THE ROBERT E. COWAN COLLECTION 
 
 I'RKSKNTKI) TO Till-: 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CHLIFORNIfl 
 
 C. P. HUNTINGTON 
 
 cJUNE, 1897, 
 
 sion No. / U / / / Class No. 
 
VOL. I. 
 
 PRICE 75 CENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 SIGNOR A. A. NOBILE. 
 
 NOVELS 
 
 TRANSLATIONS 
 
 LECTURES 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO : 
 
 R. R. PATTERSON, 429 MONTGOMERY ST. 
 
 1894. 
 
* *K /P* 
 
 ^ J^IL. 
 PHYSICIAN AND SURGEON, 
 
 Specialita per le raalattie di d.onne, 
 Office and Residence, Offi< Hours 
 
 13O8 STOCKTON STREET, 8 to 9 a. m. and 2 to 4 p. m 
 
 Bet. Broadway and Vallejo. 
 
 LA PIU* VECCHIA CAS A. 
 
 IACCHERI &BACICALUHI 
 
 627 BROADWAY 627 
 
 rar* TELEFONO SQS. -i 
 
 Sola casa italiana che on accetta funeral! chinesi. 
 
 Prezzi modici e massima pulizia. Si eseguiscono e fomiscon casse di qualsias 
 qualita. 
 
OF 
 
 SIGNOR A. A. NOBILE. 
 
 s 
 
 NOVELS 
 
 TRANSLATIONS 
 
 LECTURES 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO : 
 
 R. R. PATTERSON, 429 MONTGOMERY ST. 
 
 1894. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 18!) 4, by 
 
 A. ALEXANDER NOBILE, in the office of the Librarian 
 
 of Congress, at Washington 
 
A. A. 
 
 Achilles Alexander Nobile. the author, and publisher of this book 
 was born in Naples on the 13th day of July 1833. His father was 
 named Alexander Nobile, and the maiden name of his mother was 
 Fortunata Nanso. His father dying of Cholera in the epidemic of the 
 year 1834, his mother intermarried with Frederic Sorvillo. 
 
 He received his primary education in the Institute Moccellini at 
 Naples. In 1843 he entered the college of St. Frediano in Lucca, and 
 remained in that institution for eighteen months. He then entered the 
 college of St. Catherine in Pisa. At the conclusion of his course, in 
 this college the University o'f '.P^a* conferred on him the degree of 
 Bachelor of Philosophy. This was in 1849. After this he studied law 
 in the said University of Pisa. 
 
 At 19 years of age, being spurred on by the ambition common to 
 spirited young men he closed his books, bade good bye to his mother, 
 and started on his travels to see the world. 
 
 He traveled around to different parts until the breaking out of the 
 Crimean war. He made a campaign in that under the British flag, 
 along with the Swiss Legion. On the close of that war, he went to 
 South America, and served under the order of Mayor Von Eherenkeutz 
 as Under Lieutenant of Artillery, in the service of the Argentine Rep- 
 ublic. Upon the breaking of the war of the Italian Independance in 
 1859, he returned to Italy, and volunteered as a private in the service 
 of his country. He passed the grades, and was nominated Staff Under- 
 Lieutenant, September 20, 1860. When the Franco-Prussian war broke 
 out, he volunteered again, and served through that war under General 
 Frapolli. 
 
 When not soldiering, he was in turn teacher, reader and lecturer. 
 
 He arrived in San Francisco in 1889, where he has since remained, 
 captivated by the charms of the city. Here he has learned the printer's 
 art, and established a Weekly Italian newspaper, entitled the "Vespa." 
 
 Signer Nobile is also the type setter of this book. Besides this volume 
 now in press, he is engaged on and will publish a memoir of his life and 
 travels which must be very entertaining. 
 
An Anonymous Letter. 
 
 THE PUBLIC WRITER. 
 
 Fifteen or sixteen years ago, the courtyard of the Holy 
 Chapel presented quite a different aspect from that which 
 it now presents. It is not because many changes have been 
 made, or because the streets leading to it have been 
 improved or widened. No. Everything has remained 
 in nearly its primitive state. The wooden wall which 
 once enclosed the staircase by which the people ascended 
 to the corridor communicating whith the public Hall of 
 the pas perdus, though a little elevated, till encircles the 
 old monument; but with the increasing activity which 
 took place in the locality, many of the characteristic 
 marks of old Paris have graduaPy disappeared. Before 
 the opening of this new thoroughfare the court of the 
 Holy Chapel was almost a suburb cf the city where every 
 trace of Parisian society was lost, one after another. This 
 courtyard formed a little world by itself, which had its 
 own invariable customs; now noisy, now silent and always 
 frequented by the same people; early in the morning by 
 the ushers of the Supreme Court who remained till the 
 hour at which the referendaires were used to arrive, by 
 
the clerks of a lawyer's office situated upon the treshold 
 of the den of sophistry, and by the housekeepers of the 
 neighborhood, who mingled with the water carriers at 
 the corner of the little street of St. Ann. At twelve o'clock, 
 when all was quiet, the honorable members of public saf- 
 ety, whose barracks were not far off, and who, without 
 any effort of imagination, could have been compared to 
 the paltoniers of old times, were used to come to warm 
 themselves in the sunshine. Every day at about the same 
 time the courtyard resounded with the noise of heavy 
 vans whose stables were at the northern corner of the 
 Corte dei Couti. At this place, in a recess behind the 
 staircase and precisely under the hall of the first chamber 
 of the Supreme Court had lived for fifteen or twenty 
 years a man called Duverrier, a contractor of the pris- 
 oners' conveyance, an industry advantageous enough to 
 allow him the gratification of the luxury of rare flowers, 
 which was his strongest passion. The entrance to the 
 dark cavern which he inhabited, greatly resembled a 
 florist's stall, and the grass which was growing through 
 the pavement prolonged the verdure a few feet further 
 the narrow space which he used as a garden. At twilight, 
 when the monotonous silence was only broken by the 
 steps of the sentinel beneath the gas burning before the 
 palace, this dimly lighted and almost deserted place was 
 the rendezvous of the lovers from the sor rounding streets. 
 Each morning resembled the preceding, always the same 
 events, and, we may say, almost the same conversations 
 exchanged by the same people. 
 
 On account of the increasing activity many offices of 
 public writers had been opened around the walls of the 
 Holy Chapel, but at the time when our narrative begins 
 only one of these offices had remained, and it was situat- 
 ed at the right hand of the covered passage leading to 
 
the Rue de la Barilerie. Every morning 'the tenant of 
 this hole as big as a sentinel's box used to hang in the 
 most conspicous place a frame containing many specimens 
 of different kinds of writing, which, profusely decorated 
 with flourishes, were hardly intelligible.'' It was almost 
 impossible for the owner to look at those 'testimonials of 
 his calligraphic ability without raising his eyes to Heaven, 
 and without heaving a deep sigh, as if they awakened in 
 him the memories of better times, and sorrows at the 
 unjust contempt into which he had fallen. 
 
 On the four opaques and dirty panes of glass, through 
 which light penetrated into this box was'written in yellow 
 letters: EDITORIALS, MEMORIALS, PETIT/ONS, LETTERS OF 
 COMPLIMENTS FOR CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEARS," and on 
 the other side: " A. C. TERNISIEN, Ek-PROFESSOR OF 
 PENMANSHIP IN THE UNIVERSITY." Notwithstanding the 
 above high qualification and the complete absence of 
 competition, one would infer by the dress of the poor 
 writer that the sign produced very little 1 'effect. In winter 
 as in summer his suit was always the same. A black silk 
 scull-cap on which Tested continually a hat; made water- 
 proof by a thick coat of grease, while a'S his only suit he 
 always carried a thin, alpaca coat, the Original color of 
 which, together with its lining, had ceased to be discern- 
 ible and whose torn and opened pockets,' 1 always empty, 
 yawned at pleasure, a waistcoat with metal buttons, a 
 worn-out pair of black trousers, shrunken and scarcely 
 reaching to his ankles, a very coarse pair of felt stockings 
 and wooden shoes filled with straw, complete the dress; 
 and yet, with all these rags, Ternisien appeared in 110 
 way disgusting or repulsive, because in his countenance 
 beamed an honesty and kindness which were not feigned, 
 In him every one could recognize a gentleman fallen 
 from a better condition neither brutalized by misery nor 
 
8 
 
 degraded by drunkness, the vice belonging to those who 
 suffer hunger. 
 
 His face and hands were always cleaner than his dress; 
 his voice was very melodious; his features expressed 
 resignation, even when, as he daily did, he was compla- 
 ining to his neigbor Duverrier: and often his complaint 
 would have lasted all day but for the arrival of some 
 customers, who would happen to come and interrupt 
 them. 
 
 In spite of his excessive economy, his work would not 
 have been sufficient for his daily wants, if he had not 
 been the possessor of a little capital acquired with great 
 pain in better times, which was destined to buy for him 
 abed in some hospital, when old age, which was approa- 
 ching with hurried steps, should deprive him of his 
 sight. For this reason, these savings were sacred to him. 
 He considered them as a deposit which the old professor 
 of penmanship had entrusted to the hands of the public 
 writer. It was very painful to him not to be able to add 
 the interest to the capital. Even if his office had been 
 richly furnished, or in a better location, it is most prob- 
 able that the upright Ternisien would not have realized 
 profits in proportion to his labors. 
 
 The poor man possessed one fault, the drawbacks of 
 which were increased by an exagerated honesty. He suf- 
 fered from absent-mindedness, and whether he wrote 
 from dictation or he copied, the orthographical mistakes, 
 the repeated words which needed to be erased, multiplied 
 themselves under his pen. Always mistrusting himself 
 and his want of attention, he used to read over accurately 
 what he wrote, making the necessary corrections, and 
 when these were too numerous, he again began his work, 
 without adding a cent to the stipulated price, not wishing 
 to deceive about the quality of his work, nor that customers 
 should pay for his absent-mindedness. 
 
9 
 
 Scruples of this kind in commercial transactions, which 
 ranged from five to twelve cents, made him a real loser 
 each time, as unfortunately for him, his distraction had 
 spoiled a few sheets of ministerial paper. 
 
 " Well, sir, what news ? " was the question Ternisien 
 used to address his neighbor Duverrier every time he 
 passed his office, while Duverrier never failed to answer : 
 
 "May I ask the same of you ? " 
 
 In this way the conversation, begun with almost always 
 the same preamble, lasted some time. Of course, as every 
 one could easily understand, the first topic was the politi- 
 cal situation, which proceeded to the satisfaction of neither. 
 These considerations of high importance being ended, 
 they passed to personal facts. Duverrier, whose business 
 was a prosperous one, avowed himself an optimist, while 
 on the other hand, Ternisien looked at the dark side of 
 everything. 
 
 " I am going to give you a piece of good and re-assur- 
 ing news." 
 
 " What is it?" 
 
 " Nothing of importance. While I was watering the 
 flowers, Mr. B., the referendaire who is in the good graces 
 of the president, approached me with these words : " Mr. 
 Duverrier, you have very beautiful canielias." For your 
 sake I seized the occasion, and I took the liberty of pre- 
 senting him with a few Timoleoii's bulbs for a garden 
 which he rented at Passy." 
 
 " If you have done this in my interest/' answered Ter- 
 nisien, " I thank you very much, although, my good 
 friend, I shall beg of you to explain to me what I have to 
 do and in what way I am connected with this business." 
 
 " You must have heard of a scheme to beautify our 
 courtyard of the Holy Chapel. Now guess, if you can, 
 what were the intentions of these gentlemen ? Now, since 
 
10 
 
 I found you a protector, I may tell you without fear. 
 Well then, they intend to destroy your office and send you 
 elsewhere to carry on your business." 
 
 "Indeed ? " exclaimed Ternisien with the expression of 
 a person about to lose what he wrongly called his sup- 
 porting business. 
 
 "Yes," added the other ; " but be at ease. As I have 
 told you already, I took advantage to speak of it to Mr. B. 
 He has a certain esteem for me, and you will not remove." 
 
 Those last words ought to have brought back to the 
 lips of Ternisien the usual smile, but his thoughts had 
 fled to his situation, and instead of smiling he heaved a 
 deep sigh. 
 
 "Are you sorry ?" asked Duverrier. 
 
 "No, no, on the contrary ; again accept my heartfelt 
 thanks. At least hope will be left to me, and hope is 
 something, although alone it cannot enrich us. Listen, 
 my friend, now my profession is not worth a cent. In- 
 novation has killed us. In France nothing is permanent 
 Every day brings new changes, and old habits are as 
 well loved as cast-off clothing. Arts, which were once 
 praised, are now despised. What good can you expect 
 from such a state of things?" 
 
 "Upon my word," answered Duverrier, "I can't und- 
 erstand what you are complaining of. For my part I 
 believe innovations are very excellent indeed. Mankind 
 tends always to perfection, this being one of the laws of 
 society. For example, my father used to convey the 
 prisoners in cars, which brought so many shocks that, at 
 the moment of leaving, the poor men were obliged to 
 review their teeth in order to see whether they had lost 
 any. I, on the contrary, carry my prisoners in carriages, 
 so soft, that they are as comfortable as if they were on 
 the best coach. Do you see anything bad in this im- 
 provement? I do not. 
 
11 
 
 "Possibly," said Ternisien, " the same does not happen 
 to me. When first I established myself in this abode I 
 had some little profit. From time to time I chanced to 
 have a good job, which gave me time to wait patiently 
 and which made up for the days I was without work. 
 Near by, at the lawyer's office, I had splendid customers. 
 When they had plenty of work and wished to enjoy them- 
 selves, they furtively brought to me copying to do. They 
 paid without bargaining and without a murmur, and 
 the work was easy because they recommended me to do 
 it in the most unintelligible manner." 
 
 "And why, please, do they not call any more on your 
 talent?" 
 
 " Because they don't need it. Have not lithography 
 and type-writing been invented? The work is done quickly 
 and at less cost. It is thus that artists become ruined. 
 I shudder to think of it; it is the last blow given to pen- 
 manship. I, who now am speaking to you, once used to 
 give lessons at sixty cents each; I have taught the pos- 
 ition of the body and how to manage the pen to lads of 
 the first families, to misses who had hands whiter and 
 softer than the paper on which they used to write. I 
 taught in a college of the capital, and, to become perfect, 
 two years of application were necessary. We taught by 
 principles, and slowly, while now some charlatans, who 
 have turned everything topsy-turvy, pretend to teach 
 penmanship in six weeks. All that made me shudder. 
 Truly, I am no longer a young man, but my eye is good 
 and my hand does not tremble yet, and if the old methods 
 were esteemed as they deserve, I should not be a public 
 writer. 
 
 Ternisien had never before delivered so long a speech. 
 He felt the need of resting himself, wiped his nose and 
 offered Duverrier his snuff-box. 
 
12 
 
 The latter took advantage of this pause to say: 
 
 "Why do not employ the new methods if the old ones 
 are no longer useful?" 
 
 "I!" replied the old professor with a look of contempt; 
 "I! Should I then have wasted twenty years of my life 
 in studying the art of writing well? Should I have over- 
 come all the difficulties and learned all the forms of pen- 
 manship round hand, Gothic, Italian, etc. only in order 
 to approve now with my example a bad innovation? 
 Never! And by the way, do you know this . renowned 
 and extolled invention, about which Carstairs and his 
 pupils made so much noise? It is simply the inclined 
 calligraphy which they impudently have disfigured and 
 by a mechanical process, apart from intellect, have made 
 uniform for everybody. And here is where the evil lies! 
 A cook may write as well as his own teacher, and their 
 own handwriting will be similar that no difference can 
 be distinguished, and then of what use will be that other 
 useful and precious art of guessing the moral character 
 of an individual by his handwriting, I should ask you. 
 No, no, Chrisostomus Ternisien will never countenance 
 the propagation of such impious inventions. I am ready 
 to change my profession, and by compelling me to leave 
 the place they will perhaps confer a favor on me." 
 
 His interlocutor was already preparing himself to ask 
 of him the explanation of these last words, but was pre- 
 vented from doing so by the arrival of a lad between 
 twelve or thirteen years old, resolute in his bearing, bold 
 and quick like a true gamin of Paris, who, turning his 
 eyes from one to another, ended by asking: 
 
 "Are you the writer? 
 
 Duverrier went away, leaving Ternisien alone with his 
 customer. 
 
 "What do you want, young man? 
 
13 
 
 "I wish you to copy this/' answered the youth, showing 
 him a piece of paper which he folded in his fingers. 
 
 Ternisien glanced at it without reading it, and only 
 assured himself of the quantity of the work. After this 
 first inspection, going out of the shop and bringing his 
 customer before the frame, he asked him: 
 
 "What sort of writing do you wish?" and with his 
 fingers pointed out the different specimens. 
 
 The lad looked at him, and finally told him to choose 
 the cheapest. 
 
 Ternisien went to his seat, prepared a beautiful sheet 
 of paper, cut a new pen and began the reading of the 
 manuscript. After a few lines he stopped, raised his 
 eyes to the little urchin, who was standing with his 
 shoulders against the posters of the door, and, who with 
 crossed arms and legs, was whistling an air with variations 
 of his own. Any one, who might have observed the looks 
 of Ternisien, could have easily perceived an expression 
 of doubt and astonishment, when he turned his face to 
 the boy. 
 
 In a moment he opened his mouth as if to call him, 
 but seeing him so careless and so little concerned regard- 
 ing what passed on behind his shoulders, he pursued his 
 reading. As he progressed, his eyes became animated; 
 curiosity and interest appeared in his face, it seemed that 
 he was trying to solve a problem which required all the 
 force of his imagination. 
 
 The boy continued to whistle as a lark, and Ternisien 
 did not mind it. 
 
 Having taken the pen, he examined it, putting it 
 between him and the light, and already dipping in the 
 ink and flourishing it, was ready to trace the first letter, 
 when suddenly he entered into a new and different order 
 of ideas. Hesitation succeeded the interest with which 
 
14 
 
 he had read those lines. Evidently he struggled between 
 the mechanical work of his profession and the apprecia- 
 tion of the writing he had under his eyes. Ternisien's 
 intelligence was not bright; constantly closed in the 
 narrow circle of a specialty, which did not require any 
 effort of imagination, he confined himself to the form, of 
 the thoughts without trying to penetrate them. He was 
 like those materialistic philosophers to whom the creature 
 hides the creator, and inasmuch as misfortune has 
 always the sure effect of reviving convinction in men who 
 are suffering, the more his name was spurned, the more 
 he exaggerated his own importance. Of all his sufferings 
 he had formed a sort of religion of which he was the 
 martyr. But if in his poor brain reason had darkened 
 itself to such an extent, his soul had kept its candor and 
 all its primitive uprightness. Straightforward with his 
 customers, he was also straightforward with himself. His 
 pride as professor was mortified at descending to the 
 position of an employee, and he only yielded to necessity 
 every time that for a moderate price he wrote insignificant 
 lines; but he often shuddered when he thought that he 
 might lend the aid of his pen to sinful words, and feared 
 that he who was incapable of telling a lie even for his 
 own advantage, sometimes might be an instrument of 
 calumny and falsehood. This has been precisely the 
 secret feeling he intended to express when he had said 
 compelling me to leave this place they will perhaps confer 
 a favor on me. His impossibility to exercise any other 
 profession obliged him to remain in this. The writing 
 to be copied was of such a nature as to inspire him with 
 reflections very embarassing to his conscience. 
 
 In spite of his cleverness in interpreting the handwrit- 
 ing of these lines, he remained uncertain, and convicted 
 of impotence in the same way as an academician stands 
 
15 
 
 in the presence of a hieroglyphical inscription. His 1 
 position was graver and more serious. Of what int- 
 erest in history indeed is a false statement or mistake? 
 What is falsehood or truth to those who are dead, and 
 even to those who are alive? In his case instead, although 
 he did not know by whom the letter had been written, 
 nor to whom it was addressed, nor what sincere or per- 
 fidious interest had dictated it, he was afraid when he 
 thought of the consequences that letter may bring. The 
 wretched man, lost in this labyrint, had vainly asked 
 advice of his usual counsellor. He rolled between the 
 thumb and forefinger of the left hand a pinch of snuff 
 which he took from time to time; he applied to the gift 
 of writing the same apologue Esopus had applied to the 
 speech, and allowing himself to be carried away by the 
 strenght of his learned digressions and by his classical 
 remembrances, in a solemn voice he cried: 
 
 "If like Achilles' spear which cured the wound made 
 by itself!" 
 
 "What is the matter?" asked the boy, turning around, 
 "have you finished perchance?" 
 
 "I have not yet began." 
 
 Oh) perhaps you do not know how to write, or are you 
 waiting for some one to help you. Give me back my paper 
 or hasten, I am in a hurry. Somebody is waiting for me/' 
 
 " Perhaps the same person who gave you this letter? " 
 asked Ternisien. 
 
 " No, but some of my friends with whom I was playing 
 marbles. I left my turn to another boy who does not 
 play so well as I, and having ten cents in the game I 
 would be glad to know how business is standing. Quick -y, 
 move around, double quick, as I have yet another errand 
 to do; are you perhaps frightened about the payment? 
 Here it is, I pay you sixteen cents in advance. I do not 
 
16; 
 
 wrangle, but I am in a hurry and you must- be quick. " 
 
 Without being moved, without sharing in this impa- 
 tience, the old writer said to the boy: 
 
 " Who send you on this errand? " 
 
 The boy looking at him, answered: 
 
 " Somebody, " and then turned up his nose and stuck 
 out his tongue and his lower lip. Any other man would 
 have punished this very disrespectful act, but the kind 
 old man renewed the question. 
 
 " If formerly I answered you somebody, " said the boy, 
 " it is quite clear that you ought to know no more than 
 that. What else? They gave me the letter with the 
 instructions to have it copied by a public writer; they 
 gave me the money and I went away to execute their 
 orders. I pray you, why then do you not do your duty? 
 That's all. Would you like me to whistle you anothe air? 
 Perhaps it will please you, " and he began to whistle a 
 
 ballad which was then very popular 
 
 " When love was constant, etc. " 
 
 Ternisien again put before him on the table, which 
 was his desk, the letter and the paper, and again took up 
 the pen. It was not the desire of earning the sixteen 
 cents, magnificent recompense far a few minutes' work, 
 that had decided him to do it. He had made two very 
 easy reflections which overcame all his scruples: firstly 
 that what he was going to write might as well be true as 
 false; secondly, that if he should refuse, a less scrupulous 
 colleague would do it. It must be said that he was much 
 moved by curiosity, and he was waiting for the time 
 when, according to the instruction given (without doubt) 
 to the boy, he would write tha name and address of the 
 person to whom the letter was addressed. Nevertheless, 
 before beginning to write, he asked: 
 
 " Have you read this letter? " 
 
,17 
 
 tf I? I can't read. I do not know the name qf the letters 
 and I would he sorry to be a learned, man as you are/' 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " A nice question! Because you would not have had 
 the pleasure of my acquaintance, and I that of telling 
 you that you would do better to move your pen than your 
 tongue. The person gave me this paper asked me, before 
 all, if I was able to read, and I answered no. Then I 
 received my instructions with three francs, of which I 
 shall give you sixteen cents, if you make haste, and you 
 instead are going slow as a snail. " 
 
 Ternisien, seeing that he would not obtain any further 
 information, began his work. He had so attentively read 
 and weighed every word of the paper that he had almost 
 .learned it by heart. Every word expressed such serious 
 facts, such important revelations, that they had engraved 
 themselves in his memory so as to prevent any possible 
 distraction. Contrary to his habit, he copied the paper 
 without a single mistake. As soon he had done he folded 
 the sheet, and turning to the boy he said; 
 
 " Did they give you the name and address to which it 
 is going? " 
 
 " Yes" answered he, extending his hand to the table 
 with celerity and without being noticed, " yes it is written 
 with pencil on a piece of paper which is in the left pocket 
 of my waistcoat, but you must not know it. " 
 
 At the same time, he took the letter and jumping back- 
 ward moved to leave the shop. 
 
 " Some other one is going to scribble this address, " he 
 added; "I have my orders. " 
 
 "Give me back that letter, " asked Ternisien; so many 
 precautions do not mean anything good. " 
 
 " No, " answered the boy, I will not give it back, and 
 even you will return to me the copy I have brought you. 
 
18 
 
 or you will tear it in my own presence. This order has 
 been strictly given to me. " 
 
 " Even that! " exclaimed the writer, clasping his hands. 
 " Ah! from this time I swear never more to copy anony- 
 mous letters. They surely intend to destroy the traces 
 of this one, and I ought have refused it." 
 
 " What a stupid old man, " said the boy; " he looks as 
 if he were saying his prayers. Well, then, good man, you 
 must come to a decision. Tear up the paper or you will 
 not get your money. " And the sixteen cents from the 
 table had returned to his hands. Searching on the table 
 for the paper, which in the first movement he had pushed 
 away and mixed with others, Ternisien tore it in a thou- 
 sand pieces and threw them in the face of the boy, saying 
 to him: 
 
 "Away with you! young rascal. " 
 
 " A rascal? Yes, but not a thief, " replied the boy; 
 " here is your cash. " And taking his aim, he threw the 
 eight two -cent piece into the big pocket which yawned at 
 the side of the writer's coat, and in which they fell as in a 
 ravine. He then retired, walking backward and laughing 
 at the ex-professor, and bold and impudent, went away 
 like a sparrow who laughs at those who try to catch him. 
 
 Ternisien for a while remained in deep meditation. 
 At last he got up, put his papers in order, took with him 
 a sheet of paper, shut his office, and crossing the courtyard, 
 went to speak with his neighbor who was watering his 
 camelias. 
 
 The boy, faithfully following the orders he had received, 
 brought the letter to another public writer and then 
 posted it. It was addressed : 
 
 JULIUS VALABERT, Esq. , 
 
 Auditor of the State Council, 
 
 Rue de Lille, 34. 
 
19 
 
 II. 
 THE LOVERS. 
 
 What we have narrated is in a certain way, the prolo- 
 gue of our tale. We must go back a little to present to 
 our readers the principal persons who will figure in this 
 story. And to begin, we will introduce them to a house 
 in Furstemberg street, in the most distant part of St. 
 Germain's thoroughfare. 
 
 The apartment in the second story is neither rich nor 
 luxurious; there one does not see expensive furniture, nor 
 rich curtain , nor costly bric-a- brae, in the parlor only 
 a looking-glass, in the windows plain cotton curtains, 
 some easy chairs but not a sofa, a bare ceiling and a 
 simple carpet, green like the wall paper of the room. The 
 only object w r hich seemed of any value was a piano of the 
 newest fashion, out near which were piled many books of 
 songs and complete operas. In spite of the modest value 
 of the objects which furnished this principal room, the 
 good taste which had presided over the harmony of the 
 whole gave to it an aspect of elegance, and it could easily 
 be surmised that this so clean and so well-kept apartment 
 belonged to a lady. 
 
 In fact, near the window, before a tapestry frame, a 
 beautiful person was seated, hastily finishing a very 
 pretty piece of work. She was dressed in white, and the 
 simplicity of her toilet harmonized thoroughly with that 
 of the place in which she lived. Her long dark eyebrows, 
 lowered upon her work, rose only at intervals, and then 
 her beautiful dark eyes turned to the clock, the hands of 
 which seemed to move too quickly for her. Her hands, 
 .of a wonderful whiteness, could have served as a model 
 to a portrait painter if the extremity of the fingers had 
 
.20 
 
 been thinner. Her neck, finely shaped, was of perfect 
 form and beauty, and imparted grace and flexibility to 
 every movement of the head. Finally the moment ar- 
 rived when the young girl consulted the clock with pleas- 
 ure and cut the last thread of the tapestry. 
 
 Getting up from the chair and giving. a last glance at 
 the whole of her work, she rang. An old servant appeared. 
 
 "Marion," she said to her with a joy which sparkled 
 in her eyes and was evident in. her voice, ' at last this 
 work is finished. What do you think of it?" 
 
 Marion approved with majestic air, and struck with 
 the brightness of the colors ana exquisite taste with 
 which they were arranged, exclaimed: " It is a master- 
 piece! if you would let me act according to my own fancy, 
 you would receive a better price. " 
 
 "You know that every work is already sold at the 
 same store and for the same price." 
 
 "Jews! " murmured the old woman. 
 
 " It isn't right, Marion, to treat in such a way kind 
 people who have procured for me a steady and sure 
 resource, which supports me." 
 
 " Oh! upon my word, if you would, you need not work. " 
 
 A severe look stopped the words of Marion, who turn- 
 ing her eyes in another direction, replied with great 
 embarrassment: 
 
 " I meant to speak of your talent in music; there are 
 few teachers of your ability, and when you used to give 
 lessons at two dollars each " 
 
 " That displeased Julius. " 
 
 " It is true, " answered the old woman, " since then you 
 play music only for him. To tell the truth, I prefer this 
 life to the old way of living, always in town and alone, 
 whatever might be the season, while at present you do 
 not go out any more, except when Julius gives you his 
 arm, which happens very seldom, indeed. " 
 
21 
 
 A second look from the mistress ended Marion's babble. 
 
 While she spoke, the young lady had taken the tapestry 
 from the frame and fold 3d it with great care. 
 
 " Be quick; take it away before Julius arrives," said 
 the young woman, " and hide the frame so that he cannot 
 see it. This is his hour. " 
 
 " Be careful; Master Julius does not Uke mistery. " 
 
 " Alas I God only knows how much it costs ine to have 
 a secret from him. 
 
 She made a sign and Marion went out, leaving her 
 mistress in deep thought, this brief conversation having 
 been sufficient to recall to her mind her present situation. 
 
 Fanny was three years old when she lost her mother. 
 He'r father, a teacher in a provincial town, spared neither 
 pains nor trouble to educate her. His dear and only 
 daughter was always the first and best among his pupils. 
 Showing a decided inclination for music, a competent 
 teacher was given her. In everything she progressed 
 rapidly, and in a short time her father was able to see 
 her as perfect as he wished to be. She was scarcely 
 sixteen years old, when Mr. Dusmenil, satisfied of having 
 warned her in general terms against the dangers which 
 threaten a maiden, gave her a freedom which, for a heart 
 naturally tender and open to impressions would be dan- 
 gerous. Among other liberties, he permitted her to remain 
 long days togheter with a neighbor's son named Ernest, 
 a young man rather good-looking, who lacked not clev- 
 erness. It is true that Mr. Dusmenil saw in Ernest, 
 educated with his daughter and until that time an in- 
 nocent companion in her studies and plays, the future 
 husband whom he secretly destined for Fanny, and, there- 
 fore, did not discourage an intimacy which would afford 
 them the opportunity of mutually knowing each other. 
 This time that which had been anticipated did not happen. 
 
; ,22 
 
 Fanny, in the presence of her childhood's friend, ex- 
 perienced no emotion, either because her hour had not 
 yet arrived or else because it is almost impossible that 
 true friendship should change in love. 
 
 The time was passing pleasantly and her future seemed 
 smiling and nattering, when she was overtaken by a 
 dreadful misfortune. Her father died almost suddenly, 
 leaving no fortune. Ernest was then absent, and his 
 family, on account of Fanny's poverty, did not show 
 further desire to carry cut the proposed marriage. 
 
 Fanny resolved not to wait for Ernest's return and left, 
 retiring to an old relative's whose only assistance cons- 
 isted in advising her to employ the little money she yet 
 possessed in developing her talents and in taking a few 
 lessons before begin to teach. She sooii succeeded in 
 securing a few pupils, by which means, little by little, she 
 derived a certain amount of comfort. 
 
 One day she was called at a house in the Ghaussee 
 cFAntin, to teach music to a young lady about ten years 
 old, named Eliza Saint-Gilles. 
 
 The family into which she was introduced consisted of 
 influential people, proud of their riches. Being request- 
 ed to play, she performed a selection which enraptured 
 all these present. Among others, a young man made 
 himself conspicuous for his lively admiration, although 
 Fanny, on her part, paid no attention to his compliments. 
 The following day, at the time of the lesson, the young 
 gentleman happened to be in the room and continued to- 
 come every day, sometimes at the beginning and &t other 
 times at the end of it. His eyes constantly fixed on the 
 teacher, forced her to blush and in spite of herself 
 troubled her. Chance, one day, left him alone with 
 Fanny at the moment in which her lesson had ended 
 and while her pupil was going out for a walk. Persuad- 
 
ed that he would find little severity in a young girl who 
 was living alone and who, on account of her profession, 
 was dependent upon the public, he sppke to her of love 
 , with an air of assurance and self-conceit, and tried to 
 approach her. i 
 
 A gesture full of dignity forced him to stop. 
 
 " 1 am an orphan, " she said to him; " 1 have no rela- 
 tive, no defender; my only support is this," pointing to 
 the piano, " and you are trying to deprive me of it, be- 
 cause it is certain that I should no longer dare to come 
 to this house." 
 
 After saying these words, Fanny went out, but on 
 reaching home, still affected and her eyes filled with tears, 
 she received a letter in which Mr. Julius Valabert, ac- 
 knowledging what kind of woman he had offended, pres- 
 ented his most respectful apologies and entreated her not 
 to add to the faults with which he already reproached 
 himself that of having caused her departure from the 
 house of Saint-Gilles, and promised her never more to go 
 there. If Fanny had a mother, her conduct would have 
 been different. 
 
 The culprit's repentance found favor with Fanny. The 
 fear of an unpleasant scandal if the reason of her not 
 going any more to the lesson should have been suspected 
 and the security inspired by this letter, caused her to 
 return to Mrs. Saint-Gilles' house. The young man appear- 
 ed no more. The human heart is always full of strange 
 contradictions, and even the sincerest is the most ingen- 
 ious in deceiving itself. Fanny on returning on that 
 house, had really thought she would not again meet Mr. 
 Valabert; and yet, without knowing it, she was dominat- 
 ed by a vague hope that Julius would come in person to 
 present his apologies. Vainly she prolonged her lessons 
 beyond the time she ought to have given them; the inter- 
 
24 
 
 est which she used to take in the progress of her pupil 
 was no longer the same, and her zeal in teaching was 
 infinitely diminished. 
 
 Was she comprehending her real feelings? No; without 
 doubt she did not understand herself until the day when, 
 arriving earlier than usual, she noticed the presence 
 of Julius. 
 
 By the blushes which she felt suffuse her face, by the 
 sudden palpitation of her heart, she understood what she 
 had tried to hide from herself, that she loved Julius. 
 
 When he timidly asked of her, as a great favor, per- 
 mission to be present at the lesson, she had no strength 
 to refuse him, so great was the inward joy. That day she 
 accompanied badly and sung out of tune, but on the fol- 
 loving day, already prepared for the presence of Julius, 
 who did not move from the parlor, she sung with such 
 expression and threw so much soul into the notes that 
 the enamored and ecstasied youth could only thank her 
 with his eyes for the pleasure he had felt in listening to 
 her. The girl's joy was intense and noticeable. A few 
 day afterwards they ventured to sing together, a danger- 
 ous experiment which was repeated many times, and the 
 harmonious, fascinating music achieved the seduction. 
 
 This would have been the right time for her to fly, but 
 she had riot the courage to do so. No one was there to 
 teach her that sentiment of reason which sin lacked, and 
 not knowing how to close her ears against the language 
 of a young and sincere lover, she had the weakness to 
 betray herself. 
 
 On his part, he passionately begged of her to grant him 
 the happiness of seeing her alone and of being received 
 at her home; his grief was so violent, his tears so sincere, 
 his passion so prevailing, that one day he knelt at the 
 feet of Fanny, in her little apartment 111 Furstemburg 
 
25 
 
 street. Alas! Poor Fanny had no mother to watch on her. 
 
 Six months after, when we meet Fanny, in spite of the 
 great love of Julius, which seemed to increase daily in 
 intensity, she felt a deep and strong sorrow which poison- 
 ed her happiness. At the side of Julius she endeavored 
 to overcome it, asking from love the oblivion of her re- 
 morse. But in the hours of solitude and reflection, a 
 lively grief mastered her heart, tears flowed abundantly 
 as soon as her thoughts departed from the present, 
 marching toward the future. Her only hope reposed on 
 the uncertain duration of the love of Julius. For al- 
 though he was most tender and affectionate, yet he had 
 some faults which rightly grieved her. The principal 
 ones were mistrust and jealousy. Already to please him, she 
 had decided to discontinue her lessons, as Julius thought 
 her profession a little precarious, because he, with his 
 experience, had learned to what dangers a young teacher 
 is exposed; and although renouncing in this way the exer- 
 cise of her talents she had lost much, yet she would 
 accept nothing from her lover. Fanny succeeded in 
 persuading Julius that she had still a small income aris- 
 ing from the united legacies of her father and an old aunt 
 which, together with savings, (now almost exhausted,) 
 was enough for her needs. We have already seen how 
 the poor girl added to her scanty income by the sale of 
 her tapestry-work, in which, as in many other things, she 
 was indeed very skillful. 
 
 Very few minutes had passed since Marion had gone, 
 when Fanny was disturbed in her meditations by a sharp 
 pull of the bell, which restored her gayety. 
 
 "At last! " she thought, and run to open the door. 
 
 Julius entered. He was a young man about thirty 
 years old, with dark hair and rather pallid complexion. 
 The habit of serious study had imparted to his counte- 
 
26 
 
 nance a, premature gravity, and although naturally kind 
 and inclined to indulgence, one might have noticed in 
 his looks that distrust common to all those who on account 
 of their studies, keep aloof from the world, and who are 
 not accustomed to judge of men and things at a single 
 glance. At the moment Julius appeared, he had the 
 thoughtful mien of a man who has taken an important 
 resolution and had prepared himself to disclose it. After 
 having glanced around him, he asked where Marion was. 
 
 " I sent her on an errand, " answered Fanny, without 
 any further explanation. 
 
 Julius entered f he parlor, took Fanny's beautiful hands 
 in his own, kissed them, and mentioning her a seat, seat- 
 ed himself near her. 
 
 " Fanny, " he began with the sweetest voice, " Fanny > 
 are you happy?" 
 
 " Certainly, " she answered, " how could it be other- 
 wise? Is not your love always the same? Every time 
 you wish to know if I am happy, ask yourself if you 
 love me. " 
 
 "Yet, nevertheless, " replied Julius, " you are suffer- 
 ing without confiding it to me, as if yuur heart were 
 hiding something from me. More than once I have 
 discovered traces of tears in your face; more than once I 
 thought I had guessed the agitations of your soul. From 
 whence that grief which your feigned gayety cannot hide 
 from me? Speak, Fanny, have confidence on me; what 
 do you wish? What do you require of me? " 
 
 11 Nothing! Have I not told often you that your love 
 is enough for me? " 
 
 11 Do you not possess it entirely? I know well you do 
 not ask for splendor, or luxury, or the pleasure of vanity. 
 You refused my gifts, and I was obliged to yield to a 
 pride I so much appreciated. Fanny, that which you 
 
.27 
 
 wish for, the desire which troubles your joy and quie f 
 and perhaps injures your health also, is then greater 
 than my riches, greater than my love? " 
 
 " Can you think so? 
 
 He smiled sweetly, adding in a most encouraging tone; 
 " Speak, tell me it, open your heart to me." 
 
 Fanny answered: " Friend, I do not complain of my 
 own lot, I made it what it is. I love you, and so long as 
 you will love me I shall have no other grief. Forgive 
 me if some remembrance of the past comes to my mind, 
 and tries to disturb the happiness I feel with you. Alas! 
 despite of myself, against my wishes, sometimes, I often 
 fancy to see my father, my poor father who loved me so 
 much, appear before me with angry face, asking a strict 
 account of the principles in which he had educated me, 
 I have no reason to reproach you. I asked only for your 
 love, and until now you have given it. You had only 
 promised me faithfulness, and you have kept your prom- 
 ise. What reason have I, then, to complain? What 
 are the causes of my grief? I am happy, you know it 
 very well. " 
 
 While saying these words, she wiped a falling tear. 
 
 Julius pressing her head to his breast, answered: 
 
 " Yes, dear Fanny, without doubt I promised you my 
 love, but this love is capable of anything; it will not stop 
 short of sacrifices which will cease to be called such the 
 moment when through them you recover your peace 
 and happiness. 
 
 " What do you mean? " she asked, raising her beauti- 
 ful eyes, full of wonder. 
 
 " Yesterday you confided me something." 
 
 She blushed and bent her head. 
 
 "To day I answer with another confidence. My family 
 wish me to marry. " 
 
 'What then?" 
 
23 
 
 " Well I have resolved to choose a companion, but I 
 will not go to find her among the women belonging to 
 the cla?s of those apparently wealthy but poor in true 
 merit, in whom vanity corrupts the best sentiments 
 among those ladies who think that a great name or a 
 great fortune can dispense with virtue or talent. No; she 
 whom I choose will be a timid and modest woman, whose 
 heart I have already learned to know, sufficiently in love 
 to have yielded to me, sufficiently virtuous to feel repent- 
 ant a woman, in short, who is worthy to bear the name 
 of an honest man. You, Fanny, are that woman; that 
 name is mine. I offer it to you; do you accept it? 
 
 The poor girl listened as if she could not understand 
 his words. When Julius had finished, she remained a 
 little while with her hands clasped and as though she 
 were yet listening to him. 
 
 Julius took her hand and gazed at her lovingly. 
 
 " Is it true?" she said at last; "is it not a dream?" 
 
 " No, no; it would be too cruel were it not in earnest. " 
 
 " Oh! dear! " and while so saying she let herself fall 
 into his arms, but soon freeing herself from him, she 
 fell upon her knees, exclaiming: 
 
 "Oh! my father!" 
 
 A thought crossed her mind, and raising, she approach- 
 ed Julius, and regarding him fixedly all the time she 
 was speaking, said: 
 
 " Thanks, dear, for your generosity. If you could read 
 my heart, what gratitude and new love would you dis- 
 cover in it. I have yet a question to ask you. Listen: 
 these words are serious, and I pray you seriously to 
 answer them. If what you told me is only dictated by 
 conscience, if you offer me your hand, this precious 
 present by me so long wished for, only as a performance 
 of a sacred duty, if some day, in the future, your heart 
 
(29 
 
 'should rimr mur < against the isagrifice you are making for 
 my sake, then how great will b3 my grief; and although I 
 have 110 right to think of myself alone, yet I should prefer 
 to hide my loneliness and shame in some unknown 
 place rather than to live with you, spurned and despised 
 by a husband who would soon repent of the concessions 
 given in a moment when passion overpowered him. " 
 
 "Fanny, " replied the youth, " I swear to you that my 
 heart only has urged me to take such a step. " 
 
 Again she fell at his feet. He raised her, and in a few 
 minutes Julius was kneeling before her, saying: 
 
 " Now, Fanny, will you refuse me what I am going to 
 ask of you." 
 
 " What can I refuse? What do you wish of me? 
 
 " A proof of love. As you well know, T always feared 
 that your heart, before being acquainted with me, had 
 loved another. You have always assured me of the con- 
 trary, nevertheless this fear often returns to my thoughts. 
 To day I doubt no more. I can assure you of it. You 
 have told me a thousand times that you have kept 
 nothing of the past but remembrances of your childhood 
 and of your family. You have jealously kept as a treasure 
 a ring, in which your mother had put a lock of your hair 
 when you were so young you could only answer her by 
 caresses. 1 wish to have this ring; give it to me to me 
 your lawful husband, now that in me is concentrated 
 your whole family that you have lost. Give me what 
 remains to you that belonged to your mother. 
 
 She was about to rise, but pausing, " Later, " she said. 
 
 " Why not now? 
 
 " Dear, I always believed in the sincerity of your love. 
 I inferred it from your jealous fears, and my only sorrow 
 .was in not being able to quiet your suspicions. All you 
 .have now told me certainly fills me with joy, but does net 
 
30 
 
 at all surprise me. I was waiting that word which should 
 take away all guilty from us; I was waiting because I 
 knew you loved me, also because you are good and gen- 
 erous. Listen, then: On the day of our marriage I will 
 give you that ring, which I cannot part from except for 
 the sake of him whom I love. This has always been my 
 thought. On the happy day of our union I cannot put 
 on my head the orange crown every bride is accustomed 
 to wear in going to the altar. That ring is the only thing 
 I have not given you. It will be my nuptial gift." 
 
 Julius would, perhaps, have insisted, but just at that 
 moment Marion entered. She seemed disappointed. By 
 means of signs, she made her mistress understand that 
 she had not found the usual buyer and that consequently 
 she had brought the tapestry back. 
 
 "What is the matter?" asked Julius, who had already 
 noticed some of these signs. 
 
 " Nothing, " answered Fanny, smiling. 
 
 " Always some mysteries! " 
 
 " No " and she embraced him. 
 
 In order to change the course of Julius' thoughts, 
 she added: 
 
 " Have you pondered over all the obstacles to this our 
 happy union? 
 
 Before he had time to answer, a loud noise was heard 
 in the street, usually so quiet. Julius ran to the window, 
 and a few steps from the house he saw a fainting woman 
 sorrounded by a crowd. He immediately descended into 
 the street in order to bring help, and a few minutes 
 afterward he returned. 
 
 " Strange," he said, " the horse of my cousin, Mrs. De 
 Launay, who had gone to her business man to take an 
 important document, has fallen, and although not wound- 
 ed, the fright has experienced has caused her to swoon. 
 
31 
 
 I shall go and see her home. Good-bye, darling, till 
 
 to-morrow " 
 
 Embracing Fanny, he quickly departed. Fanny went 
 to the window to see him go. Julius dare not to look 
 at her. 
 
32 
 
 II L 
 
 THE FRIEND. 
 
 On the following day, while Julius was at Fannys* 
 house, a scene was enacted in the street of Lille, the 
 consequences of which might have destroyed all the 
 projects of the two lovers. Mrs. Valabert had received a 
 visit from the Countess of Septeuil, a lady of ancient 
 nobility, immensely wealthy and in friendly intercourse 
 with many persons having influence at court. 
 
 The conversation between these two had been quite 
 long. As this visit was a very important and not an 
 ordinary one; the conversation, at the beginning cold and 
 reserved, had gradually become lively and confidential, 
 till both ladies, after a long diplomatical discourse, had 
 thought it convenient to explain the cause which had 
 brought them together. 
 
 The interview had ended, and Mrs. Valabert was al- 
 ready accompanying the Countess to the door of the hall, 
 and the two ladies had reciprocally exchanged parting 
 salutations, friendly, although full of dignity, when the 
 arrival of two other persons delayed their separation a 
 few minutes. 
 
 One of the two comers was a gentleman of about forty 
 or forty-five years of age, with an open face which ind- 
 icated most splendid hsalth and complete absence of all 
 sorrow. His manners were those of a man who, although 
 accustomed to mingle in high society, lacks grace and 
 elegance of carriage. His prominent gray eyes express- 
 ed a constant satisfaction and happiness. He Jield his 
 head aloft like those who, proud of themselves, believe 
 that they produce in others the same favorable impress- 
 
33 
 
 ion they feel whenever they place themselves before a 
 mirror. Mr. Saint-Gilles had left the army at the time 
 of the second restauration and thrown himself into spec- 
 ulations, and, like many others, had succeeded without 
 knowing what he was doing. Chance had made him a 
 wealthy man and riches made him fat. The person who 
 accompanied him was a young lady who may have been 
 about twenty-six years of age, and who appeared neither 
 more nor less. Her features had kept the freshness and 
 delicacy of youth, her smile was enchanting and all her 
 movements were calm, pleasant and symmetrical. Her 
 beauty was not that which strikes one at the first glance, 
 but rather that which insinuates itself little by little and 
 engraves itself on the heart, and which, though scarcely 
 exciting desire, is yet the most certain to retain the love 
 it has produced. Her dark complexion was in strong 
 contrast with her blue eyes and fair hair, but these almost 
 sure signs of a passionate organization, in which are 
 mixed two different and opposite natures, voluptuous 
 languor and ardent vivacity, were belied by her quiet 
 behavior and an expression of kindness. When she used 
 to raise her eyes toward any person, one would say that 
 she was looking for some grief to console, and would 
 suppose that only the troubles of other people could ruffle 
 the quietness of her soul. 
 
 In spite of all these qualities, Adele De Launay had 
 never been happy. At twenty-one she had married a man 
 twice her age. Not having known love's infatuation, she 
 had not even had the opportunity of experiencing that 
 quiet happiness which surely possesses a greater value 
 and lasts longer. Her husband was one of those men 
 without virtues or vices, whose lives lun from one 
 project to another, planning schemes which are soon 
 given up for new ones; one of those incomplete natures 
 
34 
 
 without will or JYatience, that vegetate everywhere with- 
 out bearing fruit. She had followed him to various 
 cities where he had gone for foolish expeiiments or for 
 industrial speculations, and the clearest and most evident 
 result of all these journayings had always been the same, 
 a loss of time and capital. Finally, after many years of 
 this roving existence, Mr. De Launay, almost ruined but 
 not reformed, had been enticed in a new scheme which 
 had allured him on account of his remoteness and the 
 probability of its success. With the remains of his 
 fortune, he had laden a ship with goods which he intend- 
 ed to sell in South America at fifty per cent, profit, arid this 
 time he had put himself at the head of the expedition, 
 having agreed with his wife that she should remain in 
 Paris while waiting for \h.<* galeons. 
 
 Of her own dowry Mrs. De Launay had saved one 
 hundred thousand francs, which her husband could not 
 touch. Mrs. Valabert, her distant cousin, who had many 
 times good occasion to appreciate her, had requested her 
 to come and reside with her. Adele had accepted * this 
 offer, which, at the same time leaving her free and 
 mistress of her movements, afforded her protection and 
 a home befitting her age and position, and she had now 
 being residing in that house for six months. 
 
 Saint-Gilles, on perceiving the Countess of Sepleuil, 
 assumed a more contented air, and his eyes were enabled 
 to express something a little resembling thought. With 
 an awkward and very evident intention of joking, he 
 addressed a few complimentt to the noble lady, and con- 
 gratulations upon meeting her at Mrs. Valabert's. On 
 her part, Adele >De Launay had contented herself with 
 boving to* Mrs. Septeuil. As soon as the Countess had 
 left, SainUGilles and the two ladies went into the parlor 
 
 Therfr Mrs* Valabert addressed Adele thus : 
 
" Cousin, you well know our agreement, absolute and 
 full freedom as well for you as for me. This morning 
 you wished Saint-Gilles to accompany you while shopping 
 at several places. Be pleased now to give him back to 
 me as we have need to converse together. " 
 
 " Since you wish to be alone, I will retire. " 
 
 " Before you go, " replied Mrs. Valabert, " allow me to 
 repair an involuntary negligence. Yesterday I was 
 somewhat ill, this morning you went out early without 
 my having the pleasure of seeing you. I hope that you 
 have not received bad news?" 
 
 "None, my dear cousin," answered Adele, " and I 
 thank you for the interest you take in all that concerns 
 my welfare." 
 
 After these remarks, she retired to her own apartments. 
 
 Saint Gilles gazed after her, saying: 
 
 " That crazy fellow, De Launay, is happier than he 
 deserves to be. Here is a woman who loves him in spite 
 of all his extravagancies. If he would write her to join 
 him, I would not be surprised if she should at once obey. 
 While he could have quietly enjoyed such a treasure at 
 home, he become a merchant of Cologne water and 
 English soap in the other hemisphere. There are some 
 persons, who although their heads were full of eyes, would 
 not be able to see clearly. " 
 
 " Yes, " answered Mrs. Valabert, sadly, " there are 
 passions impossible to be explained; some spurn virtue, 
 some do not know vice. " 
 
 "Oh!" said Saint-Gilles, who had already without 
 ceremony seated himself in an easy-chair, his legs crossed 
 and his body reclining, " what has happened? Did the 
 Countess departed disappointed?" 
 
 "Yes; friend. " 
 
 "Whv so." 
 
" Because there exists an obstacle which you do not 
 know, and which we cannot say that we will be able to 
 overcome. " 
 
 ' What is it? " 
 
 " It is just to speak to you of it, and to ask your advice 
 that I have wished to be alone with you/' 
 
 Mrs. Valabert brought another easy-chair near Mr. 
 Saint-Gilles, and sat down beside him. 
 
 Before we let them begin their confidences, it is ne- 
 cessary to explain briefly the friendship which existed 
 between these two persons. 
 
 Saint- Gilles was a bachelor. Mrs. Valabert was a 
 widow, but (which is rarely the case) their relations were 
 truly based upon pure and holy friendship. Julius* mo- 
 ther was virtuous not only on account of her training but 
 by nature. Cold and calm in her youth, she had never 
 admitted the possibility of a fault, and the love which 
 enraptured the senses, love without marriage, was cons- 
 idered by her a chimera or a vice without excuse, like 
 hypocrisy, falsehood or theft. 
 
 Saint-Gilles had received many favors from Mrs. Vala- 
 bert, for which he had shown himself very grateful. He 
 continued to visit the widow, and little by little made 
 himself indispensable to her. He had no equal in 
 bestowing trifling attentions and in. busying himself 
 with other people's affairs. Always at the disposal of 
 whoever needed him, he collected rents, canvassed for 
 mortgages to place money, arranged preliminaries of 
 marriages and took upon himself all sorts of troubles and 
 every kind of work. In short, he was a most clever and 
 indefatigable "factotum. " 
 
 " Friend," began Mrs. Valabert, "to you I am indebt- 
 ed for the acquaintance of the Countess of Septeuil. You 
 were the first who thought of this marriage, so advantag- 
 
37 
 
 eous for my son. The Countess gave her consent to this 
 union, and has given me the assurance that her daughter 
 made no opposition to it whatever. With sorrow I have 
 discovered a secret which for a long time I had suspected, 
 namely, that Julius had a guilty connection with a person 
 whom he is passionately in love with. " 
 
 " Oh! " replied Saint-Gilles in a very easy way, " at his 
 age that is a very common occurrence." 
 
 " Yes, but he will not part with this woman. " 
 
 " Poh! Julius is a young man of spirit, who will not 
 sacrifice his future to a caprice. Be at ease. Besides he 
 knows of the negotiations begun with the Countess and 
 he has already seen her daughter. It is true that he has 
 not consented openly, but neither has he refused. If he 
 had not had good intentions, he would not have allow 3d 
 us to take these steps, since at the point we have now 
 arrived, it would be almost impossible to break them off 
 without a strong and reasonable motive. " 
 
 " We have not positively consulted him, and have on^y 
 taken his silence for consent. Perhaps Julius does not 
 even know that the Countess came this morning to visit 
 me. Do not be mistaken about the character of my son. 
 I can and do know it better than. you. He is a man who 
 waits for the last moment, not only to make a definite 
 decision, but also to communicate to you his resolve. To 
 display courage, he needs to feel danger. He loves me, 
 it is true, but although his love is sincere and deep, he 
 will not yield to me. " 
 
 "And who is the object of his passion?" asked Saint- 
 Gilles, " perhaps some common woman? perhaps an 
 actress? perhaps a dancer? " 
 
 " Whoever she may be, she must be a woman of loose 
 habits, " replied Mrs. Valabert, " as I have been told she 
 is young and beautiful; she belongs to an honest family, 
 
38' 
 
 and unhappily it seems that she has received a splendid 
 education. She is a piano teacher, by name, Fanny " 
 
 " Fanny Dusmenil?" 
 
 " Exactly that. Do you know her? " 
 
 "Certainly. For some time she gave lessons to my 
 little niece. Beautiful creature! a beautiful morsel, I 
 swear to you. What eyes! What beautiful hands! and to 
 all that she adds talent, great talent indeed! Julius saw 
 her at my sister's house. One day she sent a message 
 notifying us that she could not come any more. No one 
 could guess the reason of such a resolve, but now it is all. 
 explained. Upon my word, nobody would have surmised 
 it. With her modest demeanor, she must be an old fox. 
 She must not be allowed to go umpunished. Where does, 
 she reside? " 
 
 " Near here, in Furstemberg street, I believe. " 
 
 " I will run there at once, " said Saint-Gilles raising. " 
 
 " Dear friend, I never doubt your interest in me and 
 in all that concerns me. Before taking any steps, I must 
 ask another favor. Instead of going to see this young 
 girl, who would surely complain of it to Julius, exagg- 
 erating your words, would not it be better to address your 
 remarks to my son? I hesitate to speak to him. He is 
 no more a boy; I cannot scold him, and in spite of my 
 love, I could with great difficulty decide to be a witness 
 to his blindness and to hear him praise the woman who 
 deceives him, for how we can believe in the virtue of a 
 woman who even for once has forgotten her duty? " 
 
 "It was my intention," answered Saint-Gilles," to 
 employ the quickest means to cut the evil at its root; but, 
 as you wish it, I will speak to Julius. It is impossible 
 that he, will not recollect himself. Did they tell you that 
 he intended to marry her? " 
 
 " No, but if perchance he were about to do so?" 
 
39 
 
 "OL! before all," rsplied Saint-Gillesv !' we must .not 
 trust this princess. I pretend (to be a good physiognomist, 
 and yet I would have given her the comB&ui&ioiaL without 
 confession. We have no time to lose; all these creatur.es 
 have a fondness for marriage. I hope Julius will open 
 his eyes. He is in love. Wery well; he, will fall in love 
 with his bride, who is also a beautiful woman, ; and after 
 eight days he will think of the other no more,. After all, 
 we have a last resource to dry the tears oS .his,. Ariadne. 
 What does she wish for? A position? money?, we will 
 give her half of what she asks, showing ourselves good 
 and setting the matter conveniently. With twenty to 
 twenty-five bills of a thousand each, all will, be mft&e. 
 right. With this sum we shall send this young, lady to 
 her penates and her music with variations, and after a, 
 time she will marry some , young artist, whom she will 
 make happy. I will take it into my hands and then 
 who shall know? Though I am not severe like you, I 
 think it really very probable and possible that she may 
 deceive Julius. I can easily believe that a woman, if 
 mistress of herself can veiy well avoid lovers, but as soon 
 I know she has a lover, I am justified in supposing her 
 with two lovers. We shall see; and while we are await- 
 ing the result, try to cheer -yourself. " 
 
 The conversation was pursued a little" further, and 
 Saint-Gilles persuaded Mrs. Valabert not tp alarm herself 
 for the time being, and to continue the negotiations with 
 the Countess. His arguments with Julius did not secure 
 the result desired. The reader will excuse us for not 
 repeating here the very excellent reasons he presented 
 and urged in speaking to Julius; it will be enough for him 
 to know that none of them were received with favor. 
 Saint-Gilles belonged to that class of persons who believe 1 
 in being useful to'others by giving them advice for which 
 they have not asked. 
 
40 
 
 The happy tranquillity of that family was completely 
 changed. Julius, fearing his mother's tears and prayers, 
 avoided her presence as mucli as possible, and, when 
 with her, kept a cold silence. Vainly Adele De Launay 
 endeavored to enliven the conversation. She showed 
 herself more than usually good, thoughtful and amiable, 
 but 110 explanation had ever taken place in her presence; 
 neither had she been admitted into confidence, so that, 
 granted that she did not know the cause of this coldness, 
 she was in 110 way authorized to provoke a decisive 
 explanation. Julius, on the other hand, had completely 
 concealed from Fanny the opposition he experienced 
 from his mother, whose mouth-piece was Saint-Gilles. 
 He strengthened himself in the resistance, always fearing 
 the moment when in a irrevocable manner he would be 
 obliged to signify his firm resolve. He hoped that Saint- 
 Gilles, acknowledging the inutility of his attempt and 
 tired of the struggle, would cease his annoyance. 
 
 In this false situation many days passed, but the 
 catastrophe was destined to come. One morning Mrs. 
 Valabcrt's house took on the appearance of festivity; the 
 servants were going and coming with a busy air. Julius, 
 on returning home at noon, noticed all this stir, and 
 was at a loss to know how to account for it. Just as he 
 was going to ask the reason of it, the door of the parlor 
 in which he was, opened. Mrs. Valabert was coming 
 from her apartments, dressed and in the act of going out. 
 
 Stopping before her son, she said to him: 
 
 " I am very glad to meet you. I hope that you will 
 have no engagement for this afternoon, and if you had 
 intended to go out, I beg you to sacrifice this evening to 
 itie, as I am expecting a numerous company." 
 
 "Whom?" 
 
 ' Many friends among whom will be the Countess of 
 
41 
 
 Septeuil and her daughter." "Madam!" interrupt- 
 ed Julius. 
 
 But his mother, who had spoken these words almost 
 hurriedly, as one who could see no reason for objection, 
 had already crossed the parlor. A servant came to tell 
 her that the carriage was ready. 
 
 In his first emotion of surprise, Julius had let her go. 
 Immediately he understood that, by disposing of him in 
 such a way, his affectionate mother had made the last 
 effort. Thus he would have been under the necessity of 
 letting others believe in his silent approval, or by refusing 
 to be present to break all the negotiations, which could 
 be considered bad manners, and would have compromis- 
 ed even his* mother. And yet this was the only course 
 left to him. 
 
 This elaborate snare, so easily to be avoided, in which 
 they were trying to entrap him, was more unbearable 
 than serious and strong obstacles. He had seated himself, 
 pondering how to act. Julius thought himself alone, and 
 was amazed to feel a hand laid on the back of his easy 
 chair, while a sweet voice thus spoke: 
 
 "You are sad, cousin; is it not true? " 
 
 Julius turned and saw Mrs. De Launay gazing at him 
 with interest. 
 
 " How long have you been there? " lie asked. " I do 
 not remember have seen you come in. " 
 
 "I was in your mother's room. I arrived just when 
 she left the drawing-room, but lovers have neither ears 
 nor eyes, and I am not offended at your absentmindedness. 
 All your attention must be given to HER. " 
 
 "Then you know all?" 
 
 "Yes; this evening party had already been arranged 
 four days ago. It is a little plot prepared by Mr. Saint- 
 Gilles, to which my cousin has given her consent. Neither 
 the former nor the latter will believe that your love is 
 deep and sincere. " 
 
42 
 
 " And you believe it to be so? " 
 
 "I? I ought to have been a diviner, as neither you 
 nor your mother ever spoke to me of it. All that I do 
 know I have learned from your sadness and from some 
 few words heard by chance or willingly listen to. " 
 
 " If they had consulted you, what would have been 
 your answer? " 
 
 " I should have refused to enter this plot. " 
 
 " Why? " 
 
 " Because one cannot betray one's allies. " 
 
 " Then you pity me? " 
 
 " If I had not, would you see me here? " 
 
 " Kind Adele, I am suffering; yes, I am unhappy. " 
 
 " And, nevertheless, you love and are loved? " 
 
 " Without a shadow of doubt." 
 
 u What else do you want? A happiness which only 
 depends upon yourself! Listen to me: I always thought 
 that women, better than men, know how to love, because 
 when they feel a strong passion, they do not look at the 
 difficulties and are ready to defy death, while you men do 
 not know how to bear a moment of embarrassment or of 
 shame. " 
 
 "You are right; I am feeble, and I fear to bring afflic- 
 tion on my mother." 
 
 " Or, perhaps, to repent yourself some day? " 
 
 " Oh! never, never! if you know her!" 
 
 " Speak to me, then, with open heart. I fear that all 
 that I am now to do or to say may be wrong. I ought to 
 remain neutral. But a friend will be allowed to ask for 
 your confidence, when another has taken upon himself 
 the right of torturing you without consulting you. Answer 
 me, then. Is she beautiful?" 
 
 " Without her I cannot live." 
 
 " She is beautiful, yes, without doubt, but I meant to 
 
43 
 
 say remarkably beautiful " 
 
 " More so than yourself, my cousin; " but he soon added, 
 " at least I believe so " 
 
 " Are you sure of it? and do you not deceive me? Has 
 she spirit? " 
 
 " Very much indeed and, joined with simplicity, that 
 spirit which comes from the heart, like yours, cousin. " 
 
 " Pray do not use me as a comparison, " answered 
 Adele smiling, " and I am not questioning you to hear 
 her praises. After all, you love her, and this is the main 
 point. Are you sure that she also loves you, and that she 
 never loved another? Is she virtuous? " 
 
 " He who would try to say the contrary must prove his 
 word or I should have his life. " 
 
 11 Oh friend! if your heart would be completely free and 
 you would be the absolute master in choosing a wife 
 could you dare to hope to have in her united, talents 
 spirit, virtue? and because you have been so fortunate as 
 to find such a woman and to possess such a treasure, you 
 spurn it! And what for? Julius search your heart. Have 
 you never reproached her with the love you have inspir- 
 ed in her?" 
 
 " Can you judge me so unjust? No; Fanny, in my eyes, 
 is the most virtuous woman in all the world. " 
 
 "Marry her, then, and do not ask me for advice. " 
 
 " I shall take advice only by myself, my good cousin. 
 My present embarassmeiit lies in finding a way to break 
 this projected marriage. " 
 
 " It is your own fault. Why have you not spoken a 
 month ago? 
 
 " I am well decided not to appear this evening, but how 
 shall I avoid a scandal? " 
 
 " I do not see any way. The rupture ought to come 
 from the Countess, not from you. Were I you, I would 
 
44 
 
 not worry myself until to-night. Yes, on my word. Who 
 Isnows but some good angel will watch over you? Often, 
 just when we feel very unhappy, we find ourselves near 
 to happiness. Hope! these moments of tranquillity will 
 Le so many stolen from future grief, and perhaps even 
 these last will not come. " 
 
 Before Julius, who shared not this confidence, could 
 ask her what cause inspired her with it, the drawing- 
 room door opened and Mrs. Valabert came in. She had 
 a serious and preoccupied mien, and was crumpling in 
 her hand a letter which had arrived in her absence and 
 which had been given her by the porter on her return. 
 
 " My son," she said, in a voice which hardly concealed 
 her emotion, " you are free and master of your evening. 
 Lady Septeuil writes me that she is not able to accept 
 my invitation. Send a servant to Mr. Saint- (lilies, and, 
 if he is at home, tell him to call as soon as possible," 
 and she departed, murmuring a few words that her son 
 was not able to understand. 
 
 This second apparition, so different from the first, 
 amazed Julius. Glancing at his cousin, he said: 
 
 " Adele, what were you saying a little while ago; that 
 the rupture ought to come from Mrs. de Septeuil? But 
 this seems a true rupture; you, perhaps, were cognizant 
 otit?" 
 
 " I had hoped for it. " 
 
 " The angel who was watching over me was then you? " 
 
 u Hush! " said she, " be silent! " 
 
 He replied in a low voice: ' But how it happened all 
 this? Please explain yoursef, that [ may be able to 
 thank you. " 
 
 <( What I have done is of little importance. I will tell 
 you about it later, if you will be so good as not to reproach 
 me with having guessed what you had not told me. Now 
 
45 
 
 let us part not a word more, not a sign nor a look of 
 intelligence. I saw you so unhappy, here is the excuse 
 and explanation of my conduct; to morrow, or in a few 
 days, you will entreat your mother, and she, perhaps, will 
 be moved by your prayer. Do not vaste your time with 
 me, go to HER; go, friend, and love her always because 
 she is worthy of you. Good bye. " 
 
 Mrs. Valabert's pride had been offended by the action 
 of the Countess; and the latter was too proud to retract. 
 All the diplomacy of Mr. Saint-Gilles failed to bring 
 about a renewal of the negotiations. Mrs. De Launay 
 fearing sooner or later she might be involved in these 
 family discussions, went into the country for a few days, 
 to the residence of a friend of Julius' mother. 
 
 Julius was not able immediately to obtain the consent 
 he asked for. Every time Mrs. Valabert was moved by 
 her son's prayers, Saint-Gilles, who had considered as his 
 own business the rupture of this marriage, reproached 
 her with her feebleness. Saint-Gilles had not been able to 
 put in execution his first scheme of addressing himself 
 to Fanny, because Julius w r as continually with her. Fi- 
 nally frightened at the anxiety and agitation of her son, 
 Mrs. Valabert yielded on condition that she should not 
 see her daughter-in-law. Julius at about twenty leagues 
 from Paris, owned a villa which was comprised in his 
 father's estate. The interesting condition of Fanny not 
 permitting him to present her in society, he had resolved 
 to take her to this little country residence. In. order to 
 announce her the day fixed for the marriage and make 
 known to her his last arrangements, he went, as usual, to 
 the house in Furstemberg street. 
 
 Occupied with his thoughts, he was walking rapidly 
 Just as he was nearing the door of Fanny's house, he 
 encountered upon a youn^ man issuing from it. While 
 
ringing the bell, his heart was trobbing. He reproached 
 himself for the injurious .suspicions continually torturing 
 him in spite of his love. On entering, it seemed, to him 
 that Marion was confused and that Fanny blushed when 
 he narrated his encounter, but he ended by being asham- 
 ed of his jealous suspicions, and soon restored by Fanny's 
 tender and affectionate looks, he forgot all to think only 
 of the near future which promised to be so calm and 
 happy. The villa to which he intended to take his wife 
 had not been inhabited for three years. It was necessary 
 to put it in order. It was agreed that Julius should go 
 alone and remain absent from Paris for eight days, the 
 time to complete the preparations. 
 
 From the moment when they had begun to love each 
 other, this was their first separation, and although it 
 would last no long, the parting was as painful as if they 
 were never to meet again. 
 
 On his return to Paris, Julius Valabert received the 
 anonymous letter copied by Ternisien, the address of 
 which, as stated in the first chapter, had been written by 
 a different person. 
 
47 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE TRIAL. 
 
 Seated in the same room where we saw her before, 
 Fanny let her eyes sadly wander from the window to the 
 door, listening to every noise and showing in her features 
 fear rather than hope. Do you remember with what joy 
 she had been animated when Julius brought her the 
 announcement of his resolve? Why, instead, we do find 
 her so sad to-day? Because the nearer the time appoint- 
 ed for her nuptials approached, the more she felt her 
 heart oppressed by a fatal presentiment. Eight days had 
 already passed since Julius' departure, and this absence, 
 the first she experienced, had left her alone with the fears 
 of her heart without defense, and at the same time expos- 
 ed her to some intrigues which had poisoned her solitude. 
 
 The day following the departure of Julius, a gentleman 
 whom she remembered to have seen previously at the 
 house of her young pupil, Miss Saint-Gilles, had called on 
 her and without preamble or formality had spoken to her 
 of the schemes of Julius' family, of the brilliant hopes 
 destroyed by his love for her, of the grief that every one 
 had felt and the pain with which they had consented to 
 this union, and finally he mentioned a last hope founded 
 on Far.ny's generosity, that she might persuade Julius 
 himself to consent to what was wished from him. Saint- 
 Gilles did not forget to adorn his speech with nattering 
 words and praises: Fanny would be esteemed by every- 
 body; no one would be surprised to hear that she herself 
 learning of the existing difficulties, had sacrificed her own 
 love to the future happiness of Julius; that all knew her 
 
48 
 
 to be so unselfish as not to hesitate hefore such a sacrifice. 
 They knew also that she was so sincere in her love that 
 she would prefer the interests of Julius to her own. All 
 these things had Leen spoken cautiously hut with a tune 
 in which one could easily perceive the skepticim of a 
 wordly man, ready to deny every kind of true and sublime 
 affection. There still remained the last alternative, that 
 of pecuniary compensation in exchange for so many 
 destroyed hopes. Although Saint-Gilles had relied very 
 much upon the strenght of this argument, he dare not 
 speak of it. Fanny's demeanor had made such an im- 
 pression 011 him as to prevent him from uttering the 
 words, "pecuniary compensation. " Saint-Gilles took his 
 leave without receiving a positive answer, but obtained 
 from her a promise to let him know her decision. 
 
 The following day, after a night of wakefulness and 
 fever, she sent him a note containing these simple words: 
 " Address yourself to Julius. " Thus the negotiations were 
 sent again to the same field on which he had always been 
 beaten. These attempts, this appeal to her generosity 
 and this exaggerated picture of Mrs. Valabert's grief 
 destroyed Fanny's confidence by showing the present 
 full of struggles and dangers, the future dark and un- 
 certain For the first tims she paused to ponder on the 
 intrigues and plots of every kind which a powerful and 
 also ambitious family might organize against her. She 
 had been unable to give a very clear answer to Mr. Saint- 
 Gilles, because she dare not to reveal to this railer the 
 sacred motive which made it a duty for her to resist his 
 insinuations. 
 
 " If instead of this man, " she said to herself, "Julius' 
 mother, with eyes full of tears, had come in person to me, 
 I w r ould have thrown myself to her feet and spoken thus: 
 ' Pity, and do not despise me. If it w r ere only a question 
 
49 
 
 of my happines, I would sacrifice it without hesitation, 
 if I had only to renounce Julius, although I love him 
 with all the strenght of my soul, I would depart, I would 
 hide myself, and neither you, nor he, nor any living 
 person would hear of me again. Perhaps finally he would 
 be able to forget me and might some day be happy, aiul 
 you enjoying his happiness, would think of me absent, 
 and in your heart thank me, and this thought will bring 
 consolation. But, alas! if I should act in such a manner; 
 another voice w r ould rise to accuse rne, a being dear to 
 me whom I must love as you, madam, love your son, 
 would ask of me an account of a sacrifice which would 
 deprive him of a name, of a family, of a future, and you, 
 yourself, who are so good, would you advise me to become 
 a bad mother?' " 
 
 Carried away by her grief for an instant, she thought 
 of going to Mrs. Valabert, to declare all to her and place 
 herself under her protection, but was prevented by shame. 
 If she had been acquainted with Mrs. De Launay, that 
 friend so sincere and indulgent, whose generous act Julius 
 had narrated to her, she would have confided in her and 
 thought herself safe. Timidity detained her. 
 
 Thus for eight mortal days, alone, a prey to her fears, 
 she saw no other help than Julius, who was absent, and 
 whose weakness of character she dreaded. How many 
 varied tortures afflicted her mind, always disposed to 
 exaggerate evil! The humiliation she expected and the 
 repentance that Julius would perhaps experience when 
 his passion had abated, would leave him under the 
 ascendancy of his mother. Perhaps, also, that jealousy 
 which he was unable to control, would, some day, bring 
 him to suspect her who had not known how to resist his 
 seductions because, strange as it is, ladies are always 
 punished for their sins by the same persons for whose 
 
50 
 
 sake they sin, and who gather in the fruit of their crim.3 
 
 in this manner, after the infatuation of her passion, 
 Fanny was experiencing the first trial of life, and, instead 
 of peace and happiness in her soul, she met doubts and 
 Ifears at every step. 
 
 As a last refuge, there remained to her the remem- 
 brance and thought of Julius. She plunged so deep into 
 it as to forget everything else. Had she been possessed 
 of cooler blood, or, better, had she a more complete 
 knowledge of evil and of the advantage that slander takes 
 of every circumstances even the most trivial, she would 
 have anticipated by her explanation the unhappy cir- 
 cumstances which might cloud her reputation. She 
 would have felt the necessity of giving an account and 
 explaining another mysterious visit she had received 
 after that of Saint-Gilles. Her love made her forget all 
 tl is, her only thoughts being of her Julius. 
 
 At last, as we have said, the eight days of Julius' ab- 
 sence were past. She was waiting for him, when she 
 Was aroused by a sharp pull at the door-bell. 
 
 " Here he comes! " she cried and ran to the door. 
 
 Julius entered. 
 
 Fanny's joy was of short duration; Julius seemed not 
 the same man. His face was fearful pale, his eyes glaring, 
 his lips trembling. She tried to speak, but courage failed, 
 and in silence she stood gazing at him. Without utter- 
 ing a single word, he shut the door and hurriedly crossed 
 the room. Fanny followed him. 
 
 Julius cast at her a dreadful glance, which seemed to 
 Knetrate her heart. One of his hands, placed under 
 his coat, was agitated by a convulsive movement. With 
 Che other he seized Fanny by the arm, forcing her to 
 remain at his side. 
 
 " What ails you? Julius you frighten me. " 
 
51 
 
 " Sit down" he answered with a gloomy and threaten- 
 ing voice. 
 
 She sat down mechanically, subdued by that command 
 and the gesture by which it was accompanied. 
 
 Julius had made an unspeakable effort to overcome the 
 emotion which oppressed him. He was no longer able 
 to restrain himself. For a few moments he was silent, 
 as if collecting himself to enjoy at his leisure the con- 
 tinually increasing agitation of the unfortunate Fanny. 
 Then, without even ceasing to stare at her, as if he wished 
 to test her, he coldly and briefly said : 
 
 " So then you have deceived me?" 
 
 The poor girl, dumb with amazement, threw herself 
 back. In her turn she felt the words dying on her iips> 
 and her voice strangled in her throat. 
 
 Julius, who yet held her by the hand, and who saw her 
 cast down by such unexpected accusation, shook her 
 fiercely, and with a tune full of rage, continued: " Answer, 
 answer me! " 
 
 Vainly he endeavored to awaken her out of that dread- 
 ful dream. She answered no more, inasmuch as the 
 thought of being adjudged guilty had never occurred to 
 her mind. All her preceding fears were justified; the 
 intrigues, the plots she dreaded came to attack her. Fear- 
 ful suspicion! Julius, perhaps loved her no more; Julius, 
 conquered by the prayers of his family and in compact 
 with them was now searching for a pretest for a rupture. 
 A fearful abyss had opened at her feet, and she had fallen 
 into it. Julius afraid of such an easy triumph, repressing 
 himself, thus continued: 
 
 "I shall try to be calm. Listen to me. This inter- 
 view, perhaps, will be the last one between us; if you 
 cannot justify yourself, it will be an everlasting rupture, 
 but I shall not judge without having first heard yon. If 
 
52 
 
 you have deceived mr?, you were very guilty, because I 
 had perfect confidence in you; I would have been asham- 
 ed of watching your conduct. I loved you and to you I 
 would have sacrificed all, friends, fortune, mother " 
 
 Fanny made a movement. Finally she understood that 
 she was accused of infamy and baseness. Blushes suffused 
 her face and her cheeks, and when Julius asked her for 
 an answer, she, this time purposely remained silent because 
 she felt wounded in her virtue. 
 
 Another pause followed, and Julius began: 
 
 " Speak to me frankly, Fanny. Am I the only person 
 
 who has put the feet in this apartment? Think well. 
 
 Have you received any other? 
 
 " Ah! if that is the question," she replied, "yes; an- 
 other person has been here whom you know, one of your 
 friends, Mr. Saint-Gilles. " 
 
 <k Saint-Gilles! " said Julius, completely astonished. 
 
 " By his remarks he prepared me for this altercation. " 
 
 " He? He must explain to me his way of acting. It is 
 not of him that I am speaking; you do not speak to me 
 of another man whose mysterious call has been revealed 
 to me. " 
 
 "Ah! " answered Fanny, "what has been reported 
 to you? " 
 
 'This is what I have heard," cried Julius, rumpling a 
 paper which he took from his breast: It has been nar- 
 rated to me that during my absence, the d;;y before 
 yesterday, in the evening, a young man wrapped in a 
 cloak hud entered your house, secretly introduced by 
 Marion; that he had left two hours after; that this young 
 gentleman had called often, though you had never tpokeii 
 to me of it; lastly that he had known you before me, that 
 he loved you, and that you were to marry him. Js all 
 this true? It is necessary that I should tell you his name ?" 
 
53 
 
 " It is needless, " replied Fanny with dignity: " who 
 gave you these particulars? " 
 
 " This letter, " said Julius, " can you contradict it? " 
 
 ''Who signed it?" 
 
 " Signed it is not, but what care 1 if it tells the truth?" 
 
 " An anonymous letter! " said she with contempt; and 
 you trust it? A vily denunciation has in your heart a 
 stronger influence than the thousand proofs of love which 
 I gave you? You have for me so much esteem that the 
 first comer can slander and calumniate me without being 
 forced to answer for his saying? Ah! sir, what future are 
 you preparing for both of us? " 
 
 " Instead of accusing, defend yourself. If the author 
 of this letter has stated a falsehood, I will discover him, 
 and I swear by heaven I will punish him. But if, instead ) 
 he has opened my eyes in regard to you and to a perfidy 
 of which I would have been the victim, then he is a friend 
 -and it is my duty to thank him. Hear what he writes, 
 and afterward tell me which name he deserves. " 
 
 Opening the paper, with a chocking voice he read: 
 
 "Sir: A person who takes an interest in you, but who 
 " wishes not to expose himself to the hatred of any one, 
 " thinks it his duty to take the veil of the anonymous to 
 "enligthen. you about a woman who is on the point of 
 <4 receiving your name. I do not know whether you 
 " were the first in her affection, but I do know that you are 
 " not the first that ought to have led her to the altar. A 
 young man of her own place, united to her by a friendship 
 of long standing, was deeply in love with her and he 
 " ought to marry her. This union cannot be compared 
 "" with the one you offer her. She had to renounce him, but 
 " in doing so she has not ceased to see him. At the 
 '"beginning of your acquaintance, he presented himself 
 " at her house. Afterward he called again; once you met 
 
54 
 
 " him before the door, and now that he is obliged to 
 11 depart, she has received his farewell. Your absence^ 
 " from Paris favored this last meeting. Yesterday evening, 
 "Mr. Ernest Gairal, with many precautions, entered her 
 "house, and after two hours he left. " 
 
 " Forever/' exclaimed Fanny, rising, " forever!" 
 
 " You then confess that he has come?" 
 
 '* Yes, please now listen to me." 
 
 " No, nothing! nothing!" replied Julius, raging, 
 
 " Listen. One condemns a person, then, without 
 allowing her to answer? I am innocent. I was wrong in 
 keeping it a secret because of your jealousy, which I 
 feared. This young man had been choosen for my 
 husband by my father. For him I did not experience 
 either hatred or love. I left my birthplace without even 
 telling him. He came here once to remind me of the 
 intentions of our respective families, and I did not give 
 him any hope, although I did not then know you. He 
 loved me, it is true; that he returned to visit me is also 
 true; and the day before yesterday he again returned. I 
 did not conceal from him my love for you, or your gen- 
 erous conduct, nor the destiny which awaits me. He left 
 me resigned, and, as I told you, forever. For me, deai% 
 this visit had no importance; it came unexpectedly, and 
 if I have not spoken to you before, it is only because it- 
 passed away from my mind. " 
 
 This defence, so simple, had destroyed, little by little, 
 almost all the suspicions of Julius. In proportion as she 
 spoke, the confusion and agitation of his heart faded 
 away to give place to the shame of having shown himself 
 so cruel. Moved by the sincere tone of these explanations, 
 he was already prepared to fall at the feet of that woman 
 who had once more become his idol, when his eyes rested 
 on the end of the letter, which he had not yet read. He 
 wished for a final trial. 
 
55 
 
 "Forgive me, Fanny. I ccsk you a thousand 
 if I have wronged you or suspected you unjustly. My 
 excessive love made me unjust. Be not provoked at my 
 anger. The secrets hidden by you may serve as an excuse 
 for this moment of rage. Do you forgive me?" 
 
 She placed one of her hands on her heart, and offering 
 the other, which he covered with kisses, said: 
 
 " Ah! Julius, what pain you have given me! I should 
 never have thought I could suffer so much without dying/* 
 
 " Now, "he added; " as a guarantee of this reconciliation 1 , 
 give me the token which till now you have refused the 
 ring, the only souvenir of your mother. The more dear 
 it is to your heart the more acceptable to me will : thfe 
 sacrifice be. " 
 
 Fanny answered, smiling: " Have you forgotten what 
 I have already told you? Why this so earnest desire? 
 And what high value could it have to you? " 
 
 " Does it not contain the hair of my Fanny hair taken 
 from her head when a child? Do not refuse it to me, I 
 entreat you. I know where you keep it. It is in a little 1 
 casket at the bottom of the first drawer of this secretaire. 
 Please give me the key. " 
 
 His looks were always sweet and affectionate, but his 
 voice trembled and had a strange tone of rage. Fanny 
 perceived it. 
 
 " Oh! " she said, " you are asking for your pardon. " : '' 
 
 She hid the key in her bosom and withdrew a few steps. 
 
 "I do wish it, " cried Julius, giving free course to the 
 anger he had restrained with so much difficulty. <c 'I : do 
 wish this key, I need it, even if I must wring it from yon : . " 
 
 " Always suspicions. " 
 
 " Always some mystery! ;; 
 
 H Well, then, I shall disclose you everything, if :: *I] 
 now I have refused to you to open my secretaire, fi $*J3 
 
50 
 
 jMily because in it you would find some accounts, some 
 documents which would have revealed to you that instead 
 of living upon an income bequeated to me, as I always 
 told you, I lived by my labor. I did not confess the truth 
 to you, because I was too proud to accept your gifts. Have 
 i committed a crime? and those who have written to you 
 will they yet maintain that I am a woman moved by 
 interest? " 
 
 "Then you could deceive me fot so long a time, and 
 you could repeat to me this falsehood so many times 
 without my dectecting it, so great was the sincerity which 
 shone in your face, so innocent was your mouth, as it is 
 at this very moment, in which you are again deceiving 
 me." So saying, he wrong the key from her hands. 
 
 Amazed by such violence, Fanny fell senseless into the 
 arm-chair. Julius opened the secretaire, then the drawer 
 and the casket but the ring was not there. 
 
 " Ah! " he exclaimed, " I was quite sure of it. " 
 
 At these words, Fanny recovered her consciousness, 
 fcaii to the secretaire and also began to search. 
 
 " My ring! my ring!" 
 
 " Disappeared! " 
 
 "Stolen!" 
 
 " Yes, stolen, " repeated Julius, and violently seizing 
 the girl by the arm, he thrust the letter before her eyes 
 and finished reading it aloud: 
 
 " The proof, sir, that all the relations between that 
 <' woman and her first love are not ended, the proof that 
 " they loved each other and that Gairal's departure had 
 '' for its purpose only to facilitate an advantageous marr- 
 iage, is in the fact that before they parted, she wished 
 <' him to accept a family ring which had belonged to her 
 " mother, which she jealously kept, and in which was 
 "enclosed her hair. " 
 
. 57 
 
 " Well pursued Julius, " Will you deny it HOW? This 
 ring you had refused me; the key, too, you were refusing 
 not long ago. Knavery on knavery! Falsehood on false- 
 hood! Treachery on treachery ! 
 
 " Marion, " cried Fanny. 
 
 " Ah, you well know that she is not at home. I alone 
 will answer you. I curse you and hate the day in which 
 I was acquainted with you. Farewell! farewell! Say to 
 your lover that he can return. " 
 
 In departing, he cast a last look at Fanny. She was 
 lying on the floor immovable, pale in a state near to death 
 He made a few steps to help her, but his feelings of anger 
 and contempt returning, he called an old woman, her 
 neighbor, and after pointing out to her the fainted Fanny: 
 
 " Take care of that woman! "he said, and, throwing 
 her a purse filled with gold, disappeared. 
 
V. 
 
 THE AUTOGRAPH. 
 
 At the moment in which Romeo receives from the 
 servant, Balthazar, the news of Juliet's death, he pronoun- 
 ces these simple words: " Indeed! Now, enemies star-?, I 
 challenge you!" and afterwards buys the poison. This 
 deep grief, so parcimonious of complaint, impresses more 
 than any exciting paraphrase. In fact, our nature usually 
 takes interest in the doings of our fellows, whatever they 
 aim at, and sometimes even when their sentiments and 
 feelings are not in harmony with ours. This interest lasts 
 while hope supports it and uncertainty delays the result, 
 but from the moment in which his destiny is accomplish- 
 ed, it is necessary that he in whom we were interested 
 spare us his joy or grief. A settled matter excites our 
 attention no longer. We, too, will spare our readers the 
 description of Julius Valabert's mental sufferings. 
 
 After the dreadful scene we have narrated, we will pass 
 over an interval of eighteen months, and we shall find him 
 one year married, and at the moment in which the wife 
 opening the door of his office, with a sweet and timid 
 voice says to him: 
 
 " Excuse me if I am intruding, but the person you send 
 for has arrived. Do you wish to receive him now, or do 
 you prefer he should wait. " 
 
 Julius had married his kind cousin Adele De Launay 
 Very few words are necessary to explain the change which 
 had taken place in the respective position of these two 
 persons. 
 
 As a result of the rupture with Fanny, a violent fever 
 

 59 
 
 had endangered the life of Julius. He would certainly 
 has r e died without the constant care of his mother and 
 Adele. Friendship and love had restored him to life. 
 A deep sadness and protracted languor followed his de- 
 lirium; without opposition he allowed himself to be car- 
 ried to the country, where, according to the doctor's opi- 
 nion, the pure, fresh air would restore his energy, and 
 where the sight of new objects would cancel, little by little 
 the remembrance of the sad event. In company with his 
 mother and cousin, he went to the neighborhood of Lyons. 
 There was a moment when they thought to have the 
 company of Saint-Gilles, but the presence of this gentle- 
 man was obnoxious to Julius, who did not doubt that the 
 anonymous letter was his work, although inwardly he 
 sincerely thanked him for having enlightened him. All 
 that reminded him of the infamous treachery, caused 
 painful and grievous emotion. Perhaps in his heart, he 
 had nattered himself with the expectation of receiving 
 a letter from Fanny, in which she should try to justify 
 herself. However, he had not heard from her; all those 
 who approached him kept silent, and Julius, blushing 
 and ashamed of his weakness, dare not to confide in any 
 one of his friends. 
 
 Thus he left Paris hiding in himself the dumb grief 
 which gnawed within, too offended to think of a recon- 
 ciliation and to deeply in love to unbosom his gr'ef to 
 others. 
 
 But every hour which passes pours a drop of balm into 
 the most painful wound, and every day which dies takes 
 away one of the thorns which make the heart bleed. 
 During the first few months passed in the country, Julius 
 felVno sensible improvement. The days were excessively 
 hot and the sultry nights were too oppressive for his 
 feeble constitution. The flowers, which were in all their 
 
60 
 
 beauty, their perfumes, the golden fruits of the earth, the 
 plains covered with verdure, the thick foliage of the 
 woods, that powerful germ of life which abundantly 
 circulated in nature, all these beauties of the sky and the 
 earth, oppressed him as a stinging irony, as a complete 
 contrast with the desolation and the dryness of his soul, 
 in which nothing grew except a bitter agony which he 
 persisted in keeping hidden. However, little by little, 
 flowers withered, autumn appeared with its train of 
 shadows and air filled with dew, with its pale sun shin- 
 ing through fogs as a smile through tears .Julius felt his 
 intense grief partially dispelled. The sadness and mourn- 
 ing of the objects which sorrounded him harmonized 
 with his own sadness and invited him to confidences. 
 
 His solitary walks were replaced by others with his 
 mother and Adele De Launay, and between the latter and 
 himself a greater intimacy began. The woman who had 
 once foreseen his desires, who had shared his hopes, ought 
 she not naturally to be the first to console him? Only 
 with her he dared to speak of Fanny. In these long 
 private conversations, which became of daily occurrence, 
 in those prolonged communings by the fire in the even- 
 ings, she narrated by what means she had caused the 
 rupture of his marriage with Miss de Septeuil; how 
 without any one knowing it, an act justified by her int- 
 ention, she had in her hand the thread of that intrigue; 
 how by means of suspicions dexterously insinuated she 
 had prepared the Countess for the first refusal; how, at 
 the same time, having learned that Miss Septeuil, with 
 no love for Julius, only obeyed her mother, taking ad- 
 vantage of that first moment of spite, she had advised a 
 prior suitor to renew his courtship. From confidence to 
 confidence she ended by revealing to him a secret that 
 she had concealed from all in order not to add her own 
 
61 
 
 griefs to those which Julius already suffered. She had 
 not wished to take for herself any of the consolations due 
 to him. Mr. De Launay had died, and that sad intelli- 
 gence had heen received hy Adele a little before the time 
 when Julius had thought he was betrayed in his love. 
 Julius was never tired of admiring such inexhaustible 
 kindness, always ready to sacrifice for others. This 
 treasure at this moment belonged to no one. Their in- 
 terviews becoming longer and more frequent, and without 
 having lost any of their intimacy and pleasure, were 
 sometimes timid and embarassing, both for him and fo'r 
 her. Fanny's name was no longer so frequently spoken, 
 and, one evening Julius holding his cousin's hands and 
 fixing on her glances which troubled her, asked her if 
 she would finish the work begun, and reconcile him com- 
 pletely to life, granting the happiness he had never known. 
 
 " We have both suffered, " said he. u Married to a man 
 who was not able to appreciate you, you had patience and 
 resignation: I, on the contrary, experienced violent and 
 strong passions. To day, both free, you from an im- 
 posed chain, I from my error, we feel the need of a quiet 
 and sincere affection. Be mine, if not from love at least 
 from pity, and I will be grateful to you for it. " 
 
 Without answer on her part two months later Adele 
 had married her cousin. 
 
 The year following their marriage was spent in the 
 country. Mrs. Valabert's death strengthened these ties. 
 
 At the beginning of the winter, they returned to Paris. 
 Julius resumed his occupation, for a long time int3rrupt- 
 ed, and searched for relief from those sorrows of which 
 the stings had not yet disappeared, in work rather than 
 in the pleasures of luxury and of the world. Saint-Gilles, 
 during this long absence of Julius, had resumed his old 
 habits. He rarely called on him, and obedient to Adele's 
 
prayers, had always avoided speaking of the doleful past. 
 
 To the work which had usually kept Valabert busy, had 
 been added others, viz: the putting in order of family 
 papers, the examination of the titles of succession, the 
 copying of letters and other papers. He had, therefore, 
 given orders to search for an honest and reliable man to 
 whom could be entrusted a little work, and as we have 
 .said at the beginning of this chapter, his wife had an- 
 nounced to him the arrival of that man. 
 
 To the question, " Do you wish to receive him? ' Va- 
 labert had answered with an affirmative nod. 
 
 " Dear, " added his wife, "would you permit me to 
 remain present? " 
 
 " Without doubt; but what inspire you with this desire? 
 It is only a question of figures and documents, and in 
 .all probability the conversation will be very wearisome. " 
 
 " I spoke for a moment to the person introduced to you, 
 and, if i do not mistake, he is an original lull of many 
 pleasant fancies. " 
 
 " Wery well ; judge him for yourself. Let him come in. " 
 
 An old man presented himself, and his entrance 
 justified the words of Mrs. Valabert. Arrived on the 
 threshold of the room, he saluted them in an awkward 
 way and with an exaggerated politeness. With both hands 
 he removed an old hat, the edges of which were broken, 
 and by a hasty movement of his head in bending it to the 
 knees, he had caused to descend over his forehead the 
 torn edge of a dirty silken skull-cap. As if this ridi- 
 culeous salutation were not enough, he repeated it three 
 times at intervals, each time advancing two steps, without 
 perceiving that Mrs. Valabert and her husband were mak- 
 ing useless efforts to restrain their laughter. As soon as 
 the poor man had ended his genuflexions, he raised him- 
 self up, casting around timid and humble glances. 
 
Suddenly his face assumed an expression of astonishment, 
 and he stood before Valabert with open mouth and dis- 
 tended eyes. Adele watched this inexplicable pantomime, 
 when her husband, his thoughts returning to by-gone 
 times, exclaimed: 
 
 "Ternisien!" 
 
 " Mr. Valabert! " answered the ex- professor. "How! 
 you have had the kindness to remember my face? Have 
 yet not entirely forgotten him who taught you the prin- 
 ciples of an art which is now spurned, and of which 
 perhaps I am the last representative? The times were 
 very different when I used to come to give you lessons in 
 St. Honore street, where your father lived. It is now 
 eighteen years since I saw you last, and I remember you 
 always because you were kind and affectionate to your 
 professor. I beg pardon, madam, for thus speaking in 
 your presence, instead of waiting the permission of your 
 husband, but thinking of that time, I seem to become 
 younger. Look here, madam, you must not pay attention 
 to my dress. This morning, in order to come to you, I 
 have brushed and darned these rags as best as I could, 
 but they, I know very well, are old and in bad shape. On 
 entering I felt ashamed, and if you had not been present, 
 I am almost sure your servants would have thrown me out 
 like a beggar. Then I become confused and made very 
 humble salutations that I might be forgiven my presence 
 and intrusion into these rich, splendid apartments. Once 
 I, too, knew how to present myself properly, madam, and 
 I have punished many young ladies, rich and beautiful 
 like yourself. " 
 
 Adele smiled kindly, which finally put Ternisien at 
 his easy. 
 
 " Truly," replied Julius, " I am happy and glad to meet 
 you again. 
 
64 
 
 ' And T, too/' answered Ternisien. " Well I can see 
 you are not changed; always good and without pride. As 
 you take away all my embarrassment, I shall ask per- 
 mission to sit near the fire while you explain how I may 
 serve you. It is long since I have seen a fire in my room 
 excepting the blaze of the candle, and that only when, on 
 account of economy, I do not go to bed at twilight. " 
 
 So saying Ternisien took a chair and seating himself 
 without ceremony, totally forgetful of manners, extended 
 his feet on the fender, while, with his two elbows resting 
 on his knees, he stretched out his meagre aud wrinkled 
 hands toward the fire. 
 
 Julius Valabert, who found his professor as he had left 
 him, simple and full of kindness, was gazing at him with 
 true pleasure. 
 
 " Poor Ternisien!" he said to him. "I see that you 
 have not been happy, but as you remember me, why have 
 you not called on me? In every case, you would have 
 been kindly received. " 
 
 " Yes, perhaps I was wrong; but you, used to riches, 
 know one side of almsgiving. To give when one wishes 
 it and can afford it, is very easy, but to ask is more 
 difficult. " 
 
 " After all, I thank chance that has at last united us 
 again. Here is some work for a few weeks, and I hope 
 you will not refuse that I shall fix the price myself. " 
 
 " We will fix it together. The little talent which I have 
 is completely at your disposal. " 
 
 " You, perhaps, live near here, as I had ordered that 
 before looking elsewhere they should search in our ward. " 
 
 " Yes, Hive inalittle room at No. 4 Furstemberg street." 
 
 Ternisien did not perceive the profound impression 
 his answer produced on Julius and his wife. A pause of 
 a few minutes followed, taking advantage of which Vala- 
 
65 
 
 bert and Adele, in whom these words had awakened 
 the same remembrances, exchange between themselves- 
 furtive glances. 
 
 " Let us see, Mr. Julius, how I can serve you. " 
 Valabert placed before the eyes of Ternisien a file of 
 papers which were to be copied. Having agreed upon 
 the price, Ternisien was ready to depart, but Julius de- 
 tained him. He feared to question him, and at the same 
 time he wished that he would speak. These two words 
 "Furstemberg street," resounded in his ears. If his wife 
 had been absent, he would have directly questioned his 
 old professor, who lodging in the same house where he 
 had ceased to go, would perhaps been able to explain what 
 to him had remained a mystery. The presence of Adele, 
 who seemed very little disposed to leave, obliged him to 
 take a round-about turn of words. 
 
 " What have you followed during the last few years?" 
 " A trade which did not suit me, " answered Ternisien. 
 " I had lost my professorship at the University, my pupils 
 had left me, although I was still capable of teaching. 
 Certainly my hand was heavier, but the principles, you 
 know well, were good, and experience supplies the lack 
 of the happy liveliness of youth. However, all this was 
 of no use; I was obliged to resign and become a public 
 writer. For some years I worked dissatisfiedly with my 
 vocation. Often I had the intention of giving it. up. A 
 circumstance which, in spite of myself, poisoned my 
 conscience: a letter that I had the weekness to copy for a 
 miserable recompense, decided me. " 
 
 " A letter? " asked Julius with indifference. 
 
 " Yes, an anonymous letter which contained very heavy 
 
 accusations. First of all, you must know that I always 
 
 nourished a profound contempt for all denunciations of 
 
 that kind which one has not the courage to sign, and it 
 
66 
 
 seemed to me that truth ought not to have any fear of 
 expressing itself openly. Is not this your opinion also, 
 Mr. Julius? " 
 
 " Yes/' answered he, who, entirely absorbed in Tern- 
 isien's narration, no longer observed his wife, and 
 continued: 
 
 " How could that letter have made such an impression 
 on your mind as to put in execution such a resolve?,' 
 
 " Because that letter might compromise very much 
 and perhaps even kill an innocent person as well, as it 
 denounced a great perfidy." 
 
 " Why, then, " interrupted Mrs. Valabert, who from the 
 face of her husband had guessed what kind of feelir.gs 
 he was endeavoring to conceal, "why did you not accept 
 the second supposition, which was as probable as the 
 first one?" 
 
 Ternisien raised his eyes to the sky and heaved a deep 
 sigh 
 
 " You are right, madam, then I could, but today " 
 
 " To-day?" repeated Julius. 
 
 " I cannot any more. My fear was a presentiment. 
 Alas! it was soon realized in the most painful and cruel 
 manner. " 
 
 " Of whom did that letter speak? " 
 
 "Of a young lady." 
 
 <l And to whom it was addressed?" 
 
 " I was never able to learn. The boy who brought the 
 letter to be copied had orders to have the address written 
 by another hand, and was unwilling to tell me whether 
 he had received the^e orders from a gentleman or a lady. 
 Such a great mystery troubled me. This was not the first 
 time that I had felt scruples about letters of that sort, but 
 they had never made such an impression upon, me, and I 
 reproached myself continually with an action so simple 
 
07 
 
 and natural belonging to my ypcation, as if I had com- 
 mitted a crime. At that time they were making objec- 
 tions to my remaining any longer in the court of the 
 Holy Chapel. I. left the shop and rented, at No. 4 Furs- 
 temberg street, a little room vacated by an old woman. 
 The first two nights passed in this, my new lodging, were 
 calm and silent, but in the midst of the third one I was 
 awakened by sighs and smothered moans, and from time 
 to time by distressful cries, the effects of pain. The fol- 
 lowing day it was said to me that the little apartment 
 near the room I occupied was inhabited by a young lady/ 
 at the point of death. 
 
 " A few days had passed when one day, returning home * 
 at about three o'clock, I was surprised to see the door of 
 the same apartment wide open. I looked into the first 
 room, nobody was there, no one in the second, every- 
 where the same dreadful silence. I entered the last room, 
 and there, lying insensible on her bed, I saw a young 
 woman whose features, although altered by protracted 
 illness, showed that she must have been beautiful when 
 she was happy. 
 
 " I followed the first impulse of pity. I replaced on 
 the pillow the head which hang off the bed. I caused 
 her to inhale from a smelling bottle which I found on the 
 mantel and tried to restore her to consciousness. When 
 she opened her eyt-s, ashamed to be alone in a room with 
 a young woman, I apologized and hurriedly retired. The 
 porter, whom I questioned, told me that on the same day 
 her servant had left her. Without inquiring what were 
 har means, I ran for and brought with me a nurse to 
 watch over her. Happily, there was some gold in her 
 house. Miss Fanny Dusmenil was her name; I had for- 
 gotten to mention it before. " 
 
 At these words Julius rose. Ternisien, interrupting. 
 
68 . 
 
 his narrative, saw him, pale, subdued, and his face wet 
 with tears. Julius turned toward his wife, and seeing her 
 trembling with a profound grief, pictured in her face, 
 going near to her, took her hand saying: 
 
 "Adele, my tears, which were flowing without my own 
 will, are no offense to you. Please retire to your apart- 
 ments, I entreat you and forgive me. " 
 
 She lowered her head and went away, saying in a low 
 voice, but with an energetic toive of despair: 
 
 " Well, I know that you yet love her. " 
 
 Ternisien had risen completely dumfounded and when, 
 after the scene which had taken place, he found himself 
 alone with Julius, he not longer knew whether he ought 
 to remain silent or to continue. Valabert, now free from 
 restraint, came to him and inquired: 
 
 " Is she dead? Is it true? " 
 
 " Yes. " 
 
 " And her child?" 
 
 " Dead also, before the mother. But how do you know?" 
 
 "I know; what matters the rest to you? And tell me, 
 was she calumniated?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Who told you?" 
 
 " Herself, and then I havo other irrefutable proof. " 
 
 What is it? " 
 
 ''Listen. Often, in day time, I used to inquire about 
 her health. Pier agony lasted long and I had time to win 
 her confidence. I used to pass days and nights at her 
 bedside, and cared for her as if I had been her father. 
 She narrated to me her story. She told me how, on the 
 day preceding her marriage, her lover had c^me like a 
 raging maniac; how, crediting an anonymous letter, he 
 had accused her. Fancy my surprise and consternation 
 when handing me that letter, I recognized the one I had 
 
69 
 
 copied. She swore that notwithstanding appearances 
 which seemed to condemn her, she was innocent; and I> 
 who had a wrong to repair, hastened to ask the name of 
 him who had been deceived by such infamous denuncia- 
 tion, and who woukl probably have time to acknowledge 
 and repair his fault. She obstinately refused to tell it. 
 ' I wish, ' she said, ' that this fearful misfortune might 
 have been delayed a few months, that my child could have 
 been borne olive, and then I would have forced myself 
 to beg in his behalf the pity of the father; but now I am 
 .alone and near to death, of what use it will be to impor- 
 tune him? Although for me, who loved him so much, 
 his forgetfulness may be painful, I prefer let him forget, 
 rather than perhaps to awaken in him a useless remorse 
 by letting him know how I am dying./ Her strenght 
 visibly left her. One evening the nurse and I were at 
 her bedside awaiting the fatal moment. For more than 
 . an hour she had not spoken. I have always retained the 
 minutest details of that last evening, and a common and 
 childish fact, to which death has imparted a lugubrious 
 and dreadful character, will never be blotted from my 
 memory. Near the head of the table a candle was burn- 
 ing. I tried to increase the light, but as my eyes were 
 darkened w T ith tears and my handtrembled, I extinguished 
 the candle and we were plunged into darkness. ' It is 
 perhaps, the eternal night, ' she uttered with feeble voice. 
 These were the last words she pronounced. " 
 
 Julius had hidden his face in his hands and tears flowed 
 through his fingers. Suddenly, as if he would have kept 
 a doubt for his only excuse, he approached Ternisien and 
 said to him: . 
 
 'You told me that they had calumniated. .her, but you 
 did not give me the proof, which you -say .is /irrefutable, " 
 
 "She had already justified herself of having received a 
 
70 
 
 joung man. What condemned her was a ring which she 
 was accused of having given as a love token to her suitor. 
 How it had disappeared she was not able to explain. Well, 
 it had been stolen by her servant, a certain Marion, bribed 
 with gold to steal this ring from the secretaire. The same 
 day that for the first time, I entered Fanny's room, 
 Marion, owerpowered by remorse, had gone, after having 
 made a confe&sio'ii of the crime without naming the per- 
 son who had induced her to commit it. She had placed 
 such a written confession on the bed of her mistress while 
 she was asleep, not having had the courage to accuse 
 herself or to ask forgiveness. Fanny refused to search 
 for her. Reading this letter, she had fainted, alone, 
 without help, and chance brought me there and happen 
 to see that confession. " 
 
 "Enough, enough!" said Julius," I received that 
 anonymous letter. Fanny is dead, I murdered her. Who 
 then, around me, has plotted such a barbarous scheme? 
 Did Fanny confided it to you?" 
 
 "She named 110 one. She only spoke to me of propo- 
 sitions made to her by a friend of her lover's family. " 
 
 "Saint-Gilles! Ah! him, him! my mother's confidant! 
 Must I believe that they acted in concert, and that after 
 
 having given her consent to it? Oh! no, no! he acted 
 
 alone. Now I remember what he used to tell me. Him 
 him alone, I accuse. " 
 
 "If you were calmer, . " said Ternisieii, "I would give 
 you the proof you need the copy of the letter. " 
 
 "Have you it?" 
 
 ' I have kept it. The boy who brought it to me had 
 received the order to destroy it, but as he did not know 
 liow to read, I, instead of the copy, tore up another piece 
 of paper, without his noticing his substitution. This copy 
 must be at home. " 
 
71 
 
 "To-morrow you will bring it to me; no, even to night 
 now I need it. Let us go! " 
 
 Noticing the convulsive joy which spread over the 
 features of Julius, Ternisien repented of having confided 
 such a thing to him. 
 
 "It is difficult to find it immediately, it is necessary 
 that I should search for it. Perhaps it exist no longer. 
 However, by no means will I give it to you unless you 
 first tell me for what purpose you intend to use it. " 
 
 " I would have a proof, nothing else." replied Julius, 
 " a proof which would give to me the right to spurn the 
 author of that letter. " 
 
 " All right; I shall leave you now, and to morrow will 
 bring it to you. I hope to find it. " 
 
 Evening had arrived. Ternisien took leave of Julius 
 and returned to his room very much confused. He had 
 no trouble in finding the letter. He thought it right to 
 take precautions against the youth's anger, and his peace- 
 ful character made him believe contempt to be a sufficient 
 vengeance. Valabert, who could not believe in such 
 simplicity, exclaimed: 
 
 " He will not give me this proof, but do I really need it." 
 
 An hour afterward, a servant went out from his palace 
 with three letters. Two of them were addressed to friends 
 of Julius, the third to Saint-Gilles. 
 
VI. 
 
 THE REVERSE OF THE CARDS. 
 
 Nearly twenty minutes after Teruisien had entered his 
 room, he heard a, knock at his door. This noise inter- 
 rupted the ssarch he was already making among a bundle 
 of papers to find the autograph he had promised to Julius 
 the following day. As ^ ie did not expect visitors, and DS 
 in his pre-occupation he had not heard the front door shut, 
 so at first he thought the noise was caused by the wind 
 swinging an open window in the stairway, and, therefore, 
 without further notice, htj pursued his work. After a 
 moment, bethought he heard a friction which ascended 
 and descended along the door as if produced by a hand 
 which searched in the darkness for the string of a bell, a 
 thing completely unknown among Ternisien's furniture. 
 The knocking was repeated a little stronger and with 
 greater energy. 
 
 " Who is there and what do you want? "asked Ternisien. 
 He received no answer, but the knocking was repeated. 
 
 " Come again to-morrow, " said the good man, alarmed 
 at such persistency, and fearing to be the victim of some 
 snare. " Come again to-morrow; I am already in bed and 
 have no light. " 
 
 Unhappily, the candle, the light of which was seen 
 through the cracks of his door, belied his words. 
 
 " Open the door, please, " asked a sweet and trembling 
 voice; "you have nothing to fear from the person speak- 
 ing to you. " Ternisien decided to open the door. 
 
73 
 
 A veiled woman quickly entered the room. She seemed 
 a victim of the greatest agitation, and when she raised 
 her veil to breathe at ease, the old professor uttered an 
 exclamation of surprise on observing the change which a 
 few hours had produced in her features. 
 " Close the door" said she. 
 Before obeying, Ternisien cast a glance at the staircase. 
 
 " Alone? you are alone, madam! " 
 
 " Nobody knows nor ought to know of my visit to your 
 house. Swear to me, sir, that if you should be questioned, 
 you will not reveal that I c-ime her'.." 
 
 " Madam," replied Ternisien, still more amazed by the 
 visit and by the mystery that this lady put in it, "madam ? 
 it is not customary for me to pledge myself so easily to 
 such oaths, which sometimes become painful and difficult 
 to keep. When you will have the kindness to explain the 
 causes which brought you here, I will try to make you 
 the promise you ask. " 
 
 " I understand your prudence, but have no fears, the 
 secret I ask is more necessary to me than to you. Be 
 yourself the judge. " 
 
 She cast her eyes around the room, and, after a few 
 minutes, added: 
 
 "Here we must talk low, must we not? Others can 
 hear what is said. " 
 
 " Yes, madam, it was in this same room that, without 
 caring for it, I heard the smothered moans of the unhappy 
 Fanny. You were not in the parlor when I finished the 
 narration of that very sad story?" 
 
 "Yes, yes," interrupted Adele with an abrupt and 
 agitated tone of voice, " I know that that Fanny is dead." 
 
 " After my departure M. Valabert had the lime to 
 tell you?" 
 
 " I have not seen him since. " 
 
74 
 
 " Yet he is ignorant that you have come to see me? " 
 
 "He is." 
 
 " But, madam, if this evening he should discover 
 your absence? " 
 
 " This evening? 0, this evening he will not think of 
 what may I have done. Now he does not think of me 
 any more. " 
 
 In spite of his want of penetration and his absolute 
 ignorance of passion, Ternisien began to guess the secret 
 grief which thus changed the features of Mrs. Valabert, 
 and gave to her eyes that insane expression and to her 
 voice that strange inflection. He recollected the tears 
 Valabert had not been able to hide from her, and with 
 what words he had entreated her to retire. Jealousy was 
 gnawing her heart, but he could not yet guess the motive 
 which had brought her to his lodgings. 
 
 She motioned him to sit down beside her. 
 
 "Have you kept the copy of that anonymous letter?" 
 
 Ternisien stared at her with astonishement, not know- 
 ing whether she was questioning, or affirming a fact well 
 known to her. 
 
 " You have kept it " she continued; to morrow you are 
 going to give it to my husband. Do not try to deny it; 
 from the next room I heard all, I know all. Even when 
 your voice or his had not reached me, my gaze would 
 have pierced through the thickness of the walls and guess- 
 ed your words from the simple movement of your lips. 
 You must give me the copy of that letter. " 
 
 " Madam, I promised to give it to your husband. " 
 
 " To him or to me, what matters it to you?" 
 
 " If you are here with his consent. " 
 
 ' To-morrow you will write him that you have lost that 
 paper, and he will believe it. Have you not already made 
 its existence doubtful ?" 
 
 " Indeed, I fear I have told the truth. " 
 
75 
 
 "No; at the beginning you quite assented that it was 
 yet in your hands, and you have begun the search. I 
 will have that copy. Give it to me, sir; sell it to me, ask 
 for it whatever price you will; you are poor and I can 
 enrich you. " 
 
 Speaking so rapidly as not to leave him time to answer 
 she had opened her satchel. 
 
 Then she added: " Here are four bills of a thousand 
 francs each; these are not enough? I know it this is 
 what I had in tho casket. I will give you more, much 
 more; I will treble the sum twenty thousands francs 
 and I have jewels here, take. " 
 
 Her color, before pale, had returned, her hands with a 
 movement so rapid as hardly to be followed by the eyes, 
 emptied the satchel. A pearl necklace, precious stones, 
 diamonds, rings, her own ear-rings, in a twinkling of an 
 eye, were thrown upon the knees of Ternisien. 
 
 The poor man, astounded, contemplated her. On the 
 flaps of his ragged coat was a sum tenfold larger than he 
 had before possessed in all his life-time, and this unex- 
 pected fortune was given him without reckoning; yes it 
 was his own. It was enough that he should extend his 
 arm and shut his hands to become the master of it. But 
 such were not the thoughts in Ternisien's mind. Between 
 the wealth he had never known and the misery which 
 was shortening his life, in that honest heart was no place 
 for speculation, however excusable it may be. With 
 trembling voice and tears in his eyes, he addressed 
 Mrs. Valabert. 
 
 " Are you then very unhappy?" 
 
 " Yes, very unhappy, " she answered, "and it is in your 
 power that I may be so no longer; you can give me peace 
 and insure my happiness. Do you accept it then? " 
 
 " The recital of that story has awakened in your husband 
 
76 
 
 the remembrance of a former love. Is it not true? I ought 
 to have perceived this and broken it off when he entreat- 
 ed you to go out of the room; I ought not to have re-opened 
 a wound yet unhealed. You must forgive me, madam, 
 the evil that I have unwittingly done you. I had presint 
 in my memory the death of that poor woman, who was 
 an angel of virtue [ could swear it, and who has been 
 so basely calumniated. If you had know her as I did, if 
 you had heard her protest her innocence, you would not 
 have required this irrefutable proof to have been con- 
 vinced of it. But forgive me, madam, if I again afflict 
 you in speaking of her, and forget what I learned but a 
 few minutes ago, namely, that love is jealous of a rival 
 who does not even exist any more. You are afraid that 
 your husband would become attached to that souvenir, 
 and that at your side he would remember her whom he 
 loved. How the possession of that letter could make you 
 happy is what I am not able to understand. What in- 
 terest causes you to wish so ardently for it as to be ready 
 to purchase it with you own fortune? ' 
 
 Whether Adele had not a satisfactory answer ready or 
 whether the emotion by which she was agitated was too 
 strong, she remained silent. 
 
 Ternisien continued: 
 
 "When I saw that Mr. Julius wished for that letter, I 
 immediately told him that perhaps it would be impos- 
 sible for me to find it, because I was afraid that, recog- 
 nizing the hand writ ng, he would have gone to ask satis- 
 faction of him who had written it. He has re-assured 
 me. What ought I to suppose, now that I see you troubled 
 by such a fear? " 
 
 " Well, yes, 1 fear that he may expose his life," an- 
 swered Adele, as if the last words of Ternisien had 
 given her the excuse she had been searching for. "Your 
 
77 
 
 friendship for him has surmised the misfortune which 
 my love tries to prevent. That is why I come here at this 
 late hour, and why I beg you not to speak to any one 
 of my visit. I know, do not ask how I know, the 
 person who wrote that letter; my husband, too, will recog- 
 nize the handwriting; they will fight, be sure of it; perhaps 
 he will be killed. Twice I will lose him on account of 
 that unhappy woman. Give me that letter let me 
 destroy that proof and when he has only suspicions; 
 when the guilty one is able to deny, and, therefore, to 
 refuse to fight, then I wi 1 ! be happy or at least at ease 
 about my husband's life. This letter, I ask for it upon 
 my knees. " 
 
 " Rise, madam, " said Ternisien. " I am too sorry for 
 what has happened not to give you back your tranquillity. 
 The oath you ask from me, I give you willingly. I will 
 hide your visit from Mr. Valabert, but take this money 
 again, take back these jewels; I will not accept them. In 
 returning you this letter, I intend only to repair a wrong 
 done and not to give you back a proof. " 
 
 In so speaking, Ternisien returned to Mrs. Valabert the 
 bills and jewels she had handed him. He went to the 
 table on which some papers were scattered, searched a 
 little and afterward returned towards Adele. Seeing the 
 yellow paper he had in his hands, she sprang and seized 
 it with a convulsive movement. While she was reading^ 
 a strange change was taking place in her, a change which 
 only the wish to prevent a challenge by destroying that 
 proof could not justify to eyes more expert than those of 
 Ternisien. In her joy was something of frenzy. One 
 would have said that of the two opposite natures existing 
 in her, the most violent for a long time briddled by an 
 iron will had finally burst forth and removed all obstacles 
 overflowed by her violent passions. Her features, the 
 
78 
 
 mirror of a new soul, seemed to have assumed another 
 character. She was no more the timid, submitting re- 
 signed, suppliant woman, but a lioness which roared 
 while devouring her prey. As if her hands were not 
 sufficient, she tore the sheet with her teeth, and then, 
 gathering up the pieces, burned them in the flame of the 
 candle, one by one. In proportion as they were consumed, 
 her eyes shone and followed the writhings of the flame as 
 if they were the sufferings of an agonized victim. As soon 
 as the fire had devoured all, she dispersed the blackened 
 ashes which flew around her with a puff. 
 
 "Nothing more" she cried. "Behold every trace has 
 disappeared! This letter never existed. I am saved!" 
 
 In her delirious joy, she twisted her hands, laughing 
 and crying at same time. She threw herself upon the 
 neck of Ternisien before he was able to express his 
 wonder at such unaccountable exuberance. 
 
 "To you I owe my happiness, "she replied; "I will 
 never forget it. You refuse my gifts but come to see me, 
 sir; as I have told you, my fortune is yours. I have your 
 own word that you will be discreet: is it not so? Good-bye. 
 Do not accompany me; I will find my way. The important 
 thing is that I do not stay here any longer. " 
 
 She opened the door, rushed to the staircase, and despite 
 the darkness, so nimble were her steps that Ternisien 
 scarcely heard the noise. The street door was shut,. 
 Ternisien placed himself at the window and by the un- 
 certain light of a street lamp saw her turning a corner 
 through the snow. 
 
 For some time the old professor remained, thunder- 
 struck at what had happened. A thousand different ideas 
 whirled in his poor head. The thought of evil was the 
 last one which could enter his mind, but, upon thinking 
 of the offeis he had refused, it seemed to him that if he 
 
79 
 
 had accepted them it would have been a heavy burden on 
 his conscience, and that he would have been obliged to 
 return the gifts. He wrote to Mr. Valabert that all his 
 researches had been useless; that for a long time he had 
 kept that paper, but that it existed no longer. Then he 
 went to bed, but was unable to sleep or to banish the 
 suspicions which incessantly presented themselves to 
 his mind. 
 
 Mrs. Valabert had returned home without having been 
 even inquired for by her husband in her absence. During 
 the night, no noise troubled the quietness of the house. 
 At dawn the following morning, Julius aroused from the 
 table where he had spent the whole night in writing. He 
 re-read and sealed some letters. A very long one was 
 addressed to his wife; another also of several pages con- 
 tained his last dispositions, and was to be given to the 
 notary who had his fortune. 
 
 His wife's room was separated from his own by a 
 smaller one, the door of which opened between the two 
 divisions of the library. He directed his steps to that side, 
 and listened for a few minutes. All around was still 
 " She is asleep, " he said; " I can go out, and if Heaven is 
 just I shall return here without troubling her rest. In 
 two hours all will be ended. He or I. Let me go. " He 
 wrapped himself in a cloak, took the box which contained 
 
 his pistols, and softy turned the key in the lock. 
 
 At the same time, the door opened from the outside 
 
 and Julius found himself face 1o face with his Avife who 
 
 was pale, troubled and with a countenance which testified 
 
 that she, too, had been awake all night. 
 
 Surprise made Julius draw back. Adele entered, shut 
 
 the cabinet door violently and, without asking or giving 
 
 explanations, took away the cloak and snatched the pistol 
 
 box from her husband' s hands. 
 
 " You were going out to fight," she said. 
 
so 
 
 Julius scarcely recovered from his emotion, replied: 
 
 " I must be second for a friend. These pistols are for 
 him. Adele, do not be afraid, but let me go. " 
 
 "Oh! you cannot deceive me," she said; "you are 
 going to fight. " 
 
 "Adele!" 
 
 " No useless words! no false oaths! You go to fight. " 
 
 " To fight? Why? and against whom? " 
 
 Against whom? Against him who wrote that anony- 
 mous letter and whom you think you know. Why? Be- 
 cause you wish to avenge the death of whom you always 
 thought. I know it, I tell you. Does the heart need to 
 be taught that is forsaken? Does the jealousy need to be 
 enlightened? Did I not see you yesterday, while that man 
 was speaking, forget that I was there, I, a poor, forsaken 
 woman, and only recollect it to pray me not to trouble 
 your grief with my presence? And because I retired you 
 thought I had not heard your sobs, or the questions you 
 asked, or the resolution you made? Julius, dare you 
 repeat to me that you are not going to fight?" 
 
 He turned his eyes toward her, and making an effort, 
 he replied with a grave and slow voice: Adele, it has 
 always been my sad fate to put to a trial your inex- 
 austible kindness, which made an angel of you. Once 
 you alone rendered justice to that woman whom you now 
 detest on account of the title of my wife. Later, when I 
 was very near dying, you again consoled me; for almost 
 two years you sorrounded me with attentions, and I swear 
 to you, without that unforeseen revelation which threw 
 me suddenly into the past, no moaning or sorrow, or 
 remembrance would have found place in my heart. Try 
 to find in that virtue which no other woman equally pos- 
 sesses, the necessary strenght to bear this last blow. Yes, 
 I will no longer deceive you. I go to fight. It is not a 
 
81 
 
 question of love, as 110 vengeance can give life again to 
 her who no longer exists, but the infamous person who 
 calumniated the woman you yourself once defended, must 
 receive the price of his falsehood. To-day, to-morrow, 
 twenty years from now, so long as my hand can hold a 
 sword or direct a ball through the heart of an adversary, 
 I will demand satisfaction for that vile conduct; I will, 
 avenge Fanny's death. I wished to avoid meeting you, 
 Adele; I feared your tears, your pains, your reproaches, 
 but my last thoughts were for you. There, oh the mantel 
 piece, is a letter I wrote you, in which I bade you the 
 last farewell. Receive it now, since a fatal chance has 
 brought you across my path, and do not try to detain me. 
 My resolution is taken. It is a reparation that I owe her; 
 and in risking my life, I expiate, in my opinion, my 
 credulity and the error I ought to have repulsed far 
 from me. " 
 
 Adele had remained before him dumb, with a fixed 
 gaze and clasped hands, but when she saw that he again 
 prepared to leave, she seized him violently by the arm, 
 and exclaimed with an accent of subdued rage: 
 
 " Then I must again resign myself to be patient? This 
 everlasting duty! For others, the passion, the heart which 
 burns and confides itself, for me the coldness of marble. 
 No, no! this must not be so! He asks me for another 
 virtue, while I God! I beg thee to restrain the passion 
 which was ready to overflow. Let not the secret of my 
 heart come to my lips. Seal my mouth, and restrain my 
 voice before it shall narrate what I know. Let this 
 blindness which betrays me depart from me, and give me 
 back my former strong will. " 
 
 " Adele, what do you mean to say?" asked Julius, 
 " Whence this delirium? " 
 
 - Must I even explain to you the cause of my grief? 
 
Do you thing to deceive me? Was that woman, then so 
 beautiful that the simple remembrance of her is stronger 
 than your love for me? In what way she loved, to love 
 you more than I do? You do not know, Julius, how, I 
 love you. You have only known in me a timid, reserved 
 woman, whom a simple glance was sufficient to make 
 happy, but I was waiting only for a single impassioned 
 word, for a worm caress, to attach myself to you, to love 
 you not as a wife, but as a lover. Oh! tell me that you 
 were ignorant of these transports, of these secret desires, 
 of that love which dare not to burst forth, but which to- 
 day made me fall at your feet, confounded, suppliant, mad? 
 Is it not so? You will forget that woman for me, who 
 entreats; who, crying, kisses your hands, your knees. 
 Yes, she was beautiful; but I ? I, too, arn beautiful; you 
 have told me so too often to ignore it, and happiness will 
 make me yet more beautiful; and you will look at me 
 with pride. Yes, she was innocent; and, am I guilty in 
 loving you? As she died, I will die too, if you forsake 
 me. Do you then desire to kill us both?" 
 
 Julius was moved, but not persuaded. He felt how 
 legitimate was Adele's sorrow, and how strong, to cause 
 her to speak in such an infatuated way, so destitute of 
 modesty. Her words affected his ears, not his heart, 
 since the preceding day his heart had been wholly ab- 
 sorbed in the remembrance of Fanny. Freeing himself 
 from his wife, he made a few steps, as if to go out. 
 
 " So you will go, you will leave me? all that I have said 
 has been useless to detain you?" 
 
 " I must go. " 
 
 " You will not return here unless avenged or dead! " 
 
 "Rightly!" 
 
 " And during your absence I, who know all, will cry, 
 tear my hair, strike my forehead against the wall and 
 
83 
 
 all that cannot detain you? On the field, facing your 
 adversary, nothing can affect you? nothing will prevent 
 . your heart beating or your hand trembling? This is 
 what is iii store for me: You, if you come back, will re- 
 turn to cry for her beside me, or be brought here a corpse, 
 or dying, and I shall cure you and restore your life to hear 
 you repeat the name of Fanny. Oh! see, Julius, do you 
 know that you will drive me mad? that I would prefer. to 
 see you dead rather than alive? But you will not depart 
 from hence you will not fight. Who is your adversary? 
 Who killed your beloved? Saint-Gilles; it is not so? " 
 
 " Who else could have done it? " 
 
 " And if he refuses to fight?" 
 
 " He will not refuse; I have his answer already. " 
 
 "His answer to an insulting letter. Yet -one does not 
 risk his life for an insult that could be repaired. If he 
 refuses to fight; if he tells you that he did not write 
 that letter? " 
 
 I will tell him that he is a coward; I will take him by 
 the throat with one hand and with the other I will slap 
 his face. " 
 
 "But then perhaps, he will kill you; and yet he did 
 not write that letter. " 
 
 " Who did then? " 
 
 " Some one that you cannot strike some one that does 
 not wish for your death." 
 
 " Adele! " 
 
 " Some one who embraces your feet; a woman whom 
 jealousy made guilty, and who speaks now on account 
 of the fear of losing you. It was I Julius. " 
 
 "You?" 
 
 At such a fearful revelation, Julius remained as if 
 striken by a thunderbolt. 
 
 " You " he repeated after a few minutes. 
 
84 
 
 " Yes, I, "'she answered, trying to seize liis hands, 
 which he drew back. He was looking at her with amaze- 
 ment and terror. He was taken with dizziness in meas- 
 uring that profound falsity and the abysses of that heart, 
 a burning volcano covered with snow. Finally he 
 exclaimed: '" What had that poor thing done to you? Oh! 
 if you have spoken the truth, do not approach me hence- 
 forth. I would feel only pity for you, but you excite 
 my horror. " 
 
 " Julius, you ask what she had done to me? But I loved 
 you from the first day I saw you, and she also loved you. 
 Do no J t ask me how I happened to be acquainted with 
 Ernest's visits. I was jealous, and gold bought me all 
 the secrets I wished to know. It was I that caused the 
 letter to be copied with all the precautions Ternisien nar- 
 rated. Yesterday I received from him and burned the 
 paper written by my hand. I bought Marion, and for me 
 she stole the ring whose disappearance was to serve as a 
 proof against Fanny. That is what I did, and it seems a 
 dream. I cannot believe it myself. My reason is wander- 
 ing, my head is feeble as my body. Why have I spoken? 
 Oh! yes, I remember, because you were going to fight 
 with Saint-Gilles; because you were going to risk your 
 life and I desired to save you. " 
 
 " Have you -yet that ring which Marion gave you? 
 Answer, answer! Give it to me. " 
 
 " I have it no more. " 
 
 " Give it to me! " he repeated with a fearful voice. 
 
 " Julius " she replied, I have it no more. Your looks 
 affright me; your voice makes me tremble. Have you 
 no pity for me?" 
 
 " Had you pity for her? " 
 
 "Always HER! " 
 
 " Do you not remember that she is dead, and died 
 murdered by you? Pity for you? Never! " 
 
85 
 
 " I, too, Lave suffered. Was I not jealous? Am I not 
 yet so? Have I not suffered when victim of a love which 
 could cause me to lose all modesty, I saw you going out 
 to meet her? Have I not silently concealed my tears? 
 Have I not sighed every night? Mute and impassible in 
 appearance, have I not staggered at the noise of your 
 footsteps, at the sound of your voice, and when your hand 
 touched mine? And during two years what has heen my 
 lot? By day Fanny occupies your thoughts, and often 
 even at night in your dreams I have heard her name. 
 'Did I complain? And to-day, because the fear of losing 
 you has made me speak, fool that I was, you reject me 
 without pity. Your eyes have not a single tear for my 
 sufferings, your heart has not an excuse for my fault. She 
 could have died; she! you [had loved her. What would 
 become of me if you will not see me any more? A word 
 only for pity; not a word of love. , Now you. cannot speak 
 it; I know it, and you would make me so happy. No, no! 
 it is not that which I ask of you. Only let fall a look 
 upon me as formerly, as yesterday, and I will leave you 
 in peace. You will think of her, you will cry for her, and 
 I when your eyes shall be dry, I will return to you, I 
 will kneel and ask your pardon. Oh! my head burns. A 
 word, only a word, or I shall die! " 
 
 She had approached him; he pushed her back again. 
 
 "Infamous one!" he exclaimed, " if you yet have it, 
 give me that ring. " 
 
 " What will you do with it? " she asked raising her head 
 and regaining an energy inspired by despair. 
 
 " I would in your presence cover it with kisses and let 
 you know once again, before we part, how I ; love her who 
 had it." :- V : V ;: 
 
 ." To part? Oh ! Julius, you defy me?., . You believe me 
 feeble and under your feet. , To. .separate?, .But I am your 
 
86 
 
 wife and will follow you everywhere. What will you say 
 to obtain that separation? That for jealousy I murdered 
 your mistress? And the proof where is it? That letter 
 was destroyed. I will answer that you were lying. Ah! 
 you are without pity for me; you will punish me for my 
 love for you with the remembrance you retain of the 
 other and then forsake me. Well, then! As your wife I 
 claim my right to remain with you; I will never leave. 
 Do you understand? " 
 
 " Madam, we shall not see each other again. " 
 
 " We will see each other every day. Everyday I will 
 importune you with my presence, with my love, with my 
 distress and my jealousies." 
 
 " Be silent, madam, be silent!" 
 
 "No, I will not; neither to-day nor to morrow. Ah! 
 you believe to have suffered by having lost your darling 
 while another woman whose reason you have destroyed 
 only receives from you the epithet of infamous and the 
 .threat of a separation. No, no! We are united to each 
 other, and we will not be parted. Our existence will be 
 a hell, but I am used to suffering, and I accept my lot. " 
 
 Out of her mind, almost mad she had taken the arm of 
 her husband, whose rage had been increased by such 
 loolish provocation. A fearful expression of contempt 
 and hatred shone in his eyes. The door of the room 
 opened with violence, and at the same time three gentle- 
 men entered. Julius made a last effort, and as he had not 
 seen the presence of the others, raised his hand against 
 3iis wife. She bent and fell, half fainting under the blow. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said he, "the hour I appointed for our 
 meeting is past. Without doubt you come to search for 
 me. Mr. Saint-Gilles, I would not have delayed present- 
 ing my excuses to you and praying to forget the letter I 
 had addressed you. You can see the motive of my delay, 
 
87 
 
 a conjugal scene, that T cannot hide like the others. 
 Madam was asking for a separation which I was refusing 
 to her; now I. do not object any longer, and the testimony 
 you will make in her favor will be the punishement of a 
 brutality of which I feel ashamed, but of which it is too 
 late now to repent. " 
 
 He approached his wife, and in a low voice said to her: 
 " To day you will lodge your complaint, otherwise be- 
 fore these gentlemen I will dishonor you by telling what 
 I know. " 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 A month after that scene Julius and Adele were separat- 
 ed. Two month later Julius mourned his wife, and the 
 year was not ended when Ternisien in tears accompanied 
 a funeral retinue that went out from the palace of the 
 Rue de Lille. 
 
POEMS 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM 
 
 Italiai?, apd 
 
 THIRD EDITION". 
 
1)1 
 I. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A GIRL. 
 
 TO MY BELOVED MOTHER, FORTUNATA SORVILLO, 
 WIDOW NOBILE, (NEE NANS6). 
 
 Twelve springs had embellished her youth. Poor girl! 
 she could have lived longer. To her eyes the future was 
 opening full of delight, and her heautiful smile was pure 
 us a golden ray of the sun. 
 
 The life of this heloved one was the support of her mo- 
 ther's soul. Innocence supports, while virtue defends. She 
 was used to say, u This angel, one day, will become a 
 woman," and this child was the living incarnation of her 
 happiness. 
 
 And thou hast lived twelve years embellishing all on 
 thy passage, for twelve years thy mother found her bliss 
 in the looks of thy charming eyes; for twelve years she 
 had in her soul a continual happiness knowing that thou 
 wast living. 
 
 On the storm of life this girl was a calm, and in sorrows 
 was a ray of dawn, and thou, alas! suddenly left us, leav- 
 ing in our heart an everlasting sadness. 
 
 Her soul was the human embodiment of the virtues, 
 the virtues, flowers of heaven, and perfumes of the elect, 
 Afterward a child was needed in the bands of the angels, 
 God* singled her out, Death came, and she was no more. 
 
 The mother thoughtful, dishevelled, stayed there to 
 look at the body, mute for ever. Alas! for a moment it 
 
 *God wanted one more angel child, 
 
 Amidst His shining band, 
 And so He reached, with loving smile, 
 And clasped our darling's hand ! 
 
92 
 
 seemed that her life had disappeared with that of the poor 
 girl for whom the funeral bell was tolling. Oh! I seem still 
 to see this girl with her rigid, silent form, and her pale 
 face! Oh! I see her cold and beautiful, lying in the bed 
 as she were sleeping in an angelic dream. 
 
 I see the light around her shed its reddish lustre in 
 the humble and sad room. I yet see the friendly hand 
 faithful to its duty, raise up and place her corpse in the 
 coffin. ! when this little body was brought to the church- 
 yard, the mother groaned for her lost happiness. One 
 would have said that her heart wished to follow the coffin, 
 so many were the sobs which poured from her oppressed 
 breast. The day was over, and gave place to another, 
 and yet the mother has always in her heart her daughter, 
 and seems always to see her angel prostrated by death. 
 
 Vainly she is invited to many joyful feasts, vain it is 
 to persuade her of the necessity of forgetting, vainly it 
 is said that life has the same law for all, and that, by 
 death, hearts are united to God. 
 
 Vainly it is repeated to her that the flowers live only a 
 season; that the beautiful dawn which awokes the morning 
 cannot continue; that the children's souls, up in Heaven, 
 live again, and at our own death they show themselves 
 to us. 
 
 The poor mother remains deaf to all these words. In 
 vain every one tells her that her daughter is an angel, 
 that Death must extend its law over all, that life is an 
 exile in this world, that all must change. Alas! her heart 
 is broken, her faith is extinguished. The mother cannot, 
 and will not believe that she is dead; and continually 
 with her tears asks for her daughter. She demands this 
 girl, who still lives in her mind, with her songs, with her 
 games, and with her gay smile. Sometimes her mind 
 wanders for a moment, and it seems that her soul has 
 
93 
 
 risen to the clouds to see if her time had arrived to depart 
 far away from the noise. Thus she lives amidst our 
 human shadows, always faithful to her daughter, her 
 dearest love. Many weeks I have heard her cry, and 
 since I have heen told, that she is still weeping. 
 
 Brasseur. 
 
94 
 II. 
 
 THE NIGHT OF OCTOBER. 
 
 TO MY BKOTHEK, CAV. GIOVANNI SORVILLO. 
 
 POET. 
 
 The pain. I suffered has vanished like a dream, and 
 the faint remembrance it lias left I can only compare to 
 those mists which rise with the dawn and disperse with 
 the dew. 
 
 MUSE. 
 
 What ailed thee, my poet, and what was the pain that 
 parted thee from me? Alas! I yet felt its sad effects. 
 What is this unknown grief I have so long bevailed? 
 
 POET. 
 
 It was a vulgar pain, well known to man, but when 
 our heart is grieved, we always believe, poor fools that, we 
 are, that nobody before us has known sorrow. 
 
 MUSE. 
 
 Only the sorrow of a vulgar mind can be called vulgar. 
 Friend, reveal this sad misery of thy heart; believe me; 
 speak with confidence. The severe God of silence is one 
 of the brethren of death; complaint brings consolation, 
 and often a single word has spared remorse. 
 
 POET. 
 
 If I were to speak of my pain, truly I shall not know 
 by what name to call it, if it be love, folly, pride, ex- 
 perience, or if it could be of profit to anybody but as we 
 
05 
 
 are now alone, seated by the fire, I will tell my story. 
 Take thy lyre and let my memory awaken at the sound 
 of thy notes. 
 
 MUSE. 
 
 Before relating thy sorrows, Poet, art thou cured? 
 Think, that to-day thou must speak without love or hatred; 
 recollect that I have received the sweet name of consoler, 
 and make me not the accomplice of the passions that 
 have ruined thee. 
 
 POET. 
 
 I am so well cured of my malady, that sometimes I 
 doubt if it ever existed; and where I risked my existence, 
 instead of myself, I fancy I see the face of a stranger. 
 Muse, be without fear, we may both without danger con- 
 fide in the voice of thy inspiration. It is sweet to smile 
 at the remembrance of ills we might have forgotten. 
 
 MUSE. 
 
 Like a watchful mother at the cradle of a beloved child, 
 I trembling turn to thy heart which was closed to me. 
 Speak, friend, my attentive lyre already follows the accents 
 of thy voice, and in a ray of light, like a beautiful vision, 
 pass by the shades of other days. 
 
 POET. 
 
 Days of work, the only days in which I really lived. 
 Oh, solitude thrice beloved! God be praised, at last I have 
 returned to my old study! Poor room, walls so often de- 
 serted, dusty chairs, faithful lamp! Oh, my palace, my 
 little world, and thou young immortal Muse, God be 
 praised, we are again going to sing! Yes, I will open my 
 soul, thou shalt know all, and I will relate thce the ills 
 
90 
 
 that a woman can do, for a woiriaii it was, my poor friend, 
 (alas! perhaps thou already knowest it,)a woman to whom 
 I submitted as a serf submits to his master. Detested 
 yoke, it was there my heart lost its force and its youth, 
 and yet near rny mistress I had fancied I should find 
 happiness. When in the evening near the brook we 
 walked togheter on the silvery sand, when the white 
 specter of the poplar showed us the road from afar, I can 
 yet see by the ray of the moon, her beautiful frame lean- 
 ing on my arm. Let us speak no more of it. I did not 
 foresee where fortune would lead me; doubtless the anger 
 of the Gods had needed a victim, for my attempt to be 
 happy has been punished as a crime. 
 
 MUSE. 
 
 The image of a sweet remembrance has just presented 
 itself to thy thoughts. Why fearest thou to retrace its 
 track? Young man if fortune has been cruel, do like her, 
 smile on thy first love. 
 
 POET. 
 
 No, it is at my misfortune that I have acquired the 
 right to smile. Muse, I said I would without passion relate 
 my sorrows, my dreams, my madness, and that I would 
 tell thee the time, the hour, and the occasion. It was, I 
 recollect, a night of autumn, sad and cold, like to-night; 
 the murmur of the wind with monotonous noise nursed 
 dark cares in my troubled mind. I was at the window, 
 expecting niy mistress, and listening in the obscurity, I 
 felt such a distress in my heart, that I conceived the 
 suspicion of an infidelity. The street where I lodged was 
 dark and deserted; some shadows passed a lantern in 
 their hands. When the wind whistled in the half closed 
 door one heard in the distance what seemed a human 
 
97 
 
 sigh. I know not to say the truth to what sad pre- 
 sentiment my restless spirit then ahaiidoned itself. I 
 recalled in vain the remains of my courage, and I felt 
 a tremor when I hear the clock strike. She came not. 
 Alone with downcast eyes I looked anxiously at the walls 
 and the road; and I have not told thee what a senseless 
 ardor that inconstant woman lighted in my bosom. Her 
 alone I loved in the world, and to live a day without her 
 seemed to me a destiny more dreadful than death; still I 
 remember in that fearful night I make a long effort to 
 break my chain. A hundred times I called her perfidious 
 and false. I reminded myself of all the ills she had caus- 
 ed me. Alas! at the recollection of her fatal beauty what 
 ills, what griefs were still unappeased? At length the day 
 broke. Tired with vain expectation, I fell into a slumber 
 on the rails of the balcony. I opened my eyes at the 
 rising dawn, and let my dazzled orbs wander around me. 
 Suddenly at a turning of a narrow lane I heard on the 
 gravel stealthy footsteps. It is she. She enters. Whence 
 comest thou? Last night what hast thou done? answer, 
 what would'st thou? What brings thee at this hour? 
 Whilst I alone on this balcony watch and weep, in what 
 place, to whom did'stthou smile? Perfidious, audacious 
 woman, is it possible thou come to me? What askest 
 thou? By what horrible thirst darest thou seek to draw 
 me to thy exhausted arms? Go, retire, spectre of my 
 beloved return to the grave if thou art risen from it 
 leave me to forget forever the joy of my youth, and when 
 I think of thee to believe that I have dreamed. 
 
 MUSE. 
 
 Calm thyself; I conjure thee. Thy words make me 
 shudder; thy wound is near to re-open. Alas! it is very 
 deep, and the miseries of this world are so long ere they 
 
98 
 
 are effaced. Forget, my child, and from thy heart drive 
 the name of that woman I will not pronounce. 
 
 POKT. 
 
 Shame to thee who first taught me treachery, and 
 maddened me with horror and rage. Shame to thee 
 woman of the dark eyes, whose fatal love buried in the 
 shade my spring and my bright days. Thy voice, thy 
 smiles, thy corrupting glances taught me to curse even 
 the appearance of happiness: thy youth, thy charms re- 
 duced me to despair, and if I no longer believe in tears 
 it is because I see thee weep. Shame on thee! I was as 
 simple as a child; like a flower at the dawn my heart 
 opened to thy love sure that heart without defense could 
 easily be abused but to leave it its innocence was still 
 easier. Shame on thee! Thou wast the mother of my 
 first sorrows, and thou caused'st a fountain of tears to flow 
 from my eyes yet it flows and nothing will ever heal it, 
 but in that bitter source I will bathe, and I shall forget, I 
 hope, thy abhorred remembrance. 
 
 MUSE. 
 
 Poet; it is enough. Though the illusions with the faith- 
 less one lasted but a day, do not curse that day when 
 thou speakest of her if thou desirest to be loved, respect 
 thy love if the effort is too great for human weakness to 
 pardon the ills that come to us from others, spare thyself 
 at Last the torments of hatred, and, in defau-t of pardon, 
 let oblivion come. The dead sleep in peace in the bosom 
 of the heart; and thus should sleep the feelings which are 
 extinguished; the relics of the heart have also their ashes. 
 Do not let our hands touch these sacred remains. Why 
 in this narration of a vivid suffering, wilt thou only see 
 a dream and a deluded love? Does Providence act with- 
 
09 
 
 out a motive? or, thinkest thou that the God who struck 
 thee, struck inadvertently? The blow of which thou com- 
 plainest has, perhaps, saved thee, child, "by that thy heart 
 was opened. Man is an apprentice, and sorrow is his 
 master, and 110 one' knows himself until he has suffered. 
 Hard is the law, but supreme, old as the world and the 
 fate, that we must receive the baptism of misfortune, and 
 at such sad price everything must be. bought. The crops 
 to ripen have need of dew. The symbol of joy is a broken 
 plant wet with rain and covered with flowers. Did'st thou 
 not say that thou wast cured of thy folly? Art thou not 
 young, fortunate, well received by all and those light 
 pleasures which make life desirable what would'st thou 
 care for them, if thou had'st not wept? When on the 
 decline of day, seated 011 the hearth thou drinkest to li- 
 berty, say, would'st thou raise thy glass so heartily if thou 
 had'st not paid the price of thy gayety? Would'st thou 
 love flowers, meadows, the green shade, the sonnets of 
 Petrarch, and the songs of the birds, Michel Angelo and 
 the arts, Shakespear and nature, if thou didst not find 
 some of these old sighs in them? Would'st thou under- 
 stand the ineffable harmony of the heavens, the silence of 
 the night, the murmur of the waves, if in some other 
 places fever and sleeplessness had not made thee think of 
 eternal rest? Hast thou not now a fair mistress and, 
 when on going to sleep, thou pressest her hand, the distant 
 recollection of thy youth does not render her divine smile 
 more sweet. Dost thou not walk together in the midst of 
 flowering woods, on the silvery sand and in that palace 
 of verdure? Does the white spectre of the poplar no 
 longer show the road by the ray of the moon? Dost thou 
 not see, as then by the ray of the moon, a beautiful form, 
 lean her hand on thy arm and if in thy path thou 
 shouldst meet with fortune, would'st thou not follow her 
 
100 
 
 gaily singing? Of what then dost thou complain? Im- 
 mortal hope is revived in thee by the hand of misfortune. 
 Oh, my child, pity her, the unfaithful one, who formerly 
 made the tears flow from thy eyes. Wherefore wouldst 
 thou hate the experience of thy youth, and detest an ill 
 which has rendered thee better? Pity her she is a 
 woman and God made thee, when with her, guess by 
 suffering, the secret of happiness. Her task was painful. 
 She, perhaps, loved thee, but destiny willed that she 
 should break thy heart; she knew life, and she made thee 
 know it. Another has culled the fruit of thy sorrow 
 pity her her sad love has passed like a dream; she saw thy 
 wound, but could not close it. Her tears were not de- 
 ceitful, and even though they were, pity her. Thou 
 now knowest how to love. 
 
 POET. 
 
 Thou speakest truth. Hatred is impious, it is a shud- 
 dering, full of horror when that viper, curled up in our 
 hearts unfolds itself. Hear me then, Goddess, and be 
 witness of my oath. By the blue eyes of my mistress 
 by the azure of the firmament by that brilliant star which 
 bears the name of Venus, and, like a diamond, shines 
 from afar on the horizon by the tranquil and pure light 
 of the star, dear to the traveler by the herbs of the 
 prairie by the forests by the green meadows by the 
 powers of life by the productive force of the universe, I 
 banish you from my memory, remains of an insensate 
 love; mysterious and dark history which sleeps with the 
 past and thou who formerly hast borne the fame and 
 sweet name of my beloved, the instant I forgot thee for- 
 ever ought also to be the moment of forgiveness. Let us 
 pardon one another. I break the chain which united us 
 before God. With my last tear receive an eternal adieu; 
 
1U1 
 
 and now, fair dreamer, now, Muso, to our own love 
 sing me some joyous song as in thu first times of our 
 bright days. Already the fragrant lawn feels the approach 
 of the morning. Come to walk iny dearest, and to smell 
 the flowers of the garden; come to see immortal nature 
 rise from the veil of sleep, we shall revive with her, at the 
 first ray of the sun. 
 
 A. De MILS set. 
 
102 
 
 III. 
 THE NIGHT OF DECEMBER. 
 
 TO MY J>I<:AU SISTER JOSEPHINE CALLIGE, (NEE SORVILLO.)- 
 
 At the time I was a school-boy one evening I remain- 
 ed sitting up in the lonely hall; there came to sit at my 
 table a poor child all dressed in black, who resembled me 
 as a brother. His face was beautiful and sad ; by the light 
 of my lamp lie came to read in my open book, leaned his 
 forehead on. my hand, and smiling, remained thoughtful 
 until the morrow. 
 
 When I was fifteen years old I was walking one day 
 with slow steps in a wood. At the foot of a tree a young 
 man dressed in black came to sit, who resembled me as a 
 brother. I asked him my way; in one hand he had a lute, 
 in the other a bunch of roses; he gave me a friendly greet- 
 ing, and, turning away, with his finger pointed to the hill. 
 I had reached the age when we believe in love. One 
 day I was alone in my room with the tears of a first sor- 
 row. At my fireside came to sit a stranger, all dressed in 
 black, who resembled me as a brother. He was sad and 
 thoughtful; with one hand he pointed me to heaven, and 
 with the other he held a poniard. It seemed that lie 
 suffered from my pains, but he did not sigh, and vanish- 
 ed like a dream. 
 
 At the age when man is licentious, one day I raised my 
 glass to drink a toast at a feast; opposite to me come to 
 sit a guest, all dressed in black, who resembled me like a 
 brother. Under his mantle he shook a rag of purple torn 
 to pieces, on his head he had a wild myrtle, his thin arm 
 tried to press mine, and the drinking glass in my feeble 
 hand broke as soon as it touched his. 
 
103 
 
 A year after in the night I was on my krees at the Led 
 where my father had first died, there, at the bedside came 
 and sat an orphan all dressed in black, who resembled 
 me as a brother. His eyes were moistened with tears; 
 like the angel of sorrow he was crowned with thorns, his 
 lute was lying on the ground, his purple was the color of 
 the blood, and his poniard was in his breast. 
 
 I recollect him so well that always in every moment of 
 my life I recognized him. It was a stra)ige vision, and, 
 yet, angel or devil, I have seen everywhere 'his friendly 
 shade. 
 
 When later, tired of suffering, I tried to exile myself 
 from France to be born again or to die, when impatient 
 of moving I went in search of the vestige of a hope, at 
 Pisa, to the feet of the Apenines at Cologne, opposite to 
 Rhine at Nice, to the declivity of the valley atFloren 
 ce, in the midst of palaces atBrigues, in those old castles 
 in the midst of the desolate Alps at Geneva, under the 
 cedars at Vevey under the green apple trees at Havre, 
 in front of the Atlantic at Venice, on the arid Lido, 
 where on the grass of a grave has just died the pale Ad- 
 riatic; everywhere over this immense earth I have wan- 
 dered, my eyes bleeding from everlasting wounds; every- 
 where limping weariness, dragging my fatigue after it, 
 has dragged me in a hurdle; everywhere -always thirsting 
 for the knowledge of an unknown, I went after the shadow 
 of my dreams; everywhere, without having lived, I have 
 seen what I had already seen, the human face and its 
 illusions; everywhere I wished to live; everywhere I wish- 
 ed to die; everywhere I touched the land, always there 
 came across my path a wretched man, all dressed in black, 
 who resembled me as a brother. 
 
 Who art thou, whom in this life I have met in my way? 
 Seeing thee so stid, I cannot believe thee to be my ev*' 7 
 
104 
 
 genius; thy sweet smile is full of infinite patience, and 
 thy tears show so great pity. In looking at thee, thy sor- 
 row seems brother to my pain, and resembles friendship. 
 Who art thou? Surely thou art not my good angel. 
 Never thou coinest to advise me. Thou seest my mis- 
 fortunes, and strange to say, thou indifferently dost let 
 me suffer. For twenty years thou hast walked on my road, 
 nnd until now I should not know how T oucht to call 
 
 O 
 
 thee. Thou smilest, without partaking of my joy. Thou 
 pitiest me, without bringing me any consolation. 
 
 This evening also thou hast appeared to me. The 
 night was chilly. Alone bending on my bed I was looking 
 at a place, yet warm with burning kisses, and was think- 
 ing how soon a woman forgets, and feeling a part of my 
 life pine away. 
 
 I collected letters of past days, and tresses remains of 
 our love. All this past repeated the eternal oaths of a 
 day. I was looking at these holy relics which made my 
 hand tremble. Tears of my heart, devoured by the heart, 
 and which to-morrow will not be known, even from the 
 eyes which have shed them. 
 
 I wrapped in a coarse covering the remains of happier 
 days. Methought that here below what lasts longest is a 
 lock of hair. Like the diver who goes down in a deep 
 sea I lose myself in such forgetfulness. On every side I 
 revolved the probe, and alone far from the eyes of theworld 
 I mourned o'er my poor buriad love. 
 
 Already I was prepared to seal in black those frail and 
 dear treasures. Already I was to restore it, and not being 
 able to believe it, I doubt it. Ah! feeble woman, proud ? 
 senseless, in thy spite thou wilt remember me. Why, why 
 liest thou to thy own mind? To what purpose all this 
 weeping, this heaving bosom, these sobs if thou dost not 
 love me? 
 
105 
 
 Yes thou languishes!/, thou sufferest, thou weepest, but 
 a dark shadow is between us. Well, then, good bye, 
 adieu. Thou wilt count the hours which separate thee 
 from me. Go, go, and in thy cold heart satisfy thy pride. 
 I feel my heart yet young and strong, and many evils 
 could yet find a place among the evils that you have 
 caused me. 
 
 Go! go! immortal nature had not endowed thee with all 
 virtues. Ah! poor woman, who would be beautiful and 
 not forgive. Depart, depart, follow thy destiny. I who 
 love thee have not yet lost all. Throw to the winds our 
 exstinguished love. Is it possible? Thou whom I loved 
 so much? If thou wilt go, why lovest thou me? 
 
 But suddenly in the darkness of night I see a form 
 cross the room without making any noise. I see a shadow 
 appear on my curtains; it comes and sits on my bed. 
 Who art thou, pale face, sad portrait of myself dressed in 
 black? What wilt thou, wicked bird of passage? Is it a 
 dream? Is it my own image that I see in the glass? Who 
 art thou, ghost of my youth, pilgrim who m nothing could 
 tire. Tell me why I find thee on the shadow everywhere I go. 
 Who art thou solitary visitor, assiduous host of my pains? 
 What hast thou done to be condemned to follow me 
 through the world? Who art thou, who art thou, my 
 brother who appears to me only on the days of sorrow? 
 
 THE VISION 
 
 Friend, my father is also thine. I am not a guardian 
 angel, neither the- evil genius of men. I do not know 
 where are directed the steps which I love in this little 
 world in which we are. 
 
 I am not God, neither devil, and thou hast called me 
 by my name when thou calledst me brother. Where thou 
 wilt go I will always follow till the last day in which I 
 
106 
 
 will go to sit on thy grave. Heaven hath entrusted thy 
 heart to me. When thou sufferest, come to me without 
 uneasiness; I will come after thee on the road, but I can- 
 not touch thy hand, friend; I am 
 
 THE SOLITUDE. 
 
 A. De Mnsset. 
 
107 
 
 IV. 
 INFAMY. 
 
 TO REV. HARTLEY CARMICHAEL,(.//07/0H, Ontario.) 
 
 Three families, hungry, naked, shelterless, twelve 
 starved children, learning early in life how much pity 
 exists in human hearts, wandering on every road, with- 
 out finding shelter, stopped one day on that corner which 
 once was called Switzerland the hospitable. 
 
 At the sight of them anger is suddenly shown. Rascals, 
 vagabonds, beggars away with you! Let us cast this ti- 
 resome burden on our neighbors! Moneyless tourists, 
 come, out of way! Off with you!! But our neighbors, 
 thank God, have police like us for such visitors. 
 
 You may sometimes have seen panting sheep, ceaseles- 
 sly worried by butchers' dogs with hungry jaws, bleating 
 in despair, hurrying and pushing, finding no place to run 
 to, to fly to, to escape this horrible torture, since on every 
 side they are ready to bite them. And the butcher's boy 
 gleefully chuckles and hounds them on, " Bite him, there's 
 a little one for you. " It is blood, it is flesh that the dog 
 tears. It is an eye torn out that hangs on the jowl. It is 
 a life in tatters; but close to the shambles it is quicker 
 work; and one gets through his business all the sooner. 
 
 So the poor wretches cast out on the frontier, twenty 
 times are roughly repulsed. Driven on and back, over 
 marshes, down ravines, through forests, caught, let go, 
 caught again, from twilight to dawn, from dawn to eve, 
 they go on again. Oh, horror! in vain with tears and cries 
 the little ones shew the tormentors their bleeding feet; in 
 vain the rain drenches them, freezes them; no Christian 
 offers them a place under his roof; no hearth for a moment 
 
108 
 
 warms the pale and fleshless bodies of these wretched 
 creatures. 
 
 Exhausted, they complain in a voice scarcely audible, 
 " Mother, I am hungry, cold; mother my feet are bleeding; 
 oh, mother, wait a little. " But the orders are stern. Living 
 or dead, they must leave the country without delay. They 
 must tramp, still tramp; and the police have many other 
 cares, besides these cries and tears. 
 
 Drag them, beat them, if their spirits break down. No 
 doubt the rod will restore their strength. Let us see how 
 orders are carried out, and if to excel in this noble com- 
 petition the zeal of different districts is unequal, so that 
 we may give the prize to the most brutal. 
 
 When there comes to us, dragging on a useless life, 
 some worn-out millionaire, well taught the respect due to 
 money, we sniff him and require nothing more; we pass 
 him by as respectable, and humoring his whims, we find 
 a virtue in his every vice. 
 
 Scruples and morality we keep for the poor. Let us be 
 proud of our hospitality; it is like a tavern dog who 
 humbly fawns on .his master's customers, loves good 
 clothes, hates tramps, and always bites rags and 
 licks velvet. 
 
 Poverty, poverty, how bitter is thy wrath, and what a 
 crushing burden is thy Ipad of misery! Oh, mother of 
 insults, what gall, what hatred, what fear, dost thou pour 
 during thy long embraces, on those whom thou choosest, 
 cleaving to them like a hideous leprosy, more deadly 
 every day. 
 
 Never gaining a step, the poor man tramps day by day, 
 wearing out his whole life in a fight with famine, to add 
 to the cares of to-day more racking than yesterday's, those 
 of to-morrow, which wake him at night; unless, indeed, 
 he spend the night in ruining his eyes in order that an- 
 other may be amused, or glitter for an hour or two; to see 
 
109 
 
 his dear ones hopelessly languish in want; to suffer in 
 their suffering; to have less rest than the cattle; and yet 
 to dread losing a thankless labour, and in order to keep it, 
 to endure everything, contempt, hard words, from him 
 who flings him a scrap of work. 
 
 That is his fate, and his mildest fate, too; that is what 
 he is when he has food, when he is to be envied. Ah! now 
 I understand knavery and cunning; the selling of soul 
 and body to avoid such misery; every means being good 
 to heap up money; for all is forgiven except the crime of 
 an empty purse. 
 
 I feel myself shuddering with profound fear, for those 
 who have bread, for the world's lucky men, when I see 
 them teach the hideous lesson that there is no room in 
 the sunshine except for them, that for them grow the 
 flowers of this human life, for others the thorns and end. 
 less woe. 
 
 Ye rich! open your eyes, it is now or never! There are 
 noble hearts among you, I know there are, and pride has 
 always saved me from envy, but most of you have only 
 seen one aspect of life, only the laughing side of this two- 
 fold world; ah! you would tremble to see the other! 
 
 Find a quick remedy for this gnawing evil. In pru- 
 dence or in pity, come to help so many wretches whose 
 groans becoming every moment more distinct, are chang- 
 ing into shrieks which, deaf though you be, the noise of 
 your feasts cannot drown. 
 
 At least let fear loosen your fingers. Sometimes after 
 ball or concert, you throw in this bottomless pit alms 
 which men applaud, and which fall like a drop of water 
 in a huge conflagration; then, fools, you think you have 
 satisfied this hungry crowd who gnash their teeth. 
 
 Apportion, then your balm to the horror of the wound. 
 The workman, aghast at the future, must have a labor 
 
110 
 
 less thankless, so that he may think of his children, of his 
 old age, without turning pale; he must live and must have 
 some joy, some little of the happiness which Heaven 
 sends you. 
 
 Make haste to weep for every moment! Some day 
 death will come, an unbidden guest, to sit at your banquet 
 Then for the evil, which you have permitted, having been 
 able to prevent it,oii earth, you, oh, ye rich, shall answer 
 for it tooth for tooth, eye for eye, body for body. 
 
 For him whom poverty drags into crime, for the maiden 
 whom poverty denies and throws into the street, for the 
 cheat, the groveler, the covetous, for all those whom fa- 
 mine ruins, the anger of God, taking shape before your 
 eyes, will ask of each of you, " Cain, what hast thou done 
 with thy brother?" 
 
 In the name of earth and heaven help the poor. Keep 
 a little money for his cup of wormwood. In your feasts, 
 yo'ur balls, your games, let the memory rise that elsewhere 
 some are desolate! Giv, before it is taken away from you, 
 for fear lest the flock who bleat to-day, may roar to morrow. 
 
 A. Richard. 
 
Ill 
 
 V. 
 SAINT-SYLVESTER. 
 
 TO PROF. DANIEL WILSON, LL. I>. 
 
 (President of University College, Toronto.} 
 
 The year is departing. When a mere boy, ignorant of life, 
 these days to me were so beautiful, and such holidays. 
 Gaily, with my soul full of hope, I ascended those hard 
 steps built up with tombs. 
 
 The pride of being, and of growing, shone on my face; 
 under my golden hair, I showed myself a fair flowering 
 shrub of which the living sap drinks and overflows in 
 the sunlight. 
 
 If I counted the days, it was not for complaining of the 
 days, already past, which had fallen as dead branches; 
 without fear I could contemplate the future, and without 
 remorse I could enjoy the present. 
 
 Far, very far from the ancestral hearth with empty 
 heart, mournful spirit and broken body, forsaken amidst 
 the swarming city, sad, depressed, martyrized, to-day the 
 future frigthens me. 
 
 To me it is like a dream, in which the pains of the day 
 come back in turn to persecute us with human face, and, 
 without rest, scourge us with love. 
 
 A. Richard. 
 
112 
 
 VI. 
 THE TWO MOTHERS. 
 
 TO HON. CHRIS. S. PATTERSON-. 
 
 (Judge of tJie Court of Appeal. ) 
 
 " I must go, and must take away from thy 
 arms, oh, poor wretch, this my darling, 
 who has made thee so happy. " 
 
 I. 
 
 On the river Loire which, like a silver thread, runs 
 over a hundred miles of happy land, proud and gay, the 
 citadel of Saumur raises its head. 
 
 Like fresh beauties bathing themselves in the sea, her 
 white houses extend along the river, half naked and half 
 masked by vineyards and roses. Neither heat nor frost. 
 It is an eternal spring. Oh, yes! beautiful and cheerful is 
 the citadel of Saumur. 
 
 And there near the walls, like a soft pillow, is a gentle 
 declivity with his mantle of verdure and the shadows of 
 its avenues. But this verdure, and these flowers are not 
 a complete paradise, and, mixed with such a celestial 
 smile, is a house of sorrows. 
 
 Yes. a mad-house is at the extremity of the avenue. 
 Amidst the silence of the night, amidst the gloomy wail- 
 ing of the wind, are heard, interrupted, plaintive and 
 deep sounds of lament, merry songs or strange voices, 
 blasphemies and atrocious laughs. 
 
 And a strong feeling, of which nobody dares to ask the 
 reason, forces every person to pay a visit to this* living 
 churchyard. 
 
113 
 II. 
 
 On the last hour of a splendid sunset a beautiful young 
 lady, giving her hand to her little daughter, ascends the 
 hill. How charming was the little angel of five years, 
 dressed in white, fresh, smiling, handsome and nimble. 
 
 The shining fair hair descends on her shoulders like 
 waves, and, with her provoking looks, call for kisses. 
 "Mother, can you tell me how those poor madmen live? 
 Oh! how anxious I am to see them; mother, come. " 
 
 The door is open, they ascend two staiis, they are in 
 the asylum court. It was the time of the daily walk, the 
 hour of the gaiety. One walks heavily, another recites, 
 and another sings. Some jump up and down, some sit 
 on the ground and others laugh. 
 
 A woman with loose hair and a dark petticoat, alone, 
 far away in the corner, sits on a bench as if tired by long 
 work. On her pale cheeks there is an old trace of tears. 
 She turns around her stupid and dull glazed eyes. 
 
 God had given her as a token of a first love a girl whose 
 face was as beautiful as that of a cherub. How she did 
 love her dear daughter, how she watched her white 
 cradle! Holy and deep affection! For this happy mo- 
 ther her girl was the world. A cruel illness had stolen 
 this gem of her life, and heart-broken from the great 
 sorrow she became mad, and for five years the poor wretch 
 waited for her darling, and asked of all, if they had seen 
 the lost one. Everybody who saw her with this intense 
 pain engraved on her squalid forehead feels in his own 
 soul a charm forcing him to tears. The kind lady ap- 
 proached near the unhappy mother, probably moved by 
 such great sorrow. 
 
 Clinging to the skirt of her dress her little daughter 
 thrusts forward her head, and with her eyes filled with 
 
114 
 
 tears, she said: " Poor thing! " Then softly approached 
 the mad woman and with her little hand caressed her 
 dark hair. 
 
 Shaken at this touch the unhappy one turns a look to 
 the little angel, and a strange light shines in her eyes; 
 then fixedly looking at her, she uttered a cry, opened her 
 arms, and with an impetuosity of affection pressed the 
 little one to his breast. 
 
 " Oh, my daughter, my dear daughter, how strong is 
 this joy which overflows my heart! Almighty God, let 
 me die in such happiness! Die? Who speaks of death? 
 To live, I say, yes, I will live now that I have found thee 
 and I will live always near my child. 
 
 " Come, sit here on my knees; let me kiss thy beautiful 
 eyes, let me forget these few years of horrid anguish. 
 From the very first day I lost thee, my eyes had no more 
 tears, but the excessive ecstasy of this hour makes me 
 weep anew. 
 
 " Tell me, where, where thou hast been all these years 
 I was in search of thee? Hast thou perhaps been in the 
 joy of the other life? But even in heaven in vain thou hast 
 asked my sweet kisses, and now thou comest back to the 
 loving embraces of thy mother. Thou comest now and 
 wilt fly no more from these arms. I would rather die, Oh, 
 yes, I feel that surely I would die, if again thou wert taken 
 away from me." 
 
 III. 
 
 In such a way she spoke and convulsively pressed the 
 girl to her panting bosom, and, in the intoxication of her 
 deluded affection, kisses without number came from the 
 burning lips. It was a fever of infinite love that sweetly 
 melted her heart. The dear girl with her little hand 
 caressed the dark hair, and, in return, kissed the unhappy 
 
115 
 
 woman and smiled at her with love's smile, the young 
 mother not daring to trouble the joy of such a brief 
 enchantment. 
 
 In the meantime the falling evening's twilight was 
 shedding its pale light, and the dread band of guards 
 opened the door of the inner staircase, the clock of the 
 asylum calling the family of the lunatics to their respect- 
 ive cells. The kind stranger who feared to destroy the 
 joy of this holy mistake approached near the poor mad 
 woman, telling her in a pitiful voice of love, " I must go 
 and I must take away from thy arms, poor wretch this my 
 darling, who has made thee so happy!" Jumping up 
 the mad woman with ferocious fear pressing the girl to 
 her breast, " Who art thou, " she cried to her with harsh 
 voice, "who comest to troupe my motherly affection?" 
 
 "Knowest thou not that neither Satan nor God could 
 ravish me of my little angel? Away, far from me. Woe 
 to him who will dare to touch only a hem of her dress. 
 Rather that permit her to be taken from my arms, I would 
 rather she should die, oh, yes, I will kill her rather than 
 lose her again. " 
 
 Neither prayer nor threat could subdue the delusion of 
 her mind, and with her lean arm raising the little g'rl, if 
 anyone came forward, only a step, she meant to throw her 
 on the ground, and such was the strong resolution gleam- 
 ing from her gesture and from her accents, that it was 
 thought better to leave her alone, and to await the events 
 of the night. 
 
 Therefore all retired, and she with the girl ran into her 
 cell, and there, in haste putting in order the bed, laid her 
 child in it, and, arranging with care the folds of the rough 
 sheets, joyfully sits at the bedside looking at her, smiling 
 and kissing her. 
 
 Under the pressure of the hand which softly caresses 
 
11.6 
 
 the girl, she shut her large eyes, and, yielding to weariness 
 and sleep, fell into a sweet slumber, whilst the mad woman 
 who was near her, soothed her repose with this song: 
 
 " Sleep, girl, my jealous eye as a guardian angel watches 
 ut thy pillow, and the interminable kiss like music 
 soothes thy slumbers. 
 
 " Sleep, darling, and let me see thy moist brow, let me 
 in the pure ecstasy of superhuman delirium intoxicate 
 myself with thy warm breath. 
 
 " Beautiful thou art! thy cheek is rosy, thy head rests 
 upon thy snow-white arm, and the halo of thy fair hair 
 in a gentle disorder sorrounds thy forehead. 
 
 " Beautiful thou art! in the quiet rest of thy face I seem 
 to see a ray of paradise, and in the celestial joy which 
 shines in thy looks, I see the image of happy dreams. 
 
 " Dream, and in thy sleeping may the rainbow pour its 
 colors, the stars their rays, the flowers their perfumes, 
 and may the Holy Virgin* send from the paradise a com- 
 pany of angels to hover around thee. " 
 
 iv. > 
 
 There the voice become faint as the sound of a distant 
 harp, and her tired forehead fell on the pillow of the little 
 one. Once again the calm sleep of the happy days re- 
 turned to her tired eyes. 
 
 The young mother absorbed in that fear which surpas- 
 ses all fears, from the wicket of the iron door peeped into 
 the dark room, where every movement, every kiss, every 
 noise was a stroke of a poniard which pierced her heart. 
 
 But when all was silent, and there was only heard the 
 cadence of two respirations, softly and gently a keeper 
 crept into the room, advanced silently and without awak- 
 ening the little one, who was sleeping, took her with him 
 and shut the door. 
 
117 
 
 The mother uttered a cry of joy, which echoed in the 
 wide sonorous vaults, and kissing her dear lost angel > 
 pressed her to her heart, and ran through the dark cor- 
 ridor with her tightly clasped in her motherly arms. 
 
 The mad woman awakened at the sound of the strange 
 cry, perceived herself to be alone, looked around, and 
 from the hole in the door, by the light of a dying lamp, 
 she saw the white dress of the fugitive girl. A horrible 
 cry of rage was heard, her eyes were suffused with blood, 
 and with a foam on her livid lips she stretced forth her 
 arms and rushed forward. Thrice she shook the unyield- 
 ing door, then fell backwards a corpse. 
 
 Fusinato. 
 
118 
 VII. 
 
 THE PROGRESS. 
 
 TO MRS. MILBURX, (Buffalo, N. Y.) 
 
 Vainly do we mingle arts and sciences, never, Oh! Na- 
 ture, shall be able to reach thy magnificence so great and 
 at the same time so simple. Always we shall be out- done 
 by thy specimens, all our temples, all our palaces, all our 
 immortal works are not comparable to the immense dome 
 of the forests. 
 
 The most beautiful colors prepared by mankind become 
 pale beside the pearly depth of four drops of water reflect- 
 ing the pure sky. Color-changing mohair, fine laces, 
 gauze, nor satin doth equal the wings of a beautiful but- 
 terfly fluttering into space. 
 
 The steamer which we see hurling itself on his fiery 
 course, throwing into the air its thrilling voice, still nurtur- 
 ed the flames, and tamed by a gesture cannot follow the 
 bird, whose towering flight, without breaking the harm- 
 onious silence, soars through the expanse of blue. 
 
 Then thousand torches of serene light which electricity, 
 this new queen, has sent to human genius to fight with 
 darkness, are these worth a single ray of the sun which 
 glancing from a stream, gilds the branches; or the moon 
 on a beautiful evening, or a glittering star? 
 
 All the bold dogmas, the dark systems invented at 
 random by men, and which one sees dominating by turn 
 here below, cannot equal that sublime belief in a God who 
 must punish because He is just and holy, and Who at the 
 same time well knows how to forgive because He is Love. 
 
 A. de Chambrlcr. 
 
11 J 
 
 VIII. 
 THE STORM AT THE SAINT- BERNARD. 
 
 TO J. PESCIA M. D.,(San Francisco, Cal.) 
 
 But it i.s done, all words are idle. 
 
 UYRON. 
 
 Come, little ones, do not cry! Soon you shall see your 
 father. Thou the eldest say thy prayer! Gome, children, 
 do not cry. 
 
 " Mother, when will he return? " "My son this time 
 surely he has set off later. A business is discussed which 
 ends at the table, and afterward one leaves it hardly able 
 to see. At the table one has always something more to say." 
 
 " Mother it is dark " " Child it is a cloud. The sky is 
 bright at the village. Besides thy father is a prudent 
 man; more than once he has made this journey.- May 
 Saint-Bernard make calm the wind. " 
 
 Thus the mother, in her poor cottage, tries to hide the 
 fear to which she is a prey: and many times, in cruel 
 anxiety, stretches the ear, and thinking that somebody is 
 walking, says to herself: why does he delay so long?" 
 
 Why does he delay so long? Look at the valley woman! 
 Look at these whirlwinds and at the she-goat running 
 towards thy solitary hut, and at the obscurity darkening 
 the forests before the time. 
 
 Cross thyself, and listen to these creaking squalls whose 
 doleful notes seem to speak of death: and to the fall far 
 off which roars at intervals; and hear the voice of the 
 torrents now swelling, now decreasing. 
 
 Dost thou not hear moaning the shivering leaves and 
 the wind ingulfed in the deep woods, and the hurricane, 
 carried on its powerful wings, plunging from the top of 
 the mountains in the gloomy valley? 
 
120 
 
 Poor woman! In spite of so many signs of storm a 
 peasant at the fall of the day, was marching over the 
 fearful Saint-Bernard. In the vigor of the age, and in 
 order to see sooner again his rustic abode, he has despised 
 many wise advices. He had left Aosta; alas! and the im- 
 prudent had passed before the hospice without entering it. 
 
 Cheerful he was going on through the mountain. Some- 
 times sinking waist-deep in the snow, he was saying, so 
 little was he frightened, "It is nothing! " and laughed in 
 getting out of the snow, then without fear, courageous, as 
 he was in the middle of the country, he, careless of the 
 weather, lighted his pipe and whistled an old tune loved 
 by his children. 
 
 May God keep you friend. May the propitious Virgin 
 drive back the storm to the extremity of the horizon and 
 avert thy foot from the precipice! But better, if thou 
 wishest to see again thy house, without delaying a moment 
 go, return to the hospice! There are the guardian angels 
 of the travelers; at the risk of their own they will save 
 thy life. 
 
 The air became brisk. The sky covered. The clouds 
 before scattered which one had seen shine enflamed, now 
 lie close, black and full of havoc, like batallions formed for 
 an attack. The avalanche soon will hinder the road. Do 
 not go, do not go! 
 
 Already the snow whirls around him. He hears sounds 
 which usually render men pale, and that nameless voice 
 which continually resounds, now seeming to cry, now to 
 roar. It is the wind of the desert! It is the voice which 
 in this place of woe nobody hears without trembling, 
 which no other voice could resemble. 
 
 In the plain when the storm comes, the waters with 
 their roars answers to its voice. The tree of which in its 
 rage it tries to bend the head, stirs and stands erect hiss- 
 
121 
 
 ing. In the mountains instead nothing answers to the 
 storm, there nothing stops it. No rival roaring has ever 
 moderated there the horrible majesty of this dreaded voice. 
 
 The unfortunate insists. He marches. At the end of 
 an hour he begins to feel his leg dull. " Pshaw! it is the 
 wind. Let us reach home! But I do not know why I am 
 growing cold. " 
 
 Wretch! What hast thou done? Who is able to pre- 
 serve thee to thy wife who cries, to thy children? Do not 
 hope for any help here below: God only can save thee. 
 
 He goes, goes. He feels the great allurement of a 
 sleepiness which oppresses him and which he vainly tries 
 to drive back. " I wish to sleep a while to acquire 
 strength," says he, "in order to pursue my journey. " Go, 
 go 011 imprudent! Thou must endeavor not to yield to 
 the spell which lulls thee to sleep. Go on. To sleep here, 
 it is death. 
 
 He sits. His eyes soon close to the light. Confused 
 but attractive objects deceive him. He believes he sees 
 afar his hut, and hears walk his wife and his children. 
 11 Well," says he opening his eyelids "I must go. I see 
 them. They come. 1 am better. " Then he gets up, 
 and falls, closing the eyes. 
 
 Later, in the savage little valley, a traveler, passing, 
 met, at the edge of the road, a pale-faced mother, whose 
 young children were tendering the hands for alms, saying, 
 "God may help you in your journey!" He wished to 
 know their story. "Our father died, " they answered. 
 
 A. Richard. 
 
122 
 IX. 
 
 THE UNKNOWN LIGHT. 
 
 TO MISS FANNY LEE, (C/licdgO, ILL.) 
 
 When darkness comes, be the night cloudy or clear, 
 suddenly on. the distant heights I see shining a light 
 which may be taken for a golden star. Every evening 
 without fail it glistens at the hour when the hills are 
 vanishing into the gloom, which slowly veils the world as 
 it goes to rest. 
 
 Often I contemplate this solitary ray, which reaches 
 me full of vague mysteries. Sometimes it seems to me 
 that it lures me towards it, and a thousand strange desires 
 thrill my being. I should like to turn aside from beaten 
 tracks and direct my steps to this light which beams and 
 gleams. I let my heart wander at my fancy's pleasure, 
 and by turn a thousand visions pass before my eyes, soon 
 to vanish. 
 
 First it is a young golden-tressed maiden, with large 
 blue eyes filled with brightness so serene and pure that 
 they make one dream of heaven. 
 
 Thoughtful and diligent she sews unceasingly; she 
 wishes to finish her task this very evening, but often her 
 sweet sparkling eyes turn towards the easy chair where 
 her grandfather is slumbering, while the lamp sheds a 
 reddish glow on the forehead of this noble white-haired 
 old man. 
 
 Or it is a young shepherd who to rest himself from his 
 weary labor comes to meet his betrothed and sits down 
 beside her; he is strong and manly, she beautiful and 
 active, and near both, a mastiff their faithful companion 
 sleeps with his head resting on the ground. 
 
 In low tune they murmur sweet things to each other. 
 
123 
 
 they expect to wed in the time of roses when birds make 
 their nests, and what peals of laughter! The dog pricks 
 up his ears, and with his big, sleepy eyes half open 
 watches them like an old and trusted friend. 
 
 Perhaps it is a learned man, a thinker, an artist, who 
 seeks the calm, who is sad in the crowd, and who gives 
 the watches of the night to toil. He thinks himself for- 
 gotten in his severe retreat, not guessing that my heart 
 piercing earth's fogs, understands him, and that my eyes 
 follow him. 
 
 Or again in the depths of my memory, stumbling over 
 the remains of ancient history, 1 think of some gnome 
 seated near a tomb where sleeps a princess with long 
 raven black hair, her pale face strangely serene, waiting 
 to be awakened by a young and beautiful prince. 
 
 Alas! And it is thus that I preserve my dreams! I 
 remember them always without fatigue and without rest. 
 More than once I have said to myself: " To-morrow at 
 dawn I will go in person to search for the last word of 
 this problem. ..." but the following day never finds me 
 on the road. 
 
 I am afraid of seeing my palace of chimeras crumble; 
 the sweet illusions of my heart are dear to me. I love so 
 much to dream alone in the darkness. Seeing thee near, 
 thou, modest lamp, surely I should say: "Alas! poor 
 poet, thy dreams are better than reality! " 
 
 A. de Ghambrier. 
 
124 
 X. 
 
 MONOLOGUE 
 
 of 
 
 CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. 
 
 TO THE CONSUL OF ITALY, CAY. G. M. UIANNELLI. 
 
 I am dying, old and wretched, and it was right that I 
 should die in such away! My life, toiled through suffer- 
 ing, ends with grief; but amidst all, God granted so great 
 and infinite a joy, that every pain compared to it causes a 
 smile. God, who, when He pours on the world a ray of 
 eternal light, recommends it to Italy, His beautiful Italy 
 thus spoke to me: "Daring Genoese, try the sun's path! " 
 
 And I turned my eyes to the West, and I saw a new 
 world, as it were, rise from the waves; immense forests 
 of unknown trees, immense rivers, immense plains. There 
 were the softs fruits which distant India ripens, which 
 Europe envies and desires; birds nameless with us, dif- 
 ferent wild beasts, seas filled with pearls, and mountains 
 of gold and the voice said: " Go; come back and tell the 
 story. " 
 
 But I am poor; sails do not spread at my command. I 
 have nothing but a thought! And I brought my thought 
 to the crowned heads of the world and asked a little gold 
 for recompense. Alas! I was derided. For three long 
 lustres I v/as scorned and went wandering about, and no- 
 body understood me. I heard not, I saw not! 
 
 Here, bring me nearer to the balcony; for pity's sake 
 do not take away from me the sight of the sea! The sea! 
 the sea! my kingdom, the friend of my youth and of my 
 glory! let me greet it a last time, and let me depart on 
 that yourney from which nobody returns. 
 
125 
 
 I was so glad, so serene when, for the first time, I 
 challenged it. Courageous, I pushed myself on its open 
 bosom where man's eye never yet reached. Foolish coward- 
 ice imagined it to be filled with monsters and terrors. I 
 was not afraid. 
 
 Fly my ship; if my heart beats it is not for fear of th 
 waves but of my followers. Fly, fly my ship, let not mi- 
 schievous omens arrest thy swift course. A new land is 
 there. Gaily and speedily let us make sail for the foreign 
 shore; let us follow. God protects the bold undertaking. 
 The wind is propitious, and the waves are gentle. 
 
 But already days go by, months have passed away, and 
 110 tract? of new countries is perceived. Our life is always 
 between heaven and sea, and confidence has disappeared 
 from every face. What more can I do to encourage these 
 men who only understand the vily sound of gold? I see 
 other stars and other poles! " Three days more, and if 
 our hopes are vain, I surrender myself to you. " 
 
 Here we see flocks of birds rapidly fly from the West; 
 sea-weeds and cleft from lands not distant. Land! land! 
 A panting cry breaks the eternal silence of the sky. It 
 is the land! it is the land! Who could now describe my 
 joy? A light seen from afar in the dark air gives strength 
 to the assured heart and to the tired hand. Forward! 
 forward! Here is the dawn. Perhaps is my dream? No, 
 110, this is the longed-for land, virgin, beautiful, dewy 
 beautiful like a bride given as a reward to valour, fair 
 and flowery like the hope courted by me for so many years. 
 See the sun advances; see the land smiles with proud life! 
 Furls the sails, lower the boat. Oh, beloved land, at last 
 I kiss thee. 
 
 The great work is accomplished! Am I not now the 
 master of my land and of my sea? Where is my royal 
 palace? Where are my councillors, my jewels, my crown? 
 Ferdinand where is thy faith? 
 
126 
 
 Thou wast sitting proud in the conquered Alhambra. 
 Granada lay vanquished at thy feet. A wandering Italian, 
 "burdened by thought, whom anguish had made old before 
 his time, leading by the hand a little boy, came to thy 
 throne. Around it were princes, lords, captains, and all 
 Spain's ancient splendor- What, powerful king, on that 
 day said the unknown Genoese? 
 
 " Sire, " said he, and he spoke without trembling, " for- 
 tune made thee sovereign of Aragon, love made thee 
 master of Castille, war gave thee the beautiful kingdom 
 of the Moors. Well I will do for thee more than fortune, 
 love and war already have done, I will give thee a world. " 
 
 And then Oh, king, when from the far ocean unexepected 
 I returned and brought thee gold and jewels of thy new 
 kingdom, thine without a drop of bloodshed, and to thy 
 du.mfoun.ded sages and proud councillors haughtily I an- 
 swered with facts, showing the proofs of the glorious 
 achievement; what saidst thou, Oh king? " Genius is the 
 sparkle of an eternal idea, and is superior to every crown. 
 Grandees of Spain off with your hats! " Now, I am the 
 same Columbus. In the gold, the distant springs of which 
 I opened, Europe floats, and Spain is plunged up to the 
 neck. Poor and forgotten, I beg my living, crust by crust, 
 and the discoverer of a new world has not a roof, nor a 
 house where he may die in peace. 
 
 Oh, do not tell my grand- children such an infamy! Oh, 
 do not say that these arms even yet keep the marks of 
 chains, and that, in the place of my triumph, I lived a 
 prisoner! Cruel story! If it was fated that such a re- 
 compense should follow the benefit, God be thanked, that 
 I have not done it for Italy. 
 
 It was right, it was right; see the beautiful country 
 streaming with blood and with massacre. Of the people 
 butcher, and the people who suffer, which is the 
 
127 
 
 savage? Crime! crime! The sword is plunged into the 
 breast of innocent brethren, but this was not my intention 
 when I undertook to guide you, ye wicked! It is not gold 
 that tempts wickedness, but vice is followed by useless 
 offenses; these faithless men have made the Cross a 
 pretext for butchery, the Cross, law of eternal pity. 
 
 Cease, ye cruel ones, what rage maddens you? Is gold 
 not enough, that you wish even for blood? And cannot 
 blood quench your horrible thirst? If this is valor what 
 cowardice be? Shut out from my last moments this fatal 
 scene! Let me not see these horrors. Already high 
 vengeance is moved, is awakened it roars it falls and 
 first 011 me. 
 
 It was right! it was right! I bow my head. Oh sea! 
 The sight of thee is remorse to me. Though innocent, we 
 are accomplices to great disasters! The time will come 
 when on blood and crime will rest the forgetfulness of 
 centuries, and when from this new partnership will come 
 to the universe as much good as formerly evil was produced, 
 then amidst far posterity my name may be blessed, and a 
 reward of honor more glorious, because longer delayed, 
 may comfort my weary bones. 
 
 cover my face I die in peace. 
 
 Gaszoletti. 
 
128 
 XL 
 
 THE PIRATE'S SONG. 
 
 TO A. NARDiNi,(S0# Francisco, CAL.) 
 
 With ten guns on each side, the wind right aft, and all 
 sails set, a brig does not plow the sea, but flies. The 
 pirate vessel, for her bravery called the " Feared, " well 
 known in the water from one shore to the other. 
 
 The moon shines on the sea, amongst the sails sighs 
 the wind, and by a slight movement raises waves of silver 
 and blue. And the pirate captain, gaily singing on the 
 poop beholds Asia on one side, Europe on the other and 
 there before him Stambou!. 
 
 " Sail on my ship without fear, inasmuch as no un- 
 friendly sail, nor storm, nor calm is able to overtake thy 
 stern or to conquer thy valor. In spite of the English I 
 have taken twenty prizes and a hundred nations have 
 lowered their flags at my feet. 
 
 "That my ship is my treasure, liberty my God, the 
 force and the winds are my laws, and the sea my only 
 fatherland. 
 
 " Let blind kings move fiery wars betvveeii themselves 
 for the sake of a span of land, whilst here I have for mine, 
 all that is grasped by the wide sea to whom nobody has 
 dictated laws. And now, there is no shore, wherever it 
 be, nor a flag of renown which has not felt my right hand 
 and proclaimed my bravery, 
 
 " That my ship is my treasure, etc. 
 
 " At the cry of ' Sail, oh! ' it is something to see how it 
 turns and takes measures to avoid every snare, inasmuch 
 I am the king of the sea, and my anger is to be feared. 
 In the prizes, I divide the booty equally, keeping for my- 
 
129 
 
 self only a wealth, beauty without rivals. 
 
 "That my ship is my treasure, etc. 
 
 "I am sentenced to death; I laugh at it. Let fortune 
 not forsake me and regarding the one who condemns me, 
 perhaps I shall bang him to the yard-arm of his own ship. 
 And if I fall? What is life I gave it up the same day, 
 when, like a brave man, I threw away from me the yoke 
 of a slave. 
 
 " That my ship is my treasure, etc. 
 
 " My best music is the northern wind, the trembling 
 and noise of grating cables, the roar of the blackened sea 
 and the thunder of my guns, and amid the violent dim 
 of the thunderbolts, mid the howling wind, I sleep calm, 
 lulled by the sea. " 
 
 Don Jose de Espronceda. 
 
130 
 XII. 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 TO REV. I). J. MACDONELL. 
 
 When the pining flower that summer causes to fade 
 leans toward the burning soil to die, and to quench the 
 fire by which it is devoured, ask and begs only a drop of 
 water; without rain or dew this dying complaint falls 
 with the wind's breath. 
 
 So when the unhappy being drags himself along, bent 
 from the cradle under troubles, oppressed by his burden, 
 if the arm of his brother does not support his misery, if 
 some sweet voice does not speak a word which raises and 
 comforts him, he must fall under its weight. 
 
 Oh, sublime charity, balm of grief, them whose sight 
 inspires courage, thou who driest tears; beloved daughter 
 of God! Pain and bitter complaint are silent before thee; 
 peace is in thy mouth, and those touched by thy hand 
 suddenly lose their fears. 
 
 He who lost in doubt and in despair has long ago stray- 
 ed from the right path, by thee is brought repentant to 
 God whom he had forgotten, and thou restorest hope in 
 him who hope no more. 
 
 Oh, Supreme Majesty, thy sovereign order has said: 
 " Love thy neigbor as thyself. " The man only to whom 
 misery never is troublesome is just in thine eyes. If in 
 heart he is poor, by the good actions he has done, he will 
 become rich in heaven. 
 
 A. Richard. 
 
131 
 XIII. 
 
 WHY LOVEST THOU ME? 
 
 TO C. BARSOTTJ, M. I). 
 I. 
 
 Why lovest thou me young girl? Dost thou know who 
 I am? A young poet who always runs in the same road 
 amongst thorns and flowers, and never arrives at the 
 goal. The poor poet is a butterfly, and, like this one, 
 loves the pictured flower beds, and now rising up, then 
 down, plays with the breeze and search the sun and 
 the flowers. 
 
 The little butterfly is happy with a few drops and with 
 a little fragrance; a drop of dew quenches its thirst, arose 
 leaf is its room. 
 
 Often foreign to what it hears or sees, it is pleased with 
 its golden wings and flowers, contented with the virtue 
 God gave it, thus passing its life in peace. 
 
 The lion passes, the king of the forest, and seeing it 
 going from flower to flower, "This is the happiest one," 
 says he, " that flying, passes the time in making love. " 
 
 The fox passes, busy with its cunning, and scoffs at the 
 sincere butterfly, which without any snare or any offence, 
 goes flying alone, always alone. 
 
 The magpie passes, deafening the valley, the magpie 
 always slanderous and brating. The screech-owl passes, 
 found of ruins, enemy of love and peace. 
 
 But the butterfly, which is bom for other purposes, 
 passing, does not look at them, and does not care for them, 
 and always flies, and it is always in love, such as nature 
 made it. 
 
132 
 II. 
 
 With a few drops, with few perfumes, the poor poet also 
 nourishes himself. Amongst the flowers of his hopes, he 
 too is a happy and nimble butterfly. 
 
 He opens the little window at the first dawn, and sing- 
 ing, he salutes the rising sun. The breeze repeats his 
 verses of love and the heart of any who listen to him 
 trembles. 
 
 Near the setting of the sun he moans and cries, and he 
 recites the verses thou singest; they are the songs of his 
 mountains, those songs which he never forgets. 
 
 The note of that sweet song trembles as the flower of 
 the land which gave him birth. There is the word, there 
 is the laugh, the weep, there are the eyes and the lips 
 of his girl. 
 
 III. 
 
 Like prophetic birds his verses go from sea to sea, from 
 land to land. Different people repeat them in the time 
 of peace and war. 
 
 The poet is poor, and every one says so; but he has a 
 heart as great and as deep as the sea, and to look at him 
 he seems the happiest and the richest man in this world. 
 
 So very poor, and so very rich, he passes among the 
 people humble and proud, and through his fatal journey 
 he tires the light of free thought. 
 
 And he who meets him looks at him and greets him 
 with the most beautiful name that resounds in the world, 
 and that name which the world gives him is the prettiest 
 ornament of his wreath. 
 
 Glarues, smiles and courteous receptions are not denied 
 to him, and he smiles to all; but believe me, my Lina, 
 these are his only joy, these his only fruits. And these 
 
133 
 
 fruits will not be envied by the animals t of shrewd and 
 doubtful faith, screech-owls, foxes and lions, because they 
 know, too well they know, that the little butterfly, does 
 not desire anything else. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yes, I too, oh! Lina, am like the butterfly, I that in 
 every road am searching for flowers: my amorous soul 
 runs after that desire which drags it. 
 
 It runs from morning to evening, and itself, poor thing, 
 does not know why it runs, and the more it pricks itself 
 the more approaches to those roses which desire colors. 
 And believes to suck in the lap of all the flowers drops of 
 ambrosia to sweeten the song; but often, my Lina, those 
 sweet humors are only drops o-f his own weeping. 
 
 Yes, butterfly I am, my Lina, and the native clod is 
 generous of a hundred flowers; but these are perfumes, 
 and the wind wafts them, the favors of my native land. 
 
 V. 
 
 Now thou knowest who I am, and I do not understand 
 how thou, my girl, lovest me so much. Is it iny poor 
 name that is dear to thee, or perhaps is my plaintive song? 
 But name and song shall pass; my poor verses are flowers, 
 and thou well knowest it, that the sweetest odor of the 
 prettiest flower does not live longer than a day. 
 
 And then dost thou not see how much harmony of life 
 and love there is around us? Dost thou not see how in 
 the same day this universe almost is born and dies? 
 And perhaps there where now life dances, death shall 
 raise her black tents, and the people of free hope may be 
 a heap of bones and bands. 
 
 And those roses, where now the nightingales warble 
 perhaps shall be turned into sprigs and amongst them 
 
134 
 
 there shall only t>e heard the sharp hissing of savage snakes. 
 Arid perhaps here where I am singing of affection, and 
 where so many others also will sing, this thy little blessed 
 village, which completely enraptures me with its beauties, 
 shall be changed into wood, and every thicket will give a 
 volume of doubtful stories, and the crow's song shall be 
 heard, the old sybil of the desert. 
 
 VI. 
 
 All falls and rises again, and everybody perceives this, 
 but love, love, Liiia, does not die; his seat is in our soul. 
 Everlasting as the soul is love. 
 
 And thy lo>-e shall never change its intensity; that is 
 what I only wish from thee. Of love, only of love, speak 
 always to me, inasmuch as he who speaks of love speaks 
 of God. 
 
 With the elegance of a nod and a smile, thou awakest 
 in me sweet and new poetry. Through thy pretty blue 
 eyes, truly it seems to me, I see Paradise. 
 
 G. A. Cos tamo. 
 
135 
 
 XIV. 
 
 POOR BARD! 
 
 TO L. STECCHETTI. 
 
 As a child in thy presence I lower- 
 ed my eyes, I cowered at thy knees 
 as fawningly as a whipped spaniel. 
 With my proud forehead bent I 
 kissed the hem of thy garment. I 
 suffered, I cursed, I cried andthou 
 laughedest. 
 
 Now I rise from my cowardly ba- 
 seness, and break my chains, I feel 
 ashamed of me and my love , I rise, 
 and 1 despise thee. 
 
 (A.nger.) 
 
 Poor poet! in what proud remorse of past cowardice con- 
 suinest thou thyself? Thou risest and insultest, and I 
 hardly say, if thou wert more coward then, or less proud 
 now. Thou risest and insultest. Ah! do not repeat the 
 insult which so imprudently came out from thy heart! 
 This is not pride, it is not courage, it is not freedom .... 
 on my word it is love! 
 
 Behold with what pain and blind rage thou throwest 
 mud on the once worshipped idol! How bleeds the heart 
 which is cursing! Cease thy scoffing. Woe if she hear 
 the sound of thy scoffs, woe if she sees thee! To-morrow 
 on going again to kiss her foot, perhaps thou shall pay 
 dear for her forgiveness. 
 
 If thou art a poet do not insult the sacred flame which 
 lightened thy heart if it dictated to thy dust a single poem 
 and gave a single spark to thy grief. 
 
 Do not insult her, do not cry out that the desire for 
 
136 
 
 " vile mud " enflamed thee. Wretched one, how shalt 
 thou say to the world " of that mud I had made a God. " 
 Ah ! do not speak of this dream which is fixed in thy 
 heart, Oh, do not soil that shadow. In order to possess 
 that right thou oughtest have never placed her on the altar. 
 Until from thine eye and from thy suffering spirit shall 
 come but a single tear, respect the dream which opened 
 an heaven for thee, respect the mud which inspired thee 
 with a song. 
 
 If truly thou art now strong and free, if thy insults are 
 born from a redeemed heart, I offer thee another trial. 
 Go to her, gaze on her face, without moving an eye- 
 Defy the old power of her eyes without experiencing 
 a chill in thy veins. Look at her face without desire or 
 anger, without scorn or hope. And try to breathe without 
 shock in the wake of her hidden perfumes. Approach 
 her, touch one of her hands without feeling a shudder in 
 thy bones. 
 
 And when the heart shall 110 more give thee a shudder, 
 a tear or an oath, poor poet, oh, then, only then, thou 
 canst boast of having conquered love. 
 
 No! this roar of rage is not the comfort thou are search- 
 ing for. Poor poet! Thou shalt not be cured except on 
 the day thou shalt forgive. 
 
 F. Gavallotti. 
 
137 
 XV. 
 
 HOPE IN GOD. 
 TO j. DUNFIELD, M. D. (Canada.) 
 
 As long as my feeble heart, yet fall of youth, shall not 
 have bid farewell to his last illusions, I would abide by 
 the old wisdom which has made a demi-god of the sober 
 Epicurus. I would live, love, accustom myself to my 
 equals, go in search of joy without relying upon it, do 
 what has been done, be what I am, and carelessly lift my 
 eyes to heaven. 
 
 It is impossible. Infinity torments me. In spite of 
 myself I cannot think of it without fear or hope, and not- 
 withstanding all what has been said, my reason is fright- 
 ened hi seeing it, and not being capable of understanding 
 it. What is this world? and what we come to do in it, if 
 to live in peace, it is necessary to veil'heaven? To pass 
 like sheep with our eyes fixed on the ground and to for- 
 sake all else, can that be called happiness? No, it is to 
 cease to^be a man, and degrades the soul. Chance has 
 put me in the world. Happy or unhappy, I am born of 
 a woman, and I cannot throw of humanity. 
 
 What can I do then? " Be merry, " says paganism, 
 "be merry and die." "Hope" answers Christianity, 
 heaven always watches, and thou canst not die. " 
 
 Between these two roads I hesitate. I would wish to 
 follow a more easy path, but a secret voice tells me that 
 with regard to heaven one must believe or deny. This 
 is my opinion too. Tortured souls cast themselves, some-, 
 times into one, sometimes into the other, of these two 
 extremes. The indifferent are atheists, if they would 
 doubt only for a day, they could not sleep. I yield, and 
 as the matter leaves in my heart a desire full of dread, I 
 
138 
 
 will bend my knees, I wish to believe and to hope. 
 
 Here I am in the hands of a God more dreadful than 
 all evils of this world put together. Here I am alone a 
 wandering, weak and miserable creature beneath the eye 
 of a witness who leaves me not. He watches me, he 
 follows me. If my heart beats too quick I offend his 
 dignity and his divinity. A precipice is opened under 
 my steps. If I fall into it to expiate an hour, an eternity is 
 needed. My judge is a tyrant who dsceives his victim. For 
 me everything becomes a snare and changes its name. 
 Love becomes a sin, happiness a crime, and all the world 
 is for me a continuous temptation. I have nothing more 
 of humanity about me. I await the recompense, I try to 
 avoid the punishment; fear is my guide, and death is 
 my only aim. 
 
 Nevertheless, it is said that an infinite joy will be the 
 share of some elect. Who are those happy beings? If 
 thou hast deceived me, wilt thou again give me life? If 
 thou hast told me the truth, wilt thou open the heavens? 
 
 Alas! this beautiful country, promised by thy prophets, 
 if it really exists, must be a desert. Thou requirest those 
 choosen ones to be too pure, and when this happiness 
 arrives they already have suffered too much. 1 am a man, 
 and I will not be less, nor attempt more. Where should 
 I stop? If I cannot believe in the priest's promises shall 
 I consult those who are indifferent? 
 
 If my heart, wearied by the dream which troubles it, 
 returns again to reality for consolation, at the bottom of 
 the vain pleasures called into my aid I find a disgust that 
 kills me. In the same day in which my thoughts are im- 
 pious, in which to end my doubts I wish to deny, even 
 though I possessed all that a man could desire, power 
 health, wealth, love, the only blessing of this world, though 
 the fair Astarte worshipped by Greece should come from 
 
130 
 
 the azure islands, and should open her arms, though I 
 could conie into possession of the secret of the earth's 
 fertility, and thus changing at my fancy living matter, 
 create a beauty for myself alone, though Horace, Lucre- 
 tius and old Epicurus seated near me, should call me 
 happy, and those great lovers of nature should sing the 
 praises of pleasures, and the contempt of the gods, I would 
 say to all, " In spite of our efforts I suffer, it is too late, 
 the world has become old, an infinite hope has crossed 
 the earth, and against our will, we must raise our eyes 
 to heaven." 
 
 What else remains to me to try. Vainly my reason 
 tries to believe, and my heart to doubt. The Christian 
 affrights me, and in spite of my senses I cannot listen to 
 what the atheist says to me. True religious people will 
 call me an impious, the indifferent will call me a fool. 
 To whom shall I address myself, and what friendly voice 
 will comfort my heart wounded by doubt? 
 
 It is said that there exists a philosophy which can 
 explain everything without revelation. Granted. Where 
 are those makers of systems who, without faith know how 
 to find the truth? Weak sophists, who believe only in 
 themselves, what are their arguments, what their autho- 
 rities? One shows me, here below, two principles at war, 
 which alternatively conquered, are both everlasting.(l) 
 Another, far away in the desert heaven discovers a useless 
 God Who will have no altar. (2) I see Plato dreaming, 
 and Aristotle thinking. I hear them, I praise them, but 
 I pursue my way. Under absolute kings I find a despot 
 God, now they spoke to us of a republican God; Pythagoras 
 and Leibnitz transfigure my being. Descartes leaves me 
 perplexed. Montaigne, after great examination cannot 
 understand himself. Pascal trembling tries to escape his 
 (1) Manicheans. (2) Theism. 
 
140 
 
 own visions. Pyrro blinds me and Zeno makes me in- 
 sensible. Voltaire throws down all he sees standing. 
 Spiiiosa tired of trying the impossible, vainly searching 
 for his God, ends by seeing him everywhere. With the 
 English sophist, (1) man is a machine, finally, out of the 
 fogs comes a German rhetorician, (2) who, finishing the 
 ruin of philosophy, declares Heaven empty and proves 
 that there is nothing. 
 
 Here are the wrecks of human science! and after five 
 thousand years continually doubting, after such a great 
 and persevering work, behold there the last result at 
 which we have arrived. Poor, foolish, miserable brains, 
 who have explained all in such different ways, to reach 
 Heaven you need wings. You had the desire, but faith 
 was not with you. I pity you; your pride came from a 
 wounded soul; you have felt the pangs of which my heart 
 is filled, and you well knew this bitter thought which 
 makes man tremble whenever he considers infinity. Well 
 come on, let us pray together, let us abjure the misery of 
 our childish calculations, of such vain work. Now that 
 your bodies are dust I will pray for you on your graves. 
 Come pagan rhetoricians, masters of sciences, Christians 
 of old times, and thinkers of the present age, believe me, 
 prayer is a cry of hope. Let us ourselves address to God. 
 He is good, without doubt, II 3 forgives you. All you have 
 suffered is forgotten. If Heaven is a desert, we shall 
 offend nobody, if there is One Who hears us, may He 
 pity us. 
 
 PRAYER, 
 
 Oh, Thou, Whom nobody has been able to know, and 
 whom none has denied without lying, answer us. Thou 
 Who hast made me, and to-morrow shalt make me die. 
 (1) Locke. (-) Kant. 
 
141 
 
 Since Thou lettest us to understand ihee, why, makost 
 thou people doubt thee? What sad pleasure canst thoti 
 feel in tempting our good faith? As soon as a man raises 
 his head he thinks that he sees thee in heaven: the crea- 
 lion, his conquest, in his eyes is only a vast temple. As 
 soon as he descends into his inward he finds Thee. Thou 
 livest in him. If he suffers, weeps or loves, it is his God 
 Who has so willed. The noblest intelligence, the most 
 sublime ambition is to prove Thy existence and in teach- 
 ing Thy name, Whatever is the name given Thee, 
 Brahma, Jupiter, Jesus, True Eternal Justice, all arms 
 are extended to Thee. The last of the sons of the earth 
 thanks thee from his heart as soon as to his misery is 
 mixed a simple appearance of happiness. All the world 
 glorifies Thee; the bird from his nest sings to Thee; and 
 thousands of beings have blessed Thee for a drop of 
 rain. Nothing has been done by Thee that is not admir- 
 ed; none of thy gifts is lost to us; and Thou cannot smil- 
 est without we fall on our knees before Thee. Why then 
 Supreme Master, hast thou created evil so great that reason 
 and even virtue tremble at its sight? Whilst so many 
 things in the world proclaim the divinity, and seem to be 
 witnesses of the love, power and kindness of a father; how 
 is it that under the holy sky are seen actions so shocking 
 as to check the prayer on the lips ot the unhappy? How 
 is it that in Thy divine handiwork are so many elements 
 not in harmony? To what good are pestilence and crime? 
 Just God, why death? Thy pity must have been great 
 when with all its good and evil this marvelous and beau- 
 tiful world, crying, emerged from Chaos! Since Thou 
 wouldst submit it to the pains of which is replenished 
 Thou oughtest not to have permitted it to discern Thee. 
 Why lettest Thou our misery see and guess at a God? 
 Doubt has brought desolation on the earth. We see too 
 
142 
 
 much or too little. If Thy creature is unworthy to ap- 
 proach Thee, Thou oughtest let nature veil and hide 
 Thee. Thy power would have been left to Thee, and we 
 ehould have felt its blows; but quiet and ignorance would 
 have lessened our griefs. 
 
 If our afflictions ar.d pain.3 reach not to Thy majesty, 
 keep Thy solitary grandeur, shut forever Thy immensity; 
 but if our mortal griefs can reaeh to Thee, and from the 
 eternal plains, Thou hearest our sighs, break the deep 
 vaults which covers creation, lift this world's veil, and 
 show thyself a just and good God. Thou wilt see all over 
 this earth an ardent love of faith, and the whole mankind 
 will fall down before Thee. The tears which flow from 
 men's eyes as a light dew will disappear in heaven. Thou 
 shalt hear only Thy praises, and a concert of joy and love 
 like that with which the Angels gladden Thy everlasting 
 kingdom, and in this supreme HOSANNA, Thou shalt see 
 at the sound of our songs, doubt and blasphemy fly away, 
 whilst death itself will join its last accents to them. 
 
 A. de Musset. 
 
143 
 XVI. 
 
 THE COAT. 
 
 lO ANGELO 
 
 Thou reproachest me, Francis, and thou sayest that I 
 forget my old friends. If, as before, poetry gives sweet 
 food to thy beautiful soul, read MY COAT, and see if I can 
 forget you, when I keep remembrance even of a very old 
 worn-out coat. No, while a drop of blood runs in my 
 veins, I would that we remain, " two souls with a single 
 thought, two hearts beating in one. " 
 
 TO MY COAT. 
 
 JOKE. 
 
 My poor coat, my sweet friend, it is true, thou art ragg- 
 ed, it is true, thou art old, but in happy as in hard times 
 I had thee, an inseparable companion, and, remembering 
 thee I love thee, nor I cast thee from me. 
 
 Let those who, fond of change, follow the fashion and 
 let them admire my constancy. By experience, 1 have 
 learned that, in this century, dress is everything. 
 
 Look at that nobleman, who upon his coat wears sewn 
 a silk ribbon? If thou take off the dress, who, by his 
 manners would honor him as a knight? Where are his 
 grace and amiability? Where is the old time elegant 
 bearing? Formerly it was the usage to protect oppressed 
 ladies, now one strikes even his own wife. 
 
 Another is angry and raises row if people do not call 
 him doctor. But could he be known as such without his 
 gown? The ignoble crowd, wouldstthou believe? humbles 
 itsel f, bends, to whom? to a robe. Like the donkey, who 
 was carrying the beautous image of Cytherea, while the 
 
144 
 
 frightened beast was passing, the people filled with devo- 
 tion used to bow. 
 
 Oh, my very dear coat, never did I wear thee out of 
 vanity, nor ever for debts wast thou pulled off, for even 
 thou art ragged, I have paid for thee, with the honest 
 fruit of my sweat, inasmuch as a noble soul is unused to 
 sell an object of affection, but he has not the usual .luck 
 to find some one who pays clothes for him. 
 
 Under the sleeves one may see the threads, but Miat 
 recalls me my glory, because I wore it when I, und^r the 
 influence of poetical fire, was writing the Naso for you, 
 my ladies. 
 
 Look, the collar, is already worn out on account of my 
 turning here and there, and yet, it brings me no grief nor 
 pain, but it is my tender keepsake, because I do remem- 
 ber those joyous days in which I felt in love with a 
 young girl. 
 
 Often when sitting between mother and daughter, for 
 the sake of propriety, using the most deep and subtle 
 policy, I was convening now wiih the one, now with the 
 other. But when speaking to the young one low in her 
 ear, the cunning old lady would say, "What'. that? "(with 
 her elbow nudging mine,) and I would answer, "Oh, no- 
 thing" and address myself to the girl, that everlasting 
 turning of my head was for my collar a great misfortune, 
 and yet it does not grieve or pain me, it is the tendersst 
 of my recollections. 
 
 When I am sitting near to ladies, I cannot act like a 
 statue, I am ARKTINO! I like to speak, and I like to look, 
 and I like to move as much as I choose, and, if my collar 
 must suffer on account of it, cannot be helped, the collar 
 will have to be renowned. 
 
 Here where the coat meets near the stomach a button 
 is missing. Of ten which were, now there remained nine, 
 
ALICE DE CHAMBRIER 
 

 
145 
 
 your number, daughters of Jupiter. Wanting some money, 
 often I put my hands into the pockets, but in vain and 
 yet that deficit does not grieve me, but all the more awakens 
 the old vein, so that in my mind, I change my pamphlets 
 into money. 
 
 Oh, how delightful to be a poet! All subscribe for 
 friendship and all pay, how delightful! Then my ragged 
 old coat, my ever faithful companion and friend, who 
 with me wast in great Rome, and with me when I was 
 admitted to the degree of doctor, (so that leaving thee, I 
 should fear to lose haif of my knowledge), thou art the sweet 
 and only cause of my most happy days. Life 011 account 
 of thee is to rue dear and gay, since I learned to know 
 mankind. 
 
 When thou wert renowned for fashionable style, a- 
 midst a vain and gallant world, and hadst the merit of 
 being handsome, everybody took off his hat to me. In 
 the vestibules wherever I went I used to hear repeated 
 ''Come in, come in." Great noblemen convened with 
 me and servants called rne very illustrious. I lived dear to the 
 ladies, but, alas! Honor, kindness, all were addressed to 
 thee! and now that thou no more excitest easy pleasure 
 on account of thy shabby shapelessness, at balls, at clubs, 
 I hear said: " With that coat you cannot pass," and if I 
 go to visit any one, he sends words: " Nobody at home. " 
 Everybody avoids me, some shrewd ones, fear that I am 
 going to ask a loan wherewith to have another made. My 
 poor coat thou well seest that honors and kindnesses were 
 addressed to thee. Yet to live with thee is dear and joy- 
 ful to me, because I learned to know mankind. 
 
 Perish useless luxury, nor let me hear any more fashion 
 praised by fanatics, fatal source of laziness and vexation. 
 True happiness iurks amid shabby clothes. 
 
 Guadagnoli. 
 
146 
 XVII. 
 
 THE JEANNETTE'S VICTIMS. 
 
 TO JOAN STOCKTON HOUGH, M. D. 
 
 The other day, in opening a newspaper, my eyes by 
 chance fell on the following words: " THE JEANNETTE." 
 The Jeannette! and, for a longtime, I remained thought- 
 fully gazing into the space, and sad at heart. 
 
 My mind, carried far away, with a hasty ramble, had 
 already rejoined those men, those sailors lost, feeble, tot- 
 tering in the snow amidst the floating ice-bergs. 
 
 These records daily written by your hands at the time 
 you saw all hope of help lost, when knowing perfectly 
 that safety was impossible, you were obliged to look upon 
 your best friends struck down by death, and withdraw 
 from you, after having consoled them with a last ray of 
 love and prayer. 
 
 You have not expressed in these records all that you 
 suffered. Yet neither pain nor the infinite dread of such 
 daily sad agony could conquer your courage or shake 
 your faith, brave and valiant souls. Honor to you! Honor 
 forever! 
 
 Thus all of them yesterday were unknown, but to-day 
 are famous; they remained great at that dismal hour, and 
 when my heart searches for them in their quiet rest, if 
 they appear to me, it is only with the forehead encircled 
 by' the martyr's wreath. 
 
 Oh', you saw them drawing near to merciless death, and 
 yet you have kept an ineffable hope. Grand it was to have 
 remained alone in ^ such a horrid place far from their 
 home, from their country, without help and to have believ- 
 ed in God without murmuring and without complaining. 
 
147 
 
 Oh, how great were they! strugglers! heroes! martyrs! 
 Let us love the priceless offerings of these victims who 
 sacrificed themselves to thy divine cause, LIGHT AND 
 PROGRESS. 
 
 A. de Chambrier. 
 
148 
 XVIII. 
 
 DANTE. 
 
 TO THE HON. JOHN BEVERLEY ROBINSON 
 
 La eolpa seguira la parte offensa, 
 In grida come suol. 
 
 DANTE. 
 
 It was evening. Deprived of its magnificence, the sun 
 now arrived at the dimmed horizon, was departing silent- 
 ly, without strength, like an exiled king, who passes away 
 unknown. Upright upon a hill whence Florence could 
 be seen, leaning on his sword still unsheathed and bloody, 
 a soldier, fierce in face, yet dusty from the battle scarcely 
 ended, all of whose companions were flying at random, 
 stood, casting on the distant city, a long and painful look. 
 A deep sigh heaved his breast, his eye sparkled, and his 
 voice made the hill tremble. 
 
 " Vanquished! exiled like a brigand! driven away by 
 the fate of the battlefield! without even having the fortune 
 to die fighting beneath our walls! Vanquished! From 
 valley to valley to drag along my sad life, begging from 
 half-hearted friends! to eat the hard bread of alms until 
 my last hour, comes! these are the rights I have won! 
 
 " I must fly, then, far from thee, dear and ungrateful 
 city live and suffer far from thee without hope! Of all 
 the misfortunes which from this moment will weigh on 
 me, the greatest will be never to see thee again! Thou sun, 
 who art dying continue thy coursB and illumine still the 
 roof of my ancestors, and the holy place where under the 
 black stone are sleeping in peace my mother and my 
 father. Oh, why could I not sleep near them! Thou, 
 beloved Beatrice, who scarcely hast touched our world 
 
149 
 
 while directing thy course toward heaven, in thy great 
 glory dost thou still remember thy friend? Vision so 
 short and so beautiful! Oh, bright day, what was thy to- 
 morrow? Watch over me, radiant, immortal one! Sweet- 
 eyed angel, cover me with thy wings! Happy star, point 
 me out my way! " 
 
 Dante was silent, and as in the tempest the oak lowers 
 the pride of its branches, the exile bent under the burden 
 of his misfortunes, lowered his face, and, with tormented 
 soul and eyes full of tears, tasted long the bitterness of 
 his pains. A noise came to draw him from his thoughts, 
 a noise feeble at first, but continually increasing, a terrible 
 mixture of saddened bells, of a nation's curse, of songs of 
 victors, and of cries of the vanquished. 
 
 This noise was the uproar of the people of Florence. 
 Humbled oil account of their fears, to feast their victory, 
 they asked for vengeance, and without pity dragged to 
 the scaffold many prisoners spared by the sword in battle. 
 
 Like a lion awakened by a sudden noise, which with 
 flashing eyes rises and pricks up his ears, the soldier 
 started at the words which reached him with the echo, 
 and coming out from his sad repose for a moment listen- 
 ed to the brutal orgies; and then, with his arms extended 
 toward his native city, thus addressed her: 
 
 '* Senseless populace! Go on, ye who curse the sacrific- 
 ed, and only help the strongest! Join death to thy pleas- 
 ure. Mingle blood with the wine of thy feast. Laugh at 
 the execution prepared for those who, moved by faith, 
 have risked their life for thee! 
 
 Go on with thy work, and make haste. Canst thou in 
 thy wisdom, know how many hours are needed to change 
 joy into dread, and grief into joy, how long last so sweet 
 a power, and if the oppressed remain long on their 
 knees? 
 
150 
 
 " Without doubt, puffed up by their good fortune, 
 triumphant and full of bitterness, the Neri already say 
 'Our reign is sure! ' Thinking this reign an easy task, 
 and the league of the Bianchi crushed, they strike our 
 remnants, and scoff at us with jest and sarcasm. 
 
 " Oh, Neri, know how to maintain yourselves kings of 
 the present. I have the future, and you, I dare to think, 
 will follow me thither. Ungrateful history may leave in 
 darkness your great exploits. I, in this terrified world, 
 just towards so great a glory, will immortalize you. 
 
 " Pouring infernal light on your venal spirits, I wili, 
 portray you to future ages, and will discover the niggard- 
 liness, the jealousy, the treachery, the hypocrisy cf your 
 hearts, and upon your soiled names will throw torrents 
 of terrible verses. Oh, inconstant and deceitful people! 
 I feel the day of vengeance coming! Tremble! I am 
 the supreme wrath, bend thyself under its course, and 
 may misfortune break thy pride; every hour will bring a 
 new pain, and thou shalt torture thyself as a man alive 
 in a tomb." 
 
 The night had come. A blast of tempest roared pass- 
 ing through the air; the dark heaven was reddening, the 
 arm of the sad prophet seemed to threaten the perverse, 
 and the inspired forehead of the divine poet was sorround- 
 ed by lightning. 
 
 From nation to nation, from place to place, untamed, 
 uneasy, full of hatred and love, the great outlaw wandered 
 twenty years, far from his birth-place, always dreaming 
 of his return. 
 
 Until the last hour he cherished the hope of seeing this 
 happy day. Death only took pity on his long sufferings; 
 and the old Ghibelin never more saw Florence, which 
 has not eve'.i his remains within her walls. 
 
 A. Richard. 
 
151 
 XIX. 
 
 PHANTOMS. 
 
 TO WM. OLDRIGIIT, M. A., M. D. 
 
 I. 
 
 How many beautiful maidens have I seen die! It is 
 destiny. A prey is necessary to death. As the grass 
 must fall under the scythe, so, in the ball, the quadrille 
 must tramp rosy youth under its steps. The fountain by 
 irrigating the valleys must diminish its waters. The 
 lightning must shine, but only for a moment. Envious 
 April with its frosts must blight the apple tres, too proud 
 of its odoriferous flowers, white as the snow of the spring. 
 Yes, such is life. The darkness of the night follows the 
 daylight, and to all will come the eternal awaking in 
 heaven, or the abys. A covetous crowd sits at the great 
 banquet, but many of the guests leave their places empty 
 and depart before the end. 
 
 II. 
 
 How many have I seen diel One was fair and bloom- 
 ing. Another seemed enraptured in a celestial music. 
 Another with her arms uphold her bended head and as 
 the bird, which in taking flight, breaks the branch on 
 which it rests her soul had broken her body. 
 
 One pale, lost, oppressed by sad delirium, pronounced 
 in a low voice a name forgotton by all, another dies away 
 as a sound of a lyre, and another, expiring has on her 
 lips the sweet smile of a young angel, returning to heaven. 
 All frail flowers dead as soon as born halcyons drown- 
 ed with their floating nests; doves sent from heaven to 
 earth, who, crowned with grace, youth and love, numbered 
 their years by the springs. 
 
152 
 
 Dead! What? Already lying under the cold stone! 
 So many charming beings deprived of voice and life! So 
 many lights extinguished! So many flowers faded away! 
 Oh, let me trample the dried leaves and lose myself in the 
 depth of the woods. 
 
 Lovely phantoms! It is there in the woods, when in 
 the dark I am thinking, it is there that by turn they come 
 to listen and to speak to me. The twilight at the same 
 time, shows and veils their number, but across the 
 branches I perceive their glittering eyes. 
 
 My soul is a true sister to these beautiful shadows. 
 For me and for them life and death have no laws some- 
 times I help their steps sometimes I take their wings. 
 Ineffable vision in which I am dead and they alive like 
 me. They lend their forms to my thoughts. I see, oh, 
 yes I see them. They beckon me to come, and then, 
 hand in hand, they dance around a grave, and, by degree 
 disappearing softly, draw away, and then after I think and 
 I remember. 
 
 III. 
 
 One especially an angel a young Spanish girl! 
 White hands, her breast swelled by innocent sighs. Black 
 eyes in which shone the looks of a Creole; and that in- 
 definite charm, that fresh halo, which generally crowns a 
 head of fifteen. 
 
 She died not for love. No, love had not yet brought 
 her joy nor sorrow; nothing yet had made her rebel 
 heart beat, and, when everyone, in looking at her, could 
 not repress the words, " How beautiful she is! " none had 
 yet uttered secretly the word of love. Poor girl! She 
 loved dance too much it was that which killed her. The 
 charming ball! The ball full of delight! Her ashes still 
 tremble with a gentle movement, if, by chance, in a fair 
 
153 
 
 night a white cloud dances around the crescent of the sky. 
 
 She loved dance too much! At the approach of a festi- 
 val three days "before, she was continually thinking 
 and dreaming of it and for three nights ladies, music, 
 dancers never tired, troubled her mind in her sleep, and 
 laughed, and shouted at her pillows. 
 
 Jewels, necklaces, silk girdles of waving reflections, 
 tissues lighter than bee's wings, festoons and ribbons to 
 buy a palace, all those things occupied her fancy. 
 
 Once the festival begun full of gladness she comes 
 with her joyful sisters, furling and unfurling the fan in 
 her fingers, then sits amongst the silk dresses, and her 
 heart bursts into glad strains with the many-voiced 
 orchestra. What a true delight was it to look at her when 
 she was dancing! Her garment tossed its blue spangles; 
 her great dark eyes sparkled under the.black mantle like 
 a pair of stars under a dark cloud. She was all dance and 
 laughter and mad joy. Child! 
 
 We admire her in our sad leisure moments, sad, because 
 never at the ball our hearts were open, and in these balls, 
 as the dust flies on the silk dress, weariness is mixed 
 with pleasure. She, instead, carried by the waltzes or the 
 polkas, was going up and down, hardly breathing, excit- 
 ing herself with the sound of the renowned flute, with 
 the flowers, with the golden candlesticks, with the attract- 
 ive feast, with the music of the voices, with the noise of 
 the steps. 
 
 What happiness for her to move, lost in the crowd, to 
 feel her own senses multiply in the dance, so as not to be 
 able to know is she were being conveyed by a cloud, or 
 flying leaving the earth, or treading upon a waving sea. 
 
 At the approach of the dawn, she was obliged to depart, 
 and to wait on the treshold till th.3 silken mantle was 
 thrown over her shoulders. Only then, this innocent 
 
154 
 
 dancer, chilled, felt the morning breeze play over her 
 bare neck. 
 
 Sad morrow those following a ball! Farewell dances 
 and dresses, and child-like laughter. In her, the obsti- 
 nate cough succeeded the songs; the fever with its hectic 
 color followed the rosy and lively delights, and the bright 
 eyes were changed into lacklustre eyes. 
 
 IV. 
 
 She is dead! Fifteen years old, beautiful, happy, ador- 
 ed! Dead corning out from a ball which immersed all 
 of us in mourning, dead, alas! And death, with chilly 
 hands wrested her yet dressed from the arms of a mother 
 mad with anguish, to lay her to sleep in the grave. 
 
 To dance at other balls she was ready, death was in 
 haste to take possession of such a beautiful body, and the 
 same ephemeral roses which had crowned her head and 
 which blossomed yesterday at a feast faded in a tomb. 
 
 V. 
 
 The unhappy mother, ignorant of her fate, had placed 
 so "deep love on this frail stalk; to have watched her suf- 
 fering babyhood so long, and to have wasted so many 
 nights in lulling her when she cried, a tiny baby in her 
 cradle.- To what purpose? Now the girl sleeps under the 
 coffin lid and, if in the grave where we have left her, some 
 beautiful winter's night a festival of the dead should 
 awaken her cold corpse, a ghost, with dreadful smile, in- 
 stead of his mother, will preside at her toilette, and will 
 tell her, "Now is the time," and with a kiss freezing her 
 blue lips, will pass through her hair the knotted fingers, 
 of his skeleton hand, and will lead her trembling to the 
 ethereal chorus, flitting in darkness, and, at the same time 
 011 the gray horizon the moon will shine pale and full 
 
155 
 
 and the rainbow of the night will color, with an opal re- 
 flection, the silver clouds. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Young maidens who are invited by the gay ball, with 
 its seductive pleasures, think of this Spanish girl. She 
 was gay, and with a merry hand was gathering the roses 
 of life, pleasure, youth and love! Poor girl! Hurried 
 from feast to feast she was sorting the colors of this 
 beautiful nosegay. How soon all vanished! Like Ophe- 
 lia, carried away by the river, she died gathering flowers. 
 
 V. Hugo. 
 
156 
 XX. 
 
 DAVID. 
 
 TO MISS SUSIE. K. W1THFORD, (CHICAGO, ILL.) 
 
 To contend with tha giant Goliath, David had only his 
 sling, but at the bottom of his boyish heart he had also a 
 strong faith. He was perfectly aware that in order to save 
 Israel, God would figth for him. 
 
 Calm and easy in mind, he set forth against the power- 
 ful Philistine who, with haughty and insolent look, sinil- 
 ed at his youthful appearance, at the same time scoffing 
 at the Lord who had chosen David to save his people. 
 
 But the boy whom God directed, with a steady hand 
 and by a simple throw, inflicted on the colossus a deadly 
 wound, and thus the Lord was pleased to deliver Israel. 
 
 In the same manner as David, Thou, oh, Lord, callest 
 us to great battles. To succeed in them in a way credit- 
 able to Thee, make us faithful as David, and then every 
 one would perceive that the Lord is with us as He was 
 with Israel. 
 
 And if evil sorrounds us, and if it become stronger than 
 ourselves, then, kneeling, we shall implore Thee, Who 
 rejectest none, and'then in answer to our prayers, Thou 
 shalt fight for us. 
 
 A. de Chambrier. 
 
157 
 
 XXI. 
 
 THE TWIN SPIRITS. 
 
 TO MISS NORA HILLARY, TEACHER OF MUSIC. 
 
 I. 
 
 The sun was near the end of his journey, the air was 
 filled with mystery, -the violets send their odor to God, 
 the murmur of the stream was more lively, all creation 
 seemed to repeat the words of love, and my heart was 
 seized by a pious feeling which sweetly suggested prayer. 
 
 Prostrating myself before the rustic altar of the 'queen 
 of heaven, a divine pity moved my soul and I wept and 
 prayed. 
 
 II. 
 
 Whilst to the throne of the Almighty, Jike a cloud of 
 incense, joined to the sublime austere voice of the organ 
 rose the prayer of the worshippers so dear to Him, sud- 
 denly I heard a sweet, strong, harmonious voice which 
 troubled my heart and forced me to weep. 
 
 Raising my eyes there appeared before me a young 
 orator, beautiful and divine in appearance who struck 
 my heart. 
 
 III. 
 
 For many and many days already the fair young man 
 had turned and returned around my house, looked at me 
 and smiled, and every day I saw his sweet image; blush- 
 ing, I too had answered his salute, and each time he 
 came I lost my peace. 
 
 God grant that he may understand me as I understand 
 him! And if he understands me and will give me his 
 heart I will adore him with an intense love. 
 
158 
 
 IV. 
 
 He loves, yes, he loves me! Oh, celestial delight! In- 
 effable joy! Supreme gladness! No, this, is not a dream, 
 lie has told me and his words are words of divine consent. 
 Yes, my beloved, I will love thee, to thee I will open the 
 most hidden recesses of my heart, entirely thine will be 
 this my living soul. Sweetly, sweetly a breath of love 
 slighty touches my face. He has looked at me and placed 
 on my finger a ring, a glittering circle of gold. 
 
 V. 
 
 See, see how the torches shine! How beautiful is the 
 altar festally adorned! How many garlands! How much 
 incense, and how many lights! Oh, what a solemn funct- 
 ion is this one! How bright a day, and how the heaven 
 smiles! I will adorn my head with the nuptial crown. 
 I will appear beautiful under my veil. Already the 
 harmonious trumpet tunes joyful songs. Oh, my faithful 
 one! dost thou not hear the people's shouts. "Hurrah! 
 for the bride! " 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Thou art married. " So said the priest, the old man, 
 thou knowest, who loves me so much! Art thou then 
 mine? Wilt thou be always at my side? Is then ac- 
 complished the hope of my heart? But tell me, dear, why 
 so sadly lookest thou at the ground, and sighest? What 
 thought comes to abate the course of our joy? Thiiikest 
 thou perhaps of thy mother whom thou hast left alone? 
 We will go to her, but do not weep any more. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Three days are passed, and he has not returned! Al- 
 ready three days, three eternal days! and I am dying! M} T 
 
159 
 
 treasure has told me nothing. At dawn he kissed me, 
 and quickly went away. Has he been to console his 
 mother? But then he ought to return without delay! 
 Pray, bright stars, bring him back to me. Without my 
 beloved I am failing, and I will preserve alive for him the 
 only pride of my life, with whom I fell in so great a love. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Alas! What are these melancholy voices, this sad 
 sound of bells, this grief which invades all the passers 
 by? What wants this yet distant crowd? Somebody is 
 dead. . . .and is accompanied to his home by weeping faces! 
 Alas! is it true this my horrid vision? No, it cannot be! 
 Eternal God, Thou art not an unjust punisher! My mind 
 is raving, and my thoughts are food for my sorrows. 
 
 Yes, my love is dead! The colored cheeks are now 
 pale and the-heart is silent. The refulgent pupil which 
 before used to shine with divine ardor is now closed. God, 
 why hast now taken him, when scarcely thou hadst grant- 
 ed me his sublime love? Like a little flower, which in 
 the winter appears waving, and soon after is leafless and 
 dies, thou, my sweet-heart, hast passed away. 
 
 X. 
 
 I am wretched, sad and alone, because they have taken 
 away my treasure, burying him under the green sod not 
 far from thy altar, Virgin Mary. They have laid on the 
 coffin a few flowers, singing pious songs. Prepare for me 
 in the same place the nuptial bed. I come to thee, my 
 beloved, only comfort of my heart. United we shall 
 spread our wings on the celestial shore, the everlasting love. 
 
 At the last tolling of the sad bell, well known to the 
 
160 
 
 village people, when the night has come, and the honest 
 prayer of the peasant singing to the Virgin, ascends to 
 the spheres, when in the heaven raises the placid moon, 
 when the breezes become milder, and all around the uni- 
 verse is silent, adoring the Creator, when, on the branches 
 the feathered birds tranquilly hide their harmonious 
 throaths in their winged arms, and in the sky the most 
 distant worlds reappear, amidst the light vapors of the 
 churchyard, a flame towers alone and trembling for a 
 while, finally rests and waits. 
 
 Not long after, a sad and harmonious song is heard, and 
 in the meanwhile one can see alike flame coining toward 
 the first, and both mingled in one embrace, sweetly diss. 
 appear, like twins, destined to the same fate, who felt 
 intense joy in meeting each other. 
 
 The firm belief of the people is that the apparition is 
 the souls of the two unhappy ones who prematurely died 
 in such great grief, ai: ', n account of this, the believer 
 pained for so great a misfortune, bows, and weeping, says 
 
 AVE MARIA. 
 
 C. A. Morpurgo. 
 
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