen that re- 
 union of men who had drawn in their com- 
 mercial claws that they might the better 
 speculate on the pleasures of life, you would 
 not have had such a poor opinion of usurious 
 discounts. Man cannot be doing wrong all 
 the time. Even among pirates there must 
 be hours as fair as June roses. 
 
 " Before going away I hope M. Hermann 
 will tell us a story, a German story, one 
 that will frighten us all to death." 
 
 These words were uttered at dessert by a 
 pale young girl who looked as though she 
 read Hoffmann and was familiar with Wal- 
 ter Scott. She was the banker's only daugh- 
 
THE RED INN. 33 
 
 ter, aDd exceedingly beautiful. Her educa- 
 tion was being completed at the theatre, and 
 her predilection for melodramas was marked. 
 At that moment the guests one and all were 
 in that happy frame of mind which a good 
 dinner invariably induces, particularly when 
 the digestive powers have not been imposed 
 on. When this stage of a dinner is reached, 
 there are people who torment a peach pit, 
 others who roll and fumble a crumb of 
 bread ; the sentimental trace vague letters 
 with the stem of an apple, while the avari- 
 cious count their nutshells and arrange them 
 on their plate in much the same manner that 
 a playwright places the supernumeraries at 
 the back of the stage. These are the little 
 gastronomic felicities that Brillat-Savarin, 
 with all his knowledge, omitted to note. 
 
 The table then was like a ship after a 
 combat, in utter disorder and disarray. A 
 few of the guests were idly gazing at the 
 Swiss views that hung symmetrically against 
 the walls, but no one was bored. The man 
 who is bored during the digestion of a good 
 dinner is yet to be met with. At such a 
 time every one appreciates that pervasive 
 calm which is the happy medium between 
 the revery of the thinker and the satisfac- 
 
34 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 tion of the ruminant. Delighted with the 
 idea of listening to anything, however un- 
 interesting it might be, the guests turned 
 therefore with one accord to the German. 
 During that blessed intermission the voice 
 of the story-teller is music to the senses. It 
 heightens their negative pleasure. 
 
 Meanwhile, being naturally fond of pic- 
 tures, I was looking admiringly at the smil- 
 ing faces of the guests, when suddenly my 
 attention was attracted by the appearance 
 of the man who sat opposite to me. He 
 was of medium height, somewhat stout, and 
 he had the commonplace air of a broker. I 
 had barely noticed him before, but now that 
 I did so, his face, shadowed doubtless in the 
 uncertain light, seemed earthy, and furrowed 
 by violet tints. He was so cadaverous that 
 any one might have thought he was in the 
 last agonies. Motionless as a figure in a 
 diorama, his dull eyes were fixed on the glit- 
 tering facets of a crystal stopper, but I am 
 convinced he did not see them. He seemed 
 lost in some fantastic contemplation of the 
 past and future. After I had looked at him 
 for a moment or two I was in doubt whether 
 he was drunk or in pain. " Can the fall in 
 stocks have ruined him," I wondered, " or 
 is he making plans to cheat his creditors? " 
 
THE RED INN. 35 
 
 " Look," I said to the lady who sat next 
 to me, '' is n't that a bankrupt in the bud ? " 
 
 " Nonsense," she answered, " he will be 
 gay enough in a moment." Then, with a 
 gracious gesture, she added, " There is no 
 fear of his failing : he is worth a million at 
 least ; he is an old army contractor, and in 
 his way not half a bad fellow. He married 
 twice, the second time for money, and made 
 his wife very happy. He has a pretty 
 daughter whom he would n't acknowledge 
 for some time, but finally his son was kiUed 
 in a duel and he was forced to do so. He 
 had no other child, you see. In that way, 
 all of a sudden, his daughter became one 
 of the greatest heiresses in Paris. His son's 
 death was a hard blow, and every now and 
 then he gets moody over it." 
 
 At that moment his eyes met mine. His 
 look was so sombre and pensive that I 
 shuddered. It was a look that held the 
 history of a lifetime. Immediately the ex- 
 pression of his face became brighter. He 
 took the crystal stopper, placed it mechani- 
 cally in a decanter which stood filled with 
 water before him, and turned with a smile 
 to M. Hermann. 
 
 " He has n't two ideas in his head," I 
 
36 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 told myself ; "he thinks of nothing, except 
 perhaps of his dinner." 
 
 Frankly, I was disgusted at having ex- 
 erted my powers of divination in animd vili 
 of a thick-headed financier. While I had 
 been uselessly engaged in making these 
 phrenological observations, the German had 
 refreshed his nose with a pinch of snuff and 
 begun his story. It would be difficult for 
 me to reproduce it in the same terms which 
 he employed, consequently I have written it 
 out in my own way, leaving the mistakes to 
 the Bavarian, and serving up the best of it 
 with the candor of writers who forget to 
 put " Translated from the German " on their 
 title-pages. 
 
 THEORY AND PRACTICE. 
 
 " Toward the close of Vendemaire, year 
 VII, a republican date which corresponds to 
 the 20th October, 1799, two young men who 
 had set out from Bonn in the morning ar- 
 rived at nightfall at Andernach, a little 
 town on the left bank of the Rhine, a few 
 miles from Coblentz. 
 
 " At that time the French army, under 
 the command of General Augereau, was man- 
 oeuvring in presence of the Austrians, who oc- 
 
THE RED INN. 37 
 
 cupied the right bank of the river. The 
 headquarters of the republican division was 
 at Coblentz, and one of the brigades that 
 Augereau commanded was encamped at An- 
 dernach. 
 
 "The two travelers were Frenchmen. 
 Their blue uniforms, shot with white and 
 bordered with red velvet, their swords, and 
 particularly their tricolor plumes were suffi- 
 cient to indicate even to German peasants 
 that they were military surgeons ; a class of 
 men, by the way, who were well liked in the 
 army as well as in the countries wliich our 
 troops invaded. Well-educated, able, and 
 peaceful, they did what good they could and 
 relieved much of the suffering that the cru- 
 elty of the republic caused. 
 
 " The two young men alluded to were 
 each provided with a passport and commis- 
 sion signed by Coste and Bernadotte. They 
 were then on their way to join the brigade 
 to which they had been attached. Both 
 belonged to middle-class families of Beau- 
 vais, a place where there is little wealth, but 
 where the principles of morality and loyalty 
 are transmitted as part of an inheritance. 
 Led by that curiosity which is natural to 
 youth, they had arrived at the scene of war 
 
38 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 before the time which had been set for them 
 to begin their duties. Maternal prudence 
 had allowed them but a small sum, yet with 
 the few louis they possessed they did not 
 consider themselves poor, for paper then was 
 so depreciated that a handful of gold repre- 
 sented a great deal of money. Neither of 
 them was over twenty, and both were enthu- 
 siastic. Thus far they had journeyed like 
 artists, philosophers and observers. From 
 time to time the roads over which they 
 passed led them to the summit of a hill, 
 where, through an opening in the forest 
 or some favoring accident, they caught a 
 glimpse of the Khine, framed in sandstone 
 and festooned with luxuriant vegetation. 
 The valleys, the by-paths and hedges ex- 
 haled that scent of autumn that makes the 
 traveler dream; the tops of the trees had 
 begun to take on the warm brown tints 
 that are the signs of age; here and there 
 the leaves had fallen, but the sky was still 
 deep blue, and the dry roads stretched out 
 afar like yellow lines. 
 
 " When within half a league of Andernach 
 the two friends rode along through a silence 
 as deep as though the country was unvisited 
 by the clamor of war. Their path led them 
 
THE RED INN. 89 
 
 for some little time along the granite walls 
 that skirt the Rhine, until, through an ab- 
 rupt descent, it took them down into the 
 valley where the town lies on the river's 
 bank. So soon as the colored roofs of An- 
 dernach were in sight, one of the young 
 men, whose name was Prosper Magnan, 
 called the attention of his companion to the 
 beauties of the view, and pointed admiringly 
 to the boats rocking in the river, the gar- 
 dens, the gables, the outer stairways, and to 
 the galleries that circled about a thousand 
 quaint and homelike dwellings." 
 
 At the moment when M. Hermann pro- 
 nounced the name of Prosper Magnan, the 
 man who sat opposite to me seized the de- 
 canter, poured out a glass of water and swal- 
 lowed it at a gulp. This incident attracted 
 my attention. It certainly seemed to me 
 that his hand trembled and that the per- 
 spiration started to his forehead. 
 
 " What is his name ? " I asked my neigh- 
 bor. 
 
 " Taillefer," she answered. 
 
 " Are you ill ? " I asked, turning to him, 
 for I saw that he had grown very pale. 
 
 " Not in the least," he replied, with a lit- 
 tle bow of thanks. " I am listening," he 
 
40 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 added, turning to the others who were look- 
 ing at him. 
 
 " The name of the other young man," M. 
 Hermann went on- to say, " has escaped me, 
 but I remember that Prosper Magnan told 
 me he was dark and slender. For the sake 
 of clarity, I will, however, with your per- 
 mission, call him Wilhelm." 
 
 In this way, with a serene disregard of ro- 
 manticism and local color, the Bavarian bap- 
 tized the French surgeon with a German 
 name, and placidly continued his story. 
 
 " By the time the two young men reached 
 Andernach it was quite dark, too late in fact 
 to make it wortli their while to hunt up their 
 chiefs, and try to get billeted in a town al- 
 ready packed with soldiers. They resolved 
 therefore to pass their last night of freedom 
 in an inn situated on the outskirts of the 
 town, whose rich colors, glowing in the set- 
 ting sun, had attracted their notice from 
 afar. Painted in red from cellar to garret, 
 this inn, either because it was separated 
 from the other houses, or because of the con- 
 trast between its hue and the surrounding 
 green of the vegetation, had given a very 
 pretty effect to the entire landscape. Its 
 name it owed to the exterior decoration 
 
THE RED INN. 41 
 
 which a commercial superstition had pre- 
 served unchanged from the immemorial days 
 when it was first established. 
 
 " The noise of the horses brought the host 
 of the Red Inn to the door. 
 
 " ' A little later, gentlemen,' he cried, ' and 
 you would have had to sleep in the starlight, 
 like the better part of your compatriots yon- 
 der. Everything is taken here ; if you want 
 a bed I have only my own to offer you. The 
 horses can have a spread of straw in the 
 court-yard ; my stable to-day is filled with 
 Christians. Do you come from France?* 
 he asked, after a slight pause. 
 
 " ' From Bonn,' Prosper answered, ' and 
 what is more, we have n't eaten anything 
 since this morning.' 
 
 " * Oh, there is plenty of food : you need n't 
 worry about that. People come here from 
 all over the country to give wedding parties. 
 You shall have a dish fit for a prince, a 
 Rhine carp ; there is nothing finer.' 
 
 "When the innkeeper, after calling in 
 vain for an ostler, had taken the tired horses 
 in charge, the young men entered the princi- 
 pal room. The thick white clouds produced 
 by a number of smokers prevented them at 
 first from distinguishing the people who were 
 
42 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 present, but when they had found a seat 
 at a table, and had looked around with the 
 practical patience of philosophic travelers 
 who know any fuss to be useless, they grad- 
 ually made out the ordinary accessories of a 
 German hostelry, — the stove, the clock, the 
 beer mugs, the long pipes surged before them 
 through drifts of smoke. Here and there 
 were the heteroclite heads of Jews and Teu- 
 tons, and among them the bronzed faces of 
 watermen. The epaulettes of French officers 
 glittered through the fog, and there was a 
 clanking of swords and spurs on the floor. 
 Some of the guests were playing cards, others 
 argued, kept silence, ate, drank, or walked 
 up and down. A stout little woman in a 
 black velvet cap, with the blue and silver 
 stomacher, the cushion, the bunch of keys, 
 the silver clasp, braided hair — in short, with 
 all the distinctive marks of the German land- 
 lady that engravings have made familiar to 
 every one, bustled about and made the two 
 friends patient and impatient with remark- 
 able and impartial cleverness. 
 
 " Little by little the hubbub subsided, the 
 guests withdrew and the clouds of smoke dis- 
 appeared. When the table was set and the 
 classic carp was served, the clock struck 
 
THE RED INN. 43 
 
 eleven and the room was empty. Through 
 the silence of the night the horses could be 
 heard in the court-yard, as also the murmur 
 of the Rhine, and the indefinable clamors 
 that at night animate a crowded inn. Doors 
 and windows were opened and closed ; there 
 was a vague sound of voices echoing through 
 the halls. 
 
 " At this moment of silence and tumult, 
 the two Frenchmen and their host, — who 
 was boasting about Andernach, the supper, 
 the Rhine wine, the Republican army, and 
 his wife, — heard the hoarse cries of water- 
 men and the creaking of a boat against the 
 shore. The innkeeper, evidently familiar 
 with the guttural interrogations of the boat- 
 men, hastily left the room and as quickly re- 
 turned, bringing with him a short, stout man, 
 and followed by two sailors carrying a va- 
 lise and a few boxes. The boxes were placed 
 on the floor, but the valise the new-comer 
 took charge of himself. ' You had better 
 sleep on the boat,' he said to the sailors, and 
 then unceremoniously sat himself down at 
 the table where the two Frenchmen were 
 eating their supper. 
 
 " The innkeeper pointed to the fish. ' That 
 is all I have left,' he said, ' I have n't a crust 
 or a bone.' 
 
44 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 " ' No sauerkraut ? ' the stout man asked. 
 
 " ' Not enough to put in my wife's thimble, 
 and as I told you, there is no other bed for 
 you than the chair on which you are sitting, 
 and no other room than the one you are in.' 
 
 " At these words the new-comer cast at the 
 room, the innkeeper, and the two French- 
 men a look in which prudence and fright 
 were equally mingled. 
 
 " I ought to tell you at this point," M. 
 Hermann said, " that the real name and an- 
 tecedents of this individual were never dis- 
 covered. From papers which he had with 
 him it was learned that he came from Aix- 
 la-Chapelle, that he had assumed the name 
 of Walhenfer, and that he had a large pin 
 manufactory near Neuweid. He wore a coat 
 of common cloth, knee-breeches, a waistcoat 
 of dark green velvet, high boots and a leather 
 belt. His face was round, his manners frank 
 and cordial, but during that evening it was 
 evident that he was trying to disguise some- 
 thing which was either fear or anxiety. The 
 opinion of the innkeeper has always been 
 that he was running away from his creditors. 
 Later I learned that his manufactory had 
 been burned down through one of those acci- 
 dents so common in war time. In spite of 
 
THE RED INN. 45 
 
 his worried appearance he seemed very good- 
 natured, he was not bad-looking, and the 
 whiteness of his neck was so heightened by 
 a black cravat that Wilhelm joked about it 
 to Prosper." 
 
 Here M. Taillefer drank a glass of water. 
 
 " Prosper courteously invited him to share 
 the supper, an offer which he at once ac- 
 cepted. He put the valise under his feet 
 and took off his hat, his gloves, and the two 
 pistols which he wore in his belt. The inn- 
 keeper having brought another plate, all 
 three then silently began to satisfy their 
 appetites. The room was so close and there 
 were so many flies that Prosper begged the 
 innkeeper to open the window. The window 
 was barricaded by bars of iron that stretched 
 from one side of the wainscot to the other, 
 and to which, for greater security, the shut- 
 ters were attached by means of screws. As 
 chance would have it. Prosper noticed the 
 manner in which the innkeeper took the 
 bars off before the window could be opened. 
 
 " But," continued M. Hermann, " I ought 
 not to tell you about the window alone : the 
 entire arrangement of the inn shoidd be ex- 
 plained, as otherwise it would be difficult to 
 follow the thread of the story. The room 
 
46 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 where the people were of whom I speak had 
 two exits ; one opened on the road to Ander- 
 nach, which bordered the Rhine. There, in 
 front of the inn, was a little dock to which 
 the boat that had brought Walhenfer was 
 moored. The other door opened on the 
 court-yard. This court-yard, surrounded by 
 high walls, was filled with horses and cattle. 
 
 " When the innkeeper opened the win- 
 dow, he carefully bolted and barred the door 
 which opened on the road. The innkeeper's 
 room, where the two Frenchmen were to 
 sleep, was next to the one in which they were 
 taking their supper, and it was separated 
 only by a partition from the kitchen where 
 the innkeeper and his wife were to pass the 
 night. It is easy therefore to understand 
 that the dining-room, the innkeeper's room 
 and the kitchen were, in a measure, cut ofP 
 from the rest of the house. In the court- 
 yard were two watch - dogs. The way in 
 which they barked showed that both were 
 irritable and vigilant. 
 
 " ' What a beautiful night ! ' Wilhelm ex- 
 claimed, as he looked out at the sky. There 
 was then no noise to be heard except the 
 murmur of the Rhine. 
 
 " ' Gentlemen,' said Walhenfer, ' let me or- 
 
THE RED INN. 47 
 
 der a few bottles of wine to wash down the 
 carp. I see that like myself you have had a 
 long journey to-day. In drinking we will 
 forget our fatigue.' 
 
 "This proposition was at once accepted, 
 and the innkeeper went out through the 
 kitchen door to the cellar where the wine 
 was stored. When he reappeared with five 
 venerable-looking bottles, his wife, who had 
 been serving the supper, looked carefully 
 about, and, sure of having forestalled all 
 possible exigencies, went back to the kitchen, 
 and a little later was heard snoring in a 
 manner that made them all smile. 
 
 " Toward midnight, when nothing remained 
 on the table except some biscuits, some cheese, 
 and some good old wine, they one and all — 
 for the innkeeper had been invited to drink 
 with them — became very communicative, 
 particularly the young Frenchmen, who chat- 
 ted about their home, their studies and the 
 war. Prosper Magnan brought tears to the 
 eyes of the fugitive when with Picardian 
 candor and naivetS he tried to imagine what 
 his mother was doing while he, her son, was 
 on the banks of the Rhine. 
 
 " ' I can see her now, repeating her even- 
 ing prayer,' he said, ' she does n't forget me 
 
48 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 in it, I know, and I am sure she wonders 
 where I am. If she has won a few sous 
 from her neighbor — from your mother, per- 
 haps,' he added, with a nudge at Wilhelm's 
 elbow — ' she will put them in the big red 
 jar where she keeps her savings, for she is 
 trying to save enough money to buy the 
 thirty acres that she wants at Lescheville. 
 Those thirty acres are worth every sou of 
 sixty thousand francs. They are beautiful 
 fields. I tell you what, if I had them, I 'd 
 live at Lescheville for the rest of my life 
 and ask nothing better. How my father 
 longed for them! Well, he died without 
 them. I have played on them a hundred 
 times.' 
 
 " ' Have n't you your hoc erat in votis 
 too, M. Walhenfer?' Wilhelm asked. 
 
 " ' Yes, yes, indeed, it came of itself, and 
 now ' — he hesitated and left the sentence 
 unfinished. 
 
 " ' I,' said the innkeeper, whose face had 
 gotten rather red, ' I bought a vineyard the 
 other day that I had wanted for ten years.' 
 
 "In this way, after the manner of men 
 whose tongues have been loosened by wine, 
 they kept on talking, developing for each 
 other that transient friendship so common 
 
THE RED INN. 49 
 
 among travelers, until, at last, when they 
 were about to separate, Wilhelin offered his 
 bed to the stranger. 
 
 " ' You might just as well take it,* he 
 said, 'for I can sleep with Prosper. It 
 won't be the first time, certainly, nor the 
 last ; besides, you are our elder, and it is for 
 youth to honor age.' 
 
 " ' Bah ! ' exclaimed the innkeeper, ' there 
 are several mattresses on my wife's bed. 
 I '11 give you one and you can put it on the 
 floor.' 
 
 " ' Thank you,' Walhenfer answered, ' I 
 shall be glad to do so.' Then, turning to 
 the two friends, he added in a lower tone, 
 ' I must admit that I hoped you would 
 make the offer. I don't like the looks of 
 my boatmen, and I shall not be sorry to pass 
 the night in the company of two fine fellows, 
 and French soldiers at that ! In this valise 
 I have a hundred thousand francs in gold 
 and diamonds.' 
 
 " The unaffected manner with which this 
 imprudent confession was received redoub- 
 led the German's confidence. The inn- 
 keeper helped his guests to arrange their 
 beds, and when everything was in order 
 he wished them good - night and withdrew. 
 
50 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 Walhenfer and the two Frenchmen jested 
 about the pillows. Prosper took his box of 
 instruments, with that of Wilhelm's, and put 
 them both under the mattress, that they 
 might supply the place of a bolster. For 
 greater security, Walhenfer did the same 
 with his valise. 
 
 "'We shall both sleep on our capital,' 
 Prosper said, ' you on your gold, I on my 
 instruments. I wonder if mine will ever 
 represent as much as yours ? ' 
 
 " ' You have only to be patient,' Walhen- 
 fer answered, ' in the end, work and honesty 
 are always successful.' 
 
 " In a short time Walhenfer and Wil- 
 helm were sound asleep, but Prosper, either 
 from over-fatigue or indisposition, remained 
 awake. Unconsciously his thoughts took an 
 evil turn. The hundred thousand francs 
 danced before him. To him such a sum was 
 an enormous fortune: with it he began to 
 build a number of those castles that occupy us 
 in the moments that precede sleep, in those 
 moments when confused figures surge be- 
 fore us and thought acquires a magic power. 
 His mother's wishes were all gratified. The 
 thirty acres of land were his. He married a 
 young lady whose wealth hitherto had been 
 
THE RED INN. 61 
 
 an obstacle to their union. With the aid 
 of the hundred thousand francs he planned 
 a life of ease and happiness ; he saw him- 
 self the father of a family, rich, respected 
 and perhaps mayor of Beauvais. His Pi- 
 cardian imagination caught fire and he tried 
 to think how he could change his fictions 
 into facts. In every way he endeavored to 
 plan a crime in theory. He pictured Wal- 
 henfer dead ; he saw the glitter of the gold 
 and diamonds ; their brilliance dazzled him ; 
 his heart thrilled within him; morally he 
 was then a criminal. Fascinated by the 
 gold, he intoxicated himself with arguments. 
 He asked himself whether the poor fellow 
 had really any need to live and tried to 
 fancy that he had never existed. The whole 
 thing could be managed so easily ! Across 
 the Rhine were the Austrians, at the door 
 of the inn was a boat and boatmen, he could 
 cut the man's throat, throw him into the 
 river, take the valise, jump out of the win- 
 dow, pay the boatmen and escape into 
 Austria. He went so far as to calculate 
 whether, with his knowledge of surgery, he 
 could cut his victim's throat before he had a 
 chance to scream." 
 
 At this point M. Taillefer mopped his 
 forehead and drank some water. 
 
52 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 " Slowly and noiselessly he got out of bed, 
 dressed himself and entered the room where 
 he had eaten his supper. Then, with that 
 fatal intelligence that man finds suddenly 
 within him, with that power of tact and will 
 which criminals and prisoners never lack in 
 the accomplishment of their projects, he un- 
 screwed the iron bars, placed them noise- 
 lessly on the floor, and, leaning heavily 
 against the shutters, opened them in such 
 wise as to deaden their creaking. 
 
 "The moon threw her pale rays on the 
 scene, and enabled him to dimly distinguish 
 the objects in the room where his compan- 
 ions were sleeping. The palpitations of his 
 heart were so loud, so deep and sonorous 
 that they frightened him : he was afraid of 
 losing his presence of mind ; his hands 
 trembled ; the soles of his feet seemed to be 
 resting on burning coals; but still the exe- 
 cution of his plan had thus far been man- 
 aged so well that he felt as though predes- 
 tined to complete it. 
 
 " When he reached Walhenfer's bed, he 
 mechanically recommended himself to God, 
 but, at the very moment when, collecting all 
 his strength, he raised his arm, he caught 
 the whisper of an interior voice, a light 
 
THE RED INN. 63 
 
 came to his eyes, and throwing the instru- 
 ment on his own bed, he ran into the other 
 room. There he conceived such a profound 
 horror of himself, and yet felt so weak, and 
 so afraid that he might again succumb to 
 the fascination which had made him its 
 prey, that he sprang out of the window and 
 walked up and down like a sentinel before 
 the inn. At times his precipitate march 
 took him to Andernach ; at others it brought 
 him to the slope which he had descended 
 before reaching the inn ; but the silence of 
 the night was so profound, he had such con- 
 fidence in the watch-dogs, that he not un- 
 frequently lost sight of the window which 
 he had left open. He tried to tire him- 
 self so that he would sleep. But as he 
 walked on under the cloudless sky, admiring 
 the countless stars, and affected perhaps by 
 the pure air and the melancholy wash of the 
 waves, he fell into a revery which little by 
 little brought his thoughts back to their 
 normal condition. In the end, his natural 
 good sense dissipated all traces of his mo- 
 mentary frenzy. His education, his relig- 
 ious sentiments, and particularly, he told me, 
 the recollection of the peaceful days that he 
 had passed at home, triumphed over his evil 
 inclinations. 
 
54 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 " On his return to the inn, after a long 
 meditation, — to the charm of which he had 
 thoroughly abandoned himself, — he told me 
 that he could not only have slept, — he could 
 have stood guard over a million. At the 
 moment when his honesty rose restrength- 
 ened from the struggle, his happiness was 
 so great that, kneeling down, he thanked 
 God for his goodness. In fact, he was as 
 thoroughly content as on the day of his first 
 communion, when he felt himself worthy of 
 the angels, because he had passed the entire 
 day without sinning, in word, deed or 
 thought. He returned to the inp, shut the 
 window, without taking any precautions 
 against making a noise, and went at once 
 to bed. His weariness, both mental and 
 physical, was so great that he had barely 
 laid down before he fell into that fantastic 
 somnolence which precedes deep sleep. The 
 senses then grow dull, consciousness grad- 
 ually fades, thoughts are incomplete and the 
 last tremors of the mind simulate a form of 
 revery. 
 
 "'How heavy the air is,' Prosper mur- 
 mured to himself, ' I seem to be breathing a 
 damp vapor.' This effect he vaguely ac- 
 counted for by the difference existing be- 
 
THE RED INN. 55 
 
 tween the atmosphere of the room and the 
 pure air of the country. Soon he heard a 
 sound similar to that made by the dripping 
 of water. His first impulse then was to 
 arouse Wilhelm and Walhenfer. Unfortu- 
 nately, however, he remembered the wooden 
 clock, and, thinking that he recognized the 
 movement of the pendulum, fell asleep with 
 that indistinct and confused perception." 
 
 " Do you want some water, M. Taille- 
 f er ? " the host asked, seeing the capitalist 
 mechanically grasp the decanter. 
 
 It was empty ! 
 
 After the momentary pause occasioned by 
 this incident, M. Hermann continued his 
 story. 
 
 " The next morning Prosper Magnan was 
 awakened by a loud noise. It seemed to 
 him as though he had heard piercing shrieks, 
 and he experienced that violent shudder of 
 the nerves which invariably occurs when we 
 finish, on awaking, a painful sensation begun 
 before sleep. The start to which we are 
 then subjected is a psychological phenom- 
 enon as yet insufficiently observed. The 
 spasm, caused doubtless by the sudden union 
 of our two natures that have been separated 
 during sleep, is usually very brief. But in 
 
36 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 Prosper Magnan's case it persisted a mo- 
 ment and then, abruptly increasing, caused 
 the most hideous sensation when, between 
 his mattress and Walhenfer's, he saw a 
 great pool of blood. The head of the Ger- 
 man had rolled to the floor ; his body was 
 still on the bed. The blood had come from 
 the neck. 
 
 " On seeing the eyes still open, yet fixed, 
 on finding his sheets and even his hands 
 spotted with gore, and on recognizing his own 
 knife on the bed. Prosper Magnan fainted 
 and fell over into the pool of blood. When 
 he recovered consciousness, he found himself 
 in the adjoining room, sitting on a chair, and 
 surrounded by French soldiers. The room 
 was filled with people. He gazed stupidly at 
 an officer engaged in taking testimony. He 
 noticed the innkeeper and his wife and the 
 two boatmen. The instrument which the 
 assassin had used " — 
 
 At this point, M. Taillefer coughed, drew 
 out his handkerchief and mopped his fore- 
 head again. This action on his part, in 
 which there was nothing unnatural, was only 
 noticed by me ; the other guests, who were 
 all greatly interested in the story, were lis- 
 tening intently to M. Hermann. Taillefer 
 
THE RED INN. 57 
 
 leaned his elbow on the table and looked 
 straight at him. After that he made no fur- 
 ther movement, but his face remained pale 
 and pensive as at the moment when he toyed 
 with the crystal stopper. 
 
 "The instrument which the assassin had 
 used was on the table, and with it Prosper's 
 case, pocket-book and papers. Those present 
 looked alternately at these things, and then 
 at the young man, whose blurred eyes 
 seemed sightless. From without came the 
 sound of the voices of the crowd that had 
 been attracted by the news of the crime. 
 Through the tumult could be heard the tread 
 of sentinels, and the thud of their muskets. 
 
 " The inn itself was closed, and the court- 
 yard was empty and silent. Unable to sus- 
 tain the gaze of the officer who was taking 
 testimony. Prosper Magnan felt some one 
 grasp his hand, and, raising his eyes, recog- 
 nized by the uniform the surgeon-major of 
 the Andernach brigade. The look which the 
 man gave him was so piercingly severe that 
 the young fellow shuddered and let his head 
 fall on the back of his chair. A soldier held 
 some vinegar to his face and he soon recov- 
 ered, but his eyes were so woe-begone and 
 lifeless that the surgeon, after feeling his 
 
58 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 pulse, told the officer that it would be impos- 
 sible to question him in his present condition. 
 The captain motioned to a corporal. ' Very 
 good,' he said to the surgeon, ' take him 
 away.' 
 
 " ' You infernal coward ! ' the corporal 
 muttered, ' walk like a man, will you, before 
 these Germans ? Can't you remember who 
 you are ? ' 
 
 " Prosper was aroused at this. He stood 
 up and made a step or two, but when the 
 door opened, and he saw the crowd outside, 
 his knees trembled, and he staggered. Two 
 soldiers then supported him on either side. 
 
 " ' Cursed blackguard ! ' said one, ' shoot- 
 ing is too good for you.' 
 
 " ' Get along, will you ? ' cried the other. 
 
 " ' Look at him ! look at him ! Oh, the 
 coward ! the coward ! ' It seemed as though 
 these words were uttered by but one voice, 
 the tumultuous voice of the crowd that fol- 
 lowed with noisy insults and increased at ev- 
 ery step. During the passage from the inn 
 to the prison, the uproar of the people, the 
 tramp of the soldiers, the fair sky, the fresh- 
 ness of the air, the appearance of Ander- 
 nach, the shimmering of the Rhine — all 
 these things came to the young man with a 
 
9 
 THE RED INN. 59 
 
 vagueness and dull confusion that had marked 
 all his sensations since he awoke. There 
 were moments, he told me, when it seemed 
 as though he were dead. At that time," M. 
 Hermann interrupted himseK to say, "I was 
 in prison. Like every one else at twenty, 
 I was very enthusiastic; I burned to de- 
 fend my country, and I had organized, in 
 the neighborhood of Andernach, a volunteer 
 company which I commanded. I was taken 
 prisoner, however, and thrown into jail. It 
 was ordered that I should be shot. They 
 wanted to make an example of me that 
 would frighten other insurgents. But my 
 father managed to obtain a respite of three 
 days, and meanwhile begged General Auge- 
 reau to pardon me, which he subsequently 
 did. I was present, therefore, when Prosper 
 Magnan entered the prison, and I can assure 
 you that I felt very sorry for him. Although 
 he was weak, pale, and covered with blood, 
 yet his face had such a stamp of candor and 
 honesty that I was struck by it. It seemed 
 to me as though Germany had breathed in 
 his blue eyes and long, fair hair. He was 
 like an image of my defeated country, and I 
 took him not for a murderer but a victim. 
 As he passed under my window he smiled in 
 
60 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 that melancholy way which is common to the 
 insane that have glimpses of their lost rea- 
 son. Certainly his smile was not that of an 
 assassin. When I saw the jailer, I asked 
 about him. He told me that since he en- 
 tered his cell he had not spoken a word. 
 ' They say,' he added, ' that he will be shot 
 inside of forty-eight hours.' 
 
 "During the short time that I was al- 
 lowed that evening to walk in the court- 
 yard, I stopped at his window. We talked 
 together ; he told me of his adventure, and 
 answered my questions without embarrass- 
 ment. When I left him I was convinced 
 of his innocence. I asked and obtained per- 
 mission to pass an hour or two in his cell, 
 and then the poor fellow poured out to me 
 his innermost thoughts. He considered him- 
 self both innocent and guilty. Remember- 
 ing the horrible temptation which he had 
 found the strength to resist, he feared that 
 while asleep he had committed the very 
 crime which he had dreamed of when awake. 
 ' Could it not have been your companion ? ' 
 I asked. ' Never ! ' he answered excitedly, 
 ' Wilhelm is incapable ' — He did not com- 
 plete the sentence. His confidence in his 
 friend was so boyish and so honest that I 
 
THE RED INN, 61 
 
 shook his hand. ' When he awoke,' Prosper 
 continued, 'he must have been so startled 
 that he lost his presence of mind, and ran 
 away.' ' Then your defense is easy,' I said, 
 'for Walhenfer's valise cannot have been 
 stolen.' 
 
 " ' Yes, yes ! ' he cried, ' I am innocent : I 
 remember my dreams ; I was playing with 
 my schoolmates ; it is not possible for me to 
 have cut off that man's head while dream- 
 ing that I was running ! ' But in spite of 
 the rays of hope that made him somewhat 
 calmer, he still felt overwhelmed by remorse. 
 He knew that in his heart he had committed 
 murder; his hand had been raised — morally 
 he was guilty. ' And yet, and yet I am in- 
 nocent ! ' he cried. ' Oh, my poor mother I 
 Perhaps at this moment she is chatting with 
 some of her neighbors. If she knew that I 
 had so much as thought of assassinating, it 
 would kill her. And I am in prison, accused 
 of a crime ! Even if I did not kill that man, 
 at least I shall kill my mother ! ' 
 
 " When he said this his eyes were dry, 
 but with that suddenness of frenzy that is 
 peculiar to the Picards, he threw himseK 
 against the wall, and had I not held him he 
 would have dashed out his brains. ' Wait 
 
62 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 till you are tried,' I said, ' you are sure to 
 be acquitted ; you are innocent, and your 
 mother ' — 
 
 " ' My mother,* he cried, < will hear the 
 accusation first ; that is the way it always is 
 in small towns like ours. She will hear it 
 and die of grief. Besides, I am not inno- 
 cent. Do you want to know the truth ? I 
 feel that I have lost the bloom of my con- 
 science.' 
 
 "After that he sat down, crossed his 
 arms on his breast, bowed his head and 
 looked sadly to the ground. A moment 
 later the turnkey came to take me back to 
 my cell, but I was so sorry to leave him in 
 such a state of discouragement that I caught 
 »him in my arms and embraced him. 
 
 " ' Be patient,' I said, ' and perhaps all 
 will go well ; if the voice of an honest man 
 can help you to forget your fears, let me 
 say that I both believe in and respect you.' 
 
 " At nine o'clock the next morning, a cor- 
 poral and four soldiers came in search of 
 him. On hearing them come in, I went to 
 the window. When Prosper crossed the 
 yard I caught his eye, and never shall I for- 
 get the look he gave me : it was one in which 
 thoughts, presentiments, and resignation 
 
THE RED INN. 63 
 
 were wedded with sadness. It was a sort of 
 testament, silent and yet intelligible, in 
 which one friend bequeathed his lost life to 
 another. The solitude of the night must 
 have been hard for him to bear, and yet per- 
 haps his pallor denoted a stoicism which he 
 had drawn from a fresh esteem of himself. 
 It may be that he had purified his con- 
 science with remorse, and expected to oblit- 
 erate his sin with grief. He walked with a 
 firm step. The blood with which his clothes 
 had been stained and spotted was no longer 
 visible. ' My hands must have dabbled in 
 it while I slept,' he had told me, shudder- 
 ingly, the night before. 
 
 " He was to appear, I heard, before a court- 
 martial. The division was to advance the 
 next day, and the brigadier-general had de- 
 termined not to leave Andernach before met- 
 ing out justice for the crime that had been 
 committed. While the court-martial lasted, 
 I was in a state of great nervous excitement. 
 At noon. Prosper was brought back — I was 
 then taking my usual walk. He saw me, and 
 running to me threw himself into my arms. 
 ' Lost ! ' he cried, ' I am irretrievably lost ! 
 In the minds of every one here I am and shall 
 remain a murderer.' Then, lifting his head 
 
64 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 with an air of pride, he added, ' This injus- 
 tice has made me sure of my own innocence. 
 My life would have been always troubled, 
 my death will be without reproach. But is 
 there a hereafter ? ' The whole of the eigh- 
 teenth century was in that sudden question. 
 He stood thinking. ' But tell me,' I asked, 
 'what did you say? What did they ask 
 you ? ' He looked at me fixedly for a moment, 
 and then answered, with a feverish vivacity 
 of speech, ' First they asked me whether I 
 had left the inn during the night. I an- 
 swered that I had. " In what way ? " they 
 asked. I blushed, and answered, " Through 
 the window." " Did you open it ? " they 
 asked. " Yes," I said, " I did." " You must 
 have been very quiet over it ; the innkeeper 
 did not hear you." What could I say ? The 
 boatmen said they saw me going first to 
 Andernach and then to the forest. I made 
 several trips, they said; I buried the gold 
 and diamonds. Anyhow, the valise has n't 
 been found. You see I was struggling with 
 my remorse : when I tried to speak, a piti- 
 less voice called to me, " You wanted to do 
 it, you wanted to do it." Everything was 
 against me, even to myself. They asked me 
 about my friend, and I defended him. " The 
 
TUE RED INN. 65 
 
 guilt lies," said they, "between you, your 
 companion, the innkeeper and his wife. 
 This morning all the doors and windows 
 were found closed from the inside." When 
 they told me that, I had neither voice nor 
 strength. I was surer of my friend than of 
 myself ; I could not accuse him. I saw that 
 we were looked upon as equally guilty and 
 that I was regarded as the least adroit. I 
 tried to explain the whole thing by somnam- 
 bulism, but of course I failed. I am lost. 
 I read my sentence in the judges' faces. 
 Well, everything is over now, even to un- 
 certainty. To-morrow I shall be shot. It 
 is n't for myself that I care, but for my poor 
 mother.' He stopped a moment and looked 
 up at the sky. ' Frdd^ric ! ' — There ! I 've 
 got it ; his friend's name was Fr^d^ric. Yes, 
 that was certainly it," M. Hermann cried 
 triumphantly. 
 
 My neighbor motioned to me to look at 
 Taillef er. He had let his hand fall over his 
 face, but between the spaces left by his fin- 
 gers it seemed to us as though we saw a 
 flame issuing from his eyes. "What do 
 you say?" she whispered to me, "supposing 
 his name was Frederic ! " 
 
 Hermann continued as follows : " ' Fr^- 
 6 
 
66 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 d^ric,' tlie young man exclaimed, ' Fr^d^ric 
 has basely deserted me. He was frightened, 
 of course. It may be that he hid in the inn. 
 Our two horses were in the court-yard this 
 morning. How mysterious it is ! ' he added, 
 after a moment's silence. ' Was it somnam- 
 bulism or was it not ? I have had but one 
 attack, and that was when I was six years 
 old.' He ground his heel on the pavement 
 impatiently. ' Must I die a double death ? ' 
 he continued, ' must I doubt a friendship 
 begun in childhood and continued ever 
 since ? Where is Fr^d^ric ? Where can he 
 be ? ' The tears came to his eyes. ' Come,' 
 he said, ' let us go in. I prefer to be in my 
 cell. I don't want them to see me crying. 
 I will meet death bravely, but I am far 
 from heroic now. I admit that I am sorry 
 to die so young. I had no sleep last night : 
 the scenes of my childhood were before me, 
 and I saw myself playing on the very fields, 
 the memory of which has brought me where 
 I am. I had a fair future, and now — twelve 
 men, a lieutenant, the command, " Carry 
 arms, take aim, fire ! " the beat of the drums 
 and infamy ! That is my future. Oh, there 
 must be a God! If there were none it 
 would all be too absurd.' He threw his 
 
THE RED INN. 67 
 
 arms about me and pressed me to him. 
 ' You are the only one to whom I can pour 
 out my soul. You are free, you are, you 
 will see your mother. I don't know whether 
 you are rich or poor, and I don't care ; you 
 are the whole world to me. These people 
 here won't fight forever. When the war is 
 over, go to Beauvais. If my mother sur- 
 vives the news of my death you will see her. 
 Tell her this for consolation — " He was in- 
 nocent." She will believe you. I will write 
 her a letter, but you will take her my last 
 words, and tell her you were the last one 
 on earth whose hand I held in mine. Poor 
 mother I How she will love you, you, her 
 son's last friend.' After a moment's pause 
 he added, ' No one knows me here, and I am 
 an object of horror to all. Were it not for 
 you my innocence would be a secret between 
 the heavens and myself.' 
 
 " I faithfully promised to fulfill his last 
 wishes. He was touched, I could see, by 
 what I said. A little later the soldiers 
 came and led him back to the court-martial. 
 He was sentenced to be shot. I am not 
 familiar with the formalities that are cus- 
 tomary in a trial of this kind, and I do not 
 know whether the young surgeon defended 
 
68 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 his life. In any event, he resigned himself 
 to his fate, and passed the night in writing 
 to his mother. 
 
 " The next morning, when I went to see 
 him, he met me with a smile. ' We shall 
 both be free soon,' he said, ' I hear the gen- 
 eral has signed your pardon.' A look of 
 disgust came over his face, and he added, 
 ' Such a coward as I have been ! The 
 whole night through I begged and implored 
 the walls to release me,' and he pointed to 
 the walls of his cell. ' Yes,' he continued, 
 ' I shrieked in despair. I revolted against 
 fate ; my agonies were hideous. I was 
 alone ! Now I think of what others will say. 
 Courage is a garment. I shall put it on 
 and meet death decently attired.' When " — 
 
 " Oh, don't tell the rest ! " exclaimed the 
 young girl who had asked for the story, and 
 who then suddenly interrupted it. " Don't 
 tell the rest ; I don't want to hear it. I 
 want to think he was saved. If I were 
 sure he was shot I would n't sleep a wink." 
 
 Every one then left the table. As my 
 neighbor took M. Hermann's arm she said 
 to him, " He was shot, was he not ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I was present at the execution." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you had the 
 heart to " — 
 
THE RED INN. 69 
 
 " He had asked me. Ah, it is a terrible 
 thing to attend the funeral of a live man, a 
 man whom you love, a man who deserves to 
 live ! The poor fellow kept his eyes fixed 
 on mine the whole time. He seemed to live 
 only in me. He wanted me, he said, to 
 carry his last sigh back to his mother." 
 
 " And did you see her ? " 
 
 " After the peace of Amiens, I entered 
 France solely to bring her the beautiful 
 words — 'he was innocent.' But she had 
 died of consumption. When I burned the 
 letter of which I was the bearer I was much 
 affected. I dare say you will laugh at my 
 Teutonic sentimentalism, but to me there 
 was a drama of melancholy sublimity in the 
 eternal secret whose farewells were thus 
 buried between two tombs — farewells of 
 which all the world was as ignorant as of 
 the cry that rings in the desert when the 
 traveler is surprised by a lion.'* 
 
 I interrupted him, and said : " Well, now, 
 supposing you were brought face to face 
 with a man in this drawing - room and 
 you were told that he was the murderer; 
 would n't that be another drama ? " 
 
 M. Hermann took his hat and left ab- 
 ruptly. 
 
70 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 " You act like a boy," my neighbor said, 
 " and like a careless one at that. Just look 
 at Taillef er : there he is, sitting in the cor- 
 ner; Mile. Fanny is giving him a cup of 
 coffee. See him smile. Could a murderer, 
 after hearing that story, be as calm as he is ? 
 Why, he looks like a patriarch." 
 
 " So he does," I answered, " but go and 
 ask him if he was in the German war." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 And with that audacity that women rarely 
 lack, especially when they are interested in 
 an undertaking or when they are curious 
 about anything, my neighbor crossed the 
 room to where Taillefer was sitting. 
 
 " Were you ever in Germany ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 Taillefer almost dropped his saucer. 
 
 " I, Madam ? No, never." 
 
 " What are you talking about, Taillefer ! " 
 interrupted the banker. "Why, you were 
 at Wagram." 
 
 " Ah yes," Taillefer answered, " at that 
 time I was there." 
 
 My neighbor came back to where I was 
 standing. " You are wrong," she said, " he 
 is an honest man." 
 
 " As you will," I replied, " but before the 
 
THE RED INN. 71 
 
 evening is over I will hunt the murderer 
 from the mud in which he is hiding.'* 
 
 Every day there happens under our own 
 eyes a phenomenon which is at once as- 
 tounding and yet too simple to be remarked. 
 When two men are brought together, one 
 of whom, on account of his acquaintance 
 with something that the other has done, or 
 even from personal antipathy, feels that he 
 has the right to despise him, the abyss that 
 separates them is mutually and at once di- 
 vined. They watch each other and keep on 
 their guard. Their looks, their gestures, 
 everything they do is impregnated with the 
 emanation of their animosity. There is a 
 loadstone between them. As in the case of 
 the priest who could not consecrate the Host 
 in the presence of the Evil Spirit, they are 
 both defiant and both embarrassed. One is 
 civil, the other taciturn ; one changes color, 
 the other trembles. The avenger is often 
 as cowardly as the victim. Indeed, few peo- 
 ple have the courage to punish, even though 
 the punishment is deserved ; from fear of a 
 scandal or a tragedy, the majority hold their 
 tongues and do nothing. 
 
 This intersusception of our natures estab- 
 lished a mysterious current between Taille- 
 
72 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 fer and myself. Since the time I had first 
 spoken to him — while Hermann was telling 
 the story — his eyes had avoided mine : it 
 may be that they had also avoided those of 
 the other guests, but of that I know nothing. 
 He sat chatting with Fanny, the banker's 
 guileless daughter, seeking, doubtless, after 
 the manner of criminals, to find rest where 
 innocence was. When he thought he could 
 do so with impunity he looked at me, but 
 our eyes invariably met and he was forced 
 to look away. Outwearied at last, he took 
 a seat at a card-table. I bet on the play 
 of his adversary, but I did so with the hope 
 of losing. This hope was fulfilled. I took 
 the place of the player who went away, and 
 found myself face to face with the murderer. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," I said, while he 
 was dealing, " will you have the goodness to 
 change the markers ? " 
 
 Precipitately he passed the counters from 
 left to right. My neighbor had approached 
 the table. I looked at her significantly. 
 
 Turning to him again, I said, " Are you the 
 M. Frederic Taillefer whose family I was 
 well acquainted with at Beauvais ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," he answered. 
 
 He let the cards fall, turned pale, put his 
 
THE RED INN. 73 
 
 head iu his hands, begged one of the players 
 to take his place and got up. 
 
 " It is too warm here," he said. " I am 
 afraid " — 
 
 The sentence was never completed. In 
 an instant his face expressed the most ter- 
 rible suffering, and he immediately left the 
 room. The banker, with an air of great so- 
 licitation, went out after him. My neighbor 
 and I looked at one another. She seemed 
 grieved, I thought. A few moments later, 
 when I too, after losing my money, had risen 
 from the table, she led me to the window. 
 
 " Do you think you have been very com- 
 passionate ? " she asked. " Would you care 
 to have the power to read in every heart ? 
 Why interfere with human justice any more 
 than with that of God ? If we escape one 
 we never escape the other. Do you think 
 that the privileges of a judge of the gen- 
 eral sessions are greatly to be envied ? You 
 have almost performed the office of an exe- 
 cutioner." 
 
 " After having shared and stimulated my 
 curiosity, what do you want to read me a 
 lecture for ? " 
 
 "You have made me reflect," she an- 
 swered. 
 
74 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 " Which means, I suppose, that scoundrels 
 should sleep in peace and gold be deified. 
 But let us change the subject. Look at 
 that young girl who has just come in." 
 
 "What of her?" 
 
 " I saw her three days ago at the ball 
 given by the Neapolitan ambassador, and 
 admired her immensely. Do you know who 
 she is ? No one could tell me." 
 
 " That is Mile. Victorine Taillefer." 
 
 I almost fainted. 
 
 " Her step - mother," my neighbor con- 
 tinued, " took her only a short time since 
 from the convent where she was being edu- 
 cated. Previously her father had refused 
 to acknowledge her. This is the first time 
 that she has come here. She is not only 
 good-looking — she is rich." 
 
 These last words were uttered in a tone 
 that was significantly sarcastic. At that mo- 
 ment we heard the sound of stifled shrieks. 
 They seemed to come from some neighbor- 
 ing room, and echoed faintly through the 
 garden. 
 
 " Is n't that TaUlefer's voice ? " I asked. 
 
 We listened attentively, and heard the 
 shrieks repeated. Our hostess hurried to- 
 ward us and closed the window. 
 
THE RED INN. - 75 
 
 "Do help me," she said, "to prevent a 
 scene ; if Mile. Taillefer hears her father 
 she will be sure to have hysterics." 
 
 The banker reappeared ; he looked about 
 for Victorine, went to her and said some- 
 thing in a low tone. The girl screamed and 
 was out of the room in a flash. This inci- 
 dent created an intense excitement. The 
 card - playing ceased ; every one stood up 
 and asked each other questions. 
 " Do you suppose that he has " — 
 " Killed himself ? '''' My neighbor laughed. 
 " How deep would your mourning be if he 
 had?" 
 
 " But what can have happened to him ? " 
 " Poor man," said the hostess compassion- 
 ately, " he is subject to a disease, the name 
 of which I never can remember, and he has 
 just had an attack." 
 
 " What kind of a disease is it ? " some 
 one inquired. 
 
 "It's an awful thing," she answered, — 
 " there is no remedy for it. The agony, I 
 hear, is something horrible. One day he 
 had an attack at our country-seat. I had 
 to go to one of my neighbors to avoid hear- 
 ing him ; his screams were heart-rending ; 
 he tried to kill himself ; he was so frantic 
 
76 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 that they had to put him in a strait- 
 jacket. He thought he had rats in his head, 
 gnawing his brain, and that each nerve was 
 being sawed in two. The pain was so atro- 
 cious that he did not even feel the moxas 
 that the physician applied with the hope of 
 relieving him ; the doctor he now has says 
 it is a nervous affection, for which leeches 
 should be applied to the neck and opium to 
 the head ; since he began this treatment his 
 attacks have been less frequent, and only 
 come on about once a year, towards the end 
 of autumn. When he gets over one, he 
 says he would rather be broken on the wheel 
 than suffer such tortures." 
 
 " He must suffer a good deal, then," said 
 a broker, the wit of the room. 
 
 " Why, last year," our hostess continued, 
 " he almost died. He went to his country- 
 seat on business, and through lack of as- 
 sistance, I suppose, he was unconscious for 
 twenty-four hours." 
 
 " Is n't it a kind of tetanus ? " the broker 
 inquired. 
 
 " Ah, as to that I don't know," she re- 
 plied. " He has had it now for nearly thirty 
 years. He says that in falling into a boat 
 a splinter got in his head. His physician 
 
THE RED INN. 77 
 
 thinks he can cure him. In England I hear 
 they give prussic acid " — 
 
 At that moment a scream more pierc- 
 ing than the others resounded through the 
 house. 
 
 " There, that 's what I heard every min- 
 ute," our hostess exclaimed. " It made me so 
 fidgety that I could n't sit still. But the ex- 
 traordinary part of the whole thing is that 
 in spite of his tortures there is never any 
 danger of his dying. When the pain ceases 
 he is as well as ever. A German physician 
 told him that it was a sort of gout in the 
 head." 
 
 I left the group in which I had been 
 standing, and went out at the same time as 
 did Mile. Taillefer. She was weeping. 
 
 " My poor father ! " she cried. " What has 
 he done to suffer so, he who is so good, so 
 kind?" 
 
 On helping her into the carriage, I saw 
 that her father was already in it. His daugh- 
 ter tried to deaden his groans by covering 
 his mouth with a handkerchief. Unfortu- 
 nately he saw me. His haggard face be- 
 came convulsed ; he shrieked aloud, and as 
 the carriage drove away he gave me a look 
 which was horror itself. 
 
78 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 That dinner, and the incidents that suc- 
 ceeded it, exerted a peculiar influence on my 
 life and sentiments. I loved Mile. Taillefer, 
 and all the more strongly, perhaps, since 
 honor and delicacy forbade me to connect 
 myself with a murderer, however good and 
 kind he might be. 
 
 Through some fatality, I was induced to 
 frequent the very houses where I knew I 
 should meet Victorine. Often after I had 
 sworn that I would give up seeing her I 
 found myself in the evening at her side. The 
 pleasure that I enjoyed was indescribable. 
 My love was so filled with chimerical re- 
 morse that it had the savor of forbidden 
 fruit. When Taillefer was with his daugh- 
 ter I was disgusted with myself for bowing 
 to him, yet I bowed all the same. But then, 
 Victorine is not only a pretty girl ; she is 
 well educated, talented, graceful and unaf- 
 fected. When she speaks it is reservedly, 
 and about her there is an atmosphere of in- 
 sidious melancholy which none can resist. 
 She loves me, or at least she lets me think 
 that she does. She has a certain smile which 
 she gives to no one but to me, and for me 
 her voice grows softer. She loves me, yes ; 
 but she worships her father. She praises 
 
THE RED INN. 79 
 
 his kindness, his goodness, and his wonder- 
 ful qualities, and to me these praises are so 
 many dagger thrusts. 
 
 One day I nearly became an accomplice 
 of the crime through which the Taillefers 
 laid the foundation of their wealth. I was on 
 the point of asking for Victorine's hand in 
 marriage. But I went away in time ; I went 
 to Germany, to Andernach. When I came 
 back I found Victorine pale and subdued. 
 Had I found her otherwise, had she been 
 bright and gay, it would have been different ; 
 as it was, my love for her expanded with 
 increased vigor. Fearing that my scruples 
 might degenerate into monomania, I resolved 
 to convoke a sanhedrin of pure consciences. 
 I wanted light on this problem of ethics. The 
 question had become even more complicated 
 than it was before I went to Germany. The 
 day before yesterday, therefore, I summoned 
 those of my friends in whose honor and deli- 
 cacy I had the most confidence. I invited 
 two Englishmen, an attache, a Puritan, an 
 ex-minister in all the maturity of politics, a 
 priest, an old man, my former guardian, — a 
 simple-hearted gentleman whose trustee ac- 
 counts are the most beautiful on record, — a 
 lawyer, a notary, a judge ; in^brief, a repre- 
 
80 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 sentative of every social opinion and practi- 
 cal virtue. We began by a good dinner and 
 tumultuous conversation. At the dessert I 
 told my story and asked for advice, omitting 
 of course the young lady's name. 
 
 " Advise me," I said, when the story was 
 told. " Discuss the question as though it 
 were a law newly proposed. Billiard balls 
 will be brought to you. Each can vote for 
 or against my marriage in perfect secrecy." 
 
 During the profound silence that followed, 
 the notary begged to be counted out. " There 
 is the possibility of a contract in it," he said. 
 
 The wine had made my former guardian 
 taciturn. To get him safely home, I was 
 obKged to put him imder the guardianship 
 of some one else. 
 
 " I understand," I cried. " The non-ex- 
 pression of any opinion is an energetic way 
 of telling me what I ought to do." 
 
 Movement in the assembly. 
 
 A land-owner, who had subscribed for 
 General Foy's monument, exclaimed, " Like 
 virtue, so crime, too, has its degrees." 
 
 The ex-minister nudged my elbow ; " Chat- 
 terbox ! " he muttered. 
 
 " Where is the difficulty ? " asked a duke 
 whose fortune consists in property confis- 
 
TEE RED INN. 81 
 
 cated from refractory Protestants at the time 
 of the edict of Nantes. 
 
 The lawyer took the floor. " There is no 
 difficulty," he cried, " his Grace is right. 
 Was there not prescription? Where would 
 any of us be if the origin of riches was looked 
 into ? This is a case of conscience. If you 
 really wish to take it before a court, carry it 
 to that of penitence." 
 
 The Code Incarnate sat down and drank 
 a glass of champagne. The priest, whose 
 duty it was to explain the gospel, arose. 
 " God has made us weak," he said, firmly. 
 " If you love the heiress of a crime, marry 
 her, but give to the poor the gold she re- 
 ceives from her father, and be satisfied with 
 that which comes to her from her mother." 
 
 "But," exclaimed one of those casuists 
 who are so often met with in society, " but 
 it is highly probable that had it not been for 
 his money, the father would not have made 
 such a good match. In this instance every- 
 thing is the fruit of a crime." 
 
 " The discussion itself is a crime. There 
 are things over which no one should deliber- 
 ate," cried my former guardian, thinking, 
 doubtless, he would solve the problem with 
 a drunken saUy, 
 
82 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 " He 's right," said the attach^. 
 
 " So he is," exclaimed the priest. 
 
 The two men agreed without meaning 
 to do so. The floor was then taken by a 
 theorist who had missed an election by one 
 hundred and forty -nine votes out of one 
 hundred and fifty. 
 
 " Gentlemen," he said, " this is a phenom- 
 enon of an intellectual nature. Our deci- 
 sion, therefore, should be a fact extemporized 
 from our consciences — an abrupt conception, 
 an instinctive judgment, a transient expres- 
 sion of our inner nature, and one that should 
 resemble the flashes that constitute the senti- 
 ment of taste. Let us vote." 
 
 " Let us vote," echoed the others. 
 
 To each I caused two balls to be given, one 
 red and one white. The white, being a sym- 
 bol of maidenhood, was to forbid the banns, 
 the red to sanction them. I myself, out of 
 delicacy, refrained from voting. The balls 
 were then dropped into one of those narrow- 
 necked wicker baskets which are used in 
 playing pool. When all had voted, and the 
 basket was examined, I found nine white 
 balls in it. I was not surprised at this; 
 among the judges were nine young men. 
 Each of them had had the same idea. Evi- 
 
THE RED INN. 83 
 
 dently there was a secret unanimity for, and 
 a secret unanimity against, the marriage. 
 What was to be done ? 
 
 One of my former schoolmates, who was 
 less discreet than the others, called out, " I 
 say, where does the father-in-law live ? " 
 
 " There is no father-in-law," I answered. 
 " There was a time when my conscience 
 spoke so clearly that your decision would 
 have been unnecessary ; if to-day its voice is 
 weaker, it is not without cause. Two months 
 ago I received this seductive announcement." 
 
 Thereupon, opening a portfolio, I exhib- 
 ited the following invitation : — 
 
 Your presence is requested at the funeral 
 service and burial of M. Jean-Fr(^d<^ric Taille- 
 f er, of the firm of Taillef er & Company, for- 
 merly army contractor. Knight of the Legion 
 of Honor, Knight of the Golden Spur, Cap- 
 tain of the First Company of Grenadiers, of 
 the National Guard of Paris, who died Wed-^ 
 nesday. May first, at his residence, Rue Ju- 
 bert ; which will take place at . . . etc. 
 
 From . . . etc. 
 
 " Now tell me," I said, " what ought I to 
 do ? Let me put the question before you on 
 
84 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 its widest basis. I admit that Mile. Taille- 
 fer's money is stained with blood. I know 
 that her father's legacy is an immense Jia- 
 celma. But Prosper Magnan left no heir ; 
 moreover, it has been impossible for me to 
 discover any trace of Walhenf er's family. If 
 the money ought to be given back, who ought 
 it to be given to ? Then, besides, have I the 
 right to betray a secret and increase an inno- 
 cent girl's dower with a severed head ? Have 
 I the right to give her bad dreams, to take 
 away her fairest illusion, to kill her father a 
 second time ? Have I the right to say to 
 her. That gold of yours is polluted? I bor- 
 rowed the ' Dictionary of Conscience Cases ' 
 from an old ecclesiastic, but I could n't find 
 any solution of the problem in it. In the 
 high tide of the nineteenth century it would 
 be absurd to found a charitable institution 
 for the repose of the souls of Magnan, Wal- 
 henfer and Taillefer. And even supposing 
 I were to build a hospital or institute a 
 prize for virtue; why, the prize for virtue 
 would be given to swindlers ! As for the 
 hospitals, it seems to me that the majority of 
 them are shelters for vice. Even if I did 
 do anything of the kind, would it be a repa- 
 ration ? and if it would, do I need to make 
 
THE RED INN. 85 
 
 one ? Besides all this, I am in love ; I am 
 passionately in love. If now, without any- 
 plausible motive, I were to go to a young 
 girl accustomed to luxury and elegance, — to 
 one, in fact, who likes nothing better than to 
 sit in a box at the opera and listen to Rossi- 
 ni's music, — if I were to go to such an one as 
 she and suggest that it would be a good idea 
 for her to give up fifteen hundred thousand 
 francs in favor of stupid paralytics or scrof- 
 ulous imbeciles, she would laugh in my face ; 
 or, if in the warmth of my affection I were 
 to praise simplicity, and the advantages of 
 living in a cottage on the Loire, if for the 
 sake of our common love I were to insist 
 that she should sacrifice Paris, I not only 
 would be telling an untruth, but I would be 
 making a fool of myself in the bargain. 
 Some good-looking officer would come along, 
 play duets with her, quote Byron and — 
 carry her off ! What then is to be done ? 
 Tell me, gentlemen, for Heaven's sake." 
 
 The honest man, a species of Puritan not 
 unlike the father of Jeanie Deans, to whom 
 allusion has been already made, and who up 
 to this time had not breathed a syllable, 
 shrugged his shoulders and hissed at me, 
 " Idiot that you are ! What possessed you 
 to ask him if he was from Beauvais ? " 
 
MADAME FIRMIANI. 
 
MADAME FIRMIANI. 
 
 There are stories which are so rich in 
 dramatic situations that they can be told 
 by any one and yet lose none of their beau- 
 ties, but there are adventures which the ac- 
 cents of the heart can alone enliven ; there 
 are details — anatomical, so to speak — 
 whose delicacies only appear under the most 
 subtle infusions of thought ; then there are 
 portraits that demand a soul and which tell 
 nothing unless each one of its changing ex- 
 pressions has been depicted; finally, there 
 are certain things which cannot be accom- 
 plished or even attempted in the absence of 
 those mysterious harmonies, those conjunc- 
 tions of natural influences and personal pre- 
 dispositions, which at times preside over a 
 day or an hour. 
 
 The foregoing introduction is necessary 
 to the proper telling of this story, in which 
 the writer seeks to interest those who, 
 through the melancholy of their disposi- 
 
90 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 tion, are most affected by infrequent and 
 undefined emotions. Indeed, if the writer, 
 like the surgeon at the bedside of a dying 
 friend, feels a sincere respect for the subject 
 which he handles, why should the reader not 
 be invited to share the sentiment with him ? 
 Surely it cannot be a difficult task to in- 
 itiate one's self into that vague and nervous 
 sadness which casts solemn tints about us, 
 and which resembles one of those illnesses 
 whose languors are full of charm. 
 
 If, therefore, you happen to be thinking 
 of friends that are gone, if you are alone, if 
 it is night or nearly nightfall, read on, but 
 otherwise put this tale aside. If you have 
 not already lost some one who was dearly 
 beloved you will not appreciate it. To some 
 it wiU seem heavy with musk ; to others, 
 colorless as the pages of Florian. To enjoy 
 it at all the reader should have known the 
 blessedness of tears ; he should, have felt the 
 dumb sorrow of a remembrance charged 
 with a shadow dear but distant ; he should 
 have memories that bring regret, and yet be 
 able to recall the smile of a vanished hap- 
 piness. 
 
 And now please to believe that not for 
 the wealth of the Orient would the writer 
 
MADAME FIRMIANI. 91 
 
 embellish his narrative with the slightest 
 of poetic fictions. This is a true story, and 
 one for which you can expend your entire 
 sympathy, if you have any to expend. 
 
 There are to-day as many idioms in the 
 French language as there are varieties of 
 men in France. It is, therefore, both cu- 
 rious and amusing to listen to the different 
 interpretations which the various species 
 that comprise the monograph of the Paris- 
 ians will give to the same incident; the 
 Parisian in this case being taken to general- 
 ize the thesis. Supposing, for instance, that 
 you had asked of one of the class called pre- 
 cise whether he knew Mme. Firmiani. Im- 
 mediately you would get an mventory in 
 reply : " A fine house in the Rue du Bac, 
 handsome drawing - rooms, beautiful pic- 
 tures, a hundred thousand a year, and a hus- 
 band who was formerly a government of- 
 ficial." After that your precise friend, who 
 is always fat and usually in black, gives a 
 little satisfied smile, curves his lower lip 
 over the upper one and nods his head as who 
 should say : " Fine people ; there 's noth- 
 ing to be said against them." Ask him no 
 more ; the class to which he belongs explains 
 all things by figures, income, or real estate 
 (a word out of its dictionary). 
 
92 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 But supposing, on the other hand, that you 
 have met some idler, and that you have put 
 the same question to him. " Mme. Firmia- 
 ni ? " he will say, " why, of course ; I go to 
 her receptions. She is at home Wednesdays. 
 Charming house." Already Mme. Firmiani 
 has become metamorphosed into a house. 
 The house is not a number of stones placed 
 architecturally one on top of another ; it is 
 merely an idiom, untranslatable, but one 
 which among idlers is in frequent use. 
 
 At this point your idler, who is generally 
 a thin-faced fellow with an agreeable smile, 
 a retailer of airy trifles, and one whose wit 
 is seldom his own, bends forward and whis- 
 pers in your ear : "I have never seen M. 
 Firmiani. His social position consists in 
 managing an estate in Italy, but his wife is 
 French and spends her money like a Paris- 
 ian. Her tea is delicious. It is one of the 
 few houses to-day where the visitor is amused, 
 and where he gets something fit to eat. At 
 the same time, she does n't receive every- 
 body, and consequently one meets only the 
 best people there." Here the idler gravely 
 commentates his phrases with a pinch of 
 snuff, and seems to add : "I go there, but 
 don't count on me to present you." For the 
 
MADAME FIRMIANL 93 
 
 idler, Mme. Firmiani keeps a sort of sign- 
 less inn. 
 
 " What the deuce do you want to do at 
 Mme. Firmiani' s ? Why, it is as stupid 
 there as at court. What is the use in being 
 intelligent, if your intelligence does n't keep 
 you clear of such houses as hers, where one 
 hears nothing but rubbish ? " This time 
 you have questioned an egotist, one of those 
 individuals who would like nothing better 
 than to keep the universe under lock and 
 key. Unhappy in the happiness of others, 
 they are forgiving only to vices, failures, and 
 infirmities. Aristocrats by inclination, they 
 turn democrats so as to find inferiors among 
 their equals. 
 
 "Mme. Firmiani? she is one of those 
 adorable women who serve as excuse to 
 nature for all the ugly ones created by mis- 
 take. She is simply delicious. I would 
 like to be king simply to" — (here three 
 whispered words). " Do you want to be 
 presented?" This young man is the col- 
 legian, famous for his daring with men and 
 his timidity with women. 
 
 " Mme. Firmiani ? " another exclaims, 
 with a wave of his stick. " I '11 tell you 
 what I think of her. She is between thirty 
 
94 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 and thirty-five, rather faded, fine eyes, poor 
 figure, thin contralto voice, well dressed, a 
 dab or two of rouge, charming manners ; in 
 short, the remnants of a pretty woman who 
 is still well worth the trouble of falling in 
 love with." This comes from your conceited 
 friend who has just breakfasted, no longer 
 weighs his words, and is about to take a 
 canter. In such moments conceit is pitiless. 
 
 " She 's got a magnificent gallery of pic- 
 tures. Go see them : there 's nothing finer." 
 In this instance you have questioned the 
 amateur. To him Mme. Firmiani is a col- 
 lection of painted canvases. 
 
 A woman. " Mme. Firmiani ? I wish 
 you would n't go there." This phrase is the 
 richest of translations. Mme. Firmiani ! 
 dangerous woman ! a siren ! She dresses 
 well, she has good taste, she keeps other 
 women awake! Your interlocutrix belongs 
 to the nagging class. 
 
 An attache. "Mme. Firmiani? Is n't she 
 from Antwerp ? Ten years ago, when I saw 
 her, she was very handsome. That was at 
 Rome." Attaches have a mania for talk- 
 ing a la Talleyrand. Their wit is so deli- 
 cate that their ideas are intangible. They 
 are like billiard players that make clever 
 
MADAME FIRMIANI. 95 
 
 misses. As a rule, they talk but little, yet 
 when they do talk, Spain, Vienna, Italy, and 
 St. Petersburg are their only topics. To 
 them the names of countries are like springs ; 
 touch them, and they go off just like alarm 
 clocks. 
 
 " Does n't this Mme. Firmiani see a great 
 deal of the Faubourg Saint - Germain ? " 
 This is said by a person who wants to ap- 
 pear to know all about the best society — a 
 person who gives a de to every one from 
 Dupin to Lafayette, who dishonors people 
 with it. 
 
 " Mme. Firmiani, sir ? I don't know 
 her." This individual is a duke. He only 
 recognizes women that have been presented 
 at court. He got his title from Napoleon. 
 
 " Mme. Firmiani ? is n't she a retired 
 opera-singer ? " This is the idiot, — the man 
 who wants to have an answer for everything. 
 He would rather lie than hold his tongue. 
 
 Two old ladies. The first (wrinkled 
 face, pointed nose, harsh voice). " Who was 
 this Mme. Firmiani ? " 
 
 The second (little red face like a pome- 
 granate, soft voice). " A Cadignan, my 
 dear, a niece of the old Prince de Cadignan, 
 and consequently cousin to the Duke of 
 Maufrigneuse." 
 
96 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 Mme. Firmiani is a Cadignan. She might 
 be without virtue, without fortune, without 
 youth ; none the less she is a Cadignan, and 
 to be a Cadignan is to be like a prejudice, — 
 ever rich and deathless. 
 
 A man who thinks Jbr himself. " I have 
 never seen any overshoes in her vestibule. 
 You can go there without danger of being 
 compromised, and you can play cards with- 
 out fear of being swindled. If there are any 
 cheats there, at least they are well-bred : 
 they don't quarrel on their way out." 
 
 An old gentleman given to observation. 
 "If you go to see Mme. Firmiani you will 
 find a beautiful woman seated at the fire- 
 side. I doubt if she will rise to greet you. 
 She only does so for women or ambassadors. 
 She is very graceful and charming. She 
 talks well and talks on all subjects. She is 
 married, but no one has ever seen her hus- 
 band. M. Firmiani is a thoroughly fantas- 
 tic personage ; he is like the third horse on 
 the postchaise, for which one pays, yet never 
 sees. If the musicians are to be believed, 
 Mme. Firmiani is the finest contralto in 
 Europe, but has not sung three times since 
 she has been in Paris. She keeps open 
 house and visits no one." 
 
MADAME FIRM I AN I. 97 
 
 The observer speaks like a prophet. His 
 listener is obliged to accept his words, his 
 anecdotes, and his citations, as he would the 
 gospel truth, or else pass for an uneducated 
 boor. He is about forty years old, never 
 dines at home, and gives out that women 
 rarely find him dangerous. His hair is 
 powdered, he wears a brown coat, and he 
 has a seat in half a dozen boxes at the 
 BoufPons. Sometimes he is confounded with 
 the parasites, but the positions which he has 
 held are too high to permit any one to sus- 
 pect that he is a sponge; besides which, he 
 owns some property in a part of the coun- 
 try that he never mentions. 
 
 " Mme. Firmiani ? Why, my dear fellow, 
 she was one of Murat's mistresses." 
 
 This comes from one of the class that 
 deal in contradictions, the people who do 
 the errata in all memoirs, who straighten 
 everything, wager a hundred to one, and are 
 positive on all subjects. In an hour's con- 
 versation you can catch them in the fla- 
 grante delictu of ubiquity. They will tell 
 you they were in Paris at the time of the 
 Mallet conspiracy, forgetting that but little 
 before they had crossed the B^r^sina. Al- 
 most all of them are decorated, speak in a 
 
98 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 loud tone, have retreating foreheads and 
 play high stakes. 
 
 " Mme. Firmiani ? a hundred thousand a 
 year ? You must be crazy ! You give peo- 
 ple incomes with the prodigality of an au- 
 thor dowering a heroine. Don't you know 
 that Mme. Firmiani ruined a young fellow 
 the other day and prevented him from mak- 
 ing a good match ? She would be penniless 
 were it not for her beauty." 
 
 This speaker you recognize at once. His 
 name is Envy, and not one of his character- 
 istics need description ; they are as well 
 know as those of the domestic cat. But 
 who shall explain the perpetuity of envy? 
 A vice that yields nothing ! 
 
 The men of the world, the men of letters, 
 the honest men, in short the men of every 
 class, were engaged during the month of 
 January, 1824, in circulating so many dif- 
 ferent opinions about Mme. Firmiani that 
 it would be an idle task to enumerate them 
 all in these pages : suffice it to say that any 
 one interested in knowing her without car- 
 ing or being able to go to her house would 
 have had equally good reasons to believe her 
 to be married or widowed, rich or poor, 
 stupid or witty, virtuous or depraved, sen- 
 
MADAME FIRMIANI. 99 
 
 sitive or soulless, beautiful or ugly ; in a 
 word, there were as many Mme. Firmianis 
 as divisions of society or sects in Catholi- 
 cism. How terrible it is to reflect that, one 
 and all, we are like lithographic plates from 
 which slander draws an unlimited number 
 of copies. The proofs resemble the model 
 or differ from it in shades so imperceptible 
 that reputation half the time depends on 
 the balance derived by each between Truth 
 that limps and Falsehood that is winged. 
 
 As is the case with many proud and noble 
 women who make a sanctuary of their heart 
 and disdain the world, Mme. Firmiani might 
 have been greatly misjudged by a certain M. 
 de Bourbonne, an old gentleman who thought 
 much about her during the winter of that 
 year. Through a lucky chance, however, M. 
 de Bourbonne belonged to the class of pro- 
 vincial agriculturalists who are in the habit 
 of noticing all things and of driving bar- 
 gains with peasants. In a business of this 
 kind, a man becomes sagacious in spite of 
 himself, very much as courage is drilled into 
 a soldier. 
 
 M. de Bourbonne, who had come from 
 Touraine, and to whom the Parisian idioms 
 were not in all respects satisfactory, was a 
 
100 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 highly esteemed old gentleman who planted 
 many a shade tree for the future enjoyment 
 of his sole heir, a nephew. 
 
 When a man is so constituted that he can 
 watch his trees expand and improve, and at 
 the same time think of his heir without dis- 
 pleasure, his affection increases each time he 
 handles a spade. Admittedly this phenome- 
 non is infrequent, yet it is still observable in 
 Touraine. 
 
 The nephew, whose name was Octave de 
 Camps, was a descendant of the famous 
 Abbd de Camps, so well known to biblio- 
 philes, or rather to the erudite, which is not 
 quite the same thing. Now country people 
 have a bad habit of looking askant at young 
 men who sell their estates. This gothic 
 prejudice interferes with the stock jobbing 
 which the government has been obliged to 
 encourage, and Octave, without so much as 
 consulting his uncle, had suddenly disposed 
 of a piece of property in favor of the black 
 band. On this piece of property stood the 
 Chateau de Villaines, which would have 
 been demolished had it not been for the 
 old gentleman's timely interference. Such 
 anger as he then experienced was greatly in- 
 creased when one of Octave's friends, — a 
 
MADAME FIRMIANI. 101 
 
 distant connection, a man of that class of 
 whom prudent people say, " I should n't care 
 to have a law suit with Aim," — came to teU 
 him that his nephew was utterly ruined, and 
 that, after having squandered his fortune on 
 a Mme. Firmiani, had been obliged, while 
 awaiting his uncle's legacy, to become a 
 teacher of mathematics. This news was 
 conveyed to M. de Bourbonne when he was 
 engaged in comfortably digesting a copious 
 provincial dinner. 
 
 Fortunately, however, there is a God for 
 uncles as well as for drunkards. Thanks to 
 his obstinacy, he refused to credit a single 
 word of the whole story, and thereby routed 
 the indigestion which his nephew's biog- 
 raphy might have caused. 
 
 There are blows that affect the heart and 
 others that affect the brain ; that of the dis- 
 tant connection struck at the bowels and pro- 
 duced no effect, for the simple reason that 
 the old man had an excellent stomach. Like 
 a true disciple of St. Thomas, M. de Boui*- 
 bonne soon after, and without his nephew's 
 knowledge, set out for Paris for the purpose 
 of obtaining exact information. Through 
 his relatives in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, 
 — the Listomeres, the Lenoncourts and the 
 
102 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 Vandenesses, — he heard so many contra- 
 dictory reports about Mme. Firmiani that 
 he determined to be presented to her under 
 an assumed name, that of M. de Rouxellay ; 
 Rouxellay being the name of his estate. 
 
 With his usual prudence, the evening 
 which he chose to study his nephew's friend 
 was one during which he knew that Octave 
 would be engaged in terminating a highly 
 paid price of work; for Octave, he had 
 learned, was always welcome at Mme. Fir- 
 miani's, a circumstance which no one could 
 explain. As to his ruin, it was, unfortu- 
 nately, not a fable. 
 
 M. de Rouxellay was entirely unlike the 
 typical uncle in a play. An ex-guardsman, 
 a man accustomed to the best society and 
 one moreover who had been quite a lady- 
 killer in his day, he was necessarily refined 
 in manner, well-bred and able to pay a 
 gracful compliment. Although he loved the 
 Bourbons with a noble candor, believed in 
 God as gentlemen do, and read only the 
 Quotidienne^ he was not half as ridiculous 
 as the liberals in his part of the country 
 would have liked to have had him. In the 
 world he could hold his own with any one, 
 provided the conversation did not turn on 
 
MADAME FIRM I AN I. 103 
 
 Rossini's " Moses in Egypt," the drama, ro- 
 manticism, local color or railroads. He had 
 stopped short at Voltaire, Buffon, Peyron- 
 net, and Gliick, the queen's household musi- 
 cian. 
 
 " If that woman," he said to the Marquise 
 de Listom^re, to whom he had given his arm 
 on entering Mme. Firmiani's drawing-room, 
 " if that woman is my nephew's mistress I 
 am sorry for him. How is it possible for 
 her to live surrounded by luxury when she 
 knows him to be in a garret ? How, indeed, 
 unless she is utterly selfish! Octave is a 
 fool to have squandered his money for such 
 a creature as she." 
 
 " But supposing he had lost it at play ? " 
 
 " In that case he would at least have had 
 the pleasure of gambling." 
 
 " And do you think he has had none at 
 all ? Why, look at Mme. Firmiani." 
 
 The old gentleman's fairest memories 
 waned and faded when he stood before 
 her. His anger expired in a compliment. 
 Through a combination of circumstances 
 that happen only to pretty women, Mme. 
 Firmiani had never appeared to greater 
 advantage than she did at that moment. 
 There are trifles that heighten a woman's 
 
104 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 beauty which are never appreciated unless 
 the observer has studied the little revolu- 
 tions that occur during an evening recep- 
 tion. Satisfied with her gown, amused at 
 her own wit, happy in the admiration which 
 she excites, and proud of being the queen 
 of a room that is peopled by clever men, a 
 woman then is conscious of her beauty and 
 her grace, and under the warmth of admir- 
 ing glances grows visibly fairer than before. 
 In moments such as these a woman acquires 
 a power that is well-nigh supernatural ; her 
 eyes fascinate and her smile enchants. Now 
 if conditions of this kind make even a plain 
 woman attractive, think of the garment of 
 splendor which they give to a woman who 
 is naturally beautiful, and particidarly to 
 one dressed with a taste that was admired 
 by artists and admitted by her most bitter 
 rivals ! 
 
 Did you ever have the good fortune to 
 meet a woman whose voice was so harmoni- 
 ous that it lent to her words the same charm 
 that was noticeable in her manner? A 
 woman who knew the secret of silence as 
 well as that of speech, whose words were 
 well chosen and whose diction was pure ? In 
 that case you have met a woman whose 
 
MADAME FIRMIANl. 107 
 
 jests are caresses and whose criticisms neian, 
 ound, a woman who argues as little as shf^ 
 '^ims, but one who knows how to lead a 
 ^*on and when it should be stopped, 
 ner is easy and pliant, her civility 
 . forced ; respect she has turned into 
 xiignant shadow ; she never wearies you, 
 xid she makes you pleased with her and 
 with yourself. Her taste and grace you see 
 repeated in the objects that surround her. 
 All things in her house delight the eye ; the 
 air one breathes there is the air of home. 
 Then, too, she is natural. She is given nei- 
 ther to pose nor to affectation. Her senti- 
 ments are expressed with simplicity, because 
 they are sincere. Though candid, she yet 
 offends no one. She takes men as God has 
 made them, pitying those who are wicked 
 and forgiving those who are absurd. She 
 understands each age. She is never an- 
 noyed, for her tact has made her clairvoy- 
 ant. Both tender and light-hearted, she first 
 aids and then consoles. Your love for her 
 is so great that did she err you would justify 
 the error. Such was Mme. Firmiani. 
 
 When M. de Bourbonne had chatted with 
 her for fifteen minutes, his nephew was ab- 
 solved. He understood that whether the 
 
104 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 be^ips were right or wrong, some mystery 
 Covered such relations as existed between 
 Octave and his hostess. Returning to the 
 illusions of youth, and judging Mme. Firmi- 
 ani by her beauty, it did not take him long 
 to decide that a woman so thoroughly dig- 
 nified as she appeared to be was incapable 
 of committing an evil deed. Her black eyes 
 indicated such a condition of mental calm, 
 the lines of her face were so delicate, the 
 contours were so pure, and the liaison of 
 which she was accused seemed to rest so 
 lightly on her heart, that in noting these 
 things the old gentleman saw the stamp 
 of virtue in her adorable physiognomy, and 
 murmured to himself, " That nephew of 
 mine has made a fool of himseK in some 
 way." 
 
 Mme. Firmiani admitted that she was 
 twenty-five years old. But she had certain 
 precise acquaintances who proved that as 
 she was married in 1813, at the age of six- 
 teen, she must in 1825 be at least twenty- 
 eight. Nevertheless these selfsame people 
 asserted that at no other time had she been 
 so attractive and so thoroughly feminine. 
 
 She was childless and had never been a 
 mother. The problematic Firmiani, who in 
 
MADAME FIRMIANI. 107 
 
 1813 was a very respectable octogenarian, 
 had given her, it was said, only his name 
 and his fortune. She was therefore reach- 
 ing that age when the Parisian best under- 
 stands a love affair, and perhaps in idle 
 moments innocently desires one. She was 
 acquainted with all that the world sells, all 
 that it lends, all that it gives. The attaches 
 were wont to say that if there was anything 
 she did not know it was not worth the know- 
 ing. Those who dealt in contradictions were 
 of the opinion that she was still ignorant on 
 many subjects. The observers said that her 
 hands were very white, her foot very small, 
 and her movements a trifle too undulant; 
 but all classes envied or contested Octave 
 de Camps's good luck, while agreeing that 
 she was the most aristocratically beautiful 
 woman in Paris. 
 
 Still young, rich, an accomplished musi- 
 cian, witty, refined, and, in her quality of 
 Cadignan received by the Princesse de Bla- 
 mont - Chauvry, — the oracle of the noble 
 faubourg, — beloved by her rivals, the Du- 
 chesse de Maufrigneuse her coi^sin, the 
 Marquise d'Espard and Mme. de Macu- 
 mer, she flattered every one of the vanities 
 through which love is noui-ished and aroused. 
 
108 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 In brief, she was sought after by too many- 
 people not to become a victim to the refined 
 gossip and delicious calumnies that are'whis- 
 pered behind a fan. 
 
 The prefatory observations with which this 
 story begins have, therefore, been necessary 
 for the proper differentiation between Mme. 
 Firmiani as she was, and Mme. Firmiani as 
 the world saw her. At the same time the 
 sketch here given can convey but a faint 
 idea of her actual characteristics. It would 
 take the pencil of Ingres to represent the 
 nobility of her forehead, the luxuriance of 
 her hair, the majesty of her gaze, and the 
 changing expressions that altered with the 
 colors of her cheek. There was about her 
 something of all women. A poet would 
 have recognized in her both Jeanne d'Arc 
 and Agnes Sorel, and seen, too, the unknown, 
 the soul hidden beneath a deceptive cloak ; 
 the soul of Eve, the treasuries of virtue and 
 the wealth of evil, sin and resignation, crime 
 and devotion, the Haidee and Julia of Don 
 Juan. 
 
 The ex-guardsman was impertinent enough 
 to linger after every one else had gone. He 
 was seated very calmly in a chair, and he 
 was seated, moreover, with the obstinacy of a 
 
MADAME FIRMIANI. 109 
 
 fly, that has to be killed to be gotten rid of. 
 The clock struck two. 
 
 " Madam," he said, at the moment when 
 his hostess stood up with the intention of 
 giving him to understand that she wished 
 him to leave, " Madam, I am the uncle of 
 M. Octave de Camps." 
 
 Mme. Firmiani promptly sat down again. 
 In spite of his perspicacity, M. de Bour- 
 bonne could not tell whether she blushed 
 from shame or pleasure. There are pleas- 
 ures that have something in common with 
 startled modesty; there are delicious emo- 
 tions that the purest heart would keep for- 
 ever veiled, and there are women, inconceiv- 
 able in their divine capriciousness, who long 
 to hear every one pronounce the very name 
 which they have buried in their hearts. It 
 was not entirely in this manner that M. de 
 Bourbonne interpreted the emotion which 
 his hostess displayed, but then it should be 
 remembered that the old countryman was 
 suspicious. 
 
 "Well, sir?" and Mme. Firmiani looked 
 at him in that essentially clear and signifi- 
 cant way in which men never see anything, 
 because it is a trifle too inquisitive. 
 . " Well, madam," he replied, " do you 
 
110 AFTER-DINNER S TORIES. 
 
 know what they tell me in Touraine? They 
 say that my nephew has ruined himself for 
 you, and that while he lives in a garret you 
 are in a palace. You will, I trust, forgive 
 my frankness ; indeed, it is only right that 
 you should hear what " — 
 
 "Stop, sir!'' Mme Firmiani exclaimed, 
 interrupting the old gentleman with an im- 
 perious gesture, " I know all that. You are 
 too courteous to continue a conversation when 
 I have asked you to cease ; you are too 
 gallant — in the earlier acceptation of the 
 word " — she added ironically, " not to rec- 
 ognize the fact that you have no right to 
 question me. In any event, it would be ab- 
 surd for me to attempt to justify my con- 
 duct. I hope you respect me sufficiently to 
 believe in the thorough contempt that I 
 have for money, albeit I was married with- 
 out dower to a man who was immensely 
 wealthy. As to your nephew, I do not 
 know whether he is rich or poor. If I 
 have received him, and if I continue so to 
 do, it is because I regard him as worthy of 
 being among my friends, and my friends, 
 sir, one and all, respect each other ; they 
 know that I am not philosophic enough to 
 see people whom I do not esteem. I may 
 
MADAME FIRM IAN I. Ill 
 
 be lacking in charity, but my guardian angel 
 has fostered within me a profound aversion 
 both for dishonesty and tittle-tattle." 
 
 The first few phrases of this reply were 
 uttered in a tone that was slightly tremu- 
 lous, but the last words were pronounced 
 with the aplomb of Celimene mocking the 
 misanthrope. 
 
 " Madam," returned the count, " I am an 
 old man ; Octave is almost a son to me. I 
 beg you therefore in advance the most hum- 
 ble of pardons for the one question that I 
 shall take the liberty to ask, and I give you 
 the word of a loyal gentleman that your 
 answer shall rest here." At these words he 
 put his hand on his heart with a gesture 
 that was sincerely religious ; then he contin- 
 ued. "Are the gossips right? Do you love 
 Octave?" 
 
 " Sir, to any one else I would make an- 
 swer but by a look ; but of you, and because 
 of your relationship to M. de Camps, 1 will 
 ask. What would you think of a woman who, 
 to such a question, answered * Yes ' ? For a 
 woman to acknowledge her affection to him 
 whom she loves, when he loves her, even — 
 — well, even when she is certain of being 
 always beloved, is — believe me, sir — an 
 
112 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 effort to her and a recompense to him ; but 
 to another ! " — 
 
 Mme. Firmiani did not finish her sen- 
 tence. She rose from her seat, bowed, and 
 then disappeared into another apartment, 
 each one of whose doors, successively opened 
 and shut, had a language of its own for the 
 old man's ears. 
 
 " What a woman ! " he exclaimed, " what 
 a woman ! a devil or an angel, one of the 
 two." Then he sought his carriage. From 
 time to time the horses had awakened the 
 echoes of the court -yard with the noise of 
 their hoofs, but the driver, after having 
 cursed his fare a hundred times, slept soundly. 
 
 At about eight o'clock the next morning, 
 M. de Bourbonne ascended the stairway of a 
 house in the Rue de I'Observance, where 
 Octave de Camps lived. If any one was 
 ever astonished, it was the young professor 
 when he saw his uncle. The key was in the 
 door, the lamp was still burning ; the night 
 had been passed in work. 
 
 " Since when, sir," said M. de Bourbonne, 
 with affected severity, as he took a seat, 
 " since when, sir, is it customary for an 
 only heir to make fun of an uncle who has 
 twenty-six thousand a year from good Tou- 
 
MADAME FIRMIANI. 113 
 
 ranian lands? Do you know that in my 
 time we respected such relatives ? But tell 
 me, have you any fault to find ? Am I such 
 a very bad uncle after all? Have I ever 
 insisted on your respect ? Have I ever re- 
 fused you money? Have I ever slammed 
 the door in your face under pretext that 
 you had come to see how my health was ? 
 Have n't you the easiest, the most indulgent 
 uncle in France ? Mark me, I don't say in 
 Europe, for that would be pretentious. You 
 write to me, or you don't write. I live on 
 the faith of your affection. I keep in or- 
 der for you the prettiest bit of ground in 
 the country, but one which I propose to hold 
 on to as long as possible ; and Monsieur, if 
 you please, squanders his fortune, lives like a 
 lackey, and has neither servants nor suite " — 
 
 "But, uncle" — 
 
 " It is n't a question of uncle, but of 
 nephew. I have a right to your confidence, 
 so come, confess at once ; it is the easiest 
 way, I know that by experience. Have you 
 been gambling? Have you been speculat- 
 ing ? Out with it, say, ' Uncle, I am a good- 
 for-nothing wretch,' and I will embrace you. 
 But if you tell me one fib bigger than what 
 I would have told at your age, I will sell my 
 
114 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 property, buy an annuity, and if possible, 
 live all over again the gay days of my youth." 
 
 "But, uncle" — 
 
 " I saw your Mme. Firmiani yesterday," 
 and the uncle kissed the tips of his fingers. 
 " She is charming. You have the privilege 
 of a king, and the approbation of your uncle : 
 you have his consent too, if that is of any 
 use to you. As to the sanction of the church, 
 that, I take it, is needless : the sacraments are 
 doubtless too dear. And now tell me, is it 
 for her that you have ruined yourself ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Ah, that woman ! I would have wagered 
 it. In my time the ladies of the court circle 
 could ruin a man quicker than a courtesan 
 of to-day. In her I recognized the last 
 century rejuvenated." 
 
 " You are mistaken," Octave replied, 
 sadly. " Mme. Firmiani is weU worthy of 
 your esteem." 
 
 " Fiddlesticks. Tell me a lot of nonsense, 
 won't you ? All the same you might remem- 
 ber that I was n't born yesterday." 
 
 " See, uncle, here is a letter which will ex- 
 plain everything," and the young man drew 
 one from a handsome portfolio (a present 
 doubtless from her). " When you have read 
 
MADAME FIRM I AN I. 116 
 
 it I will tell you what remains to be told, 
 and you will then know a Mme. Firmiani 
 who is unknown to the rest of the world." 
 
 " I have n't my spectacles," the uncle an- 
 swered. " Read it to me." 
 
 Octave began as follows : — 
 
 " ' My dearest Friend ' " — 
 
 " You are intimate with her, then, are 
 
 you?" 
 
 " Why, certainly." 
 
 " And you have had no quarrel ? " 
 
 " Quarrel ! Of course not. We were 
 married at Gretna Green." 
 
 " Well, then," pursued M. de Bourbonne, 
 " why do you dine in cheap restaurants ? " 
 
 " Let me read the letter and you will see." 
 And Octave took the letter up again and be 
 gan to read, but with an emotion that was 
 visible. 
 
 " ' You have asked me why I am sad. Has 
 my sadness, then, passed from my soul to my 
 face, or did you merely divine it ? And yet, 
 why should you not have done so ? Surely, 
 at heart we are one. Besides, I cannot lie, 
 and that perhaps is a misfortune. One of 
 the conditions on which a woman is loved is 
 that she be ever caressing and gay. It may 
 be that I ought to deceive you, but that I 
 
116 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 would not do, even though the deception were 
 necessary for the expansion or preservation 
 of the happiness which you bring me and 
 with which I am overwhelmed. Ah, dear, 
 how grateful is the love I bear you ! It is 
 one which is enduring and unlimited, but it 
 is one that has made me wish to be always 
 proud of you. A woman's glory is all in all 
 in him whom she loves. Esteem, respect, 
 honor, everything she places in him who has 
 taken all. And yet you, my beloved, have 
 faltered. The disclosure you lately made 
 has dulled the joy of the past. Since that 
 moment I have felt humiliated in you, in 
 you whom I looked upon as the purest of 
 men, as you are the most loving and tender. 
 I needs must have great confidence in your 
 heart to tell you that which is terrible for 
 me to tell. It is this. Your father's wealth 
 was the booty of a robber : you know it, and 
 you keep it. And it was this you told me 
 in a room filled with the dumb witnesses of 
 our love, you who are a gentleman, a noble, 
 my husband, and but twenty-two! What 
 monstrosities ! I have tried to find excuses 
 for you : I have attributed your carelessness 
 to the heedlessness of youth, for I know there 
 is still much of boyhood in you, and I told 
 
MADAME FIRMIANI. 117 
 
 myself that perhaps as yet you had not 
 thought seriously on such subjects as honor 
 and honesty. Your laugh cut me to the 
 quick. Try then to remember that there is 
 a family ruined and always in tears, that 
 there are children who curse you perhaps 
 each day, and that an old man says at night, 
 I should not be without bread if the fa- 
 ther of M. de Camps had been an honest 
 man ! ' " 
 
 " You don't mean to say," M. de Bour- 
 bonne interrupted, " you don't mean to say 
 that you had the stupidity to tell that woman 
 about your father's suit with the Bourgneuf s ? 
 Women understand how to squander a for- 
 tune, but as to making one " — 
 
 " At least they understand what honesty 
 is. But let me read the rest." 
 
 " ' Octave, there is no power in the world 
 that can alter the language of honor. Con- 
 sult your conscience, and ask of it by what 
 name the deed is called to which you owe 
 your gold.' " 
 
 The nephew glanced at the uncle, and the 
 uncle lowered his eyes to the ground. 
 
 " ' I will not tell you all the thoughts that 
 beset me, for they may be reduced to one, 
 which is this : I cannot esteem a man who 
 
118 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 knowingly sullies himself for a sum of money, 
 however large or small that sum may be. A 
 himdred sous stolen at play, or six times a 
 hundred thousand francs that come from a 
 legal trickery, cover a man with the same 
 dishonor. Then too, I consider myself tar- 
 nished in an affection which was once my 
 greatest joy. From the depths of my soul 
 there arises a voice that my tenderness can- 
 not hush. Ah, Octave, I have wept because 
 my conscience was stronger than my love ! 
 You might commit a crime, and could I do 
 so, I would hide you from justice in my 
 arms, but my devotion would go no further. 
 To a woman, love is the most limitless confi- 
 dence joined to an inexpressible longing to 
 venerate and adore the man to whom she be- 
 longs. I have never looked upon love other- 
 wise than as a fire that constantly purifies 
 the noblest sentiments, — a fire that develops 
 them all. And now I have but one thing to 
 add. Come to me poor, and, if such a thing 
 is possible, my love will be greater than be- 
 fore ; otherwise, you must give me up. If I 
 do not see you again I shall know how to act. 
 Yet still, understand me well, I do not wish 
 you to make restitution because I advise 
 such a course. Consult your own conscience. 
 
MADAME FIRM IAN/. 119 
 
 An act of justice should never be a sacrifice 
 to love. I am your wife and not your mis- 
 tress ; it is therefore less a question of pleas- 
 ing me than of preserving my respect. If 
 I am wrong, if I have misjudged your fa- 
 ther's conduct, in a word, if you think your 
 fortune is legitimate, — oh, how glad I 
 would be were I able to persuade myself that 
 you deserve no blame ! Then decide it all 
 in accordance with the dictates of your bet- 
 ter nature. Be guided but by yourself. A 
 man who loves sincerely, as you love me, re- 
 spects the morality with which his wife in- 
 spires him too highly to be dishonest. I re- 
 proach myself now for all that I have just 
 written. One word perhaps were sufficient. 
 It is my instinct to preach that has carried 
 me on. Scold me then, not too severely, but 
 stiU a little. Dear, between us two, are not 
 you the stronger? You alone should see 
 your faults.' " 
 
 " Well, uncle ? " said Octave, whose eyes 
 were full of tears. 
 
 " But you have n't finished. I see more 
 writing." 
 
 " After what I read come things that are 
 meant only for a lover's eye." 
 
 " Right, my boy," the old man said, " you 
 
120 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 are right. Fortune has smiled on me. I 
 too have loved. £Jt in Arcadia ego. At 
 the same time I don't quite understand why 
 you give lessons in mathematics." 
 
 " My dear uncle, I am your nephew ; and 
 that very fact ought to explain to you with- 
 out the need of words that I made some- 
 thing of a hole in the capital which my fa- 
 ther left me. After I read that letter my 
 entire nature was revolutionized, and in one 
 moment I paid all the back interest of my 
 remorse. I can never describe to you the 
 condition that I was in. When I drove to 
 the Bois, an interior voice called to me, ' Is 
 that horse yours ? ' At table I asked my- 
 self, ' Is not this dinner stolen ? ' My hon- 
 esty was so young that it was ardent. The 
 first thing I did was to go to Mme. Fir- 
 miani, and the delight that I then experi- 
 enced millions could not buy. Together 
 we went over the accounts and added up 
 what I owed to the Bourgneufs. Contrary 
 to Mme. Firmiani's advice I condemned my- 
 self to pay three per cent, interest, but as 
 my entire fortune was not large enough to 
 cover the amount, we felt that we were suffi- 
 ciently one, she to offer and I to accept her 
 savings." 
 
MADAME FIRM IAN I. 121 
 
 " You don't mean to tell me that beside 
 her other virtues that adorable woman is 
 economical ? " M. de Bourbonne exclaimed. 
 
 " Don't laugh at her, uncle. Her posi- 
 tion forces her to be very careful. Her 
 husband went to Greece in 1820, and died 
 there three years ago. Up to this time it 
 has been impossible to obtain the legal evi- 
 dence of his death, or to procure the will 
 which he must have made in her favor. 
 She does not know, therefore, but that any 
 day she may be compelled to give up her 
 property to other heirs, and for that reason 
 she is obliged, as I have said, to be very 
 careful about her expenditures ; particularly 
 so, as she does not care to leave her opulence 
 in the same manner that Chateaubriand has 
 just left office. For my part, I want to ac- 
 quire a fortune that will be my own, so 
 that if my wife is ruined she may still be 
 wealthy." 
 
 " And you never told me all this ! why 
 didn't you come to me? Don't you think 
 I love you well enough to pay your debts, 
 especially your debts of honor ? But there ! 
 I am like the uncle in a climax, — I will be 
 revenged ! " 
 
 "As to that, I am not afraid. If you 
 
122 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 want to help me, give me an income of a 
 thousand crowns until I need capital for 
 some enterprise. At this moment I am so 
 happy that my only thought is to live. I 
 give lessons so as not to be a burden to any 
 one. But I have not told you about the 
 Bourgneufs, nor of the pleasure that I en- 
 joyed in making the restitution. After 
 some little difficulty I found them, utterly 
 miserable and completely destitute. They 
 were living in a hovel at Saint-Germain. 
 The father was in charge of a lottery office, 
 and his daughters kept the books and did the 
 cooking. The mother is an invalid. The 
 girls are beautiful, but they have learned 
 at a hard school the small value the world 
 sets on undowered beauty. What a tableau 
 I found there ! I entered as an accomplice 
 in a crime ; I came away an honest man. I 
 restored to my father his good name. But 
 there ! I have neither the right nor the 
 inclination to judge him. There is an ex- 
 citement in a law suit that at times blinds 
 the most honest of men. Lawyers know 
 how to make the absurdest claims seem 
 valid. To the errors of conscience, laws 
 are indulgent syllogisms, and judges have 
 a right to be wrong. My adventure itself 
 
MADAME FIRMIANI. 123 
 
 was a drama. To take the part of Provi- 
 dence, of a day dream, to realize that wish 
 to have twenty thousand a year that we all 
 of us laughingly make, to turn a look of 
 hatred into one of gratitude, astonishment 
 and admiration, to throw wealth in the face 
 of poverty, — no, indeed, words are not vivid 
 enough to picture such a scene I I was so 
 just that I seemed unjust ; but at any rate, if 
 there is a paradise my father must be happy 
 in it. As for me, I am beloved as no other 
 man has been before. Mme. Firmiani has 
 given me more than happiness; she has 
 given me a refinement that I lacked. I 
 call her, therefore, my dear conscience, — a 
 love term that answers to certain harmonies 
 of the heart. Honesty is its own reward. 
 Through my own efforts I hope soon to be 
 rich, and even now I am trying to solve an 
 industrial problem which, if successful, will 
 bring me millions." 
 
 " You have your mother's heart," said the 
 old man, restraining with difficulty the tears 
 that rose to his eyes at the thought of his 
 sister. 
 
 At that moment, in spite of the distance 
 between the street and the room in which 
 nephew and uncle were seated, the young 
 
124 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 man caught the sound of an approaching 
 carriage. 
 
 " It is she ! " he cried. " I recognize her 
 horses by the way they stop." 
 
 A little later, the door opened and Mme. 
 Firmiani entered : as she did so, and on per- 
 ceiving M. de Bourbonne, she drew back 
 with a little movement of graceful vexation, 
 but at once she said smilingly, " Do not 
 think I am not glad to see you, for I am 
 come to kneel before my husband and beg 
 him to accept my fortune. The Austrian 
 Embassy has just sent me the documents 
 that attest M. Firmiani's death. They are 
 all in order, and the will which his valet had 
 kept to give me is with them. Now, Oc- 
 tave, you can accept everything, though as 
 it is you are richer than I, for you have 
 treasures there to which only God could 
 add." 
 
 At these words, Mme. Firmiani rested 
 her hand on her husband's heart, and then, 
 unable any longer to contain her happiness, 
 hid her head on his shoulder. 
 
THE "GRANDE BRETECHE." 
 
THE "GRANDE BRETECHE." 
 
 " Ah, madam," the doctor answered, " I 
 have some terrible stories in my repertory." 
 
 From all sides came the request that he 
 should tell one. When silence had been 
 obtained, Bianchon, with a complacent ges- 
 ture, began as follows : — 
 
 " On the banks of the Loire, a short dis- 
 tance from Vendome, there stands an old 
 house, brown, gabled and solitary. There 
 is no other house near it; there is no tan- 
 nery, nor even one of those taverns that 
 are usually to be found on the outskirts of 
 small towns. Extending down before it to 
 the river is a garden, where the once orderly 
 box-trees that marked the alleys now inter- 
 connect at will. The house itself is partially 
 concealed from sight by a number of wil- 
 lows. The sloping shore is covered by a 
 luxuriant growth of weeds. The fruit-trees, 
 neglected for years, no longer produce, while 
 
128 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 the fallen leaves and broken twigs form a 
 dense coppice beneath them. The paths, 
 which once were sanded, have entirely dis- 
 appeared. There is only one place from 
 which a good view of the house and grounds 
 can be had, and that is from the summit of 
 the neighboring mountain, near the ruins of 
 the castle of the dukes of Vend6me. From 
 this vantage ground it looks as though it 
 had once been the habitation of a gentleman 
 who had a fondness for cultivating fruits 
 and flowers. An arbor, or rather the rem- 
 nants of an arbor, in which a table stands 
 is still to be seen. At the appearance of 
 this garden which is no more, the negative 
 joys of provincial existence are divined as 
 readily as the life of an honest tradesman is 
 guessed from the epitaph on his tombstone. 
 By way of finishing touch to the pervasive 
 melancholy which the entire place exhales 
 there is a sun-dial there, bearing the relig- 
 iously commonplace inscription: 'Ultimam 
 Cogita.' 
 
 " The roof of the house is utterly decayed. 
 The shutters are never opened, the balconies 
 are covered with swallows' nests, the doors 
 are closed. Weeds have lined the steps 
 with green. The ironwork is brown with 
 
THE " GRANDE BRETECHE." 129 
 
 rust. Sun, moon, summer, winter, rain and 
 snow have rotted the wood, warped the 
 boards and destroyed the paint. The mourn- 
 ful silence that reigns there is disturbed, if 
 at all, only by the coming and going of birds 
 and reptiles. Over it all the word Mystery 
 has been written by an invisible hand. 
 
 " On approaching it from the road a curved- 
 topped wooden gate is to be seen, in which 
 the children of the town have made a num- 
 ber of holes. This gate, I afterwards learned, 
 had been locked for ten years. Through the 
 holes a view can be had of the court-yard. 
 There the disorder is the same. The stones 
 are framed in bouquets of weeds. The walls 
 are furrowed by crevices and festooned with 
 climbing plants, the steps that lead to the 
 door of the house are out of place, the bell- 
 rope is worn away, the water-spouts are 
 broken. Instinctively one wonders what can 
 have happened ; whether God has been in- 
 sulted there or France betrayed; but the 
 walls give no answer, and the reptiles crawl 
 on without reply. 
 
 " This empty and deserted house is an 
 enigma whose solution is known to no one. 
 Formerly it was a little Jief^ and called the 
 * Grande Bret^che.' During my stay at Ven- 
 
130 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 d(5me, where Desplein had left me to take 
 care of a rich invalid, one of my chief pleas- 
 ures consisted in visiting it. It was far bet- 
 ter than a ruin, for in a ruin there is little 
 to interest save some few reminiscences of 
 doubtful authenticity. But this house, still 
 upright, yet which an avenging hand was 
 slowly pulling to pieces, held a secret, an un- 
 disclosed idea, or at least a caprice. 
 
 " Often in the evening I rowed down to the 
 wild hedge that masked it, and, braving the 
 briars, entered the ungoverned garden and 
 remained there contemplating its disorder 
 for hours at a time. 
 
 " I questioned no one concerning it. In- 
 deed, I preferred to remain in ignorance than 
 to learn from some chatterbox the reason of 
 its eccentric appearance. Had I learned the 
 possibly commonplace cause of its abandon- 
 ment, the poetic thoughts which it inspired 
 would have been dissipated. To me it rep- 
 resented the varied images of an unhappy 
 life. At times it had about it the air of a 
 deserted cloister ; at others the peace of a 
 cemetery, but a peace unbroken by the epi- 
 taphic tongue of the dead. Now it was the 
 house of a leper, again that of Atrides ; but 
 above all it suggested the collected thoughts 
 and hour-glass existence of provincial life. 
 
THE ''GRANDE BRETECHE:' 131 
 
 " I have often wept there, but I never 
 laughed. More than once I have been star- 
 tled by the dumb rustle of a ring-dove's wings 
 passing hurriedly above me. The ground 
 there is damp, and its savage liberty is a 
 freehold for snakes and lizards. The visitor 
 is obliged to take precautions against the 
 cold, for in a moment or two a mantle of ice 
 falls on his shoulders like the commander's 
 hand on the neck of Don Juan. 
 
 " One night I shuddered. The wind had 
 set a rusty weathercock in motion, and at 
 the very moment when I had conceived a 
 dismal drama that would account for the 
 monumentalized grief about me, its creaks 
 and cries seemed like groans issuing from 
 the house. I went back to my inn pensive 
 and oppressed. When I had eaten my sup- 
 per the landlady entered my room, and said 
 mysteriously : ' Here is M. Regnault, sir.' 
 
 " ' Who is M. Regnault ? ' 
 
 " ' What, does n't Monsieur know him ? 
 That 's odd,' she said, as she left the room. 
 
 " The next moment a man appeared, hat 
 in hand. He was tall and slim and dressed 
 in black. He entered like a ram preparing 
 to rush upon a rival, presenting as he did so 
 a retreating forehead, a pointed head and a 
 
132 AFTER-DINNER 8T0RIE8. 
 
 pale face that I can only compare to a glass 
 of dirty water. His coat was old and shiny 
 about the seams, but in his lace shirt front 
 there glittered a diamond, and in his ears 
 were gold rings. 
 
 " ' To whom have I the honor of speak- 
 ing ? ' I asked. 
 
 " He took a seat before the fire, put his 
 hat on the table, rubbed his hands together 
 and answered : ' I am M. Regnault.' 
 
 " I bowed, saying to myself, ' II bono 
 cani ! Find it.' 
 
 "*I am,' he continued, 'the notary at 
 VendOme.' 
 
 " ' Delighted, sir,' I exclaimed, ' but for 
 reasons best known to myself I am in no 
 hurry to make my will.' 
 
 " ' One moment, sir,' he said, raising his 
 hand as though to admonish me to be silent, 
 ' permit me to speak ; I hear that you are 
 in the habit of visiting the " Grande Bre- 
 teche." ' 
 
 " ' What if I am ? ' 
 
 " ' One moment,' he added, repeating his 
 former gesture : ' this action on your part 
 constitutes a misdemeanor ; I come, sir, in 
 the name and as executor of the late Com- 
 tesse de Merret to beg that you will discon- 
 
THE " GRANDE BRETECHEy 133 
 
 tinue your visits. One moment : I am not a 
 Turk, and I have no wish to make a crime 
 out of your action. Besides, it is not sur- 
 prising that you should be ignorant of the 
 circumstances that compel me to let the fin- 
 est mansion in Vendome fall to pieces. 
 At the same time you seem, sir, to be a man 
 of education, and you ought to know that a 
 trespass on enclosed property is legally pun- 
 ishable. In the eye of the law a hedge is 
 the same as a wall. To be sure, the condi- 
 tion into which the place has fallen serves 
 as an excuse for your curiosity, and for my 
 part I would ask nothing better than to al- 
 low you to visit it as often as you cared to, 
 but, obliged as I am to observe the wishes of 
 the testatrix, I have the honor to request that 
 you will not enter the garden again. Since 
 the will was read, I myself, sir, have never 
 put my foot in the house ; which, as I have 
 already told you, forms part of Mme. de 
 Merret's estate. I merely ascertained the 
 number of doors and windows, so as to be 
 prepared to pay the taxes, which duty I 
 perform each year from funds which the late 
 countess devised for that purpose. Ah, my 
 dear sir, that will of hers made a great sen- 
 sation in Vend6me ! ' 
 
134 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 " At this point the old fellow stopped 
 short and blew his nose. I haxi respected 
 his loquacity, for I readily divined that Mme. 
 de Merret's will had been the chief event of 
 his life, and that it had made his reputation, 
 his fame, and his position. As I saw that 
 thereafter I should be obliged to forego the 
 pleasure of dreams and dramas, I was in 
 consequence not unwilling to learn the truth 
 in an official way. ' Would it be indiscreet,' 
 I inquired, ' to ask the reason of this eccen- 
 tricity ? ' 
 
 " The notary looked at me with the com- 
 placent satisfaction of a man who is about 
 to mount his hobby. He raised his collar 
 with a little fatuous gesture, drew out his 
 snuff-box, which he offered me, but which I 
 declined, and helped himself to a luxurious 
 pinch. He was radiant. The man who is 
 without a hobby has never grasped the possi- 
 bilities of life. A hobby is the happy me- 
 dium between a passion and a monomania. 
 For the first time I fully understood Sterne's 
 idea, and entered thoroughly into the joy 
 with which. Trim assisting. Uncle Toby 
 mounted his battle-horse. 
 
 " ' Of course, sir, you have heard in Paris 
 of Roguin, the lawyer. No ? That's strange. 
 
THE ''GRANDE BRETECHE." 135 
 
 His firm became famous through a great 
 failure. Well, I used to be senior clerk in 
 his office, but as I was not rich enough to 
 set up for myself in Paris, I came here and 
 purchased the practice of my predecessor. 
 I had relatives at Vendome, among others a 
 rich aunt whose daughter I married. Well, 
 sir,' he continued after a slight pause, ' three 
 months after I was admitted to the bar, I 
 was summoned one evening — at that time I 
 was unmarried — by the Comtesse de Mer- 
 ret to come to her chateau. Her maid, who 
 is waitress in this inn to-day, came for me 
 in her mistress's carriage. Ah ! but there, 
 I must tell you, in the first place, that two 
 months before I came here the Comte de 
 Merret went to Paris, where he died, after 
 giving himself up to excesses of every kind. 
 The day he went away liis wife took all the 
 furniture out of the "Grande Bret^che" and 
 left the place. Some say she burned the 
 furniture, the tapestries and all the objects 
 of whatever kind, nature and description 
 mentioned in this agreement, and leased by 
 the party of the first part — Hello ! what am 
 I talking about ? really, I beg your pardon, 
 sir, I thought I was dictating a deed — that 
 she burned them,' he continued, ' in the open 
 
136 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 field at Merret. Did you ever go to Mer- 
 ret, sir ? No ? well, I can tell you it is a 
 beautiful place. For the preceding three 
 months,' he went on to say, ' the count and 
 countess had been acting in a very queer 
 manner. They received no one ; the coun- 
 tess lived on the ground floor and the count 
 on the one above. After the count went 
 away, the countess was never seen except 
 at church. Later on, at her chateau, she 
 refused to see the friends and relatives 
 that came to visit her. When she left 
 the " Grande Bret^che " to go to Merret she 
 was already very much changed. The dear 
 woman, — I say dear because she gave me 
 this diamond, but I only saw her once, — the 
 dear lady was quite ill, too ill, I fancy, to 
 have had any hope of recovery ; indeed, she 
 died without wishing to see a physician, and 
 in consequence many of the ladies here 
 thought that she was not altogether in her 
 right mind. Of course, my curiosity was 
 greatly excited when I learned that she was 
 in need of my services. Nor was I the only 
 one. That very evening, although it was 
 quite late, everybody in the place knew that 
 I was going to Merret. On the way there 
 I got precious little information out of the 
 
THE ''GRANDE BRETECHE:' 137 
 
 maid-servant : all she told me was that her 
 mistress had received the last sacrament and 
 was not expected to live tlir^^ugh the night. 
 It was eleven o'clock when I reached the 
 chateau. I went up the broad stairway, and 
 after passing through several dark, high- 
 ceiled rooms, all of which were deucedly 
 cold and damp, I was ushered into the grand 
 bedroom where the countess lay. From all 
 that I had heard about her, — and I had 
 heard more than I could ever find time to 
 repeat — I had taken her to be something of 
 a coquette ; but, if you will believe me, when 
 I first looked at the bed on which she was 
 lying I did n't see her. To be sure, the room 
 was enormous, and the only light in it came 
 from an old-fashioned argand lamp. The 
 dust was so thick that it would have made 
 you sneeze to look at it. But you have 
 never been to Merret, have you ? Well, sir, 
 that bed was one of the kind they used to 
 have in old times, with a great, high canopy 
 of flowered calico. Near the bed was a 
 table on which I noticed a copy of the 
 *' Imitation of Jesus Christ." I afterwards 
 bought it, and the lamp too. Then there 
 was an easy -chair for the maid, and two 
 stools. That was all the furniture there 
 
138 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 was. There was n't even a fire lighted. The 
 whole thing would n't have taken ten lines 
 in an inventory. Ah, my dear sir, if you had 
 seen, as I did, that immense room hung with 
 brown tapestries, you would have thought it 
 a scene in a novel. It was glacial, and more 
 than that — it was funereal. On nearing 
 the bed, and after looking very hard, I at 
 last caught sight of Mme. de Merret, but 
 had it not been for the lamplight which fell 
 directly on the pillows I might not have 
 seen her at all. Her face was as yellow as 
 wax, and looked like two hands joined in 
 prayer. She wore a lace cap, and beneath 
 it I could see that her long hair was pure 
 white. When I approached she was sitting 
 up, but it seemed to be difficult for her to do 
 so. Her great black eyes, hollowed, I sup- 
 pose by fever, and already dull, hardly 
 moved at all. Her hands were well-nigh 
 fleshless, and looked to me like bones in a 
 thin covering of skin. I could see the bones 
 and muscles perfectly. She must have been 
 very beautiful, but at that moment she was 
 frightful. The people who buried her said 
 that they had never seen a human body so 
 thin as hers. She was so wasted by sick- 
 ness that she was nothing more than a phan- 
 
THE ''GRANDE BRETECHEr 139 
 
 torn. When she spoke to me her lips, which 
 were of a pale violet hue, barely moved. 
 As you can understand, my profession has 
 familiarized me with the sight of suffering. 
 Time and time and again I have stood at the 
 bedside of the dying ; but I am free to con- 
 fess that none of the families in tears, nor 
 any of the death agonies I ever witnessed, 
 have impressed me as did that woman, silent 
 and alone in her great chateau. I did not 
 hear the least sound : I did not even see that 
 she was breathing. I stood before her, mo- 
 tionless, in a kind of stupor. Oh, I can see 
 her now. At last her eyes turned toward 
 me. She raised her hand, but it fell back 
 again on the bed, and like a breath, — for, 
 properly speaking, she had no voice left, — 
 these words escaped her : " I have been im- 
 patient to see you." The effort was so great 
 that her cheeks colored. " Madam," I said, 
 but she motioned me to be silent, and there- 
 upon her attendant came forward and whis- 
 pered, "Be quiet: her ladyship can't bear 
 the slightest noise. If you speak you will 
 agitate her." I sat down. In a moment 
 or two, Mme. de Merret, collecting what 
 strength she had, moved her trembling hand 
 under the bolster, let it lie there a while 
 
140 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 and then made a final effort to withdraw it. 
 In the mean time she had grasped a sealed 
 paper. Drops of perspiration fell from her 
 forehead. " This is my will," she said, " O 
 Lord my God ! " That was all. She seized 
 a crucifix that was lying on her bed, raised 
 it quickly to her lips, and died. The ex- 
 pression of her face makes me shiver when I 
 think of it : her sufferings must have been 
 hideous, but a look of joy came to her eyes 
 and remained in them even after death. I 
 took the will away with me, and when I 
 opened it, I found that Mme. de Merret had 
 made me her executor. Beyond a few be- 
 quests, she gave all her property to the hos- 
 pital here in Vend6me. But the " Grande 
 Breteche " she disposed of in this wise : The 
 house and grounds were to remain for fifty 
 years, dating from the day of death, in the 
 condition in which they might be at the time 
 of her decease. She forbade any one to 
 enter them under any pretext whatsoever, 
 and left a sum of money for the pay of 
 keepers, should they be necessary for the ex- 
 ecution of her wishes. At the expiration of 
 this term, provided the wishes of the tes- 
 tatrix have been observed, the house is to 
 belong to my heirs, for, as you are doubtless 
 
THE ''GRANDE BRETECHEP 141 
 
 aware, a notary is incapacitated from receiv- 
 ing a legacy from a client. Otherwise the 
 " Grande Bretdche " is to go over to whom- 
 ever may have the best claim to it ; but with 
 the obligation of fulfilling the conditions in- 
 dicated in a codicil annexed to the will, and 
 which is not to be opened until the expira- 
 tion of the said fifty years. The wUl has 
 not been attacked, therefore * — 
 
 "The oblong notary did not finish his 
 sentence. He looked at me with an air of 
 triumph, and with a few compliments I man- 
 aged to make his happiness complete. 
 
 " ' You have interested me so much,' I 
 said by way of conclusion, ' that I can al- 
 most see that dying woman with her face 
 paler than the sheets, and her dull terrify- 
 ing eyes. I am sure I shall dream of her 
 to-night. But, tell me, did n't you form any 
 opinion about the will? Surely, you must 
 have wondered over its eccentricity ? ' 
 
 " The notary assumed an air of reserve 
 that was comical in the extreme. ' I never 
 allow myself,' he answered, ' to judge the 
 conduct of people who honor me with the 
 gift of a diamond.' 
 
 " In spite of his scruples it did not take 
 me long to loosen his tongue, and amid long 
 
142 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 digressions I managed to gather from him 
 the gist of VendSmian gossip. But it was all 
 so confused and contradictory that, in spite 
 of the unfeigned interest which I took in the 
 whole affair, I almost fell asleep. The dull 
 monotony of his voice, which he had exer- 
 cised in talking to clients or to himself, van- 
 quished my curiosity. At last, however, he 
 got up to go. 
 
 " ' I can tell you, sir,' he said, when he 
 reached the stairway, ' I can tell you that 
 there are a good many people who would 
 like to see the end of the next forty years, 
 but there ' — and with a knowing wink he 
 put his forefinger to his nose, as who should 
 say, Mark this: to do so one must not be 
 sixty now. 
 
 " Aroused from my apathy by this wit- 
 ticism, I closed the door, and then, drawing 
 my chair before the fire, I began to lose 
 myself in a Eadcliffian romance which had 
 constructed itself out of the notary's recital, 
 when the door, manoeuvred by a light, fem- 
 inine hand, turned on its hinges, and my 
 hostess — a great, good-natured woman who 
 had just missed her vocation, which was that 
 of a Flemish peasant in a picture of Te- 
 niers — entered the room. 
 
THE " GRANDE BRETECHE.'* 143 
 
 " * Well, sir,' she said, ' M. Regnault has 
 been telling you about the "Grande Bre- 
 teche,"hasn'the?' 
 
 " I nodded. 
 
 "'What did he say?' 
 
 " In the fewest possible words I repeated 
 to her Mme. de Merret's shadowy history. 
 At each sentence I uttered she craned her 
 neck and gazed at me with that innkeeper 
 perspicacity which is the happy medium be- 
 tween the instinct of a spy and the shrewd- 
 ness of a tradesman. 
 
 " ' But you,' I added, ' you seem to know 
 much more about it than I do. Come, own 
 up, Madame Lepas ! ' 
 
 " ' On the faith of an honest woman, just 
 as true as my name is ' — 
 
 "'Don't perjure yourself. I can see a 
 secret in your eyes. What sort of a man 
 was this M. de Merret ? ' 
 
 " ' Oh, as for M. de Merret, why, he was 
 an elegant gentleman that you never saw 
 the last of, he was so tall. He was from 
 Picardy, and, as we say here, he had his 
 head near his bonnet. He paid cash for 
 everything so as not to have any arguments. 
 You see, he was excitable. The ladies aU 
 liked him.' 
 
144 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 " ' Because he was excitable ? ' 
 
 " ' I dare say. You see he must have 
 had something about him to marry Mme. 
 de Merret, who, not that I want to disparage 
 any one else, was by far the prettiest and 
 richest girl in VendSme. She had some- 
 thing like twenty thousand francs a year. 
 The whole town was at the wedding. The 
 bride looked lovely, a real jewel of a woman. 
 Ah, they made a fine couple ! ' 
 
 " ' Were they happy together ? " 
 
 " ' Hum, well, yes and no ; so far as I 
 know I suppose they were, but then as you 
 can fancy the likes of me did n't live with 
 them cheek by jowl. Mme. de Merret was 
 a nice little thing who had to put up with a 
 great deal from her husband and his temper. 
 She was proud too, but we all liked her. 
 Bah, she had to be proud, I suppose : when 
 you have a title ' — 
 
 "'All the same thero must have been 
 some catastrophe to make them separate.' 
 
 " ' 1 did n't say there was a catastrophe. 
 I don't know anything about it.' 
 
 " ' That 's right. I am positive now that 
 you know the whole story.' 
 
 " ' Well, sir, I will tell you what I do 
 know. When I saw M. Kegnault coming 
 
THE ''GRANDE BRETECHE.'' 145 
 
 to see you, I felt sure that in speaking of 
 the " Grande Bretdche " he would talk about 
 Mme. de Merret. That gave me the idea of 
 asking your advice, for you have seemed to 
 me to be a gentleman that would n't betray 
 a poor woman who has never injured any 
 one, and who, nevertheless, is tormented by 
 her conscience. I have never said anything 
 about it to any of my neighbors, for they 
 are all iron-jawed gossips. Then, too, I have 
 never had any one stop at the inn as long as 
 you have ; no one, I mean, to whom I could 
 tell the story of the ten thousand francs.' 
 
 " ' But see here,' I said, interrupting her 
 flux of words, ' if your confidences are com- 
 promising, I would n't listen to them for all 
 the world.' 
 
 " ' Don't be frightened, you shall judge.' 
 
 " This eagerness on her part made it very 
 clear that I was not the only one to whom 
 my landlady had disclosed the secret of 
 which I was to be the sole depositary. 
 
 " ' When the emperor,' she went on to 
 say, ' sent the Spanish prisoners here, I 
 lodged, at the government's expense, a 
 young Spaniard who had come to Vend^me 
 on parole. In spite of his parole he went 
 every day to show himself to the prefect. 
 
 10 
 
146 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 He was a grandee — think of it ! He had 
 a name that ended in os and in dia, some- 
 thing like Bagos de Fer^dia. I wrote it on 
 the book: you can see it if you want to. 
 He was a handsome young fellow for a 
 Spaniard, for all Spaniards, I hear, are 
 ugly. He was n't more than five feet two, 
 but he was well made. He had small hands, 
 and you should have seen the way he took 
 care of them. He had as many brushes for 
 them as a lady has for her toilet. He had 
 black hair and bright eyes. His complexion 
 was rather dark, but it pleased me all the 
 same. He wore the finest linen I have ever 
 seen, although I have lodged princesses, and 
 among others. General Bertrand, the Duke 
 and Duchess d'Abrantes, M. Decazes and 
 the King of Spain. He didn't eat much, 
 but then he had such polite manners that 
 no one could take offense. Oh, I liked him 
 very much, although to be sure he did n't 
 say four words a day, and it was impossible 
 to have the least conversation with him. If 
 any one spoke to him, he did n't answer. It 
 was a trick, a way they all have, I hear. 
 He read his breviary like a priest, and he 
 went regularly to mass and all the services. 
 Afterwards we remembered that he always 
 
THE ''GRANDE BRETECHE:' 147 
 
 stood a step or two from Mme. de Merret's 
 seat, but as he chose that place the first time 
 he went to church, no one could say that it 
 was intentional. Besides, poor young fellow, 
 he never lifted his nose out of his prayer- 
 book. In the evening he used to walk 
 on the momitain, among the ruins of the 
 Chateau: it reminded him of his country. 
 In Spain, they say, it 's aU mountains. 
 From the very first he came in late at night. 
 It used to worry me when it got to be mid- 
 night and he had not returned, but after a 
 while we got accustomed to his ways. He 
 would take the key and let himself in when 
 he chose. This went on for some time. 
 One evening an ostler told us that while he 
 had been bathing his horses he thought he 
 saw the grandee swimming like a fish, far 
 out in the river. When I saw him again 
 I told him to be careful about the weeds, 
 but he didn't seem to like it. He was 
 vexed because he had been seen, I suppose. 
 Finally, one day, or rather one morning, his 
 room was empty and his bed had not been 
 slept in. After looking all around I dis- 
 covered a note in the drawer of his table, 
 and with it fifty Spanish gold-pieces which 
 aU in all were worth about five thousand 
 
148 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 francs, and also a sealed box with diamonds 
 in it that were worth ten thousand more. 
 The note said that in case he did not return 
 the gold and diamonds were to be ours, pro- 
 vided we had masses said in thanksgiving 
 for his safety and escape. My husband, who 
 was living then, started off to look for him, 
 and — this is the curious part of the whole 
 affair — when he came back he brought 
 with him the Spaniard's clothes. He had 
 found them under a big stone on the bank 
 of the river, almost opposite the " Grande 
 Bret^che." After reading the letter he 
 burned the clothes, and we said he had es- 
 caped. The sub-prefect put the gendarmes 
 after him, but he never was caught. Lepas 
 thought he was drowned, but I did n't. I 
 thought he was in some way mixed up in 
 Mme. de Merret's affair, the more so as 
 Rosalie told me that the crucifix which her 
 mistress was so fond of that she had it 
 buried with her, was of ebony and silver, 
 and when the Count F^rddia first came here, 
 he had one of ebony and silver too, but I 
 never saw it with him but once. Now tell 
 me, sir, ought I to have any remorse about 
 the ten thousand francs, and aren't they 
 honestly mine ? ' 
 
THE " GRANDE BRETECHE:' 149 
 
 " ' Certainly they are. But did n't you 
 ever try to question Rosalie ? ' 
 
 " ' Indeed I have, sir, but it was no use. 
 Slie knows something, but what it is I can't 
 for the life of me get out of her.' 
 
 " My hostess, after chatting a few moments 
 more, went away, leaving me a prey to vague 
 and shadowy thoughts, a romantic curiosity, 
 and a species of terror such as grapples with 
 him who enters at night a gloomy church 
 where one faint flame glimmering afar 
 through the lofty arches lights a dim figure 
 passing so silently that nothing is heard 
 save the indistinct rustle of a robe. The 
 riotous weeds, condemned windows, rusty 
 ironwork, closed doors and deserted rooms 
 of the ' Grande Breteche ' surged fantasti- 
 cally before me. I tried to penetrate its 
 secret, and find the key to the solemn drama 
 in which three people had perished. 
 
 " At once Rosalie became to me the most 
 interesting person in VendSme. Despite her 
 brilliant health, I discovered traces in her 
 face of some previous and prolonged emo- 
 tion. There was about her something that 
 suggested hope or remorse. Her attitude 
 was as indicative of a secret as is that of a 
 woman whose prayers are excessive, or the 
 
150 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 infanticide whose ears are still ringing with 
 her child's last cry. Yet therewithal she 
 looked simple and commonplace, there was 
 nothing of the criminal in her smile, and any 
 one would have declared her innocent merely 
 on account of the red and blue handkerchief 
 that covered her vigorous bust, and the white 
 and violet striped dress which set off her 
 shapely figure. ' No,' I said reflectively, 
 'no, I won't leave Vend8me until I have 
 gotten to the bottom of this matter ; if there 
 is no other way I '11 make love to Rosalie.' 
 One evening I called to her : ' Rosalie ! ' 
 
 " ' Beg pardon, sir ? ' 
 
 " ' You are not married, are you ? ' 
 
 " ' Oh,' she answered, laughing, ' if I ever 
 want to be unhappy it won't be for want of 
 a man to help me.' 
 
 " ' You are certainly too appetizing to lack 
 opportunities. But tell me, Rosalie, what 
 made you come here after Mme. de Merret's 
 death ? Did n't she leave you anything ? ' 
 
 " ' Indeed she did, but my place here is 
 the best in Vend6me.' This answer was one 
 of those that judges and lawyers term dila- 
 tory. Now the position which Rosalie occu- 
 pied in the history of the ' Grande Breteche ' 
 was in my mind analogous to that of the 
 
THE ''GRANDE BFETECHE:' 151 
 
 square in the middle of the chessboard, — she 
 was at the centre of the interest and truth, 
 she was knotted in the knot. With her, 
 therefore, it was not a case of ordinary love- 
 making. She represented nothing more nor 
 less than the last chapter of a novel. Con- 
 sequently from that moment she became the 
 object of my predilection. After studying 
 her for some time I noticed in her, as in the 
 case of all other women that occupy our 
 thoughts, a number of good qualities. She 
 was neat and quick ; that she was good-look- 
 ing goes without the telling ; in a word, she 
 possessed every one of those attractions 
 which an inflammable imagination lends to 
 a woman, no matter in what situation she 
 may be. 
 
 " One evening, a fortnight after the no- 
 tary's visit, I said to her abruptly, ' Tell me 
 all you know about Mme. de Merret.' 
 
 " At once she changed color ; her eyes lost 
 their innocent brilliance. ' Don't ask me 
 that,' she answered with a shudder. But as 
 I insisted, ' Well,' she continued, ' if you 
 will have it, I '11 tell you, but do keep it a 
 secret.' 
 
 " ' Make yourself easy on that score,' I 
 replied, ' I give you the word of a robber, 
 which is the safest in the world.' 
 
152 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 " ' If it is the same to you, I prefer your 
 own.' Thereupon she adjusted her kerchief 
 and assumed a proper position, — for there is 
 for every narrative an attitude of confidence 
 and security. Indeed, when standing, or 
 when on an empty stomach, it is impossible 
 to teU a story weU. The best ones are told 
 at a particular hour, such, for instance, as 
 the present one, when we all are at table. 
 As, however, it would take forever for me to 
 repeat all of Rosalie's wordy eloquence, and, 
 moreover, as the occurrence of which she 
 gave me a confused idea takes an exact posi- 
 tion between the gossip of the notary and 
 that of my landlady, I wiU tell it to you in 
 my own way as briefly as possible. 
 
 " The room which Mme. de Merret occu- 
 pied at the ' Grande Breteche ' was situated 
 on the ground floor. The wardrobe she used 
 was a little closet about four feet deep, which 
 had been built into the wall. Three months 
 previous to the particular evening of which 
 I am to tell you, Mme. de Merret had been 
 so iU that her husband had removed to the 
 floor above. Through some one of those 
 fortuitous circumstances that can never be 
 foreseen, M. de Merret, on this particular 
 evening, returned from his club fully two 
 
 10 
 
THE ''GRANDE BRETECHE.'* 153 
 
 hours later than he was accustomed to do. 
 His wife thought him at home, in bed and 
 asleep. The invasion of France, however, 
 had been hotly discussed, he had gotten ex- 
 cited over a game of billiards, and he had 
 lost forty francs, — an enormous sum at Yen- 
 d6me, where every one is niggardly. For 
 some time past M. de Merret had contented 
 himself with asking Rosalie if his wife were 
 asleep, whereupon, — her answer being al- 
 ways in the affirmative, — he had gone to his 
 own room with that easy indifference that is 
 born of habit and confidence. But on this 
 evening he decided to see Mme. de Merret 
 and tell her of his misadventure. It may be 
 that he hoped she would console him. At 
 dinner he had noticed that she was particu- 
 larly weU-dressed. On his way home from 
 the club he told himself that his wife was 
 better, that convalescence had improved her 
 looks, — a circumstance which after the 
 fashion of husbands he had been a little late 
 in perceiving. Instead, therefore, of calling 
 Rosalie, who happened to be in the kitchen 
 watching the cook and coachman play cards, 
 M. de Merret went directly to his wife's 
 room. His step, which was easy to recog- 
 nize, echoed through the arches of the cor- 
 
154 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 ridor. Just as he was on the point of enter- 
 ing the room, he thought he heard some one 
 shut the closet door, but on going in, he 
 found his wife standing alone before the fire. 
 At first he fancied, innocently enough, that 
 Rosalie was in the closet ; but suddenly, with 
 abrupt suspicion, he looked at his wife's face. 
 The expression which it wore was vaguely 
 suggestive of excitement and anxiety. 
 
 " ' You are late,' she said. Her voice, 
 ordinarily clear and musical, seemed to him 
 somewhat troubled. He made no answer, 
 for at that moment Rosalie entered. His 
 wonderment deepened. With his arms 
 crossed before him, he paced mechanically 
 up and down the room, going from one win- 
 dow to the other. 
 
 " ' Have you heard any bad news ? Are 
 you ill ? ' his wife asked timidly, while Ro- 
 salie was helping her to undress. Still he 
 made no answer. 
 
 " ' You may go,' Mme. de Merret said to 
 her maid. ' I will do my hair myself.' Her 
 husband's face showed clearly that something 
 had gone wrong, and she wished to be alone 
 with him. 
 
 " When Rosalie had gone, or was sup- 
 posed to have gone, — for as a matter of fact 
 
THE ''GRANDE BRETECHEr 155 
 
 she lingered in the corridor, — M. de Merret 
 stepped forward to where his wife stood, 
 looked straight at her, and said coldly, 
 ' Madam, there is some one in that closet.' 
 
 " She returned his gaze calmly, and said 
 with an air of candor, ' No, there is no one.' 
 
 " To M. de Merret this reply was an 
 added torture. He did not believe it, and 
 yet his wife had never seemed purer and 
 more innocent than she did at that moment. 
 Nevertheless he made a movement as though 
 to open the closet. Mme. de Merret caught 
 his hand, looked sadly at him and said in a 
 voice that was singularly touching : ' If you 
 find no one, remember that all will be at an 
 end between us.' 
 
 " The supreme dignity of her attitude in- 
 spired her husband with a renewed respect 
 for her, and brought to him at the same time 
 one of those ideas which need only a vaster 
 theatre to become immortal. ' No,' he said, 
 ' I will not open it. In either case we would 
 be separated forever. Listen : I know the 
 purity of your heart, I know that you lead 
 the life of a saint, and I am positive that 
 you would not commit a sin at the expense 
 of your soul.' At these words Mme. de Mer- 
 ret's face grew haggard. ' Look, here is 
 
156 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 your crucifix,' lie added ; ' now swear, swear 
 before God, that there is no one there. I 
 will believe you, and I will not open that 
 door.' 
 
 "Mme. de Merret took the crucifix and 
 said, ' I swear it.' 
 
 " ' Louder,' said her husband, ' and repeat 
 after me. I swear before God that there is 
 no one in that closet.' 
 
 She repeated the words without embar- 
 rassment. 
 
 " ' That will do,' said M. de Merret, coldly. 
 Then, after a momentary silence, during 
 which he curiously examined the crucifix, 
 which was of ebony incrusted with silver, he 
 added, ' That 's a fine thing of yours : 1 
 never saw it before.' 
 
 " ' I found it at Duvivier's ; when the pris- 
 oners passed through VendSme last year, he 
 bought it of a Spaniard.' 
 
 " ' Did he ? Indeed ! ' M. de Merret re- 
 placed the crucifix on its stand and rang the 
 bell. When Rosalie appeared a moment 
 later, M. de Merret led her quickly to the 
 embrasure of a window, and whispered : ' I 
 know that Gorenflot wants to marry you; 
 poverty alone has prevented him ; you told 
 him you would not be his wife until he was 
 
THE ''GRANDE BRETECHE." 157 
 
 a master mason. Now run and look for him ; 
 tell him to come here and bring his trowel ; 
 he will be richer than you ever hoped he 
 could be. But mind this, — on your way 
 out, say nothing, otherwise ' — He looked at 
 her in a significant way. 
 
 "Rosalie started to go. He called her 
 back. ' Here, take my pass-key.* Then in 
 a thundering voice he called through the 
 corridor, ' Jean ! ' 
 
 " Jean, who was both valet and coachman, 
 left his cards and came. His master mo- 
 tioned to him to come nearer. ' Go to bed, 
 all of you,' he said ; then in a whisper he 
 added, ' When they are all asleep, — asleep, 
 do you hear ? — come and tell me.' 
 
 " After giving these orders, M. de Merret, 
 who meanwhile had not lost sight of his wife, 
 came quietly to the fire where she stood and 
 began to tell her about his game of billiards 
 and the discussion at the club. When Rosa- 
 lie returned she found them chattiug in the 
 friendliest way. 
 
 " Some time before, M. de Merret had 
 caused fresh ceilings to be put throughout 
 that part of the ground floor which was used 
 for reception rooms. Now plaster is not to be 
 had in Vend6me, and the cost of importing it 
 
158 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 makes it expensive. Knowing that there 
 would always be purchasers for it, M. de 
 Merret had consequently ordered a large 
 quantity. This circumstance suggested the 
 plan which he then began to execute. 
 
 " ' Gorenflot is there, sir,' said Rosalie in 
 an undertone. 
 
 " ' Show him in,' he answered. 
 
 " When Mme. de Merret saw the mason 
 she turned pale. 
 
 " ' Gorenflot,' said M. de Merret, 'go to 
 the stable and get some bricks ; get enough 
 to wall up the door of that closet ; you '11 find 
 plenty of plaster.' Then drawing Rosalie 
 and the mason aside, he addressed Goren- 
 flot in a whisper : ' You sleep here to-night, 
 but to-morrow you shall have a passport to 
 a town in a foreign country. I will give you 
 six thousand francs for your expenses. You 
 must stay away ten years : if you don't like 
 the town you go to, you can choose another, 
 provided it is in the same country. First go 
 to Paris, and wait for me there. In Paris I 
 will give you a paper that will insure you 
 six thousand francs more, — when the bar- 
 gain is completed. In return for this you 
 must never lisp a word of what you do here 
 to-night. As for you, Rosalie, you shall 
 
THE ''GRANDE BRETkCHEJ' 159 
 
 have ten thousand francs the day you are 
 married to Gorenflot, but to have them you 
 must hold your tongue. Otherwise, not a 
 penny ! * 
 
 " ' Rosalie,' said Mme. de Merret, ' come 
 and do my hair.* 
 
 "Her husband walked calmly up and 
 down, watching his wife, the mason and the 
 door, but he did so in an unsuspicious and 
 natural manner. 
 
 " Gorenflot was obliged to make a certain 
 amount of noise : once, when he was putting 
 down a hod of bricks, while the count hap- 
 pened to be at the other end of the room, 
 Mme. de Merret seized the opportunity to 
 say to Rosalie, * A thousand francs a year 
 for you, if you manage to tell Gorenflot to 
 leave a crevice at the bottom ; ' then raising 
 her voice, she said with an air of utter in- 
 difference, ' Go and help him.' 
 
 " During the entire time that Gorenflot 
 took to wall up the door, the count and 
 countess sat in silence. On the husband's 
 part the silence was intentional, on that of 
 the wife it was pride. When the wall was 
 half done, the mason, seeing M. de Merret's 
 back turned, took the opportunity to break 
 one of the two panes of glass that were in 
 the door. This incident proved to Mme. de 
 
160 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 Merret that Rosalie had spoken to Goren- 
 flot. All three then saw a man's face, som- 
 bre, dark, with black hair and glistening 
 eyes. Before her husband turned the poor 
 woman had the time to make a gesture to 
 him which signified, Hope. 
 
 " At four o'clock, toward sunrise, — for it 
 was then September, — the construction was 
 finished. The mason was put under Jean's 
 care and M. de Merret slept in his wife's 
 room. 
 
 " That morning on arising he said care- 
 lessly : ' By the way, I must go to the may- 
 or's for the passport.' He put his hat on, 
 took three steps toward the door, turned 
 back and took the crucifix. His wife trem- 
 bled with joy. ' He is going to Duvivier's 
 too,' she thought. As soon as her husband 
 had gone, she called to Rosalie. * Quick ! ' 
 she cried, 'a pickaxe! I saw 'how Gorenflot 
 worked : we will have time to make an open- 
 ing and fill it up again.' 
 
 " In a trice Rosalie had brought the tool 
 to her mistress, who at once began to tear 
 down the wall. She had already knocked 
 out several bricks, when, turning in an ef- 
 fort to strike a harder blow, she saw M. de 
 Merret behind her, and fell fainting to the 
 ground. 
 
THE " GRANDE BRETECEE:' 161 
 
 " ' Put her in bed,' said her husband, 
 coldly. Foreseeing what would happen in 
 his absence, he had laid a trap for his wife : 
 he had simply written to the mayor and sent 
 for Duvivier. The jeweler arrived when the 
 room was once more in order. 
 
 " ' Duvivier,' he asked, ' did you buy a 
 cruciiGbc of a Spaniard who passed through 
 here ? ' 
 
 " ' No, sir.' 
 
 " ' Very good. I am obliged to you,' and 
 M. de Merret gave his wife the look of a 
 tiger. ' Jean,' he added, turning to the 
 valet, 'hereafter you will serve my food 
 here. Mme. de Merret is ill: I shall not 
 leave her until she has recovered.' 
 
 " ' Twenty days he stayed in his wife's 
 room. At first, when some noise or other 
 came from the walled closet and his wife 
 attempted to plead for the dying stranger, 
 without even permitting her to say a word, 
 he would answer, ' You swore on the cross 
 that there was no one there.' " 
 
 After this story, all the ladies left the 
 table, and the charm in which Bianchon had 
 held them was broken. Nevertheless a few 
 of them had felt a cold shiver run down 
 their backs when they heard his last words. 
 
MADAME DE BEAUSEANTo 
 
MADAME DE BEAUS^ANT. 
 
 In the spring of 1822 a young man, re- 
 covering from an illness caused by dissipa- 
 tion or over-study, was sent to Normandy to 
 recuperate. His convalescence necessitated 
 complete rest, simple food, bracing air and 
 an entire absence of excitement. The rich 
 Bessin fields and the monotony of provincial 
 life seemed, therefore, the very best things 
 for him. 
 
 He went to Bayeux, a charming little 
 town a mile or two from the sea, where he 
 was welcomed by a cousin, Mme. de Sainte- 
 Severe, who greeted him with the cordiality 
 peculiar to those who live far from the world, 
 and to whom the advent of a friend or rela- 
 tive is little else than a godsend. 
 
 Beyond the difference of a custom or two, 
 one small town is precisely like another. 
 When, therefore, the young Parisian, Baron 
 Gaston de Nueil by name, had passed half 
 
166 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 a dozen evenings with his cousin and her 
 friends, he found himself acquainted with 
 every one whom the exclusive society of 
 Bayeux regarded as being worth knowing. 
 In that little world, where etiquette was rig- 
 orously observed, where patrician and terri- 
 torial claims were quoted like stocks on the 
 exchange, the young man no sooner ap- 
 peared than he was weighed in the infallible 
 scales of concentrated opinion. His cousin 
 had already told what he was worth and 
 what he would have in the future. She ex- 
 hibited his family tree, boasted of his ac- 
 quaintances and praised his manners. He 
 had eighteen thousand francs a year, and 
 sooner or later he would inherit the Chateau 
 of Manerville, together with all its depend- 
 encies. The baron was therefore well re- 
 ceived, but, as he was only twenty-three, no 
 particular attention was paid to him save by 
 a few designing mammas. 
 
 The society thus opened to him amused 
 him at first not a little. He sketched the 
 members in a mental album. Angularities, 
 wrinkles, costumes, habits, opinions, were all 
 put down. Their Normanisms delighted 
 him, and he noted with interest the nullity 
 of their minds and characters. 
 
MADAME DE BEAUSEANT. 167 
 
 But soon his enjoyment waned. The ex- 
 istence into which he had been plunged was 
 too much like that of a squirrel in a cage ; 
 the life he led was as lacking in contrast as 
 is a monk's, and it was not long before he 
 fell into a state which, without being either 
 one of boredom or disgust, resembled them 
 astonishingly in its effects. When the suf- 
 ferings of a transition period, such as this, 
 are over and done with, the individual on 
 whom they have operated finds himself trans- 
 planted to a soil where he will gradually 
 shrivel up. Indeed, if he is not removed, 
 little by little he will adapt himself to his 
 surroundings and become accustomed to the 
 void that circles and annihilates him. Gas- 
 ton's lungs had already grown accustomed to 
 the new atmosphere. The days that passed 
 unmarked, yet ordered, brought to him the 
 happiness of a plant ; he began to lose all 
 recollection of the movement and constant 
 fructifying of thought which had made Paris 
 so delicious to him ; he was about to become 
 fossilized among fossils, and, like another 
 companion of Ulysses, to loll forever where 
 he was, content with stupid ease. One even- 
 ing at a card -party, where sixteen people 
 were chatting together, he foimd himself 
 
168 AFTER-DINNER STORIES, 
 
 seated between an old lady and one of the 
 vicar-generals of the diocese. There, think- 
 ing of nothing in particular and wholly en- 
 gaged in digesting one of those exquisite 
 dinners which form the chief event of pro- 
 vincial days, he began to discover an un- 
 written philosophy in the uniform move- 
 ment of life that runs in a circle ; he began 
 to appreciate the calm that is found in log- 
 ical customs, and to feel the futUity of Pa- 
 risian elegance. Paris, with her passions, 
 her storms, and her pleasures, was as vague 
 as a memory of childhood. Indeed, he 
 might have been irrevocably done for had 
 it not been for a phrase which fell upon 
 his ear like an original strain in a tedious 
 opera. 
 
 " Did n't you go yesterday to call on Mme. 
 de Beauseant ? " an old lady asked, address- 
 ing herself to the foremost noble of the 
 land. 
 
 "I did so this morning," he answered. 
 " She was so sad and ailing that I could not 
 get her to say that she would dine with us 
 to-morrow," 
 
 "With Mme. de Champignelles ? " the 
 dowager exclaimed with an air of surprise. 
 
 " With my wife," he answered tranquilly. 
 
MADAME DE BEAUS^ANT. 169 
 
 "Isn't Mme. de Beaus^ant of the House 
 of Burgundy? Through her mother, it is 
 true, but an ancestry such as that whitens 
 anything. My wife is very fond of the vis- 
 countess, and the poor woman has been alone 
 so long .that" — 
 
 As he said this the Marquis de Cham- 
 pignelles looked coldly at the people who 
 were listening to him, but it was impossible 
 to teU whether he wished to make conces- 
 sions to Mme. de Beaus^ant because of her 
 misfortune or because of her rank ; whether 
 he was flattered to receive her, or whether, as 
 a matter of pride, he wanted to force others 
 to receive her too. 
 
 The ladies looked inquiringly at one an- 
 other. During the deep silence that fol- 
 lowed, the attitude which they assumed was 
 taken as a mark of disapprobation. 
 
 " Is this Mme. de Beaus^ant the one 
 whose adventure with M. d'Ajuda - Pinto 
 was so much talked about ? " ^ Gaston asked 
 of the person who sat next to him. 
 
 " The very same. She came here after 
 the marriage of the Marquis d'Ajuda, and 
 took the villa Courcelles, but no one re- 
 
 1 The reader is referred to Le Pere Goriot. [Translator's 
 note.] 
 
170 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 ceives her. She is too sensible not to un- 
 derstand what her position is, and she has 
 made no attempt to see any one. M. de 
 Champignelles and some few other men 
 have called on her, but he is the only one 
 she has admitted. They are related, you 
 know, through the Beaus^ants. The old 
 Marquis de Beaus^ant married a Cham- 
 pignelles. Although Mme. de Beausdant 
 descends from the House of Burgundy, you 
 can readily understand that it is impossible 
 for us to admit into our circle a woman who 
 is separated from her husband. It is one 
 of the old-fashioned ideas to which we still 
 cling " — 
 
 M. de Nueil heard his neighbor's voice, 
 but he no longer listened to it. He was lost 
 in a thousand fancies. Fancies they were, 
 for is there any other term capable of ex- 
 pressing the allurements of an adventure 
 which, so soon as it pervades the imagina- 
 tion, excites the mind with the hopes, fears 
 and presentiments of inexplicable delights, 
 and this although as yet there is nothing 
 on which the caprices of the imagination 
 can feed or alight. Under such conditions, 
 thought conceives impossible projects, and 
 provides the germ that may blossom into 
 
MADAME DE BEAUSEANT. 171 
 
 love, precisely as a seed holds the perfume 
 and color of a rose. A moment before, 
 M. de Nueil was unaware that Mme. de 
 Beausdant had fled to Normandy, but he 
 knew that she had been recently enveloped 
 in one of those scandals which women either 
 envy or condemn, particularly when the se- 
 ductions of youth and beauty go far to jus- 
 tify the fault which caused it. 
 
 To celebrity, however acquired, there 
 attaches a singular fascination. Indeed it 
 would seem that with women, as formerly 
 with families, the glory of a crime effaced 
 the shame. As certain families boast of 
 decapitated ancestors, so does a handsome 
 woman become more attractive through the 
 renown of a happy love affair or a terrible 
 betrayal. We are pitiless only to vidgar 
 sentiments and commonplace adventures. In 
 attracting the eyes of others we add to our 
 stature, and it is undeniable that the general- 
 ity of people experience a sentiment of re- 
 spect for any one who has gotten above them, 
 no matter how the success has been achieved. 
 
 Gaston de Nueil felt himself attracted to 
 Mme. de Beaus^ant either through an influ- 
 ence of this description, or else through mere 
 curiosity, the desire to lend an interest to 
 
172 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 his life — in brief, through that conglomera- 
 tion of motives which it is impossible to de- 
 scribe, and for which the word Fatality is 
 usually employed. She surged suddenly be- 
 fore him like a new world — a world where 
 there was much to hope for, and much to 
 fear. He felt how great the contrast must 
 be between her and the people he saw about 
 him. Then, too, she was a woman, and in 
 Bayeux he had met only females. In short, 
 she awoke in his heart the remembrance of 
 younger dreams, and of passions that were 
 sleeping. During the rest of the evening 
 he was absent-minded. He tried to plan 
 some way of meeting her, and failed miser- 
 ably. She had the reputation of being very 
 clever ; and while clever people can seldom 
 resist originality, yet at the same time they 
 are exacting, and hard to hoodwink. The 
 difficult enterprise of pleasing is by them 
 made doubly difficult. The chances of fail- 
 ui'e are as great as the chances of success. 
 Besides, beyond the pride which her position 
 imposed upon her, the viscountess was doubt- 
 less obliged to keep up the dignity of her 
 name. The solitude in which she lived was 
 the least of the barriers about her. It was, 
 therefore, weU-nigh impossible for a stranger, 
 
MADAME DE BEAU8EANT. 173 
 
 however well connected he might be, to be 
 admitted to her house. 
 
 In spite of this, M. de Nueil the next 
 morning walked several times about Cour- 
 celles. A dupe to the illusions of youth, 
 he looked through the cracks in the gates, 
 and over the surrounding walls. The closed 
 blinds interested him even more than those 
 that were open. Vainly he racked his brain 
 in an effort to find some way of being ad- 
 mitted. For several mornings he took the 
 same walk, and each day his thoughts be- 
 came more occupied with the victim to love 
 who was buried there in her solitude. His 
 heart therefore thrilled with hope whenever, 
 in passing along the wall, he happened to 
 hear the heavy tramp of the gardener. 
 
 Naturally he thought of writing ; but what 
 can a man say to a woman whom he does 
 not know, and who does not know him? 
 Besides, he was not sure of himseK, and 
 moreover, like all young men whose illusions 
 have not been dispersed, he preferred death 
 to a contemptuous silence, and shuddered 
 when he thought of the chance his first love- 
 letter would run of being tossed into the 
 fire. He was a prey to a thousand con- 
 flicting ideas. At last, however, by dint of 
 
174 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 conceiving dramas and inventing chimeras, 
 he happened upon one of those lucky strat- 
 agems that are to be met with among the 
 great number on which the imagination has 
 been at work, and which show, even to the 
 most innocent of her sex, how much a man 
 has thought of her. 
 
 It not infrequently occurs that the vaga- 
 ries of society create as many real obstacles 
 between a woman and her lover as the Ori- 
 ental poets have placed in their delicious 
 fictions. In life, then, as in fairy -land, a 
 woman should belong to him who has found 
 a way to approach and deliver her from the 
 languors of her situation. 
 
 Now the humblest wight that ever fell in 
 love with a caliph's daughter was as near to 
 the object of his affection as Gaston was to 
 Mme. de Beaus^ant. 
 
 The viscountess, meanwhile, lived in en- 
 tire ignorance of the plans that were being 
 mapped out around her. M. de Nueil, whose 
 love increased in proportion to the obstacles 
 that he encountered, and who had dowered 
 her with every one of the attractions that 
 distant things invariably possess, concluded 
 at last that he must rely solely on his inspi- 
 ration, and trust everything to the love which 
 
MADAME DE BEAUS^ANT. 175 
 
 glistened in his eyes. Believing also that 
 speech is more eloquent than the most pas- 
 sionate epistle, and speculating, too, on the 
 curiosity which is natural to woman, he went 
 one fine day to M. de Champignelles, and 
 begged him, so soon as an opportunity 
 presented itself, to ask Mme. de Beaus^ant 
 whether she would consent to receive the 
 bearer of an important and delicate commis- 
 sion. In case Mme. de Beausdant refused, 
 he further requested that the marquis would 
 say nothing of the matter to any one. At 
 the same time he urged him to leave nothing 
 unsaid that might influence her decision. 
 Was he not a man of honor? a man inca- 
 pable of an impropriety or even of a breach 
 of good taste ? 
 
 The haughty nobleman, whose little vani- 
 ties were flattered, was completely duped by 
 the diplomacy of love which lends to youth 
 the aplomb and shrewdness of an old ambas- 
 sador. He tried, indeed, to find out what 
 the commission was, but Gaston, who had 
 the best of reasons for holding his tongue, 
 eluded his questions and finally got compli- 
 mented on his discretion. 
 
 Immediately afterwards the marquis hur- 
 ried to Courcelles with all the zeal of a man 
 
176 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 who is anxious to be of service to a pretty 
 woman. In the position in which Mme. 
 Beaus^ant was placed, a message such as 
 his was one quite apt to excite her interest. 
 Therefore, although she did not remember 
 ever to have heard of M. de Nueil, she still 
 saw no reason why she should not receive 
 him, especially after she had made a few 
 prudent inquiries. At first, however, she 
 refused ; then, after discussing with M. de 
 Champignelles the propriety of her so doing, 
 and after questioning him to see whether he 
 knew the object of the visit, she consented. 
 The discussion, joined to the marquis's oblig- 
 atory discretion, had irritated her curiosity. 
 
 When Gaston heard that he could see the 
 viscountess he was at once intoxicated and 
 embarrassed, — intoxicated at the prompt 
 realization of his wish and embarrassed in 
 his attempt to find a climax worthy of his 
 ruse. " Bah ! let me but see her," he kept 
 repeating to himself while he was dressing ; 
 " to see her is everything." It was to his 
 mother-wit that he left the duty of furnish- 
 ing him at the proper time with an expe- 
 dient which would undo the Gordian knot 
 in which he had gotten himself entangled. 
 For Gaston was one of those people who 
 
MADAME DE BEAUS^ANT, 177 
 
 go straight ahead, and at the last moment, 
 when face to face with danger, summon un- 
 expected forces to their assistance. 
 
 Unaware of the fact that youth is a charm 
 and an attraction in itself, he paid, mean- 
 while, particular attention to his toilet. He 
 fancied, as do most young men, that success 
 depends on the order or disorder of a lock 
 of hair. Superior women, however, such as 
 Mme, de Beauseant, never allow themselves 
 to be charmed by graces other than those of 
 the mind and disposition. A strong char- 
 acter flatters their vanity, — it promises 
 much and admits of the exactions of the 
 heart. As for wit, it amuses them ; it replies 
 to the delicacies of their nature; it makes 
 them feel that they have been understood. 
 And after all, what do women want if not to 
 be amused, understood or adored ? 
 
 M. de Nueil had in mind, in person, and 
 in manner, that innocent originality which 
 lends a savor even to the commonplace. He 
 was well-read, clever, and his face was as 
 pleasing as his heart was impressionable. In 
 his eyes there was a passion and a tender- 
 ness which was as sincere as it was natural. 
 The resolution which he came to on entering 
 Courcelles was therefore in harmony with 
 
178 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 the frankness of his character and the ardor 
 of his imagination. But in spite of the in- 
 trepidity of his love he was unable to quell 
 a violent palpitation when a lackey, after 
 asking his name, disappeared, and then, re- 
 turning to usher him in, held a door open 
 and gravely announced him. 
 
 Gaston entered slowly, but with ease, — a 
 thing more difficult in a room where there 
 is one woman than in one where there are 
 twenty. At the angle of the hearth, in 
 which, in spite of the season, a bright fire 
 was burning, he saw a lady, young and per- 
 fectly dressed, sitting in a high-backed arm- 
 chair. She was in the act of putting down 
 on a table near her a book which she had 
 been reading, but having at the same mo- 
 ment turned to look at M. de Nueil, the 
 book slipped and fell to the floor. Without 
 appearing to notice it, she drew back and 
 bowed to the young man, but so slightly 
 that the inclination of her head was barely 
 perceptible. Then, bending forward, she 
 stirred the fire, picked up a glove, which she 
 drew on her left hand, gave a momentary 
 glance in search of the other, and with her 
 right hand, which was pale, transparent and 
 ringless, motioned Gaston to a seat before 
 
MADAME DE BE A USE ANT, 179 
 
 her. When her guest was seated she turned 
 to him with a movement that was delicately 
 interrogatory. All these little things were 
 done in so graceful a manner that Gaston 
 was captivated at once. For that matter, 
 Mme. de Beauseant contrasted so strikingly 
 with the automatons by whom he had been 
 surrounded for the past two months that 
 she seemed the very personification of his 
 dreams. She was fair-skinned and blonde, 
 yet her eyes were dark. Her forehead was 
 that of a fallen angel proud of her fault and 
 careless of pardon ; about it, her luxuriant 
 hair was arranged in such an opulent fashion 
 that it was easy to fancy it surmounted by 
 the ducal crown of Burgundy. In her eyes 
 was the courage of her race, joined to the 
 tenderness of a woman. 
 
 It was little else than an imposing spec- 
 tacle to see, in the great silent room, a wo- 
 man such as she, who was separated from 
 the entire world, — a woman who for three 
 years had lived alone with the memories of 
 brilliant and passionate days that had been 
 filled with festivals and constant homages, 
 but who now was left to the horrors of the 
 uneventful. Neither wife nor mother, cast 
 out by society, deprived of the only heart 
 
180 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 that could make her own beat without 
 shame, unable to turn to any one for the 
 aid that was necessary to her troubled spirit, 
 obliged to rely solely on her own strength 
 and forbidden any other hope than that of 
 death, destined for happiness and yet con- 
 demned to die without meeting it, without 
 giving it, and she a woman ! Ah, it was 
 more than cruel. 
 
 Through Gaston's mind these thoughts 
 passed like a flash. In the presence of the 
 poetry with which she was enveloped he 
 felt not a little ashamed of himself. Over- 
 come by the triple brilliance of beauty, mis- 
 fortune, and nobility, he sat dreaming with 
 eyes wide open, admiring the woman and 
 yet not knowing what to say to her. 
 
 Mme. de Beaus^ant was not altogether dis- 
 pleased by this dumb compliment. She 
 called a smile to her lips and said, " M. de 
 Champignelles has told me that you had 
 kindly consented to be the bearer of a mes- 
 sage. Can it be " — 
 
 On hearing these terrible words Gaston 
 felt the absurdity of his position, and saw 
 too the poor taste and disloyalty of which he 
 had been guilty. He blushed ; his confusion 
 was so great that he almost lost his presence 
 
MADAME DE BEAU 8^ ANT. 181 
 
 of mind ; but suddenly, by the exercise of 
 that force which youth can draw from the 
 knowledge of its faults, he recovered his 
 self-possession, and, interrupting Mme. de 
 Beausdant with a submissive gesture, said 
 to her, " Madam, I do not deserve the hap- 
 piness of being here : I have deceived you. 
 The sentiment that I have obeyed, however 
 great it may be, cannot excuse the miserable 
 subterfuge which I have employed. But if 
 you will allow me to explain " — 
 
 The viscountess gave him one sudden 
 look of contempt, raised her hand to the 
 bell-rope and rang : in a moment a servant 
 appeared ; then, turning with dignity, she 
 said, " Jacques, show this gentleman to the 
 door." 
 
 She rose, bowed, and stooped to pick up 
 her book. Her movements were as chill 
 and mechanical as they had been graceful 
 and indulgent before. M. de NueU rose 
 also, but he remained standing. Noticing 
 this, Mme. de Beaus^ant looked at him 
 again in a way which said more plainly 
 than words. Are you not going ? 
 
 Her eyes were so mocking that Gaston 
 turned white as a sheet. He felt the tears 
 rising, but he forced them back and re- 
 
182 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 turned Mme. de Beauseant's gaze with a 
 look expressive both of pride and resigna- 
 tion. The viscountess had the right to pun- 
 ish him, but did she need to do so ? Then 
 he went out. As he crossed the vestibule, 
 he saw the danger of his position. " If I 
 leave the house," he told himseK, " I can 
 never come back. The viscountess will al- 
 ways think me a fool. It is impossible that 
 she has not already guessed my feelings 
 toward her ; as it is, she is probably sorry 
 now that she dismissed me so abruptly, but 
 there is no way in which she can revoke her 
 decree. It is for me to understand that." 
 
 At this idea, Gaston stopped short, ut- 
 tered an exclamation, turned quickly about, 
 said, " I have forgotten something," and 
 returned to the drawing-room, followed by 
 Jacques, who, full of respect for a baron and 
 the sacred rights of property, was com- 
 pletely deceived by the innocent tone in 
 which the words were spoken. 
 
 Gaston entered without being announced. 
 When the viscountess, thinking doubtless 
 that the intruder was a domestic, raised her 
 eyes, she found M. de Nueil before her. 
 
 " Jacques showed me to the door," he 
 said, smiling, but the smile was such a sad 
 
MADAME DE BEAUSEANT. 183 
 
 one that it took from his words any appear- 
 ance of having been said in jest. 
 
 Mme. de Beaus^ant was disarmed. 
 
 " Sit down, then," she said. 
 
 Gaston grasped a chair with a movement 
 that was little less than avaricious. His 
 eyes were so full of happiness that the vis- 
 countess could not sustain their gaze, and 
 she looked away, inwardly enjoying the pleas- 
 ure of being admired, — a pleasure which in 
 woman is ever renascent. Besides, she had 
 been understood, and where is the woman 
 who is not grateful to him who divines her 
 logical vagaries, and can coordinate their 
 contradictions ? 
 
 " Madam," Gaston murmured, " you know 
 my guilt, but not my crimes. If you knew 
 with what happiness I " — 
 
 " Ah, take care ! " she said, lifting a fin- 
 ger with a warning gesture, while with the 
 other hand she made a movement as though 
 to ring the bell. 
 
 This graceful little threat apparently 
 evoked some memory of happier days, for 
 her face took on an expression of sadness. 
 Gravely, and yet not coldly, she looked at 
 M. de Nueil, and said, with an air of be- 
 ing profoundly impressed with the wisdom 
 
184 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 of her words : " All this is very absurd. 
 There was a time when I had the right to 
 be gay, when I could have laughed with you 
 and received you without fear, but to-day 
 my life is entirely changed. I am not the 
 mistress of my actions : I am obliged to re- 
 flect. To what do I owe your visit ? Is it 
 curiosity ? In that case I pay very dear for 
 a moment's pleasure. Are you already wildly 
 in love with a woman infallibly calumniated 
 and whom you never saw before? If so, 
 your sentiments are due to an error I com- 
 mitted and which chance made public." 
 
 She threw her book aside impatiently. 
 
 " Because I have been weak, does the world 
 suppose that I must be so always ? It is 
 hideous, degrading. Do you come to pity 
 me? You are very young to be able to 
 sympathize ; besides, I prefer contempt to 
 pity. I wish no one's compassion." 
 
 There was a moment of silence. 
 
 "You see," she continued sadly, "what- 
 ever may be the reason of your visit, it is 
 simply an added wound. You are too young 
 to be utterly hard-hearted, and I am sure 
 you see the impropriety of what you have 
 done. I forgive you, and speak of it without 
 resentment. But you will not come back, 
 
MADAME DE BEAUStANT. 185 
 
 will you ? I beg where I could command. 
 If you come again, neither you nor I would 
 be able to prevent the whole town from 
 thinking that you were my lover. You would 
 mark another misfortune on a list already 
 long, and such, I assume, is not your wish." 
 
 " I have been wrong," he answered, " very 
 wrong. I understand thoroughly that I 
 should not have attempted to see you ; and 
 yet my wish to do so was very natural " — 
 
 In words that were more sincere than 
 graphic, he tried to picture the sufferings 
 to which exile had condemned him. He 
 described the condition of a young man 
 to whom love is a necessity and yet who 
 had never known its intoxication. He ex- 
 plained his fault without attempting to jus- 
 tify it. He flattered his hostess in proving 
 to her that she realized the dream of his 
 manhood. Then, in alluding to his morning 
 walks about Courcelles, and the vagabond 
 fancies which had pursued him at the sight 
 of the house which at last he had entered, he 
 managed to arouse that indefinable indul- 
 gence which a woman always finds in her 
 heart for the foUies she inspires. Mme. de 
 Beausdant had been too long deprived of 
 emotions that come of well-turned sincerity 
 
186 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 to be entirely insensible to its pleasures. She 
 could not help looking at the young man 
 and admiring his candor, which worldly wis- 
 dom had not routed, and ambition had not 
 destroyed. In this way, unknown to one an- 
 other, each was making reflections that were 
 most inimical to their peace of mind. 
 
 M. de Nueil recognized in the viscountess 
 one of those rare women who are the victims 
 of their own perfection and inextinguishable 
 tenderness ; in short, one of those women 
 whose beauty is the least of their charms. 
 In him, meanwhile, the viscountess saw a 
 realized ideal, — a man in whom the egotism 
 of fortune and family had not penetrated, 
 and who was unaffected by that personal 
 sentiment which ends by nipping devotion, 
 honor and abnegation in the bud. 
 
 Once started on the broad fields of senti- 
 ment, they went very far in theory, mentally 
 weighing each other as they advanced, and 
 comparing their different impressions. This 
 examination, involuntary on Gaston's part, 
 was premeditated by the viscountess, who, 
 making use of her natural ability, expressed 
 opinions contrary to those she really held, so 
 as to learn those of her guest. She was so 
 bright and graceful, she was so herself, that 
 
MADAME DE BEAUS^ANT. 187 
 
 the young man, struck by some delicious 
 idea which she expressed, exclaimed naively, 
 " Ah, madam, how could a man ever have 
 deserted you ! " 
 
 Mme. de Beaus^ant was struck dumb. 
 Gaston blushed ; he thought he had offended 
 her. But the pleasure she experienced was 
 the first real one that had been accorded to 
 her since the day of her misfortune. The 
 cleverest roue could not have made greater 
 progress than M. de Nueil won with that 
 cry which his heart had dictated. 
 
 Coming as it did from the candor of youth, 
 this verdict acquitted the viscountess in her 
 own eyes ; it condemned the world, accused 
 him who had forsaken her, and justified 
 the solitude in which she languished. The 
 world's absolution, social esteem and friendly 
 sympathy, so long desired and so cruelly re- 
 fused, — in short, her most secret wishes 
 were fulfilled by that one exclamation. At 
 last she was understood ! M. de Nueil had 
 given her the chance to rise superior to her 
 faU. 
 
 She glanced at the clock. 
 
 " Oh, madam ! " Gaston exclaimed, " do 
 not punish me for my thoughtlessness ; if 
 you give me but one evening, do not send 
 me away so soon." 
 
188 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 She smiled at the compliment. 
 
 " But," she said, " as we are not to see 
 each other again, what matters a moment 
 more or less ? If you were to like me it 
 would be a misfortune." 
 
 " A misfortune that has already occurred," 
 he answered sadly. 
 
 " Don't say that," she said. " Were I in 
 any other position, I would be glad to have 
 you come. I will speak plainly to you, and 
 you will see why I cannot, why I should not, 
 see you. I think you are too refined not to 
 feel that were I even suspected of a second 
 fault, I should become, in the eyes of every 
 one, a contemptible and ordinary woman. 
 I would be like any other. On the other 
 hand, a pure and spotless life will heighten 
 my character. I am too proud not to try to 
 live in the midst of society like a being apart, 
 a victim to its laws through my marriage, a 
 victim to man through my affection. If I 
 did not remain faithful to my position, I 
 would deserve all the blame I have received, 
 and I would lose my self-esteem. I have 
 been unable to acquire that social virtue of 
 belonging to a man whom I did not love. 
 In spite of the laws, I have broken the bonds 
 of marriage. It was wrong, it was criminal, 
 
MADAME DE BEAUSEANT. 189 
 
 it was anything you like, but my condition 
 was equivalent to death. I wanted to live. 
 Had I been a mother, perhaps I should have 
 found strength enough to support the tor- 
 tures of my union with a man who was forced 
 upon me. When a girl is but eighteen she 
 hardly knows what she is being forced to do. 
 I have violated the laws of the world : the 
 world has punished me. We have been just 
 to each other. I sought happiness. Is not 
 happiness a law of woman's nature ? I was 
 young, I was beautiful. ... I thought I 
 met some one who was as loving as he ap- 
 peared impassioned. He loved me — for a 
 moment ! " 
 
 She paused. 
 
 " I had thought," she continued, " that a 
 man should never desert a woman in such a 
 situation as was mine, but as I was deserted, 
 I must have ceased to please. Yes, I must 
 have done something, — I must have been 
 too loving, too devoted, or too exacting. Mis- 
 fortune has made it clear to me. After hav- 
 ing been a long time the accuser, I am con- 
 tent to be the criminal. At my own expense, 
 therefore, I have absolved him who I 
 thought had wronged me. I was not adroit 
 enough to preserve his affection, and fate has 
 
190 AFTER-DINNER STORIES, 
 
 punished me for my awkwardness. My suf- 
 ferings have taught me not to expose myself 
 again. I do not understand how it is that I 
 am still alive after having suffered as I did. 
 Indeed, it has taken me three years to gain 
 strength enough to speak of it at all. Agony 
 usually ends with death, and mine, mine was 
 an agony without the tomb for climax. Ah, 
 how I suffered ! " 
 
 The viscountess raised her great eyes to 
 the cornice, to which she doubtless confided 
 all that she could not repeat to a stranger. 
 A cornice is the sweetest, the most submis- 
 sive, the most indulgent confidant that a 
 woman can find when she does not dare to 
 look her interlocutor in the face. The cor- 
 nice of a boudoir is an institution. It is a 
 confessional, minus the priest. At this mo- 
 ment Mme. de Beauseant was both eloquent 
 and beautiful, one might even say flirtatious, 
 were not the word too strong. In accord- 
 ing justice to herself, in throwing the high- 
 est barriers between herself and love, she 
 stimulated all the sentiments of man, and 
 the further away she placed the goal, the 
 more clearly did she let its value be seen. 
 At last she lowered her eyes to Gaston, and 
 said calmly, — 
 
MADAME DE BEAUS^ANT. 191 
 
 " Acknowledge that it is my duty to re- 
 main in solitude." 
 
 M. de Nueil felt a violent desire to throw 
 himself at the feet of this woman, sublime 
 in her folly and good-sense, but the dread 
 of appearing ridiculous held him back. He 
 suppressed, therefore, both his exaltation and 
 his thoughts ; he feared that he would not be 
 able to express himself properly, and, at the 
 same time, the dread of an abrupt refusal 
 or a derisive smile combined to quell his 
 ardor. The reaction of the sentiments which 
 he was obliged to repel at the very moment 
 that they sprang into being, produced that 
 sensation of restless pain which visits the 
 timid and the ambitious alike. Neverthe- 
 less he felt constrained to speak. " Permit 
 me, madam," — and his voice trembled as he 
 spoke, — " permit me to tell you how I have 
 been impressed and emotionalized by your 
 words. You have shown me new horizons : 
 if I have a desire it is to make you forget 
 your sorrows, to efface with my love the 
 wounds you have received from others. This 
 effusion of mine is sudden, I admit : to-day 
 there is nothing to justify it, and I should 
 perhaps " — 
 
 " Not another word," said Mme. de Beau- 
 
192 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 s6ant ; " we have both gone too far. I have 
 tried to explain as best I might why it is 
 that I cannot see you, but I have not sought 
 for any compliments or demonstrations. An 
 effort of that kind would be becoming only 
 in a woman who is happy. Believe me now, 
 it is best that we should remain strangers 
 to one another. Later you will understand 
 that bonds which some day must be sun- 
 dered should never be woven." 
 
 She sighed, and for a moment slightly 
 contracted her forehead. 
 
 " Think how a woman must suffer," she 
 continued, "at being unable to follow the 
 man whom she loves in each of the phases 
 of his life ; her grief must even affect him, 
 and the pain is increased." 
 
 There was a moment of silence, after 
 which she said, with a smile, as she rose to 
 dismiss her guest : " In coming to see me 
 you hardly expected to hear a sermon, did 
 you ? " At that moment Gaston felt that 
 this extraordinary woman was further from 
 him than ever before. Attributing the 
 charm which she had exerted to a feminine 
 desire to make display of her wit, he bowed 
 coldly and withdrew. 
 
 On his way home the baron tried to come 
 
MADAME DE BEAUB^ANT. 193 
 
 to some decision, but he had seen her as- 
 sume so many attitudes that it was impos- 
 sible for him to reach any definite conclu- 
 sion. With the intonations of her voice 
 still ringing in his ears, he mentally recalled 
 her gestures, the movements of her head 
 and the play of her eyes. Through the dark- 
 ness her beauty appeared more luminous. 
 The impressions which she had created re- 
 turned with fresher force, and disclosed 
 graces of person and of mind which at first 
 had passed unperceived. Gradually he fell 
 into one of those vagabond meditations dur- 
 ing which the most lucid thoughts struggle 
 and break against each other and affect the 
 mind with a momentary delirium. One 
 must be young to reveal and understand the 
 secrets of dithyrambs like these, in which 
 the heart, attacked by the soundest and most 
 fantastic thoughts, yields to the last that 
 strikes, to hope or to despair according to 
 the will of an unknown power. At the age 
 of twenty-three a man is almost always ruled 
 by a sentiment of modesty, he is agitated by 
 girlish timidities, he is afraid that he will 
 not be able to express his love in the way 
 he would like, he sees only the difficulties, 
 he is almost sure that he will not please, he 
 
 13 
 
194 AFTEB-DINNEE STORIES. 
 
 would be bolder were he not so much in 
 love, and the greater his love the less he 
 thinks it will be returned. Then, too, he 
 gives himself up in imagination so entirely 
 to his happiness that he fears he is unable 
 to offer any in exchange. If his idol should 
 chance to be imposing, his worship is dumb 
 and hidden ; if his love is not divined, it 
 dies. Not infrequently a precocious passion 
 such as this, when buried in a young heart, 
 rests there robed in brilliant illusions. 
 Every man has some of these virgin mem- 
 ories which with time reawake more al- 
 luring than before, bringing with them the 
 image of unalloyed happiness, — memories 
 that are like children that have died, and of 
 whom their parents remember nothing but 
 their smiles. 
 
 M. de Nueil returned home a prey to 
 extreme resolutions. Mme. de Beaus^ant 
 had already become to him a necessary con- 
 dition of existence. He preferred death to 
 life without her. Still sufficiently youthful 
 to be affected by the fascinations which the 
 perfect woman exerts over unworn and pas- 
 sionate natures, he passed one of those 
 nights during which young men oscillate 
 between happiness and suicide, and after 
 
MADAME DE BEAU SE ANT. 196 
 
 which the greatest misfortune is to awake 
 resigned. Too sincerely in love to be able 
 to sleep, M. de Nueil devoted the early- 
 hours to the writing of letters. None of 
 them satisfied him, and he burned them all. 
 
 The next day, — or rather the next even- 
 ing, for he was afraid the viscountess would 
 see him, — he took a turn or two about 
 Courcelles. The sentiment to which he was 
 then obedient belonged to a category so 
 mysterious that one must needs be young or 
 in a similar situation to understand its joys 
 and vagaries, none of which, it may be noted, 
 are ever appreciated by those people who are 
 so happily constituted that they see in life 
 nothing but the positive. 
 
 After many hesitations, Gaston at last 
 succeeded in writing the following letter, 
 which may stand as a model of the phrase- 
 ology affected by those in love and may at 
 the same time be compared to the sketches 
 which children make for their parents, — 
 presents admittedly detestable to every one 
 except to those who receive them : — 
 
 " Madam, — The influence which you ex- 
 ercise over me both in mind and body is so 
 great that to-day my destiny depends en- 
 tirely upon you. Do not throw my letter 
 
196 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 into the fire. Do me at least the favor to 
 read it. Perhaps you will forgive what I 
 have written, when you notice that it is a 
 declaration which is neither commonplace 
 nor interested, but simply the expression of 
 a fact. Perhaps, too, you may be touched 
 by the modesty of my aspirations, by the 
 resignation which has come of the knowl- 
 edge of my inferiority, and by the effect 
 which your determination will have on my 
 life. I am irresistibly attracted to you by 
 the pleasure which you give me, and I think 
 of you with all of that egotism which draws 
 us there, where, for us, is the vital spark. 
 I do not think myself worthy of you. It is 
 impossible for one young, ignorant and 
 timid as am I, to bring to you the thou- 
 sandth part of the happiness which I inhale 
 in seeing you and hearing your voice. To 
 me you are the one woman in the world. 
 As I cannot endure life without you, I have 
 decided to leave France and hazard my ex- 
 istence in some impossible enterprise in 
 Africa or the East, — for to combat a limit- 
 less love do I not need the infinite ? But if 
 you will give me the hope, not that you will 
 be mine, but that you will give me your 
 friendship, I will not go. Permit me, once 
 
MADAME DE BEAU Sk ANT. 197 
 
 in a while, to pass with you a few hours like 
 those which I obtained by a trick. This 
 slight happiness (whose delights you may 
 curtail and entirely prohibit at the first 
 word that offends you) shall be sufficient 
 for me. Do I presume too much on your 
 generosity in asking you to enter into a re- 
 lationship of this kind, in which the profits 
 will be mine alone? You can readily show 
 the world, to which you sacrifice so much, 
 that I am nothing to you. You are clever, 
 you are proud ; what have you to fear ? 
 And now I would like to pour my whole 
 soul out to you, so as to show that in mak- 
 ing this request T have no ulterior motive. 
 I would not have told you that my love was 
 limitless, had I the hope of making you 
 share the profundity of the sentiment. No : 
 provided I may be with you, I will be what 
 you wish me to be. If you refuse, — if 
 you can refuse, — I will say nothing, I will 
 go away. If, later, a woman other than 
 yourself should enter my life, you will have 
 been right, but if I die faithful to my love 
 perhaps you will have some regrets. The 
 hope of causing you a regret will soften my 
 own sorrow : it will be my one revenge." 
 To thoroughly understand the tortures 
 
198 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 which Gaston de Nueil underwent when he 
 felt that his first ultimatum was in the hands 
 of Mme. de Beaus^ant, it is necessary to be 
 familiar with all the wonderful misfortunes 
 of youth, and to have soared on each of the 
 white-winged chimeras that offer themselves 
 to lurid imaginations. In fancy he saw the 
 viscountess, indifferent, and jesting at love 
 like one who no longer believes in it. He 
 wished he had his letter back : he thought it 
 absurd. A thousand and one ideas came to 
 him which were infinitely better and which 
 seemed far more touching than the chill 
 phrases that he Jiad sent. They were dam- 
 nable phrases, he told himself, — damnable, 
 sophistical and pretentious, but happily they 
 were badly punctuated and the letter was 
 crossed. 
 
 He tried not to think, not to feel, but he 
 both thought and felt, and he suffered be- 
 sides. Had he been thirty he would have 
 gotten drunk, but in his innocence he was 
 unacquainted either with opium or the re- 
 sources of extreme civilization. In Bayeux 
 he had none of those good friends who know 
 so well how to say : " Poete, non dolet ! " 
 while offering you a bottle of champagne or 
 leading you off to an orgy that will lull the 
 torments of uncertainty. 
 
MADAME DE BEAU8EANT. 199 
 
 At last, however, Jacques brought him a 
 letter sealed with the arms of Burgundy, 
 written on vellum note paper and scented 
 like a pretty woman. 
 
 At once he turned the key in the door, in 
 order, undisturbed, to read and reread the 
 letter. 
 
 It ran as follows : — 
 
 "You have punished me very severely, 
 sir, both for the effort I made to take all 
 the harshness from my refusal and for the 
 charm which intelligence invariably exerts 
 upon me. I had confidence in the nobility 
 of youth and you have deceived me. Yet I 
 spoke to you, if not plainly, — which would 
 have been ridiculous, — at least frankly, and 
 explained to you my situation in such wise 
 that you might understand my indifference. 
 The more I have been interested in you, 
 the more you have made me suffer. I am 
 naturally tender-hearted, but circumstances 
 have made me cruel. Another woman would 
 have burned your letter without reading it. 
 I, I have read it, and I answer it. My ar- 
 gmnents will prove to you that if I am not 
 insensible to th^ sentiment I have involun- 
 tarily inspired, I am yet far from shaiing it, 
 and my conduct will be an even greater evi- 
 
200 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 dence of my sincerity. Moreover, I wish to 
 exercise the authority which you have given 
 me over your life, and desire to exert it now 
 in your own behalf. 
 
 " I shall soon be thirty years old, while 
 you are barely twenty-two. You yourself do 
 not know what your thoughts wiU be when 
 you reach my age. The vows you make so 
 readily to-day will seem very heavy to you 
 then. I am willing to believe that to-day 
 you would give me your whole life without 
 a regret, and that you would even consent 
 to die for an ephemeral pleasure ; but when 
 you are thirty experience will have taught 
 you the futility of sacrifices, and I would be 
 deeply humiliated were I obliged to accept 
 them. Some day, everything, even to Nature 
 herself, will command you to leave me, and 
 I have told you that I prefer death to deser- 
 tion. Misfortune, as you see, has made me 
 calculate. I argue, I am without passion. 
 You force me to tell you that I do not, that 
 I ought not, that I cannot, that I will not 
 love you. I have long since passed that 
 moment in the life of woman when she yields 
 to the unreasoned dictates of her heart, and 
 I can no longer be the one you seek. My 
 consolations are those that come from God, 
 
MADAME DE BEAU 8^ ANT. 201 
 
 and not from man. Besides, I read too 
 clearly by the light of a deceived affection to 
 accept the friendship which you offer and de- 
 mand. It is but an effect of instinct, and I 
 forgive your childish ruse the more readily as 
 I know you are not its accomplice. In the 
 name of your transient love, for your own 
 sake and for my peace of mind, I order you 
 to remain in your country and not to haz- 
 ard an honorable career for an illusion that 
 will necessarily disappear. Later, when, in 
 the accomplishment of your true destiny, you 
 have developed the sentiments that manhood 
 awaits, you will appreciate this answer, which 
 you perhaps now think imkind. You will 
 then be glad to meet an old woman whose 
 friendship will be pleasant to you : she will 
 not have been subjected to the vicissitudes 
 of passion or the disenchantments of life ; in 
 short, refined ideas and religious thoughts wiU 
 have kept her pure and unblemished. And 
 now, farewell : obey me with the knowledge 
 that your successes will bring pleasure to 
 my solitude, and think of me as one thinks 
 of the absent." 
 
 After reading the letter, Gaston de Nueil 
 wrote these words : — 
 
 " Madam, — If I ceased to love you and 
 
202 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 accepted the chances of mediocrity that you 
 offer, you must acknowledge that I would 
 deserve my fate. No, I will not obey you, 
 and I swear to be faithful to you unto death. 
 Oh, take my life, unless it be that you fear 
 to bring a remorse into your own." 
 
 When M. de Nueil's servant returned 
 from Courcelles, his master said to him: 
 " To whom did you give my letter ? " 
 
 " To her ladyship herself, sir ; she was in 
 a carriage and " — 
 
 " Coming in town ? " 
 
 " I do not think so, sir ; the carriage had 
 post-horses." 
 
 " She is going away, then? " 
 
 « Yes, sir." 
 
 Gaston at once prepared to follow her. 
 Unaware that she was being accompanied, 
 the viscountess led him as far as Geneva, 
 Among the thousand subjects of reflection 
 that beset him on the way, this one : Why 
 did she go? — occupied him with peculiar 
 insistence and served as a text for a multi- 
 tude of suppositions, of which, however, he 
 naturally chose the most flattering, to wit : 
 If she is going to care for me, there can 
 be no doubt that she prefers Switzerland, 
 where no one knows us, to France, where 
 
MADAME DE BEAU S^ ANT. 203 
 
 she would meet many people inclined to find 
 fault. 
 
 There are men who are so passionate that 
 they have no time to appreciate a woman's 
 tact. Gaston was not one of them. But 
 then there is nothing to prove that his sup- 
 position was correct. 
 
 The viscountess took a villa on the lake. 
 When she was safely installed, Gaston pre- 
 sented himself one fine evening just after 
 sunset. Jacques, a thoroughly aristocratic 
 servant, was not at all surprised to see him, 
 and announced him with the air of a valet 
 accustomed to understand everything. On 
 hearing the name and on seeing the young 
 man, Mme. de Beaus^ant let the book she 
 held fall from her. Her surprise gave Gas- 
 ton an opportunity to approach, and murmur 
 in a voice that seemed like music : " What 
 a pleasure it was to sit behind the very 
 horses that brought you here ! " 
 
 To be obeyed in one's secret wishes ! 
 Where is the woman who is insensible to 
 such flattery ? An Italian, one of those di- 
 vine creatures whose heart is the antithesis 
 of the Parisians, — in a word, a woman who 
 would be considered utterly immoral on this 
 side of the Alps, said, after reading some 
 
204 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 French novels, " I don't see why these poor 
 lovers spend so much time in arranging a 
 matter that might easily be settled in an 
 afternoon." May not the writer take the 
 hint? Neither the reader nor the subject 
 would lose by it. There might be a few 
 charming scenes to describe, the delays 
 which Mme. de Beaus^ant exacted either 
 that she might succumb with greater grace 
 or else that she might prolong that power 
 whose future diminution a woman instinc- 
 tively divines ; but these little protocols of 
 the boudoir — less numerous than those of 
 the London Conference — are too unimpor- 
 tant in a history of true love to be worth 
 mentioning. 
 
 For three years Mme. de Beaus^ant and 
 M. de Nueil lived in the villa on the lake. 
 They lived alone, seeing no one, knowing no 
 one, in fact happy as we all dream of being. 
 The villa, which was circled by large, shaded 
 balconies and furnished with white lounges, 
 dumb carpets, and fresh hangings, was the 
 perfection of a lovers' nest. From each win- 
 dow the lake looked different, afar were the 
 mountains with their fantastic peaks robed 
 in fugitive colors, above was a fair sky, 
 while before them was a wide stretch of 
 
MADAME DE BEAU 8^ ANT. 205 
 
 changing and capricious blue. Nature had 
 tried her best for them, and had succeeded. 
 
 But at last important matters necessitated 
 M. de Nueil's return to France. His father 
 and brother were dead, and, in consequence, 
 he was obliged to leave Geneva. Mme. de 
 Beaus^ant accompanied him, and purchased 
 an estate near Manerville. Here they took 
 up their residence. In return for complete 
 liberty, M. de Nueil relinquished to his 
 mother the income arising from the prop- 
 erty he had inherited. Mme. de Beaus^- 
 ant's estate was near a small town, in one 
 of the most charming situations that the 
 valley of Ange offered. Between the world 
 and themselves they there erected insur- 
 mountable barriers, and lived over again the 
 happy days that they had passed in Swit- 
 zerland. For nine whole years they enjoyed 
 a happiness which it is needless to describe, 
 particularly as the climax will probably dis- 
 close its delights to those able to appre- 
 ciate the infinite variations of poetry and 
 prayer. 
 
 Meanwhile Mme. de Beausdant's husband 
 was enjoying the most perfect health. There 
 is no such incentive to keep on living as the 
 knowledge that our death will make others 
 
206 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 happy. The continued existence of the Mar- 
 quis de Beaus^ant (his father and brother 
 had died) was therefore an obstacle to his 
 wife's union with M. de Nueil. Conse- 
 quently, after nine years of unalloyed happi- 
 ness, the two lovers were in as false a posi- 
 tion as that in which they found themselves 
 at the beginning of their adventure. This 
 was unfortunate ; more so, in fact, than it is 
 possible to explain with entire exactness, 
 though its terms can be stated with mathe- 
 matical precision. 
 
 The Comtesse de Nueil, Gaston's mother, 
 had never consented to see Mme. de Beau- 
 s^ant. She was a strait - laced lady, who 
 had never caused her husband the slightest 
 uneasiness. Mme. de Beauseant therefore 
 readily understood that this virtuous dow- 
 ager was her enemy, and one who would try 
 to drag Gaston out of the immoral and irre- 
 ligious life that he was leading. The mar- 
 chioness, it is true, might have sold her 
 estate and gone back to Geneva. But such 
 a proceeding would have argued a distrust 
 of M. de Nueil, and of that she was incapa- 
 ble. Besides, he had taken a great fancy to 
 Valleroy, and was much occupied in culti- 
 vating and improving it. Meanwhile, the 
 
MADAME DE BEAUS^ANT. 207 
 
 country had been invaded by a Demoiselle 
 de La Kodiere, a young lady who was 
 twenty-two years old and rich to the ex- 
 tent of forty thousand francs per annum. 
 Gaston met this heiress at Manerville every 
 time it was his duty to go there. These 
 people being thus placed like the figures in 
 an equation, the following letter which Gas- 
 ton received one morning will explain the 
 hideous problem which, for the past month, 
 Mme. de Beaus^ant had been trying to 
 solve : — 
 
 " To write to you, dearest, when we live 
 hand in hand, when nothing separates us, 
 when our caresses are a language and our 
 words caresses, will perhaps seem to you ab- 
 surd. Yet that it is not. There are certain 
 things that a woman cannot say in the pres- 
 ence of him whom she loves ; the mere 
 thought of them takes her voice from her 
 and sends the blood to her heart. She is then 
 weak and speechless. To feel in such a way 
 when I am with you makes me suffer, and 
 yet I suffer often. I feel that to you I 
 should be truth itself, that I should conceal 
 none of my thoughts, even the most fugitive. 
 With you I should never have cause for 
 preoccupation. I must therefore tell you 
 
208 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 of my agony, for agony it is. Listen to 
 me, and do not interrupt me with that im- 
 pertinent ' There, there ' of yours, which I 
 love because I love everything you do. Lis- 
 ten to me, and first let me tell you that you 
 have banished the sorrows beneath whose 
 weight I was once about to succumb. With 
 you alone have I known what love meant. 
 It took the candor of your fair youth and 
 the purity of your great nature to satisfy 
 the exactions of an exacting woman. Often 
 I have wept for joy in thinking that dur- 
 ing nine long swift years my jealousy had 
 not been once aroused. I have had every 
 flower of your heart and every thought. 
 My happiness has been unbounded. Our 
 sky has been ever unclouded. We have 
 never known what a sacrifice was ; we have 
 always obeyed the dictates and the inspira- 
 tions of united hearts. 
 
 " The tears that blot this page will tell my 
 gratitude for me. And still this very hap- 
 piness has initiated me to a torture far more 
 terrible than that of desertion. Dear, a 
 woman's heart has many a depth ; it was 
 but to-day I saw the profundities of my 
 own and learned the vastitude of love. The 
 greatest misfortunes that can come to a wo- 
 
MADAME DE BEAU 8E ANT. 209 
 
 man seem trifles when compared to the 
 misery of the man she loves ; and if she is 
 the cause of his misery, is not the knowledge 
 sufficient to kill her? It is this idea that 
 is oppressing me, but with it comes another 
 that is even worse, one that degrades love 
 and makes of it a humiliation that tarnishes 
 life forever. You are thirty years old and 
 I am forty. The difference between our 
 ages frightens me. The sacrifice that you 
 made in renouncing the world for me must 
 have weighed heavily on you. You have 
 thought, perhaps, of your social destiny, of 
 the marriage which would necessarily in- 
 crease your fortune, which would give you 
 an heir and enable you to return to the 
 world and occupy the position which belongs 
 to you. But these thoughts you have re- 
 pressed. You have wished to remain faith- 
 ful to the vows that bind us only in the sight 
 of God. You have remembered my past 
 unhappiness, and the knowledge of it has 
 served as a protection to me; but to owe 
 your love to pity ! That thought is more 
 horrible than the idea that I have interfered 
 with your career. They who stab their mis- 
 tresses are charitable indeed when they kiU 
 •them, happy, innocent, and in the glory of 
 
 14 
 
210 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 their illusions. Yes, death is preferable to 
 the train of thought that for some days past 
 has been secretly saddening my life. 
 
 " When you asked me yesterday what the 
 matter was, your sweet voice made me shud- 
 der : I fancied you had read my thoughts, 
 as you have often done before, and I 
 awaited your confidences, expecting to find 
 my presentiments justified and to learn that 
 you had been thinking of your future. I 
 remembered then certain little attentions 
 which you have always paid me, but in 
 which of late there has seemed to be some- 
 thing of that affectation by which men be- 
 tray their weariness. At that moment I 
 felt that my happiness had cost me dear, 
 for in your eyes I read these words : ' Sooner 
 or later I shall have to abandon Claire ; why 
 not at once ? ' I left you to hide my tears, 
 the first I have hidden from you, the first 
 real ones that have come to me in ten years. 
 And yet I did not accuse you. Yes, you 
 are right. It would be wrong of me to 
 seek to burden an existence which without 
 me would be useful and brilliant. . . . But 
 if I am mistaken, if your mood was one of 
 melancholy and not of boredom, tell me, 
 tell me so ; do not leave me in this uncer- 
 
MADAME DE BEAU si ANT. 211 
 
 tainty ; punish me if you will, but let me 
 feel that your love is unchanged. Since 
 your mother came, since you met Mile, de 
 La Rodidre, I am a prey to doubts that dis- 
 honor us. Make me suffer then if need be, 
 but do not deceive me. I must know all ; 
 what your mother thinks and what you 
 think yourself. If you have hesitated, I 
 give you back your freedom. I will hide 
 my grief from you, I will not even weep 
 before you, but I will never see you again. 
 Oh, I must stop, my heart is breaking. . . . 
 For the last few moments I have been stu- 
 pefied with grief, but now it is over. I 
 have no feeling against you. You are kind, 
 you are upright, you would neither wound 
 nor deceive me, I am sure, and I know that 
 you will tell me the truth, however cruel the 
 truth may be. Do you want me to encour- 
 age you to make your confession ? Well 
 then, sweetheart, I shall be consoled with a 
 woman's thought. I know that you will 
 never love any one as you have loved me. 
 Your youth has been mine. No one can 
 take it from me. I can have no rival. My 
 souvenirs will be unembittered. But now 
 that you are a man you will calculate. You 
 will have preoccupations and annoyances 
 
212 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 and ambitions that will deprive her of that 
 constant smile which your lips have always 
 had for me. Your voice, which to me has 
 been ever soft, will at times be stern. Then, 
 as it is impossible for any one to love you as 
 I do, you will never care for her as you have 
 cared for me. She will be incapable of that 
 continual study that I have made of your 
 happiness. The man, the heart, the mind 
 that I have known, will exist no longer. I 
 will bury them in my memory to delight in 
 them still, and live over again that fair past 
 which is unknown to every one save our- 
 selves. 
 
 " And now, if it is possible that you have 
 not had the slightest thought of freedom, if 
 my love is not a burden, if my fears are 
 chimerical, if I am always your Eve, the 
 only woman in the world, then, when you 
 have read this letter, come, fly to me. In 
 one instant I will love you, I think, more 
 than I have done in these nine years. After 
 having endured these useless tortures, each 
 day added to our love — aye, a single day — 
 will be a life of happiness. Speak, therefore ; 
 be frank ; to deceive me would be a crime. 
 Speak ; do you wish your freedom ? Have 
 you thought about the future? Have you 
 
MADAME DE BEAU 8^ ANT. 213 
 
 a regret? I? I cause you a regret? I 
 would die first. As I have told you, my 
 love is so great that I prefer your happiness 
 to my own, your life to mine. Put aside, if 
 you can, the memory of nine years of hap- 
 piness, that they may not influence your 
 decision, but speak. I wiU be as submissive 
 to you as to God, — to the one consoler I 
 shall have if you forsake me." 
 
 When Mme. de Beausdant knew that her 
 letter had been delivered, she sank into a 
 despondent meditation. Assuredly she suf- 
 fered pangs whose intensity is not always 
 proportioned to woman's strength, and yet 
 which women alone endure. While she 
 awaited her fate, M. de Nueil found him- 
 self extremely embarrassed. He had almost 
 yielded to his mother's instigations and to 
 the attractions of Mile, de La Rodidre, an 
 insignificant little thing with hardly a word 
 to say for herself, but whose forty thousand 
 a year spoke for her. 
 
 Mme. de Nueil, seconded by her motherly 
 affection, was doing her best to lead her son 
 to virtue. She pointed out how flattering 
 it was for him to be preferred by a young 
 lady who had numberless good offers ; she 
 told him it was high time he thought of set- 
 
214 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 tling down, and that the opportunity he then 
 had to do so might never occur again. Some 
 day or other he would have eighty thousand 
 francs a year, and wealth was an immense 
 consolation. If Mme. de Beaus^ant loved 
 Mm for himself, she ought to be the first to 
 recommend the marriage. In a word, the 
 good lady left no stone unturned in her ef- 
 fort to influence his decision. As it was, she 
 had made him hesitate. Mme. de Beaus^- 
 ant's letter found him struggling with the 
 seductions of an ordered and proper life. 
 But the letter decided the combat. He de- 
 termined to leave the marchioness and get 
 married. 
 
 " I must show myself a man," he said. 
 
 But at once he foresaw the misery that his 
 resolution would cause. His vanity, his ten- 
 derness even, increased its proportions. He 
 felt sincerely compassionate. The blow 
 seemed so abrupt that he thought it both 
 necessary and charitable to lessen its sever- 
 ity. Could he but tranquilize Mme. de 
 Beaus^ant, he thought that by accustoming 
 her to the idea of a necessary separation, by 
 bringing Mile, de La Rodiere, like a phan- 
 tom, between them, and by appearing to sacri- 
 fice the young lady at first in order to have 
 
MADAME DE BEAUS^ANT. 215 
 
 her forced upon him later, that little by lit- 
 tle she herself would insist upon the mar- 
 riage. He even went so far as to count upon 
 her pride, and the nobility of her nature. 
 To lull her suspicions he determined to an- 
 swer her letter. 
 
 But to a woman whose intuition went 
 hand in hand with the most delicate percep- 
 tions, a letter was little else than a decree. 
 Therefore, when Jacques brought her a note 
 folded in the shape of a triangle, the poor 
 woman trembled like a bird caught in a trap. 
 A chill descended into her being, and en- 
 veloped her with a shroud of ice. If he did 
 not throw himself weeping at her feet, all 
 was at an end. And yet in the heart of a 
 woman that loves there is such a wealth of 
 hope ! It takes many a dagger-thrust to 
 kiU them; they love and bleed to the very 
 last. 
 
 " Does madam wish anything ? " Jacques 
 asked softly as he withdrew. 
 
 " No," she answered. " Poor fellow," she 
 thought as she brushed away a tear, " he un- 
 derstands ; he, a servant ! " 
 
 She read : " My dear one, — You have 
 been indulging your fancy " — On seeing 
 these words her sight became as though veiled 
 
216 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 by a mist. A secret voice cried to her : " He 
 lies." Then, glancing down and over the first 
 page with that lucid avidity which passion 
 communicates, she read at the bottom: 
 "Nothing is decided." Turning the page 
 with convulsive vivacity, in an instant she 
 understood the spirit that had dictated the 
 labored phrases which followed, phrases in 
 which there was no trace nor sign of the im- 
 petuosity of love ; and rumpling the letter 
 she tore it, rolled it, bit it, threw it into the 
 fire and cried aloud : " The coward ! he em- 
 braced me when he no longer loved me ! " 
 Then, half dead, she flung herself on a 
 lounge. 
 
 M. de Nueil, after writing the letter, went 
 out. When he returned Jacques met him at 
 the door. *' Here is a letter, sir," he said ; 
 " her ladyship has left the Chateau." 
 
 Somewhat astonished, M. de Nueil broke 
 the seal, and read : — 
 
 " Madam, — If I ceased to love you, and 
 accepted the chances of mediocrity that you 
 offer, you must acknowledge that I would 
 deserve my fate. No, I will not obey you, 
 and I swear to be faithful to you unto death. 
 Oh, take my life, unless it be that you fear 
 to bring a remorse into your own." 
 
MADAME DE BEAUStANT. 217 
 
 It was the letter whicli he had sent to 
 Mme. de Beausdant when she was setting 
 out for Geneva. Across it Clara of Bur- 
 gundy had written : " Sir, you are free." 
 
 M. de Nueil went to ManerviUe, where his 
 mother was. Twenty days later he married 
 Mile. Stephanie de La Rodidre. 
 
 If this story were to end here, the reader 
 might complain that he had been cheated. 
 But the recital of the climax, which, unfor- 
 tunately, is true, joined to the memories of 
 those who have loved and lost, may perhaps 
 serve to shield it from criticism. 
 
 After her rupture with M. de Nueil, Mme. 
 de Beauseant continued to live in the ChSr- 
 teau of Valleroy. From a multitude of rea- 
 sons which are best left buried in her heart, 
 but of which the reader may choose any one 
 he prefers, she elected to remain there after 
 M. de Nueil's marriage. Such was her seclu- 
 sion that, save Jacques and her maid, none 
 of her servants ever saw her. She exacted 
 a silence that was absolute, and went out, if 
 at aU, only to the chapel, where a priest held 
 mass for her. 
 
 A few days after his marriage, M. de 
 Nueil fell into a sort of conjugal apathy 
 which was as indicative of contentment as of 
 dissatisfaction. 
 
218 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 His mother said to every one : " My son is 
 perfectly happy." 
 
 Mme. Gaston de Nueil, like a good many 
 other young women, was a trifle dull, but 
 sweet and patient. Her husband was very 
 kind to her, yet a month or two after leav- 
 ing the marchioness he became dreamy and 
 thoughtful. He had always been that way, 
 his mother said. 
 
 After seven months of lukewarm delight 
 there occurred certain incidents which, while 
 apparently unimportant, were yet evidences 
 of such developments of thought that they 
 may be merely mentioned and left to the in- 
 terpretations which different readers may 
 care to give to them. 
 
 One day, when M. de Nueil had been out 
 hunting, he came back by way of Yalleroy, 
 sent for Jacques, and when he came, asked : 
 " Is the marchioness still fond of game ? " 
 
 On Jacques' affirmative answer, Gaston 
 offered him a handsome sum of money and 
 several special arguments, for the purpose of 
 obtaining from him the easy service of re- 
 serving for the marchioness any game that 
 he (Gaston) might bring. It seemed to 
 Jacques to be a very unimportant matter 
 whether the partridge which his mistress ate 
 
MADAME DE BEAU SEAN T. 219 
 
 was killed by her keeper or by M. de Nueil, 
 especially as the latter did not wish her to 
 know by whom it was shot, and for several 
 days he wiUingly assisted in the innocent 
 deceit. M. de Nueil started out with his 
 gun every morning, and only returned in 
 time for dinner, with an empty bag. 
 
 In this way a week passed. Gaston grew 
 bold enough to write a long letter to the 
 marchioness, which he caused to be delivered 
 to her. It was returned unopened. When 
 the letter was brought back to him it was 
 nearly night. Suddenly the count rushed 
 out of the room where he had appeared to 
 be listening to a caprice of Harold's that 
 his wife was murdering on the piano, and 
 ran to Valleroy with the rapidity of a man 
 who is flying to a rendezvous. He entered 
 the park, walked slowly through the alleys, 
 stopping now and then as though he were 
 trying to hush the beatings of his heart; 
 then, having reached the chateau, he listened 
 to the sounds and felt sure that the servants 
 were all at table. He entered, and went di- 
 rectly to Mme. de Beaus^ant's apartment. 
 The marchioness never left her bedroom, 
 and he was able to reach the door without 
 having been heard. There, by the light of 
 
220 AFTER-DINNER STORIES. 
 
 two candles, he saw the marchioness, thin 
 and pale, sitting in a great chair, her head 
 bowed, her hands drooping, and her eyes lost 
 in contemplation. It was grief in its most 
 complete expression. In her attitude there 
 was a suggestion of some vague hope, but 
 who shall say whether Clara of Burgundy 
 was looking into the past or toward the 
 tomb ? It may be that M. de Nueil's tears 
 glistened in the shadows, it may be that his 
 breath came quicker, it may be that involun- 
 tarily he trembled, or perhaps his presence 
 was impossible without the phenomenon of 
 intersusception which is at once the glory, 
 the charm and the proof of true love. At 
 any rate, Mme. de Beaus^ant slowly turned 
 her head to the door and saw her former 
 lover. The count then advanced a step or 
 two. 
 
 " If you approach me, sir," the marchion- 
 ess cried, " I will throw myself from that 
 window." She turned, caught the sash, 
 opened it, and — with a foot on the sill, a 
 hand on the casement, and her head turned 
 to Gaston — " Leave me," she cried, " or I 
 will throw myself out." 
 
 At this terrible threat, M. de Nueil, hear- 
 ing the servants' voices, ran off like a thief 
 in the night. 
 
MADAME DE BEAU8£ANT. ?21 
 
 On his return home he wrote a short note, 
 whiiih he gave to his valet, telling him to 
 take it to Mme. de Beauseant, and enjoining 
 him to let the marchioness understand that 
 it concerned a matter of life and death. 
 When the messenger had gone, M. de Nueil 
 reentered the sitting-room where his wife 
 was still torturing the caprice. He sat down 
 to await the answer. An hour later, the 
 caprice being done for, husband and wife 
 were sitting on either side of the fireplace, 
 when the valet returned, and handed his 
 master his unopened letter. M. de Nueil 
 went into the next room, where he had left 
 his gun, and shot himself. 
 
 This suicide will be thoroughly under- 
 stood by any one who has observed or experi- 
 enced the phenomena created by the perfect 
 union of two people. A woman does not 
 love in a day. Her affection is a flower 
 which needs the most ingenious culture ; its 
 resources and delicate pleasures come only 
 with time and harmony of disposition. The 
 belief, the certainty of experiencing an ex- 
 cess of happiness with the one beloved is a 
 part of the secret of lasting attachments. 
 With a woman who possesses the genius of 
 her sex, love never degenerates into the com- 
 
222 AFTER-DINNER STORIES, 
 
 monplace. She can garment it with forms 
 so varied, she is at once so attractive and so 
 affectionate, she heightens nature with so 
 many artifices, or rather her artifices are so 
 natural, that she is as powerful in memory 
 as she is by her actual presence. Beside her 
 all other women are insignificant. To value 
 her love as it should be valued, one must 
 have feared to lose it or really have done so. 
 But if, having known it, a man has given it 
 up for some mistaken marriage ; if the wo- 
 man with whom he hoped to find his happi- 
 ness repeated proves to him by some one or 
 another of those acts which are buried in the 
 shadows of conjugal life that that happiness 
 is not to be his again ; if his lips still hold 
 the savor of a celestial love, and if, for the 
 sake of a social chimera, he has mortally 
 wounded her who is after all his true wife, — 
 then he has either to blow his brains out or 
 else practice that chill and egotist philoso- 
 phy which is a horror to passionate natures. 
 As to Mme. de Beauseant, it is probable 
 that she did not think her friend's despair 
 would extend as far as suicide, especially 
 after he had been steeped in love for nine 
 years. Perhaps she thought that she would 
 be the only one to suffer. But however 
 
MADAME DE BEAU 8^ ANT. 223 
 
 this may be, she was right in refusing to re- 
 ceive him again on his former footing, for it 
 was in the purity of her love that she found 
 her justification. 
 
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