-FHE STORY- OFCOLETTE ^^ ^m mm ^9H ^^H ^S^ ^B ^RS THE-AUTHOR-OF SFRAIGHTON MB /J She hat] to mount on a table. (Page 132.) THE STORY OF COLETTE FROM THE FRENCH OF LA NEUVAINE DE COLETTE ■:. '^^K^k k\ m% ■^ itTr ^ ^/^ -■■ s^ IVITH SIX FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS AND THIRTY VIGNETTES BY JEAN CLAUDE NEW YORK D. APPLET ON AND COMPANY 1892 Copyright, 1888, 1891, By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. All ricrJits reserved. s'&y^^''-^ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. baby She had to mount on a table ..... What occupation shall I find for myself to-morrow? My portrait is easy to sketch .... " And if I have a vocation for a religious life? " I am seated with my parchments before me As an infant in long clothes she resembled no other My three sofas, for example, are all alike I threw my arms about her My donkey perceives with great intelligence It is he who has given me my book . My dog had joined me .... " My child," she said, "your case is not very seriou: The altar I have made for my saint is superb . I was taking off the smallest particles of dust " What is that ? " she cried to me, throwing up her "In 1885, sir" The doctor bowed his head without answering Benoite, who has been arranging his room At distant intervals a band of ravens swoops down F'inally, I strained a cupful for iiim through a scjuare of muslin Do you see that image of St. Joseph? . . . . . PAGB Frontispiece 5 10 14 18 20 27 33 Faciiig^ 36 40 46 Facing 4° Facing 5 ^ • 53 . 60 Facing 07 • 70 • 74 . 79 . 86 • 95 ivi*^8tBi39 4 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PACE But the flow had begun, and had to have its course .... loi A study from Nature .......... 107 Its grandeur dates from Louis XIII and its downfall from the Revo- no lution ............ The portrait ............ 125 " Why are you all the time squabbling with your gentleman ? " . . 134 Hymen • . . 140 To begin with, Jacques, be shocked if you like 146 Then, without waiting, she attacked the fabulous bread . . .153 "As for you, mademoiselle," he added, looking at the old maid . . 159 With my little dagger I cut the name which occupies my thoughts 165 With Mademoiselle Colette as a guide 171 He went on and on, raising his eyes to me every moment . Facing 177 I held out>my hand, unable to speak . . . . , . .182 The writing of M. de Civreuse covered two sides ..... 190 The end ............. 195 THE STORY OF COLETTE, March i, iS—. " Keep mo, O Lord, from dying of despair and oinui, and do not forget me, buried in tliis snow, which deep- ens every day." I have so often said this little prayer that now my patience is exhausted, and I write it. Written words have so much more force, it seems to me ; thev last longer. Also, because as a spoken phrase, which reverber- ates against the high sculptured ceilings of my rooms, takes more time than to think tiie words, so writing takes the most time of all, and 1 will write. This for to- day. Alas ! what occupation shall I find for mvself to-morrow? My materials are scarcely sufficient, certainly not elegant. My journal has no back, the ink is dried \\\) in the bottom of an old bottle which I have discovered, my pens are lost, and I have never had a sheet of paper here. Win' siiould I have paper when 1 write to no one ? To reach the village is impossible. There arc three 6 THE STORY OF COLETTE. feet of snow on a level, without speaking of the drifts, which are high enough to bury the stage-coach to the top of the wheel. I have read how prisoners have written with their own blood on pocket-handkerchiefs. 1 do not believe it, for the writing blots, and one can not read it. I know, for I have tried. But I have mixed my dried ink with water ; I have borrowed two long quills from the tail of a goose, who bore the loss with patience ; and, by searching in clos- ets, I have found some old rolls of parchment, as yellow as saffron and as thick as cardboard, which, fortunately, were written only on one side — the other was left for me. I have the advantage of reading as I write. They relate to the quarrels and lawsuits between a certain sire, John Nicolas, and a lady of Haute- Pignon, whose rabbits ravaged his clover-fields, and the limits of whose fields were always in dispute. Give me. High Powers, as neighbor, a John Nicolas disposed to quarrel, and a domain whose borders may be always in dispute. Are there many people, I wonder, who realize the entire meaning of the word " solitude " ? "Solitude," says the dictionary, "state of a person who is solitary " ; and, again, " solitary, without com- pany, not with others." And that is all, no commentaries, no remarks, noth- ing which indicates that these words relate to one of the most terrible afflictions of existence, nothing which classifies, which says — there is solitude and solitude, THE STORY OF COLETTE. the blood," I could not help answeiini^, shru<^gini( my shoulders. " I will not have him — you know I w ill not have him ! " she replied, moving away. " I do not receive men here." " 1 do not offer him to you," I replied, more firml}' ; " it is mv affair." " And what will vou do with him ?" " 1 shall take care of him, of course." " Where, and with whom ? Alone, night and day ? " " With my nurse, and 1 will give him my room." "Vou are a fool!" she said, violentlv, turning her back ; " I can hinder that." " How ? By putting him out, and leaving him to die in the darkness ? " " Nonsense ! " she replied. " These are big words ; one does not die of such a trifle. In less than an hour you will see that the man himself will wish to go awav, and he will certainly not understand xowy lamenta- tions." " You may be sure I shall not force him to stay." 52 THE STORY OF COLETTE. " And if he remains as he is, what do you expect to do?" " I have told you already," I replied, completely los- ing patience, and raising my handkerchief that I was holding against the wound ; " I intend to cure the wound that you see there, and when it is healed, and he is ready to go away, as you said, I intend to beg him with all my might to pardon me the evil I have done him. Do you understand ?" And not wishing to hear anything more, or to add anything to this odious discussion, which I was afraid mio-ht reach the ears of the wounded man, I sent Benoite to prepare what was necessary, while I remained on my knees by his side, moistening his forehead with water, and waiting with the greatest anxiety the first sign of life. But his lips remained closed and white, and the little stream of blood continued to trickle down on the white wool, making a rapidly increasing spot. My aunt walked up and down on the other side of the room like a caged lioness, murmuring incessantly the same things. Gradually the fear grew on me that the closed eyes would never open, and that I was bending over the forehead of a dead man, on which the mark of my hand would remain forever. Then all at once I saw Benoite run past and from the door-step call loudly to some one to stop ; and a second after the doctor entered with her. Certainly, Providence sent him by our little road ; and my nurse, who had seen him from the window, had THE STORY OF COLETTE. 63 been able to stop him in time. An hour later, they had together installed the poor man in his bed, dressed his wounded head, and brought back, if not his intelligence, at least his respiration, which was now casv and regular. With the authoi"il\- w liich a stranger and a physician alone could exercise over my aunt, the doctor, indignant at her talk, made her go out at once. When he took his leave she was still in the hall beside me, complaining and repeating her rclusal to take care of the wounded man. As soon as she saw the doctor she exclaimed : " You know, doctor, this is wot mv affair ; 1 will have nothing to do with it ! " " Quite right, madame," he replied brusquely ; " young hands are more gentle and lighter for dressing wounds, and a fresh young face is good for the sight of a sick person." It is three days since then. If the fever is a little less, his ideas are always wandering. The name that he pronoimces oftenest is that of a certain Jacques, and he makes the most extraordinary discourses to him, with such queer words that, in spite of myself, I laugh and cry at the same time. Then he repeats the only phrase which he has uttered since he fell. At the moment when Benoite and I ran out. he was lying on the ground, but not quite unconscious, and as I reached him, crying out, " Good heavens, sir, what has happened ? " he raised himself on one knee, and with something of a smile, if a man can smile in such a state — " Ah I ah ! " he said, " it is the Brahman ! " Then he fell, and we carried him in. I lis Brahman 64 THE SrORY OF COLETTE. has come back occasionally since then, and I can not understand what he means by it. We know nothing at all as to who or what he is. The doctor has inquired at the village inns ; no traveler answering to his description had been seen, and it looks as if he sprang out of the earth into our unlucky road. His clothes are elegant. He has a short, tight-fitting coat in superb fur ; his hands are white ; and all of his face that the bandage does not cover is handsome. In his pocket, nothing but a card-case without ad- dress, and, for a valise, a small black leather bag, which he carried on his back. I hate the idea of forcing it open, and the doctor consents to wait a few days, hoping that he will be able to answer for himself. Benoite makes the wildest suppositions. " He is perhaps a peddler," she said to me just now, looking at the odd shape of his luggage ; " or perhaps a photographer. Some of them have as little with them." I do not believe that. From his hands, his eyebrows, and his beard, I am sure he may be a duke or a count, and in any case a gentleman, and I try to guess his age and name. Is he handsome ? I do not think so, and I do not now give a thought. My remorse and m}^ torments occupy me completely, so that I take neither food nor sleep, and the doctor was very angry at finding me still up this morning. He used his authority to make me go down and walk in the court. But the air was too much for me ; I felt ill, and went THE STORY OF COLETTE. 65 back to the bedside, determined not to leave it again until the patient's consciousness should return. If I could hear one sensible word to show that his head is all right, the rest would be nothing. March 2^th. He has spoken--it is accomplished! and 1 am so wild with happiness that I should like to cry it aloud. Last evening, in spite of being sleepy, I insisted on watching, and in order to be more at my ease than in my dresses with tight sleeves and double skirts, which catch upon everything, I had put on, in place of a dress- inof-irown, the least faded of the old silk dresses that I hunted out last summer in the store-room. In the wide skirt, straight and simple, with the waist which seemed made for me, I felt myself so comfortable that, I hardly know how it happened, very soon I fell asleep in my arm-chair, and so quickly that I made no struggle to keep awake, and remained so, completely forgetting my patient, for perhaps two hours. Then the dimly burning lamp, the dying fire, and the feeling of cold and sadness that always comes at those hours, woke me, and I ran to look at the clock. In a few minutes more, the time would arri\c for giving him his medicine. I had yet time to make up the fire, for the room was getting cold. I was on mv knees, placing a large stick of wood on the coals, and blowing with my nnjuth the bits of dry moss, when suddenly I heard a voice speaking to me. 66 THE STORY OF COLETTE. My surprise was so great that I jumped up with a cry of fright, understanding nothing at first. Then immediately I thought of the wounded man, and ran to the bed. It was really he who called. Rest- ing on his elbow, his uncovered eye wide open, and looking at me with intense curiosity, he seemed more surprised than he would have been if he had found him- self suddenly transported to the other world, and, be- fore renewing his question, he waited so long, looking at me from head to foot, that I was going to question him myself, when, anticipating me, he broke in : " Madame," he said, hesitating, as if to see whether I would protest, " I beg you to tell me where I am." " In the Chateau of Erlange de Fond-de-Vieux, sir," I replied, trembling a little. " Perfectly unknown ! " he muttered. " Then you are the chatelaine ?" he continued, raising his head. " Half — yes." " And, excuse my stupidity, I beg, madame -, but, re- ally, I think I have lost my senses— what am I doing here, if you please?" " Waitinsf to gr-et well. After your terrible accident we brought you in here, and — " " Ah ! it was an accident," said he ; and as I was about to say to him, " I beg you to be sure it was noth- ing else," he continued, always with the same calm man- ner : " Will you oblige me, madame, still further by telling me in what year we are ? " If I had not seen the perfect calm of his face, I " In 1885, sir." rilK STORY OF COLETTE. 67 should have supposed that he was again delirious, but he spoke with pciiect self-possession, and I rej)lic(i me- chanically : " In 1885, sir." " Really I " said he in a low voice, as if speakiiiij^ to himself ; " 1 should not have thought it was the fashion." Then, without transition : " Will it be possible for you to give me pen and paper, in order that I may write to a friend who must be very anxious about me?" " M. Jacques ? " I asked, in spite of myself. " Preciselv," he replied. *' Has he then been here, mad am c? " " No, but in vour delirium — " " Ah ! 1 have been delirious," said he. " Hum I have 1 spoken for young ears?" And as I shook my head without reflection — " Yes? Very well, so much the better. Frenzy has then more good sense than reason. And you will be so kind, madame, as to give me — " "All vou want to-morrow, it is night now, and one does not write at night." " Why," he asked, " when one has lamps ? " And he smiled to himself at what he said, like a child. " Because the doctor orders the most complete calm and repose for you, and he woidd never forgive me for having permitted it," I replied. His eyebrows contracted like those o\. a j)erson un- used to resistance, and he thrust out his arm so quickly that, in spite of myself, I stepped back. lie smiled again then, and, inclining his head — 68 THE STORY OF COLETTE. " Do not be afraid, and excuse me for keeping- you standing-. In truth, a sick man is a poor cavalier." And with his finger he pointed to an arm-chair. For my part I was confounded. This man awaking from delirium among strangers, suffering very much, who spoke tranquilly on each subject, in this half-sar- castic manner, without inquiring what the accident was which had thrown him into this bed — he resembled nothing that I had ever imagined. Without sitting down, I had placed my hand on the back of the chair, and stood there before this remark- able person, speechless and in a maze. Then the half- hour struck, and I remembered his medicine. " You must drink this," I said, taking the glass already prepared from the table. But he drew back with a decided gesture of refusal, and I repeated anxiously, in a suppliant tone : " I beg you ; it is to make 3'ou sleep." " I know it very well," he muttered between his teeth ; " it is in the piece ! " He drank it without another word ; then added, as Benoite, whom I had forced to rest a little on her bed, entered softly — " And here is old Francois." He placed his head on the pillow, murmuring " Thanks," and ten minutes after he was asleep, until the doctor came, who is with him now. The doctor is satisfied, or partially so ; in any case, there is no danger now of congestion. (3n the other hand, the disposition of our singular THE STORY OF COLETTE. 69 patient surprises him as much as it did me, and just now, in Icavinj:^ him. lie \vii)cd his forehead and ex- claimed : •' What a willful man I My poor child, why did he not stay in his stupor a month longer? We shall ha\e hard work to manage him now. He wanted nothing less than to get up and travel." It seems that as soon as the doctor entered, this morning, he half sat up in bed, paying no UKjre atten- tion to his splintered leg than if it did not exist, and began to thank him briefly and courteously for the attention he had given him. " It is hardly weather in which one ought to give the faculty the trouble of going about the countrv roads," he said, " and 1 beg you to accept my apologies." Then he began a series of questions like those he had addressed to me in the night, which proves that my an- swers did not seem very clear to him, and asking them all so i-apidlv that the doctor declares they took his breath awav. Once reassured about his geographical position, which evidently seemed doubtful to him, he eagerly sought to learn exactly what was the matter with him. " I feel something like a great ball there," he said to mc, pointing to his knee; "what is it ? I suppose you have not cut off mv leg without telling me? And here — have I been trepanned, that I have my head in band- ages ? " The doctor reassured him as best he could, but he is not one of those patients who is deceived bv words. ^o THE STORY OF COLETTE. He questioned closely why and how the thing hap- pened, and required to have described to him all the bones and ligaments injured. After which he asked for a mirror, and the doctor handed him one from his case. " This is a pretty business ! " he grumbled. " To destroy what there is best in my face. But, bah ! a tile fell on the head of the great Pyrrhus : why should I not perish by the neck of a bottle ? " " There is no question of perishing," the doctor re- plied. " I certainly hope not," he answered. " 1 am still a little feeble this morning, but in less than a week I shall have delivered my hostess from the inconvenient charge of a sick stranger. Tell her so, doc- tor, I beg you." And as the doctor bowed his head without answering, with a gesture that clearly signified, " Go on, my friend — I do not wish to contradict you, but you are talking very foolishly," the young man perceived that this manner of assent was only a way of calming a feverish person, and that there was prob- ably a very different idea behind those large white eye- brows. He began then to question the doctor imperiously, to make him name the day and hour when he would be cured, insisting- that the truth should be told to a THE STORY OF COLETTE. 71 person of his age, so that the doctor ended by fixing as a first date a month, reserving to himself the right of adding another to it in case of need. At this he became furious. "A month! doctor," he cried — "a month! Vou want to keep me here a month ! Vou can not be serious. I beg you to believe that I have planned quite other em- plovment for my spring than watching my bones knit. And it can go on quite as well somewhere else as here, 1 imajrine. A month ! Whv, in a month I shall be sleeping on a macaw mat, with six slaves to fan me, and the sky of India above my head." " Then you will have found a very fast vessel, my dear sir," said the doctor, laughing. " But let us reason a little. You are not particularly anxious, I suppose, to be lame all your life simply for want of a few davs' care ? " " Certainly not, for I make more use of my feet than most men ; but, with my leg in this box, what does it matter whether I sleep in a bed or a carriage ? it will be kept motionless all the same." " Perhaps so, if you travel on clouds." " Even without that," he resumed with vivacitv. "There are the sleeping-cars. No matter how wild your mountains are, I can certainly find twelve men who will carry me to the nearest station. There are railroads all the way to the sea ; once there, without a movement, on a lighter and an inclined plane such as are used for heavy freight, I can get on board, where 1 shall have all the time my bones need to mend." y2 THE STORY OF COLETTE. " Is it for an important affair?" the doctor asked. " Simply for ray own pleasure, and because 1 wish it." On this, without a word, the doctor put on his hat and took his overcoat from the chair where it was dry- ing before the fire ; but when the sick man saw him ready to leave he became so violently agitated that the good doctor approached the bed. " I should like very much to know who is going to keep me from doing what I like," said the stranger, growing still more agitated. "On my word, my dear sir, I am," replied the doctor, putting down his hat and reseating himself quietly. " Let us understand each other once for all, and, as you like plain dealing, let us have it. " First, let me tell you that 3'our knee, and you your- self, might have been of no consequence to me, and I beg you to believe that, had the circumstances been different, if you did not care that your broken bones should knit. I should leave you to fall to pieces with the best grace in the world. But at present I am your physician, and that changes the case completely. Have you been a soldier, my dear sir ? I do not know, but it is probable ; in any case, you know what the army is and what makes its force — I mean obedience to orders. A soldier is placed at a post, with orders to let no one pass. Why ? Wherefore ? In whose name? He knows nothing at all; but in the name of this order he will lower his bayonet against friend or foe. rilE STOKY OF COLE TIE. 71 "With us it is much the same case. I see you on a road, I do not know you, you are nothing to me, and 1 would not put the least obstacle in your way. But a fall, a wound, something knocks you down, and you be- long to me; I return and pick you up, and carry you off, and I must answer for you as the soldier does the door that he guards. Try to pass this door, and I lower my pike, I warn you ! " " Doctor," the young man replied at once, stretching out his hand, " pardon me, and rest assured that 1 con- sider myself a prisoner on parole. You must not ex- cuse me by thinking that illness makes me ill-tempered, for I am always just as you see me ; but I confess that, obstinate as I am, if I am struck hard and in the right place, I yield." " When one is warned, it is sufficient," replied the good doctor. And he left his troublesome patient, with the desired writing materials. In the mean time, the passport of our stranger has told us ai)proximately who he is. His name is Count Pierre de Civreuse, and, as nearly as one can judge at first sight, the doctor tells me, his profession is to do foolish things. He is a gentleman — the doctor agrees — and evidently of an uncommon char- acter. The doctor then told him my aunt's name and mine, so we are introduced to each other; but the doctor said nothing yet about the real cause of the accident, being apprehensive on account of the irritability of our patient, and this is an immense relief to me. This 74 THE STORY OF COLETTE. stranger frightens me more and more, and I do not see how I can endure any explanation with him. Benoite, who has been arranging his room, tells me that he is still writing, and I will leave him in peace with his friend Jacques, though I am anxious to know how this will end, and how I can ever tell him the truth, and obtain the pardon of such an un- manageable person. Pierre de Civreiisc to Jacques de Colonges. You have thought me dead, my good fellow, have you not? — and I can tell you that for some days I thought so too. For I do not know how many hours I was buried, I do not know where. Doubtless, where all unconscious souls go ; and it seemed to me so far underground and so heavy that, with my little remaining resolution. I kept trying to force open the planks of my coffin with my shoulder. Certainly, at that distance, one has taken half of the final journey, and reached the place where the smallest grain of weight \vill turn the bal- ance. Happily for me, I have swung over to the good side, humanly speaking, you understand, and I woke up one fine evening rather bruised by my fall ; but one does not fall such a distance without perceiving the effect, espe- THE STORY OF COLETTE. 75 cially when one's knee is well packed in a pine-wood box, and one's head in bandages. Midnight was striking on a clock, the favorite hour for those who come back from beyond the grave, and that was the first material thing of which 1 became con- scious. If I have not completely forgotten what happens in the world, I said to myself, these little machines never strike more than twelve times ; if this one does not ex- ceed the number, it proves that I am on the earth, and quite alive. And it did not ; and, sure of my identity, I opened my eyes to look about me. My friend, do you know " La Fee " of Octave Feuil- let — a charming little piece which is often played — and have you seen it? Well, that evening — it was yester- day, I think — I woke up in the first act of " La F^e," and I made the responses to Mademoiselle d'Athol in person, during one or two acts. Do not imagine that I am joking — listen. The first thing that a sick man thinks of examining is his bed. Mine had twisted columns hung with Louis XIII or Louis XIV taj)estrv — I will not swear which — and a spread in silk, which we will call curtain, if vou are willing. The room in which I lay was verv large, dimly lighted bv two yellow^ish candles placed in huge candlesticks ; it was paneled with carved oak, and one guessed, rather than saw, high, high up, the beams of the ceiling, i)ickcd out with a narrow band of gold which shone from place to place. 76 THE STORY OF COLETTE. Against the wall stood stiff sofas, which made my back ache onl)'^ to look at ; there was a collection of prie-dicii all alike, arranged in a row, as if for matins ; and the floor was without the shadow of a carpet. Finally, before the chimney, in an arm-chair — you guessed that I was keeping this chair for the end, did you not? — a little lady, slight, elegant, and blonde, was sleeping quite erect in a dress of pink satin, with a long, pointed waist. Her dress was at least two hun- dred years old ; her face, eighteen — how to make them agree ? I worked at this problem so long that the little lady awoke suddenly, without preliminary movements. She threw a glance toward my bed, like a pupil caught in a fault ; in the shadow I seemed to be sleep- ing soundly, I think, and, reassured on this point, like a faithful vestal she gave her attention to the fire. She bends down, arranges the coals, blows with all her might, scattering the ashes in her hair ; then with her hands she takes a great log, the fourth of a moder- ate-sized oak, and places it promptly on the hearth. She moves, she lives, so that the idea of a chatelaine of ancient days petrified in her nest by some enchant- ment leaves me, and it is at this moment that I see myself in the chateau in Brittany, where Jeanne Athol is preparing her pious subterfuges, and converting the skeptical De Comminges solely by the charm of her grandmother's dress and her old-fashioned speech. Only, this time she had forgotten her powder, and the color of her hair destroyed the illusion. I call her as gently as I can ; she jumps up, crying out. Evidently my THE SrOKY OF COLETTE. 77 awakening was not in the programme, and she is much startled. However, she approaches, and we converse a moment, going from blunder to blunder, she willfully misleading me; I showing clearly that I understand the part she is playing. At last she gets rid of me, in the usual way, with a narcotic, which sends me to sleep ; not too quickly, however, for me to see the third person, an old duenna, wrinkled like a last year's apple, with small bright eyes, which seem to look through you, and who will j)lay perfectly the part of old Frangois; then the curtain falls, and I wake up the next morning, still among the same surroundings, but beside me is a witty and capricious doctor, who in two words explains my case to me, and who, when I try to revolt, reduces me to order so quickly that I am still a little stupefied by it. If you wish to know the whole truth, m}- friend, my head is cut open and my leg broken. Would you have believed that these were such fragile things? I should not, and I touch myself now with the greatest tender- ness and respect. Is it conceivable that between the fibula and tibia such a violent disagreement can be produced ? Splin- ters in one place, broken bones in another, and in the midst of it all a knee-pan out of place, like a compass that has lost the north and can not get back to it. As to mv skull, it is the sinus frontalis which is injured, but I am promised that in a few days it will be solidly mended. On the whole I joke, but I am furious as I know how to be in my best moments, and the thought of the task which will keep you at your uncle's some months adds 78 THE STORY OF COLETTE. not a little to my annoyance. Weeks of immobility, without you to keep me company ! Can you imagine me, with my little lady in pink as sole resource, under six feet of snow? For I forgot to tell you that, like the wheat sown in autumn, we are really under the snow ; it is only necessary for us to germinate, and, to come here to take care of me, my doctor has to wear alter- nately seven-league boots and Norwegian skates. Now, as to the cause, I hear you asking, and what the devil are you doing in such a place ? Here is the reason : You may remember that I in- tended, before going to the country of the sun, to come and freeze myself and see a real winter — as gourmands prepare for a good dinner by fasting and open-air exer- cise. For this purpose I stopped at a little village whose name you would not recognize, for you do not know it any more than I knew it yesterday, and, carrying a kind of haversack, I went off on foot among the mountains. I made inquiries about my route, to this extent that I knew that if I walked straight ahead I ought to come to an elevation, whence I should have a superb view — a pine-forest, a vista opening on a valley, and even a chateau. At the end of five hundred yards 1 was in complete solitude, and, if 3^ou have never happened to wander about the country at this season of the year, you can not imagine how much more complete this solitude is than any other. Wherever one places his foot, there are no other foot-prints, there is no sound of animals — every- THE STORY OF COLETTE. 79 ,-sr where a brilliant uniformity, which is admirable during the first half-hour, fatiguing- during the second, and enervating and blinding during the third. No more inequalities of ground, no more hollows or hillocks ; everything is level, a republican equality. At dis- tant intervals a band of ravens swoop down with the insolent cries of the last survivors. It is their hour, and they know it. There are snow on the bushes and tears of clear frost. The dew is three months old, and will last several weeks longer before it evap- orates ; and a frightful north wind seems to cut one's face to pieces. However, the longest road has an end, and I found successively the vista of the valley, the forest, and the fine view promised, when the chateau itself appeared to me. I spare you its descrip- tion, having seen it myself very imperfectly, as you will soon perceive. One of the wings opens on the road. It was before this one that I stopped, and innocently occupied myself in brushing the snow ofT a large stone, so as to sit down and look abdut me at mv leisure, impressed as I was bv the savage melancholv of the place. 8o THE STORY OF COLETTE. A singular curiosity seized me. It seemed to me that behind these walls something original and unex- pected must be concealed, and I was suddenly stung by a strong desire to penetrate them. You will remem- ber, besides, that anything concealed and inaccessible has always tempted me, and I can not remember, as a boy, ever to have stolen an apple off the lower branch- es. Of the high ones I will not say as much. At the same time, the remembrance of our last con- versation came back to me. Do you remember the evening when we were talking together of my journey, and you were preaching prudence to me ? " Once in India," I told you, " I mean to see everything, especially the things which are concealed from European eyes. I mean to get into the family life and all the private rites and ceremonies, to know the habits that are curious or ignoble, and to learn all the mysteries of their wor- ship, even if I have to assume twenty disguises to arrive at the feet of Brahma and adore him unveiled and according to the rites." And you — you replied pru- dently : " Beware ! every man is jealous of his secret and the inviolability of his fireside, but the Oriental more than any other, and, for the pleasure of walking where no other man has trod, you risk some great mis- fortune." "From whom?" I asked you, laughing. "Do you think the god will disturb himself for me ; and shall I have the pleasure of seeing him put his eighteen legs in motion to get down from his pedestal ? " " Not the god, perhaps, but one of his worshipers THE STORY OF COLETTE. gl without compunction ; and if you penetrate the sacred inclosure you may very possibly meet some Brahman who will not hesitate to take strong measures to force you to respect the consecrated limits." Why was I thinkint^ of all this at that moment? Was it because I wondered if the susceptibility of Frenchmen would be as quickly aroused as that of Indians ? or that unconsciously I was measuring with my eye the height of the walls and looking for a pro- jection on which to j)lace my foot? I can not say; but just at this instant a great noise of broken glass made me raise ni}^ head, and, before I could speak, a projectile whose nature I do not know was thrown at me by a sure hand, striking me full in the forehead. The blow was so violent that it made me stagger, and, catching my feet among the stones, I fell on one knee with my whole weight, without being able to save my- self, and so awkwardly that the wounds I have told you of are the result. Could one's indiscretion be more promptly punished, or the results you foresaw have been more quickly at- tained, than this crushing of my curiosity in the bud, and this finding your Brahman at the third degree of longitude ? Some one ran out frightened, with confused excla- mations ; but I would have sworn that a thick fog had suddenly risen from the ground, for I distinguished nothing more, and must have lost consciousness at once. I have no remembrance of the first attentions that 82 THE STORY OF COLETTE. were given to me, and my sleep in the other world lasted, it appears, four whole days. As to the author of my wound and the instrument of my punishment, all around me express themselves so vaguely that I am reduced to drawing my own conclusions; but when I see my little pink lady, or even the old woman with the bright eyes, I intend to find out. In the mean while I have learned the name of the manor : it is the chateau of Erlange de Fond-de-Vicux, and you can direct your letters to me here. The postman comes up here from time to time — always, in fact, when the package of letters for the neighboring village seems to him large enough, or when he is intrusted by the butcher or grocer with some commission which seems to him worth the trouble. It is inhabited by only two women — jNIademoiselle d'Epine and Mademoiselle d'Erlange — who are aunt and niece ; and when I hinted to the doctor that I might be an embarrassment to them in more than one way, he denied it with so much good nature, that I could only put my scruples aside, and accept their hospitality. By-the-way, did I tell you that the doctor speaks of a month without moving, which in the mouth of a doctor means double that, and that he insists that I shall lie Hat on my back ? This idea made me furious, and when I think that, for a platonic contemplation of a wall— a contemplation which lasted in all ten minutes, and which was, after all, perfectly harmless — I have to pass weeks with no societ)- THE STORY OF COLETTE. 83 but two women, when I might be hunting tigers in the jungle, I am ready to lose all my remaining calmness ! " But since you are in the place that you were so ready to enter, of what do you complain ? " you will say. Exactl}', my dear friend, it is because I am here that I now want to go out ; I have seen all there is to see, and there is not enough to divert an octogenarian. But hush, Jacques ! Some one is knocking at the door, and it is a gentle tap, that can only come from delicate fingers. Get down behind the bed, m}^ friend — be sure that I will tell you all about it presently. March 2^th. After the doctor left yesterday, I waited a long time before going back to the room of Monsieur de Civreuse, wishing to leave him free to write to his friend, and finally I did not know how to manage about going in. To knock and go in and sit down in my usual place, would be to force him to talk to me ; and, on the other hand, I could not leave him entirely alone, as he might want something. I would have sent Benoite ; but mv aunt, who pre- tends to be unconscious of the presence of the wounded man, has given her all sorts of extra work these last few days, and keeps her in her room under the pretext of having the curtains beaten. At last I had an idea, and, calling my dog, I made him understand gently what I expected of him, and where he was to carry the paper that I attached to his 84 THE STORY OF COLETTE. collar. Then I knocked softly at the door, and drew back to let him in. On the paper I had written : " Monsieur de Civreuse is begged to say whether he wishes to stay alone, or if he needs anything. The dog will bring back the answer, or will wait for it as long as is desired ; it is only neces- sary to say to him, ' Go.' " After a few moments I heard " One " scratchinsf at the door, and in his collar was my note, on the back of which was written : " Monsieur de Civreuse hardly dares confess he is d^'ing of hunger and thirst, and that in jumping up just now to hold up his neck the faithful messenger knocked over the table with the ink-stand. He is full of regret at being unable to pick them up him- self." I went in at once, and quicklv righted the table and wiped up the ink as well as I could, while Monsieur de Civreuse said interrogatively : " Mademoiselle d'Epine ? Mademoiselle d'Erlange?" "Mile. d'Erlange," I an- swered quickly, not in the least pleased at the confusion. " 1 beg your pardon," he said ; " there are aunts of all ages." Then, as I rubbed the floor with mv foot, he began to excuse himself for the harm he had done, but I reassured him at once, telling him I did not mind a spot in the least, if it is not on me — which is the simple truth. I asked him if he wanted any particular thing to cat, but warned him that the larder of Erlangre is rustic ; and he replied that, as he was preparing to undertake a jour- ney in countries where he might not be able to find food THE STORY OF COLETTE. 85 every day, he should be only too happy to dine regularly, no matter on what. I succeeded in getting Benoite away from my aunt for a quarter of an hour to bring some food, and when she was gone I finished helping him — pouring out the wine, cutting the bread, etc. While he was eating, which he did with a good appetite. Monsieur de Civreuse asked me several questions in his cold and indifferent tone, which not only frightens me, but makes me answer all wrong, I suppose, for he looks at me, from time to time, as if I had said the most stupid thing in the world. After a little while I began to make his coffee. Benoite had left the coffee, and water boiling on the coal, and had instructed me what to do ; but, alas ! it is such a new business for me, that when I was ready to begin I could not remember a word of what she had told me, and I was on my knees before the fire, the kettle in one hand and the coffee in the other, in terrible perplexity. I knew very well that I had to put one in the other, but which must I begin with, and how was I to mix them ? To pour the water into the wooden box seemed to me queer ; it occurred to me that perhaps I ought to pour the coffee into the kettle. If I went to ask Benoite, I should have to endure an hour of cries and reproaches from my aunt ; and, on the other hand. Monsieur de Civreuse from his bed watched me with his eye with a quiet curiosity that exasperated me. I decided suddenly, and emptied the box of coffee into the water, and put 86 THE STONY OF COLETTE. the whole on the fire, and allowed it to boil a mo- ment. " Will you allow me to help you? " I asked as I ap- proached him. " With pleasure," he replied calmly, holding out his cup. Alas ! it was like mud — black, thick, and horrible- looking, and settled in the bottom of the cup in a most untempting manner. I stopped, very much embarrassed, exclaiming: " It is not right ; I must have made a mistake, but I do not know how to make coffee." " Nor I either," Monsieur Pierre replied, still hold- ing his cup ; " only, I think they generally make use of that," and he pointed with his finger to the coffee-pot, which Be- noite had placed on the table, and which I had quite forgotten ; and when I asked him quickly why he had not told mc, he re- plied : " 1 thought vou were making it in the Turkish fashion." Finally, I strained a cupful for him through a square of muslin, and he drank it all up without a word. THE STORY OF COLETTE. 8/ " So jou have resumed your true form," he said, as I took my usual place in my arm-chair. " My true form ? But I am always like this." " Not last night." " Oh ! because I had put on that old-fashioned dress ! The fact is, I must have looked strange, and I wonder what you thought when you saw me." " I thought I had had the good fortune to find a place where Time had stopped his clock, and had not wound it up for two hundred years." " Why the good fortune ? " " Because I know nothing so inane as the present age," he said. " I could tell you something more inane still," I re- plied quickly. " It is not to know the present age at all, and that is my case." " Do not alarm yourself ; you resemble it much more than you suppose," said he. Then, thinking that, after all, the phrase was not very polite, he went on hastily, before I could say a word : " And your dog, mademoiselle. Why have you left him outside ? Not on my account, I hope." " I was afraid he might tire you," and, as he shook his head, I ran to open the door, and that foolish " One " came in with a bound, rolling over on my feet, resting his nose on my knees, and nearly knocking me over in the ardor of his caresses. Monsieur de Civreuse watched him without a word, and when I kneeled down in front of him to put his paws around my neck — 88 THE STORY OF COLETTE. " You love him very much?" he asked. " Infinitely," 1 replied, fervently. " My poor old nurse first, and him next : those arc my two best friends." " And the aunt comes third ? " he said in a low voice, more to himself than to me, I think. I muttered in the same tone : " Not even that." But he did not hear, I sui)pose ; and 1 got up to clear off the table. After a moment he asked me what time it was, and when I had told him, I could not help adding: " I am afraid that the days will seem very long to you, and that you will be much bored in a little while." " Oh, it is not of myself that I think ; it was for you that I am anxious. What a load, what a responsibility, to have a helpless stranger suddenly thrust on your hands, and what a great deal of trouble it will give you ! " He was beginning a long phrase of thanks, when I interrupted him quickly : " Do not think that ; it is exactly the contrary. I am so glad ! it amuses me very much." I thought of my solitude in speaking thus, and the delight of leading a busy life for at least two months ; but he took it in another sense, I suppose, for, shutting his lips, and inclining his head ceremoniously, he con- tinued : " Ah ! so much the better ; misfortune has its com- pensations, and I am delighted that some one benefits by my accident." THE STORY OF COLETTE. 89 Benoite came in just then, and I took the opportu- nity to slip out, for I did not know what to say. On the whole, this gentleman does not please me at all, and if it were not for the passionate desire I have to obtain his pardon, and to make him gradually forget my deplorable violence, I would take an immense dislike to him immediately, and show it to him pretty clearly. His imperturbable calm seems to me like a bridle to check my vivacity — as if it were his business ! and his mocking eye, which watches all I do, gives me a wild desire to be impertinent. Once his bandage off, and two eyes watching me, it will be unbearable ; I seem to feel them on me now, through the door. Pierre to Jacques. My friend, I have learned the whole truth, for I manoeuvred so skillfully during a tete-a-tete that I had by chance with Benoite, the faithful guardian of Mile. d'Er- lange, that I made her tell me all that the doctor thought best to conceal. To begin, I left you, I think, watching behind the curtain for the entrance of my blonde fairy of last night, and curious to see her by day. Well, my friend, you may believe me or not, as you like, but the magic went on, and she came this time under the familiar and pleasing form of a huge, curly Newfoundland dog. The intelligent animal marched directly to my bed, go THE STORY OF COLETTE. and, raising himself on his hind-legs with the grace of the elephants in the hippodrome, bent his head to show me a little white paper attached to his collar: "And then the beautiful princess dispatched him, a messenger under the form of a hippogriflf with three heads, who should, with many details, declare to him her will." The " will " in this case was drawn up in simple style, and in substance was as follows : " What does Monsieur de Civreuse need most?" The writing was as irregular as the branches of a willow-tree in a high wind, wandering all over the little square of paper, and the last words, being crowded, literally were piled one on top of the other. Instantly I augured ill of its author. A woman need not write at all, but if she does, it should be well done, so that the traces of her pen should not be like the fantastic wanderings of a beetle. It is a prejudice I have, and affects me in the same way as if I should see a marquise draw out of her pocket a coarse, cotton handkerchief, or use patchouly as a perfume. But, as it was hardly the time for philosophical re- flections, and the dog, with his neck stretched out, was still waiting for his answer, I resolved to confess frankly that I was hungry, and that my strongest wish at that moment was to have something to eat. This was not sentimental — far from it ; but to a woman who does not know how to write ! Then, as I bent down to tie the ribbon to the collar, the dog made a movement, and, with the touch of his shoulder, threw the table, ink- stand, and all the rest on the floor. Rather abashed, I THE STORY OF COLETTE. 91 added a postscript to announce the misfortune, and a minute after my young guardian of last night entered. She was dressed this time like everybody else, and, with her hair coiled high, she resembled in such a ridiculous way all other women, that she made me think of a portrait by Velasquez, that had been restored by replacing a child's head with that of an honest Bur- gundian peasant-woman. Is it possible to have under one's hand so much local coloring and not to make use of it? Quite indifferent to the effect she produced on me, she repaired the disorder without speaking. She picked up the table, wiped the ink, and rubbed her cloth over the floor with the point of her foot. I tried at first to excuse myself very humbly, but at the first woi'd she stopped me, saying : " Oh, do not worry ; I do not mind spots in the least ! " so I let her alone. After that she went to see about food, and I was left to my thoughts. My dear fellow, this young girl already displeases me ver}^ decidedly. Her appearance is of a piece with her writing, and this last phrase decided me. To me, also, spots are nothing, and I have seen rivulets of ink spilled, looking calmly on ; but from her the words shocked me. The thing that I dislike above all is to find in an- other, especially in a woman, my own defects. I know my own face, and, if I want to see it, I have only to look in the glass ; and I do not wish to see other faces that are the same. I should like to change its ugliness, g2 THE SrOKY OF COLETTE. and my huge nose appears to better advantage beside small ones than in the vicinity of those that are like it. On her return, she began serving the meal which the old servant had brought, moving about with a vivacity full of o-ood intentions, but with such awkwardness, that, after the first few minutes, I dared not even ask for bread. She just escaped cutting off the end of her thumb with the slice, the dishes rattled under her fingers, and you have never seen anything less feminine than this young girl. " Timidity," you will say — " it was your green eyes which disturbed her." Do you think so ? Was it my fault also about the coffee, which I took from her hands and drank to the last drop ? Ah ! my friend, every man has his bitter cup, which he must drain in this world, without speaking of those which purgatory has in store for him. I know it, and I am resigned ; but mine was intolerably bitter that day ! From my bed I watched Mademoiselle d'Erlange squatting down before the hearth, preparing the mixt- ure with the confidence of knowledge, and, though it seemed to me hardly as it ought to be, my own inex- perience kept me from making remarks, at least until I should have tasted it. But then! Have you any remembrance of cream that has turned, when you were a child, which made you weep with disappointment ? And can you still sec something thick and cloudy, with little specks of unknown origin swimming about in it and multiplying? My poor Jacques, it was a thing like that which was offered to THE SrORY OF COLETTE. ^3 me. I confess I was vexed, and the perfume of the mocha, which passed under my nose in the form of smoke, made me scowl. I can hear you pitying the culprit and abusing me for my bad humor. Oh, my dear fellow, you can keep your pity ; her embarrassment was not great, I assure you, and I even believe that, if she had had the slight- est encouragement, she would have laughed outright. But, in reality, I did not find it in the least funny ; I did not move, and, possessed with the idea of making it all right, she imagined an expedient which pleased her so much that she communicated it to me with an ex- clamation of pleasure. She ran to a wardrobe, pulled out a pocket-handkerchief, and strained me a cup of her horrible mixture in a corner of the muslin, which she held up delicately. I acknowledge it was clean, but you must confess that this strainer was of a doubtful charac- ter, and not exactly fitted to calm my susceptibilities. I drank it ! What would )'Ou have done ? But the bitter taste, with an after-flavor of lavender and verbena, or what not, taken from the cambric, was atrocious ! Then, with the pleasing sentiment of duty done, she placed herself in her huge arm-chair, her head reaching hardly half-wa}' up the back, and I tried to make her talk. Do you want to hear the number of her attachments, in their order ? She makes no mystery about it : her old nurse, her dog, and that is all ; for her aunt only comes in as twenty-fifth to fill up — and scarcely that ! As for my accident, she stated her sentiments at 94 THE STORY OF COLETTE. once, without coaxing. It amuses her — oh ! it amuses her, do you hear ? She has never seen anything funnier than this adventure ! There is satisfaction in thinking that it diverts some one, if not me ! Starting from this point, our cordiality did not in- crease, as you will understand, w^hen the duenna came in very fortunately to relieve our embarrassment. Made- moiselle d'Erlange flew off, and I — who unfortunately could not — I settled myself on my pillows, resolved to hold on to Benoite, as she was there, and not to let her go until 1 had got out of her old head everything that was in it. Only, our two wills were on this point diametrically opposed, and she seemed as decided to keep silent as I to make her speak ; so that for a good quarter of an hour we played at cross-purposes, she diverging, and I bring- ing her back to the point, only to see her slip once more out of my fingers, until I conquered the position by a ruse. My friend, if you still dare to defend the delicate little fingers which handle the porcelain so gently, and which know how to make such delicious coffee, learn that it is their mark that I bear on my forehead, and my antipathy to Mademoiselle d'Erlange was a premonition. Bad intention, I do not say, but rather too rash an act you will acknowledge, I think, and above all when you know the nature of the missile employed. It is heavy, massive, and a noble metal. Do you guess? Certainly you can not, and if you tried a hundred times you would not be further advanced. THE STORY OF COLETTE. 95 Do you see that image of St. Joseph almost hidden in the corner of my room, as if he wanted to sink into the wall? It is a beautiful thing, well finished, chiseled in solid silver, which I should without hesitation attribute to the Italian school, and which might even be signed Cellini, so exquisite is the work. It is, however, the instrument of my misfortune. In order that you may un- derstand how it happened, we must go back some days, and you must imagine Mademoi- selle d'Erlange so penetrated with the virtues of this saint, believing in him so entirely, so full of a passionate veneration for him, that she passed the best part of each day at his feet ! Then suddenly, without apparent reason, from morti- fication or fatigue, a difficulty arose between them, and the young suppliant, passing from one feeling to another, became as ardent in resentment as she had been humble in humility, and finally, in an access of impious rage, cast the once revered statuette ignominiously out of doors. Not to pray to it any more was too little. The old idolaters are not the only ones who like to burn what they have adored ; and, besides, as the good Benoite told me, sighing, " The child never uses half-measures." q6 the story of COLETTE. So far, there is nothing to be said against this way of acting. 1 do not know the wrongs of the young rebel ; it was her right, perhaps, and in every case it was strictly her own affair. But the worst is that, while this little comedy was being acted, in the usual way in this world, it was the innocent who was destined to suffer for the guilty. You have guessed, my friend : this time the lamb of the fable was to be I, and the hour when my unfortu- nate reveries of which I have told you led me along that road, was also the one in which Mademoiselle d'Erlange sent the poor saint flying over the country, committing thus the double sin of attempting the life of a fellow-being, and inflicting the most mortifying treatment on an object belonging to the Church. Without ceremony, and forgetting its sacred and pacific character, it cut open my forehead with the skill of a professional bomb. So this is how, without a crime with which society or the gods can reproach me, I have narrowly escaped death, and am still threatened with a stiff knee — or at least a damaged one — and all because a young person and a silver statuette had a difference to settle ! What do you think now of Mademoiselle d'Erlange? Can you not see the claws under her rosy nails, and will you be quite tranquil about me during the hours when she is alone to watch with me ' I am awaiting with more curiosity than I can tell you the explanation which must certainly take place between us on this subject. Will this proud Amazon show confusion? Nothing is more THE STORY OF COLETTE. gy uncertain, and I am reserving all my decision for the attempt to come out of it with the honors of war. I am certainly her victim ! She must not forget that ; and, if she make slight of the thing, I will tear off my bandage like the heroes in the pages of Anne Radcliffe, and show her my gaping wound ! March sgth. Benoite has spoken. Monsieur Pierre knows all ! Heavens ! what shall I say, and how shall I dare to see him ? I have kept on saying these things to myself since yesterday, without ever finding a solution. In a certain sense, I am not sorry that he knows. Doubtful situations have always been odious to me, and I remember the time when as a child I asked my aunt to give me " two slaps at once " rather than the punish- ment she was reserving for me in the evening. Since now I am really to blame, I should not be sorry to know at once what it is to be. But how to present myself, and with what words to begin ? I could not think, or, at least, what I had in my head escaped as soon as I ap- proached the fatal door. Ten times in the afternoon I came so near that I half turned the latch, but each time, seized with fear at the last moment, I f^ed before I had opened the door. It seemed to me that all my ideas stayed behind in the library, which I have taken for my room lately, for, as soon as I go back there, words crowd upon me, I gesticulate nobly, and the phrases most fit to move a haughty heart 98 THE STORY OF COLETTE. come to my lips. I advance thus to a divan, where I suppose Monsieur de Civreuse to be extended, so as to make the rehearsal realistic, and, seizing the corner of a cushion as I propose to do with his hand — " Sir," I say, in a tremulous voice, " pardon me, I beg you ! I have committed a foolish act which will cause me remorse forever, and of which I can not think even now without terror. See how unhappy I am, and tell me, I beg you, that you are not too angry with me ! Until then I can not pardon myself, and I hate not to be at peace with myself, for the reproaches which I suffer are more bitter than anything you can imagine." The cushion draws my hand toward it, kisses court- eously the tips of my fingers, and gives me absolution. Full of my subject I started, but, in going out of the door, m}' discourse became slightly uncertain ; in pass- ing through the hall it was half gone. The rest followed quickly, so that I arrived at the decisive spot with empty hands. Then I returned with a bound, and, by a kind of sor- cery, my ideas came back of themselves on my way, rising from the floor, coming from the wood-work, and resuming their place, so that, wlicn 1 arrived at tiic svm- bolical divan, I had reconquered my composure, and was ready to move him by other arguments, like the first, only more persuasive. But I had to make an end of it; it was getting late, and, as I could not keep Monsieur de Civreuse in the dark. I had to take in liis lamp. It was evident Ihat so long as I reflected I siiould keep on making the same ridiculous THE STORY OF COLETTE. qq attempts, and the only thing to do was to take myself by surprise. So, with my head down, like something that has been thrown, I went in and walked straight to the bed, trust- ing to my star to find a lucky phrase to begin with, and I think I was just going to find it. But Monsieur de Civreuse, after bowing to me, be gan to look behind me in the back of the room with such singular persistency, bending over to see better, keeping his eye obstinately fixed on the door, that in spite of my preoccupation I turned, possessed with the idea that I had dragged in some absurd thing on my dress. There was nothing at all, and, as I looked surprised — " I thought you were pursued, mademoiselle," he said, tranquilly. Then he put his head back on his pillow with a gest- ure of relief, letting his eyelid fall with an air of being so much at his ease, that a bolder person than I am might have lost heart, I think. Standing up, motionless, with an evident look of perplexity, beginning words which I could not finish, holding my lamp in m}'^ hand, which I forgot to put down, I felt terribly awkward, and would have given much if I could have assumed the superb attitude of Monsieur de Civreuse, or, at least, have known what to do with my hands and feet, which had never seemed so much in my way. As for him, he leaned back with the majestic non- chalance of a Roman emperor, having no awkward movement to fear in his comfortable position, and in- solently making the most of all his advantages. lOO THE STORY OF COLETTE. The thing could not go on long like this without be- coming ridiculous ; besides, his provoking coolness stung me like a lash. Since he would not help me, so much the worse; I would speak straight out as best I could, and explain things to him just as they were. I did it at once. I advanced another step, and put my lamp on the table. " Here is your lamp," I began rapidly — that was the very ingenious way in which I began — " and I beg you to accept my sincere regrets for the deplorable accident from which you are still suffering ; but, really, it was not my fault." " Really, 1 do not think an)" one can accuse me of it either," he said, quietly raising his head and looking at me. " 1 do not say so," I stammered, losing countenance. And, as he nodded his head in a manner which signified, " Well, this is lucky," I resumed, interrupting myself quickly, " That is to say, I know very well it is mv fault, but what I mean to sa}' is, that I did not do it on purpose." " Mademoiselle, I am sure of it," he answered, with a sarcastic smile. " For really," I continued, becoming animated, "how could I know that there was any one there? That road belongs to us, and usually no one passes." " Certainly," he rej)lied, with the same phlegm, " it was I who was in the wrong place, and, lioni tiie mo- ment that T was on your land, you were quite in your right. Grand seigneurs are rulers on their own estates, THE STORY OF COLETTE. lOI and have the liberty to settle their quarrels as they like without warning. It is the business of those who pass to look about them, and protect themselves." " Oh, sir," I exclaimed, " you make me say stupid things that you know very well I do not think, and you answer my request for pardon very maliciously." And as I felt that the tears were coming in spite of all my efforts, I was going to escape, when he stopped me with a gesture, forgetting this time his insupportable coldness. " Mademoiselle, it is I who beg your pardon now. I am brutal, and I should like to beat myself for having made the nurse, who has taken such good care of me, weep. Will you forgive me ? " But it is one thing to make tears flow, and another to stop them. I smiled. I answered, " Yes, yes," with my head ; but the flow had begun, and had to have its course. I bit my lips in vain ; pressed my handker- chief, rolled up into a ball, in my eyes, and with all my trying I resem- bled a fountain. From time to time Monsieur de Civreuse repeated his excuses, and really, at the bottom of my heart, I was not sorry to see in that great icy eye a little anxiety and embarrassment. After all the trouble he had given me for a fortnight, it was only just. However, I was not malicious. I calmed myself as soon as I could, for I02 THE STORY OF COLETTE. I saw very well that the scene embarrassed him, and, as soon as I found my voice, we both began at the same time — " So you are not angry with me? " " Do you really forgive me ? " I held out my hand to him, taking up my pro- gramme where 1 had left it ; only he contented himself with pressing it gently, and he added, smiling, but this time without bitterness : " So, then, it is a complete amnesty, even for him, is it not ? " And he pointed with his finger at my unfortunate statuette of Saint Joseph, which was back again, I know not by what miracle, in one of the corners of my room. The color mounted to my eyes, augmenting the heat of my face, which was already burning, while I was sure my nose was swollen and deplorably shiny ; and as I did not answer, Monsieur de Civreuse was afraid that I would begin to cry again, and so added, hur- riedly : " You ma}' make voursclf easy, mademoiselle. I know nothing of the nature of your wrongs; I only know the punishment, but not its cause." "I am sure of that," I answered; "one would have had to read inside my head for that. 1 have told no one." He did not insist, and 1 went to bathe my eyes. The doctor, who has just left, is delighted witii the forehead of his patient. He says it is getting well with the rapidity of a miracle; but as to tiie knee, he told THE STORY OF COLETTE. 103 me in confidence that it is no better yet, and that time, and keeping it perfectly still, are the only things which can completely cure it. Please heaven that Monsieur de Civreuse may consent to swallow these two bitter draughts ! As for me, it is with a relief which I can not express that I now stay with my patient. There is no longer a painful explanation to look forwai-d to, and although his temper is not yet sensibly softened, I feel myself more at ease with him. He remains slightly melancholy, always cold, with a tendency to irony which is constantly showing itself. " I was born bad-tempered," he said to me just now, " and as no one thought of pulling up this weed in my spring-time, it is now a small oak, to which even I f>ay no more attention." " And what do your friends say of it? " I asked. " They generally get used to it, or, when they are tired of it, they prune it a little." " I think the}^ are very good," I could not help say- ing ; " in their places I should look for another shade rather than this small oak, where one does not seem to me safe." He drew up his eyebrows. It is his way, when he is not pleased and yet does not wish to say so, and I have discovered that it means in words, " Go away ! " which I have done. Finally, I am like his friends, and think that the branches of his oak have particular need of pruning, and that it has grown up crooked but vigorous. I04 THE STORY OF COLETTE. Pierre to Jaeques. My friend, do you know anv ari^umcnt at once more commonplace and more irresistible than tears? It is as old as sin ; everybody uses it ; everybody knows, too, the simplicity of the proceeding, and, notwithstanding all this, everybody is moved by it in spite of himself. Eve obtained her first pardon and sealed her first reconcilia- tion with this beneficent liquid, and Mademoiselle d'Er- lange — be it said without comparison — has used it so well, just now, that not only is peace signed between us, but it was I who begged for mercy. Can you imagine a position at once more ridiculous and more embarrassing than that of a man wlio makes a woman cry, when the woman is a complete stranger to him ? With her eyes in her handkerchief, her broken voice, her explanations broken by deep sighs — which he hears in fragments — he feels like an executioner, and he does not know how to act. To look at her is indiscreet. To turn away his head is cynical, for that seems to say, " What does it matter to me ? " and he can only confess himself a miserable sinner, and beg pardon humbly. And then, I do not know if you are like me, but things that are slightly known or rarelv experienced make a deeper impression. If I hear of broken bones and cuts, I know what they are. I have had them. But her tears, the impetuous, uninterrupted flood, resembled so little the tears whicli 1 have ever shed — rare tears, and always concealed — that I watched them with a vague fear of the unknown, asking myself when and THE STORY OF COLETTE. IO5 how it would end, and also what would happen to Mademoiselle d'Erlange afterward, and if she was not in danger of melting entirely, like a naiad who feeds a living spring. So I was ready for any capitulation, and I considered myself most fortunate to barter grievance for grievance, and to give my pardon for that which she vouchsafed me. There is only this poor saint whom she will not hear of forgiving. I tried to intercede for him, but the facts must have been very serious, for she remained unmoved, and I dared not risk disturbing our peace — so recent and so dearly bought — by too much zeal. And I, who considered myself master of the situa- tion, quite superior in my just anger to this scatter-brain, who arranged so well in my own mind all the truths that I wished to tell her, and which it would be good for her to hear once ! You laugh — traitor ! It is very misplaced, I assure you, and I was never more in- disposed to acknowledge you in the right. Besides, our peace is at best but an armistice. We are agreed on one point, but only on one — we are not to speak of the cause which has procured us the pleasure of the tete-a-tete of a month, which I groan to think of ; and, besides, causes of dissension are not wanting, I assure you. Think of the most dissimilar things in the world — black and white, fire and water, two horses galloping in a circle in opposite directions, so as to knock against each other in every round — and you have us in the large sculptured chamber, where I am being mended 106 THE STORY OF COLETTE. like the most common of knickkiiacks. and waitinc^ to dry. But no. my definition is bad. Do not read absolute dissimilarity, for she resembles me, my dear fellow, and it is that which is hateful to me, as I have already told you ! She wears a dress, is adorned with a head of hair which I could only have had in the Merovinjjian aije, is endowed with her first freshness of candor and inno- cence, which also is not mine ; btit, except this, we are as twin brothers. Yet, for a woman, you will agree, there could be a better model than your friend, and she would gain in grace and charm what she would lose in similitude. Of all types, that of "good fellow " is the one I have always disliked the most. I should like her better dreamy, coquettish, prudish, fanciful, anything that would give me a varied study during my seclusion, rather than this jovial and capricious self-confidence which shows itself in the classical hand-shake, which the nervous hands and pointed elbows of the daughters of Albion have imported for us, and which is the thing I can least easily pardon them — always excepting their ugliness. Just now, all in tears, she was more feminine. But you must not understand that at that moment I was much more amused, nor that I was precisely at my ease; but I like the respect for old usages, and 1 think yovuig girls should be timid, submissive, a little cowardly, per- haps imaginative, an octave higher than we are, like the difference between the masculine and feminine vt)ice. After all, perhaps 1 shall divert myself all the better. I set out in search of new countries, strange types, origi- THE STORY GF COLETTE. 107 nal characters to study, yet it is said that what French- men know the least is France ! Let us study France, since we are in it, and you must receive my traveler's notes with the same good-will as if they ' mt- came to you from the banks of ^ (/ W the sacred Ganges, or the not / •» less sacred hcierhts of the Hima- '!=> *---i ''i layas. They will have at least '^^"^ ^ the merit of being more recent i y \r~^ than after a longer journey; and • when one thinks of all the charm- ing things Bernardin de St. Pierre discovered in a simple straw- berry-leaf, I must be very stupid if I can not do as much for the greater space in which I am. But I wander from my sub- ' " ^i ject. I browse on philosophi- cal questions, like a simple donkey on the bushes by the road, and the equipage in which I am taking you is a little shaken by it, I think. You want a true history, do you not } We were at the tears of Made- moiselle d'Erlange, and I am sure you think that with a word I would stop them, as I confess I made them burst forth. I would make excuses, it would be over, and we should then be better friends than ever. O my friend, God forbid that you should ever provoke a crisis which you find yourself unable to con- trol in a moment, for it is terrible ! One feels one's I08 7//A STORY Of- COLETTE. self helpless before an overwhelming torrent, it is said, because it is something which one can not master. What will you say to me, then, of a young girl's tears? Can dikes be made against them ? 1 became gentle — humble, in truth ; I gave up everything, and the stream still flowed, and it was marvelous to see the same little handkerchief, no bigger than the palm of my hand, turned over and over, kneaded on all sides, and yet sufficient for the work I All loldcd up, it just hlled the hollow of her eye; so exactlv, in fact, that she had to dry one eye after the other, but it was done so quickly that one could hardly see the one which was uncovered ; and, in spite of my embarrassment, I could not help watching curiously this admirable dexterity. I should say, however, that Mademoiselle d'Erlange did not abuse her position. She calmed herself as soon as she could, held out her hand without ill-feeling, and at my request sat down by me, without running away as she evidently wanted to do. I had now to retrieve myself, and I felt that niv moment of blundering had to be paid for bv great amiability. I had to give myself the trouble to talk, to amuse her, to take away the too great violence of my brutality, and I think I did not come out of it badlv. At the beginning, her words were interrupted by deep sighs — real sighs, like those of a child in distress — and a tear would come from time to time and require the help of the famous handkerchief ; but little by little she became animated, so much so that at the end of a few minutes I could hardly follow her. THE STORY OF COLETTE. 109 It seems to be a real pleasure to her to talk ; she does it with vivacity, without much connection, as if it were simply a healthy gymnastic exercise for her tongue. Questions, reflections, facts, rush out in cu- rious confusion : she takes her ideas from the heap, without sorting them, and scatters them as one scatters seed to the sparrows. " Hop ! hop ! — catch who can ! " I will bet a good deal that the parable of the sower in the Bible has never occupied her attention much, and that what is lost in the thorns of the road or among the rocks is one of the last things she thinks about. Do not imagine, however, that it is vulgar gossip ; her inexhaustible animation is rather the result of su- perabundant vitality ; and if I am not deceived, she thus spends her forces because she has nothing else to do, though she gives herself occupation, 1 assure you ! While she talks, she goes and comes, plays wath her. dog, arranges and disarranges the fire twenty times in an hour, so that she half puts it out and fills the room with smoke. Then she opens the windows, excusing herself, and builds up a fire, the flames of which dart so high that they have to be put out with a pail of water to keep us from a greater misfortune. Sitting, she brings up her two feet under her in the Turkish fashion — like her coffee — and balances her bod}^ as she talks, in a way most dangerous for her equilibrium, which, to be just, she keeps marvelously. I got out of breath merely by looking at her. " You are feverish," my doctor said to me a little later ; " what is the matter ? Have we given you no THE STORY OF COLETTE. hearty food too soon, and must we go back to dosing you with sick-man's broth ?" "■ It would be better to dose this will-o'-thc wisp," I felt like saying. But, to consider the whole question, Jacques, you must remember that fourteen hours a day of solitude is a great deal when one is incapable of moving. I must not complain too much of distractions. Our very varied conversation has given mc some ideas of the people and things around us. The chateau, of which I have perhaps spoken a little too grandly, is not exactly what I expected it to be, and is like stage scen- ery, which looks very different- ly seen from be- fore and behind. Its grandeur dates from Louis XIII and its downfall fiom tiic Revolution ; which proves, as ]M. Prudhomme would tell you, that happiness is more lasting in this world than misfortune, contrary to the general opin- ion, and which signifies simply that one hundred years is the extreme limit during whicli walls consent to stand without help. Whatever the reason may be. an THE STORY OF COLETTE. m entire wing, a belfry, and two towers have already disappeared from this noble building. They fell easily, like well-bred towers, as people who are tired of standing sit on the floor for want of a better place. Then, the ivy which they dragged down got green again ; wild grasses and wild flowers, see- ing that no one thought of rooting them up, began to bloom ; and the next year birds made their nests there, finding good shelter in such a pleasant wilderness. " A story of old walls," you will tell me ; " I know your ruin before you describe it ; these chateaux in de- cay all resemble one another." And do the ways in which owners act resemble one another also ? Do you think that you have seen many places where they behave as they do at Erlange under these circumstances? When the crevices become too numerous, and the cracks make the walls look like people who are at their last gasp, and the stones yield too much to the wind, each member of the family takes her belong- ings, everything that can be moved without too much trouble, and philosophically transports herself and her baggage to another more hospitable portion still stand- ing. The first tempest gets the better of the abandoned tenement : it sinks, and becomes the palace of bats and owls ; while the emigrants remake their nests, accom- modating themselves to their new quarters, finding out advantages and disadvantages, no more affected by the change than a tribe of ancient Gauls that moved its H2 THE STORY OF COLETTE. camp in the morning to find a new country and new game at evening ! They have thus successively left the north tower for the south tower, and the right wing for the center ; and if the center gives way in its turn — and with these snows, \vhich crush everything, one must be prepared — there will remain the left wing, which was more re- cently repaired, with one or two towers, besides the chapel and the servants' rooms. This ofives sufficient shelter for Mademoiselle d'Er- lange and her pets, which is likely to endure, and of course for the lifetime of the mysterious aunt, with whom I am still unacquainted, and whom I sometimes think a myth. All this is certainly the highest philosophy, if it is not madness, and yet it is the fact. Mademoiselle d'Er. lange even seems to consider the state of affairs quite of course. To hear her, one would think that she was speaking of the most insignificant change, like the ne- cessity of changing one's seat in a garden when the sun turns the corner of your sheltering tree, or other simi- lar protection. " But when the house was falling, what would you have done? "she asked me, seeing me open my eyes; " would you have stayed where you were?" " No, but 1 would have restored it," I answered. " With whom ? With Benoite and me as masons, and Frangoise to mix the plaster with her feet? " " Who is Frangoise? " " My marc — a good old beast, who knocks witli her THE STORY OF COLETTE. 113 foot on the stable-door when she wants to go in. I will show her to you some day. She is my third af- fection." " But do you not think," I said, " that it is a pity to let a fine building like this go to pieces, and does your aunt not think so?" " Hum ! " she replied, shrugging her shoulders and laughing ironically, " my aunt is sure that the walls of Erlange will outlast her, and as she is certain of a shel- ter to the end of her days, what difference do you sup- pose the ' afterward ' makes to her? " I dared not insist, as the conversation was becoming too personal, and we returned to generalities. My young companion told me gayly how she had furnished her room, dragging out of all the others what remained in them, and even going to the chapel for the prie- dieus. This is the explanation of the large proportion of monachal seats which struck me when I first awoke. She calls them odd chairs, and in speaking of them she drags one after the other before my bed to show them to me. " They are all alike ; there is not much variety," she said, turning them round, " but they are very pretty beside my sofas. Have you seen the figures on my sofas ? " And she set to work dragging one to me, rolling it from one end of the room to the other with a frightful noise, and pushing it back against the wall in the same rapid way. 114 '^'^''' ^'^ORY OF COLETTE. From all I can learn, the chateau is ciismantled out- side and inside, which has set me wonderincr what band of robbers could have thus devastated it. Imprudence and carelessness can not alone have done it, for years do not destroy all the furniture of a chateau without the aid of some misfortune. This idea troubled me ; for in such a case my presence would be a heavy expense to my hostesses, and I had decided to consult the doctor, when Mademoiselle d'Erlange took the bull bv the horns, reading my thought with marvelous insight, and trans- lating it with great accuracy. " Now you are full of anxiety because we are not so rich as you thought we were ! " she exclaimed. " Re- assure yourself ! If the tables and chairs ncccssarv to refurnish the house do not grow at Erlange, we have plenty of vegetables, without counting chickens and ducks ; and as my aunt, who cares a great deal about her dear self, always finds means to provide, it is evi- dent that she has not reached the bottom of her stock- ing, and that famine does not threaten us yet. You must remember, too, that it is wrong to worry about it, for it is certainly not your fault that you are here, and it is everywhere the custom for people to feed their prisoners." This frank explanation put me at my ease, and I had only to apologize for having deprived Mademoiselle d'Erlange of her room, and to ask as a favor to be taken somewhere else. But she refused, telling me that " somewhere else" was a pretentious jjhrase here, and besides that she wished to keep nie in the place THE STORY OF COLETTE. nc where the crime was committed, so as to make a sort of expiatory chapel of it. All this made me understand better a strange feature which struck me in the beginning, about the inequalities of the table-service, and now I can explain the medley of the Sevres china, Venetian glass in w^hich my wine looks like liquefied gold, massive silver which I do not like to see Mademoiselle d'Erlange handle too near me, and table-cloths of coarse unbleached linen, with a thir- teen-sou knife. Yesterday I was struggling with a knife, tearing my meat like a puppy, using the blade and the back in turn without success, and nearly losing my patience. "It cuts badly, does it not?" said Mademoiselle d'Erlange, who looked at me delighted, "and you are getting angry. Wait — I have something which will help you do it." She ran to a draw^er, and triumphantly brought me back a little dagger in an ivory sheath, which she drew^ out quickly, the steel flashing wath a blue light, and all with such vivacity that I shuddered. " There," she said ; " it cuts perfectly — I always use it for my pens. Will you have it ? " Such is my table-service, my friend ; and now you have a good enough idea of m}- shelter, also of the per- sons about me : the phantom aunt, my doctor, " One," and finally Mademoiselle Colette, for that is the name of Mademoiselle d'Erlange, who kindly informed me of the fact, as also of the reflections which suggested them- selves to her. 1,6 THE STORY OF COLETTE. " A queer name, is it not ? " said she, " Col — Colette. Why not Colerettc ? What does it mean, and where can it have come from ? " "A saint of the calendar. I suppose — " " Possibly ; I never thought of that ! I thought it had been invented for me. Do you know her, then, this Saint Colette ? Perhaps you have prayed to her against toothache ? It appears that it is a sure thing, and that one is certain of being cured in addressing one's self to her!" " I confess I have not," I replied ; " for one reason, my teeth have got on very well by themselves, up to the present time, and, for another, your want of success would disgust me forever with nine days' prayers, for I should never be conceited enough to suppose I could succeed where you had failed so completely." She blushed to her fingers' ends, turning away her head, but in a moment she resumed, though in a lower tone : " Oh, what I wanted was very difficult ; that is the reason." She was evidently afraid of discouraging me bv her want of success, and of leading me into temptation or revolt; so, half for her frankness, half because I feared I might have wounded her, I added in conclusion : " Certainlv one should never desj)air of anything ; perhaps what you asked for is nearer than you think." As to Saint Colette, I believe only very moderately in her virtues, this is the truth ; but if you can hear of one of the celestial beings who presides over the healing of THE STORY OF COLETTE. ny broken bones, burn a candle before him, my friend, for unfortunately I do not get any better. March sSih. Lately an idea has come to me, and it is in vain that I shrug my shoulders in its face to show that I think it absurd ; it stays there, and is so firmly fixed that I can think of nothing else. But it is so foolish that, in order to write it, I shut and bolt my door, and turn over two pages, so as to put the ridiculous idea by itself. By much thinking of my last adventure, of the vio- lent manner in which I treated my poor saint, of my anger, and the result of it, finally of the day when M. de Civreuse was brought into Erlange, I asked myself — I have thought it possible — to speak plainly, I have the idea that perhaps, in spite of all, Saint Joseph heard my prayer, and that M. de Civreuse is the savior and the hero I asked for. I know very well that he was not coming to Erlange, and that he did not think of me, and that his manner of acting at present is anything but gallant. But this co- incidence ! I asked for help, and here suddenly into my secluded life comes a young man, original, interesting if not amiable, and exactly the kind of which heroes are made. Is it not really help from heaven ? The ill- humor and fury of my aunt are sure proofs of it, and her daily attacks show me that she thinks, as T do, that the liberator of Colette has come. Il8 THE STORY OF COLETTE. When I make all sorts of excuses to mv poor statue, which I have taken back, it seems to me that its eye smiles on me as it did before, and that it says to me, " You see very well that you despaired too soon, and that I did not deceive you in the least I " The next minute I say to myself that I am crazy, and the cold face of M. de Civreuse comes up before me. He cares for me just as much as he does for my dog, and it is easy to see that he is exasperated at the fate which keeps him here. But if it were his destiny, he had to come, and he ought even to be quite satisfied to be damaged as he is — otherwise, he might have gone by ! Does his appearance exactly resemble my summer dreams? I can hardly remember, for now, when I ti\- to recall the picture of my shadowy hero, it is the face of Monsieur Pierre which comes up before me. and I do not turn back to the first pages of my book to see whether I am mistaken or not, for I think he is very well as he is. His forehead, of which one does not see much now, is evidently high and wide ; his hair is chestnut, cut short, and his Roman nose is rather too long, it seems to me ; his lips are always tightly pressed together, his beard is not exactly a beard, neither is it simply a mus- tache, and I should very much like to ask him exactly what it is called. As to the color of his eye — (A his eyes, rather, for 1 suppose the other is just like the one I know — it is peculiar, neither blue nor gray, and resembles nothing so much as the spring-water in wiiich I used to look at THE STORY OF COLETTE. hq myself last 3ear. One sees every color in it, even the color of the clouds that seem to pass over it from time to time, for the hue changes with his emotions, and grows light or dark in an instant. His complexion is dark except where a line divides the forehead ; from there to the hair the skin is white, which looks very queer. One might think that the face had been painted all of one tint up to that, and that the color had then given out, leaving it as it was. His disposition is brusque ; he is not very amiable, and he seems like a man so accustomed to do as he likes that the walls of other people count for very little with him, I imagined a tyrant who w^ould tyrannize over all the world, but I fancied him softer toward me. But, after all, when I have dreamed of all this, I realize perfectly the folly there is in such an idea. Prince Charming never made himself so little charming to please the lady of his heart ! — and am I not obliged to perceive that Monsieur de Civreuse resembles a chained mastiff, a learned mastiff, a well-educated mastiff, under- standing the manners of good society, but who, it is evident, does not like his kennel in the least? And could I accommodate myself to this severe humor? It seems that as if by some spell all that I do and all that I say is exactly what I ought not to do or say, and I give the eyebrows of my companion the pleasure of constant gymnastic exercise — he is forced to raise them so often in the lively astonishment I cause him. But one certainly is not to be blamed for every- I20 THE STORY OF COLETTE. thiiii^ when one has waited eighteen rears for her liberty and a little happiness. On the other hand, Mother Lancien seemed very sure of what slic said in i)romisinj^ me success, and she has seen so much, and I so little ! Pierre to Jacques. Ah, m)' friend, how well I knew what you would say, and how perfectly your last letter is characteristic of you ! You take fire, you excite yourself, you build a whole romance out of nothing, and send it to me by express, even asking me if you are not too late, and if your con- gratulations will arrive before or after the ceremonv. This accident which laj's me low on the highway, the old chateau into which 1 am carried insensible, this young girl who watches over me nigiit and dav, water- ing my pillow wdth her tears — all intoxicate and ti-ans- port you ; you see me in love, kneeling at the feet of my idol — as much as a man with a broken leg can kneel — blessing the bad roads because that solitude in such company is a joy, pleased with mv sufferings because they have given me access to Erlange, and the winter because it makes our eagle's nest inaccessible to the envious and jealous. Ah, mv dear jacciues, I have wot vour inflammable temperament nor your vivid imagination ; and you ought to remember that formcrlv. when we went into societv, THE STORY OF COLETTE. 121 I had white hair in comparison with your fanciful head and wild caprices. While you, the insatiable, devoured one or even two passions in one evening, falling so violently in love with your partners that after the ball you even dreamed of marriage, I hardly gave my heart once a week, and I have even gone from one Sunday to another, or a fort- night, without feeling a heart-beat. And now, when I have quarreled with the whole human race, with my comrades of the boulevards as well as society, when I am satiated with all, you expect me to fall in love like a school-boy, and to accept fetters when I have just shaken off the last burden ! No, no ; and if you would like the place, Jacques, by the honor of a Civreuse, I will give up the whole to you without regret — the bed with columns, the plaster moldings, and the little blonde into the bargain. Have you already forgotten, my poor friend, the two years that are just past? Evidently 3'ou have, for they have been by you devoted to my interests, and with your noble delicacy you have considered it a crime to remember. Only, it is not the same for me, for there are certain things the bitterness of which remains on the lips, no matter what one does to drive it away, and my experiences are among the number. I was so simple-minded, you see, so absurdly confi- dent, so convinced of the truth of all I was told ! I had thirty intimate friends, and I believed all to be true, all devoted and sincere. I was warmly welcomed in twenty houses in Paris ; J 22 THE STORY OF COLETTE. and, believing myself to be received in remembrance of my mother, I came and went and acted as though she herself had presented mc, without the slightest mental reservation — tlic only person, it seems, who was per- fectly open and sincere. Poor fool! who forgot only one thing: that all tiie attentions belonged to the income of three hundred thousand francs, which, as an orphan, was completely at my own disposal. Then, one morning, the sudden ruin — do you remem- ber? My banker — ^also one of those friends — who had put my capital in such doubtful investments that he had not even dared consult me before swallowing it up, had gone off finally to America, and at once my own posi- tion showed itself. The telegraph is slow in comparison with the news which is carried from mouth to mouth ! Four hours after my ruin I had become a very small personage; everybody knew it, and by the end of the week 1 was forefotten. Events follow each other so quicklv in Paris! After my affair came the fall of a ministry, a private divorce case of which all the papers spread the news with all their might — and you can see that the wave which (overwhelmed me was a broad one. All ni}- intimacy in families came to an end. Why invite a man who is not a possible suitor? And it was only then that I perceived that in each of these exclu- sive circles the daughter of the house was invariably between eighteen and twenty. As to my friends, Jacques, they all bc-havcd perfectly I THE STORY OF COLETTE. 123 There was not one of them who would not cross the street or the boulevard to come and take my hand on seeing me on the other sidewalk, not one who did not express his sympathy. " Poor Civreuse ! What bad luck ! " "What a wretch D is! He is expelled from the Bourse, you know. By-the-way, will your sale take place at the Hotel Drouot ? The season is excellent ; that's a good thing." " What a descent, poor fellow ! On my word, it is enough to disgust a man, and keep him from making deposits anywhere but in his mattress!" It is very nice, all that, and it went to my heart. But at the end of two weeks my sale was over, my entresol rented, I had no more Mondays — you know my recep- tions when I kept open table ? I had given up supping at the Cafe Anglais ; and, worse than all, I had crossed the Seine ! Does any one look for a needle in a hay -stack, or for a man who lodges near the Jardin des Plantes ? Hon- estly, no ! and in less than two weeks I had that absolute peace dreamed of by sufferers, but which in a great cit}', where one has lived a happy life, is rather isolation than repose. My story might have ended there, and a full stop put, unless, in a parenthesis, any one wanted to tell my struggle with poverty, if by good fortune, besides my thirty intimate friends, I had not had another, the thirty- first, who, by-the-way, I had never put in the heap with the others. 124 THE SrORY OF COLETTE. More skillful than the rest, this (jne found out my retreat, and, once inside the place, boldly opened my strong-box, and, finding it empty as he expected. i)ut his arm through mine and carried me off to his home, to share his life with him for two whole years. And it was not only the offer, friend Jacques — allow me to say it for once to your face, since I have the chance — it was making it in such a manner, that I ac- cepted at once, and that I have lived a parasite with vou all this time without the slightest hesitation. Do not protest ! it was really as a parasite, for you know as well as 1 do what is paid for labor to people who seek places because they need them, without having gone through the administrative routine which is the glory of our France. I can not remember exactlv what it was I gained ; but if during these days of trouble I paid the fourth part of my rent and my washing, it was because things were made cheaper for me, 1 am sure ! What trade could I take up ? While I was only an amateur, I was enough of an artist to get mv pictures into the Salon; but as soon as it was known that I needed t(j sell, I became such a poor dauber that I could not get fifty francs for a picture six yards long ! As for music, it was not to be sj>okcn of. To plav the guitar under balconies was charming, but as a professor, the only thing I would have needed was jnipils. The choice remained to me of sui)cTnuincraiv in the department of finance — three years of hopes and ambi- tious dreams, which one indulges in while thinking of THE STORY OF COLETTE. 125 the fifteen hundred francs that will crown this novitiate ; or diplomacy and consulships, without the possibility of buying myself gloves or patent-leather shoes, which arc the sinews of war in the social struggle ; finally, there was journalism. Besides this, when one has refused to sell one's name to founders of doubtful companies, tell me, if you can, how an honest man can find employment in Paris ? I thought of emigrating, and without you it is most probable that I would have followed the man who had cheated me beyond the seas. But you were there, and I stayed, with my heart a little embittered, I confess, by all I had seen, but far from imagin- ing the complete change that awaited me, and the study from life that would enable me to complete from life the portrait of the human animal. After all, it was only neces- sary for me to open the pages of La Rochefoucauld, and I should have found it all already set forth. But who believes La Rochefoucauld before having experi- enced for himself his bitter wisdom ? In short, I do not need to recall to you the conclu- sion of the comedy that came to me one fine morning. The wheel had gone round, and Dame Fortune gave me with one hand what she had taken with the other. My old rascal, richer than ever, died suddenly, leaving 126 THE STORY OF COLETTE. neither will nor children, and his petroleum-wells, eagerly claimed by all his dupes, gave each one of us our rights. Our claims were good, and we were paid even the interest on the moncv — involuntary savings which we had made during the past two years. Three days after — do you remember, Jacques? — con- gratulations and cards rained on us, and I was again in possession of all my excellent friends. It was my own fault if I could not think it all a bad dream. I was awake, and all that 1 had believed lost came back by the same door — gold and friendship. But this was too much ! With a little patience, per. haps, I could have been deceived. But in twenty-four hours to take up life just where I had left it — a break- fast accepted two years before that I was reminded of; a waltz of two years back grown yellow on the card that they wanted me to recall — it was at once un- worthy and grotesque, and I laughed, disgusted at heart. Simply to refuse everything was too little. I had had my eyes opened, had become suspicious, cvnical, and with malicious pleasure I entered into all combina- tions, flattered all hopes, fostered all ambitions, so as to make the disappointment greater the dav when I should snap at once the threads of all the i)uppets I held in mv hand. Then, sore, weary, forcibly separated from you by the illness of your uncle and the secluded winter it ne- cessitated for you, hnding too feeble all words which express hatred of the human race, I was seized with THE STORY OF COLETTE. 127 the desire to hear lying in Chinese, in Arabian, in Hin- dostani, as I had heard it in French, so as to see for m}'-- self whether my countr}- is in advance of its contempo- raries, or behind them. And this is the moment you choose to speak to me of love, of household peace, and the sweet confidence which charms its hours ! My poor Jacques, you are a great fool, and, if Made- moiselle d'Erlange is no worse than other women — which is not certain — she is at least like all the rest, which is enough to drive me away. The proof you use to convince me that I am in love, amused me at least : " You say that you are always with her, you speak to her, you look at her, you call her a blonde fairy ; be frank, Pierre- --confess that you are in love ! " That 1 may not be with her, have I legs to fly from her? Do you want me to turn my head away when I speak to her ? And need you see in the fancies of my first awakening anything more than the ordinary humor of travelers recounting their adventures ? As for her being blonde, my friend, I can not help it ; she is blonde, and I have told you so plainly, think- ing no evil. This brings me back to your complaints on the subject of Mademoiselle d'Erlange : " You oblige me to imagine her for myself," you write ; " except her hair, not a bit of description, and you write pages about the tapestry, the crumbling towers — in fact, all sorts of nonsense. I have the frame, I know it by heart. Put the Greuze in it, I beg you." 128 THE STORY OF COLETTE. Here it is, and sincere, with a sincerit)' which my im- partial e3es can guarantee to be true. Mademoiselle Colette is rather small, or, if not so re- ally, appears so. Does this come {xoxw her wonderfully slender waist, from her head which is small, like that (jf a Greek statue, or from the quickness and multiplicity of her movements? I can not tell. But it is certain that, standing — in the rare moments when she is still — she rises up straight and high, like a swaying young birch-tree, and I look at her in surprise. Whence has she taken that extra height ? Then some new idea seizes her : she starts off to the right or left with her gliding step, and is only an elf who has escaped from her home in the earlv morning, and has come to visit the world. Now you know, my friend, elves have neither stature nor age. Her nose is short, delicate, and a little saucy ; the lower part of the face is pretty, plump like a ripe fruit, and her complexion is dark and rich. Do not read yellow — we are not in Cambodia ; she has a transparent skin, beneath which a ray of sunlight is always shining. She has a high forehead, a well- made mouth ; and as for her eyes, I tell you fnmkly that they are superb; you ought to understand this properly, but you will take it in the wrong sense, I am sure, and you will see flames and passion where there is only a conscientious description, as in a passport ; for even a passport would note them, I am sure, and j)ut them down as " special marks," so little do they resem- ble what (jne usually sees. THE STORY OF COLETTE. 129 Large, superbly shaped — I may as well give you the whole truth this evening, for you would call for it to- morrow — these eyes are the deepest black, and from their depths come an unceasing flash. When the eyelid is lowered, it bears the calm of an infant asleep ; raised, it is overpowering, and it seems as though some inner light were illuminating the burning iris. Do black diamonds exist ? I do not know, though I have often heard them spoken of, but I think I know now what they must be like. The distinctive characteristic of the look is a mobil- ity of expression the variety of which nothing can de- scribe, and her general vivacity shows itself in that. One really seems to see ideas pass over the face, and these great eyes, where thoughts can be read as in a book, are ready to betray her. Her eyebrows are clear and finely penciled. They are drawn with one stroke of the brush. Finally, to complete this mixture of grace and mal- ice, imagine on the left side above the lip a very small dimple, lifting a corner of the mouth so that it only smiles on one side at a time, as if on the sly, and giving her an inexpressible look of gayety. I will not tell you that Mademoiselle Colette has the hands and feet of a child, because to me such a comparison seems absurd. Would you like to finish the portrait of a slender young girl with two fat round feet as wide as they are long, and little baby hands full of dimples ? It makes me shudder ! 130 THE STORY OF COLETTE. But the D'Krlanf^es have good bh)ocl, and it shows itself. To sum up. she is an original person, remarkable in many ways. I am sure you would admire her im- mensely, and that you would write a sonnet to her every evening. An artist would be dumb with delight before her, only he could not paint her as she is. How- ever, some day I will ask her permission to trv, and the first adventure of my journey shall occui)v the first page of my album. " Well ! what more ? " I hear you sa}-. Well, is one obliged to fall in love with all that is beautiful ? I de- scribe her to you as an artist would, as 1 shall describe in three months' time the palaces, lotus-flowers, and almchs — if so it be that almehs exist elsewhere than in ballets; but if you are going to fancy a new romance with each new face which I present to you, I shall be reduced to writing to you in negro style : " Good little traveler arrived well. Had good pas- sage. He not had sea-sickness. Found nice hut to live in. Embrace little white brother." One must take the world as it is, my friend ; nobody in it is worth much when I have put you and myself on one side, for we are too good for the dolls whom we know, doting upon equipages, diamonds, and dresses. So I have long ago made a vow of celibacy in your name and mine. We suffice for each other. Sign the contract, and give up romance. As for your delicate advice on the subject of Made- moiselle Colette, be at case, moralist : if I am bronjrc, THE STORY OF COLETTE. 131 she is crystal, and I do not think my appearance is likely to affect her. And, besides, what do you suppose a creature who laughs all day can know of sentiment? She is not a woman ; she is a bell always in motion, and one might suppose that the life we lead is the most amusing thing possible. You know what she really is ; and just now, when Mademoiselle d'Erlange was dancing about the room, giving herself up to the little skips and jumps that are habitual to her, dusting china and fancy articles, which I, following her listlessly with my eye and listening to her incessant humming, could not help questioning her about — " What is it," I asked, " that makes you so gay, and why have you always a smile on your lips ? " " My good spirits ! " she answered. " Do I trouble you ? " " Not at all ; only you astonish me, that is all." " That is certainly not much like you," she answered, quickly. " And if I may inquire in my turn, why do you never laugh ? " " Just now, on account of my suffering," I replied, dryly. Then, as I was ashamed of this barefaced false- hood, and above all of the bad humor which the remem- brance of the past gave me, I continued, " But I sup- pose that my humor is generally the opposite of yours." She raised her eyes, which had been hidden, with a quick look, and said : " Bad humor, then ? " " Yes, bad, doubtless ; at least for those who look 132 TlfE STORY OF COLETTE. upon laughing- as the sign of an amiable disposition, and not as a grimace or a simple family contortion, confirm- ing the opinion of those who think we descend from monkeys." ** From monkeys ! " She drew back with a fright- ened gesture, taking in at a rapid glance her hands and her whole person. " I never heard that I Is it true ? How do they know ?" Then, as she saw me shake my head : " No, no, I am glad," she continued, before I could edge in a word ; " it would be funny, but so dis- gusting. Just think what one would feel on seeing a baboon in a cage and saying to one's self that he ought to be venerated as an ancestor ! It is quite enough to look like him when one laughs." She ran to a glass, which was hung so high that she had to mount on a table, and, seeing her dimple come — " It is very possible, after all," she said, philosophic- ally, " that it is a contortion, but it does one good all the same." And she began laughing more than ever in proof of what she had said, and jumped down with the bound of a gazelle, without noise or effort. As you see, her credulity, like her gavetv. is that of a child, and she did not get over her amusement for some minutes ; then, as 1 remained perfectly serious, she sat down, calmed herself, and resumed in a lower tone: " Perhaps, when one is very much older and wiser, one does not care for it any more ; but I have not come to that yet." This is too much, Jacques ! Does she take me for a THE STORY OF COLETTE. 133 patriarch ? Have you seen that I am getting- old, or showing signs of age ? So you see you need not be uneasy, or think there is peril around me. I look upon her as a thoughtless child, as I have told you ; and she, on her side, considers me so wise and re- spectable that she nearly puts me in the same category with her grandfather, the baboon. !So we are both safe. And now, my good Jacques, give up inventing romances, and sleep without dreams ; my little girl and I wish you good-night. But look out for yourself, my friend ; you see how quickly old age creeps over us, and some fine day it will take 3'ou unawares. You who are so old, so old ! Thev are going to take off m}- bandage this evening. I wonder how my wound will look ? 1 am a little anx- ious about it, I confess. If the scar is honorable, I will bear it ; but if there is a big rouhd hole showing the mark of the rod or of the pedestal, 1 will call Mademoiselle Colette and her executioner to answer for it. Zounds ! one has his small vanities, no matter how old he is ! April J 2th. To say that my intimacy with M. de Civrcuse in- creases — no, it is just the same to-day as it was yester- day. He is just the same now as he was when he first came to himself — polite as a king, but peevish as a bear, 134 THE STORY OF COLETTE. and sarcastic in proportion, and our slii^litcst conver- sations are skirmishes. •• W'hv arc vou all the time squabbling- with your gentleman ? " Benoite said to nie yesterday ; " it is not good f(jr him, you know." " What can I do, you dear old thing?" I answered ; '* he sees red and 1 white. 1 can not let him say things that are false, and approve just be- cause he is ill, when he takes up everything I say so quickly. It is more than I can bear." It is true that every morn- ing and every evening I tell myself that if I were different I would please him better, and I vow that I will ciiangc the next day ; but as soon as I am in the room and hear the calm tone in which he criticises indifferently men and things, I am vexed in spite of myself, and I answer hinT with all the vivacity and indignation that I feel. Or, when I am seated before the fire, listening to the melting snow as it drips from the broken gutters with a loud noise, and I see in the back of the room his dark face, and hear the full voice that answers or questions me, in the midst of this April sun which glances through the window, I feel such bursts (jf joy that I begin to laugh without any reason, and am happy, hapjiy ! All this seems absurd to M. de Civreusc, and he THE STORY OF COLETTE. 135 launches out as he did yesterday, giving himself much trouble to prove to me that there is nothing to be proud of, that all this gayety is only a family inheritance and past education, and that we laugh as monkeys make grimaces, and nothing else. Was it to frighten me that he said it, or did he half believe it ? I never make out more than half the truth of the things he speaks of — and if it is true, what can I do about it? Must I deprive myself of the pleasure of laughing and moving about, because of an accidental or even natural resemblance ; and ought I to stop crack- ing nuts with my teeth and jumping over obstacles in two or three bounds ? This is much more like the monke3'S. He is a pedant, and we will leave him to his criti- cisms, if he goes on like this, for I have forgotten to warn him, and to make the condition with my saint in the good days when I prayed to him and we understood each other about the personal appearance of my libera- tor ; but Colette must be loved as she is, with her dog, her faults, her laugh, her peculiar ideas, and her sash tied wrong side out, or she will return to her own affairs, and continue to hunt for stars until she finds a good and real one which has not quenched all its rays in water before coming to her. The truth is, that I am furious — furious not only that M. de Civreuse does not find me to his liking, and thinks me ugly, foolish, and I do not know what besides, but furious, above all, because, in spite of all I can do, I can not pay him in his own coin. 136 THE STORY OF COLETTE. Sometimes I am ready to run to him and declare that, if his opinion of me is not flattering, mine of him is just the same ; but I mistrust my tongue. Really, I do not think so at all ; and what if my invectives should turn to compliments? It is frightful to think of I 1 do not know how one can learn to say in the same tone what one thinks and what one does not believe the first word of ; and his ear is too quick not to know the dif- ference. So I am silent, and when I get back to my room, with all the doors closed, I make amends by roughly questioning my imagination and my heart. "Listen," I say to them face to face, "explain vour- selves. Where do this folly and this infatuation come from ? " What has this man done for you ? He is not amiable, hardly polite, certainly less handsome than we are, and it is plain that we do not suit him. " What effort does he make to conceal it fi-om you ? Has he attempted a tender or a gallant word in three weeks — even a word of two syllables with as little meaning as a poor little sigh? Docs one of vou know more about it than I do ? Speak ! " Neither of them says nuich, but their answer, though short, is decisive. " They like him all the same." And that is why 1 find myself thinking of M. de Civreuse a little, often — always, I think — vet without being completely satisfied with him. antl wiihout ex- actly understanding what he has in the depths of his heart. THE STORY OF COLETTE. 137 Sometimes I wonder, when I see the astonished look with which he follows my slightest word, if he does not, like me, come from an old chateau in ruins, where the ditches and portcullis have kept him until now from the sight of women, as my battlements have preserved me from all contact with human beings. But, in that case, he must have crossed his draw- bridge long ago, for his knowledge of human nature, if not kindly, is extensive, and he knows many things whose very names 1 am ignorant of. For that reason we have ridiculous conversations, during which I an- swer without knowing what I say, during which we quarrel without my comprehending exactly why, and during which I am not quite certain that he himself knows what he wants. Yesterday, for instance, we spoke of people in so- ciety. I told him how little I knew outside of Erlange, and begged him to tell me what men are, and what they do outside of my world. Then he began, but described what I asked in such a way that I listened stupefied to hear him call all men rogues and wretches. Is it a joke, or must one really believe it ? If so, one would never dare to put one foot before the other : there an ambush, here a snare, farther on a mine that only waits your pressure to ex- plode — these are the usual things, according to him, and on the outside of all flowers, smiles, and engaging words. Is it literally true, and is he speaking of real mines full of powder? I do not know; at the beginning I 138 THE STOKY OF COLETTE. listened quietly, but afterward 1 could not hel]» pro- testing. "In this case," I cried, "your \yorld is a robbers' den ! " To \yhich he calmly rej)lied : " It certainly resembles one very much." And when I protested, getting indignant, and asking if he were sure of what he said — " I speak of it as a traveler does of the place where his watch and purse have been taken from him," he re- plied ; " that is all." Has he really been robbed ? 1 could not help ask- ing him further if it were so, and without emotion, and dryly enough, he answered : " Of mv faith and confidence, yes, mademoiselle. Do you not think that they are as {precious as doubloons and a valise ? " Such is my guest, and such are his })eculiarities. In such a case, what can I answer? I am dunifounded, and could understand his conversation mt)re easily if he chose to speak Chinese. In conclusion, he seems to me to have few illusions. If I have been drowning mvself in chimeras and dreams for eighteen years, 1 think 1 have come to the right port at last. He makes no exceptions — we are no better than others ; and as I put my se.\ in view, hoping for a court- eous word for women — " Oh," he said, "each one has his instincts. Wolves bite, tigers flv at vou with their claws! Do you think one is much better than another?" THE STORY OF COLETTE. I^g Really, it is not right to decide things in this cold- blooded way, and I am sure that God, who sees into our hearts, does not. I was wild to stop him, or at least to embarrass him ; so, planting myself directh' in front of him, I said : " And I, whom you do not know — what am I, then ? " " In bud or in flower," said he, with a half-smile, " I can not say which, but I am sure that all the instincts are there." Reall}', I could have beaten him ; so, not knowing how to prove my point — " And Monsieur Jacques ? " I asked. " Jacques ! " and instantly changing his tone — "Jacques! he has all the delicacy, all the goodness, all the courage on earth united in one man ! " "Then he is an exception," said I, ironically. " Precisely ; the exception that confirms the rule." " What does that mean?" " Oh, in truth, no great thing ; it is a thing to say, a much-used phrase." " Very well," I cried in bad humor ; " it should be caught and put in a cage ; it has no sense." I knew very well that I spoke foolishly ; but I was vexed, I did not know wh3^ M. de Civreuse laughed without answering, and, beginning where he left off, resumed the praises of his friend. He had raised himself in bed, he spoke quickly ; it seemed as if he had a second tongue, and for the first time I saw him animated. I40 TJIE STORY OF COLETTE. And he was interesting, this Jacques — good and hand- some ! Really, I got to liking him. It seemed as though I were having one of those kingdoms in fairy-land de- scribed to me — where everything is perfect, the streams of sirup, the rocks of candied sugar, and for hot days a gentle shower of rain perfumed with vanilla ! So, when Monsieur Pierre lay back on his pillow with a satisfied air — " Well ! " I exclaimed with con- viction, " I feel that I should like your friend very much." On which he turned sharply, and, scowling with his terrible eyebrows, looked me full in the face. " I beg you to believe, made- moiselle," he said, in his most dis- asrreeable tone, " that it would make him proud and happy." And I, without reflecting a second, replied in turn, not less sharply : " Yes, doubtless ; not every one is liked who wishes to be." After that there was silence — a heavy, threatening silence. Can anvthing be more singular than such a character, and is there any explanation for(nir conversation? This is a sample of our usual talks, and 1 do not know why, but three times out of four they end in tlisputes. THE STORY OF COLETTE. j^I Still, could I have done otherwise this time ? After having borne his gallant classification which put me among wolves, if I were not among the tigers, I agreed with his praises of his friend, and he was angry at once. His face turned toward the wall, as indifferent to all about him as if he came from the moon, M. de Civreuse began to whistle a gay march, drumming an accompani- ment with his fingers on the bed-spread. I, tired already of this silence, moved about, trying to think of some way to begin the conversation again, and biting my nails one after the other. But that made less noise than the march, and in spite of myself I followed the da capo movement, the rhythm of which made me beat time without knowing it. " La — la — la, la, la, la ! " We could not go on like that ; besides, 1 felt like doing some mischief. " The third time it is re- peated, I will speak," I said to myself. And as the third came before I had an idea in my head, I pulled the cross- piece of the table with my foot, and over it went, with all that was on it, making a frightful noise ! I had mis- calculated the absolute coolness of M. Pierre. He quiet- ly finished his tune without moving, and as I murmured confusedly — " It is the table — I caught my foot in it — " " Ah ! " he said. The disaster had to be repaired. A cup full of some- thing had been spilled in the fall. " Lick it, good dog," said I to " One," showing him the liquid. 142 THE STORY OF COLETTE. At last M. dc Civrcusc st<3j)pccl, and, after hx^king at what we were doing — " It is the cup which had morphine in it." he said, quietly ; " he will sleep until to-morrow." And he jjre- pared to resume his march ! But that was not what 1 wanted. 1 replied that he was mistaken. The contradiction stopped him at once ; he turned to me to prove that I was wrong, and we were off again. Such is a sample of our intercourse ; the flower of gallantry is certainly lacking, but I find great pleasure in it. Further, nothing vexes me, nothing wounds me, and my angry feelings are so quickly appeased that in the evening, when I am back in my own room, and I hunt in the ashes for a smoldering spark of bitterness, all my remembrances of the day burst up like fire-works, and rockets of joy and pleasure come instead. Still, 1 gain nothing — 1 feel it. But, in the veiled and distant future, 1 dream of revenge, and 1 laugh to myself at the prospect. Oh, M. dc Civreuse, the day when you fall at my feet, how I will leave you there, and how you will regret the lost time while you anxiously wait for the smiles you might have now ! Often, however, he speaks to me of my life at Er- lange, of my convent, of my aimt. Yesterday 1 even thought he was going to question me about my studies — a little examination in history and geography. I should certainly not have shone in it. Tn my turn, I (juestion him about his journey. What THE STORY OF COLETTE. i^j fine things he will say and do ! To go everywhere that fancy takes him ; to ask nobody's advice ; to hunt ele- phants as easily as here sparrows are taken with bird- lime ; to climb mountains on the top of which one has one's head above the clouds and one's feet hidden in them ; to row on the Ganges, a great sacred river — which would be like a river of holy water with us — where sometimes one meets crocodiles as long as boats, and sometimes dead Indians who float down wnth the current to go to paradise, for it is the road, it appears, and that the manner of burial there ! To travel in a palanquin, and to find every morning, in the shells of the oysters one is eating for breakfast, pearls enough for a necklace — w^hat a dream, what a life ! I had only one cry in hearing about it, a silent cry, be it understood : " Oh ! take me with you ! take me with you ! As servant, as page, as cook, or as compan- ion, as you will ! I would be so easy to get on with, so brave, daring, would bear fatigue, and so happy to dine off a jackal ! " But how could I say all this '^ Seeing me listening wnth rapt attention, my eyes shining with enthusiasm, and my hands clasped in my emotion — "All this seems very fine to you, does it not?" he said, with the manner he usually has when I am excited. Really, to see and hear him, one would think he had lived at least two or three lives, and that his fourth at- tempt wearies him, like an old book that one knows by heart. He says to himself, " On such a page I shall find this thing, on another that," and this is the cause of his 144 ^^^"^ STORY OF COLETTE. indifference about everything: he has lost the pleasure of the unforeseen. This is the only explanation I can find for his morose temper, and sometimes I want to ask him, " Did ycni do this, and did you think that, in vour first life?" But he would doubtless think 1 am crazy, so I keep my little observations to myself, and content myself with saying in all sincerity how much I envy him, and how tempting his life of adventure seems to me. " Bah 1 you would soon tire of it," he said, shrugging his shoulders : " there are neither dolls nor plavthings in those countries." Tire of it ! I know I should find it delightful; and, besides, have I any playthings here ■* If M. de Civreuse will be kind enough to show them to me, 1 shall be much obliged to him. I, who have always loved the impossible, who in my cradle wanted the gilt arrow that held niv curtains, be- cause it was inaccessible to me, and who ever since have continued to long for all the arrows out of mv reach ! " But you do not know what I care for." I said to M. Pierre; "I want all I can not reach, and 1 admire all that I can not do." " Like the Malays of Timor," he said, looking at me curiously, " who adore crocodiles because, thev remark, very judiciously, 'A crocodile swallows a man, but a man can not swallow a crocodile ' ! '' I did not answer. The reasoning docs not seem so nonsensical; these Malays appear to me to be logical. THE STORY OF COLETTE. 145 When one docs not love through preference, it is something to venerate from fear, and if I knew how to make some one say that he adored me — even through fear of being eaten up — how willingly would I become a Malay ! Pierre to Jacques. My friend, she is clever, there is no denying it ; but her excitability and her ardor frighten me. Would you like a squib, which, instead of exploding among the stars, danced perpetually before your eyes? For my own part, it makes me nervous. Only, to be just, the squib has fine colors and bold curves. This means that we have regular conversations, and that she is not in the least timid with me. A patriarch does not count, you understand. But let us begin with my small vanities, if you will. The wound turns out better than I feared. The scar goes along under the hair, and comes down to the eye- brows with a determined look. It can not be helped. I might have got it at Malakof, hence it brings no re- proach. The good doctor himself looked at me with pride — an artist's vanity, which is very excusable. Then he called everybody to come and see how smoothly and exactly he had closed the wound. Benoite complimented me in her own way with her usual frankness. " It was better before, that is sure, but it is a good piece of mending all the same ! " And 146 THE STORY OF COLETTE. Mademoiselle Colette nearly did me the lu)nor of show- inof sentiment about it. She leaned over to look, whiter than her cambric handkerchief, and, as I raised my eyebrows to show her my agility — " Why. it moves I " she cried, horrified, turning to- ward the doctor. "What?" he asked, " The skin of the forehead ? I hope so; yours does too." She scowled, and tried it in every direction so as to be sure ; then, tranquillized, she approached, and com- paring my two eyes, the one just uncovered with the other : " It is exactly like it," she sighed in a low voice. And I was forced to conclude that, up to the present, she had supposed me cross-eyed, or that I had but one. When the excitement was over, the doctor left ; Be- noite returned to her furnaces, which are emphatically such, for at Erlange the cooking is done on the hearth with a tripod, in our fa- thers' fashion ; and Mademoiselle Co- lette and I were left alone together as usual. You could never believe the amount of talking we have done for the last four days, and my discoveries about my young companion are many. To begin with, Jacques, be shocked if vou like, but I have been forced to the conclusion that she is absolutely ignorant — a veritable little savage. Onlv, THE STORY OF COLETTE. 147 3'ou would lose your time if you attempted to pity her for it, and your sympathy would be superfluous, for she accepts the fact with the most amiable philosophy, and makes a sort of mixture of all her knowledge, which has neither head nor tail, and this appears to satisfy her perfectly. Yet she has spent two years in one of the best convents of Paris ; but we are great fools, you and I, if we think that study is the occupation in such places. In the different departments the interests vary. From dolls they go on to hoops, from hoops to story- books, from story-books to society, the polka, or a waltz, learned on the close-cut grass of the shrubberies, when the teachers are not looking. But study is only an ac- cessory — the fifth wheel of the carriage. Besides, Mademoiselle d'Erlange has her ideas about it, which she explained to me with extreme clearness. She has never been able to remember anything which did not concern people or things she liked. All this she knows perfectly ; as for the rest — it is nothing. This is her system. Take as an example her history of France ; it is very simple. She begins it at Charlemagne, " a great man who interests her," and she knows all about him — the ball he holds in his hand, his sword, his big foot, and es- pecially his nephew Roland. From him she jumps to Henri IV, her great passion. She knows all his witty sayings, adores his profile and his impetuosity, but gets a little confused in the story of the abjuration and con- quest. As long as France belonged to him from the cradle, what need had he to fight about it? Her history 148 ^"^/^ STORY OF COLETTE. Stops at Napoleon — the last personage she cares for. Since then, have we been awake or asleep ? She hardly knows, and, until another great man appears, she does not mean to think about it. The poor child is likely to wait a long time, to judge from present appearances. What do you think? Between times she has a mild interest in Bayard, Duguesclin, Joan of Arc, and in general all the fighters. They serve for breaks in her great interregnums, and I am not quite sure that she does not crown one or the other of them from time to time. You can understand the process, there is nothing easier ; and it is not merely a theorv. She applies it bravely to everything. Thus, in geography she does not hesitate to avow her national antipathies, which are numerous. She dislikes England and the English, for instance. On her map the Channel is marked with a red line, which Mademoiselle d'Erlange never crosses. As you might imagine, the Rhine is inexorably barred ; and, as the Italians please her no better than the English, the same fatal mark passes over the peaks of the Alps. On the other hand, she would go to Russia to interest herself in the Slavs, and I believe she is ignorant of more than one peculiarity of the French soil. If you were to tell her that Parnassus is a hill oppo- site Montmartre, she would not be in the least aston- ished ; and she mixes up dc'i)artnients, cities, railroads, and rivers with the most easy good-nature. If you add to this the mass of varied knowledge she THE STORY OF COLETTE. 149 has picked up, no one can tell how, a good deal of po- etr}^ some political ideas, anecdotes of the time of King William, a way of adding up figures which would not be allowed in even a cobbler's apprentice, wonderful self-possession, and an extreme quickness of apprehen- sion, you have a whole which would give a schoolmaster the jaundice, but which would delight an imaginative man. Being neither the one nor the other, I look on and enjoy, reposing in my seat in the balcony stalls, and do not forget to give you from time to time the other end of the telephone — lucky fellow that you are ! With no knowledge of real life, and in love with the unattainable, if I were to propose to her to-morrow to set off for India in my suite, it is ten to one that she would accept. I say this without the least conceit, for it is evident that I should count for nothinof in the affair. But to see crocodiles, rattlesnakes, and other nice things, just think of the pleasure ! She would swim all the way, to have it. It is astonishing to find the same longing for emo- tions and adventure in all women. They prize them more than anything else, but they would be mortally afraid if they realized their cravings. Can you picture to yourself Mademoiselle Colette before the jaws of an alligator yawning as he looked at her? The poor child would run away — if her legs were left to her — with frightful cries. But at the present mo- ment she can conceive no happiness equal to that of having a close view of these great saurians, which sob in 150 THE STORY OT COLETTE. the evening in the plaintive tone of infants in the cradle, as she has been told, but which, when thev like, if I am well informed, can swallow their man as if they had cut at least their second teeth. I try to disenchant her ; she is determined to see the bright side, and she has so much blue on her pallet that 1 despair of finding a place for my spots of black. You declare that it is a pity and an abomination to de- stroy this dreamer's illusions. And why are you not willing that I should teach the child that water drowns and lire burns ? She is capable of not suspecting it, and of putting in her hand to try. Do not worry : she loses neither sleep nor appetite in listening to my skep- tical preaching, and 1 should like you to see her lunch . it is a comforting spectacle. At four o'clock, at the fii'st stroke of the clock — a crazy old thing that goes as it likes, with the greatest contempt for exactitude, and which Mademoiselle Co- lette herself winds up every fortnight in the towers of the chateau — she gets up and disappears in haste. Whether in the middle of a phrase, with a motion half- finished, or lost in the exploration of her ruins, she goes at once, and cver3'thing else has to stop. The shij^- wrecked sailors of the M6duse would not have gone more eagerly in pursuit of food. Five minutes previously she was not thinking of it, but at four o'clock she feels faint, seized with a hunger- fit, and acts as if, the hand past the (juarter, all would be lost. The first days I waited for her return, surprised and THE STORY OF COLETTE. 151 anxious, thinking that some catastrophe must have been the motive of her flight ; but at the end of fifteen min- utes she came back with her light step, a corner of her dress held up to contain her provisions, and, reseating herself while eating her repast — and what a repast ! — resumed the conversation where she had left it off. Regularly, I say it to her praise, she offers to share the meal with me, but she gets through the whole so easily, that I should have scruples about accepting, and I watch her cracking nuts with her teeth like a Nurem- berg toy, and eating dried prunes which resemble melted India-rubber, or a kind of soft pasty cake, which draws out as if in long white tongues. 1 have only once accepted her polite offer. She had taken out of the folds of her dress five red apples be- sides an enormous piece of bread. Five apples ! Can you understand these young girls' digestions — incapable of getting through a good underdone beefsteak, and re- ducing five apples in some minutes ? I had refused her first offer, and without insisting she went to work. She conscientiously polished each apple with her woolen dress before eating it, rubbing it over and over again, and only setting teeth to it when her black eyes were reflected in the shining mirror of its skin. I watched her, amused at w^hat she was doing, interested in the spots which resisted, and so much oc- cupied with her that at the third apple she perceived it. Was there a desire in my look, or did she only think so? I do not know, but suddenly stretching out her hand — 1^2 TJJE srOKY OF COLETTE. " I have five to-dav ; reallv vou could take one." she said ; and, as I did not reply, (jverpowered with this munificence — " 1 will make it shine for you," she added ; and with the same corner of her drapery, with an energy that brought the blood to her face, she obtained the proper polish on the apple, and held it out to me. Of course I ate it with an amount of gratitude pro- portioned to the benefit, but this symbolic fruit made me anxious, and I expected to see the serpent appear from under the furniture. Happily, there was none — at least in appearance. This reminds me of a physiological idea of Made- moiselle Colette's which will amuse you, I am sure, and complete the description of her scientific attain- ments. It was yesterday, at the fateful hour of which we have been speaking. On the stroke of the hour she had gone, and the quarter had struck before she returned. It was a perfect anomaly ; fifteen minutes to compose her feast! What would she bring back this time? I watched the door. Five minutes later she returned with both hands full, and walking with as much dignity as though she were carrying a relic. For an instant I thought she might be bringing back her Saint Joseph with her, and that they were reconciled, but it was nothing like that. The object of so much care was a piece of hot bread which smoked in hci- lingers — a himch, as they sav here — nearly the size of a cjuarter of a loaf. In the middle of the soft paste a hollow had THE STORY OF COLETTE. 153 been made, and was filled with thick cream, which as it melted gave out a delicious odor. She gave a sigh of relief as she sat down, shook her head with a confidential air, and, showing me the object, said in a low voice with an expressive ges- ture : " It burns ! " Then, without waiting, she at- tacked the fabulous bread, biting and blowing by turns. " But," I could not help saying, " you are never going to eat all that ? " "Yes. Why not? It is excellent." " Perhaps. But it is as heavy as lead. It will dis- agree with your stomach." " My stomach ! " she repeated in a tone of disdain, " what do you suppose it can matter to my stomach ? " And she threw herself back to laugh at her ease over the idea that half a pound of hot dough could incon- venience her stomach. " It may give it trouble to digest," I quietly replied. Then, as she opened her big eyes, I reflected that she probably did not know what I was talking about, and call- ing to my aid the classical definition of my childhood — "The stomach," I resumed in a didactic tone, "is a sort of pocket shaped like a bagpipe. Its distended ex- tremity is placed on the left side, and above — " 154 THE STORY OF COLETTE. *' Oh, very well," she interrupted, " it is not in the least like that, as I understand it ! " And as the bread was decidedly too hot, she put it in her lap, and, requiring no urging, went on : " This is how I think it : 1 imagine a little, old man, very, very small, bent over, in a brown coat, with a wig and queue, and a gold-headed cane, who is always going and coming in a little room. In the middle of it is a big chimney, down which come all the things that are sent him, and he rushes to it whenever there is an ar- rival. He leans down, sorts them out, looks, rubs his hands w^hen what he receives seems good to him, shrugs his shoulders and gets angry when it is bad. 'The fools! what have they sent me?' he grumbles; 'what do they expect me to do with that ? ' And he pushes it with his foot into a corner, where useless things are put, where perhaps my hot bread will go — it is possible — but that is all. As for a pocket and a bagpipe, I have never heard of such a thing, and I do not want to be worried about it. My little old man is enough fc^r my work; we understand each other perfectly, and if he scowls a little on the days when I eat green apples, he is at least polite enough not to make any remarks. Why should I change ? " The bread had stopped smoking, the crust cracked as it cooled, and the cream smelt better than ever. Mademoiselle Colette took the cake delicately in her fingers, and finished her luncheon without a word, sure that she had convinced me of the existence of her little man. Such is her logic. THE STORY OF COLETTE. 155 But in hearing her tell of her past life, one may un- derstand her peculiarities ! Yesterday I questioned her on her childhood, trying to find the trace of a governess, professor, or any other director, and, as I could find nothing resembling one — " But who brought you up ? " I asked at last. " Nobody ! " she replied. " I came up in my own way as best I could ! Thank Goodness, I had that com- pensation for my solitude ! " And she made a gesture with her hand, to indicate something growing as it likes. Can you imagine this situation ^ — this young girl springing up as wild oats do, between her dog and her old nurse who is even more her slave than the dog, and with twenty-four hours every day to get into any scrapes she chooses! I can now understand the incident to which I am indebted for the pleasure of her acquaint- ance: to pass from thought to action, it is only neces- sary for her to have the material time necessary for the accomplishment of her fancy. She knows no Other condition. There are, however, in this existence melancholy hours which she describes without reserve, and the aunt of whom I have told you — a frightful old woman — has just given me a specimen of her ill-humor. She has made an attack upon us from which our little society has hardly yet recovered, and the traces of which will remain. About two hours ago I was watching " One," who was executing all his best tricks under the direction of 156 THE STORY OF COLETTT. Mademoiselle Colette, who did not disdain to take part from time to time in the exercise, when the door opened suddenly and a woman entered. Tall, dry, bony, ugly enough to take the role of an ogress, if she chose, she announced herself in a voice which instantly brought her young niece to her feet, and made the dog place himself in front of his mistress, showing his teeth, as if to protect her. " Sir I I am Mademoiselle d'Epine," she said to me. "Very well named,"* I said to myself; but aloud, " Mademoiselle, I have the honor to present my respects to you." But what did she care for my respects ? "A month ago," she continued, "you arrived in niv house, coming from nobody knows where ; and, as I have thought that you must be now at about the end of your visit, I wished to see you once before your de- parture." "Arrived" seemed to me curious, and "visit" more peculiar still, and you will agree that it would be impos- sible to put a man more decidedly out of doors ; but, before I could answer. Mademoiselle d'Erlange had re- covered herself. " Say rather in our house," she exclaimed ; " and oven in my house, for M. de Civreuse is in my wing, as you know very well. And as for the way in which he came, which you seem to have forgotten, I will refresh your memory. " I wounded liiiii in the head by throwing something * Epinc, a thorn. THE STORY OF COLETTE. 157 out as he was passing by, certainly not thinking of us. Benoite and 1 carried him into the kitchen half-dead. Then, while she was preparing this room, and I was watching him down below, I swore, on my knees by his side, to take care of him, to cure him, and to obtain his pardon. Do you now remember these things ? I told you all once before." " I only remember this," she replied, angrily, going toward the young girl, " that once before I protested against your playing the part of sick-nurse, which you have undertaken in an inexcusable manner, and that this time I will find a way to force you to relinquish it." " Why did vou not take it upon yourself ? " returned Mademoiselle Colette ; " there is more than one place by the bed, I suppose." "A bed which I shall most certainly have left by this evening, mademoiselle," I returned, " and which I should never have consented to occupy a single instant if I had been even more than half-dead, or had in the least suspected that I was received against the wishes of any one here ! ' I was beside myself. The most insolent things came to my lips, and I really do not know what kept me from jumping up instantly. Certainly it was not the presence of this woman, and, if she had been alone, I am sure I should have revenged myself by shocking her mod- esty by that unexpected spectacle. But she was not alone. Besides, she did not answer my protestations by a single word ; but, turning to her niece, said : I eg THE STORY OF COLETTE. " You will i)C' forced to obedience by some one wiser than you arc." Then, judj^ing that she had accomplished her pur- pose, she turned toward the door with her long, gawky step, as a dismasted ship past usefulness is drawn up on the beach, knocking against every rock. But she was not half-way there when a fourth per- son appeared on the scene ; it was my doctor, who darted in like an arrow, with knit brow and compressed lips, and seized her brusquely by the arm. " Who speaks of obedience in a sick-room when the doctor is not there ? " he said, rudely. He had been listening behind the door, and did not conceal it. " You," he said, turning to Mademoiselle Colette, " you are in your jiropcr place here. Do not stir. I put you here, I keep you here, and consider it my business. " As for you, sir," he said to me, " I suppose you have not forgotten our first conversation ; you know mv views on the responsibility I take. I have your word, and yovi will not leave Erlange until I give the per- mission." "As for vou, Madcinoisclle," he added, looking at the (^1(1 maid, whom he still hcUl bv the arm, " 1 have the honor of offering you my arm to take you back to your room, and on the way I will give you some in- formation about fractures, the effects of which you do not seem to understand, and which will interest you, I am sure." THE STORY OF COLETTE. 159 Dragging off Mademoiselle d'Epine utterly con- founded, on whom he smiled placidly, he took her down the whole length of the room. He stopped on the threshold. " And take particular notice," said he, turning and looking at us, "that Mademoiselle d'Erlange was mistaken by one half just now. It is not one wing which is hers, but the entire chateau, ruins and all." Then they went out. To say that I was raging l*^-*' internally would be feeble ; I could not keep from revengeful gestures, and I longed to be able to make some one suffer. But in spite of the malice of my adversary, as she claimed to belong to the gentler sex she was out of my reach ; and yet I have seen grenadiers who would gladly pass for beaus if they could have her broad shoulders. Besides, 1 remembered Mademoiselle Colette : the attack on her had been still worse. I turned toward her, expecting to find her in tears ; but she was far from that. With flashing eyes and head erect, she seemed a Bellona in anger, " A wicked woman ! a wicked woman ! " she cried, stamping her foot on the ground. Then suddenly throwing herself into an arm-chair — l6o T^^E STORY OF COLETTE. " I have lived nearly eighteen years with her ! " she burst forth. " Is she always like this?" I asked her. " Always." " But what is the matter witii her ? " " Who knows ? " she rejdied, shaking her head. " Sour grapes, perhaps. I think there are some women who grow up ill-tempered, as there is some grass full of net- tles. She evidently belongs to the nettles." " But when I was not here, why was she generally cross with you ? " She did not answer, looking at me with a hesitating air, the shadow of a smile lifting the corner of her lip, while she mechanically pulled at her dog's long hair. 1 looked at her, waiting for her to speak, and, as I looked, I was so struck with the contrast between this charm- ing face and the hard, broad mask of the woman who had just left us, that, without thinking, I exclaimed : " Is it because you are eighteen, and she — ?" Tlic smile deepened, and Mademoiselle d'Erlange, looking at me through her eyelashes, said : " She was eighteen once, but — " She was silent again, lowering her eyelashes completely, so that they beat on her j)ink cheeks like a lace fan. Embarrassment is very rare with her, but is becoming, and without hesitation 1 put her thoughts into words: " She was eighteen once, of course ; but her spring had not the flowers of yours: that is it." flow I allowed myself to be drawn into such a mad- rigal, the devil only knows! But, as Mademoiselle Co- THE STORY OF COLETTE. 16 1 lette had bravely defended me just now, she deserved that I should come to her aid in my turn. She took it as a simple statement of fact, began to laugh gayly, and raised her eyebrows with a little gesture that signified, " Yes, you are right this time ! " Then, without tran- sition, her confidence completely restored, she let flow the current of her recollections, relating episodes of her childhood which concerned her aunt, telling how fright- ened she used to be at her as a child ; the whole with- out bitterness, but with a comic and malicious fancy which gave a touch of life and burlesque relief to the portrait of her very peculiar guardian. Egotism and jealousy are the two dominant qualities of this woman, and I am going to tell you a trait that reveals her. Naturally very fond of good eating, she manages so that the limited resources of the house shall never inter- fere with her requirements ; but the bill of fare, gen- erally carefully prepared, is never better than on fast- days. On these mornings some delicate little dish is prepared, and as they sit down to table Mademoiselle d'Epine says to her niece : " My stomach does not bear fasting, Colette ; you will have to fast for us both." And the niece eats her sardines or her vegetables, accompanied by the odor of the squabs eaten bv her aunt, who piously offers Heaven this compromise, pray- ing to have the substitution accepted. I hope that some day in purgatory, when her accounts are made up, she will find that her schemes were not wise ; but purgatory is far off, and until then who can l62 Tlfr- SrOKY OF COLETTE. rescue this child from her clutches, and, above all, who will give her back her past years, and supply the affec- tionate care and the education whicii she has not re- ceived ? I can tell you, Jacques, a sequestration is going on here, and that is what this woman wants. The roast chickens which she refuses to give her niece, the soft covers, and the soft bed, all the comforts which she reserves for herself alone, are nothing; but she intends to imprison the girl morallv between four walls, and to keep her spirit and her youth so closely guarded that no one shall guess the life that is crushed under the ruins. What would you call this crime, if vou deny that it is imprisonment, and how would you punish it ? For my part, I intend to circumvent her, and without delay. The day after 1 leave here 1 will begin the work. If I have to make an outcry through the press, assemble a family council, or call in the aid of the police, 1 will succeed, and the door of this cave shall be thrown open. To whom can belong the part of righter of wrongs, if not to those who despise the world and know it as it is ? In exchange for her watchings and the care she has taken of me, Mademoiselle Colette shall have her liberty. I will open the door of her cage. By all that is sacred, Jacques — you hear? — I swear it! Half an hour later the doctor came back, and you can imagine the discussion. " Doctor. I intend to leave." " Do not let us go back to that, I beg." THE STORY OF COLETTE. jgo " Give me back my promise." " Most certainly not. You are at the most difficult and delicate stage ; do not spoil such a beautiful fracture for me." " It is impossible for me to sta^' here after the scene we have just had ; you must see that." " I tell you that woman is crazy. Shall I sign a paper committing her to Charenton, so as to put your mind at rest? " And as I insisted — "Sir," he said, coolly, " my age and character are sufficient for me to assume the responsibility of my acts ; will you have the goodness to send me any persons who have any fault to find with them — " And he turned his back, while jNIademoiselle Colette kept on saying : " But since you are in my house ! But since you have been told that you are in my house ! " The poor little thing saw no further in it than that. Finally, the doctor promised on his honor to let me go in ten days, and on my side I have promised not to attempt to escape before that time. But all the same, I am exasperated. It is useless talking, the position is false. Every time the door creaks I tremble like a run- away school-boy, and I would like to send Mademoiselle d'Erlange about her business. Only, she sees no harm in it. It was a scene, that is all ; she has witnessed many others, and she continues her usual life in perfect composure. 164 THE STOKY OF COLETTE. April 20th. It is all over — tlic good days arc ending ; and in spite of all I can do now, without knowing how or why, all my reveries end in tears. It IS without wishing it, and even without perceiving it. 1 seat myself as 1 used to do on my divan, I think of the same things, and what pleased me yesterday, what made me laugh so gayly that 1 had to bury my head in the cushions for fear some one would hear me, makes me sad now. I still bury my head in the same place, but when 1 take it up the stuff is moist, and it is only then that I perceive that 1 have wept. What a frightful scene my aunt made, and how it wT)undcd mc ! 1 was so afraid that M. Pierre would be angry ! The doctor happily arranged it all , but he remains a little constrained, a little embarrassed. Perhaps he is vexed with us in spite of all, and that makes me so sorry ! Only one week more to stay here ! I should not have thought he could have been cured so quicklv ; it is too short ! That is to say, it is not the illness which is too short, it is the stay. 1 thought he would be much longer at Erlange, and above all — Well, 1 did not think it would end in this way. Now it is over, nobodv will care f(ir Colette : when he has passed the door, he will not think of her any more, and she will be alone, much more lonelv than before, as the darkness is black- er in a place which has been light, and from which the light has been taken away. THE STORY OF COLETTE. 165 Very softly this tenacious folly which I have in me hopes still. Why and what ? 1 can not say, but I feel there is a change coming — I am afraid it is far off! At least, M. de Civreuse will suspect nothing. With him 1 am gayer than ever, and without effort. It is so nice in that big room ! — 1 tell the whole truth only to my confidants, my cushion and my diary, and when 1 have finished with the first, 1 carry it to the fire and dry it, and 1 take the second. The margins are quite spoiled ; without thinking, I write, two initials, always the same, lengthwise, across, interlaced, separate, and just now 1 put his whole name on my left hand — a letter on every nail, and two on the last, the thumb. It was funny, and at first I laughed ; then came this stupid little tear, and the ink was blotted. — And so everything is blotted out. But yesterday I chose my ground better. I ran to the end of the park, and on the bark of a great pine- tree, the one near which I used to dream and which I climbed last autumn to watch for adventures, with '/ my little dagger I cut the name which occupies my thoughts. There is no other way of telling a tree what one thinks, and I was glad to tell it. i66 THE sroRY of colkttf.. When I came in, M. IMcrrc nuticcd my tlamj) dress and wet shoes. " Have you been out ? " he asked. And 1 answered, "Yes, 1 took a walk." If he knew what walk! Pierre to Jacques. " My friend, you arc an idiot." Why does the beginning of the letter whicli Henri IV wrote quite three hundred years ago to his faith- ful Sully come to mind to-day ? Analogy, probably, and because on this point at least you resemble this morning that model of ministers. Seriously, Jacques, this time your letter made me angry. I have arrived at the age of reason, I suppose, and I know what I feel and what I want, and vour witticisms have no sense in them. My pulse is excellent, my head clear, and mv heart light, whatever you may say, and I have no hidden object in the efforts that I am about to make for the good of my young hostess. " You are mixing yourself up in things which do not concern you; you are drawing down on yourself mill- ions of annoyances, and risk being put in your j)lace by the notary who will politely send you about your business, and all for a ])crson who is utterly indifferent to you ! How probable it all is, and how can you ex- pect me to believe that, especi:illy when 1 know that THE STORY OF COLETTE. 167 the person in question is a young and beautiful creat- ure ! Be frank, confess, and marry her : it is much simpler." My poor Jacques, you settle things with a club, as one beats down nuts; your " much simpler " is heroic, even more so than you suspect. I do not work for reward, my friend ; it is for honor, for the love of art, like a knight of old, and you must confess that if all those brave paladins, who for- merly defended the widow and the orphan, had thought themselves forced, or even authorized, to marry all the prisoners whom they delivered in a year, each one would have possessed a harem, and morality would have swept away the whole within six months. Remember that I am only just beginning my jour- ney around the world, and do not make a chimney- piece of my sword at the first stage ; it dances in its scabbard at the thought of all the fine things it is to accomplish, and the idea of repose by the fireside is horrible ! If this little blonde seems of such inestimable value to you, why do you not come and take up the work yourself ? I can tell you in confidence, if you want to know, that Mademoiselle Colette is in love with you already. She is sure of it, she has told me ; and if I had not been afraid of one of your usual extravagances, I should have told you so before. Now you know. Be quick, and I will introduce you. And now, let us leave this subject, I beg you, for it irritates me. I have hardly a week more to spend l68 THE STORY OF COLETTE. here. Do not let me play that excellent doctor false, and leave some fine evening, sick of the whole subject ; and if you arc not seeking a ([uarrel w itii mc, for Heavens sake leave me in peace, and cease your senti- mental forecasts I 1 do not say but that a man of enthusiastic tempera- ment, an untried heart, and some youthful illusions, might be affected here — the strange surroundings, the intimacy, those beautiful eyes ! But it is not my fault, Jaqcues, if I am no longer twenty — to-morrow there will be just nine vears since that was the case ; and there are two things one can never have back : youth and illusions. If vou can give them back to me, on the word of a disenchanted man, I will fall at her feet. Our last days pass vcrv plcasantlv. Mademoiselle d'Erlange is gayer than ever, and no constraint is pos- sible near her. I confess it to you in ])rivate, this unconcernedness and these good spirits surprise me a little. Certainly 1 am neither a fool nor a lady-killer. 1 appreciate mvsclf at my real value, but 1 am perhaps worth a little emotion, and I renicmbcr a brilliant circle where I held niv own. Doubtless Paris demands less than Erlange. Remark, if you please, that I am delighted that it is so; the contrarv would have embarrassed me, saddened mc, tilled nie with remorse, and 1 only si)eak of it be- cause I write evervtliing. But vou must acknowledge tluit it is sinsrular that a voung ."-irl who is alone, who THE STORY OF COLETTE. 169 finds her life tiresome, and who suddenly sees her first romance appear in the shape of a young- man, tolerably good-looking, receives it thus ; we may throw to the winds the legend which makes young girls' hearts of in- flammable stuff. Besides, I am ready to believe that Mademoiselle d'Erlange's exuberant spirits serve to reliev^e her, and that so many outward manifestations leave her inner thoughts in a state of great placidity ; her heart may even be a little hard — a fact easily ac- counted for by her childhood, so devoid of tenderness and joy. However it may be, all is for the best, and we em- ploy our last afternoons over the noble game of check- ers. They do not go on without some tempests, which disturb the sittings, for Mademoiselle Colette does not like to be beaten ; and after the first lessons, when I thought I ought to favor her, I have gone back to my usual style of playing, and now beat her five times out of six. Her patience, which is not great, is quicklv ex- hausted under these conditions, and she gets as angry as a cat. She first gets red, scowls a little, drums nerv- ously on the table, and finally, when the case seems to her hopeless, she sweeps all the checkers together with her hand. I then lean back majestically on my cush- ions and contemplate the beams of the ceiling, until she gives in, which is never long. She replaces the men, pushes the board toward me, and mutters : " It was really too bad ! " Then, convinced that this j-Q THE STORY OF COLETTE. explains everything, she holds out her closed hands to- ward me to draw, so as to see which is to begin, and everything goes on in the same order. Invariably, in the beginning, 1 propose to give her some men, and also invariably she refuses with an air of offended dignity, evidently considering her sweep- ing off the board much more regular than this favor, and insisting passionately at the beginning of each game that 1 shall play with her as 1 would with any- body else, seriously and without helping her. I, the slave of orders, obey, and in five minutes more she is stamping her foot : it is logical. Just now we were engaged in a skirmish ; 1 saw her getting herself in a scrape, and twice running, without meaning to do so, I swept off four victims at a blow. You may fancy her state of mind : she bit her under lip so that the blood receded, and she looked over the board with the despairing glance of a swimmer who has lost footing. Prudently I drew back my fingers, foreseeing some formidable blow ; but things changed, her brow sud- denly cleared, her lip resumed its natural appearance, and, with her fingers on one of the men, she conducted it obliquely across the board, pushing off such of my men as were in her way, without violence, and without ai)pearing to know that she was going against the rules. At the cOi'^Q she stopped, and said, very gravely : " Your turn ! " " What do you mean l)\- my turn? What are you doing? " I asked. THE STORY OF COLETTE. 171 " Well," she replied with superb calm, " I am going to make a queen. I should never get there as we were going, so I have taken another way." In everything there is this same contempt for bar- riers and rules ; this untutored nature would not be out of place in a tribe of wild Indians. I can imagine her in her tent, with feathers in her hair, a string of flowers around her shoulders, rivaling the wild goats in her capers, and baptized by the enthusiastic tribe as " Sing- ing Bird " or " Flying Arrow." In the mean w^hile. Flying Arrow performs her duties as mistress of the house, and does her best to amuse me. For a week I have been able to get up. Aided by Benoite, whose strong shoulder serves me as a cane, I reach an arm - chair placed near a window, I extend my leg in its splints in another chair in front of me, and, with Mademoi- selle Colette as a guide, I learn to know the court and the principal points of the chateau. " There," she says, " is the li- brary, there the dining-room, there the chapel, and there " — showing me the ruins this time — " were the drawing-rooms, a large guard-room, an oratory, and numerous galleries." 172 THE STORY OJ- COLETTE. The whole — ruins and remaining portions — is superb; it is pure Louis XI 11 style, both elegant and severe; and there is sculpture which makes me dream, and on which I sincerely compliment the chatelaine of the j)lace, who criticises and appreciates it with her usual (origi- nality. When 1 tell you that I have made the acquaintance of Frangoise, the third of Mademoiselle Colette's attach- ments, you will agree with me that 1 know all that is necessary, and that 1 can leave Erlange. Yesterday was a superb day, dry and bright ; one side of the window was open, in spite of the keen air, and 1 was breathing it with delight, when 1 saw my young nurse cross the court. She looked up as she passed and made a little sign to me with her hand, and ran to the door of the servants' quarters which opens on the court. " 1 want to show you Frangoise," she cried. She came out in a moment with a big, short-winded, half-blind animal, with a large body, huge neck, four long, thin legs, and a whitey-yellow coat. Utterly indifferent to this ugliness, she talked to the beast, patted her, stuffed her with sugar and bread, and all so quicklv that the poor old marc could not eat what was given her. When she had ended — " She does not trot badlv — vou shall see," she called to me. She threw a blanket upon her. dragged her to the stone steps, and sprang on \\vv hack like a lairw and, excitin"' her with her voice, made her start on a trot. THE STORY OF COLETTE. j^j The animal stumbled on all the stones, she threw up her big head in fear, and with her smoking nostrils she re- sembled the beast in the Apocalypse, carrying off some unhappy spirit on its uncertain course. " That is a game at which you may break your neck ! " I cried to Mademoiselle d'Erlange. " Bah ! " she replied ; " we know each other very well." At the tenth round she let herself slide down to the ground so quickly that I thought she had fallen, and took her friend back with the same protestations of ten- derness that she had lavished on her as she brought her out. This is how she speaks to animals, and I am not sur- prised that she has nothing left for men — she gives them her whole heart. In all probability I shall write to you the next time from the village, I shall only remain there long enough to pay a visit of thanks to my hostesses, to see my good doctor, and to inform you of my plans. Turn the page, for the adventure is over, and I shall probably see you soon. I have missed so many steam- ers already that I am tempted to let still another sail without me, so as to go and see you in your country home. April 2Sth. All is over. M. de Civreuse went yesterday, and I feel lost here. It is true I have known Erlange empty and silent 174 THE STORY OF COLETTE. before, and I have been used to hearinj^ mv steps re- sound in the halls, and my voice against the wood-work, but all is changed now. It was only tediousness before ; now it is sadness, and the things weigh diflferentl}'. From time to time I try to be brave, and play a little comedy to myself. I put things in order, I go and come, and hum gav little airs; then I sit df)wn beside my dog, I take his head on mv knees, and I talk to him as 1 used to; cjnlv, even with him, I detect mvsclf in saying what is not true. " Six weeks to mend a broken leg, ' One,' is enor- mous," I said to him just now, "and we would never have thought it could last so long, would we?" This is not true — it is not true at all, for I counted on twice as long, at least for the present, and on alwavs for later. Benoite looks at me uneasilv. She is not free from the suspicion, or at least fear, of a little sentiment, and she would willingly keep me by her ; but that is what I do not want, so I pretend that the carrving back of my belongings occupies me, and escape. In reality, 1 do nothing at all. and 1 have left cvcrv- thing as it was yeslerdav, for 1 dare not return to mv old room. There are so many associations in everv cor- ner that they overpower me when I go in, and I could not sleep there for the present. 1 should be afraid that all the ghosts would find out \w\ secret, and go and tell it to M. Pierre, who would laugh over it perhai)S, and I want to come here onl\- to dream. In the librarv I THE STORY OF COLETTE. 175 weep, I regret, 1 get angry, 1 do as I like ; then, when I am myself again, it is my hour for recreation. I take the well-known way, 1 sit down in my usual place, I look at the empty bed, the arm-chair near the window, with no one in it, and 1 remember ! Often, too, 1 get angry. After all, what did this man come here for? Why has he found a place in my head and heart, since he wants nothing from me ? And what power is it which sends thus a beginning of happi- ness, just what is needed for happiness, which lets you appreciate it, look well at it, and which snatches it away at the very moment when you close your hand, thinking to hold it ? Is this what is called Providence ? Still, one must be just ; M. de Civreuse did nothing to attract me, and I even think it was his coldness which struck and won me. Gloomy as he was, he sometimes smiled, and there is a special charm in the smile of those who are habitu- ally cold. It is like the winter sun, or like the aloe- flower of which M. Pierre told me, which blossoms but once in a hundred years, and whose rarity gives it its value. Why should I have been taken by so rare a flower ? Our last day was the best of all, and 1 am not sure that even he did not feel a very little emotion. When I came in at my usual hour in the morning, I found near his arm-chair a table on which were paper, a box of paints, and a bundle of brushes and pencils. Be- noite gave him a glass, and as soon as she had gone out — 3-5 ^■^/^' "^TOKY OF COLETTE. " Would you be willing," he said, speaking quickly, " to allow me to sketch your portrait in my album ? I have just done this side of the chateau, but my remem- brance of lulange would be very incomplete if my sick- nurse was not on the first page." Of course I answered yes, and 1 drew near to see what he held, while 1 asked : "How shall 1 place myself — standing, sitting, in profile, or front face?" And at the same time I tried all the positions. He began to laugh, and, after reflecting a mo- ment — " If vou would be good enough to seat yourself in the large arm-chair beside the fireplace, as vou were the first night when I awoke here, I would be obliged," he said. " But without the dress, I suppose." " Without the dress, unfortunately." " Unfortunately ? vShall I go and put it on ? " " Oh, I would not dare — " " But it will only take a second — " And 1 was gone before he had finished his phrase. As I had said, I came back in an instant. Only, the skirt of the unknown ancestress is too long for nu- : it was in vain that I held it uj) with both hands, my feet caught in the hem, so that I came in stumbling, and when at last 1 let go of it so as to make a sweeping courtesy to M. de Civreuse, it happened that in going toward the fireplace 1 fell hea\il\- on m\' knees. M. Pierre irave an exclamation, a sort ot crv which BHP| ^ He went on and on, raising; his eyes It) me every niDmont. THE STORY OF COLETTE. 177 certainly pleased me, and made a motion as of hastily rising. "And your knee ! " I cried. " Do not move." Then I quickly recovered my feet and seated myself in the arm-chair. But he was uneasy. " You are sure you are not hurt ? " he said. " What an absurd idea of mine it was to make you put it on ! Really, you have nothing the matter with you ? " I answered no, my heart beating a little — not from my fall, but for the anxious tone in the voice that ques- tioned me ; and it was a full quarter of an hour, after I had had time to recover, before he began to work. He went on and on, raising his eyes to me ever}' moment, looking at me with a persistence that was quite embarrassing, and making me rest — that is to say, move about — every quarter of an hour. Luncheon interrupted us, but at two o'clock the sketch was finished. Then he called me to him, and I could not help exclaiming when I saw the paper he held out to me : " It is I ! Oh, but how pretty it is ! " The fact is, the pink little lady who smiled at me from the arm-chair beside the large dark chimney-piece, the fire-dogs showing clearly against the carving of the wood-work, was a real picture, and I could not help ad- miring it. " Which is pretty ? " M. de Civreuse asked, sarcas- tically ; " you or the sketch ? " " The portrait, of course ! " He looked at me a moment, smiling, then, in a very different tone from the one I was acquainted with, said : 178 'J'^fF' SrOA'V OF COLETTE. " The portrait is you, for unfortunately tlic likeness is good. There is nothing to change in your exclama- tion." I was silent; it is perhaps the second time that I have heard a word of praise from his lips, and it moved me more than I could have wished. Still, I desired very, very much to have, as he had, a souvenir (jf the charming time that was slipping away fnjm me, and I tried nervously to think of what I could say or do. " And what if T sketched your portrait ? " I began, jokingly. " Certainh'. I shall be delighted," he replied, very seriously. " 1 will keep as still as a statue." " But I do not draw very well," 1 stammered, rather frightened to find my offer accepted at once; "the only portrait I have ever done was of ' One.' " " Very well," said he ; "1 shall be in excellent com- pany." He held out a drawing-board, paper, and pencils, and turned his head so that I could get the profile. " Will it answer like this ? " he asked. I replied, " Perfectly." I was quite disconcerted, and he meant that 1 should acknowledge it. However, I began mechanicallv, looking at him as he had looked at me, and thinking him handsome, as 1 only wish that he thought me. But at t he end of tiftcc'ii iniiiutcs 1 was tired, nervous, and incapable of going on. TIk' luad o\\ mv paj)er might have stood for amthing — a judge's wig, a scare- THE STORY OF COLETTE. 179 crow, a negro king- ; and I recalled my attempts of last winter when I amused myself drawing my dog, and in spite of all my efforts gave my favorite the head of a sheep, the coat of a bear, and shaggy legs which even a King Charles would have been ashamed of. At any other time I should have laughed, but 1 counted the minutes, thinking always of his departure ; this disturbed me, and I felt the tears come to my eyes. This was what I had sworn should not happen, and I ran to the fireplace to throw my paper in the fire, crying : " It is impossible ! I do not know how ! " But M. de Civreuse stopped me. " My portrait ! " he said. " Show me my portrait ; I have the right to see it." I gave it to him without resisting. He took it and looked at it gravely ; then, still just as seriously, said : " Will you allow me to retouch it? " I nodded, and he wiped it all out with his handker- chief. Then with four strokes he made a profile which was a caricature of his own, but so comically like it that it was impossible to look at it without laughing. Underneath he wrote in his large handwriting: " With the respectful compliments of the patient to the author," and held it out to me. At that moment the doctor entered. I was sick at heart ; I knew that all was over, and as I left the room I heard the carriage ordered for M. de Civreuse drive into the court. I rushed to my refuge, the drawing in my hand, and there, alone, I looked at it. But instead I go THE STORY OF COLETTE. of laughini^, as I had done before, I saw the tears fall on the ridiculous nose, on the bristlinj^ mustache which M. Pierre had made ; and it was natural enough, for the drawing resembled the original as my dream resembled the reality. A minute after, the doctor called me back. M. de Civreuse was standing in the middle of the room, sup- porting himself on two black crutches, wliicii made me feel dreadfully. It seemed to me that 1 had lamed him for life. I knew that I grew pale, and involuntarily I turned and stretched out my hands to the doctor. " It is only for the first days," he said, smiling, for he understood my fear. On the ground were the splints which had replaced the plaster for the last two weeks. " Let us burn them together," said M. de Civreuse, pointing to them. I picked them up as he had suggested, and we went toward the fire together. He managed his crutches well, but the noise they made on the floor disturbed me so that 1 did not know what I was doin"-. The doctor went out to call Benoite, and I threw the first and then the second piece in the fire. With the third my courage came back, and. raising my eyes to M. Pierre, I succeeded in saying in a low voice, but without trembling : " Do you forgive me? " *' Ah I mademoiselle," he cried, " I hoped there would never he any more (juestion of that between us." THE STORY OF COLETTE. igi I thanked him with a motion of my head, and silent- ly continued my work on my knees by the fireplace, almost at his feet, while he, standing, supporting him- self bv the mantel-piece, towered above me with his whole height. How different it all was from what I had imagined ! In the mean while Benoite entered. She came to say good-by to the traveler, and advanced courtesying, and beginning a little speech, in which she wished him good luck and a " God bless you ! " He listened to the end ; then, putting aside his crutches, and supporting the wounded knee against the arm-chair — " I can not thank you with words for all your devo- tion," he said, gayly ; " you must allow me to embrace you." And taking the poor old woman, who seemed stupe- fied, by the shoulders, he kissed her affectionately on both cheeks. Then, as the doctor called from below, " Come, come, it will be night before we get there!" he turned to me. " Our good doctor will be kind enough to say good- by for me to Mademoiselle d'Epine," said he ; " 1 did not wish to give you the trouble ! " He stopped a moment, then more slowly, as if he were seeking for words, added : " Allow me, mademoiselle, to express to you my gratitude, not only for your care, but for the grace and good-humor with which you have enlivened the mo- noton}" of a sick-room. It is to be twice kind to be so in such a manner." 13 I82 TIN: S'l'ORY OF COLETTE. I held out mv hand unable to speak, for it seemed as though invisible lingers were clutching at my throat. He took mv hand, hesitated a moment as he had done before speaking, then sud- den Iv bent over and touched it with his lips. I had no suspicion of his intention, and it was so strange and so unexpected that my eyes closed as a mist rose before them. When I opened them he was near the door, with Be- noite following, carrying his bag. He descended the stairs (piickly and without difficulty, and got into the carriage without speaking ; onlv, when the horse start- ed, he leaned out, and, taking off his hat, said gravelv, " Good-by, mademoiselle." It seemed to me that mv heart was sealed uj) 1)\ a stone, like the lums who wei"e shut in their cotfnis when I saw tluin take the veil at the convent, and I remem- bered the hole in the snow in which on a winter's day I had nearly slept forever. Why had thev not left me there? As long as the carriage was in sight I stood on the threshold of the door; then, when it had disaj^peared. Benoite, who was watching me, said. " Will xou conic and warm vourself?" " Yes." I said, " 1 am coming." But 1 ran awa\' to the bottom of the j)ark. to the THE STORY OF COLETTE. 183 pine-tree on which I had carved a name a few days be- fore. The fresh sap as it mounted escaped by the gashes, and each letter of the name wept. I rested my head against the cold bark. To the right and left, under the trees, where it was still white in places, there was no one ; I was alone. I pressed myself against the friends who sympathized thus with my sorrow, and I wept like them. Pierre to Jaeques. I write to you from the village inn where I have been for two days. I can not say that it is equal to my nest at Erlange, or that I have a bed with columns, or a Louis XIII fire- place. The beams of my ceiling are against a back- ground of smoke, and the walls are whitewashed — so much so, that all my clothes show the effect, and mv sleeves are like those of a miller when he leaves his mill after work. But a traveler must expect such things, and one does not alwavs find a chateau for a hotel. The best part is that my knee works perfectly well. I can use mv crutches with the dexterity of a practiced invalid, and I should go about more were it not for the train of chil- dren who follow me as soon as I appear. Happv village, where a lame man can be such a cu- riosity, and where a crowd collects to see one go by on crutches ! The species is rare, it seems. 1 84 TJIE STORY OF COLETTE. To amuse myself, I sketch a little. Here a bit of a steeple, there a cloud, and a sheep feeding on the cloud. It is very fantastic, but mv portfolios are not for the exhibition, and 1 would not even offer it — what W(juld perhaps be more acceptable — the portrait (jf Mademoi- selle d'Erlange, a head from nature which is certainly not bad ! Did I tell you that I asked her to sit for me, and that she consented to put on the old-fashioned dress of my first evening at her house ? But I could not have told you, as mv last letter to you was written three davs before I left. Well, the morning of the Mondav when 1 was to leave Erlange I remembered my intention to try and sketch her fanciful head, and I succeeded bevond mv expectations. The water-color w^as very quickly done — it is only a sketch ; but I think it would lose in grace what it might gain in finish, and I will leave it as it is. A smile must be sketched ; it can not be settled by A+B, especially a smile like hers; and on the whole, taking into consideration the coloring, the likeness, and putting modesty aside, it is a little masterpiece ! You shall see it; it is worth a journey, and I will take it to you so as to have your aj)proval. Half laughing, half serious, Mademoiselle d'l'lrlange wished to return the compliment, and she made the most frightful little daub you can imagine, which makes me think she can never have cared for draw- ing. It was thus that we si)tMit our last hours together, talking and laughing as if the sound of the wheels of THE STORY OF COLETTE. 185 the carriage which was to take me away had not re- sounded in the court. On a funeral-pile, " solemn and expiatory," we burned together the splints which had imprisoned me for so many days, and the good-bys began. Undoubtedly, the one who felt most was Benoitc, whom I kissed frankly on both cheeks, and who would have liked, I think, to shed a tear or so. But what could she do among such people as we ? Our coolness froze her. Next I took leave of Mademoiselle Colette with a lit- tle compliment, very courteous, very graceful, to which, however, she did not respond a word ; then she held out her hand to me, and I was off. Do you regret now the declaration that you ad- vised me to make at the end, and do you see the ab- surditv of such a situation — a man speaking of love, beg- ging, praying, laying bare his soul so as to obtain a word or look at the moment of farewell, and being received by a burst of laughter from a foolish little cold-hearted girl ? For I am sure she would have laughed ! In realitv, I was never more pleased to have the thing over, and to feel that my heart was calm and un- moved, like an honest warrior who retires from glory with his scars. All this makes me sleep without dreams, even on a bag of straw, and it is something to be sure of one's sleep ! My leave-taking with Mademoiselle d'Epine will be done by procuration. The doctor accepts the ofifice ; 1 86 if J'- STOJ^y OF COLETTE. and as for " One," I will not speak of him — was it not said long ago that " the best part of man is the dog " ? And now 1 will leave you ; it is the hour when the flocks are let out into the village streets while their stables are cleaned ; it amuses me to see them pass, and I make some fine sketches. l^iirrc io Jixci]iics. You do not believe me, do vou, Jacques ? You knew the truth, and you know that for a month 1 have lied to you, X.o my head and heart, to everybodv, even to this love which has taken complete possession of me, and which yet I hide as though this incomparable happiness of loving passionately were a shameful thing. Yes, I love her I Yes, I adore her ! And that bra- vado which you received this morning was the last. Are you satisfied ? My letter had no sooner gone just now. than I re- called the child who had taken it ; I wanted to stop it, to take it back; mv pride was thrown down and had vanished so comjjletclv that I looked in vain for a trace of it, and I asked mvself wliat the ridiculous seiitiriient was that forbade me to confess that 1 had been in love for weeks, because formerly I had vowed hatred to the whole human race, and had closed my heart antl written Dc profntuiis ab(n-e it, ancl that this sudden defeat by a child was revolting to my pride. It is the garland of llowiTS of the fairy-lale against THE STORY OF COLETTE. 187 which the sharpest sword is broken ! This time it is a smile of eighteen which has got the better of all my dislikes and mistrusts. And I, like a fool, instead of rejoicing, was deter- mined to go on doubting, because the pedestal of dis- dain and skepticism flattered my vanity and made me taller ! You are disgusted with me ! But you can see, Jacques, that I am ready to do penance, and that if my heart is in the clouds my forehead is in the dust. What more do you want ? Yes, 1 believe in the return of youth, for I am only twenty this evening, and all my illusions have come back. 1 believe in everything, even in goodness ! but, above all, in love ; and 3'ou must not complain, for it contains everything — both wisdom and folly. Did you really believe, my friend, that for two days I have been drawing sheep on clouds and peasants in petticoats ? The truth is, 1 have just torn up the twen- tieth letter 1 have written her since the day before yes- terday, and that I shall soon begin another ; and that if I can not manage to tell her all the foolish things to which my heart tempts me, in the language that I wish to speak to her, 1 will go up this evening to Erlange, and I will kneel to her in the large room where 1 have known her, and I will tell her that I adore her. You are thinking of my crutches ! I have made a bonfire of my crutches, Jacques — a fire in which I have cast all my doubts and all my past life, so as to re- member only to-day and to-morrow ; and, to climb the 1 88 'riJE STORY OF COLETTE. mountain-road, do vtni not think that I have the wing's of love ? llow 1 should like vou to know her I IIa\e I de- scribed her to vou well in niv inoroseness, and do you understand that the foolishness and childishness of which I complained are perhaps what I like best in her? Nothing less than this freshness and originality were needed to revive mv youth and benumbed life, as those new |)crfunies do which are like nothing else, and which reach even the most blunted senses. She is a charming wild-flower which has blossomed between earth and sky for me, and for me alone. Un- til now she has loved but the stars and her dreams; the mountain-breeze alone has touched her, and she unites in herself all womanh- graces with all the fresh- ness of Nature. With her hand in one of mine, and Nours in the other, the world is full for me, and m\- happiness is so great that there is but one thing to which 1 can com- pare it — infinity. Think of nie this evening, Jacques. I am going up there; 1 can stav here no longer. 1 long for the air of Erlange. If I have to write instead of speaking, I can find a shelter among the ruins; iind to write words of love will not the moonlight suffice •* I send vou her ])ortrait ; I want vou to sec her. To- morrow the original will he mine, or else you uia\" keep this forever ; it will be my last legacy. THE STORY OF COLETTE. 189 April joih. " My God, my happiness is too great, too sudden, and it overpowers me! Help me to bear it well!" This was my first cry ; and yet, half an hour later, I did not know whether I had wept, and my joy was so completely a part of myself that I could not remember that I had not always had it. Yesterday, at about ten o'clock in the evening, I was sitting alone in M. de Civreuse's room — I still call it so — and doing nothing, my hands lying idle in my lap, but dreaming. Benoite had been gone some time ; nothing was stir- ring around me, and I felt myself so utterly alone that the noise of my own movements made me tremble with fright. Suddenly, outside, on the road to the village, I dis- tinctly heard stones rolling and a man's footsteps. My heart began to beat so loudly that I could count its strokes. " Some belated peasant," I said to myself ; "a peddler who is returning." But when he was under my window the man stopped, and my agitation became such that the mark of the wood of the arm-chair I involuntarily clasped was printed on the palms of my hands. " It is he ! " I said to myself. He ! Who ? M. de Civreuse, who went off two days before on crutches? Impossible! And still, after a second, a voice which was restrained, though vibrating, and that I knew well, came up to me, and I heard the words : " Do not be afraid." 190 Tin-: sroKY of colktte. If iiiv life had been at stalce, I could neither have moved iKjr spoken. 1 remained a moment in susj:)ense ; then a stone, the size of a wahiut, ver\- skillfiillv thrown, came through one of the little window-panes, ami fell at my feet. A paper was folded around it, and when 1 had re- covered from mv fright I picked it up. The writing of M. de Civreuse covered two sides ; ami this is what 1 read : " Colette, forgive the follv of this note, and forgive, above all, the foolish wav in which I send it to vou ; but can anvthing be- tween us resemble what goes on elsewhere? " Besides, Erlange is an enchanted castle at this hour; everything is shut, there is no door at which I dare knock. " Benoite is asleep, 1 am sure ; there is but one lamp w^hich shines here; 'that I know well, for it is toward this point, the star of mv heart, that 1 have been walk- ing for two hours. "If it had been higher uj) and faithci- off. 1 must have come to it all the same to-night, without being able to wait for the dav, because this word that 1 am going to say to vou has been in mv heart and on my lips for a long time already ; because that foi" six weeks 1 have re[)eat('(l it to nnsclt night and morning: and that after haxiiiij: nuii'innred to \'ou so ottrn that I adore THE STORY OT COLETTE. 191 you, without your ever hearing, I want now to say it so loud that my words may not only reach your ears, but go to the depths of your heart. " I love voLi. But I do not want to tell you now how I love you : I want to see your eyes and your smile while I speak to you, and I do not wish to lose one minute of 3'our charm henceforth. 1 know what it is to spend two days away from it ! " Now, do not tell me that you will not have my love, and that you refuse all the life and passion which I place at your feet. Have you never thought, my poor child, how easy it would be for a resolute man to come in the night to your solitude, to take you and carry you off so far that no traces of you could be found ? " Besides, 1 firmly believe there are things which from all eternity are written in heaven. They are rare, but the}^ are perfect, for God himself has signed them, and our marriage is one of them. " Colette, in this road, where you threw me on my knees one morning without intending it, I am waiting for your answer, as you found me there that winter day. " Forgive me the broken window ; I think it is the sacred window, and I chose it knowingly, because I believe superstitiously in it, as the way happiness came to me. " When we go away together, if the joy of carrving you off is granted me, I will take with you that little statuette you know of, to which I have vowed passion- ate gratitude, for without it, Colette, I should have passed by ! " 192 THE STORY OF COLETTE. As I read, passionate joy filled my heart, and I could not believe in the reality of mv happiness. Was it pos- sible? Was it really he? What! he hned me, he had loved mc for a lon^^ time, my wish accomplished, and my suffering become a bad dream ? At the same time, surprise at his long silence overcame me. Wh}- speak so late? What reason had he for leaving me to weep as he had done ? Then, after this happy emotion, the old nature re- vived in me, and all the elves of mischief that my tears had drowned for two days shook their wings and flew out together. They had been compassionate when I wept, and had kept discreetly out of sight ; but this hour of joy was theirs, thev claimed it, and the wildest ideas mingled with one another, each wanting its wav. " Sav ves at once!" counseled mv heart. ]iitv- inglv. "Never!" cried the others. "Do not forget our plans, Colette. He must be made to suffer; do not open your hands so quickly ! " So that I did not know to which to listen, and I laughed with tears in mv eves, like davs when the skv is imcertain, and the rain falls mixed with sunshine — fine weather or stormv — one does not know which. I lowever, I went to the window and opened it. At the noise, a profile in the shadow made a sudden move- ment. I saw it badlv, because 1 was placed in full light, and it w;is in the shadow. 1 guessed, ho\ve\'er, that it was going to sj)eak ; 1 leaned ovc-i', and (he strangeness THE STORY OF COLETTE. 193 of an explanation at a distance suddenly struck me so forcibly that my gayety carried the day. " M. de Civreusc," I cried, "are you on your knees?" " Colette," he only said, " answer me, I beg." I had not expected such a tone. As he hoped, it penetrated into my very soul ; and agitated, troubled, I could not think of a word to say, and I repeated mechanically the phrase which was in my head the moment before : " Because I had sworn to leave you there a long time, for — " "For — ?" he repeated, anxiously. " For I have been waiting so long." But he did not hear, I had spoken too low ; besides, my voice trembled too much. He was patient a second more, then he called to me in the same tone which had moved me so deeply. I was incapable of answering, and I ran away, cry- ing: " Wait ! " There were still two blank leaves to my journal, this and another. I tore out one, and hastily, without re- flecting, wrote this : " Do not carry me off, M. de Civreuse ; it would bring you into trouble with the courts; and, besides, there is no retreat where I could be made to stay if I did not wish to. " I will tell you the best bolt you can have : my heart will be wherever you take me. " Be very sure that I shall not forget Saint Joseph ; 194 '^'^^^ STOKY OJ- COLETTE. he has done even more for nic than vou think; and thtrc is a certain old woman also, to whom 1 will tell you my obligations, since you arc fond of being grate- ful. " I will tell you the story some moonlight evening like this : tii'st, because I like moonlight ; then because, if happiness came to \-ou on a winter mc^rning, it has just come to me on an evening of sj)ring." Pierre to J deques. Jacques, we are engaged — give me your hand ; if you loUow me, 1 will lead you into paradise. The cure of Fond-de-\'ieux consents to come and marry us here ; workmen are in the chapel, restoring it in haste: it will be read}- in three weeks, and we shall have June flowers to perfiuiie it. I can not tell vou now how I forced Mademoiselle d'Epine to give her consent ; i am not sure that I did not use violence ; and in revenge, under pretext of tak- ing care of the proj)rieties, she never leaves us ! Strangers and comrades, we were free; engaged, and on the eve of marriage, we are watched, and that woman is mv torment ! At first I thought of brcakiuir another lejr, and now 1 am teaching Colette Latin. \Vc do not need much, for the word we repeat is always the same! The evening of my marriage, faithful to mv j'lan, I shall carry Colette off, if not to India, at least higher up THE STORY OF COLETTE. jgg than Erlange. Sometimes goatherds pass here, and I want no spectators in my Eden. In autumn 1 think all will be ready. We are restor- ing our ruins, and ycm must choose your rooms in the crumbling towers or elsewhere, one of these days ; all is yours. There is only one spot which must not be changed. You guess which, and you must watch oyer it, iriend, if you sometimes come to represent me, during my ab- sence : it is the large room with oak panels into which Benoite and the good doctor carried me one day uncon- scious. '^r iS^,; ^ D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. (STRAIGHT ON. A story of a *^ boy's school-life in France. By the author of " The Story of Colette." With Eighty-six Illustrations by Edouard Zier. 320 pages. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. Few books have appeared in recent years which appeal so strongly to the better sentiments of young people as does " Straight On." It is a deeply inter- esting record of thu experiences of a French officer's son, who, being left an orphan at an early age, resided with relatives while attending a military school for a term of years. The tips and downs of -^- - his life in the new home and at school, the hoy adopting hi-; father's last words — wl.ich give the book its title— for his motto, make an absorbing narrative, culminating in an act of heroism which delights the reader while it clears up a mystery in which several cadets have been involved. The story is charmingly told and appropriately illustrated. YOUNG HEROES OF OUR NAVY. Tl^IDSHIPMAN' PA ULDING. A true story of the War IVI of 1812. By Molly Elliot Seawell, author of "Little Jarvis." With Six full-page Illustrations by J. O. Davidson and George Wharton Edwards. 8vo. Bound in blue cloth, with special design in gold and colors. $1.00. " ' Midshipman Paulding' is the latest of Miss M. E. Seawell's contribuions to the series of 'Young Heroas of our Navy.' It is a very entertaining and inspiriting account of the late admiral's march when a boy in conducting some of Uncle Sam's tars to join the forces at Albany which fought the British on Lake Champlain. The young officer's good conduct and fertility of resource in the battle are told in a way to fascinate the young x\\\nAy —Brooklyn Eagle. "The story reads Hke a fiction, and a very entertaining one; but it is founded on the facts concerning a ga'lant officer of our early navy, whose career was rounded off at the surrender of the British fleet on Lake Champlain. The book is well illus- trated." — Philadelphia Bulletin. " A little volume in large type, with an unusual number of capital illustrations. It is a real nugget for boys, and will be just as likely to entrance children of a larger gfrowth." — Neiv York yournal of Commerce. NEW EDITION. T ITTLE JARVIS. The story of the heroic midshipman J-^ of the frigate "Constellation." By Molly Elliot Sea'well. With Six full-page Illustrations by J. O. Davidson and George Wharton Edwards. 8vo. Bound uniformly with " Midship- man Paulding." $1.00. " Founded on a true incident in our naval history. ... So well pictured as to bring both smiles and tears upon the faces that are bent over the volume. It is in ex- actly the spirit for a boy's book." — New York Home Journal. New York: D. APPLETON & CO., i. 3> & 5 Bond Street. M^ D. APPLETON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. FICTION SERIES FOR YOUNG READERS. JUST PUBLISHED. E ALL. A story of out-door life and adventure in Arkansas. By Octave Thanet. With 12 full-page Illustra- tions by E. J. Austen and others. " A stor>- which every boy will read with unalloyed pleasure. . . . The adventures of the two cousins are full of e.vcitinjj interest, particularly the account of the hog-hunt, which carries one breathlessly along by its moving, spirited, and truthful pictures. The characters, both white and black, are sketched dirtctly from nature, for the author is thoroughly familiar with the customs and habits of the different types of Southerners that she has so effectively reproduced." — Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. L C ITTLE SMOKE. A story of the Sioux Indians. By William O. Stoddard. "With 12 full-page Illustrations by F. S. Dellenbaugh, portraits of Sitting Bull, Red Cloud, and other chiefs, and 72 head and tail pieces representing the various implements and surroundings of Indian life. PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED IN SAME SERIES. ROWDED OUT O' CROEIELD. By William O. Stod- dard. The story of a country boy who fought his way to success in the great metropolis. With 23 Illustrations by C. T. Hill. " There are few writers who know how to meet the tastes and needs of boys better than does William O. Stoddard. This excellent story is interesting, thoroughly wholesome, and teaches boys to be men, not prigs or Indian hunters. If our boys would read more such books, and less of the blood -and-thunder order, it would be rare good fortune." — Detroit Free Press. jy^ING TOM AND THE RUNAWAYS. By Louis •^^ Pendleton. The experiences of two boys in the forests of Georgia. With 6 Illustrations by E. W. Kemble. "The doings of 'King' Tom, Albert, and the happy -go lucky boy Jim on the swamp-island, are as entertaining in their way as the old sagas embcditd in Scandi- navian story." — FItiladelphia Ledger. n-^HE LOG SCHOOL- HO USE ON THE COLUMBIA. -* By Hezekiah Butterworth. WMth 13 full-page Illustrations by J. Carter Beard, E. J. Austen, and others. "This book will charm all who turn its pages. There are few books of popular information concerning the pioneers of the great Northwest, and this one is worthy of sincere praise."— i"' '/^