UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES OF I.Irs. Mabel Herbert MASTERPIECES OF FRENCH FICTION Grownefc b The Academic Francaise > ftnown as "THE IMMORTALS" A ROMANCE OF YOUTH By FRANCOIS COPPEE Crowned by the French Academy With a Preface by JOSE DE HEELEDIA, ( UJUfgUft * b X N - QFU.GANTI , [From the Original Etching by Robert Kaslor.] NEW YORK Current Literature Publishing Company 1908 I voUu'A A ROMANCE OF YOU By FRANCOIS COPPEE Crowned by the French Academy With a Preface by JOSE DE HEREDIA, of the French Academy, and Illus- trations by N. BRIGANTI NEW YORK Current Literature Publishing Company 1908 COPYRIGHT, 1905 BY ROBERT ARNOT pa 21 N FRANgOIS COPPEE 'RANfOIS EDOUARD JOACHIM COPPEE was born in Paris, Janu- ary 12, 1842. His father was a minor employe in the French War Office; and, as the family consisted of six the parents, three daughters, and a son (the subject of this essay) the early years of the poet were not spent in great luxury. After the father's death, the young man himself entered the governmental office with its monotonous work. In the evening he studied hard at St. Genevieve Library. He made rhymes, had them even printed (Le Reliquaire, 1866); but the public re- mained indifferent until 1869, when his comedy in verse, Le Passant, appeared. From this period dates the reputation of Coppee he woke up one morning a "celebrated man." Like many of his countrymen, he is a poet, a drama- tist, a novelist, and a writer of fiction. He was elected to the French Academy in 1884. Smooth-shaven, of placid figure, with pensive eyes, the hair brushed back regularly, the head of an artist, Copped can be seen any day looking over the display of the Parisian second- hand booksellers on the Quai Malaquais; at home on the writing-desk, a page of carefullv prepared manu- [v] PREFACE script, yet sometimes covered by cigarette-ashes; upon the wall, sketches by Jules Lefebvre and Jules Breton; a little in the distance, the gaunt form of his attentive sister and companion, Annette, occupied with house- hold cares, ever fearful of disturbing him. Within this tranquil domicile can be heard the noise of the Parisian faubourg with its thousand different dins; the bustle of the street; the clatter of a factory; the voice of the workshop; the cries of the pedlers intermingled with the chimes of the bells of a near-by convent a confus- ing buzzing noise, which the author, however, seems to enjoy; for Coppee is Parisian by birth, Parisian by education, a Parisian of the Parisians. If as a poet we contemplate him, Coppee belongs to the group commonly called "Parnassiens" not the Romantic School, the sentimental lyric effusion of La- martine, Hugo, or De Musset! When the poetical lute was laid aside by the triad of 1830, it was taken up by men of quite different stamp, of even opposed tenden- cies. Observation of exterior matters was now greatly adhered to in poetry; it became especially descriptive and scientific ; the aim of every poet was now to render most exactly, even minutely, the impressions received, or faithfully to translate into artistic language a thesis of philosophy, a discovery of science. With such a po- etical doctrine, you will easily understand the impor- tance which the "naturalistic form" henceforth as- sumed. Coppde, however, is not only a maker of verses, he is an artist and a poet. Every poem seems to have [vi] PREFACE sprung from a genuine inspiration. When he sings, it is because he has something to sing about, and the re- sult is that his poetry is nearly always interesting. Moreover, he respects the limits of his art; for while his friend and contemporary, M. Sully-Prudhomme, goes astray habitually into philosophical speculation, and his immortal senior, Victor Hugo, often declaims, if one may venture to say so, in a manner which is tedious, Coppee sticks rigorously to what may be called the proper regions of poetry. Francois Coppee is not one of those superb high- priests disdainful of the throng: he is the poet of the "humble," and in his work, Les Humbles, he paints with a sincere emotion his profound sympathy for the sorrows, the miseries, and the sacrifices of the meek. Again, in his Gr&ve des Forgerons, Le Naujrage, and L'Epave, all poems of great extension and universal reputation, he treats of simple existences, of unknown unfortunates, and of sacrifices which the daily papers do not record. The coloring and designing are pre- cise, even if the tone be somewhat sombre, and nobody will deny that Coppee most fully possesses the tech- nique of French poetry. But Francois Coppee is known to fame as a prose- writer, too. His Conies en prose and his Vingt Conies Nouveaux are gracefully and artistically told ; scarcely one of the conies fails to have a moral motive. The stories are short and naturally slight; some, indeed, incline rather to the essay than to the story, but each has that enthralling interest which justifies its existence. Coppee possesses preeminently the gift of presenting [vii] PREFACE concrete fact rather than abstraction. A sketch, for in- stance, is the first tale written by him, Une Idylle pen- dant le Siege (1875). In a novel we require strong char- acterization, great grasp of character, and the novelist should show us the human heart and intellect in full play and activity. In 1875 appeared also Olivier, fol- lowed by UEodlee (1876); Recits et Elegies (1878); Vingt Conies Nouveaux (1883) ; and Toute une Jeunesse (1840), mainly an autobiography, crowned by acclaim by the Academy. Le Coupable was published in 1897. Finally, in 1898, appeared La Bonne Souffrance. In the last-mentioned work it would seem that the poet, just recovering from a severe malady, has returned to the dogmas of the Catholic Church, wherefrom he, like so many of his contemporaries, had become estranged when a youth. The poems of 1902, Dans la Priere el dans la Lutte, tend to confirm the correctness of this view. Thanks to the juvenile Sarah Bernhardt, Coppee be- came, as before mentioned, like Byron, celebrated in one night. This happened through the performance of Le Passant. As interludes to the plays there are "occasional" theatrical pieces, written for the fiftieth anniversary of the performance of Hernani or the two - hundredth anniversary of the foundation of the "Comedie Fran- caise." This is a wide field, indeed, which M. Coppe"e has cultivated to various purposes. Take CoppeVs works in their sum and totality, and the world-decree is that he is an artist, and an admirable one. He plays upon his instrument with all power and [ viii 1 PREFACE grace. But he is no mere virtuoso. There is some- thing in him beyond the executant. Of Malibran, Al- fred de Musset says, most beautifully, that she had that "voice of the heart which alone has power to reach the heart." Here, also, behind the skilful player on lan- guage, the deft manipulator of rhyme and rhythm, the graceful and earnest writer, one feels the beating of a human heart. One feels that he is giving us personal impressions of life and its joys and sorrows; that his imagination is powerful because it is genuinely his own; that the flowers of his fancy spring spontaneously from the soil. Nor can I regard it as aught but an added grace that the strings of his instrument should vibrate so readily to what is beautiful and unselfish and del- icate in human feeling. de l'Acacally in the suburbs, v in these populous ill lie possessed a his beloved contracted some &K &? w i help a RESTITUTION Those in high places, though they smiled at him, esteemed him; and when he became penniless he got appointed to the curacy of the rich parish of Trinity, where, at least, there was no fear of his dying of hun- ger, as he was sure of having many invitations to din- ner. He did not object to this good fortune, but ran at once to thank the archbishop, and made arrange- ments to dine every week with a stock-broker, with an auctioneer whose wife was pious, and also with an actress who had had to leave the stage on account of her obesity and had turned to religion. The poor old Abbe* did not care much about the pleasures of the table, and was all the time inwardly regretting his old parishioners the ragpickers of the Butte aux Cailles, whom he used to go to visit at dusk, carrying a basket- ful of sugar, coffee, woollen stockings, knitted waist- coats, medicines, etc. and every morning on waking he tenderly contemplated, on the wall of his bedroom, a crucifix made of mussel-shells, a dear keepsake pre- sented by his ragpickers. The character of this humble priest was soon read by his vicar, a proud man of fifty years of age, with the high notions of a prelate or a great lord, who prided himself on the striking likeness he bore to the comedian Bressant. The Abbe" Moulin was a dull preacher, and was soon removed from the pulpit; consequently all the most disagreeable and worrying duties fell to his share catechism, funerals, and the very early and very late masses. His penitents were those disliked and discarded by his fellow-priests; and his evangelical patience was sorely tried by having to listen to the [253] FRANCOIS COPPEE secret complaints of maids against their mistresses, and of the mistresses against the maids. But he was one of those sincere Christians who take all their troubles to God. To speak thus kindly of a Catholic priest may cause the Freemasons who read this book to think me a priest-ridden creature. To them I frankly admit that I consider the Abbe Moulin a very weak-minded man, as he believed implicitly in the Immaculate Concep- tion and the infallibility of the Pope. Sitting dozing by the fire, the Abbe Moulin forgot for a while his open breviary, near the lamp, and, let- ting his thoughts wander toward his old parishioners, the ragpickers of Butte aux Cailles, who were so desti- tute and as numerous as rabbits, he recalled that last Christmas, when he was still among them, he had sold all his little stock so that he might be able to give the children a few presents of boots and linen; this year his purse was empty, and all brightness had gone from his life. At the last dinner given by the auctioneer's wife, when there were such splendid crawfish at table, and at the ex-actress's, where Leoville of '74 was the sole drink, and truffles were found in every dish, the good old priest had tried to make a charitable appeal in behalf of the little ragpickers; but he had done it clumsily. When, in order to create pity among his hearers, he deplored the number of girl-mothers in the poorer classes, they pursed up their lips; and when he spoke to the actress of the epidemic raging among the children of the districts of Mouffetard and Gentilly, she exclaimed, "How horrible!" and nearly fainted [254] RESTITUTION with disgust. After that the dinner lost all flavor. He could not help thinking how he should have liked to give one of the platefuls of pastry to the marine- store dealer's five little orphans who were living with their grandmother; and how much more poor little Celeste, who was slowly dying from anaemia at thirteen years of age, needed the Leoville of 1874 than the over- fed singer, who seemed in danger of bursting from ex- cess of good living. Then he thought of Alexandrine, the worker in imitation pearls, and of Josiah, the peat- maker, who were engaged to be married, and unless the Abbe Moulin, who had prepared them both for their first communion, got them a few hundred francs to begin housekeeping, it was quite likely that the loving pair would dispense with the ceremony of marriage. The old priest had got thus far in his melancholy musings when he was disturbed by a violent ringing at his door. Having no servant he made his own bed and got the doorkeeper to sweep his room now and then he went to open the door himself, and was confronted by a tall, powerful, jovial man wearing a cloak with a double cape, and a felt hat with a wide brim, who was remarkable chiefly for his determined look and long gray beard; the upper lip was close- shaven in American fashion. "Have I the honor of saluting the Reverend Abbe Moulin?" said the visitor, taking off his hat. "Yes, Monsieur," replied the priest. "I am Adam Harrison, of Chicago, a dealer in salt pork, and I wish to have a short interview with you. Don't be afraid of my long beard and informal appeaf- [255] FRANCOIS COPPtiE ance," he added, to reassure the cure", who was a little surprised by this unexpected visit. "The little ser- vice I ask of you, you will, I hope, render very readily, and in return I shall not forget your poor." By these words the unknown man at once obtained the good graces of the priest, who hastened to conduct him to his sitting-room, and gave him a chair near the fire. "Let us sit down, Monsieur," said he, with a smile; "and kindly let me know in what way I can be useful to you." The so-called American sat down, threw his hat on the carpet, unbuttoned his ulster, crossed his legs he wore heavy, double-soled boots and after stroking his beard said abruptly: "Do you really take me for a Yankee?" Suddenly the Abbe* noticed that the stranger had no foreign accent. "Well " said the priest, feeling embarrassed. "Well," replied the stranger, "the fact is that, al- though I sell salt pork and live in Chicago, I have just arrived by the express direct from Havre. My name is not Adam Harrison. I will reveal all to you. I am Renaudel, the ex-banker of the Faubourg Saint Hon- or^, who, in 1886, ran away with the cash-box, and was condemned to twenty years of hard labor for forgery and breach of trust." Amazed, and with some feeling of repugnance, the good priest moved a little away from him. "You never have seen me before, reverend father," said the stranger, "but you were aware of my existence, as you used to be my wife's confessor. Had she lived, I should have remained an honest man. I had been a [256] RESTITUTION widower three years when I disgraced myself. No doubt you have heard of my crime and of my con- demnation?" The priest nodded affirmatively. "I also knew you, although I never had seen you. My poor Julia had often spoken to me of her friend the Abbe Moulin, the ragpickers' priest. So, feeling that you are incapable of betraying me, I come to you in all confidence. Have I done wrong?" On putting this question the pretended American, who looked more like a tramp, ready to use a knife or a revolver, than a banker, fixed his steely gray eyes steadfastly on the priest. The Abbe did not seem at all flattered at the confi- dence reposed in him by such a person, and hardly knew what to reply. "Assuredly," he murmured, "you need not fear me. My holy office, my priestly character, make unbounded charity a duty. But what can I do for you?" Renaudel smiled at the uneasiness of the simple priest. "Now, Monsieur 1'Abbe, admit that this visit is anything but a pleasure to you, and that you look upon me as an impudent rascal?" "You may smile, Monsieur," replied the priest, a little warmly, notwithstanding his natural timidity, "but why should I not remember that you were guilty of a very great crime, and that you did a great deal of harm?" "And if I have come to repair it?" exclaimed the ex-banker, drawing a pocketbook from an inside i? [ 2 57] FRANCOIS COPP^E pocket, and placing it on the table near the Abbe's breviary. "In this pocketbook," continued Renaudel, in a firm tone, "are four drafts on some of the safest and most honorable houses in Paris, for the amount of two million, two hundred and eighty-three thou- sand, one hundred and fifty-three francs I spare you the centimes. This capital, which includes the interest, will pay exactly those whom I have wronged. There is sufficient to satisfy my four largest creditors. With the smaller ones I have already managed to settle, for it seemed to me that the poorer people had the first claim they were most to be pitied. I'll tell you now what I wish you to do. You are to take this pocket- book. I'll give you a list of my creditors, with their addresses which I found out in Chicago through a private inquiry office. You are to leave me alone here poking your fire, and, if you permit it, smoking some cigars. No one will think of coming here to arrest an escaped forger. You will enter the carriage at the door the cabman has already had in advance a louis as a tip. Then go and call upon the four persons (your dress permits you to go anywhere), hand them the drafts, without saying I am in Paris, or how you got them, wait for the receipts they are in the port- folio, lacking only signature then come back with them to me. I shall go by the same carriage to the station of Saint-Lazare, where I can take the midnight ex- press for Havre. To-morrow morning the steamer La Normandie will leave at half-past nine, conveying your humble servant back to the New World! And you will have a thousand francs for your poor." [258] RESTITUTION The Abbe* Moulin was thunderstruck. We know that he was not very strong-minded, and the events now taking place would turn a stronger brain than his. So many startling events taking place in so short a time ! There were a thief and himself, sitting together by his fireside, and talking like two old friends! And this thief had come especially to Paris to refund mil- lions of francs that he owed; and was offering him a thousand francs for his poor! This thousand francs would give a midnight Christ- mas supper to the ragpickers of the Butte aux Cailles; it would clothe the five orphans of the Rue Croule- barbe allowing twenty francs for each of them; he could also get the cod-liver oil and quinine wine for little Celeste; and, better than all, the marriage of the peat-man and the worker in imitation pearls could now be celebrated. It was all too good to be true ! It was like a fairy-tale! The old priest thought he must be dreaming. But, no! it was quite- real! There was the man with the long beard in his sitting-room, ask- ing him once more: "Does that arrangement suit you?" "Can you ask me such a question?" exclaimed the priest. "Of course I am ready to help you to make amends for the misfortunes you have caused, and to restore their fortunes to the people you have ruined! And this act of charity so generous on your part! So admirable I am ready." Suddenly a scruple stopped the good priest: How had this stranger come to possess all this money? Dishonestly, no doubt! It was stained with blood, perhaps! Who knew [259] FRANCOIS COPPtfE whether this ex-banker, with his ruffian's face, had not, dagger in hand and followed by a band of red-skinned savages, adorned with eagles' feathers, and with rings in their noses, robbed the travellers on the transconti- nental train? "But, pardon me, would you permit me to ask you an almost impertinent question?" stammered the Abbe Moulin. "These two millions how did you get them?" "Very honestly," replied Renaudel, without hesita- tion. "In the American fashion by dint of work, audacity, and will. I have acquired these two mil- lions, and some reserve funds I possess yonder for my business, by dealings in salt pork. I said just now that I ran away with the cash-box; I made a mistake, I only bolted when the coffers were quite empty. How did I stoop to all this ? Fancy a man adoring his wife, and losing her. He tries to drown grief, and falls into vice. You can imagine all the foolish expenses. Oh, what sums I spent on that delightful little actress of the Comedie Francaise who used to say so innocently, 'The little cat is dead,' in the School for Wives! You yourself would have believed in her. And then, when one has made away with his clients' money, there is the exchange, where it is double or quits. I lost but we won't talk of that ! The day I landed in New York with my little boy, eight years of age (my wife had died at his birth), I had only twenty francs in my pocket. I assure you it was not by robbery I began to rebuild my fortunes. My money is stainless. I see, however, some doubt in your eyes. Speak openly to me." [260] RESTITUTION "Well," said the Abbe, "pardon me if I offend you, but you do not seem to me to be repentant. I can not make out how you have decided upon the restitution of the money." "You don't offend me," replied Renaudel. "Last year I did not think of paying back my creditors. I was living under the name of Harrison telling every- one I was an Englishman brought up in Marseilles. I had done with old Europe the cable was cut my skin was changed! Fortune smiled on me. I soon possessed a very big capital. I said to myself: 'All is well! Renaudel is dead! Long live Harrison!' No, I was not a repentant sinner; so quickly, indeed, do we forget the past. I regret to make this confession, but I no longer believe in God or in the devil. If hon- esty has been awakened in me, it is owing to the Christ- mas festival." The old priest was amazed. "Those feasts have a great importance in English- speaking countries; and at the midnight festivities of last year, the wife of a Chicago merchant, with whom I do a great deal of business, had prepared an enter- tainment for the children. I took my little Victor there, for, you must know, Monsieur 1'Abbe, though all my other good sentiments have vanished, paternal love has remained. "I adore my son. He reminds me of my poor Julia and of my happy time. He is eight years of age and I take great care of him. I took him to this party and he helped, with the other boys, to strip the fir tree loaded with sweets and toys. I looked on, sipping my [261] FRANCOIS COPPEE tea, feeling happy in his mirth. Although I am with- out religion, I could not help reflecting on the delights of Christian society procured by this feast this chil- dren's feast in which the happiness of the young seemed to communicate innocence to the men of ripe age, or to old men who have more or less lost it. For the first time after many years since I began my feverish ex- istence of a gambler and a rake, or my new life of very hard work I felt something sweet and yet bitter soft- ening my heart. "At this moment, my boy, my little Toto, tired of playing and laughing, came and sat on my knee and settled himself to sleep. I had prepared a fine sur- prise for him for the next morning. I said: 'Dear boy, don't forget, before going to bed, to put your shoes in the chimney.' He opened his eyes languidly, saying, 'Oh, no fear! Do you know, papa, what I should like Christmas to bring me? A box of leaden soldiers! You know, soldiers in red trousers, as I used to see them alive in the garden, where my nurse used to take me when I was very little you remember the big garden opposite the street, with the arcades, with statues and trees in green cases do you recollect ? When I wore petticoats like a little girl, and my name was Toto Renaudel.' He fell asleep after that word. I was startled, and a sudden shiver passed through me. Thus Victor, hardly four years of age at the time of our flight, remembered his childhood; he recollected the name I had dishonored. Ah! Abbe Moulin, I spent that night in meditation in watching by his bed. I then said to myself that I, the unpunished [262] RESTITUTION criminal, was enjoying a happiness of which I was not worthy, and that one day, no doubt, retribution would reach me through this child. I reflected that, as Vic- tor had not forgotten his true name, the slightest chance would suffice to inform him that it was the name of an unpunished robber. The thought that my son would have to blush for my crimes that he would abhor me was an intolerable burden: then I swore to myself that I would return all that I had stolen, with com- pound interest, and get receipts. Victor may be told one day that his father was a thief. I shall then be able to answer: 'Yes, but I have restored all the money.' I may then be pardoned. I resolved to sell all that I possessed. Alas! the total was still very far from the amount of my debt. During the last year I have worked very hard, and to-day I can pay every- body. I have still in reserve a few thousand dollars. Yes, my dear son, I shall build up another fortune for you!" The Abbe* Moulin kept his eyes fixed on Renaudel, who had become affected and excited, and, strange to say, at the end of his recital, two big tears trickled down on his beard. Another priest would have seized this occasion to give him a little sermon, but the Abbe Moulin who, we know, was not an eagle, and was fully conscious of his deficiency as an orator, acted with all the tact of a delicate heart. He got up and extended his hand to Renaudel. "I am ready to start," said the good priest; "kindly give me your last instruc- tions; I must inform you, however, that I must be in Trinity Church for the midnight mass." [263] FRANCOIS "That is the very time for my train," replied Ren- audel, who gave the priest a hearty hand-clasp. "The Havre express starts at twelve. I don't want to miss it, for I dislike the air of Paris. I have only come to find a trustworthy confidant. I have found it in you. Thanks, Abbe Moulin, pray bring me back the re- ceipts. The sum is more than two million francs: it is dinner-time; every one is sure to be at home, so you can arrange matters easily. " Here is the list," he added, " four visits to pay : Louis Duble, a writer, Rue des Abbesses a draft of two hun- dred and fifty-one thousand, three hundred and ninety francs. At the time of my flight he was a young man, with long hair and neglected nails; I have heard he has had some successes. If he has kept to his old habits, the literary cafes of Paris will derive some benefit from him. Mademoiselle Letourneur; lives in Rue du Cardi- nal Lemoine. By Jove, that's a good distance. She keeps a small day school, and is an imaginary invalid a draft for three hundred and sixty-five thousand, four hundred and forty-nine francs. I suppose she will buy some more boxes of pills and change her mineral waters. Henri Burtal, architect, Rue de Rennes. He was a fine young man too fond of women a draft for five hundred and sixty-seven thousand, eight hun- dred and ninety-nine francs married since I left. It will do later for the dowry of his daughters. Now, the last, my most sorely tried victim, the Marquis de Cap- decamp, member of the Jockey Club, Boulevard Malesherbes. He had ancestors at Agincourt, Pavia, Malplaquet, Rosbach. His family have contributed [264] RESTITUTION many soldiers to lost battles; he was a good horseman, but a true blase; he squandered a large fortune five years ago married also my theft made him, so I was told, regild his escutcheon with the dowry of Mademoiselle Murdock, daughter of a doubtful finan- cier. I'm sure he will be agreeably surprised by this draft of a million, seven hundred and eight thousand, four hundred and twenty-one francs. "Kindly tell these people I don't wish to remain in Paris to be acquitted by a jury. Tell them, if you like, that Renaudel has changed his name and lives abroad. Ask the receipts from them that I may, when required, show them to my son Victor. It is already half-past five. Once again, I thank you." Renaudel rose, took the lamp, led the Abbe Moulin into the ante-chamber, helped him to put on his warm topcoat, and wished him good luck. He sat down by the fire, lighted a large cigar, and purled like a steamer under full headway. [265] CHAPTER II THE DWELLING OF A POET [iTHOUT, the fog had become very thick and icy, and it had an abomi- nable odor of soot. Thanks to the light of the lantern in the carriage, the Abbe* was able to decipher the addresses, and he gave the first on the list to the coachman. As soon as the door was closed, the man whipped up his horse, which was smoking like the vapor from sulphurous soil, and away they went. The old priest, shivering in the draughts in spite of the closed windows, did not mind the odor of rotten straw, stale tobacco, and damp cloth. He felt too happy, with this precious pocketbook pressed tight to his breast. His mission was sweet. He was about to give happiness and comfort to others. It is but a short distance from the Rue de Clichy to Montmartre; there was a glimpse of the wings of the Moulin Rouge concert-room, then the cab dashed through the thick fog, went slowly up the Rue Lepic, and stopped in the Rue des Abbesses. "Monsieur Louis Duble?" demanded the Abbe, opening the door of the concierge, from which escaped the perfume of a ragout such as the Baron de Roths- child never had tasted. [266] RESTITUTION "On the fifth floor, door opposite to you," answered a sort of Macbeth witch, wearing a linen cap, and a beard like a chasseur of Vincennes. She was leaning over a large kettle in which simmered an Irish stew, a dish which concierges alone know how to cook, and which the habitues of the Caf Anglais would find very palatable indeed. The poor appearance of the door- keeper, the disorder of her room, and the wretched light along the stairs pleased the old priest amazingly. No doubt it was to a poor poet he was bringing the money. On the fifth floor, bravo ! He had but vague classical recollections of the life of men of letters. He felt sure of seeing a garret like Malfilatre's, where he should find Louis Duble lying upon a straw bed, with- out fire, and armed with paper and pencil; his dis- hevelled hair, shirt open at the breast, and eyes rolling like those of an epileptic showing how deep was his inspiration. Abbe Moulin's guide upon this point was some engraved portraits of the eighteenth century, which he had hastily looked at in some of the windows of the Quai Malaquais. Who knows that he did not imagine an odor of carbonic acid on the landing, and hasten his steps to be in time to break open the door, and save the poet from despair and asphyxia ? At any rate, notwithstanding his asthma, he went up the stairs briskly. But the fifth landing was not the last, and he felt annoyed at finding a rather respectable-looking place. He rang the bell. The door was opened by an ele- gantly dressed young man Louis Duble* himself. He was in evening dress, with a white cravat, for he was [267] FRANCOIS COPPtiE going to attend the first performance of a play, and dine early at a restaurant. As soon as the priest gave his name, Louis Duble introduced him into a large room, formerly a painter's studio, prettily and simply furnished; the walls were covered with books, a lamp threw a light over a quantity of paper scattered upon a large table, and a bright wood fire gave a pleasant, warm atmosphere to the room; everything gave evi- dence of long hours of calm and careful study. The Abbe Moulin, more and more astonished, gave up thinking of the misery of Gilbert and Chatterton. "To what am I indebted for the honor of this visit?" asked Louis Duble, sitting in a large mediaeval arm- chair, looking like the president of a club where cheat- ing is going on. Every man, even the best and simplest, is at heart something of an actor. "After all," said the priest to himself, "I am bring- ing this so-called poet, who is not poor and receives me with such icy politeness, more than a quarter of a million of francs." And a little unconsciously the worthy pastor tried to produce some kind of dramatic effect. He took from his cassock a snuff-box, a string of beads, a few pence, his spectacle-case, and the famous pocketbook; he took from the latter the draft made payable to Louis Duble, and handed it to him. "The cause of my visit, Monsieur," said he, with a sweet smile, "is simply to give you this, and to get your receipt, of course." "What! Can it be possible!" exclaimed the poet. [268] RESTITUTION "Two hundred and fifty-one thousand, three hundred and ninety francs in one draft, on the Credit Foncier and in my name! What does it mean? Are you playing a trick on me?" "Not at all," said the priest, "it simply means that Monsieur Renaudel "My old banker! That infamous robber!" "Has become remorseful, Monsieur, and wishes to reimburse to his creditors all that he took from them, with compound interest." "What! This enormous sum! All my fortune and even more "Is restored by Renaudel, whose only thought is to set his conscience at rest; and who has forbidden me to say anything more about him." "Why! we must be in a land of dreams. This ras- cal has then become an honest man?" Louis Duble laughed nervously. "He is a debtor who pays his debts, Monsieur, that is all," said the priest, earnestly. He felt annoyed at the remarks of this young man over-dressed, like a diplomatic clerk of the Quai d'Orsay. It was too much for the good priest, after his thoughts on the staircase. No garret. No broken pitcher. No trestle bed. No dog licking the hand of a dying poet. Instead, this Louis Duble, with a con- tented smile, saying: "This has not made my heart quicken by a single beat, but I am very pleased." At last, noticing the dissatisfied air of his visitor, he continued : "You are surprised, Monsieur, that I don't show [269] FRANCOIS COPPtfE more delight. You would like to be able to tell Re- naudel that you had seen me go almost mad with joy. I should be acting a falsehood were I to cover this paper with kisses, for my pleasure is mixed with per- plexity. Thanks to this money, I shall be more free; I shall no longer be compelled to write two articles a week, to insure my existence. I can begin to write a modern drama, the subject of which is haunting me. But I must be prudent lest I resume my old habits of lounging and of dreaming. Now, Abbe Moulin, you appear to be an excellent man. This action of Re- naudel's has touched you deeply, so I'll give you the means of rejoicing the heart of your penitent by telling him that he rendered me a great service when he left me as poor as Job." "A service!" said the priest, astonished. "Yes. When I was rich I was idle and unknown; when I became poor I had to work. If you can kindly wait a few minutes while I tell my story, you will be able to tell this honest swindler when you go back that he is perhaps doing me a great injury by returning this money." "I am in haste," replied the priest, "but I feel a little inquisitive." "You need not be uneasy. My story is soon told. Imagine a silly, conceited young man, worshipping poetry and mad about literature, falling into his fort- une before he was twenty years of age, then you can guess the rest. "I went into raptures about everything. What taste I had! I took the last novels of Chivalry quite [270] RESTITUTION seriously, and had great veneration for writers of light plays. Each day I began a great work a drama never getting beyond the description of the scenery for the first act 'stage to represent a forest; on the left a tree,' etc. Delightful state of mind, after all! I happened to meet a friend who was two years older than I. He used to shave to resemble Baudelaire. I was quite dazzled by him. He took me round to two cafes, one in the Latin Quarter, the other on Mont- martre, and I thought I saw in him the future king of Paris and of the intellectual world. I followed his guidance blindly, and paid him my respects with drinks. In return he taught me to look upon almost everything with contempt. I supplied the money to found a re- view; we were not to write for the general public, our readers were to consist of twenty-five persons. Ac- cording to my mentor, any one who obtained the least success in literature was a Philistine a mediocrity. But I am afraid I am speaking Chinese to you, Mon- sieur 1'AbbeV' "No! no! I think I understand. Go on," said the Abbe", who began to think better of the young man. "Well, as I was rich, I became the Maecenas of the party. The chief of our school got me to publish a fortnightly periodical to defend our ideas. We called it Instantana. The frontispiece represented a young person, with black stockings, on horseback upon a photographic apparatus. "Those persons conducting the paper met every evening in a bar in the Rue Cujas, where I presided as Laurent the Magnificent of Bohemia; and where I [271] FRANCOIS had every month to pay a bill for the Loevenbrau beer, sauerkraut, ham, pickled herrings, etc. "Two classes of writers contributed to the Instan- tana; the prose writers, who, after Stendhal's fashion, examined every morning the state of their souls, with the peevishness of a dyspeptic looking at his tongue in the glass; then came the poets the 'allegorists,' rhym- ing shockingly; one of them, a Chilian, wished that every word should give a physical sensation. No one's reputation was safe from the Instantana; even the future fame of the poets of the cafe opposite was jeoparded by our criticisms. "We called Victor Hugo 'that poor Hugo' and granted that Bossuet had the gift of style. Racine we took under our special protection, no one well knew why. "This was all very disgraceful, but I thought every- thing admirable. I paid for my admiration, too, both in pocket and in health. I supplied all the funds and went to bed at two o'clock in the morning, heavy with beer and aesthetics. I only published some short poems in my journal, of which I am sure my dear collabora- tors made fun behind my back. The Instantana ap- peared for three years, and all I gained from it was a duel two shots without any result. A lawsuit was beginning against me when Renaudel fled to America with the remnants of my fortune, which would other- wise have been converted into useless paper and sauer- kraut ham." "And nothing was left, my child?" said the Abbe" Moulin. [272] RESTITUTION "No, I was ruined, cleaned out completely, and, worse than all, I had idle and expensive habits. I lived for some months by selling my books, my furniture, and my clothes. Things were coming to the worst, when I met one of my old comrades who saved me. He was writing witty articles for a high-class paper. We had called him a traitor in the Instantana; he ob- tained me a berth hi the office of the journal as general reporter. "I had to live, and when relating my stories about rabid dogs, or the old lady who met with an accident at the corner of the Rue Montmartre, I had no time to ask myself, like the Chilian with the gong-voice, whether my words were redolent of a rose or of a gas leakage, or produced the sensation of the touch of an Angora cat. I wrote my chapter of accidents in my best style, so as to get ten francs for it. "Indeed, it is fops alone who maintain that journal- ism spoils the style. Oh, how hard I found the life at first! What hurry! What feverish agitation! I had to leave a charity ball to run to the Place de la Roquette to see an execution; and after a provincial tour with the president, I had to take sausages and small wine with the Anarchists. It was life in all its phases; and I entered into it thoroughly, and in time grew to love it. By degrees I acquired a certain amount of popu- larity, and while writing my reports under a pseu- donym, contributed original tales and sketches in my real name. Let me confess it! When writing the lat- ter I thought more of pleasing my readers than any- thing else. The stupid writers of the Instantana were 18 [273] on the wrong track; one should work to please the people. Theophile Gautier was right in saying that one need not be an imbecile to succeed as a writer. There were some people, my dear Abbe", who liked to read my articles! "About six weeks after publishing my first novel, I found that a good many people were envious of me. I was torn to pieces in the cafes when my back was turned a very good sign. I am waiting anxiously for the day when I shall see it stated that I cheat at cards or that I belong to the police, for then I may be sure that my success is assured. Glory, you know, may end by laurels, but usually begins with baked apples. My book is not without faults. It is written to please com- monplace people; but I shall do better later. "If in five years I have exchanged idleness for in- dustry, vanity for common-sense ; if I have got at some of those luscious grapes that others, less lucky, call 'sour,' I owe it, dear Monsieur, to the loss of my fort- une. You may tell that poor devil of a swindler, Renaudel, that I am indebted to him for my career!" The old priest, by this time, felt very cordial toward the young poet, and though a little bewildered by his eloquence, would willingly have remained listening much longer had he not thought of the visits he must still pay. "I shall relate all faithfully to Renaudel, Monsieur. But, as I have told you already, I am pressed for time. Would you kindly sign this receipt?" M. Duble signed ; then, taking in his hand the draft, said in a low voice: "I bid you welcome, heavy bag. [274] RESTITUTION But mind you, not to interfere with my work for the future. Last night I refused to attend the midnight revels of my friend Thurel, the dramatic writer, though I knew that pretty Margotte, the little blonde of the Variete's, was to be there. Money! money! I fear you will give me bad advice." The priest, a little weary of this monologue, pre- pared to go. " Pardon, Monsieur," said the poet, "Christmas, through your hands, brings me this pretty present. I can not get cash for it to-night; but I have the five hundred francs from my novel. Here they are for you! You know a few poor children." "Thank you, Monsieur," replied the Abb Moulin. "I shall give it to my five orphans of the Rue Croule- barbe." "Don't forget the old people, either," said the poet. "Yesterday I met the song- writer, Chulieux, sixty- eight years of age, going through the mud to a small place where he was to dine with some workmen and pay for his dinner with a song. He is out of fashion, but he has had at times a spark of genius in Pierre Dupont's style. He is very ill; I intend to send him to the south of France." The priest smiled, deeply touched. Louis Duble* added, gayly, "You see, we men of let- ters have also our old ragpickers;" then smilingly ac- companied the worthy priest to the door. [275] CHAPTER III THE SCHOOL FOR DEMOISELLES Abbe Moulin then went to the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine, thinking that, after all, money can not give talent or fame, though it may prevent you from achieving it. And who knows but that, in restoring his fort- une to the poet, Renaudel may not have deprived French literature of a masterpiece? Yet, what about the commandment, "Thou shalt not steal"? There are so few persons willing to make reparation for the wrong they have done that it would not do to discourage them. As the horse was fresh the priest was not very long in reaching his destination. It was seven o'clock when he arrived. As the fog had lifted a little, he was able to read the words, "School for Demoiselles, kept by Mademoiselle Latournure," written in yellow letters upon a black board over the gate. He got out, rang the bell, and was reverently re- ceived by a maidservant. "Mademoiselle is about to dine," she said, "but it does not matter. Come in, Monsieur." The priest crossed a little garden and the servant [276] RESTITUTION opened a door, whence he heard the joyful voices of children. He beheld a pleasant sight: a humble classroom, with yellow-painted walls, ornamented by tables of weights and measures and maps of France, Europe, etc.; in a corner were some desks, and in the centre of the room a middle-aged lady and ten little girls were seated round a table covered with glasses and plates and lighted by two large petroleum lamps. In the time of General Cavaignac, the old lady must have been a sprightly brunette. She still preserved her black eyes, full of vivacity, and her rosy com- plexion, but her hair was like white spun silk; her sweet, agreeable smile revealed a fund of good humor and good health. As the priest came in, the elderly lady was in the act of carving a roast turkey, which sent out an appe- tizing odor of chestnut-sauce and sausage-meat. It was a treat to hear the joyous cries of the children. One could plainly see that it was not every day they got roast turkey with chestnuts. They looked like lit- tle ogresses smelling fresh meat. They were not, how- ever, workingmen's daughters. No; they belonged to those struggling people who try to hide their poverty and be genteel. They sent their children to Mademoi- selle Latournure, and paid her because she had a high- class diploma. And each mother, though only the wife of a modest employe or small shopkeeper, had decorated her little girl with a knot of ribbon and freshly ironed frills, so that she might look nice at "Mademoiselle's" dinner. [277] FRANCOIS COPP^E This turkey with chestnuts was a rare treat indeed! Very different from the plain, scanty meals of every- day life. Yet it was not, alas! a very large one; it did not cost more than seven or eight francs in the market, and looked quite small compared with those garnished with truffles exhibited in Chevet's window. The Abbe* Moulin had surely seen much larger ones at the pious woman's dinners, but I doubt if he ever had witnessed such wonderful appetites! He was greatly surprised at the joyful appearance of the elderly lady, for Renaudel had spoken of her as a melancholy person, in bad health. "Mademoiselle Latournure?" doubtfully asked the old priest. "Yes, Monsieur," the lady replied, gracefully. " I am sorry to interrupt your dinner, Mademoiselle, but I bring you some important and very agreeable news. May I have a word with you in private?" "With pleasure," she said, rather nervously. "Cle- mence" to the servant "show the Abbe Moulin into the parlor. I will follow you immediately, Monsieur." Laying down her knife, Mademoiselle Latournure looked round at the children, saying, "You must wait for me a little, dear children, and I hope you will be good." "Oh, yes, Mademoiselle!" came the chorus of the children. It was like a chorus of an old tragedy, one of lamentations. This beautiful turkey, smoking hot, to be left to turn cold ! Ah! the naughty priest ! The priest regretted this quite as much as the chil- dren, as he followed the maid into the parlor, a very [278] RESTITUTION small room, with a writing-table, six chairs, and an old print representing the heads of some French kings. The old priest was a poor diplomatist priests are not allowed to go to theatres, and he had not seen the play, Joy Frightens. He spoke too quickly of Re- naudel, and showed too abruptly the paper, with the dazzling figures. "Three hundred and sixty-five thou- sand, four hundred and forty-three francs." A great change came over the face of the school- mistress. She seemed as if she would have a stroke of apoplexy, but luckily she burst into tears, and inco- herent words followed. She thanked the priest heart- ily, calling upon the Virgin and all the saints to pour all the blessings of heaven upon that scamp no ! upon that good Renaudel. She announced her intention of sending Clemence at once to the pawnbroker's to release the silver ladle, the six silver covers, the sugar- tongs, the coffee-spoons, and the fish-slice, which were well-nigh forfeited. A shrill cry, followed by tears, from the next apart- ment, suddenly interrupted the interview. "Oh!" said Mademoiselle Latournure, as she hastily got up, "it is Ernestine crying for the turkey she is not yet five I must not forget the poor children. Will you come, reverend sir? We can converse just as freely before the children." You may be sure she was warmly welcomed by the children. Ernestine left off crying at once. "Hand a chair to the Abbe Moulin, Clemence," she said. "Perhaps you would kindly share our dinner [279] FRANCOIS COPP^E with us, Monsieur ? We should look upon it as a great honor." The priest would gladly have accepted the invita- tion, as he was hungry, but he remembered that he had still two visits before him; so he took only a little wine and a biscuit. The fowl was divided in tiny pieces, so that every- body had some; the children began to eat heartily; the greedy Ernestine had the rump for her share. "You see, Monsieur," said the schoolmistress, en- chanted, "I am not rich, or rather five minutes ago I was not rich. My school hardly procures me a living, but every year on Christmas Eve I eat a turkey with chestnuts with some of my pupils whose parents can't afford the midnight luxury; it is my only 'extra' in the year. Is it not a pleasant sight, dear Monsieur?" She spoke sternly to one of the children : "Marie Duval, eat more decently; you, a big girl, nine years old, are you not ashamed to lick your fin- gers? Clemence, you need henceforth have no more words with the coal-dealer and the milk-woman; they will be paid on delivery. Yes, I am possessed again of my property, but I shall retain my school, if only for the children's dinner. I shall, however, have this treat at all the festivals of the Church, and the fowl will be an enormous one you hear, children!" Three of the largest girls answered, "Yes, Made- moiselle." The promises of the teacher passed almost unheeded, for future events offer but little interest to children, and the girls' attention was absorbed by the turkey. [280] RESTITUTION "Mademoiselle," said M. Moulin, "kindly excuse me for expressing my astonishment. I find you in good health and very cheerful, enjoying a pure pleasure which is also an act of kindness, and I shall confess it to you, Renaudel has spoken to me of you " "As an egotistical person," exclaimed Mademoiselle Latournure, with a charming laugh, which made her look years younger. "Well, Renaudel told you the truth." "How is this?" said the priest. "Yes, a very stupid old maid, always complaining. I was so when Renaudel knew me. Tell this good robber that in ruining my fortune he has restored me to health and cheerfulness." At this moment Clemence brought in a large apple- tart, which was hailed with hurrahs. "Emilie Charron," said the schoolmistress, "sit up- right unless you wish to become hunchbacked and you, Sophie, don't let me see your elbows on the table again." Her scolding was not very serious, for contentment was visible in her little black eyes, upon her rosy cheeks. "Dear Monsieur," she said, on cutting the tart, "take your wine and biscuit, and I will tell you briefly my history. I did not marry, as I had to take care of my old father, who was a widower and ailing; on the day of his death, an illustrious doctor came and said, 'He is dead,' and charged five hundred francs for his visit. "I was forty-five, alone in the world, and wanting a [281] FRANCOIS COPPEE deal of rest, as my poor old father, who suffered much, had become very exacting. It is now my turn to take care of myself, I thought. I fancied I was ill and I became so really through drugging myself. "The menu of each meal was a state affair, each digestion a drama. I adopted a milk diet for three months I have even been a vegetarian. I was per- suaded that certain vegetables were dangerous and that spinach contained a slow poison. "Yes, I exhausted the patience of ten doctors and changed my medicinal waters every year. I consulted homoeopathic doctors, somnambulists, all the quacks, and I have been seen in distant suburbs entering the back shops of herbalists (half sorcerers) who sell draughts. "My mild temper became soured, I exacted pity from everybody, and whoever did not take an interest in my health became odious to me. At last Renaudel took away my fortune, except a few thousand francs. I was then obliged to work or to die from hunger. "This little day-school was for sale; I bought it, and very soon, among my little pupils, the flame of maternity smouldering in the heart of old maids was lighted. I had been ailing and egotistical because I had nothing to do, no one to love. "Formerly, I used peptone to digest my raw meat; but now my stomach puts up with beef and onions, and potatoes and bacon earning one's livelihood is an excellent hygienic system! "Besides, I have seen so much poverty nobly borne in the families of my pupils that I have learned resigna- [282] RESTITUTION tion. I have seen dark days. I receive hardly any money and have few pupils; but the cheerfulness of children is so contagious that I have learned to live for daily bread. Only yesterday I sent my old Cash- mere shawl to the pawn-shop in order to buy this Christmas turkey. You restore to me my fortune; I am pleased at that, but it shall no longer go to en- rich chemists. I shall not give up my school. As I am growing old, I shall take in an assistant, some poor girl with a diploma, and I shall be her friend. In the sideboard I shall keep good things for the little girls whose baskets may be scantily supplied. I shall no longer torment the poor mothers with the faded gowns, who sigh so bitterly when paying me the monthly twenty francs for the schooling of their children. I wish to remain among these genuine joys and the pure eyes of the children. Tell all this to Renaudel. I owe it to him that I am no longer an old mad-woman draining chemists' bottles." The apple-tart had vanished; the children were chattering so much, it was like the warbling of birds in a tree on the rising of an April sun. Ernestine, the greedy child, now satiated, was sleeping soundly. Truly, the old priest felt pleased that poverty had restored joy of body and of soul to the amiable school- mistress; it seemed to him a paradise. He called to mind his ragpickers who, through lack of money, were in bad health and died so soon. "I congratulate you, Mademoiselle," said he, "on your recovery; money does not always give health, it may even injure it. I have among my poor a child [283] FRANCOIS COPPEE thirteen years old dying slowly from anaemia; she wants nourishing food and wine, but they are too dear." "I understand you, dear Monsieur," was the reply of the schoolmistress. "Kindly send me the name and address of the little girl. She will have soon some Medoc and filets de b&u}. Now I have to put their warm clothing on the children and to take them to their homes, so I must take my leave of you." M. Moulin thanked the schoolmistress heartily. He found his coachman walking to and fro, as it was so cold. The moon was shining, the fog had nearly lifted. "Now, then," soliloquized the priest in the cab, "shall I meet at last an unhappy person who will be pleased with money!" [284] CHAPTER IV ALL IS WELL WITH MOTHER AND CHILD QUARTER of an hour later, the Abbe Moulin alighted before a new house in the Rue de Rennes; he asked whether Monsieur Burtal was at home. The concierge, in a dressing-gown, was warming himself and reading his evening journal. He was angered at being disturbed, and especially at the sight of the cas- sock; he shouted, "Third story, to the left," and re- sumed his favorite reading. The old priest read the name "Henri Burtal, Architect." He saw above the door a fragment of the frieze of the Parthenon, where- on were some of the celebrated small horses. This plaster model meant that Monsieur Burtal would build with pleasure a temple of Minerva or of Jupiter Olympia if you desired it; he was also quite ready to take something off the heavy joiner's bill, according to the regulations of the Hotel de Ville. At the ringing of the bell a garrulous old woman opened the door, drew back at sight of the priest, and shouted, her breath smelling strongly of cassia: "Heav- ens! it is not yet the midwife!" "I fear I arrive at an awkward moment," said the [285] FRANCOIS COPP^E priest, "but I shall detain Monsieur Burtal a few min- utes only." "You may go into the study of Monsieur Burtal; he is with Madame, who felt ill at twelve o'clock; I'll send him to you, as men are so stupid at such times." The priest entered and saw, on a high table, a large drawing. "Ah! the fire is going out," said the old woman. "I must tell you, Monsieur, I am the nurse who is to take care of Madame to-night; I require some stimu- lants as I have to be up, and would you believe it, that servant, who looks like a snipe, is nearly mad and has prepared no dinner. I ate cold veal it is so heavy; luckily I found a little cognac in the sideboard ; I never liked brandy, it hurts me, I only take a drop mixed with something sweet." The Megaera left the room. Monsieur Moulin looked at the drawing representing a small railway station for distant villages, where corn, poppies, and dandelions grow between the rails of a single line, so little is it travelled upon. Nothing was wanting, neither the goods-shed nor the lamp-room nor other buildings. The priest noticed also some framed drawings and water-colors on the walls, representing other small sta- tions. He thought it must be very monotonous to be always at the same kind of work, always building the same houses, where the same key might have opened the station-masters' locks all along the line. The Abbe* Moulin, who had been made uneasy by the horses of Phidias, became composed again. Mon- sieur Burtal evidently had not yet tried building cathe- [286] RESTITUTION drals, royal palaces, or opera-houses. He noticed, however, a water-color drawing in a corner an ideal restoration of the Baths of Caracalla which showed that Monsieur Burtal had visited Italy and dreamed of glory. But there was no hope that this madman, son of Septimus Severus, assassinated, as were many of the Roman emperors, in the year 217 of the Christian era, would ever come to life or cause his gigantic baths to be repaired. The architect must be a poor man, and the priest, who was bringing him a fortune, was much pleased with that supposition. He heard in the ante- chamber a sudden exclamation from the old drunkard and a loud sound in another woman's voice; then a door opened, from which escaped stifled cries. Soon after, Monsieur Burtal, in a gray suit, presented himself before the priest. Oh, what a handsome young man! A Hercules, with a head of flaxen hair and a graceful figure. He was thirty; his head was small like those of ancient statues; his blue eyes shone with the light of genial frankness; and although the mouth was rather large, what white teeth! what an agreeable smile! Such 'a man at an evening party would turn the head of many a young girl. And this fine young man of the build of Theseus was a tracer of small plans in India-ink! At the pres- ent moment he was evidently in the greatest anxiety. "Pardon me, Monsieur, for having made you wait. Some one has told you of my poor Cecile. It is her first confinement, though we have been married four [287] FRANCOIS COPP^E years. I love her so much; it is hard to see her suffer- ing when I can not render any assistance. Kindly sit down. I am ready to listen to you, Monsieur." The good old priest had in no wise the appearance of a vicar-general who comes to ask for the estimate of a cathedral, yet the architect was hoping that he might have come about the restoration of a church, hospital, convent, or a college. He composed his feel- ings to receive this possible customer cordially. "You will pardon me," replied Monsieur Moulin, opening his portfolio, "for having disturbed you at such a time when you know the mission I am intrusted with. Prepare yourself for a pleasant surprise. Your former banker, Renaudel "The scoundrel!" "He returns all that he has taken from you and the others. I have to give you this draft for five hundred and sixty-seven thousand, eight hundred and ninety- nine francs." "Upon my word, this is a deal better than an order!" And if the emperor of China with all his mandarins had come to request Monsieur Burtal to construct an Indian temple forty stories high, after the style of the Eiffel Tower, the radiant face of the artist would not have expressed more surprise and joy. He examined the precious papers carefully and said: "What a great happiness! I must go and announce this good news to Cecile." "Don't think of such a thing," said the priest, "you might kill her." "You are right," whispered the architect; "I thank [288] RESTITUTION you! This happiness does frighten even me," added he, with a changed voice, "when my wife is suffering so much! In a few minutes I may be informed that we have a child, that all danger is over and besides, we should be rich but all this is too good to be true. Ah! dear Monsieur, we lead a very sad life; I was obliged to accept the humble parts of the work in my profession! I feel only too happy when I have any work to do. I am obliged to be separated from my beloved wife very often in order to superintend my work. My good Cecile could not order a new gown this winter, but upon my honor, were I told now, 'If you wish to be certain that your wife will recover, cast this draft in the fire,' I would do it directly. This money startles me." At this moment a protracted cry of anguish was heard. "My Cecile!" exclaimed the architect, and he rushed out of the room. Monsieur Moulin feared the result of his indiscre- tion, but he wanted his receipt for Renaudel. He re- mained alone before the small railway-stations. In a few minutes Monsieur Burtal came back. "She is more calm," said he. "We had not two hundred francs in the house this morning. Accept my excuses, dear Monsieur; you mentioned a receipt!" "Here it is," said the priest. Monsieur Burtal signed, then, as if dreaming: " More than half a million," whispered he; "abundance of riches, as formerly but I was not happy at that time; truly I have known happiness only since my ruin!" This one also! thought the priest. It was truly sur- 19 [289] FRANCOIS COPPtiE prising! "What do you say, Monsieur?" said he, aloud. "Just now you told me you have had hard times." "I was wrong," interrupted Monsieur Burtal. "For the last four years my life has been delightful, for I love and I am loved. That is the reason why I can put up with cloudy days; and had it not been for poverty, I should not have known that C6cile loved me so tenderly. Tell me the truth, Monsieur, what did Renaudel tell you of me?" "He spoke of you as a young man," replied the priest, "who was addicted to pleasure." "As a rake we can speak frankly," replied Monsieur Burtal. "I will tell you the history of my life, so that I may perhaps forget my frightful anxiety. At the age of twenty-three I was rich, good-hearted, but I had very excitable blood. I travelled in Italy, was sup- posed to be gaining knowledge, and on my return I could, perhaps, build arenas comfortable enough in which to give up Christians to ferocious beasts, but in case I might have had to build a house five stories high, it was possible for me to forget the well of the staircase and the kitchen-sink. In fact, I had occupied myself much less with the Colosseum and Saint Peter's of Rome than with the pretty flower-girls who stroll in the evening before the cafes and offer you small bou- quets. On my return to Paris I resumed this kind of study but I do not offend you, Monsieur 1'Abbe*?" " Keep on," was the reply of the priest, " I have heard worse things in the confessional box." "In the house where I lived in the Rue de Vaugi- [290] RESTITUTION rard, I had had Cecile and her mother as neighbors. I lived on the second floor, but they occupied the gar- ret. They were poor; the mother was the widow of a government-office clerk and enjoyed a small pen- sion; the daughter, a telegraphy pupil, went every morning to learn the Morse alphabet in the Rue de Crenelle. I found her quite charming; it seemed to me, after some exchanges of glances, that I did not displease her; then began my saluting her on the stair- case and a little conversation; very shortly I was re- ceived in their home; but my advances were those of of a would-be seducer. She repelled me without anger, and a great sadness was depicted in her voice, on her face. Marry her? I could do so; I even thought of it a little, but I was feather-brained then. Soon after she had frowned upon me, a literary friend of mine whose comedy was played at the Gymnase presented me to one of the principal actresses, who took me away in her brougham, with the boxful of jewels and the bouquets of the third act. You will understand easily, Monsieur, that it was I who, for a whole year after- ward, replenished the casket with diamonds, filled the actress's box with flowers, and settled the livery-stable accounts. "Through that wild extravagance a good part of my patrimony, entrusted entirely to Renaudel, had al- ready vanished when that swindler took away the rest. The actress, a pupil of the Conservatoire who knew the verses of Corneille, said to me then: 'Let us be friends.' She appeared the next day in the mail-coach of a gen- tleman of princely blood who had devoted his talents [291] to the special art of coaching, and occupied every evening at the theatre an armchair beside mine. Ruined and heartbroken, I began to seek employment. I had left my apartments of the Rue de Vaugirard, and had nearly forgotten my gentle neighbors. How could I ever have supposed that this young girl, so stupidly offended by me, was taking an interest in my fate and had been saddened by my misfortune? It was so, however. On a spring evening I was return- ing home sorrow-stricken after a day of fruitless search, when suddenly I met Ce*cile in mourning in the Tuileries garden. She shook hands with me, told me her mother had died six months before, that she was alone in the world. She had heard of my trouble; she then tried to comfort me. Ah! dear Abbe Moulin, I know not what I told her, nor what the mammas and the nurses, seated under the chestnut trees, must have thought of us; but I remember that I kept her hands in mine a long while, and I begged her pardon with tears." "Well done!" exclaimed the Abbe Moulin, over- joyed. "But, mind, I am about to offend you a little I offered my arm to Cecile; she accepted it, and even consented to dine with me in a small restaurant. By Jove! I was at the end of my resources; there, for a franc and a half you were entitled to have two de- testable dishes and a paltry dessert. But I felt pleased that this dear girl should have remained my friend, and I truly believe I had never eaten anything better than the leather-like meat with mushrooms which was [292] RESTITUTION served us. After dinner we strolled along the quays, and by the way in which the arm of Ce*cile was leaning on mine, by her looks of pity on me, I felt oh! it was so sweet that she loved me! I felt that if I re- peated to her now the words of love of former times they would no more be regarded as an insult, but an exquisite pleasure, and that if I were willing, the gen- erous girl, who had repelled me when I was happy and rich, would give herself up entirely to me, now that I had become poor!" "I truly hope " said the priest, frightened. "Be assured, dear Monsieur. On the pavement op- posite the Hotel des Monnaies at that hour it is a lonely place I shall confess to you that I gave a kiss to my Cecile; but it was in swearing to her that I was giving her my heart, that she must become my wife, and that we would live as best we could, that we would go hand in hand in all sorts of weather. We were quick about this affair; after a few days we went to the Town Hall and to the parish church. I sold a few Japanese articles for which I had paid very dear, but which are very cheap at the Bon Marche, and bought the bride's white gown and bouquet. By good fortune, I obtained my present situation as an architect on the railway on the eve of my marriage; it is a modest one, for, as you see, I have not to build Parthe- nons. We manage to live, however, and we are happy; the most humble existence is tolerable if some flowers of sentiment are springing; it is like nasturtiums upon salad, which, when so adorned, seems better. But all that is passed I am now possessed of five hundred [ 2 93] FRANCOIS COPPfiE thousand francs, and the problem of shoes and stays for my beloved is now solved. I have seen a pretty cluster of emeralds at the Palais Royal, and from to- morrow But my Ce"cile is in danger of death now. Oh! reverend father, give me some hope; pray God for my dear wife, and tell me that all of them come into the world without accident those children born on Christmas night." The old priest, moved to tears, pressed the hands of the architect, seeking words of comfort, when the nurse, as red as a peony by emotion, and by the cognac she had drunk, entered the room, shouting: "It is a boy! Bravo, Monsieur both doing well!" Monsieur Burtal, forgetting his visitor, ran to kiss his dear wife. The priest exclaimed : "What a good young man this Burtal is! He is right true love is something which is not to be bought ! May the good Lord bless them and their newly born child!" Noticing that it was a quarter to ten, the priest ex- claimed: "Oh! I must start. It is a long way from here to the Boulevard Malesherbes." He was about to leave at once, when Monsieur Burtal reentered, full of joy. "No, no!" he cried. "You shall not go away like this superb! the little one! and if you could see my Cecile, so pale but what a smile! No, I am too happy. I mu?t do good to some one; you know, dear Monsieur, of a good deal of poverty tell me of some one to relieve." "Well, my dear Monsieur," answered the Abb6 Moulin, always having in mind the poor Mouffetard [294] RESTITUTION district, "if poverty has given you love and happiness, I know two good young people for whom it does the reverse the sweetheart is working in imitation pearls and the man is cutting peat. The girl is pure, and that is so rare in the Parish Saint-Medard ; they only want five hundred francs to make a home." "They shall have one thousand," replied the archi- tect. "Come when you like, dear Monsieur, for the money. I rely on you for the baptism of my son, whom we shall name Noel." [ 2 95J CHAPTER V IN THE GAY WORLD arriving at the residence of the Marquis de Capdecamp, Boulevard Malesherbes, near the Park Mon- ceau, the Abbe Moulin's carriage was ordered to keep the line, as a great number of broughams and landaus were at the door; the Marquis was giving a reception. The entrance was ablaze, there was a profusion of plants and lights, and a beautiful Eastern carpet cov- ered the stone steps leading up to the door. A lackey was throwing open the doors of the different carriages a handsome flunkey in sumptuous livery and pow- dered hair, whose calves, molded in white silk, would have sufficed at the court of Catherine II to transform a simple grenadier into a commander-in-chief or a cab- inet minister. At sight of the priest, with his old hat, faded topcoat, and greasy neckband, the overdressed lackey could not suppress a start of astonishment and drew back in disgust; but the old priest had, by this time, armed himself with assurance he would not allow himself to be stranded in the harbor. "I have an important communication to make to the Marquis," said he to the lackey. [296] RESTITUTION "I don't know that the Marquis will be able to re- ceive you," replied the servant. "Ask the valet-de- chambre; there he is!" Without being intimidated by the five or six tall men in livery and powdered hair, the old priest made his way toward the valet-de-chambre an important per- sonage in black silk stockings, lace ruffles, and cuffs and again asked whether he could see the Marquis. At first the valet was sure that it would be impossible to see the Marquis. What! Disturb him, and three hundred people in the reception-rooms! The Abbe Moulin, however, was persistent, and at last, thanks to his cassock, Monsieur Auguste consented to go and ask his master whether he could see him. Left to himself, the priest felt rather out of place in the gorgeous ante-chamber, and hid himself as best he could between two large azaleas in bloom. He watched the fine ladies divesting themselves of their chinchilla and blue-fox furs in the cloak-room opposite, and for the first time in his life he was able to contemplate a series of beautiful necks, arms, and breasts. This would have been nothing strange to you, dear reader, who are an habitue of society or hold a season ticket for opera performances. The good priest was as strong-minded as Saint Anthony himself and only noticed the jewels and ornaments that height- ened the beauty of these "treasures," as our grand- fathers called them. This New Testament socialist, who had ruined himself to give to the poor, felt a feel- ing of discontent at the sight of such riches. "Decidedly," he thought, biting his lips, "they have [ 2 97] FRANCOIS COPP^E too many diamonds, and my poor old ragpickers of the Butte aux Cailles are obliged to take their mattresses and blankets to the pawn-shop! All this is badly arranged." Monsieur Auguste's return snatched him away from his reflections. "Will the reverend gentleman follow me?" He ascended a narrow staircase, and reached a large apartment on the first story. A Dutch chandelier gave a discreet light, which showed some bookshelves; enormous logs of oak were burning in a splendid fire- place. "The Marquis requests you to wait for him a few minutes," said the valet on leaving. The priest examined the armorial bearings of the Marquis on the top of the chimney without being much impressed ; he was, in fact, ignorant of the noble science of heraldry, and could not understand the beauties of an escutcheon where there were castles similar to those of the game of chess, a red cross like that upon the bottles of Swiss absinthe, and some shells like those at the door of a wine-merchant in the oyster season; he saw also a lion which looked like a circus poodle. He even thought the proud motto of the Capdecamp family, "Always at the head!" lacking in Christian modesty. And on his calling to mind the share of this family in the well-known defeats of our history, the famous motto, "Always at the head," so much ad- mired by the d'Hozier of the time and lovers of heraldry, appeared to the worthy priest grotesque boasting. [298] RESTITUTION After entering the room he heard a vague noise close to him, behind a thick velvet portiere. Yes! behind this veil was that world mentioned so often by him in his sermons; that world unknown to him, but whose vain pomps, seductions, and dangers were to be feared, said he, by the children he had in his catechising classes. After all, that mysterious world, against which he had thundered so often in quoting the Fathers of the Church, was there close to him. The Abbe* Moulin had only to open Slightly these two pieces of heavy velvet drapery and he could see that famous world in the midst of the pleasures which lead to its perdi- tion. He yielded to curiosity and gazed on this extraor- dinary sight. He saw a salon resplendent with light. Two hundred women were seated upon slight gilt chairs, as closely packed as sardines. Under the canopy of the doors, right and left, was a great number of men with large shirt-fronts and dull, tired faces, all standing. Yonder was seen the bust of the wife of the Marshal de Capdecamp, in the reign of Louis XV, whose hus- band, the illustrious marshal, had been beaten by Frederick the Great; near it was a man, very ugly, with the shaven face of a strolling player and thick lips, uttering obscure prose mingled with stale puns and stupid talk about deceived husbands and mothers- in-law; he had a deal of assurance and the manners of one under the influence of drink. The Abbe* Moulin, though simple, was not stupid. [ 2 99] FRANCOIS COPP^E This compact crowd, this nauseous odor of perfume, of dying flowers, and, above all, the low grimaces of the mountebank, inspired him with great horror. How astonished the good priest would have been had he been told that these persons were so disgusted with one another that they preferred even this stupid monologue to their own conversation. This low actor was not satisfied with the forty thousand francs he earned at his theatre; he asked twenty-five louis for the evening and exacted no end of compliments. At that moment the priest reflected how shamefully the rich were wasting money, and he felt indignant, think- ing of the misery of his poor. A door opened, and the Marquis de Capdecamp entered. How superb he was! He was about fifty years of age, his beard was slightly gray, and he looked rather puffy under the eyes; but his appearance was distinguished. He had a nose like Francis I. Go and see the Titian of the Louvre! I spoke of large shirt- fronts: here was a man covered with starch; it was simply a field of snow behind his waistcoat a Siberia crossed by the black string of an eyeglass! Certain snobs had their linen washed in London; that is now out of fashion. The Marquis sent his own linen to New York, where he found the Chinese laundrymen the best in the world. Poor fops! you bow before your laundress, even pay your addresses to her some of them are truly charm- ing but you can can never obtain this dazzling bright- ness; before the shirt-front of the Marquis one had to keep one's eyes down for fear of ophthalmia. [3] RESTITUTION After a very stiff salutation the Marquis, in a haughty tone of voice, asked the priest the object of his visit. Frankly, the bearing of the Marquis displeased the priest; then he had been obliged to wait long, and so without ceremony he related promptly the purport of his errand. "Renaudel your ex-banker everybody has been paid here is the draft one million etc., and my receipt, if you please, Marquis." The Marquis turned red to his ears, but he wished to appear unmoved and to oppose the impassibility of a nobleman to the plebeian roughness of the priest. He examined the draft attentively; it was certainly genuine; then he slipped it in his pocket, signed the receipt, and gave it back with the tips of his fingers. The priest was about to retire, when suddenly, broken by emotion, the Marquis dropped into an arm- chair, and stammered out in a voice broken by sobs: "Too late! Too late!" "Good heavens, Marquis! what is the matter with you?" exclaimed the priest, amazed. The Marquis got up, his face purple with anger, and strode up and down the apartment. "Ah! truly," said he, with fury, "he restores what he has stolen, this robber! he compensates his victims, this forger! with the interest I see it, for the sum he stole from me was much below this figure! You expect, no doubt, you, his messenger, that I shall ask you to pre- sent Renaudel my compliments for this fine action. On the contrary, I bid you tell this man that one can not be rehabilitated so easily; that, as regards my [301] FRANCOIS COPP^E case, he has repaired nothing of the harm he has done me; that I have nothing but utter contempt for him!" He foamed at the mouth and strode past the priest, who recoiled. "One million!" he shouted, staring in the face of the priest. "I laugh at his million I am worth twelve millions! They are the millions of Mademoiselle Murdock, that is to say, Madame la Marquise de Capdecamp, who gives this evening a splendid party, and whose toilette will be described to- morrow in twenty papers. And my wife's money do you hear? it is like the money of Renaudel, it is money stolen! One million! What does he wish me to do with his million ? Can I redeem my honor with it?" Ah! the man of the world had vanished; he cared no longer for his snowy shirt-front; he was beating his breast with his trembling hand. "My frankness astonishes you, is it not so? So much the worse! I must burst! My heart has been oppressed too long. No, but do you see, this Renau- del, a low scamp, believes himself quits with me by restoring my money. Good heavens! till the day when he stripped me I had not lived a dull life; I was abandoned to debauchery as you call it! Among us it is named gallantry and generosity! These are the peccadilloes of a gentleman; and you priests, you ab- solve us once a year. I had had my hand open, as a gentleman should, that's all. I had tasted enough of the life of pleasure, I thought of finishing decently. A few hundred thousand francs remained to me; I thought of retiring to a small estate of mine in the [3 02 ] RESTITUTION Mayenne. I had promised myself this pleasure. Suddenly this Renaudel took flight, and I became the prey of twenty creditors. What was I to do? I was forty-seven years of age, I could not enlist to work I was ashamed! "I debated whether I had not still something to sell a pledge to carry among the Jews and then I found this last prey of the usurer." Then, pointing at the armorial bearings of his family: "These only remained to me, and I have had the millions of the Jewess in exchange for my coronet of a marquis, the motto, the lions, the castles, the shells, the whole shop! And I am the son-in-law of this Murdock who sold counter- marks in his youth, who kept a gambling-house; of this Murdock, who with his so-called 'office of agri- culture,' emptied the old stockings of the working- men and the peasants; he robbed the poor, this Mur- dock, and if justice were not a farce he should have been sent to Noumea with Renaudel. Tell that gentle- man with tardy scruples of conscience, tell him that this is his work let him not shrug his shoulders and exclaim: 'That poor Marquis, he will become accus- tomed to his new life.' Look! I have been married four years, and I have always before me the shame of this mesalliance I Many others have acted as I did, and sleep tranquilly on the same pillow with the daughter of a robber there are such people here in this assembly. Behind this curtain, mingled with the acquaintances of my wife, is a throng of parvenus and vulgarians others who have not sold their name and are without reproach have come all the same from the [33J FRANCOIS COPP^E recesses of their noble suburbs attracted by gold, bowing before fortune; they also have the right to despise me. What does the opinion of this crowd upon my conduct matter to me? I value only the opinion of people of honor, alas! and what that opinion is I know." The Marquis had sat down again; the good priest looked at him with astonish- ment. "One million," pursued the gentleman ironically; "one can satisfy a beautiful whim with one million. I know in Yonne a historical castle which is about to be sold quite in grand style Mansard and Le N6tre the Marquise would like to possess it, the biddings will not go beyond eight hundred thousand francs it would be gallant on my part to offer to the Marquise this royal gift. But she is rich enough. I have only this million. I must think of myself; only one thing, alas! would please me, but that is not to be bought. "Listen, my dear sir. I served during the war of 1870 among the Zouaves of Charrette with one of my cousins the Baron Louis de Capdecamp, who is my senior by fifteen years; he belongs to a poor branch of our family. I have known few men so brave. "At Patay, when we rushed in the famous charge, he looked at me and shouted to me with his laughing Kleber style : ' Capdecamp, always at the head ! ' The next minute he fell, with his right arm crushed. It was amputated; he received the military medal, and he does not wear the ribbon from humility, for he is very pious. He is sixty-five years of age. He has an income of three thousand francs for life; he is too [34] RESTITUTION proud to accept any assistance from his relatives. He lives in one room on the fifth floor, Rue Jacob, and although one-armed, cooks his meals himself, in order to give some money to deserving poverty which he tries to find out. He is always decently dressed ; when he goes to mass at Saint- Germain des Pres, you would exclaim at the sight of his lion-like eyes and his white moustache: 'Behold, honor passes!' Three months after my marriage, concerning which I had not heard one word from him, I met Louis on the Place de la Concorde; I extended my hand to him; he recoiled one step, cast on me a terrible look, put his hand in his pocket and passed on, turning away his head. Well, my dear Monsieur," said the Marquis, in a broken voice, ' the only thing that would be agreeable to me, which all the millions can not give back to me, is a clasp of the hand from my cousin Louis." The grand airs of the Marquis had vanished; he was now an unhappy man shedding tears; the priest was deeply moved. After a few minutes the Marquis got up, wiped his tears, and said: "I have just now offered you a sad sight. Kindly excuse me, Monsieur; there is no need to ask you to be discreet; discretion is the virtue of priests. "I was wrong to speak so severely of Renaudel; my having married Mademoiselle Murdock is not his fault. He is very lucky, because he can purify his conscience with money. Tell him that I wish him good luck! Auguste will show you the way out." The Marquis rang the bell nervously. 20 [ 35 ] FRANCOIS COPPfiE In bringing this million the good priest had thought of receiving some substantial alms for his poor; he asked for none, and, besides, that money might have brought misfortune upon them. Near the high chim- ney, under his bartered coat-of-arms, the Marquis re- mained motionless his eyes cast down, ashamed of his despair, of his broken pride. The priest saluted him in silence and left the house. [306] CHAPTER VI CONCLUSION QUARTER past eleven already- quick, Rue de Clichy!" cried the priest to the coachman. The mist had entirely gone now the moon was shining, in a luminous sky suit- ing the joyful Christmas chimes. The Abbe* Moulin, exhausted and hungry, and much disturbed also by what he had heard, entered his room, and thought at first that the fog had gathered there; but this fog smelled of Havana tobacco. He at last perceived Renaudel seated in an armchair, smoking quietly his eighth cigar. "Here are your receipts," said the priest. "Well done, my dear Abbe*," replied the ex-banker, rising; "please do not tell me what you have heard. You will find under your breviary the promised bank- note of one thousand francs! We are quits, however, and although I am not rich now, I leave you five louis extra. I will tell you the reason why. I can not take to my son the box of leaden soldiers with red trousers for which he asked me ; I don't wish him to call to his mind the scenes of his childhood. I thought, as a means of comfort to me, of requesting you to go and [307] FRANCOIS COPP^E buy one hundred francs' worth of toys for the sons of your ragpickers in the name of the American Noel, but the express does not wait. A last hand-shake, my dear Abb, and my best thanks." The strange man hurriedly departed. The Abbe* Moulin dreamed a few minutes; he was no pessimist he was certain now that glory, health, love, honor were not to be bought with money, and he intended to thank God for this when saying his mid- night mass. THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT CHAPTER I TOIL AND HEALTH [UY the official list of the winning numbers of the International Lot- tery! Special edition with the big prize of five hundred thousand francs! Ten centimes." At the corner of the Faubourg Montmartre you could not see the two boys in the twilight mist among the crowd; but their voices, one a tenor, the other a bass, were heard above the noise of pedestrians and vehicles. Alberic Mesnard had just left Cahun and Son (manufacturers of collars, cuffs, and separate shirt- fronts, Rue du Sentier, in Paris, with branches in London and Hamburg). He felt keenly the damp cold of this winter evening, and, with the collar of his thin topcoat turned up, was making his way through the crowd with true Parisian skill, when he heard the two boys shouting: "Buy the official list of the winning numbers of the International Lottery! Special .edition with the big prize of five hundred thousand francs ! Ten centimes ! ' ' [3"] FRANCOIS COPPfiE "Ah! " thought the young man, "they have decided upon the drawing of the big prize at last; people have been waiting for the last three years. I have a ticket." He intended to buy the paper, but he had only a two-franc piece. It was the 3oth of November, and on the next morning he would receive his monthly salary of one hundred and fifty francs as an employe in the correspondence department of M. Cahun's house. Two francs! he wanted them for his humble dinner; so he did not change his money. "To-mor- row the papers will give the list of the winning num- bers, and I shall have plenty of time to be sure that the half million will not fall to my share. I don't even remember where my ticket is. p Just then a pastry-cook's boy, who pushed past him roughly with his basket, very nearly poured all the cream of a piece of pastry and the sauce off a shrimp plate upon his head, and wound up by vituperating him. Alberic calmly walked along the slippery pave- ment. There is no more complete solitude than in a crowd; thought is at work and memory wakes up. Alberic was going up Montmartre, hurrying on through the intense fog and recalling his sorrowful youth. Decidedly his mother had acted imprudently in ob- taining this scholarship hi a college for him, and in having him crammed with Latin and impractical studies. She knew, however, the misery of the artist's life or that of the professions. When she married Mesnard, the painter of so many dozens of oysters, they could [3 12 ] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT hardly get a living, although Mesnard was a Raphael in painting oysters. His Marennes oysters, so juicy he received third medal for them sold easily. During the months with the letter "r" they ate a dozen Marennes at breakfast; they were not fresh, as they had been opened early in the morning. But in the summer business was bad. No more oysters! Mesnard had then tried to paint crawfish, but failed. Artists and picture-dealers, declared unanimously, "He is excellent in oyster-painting, but inferior in painting crustaceans." They eked out a poor living, however, as long as Marennes were in fashion. In the Salon of 1864, Rousselot, his rival, exhibited his "Dozen of Ostend Oysters," for which picture he received an award; and amateurs henceforth insisted upon Ostend oysters. Rousselot's success was only ephemeral, for five years later Piegealoup snatched away the sceptre from him, and with his famous "Dozen of Cancale Oysters" very nearly obtained a medal of honor. On the eve of Piegealoup' s triumph Alberic's father died, more of grief than of privation. His comrades organized a sale of their sketches for the poor widow; the Fine Arts School granted an annual pension, and the orphan entered with a scholar- ship into the College Louis-le-Grand ; so his mother was not obliged to be a housekeeper, and could occupy a small room on the fifth floor in Montmartre, knitting woollen stockings for her son. Alberic got on well at college; his professor con- gratulated him for his translation into Latin verse of FRANCOIS COPP^E Alfred de Musset's Rhin allemande. Then came su- preme satisfaction: his poor mother died in the arms of a Bachelor of Letters! A Bachelor! Ah! of what use was this success to Alberic. On the very day he had translated, at first sight, at the Sorbonne, a passage of some ancient writer upon the contempt of riches, he had caught cold, because his boots admitted water and he was unable to buy new ones. A Bachelor! What good had he derived from his knowledge of the philosophers and dreamy poets? Why was he not made to learn the trade of a joiner or a plumber, with humble tastes, sleeping well because of physical fatigue, and satisfied with wine drunk at a bar at the end of the day? He envied the lot of the masons elbowing him in the crowd they were so care- less about everything. For Alberic it was misery to wear an old frock-coat and bad boots; it was the double anxiety of the man who is tormented by his thoughts and who can hardly earn his living; it was the pitiful anguish of a poor man who asks simultane- ously whether his soul is immortal and how he shall pay his laundress's bill. It was a sad prospect, for he had little energy. He had been six years a clerk at Cahun and Son's, with a small salary; his situation was irksome to him, but he clung to it. At his mother's burial he was overwhelmed with grief. He was only eighteen years of age; he was accompanied by his guardian, a painter named Vert- bois, who had in his time won the prize of Rome, and [3i4] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT who, without any talent or intrigue, gained a scanty living by orders from the Government. At that time he was painting for the Court of Ac- counts an allegory of vital interest: "A Public Account- ant Discovering an Error." After the funeral M. Vertbois had taken the orphan into his studio and gently asked him what he intended to do. Albe"ric, alas! could not answer. The principal of the college had asked him to remain there as an usher, in order to prepare for a higher degree; but it was a hard task. M. Vertbois knew the Cahuns well. They were rich shirt-makers whose name was familiar to every one through the famous placard representing two "swells," one saying: "How do you manage, Viscount, always to have such glossy linen?" the other replying: "It is very simple, Baron; I use Cahun and Son's dickeys, and I need only to change my shirt every fortnight." All this Cahun tribe, beginning with old Abraham Cahun, the patriarch, the great man, the inventor of the dickeys, and afterward his sons, daughters, sons- in-law, daughters-in-law, had had their portraits painted by the former holder of the prize of Rome; and his unfailing brush had fixed upon the canvas, in richly gilt frames that dazzled the eyes, those Jews, with beaks of vultures, and all those Jewesses, with eyes of fortune-tellers, and covered with large jewels. M. Vertbois had spoken of Albe"ric to Cahun and Son. Albe"ric had now been with the firm for six years and never had made much advance. The Cahuns, ruth- FRANCOIS COPPtfE less Jews, applied severely the principle dear to all the masters to require as much work and give as lit- tle salary as possible. They had early judged Alberic's qualifications: a timid young man, arriving punctually at the office, who wrote without grumbling fifty letters a day, beginning: "In answer to your honored letter of the ," but without any commercial genius, in- different to the rise and fall of calicoes, ignoring the grave questions of shirt-collars. Upon the grand theatre of European shirt-making this young man would never be anything but a supernumerary, for at the age of twenty-four, after six years passed before a set of books bound in green cloth of Cahun and Son's house, Alberic had reached only the small salary of i, 800 francs a year. It was lucky for him that his masters were ignorant of his inclination for reverie and lounging. What would they, Cahun and Son, people so strictly practical, have thought had they known that their employe was fond of walking about till midnight in lonely districts on starry nights; that he opened at times volumes of poetry at book-stalls, and that often he had deprived himself of a cigar in order to buy a bouquet of violets? Six years! Good heavens! The finest six years of his youth! and in this atmosphere of ennui in this abject poverty! Having walked up the Faubourg Montmartre and the Rue des Martyrs, Alberic reached the Boulevard Pigalle, where in the intense fog a tramway's horn was continually heard, and directed his steps toward the miserable restaurant at the corner of the Rue Germain- THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT Pilon where he used to take his evening meal; he was at times very hungry, but felt disgusted, from his very entrance, at the odors of burnt grease in the place. He raised his hat in passing before the counter where the mistress sat, a short woman with a face pitted like Mirabeau's, and looked for an empty seat. One only remained, near the kitchen door. The passage would have suited a shooting-gallery. They had prepared a series of small tables opposite one another; the cloths were stained with sauce and wine. About thirty poor men, whom Alberic knew by sight, were eating voraciously, and near them their shabby hats and coats were hanging, looking like a file of hanged men. Albe"ric sat down at a table. " Good-evening, my dear Monsieur Mesnard," said some customer, seated near a small table, extending his hand. He was reading a newspaper and added abruptly, "Well, have you seen the description of the Session ? The Opportunist party is about to abandon its principles again. It is scandalous!" Alberic had shivered on hearing these words, for he would be obliged to sit opposite one of the greatest bores he knew; he often avoided him, but on that evening he could not do so. M. Mataboul came from the south of France; he had brown hair, shaggy as a bear's; he was a wine- broker, but politics absorbed his time. Early in the morning, carrying a few phials as samples, he called upon small restaurant-keepers to offer his Chablis for oysters, or any other wine, which he warranted as FRANCOIS COPPtiE natural. But as his time was taken up with politics he had not much success in his business, and wine- dealers got rid of him by humoring him on his favorite subject. Forgetting that he had come to sell a barrel of so-called St. Emilion or some baskets of pseudo Moulin-a-vent, M. Mataboul got heated as he talked and left enchanted, though without an order, retiring with the threat, "Another such financial measure, and we shall have a bankruptcy! " or exclaiming, "If things go on like this we shall not have a navy much longer!" Alb6ric, trying to keep his patience, beckoned to the ugly servant who had toothache and whose cheek was wrapped in a handkerchief, and ordered a frugal meal soup, bread, steak with potatoes, cheese, and a little wine ; he ate this bad food from necessity, while he listened to M. Mataboul, who was indignant that the Left party sided with the Right and that France kept an ambassador at the Vatican. Alberic, the poor clerk, was indifferent as to politics, and would have readily admitted that M. Clemenceau should become the great friend of M. de Cassagnac, and that the republic should send a plenipotentiary to the Grand Lama, provided that the restaurant's broth was more savory and the wine less sour. He asked for his bill. The suffering waiter added up the amount. "Two for bread,, five for soup, eight for meat, three for cheese, six for wine; one franc twenty centimes, Monsieur." Out of his two-franc piece he received sixteen sous' THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT change, and gave two to the waiter. Feeling happy to escape from the southern accent of M. Mataboul, he was leaving the table, when his tormentor exclaimed : "Monsieur Mesnard, it is my turn now; I will treat you to coffee this evening." It was really so, for a few days previously AlbeYic had imprudently treated him to a mazagran. He first thought of escaping from this tedious politeness, but what was he to do with himself all the evening ? In his little room in the Rue Ravignan he had no more coke, and he could not go to bed at eight o'clock; so he yielded. He bought a ten-centime cigar, offered one to his friend, followed M. Mataboul into a small cafe* of habitues of the Boulevard Rochechouart, and there, till nine o'clock, opposite his half cup of coffee, empty for some time, mad with ennui and not having the energy to take leave of him, he listened to the wine- broker violently denouncing the waste of public money on railways and accusing M. Jules Ferry of the last epidemic of cholera. It was, indeed, one of the inconveniences in the sad life of Alberic, this promiscuity of the restaurant and public-house, which forced such very annoying neigh- bors upon him. How many broken-down people had he not known! How much stupid talk full of envy had he not heard during his humble meal! How much time he had lost in listening to the art theories of Gabarel and Planchu, the two landscape painters, with large felt hats one of whom saw nature in the colors of wine dregs, the other in the colors of an [319] FRANCOIS COPPfiE omelet! How many times Mastock, the orator of the proletariat, with his prison beard and his dirty nails, had solved in the cafe of New Athens, before Alberic and others, all the difficulties of the social question, and cursed the infamous capitalists for an hour, only inter- rupting himself to ask the waiter for a wire for his pipe. M. Mataboul condemned ministerial policy as to the colonies with great heat, and proposed to enlist the Bishop of Angers by force in a battalion of Annamite marksmen, as that prelate had just voted for some millions for the Tonquin campaign. He, M. Mata- boul, was becoming in the end such a nuisance that in spite of his fireless bedroom Alberic resolved to return home, and feigning a headache as the pretext for in- terrupting the conversation, left M. Mataboul to read Le Temps. The fog had become thicker and smelled of soot, and the gas-burners showed only aureoles of yellowish light. "What dreadful weather!" said Alberic, shivering. He reached his house through the hilly lanes and walked up the five flights. While unlocking the door he heard in the loom close-by the regular sound of a sewing-machine . "Suppose," thought he to himself, "I go and say good-evening to my neighbors. Madame Bouquet is not very cheerful, but little Zoe is so interesting." He rang the bell; the noise of the machine ceased abruptly; a young girl, rather small, but pleasing and looking neat in her sombre gown, opened the door. "It is only I, Mademoiselle Zoe," said Alberic cheer- fully. "How is your mother in this bad weather?" [3 2 ] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT A sweet smile shone upon Zoe's face; she was not exactly pretty her complexion was pale, her mouth rather large, but what sincerity in her eyes! what an air of sweet temper! "Oh, thanks, Monsieur Mesnard," was her reply, "mamma is pretty well. Come in, I beg of you, she will be so pleased to see you." Alberic entered the small dining-room, which served as a boudoir and reception-room ; their one other room was a bedroom. This room was very clean, but en- cumbered by a large armchair near the stove, in which was sitting, with a royal dignity, a lady in black, about fifty years of age, who must have been formerly very beautiful. She did not look as if she were always amiable, and she seemed accustomed to homage. Alberic bowed respectfully before her, but she pre- served her impassibility and replied by a simple gesture of the hand such as a sovereign offers to a courtier. She occupied, truly, too much of the room, this old lady, so solemn, with her widow's cap; her delicate hands were crossed upon her lap; her feet rested on a stool near the stove. She seemed so egotistical that her only daughter, Mademoiselle Zoe, was lost in the shade of such an imposing lady; but Zoe resumed hef work before her sewing-machine, moving the pedal with her right foot and making the stuff slip under the needle. Formerly, I say, the old lady had been a beauty. It was for this reason that the late Bouquet, a cashier in a large drapery house, had married her without a dowry; she had refused to spoil her hands by house- si [321] FRANgOIS COPP&E hold work, and also on account of her beauty her hus- band had worked hard and saved nothing. How can you help surrounding with luxury a beauty whom you adore? You can't refuse her a pleasure, a jewel, a fine gown! The unwary cashier had left his widow penniless, and at the moment when their daughter, wearing short skirts till she was eighteen years of age, had become almost of marriageable age. The beauty's elegant furniture, her diamonds, her Erard piano, seldom touched, had been sold; this realized a few thousand francs, which enabled them barely to subsist in Montmartre. This money was not yet exhausted, because Zoe, who had inherited her father's activity, had under- stood their sad situation; she had bought a sewing- machine and worked hard, lavishing her cares upon her mother, who, accustomed to this self-sacrifice, ac- cepted them selfishly. Her position was that of an unhappy beauty who bore adversity with great courage. Zoe worked till two o'clock every morning, but then it was right that she should do so, as her mother, when their ruin came, had given up wearing silk chemises and dismissed her manicure. Besides, Zoe was of the same opinion, admiring the fortitude of her mother. When in the morning she laced up her boots, the widow thanked her with the haughty sweetness of Marie Antoinette in her prison as she thanked the gendarme on duty for putting out his pipe, and Zoe's heart was full of admiration, pity, and gratitude. Alberic was the only lodger with whom these ladies were on friendly [322] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT terms; he had been the confidant of Madame Bou- quet, and was called upon to be a witness of her cour- age in the midst of her reverses. He was flattered, no doubt, but Zoe's sweet eyes were also the incentive for his occasional visits. "Monsieur Mesnard," said the old lady, "it is very kind of you to come to see us. In better times I should have offered you a cup of tea; when my husband was alive tea was served at ten o'clock, and I could only drink Caravan tea. Monsieur Bouquet was compelled to buy it at the Chinese shop, as one can not trust ser- vants. But to-day we have no longer that small lux- ury. Zoe, when she hears me cough in the night, insists upon bringing me egg and milk. She does wrong! I am ready to put up with all privations." Zoe lifted toward Alberic her moist eyes, which seemed to say: "Is not my mother admirable?" while she kept on working to gain the price of eggs, sugar, and orange-water. "Zoe is quite right to take care of you, Madame," said Alberic; "it is a consolation for you to be so ten- derly loved." "No doubt," replied the old lady, dryly, looking at Alberic from head to foot, as if she had been a duchess dowager, a prisoner during the Reign of Terror, and he a jailer, wearing a cap with a fox's tail and calling out the names of those doomed to the scaffold. "No doubt Zoe is a good girl and understands the duties of our position but I regret having alluded to our pov- erty. I often declare to Zoe that complaints are un- worthy of a proud soul, and are of no avail. When [3 2 3J FRANCOIS COPP^E we have to use paraffine, which is dreadful to me, what is the use of regretting the beautiful real Carcel lamps which formerly lighted my little sitting-room ? Silence is the chief beauty of misfortune." The machine was kept working away, and Zoe's eyes, looking to Alberic, shone with enthusiasm for the maternal fortitude. In vain the young man, annoyed by the faded beauty's egotism, wished to change the conversation. Madame Bouquet kept on alluding to her courage in adversity; for instance, she said that the heat of the stove gave her a headache, and that in better times in the past she would have tolerated only a wood-fire in an open grate, but she added that her heart was too sensible to yield to the least complaint against an economical system of heating, though she knew it would shortly bring her to the grave. Alberic felt abashed as he listened to Madame Bou- quet, but at times he cast a glance on Mademoiselle Zoe, and after all she was the object of his visit. For some time past the sewing-machine was not the only thing palpitating in the house ; the two hearts of Al- beric and Zoe had begun to beat very strongly. But love marriage that was a luxury for the rich. Was not Zoe devoting herself entirely to her mother? And the poor clerk of Cahun and Son, having a salary in- sufficient even for his own wants, how could he think of marrying a poor girl having a load on her back? It would be midsummer madness! Ten o'clock sounded from the clock in the Louis XVI style the last vestige of the fine furniture of for- mer times; Alberic got up to take leave. [3 2 4] Zoe's eyes, looking to Alberic, shone! the Original Painting by N. Briganti.] FRANCOIS COPP^E * K;ivc to use paraSine, which is d to me, what the beautiful real Carcel lamps iled my room ? Silence jty of n chine was \- ad Zoe"'s g to Alb6ric. 1 fortitude. In 'he faded b< conversatior. .ept on her courag; instanci '.hat the he, and that in better tii nerated only a v, >ut she added that her heart w^Jb $r$fct Ql fflfl\o^N? fcSRwmplaint against ait/^^i&ngtc^^^Qn^^ch^t;^] though she knew it would shortly bring her to the ^rave. Alb^ric felt abashed as he listened to Madame Bou- quet, but at times he cast a glance o ; moiselle Zoe", and after all she was the object of his visit. For some time past ; :he only thing p ;. -arts of Al- beric and Zoe* had begun to b strongly. But Carriage tiiat v. rich. Was oting herself entirely to her mother? And r clerk of Cahun and Son, having a salary in- t even for his own wants, how could he tliink of marrying a poor girl having a load on her be midsummer madness! Ten o'clock sounded from the cl' Louis the last vestige of the fine furniture of for- Mbe*ric got up to take lea\ [324] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT Madame Bouquet dismissed him with nearly as much cordiality as that in which the resident of the court of assizes invites a witness to go and sit down after his evidence, but he was escorted by Mademoi- selle Zoe to the threshold, and received from her a sweet smile, which meant, "You do not displease me, and I know well that I am to your taste, but it is not possible." Alas! the feelings of poor people are similar to the November rosebuds; they bud, but do not open. Alberic went up to his room, which was of the tem- perature of Iceland; he hastened to put himself be- tween his icy sheets and became a prey to violent despair. Never had he suffered so keenly through his misery, but his anxieties were overcome by sleep. He was young, and could not yet understand the beautiful line of Saurin in the tragedy of Spartacus: "Ah! how long the night is, when sorrow can not be assuaged!" He cursed his fate and slept soundly. The next morning he awoke at seven the offices opened at eight in the Rue du Sentier and he noticed that the fog had lifted, that the sky was clear. Al- though the water was frozen in his basin, Alberic dressed quickly, came down the five flights of stairs, spent eight sous out of the ten remaining for a cup of coffee, and as he would receive his salary on his arrival at the office, he bought a cigar with his last penny. On the pavement of the Rue Breda, a man with a cap and a shabby woolen waistcoat, looking like an honest old workman, walked up to his side, and stretching forth his gnarled hand, whispered to him: "No work [325] FRANCOIS COPPfiE eaten nothing since yesterday morning charity, please." Alberic was forced to hasten his steps, looking like a selfish man refusing alms; he felt that most bitter of pains, a poor man's grief at being unable to assist a poorer one. He presented himself at the office treasury, quite sad. "Well, Mesnard," said the old Jewish cashier, as he gave him a one-hundred-franc note and fifty francs in gold, "well, they have drawn it at last, the big prize, those dilatory directors of the International Lottery. Last night you could not walk on the boulevards! And I have heen stupid enough to take five tickets, and my hundred sous are lost." "As for me, Monsieur Schwab," replied Alberic, "I shall not even have the disappointment of not finding my number on the list. I don't recollect where I have put it." As he opened his portfolio to put in his bank-note, he perceived a blue paper projecting from its leather pocket. It was his lottery ticket. "By Jove! here it is, and it is the number three mil- lion, nine hundred and eleven thousand, four hundred and fifty-seven." "Then, my dear Monsieur, allow me to give you Le Petit Journal containing the list," said the cashier. "I am sure it is correct, for I have compared it with the one I bought yesterday. I have not even won one of the small prizes of one thousand francs." Alberic could not help smiling at the cunning of the [326] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT old Jew; Father Schwab was indeed scrupulously at- tentive in all circumstances. "Let us see at once," exclaimed Alberic, joking. "But, as you know, I am very exacting it is a great sum I want or nothing!" Holding the paper in one hand, his ticket in the other, he repeated: "Let us see!" Suddenly he began to tremble, and turning fright- fully pale, opened his eyes, and uttered a cry of surprise and a deep sigh. The number of the big prize was the same as that of his ticket! He had won five hundred thousand francs! Then he opened his mouth and said in a hoarse voice: "I I A rush of blood occasioned a great buzzing in his ears, he staggered, recoiled three steps and sat down, with his knees tottering under him, on the velvet lounge near the desk. Old Schwab rushed out from the rails of his desk, calling for help; several employes ran up and lavished their cares on Alberic. He got up abruptly, waving his lottery ticket above his head with the gestures of a madman; he burst out laughing, with tears in his eyes, and shouted with all his might: "I have won the big prize, the five hundred thousand francs!" If, instead of these people, choked in the bitterness of their envy, there had been one calm witness, he would have shivered before this man intoxicated with happiness and would have thought that extreme joy is a terrible thing! [327] CHAPTER II THE FIRST PLUNGE F you are fond of lounging, you have most likely observed, gazing with a fascinated stare, before the windows of Very at the Palais Royal or out- side Potel and Chabot's place in the Rue Vivienne, one of those men who wander over the pavement of the streets of Paris and keep on wearing, till the bright days of June, an old paletdt with a moth-eaten fur collar, and in winter shivering under an alpaca coat faded by the last dogdays. It makes you shiver also to see the famished glance cast by such a poor creature upon the baskets of hothouse fruit, the clusters of partridges and splendid quails, the fat turkeys seasoned with truffles. Have you at times observed the flame of desire shining in the eyes of a collegian with a budding beard who is contem- plating, at a hair-dresser's window, a fine figure in wax in a very low bodice, holding upon her little finger in an affected attitude the lace of her rose-colored stays ? It was in that state of great desire that Alberic had lived hitherto, like a poor man before the window of an eating-house, or a young sentry of the Turkish army looking through the keyhole of the harem. [328] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT And suddenly he was rich; he was on the point of having half a million in the bank, and all the pleasures of life were before him. He would certainly not buy stocks and live on his income in perfect indolence; he had wished, for some time at least, to enjoy life as much as he had hitherto been prevented from do- ing so; to live as a nabob without refusing himself any fancy, and to have a taste of all fruit that might tempt him. "Life owes me this gratification," thought he, feel- ing in his pocket his precious lottery ticket. "I wish to obtain compensation for my years of misery, and I shall be satisfied only after spending one hundred thousand francs. After that we shall see that enough will still remain to be independent." Alberic's heart was not selfish, so he said to himself, "I shall do some good with it, too." As soon as it was known he had won the big prize he became the lion of the day. Twenty reporters caught him as he jumped out of his bed in his humble room in the Rue Ravignan; they depicted his room, his person, and for two days he Was the subject of newspaper articles. At once the thick cloud of Parisian ravens swooped down upon the lucky man. Beggars rushed to him from the four cardinal points; the crafty Alsatian who, having chosen to remain French, was unable to conceal his Marseilles accent; the humble inventor who exhibits a bald head ; the swindler, full of effront- ery. He received numerous letters, full of errors, sealed with crumbs of bread and swollen by torn and greasy testimonials; he heard those entreating voices [329] FRANCOIS COPP^E accompanied by the odor of absinthe. He was also favored in his humble room with the visit of a pro- moter, with a fur-lined topcoat and a heavy gold chain, who wished by force to make him take a founder's share in an infallible affair, a live enterprise, namely, to try to find the treasure of the Armada! A respect- able father of a family, who diffused an odor of cassia, told him he would shoot himself on the spot if he could not get two hundred francs which, in his delirium, he had taken from his employer's cash-box to feed his five young children, of whom two were twins. Since Alberic's luck had become known, not a day had passed without his being requested by letter to take an interest in a young lady, twenty years of age, very pretty, of refined education; she would travel will- ingly with a gentleman, alone. He was asked to buy a castle surrounded by a park of one hundred times two acres and a half, and to insure his eternal salva- tion by subscribing largely to the rebuilding of a re- ligious edifice. Disgusted at the sight of this swarm of flies which hovered round him as they would round a carrion, and wishing all these people to lose sight of him, Alberic resolved to leave his lodgings immediately. "To all who come to ask for me," said Alberic to his concierge, "answer, 'Gone away without leaving any address.' Send my letters to the Hotel Conti- nental, where I shall sleep to-night. I shall keep my rooms, and I pay you now a year's rent in advance, and here are one hundred francs for yourself. Go and fetch me a cab; bring my luggage down while I [330] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT go to bid farewell to Madame Bouquet and her daughter." He had been rich just two days. Cahun and Son, on receiving his resignation, had showered attentions on him, and had advanced him a few thousand francs. For the last two days he had often thought of his fair neighbors, who had been the first to congratulate him on his good luck. As he intended to make some people happy, he wished to begin with them. But how? These ladies were proud; they would certainly be offended by a gift. His fortune had soon caused him two regrets: one to have given alms to unworthy people, because he had been obliged to throw a few louis of gold to annoying beggars; the other that he could not succor a mis- fortune which moved him so much. Alberic felt his heart beat quickly the moment he rang the bell; no doubt he had a very easy means of associating his happiness with that of the young, inno- cent girl he could marry her. But then, how could he become a quiet citizen so soon? How could he so quickly invest his capital? It was too reasonable a scheme; and the terrible Madame Bouquet was an obstacle. Zoe would never consent to separate her- self from her mother. Alberic shivered at the idea of having of live with the aged beauty, who at the dinner hour would get herself up as if she were going to the scaffold. He would not order his first black coat for the mayor's or the vicar's sake. He wanted to know life first, and to enjoy fortune FRANCOIS and liberty. Another drawback of his money it withered in its bud the first sentiment of tenderness in his heart and inspired him with selfishness. His visit was very short. The ladies were breakfasting off a veal cutlet the best part, of course, eaten by the mother, and Mademoiselle Zoe picking the bone. He apologized for disturbing them, but he had come to take leave of them, not for good, however, he said, and he asked their permission to make them an occasional visit to know how they were and to pay them his respects. He said he should take away with him the kindest remembrances of his old neighbors; and he assured them here he seemed a little confused that if ever he could be useful to them in any way, they could rely upon his friendship. In the midst of this offer of service, made with perfect sincerity, Alberic was interrupted by the glance of Madame Bouquet. "You must know, Monsieur," she replied, "that you are speaking to a lady fallen into misfortune, but very proud. Learn that the mother of a girl of twenty years of age could not accept under any pretext what- ever the least help from an inexperienced young man whom she hardly knows. Don't suppose that your chance fortune entitles you to play the part of a gen- erous man that is to say, an impertinent one with a woman of the highest character, who would rather starve than contract a debt of gratitude toward any- body." Alberic sought a look from Mademoiselle Zoe", but, being overawed by her mother, she kept her eyes [33 2 ] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT fixed on her plate. So, after a few icy words, Alberic, feeling offended, withdrew abruptly. "May they go to hades, the haughty fools!" he mur- mured, in descending the stairs. "I shall not be in a hurry to pay them another visit." He jumped into the cab; the concierge, with his head uncovered, opened the door respectfully and ordered the man to drive to the Hotel Continental. Although dressed in his best clothes, Alberic was received coolly there on account of the slightness of his luggage; they thought of lodging him at the top of the house, but a piece of twenty francs taught the servant with a gold band round his cap that one must not judge the new lodger by his appearance, and Alberic was installed on the second floor in a pretty room. The servants were inspired with the greatest respect when, on going to the telephone, he sent for a few celebrated purveyors. They ran to bring the boot- maker and the tailor, who justified the proverb, "the ill-dressed tailor, the untidy shirt- maker. " But they were great artists, and, thanks to the words " ready money" and "in advance, if you like," they promised to dress their client according to the very latest fash- ion, entreating him to allow himself to be guided by them. Alberic gave them carte blanche, and the overjoyed tailor recommended a certain jacket to wear in the morning ride on horseback as a delicious article. Afterward, to open his eyes to the ways of elegance, he warned him that this coat could only be worn till noon. If at a quarter past twelve one were to go out [333] FRANCOIS COPP^E with this coat on, it would simply mean dishonor. For afternoon visits the illustrious artist would make him a jacket, his latest, to which he attributed nearly orthopaedic qualities, declaring that it would confer on a deformed man the proportions of an Anti- nous, and asserting that this masterpiece had enabled several dandies among his clients to contract rich marriages. With the bootmaker Alberic had a small dispute, for he had stated that he did not wish boots with pointed toes. An intense grief appeared on the artist's face, who exclaimed: "But, Monsieur, think of the pointed toes of the Prince of Wales!" Alberic understood that he had been wanting in tact and yielded directly. After some conversation with the artists, he felt ashamed of his poor suit from La Belle Jardiniere, where he had bought clothes formerly, and he was sorry he was obliged to wear it a little longer. But then he thought of his fortune, and self-confi- dence came back to him. "Bah!" said he, "I am not, after all, worse dressed than an English tourist." At dinner-time he entered the dining-room proudly, dazzling with electric light, objected to dine at the table d'hote, and asked for a separate table. At once the waiters became zealous. Guided by the advices of a waiter, who dictated his menu with Napoleonic decision, Alberic enjoyed a first-class dinner, drank a bottle of Pontet Canet, brought by the butler (in an osier crate) with as much precaution as if it had been a princely child, newly born, whose frail existence might have been endangered by a false movement. While taking his coffee and smoking a Havana cigar [334] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT adorned with a red paper ring, upon which were printed these words, "For the Nobility" (which was indeed flattering), Alberic confessed his inexperience as a man of pleasure. He was rich, yet he could not properly order a pair of trousers or a dinner. A guide was necessary, a friend to introduce him to pleasure-par- ties. Where should he find him? Eh! By jingo! had he not his old comrades at college? Timid and proud, because poor, he had lost sight of them for some time; with his salary of eighteen hundred francs a year, how could he preserve ties of friendship with young men whose pockets were well lined? No, it was impossible; but now he was on the same footing with these sons of rich families; surely he would find at least one of them to assist in his education. He soon found a large number of friends. There were various reasons why he should have met with a kind reception from many of his old com- rades, for the winner of a great prize meant a good acquaintance. Alberic offered his old schoolfellows a princely breakfast, with truffles, and great familiarity reigned. . Touching remembrances of college were evoked, such as a story about the rearing of silkworms inside the desks. Alberic was pleased to renew acquaintance with big George Bordier, who was so lazy at college and was now an employe in the Exchange and well known in the sporting world. He saw again little Santelet, formerly so turbulent in the English class, who had become something of a journalist, had collaborated [335] FRANCOIS COPP^E in some librettos of operettas, and went behind the scenes in the small theatres. Alberic, though amiable toward his other comrades, who were nearly all mar- ried, intended above all to cultivate the friendship of these two frequenters of the boulevard, who had re- mained bachelors and were full of levity; they were just the friends to guide him into this Parisian life he was sighing for with the ardor and ignorance of a starving man from Peru, or of a Chilian who had just arrived. The fat Bordier and the little Santelet appreciated the preference of their dear comrade, and gave him a proof of their sympathy. At the hour of the petits verres, amidst the smoke, when the guests, all speaking at the same time, produced a noise similar to the croak- ing of a hundred frogs in a marsh, the stockbroker's clerk took Alberic into the recess of a window and entreated him, for his own interest, to put twenty- five or thirty thousand francs into an affair of great promise an insurance company against losses in gambling, a proposal which he received with a Mach- iavellian air. "We will speak of it again," said he. The journalist showed his great joy at having met again an old friend by borrowing from him, for a few days, or forever, the small sum of ten louis in gold. With such masters Alberic made rapid progress in the art of fast living. A clever upholsterer, particularly skilful in increas- ing the amount of a bill, furnished an entresol for him in a new house in the Rue de Chateaudun, where he laid such heavy hangings and deep carpets that one [336] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT might have believed it had been specially arranged to commit a murder and to stifle the cries of the victim, and Alberic filled the room with so many articles that he could not move for fear of breaking a piece of china. He adorned the walls with so-called examples of good masters, quite small but in enormous frames; one was a false Diaz, a very indifferent autumn scene; another was a false Ziem, a Venice which seemed to have been painted with Chartreuse and Curacoa. He had also as many deities from India, China, and Japan, hideous and of doubtful authenticity, as if he belonged to the yellow race. Launched suddenly into fast life, Alberic had a bed, modelled upon Madame de Pom- padour's, to sleep in late and badly; a library full of selected volumes, well bound, but never read; he sel- dom breakfasted in his dining-room, in the Renais- sance style, except when he was unwell; then he took a boiled egg and a cup of tea. He had even a valet, whose chief duty consisted in reading the journals and smoking his master's cigars; he also read the letters forgotten on the table, and, thanks to his black plush breeches and his cloth gaiters, succeeded in pleasing some female neighbors. Albe'ric, absorbed by his study of elegant life, was rarely at home. Early in the morning he jumped into his brougham and went to take a riding-lesson. After fifteen days of lumbago he was foolish enough to go out with an animal which was too spirited; he was thrown from his horse, in a heavy rain, into the mud on the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne. After an hour's 22 [337J FRANCOIS COPPEE trouble he entered his brougham and ordered his coachman to drive him to the fencing-room, where, although he was peacefully inclined, he endeavored to learn how he could kill a man according to the rules, in bending and breaking foils upon the fencing-mas- ter's pad. This was done under the directions of his new mentor, big Bordier, who was addicted to all sports and gymnastic arts, and who never missed a race meeting nor an assault of arms. At noon Alberic arrived at the Drinkers' Club, which in reality was called the Philharmonic New Club; the members were persuaded they were all people of the best quality, and so they conferred this gracious nickname on the club in preference. It was there, in breakfasting with his two friends, Bordier and Santelet, that Alberic finished his educa- tion as a modern dandy. After all, the question was reduced to this: to be up to date or not to be so, to know what was chic from its opposite. Thus, to be furnished with a safe tip for betting by a jockey was quite the fashion; to smoke a short brier pipe in the street when going home in evening dress was chic. One more requisite was wanting: it was to show one's self as much as possible fin de siecle. For instance, a duchess bearing an historical name who used to go every Friday to applaud the artists of the Chat Noir was named the ne plus ultra of the fin de siecle. Alberic had some intelligence and the gift of assimilation. He soon understood all these fine shades of distinction. Gambling went on at the club on a great scale. Every night after the theatres they played for heavy stakes, [3381 THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT and, of course, nothing was more chic than to heat one's brain till five o'clock in the morning under the large shade of the green table, and to lose or to win "a large sum" with an air of great indifference. So noble an employment of one's time and faculties was likely to tempt Alberic, who was not without self- love. His counsellors explained to him how laudable it was to take other people's money by the force of a knave of diamonds, or to empty one's purse into the pocket of the first comer by the order of a nine of spades. This pupil in "high life," who had made such de- cided progress, used to spend entire nights handling counters and cards and repeating till dawn the har- monious monosyllables "Carte, Bac, Buche," return- ing home at the hour when the sweepers' work begins in Paris, and waking up at noon with his head dry and burning and a coppery taste in his mouth. In the first two months of that kind of existence thirty thousand francs had gone, but he had acquired useful knowledge. The tailor had no longer need to declare that one must not wear a jacket in the after- noon, nor the bootmaker to induce him to wear boots with pointed toes. He was henceforth incapable of a single error in the matter of toilet. He knew that a gentleman who puts on straw-colored gloves commits an error, and that it suffices to hold them in one hand, quite new; that for travelling one can, and even must, wear a shirt with colored front, but with a white col- lar, and many other important things. He had caught the English style of walking in the street, the head [339] FRANCOIS COPPtfE thrown back, the elbows out; and the way of holding a thin umbrella horizontally, as if it were a heavy burden. How many other useful notions he had ac- quired! Nobody would have dared to compare in his presence the race-course of Chantilly with that at Auteuil. The Eastern cigarettes of the Hotel de Baden must not be mentioned, as tolerable ones could only be got at the Grand Hotel; and in spite of all your asser- tions, Voison's was the only place where you could eat a salmis of woodcock. Jules Santelet, journalist, was one of the greatest friends of Alberic ; he was well known in the theatrical world. Writing for a journal articles upon plays under the ingenious pseudonym of " Petit Blanc," he kept Parisian society acquainted with scandals from behind the scenes, such as: "Our readers will learn with pleasure that the little son of Mademoiselle Fleur de Pecher, the charming singer of the Bouffes de 1'Ouest, is quite cured of the whoop- ing-cough, from which he was suffering for the last few weeks. The public will share, as we do, the joy of the delightful divetta." "We notice in the list of the jury for the next assizes of the Seine the name of M. le Banqueroutel, the amiable manager of the Theatre des Fumisteries Parisiennes. " A penny-a-liner announcing news so important, and who lately, by two lines in the journal, had caused a lost Havana dog to be brought back to the soprano in the Opera Comique, must have a certain influence behind the punchinello cloaks; so he had made him- self a fifth collaborator; his name was on the bills, [34o] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT and he received one per cent, for his share in some librettos of operettas. On the boulevard petty actors bowed to him respectfully, hoping that a few words of praise might be inserted in his journal. Managers of theatres bestowed some attentions upon him; Brail- lard, the great comic, was very familiar with him; and a wealthy man named Rouyeaud, paid for his applause of actors, invited him at times for some pheas- ant-shooting on a suburban estate he owned on the banks of fehe Marne. Such a man was the very person to introduce Al- beric into this mysterious paradise of the coulisses which, at a distance, appears to stupid people to be something like Mahomet's heaven, while in reality refined feelings are shocked by steep stairs, dark pas- sages, scenes coarsely painted; the comediennes are tattooed like cannibals and the odors are a mingling of dust, stale perfume, and leaking gas. And that's the reason why all Parisians envy inwardly the luck of the fireman on duty. The Theatre des Fumisteries had just produced a play with costumes and couplets, with the title Take it Away! It is Heavy! M. Santelet, who, as a petty journalist supposed to be comic, was obliged to attend the first performances, and asked Alberic to accompany him. The play if one might call a tissue of incoherent scenes by that name was very stupid. Surrounded by a few girls in low bodices, most of them knock- kneed and singing very false, the famous buffoon, Oscar, gave out numerous puns borrowed from the [34i] FRANCOIS COPPfiE well-known work, A Million Puns for a Sou. The public, however, was charmed with the nonsense and applauded frantically. Suddenly, at the moment when Oscar he had lately been decorated with Aca- demic palms had just been slightly kicked and the gallery was applauding, a tall girl of some beauty, whose hair was of pale gold, but whose eyes were as blue and ferocious as those of a Valkyrie although born in Paris and a laundress by trade came on the stage and was also applauded frantically; but an employe" of the theatre had paid for this applause by regaling the claqueurs with cassia before the perform- ance. At the sight of Mademoiselle Acacia, Alberic felt that he had quite lost his heart. She personated the future Metropolitan Railway, and her headdress was a small painted cardboard locomotive, with a white feather imitating the smoke; she sang, with a harsh voice and the accent of Belleville, several couplets with the refrain: "I am the Metropolitan, tin, tin, lintintin!" She was indecently attired, and was for that reason the more applauded. She was a revela- tion, a great success; and Jules Santelet used this sonorous phrase when describing her in the paper: "Mademoiselle Acacia was a nascent star who sang divinely." The journalist, at the first performance of Take it Away! It is Heavy! introduced his friend to the actress, and at once she held Alberic fettered to her triumphal car. He "protected" this promising ar- tiste, and henceforth spent delightful days. In order [342] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT to be quite close to her and oftener to hear Mademoi- selle Acacia declaring, to some paid spectators, in ecs- tasy, that she was "the Metropolitan, tin, tin, lintin- tin," Alberic subscribed for a stall in the first row. He passed all his evenings there and became the friend of the kettle-drummer, an excellent musician who had composed the score of an opera in five acts twenty-five years ago perhaps a masterpiece. In order to earn his bread, he played the kettle-drum in the orchestra, and even at times other instruments, such as the triangle, tambourine, Chinese hat, bells, and castanets. One evening during the intermission, Alberic, who counted upon Mademoiselle Acacia's af- fection and was on the point of advancing a pretty large sum to the director, then in great need, so that she might appear at the Opera Comique, acquainted the old kettle-drummer with his scheme. "Don't you think she would be charming in Les Dragon de Vil- lars?" That amiable individual simply answered him by taking a pinch of snuff and saying: "Are you mad? that guinea-hen!" Alberic, wounded in his tender feelings, changed his seat, and, being now near the stringed instruments, soon entered into familiar conversation with the double bass. This artist, a modest musician of military appear- ance, with the heavy moustache of a sergeant-major, played every night in the orchestra and in the day- time performed on the trombone in the Republican Guard. "Tell me frankly your opinion," Alberic said to him; "don't you fancy seeing her in The Black Domino?" The musician was as severe as the un- [3433 FRANCOIS COPP6E recognized maestro. "That goose!" he exclaimed; "you are joking!" Albe'ric was rather discouraged. "Have I been mistaken," thought he to himself, "in believing Mademoiselle Acacia destined to become a great artiste?" For some time back her rapacity had tired him. She became furious at hearing any celebrated singer's name, and she could not pass near a jeweller's window on the arm of her lover without falling into ecstasies over a bracelet or a brooch. Besides, she had as a duenna a hideous old woman, a so-called aunt, who formerly used to cry fish in the streets, and she an- noyed Alberic by her excessive familiarity. So he separated from Mademoiselle Acacia, having palliated his abrupt departure by the gift of an ornament set with sapphires. In order to console him, his friend, the stockbroker's clerk, fat Bordier, who liked stables so much, took him to the Circus of the Champs-Elysees, where all Paris was then admiring a young American, Miss Nelly, who was unrivalled for standing on her knees upon a wire while juggling with cup and balls. No doubt it was an inferior art, and one for which a gen- tleman who had just been so generous toward a "diva" should not have cared. But Miss Nelly ah, these fair women! was pretty enough to tempt St. Antony himself. Thanks to Bordier, Alberic got ac- quainted immediately with the young rope-dancer and was soon behind the scenes, that is to say, in the stable opposite the box of the elephant, who looked at him with a bantering air. Alberic was smitten with Nelly, [344] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT and in his dreams he saw the beautiful American sur- rounded by a halo of cups and balls. She was, how- ever, a well-behaved person as is often the case among mountebanks. The family was numerous. There was the grandfather, who was once celebrated for his feats on the parallel bars; being old, he now rested on his laurels and only trained a few clever dogs for pastime. Then there was the father, called the gunman, who carried a cannon on his shoulders and bet two hundred francs that none of the com- pany could do the same. The mother was a "strong woman," who climbed nimbly upon her husband's shoulders, and in that difficult position she crossed her arms and held a human pyramid formed by her three sons, who had a fine future before them, and had had their limbs dislocated from the cradle. The fourth son, the eldest, being delicate, was the clown, and had been very successful in training a pig to do all the performances of a circus. Now, this family was full of morality, and its members never lost their equilibrium upon the tight-rope of virtue. So when Alberic, who came often to the stables, dared to speak of love to Miss Nelly under the mocking eyes of the elephant, the charming girl, lowering her eyes like an ingenue of M. Scribe's comedies, said, "Speak to my mother." To encourage him, she gracefully gave him to un- derstand that her mother would overcome the objec- tions of her father to a son-in-law inexperienced in gymnastics who could not present his tender request between two somersaults. [345] FRANCOIS COPPtfE In spite of the beauty of Miss Nelly, Albe"ric, who had not thought at first of any such a plan, was afraid of entering a family capable of opening the first quad- rille of the wedding ball by walking on their hands; so he made a prompt retreat. Thus his absurdly use- less life passed on. Every day, foils broken upon the pad of the fencing-master every day, meals at the restaurant and such discussions with the waiter as, "I say, Louis, you can't make me believe that this Pommard is the same that you gave me last time;" every night spent in cards at the club. He had no friends but parasites, did no good actions, gave .only reckless gifts, and squandered gold. Now he was laying his homage at the feet of a pretty star of a cafe chantant, who amidst a blaze of diamonds sang the fine romance, destined to be heard round the world, "Something Tickles My Back." This kind of life had lasted a year; Albe"ric had spent almost all of the first hundred thousand francs of his big prize. Poor fool! spoiled by money, like so many others. One morning in November Alberic, who by chance had gone to bed before midnight, woke up about seven, sick at heart, and began to reflect. "I must admit," said he, "I have led a fast life; my excuse is that I was dying of inanition, that I threw myself too gluttonously upon food, and now I can not digest it. I am truly blase. He who would have prophesied to me that in spite of my fortune I should have been tired after a year of all the pleasures of a rich man would have astonished me much. It is so, however. [346] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT I am bored. My comrades of the club are stupid, and I am sick of truffles. I won yesterday a bank of three hundred and ninety louis, without the least beat- ing of the heart. Shall I change my way of living? By Jove, no ! there is some good in all that disgusts me to-day, and were I to renounce it, I feel sure I should regret it. Now, what I want is a sort of half-moral and half-intellectual remedy! I must become again, for a few days, the poor devil I was formerly, and after that " Suddenly he got up and exclaimed, clapping his hands: "I am a fool! Nothing is easier! I paid a year's rent in advance. I still have my humble room in the Rue Ravignan. I can sleep there this very evening. I shall go and take my meals at my hum- ble restaurant, and I shall spend an evening at the cafe with Monsieur Mataboul. This is the very thing I ought to do; I shall soon have some new sensations. I shall again try my former miserable life; and, to complete my scheme, I must make myself again com- mercial correspondent for ten hours at a stretch at Messrs. Cahun and Son's. Ah, I am sick from satiety! Well, I know what will cure me ! A cure for discon- tent! I feel sure the cure will not take long. It would be surprising if nights in an icy room, dinners at twenty-two sous, and the slavery of stupid work should not restore me quickly to taste and a desire for a soft bed, good living, liberty, and idleness. A cure for discontent! I have found the name and the cure itself I will begin it from to-day." [347] CHAPTER III THE CURE ;BERIC had made this important res- olution when the valet, the fine gal- lant in black plush breeches, entered the room, bringing a cup of chocolate of a delicious perfume; but the young man, who wished to begin his course of mortification at once, re- sisted this first temptation. "What!" exclaimed the Don Juan of the ladies' maids, "Mon- sieur Alberic is dressing before I have lighted the fire? Monsieur does not take his chocolate?" "No, Joseph, I must go out directly and be absent for two or three days. I don't want you go!" Alberic recollected then that he had still in his ward- robe the suit of the Belle Jardiniere establishment and the topcoat under which he had shivered in former times on winter mornings when hastening toward his office. He cast upon his old clothes the philosophical glance of Sixtus Quintus recognizing the old rags worn as a swineherd. He dressed hastily and saw, the first time for a year, Paris in the early morning, with its passers- by fully occupied ; the women hastening to their busi- ness, the noisy carts of milkmen, and the scavengers' carts. [348] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT "By Jove!" said Alberic, shivering in the damp mist, "my treatment begins to work. There was some good in my coat lined with otter. I shall put it on again with pleasure." In a dirty milk-shop of the Rue de la Grange- Ba- teliere, where he used to go formerly, Alberic drank a wretched cup of coffee, and his stomach regretted the perfumed chocolate, stoically rejected, on which the Lovelace with fine gaiters regaled himself! "One more excellent effect of the cure," thought Alberic, while spreading rank butter upon soft bread; "here is milk which shows the great progress of modern chemistry, as no cow is responsible for it! Chocolate is indeed very good, and Joseph makes it well. Hum! I believe my cure will be rapid. Let us go now to Messrs. Cahun and Son. I must de- vote myself to one of my drudging days of former times; it will be homoeopathy similia similibus." He reached the famous shirt-makers' house in the Rue du Sentier at eight o'clock, and found Father Schwab, the old cashier, at his post. "You, Monsieur Mesnard!" exclaimed the man, who thought he was no longer entitled to speak famil- iarly to a rich man ; " you so early by what chance ? " "Monsieur Schwab," replied Alberic, "I come to ask you a favor." "What is that, Monsieur Mesnard?" said the eager cashier. "Simply to allow me to spend to-day, and perhaps to-morrow and the next day, in the offices in helping my ex-comrades in the correspondence, exactly as [349] FRANCOIS COPPtfE when I was a clerk here. I will even request Mon- sieur Abraham to give me a lot of work to do." Old Schwab was dumbfounded and showed great uncertainty about the mental state of Alberic, but Alberic burst out laughing and said: "No, Monsieur Schwab, I am not mad, be reas- sured; anyhow, I am not suffering from the 'mania of riches.' If I mean to become for a time the poor young man I used to be, it is simply to win a bet. Yes, the gentlemen of the club have declared jocosely that I could no longer, after my year of pleasure, live one day of my former life. I have accepted the bet, and you will be witnesses, all of you, that I shall fulfil all the conditions. You see I wear now the little suit of the Belle Jardiniere which I wore a year ago. Every day that I shall pass here represents a good sum, and it will all end with a good dinner, which I promise to my ancient companions in slavery. Is it agreed?" The thought that prodigal Christians were going to lose their money in a stupid wager was enough to delight the old Hebrew, and the promise of a good dinner pleased him. He left his desk at once and entered with Alberic into the office, where a dozen unfortunate clerks, bent over enormous books, added up long columns of figures. Alberic, who was received with -exclamations of surprise, shook hands with every one, renewed the promise of a good dinner, and took his place at his desk amid bursts of laughter. He received a quantity of work from M. Abraham splendid Jew with a black and curly beard, [35] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT who reminded you of those basso relievos of Nine- vah at the Louvre; he resembled the personages re- presented with tiaras on their heads who carry lions under their arms as easily as a man of business holds a portfolio of black shagreen, or an old lady her Havanese dog. During the whole day Alberic went on with a voluminous correspondence from South America, where Cahun and Son had established a very large trade. He answered, "In reply to your esteemed favor of the " to the orders of all the shirtmakers of Chili, Peru, Brazil, and the Argentine Republic. He sent a very large quantity of collars to Rio Janeiro; cuffs and separate shirt-fronts were also sent in great numbers to Buenos Ayres and Mon- tevideo. He forwarded in enormous packages, espe- cially to those towns whose names seem to be the warblings of birds, like Guayaquil, or the cries of par- rots, like Caracas, a new article of Cahun and Son's house, a cravat with a knot ready made in red, flame of punch, green apple, and lemon-colored satin, all in the very best taste and representing the last Paris fashion for the Spanish-American republics. Strange phenomenon! the voluntary employe put up with the long hours of work without feeling very much bored. He could not help thinking that it was not much more wearisome to spend a day in writing the same phrases than to remain all night at the club, looking on at the cards of baccarat as they were con- tinually thrown down. "On this part of the treatment," reflected he, "I foresee that I shall be compelled to insist. Well, the [35i] FRANCOIS dose will be double, or more, if necessary, but I am not credulous enough to believe in those moralists' nonsense who maintain that one gets tired less quickly of a task than of a pleasure. " Six o'clock struck, and Alberic found that time had passed pretty quickly. He took leave of old Schwab and his comrades, promising to meet them the next day. He was soon on the boulevard on his way to Mont- martre. A cold, thin rain was falling, and Alberic had no umbrella. He was about to jump into a cab, but suddenly he altered his mind. "No, I have not the right to do so," said he; "to be wet like a poodle because an umbrella has been forgotten that is another part of the cure. A cab! what a luxury! and, besides, at the end of the month! Am I mad? I have not money enough to afford to drive. Ah! you did not understand how much more agreeable it was to have a brougham by the month, with your crest on the door! Well, I have a twenty minutes' walk before I reach the small restaurant of the Rue Germain-Pilon, and it is going to pour! Well, forward! this will all be valuable experience." He was wet through when he arrived. Nothing was changed; the narrow passage which should have been employed for a rope-maker's work- shop was redolent of stew as formerly, and the draught was dreadful. The house had lost its reputation, since some of the small tables were empty, and only ten hats with ten shabby overcoats were hanging on the walls. [352] THE CURE FOR DISCONTETT When Albric appeared, the stout manageress, so like Mirabeau, was reminding the maid that a cus- tomer had asked three times for his veal, and was as angry as the famous tribune addressing M. de Dreux Breze. She was indeed amazed to see him; she knew, of course, that he had won the big prize; she could not understand his taste for the abominable cookery of her restaurant after his year of absence. But with- out caring for the surprise of the ogress, Alberic sat down and looked at the bill of fare. "Monsieur, there is fish to-day," said the servant with the weak voice. This poor woman was still the same; at pres- ent she did not suffer from the chronic toothache, but the index finger of her right hand had a whitlow and was wrapped up in dirty linen, the sight of which would have taken away the appetite of a shipwrecked mariner, even upon the raft of the Medusa. "Let us see this fish!" said Alberic. He was served, on a soiled plate, with very indifferent mackerel. He was shocked at it. "By Jove!" thought he to him- self, "my treatment is forced upon me in all its rigor, and I who the day before yesterday, at the Cafe An- glais, was finding fault with the chef and scolding the waiter about a filet of sole with shrimps, will next time think it a treat. Certainly my idea is an excellent one, and my cure for discontent will put me to rights in twenty-four hours. There is something wanting, how- ever, to complete my woes; everything here is just what I was wishing for; it makes me feel sick, but to crown it all I should have some of my tedious friends of last year, for example, Monsieur Mataboul! I do regret 23 [353] FRANCOIS COPPtiE his absence because, for some time past, the conversa- tion at the club has been a bore to me; my comrades speak of nothing but horses and idle talk, but Mon- sieur Mataboul would talk politics to me; I never knew a greater bore than he. Oh, that he were here to fulminate against the encroachments of the clergy, or to denounce to the public the danger of leaving Egypt in the hands of the English Government!" At this very moment, as if destiny obeyed Alberic, M. Mataboul entered the restaurant; he had with him a pretty, sweet-looking girl about eight years old in mourning garb. He. knew Alberic directly and exclaimed: "Can I believe my eyes!" as in the classical tragedies. "You, my dear Monsieur Mesnard? What! the lucky man, the winner of the big prize, comes back to dine in a humble restaurant! I am charmed to see you again. Will you permit me to sit down at your table?" ' ' Do so by all means, Monsieur Mataboul. At the mo- ment when you came in I was regretting your absence. " "Now, Josephine," said Mataboul, "bring us some dinner. Once more I assure you I am pleased to see you." He placed the darling child on a chair and said: "Monsieur Mesnard, you are about to see that she can eat quietly like a big girl. She is only eight years old, but very sensible." Alberic was much surprised to see this southerner, with wild eyes and the face of a brigand of the Ab- ruzzi, taking care of this child and tying her napkin with motherly carefulness. [354] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT "Who is this pretty child?" asked Alberic. "Oh, it is Mariette," replied Mataboul, "my only niece, who loves her uncle well; is it not so, darling? Ah! my life has been changed greatly during the last six weeks. You see I wear mourning. I will tell you all by-and-by. Let us speak of yourself first, my dear Mesnard, for I am so surprised to find you again in the old restaurant. Pardon me if my ques- tion is indiscreet. Since our separation we have had the failure of the Comptoir de Credit. I do hope you have not deposited your capital in the hands of those swindlers. I should be so sorry if it were so, for you are kind-hearted, and your good luck pleased me very much. ' ' Yes he was a good fellow, this great talker, Mat- aboul! Alberic was much moved. When he was un- lucky in the heavy game on Saturday evening in the club, Bordier and Santelet, his so-called friends, re- garded his losses very philosophically; and at the possibility of a misfortune this Mataboul, nearly a stranger, was really distressed. "Be reassured," re- plied Alberic to Mataboul, who had just helped his niece to the half of a doubtful mackerel. "No, I am not ruined. I will explain to you that I come here through a whim, a bet. But now tell me about this child." "The story is not cheerful, I assure you," replied Mataboul. "I had one sister; I was her senior by three years; she was an unhappy widow with this child and kept a small tobacco shop at the Grand- Montrouge; I rarely saw her. I could not help her much after all, she managed to live. She had done [355] very wrong to leave the country to marry a Parisian, a bad man, who soon squandered her small dowry. He died, leaving her a widow thirty-two years of age. I paid her three visits a year. Her health had been breaking for some time, but in September last she died without letting me know she was ill. The doctor said she died of anaemia; it is their great word! I have inherited her daughter. I am her uncle, her guardian; but it is annoying that I am an old bach- elor. I live in furnished apartments on the Boulevard Pigalle at the Hotel de 1'Univers you know the house where a shoemaker sells workmen's boots. Luckily they have arranged a small bedroom for Mariette close to my own, and I am sure you are very comfortable there, my darling," added Mataboul; "you are not afraid at night and you know well that uncle leaves the door half -open!" M. Mataboul, with his terrible face, like that of Fra Diavolo, kissed her tenderly. "It must be a very heavy burden for you," said Alberic, struggling against emotion; "how do you reconcile this with your former existence?" "I get on pretty well, I assure you," replied M. Mataboul; "then school is the great resource! I take Mariette to school in the morning; she likes the good Sisters. All day I travel by trams and omni- buses; I cross Paris in all directions; I go to see my restaurant people; I try to sell barrels of wine. I work hard now, for I have to work for two. I wish to economize, to have my own furniture, and to engage a young maidservant. When my day's work is over [356] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT I hurry to take the child from school, and I bring her here to dine with me. Afterward we go back to the hotel, and I make her learn her lessons; then it is bedtime, poor little girl! Is it not so, Mariette? If you wish to grow tall and have plump cheeks, you must go to bed early." "Is it possible, Monsieur Mataboul, you no longer spend your evenings in the cafe ? You read no papers ? You care no more for politics?" "Hardly ever, it is true. I do not even know what happened during the last fortnight in the Balkans. I admit it was very hard at first. Yet I yield to my old fancy at times. I am going now to the Cafe du Delta, where I ask the waiter to bring Mariette the illus- trated papers, and then I read the political papers attentively. You know when these soft-brained sen- ators lately altered the military law? By jingo! I could not resist it! I went to the Delta with Mariette and read the description in extenso. I found the child dying with sleep over the Charivari. 1 shall give that up, for it is my duty. " "Duty!" This was a word which Alberic had not heard for a long time. In his world at the circus, in the fencing-room, in the precincts of the weighing-room, in the boudoir of Mademoiselle Acacia, behind the scenes of theatres, upon the divan of the club pleasure was the only word mentioned; yet duty also existed. By this time Mataboul had finished his dinner and was now, care- fully as a nurse, wrapping up his niece in a black woollen shawl. [357] FRANCOIS COPPfeE At his departure Mataboul said: "I dare not hope to see you often here, dear Monsieur Mesnard; the fish was not tempting enough to induce you to return. I am so pleased to have met you again; and were it not that I have to make Mariette repeat her grammar lesson, we should have gone to the cafe. I should have liked to know the latest news about the Eastern question. Servia is in a sad state; this abdication of King Milan is a grave affair. But Mariette must look over the rules of the participles. Good-by, again, Monsieur." Mariette came toward Alberic, who kissed her. How sweet it is to kiss a child! Why did he feel so moved at heart? "Monsieur Mataboul, it is possible I may have occasion to write to you soon; tell me your address." "Boulevard Pigalle, Hotel de PUnivers," replied the wine-broker. "Next time we see each other we shall speak of the last elections. It is intolerable to see the old parties holding up their heads with so much effrontery. Good-night once more." Alberic left the restaurant soon after; large stars were shining and the wind was cutting. "This time," reflected Alberic, while going to the Rue Ravignan, "my treatment is at a fault, for so far from being a bore to me, Monsieur Mataboul has affected me very much. I must do something for him and his niece; to admit to one's self that a bore can be also a good man, to become indulgent toward other people's faults, to be reminded that there is wretched poverty nobly borne and to wish to succor it all this [358] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT forms part of the cure for unhappiness and discon- tent and is a matter for reflection. Let me go now to my old room." He soon arrived, and on entering found the porter, who was a tailor, sitting on a table patching an old garment. He started up with sur- prise on seeing his old tenant. "Monsieur Mesnard!" he exclaimed; "is it indeed you? Well, I thought you were no longer in this world. I know you paid me four quarters in advance, but as we heard nothing of you the landlord and I were puzzled what to do concerning your furniture." " Don't be uneasy, Father Constant, " replied Alberic. " Give me my key I intend to sleep there to-night." "What! to sleep here! What a strange idea for the winner of the big prize! Your room is full of dust, no doubt, and there has been no fire in it for a year. Think of it! Well, wait till the return of my wife, then I will go and lay the sheets." Here, let us confess it, Albe"ric yielded to his first weakness; after all, he thought, to die by cold did not enter into his plan, and even in the old dark days the doorkeeper had looked to his comfort. "Very well!" said Alberic; "as soon as your wife returns you can go and get my room ready. Now I am going to pay a visit to Madame and Mademoiselle Bouquet." "Oh!" replied old Constant, "a misfortune has hap- pened to those ladies; the mamma has had an attack." "Oh, indeed! an attack?" "Yes something very bad, the doctor said. These ladies were poor, and now illness adds to the burden. [359] FRANCOIS And poor Mademoiselle Zoe is so courageous, so amiable!" The old sympathy of Alberic for Mademoiselle Zoe" was at once awakened, so he went upstairs nimbly and listened at the door to the noise of a sewing- machine. Alas! it had to be worked more than ever now that misfortune had entered the house. Alberic rang. Mademoiselle Zoe opened the door. "Ah! mamma," she exclaimed, "here is an unex- pected visit which will please you. It is Monsieur Alberic." Her eyes were full of frankness and her charming smile of welcome enchanted him. She had, alas! become thinner, and her tired eyelids betrayed long nights of work. Alberic first saluted Madame Bouquet, who had grown older by ten years; her hair was quite gray, and she sat motionless in her armchair. The decayed beauty, now paralyzed, fixed her brilliant eyes upon Alberic and nodded to him without any sign of her former dignity. "I must apologize," said the young man, "for my long absence. I have been travelling. I have just been informed by old Constant, Mademoiselle Zoe*, that your dear mother has been ill. I hastened to make inquiries about her." "Alas! yes, Monsieur Alberic," replied Madame Bouquet in a doleful voice, "see, I can scarcely move my poor hand; at fifty-two years of age it is hard; and if you knew all the trouble I give to my dear Zoe she is so devoted to me." 1360] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT What a change! The old lady had no longer her royal gait, her glance like that of Marie Antoinette before the revolutionary tribunal. And was it pos- sible? while she complained she pitied her daughter and spoke of her so tenderly. Yes, indeed! misfor- tune is good for something. The trials of Madame Bouquet had worked that miracle. Illness had broken down that exacting temper and melted the egotism of her heart. When condemned to submit to the guar- dianship of her daughter, the mother appreciated at last her admirable child. Zoe kissed the pale forehead of the paralytic and sat down again before the sewing-machine. "Mamma flatters me," she said, turning her ten- der eyes toward Alberic; "what she says is through kindness for me. You could not believe with what great resignation she bears her trial; besides, she is already much improved. You see, I can only give her small attentions, but she has such very great energy that I am certain she will not give way, and you will see, Monsieur Albe"ric, she will soon be cured entirely." No! paralysis does not relent, and the half of her body is forever useless. She seems overwhelmed by that calamity, but Mademoiselle Zo6 will never admit that she is beyond cure, and tries to keep hope alive in her mother's mind. She repeats over and over again to the poor cripple the flattering assurance of ultimate cure; she persuades her that she has pre- served her former fortitude, and emotions are so dangerous to invalids she even tries to escape from those maternal caresses of which she was formerly de- FRANCOIS COPP^E prived. Oh! that she could restore to the infirm lady, now so affectionate, her former faults! How willingly she would consent to endure again the coldness of her mother's nature! Alberic's heart was beating sorrowfully, although delightfully. Had he been blind? He had never be- fore noticed that, without being very pretty, Made- moiselle Zoe was adorable. How much simplicity in her self-sacrifice! She must have suffered, the poor girl! And what anguish in thoughts of the future! For it was easy to see these unhappy women were on the verge of poverty! Where is the clock of the Louis XVI period? Where are the two fine engravings, remnants of the wreck of the family Bouquet, which used to adorn the walls? At the bric-a-brac dealer's, without doubt! Oh, heavens! they are reduced to that ! This exquisite Mademoiselle Zoe who now and then lifts up her eyes and looks at Alberic sorrow- fully, as if to say: "What a pity you are rich!" was obliged to sell the furniture to save herself and her mother from starving. What a frightful thought! While Madame Bouquet, with a tearful and stam- mering voice, told all about her illness and the kind- nesses of her Zoe, Alberic, who feigns to be listening to her, abandons himself totally to his future schemes. Truly it was foolish his life of pleasure! To-mor- row he will give notice that he will quit his stuffy entresol; he will dismiss his Lovelace with the choc- olate-colored gaiters; he will send his resignation to the president of the club; he will forget the addresses of Bordier and Santelet in short, he will pass a sponge THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT over his past life. All that life was false fatigue and disgust were its only results. To do one's duty, to live for others here is the true means of escaping ennui. Duty! he has hardly any to fulfil, as he is rich and alone. Well, he is about to assume some. Ah! you imagine, little Zoe, that I can not love you because I am rich! I will marry you for your beautiful eyes and for the skilful way you make the cloth slip under the needle of your machine. Yes, Mademoiselle, some one will become the respectful son-in-law of Madame Bouquet and will help you to attend the poor cripple; and although he still possesses, in spite of many follies, a capital that will enable him to live on the income, he will begin again to work; not as an amateur at Cahun and Son's, no! but he will go on with some occupation, even if he is obliged to paint, like his father, hundreds of dozens of oysters. There is one thing certain, Mademoiselle Zoe, and it is that he loves you and is going to ask for your hand. He will abandon the life of a bachelor, and will have much less merit in doing so than the kind M. Mataboul had when he gave up politics and his cafe that his niece might go to bed early. Alberic rose abruptly, took Zoe by the hand, and led her to her mother's side. "Dear Madame Bou- quet," said he, trembling, "pardon me for not having told you the truth. No! I was not absent. I re- mained in Paris and led a foolish life. I was ungrate- ful not to have paid you a visit sooner. I was suffer- ing from a dreadful illness known only among the rich; it has cost me a hundred thousand francs and [363] FRANCOIS COPP^E has somewhat injured my health, but I have followed drastic treatment which has quite cured me. Now, dear Madame, you can with one word make me the most happy or the most miserable of men. I love Mademoiselle Zoe, I dare hope I am not indifferent to her, and I ask you frankly to accept me as your son-in-law." Oh, heavens! what is the matter with the poor girl? Her fainting head falls upon the young man's shoulder, and then she melts into tears. Truly she must have loved him dearly! She kneels before her mother and takes hold of her paralyzed hand. Alberic himself, deeply moved, kneels also. What could the poor mother do except weep in her turn while bless- ing the happy pair? Healed by his "cure for discontent," so short but so efficacious, and having preserved a competency from the wreck of his great prize, Alberic, with his mother-in-law and his young bride, dwells in a very pretty country-house situated at ten leagues from Paris, upon a hillslope by the banks of the Seine. There, on a charming terrace, Madame Bouquet re- poses comfortably on pillows and looks at the boats passing by. The young wife has preserved her ma- chine and sits down often near her mother to work. She is very happy, and her husband has not yet found any better occupation than to love his wife. In the beginning of autumn, in order to beguile the tedious long evenings, he occupied his time in writing French poetry in praise of his dear Zoe. On Sun- day M. Mataboul, who is now a wholesale wine-mer- [364] THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT chant, thanks to a round sum of money lent by Al- beric, and is successful in business, comes with his niece to share the family dinner. Then Madame Mesnard lavishes on the little Mariette those tender caresses which make one guess that she will later be a good mother. As it is pretty hard to get fish in the country, M. Mataboul brings down with him a lobster, ready boiled, whose color does honor to his radical views. For prosperity has failed to spoil him, and he still remains a Republican of the deepest dye. Without neglecting business, he has regained all his interest in politics, and this makes him at times as great a bore as ever. Alberic bears with him, knowing all his good qualities; but Madame Bouquet was ter- ribly scandalized the other day when he loudly ex- pressed his approval of the incorporation of priests in the army, and cried out: " Priests! Bah! Put them all in uniform!" And yet, rather illogically, he has sent his little niece to a convent-school, "because, you see, there is no one except the good Sisters who can teach children properly." Alberic has completely broken with his friends at the club. Big Bordier, after a rather too lively finan- cial career, has been forced to put the Belgian frontier between himself and the police. And as for Santelet, whose grandfather was master of a merchant-ship and for thirty years dealt largely in negroes for a Nantes ship-owner, he occupies, by a strange phenomenon of atavism, a nearly analagous position. He is now a theatrical manager. [365] UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY This book is DUE on the last date stamped below APR -U Form L-9 aom-1, '41(1122) UNIVJflJBlTi of CALlFOfflB LOS ANGELES LIBRARY J^SWTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A 000975717 o I PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE THIS BOOK CARD University Research Library D ^'