THE CRIME OF 
 
 SYLVESTRE 
 
 BONNARD
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 EDWIN CORLE 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 JEAN CORLE
 
 A?
 
 THE 
 
 CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BOMARD 
 
 (MEMBER OF THE INSTITUTE) 
 
 BY 
 ANATOLE FRANCE 
 
 THE TRANSLATION AND INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 LAFCADIO HEARN 
 
 NEW YORK 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
 
 Copyright, 1890, by HARFW & BROTHQS. 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 O-B
 
 College 
 Library 
 
 TQ 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 part I. 
 THE LOG 
 
 Cart UU. 
 
 THE DAUGHTER OF CLEMENTINE ..... 80 
 
 THE FAIRY ............ 80 
 
 THE LITTLE SAINT-GEORGE , ...... Ill 
 
 JLLDoJ
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 " LET us love the books which please us," observes 
 that excellent French critic, Jules Lemaitre "and 
 cease to trouble ourselves about classifications and 
 schools of literature." This generous exhortation 
 seems especially appropriate in the case of Anatole 
 France. The author of " Le Crime de Sylvestre Bon- 
 nard" is not classifiable, though it would be difficult 
 to name any other modern French writer by whom 
 the finer emotions have been touched with equal deli- 
 cacy and sympathetic exquisiteness. 
 
 If by Realism we mean Truth, which alone gives 
 value to any study of human nature, we have in Ana- 
 tole France a very dainty realist ; if by Romanticism 
 we understand that unconscious tendency of the artist 
 to elevate truth itself beyond the range of the famil- 
 iar, and into the emotional realm of aspiration, then 
 Anatole France is betimes a romantic. And, never- 
 theless, as a literary figure he stands alone : neither 
 by his distinctly Parisian refinement of method, nor 
 yet by any definite characteristic of style, can he be
 
 Tl INTRODUCTION. 
 
 successfully attached to any special group of writers. 
 He is essentially of Paris, indeed ; his literary train- 
 ing could have been acquired in no other atmosphere : 
 his light grace of emotional analysis, his artistic epi- 
 cureanism, the vividness and quickness of his sensa- 
 tions, are French as his name. But he has followed 
 no school-traditions; and the charm of his art, at 
 once so impersonal and sympathetic, is wholly his 
 own. How marvellously well the author has suc- 
 ceeded in disguising himself! It is extremely diffi- 
 cult to believe that the diary of Sylvestre Bonnard 
 could have been written by a younger man ; yet the 
 delightful octogenarian is certainly a young man's 
 dream. 
 
 M. Anatole France belongs to a period of change, 
 a period in which a new science and a new philosophy 
 have transfigured the world of ideas with unprece- 
 dented suddenness. All the arts have been more or 
 less influenced by new modes of thought, reflecting 
 the exaggerated materialism of an era of transition. 
 The reaction is now setting in ; the creative work of 
 fine minds already reveals that the Art of the Future 
 must be that which appeals to the higher emotions 
 alone. Material Nature has already begun to lure 
 less, and human nature to gladden more ; the knowl- 
 edge of Spiritual Evolution follows luminously upon 
 our recognition of Physical Evolution ; and the hori-
 
 INTRODUCTION, yil 
 
 zon of human fellowship expands for us with each 
 fresh acquisition of knowledge, as the sky-circle ex- 
 pands to those who climb a height. The works of 
 fiction that will live are not the creations of men who 
 have blasphemed the human heart, but of men who, 
 like Anatoie France, have risen above the literary ten- 
 dencies of their generation, never doubting humanity, 
 and keeping their pages irreproachably pure. In the 
 art of Anatoie France there is no sensuousness : his 
 study is altogether of the nobler emotions. What the 
 pessimistic coarseness of self -called "Naturalism" has 
 proven itself totally unable to feel, he paints for us 
 truthfully, simply, and touchingly, the charm of age, 
 in all its gentleness, lovableness, and indulgent wis- 
 dom. The dear old man who talks about his books to 
 his cat, who has remained for fifty years true to the 
 memory of the girl he could not win, and who, in spite 
 of his world- wide reputation for scholarship, finds him- 
 self so totally helpless in all business matters, and so 
 completely at the mercy of his own generous impulses, 
 may be, indeed, as the most detestable Mademoiselle 
 Prefere observes, " a child " ; but his childishness is 
 only the delightful freshness of a pure and simple 
 heart which could never become aged. His artless 
 surprise at the malevolence of evil minds, his toler- 
 ations of juvenile impertinence, his beautiful compre- 
 hension of the value of life and the sweetness of youth,,
 
 v iii INTROD UCTIOX. 
 
 his self-disparagements and delightful compunctions 
 of conscience, his absolute unselfishness and incapacity 
 to nourish a resentment, his fine gentle irony which 
 never wounds and always amuses : these, and many 
 other traits, combine to make him one of the most 
 intensely living figures created in modern French 
 literature. It is quite impossible to imagine him as 
 unreal ; and, indeed, we feel to him as to some old 
 friend unexpectedly met with after years of absence, 
 whose face and voice are perfectly familiar, but whose 
 name will not be remembered until he repeats it him- 
 self. We might even imagine ourselves justified in 
 doubting the statement of M. Lemaitre that Anatole 
 France was not an old bachelor, but a comparative- 
 ly young man, and a married man, when he imag- 
 ined Sylvestre Bonnard ; we might, in short, refuse 
 to believe the book not strictly autobiographical, 
 but for the reflection that its other personages live 
 with the same vividness for us as does the Mem- 
 ber of the Institute. Threse, the grim old house- 
 keeper, so simple and faithful; Madame and Mon- 
 sieur de Gabry, those delightf ul friends ; the glorious, 
 brutal, heroic Uncle Victor; the perfectly lovable 
 Jeanne: these figures are not less sympathetic in 
 their several roles. 
 
 But it is not because M. Anatole France has rare 
 power to create original characters, or to reflect for
 
 INTRODUCTION. ix 
 
 us something of the more recondite literary life of 
 Paris, that his charming story will live. It is because 
 of his far rarer power to deal with what is older than 
 any art, and withal more young, and incomparably 
 more precious : the beauty of what is beautiful in 
 human emotion. And that writer who touches the 
 spring of generous tears by some ' simple story of 
 gratitude, of natural kindness, of gentle self-sacrifice, 
 is surely more entitled to our love than the sculptor 
 who shapes for us a dream of merely animal grace, 
 or the painter who images for us, however richly, the 
 young bloom of that form whicli is only the husk of 
 Being ! 
 
 L. H.
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLYESTRE BONNARD, 
 
 part fl THE LOG. 
 
 December $4, 1849. 
 
 I HAD put on my slippers and my dressing-gown. I 
 wiped away a tear with which the north wind blowing 
 over the quay had obscured my vision. A bright fire 
 was leaping in the chimney of my study. Ice-crystals, 
 shaped like fern-leaves, were sprouting over the win- 
 dow-panes, and concealed from me the Seine with its 
 bridges and the Louvre of the Valois. 
 
 I drew up my easy-chair to the hearth, and my 
 table-volante, and took up so much of my place by the 
 fire as Hamilcar deigned to allow me. Hamilcar was 
 lying in front of the andirons, curled up on a cushion, 
 with his nose between his paws. His thick fine fur 
 rose and fell with his regular breathing. At my com- 
 ing, he slowly slipped a glance of his agate eyes at me 
 from between his half-opened lids, which he closed 
 again almost at once, thinking to himself, " It is noth- 
 ing ; it is only my friend." 
 
 " Hamilcar," I said to him, as I stretched my legs 
 1
 
 8 THE CRIME OF SYLVEBTRE BONNARD. 
 
 " Hamilcar, somnolent Prince of the City of Books 
 thou guardian nocturnal ! Like that Divine Cat who 
 combated the impious in Heliopolis in the night of 
 the great combat thou dost defend from vile nibblers 
 those books which the old savant acquired at the cost 
 of his slender savings and indefatigable zeal. Sleep, 
 Hamilcar, softly as a sultana, in this library, that shel- 
 ters thy military virtues ; for verily in thy person are 
 united the formidable aspect of a Tartar warrior and 
 the slumbrous grace of a woman of the Orient. Sleep, 
 thou heroic and voluptuous Hamilcar, while awaiting 
 that moonlight hour in which the mice will come forth 
 to dance before the ' Acta Sanctorum ' of the learned 
 Bollandists !" 
 
 The beginning of this discourse pleased Hamilcar, 
 who accompanied it with a throat-sound like the song 
 of a kettle on the fire. But as my voice waxed louder, 
 Hamilcar notified me by lowering his ears and by 
 wrinkling the striped skin of his brow that it was bad 
 taste on my part to so declaim. 
 
 " This old-book man," evidently thought Hamilcar, 
 "talks to no purpose at all, while our housekeeper 
 never utters a word which is not full of good sense, 
 full of signification containing either the announce- 
 ment of a meal or the promise of a whipping. One 
 knows what she says. But this old man puts together 
 a lot of sounds signifying nothing." 
 
 So thought Hamilcar to himself. Leaving him to 
 his reflections, I opened a book, which I began to read
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVE8TRE BONNARD. 3 
 
 with interest ; for it was a catalogue of manuscripts. 
 I do not know any reading more easy, more fascinat- 
 ing, more delightful than that of a catalogue. The 
 one which I was reading edited in 1824 by Mr. 
 Thompson, librarian to Sir Thomas Kaleigh sins, it 
 is true, by excess of brevity, and does not offer that 
 character of exactitude which the archivists of my 
 own generation were the first to introduce into works 
 upon diplomatics and paleography. It leaves a good 
 deal to be desired and to be divined. This is perhaps 
 why I find myself aware, while reading it, of a state 
 of mind which in a nature more imaginative than 
 mine might be called reverie. I had allowed myself 
 to drift away thus gently upon the current of my 
 thoughts, when my housekeeper announced, in a tone 
 of ill-humor, that Monsieur Coccoz desired to speak 
 with me. 
 
 In fact, some one had slipped into the library after 
 her. He was a little man a poor little man of puny 
 appearance, wearing a thin jacket. He approached 
 me with a number of little bows and smiles. But he 
 was very pale, and, although still young and alert, he 
 looked ill. I thought, as I looked at him, of a wound- 
 ed squirrel. He carried under his arm a green toilette, 
 which he put upon a chair ; then unfastening the four 
 corners of the toilette, he uncovered a heap of little 
 yellow books. 
 
 " Monsieur," he then said to me, " I have not the 
 honor to be known to you. I am a book-agent, Mon-
 
 4 THE CRIME OF 87LVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 sieur. I represent the leading houses of the capital, 
 and in the hope that you will kindly honor me with 
 your confidence, I take the liberty to offer you a few 
 novelties." 
 
 Kind gods ! just gods ! such novelties as the homun- 
 culus Coccoz showed me ! The first volume that he 
 put in my hand was " L'Histoire de la Tour de Nesle," 
 with the amours of Marguerite de Bourgogne and the 
 Captain Buridan. 
 
 "It is a historical book," he said to me, with a 
 smile " a book of real history." 
 
 " In that case," I replied, " it must be very tiresome ; 
 for all the historical books which contain no lies are 
 extremely tedious. I write some authentic ones my- 
 self ; and if you were unlucky enough to carry a copy 
 of any of them from door to door you would run the 
 risk of keeping it all your life in that green-baize of 
 yours, without ever finding even a cook foolish enough 
 to buy it from you." 
 
 " Certainly, Monsieur," the little man answered, out 
 of pure good-nature. 
 
 And, all smiling again, he offered me the " Amours 
 d'Heloise et d'Abeilard ;" but I made him understand 
 that, at my age, I had no use for love-stories. 
 
 Still smiling, he proposed me the " Kegle des Jeux 
 de la Societe" piquet, b6sigue, e"carte, whist, dice, 
 draughts, and chess. 
 
 " Alas !" I said to him, " if you want to make me 
 remember the rules of besigue, give me back my old
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 5 
 
 friend Bignan, with whom I used to play cards every 
 evening before the Five Academies solemnly escorted 
 him to the cemetery ; or else bring down to the friv- 
 olous level of human amusements the grave intelli- 
 gence of Hamilcar, whom you see on that cushion, 
 for he is the sole companion of my evenings." 
 
 The little man's smile became vague and uneasy. 
 
 "Here," he said, "is a new collection of society 
 amusements jokes and puns with a recipe for chang- 
 ing a red rose to a white rose." 
 
 I told him that I had fallen out with roses for a long 
 time, and that, as to jokes, I was satisfied with those 
 which I unconsciously permitted myself to make in 
 the course of my scientific labors. 
 
 The homunculus offered me his last book, with his 
 last smile. He said to me : 
 
 "Here is the 'Clef de Songes' the 'Key of 
 Dreams' with the explanation of any dreams that 
 anybody can have ; dreams of gold, dreams of robbers, 
 dreams of death, dreams of falling from the top of a 
 tower. ... It is exhaustive." 
 
 I had taken hold of the tongs, and, brandishing 
 them energetically, I replied to my commercial vis- 
 itor: 
 
 " Yes, my friend ; but those dreams and a thousand 
 others, joyous or tragic, are all summed up in one 
 the Dream of Life ; is your little yellow book able to 
 give me the key to that ?" 
 
 (< Yes, Monsieur," answered the homunculus ; " the
 
 6 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 book is complete, and is not dear one franc twenty- 
 five centimes, Monsieur." 
 
 I called my housekeeper for there is no bell in mv 
 room and said to her : 
 
 " Thtirese, Monsieur Coccoz whom I am going to 
 ask you to show out has a book here which might 
 interest you : the ' Key of Dreams.' I will be verv 
 glad to buy it for you." 
 
 .My housekeeper responded: 
 
 Monsieur, when one has not even time to dream 
 awake, one has still less time to dream asleep. Thank 
 God, my days are just enough for my work and my 
 work for my days, and I am able to say every night, 
 ' Lord, bless Thou the rest which I am going to take.' 
 I never dream, either on my feet or in bed; and I 
 never mistake my eider-down coverlet for a devil, like 
 my cousin did ; and, if you will allow me to give my 
 opinion about it, I think you have books enough 
 here now. Monsieur has thousands and thousands of 
 books, which simply turn his head ; and as for me, I 
 have just two, which are quite enough for all my wants 
 and purposes my Catholic prayer-book and my ' Cui- 
 siniere Bourgeoise.' " 
 
 And with these words my housekeeper helped the 
 little man to fasten up his stock again within the green 
 toilette. 
 
 The homunculus Coccoz had ceased to smile. His 
 relaxed features took such an expression of suffering 
 that I felt sorry to have made fun of so unhappy a
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 7 
 
 man. I called him back, and told him that I had 
 caught a glimpse of a copy of the " Histoire d'Estelle 
 et de Nemorin," which he had among his books ; that 
 I was very fond of shepherds and shepherdesses, and 
 that I would be quite willing to purchase, at a rea- 
 sonable price, the story of those two perfect lovers. 
 
 " I will sell you that book for one franc twenty-five 
 centimes, Monsieur," replied Coccoz, whose face at once 
 beamed with joy. " It is historical ; and you will be 
 pleased with it. I know now just what suits you. I 
 see that you are a connoisseur. To-morrow I will bring 
 you the ' Crimes des Papes.' It is a good book. I 
 will bring yon the edition d" amateur, with colored 
 plates." 
 
 I begged him not to do anything of the sort, and 
 sent him away happy. "When the green toilette and 
 the agent had disappeared in the shadow of the corri- 
 dor I asked my housekeeper whence this little man 
 had dropped upon us. 
 
 " Dropped is the word," she answered ; " he dropped 
 on us from the roof, Monsieur, where he lives with his 
 wife." 
 
 " You say he has a wife, The'rese ? That is marvel- 
 lous ! women are very strange creatures ! This one 
 must be a very unfortunate little woman." 
 
 " I don't really know what she is," answered The- 
 rese ; " but every morning I see her trailing a silk 
 dress covered with grease-spots over the stairs. She 
 makes soft eyes at people. And, in the name of com-
 
 8 THE CRIME OF S7LVE8TRE BONNARD, 
 
 mon-sense ! does it become a woman that has been re- 
 ceived here out of charity to make eyes and to wear 
 dresses like that ? For they allowed the couple to oc- 
 cupy the attic during the time the roof was being re- 
 paired, in consideration of the fact that the husband 
 is sick and the wife in an interesting condition. The 
 concierge even says that the pains came on her this 
 morning, and that she is now confined. They must 
 have been very badly off for a child !" 
 
 " Therese," I replied, " they had no need of a child, 
 doubtless. But Nature had decided they should bring 
 one into the world ; Nature made them fall into her 
 snare. One must have exceptional prudence to defeat 
 Nature's schemes. Let us be sorry for them, and not 
 blame them ! As for silk dresses, there is no young 
 woman who does not like them. The daughters of 
 Eve adore adornment. You yourself, Therese who 
 are so serious and sensible what a fuss you make 
 when you have no white apron to wait at table in ! 
 But, tell me, have they got everything necessary in 
 their attic ?" 
 
 " How could they have it, Monsieur ?" my house- 
 keeper made answer. " The husband, whom you have 
 just seen, used to be a jewelry-peddler at least, so 
 the concierge tells me and nobody knows why he 
 stopped selling watches. You have just seen that he 
 is now selling almanacs. That is no way to make an 
 honest living, and I never will believe that God's bless- 
 ing can come to an almanac-peddler. Between our-
 
 THE CRIME OF 8YLVE8TRB BONNARD, 9 
 
 selves, the wife looks to me for all the world like a 
 good-for-nothing a Marie-cvuche-toi-ld. I think she 
 would be just as capable of bringing up a child as I 
 would be of playing the guitar. Nobody seems to 
 know where they came from; but I am sure they 
 must have come by Misery's coach from the country 
 of Sans-souci. 
 
 " "Wherever they have come from, The'rese, they are 
 unfortunate ; and their attic is cold." 
 
 " Pwrdi ! the roof is broken in several places, and 
 the rain comes in by streams. They have neither 
 furniture nor clothing. I don't think cabinet-mak- 
 ers and weavers work much for Christians of that 
 sect!" 
 
 "That is very sad, Therese; a Christian woman 
 much less well provided for than this pagan, Hamil- 
 car here ! what does she have to say ?" 
 
 " Monsieur, I never speak to those people ; I don't 
 know what she says or what she sings. But she sings 
 all day long ; I hear her from the stairway whenever 
 I am going out or coming in." 
 
 " "Well ! the heir of the Coccoz family will be able 
 to say, like the Egg in the village riddle : ' Ma mere 
 me jit en chantant? * The like happened in the case of 
 Henry IV. When Jeanne d'Albret felt herself about 
 to be confined she began to sing an old Bearnaise 
 canticle : 
 
 * " My mother sang when she brought me into the world."
 
 10 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 " ' Notre-Dame du bout du pent, 
 Venez a mon aide en cette heure! 
 Priez le Dieu du ciel 
 Qu'il me dfilivre vite, 
 Qu'il me donne un gar9onl' 
 
 " It is certainly unreasonable to bring little unfortu- 
 nates into the world. But the thing is done every 
 day, my dear Therese, and all the philosophers on earth 
 will never be able to reform the silly custom. Madame 
 Coccoz has followed it, and she sings. That is credit- 
 able, at all events ! But, tell me, Therese, have you 
 not put on the soup to boil to-day ?" 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur ; and it is time for me to go and 
 skim it." 
 
 " Good ! but don't forget, Therese, to take a good 
 bowl of soup out of the pot and carry it to Madame 
 Coccoz, our Attic neighbor." 
 
 My housekeeper was on the point of leaving the 
 room when I added, just in time : 
 
 " Therese, before you do anything else, please call 
 your friend the porter, and tell him to take a good bun- 
 dle of wood out of our stock and carry it up to the attic 
 of those Coccoz folks. See, above all, that he puts a 
 first-class log in the lot a real Christmas log. As for 
 the homunculus, if he comes back again, do not allow 
 either himself or any of his yellow books to come in 
 
 here." 
 
 Having taken all these little precautions with the 
 refined egotism of an old bachelor, I returned to my 
 catalogue again.
 
 THE CRIME OF 8YLVE8TRE BONNARD. \\ 
 
 With what surprise, with what emotion, with what 
 anxiety did I therein discover the following mention, 
 which I cannot even now copy without feeling my 
 hand tremble: 
 
 "LA LEQE2H)E DOREE DE JACQUES DE GENES (Jacqwss 
 de Voragine); traduction fran$aiie, petit in-A. 
 
 "This MS. of the fourteenth century contains, besides the tolerably 
 complete translation of the celebrated work of Jacques de Voragine, 
 1. The Legends of Saints Ferrdol, Ferrution, Germain, Vincent, and 
 Droctoveus; 2. A poem On th Miraculous Burial of Monsieur Saint-Ger- 
 main of Auxerre. This translation, as well as the legends and the poem, 
 are due to the Clerk Alexander. 
 
 "This MS. is written upon vellum. It contains a great number of 
 illuminated letters, and two finely executed miniatures, in a rather im- 
 perfect state of conservation: one represents the Purification of the 
 Virgin, and the other the Coronation of Proserpine." 
 
 "What a discovery! Perspiration moistened my 
 forehead, and a veil seemed to come before my eyes. 
 
 */ / 
 
 I trembled ; I flushed ; and, without being able to 
 speak, I felt a sudden impulse to cry out at the top 
 of my voice. 
 
 What a treasure! For more than forty years I 
 had been making a special study of the history of 
 Christian Gaul, and particularly of that glorious Ab- 
 bey of Saint-Germain-des-Pres, whence issued forth 
 those King-Monks who founded our national dynasty. 
 Now, despite the culpable insufficiency of the descrip- 
 tion given, it was evident to me that the MS. of the 
 Clerk Alexander must have come from the great Ab- 
 bey. Everything proved this fact. All the legends 
 added by the translator related to the pious foundation
 
 12 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 of the Abbey by King Childebert. Then the legend 
 of Saint-Droctoveus was particularly significant ; be- 
 ing the legend of the first abbot of my dear Abbey. 
 The poem in French verse on the burial of Saint- 
 Germain led me actually into the nave of that vener- 
 able basilica which was the umbilicus of Christian 
 Gaul. 
 
 The " Golden Legend " is in itself a vast and gra- 
 cious work. Jacques de Voragine, Definitor of the 
 Order of Saint-Dominic, and Archbishop of Genes, 
 collected in the thirteenth century the various legends 
 of Catholic saints, and formed so rich a compilation 
 that from all the monasteries and castles of the time 
 there arose the cry : " This is the ' Golden Legend.' " 
 The " Legende Doree " was especially opulent in Roman 
 hagiography. Edited by an Italian monk, it reveals 
 its best merits in the treatment of matters relating to 
 the terrestrial domains of Saint Peter. Yoragine can 
 only perceive the greater saints of the Occident as 
 through a cold mist. For this reason the Aquitanian 
 and Saxon translators of the good legend-writer were 
 careful to add to his recital the lives of their own 
 national saints. 
 
 I have read and collated a great many manuscripts 
 of the " Golden Legend." I know all those described 
 by my learned colleague, M. Paulin Paris, in his hand- 
 some catalogue of the MSS. of the Bibliotheque du 
 Hoi. There were two among them which especially 
 drew my attention. One is of the fourteenth cen-
 
 THE CRIME OF 8YLVESTRE BONNARD. 13 
 
 tury, and contains a translation of Jean Belet; the 
 other, younger by a century, includes the version of 
 Jacques Yignay. Both come from the Colbert collec- 
 tion, and were placed on the shelves of that glorious 
 Colbertine library by the Librarian Baluze whose 
 name I can never pronounce without uncovering my 
 head; for even in the century of the giants of erudi- 
 tion, Baluze astounds by his greatness. I know also 
 a very curious codex of the Bigot collection ; I know 
 seventy-four printed editions of the work, commenc- 
 ing with the venerable ancestor of all the Gothic of 
 Strasburg, begun in 1471, and finished in 1475. But 
 no one of those MSS., no one of those editions, con- 
 tains the legends of Saints Ferreol, Ferrution, Ger- 
 main, Vincent, and Droctoveus; no one bears the 
 name of the Clerk Alexander ; no one, in fine, came 
 from the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Pres. Com- 
 pared with the MS. described by Mr. Thompson, they 
 are only as straw to gold. I have seen with my eyes, 
 I have touched with my fingers, an incontrovertible 
 testimony to the existence of this document. But the 
 document itself what has become of it ? Sir Thomas 
 Raleigh went to end his days by the shores of the 
 Lake of Como, whither he carried with him a part 
 of his literary wealth. Where did the books go 
 after the death of that aristocratic collector? Where 
 could the manuscript of the Clerk Alexander have 
 gone? 
 
 " And why," I asked myself, " why should I have
 
 H THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 learned that this precious book exists, if I am never 
 to possess it never even to see it? I would go to 
 seek it in the burning heart of Africa, or in the icy 
 regions of the Pole if I knew it were there. But 
 I do not know where it is. I do not know if it be 
 guarded in a triple-locked iron case by some jealous 
 bibliomaniac. I do not know if it be growing mouldy 
 in the attic of some ignoramus. I shudder at the 
 thought that perhaps its torn-out leaves may have 
 been used to cover the pickle-jars of some house- 
 keeper." 
 
 August 30, 1850. 
 
 THE heavy heat compelled me to walk slowly. I 
 kept close to the walls of the north quays; and, in 
 the lukewarm shade, the shops of the dealers in old 
 books, engravings, and antiquated furniture drew my 
 eyes and appealed to my fancy. Rummaging and 
 idling among these, I hastily enjoyed some verses 
 spiritedly thrown off by a poet of the Pleiad. I ex- 
 amined an elegant Masquerade by Watteau. I felt, 
 with my eye, the weight of a two-handed sword, 
 a steel gorgerin, a morion. "What a thick helmet! 
 What a ponderous breastplate Seigneur! A giant's 
 garb? No the carapace of an insect. The men of 
 those days were cuirassed like beetles; their weak- 
 ness was within them. To-day, on the contrary, our 
 strength is interior, and our armed souls dwell in 
 feeble bodies.
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. 15 
 
 . . . Here is a pastel-portrait of a lady of the old 
 time the face, vague like a shadow, smiles ; and a 
 hand, gloved with an openwork mitten, retains upon 
 her satiny knees a lap-dog, with a ribbon about its 
 neck. That picture fills me with a sort of charming 
 melancholy. Let those who have no half -effaced pas- 
 tels in their own hearts laugh at me ! Like the horse 
 that scents the stable, I hasten my pace as I near 
 my lodgings. There it is that great human hive, 
 in which I have a cell, for the purpose of therein 
 distilling the somewhat acrid honey of erudition. I 
 climb the stairs with slow effort. Only a few steps 
 more, and I shall be at my own door. But I divine, 
 rather than sec, a robe descending with a sound of 
 rustling silk. I stop, and press myself against the 
 balustrade to make room. The lady who is coming 
 down is bareheaded; she is young; she sings; her 
 eyes and teeth gleam in the shadow, for she laughs 
 with lips and eyes at the same time. She is cer- 
 tainly a neighbor, and a very familiar one. She holds 
 in her arms a pretty child, a little boy quite naked, 
 like the son of a goddess ; he has a medal hung round 
 his neck by a little silver chain. I see him sucking 
 his thumbs and looking at me with those big eyes 
 so newly opened on this old universe. The mother 
 simultaneously looks at me in a sly, mysterious way ; 
 she stops I think blushes a little and holds out the 
 little creature to me. The baby has a pretty wrinkle 
 between wrist and arm, a pretty wrinkle about his
 
 16 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 neck, and all over him, from head to foot, the dain- 
 tiest dimples laugh in his rosy flesh. 
 
 The mamma shows him to me with pride. 
 
 " Monsieur," she says, " don't you think he is very 
 pretty my little boy?" 
 
 She takes one tiny hand, lifts it to the child's own 
 lips, and, drawing out the darling pink fingers again 
 towards me, says, 
 
 " Baby, throw the gentleman a kiss." 
 
 Then, folding the little being in her arms, she flees 
 away with the agility of a cat, and is lost to sight in 
 a corridor which, judging by the odor, must lead to 
 some kitchen. 
 
 I enter my own quarters. 
 
 " Therese, who can that young mother be whom I 
 saw bareheaded in the stairway just now, with a 
 pretty little boy ?" 
 
 And Therese replies that it was Madame Coccoz. 
 
 I stare up at the ceiling, as if trying to obtain some 
 further illumination. Therese then recalls to me the 
 little book-peddler who tried to sell me almanacs last 
 year, while his wife was being confined. 
 
 " And Coccoz himself ?" I asked. 
 
 I was answered that I would never see him again. 
 The poor little man had been laid away under ground, 
 without my knowledge, and, indeed, with the knowl- 
 edge of very few people, only a short time after the 
 happy delivery of Madame Coccoz. I learned that his 
 wife had been able to console herself ; I did likewise.
 
 / THE CRIME OF STLVE8TRE BONNARD. 17 
 
 JP 
 
 J" But, Therese," I asked, " has Madame Coccoz got 
 everything she needs in that attic of hers ?" 
 
 "You would be a great dupe, Monsieur," replied 
 my housekeeper, " if you should bother yourself about 
 that creature. They gave her notice to quit the attic 
 when the roof was repaired. But she stays there yet 
 in spite of the proprietor, the agent, the concierge, 
 and the bailiffs. I think she has bewitched every one 
 of them. She will leave that attic when she pleases, 
 Monsieur ; but she is going to leave in her own car- 
 riage. Let me tell you that !" 
 
 Therese reflected for a moment ; and then uttered 
 these words : 
 
 " A pretty face is a curse from Heaven." 
 
 " Then I ought to thank Heaven for having spared 
 me that curse. But here ! put my hat and cane away. 
 I am going to amuse myself with a few pages of Mo- 
 reri. If I can trust my old fox-nose, we are going to 
 have a nicely flavored pullet for dinner. Look after 
 that estimable fowl, my girl, and spare your neigh- 
 bors, so that you and your old master may be spared 
 by them in turn." 
 
 Having thus spoken, I proceeded to follow out the 
 tufted ramifications of a princely genealogy. 
 
 May 7, 1851. 
 
 I HAVE passed the winter according to the ideal of 
 the sages, in angello cum libeUo / and now the swal- 
 2
 
 18 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 lows of the Quai Malaquais find me on their return 
 about as when they left me. He who lives little, 
 changes little ; and it is scarcely living at all to use 
 up one's days over old texts. 
 
 Yet I feel myself to-day a little more deeply im- 
 pregnated than ever before with that vague melan- 
 choly which life distils. The economy of my intel- 
 ligence (I dare scarcely confess it to myself !) has re- 
 mained disturbed ever since that momentous hour in 
 which the existence of the manuscript of the Clerk 
 Alexander was first revealed to me. 
 
 It is strange that I should have lost my rest simply 
 on account of a few old sheets of parchment ; but it 
 is unquestionably true. The poor man who has no 
 desires possesses the greatest of riches ; he possesses 
 himself. The rich man who desires something is only 
 a wretched slave. I am just such a slave. The sweet- 
 est pleasures those of converse with some one of a 
 delicate and well-balanced mind, or dining out with a 
 friend are insufficient to enable me to forget the 
 manuscript which I know that I want, and have been 
 wanting from the moment I knew of its existence. 
 I feel the want of it by day and by night : I feel the 
 want of it in all my joys and pains ; I feel the want 
 of it while at work or asleep. 
 
 I recall my desires as a child. How well I can now 
 comprehend the intense wishes of my early years ! 
 
 I can see once more, with astonishing vividness, a 
 certain doll which, when I was eight years old, used
 
 TEE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 19 
 
 to be displayed in the window of an ugly little shop 
 of the Kue de la Seine. I cannot tell how it hap- 
 pened that this doll attracted me. I was very proud 
 of being a boy ; I despised little girls ; and I longed 
 impatiently for the day (which, alas ! has come) when 
 a strong white beard should bristle on my chin. I 
 played at being a soldier ; and, under the pretext of 
 obtaining forage for my rocking-horse, I used to make 
 sad havoc among the plants my poor mother used to 
 keep on her window-sill. Manly amusements those, 
 I should say! And, nevertheless, I was consumed 
 with longing for a .doll. Characters like Hercules 
 have such weaknesses occasionally. Was the one I 
 had fallen in love with at all beautiful ? No. I can 
 see her now. She had a splotch of vermilion on either 
 cheek, short soft arms, horrible wooden hands, and 
 long sprawling legs. Her flowered petticoat was fas- 
 tened at the waist with two pins. Even now I can 
 see the black heads of those two pins. It was a de- 
 cidedly vulgar doll smelt of the faubourg. I re- 
 member perfectly well that, even child as I was then, 
 before I had put on my first pair of trousers, I was 
 quite conscious in my own way that this doll lacked 
 grace and style that she was gross, that she was 
 coarse. But I loved her in spite of that ; I loved her 
 just for that ; I loved her only ; I wanted her. My 
 soldiers and my drums had become as nothing in my 
 eyes. I ceased to stick sprigs of heliotrope and ve- 
 ronica into the mouth of my rocking-horse. That
 
 20 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 doll was all the world to me. I invented ruses worthy 
 of a savage to oblige Virginie, my nurse, to take me 
 by the little shop in the Eue de la Seine. I would 
 press my nose against the window until my nurse had 
 to take my arm and drag me away. " Monsieur Syl- 
 vestre, it is late, and your mamma will scold you." 
 Monsieur Sylvestre in those days made very little of 
 either scoldings or whippings. But his nurse lifted 
 him up like a feather, and Monsieur Sylvestre yielded 
 to force. In after-years, with age, he degenerated, 
 and sometimes yielded to fear. But at that time he 
 used to fear nothing. 
 
 I was unhappy. An unreasoning but irresistible 
 shame prevented me from telling my mother about 
 the object of my love. Thence all my sufferings. 
 For many days that doll, incessantly present in fancy, 
 danced before my eyes, stared at me fixedly, opened 
 her arms to me, assuming in my imagination a sort 
 of life which made her appear at once mysterious and 
 weird, and thereby all the more charming and desir- 
 able. 
 
 Finally, one day a day I shall never forget my 
 nurse took me to see my uncle, Captain Victor, who 
 had invited me to breakfast. I admired my uncle a 
 great deal, as much because he had fired the last 
 French cartridge at Waterloo, as because he used to 
 make with his own hands, at my mother's table, cer- 
 tain chapons-d-ratt, which he afterwards put into the 
 chicory-salad. I thought that was very fine! My
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. 21 
 
 Uncle Victor also inspired me with much respect by 
 his frogged coat, and still more by his way of turning 
 the whole house upside down from the moment he 
 came into it. Even now I cannot tell just how he 
 managed it, but I can affirm that whenever my Uncle 
 Victor found himself in any assembly of twenty per- 
 sons, it was impossible to see or to hear anybody but 
 him. My excellent father, I have reason to believe, 
 never shared my admiration for Uncle Victor, who 
 used to sicken him with his pipe, gave him great 
 thumps in the back by way of friendliness, and ac- 
 cused him of lacking energy. My mother, though 
 always showing a sister's indulgence to the captain, 
 sometimes advised him to fondle the brandy-bottle a 
 little less frequently. But I had no part either in 
 these repugnances or these reproaches, and Uncle 
 Victor inspired me with the purest enthusiasm. It 
 was therefore with a feeling of pride that I entered 
 into the little lodging-house where he lived, in the 
 Rue Guenegaud. The entire breakfast, served on a 
 small table close to the fire-place, consisted of pork- 
 meats and confectionery. 
 
 The Captain stuffed me with cakes and pure wine. 
 He told me of numberless injustices to which he had 
 been a victim. He complained particularly of the 
 Bourbons; and as he neglected to tell me who the 
 Bourbons were, I got the idea I can't tell how that 
 the Bourbons were horse-dealers established at "Water- 
 loo. The Captain, who never interrupted his talk ex-
 
 22 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 cept for the purpose of pouring out wine, furthermore 
 made charges against a number of morveux, of jean- 
 f esses, and " good-for-nothings" whom I did not know 
 anything about, but whom I hated from the bottom 
 of my heart. At dessert I thought I heard the Cap- 
 tain say my father was a man who could be led any- 
 where by the nose ; but I am not quite sure that I un- 
 derstood him. I had a buzzing in my ears; and it 
 seemed to me that the table was dancing. 
 
 My uncle put on his frogged coat, took his cha- 
 peau tromblon, and we descended to the street, which 
 seemed to me singularly changed. It looked to me as 
 if I had not been in it before for ever so long a time. 
 Nevertheless, when we came to the Rue de la Seine, 
 the idea of my doll suddenly returned to my mind and 
 excited me in an extraordinary way. My head was 
 on fire. I resolved upon a desperate expedient. We 
 were passing before the window. She was there, be- 
 hind the glass with her red cheeks, and her flow- 
 ered petticoat, and her long legs. 
 
 " Uncle," I said, with a great effort, " will you buy 
 that doll for me 2" 
 
 And I waited. 
 
 " Buy a doll for a boy sacreUeu /" cried my uncle, 
 in a voice of thunder. "Do you wish to dishonor 
 yourself? And it is that old Mag there that you 
 want ! "Well, I must compliment you, my young fel- 
 low ! If you grow up with such tastes as that, you 
 will never have any pleasure in life ; and your con>
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 23 
 
 rades will call you a precious ninny. If you asked me 
 for a sword or a gun, my boy, I would buy them for 
 you with the last silver crown of my pension. But to 
 buy a doll for you a thousand thunders ! to disgrace 
 you ! Never in the world ! "Why, if I were ever to 
 see you playing with a puppet rigged out like that, 
 Monsieur, my sister's son, I would disown you for my 
 nephew !" 
 
 On hearing these words, I felt my heart so wrung 
 that nothing but pride a diabolic pride kept me 
 from crying. 
 
 My uncle, suddenly calming down, returned to his 
 ideas about the Bourbons ; but I, still smarting from 
 the blow of his indignation, felt an unspeakable shame. 
 My resolve was quickly made. I promised myself 
 never to disgrace myself I firmly and forever re- 
 nounced that red-cheeked doll. 
 
 1 felt that day, for the first time, the austere sweet- 
 ness of sacrifice. 
 
 Captain, though it be true that all your life you 
 swore like a pagan, smoked like a beadle, and drank 
 like a bell-ringer, be your memory nevertheless hon- 
 ored not merely because you were a brave soldier, 
 but also because you revealed to your little nephew in 
 petticoats the sentiment of heroism ! Pride and lazi- 
 ness had made you almost insupportable, O my Uncle 
 Victor ! but a great heart used to beat under those 
 frogs upon your coat. You always used to wear, I 
 now remember, a rose in your button-hole. That rose
 
 24 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 which you allowed, as I now have reason to believe, 
 the shop-girls to pluck for you that large, open- 
 hearted flower, scattering its petals to all the winds, 
 was the symbol of your glorious youth. You despised 
 neither absinthe nor tobacco; but you despised life. 
 Neither delicacy nor common-sense could have been 
 learned from you, Captain ; but you taught me, even 
 at an age when my nurse had to wipe my nose, a les- 
 son of honor and self-abnegation that I will never 
 forget. 
 
 You have now been sleeping for many years in the 
 Cemetery of Mont-Parnasse, under a plain slab bear- 
 ing this epitaph : 
 
 CI-GIT 
 
 ARISTIDE VICTOR MALDENT, 
 
 CAPITAINE D'INFANTERIE, 
 CHEVALIER DE LA LEGION D'HONNEUR. 
 
 But such, Captain, was not the inscription devised by 
 yourself to be placed above those old bones of yours 
 knocked about so long on fields of battle and in 
 haunts of pleasure. Among your papers was found 
 this proud and bitter epitaph, which, despite your last 
 will, none could have ventured to put upon your tomb : 
 
 CI-GIT 
 UN BRIGAND DE LA LOIRE. 
 
 "Therese, we will get a wreath of immortelles to- 
 morrow, and lay them on the tomb of the ' Brigand 
 of the Loire.' "... 
 
 But Th6rese is not here. And how, indeed, could
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 25 
 
 she be near me, seeing that I am at the rond-point of 
 the Champs-Ely sees ? There, at the termination of the 
 avenue, the Arc de Triomphe, which bears under its 
 vaults the names of Uncle Victor's companions-in- 
 arms, opens its giant gate against the sky. The trees 
 of the avenue are unfolding to the sun of spring their 
 first leaves, still all pale and chilly. Beside me the 
 carriages keep rolling by to the Bois de Boulogne. 
 Unconsciously I have wandered into this fashionable 
 avenue on my promenade, and halted, quite stupidly, 
 in front of a booth stocked with gingerbread and 
 decanters of liquorice- water, each topped by a lemon. 
 A miserable little boy, covered with rags, which ex- 
 pose his chapped skin, stares with widely opened eyes 
 at those sumptuous sweets which are not for such as 
 he. "With the shamelessness of innocence he betrays 
 his longing. His round, fixed eyes contemplate a cer- 
 tain gingerbread man of lofty stature. It is a general, 
 and it looks a little like Uncle Yictor. I take it, I 
 pay for it, and present it to the little pauper, who 
 dares not extend his hand to receive it for, by reason 
 of precocious experience, he cannot believe in luck; 
 he looks at me, in the same way that certain big dogs 
 do, with the air of one saying, " You are cruel to make 
 fun of me like that !" 
 
 " Come, little stupid," I say to him, in that rough 
 tone I am accustomed to use, " take it take it, and eat 
 it ; for you, happier than I was at your age, you can 
 satisfy your tastes without disgracing yourself." . . .
 
 26 TUB CRIME OF STLVE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 And you, Uncle Victor you, whose manly figure has 
 been recalled to me by that gingerbread general, come, 
 glorious Shadow, help me to forget my new doll. We 
 remain forever children, and are always running after 
 
 new toys. 
 
 _^______ 
 
 Same day. 
 
 IN the oddest way that Coccoz family has become 
 associated in my mind with the Clerk Alexander. 
 
 " Therese," I said, as I threw myself into my easy- 
 chair, " tell me if the little Coccoz is well, and whether 
 he has got his first teeth yet and bring me my slip- 
 pers." 
 
 "He ought to have them by this time, Monsieur," 
 replied Therese ; " but I never saw them. The very 
 first fine day of spring the mother disappeared with 
 the child, leaving furniture and clothes and everything 
 behind her. They found thirty-eight empty pomade- 
 pots in the attic. It exceeds all belief ! She had visit- 
 ors latterly ; and you may be quite sure she is not now 
 in a convent of nuns. The niece of the concierge says 
 she saw her driving about in a carriage on the boule- 
 vards. I always told you she would end badly." 
 
 " Therese," I replied, " that young woman has not 
 ended either badly or well as yet. Wait until the 
 term of her life is over to judge her. And be careful 
 not to talk too much with that concierge. It seemed 
 to me though I only saw her for a moment on the 
 stairs that Madame Coccoz was very fond of her
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. 27 
 
 child. For that mother's-love, at least, she deserves 
 credit." 
 
 " As far as that goes, Monsieur, certainly the little 
 one never wanted for anything. In all the Quarter 
 one could not have found a child better kept, or better 
 nourished, or more petted and coddled. Every God's- 
 day she puts a clean bib on him, and sings to him to 
 make him laugh from morning till night." 
 
 " Therese, a poet has said, ' That child whose mother 
 has never smiled upon him is worthy neither of the 
 table of the gods nor of the couch of the goddesses.' " 
 
 July 8, 
 
 HAVING been informed that the Chapel of the Virgin 
 at Saint- Germain -des-Pres was being repaved, I en- 
 tered the church with the hope of discovering some 
 old inscriptions, possibly exposed by the labors of the 
 workmen. I was not disappointed. The architect 
 kindly showed me a stone which he had just had 
 raised up against the wall. I knelt down to look at 
 the inscription engraved upon that stone ; and then, 
 half aloud, I read in the shadow of the old apsis these 
 words, which made my heart leap : 
 
 " Oy-gist Alexandre, moyne de cette eglise, qui fat 
 mettre en argent le menton de Saint-Vincent et de Saint- 
 Amant et lepie des Innocens ; qui toujours en son vi- 
 va/nt fut preud 'homme et vayllant. Pries pour l?ame 
 de lui"
 
 28 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 I wiped gently away with my handkerchief the dust 
 covering that burial-stone ; I could have kissed it. 
 
 " It is he ! it is Alexander !" I cried out ; and from 
 the height of the vaults the name fell back upon me 
 with a clang, as if broken. 
 
 The silent severity of the beadle, whom I saw ad- 
 vancing towards me, made me ashamed of my enthu- 
 siasm ; and I fled between the two holy-water sprink- 
 lers with which two rival "rats cPeglise" seemed de- 
 sirous of barring my way. 
 
 At all events it was certainly my own Alexander I 
 there could be no more doubt possible ; the translator 
 of the " Golden Legend," the author of the lives of 
 Saints Germain, Vincent, Ferreol, Ferrution, and Droc- 
 toveus was, just as I had supposed, a monk of Saint- 
 Germain-des-Pres. And what a good monk, too pious 
 and generous! He had a silver chin, a silver head, 
 and a silver foot made, that certain precious remains 
 should be covered with an incorruptible envelope! 
 But will I never be able to know his work ? or is this 
 new discovery only destined to increase my regrets ? 
 
 August W, 1859. 
 
 " I, that please some, try all ; both joy and terror 
 Of good and bad ; that make and unfold error 
 Now take upon me, in the name of Time 
 To use my wings. Impute it not a crime 
 To me or my swift passage, that I slide 
 O'er years."
 
 THE CRIME OF 87LVESTRE BONNARD. 29 
 
 Who speaks thus ? 'Tis an old man whom I know 
 too well. It is Time. 
 
 Shakespeare, after having terminated the third act 
 of the " Winter's Tale," pauses in order to leave time 
 for little Perdita to grow up in wisdom and in beauty ; 
 and when he raises the curtain again he evokes the 
 ancient Scythe-bearer upon the stage to render account 
 to the audience of those many long days which have 
 weighed down upon the head of the jealous Leontes. 
 
 Like Shakespeare in his play, I have left in this 
 diary of mine a long interval to oblivion ; and after 
 the fashion of the poet, I make Time himself intervene 
 to explain the omission of ten whole years. Ten whole 
 years, indeed, have passed since I wrote one single line 
 in this diary ; and now that I take up the pen again, 
 I have not the pleasure, alas! to describe a Perdita 
 " now grown in grace." Youth and beauty are the 
 faithful companions of poets; but those charming 
 phantoms scarcely visit the rest of us, even for the 
 space of a season. We do not know how to retain 
 them with us. If the fair shade of some Perdita should 
 ever, through some inconceivable whim, take a notion 
 to traverse my brain, she would hurt herself horribly 
 against heaps of dog-eared parchments. Happy the 
 poets ! their white hairs never scare away the hover- 
 ing shades of Helens, Francescas, Juliets, Julias, and 
 Dorotheas ! But the nose alone of Sylvestre Bonnard 
 would put to flight the whole swarm of love's heroines. 
 
 Yet I, like others, have felt beauty ; I have known
 
 30 THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 that mysterious charm which Nature has lent to ani- 
 mate form ; and the clay which lives has given to me 
 that shudder of delight which makes the lover and the 
 poet. But I have never known either how to love or 
 how to sing. Now, in my memory all encumbered 
 as it is with the rubbish of old texts I can discern 
 again, like a miniature forgotten in some attic, a cer- 
 tain bright young face, with violet eyes. . . . Why, 
 Bonnard, my friend, what an old fool you are becom- 
 ing! Read that catalogue which a Florentine book- 
 seller sent you this very morning. It is a catalogue 
 of Manuscripts ; and he promises you a description of 
 several famous ones, long preserved by the collectors 
 of Italy and Sicily. There is something better suited 
 to you, something more in keeping with your present 
 appearance. 
 
 I read; I cry out! Hamilcar, who has assumed 
 with the approach of age an air of gravity that in- 
 timidates me, looks at me reproachfully, and seems to 
 ask me whether there is any rest in this world, since he 
 cannot enjoy it beside me, who am old also like himself. 
 
 In the sudden joy of my discovery, I need a confi- 
 dant ; and it is to the sceptic Hamilcar that I address 
 myself with all the effusion of a happy man. 
 
 "No, Hamilcar! no," I said to him; "there is no 
 rest in this world, and the quietude you long for is in- 
 compatible with the duties of life. And you say that 
 we are old, indeed ! Listen to what I read in this cat- 
 alogue, and then tell me whether this is a time to be 
 reposing :
 
 THE CRIME OF 8YLVESTRE BONNARD. 31 
 
 LEQENDE DOREE DE JA CQUES DE VORA GINE; 
 traductionfranfaise du quatorztime siecle, par le Clerc Ale- 
 xandre. 
 
 " ' Superb MS., ornamented with two miniatures, wonderfully executed, 
 and in a perfect state of conservation : one representing the Purification 
 of the Virgin ; the other the Coronation of Proserpine. 
 
 " 'At the termination of the "Le'gende DoreV are the Legends of Saints 
 Ferre"ol, Ferrution, Germain, and Droctoveus (xxviij pp.), and the Mirac- 
 ulous Sepulture of Monsieur Saint-Germain d' Auxerre (xij pp.). 
 
 " ' This rare manuscript, w.hich formed part of the collection of Sir 
 Thomas Raleigh, is now in the private study of Signor Micael-Angelo 
 Polizzi, of Girgenti.' 
 
 " You hear that, Hamilcar ? The manuscript of the 
 Clerk Alexander is in Sicily, at the house of Micael- 
 Angelo Polizzi. Heaven grant he may be a friend of 
 learned men ! I am going to write to him !" 
 
 Which I did forthwith. In my letter I requested 
 Signor Polizzi to allow me to examine the manuscript 
 of Clerk Alexander, stating on what grounds I ven- 
 tured to consider myself worthy of so great a favor. 
 I offered at the same time to put at his disposal several 
 unpublished texts in my own possession, not devoid of 
 interest. I begged him to favor me with a prompt 
 reply, and below my signature I wrote down all my 
 honorific titles. 
 
 " Monsieur ! Monsieur ! where are you running like 
 that ?" cried Therese, quite alarmed, coming down the 
 stairs in pursuit of me, four steps at a time, with my 
 hat in her hand. 
 
 " I am going to post a letter, Therese." 
 
 " Seiqneur-Dieuf is that a way to run out in the 
 street, bareheaded, like a crazy man ?"
 
 32 THE CRIME OF 87LVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 " I am crazy, I know, Therese. But who is not ? 
 
 Give me my hat, quick !" 
 
 " And your gloves, Monsieur ! and your umbrella !" 
 I had reached the bottom of the stairs, but still 
 
 heard her protesting and lamenting. 
 
 October 10, 1859. 
 
 I AWAITED Signer Polizzi's reply with ill-contained 
 impatience. I could not even remain quiet ; I would 
 make sudden nervous gestures open books and violent- 
 ly close them again. One day I happened to upset a 
 book with my elbow a volume of Moreri. Hamil- 
 car, who was washing himself, suddenly stopped, and 
 looked angrily at me, with his paw over his ear. Was 
 this the tumultuous existence he must expect under 
 my roof? Had there not been a tacit understanding 
 between us that we should live a peaceful life ? I had 
 broken the covenant. 
 
 " My poor dear comrade," I made answer, " I am the 
 victim of a violent passion, which agitates and masters 
 me. The passions are enemies of peace and quiet, I 
 acknowledge ; but without them there would be no 
 arts or industries in the world. Everybody would 
 sleep naked on a manure-heap ; and you would not be 
 able, Hamilcar, to repose all day on a silken cushion, 
 in the City of Books." 
 
 I expatiated no further to Hamilcar on the theory 
 of the passions, however, because my housekeeper
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. 33 
 
 brought me a letter. It bore the postmark of Naples, 
 and read as follows : 
 
 "MOST ILLUSTRIOUS SIB, I do indeed possess that incompar- 
 able manuscript of the ' Golden Legend ' which could not escape 
 your keen observation. All-important reasons, however, forbid 
 me, imperiously, tyrannically, to let the manuscript go out of my 
 possession for a single day, for even a single minute. It will be a 
 joy and pride for me to have you examine it in my humble home 
 at Girgenti, which will be embellished and illuminated by your 
 presence. It is with the most anxious expectation of your visit 
 that I presume to sign myself, Seigneur Academician, 
 
 " Your humble and devoted servant, 
 
 " MICAEL-ANGELO POLIZZI, 
 " Wine-merchant and Archaeologist at Girgenti, Sicily." 
 
 Well, then ! I will go to Sicily : 
 
 " Eztremum hunc, Arethusa, mihi concede Idborem." 
 
 October 25, 1859. 
 
 MY resolve had been taken and my preparations 
 made ; it only remained for me to notify my house- 
 keeper. I must acknowledge it was a long time be- 
 fore I could make up my mind to tell her I was going 
 away. I feared her remonstrances, her railleries, her 
 objurgations, her tears. " She is a good, kind girl," I 
 said to myself ; " she is attached to me ; she will want 
 to prevent me from going ; and the Lord knows that 
 when she has her mind set upon anything, gestures 
 and cries cost her no effort. In this instance she will 
 be sure to call the concierge, the scrubber, the mattress- 
 8
 
 34 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 maker, and the seven sons of the fruit-seller ; they will 
 all kneel down in a circle around me ; they will begin 
 to cry, and then they will look so ugly that I shall be 
 obliged to yield, so as not to have the pain of seeing 
 them any more." 
 
 Such were the awful images, the sick dreams, which 
 fear marshalled before my imagination. Yes, fear 
 " fecund Fear," as the poet says gave birth to these 
 monstrosities in my brain. For I may as well make 
 the confession in these private pages I am afraid 
 of my housekeeper. I am aware that she knows I am 
 weak ; and this fact alone is sufficient to dispel all my 
 courage in any contest with her. Contests are of fre- 
 quent occurrence ; and I invariably succumb. 
 
 But for all that, I had to announce my departure to 
 Therese. She came into the library with an armful 
 of wood to make a little fire " une flambee" she said. 
 For the mornings are chilly. I watched her out of 
 the corner of my eye while she crouched down at the 
 hearth, with her head in the opening of the fire-place. 
 I do not know how I then found the courage to speak, 
 but I did so without much hesitation. I got up, and, 
 walking up and down the room, observed in a careless 
 tone, with that swaggering manner characteristic of 
 cowards, 
 
 " By the way, The'rese, I am going to Sicily." 
 
 Having thus spoken, I awaited the consequence with 
 great anxiety. Therese did not reply. Her head and 
 her vast cap remained buried in the fire-place; and
 
 THE CRIME OF 87LVE8TEE BONNARD. 35 
 
 nothing in her person, which I closely watched, be- 
 trayed the least emotion. She poked some paper 
 under the wood, and blew up the fire. That was all ! 
 
 Finally I saw her face again ; it was calm so calm 
 that it made me vexed. " Surely," I thought to my- 
 self, " this old maid has no heart. She lets me go away 
 without saying so much as l AhT Can the absence 
 of her old master really affect her so little ?" 
 
 " Well, then go, Monsieur," she answered, at last, 
 " only be back here by six o'clock ! There is a dish 
 for dinner to-day which will not wait for anybody." 
 
 Na/ples, November 10, 1859. 
 " Co tra calle vvue, magna, e Iwve afaccia" 
 I understand, my friend for three centimes I can 
 eat, drink, and wash my face, all by means of one of 
 those slices of watermelon you display there on a lit- 
 tle table. But Occidental prejudices would prevent 
 me from enjoying that simple pleasure freely and 
 frankly. And how could I suck a watermelon? I 
 have enough to do merely to keep on my feet in this 
 crowd. What a luminous, noisy night in the Strada 
 di Porto ? Mountains of fruit tower up in the shops, 
 illuminated by multi-colored lanterns. Upon charcoal 
 furnaces lighted in the open air water boils and steams, 
 and ragouts are singing in frying-pans. The smell of 
 fried fish and hot meats tickles my nose and makes 
 me sneeze. At this moment I find that my handker-
 
 36 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 chief has left the pocket of my frock-coat. I am 
 pushed, lifted up, and turned about in every direction 
 by the gayest, the most talkative, the most animated, 
 and the most adroit populace possible to imagine ; and 
 suddenly a young woman of the people, while I am 
 admiring her magnificent hair, with a single shock of 
 her powerful elastic shoulder, pushes me staggering 
 three paces back at least, without injury, into the arms 
 of a maccaroni-eater, who receives me with a smile. 
 
 I am in Naples. How I ever managed to arrive 
 here, with a few mutilated and shapeless remains of 
 baggage, I cannot tell, because I am no longer myself. 
 I have been travelling in a condition of perpetual fright ; 
 and I think that I must have looked awhile ago in this 
 bright city like an owl bewildered by sunshine. To- 
 night it is much worse ! Wishing to obtain a glimpse 
 of popular manners, I went to the Strada di Porto, 
 where I now am. All about me animated throngs of 
 people crowd and press before the eating-places ; and 
 I float like a waif among these living surges, which, 
 even while they submerge you, still caress. For this 
 Neapolitan people has, in its very vivacity, something 
 indescribably gentle and polite. I am not roughly 
 jostled, I am merely swayed about ; and I think that 
 by dint of thus rocking me to and fro, these good 
 folks want to lull me asleep on my feet. I admire, 
 as I tread the lava pavements of the strada, those por- 
 ters and fishermen who move by me chatting, singing, 
 smoking, gesticulating, quarrelling, and embracing each
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 37 
 
 other the next moment with astonishing versatility of 
 mood. They live through all their senses at the same 
 time; and, being philosophers without knowing it, 
 keep the measure of their desires in accordance with 
 the brevity of life. I approach a much-patronized 
 tavern, and see inscribed above the entrance this 
 quatrain in Neapolitan patois: 
 
 " Amice, alliegre magnammo e lemmmo 
 Nfin che rice stace noglio a la lucema : 
 Chi sa s'a Fautro munno n'ce vedimmo f 
 Chi sa 'a Vautro munno n'ce taverna *" * 
 
 Even such counsels was Horace wont to give to his 
 friends. You received them, Posthumus ; you heard 
 them also, Leuconoe, perverse beauty who wished to 
 know the secrets of the future. That future is now 
 the past, and we know it well. Of a truth you were 
 foolish to worry yourselves about so small a matter ; 
 and your friend showed his good sense when he told 
 you to take life wisely and to filter your Greek wines 
 "Sapias, mna liques" Even thus the sight of a fair 
 land under a spotless sky urges to the pursuit of quiet 
 pleasures. But there are souls forever harassed by 
 some sublime discontent ; those are the noblest. You 
 were of such, Leuconoe ; and I, visiting for the first 
 time, in my declining years, that city where your beau- 
 ty was famed of old^I salute with deep respect your 
 
 * " Friends, let us merrily eat and drink as long as oil remains in 
 the lamp. Who knows if we shall meet again in the other world ? 
 Who knows if in the other world there be a. tavern ?"
 
 38 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 melancholy memory. Those souls of kin to your own 
 who appeared in the age of Christianity were souls of 
 saints ; and the " Golden Legend " is full of the miracles 
 they wrought. Your friend Horace left a less noble 
 posterity, and I see one of his descendants in the person 
 of that tavern poet, who at this moment is serving out 
 wine in cups under the epicurean motto of his sign. 
 
 And yet life decides in favor of friend Flaccus, and 
 his philosophy is the only one which adapts itself to 
 the course of events. There is a fellow leaning against 
 that trellis-work covered with vine-leaves, and eating 
 an ice, while watching the stars. He would not stoop 
 even to pick up the old manuscript I am going to seek 
 with so much trouble and fatigue. And in truth man 
 is made rather to eat ices than to pore over old texts. 
 
 I continued to wander about among the drinkers 
 and the singers. There were lovers biting into beau- 
 tiful fruit, each with an arm about the other's waist. 
 Man must be naturally bad ; for all this strange joy 
 only evoked in me a feeling of uttermost despondency. 
 That thronging populace displayed such artless de- 
 light in the simple act of living, that all the shynesses 
 begotten by my old habits as an author awoke and 
 intensified into something like fright. Furthermore, I 
 found myself much discouraged by my inability to 
 understand a word of all the storm of chatter about 
 me. It was a humiliating experience for a philologist. 
 Thus I had begun to feel quite sulky, when I was 
 startled to hear some one just behind me observe :
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 39 
 
 " Dimitri, that old man is certainly a Frenchman. 
 He looks so bewildered that I really feel sorry for him. 
 Shall I speak to him ? . . . He has such a good-natured 
 look, with that round back of his do you not think 
 so, Dimitri?" 
 
 It was said in French by a woman's voice. For the 
 moment it was disagreeable to hear myself spoken of 
 as an old man. Is a man old at sixty-two ? Only the 
 other day, on the Pont des Arts, my colleague Perrot 
 d'Avrignac complimented me on my youthful appear- 
 ance ; and I should think him a better authority about 
 one's age than that young chatterbox who has taken 
 it on herself to make remarks about my back. My 
 back is round, she says. Ah ! ah ! I had some suspi- 
 cion myself to that effect, but I am not going now to 
 believe it at all, since it is the opinion of a giddy-headed 
 young woman. Certainly I will not turn my head 
 round to see who it was that spoke ; but I am sure it 
 was a pretty woman. Why ? Because she talks like 
 a capricious person and like a spoiled child. Ugly 
 women may be naturally quite as capricious as pretty 
 ones ; but as they are never petted and spoiled, and as 
 no allowances are made for them, they soon find them- 
 selves obliged either to suppress their whims or to hide 
 them. On the other hand, the pretty women can be 
 just as fantastical as they please. My neighbor is 
 evidently one of the latter. . . . But, after all, coming 
 to think it over, she really did nothing worse than to 
 express, in her own way, a kindly thought about me, 
 for which I ought to feel grateful.
 
 40 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 These reflections including the last and decisive 
 one passed through my mind in less than a second ; 
 and if I have taken a whole minute to tell them, it is 
 only because I am a bad writer, which failing is char- 
 acteristic of most philologists. In less than a second, 
 therefore, after the voice had ceased, I did turn round, 
 and saw a pretty little woman a sprightly brunette. 
 
 " Madame," I said, with a bow, " excuse my invol- 
 untary indiscretion. I could not help overhearing 
 what you have just said. You would like to be of ser- 
 vice to a poor old man. And the wish, Madame, has al- 
 ready been fulfilled the mere sound of a French voice 
 has given me such pleasure that I must thank you." 
 
 I bowed again, and turned to go away ; but my foot 
 slipped upon a melon-rind, and I would certainly have 
 embraced the Parthenopean soil had not the young 
 lady put out her hand and caught me. 
 
 There is a force in circumstances even in the very 
 smallest circumstances against which resistance is 
 vain. I resigned myself to remain the protege of the 
 fair unknown. 
 
 " It is late," she said ; " do you not wish to go back 
 to your hotel, which must be quite close to ours un- 
 less it be the same one ?" 
 
 " Madame," I replied, " I do not know what time 
 it is, because somebody has stolen my watch ; but I 
 think, as you say, that it must be time to retire ; and 
 I will be very glad to regain my hotel in the com- 
 pany of such courteous compatriots."
 
 THE CRIME 0& SYLVESTRE BONtfARD. 41 
 
 So saying, I bowed once more to the young lady, 
 and also saluted her companion, a silent colossus with 
 a gentle and melancholy face. 
 
 After having gone a little way with them, I learned, 
 among other matters, that my new acquaintances were 
 the Prince and Princess Trepof, and that they were 
 making a trip round the world for the purpose of finding 
 match-boxes, of which they were making a collection. 
 
 "We proceeded along a narrow, tortuous wcoletto, 
 lighted only by a single lamp burning in the niche of 
 a Madonna. The purity and transparency of the air 
 gave a celestial softness and clearness to the very dark- 
 ness itself ; and one could find one's way without diffi- 
 culty under such a limpid night. But in a little while 
 we began to pass through a " venella," or, in Nea- 
 politan parlance, a sottoportico, which led under so 
 many archways and so many far-projecting balconies 
 that no gleam of light from the sky could reach us. 
 My young guide had made us take this route as a 
 short cut, she assured us ; but I think she did so quite 
 as much simply in order to show that she felt at home 
 in Naples, and knew the city thoroughly. Indeed, she 
 needed to know it very thoroughly to venture by 
 night into that labryinth of subterranean alleys and 
 flights of steps. If ever any man showed absolute docil- 
 ity in allowing himself to be guided, that man was my- 
 self. Dante never followed the steps of Beatrice with 
 more confidence than I felt in following those of Prin- 
 cess Trepof.
 
 42 THE CRIME OF 8YLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 The lady appeared to find some pleasure in my con- 
 versation, for she invited me to take a carriage-drive 
 with her on the morrow to visit the grotto of Posi- 
 lippo and the tomb of Virgil. She declared she had 
 seen me somewhere before ; but she could not remem- 
 ber if it had been at Stockholm or at Canton. In the 
 former event I was a very celebrated professor of 
 geology; in the latter, a provision-merchant whose 
 courtesy and kindness had been much appreciated. 
 One thing certain was that she had seen my back 
 somewhere before. 
 
 " Excuse me," she added ; " we are continually travel- 
 ling, my husband and I, to collect match-boxes and to 
 change our ennui by changing country. Perhaps it 
 would be more reasonable to content ourselves with a 
 single variety of ennui. But we have made all our 
 preparations and arrangements for travelling : all our 
 plans have been laid out in advance, and it gives us no 
 trouble, whereas it would be very troublesome for us 
 to stop anywhere in particular. I tell you all this so 
 that you may not be surprised if my recollections 
 have become a little mixed up. But from the mo- 
 ment I first saw you at a distance this evening, I felt 
 in fact I knew that I had seen you before. Now 
 the question is, ' Where was it that I saw you ?' You 
 are not, then, either the geologist or the provision- 
 merchant ?" 
 
 " No, Madame," I replied, " I am neither the one nor 
 the other ; and I am sorry for it since you have had
 
 THE CRIME OF STL VESTEE BONNARD. 43 
 
 reason to esteem them. There is really nothing about 
 me worthy of your interest. I have spent all my 
 life poring over books, and I have never travelled: 
 you might have known that from my bewilderment, 
 which excited your compassion. I am a member of 
 the Institute." 
 
 " You are a member of the Institute ! How nice ! 
 Will you not write something for me in my album ? 
 Do you know Chinese ? I would like so much to have 
 you write something in Chinese or Persian in my al- 
 bum. I will introduce you to my friend, Miss Fergus- 
 son, who travels everywhere to see all the famous 
 people in the world. She will be delighted! . . . 
 Dimitri, did you hear that ? this gentleman is a mem- 
 ber of the Institute, and he has passed all his life over 
 books." 
 
 The prince nodded approval. 
 
 "Monsieur," I said, trying to engage him in our 
 conversation, " it is true that something can be learned 
 from books ; but a great deal more can be learned by 
 travelling, and I regret that I have not been able to 
 go round the world like you. I have lived in the 
 same house for thirty years, and I scarcely ever go 
 out." 
 
 " Lived in the same house for thirty years !" cried 
 Madame Trepof ; is it possible ?" 
 
 " Yes, Madame," I answered. " But you must know 
 the house is situated on the bank of the Seine, and in 
 the very handsomest and most famous part of the
 
 44 THE CRIME OF SYL VESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 world. From my window I can see the Tuileries and 
 the Louvre, the Pont-Neuf , the towers of Notre-Dame, 
 the turrets of the Palais de Justice, and the spire of 
 the Sainte-Chapelle. All those stones speak to me ; 
 they tell me stories about the days of Saint-Louis, of 
 the Yalois, of Henri IV., and of Louis XIV. I under- 
 stand them, and I love them all. It is only a very 
 small corner of the world, but honestly, Madame, 
 where is there a more glorious spot ?" 
 
 At this moment we found ourselves upon a public 
 square a largo steeped in the soft glow of the night. 
 Madame Trepof looked at me in an uneasy manner ; 
 her lifted eyebrows almost touched the black curls 
 about her forehead. 
 
 "Where do you live, then?" she demanded, brusquely. 
 
 " On the Quai Malaquais, Madame, and my name is 
 Bonnard. It is not a name very widely known, but I 
 am contented if my friends do not forget it." 
 
 This revelation, unimportant as it was, produced an 
 extraordinary effect upon Madame Trepof. She im- 
 mediately turned her back upon me and caught her 
 husband's arm. 
 
 " Come, Dimitri !" she exclaimed, " do walk a little 
 faster. I am horribly tired, and you will not hurry 
 yourself in the least. We shall never get home. ... As 
 for you, monsieur, your way lies over there !" 
 
 She made a vague gesture in the direction of some 
 dark vicolo, pushed her husband the opposite way, and 
 called to me, without even turning her head,
 
 THE CRIME OF 8YLVESTRE BONNARD. 45 
 
 " Adieu, Monsieur ! We shall not go to Posilippo 
 to-morrow, nor the day after, either. I have a fright- 
 ful headache ! . . . Dimitri, you are unendurable ! Will 
 you not walk faster ?" 
 
 I remained for the moment stupefied, vainly trying 
 to think what I could have done to offend Madame 
 Trepof. I had also lost my way, and seemed doomed 
 to wander about all night. In order to ask my way, 
 I would have to see somebody ; and it did not seem 
 likely that I should find a single human being who 
 could understand me. In my despair I entered a 
 street at random a street, or rather a horrible alley 
 that had the look of a murderous place. It proved so 
 in fact, for I had not been two minutes in it before I 
 saw two men fighting with knives. They were attack- 
 ing each other even more fiercely with their tongues 
 than with their weapons ; and I concluded from the 
 nature of the abuse they were showering upon each 
 other that it was a love affair. I prudently made my 
 way into a side alley while those two good fellows 
 were still much too busy with their own affairs to 
 think about mine. I wandered hopelessly about for 
 a while, and at last sat down, completely discouraged, 
 on a stone bench, inwardly cursing the strange ca- 
 prices of Madame Trepof. 
 
 "How are you, Signor? Are you back from San 
 Carlo? Did you hear the diva sing? It is only at 
 Naples you can hear singing like hers." 
 
 I looked up, and recognized my host. I had seated
 
 46 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 myself with my back to the facade of my hotel, un 
 der the window of my own room. 
 
 Monte- Allegro, November 30, 1859. 
 
 WE were all resting myself, my guides, and their 
 mules on the road from Sciacca to Girgenti, at a 
 tavern in the miserable village of Monte -Allegro, 
 whose inhabitants, consumed by the maV aria, con- 
 tinually shiver in the sun. But nevertheless they are 
 Greeks, and their gayety triumphs over all circum- 
 stances. A few gather about the tavern, full of smil- 
 ing curiosity. One good story would have sufficed, 
 had I known how to tell it to them, to make them 
 forget all the woes of life. They had all a look of 
 intelligence ; and their women, although tanned and 
 faded, wore their long black cloaks with much grace. 
 
 Before me I could see old ruins whitened by the 
 sea-wind ruins about which no grass ever grows. 
 The dismal melancholy of deserts prevails over this 
 arid land, whose cracked surface can barely nourish 
 a few shrivelled mimosas, cacti, and dwarf palms. 
 Twenty yards away, along the course of a ravine, 
 stones were gleaming whitely like a long line of scat- 
 tered bones. They told me that was the bed of a 
 stream. 
 
 I had been about fifteen days in Sicily. On com- 
 ing into the Bay of Palermo which opens between 
 the two mighty naked masses of the Pelligrino and
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVE8TRE BONNARD. 47 
 
 the Catalfano, and extends inward along the " Golden 
 Conch" the view inspired me with such admiration 
 that I resolved to travel a little in this island, so en- 
 nobled by historic memories, and rendered so beauti- 
 ful by the outlines of its hills, which reveal the prin- 
 ciples of Greek art. Old pilgrim though I was, grown 
 hoary in the Gothic Occident I dared to venture upon 
 that classic soil ; and, securing a guide, I went from 
 Palermo to Trapani, from Trapani to Selinonte, from 
 Selinonte to Sciacca which I left this morning to 
 go to Girgenti, where I am to find the MS. of Clerk 
 Alexander. The beautiful things I have seen are still 
 so vivid in my mind that I feel the task of writing 
 them would be a useless fatigue. Why spoil my 
 pleasure-trip by collecting notes? Lovers who love 
 truly do not write down their happiness. 
 
 Wholly absorbed by the melancholy of the present 
 and the poetry of the past, my thoughts peopled with 
 beautiful shapes, and my eyes ever gratified by the 
 pure and harmonious lines of the landscape, I was 
 resting in the tavern at Monte- Allegro, sipping a 
 glass of heavy, fiery wine, when I saw two persons 
 enter the waiting-room, whom, after a moment's hesi- 
 tation, I recognized as the Prince and Princess Trepot. 
 
 This time I saw the princess in the light and what 
 a light ! He who has known that of Sicily can better 
 comprehend the words of Sophocles : " holy light ! 
 . . . Eye of the Golden Day ! " Madame Trepof , 
 dressed in brqwn-holland anc^ wearing a broa^-brimmed.
 
 48 THE CRIME OF SYL VE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 straw hat, appeared to me a very pretty woman of 
 about twenty-eight. Her eyes were luminous as a 
 child's ; but her slightly plump chin indicated the 
 age of plenitude. She is, I must confess it, quite an 
 attractive person. She is supple and changeful ; her 
 mood is like water itself and, thank Heaven! I ;uu 
 no navigator. I thought I discerned in her manner 
 a sort of ill-humor, which I attributed presently, by 
 reason of some observations she uttered at random, 
 to the fact that she had met no brigands upon her 
 route. 
 
 " Such things only happen to us !" she exclaimed, 
 with a gesture of discouragement. 
 
 She called for a glass of iced water, which the land- 
 lord presented to her with a gesture that recalled 
 to me those scenes of funeral offerings painted upon 
 Greek vases. 
 
 I was in no hurry to introduce myself to a lady 
 vho had so abruptly dropped my acquaintance in the 
 :ublic square at Kaples; but she perceived me in my 
 corner, and her frown notified me very plainly that 
 our accidental meeting was disagreeable to her. 
 
 After she had sipped her ice-water for a few mo- 
 ments whether because her whim had suddenly 
 changed, or because my loneliness aroused her pity, 
 I did not know she walked directly to me. 
 
 " Good-day, Monsieur Bonnard," she said. " How 
 do you do ? What strange chance enables us to meet 
 again in this frightful country 2"
 
 THE CRIME OF 37L7E8TRE BONNARD. 49 
 
 " This country is not frightful, Madame," I replied. 
 Beauty is so great and so august a quality that centu- 
 ries of barbarism cannot efface it so completely that 
 adorable vestiges of it will not always remain. The 
 majesty of the antique Ceres still overshadows these 
 arid valleys; and that Greek Muse who made Are- 
 thusa and Maenalus ring with her divine accents, still 
 sings for my ears upon the barren mountain and in 
 the place of the dried-up spring. Yes, Madame, when 
 our globe, no longer inhabited, shall, like the moon, 
 roll a wan corpse through space, the soil which bears 
 the ruins of Selimonte will still keep the seal of beauty 
 in the midst of universal death; and then, then, at 
 least there will be no frivolous mouth to blaspheme 
 the grandeur of these solitudes." 
 
 I knew well enough that my words were beyond 
 the comprehension of the pretty little empty -head 
 which heard them. But an old fellow like myself 
 who has worn out his life over books does not know 
 how to adapt his tone to circumstances. Besides, I 
 wished to give Madame Trepof a lesson in politeness. 
 She received it with so much submission, and with 
 such an air of comprehension, that I hastened to add, 
 as good-naturedly as possible, 
 
 " As to whether the chance which has enabled me 
 to meet you again be lucky or unlucky, I cannot de- 
 cide the question until I am sure that my presence be 
 not disagreeable to you. You appeared to become 
 weary of my company very suddenly at Naples the 
 4
 
 50 THE CRIME OF 8YLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 other day. I can only attribute that misfortune to 
 my naturally unpleasant manner since, on that occa- 
 sion, I had had the honor of meeting you for the first 
 time in my life." 
 
 These words seemed to cause her inexplicable joy. 
 She smiled upon me in the most gracious, mischievous 
 way, and said very earnestly, holding out her hand, 
 which I touched with my lips, 
 
 " Monsieur Bonnard, do not refuse to accept a seat 
 in my carriage. You can chat with me on the way 
 about antiquity, and that will amuse me ever so 
 much." 
 
 " My dear," exclaimed the prince, " you can do just 
 as you please ; but you ought to remember that one 
 is horribly cramped in that carriage of yours; and 
 I fear you are only offering Monsieur Bonnard the 
 chance of getting a frightful attack of lumbago." 
 
 Madame Trepof simply shook her head by way of 
 explaining that such considerations had no weight 
 with her whatever; then she untied her hat. The 
 darkness of her black curls descended over her eyes, 
 and bathed them in velvety shadow. She remained 
 a little while quite motionless, and her face assumed a 
 surprising expression of reverie. But all of a sudden 
 she darted at some oranges which the tavern-keeper 
 had brought in a basket, and began to throw them, 
 one by one, into a fold of her dress. 
 
 " These will be nice on the road," she said. " We 
 are going just where you are going to Girgenti. I
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 51 
 
 must tell you all about it. You know that my hus- 
 band is making a collection of match-boxes. We 
 bought thirteen hundred match-boxes at Marseilles. 
 But we heard there was a factory of them at Gir- 
 genti. According to what we were told, it is a very 
 small factory, and its products which are very ugly 
 never go outside the city and its suburbs. So we 
 are going to Girgenti just to buy match-boxes. Dinii- 
 tri has been a collector of all sorts of things ; but the 
 only kind of collection which can now interest him is 
 a collection of match-boxes. He has already got five 
 thousand two hundred and fourteen different kinds. 
 Some of them gave us frightful trouble to find. For 
 instance, we knew that at Naples boxes were once 
 made with the portraits of Mazzini and Garibaldi on 
 them ; and that the police had seized the plates from 
 which the portraits were printed, and put the manu- 
 facturer in jail. Well, by dint of searching and in- 
 quiring for ever so long a while, we found one of 
 those boxes at last for sale at one hundred francs, 
 instead of two sous. It was not really too dear at 
 that price; but we were denounced for buying it. 
 We were taken for conspirators. All our baggage 
 
 J. OO O 
 
 was searched; they could not find the box, because 
 I had hidden it so well ; but they found my jewels, 
 and carried them off. They have them still. The 
 incident made quite a sensation, and we were going 
 to get arrested. But the king was displeased about 
 it, and he ordered them to leave us alone. Up to.
 
 52 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 that time, I used to think it was very stupid to col- 
 lect match-boxes ; but when I found that there were 
 risks of losing liberty, and perhaps even life, by doing 
 it, I began to feel a taste for it. Now I am an abso- 
 lute fanatic on the subject. We are going to Sweden 
 next summer to complete our series. . . . Are we not, 
 Dimitri ?" 
 
 I felt must I confess it? a thorough sympathy 
 with these intrepid collectors. No doubt I would 
 rather have found Monsieur and Madame Trepof en- 
 gaged in collecting antique marbles or painted vases 
 in Sicily. I should have liked to have found them in- 
 terested in the ruins of Syracuse, or the poetical tra- 
 ditions of the Eryx. But at all events, they were 
 making some sort of a collection they belonged to 
 the great confraternity and I could not possibly 
 make fun of them without making fun of myself. 
 Besides, Madame Trepof had spoken of her collection 
 with such an odd mingling of irony and enthusiasm 
 that I could not help finding the idea a very good one. 
 
 "We were getting ready to leave the tavern, when 
 we noticed some people coming down-stairs from the 
 upper room, carrying carbines under their dark cloaks. 
 To me they had the look of thorough bandits ; and 
 after they were gone I told Monsieur Trepof my 
 opinion of them. He answered me, very quietly, that 
 he also thought they were regular bandits ; and the 
 guides begged us to apply for an escort of gendarmes, 
 but Madame Trepof besought us not to do anything
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 53 
 
 of the kind. She declared that we must not "spoil 
 her journey." 
 
 Then, turning her persuasive eyes upon me, she 
 asked, 
 
 " Do you not believe, Monsieur Bonnard, that there 
 is nothing in life worth having except sensations ?" 
 
 " Why, certainly, Madame," I answered ; " but then 
 we must take into consideration the nature of the sen- 
 sations themselves. Those which a noble memory or 
 a grand spectacle creates within us certainly represent 
 what is best in human life ; but those merely resulting 
 from the menace of danger seem to me sensations 
 which one should be very careful to avoid as much as 
 possible. For example, would you think it a very 
 pleasant thing, Madame, while travelling over the 
 mountains at midnight, to find the muzzle of a car- 
 bine suddenly pressed against your forehead ?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" she replied; "the comic -operas have 
 made carbines absolutely ridiculous, and it would be a 
 great misfortune to any young woman to find herself 
 in danger from an absurd weapon. But it would be 
 quite different with a knife a very cold and very 
 bright knife-blade, which makes a cold shudder go 
 right through one's heart." 
 
 She shuddered even as she spoke ; closed her eyes, 
 and threw her head back. Then she resumed : 
 
 " People like you are so happy ! You can interest 
 yourselves in all sorts of things !" 
 
 She gave a sidelong look at her husband, who was
 
 64 THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 talking with the innkeeper. Then she leaned tow- 
 ards me, and murmured very low : 
 
 " You see, Dimitri and I, we are both suffering from 
 ennui ! "We have still the match-boxes. But at last 
 one gets tired even of match-boxes. Besides, our col- 
 lection will soon be complete. And then what are 
 we going to do ?" 
 
 " Oh, Madame !" I exclaimed, touched by the moral 
 unhappiness of this pretty person, " if you only had a 
 son, then you would know what to do. You would 
 then learn the purpose of your life, and your thoughts 
 would become at once more serious and yet more 
 cheerful." 
 
 " But I have a son," she replied. " He is a big boy ; 
 he is eleven years old, and he suffers from ennui like 
 the rest of us. Yes, my George has ennui, too ; he is 
 tired of everything. It is very wretched." 
 
 She glanced again towards her husband, who was 
 superintending the harnessing of the mules on the 
 road outside testing the condition of girths and 
 straps. Then she asked me whether there had been 
 many changes on the Quai Malaquais during the past 
 ten years. She declared she never visited that neigh- 
 borhood because it was too far away. 
 
 " Too far from Monte-Allegro ?" I queried. 
 
 " Why, no !" she replied. " Too far from the Avenue 
 des Champs-^lysees, where we live." 
 
 And she murmured over again, as if talking to her- 
 self, " Too far ! too far !" in a tone of reverie which
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 55 
 
 I could not possibly account for. All at once she 
 smiled again, and said to me, 
 
 " I like you, Monsieur Bonnard ! I like you very, 
 very much !" 
 
 The mules had been harnessed. The young woman 
 hastily picked up a few oranges which had rolled off 
 her lap ; rose up ; looked at me, and burst out laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 " Oh !" she exclaimed, " how I should like to see you 
 grappling with the brigands ! You would say such ex- 
 traordinary things to them ! . . . Please take my hat, 
 and hold my umbrella for me, Monsieur Bonnard." 
 
 " "What a strange little mind !" I thought to myself, 
 as I followed her. " It could only have been in a mo- 
 ment of inexcusable thoughtlessness that Nature gave 
 a child to such a giddy little woman !" 
 
 Qirgenti. Same day. 
 
 HER manners had shocked me. I left her to ar- 
 range herself in her lettica, and I made myself as com- 
 fortable as I could in my own. These vehicles, which 
 have no wheels, are carried by two mules one before 
 and one behind. This kind of litter, or chaise, is of 
 ancient origin. I had often seen representations of 
 similar ones in the French MSS. of the fourteenth cen- 
 tury. I had no idea then that one of those vehicles 
 would be at a future day placed at my own disposal 
 We must never be too sure of anything.
 
 56 THE CRIME OF SfLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 For three hours the mules sounded their little bells, 
 and thumped the calcined ground with their hoofs. 
 On either hand there slowly defiled by us the barren 
 monstrous shapes of a nature totally African. 
 
 Half-way we made a halt to allow our animals to 
 recover breath. 
 
 Madame Trepof came to me on the road, took my 
 arm, and drew me a little away from the party. Then, 
 very suddenly, she said to me in a tone of voice I had 
 never heard before : 
 
 " Do not think that I am a wicked woman. My 
 George knows that I am a good mother." 
 
 "We walked side by side for a moment in silence. 
 She looked up, and I saw that she was crying. 
 
 " Madame," I said to her, " look at this soil which 
 has been burned and cracked by five long months of 
 fiery heat. A little white lily has sprung up from it." 
 
 And I pointed with my cane to the frail stalk, 
 tipped by a double blossom. 
 
 " Your heart," I said, " however arid it be, bears 
 also its white lily ; and that is reason enough why I 
 do not believe that you are what you say a wicked 
 woman." 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes !" she cried, with the obstinacy of a 
 child " I am a wicked woman. But I am ashamed 
 to appear so before you who are so good so very, 
 very good." 
 
 " You do not know anything at all about it," I said 
 to her.
 
 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 57 
 
 " I know it ! I know all about you, Monsieur Bon- 
 nard !" she declared, with a smile. 
 And she jumped back into her lettica. 
 
 Girgenti, November 30, 1859. 
 
 I AWOKE the following morning in the House of Gel- 
 lias. Gellias was a rich citizen of ancient Agrigentum. 
 He was equally celebrated for his generosity and for 
 his wealth; and he endowed his native city with a 
 great number of free inns. Gellias has been dead for 
 thirteen hundred years ; and to-day there is no more 
 gratuitous hospitality among civilized peoples. But 
 the name of Gellias has become that of a hotel in 
 which, by reason of fatigue, I was able to obtain one 
 good night's sleep. 
 
 The modern Girgenti lifts its high, narrow, solid 
 streets, dominated by a sombre Spanish cathedral, 
 upon the site of the acropolis of the antique Agri- 
 gentum. I can see from my windows, half-way on 
 the hillside towards the sea, the white range of tem- 
 ples partially destroyed. The ruins alone have some 
 aspect of coolness. All the rest is arid. "Water and 
 life have forsaken Agrigentum. "Water the divine 
 Nestis of the Agrigentine Empedocles is so neces- 
 sary to animated beings that nothing can live far from 
 the rivers and the springs. But the port of Girgenti, 
 situated at a distance of three kilometres from the 
 city, has a great commerce. "And it is in this dis-
 
 58 TEE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 mal city," I said to myself, " upon this precipitous 
 rock, that the manuscript of Clerk Alexander is to 
 be found !" I asked my way to the house of Signer 
 Michael- Angelo Polizzi, and proceeded thither. 
 
 I found Signor Polizzi, dressed all in white from 
 head to feet, busy cooking sausages in a frying-pan. 
 At the sight of me, he let go the handle of the frying- 
 pan, threw up his arms in the air, and uttered shrieks 
 of enthusiasm. He was a little man whose pimply 
 features, aquiline nose, round eyes, and projecting 
 chin formed a very expressive physiognomy. 
 
 He called me "Excellence," said he was going to 
 mark that day with a white stone, and made me sit 
 down. The hall in which we were represented the 
 union of kitchen, reception-room, bedchamber, studio, 
 and wine-cellar. There were charcoal furnaces visi- 
 ble, a bed, paintings, an easel, bottles, strings of 
 onions, and a magnificent lustre of colored glass pen- 
 dants. I glanced at the paintings on the wall. 
 
 " The arts ! the arts 1" cried Signor Polizzi, throw- 
 ing up his arms again to heaven " the arts ! What dig- 
 nity ! what consolation ! Excellence, I am a painter!" 
 
 And he showed me an unfinished Saint-Francis, 
 which indeed could very well remain unfinished for- 
 ever without any loss to religion or to art. Next he 
 showed me some old paintings of a better style, but 
 apparently restored after a decidedly reckless manner. 
 
 " I repair," he said " I repair old paintings. Oh, 
 the Old Masters 1 What genius ! what soul !"
 
 THE CRIME OF 8YLVESTRE BONNARD. 59 
 
 "Why, then," I said to him, "you must be a 
 painter, an archaeologist, and a wine-merchant all 
 in one?" 
 
 "At your service, Excellence," he answered. "I 
 have a zucco here at this very moment a zucco of 
 which every single drop is a pearl of fire. I want 
 your Lordship to taste of it." 
 
 " I esteem the wines of Sicily," I responded ; " but 
 it was not for the sake of your flagons that I came 
 to see you, Signer Polizzi" 
 
 He : " Then you have come to see me about paint- 
 ings. You are an amateur. It is an immense delight 
 for me to receive amateurs. I am going to show you 
 the chef-d'oeuvre of Monrealese ; yes, Excellence, his 
 chef-d'ceuvre ! An Adoration of Shepherds ! It is the 
 pearl of the whole Sicilian school !" 
 
 I : " Later on I will be glad to see the chef-cFmwre; 
 but let us first talk about the business which brings 
 me here." 
 
 His little quick bright eyes watched my face curi- 
 ously ; and I perceived, with anguish, that he had not 
 the least suspicion of the purpose of my visit. 
 
 A cold sweat broke out over my forehead ; and in 
 the bewilderment of my anxiety I stammered out 
 something to this effect : 
 
 " I have come from Paris expressly to look at a 
 manuscript of the 'Legende Doree,' which you in- 
 formed me was in your possession." 
 
 At these words he threw up his arms, opened his
 
 60 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 mouth and eyes to the widest possible extent, and 
 betrayed every sign of extreme nervousness. 
 
 " Oh ! the manuscript of the ' Golden Legend !' A 
 pearl, Excellence ! a ruby, a diamond ! Two miniatures 
 so perfect that they give one the feeling of glimpses 
 of Paradise ! "What suavity ! Those colors ravished 
 from the corollas of flowers make a honey for the 
 eyes ! Even a Sicilian could have done no better !" 
 
 " Let me see it, then," I asked ; unable to conceal 
 either my anxiety or my hope. 
 
 " Let you see it !" cried Polizzi. " But how can I, 
 Excellence ? I have not got it any more ! I have not 
 got it !" 
 
 And he seemed determined to tear out his hair. 
 He might indeed have pulled every hair in his head 
 out of His hide before I should have tried to prevent 
 him. But he stopped of his own accord, before he 
 had done himself any grievous harm. 
 
 " "What !" I cried out in anger " what ! you make 
 me come all the way from Paris to Girgenti, by prom- 
 ising to show me a manuscript, and now, when I come, 
 you tell me you have not got it ! It is simply in- 
 famous, Monsieur ! I shall leave your conduct to be 
 judged by all honest men !" 
 
 Anybody who could have seen me at that moment 
 would have been able to form a good idea of the as- 
 pect of a furious sheep. 
 
 " It is infamous ! it is infamous !" I repeated, waving 
 my arms, which trembled from anger.
 
 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 61 
 
 Then Micael-Angelo Polizzi let himself fall into a 
 chair in the attitude of a dying hero. I saw his eyes 
 fill with tears, and his hair until then flamboyant and 
 erect upon his head fall down in limp disorder over 
 his brow. 
 
 "I am a father, Excellence! I am a father!" he 
 groaned, wringing his hands. 
 
 He continued, sobbing : 
 
 " My son Eaf ael the son of my poor wife, for whose 
 death I have been mourning fifteen years Eaf ael, Ex- 
 cellence, wanted to settle at Paris ; he hired a shop in 
 the Eue Lafitte for the sale of curiosities. I gave him 
 everything precious which I had I gave him my 
 finest majolicas; my most beautiful Urbino ware; 
 my masterpieces of art : what paintings, Signer ! Even 
 now they dazzle me when I see them only in imagina- 
 tion ! And all of them signed ! Finally, I gave him 
 the manuscript of the 'Golden Legend!' I would 
 have given him my flesh and my blood ! An only son, 
 Signer ! the son of my poor saintly wife !" 
 
 " So," I said, " while I relying upon your written 
 word, Monsieur was travelling to the very heart of 
 Sicily to find the manuscript of the Clerk Alexander, 
 the same manuscript was actually exposed for sale in 
 a window in Eue Lafitte, only fifteen hundred yards 
 from my house ?" 
 
 "Yes, it was there! that is positively true!" ex- 
 claimed Signer Polizzi, suddenly growing calm again ; 
 " and it is there still at least I hope it is, Excellence."
 
 62 THE CRIME OF 8YLVESTRE BONNARt). 
 
 He took a card from a shelf as he spoke, and offered 
 it to me, saying, 
 
 " Here is the address of my son. Make it known to 
 your friends, and you will oblige me. Faience and 
 enamelled wares ; hangings ; pictures. He has a com- 
 plete stock of objects of art all at the fairest possible 
 prices and everything authentic, I can vouch for it, 
 upon my honor ! Go and see him. He will show you 
 the manuscript of the ' Golden Legend.' Two min- 
 iatures miraculously fresh in color !" 
 
 I was feeble enough to take the card he held out to 
 me. 
 
 The fellow was taking further advantage of my 
 weakness to make me circulate the name of Rafael 
 Polizzi among the societies of learning ! 
 
 My hand was already on the door-knob, when the 
 Sicilian caught me by the arm , he had a look as of 
 Sudden inspiration. 
 
 "Ah! Excellence!" he cried, "what a city is this 
 city of ours ! It gave birth to Empedocles ! Empedo- 
 cles ! What a great man ! what a great citizen ! What 
 audacity of thought ! what virtue ! what soul ! At the 
 port over there is a statue of Empedocles, before which I 
 bare my head each time that I pass by ! When Rafael, 
 my son, was going away to found an establishment of 
 antiquities in the Rue Lafitte, at Paris, I took him to 
 the port, and there, at the foot of that statue of Em- 
 pedocles, I bestowed upon him my paternal benedic- 
 tion ! ' Always remember Empedocles !' I said to him.
 
 THE CRIME OF 87LVESTRE BONNARD. 63 
 
 Ah ! Signer, what our unhappy country needs to-day 
 is a new Empedocles ! Would you not like me to show 
 you the way to his statue, Excellence ? 1 will be your 
 guide among the ruins here. I will show you the tem- 
 ple of Castor and Pollux, the temple of the Olympian 
 Jupiter, the temple of the Lucinian Juno, the antique 
 well, the tomb of Theron, and the Gate of Gold ! All 
 the professional guides are asses ; but we we shall 
 make excavations, if you are willing and we shall 
 discover treasures ! I know the science of discovering 
 hidden treasures the secret art of finding their where- 
 abouts a gift from Heaven !" 
 
 I succeeded in tearing myself away from his grasp. 
 But he ran after me again, stopped me at the foot of 
 the stairs, and said in my ear, 
 
 " Listen, Excellence. I will conduct you about the 
 city ; I will introduce you to some Girgentines ! What 
 a race ! what types ! what forms ! Sicilian girls, Sig- 
 nor ! the antique beauty itself !" 
 
 "Go to the devil!" I cried, at last, in anger, and 
 rushed into the street, leaving him still writhing in the 
 loftiness of his enthusiasm. 
 
 When I had got out of his sight, I sank down upon 
 a stone, and began to think, with my face in my hands. 
 
 " And it was for this," I said to myself " it was to 
 hear such propositions as this that I came to Sicily !" 
 That Polizzi is simply a scoundrel, and his son an- 
 other ; and they made a plan together to ruin me." 
 But what was their scheme ? I could not unravel it.
 
 64 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 Meanwhile, it may be imagined how discouraged and 
 humiliated I felt. 
 
 A merry burst of laughter caused me to turn my 
 head, and I saw Madame Trepof running in advance 
 of her husband, and holding up something which I 
 could not distinguish clearly. 
 
 She sat down beside me, and showed me laughing 
 more merrily all the while an abominable little paste- 
 board box, on which was printed a red-and-blue face, 
 which the inscription declared to be the face of Em- 
 pedocles. 
 
 " Yes, Madam," I said, " but that abominable Polizzi, 
 to whom I advise you not to send Monsieur Trepof, 
 has made me fall out forever with Empedocles ; and 
 this portrait is not at all of a nature to make me feel 
 more kindly to the ancient philosopher." 
 
 " Oh !" declared Madame Trepof, " it is ugly, but it 
 is rare! These boxes are not exported at all; you 
 can buy them only where they are made. Dimitri 
 has six others just like this in his pocket. "We got 
 them so as to exchange with other collectors. You 
 understand ? At nine o'clock this morning we were at 
 the factory. You see we did not waste our time." 
 
 " So I certainly perceive, Madame," I replied, bitter- 
 ly ; " but I have lost mine." 
 
 I then saw that she was naturally a good-hearted 
 woman. All her merriment vanished. 
 
 " Poor Monsieur Bonnard ! poor Monsieur Bon- 
 nard !" she murmured.
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 65 
 
 And, taking my hand in hers, she added : 
 
 " Tell me about your troubles." 
 
 I told her about them. My story was long ; but 
 she was evidently touched by it, for she asked me 
 quite a number of circumstantial questions, which I 
 took for proof of friendly interest. She wanted to 
 know the exact title of the manuscript, its shape, its 
 appearance, and its age ; she asked me for the address 
 of Signor Rafael Polizzi. 
 
 And I gave it to her ; thus doing (O destiny !) pre- 
 cisely what the abominable Polizzi had told me to 
 do. 
 
 It is sometimes difficult to check one's self. I recom- 
 menced my plaints and my imprecations. But this 
 time Madame Trepof only burst out laughing. 
 
 " Why do you laugh ?" I asked her. 
 
 " Because I am a wicked woman," she answered. 
 
 And she fled away, leaving me all disheartened on 
 my stone. 
 
 Paris, December 8, 1859. 
 
 MY unpacked trunks still encumbered the hall. I 
 was seated at a table covered with all those good things 
 which the land of France produces for the delectation 
 of gourmets. I was eating a pate de Chartres, which 
 is alone sufficient to make one love one's country. 
 Therese, standing before me with her hands joined 
 over her white apron, was looking at me with benig- 
 5
 
 66 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 nity, with anxiety, and with pity. Hamilcar was rub- 
 bing himself against my legs, wild with delight. 
 These words of an old poet came back to my memory : 
 
 " Happy is he who, like Ulysses, hath made a goodly journey," 
 
 ..." Well," I thought to myself, " I traveUed to no 
 purpose ; I have come back with empty hands ; but, 
 like Ulysses, I made a goodly journey." 
 
 And having taken my last sip of coffee, I asked 
 Therese for my hat and cane, which she gave me not 
 without dire suspicions : she feared I might be going 
 upon another journey. But I reassured her by telling 
 her to have dinner ready at six o'clock. 
 
 It had always been a keen pleasure for me to breathe 
 the air in those Parisian streets whose every paving- 
 slab and every stone I love devotedly. But I had an 
 end in view, and I took my way straight to the Kue 
 Lafitte. I was not long in finding the establishment 
 of Signor Kafael Polizzi. It was distinguishable by 
 a great display of old paintings which, although all 
 bearing the signature of some illustrious artist, had a 
 certain family air of resemblance that might have 
 suggested some touching idea about the fraternity of 
 genius, had it not still more forcibly suggested the 
 professional tricks of Polizzi S r . Enriched by these 
 doubtful works of art, the shop was further ren- 
 dered attractive by various petty curiosities : poniards, 
 drinking- vessels, goblets, figulines, brass gaudrcns, and 
 Hispano- Arabian wares of metallic lustre.
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 67 
 
 Upon a Portuguese arm-chair, decorated with an 
 escutcheon, lay a copy of the "Heures" of Simon 
 Yostre, open at the page which has an astrological 
 figure on it; and an old Yitruvius, placed upon a 
 quaint chest, displayed its masterly engravings of 
 caryatides and telamones. This apparent disorder 
 which only masked cunning arrangement, this fac- 
 titious hazard which had placed the best objects in 
 the most favorable light, would have increased my 
 distrust of the place, but that the distrust which the 
 mere name of Polizzi had already inspired could not 
 have been increased by any circumstances being al- 
 ready infinite. 
 
 Signor Kafael, who sat there as the presiding ge- 
 nius of all these vague and incongruous shapes, im- 
 pressed me as a phlegmatic young man, with a sort of 
 English character. He betrayed no sign whatever of 
 those transcendent faculties displayed by his father 
 in the arts of mimicry and declamation. 
 
 I told him what I had come for ; he opened a cabi- 
 net and drew from it a manuscript, which he placed on 
 a table that I might examine it at my leisure. 
 
 Never in my life did I experience such an emotion 
 except, indeed, during some few brief months of my 
 youth, months whose memories, though I should live 
 a hundred years, would remain as fresh at my last 
 hour as in the first day they came to me. 
 
 It was, indeed, the very manuscript described by the 
 librarian of Sir Thomas Raleigh ; it was, indeed, the
 
 68 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 manuscript of the Clerk Alexander which I saw, which 
 I touched ! The work of Voragine himself had been 
 perceptibly abridged ; but that made little difference 
 to me. All the inestimable additions of the monk of 
 Saint -Germain-des-Pres were there. That was the 
 main point ! I tried to read the Legend of Saint Droc- 
 toveus ; but I could not all the lines of the page quiv- 
 ered before my eyes, and there was a sound in my ears 
 like the noise of a windmill in the country at night. 
 Nevertheless, I was able to see that the manuscript 
 offered every evidence of indubitable authenticity. 
 The two drawings of the Purification of the Virgin 
 and the Coronation of Proserpine were meagre in de- 
 sign and vulgar in violence of coloring. Considerably 
 damaged in 1 824, as attested by the catalogue of Sir 
 Thomas, they had obtained during the interval a new 
 aspect of freshness. But this miracle did not surprise 
 me at all. And, besides, what did I care about the two 
 miniatures ? The legends and the poem of Alexander 
 those alone formed the treasure I desired. My 
 eyes devoured as much of it as they had the power 
 to absorb. 
 
 I affected indifference while asking Signor Polizzi 
 the price of the manuscript ; and, while awaiting his 
 reply, I offered up a secret prayer that the price might 
 not exceed the amount of ready money at my disposal 
 already much diminished by the cost of my expen- 
 sive voyage. Signor Polizzi, however, informed me 
 that he was not at liberty to dispose of the article, in-
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 69 
 
 asrauch as it did not belong to him, and was to be sold 
 at auction shortly, at the Hotel des Yentes, with a 
 number of other MSS. and several incunabula. 
 
 This was a severe blow to me. I tried to preserve 
 my calmness, notwithstanding, and replied somewhat 
 to this effect : 
 
 " You surprise me, Monsieur ! Your father, whom I 
 talked with recently at Girgenti, told me positively 
 the manuscript was yours. You cannot now attempt 
 to make me discredit your father's word." 
 
 "I did own the manuscript, indeed," answered 
 Signer Rafael with absolute frankness ; " but I do not 
 own it any longer. I sold that manuscript the re- 
 markable interest of which you have not failed to 
 perceive to an amateur whom I am forbidden to 
 name, and who, for reasons which I am not at liberty 
 to mention, finds himself obliged to sell his collection. 
 I am honored with the confidence of my customer, 
 and was commissioned by him to draw up the cata- 
 logue and manage the sale, which takes place the 24th 
 of December. Now, if you will be kind enough to 
 give me your address, I will have the pleasure of send- 
 ing you the catalogue, which is already in press. You 
 will find the ' Legende Doree ' described in it as * No. 
 42.' " 
 
 I gave my address, and left the shop. 
 
 The polite gravity of the son impressed me quite as 
 disagreeably as the impudent buffoonery of the father. 
 I hated, from the bottom of my heart, the tricks of the
 
 fo THE CRIME OF 8YLVE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 vile hagglers ! It was perfectly evident that the two 
 rascals had a secret understanding, and had only de- 
 vised this auction-sale, with the aid of a professibnal 
 appraiser, to force the bidding on the manuscript I 
 wanted so much up to an outrageous figure. I was 
 completely at their mercy. There is one evil in all 
 passionate desires, even the noblest namely, that they 
 leave us subject to the will of others, and in so far de- 
 pendent. This reflection made me suffer cruelly ; but 
 it did not conquer my longing to own the work of 
 Clerk Alexander. "While I was thus meditating, I 
 heard a coachman swear. And I discovered it was I 
 whom he was swearing at only when I felt the pole 
 of a carriage poke me in th ribs. I started aside, 
 barely in time to save myself from being run over; 
 and whom did I perceive through the windows of the 
 coupe f Madame Trepof, being taken by two beauti- 
 ful horses, and a coachman all wrapped up in furs like 
 a Eussian loyard, into the very street I had just left. 
 She did not notice me; she was laughing to herself 
 with that artless grace of expression which still pre- 
 served for her, at thirty years, all the charm of her 
 early youth. 
 
 " Well, well !" I said to myself, " she is laughing ! I 
 suppose she must have just found another match-box." 
 
 And I made my way back to the Fonts, feeling very 
 miserable. 
 
 Nature, eternally indifferent, neither hastened nor
 
 THE CRIME OF 8YLVE8TRE BONNARD. fl 
 
 hurried the twenty-fourth day of December. I went 
 to the Hotel Bullion, and took my place in Salle !N"o. 
 4, immediately below the high desk at which the auc- 
 tioneer Bouloze and the expert Polizzi were to sit. I 
 saw the hall gradually fill with familiar faces. I shook 
 hands with several old booksellers of the quays ; but 
 that prudence which any large interest inspires in even 
 the most self-assured caused me to keep silence in re- 
 gard to the reason of my unaccustomed presence in the 
 halls of the Hotel Bullion. On the other hand, I ques- 
 tioned those gentlemen closely about the purpose of 
 their attendance at the auction-sale; and I had the 
 satisfaction of finding them all interested about mat- 
 ters in no wise related to my affair. 
 
 Little by little the hall became thronged with inter- 
 ested or merely curious spectators ; and, after half an 
 hour's delay, the auctioneer, with his ivory hammer, 
 the clerk with his bundle of memorandum-papers, and 
 the crier, carrying his collection-box fixed to the end 
 of a pole, all took their places on the platform in the 
 most solemn business manner. The hall-boys ranged 
 themselves at the foot of the desk. The presiding offi- 
 cer having declared the sale open, a partial hush fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 A commonplace lot of Preces pirn, with miniatures, 
 were first sold off at mediocre prices. Needless to say, 
 the illuminations of these books were in perfect con- 
 dition \ 
 
 The lowness of the bids gave courage to the gather-
 
 72 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTER BONNARD. 
 
 ing of second-hand booksellers present, who began to 
 mingle with us, and became familiar. The dealers 
 in old brass and bric-d-brac pressed forward in their 
 turn, waiting for the doors of an adjoining room to be 
 opened ; and the voice of the auctioneer was drowned 
 by the jests of the Auvergnats. 
 
 A magnificent codex of the "Guerre des Juif s " revived 
 attention. It was long disputed for. " Five thousand 
 francs ! five thousand !" called the crier, while the bric- 
 d-brac dealers remained silent with admiration. Then 
 seven or eight antiphonaries brought us back again to 
 low prices. A fat old woman, in loose gown and bare- 
 headed a dealer in second-hand goods encouraged 
 by the size of the books and the low prices bidden, 
 had one of the antiphonaries knocked down to her for 
 thirty francs. 
 
 At last the expert Polizzi announced No 42 : " The 
 * Golden Legend ;' French MS. ; inedited ; two superb 
 miniatures. Started with a bid of three thousand 
 francs." 
 
 " Three thousand ! three thousand bid !" yelled the 
 crier. 
 
 " Three thousand !" dryly repeated the auctioneer. 
 
 There was a buzzing in my head, and, as through a 
 cloud, I saw a host of curious faces all turning towards 
 the manuscript, which a boy was carrying open through 
 the audience. 
 
 " Three thousand and fifty !" I said. 
 
 I was frightened by the sound of my own voice, and
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVE8TRE BONNARD. 73 
 
 . 
 
 further confused by seeing, or thinking that I saw, all 
 eyes turned upon me. 
 
 " Three thousand and fifty on the right !" called the 
 crier, taking up my bid. 
 
 " Three thousand one hundred !" responded Signer 
 Polizzi. 
 
 Then began -a heroic duel between the expert and 
 myself. 
 
 " Three thousand five hundred !" 
 
 Six hundred !" 
 
 " Seven hundred !" 
 
 " Four thousand !' ? 
 
 " Four thousand five hundred." 
 
 Then, by a sudden bold stroke, Signor Polizzi raised 
 the bid at once to six thousand. 
 
 Six thousand francs was all the money I could dis- 
 pose of. It represented the possible. I risked the 
 impossible. 
 
 " Six thousand one hundred !" 
 
 Alas ! even the impossible did not suffice. 
 
 "Six thousand five hundred!" replied Signor Po- 
 lizzi, with calm. 
 
 I bowed my head and sat there stupefied, unable to 
 answer either yes or no to the crier, who called to me : 
 
 " Six thousand five hundred, by me not by you on 
 the right there ! it is my bid no mistake ! Six thou- 
 sand five hundred !" 
 
 "Perfectly understood!" declared the auctioneer. 
 " Six thousand five hundred. Perfectly clear ; per-
 
 74 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 fectly plain. . . . Any more bids ? The last bid is six 
 thousand five hundred francs!" 
 
 A solemn silence prevailed. Suddenly I felt as if 
 my head had burst open. It was the hammer of the 
 ministerial officer, who, with a loud blow on the plat- 
 form, adjudged No. 42 irrevocably to Signor Polizzi. 
 Forthwith the pen of the clerk, coursing over the pa- 
 pier-timbre, registered that great fact in a single line. 
 
 I was absolutely prostrated, and I felt the utmost 
 need of rest and quiet. Nevertheless, I did not leave 
 my seat. My powers of reflection slowly returned. 
 Hope is tenacious. I had one more hope. It occurred to 
 me that the new owner of the " Legende Doree " might 
 be some intelligent and liberal bibliophile who would 
 allow me to examine the MS., and perhaps even to 
 publish the more important parts. And, with this 
 idea, as soon as the sale was over I approached the 
 expert as he was leaving the platform. 
 
 " Monsieur," I asked him, " did you buy in No. 42 
 on your own account, or on commission ?" 
 
 " On commission. I was instructed not to let it go 
 at any price." 
 
 " Can you tell me the name of the purchaser ?" 
 
 " Monsieur, I regret that I cannot serve you in that 
 respect. I have been strictly forbidden to mention 
 the name." 
 
 I went home in despair.
 
 THE CRIME OF 87LVE8TRE BONNARD. 75 
 
 December 30, 1859. 
 
 "THERESE! don't you hear the bell ? Somebody has 
 been ringing at the door for the last quarter of an 
 hour!" 
 
 Therese does not answer. She is chattering down- 
 stairs with the concierge, for sure. So that is the way 
 you observe your old master's birthday ? You desert 
 me even on the eve of Saint-Sylvestre ! Alas! if I 
 am to hear any kind wishes to-day, they must come up 
 from the ground ; for all who love me have long been 
 buried. I really don't know what I am still living 
 for. There is the bell again ! . . . I get up slowly from 
 my seat at the fire, with my shoulders still bent from 
 stooping over it, and go to the door myself. "Who do 
 I see at the threshold? It is not a dripping Love, 
 and I am not an old Anacreon ; but it is a very pretty 
 little boy of about ten years old. He is alone; he 
 raises his face ,to look at me. His cheeks are blush- 
 ing ; but his little pert nose gives one an idea of mis- 
 chievous pleasantry. He has feathers in his cap, and a 
 great lace-ruff on his jacket. The pretty little fellow ! 
 He holds in both arms a bundle as big as himself, and 
 asks me if I am Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard. I tell 
 him yes ; he gives me the bundle, tells me his mamma 
 sent it to me, and then he runs down-stairs. 
 
 I go down a few steps ; I lean over the balustrade, 
 and see the little cap whining down the spiral of the 
 stairway like a feather m the wind. " Good-by, my
 
 76 THE CRIME OF SYLVKSTRE BONNARD. 
 
 little boy !" I should have liked so much to question 
 him. But what, after all, could I have asked ? It is 
 not polite to question children. Besides, the package 
 itself will probably give me more information than 
 the messenger could. 
 
 It is a very big bundle, but not very heavy. I take 
 it into my library, and there untie the ribbons and 
 unfasten the paper wrappings; and I see what? a 
 log! a first-class log! a real Christmas log, but so 
 light that I know it must be hollow. Then I find that 
 it is indeed composed of two separate pieces, opening 
 on hinges, and fastened with hooks. I slip the hooks 
 back, and find myself inundated with violets ! Vio- 
 lets ! they pour over my table, over my knees, over the 
 carpet. They tumble into my vest, into my sleeves. 
 I am all perfumed with them. 
 
 " Therese ! Therese ! fill me some vases with water, 
 and bring them here, quick ! Here are violets sent to 
 us I know not from what country nor by what hand ; 
 but it must be from a perfumed country, and by a very 
 gracious hand. . . . Do you hear me, old crow ?" 
 
 I have put all the violets on my table now com- 
 pletely covered by the odorous mass. But there is 
 still something in the log ... a book a manuscript. 
 It is ... I cannot believe it, and yet I cannot doubt it. 
 ... It is the " Legende Doree " ! it is the manuscript 
 of the Clerk Alexander ! Here is the " Purification of 
 the Virgin " and the " Coronation of Proserpine ;" 
 here is the legend of Saint Droctoveus. I contemplate
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVE8TRE BONNARD. 77 
 
 i 
 this violet-perfumed relic. I turn the leaves of it 
 
 between which the dark rich blossoms have slipped 
 in here and there; and, right opposite the legend 
 of Saint-Cecilia, I find a card bearing this name : 
 
 "Princess Trepof" 
 
 Princess Trepof! you who laughed and wept by 
 turns so sweetly under the fair sky of Agrigentum ! 
 you, whom a cross old man believed to be only a 
 foolish little woman ! to-day I am convinced of your 
 rare and beautiful folly; and the old fellow whom 
 you now overwhelm with happiness will go to kiss 
 your hand, and give you back, in another form, this 
 precious manuscript, of which both he and science 
 owe you an exact and sumptuous publication ! 
 
 Therese entered my study just at that moment ; 
 she seemed to be very much excited. 
 
 "Monsieur!" she cried, "guess whom I saw just 
 now in a carriage, with a coat-of-arms painted on it, 
 that was stopping before the door ?" 
 
 " Parlleu ! Madame Trepof," I exclaimed. 
 
 "I don't know anything about any Madame Tre- 
 pof," answered my housekeeper. "The woman I 
 saw just now was dressed like a duchess, and had a 
 little boy with her, with lace-frills all along the seams 
 of his clothes. And it was that same little Madame 
 Coccoz you once sent a log to, when she was confined 
 here about eleven years ago. I recognized her at once."
 
 78 THS CRIME OF 8YLVE3TRE BONNARD. 
 
 "What!" I exclaimed, "you mean to say it was 
 Madame Coccoz, the widow of the almanac-peddler?" 
 
 " Herself, Monsieur ! The carriage-door was open 
 for a minute to let her little boy, who had just come 
 from I don't know where, get in. She hasn't changed 
 scarcely at all. Well, why should those women 
 change? they never worry themselves about any- 
 thing. Only the Coccoz woman looks a little fatter 
 than she used to be. And the idea of a woman that 
 was taken in here out of pure charity coming to show 
 off her velvets and diamonds in a carriage with a crest 
 painted on it ! Isn't it shameful !" 
 
 " Therese !" I cried, in a terrible voice, " if you 
 ever speak to me again about that lady except in 
 terms of the deepest respect, you and I will fall out ! 
 . . . Bring me the Sevres vases to put those violets in, 
 which now give the City of Books a charm it never 
 had before." 
 
 While Therese went off with a sigh to get the 
 Sevres vases, I continued to contemplate those beauti- 
 ful scattered violets, whose odor spread all about me 
 like the perfume of some sweet presence, some 
 charming soul ; and I asked myself how it had been 
 possible for me never to recognize Madame Coccoz in 
 the person of the Princess Trepof. But that vision \ 
 of the young widow, showing me her little child on 
 the stairs, had been a very rapid one. I had much 
 more reason to reproach myself for having passed by 
 a gracious and lovely soul without knowing it.
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 79 
 
 "Bonnard," I said to myself, "thou knowest how 
 to decipher old texts ; but thou dost not know how to 
 read in the Book of Life. That giddy little Madame 
 Trepof, whom thou once believed to possess no more 
 soul than a bird, has expended, in pure gratitude, 
 more zeal and finer tact than thou didst ever show for 
 anybody's sake. Right royally hath she repaid thee 
 for the log-fire of her churching-day ! 
 
 " Therese ! Awhile ago you were a magpie ; now 
 you are becoming a tortoise ! Come and give some 
 water to these Parmese violets."
 
 Part Uf . THE DAUGHTER OF CLEMENTINE. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE FAIRY. 
 
 WHEN I left the train at the Melun station, night 
 had already spread its peace over the silent country. 
 The soil, heated through all the long day by a strong 
 sun by a " gros soleil" as the harvesters of the Yal 
 de Vire say still exhaled a warm heavy smell. Lush 
 dense odors of grass passed over the level of the fields. 
 I brushed away the dust of the railroad car, and joy- 
 fully inhaled the pure air. My travelling-bag filled 
 by my housekeeper with linen and various small toilet 
 articles, munditis, seemed so light in my hand that I 
 swung it about just as a schoolboy swings his strapped 
 package of rudimentary books when the class is let 
 out. 
 
 Would to Heaven that I were again a little urchin 
 at school ! But it is fully fifty years since my good 
 dead mother made me some tartines of bread and 
 preserves, and placed them in a basket of which she 
 slipped the handle over my arm, and then led me, 
 thus prepared, to the school kept by Monsieur Douloir,
 
 TEE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 81 
 
 at a corner of the Passage du Commerce well known 
 to the sparrows, between a court and a garden. The 
 enormous Monsieur Douloir smiled upon us genially, 
 and patted my cheek to show, no doubt, the affection- 
 ate interest which my first appearance had inspired. 
 But when my mother had passed out of the court, 
 startling the sparrows as she went, Monsieur Douloir 
 ceased to smile he showed no more affectionate in- 
 terest ; he appeared, on the contrary, to consider me as 
 a very troublesome little fellow. I discovered, later 
 on, that he entertained the same feelings towards all 
 his pupils. lie distributed whacks of his ferule with 
 an agility no one could have expected on the part of 
 so corpulent a person. But his first aspect of ten- 
 der interest invariably reappeared when he spoke to 
 any of our mothers in our presence ; and always at 
 such times, while warmly praising our remarkable 
 aptitudes, he would cast down upon us a look of in- 
 tense affection. Still, those were happy days which I 
 passed on the benches of Monsieur Douloir with my 
 little playfellows, who, like myself, cried and laughed by 
 turns with all their might, from morning till evening. 
 After a whole half -century these souvenirs float up 
 again, fresh and bright as ever, to the surface of 
 memory, under this starry sky, whose face has in no 
 wise changed since then, and whose serene and im- 
 mutable lights will doubtless see many other school- 
 boys such as I was slowly turn into gray -headed 
 savants, afflicted with catarrh. 
 6
 
 82 THE CRIME OF 87LVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 Stars, who have shone down upon each wise or fool- 
 ish head among all my forgotten ancestors, it is under 
 your soft light that I now feel stir within me a certain 
 poignant regret ! I would that I could have a son 
 who might be able to see you when I shall see you no 
 more. How I should love him ! Ah ! such a son 
 would what am I saying ? why, he would be now 
 just twenty years old if you had only been willing, 
 Clementine you whose cheeks used to look so ruddy 
 under your pink hood ! But you married that young 
 bank clerk, Noel Alexandre, who made so many mill- 
 ions afterwards ! I never met you again after your 
 marriage, Clementine, but I can see you now, with your 
 bright curls and your pink hood. 
 
 A looking-glass ! a looking-glass ! a looking-glass ! 
 Keally, I would be curious to see what I look like now, 
 with my white hair, sighing Clementine's name to the 
 stars ! Still, it is not right to end with sterile irony 
 the thought begun in the spirit of faith and love. No, 
 Clementine, if your name came to my lips by chance 
 this beautiful night, be it forever blessed, your dear 
 name ! and may you ever, as a happy mother, a happy 
 grandmother, enjoy to the very end of life with your 
 rich husband the utmost degree of that happiness 
 which you had the right to believe you could not win 
 with the poor young scholar who loved you! If 
 though I cannot even now imagine it if your beauti- 
 ful hair has become white, Clementine, bear worthily 
 the bundle of keys confided to you by Noel Alex-
 
 THE CRIME OF 8YLVESTRE BONNARD. 83 
 
 andre, and impart to your grandchildren the knowl- 
 edge of all domestic virtues ! 
 
 The beautiful Night ! She rules, with such noble 
 repose, over men and animals alike, kindly loosed by 
 her from the yoke of daily toil ; and even I feel her 
 beneficent influence, although my habits of sixty years 
 have so changed me that I can feel most things only 
 through the signs which represent them. My world 
 is wholly formed of words so much of a philologist 
 I have become ! Each one dreams the dream of life 
 in his own way. I have dreamed it in my library ; and 
 when the hour shall come in which I must leave this 
 world, may it please God to take me from my ladder 
 from before my shelves of books ! . . . 
 
 " Well, well ! it is really himself, pardieu ! How 
 are you, Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard ? And where 
 have you been travelling to all this time, over the 
 country, while I was waiting for you at the station 
 with my cabriolet ? You escaped me when the train 
 came in, and I was driving back, quite disappointed, to 
 Lusance. Give me your valise, and get up here be- 
 side me in the carriage. Why, do you know it is fully 
 seven kilometres from here to the chateau ?" 
 
 Who addresses me thus, at the very top of his voice, 
 from the height of his cabriolet? Monsieur Paul de 
 Gabry, nephew and heir of Monsieur Honore de Ga- 
 bry, peer of France in 1842, who recently died at 
 Monaco. And it was precisely to Monsieur Paul de 
 Gabry's house that I was going with that valise of
 
 84 THE CRIME OF 87LVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 mine, so carefully strapped by ray housekeeper. This 
 excellent young man has just inherited, conjointly with 
 his two brothers-in-law, the property of his uncle, who, 
 belonging to a very ancient family of distinguished 
 lawyers, had accumulated in his chateau at Lusance a 
 library rich in MSS., some dating back to the four- 
 teenth century. It was for the purpose of making an 
 inventory and a catalogue of these MSS. that I had 
 come to Lusance at the urgent request of Monsieur 
 Paul de Gabry, whose father, a perfect gentleman and 
 distinguished bibliophile, had maintained the most 
 pleasant relations with me during his lifetime. To 
 tell the truth, Monsieur Paul has not inherited the fine 
 tastes of his father. Monsieur Paul likes sporting ; he 
 is a great authority on horses and dogs ; and I much 
 fear that of all the sciences capable of satisfying or of 
 duping the inexhaustible curiosity of mankind, those 
 of the stable and the dog-kennel are the only ones 
 thoroughly mastered by him. 
 
 I cannot say I was surprised to meet him, since we 
 had made a rendezvous ; but I acknowledge that I 
 had become so preoccupied with my own thoughts 
 that I had forgotten all about the Chateau de Lusance 
 and its inhabitants, and that the voice of the gen- 
 tleman calling out to me as I started to follow the 
 country road winding away before me "un ba?i ru~ 
 Ian de queue" as they say had given me quite a 
 start. 
 
 I fear my face must have betrayed my incongruous
 
 THE CRIME OF S7LVE8TRE BONNARD. 85 
 
 distraction by a certain stupid expression which it is 
 apt to assume in most of my social transactions. My 
 valise was pulled up into the carriage, and I followed 
 my valise. My host pleased me by his straightfor- 
 ward simplicity. 
 
 "I don't know anything myself about your old 
 parchments," he said; "but I think you will find 
 some folks to talk to at the house. Besides the cure, 
 who writes books himself, and the doctor, who is a 
 very good fellow although a radical you will meet 
 somebody able to keep you company. I mean my 
 wife. She is not a very learned woman, but there 
 are few things which she can't divine pretty well. 
 Then I count upon being able to keep you with us 
 long enough to make you acquainted with Mademoi- 
 selle Jeanne, who has the fingers of a magician and 
 the soul of an angel." 
 
 " And is this delightfully gifted young lady one of 
 your family ?" I asked. 
 
 "Not at all," replied Monsieur Paul. 
 
 " Then she is just a friend of yours ?" I persisted, 
 rather stupidly. 
 
 "She has lost both her father and mother," an- 
 swered Monsieur de Gabry, keeping his eyes fixed 
 upon the ears of his horse, whose hoofs rang loudly 
 over the road blue-tinted by the moonshine. "Her 
 father managed to get us into some very serious 
 trouble ; and we did not get off with a fright either !" 
 
 Then he shook his head, and changed the subject.
 
 86 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 He gave me due warning of the ruinous condition in 
 which I would find the chateau and the park; they 
 had been absolutely deserted for thirty-two years. 
 
 I learned from him that Monsieur Honore de Ga- 
 bry, his uncle, had been on very bad terms with some 
 poachers, whom he used to shoot at like rabbits. One 
 of them, a vindictive peasant, who had received a 
 whole charge of shot in his face, lay in wait for the 
 Seigneur one evening behind the trees of the mall, 
 and very nearly succeeded in killing him, for the ball 
 took off the tip of his ear. 
 
 "My uncle," Monsieur Paul continued, "tried to 
 discover who had fired the shot ; but he could not see 
 any one, and he walked back slowly to the house. 
 The day after he called his steward, and ordered him 
 to close up the manor and the park, and allow no 
 living soul to enter. He expressly forbade that any- 
 thing should be touched, or looked after, or any rep- 
 arations made on the estate during his absence. He 
 added, between his teeth, that he would return at 
 Easter, or Trinity Sunday, as they say in the song ; 
 and, just as the song has it, Trinity Sunday passed 
 without a sign of him. He died last year at Monaco ; 
 my brother-in-law and myself were the first to enter 
 the chateau after it had been abandoned for thirty- 
 two years. We found a chestnut-tree growing in the 
 middle of the parlor. As for the park, it was useless 
 trying to visit it, because there were no more paths, 
 no alleys."
 
 THE CHIME OF STLV1S8TIW BONNARD. 87 
 
 My companion ceased to speak ; and only the regu- 
 lar hoof-beat of the trotting horse, and the cliirping 
 of insects in the grass, broke the silence. On either 
 hand, the sheaves standing in the fields took, in the 
 vague moonlight, the appearance of tall white women 
 kneeling down; and I abandoned myself awhile to 
 those wonderful childish fancies which the charm of 
 night always suggests. After driving under the heavy 
 shadows of the mall, we turned to the right and rolled 
 up a lordly avenue, at the end of which the chateau 
 suddenly rose into view a black mass, with turrets 
 en poivriere. "We f olio wed a sort of causeway, which 
 gave access to the court-of-honor, and which, passing 
 over a moat full of running water, doubtless replaced 
 a long-vanished drawbridge. The loss of that draw- 
 bridge must have been, I think, the first of various hu- 
 miliations to which the warlike manor had been sub- 
 jected ere being reduced to that pacific aspect with 
 which it received me. The stars reflected themselves 
 with marvellous clearness in the dark water. Mon- 
 sieur Paul, like a courteous host, escorted me to my 
 chamber in the very top of the building, at the end 
 of a long corridor ; and then, excusing himself for not 
 presenting me at once to his wife by reason of the 
 lateness of the hour, bade me good-night. 
 
 My apartment, painted in white, and hung with 
 chintz, seemed to keep some traces of the elegant 
 gallantry of the eighteenth century. A heap of still- 
 glowing ashes which testified to the pains taken to
 
 88 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 dispel humidity filled the fireplace, whose marble 
 mantelpiece supported a bust of Marie Antoinette 
 in biscuit. Attached to the frame of the tarnished 
 and discolored mirror, two brass hooks, that had once 
 doubtless served the ladies of old-fashioned days to 
 hang their chatelaines on, seemed to offer a very 
 opportune means of suspending my watch, which I 
 took care to wind up beforehand ; for, contrary to the 
 opinion of the Thelemites, I hold that man is only 
 master of time, which is Life itself, when he has 
 divided it into hours, minutes, and seconds that is . 
 to say, into parts proportioned to the brevity of hu- 
 man existence. 
 
 And I thought to myself that life really seems 
 short to us only because we measure it irrationally by 
 our own mad hopes. We have all of us, like the old 
 man in the fable, a new wing to add to our building. 
 I want, for example, before I die, to finish my " History 
 of the Abbots of Saint-Germain-des-Pres." The time 
 God allots to each one of us is like a precious tissue 
 which we embroider as we best know how. I had 
 begun my woof with all sorts of philological illustra- 
 tions. ... So my thoughts wandered on ; and at last, 
 as I bound my foulard about my head, the notion of 
 Time led me back to the past; and for the second 
 time within the same round of the dial I thought of 
 you, Clementine to bless you again in your pos- 
 terity, if you have any, before blowing out my candle 
 and falling asleep amidst the chanting of the frogs.
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 89 
 
 n. 
 
 breakfast I had many opportunities to ap- 
 preciate the good taste, tact, and intelligence of Ma- 
 dame de Gabry, who told me that the chateau had 
 its ghosts, and was especially haunted by the " Lady- 
 with-three-wrinkles-in-her-back," a poisoner during 
 her lifetime, and thereafter a Soul-in-pain. I could 
 never describe how much wit and animation she gave 
 to this old nurse's tale. We took our coffee on the 
 terrace, whose balusters, clasped and forcibly torn 
 away from their stone coping by a vigorous growth of 
 ivy, remained suspended in the grasp of the amorous 
 plant like bewildered Athenian women in the arms 
 of ravishing Centaurs. 
 
 The chateau, shaped something like a four-wheeled 
 wagon, with a turret at each of the four angles, had 
 lost all original character by reason of repeated re- 
 modellings. It was merely a fine spacious building, 
 nothing more. It did not appear to me to have suf- 
 fered much damage during its abandonment of thirty- 
 two years. But when Madame de Gabry conducted 
 me into the great salon of the ground-floor, I saw that 
 the planking was bulged in and out, the plinths rotten, 
 the wainscotings split apart, the paintings of the piers 
 turned black and hanging more than half out of their 
 settings. A chestnut-tree, after forcing up the planks 
 of the floor, had grown tall under the ceiling, and was 
 reaching out its large-leaved branches towards the 
 glassless windows.
 
 90 THE CRIME OF STfLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 This spectacle was not devoid of charm; but I 
 could not look at it without anxiety, as I remembered 
 that the rich library of Monsieur Honore de Gabry, 
 in an adjoining apartment, must have been exposed 
 for the same length of time to the same forces of de- 
 cay. Yet, as I looked at the young chestnut-tree in 
 the salon, I could not but admire the magnificent vigor 
 of Nature, and that resistless power which forces every 
 germ to develop into life. On the other hand I felt 
 saddened to think that, whatever effort we scholars 
 may make to preserve dead things from passing away, 
 we are laboring painfully in vain. Whatever has 
 lived becomes the necessary food of new existences. 
 And the Arab who builds himself a hut out of the 
 marble fragments of a Palmyra temple is really more 
 of a philosopher than all the guardians of museums at 
 London, Munich, or Paris. 
 
 August 11. 
 
 ALL day long I have been classifying MSS. . . . The 
 sun came in through the lofty uncurtained windows ; 
 and, during my reading, often very interesting, I could 
 hear the languid bumble-bees bump heavily against 
 the windows, and the flies, intoxicated with light and 
 heat, making their wings hum in circles round my 
 head. So loud became their humming about three 
 o'clock that I looked up from the document I was 
 reading a document containing very precious mate-
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 91 
 
 rials for the history of Melon in the thirteenth centu- 
 ry to watch the concentric movements of those 
 tiny creatures. " JBestions" Laf ontaine calls them : he 
 found this form of the word in the old popular speech, 
 whence also the term, tapisserie-drbestions, applied to 
 figured tapestry. I was compelled to confess that 
 the effect of heat upon the wings of a fly is totally 
 different from that it exerts upon the brain of a pale- 
 ographical archivist; for I found it very difficult to 
 think, and a rather pleasant languor weighing upon 
 me, from which I could rouse myself only by a very 
 determined effort. The dinner-bell then startled me 
 in the midst of my labors ; and I had barely time to 
 put on my new dress-coat, so as to make a respectable 
 appearance before Madame de Gabry. 
 
 The repast, generously served, seemed to prolong it- 
 self for my benefit. I am more than a fair judge of 
 wine ; and my hostess, who discovered my knowledge 
 in this regard, was friendly enough to open a certain 
 bottle of Chateau-Margaux in my honor. With deep 
 respect I drank of this famous and knightly old wine, 
 which comes from the slopes of Bordeaux, and of 
 which the flavor and exhilarating power are beyond 
 all praise. The ardor of it spread gently through my 
 veins, and filled me with an almost juvenile animation. 
 Seated beside Madame de Gabry on the terrace, un- 
 der the gloaming which gave a charming melancholy 
 to the park, and lent to every object an air of mys- 
 tery, I took pleasure in communicating my impres-
 
 92 TUB CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 sions of the scene to my hostess. I discoursed with 
 a vivacity quite remarkable on the part of a man 
 so devoid of imagination as I am. I described to her 
 spontaneously, without quoting from any old texts, 
 the caressing melancholy of the evening, and the beau- 
 ty of that natal earth which feeds us, not only with 
 bread and wine, but also with ideas, sentiments, beliefs, 
 and which will at last take us all back to her mater- 
 nal breast again, like so many tired little children at 
 the close of a long day. 
 
 " Monsieur," said the kind lady, " you see these old 
 towers, those trees, that sky ; is it not quite natural 
 that the personages of the popular tales and folk- 
 songs should have been evoked by such scenes ? Why, 
 over there is the very path which Little Red Riding- 
 hood followed when she went to the woods to pick 
 nuts. Across this changeful and always vapory sky 
 the fairy chariots used to roll ; and the north tower 
 might have sheltered under its pointed roof that same 
 old spinning woman whose distaff pricked the Sleep- 
 ing Beauty in the "Wood." 
 
 I continued to muse upon her pretty fancies, while 
 Monsieur Paul related to me, as he puffed a very 
 strong cigar, the history of some suit he had brought 
 against the commune about a water-right. Madame 
 de Gabry, feeling the chill night-air, began to shiver 
 under the shawl her husband had wrapped about her, 
 and left us to go to her room. I then decided, instead 
 of going to my own, to return to the library and con-
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 93 
 
 tinue my examination of the manuscripts. In spite 
 of the protests of Monsieur Paul, I entered what I 
 may call, in old-fashioned phrase, "the book-room," 
 and started to work by the light of a lamp. 
 
 After having read fifteen pages, evidently written 
 by some ignorant and careless scribe, for I could 
 scarcely discern their meaning, I plunged my hand 
 into the pocket of my coat to get my snuff-box ; but 
 this movement, usually so natural and almost instinc- 
 tive, this time cost me some effort and even fatigue. 
 Nevertheless, I got out the silver box, and took from it 
 a pinch of the odorous powder, which, somehow or 
 other, I managed to spill all over my shirt-bosom un- 
 der my baffled nose. I am sure my nose must have 
 expressed its disappointment, for it is a very expres- 
 sive nose. More than once it betrayed my secret 
 thoughts, and especially upon a certain occasion at 
 the public library of Coutances, where I discovered, 
 right in front of my colleague Brioux, the " Cartulary 
 of Notre-Dame-des-Anges." 
 
 What a delight ! My little eyes remained as dull 
 and expressionless as ever behind my spectacles. But 
 at the mere sight of my -thick pug-nose, which quiver- 
 ed with joy and pride, Brioux knew that I had found 
 something. He noted the volume I was looking at, 
 observed the place where I put it back, pounced upon 
 it as soon as I turned my back, copied it secretly, and 
 published it in haste, for the sake of playing me a 
 trick. But his edition swarms with errors, and I had
 
 04 THE CRIME Of SrLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 the satisfaction of afterwards criticising some of the 
 gross blunders he made. 
 
 But to come back to the point at which I left off : 
 I began to suspect that I was getting very sleepy in- 
 deed. I was looking at a chart of which the interest 
 may be divined from the fact that it contained men- 
 tion of a hutch sold to Jehan d'Estonville, priest, in 
 1312. But although, even then, I could recognize the 
 importance of the document, I did not give it that 
 attention it so strongly invited. My eyes would keep 
 turning, against my will, towards a certain corner 
 of the table where there was nothing whatever inter- 
 esting to a learned mind. There was only a big 
 German book there, bound in pigskin, with brass studs 
 on the sides, and very thick cording upon the back. 
 It was a fine copy of a compilation which has little 
 to recommend it except the wood engravings it con- 
 tains, and which is well known as the " Cosmog- 
 raphy of Munster." This volume, with its covers 
 slightly open, was placed upon edge, with the back 
 upwards. 
 
 I could not say for how long I had been staring 
 causelessly at the sixteenth-century folio, when my eyes 
 were captivated by a sight so extraordinary that even 
 a person as devoid of imagination as I could not but 
 have been greatly astonished by it. 
 
 I perceived, all of a sudden, without having noticed 
 her coming into the room, a little creature seated on 
 the back of the book, with one knee bent and one leg
 
 THE CRIME OF 87LVESTRE BONNARD, 95 
 
 hanging down somewhat in the attitude of the ama- 
 zons of Hyde Park or the Bois de Boulogne on horse- 
 back. She was so small that her swinging foot did 
 not reach the table, over which the trail of her dress 
 extended in a serpentine line. But her face and fig- 
 ure were those of an adult. The fulness of her cor- 
 sage and the roundness of her waist could leave no 
 doubt of that, even for an old scwant like myself. I 
 will venture to add that she was very handsome, with 
 a proud mien ; for my iconographic studies have long 
 accustomed me to recognize at once the perfection of 
 a type and the character of a physiognomy. The 
 countenance of this lady who had seated herself in- 
 opportunely on the back of a " Cosmography of Mun- 
 ster " expressed a mingling of haughtiness and mis- 
 chievousness. She had the air of a queen, but a 
 capricious queen; and I judged, from the mere ex- 
 pression of her eyes, that she was accustomed to 
 wield great authority somewhere, in a very whimsical 
 manner. Her mouth was imperious and mocking, and 
 those blue eyes of hers seemed to laugh in a disquiet- 
 ing way under her finely arched black eyebrows. I 
 have always heard that black eyebrows are very be- 
 coming to blondes ; and this lady was very blonde. 
 On the whole, the impression she gave me was one 
 of greatness. 
 
 It may seem odd to say that a person who was no taller 
 than a wine-bottle, and who might have been hidden 
 in my coat pocket but that it would have been very
 
 96 THE CRIME OF 8TL7ESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 disrespectful to put her in it gave me precisely an 
 idea of greatness. But in the fine proportions of the 
 lady seated upon the " Cosmography of Munster " there 
 was such a proud elegance, such a harmonious majesty, 
 and she maintained an attitude at once so easy and 
 so noble, that she really seemed to me a very great 
 person. Although my ink-bottle, which she examined 
 with an expression of such mockery as appeared to 
 indicate that she knew in advance every word that 
 could ever come out of it at the end of my pen, was 
 for her a deep basin in which she would have black- 
 ened her gold-clocked pink stockings up to the garter, 
 I can assure you that she was great, and imposing 
 even in her sprightliness. 
 
 Her costume, worthy of her face, was extremely 
 magnificent ; it consisted of a robe of gold-and-silver 
 brocade, and a mantle of nacarat velvet, lined with 
 vair. Her head-dress was a sort of hennin, with two 
 high points ; and pearls of splendid lustre made it 
 bright and luminous as a crescent moon. Her little 
 white hand held a wand. That wand drew my at- 
 tention very strongly, because my archaeological stud- 
 ies had taught me to recognize with certainty every 
 sign by which the notable personages of legend and 
 of history are distinguished. This knowledge came 
 to my aid during various very queer conjectures with 
 which I was laboring. I examined the wand, and 
 saw that it appeared to have been cut from a branch 
 of hazel.
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 97 
 
 " Then it is a fairy's wand," I said to myself ; <k con- 
 sequently the lady who carries it is a fairy." 
 
 Happy at thus discovering what sort of a person 
 was before me, I tried to collect my mind sufficiently 
 to make her a graceful compliment. It would have 
 given me much satisfaction, I confess, if I could have 
 talked to her about the part taken by her people, not 
 less in the life of the Saxon and Germanic races, than 
 in that of the Latin Occident. Such a dissertation, 
 it appeared to me, would have been an ingenious 
 method of thanking the lady for having thus ap- 
 peared to an old scholar, contrary to the invariable 
 custom of her kindred, who never show themselves 
 but to innocent children or ignorant village-folk. 
 
 Because one happens to be a fairy, one is none the 
 less a woman, I said to myself ; and since Madame 
 Kecamier, according to what I heard J. J. Ampere 
 say, used to blush with pleasure when the little chim- 
 ney-sweeps opened their eyes as wide as they could 
 to look at her, surely the supernatural lady seated 
 upon the " Cosmography of Munster " might feel flat- 
 tered to hear an erudite man discourse learnedly about 
 her, as about a medal, a seal, a fibula, or a token. But 
 such an undertaking, which would have cost my timid- 
 ity a great deal, became totally out of the question 
 when I observed the Lady of the Cosmography sud- 
 denly take from an alms-purse hanging at her girdle 
 the very smallest nuts I had ever seen, crack the 
 shells between her teeth, and throw them at my nose, 
 7
 
 98 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 while she nibbled the kernels with the gravity of a 
 suckling child. 
 
 At this conjuncture, I did what the dignity of science 
 demanded of me I remained silent. But the nut- 
 shells caused such a painful tickling that I put up my 
 hand to my nose, and found, to my great surprise, that 
 my spectacles were straddling the very end of it so 
 that I was actually looking at the lady, not through 
 my spectacles, but over them. This was incompre- 
 hensible, because my eyes, worn out over old texts, 
 cannot ordinarily distinguish anything without glasses 
 could not tell a melon from a decanter, though the 
 two were placed close up to my nose. 
 
 That nose of mine, remarkable for its size, its shape, 
 and its coloration, legitimately attracted the attention 
 of the fairy ; for she seized my goose-quill pen, which 
 was sticking up from the ink-bottle like a plume, and 
 she began to pass the feather-end of that pen over my 
 nose. I had had more than once, in company, occasion 
 to suffer cheerfully from the innocent mischief of 
 young ladies, who made me join their games, and 
 would offer me their cheeks to kiss through the back 
 of a chair, or invite me to blow out a candle which 
 they would lift suddenly above the range of my breath. 
 But until that moment no person of the fair sex had 
 ever subjected me to such a whimsical piece of famil- 
 iarity as that of tickling my nose with my own feather 
 pen. Happily I remembered the maxim of my late 
 grandfather, who was accustomed to say that every-
 
 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 99 
 
 thing was permissible on the part of ladies, and that 
 whatever they do to us is to be regarded as a grace and 
 a favor. Therefore, as a grace and a favor I received 
 the nutshells and the titillations with my own pen, and 
 I tried to smile. Much more ! I even found speech. 
 
 " Madame," I said, with dignified politeness, " you 
 accord the honor of a visit not to a silly child, nor to 
 a boor, but to a bibliophile who is very happy to make 
 your acquaintance, and who knows that long ago you 
 used to make elf -knots in the manes of mares at the 
 crib, drink the milk from the skimming-pails, slip 
 grames-d-gratter down the backs of our great-grand- 
 mothers, make the hearth sputter in the faces of the 
 old folks, and, in short, fill the house with disorder 
 and gayety. You can also boast of giving the nicest 
 frights in the world to lovers who stayed out in the 
 woods too late of evenings. But I thought you had 
 vanished out of existence at least three centuries ago. 
 Can it really be, Madame, that you are still to be seen 
 in this age of railroads and telegraphs ? My concierge, 
 who used to be a nurse in her young days, does not 
 know your story ; and my little boy-neighbor, whose 
 nose is still wiped for him by his bonne, declares that 
 you do not exist." 
 
 " What do you yourself think about it ?" she cried, 
 in an argentine voice ? straightening up her royal little 
 figure in a very haughty fashion, and whipping the 
 back of the " Cosmography of Munster" as though it 
 were a hippogriffe.
 
 100 THE CRIME OF 8YLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 " I don't really know," I answered, rubbing my eyes. 
 
 This reply, indicating a deeply scientific scepticism, 
 had the most deplorable effect upon my questioner. 
 
 "Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard," she said to me, 
 'you are nothing but an old pedant. I always sus- 
 pected as much. The smallest little ragamuffin who 
 goes along the road with his shirt-tail sticking out 
 through a hole in his pantaloons knows more about 
 me than all the old spectacled folks in your Institutes 
 and your Academies. To know is nothing at all; 
 to imagine is everything. Nothing exists except that 
 which is imagined. I am imaginary. That is to ex- 
 ist, I should certainly think ! I am dreamed of, and I 
 appear. Everything is only dream; and as nobody 
 ever dreams about you, Sylvestre Bonnard, it is you 
 who do not exist. I charm the world ; I am every- 
 where on a moonbeam, in the trembling of a hidden 
 spring, in the moving of leaves that murmur, in the 
 white vapors that rise each morning from the hollow 
 meadow, in the thickets of pink brier everywhere ! 
 ... I am seen ; I am loved. There are sighs uttered, 
 weird thrills of pleasure felt by those who follow the 
 light print of my feet, as I make the dead leaves whis- 
 per. I make the little children smile ; I give wit to 
 the dullest-minded nurses. Leaning above the cra- 
 dles, I play, I comfort, I lull to sleep and you doubt 
 whether I exist ! Sylvestre Bonnard, your warm coat 
 covers the hide of an ass !" 
 
 She ceased speaking ; her delicate nostrils swelled
 
 TEE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 101 
 
 with indignation; and while I admired, despite my 
 vexation, the heroic anger of this little person, she 
 pushed my pen about in the ink-bottle, backward and 
 forward, like an oar, and then suddenly threw it at 
 my nose, point first. 
 
 I rubbed my face, and felt it all covered with ink. 
 She had disappeared. My lamp was extinguished. 
 A ray of moonlight streamed down through a win- 
 dow and descended upon the " Cosmography of Mun- 
 ster." A strong cool wind, which had arisen very 
 suddenly without my knowledge, was blowing my 
 papers, pens, and wafers about. My table was all 
 stained with ink. I had left my window open during 
 the storm. "What an imprudence ! 
 
 III. 
 
 I WKOTE to my housekeeper, as I promised, that 
 J was safe and sound. But I took good care not to 
 tell her that I had caught cold from going to sleep in 
 the library at night with the window open ; for the 
 good woman would have been as unsparing in her 
 remonstrances to me as parliaments to kings. " At 
 your age, Monsieur," she would have been sure to say, 
 "one ought to have more sense." She is simple 
 enough to believe that sense grows with age. I seem 
 to her an exception to this rule. 
 
 Not having any similar motive for concealing my
 
 102 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 experiences from Madame de Gabry, I told her all 
 about my vision, which she seemed to enjoy very much. 
 
 " Why, that was a charming dream of yours," she 
 said ; " and one must have real genius to dream such 
 a dream." 
 
 "Then I am a real genius when I am asleep," I 
 responded. 
 
 " When you dream," she replied ; " and you are al- 
 ways dreaming." 
 
 I know that Madame de Gabry, in making this re- 
 mark, only wished to please me; but that intention 
 alone deserves my utmost gratitude , and it is there- 
 fore in a spirit of thankfulness and kindliest remem- 
 brance that I write down her words, which I will read 
 over and over again until my dying day, and which 
 will never be read by any one save myself. 
 
 I passed the next few days in completing the in- 
 ventory of the manuscripts in the Lusance library. 
 Certain confidential observations dropped by Monsieur 
 Paul de Gabry, however, caused me some painful sur- 
 prise, and made me decide to pursue the work after a 
 different manner from that in which I had begun it. 
 i"rom those few words I learned that the fortune of 
 Monsieur Honore de Gabry, which had been badly 
 managed for many years, and subsequently swept 
 away to a large extent through the failure of a banker 
 whose name I do not know, had been transmitted to 
 the heirs of the old French nobleman only under the 
 form of mortgaged real estate and irrecoverable assets.
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 103 
 
 Monsieur Paul, by agreement with his joint heirs, 
 had decided to sell the library, and I was intrusted 
 with the task of making arrangements to have the 
 sale effected upon advantageous terms. But, totally 
 ignorant as I was of all business methods and trade- 
 customs, I thought it best to get the advice of a pub- 
 lisher who was one of my private friends. I wrote 
 him at once to come and join me at Lusance; and 
 while waiting for his arrival I took my hat and cane 
 and made- visits to the different churches of the dio- 
 cese, in several .of which I knew there were certain 
 mortuary inscriptions to be found which had never 
 been correctly copied. 
 
 So I left my hosts and departed on my pilgrimage. 
 Exploring the churches and the cemeteries every day, 
 visiting the parish priests and the village notaries, 
 supping at the public inns with peddlers and cattle- 
 dealers, sleeping at nights between sheets scented 
 with lavender, I passed one whole week in the quiet 
 but profound enjoyment of observing the living en- 
 gaged in their various daily occupations even while I 
 was thinking of the dead. As for the purpose of my 
 researches, I made only a few mediocre discoveries, 
 which caused me only a mediocre joy, and one there- 
 fore salubrious and not at all fatiguing. I copied 
 a few interesting epitaphs ; and I added to this little 
 collection a few recipes for cooking country dishes, 
 which a certain good priest kindly gave me. 
 
 With these riches, I returned to Lusance; and I
 
 104 THE CRIME OF 87LVESTBE BONNARD. 
 
 crossed the court-of -honor with such secret satisfac- 
 tion as a bourgeois feels on entering his own home. 
 This was the effect of the kindness of my hosts ; and 
 the impression I received on crossing their threshold 
 proves, better than any reasoning could do, the excel- 
 lence of their hospitality. 
 
 I entered the great parlor without meeting any- 
 body ; and the young chestnut-tree there spreading 
 out its broad leaves seemed to me like an old friend. 
 But the next thing which I saw on the pier-table 
 caused me such a shock of surprise that I readjusted 
 my glasses upon my nose with both hands at once, 
 and then felt myself over so as to get at least some 
 superficial proof of my own existence. In less than 
 one second there thronged into my mind twenty dif- 
 ferent conjectures the most rational of which was 
 that I had suddenly become crazy. It seemed to me 
 absolutely impossible that what I was looking at could 
 exist ; yet it was equally impossible for me not to 
 see it as a thing actually existing. What caused my 
 surprise was resting on the pier-table, above which 
 rose a great dull speckled mirror. 
 
 I saw myself in that mirror ; and I can say that I 
 saw for once in my life the perfect image of stupefac- 
 tion. But I made proper allowance for myself ; I ap- 
 proved myself for being so stupefied by a really stupe- 
 fying thing. 
 
 The object I was thus examining with a degree of 
 astonishment that all my reasoning power failed to
 
 TSE CRIME OP STLVESTRE BONNARD. 105 
 
 lessen, obtruded itself on my attention though quite 
 motionless. The persistence and fixity of the phe- 
 nomenon excluded any idea of hallucination. I am 
 totally exempt from all nervous disorders capable of 
 influencing the sense of sight. The cause of such 
 visual disturbance is, I think, generally due to stom- 
 ach trouble ; and, thank God ! I have an excellent 
 stomach. Moreover, visual illusions are accompanied 
 with special abnormal conditions which impress the 
 victims of hallucination themselves, and inspire them 
 with a sort of terror. Now, I felt nothing of this 
 kind; the object which I saw, although seemingly 
 impossible in itself, appeared to me under all the 
 natural conditions of reality. I observed that it had 
 three dimensions, and colors, and that it cast a shadow. 
 Ah ! how I stared at it ! The water came into my 
 eyes so that I had to wipe the glasses of my spec- 
 tacles. 
 
 Finally I found myself obliged to yield to the evi- 
 dence, and to affirm that I had really before my eyes 
 the Fairy, the very same Fairy I had been dream- 
 ing of in the library a few evenings before. It was 
 she, it was her very self, I assure you ! She had the 
 same air of child-queen, the same proud supple poise ; 
 she held the same hazel wand in her hand; she 
 still wore her double-peaked head-dress, and the trail 
 of her long brocade robe undulated about her little 
 feet. Same face, same figure. It was she indeed ; 
 and to prevent any possible doubt of it, she was seated
 
 106 THE CRIME OF SYLVE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 on the back of a huge old-fashioned book strongly 
 resembling the " Cosmography of Munster." Her im- 
 mobility but half reassured me; I was really afraid 
 that she was going to take some more nuts out of her 
 alms-purse and throw the shells at my face. 
 
 I was standing there, waving my hands and gaping, 
 when the musical and laughing voice of Madame de 
 Gabry suddenly rang in my ears. 
 
 " So you are examining your fairy, Monsieur Bon- 
 nard !" said my hostess. " Well, do you think the 
 resemblance good ?" 
 
 It was very quickly said ; but even while hearing 
 it I had time to perceive that my fairy was a statuette 
 in colored wcx, modelled with much taste and spirit by 
 some novice hand. But the phenomenon, even thus 
 reduced by a rational explanation, did not cease to 
 excite my surprise. How, and by whom, had the 
 Lady of the Cosmography been enabled to assume 
 plastic existence ? That was what remained for me to 
 learn. 
 
 Turning towards Madame Gabry, I perceived that 
 she was not alone. A young girl dressed in black 
 was standing beside her. She had large intelligent 
 eyes, of a gray as sweet as that of the sky of the 
 Isle of France, and at once artless and characteristic 
 in their expression. At the extremities of her rather 
 thin arms were fidgeting uneasily two slender hands, 
 supple, but slightly red, as it becomes the hands of 
 young girls to be. Sheathed in her closely fitting
 
 TUB CRIME OF SYL VESTRE BONNARD. 107 
 
 merino robe, she had the slim grace of a young tree ; 
 and her large mouth bespoke frankness. I could not 
 describe how much the child pleased me at first sight ! 
 She was not beautiful ; but the three dimples of her 
 cheeks and chin seemed to laugh, and her whole per- 
 son, which revealed the awkwardness of innocence, 
 had something in it indescribably good and sincere. 
 
 My gaze alternated from the statuette to the young 
 girl ; and I saw her blush so frankly and fully ! 
 the crimson passing over her face as by waves. 
 
 "Well," said my hostess, who had become suffi- 
 ciently accustomed to my distracted moods to put the 
 same question to me twice, "is that the very same 
 lady who came in to see you through the window that 
 you left open? She was very saucy; but then you 
 were quite imprudent! Anyhow, do you recognize 
 her?" 
 
 " It is her very self," I replied ; " I see her now on 
 that pier-table precisely as I saw her on the table in 
 the library." 
 
 " Then, if that be so," replied Madame de Gabry, "you 
 have to blame for it, in the first place, yourself, as a 
 man who, although devoid of all imagination, to use 
 your own words, knew how to depict your dream in 
 such vivid colors ; in the second place, me, who was 
 able to remember and repeat faithfully all your dream ; 
 and, lastly, Mademoiselle Jeanne, whom I now intro- 
 duce to you, for she herself modelled that wax-figure 
 precisely according to my instructions."
 
 108 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE DONNARD. 
 
 Madame de Gabry had taken the young girl's hand 
 as she spoke ; but the latter had suddenly broken away 
 from her, and was already running through the park 
 with the speed of a bird. 
 
 "Little crazy creature!" Madame de Gabry cried 
 after her. " How can one be so shy ? Come back 
 here to be scolded and kissed !" 
 
 But it was all of no avail ; the frightened child dis- 
 appeared among the shrubbery. Madame de Gabry 
 seated herself in the only chair remaining in the dilap- 
 idated parlor. 
 
 " I should be much surprised," she said, " if my hus- 
 band had not already spoken to you of Jeanne. She 
 is a sweet child, and we both love her very much. 
 Tell me the plain truth; what do you think of her 
 statuette 2" 
 
 I replied that the work was full of good taste and 
 spirit, but that it showed some want of study and prac- 
 tice on the author's part; otherwise I had been ex- 
 tremely touched to think that those young fingers 
 should have thus embroidered an old man's rough 
 sketch of fancy, and figured so brilliantly the dreams 
 of a dotard like myself. 
 
 " The reason I ask your opinion," replied Madame 
 de Gabry, seriously, " is that Jeanne is a poor orphan. 
 Do you think she could earn her living by modelling 
 statuettes like this one ?" 
 
 " As for that, no !" I replied ; " and I think there is 
 no reason to regret the fact. You say the girl is affec-
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 109 
 
 tionate and sensitive ; I can well believe you ; I could 
 believe it from, her face alone. There are excitements 
 in artist-life which impel generous hearts to act out of 
 all rule and measure. This young creature is made to 
 love ; keep her for the domestic hearth. There only 
 is real happiness." 
 
 "But she has no dowry!" replied Madame de 
 Gabry. 
 
 Then, extending her hand to me, she continued : 
 
 "You are our friend; I can tell you everything. 
 The father of this child was a banker, and one of our 
 friends. He went into a colossal speculation, and it 
 ruined him. He survived only a few months after his 
 failure, in which, as Paul must have told you, three 
 fourths of my uncle's fortune were lost, and more than 
 half of our own. 
 
 " We had made his acquaintance at Monaco, during 
 the winter we passed there at my uncle's house. He 
 had an adventurous disposition, but such an engaging 
 manner ! He deceived himself before he ever deceived 
 others. After all, it is in the ability to deceive one's 
 self that the greatest talent is shown, is it not ? "Well, 
 we were captured my husband, my uncle, and I ; and 
 we risked much more than a reasonable amount in a 
 very hazardous undertaking. But, bah ! as Paul says, 
 since we have no children we need not worry about it. 
 Besides, we have the satisfaction of knowing that the 
 friend in whom we trusted was an honest man. . . . 
 You must know his name, it was so often in the pa-
 
 110 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 pers and on public placards Noel Alexandra His 
 wife was a very sweet person. I knew her only when 
 she was already past her prime, with traces of having 
 once been very pretty, and a taste for fashionable 
 style and display which seemed quite becoming to 
 her. She was naturally fond of social excitement; 
 but she showed a great deal of courage and dignity 
 after the death of her husband. She died a year after 
 him, leaving Jeanne alone in the world." 
 
 " Clementine !" I cried out. 
 
 And on thus learning what I had never even imag- 
 ined the mere idea of which would have set all the 
 forces of my soul in revolt upon hearing that Clemen- 
 tine was no longer in this world, something like a great 
 silence came within me ; and the feeling which flooded 
 my whole being was not a keen, strong pain, but a 
 quiet and solemn sorrow. Yet I was conscious of 
 some incomprehensible sense of alleviation, and my 
 thought rose suddenly to heights before unknown. 
 
 " From wheresoever thou art at this moment, Cle- 
 mentine," I said to myself, "look down upon this 
 heart now indeed cooled by age, yet whose blood once 
 boiled for thy sake, and say whether it is not reani- 
 mated by the mere thought of being able to love all 
 that remains of thee on earth. Everything passes away 
 since thou thyself hast passed away ; but Life is im- 
 mortal ; it is that Life we must love in its forms eter- 
 nally renewed. All the rest is child's play ; and I my- 
 self, with all my books, am only like a child playing
 
 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 11 1 
 
 with marbles. The purpose of life it is thou, Clemen- 
 tine, who hast revealed it to me !". . . 
 
 Madame de Gabry aroused me from my thoughts 
 by murmuring, 
 
 " The child is poor." 
 
 " The daughter of Clementine is poor !" I exclaimed 
 aloud; "how fortunate that it is so! I would not 
 wish that any one but myself should provide for her r 
 and dower her! ISTo! the daughter of Clementine I 
 must not have her dowry from any one but me." ,-- 
 
 And, approaching Madame de Gabry as she rose 
 from her chair, I took her right hand ; I kissed that 
 hand, and placed it on my arm, and said, 
 
 "You will conduct me to the grave of the widow 
 of Noel Alexandre." 
 
 And I heard Madame de Gabry asking me, 
 
 " Why are you crying ?" 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE LITTLE SAINT GEORGE. 
 
 April 16. 
 
 SAINT DROCTOVEUS and the early abbots of Saint- 
 Gennain-des-Pres have been occupying me for the 
 past forty years ; but I do not know if I shall be able 
 to write their history before I go to join them. It is 
 already quite a long time since I became an old man. 
 One day last year, on the Pont des Arts, one of my
 
 112 THE CRIME OF 8TLVEST11E BONNARD. 
 
 fellow-members at the Institute was lamenting before 
 me over the ennui of becoming old. 
 
 " Still," Saint-Beuve replied to him, " it is the only 
 way that has yet been found of living a long time." 
 
 I have tried this way, and I know just what it is 
 worth. The trouble of it is not that one lasts too 
 long, but that one sees all about him pass away 
 mother, wife, friends, children. Nature makes and 
 unmakes all these divine treasures with gloomy indif- 
 ference, and at last we find that we have not loved, 
 we have only been embracing shadows. But how 
 sweet some shadows are ! If ever creature glided 
 like a shadow through the life of a man, it was cer- 
 tainly that young girl whom I fell in love with when 
 incredible though it now seems I was myself a 
 youth. 
 
 A Christian sarcophagus from the catacombs of 
 Rome bears a formula of imprecation, the whole ter- 
 rible meaning of which I only learned with time. It 
 says : " Whatsoever impious man violates this sepul- 
 chre, may he die the last of his own people /" In my 
 capacity of archaeologist, I have opened tombs and 
 disturbed ashes in order to collect the shreds of ap- 
 parel, metal ornaments, or gems that were mingled 
 with those ashes. But I did it only through that sci- 
 entific curiosity which does not exclude the feelings 
 of reverence and of piety. May that malediction 
 graven by some one of the first followers of the apos- 
 tles upon a martyr's tomb never fall upon me! I
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 113 
 
 ought not to fear to survive my own people so long 
 as there are men in the world ; for there are always 
 some whom one can love. 
 
 But the power of love itself weakens and gradually 
 becomes lost with age, like all the other energies of 
 man. Example proves it ; and it is this which terri- 
 fies me. Am I sure that I have not myself already 
 suffered this great loss ? I would surely have felt it, 
 but for the happy meeting which has rejuvenated me. 
 Poets speak of the Fountain of Youth : it does exist ; 
 it gushes up from the earth at every step we take. 
 And one passes by without drinking of it ! 
 
 The young girl I loved, married of her own choice 
 to a rival, passed, all gray-haired, into the eternal rest. 
 I have found her daughter so that my life, which 
 before seemed to me without utility, now once more 
 finds a purpose and a reason for being. 
 
 To-day I " take the sun," as they say in Provence ; 
 I take it on the terrace of the Luxembourg, at the 
 foot of the statue of Marguerite de Navarre. It is 
 a spring sun, intoxicating as young wine. I sit and 
 dream. My thoughts escape from my head like the 
 foam from a bottle of beer. They are light, and their 
 fizzing amuses me. I dream : such a pastime is cer- 
 tainly permissible to an old fellow who has published 
 thirty volumes of texts, and contributed to the Jour- 
 nal des Savants for twenty-six years. I have the 
 satisfaction of feeling that I performed my task as 
 well as it was possible for me to do, and that I util- 
 8
 
 114 THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 ized to their fullest extent those mediocre faculties 
 with which Nature endowed me. My efforts were 
 not all in vain, and I have contributed, in my own 
 modest way, to that renaissance of historical labors 
 which will remain the honor of this restless century. 
 I shall certainly be counted among those ten or twelve 
 who revealed to France her own literary antiquities. 
 My publication of the poetical works of Gautier de 
 Coincy inaugurated a judicious system and made a 
 date. It is in the austere calm of old age that I de- 
 cree to myself this deserved credit, and God, who sees 
 my heart, knows whether pride or vanity have aught 
 to do with this self -a ward of justice. 
 
 But I am tired; my eyes are dim; my hand trem- 
 bles, and I see an image of myself in those old men 
 of Homer, whose weakness excluded them from the 
 battle, and who, seated upon the ramparts, lifted up 
 their voices like crickets among the leaves. 
 
 So my thoughts were wandering when three young 
 men seated themselves near me. I do not know 
 whether each one of them had come in three boats, 
 like the monkey of Lafontaine, but the three cer- 
 tainly displayed themselves over the space of twelve 
 chairs. I took pleasure in watching them, not be- 
 cause they had anything very extraordinary about 
 them, but because I discerned in them, that brave 
 joyous manner which is natural to youth. They were 
 from the schools. I was less assured of it by the 
 books they were carrying than by the character of
 
 THE CRIME OF S7LVE8TRE BONNARD. 115 
 
 their physiognomy. For all who busy themselves 
 with the things of the mind can be at once recog- 
 nized by an indescribable something which is com- 
 mon to all of them. I am very fond of young people ; 
 and these pleased me, in spite of a certain provoking 
 wild manner which recalled to me my own college 
 days with marvellous vividness. But they did not 
 wear velvet doublets and long hair, as we used to do ; 
 they did not walk about, as we used to do, with a 
 death's-head ; they did not cry out, as we used to do, 
 " Hell and malediction !" They were quite properly 
 dressed, and neither their costume nor their language 
 had anything suggestive of the Middle Ages. I must 
 also add that they paid considerable attention to the 
 women passing on the terrace, and expressed their 
 admiration of some of them in very animated lan- 
 guage. But their reflections, even on this subject, 
 were not of a character to oblige me to flee from my 
 seat. Besides, so long as youth is studious, I think it 
 has a right to its gayeties. 
 
 One of them, having made some gallant pleasantry 
 which I forget, the smallest and darkest of the three 
 exclaimed, with a slight Gascon accent, 
 
 " What a thing to say ! Only physiologists like us 
 have any right to occupy ourselves about living mat- 
 ter. As for you, Gelis, who only live in the past 
 like all your fellow archivists and paleographers 
 you will do better to confine yourself to those stone 
 women over there, who are your contemporaries,"
 
 116 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 And he pointed to the statues of the Ladies of An- 
 cient France which towered up, all white, in a half- 
 circle under the trees of the terrace. This joke, 
 though in itself trifling, enabled me to know that the 
 young man called Gelis was a student at the Ecole des 
 Chartes. From the conversation which followed I 
 was able to learn that his neighbor, blond and wan 
 almost to diaphaneity, taciturn and sarcastic, was 
 Boulmier, a fellow - student. Gelis and the future 
 doctor (I hope he will become one some day) dis- 
 coursed together with much fantasy and spirit. In 
 the midst of the loftiest speculations they would 
 play upon words, and make jokes after the peculiar 
 fashion of really witty persons that is to say, in a 
 style of enormous absurdity. I need hardly say, I 
 suppose, that they only deigned to maintain the most 
 monstrous kind of paradoxes. They employed all their 
 powers of imagination to make themselves as ludicrous 
 as possible, and all their powers of reasoning to assert 
 the contrary of common - sense. All the better for 
 them ! I do not like to see young folks too rational. 
 
 The student of medicine, after glancing at the title 
 of the book that Boulmier held in his hand, exclaimed, 
 
 " What ! you read Michelet you ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Boulmier, very gravely. " I like 
 novels." 
 
 Gelis, who dominated both by his fine stature, im- 
 perious gestures, and ready wit, took the book, turned 
 ever a few pages rapidly, and said,
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. nf 
 
 " Michelet always had a great propensity to emo- 
 tional tenderness. He wept sweet tears over Maillard, 
 that nice little man who introduced la pa/perasserie 
 into the September massacres. But as emotional ten- 
 derness leads to fury, he becomes all at once furious 
 against the victims. There was no help for it. It is 
 the sentimentality of the age. The assassin is pitied, 
 but the victim is considered quite unpardonable. In 
 his later manner Michelet is more Michelet than ever 
 before. There is no common-sense in it ; it is simply 
 wonderful. ! Neither art nor science, neither criticism 
 nor narrative ; only furies and fainting-spells and epi- 
 leptic fits over matters Avhich he never deigns to ex- 
 plain. Childish outcries envies de femme grosse! 
 and a style, my friends ! not a single finished phrase ! 
 It is astounding !" 
 
 And he handed the book back to his comrade. "This 
 is amusing madness," I thought to myself, " and not 
 quite so devoid of common-sense as it appears. This 
 young man, though only playing, has sharply touched 
 the defect in the cuirass." 
 
 But the Provencal student declared that history was 
 a thoroughly despicable exercise of rhetoric. Accord- 
 ing to him, the only true history was the natural his- 
 tory of man. Michelet was in the right path when he 
 came in contact with the fistula of Louis XIV., but he 
 fell back into the old rut almost immediately after- 
 wards. 
 
 After this judicious expression of opinion, the young
 
 118 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 physiologist went to join a party of passing friends. 
 The two archivists, less well acquainted in the neigh- 
 borhood of a garden so far from the Kue Paradis-aux- 
 Marais, remained together, and began to chat about 
 their studies. Gelis, who had completed his third 
 class-year, was preparing a thesis on the subject of 
 which he expatiated with youthful enthusiasm. In- 
 deed, I thought the subject a very good one, particu- 
 larly because I had recently thought myself called 
 upon to treat a notable part of it. It was the Monasti- 
 cum Gallicanum. The young erudite (I give him the 
 name as a presage) wants to describe all the engrav- 
 ings made about 1690 for the work which Dom Michel 
 Germain would have had printed but for the one irre- 
 mediable hindrance which is rarely foreseen and never 
 avoided. Dom Michel Germain left his manuscript 
 complete, however, and in good order when he died. 
 "Will I be able to do as much with mine ? but that is 
 not the present question. So far as I am able to un- 
 derstand, Monsieur Gelis intends to devote a brief 
 archasological notice to each of the abbeys pictured by 
 the humble engravers of Dom Michel Germain. 
 
 His friend asked him whether he was acquainted 
 with all the manuscripts and printed documents relating 
 to the subject. It was then that I pricked up my ears. 
 They spoke at first of original sources ; and I must 
 confess they did so in a satisfactory manner, despite 
 their innumerable and detestable puns. Then they be- 
 gan to speak about contemporary studies on the subject.
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVE8TRE BONNARD. 119 
 
 " Have you read," asked Boulmier, " the notice of 
 Courajod?" 
 
 " Good !" I thought to myself. 
 
 " Yes," replied Gelis ; " it is accurate." 
 
 " Have you read," said Boulmier, " the article by 
 Tamisey de Larroque in the ' Kevue des Questions His- 
 toriques' ?" 
 
 " Good !" I thought to myself, for the second time. 
 
 " Yes," replied Gelis, " it is full of things.". . . 
 
 " Have you read," said Boulmier, " the ' Tableau des 
 Abbayes Benedictines en 1600,' by Sylvestre Bonnard?" 
 
 " Good !" I said to myself, for the third time. 
 
 " Mafoi ! no !" replied Gelis. " Bonnard is an idiot !" 
 
 Turning my head, I perceived that the shadow had 
 reached the place where I was sitting. It was grow- 
 ing chilly, and I thought to myself what a fool I was 
 to have remained sitting there, at the risk of getting 
 the rheumatism, just to listen to the impertinence of 
 those two young fellows ! 
 
 " Well ! well !" I said to myself as I got up. " Let 
 this prattling fledgling write his thesis, and sustain 
 it! He will find my colleague Quicherat, or some 
 other professor at the school, to show him what an 
 ignoramus he is. I consider him neither more nor 
 less than a rascal; and really, now that I come to 
 think of it, what he said about Michelet awhile ago 
 was quite insufferable, outrageous ! To talk in that 
 way about an old master replete with genius ! It was 
 simply abominable !"
 
 120 TUB CRIME OF STLVUtiTME BONNARD. 
 
 April 17. 
 
 " THERESE, give me my new hat, my best frock-coat, 
 and my silver-headed cane." 
 
 But Therese is deaf as a sack of charcoal and slow 
 as Justice. Years have made her so. The worst is 
 that she thinks she can hear well and move about well ; 
 and, proud of her sixty years of upright domesticity, 
 she serves her old master with the most vigilant des- 
 potism. 
 
 " What did I tell you ?" . . . And now she will not 
 give me my silver-headed cane, for fear that I might 
 lose it ! It is true that I often forget umbrellas and 
 walking-sticks in the omnibuses and booksellers' shops. 
 But I have a special reason for wanting to take out 
 with me to-day my old cane with the engraved silver 
 head representing Don Quixote charging a windmill, 
 lance in rest, while Sancho Panza, with uplifted arms, 
 vainly conjures him to stop. That cane is all that 
 came to me from the heritage of my uncle, Captain 
 Victor, who in his lifetime resembled Don Quixote 
 much more than Sancho Panza, and who loved blows 
 quite as much as most people fear them. 
 
 For thirty years I have been in the habit of carry- 
 ing this cane upon all memorable or solemn visits 
 which I make ; and those two figures of knight and 
 squire give me inspiration and counsel. I imagine I 
 can hear them speak. Don Quixote says, 
 
 "Think well about great things; and know that
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNAIiD. 121 
 
 thought is the only reality in this world. Lift up 
 Nature to thine own stature; and let the whole uni- 
 verse be for theo no more than the reflection of thine 
 own heroic soul. Combat for honor's sake : that alone 
 is worthy of a man ! and if it should fall to thee to re- 
 ceive wounds, shed thy blood as a beneficent dew, and 
 smile." 
 
 And Sancho Panza says to me in his turn, 
 "Kemain just what heaven made thee, comrade! 
 Prefer the bread-crust which has become dry in thy 
 wallet to all the partridges that roast in the kitchens 
 of lords. Obey thy master, whether he be a wise 
 man or a fool, and do not cumber thy brain with too 
 many useless things. Fear blows ; 'tis verily tempting 
 God to seek after danger !" 
 
 But if the incomparable knight and his matchless 
 squire are imaged only upon this cane of mine, they 
 are realities to my inner conscience. Within every 
 one of us there lives both a Don Quixote and a Sancho 
 Panza to whom we hearken by turns; and though 
 Sancho most persuades us, it is Don Quixote that we 
 find ourselves obliged to admire. . . . But a truce to 
 this dotage ! and let us go to see Madame de Gabry 
 about some matters more important than the every- 
 day details of life. . . . 
 
 Same day. 
 
 I FOUND Madame de Gabry dressed in black, just 
 buttoning her gloves.
 
 122 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 " I am ready," she said. 
 
 Heady ! so I have always found her upon any oc- 
 casion of doing a kindness. 
 
 After some compliments about the good health of 
 her husband, who was taking a walk at the time, we 
 descended the stairs and got into the carriage. 
 
 I do not know what secret influence I feared to dis- 
 sipate by breaking silence, but we followed the great 
 deserted drives without speaking, looking at the cross- 
 es, the monumental columns, and the mortuary wreaths 
 awaiting sad purchasers. 
 
 The vehicle at last halted at the extreme verge of 
 the land of the living, before the gate upon which 
 words of hope are graven. 
 
 "Follow me," said Madame de Gabry, whose tall 
 stature I noticed then for the first time. She first 
 walked down an alley of cypresses, and then took a 
 very narrow path contrived between the tombs. Fi- 
 nally, halting before a plain slab, she said to me, 
 
 "It is here." 
 
 And she knelt down. I could not help noticing 
 the beautiful easy manner in which this Christian 
 woman fell upon her knees, leaving the folds of her 
 robe to spread themselves at random about her. I 
 had never before seen any lady kneel down with such 
 frankness and such forgetfulness of self, except two 
 fair Polish exiles, one evening long ago, in a deserted 
 church in Paris. 
 
 This image passed like a flash ; and I saw only the
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 123 
 
 sloping stone on which was graven the name of Cle- 
 mentine. What I then felt was something so deep and 
 vague that only the sound of some rich music could 
 convey any idea of it. I seemed to hear instruments 
 of celestial sweetness make harmony in my old heart. 
 With the solemn accords of a funeral chant there 
 seemed to mingle the subdued melody of a song of 
 love ; for my soul blended into one feeling the grave 
 sadness of the present with the familiar graces of the 
 past. 
 
 I cannot tell whether we had remained a long time 
 at the tomb of Clementine before Madame de Garby 
 arose. We passed through the cemetery again with- 
 out speaking to each other. Only when we found 
 ourselves among the living once more did I feel able 
 to speak. 
 
 " While following you there," I said to Madame de 
 Gabry, "I could not help thinking of those angels 
 with whom we are said to meet on the mysterious 
 confines of life and death. That tomb you led me to, 
 of which I knew nothing as I know nothing, or 
 scarcely anything, concerning her whom it covers 
 brought back to me emotions which were unique in 
 my life, and which seem in the dulness of that life 
 like some light gleaming upon a dark road. The light 
 recedes farther and farther away as the journey 
 lengthens ; I have now almost reached the bottom of 
 the last slope ; and, nevertheless, each time I turn to 
 look back I see the glow as bright as ever.
 
 124 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 "You, Madame, who knew Clementine as a wife 
 and mother after her hair had become gray, you can- 
 not imagine her as I see her still ; a young fair girl, 
 all pink and white. Since you have been so kind as 
 to be my guide, dear Madame, I ought to tell you 
 what feelings were awakened in me by the sight of 
 that grave to which you led me. Memories throng 
 back upon me. I feel myself like some old gnarled 
 and mossy oak which awakens a nestling world of 
 birds by tho shaking of its branches. Unfortunately 
 the song my birds sing is old as the world, and can 
 amuse no one but myself." 
 
 " Tell me your souvenirs," said Madame de Gabry. 
 " I cannot read your books, because they are written 
 only for scholars ; but I like very much to have you 
 talk to me, because you know how to give interest to 
 the most ordinary things in life. And talk to me just 
 as you would talk to an old woman. This morning I 
 found three gray threads in my hair," 
 
 "Let them come without regret, Madame," I re- 
 plied. " Time deals gently only with those who take 
 it gently. And when in some years more you will 
 have a silvery fringe under your black fillet, you will 
 be reclothed with a new beauty, less vivid but more 
 touching than the first ; and you will find your hus- 
 band admiring your gray tresses as much as he did 
 that black curl which you gave him when about to be 
 married, and which he preserves in a locket as a thing 
 sacred. . . . These boulevards are broad and very
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 125 
 
 quiet. "We can talk at our ease as we walk along. 1 
 will tell you, to begin with, how I first made the ac- 
 quaintance of Clementine's father. But you must not 
 expect anything extraordinary, or anything even re- 
 markable ; you would be greatly deceived. 
 
 "Monsieur de Lessay used to live in the second 
 story of an old house in the Avenue de 1'Observatoire, 
 having a stuccoed front, ornamented with antique 
 busts, and a large unkept garden attached to it. That 
 facade and that garden were the first images my 
 child -eyes perceived; and they will be the last, no 
 doubt, which I shall still see through my closed eye- 
 lids when the Inevitable Day comes. For it was 
 in that house that I was born ; it was in that gar- 
 den I first learned, while playing, to feel and know 
 some particles of this old universe. Magical hours ! 
 sacred noun,! when the soul, all fresh from the 
 making, first discovers the world, which for its sake 
 seems to assume such caressing brightness, such mys- 
 terious charm ! And that, Madame, is indeed because 
 the universe itself is only the reflection of our soul. 
 
 " My mother was a being very happily constituted. 
 She rose with the sun, like the birds ; and she herself 
 resembled the birds by her domestic industry, by her 
 maternal instinct, by her perpetual desire to sing, and 
 by a sort of brusque grace, which I could feel the 
 charm of very well even as a child. She was the soul 
 of the house, which she filled with her systematic and 
 joyous activity. My father was just as slow as she
 
 126 TUti UUtilE US Si'L 
 
 was brisk. I can recall very well that placid face of 
 his, over which at times an ironical smile used to flit. 
 He was fatigued with active life; and he loved his 
 fatigue. Seated beside the fire in his big arm-chair, 
 he used to read from morning till night ; and it is 
 from him that I inherit my love of books. I have in 
 my library a Mably and a Raynal, which he annotated 
 with his own hand from beginning to end. But it was 
 utterly useless attempting to interest him in anything 
 practical whatever. When my mother would try, by 
 all kinds of gracious little ruses, to lure him out of his 
 retirement, he would simply shake his head with that 
 inexorable gentleness which is the force of weak char- 
 acters. He used in this way to greatly worry the 
 poor woman, who could not enter at all into his own 
 sphere of meditative wisdom, and could understand 
 nothing of life except its daily duties and the merry 
 labor of each hour. She thought him sick, and feared 
 he was going to become still more so. But his apathy 
 had a different cause. 
 
 " My father, entering the Naval Office under Mon- 
 sieur Decres, in 1801, gave early proof of high admin- 
 istrative talent. There was a great deal of activity in 
 the marine department in those times; and in 1805 
 my father was appointed chief of the Second Admin- 
 istrative Division. That same year, the Emperor, 
 whose attention had been called to him by the Minis- 
 ter, ordered him to make a report upon the organiza- 
 tion of the English navy. This work, which reflected
 
 THE CRIME OF SJLVESTRE BOXNARD. 127 
 
 a profoundly liberal and philosophic spirit, of which 
 the editor himself was unconscious, was only finished 
 in 180T about eighteen months after the defeat of 
 Admiral Yilleneuve at Trafalgar. Napoleon, who, 
 from that disastrous day, never wanted to hear the 
 word ship mentioned in his presence, angrily glanced 
 over a few pages of the memoir, and then threw it 
 into the fire, vociferating, 'Words! words! I said 
 once before that I hated ideologists.' My father was 
 told afterwards that the Emperor's anger was so in- 
 tense at the moment that he stamped the manuscript 
 down into the fire with his boot-heels. At all events, 
 it was his habit, when very much irritated, to poke 
 down the fire with his feet until he had scorched his 
 boot-soles. My father never fully recovered from this 
 disgrace ; and the fruitlessness of all his efforts tow- 
 ards reform was certainly the cause of the apathy 
 which came upon him at a later day. Nevertheless, 
 Napoleon, after his return from Elba, sent for him, 
 and ordered him to prepare some liberal and patriotic 
 bulletins and proclamations for the fleet. After "Wa- 
 terloo, my father, whom the event had rather sad- 
 dened than surprised, retired into private life, and was 
 not interfered with except that it was generally 
 averred of him that he was a Jacobin, a buveur-de- 
 sa/ng one of those men with whom no one could af- 
 ford to be on intimate terms. My mother's eldest 
 brother, Victor Maldent, an infantry captain retired 
 on half-pay in 1814, and disbanded in 1815 aggravate
 
 128 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 ed by his bad attitude the situation in which the fall 
 of the Empire had placed my father. Captain Victor 
 used to shout in the cafes and the public balls that 
 the Bourbons had sold France to the Cossacks. He 
 used to show everybody a tricolored cockade hidden 
 in the lining of his hat ; and carried with much osten- 
 tation a walking-stick the handle of which had been 
 so carved that the shadow thrown by it made the sil- 
 houette of the Emperor. 
 
 " Unless you have seen certain lithographs by Char- 
 let, Madame, you could form no idea of the physiog- 
 nomy of my Uncle Victor, when he used to stride 
 about the garden of the Tuileries with a fiercely ele- 
 gant manner of his own buttoned up in his frogged 
 coat, with his cross-of-honor upon his breast, and a 
 bouquet of violets in his button-hole. 
 
 " Idleness and intemperance greatly intensified the 
 vulgar recklessness of his political passions. He used 
 to insult people whom he happened to see reading the 
 Quotidienne, or the Drapeau Blanc, and compel them 
 to fight with him. In this way he had the pain and 
 the shame of wounding a boy of sixteen in a duel. 
 In short, my Uncle Victor was the very reverse of a 
 well-educated person ; and as he came to breakfast 
 and dine at our house every blessed day in the year, 
 his bad reputation became attached to our family. 
 My poor father suffered cruelly from some of his 
 guest's pranks ; but being very good-natured, he never 
 made any remarks, and continued to give the free-
 
 THE CRIME OF 87LVESTEE BONNARD. 129 
 
 dom of his house to the captain, who only despised 
 him for it. 
 
 " All this which I have told you, Madame, was ex- 
 plained to me afterwards. But at the time in ques- 
 tion, my uncle the captain filled me with the very 
 enthusiasm of admiration, and I promised myself to 
 try to become some day as like him as possible. So 
 one fine morning, in order to begin the likeness, I put 
 my arms akimbo, and swore like a trooper. My ex- 
 cellent mother at once gave me such a box on the ear 
 that I remained half stupefied for some little while 
 before I could even burst out crying. I can still see 
 the old arm-chair, covered with yellow Utrecht velvet^ 
 behind which I wept innumerable tears that day. 
 
 " I was a very little fellow then. One morning my 
 father, lifting me upon his knees, as he was in the 
 habit of doing, smiled at me with that slightly ironi- 
 cal smile which gave a certain piquancy to his per- 
 petual gentleness of manner. As I sat on his knee, 
 playing with his long white hair, he told me some- 
 thing which I did not understand very well, but which 
 interested me very much, for the simple reason that 
 it was mysterious to me. I think, but am not quite 
 sure, that he related to me that morning the story of 
 the little King of Yvetot, according to ^10 song. All 
 of a sudden we heard a great report ; and the win- 
 dows rattled. My father slipped me down gently on 
 the floor at his feet ; he threw up his trembling arms, 
 with a strange gesture ; his face became all inert and 
 9
 
 130 THE CRIME OF S7LVE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 white, and his eyes seemed enormous. He tried to 
 speak, but his teeth were chattering. At last he mur- 
 mured, "They have shot him!" I did not know 
 what he meant, and felt only a vague terror. I knew 
 afterwards, however, that he was speaking of Marshal 
 Ney, who fell on the 7th of December, 1815, under 
 the wall enclosing a vacant lot beside our house. 
 
 " About that time I used often to meet on the stair- 
 way an old man (or, perhaps, not exactly an old man) 
 with little black eyes which flashed with extraordi- 
 nary vivacity, and an impassive swarthy face. He 
 did not seem to me alive or at least he did not seem 
 to me alive in the same way that other men were 
 alive. I had once seen, at the residence of Monsieur 
 Denon, where my father had taken me with him on 
 a visit, a mummy brought from Egypt; and I be- 
 lieved in good faith that Monsieur Denon's mummy 
 used to get up when no one was looking, leave its 
 gilded case, put on a brown coat and powdered wig, 
 and become transformed into Monsieur de Lessay. 
 And even to-day, dear Madame, while I reject that 
 opinion as being without foundation, I must confess 
 that Monsieur de Lessay bore a very strong resem- 
 blance to Monsieur Denon's mummy. The fact is 
 enough to explain why this person inspired me with 
 fantastic terror. 
 
 " In reality, Monsieur de Lessay was a small gentle- 
 man and a great philosopher. As a disciple of Mably 
 and Kousseau, he flattered himself on being a man with-
 
 THE CRIME OF 8YLVESTRE BONNARD. 131 
 
 out any prejudices ; and this pretension itself is a very 
 great prejudice. 
 
 " He professed to hate fanaticism, yet was himself a 
 fanatic on the topic of toleration. I am telling you, 
 Madame, about a character belonging to an age that 
 is past. I fear I will not be able to make you under- 
 stand, and I am sure I will not be able to interest you. 
 It was so long ago ! But I will abridge as much as 
 possible : besides, I did not promise you anything in- 
 teresting ; and you could not have expected to hear 
 of remarkable adventures in the life of Sylvestre Bon- 
 nard." 
 
 Madame de Gabry encouraged me to proceed, and 
 I resumed : 
 
 "Monsieur de Lessay was brusque with men and 
 courteous to ladies. He used to kiss the hand of my 
 mother, whom the customs of the Eepublic and the 
 Empire had not habituated to such gallantry. In him, 
 I touched the age of Louis XVI. Monsieur de Lessay 
 was a geographer ; and nobody, I believe, ever showed 
 more pride than he in occupying himself with the face 
 of the earth. Under the Old Kegime he had attempted 
 philosophical agriculture, and thus squandered his es- 
 tates to the very last acre. When he had ceased to 
 own one square foot of ground, he took possession of 
 the whole globe, and prepared an extraordinary num- 
 ber of maps, based upon the narratives of travellers. 
 But as he had been mentally nourished with the very 
 marrow of the " Encyclopedic," he was not satisfied with
 
 132 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 merely parking off human beings within so many de- 
 grees, minutes, and seconds of latitude and longitude. 
 He also occupied himself, alas ! with the question of 
 their happiness. It is worthy of remark, Madame, 
 that those who have given themselves the most con- 
 cern about the happiness of peoples have made their 
 neighbors very miserable. Monsieur de Lessay, who 
 was more of a geometrician than D'Alembert, and 
 more of a philosopher than Jean Jacques, was also 
 more of a royalist than Louis XVIII. But his love 
 for the King was as nothing to his hate for the 
 Emperor. He had joined the conspiracy of Georges 
 against the First Consul; but in the framing of the 
 indictment he was not included among the inculpated 
 parties, having been either ignored or despised, and 
 this injury he never could forgive Bonaparte, whom 
 he called the Ogre of Corsica, and to whom he used to 
 say he would never have confided even the command 
 of a regiment, so pitiful a soldier he judged him to be. 
 
 " In 1820, Monsieur de Lessay, who had then been a 
 widower for many years, married again, at the age of 
 sixty, a very young woman, whom he pitilessly kept 
 at work preparing maps for him, and who gave him a 
 daughter some years after their marriage, and died in 
 childbed. My mother had nursed her during her 
 brief illness, and had taken care of the child. The 
 name of that child was Clementine. 
 
 " It was from the time of that birth and that death 
 that the relations between our family and Monsieur de
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONXARD. 133 
 
 Lessay began. In the meanwhile I had been growing 
 dull as I began to leave my true childhood behind me. 
 I had lost the charming power of being able to see and 
 feel ; and things no longer caused me those delicious 
 surprises which form the enchantment of the more 
 tender age. For the same reason, perhaps, I have no 
 distinct remembrance of the period following the birth 
 of Clementine ; I only know that a few months after- 
 wards I had a misfortune, the mere thought of which 
 still wrings my heart. I lost my mother. A great 
 silence, a great coldness, and a great darkness seemed 
 all at once to fill the house. 
 
 " I fell into a sort of torpor. My father sent me to 
 the lycee, but I could only arouse myself from my 
 lethargy with the greatest effort. 
 
 " Still, I was not altogether a dullard, and my pro- 
 fessors were able to teach me almost everything they 
 wanted, namely, a little Greek and a great deal of 
 Latin. My acquaintances were confined to the ancients. 
 I learned to esteem Miltiades, and to admire Themisto- 
 cles. I became familiar with Quintus Fabius, as far, 
 at least, as it was possible to become familiar with so 
 great a Consul. Proud of these lofty acquaintances, I 
 scarcely ever condescended to notice little Clementine 
 and her old father, who, in any event, went away 
 to Normandy one fine morning without my having 
 deigned to give a moment's thought to their possible 
 return. 
 
 They came back, however, Madame, they came back !
 
 134 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE 130NNARD. 
 
 Influences of Heaven, forces of nature, all ye mysteri- 
 ous powers which vouchsafe to man the ability to love, 
 you know how I again beheld Clementine ! They re- 
 entered our melancholy home. Monsieur de Lessay 
 no longer wore a wig. Bald, with a few gray locks 
 about his ruddy temples, he had all the aspect of ro- 
 bust old age. But that divine being whom I saw all 
 resplendent, as she leaned upon his arm she whose 
 presence illuminated the old faded parlor she was not 
 an apparition ! It was Clementine herself ! I am 
 speaking the simple truth : her violet eyes seemed to 
 me in that moment supernatural, and even to-day I 
 cannot imagine how those two living jewels could 
 have endured the fatigues of life, or become subjected 
 to the corruption of death. 
 
 " She betrayed a little shyness in greeting my father, 
 whom she did not remember. Her complexion was 
 slightly pink, and her half-open lips smiled with that 
 smile which makes one think of the Infinite perhaps 
 because it betrays no particular thought, and expresses 
 only the joy of living and the bliss of being beautiful. 
 Under a pink hood her face shone like a gem in an 
 open casket ; she wore a cashmere scarf over a robe of 
 white muslin plaited at the waist, from beneath which 
 protruded the tip of a little Morocco shoe. . . . Oh ! 
 you must not make fun of me, dear Madame, that was 
 the fashion of the time ; and I do not know whether 
 our new fashions have nearly so much simplicity, 
 brightness, and decorous grace.
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. 135 
 
 "Monsieur de Lessay informed us that, in conse- 
 quence of having undertaken the publication of a his- 
 torical atlas, he had come back to live in Paris, and 
 that he would be pleased to occupy his former room, 
 if it was still vacant. My father asked Mademoiselle 
 de Lessay whether she was pleased to visit the capi- 
 tal. She appeared to be, for her smile blossomed out 
 in reply. She smiled at the windows that looked out 
 upon the green and luminous garden ; she smiled at 
 the bronze Marius seated among the ruins of Car- 
 thage above the dial of the clock ; she smiled at the 
 old yellow-velveted arm-chairs, and at the poor stu- 
 dent who was afraid to lift his eyes to look at her. 
 From that day how I loved her ! 
 
 "But here we are already at the Rue de Sevres, 
 and in a little while we shall be in sight of your win- 
 dows. I am a very bad story-teller; and if I were 
 by some impossible chance to take it into my 
 head to compose a novel, I know I should never suc- 
 ceed. I have been drawing out to tiresome length a 
 narrative which I must finish briefly ; for there is a 
 certain delicacy, a certain grace of soul, which an old 
 man could not help offending by any complacent ex- 
 patiation upon the sentiments of even the purest love. 
 Let us take a short turn on this boulevard, lined with 
 convents ; and my recital will be easily finished with- 
 in the distance separating us from that little spire you 
 see over there. . . . 
 
 " Monsieur de Lessay, on finding that I had gradu-
 
 136 THE CRIME OF 8YLVE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 ated at the Ecole des Chartes, judged me worthy to 
 assist him in preparing his historical atlas. The plan 
 was to illustrate, by a series of maps, what the old phi- 
 losopher termed the Vicissitudes of Empires from the 
 time of Noah down to that of Charlemagne. Mon- 
 sieur de Lessay had stored up in his head all the errors 
 of the eighteenth century in regard to antiquity. I 
 belonged, so far as my historical studies were con- 
 cerned, to the new school ; and I was just at that age 
 when one does not know how to dissemble. The 
 manner in which the old man understood, or, rather, 
 misunderstood, the epoch of the Barbarians, his ob- 
 stinate determination to find in remote antiquity only 
 ambitious princes, hypocritical and avaricious prelates, 
 virtuous citizens, poet-philosophers, and other person- 
 ages who never existed outside of the novels of Mar- 
 montel, made me dreadfully unhappy, and at first 
 used to excite me into attempts at argument, rational 
 enough, but perfectly useless and sometimes danger- 
 ous, for Monsieur de Lessay was very irascible, and 
 Clementine was very beautiful. Between her and him 
 I passed many hours of torment and of delight. I 
 was in love ; I was a coward, and I granted to him 
 all that he demanded of me in regard to the political 
 and historical aspect which the Earth that was at a 
 later day to bear Clementine presented in the time 
 of Abraham, of Menes, and of Deucalion. 
 
 "As fast as we drew our maps Mademoiselle de 
 Lessay tinted them in water -colors. Bending over
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 137 
 
 the table, she held the brush lightly between two fin- 
 gers; the shadow of her eyelashes descended upon 
 her cheeks, and bathed her half-closed eyes in a deli- 
 cious penumbra. Sometimes she would lift her head, 
 and I would see her lips pout. There was so much 
 expression in her beauty that she could not breathe 
 without seeming to sigh ; and her most ordinary poses 
 used to throw me into the deepest ecstasies of admira- 
 tion. Whenever I gazed at her I fully agreed with 
 Monsieur de Lessay that Jupiter had once reigned as 
 a despot-king over the mountainous regions of Thes- 
 saly, and that Orpheus had committed the imprudence 
 of leaving the teaching of philosophy to the clergy. 
 I am not now quite sure whether I was a coward or a 
 hero when I accorded all this to the obstinate old man. 
 
 " Mademoiselle de Lessay, I must acknowledge, paid 
 very little attention to me. But this indifference 
 seemed to me so just and so natural that I never even 
 dreamed of thinking I had a right to complain about 
 it ; it made me unhappy, but without my knowing that 
 I was unhappy at the time. I was hopeful ; we had 
 then only got as far as the First Assyrian Empire. 
 
 "Monsieur de Lessay came every evening to take cof- 
 fee with my father. I do not know how they became 
 such friends ; for it would have been difficult to find 
 two characters more oppositely constituted. My fa- 
 ther was a man who admired very few things, but 
 was capable of excusing a great many. Still, as he 
 grew older, he evinced more and more dislike of every-
 
 138 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 thing in the shape of exaggeration. He clothed his 
 ideas with a thousand delicate shades of expression, 
 and never pronounced an opinion without all sorts of 
 reservations. These conversational habits, natural to 
 a finelj' trained mind, used to greatly irritate the dry, 
 terse old aristocrat, who was never in the least dis- 
 armed by the moderation of an adversary quite the 
 contrary ! I always foresaw one danger. That dan- 
 ger was Bonaparte. My father had not himself re- 
 tained any particular affection for his memory ; but, 
 having worked under his direction, he did not like to 
 hear him abused, especially in favor of the Bourbons, 
 against whom he had serious reason to feel resent- 
 ment. Monsieur de Lessay, more of a Yoltairean and 
 a Legitimist than ever, now traced back to Bona- 
 parte the origin of every social, political, and religious 
 evil. Such being the situation, the idea of Uncle Vic- 
 tor made me feel particularly uneasy. This terrible 
 uncle had become absolutely insufferable now that his 
 sister was no longer there to calm him down. The 
 harp of David was broken, and Saul was wholly de- 
 livered over to the spirit of madness. The fall of 
 Charles X. had increased the audacity of the old 
 Napoleonic veteran, who uttered all imaginable bra- 
 vadoes. He no longer frequented our house, which 
 had become too silent for him. But sometimes, at 
 the dinner-hour, we would see him suddenly make his 
 appearance, all covered with flowers, like a mauso- 
 leum. Ordinarily he would sit down to table with
 
 THE CRIME OF 87LVE8TRE BONNARD. 139 
 
 an oath, growled out from the very bottom of his 
 chest, and brag, between every two mouthfuls, of his 
 good fortune with the ladies as a meux bra/ve. Then, 
 when the dinner was over, he would fold up his nap- 
 kin in the shape of a bishop's mitre, gulp down half a 
 decanter of brandy, and rush away with the hurried 
 air of a man terrified at the mere idea of remaining 
 for any length of time, without drinking, in conversa- 
 tion with an old philosopher and a young scholar. I 
 felt perfectly sure that, if ever he and Monsieur de 
 Lessay should come together, all would be lost. But 
 that day came, madame ! 
 
 " The captain was almost hidden by flowers that 
 day, and seemed so much like a monument commem- 
 orating the glories of the Empire that one would 
 have liked to pass a garland of immortelles over each 
 of his arms. He was in an extraordinarily good hu- 
 mor; and the first person to profit by that good 
 humor was our cook for he put his arm round 
 her waist while she was placing the roast on the 
 table. 
 
 "After dinner he pushed away the decanter pre- 
 sented to him, observing that he was going to burn 
 some brandy in his coffee later on. I asked him 
 tremblingly whether he would not prefer to have his 
 coffee at once. He was very suspicious, and not at 
 all dull of comprehension my Uncle Victor. My 
 precipitation seemed to him in very bad taste ; for he 
 looked at me in a peculiar way, and said,
 
 140 THE URIMti OF 8TLVESTHE BONNARD. 
 
 " ' Patience ! my nephew. It isn't the business of 
 the baby of the regiment to sound the retreat ! 
 Devil take it ! You must be in a great hurry, Master 
 Pedant, to see if I've got spurs on my boots !' 
 
 " It was evident the captain had divined that I 
 wanted him to go. And I knew him well enough to 
 be sure that he was going to stay. He stayed. The 
 least circumstances of that evening remain impressed 
 on my memory. My uncle was extremely jovial. 
 The mere idea of being in somebody's way was 
 enough to keep him in good humor. He told us, in 
 regular barrack style, mafoi! a certain story about 
 a monk, a trumpet, and five bottles of Chambertin, 
 which must have been much enjoyed in garrison so- 
 ciety, but which I would not venture to repeat to 
 you, Madame, even if I could remember it. When 
 we passed into the parlor, the captain called atten- 
 tion to the bad condition of our andirons, and learn- 
 edly discoursed on the merits of rottenstone as a 
 brass-polisher. Not a word on the subject of politics. 
 He was husbanding his forces. Eight o'clock sounded 
 from the ruins of Carthage on the mantelpiece. It 
 was Monsieur de Lessay's hour. A few moments 
 later he entered the parlor with his daughter. The 
 ordinary evening chat began. Clementine sat down 
 and began to work on some embroidery beside the 
 lamp, whose shade left her pretty head in a soft 
 shadow, and threw down upon her fingers a radiance 
 that made them seem almost self-luminous. Mon-
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 141 
 
 sieur de Lessay spoke of a comet announced by the 
 astronomers, and developed some theories in relation 
 to the subject, which however audacious, betrayed at 
 least a certain degree of intellectual culture. My 
 father, who knew a good deal about astronomy, ad- 
 vanced some sound ideas of his own, which he ended 
 up with his eternal, ' But what do we know about it, 
 after all?' In my turn I cited the opinion of our 
 neighbor of the Observatory the great Arago. My 
 Uncle Victor declared that comets had a peculiar in- 
 fluence on the quality of wines, and related in sup- 
 port of this view a jolly tavern-story. I was so de- 
 lighted with the turn the conversation had taken that 
 I did all in my power to maintain it in the same 
 groove, with the help of my most recent studies, by 
 a long exposition of the chemical composition of those 
 nebulous bodies which, although extending over a 
 length of billions of leagues, could be contained in a 
 small bottle. My father, a little surprised at my un- 
 usual eloquence, watched me with his peculiar, placid, 
 ironical smile. But one cannot always remain in 
 heaven. I spoke, as I looked at Clementine, of a 
 certain ' comete ' of diamonds, which I had been ad- 
 miring in a jeweler's window the evening before. It 
 was a most unfortunate inspiration of mine. 
 
 " ' Ah ! my nephew,' cried Uncle Victor, ' that 
 comete of yours was nothing to the one which the 
 Empress Josephine wore in her hair when she came 
 to Strasburg to distribute crosses to the army.'
 
 142 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BOXNARD. 
 
 " * That little Josephine was very fond of finery and 
 display,' observed Monsieur de Lessay, between two 
 sips of coffee. ' I do not blame her for it ; she had 
 good qualities, though rather frivolous in character. 
 She was a Tascher, and she conferred a great honor 
 on Bonaparte in marrying him. To say a Tascher 
 does not, of course, mean a great deal ; but to say a 
 Bonaparte simply means nothing at all.' 
 
 " ' What do you mean by that, Monsieur the Mar- 
 quis ?' demanded Captain Yictor. 
 
 " ' I am not a marquis,' dryly responded Monsieur 
 de Lessay ; ' and I mean simply that Bonaparte would 
 have been very well suited had he married one of 
 those cannibal women described by Captain Cook in 
 his voyages naked, tattooed, with a ring in her nose 
 devouring with delight putrefied human flesh.' 
 
 " I had foreseen it, and in my anguish (O pitiful 
 human heart !) my first idea was about the remark- 
 able exactness of my anticipations. I must say that 
 the Captain's reply belonged to the sublime order. 
 He put his arms akimbo, eyed Monsieur de Lessay 
 contemptuously from head to foot, and said, 
 
 " ' Napoleon, Monsieur the Yidame, had another 
 spouse besides Josephine, another spouse besides 
 Marie-Louise. That companion you know nothing 
 of ; but I have seen her, close to me. She wears a 
 mantle of azure gemmed with stars ; she is crowned 
 with laurels; the Cross -of -Honor flames upon her 
 breast. Her name is GLORY I'
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTEE BONNARD. 143 
 
 " Monsieur de Lessay set his cup on the mantle- 
 piece, and quietly observed, 
 
 " ' Your Bonaparte was a blackguard !' 
 
 " My father rose up calmly, extended his arm, and 
 said very softly to Monsieur de Lessay, 
 
 "'"Whatever the man was who died at St. Helena, 
 I worked for ten years in his government, and my 
 brother-in-law was three times wounded under his 
 eagles. I beg of you, dear sir and friend, never to 
 forget these facts in future.' 
 
 "What the sublime and burlesque insolence of the 
 Captain could not do, the courteous remonstrance of 
 my father effected immediately, throwing Monsieur 
 de Lessay into a furious passion. 
 
 " ' I did forget,' he exclaimed, between his set teeth, 
 livid in his rage, and fairly foaming at the mouth ; 'the 
 herring-cask always smells of herring, and when one 
 has been in the service of rascals ' 
 
 " As he uttered the word, the Captain sprang at his 
 throat ; I am sure he would have strangled him upon 
 the spot but for his daughter and me. 
 
 " My father, a little paler than his wont, stood there 
 with his arms folded, and watched the scene with a 
 look of inexpressible pity. What followed was still 
 more lamentable but why dwell further upon the 
 folly of two old men. Finally I succeeded in separat- 
 ing them. Monsieur de Lessay made a sign to his 
 daughter and left the the room. As she was follow- 
 ing him, I ran out into the stairway after her.
 
 144 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 " ' Mademoiselle,' I said to her, wildly, taking her 
 hand as I spoke, ' I love you ! I love you !' 
 
 "For a moment she pressed my hand; her lips 
 opened. What was it that she was going to say to 
 me ? But suddenly, lifting her eyes towards her father 
 ascending the stairs, she drew her hand away, and 
 made me a gesture of farewell. 
 
 " I never saw her again. Her father went to live in 
 the neighborhood of the Pantheon, in an apartment 
 which he had rented for the sale of his historical atlas. 
 He died in it a few months afterwards of an apoplec- 
 tic stroke. His daughter, I was told, retired to Caen 
 to live with some aged relative. It was there that, 
 later on, she married a bank-clerk, the same Noel Al- 
 exandre who became so rich and died so poor. 
 
 " As for me, Madame, I have lived alone, at peace 
 with myself ; my existence, equalty exempt from great 
 pains and great joys, has been tolerably happy. But 
 for many years I could never see an empty chair be- 
 side my own of a winter's evening without feeling a 
 sudden painful sinking at my heart. Last year I 
 learned from you, who had known her, the story of 
 her old age and death. I saw her daughter at your 
 house. I have seen her; but I cannot yet say like 
 the aged man of Scripture, ' And now, Zord, let thy 
 servant depart in peace /' For if an old fellow like me 
 can be of any use to anybody, I would wish, with your 
 help, to devote my last energies and abilities to the 
 care of this orphan."
 
 THE CRIXE OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 145 
 
 I had uttered these last words in Madame de Gabry's 
 own vestibule ; and I was about to take leave of my 
 kind guide when she said to me, 
 
 " My dear Monsieur, I cannot help you in this mat- ) 
 ter as much as I would like to do. Jeanne is an 
 orphan and a minor. You cannot do anything for her 
 without the authorization of her guardian." 
 
 " Ah !" I exclaimed, " I did not have the least idea 
 in the world that Jeanne had a guardian !" 
 
 Madame de Gabry looked at me with visible surprise. 
 She had not expected to find the old man quite so simple. 
 
 She resumed : 
 
 "The guardian of Jeanne Alexandre is Maitre 
 Mouche, notary at Levallois-Perret. I am afraid you 
 will not be able to come to any understanding with 
 him ; for he is a very serious person." 
 
 " Why ! good God !" I cried, " with what kind of 
 people can you expect me to have any sort of under- 
 standing at my age, except serious persons." 
 
 She smiled with a sweet mischievousness just like 
 my father used to smile and answered : 
 
 " With those who are like you the innocent folks 
 who wear their hearts on their sleeves. Monsieur 
 Mouche is not exactly a man of that kind. He is 
 cunning and light-fingered. But although I have very 
 little liking for him, we will go together and see him, 
 if you wish, and ask his permission to visit Jeanne, 
 whom he has sent to a boarding-school at Les Ternes, 
 where she is very unhappy," 
 10
 
 146 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 We agreed at once upon a day ; I kissed Madame 
 de Gabry's hands, and we bid each other good-by. 
 
 From May % to May 5. 
 
 I HAVE seen him in his office, Maitre Mouche, the 
 guardian of Jeanne. Small, thin, and dry ; his com- 
 plexion looks as if it was made out of the dust of hig 
 pigeon-holes. He is a spectacled animal; for to im- 
 agine him without his spectacles would be impossible. 
 I have heard him speak, this Maitre Mouche ; he has 
 a voice like a tin rattle, and he uses choice phrases ; 
 but I would have been better pleased if he had not 
 chosen his phrases so carefully. I have observed 
 him, this Maitre Mouche ; he is very ceremonious, and 
 watches his visitors slyly out of the corner of his eye. 
 
 Maitre Mouche is quite pleased, he informs us ; he 
 is delighted to find we have taken such an interest in 
 his ward. But he does not think we are placed in 
 this world just to amuse ourselves. No : he does not 
 believe it ; and I am free to acknowledge that any- 
 body in his company is likely to reach the same con- 
 clusion, so little is he capable of inspiring joyfulness. 
 He fears that it would be giving his dear ward a false 
 and pernicious idea of life to allow her too much en- 
 joyment. It is for that reason that he requests Ma- 
 dame de Gabry not to invite the young girl to her 
 house but at very long intervals. 
 
 We left the dusty notary and his dusty study witlji
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 147 
 
 a permit in due form (everything which issues from 
 the office of Maitre Mouche is in due form) to visit 
 Mademoiselle Jeanne Alexandre on the first Thursday 
 of each month at Mademoiselle Pref ere's private school, 
 Rue Demours, Aux Ternes. 
 
 The first Thursday in May I set out to pay a visit 
 to Mademoiselle Prefere, whose establishment I dis- 
 cerned from afar off by a big sign, painted with blue 
 letters. That blue tint was the first indication I re- 
 ceived of Mademoiselle Prefere's character, which I 
 was able to see more of later on. A scared-looking 
 servant took my card, and abandoned me without one 
 word of hope at the door of a chilly parlor, full of 
 that stale odor peculiar to the dining-rooms of educa- 
 tional establishments. The floor of this parlor had 
 been waxed with such pitiless energy, that I remained 
 for a while in distress upon the threshold. But hap- 
 pily observing that little strips of woollen carpet had 
 been scattered over the floor in front of each horse- 
 hair chair, I succeeded, by cautiously stepping from 
 one carpet-island to another, in reaching the angle of 
 the mantlepiece, where I sat down quite out of breath. 
 
 Over the mantlepiece, in a large gilded frame, was a 
 written document, entitled, in flamboyant Gothic letter- 
 ing, Tableau tfHonneur, with a long array of names 
 underneath, among which I did not have the pleasure 
 of finding that of Jeanne Alexandre. After having 
 read over several times the names of those girl-pupils 
 who had thus made themselves honored in the eyes
 
 148 TILE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 of Mademoiselle Prefere, I began to feel uneasy at not 
 hearing any one coming. Mademoiselle Prefere would 
 certainly have succeeded in establishing the absolute 
 silence of the interstellar spaces throughout her peda- 
 gogical domains, had it not been that the sparrows 
 had chosen her yard to assemble in by legions, and 
 chirp at the top of their voices. It was a pleasure to 
 hear them. But there was no way of seeing them 
 through the ground-glass windows. I had to content 
 myself with the sights of the parlor, decorated from 
 floor to ceiling, on all of its four walls, with drawings 
 executed by the pupils of the institution. There were 
 Yestals, flowers, thatched cottages, column - capitals, 
 and an enormous head of Tatius, King of the Sabines, 
 bearing the signature Estelle Mouton. 
 
 I had already passed some time in admiring the 
 energy with which Mademoiselle Mouton had deline- 
 ated the bushy eyebrows and the fierce gaze of the an- 
 tique warrior, when a sound, faint like the rustling 
 of a dead leaf moved by the wind, caused me to turn 
 my head. It was not a dead leaf at all it was Made- 
 moiselle Prefere. With hands joined before her, she 
 came gliding over the mirror-polish of that wonderful 
 floor as the Saints of the "Golden Legend" were 
 wont to glide over the crystal surface of the waters. 
 But upon any other occasion, I am sure, Mademoiselle 
 Prefere would not have made me think in the least 
 about those virgins dear to mystical fancy. Her face 
 rather gave me the idea of a russet-apple preserved
 
 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNAKD. 149 
 
 for a whole winter in an attic by some economical 
 housekeeper. Her shoulders were covered with a 
 fringed pelerine, which had nothing at all remarkable 
 about it, but which she wore as if it were a sacerdotal 
 vestment, or the symbol of some high civic function. 
 
 I explained to her the purpose of my visit, and gave 
 her my letter of introduction. 
 
 "Ah! so you saw Monsieur Mouche!" she ex- 
 claimed. " Is his health very good ? He is the most 
 upright of men, the most 
 
 She did not finish the phrase, but raised her eyes to 
 the ceiling. My own followed the direction of their 
 gaze, and observed a little spiral of paper lace, sus- 
 pended from the place of the chandelier, which was 
 apparently destined, so far as I could discover, to at- 
 tract the flies away from the gilded mirror-frames and 
 the Tableau cThonneur. 
 
 "I have met Mademoiselle Jeanne Alexandre," I 
 observed, " at the residence of Madame de Gabry, and 
 had reason to appreciate the excellent character and 
 quick intelligence of the young girl. As I used to 
 know her parents very well, the friendship which I 
 felt for them naturally inclines me to take an interest 
 in her." 
 
 Mademoiselle Prefere, in lieu of making any reply, 
 sighed profoundly, pressed her mysterious pelerine to 
 her heart, and again contemplated the paper spiral. 
 
 At last she observed, 
 
 " Since you were once the friend of Monsieur and
 
 150 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 Madame Alexandra, I hope and trust that, like Mon- 
 sieur Mouche and myself, you deplore those crazy 
 speculations which led them to ruin, and reduced their 
 daughter to absolute poverty !" 
 
 I thought to myself, on hearing these words, how 
 very wrong it is to be unlucky, and how unpardonable 
 such an error on the part of those previously in a 
 position worthy of envy. Their fall at once avenges 
 and flatters us ; and we are wholly pitiless. 
 
 After having answered, very frankly, that I knew 
 nothing whatever about the history of the bank, I 
 asked the schoolmistress if she was satisfied with 
 Mademoiselle Alexandre. 
 
 "That child is indomitable!" cried Mademoiselle 
 Pre~fere. 
 
 And she assumed an attitude of lofty resignation, 
 to symbolize the difficult situation she was placed in 
 by a pupil so hard to train. Then, with more calm- 
 ness of manner, she added : 
 
 " The young person is not unintelligent. But she 
 cannot resign herself to learn things by principles." 
 
 "What a strange old maid this Mademoiselle Prefere 
 is! She walks without lifting her legs, and speaks 
 without moving her lips ! "Without, however, consider- 
 ing her peculiarities for more than a reasonable in- 
 stant, I replied that principles were, no doubt, very 
 excellent things, and that I could trust myself to her 
 judgment in regard to their value ; but that, after all, 
 when one had learned something, it made very little
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 151 
 
 difference what method had been followed in the learn- 
 ing of it. 
 
 Mademoiselle made a slow gesture of dissent. Thus, 
 with a sigh, she declared, 
 
 " Ah, Monsieur ! those who do not understand edu- 
 cational methods are apt to have very false ideas on 
 these subjects. I am certain they express their opin- 
 ions with the best intentions in the world ; but they 
 would do better, a great deal better, to leave all such 
 questions to competent people." 
 
 I did not attempt to argue further ; and simply 
 asked her whether I could see Mademoiselle Alex- 
 andre at once. 
 
 She looked at her pelerine, as if trying to read 
 in the entanglement of its fringes, as in a conjuring- 
 book, what sort of answer she ought to make ; then 
 said, 
 
 "Mademoiselle Alexandre has a penance to per- 
 form, and a class-lesson to give ; but I should be very 
 sorry to let you put yourself to the trouble of coming 
 here all to no purpose. I am going to send for her. 
 Only first allow me, Monsieur as it is our custom 
 to put your name on the visitors' register." 
 
 She sat down at the table, opened a large copy- 
 book, and, taking out Maitre Mouche's letter again 
 from under her pelerine, where she had placed it, 
 looked at it, and began to write. 
 
 " * Bonnard ' with a d, is it not ?" she asked. " IJx- 
 cuse me for being so particular; but my opinion is
 
 152 T1IE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 that proper names have an orthography. We have 
 dictation-lessons in proper names, Monsieur, at this 
 school historical proper names, of course !" 
 
 After I had written down my name in a running 
 hand, she inquired whether she should not put down 
 after it my profession, title, quality such as "re- 
 tired merchant," "employe," "independent gentle- 
 man," or something else. There was a column in her 
 register expressly for that purpose. 
 
 " My goodness, Madame !" I said, " if you must ab- 
 solutely fill that column of yours, put down ' Member 
 of the Institute.' " 
 
 It was still Mademoiselle Prefere's pelerine I saw 
 before me ; but it was not Mademoiselle Prefere now 
 who wore it ; it was a totally different person, oblig- 
 ing, gracious, caressing, radiant, happy. Her eyes 
 smiled ; the little wrinkles of her face (there were a 
 vast number of them !) also smiled ; her mouth smiled 
 likewise, but only on one side. I discovered afterwards 
 that was her best side. She spoke: her voice had 
 also changed with her manner ; it was now sweet as 
 honey. 
 
 " You said, Monsieur, that our dear Jeanne was very 
 intelligent. I discovered the same thing myself, and 
 I am proud of being able to agree with you. This 
 young girl has really made me feel a great deal of 
 interest in her. She has what I call a happy dispo- 
 sition. . . . But excuse me for thus drawing upon your 
 valuable time."
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 153 
 
 She summoned the servant-girl, who looked much 
 more hurried and scared than before, and who van- 
 ished with the order to go and tell Mademoiselle Alex- 
 andre that Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard, Member of 
 the Institute, was waiting to see her in the parlor. 
 
 Mademoiselle Prefere had barely tune to confide to 
 me that she had the most profound respect for all de- 
 cisions of the Institute whatever they might be 
 when Jeanne appeared, out of breath, red as a poppy, 
 with her eyes very wide open, and her arms dangling 
 helplessly at her sides charming in her artless awk- 
 wardness. 
 
 "What a state you are in, my dear child!" mur- 
 mured Mademoiselle Prefere, with maternal sweet- 
 ness, as she arranged the girl's collar. 
 
 Jeanne certainly did present an odd aspect. Her 
 hair combed back, and imperfectly held by a net from 
 which loose curls were escaping ; her slender arms, 
 sheathed down to the elbows in lustring sleeves ; her 
 hands, which she did not seem to know what to do 
 with, all red with chilblains ; her dress, much too short, 
 revealing that she had on stockings much too large 
 for her, and shoes worn down at the heel ; and a skip- 
 ping-rope tied round her waist in lieu of a belt, all 
 combined to lend Mademoiselle Jeanne an appearance 
 the reverse of presentable. 
 
 " Oh, you crazy girl !" sighed Mademoiselle Prefere, 
 who now seemed no longer like a mother, but rather 
 like an elder sister.
 
 154 THE CHIME OF 8YLVESTHE BONNARD. 
 
 Then she suddenly left the room, gliding like a 
 shadow over the polished floor. 
 
 I said to Jeanne, 
 
 " Sit down, Jeanne, and talk to me like you would 
 to a friend. Are you not better satisfied here now 
 than you were last year ?" 
 
 She hesitated ; then answered with a good-natured 
 smile of resignation, 
 
 " Not much better." 
 
 I asked her to tell me about her school life. She 
 began at once to enumerate all her different studies 
 piano, style, chronology of the Kings of France, sew- 
 ing, drawing, catechism, deportment. ... I could never 
 remember them all ! She still held in her hands, all 
 unconsciously, the two ends of her skipping-rope, and 
 she raised and lowered them regularly while making 
 her enumeration. Then all at once she became con- 
 scious of what she was doing, blushed, stammered, 
 and became so confused that I had to renounce my 
 desire to know the full programme of study adopted 
 in the Pref ere Institution. 
 
 After having questioned Jeanne on various matters, 
 and obtained only the vaguest answers, I perceived 
 that her young mind was totally absorbed by the 
 skipping-rope, and I entered bravely into that grave 
 subject. 
 
 " So you have been skipping?" I said. " It is a very 
 nice amusement, but one that you must not exert your- 
 self too much at ; for any excessive exercise of that
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 155 
 
 kind might seriously injure your health, and I should 
 be very much grieved about it, Jeanne I should be 
 very much grieved, indeed !" 
 
 " You are very kind, Monsieur," the young girl said, 
 " to have come to see me and talk to me like this. I 
 did not think about thanking you when I came in, 
 because I was too much surprised. Have you seen 
 Madame de Gabry ? Please tell me something about 
 her, Monsieur." 
 
 "Madame de Gabry," I answered, "is very well. 
 I can only tell you about her, Jeanne, what an old 
 gardener once said of the lady of the castle, his mis- 
 tress, when somebody anxiously inquired about her : 
 f Madame is in her road.' Yes, Madame de Gabry is 
 in her own road ; and you know, Jeanne, what a good 
 road it is, and how steadily she can walk upon it. I 
 went out with her the other day, very, very far away 
 from the house ; and we talked about you. We talked 
 about you, my child, at your mother's grave." 
 
 " I am very glad," said Jeanne. 
 
 And then, all at once, she began to cry. 
 
 I felt too much reverence for those generous tears 
 to attempt in any way to check the emotion that had 
 evoked them. But in a little while, as the girl wiped 
 her eyes, I asked her, 
 
 " "Will you not tell me, Jeanne, why you were think- 
 ing so much about that skipping-rope a little while 
 ago?" 
 
 "Why, indeed I will, Monsieur. It was only be-
 
 166 THE CRIME OF SYLVEtiTRE BONNARD. 
 
 cause I had no right to conie into the parlor with a 
 skipping-rope. You know, of course, that I am past 
 the age for playing at skipping. But when the ser- 
 vant said there was an old gentleman ... oh ! ... I 
 mean . . . that a gentleman was waiting for me in 
 the parlor, I was making the little girls jump. Then 
 I tied the rope round my waist in a hurry, so that it 
 might not get lost. It was wrong. But I have not 
 been in the habit of having many people come to see 
 me. And Mademoiselle Prefere never lets us off if we 
 commit any breach of deportment : so I know she is go- 
 ing to punish me, and I am very sorry about it." . . . 
 
 " That is too bad, Jeanne !" 
 
 She became very grave, and said, 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur, it is too bad ; because when I am 
 punished myself, I have no more authority over the 
 little girls." 
 
 I did not at once fully understand the nature of this 
 unpleasantness ; but Jeanne explained to me that, as 
 she was charged by Mademoiselle Prefere with the 
 duties of taking care of the youngest class, of washing 
 and dressing the children, of teaching them how to 
 behave, how to sew, how to say the alphabet, of show- 
 ing them how to play, and, finally, of putting them to 
 bed at the close of the day, she could not make herself 
 obeyed by those turbulent little folks on the days she 
 was condemned to wear a night-cap in the class-room, 
 or to eat her meals standing up, from a plate turned 
 upside down.
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVE8TRE BONNARD. 157 
 
 Having secretly admired the punishments devised 
 by the Lady of the Enchanted Pelerine, I responded, 
 
 "Then, if I understand you rightly, Jeanne, you 
 are at once a pupil here and a mistress ? It is a con- 
 dition of existence very common in the world. You 
 are punished, and you punish ?" 
 
 " Oh, Monsieur !" she exclaimed. " No ! I never 
 punish !" 
 
 "Then, I suspect," said I, "that your indulgence 
 gets you many scoldings from Mademoiselle Prefere ?" 
 
 She smiled, and winked. 
 
 Then I said to her that the troubles in which we 
 often involve ourselves, by trying to act according to 
 our conscience and to do the best we can, are never of 
 the sort that totally dishearten and weary us, but are, 
 on the contrary, wholesome trials. This sort of phi- 
 losophy touched her very little. She even appeared 
 totally unmoved by my moral exhortations. But was 
 not this quite natural on her part ? and ought I not 
 to have remembered that it is only those no longer 
 innocent who can find pleasure in the systems of 
 moralists ? . . . I had at least good sense enough to 
 cut short my sermonizing. 
 
 " Jeanne," I said, " you were asking a moment ago 
 about Madame Gabry. Let us talk about that Fairy 
 of yours. She was very prettily made. Do you do 
 any modelling in wax now ?" 
 
 " I have not a bit of wax," she exclaimed, wringing 
 her hands " no wax at all !"
 
 158 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 " No wax I" I cried " in a republic of busy bees ?* 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 " And, then, you see, Monsieur, my figurines, as you 
 call them, are not in Mademoiselle Prefere's pro- 
 gramme. But I had begun to make a very small 
 Saint-George for Madame de Gabry a tiny little 
 Saint-George, with a golden cuirass. Is not that 
 right, Monsieur Bonnard to give Saint-George a 
 gold cuirass ?" 
 
 " Quite right, Jeanne ; but what became of it ?" 
 
 " I am going to tell you. I kept it in my pocket 
 because I had no other place to put it, and and I sat 
 down on it by mistake." 
 
 She drew out of her pocket a little wax figure, 
 which had been squeezed out of all resemblance to 
 human form, and of which the dislocated limbs were 
 only attached to the body by their wire framework. 
 At the sight of her hero thus marred, she was seized 
 at once with compassion and gayety. The latter feel- 
 ing obtained the mastery, and she burst into a clear 
 laugh, which, however, stopped as suddenly as it had 
 begun. 
 
 Mademoiselle Pref ere stood at the parlor door, smil- 
 ing. 
 
 " That dear child !" sighed the schoolmistress, in her 
 tenderest tone. " I am afraid she will tire you. And, 
 then, your time is so precious !" 
 
 I begged Mademoiselle Prefere to dismiss that illu- 
 sion, and, rising to take my leave, I took from my
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 159 
 
 pocket some chocolate-cakes and sweets which I had 
 brought with me. 
 
 "That is so nice!" said Jeanne; "there will be 
 enough to go round the whole school." 
 
 The Lady of the Pelerine intervened. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Alexandre," she said, " thank Mon- 
 sieur for his generosity." 
 
 Jeanne looked at her for an instant in a sullen way ; 
 then, turning to me, said with remarkable firmness, 
 
 " Monsieur, I thank you for your kindness in com- 
 ing to see me." 
 
 " Jeanne," I said, pressing both her hands, " re- 
 main always a good, truthful, brave girl. Good- 
 by." 
 
 As she left the room with her packages of chocolate 
 and confectionery, she happened to strike the handles 
 of her skipping-rope against the back of a chair. Mad- 
 emoiselle Prefere, full of indignation, pressed both 
 hands over her heart, under her pelerine ; and I almost 
 expected to see her give up her scholastic ghost. 
 
 When we found ourselves alone, she recovered her 
 composure ; and I must say, without considering my- 
 self thereby flattered, that she smiled upon me with 
 one whole side of her face. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," I said, taking advantage of her 
 good humor, " I noticed that Jeanne Alexandre looks 
 a little pale. You know better than I how much con- 
 sideration and care a young girl requires at her age. 
 It would only be doing you an injustice by implioa-
 
 160 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 tion to recommend her still more earnestly to your 
 vigilance." 
 
 These words seemed to ravish her with delight. 
 She lifted her eyes, as in ecstasy, to the paper spirals 
 of the ceiling, and, clasping her hands, exclaimed, 
 
 " How well these eminent men know the art of con- 
 sidering the most trifling details !" 
 
 I called her attention to the fact that the health of 
 a young girl was not a trifling detail, and made my 
 farewell bow. But she stopped me on the threshold 
 to say to me, very confidentially, 
 
 " You must excuse me, Monsieur. I am a woman, 
 and I love glory. I cannot conceal from you the fact 
 that I feel myself greatly honored by the presence of 
 a Member of the Institute in my humble institution." 
 
 I duly excused the weakness of Mademoiselle Pre- 
 f ere ; and, thinking only of Jeanne, with the blind- 
 ness of egotism, kept asking myself all along the road, 
 " What are we going to do with this child ?" 
 
 June 3. 
 
 I HAD escorted to the Cime'tiere des Marnes that day 
 a very aged colleague of mine who, to use the words 
 of Goethe, had consented to die. The great Goethe, 
 whose own vital force was something extraordinary, 
 actually believed that one never dies until one really 
 wants to die that is to say, when all those energies 
 which resist dissolution, and the sum of which make
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 161 
 
 up life itself, have been totally destroyed. In other 
 words he believed that people only die when it is no 
 longer possible for them to live. Good ! it is merely a 
 question of properly understanding one another ; and 
 when fully comprehended, the magnificent idea of 
 Goethe only brings us quietly back to the song of La 
 Palisse. 
 
 "Well, my excellent colleague had consented to die 
 thanks to several successive attacks of extremely 
 persuasive apoplexy the last of which proved unan- 
 swerable. I had been very little acquainted with him 
 during his lifetime; but it seems that I became his 
 friend the moment he was dead, for our colleagues 
 assured me in the most serious manner, with deeply 
 sympathetic countenances, that I should act as one of 
 the pall-bearers, and deliver an address over the tomb. 
 
 After having read very badly a short address I had 
 written as well as I could which is not saying much 
 for it I started out for a walk in the woods of Yille- 
 d'Avray, and followed, without leaning too much on 
 the Captain's cane, a shaded path on which the sun- 
 light fell, through foliage, in little disks of gold. Nev- 
 er had the scent of grass and fresh leaves, never had 
 the beauty of the sky over the trees, and the serene 
 might of noble vegetal forms, so deeply affected my 
 senses and all my being; and the pleasure I felt in 
 that silence, broken only by faintest tinkling sounds, 
 was at once of the senses and of the soul. 
 
 I sat down in the shade of the roadside under a 
 11
 
 162 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 clump of young oaks. And there I made a promise 
 to myself not to die, or at least not to consent to die, 
 before I should be again able to sit down under an 
 oak, where in the great peace of the open conntry 
 I could meditate on the nature of the soul and the 
 ultimate destiny of man. A bee, whose brown cor- 
 sage gleamed in the sun like an armor of old-gold, 
 came to light upon a mallow-flower close by me 
 darkly rich in color, and fully opened upon its tufted 
 stalk. It was certainly not the first time I had wit- 
 nessed so common an incident; but it was the first 
 time that I watched it with such comprehensive and 
 friendly curiosity. I could discern that there were all 
 sorts of sympathies between the insect and the flower 
 a thousand singular little relationships which I had 
 never before even suspected. 
 
 Satiated with nectar, the insect rose and buzzed 
 away in a straight line, while I lifted myself up as 
 best I could, and readjusted myself upon my legs. 
 
 " Adieu !" I said to the flower and to the bee. 
 "Adieu! Heaven grant I may live long enough to 
 discover the secret of your harmonies. I am very 
 tired. But man is so made that he can only find 
 relaxation from one kind of labor by taking up an- 
 other. The flowers and insects will give me that 
 relaxation, with God's will, after my long researches 
 in philology and diplomatics. How full of meaning 
 is that old myth of Antaeus! I have touched the 
 Earth and I am a new man; and now, at seventy
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 163 
 
 years of age, new feelings of curiosity take birth in 
 my mind, even as young shoots sometimes spring up 
 from the hollow trunk of an aged oak !" 
 
 June 4- 
 
 I LIKE to look out of my window at the Seine and 
 its quays on those soft gray mornings which give such 
 an infinite tenderness of tint to everything. I have 
 seen that azure sky which flings so luminous a calm 
 over the Bay of Naples. But our Parisian sky is more 
 animated, more kindly, more spiritual. It smiles, 
 threatens, caresses takes an aspect of melancholy or 
 a look of merriment like a human gaze. At this mo- 
 ment it is pouring down a very gentle light on the 
 men and beasts of the city as they accomplish their 
 daily tasks. Over there, on the opposite bank, the 
 stevedores of the Port Saint-Nicholas are unloading a 
 cargo of cows' horns ; while two men standing on a 
 gangway are tossing sugar-loaves from one to the other, 
 and thence to somebody in the hold of a steamer. On 
 the north quay, the cab-horses, standing in a line un- 
 der the shade of the plane-trees, each with its head 
 in a nose-bag, are quietly munching their oats, while 
 the rubicund drivers are drinking at the counter of 
 the wine-seller opposite, but all the while keeping a 
 sharp lookout for early customers. 
 
 The dealers in second-hand books put their boxes on 
 the parapet. These good retailers of Mind, who are
 
 164 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 always in the open air, with blouses loose to the 
 breeze, have become so weatherbeaten by the wind, 
 the rain, the frost, the snow, the fog, and the great 
 sun, that they end by looking very much like the old 
 statues of cathedrals. They are all friends of mine, 
 and I scarcely ever pass by their boxes without pick- 
 ing out of one of them some old book which I had 
 always been in need of up to that very moment, with- 
 out any suspicion on my part of the fact. 
 
 Then on my return home I have to endure the out- 
 cries of my housekeeper, who accuses me of bursting 
 all my pockets and filling the house with waste paper 
 to attract the rats. Therese is wise about that, and it 
 is because she is wise that I do not listen to her ; for 
 in spite of my tranquil mien, I have always preferred 
 the folly of the passions to the wisdom of indifference. 
 But just because my own passions are not of that sort 
 which burst out with violence to devastate and kill, 
 the common mind is not aware of their existence. 
 Nevertheless, I am greatly moved by them at times, 
 and it has more than once been my fate to lose my 
 sleep for the sake of a few pages written by some for- 
 gotten monk or printed by some humble apprentice of 
 Peter Schoeffer. And if these fierce enthusiasms are 
 slowly being quenched in me, it is only because I am 
 being sk>wly quenched myself. Our passions are our- 
 selves. My old books are Me. I am just as old and 
 thumbworn as they are. 
 
 A light breeze sweeps away, along with the dust of
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 165 
 
 the pavements, the winged seeds of the plane-trees, 
 and the fragments of hay dropped from the mouths 
 of the horses. The dust is nothing remarkable in 
 itself; but as I watch it flying, I remember a mo- 
 ment in my childhood when watching just such a 
 whirl of dust; and my old Parisian soul is much 
 affected by that sudden recollection. All that I see 
 from my window that horizon which extends to the 
 left as far as the hills of Chaillot, and enables me to 
 distinguish the Arc de Triomphe like a die of stone, 
 the Seine, river of glory, and its bridges, the ash-trees 
 of the terrace of the Tuileries, the Louvre of the Ke- 
 naissance, cut and graven like goldsmith-work ; and 
 on my right, towards the Pont-Neuf (pons LuteticB 
 novus dictus, as it is named on old engravings), all 
 the old and venerable part of Paris, with its towers 
 and spires : all that is my life, it is myself ; and I 
 would be nothing but for all those things which are 
 thus reflected in me, through my thousand varying 
 shades of thought, inspiring me and animating me. 
 That is why I love Paris with an immense love. 
 
 And nevertheless I am weary, and I know that there 
 can be no rest for me in the heart of this great city 
 which thinks so much, which has taught me to think, 
 and which forever urges me to think more. And how 
 avoid being excited among all these books which in- 
 cessantly tempt my curiosity without ever satisfying 
 it ? At one moment it is a date I have to look for ; 
 at another it is the name of a place I have to make
 
 166 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 sure of, or some quaint term of which it is important 
 to determine the exact meaning. Words ? why, yes ! 
 words. As a philologist, I am their sovereign ; they 
 are my subjects, and, like a good king, I devote my 
 whole life to them. But will I not be able to abdicate 
 some day? I have an idea that there is somewhere 
 or other, quite far from here, a certain little cottage 
 where I could enjoy the quiet I so much need, while 
 awaiting that day in which a greater quiet that 
 which can be never broken shall come to wrap me 
 all about. I dream of a bench before the threshold, 
 and of fields spreading away out of sight. But I must 
 have a fresh smiling young face beside me, to reflect 
 and concentrate all that freshness of nature. I could 
 then imagine myself a grandfather, and all the long 
 void of my life would be filled. . . . 
 
 I am not a violent man, and yet I become easily 
 vexed, and all my works have caused me quite as much 
 pain as pleasure. And I do not know how it is that 
 .1 still keep thinking about that very conceited and 
 very inconsiderate impertinence which my young 
 friend of the Luxembourg took the liberty to utter 
 about me some three months ago. I do not call him 
 " friend " in irony, for I love studious youth with all 
 its temerities and imaginative eccentricities. Still, 
 my young friend certainly went beyond all bounds. 
 Master Ambroise Pare, who was the first to attempt 
 the ligature of arteries, and who, having commenced 
 his profession at a time when surgery was only per-
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 167 
 
 formed by quack barbers, nevertheless succeeded in 
 lifting the science to the high place it now occupies, 
 was assailed in his old age by all the young sawbones' 
 apprentices. Being grossly abused during a discussion 
 by some young addlehead who might have been the 
 best son in the world, but who certainly lacked all 
 sense of respect, the old master answered him in his 
 treatise De la Mumie, de la Licorne, des Venms et de 
 la Peste. " I pray him," said the great man " I pray 
 him, that if he desire to make any contradictions to 
 my reply, he abandon all animosities, and treat the 
 good old man with gentleness." This answer seems 
 admirable from the pen of Ambroise Pare ; but even 
 had it been written by a village bonesetter, grown 
 gray in his calling, and mocked by some young strip- 
 ling, it would still be worthy of all praise. 
 
 It might perhaps seem that my memory of the inci- 
 dent had been kept alive only by a base feeling of re- 
 sentment. I thought so myself at first, and reproached 
 myself for thus dwelling on the saying of a boy who 
 could not yet know the meaning of his own words. 
 But my reflections on this subject subsequently took 
 a better course : that is why I now note them down 
 in my diary. I remembered that one day when I was 
 twenty years old (that was more than half a century 
 ago) I was walking about in that very same garden 
 of the Luxembourg with some comrades. We were 
 talking about our old professors ; and one of us hap- 
 pened to name Monsieur Petit-Radel, an estimable and
 
 168 THE CRIME OF BYLVE8TZB BOXNARD. 
 
 learned man, who was the first to throw some light 
 upon the origin of early Etruscan civilization, but who 
 had been unfortunate enough to prepare a chronolog- 
 ical table of the lovers of Helen. "We all laughed a 
 great deal about that chronological table ; and I cried 
 out, " Petit-Radel is an ass, not in three letters, but in 
 twelve whole volumes !" 
 
 This foolish speech of my adolescence was uttered 
 too lightly to be a weight on my conscience as an old 
 man. May God kindly prove to me some day that I 
 never used any less innocent shaft of speech in the 
 battle of life! But I now ask myself whether I 
 really never wrote, at any time in my life, something 
 quite as unconsciously absurd as the chronological ta- 
 ble of the lovers of Helen. The progress of science 
 renders useless the very books which have been the 
 greatest aids to that progress.\ As those works are no 
 longer useful, modern youth is naturally inclined to 
 believe they never had any value; it despises them, 
 and ridicules them if they happen to contain any 
 superannuated opinion whatever. That was why, in 
 my twentieth year, I amused myself at the expense 
 of Monsieur Petit-Radel and his chronological table ; 
 and that was why, the other day, at the Luxembourg, 
 my young and irreverent friend . . . 
 
 " Rentre en toi-meme, Octave, et cente de te plaindre. 
 Qvoi ! tu veux qu'on fepargne et n'<w rien epargne /" * 
 
 * " Look into thyself, Octavius, and cease complaining. 
 
 What ! thou wouldst be spared, and thou thyself hast spared 
 none 1"
 
 THE CRIXti OF SYLVEST&E &ONNARJ). 169 
 
 June 6. 
 
 IT was the first Thursday in June. I shut up my 
 books, and took my leave of the holy Abbot Drocto- 
 veus, who being now in the enjoyment of celestial 
 bliss, cannot feel very impatient to behold his name 
 and works glorified on earth through the humble 
 compilation being prepared by my hands. Must I 
 confess it? That mallow -plant I saw visited by a 
 bee the other day has been occupying my thoughts 
 much more than all the ancient abbots who ever bore 
 crosiers or wore mitres. There is in one of Sprengel's 
 books which I read in my youth, at that time when I 
 used to read anything and everything, some ideas 
 about "the loves of flowers" which now return to 
 memory after having been forgotten for half a century, 
 and which to-day interest me so much that I regret 
 not to have devoted the humble capacities of my mind 
 to the study of insects and of plants. 
 
 And only a while ago my housekeeper surprised me 
 at the kitchen window, in the act of examining some 
 wallflowers through a magnifying-glass. . . . 
 
 It was while looking for my cravat that I made 
 these reflections. But after searching to no purpose 
 in a great number of drawers, I found myself obliged, 
 after all, to have recourse to my housekeeper. Therese 
 came limping in. 
 
 " Monsieur," she said, " you ought to have told me 
 you were going out, and I would have given you your 
 cravat 1"
 
 170 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 " But Therese," I replied, " would it not be a great 
 deal better to put it some place where I could find it 
 without your help ?" 
 
 Therese did not deign to answer me. 
 
 Therese no longer allows me to arrange anything. 
 I cannot even have a handkerchief without asking her 
 for it ; and as she is deaf, crippled, and, what is worse, 
 beginning to lose her memory, I languish in perpetual 
 destitution. But she exercises her domestic authority 
 with such quiet pride that I do not feel the courage 
 to attempt a coup d'etat against her government. 
 
 "My cravat! Therese! do you hear? my cravat! 
 if you drive me wild like this with your slow ways, it 
 will not be a cravat I shall need, but a rope to hang 
 myself!" 
 
 " You must be in a very great hurry, Monsieur," re- 
 plied Therese. " Your cravat is not lost. Nothing is 
 ever lost in this house, because I have charge of every- 
 thing. But please allow me the time at least to find 
 it." 
 
 " Yet here," I thought to myself " here is the result 
 of half a century of devotedness and self-sacrifice ! . . . 
 Ah ! if by any happy chance, this inexorable The'rese 
 had once in her whole life, only once, failed in her 
 duty as a servant if she had ever been at fault for one 
 single instant, she could never have assumed this in- 
 flexible authority over me, and I would at least have 
 the courage to resist her. But how can one resist 
 virtue ? The people who have no weaknesses are ter-
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. m 
 
 rible ; there is no way of taking advantage of them. 
 Just look at Therese, for example ; she has not a sin- 
 gle fault for which you can blame her ! She has no 
 doubt of herself, nor of God, nor of the world. She 
 is the valiant woman, the wise virgin of Scripture ; 
 others may know nothing about her, but I know her 
 worth. In my fancy I always see her carrying a 
 lamp, an humble kitchen lamp, illuminating the beams 
 of some rustic roof a lamp which will never go out 
 while suspended from that meagre arm of hers, scrag- 
 gy and strong as a vine-branch. 
 
 " Therese, my cravat ! Don't you know, wretched 
 woman, that to-day is the first Thursday in June, and 
 that Mademoiselle Jeanne will be waiting for me? 
 The schoolmistress has certainly had the parlor floor 
 vigorously waxed : I am sure one can look at one's self 
 in it now ; and it will be quite a consolation for me 
 when I slip and break my old bones upon it which 
 is sure to happen sooner or later to see my rueful 
 countenance reflected in it as in a looking-glass. Then 
 taking for my model that amiable and admirable hero 
 whose image is carved upon the handle of Uncle Vic- 
 tor's walking-stick, I will control myself so as not to 
 make too ugly a grimace. . . . See what a splendid 
 sun ! The quays are all gilded by it, and the Seine 
 smiles in countless little flashing wrinkles. The city 
 is gold : a dust-haze, blonde and gold-toned as a wom- 
 an's hair, floats above its beautiful contours. . . . 
 Therese, my cravat ! . . . Ah ! I can now comprehend
 
 172 THE CRIME OF 8TLVS8TRS BONNARD. 
 
 the wisdom of that old Chrysal who used to keep his 
 neckbands in a big Plutarch. Hereafter I shall follow 
 his example by laying all my neckties away between 
 the leaves of the ' Acta Sanctorum.' " 
 
 Therese lets me talk on, and keeps looking for the 
 necktie in silence. I hear a gentle ringing at our 
 door-bell. 
 
 " Therese," I exclaim ; " there is somebody ring- 
 ing the bell ! Give me my cravat, and go to the door ; 
 or, rather, go to the door first, and then, with the 
 help of Heaven, you will give me my cravat. But 
 please do not stand there between the clothes-press 
 and the door like an old hack horse between two 
 saddles." 
 
 Therese marched to the door as if advancing upon 
 an enemy. My excellent housekeeper becomes more 
 inhospitable the older she grows. Every stranger is 
 an object of suspicion to her. According to her own 
 assertion, this disposition is the result of a long ex- 
 perience with human nature. I had not the time to 
 consider whether the same experience on the part of 
 another experimenter would produce the same results. 
 Maitre Mouche was waiting to see me in the ante- 
 room. 
 
 Maitre Mouche is still more yellow than I had be- 
 lieved him to be. He wears blue glasses, and his eyes 
 keep moving uneasily behind them, like mice running 
 about behind a screen. 
 
 Maitre Mouche excuses himself for having intruded
 
 THE CRIME OF SIDEtiTRE BONNARD. 173 
 
 upon me at a moment when ... He does not char- 
 acterize the moment ; but I think he means to say a 
 moment in which I happen to be without my cravat. 
 It is not my fault, as you very well know. Maitre 
 Mouche, who does not know, does not appear to be at 
 all shocked, however. He is only afraid that he 
 might have dropped in at the wrong moment. I suc- 
 ceed in partially reassuring him at once upon that 
 point. He then tells me it is as the guardian of 
 Mademoiselle Alexandre that he has come to talk 
 with me. First of all, he desires that I shall not 
 hereafter pay any heed to those restrictions he had at 
 first deemed it necessary to put upon the permit 
 given to visit Mademoiselle Jeanne at the boarding- 
 school. Henceforth the establishment of Mademoi- 
 selle Prefere will be open to me any day that I may 
 choose to call between the hours of midday and four 
 o'clock. Knowing the interest I have taken in the 
 young girl, he considers it his duty to give me some 
 information about the person to whom he has con- 
 fided his ward. Mademoiselle Prefere, whom he has 
 known for many years, is in possession of his ut- 
 most confidence. Mademoiselle Prefere is, in his esti- 
 mation, an enlightened person, of excellent morals, 
 and capable of giving excellent counsel. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Prefere," he said to me, " has prin- 
 ciples ; and principles are rare in these days, Mon- 
 sieur. Everything has been totally changed ; and this 
 epoch of ours cannot compare with the preceding ones."
 
 174 THE C1UME OF BTLVE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 " My stairway is a good example, Monsieur," I re- 
 plied ; " twenty-five years ago it used to allow me to 
 climb it without any trouble, and now it takes my 
 breath away, and wears my legs out before I have 
 climbed half a dozen steps. It has had its character 
 spoiled. Then there are those journals and books I 
 used once to devour without resistance by moonlight : 
 to-day, even in the brightest sunlight, they mock my 
 curiosity, and exhibit nothing but a blur of white 
 and black when I have not got my spectacles on. 
 Then the gout has got into my limbs. That is an- 
 other malicious trick of the times !" 
 
 " Not only that, Monsieur," gravely replied Maitre 
 Mouche, "but what is really unfortunate in our 
 epoch is that no one is satisfied with his position. 
 From the top of society to the bottom, in every class, 
 there prevails a discontent, a restlessness, a love of 
 comfort . . ." 
 
 " Mon Dieu, Monsieur !" I exclaimed. " You think 
 this love of comfort is a sign of the times? Men 
 have never had at any epoch a love of discomfort. 
 They have always tried to better their condition. 
 This constant effort produces constant changes, and 
 the effort is always going on that is all there is 
 about it !" 
 
 "Ah! Monsieur," replied Maitre Mouche, "it is 
 easy to see that you live in your books out of the 
 business world altogether. You do not see, as I see 
 them, the conflicts of interest, the struggle for money.
 
 THE CRIME OF 8YLVESTRE BONNARD. 175 
 
 It is the same effervescence in all minds, great or 
 small. The wildest speculations are being everywhere 
 indulged in. "What I see around me simply terrifies 
 me!" 
 
 I wondered within myself whether Maitre Mouche 
 had called upon me only for the purpose of expressing 
 his virtuous misanthropy; but all at once I heard 
 words of a more consoling character issue from his 
 lips. Maitre Mouche began to speak to me of Vir- 
 ginie Prefere as a person worthy of respect, of es- 
 teem, and of sympathy, highly honorable, capable of 
 great devotedness, cultivated, discreet, able to read 
 aloud remarkably well, extremely modest, and skil- 
 ful in the art of applying blisters. Then I began to 
 understand that he had only been painting that dis- 
 mal picture of universal corruption in order the better 
 to bring out, by contrast, the virtues of the school- 
 mistress. I was further informed that the institution 
 in the Eue Demours was well patronized, prosperous, 
 and enjoyed a high reputation with the public. Maitre 
 Mouche lifted up his hand with a black woollen 
 glove on it as if making oath to the truth of these 
 statements. Then he added : 
 
 " I am enabled, by the very character of my pro- 
 fession, to know a great deal about people. A notary 
 is, to a certain extent, a father-confessor. I deemed 
 it my duty, Monsieur, to give you this agreeable in- 
 formation at the moment when a lucky chance en- 
 abled you to meet Mademoiselle Prefere. There is
 
 176 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 only one thing more which I would like to say. This 
 lady who is, of course, quite unaware of ray action 
 in the matter spoke to me of you the other day in 
 terms of the deepest sympathy. I could only weaken 
 their expression by repeating them to you; and, 
 furthermore, I could not repeat them without betray- 
 ing, to a certain extent, the confidence of Mademoiselle 
 Prefere." 
 
 " Do not betray it, Monsieur ; do not betray it !" I 
 responded. " To tell you the truth, I had no idea 
 that Mademoiselle Prefere knew anything whatever 
 about me. But since you have the influence of an 
 old friend with her, I will take advantage of your 
 good will, Monsieur, to ask you to exercise that influ- 
 ence in behalf of Mademoiselle Jeanne Alexandre. 
 The child for she is still a child is overloaded with 
 work. She is at once a pupil and a mistress she is 
 overtasked. Besides, she is punished in petty dis- 
 gusting ways ; and hers is one of those generous nat- 
 ures which will be forced into revolt by such con- 
 tinual humiliation." 
 
 " Alas !" replied Maitre Mouche, " she must be 
 trained to take her part in the struggle of life. One 
 does not come into this world simply to amuse one's 
 self, and to do just what one pleases." 
 
 " One comes into this world," I responded, rather 
 warmly, " to enjoy what is beautiful and what is good, 
 and to do as one pleases, when the things one wants 
 to do are noble, intelligent, and generous. ' An edu-
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. m 
 
 cation which does not cultivate the will, is an educa- 
 tion that depraves the mind. It is a teacher's duty 
 to teach the pupil how to will." 
 
 I perceived that Maitre Mouche began to think me 
 a rather silly man. "With a great deal of quiet self- 
 assurance, he proceeded : 
 
 " You must remember, Monsieur, that the education 
 of the poor has to be conducted with a great deal of 
 circumspection, and with a view to that future state 
 of dependence they must occupy in society. Perhaps 
 you are not aware that the late Noel Alexandre died 
 a bankrupt, and that his daughter is being educated 
 almost by charity ?" 
 
 " Oh ! Monsieur !" I exclaimed, " do not say it ! To 
 say it is to pay one's self back, and then the statement 
 ceases to be true." 
 
 " The liabilities of the succession," continued the 
 notary, " exceeded the assets. But I was able to ef- 
 fect a settlement with the creditors in favor of the 
 minor." 
 
 He undertook to explain matters in detail. I de- 
 clined to listen to these explanations, being incapable 
 of understanding business methods in general, and 
 those of Maitre Mouche in particular. The notary 
 then took it upon himself to justify Mademoiselle 
 Prefere's educational system, and observed by way 
 of conclusion, 
 
 " It is not by amusing one's self that one can learn." 
 
 " It is only by amusing one's self that one can learn," 
 12
 
 178 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 I replied. " The whole art of teaching is only the art 
 of awakening the natural curiosity of young minds 
 for the purpose of satisfying it afterwards; and cu- 
 riosity itself can be vivid and wholesome only in pro- 
 portion as the mind is contented and happy. Those 
 acquirements crammed by force into the minds of 
 children simply clog and stifle intelligence. In order 
 that knowledge be properly digested, it must have 
 been swallowed with a good appetite. I know Jeanne ! 
 If that child were intrusted to my care, I should make 
 of her not a learned woman, for I would look to her 
 future happiness only but a child full of bright in- 
 telligence and full of life, in whom everything beau- 
 tiful in art or nature would awaken some gentle 
 responsive thrill. I would teach her to live in sym- 
 pathy with all that is beautiful comely landscapes, 
 the ideal scenes of poetry and history, the emotional 
 charm of noble music. I would make lovable to her 
 everything I would wish her to love. Even her needle- 
 work I would make pleasurable to her, by a proper 
 choice of the tissues, the style of embroideries, the 
 designs of lace. I would give her a beautiful dog, and 
 a pony to teach her how to manage animals ; I would 
 give her birds to take care of, so that she could learn 
 the value of even a drop of water and a crumb of 
 bread. And in order that she should have a still 
 higher pleasure, I would train her to find delight in 
 exercising charity. And inasmuch as none of us may 
 escape pain, I should teach her that Christian wisdom
 
 THE CHIME OF 8JLVESTRE BONNARD. 179 
 
 which elevates us above all suffering, and gives a 
 beauty even to grief itself. That is my idea of the 
 right way to educate a young girl." 
 
 " I yield, Monsieur," replied Maitre Mouche, joining 
 his black-gloved hands together. 
 
 And he rose. 
 
 " Of course you understand," I remarked, as I went 
 to the door with him, " that I do not pretend for a 
 moment to impose my educational system upon Made- 
 moiselle Pref ere ; it is necessarily a private one, and 
 quite incompatible with the organization of even the 
 best-managed boarding-schools. I only ask you to 
 persuade her to give Jeanne less work and more play, 
 and not to punish her except in case of absolute neces- 
 sity, and to let her have as much freedom of mind 
 and body as the regulations of the institution permit." 
 
 It was with a pale and mysterious smile that Maitre 
 Mouche informed me that my observations would be 
 taken in good part, and should receive all possible 
 consideration. 
 
 Therewith he made me a little bow, and took his 
 departure, leaving me with a peculiar feeling of dis- 
 comfort and uneasiness. I have met a great many 
 strange characters in my time, but never any at all 
 resembling either this notary or this schoolmistress.
 
 180 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 July 6. 
 
 Maitre Mouche had so much delayed me by his 
 visit that I gave up going to see Jeanne that day. 
 Professional duties kept me very busy for the rest of 
 the week. Although at the age when most men re- 
 tire altogether from active life, I am still attached by 
 a thousand ties to the society in which I have lived. 
 I have to preside at meetings of academies, scientific 
 congresses, assemblies of various learned bodies. I 
 am overburdened with honorary functions ; I have 
 seven of these in one government department alone. 
 The bureaux would be very glad to get rid of me, and 
 I should be very glad to get rid of them. But habit 
 is stronger than both of us together, and I continue to 
 hobble up the stairs of various government buildings. 
 Old clerks point me out to each other as I go by 
 like a ghost wandering through the corridors. When 
 one has become very old one finds it extremely diffi- 
 cult to disappear. Nevertheless, it is time, as the old 
 song says, " deprendre ma retraite et de songer dfaire 
 un fon, " to retire on my pension and prepare myself 
 to die a good death. 
 
 An old marchioness, who used to be a friend of Helve- 
 tius in her youth, and whom I once met at my father's 
 house when a very old woman, was visited during her 
 last sickness by the priest of her parish, who wanted 
 to prepare her to die. 
 
 "Is that really necessary?" she asked. "I see
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 181 
 
 everybody else manage it perfectly well the first 
 time." 
 
 My father went to see her very soon afterwards, 
 and found her extremely ill. 
 
 " Good-evening, my friend !" she said, pressing his 
 hand. " I am going to see whether God improves upon 
 acquaintance." 
 
 So were wont to die the belles amies of the philoso- 
 phers. Such an end is certainly not vulgar nor imper- 
 tinent, and such levities are not of the sort that ema- 
 nate from dull minds. Nevertheless, they shock me. 
 Neither my fears nor my hopes could accommodate 
 themselves to such a mode of departure. I would like 
 to make mine with a perfectly collected mind; and 
 that is why I must begin to think, in a year or two, 
 about some way of belonging to myself ; otherwise, I 
 should certainly risk . . . But, hush ! let Him not hear 
 His name and turn to look as He passes by ! I can 
 still lift my fagot without His aid. 
 
 ... I found Jeanne very happy indeed. She told 
 me that, on the Thursday previous, after the visit of 
 her guardian, Mademoiselle Prefere had set her free 
 from the ordinary regulations and lightened her tasks 
 in several ways. Since that lucky Thursday she could 
 walk in the garden which only lacked leaves and 
 flowers as much as she liked ; and she had even been 
 given facilities to work at her unfortunate little figure 
 of Saint-George. 
 
 She said to me, with a smile,
 
 182 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 " I know very well that I owe all this to you." 
 
 I tried to talk with her about other matters, but I 
 remarked that she could not attend to what I was say- 
 ing, in spite of her effort to do so. 
 
 " I see you are thinking about something else," I 
 said. " Well, tell me what it is ; for, if you do not, we 
 shall not be able to talk to each other at all, which 
 would be very unworthy of both of us." 
 
 She answered, 
 
 " Oh ! I was really listening to you, Monsieur ; but 
 it is true that I was thinking about something else. 
 You will excuse me, won't you? I could not help 
 thinking that Mademoiselle Prefere must like you 
 very, very much indeed, to have become so good to 
 me all of a sudden." 
 
 Then she looked at me in an odd, smiling, fright- 
 ened way, which made me laugh. 
 
 " Does that surprise you ?" I asked. 
 
 " Very much," she replied. 
 
 " Please tell me why?" 
 
 " Because I can see no reason, no reason at all ... 
 but there ! ... no reason at all why you should please 
 Mademoiselle Prefere so much." 
 
 " So, then, you think I am very displeasing, Jeanne?" 
 
 She bit her lips, as if to punish them for having 
 
 made a mistake ; and then, in a coaxing way, looking 
 
 at me with her great soft eyes, gentle and beautiful 
 
 as a spaniel's, she said, 
 
 ' " I know I said a foolish thing ; but, still, I do not
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 183 
 
 see any reason why you should be so pleasing to Ma- 
 demoiselle Prefere. And, nevertheless, you seem to 
 please her a great deal a very great deal. She called 
 me one day, and asked me all sorts of questions about 
 you." 
 
 "Keally?" 
 
 " Yes ; she wanted to find out all about your house. 
 Just think ! she even asked me how old your servant 
 was!" 
 
 And Jeanne burst out laughing. 
 
 " "Well, what do you think about it ?" I asked. 
 
 She remained a long while with her eyes fixed on 
 the worn-out cloth of her shoes, and seemed to be 
 thinking very deeply. Finally, looking up a^gain, she 
 answered, 
 
 " I am distrustful. Isn't it very natural to feel un- 
 easy about what one cannot understand ? I know I am 
 foolish ; but you won't be offended with me, will you ?" 
 
 " "Why, certainly not, Jeanne. I am not a bit offend- 
 ed with you." 
 
 I must acknowledge that I was beginning to share 
 her surprise ; and I began to turn over in my old head 
 the singular thought of this young girl " One is un- 
 easy about what one cannot understand." 
 
 But, with a fresh burst of merriment, she cried 
 out, 
 
 " She asked me ... guess ! I will give you a hun- 
 dred guesses a thousand guesses. You give it up ? ... 
 She asked me if you liked good eating."
 
 184 TUB CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 " And how did you receive this shower of interroga- 
 tions, Jeanne?" 
 
 "I replied, 'I don't know, Mademoiselle.' And 
 Mademoiselle then said to me, ' You are a little fool. 
 The least details of the life of an eminent man ought 
 to be observed. Please to know, Mademoiselle, that 
 Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard is one of the glories of 
 France !' " 
 
 " Stuff !" I exclaimed. " And what did you think 
 about it, Mademoiselle ?" 
 
 " I thought that Mademoiselle Prefere was right." 
 But I don't care at all ... (I know it is naughty what I 
 am going to say) ... I don't care a bit, not a bit, wheth- 
 er Mademoiselle Prefere is or is not right about any- 
 thing." 
 
 " "Well, then, content yourself, Jeanne, Mademoiselle 
 Prefere was not right." 
 
 "Yes, yes, she was quite right that time; but I 
 wanted to love everybody who loved you every- 
 body without exception and I cannot do it, because 
 it would never be possible for me to love Mademoiselle 
 Prefere." 
 
 " Listen, Jeanne," I answered, very seriously, " Made- 
 moiselle Prefere has become good to you ; try now to 
 be good to her." 
 
 She answered sharply, 
 
 " It is very easy for Mademoiselle Prefere to be good 
 to me, and it would be verv difficult indeed for me to 
 
 m 
 
 be good to her."
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 185 
 
 I then said, in a still more serious tone : 
 
 " My child, the authority of a teacher is sacred. You 
 must consider your schoolmistress as occupying the 
 place to you of the mother whom you lost." 
 
 I had scarcely uttered this solemn stupidity when I 
 bitterly regretted it. The child turned pale, and the 
 tears sprang to her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, Monsieur 1" she cried, " how could you say 
 such a thing you ? You never knew mamma !" 
 
 Ay, just Heaven ! I did know her mamma. And 
 how indeed could I have been foolish enough to have 
 said what I did ? 
 
 She repeated, as if to herself : 
 
 " Mamma ! my dear mamma ! my poor mamma !" 
 
 A lucky chance prevented me from playing the fool 
 any further. I do not know how it happened that at 
 that moment I looked as if I was going to cry. At 
 my age one does not cry. It must have been a bad 
 cough which brought the tears into my eyes. But, any- 
 how, appearances were in my favor. Jeanne was 
 deceived by them. Oh ! what a pure and radiant 
 smile suddenly shone out under her beautiful wet eye- 
 lashes like sunshine among branches after a summer 
 shower ! "We took each other by the hand and sat a 
 long while without saying a word absolutely happy. 
 Those celestial harmonies which I once thought I 
 heard thrilling through my soul while I knelt before 
 that tomb to which a saintly woman had guided me, 
 suddenly awoke again in my heart, slow - swelling
 
 186 THE CRIME OF t-YI.VKHTUE BONNARD. 
 
 through the blissful moments with infinite softness. 
 Doubtless the child whose hand pressed my own also 
 heard them ; and then, elevated by their enchantment 
 above the material world, the poor old man and the 
 artless young girl both knew that a tender ghostly 
 Presence was making sweetness all about them. 
 
 "My child," I said at last, " I am very old, and many 
 secrets of life which you will only learn little by little, 
 have been revealed to me. Believe me, the future is 
 shaped out of the past. Whatever you can do to live 
 contentedly here, without impatience and without fret- 
 ting, will help you to live some future day in peace and 
 joy in your own home. Be gentle, and learn how to 
 suffer. When one suffers patiently one suffers less. 
 If you should ever happen to have a serious cause of 
 complaint I shall be there to take your part. If you 
 should be badly treated, Madame De Gabry and I 
 would both consider ourselves badly treated in your 
 person." . . . 
 
 " Is your health very good indeed, dear Monsieur ?" 
 
 It was Mademoiselle Pref ere, approaching stealthily 
 behind us, who had asked the question, with her pe- 
 culiar smile. My first idea was to tell her to go to the 
 devil ; my second, that her mouth was as little suited 
 for smiling as a frying-pan for musical purposes ; my 
 third was to answer her politely and assure her that I 
 hoped she was very well. 
 
 She sent the young girl out to take a walk in the 
 garden ; then, pressing one hand upon her pelerine and
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. 187 
 
 extending the other towards the Tableau cPHormeur, 
 she showed me the name of Jeanne Alexandre written 
 at the head of the list in large text. 
 
 " I am very much pleased," I said to her, " to find 
 that you are satisfied with the behavior of that child. 
 Nothing could delight me more ; and I am inclined to 
 attribute this happy result to your affectionate vigi- 
 lance. I have taken the liberty to send you a few 
 books which I think may serve both to instruct and to 
 amuse young girls. You will be able to judge by glanc- 
 ing over them whether they are adapted to the perusal 
 of Mademoiselle Alexandre and her companions." 
 
 The gratitude of the schoolmistress not only over- 
 flowed in words, but seemed about to take the form of 
 tearful sensibility. In order to change the subject I 
 observed, 
 
 " What a beautiful day this is !" 
 
 " Yes," she replied ; " and if this weather continues, 
 those dear children will have a nice time for their en- 
 joyment." 
 
 " I suppose you are referring to the holidays. But 
 Mademoiselle Alexandre, who has no relatives, cannot 
 go away. What in the world is she going to do all 
 alone in this great big house ?" 
 
 " Oh, we will do everything we can to amuse her. . . . 
 I will take her to the museums and 
 
 She hesitated, blushed, and continued, 
 
 " and to your house, if you will permit me." 
 
 " Why, of course !" I exclaimed. " That is a first-rate 
 idea."
 
 188 THE CRIME OF STLVE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 "We separated very good friends with one another. 
 I with her, because I had been able to obtain what I 
 desired ; she with me, for no appreciable motive 
 which fact, according to Plato, elevated her into the 
 highest rank of the Hierarchy of Souls. 
 
 . . . And nevertheless it is not without a presentiment 
 of evil that I find myself on the point of introducing 
 this person into my house. And I would be very glad 
 indeed to see Jeanne in charge of anybody else rather 
 than of her. Maitre Mouche and Mademoiselle Prefere 
 are characters whom I cannot at all understand. I 
 never can imagine why they say what they do say, 
 nor why they do what they do; they have a myste- 
 rious something in common which makes me feel un- 
 easy. As Jeanne said to me a little while ago : " One 
 is uneasy about what one cannot understand." 
 
 Alas ! at my age one has learned only too well how 
 little sincerity there is in life ; one has learned only 
 too well how much one loses by living a long time in 
 this world ; and one feels that one can no longer trust 
 any except the young. 
 
 August 12. 
 
 I WAITED for them. In fact, I waited for them very 
 impatiently. I exerted all my powers of insinuation 
 and of coaxing to induce Therese to receive them 
 kindly ; but my powers in this direction are very 
 limited. They came. Jeanne was neater and prettier 
 than I had ever expected to see her. She has not, it
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 189 
 
 is true, anything approaching the charm of her mother. 
 But to-day, for the first time, I observed that she has 
 a pleasing face ; and a pleasing face is of great advan- 
 tage to a woman in this world. I think that her hat 
 was a little on one side ; but she smiled, and the City 
 of Books was all illuminated by that smile. 
 
 I watched Therese to see whether the rigid man- 
 ners of the old housekeeper would soften a little at 
 the sight of the young girl. I saw her turning her 
 lustreless eyes upon Jeanne ; I saw her long wrinkled 
 face, her toothless mouth, and that pointed chin of 
 hers like the chin of some puissant old fairy. And 
 that was all I could see. 
 
 Mademoiselle Prefere made her appearance all in 
 blue advanced, retreated, skipped, tripped, cried out, 
 sighed, cast her eyes down, rolled her eyes up, bewil- 
 dered herself with excuses said she dared not, and 
 nevertheless dared said she would never dare again, 
 and nevertheless dared again made courtesies innu- 
 merable made, in short, all the fuss she could. 
 
 " "What a lot of books !" she screamed. " And have 
 you really read them all, Monsieur Bonnard ?" 
 
 " Alas ! I have," I replied, " and that is just the rea- 
 son that I do not know anything ; for there is not a 
 single one of those books which does not contradict 
 some other book ; so that by the time one has read 
 them all one does not know what to think about any- 
 thing. That is just my condition, Madame." 
 
 Thereupon she called Jeanne for the purpose of com-
 
 190 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 municating her impressions. But Jeanne was looking 
 out of the window. 
 
 " How beautiful it is !" she said to us. " How I love 
 to see the river flowing ! It makes you think about 
 all kinds of things." 
 
 Mademoiselle Prefere having removed her hat and 
 exhibited a forehead tricked out with blonde curls, my 
 housekeeper sturdily snatched up the hat at once, with 
 the observation that she did not like to see people's 
 clothes scattered over the furniture. Then she ap- 
 proached Jeanne and asked her for her " things," call- 
 ing her " my little lady !" Whereupon the little lady 
 giving up her cloak and hat, exposed to view a very 
 graceful neck and a lithe figure, whose outlines were 
 beautifully relieved against the great glow of the open 
 window ; and I could have wished that some one else 
 might have seen her at that moment some one very 
 different from an aged housekeeper, a schoolmistress 
 frizzled like a sheep, and this old humbug of an archi- 
 vist and paleographer. 
 
 " So you are looking at the Seine," I said to her. 
 " See how it sparkles in the sun !" 
 
 " Yes," she replied, leaning over the window-bar, "it 
 looks like a flowing of fire. But see how nice and cool 
 it looks on the other side over there, under the shadow 
 of the willows! That little spot there pleases me 
 better than all the rest." 
 
 " Good !" I answered. " I see that the river has a 
 charm for you. How would you like, with Mademoi-
 
 THE CHIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. \g\ 
 
 selle Pre'fere's permission, to make a trip to Saint- 
 Cloud ? We would certainly be able to take the steam- 
 boat just below the Pont-Koyal." 
 
 Jeanne was delighted with my suggestion, and Mad- 
 emoiselle Prefere willing to make any sacrifice. But 
 my housekeeper was not at all willing to let us go off 
 so unconcernedly. She summoned me into the dining- 
 room, whither I followed her in fear and trembling. 
 
 " Monsieur," she said to me as soon as we found our- 
 selves alone, " you never think about anything, and 
 it is always I who have to think about everything. 
 Luckily for you I have a good memory." 
 
 I did not think that it was a favorable moment for 
 any attempt to dispel this wild illusion. She continued : 
 
 " So you were going off without saying a word to me 
 about what this little lady likes to eat ? At her age 
 one does not know anything, one does not care about 
 anything in particular, one eats like a bird. You your- 
 self, Monsieur, are very difficult to please ; but at least 
 you know what is good : it is very different with these 
 young people they do not know anything about cook- 
 ing. It is often the very best thing which they think 
 the worst, and what is bad seems to them good, because 
 their stomachs are not quite formed yet so that one 
 never knows just what to do for them. Tell me if the 
 little lady would like a pigeon cooked with green pease, 
 and whether she is fond of vanilla ice-cream." 
 
 " My good Therese," I answered, " just do whatever 
 you think best, and whatever that may be I am sure
 
 192 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 it will be very nice. Those ladies will be quite con. 
 tented with our humble ordinary fare." 
 
 Therese replied, very dryly, 
 
 " Monsieur, I am asking you about the little lady : 
 she must not leave this house without having enjoyed 
 herself a little. As for that old frizzle-headed thing, 
 if she doesn't like my dinner she can suck her thumbs. 
 I don't care what she likes !" 
 
 My mind being thus set at rest, I returned into the 
 City of Books, where Mademoiselle Prefere was cro- 
 cheting as calmly as if she were at home. I almost 
 felt inclined myself to think she was. She did not 
 take up much room, it is true, in the angle of the win- 
 dow. But she had chosen her chair and her footstool 
 so well that those articles of furniture seemed to have 
 been made expressly for her. 
 
 Jeanne, on the other hand, devoted her attention to 
 the books and pictures gazing at them in a kindly, 
 expressive, half -sad way, as if she were bidding them 
 an affectionate farewell. 
 
 " Here," I said to her, " amuse yourself with this 
 book, which I am sure you cannot help liking, be- 
 cause it is full of beautiful engravings." And I threw 
 open before her Yecellio's collection of costume- 
 designs not the commonplace edition, by your leave, 
 so meagrely reproduced by modern artists, but in truth 
 a magnificent and venerable copy of that editio prin- 
 cepa which is noble as those noble dames who figure 
 upon its yellowed leaves, made beautiful by time.
 
 THE CRIME OF 8YLVE8TRE BONNARD. 193 
 
 While turning over the engravings with artless 
 curiosity, Jeanne said to me, 
 
 " We were talking about taking a walk ; but this is 
 a great journey you are making me take. And I 
 would like to travel very, very far away !" 
 
 "In that case, Mademoiselle," I said to her, "you 
 must arrange yourself as comfortably as possible for 
 travelling. But you are now sitting on one corner of 
 your chair, so that the chair is standing upon only 
 one leg, and that Yecellio must tire your knees. Sit 
 down comfortably ; put your chair on its four feet, 
 and put your book on the table." 
 
 She obeyed me with a laugh. 
 
 I watched her. She cried out suddenly, 
 
 "Oh, come look at this beautiful costume!" (It 
 was that of the wife of a Doge of Venice). " How 
 noble it is ! "What magnificent ideas it gives one of 
 that life ! Oh, I must tell you I adore luxury !" 
 
 "You must not express such thoughts as those, 
 Mademoiselle," said the schoolmistress, lifting up her 
 little shapeless nose from her work. 
 
 " Nevertheless, it was a very innocent utterance," 
 I replied. " There are splendid souls in whom the 
 love of splendid things is natural and inborn." 
 
 The little shapeless nose went down again. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Prefere likes luxury too," said 
 Jeanne ; " she cuts out paper trimmings and shades 
 for the lamps. It is economical luxury ; but it is lux- 
 ury all the same." 
 13
 
 194 THE CRIME OF 8YLVE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 Having returned to the subject of Venice, we were 
 just about to make the acquaintance of a certain pa- 
 trician lady attired in an embroidered dalmatic, when 
 I heard the bell ring. I thought it was some peddler 
 with his basket ; but the gate of the City of Books 
 opened, and . . . "Well, Master Sylvestre Bonnard, you 
 were wishing awhile ago that the grace of your pro- 
 tegee might be observed by some other eyes than old 
 withered eyes behind spectacles. Your wishes have 
 been fulfilled in a most unexpected manner, and a 
 voice cries out to you, as to the imprudent Theseus, 
 
 " Craignez, Seigneur, craignez que le Ciel rigoureux 
 Ne vous hafsse assez pour exaucer vos voeux ! 
 Souvent dans sa colere il reyoit DOS victimes, 
 Ses presents sont souvent la peine de nos crimes." * 
 
 The gate of the City of Books had opened, and a 
 handsome young man made his appearance, ushered 
 in by Threse. That good old soul only knows how 
 to open the door for people and to shut it behind 
 them ; she has no idea whatever of the tact requisite 
 for the waiting-room and for the parlor. It is not in 
 her nature either to make any announcements or to 
 make anybody wait. She either throws people out 
 on the lobby, or simply pitches them at your head. 
 
 * " Beware, my lord ! Beware lest stern Heaven hate you 
 enough to hear your prayers ! Often 'tis in wrath that Heaven 
 receives our sacrifices ; its gifts are often the punishment of our 
 crimes."
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. 195 
 
 And here is this handsome young man already in- 
 side ; and I cannot really take the girl at once and 
 hide her like a secret treasure in the next room. I 
 wait for him to explain himself; he does it without 
 the least embarrassment; but it seems to me that he 
 has already observed the young girl who is still bend- 
 ing over the table looking at Yecellio. As I observe 
 the young man it occurs to me that I have seen him 
 somewhere before, or else I must be very much mis- 
 taken. His name is Gelis. That is a name which I 
 have heard somewhere, I can't remember where. At 
 all events, Monsieur Gelis (since there is a Gelis) is a 
 fine-looking young fellow. He tells me that this is 
 his third class-year at the Ecole des Chartes, and that 
 he has been working for the past fifteen or eighteen 
 months upon his graduation thesis, the subject of 
 which is the Condition of the Benedictine Abbeys in 
 1700. He has just read my works upon the " Monas- 
 ticon ; " and he is convinced that he cannot terminate 
 his thesis successfully without my advice, to begin 
 with, and in the second place without a certain manu- 
 script which I possess, and which is nothing less than 
 the " Kegister of the Accounts of the Abbey of Citaux 
 from 1683 to 1704." 
 
 Having thus explained himself, he hands me a let- 
 ter of introduction bearing the signature of one of 
 the most illustrious of my colleagues. 
 
 Good ! Now I know who he is ! Monsieur Gelis 
 is the very same young man who last year under the
 
 196 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 chestnut-trees called me an idiot ! And while unfold- 
 ing his letter of introduction I think to myself: 
 
 " Aha ! my unlucky youth, you are very far from 
 suspecting that I overheard what you said, and that 
 I know what you think of me or, at least, what you 
 did think of me that day, for these young minds are 
 so fickle I I have got you now, my friend ! You 
 have fallen into the lion's den, and so unexpectedly, 
 in good sooth, that the astonished old lion does* not 
 know what to do with his prey. But come now, old 
 lion ! do not act like an idiot ! Is it not possible that 
 you were an idiot ? If you are not one now, you 
 certainly were one ! You were a fool to have been 
 listening to Monsieur Gelis at the foot of the statue 
 of Marguerite de Yalois ; you were doubly a fool to 
 have heard Avhat he said ; and you were trebly a fool 
 not to have forgotten what it would have been much 
 better never to have heard." 
 
 Having thus scolded the old lion, I exhorted him to 
 show clemency. He did not appear to require much 
 coaxing, and gradually became so good-natured that 
 he had some difficulty in restraining himself from burst- 
 ing out into joyous roarings. From the way in which 
 I had read my colleague's letter one might have sup- 
 posed me a man who did not know his alphabet. I 
 took a long while to read it; and Monsieur Gelis 
 might have become very tired under different circum- 
 stances; but he was watching Jeanne, and endured 
 the trial with exemplary patience, Jeanne occasion-
 
 THE CRIME OF 8YLVESTRE BONNARD. 197 
 
 ally turned her face in our direction. Well, you could 
 not expect a person to remain perfectly motionless, 
 could you ? Mademoiselle Prefere was arranging her 
 curls, and her bosom occasionally swelled with little 
 sighs. It may be observed that I have myself often 
 been honored with these little sighs. 
 
 " Monsieur," I said, as I folded up the letter, " I 
 shall be very happy to be of any service to you. You 
 are occupied with researches in which I myself have 
 always felt a very lively interest. I have done all 
 that lay in my power. I know, as you do and still 
 better than you can know how much there remains 
 to do. The manuscript you asked for is at your dis- 
 posal ; you may take it home with you, but it is not a 
 manuscript of the smallest kind, and I am afraid " 
 
 " Oh, Monsieur," said Gelis, " big books have never 
 been able to make me afraid of them." 
 
 I begged the young man to wait for me, and I went 
 into the next room to get the Register, which I could 
 not find at first, and which I almost despaired of find- 
 ing, as I discerned, from certain familiar signs, that 
 Therese had been setting the room in order. But the 
 Register was so big and so heavy that, luckily for me, 
 Therese had not been able to put it in order as she 
 had doubtless wished to do. I could scarcely lift it 
 up myself ; and I had the pleasure of finding it quite 
 as heavy as I could have hoped. 
 
 " "Wait, my boy," I said, with a smile which must 
 have been very sarcastic " wait ! I am going to give
 
 198 THE CRIME OF 8YLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 you something to do which will break your arms first, 
 and afterwards your head. That will be the first ven- 
 geance of Sylvestre Bonnard. Later on we shall see 
 what else there is to be done." 
 
 When I returned to the City of Books I heard Mon- 
 sieur Gelis and Mademoiselle Jeanne chatting chat- 
 ting together, if you please ! as if they were the best 
 friends in the world. Mademoiselle Prefere, being 
 full of decorum, did not say anything ; but the other 
 two were chattering like birds. And what about? 
 About the blond tint used by Venetian painters ! Yes, 
 about the " Venetian blond." That little serpent of a 
 Gelis was telling Jeanne the secret of the dye with 
 which the women of Titian and of Veronese tinted 
 their hair according to the best authorities. And 
 Mademoiselle Jeanne was expressing her opinion very 
 prettily about the blond of honey and the blond of 
 gold. I understood that that scamp of a Vecellio was 
 responsible that they had been bending over the book 
 together, and that they had been admiring either that 
 Doge's wife we had been looking at awhile before, 
 or some other patrician woman of Venice. 
 
 Never mind! I appeared with my enormous old 
 book, thinking that Gelis was going to make a grim- 
 ace. It was as much as one could have asked a porter 
 to carry, and my arms were all sore just lifting it. 
 But the young man caught it up like a feather, and 
 slipped it under his arm with a smile. Then he 
 thanked me with that sort of brevity which I like,
 
 THE CHIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 199 
 
 reminded me that he had need of my advice, and, 
 having made an appointment to meet me another 
 day, took his departure after bowing to us with the 
 most perfect self-possession conceivable. 
 
 " He seems quite a genteel lad," I said. 
 
 Jeanne turned over a few more pages of Yecellio, 
 and made no answer. 
 
 " Aha !" I thought to myself. . . . And then we went 
 to Saint-Cloud. 
 
 September December. 
 
 THE regularity with which visit succeeded visit to 
 the old man's house thereafter made me feel very 
 grateful to Mademoiselle Prefere, who succeeded at 
 last in winning her right to occupy a special corner 
 in the City of Books. She now says " my chair," 
 " my footstool," " my pigeon-hole." Her pigeon-hole 
 is really a small shelf properly belonging to the Poets 
 of La Champagne, whom she expelled therefrom in 
 order to obtain a lodging for her work-bag. She is 
 very amiable, and I must really be a monster not to 
 like her. I can only endure her in the severest sig- 
 nification of the word. But what would one not en- 
 dure for Jeanne's sake? Her presence lends to the 
 City of Books a charm which seems to hover about 
 it still after she has gone. She is very ignorant ; but 
 she is so finely gifted that whenever I show her any- 
 thing beautiful I am astounded to find that I had
 
 200 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 never really seen it before, and that it is she who 
 makes me see it. I have found it impossible so far to 
 make her follow some of my ideas, but I have often 
 found pleasure in following the whimsical and deli- 
 cate course of her own. 
 
 A more practical man than I would attempt to 
 teach her to make herself useful ; but is not the ca- 
 pacity of being amiable a useful thing in life ? With- 
 out being pretty, she charms ; and the power to 
 charm is perhaps, after all, worth quite as much as 
 the ability to darn stockings. Furthermore, I am not 
 immortal ; and I doubt whether she will have become 
 very old when my notary (who is not Maitre Mouche) 
 shall read to her a certain paper which I signed a 
 little while ago. 
 
 I do not wish that any one except myself should 
 provide for her, and give her her dowry. I am not, 
 however, very rich, and the paternal inheritance did 
 not gain bulk in my hands. One does not accumulate 
 money by poring over old texts. But my books at 
 the price which such noble merchandise fetches to-day 
 are worth something. "Why, on that shelf there 
 are some poets of the sixteenth century for which 
 bankers would bid against princes ! And I think that 
 those " Heures " of Simon Yostre would not be readily 
 overlooked at the Hotel Silvestre any more than would 
 those Preces Pice compiled for the use of Queen 
 Claude. I have taken great pains to collect and to 
 preserve all those rare and curious editions which
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 201 
 
 people the City of Books ; and for a long time I used 
 to believe that they were as necessary to my life as 
 air and light. I have loved them well, and even now 
 I cannot prevent myself from smiling at them and 
 caressing them. Those morocco bindings are so de- 
 lightful to the eye ! Those old vellums are so soft 
 to the touch ! There is not a single one among those 
 books which is not worthy, by reason of some special 
 merit, to command the respect of an honorable man. 
 "What other owner would ever know how to dip into 
 them in the proper way ? Can I be even sure that 
 another owner would not leave them to decay in neg- 
 lect, or mutilate them in the moment of some igno- 
 rant whim ? Into whose hands will fall that incom- 
 parable copy of the " Histoire de 1'Abbaye de Saint- 
 Germain -des-Pres," on the margins of which the 
 author himself, in the person of Jacques Bouillard, 
 made such substantial notes in his own handwriting ? 
 . . . Master Bonnard, you are an old fool! Your 
 housekeeper poor soul! is nailed down upon her 
 bed with a merciless attack of rheumatism. Jeanne 
 is to come with her chaperon, and, instead of think- 
 ing how you are going to receive them, you are think- 
 ing about a thousand stupidities. Sylvestre Bonnard, 
 you will never succeed at anything in this world, and 
 it is I myself who tell you so ! 
 
 And at this very moment I catch sight of them from 
 my window, as they get out of the omnibus. Jeanne 
 leaps down like a kitten ; but Mademoiselle Pr6f ere
 
 202 THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 intrusts herself to the strong arm of the conductor, 
 with the shy grace of a Virginia recovering after the 
 shipwreck, and this time quite resigned to being saved. 
 Jeanne looks up, sees me, laughs, and Mademoiselle 
 Prefere has to prevent her from waving her umbrella 
 at me as a friendly signal. There is a certain stage of 
 civilization to which Mademoiselle Jeanne never can 
 be brought. You can teach her all the arts if you 
 like (it is not exactly to Mademoiselle Prefere that I 
 am now speaking) ; but you will never be able to 
 teach her perfect manners. As a charming girl she 
 makes the mistake of being charming only in her own 
 way. Only an old fool like myself could forgive her 
 pranks. As for young fools and there are several 
 of them still to be found I do not know what they 
 would think about it; and what they might think is 
 none of my business. Just look at her running along 
 the sidewalk, wrapped up in her cloak, with her hat 
 tilted back on her head, and her feather fluttering in 
 the wind, like a schooner in full rig ! And really she 
 has a grace of poise and motion which suggests a fine 
 sailing vessel so much so, indeed, that she makes me 
 remember seeing one day, when I was at Havre . . . 
 But, Bonnard, my friend, how many times is it neces- 
 sary to tell you that your housekeeper is in bed, and 
 that you must go and open the door yourself ? 
 
 Open, Old Man Winter ! 'tis Spring who rings the 
 bell. 
 
 It is Jeanne herself Jeanne all flushed like a rose.
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVJSSTRJS BOHTtfAlU). 903 
 
 Mademoiselle Pre"fere, indignant and out of breath, 
 has still another whole flight to climb before reaching 
 our lobby. 
 
 I explained the condition of my housekeeper, and 
 proposed that we should dine at a restaurant. But 
 Therese all-powerful still, even upon her sick-bed 
 decided that we should dine at home, whether we 
 wanted to or no. Respectable people, in her opinion, 
 never dined at restaurants. Moreover, she had made 
 all necessary arrangements the dinner had been 
 bought ; the concierge would cook it. 
 
 The audacious Jeanne insisted upon going to see 
 whether the old woman wanted anything. As you 
 might suppose, she was sent back to the parlor in 
 short order, but not so harshly as I had feared. 
 
 " If I want anybody to do anything for me, which, 
 thank God, I do not," Therese had replied, " I would 
 get somebody less delicate and dainty than you are. 
 What I want is rest. That is a merchandise which 
 is not sold at fairs under the sign of Motus-un-doigt- 
 sur-la-bouche. Go and have your fun, and don't stay 
 here for old age might be catching." 
 
 Jeanne, after telling us what she had said, added 
 that she liked very much to hear old The>ese talk. 
 Whereupon Mademoiselle Prefere reproached her for 
 expressing such unladylike tastes. 
 
 I tried to excuse her by citing the example of Mo- 
 liere. Just at that moment it came to pass that, while 
 climbing the ladder to get a book, she upset a whole
 
 204 TUB CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 shelf -row. There was a heavy crash; and Made- 
 moiselle Prefere, being, of course, a very delicate 
 person, almost fainted. Jeanne quickly followed the 
 books to the foot of the ladder. She made one think 
 of a kitten suddenly transformed into a woman, 
 catching mice which had been transformed into old 
 'books. While picking them up, she found one which 
 happened to interest her, and she began to read it, 
 squatting down upon her heels. It was the " Prince 
 Grenouille," she told us. Mademoiselle Prefere took 
 occasion to complain that Jeanne had so little taste 
 for poetry. It was impossible to get her to recite 
 Casimir de Lavigne's poem on the death of Joan of 
 Arc without mistakes. It was the very most she could 
 do to learn " Le Petit Savoyard." The schoolmistress 
 did not think that any one should read the " Prince 
 Grenouille" before learning by heart the stanzas to 
 Duperrier ; and, carried away by her enthusiasm, she 
 began to recite them in a voice sweeter than the bleat- 
 ing of a sheep : 
 
 " ' Ta douleur, Duperrier, sera done fcternelle, 
 
 Et les tristes discours 
 Que te met en 1'esprit 1'amitie paternelle 
 L'augmenteront toujours ; 
 
 M< Je sais de quels appas son enfance etait pleine, 
 
 Et n'ai pas entrepris, 
 Injurieux ami, de consoler ta peine 
 Avecque son rnCpris.' "
 
 THE CRIME OF STL VESTRE DONNARD. 205 
 
 Then in ecstasy she exclaimed, 
 
 "How beautiful that is! What harmony! How 
 is it possible for any one not to admire such exquisite, 
 such touching verses! But why did Malherbe call 
 that poor Monsieur Duperrier his ' injurieux ami ' at 
 a time when he had been so severely tried by the 
 death of his daughter? Injurieux ami you must 
 acknowledge that the term was very harsh." 
 
 I explained to this poetical person that the phrase 
 " Injurieux a/m/i" which shocked her so much was an 
 apposition, etc., etc. What I said, however, had so 
 little effect towards clearing her head that she was 
 seized with a severe and prolonged fit of sneezing. 
 Meanwhile it was evident that the history of " Prince 
 Grenouille " had proved extremely funny ; for it was 
 all that Jeanne could do, as she crouched down there 
 on the carpet, to keep herself from bursting into a 
 wild fit of laughter. But when she had finished with 
 the prince and princess of the story, and the multi- 
 tude of their children, she assumed a very suppliant 
 expression, and begged me as a great favor to allow 
 her to put on a white apron and go to the kitchen to 
 help in getting the dinner ready. 
 
 " Jeanne," I replied, with the gravity of a master, 
 "I think that if it is a question of breaking plates, 
 knocking off the edges of dishes, denting all the pans, 
 and smashing all the skimmers, the person whom The- 
 rese has set to work in the kitchen already will be 
 able to perform her task without assistance; for it
 
 SJOO 
 
 seems to me at this very moment I can hear disas- 
 trous noises in that kitchen. But anyhow, Jeanne, I 
 will charge you with the duty of preparing the des- 
 sert. So go and get your white apron ; I will tie it 
 on for you." 
 
 Accordingly, I solemnly knotted the linen apron 
 about her waist; and she rushed into the kitchen, 
 where she proceeded at once as we discovered later 
 on to prepare various dishes unknown to Vatel, un- 
 known even to that great Careme who began, his treat- 
 ise upon pieces montees with these words : " The Fine 
 Arts are Jive in number : Painting, Music, Poetry, 
 Sculpture, and Architecture whereof the principal 
 branch is Confectionery." But I had no reason to be 
 pleased with this little arrangement for Mademoi- 
 selle Prefere, on finding herself alone with me, began 
 to act after a fashion which filled me with frightful 
 anxiety. She gazed upon me with eyes full of tears 
 and flames, and uttered enormous sighs. 
 
 " Oh, how I pity you !" she said. " A man. like you 
 a man so superior as you are having to live alone 
 with a coarse servant (for she is certainly coarse, that 
 is incontestable)! How cruel such a life must be! 
 You have need of repose you have need of comfort, 
 of care, of every kind of attention; you might fall 
 sick. And yet there is no woman who would not 
 deem it an honor to bear your name, and to share 
 your existence. No, there is none; my own heart 
 tells me so."
 
 THE CRIME OF 8YLVESTRE BONNARD. 207 
 
 And she squeezed both hands over that heart of 
 hers always so ready to fly away. 
 
 I was driven almost to distraction. I tried to make 
 Mademoiselle Pref ere comprehend that I had no inten- 
 tion whatever of changing my habits at so advanced 
 an age, and that I found just as much happiness in 
 life as my character and my circumstances rendered 
 possible. 
 
 " No, you are not happy !" she cried. " You need 
 to have always beside you a mind capable of compre- 
 hending your own. Shake off your lethargy, and cast 
 your eyes about you. Your professional connections 
 are of the most extended character, and you must 
 have charming acquaintances. One cannot be a Mem- 
 ber of the Institute without going into society. See, 
 judge, compare. No sensible woman would refuse 
 you her hand. I am a woman, Monsieur; my in- 
 stinct never deceives me there is something within 
 me which assures me that you would find happiness 
 in marriage. Women are so devoted, so loving (not 
 all, of course, but some) ! s And, then, they are so sen- 
 sitive to glory. Remember, that at your age one has 
 need, like (Edipus, of an Egeria ! Your cook has no 
 more strength she is deaf, she is infirm. If anything 
 should happen to you at night! Oh! it makes me 
 shudder even to think of it !" 
 
 And she really shuddered she closed her eyes, 
 clenched her hands, stamped on the floor. Great 
 was my dismay. With awful intensity she resumed,
 
 208 IHE CRIME OF 8YLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 " Your health your dear health ! The health of 
 a Member of the Institute ! How joyfully I would 
 shed the very last drop of my blood to preserve the 
 life of a scholar, of a litterateur, of a man of worth. 
 And any woman who would not do as much, I would 
 despise her! Let me tell you, Monsieur I used to 
 know the wife of a great mathematician, a man who 
 used to fill whole blank-books with calculations so 
 many blank-books that they filled all the closets in 
 the house. lie had heart-disease, and he was visibly 
 pining away. And I saw that wife of his, sitting 
 there beside him, perfectly calm ! I could not endure 
 it. I said to her one day, ' My dear, you have no 
 heart! If I were in your place I would do ... I 
 would do ... I do not know what I would do !' " 
 
 She paused for want of breath. My situation was 
 terrible. As for telling Mademoiselle Prefere what I 
 really thought about her advice that was something 
 which I could not even dream of daring to do. For 
 to fall out with her was to lose the chance of seeing 
 Jeanne. So I resolved to take the matter quietly. 
 In any case, she was in my house: that considera- 
 tion helped me to treat her with something of cour- 
 tesy. 
 
 " I am very old, Mademoiselle," I answered her, 
 " and I am very much afraid that your advice comes 
 to me rather too late in life. Still, I will think about 
 it. In the meanwhile let me beg of you to be calm. 
 I think a glass of eau sucrce would do you good !"
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 209 
 
 To my great surprise, these words calmed her at 
 once ; and I saw her sit down very quietly in her cor- 
 ner, close to her pigeon-hole, upon her chair, with her 
 feet upon her footstool. 
 
 The dinner was a complete failure. Mademoiselle 
 Prefore, who seemed lost in a brown study, never no- 
 ticed the fact. As a rule I am very sensitive about 
 such misfortunes ; but this one caused Jeanne so 
 much delight that at last I could not help enjoy- 
 ing it myself. Even at my age I had not been 
 able to learn before that a chicken, raw on one side 
 and burned on the other, was a funny thing; but 
 Jeanne's bursts of laughter taught me that it was. 
 That chicken caused us to say a thousand very witty 
 things, which I have forgotten ; and I was enchanted 
 that it had not been properly cooked. Jeanne put it 
 back to roast again ; then she broiled it ; then she 
 stewed it with butter. And every time it came back 
 to the table it was much less comestible and much 
 more hilarious than before. "When we did eat it, at 
 last, it had become a thing for which there is no name 
 in any cuisine. 
 
 The almond cake was much more extraordinary. It 
 was brought to the table in the pan, because it never 
 could have been got out of it. I invited Jeanne to 
 help us all to a piece, thinking that I was going to 
 embarrass her ; but she broke the pan and gave each 
 of us a fragment. To think that anybody at my age 
 could eat such things was an idea possible only to a 
 14
 
 210 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 very artless mind. Mademoiselle Prefere, suddenly 
 awakened from her dream, indignantly pushed away 
 the sugary splinter of earthenware, and deemed it op- 
 portune to inform me that she herself was exceeding- 
 ly skilful in making confectionery. 
 
 " Ah !" exclaimed Jeanne, with an air of surprise 
 not altogether without malice. 
 
 Then she wrapped all the fragments of the pan in 
 a piece of paper, for the purpose of giving them to her 
 little playmates especially to the three little Mouton 
 girls, who are naturally inclined to gluttony. 
 
 Secretly, however, I was beginning to feel very un- 
 easy. It did not now seem in any way possible to 
 keep much longer upon good terms with Mademoiselle 
 Prefere since her matrimonial fury had thus burst 
 forth. And that lady gone, good-by to Jeanne ! I 
 took advantage of a moment while the sweet soul was 
 busy putting on her cloak, in order to ask Jeanne to 
 tell me exactly what her own age was. She was 
 eighteen years and one month old. I counted on my 
 fingers, and found she would not come of age for an- 
 other two years and eleven months. And how would 
 we be able to manage during all that time ? 
 
 At the door Mademoiselle Prefere squeezed my 
 hand with so much meaning that I fairly shook from 
 head to foot. 
 
 " Good-by," I said very gravely to the young girl. 
 " But listen to me a moment : your friend is very old, 
 and might perhaps fail you when you need him mosp
 
 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 211 
 
 Promise me never to fail in your duty to yourself, and 
 then I shall have no fear. God keep you, my child !" 
 
 After closing the door behind them, I opened the 
 window to get a last look at her as she was going 
 away. But the night was dark, and I could see only 
 two vague shadows flitting across the quay. I heard 
 the vast deep hum of the city rising up about me; 
 and I suddenly felt a great sinking at my heart. 
 
 Poor child ! 
 
 December 15. 
 
 THE King of Thule kept a goblet of gold which 
 his dying mistress had bequeathed him as a souvenir. 
 "When about to die himself, after having drank from it 
 for the last time, he threw the goblet into the sea. 
 And I keep this diary of memories even as that old 
 prince of the mist-haunted seas kept his carven gob- 
 let ; and even as he flung away at last his love-trinket, 
 so will 1 burn this my book of souvenirs. Assuredly 
 it is not through any arrogant avarice, nor through 
 any egotistical pride, that I shall destroy this record 
 of an humble life it is only because I fear lest those 
 things which are dear and sacred to me might appear 
 to others, because of my inartistic manner of expres- 
 sion, either commonplace or absurd. 
 
 I do not say this in view of what is going to follow. 
 Absurd I certainly must have been when, having been 
 invited to dinner by Mademoiselle Prefere, I took my
 
 212 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 seat in a lergere (it was really a lergere) at the right 
 hand of that alarming person. The table had been set 
 in a little parlor; and I could observe from the poor 
 appearance of the display that the schoolmistress was 
 one of those ethereal souls who soar above terrestrial 
 things. Chipped plates, unmatched glasses, knives 
 with loose handles, forks with yellow prongs there 
 was absolutely nothing wanting to spoil the appetite 
 of an honest man. 
 
 I was assured that the dinner had been cooked for 
 me for me alone although Maitre Mouche had also 
 been invited. Mademoiselle Prefere must have im- 
 agined that I had Sarmatian tastes on the subject of 
 butter ; for the butter which she offered me, served up 
 in little thin pats, was excessively rancid. 
 
 The roast very nearly poisoned me. But I had the 
 pleasure of hearing Maitre Mouche and Mademoiselle 
 Prefere discourse upon virtue. I said the pleasure 
 I ought to have said the shame ; for the sentiments to 
 which they gave expression soared far beyond the 
 range of my vulgar nature. 
 
 What they said proved to me as clear as day that 
 devotedness was their daily bread, and that self-sacri- 
 fice was not less necessary to their existence than air 
 and water. Observing that I was not eating, Mad- 
 emoiselle Prefere made a thousand efforts to over- 
 come that which she was good enough to term my 
 " discretion." Jeanne was not of the party, because, 
 I was told, her presence at it would have been con-
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 213 
 
 trary to the rules, and would have wounded the feel- 
 ings of the other school-children, among whom it was 
 necessary to maintain a certain equality. I secretly 
 congratulated her upon having escaped from the Mer- 
 ovingian butter; from the huge radishes, empty as 
 funeral-urns ; from the coriaceous roast, and from 
 various other curiosities of diet to which I had ex- 
 posed myself for the love of her. 
 
 The extremely disconsolate-looking servant served 
 up some liquid to which they gave the name of cream 
 I do not know why and vanished away like a 
 ghost. 
 
 Then Mademoiselle Prefere related to Maitre Mou- 
 che, with extraordinary transports of emotion, all that 
 she had said to me in the City of Books, during the 
 time that my housekeeper was sick in bed. Her ad- 
 miration for a Member of the Institute, her terror of 
 seeing me sick and alone, and the certainty she felt 
 that any intelligent woman would be proud and happy 
 to share my existence she concealed nothing, but, on 
 the contrary, added many fresh follies to the recital. 
 Maitre Mouche kept nodding his head in approval 
 while cracking nuts. Then, after all this verbiage, he 
 demanded, with an agreeable smile, what my answer 
 had been. 
 
 Mademoiselle Prefere, pressing one hand upon her 
 heart and extending the other towards me, cried out, 
 
 " He is so affectionate, so superior, so good, and so 
 great ! He answered. . . . But I could never, because
 
 214 THE CRIME OF STLVE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 I am only an humble woman I could never repeat 
 the words of a Member of the Institute. I can only 
 utter the substance of them. He answered, 'Yes, I 
 understand you yes.' " 
 
 And with these words she reached out and seized 
 one of my hands. Then Maitre Mouche, also over- 
 whelmed with emotion, arose and seized my other 
 hand. 
 
 " Monsieur," he said, " permit me to offer my con- 
 gratulations." 
 
 Several times in my life I have known fear; but 
 never before had I experienced any fright of so nau- 
 seating a character. A sickening terror came upon 
 me. 
 
 I disengaged my two hands, and, rising to my feet, 
 so as to give all possible seriousness to my words, I 
 said, 
 
 "Madame, either I explained myself very badly 
 when you were at my house, or I have totally mis- 
 understood you here in your own. In either case, a 
 positive declaration is absolutely necessary. Permit 
 me, Madame, to make it now, very plainly. No I 
 never did understand you ; I am totally ignorant of 
 the nature of this marriage project that you have been 
 planning for me if you really have been planning one. 
 In any event, I would not think of marrying. It 
 would be an unpardonable folly at my age, and even 
 now, at this moment, I cannot conceive how a sensible 
 person like you could ever have advised me to marry.
 
 TSJS CRIME Of 8TLVESTRB BONNARD, 218 
 
 Indeed, I am strongly inclined to believe that I must 
 have been mistaken, and that you never said anything 
 of the kind before. In the latter case, please to ex- 
 cuse an old man totally unfamiliar with the usages of 
 society, unaccustomed to the conversation of ladies, 
 ancl very contrite for his mistake." 
 
 Maitre Mouche went back very softly to his place, 
 where, not finding any more nuts to crack, he began 
 to whittle a cork. 
 
 Mademoiselle Prefere, after staring at me for a few 
 moments with an expression in her little round dry 
 eyes which I had never seen there before, suddenly 
 resumed her customary sweetness and graciousness. 
 Then she cried out, in honeyed tones, 
 
 "Oh! these learned men! these studious men! 
 They are all like children. Yes, Monsieur Bonnard, 
 you are a real child !" 
 
 Then, turning to the notary, who still sat very 
 quietly in his corner, with his nose over his cork, she 
 exclaimed, in beseeching tones, 
 
 " Oh, do not accuse him ! Do not accuse him ! Do 
 not think any evil of him, I beg of you ! Do not think 
 it at all ! Must I ask you upon my knees ?" 
 
 Maitre Mouche continued to examine all the various 
 aspects and surfaces of his cork without making any 
 further manifestation. 
 
 I was very indignant ; and I know that my cheeks 
 must have been extremely red, if I could judge by the 
 flush of heat which I felt rise to my face. This would
 
 216 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 enable me to explain the words I heard through all 
 the buzzing in my ears : 
 
 " I am frightened about him ! our poor friend ! . . . 
 Monsieur Mouche, be kind enough to open a window ! 
 It seems to me that a compress of arnica would do him 
 some good." 
 
 I rushed out into the street with an unspeakable 
 feeling of shame. 
 
 " My poor Jeanne !" 
 
 December %0. 
 
 I PASSED eight days without hearing anything fur- 
 ther in regard to the Prefere establishment. Then, 
 feeling myself unable to remain any longer without 
 some news of Clementine's daughter, and feeling fur- 
 thermore that I owed it as a duty to myself not to 
 cease my visits to the school without more serious 
 cause, I took my way to Aux Ternes. 
 
 The parlor seemed to me more cold, more damp, 
 more inhospitable, and more insidious than ever be- 
 fore; and the servant much more silent and much 
 more scared. I asked to see Mademoiselle Jeanne; 
 but, after a very considerable time, it was Mademoiselle 
 Prefere who made her appearance instead severe 
 and pale, with lips compressed and a hard look in her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Monsieur," she said, folding her arms over her 
 pelerine, " I regret very much that I cannot allow you
 
 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 217 
 
 to see Mademoiselle Alexandra to-day; but I cannot 
 possibly do it." 
 
 " Why not ?" I asked, in astonishment. 
 
 " Monsieur," she replied, " the reasons which compel 
 me to request that your visits shall be less frequent 
 hereafter are of an excessively delicate nature ; and I 
 must beg you to spare me the unpleasantness of men- 
 tioning them." 
 
 "Madame," I replied, "I have been authorized by 
 Jeanne's guardian to see his ward every day. "Will 
 you please to inform me of your reasons for opposing 
 the will of Monsieur Mouche ?" 
 
 "The guardian of Mademoiselle Alexandre," she 
 replied (and she dwelt upon that word " guardian " as 
 upon a solid support), " desires, quite as strongly as I 
 myself do, that your assiduities may come to an end 
 as soon as possible." 
 
 " Then, if that be the case," I said, " be kind enough 
 to let me know his reasons and your own." 
 
 She looked up at the little spiral of paper on the 
 ceiling, and then replied, with stern composure, 
 
 " You insist upon it ? "Well, although such explana- 
 tions are very painful for a woman to make, I will 
 yield to your exactions. This house, Monsieur, is an 
 honorable house. I have my responsibility. I have 
 to watch like a mother over each one of my pupils. 
 Your assiduities in regard to Mademoiselle Alexandre 
 could not possibly be continued without serious injury 
 to the young girl herself ; and it is my duty to insist 
 that they shall cease."
 
 918 THE CRIME OF B7LVE8TRE 
 
 " I do not really understand you," I replied and I 
 was telling the plain truth. Then she deliberately re- 
 sumed: 
 
 " Your assiduities in this house are being interpret- 
 ed, by the most respectable and the least suspicious 
 persons, in such a manner that I find myself obliged, 
 both in the interest of my establishment and in the in- 
 terest of Mademoiselle Alexandre, to see that they end 
 at once." 
 
 "Madame," I cried, "I have heard a great many 
 silly things in my life, but never anything so silly as 
 what you have just said !" 
 
 She answered me very quietly, 
 
 "Your words of abuse will not affect me in the 
 slightest. When one has a duty to accomplish, one is 
 strong enough to endure all." 
 
 And she pressed her pelerine over her heart once 
 more not perhaps on this occasion to restrain, but 
 doubtless only to caress that generous heart. 
 
 " Madame," I said, shaking my finger at her, " you 
 have wantonly aroused the indignation of an aged 
 man. Be good enough to act in such a fashion that 
 the old man may be able at least to forget your exist- 
 ence, and do not add fresh insults to those which I 
 have already sustained from your lips. I give you 
 fair warning that I shall never cease to look after 
 Mademoiselle Alexandre; and that should you at- 
 tempt to do her any harm, in any manner whatsoever, 
 you will have serious reason to regret it 1"
 
 THE CRIME Of SYLVESTRE BOXNARD. 210 
 
 The more I became excited, the more she became 
 cool ; and she answered in a tone of superb indiffer- 
 ence: 
 
 " Monsieur, I am much too well informed in regard 
 to the nature of the interest which you take in this 
 young girl, not to withdraw her immediately from 
 that very surveillance with which you threaten me. 
 After observing the more than equivocal intimacy in 
 which you are living with your housekeeper, I ought 
 to have taken measures at once to render it impossible 
 for you ever to come into contact with an innocent 
 child. In the future I shall certainly do it. If up to 
 this time I have been too trustful, it is for Mademoi- 
 selle Alexandre, and not for you, to reproach me with 
 it. But she is too artless and too pure thanks to me ! 
 ever to have suspected the nature of that danger 
 into which you were trying to lead her. I scarcely 
 suppose that you will place me under the necessity of 
 enlightening her upon the subject." 
 
 " Come, my poor old Bonnard," I said to myself, as 
 I shrugged my shoulders " so you had to live as long 
 as this in order to learn for the first time exactly what 
 a wicked woman is. And now your knowledge of the 
 subject is complete." 
 
 I went out without replying ; and I had the pleasure 
 of observing, from the sudden flush which overspread 
 the face of the schoolmistress, that my silence had 
 wounded her far more than my Avords. 
 
 As I passed through the court I looked about me in
 
 220 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 every direction for Jeanne. She was watching for me, 
 and she ran to me 
 
 " If anybody touches one little hair of your head, 
 Jeanne, you write me ! Good-by !" 
 
 " No, not good-b}'." 
 
 I replied. 
 
 " "Well, no not good-by ! "Write to me !" 
 
 I went straight to Madame de Gabry's residence. 
 
 "Madame is at Eome with Monsieur. Did not 
 Monsieur know it ?" 
 
 " Why, yes," I replied. Madame wrote me." . . . 
 
 She had indeed written me in regard to her leaving 
 home; but my head must have become very much 
 confused, so that I had forgotten all about it. The 
 servant seemed to be of the same opinion, for he 
 looked at me in a way that seemed to signify, " Mon- 
 sieur Bonnard is doting" and he leaned down over 
 the balustrade of the stairway to see if I was not go- 
 ing to do something extraordinary before I got to the 
 bottom. But I descended the stairs rationally enough ; 
 and then he drew back his head in disappointment. 
 
 On returning home I was informed that Monsieur 
 Gelis was waiting for me in the parlor. (This young 
 man has become a constant visitor. His judgment is 
 at fault betimes ; but his mind is not at all common- 
 place.) On this occasion, however, his usually welcome 
 visit only embarrassed me. " Alas !" I thought to my- 
 self, " I will be sure to say something F<V stupid to
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 221 
 
 my young friend to-day, and he also will think that 
 my faculties are becoming impaired. But still I can- 
 not really explain to him that I had first been de- 
 manded in wedlock, and subsequently traduced as a 
 man wholly devoid of morals that even Therese had 
 become an object of suspicion and that Jeanne re- 
 mains in the power of the most rascally woman on 
 the face of the earth. I am certainly in an admirable 
 state of mind for conversing about Cistercian abbeys 
 with a young and mischievously minded man. Never- 
 theless, we shall see we shall try." . . . 
 
 But Therese stopped me : 
 
 " How red you are, Monsieur !" she exclaimed, in 
 a tone of reproach. 
 
 " It must be the spring," I answered. 
 
 She cried out, 
 
 " The spring ! in the month of December ?" 
 
 That is a fact ! this is December. Ah ! what is the 
 matter with my head? what a fine help I am going 
 to be to poor Jeanne ! 
 
 " Tberese, take my cane ; and put it, if you possibly 
 can, some place where I shall be able to find it again." 
 
 " Good-day, Monsieur Gelis. How are you ?" 
 
 Undated. 
 
 NEXT morning the old boy wanted to get up ; but 
 the old boy could not get up. A merciless invisible
 
 222 TUB CHIME OP SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 hand kept him down upon his bed. Finding himself 
 immovably riveted there, the old boy resigned himself 
 to remain motionless ; but his thoughts kept running 
 in all directions. 
 
 He must have had a very violent fever ; for Made- 
 moiselle Pref ere, the Abbots of Saint-Germain-des-Pres, 
 and the servant of Madame de Gabry appeared to him 
 in divers fantastic shapes. The figure of the servant 
 in particular lengthened weirdly over his head, grim- 
 acing like some gargoyle of a cathedral. Then it 
 seemed to me that there were a great many people, 
 much too many people, in my bedroom. 
 
 This bedroom of mine is furnished after the anti- 
 quated fashion. The portrait of my father in full uni- 
 form, and the portrait of my mother in her cashmere 
 dress, are suspended on the wall. The wall-paper 
 is covered with green foliage - designs. I am aware 
 of all this, and I am even conscious that everything is 
 faded, very much faded. But an old man's room does 
 not require to be pretty ; it is enough that it should 
 be clean, and Therese sees to that. At all events my 
 room is sufficiently decorated to please a mind like 
 mine, which has always remained somewhat childish 
 and dreamy. There are things hanging on the wall 
 or scattered over the tables and shelves which usually 
 please my fancy and amuse me. But to-day it would 
 seem as if all those objects had suddenly conceived 
 some kind of ill-will against me. They have all be- 
 come garish, grimacing, menacing. That statuette,
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 223 
 
 modelled after one of the Theological Virtues of Kotre- 
 Dame de Brou, always so ingenuously graceful in its 
 natural condition, is now making contortions and 
 putting out its tongue at me. And that beautiful 
 miniature in which one of the most suave pupils of 
 Jehan Fouquet depicted himself, girdled with the 
 cord -girdle of the Sons of St. Francis, offering his 
 book, on bended knee, to the good Duke d'Angouleme 
 who has taken it out of its frame and put in its 
 place a great ugly cat's head, which stares at me with 
 phosphorescent eyes? And the designs on the wall- 
 paper have also turned into heads hideous green 
 heads. . . . But no I am sure that wall-paper must 
 have foliage-designs upon it at this moment just as 
 it had twenty years ago, and nothing else. . . . But 
 no, again I was right before they are heads, with 
 eyes, noses, mouths they are heads! . . . Ah! now 
 I understand! they are both heads and foliage -de- 
 signs at the same time. I wish I could not see them 
 at all. 
 
 And there, on my right, the pretty miniature of the 
 Franciscan has come back again ; but it seems to me 
 as if I can only keep it in its frame by a tremendous 
 effort of will, and that the moment I get tired the 
 ugly cat-head will appear in its place. Certainly I 
 am not delirious; I can see Therese very plainly, 
 standing at the foot of my bed ; I can hear her speak- 
 ing to me perfectly well v and I would be able to an- 
 swer her quite satisfactorily if I were not kept so
 
 224 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 busy in trying to compel the various objects about me 
 to maintain their natural aspect. 
 
 Here is the doctor coming. I never sent for him, 
 but it gives me pleasure to see him. He is an old 
 neighbor of mine ; I have never been of much service 
 to him, but I like him very much. Even if I do not 
 say much to him, I have at least full possession of all 
 my faculties, and I even find myself extraordinarily 
 crafty and observing to-day, for I note all his gest- 
 ures, his every look, the least wrinkling of his face. 
 But the doctor is very cunning, too, and I cannot real- 
 ly tell what he thinks about me. The deep thought 
 of Goethe suddenly comes to my mind, and I exclaim, 
 
 " Doctor, the old man has consented to allow him- 
 self to become sick ; but he does not intend, this time 
 at least, to make any further concessions to nature." 
 
 Neither the doctor nor Therese laugh at my little 
 joke. I suppose they cannot have understood it. 
 
 The doctor goes away ; evening comes ; and all sorts 
 of strange shadows begin to shape themselves about my 
 bed-curtains, forming and dissolving by turns. And 
 other shadows ghosts throng by before me; and 
 through them I can see distinctly the impassive face 
 of my faithful servant. And suddenly a cry, a shrill 
 cry, a great cry of distress, rends my ears. "Was it 
 you who called me, Jeanne ? 
 
 The day is over ; and the shadows take their places 
 at my bedside to remain with me all through the long 
 night.
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 225 
 
 Then morning comes I feel a peace, a vast peace, 
 wrapping me all about. 
 
 Art Thou about to take me into Thy rest, my dear 
 Lord God ? 
 
 February, 186 . 
 
 THE doctor is quite jovial. It seems that I am do- 
 ing him a great deal of credit by being able to get 
 out of bed. If I must believe him, innumerable disor- 
 ders must have pounced down upon my poor old body 
 all at the same time. 
 
 These disorders, which are the terror of ordinary 
 mankind, have names which are the terror of philolo- 
 gists. They are hybrid names, half Greek, half Latin, 
 with terminations in " ite," indicating the inflamma- 
 tory condition, and in " algia," indicating pain. The 
 doctor gives me all their names, together with a cor- 
 responding number of adjectives ending in " ic," which 
 serve to characterize their detestable qualities. In 
 short, they represent a good half of that most perfect 
 copy of the Dictionary of Medicine contained in the 
 too-authentic box of Pandora. 
 
 "Doctor, what an excellent common -sense story 
 the story of Pandora is ! if I were a poet I would 
 put it into French verse. Shake hands, doctor ! You 
 have brought me back to life ; I forgive you for 
 it. You have given me back to my friends ; I thank 
 you for it, You say I am quite strong. That may 
 15
 
 226 THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 be, that may be ; but I have lasted a very long time. 
 I am a very old article of furniture ; I might be very 
 satisfactorily compared to my father's arm-chair. It 
 was an arm-chair which the good man had inherited, 
 and in which he used to lounge from morning until 
 evening. Twenty times a day, when I was quite a baby, 
 I used to climb up and seat myself on one of the arms 
 of that old-fashioned chair. So long as the chair re- 
 mained intact, nobody paid any particular attention 
 to it. But it began to limp on one foot; and then 
 folks began to say that it was a very good chair. Af- 
 terwards it became lame in three legs, squeaked with 
 the fourth leg, and lost nearly half of both arms. Then 
 everybody would exclaim, ' What a strong chair !' 
 They wondered how it was that after its arms had 
 been worn off and all its legs knocked out of plumb, 
 it could yet preserve the recognizable shape of a 
 chair, remain nearly erect, and still be of some service. 
 The horse-hair came out of its body at last, and it gave 
 up the ghost. And when Cyprien, our servant, sawed 
 up its mutilated members for fire- wood, everybody re- 
 doubled their cries of admiration. ' Oh ! what an ex- 
 cellent what a marvellous chair! It was the chair 
 of Pierre Sylvestre Bonnard, the dry-goods merchant 
 of Epeminede Bonnard, his son of Jean-Baptiste 
 Bonnard, the Tyrrhenian philosopher and Chief of the 
 Third Maritime Division. Oh! what a robust and 
 venerable chair !' In reality it was a dead chair. "Well, 
 doctor, I am that chair. You think I am solid because
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVE8TRE BONNARD. 227 
 
 I have been able to resist an attack which would have 
 killed many people, and which only killed me three 
 fourths. Much obliged ! I feel none the less that I 
 am something which has been irremediably damaged." 
 
 The doctor tries to prove to me, with the help of 
 enormous Greek and Latin words, that I am really in 
 a very good condition. It would, of course, be useless 
 to attempt any demonstration of this kind in so lucid 
 a language as French. However, I allow him to per- 
 suade me at last ; and I see him to the door. 
 
 " Good ! good !" exclaimed Therese ; " that is the 
 way to put the doctor out of the house ! Just do the 
 same thing once or twice again, and he will not come 
 to see you any more and so much the better !" 
 
 "Well, Therese, now that I have become such a 
 hearty man again, do not refuse to give me my let- 
 ters. I am sure there must be quite a big bundle of 
 letters, and it would be very wicked to keep me any 
 longer from reading them." 
 
 Therese, after some little grumbling, gave me my 
 letters. But what did it matter ? I looked at all the 
 envelopes, and saw that no one of them had been ad- 
 dressed by the little hand which I so much wish I 
 could see here now, turning over the pages of the Ye- 
 cellio. I pushed the whole bundle of letters away: 
 they had no more interest for me.
 
 228 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 April-June. 
 
 IT was a hotly contested engagement. 
 
 "Wait, Monsieur, until I have put on my clean 
 things," exclaimed Therese, "and I will go out with 
 you this time also ; I will carry your folding-stool as 
 I have been doing these last few days, and we will go 
 and sit down somewhere in the sun." 
 
 Therese actually thinks me infirm. I have been 
 sick, it is true, but there is an end to all things ! Ma- 
 dame Malady has taken her departure quite a while 
 ago, and it is now more than three months since her 
 pale and gracious-visaged handmaid, Dame Convales- 
 cence, politely bade me farewell. If I were to listen 
 to my housekeeper, I would become a veritable Mon- 
 sieur Argant, and I would wear a nightcap with rib- 
 bons for the rest of my life. . . . No more of this ! I 
 propose to go out by myself ! Therese will not hear of 
 it. She takes my folding-stool, and wants to follow me. 
 
 " Therese, to-morrow, if you like, we will take our 
 seats on the sunny side of the wall of La Petite Prov- 
 ence, and stay there just as long as you please. But to- 
 day I have some very important affairs to attend to." 
 
 " So much the better ! But your affairs are not the 
 only affairs in this world." 
 
 I beg, I scold ; I make my escape. 
 
 It is quite a pleasant day. With the aid of a cab, 
 and the help of God, I trust to be able to fulfil m.v 
 purpose.
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 229 
 
 There is the wall on which is painted in great blue 
 letters the words " Pensionnat de Demoiselles tenu par 
 Mademoiselle Virginie Prefere" There is the iron 
 gate which would give free entrance into the court- 
 yard if it were ever opened. But the lock is rusty, 
 and sheets of zinc put up behind the bars protect from 
 indiscreet observation those dear little souls to whom 
 Mademoiselle Prefere doubtless teaches modesty, sin- 
 cerity, justice, and disinterestedness. There is a win- 
 dow, with iron bars before it, and panes daubed over 
 with white paint the window of the bath-rooms, like 
 a glazed eye the only aperture of the building open- 
 ing upon the exterior world. As for the house-door, 
 through which I entered so often, but which is now 
 closed against me forever, it is just as I saw it the last 
 time, with its little iron-grated wicket. The single 
 stone step in front of it is deeply worn, and, without 
 having very good eyes behind my spectacles, I can 
 see the little white scratches on the stone which have 
 been made by the nails in the shoes of the girls going 
 in and out. And why cannot I also go in ? I have a 
 feeling that Jeanne must be suffering a great deal in 
 this dismal house, and that she calls my name in se- 
 cret. I cannot go away from the gate! A strange 
 anxiety t-akes hold of me. I pull the bell. The scared- 
 looking servant comes to the door, even much more 
 scared-looking than when I saw her the last time. 
 Strict orders have been given : I am not to be allowed 
 to see Mademoiselle Jeanne. I beg the servant to be
 
 230 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 so kind as to tell me how the child is. The servant, 
 after looking to her right and then to her left, tells 
 me that Mademoiselle Jeanne is well, and then shuts 
 the door in my face. And I am all alone in the street 
 again." 
 
 How many times since then have I wandered in the 
 same way under that wall, and passed before the lit- 
 tle door, full of shame and despair to find myself 
 even weaker than that poor child, who has no other 
 help or friend except myself in the world ! 
 
 Finally I overcame my repugnance sufficiently to 
 call upon Maitre Mouche. The first thing I remarked 
 was that his office is much more dusty and much more 
 mouldy this year than it was last year. The notary 
 made his appearance after a moment, with his familiar 
 stiff gestures, and his restless eyes quivering behind 
 his eye-glasses. I made my complaints to him. He 
 answered me. . . . But why should I write down, even 
 in a blank-book which I am going to burn, my recol- 
 lections of a downright scoundrel? He takes sides 
 with Mademoiselle Prefere, whose intelligent mind 
 and irreproachable character he has long appreciated. 
 He does not feel himself in a position to decide the 
 nature of the question at issue ; but he must assure 
 me that appearances have been greatly against me. 
 That of course makes no difference to me. He adds 
 (and this does make some difference to me) that the 
 small sum which had been placed in his hands to de- 
 fray the expenses of the education of his ward has
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 231 
 
 been expended, and that, in view of the circumstances, 
 he cannot but greatly admire the disinterestedness of 
 Mademoiselle Prefere in consenting to allow Made- 
 moiselle Jeanne to remain with her. 
 
 A magnificent light, the light of a perfect day, 
 floods the sordid place with its incorruptible torrent, 
 and illuminates the person of that man ! 
 
 And outside it pours down its splendor upon all the 
 wretchedness of a populous quarter. 
 
 How sweet it is, this light with which my eyes 
 have so long been filled, and which ere long I must 
 forever cease to enjoy ! I wander out with my hands 
 behind me, dreaming as I go, following the line of the 
 fortifications ; and I find myself after a while, I know 
 not how, in an out-of-the-way suburb full of misera- 
 ble little gardens. By the dusty roadside I observe 
 a plant whose flower, at once dark and splendid, seems 
 worthy of association with the noblest and purest 
 mourning for the dead. It is a columbine. Our fa- 
 thers called it " Our Lady's Glove" le gant de Notre- 
 Dame. Only such a "Notre-Dame" as might make 
 herself very, very small, for the sake of appearing to 
 little children, could ever slip her dainty fingers into 
 the narrow capsule of that flower. 
 
 And there is a big bumble-bee who tries to force 
 himself into the flower, brutally ; but his mouth' can- 
 not reach the nectar, and the poor glutton strives and 
 strives in vain. He has to give up the attempt, and 
 comes out of the flower all smeared over with pollen.
 
 232 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 He flies off in his own heavy lumbering way ; but there 
 are not many flowers in this portion of the suburbs, 
 which has been defiled by the soot and smoke of fac- 
 tories. So he comes back to the columbine again, and 
 this time he pierces the corolla and sucks the honey 
 through the little hole which he has made : I should 
 never have thought that a bumble-bee had so much 
 sense ! Why, that is admirable ! The more I observe 
 them, the more do insects and flowers fill me with as- 
 tonishment. I am like that good Rollin who went 
 wild with delight over the flowers of his peach-trees. 
 I wish I could have a fine garden, and live at the verge 
 of a wood. 
 
 August, September. 
 
 IT occurred to me one Sunday morning to watch 
 for the moment when Mademoiselle Prefere's pupils 
 were leaving the school in procession to attend mass 
 at the parish church. I watched them passing two 
 by two, the little ones first with very serious faces. 
 There were three of them all dressed exactly alike 
 dumpy, plump, important - looking little creatures, 
 whom I recognized at once as the Mouton girls. Their 
 elder sister is the artist who drew that terrible head 
 of Tatius, King of the Sabines. Beside the column, 
 the assistant school-teacher, with her prayer-book in 
 her hand, was gesturing and frowning. Then came 
 the next oldest class, and finally the big girls, all whis-
 
 THE CRIME OF S7LVE8TRE BONNARD. 233 
 
 pering to each other, as they went by. But I did not 
 see Jeanne. 
 
 I went to police-headquarters and inquired whether 
 they did not have, filed away somewhere or other, 
 any information regarding the establishment in the 
 Rue Demours. I succeeded in inducing them to send 
 some female inspectors there. These returned bring- 
 ing with them the most favorable reports about the 
 establishment. In their opinion the Prefere School 
 was a model school. It is evident that if I were to 
 force an investigation, Mademoiselle Prefere would 
 receive academic honors. 
 
 October 3. 
 
 THIS Thursday being a school-holiday I had the 
 chance of meeting the three little Mouton girls in the 
 vicinity of the Rue Demours. After bowing to their 
 mother, I asked the eldest, who appears to be about 
 ten years old, how was her playmate, Mademoiselle 
 Jeanne Alexandre. 
 
 The little Mouton girl answered me, all in a breath, 
 11 Jeanne Alexandre is not my playmate. She is 
 only kept in the school for charity so they make her 
 sweep the class-rooms. It was Mademoiselle who said 
 so. And Jeanne Alexandre is a bad girl : so they lock 
 her up in the dark room and it serves her right and 
 I am a good girl and I am never locked up in the 
 dark room."
 
 234 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 The three little girls resumed their walk, and Ma. 
 dame Mouton followed close behind them, looking 
 back over her broad shoulder at me, in a very sus- 
 picious manner. 
 
 Alas ! I find myself reduced to expedients of a 
 questionable character. Madame de Gabry will not 
 come back to Paris for at least three months more, at 
 the very soonest. "Without her, I have no tact, I have 
 no common-sense I am nothing but a cumbersome, 
 clumsy, mischief -making machine. 
 
 Nevertheless, I cannot possibly permit them to make 
 Jeanne a boarding-school servant ! 
 
 December 28. 
 
 THE idea that Jeanne was obliged to sweep the 
 rooms had become absolutely unbearable. 
 
 The weather was dark and cold. Night had already 
 begun. I rang the school-door bell with the tranquil- 
 lity of a resolute man. The moment that the timid 
 servant opened the door, I slipped a gold piece into 
 her hand, and promised her another if she would ar- 
 range it so that I could see Mademoiselle Alexandre. 
 Her answer was, 
 
 " In one hour from now, at the grated window." 
 
 And she slammed the door in my face so rudely 
 that she knocked my hat into the gutter. I waited 
 for one very long hour in a violent snow-storm ; then I 
 approached the window. Nothing ! The wind raged,
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 235 
 
 and the snow fell heavily. Workmen passing by with 
 their implements on their shoulders, and their heads 
 bent down to keep the snow from coming in their 
 faces, rudely jostled me. Still nothing. I began to 
 fear I had been observed. I knew that I had done 
 wrong in bribing a servant, but I was not a bit sorry 
 for it. "Woe to the man who does not know how to 
 break through social regulations in case of necessity! 
 Another quarter of an hour passed. Nothing. At 
 last the window was partly opened. 
 
 " Is that you, Monsieur Bonnard ?" 
 
 "Is that you, Jeanne? tell me at once what hag 
 become of you." 
 
 " I am well very well." 
 
 " But what else !" 
 
 " They have put me in the kitchen, and I have to 
 sweep the school-rooms." 
 
 " In the kitchen ! Sweeping you ! Gracious good- 
 ness !" 
 
 " Yes, because my guardian does not pay for my 
 schooling any more." 
 
 " Gracious goodness ! Your guardian seems to me 
 to be a thorough scoundrel." 
 
 " Then you know 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Oh ! don't ask me to tell you that ! but I would 
 rather die than find myself alone with him again." 
 
 " And why did you not write to me ?" 
 
 " I was watched."
 
 236 THE CRIME OF STLVE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 At that instant I formed a resolve which nothing 
 in this world could have induced me to change. I 
 did, indeed, have some idea that I might be acting 
 contrary to law ; but I did not give myself the least 
 concern about that idea. And, being firmly resolved, 
 I was able to be prudent. I acted with remarkable 
 coolness. 
 
 " Jeanne," I asked, " tell me ! does that room you 
 are in open into the court-yard 2" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Can you open the street-door from the inside your- 
 self?" 
 
 " Yes, if there is nobody in the porter's lodge." 
 
 " Go and see if there is any one there, and be care- 
 ful that nobody observes you." 
 
 Then I waited, keeping a watch on the door and 
 window. 
 
 In six or seven seconds Jeanne reappeared behind 
 the bars, and said, 
 
 " The servant is in the porter's lodge." 
 
 " Very well," I said, " have you a pen and ink ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "A pencil?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Pass it out here." 
 
 I took an old newspaper out of my pocket, and 
 in a wind which blew almost hard enough to put the 
 street-lamps out, in a downpour of snow which almost 
 blinded me I managed to wrap up and address that 
 paper to Mademoiselle Prefere.
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVE8TRE BONNARD. 237 
 
 "While I was writing I asked Jeanne, 
 
 " When the postman passes he puts the papers and 
 letters in the box, doesn't he ? He rings the bell and 
 goes away? Then the servant opens the letter-box 
 and takes whatever she finds there to Mademoiselle 
 Pref ere immediately : is not that about the way the 
 thing is managed whenever any mail comes 2" 
 
 Jeanne thought it was. 
 
 "Then we shall soon see. Jeanne, go and watch 
 again ; and, as soon as the servant leaves the lodge, 
 open the door and come out here to me." 
 
 Having said this, I put my newspaper in the box, 
 gave the bell a tremendous pull, and then hid myself 
 in the embrasure of a neighboring door. 
 
 I might have been there several minutes, when the 
 little door quivered, then opened, and a young girl's 
 head made its appearance through the opening. I 
 took hold of it ; I pulled it towards me. 
 
 " Come, Jeanne ! come !" 
 
 She stared at me uneasily. Certainly she must have 
 been afraid that I had gone mad ; but, on the contrary, 
 I was very rational indeed. 
 
 " Come, my child ! come 1" 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " To Madame de Gabry's." 
 
 Then she took my arm. For some time we ran like 
 a couple of thieves. But running is an exercise ill- 
 suited to one as corpulent as I am, and, finding myself 
 out of breath at last, I stopped and leaned upon some-
 
 238 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 thing which turned out to be the stove of a dealer in 
 roasted chestnuts, who was doing business at the cor- 
 ner of a wine-seller's shop, where a number of cabmen 
 were drinking. One of them asked us if we did not 
 want a cab. Most assuredly we wanted a cab ! The 
 driver, after setting down his glass on the zinc coun- 
 ter, climbed upon his seat and urged his horse forward. 
 "We were saved. 
 
 "Phew!" I panted, wiping my forehead. For, in 
 spite of the cold, I was perspiring profusely. 
 
 What seemed very odd was that Jeanne appeared 
 to be much more conscious than I was of the enormity 
 which we had committed. She looked very serious 
 indeed, and was visibly uneasy. 
 
 " In the kitchen !" I cried out, with indignation. 
 
 She shook her head, as if to say, "Well, there or 
 anywhere else, what does it matter to me ?" And, by 
 the light of the street-lamps, I observed with pain that 
 her face was very thin and her features all pinched. 
 I did not find in her any of that vivacity, any of those 
 bright impulses, any of that quickness of expression, 
 which used to please me so much. Her gaze had be- 
 come timid, her gestures constrained, her whole atti- 
 tude melancholy. I took her hand a little cold hand, 
 which had become all hardened and bruised. The 
 poor child must have suffered very much. I ques- 
 tioned her. She told me very quietly that Mademoi- 
 selle Prefere had summoned her one day, and called 
 her a little monster and a little viper, for some reason 
 which she had never been able to learn.
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 239 
 
 She had added, " You shall not see Monsieur Bon- 
 nard any more ; for he has been giving you bad advice, 
 and he has conducted himself in a most shameful man- 
 ner towards me." " I then said to her, ' That, Made- 
 moiselle, you will never be able to make me believe.' 
 Then Mademoiselle slapped my face and sent me back 
 to the school-room. The announcement that I would 
 never be allowed to see you again made me feel as if 
 night had come down upon me. Don't you know 
 those evenings when one feels so sad to see the dark- 
 ness come ? well, just imagine such a moment stretched 
 out into weeks into whole months ! Don't you re- 
 member my little Saint-George? Up to that time I 
 had worked at it as well as I could just simply to 
 work at it just to amuse myself. But when I lost 
 all hope of ever seeing you again I took my little wax 
 figure, and I began to work at it in quite another way. 
 I did not try to model it with wooden matches any 
 more, as I had been doing, but with hair-pins. I even 
 made use of epingles d la neige. But perhaps you 
 do not know what epingles d la neige are? Well, I 
 became more particular about it than you can possibly 
 imagine. I put a dragon on Saint-George's helmet ; 
 and I passed hours and hours in making a head and 
 eyes and a tail for the dragon. Oh, the eyes! the 
 eyes, above all ! I never stopped working at them till 
 I got them so that they had red pupils and white eye- 
 lids and eye-brows and everything ! I know I am very 
 silly ; I had an idea that I was going to die as soon as
 
 240 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 my little Saint-George would be finished. I worked at 
 it during recreation-hours, and Mademoiselle Prefere 
 used to let me alone. One day I learned that you 
 were in the parlor with the schoolmistress ; I watched 
 for you ; we said Au revoir ! that day to each other. 
 I was a little consoled by seeing you. But. some time 
 after that, my guardian came and wanted to make me 
 go out with him one Thursday. I refused to go to his 
 house, but please don't ask me why, Monsieur. He 
 answered me, quite gently, that I was a very whimsi- 
 cal little girl. And then he left me alone. But the 
 next day Mademoiselle Prefcre came to me with such 
 a wicked look on her face that I was really afraid. 
 She had a letter in her hand. 'Mademoiselle,' she 
 said to me, 'I am informed by your guardian that 
 he has spent all the money which belonged to you. 
 Don't be afraid ! I do not intend to abandon you ; 
 but, you must acknowledge yourself, it is only right 
 that you should earn your own livelihood.' Then she 
 put me to work house-cleaning ; and whenever I made 
 a mistake she would lock me up in the garret for days 
 together. And that is what happened to me since I 
 saw you last. Even if I had been able to write to you, 
 I do not know whether I should have done it, because 
 I did not think you could possibly take me away from 
 the school ; and, as Maitre Mouche did not come back 
 to see me, there was no hurry. I thought I could 
 wait for a while in the garret and the kitchen." 
 " Jeanne," I cried, " even if we should have to flee
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVE8TRE BONNARD. 241 
 
 to Oceanica, the abominable Prefere shall never get 
 hold of you again. I will take a great oath on that ! 
 And why should we not go to Oceanica ? The climate 
 is very healthy ; and I read in a newspaper the other 
 day that they have pianos there. But, in the mean- 
 time, let us go to the house of Madame de Gabry, who 
 returned to Paris, as luck would have it, some three 
 or four clays ago ; for you and I are two innocent fools, 
 and we have great need of some one to help us." 
 
 Even as I was speaking Jeanne's features suddenly 
 became pale, and seemed to shrink into lif elessness ; 
 her eyes became all dim ; her lips, half open, contract- 
 ed with an expression of pain. Then her head sank 
 sideways on her shoulder ; she had fainted. 
 
 I lifted her in my arms, and carried her up Madame 
 de Gabry's staircase like a little baby asleep. But I 
 was myself on the point of fainting, from emotional 
 excitement and fatigue together, when she came to 
 herself again. 
 
 " Ah ! it is you," she said : " so much the better !" 
 
 Such was our condition when we rang our friend's 
 door-bell. 
 
 So/me day. 
 
 IT was eight o'clock. Madame de Gabry, as might 
 be supposed, was very much surprised by our unex- 
 pected appearance. But she welcomed the old man 
 und the child with that glad kindness which always 
 
 16
 
 242 THE CRIME OF STLVEBTRE BONNARD. 
 
 expressed itself in her beautiful gestures. It seems 
 to me, if I might use that language of devotion so 
 familiar to her, it seems to me as though some heav- 
 enly grace streams from her hands whenever she opens 
 them ; and even the perfume which impregnates her 
 robes seems to inspire the sweet calm zeal of charity 
 and good works. Surprised she certainly was; but 
 she asked us no questions, and that silence seemed 
 to me admirable. 
 
 " Madame," I said to her, " we have both come to 
 place ourselves under your protection. And, first of 
 all, we are going to ask you to give us some supper 
 or to give Jeanne some, at least ; for a moment ago, 
 in the carriage, she fainted from weakness. As for 
 myself, I could not eat a bite at this late hour with- 
 out passing a night of agony in consequence. I hope 
 that Monsieur de Gabry is well." 
 
 " Oh, he is here !" she said. 
 
 And she called him immediately. 
 
 " Come in here, Paul ! Come and see Monsieur Bon- 
 nard and Mademoiselle Alexandre." 
 
 He came. It was a pleasure for me to see his frank 
 broad face, and to press his strong square hand. Then 
 we went, all four of us, into the dining-room ; and while 
 some cold meat was being cut for Jeanne which she 
 never touched notwithstanding I related our advent- 
 ure. Paul de Gabry asked me permission to smoke 
 his pipe, after which he listened to me in silence. 
 I had finished my recital he scratched the short
 
 THE CRIME OF 87LVESTRE BONNARD. 243 
 
 stiff beard upon his chin, and uttered a tremendous 
 " Sacrebleu /" But, seeing Jeanne stare at each of us 
 in turn, with a frightened look in her face, he added : 
 
 " We will talk about this matter to-morrow morn- 
 ing. Come into my study for a moment ; I have an 
 old book to show you that I want you to tell me some- 
 thing about." 
 
 I followed him into his study, where the steel of 
 shot-guns and hunting-knives, suspended against the 
 dark hangings, glimmered in the lamp-light. There, 
 pulling me down beside him upon a leather-covered 
 sofa, he exclaimed, 
 
 " What have you done ? Great God ! Do you 
 know what you have done? Corruption of a minor, 
 abduction, kidnapping ! You have got yourself into a 
 nice mess ! You have simply rendered yourself liable 
 to a sentence of imprisonment of not less than five 
 nor more than ten years." 
 
 " Mercy on us !" I cried ; " ten years imprisonment 
 for having saved an innocent child." 
 
 " That is the law !" answered Monsieur de Gabry. 
 " You see, my dear Monsieur Bonnard, I happen to 
 know the Code pretty well not because I ever stud- 
 ied law as a profession, but because, as mayor of Lu- 
 sance, I was obliged to teach myself something about 
 it in order to be able to give information to my sub- 
 ordinates. Mouche is a rascal ; that woman Prefere is 
 a vile hussy ; and you are a ... Well ! I really cannot 
 find any word strong enough to signify what you are J"
 
 244 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 After opening his book -case, where dog-collars, 
 riding -whips, stirrups, spurs, cigar -boxes, and a few 
 books of reference were indiscriminately stowed away, 
 he took out of it a copy of the Code, and began to 
 turn over the leaves. 
 
 " ' CRIMES AND MISDEMEANORS ' . . . ' SEQUESTRATION 
 OF PERSONS ' that is not your case. . . . ' ABDUCTION OF 
 MINORS ' here we are. . . . ' ARTICLE 35 : WJwsoever 
 shall, either by fraud or violence, have abducted or have 
 caused to be abducted any minor or minors, or shall 
 have enticed them, 01* turned them away from, or ford- 
 lily removed tftem, or shall have caused them to be enticed, 
 or turned away from, or forcibly removed from the 
 places in which they have been placed by those to whose 
 authority or direction they have been submitted or con- 
 fided, shall be liable to tJte penalty of imprisonment. 
 See PENAL CODE, 21 and 28? Here is 21 : ' The term 
 of imprisonment shall not be less than five years? 28. 
 ' The sentence of imprisonment shall be considered as 
 involving a loss of civil rights? Now all that is very 
 plain, is it not, Monsieur Bonnard ?" 
 
 " Perfectly plain." 
 
 "Now let us go on: 'ARTICLE 356: In case the 
 abductor be under the age of 21 years at the time of 
 the offence, he shall only be punished with ' . . . But we 
 certainly cannot invoke this article in your favor. 
 ARTICLE 357 : In case the abductor shall have married 
 the girl by him, abducted, he can only be prosecuted at 
 the instance of such persons as, according to the Civil
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 245 
 
 Code, mo/y have the right to demand that the marriage 
 shall be declared null ; nor can he be condemned until 
 after the nullity of the marriage shall have been pro- 
 nounced.' I do not know whether it is a part of your 
 plans to marry Mademoiselle Alexandre ! You can 
 see that the Code is good-natured about it ; it leaves 
 you one door of escape. But no I ought not to joke 
 with you, because really you have put yourself in a 
 very unfortunate position! And how could a man 
 like you imagine that here in Paris, in the middle of 
 the nineteenth century, a young girl can be abducted 
 with absolute impunity? "We are not living in the 
 Middle Ages now ; and such things are no longer per- 
 mitted by law." 
 
 " You need not imagine," I replied, " that abduction 
 was lawful under the ancient Code. You will find in 
 Baluze a decree issued by King Childebert at Cologne, 
 either in 593 or 594, on the subject : moreover, every- 
 body knows that the famous Ordonnance de Blois, of 
 May, 1579, formally enacted that any persons convict- 
 ed of having suborned any son or daughter under the 
 age of twenty-five years, whether under promise of 
 marriage or otherwise, without the full knowledge, 
 will, or consent of the father, mother, and guardians, 
 should be punished with death ; and the ordinance 
 adds : ' Et pareillement seront punis extraordinaire- 
 ment tons ceux qui auront participe audit rapt, et qui 
 auront prete conseil, confort, et aide en aucune manure 
 que ce soit. J (And in like manner shall be extraordi-
 
 246 THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 narily punished all persons whomsoever, who shall 
 have participated in the said abduction, and who shall 
 have given thereunto counsel, succor, or aid in any 
 manner whatsoever.) Those are the exact, or very 
 nearly the exact, terms of the ordinance. As for that 
 article of the Code-Napoleon which you have just told 
 me of, and which excepts from liability to prosecution 
 the abductor who marries the young girl abducted by 
 him, it reminds me that according to the laws of Bre- 
 tagne, forcible abduction, followed by marriage, was 
 not punished. But this usage, which involved various 
 abuses, was suppressed in 1720 at least I give you 
 the date within ten years. My memory is not very 
 good now, and the time is long passed when I could 
 repeat by heart without even stopping to take breath, 
 fifteen hundred verses of Girart de Eoussillon. 
 
 " As far as regards the Capitulary of Charlemagne, 
 which fixes the compensation for abduction, I have not 
 mentioned it because I am sure that you must remem- 
 ber it. So, my dear Monsieur de Gabry, you see ab- 
 duction was considered as a decidedly punishable of- 
 fence under the three dynasties of Old France. It is a 
 very great mistake to suppose that the Middle Ages 
 represent a period of social chaos. You must re- 
 member, on the contrary 
 
 Monsieur de Gabry here interrupted me : 
 " So," he exclaimed, "you know the Ordonnance d* 
 Blois, you know Baluze, you know Childebert, you 
 know the Capitularies and you don't know anything 
 about the Code-Napoleon J"
 
 CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 247 
 
 I replied that, as a matter of fact, I never had read 
 the Code ; and he looked very much surprised. 
 
 " And now do you understand," he asked, " the ex- 
 treme gravity of the action you have committed?" 
 
 I had not indeed been yet able to understand it 
 fully. But little by little, with the aid of Monsieur 
 Paul's very sensible explanations, I reached the con- 
 viction at last that I would not be judged in regard 
 to my motives, which were innocent, but only accord- 
 ing to my action, which was punishable. There- 
 upon I began to feel very despondent, and to utter 
 divers lamentations. 
 
 " What am I to do ?" I cried out, " what am I to 
 do? Am I then irretrievably ruined? and have I 
 also ruined the poor child whom I wanted to save ?" 
 
 Monsieur de Gabry silently filled his pipe, and light- 
 ed it so slowly that his kind broad face remained for 
 at least three or four minutes glowing red behind the 
 light, like a blacksmith's in the gleam of his forge-fire. 
 Then he said, 
 
 " You want to know what to, do ? Why, don't do 
 anything, my dear Monsieur Bonnard ! For God's 
 sake, and for your own sake, don't do anything at all ! 
 Your situation is bad enough as it is ; don't try to 
 meddle with it now, unless you want to create new 
 difficulties for yourself. But you must promise me to 
 sustain me in any action that I may take. I shall go 
 to see Monsieur Mouche the very first thing to-morrow 
 morning ; and if he turns out to be what we think he
 
 248 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 is that is to say, a consummate rascal I shall very 
 soon find means of making him harmless, even if the 
 devil himself should take part with him. For every- 
 thing depends on him. As it is too late this evening 
 to take Mademoiselle Jeanne back to her boarding- 
 school, my wife will keep the young lady here to- 
 night. This of course plainly constitutes the misde- 
 meanor of complicity ; but it saves the girl from any- 
 thing like an equivocal position. As for you, my dear 
 Monsieur, you just go back to the Quai Malaquais as 
 quickly as you can; and if they come to look for 
 Jeanne there, it will be very easy for you to prove 
 she is not in your house." 
 
 While we were thus talking, Madame de Gabry was 
 preparing to make her young lodger comfortable for 
 the night. When she bade me good-by at the door, 
 she was carrying a pair of clean sheets, scented with 
 lavender, thrown over her arm. 
 
 " That," I said, " is a sweet honest smell." 
 
 "Well, of course," answered Madame de Gabry, 
 " you must remember we are peasants." 
 
 " Ah !" I answered her, " Heaven grant that I also 
 may be able one of these days to become a peasant ! 
 Heaven grant that one of these days I may be able, as 
 you are at Lusance, to inhale the sweet fresh odor of 
 the country, and live in some little house all hidden 
 among trees; and if this wish of mine be too ambi- 
 tious on the part of an old man whose life is nearly 
 closed, then I will only wish that my winding sheet
 
 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 249 
 
 may be as sweetly scented with lavender as that linen 
 you have on your arm." 
 
 It was agreed that I should come to breakfast the 
 following morning. But I was positively forbidden to 
 show myself at the house before midday. Jeanne, as 
 she kissed me good-by, begged me not to take her back 
 to the school any more. We felt much affected at 
 parting, and very anxious. 
 
 I found Therese waiting for me on the landing, in 
 such a condition of worry about me that it had made 
 her furious. She talked of nothing less than keeping 
 me under lock and key in the future. 
 
 What a night I passed ! I never closed my eyes for 
 one single instant. From time to time I could not 
 help laughing like a boy at the success of my prank ; 
 and then again, an inexpressible feeling of horror 
 would come upon me at the thought of being dragged 
 before some magistrate, and having to take my place 
 upon the prisoner's bench, to answer for the crime 
 which I had so naturally committed. I was very 
 much afraid ; and nevertheless I felt no remorse or re- 
 gret whatever. The sun, coming into my room at 
 last, merrily lighted upon the foot of my bed, and 
 then I made this prayer : 
 
 "My God, ' Thou who didst make the sky and the 
 dew,' as it is said in Tristan, judge me in Thine equity, 
 not indeed according unto my acts, but according only 
 to my motives, which Thou knowest have been up- 
 right and pure; and I will say: Glory to Thee in
 
 250 THE CRIME OF 8YLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 heaven, and peace on earth to men of good-will. I 
 give into Thy hands the child I stole away. Do that 
 for her which I have not known how to do : guard her 
 from all her enemies ; and blessed forever be Thy 
 name !" 
 
 WHEN I arrived at Madame de Gabry's, I found 
 Jeanne completely transfigured. 
 
 Had she also, like myself, at the first light of dawn, 
 called upon Him " who made the sky and the dew " ? 
 She smiled with such a sweet calm smile ! 
 
 Madame de Gabry called her away to arrange her 
 hair ; for the amiable lady had insisted upon combing 
 and plaiting, with her own hands, the hair of the child 
 confided to her care. As I had come a little before 
 the hour agreed upon, I had interrupted this charm- 
 ing toilet. By way of punishment I was told to go 
 and wait in the parlor all by myself. Monsieur de 
 Gabry joined me there in a little while. He had 
 evidently just come in, for I could see on his forehead 
 the mark left by the lining of his hat. His frank face 
 wore an expression of joyful excitement. I thought I 
 had better not ask him any questions; and we all 
 went to breakfast. When the servants had finished 
 waiting on the table, Monsieur Paul, who was keeping 
 his good story for the dessert, said to us, 
 
 " Well ! I went to Levallois."
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVEBTRE BONNARD. 251 
 
 "Did you see Maitre Mouche?" excitedly inquired 
 Madame de Gabry. 
 
 " No," he replied, curiously watching the expression 
 of disappointment upon our faces. 
 
 After having amused himself with our anxiety for 
 a reasonable time, the good fellow added : 
 
 " Maitre Mouche is no longer at Levallois. Maitre 
 Mouche has gone away from France. The day after 
 to-morrow will make just eight days since he decamped, 
 taking with him all the money of his clients a toler- 
 ably large sum. I found the office closed. A woman 
 who lived close by told me all about it with an abun- 
 dance of curses and imprecations. The notary did not 
 take the 7.55 train all by himself ; he took with him 
 the daughter of the hair-dresser of Levallois, a young 
 person quite famous in that part of the country for 
 her beauty and her accomplishments ; they say she 
 could shave better than her father. Well, anyhow 
 Mouche has run away with her ; the Commissaire de 
 Police confirmed the fact for me. Now, really, could 
 it have been possible for Maitre Mouche to have left 
 the country at a more opportune moment ? If he had 
 only deferred his escapade one week longer, he would 
 have been still the representative of society, and would 
 have had you dragged off to jail, Monsieur Bonnard, 
 like a criminal. At present we have nothing what- 
 ever to fear from him. Here is to the health of 
 Maitre Mouche 1" he cried, pouring out a glass of 
 white wine.
 
 252 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 I would like to live a long time if it were only to 
 remember that delightful morning. We four were all 
 assembled in the big white dining-room around the 
 waxed oak-table. Monsieur Paul's mirth was of the 
 hearty kind, even perhaps a little riotous ; and the 
 good man quaffed deeply. Madame de Gabry smiled 
 at me, with a smile so sweet, so perfect, and so noble, 
 that I thought such a woman ought to keep smiles 
 like that simply as a reward for good actions, and 
 thus make everybody who knew her do all the good 
 of which they were capable. Then, to reward us for 
 our pains, Jeanne, who had regained something of her 
 former vivacity, asked us in less than a quarter of an 
 hour one dozen questions to answer which would have 
 required an exhaustive exposition of the nature of 
 man, the nature of the universe, the science of physics 
 and of metaphysics, the Macrocosm and the Micro- 
 cosm not to speak of the Ineffable and the Unknow- 
 able. Then she drew out of her pocket her little Saint- 
 George, who had suffered most cruelly during our 
 flight. His legs and arms were gone ; but he still had 
 his gold helmet with the green dragon on it. Jeanne 
 solemnly pledged herself to make a restoration of him 
 in honor of Madame de Gabry. 
 
 Delightful friends ! I left them at last overwhelmed 
 with fatigue and joy. 
 
 On re-entering my lodgings I had to endure the 
 very sharpest remonstrances from Therese, who said
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 253 
 
 she had given up trying to understand my new way 
 of living. In her opinion Monsieur had really lost his 
 mind. 
 
 " Yes, Therese, I am a mad old man and you are a 
 mad old woman. That is certain! May the good 
 God bless us both, Therese, and give us new strength ; 
 for we now have new duties to perform. But let me 
 lie down upon the sofa ; for I really cannot keep my- 
 self on my feet any longer." 
 
 January 15, 186-. 
 
 " GOOD-MORNING, Monsieur," said Jeanne, letting her- 
 self in ; while Therese remained grumbling in the cor- 
 ridor because she had not been able to get to the door 
 in time. 
 
 " Mademoiselle, I beg you will be kind enough to 
 address me very solemnly by my title, and to say to 
 me, ( Good-morning, my guardian.' " 
 
 "Then it has all been settled? Oh, how nice!" 
 cried the child, clapping her hands. 
 
 "It has all been arranged, Mademoiselle, in the 
 Salic-commune and before the Justice of the Peace; 
 and from to-day you are under my authority. . . . 
 What are you laughing about, my ward ? I see it in 
 your eyes. You have some crazy idea in your head 
 this very moment some more nonsense, eh ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! Monsieur. ... I mean, my guardian. I 
 was looking at your white hair. It curls out from
 
 254 THE CRIME OF BTLVE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 under the edge of your hat like honeysuckle on a bal- 
 cony. It is very handsome, and I like it very much !" 
 
 " Be good enough to sit down, my ward, and, if you 
 can possibly help it, stop saying ridiculous things, be- 
 cause I have some very serious things to say to you. 
 Listen. I suppose you are not going to insist upon 
 being sent back to the establishment of Mademoiselle 
 Prefere ? . . . No. Well, then, what would you say 
 if I should take you here to live with me, and to finish 
 your education, and keep you here until . . . what 
 shall I say ? forever, as the song has it ?" 
 
 " Oh, Monsieur !" she cried, flushing crimson with 
 pleasure. 
 
 I continued, 
 
 " Back there we have a nice little room, which my 
 housekeeper cleaned up and furnished for you. You 
 are going to take the place of the books which used to 
 be in it ; you will succeed them as day succeeds night. 
 Go with Therese and look at it, and see if you think you 
 will be able to live in it. Madame de Gabry and I have 
 made up our minds that you can sleep there to-night." 
 
 She had already started to run ; I called her back 
 for a moment. 
 
 " Jeanne, listen to me a moment longer ! You have 
 always until now made yourself a favorite with my 
 housekeeper, who, like all very old people, is apt to 
 be cross at times. Be gentle and forbearing. Make 
 every allowance for her. I have thought it my duty 
 to make every allowance for her myself, and to put up
 
 -wuv^Srv- 
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 255 
 
 with all her fits of impatience. Now, let me tell you, 
 Jeanne : Respect her ! And when I say that, I do 
 not forget that she is my servant and yours ; neither 
 will she ever allow herself to forget it for a moment. 
 But what I want you to respect in her is her great age 
 and her great heart. She is an humble woman who 
 has lived a very, very long time in the habit of doing 
 good ; and she has become hardened and stiffened in 
 that habit. Bear patiently with the harsh ways of 
 that upright soul. If you know how to command, she 
 will know how to obey. Go now, my child ; arrange 
 your room in whatever way may seem to you best 
 suited for your studies and for your repose." 
 
 Having started Jeanne, with this viaticum, upon her 
 domestic career, I began to read a Review, which, al- 
 though conducted by very young men, is excellent. 
 The tone of it is somewhat unpolished, but the spirit 
 zealous. The article I read was certainly far superior, 
 in point of precision and positivism, to anything of the 
 sort ever written when I was a young man. The au- 
 thor of the article, Monsieur Paul Meyer, points out 
 every error with a remarkably lucid power of incisive 
 criticism. 
 
 "We used not in my time to criticise with such strict 
 justice. Our indulgence was vast. It went even so 
 far as to confound the scholar and the ignoramus in 
 the same burst of praise. And nevertheless one must 
 learn how to find fault ; and it is even an imperative 
 duty to blame when the blame is deserved.
 
 256 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 I remember little Raymond (that was the name we 
 gave him) ; he did not know anything, and his mind 
 was not a mind capable of absorbing any solid learn- 
 ing ; but he was very fond of his mother. We took 
 very good care never to utter a hint of the ignorance 
 of so perfect a son ; and, thanks to our forbearance, 
 little Raymond made his way to the highest positions. 
 He had lost his mother then ; but honors of all kinds 
 were showered upon him. He became omnipotent 
 to the grievous injury of his colleagues and of science. 
 . . . But here comes my young friend of the Luxem- 
 bourg. 
 
 " Good-evening, Gelis. You look very happy to-day. 
 What good fortune has come to you, my dear lad ?" 
 
 His good fortune is that he has been able to sustain 
 his thesis very creditably, and that he has taken a 
 high rank in his class. He tells me this with the ad- 
 ditional information that my own works, which were 
 incidentally referred to in the course of the examina- 
 tion, had been spoken of by the college professors in 
 terms of the most unqualified praise. 
 
 " That is very nice," I replied ; " and it makes me 
 very happy, Gelis, to find my old reputation thus as- 
 sociated with your own youthful honors. I was very 
 much interested, you know, in that thesis of yours ; 
 but some domestic arrangements have been keeping 
 me so busy lately that I quite forgot this was the day 
 on which you were to sustain it." 
 
 Mademoiselle Jeanne made her appearance very op-
 
 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 257 
 
 portunely, as if in order to suggest to him something 
 about the nature of those very domestic arrangements. 
 The giddy girl burst into the City of Books like a 
 fresh breeze, crying out at the top of her voice that 
 her room was a perfect little wonder. Then she be- 
 came very red indeed on seeing Monsieur Gelis there. 
 But none of us can escape our destiny. 
 
 Monsieur Gelis asked her how she was with the tone 
 of a young fellow who presumes upon a previous ac- 
 quaintance, and who proposes to put himself forward 
 as an old friend. Oh, never fear ! she had not for- 
 gotten him at all : that was very evident from the fact 
 that then and there, right under my nose, they re- 
 sumed their last year's conversation on the subject of 
 the " Yenetian-blond " ! They continued the discussion 
 after quite an animated fashion. I began to ask my- 
 self what right I had to be in the room at all. The 
 only thing I could do in order to make myself heard 
 was to cough. As for getting in a word, they never 
 even gave me a chance. Gelis discoursed enthusiasti- 
 cally, not only about the Venetian colorists, but also 
 upon all other matters relating to nature or to man- 
 kind. And Jeanne kept answering him, " Yes, Mon- 
 sieur, you are right." ..." That is just what I sup- 
 posed, Monsieur." . . . "Monsieur, you express so 
 beautifully just what I feel." ... "I am going to 
 think a great deal about what you have just told me, 
 Monsieur." 
 
 When / speak, Mademoiselle never answers me in 
 1?
 
 258 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 that tone. It is only with the very tip of her tongue 
 that she will even taste any intellectual food which I 
 set before her. Usually she will not touch it at all. 
 But Monsieur G61is seems to be in her opinion the su- 
 preme authority upon all subjects. It was always, 
 " Oh, yes !" " Oh, of course !" to all his empty chat- 
 ter. And, then, the eyes of Jeanne! I had never 
 seen them look so large before ; I had never before 
 observed in them such fixity of expression; but her 
 gaze otherwise remained what it always is artless, 
 frank, and brave. Gelis evidently pleased her; she 
 likes Gelis, and her eyes betrayed the fact. They 
 would have published it to the entire universe! All 
 very fine, Master Bonnard ! you have been so deeply 
 interested in observing your ward, that you have been 
 forgetting you are her guardian! You began only 
 this morning to exercise that function ; and you can 
 already see that it involves some very delicate and dif- 
 ficult duties. Bonnard, you must really try to devise 
 some means of keeping that young man away from 
 her ; you really ought. . . . Eh ! how am I to know 
 what I am to do ? . . . 
 
 I have picked up a book at random from the near- 
 est shelf ; I open it, and I enter respectfully into the 
 middle of a drama of Sophocles. The older I grow, 
 the' more I learn to love the two civilizations of the 
 antique world; and now I always keep the poets of 
 Italy and of Greece on a shelf within easy reach of 
 my arm in the City of Books.
 
 THE CRIME OF S7LVE8TRE BONNARD. 259 
 
 Monsieur and Mademoiselle finally condescend to 
 take some notice of me, now that I seem too busy to 
 take any notice of them. I really think that Mad- 
 emoiselle Jeanne has even asked me what I am read- 
 ing. No, indeed, I will not tell her what it is. "What 
 I am reading, between ourselves, is the chant of that 
 suave and luminous Chorus which rolls out its mag- 
 nificent melopoeia through a scene of passionate vio- 
 lence the Chorus of the Old Men of Thebes 'E/>wc 
 avocare. . . . "Invincible Love, Thou who descend- 
 est upon rich houses, Thou who dost rest upon the del- 
 icate cheek of the maiden, Thou who dost traverse all 
 seas, surely none among the Immortals can escape Thee, 
 nor indeed any among men who live but for a little 
 space / and he who is possessed by Thee, there is a mad- 
 ness upon him" And when I had re-read that deli- 
 cious chant, the face of Antigone appeared before me 
 in all its passionless purity. "What images ! Gods and 
 goddesses who hover in the highest height of heaven ! 
 The blind old man, the long-wandering beggar-king, 
 led by Antigone, has now been buried with holy rites ; 
 and his daughter, fair as the fairest dream ever con- 
 ceived by human soul, resists the will of the tyrant 
 and gives pious sepulture to her brother. She loves 
 the son of the tyrant, and that son loves her also. 
 And as she goes on her way to execution, the victim 
 of her own sweet piety, the old men sing, " Invincible 
 Love, Thou who dost descend upon rich houses, Thou 
 V>ho dost rest upon the delicate cheek of the maiden." . . ,
 
 260 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Jeanne, are you really very anxious 
 to know what I am reading ? I am reading, Mademoi- 
 selle I am reading that Antigone, having buried the 
 blind old man, wove a fair tapestry embroidered with 
 images in the likeness of laughing faces." 
 
 " Ah !" said Gelis, as he burst out laughing, " that 
 is not in the text." 
 
 " It is a scolium," I said. 
 
 " Inedited," he added, getting up. 
 
 I am not an egotist. But I am prudent. I have to 
 bring up this child ; she is much too young to be mar- 
 ried now. No ! I am not an egotist, but I must cer- 
 tainly keep her with me for a few years more keep 
 her alone with me. She can surely wait until I am 
 dead ! Fear not, Antigone, old (Edipus will find holy 
 burial soon enough. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Antigone is helping our house- 
 keeper to scrape the carrots. She says she likes to 
 do it that it is in her line, being related to the art of 
 sculpture. 
 
 May. 
 
 WHO would recognize the City of Books now ? There 
 are flowers everywhere even upon all the articles of 
 furniture. Jeanne was right : those roses do look very 
 nice in that blue china vase. She goes to market every 
 day with Therese, under the pretext of helping the old 
 servant to make her purchases, but she never brings
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVE8TRE BONNARD. 261 
 
 anything back with her except flowers. Flowers are 
 really very charming creatures. And one of these 
 days I must certainly carry out my plan, and devote 
 myself to the study of them, in their own natural do- 
 main, in the country with all the science and earnest- 
 ness which I possess. 
 
 For what have I to do here ? Why should I burn 
 my eyes out over these old parchments which cannot 
 now tell me anything worth knowing ? I used to study 
 them, those old texts, with the most ardent enjoy- 
 ment. What was it which I was then so anxious to 
 find in them ? The date of a pious foundation the 
 name of some monkish imagier or copyist the price 
 of a loaf, of an ox, or of a field some judicial or ad- 
 ministrative enactment all that, and yet something 
 more, a Something vaguely mysterious and sublime 
 which excited my enthusiasm. But for sixty years 
 I have been searching in vain for that Something. 
 Better men than I the masters, the truly great, the 
 Fauriels, the Thierrys, who found so many things 
 died at their task without having been able, any more 
 than I have been, to find that Something which, being 
 incorporeal, has no name, and without which, neverthe- 
 less, no great mental work would ever be undertaken 
 in this world. And now that I am only looking for 
 what I should certainly be able to find, I cannot find 
 anything at all ; and it is probable that I will never be 
 able to finish the history of the Abbots of Saint-Gr 
 main-des-Pres.
 
 262 THE CRIME OF S7LVE8TRE BONNARD. 
 
 " Guardian, just guess what I have in my hand- 
 kerchief." 
 
 "Judging from appearances, Jeanne, I should say 
 flowers." 
 
 " Oh, no not flowers. Look !" 
 
 I look, and I see a little gray head poking itself 
 out of the handkerchief. It is the head of a little 
 gray cat. The handkerchief opens ; the animal leaps 
 down upon the carpet, shakes itself, pricks up first one 
 ear and then the other, and begins to examine with due 
 caution the locality and the inhabitants thereof. 
 
 Therese, out of breath, with her basket on her arm, 
 suddenly makes her appearance in time to take an ob- 
 jective part in this examination, which does not appear 
 to result altogether in her favor ; for the young cat 
 moves slowly away from her, without, however, ven- 
 turing near my legs, or approaching Jeanne, who dis- 
 plays extraordinary volubility in the use of caressing 
 appellations. Th<rese, whose chief fault is her inability 
 to hide her feelings, thereupon vehemently reproaches 
 Mademoiselle for bringing home a cat that she did 
 not know anything about. Jeanne, in order to justify 
 herself, tells the whole story. While she was passing 
 with The'rese before a drug-store, she saw the clerk 
 kick a little cat into the street. The cat, astonished 
 and frightened, seemed to be asking itself whether to 
 remain in the street where it was being terrified and 
 knocked about by the people passing by, or whether 
 to go back into the drug-store even at the risk of being
 
 THE CRIME OF 8TLVEBTRE BONNARD. 263 
 
 kicked out a second time. Jeanne thought it was in 
 a very critical position, and understood its hesitation. 
 It looked so stupid; and she knew it looked stupid 
 only because it could not decide what to do. So she 
 took it up in her arms. And as it had not been able 
 to obtain any rest either in-doors or out-of-doors, it 
 allowed her to hold it. Then she stroked and petted 
 it to keep it from being afraid, and boldly went to the 
 drug-clerk and said, 
 
 " If you don't like that animal, you mustn't beat it; 
 you must give it to me." 
 
 " Take it," said the drug-clerk. 
 
 ..." Now there !" adds Jeanne, by way of conclu- 
 sion ; and then she changes her voice again to a flute- 
 tone in order to say all kinds of sweet things to that cat. 
 
 "He is horribly thin," I observe, looking at the 
 wretched animal ; " moreover, he is horribly ugly." 
 Jeanne thinks he is not ugly at all, but she acknowl- 
 edges that he looks even more stupid than he looked 
 at first : this time she thinks it not indecision, but sur- 
 prise, which gives that unfortunate aspect to his coun- 
 tenance. She asks us to imagine ourselves in his place ; 
 then we are obliged to acknowledge that he cannot 
 possibly understand what has happened to him. And 
 then we all burst out laughing in the face of the poor 
 little beast, which maintains the most comical look of 
 gravity. Jeanne wants to take him up ; but he hides 
 himself under the table, and cannot even be tempted 
 to come out by the lure of a saucer of milk.
 
 264 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 We all turn our backs and promise not to look ; when 
 we inspect the saucer again, we find it empty. 
 
 " Jeanne," I observe, " your protege has a decidedly 
 tristful aspect of countenance ; he is of a sly and sus- 
 picious disposition ; I trust he is not going to commit 
 in the City of Books any such misdemeanors as might 
 render it necessary for us to send him back to his drug- 
 store. In the meantime we must give him a name. 
 Suppose we call him ' Don Gris de Gouttiere ' ; but per- 
 haps that is too long. 'Pill,' 'Drug,' or 'Castor- 
 oil' would be short enough, and would further serve 
 to recall his early condition in life. "What do you 
 think about it?" 
 
 "'Pill' would not sound bad," answers Jeanne, 
 "but it would be very unkind to give him a name 
 which would be always reminding him of the misery 
 from which we saved him. It would be making him 
 pay too dearly for our hospitality. Let us be more 
 generous, and give him a pretty name, in hopes that 
 he is going to deserve it. See how he looks at us ! 
 He knows that we are talking about him. And now 
 that he is no longer unhappy, he is beginning to look 
 a great deal less stupid. I am not joking ! Unhappi- 
 ness does make people look stupid, I am perfectly 
 sure it does." 
 
 " Well, Jeanne, if you like, we will call your protege 
 Hannibal. The appropriateness of that name does not 
 seem to strike you at once. But the Angora cat who 
 preceded him here as an inmate of the City of Books,
 
 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 265 
 
 and to whom I was in the habit of telling all my 
 secrets for he was a very wise and discreet person 
 used to be called Hamilcar. It is natural that this 
 name should beget the other, and that Hannibal 
 should succeed Hamilcar. 
 
 We all agreed upon this point. 
 
 " Hannibal !" cried Jeanne, " come here !" 
 
 Hannibal, greatly frightened by the strange sonority 
 of his own name, ran to hide himself under a book-case 
 in an orifice so small that a rat could not have squeezed 
 himself into it. 
 
 A nice way of doing credit to so great a name ! 
 
 I was in a good humor for working that day, and I 
 had just dipped the nib of my pen into the ink-bottle 
 when I heard some one ring. Should any one ever 
 read these pages written by an unimaginative old 
 man, he will be sure to laugh at the way that bell 
 keeps ringing through my narrative, without ever an- 
 nouncing the arrival of a new personage or introduc- 
 ing any unexpected incident. On the stage things are 
 managed on the reverse principle. Monsieur Scribe 
 never has the curtain raised without good reason, and 
 for the greater enjoyment of ladies and young misses. 
 That is art ! I would rather hang myself than write 
 a play, not that I despise life, but because I should 
 never be able to invent anything amusing. Invent ! 
 In order to do that one must have received the gift of 
 inspiration. It would be a very unfortunate thing for
 
 266 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 me to possess such a gift. Suppose I were to invent 
 some monkling in my history of the Abbey of Saint- 
 Germain-des-Pres ! What would our young erudites 
 say ? "What a scandal for the School ! As for the 
 Institute, it would say nothing and probably not even 
 think about the matter either. Even if my colleagues 
 still write a little sometimes, they ne"ver read. They 
 are of the opinion of Parny, who said, 
 
 " Une paiaible indifference 
 Est la plus sage des verttis." * 
 
 To be the least wise in order to become the most 
 wise this is precisely what those Buddhists are aim- 
 ing at without knowing it. If there is any wiser wis- 
 dom than that I will go to Home to report upon it. ... 
 And all this because Monsieur Gelis happened to ring 
 the bell! 
 
 This young man has latterly changed his manner 
 completely with Jeanne. He is now quite as serious 
 as he used to be frivolous, and quite as silent as he 
 used to be chatty. And Jeanne follows his example. 
 We have reached the phase of passionate love under 
 constraint. For, old as I am, I cannot be deceived 
 about it : these two children are violently and sincerely 
 in love with each other. Jeanne now avoids him 
 she hides herself in her room when he comes into the 
 library but how well she knows how to reach him 
 when she is alone ! alone at her piano ! Every even- 
 
 * " The most wise of the virtues is a calm indifference."
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 267 
 
 ing she talks to him through the music she plays with 
 a rich thrill of passional feeling which is the new 
 utterance of her new soul. 
 
 "Well, why should I not confess it ? "Why should I 
 not avow my weakness? Surely my egotism would 
 not become any less blameworthy by keeping it hidden 
 from myself ? So I will write it. Yes ! I was hoping 
 for something else ; yes ! I thought I was going to 
 keep her all to myself, as my own child, as my own, 
 daughter not always, of course, not even perhaps for ^ 
 very long, but just for a few years more. I am so old ! 
 Could she not wait ? And, who knows ? "With the 
 help of the gout, I would not have imposed upon her 
 patience too much. That was my wish ; that was my 
 hope. I had made my plans I had not reckoned upon 
 the coming of this wild young man. But the mistake 
 is none the less cruel because my reckoning happened 
 to be wrong. And yet it seems to me that you are 
 condemning yourself very rashly, friend Sylvestre Bon- 
 nard : if you did want to keep this young girl a few 
 years longer, it was quite as much in her own interest 
 as in yours. She has a great deal to learn yet, and you 
 are not a master to be despised. When that miserable 
 notary Mouche who subsequently committed his ras- 
 calities at so opportune a moment paid you the honor 
 of a visit, you explained to him your ideas of education 
 with all the fervor of high enthusiasm. Then you at- 
 tempted to put that system of yours into practice ; 
 Jeanne is certainly an ungrateful girl, and Gelis a 
 much too seductive young man !
 
 268 THE CHIME OF SYL VESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 But still, unless I put him out of the house, which 
 would be a detestably ill-mannered and ill-natured 
 thing to do, I must continue to receive him. He has 
 been waiting ever so long in my little parlor, in front 
 of those Sevres vases with which King Louis Phi- 
 lippe so graciously presented me. The Moissonneurs 
 and the Pecheurs of Leopold Robert are painted upon 
 those porcelain vases, which Gelis nevertheless dares 
 to call frightfully ugly, with the warm approval of 
 Jeanne, whom he has absolutely bewitched. 
 
 " My dear lad, excuse me for having kept you wait- 
 ing so long. I had a little bit of work to finish." 
 
 I am telling the truth. Meditation is work, but of 
 course Gelis does not know what I mean ; he thinks 
 I am referring to something archaeological, and, his 
 question in regard to the health of Mademoiselle 
 Jeanne having been answered by a "Very well in- 
 deed," uttered in that extremely dry tone which re- 
 veals my moral authority as guardian, we begin to 
 converse about historical subjects. We first enter 
 upon generalities. Generalities are sometimes ex- 
 tremely serviceable. I try to inculcate into Monsieur 
 Gelis some respect for that generation of historians 
 to which I belong. I say to him, 
 
 " History, which was formerly an art, and which 
 afforded place for the fullest exercise of the imagina- 
 tion, has in our time become a science, the study of 
 which demands absolute exactness of knowledge." 
 
 Gelis asks leave to differ from me on this subject.
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 269 
 
 He tells me he does not believe that history is a sci- 
 ence, or that it could possibly ever become a science. 
 
 " In the first place," he says to me, " what is his- 
 tory? The written representation of past events. 
 But what is an event ? Is it merely a commonplace 
 fact ? Is it any fact ? No ! You say yourself it is a 
 noteworthy fact. Now, how is the historian to teD. 
 whether a fact is noteworthy or not ? He judges it 
 arbitrarily, according to his tastes and his caprices 
 and his ideas in short, like an artist ? For facts can- 
 not by reason of their own intrinsic character be 
 divided into historical facts and non-historical facts. 
 But any fact is something exceedingly complex. 
 Will the historian represent facts in all their com- 
 plexity ? No, that is impossible. Then he will rep- 
 resent them stripped of the greater part of the pe- 
 culiarities which constituted them, and consequently 
 lopped, mutilated, different from what they really 
 were. As for the inter-relation of facts, needless to 
 speak of it ! If a so-called historical fact be brought 
 into notice as is very possible by one or more facts 
 which are not historical at all, and are for that very 
 reason unknown, how is the historian going to estab- 
 lish the relation of these facts one to another ? And 
 in saying this, Monsieur Bonnard, I am supposing that 
 the historian has positive evidence before him, where- 
 as in reality he feels confidence only in such or such 
 a witness for sympathetic reasons. History is not a 
 science ; it is an art, and one can succeed in that art
 
 270 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 only through the exercise of his faculty of imagina- 
 tion." 
 
 Monsieur Gelis reminds me very much at this mo- 
 ment of a certain young fool whom I heard talking 
 wildly one day in the garden of the Luxembourg, 
 under the statue of Marguerite of Navarre. But at 
 another turn of the conversation we find ourselves 
 face to face with "Walter Scott, whose work my dis- 
 dainful young friend pleases to term " rococo, trou- 
 badourish, and only fit to inspire somebody engaged 
 in making designs for cheap bronze clocks." Those 
 are his very words ! 
 
 " Why !" I exclaim, zealous to defend the magnifi- 
 cent creator of " The Bride of Lammermoor," and " The 
 Fair Maid of Perth," " the whole past lives in those ad- 
 mirable novels of his ; that is history, that is epopee !" 
 
 " It is frippery," Gelis answers me. 
 
 And, will you believe it ? this crazy boy actually 
 tells me that no matter how learned one may be, one 
 cannot possibly know just how men used to live five 
 or ten centuries ago, because it is only with the very 
 greatest difficulty that one can picture them to one's 
 self even as they were only ten or fifteen years ago. 
 In his opinion, the historical poem, the historical novel, 
 the historical painting, are all, according to their kind, 
 abominably false as branches of art. 
 
 " In all the arts," he adds, " the artist can only re- 
 flect his own soul. His work, no matter how it may 
 be dressed up, is of necessity contemporary with him-
 
 THE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 271 
 
 self, being the reflection of his own mind. "What do 
 we admire in the ' Divine Comedy ' unless it be the 
 great soul of Dante? And the marbles of Michael 
 Angelo, what do they represent to us that is at all 
 extraordinary unless it be Michael Angelo himself? 
 The artist either communicates his own life to his cre- 
 ations, or else merely whittles out puppets and dresses 
 up dolls." 
 
 What a torrent of paradoxes and irreverences ! But 
 boldness in a young man is not displeasing to me. 
 Gelis gets up from his chair and sits down again. I 
 know perfectly well what is worrying him, and who 
 he is waiting for. And now he begins to talk to me 
 about his being able to make fifteen hundred francs a 
 year, to which he can add the revenue he derives from 
 a little property that he has inherited two thousand 
 francs a year or more. And I am not in the least de- 
 ceived as to the purpose of these confidences on his 
 part. I know perfectly well that he is only making 
 his little financial statements in order to persuade me 
 that he is comfortably circumstanced, steady, fond of 
 home, Comparatively independent or, to put the mat- 
 ter in the fewest words possible, able to marry. Quod 
 erat demonstrandum, as the geometricians say. 
 
 He has got up and sat down just twenty times. 
 He now rises for the twenty-first time ; and, as he has 
 not been able to see Jeanne, he goes away feeling as 
 unhappy as possible. 
 
 The moment he has gone, Jeanne comes into the.
 
 272 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 City of Books, under the pretext of looking for Han- 
 nibal. She is also quite unhappy ; and her voice be- 
 comes singularly plaintive as she calls her pet to give 
 him some milk. Look at that sad little face, JBonnard ! 
 Tyrant, gaze upon thy work ! Thou hast been able 
 to keep them from seeing each other ; but they have 
 now both of them the same expression of countenance, 
 and thou mayest discern from that similarity of ex- 
 pression that in spite of thee they are united in 
 thought. Cassandra, be happy! Bartholo, rejoice! 
 This is what it means to be a guardian ! Just see her 
 kneeling down there on the carpet with Hannibal's 
 head between her hands ! 
 
 Yes, caress the stupid animal ! pity him ! moan 
 over him ! we know very well, you little rogue, the 
 real cause of all those sighs and plaints ! Neverthe- 
 less, it makes a very pretty picture. I look at it for a 
 long time ; then, throwing a glance around my library, 
 I exclaim, 
 
 " Jeanne, I am tired of all those books ; we must 
 sell them." 
 
 September W. 
 
 IT is done ! they are betrothed. Gelis, who is an 
 orphan, as Jeanne is, did not make his proposal to 
 me in person. He got one of his professors, an old 
 colleague of mine, highly esteemed for his learning 
 and character, to come to me on his behalf. But 
 what a love messenger ! Great heavens ! A bear,
 
 TEE CRIME OF STLVESTRE BONNARD. 273 
 
 not a bear of the Pyrenees, but a literary bear, and 
 this latter variety of bear is much more ferocious than 
 the former. 
 
 " Right or wrong (in my opinion wrong !) Gelis says 
 that he does not want any dowry; he takes your 
 ward with nothing but her chemise. Say yes, and 
 the thing is settled ! Make haste about it ! I want 
 to show you two or three very curious old tokens from 
 Lorraine which I am sure you never saw before." 
 
 That is literally what he said to me. I answered 
 him that I would consult Jeanne, and I found no 
 small pleasure in telling him that my ward had a 
 dowry. 
 
 Her dowry there it is in front of me ! It is my 
 library. Henri and Jeanne have not even the faint- 
 est suspicion about it ; and the fact is I am commonly 
 believed to be much richer than I am. I have the 
 face of an old miser. It is certainly a lying face ; 
 but its untruthfulness has often won for me a great 
 deal of consideration. There is nobody so much re- 
 spected in this world as a stingy rich man. 
 
 I have consulted Jeanne, but what was the need of 
 listening for her answer ? It is done ! They are be- 
 trothed. 
 
 It would ill become my character as well as my face 
 to watch these young people any more for the mere 
 purpose of noting down their words and gestures. 
 Noli me tangere : that is the maxim for all charming 
 love affairs. I know my duty. It is to respect all 
 18
 
 274 THE CRIME OF 8YLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 the little secrets of that innocent soul intrusted to me. 
 Let these children love each other all they can! 
 Never a word of their fervent outpouring of mutual 
 confidences, never a hint of their artless self -betrayals, 
 will be set down in this diary by the old guardian 
 whose authority was so gentle and so brief. 
 
 At all events, I am not going to remain with my 
 arms folded ; and if they have their business to attend 
 to, I have mine also. I am preparing a catalogue of 
 my books, with a view to having them all sold at auc- 
 tion. It is a task which saddens and amuses me at 
 the same time. I linger over it, perhaps a good deal 
 longer than I ought to do ; turning the leaves of all 
 those works which have become so familiar to my 
 thought, to my touch, to my sight even out of all ne- 
 cessity and reason. But it is a farewell; and it has 
 ever been in the nature of man to prolong a farewell. 
 
 This ponderous volume here, which has served me 
 so much for thirty long years, how can I leave it with- 
 out according to it every kindness that a faithful ser- 
 vant deserves? And this one again, which has so 
 often consoled me by its wholesome doctrines, must 
 I not bow down before it for the last time, as to a 
 Master ? But each time that I meet with a volume 
 which ever led me into error, which ever afflicted me 
 with false dates, omissions, lies, and other plagues of 
 the archaeologist, I say to it with bitter joy : " Go ! 
 impostor, traitor, false- witness ! flee thou far away 
 from me forever; vade retro! all absurdly covered
 
 THE CRIME OF S7LVE8TRE BONNARD. 275 
 
 with gold as thou art ! and I pray it may befall thee 
 thanks to thy usurped reputation and thy comely mo- 
 rocco attire to take thy place in the cabinet of some 
 banker-bibliomaniac, whom thou wilt never be able 
 to seduce as thou hast seduced me, because he will 
 never read one single line of thee." 
 
 I laid aside some books I must always keep those 
 books which were given to me as souvenirs. As I 
 placed among them the manuscript of the "Golden 
 Legend," I could not but kiss it in memory of Ma- 
 dame Trepof, who remained grateful to me in spite of 
 her high position and all her wealth, and who became 
 my benefactress merely to prove to me that she felt 
 I had once done her a kindness. . . . Thus I had made 
 a reserve. It was then that, for the first time, 1 felt 
 myself inclined to commit a deliberate crime. All 
 through that night I was strongly tempted ; by morn- 
 ing the temptation had become irresistible. Every- 
 body else in the house was still asleep. I got out of 
 bed and stole softly from my room. 
 
 Ye powers of darkness ! ye phantoms of the night ! 
 if while lingering within my home after the crowing 
 of the cock, you saw me stealing about on tiptoe in 
 the City of Books, you certainly never cried out, as 
 Madame Trepof did at Naples, " That old man has a 
 good-natured round back !" I entered the library ; 
 Hannibal, with his tail perpendicularly erected, came to 
 rub himself against my legs and purr. I seized a vol- 
 ume from it? shelf, some venerable Gothic text or
 
 276 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 some noble poet of the Renaissance the jewel, the 
 treasure which I had been dreaming about all night, 
 I seized it and slipped it away into the very bottom 
 of the closet which I had reserved for those books I 
 intended to retain, and which soon became full almost 
 to bursting. It is horrible to relate : I was stealing 
 the dowry of Jeanne ! And when the crime had been 
 consummated I set myself again sturdily to the task 
 of cataloguing, until Jeanne came to consult me in 
 regard to something about a dress or a trousseau. I 
 could not possibly understand just what she was talk- 
 ing about, through my total ignorance of the current 
 vocabulary of dressmaking and linen-drapery. Ah ! 
 if a bride of the fourteenth century had come to talk 
 to me about the apparel of her epoch, then, indeed, I 
 should have been able to understand her language! 
 But Jeanne does not belong to my time, and I have 
 to send her to Madame de Gabry, who on this impor- 
 tant occasion will take the place of her mother. 
 
 . . . Night has come ! Leaning from the window, we 
 gaze at the vast sombre stretch of the city below us, 
 pierced with multitudinous points of light. Jeanne 
 presses her hand to her forehead as she leans upon 
 the window-bar, and seems a little sad. And I say 
 to myself as I watch her : All changes, even the most 
 longed for, have their melancholy ; for what we leave 
 behind us is a part of ourselves : we must die in one 
 life before we can enter into another ! 
 
 And as if answering my thought, the young girl 
 murmurs to me,
 
 THE CRIME OF 87LVESTRE BONNARD. 277 
 
 " My guardian, I am so happy ; and still I feel as if 
 I wanted to cry !" 
 
 THE LAST PAGE. 
 
 August 21, 1869. 
 
 PAGE eighty-seventh. . . . Only twenty lines more 
 and I will have finished my book about insects and 
 flowers. Page eighty-seventh and last. . . . " As we 
 have already seen, the visits of insects are of the utmost 
 importance to plants ; since their duty is to carry to 
 the pistils the pollen of the stamens. It seems also that 
 the flower itself is arranged and made attractive for the 
 purpose of inviting this nuptial visit. I think I have 
 been able to show that the nectary of the plant distils a 
 sugary liquid which attracts the insect and obliges it to 
 aid unconsciously in the work of direct or cross fertili- 
 zation. The last method of fertilization is the more 
 common. I have shown that flowers are colored and 
 perfumed so as to attract insects, and interiorly so con- 
 structed as to offer those visitors such a mode of access 
 that they cannot penetrate into the corolla without de- 
 positing upon the stigma the pollen with which they 
 have been covered. My most venerated master Sprengel 
 observes in regard to that flne down which lines the co- 
 rolla of the wood-geranium : ' The wise Author of Nat- 
 ure has never created a single useless hair /' / say m 
 my turn : If that Lil/y of the Valley whereof the Gos- 
 pel makes mention is more richly clad than King Sol-
 
 278 THE CRIME OF 8TLVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 omon in all his glory, its mantle of purple is a wedding- 
 garment, and that rich apparel is necessary to the 
 perpetuation of the species.* 
 
 " BEOLLES, August 21, 1869." 
 
 Brolles ! My house is the last one you pass in the 
 single street of the village, as you go to the woods. 
 It is a gabled house with a slate roof, which takes 
 iridescent tints in the sun like a pigeon's breast. The 
 weather-vane above that roof has won more consider- 
 ation for me among the country people than all my 
 works upon history and philology. There is not a 
 single child who does not know Monsieur Bonnard's 
 weather-vane. It is rusty, and squeaks very sharply 
 in the wind. Sometimes it refuses to do any work at 
 all just like Therese, who now allows herself to be 
 
 * Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard was not aware that several very 
 illustrious naturalists were making researches at the same time as 
 he in regard to the relation between insects and plants. He was 
 not acquainted with the labors of Darwin, with those of Dr. Her- 
 mann Miiller, nor with the observations of Sir John Lubbock. It 
 is worthy of note that the conclusions of Monsieur Sylvestre Bon- 
 nard are very nearly similar to those reached by the three scien- 
 tists above mentioned. Less important, but perhaps equally in- 
 teresting, is the fact that Sir John Lubbock is, like Monsieur 
 Bonnard, an archaeologist who began to devote himself only late 
 in life to the natural sciences. Note by the French Editor-
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 279 
 
 assisted by a young peasant girl though she grum- 
 bles a good deal about it. The house is not large, but 
 I am very comfortable in it. My room has two win- 
 dows, and gets the sun in the morning. The chil- 
 dren's room is up-stairs. Jeanne and Henri come 
 twice a year to occupy it. 
 
 Little Sylvestre's cradle used to be in it. He was 
 a very pretty child, but very pale. When he used to 
 play on the grass, his mother used to watch him very 
 anxiously ; and every little while she would stop her 
 sewing in order to take him upon her lap. The poor 
 little fellow never wanted to go to sleep. He used to 
 say that when he was asleep he would go away, very 
 far away, to some place where it was all dark, and 
 where he saw things that made him afraid things 
 he did not want to see any more. 
 
 Then his mother would call me, and I would sit 
 down beside his cradle. He would take one of 
 my fingers into his little dry warm hand, and say 
 to me, 
 
 " Godfather, you must tell me a story." 
 
 Then I would tell him all kinds of stories, which 
 he would listen to very seriously. They all interested 
 him, but there was one especially which filled his 
 little soul with delight. It was "The Blue Bird." 
 Whenever I finished that, he would say to me, " Tell 
 it again ! tell it again !" And I would tell it again 
 until his little pale blue-veined head sank back upon 
 the pillow in slumber.
 
 280 THE CRIME OF S7LVESTRE BONNARD. 
 
 The doctor used to answer all our questions by 
 saying, 
 
 "There is nothing extraordinary the matter with 
 him!" 
 
 No ! There was nothing extraordinary the matter 
 with little Sylvestre. One evening last year his father 
 called me. 
 
 " Come," he said, " the little one is still worse." 
 
 I approached the cradle over which the mother hung 
 motionless, as if tied down above it by all the powers 
 of her soul. 
 
 Little Sylvestre turned his eyes towards me : their 
 pupils had already rolled up beneath his eyelids, and 
 could not descend again. 
 
 " Godfather," he said, " you are not to tell me any 
 more stories." 
 
 No, I was not to tell him any more stories ! 
 
 Poor Jeanne ! poor mother ! 
 
 I am too old now to feel very deeply; but how 
 strangely painful a mystery is the death of a child ! 
 
 To-day, the father and mother have come to pass 
 six weeks under the old man's roof. I see them now 
 returning from the woods, walking arm in arm. Jeanne 
 is closely wrapped in her black shawl, and Henri wears 
 a crape about his straw hat; but they are both of 
 them radiant with youth, and they smile very sweetly 
 at each other. They smile at the earth which bears 
 them ; they smile at the air which bathes them ; they
 
 THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD. 281 
 
 smile at the light which each one sees in the eyes 
 of the other. From my window I wave my hand- 
 kerchief at them, and they smile at my old age. 
 
 Jeanne comes running lightly up the stairs ; she 
 kisses me, and then whispers in my ear something 
 which I divine rather than hear. And I make answer 
 to her: "May God's blessing be with you, Jeanne, 
 and with your husband, and with your children, 
 and with your children's children forever 1" ... Et 
 nunc di/mittis servum 1/u,um, Domine /" 
 
 THE BSD.
 
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