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'Acac<?mie Frangaise. 
 
 [ix]
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ON THE BALCONY i 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 SAD CHANGES 14 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 PAPA AND MAMMA GERARD 26 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 THE DEMON ABSINTHE . .42 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 AMDE MAKES FRIENDS 57 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 DREAMS OF LOVE 69 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 A GENTLE COUNSELLOR 77 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 BUTTERFLIES AND GRASSHOPPERS 85 
 
 [xi]
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 VA6E 
 
 THORNS OF JEALOUSY 97 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 A BUDDING POET in 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 SUCCESS 128 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 SOCIAL TRIUMPHS -. 147 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 A SERPENT AT THE FIRESIDE 166 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 Too LATE! * 183 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 REPARATION 203 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 IN TIME OF WAR 219 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 "WHEN YOUTH, THE DREAM, DEPARTS" 239 
 
 [xii]
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 SHORT STORIES 
 
 RESTITUTION 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE HONEST THIEF 251 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 THE DWELLING OF A POET 266 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 THE SCHOOL FOR DEMOISELLES 276 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 ALL is WELL WITH MOTHER AND CHILD 285 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 IN THE GAY WORLD 296 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 CONCLUSION 307 
 
 THE CURE FOR DISCONTENT 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 TOIL AND HEALTH 311 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 THE FIRST PLUNGE 328 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 THE CURE 348
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 Francois Coppee (portrait} Frontispiece 
 
 Abbe Moulin, the old Cure, almost asleep, sat near the fire . 252 
 Zoe's eyes, looking to Alberic, shone 324
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 ON THE BALCONY 
 
 far back as Amedee Violette can re- 
 member, he sees himself in an infant's 
 cap upon a fifth-floor balcony cov- 
 ered with convolvulus; the child 
 was very small, and the balcony 
 seemed very large to him. Amedee 
 had received for a birthday present 
 a box of water-colors, with which he 
 was sprawled out upon an old rug, earnestly intent 
 upon his work of coloring the woodcuts in an odd 
 volume of the Magasin Pittoresque, and wetting his 
 brush from time to time in his mouth. The neighbors 
 in the next apartment had a right to one-half of the 
 balcony. Some one in there was playing upon the 
 piano Marcailhou's Indiana Waltz, which was all the 
 rage at that time. Any man, born about the year 
 1845, wno does not f ee l tne tears f homesickness rise 
 to his eyes as he turns over the pages of an old num- 
 ber of the Magasin Pittoresque, or who hears some 
 one play upon an old piano Marcailhou's Indiana 
 Waltz, is not endowed with much sensibility. 
 
 [i]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 When the child was tired of putting the "flesh color" 
 upon the faces of all the persons in the engravings, 
 he got up and went to peep through the railings of 
 the balustrade. He saw extending before him, from 
 right to left, with a graceful curve, the Rue Notre-Dame- 
 des-Champs, one of the quietest streets in the Luxem- 
 bourg quarter, then only half built up. The branches 
 of the trees spread over the wooden fences, which 
 enclosed gardens so silent and tranquil that passers- 
 by could hear the birds singing in their cages. 
 
 It was a September afternoon, with a broad expanse 
 of pure sky across which large clouds, like mountains 
 of silver, moved in majestic slowness. 
 
 Suddenly a soft voice called him: 
 
 "Amedee, your father will return from the office 
 soon. We must wash your hands before we sit down 
 to the table, my darling." 
 
 His mother came out upon the balcony for him. 
 His mother; his dear mother, whom he knew for so 
 short a time ! It needs an effort for him to call her to 
 mind now, his memories are so indistinct. She was so 
 modest and pretty, so pale, and with such charming 
 blue eyes, always carrying her head on one side, as 
 if the weight of her lovely chestnut hair was too heavy 
 for her to bear, and smiling the sweet, tired smile of 
 those who have not long to live! She made his toilette, 
 kissed him upon his forehead, after brushing his hair. 
 Then she laid their modest table, which was always 
 decorated with a pretty vase of flowers. Soon the 
 father entered. He was one of those mild, unpreten- 
 tious men who let everybody run over them. 
 
 [2]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 He tried to be gay when he entered his own house. 
 He raised his little boy aloft with one arm, before 
 kissing him, exclaiming, "Houp la!" A moment 
 later he kissed his young wife and held her close to 
 him, tenderly, as he asked, with an anxious look: 
 
 "Have you coughed much to-day?" 
 
 She always replied, hanging her head like a child 
 who tells an untruth, "No, not very much." 
 
 The father would then put on an old coat the one 
 he took off was not very new. Amedee was then 
 seated in a high chair before his mug, and the young 
 mother, going into the kitchen, would bring in the 
 supper. After opening his napkin, the father would 
 brush back behind his ear with his hand a long lock 
 on the right side, that always fell into his eyes. 
 
 "Is there too much of a breeze this evening? Are 
 you afraid to go out upon the balcony, Lucie? Put 
 a shawl on, then," said M. Violette, while his wife 
 was pouring the water remaining in the carafe upon 
 a box where some nasturtiums were growing. 
 
 "No, Paul, I am sure take Amedee down from 
 his chair, and let us go out upon the balcony." 
 
 It was cool upon this high balcony. The sun had 
 set, and now the great clouds resembled mountains of 
 gold, and a fresh odor came up from the surrounding 
 gardens. 
 
 "Good-evening, Monsieur Violette," suddenly said 
 a cordial voice. "What a fine evening!" 
 
 It was their neighbor, M. Gerard, an engraver, 
 who had also come to take breath upon his end of 
 the balcony, having spent the entire day bent over 
 
 [3]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPtfE 
 
 his work. He was large and bald-headed, with a 
 good-natured face, a red beard sprinkled with white 
 hairs, and he wore a short, loose coat. As he spoke 
 he lighted his clay pipe, the bowl of which represented 
 Abd-el-Kader's face, very much colored, save the eyes 
 and turban, which were of white enamel. 
 
 The engraver's wife, a dumpy little woman with 
 merry eyes, soon joined her husband, pushing before 
 her two little girls; one, the smaller of the two, was 
 two years younger than Amedee; the other was ten 
 years old, and already had a wise little air. She was 
 the pianist who practised one hour a day Marcailhou's 
 Indiana Waltz. 
 
 The children chattered through the trellis that di- 
 vided the balcony in two parts. Louise, the elder of 
 the girls, knew how to read, and told the two little 
 ones very beautiful stories: Joseph sold by his brethren; 
 Robinson Crusoe discovering the footprints of human 
 beings. 
 
 Amedee, who now has gray hair upon his temples, 
 can still remember the chills that ran down his back 
 at the moment when the wolf, hidden under cover- 
 ings and the grandmother's cap, said, with a gnashing 
 of teeth, to little Red Riding Hood: "All the better to 
 eat you with, my child." 
 
 It was almost dark then upon the terrace. It was 
 all delightfully terrible! 
 
 During this time the two families, in their respective 
 parts of the balcony, were talking familiarly together. 
 The Violettes were quiet people, and preferred rather 
 to listen to their neighbors than to talk themselves, 
 
 [4]
 
 making brief replies for politeness' sake "Ah!" "Is 
 it possible?" "You are right." 
 
 The Gerards liked to talk. Madame Gerard, who 
 was a good housekeeper, discussed questions of domes- 
 tic economy; telling, for example, how she had been 
 out that day, and had seen, upon the Rue du Bac, 
 some merino: "A very good bargain, I assure you, 
 Madame, and very wide!" Or perhaps the engraver, 
 who was a simple politician, after the fashion of 1848, 
 would declare that we must accept the Republic, "Oh, 
 not the red-hot, you know, but the true, the real one!" 
 Or he would wish that Cavaignac had been elected 
 President at the September balloting; although he 
 himself was then engraving one must live, after all 
 a portrait of Prince Louis Napoleon, destined for 
 the electoral platform. M. and Madame Violette let 
 them talk; perhaps even they did not always pay 
 attention to the conversation. When it was dark they 
 held each other's hands and gazed at the stars. 
 
 These lovely, cool, autumnal evenings, upon the bal- 
 cony, under the starry heavens, are the most distant 
 of all Amedee's memories. Then there was a break 
 in his memory, like a book with several leaves torn 
 out, after which he recalls many sad days. 
 
 Winter had come, and they no longer spent their 
 evenings upon the balcony. One could see nothing 
 now through the windows but a dull, gray sky. Ame- 
 dee's mother was ill and always remained in her bed. 
 When he was installed near the bed, before a little 
 table, cutting out with scissors the hussars from a 
 sheet of Epinal, his poor mamma almost frightened 
 
 [5]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE 
 
 him, as she leaned her elbow upon the pillow and 
 gazed at him so long and so sadly, while her thin white 
 hands restlessly pushed back her beautiful, disordered 
 hair, and two red hectic spots burned under her cheek- 
 bones. 
 
 It was not she who now came to take him from 
 his bed in the morning, but an old woman in a short 
 jacket, who did not kiss him, and who smelled hor- 
 ribly of snuff. 
 
 His father, too, did not pay much attention to him 
 now. When he returned in the evening from the 
 office he always brought bottles and little packages 
 from the apothecary. Sometimes he was accompanied 
 by the physician, a large man, very much dressed and 
 perfumed, who panted for breath after climbing the 
 five flights of stairs. Once Amedee saw this stranger 
 put his arms around his mother as she sat in her bed, 
 and lay his head for a long time against her back. 
 The child asked, "What for, mamma?" 
 
 M. Violette, more nervous than ever, and continually 
 throwing back the rebellious lock behind his ear, would 
 accompany the doctor to the door and stop there to 
 talk with him. Then Amedee's mother would call to 
 him, and he would climb upon the bed, where she 
 would gaze at him with her bright eyes and press him 
 to her breast, saying, in a sad tone, as if she pitied 
 him : " My poor little Medee ! My poor little Medee ! " 
 Why was it? What did it all mean? 
 
 His father would return with a forced smile which 
 was pitiful to see. 
 
 "Well, what did the doctor say?" 
 
 [6]
 
 "Oh, nothing, nothing! You are much better. 
 Only, my poor Lucie, we must put on another blister 
 to-night." 
 
 Oh, how monotonous and slow these days were to 
 the little Amedee, near the drowsy invalid, in the close 
 room smelling of drugs, where only the old snuff-taker 
 entered once an hour to bring a cup of tea or put 
 charcoal upon the fire! 
 
 Sometimes their neighbor, Madame Gerard, would 
 come to inquire after the sick lady. 
 
 "Still very feeble, my good Madame Gerard," his 
 mother would respond. "Ah, I am beginning to get 
 discouraged." 
 
 But Madame Gerard would not let her be despond- 
 ent. 
 
 "You see, Madame Violette, it is this horrible, end- 
 less winter. It is almost March now; they are already 
 selling boxes of primroses in little carts on the side- 
 walks. You will surely be better as soon as the sun 
 shines. If you like, I will take little Amedee back 
 with me to play with my little girls. It will amuse the 
 child." 
 
 So it happened that the good neighbor kept the 
 child every afternoon, and he became very fond of 
 the little Gerard children. 
 
 Four little rooms, that is all; but with a quantity of 
 old, picturesque furniture; engravings, casts, and pict- 
 ures painted by comrades were on the walls; the 
 doors were always open, and the children could always 
 play where they liked, chase each other through the 
 apartments or pillage them. In the drawing-room, 
 
 [7]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPtiE 
 
 which had been transformed into a work-room, the 
 artist sat upon a high stool, point in hand; the light 
 from a curtainless window, sifting through the trans- 
 parent paper, made the worthy man's skull shine as 
 he leaned over his copper plate. He worked hard all 
 day; with an expensive house and two girls to bring 
 up, it was necessary. In spite of his advanced opinions, 
 he continued to engrave his Prince Louis "A rogue 
 who is trying to juggle us out of a Republic." At the 
 very most, he stopped only two or three times a day 
 to smoke his Abd-el-Kader. Nothing distracted him 
 from his work; not even the little ones, who, tired of 
 playing ^their piece for four hands upon the piano, 
 would organize, with Amedee, a game of hide-and- 
 seek close by their father, behind the old Empire sofa 
 ornamented with bronze lions' heads. But Madame 
 Gerard, in her kitchen, where she was always cooking 
 something good for dinner, sometimes thought they 
 made too great an uproar. Then Maria, a real hoy- 
 den, in trying to catch her sister, would push an old 
 armchair against a Renaissance chest and make all 
 the Rouen crockery tremble. 
 
 "Now then, now then, children!" exclaimed Madame 
 Gerard, from the depths of her lair, from which es- 
 caped a delicious odor of bacon. "Let your father 
 have a little quiet, and go and play in the dining- 
 room." 
 
 They obeyed; for there they could move chairs as 
 they liked, build houses of them, and play at making 
 calls. Did ever anybody have such wild ideas at five 
 years of age as this Maria? She took the arm of 
 
 [8]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 Amedee, whom she called her little husband, and went 
 to call upon her sister and show her her little child, 
 a pasteboard doll with a large head, wrapped up in a 
 napkin. 
 
 "As you see, Madame, it is a boy." 
 
 "What do you intend to make of him when he 
 grows up?" asked Louise, who lent herself compla- 
 cently to the play, for she was ten years old and quite 
 a young lady, if you please. 
 
 "Why, Madame," replied Maria, gravely, "he will 
 be a soldier." 
 
 At that moment the engraver, who had left his 
 bench to stretch his legs a little and to light his Abd- 
 el-Kader for the third time, came and stood at the 
 threshold of his room. Madame Gerard, reassured 
 as to the state of her stew, which was slowly cooking 
 and oh, how good it smelled in the kitchen! entered 
 the dining-room. Both looked at the children, so comi- 
 cal and so graceful, as they made their little grimaces! 
 Then the husband glanced at his wife, and the wife at 
 the husband, and both burst out into hearty laughter. 
 
 There never was any laughter in the apartment of 
 the Violettes. It was cough! cough! cough! almost to 
 suffocation, almost to death! This gentle young 
 woman with the heavy hair was about to die! When 
 the beautiful starry evenings should come again, she 
 would no longer linger on the balcony, or press her 
 husband's hand as they gazed at the stars. Little 
 Amedee did not understand it; but he felt a vague 
 terror of something dreadful happening in the house. 
 Everything alarmed him now. He was afraid of the
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 old woman who smelled of snuff, and who, when she 
 dressed him in the morning, looked at him with a pity- 
 ing air; he was afraid of the doctor, who climbed the 
 five flights of stairs twice a day now, and left a whiff 
 of perfume behind him; afraid of his father, who did 
 not go to his office any more, whose beard was often 
 three days old, and who feverishly paced the little par- 
 lor, tossing back with a distracted gesture the lock of 
 hair behind his ear. He was afraid of his mother, 
 alas! of his mother, whom he had seen that evening, 
 by the light from the night-lamp, buried in the pil- 
 lows, her delicate nose and chin thrown up, and who 
 did not seem to recognize him, in spite of her wide- 
 open eyes, when his father took her child in his arms 
 and leaned over her with him that he might kiss her 
 cold forehead covered with sweat! 
 
 At last the terrible day arrived, a day that Amedee 
 never will forget, although he was then a very small 
 child. 
 
 What awakened him that morning was his father's 
 embrace as he came and took him from his bed. His 
 father's eyes were wild and bloodshot from so much 
 crying. Why was their neighbor, M. Gerard, there 
 so early in the morning, and with great tears rolling 
 down his cheeks too? He kept beside M. Violette, 
 as if watching him, and patted him upon the back 
 affectionately, saying: 
 
 "Now then, my poor friend! Have courage, cour- 
 age!" 
 
 But the poor friend had no more. He let M. Gerard 
 take the child from him, and then his head fell like a 
 
 [10]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 dead person's upon the good engraver's shoulder, and 
 he began to weep with heavy sobs that shook his whole 
 body. 
 
 "Mamma! See mamma!" cried the little Amede'e, 
 full of terror. 
 
 Alas! he never will see her again! At the Gerards, 
 where they carried him and the kind neighbor dressed 
 him, they told him that his mother had gone for a 
 long time, a very long time; that he must love his 
 papa very much and think only of him; and other 
 things that he could not understand and dared not 
 ask the meaning of, but which filled him with con- 
 sternation. 
 
 It was strange! The engraver and his wife busied 
 themselves entirely with him, watching him every 
 moment. The little ones, too, treated him in a sin- 
 gular, almost respectful manner. What had caused 
 such a change? Louise did not open her piano, and 
 when little Maria wished to take her "menagerie" 
 from the lower part of the buffet, Madame Gerard 
 said sharply, as she wiped the tears from her eyes: 
 "You must not play to-day." 
 
 After breakfast Madame Gerard put on her hat and 
 shawl and went out, taking Amedee with her. They 
 got into a carriage that took them through streets 
 that the child did not know, across a bridge in the 
 middle of which stood a large brass horseman, with 
 his head crowned with laurel, and stopped before a 
 large house and entered with the crowd, where a very 
 agile and rapid young man put some black clothes on 
 Amede'e.
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE 
 
 On their return the child found his father seated 
 at the dining-room table with M. Gerard, and both of 
 them were writing addresses upon large sheets of 
 paper bordered with black. M. Violette was not cry- 
 ing, but his face showed deep lines of grief, and he 
 let his lock of hair fall over his right eye. 
 
 At the sight of little Amedee, in his black clothes, 
 he uttered a groan, and arose, staggering like a drunken 
 man, bursting into tears again. 
 
 Oh, no! he never will forget that day, nor the hor- 
 rible next day, when Madame Gerard came and 
 dressed Jiim in the morning in his black clothes, while 
 he listened to the noise of heavy feet and blows from 
 a hammer in the next room. He suddenly remem- 
 bered that he had not seen his mother since two days 
 before. 
 
 "Mamma! I want to see mamma!" 
 
 It was necessary then to try to make him under- 
 stand the truth. Madame Gerard repeated to him 
 that he ought to be very wise and good, and try to 
 console his father, who had much to grieve him; for 
 his mother had gone away forever; that she was in 
 heaven. 
 
 In heaven! heaven is very high up and far off. If 
 his mother was in heaven, what was it that those por- 
 ters dressed in black carried away in the heavy box 
 that they knocked at every turn of the staircase? 
 What did that solemn carriage, which he followed 
 through all the rain, quickening his childish steps, 
 with his little hand tightly clasped in his father's, carry 
 away? What did they bury in that hole, from which 
 
 [12]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 an odor of freshly dug earth was emitted in that hole 
 surrounded by men in black, and from which his 
 father turned away his head in horror? What was it 
 that they hid in this ditch, in this garden full of crosses 
 and stone urns, where the newly budded trees shone 
 in the March sun after the shower, large drops of 
 water still falling from their branches like tears? 
 
 His mother was in heaven ! On the evening of that 
 dreadful day Amedee dared not ask to "see mamma" 
 when he was seated before his father at the table, 
 where, for a long time, the old woman in a short 
 jacket had placed only two plates. The poor widower, 
 who had just wiped his eyes with his napkin, had put 
 upon one of the plates a little meat cut up in bits for 
 Amedee. He was very pale, and as Amedee sat in 
 his high chair, he asked himself whether he should 
 recognize his mother's sweet, caressing look, some day, 
 in one of those stars that she loved to watch, seated 
 upon the balcony on cool September nights, pressing 
 her husband's hand in the darkness. 
 
 [13]
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 SAD CHANGES 
 
 ? REES are like men; there are some 
 that have no luck. A genuinely un- 
 fortunate tree was the poor sycamore 
 which grew in the playground of an 
 institution for boys on the Rue de 
 la Grande - Chaumiere, directed by 
 M. Batifol. 
 
 Chance might just as well have 
 made it grow upon the banks of a river, upon some 
 pretty bluff, where it might have seen the boats pass; 
 or, better still, upon the mall in some garrison village, 
 where it could have had the pleasure of listening twice 
 a week to military music. But, no! it was written in 
 the book of fate that this unlucky sycamore should 
 lose its bark every summer, as a serpent changes its 
 skin, and should scatter the ground with its dead 
 leaves at the first frost, in the playground of the Bati- 
 fol institution, which was a place without any dis- 
 tractions. 
 
 This solitary tree, which was like any other syca- 
 more, middle-aged and without any singularities, 
 ought to have had the painful feeling that it served in 
 a measure to deceive the public. In fact, upon the 
 advertisement of the Batifol institution (Cours du 
 
 [14]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 lycee Henri IV. Preparation au baccalaureat et aux 
 ecoles de VEtaf), one read these fallacious words, 
 "There is a garden;" when in reality it was only a 
 vulgar court gravelled with stones from the river, with 
 a paved gutter in which one could gather half a dozen 
 of lost marbles, a broken top, and a certain number 
 of shoe-nails, and after recreation hours still more. 
 This solitary sycamore was supposed to justify the 
 illusion and fiction of the garden promised in the ad- 
 vertisement; but as trees certainly have common 
 sense, this one should have been conscious that it was 
 not a garden of itself. 
 
 It was a very unjust fate for an inoffensive tree 
 which never had harmed anybody; only expanding, 
 at one side of the gymnasium portico, in a perfect 
 rectangle formed by a prison-wall, bristling with the 
 glass of broken bottles, and by three buildings of dis- 
 tressing similarity, showing, above the numerous doors 
 on the ground floor, inscriptions which merely to read 
 induced a yawn: Hall i, Hall 2, Hall 3, Hall 4, Stair- 
 way A, Stairway B, Entrance to the Dormitories, 
 Dining-room, Laboratory. 
 
 The poor sycamore was dying of ennui in this dis- 
 mal place. Its only happy seasons the recreation 
 hours, when the court echoed with the shouts and the 
 laughter of the boys were spoiled for it by the sight 
 of two or three pupils who were punished by being 
 made to stand at the foot of its trunk. Parisian birds, 
 who are not fastidious, rarely lighted upon the tree, 
 and never built their nests there. It might even be 
 imagined that this disenchanted tree, when the wind
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 agitated its foliage, would charitably say, "Believe me! 
 the place is good for nothing. Go and make love 
 elsewhere!" 
 
 In the shade of this sycamore, planted under an 
 unlucky star, the greater part of Amedee's infancy 
 was passed. 
 
 M. Violette was an employe of the Ministry, and 
 was obliged to work seven hours a day, one or two 
 hours of which were devoted to going wearily through 
 a bundle of probably superfluous papers and docu- 
 ments. The rest of the time was given to other occu- 
 pations as varied as they were intellectual; such as 
 yawning, filing his nails, talking about his chiefs, 
 groaning over the slowness of promotion, cooking a 
 potato or a sausage in the stove for his luncheon, read- 
 ing the newspaper down to the editor's signature, and 
 advertisements in which some country cure expresses 
 his artless gratitude at being cured at last of an obsti- 
 nate disease. In recompense for this daily captivity, 
 M. Violette received, at the end of the month, a sum 
 exactly sufficient to secure his household soup and 
 beef, with a few vegetables. 
 
 In order that his son might attain such a distin- 
 guished position, M. Violette's father, a watch-maker 
 in Chartres, had sacrificed everything, and died pen- 
 niless. The Silvio Pellico official, during these exas- 
 perating and tiresome hours, sometimes regretted not 
 having simply succeeded his father. He could see 
 himself, in imagination, in the light little shop near 
 the cathedral, with a magnifying-glass fixed in his 
 eye, ready to inspect some farmer's old "turnip," and 
 
 [16]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 suspended over his bench thirty silver and gold 
 watches left by farmers the week before, who would 
 profit by the next market-day to come and get them, 
 all going together with a merry tick. It may be ques- 
 tioned whether a trade as low as this would have been 
 fitting for a young man of education, a Bachelor of Arts, 
 crammed with Greek roots and quotations, able to 
 prove the existence of God, and to recite without hesi- 
 tation the dates of the reigns of Nabonassar and of 
 Nabopolassar. This watch-maker, this simple artisan, 
 understood modern genius better. This modest shop- 
 keeper acted according to the democratic law and fol- 
 lowed the instinct of a noble and wise ambition. He 
 made of his son a sensible and intelligent boy a 
 machine to copy documents, and spend his days guess- 
 ing the conundrums in the illustrated newspapers, 
 which he read as easily as M. Ledrain would decipher 
 the cuneiform inscriptions on an Assyrian brick. Also 
 an admirable result, which should rejoice the old 
 watch-maker's shade his son had become a gentle- 
 man, a functionary, so splendidly remunerated by the 
 State that he was obliged to wear patches of cloth, as 
 near like the trousers as possible, on their seat; and 
 his poor young wife, during her life, had always been 
 obliged, as rent-day drew near, to carry the soup- 
 ladle and six silver covers to the pawn-shop. 
 
 At all events, M. Violette was a widower now, and 
 being busy all day was very much embarrassed with 
 the care of his little son. His neighbors, the Gerards, 
 were very kind to Amedee, and continued to keep him 
 with them all the afternoon. This state of affairs 
 2 [17]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 could not always continue, and M. Violette hesitated 
 to abuse his worthy friends' kindness in that way. 
 
 However, Amedee gave them little trouble, and 
 Mamma Gerard loved him as if he were her own. 
 The orphan was now inseparable from little Maria, 
 a perfect little witch, who became prettier every day. 
 The engraver, having found in a cupboard the old 
 bearskin cap which he had worn as a grenadier in 
 the National Guard, a headdress that had been sup- 
 pressed since '48, gave it .to the children. What a 
 magnificent plaything it was, and how well calculated 
 to excite their imagination ! It was immediately trans- 
 formed in their minds into a frightfully large and 
 ferocious bear, which they chased through the apart- 
 ment, lying in wait for it behind armchairs, striking at 
 it with sticks, and puffing out their little cheeks with 
 all their might to say "Bourn!" imitating the report 
 of a gun. This hunting diversion completed the de- 
 struction of the old furniture. Tranquil in the midst 
 of the joyous uproar and disorder, the engraver was 
 busily at work finishing off the broad ribbon of the 
 Legion of Honor, and the large bullion epaulettes 
 of the Prince President, whom, as a suspicious repub- 
 lican and foreseeing the coup d'etat, he detested with 
 all his heart. 
 
 "Truly, Monsieur Violette," said Mother Gerard 
 to the employe, when he came for his little son upon 
 his return from the office, and excused himself for 
 the trouble that the child must give his neighbors, 
 "truly, I assure you, he does not disturb us in the 
 least. Wait a little before you send him to school. 
 
 [18]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 He is very quiet, and if Maria did not excite him so 
 upon my word, she is more of a boy than he your 
 Amedee would always be looking at the pictures. 
 My Louise hears him read every day two pages in the 
 Moral Tales, and yesterday he amused Gerard by tell- 
 ing him the story of the grateful elephant. He can go 
 to school later wait a little." 
 
 But M. Violette had decided to send Amedee to M. 
 Batifol's. "Oh, yes, as a day scholar, of course! It 
 is so convenient; not two steps' distance. This will 
 not prevent little Amedee from seeing his friends often. 
 He is nearly seven years old, and very backward; he 
 hardly knows how to make his letters. One can not 
 begin with children too soon," and much more to the 
 same effect. 
 
 This was the reason why, one fine spring day, M. 
 Violette was ushered into M. Batifol's office, who, the 
 servant said, would be there directly. 
 
 M. Batifol's office was hideous. In the three book- 
 cases which the master of the house a snob and a 
 greedy schoolmaster never opened, were some of 
 those books that one can buy upon the quays by the 
 running yard; for example, Laharpe's Cours de Lit- 
 tgrature, and an endless edition of Rollin, whose te- 
 diousness seems to ooze out through their bindings. 
 The cylindrical office-table, one of those masterpieces 
 of veneered mahogany which the Faubourg St.- 
 Antoine still keeps the secret of making, was sur- 
 mounted by a globe of the world. 
 
 Suddenly, through the open window, little Amedee 
 saw the sycamore in the yard. A young blackbird, 
 
 [19]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 who did not know the place, came and perched for 
 an instant only upon one of its branches. 
 
 We may fancy the tree saying to it: 
 
 "What are you doing here? The Luxembourg is 
 only a short distance from here, and is charming. 
 Children are there, making mud-pies, nurses upon the 
 seats chattering with the military, lovers promenading, 
 holding hands. Go there, you simpleton!" 
 
 The blackbird flew away, and the university tree, 
 once more solitary and alone, drooped its dispirited 
 leaves. Amedee, in his confused childish desire for 
 information, was just ready to ask why this sycamore 
 looked so morose, when the door opened and M. Bati- 
 fol appeared. The master of the school had a severe 
 aspect, in spite of his almost indecorous name. He 
 resembled a hippopotamus clothed in an ample black 
 coat. He entered slowly and bowed in a dignified 
 way to M. Violette, then seated himself in a leather 
 armchair before his papers, and, taking off his velvet 
 skull-cap, revealed such a voluminous round, yellow 
 baldness that little Amede"e compared it with terror 
 to the globe on the top of his desk. 
 
 It was just the same thing! These two round balls 
 were twins! There was even upon M. BatifoFs cra- 
 nium an eruption of little red pimples, grouped almost 
 exactly like an archipelago in the Pacific Ocean. 
 
 "Whom have I the honor ?" asked the school- 
 master, in an unctuous voice, an excellent voice for 
 proclaiming names at the distribution of prizes. 
 
 M. Violette was not a brave man. It was very 
 foolish, but when the senior clerk called him into his 
 
 Lap]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 office to do some work, he was always seized with a 
 sort of stammering and shaking of the limbs. A per- 
 son so imposing as M. Batifol was not calculated to 
 give him assurance. Amedee was timid, too, like his 
 father, and while the child, frightened by the resem- 
 blance of the sphere to M. Batifol's bald head, was 
 already trembling, M. Violette, much agitated, was 
 trying to think of something to say, consequently, he 
 said nothing of any account. However, he ended by 
 repeating almost the same things he had said to Mam- 
 ma Gerard: "My son is nearly seven years old, and 
 very backward, etc." 
 
 The teacher appeared to listen to M. Violette with 
 benevolent interest, inclining his geographical cranium 
 every few seconds. In reality, he was observing and 
 judging his visitors. The father's scanty overcoat, 
 the rather pale face of the little boy, all betokened 
 poverty. It simply meant a day scholar at thirty 
 francs a month, nothing more. So M. Batifol short- 
 ened the "speech" that under like circumstances he 
 addressed to his new pupils. 
 
 He would take charge of his "young friend" (thirty 
 francs a month, that is understood, and the child will 
 bring his own luncheon in a little basket) who would 
 first be placed in an elementary class. Certain fathers 
 prefer, and they have reason to do so, that their sons 
 should be half -boarders, with a healthful and abundant 
 repast at noon. But M. Batifol did not insist upon 
 it. His young friend would then be placed in the 
 infant class, at first; but he would be prepared there 
 at once, ab ovo, one day to receive lessons in this Uni- 
 
 [21]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE 
 
 versity of France, alma parens (instruction in foreign 
 languages not included in the ordinary price, naturally), 
 which by daily study, competition between scholars 
 (accomplishments, such as dancing, music, and fenc- 
 ing, to be paid for separately; that goes without say- 
 ing) prepare children for social life, and make men 
 and citizens of them. 
 
 M. Violette contented himself with the day school 
 at thirty francs, and for a good reason. The affair 
 was settled. Early the next morning Amedee would 
 enter the " ninth preparatory." 
 
 "Give me your hand, my young friend," said the 
 master, as father and son arose to take their leave. 
 
 Amedee reached out his hand, and M. Batifol took 
 it in his, which was so heavy, large, and cold that 
 the child shivered at the contact, and fancied he was 
 touching a leg of mutton of six or seven pounds' weight, 
 freshly killed, and sent from the butcher's. 
 
 Finally they left. Early the next morning, Amedee, 
 provided with a little basket, in which the old snuff- 
 taker had put a little bottle of red wine, and some 
 sliced veal, and jam tarts, presented himself at the 
 boarding-school, to be prepared without delay for the 
 teaching of the alma parens. 
 
 The hippopotamus clothed in black did not take off 
 his skull-cap this time, to the child's great regret, for 
 he wished to assure himself if the degrees of latitude 
 and longitude were checked off in squares on M. Bat- 
 ifol's cranium as they were on the terrestrial globe. 
 He conducted his pupil to his class at once and pre- 
 sented him to the master. 
 
 [22]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 "Here is a new day scholar, Monsieur Ta vernier. 
 You will find out how far advanced he is in reading 
 and writing, if you please." M. Tavernier was a tall 
 young man with a sallow complexion, a bachelor who, 
 had he been living like his late father, a sergeant of 
 the gendarmes, in a pretty house surrounded by apple- 
 trees and green grass, would not, perhaps, have had 
 that papier-mdche appearance, and would not have 
 been dressed at eight o'clock in the morning in a black 
 coat of the kind we see hanging in the Morgue. M. 
 Tavernier received the newcomer with a sickly smile, 
 which disappeared as soon as M. Batifol left the 
 room. 
 
 "Go and take your place in that empty seat there, 
 in the third row," said M. Tavernier, in an indifferent 
 tone. 
 
 He deigned, however, to conduct Amedee to the 
 seat which he was to occupy. Amedee' s neighbor, one 
 of the future citizens preparing for social life several 
 with patches upon their trousers had been naughty 
 enough to bring into class a handful of cockchafers. 
 He was punished by a quarter of an hour's standing 
 up, which he did soon after, sulking at the foot of 
 the sycamore-tree in the large court. 
 
 "You will soon see what a cur he is," whispered the 
 pupil in disgrace, as soon as the teacher had returned to 
 his seat. 
 
 M. Tavernier struck his ruler on the edge of his 
 chair, and, having reestablished silence, invited pupil 
 Godard to recite his lesson. 
 
 Pupil Godard, who was a chubby-faced fellow with 
 
 [23]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE 
 
 sleepy eyes, rose automatically and in one single stream, 
 like a running tap, recited, without stopping to take 
 breath, "The Wolf and the Lamb," rolling off La 
 Fontaine's fable like the thread from a bobbin run 
 by steam. 
 
 ' ' The-strongest-reason-is-always-the-best-and-we- 
 will-prove-it-at - once - a - lamb - was - quenching - his - 
 thirst-in-a-stream-of-pure-running-water 
 
 Suddenly Godard was confused, he hesitated. The 
 machine had been badly oiled. Something obstructed 
 the bobbin. 
 
 "In -a -stream -of -pure -running- water in-a- 
 stream 
 
 Then he stopped short, the tap was closed. Godard 
 did not know his lesson, and he, too, was condemned 
 to remain on guard under the sycamore during recess. 
 
 After pupil Godard came pupil Grosdidier; then 
 Blanc, then Moreau (Gaston), then Moreau (Ernest), 
 then Malepert; then another, and another, who bab- 
 bled with the same intelligence and volubility, with 
 the same piping voice, this cruel and wonderful fable. 
 It was as irritating and monotonous as a fine rain. 
 All the pupils in the "ninth preparatory" were dis- 
 gusted for fifteen years, at least, with this most ex- 
 quisite of French poems. 
 
 Little Amedee wanted to cry; he listened with stu- 
 pefaction blended with fright as the scholars by turns 
 unwound their bobbins. To think that to-morrow he 
 must do the same! He never would be able. M. 
 Tavemier frightened him very much, too. The yellow- 
 complexioned usher, seated nonchalantly in his arm- 
 
 [24]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 chair, was not without pretension, in spite of his black 
 coat with the " take-me-out-of -pawn " air, polished his 
 nails, and only opened his mouth at times to utter a 
 reprimand or pronounce sentence of punishment. 
 
 This was school, then! Amedee recalled the pleas- 
 ant reading-lessons that the eldest of the G6rards had 
 given him that good Louise, so wise and serious and 
 only ten years old, pointing out his letters to him in 
 a picture alphabet with a knitting-needle, always so 
 patient and kind. The child was overcome at the 
 very first with a disgust for school, and gazed through 
 the window which lighted the room at the noiselessly 
 moving, large, indented leaves of the melancholy 
 sycamore. 
 
 [25]
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 PAPA AND MAMMA GERARD 
 
 NE, two, three years rolled by without 
 anything very remarkable happening 
 to the inhabitants of the fifth story. 
 
 The quarter had not changed, and 
 it still had the appearance of a sub- 
 urban faubourg. They had just 
 erected, within gunshot of the house 
 where the Violettes and Gerards lived, 
 a large five-story building, upon whose roof still trem- 
 bled in the wind the masons' withered bouquets. But 
 that was all. In front of them, on the lot "For Sale," 
 enclosed by rotten boards, where one could always 
 see tufts of nettles and a goat tied to a stake, and upon 
 the high wall above which by the end of April the 
 lilacs hung in their perfumed clusters, the rains had 
 not effaced this brutal declaration of love, scraped with 
 a knife in the plaster: "When Melie wishes she can 
 have me," and signed "Eugene." 
 
 Three years had passed, and little Amedee had 
 grown a trifle. At that time a child born in the centre 
 of Paris for example, in the labyrinth of infected 
 streets about the Halles would have grown up without 
 having any idea of the change of seasons other than by 
 the state of the temperature and the narrow strip of 
 
 [26]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 sky which he could see by raising his head. Even to- 
 day certain poor children the poor never budge from 
 their hiding-places learn of the arrival of winter only 
 by the odor of roasted chestnuts; of spring, by the 
 boxes of gillyflowers in the fruiterer's stall; of sum- 
 mer, by the water-carts passing, and of autumn, by 
 the heaps of oyster-shells at the doors of wine-shops. 
 The broad sky, with its confused shapes of cloud ar- 
 chitecture, the burning gold of the setting sun behind 
 the masses of trees, the enchanting stillness of moon- 
 light upon the river, all these grand and magnificent 
 spectacles are for the delight of those who live in sub- 
 urban quarters, or play there sometimes. The sons 
 of people who work in buttons and jet spend their 
 infancy playing on staircases that smell of lead, or in 
 courts that resemble wells, and do not suspect that 
 nature exists. At the outside they suspect that nature 
 may exist when they see the horses on Palm Sunday 
 decorated with bits of boxwood behind each ear. 
 What matters it, after all, if the child has imagination? 
 A star reflected in a gutter will reveal to him an im- 
 mense nocturnal poem; and he will breathe all the 
 intoxication of summer in the full-blown rose which 
 the grisette from the next house lets fall from her hair. 
 
 Amedee had had the good fortune of being born in 
 that delicious and melancholy suburb of Paris which 
 had not yet become "Haussmannized," and was full of 
 wild and charming nooks. 
 
 His father, the widower, could not be consoled, and 
 tried to wear out his grief in long promenades, going 
 out on clear evenings, holding his little boy by the 
 
 [27]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE 
 
 hand, toward the more solitary places. They followed 
 those fine boulevards, formerly in the suburbs, where 
 there were giant elms, planted in the time of Louis 
 XIV, ditches full of grass, ruined palisades, showing 
 through their opening market-gardens where melons 
 glistened in the rays of the setting sun. Both were 
 silent; the father lost in reveries, Amedee absorbed in 
 the confused dreams of a child. They went long dis- 
 tances, passing the Barriere d'Enfer, reaching un- 
 known parts, which produced the same effect upon an 
 inhabitant of Rue Montmartre as the places upon an 
 old map of the world, marked with the mysterious 
 words Mare ignotum, would upon a savant of the 
 Middle Ages. There were many houses in this ancient 
 suburb; curious old buildings, nearly all of one story. 
 
 Sometimes they would pass a public-house painted in 
 a sinister wine-color; or else a garden hedged in by 
 acacias, at the fork of two roads, with arbors and a 
 sign consisting of a very small windmill at the end of 
 a pole, turning in the fresh evening breeze. It was 
 almost country; the grass grew upon the sidewalks, 
 springing up in the road between the broken pave- 
 ments. A poppy flashed here and there upon the tops 
 of the low walls. They met very few people; now 
 and then some poor person, a woman in a cap dragging 
 along a crying child, a workman burdened with his 
 tools, a belated invalid, and sometimes in the middle 
 of the sidewalk, in a cloud of dust, a flock of ex- 
 hausted sheep, bleating desperately, and nipped in the 
 legs by dogs hurrying them toward the abattoir. The 
 father and son would walk straight ahead until it was 
 
 [28]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 dark under the trees; then they would retrace their 
 steps, the sharp air stinging their faces. Those ancient 
 hanging street-lamps, the tragic lanterns of the time 
 of the Terror, were suspended at long intervals in the 
 avenue, mingling their dismal twinkle with the pale 
 gleams of the green twilight sky. 
 
 These sorrowful promenades with his melancholy 
 companion would commonly end a tiresome day at 
 Batifol's school. Amedee was now in the "seventh," 
 and knew already that the phrase, "the will of God," 
 could not be turned into Latin by bonitas divina, and 
 that the word cornu was not declinable. These long, 
 silent hours spent at his school-desk, or beside a per- 
 son absorbed in grief, might have become fatal to the 
 child's disposition, had it not been for his good friends, 
 the Gerards. He went to see them as often as he was 
 able, a spare hour now and then, and most of the day 
 on Thursdays. The engraver's house was always full 
 of good-nature and gayety, and Amedee felt com- 
 fortable and really happy there. 
 
 The good Gerards, besides their Louise and Maria, 
 to say nothing of Amedee, whom they looked upon as 
 one of the family, had now taken charge of a fourth 
 child, a little girl, named Rosine, who was precisely 
 the same age as their youngest. 
 
 This was the way it happened. Above the Gerards, 
 in one of the mansards upon the sixth floor, lived a 
 printer named Combarieu, with his wife or mistress 
 the concierge did not know which, nor did it matter 
 much. The woman had just deserted him, leaving a 
 child of eight years. One could expect nothing better 
 
 [29]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 of a creature who, according to the concierge, fed her 
 husband upon pork-butcher's meat, to spare herself 
 the trouble of getting dinner, and passed the entire 
 day with uncombed hair, in a dressing-sacque, reading 
 novels, and telling her fortune with cards. The gro- 
 cer's daughter declared she had met her one evening 
 at a dancing-hall, seated with a fireman before a salad- 
 bowl full of wine, prepared in the French fashion. 
 
 During the day Combarieu, although a red-hot Re- 
 publican, sent his little girl to the Sisters; but he 
 went out every evening with a mysterious air and left 
 the child alone. The concierge even uttered in a low 
 voice, with the romantic admiration which that class 
 of people have for conspirators, the terrible word "se- 
 cret society," and asserted that the printer had a 
 musket concealed under his straw bed. 
 
 These revelations were of a nature to excite M. 
 Gerard's sympathy in favor of his neighbor, for the 
 coup d'etat and the proclamation of the Empire had 
 irritated him very much. Had it not been his melan- 
 choly duty to engrave, the day after the second of 
 December he must feed his family first of all a 
 Bonapartist allegory entitled, "The Uncle and the 
 Nephew," where one saw France extending its hand 
 to Napoleon I and Prince Louis, while soaring above 
 the group was an eagle with spreading wings, holding 
 in one of his claws the cross of the Legion of Honor ? 
 
 One day the engraver asked his wife, as he lighted 
 his pipe he had given up Abd-el-Kader and smoked 
 now a Barbes if they ought not to interest them- 
 selves a little in the abandoned child. It needed noth- 
 
 [30]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 ing more to arouse the good woman, who had already 
 said more than once: "What a pity!" as she saw 
 little Rosine waiting for her father in the lodge of the 
 concierge, asleep in a chair before the stove. She 
 coaxed the child to play with her children. Rosine 
 was very pretty, with bright eyes, a droll little Parisian 
 nose, and a mass of straw-colored curly hair escaping 
 from her cap. The little rogue let fly quite often 
 some gutter expression, such as "Hang it!" or "Tol-de- 
 rol-dol!" at which Madame Gerard would exclaim, 
 "What do I hear, Mademoiselle?" but she was intel- 
 ligent and soon corrected herself. 
 
 One Sunday morning, Combarieu, having learned 
 of their kindness to his child, made a visit to thank 
 them. 
 
 Very dark, with a livid complexion, all hair and 
 beard, and trying to look like the head of Jesus Christ, 
 in his long black blouse he embodied the type of a 
 club conspirator, a representative of the workingmen. 
 A Freemason, probably; a solemn drunkard, who 
 became intoxicated oftener on big words than on native 
 wine, and spoke in a loud, pretentious voice, gazing 
 before him with large, stupid eyes swimming in a sort 
 of ecstasy; his whole person made one think of a 
 boozy preacher. He immediately inspired the en- 
 graver with respect, and dazzled him by the fascina- 
 tion which the audacious exert over the timid. M. 
 Gerard thought he discerned in Combarieu one of 
 those superior men whom a cruel fate had caused to 
 be born among the lower class and in whom poverty 
 had stifled genius.
 
 FRANCOIS C 
 
 Enlightened as to the artist's political preferences 
 by the bowl of his pipe, Combarieu complacently 
 eulogized himself. Upon his own admission he had 
 at first been foolish enough to dream of a universal 
 brotherhood, a holy alliance of the people. He had 
 even written poems which he had published himself, 
 notably an "Ode to Poland," and an "Epistle to 
 Be"ranger," which latter had evoked an autograph let- 
 ter from the illustrious song-writer. But he was no 
 longer such a simpleton. 
 
 "When one has seen what we have seen during 
 June, and on the second of December, there is no 
 longer any question of sentiment. " Here the engraver, 
 as a hospitable host, brought a bottle of wine and 
 two glasses. "No, Monsieur Gerard, I thank you, I 
 take nothing between my meals. The workingmen 
 have been deceived too often, and at the next election 
 we shall not let the bourgeoisie strangle the Republic." 
 (M. Gerard had now uncorked the bottle.) " Only a 
 finger! Enough! Enough! simply so as not to refuse 
 you. While waiting, let us prepare ourselves. Just 
 now the Eastern question muddles us, and behold 
 ' Badinguet, ' * with a big affair upon his hands. You 
 have some wine here that is worth drinking. If he 
 loses one battle he is done for. One glass more? 
 Ah! you make me depart from my usual custom 
 absolutely done for. But this time we shall keep our 
 eyes open. No half measures! We will return to the 
 great methods of 'ninety -three the Committee of 
 Public Safety, the Law of Suspects, the Revolutionary 
 
 *A nickname given to Napoleon III. 
 [32]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 Tribunal, every damned one of them ! and, if it is neces- 
 sary, a permanent guillotine! To your good health!" 
 
 So much energy frightened Father Gerard a little; 
 for in spite of his Barbes pipe-bowl he was not a 
 genuine red-hot Republican. He dared not protest, 
 however, and blushed a little as he thought that the 
 night before an editor had proposed to him to engrave 
 a portrait of the new Empress, very decollete, and 
 showing her famous shoulders, and that he had not 
 said No; for his daughters needed new shoes, and 
 his wife had declared the day before that she had not 
 a gown to put on. 
 
 So for several months he had four children Ame- 
 de, Louise, Maria, and little Rose Combarieu to 
 make a racket in his apartment. Certainly they were 
 no longer babies; they did not play at making calls 
 nor chase the old fur hat around the room; they were 
 more sensible, and the old furniture had a little rest. 
 And it was time, for all the chairs were lame, two of 
 the larger ones had lost an arm each, and the Empire 
 sofa had lost the greater part of its hair through the 
 rents in its dark-green velvet covering. The unfor- 
 tunate square piano had had no pity shown it; more 
 out of tune and asthmatic than ever, it was now al- 
 ways open, and one could read above the yellow and 
 worn-out keyboard a once famous name "Sebastian 
 Erard, Manufacturer of Pianos and Harps for S.A.R. 
 Madame la Duchesse de Berri." Not only Louise, 
 the eldest of the Gerards a large girl now, having 
 been to her first communion, dressing her hair in 
 bands, and wearing white waists not only Louise, 
 3 [33]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE 
 
 who had become a good musician, had made the piano 
 submit to long tortures, but her sister Maria, and 
 Amedee also, already played the Bouquet de Bal or 
 Papa, les p'tits bateaux. Rosine, too, in her character 
 of street urchin, knew all the popular songs, and spent 
 entire hours in picking out the airs with one ringer 
 upon the old instrument. 
 
 Ah ! the songs of those days, the last of romanticism, 
 the make-believe Orientates; Odes and Ballads, by the 
 dozen ; Conies d'Espagne et d'ltalie, with their pages, 
 turrets, chatelaines; bull-fighters, Spanish ladies; viv- 
 andieres, beguiled away from their homes under the 
 pale of the church, "near a stream of running water, 
 by a gay and handsome chevalier," and many other 
 such silly things Amedee will remember them always! 
 They bring back to him, clearly and strongly, certain 
 happy hours in his childhood! They make him smell 
 again at times even the odor that pervaded the Ge- 
 rards' house. A mule-driver's song will bring up be- 
 fore his vision the engraver working at his plate before 
 the curtainless window on a winter's day. It snows 
 in the streets, and large white flakes are slowly falling 
 behind the glass; but the room, ornamented with pic- 
 tures and busts, is lighted and heated by a bright 
 coke fire. Amedee can see himself seated in a corner 
 by the fire, learning by heart a page of the "Epitome" 
 which he must recite the next morning at M. Batifol's. 
 Maria and Rosine are crouched at his feet, with a box 
 of glass beads, which they are stringing into a neck- 
 lace. It was comfortable; the whole apartment 
 smelled of the engraver's pipe, and in the dining- 
 
 [34]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 room, whose door is half opened, Louise is at the 
 piano, singing, in a fresh voice, some lines where " Cas- 
 tilla" rhymes with "mantilla," and "Andalousie" 
 with "jealousy," while her agile fingers played on the 
 old instrument an accompaniment supposed to imitate 
 bells and castanets. 
 
 Or perhaps it is a radiant morning in June, and they 
 are in the dining-room; the balcony door is open 
 wide, and a large hornet buzzes loudly in the vine. 
 Louise is still at the piano; she is singing this time, 
 and trying to reach the low tones of a dramatic ro- 
 mance where a Corsican child is urged on to vengeance 
 by his father: 
 
 Tiens, prends ma carabine! 
 Sur toi veillera Dieu 
 
 This is a great day, the day when Mamma Gerard 
 makes her gooseberry preserves. There is a large 
 basin already full of it. on the table. What a delicious 
 odor! A perfume of roses mingled with that of warm 
 sugar. Maria and Rosine have just slipped into the 
 kitchen, the gourmands! But Louise is a serious per- 
 son, and will not interrupt her singing for such a 
 trifle. She continues to sing in a low voice: and at 
 the moment when Amedee stands speechless with ad- 
 miration before her, as she is scolding in a terrible tone 
 and playing dreadful chords, lo and behold ! here come 
 the children, both with pink moustaches, and licking 
 their lips voluptuously. 
 
 Ah! these were happy hours to Amedee. They con- 
 soled him for the interminable days at M. Batifol's. 
 
 [35]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 Having passed the ninth preparatory grade, under 
 the direction of the indolent M. Tavernier, always 
 busy polishing his nails, like a Chinese mandarin, the 
 child had for a professor in the eighth grade Pere 
 Montandeuil, a poor fellow stupefied by thirty years 
 of teaching, who secretly employed all his spare hours 
 in composing five-act tragedies, and who, by dint of 
 carrying to and going for his manuscripts at the Odeon, 
 ended by marrying the stage-doorkeeper's daughter. 
 In the seventh grade Amede'e groaned under the tyranny 
 of M. Prudhommod, a man from the country, with 
 a smattering of Latin and a terribly violent temper, 
 throwing at the pupils the insults of a plowboy. Now 
 he had entered the sixth grade, under M. Bance, an 
 unfortunate fellow about twenty years old, ugly, lame, 
 and foolishly timid, whom M. Batifol reproached se- 
 verely with not having made himself respected, and 
 whose eyes filled with tears every morning when, upon 
 entering the schoolroom, he was obliged to efface with a 
 cloth a caricature of himself made by some of his pupils. 
 
 Everything in M. BatifoPs school the grotesque 
 and miserable teachers, the ferocious and cynical 
 pupils, the dingy, dusty, and ink-stained rooms sad- 
 dened and displeased Amedee. Although very in- 
 telligent, he was disgusted with the sort of instruction 
 there, which was served out in portions, like soldier's 
 rations, and would have lost courage but for his little 
 friend, Louise Gerard, who out of sheer kindness con- 
 stituted herself his school-mistress, guiding and in- 
 spiriting him, and working hard at the rudiments of 
 L'homond's Grammar and Alexandre's Dictionary, to 
 
 [36]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 help the child struggle with his De Viris. Unfortu- 
 nate indeed is he who has not had, during his infancy, 
 a petticoat near him the sweet influence of a woman. 
 He will always have something coarse in his mind and 
 hard in his heart. Without this excellent and kind 
 Louise, Amedee would have been exposed to this dan- 
 ger. His mother was dead, and M. Violette, alas! 
 was always overwhelmed with his grief, and, it must 
 be admitted, somewhat neglected his little son. 
 
 The widower could not be consoled. Since his 
 wife's death he had grown ten years older, and his 
 refractory lock of hair had become perfectly white. 
 His Lucie had been the sole joy in his commonplace 
 and obscure life. She was so pretty, so sweet! such a 
 good manager, dressing upon nothing, and making 
 things seem luxurious with only one flower! M. Vio- 
 lette existed only on this dear and cruel souvenir, liv- 
 ing his humble idyll over again in his mind. 
 
 He had had six years of this happiness. One of his 
 comrades took him to pass an evening with an old 
 friend who was captain in the Invalides. The worthy 
 man had lost an arm at Waterloo; he was a relative 
 of Lucie, a good-natured old fellow, amiable and lively, 
 delighting in arranging his apartments into a sort of 
 Bonapartist chapel and giving little entertainments 
 with cake and punch, while Lucie's mother, a cousin 
 of the captain, did the honors. M. Violette immedi- 
 ately observed the young girl, seated under a "Bataille 
 des Pyramides" with two swords crossed above it, a 
 carnation in her hair. It was in midsummer, and 
 through the open window one could see the magnifi- 
 
 [37] 
 
 377309
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 cent moonlight, which shone upon the esplanade and 
 made the huge cannon shine. They were playing 
 charades, and when it came Lucie's turn to be ques- 
 tioned among all the guests, M. Violette, to relieve her 
 of her embarrassment, replied so awkwardly that they 
 all exclaimed, "Now, then, that is cheating!" With 
 what nai've grace and bashful coquetry she served the 
 tea, going from one table to another, cup in hand, fol- 
 lowed by the one-armed captain with silver epaulets, 
 carrying the plum-cake! In order to see her again, 
 M. Violette paid the captain visit after visit. But the 
 greater part of the time he saw only the old soldier, 
 who told him of his victories and conquests, of the 
 attack of the redoubt at Borodino, and the frightful 
 swearing of the dashing Murat, King of Naples, as he 
 urged the squadrons on to the rescue. At last, one 
 beautiful Sunday in autumn, he found himself alone 
 with the young girl in the private garden of the veteran 
 of the Old Guard. He seated himself beside Lucie 
 on a stone bench: he told her his love, with the pro- 
 found gaze of the Little Corporal, in bronzed plaster, 
 resting upon them; and, full of delicious confusion, 
 she replied, "Speak to mamma," dropping her be- 
 wildered eyes and gazing at the bed of china-asters, 
 whose boxwood border traced the form of a cross of 
 the Legion of Honor. 
 
 And all this was effaced, lost forever! The captain 
 was dead; Lucie's mother was dead, and Lucie her- 
 self, his beloved Lucie, was dead, after giving him six 
 years of cloudless happiness. 
 
 Certainly, he would never marry again. Oh, never! 
 
 [38]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 No woman had ever existed or ever would exist for 
 him but his poor darling, sleeping in the Montpar- 
 nasse Cemetery, whose grave he visited every Sunday 
 with a little watering-pot concealed under his coat. 
 
 He recalled, with a shiver of disgust, how, a few 
 months after Lucie's death, one stifling evening in 
 July, he was seated upon a bench in the Luxembourg, 
 listening to the drums beating a retreat under the trees, 
 when a woman came and took a seat beside him and 
 looked at him steadily. Surprised by her significant 
 look, he replied, to the question that she addressed to 
 him, timidly and at the same time boldly: "So this is 
 the way that you take the air?" And when she ended 
 by asking him, "Come to my house," he had followed 
 her. But he had hardly entered when the past all 
 came back to him, and he felt a stifled feeling of dis- 
 tress. Falling into a chair, he sobbed, burying his 
 face in his hands. His grief was so violent that, by a 
 feminine instinct of pity, the wretched creature took 
 his head in her arms, saying, in a consoling tone, 
 "There, cry, cry, it will do you good!" and rocked 
 him like an infant. At last he disengaged himself 
 from this caress, which made him ashamed of himself, 
 and throwing what little money he had about him 
 upon the top of the bureau, he went away and re- 
 turned to his home, where he went hastily to bed and 
 wept to his heart's content, as he gnawed his pillow. 
 Oh, horrible memories! 
 
 No! never a wife, no mistress, nothing! Now his 
 grief was his wife, and lived with him. 
 
 The widower's morning awakening was frightful 
 
 [39]
 
 FRANgOIS COPPEE 
 
 above all things else his awakening in the large bed 
 that now had but one pillow. It was there that he 
 had once had the exquisite pleasure of watching his 
 dear Lucie every morning when asleep ; for she did not 
 like to get up early, and sometimes he had jokingly 
 scolded her for it. What serenity upon this delicate, 
 sweet face, with its closed eyes, nestling among her 
 beautiful, disordered hair! How chaste this lovely 
 young wife was in her unconstraint ! She had thrown 
 one of her arms outside of the covering, and the neck 
 of her nightrobe, having slipped down, showed such 
 a pure white shoulder and delicate neck. He leaned 
 over .the half -opened mouth, which exhaled a warm 
 and living odor, something like the perfume of a flower, 
 to inhale it, and a tender pride swept over him when 
 he thought that she was his, his wife, this delicious 
 creature who was almost a child yet, and that her heart 
 was given to him forever. He could not resist it; he 
 touched his young wife's lips with his own. She 
 trembled under the kiss and opened her eyes, when 
 the astonishment of the awakening was at once trans- 
 formed into a happy smile as she met her husband's 
 glance. Oh, blissful moment! But in spite of all, 
 one must be sensible. He recalled that the milkmaid 
 had left at daybreak her pot of milk at the door of 
 their apartment; that the fire was not lighted, and 
 that he must be at the office early, as the time for 
 promotions was drawing near. Giving another kiss to 
 the half-asleep Lucic, he said to her, in a coaxing 
 tone, "Now then, Lucie, my child, it is half -past eight. 
 Up, up with you, lazy little one!" 
 
 [40]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 How could he console himself for such lost happi- 
 ness? He had his son, yes and he loved him very 
 much but the sight of Amede'e increased M. Violette's 
 grief; for the child grew to look more like his mother 
 every day.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE DEMON ABSINTHE 
 
 [REE or four times a year M. Vio- 
 lette, accompanied by his son, paid 
 a visit to an uncle of his deceased 
 wife, whose heir Amedee might some 
 day become. 
 
 M. Isidore Gaufre had founded 
 and made successful a large house 
 for Catholic books and pictures, to 
 which he had added an important agency for the sale 
 of all kinds of religious objects. This vast establish- 
 ment was called, by a stroke of genius of its proprie- 
 tor, "Bon Marche des Paroisses," and was famous 
 among all the French clergy. At last it occupied the 
 principal part of the house and all the out-buildings of 
 an old hotel on the Rue Servandoni, constructed in the 
 pompous and magnificent style of the latter part of the 
 seventeenth century. He did a great business there. 
 
 All day long, priests and clerical-looking gentlemen 
 mounted the long flight of steps that led to a spacious 
 first floor, lighted by large, high windows surmounted 
 by grotesque heads. There the long-bearded mission- 
 aries came to purchase their cargoes of glass beads or 
 imitation coral rosaries, before embarking for the East, 
 or the Gaboon, to convert the negroes and the Chinese. 
 
 [42]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 The member of the third estate, draped in a long 
 chocolate-colored, straight frock-coat, holding a gigan- 
 tic umbrella under his arm, procured, dirt cheap and 
 by the thousand, pamphlets of religious tenets. The 
 country curate, visiting Paris, arranged for the imme- 
 diate delivery of a remonstrance, in electrotype, Byzan- 
 tine style, signing a series of long-dated bills, contract- 
 ing, by zeal supplemented by some ready cash, to fulfil 
 his liabilities, through the generosity of the faithful 
 ones. 
 
 There, likewise, a young director of consciences 
 came to look for some devotional work for example, 
 the i2mo entitled "Widows' Tears Wiped Away," by 
 St. Francois de Sales for some penitent. The repre- 
 sentative from some deputation from a devoutly Cath- 
 olic district would solicit a reduction upon a purchase 
 of the "Twelve Stations of the Cross," hideously 
 daubed, which he proposed to present to the parishes 
 which his adversaries had accused of being Voltairians. 
 A brother of the Christian Doctrine, or a sister of St. 
 Vincent de Paul, would bargain for catechisms for their 
 schools. From time to time, even a prince of the 
 church, a bishop with aristocratic mien, enveloped in 
 an ample gown, with his hat surrounded with a green 
 cord and golden tassels, would mysteriously shut him- 
 self up in M. Isidore Gaufre's office for an hour; and 
 then would be reconducted to the top of the steps by 
 the cringing proprietor, profuse with his "Monseign- 
 eur," and obsequiously bowing under the haughty 
 benediction of two fingers in a violet glove. 
 
 It was certainly not from sympathy that M. Violette 
 [43]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 had kept up his relations with his wife's uncle; for M. 
 Gaufre, who was servilely polite to all those in whom 
 he had an interest, was usually disdainful, sometimes 
 even insolent, to those who were of no use to him. 
 During his niece's life he had troubled himself very 
 little about her, and had given her for a wedding 
 present only an ivory crucifix with a shell for holy 
 water, such as he sold by the gross to be used in con- 
 vents. A self-made man, having already amassed 
 so they said a considerable fortune, M. Gaufre held 
 in very low estimation this poor devil of a common- 
 place employe whose slow advancement was doubtless 
 due to the fact that he was lazy and incapable. From 
 the greeting that he received, M. Violette suspected the 
 poor opinion that M. Gaufre had of him. If he went 
 there in spite of his natural pride it was only on his 
 son's account. For M. Gaufre was rich, and he was 
 not young. Perhaps who could tell? he might not 
 forget Ame'dee, his nephew, in his will ? It was neces- 
 sary for him to see the child occasionally, and M. Vi- 
 olette, in pursuance of his paternal duty, condemned 
 himself, three or four times a year, to the infliction of 
 a visit at the "Bon Marche" des Paroisses." 
 
 The hopes that M. Violette had formed as to his 
 son's inheriting from M. Gaufre were very problem- 
 atical; for the father, whom M. Gaufre had not 
 been able to avoid receiving at his table occasionally, 
 had been struck, even shocked, by the familiar and 
 despotic tone of the old merchant's servant, a superb 
 Normandy woman of about twenty-five years, answer- 
 ing to the royal name of Be're'nice. The impertinent 
 
 [44]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 ways of this robust woman betrayed her position in 
 her master's house, as much as the diamonds that 
 glittered in her ears. This creature would surely 
 watch the will of her patron, a sexagenarian with an 
 apoplectic neck, which became the color of dregs of 
 wine after a glass of brandy. 
 
 M. Gaufre, although very practical and a church- 
 warden at St. Sulpice, had always had a taste for 
 liaisons. His wife, during her life he had been a 
 widower for a dozen years had been one of those un- 
 fortunate beings of whom people said, "That poor 
 lady is to be pitied; she never can keep a servant." 
 She had in vain taken girls from the provinces, without 
 beauty and certified to be virtuous. One by one a 
 Flemish girl, an Alsatian, three Nivernaise, two from 
 Picardy; even a young girl from Beauce, hired on ac- 
 count of her certificate as "the best-behaved girl in the 
 village" they were unsparingly devoured by the min- 
 otaur of the Rue Servandoni. All were turned out of 
 doors, with a conscientious blow in the face, by the 
 justly irritated spouse. When he became a widower 
 he gave himself up to his liaisons in perfect security, 
 but without scandal, of course, as to his passion for 
 servants. New country-girls, wearing strange head- 
 dresses, responded favorably, in various patois, to his 
 propositions. An Alsatian bow reigned six months; a 
 Breton cap more than a year; but at last what must 
 inevitably take place happened. The beautiful Be*r- 
 e"nice definitely bound with fetters of iron the old lib- 
 ertine. She was now all-powerful in the house, where 
 she reigned supreme through her beauty and her talent 
 
 [45]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 for cooking; and as she saw her master's face grow 
 more congested at each repast, she made her prepara- 
 tions for the future. Who could say but that M. 
 Gaufre, a real devotee after all, would develop con- 
 scientious scruples some day, and end in a marriage, 
 in extremis ? 
 
 M. Violette knew all this; nevertheless it was im- 
 portant that Amedee should not be forgotten by his 
 old relative, and sometimes, though rarely, he would 
 leave his office a little earlier than usual, call for his 
 son as he left the Batifol boarding-school, and take him 
 to the Rue Servandoni. 
 
 The large drawing-rooms, transformed into a shop, 
 where one could still see, upon forgotten panels, rococo 
 shepherds offering doves to their shepherdesses, were 
 always a new subject of surprise to little Amedee. 
 After passing through the book-shop, where thousands 
 of little volumes with figured gray and yellow covers 
 crowded the shelves, and boys in ecru linen blouses 
 were rapidly tying up bundles, one entered the jewel- 
 lery department. There, under beautiful glass cases, 
 sparkled all the glittering display and showy luxury 
 of the Church, golden tabernacles where the Paschal 
 Lamb reposed in a flaming triangle, censers with quad- 
 ruple chains, stoles and chasubles, heavy with em- 
 broidery, enormous candelabra, ostensories and drink- 
 ing-cups incrusted with enamel and false precious 
 stones before all these splendors the child, who had 
 read the Arabian Nights, believed that he had entered 
 Aladdin's cave, or Aboul-Cassem's pit. From this 
 glittering array one passed, without transition, into 
 
 [46]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 the sombre depot of ecclesiastical vestments. Here all 
 was black. One saw only piles of cassocks and pyra- 
 mids of black hats. Two manikins, one clothed in a 
 cardinal's purple robe, the other in episcopalian violet, 
 threw a little color over the gloomy show. 
 
 But the large hall with painted statues amazed 
 Amedee. They were all there, statues of all the saints 
 in little chapels placed promiscuously upon the shelves 
 in rows. 
 
 No more hierarchy. The Evangelist had for a 
 neighbor a little Jesuit saint an upstart of yesterday. 
 The unfortunate Fourier had at his side the Virgin 
 Mary. The Saviour of men elbowed St. Labre. They 
 were of plaster run into moulds, or roughly carved in 
 wood, and were colored with paint as glaring as the 
 red and blue of a barber's pole, and covered with vul- 
 gar gildings. Chins in the air, ecstatic eyes shining 
 with varnish, horribly ugly and all new, they were 
 drawn up in line like recruits at the roll-call, the 
 mitred bishop, the martyr carrying his palm, St. Agnes 
 embracing her lamb, St. Roch with his dog and shells, 
 St. John the Baptist in his sheepskin, and, most ridic- 
 ulous of all, poor Vincent de Paul carrying three naked 
 children in his arms, like a midwife's advertisement. 
 
 This frightful exhibition, which was of the nature 
 of the Tussaud Museum or a masquerade, positively 
 frightened Amedee. He had recently been to his first 
 communion, and was still burning with the mystical 
 fever, but so much ugliness offended his already fas- 
 tidious taste and threw him into his first doubt. 
 
 One day, about five o'clock, M. Violette and his son 
 
 [47]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 arrived at the "Bon Marche des Paroisses," and found 
 Uncle Isidore in the room where the painted statues 
 were kept, superintending the packing of a St. Michel. 
 The last customer of the day was just leaving, the 
 Bishop in partibus of Trebizonde, blessing M. Gaufre. 
 The little apoplectic man, the giver of holy water, 
 left alone with his clerks, felt under restraint no 
 longer. 
 
 "Pay attention, you confounded idiot!" he cried to 
 the young man just ready to lay the archangel in the 
 shavings. "You almost broke the dragon's tail." 
 
 Then, noticing Ame'dee and M. Violette who had 
 just entered: 
 
 "Ah! It is you, Violette! Good-day! Good-day, 
 Amedee! You come at an unlucky time. It is ship- 
 ping-day with us. I am in a great hurry Eh! Mon- 
 sieur Combier, by your leave, Monsieur Combier! 
 Do not forget the three dozen of the Apparition de la 
 Salette in stucco for Grenoble, with twenty-five per 
 cent, reduction upon the bill. Are you working hard, 
 Amedee? What do you say? He was first and as- 
 sisted at the feast of St. Charlemagne! So much the 
 better! Jules, did you send the six chandeliers and 
 the plated pyx and the Stations of the Cross, Number 
 Two, to the Dames du Sacre-Cceur d'Alencons? 
 What, not yet? But the order came three days ago! 
 You must hurry, I tell you! You can see, Violette, 
 I am overflowing with work but come in here a mo- 
 ment." 
 
 And once more ordering his bookkeeper, a captive 
 in his glass case, to send the officers the notes that the 
 
 [48]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 cure of Sourdeval had allowed to go to protest, Uncle 
 Isidore ushered M. Violette and his son into his office. 
 
 It was an ancient room, and M. Gaufre, who aimed 
 at the austere, had made it gloomier still by a safe, 
 and black haircloth furniture, which looked as if taken 
 from a vestry-room. The pretty, high, and oval apart- 
 ment, with its large window, opening upon a garden, 
 its ceiling painted in light rosy clouds, its woodwork 
 ornamented with wreaths and quivers, still preserved 
 some of the charm and elegance of former days. Ame- 
 dee would have been amused there, had not Uncle 
 Isidore, who had seated himself before his desk, 
 launched at once an unkind question at M. Violette. 
 
 "By the way, have you obtained the promotion that 
 you counted so much upon last year?" 
 
 "Unfortunately, no, Monsieur Gaufre. You know 
 what the Administration is." 
 
 "Yes, it is slow; but you are not overwhelmed with 
 work, however. While in a business like this what 
 cares, what annoyances! I sometimes envy you. You 
 can take an hour to cut your pens. Well, what is 
 wanted of me now?" 
 
 The head of a clerk with a pencil behind his ear, 
 appeared through the half-open door. 
 
 "Monsieur le Superieur of Foreign Missions wishes 
 to speak with Monsieur." 
 
 "You can see! Not one minute to myself . Another 
 time, my dear Violette. Adieu, my little man it is 
 astonishing how much he grows to look like Lucie! 
 You must come and dine with me some Sunday, 
 without ceremony. Berenice's souffle au jromage is 
 4 [49]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPtiE 
 
 something delicious! Let Monsieur le Superieur come 
 in." 
 
 M. Violette took his departure, displeased at his 
 useless visit and irritated against Uncle Isidore, who 
 had been hardly civil. 
 
 "That man is a perfect egotist," thought he, sadly; 
 "and that girl has him in her clutches. My poor 
 Ame'dee will have nothing from him." 
 
 Amedee himself was not interested in his uncle's 
 fortune. He was just then a pupil in the fourth grade, 
 which follows the same studies as at the Lycee Henri 
 IV. Having suddenly grown tall, he was annoyed at 
 wearing short trousers, and had already renounced all 
 infantile games. The dangling crows which illustrated 
 the pages of his Burnouf grammar were all dated the 
 previous year, and he had entirely renounced feeding 
 silkworms in his desk. Everything pointed to his not 
 being a very practical man. Geometry disgusted him, 
 and as for dates, he could not remember one. On 
 holidays he liked to walk by himself through quiet 
 streets; he read poems at the bookstalls, and lingered 
 in the Luxembourg Gardens to see the sun set. Des- 
 tined to be a dreamer and a sentimentalist so much 
 the worse for you, poor Amedee! 
 
 He went very often to the Gerards, but he no longer 
 called his little friends " thou." Louise was now seven- 
 teen years old, thin, without color, and with a lank 
 figure; decidedly far from pretty. People, in speak- 
 ing of her, began to say, "She has beautiful eyes and 
 is an excellent musician." Her sister Maria was twelve 
 years old and a perfect little rosebud. 
 
 [50]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 As to the neighbor's little girl, Rosine Combarieu, 
 she had disappeared. One day the printer suddenly 
 departed without saying a word to anybody, and took 
 his child with him. The concierge said that he was 
 concerned in some political plot, and was obliged to 
 leave the house in the night. They believed him to be 
 concealed in some small town. 
 
 Accordingly, Father Gerard was not angry with him 
 for fleeing without taking leave of him. The conspir- 
 ator had kept all his prestige in the eyes of the engraver, 
 who, by a special run of ill-luck, was always engaged 
 by a publisher of Bonapartist works, and was busy at 
 that moment upon a portrait of the Prince Imperial, 
 in the uniform of a corporal of the Guards, with an im- 
 mense bearskin cap upon his childish head. 
 
 Father Gerard was growing old. His beard, for- 
 merly of a reddish shade, and what little hair there was 
 remaining upon his head, had become silvery white; 
 that wonderful white which, like a tardy recompense 
 to red-faced persons, becomes their full-blooded faces 
 so well. The good man felt the weight of years, as did 
 his wife, whose flesh increased in such a troublesome 
 way that she was forced to pant heavily when she 
 seated herself after climbing the five flights. Father 
 Gerard grew old, like everything that surrounded him; 
 like the house opposite, that he had seen built, and 
 that no longer had the air of a new building; like his 
 curious old furniture, his mended crockery, and his 
 engravings, yellow with age, the frames of which had 
 turned red; like the old Erard piano, upon which 
 Louise, an accomplished performer, now was playing
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 a set of Beethoven's waltzes and Mendelssohn's "Songs 
 Without Words." This poor old servant now had only 
 the shrill, trembling tones of a harmonica. 
 
 The poor artist grew old, and he was uneasy as to 
 the future; for he had not known how to manage like 
 his school-friend, the intriguing Damourette, who had 
 formerly cheated him out of the prix de Rome by a 
 favor, and who now played the gentleman at the Insti- 
 tute, in his embroidered coat, and received all the good 
 orders. He, the simpleton, had saddled himself with 
 a family, and although he had drudged like a slave he 
 had laid nothing aside. One day he might be stricken 
 with apoplexy and leave his widow without resources, 
 and his two daughters without a dowry. He some- 
 times thought of all this as he filled his pipe, and it was 
 not pleasant. 
 
 If M. Gerard grew gloomy as he grew older, M. Vio- 
 lette became mournful. He was more than forty 
 years old now. What a decline ! Does grief make the 
 years count double ? The widower was a mere wreck. 
 His rebellious lock of hair had become a dirty gray, 
 and always hung over his right eye, and he no longer 
 took the trouble to toss it behind his ear. His hands 
 trembled and he felt his memory leaving him. He 
 grew more taciturn and silent than ever, and seemed 
 interested in nothing, not even in his son's studies. 
 He returned home late, ate little at dinner, and then 
 went out again with a tottering step to pace the dark, 
 gloomy streets. At the office, where he still did his 
 work mechanically, he was a doomed man; he never 
 would be elected chief assistant. "What depravity!"
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 said one of his fellow clerks, a young man with a bright 
 future, protected by the head of the department, who 
 went to the races and had not his equal in imitat- 
 ing the "Gnouf! gnouf!" of Grassot, the actor. "A 
 man of his age does not decline so rapidly without good 
 cause. It is not natural!" What is it, then, that has 
 reduced M. Violette to such a degree of dejection and 
 wretchedness? 
 
 Alas! we must admit it. The unhappy man lacked 
 courage, and he sought consolation in his despair, and 
 found it in a vice. 
 
 Every evening when he left his office he went into a 
 filthy little cafe on the Rue du Four. He would seat 
 himself upon a bench in the back of the room, in 
 the darkest corner, as if ashamed ; and would ask in a 
 low tone for his first glass of absinthe. His first! 
 Yes, for he drank two, three even. He drank them in 
 little sips, feeling slowly rise within him the cerebral 
 rapture of the powerful liquor. Let those who are 
 happy blame him if they will! It was there, leaning 
 upon the marble table, looking at, without seeing her, 
 through the pyramids of lump sugar and bowls of 
 punch, the lady cashier with her well oiled hair reflected 
 in the glass behind her it was there that the incon- 
 solable widower found forgetfulness of his trouble. It 
 was there that for one hour he lived over again his 
 former happiness. 
 
 For, by a phenomenon well known to drinkers of 
 absinthe, he regulated and governed his intoxication, 
 and it gave him the dream that he desired. 
 
 "Boy, one glass of absinthe!" 
 
 [53]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 And once more he became the young husband, who 
 adores his dear Lucie and is adored by her. 
 
 It is winter, he is seated in the corner by the fire, 
 and before him, sitting in the light reflected by a green 
 lamp-shade upon which dark silhouettes of jockey- 
 riders are running at full speed, his wife is busying 
 herself with some embroidery. Every few moments 
 they look at each other and smile, he over his book 
 and she over her work; the lover never tired of admir- 
 ing Lucie's delicate fingers. She is too pretty! Sud- 
 denly he falls at her feet, slips his arm about her waist, 
 and gives her a long kiss; then, overcome with languor, 
 he puts his head upon his beloved's knees and hears 
 her say to him, in a low voice: "That is right! Go to 
 sleep!" and her soft hands lightly stroke his hair. 
 
 "Boy, one glass of absinthe!" 
 
 They are in that beautiful field filled with flowers, 
 near the woods in Verrieres, upon a fine June afternoon 
 when the sun is low. She has made a magnificent 
 bouquet of field flowers. She stops at intervals to add 
 a cornflower, and he follows, carrying her mantle and 
 umbrella. How beautiful is summer and how sweet it 
 is to love ! They are a little tired ; for during the whole 
 of this bright Sunday they have wandered through the 
 meadows. It is the hour for dinner, and here is a little 
 tavern under some lindens, where the whiteness of the 
 napkins rivals the blossoming thickets. They choose 
 a table and order their repast of a moustached youth. 
 While waiting for their soup, Lucie, rosy from being 
 out all day in the open air and silent from hunger, 
 amuses herself in looking at the blue designs on the 
 
 [54]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 plates, which represented battles in Africa. What a 
 joyous dinner! There were mushrooms in the omelet, 
 mushrooms in the stewed kidneys, mushrooms in the 
 filet. But so much the better! They are very fond of 
 them. And the good wine! The dear child is almost 
 intoxicated at dessert! She takes it into her head to 
 squeeze a cherry-stone between her thumb and first 
 finger and makes it pop slap! into her husband's 
 face! And the naughty creature laughs! But he will 
 have his revenge wait a little! He rises, and leaning 
 over the table buries two fingers between her collar 
 and her neck, and the mischievous creature draws her 
 head down into her shoulders as far as she can, begging 
 him, with a nervous laugh, "No, no, I beseech you!" for 
 she is afraid of being tickled. But the best time of all 
 is the return through the country at night, the exquisite 
 odor of new-mown hay, the road lighted by a summer 
 sky where the whole zodiac twinkles, and through 
 which, like a silent stream, the Chemin de St. Jacques 
 rolls its diamond smoke. 
 
 Tired and happy she hangs upon her husband's arm. 
 How he loves her! It seems to him that his love for 
 Lucie is as deep and profound as the night. " Nobody 
 is coming let me kiss your dear mouth!" and their 
 kisses are so pure, so sincere, and so sweet, that they 
 ought to rejoice the stars! 
 
 "Another glass of absinthe, boy one more!" 
 And the unhappy man would forget for a few mo- 
 ments longer that he ought to go back to his lonely 
 lodging, where the servant had laid the table some 
 time before, and his little son awaited him, yawning 
 
 [55]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 with hunger and reading a book placed beside his 
 plate. He forgot the horrible moment of returning, 
 when he would try to hide his intoxicated condition 
 under a feint of bad humor, and when he would seat 
 himself at table without even kissing Amedee, in order 
 that the child should not smell his breath. 
 
 [56]
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 AMEDEE MAKES FRIENDS 
 
 iANWHILE the allegorical old fellow 
 with the large wings and white beard, 
 Time, had emptied his hour-glass 
 many times; or, to speak plainer, 
 the postman, with a few flakes of 
 snow upon his blue cloth coat, pre- 
 sents himself three or four times a 
 day at his customers' dwelling to 
 offer in return for a trifling sum of money a calendar 
 containing necessary information, such as the ecclesias- 
 tical computation, or the difference between the Gre- 
 gorian and the Arabic Hegira; and Amedee Violette 
 had gradually become a young man. 
 
 A young man! that is to say, a being who possesses 
 a treasure without knowing its value, like a Central 
 African negro who picks up one of M. Rothschild's 
 cheque-books; a young man ignorant of his beauty or 
 charms, who frets because the light down upon his 
 chin has not turned into hideous bristles, a young man 
 who awakes every morning full of hope, and artlessly 
 asks himself what fortunate thing will happen to him 
 to-day; who dreams, instead of living, because he is 
 timid and poor. 
 
 It was then that Ame"dee made the acquaintance of 
 
 [57]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 one of his comrades he no longer went to M. Batifol's 
 boarding-school, but was completing his studies at the 
 Lycee Henri IV named Maurice Roger. They soon 
 formed an affectionate intimacy, one of those eighteen- 
 year-old friendships which are perhaps the sweetest 
 and most substantial in the world. 
 
 Amedee was attracted, at first sight, by Maurice's 
 handsome, blond, curly head, his air of frankness and 
 superiority, and the elegant jackets that he wore with 
 the easy, graceful manners of a gentleman. Twice a 
 day, when they left the college, they walked together 
 through the Luxembourg Gardens, confiding to each 
 other their dreams and hopes, lingering in the walks, 
 where Maurice already gazed at the grisettes in an im- 
 pudent fashion, talking with the charming abandon of 
 their age, the sincere age when one thinks aloud. 
 
 Maurice told his new friend that he was the son of 
 an officer killed before Sebastopol, that his mother had 
 never married again, but adored him and indulged him 
 in all his whims. He was patiently waiting for his 
 school-days to end, to live independently in the Latin 
 Quarter, to study law, without being hurried, since his 
 mother wished him to do so, and he did not wish to 
 displease her. But he wished also to amuse himself 
 with painting, at least as an amateur; for he was pas- 
 sionately fond of it. All this was said by the handsome, 
 aristocratic young man with a happy smile, which ex- 
 panded his sensual lips and nostrils; and Amede"e 
 admired him without one envious thought; feeling, 
 with the generous warmth of youth, an entire confi- 
 dence in the future and the mere joy of living. In his 
 
 [58]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 turn he made a confidant of Maurice, but not of every- 
 thing. The poor boy could not tell anybody that he 
 suspected his father of a secret vice, that he blushed 
 over it, was ashamed of it, and suffered from it as much 
 as youth can suffer. At least, honest-hearted fellow 
 that he was, he avowed his humble origin without 
 shame, boasted of his humble friends the Gerards, 
 praised Louise's goodness, and spoke enthusiastically 
 of little Maria, who was just sixteen and so pretty. 
 
 "You will take me to see them some time, will you 
 not?" said Maurice, who listened to his friend with his 
 natural good grace. " But first of all, you must come to 
 dinner some day with me, and I will present you to my 
 mother. Next Sunday, for instance. Is it agreeable ?" 
 
 Amedee would have liked to refuse, for he suddenly 
 recalled oh! the torture and suffering of poor young 
 men ! that his Sunday coat was almost as seedy as his 
 everyday one, that his best pair of shoes were run-over 
 at the heels, and that the collars and cuffs on his six 
 white shirts were ragged on the edges from too frequent 
 washings. Then, to go to dinner in the city, what an 
 ordeal ! What must he do to be presented in a drawing- 
 room ? The very thought of it made him shiver. But 
 Maurice invited him so cordially that he was irresistible, 
 and Amedee accepted. 
 
 The following Sunday, then, spruced up in his best 
 what could have possessed the haberdasher to induce 
 him to buy a pair of red dog-skin gloves? He soon 
 saw that they were too new and too startling for the 
 rest of his costume Amedee went up to the first floor 
 of a fine house on the Faubourg St. Honore and rang 
 
 [59]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP&E 
 
 gently at the door on the left. A young and pretty 
 maid one of those brunettes who have a waist that 
 one can clasp in both hands, and a suspicion of a 
 moustache opened the door and ushered the young 
 man into a drawing-room furnished in a simple but 
 luxurious manner. Maurice was alone, standing with 
 his back to the fire, in the attitude of master of the 
 house. He received his friend with warm demonstra- 
 tions of pleasure. Amedee's eyes were at once attracted 
 by the portrait of a handsome lieutenant of artillery, 
 dressed in the regimental coat, with long skirts, of 1845, 
 and wearing a sword-belt fastened by two lion's heads. 
 This officer, in parade costume, was painted in the 
 midst of a desert, seated under a palm-tree. 
 
 "That is my father," said Maurice. "Do I not re- 
 semble him?" 
 
 The resemblance was really striking. The same 
 warm, pleasant smile, and even the same blond curls. 
 Amedee was admiring it when a voice repeated behind 
 him, like an echo: 
 
 "Maurice resembles him, does he not?" 
 
 It was Madame Roger who had quietly entered. 
 When Amede'e saw this stately lady in mourning, 
 with a Roman profile, and clear, white complexion, 
 who threw such an earnest glance at her son, then at 
 her husband's portrait, Amedee comprehended that 
 Maurice was his mother's idol, and, moved by the 
 sight of the widow, who would have been beautiful 
 but for her gray hair and eyelids, red from so much 
 weeping, he stammered a few words of thanks for the 
 invitation to dinner. 
 
 [60]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 "My son has told me," said she, "that you are the 
 one among all his comrades that he cares for most. I 
 know what affection you have shown him. I am the 
 one who should thank you, Monsieur Ame'dee." 
 
 They seated themselves and talked ; every few mo- 
 ments these words were spoken by Madame Roger 
 with an accent of pride and tenderness, "My son . . . 
 my son Maurice." Amedee realized how pleasant his 
 friend's life must be with such a good mother, and he 
 could not help comparing his own sad childhood, re- 
 calling above all things the lugubrious evening repasts, 
 when, for several years now, he had buried his nose in 
 his plate so as not to see his father's drunken eyes always 
 fastened upon him as if to ask for his pardon. 
 
 Maurice let his mother praise him for a few mo- 
 ments, looking at her with a pleasant smile which be- 
 came a trifle saddened. Finally he interrupted her: 
 
 "It is granted, mamma, that I am a perfect phcenix," 
 and he gayly embraced her. 
 
 At this moment the pretty maid announced, "Mon- 
 sieur and Mesdemoiselles Lantz," and Madame Roger 
 arose hastily to receive the newcomers. Lieutenant- 
 Colonel Lantz, of the Engineer Corps, was with Cap- 
 tain Roger when he died in the trench before Mamelon 
 Vert; and might have been at that time pleasant to 
 look upon, in his uniform with its black velvet breast- 
 plate; but, having been promoted some time ago 
 to the office, he had grown aged, leaning over the 
 plans and draughts on long tables covered with rules 
 and compasses. With a cranium that looked like a 
 picked bird, his gray, melancholy imperial, his stoop- 
 
 [61]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE 
 
 ing shoulders, which shortened still more his tightly 
 buttoned military coat, there was nothing martial in 
 his appearance. With his head full of whims, no for- 
 tune, and three daughters to marry, the poor Colonel, 
 who put on only two or three times a year, for official 
 solemnities, his uniform, which he kept in camphor, 
 dined every Sunday night with Madame Roger, who 
 liked this estimable man because he was her husband's 
 best friend, and had invited him with his three little 
 girls, who looked exactly alike, with their turned-up 
 noses, florid complexions, and little, black, bead-like 
 eyes, always so carefully dressed that one involuntarily 
 compared them to three pretty cakes prepared for 
 some wedding or festive occasion. They sat down at 
 the table. 
 
 Madame Roger employed an excellent cook, and 
 for the first time in his life Amedee ate a quantity of 
 good things, even more exquisite than Mamma G- 
 rard's little fried dishes. It was really only a very com- 
 fortable and nice dinner, but to the young man it was 
 a revelation of unsuspected pleasures. This decorated 
 table, this cloth that was so soft when he put his hand 
 upon it; these dishes that excited and satisfied the 
 appetite; these various flavored wines which, like the 
 flowers, were fragrant what new and agreeable sensa- 
 tions! They were quickly and silently waited upon by 
 the pretty maid. Maurice, seated opposite his mother, 
 presided over the repast with his elegant gayety. Ma- 
 dame Roger's pale face would light up with a smile at 
 each of his good-natured jokes, and the three young 
 ladies would burst into discreet little laughs, all in 
 
 [62]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 unison, and even the sorrowful Colonel would arouse 
 from his torpor. 
 
 He became animated after his second glass of bur- 
 gundy, and was very entertaining. He spoke of the 
 Crimean campaign; of that chivalrous war when the 
 officers of both armies, enemies to each other, exchanged 
 politenesses and cigars during the suspension of arms. 
 He told fine military anecdotes, and Madame Roger, 
 seeing her son's face excited with enthusiasm at these 
 heroic deeds, became gloomy at once. Maurice no- 
 ticed it first. 
 
 "Take care, Colonel," said he. "You will frighten 
 mamma, and she will imagine at once that I still wish 
 to enter Saint-Cyr. But I assure you, little mother, you 
 may be tranquil. Since you wish it, your respectful 
 and obedient son will become a lawyer without clients, 
 who will paint daubs during his spare moments. In 
 reality, I should much prefer a horse and a sword and 
 a squadron of hussars. But no matter! The essential 
 thing is not to give mamma any trouble." 
 
 This was said with so much warmth and gentleness, 
 that Madame Roger and the Colonel exchanged soft- 
 ened looks; the young ladies were also moved, as 
 much as pastry can be, and they all fixed upon Maurice 
 their little black eyes, which had suddenly become so 
 soft and tender that Amedee did not doubt but that 
 they all had a sentimental feeling for Maurice, and 
 thought him very fortunate to have the choice between 
 three such pretty pieces for dessert. 
 
 How all loved this charming and graceful Maurice, 
 and how well he knew how to make himself beloved ! 
 
 [63]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 Later, when they served the champagne, he arose, 
 glass in hand, and delivered a burlesque toast, finding 
 some pleasant word for all his guests. What frank 
 gayety! what a hearty laugh went around the table! 
 The three young ladies giggled themselves as red as 
 peonies. A sort of joyous chuckle escaped from the 
 Colonel's drooping moustache. Madame Roger's smile 
 seemed to make her grow young; and Ame'de'e noticed, 
 in a corner of the dining-room, the pretty maid, who 
 restrained herself no more than the others; and when 
 she showed her teeth, that were like a young puppy's, 
 she was charming indeed. 
 
 After the tea the Colonel, who lived at some dis- 
 tance, near the Military School, and who, as the 
 weather was fine, wished to walk home and avoid the 
 expense of a cab, left with his three marriageable 
 daughters, and Amedee in his turn took his departure. 
 
 In the ante-chamber, the maid said to Maurice, as 
 she helped him on with his topcoat. 
 
 "I hope that you will not come in very late this 
 evening, Monsieur Maurice." 
 
 "What is that, Suzanne?" replied the young man, 
 without anger, but a trifle impatiently. "I shall re- 
 turn at the hour that pleases me." 
 
 As he descended the stairs ahead of Amed6e, he said, 
 with a laugh: 
 
 "Upon my word! she will soon make her jealousy 
 public." 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Ame'de'e, glad that his com- 
 panion could not see his blushes. 
 
 "Well, yes! Is she not pretty ? I admit it, Violette; 
 
 [64]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 I have not, like you, the artlessness of the flower whose 
 name you bear. You will have to resign yourself to 
 it; you have a very bad fellow for a friend. As to the 
 rest, be content. I have resolved to scandalize the 
 family roof no longer. I have finished with this bold- 
 faced creature. You must know that she began it, 
 and was the first to kiss me on the sly. Now, I am 
 engaged elsewhere. Here we are outside, and here is 
 a carriage. Here, driver! You will allow me to bid 
 you adieu. It is only a quarter past ten. I still have 
 time to appear at Bullier's and meet Zoe Mirilton. 
 Until to-morrow, Violette." 
 
 Amedee returned home very much troubled. So, 
 then, his friend was a libertine. But he made excuses 
 for him. Had he not just seen him so charming to his 
 mother and so respectful to the three young ladies? 
 Maurice had allowed himself to be carried away by 
 his youthful impetuosity, that was all ! Was it for him, 
 still pure, but tormented by the temptations and curios- 
 ity of youth, to be severe ? Would he not have done as 
 much had he dared, or if he had had the money in his 
 pocket ? To tell the truth, Amedee dreamed that very 
 night of the pretty maid with the suspicion of a mous- 
 tache. 
 
 The next day, when Amedee paid his visit to the 
 Gerards, all they could talk of was the evening before. 
 Amedee spoke with the eloquence of a young man 
 who had seen for the first time a finger-bowl at dessert. 
 
 Louise, while putting on her hat and getting her 
 roll of music she gave lessons now upon the piano in 
 boarding-schools was much interested in Madame 
 5 [65]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 Roger's imposing beauty. Mamma Gerard would have 
 liked to know how the chicken- jelly was made; the 
 old engraver listened with pleasure to the Colonel's 
 military anecdotes; while little Maria exacted a precise 
 description of the toilettes of the three demoiselles 
 Lantz, and turned up her nose disdainfully at them. 
 
 "Now, then, Ame'dee," said the young girl, suddenly, 
 as she looked at herself in a mirror that was covered 
 with fly-specks, "tell me honestly, were these young 
 ladies any prettier than I?" 
 
 "Do you see the coquette?" exclaimed Father Ge*- 
 rard, bursting into laughter without raising his eyes 
 from his work. "Do people ask such questions as 
 that, Mademoiselle?" 
 
 There was a general gayety, but Amedee blushed 
 without knowing why. Oh ! no, certainly those three 
 young ladies in their Savoy-cake skirts and nougat 
 waists were not as pretty as little Maria in her simple 
 brown frock. How she improved from day to day! 
 It seemed to Amede'e as if he never had seen her before 
 until this minute. Where had she found that supple, 
 round waist, that mass of reddish hair which she 
 tw r isted upon the top of her head, that lovely complex- 
 ion, that mouth, and those eyes that smiled with the 
 artless tenderness of young flowers ? 
 
 Mamma Gerard, while laughing like the others, 
 scolded her daughter a little for her attack of feminine 
 vanity, and then began to talk of Madame Roger in 
 order to change the conversation. 
 
 Ame'dee did not cease to praise his friend. He 
 told how affectionate he was to his mother, how he 
 
 [66]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 resisted the military blood that burned in him, how 
 graceful he was, and how, at eighteen years, he did 
 the honor of the drawing-room and table with all the 
 manner of a grand seigneur. 
 
 Maria listened attentively. 
 
 "You have promised to bring him here, Amede'e," 
 said the spoiled child, with a serious air. "I should 
 like very much to see him once." 
 
 Amedee repeated his promise; but on his way to 
 the Lycee, for his afternoon class, he recalled the inci- 
 dent of the pretty maid and the name of Zoe Mirilton, 
 and, seized with some scruples, he asked himself 
 whether he ought to introduce his friend to the young 
 Gerard girls. At first this idea made him uneasy, 
 then he thought that it was ridiculous. Was not 
 Maurice a good-hearted young man and well brought 
 up? Had he not seen him conduct himself with tact 
 and reserve before Colonel Lantz's daughters? 
 
 Some days later Maurice reminded him of the prom- 
 ised visit to the Gerards, and Amedee presented him 
 to his old friends. 
 
 Louise was not at home; she had been going about 
 teaching for some time to increase the family's resources, 
 for the engraver was more red-faced than ever, and 
 obliged to change the number of his spectacles every 
 year, and could not do as much work as formerly. 
 
 But the agreeable young man made a conquest of 
 the rest of the family by his exquisite good-nature and 
 cordial, easy manner. Respectful and simple with 
 Madame Gerard, whom he intimidated a little, he paid 
 very little attention to Maria and did not appear to 
 
 [67]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 notice that he was exciting her curiosity to the highest 
 pitch. He modestly asked Father Gerard's advice 
 upon his project of painting, amusing himself with 
 the knickknacks about the apartments, picking out by 
 instinct the best engravings and canvases of value. 
 The good man was enchanted with Maurice and hast- 
 ened to show him his private museum, forgetting all 
 about his pipe he was smoking at present a Gari- 
 baldi and presented him his last engraving, where 
 one saw it certainly was a fatality that pursued the 
 old republican! the Emperor Napoleon III, at Ma- 
 genta, motionless upon his horse in the centre of a 
 square of grenadiers, cut down by grape and canister. 
 
 Maurice's visit was short, and as Amedee had 
 thought a great deal about little Maria for several 
 days, he asked his friend, as he conducted him a part 
 of the way: 
 
 "What did you think of her?" 
 
 Maurice simply replied, " Delicious!" and changed 
 the conversation. 
 
 [68]
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 DREAMS OF LOVE 
 
 SOLEMN moment approached for 
 the two friends. They were to take 
 their examinations for graduation. 
 Upon the days when M. Violette 
 they now called him at the office 
 "Father Violette," he had grown so 
 aged and decrepit was not too much 
 "consoled" in the cafe in the Rue 
 du Four, and when he was less silent and gloomy than 
 usual, he would say to his son, after the soup: 
 
 "Do you know, Ame"dee, I shall not be easy in my 
 mind until you have received your degree. Say what 
 they may, it leads to everything." 
 
 To everything indeed! M. Violette had a college 
 friend upon whom all the good -marks had been show- 
 ered, who, having been successively schoolmaster, 
 journalist, theatrical critic, a boarder in Mazas prison, 
 insurance agent, director of an athletic ring he 
 quoted Homer in his harangue at present pushed 
 back the curtains at the entrance to the Ambigu, and 
 waited for his soup at the barracks gate, holding out 
 an old tomato-can to be rilled. 
 
 But M. Violette had no cause to fear! Amede'e re- 
 ceived his degree on the same day with his friend 
 
 [69]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPtiE 
 
 Maurice, and both passed honorably. A little old man 
 with a head like a baboon the scientific examiner 
 tried to make Amede'e flounder on the subject of nitro- 
 gen, but he passed all the same. One can hope for 
 everything nowadays. 
 
 But what could Amedee hope for first ? M. Violette 
 thought of it when he was not at his station at the Rue 
 du Four. What could he hope for? Nothing very 
 great. 
 
 Probably he could enter the ministry as an auxiliary. 
 One hundred francs a month, and the gratuities, would 
 not be bad for a beginner! M. Violette recalled his 
 endless years in the office, and all the trouble he had 
 taken to guess a famous rebus that was celebrated for 
 never having been solved. Was Amedee to spend his 
 youth deciphering enigmas? M. Violette hoped for a 
 more independent career for his son, if it were possible. 
 Commerce, for example! Yes! there was a future in 
 commerce. As a proof of it there was the grocer op- 
 posite him, a simpleton who probably did not put the 
 screws on enough and had just hanged himself rather 
 than go into bankruptcy. M. Violette would gladly 
 see his son in business. If he could begin with M. 
 Gaufre? Why not? The young man might become 
 in the end his uncle's partner and make his fortune. 
 M. Violette spoke of it to Amedee. 
 
 "Shall we go to see your uncle Sunday morning?" 
 
 The idea of selling chasubles and Stations of the 
 Cross did not greatly please Ame"dc"e, who had con- 
 cealed in his drawer a little book full of sonnets, and 
 had in his mind the plan of a romantic drama wherein 
 
 [70]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 one would say "Good heavens!" and "My lord!" 
 But first of all, he must please his father. He was glad 
 to observe that for some time M. Violette had inter- 
 ested himself more in him, and had resisted his baneful 
 habit somewhat. The young man offered no resist- 
 ance. The next day at noon he presented himself at 
 the Rue Servandoni, accompanied by his father. 
 
 The "dealer in pious goods" received them with 
 great good-humor. He had just come from high mass 
 and was about to sit down at the table. He even 
 invited them to follow his example and taste of his 
 stewed kidneys, one of Berenice's triumphs, who served 
 the dinner with her hands loaded with rings. The Vio- 
 lettes had dined, and the father made known his desire. 
 
 "Yes," said Uncle Isidore, "Amedee might enter 
 the house. Only you know, Violette, it will be another 
 education to be learned over again. He must begin at 
 the very beginning and follow the regular course. Oh! 
 the boy will not be badly treated! He may take his 
 meals with us, is not that so, Berenice? At first he 
 would be obliged to run about a little, as I did when I 
 came from the province to work in the shop and tie 
 up parcels." 
 
 M. Violette looked at his son and saw that he was 
 blushing with shame. The poor man understood his 
 mistake. What good to have dazzled M. Patin be- 
 fore the whole University by reciting, without hesi- 
 tation, three verses of Aristophanes, only to become 
 a drudge and a packer? Well! so Amede'e would 
 yawn over green boxes and guess at enigmas in the 
 Illustration. It had to be so.
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE 
 
 They took leave of Uncle Isidore. 
 
 "We will reflect over it, Monsieur Gaufre, and will 
 come to see you again." 
 
 But Berenice had hardly shut the door upon them 
 when M. Violette said to his son: 
 
 "Nothing is to be expected of that old egotist. To- 
 morrow we will go to see the chief of my department, 
 I have spoken of you to him, at all events." 
 
 He was a good sort of fellow, this M. Courtet, who 
 was head clerk, though too conceited and starched up, 
 certainly. His red rosette, as large as a fifty-cent piece, 
 made one's eyes blink, and he certainly was very im- 
 prudent to stand so long backed up to the fireplace 
 with limbs spread apart, for it seemed that he must 
 surely burn the seat of his trousers. But no matter, 
 he has stomach enough. He has noticed M. Violette's 
 pitiful decline "a poor devil who never will live to be 
 promoted." Having it in his power to distribute posi- 
 tions, M. Courtet had reserved a position for Amedee. 
 In eight days the young man would be nominated an 
 auxiliary employe at fifteen hundred francs a year. 
 It is promised and done. 
 
 Ugh! the sickening heat from the stove! the dis- 
 gusting odor of musty papers! However, Amedee had 
 nothing to complain of; they might have given him 
 figures to balance for five hours at a time. He owed 
 it to M. Courtet' s kindness, that he was put at once 
 into the correspondence room. He studied the formu- 
 las, and soon became skilful in official politeness. He 
 now knew the delicate shades which exist between 
 "yours respectfully" and "most respectfully yours;" 
 
 [72]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 and he measured the abyss which separates an "agree- 
 able" and "homage." 
 
 To sum it all up, Amedee was bored, but he was not 
 unhappy; for he had time to dream. 
 
 He went the longest way to the office in the morning, 
 while seeking to make "amour" rhyme with "jour" 
 without producing an insipid thing; or else he thought 
 of the third act of his drama after the style of 1830, 
 and the grand love scene which should take place at 
 the foot of the Montfaucon gallows. In the evening 
 he went to the Gerards, and they seated themselves 
 around the lamp which stood on the dining-room 
 table, the father reading his journal, the women sew- 
 ing. He chatted with Maria, who answered him the 
 greater part of the time without raising her eyes, be- 
 cause she suspected, the coquette! that he admired her 
 beautiful, drooping lids. 
 
 Amede*e composed his first sonnets in her honor, 
 and he adored her, of course, but he was also in love 
 with the Lantz young ladies, whom he saw sometimes 
 at Madame Roger's, and who each wore Sunday even- 
 ings roses in her hair, which made them resemble those 
 pantheons in sponge-cake that pastry-cooks put in their 
 windows on fite days. 
 
 If Amedee had been presented to twelve thousand 
 maidens successively, they would have inspired twelve 
 thousand wishes. There was the servant of the family 
 on the first floor, whose side-glance troubled him as he 
 met her on the staircase; and his heart sank every time 
 he turned the handle of the door of a shop in the Rue 
 Bonaparte, where an insidious clerk always forced him 
 
 [73]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 to choose ox-colored kid gloves, which he detested. 
 It must not be forgotten that Ame'de'e was very young, 
 and was in love with love. 
 
 He was so extremely timid that he never had had 
 the audacity to tell the girl at the glove counter that 
 he preferred bronze-green gloves, nor the boldness to 
 show Maria Gerard his poems composed in her honor, 
 in which he now always put the plural "amours," so 
 as to make it rhyme with "tou jours," which was an 
 improvement. He never had dared to reply to the 
 glance of the little maid on the second floor; and he 
 was very wrong to be embarrassed, for one morning, 
 as he passed the butcher's shop, he saw the butcher's 
 foreman put his arm about the girl's waist and whisper 
 a love speech over a fine sirloin roast. 
 
 Sometimes, in going or coming from the office, Ame*- 
 dee would go to see his friend Maurice, who had ob- 
 tained from Madame Roger permission to install him- 
 self in the Latin Quarter so as to be near the law 
 school. 
 
 In a very low-studded first-floor room in the Rue 
 Monsieur-le-Prince, Amedee perceived through a cloud 
 of tobacco-smoke the elegant Maurice in a scarlet jacket 
 lying upon a large divan. Everything was rich and 
 voluptuous, heavy carpets, handsomely bound volumes 
 of poems, an open piano, and an odor of perfumery 
 mingled with that of cigarettes. Upon the velvet- 
 covered mantel Mademoiselle Irma, the favorite of the 
 master of the apartment, had left the last fashionable 
 novel, marking, with one of her hairpins, where she 
 had left off reading. Ame'de'e spent a delightful hour 
 
 [74]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 there. Maurice always greeted him with his joyful, 
 kind manner, in which one hardly minded the slight 
 shade of patronage. He walked up and down his 
 room, expanding his finely moulded chest, lighting and 
 throwing away his cigarettes, seating himself for two 
 minutes at the piano and playing one of Chopin's sad 
 strains, opening a book and reading a page, showing 
 his albums to his friend, making him repeat some of 
 his poems, applauding him and touching lightly upon 
 different subjects, and charming Ame*dee more and 
 more by his grace and manners. 
 
 However, Amedee could not enjoy his friend much, 
 as he rarely found him alone. Every few moments 
 the key was in the door Maurice's comrades, young 
 pleasure-seekers like himself, but more vulgar, not 
 having his gentlemanly bearing and manners, would 
 come to talk with him of some projected scheme or 
 to remind him of some appointment for the evening. 
 
 Often, some one of them, with his hat upon his head, 
 would dash off a polka, after placing his lighted cigar 
 upon the edge of the piano. These fast fellows fright- 
 ened Amedee a little, as he had the misfortune to be 
 fastidious. 
 
 After these visitors had left, Maurice would ask his 
 friend to dinner, but the door would open again, and 
 Mademoiselle Irma, in her furs and small veil a com- 
 ical little face would enter quickly and throw her arms 
 about Amedee's neck, kissing him, while rumpling his 
 hair with her gloved hands. 
 
 "Bravo! we will all three dine together." 
 
 No! Ame'de'e is afraid of Mademoiselle Irma, who 
 
 [75]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 has already thrown her mantle upon the sofa and 
 crowned the bronze Venus de Milo with her otter 
 toque. The young man excuses himself, he is ex- 
 pected at home. 
 
 "Timid fellow, go!" said Maurice to him, as he 
 conducted him to the door, laughing. 
 
 What longings! What dreams! They made up all 
 of poor Amedee's life. Sometimes they were sad, for 
 he suffered in seeing his father indulge himself more 
 and more in his vice. No woman loved him, and he 
 never had one louis in his pocket for pleasure or liberty. 
 But he did not complain. His life was noble and 
 happy! He smiled with pleasure as he thought of his 
 good friends; his heart beat in great throbs as he 
 thought of love; he wept with rapture over beautiful 
 verses. The spectacle of life, through hope and the 
 ideal, seemed to him transfigured. Happy Amedee! 
 He was not yet twenty years old! 
 
 [76]
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 A GENTLE COUNSELLOR 
 
 sombre, misty, winter morning, 
 as Amedee lingered in his bed, his 
 father entered, bringing him a letter 
 that the wife of the concierge had just 
 brought up. The letter was from 
 Maurice, inviting his friend to din- 
 ner that evening at seven o'clock at 
 Foyots, to meet some of his former 
 companions at the Lycee Henri IV. 
 
 "Will you excuse me for not dining with you this 
 evening, papa?" said Ame*dee, joyfully. "Maurice 
 Roger entertains us at a restaurant." 
 
 The young man's gayety left him suddenly when he 
 looked at his father, who had seated himself on the 
 side of the bed. He had become almost frightful to 
 look at; old before his time, livid of complexion, his 
 eyes bloodshot, the rebellious lock of hair straggling 
 over his right temple. Nothing was more heartbreak- 
 ing than his senile smile when he placed his bony 
 trembling hands upon his thighs. Amedee, who knew, 
 alas, why his father had reached such a pass, felt his 
 heart moved with pity and shame. 
 
 "Are you suffering to-day?" asked the young man. 
 "Would you prefer that we should dine together as 
 
 [77]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP6E 
 
 usual? I will send word to Maurice. Nothing is 
 easier." 
 
 "No, my child, no!" replied M. Violette, in a hol- 
 low tone. "Go and amuse yourself with your friends. 
 I know perfectly well that the life you lead with me 
 is too monotonous. Go and amuse yourself, it will 
 please me only there is an idea that troubles me more 
 than usual and I want to confide it to you." 
 
 "What is it then, dear papa?" 
 
 "Amedee, last March your mother had been dead 
 fifteen years. You hardly knew her. She was the 
 sweetest and best of creatures, and all that I can wish 
 you is, that you may meet such a woman, make her 
 your companion for life, and be more fortunate than I, 
 my poor Amedee, and keep her always. During these 
 frightful years since your mother's death I have suf- 
 fered, do you see ? suffered horribly, and I have never, 
 never been consoled. If I have lived if I have had 
 the strength to live, in spite of all, it was only for you 
 and in remembrance of her. I think I have nearly 
 finished my task. You are a young man, intelligent 
 and honest, and you have now an employment which 
 will give you your bread. However, I often ask my- 
 self oh, very often whether I have fulfilled my duty 
 toward you. Ah! do not protest," added the unhappy 
 man, whom Amedee had clasped in his arms. "No, 
 my poor child, I have not loved you sufficiently; grief 
 has filled too large a place in my heart; above all, 
 during these last few years I have not been with you 
 enough. I have sought solitude. You understand 
 me, Amedee, I can not tell you more," he said, with a
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 sob. "There are some parts of my life that you must 
 ignore, and if it grieves you to know what I have be- 
 come during that time, you must never think of it; 
 forget it. I beg of you, my child, do not judge me 
 severely. And one of these days, if I die ah! we 
 must expect it the burden of my grief is too heavy 
 for me to bear, it crushes me! Well, my child, if I die, 
 promise me to be indulgent to my memory, and when 
 you think of your father only say: 'He was very un- 
 happy!'" 
 
 Ame'dee shed tears upon his father's shoulder, who 
 softly stroked his son's beautiful hair with his trem- 
 bling hands. 
 
 "My father, my good father!" sobbed Amedee, "I 
 love and respect you with all my heart. I will dress 
 myself quickly and we will go to the office together; 
 we will return the same way and dine like a pair of 
 good friends. I beg of you, do not ask me to leave 
 you to-day!" 
 
 But M. Violette suddenly arose as if he had formed 
 some resolution. 
 
 "No, Amede'e," said he, firmly. "I have said what 
 I had to say to you, and you will remember it. That 
 is sufficient. Go and amuse yourself this evening with 
 your friends. Sadness is dangerous at your age. As 
 for myself, I shall go to dine with Pere Bastide, who 
 has just received his pension, and has invited me more 
 than twenty times to come and see his little house at 
 Grand Montrouge. It is understood; I wish it. Now 
 then, wipe your eyes and kiss me." 
 
 Having tenderly embraced his son, M. Violette left 
 
 [79]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 the room. Amedee could hear him in the vestibule 
 take down his hat and cane, open and close the door, 
 and go down the stairs with a heavy step. A quarter 
 of an hour after, as the young man was crossing the 
 Luxembourg to go to the office, he met Louise Gerard 
 with her roll of music in her hand, going to give some 
 lessons in the city. He walked a few steps beside her, 
 and the worthy girl noticed his red eyes and disturbed 
 countenance. 
 
 "What is the matter with you, Amedee?" she in- 
 quired, anxiously. 
 
 "Louise," he replied, "do you not think that my 
 father has changed very much in the last few months?" 
 
 She stopped and looked at him with eyes shining 
 with compassion. 
 
 "Very much changed, my poor Amede'e. You 
 would not believe me if I told you that I had not 
 remarked it. But whatever may be the cause how 
 shall I say it? that has affected your father's health, 
 you should think of only one thing, my friend ; that is, 
 that he has been tender and devoted to you; that he 
 became a widower very young and he did not remarry; 
 that he has endured, in order to devote himself to his 
 only child, long years of solitude and unhappy mem- 
 ories. You must think of that, Ame"de*e, and that 
 only." 
 
 "I never shall forget it, Louise, never fear; my 
 heart is full of gratitude. This morning, even, he was 
 so affectionate and kind to me but his health is 
 ruined; he is now a weak old man. Soon I not only 
 fear it, but I am certain of it soon he will be incapable 
 
 [80]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 of work. I can see his poor hands tremble now. He 
 will not even have a right to a pension. If he could 
 not continue to work in the office he could hardly 
 obtain a meagre relief, and that by favor only. And 
 for long years I can only hope for an insufficient salary. 
 Oh ! to think that the catastrophe draws near, that one 
 of these days he may fall ill and become infirm, per- 
 haps, and that we shall be almost needy and I shall 
 be unable to surround him with care in his old age. 
 That is what makes me tremble!" 
 
 They walked along side by side upon the moist, soft 
 ground of the large garden, under the leafless trees, 
 where hung a slight penetrating mist which made them 
 shiver under their wraps. 
 
 "Amede'e," said she, looking at the young man with 
 a serious gentleness, "I have known you from a child, 
 and I am the elder. I am twenty-two; that makes 
 me almost an old maid, Amedee, and gives me the 
 right to scold you a little. You lack confidence in life, 
 my friend, and it is wrong at your age. Do you think 
 I do not see that my father has aged very much, that 
 his eyesight fails, that we are much more cramped in 
 circumstances in the house than formerly? Are we 
 any the more sad ? Mamma makes fewer little dishes 
 and I teach in Paris, that is all. We live nearly the 
 same as before, and our dear Maria she is the pet of us 
 all, the joy and pride of the house well, our Maria, all 
 the same, has from time to time a new frock or a pretty 
 hat. I have no experience, but it seems to me that in 
 order to feel really unhappy I must have nobody to 
 love that is the only privation worth the trouble of 
 6 [81]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE 
 
 noticing. Do you know that I have just had one of 
 the greatest pleasures of my life ? I noticed that papa 
 did not smoke as much as usual, in order to be eco- 
 nomical, poor man! Fortunately I found a new pupil 
 at Batignolles, and as soon as I had the first month's 
 pay in my pocket I bought a large package of tobacco 
 and put it beside his work. One must never com- 
 plain so long as one is fortunate enough to keep those 
 one loves. I know the secret grief that troubles you 
 regarding your father; but think what he has suffered, 
 that he loves you, that you are his only consolation. 
 And when you have gloomy thoughts, come and see 
 your old friends, Amedee. They will try to warm your 
 heart at the fireside of their friendship, and to give you 
 some of their courage, the courage of poor people 
 which is composed of a little indifference and a little 
 resignation." 
 
 They had reached the Florentine Terrace, where 
 stand the marble statues of queens and ladies, and on 
 the other side of the bahistrade, ornamented with large 
 vases, they could see through the mist the reser- 
 voir with its two swans, the solitary gravel walks, the 
 empty grass-plots of a pale green, surrounded by the 
 skeletons of lilac-trees, and the facade of the old pal- 
 ace, whose clock-hands pointed to ten. 
 
 "Let us hasten," said Louise, after a glance at the 
 dial. "Escort me as far at the Ode'on omnibus. I 
 am a little late." 
 
 As he walked by her side he looked at her. Alas! 
 Poor Louise was not pretty, in spite of her large eyes, 
 so loving but not coquettish. She wore a close, ugly 
 
 [82]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 hat, a mantle drawn tightly about her shoulders, col- 
 ored gloves, and heavy walking-shoes. Yes, she was 
 a perfect picture of a "two francs an hour" music- 
 teacher. What a good, brave girl! With what an 
 overflowing heart she had spoken of her family! It 
 was to earn tobacco for her father and a new frock for 
 her pretty sister that she left thus, so early in the misty 
 morning, and rode in public conveyances, or tramped 
 through the streets of Paris in the mud. The sight of 
 her, more than what she said, gave the weak and mel- 
 ancholy Amedee courage and desire for manly resolu- 
 tions. 
 
 "My dear Louise," said he, with emotion, "I am 
 very fortunate to have such a friend as you, and for 
 so many years! Do you remember when we used to 
 have our hunts after the bearskin cap when we were 
 children?" 
 
 They had just left the garden and found themselves 
 behind the Odeon. Two tired-out omnibus horses, of 
 a yellowish-white, and showing their ribs, were rubbing 
 their noses against each other like a caress; then the 
 horse on the left raised his head and placed it in a 
 friendly way upon the other's mane. Louise pointed 
 to the two animals and said to Ame'de'e, smilingly: 
 
 "Their fate is hard, is it not? No matter! they are 
 good friends, and that is enough to help them endure 
 it." 
 
 Then, shaking hands with Amede'e, she climbed 
 lightly up into the carriage. 
 
 All that day at the office Amedee was uneasy about 
 his father, and about four o'clock, a little before the 
 
 [83]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPtiE 
 
 time for his departure, he went to M. Violette's office. 
 There they told him that his father had just left, say- 
 ing that he would dine at Grand Montrouge with an 
 old friend; and Ame'dee, a trifle reassured, decided to 
 rejoin his friend Maurice at the Foyot restaurant 
 
 [84]
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 BUTTERFLIES AND GRASSHOPPERS 
 
 'MEDEE was the first to arrive at 
 the rendezvous. He had hardly pro- 
 nounced Maurice Roger's name when 
 a voice like a cannon bellowed out, 
 "Now then! the yellow parlor!" 
 and he was conducted into a room 
 where a dazzling table was laid by 
 a young man, with a Yankee goatee 
 and whiskers, and the agility of a prestidigitateur. 
 This frisky person relieved Amedee at once of his hat 
 and coat, and left him alone in the room, radiant with 
 lighted candles. 
 
 Evidently it was to be a banquet. Piled up in the 
 centre of the table was a large dish of crayfish, and at 
 each plate there were five were groups of large and 
 small glasses. 
 
 Maurice came in almost immediately, accompanied 
 by his other guests, three young men dressed in the 
 latest fashion, whom Amede'e did not at first recognize 
 as his former comrades, who once wore wrinkled stock- 
 ings and seedy coats, and wore out with him the seats 
 of their trousers on the benches of the Lycee Henri IV. 
 After the greetings, "What! is it you?" "Do you 
 remember me?" and a shaking of hands, they all 
 seated themselves around the table. 
 
 [85]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 What! is that little dumpy fellow with the turned-up 
 nose, straight as an arrow and with such a satisfied air, 
 Gorju, who wanted to be an actor? He is one now, 
 or nearly so, since he studies with Regnier at the Con- 
 servatoire. A make-believe actor, he puts on airs, and 
 in the three minutes that he has been in the room he 
 has looked at his retrousse nose and his coarse face, 
 made to be seen from a distance, ten times in the mir- 
 ror. His first care is to inform Amede"e that he has 
 renounced his name Gorju, which was an impossible 
 one for the theatre, and has taken that of Jocquelet. 
 Then, without losing a moment, he refers to his "tal- 
 ents," "charms," and "physique." 
 
 Who is this handsome fellow with such neat side- 
 whiskers, whose finely cut features suggest an intaglio 
 head, and who has just placed a lawyer's heavy port- 
 folio upon the sofa? It is Arthur Papillon, the dis- 
 tinguished Latin scholar who wished to organize a 
 debating society at the Lycee, and to divide the rhetoric 
 class into groups and sub-groups like a parliament. 
 "What have you been doing, Papillon?" Papillon 
 had studied law, and was secretary of the Patru Con- 
 ference, of course. 
 
 Amedee immediately recognized the third guest. 
 
 "What! Gustave!" exclaimed he, joyously. 
 
 Yes! Gustave, the former "dunce," the one they 
 had called "Good-luck" because his father had made 
 an immense fortune in guano. Not one bit changed 
 was Gustave! The same deep-set eyes and greenish 
 complexion. But what style! English from the tips 
 of his pointed shoes to the horseshoe scarfpin in his 
 
 [86]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 necktie. One would say that he was a horse- jockey 
 dressed in his Sunday best. What was this comical 
 Gustave doing now? Nothing. His father has made 
 two hundred thousand pounds' income dabbling in cer- 
 tain things, and Gustave is getting acquainted with 
 life, that is all which means to wake up every morn- 
 ing toward noon, with a bitter mouth caused from the 
 last night's supper, and to be surprised every morning 
 at dawn at the baccarat table, after spending five hours 
 saying "Bac!" in a stifled, hollow voice. Gustave 
 understands life, and, taking into consideration his 
 countenance like a death's-head, it may lead him to 
 make the acquaintance of something entirely different. 
 But who thinks of death at his age? Gustave wishes 
 to know life, and when a fit of coughing interrupts him 
 in one of his idiotic bursts of laughter, his comrades 
 at the Gateux Club tell him that he has swallowed the 
 wrong way. Wretched Gustave, so be it ! 
 
 Meanwhile the boy with the juggler's motions ap- 
 peared with the soup, and made exactly the same 
 gestures when he uncovered the tureen as Robert 
 Houdin would have made, and one was surprised not 
 to see a bunch of flowers or a live rabbit fly out. But 
 no! it was simply soup, and the guests attacked it 
 vigorously and in silence. After the Rhine wine all 
 tongues were unloosened, and as soon as they had 
 eaten the Normandy sole oh! what glorious appe- 
 tites at twenty years of age! the five young men all 
 talked at once. What a racket ! Exclamations crossed 
 one another like rockets. Gustave, forcing his weak 
 voice, boasted of the performances of a "stepper" 
 
 [87]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 that he had tried that morning in the Alice des Cava- 
 liers. He would have been much better off had he 
 stayed in his bed and taken cod-liver oil. Maurice 
 called out to the boy to uncork the Chateau-Leoville. 
 Amedee, having spoken of his drama to the comedian 
 Gorju, called Jocquelet, that person, speaking in his 
 bugle-like voice that came through his bugle-shaped 
 nose, set himself up at once as a man of experience, 
 giving his advice, and quoting, with admiration, 
 Talma's famous speech to a dramatic poet: "Above 
 all, no fine verses!" Arthur Papillon, who was des- 
 tined for the courts, thought it an excellent time to 
 lord it over the tumult of the assembly himself, and 
 bleated out a speech of Jules Favre that he had heard 
 the night before in the legislative assembly. 
 
 The timid Amedee was defeated at the start in this 
 melee of conversation. Maurice also kept silent, with 
 a slightly disdainful smile under his golden moustache, 
 and an attack of coughing soon disabled Gustave. 
 Alone, like two ships in line who let out, turn by turn, 
 their volleys, the lawyer and the actor continued their 
 cannonading. Arthur Papillon, who belonged to the 
 Liberal opposition and wished that the Imperial govern- 
 ment should come around to "a pacific and regular 
 movement of parliamentary institutions," was listened 
 to for a time, and explained, in a clear, full voice the 
 last article in the Courrier du Dimanche. But, burst- 
 ing out in his terrible voice, which seemed like all of 
 Gideon's trumpets blowing at once, the comedian took 
 up the offensive, and victoriously declared a hundred 
 foolish things saying, for example, that the part of 
 
 [88]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 Alceste should be made a comic one; making fun of 
 Shakespeare and Hugo, exalting Scribe, and in spite 
 of his profile and hooked nose, which should have 
 opened the doors of the Theatre-Francais and given 
 him an equal share for life in its benefits, he affirmed 
 that he intended to play lovers' parts, and that he 
 meant to assume the responsibility of making "sympa- 
 thetic" the role of Nero, in Britannicus. 
 
 This would have become terribly tiresome, but for 
 the entrance upon the scene of some truffled partridges, 
 which the juggler carved and distributed in less time 
 than it would take to shuffle a pack of cards. He 
 even served the very worst part of the bird to the sim- 
 ple Amedee, as he would force him to choose the nine 
 of spades. Then he poured out the chambertin, and 
 once more all heads became excited, and the conversa- 
 tion fell, as was inevitable, upon the subject of women. 
 
 Jocquelet began it, by speaking the name of one of 
 the prettiest actresses in Paris. He knew them all and 
 described them exactly, detailing their beauties like a 
 slave-dealer. 
 
 "So little Lucille Prunelle is a friend of the great 
 Moncontour ' ' 
 
 "Pardon me," interrupted Gustave, who was look- 
 ing badly, "she has already left him for Cerfbeer the 
 banker." 
 
 "I say she has not." 
 
 "I say that she has." 
 
 They would have quarrelled if Maurice, with his 
 affable, bantering air, had not attacked Arthur Papillon 
 on the subject of his love-affairs; for the young advo- 
 
 [89]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 cate drank many cups of Orleanist tea, going even 
 into the same drawing-rooms as Beule and Prevost- 
 Paradol, and accompanying political ladies to the re- 
 ceptions at the Academie Francaise. 
 
 "That is where you must make havoc, you rascal!" 
 
 But Papillon defends himself with conceited smiles 
 and meaning looks. According to him and he puts 
 his two thumbs into the armholes of his vest the 
 ambitious must be chaste. 
 
 "Abstineo venere," said he, lowering his eyes in a 
 comical manner, for he did not fear Latin quotations. 
 However, he declared himself very hard to please in 
 that matter; he dreamed of an Egeria, a superior 
 mind. What he did not tell them was, that a dress- 
 maker's little errand-girl, with whom he had tried to 
 converse as he left the law-school, had surveyed him 
 from head to foot and threatened him with the police. 
 
 Upon some new joke of Maurice's, the lawyer gave 
 his amorous programme in the following terms: 
 
 "Understand me, a woman must be as intelligent 
 as Hypatia, and have the sensibility of Heloise; the 
 smile of a Joconde, and the limbs of an Antiope; and, 
 even then, if she had not the throat of a Venus de 
 Medicis, I should not love her." 
 
 Without going quite so far, the actor showed himself 
 none the less exacting. According to his ideas, De- 
 borah, the tragedienne at the Odeon a Greek statue! 
 had too large hands, and the fascinating Blanche 
 Pompon at the Varietes was a mere wax doll. 
 
 Gustave, after all, was the one who is most intract- 
 able; excited by the Bordeaux wine a glass of min- 
 
 [90]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 eral water would be best for him he proclaimed that 
 the most beautiful creature was agreeable to him only 
 for one day; that it was a matter of principle, and that 
 he had never made but one exception, in favor of the 
 illustrious dancer at the Casino Cadet, Nina PAuverg- 
 nate, because she was so comical! "Oh! my friends, 
 she is so droll, she is enough to kill one!" 
 
 "To kill one!" Yes! my dear Monsieur Gustave, 
 that is what will happen to you one of these fine morn- 
 ings, if you do not decide to lead a more reasonable 
 life and on the condition that you pass your winters 
 in the South, also! 
 
 Poor Amedee was in torture; all his illusions 
 desires and sentiments blended were cruelly wounded. 
 Then, he had just discovered a deplorable faculty; a 
 new cause for being unhappy. The sight of this fool- 
 ishness made him suffer. How these coarse young men 
 lied! Gustave seemed to him a genuine idiot, Arthur 
 Papillon a pedant, and as to Jocquelet, he was as un- 
 bearable as a large fly buzzing between the glass and 
 the curtain of a nervous man's room. Fortunately, 
 Maurice made a little diversion by bursting into a 
 laugh. 
 
 "Well, my friends, you are all simpletons," he ex- 
 claimed. "I am not like you, thank fortune! I do 
 not sputter over my soup. Long life to women! Yes, 
 all of them, pretty and otherwise! For, upon my 
 word, there are no ugly ones. I do not notice that 
 Miss Keepsake has feet like the English, and I forget 
 the barmaid's ruddy complexion, if she is attractive 
 otherwise. Now do not talk in this stupid fashion, but
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE 
 
 do as I do ; nibble all the apples while you have teeth. 
 Do you know the reason why, at the moment that I 
 am talking to the lady of the house, I notice the nose 
 of the pretty waitress who brings in a letter on a salver ? 
 Do you know the reason why, just as I am leaving 
 Cydalize's house, who has put a rose in my button- 
 hole, that I turn my head at the passing of Margoton, 
 who is returning from the market with a basket upon 
 her arm? It is because it is one other of my children. 
 One other! that is a great word! Yes, one thousand 
 and three. Don Juan was right. I feel his blood 
 coursing in my veins. And now the boy shall uncork 
 some champagne, shall he not? to drink to the health 
 of love!" 
 
 Maurice was cynical, but this exposition of his phi- 
 losophy served a good purpose all the same. Every- 
 body applauded him. The prestidigitateur, who 
 moved about the table like a schoolboy in a monkey- 
 house, drew the cork from a bottle of Roederer it was 
 astonishing that fireworks did not dart out of it and 
 good-humor was restored. It reigned noisily until the 
 end of the repast, when the effect was spoiled by that 
 fool of a Gustave. He insisted upon drinking three 
 glasses of kummel why had they not poured in maple 
 sirup? and, imagining that Jocquelet looked at him 
 askance, he suddenly manifested the intention of cutting 
 his head open with the carafe. The comedian, who was 
 very pale, recalled all the scenes of provocation that 
 he had seen in the theatre; he stiffened in his chair, 
 swelled out his chest, and stammered, "At your orders!" 
 trying to "play the situation." But it was useless. 
 
 [92]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 Gustave, restrained by Maurice and Amedee, and as 
 drunk as a Pole, responded to his friend's objurgations 
 by a torrent of tears, and fell under the table, breaking 
 some of the dishes. 
 
 "Now, then, we must take the baby home," said 
 Maurice, signing to the boy. In the twinkling of an 
 eye the human rag called Gustave was lifted into a 
 chair, clothed in his topcoat and hat, dressed and 
 spruced up, pushed down the spiral staircase, and 
 landed in a cab. Then the prestidigitateur returned 
 and performed his last trick by making the plate dis- 
 appear upon which Maurice had thrown some money 
 to pay the bill. 
 
 It was not far from eleven o'clock when the com- 
 rades shook hands, in a thick fog, in which the gas- 
 lights looked like the orange pedlers' paper lanterns. 
 Ugh! how damp it was! 
 
 "Good-by." 
 
 "I will see you again soon." 
 
 "Good-night to the ladies." 
 
 Arthur Papillon was in evening dress and white 
 cravat, his customary attire every evening, and still 
 had time to show himself in a political salon on the 
 left side, where he met Moichod, the author of that 
 famous Histoire de Napoleon, in which he proves that 
 Napoleon was only a mediocre general, and that all 
 his battles were gained by his lieutenants. Jocquelet 
 wished to go to the Odeon and hear, for the tenth time, 
 the fifth act of a piece of the common-sense school, in 
 which the hero, after haranguing against money for 
 four acts in badly rhymed verse, ends by marrying the 
 
 [93]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPtiE 
 
 young heiress, to the great satisfaction of the bourgeois. 
 As to Maurice, before he went to rejoin Mademoiselle 
 Irma at the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, he walked part 
 of the way with Amedee. 
 
 "These comrades of ours are a little stupid, aren't 
 they?" said he to his friend. 
 
 "I must say that they almost disgust me," replied 
 the young man. "Their brutal way of speaking of 
 women and love wounded me, and you too, Maurice. 
 So much the worse! I will be honest; you, who are 
 so refined and proud, tell me that you did not mean 
 what you said that you made a pretence of vice just 
 to please the others. It is not possible that you are 
 content simply to gratify your appetite and make your- 
 self a slave to your passions. You ought to have a 
 higher ideal. Your conscience must reproach you." 
 
 Maurice brusquely interrupted this tirade, laughing 
 in advance at what he was about to say. 
 
 "My conscience? Oh, tender and artless Violette; 
 Oh, modest wood-flower! Conscience, my poor friend, 
 is like a Suede glove, you can wear it soiled. Adieu! 
 We will talk of this another day, when Mademoiselle 
 Irma is not waiting for me." 
 
 Amede'e walked on alone, shivering in the mist, 
 weary and sad, to the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. 
 
 No! it could not be true. There must be another 
 love than that known to these brutes. There were 
 other women besides the light creatures they had 
 spoken of. His thoughts reverted to the companion 
 of his childhood, to the pretty little Maria, and again 
 he sees her sewing near the family lamp, and talking 
 
 [94]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 with him without raising her eyes, while he admires 
 her beautiful, drooping lashes. He is amazed to think 
 that this delicious child's presence has never given him 
 the slightest uneasiness; that he has never thought of 
 any other happiness than that of being near her. Why 
 should not a love like that he has dreamed of some day 
 spring up in her own heart ? Have they not grown up 
 together? Is he not the only young man that she 
 knows intimately? What happiness to become her 
 fiance" ! Yes, it was thus that one should love ! Here- 
 after he would flee from all temptations; he would 
 pass all his evenings with the Gerards; he would keep 
 as near as possible to his dear Maria, content to hear 
 her speak, to see her smile; and he would wait with 
 a heart full of tenderness for the moment when she 
 would consent to become his wife. Oh! the exquisite 
 union of two chaste beings! the adorable kiss of two 
 innocent mouths! Did such happiness really exist? 
 
 This beautiful dream warmed the young man's 
 heart, and he reached his home joyous and happy. 
 He gave a vigorous pull to the bell, climbed quickly up 
 the long flights of stairs and opened the door to their 
 apartment. But what was this ? His father must have 
 come home very late, for a stream of light shines under 
 the door of his sleeping-room. 
 
 "Poor man!" thought Amedee, recalling the scene 
 of the morning. "He may be ill. Let us see." 
 
 He had hardly opened the door, when he drew back 
 uttering a shriek of horror and distress. By the light 
 of a candle that burned upon the mantel, Amedee had 
 caught sight of his father extended upon the floor, his 
 
 [95]
 
 shirt disordered and covered with blood, holding in his 
 clenched right hand the razor with which he had cut 
 his throat. 
 
 Yes! the union of two loving hearts had at last 
 taken place. Their love was happiness on earth; but 
 if one of the two dies the other can never be consoled 
 while life lasts. 
 
 M. Violette never was consoled. 
 
 [96]
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THORNS OF JEALOUSY 
 
 JOW Amedee had no family. The day 
 after his father's death he had a 
 violent rupture with M. Isidore Gau- 
 fre. Under the pretext that a suicide 
 horrified him, he allowed his niece's 
 husband to be carried to the ceme- 
 tery in a sixth-class hearse, and did 
 not honor with his presence the fu- 
 neral, which was even prohibited from using the parish 
 road. But the saintly man was not deterred from 
 swallowing for his dinner that same day, while thun- 
 dering against the progress of materialism, tripe cooked 
 after the Caen fashion, one of Berenice's weekly works 
 of art. 
 
 Amedee had now no family, and his friends were 
 dispersed. As a reward for passing his examinations 
 in law, Madame Roger took her son with her on a 
 trip to Italy, and they had just left France together. 
 
 As to the poor Gerards, just one month after M. 
 Violette's death, the old engraver died suddenly, of 
 apoplexy, at his work; and on that day there were 
 not fifty francs in the house. Around the open grave 
 where they lowered the obscure and honest artist, 
 there was only a group of three women in black, who 
 7 [97]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 were weeping, and Amedee in mourning for his father, 
 with a dozen of Gerard's old comrades, whose ro- 
 mantic heads had become gray. The family was 
 obliged to sell at once, in order to get a little money, 
 what remained of proof-sheets in the boxes, some 
 small paintings, old presents from artist friends who 
 had become celebrated, and the last of the ruined 
 knickknacks indeed, all that constituted the charm 
 of the house. Then, in order that her eldest daughter 
 might not be so far from the boarding-school where 
 she was employed as teacher of music, Madame Gerard 
 went to live in the Rue St.-Pierre, in Montmartre, 
 where they found a little cheap, first-floor apartment, 
 with a garden as large as one's hand. 
 
 Now that he was reduced to his one hundred and 
 twenty-five francs, Amedee was obliged to leave his 
 too expensive apartment in the Rue Notre-Dame-des- 
 Champs, and to sell the greater part of his family 
 furniture. He kept only his books and enough to fur- 
 nish his little room, perched under the roof of an old 
 house in the Faubourg St.- Jacques. 
 
 It was far from Montmartre, so he could not see 
 his friends as often as he would have liked, those 
 friends whom grief in common had made dearer than 
 ever to him. One single consolation remained for him 
 literary work. He threw himself into it blindly, 
 deadening his sorrow with the fruitful and wonderful 
 opiate of poetry and dreams. However, he had now 
 begun to make headway, feeling that he had some- 
 thing new to say. He had long ago thrown into the 
 fire his first poems, awkward imitations of favorite 
 
 [98]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 authors, also his drama after the style of 1830, where 
 the two lovers sang a duet at the foot of the scaffold. 
 He returned to truth and simplicity by the longest 
 way, the schoolboy's road. Taste and inclination 
 both induced him to express simply and honestly what 
 he saw before him; to express, so far as he could, the 
 humble ideal of the poor people with whom he had 
 lived in the melancholy Parisian suburbs where his 
 infancy was passed; in a word, to paint from nature. 
 He tried, feeling that he could succeed; and in those 
 days lived the most beautiful and perfect hours of 
 his life those in which the artist, already master of 
 his instrument, having still the abundance and vivacity 
 of youthful sensations, writes the first words that he 
 knows to be good, and writes them with entire dis- 
 interestedness, not even thinking that others will see 
 them; working for himself alone and for the sole joy 
 of putting in visible form and spreading abroad his 
 ideas, his thoughts all his heart. Those moments 
 of pure enthusiasm and perfect happiness he never 
 could know again, even after he had nibbled at the 
 savory food of success and had experienced the feverish 
 desire for glory. Delicious hours they were, and sa- 
 cred, too, such as can only be compared to the divine 
 intoxication of first love. 
 
 Ame'dee worked courageously during the winter 
 months that followed his father's death. He arose at 
 six o'clock in the morning, lighted his lamp and the 
 little stove which heated his room, and, walking up 
 and down, leaning over his page, the poet would vig- 
 orously begin his struggle with fancies, ideas, and 
 
 [99]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 words. At nine o'clock he would go out and break- 
 fast at a neighboring creamery; after which he would 
 go to his office. There, his tiresome papers once 
 written, he had two or three hours of leisure, which 
 he employed hi reading and taking notes from the 
 volumes borrowed by him every morning at a reading- 
 room on the Rue Royer-Collard ; for he had already 
 learned that one leaves college almost ignorant, hav- 
 ing, at best, only learned how to study. He left the 
 office at nightfall and reached his room through the 
 Boulevard des Invalides, and Montparnasse, which 
 at this time was still planted with venerable elms; 
 sometimes the lamplighter would be ahead of him, 
 making the large gas-jets shoot out under the leafless 
 old trees. This walk, that Ame'dee imposed upon 
 himself for health's sake, would bring him, about six 
 o'clock, a workman's appetite for his dinner, in the 
 little creamery situated in front of Val-de-Grace, where 
 he had formed the habit of going. Then he would 
 return to his garret, and relight his stove and lamp, 
 and work until midnight. This ardent, continuous 
 effort, this will-tension kept in his mind the warmth, 
 animation, and excitement indispensable for poetical 
 production. His mind expanded rapidly, ready to 
 receive the germs that were blown to him by the 
 mysterious winds of inspiration. At times he was 
 astonished to see his pen fill the sheet so rapidly that 
 he would stop, filled with pride at having thus reduced 
 to obedience words and rhythms, and would ask him- 
 self what supernatural power had permitted him to 
 charm these divine wild birds. 
 
 [100]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 On Sundays, he had his meals brought him by the 
 concierge, working all day and not going out until 
 nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, to dine with 
 Mamma Gerard. It was the only distraction that 
 he allowed himself, or rather the only recompense 
 that he permitted himself. He walked halfway across 
 Paris to buy a cake in the Rue Fontaine for their 
 dessert; then he climbed without fatigue, thanks to 
 his young legs, to the top of Montmartre, lighted by 
 swinging lamps, where one could almost believe one's 
 self in the distant corner of some province. They 
 would be waiting for him to serve the soup, and the 
 young man would seat himself between the widow 
 and the two orphans. 
 
 Alas, how hard these poor ladies' lives had become! 
 Damourette, a member of the Institute, remembered 
 that he had once joked in the studios with Gerard, 
 and obtained a small annual pension for the widow; 
 but it was charity hardly enough to pay the rent. 
 Fortunately Louise, who already looked like an old 
 maid at twenty-three, going about the city all day with 
 her roll of music under her black shawl, had many 
 pupils, and more than twenty houses had well-nigh 
 become uninhabitable through her exertions with lit- 
 tle girls, whose red hands made an unendurable racket 
 with their chromatic scales. Louise's earnings con- 
 stituted the surest part of their revenue. What a 
 strange paradox is the social life in large cities, where 
 Weber's Last Waltz will bring the price of a four- 
 pound loaf of bread, and one pays the grocer with the 
 proceeds of Boccherini's Minuet! 
 
 [101]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPtfE 
 
 In spite of all, they had hard work to make both 
 ends meet at the Gerards. The pretty Maria wished 
 to make herself useful and aid her mother and sister. 
 She had always shown great taste for drawing, and 
 her father used to give her lessons in pastel. Now 
 she went to the Louvre to work, and tried to copy 
 the Chardins and Latours. She went there alone. It 
 was a little imprudent, she was so pretty; but Louise 
 had no time to go with her, and her mother had to 
 be at home to attend to the housework and cooking. 
 Maria's appearance had already excited the hearts of 
 several young daubers. There were several cases of 
 persistent sadness and loss of appetite in Flandrin's 
 studio; and two of Signol's pupils, who were surprised 
 hovering about the young artist, were hated secretly 
 as rivals; certain projects of duels, after the American 
 fashion, were profoundly considered. To say that 
 Maria was not a little flattered to see all these admirers 
 turn timidly and respectfully toward her; to pretend 
 that she took off her hat and hung it on one corner of 
 her easel because the heat from the furnace gave her 
 neuralgia and not to show her beautiful hair, would 
 be as much of a lie as a politician's promise. How- 
 ever, the little darling was very serious, or at least 
 tried to be. She worked conscientiously and made 
 some progress. Her last copy of the portrait of that 
 Marquise who holds a pug dog in her lap, with a rib- 
 bon about his neck, was not very bad. This copy 
 procured a piece of good luck for the young artist. 
 
 Pere Issacar, a bric-a-brac merchant on the Quay 
 Voltaire an old-fashioned Jew with a filthy overcoat, 
 
 [102]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 the very sight of which made one long to tear it off 
 approached Maria one day, just as she was about to 
 sketch a rose in the Marquise's powdered wig, and 
 after raising a hat greasy enough to make the soup 
 for a whole regiment, said to her: 
 
 " Matemoiselle, vould you make me von dozen 
 vamily bordraits?" 
 
 The young girl did not at first understand his abom- 
 inable language, but at last he made her comprehend. 
 
 Every thing is bought nowadays, even rank, pro- 
 vided, of course, that one has a purse sufficiently well 
 filled. Nothing is simpler! In return for a little 
 money you can procure at the Vatican second cor- 
 ridor on your right, third door at the left a brand- 
 new title of Roman Count. A heraldic agency see 
 advertisement will plant and make grow at your will 
 a genealogical tree, under whose shade you can give a 
 country breakfast to twenty-five people. You buy a 
 castle with port-holes port-holes are necessary in 
 a corner of some reactionary province. You call 
 upon the lords of the surrounding castles with a gold 
 fleur-de-lys in your cravat. You pose as an enraged 
 Legitimist and ferocious Clerical. You give dinners 
 and hunting parties, and the game is won. I will 
 wager that your son will marry into a Faubourg St- 
 Germain family, a family which descends authentically 
 from the Crusaders. 
 
 In order to execute this agreeable buffoonery, you 
 must not forget certain accessories particularly por- 
 traits of your ancestors. They should ornament the 
 castle walls where you regale the country nobles. One 
 
 [103]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 must use tact in the selection of this family gallery. 
 There must be no exaggeration. Do not look too 
 high. Do not claim as a founder of your race a knight 
 in armor hideously painted] upon wood, with his coat 
 of arms in one corner of the panel. Bear in mind the 
 date of chivalry. Be satisfied with the head of a 
 dynasty whose gray beard hangs over a well-crimped 
 ruff. I saw a very good example of that kind the 
 other day on the Place Royale. A dog was just show- 
 ing his disrespect for it as I passed. You can obtain 
 an ancestor like this in the outskirts of the city for 
 fifteen francs, if you haggle a little. Or you need not 
 give yourself so much trouble. Apply to a specialist, 
 Pere Issacar, for instance. He will procure mag- 
 nificent ancestors for you; not dear either! If you 
 will consent to descend to simple magistrates, the price 
 will be insignificant. Chief justices are dirt cheap. 
 Naturally, if you wish to be of the military profession, 
 to have eminent clergy among your antecedents, the 
 price increases. Pere Issacar is the only one who 
 can give you, at a reasonable rate, ermine-draped 
 bishops, or a colonel with a Louis XIV wig, and, if 
 you wish it, a blue ribbon and a breast-plate under 
 his red coat. What produces a good effect in a series 
 of family portraits is a series of pastels. What would 
 you say to a goggle-eyed abbe, or an old lady indecently 
 decolletee, or a captain of dragoons wearing a tiger- 
 skin cap (it is ten francs more if he has the cross of 
 St. Louis) ? Pere Issacar knows his business, and al- 
 ways has in reserve thirty of these portraits in charm- 
 ing frames of the period, made expressly for him in the 
 
 [104]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 Faubourg St.-Antoine, and which have all been buried 
 fifteen days and riddled with shot, in order to have the 
 musty appearance and indispensable worm holes. 
 
 You can understand now why the estimable Jew, 
 in passing through the Louvre for his weekly prome- 
 nade, took an interest in little Maria copying the 
 charming Marquise de Latour. He was just at this 
 time short of powdered marquises, and they are always 
 very much in demand. He begged the young woman 
 to take her copy home and make twelve more of it, 
 varying only the color of the dress and some partic- 
 ular detail in each portrait. Thus, instead of the pug 
 dog, marquise No. i would hold a King Charles 
 spaniel, No. 2 a monkey, No. 3 a bonbon box, No. 4 
 a fan. The face could remain the same. All mar- 
 quises looked alike to Pere Issacar; he only exacted 
 that they should all be provided with two black patches, 
 one under the right eye, the other on the left shoulder. 
 This he insisted upon, for the patch, in his eyes, was 
 a symbol of the eighteenth century. 
 
 Pere Issacar was a fair man and promised to furnish 
 frames, paper, and pastels, and to pay the young 
 girl fifteen francs for each marquise. What was better 
 yet, he promised, if he was pleased with the first 
 work, to order of the young artist a dozen canonesses 
 of Remiremont and a half-dozen of royal gendarmes. 
 
 I wish you could have seen those ladies when Maria 
 went home to tell the good news. Louise had just 
 returned from distributing semiquavers in the city; 
 her eyes and poor Mother Gerard's were filled with 
 tears of joy. 
 
 [105]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 "What, my darling," said the mother, embracing 
 her child, "are you going to trouble yourself about 
 our necessaries of life, too?" 
 
 "Do you see this little sister?" said Louise, laugh- 
 ing cordially. "She is going to earn a pile of money 
 as large as she is herself. Do you know that I am 
 jealous I, with my piano and my displeasing pro- 
 fession? Good luck to pastel! It is not noisy, it will 
 not annoy the neighbors, and when you are old you 
 can say, 'I never have played for anybody.' ' 
 
 But Maria did not wish them to joke. They had 
 always treated her like a doll, a spoiled child, who 
 only knew how to curl her hair and tumble her frocks. 
 Well, they should see! 
 
 When Amedee arrived on Sunday with his cake, 
 they told him over several times the whole story, with 
 a hundred details, and showed him the two marquises 
 that Maria had already finished, who wore patches 
 as large as wafers. 
 
 She appeared that day more attractive and charm- 
 ing than ever to the young man, and it was then that 
 he conceived his first ambition. If he only had enough 
 talent to get out of his obscurity and poverty, and 
 could become a famous writer and easily earn his 
 living! It was not impossible, after all. Oh, with 
 what pleasure he would ask this exquisite child to be 
 his wife! How sweet it would be to know that she 
 was happy with, and proud of, him ! But he must not 
 think of it now, they were too poor; and then, would 
 Maria love him ? 
 
 He often asked himself that question, and with 
 [106]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 uneasiness. In his own heart he felt that the childish 
 intimacy had become a sincere affection, a real love. 
 He had no reason to hope that the same transforma- 
 tion had taken place in the young girl's heart. She 
 always treated him very affectionately, but rather like 
 a good comrade, and she was no more stirred by his 
 presence now than she was when she had lain in wait 
 with him behind the old green sofa to hunt Father 
 Gerard's battered fur hat. 
 
 Amedee had most naturally taken the Gerard family 
 into his confidence regarding his work. After the 
 Sunday dinner they would seat themselves around 
 the table where Mamma Gerard had just served the 
 coffee, and the young man would read to his friends, 
 in a grave, slow voice, the poem he had composed 
 during the week. A painter having the taste and 
 inclination for interior scenes, like the old masters of 
 the Dutch school, would have been stirred by the 
 contemplation of this group of four persons in mourn- 
 ing. The poet, with his manuscript in his right hand 
 and marking the syllables with a rhythmical move- 
 ment of his left, was seated between the two sisters. 
 But while Louise a little too thin and faded for her 
 years fixes her attentive eyes upon the reader and 
 listens with avidity, the pretty Maria is listless and 
 sits with a bored little face, gazing mechanically at the 
 other side of the table. Mother Ge*rard knits with 
 a serious air and her spectacles perched upon the tip 
 of her nose. 
 
 Alas! during these readings Louise was the only 
 one who heaved sighs of emotion; and sometimes 
 
 [107]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 even great tear-drops would tremble upon her lashes. 
 She was the only one who could find just the right 
 delicate word with which to congratulate the poet, 
 and show that she had understood and been touched 
 by his verses. At the most Maria would sometimes 
 accord the young poet, still agitated by the declama- 
 tion of his lines, a careless "It is very pretty!" with a 
 commonplace smile of thanks. 
 
 She did not care for poetry, then? Later, if he 
 married her, would she remain indifferent to her hus- 
 band's intellectual life, insensible even to the glory 
 that he might reap? How sad it was for Amedee to 
 have to ask himself that question! 
 
 Soon Maria inspired a new fear within him. Maurice 
 and his mother had been already three months in 
 Italy, and excepting two letters that he had received 
 from Milan, at the beginning of his journey, in the 
 first flush of his enthusiasm, Amedee had had no 
 news from his friend. He excused this negligence on 
 the part of the lazy Maurice, who had smilingly told 
 him, on the eve of departure, not to count upon hear- 
 ing from him regularly. At each visit that Amedee 
 paid the Gerards, Maria always asked him: 
 
 "Have you received any news from your friend 
 Maurice?" 
 
 At first he had paid no attention to this, but her 
 persistency at length astonished him, planting a little 
 germ of suspicion and alarm in his heart. Maurice 
 Roger had only paid the Gerards a few visits during 
 the father's lifetime, and accompanied on each occasion 
 by Amede'e. He had always observed the most re- 
 
 [108]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 spectful manner toward Maria, and they had perhaps 
 exchanged twenty words. Why should Maria pre- 
 serve such a particular remembrance of a person so 
 nearly a stranger to her? Was it possible that he had 
 made a deep impression, perhaps even inspired a sen- 
 timent of love ? Did she conceal in the depths of her 
 heart, when she thought of him, a tender hope? Was 
 she watching for him ? Did she wish him to return ? 
 
 When these fears crossed Amedee's mind, he felt 
 a choking sensation, and his heart was troubled. 
 Happy Maurice, who had only to be seen to please! 
 But immediately, with a blush of shame, the generous 
 poet chased away this jealous fancy. But every Sun- 
 day, when Maria, lowering her eyes, and with a 
 slightly embarrassed voice, repeated her question, 
 "Have you received any news from Monsieur Mau- 
 rice?" Amedee felt a cruelly discouraged feeling, and 
 thought, with deep sadness: 
 
 "She never will love me!" 
 
 To conquer this new grief, he plunged still more 
 deeply into work; but he did not find his former ani- 
 mation and energy. After the drizzling rain of the 
 last days of March, the spring arrived. Now, when 
 Ame'dee awoke, it was broad daylight at six o'clock 
 in the morning. Opening his mansard window, he 
 admired, above the tops of the roofs, the large, ruddy 
 sun rising in the soft gray sky, and from the convent 
 gardens beneath came a fresh odor of grass and damp 
 earth. Under the shade of the arched lindens which 
 led to the shrine of a plaster Virgin, a first and almost 
 imperceptible rustle, a presentiment of verdure, so to 
 
 [109]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPtiE 
 
 speak, ran through the branches, and the three almond 
 trees in the kitchen-garden put forth their delicate 
 flowers. The young poet was invaded by a sweet 
 and overwhelming languor, and Maria's face, which 
 was commonly before his inner vision upon awaken- 
 ing, became confused and passed from his mind. He 
 seated himself for a moment before a table and re- 
 read the last lines of a page that he had begun; but 
 he was immediately overcome by physical lassitude, 
 and abandoned himself to thought, saying to himself 
 that he was twenty years old, and that it would be 
 very good, after all, to enjoy life. 
 
 [no]
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 A BUDDING POET 
 
 T is the first of May, and the lilacs 
 in the Luxembourg Gardens are in 
 blossom. It has just struck four 
 o'clock. The bright sun and the 
 pure sky have rendered more odious 
 than ever the captivity of the office 
 to Ame"dee, and he departs before 
 the end of the sitting for a stroll in 
 the Medicis garden around the pond, where, for the 
 amusement of the children in that quarter, a little 
 breeze from the northeast is pushing on a miniature 
 flotilla. Suddenly he hears himself called by a voice 
 which bursts out like a brass band at a country fair. 
 "Good-day, Violette." 
 
 It is Jocquelet, the future comedian, with his turned- 
 up nose, which cuts the air like the prow of a first- 
 class ironclad, superb, triumphant, dressed like a 
 Brazilian, shaved to the quick, the dearest hope of 
 Regnier's class at the Conservatoire Jocquelet, who 
 has made an enormous success in an act from the 
 " Precieuses, " at the last quarter's examination he 
 says so himself, without any useless modesty Jocque- 
 let, who will certainly have the first comedy prize at 
 the next examination, and will make his debut with- 
 
 [iii]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfcE 
 
 out delay at the Come'die Franjaise! All this he 
 announces in one breath, like a speech learned by 
 heart, with his terrible voice, like a quack selling shav- 
 ing-paste from a gilded carriage. In two minutes 
 that favorite word of theatrical people had been re- 
 peated thirty times, punctuating the phrases: "I! I! 
 I! I!" 
 
 Amede'e is only half pleased at the meeting. Joc- 
 quelet was always a little too noisy to please him. 
 After all, he was an old comrade, and out of politeness 
 the poet congratulated him upon his success. 
 
 Jocquelet questioned him. What was Amedee do- 
 ing? What had become of him? Where was his 
 literary work? All this was asked with such cor- 
 diality and warmth of manner that one would have 
 thought that Jocquelet was interested in Amedee, and 
 had a strong friendship for him. Nothing of the sort. 
 Jocquelet was interested in only one person in this 
 world, and that person was named Jocquelet. One 
 is either an actor or he is not. This personage was 
 always one wherever he was in an omnibus, while 
 putting on his suspenders, even with the one he loved. 
 When he said to a newcomer, "How do you do?" he 
 put so much feeling into this very original question, 
 that the one questioned asked himself whether he 
 really had not just recovered from a long and dan- 
 gerous illness. Now, at this time Jocquelet found 
 himself in the presence of an unknown and poor 
 young poet. What role ought such an eminent person 
 as himself to play in such circumstances? To show 
 affection for the young man, calm his timidity, and 
 
 [112]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 patronize him without too much haughtiness; that 
 was the position to take, and Jocquelet acted it. 
 
 Amedee was an artless dupe, and, touched by the 
 interest shown him, he frankly replied: 
 
 "Well, my dear friend, I have worked hard this 
 winter. I am not dissatisfied. I think that I have 
 made some progress; but if you knew how hard and 
 difficult it is!" 
 
 He was about to confide to Jocquelet the doubts 
 and sufferings of a sincere artist, but Jocquelet, as we 
 have said, thought only of himself, and brusquely in- 
 terrupted the young poet: 
 
 "You do not happen to have a poem with you 
 something short, a hundred or a hundred and fifty 
 lines a poem intended for effect, that one could re- 
 cite?" 
 
 Amedee had copied out that very day, at the office, 
 a war story, a heroic episode of Sebastopol that he 
 had heard Colonel Lantz relate not long since at 
 Madame Roger's, and had put into verse with a good 
 French sentiment and quite the military spirit, verse 
 which savored of powder, and went off like reports of 
 musketry. He took the sheets out of his pocket, and, 
 leading the comedian into a solitary by-path of syca- 
 mores which skirted the Luxembourg orangery, he 
 read his poem to him in a low voice. Jocquelet, who 
 did not lack a certain literary instinct, was very en- 
 thusiastic, for he foresaw a success for himself, and 
 said to the poet: 
 
 "You read those verses just like a poet, that is, 
 very badly. But no matter, this battle is very effective, 
 8 ["3]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 and I see what I could do with it with my voice. 
 But what do you mean?" added he, planting himself 
 in front of his friend. "Do you write verses like 
 these and nobody knows anything about them? It 
 is absurd. Do you wish, then, to imitate Chatterton? 
 That is an old game, entirely used up! You must 
 push yourself, show yourself. I will take charge of 
 that myself! Your evening is free, is it not? Very 
 well, come with me; before six o'clock I shall have 
 told your name to twenty trumpeters, who will make 
 all Paris resound with the news that there is a poet 
 in the Faubourg Saint- Jacques. I will wager, you 
 savage, that you never have put your foot into the 
 Cafe de Seville. Why, my dear fellow, it is our first 
 manufactory of fame! Here is the Odeon omnibus, 
 get on! We shall be at the Boulevard Montmartre 
 in twenty minutes, and I shall baptize you there, as a 
 great man, with a glass of absinthe." 
 
 Dazzled and carried away, Amedee humored him 
 and climbed upon the outside of the omnibus with 
 his comrade. The vehicle hurried them quickly along 
 toward the quay, crossed the Seine, the Carrousel, 
 and passed before the Theatre-Francais, at which 
 Jocquelet, thinking of his approaching debut, shook 
 his fist, exclaiming, "Now I am ready for you!" Here 
 the young men were planted upon the asphalt boule- 
 vard, in front of the Cafe de Seville. 
 
 Do not go to-day to see this old incubator, in which 
 so many political and literary celebrities have been 
 hatched; for you will only find a cafe*, just like any 
 other, with its groups of ugly little Jews who discuss 
 
 [114]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 the coming races, and here and there a poor creature, 
 painted like a Jezebel, dying of chagrin over her pot 
 of beer. 
 
 At the decline of the Second Empire it was May i, 
 1866, that Amedee Violette entered there for the first 
 time the Cafe de Seville passed for, and with reason 
 too, one of the most remarkable places in Paris. For 
 this glorious establishment had furnished by itself, 
 or nearly so, the eminent staff of our third Republic! 
 Be honest, Monsieur le Prefet, you who presided at 
 the opening of the agricultural meeting in our prov- 
 ince, and who played the peacock in your dress-coat, 
 embroidered in silver, before an imposing line of horned 
 creatures; be honest and admit, that, at the time when 
 you opposed the official candidates in your democratic 
 journal, you had your pipe in the rack of the Cafe de 
 Seville, with your name in white enamel upon the 
 blackened bowl! Remember, Monsieur le Depute, 
 you who voted against all the exemption cases of the 
 military law, remember who, in this very place, at your 
 daily game of dominoes for sixty points, more than a 
 hundred times ranted against the permanent army 
 you, accustomed to the uproar of assemblies and the 
 noise of the tavern contributed to the parliamentary 
 victories by crying, "Six all! count that!" And you 
 too, Monsieur le Ministre, to whom an office-boy, dat- 
 ing from the tyrants, still says, "Your excellency," 
 without offending you; you also have been a constant 
 frequenter of the Caf de Seville, and such a faithful 
 customer that the cashier calls you by your Christian 
 name. And do you recall, Monsieur the future presi-
 
 FRANCOIS COPPtiE 
 
 dent of the Council, that you did not acquit yourself 
 very well when the sedentary dame, who never has 
 been seen to rise from her stool, and who, as a joker 
 pretended, was afflicted with two wooden legs, called 
 you by a little sign to the desk, and said to you, not 
 without a shade of severity in her tone: "Monsieur 
 Eugene, we must be thinking of this little bill." 
 
 Notwithstanding his title of poet, Amede'e had not 
 the gift of prophecy. While seeing all these negli- 
 gently dressed men seated outside at the Cafe de Se*- 
 ville's tables, taking appetizers, the young man never 
 suspected that he had before him the greater part of 
 the legislators destined to assure, some years later, 
 France's happiness. Otherwise he would have re- 
 spectfully taken note of each drinker and the color of 
 his drink, since at a later period this would have been 
 very useful to him as a mnemonical method for the 
 understanding of our parliamentary combinations, 
 which are a little complicated, we must admit. For 
 example, would it not have been handy and agreeable 
 to note down that the recent law on sugars had been 
 voted by the solid majority of absinthe and bitters, 
 or to know that the Cabinet's fall, day before yester- 
 day, might be attributed simply to the disloyal and 
 perfidious abandonment of the bitter mints or black- 
 currant wine? 
 
 Jocquelet, who professed the most advanced opinions 
 in politics, distributed several riotous and patronizing 
 hand-shakes among these future statesmen as he en- 
 tered the establishment, followed by Amede'e. 
 
 Here, there were still more of politics, and also 
 [116]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 poets and literary men. They lived a sort of hurly- 
 burly life, on good terms, but one could not get them 
 confounded, for the politicians were all beard, the 
 litterateurs, all hair. 
 
 Jocquelet directed his steps without hesitation to- 
 ward the magnificent red head of the whimsical poet, 
 Paul Sillery, a handsome young fellow with a wide- 
 awake face, who was nonchalantly stretched upon the 
 red velvet cushion of the window-seat, before a table, 
 around which were three other heads of thick hair 
 worthy of our early kings. 
 
 "My dear Paul," said Jocquelet, in his most thrill- 
 ing voice, handing Sillery Amedee's manuscript, "here 
 are some verses that I think are superb, and I am go- 
 ing to recite them as soon as I can, at some entertain- 
 ment or benefit. Read them and give us your opinion 
 of them. I present their author to you, Monsieur 
 Amedee Violette. Amedee, I present you to Monsieur 
 Paul Sillery." 
 
 All the heads of hair, framing young and amiable 
 faces, turned curiously toward the newcomer, whom 
 Paul Sillery courteously invited to be seated, with the 
 established formula, "What will you take?" Then he 
 began to read the lines that the comedian had given 
 him. 
 
 Amedee, seated on the edge of his chair, was dis- 
 tracted with timidity, for Paul Sillery already enjoyed 
 a certain reputation as a rising poet, and had estab- 
 lished a small literary sheet called La Guepe, which 
 published upon its first page caricatures of celebrated 
 men with large heads and little bodies, and Ame"de"e 
 
 ["7]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 had read in it some of Paul's poems, full of imperti- 
 nence and charm. An author whose work had been 
 published! The editor of a journal! The idea was 
 stunning to poor innocent Violette, who was not aware 
 then that La Guepe could not claim forty subscribers. 
 He considered Sillery something wonderful, and waited 
 with a beating heart for the verdict of so formidable 
 a judge. At the end of a few moments Sillery said, 
 without raising his eyes from the manuscript: 
 
 "Here are some fine verses!" 
 
 A flood of delight filled the heart of the poet from 
 the Faubourg St. -Jacques. 
 
 As soon as he had finished his reading, Paul arose 
 from his seat, and, extending both hands over the 
 carafes and glasses to Amede'e, said, enthusiastically: 
 
 "Let me shake hands with you! Your description 
 of the battle-scene is astonishing! It is admirable! 
 It is as clear and precise as Merimee, and it has all 
 the color and imagination that he lacks to make him 
 a poet. It is something absolutely new. My dear 
 Monsieur Violette, I congratulate you with all my 
 heart ! I can not ask you for this beautiful poem for 
 La Guepe that Jocquelet is so fortunate as to have to 
 recite, and of which I hope he will make a success. 
 But I beg of you, as a great favor, to let me have some 
 verses for my paper; they will be, I am sure, as good 
 as these, if not better. To be sure, I forgot to tell 
 you that we shall not be able to pay you for the copy, 
 as La Gutpe does not prosper; I will even admit that 
 it only stands on one leg. In order to make it appear 
 for a few months longer, I have recently been obliged 
 
 [118]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 to go to a money-lender, who has left me, instead of 
 the classical stuffed crocodile, a trained horse which 
 he had just taken from an insolvent circus. I mounted 
 the noble animal to go to the Bois, but at the Place de 
 la Concorde he began to waltz around it, and I was 
 obliged to get rid of this dancing quadruped at a con- 
 siderable loss. So your contribution to La Guepe 
 would have to be gratuitous, like those of all the rest. 
 You will give me the credit of having saluted you first 
 of all, my dear Violette, by the rare and glorious 
 title of true poet. You will let me reserve the pleasure 
 of intoxicating you with the odor that a printer's first 
 proofs give, will you not? Is it agreed?" 
 
 Yes, it was agreed ! That is to say, Amedee, touched 
 to the depths of his heart by so much good grace and 
 fraternal cordiality, was so troubled in trying to find 
 words to express his gratitude, that he made a ter- 
 rible botch of it. 
 
 "Do not thank me," said Paul Sillery, with his 
 pleasant but rather sceptical smile, "and do not think 
 me better than I am. If all your verses are as strong 
 as these that I have just read, you will soon publish 
 a volume that will make a sensation, and who knows? 
 perhaps will inspire me first of all with an ugly 
 attack of jealousy. Poets are no better than other 
 people; they are like the majority of Adam's sons, 
 vain and envious, only they still keep the ability to 
 admire, and the gift of enthusiasm, and that proves 
 their superiority and is to their credit. I am de- 
 lighted to have found a mare's nest to-day, an original 
 and sincere poet, and with your permission we will 
 
 [119]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPtfE 
 
 celebrate this happy meeting. The price of the waltz- 
 ing horse having hardly sufficed to pay off the debt to 
 the publisher of La Guepe, I am not in funds this 
 evening; but I have credit at Pere Lebuffle's, and I 
 invite you all to dinner at his pot-house; after which 
 we will go to my rooms, where I expect a few friends, 
 and there you will read us your verses, Violette; we 
 will all read some of them, and have a fine orgy of 
 rich rhymes." 
 
 This proposition was received with favor by the 
 three young men with the long hair, a la Clodion and 
 Chilperic. As for Violette, he would have followed 
 Paul Sillery at that moment, had it been into the 
 infernal regions. 
 
 Jocquelet could not go with them, he had promised 
 his evening to a lady, he said, and he gave this excuse 
 with such a conceited smile that all were convinced 
 he was going to crown himself with the most flattering 
 of laurels at the mansion of some princess of the royal 
 blood. In reality, he was going to see one of his Con- 
 servatoire friends, a large, lanky dowdy, as swarthy 
 as a mole and full of pretensions, who was destined 
 for the tragic line of character, and inflicted upon her 
 lover Athalie's dream, Camille's imprecations, and 
 Phedre's monologue. 
 
 After paying for the refreshments, Sillery gave his 
 arm to Ame"dee, and, followed by the three Mero- 
 vingians, they left the cafe. Forcing a way through 
 the crowd which obstructed the sidewalk of the Fau- 
 bourg Montmartre he conducted his guests to Pere 
 Lebuffle's table d'hote, which was situated on the third 
 
 [120]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 floor of a dingy old house in the Rue Lamartine, where 
 a sickening odor of burnt meat greeted them as soon as 
 they reached the top of the stairs. They found there, 
 seated before a tablecloth remarkable for the num- 
 ber of its wine-stains, two or three wild-looking heads 
 of hair, and four or five shaggy beards, to whom Pere 
 LebufHe was serving soup, aided by a tired-looking 
 servant. The name under which Sillery had desig- 
 nated the proprietor of the table d'hdte might have 
 been a nickname, for this stout person in his shirt- 
 sleeves recommended himself to one's attentions by 
 his bovine face and his gloomy, wandering eyes. To 
 Amedee's amazement, Pere Lebuffle called the greater 
 part of his clients "thou," and as soon as the new- 
 comers were seated at table, Amedee asked Sillery, 
 in a low voice, the cause of this familiarity. 
 
 "It is caused by the hard times, my dear Violette," 
 responded the editor of La Guepe as he unfolded his 
 napkin. "There is no longer a 'Maecenas' or 'Law- 
 rence the Magnificent.' The last patron of literature 
 and art is Pere Lebuffle. This wretched cook, who 
 has perhaps never read a book or seen a picture, has 
 a fancy for painters and poets, and allows them to 
 cultivate that plant, Debt, which, contrary to other 
 vegetables, grows all the more, the less it is watered 
 with instalments. We must pardon the good man," 
 said he, lowering his voice, "his little sin a sort of 
 vanity. He wishes to be treated like a comrade and 
 friend by the artists. Those who have several accounts 
 brought forward upon his ledger, arrive at the point 
 of calling him 'thou,' and I, alas! am of that num- 
 
 [121]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 her. Thanks to that, I am going to make you drink 
 something a little less purgative than the so-called 
 wine which is turning blue in that carafe, and of which 
 I advise you to be suspicious. I say, Lebuffle, my 
 friend here, Monsieur Amedee Violette, will be, sooner 
 or later, a celebrated poet. Treat him accordingly, 
 my good fellow, and go and get us a bottle of Moulin- 
 a-Vent." 
 
 The conversation meanwhile became general be- 
 tween the bearded and long-haired men. Is it neces- 
 sary to say that they were all animated, both politicians 
 and litterateurs, with the most revolutionary senti- 
 ments? At the very beginning, with the sardines, 
 which evidently had been pickled in lamp-oil, a ter- 
 ribly hairy man, the darkest of them all, with a beard 
 that grew up into its owner's eyes and then sprung out 
 again in tufts from his nose and ears, presented some 
 elegiac regrets to the memory of Jean-Paul Marat, 
 and declared that at the next revolution it would be 
 necessary to realize the programme of that delightful 
 friend of the people, and make one hundred thousand 
 heads fall. 
 
 "By thunder, Flambard, you have a heavy hand!" 
 exclaimed one of the least important of beards, one of 
 those that degenerate into side-whiskers as they be- 
 come conservative. "One hundred thousand heads!" 
 
 "It is the minimum," replied the sanguinary beard. 
 
 Now, it had just been revealed to Ame'dee that 
 under this ferocious beard was concealed a photog- 
 rapher, well known for his failures, and the young 
 man could not help thinking that if the one hundred 
 
 [122]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 thousand heads in question had posed before the said 
 Flambard's camera, he would not show such impatience 
 to see them fall under the guillotine. 
 
 The conversation of the men with the luxuriant 
 hair was none the less anarchical when the roast ap- 
 peared, which sprung from the legendary animal called 
 vache enragee. The possessor of the longest and 
 thickest of all the shock-heads, which spread over the 
 shoulders of a young story-writer between us, be it 
 said, he made a mistake in not combing it oftener 
 imparted to his brothers the subject for his new novel, 
 which should have made the hair of the others bristle 
 with terror; for the principal episode in this agreeable 
 fiction was the desecration of a dead body in a cem- 
 etery by moonlight. There was a sort of hesitation in 
 the audience, a slight movement of recoil, and Sillery, 
 with a dash of raillery in his glance, asked the novelist : 
 "Why the devil do you write such a story?" 
 The novelist replied, in a thundering tone: 
 "To astonish the bourgeoisie /" 
 And nobody made the slightest objection. 
 To "astonish the bourgeoisie" was the clearest hope 
 and most ardent wish of these young men, and this 
 desire betrayed itself in their slightest word; and 
 doubtless Ame*dee thought it legitimate and even wor- 
 thy of praise. However, he did not believe must we 
 admit his lack of confidence? that so many glorious 
 efforts were ever crowned with success. He went so 
 far as to ask himself whether the character and clever- 
 ness of these bourgeoisie would not lead them to ignore 
 not only the works, but even the existence, of the 
 
 [123]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 authors who sought to "astonish" them; and he 
 thought, not without sadness, that when La Guepe 
 should have published this young novelist's ghostly 
 composition, the unconquerable bourgeoisie would 
 know nothing about it, and would continue to devote 
 itself to its favorite customs, such as tapping the ba- 
 rometer to know whether there was a change, or to 
 heave a deep sigh after guzzling its soup, saying, "I 
 feel better!" without being the least astonished in the 
 world. 
 
 In spite of these mental reservations, which Amedee 
 reproached himself with, being himself an impure and 
 contemptible Philistine, the poet was delighted with 
 his new friends and the unknown world opening be- 
 fore him. In this Bohemian corner, where one got 
 intoxicated with wild excesses and paradoxes, reckless- 
 ness and gayety reigned. The sovereign charm of 
 youth was there, and Amede*e, who had until now 
 lived in a dark hiding-place, blossomed out in this 
 warm atmosphere. 
 
 After a horrible dessert of cheese and prunes, Pere 
 Lebuffle's guests dispersed. Sillery escorted Amede"e 
 and the three Merovingians to the little, sparsely fur- 
 nished first floor in the Rue Pigalle, where he lived; 
 and half a dozen other lyric poets, who might have 
 furnished some magnificent trophies for an Apache 
 warrior's scalping-knife, soon came to reenforce the 
 club which met there every Wednesday evening. 
 
 Seats were wanting at the beginning, but Sillery 
 drew from a closet an old black trunk which would 
 hold two, and contented himself, as master of the 
 
 ["4]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 house, with sitting from time to time, with legs dan- 
 gling, upon the marble mantel. The company thus 
 found themselves very comfortable; still more so when 
 an old woman with a dirty cap had placed upon the 
 table, in the middle of the room, six bottles of beer, 
 some odd glasses, and a large flowered plate upon 
 which was a package of cut tobacco with cigarette 
 paper. They began to recite their verses in a cloud 
 of smoke. Each recited his own, called upon by Sil- 
 lery; each would rise without being urged, place his 
 chair in front of him, and leaning one hand upon its 
 back, would recite his poem or elegy. Certainly some 
 of them were wanting in genius, some were even lu- 
 dicrous. Among the number was a little fellow with 
 a cadaverous face, about as large as two farthings' 
 worth of butter, who declared, in a long speech with 
 flat rhymes, that an Asiatic harem was not capable of 
 quenching his ardent love of pleasure. A fat-faced 
 fellow with a good, healthy, country complexion, an- 
 nounced, in a long story, his formal intention of dying 
 of a decline, on account of the treason of a courtesan 
 with a face as cold as marble; while, if the facts were 
 known, this peaceable boy lived with an artless child 
 of the people, brightening her lot by reducing her to a 
 state of slavery; she blacked his boots for him every 
 morning before he left the house. 
 
 In spite of these ridiculous things, there were present 
 some genuine poets who knew their business and had 
 real talent. These filled Ame'de'e with respect and 
 fear, and when Sillery called his name, he arose with 
 a dry mouth and heavy heart. 
 
 [125]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfiE 
 
 "It is your turn now, you newcomer! Recite us 
 your 'Before Sebastopol.'" 
 
 And so, thoroughbred that he was, Ame'de'e over- 
 came his emotion and recited, in a thrilling voice, 
 his military rhymes, that rang out like the report of 
 a veteran's gun. 
 
 The last stanza was greeted with loud applause, 
 and all the auditors arose and surrounded Ame'dee to 
 offer him their congratulations. 
 
 "Why, it is superb!" 
 
 "Entirely new!" 
 
 "It will make an enormous success!" 
 
 "It is just what is needed to arouse the public!" 
 
 "Recite us something else! something else!" 
 
 Reassured and encouraged, master of himself, he 
 recited a popular scene in which he had freely poured 
 out his love for the poor people. He next recited some 
 of his Parisian suburban scenes, and then a series of 
 sonnets, entitled "Love's Hopes," inspired by his 
 dear Maria; and he astonished all these poets by the 
 versatility and variety of his inspirations. 
 
 At each new poem bravos were thundered out, and 
 the young man's heart expanded with joy under this 
 warm sunshine of success. His audience vied with 
 each other to approach Ame'de'e first, and to shake 
 his hand. Alas! some of those who were there would, 
 later, annoy him by their low envy and treason; but 
 now, in the generous frankness of their youth, they 
 welcomed him as a master. 
 
 What an intoxicating evening! Ame'de'e reached his 
 home about two o'clock in the morning, his hands 
 
 [126]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 burning with the last grasps, his brain and heart in- 
 toxicated with the strong wine of praise. He walked 
 with long and joyful strides through the fairy scene 
 of a beautiful moonlight, in the fresh morning wind 
 which made his clothes flutter and caressed his face. 
 He thought he even felt the breath of fame. 
 
 [127]
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 SUCCESS 
 
 'UCCESS, which usually is as fickle as 
 justice, took long strides and doubled 
 its stations in order to reach Amedee. 
 The Cafe de Seville, and the coterie 
 of long-haired writers, were busying 
 themselves with the rising poet al- 
 ready. His suite of sonnets, pub- 
 lished in La Gupe, pleased some of 
 the journalists, who reproduced them in portions in 
 well-distributed journals. Ten days after Ame*dee's 
 meeting with Jocquelet, the latter recited his poem 
 "Before Sebastopol" at a magnificent entertainment 
 given at the Gaite for the benefit of an illustrious 
 actor who had become blind and reduced to poverty. 
 
 This "dramatic solemnity," to use the language of 
 the advertisement, began by being terribly tiresome. 
 There was an audience present who were accustomed 
 to grand Parisian soirSes, a blase and satiated public, 
 who, upon this warm evening in the suffocating thea- 
 tre, were more fatigued and satiated than ever. The 
 sleepy journalists collapsed in their chairs, and in the 
 back part of the stage-boxes, ladies' faces, almost 
 green under paint, showed the excessive lassitude of a 
 
 [128]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 long winter of pleasure. The Parisians had all come 
 there from custom, without having the slightest desire 
 to do so, just as they always came, like galley-slaves 
 condemned to "first nights." They were so lifeless 
 that they did not even feel the slightest horror at see- 
 ing one another grow old. This chloroformed audience 
 was afflicted with a long and too heavy programme, 
 as is the custom in performances of this kind. They 
 played fragments of the best known pieces, and sang 
 songs from operas long since fallen into disuse even 
 on street organs. This public saw the same com- 
 edians march out; the most famous are the most 
 monotonous; the comical ones abused their privileges; 
 the lover spoke distractedly through his nose; the 
 great coquette the actress par excellence, the last of 
 the Celimenes discharged her part in such a sluggish 
 way that when she began an adverb ending in "ment," 
 one would have almost had time to go out and smoke 
 a cigarette or drink a glass of beer before she reached 
 the end of the said adverb. 
 
 But at the most lethargic moment of this drowsy 
 soirees, after the comedians from the Francais had 
 played in a stately manner one act from a tragedy, 
 Jocquelet appeared. Jocquelet, still a pupil at the 
 Conservatoire, showed himself to the public for the 
 first time and by an exceptional grace Jocquelet, 
 absolutely unknown, too short in his evening clothes, 
 in spite of the two packs of cards that he had put in 
 his boots. He appeared, full of audacity, riding his 
 high horse, raising his flat-nosed, bull-dog face toward 
 the "gallery gods," and, in his voice capable of mak- 
 9 [ I2 9]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfeE 
 
 ing Jericho's wall fall or raising Jehoshaphat's dead, 
 he dashed off in one effort, but with intelligence and 
 heroic feeling, his comrade's poem. 
 
 The effect was prodigious. This bold, common, but 
 powerful actor, and these picturesque and modern 
 verses were something entirely new to this public 
 satiated with old trash. What a happy surprise ! Two 
 novelties at once! To think of discovering an un- 
 heard-of poet and an unknown comedian! To nibble 
 at these two green fruits! Everybody shook off his 
 torpor; the anaesthetized journalists aroused them- 
 selves; the colorless and sleepy ladies plucked up a 
 little animation; and when Jocquelet had made the 
 last rhyme resound like a grand flourish of trumpets, 
 all applauded enough to split their gloves. 
 
 In one of the theatre lobbies, behind a bill-board 
 pasted over, with old placards, Ame*dee Violette heard 
 with delight the sound of the applause which seemed 
 like a shower of hailstones. He dared not think of it ! 
 Was it really his poem that produced so much excite- 
 ment, which had thawed this cold public? Soon he 
 did not doubt it, for Jocquelet, who had just been 
 recalled three times, threw himself into the poet's arms 
 and glued his perspiring, painted face to his. 
 
 "Well, my little one, I have done it!" he exclaimed, 
 bursting with gratification and vanity. "You heard 
 how I caught them!" 
 
 Immediately twenty, thirty, a hundred spectators 
 appeared, most of them very correct in white cravats, 
 but all eager and with beaming countenances, asking 
 to see the author and the interpreter, and to be pre- 
 
 [130]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 sented to them, that they might congratulate them 
 with an enthusiastic word and a shake of the hand. 
 Yes! it was a success, an instantaneous one. It was 
 certainly that rare tropical flower of the Parisian green- 
 house which blossoms out so seldom, but so magnifi- 
 cently. 
 
 One large, very common-looking man, wearing 
 superb diamond shirt-buttons, came in his turn to 
 shake Amedee's hand, and in a hoarse, husky voice 
 which would have been excellent to propose tickets 
 "cheaper than at the office!" he asked for the manu- 
 script of the poem that had just been recited. 
 
 "It is so that I may put you upon the first page of 
 my to-morrow's edition, young man, and I publish 
 eighty thousand. Victor Gaillard, editor of Le Tapage. 
 Does that please you?" 
 
 He took the manuscript without listening to the 
 thanks of the poet, who trembled with joy at the 
 thought that his work had caught the fancy of this 
 Barnum of the press, the foremost advertiser in France 
 and Europe, and that his verses would meet the eyes 
 of two hundred thousand readers. 
 
 Yes, it was certainly a success, and he experienced 
 the first bitterness of it as soon as he arrived the next 
 morning at the Cafe" de Seville, where he now went 
 every two or three days at the hour for absinthe. His 
 verses had appeared in that morning's Tapage, printed 
 in large type and headed by a few lines of praise 
 written by Victor Gaillard, a la Barnum. As soon as 
 Amedee entered the cafe he saw that he was the object 
 of general attention, and the lyric gentlemen greeted 
 
 [131]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 him with acclamations and bravos; but at certain ex- 
 pressions of countenance, constrained looks, and bit- 
 ter smiles, the impressionable young man felt with a 
 sudden sadness that they already envied him. 
 
 "I warned you of it," said Paul Sillery to him, as 
 he led him into a corner of the cafe. "Our good 
 friends are not pleased, and that is very natural. The 
 greater part of these rhymers are 'cheap jewellers,' 
 and they are jealous of a master workman. Above all 
 things, pretend not to notice it; they will never forgive 
 you for guessing their bad sentiments. And then you 
 must be indulgent to them. You have your beautiful 
 lieutenant's epaulettes, Violette, do not be too hard 
 upon these poor privates. They also are fighting under 
 the poetic flag, and ours is a poverty-stricken regi- 
 ment. Now you must profit by your good luck. 
 Here you are, celebrated in forty-eight hours. Do you 
 see, even the political people look at you with curios- 
 ity, although a poet in the estimation of these austere 
 persons is an inferior and useless being. It is all they 
 will do to accept Victor Hugo, and only on account 
 of his ' Chatiments. ' You are the lion of the day. 
 Lose no time. I met just now upon the boulevard 
 Massif, the publisher. He had read Le Tapage and 
 expects you. Carry him all your poems to-morrow; 
 there will be enough to make a volume. Massif will 
 publish it at his own expense, and you will appear 
 before the public in one month. You never will in- 
 veigle a second time that big booby of a Gaillard, who 
 took a mere passing fancy for you. But no matter! 
 I know your book, and it will be a success. You are
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 launched. Forward, march! Truly, I am better than 
 I thought, for your success gives me pleasure." 
 
 This amiable comrade's words easily dissipated the 
 painful feelings that Amedee had just experienced. 
 However, it was one of those exalted moments when 
 one will not admit that evil exists. He spent some 
 time with the poets, forcing himself to be more gracious 
 and friendly than ever, and left them persuaded the 
 unsuspecting child! that he had disarmed them by 
 his modesty; and very impatient to share his joy with 
 his friends, the Gerards, he quickly walked the length 
 of Montmartre and reached them just at their dinner 
 hour. 
 
 They did not expect him, and only had for their 
 dinner the remains of the boiled beef of the night 
 before, with some cucumbers. Amedee carried his 
 cake, as usual, and, what was better still, two sauces 
 that always make the poorest meal palatable hope 
 and happiness. 
 
 They had already read the journals and knew that 
 the poem had been applauded at the Gaite, and that 
 it had at once been printed on the first page of the 
 journal; and they were all so pleased, so glad, that 
 they kissed Amedee on both cheeks. Mamma Gerard 
 remembered that she had a few bottles five or six 
 of old chambertin in the cellar, and you could not 
 have prevented the excellent woman from taking her 
 key and taper at once, and going for those old bottles 
 covered with cobwebs and dust, that they might drink 
 to the health of the triumphant one. As to Louise, 
 she was radiant, for in several houses where she gave
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfeE 
 
 lessons she had heard them talk of the fine and admir- 
 able verses published in Le Tapage, and she was very 
 proud to think that the author was a friend of hers. 
 What completed Ame*dee's pleasure was that for the 
 first time Maria seemed to be interested in his poem, 
 and said several times to him, with such a pretty, vain 
 little air: 
 
 "Do you know, your battle is very nice. Amede'e, 
 you are going to become a great poet, a celebrated 
 man! What a superb future you have before you!" 
 
 Ah! what exquisitely sweet hopes he carried away 
 that evening to his room in the Faubourg St.- Jacques! 
 They gave him beautiful dreams, and pervaded his 
 thoughts the next morning when the concierge brought 
 him two letters. 
 
 Still more happiness! The first letter contained two 
 notes of a hundred francs each, with Victor Gaillard's 
 card, who congratulated Amedee anew and asked him 
 to write something for his journal in the way of prose; 
 a story, or anything he liked. The young poet gave 
 a cry of joyful surprise when he recognized the hand- 
 writing of Maurice Roger upon the other envelope. 
 
 "I have just returned to Paris, my dear Ame*dee," 
 wrote the traveller, "and your success was my first 
 greeting. I must embrace you quickly and tell you 
 how happy I am. Come to see me at four o'clock in 
 my den in the Rue Monsieur-le- Prince. We will dine 
 and pass the evening together." 
 
 Ah! how the poet loved life that morning, how good 
 and sweet it seemed to him ! Clothed in his best, he 
 gayly descended the Rue St.- Jacques, where boxes 
 
 [134]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 of asparagus and strawberries perfumed the fruit- 
 stalls, and went to the Boulevard St. Michel, where 
 he purchased an elegant gray felt hat and a new cravat. 
 Then he went to the Cafe Voltaire, where he lunched. 
 He changed his second hundred-franc bill, so that he 
 might feel, with the pleasure of a child, the beautiful 
 louis d'or which he owed to his work and its success. 
 At the office the head clerk a good fellow, who sang 
 well at dinners complimented Amedee upon his poem. 
 The young man had only made his appearance to ask 
 for leave that afternoon, so as to take his manuscript 
 to the publisher. 
 
 Once more in the street in the bright May sun, after 
 the fashion of nabobs, he took an open carriage and 
 was carried to Massif, in the Passage des Princes. 
 The editor of the Jeunes was seated in his office, which 
 was decorated with etchings and beautiful bindings. 
 He is well known by his magnificent black beard and 
 his large bald head, upon which a wicked jester once 
 advised him to paste his advertisements; he publishes 
 the works of audacious authors and sensational books, 
 and had the honor of sharing with Charles Bazile, the 
 poet, an imprisonment at St.-Pelagie. He received 
 this thin-faced rhymer coldly. Amedee introduced 
 himself, and at once there was a broad smile, a hand- 
 shake, and a connoisseur's greedy sniffling. Then 
 Massif opened the manuscript. 
 
 "Let us see! Ah, yes, with margins and false titles 
 we can make out two hundred and fifty pages." 
 
 The business was settled quickly. A sheet of 
 stamped paper an agreement! Massif will pay all
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 the expenses of the first edition of one thousand, and 
 if there is another edition and of course there will 
 be ! he will give him ten cents a copy. Amede'e signs 
 without reading. All that he asks is that the volume 
 should be published without delay. 
 
 "Rest easy, my dear poet! You will receive the first 
 proofs in three days, and in one month it will appear." 
 
 Was it possible ? Was Ame'de'e not dreaming ? He, 
 poor Violette's son, the little office clerk his book 
 would be published, and in a month! Readers and 
 unknown friends will be moved by his agitation, will 
 suffer in his suspense; young people will love him and 
 find an echo of their sentiments in his verses; women 
 will dreamily repeat with one finger in his book- 
 some favorite verse that touches their hearts! Ah! 
 he must have a confidant in his joy, he must tell some 
 true friend. 
 
 "Driver, take me to the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince. " 
 
 He mounted, four steps at a time, the stairs leading 
 to Maurice's room. The key is in the door. He 
 enters and finds the traveller there, standing in the 
 midst of the disorder of open trunks. 
 
 "Maurice!" 
 
 "Ame'de'e!" 
 
 What an embrace! How long they stood hand in 
 hand, looking at each other with happy smiles! 
 
 Maurice is more attractive and gracious than ever. 
 His beauty is more manly, and his golden moustache 
 glistens against his sun-browned skin. What a fine 
 fellow! How he rejoiced at his friend's first success! 
 
 "I am certain that your book will turn everybody's 
 [136]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 head. I always told you that you were a genuine 
 poet. We shall see!" 
 
 As to himself, he was happy too. His mother had 
 let him off from studying law and allowed him to fol- 
 low his vocation. He was going to have a studio and 
 paint. It had all been decided in Italy, where Madame 
 Roger had witnessed her son's enthusiasm over the 
 great masters. Ah, Italy! Italy! and he began to tell 
 of his trip, show knickknacks and souvenirs of all 
 kinds that littered the room. He turned in his hands, 
 that he might show all its outlines, a little terra-cotta 
 reduction of the Antinous in the Museum of Naples. 
 He opened a box, full to bursting, of large photo- 
 graphs, and passed them to his friend with exclama- 
 tions of retrospective admiration. 
 
 "Look! the Coliseum! the ruins of Pcestum and 
 this antique from the Vatican! Is it not beautiful?" 
 
 While looking at the pictures he recalled the things 
 that he had seen and the impressions he had experi- 
 enced. There was a band of collegians in little capes 
 and short trousers taking their walk ; they wore buckled 
 shoes, like the abbes of olden times, and nothing could 
 be more droll than to see these childish priests play 
 leapfrog. There, upon the Riva dei Schiavoni, he had 
 followed a Venetian. "Shabbily dressed, and fancy, 
 my friend, bare-headed, in a yellow shawl with ragged 
 green fringe! No, I do not know whether she was 
 pretty, but she possessed in her person all the attrac- 
 tions of Giorgione's goddesses and Titian's courtesans 
 combined!" 
 
 Maurice is still the same wicked fellow. But, bah! 
 [i37]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 it suits him; he even boasts of it with such a joyous 
 ardor and such a youthful dash, that it is only one 
 charm the more in him. The clock struck seven, 
 and they went to dine. They started off through the 
 Latin Quarter. Maurice gave his arm to Amedee and 
 told him of his adventures on the other side of the 
 Alps. Maurice, once started on this subject, could 
 not stop, and while the dinner was being served the 
 traveller continued to describe his escapades. This 
 kind of conversation was dangerous for Amedee; for 
 it must not be forgotten that for some time the young 
 poet's innocence had weighed upon him, and this eve- 
 ning he had some pieces of gold in his pocket that rang 
 a chime of pleasure. While Maurice, with his elbow 
 upon the table, told him his tales of love, Amedee 
 gazed out upon the sidewalk at the women who passed 
 by in fresh toilettes, in the gaslight which illuminated 
 the green foliage, giving a little nod of the head to 
 those whom they knew. There was voluptuousness in 
 the very air, and it was Amedee who arose from the 
 table and recalled to Maurice that it was Thursday, 
 and that there was a jete that night at Bullier's; and 
 he also was the one to add, with a deliberate air: 
 
 "Shall we take a turn there?" 
 
 "Willingly," replied his gay friend. "Ah, ha! we 
 are then beginning to enjoy ourselves a little, Mon- 
 sieur Violette! Go to Bullier's? so be it. I am not 
 sorry to assure myself whether or not I still love the 
 Parisians." 
 
 They started off, smoking their cigarettes. Upon 
 the highway, going in the same direction as them- 
 
 [138]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 selves, were victorias carrying women in spring cos- 
 tumes and wearing bonnets decked with flowers. From 
 time to time the friends were elbowed by students 
 shouting popular refrains and walking in Indian file. 
 
 Here is Bullier's! They step into the blazing en- 
 trance, and go thence to the stairway which leads to 
 the celebrated public ballroom. They are stifled by 
 the odor of dust, escaping gas, and human flesh. 
 Alas! there are in every village in France doctors in 
 hansom cabs, country lawyers, and any quantity of 
 justices of the peace, who, I can assure you, regret 
 this stench as they take the fresh air in the open 
 country under the starry heavens, breathing the ex- 
 quisite perfume of new-mown hay; for it is mingled 
 with the little poetry that they have had in their lives, 
 with their student's love-affairs, and their youth. 
 
 All the same, this Bullier's is a low place, a carica- 
 ture of the Alhambra in pasteboard. Three or four 
 thousand moving heads in a cloud of tobacco-smoke, 
 and an exasperating orchestra playing a quadrille in 
 which dancers twist and turn, tossing their legs with 
 calm faces and audacious gestures. 
 
 "What a mob!" said Amedee, already a trifle dis- 
 gusted. "Let us go into the garden." 
 
 They were blinded by the gas there; the thickets 
 looked so much like old scenery that one almost ex- 
 pected to see the yellow breastplates of comic-opera 
 dragoons; and the jet of water recalled one of those 
 little spurts of a shooting-gallery upon which an empty 
 egg-shell dances. But they could breathe there a little. 
 
 "Boy! two sodas," said Maurice, striking the table
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE 
 
 with his cane; and the two friends sat down near the 
 edge of a walk where the crowd passed and repassed. 
 They had been there about ten minutes when two 
 women stopped before them. 
 
 "Good-day, Maurice," said the taller, a brunette 
 with rich coloring, the genuine type of a tavern girl. 
 
 ' ' What , Margot ! ' ' exclaimed the young man . ' ' Will 
 you take something? Sit down a moment, and your 
 friend too. Do you know, your friend is charming? 
 What is her name?" 
 
 "Rosine," replied the stranger, modestly, for she 
 was only about eighteen, and, in spite of the blond 
 frizzles over her eyes, she was not yet bold, poor child! 
 She was making her debut, it was easy to see. 
 
 "Well, Mademoiselle Rosine, come here, that I 
 may see you," continued Maurice, seating the young 
 girl beside him with a caressing gesture. "You, Mar- 
 got, I authorize to be unfaithful to me once more in 
 favor of my friend Amedee. He is suffering with love- 
 sickness, and has a heart to let. Although he is a 
 poet, I think he happens to have in his pocket enough 
 to pay for a supper." 
 
 Everywhere and always the same, the egotistical 
 and amiable Maurice takes the lion's share, and Ame- 
 dee, listening only with one ear to the large Margot, 
 who is already begging him to make an acrostic for 
 her, thinks Rosine is charming, while Maurice says 
 a thousand foolish things to her. In spite of himself, 
 the poet looks upon Maurice as his superior, and 
 thinks it perfectly natural that he should claim the 
 prettier of the two women. No matter! Amedee 
 
 [140]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 wanted to enjoy himself too. This Margot, who had 
 just taken off her gloves to drink her wine, had large, 
 red hands, and seemed as silly as a goose, but all the 
 same she was a beautiful creature, and the poet began 
 to talk to her, while she laughed and looked at him 
 with a wanton's eyes. Meanwhile the orchestra burst 
 into a polka, and Maurice, in raising his voice to speak 
 to his friend, called him several times Amedee, and 
 once only by his family name, Violette. Suddenly 
 little Rosine started up and looked at the poet, saying 
 with astonishment: 
 
 "What! Is your name Amede"e Violette?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "Then you are the boy with whom I played so 
 much when I was a child." 
 
 "With me?" 
 
 "Yes! Do you not remember Rosine, little Rosine 
 Combarieu, at Madame Gerard's, the engraver's wife, 
 in the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs ? We played 
 games with his little girls. How odd it is, the way 
 one meets old friends!" 
 
 What is it that Amedee feels? His entire childhood 
 rises before him. The bitterness of the thought that 
 he had known this poor girl in her innocence and 
 youth, and the Gerards' name spoken in such a place, 
 filled the young man's heart with a singular sadness. 
 He could only say to Rosine, in a voice that trembled 
 a little with pity: 
 
 "You! Is it you?" 
 
 Then she became red and very embarrassed, lower- 
 ing her eyes.
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE 
 
 Maurice had tact; he noticed that Rosine and Ame*- 
 de"e were agitated, and, feeling that he was de trop, 
 he arose suddenly and said: 
 
 "Now then, Margot. Come on! these children 
 want to talk over their childhood, I think. Give up 
 your acrostic, my child. Take my arm, and come and 
 have a turn." 
 
 When they were alone Amedee gazed at Rosine 
 sadly. She was pretty, in spite of her colorless com- 
 plexion, a child of the faubourg, born with a genius 
 for dress, who could clothe herself on nothing a linen 
 gown, a flower in her hat. One who lived on salads 
 and vegetables, so as to buy well-made shoes and 
 eighteen-button gloves. 
 
 The pretty blonde looked at Amedee, and a timid 
 smile shone in her nut-brown eyes. 
 
 "Now, Monsieur Amedee," said she, at last, "it 
 need not trouble you to meet at Bullier's the child 
 whom you once played with. What would have been 
 astonishing would be to find that I had become a fine 
 lady. I am not wise, it is true, but I work, and you 
 need not fear that I go with the first comer. Your 
 friend is a handsome fellow, and very amiable, and I 
 accepted his attentions because he knew Margot, while 
 with you it is very different. It gives me pleasure to 
 talk with you. It recalls Mamma Gerard, who was 
 so kind to me. What has become of her, tell me? 
 and her husband and her daughters?" 
 
 "Monsieur Gerard is dead," replied Amedee; "but 
 the ladies are well, and I see them often." 
 
 "Do not tell them that you met me here, will you? 
 [142]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 It is better not. If I had had a good mother, like 
 those girls, things would have turned out differently 
 for me. But, you remember, papa was always in- 
 terested in his politics. When I was fifteen years old 
 he apprenticed me to a florist. He was a fine master, 
 a perfect monster of a man, who ruined me! I say, 
 Pere Combarieu has a droll trade now; he is manager 
 of a Republican journal nothing to do only a few 
 months in prison now and then. I am always work- 
 ing in flowers, and I have a little friend, a pupil at 
 Val-de-Grace, but he has just left as a medical officer 
 for Algeria. I was lonely all by myself, and this 
 evening big Margot, whom I got acquainted with in 
 the shop, brought me here to amuse myself. But you 
 what are you doing? Your friend said just now 
 that you were a poet. Do you write songs ? I always 
 liked them. Do you remember when I used to play 
 airs with one finger upon the Guards' old piano? 
 You were such a pretty little boy then, and as gentle 
 as a girl. You still have your nice blue eyes, but they 
 are a little darker. I remember them. No, you can 
 not know how glad I am to see you again!" 
 
 They continued to chatter, bringing up old remi- 
 niscences, and when she spoke of the Gerard ladies 
 she put on a respectful little air which pleased Amedee 
 very much. She was a poor feather-headed little 
 thing, he did not doubt; but she had kept at least 
 the poor man's treasure, a simple heart. The young 
 man was pleased with her prattling, and as he looked 
 at the young girl he thought of the past and felt a sort 
 of compassion for her. As she was silent for a mo-
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 ment, the poet said to her, "Do you know that you 
 have become very pretty? What a charming com- 
 plexion you have! such a lovely pallor!" 
 
 The grisette, who had known what poverty was, 
 gave a bitter little laugh: 
 
 "Oh, my pallor! that is nothing! It is not the 
 pallor of wealth." 
 
 Then, recovering her good-humor at once, she con- 
 tinued : 
 
 "Tell me, Monsieur Amedee, does this big Margot, 
 whom you began to pay attentions to a little while 
 ago, please you?" 
 
 Amedee quickly denied it. "That immense crea- 
 ture? Never! Now then, Rosine, I came here to 
 amuse myself a little, I will admit. That is not for- 
 bidden at my age, is it? But this ball disgusts me. 
 You have no appointment here? No? Is it truly 
 no? Very well, take my arm and let us go. Do you 
 live far from here?" 
 
 "In the Avenue d'Orleans, near the Montrouge 
 church." 
 
 "Will you allow me to escort you home, then?" 
 
 She would be happy to, and they arose and left the 
 ball. It seemed to the young poet as if the pretty 
 girl's arm trembled a little in his; but once upon the 
 boulevard, flooded by the light from the silvery moon, 
 Rosine slackened her steps and became pensive, and 
 her eyes were lowered when Amede"e sought a glance 
 from them in the obscurity. How sweet was this new 
 desire that troubled the young man's heart! It was 
 mixed with a little sentiment; his heart beat with 
 
 [i44]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 emotion, and Rosine was not A ess moved. They could 
 both find only insignificant things to say. 
 
 "What a beautiful night!" 
 
 "Yes! It does one good to breathe the fresh air." 
 
 They continued their walk without speaking. Oh, 
 how fresh and sweet it was under these trees! 
 
 At last they reached the door of Rosine's dwelling. 
 With a slow movement she pressed her hand upon the 
 bell-button. Then Amedee, with a great effort, and 
 in a confused, husky voice, asked whether he might 
 go up with her and see her little room. 
 
 She looked at him steadily, with a tender sadness in 
 her eyes, and then said to him, softly: 
 
 "No, certainly not! One must be sensible. I 
 please you this evening, and you know very well that 
 I think you are charming. It is true we knew each 
 other when we were young, and now that we have 
 met again, it seems as if it would be pleasant to love 
 each other. But, believe me, we should commit a 
 great folly, perhaps a wrong. It is better, I assure 
 you, to forget that you ever met me at Bullier's with 
 big Margot, and only remember your little playmate 
 of the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. It will be bet- 
 ter than a caprice, it will be something pure that you 
 can keep in your heart. Do not let us spoil the re- 
 membrance of our childhood, Monsieur Amede"e, and 
 let us part good friends." 
 
 Before the young man could find a reply, the bell 
 
 pealed again, and Rosine gave Amedee a parting smile, 
 
 lightly kissing the tips of her fingers, and disappeared 
 
 behind the door, which fell together with a loud 
 
 10 [ H5 ]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPtiE 
 
 bang. The poet's first movements was one of rage. 
 Giddy weather-cock of a woman! But he had hardly 
 taken twenty steps upon the sidewalk before he said 
 to himself, with a feeling of remorse, "She was right!" 
 He thought that this poor girl had kept in one corner 
 of her heart a shadow of reserve and modesty, and 
 he was happy to feel rise within him a sacred respect 
 for woman! 
 
 Amedee, my good fellow, you are quite worthless 
 as a man of pleasure. You had better give it up! 
 
 [146]
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 SOCIAL TRIUMPHS 
 
 OR one month now Amede'e Violette's 
 volume of verses, entitled Poems from 
 Nature, had embellished with its 
 pale-blue covers the shelves of the 
 book-shops. The commotion raised 
 by the book's success, and the fa- 
 vorable criticisms given by the jour- 
 nals, had not yet calmed down at 
 the Caf6 de Seville. 
 
 This emotion, let it be understood, did not exist 
 except among the literary men. The politicians dis- 
 dained poets and poetry, and did not trouble them- 
 selves over such commonplace matters. They had 
 affairs of a great deal more importance to determine 
 the overthrow of the government first, then to remodel 
 the map of Europe! What was necessary to over- 
 throw the Empire? First, conspiracy; second, barri- 
 cades. Nothing was easier than to conspire. Every- 
 body conspired at the Seville. It is the character of 
 the French, who are born cunning, but are light and 
 talkative, to conspire in public places. As soon as one 
 of our compatriots joins a secret society his first care 
 is to go to his favorite restaurant and to confide, under 
 a bond of the most absolute secrecy, to his most inti- 
 
 [i47]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPftE 
 
 mate friend, what he has known for about five minutes, 
 the aim of the conspiracy, names of the actors, the day, 
 hour, and place of the rendezvous, the passwords and 
 countersigns. A little while after he has thus relieved 
 himself, he is surprised that the police interfere and 
 spoil an enterprise that has been prepared with so 
 much mystery and discretion. It was in this way that 
 the "beards" dealt in dark deeds of conspiracy at the 
 Cafe de Seville. At the hour for absinthe and maza- 
 gran a certain number of Fiesques and Catilines were 
 grouped around each table. At one of the tables in 
 the foreground five old "beards," whitened by political 
 crime, were planning an infernal machine; and in the 
 back of the room ten robust hands had sworn upon the 
 billiard-table to arm themselves for regicide; only, as 
 with all "beards," there were necessarily some false 
 ones among them, that is to say, spies. All the plots 
 planned at the Seville had miserably miscarried. 
 
 The art of building barricades was also you never 
 would suspect it! very ardently and conscientiously 
 studied. This special branch of the science of fortifi- 
 cation reckoned more than one Vauban and Gribeau- 
 val among its numbers. "Professor of barricading," 
 was a title honored at the Cafe de Seville, and one that 
 they would willingly have had engraved upon their 
 visiting-cards. Observe that the instruction was only 
 theoretical ; doubtless out of respect for the policemen, 
 they could not give entirely practical lessons to the 
 future rioters who formed the ground-work of the 
 business. The master or doctor of civil war could not 
 go out with them, for instance, and practise in the Rue 
 
 [148]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 Drouot. But he had one resource, one way of getting 
 out of it; namely, dominoes. No! you never would 
 believe what a revolutionary appearance these inoffen- 
 sive mutton-bones took on under the seditious hands 
 of the habitues of the Cafe de Seville. These minia- 
 ture pavements simulated upon the marble table the 
 subjugation of the most complicated of barricades, 
 with all sorts of bastions, redans, and counterscarps. 
 It was something after the fashion of the small models 
 of war-ships that one sees in marine museums. Any 
 one, not in the secret, would have supposed that the 
 "beards" simply played dominoes. Not at all! They 
 were pursuing a course of technical insurrection. When 
 they roared at the top of their lungs "Five on all sides!" 
 certain players seemed to order a general discharge, 
 and they had a way of saying, "I can not!" which evi- 
 dently expressed the despair of a combatant who has 
 burned his last cartridge. A "beard" in glasses and a 
 stovepipe hat, who had been refused in his youth at the 
 Ecole Poly technique, was frightful in the rapidity and 
 mathematical precision with which he added up in 
 three minutes his barricade of dominoes. When this 
 man "blocked the six," you were transported in im- 
 agination to the Rue Transnonain, or to the Cloitre 
 St. Merry. It was terrible! 
 
 As to foreign politics, or the remodelling of the map 
 of Europe, it was, properly speaking, only sport and 
 recreation to the "beards." It added interest to the 
 game, that was all. Is it not agreeable, when you are 
 preparing a discard, at the decisive moment, with one 
 hundred at piquet, which gives you quinte or quatorze, 
 
 [i49]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 to deliver unhappy Poland; and when one has the 
 satisfaction to score a king and take every trick, what 
 does it cost to let the Russians enter Constantinople? 
 
 Nevertheless, some of the most solemn "beards" of 
 the Cafe de Seville attached themselves to interna- 
 tional questions, to the great problem of European 
 equilibrium. One of the most profound of these dip- 
 lomats who probably had nothing to buy suspenders 
 with, for his shirt always hung out between his waist- 
 coat and trousers was persuaded that an indemnity 
 of two million francs would suffice to obtain from the 
 Pope the transfer of Rome to the Italians ; and another 
 Metternich on a small scale assumed for his specialty 
 the business of offering a serious affront to England 
 and threatening her, if she did not listen to his advice, 
 with a loss in a short time of her Indian Empire and 
 other colonial possessions. 
 
 Thus the "beards," absorbed by such grave specu- 
 lations, did not trouble themselves about the vanity 
 called literature, and did not care a pin for Amedee 
 Violette's book. Among the long-haired ones, how- 
 ever, we repeat, the emotion was great. They were 
 furious, they were agitated, and bristled up; the first 
 enthusiasm over Amede'e Violette's verses could not be 
 lasting and had been only a mere flash. The young 
 man saw these Merovingians as they really were to- 
 ward a man who succeeded, that is, severe almost to 
 cruelty. What ! the first edition of Poems from Nature 
 was exhausted and Massif had another in press! 
 What! the bourgeoisie, far from being "astonished" at 
 this book, declared themselves delighted with it, bought 
 
 [150]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 it, read it, and perhaps had it rebound! They spoke 
 favorably of it in all the bourgeois journals, that is to 
 say, in those that had subscribers! Did they not say 
 that Violette, incited by Jocquelet, was working at a 
 grand comedy in verse, and that the Theatre-Fran- 
 cais had made very flattering offers to the poet? But 
 then, if he pleased the bourgeoisie so much he was 
 oh, horror! a bourgeois himself. That was obvious. 
 How blind they had been not to see it sooner! When 
 Ame'dee had read his verses not long since at Sillery's, 
 by what aberration had they confounded this platitude 
 with simplicity, this whining with sincere emotion, 
 these stage tricks with art ? Ah ! you may rest assured, 
 they never will be caught again! 
 
 As the poets' tables at the Cafe de Seville had been 
 for some time transformed into beds of torture upon 
 which Amedee Violette's poems were stretched out 
 and racked every day from five to seven, the amiable 
 Paul Sillery, with a jeering smile upon his lips, tried 
 occasionally to cry pity for his friend's verses, given 
 up to such ferocious executioners. But these literary 
 murderers, ready to destroy a comrade's book, are 
 more pitiless than the Inquisition. There were two 
 inquisitors more relentless than the others; first, the 
 little scrubby fellow who claimed for his share all the 
 houris of a Mussulman's palace; another, the great 
 elegist from the provinces. Truly, his heartaches must 
 have made him gain flesh, for very soon he was obliged 
 to let out the strap on his waistcoat. 
 
 Of course, when Ame'dee appeared, the conversation 
 was immediately changed, and they began to talk of 
 
 [151]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 insignificant things that they had read in the journals; 
 for example, the fire-damp, which had killed twenty- 
 five working-men in a mine, in a department of the 
 north; or of the shipwreck of a transatlantic steamer 
 in which everything was lost, with one hundred and 
 fifty passengers and forty sailors events of no impor- 
 tance, we must admit, if one compares them to the 
 recent discovery made by the poet inquisitors of two 
 incorrect phrases and five weak rhymes in their com- 
 rade's work. 
 
 Ame*dee's sensitive nature soon remarked the secret 
 hostility of which he was the object in this group of 
 poets, and he now came to the Cafe" de Seville only on 
 rare occasions, in order to take Paul Sillery by the hand, 
 who, in spite of his ironical air, had always shown 
 himself a good and faithful friend. 
 
 It was there that he recognized one evening his 
 classmate of the Lycee, Arthur Papillon, seated at one 
 of the political tables. The poet wondered to himself 
 how this fine lawyer, with his temperate opinions, hap- 
 pened to be among these hot-headed revolutionists, 
 and what interest in common could unite this correct 
 pair of blond whiskers to the uncultivated, bushy ones. 
 Papillon, as soon as he saw Ame'de'e, took leave of the 
 group with whom he was talking and came and offered 
 his hearty congratulations to the author of Poems jrom 
 Nature, leading him out upon the boulevard and giv- 
 ing him the key to the mystery. 
 
 All the old parties were united against the Empire, 
 in view of the coming elections ; Orleanists and Repub- 
 licans were, for the time being, close friends. He, 
 
 [152]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 Papillon, had just taken his degree, and had attached 
 himself to the fortunes of an old wreck of the July 
 government; who, having rested in oblivion since 1852, 
 had consented to run as candidate for the Liberal 
 opposition in Seine-et-Oise. Papillon was flying around 
 like a hen with her head cut off, to make his companion 
 win the day. He came to the Seville to assure himself 
 of the neutral good-will of the unreconciled journal- 
 ists, and he was full of hope. 
 
 "Oh! my dear friend, how difficult it is to struggle 
 against an official candidate! But our candidate is an 
 astonishing man. He goes about all day upon the 
 railroads in our department, unfolding his programme 
 before the travelling countrymen and changing com- 
 partments at each station. What a stroke of genius! 
 a perambulating public assembling. This idea came 
 to him from seeing a harpist make the trip from Havre 
 to Honfleur, playing 'II Bacio' all the time. Ah, one 
 must look alive! The prefect does not shrink from 
 any way of fighting us. Did he not spread through 
 one of our most Catholic cantons the report that we 
 were Voltairians, enemies to religion and devourers of 
 priests? Fortunately, we have yet four Sundays be- 
 fore us, from now until the voting-day, and the patron 
 will go to high mass and communion in our four more 
 important parishes. That will be a response ! If such 
 a man is not elected, universal suffrage is hopeless!" 
 
 Ame'dee was not at that time so disenchanted with 
 political matters as he became later, and he asked him- 
 self with an uneasy feeling whether this model candi- 
 date, who was perhaps about to give himself sacrile-
 
 FRANCOIS COPPtiE 
 
 gious indigestion, and who showed his profession of 
 faith as a cutler shows his knives, was not simply a 
 quack. 
 
 Arthur Papillon did not give him time to devote 
 himself to such unpleasant reflections, but said to him, 
 in a frank, protecting tone : 
 
 "And you, my boy, let us see, where do you stand ? 
 You have been very successful, have you not? The 
 other evening at the house of Madame la Comtesse 
 Fontaine, you know the widow of one of Louis 
 Philippe's ministers and daughter of Marshal Lefievre 
 Jocquelet recited your 'Sebastopol' with enormous 
 success. What a voice that Jocquelet has! We have 
 not his like at the Paris bar. Fortunate poet ! I have 
 seen your book lying about in the boudoir of more 
 than one beautiful woman. Well, I hope that you will 
 leave the Cafe de Seville and not linger with all these 
 badly combed fellows. You must go into society; it 
 is indispensable to a man of letters, and I will present 
 you whenever you wish." 
 
 For the time being Amedee's ardor was a little 
 dampened concerning the Bohemians with whom he 
 enjoyed so short a favor, and who had also in many 
 ways shocked his delicacy. He was not desirous to be 
 called "thou" by Pere Lebuffle. 
 
 But to go into society! His education had been so 
 modest! Should he know how to appear, how to con- 
 duct himself properly? He asked this of Papillon. 
 Our poet was proud, he feared ridicule, and would not 
 consent to play an inferior role anywhere; and then 
 his success just then was entirely platonic. He was 
 
 [i54]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 still very poor and lived in the Faubourg St. -Jacques. 
 Massif ought to pay him in a few days five hundred 
 francs for the second edition of his book; but what is 
 a handful of napoleons? 
 
 "It is enough," said the advocate, who thought of 
 his friend's dress. "It is all that is necessary to buy 
 fine linen, and a well cut dress-coat, that is the essen- 
 tial thing. Good form consists, above all things, in 
 keeping silent. With your fine and yielding nature 
 you will become at once a gentleman; better still, you 
 are not a bad-looking fellow; you have an interesting 
 pallor. I am convinced that you will please. It is 
 now the beginning of July, and Paris is almost empty, 
 but Madame la Comtesse Fontaine does not go away 
 until the vacations, as she is looking after her little 
 son, who is finishing his studies at the Lyce Bona- 
 parte. The Countess's drawing-rooms are open every 
 evening until the end of the month, and one meets 
 there all the chic people who are delayed in Paris, or 
 who stop here between two journeys. Madame Fon- 
 taine is a very amiable and influential old lady; she 
 has a fancy for writers when they are good company. 
 Do not be silly, but go and order yourself some evening 
 clothes. By presenting you there, my dear fellow, I 
 assure you, perhaps in fifteen years, a seat in the 
 Academy. It is agreed! Get ready for next week." 
 
 Attention! Ame'de'e Violette is about to make his 
 first appearance in society. 
 
 Although his concierge, who aided him to finish his 
 toilette and saw him put on his white cravat, had 
 just said to him, "What a love of a husband you 
 
 [i55]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPtiE 
 
 would make!" the poet's heart beat rapidly when the 
 carriage in which he was seated beside Arthur Pa- 
 pillon stopped before the steps of an old house in the 
 Rue de Bellechasse, where Madame la Comtesse Fon- 
 taine lived. 
 
 In the vestibule he tried to imitate the advocate's 
 bearing, which was full of authority; but quickly de- 
 spaired of knowing how to swell out his starched 
 shirt-front under the severe looks of four tall lackeys 
 in silk stockings. Amedee was as much embarrassed 
 as if he were presented naked before an examining 
 board. But they doubtless found him "good for ser- 
 vice," for the door opened into a brightly lighted draw- 
 ing-room into which he followed Arthur Papillon, like 
 a frail sloop towed in by an imposing three-master, 
 and behold the timid Amedee presented in due form 
 to the mistress of the house! She was a lady of ele- 
 phantine proportions, in her sixtieth year, and wore a 
 white camellia stuck in her rosewood-colored hair. 
 Her face and arms were plastered with enough flour 
 to make a plate of fritters; but for all that, she had a 
 grand air and superb eyes, whose commanding glance 
 was softened by so kindly a smile that Amedee was a 
 trifle reassured. 
 
 She had much applauded M. Violette's beautiful 
 verse, she said, that Jocquelet had recited at her 
 house on the last Thursday of her season; and she 
 had just read with the greatest pleasure his Poems from 
 Nature. She thanked M. Papillon who bows his head 
 and lets his monocle fall for having brought M. Vi- 
 olette. She was charmed to make his acquaintance. 
 
 [156]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 Amedee was very much embarrassed to know what 
 to reply to this commonplace compliment which was 
 paid so gracefully. Fortunately he was spared this 
 duty by the arrival of a very much dressed, tall, bony 
 woman, toward whom the Countess darted off with 
 astonishing vivacity, exclaiming, joyfully: "Madame la 
 Marechale!" and Amedee, still following in the wake 
 of his comrade, sailed along toward the corner of the 
 drawing-room, and then cast anchor before a whole 
 flotilla of black coats. Amedee's spirits began to re- 
 vive, and he examined the place, so entirely new to 
 him, where his growing reputation had admitted him. 
 
 It was a vast drawing-room after the First Empire 
 style, hung and furnished in yellow satin, whose high 
 white panels were decorated with trophies of antique 
 weapons carved in wood and gilded. A dauber from 
 the Ecole des Beaux-Arts would have branded with 
 the epithet "sham" the armchairs and sofas orna- 
 mented with sphinx heads in bronze, as well as the 
 massive green marble clock upon which stood, all in 
 gold, a favorite court personage, clothed in a cap, 
 sword, and fig-leaf, who seemed to be making love to 
 a young person in a floating tunic, with her hair dressed 
 exactly like that of the Empress Josephine. But the 
 dauber would have been wrong, for this massive 
 splendor was wanting neither in grandeur nor char- 
 acter. Two pictures only lighted up the cold walls; 
 one, signed by Gros, was an equestrian portrait of the 
 Marshal, Madame Fontaine's father, the old drummer 
 of Pont de Lodi, one of the bravest of Napoleon's lieu- 
 tenants. He was represented in full-dress uniform,
 
 FRANCOIS COPP&E 
 
 with an enormous black-plumed hat, brandishing his 
 blue velvet baton, sprinkled with golden bees, and 
 under the rearing horse's legs one could see in the dim 
 distance a grand battle in the snow, and mouths of 
 burning cannons. The other picture, placed upon an 
 easel and lighted by a lamp with a reflector, was one 
 of Ingre's chej-d'ceuvres. It was the portrait of the 
 mistress of the house at the age of eighteen, a portrait 
 of which the Countess was now but an old and horrible 
 caricature. 
 
 Arthur Papillon talked in a low voice with Amedee, 
 explaining to him how Madame Fontaine's drawing- 
 room was neutral ground, open to people of all parties. 
 As daughter of a Marshal of the First Empire, the 
 Countess preserved the highest regard for the people 
 at the Tuileries, although she was the widow of Count 
 Fontaine, who was one of the brood of Royer-Collard's 
 conservatives, a parliamentarian ennobled by Louis- 
 Philippe, twice a colleague of Guizot on the ministerial 
 bench, who died of spite and suppressed ambition 
 after '48 and the coup d'etat. Besides, the Countess's 
 brother, the Due d'Eylau, married, in 1829, one of 
 the greatest heiresses in the Faubourg St. -Germain; 
 for his father, the Marshal, whose character did not 
 equal his bravery, attached himself to every govern- 
 ment, and carried his candle in the processions on 
 Corpus Christi Day under Charles X, and had ended 
 by being manager of the Invalides at the beginning of 
 the July monarchy. Thanks to this fortunate com- 
 bination of circumstances, one met several great lords, 
 many Orleanists, a certain number of official persons, 
 
 [158]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 and even some republicans of high rank, in this liberal 
 drawing-room, where the Countess, who was an ad- 
 mirable hostess, knew how to attract learned men, 
 writers, artists, and celebrities of all kinds, as well 
 as young and pretty women. As the season was late, 
 the gathering this evening was not large. However, 
 neglecting the unimportant gentlemen whose ancestors 
 had perhaps been fabricated by Pere Issacar, Papillon 
 pointed out to his friend a few celebrities. One, with 
 the badge of the Legion of Honor upon his coat, which 
 looked as if it had come from the stall of an old-clothes 
 man, was Forgerol, the great geologist, the most grasp- 
 ing of scientific men; Forgerol, rich from his twenty 
 fat sinecures, for whom one of his confreres composed 
 this epitaph in advance: "Here lies Forgerol, in the 
 only place he did not solicit." 
 
 That grand old man, with the venerable, shaky head, 
 whose white, silky hair seemed to shed blessings and 
 benedictions, was M. Dussant du Fosse, a philan- 
 thropist by profession, honorary president of all charit- 
 able works; senator, of course, since he was one of 
 France's peers, and who in a few years after the Prus- 
 sians had left, and the battles were over, would sink 
 into suspicious affairs and end in the police courts. 
 
 That old statesman, whose rough, gray hairs were 
 like brushes for removing cobwebs, a pedant from 
 head to foot, leaning in. his favorite attitude against the 
 mantel decorated only with flowers, by his mulish 
 obstinacy contributed, much to the fall of the last mon- 
 archy. He was respectfully listened to and called 
 "dear master" by a republican orator, whose red-hot 
 
 [i59]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfiE 
 
 convictions began to ooze away, and who, soon after, 
 as minister of the Liberal empire, did his best to hasten 
 the government's downfall. 
 
 Although Amedee was of an age to respect these 
 notabilities, whom Papillon pointed out to him with 
 so much deference, they did not impress him so much 
 as certain visitors who belonged to the world of art and 
 letters. In considering them the young man was 
 much surprised and a little saddened at the want of 
 harmony that he discovered between the appearance 
 of the men and the nature of their talents. The poet 
 Leroy des Saules had the haughty attitude and the 
 Apollo face corresponding to the noble and perfect 
 beauty of his verses; but Edouard Durocher, the fash- 
 ionable painter of the nineteenth century, was a large, 
 common-looking man with a huge moustache, like 
 that of a book agent; and Theophile de Sonis, the ele- 
 gant story-writer, the worldly romancer, had a copper- 
 colored nose, and his harsh beard was like that of a 
 chief in a custom-house. 
 
 What attracted Amedee's attention, above all things, 
 were the women the fashionable women that he saw 
 close by for the first time. Some of them were old, 
 and horrified him. The jewels with which they were 
 loaded made their fatigued looks, dark-ringed eyes, 
 heavy profiles, thick flabby lips, like a dromedary's, 
 still more distressing; and with their bare necks and 
 arms it was etiquette at Madame Fontaine's recep- 
 tions which allowed one to see through filmy lace 
 their flabby flesh or bony skeletons, they were as ridicu- 
 lous as an elegant cloak would be upon an old crone. 
 
 [160]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 As he saw these decrepit, painted creatures, the young 
 man felt the respect that he should have for the old 
 leave him. He would look only at the young and 
 beautiful women, those with graceful figures and tri- 
 umphant smiles upon their lips, flowers in their hair, 
 and diamonds upon their necks. All this bare flesh 
 intimidated Amedee; for he had been brought up so 
 privately and strictly that he was distressed enough to 
 lower his eyes at the sight of so many arms, necks, and 
 shoulders. He thought of Maria Gerard as she looked 
 the other day, when he met her going to work in the 
 Louvre, so pretty in her short high-necked dress, her 
 magnificent hair flying out from her close bonnet, and 
 her box of pastels in her hand. How much more 
 he preferred this simple rose, concealed among thorns, 
 to all these too full-blown peonies! 
 
 Soon the enormous and amiable Countess came to 
 the poet and begged him, to his great confusion, to 
 recite a few verses. He was forced to do it. It was 
 his turn to lean upon the mantel. Fortunately it was 
 a success for him; all the full-blown peonies, who did 
 not understand much of his poetry, thought him a 
 handsome man, with his blue eyes, and their ardent, 
 melancholy glance; and they applauded him as much 
 as they could without bursting their very tight gloves. 
 They surrounded him and complimented him. Ma- 
 dame Fontaine presented him to the poet Leroy des 
 Saules, who congratulated him with the right word, 
 and invited him with a paternal air to come and see 
 him. It would have been a very happy moment for 
 Amedee, if one of the old maids with camel-like lips, 
 ii [ 161 ]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 whose stockings were probably as blue as her eyelids, 
 had not monopolized him for a quarter of an hour, 
 putting him through a sort of an examination on con- 
 temporary poets. At last the poet retired, after re- 
 ceiving a cup of tea and an invitation to dinner for the 
 next Tuesday. Then he was once more seated in the 
 carriage with Arthur Papillon, who gave him a slap 
 on the thigh, exclaiming, joyfully : 
 
 "Well, you are launched!" 
 
 It was true; he was launched, and he will wear out 
 more than one suit of evening clothes before he learns 
 all that this action "going into society," which seems 
 nothing at all at first, and which really is nothing, im- 
 plies, to an industrious man and artist, of useless 
 activity and lost time. He is launched ! He has made 
 a successful debut! A dinner in the city! At Ma- 
 dame Fontaine's dinner on the next Tuesday, some 
 abominable wine and aged salmon was served to Ame'- 
 dee by a butler named Adolphe, who ought rather to 
 have been called Exili or Castaing, and who, after fif- 
 teen years' service to the Countess, already owned two 
 good paying houses in Paris. At the time, however, 
 all went well, for Amedee had a good healthy stomach 
 and could digest buttons from a uniform ; but when all 
 the Borgias, in black-silk stockings and white-silk 
 gloves, who wish to become house-owners, have cooked 
 their favorite dishes for him, and have practised only 
 half a dozen winters, two or three times a week upon 
 him, we shall know more as to his digestion. Still 
 that dinner was enjoyable. Beginning with the sus- 
 picious salmon, the statesman with the brush-broom 
 
 [162]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 head, the one who had overthrown Louis-Philippe 
 without suspecting it, started to explain how, if they 
 had listened to his advice, this constitutional king's 
 dynasty would yet be upon the throne; and at the 
 moment when the wretched butler poured out his 
 most poisonous wine, the old lady who looked like a 
 dromedary with rings in its ears, made Amedee her 
 unfortunate neighbor undergo a new oral examina- 
 tion upon the poets of the nineteenth century, and 
 asked him what he thought of Lamartine's clamorous 
 debts, and Victor Hugo's foolish pride, and Alfred de 
 Musset's intemperate habits. 
 
 The worthy Amedee is launched! He will go and 
 pay visits of indigestion; appear one day at Madame 
 such a one's, and at the houses of several other "Ma- 
 dames." At first he will stay there a half -hour, the 
 simpleton! until he sees that the cunning ones only 
 come in and go out exactly as one does in a booth at 
 a fair. He will see pass before him but this time in 
 corsages of velvet or satin all the necks and shoulders 
 of his acquaintances, those that he turned away from 
 with disgust and those that made him blush. Each 
 Madame this one, entering Madame that one's house, 
 will seat herself upon the edge of a chair, and will 
 always say the same inevitable thing, the only thing 
 that can be or should be said that day; for example, 
 "So the poor General is dead!" or "Have you heard 
 the new piece at the Francais? It is not very strong, 
 but it is well played!" "This will be delicious;" and 
 Amedee will admire, above all things, Madame this 
 
 one's play of countenance, when Madame G tells 
 
 [163]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 her that Madame B -'s daughter is to marry Ma- 
 dame C -s nephew. While she hardly knows these 
 people, she will manifest as lively a joy as if they had 
 announced the death of an old aunt, whose money she 
 is waiting for to renew the furniture in her house. And, 
 on the contrary, when Madame D - announces that 
 Madame E -'s little son has the whooping-cough, at 
 once, without transition, by a change of expression that 
 would make the fortune of an actress, the lady of the 
 house puts on an air of consternation, as if the cholera 
 had broken out the night before in the Halles quarter. 
 Amedee is launched, I repeat it. He is still a little 
 green and will become the dupe, for a long time, of all 
 the shams, grimaces, acting, and false smiles, which 
 cover so many artificial teeth. At first sight all is 
 elegance, harmony, and delicacy. Since Amedee does 
 not know that the Princess Krazinska's celebrated 
 head of hair was cut from the heads of the Breton 
 girls, how could he suspect that the austere defender 
 of the clergy, M. Lemarguillier, had been gravely 
 compromised in a love affair, and had thrown himself 
 at the feet of the chief of police, exclaiming, "Do not 
 ruin me!" When the king of society is announced, 
 the young Due de la Tour-Prends- Garde, whose one 
 ancestor was at the battle of the bridge, and who is 
 just now introducing a new style in trousers, Amedee 
 could not suspect that the favorite amusement of this 
 fashionable rake consisted in drinking in the morning 
 upon an empty stomach, with his coachman, at a 
 grog-shop on the corner. When the pretty Baroness 
 des Nenuphars blushed up to her ears because some- 
 
 [164]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 one spoke the word " tea-spoon" before her, and she 
 considered it to be an unwarrantable indelicacy no- 
 body knows why it is assuredly not our young friend 
 who will suspect that, in order to pay the gambling 
 debts of her third lover, this modest person had just 
 sold secretly her family jewels. 
 
 Rest assured Amedee will lose all these illusions in 
 time. The day will come when he will not take in 
 earnest this grand comedy in white cravats. He will 
 not have the bad taste to show his indignation. No! 
 he will pity these unfortunate society people con- 
 demned to hypocrisy and falsehood. He will even 
 excuse their whims and vices as he thinks of the fright- 
 ful ennui that overwhelms them. Yes, he will under- 
 stand how the unhappy Due de la Tour-Prends-Garde, 
 who is condemned to hear La Favorita seventeen times 
 during the winter, may feel at times the need of a 
 violent distraction, and go to drink white wine with 
 his servant. Amedee will be full of indulgence, only 
 one must pardon him for his plebeian heart and native 
 uncouthness; for at the moment when he shall have 
 fathomed the emptiness and vanity of this worldly 
 farce, he will keep all of his sympathy for those who 
 retain something like nature. He will esteem infinitely 
 more the poorest of the workmen a wood-sawyer or 
 a bell-hanger than a politician haranguing from the 
 mantel, or an old literary dame who sparkles like a win- 
 dow in the Palais-Royal, and is tattooed like a Carib- 
 bean; he will prefer an old, wrinkled, village grand- 
 dame in her white cap, who still hoes, although sixty 
 years old, her little field of potatoes. 
 
 [165]
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A SERPENT AT THE FIRESIDE 
 
 LITTLE more than a year has 
 passed. It is now the first days of 
 October; and when the morning 
 mist is dissipated, the sky is of so 
 limpid a blue and the air so pure 
 and fresh, that Amedee Violette is 
 almost tempted to make a paper 
 kite and fly it over the fortifications, 
 as he did in his youth. But the age for that has 
 passed; Amedee's real kite is more fragile than if it 
 had been made of sticks and pieces of old paper pasted 
 on one over another; it does not ascend very high 
 yet, and the thread that sails it is not very strong. 
 Amedee's kite is his growing reputation. He must 
 work to sustain it; and always with the secret hope of 
 making little Maria his wife. Amedee works. He is 
 not so poor now, since he earns at the ministry two 
 hundred francs a month, and from time to time pub- 
 lishes a prose story in journals where his copy is paid 
 for. He has also left his garret in the Faubourg St- 
 Jacques and lives on the He St. Louis, in one room 
 only, but large and bright, from whose window he can 
 see, as he leans out, the coming and going of boats on 
 the river and the sun as it sets behind Notre-Dame. 
 
 [166]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 Amedee has been working mostly upon his drama 
 for the Come'die-Francaise this summer, and it is nearly 
 done; it is a modern drama in verse, entitled L' Atel- 
 ier. The action is very simple, like that of a tragedy, 
 but he believes it is sympathetic and touching, and it 
 ends in a popular way. Amedee thinks he has used 
 for his dialogue familiar but nevertheless poetic lines, 
 in which he has not feared to put in certain graphic 
 words and energetic speeches from the mouths of 
 working-people. 
 
 The grateful poet has destined the principal role for 
 Jocquelet, who has made a successful debut in the 
 Fourberies de Scapin, and who, since then, has won 
 success after success. Jocquelet, like all comic actors, 
 aspires to play also in drama. He can do so in reality, 
 but under particular conditions; for in spite of his 
 grotesque nose, he has strong and spirited qualities, 
 and recites verses very well. He is to represent an old 
 mechanic, in his friend's work, a sort of faubourg 
 Nestor, and this type will accommodate itself very 
 well to the not very aristocratic face of Jocquelet, who 
 more and more proves his cleverness at "making-up." 
 However, at first the actor was not satisfied with his 
 part. He fondles the not well defined dream of all 
 actors, he wishes, like all the others, the "leading part." 
 They do not exactly know what they mean by it, but 
 in their dreams is vaguely visible a wonderful Alman- 
 zor, who makes his first entrance in an open barouche 
 drawn by four horses harnessed a la Daumont, and 
 descends from it dressed in tight-fitting gray clothes, 
 tasselled boots, and decorations. This personage is as
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfeE 
 
 attractive as Don Juan, brave as Murat, a poet like 
 Shakespeare, and as charitable as St. Vincent de Paul. 
 He should have, before the end of the first act, crushed 
 with love by one single glance, the young leading 
 actress; dispersed a dozen assassins with his sword; 
 addressed to the stars that is to say, the spectators 
 in the upper gallery a long speech of eighty or a 
 hundred lines, and gathered up two lost children under 
 the folds of his cloak. 
 
 A "fine leading part" should also, during the rest 
 of the piece, accomplish a certain number of sublime 
 acts, address the multitude from the top of a staircase, 
 insult a powerful monarch to his face, dash into the 
 midst of a conflagration always in the long-topped 
 boots. The ideal part would be for him to discover 
 America, like Christopher Columbus; win pitched 
 battles, like Bonaparte, or some other equally senseless 
 thing; but the essential point is, never to leave the 
 stage and to talk all the time the work, in reality, 
 should be a monologue in five acts. 
 
 This role of an old workman, offered to Jocquelet 
 by Amedee, obtained only a grimace of displeasure from 
 the actor. However, it ended by his being reconciled 
 to the part, studying it, and, to use his own expression, 
 "racking his brains over it," until one day he ran to 
 Violette's, all excited, exclaiming: 
 
 "I have the right idea of my old man now! I will 
 dress him in a tricot waistcoat with ragged sleeves and 
 dirty blue overalls. He is an apprentice, is he not? 
 A fellow with a beard! Very well! in the great scene 
 where they tell him that his son is a thief and he defies 
 
 [168]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 the whole of the workmen, he struggles and his clothes 
 are torn open, showing a hairy chest. I am not hairy, 
 but I will make myself so does that fill the bill ? You 
 will see the effect." 
 
 While reserving the right to dissuade Jocquelet from 
 making himself up in this way, Amedee carried his manu- 
 script to the director of the Theatre Francais, who asked 
 a little time to look it over, and also promised the young 
 poet that he would read it aloud to the committee. 
 
 Amedee is very anxious, although Maurice Roger, 
 to whom he has read the piece, act by act, predicts an 
 enthusiastic acceptance. 
 
 The handsome Maurice has been installed for more 
 than a year in a studio on the Rue d'Assas and leads a 
 jolly, free life there. Does he work? Sometimes; by 
 fits and starts. And although he abandons his sketches 
 at the first attack of idleness, there is a charm about 
 these sketches, suspended upon the wall; and he will 
 some day show his talent. One of his greatest pleas- 
 ures is to see pass before him all his beautiful models, 
 at ten francs an hour. With palette in hand, he talks 
 with the young women, tells them amusing stories, 
 and makes them relate all their love-affairs. When 
 friends come to see him, they can always see a model 
 just disappearing behind a curtain. Amedee prefers 
 to visit his friend on Sunday afternoons, and thus 
 avoid meeting these models; and then, too, he meets 
 there on that day Arthur Papillon, who paves the way 
 for his political career by pleading lawsuits for the 
 press. Although he is, at heart, only a very moderate 
 Liberalist, this young man, with the very chic side 
 
 [169]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE 
 
 whiskers, defends the most republican of "beards," 
 if it can be called defending; for in spite of his fine 
 oratorical efforts, his clients are regularly favored with 
 the maximum of punishment. But they are all de- 
 lighted with it, for the title of "political convict" is 
 one very much in demand among the irreconcilables. 
 They are all convinced that the time is near when they 
 will overthrow the Empire, without suspecting, alas! 
 that in order to do that twelve hundred thousand Ger- 
 man bayonets will be necessary. The day after the 
 triumph, the month of imprisonment will be taken 
 into account, and St. Pelagic is not the carcere duro. 
 Papillon is cunning and wishes to have a finger in 
 every pie, so he goes to dine once a week with those 
 who owe their sojourn in this easy-going jail to him, 
 and regularly carries them a lobster. 
 
 Paul Sillery, who has also made Maurice's acquaint- 
 ance, loiters in this studio. The amiable Bohemian 
 has not yet paid his bill to Pere LebufHe, but he has 
 cut his red fleece close to his head, and publishes every 
 Sunday, in the journals, news full of grace and humor. 
 Of course they will never pardon him at the Cafe de 
 Seville; the "long-haired" ones have disowned this 
 traitor who has gone over to the enemy, and is now 
 only a sickening and fetid bourgeois; and if the poetical 
 club were able to enforce its decrees, Paul Sillery, like 
 an apostate Jew in the times of the Inquisition, would 
 have been scourged and burned alive. Paul Sillery 
 does not trouble himself about it, however; and from 
 time to time returns to the "Seville" and treats its 
 members to a bumper all around, which he pays for 
 
 [170]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 with the gold of his dishonor. Sometimes Jocquelet 
 appears, with his smooth-shaved face; but only rarely, 
 for he is at present a very busy man and already cele- 
 brated. His audacious nose is reproduced in all posi- 
 tions and displayed in photographers' windows, where 
 he has for neighbors the negatives most in demand; 
 for instance, the fatherly and benevolent face of the 
 pope, Pius IX, or the international limbs of Mademoi- 
 selle Ketty, the majestic fairy, in tights. The journals, 
 which print Jocquelet's name, treat him sympatheti- 
 cally and conspicuously, and are full of his praises. 
 "He is good to his old aunt," "gives alms," "picked 
 up a lost dog in the street the other evening." An 
 artist such as he, who stamps immortality on all the 
 comic repertory, and takes Moliere under his wing, 
 has no time to go to visit friends, that is understood. 
 However, he still honors Maurice Roger with short 
 visits. He only has time to make all the knickknacks 
 and china on the sideboard tremble with the noise of 
 his terrible voice; only time to tell how, on the night 
 before, in the greenroom, when still clothed in Scapin's 
 striped cloak, he deigned to receive, with the coldest 
 dignity, the compliments of a Royal Highness, or some 
 other person of high rank. A prominent society lady 
 has been dying of love for him the past six months; 
 she occupies stage box Number Six and then off he 
 goes. Good riddance! 
 
 Ame'de'e enjoys himself in his friend's studio, where 
 gay and witty artists come to talk. They laugh and 
 amuse themselves, and this Sunday resting-place is 
 the most agreeable of the hard-working poet's recrea-
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfiE 
 
 tions. Amedee prolongs them as long as possible, 
 until at last he is alone with his friend; then the 
 young men stretch themselves out upon the Turkish 
 cushions, and they talk freely of their hopes, ambitions, 
 and dreams for the future. 
 
 Amedee, however, keeps one secret to himself; he 
 never has told of his love for Maria Gerard. Upon 
 his return from Italy the traveller inquired several 
 times for the Gerards, sympathized politely with their 
 misfortune, and wished to be remembered to them 
 through Amedee. The latter had been very reserved 
 in his replies, and Maurice no longer broaches the sub- 
 ject in their conversation. Is it through neglect? 
 After all, he hardly knew the ladies; still, Amedee is 
 not sorry to talk of them no longer with his friend, 
 and it is never without a little embarrassment and un- 
 acknowledged jealousy that he replies to Maria when 
 she asks for news of Maurice. 
 
 She no longer inquires. The pretty Maria is cross 
 and melancholy, for now they talk only of one thing at 
 the Gerards; it is always the same, the vulgar and 
 cruel thought, obtaining the means to live; and within 
 a short time they have descended a few steps lower on 
 the slippery ladder of poverty. It is not possible to 
 earn enough to feed three mouths with a piano method 
 and a box of pastels or, at least, it does not hold out. 
 Louise has fewer pupils, and Pere Issacar has lessened 
 his orders. Mamma Gerard, who has become almost 
 an old woman, redoubles her efforts; but they can no 
 longer make both ends meet. Amede'e sees it, and 
 how it makes him suffer! 
 
 [172]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 The poor women are proud, and complain as little 
 as possible; but the decay inside this house, already 
 so modest, is manifested in many ways. Two beautiful 
 engravings, the last of their father's souvenirs, had 
 been sold in an hour of extreme want; and one could 
 see, by the clean spots upon the wall, where the 
 frames once hung. Madame Gerard's and her daugh- 
 ters' mourning seemed to grow rusty, and at the Sun- 
 day dinner Amedee now brings, instead of a cake, a 
 pastry pie, which sometimes constitutes the entire 
 meal. There is only one bottle of old wine in the 
 cellar, and they drink wine by the pot from the grocer's. 
 Each new detail that proves his friends' distress troubles 
 the sensitive Amedee. Once, having earned ten louis 
 from some literary work, he took the poor mother aside 
 and forced her to accept one hundred francs. The 
 unfortunate woman, trembling with emotion, while 
 two large tears rolled down her cheeks, admitted that 
 the night before, in order to pay the washerwoman, 
 they had pawned the only clock in the house. 
 
 What can he do to assist them, to help them to lead 
 a less terrible life? Ah! if Maria would have it so, 
 they could be married at once, without any other ex- 
 pense than the white dress, as other poor people do; 
 and they would all live together. He has his salary of 
 twenty-four hundred francs, besides a thousand francs 
 that he has earned in other ways. With Louise's les- 
 sons this little income would be almost sufficient. Then 
 he would exert himself to sell his writings; he would 
 work hard, and they could manage. Of course it would 
 be quite an undertaking on his part to take all this fam-
 
 FRANCOIS COPPtiE 
 
 ily under his charge. Children might be born to them. 
 Had he not begun to gain a reputation; had he not a 
 future before him? His piece might be played and 
 meet with success. This would be their salvation. 
 Oh! the happy life that the four would lead together! 
 Yes, if Maria could love him a little, if he persisted in 
 hoping, if she had the courage, it was the only step to 
 take. 
 
 Becoming enthusiastic upon this subject, Amedee 
 decided to submit the question to the excellent Louise, 
 in whom he had perfect confidence, and considered to 
 be goodness and truth personified. Every Thursday, 
 at six o'clock, she left a boarding-school in the Rue de 
 la Rochechouart, where she gave lessons to young 
 ladies in singing. He would go and wait for her as 
 she came out that very evening. And there he met 
 her. Poor Louise! her dress was lamentable; and 
 what a sad countenance! What a tired, distressed 
 look! 
 
 "What, you, Amedee!" said she, with a happy smile, 
 as he met her. 
 
 "Yes, my dear Louise. Take my arm and let me 
 accompany you part of the way. We will talk as we 
 walk; I have something very serious to say to you, 
 confidentially important advice to ask of you." 
 
 The poet then began to make his confession. He 
 recalled their childhood days in the Rue Notre-Dame- 
 des-Champs, when they played together; it was as 
 long ago as that that he had first begun to be charmed 
 by little Maria. As soon as he became a young man 
 he felt that he loved the dear child, and had always 
 
 [i74]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 cherished the hope that he might inspire her with a 
 tender sentiment and marry her some day. If he had 
 not spoken sooner it was because he was too poor, 
 but he had always loved her, he loved her now, and 
 never should love any other woman. He then ex- 
 plained his plan of life in simple and touching terms; 
 he would become Madame Gerard's son and his dear 
 Louise's brother; the union of their two poverties 
 would become almost comfort. Was it not very sim- 
 ple and reasonable ? He was very sure that she would 
 approve of it, and she was wisdom itself and the head 
 of the family. 
 
 While he was talking Louise lowered her eyes and 
 looked at her feet. He did not feel that she was trem- 
 bling violently. Blind, blind Amedee! You do not 
 see, you will never see, that she is the one who loves 
 you ! Without hope ! she knows that very well ; she is 
 older than you, she is not pretty, and she will always be 
 in your eyes an adopted elder sister, who once showed 
 you your alphabet letters with the point of her knitting- 
 needle. She has suspected for a long time your love 
 for Maria; she suffers, but she is resigned to it, and 
 she will help you, the brave girl! But this confession 
 that you make, Maria's name that you murmur into 
 her ear in such loving accents, this dream of happiness 
 in which, in your artless egotism, you reserve for her 
 the role of an old maid who will bring up your children, 
 is cruel, oh! how cruel! They have reached the Boule- 
 vard Pigalle ; the sun has set, the sky is clear and bright 
 as a turquoise, and the sharp autumn wind detaches 
 the last of the dried leaves from the trees. Amedee 
 
 [i75]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE 
 
 is silent, but his anxious glance solicits and waits for 
 Louise's reply. 
 
 "Dear Amede'e," said she, raising her frank, pure 
 eyes to his face, "you have the most generous and best 
 of hearts. I suspected that you loved Maria, and I 
 would be glad to tell you at once that she loves you, so 
 that we might hereafter be but one family but frankly 
 I can not. Although the dear child is a little frivolous, 
 her woman's instinct must suspect your feeling for her, 
 but she has never spoken of it to mamma or to me. 
 Have confidence; I do not see anything that augurs 
 ill for you in that. She is so young and so innocent 
 that she might love you without suspecting it herself. 
 It is very possible, probable even, that your avowal 
 will enlighten her as to the state of her own heart. 
 She will be touched by your love, I am sure, as well 
 as by your devotion to the whole family. I hope, with 
 all my heart, Amedee, that you will succeed; for, I 
 can say it to you, some pleasure must happen in poor 
 Maria's life soon. She has moments of the deepest 
 sadness and attacks of weeping that have made me 
 uneasy for some time. You must have noticed, too, 
 that she is overwhelmed with ennui. I can see that 
 she suffers more than mamma or I, at the hard life 
 that we lead. It is not strange that she feels as she 
 does, for she is pretty and attractive, and made for 
 happiness; and to see the present and the future so sad! 
 How hard it is! You can understand, my friend, how 
 much I desire this marriage to take place. You are 
 so good and noble, you will make Maria happy; but 
 you have said it, I am the one who represents wisdom 
 
 [176]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 in our house. Let me have then a few days in which 
 to observe Maria, to obtain her confidence, to discover 
 perhaps a sentiment in her heart of which she is igno- 
 rant; and remember that you have a sure and faithful 
 ally in me." 
 
 "Take your own time, dear Louise," replied the 
 poet. "I leave everything to you. Whatever you do 
 will be for the best." 
 
 He thanked her and they parted at the foot of the Rue 
 Lepic. It was a bitter pleasure for the slighted one to 
 give the young man her poor, deformed, pianist's hand, 
 and to feel that he pressed it with hope and gratitude. 
 
 She desired and must urge this marriage. She said 
 this over and over again to herself, as she walked up 
 the steep street, where crowds of people were swarm- 
 ing at the end of their day's work. No! no! Maria 
 did not care for Amedee. Louise was very sure of it; 
 but at all events it was necessary that she should try to 
 snatch her young sister from the discouragements and 
 bad counsel of poverty. Amedee loved her and would 
 know how to make her love him. In order to assure 
 their happiness these two young people must be united. 
 As to herself, what matter! If they had children she 
 would accept in advance her duties as coddling aunt 
 and old godmother. Provided, of course, that Maria 
 would be guided, or, at least, that she would consent. 
 She was so pretty that she was a trifle vain. She was 
 nourishing, perhaps, nobody knew what fancy or vain 
 hope, based upon her beauty and youth. Louise had 
 grave fears. The poor girl, with her thin, bent shoul- 
 ders wrapped up in an old black shawl, had already 
 12 [177]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP6E 
 
 forgotten her own grief and only thought of the happi- 
 ness of others, as she slowly dragged herself up Mont- 
 martre Hill. When she reached the butcher's shop in 
 front of the mayor's office, she remembered a request 
 of her mother's; and as is always the case with the 
 poor, a trivial detail is mixed with the drama of life. 
 Louise, without forgetting her thoughts, while sacrific- 
 ing her own heart, went into the shop and picked out 
 two breaded cutlets and had them done up in brown 
 paper, for their evening's repast. 
 
 The day after his conversation with Louise, Ame"- 
 dee felt that distressing impatience that waiting causes 
 nervous people. The day at the office seemed unend- 
 ing, and in order to escape solitude, at five o'clock he 
 went to Maurice's studio, where he had not been for 
 fifteen days. He found him alone, and the young artist 
 also seemed preoccupied. While Amedee congratu- 
 lated him upon a study placed upon an easel, Maurice 
 walked up and down the room with his hands in his 
 pocket, and eyes upon the floor, making no reply to 
 his friend's compliments. Suddenly he stopped and 
 looking at Amedee said: 
 
 "Have you seen the Gerard ladies during the past 
 few days?" 
 
 Maurice had not spoken of these ladies for several 
 months, and the poet was a trifle surprised. 
 
 "Yes," he replied. "Not later than yesterday I met 
 Mademoiselle Louise." 
 
 "And," replied Maurice, in a hesitating manner, 
 "were all the family well?" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 "Ah!" said the artist, in a strange voice, and he re- 
 sumed his silent promenade. 
 
 Amedee always had a slightly unpleasant sensation 
 when Maurice spoke the name of the Gerards, but this 
 time the suspicious look and singular tone of the young 
 painter, as he inquired about them, made the poet feel 
 genuinely uneasy. He was impressed, above all, by 
 Maurice's simple exclamation, "Ah!" which seemed to 
 him to be enigmatical and mysterious. But nonsense! 
 all this was foolish; his friend's questions were per- 
 fectly natural. 
 
 "Shall we pass the evening together, my dear 
 Maurice?" 
 
 "It is impossible this evening," replied Maurice, 
 still continuing his walk. "A duty I have an en- 
 gagement." 
 
 Amedee had the feeling that he had come at an un- 
 fortunate time, and discreetly took his departure. 
 Maurice had seemed indifferent and less cordial than 
 usual. 
 
 "What is the matter with him?" said the poet to 
 himself several times, while dining in the little restau- 
 rant in the Latin Quarter. He afterward went to the 
 Comedie Francaise, to kill time, as well as to inquire 
 after his drama of Jocquelet, who played that evening 
 in Le Legataire Universel. 
 
 The comedian received him in his dressing-room, 
 being already arrayed in Crispin's long boots and 
 black trousers. He was seated in his shirt-sleeves be- 
 fore his toilet-table, and had just pasted over his smooth 
 lips the bristling moustache of this traditional person-
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 age. Without rising, or even saying "Good-day," he 
 cried out to the poet as he recognized him in the 
 mirror: 
 
 "No news as to your piece! The manager has not 
 one moment to himself; we are getting ready for the 
 revival of Camaraderie. But we shall be through with 
 it in two days, and then " 
 
 And immediately, talking to hear himself talk, and 
 to exercise his terrible organ, he belched out, like the 
 noise from an opened dam, a torrent of commonplace 
 things. He praised Scribe's works, which they had 
 put on the stage again; he announced that the famous 
 Guillery, his senior in the comedy line, would be ex- 
 ecrable in this performance, and would make a bungle 
 of it. He complained of being worried to death by 
 the pursuit of a great lady "You know, stage box 
 Number Six," and showed, with a conceited gesture, 
 a letter, tossed in among the jars of paint and pomade, 
 which smelled of musk. Then, ascending to subjects 
 of a more elevated order, he scored the politics of the 
 Tuileries, and scornfully exposed the imperial corrup- 
 tion while recognizing that this "poor Badingue," who, 
 three days before, had paid a little compliment to the 
 actor, was of more account than his surroundings. 
 
 The poet went home and retired, bewildered by such 
 gossip. When he awoke, the agony of his thoughts 
 about Maria had become still more painful. When 
 should he see Louise again? Would her reply be 
 favorable? In spite of the fine autumn morning his 
 heart was troubled, and he felt that he had no courage. 
 His administrative work had never seemed more loath- 
 
 [180]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 some than on that day. His fellow-clerk, an amateur 
 in hunting, had just had two days' absence, and in- 
 flicted upon him, in an unmerciful manner, his stories 
 of slaughtered partridges, and dogs who pointed so 
 wonderfully well, and of course punctuated all this 
 with numerous Pan-Pans! to imitate the report of a 
 double-barrelled gun. 
 
 When he left the office Amedee regained his serenity 
 a little; he returned home by the quays, hunting after 
 old books and enjoying the pleasures of a beautiful 
 evening, watching, in the golden sky, around the spires 
 of Ste.-Chapelle, a large flock of swallows assembling 
 for their approaching departure. 
 
 At nightfall, after dining, he resolved to baffle his 
 impatience by working all the evening and retouching 
 one act of his drama with which he was not perfectly 
 content. He went to his room, lighted his lamp, and 
 seated himself before his open manuscript. Now, 
 then ! to work ! He had been silly ever since the night 
 before. Why should he imagine that misfortune was 
 in the air ? Do such things as presentiments exist ? 
 
 Suddenly, three light, but hasty and sharp knocks 
 were struck upon his door. Amedee arose, took his 
 lamp, and opened it. He jumped back there stood 
 Louise Gerard in her deep mourning! 
 
 "You? At my rooms? At this hour? What has 
 happened?" 
 
 She entered and dropped into the poet's armchair. 
 While he put the lamp upon the table he noticed that 
 the young girl was as white as wax. Then she seized 
 his hands and pressing them with all her strength, she 
 
 [181]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 said, in a voice unlike her own a voice hoarse with 
 despair: 
 
 "Ame'de'e. I come to you by instinct, as toward our 
 only friend, as to a brother, as to the only man who will 
 be able to help us repair the frightful misfortune which 
 overwhelms us!" She stopped, stifled with emotion. 
 
 "A misfortune!" exclaimed the young man. "What 
 misfortune ? Maria ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes! Maria!" 
 
 "An accident? An illness?" 
 
 Louise made a rapid gesture with her arm and head 
 which signified: "If it were only that!" With her 
 mouth . distorted by a bitter smile and with lowered 
 eyes, talking confusedly, she said: 
 
 " Monsieur Maurice Roger yes your friend Mau- 
 rice! A miserable wretch! he has deceived and 
 ruined the unhappy child! Oh! what infamy! and 
 now now ' ' 
 
 Her deathly pale face flushed and became purple to 
 the roots of her hah*. 
 
 "Now Maria will become a mother!" 
 
 At these words the poet gave a cry like some enraged 
 beast; he reeled, and would have fallen had the table 
 not been near. He sat down on the edge of it, sup- 
 porting himself with his hands, completely frozen as 
 if from a great chill. Louise, overcome with shame, 
 sat in the armchair, hiding her face in her hands while 
 great tears rolled down between the fingers of her 
 ragged gloves. 
 
 [182]
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 TOO LATE! 
 
 T had been more than three months 
 since Maria and Maurice had met 
 again. One day the young man went 
 to the Louvre to see his favorite pict- 
 ures of the painters of the Eighteenth 
 Century. His attention was attracted 
 by the beautiful hair of a young artist 
 dressed in black, who was copying 
 one of Rosalba's portraits. It was our pretty pastel 
 artist whose wonderful locks disturbed all the daub- 
 ers in the museum, and which made colorists out of 
 Signol's pupils themselves. Maurice approached the 
 copyist, and then both exclaimed at once: 
 "Mademoiselle Maria!" 
 "Monsieur Maurice!" 
 
 She had recognized him so quickly and with such a 
 charming smile, she had not, then, forgotten him? 
 When he used to visit Pere Gerard he had noticed 
 that she was not displeased with him; but after such 
 a long time, at first sight, to obtain such a greeting, 
 such a delighted exclamation it was flattering! 
 
 The young man standing by her easel, with his hat 
 off, so graceful and elegant in his well-cut garments, 
 began to talk with her. He spoke first, in becoming 
 
 [183]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPtiE 
 
 and proper terms, of her father's death; inquired for 
 her mother and sister, congratulated himself upon 
 having been recognized thus, and then yielding to his 
 bold custom, he added : 
 
 "As to myself, I hesitated at first. You have grown 
 still more beautiful in two years." 
 
 As she blushed, he continued, in a joking way, 
 which excused his audacity: 
 
 "Amedee told me that you had become delicious, 
 but now I hardly dare ask him for news of you. Ever 
 since you have lived at Montmartre and I know that 
 he sees you every Sunday he has never offered to take 
 me with him to pay my respects. Upon my word of 
 honor, Mademoiselle Maria, I believe that he is in 
 love with you and as jealous as a Turk." 
 
 She protested against it, confused but still smiling. 
 
 Ah! if he had known of the dream that Maria had 
 kept concealed in one corner of her heart ever since 
 their first meeting. If he had known that her only 
 desire was to be chosen and loved by this handsome 
 Maurice, who had gone through their house and 
 among poor Papa Gerard's bric-a-brac like a meteor! 
 Why not, after all? Did she not possess that great 
 power, beauty? Her father, her mother, and even 
 her sister, the wise Louise, had often said so to her. 
 Yes! from the very first she had been charmed by this 
 young man with the golden moustache, and the ways 
 of a young lord; she had hoped to please him, and 
 later, in spite of poverty and death, she had continued 
 to be intoxicated with this folly and to dream of this 
 narcotic against grief, of the return of this Prince 
 
 [184]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 Charming. Poor Maria, so good and so artless, who 
 had been told too many times that she was pretty! 
 Poor little spoiled child! 
 
 When he left you yesterday, little Maria, after half 
 an hour's pleasing conversation, Maurice said to you 
 jokingly: "Do not tell Violette, above all, that we 
 have met. I should lose my best friend." You not 
 only said nothing to Amedee, but you told neither 
 your mother nor your sister. For Louise and Ma- 
 dame Gerard are prudent and wise, and they would 
 tell you to avoid this rash fellow who has accosted 
 you in a public place, and has told you at once that 
 you are beautiful and beloved. They would scold 
 you ; they would tell you that this young man is of a 
 rich and distinguished family; that his mother has 
 great ambitions for him; that you have only your old 
 black dress and beautiful eyes, and to-morrow, when 
 you return to the Louvre, Madame Gerard will estab- 
 lish herself near your easel and discourage the young 
 gallant. 
 
 But, little Maria, you conceal it from your mother 
 and Louise! You have a secret from your family! 
 To-morrow when you make your toilette before the 
 mirror and twist up your golden hair, your heart will 
 beat with hope and vanity. In the Louvre your at- 
 tention will be distracted from your work when you 
 hear a man's step resound in a neighboring gallery, 
 and when Maurice arrives you will doubtless be troub- 
 led, but very much surprised and not displeased, 
 ah! only too much pleased. Little Maria, little Ma- 
 ria, he talks to you in a low tone now. His blond 
 
 [185]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfiE 
 
 moustache is very near your cheek, and you do well 
 to lower your eyes, for I see a gleam of pleasure 
 under your long lashes. I do not hear what he says, 
 nor your replies ; but how fast he works, how he gains 
 your confidence! You will compromise yourself, lit- 
 tle Maria, if you keep him too long by your easel. 
 Four o'clock will soon strike, and the watchman in 
 the green coat, who is snoozing before Watteau's de- 
 signs, will arouse from his torpor, stretch his arms, 
 look at his watch, get up from his seat, and call out 
 "Time to close." Why do you allow Maurice to help 
 you arrange your things, to accompany you through 
 the galleries, carrying your box of pastels ? The long, 
 lanky girl in the Salon Carre, who affects the English 
 ways, the one who will never finish copying the " Vierge 
 au coussin vert," has followed you into the Louvre 
 court. Take care! She has noticed, envious creat- 
 ure, that you are very much moved as you take leave 
 of your companion, and that you let your hand remain 
 for a second in his! This old maid a Vanglaise has 
 a viper's tongue. To-morrow you will be the talk of 
 the Louvre, and the gossip will spread to the Ecole 
 des Beaux-Arts, even to Signol's studio, where the 
 two daubers, your respectful admirers, who think of 
 cutting their throats in your honor, will accost each 
 other with a "Well, the pretty pastellist! Yes, I know, 
 she has a lover. " 
 
 If it was only a lover! But the pretty pastellist 
 has been very careless, more foolish than the old maid 
 or the two young fellows dream of. It is so sweet to 
 hear him say: "I love you!" and so delicious to lis- 
 
 [186]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 ten for the question: "And you, do you love me a 
 little?" when she is dying to say, "Yes!" Bending 
 her head and blushing with confusion under Maurice's 
 ardent gaze, the pretty Maria ends by murmuring the 
 fatal "Yes." Then she sees Maurice turn pale with 
 joy, and he says to her, "I must talk to you alone; 
 not before these bores." She replies: "But how? 
 It is impossible!" Then he asks whether she does 
 not trust him, whether she does not believe him to be 
 an honest man, and the young girl's looks say more 
 than any protestation would. 
 
 "Well! to-morrow morning at ten o'clock instead 
 of coming to the Louvre will you? I will wait for 
 you on the Quai d'Orsay, before the Saint-Cloud 
 pier." 
 
 She was there at the appointed hour, overwhelmed 
 with emotion and ready to faint. He took her by the 
 arm and led her aboard the boat. 
 
 "Do you see, now we are almost alone. Give me 
 the pleasure of wandering through the fields with you. 
 It is such beautiful weather. Be tranquil, we shall 
 return early." 
 
 Oh, the happy day! Maria sees pass before her, 
 as she is seated beside Maurice, who is whispering 
 in her ear loving words and whose glances cover her 
 with caresses, as if in a dream, views of Paris that 
 were not familiar to her, high walls, arches of bridges, 
 then the bare suburbs, the smoking manufactories of 
 Crenelle, the Bas Meudon, with its boats and public- 
 houses. At last, on the borders of the stream, the 
 park with its extensive verdure appeared. 
 
 [187]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 They wandered there for a long time under the 
 chestnut - trees, loaded with their fruit in its green 
 shells. The sun, filtering through the foliage, dotted 
 the walks with patches of light, and Maurice con- 
 tinued to repeat to Maria that he loved her; that he 
 had never loved any one but her! that he had loved 
 her from the very first time that he saw her at Pere 
 Gerard's, and that neither time nor absence had been 
 able to drive away the remembrance of her. And at 
 this moment he imagined that it was true. He did 
 not think that he was telling a lie. As to poor Maria, 
 do not be too severe upon her! think of her youth, 
 her poverty and imprisonment she was overwhelmed 
 with happiness. She could think of nothing to say, 
 and, giving herself up into the young man's arms, 
 she had hardly the strength to turn upon him, from 
 time to time, her eyes tortured with love. 
 
 Is it necessary to tell how she succumbed ? how they 
 went to a restaurant and dined? Emotion, the heavy 
 heat of the afternoon, champagne, that golden wine 
 that she tasted for the first time, stunned the impru- 
 dent child. Her charming head slips down upon the 
 sofa-pillow, she is nearly fainting. 
 
 "You are too warm," said Maurice. "This bright 
 light makes you ill." 
 
 He draws the curtains; they are in the darkness, 
 and he takes the young girl in his arms, covering her 
 hands, eyes, and lips with kisses 
 
 Doubtless he swears to her that she shall be his wife. 
 He asks only a little time, a few weeks, in which to 
 prepare his mother, the ambitious Madame Roger, 
 
 [188]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 for his unexpected marriage. Maria never doubts him, 
 but overcome by her fault, she feels an intense shame, 
 and buries her face on her lover's shoulder. She 
 thinks then, the guilty girl, of her past; of her inno- 
 cence and poverty, of her humble but honest home; 
 her dead father, her mother and sister her two 
 mothers, properly speaking who yet call her "little 
 one" and always consider her as a child, an infant 
 in all its purity. She feels impressed with her sin, 
 and wishes that she might die there at once. 
 
 Oh! I beg of you, be charitable to the poor, weak 
 Maria, for she is young and she must suffer! 
 
 Maurice was not a rascal, after all; he was in 
 earnest when he promised to marry her without delay. 
 He even meant to admit all to his mother the next 
 day; but when he saw her she never had appeared so 
 imposing to him, with her gray hair under her widow's 
 cap. He shivered as he thought of the tearful scenes, 
 the reproaches and anger, and in his indolence he said 
 to himself : "Upon my honor, I will do it later!" He 
 loves Maria after his fashion. He is faithful to her, 
 and when she steals away an hour from her work to 
 come to see him, he is uneasy at the least delay. She 
 is truly adorable, only Maurice does not like the un- 
 happy look that she wears when she asks him, in a trem- 
 bling voice: "Have you spoken to your mother?" He 
 embraces her, reassures her. "Be easy. Leave me 
 time to arrange it." The truth is, that now he begins 
 to be perplexed at the idea of this marriage. It is his 
 duty, he knows that very well; but he is not twenty- 
 three years old yet. There is no hurry. After all, is 
 
 [189]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 it duty? the little one yielded easily enough. Has he 
 not the right to test her and wait a little ? It is what 
 his mother would advise him, he is certain. That is 
 the only reasonable way to look at it. 
 
 Alas, egotists and cowards always have a reason for 
 everything ! 
 
 How dearly poor Maria's foolish step has cost her! 
 How heavily such a secret weighs upon the child's 
 heart! For a few moments of uneasy intoxication 
 with this man, whom she already doubts and who some- 
 times makes her afraid, she must lie to her mother 
 without blushing or lowering her eyes, and enter Mau- 
 rice's house veiled and hiding like a thief. But that 
 is nothing yet. After some time of this agonizing life 
 her health is troubled. Quickly she goes to find Mau- 
 rice! She arrives unexpectedly and finds him lying 
 upon the sofa smoking a cigar. Without giving him 
 time to rise, she throws herself into his arms, and, 
 bursting into sobs, makes her terrible avowal. At 
 first he only gives a start of angry astonishment, a 
 harsh glance. 
 
 "Bah! you must be mistaken." 
 "I am sure of it, I tell you, I am sure of it!" 
 She has caught his angry glance and feels condemned 
 in advance. However, he gives her a cold kiss, and 
 it is with a great effort that she stammers: 
 "Maurice you must speak to your mother- 
 He rises with an impatient gesture and Maria seats 
 herself her strength is leaving her while he walks 
 up and down the room. 
 
 "My poor Maria," he begins in a hesitating man- 
 [190]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 ner, "I dared not tell you, but my mother will not 
 consent to our marriage now, at least." 
 
 He lies! He has not spoken to his mother; she 
 knows it. Ah! unhappy creature! he does not love her! 
 and, discouraged, with a rumbling noise in her ears, 
 she listens to Maurice as he speaks in his soft voice. 
 
 "Oh! be tranquil. I shall not abandon you, my 
 poor child. If what you say is true if you are sure 
 of it, then the best thing that you can do, you see, is 
 to leave your family and come and live with me. At 
 first we will go away from Paris; you can be confined 
 in the country. We can put the child out to nurse; 
 they will take care of the little brat, of course. And 
 later, perhaps, my mother will soften and will under- 
 stand that we must marry. No, truly, the more I 
 think of it, the more I believe that that is the best way 
 to do. Yes! I know very well it will be hard to leave 
 your home, but what can you do, my darling? You 
 can write your mother a very affectionate letter." 
 
 And going to her he takes her, inert and heart- 
 broken, into his arms, and tries to show himself loving. 
 
 "You are my wife, my dear little wife, I repeat it. 
 Are you not glad, eh! that we can live together?" 
 
 This is what he proposes to do. He thinks to take 
 her publicly to his house and to blazon her shame 
 before the eyes of everybody! Maria feels that she 
 is lost. She rises abruptly and says to him in the tone 
 of a somnambulist: "That will do. We will talk of 
 it again." 
 
 She goes away and returns to Montmartre at a 
 crazy woman's pace, and finds her mother knitting 
 
 [191]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 and her sister ready to lay the table yes! as if nothing 
 at all was the matter. She takes their hands and 
 falls at their feet! 
 
 Ah, poor women! 
 
 They had already been very much tried. The de- 
 cay of this worthy family was lamentable; but in 
 spite of all, yesterday even, they endured their fate 
 with resignation. Yes! the economy, the degrading 
 drudgery, the old, mended gowns they accepted all 
 this without a murmur. A noble sentiment sustained 
 and gave them courage. All three the old mother 
 in a linen cap doing the cooking and the washing, the 
 elder sister giving lessons at forty sous, and the little 
 one working in pastels were vaguely conscious of 
 representing something very humble, but sacred and 
 noble a family without a blemish on their name. 
 They felt that they moved in an atmosphere of esteem 
 and respect. "Those ladies upon the first floor have 
 so many accomplishments," say the neighbors. Their 
 apartment with its stained woodwork, its torn wall- 
 paper, but where they were all united in work and 
 drawn closer and closer to each other in love had 
 still the sweetness of a home; and upon their ragged 
 mourning, their dilapidated furniture, the meagre meat 
 soup at night, the pure light of honor gleamed and 
 watched over them. Now, after this guilty child's 
 avowal, all this was ended, lost forever! There was 
 a blemish upon their life of duty and poverty, upon 
 their irreproachable past, even upon the father's mem- 
 ory. Certainly the mother and elder sister excused 
 the poor creature who sol bed under their kisses and 
 
 [192]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 begged their pardon. However, when they gazed at 
 each other with red eyes and dry lips, they measured 
 the fall of the family; they saw for the first time how 
 frightful were their destitution and distress; they felt 
 the unbearable feeling of shame glide into their hearts 
 like a sinister and unexpected guest who, at the first 
 glance, makes one understand that he has come to 
 be master of the lodging. This was the secret, the 
 overwhelming secret, which the distracted Louise Ge*- 
 rard revealed that evening to her only friend, Ame*- 
 dee Violette, acting thus by instinct, as a woman with 
 too heavy a burden throws it to the ground, crying 
 for help. 
 
 When she had ended her cruel confidence, to which 
 the poet listened with his face buried in his hands, 
 and he uncovered his face creased and furrowed by 
 the sudden wrinkles of despair, Louise was fright- 
 ened. 
 
 "How I have wounded him!" she thought. "How 
 he loves Maria!" 
 
 But she saw shining in the young man's eyes a 
 gloomy resolution. 
 
 "Very well, Louise," muttered he, between his 
 teeth. "Do not tell me any more, I beg of you. I 
 do not know where to find Maurice at this hour, but 
 he will see me to-morrow morning, rest easy. If the 
 evil is not repaired and at once " 
 
 He did not finish; his voice was stifled with grief 
 and rage, and upon an almost imperious gesture to 
 leave, Louise departed, overcome by her undertaking. 
 
 No, Maurice Roger was not a villain. After Maria's 
 !3 [ 193 ]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 departure he felt ashamed and displeased with him- 
 self. A mother! poor little thing! Certainly he would 
 take charge of her and the child; he would behave 
 like a gentleman. But, to speak plainly, he did not 
 now love her as much as he did. His vagabond nature 
 was already tired of his love-affair. This one was 
 watered too much by tears. Bah! he was usually 
 lucky, and this troublesome affair would come out all 
 right like the others. Truly, it was as bad an acci- 
 dent as if one had fallen into a hole and broken his 
 leg. But then, who could tell? Chance and time 
 arrange many things. The child might not live, per- 
 haps; at any rate, it was perfectly natural that he 
 should wait and see what happened. 
 
 The next morning the reckless Maurice who had 
 not slept badly was tranquilly preparing his palette 
 while awaiting his model, when he saw Amedee Vio- 
 lette enter his studio. At the first glance he saw that 
 the poet knew all. 
 
 "Maurice," said Amedee, in a freezing tone, "I 
 received a visit from Mademoiselle Louise Gerard 
 last evening. She told me everything all, do you 
 understand me perfectly? I have come to learn 
 whether I am mistaken regarding you whether Mau- 
 rice Roger is an honest man." 
 
 A flame darted from the young artist's eyes. Ame- 
 dee, with his livid complexion and haggard from a 
 sleepless night and tears, was pitiful to see. And then 
 it was Amedee, little Amedee whom Maurice sincerely 
 loved, for whom he had kept, ever since their college 
 days, a sentiment, all the more precious that it flat-
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 tered his vanity, the indulgent affection and protection 
 of a superior. 
 
 "Oh! Grand, melodramatic words already!" said 
 he, placing his palette upon the table. "Amedee, my 
 dear boy, I do not recognize you, and if you have any 
 explanation that you wish to ask of your old friend, 
 it is not thus that you should do it. You have re- 
 ceived, you tell me, Mademoiselle Gerard's confidence. 
 I know you are devoted to those ladies. I understand 
 your emotion and I think your intervention legiti- 
 mate; but you see I speak calmly and in a friendly 
 way. Calm yourself in your turn and do not forget 
 that, in spite of your zeal for those ladies, I am the 
 best and dearest companion of your youth. I am, I 
 know, in one of the gravest situations of my life. Let 
 us talk of it. Advise me; you have the right to do so; 
 but not in that tone of voice that angry, threatening 
 tone which I pardon, but which hurts and makes me 
 doubt, were it possible, your love for me." 
 
 "Ah! you know very well that I love you," replied 
 the unhappy Amedee, "but why do you need my ad- 
 vice? You are frank enough to deny nothing. You 
 admit that it is true, that you have seduced a young 
 girl. Does not your conscience tell you what to do?" 
 
 "To marry her? That is my intention. But, Ame"- 
 de"e, do you think of my mother? This marriage will 
 distress her, destroy her fond hopes and ambitions. 
 I hope to be able to gain her consent; only I must 
 have time to turn myself. Later very soon. I do 
 not say if the child lives." 
 
 This word, torn from Maurice by the, cynicism 
 [i95]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfiE 
 
 which is in the heart of all egotists, made Ame'de'e 
 angry. 
 
 "Your mother!" exclaimed he. "Your mother is 
 the widow of a French officer who died facing the 
 enemy. She will understand it, I am sure, as a mat- 
 ter of honor and duty. Go and find her, tell her that 
 you have ruined this unfortunate child. Your mother 
 will advise you to marry her. She will command you 
 to do it." 
 
 This argument was forcible and direct, and im- 
 pressed Maurice; but his friend's violence irritated 
 him. 
 
 "You go to work badly, Amedee, I repeat it," said 
 he, raising his tone. "You have no right to prejudge 
 my mother's opinion, and I receive no orders from 
 anybody. After all, nothing authorizes you to do it ; 
 if it is because you were in love with Maria 
 
 A furious cry interrupted him. Amedee, with wild 
 eyes and shaking his fists, walked toward Maurice, 
 speaking in a cutting tone: 
 
 "Well, yes! I loved her," said he, "and I wished 
 to make her my wife. You, who no longer love her, 
 who took her out of caprice, as you have taken others, 
 you have destroyed all of my dreams for the future. 
 She preferred you, and, understand me, Maurice, I 
 am too proud to complain, too just to hold spite 
 against you. I am only here to prevent your com- 
 mitting an infamy. Upon my honor! If you repulse 
 me, our friendship is destroyed forever, and I dare 
 not think of what will happen between us, but it will 
 be terrible! Alas! I am wrong, I do not talk to you 
 
 [196]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 as I ought. Maurice, there is time yet! Only listen 
 to your heart, which I know is generous and good. 
 You have wronged an innocent child and driven a 
 poor and worthy family to despair. You can repair 
 the evil you have caused. You wish to. You will! 
 I beg of you, do it out of respect for yourself and the 
 name you bear. Act like a brave man and a gentle- 
 man! Give this young girl whose only wrong has 
 been in loving you too much give the mother of your 
 child your name, your heart, your love. You will be 
 happy with her and through her. Go! I shall not 
 be jealous of your happiness, but only too glad to have 
 found my friend, my loyal Maurice once more, and to 
 be able still to love and admire him as heretofore." 
 
 Stirred by these warm words, and fatigued by the 
 discussion and struggle, the painter reached out his 
 hands to his friend, who pressed them in his. Sud- 
 denly he looked at Amedee and saw his eyes shining 
 with tears, and, partly from sorrow, but more from 
 want of will and from moral weakness, to end it he 
 exclaimed : 
 
 "You are right, after all. We will arrange this 
 matter without delay. What do you wish me to do?" 
 
 Ah, how Amedee bounded upon his neck! 
 
 "My good, my dear Maurice! Quickly dress your- 
 self. Let us go to those ladies and embrace and con- 
 sole that dear child. Ah! I knew very well that you 
 would understand me and that your heart was in the 
 right place. How happy the poor women will be! 
 Now then, my old friend, is it not good to do one's 
 duty?" 
 
 [i97]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfiE 
 
 Yes, Maurice found that it was good now; excited 
 and carried away by his friend, he hurried toward the 
 good action that was pointed out to him as he would 
 to a pleasure-party, and while putting on his coat to 
 go out, he said: 
 
 "After all, my mother can only approve, and since 
 she always does as I wish, she will end by adoring my 
 little Maria. It is all right; there is no way of resist- 
 ing you, Violette. You are a good and persuasive 
 Violette. Now, then, here I am, ready a handker- 
 chief my hat. Off we go!" 
 
 They went out and took a cab which carried them 
 toward Montmartre. The easy-going Maurice, re- 
 conciled to his future, sketched out his plan of life. 
 Once married, he would work seriously. At first, 
 immediately after the ceremony, he would leave with 
 his wife to pass the winter in the South, where she 
 could be confined. He knew a pretty place in the 
 Corniche, near Antibes, where he should not lose his 
 time, as he could bring back marine and landscape 
 sketches. But it would not be until the next winter 
 that he would entirely arrange his life. The painter 
 Laugeol was going to move; he would hire his apart- 
 ment "a superb studio, my dear fellow, with win- 
 dows looking out upon the Luxembourg." He could 
 see himself there now, working hard, having a suc- 
 cessful picture in the Salon, wearing a medal. He 
 chose even the hangings in the sleeping-rooms in ad- 
 vance. Then, upon beautiful days, how convenient 
 the garden would be for the child and the nurse. 
 
 Suddenly, in the midst of this chattering, he noticed 
 [198]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 Amedee' s sad face as he shrank into the back of the 
 carriage. 
 
 "Forgive me, my dear friend," said he, taking him 
 affectionately by the hand. "I forgot what you told 
 me just now. Ah! fate is ridiculous, when I think 
 that my happiness makes you feel badly." 
 
 The poet gave his friend a long, sad look. 
 
 "Be happy with Maria and make her happy, that 
 is all I ask for you both." 
 
 They had reached the foot of Montmartre, and the 
 carriage went slowly up the steep streets. 
 
 "My friend," said Amedee, "we shall arrive there 
 soon. You will go in alone to see these ladies, will 
 you not? Oh! do not be afraid. I know Louise and 
 the mother. They will not utter one word of reproach. 
 Your upright act will be appreciated by them as it 
 merits but you will excuse me from going with you, 
 do you see? It would be too painful for me." 
 
 "Yes, I understand, my poor Amedee. As it pleases 
 you. Now then, courage, you will be cured of it. 
 Everything is alleviated in time," replied Maurice, 
 who supposed everybody to have his fickle nature. 
 "I shall always remember the service that you have 
 rendered me, for I blush now as I think of it. Yes, 
 I was going to do a villainous act. Amedee, embrace 
 me." 
 
 They threw their arms about each other's neck, 
 and the carriage stopped. Once on the sidewalk, 
 Amedee noticed his friend's wry face as he saw the 
 home of the Gerards, a miserable, commonplace lodg- 
 ing-house, whose crackled plastered front made one
 
 FRANCOIS COPPtiE 
 
 think of the wrinkles on a poor man's face. On the 
 right and on the left of the entrance-door were two 
 shops, one a butcher's, the other a fruiterer's, exhaling 
 their fetid odors. But Amedee paid no attention to 
 the delicate Maurice's repugnance, saying: 
 
 "Do you see that little garden at the end of the 
 walk? It is there. Au revoir." 
 
 They separated with a last grasp of the hand. The 
 poet saw Maurice enter the dark alley, cross the nar- 
 row court and push the gate open into the garden, 
 and then disappear among the mass of verdure. How 
 many times Amedee had passed through there, moved 
 at the thought that he was going to see Maria; and 
 Maurice crossed this threshold for the first time in his 
 life to take her away. He wanted her! He had him- 
 self given his beloved to another! He had begged, 
 almost forced his rival, so to speak, to rob him of his 
 dearest hope! What sorrow! 
 
 Ame"dee gave his address to the driver and entered 
 the carriage again. A cold autumn rain had com- 
 menced to fall, and he was obliged to close the win- 
 dows. As he was jolted harshly through the streets 
 of Paris at a trot, the young poet, all of a shiver, saw 
 carriages streaming with water, bespattered pedes- 
 trians under their umbrellas, a heavy gloom fall from 
 the leaden sky; and Amedee, stupefied with grief, felt 
 a strange sensation of emptiness, as if somebody had 
 taken away his heart. 
 
 When he entered his room, the sight of his furniture, 
 his engravings, his books on their shelves, and his 
 table covered with its papers distressed him. His 
 
 [200]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 long evenings of study near this lamp, the long hours 
 of thought over some difficult work, the austere and 
 cheerless year that he had lived there, all had been 
 dedicated to Maria. It was in order to obtain her 
 some day, that he had labored so assiduously and 
 obstinately! And now the frivolous and guilty child 
 was doubtless weeping for joy in Maurice's arms, her 
 husband to-morrow? 
 
 Seated before his table, with his head buried in his 
 hands, Ame'dee sank into the depths of melancholy. 
 His life seemed such a failure, his fate so disastrous, 
 his future so gloomy, he felt so discouraged and lonely, 
 that for the moment the courage to live deserted him. 
 It seemed to him that an invisible hand touched him 
 upon the shoulder with compassion, and he had at 
 once a desire and a fear to turn around and look; 
 for he knew very well that this hand was that of the 
 dead. He did not fancy it under the hideous aspect 
 of a skeleton, but as a calm, sad, but yet very sweet 
 face which drew him against its breast with a mother's 
 tenderness, and made him and his grief sleep a sleep 
 without dreams, profound and eternal. Suddenly he 
 turned around and uttered a frightful cry. For a 
 moment he thought he saw, extended at his feet, and 
 still holding a razor in his hand, the dead body of his 
 unhappy father, a horrible wound in his throat, and 
 his thin gray hair in a pool of blood! 
 
 He was still trembling with this frightful halluci- 
 nation when somebody knocked at his door. It was 
 the concierge, who brought him two letters. 
 
 The first was stamped with the celebrated name 
 [201]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfeE 
 
 " Comedie Francaise, 1680. " The manager announced 
 in the most gracious terms that he had read with the 
 keenest pleasure his drama in verse, entitled L' Atelier, 
 and he hoped that the reading committee would accept 
 this work. 
 
 "Too late!" thought the young poet, as he tore open 
 the other envelope. 
 
 This second letter bore the address of a Paris notary, 
 and informed M. Amedee Violette that M. Isidore 
 Gaufre had died without leaving a will, and that, as 
 nephew of the defunct, he would receive a part of the 
 estate, still difficult to appraise, but which would not 
 be less than two hundred and fifty or three hundred 
 thousand francs. 
 
 Success and fortune! Everything came at once! 
 Ame*dee was at first overwhelmed with surprise; but 
 with all these unhoped-for favors of fortune, which 
 did not give him the power to repair his misfortune, 
 the noble poet deeply realized that riches and glory 
 were not equal to a great love or a beautiful dream, 
 and, completely upset by the irony of his fate, he 
 broke into a harsh burst of laughter. 
 
 [ 202 ]
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 REPARATION 
 
 late M. Violette was not mistaken 
 when he supposed M. Gaufre capable 
 of disinheriting his family in favor 
 of his servant-mistress, but Berenice 
 was wanting in patience. The rough 
 beard and cap of an irresistible ser- 
 geant-major were the ruin of the girl. 
 One Sunday, when M. Gaufre, as 
 usual, recited vespers at St. Sulpice, he found that for 
 the first time in his life he had forgotten his snuff-box. 
 The holy offices were unbearable to this hypocritical 
 person unless frequently broken by a good pinch of 
 snuff. Instead of waiting for the final benediction and 
 then going to take his usual walk, he left his church- 
 warden's stall and returned unexpectedly to the Rue 
 Servandoni, where he surprised Berenice in a loving 
 interview with her military friend. The old man's rage 
 was pitiful to behold. He turned the Normandy 
 beauty ignominiously out of doors, tore up the will 
 he had made in her favor, and died some weeks after 
 from indigestion, and left, in spite of himself, all his 
 fortune to his natural heirs. 
 
 AmedeVs drama had been accepted by the Come"die 
 [203]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfiE 
 
 Francaise, but was not to be brought out until spring. 
 The notary in charge of his uncle's estate had advanced 
 him a few thousand francs, and, feeling sad and not 
 having the courage to be present at the marriage of 
 Maurice and Maria, the poet wished at least to enjoy, 
 in a way, his new fortune and the independence that 
 it gave him; so he resigned his position and left for 
 a trip to Italy, in the hope of dissipating his grief. 
 
 Ah, never travel when the heart is troubled! You 
 sleep with the echo of a dear name in your thoughts, 
 and the half sleep of nights on a train is feverish and 
 full of nightmares. Amedee suffered tortures from it. 
 In the midst of the continual noise of the cars he 
 thought he could hear sad voices crying loudly the 
 name of a beloved lost one. Sometimes the tumult 
 would become quiet for a little; brakes, springs, wheels, 
 all parts of the furious cast-iron machine seemed to 
 him tired of howling the deafening rhythmical gallop, 
 and the vigorously rocked traveller could distinguish 
 in the diminished uproar a strain of music, at first 
 confused like a groan, then more distinct, but always 
 the same cruel, haunting monotone the fragment of 
 a song that Maria once sang when they were both 
 children. Suddenly a mournful and prolonged whistle 
 would resound through the night. The express rushed 
 madly into a tunnel. Under the sonorous roof, the 
 frightful concert redoubled, exasperating him among 
 all these metallic clamors; but Amedee still heard a 
 distant sound like that of a blacksmith's hammer, and 
 each heavy blow made his heart bound painfully. 
 
 Ah! never travel, and above all, never travel alone, 
 [204]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 if your heart is sad ! How hostile and inhospitable the 
 first sensation is that one feels then when entering an 
 unknown city! Amedee was obliged to submit to the 
 tiresome delay of looking after his baggage in a com- 
 monplace station; the hasty packing into an omnibus 
 of tired-out travellers, darting glances of bad humor 
 and suspicion; to the reception upon the hotel steps 
 by the inevitable Swiss porter with his gold-banded 
 cap, murdering all the European languages, greeting 
 all the newcomers, and getting mixed in his "Yes, 
 sir," " Ja, wohl," and "Si, signor." Amedee was an 
 inexperienced tourist, who did not drag along with 
 him a dozen trunks, and had not a rich and indolent 
 air; so he was quickly despatched by the Swiss poly- 
 glot into a fourth-story room, which looked out into 
 an open well, and was so gloomy that while he washed 
 his hands he was afraid of falling ill and dying there 
 without help. A notice written in four languages 
 hung upon the wall, and, to add to his cheerfulness, 
 it advised him to leave all his valuables at the office 
 of the hotel as if he had penetrated a forest infested 
 with brigands. The rigid writing warned him still 
 further that they looked upon him as a probable 
 sharper, and that his bill would be presented every 
 five days. 
 
 The tiresome life of railroads and table-d'hotes be- 
 gan for him. 
 
 He would be dragged about from city to city, like 
 a bag of wheat or a cask of wine. He would dwell in 
 pretentious and monumental hotels, where he would 
 be numbered like a convict; he would meet the same 
 
 [205]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 carnivorous English family, with whom he might have 
 made a tour of the world without exchanging one 
 word; swallowing every day the tasteless soup, old 
 fish, tough vegetables, and insipid wine which have 
 an international reputation, so to speak. But above 
 all, he was to have the horror, every evening upon 
 going to his room, of passing through those uniform 
 and desolate corridors, faintly lighted by gas, where 
 before each door are pairs of cosmopolitan shoes 
 heavy alpine shoes, filthy German boots, the conjugal 
 boots of my lord and my lady, which make one think, 
 by their size, of the troglodyte giants awaiting, with a 
 fatigued air, their morning polish. 
 
 The imprudent Amedee was destined to all sorts of 
 weariness, all sorts of deceptions, and all the home- 
 sickness of a solitary traveller. At the sight of the 
 famous monuments and celebrated sites, which have 
 become in some way looked upon as models for painters 
 and material for literary development, Amedee felt 
 that sensation of "already seen" which paralyzes the 
 faculty of admiration. Dare we say it? The dome 
 in Milan, that enormous quiver of white marble ar- 
 rows, did not move him. He was indifferent to the 
 sublime medley of bronze in the Baptistery in Florence; 
 and the leaning tower at Pisa produced simply the 
 effect of mystification. He walked miles through the 
 museums and silent galleries, satiated with art and 
 glutted with masterpieces. He was disgusted to find 
 that he could not tolerate a dozen "Adorations of the 
 Shepherds," or fourteen "Descents from the Cross," 
 consecutively, even if they were signed with the most 
 
 [206]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 glorious names. The scenes of suffering and martyr- 
 dom, so many times repeated, were particularly dis- 
 tasteful to him; and he took a still greater dislike 
 even to a certain monk, always represented on his 
 knees in prayer with an axe sticking in his tonsure, 
 than to the everlasting St. Sebastian pierced with 
 arrows. His deadened and depraved attention dis- 
 cerned only the disagreeable and ugly side of a work 
 of art. In the adorable artless originals he could see 
 only childish and barbarous drawing, and he thought 
 the old colorists' yolk-of-an-egg tone monotonous. 
 
 He wished to spur his sensations, to see something 
 extraordinary. He travelled toward Venice, the noise- 
 less city, the city without birds or verdure, toward 
 that silent country of sky, marble, and water; but 
 once there, the reality seemed inferior to his dream. 
 He had not that shock of surprise and enthusiasm in 
 the presence of St. Mark's and the Doges' palace 
 which he had hoped for. He had read too many de- 
 scriptions of all these wonders; seen too many more or 
 less faithful pictures, and in his disenchantment he 
 recalled a lamp-shade which once, in his own home, 
 had excited his childish imagination an ugly lamp- 
 shade of blue pasteboard upon which was printed a 
 nocturnal ftte, the illuminations upon the ducal palace 
 being represented by a row of pin-pricks. 
 
 Once more I repeat it, never travel alone, and above 
 all, never go to Venice alone and without love! For 
 young married people in their honeymoon, or a pair 
 of lovers, the gondola is a floating boudoir, a nest upon 
 the waters like a kingfisher's. But for one who is sad, 
 
 [207]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfiE 
 
 and who stretches himself upon the sombre cushions 
 of the bark, the gondola is a tomb. 
 
 Toward the last of January, Amedee suddenly re- 
 turned to Paris. He would not be obliged to see 
 Maurice or his young bride at once. They had been 
 married one month and would remain in the South 
 until the end of winter. He was recalled by the re- 
 hearsals of his drama. The notary who had charge 
 of his affairs gave him twelve thousand pounds' in- 
 come, a large competency, which enabled him to 
 work for the pure and disinterested love of art, and 
 without concessions to common people. The young 
 poet furnished an elegant apartment in an old and 
 beautiful house on the Quai d'Orsay, and sought out 
 some of his old comrades among others Paul Sillery, 
 who now held a distinguished place in journalism 
 and reappeared a little in society, becoming very 
 quickly reconciled with life. 
 
 His first call was upon Madame Roger. He was 
 very glad to see Maurice's mother; she was a little 
 sad, but indulgent to Maurice, and resigned to her 
 son's marriage, because she felt satisfied that he had 
 acted like a man of honor. He also went at once to 
 Montmartre to embrace Louise and Madame Gerard, 
 who received him with great demonstrations. They 
 were not so much embarrassed in money matters, 
 for Maurice was very generous and had aided his 
 wife's family. Louise gave lessons now for a proper 
 remuneration, and Madame Ge"rard was able to re- 
 fuse, with tears of gratitude, the poet's offer of assist- 
 ance, who filially opened his purse to her. He dined 
 
 [208]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 as usual with his old friends, and they had tact enough 
 not to say too much about the newly married ones ; but 
 there was one empty place at the table. He was once 
 more seized with thoughts of the absent, and returned 
 to his room that evening with an attack of the blues. 
 
 The rehearsal of his piece, which had just begun at 
 the Comedie Francaise, the long sittings at the theatre, 
 and the changes to be made from day to day, were a 
 useful and powerful distraction for Ame"de"e Violette's 
 grief. U Atelier, when played the first week in April, 
 did not obtain more than a respectful greeting from 
 the public; it was an indifferent success. This vulgar 
 society, these simple, plain, sentiments, the sweetheart 
 in a calico gown, the respectable old man in short 
 frock and overalls, the sharp lines where here and 
 there boldly rang out a slang word of the faubourg; 
 above all, the scene representing a mill in full activity, 
 with its grumbling workmen, its machines in motion, 
 even the continual puffing of steam, all displeased the 
 worldly people and shocked them. This was too 
 abrupt a change from luxurious drawing-rooms, titled 
 persons, aristocratic adulteresses, and declarations 
 of love murmured to the heroine in full toilette by a 
 lover leaning his elbow upon the piano, with all the 
 airs and graces of a first-class dandy. However, Joc- 
 quelet, in the old artisan's role, was emphatic and 
 exaggerated, and an ugly and commonplace debutante 
 was an utter failure. The criticisms, generally rou- 
 tine in character, were not gracious, and the least 
 surly ones condemned Ame'de'e's attempt, qualifying 
 it as an honorable effort. There were some slashes; 
 14 [ 209 ]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 one "long-haired" fellow from the Cafe de Seville 
 failed in his criticism the very one who once wrote 
 a description of the violation of a tomb to crush the 
 author of U Atelier in an ultra-classical article, where- 
 in he protested against realism and called to witness 
 all the silent, sculptured authors in the hall. 
 
 It was a singular thing, but Amedee was easily con- 
 soled over his failure. He did not have the necessary 
 qualities to succeed in the theatrical line? Very well, 
 he would give it up, that was all! It was not such 
 a great misfortune, upon the whole, to abandon the 
 most difficult art of all, but not the first; which did 
 not allow a poet to act his own free liking. Amedee 
 began to compose verses for himself for his own grati- 
 fication; to become intoxicated with his own rhymes 
 and fancies; to gather with a sad pleasure the melan- 
 choly flowers that his trouble had caused to blossom 
 in his heart. 
 
 Meanwhile summer arrived, and Maurice returned 
 to Paris with his wife and a little boy, born at Nice, 
 and Amedee must go to see them, although he knew 
 in advance that the visit would make him unhappy. 
 
 The amateur painter was handsomer than ever. 
 He was alone in his studio, wearing his same red 
 jacket. He had decorated and even crammed the 
 room full of luxurious and amusing knickknacks. 
 The careless young man received his friend as if noth- 
 ing had happened between them, and after their greet- 
 ings and inquiries as to old friends, and the events 
 that had happened since their last meeting, they lighted 
 their cigarettes. 
 
 [210]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 "Well, what have you done?" asked the poet. 
 "You had great projects of work. Have you carried 
 out your plans? Have you many sketches to show 
 me?" 
 
 "Upon my word, no! Almost nothing. Do you 
 know, when I was there I abandoned myself to liv- 
 ing; I played the lizard in the sun. Happiness is 
 very engrossing, and I have been foolishly happy." 
 
 Then placing his hand upon his friend's, who sat 
 near him, he added: 
 
 "But I owe that happiness to you, my good Ame- 
 
 Maurice said this carelessly, in order to satisfy his 
 conscience. Did he remember, did he even suspect 
 how unhappy the poet had been, and was now, on 
 account of this happiness? A bell rang. 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed the master of the house, joyfully. 
 "It is Maria returning with the baby from a walk in 
 the gardens. This little citizen will be six weeks old 
 to-morrow, and you must see what a handsome little 
 fellow he is already. " 
 
 Amede'e felt stifled with emotion. He was about to 
 see her again! To see her as a wife and a mother 
 was quite different, of course. 
 
 She appeared, raising the portiere with one hand, 
 while behind her appeared the white bonnet and rus- 
 tic face of the nurse. No! she was not changed, but 
 maternity, love, and a rich and easy life had expanded 
 her beauty. She was dressed in a fresh and charm- 
 ing toilette. She blushed when she first recognized 
 Amedee; and he felt with sadness that his presence 
 
 [211]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfiE 
 
 could only awaken unpleasant recollections in the 
 young woman's mind. 
 
 "Kiss each other, like old acquaintances," said the 
 painter, laughing, with the air of a man who is loved 
 and sure of himself. 
 
 But Amede'e contented himself with kissing the 
 tips of her glove, and the glance with which Maria 
 thanked him for this reserve was one more torture 
 for him to endure. She was grateful to him and gave 
 him a kind smile. 
 
 "My mother and my sister," said she, graciously, 
 "often have the pleasure of a visit from you, Monsieur 
 Amedee. I hope that you will not make us jealous, 
 but come often to see Maurice and me." 
 
 "Maurice and me!" How soft and tender her 
 voice and eyes became as she said these simple words, 
 "Maurice and me!" Ah, were they not one! How 
 she loved him! How she loved him! 
 
 Then Amedee must admire the baby, who was now 
 awake in his nurse's arms, aroused by his father's 
 noisy gayety. The child opened his blue eyes, as se- 
 rious as those of an old man's, and peeped out from 
 the depth of lace, feebly squeezing the finger that the 
 poet extended to him. 
 
 "What do you call him?" asked Amedee, troubled 
 to find anything to say. 
 
 "Maurice, after his father," quickly responded 
 Maria, who also put a mint of love into these words. 
 
 Amede'e could endure no more. He made some 
 pretext for withdrawing and went away, promising 
 that he would see them again soon. 
 
 [212]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 "I shall not go there very often!" he said to him- 
 self, as he descended the steps, furious with himself 
 that he was obliged to hold back a sob. 
 
 He went there, however, and always suffered from 
 it. He was the one who had made this marriage; 
 he ought to rejoice that Maurice, softened by conjugal 
 life and paternity, did not return to his recklessness 
 of former days; but, on the contrary, the sight of 
 this household, Maria's happy looks, the allusions that 
 she sometimes made of gratitude to Amedee; above 
 all Maurice's domineering way in his home, his way 
 of speaking to his wife like an indulgent master to a 
 slave delighted to obey, all displeased and unmanned 
 him. He always left Maurice's displeased with him- 
 self, and irritated with the bad sentiments that he had 
 in his heart; ashamed of loving another's wife, the 
 wife of his old comrade; and keeping up all the same 
 his friendship for Maurice, whom he was never able 
 to see without a feeling of envy and secret bitterness. 
 
 He managed to lengthen the distance between his 
 visits to the young pair, and to put another interest 
 into his life. He was now a man of leisure, and his 
 fortune allowed him to work when he liked and felt 
 inspired. He returned' to society and traversed ^the 
 midst of miscellaneous parlors, greenrooms, and Bo- 
 hemian society. He loitered about these places a 
 great deal and lost his time, was interested by all the 
 women, duped by his tender imagination; always ex T 
 pending too much sensibility in his fancies; taking his 
 desires for love, and devoting himself to women. 
 
 The first of his loves was a beautiful Madame, whom 
 [213]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 he met in the Countess Fontaine's parlors. She was 
 provided with a very old husband belonging to the 
 political and financial world; a servant of several 
 regimes, who having on many occasions feathered 
 his own nest, made false statements of accounts, and 
 betrayed his vows, his name could not be spoken in 
 public assemblies without being preceded by the epi- 
 thet of honorable. A man so seriously occupied in 
 saving the Capitol, that is to say, in courageously sus- 
 taining the stronger, approving the majorities in all 
 of their mean actions and thus increasing his own 
 ground, sinecures, tips, stocks, and various other ad- 
 vantages, necessarily neglected his charming wife, and 
 took very little notice of the ridicule that she inflicted 
 upon him often, and to which he seemed predestined. 
 
 The fair lady with a wax doll's beauty, not 
 very young, confining herself to George Sand in lit- 
 erature, making three toilettes a day, and having a 
 large account at the dentist's singled out the young 
 poet with a romantic head, and rapidly traversed with 
 him the whole route through the country of Love. 
 Thanks to modern progress, the voyage is now made 
 by a through train. After passing the smaller stations, 
 "blushing behind the fan," a "significant pressure of 
 the hand," "appointment in a museum," etc., and 
 halting at a station of very little importance called 
 "scruples" (ten minutes' pause), Amedee reached the 
 .terminus of the line and was the most enviable of 
 mortals. He became Madame's lapdog, the essential 
 ornament in her drawing-room, figured at all the din- 
 ners, balls, and routs where she appeared, stifled his 
 
 [214]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 yawns at the back of her box at the Opera, and re- 
 ceived the confidential mission of going to hunt for 
 sweetmeats and chocolates in the foyer. His recom- 
 pense consisted in metaphysical conversations and sen- 
 timental seances, in which he was not long in discover- 
 ing that his heart was blinded by his emotions. At 
 the end of a few months of this commonplace happi- 
 ness, the rupture took place without any regrets on 
 either side, and Amedee returned, without a pang, 
 the love-tokens he had received, namely: a photograph, 
 a package of letters in imitation of fashionable ro- 
 mances, written in long, angular handwriting, after 
 the English style, upon very chic paper; and, we must 
 not forget, a white glove which was a little yellowed 
 from confinement in the casket, like the beautiful 
 Madame herself. 
 
 A tall girl, with a body like a goddess, who earned 
 three hundred francs a month by showing her cos- 
 tumes on the Vaudeville stage, and who gave one 
 louis a day to her hair-dresser, gave Amedee a new 
 experience in love, more expensive, but much more 
 amusing than the first. There were no more psycho- 
 logical subtleties or hazy consciences; but she had 
 fine, strong limbs and the majestic carriage of a car- 
 dinal's mistress going through the Rue de Constance 
 in heavy brocade garments, to see Jean Huss burned; 
 and her voluptuous smile showed teeth made to devour 
 patrimonies. Unfortunately, Mademoiselle Rose de 
 Juin's that was the young lady's theatrical name- 
 charming head was full of the foolishness and vanity 
 of a poor actress. Her attacks of rage when she
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 read an article in the journals which cut her up, her 
 nervous attacks and torrents of tears when they gave 
 her parts with only fifteen lines in a new piece, had 
 begun to annoy Amede'e, when chance gave him a 
 new rival in the person of Gradoux, an actor in the 
 Variete"s, the ugly clown whose chronic cold in the 
 head and ugly face seemed for twenty years so de- 
 licious to the most refined public in the world. Re- 
 lieved of a large number of bank-notes, Violette dis- 
 creetly retired. 
 
 He next carried on a commonplace romance with 
 a pretty little girl whose acquaintance he made one 
 evening at a public jete. Louison was twenty years 
 old, and earned her living at a famous florist's, and 
 was as pink and fresh as an almond-bush in April. 
 She had had only two lovers, gay fellows an art 
 student first then a clerk in a novelty store, who had 
 given her the not very aristocratic taste for boating. 
 It was on the Marne, seated near Louison in a boat 
 moored to the willows on the He d'Amour, that Ame- 
 dee obtained his first kiss between two stanzas of a 
 boating song, and this pretty creature, who never 
 came to see him without bringing him a bouquet, 
 charmed the poet. He remembered Beranger's charm- 
 ing verses, "I am of the people as well, my love!" 
 felt that he loved, and was softened. In reality, he 
 had turned this naive head. Louison became dreamy, 
 asked for a lock of his hair, which she always carried 
 with her in her porte-monnaie, went to get her fortune 
 told to know whether the dark-complexioned young 
 man, the knave of clubs, would be faithful to her for 
 
 [216]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 a long time. Amedee trusted this simple heart for 
 some time, but at length he became tired of her vul- 
 garities. She was really too talkative, not minding 
 her &'s and punctuating her discourse with "for cer- 
 tain" and "listen to me, then," calling Amedee "my 
 little man," and eating vulgar dishes. One day she 
 offered to kiss him, with a breath that smelled of gar- 
 lic. She was the one who left him, from feminine 
 pride, feeling that he no longer loved her, and he al- 
 most regretted her. 
 
 Thus his life passed ; he worked a little and dreamed 
 much. He went as rarely as possible to Maurice 
 Roger's house. Maurice had decidedly turned out to be 
 a good husband, and was fond of his home and playing 
 with his little boy. Every time that Amedee saw 
 Maria it meant several days of discouragement, sorrow, 
 and impossibility of work. 
 
 "Well! well!" he would murmur, throwing down 
 his pen, when the young woman's face would rise 
 between his thoughts and his page; "I am incurable; 
 I shall always love her." 
 
 In the summer of 1870 Amede'e, being tired of Paris, 
 thought of a new trip, and he was upon the point of 
 going again, unfortunate fellow! to see the Swiss por- 
 ters who speak all the languages in the world, and to 
 view the melancholy boots in the hotel corridors, when 
 the war broke out. The poet's passage through the 
 midst of the revolutionary "beards" in the Cafe de 
 Seville, and the parliamentary cravats in the Countess's 
 drawing-room, had disgusted him forever with pol- 
 itics. He also was very suspicious of the Liberal min- 
 
 [217]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 isters and all the different phases of the malady that 
 was destroying the Second Empire. But Amedee 
 was a good Frenchman. The assaults upon the fron- 
 tiers, and the first battles lost, made a burning blush 
 suffuse his face at the insult. When Paris was threat- 
 ened he asked for arms, like the others, and although 
 he had not a military spirit, he swore to do his duty, 
 and his entire duty, too. One beautiful September 
 morning he saw Trochu's gilded cap passing among 
 the bayonets; four hundred thousand Parisians were 
 there, like himself, full of good-will, who had taken 
 up their guns with the resolve to die steadfast. Ah, 
 the misery of defeat! All these brave men for five 
 months could only fidget about the place and eat car- 
 cases. May the good God forgive the timid and the 
 prattler! Alas! Poor old France! After so much 
 glory! Poor France of Jeanne d'Arc and of Napoleon! 
 
 [218]
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 IN TIME OF WAR 
 
 [E great siege lasted nearly three 
 months. Upon the thirtieth of No- 
 vember they had fought a battle upon 
 the banks of the Marne, then for 
 twenty -four hours the fight had 
 seemed to slacken, and there was a 
 heavy snow-storm; but they main- 
 tained that the second of December 
 would be decisive. That morning the battalion of the 
 National Guard, of which Amedee Violette was one, 
 went out for the first time, with the order simply to 
 hold themselves in reserve in the third rank, by the 
 fort's cannons, upon a hideous plain at the east of 
 Paris. 
 
 Truly this National Guard did not make a bad 
 appearance. They were a trifle awkward, perhaps, in 
 their dark-blue hooded cloaks, with their tin-plate but- 
 tons, and armed with breech-loading rifles, and en- 
 cumbered with canteens, basins, and pouches, all hav- 
 ing an unprepared and too-new look. They all came 
 from the best parts of the city, with accelerated steps 
 and a loud beating of drums, and headed, if you 
 please, by their major on horseback, a trussmaker, 
 
 [219]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfiE 
 
 who had formerly been quartermaster of the third 
 hussars. Certainly they only asked for service; it 
 was not their fault, after all, if one had not confidence 
 in them, and if they were not sent to the front as soon 
 as they reached the fortifications. While crossing the 
 drawbridge they had sung the Marseillaise like men 
 ready to be shot down. What spoiled their martial 
 appearance, perhaps, were their strong hunting-boots, 
 their leather leggings, knit gloves, and long gaiters; 
 lastly, that comfortable air of people who have brought 
 with them a few dainties, such as a little bread with 
 something eatable between, some tablets of chocolate, 
 tobacco, and a phial filled with old rum. They had 
 not gone two kilometres outside the ramparts, and 
 were near the fort, where for the time being the ar- 
 tillery was silent, when a staff officer who was await- 
 ing them upon an old hack of a horse, merely skin and 
 bones, stopped them by a gesture of the hand, and 
 said sharply to their major to take position on the left 
 of the road, in an open field. They then stacked 
 their arms there and broke ranks, and rested until 
 further orders. 
 
 What a dismal place! Under a canopy of dull 
 clouds, the earth bare with half-melted snow, with the 
 low fort rising up before them as if in an attitude of 
 defence, here and there groups of ruined houses, a 
 mill whose tall chimney and walls had been half de- 
 stroyed by shells, but where one still read, in large 
 black letters, these words, "Soap-maker to the No- 
 bility;" and through this desolated country was a long 
 and muddy road which led over to where the battle- 
 
 [ 220 ]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 field lay, and in the midst of which, presenting a sym- 
 bol of death, lay the dead body of a horse. 
 
 In front of the National Guard, on the other side of 
 the road, a battalion, which had been strongly put to 
 the test the night before, were cooking. They had 
 retreated as far as this to rest a little, and had spent 
 all that night without shelter under the falling snow. 
 Exhausted, bespattered, in rags, they were dolefully 
 crouched around their meagre green-wood fires; the 
 poor creatures were to be pitied. Underneath their 
 misshapen caps they all showed yellow, wrinkled, and 
 unshaven faces. The bitter, cold wind that swept 
 over the plain made their thin shoulders, stooping 
 from fatigue, shiver, and their shoulder-blades pro- 
 truded under their faded capes. Some of them were 
 wounded, too slightly to be sent away in the ambu- 
 lance, and wore about their wrists and foreheads bands 
 of bloody linen. When an officer passed with his 
 head bent and a humiliated air, nobody saluted him. 
 These men had suffered too much, and one could di- 
 vine an angry and insolent despair in their gloomy 
 looks, ready to burst out and tell of their injuries. 
 They would have disgusted one if they had not excited 
 one's pity. Alas, they were vanquished ! 
 
 The Parisians were eager for news as to recent mil- 
 itary operations, for they had only read in the morning 
 papers as they always did during this frightful siege 
 enigmatical despatches and bulletins purposely bris- 
 tling with strategic expressions not comprehensible 
 to the outsider. But all, or nearly all, had kept their 
 patriotic hopes intact, or, to speak more plainly, their 
 
 [221]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE 
 
 blind fanatical patriotism, and were certain against 
 all reason of a definite victory; they walked along 
 the road in little groups, and drew near the red pan- 
 taloons to talk a little. 
 
 "Well, it was a pretty hot affair on the thirtieth, 
 wasn't it? Is it true that you had command of the 
 Marne? You know what they say in Paris, my chil- 
 dren? That Trochu knows something new, that he 
 is going to make his way through the Prussian lines 
 and join hands with the helping armies in a word 
 that we are going to strike the last blow.'* 
 
 At the sight of these spectres of soldiers, these un- 
 happy men broken down with hunger and fatigue, 
 the genteel National Guards, warmly clad and wrapped 
 up for the winter, commenced to utter foolish speeches 
 and big hopes which had been their daily food for 
 several months: "Break the iron circle;" "not one 
 inch, not a stone;" "war to the knife;" "one grand 
 effort," etc. But the very best talkers were speedily 
 discouraged by the shrugging of shoulders and ugly 
 glances of the soldiers, that were like those of a snarl- 
 ing cur. 
 
 Meanwhile, a superb sergeant-major of the National 
 Guard, newly equipped, a big, full-blooded fellow, 
 with a red beard, the husband of a fashionable dress- 
 maker, who every evening at the beer-house, after his 
 sixth glass of beer would show, with matches, an in- 
 fallible plan for blocking Paris and crushing the Prus- 
 sian army like pepper, and was foolish enough to 
 insist upon it. 
 
 "Now then, you, my good fellow," said he, address- 
 [ 222 ]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 ing an insignificant corporal just about to eat his stew, 
 as if he were questioning an old tactician or a man 
 skilled like Turenne or Davoust; "do you see? you 
 hit it in this affair of day before yesterday. Give us 
 your opinion. Are the positions occupied by Ducrot 
 as strong as they pretend? Is it victory for to-day?" 
 
 The corporal turned around suddenly; with a face 
 the color of boxwood, and his blue eyes shining with 
 rage and defiance, he cried in a hoarse voice: 
 
 "Go and see for yourselves, you stay-at-homes!" 
 
 Saddened and heart-broken at the demoralization 
 of the soldiers, the National Guards withdrew. 
 
 "Behold the army which the Empire has left us!" 
 said the dressmaker's husband, who was a fool. 
 
 Upon the road leading from Paris, pressing toward 
 the cannon's mouth which was commencing to grum- 
 ble again in the distance, a battalion of militia arrived, 
 a disorderly troop. They were poor fellows from the 
 departments in the west, all young, wearing in their 
 caps the Brittany coat-of-arms, and whom suffering 
 and privation had not yet entirely deprived of their 
 good country complexions. They were less worn out 
 than the other unfortunate fellows whose turn came 
 too often, and did not feel the cold under their sheep- 
 skins, and still respected their officers, whom they 
 knew personally, and were assured in case of accident 
 of absolution given by one of their priests, who 
 marched in the rear file of the first company, with his 
 cassock tucked up and his Roman hat over his eyes. 
 These country fellows walked briskly, a little helter- 
 skelter, like their ancestors in the time of Stofflet and 
 
 [223]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 M. de la Rochejaquelin, but with a firm step and their 
 muskets well placed upon their shoulders, by Ste. 
 Anne! They looked like soldiers in earnest. 
 
 When they passed by the National Guard, the big 
 blond waved his cap in the air, furiously shouting at 
 the top of his lungs: 
 
 "Long live the Republic!" 
 
 But once more the fanatical patriot's enthusiasm fell 
 flat. The Bretons were marching into danger partly 
 from desire, but more from duty and discipline. At 
 the very first shot these simple-minded creatures reach 
 the supreme wisdom of loving one's country and los- 
 ing one's life for it, if necessary, without interesting 
 themselves in the varied mystifications one calls gov- 
 ernment. Four or five of the men, more or less as- 
 tonished at the cry which greeted them, turned their 
 placid, countrified faces toward the National Guard, 
 and the battalion passed by. 
 
 The dressmaker's husband he did nothing at his 
 trade, for his wife adored him, and he spent at 
 cafes all the money which she gave him was ex- 
 tremely scandalized. During this time Amede'e Vio- 
 lette was dreamily walking up and down before the 
 stacks of guns. His warlike ardor of the first few 
 days had dampened. He had seen and heard too 
 many foolish things said and done since the be- 
 ginning of this horrible siege ; had taken part too many 
 times in one of the most wretched spectacles in which 
 a people can show vanity in adversity. He was heart- 
 broken to see his dear compatriots, his dear Parisians, 
 redouble their boasting after each defeat and take their 
 
 [224]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 levity for heroism. If he admired the resignation of 
 the poor women standing in line before the door of a 
 butcher's shop, he was every day more sadly tormented 
 by the bragging of his comrades, who thought them- 
 selves heroes when playing a game of corks. The 
 official placards, the trash in the journals, inspired him 
 with immense disgust, for they had never lied so boldly 
 or flattered the people with so much low meanness. 
 It was with a despairing heart and the certitude of 
 final disaster that Amede"e, needing a little sleep after 
 the fatigue, wandered through Paris's obscure streets, 
 barely lighted here and there by petroleum lamps, 
 under the dark, opaque winter sky, where the echoes 
 of the distant cannonading unceasingly growled like 
 the barking of monstrous dogs. 
 
 What solitude! The poet had not one friend, not 
 one comrade to whom he could confide his patriotic 
 sorrows. Paul Sillery was serving in the army of the 
 Loire. Arthur Papillon, who had shown such bois- 
 terous enthusiasm on the fourth of September, had 
 been nominated prefet in a Pyrenean department, and 
 having looked over his previous studies, the former 
 laureate of the university examinations spent much 
 of his time therein, far from the firing, in making great 
 speeches and haranguing from the top of the balconies, 
 in which speeches the three hundred heroes of antiq- 
 uity in a certain mountain-pass were a great deal too 
 often mentioned. Ame'de'e sometimes went to see Joc- 
 quelet in the theatres, where they gave benefit per- 
 formances for the field hospitals or to contribute to 
 the molding of a new cannon. The actor, wearing a 
 i5 [225]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 short uniform and booted to the thighs, would recite 
 with enormous success poems of the times in which 
 enthusiasm and fine sentiments took the place of art 
 and common sense. What can one say to a triumphant 
 actor who takes himself for a second Tyrtee, and 
 who after a second recall is convinced that he is going 
 to save the country, and that Bismarck and old Will- 
 iam had better look after their laurels. 
 
 As to Maurice Roger, at the beginning of the cam- 
 paign he sent his mother, wife, and child into the 
 country, and, wearing the double golden stripe of a 
 lieutenant upon his militia jacket, he was now at the 
 outposts near his father's old friend, Colonel Lantz. 
 
 Owing to a scarcity of officers, they had fished up 
 the old Colonel from the depths of his engineer's office, 
 and had torn him away from his squares and com- 
 passes. Poor old fellow! His souvenirs of activity 
 went as far back as the Crimea and Sebastopol. Since 
 that time he had not even seen a pickaxe glisten in 
 the sun, and, behold, they asked this worthy man to 
 return to the trench, and to powder his despatches with 
 earth ploughed up by bombs, like Junot at Toulon in 
 the fearless battery. 
 
 Well, he did not say "No," and after kissing his 
 three portionless daughters on the forehead, he took 
 his old uniform, half -eaten up by moths, from a drawer, 
 shook the grains of pepper and camphor from it, and, 
 with his slow, red-tapist step, went to make his exca- 
 vators work as far as possible from the walls and close 
 by the Prussians. I can tell you, the men of the aux- 
 iliary engineers and the gentlemen with the American 
 
 [226]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 caps had not joked for some time over his African 
 cape or his superannuated cap, which seemed to date 
 from Pere Bugeaud. One day, when a German 
 bomb burst among them, and they all fell to the 
 ground excepting Colonel Lantz, who had not flinched. 
 He tranquilly settled his glasses upon his nose and 
 wiped off his splashed beard as coolly as he had, not 
 long since, cleaned his india-ink brushes. Bless me! 
 it gave you a lesson, gentlemen snobs, to sustain the 
 honor of the special army, and taught you to respect 
 the black velvet plastron and double red bands on 
 the trousers. In spite of his appearance of absence 
 of mind and deafness, the Colonel had just before 
 heard murmured around him the words "old Lantz," 
 and "old dolphin." Very well, gentlemen officers, 
 you know now that the old army was composed of 
 good material! 
 
 Maurice Roger was ordered from his battalion to 
 Colonel Lantz, and did his duty like a true soldier's 
 son, following his chief into the most perilous posi- 
 tions, and he no longer lowered his head or bent his 
 shoulders at the whistling of a bomb. It was genuine 
 military blood that flowed in his veins, and he did not 
 fear death; but life in the open air, absence from his 
 wife, the state of excitement produced by the war, 
 and this eagerness for pleasure common to all those 
 who risk their lives, had suddenly awakened his li- 
 centious temperament. When his service allowed him 
 to do so, he would go into Paris and spend twenty- 
 four hours there, profiting by it to have a champagne 
 dinner at Brebant's or Voisin's, in company with some 
 
 [227]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfiE 
 
 beautiful girl, and to eat the luxurious dishes of that 
 time, such as beans, Gruyere cheese, and the great 
 rarity which had been secretly raised for three months 
 on the fifth floor, a leg of mutton. 
 
 One evening Amede'e Violette was belated upon the 
 boulevards, and saw coming out of a restaurant Mau- 
 rice in full uniform, with one of the pretty comedi- 
 nenes from the Varietes leaning upon his arm. This 
 meeting gave Amedee one heart-ache the more. It was 
 for such a husband as this, then, that Mark, buried 
 in some country place, was probably at this very time 
 overwhelmed with fears about his safety. It was for 
 this incorrigible rake that she had disdained her friend 
 from childhood, and scorned the most delicate, faith- 
 ful, and tender of lovers. 
 
 Finally, to kill time and to flee from solitude, Ame*- 
 dee went to the Caf de Seville, but he only found a 
 small group of his former acquaintances there. No 
 more literary men, or almost none. The "long- 
 haired" ones had to-day the "regulation cut," and 
 wore divers headgears, for the most of the scattered 
 poets carried cartridge-boxes and guns; but some of 
 the political "beards" had not renounced their old 
 customs; the war and the fall of the Empire had been 
 a triumph for them, and the fourth of September had 
 opened every career for them. Twenty of these 
 "beards" had been provided with prefectures; at least 
 all, or nearly all, of them occupied public positions. 
 There was one in the Government of National De- 
 fence, and three or four others, chosen from among 
 the most rabid ones, were members of the Committee 
 
 [228]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 on Barricades; for, improbable as the thing may 
 seem to-day, this commission existed and performed 
 its duties, a commission according to all rules, with 
 an organized office, a large china inkstand, stamped 
 paper, verbal reports read and voted upon at the be- 
 ginning of each meeting; and, around a table covered 
 with green cloth, these professional instigators of the 
 Cafe de Seville, these teachers of insurrection, gener- 
 ously gave the country the benefit of the practical ex- 
 perience that they had acquired in practising with the 
 game of dominoes. 
 
 The "beards" remaining in Paris were busied with 
 employments more or less considerable in the govern- 
 ment, but did not do very much, the offices in which 
 they worked for France's salvation usually closed at 
 four o'clock, and they went as usual to take their ap- 
 petizers at the Cafe de Seville. It was there that 
 Ame'dee met them again, and mixed anew in their 
 conversations, which now dwelt exclusively upon pa- 
 triotic and military subjects. These "beards" who 
 would none of them have been able to command "by 
 the right flank" a platoon of artillery, had all at once 
 been endowed by some magical power with the genius 
 of strategy. Every evening, from five to seven, they 
 fought a decisive battle upon each marble table, sus- 
 tained by the artillery of the iced decanter which rep- 
 resented Mount Valerien, a glass of bitters, that is to 
 say, Vinoy's brigade, feigned to attack a saucer rep- 
 resenting the Montretout batteries; while the regular 
 army and National Guard, symbolized by a glass of 
 vermouth and absinthe, were coming in solid masses 
 
 [229]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfiE 
 
 from the south, and marching straight into the heart 
 of the enemy, the match-box. 
 
 There were scheming men among these "beards," 
 and particularly terrible inventors, who all had an 
 infallible way of destroying at a blow the Prussian 
 army, and who accused General Trochu of treason, 
 and of refusing their offers, giving as a reason the 
 old prejudices of military laws among nations. One 
 of these visionary people had formerly been physician 
 to a somnambulist, and took from his pocket with 
 his tobacco and cigarette papers a series of bottles 
 labelled: cholera, yellow fever, typhus fever, small- 
 pox, etc., and proposed as a very simple thing to go 
 and spread these epidemics in all the German camps, 
 by the aid of a navigable balloon, which he had just in- 
 vented the night before upon going to bed. Amedee 
 soon became tired of these braggarts and lunatics, and 
 no longer went to the Cafe de Seville. He lived alone 
 and shut himself up in his discouragement, and he 
 had never perhaps had it weigh more heavily upon 
 his shoulders than this morning of the second of De- 
 cember, the last day of the battle of Champigny, while 
 he was sadly promenading before the stacked guns of 
 his battalion. 
 
 The dark clouds, heavy with snow, were hurrying 
 by, the tormenting rumble of the cannons, the muddy 
 country, the crumbling buildings, and these vanquished 
 soldiers shivering under their rags, all threw the poet 
 into the most gloomy of reveries. Then humanity so 
 many ages, centuries, perhaps, old, had only reached 
 this point: Hatred, absurd war, fratricidal murder! 
 
 [230]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 Progress? Civilization? Mere words! No rest, no 
 peaceful repose, either in fraternity or love! The prim- 
 itive brute always reappears, the right of the stronger 
 to hold in its clutches the pale cadaver of justice! 
 What is the use of so many religions, philosophies, all 
 the noble dreams, all the grand impulses of the thought 
 toward the ideal and good? This horrible doctrine 
 of the pessimists was true then! We are, then, like 
 animals, eternally condemned to kill each other in 
 order to live? If that is so, one might as well re- 
 nounce life, and give up the ghost! .... 
 
 Meanwhile the cannonading now redoubled, and 
 with its tragic grumbling was mingled the dry crackling 
 sound of the musketry ; beyond a wooded hillock, which 
 restricted the view toward the southeast, a very thick 
 white smoke spread over the horizon, mounting up 
 into the gray sky. The fight had just been resumed 
 there, and it was getting hot, for soon the ambulances 
 and army- wagons drawn by artillery men began to pass. 
 They were full of the wounded, whose plaintive moans 
 were heard as they passed. They had crowded the 
 least seriously wounded ones into the omnibus,- which 
 went at a foot pace, but the road had been broken 
 up by the bad weather, and it was pitiful to behold 
 these heads shaken as they passed over each rut. 
 The sight of the dying extended upon bloody mat- 
 tresses was still more lugubrious to see. The fright- 
 ful procession of the slaughtered went slowly toward 
 the city to the hospitals, but the carriages sometimes 
 stopped, only a hundred steps from the position occu- 
 pied by the National Guards, before a house where 
 
 [231]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE 
 
 a provisionary hospital had been established, and left 
 their least transportable ones there. The morbid 
 but powerful attraction that horrible sights exert over 
 a man urged Amedee Violette to this spot. This house 
 had been spared from bombardment and protected 
 from pillage and fire by the Geneva flag; it was a 
 small cottage which realized the dream of every shop- 
 keeper after he has made his fortune. Nothing was 
 lacking, not even the earthen lions at the steps, or the 
 little garden with its glittering weather-vane, or the 
 rock-work basin for goldfish. On warm days the 
 past summer passers-by might have seen very often, 
 under the green arbor, bourgeoisie in their shirt-sleeves 
 and women in light dresses eating melons together. 
 The poet's imagination fancied at once this picture of 
 a Parisian's Sunday, when suddenly a young assistant 
 appeared at an open window on the first floor, wiping 
 his hands upon his blood-stained apron. He leaned 
 out and called to a hospital attendant, that Amedee 
 had not noticed before, who was cutting linen upon a 
 table in the garden: 
 
 "Well, Vidal, you confounded dawdler," ex- 
 claimed he, impatiently, "are those bandages ready? 
 Good God! are we to have them to-day or to- 
 morrow?" 
 
 "Make room, if you please!" said at this moment 
 a voice at Amedee's elbow, who stepped aside for two 
 stretchers borne by four brothers of the Christian doc- 
 trine to pass. The poet gave a start and a cry of 
 terror. He recognized in the two wounded men Mau- 
 rice Roger and Colonel Lantz. 
 
 [ 232 ]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 Wounded, both of them, yes! and mortally. Only 
 one hour ago. 
 
 Affairs had turned out badly for us down there, 
 then, on the borders of the Marne. They did a foolish 
 thing to rest one day and give the enemy time to con- 
 centrate his forces; when they wished to renew the 
 attack they dashed against vast numbers and for- 
 midable artillery. Two generals killed! So many 
 brave men sacrificed! Now they beat a retreat once 
 more and lose the ground. One of the chief generals, 
 with lowered head and drooping shoulders, more from 
 discouragement than fatigue, stood glass in hand, ob- 
 serving from a distance our lines, which were break- 
 ing. 
 
 "If we could fortify ourselves there at least," said 
 he, pointing to an eminence which overlooked the 
 river, "and establish a redoubt in one night with a 
 hundred picks it could be done. I do not believe that 
 the enemy's fire could reach this position it is a good 
 one." 
 
 "We could go there and see, General," said some 
 one, very quietly. 
 
 It was Pere Lantz, the "old dolphin," who was 
 standing there with Maurice beside him and three or 
 four of the auxiliary engineers; and, upon my word, 
 in spite of his cap, which seemed to date from the 
 time of Horace Vernet's "Smala," the poor man, with 
 his glasses upon his nose, long cloak, and pepper- 
 colored beard, had no more prestige than a policeman 
 in a public square, one of those old fellows who chase 
 
 [ 2 33]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfiE 
 
 children off the grass, threatening them with their 
 canes. 
 
 "When I say that the German artillery will not 
 reach there," murmured the head general, "I am not 
 sure of it. But you are right, Colonel. We must 
 see. Send two of your men." 
 
 "With your permission, General," said Pere Lantz, 
 "I will go myself." Maurice bravely added at once: 
 
 "Not without me, Colonel!" 
 
 "As you please," said the General, who had already 
 pointed his glass upon another point of the battle- 
 field. 
 
 Followed by the only son of his companion in arms 
 in Africa and the Crimea, this office clerk and dauber 
 in water-colors walked to the front as tranquilly as he 
 would have gone to the minister's office with his um- 
 brella under his arm. At the very moment when the 
 two officers reached the plateau, a projectile from the 
 Prussian batteries fell upon a chest and blew it up 
 with a frightful uproar. The dead and wounded 
 were heaped upon the ground. Pere Lantz saw the 
 foot-soldiers fleeing, and the artillery men harnessing 
 their wagons. 
 
 "What!" exclaimed he, rising up to his full height, 
 "do they abandon the position?" 
 
 The Colonel's face was transfigured; opening wide 
 his long cloak and showing his black velvet plastron 
 upon which shone his commander's cross, he drew his 
 sword, and, putting his cap upon the tip of it, bare- 
 headed, with his gray hair floating in the wind, with 
 open arms he threw himself before the runaways. 
 
 [ 2 34]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 "Halt!" he commanded, in a thundering tone. 
 "Turn about, wretches, turn about! You are here at 
 a post of honor. Form again, my men! Gunners, 
 to your places! Long life to France!" 
 
 Just then a new shell burst at the feet of the Colonel 
 and of Maurice, and they both fell to the ground. 
 
 Ame"dee, staggering with emotion and a heart burst- 
 ing with grief and fear, entered the hospital behind the 
 two litters. 
 
 "Put them in the dining-room," said one of the 
 brothers. "There is nobody there. The doctor will 
 come immediately." 
 
 The young man with the bloody apron came in at 
 once, and after a look at the wounded man he gave 
 a despairing shake of the head, and, shrugging his 
 shoulders, said: 
 
 "There is nothing to be done they will not last 
 long." 
 
 In fact, the Colonel was dying. They had thrown 
 an old woollen covering over him through which the 
 hemorrhage showed itself by large stains of blood 
 which were constantly increasing and penetrating the 
 cloth. The wounded man seemed to be coming out 
 of his faint; he half opened his eyes, and his lips 
 moved. 
 
 The doctor, who had just come in, came up to the 
 litter upon which the old officer was lying and leaned 
 over him. 
 
 "Did you wish to say anything?" he asked. 
 
 The old Colonel, without moving his head, turned 
 [235]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 his sad gaze upon the surgeon, oh! so sad, and in a 
 voice scarcely to be heard he murmured: 
 
 "Three daughters to marry without a dowry! 
 Three three 1" 
 
 Then he heaved a deep sigh, his blue eyes paled and 
 became glassy. Colonel Lantz was dead. 
 
 Do not despair, old military France! You will 
 always have these simple-hearted soldiers who are 
 ready to sacrifice themselves for your flag, ready to 
 serve you for a morsel of bread, and to die for you, 
 bequeathing their widows and orphans to you! Do 
 not despair, old France of the one hundred years' war 
 and of '92! 
 
 The brothers, who wore upon their black robes the 
 red Geneva cross, were kneeling around the body and 
 praying in a low tone. The assistant surgeon noticed 
 Ame'dee Violette for the first time, standing motionless 
 in a corner of the room. 
 
 " What are you doing here ? " he asked him, brusquely. 
 
 "I am this poor officer's friend," Ame'dee replied, 
 pointing to Maurice. 
 
 "So be it! stay with him if he asks for a drink you 
 have the tea there upon the stove. You, gentlemen," 
 added he, addressing the brothers, who arose after 
 making the sign of the cross, "you will return to the 
 battle-field, I suppose?" 
 
 They silently bowed their heads, the eldest of them 
 closed the dead man's eyes. As they were all going 
 out together, the assistant surgeon said to them, in a 
 petulant tone of voice: 
 
 "Try to bring me some not quite so much used up." 
 [236]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 Maurice Roger was about to die, too. His shirt 
 was stained with blood, and a stream ran down from 
 his forehead upon his blond moustache, but he was 
 still beautiful in his marble-like pallor. Amede'e care- 
 fully raised up one of the wounded man's arms and 
 placed it upon the stretcher, keeping his friend's hand 
 in his own. Maurice moved slightly at the touch, 
 and ended by opening his eyes. 
 
 "Ah, how thirsty I am!" he groaned. 
 
 Ame'dee went to the stove and got the pot of tea, 
 and leaned over to help the unfortunate man drink 
 it. Maurice looked at him with surprise. He re- 
 cognized Ame'dee. 
 
 "You, Ame'dee! where am I, then?" 
 
 He attemped in vain to rise. His head dropped 
 slightly to the left, and he saw, not two steps from 
 him, the lifeless body of his old colonel, with eyes 
 closed and features already calmed by the first mo- 
 ments of perfect repose. 
 
 "My Colonel!" said he. "Ah! I understand I 
 remember ! How they ran away miserable cow- 
 ards! But you, Ame'dee? Why are you here ?" 
 
 His friend could not restrain his tears, and Maurice 
 murmured : 
 
 "Done for, am I not?" 
 
 "No, no!" exclaimed Ame'de'e, with animation. 
 "They are going to dress your wounds at once 
 They will come soon! Courage, my good Maurice! 
 Courage!" 
 
 Suddenly the wounded man had a terrible chill; 
 his teeth chattered, and he said again: 
 
 [237]
 
 FRANCOIS 
 
 "I am thirsty! something to drink, my friend! 
 give me something to drink!" 
 
 A few swallows of tea calmed him a little. He 
 closed his eyes as if to rest, but a moment after he 
 opened them, and, fixing them upon his friend's face, 
 he said to him in a faint voice: 
 
 "You know Maria, my wife marry her I con- 
 fide them to you she and my son ' 
 
 Then, doubtless tired out by the fatigue of having 
 spoken these words, he seemed to collapse and sink 
 down into the litter, which was saturated now with 
 his blood. A moment later he began to pant for 
 breath. Amedee knelt by his side, and tears fell upon 
 his hands, while between the dying man's gasps he could 
 hear in the distance, upon the battle-field, the unin- 
 terrupted rumbling of the cannon as it mowed down 
 others. 
 
 [238]
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 "WHEN YOUTH, THE DREAM, DEPARTS" 
 
 "HE leaves are falling! 
 
 This October afternoon is de- 
 liciously serene, there is not a cloud 
 in the grayish-blue sky, where the 
 sun, which has shed a pure and 
 steady light since morning, has be- 
 gun majestically to decline, like a 
 good king who has grown old after 
 a long and prosperous reign. How soft the air is! 
 How calm and fresh! This is certainly one of the 
 most beautiful of autumn days. Below, in the valley, 
 the river sparkles like liquid silver, and the trees which 
 crown the hill-tops are of a lurid gold and copper 
 color. The distant panorama of Paris is grand and 
 charming, with all its noted edifices and the dome of 
 the Invalides shining like gold outlined upon the 
 horizon. As a loving and coquettish woman, who 
 wishes to be regretted, gives at the moment of depart- 
 ure her most intoxicating smile to a friend, so the 
 close of autumn had put on for one of her last days all 
 her splendid charms. 
 But the leaves are falling! 
 
 Ame*dee Violette is walking alone in his garden at 
 Meudon. It is his country home, where he has lived 
 
 [239]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPtiE 
 
 for eight years. A short time after the close of the 
 war he married Maurice's widow. He is walking 
 upon the terrace planted with lindens that are now 
 more than half -despoiled of their leaves, admiring the 
 beautiful picture and thinking. 
 
 He is celebrated, he has worked hard and has built 
 up a reputation by good, sincere books, as a poet. 
 Doubtless, some persons are still jealous of him, and 
 he is often treated with injustice, but he is estimated 
 by the dignity of his life, which his love of art fills 
 entirely, and he occupies a superior position in liter- 
 rature. Although his resources are modest, they are 
 sufficient to exempt him from anxieties of a trivial 
 nature. Living far from society, in the close intimacy 
 of those that he loves, he does not know the miseries 
 of ambition and vanity. Amedee Violette should be 
 happy. 
 
 His old friend, Paul Sillery, who breakfasted with 
 him that morning in Meudon, is condemned to daily 
 labor and the exhausting life of a journalist ; and when 
 he was seated in the carriage which took him back to 
 Paris that morning, to forced labor, to the article to 
 be knocked off for to-morrow, in the midst of the 
 racket and chattering of an editor's office, beside an 
 interrupted cigar laid upon the edge of a table, he 
 heaved a deep sigh as he thought of Amedee. 
 
 Ah, this Violette was to be envied! With money, 
 home, and a family, he was not obliged to disseminate 
 his ideas right and left. He had leisure, and could 
 stop when he was not in the spirit of writing ; he could 
 think before he wrote and do some good work. It 
 
 [240]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 was not astonishing, to be sure, that he produced 
 veritable works of art when he is cheered by the at- 
 mosphere of affection. First, he adores his wife, that 
 is easily seen, and he looks upon Maurice's little son 
 as his own, the little fellow is so pretty and attractive 
 with his long, light curls. Certainly, one can see that 
 Madame Violette has a never-to-be-forgotten grief, 
 but what a kind and grateful glance she gives her 
 husband! Could anything be more touching than 
 Louise Gerard, that excellent old maid, the life of the 
 house, who has the knack of making pleasing order 
 and elegant comfort reign in the house, while she sur- 
 rounds her mother, the paralytic Grandmother Gerard, 
 with every care? Truly, Amedee has arranged his 
 life well. He loves and is loved: he has procured 
 for mind and body valuable and certain customs. He 
 is a wise and fortunate man. 
 
 While Paul Sillery, buried in the corner of a car- 
 riage, allowed himself to be almost carried away by 
 jealousy of his friend, Amed6e, detained by the charm 
 of this beautiful day which is drawing to a close, 
 walks with slow, lingering steps under the lindens on 
 the terrace. 
 
 The leaves are falling around him! 
 
 A very slight breeze is rising, the blue sky is fading 
 a little below; in the nearest Paris suburb the windows 
 are shining in the oblique rays of the setting sun. It 
 will soon be night, and upon this carpet of dead 
 leaves, which crackle under the poet's tread, other 
 leaves will fall. They fall rarely, slowly, but con- 
 tinually. The frost of the night before has blighted 
 16 [ 241 ]
 
 FRANCOIS COPP^E 
 
 them all. Dried up and rusty, they barely hang to 
 the trees, so that the slightest wind that passes over 
 them gathers them one after another, detaching them 
 from their branches; whirling an instant in the golden 
 light, they at last rejoin, with a sad little sound, their 
 withered sisters, who sprinkle the gravel walks. The 
 leaves fall, the leaves fall! 
 
 Ame"de*e Violette is filled with melancholy. 
 
 He ought to be happy. What can he reproach des- 
 tiny with? Has he not the one he always desired for 
 his wife? Is she not the sweetest and best of com- 
 panions for him? Yes! but he knows very well that 
 she consented to marry him in order to obey Maurice's 
 last wish, he knows very well that Maria's heart is 
 buried in the soldier's grave at Champigny. She has 
 set apart a sanctuary within herself where burns, as 
 a perpetual light, the remembrance of the adored 
 dead, of the man to whom she gave herself without 
 reserve, the father of her son, the hero who tore him- 
 self from her arms to shed his blood for his country. 
 
 Ame*dee may be certain of the gratitude and devo- 
 tion of his wife, but he never will have her love, for 
 Maurice, a posthumous rival, rises between them. 
 Ah, this Maurice! He had loved Maria very little or 
 not very faithfully ! She should remember that he had 
 first betrayed her, that but for Amedee he would have 
 abandoned her and she never would have been his 
 wife. If she knew that in Paris when she was far 
 away he had deceived her! But she never would 
 know anything of it, for Ame"dee has too much deli- 
 cacy to hurt the memory of the dead, and he respects 
 
 [242]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 and even admires this fidelity of illusion and love in 
 Maria. He suffers from it. The one to whom he 
 has given his name, his heart, and his life, is incon- 
 solable, and he must be resigned to it. Although re- 
 married, she is a widow at the bottom of her heart, 
 and it is in vain that she puts on bright attire, her eyes 
 and her smile are in mourning forever. 
 
 How could she forget her Maurice when he is be- 
 fore her every day in her son, who is also named 
 Maurice and whose bright, handsome face strikingly 
 resembles his father's? Ame'dee feels a presentiment 
 that in a few years this child will be another Maurice, 
 with the same attractions and vices. The poet does 
 not forget that his dying friend confided the orphan 
 to him, and he endeavors to be kind and good to 
 him and to bring him up well. He sometimes has a 
 feeling of sorrow when he discovers the same instincts 
 and traits in the child as in the man whom he had 
 so dearly loved and who had made him such trouble; 
 in spite of all, he can not feel the sentiments of a father 
 for another's son. His own union has been sterile. 
 
 Poor Ame'de'e! Yet he is envied! The little joy 
 that he has is mingled with grief and sorrow, and he 
 dares not confide it to the excellent Louise who sus- 
 pects it, however whose old and secret attachment 
 for him he surmises now, and who is the good genius 
 of his household. Had he only realized it before! 
 It might have been happiness, genuine happiness for 
 him! 
 
 The leaves fall! the leaves fall! 
 
 After breakfast, while they were smoking their cig- 
 [243]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfcE 
 
 ars and walking along beside the masses of dahlias, 
 upon which the large golden spider had spun its sil- 
 very web, Ame'dee Violette and Paul Sillery had talked 
 of times past and the comrades of their youth. It was 
 not a very gay conversation, for since then there had 
 been the war, the Commune. How many were dead! 
 How many had disappeared! And, then, this retro- 
 spective review proves to one that one can be entirely 
 deceived as to certain people, and that chance is mas- 
 ter. 
 
 Such an one, whom they had once considered as a 
 great prose writer, as the leader of a sect, and whose 
 doctrines of art five or six faithful disciples spread 
 while copying his waistcoats and even imitating his 
 manner of speaking with closed teeth, is reduced to 
 writing stories for obscene journals. "Chos," the 
 fiery revolutionist, had obtained a good place; and the 
 modest "Machin," a man hardly noticed in the clubs, 
 had published two exquisite books, genuine works of 
 art. 
 
 All of the "beards" and "long-haired" men had 
 taken unexpected paths. But the politicians, above 
 all, were astonishing in the variety of their destinies. 
 Among the cafe's frequenters at the hour for absinthe 
 one could count eight deputies, three ministers, two 
 ambassadors, one treasurer, and thirty exiles at Nou- 
 mea awaiting the long-expected amnesty. The most 
 interesting, everything considered, is that imbecile, 
 that old fanatic of a Dubief, the man that never drank 
 anything but sweetened water; for he, at least, was 
 shot on the barricades by the Versaillese soldiers. 
 
 [244]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 One person of whom the very thought disgusted the 
 two friends was that jumping- jack of an Arthur Pa- 
 pillon. Universal suffrage, with its accustomed in- 
 telligence, had not failed to elect this nonentity and 
 bombastic fool, and to-day he flounders about like a 
 fish out of water in the midst of this political cess- 
 pool. Having been enriched by a large dowry, he 
 has been by turns deputy, secretary, vice-president, 
 president, head of committees, under secretary of 
 State, in one word, everything that it was possible to 
 be. For the time being he rants against the clergy, 
 and his wife, who is ugly, rich, and pious, has just 
 put their little girl into the Oiseaux school. He has 
 jiot yet become minister, but rest assured he will reach 
 that in time. He is very vain, full of confidence in 
 himself, not more honest than necessary, and very 
 obtrusive. Unless in the meantime they decide to es- 
 tablish a rotation providing that all the deputies be 
 ministers by turns, Arthur Papillon is the inevitable, 
 necessary man mentioned. In such a case, this would 
 be terrible, for his eloquence would flow in torrents, 
 and he would be one of the most agitating of microbei 
 in the parliamentary culture. 
 
 And Jocquelet? Ah! the two friends only need to 
 speak his name to burst into peals of laughter, for 
 the illustrious actor now fills the universe with his 
 glory and ridiculousness. Jocquelet severed the chain 
 some time ago which bound him to the Parisian 
 theatres. Like the tricolored flag, he has made the 
 tour of Europe several times; like the English stand- 
 ard, he has crossed every ocean. He is the modern 
 
 [245]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE 
 
 Wandering Actor, and the capitals of the Old World 
 and both Americas watch breathless with desire for 
 him to deign to shower over them the manna of his 
 monologues. At Chicago, they detached his loco- 
 motive, and he intended, at the sight of this homage 
 proportioned to his merits, to become a naturalized 
 American citizen. But they proposed a new tour for 
 him in old Europe, and out of filial remembrance he 
 consented to return once more among us. As usual, 
 he gathered a cartload of gold and laurels. He was 
 painfully surprised upon reaching Stockholm by water 
 not to be greeted by the squadrons with volleys of 
 artillery, as was once done in honor of a famous can- 
 tatrice. Let Diplomacy look sharp! Jocquelet is in- 
 different to the court of Sweden! 
 
 After Paul Sillery's departure Ame*dee turned over 
 in his mind various other recollections of former days. 
 He has been a trifle estranged from Madame Roger 
 since his marriage to Maria, but he sometimes takes 
 little Maurice to see her. She has sheltered and given 
 each of Colonel Lantz's daughters a dowry. Pretty 
 Rosine Combarieu's face rises up before him, his 
 childhood's companion, whom he met at Bullier's and 
 never has seen since. What has become of the poor 
 little creature? Amedee almost hopes that she is 
 dead. Ah, how sad these old memories are in the 
 autumn, when the leaves are falling and the sun is 
 setting ! 
 
 It has set, it has plunged beneath the horizon, and 
 suddenly all is dark. Over the darkened landscape 
 in the vast pearl-colored sky spreads the melancholy 
 
 [246]
 
 A ROMANCE OF YOUTH 
 
 chill which follows the farewell of day. The white 
 smoke from the city has turned gray, the river is like 
 a dulled mirror. A moment ago, in the sun's last 
 rays, the dead leaves, as they fell, looked like a golden 
 rain, now they seem a dark snow. 
 
 Where are all your illusions and hopes of other 
 days, Amedee Violette? You think this evening of 
 the rapid flight of years, of the snowy flakes of winter 
 which are beginning to fall on your temples. You 
 have the proof to-day of the impossibility of abso- 
 lutely requited love in this world. You know that 
 happiness, or what is called so, exists only by snatches 
 and lasts only a moment, and how commonplace it 
 often is and how sad the next day! You depend up- 
 on your art for consolation. Oppressed by the mo- 
 notonous ennui of living, you ask for the forgetfulness 
 that only the intoxication of poetry and dreams can 
 give you. Alas! Poor sentimentalist, your youth is 
 ended! 
 
 And still the leaves fall! 
 
 [247]
 
 RESTITUTION
 
 RESTITUTION 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE HONEST THIEF 
 
 how cold it was! One could cut 
 the fog with a knife! It was a true 
 Christmas Eve fog, in which, al- 
 though it was hardly four o'clock, 
 the gas had just been lighted and 
 danced in yellowish flames. The 
 passers looked like fantastic shadows 
 hastening along the pavement, hands 
 in pockets, their coat-collars turned up, and stamping 
 the pavement as if they were angry. 
 
 And how they coughed, and how they sneezed! 
 Catarrh reigned supreme in the noisy throng all along 
 the Chaussee d'Antin atchou ! The cab-driver, 
 bending forward under his cloak, the milliner's little 
 assistant shivering under her imitation astrakhan, the 
 street-boys warming their hands at the roast-chestnut 
 fire, the gentleman well wrapped in his heavy topcoat 
 all were suffering from bronchitis or colds in the 
 head. A bitter Christmas indeed! How comforting 
 it is to think that Bethlehem enjoys a temperate climate, 
 and that Christ was born there in a stable, where the 
 breath of an ox or an ass could warm his cold limbs. 
 
 [251]
 
 FRANCOIS COPPfiE 
 
 Suppose the event had taken place in this frightful 
 climate of Paris at the same time of the year the 
 time when builders are idlest, when the poor carpenter 
 is divested of everything, especially of wood and coals 
 to keep him warm. A newly born child would have 
 had little chance of life. And would not that have 
 been a pity? For, apart from any idea of religion, 
 and of the doctrine which has comforted mankind for 
 nineteen hundred years, nothing could be more touch- 
 ing than this Christmas festival, this universal joy to 
 celebrate the birth of a child. 
 
 On these misty winter days, it is pleasant to remain 
 at home; and, in his humble apartments on the third 
 story of a house in the Rue Clichy, the Abbe Moulin, 
 the old cure of Trinity Church, sat almost asleep, his 
 feet near the fire, reading his breviary. This priest 
 Moulin was indeed an excellent man, but very simple. 
 There was no fear that he would ever set the Seine on 
 fire, but, with his humble faith and candid virtue, he 
 was an exception to the Paris clergy, who have very 
 worldly, not to say sceptical, ideas. 
 
 Abbe Moulin had worked principally in the suburbs, 
 and had shown his great charity in these populous 
 districts; in fact, he had given all he possessed a 
 patrimony of several thousand pounds to his beloved 
 poor. It was even said that he had contracted some 
 small debts which he found it rather difficult to pay. 
 
 And who could censure him ? For is not the truest 
 and best kind of socialism that which makes one bor- 
 row to relieve misery, and become insolvent to help a 
 fellow-creature ? 
 
 [252]
 
 Abbe Moulin, the old Curl, almost asleep, 
 sat near tht fire 
 
 [From fbe Original Pointing by N Briganti.]
 
 this frightful 
 'lie year 
 
 irpenter 
 K! and 
 :hild would have 
 
 . OU] : 
 
 lea of r 
 
 c touch- 
 universal joy to 
 
 it is pleasant to remain 
 apartments on the th 
 WWil^llc 
 almost asleep, his 
 
 VI '* ,nn-,^^ n -te V ^ r X^] This . ( 
 
 man, but very sinr 
 dd ever set the Seine OD 
 -iith and candid virtue, he 
 who have very 
 
 >ally 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. 
 
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