fbr/kMght 
 SmileZola
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 EDWIN CORLE 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 JEAN CORLE
 
 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 THE MAID OF THE DAWBER 
 
 COMPLEMENTS
 
 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 The Maid of the Dawber 
 Complements 
 
 After the French 
 
 OF 
 / 
 
 EMILE ZOLA 
 
 BY 
 
 Alison M. Lederer 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 BROWN BROTHERS 
 1911
 
 Copyright, 1911 
 
 BY 
 
 BROWN BROTHERS 
 
 First Printing, November, 1911
 
 
 tLo Mjs Wifr 
 
 2043803
 
 The following pages from Zola, which 
 the translator believes are now for the 
 first time offered in English, were se- 
 lected from two volumes published by 
 Charpentier. The novel Pour Une Nuit 
 d' Amour appeared in conjvmction with 
 Le Captaine Biirle and some other fic- 
 tion in a volume which was in its ninth 
 thousand in 1885. La Vierge au Cirage 
 and Les Repoussoirs, together with two 
 other bits which the author called Les 
 Vielles aux Yeiix Bleus and L^ Amour 
 Sous Les Toils, which I have not 
 thought quite distinctive enough to in- 
 clude in these selections, were entitled 
 as a group Esquisses Parisiennes, and 
 appeared in a volume to which the tale 
 Le Voeu d'Une Morte gave its name, 
 published by the same firm a little later 
 — ^^Nouvelle edition 1889." 
 
 So much for the bibliography. I can- 
 not be more detailed for lack of inform-
 
 ation. It is interesting to notice from 
 a note presumably furnished by Zola 
 himself that the source of the plot of the 
 psychoj)athic novel For A Night is in 
 Casanova. There is something dis- 
 tinctly of the moment in both the matter 
 and the treatment: much more so in 
 the former, for I am not quite certain 
 that Mr Newte, Dr Sudermann or even 
 Upton Sinclair would have caught and 
 preserved the rarified calm and perfect 
 simplicity of the atmosphere of *'the 
 
 little town of P " (which I have 
 
 called Pinard for the smoothness of the 
 English) and the limpidity of the 
 Chanteclair. 
 
 It would be merely trite to refer to 
 the maid of the dawber and her master 
 as studies of character. So much goes 
 under that phrase in our days of the 
 science of this and that. The dramatic 
 manner in which the author carries the
 
 intrinsic level of caste through this in- 
 cident, or rather weaves the incident to 
 indicate the level of caste, is one of the 
 good things of literature and carries 
 conviction. 
 
 And that delightful bit of fooling 
 which he conceived in Les Repoussoirs, 
 though scarcely as vital and essential as 
 the former, siu-ely has a charm of its 
 own. The juxtaposition of the nonsense 
 and the pity of it, just as in real life, 
 do thrill. 
 
 A. M. L. 
 
 a 
 
 Inwall/' Milford, Penna., 1911.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 For a Night 15 
 
 The Maid of the Dawber . . 109 
 
 Complements .... 127
 
 FOR A NIGHT
 
 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 The little toAvn of Pinard is built upon 
 a hill. At the foot of the old ramparts 
 flows a stream with high banks and very 
 deep, the Chanteclair— so called from 
 the clear ripple of its limpid waters. If 
 you come by the road from Versailles 
 you cross the Chanteclair near the south 
 gate of the town by the stone bridge with 
 a single arch, the low, rounded parapets 
 of which serve all the old men of the 
 countryside as benches. Straightaway 
 rises the street called Beau-Soleil, at 
 end of this lies a silent square called 
 the square Quatre-Femmes. It is paved 
 with large round stones, between which 
 coarse grass sprouts and, from a dis- 
 tance, makes it greenish like a meadow. 
 
 15
 
 16 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 The houses slumber. Every half hour 
 the dragging footstep of some passerby 
 rouses a dog to bark behind a stable 
 door. The only life of this forgotten 
 corner is the passing of the military of- 
 ficers t\\dce a day, when they go to their 
 mess at the inn on Beau-Soleil. 
 
 In a florist-gardener's house, on the 
 left, there lived a young man. The gar- 
 dener had rented him a large room on 
 the second floor; and, since he himself 
 occupied the other wing of the house, on 
 Catherine Street, nearer his garden, 
 Julien Michon lived undisturbed, vdih 
 his own hall-door and stair-case, and 
 was settled do^\Ti at the age of twenty- 
 five to the hobbies of a secluded old 
 bachelor. 
 
 He had lost his father and mother 
 very young. The Michons had been 
 harness makers at Alluets, near Mantes. 
 Upon their death, an uncle had sent the
 
 FOR A NIGHT 17 
 
 boy to school. Then the uncle, too, died, 
 and Jiilien was clerk at the post-office 
 at Pinard for the last five years. His 
 salary was fifteen hundred francs, with- 
 out any chance of advancement. But 
 he w^as economical and had no extrava- 
 gant ideas. 
 
 Strapping, strong and raw-boned, 
 Julien had large hands; and this 
 troubled him. He knew he was ugly, 
 his head square, as though left in the 
 mold by a tipsy sculptor with a careless 
 press of the thumb. And it made him 
 very backward, especially in the pres- 
 ence of young women. Once, when a 
 girl had told him laughingly that he 
 was not so bad, he took her remark very 
 seriously. When in the street he swung 
 his arms, stooped dreadfully, hung his 
 head and took long strides— to get away 
 more quickly, under cover. His awk- 
 wardness made him continually irri-
 
 18 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 table— an unhealthy incident of medioc- 
 rity and obscurity. He seemed to be 
 perfectly resigned to live on thus, with- 
 out a friendship, without a touch of 
 romance, with only his monkish taste 
 for seclusion. 
 
 And this life did not weigh on his 
 broad shoulders. Julien, at bottom, was 
 very happy. His soul was calm and 
 transparent. His daily existence, with 
 the rules which governed it, w^as the es- 
 sence of tranquillity. In the morning 
 he went to the office and settled doAvn 
 comfortably to the task left over from 
 yesterday. Then he lunched sparingly, 
 and took up his writing again. Then he 
 dined, then went to bed and slept. Next 
 day, sunrise only brought back yester- 
 day. And this, week by week, month by 
 month. The long perspective took on a 
 rhythm, and rocked him into the sweet 
 dreams which cattle have, drawing a
 
 FOR A NIGHT 19 
 
 cart by day and sleeping at night on 
 fresh straw. He absorbed the full 
 charm of monotony. Sometimes he en- 
 joyed going down Beau-Soleil after 
 dinner and sitting on the bridge to hear 
 the clock strike nine. He let his legs 
 hang over the water, and watched the 
 Chanteclair flow by under him with the 
 wash of its silver ripples. The wil- 
 lows along both banks bent their pale 
 heads, staring at their own reflections. 
 Above, the thin grey of twilight was 
 falling. And he remained spellbound in 
 this great calm, thinking confusedly 
 that the Chanteclair ought to be happy 
 like himself to roll on forever over the 
 same rocks, in the midst of such a beau- 
 tiful silence. ^ATien the stars began to 
 twinkle he went home to bed, his lungs 
 full of the fresh air. 
 
 Moreover, Julien had other pleas- 
 ures. On holidays he set out all alone
 
 20 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 ou foot, enjojTJig long rambles and re- 
 tui'ning thoi'oughly tired out. And he 
 even made friends with a mute, an en- 
 graver, whose arm he held on long 
 walks on the highway, without speech 
 the whole afternoon. At other times, 
 from the rear of the Cafe des Voy- 
 ageurs, he and his mute would silently 
 watch the interminable parties ^ith 
 ladies come and go. He had once had a 
 dog, which was run over by a carriage, 
 and he preserved the m^emory so 
 religiously that he would have no other 
 pet. At the jDOst-office they teased him 
 about a little girl of ten years, a bare- 
 foot tatterdemalion who sold matches, 
 and to whom he gave pennies without 
 taking any of her wares in return. 
 This angered him, and after that he 
 slipped the pennies into her hand un- 
 seen. No one ever saw him in com- 
 pany with a petticoat on the ramparts
 
 FOR A NIGHT 21 
 
 in the evening. Even the working girls 
 of Pinard, very forward wenches, had 
 eome to let him alone, when they saw 
 that he was bashful in their pres- 
 ence and mistook their smiles of encour- 
 agement for mockery. About the town 
 some called him stupid; others hinted 
 that one would do well to beware of 
 these young fellows who are so gentle 
 and live alone. 
 
 Julien's paradise, the spot where he 
 was reallv comfortable, was his own 
 room. There only he felt sheltered 
 from strangers. He would jump up and 
 laugh aloud, and every time he looked 
 into the mirror he was surprised to find 
 himself very young. The room was 
 large. He had put in a generous couch, 
 a round table, two chairs and an arm- 
 chair; and there was a plenty of space 
 to walk, besides. The bed was almost 
 lost at the back of an immense alcove.
 
 22 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 A little washstand, between the two 
 windows, seemed like a toy affair. He 
 would walk to and fro or stretch out 
 at full length on the couch; he wasn't in 
 the least in his own way. He never 
 wrote outside the office, and reading 
 tired him. Since the old lady who kept 
 the boarding-house where he took his 
 meals insisted upon ministering to his 
 education by loaning him novels, he read 
 them. But after he had got all through 
 he could not remember a single thing: 
 these complicated stories were so lack- 
 ing in common sense to him. He 
 sketched a little— always the same head, 
 a woman's profile, mth a severe expres- 
 sion and with fillets and pearls in the 
 knot of her hair. His only craving was 
 for music. For whole evenings he 
 played his flute; and this was his great- 
 est recreation. 
 Julien had learned to play the flute
 
 FOR A NIGHT 23 
 
 by himself. For a long while he had 
 coveted an old flute of yellow wood in 
 the window of a second-hand shop on 
 the market square. He had the money, 
 but he did not dare go in and buy it, for 
 fear of being ridiculed. Finally, one 
 evening he mustered up enough cour- 
 age to carry it home. He ran all the 
 way, hugging it close to his bosom, hid- 
 den under his coat. Then, behind closed 
 doors and windows, for two years he 
 had spelled out an old book of instruc- 
 tion which he picked up at a little shop 
 —very low, so no one should hear. It 
 was only for the last six months that he 
 dared play with the windows open. He 
 knew some very old airs, slow and 
 simple, romances of the last century, 
 which sounded infinitely tender as he 
 worked them out with the awkwardness 
 of a pupil full of feeling. On warm eve- 
 nings, when the neighborhood was
 
 24 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 asleep, and this delicate song was 
 Tvafted out of the large room lighted by 
 a candle, it might be taken for a lover 's 
 voice, low and tremulous, confiding to 
 the solitude and to the night what it 
 would never have said in the daytime. 
 
 Often, too, since he knew the airs by 
 heart, Julicn snuffed the candle for 
 economy. And besides, he liked the 
 dark. Seated at his window, looking out 
 on the sky, he would play in the dim 
 light. And the passersby raised their 
 heads, looking to see whence this soft, 
 pretty music came, like the distant 
 call of a nightingale. The old flute of 
 yellow wood was a little cracked, which 
 gave it a muffled tone— the adorable 
 voice of a marquise of other days still 
 singing the minuets of her youth. One 
 by one the notes fluttered away as with 
 a little flutter of wings. It seemed that 
 the song was bom of the night itself,
 
 FOR A NIGHT 25 
 
 and it mingled with the far-away sounds 
 in the shadows. 
 
 Julien was very much afraid that 
 some one of the neighbors w^ould com- 
 plain. But they sleep deep in the coun- 
 try. Besides, the square Quatre-Fem- 
 mes was inhabited only by a notary, M. 
 Savoumin, and a retired gendarme on 
 pension. Captain Pidoux, both very con- 
 venient neighbors, since they were in 
 bed and asleep by nine o'clock. Julien 
 feared still more the occupants of a 
 noble mansion, the hotel Marsanne, 
 which rose on the other side of the 
 square, just opposite his windows. It 
 had a sombre grey fagade, severe as a 
 cloister. A stoop of five steps, over- 
 grown mth moss, rose to a massive 
 door, studded with enormous nails. The 
 second story was lined with ten 
 windows, whose blinds opened and 
 closed at once, at regular hours, with-
 
 26 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 out giving a glimpse of the apartments 
 behind the thin curtains, always drawn. 
 To the left, the spreading chestnut trees 
 of the garden foi*med a great mass of 
 green, stretching their waves of leaves 
 to the ramparts. And this imposing 
 hotel, Avith its park, its grave walls, its 
 air of royal ennui, made Julien think 
 tliat if the Marsannes did not like his 
 flute they had only to say so in order 
 to have it stopped. 
 
 The yoimg man was overcome with a 
 veneration as he sat at his window; 
 the appointments of the garden and 
 of the building seemed to him so vast. 
 The hotel was celebrated throughout 
 the countryside, and they said that 
 travelers came to \dsit it from afar. 
 Stories were current, too, about the 
 wealth of the Marsannes. Often he had 
 watched the old pile to penetrate the 
 mysteries of that mighty fortune. But
 
 FOR A NIGHT 27 
 
 for all the hours he dreamed there he 
 saw only the grey fagade and the great 
 shade of the chestnut trees. Never a 
 soul ascended the deserted stoop ; never 
 did the moss-covered door open. The 
 Marsannes had deserted this entrance, 
 and used a gate on the street of Saint- 
 Anne. Beyond, at the end of a lane, 
 near the ramparts, was a little door to 
 the garden, which Julien could not see. 
 For him the hotel remained dead, like 
 one of those palaces in the fairy tales 
 peopled with invisible beings. Morning 
 and evening, he caught a glimpse of the 
 servant's arm as she opened or closed 
 the blinds ; that was all. Then the house 
 reassumed its air of deep melancholy, 
 like an abandoned tomb in the old part 
 of a cemetery. The chestnut trees were 
 so dense that they hid the garden paths. 
 And this hermetically sealed existence 
 of the hotel, haughty and silent,
 
 28 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 kindled the imagination of the young 
 man. So then, wealth was this gloomy 
 peace, which aroused in him a religious 
 tremor, like the vaulted arches of a 
 church. 
 
 How often, before retiring, he had 
 snuffed his candle and remained for an 
 hour at his window, hoping to take by 
 surprise the secrets of the hotel Mar- 
 sanne! At night, the building was a 
 sombre silhouette against the sky, and 
 the chestnut trees just a sea of ink. 
 They must have been very careful about 
 drawing the ciu'tains inside, for not a 
 ray of light escaped through the slats 
 of the blinds. The hotel did not even 
 have that respiration of an occupied 
 house, where one can feel the breathing 
 of the sleepers. In the dark it was as 
 though it had never been. Then it was 
 that Julien became bold and took up his 
 flute. He could play with impunity.
 
 FOR A NIGHT 29 
 
 The empty hotel sent back the echo of 
 his little pearly notes. Certain long- 
 drawn phrases lost themselves in the 
 shadows of the garden, where not even 
 the beating of wings was heard. The 
 old flute of yellow wood seemed to sing 
 its antiquated melodies before the castle 
 of the Sleeping Beauty of the Vf oods. 
 
 One Sunday, in front of the church, 
 a fellow employe of the post-office 
 pointed out to Julien a distinguished 
 old gentleman and an old lady. They 
 were the Marquis and Marquise de Mar- 
 sanne. They went about so seldom that 
 he had never seen them before. He was 
 deeply impressed : they seemed to him so 
 thin and solemn, measuring their steps, 
 saluted with low bows and acknowledg- 
 ing simply by a nod. Then his com- 
 panion told him that they had a daugh- 
 ter still at the convent, Mademoiselle 
 Therese de Marsanne, and that the little
 
 30 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 Colombel, clerk of M. Savournin, the 
 notary, was her foster-brother. And 
 surely enough, as the two old people 
 were turning into the street of Saint- 
 Anne, little Colombel who was passing 
 approached them, and the marquis ex- 
 tended his hand— an honor which he 
 had shown no one else. This hand- 
 shake pained Julien; for Colombel, a 
 bov of twenty, with bright eves and a 
 mischievous mouth, had long been an 
 enemy of his. He teased him about his 
 timidity, and urged the girls of Beau- 
 Soleil against him. It went so far that 
 one day they had come to blows, on the 
 ramparts, and the little notary's clerk 
 had gone away with two black e3^es. 
 Julien played his flute lower than ever 
 this evening since he had learned all 
 these details. 
 
 However, all the solicitude which the 
 hotel Marsanne caused him did not alter
 
 FOR A NIGHT 31 
 
 Ms habits, as regular as clock-work. 
 He went to the office, luncheoned, dined 
 and took his accustomed turn along the 
 bank of the Chanteclair. The hotel 
 itself, with its great calm, entered into 
 the quiet of his life, in the end. Two 
 years elapsed. He had become so ac- 
 customed to the grassy stoop, to the grey 
 facade and to the black shutters, that 
 they all seemed to him matter-of-course, 
 quite necessary to the sleep of the neigh- 
 borhood. 
 
 Five years Julien had been li\ing in 
 the square Quatre-Femmes, when one 
 July evening, a certain event caused a 
 great stir in his existence. The night 
 was hot and starlit. He was playing his 
 flute in the dark, draT\T.ng out the 
 rhythm and lingering on certain notes, 
 when, of a sudden, a window of the 
 hotel Marsanne just opposite was 
 thrown open, and remained wide, bril-
 
 32 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 lianth' lighted in contrast with the som- 
 bre facade. A yoimg girl had come to 
 get a breath of air, and she lingered 
 there, her delicate outline sharp cut as 
 she raised her head to listen. Julien 
 trembled. He had stopped playing. He 
 could not make out the features of the 
 girl ; he saw only the flow of her tresses 
 let down for bed. And a gentle voice 
 reached him from out the silence: 
 
 ** Didn't you hear, Fran(^oise? I 
 could be certain it y^sls music." 
 
 *'A nightingale, mademoiselle," re- 
 plied a coarse voice from within. 
 ''Close the shutters. 'Ware the flj'ing 
 things of night." 
 
 When the fagade had become dark 
 again, Julien could not rise fi'om his 
 armchair. His eyes still bore the pic- 
 ture of that bright spot which had ap- 
 peared in the facade, heretofore blank. 
 And he still trembled. He asked him-
 
 FOR A NIGHT 33 
 
 self whether he ought to be glad of the 
 apparition. Then, an hour later, he be- 
 gan to play again, very softly. He 
 smiled at the idea that the girl thought 
 there was a nigthingale in the chestnut 
 trees.
 
 34 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 II. 
 
 Next day, at the post-office, the ^.cat 
 piece of news was that Mademoiselle 
 Therese de ^larsanne had just re- 
 turned from the convent. Julien did 
 not mention that he had seen her with 
 her hair down and neck bare. He was 
 uneasy; he had an unaccountable aver- 
 sion to this young girl, who was sure to 
 interfere with the regularity of his 
 habits now. Anyway, that window 
 whose blinds he dreaded to see flung 
 open at any moment troubled him. He 
 could no longer be comfortable, even in 
 his own room; a man would not have 
 been so bad, for women are more given 
 to moclving. How could he dare to play 
 his flute now? Surely he played too 
 poorly to suit a young lady who must 
 know something about music. So, by
 
 FOR A NIGHT 35 
 
 evening, after turning it all over in his 
 mind, he came to the conclusion that he 
 hated Therese. 
 
 Julien entered his room furtively. He 
 did not light the candle. So she could 
 not see him, at any rate. He decided to 
 go right to bed because he was in a bad 
 humor. But he could not resist an im- 
 pulse to find out what was going on 
 across the way. The T\indow did not 
 open. Only, towards ten o 'clock, a faint 
 light showed through the shutters. Af- 
 ter a while it went out, and he found 
 himself looking at the dark window. 
 Every evening, in spite of himself, he 
 began to spy. He watched the hotel 
 closely, and, as at the beginning, he 
 tried to note any little sounds which 
 might betoken that the old stones had 
 come to life again. Nothing seemed 
 changed. The ancient pile slept, as for- 
 merly, a deep undistui'bed slimiber. It
 
 36 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 would require acute observation to de- 
 tect any new life— as, for instance, on 
 rare occasions, a light passing by the 
 windows, the corner of a curtain disar- 
 ranged or a large chamber exposed to 
 view. Again, at times, a soft step 
 crossed the garden ; the distant tones of 
 a piano, accompanying a voice, floated 
 over; or somids still more vague were 
 heard— just a quiver, which told that 
 yoiuig blood was pulsing within the old 
 house. Julien accounted to himself for 
 his curiosity by pretending that all 
 these goings on annoyed him. How he 
 looked back with regret on the old days 
 when the empty Iwtel threw back to him 
 the sweet echo of his flute ! 
 
 But one of his most ardent vdshes, 
 though he would not admit it for a mo- 
 ment, was to see Therese again. He 
 pictured her with pink cheeks, a mock- 
 ing expression and brilliant eyes. But
 
 FOR A NIGHT 37 
 
 since he did not risk going near his 
 windows in the daytime, he saw nothing 
 but the night and its gloomy shadows. 
 One morning, as he was throwing open 
 his shutters to let in the sun, he caught 
 a glimpse of her standing in the middle 
 of her room. He remained rooted to the 
 spot, not daring to move. She seemed to 
 be in meditation, very tall, very pale, 
 with handsome regular features. He 
 -was almost afraid of her— she was so 
 different from the sprightly picture he 
 had imagined. Her mouth was a little 
 large and very red ; her eyes were deep 
 black and without lustre, which gave her 
 the appearance of a cruel queen. Slowly 
 she came to the window. But she did 
 not see him— as though he were too far 
 off. Then she walked away again, and 
 her rhythmic carriage was so graceful 
 that he felt weaker than a child in her 
 presence, despite his broad shoulders.
 
 38 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 And now, the young man's very exis- 
 'ceuee became miserable. This beautiful 
 young lady, grave and dignified, who 
 lived so near him, was his despair. She 
 never looked at him; she ignored his 
 being. But it made matters no better 
 when he imagined she noticed him and 
 found him lidiculous. His unhealthv 
 
 ft/ 
 
 bashfulness led him to believe that 
 she was actually sp}dng on his every 
 move, to make fun of him. He slipped 
 into his house like a thief and avoided 
 mo'sing about his room. Finally, by 
 the end of a month, he was reallv 
 suffering from the disdain of this girl. 
 Whv did she never notice him? She 
 would come to the window, sweep her 
 black eyes along the deserted street 
 and withdraw without seeming to be 
 aware of him, as he stood quivering 
 across the way. And just as he had for- 
 merly trembled at the idea of being seen
 
 FOR A NIGHT 39 
 
 by her, he now yearned with all his 
 heart that she should turn her eyes upon 
 hini. She had come to occupy every 
 hour of his life. 
 
 When Therese arose in the morning 
 he forgot the office, he who had been so 
 punctual. He was afraid of that white 
 face with the red lips ; but the fear was 
 delicious: he enjoyed it. Hidden be- 
 hind his curtain, he thrilled with the 
 terror which she inspired, until he felt 
 ill and his legs went w^eak, as though he 
 had walked over far. Sometimes he 
 pretended that she had noticed him, all 
 of a sudden, and that she smiled, and 
 that his fear was all gone. 
 
 And then the idea struck him to win 
 her with his flute. All through the 
 warm evenings he played patiently. He 
 left both windows open and played in 
 the dark— his oldest melodies, pas- 
 torals, simple as a child's ditties. He
 
 40 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 held the notes, and they trembled and 
 followed one another in plaintive ca- 
 dences, like love-sick ladies of the olden 
 time holding out their skirts for a curt- 
 sey. He chose the nights when there 
 was no moon. The square was dark; 
 no one could possibly know where this 
 s\^'eet song came from, brushing by the 
 sleeping houses like the soft wing of a 
 Dird of the night. And on the very first 
 evening, he was enraptured to see 
 Therese, robed for bed, all in white, 
 come to the window and rest her elbows 
 on the sill, surprised to hear once more 
 that music which had greeted her on the 
 night of her arrival. 
 
 ''Listen, Fran^oise," she said in her 
 low voice, turning back into the room. 
 "It isn't a bird.'^ 
 
 ''Oh, it must be some minstrel play- 
 ing on the road, far away,'^ answered
 
 FOR A NIGHT 41 
 
 the old woman, whom Julien could 
 just make out by her shadow. 
 
 ^'Yes. Very far away,'' repeated the 
 girl, after a pause, baring her arms to 
 the freshness of the night. 
 
 Thereafter, every evening Julien 
 played a little louder. His lips burned 
 with the music, and their warmth passed 
 into the old flute of yellow wood. And 
 each night Therese wondered at this 
 passionate music, which seemed to be 
 waiting to take' a step nearer. She was 
 quite certain that the player was com- 
 ing closer to her window ; sometimes she 
 stood on tiptoes to look over the house- 
 tops. Finally, one night,' the song 
 seemed so very near that she was quite 
 be^^ildered. She guessed it cam^e from 
 one of the sleeping houses on the square. 
 Julien breathed out all his passion, and 
 the old flute responded with tones of 
 crystal. The darlaiess made him so bold
 
 42 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 that he hoped to bring her over to him- 
 self by the sheer strength of his music. 
 And, surely enough, Therese leaned far 
 out, as though charmed and conquered. 
 
 ''Come in,'^ said the voice of the old 
 woman. ''A storm is brewing, and you 
 won't sleep well." 
 
 Tliat night Julien could not sleep at 
 all. He imagined that Therese had 
 found him out. Perhaps she had 
 actually seen him ! And as he tossed in 
 his bed he wondered whether he ought 
 not to show himself in the morning. 
 Surelv it would be ridiculous to hide 
 from her any longer. However, he de- 
 cided not to be seen. 
 
 But he hap2:)end to be at his window 
 at six o'clock, putting his flute back in 
 the case, when Therese 's shutters were 
 hastdy pushed open. The girl, who 
 never arose before eight o'clock, ap- 
 peared at the vdndow in a dressing-
 
 FOR A NIGHT 43 
 
 sacque and leaned on the sill, her hair 
 down about her shoulders. Julien was 
 struck dumb, looking her right in the 
 face and unable to turn away; and all 
 the while his awkward hands were striv- 
 ing vainly to carry the flute to his lips. 
 Therese, too, studied him, with a steady 
 and superior air. In a moment she 
 seemed to take in his coarse frame and 
 unwieldy body, with all its awkward- 
 ness and ugliness of a bashful giant. 
 And she was no longer the emotional 
 girl of the evening before. She was 
 haughty and very white, with her black 
 eyes and her red lips. When she had 
 passed upon him, as nonchalantly as she 
 would have decided whether a dog in 
 the street pleased her or not, she con- 
 demned him with an almost impercep- 
 tible movement. Then, turning her 
 back leisurely, closed the window. 
 Julien 's legs gave way and he
 
 44 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 dropped into his armchair. BrokeJi 
 sentences fell from him. "All, heaven! 
 She does not like me ! I who love her— 
 I— I— It will kill me!" He rocked his 
 head betwen his hands and sobbed. 
 "WTiy, why had he let her see him! 
 When a man is imgainly he should hide 
 himself, and not frighten women! He 
 abused himself, furious at his ugliness. 
 And now it was really true that he could 
 no longer go on playing his flute in the 
 dark, like a bird of the night, which 
 raiishes the heart by its song, but which 
 must never be seen by daylight if it 
 would please? He would gladly have 
 remained to her a sweet song, nothing 
 but an old-time melody of a mysterious 
 love. He would gladly have worshipped 
 her without ever meeting her, like a 
 Prince Charming come from afar and 
 djdng of the tender passion under her 
 window. But he had broken the spell
 
 FOR A NIGHT 45 
 
 in his coarseness and folly. Now she 
 knew him to be as clumsy as an ox, she 
 would never listen to his music again ! 
 
 And so it was. He might play his 
 tenderest airs, he might choose the 
 warmest evenings, balmy with the odor 
 of the foliage, Therese would not listen 
 —did not hear him. She went to and 
 fro in her room and sat at her window, 
 just as though there were nobody across 
 the way trying to sing his love in plain- 
 tive little notes. One dav, she even 
 cried: ^' Mercy! How annoying that 
 flute is, with its false notes!" And 
 thereupon he threw it into the bottom 
 of a drawer and never played again. 
 
 It should also be said that little Col- 
 ombel made fun of him. Once, on his 
 way to the notary's, he had looked up 
 at the window and had seen Julien prac- 
 tising a new tune, and every time he 
 passed thereafter he laughed malic-
 
 46 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 iously. Julieii knew that the notaiy^s 
 clerk was rer^^iyed by the Marsannes, 
 and this rileu iiim— not becaiise he was 
 merely jealous of this little abortion, but 
 that he would have given every drop of 
 his blood to be in his place for an hour. 
 Colombel 's mother, Fran^oise, had been 
 in tlie service of the house for many 
 years, and attended Mademoiselle 
 Therese now. x\nd besides, the young 
 noblewoman and the little peasant-fel- 
 low had growTi up together, and it was 
 but natural that they should continue 
 something of their old comradeship. 
 Julien suffered all the more when he 
 met Colombel in the streets, his lips 
 screwed up in a thin smile. And his 
 repulsion becam.e still greater when he 
 realised that the abortion had a pretty 
 face, a round head like a cat's, but very 
 delicate, engaging and diabolical; his 
 eyes were green and he wore a thin,
 
 FOR A NIGHT 47 
 
 sandy beard on his pointed cliin. Oh, if 
 he could only catch him now at a corner 
 of the ramparts, how he would make 
 him pay for the pleasure of meeting 
 Therese at home ! 
 
 A year slipped by. Julien was very 
 unhappy. He lived only for Therese. 
 His heart went out to that icy hotel 
 across the way, which had aroused his 
 aw^kward love. Every moment he had 
 to spare he came to spend here, his 
 eyes fixed on the side of that grey wall. 
 He knew every clod of moss by heart. 
 Little good it did him, these long 
 months, to keep his eyes open and his 
 ears intent; he learned nothing what- 
 ever of the inside of that solemn man- 
 sion, w^iere his heart was imprisoned. 
 Vague sounds, flitting lights drew Mm 
 to his feet. Did they mean feasts or 
 mourning^ He could not tell. All its 
 active life was confined to the other
 
 48 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 wing. He coiild dream whatever he 
 pleased, according to his moods. He 
 imagined her entertaining Colombel, or 
 walking slowly under the shade of the 
 chestnut trees, or whirled in the arms of 
 dancers, or sitting alone in quiet halls 
 to weep over some girlish disappoint- 
 ment. Perhaps it was only the mincing 
 step of the marquis or the marquise trot- 
 ting across the old floors that he imag- 
 ined he heard. But, in spite of his utter 
 ignorance, there was always her window 
 in the wall across the way, before his 
 eyes. Every day he saw Therese, mute 
 as a stone, without the slightest sign 
 to raise hope in his bosom. She awed 
 him: she remained so completely un- 
 kno"^Ti, so far away from him. 
 
 Julien's great occasions were when 
 the window remained open. Then he 
 could get a glimpse of the corners of 
 her room, while the girl was away. It
 
 FOR A NIGHT 49 
 
 took six months for him to learn that 
 the bed was on the left, in an alcove, 
 with pink silk curtains. At the end of 
 another six months he knew that across 
 from the bed was a Louis XV. bureau, 
 topped with a mirror in a porcelain 
 frame. Straight across he could see the 
 white marble fireplace. This room was 
 his dream of paradise. 
 
 His love was not without struggles. 
 For weeks he would keep himself hid- 
 den, ashamed of his ugliness. Then 
 anger would seize him. He felt he must 
 show his great body ; he must thrust into 
 prominence his ugly face, seared with 
 the marks of an old fever. At such 
 times he would keep coming to the win- 
 dow for weeks, and weary her with his 
 presence. Twice, he even threw her 
 burning kisses, with the brutality of 
 bashful people when sudden boldness 
 carries them away.
 
 50 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 Tlierese did not even seem to be an- 
 noyed. From Ins concealment lie saw 
 her come and go, with her regal air, 
 haughtier and colder than ever. He 
 was never able to catch her off her 
 gnard. If she happened to meet his 
 glance, she did not even hasten to turn 
 away. He simjily did not exist for her. 
 AVhen he heard it said at the post-office 
 that Mademoiselle de Marsanne was 
 very pious and very good, sometimes he 
 protested violently to himself. No! 
 No! She was without religion! She 
 loved blood ; that was why her lips were 
 so red! And the pallor of her com- 
 plexion came from mistiTisting every- 
 body! Then he would weep because he 
 had insulted her, and beg grace, as 
 though she were a saint Avrapped in the 
 purity of her wings. 
 
 During that first year, day followed 
 day without bringing any change.
 
 FOR A NIGHT 51 
 
 Wlieii summer cam,e again he experi- 
 enced a strange sensation. Therese 
 seemed to live in another world. The 
 little incidents were ahvays the same— 
 the shutters flung open in the morning 
 and drawn in at evening, and her usual 
 appearances at the accustomed hours. 
 But a different breath seemed to be ex- 
 haled by that room. Therese was paler 
 than ever, taller than ever. One day he- 
 dared for the third time to throw her 
 a kiss with the tips of his fingers. ShC' 
 looked straight at him fixedlj^ with that 
 discomforting gravity of hers, and did 
 not withdraw from the window. He 
 was the one to shrink, his face purple 
 with a blush. 
 
 One thing, toward the end of the sum- 
 mer, moved him deeply, although it 
 might be commonplace enough. About 
 twilight, almost every day, Therese 's 
 window which had been left partly open
 
 52 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 was slanuiied to, so the sash and latch 
 rattled. This noise made Julien trem- 
 ble with a sort of horror; and he was 
 tortured with anguish, without being 
 able to tell why. After this rough shock 
 the house would become so quiet that 
 he was afraid of the silence. For a long 
 while he could not make out the arm 
 which closed the mndow so, but one eve- 
 ning he recognized the pale hands of 
 Therese. It was she who turned the 
 latch so furiously. And when she 
 would open the window again, an hour 
 later, she did so without haste, with dig- 
 nity; she seemed tired and rested for a 
 moment. And then she would walk 
 back to the centre of her pure chamber, 
 busied with the little tasks of a young 
 girl. Julien was at a loss; the violent 
 creaking of the window latch kept run- 
 ning through his head. 
 
 One evening in particular, in the au-
 
 FOR A NIGHT 53 
 
 tuinn, when the weather was soft and 
 gentle, the latch received a frightful 
 twist. Julien shook and tears started to 
 his eyes, as he stood before the hotel, 
 which the shadows were fast swallowing 
 up. It had been raining in the morning, 
 and the chestnut trees, half dry, exhaled 
 an odor of death. Julien was waiting 
 for the window to open again. Sud- 
 denly it was flung open as violently as it 
 had been closed. Theresa appeared. She 
 was perfectly white, her eyes looked 
 very wide, and her hair tumbled about 
 her neck. She came and stood right in 
 front of the window. Then she delib- 
 erately pressed her ten fingers to her 
 red lips and threw a kiss to Julien. 
 
 Aghast, he struck his breast with his 
 fists, as though to ask if that kiss could 
 have been meant for him. Therese 
 thought he was drawing back. She 
 leaned further out, and pressing her ten
 
 54 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 fingers to lier red lips again, threw him 
 another kiss. And then a third. It was 
 as though she were responding to the 
 three kisses he had sent her. He re- 
 mained breathless. The twilight was 
 clear, and he could see her distinctly 
 outlined against the black of the open 
 window. She glanced up and down the 
 little square. Then in a smothered 
 voice she said one word: ''Come." 
 
 He hui'ried do^\Ti and crossed to the 
 hotel. As he raised his head the door 
 opened slightly— that moss-gro\^Ti door 
 which had been bolted for half-a-cen- 
 oury perhaps. But he was walking in a 
 trance ; he was no longer astonished at 
 anything. As soon as he wag inside the 
 door was closed, and he followed a little 
 hand, ice-cold, which led the way. He 
 mounted a flight of steps, crossed a cor- 
 ridor, passed through a first chamber, 
 and then found himself in one he knew
 
 FOR A NIGHT 55 
 
 well. It was his dream-paradise, the 
 room with the pink silk curtains. Day- 
 light was dying here with a sweet 
 lingering. He was tempted to drop on 
 his knees. But Therese stood before 
 him very straight, her hands tightly 
 clasped— so resolute that she conquered 
 a shudder which was coming over her. 
 
 *'You love me?" she asked in a low 
 voice. 
 
 ''Oh, ves!— Yes!— Yes!" he stam- 
 niered. 
 
 But with a gesture she bade him 
 waste no words. She spoke again, with 
 a dignity which seemed to make what 
 she said natural and chaste, even on the 
 lips of a young girl. 
 
 "If I give myself to you, you will do 
 whatever I ask; won't you?" 
 
 He could not speak, he clasped his 
 hands. For one kiss he would sell his 
 soul.
 
 56 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 ^^Yery well. I have something to ask 
 of you. ' ^ 
 
 Since he remained speechless, she 
 seemed to be struck by a new thought, 
 realizing that she had' exhausted her re- 
 sources and that she could dare no more, 
 she cried: 
 
 *'See!— You must swear first.— I 
 swear to keep my bargain.— Swear! 
 Swear!" 
 
 *'0h, I sw^ear! Oh, anj^thing you 
 wish!'* he replied, completely carried 
 away. 
 
 The fragrance of the chamber intox- 
 icated him. The curtains of the alcove 
 were drawn, and the bare thought of the 
 virgin bed in the subdued shadow of 
 pink silk filled him with an ecstasy. 
 And then with her hands, now strangely 
 brutal, she tore aside the curtains and 
 revealed the alcove, where the twilight 
 left a doubtful glow. The bed was in
 
 FOR A NIGHT 57 
 
 disorder; the covering trailed over the 
 edge and a pillow had fallen to the floor. 
 In the midst of the rumpled laces lay 
 the dead body of a man, barefoot, across 
 the bed. 
 
 ** There!" she explained in a stifled 
 voice. ''That man was my lover.— I 
 pushed him.— He fell.— I don't know 
 any more.— But he is dead. And you 
 must get rid of him. You understand ; 
 don't you? That's all. Yes. That's 
 all."
 
 58 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 III. 
 
 'Wlien she was still a very little girl, 
 Therese de Marsanne made Colombel 
 her fag. He was barely six months 
 older than she, and Fran^oise, his 
 mother, had managed to bring him up 
 on the bottle, so as to nurse the girl. 
 Later, having grovTi up in the house, he 
 occupied a nondescript position— some- 
 thing between a servant and a playfel- 
 low for the young girl. 
 
 Therese was a vixen. Not that she 
 was a tombov or boisterous : on the con- 
 trary, she maintained a singular grav- 
 ity, which led visitors, to v^^hom she was 
 very courteous, to regard her as an ex- 
 ceedingly well-mannered child. But 
 she had strange ways. "VATien she was 
 alone she would suddenly break forth 
 with inarticulate cries and foolish grim.-
 
 FOR A NIGHT 59 
 
 aces, or else she would lie down on her 
 back in the middle of a path in the 
 garden and refuse to get up, in spite of 
 all persuasion or correction. They 
 could never tell what she was thinking 
 of. Even in her large baby eyes there 
 was not the slightest sparkle; and, in- 
 stead of those clear mirrors where you 
 can read so accurately the whole soul of 
 a child, her eyes were sombre bottom- 
 less pits, as black as ink, which it was 
 impossible to fathom. 
 
 At the age of six she commenced to 
 torture Colombel. He was puny and 
 under-sized. She would take him to the 
 far end of the garden, under the chest- 
 nut trees, to a spot concealed by foliage, 
 and leaping upon his back make him 
 carry her. It was an hour's trip for 
 them around a large circle. She choked 
 him and spurred him with her heels, 
 without even giving him a breathing
 
 60 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 spell. He was the horse; she was the 
 ladv. And when he was overcome and 
 seemed about to sink, she would bite his 
 ear until it bled, and cling to him so 
 furiously that her little nails sank into 
 his flesh. Tlien he would spurt off at a 
 gaJlop again, and the cruel little queen 
 of six years flew in and out among the 
 trees, her hair streaming in the wind, 
 carried by the little boy who was her 
 horse. 
 
 Later she used to pinch him, even in 
 the presence of her parents; but she 
 foibade him to cry, under the continual 
 threat of having him put out of the 
 house if he mentioned their amuse- 
 ments. And so they had a sort of secret, 
 a manner when they were alone 
 together, which was completely changed 
 in company. When they were alone she 
 treated him like a toy, with a desire to 
 break him and see what was inside.
 
 FOR A NIGHT 61 
 
 Was she not a marquise, and was she 
 not used to seeing people at her feet? 
 And since they gave her a little boy to 
 play with, surely she could use him as 
 she pleased. When she got tired of 
 queening it over Colombel, when no one 
 was looking, she took the livelier pleas- 
 ure of kicking him or sticking a pin in 
 his arm ; but she so magnetized him with 
 her sombre eyes that he did not even 
 quiver. 
 
 Colombel stood this martyr's life with 
 mxute revolts which left him trembling, 
 eyes rooted upon the ground to over- 
 come the temptation of strangling his 
 young mistress. But he, too, was of a 
 surly temperament. It did not displease 
 him to be beaten. He found it a sort 
 of pleasure and even courted it, await- 
 ing her onslaught with a wild shudder, 
 strangely satisfied when he felt the sting 
 of the pin. And besides, he revelled in
 
 62 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 hatred. Soir.etinies he took his revenge 
 straightway, and dropped on the pave- 
 ment carrying Therese with him, fear- 
 less of breaking a limb, delighted when 
 she received a brnise. If he did not erv 
 when she pricked him in company, it 
 was so nobody should come between 
 them. It was an affair which concerned 
 the two of them only, a quarrel in which 
 he was sure that he should prove the 
 victor later on. 
 
 However, the marquis was becoming 
 uneasy about the violent behavior of his 
 daughter. They said she resembled one 
 of her uncles, who had led a terrible 
 life of adventure and who met his death 
 by assassination in a bad spot, at the end 
 of a faitbourg. The Marsannes had 
 quite a tragic strand in their family 
 history. Certain of its members, from 
 time to time, were bom with a strange 
 failing, out of the regular line mth its
 
 FOR A NIGHT 63 
 
 haughty dignity; and this failing was 
 like a strain of madness, a perversion of 
 the sentiments, a bad froth which 
 seemed for the time to mar the family 
 blood. And so, the marquis thought it 
 the part of prudence to subject Therese 
 to a strenuous education, and he 
 placed her in a convent, where he hoped 
 that the rigorous mle w^ould bend her 
 nature. There she had remained until 
 she was eighteen. 
 
 When Therese returned she was very 
 staid and tall. Her parents were de- 
 lighted to find her profoundly pious. In 
 church she was absorbed, her face be- 
 tween her hands. At home she diffused 
 the charm of innocence and peace. 
 They had only one fault to find ; she was 
 a gourmand, and ate candies from 
 morning to night. She had a way of 
 sucking them, her eyes half closed, with 
 a little thrill of her red lips. No one
 
 64 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 would have recognized tlie surly child 
 who used to come back from the garden 
 in tatters and would never tell at what 
 game she had torn her frock. Now the 
 marquis and marquise, shut up for fif- 
 teen years in their vast empty hotel, 
 thought it their duty to entertain once 
 more. They gave several dinners to the 
 nobility of the province. They even 
 gave a dance. Their purpose, of course, 
 was to marry Therese. And, in spite of 
 her coldness, she appeared quite oblig- 
 ing. She dressed and waltzed ; but her 
 face was so white that she made the 
 young men who presumed to court her 
 very uneasy. 
 
 Therese never mentioned little Co- 
 lombel. The marquis had taken an in- 
 terest in him and placed him with M. 
 Savoui'nin, with special instructions. 
 One day FranQoise brought the young 
 people together, reminding Therese of
 
 FOR A NIGHT 65 
 
 her former playmate. Colombel was 
 smiling, very dapper and not in the 
 least embarrassed. Therese looked at 
 him coldly, said she remembered him, 
 and then turned her back. But eight 
 days later Colombel came again, and 
 soon he fell into his old ways. He vis- 
 ited the hotel every evening after his 
 studies for the day were ended and 
 brought Therese new music and books 
 and albums. He was treated inconse- 
 quentially and sent errands like a ser- 
 vant or a poor relative. He became a de- 
 pendence of the household. And so quite 
 naturally he was often alone with the 
 young girl. As before, they shut them- 
 selves up in large apartments for fun, 
 and remained for hours in the shady 
 spots of the garden. Of course, they 
 didn't play at the old games. Therese 
 walked slowly, trailing her skirt over 
 the grass. Colombel, dressed like the
 
 66 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 best YOimg men in town, walked with 
 her, tapping the gronnd with the little 
 flexible cane he always carried. 
 
 Nevertheless, she w^as the queen and 
 he the slave as much as ever. To be 
 sure, she did not bite him any longer; 
 but she had a way of walking close to 
 him which belittled him and turned 
 him into a page holding the train of his 
 royal mistress. She tortured him by 
 her fantastic humors, now showing ut- 
 ter abandon in the extraordinary things 
 she said, and again stiffening into cold- 
 ness—just to amuse herself. AVhen her 
 back was turned he shot piercing 
 glances at her, sharp as a dagger, and 
 revealed his true nature of a vicious 
 boy meditating treachery. 
 
 One summer evening, when they had 
 been walking for a long while in the 
 heavy shadows of the chestnut trees,
 
 FOR A NIGHT 67 
 
 Therese turned to him, after a silence, 
 and said, with all gra\ity : 
 
 ''I am tired, Colombel. Suppose you 
 were to cany me as you used to do.— 
 You remember?" 
 
 He smiled a little, then replied quite 
 seriously : 
 
 *'I am willing, Therese." 
 
 But she walked on, simplj^ remark- 
 ing: 
 
 ' ' Very well. I onty wanted to know. ' ' 
 
 They continued their stroll. The 
 shades of evening were falling deep un- 
 der the trees. Thej^ were talking of a 
 lady of the town who had just married a 
 military man. As they were about to 
 enter a path narrower than the rest, the 
 young man stepped aside to allow her 
 to precede. But she stnick him vio- 
 lently and made him. w^alk before her. 
 Now" neither spoke. Then suddenly
 
 68 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 Therese leapt upon his shoulders with 
 all her old-time agilih^ of a wild cat. 
 
 **Now off!" she cried, in a changed 
 voice, choked with fury. She had 
 snatched away his cane and was bran- 
 dishing it about his legs. Clinging tight 
 to his shoulders, almost choking him be- 
 tween her mature thighs, she drove him 
 madly into the dark shadows of the 
 thicket. And she kept whipping him to 
 make him go faster. Colombel galloped 
 furiously over the grass. He did not say 
 a word; he only panted and stiffened 
 his legs under the warm burden of this 
 big girl wliich was bearing heavy on 
 his neck. 
 
 But when she cried **Whoa!" he did 
 not stop. He galloped still faster. His 
 hands, clasped behind her, held her so 
 tight that she could not leap do'\;\Ta. The 
 horse was running away with his mis- 
 tress. Suddenly, in spite of her lash-
 
 FOR A NIGHT 69 
 
 ing with the cane and her scratching, 
 he swerved toward a pagoda, where the 
 gardener kept his tools. There he threw 
 her on the straw and had his way with 
 her. At last his turn to rule had come. 
 Aftei-wards Therese was a little paler 
 than usual, her lips were redder and her 
 eyes blacker. She continued her life 
 of religious devotion. A few days 
 later the whole scene was re-enacted. 
 She leapt on ColombePs shoulders, 
 wishing to crush him, and ended by 
 being thrown on the straw of the pagoda 
 again. In public, she was very gracious 
 to him and treated him with the su- 
 periority of an elder sister. He was 
 smilingly polite. They remained, as 
 they had been at six years of age, 
 two vicious beasts turned loose, amusing 
 themselves by biting each other in 
 secret. Only now the male was the vic- 
 tor.
 
 70 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 Their love was terrible. Later The- 
 rese received liim in her chamber. She 
 had ^ven him a key to the little gate 
 in the garden which opened on the patli 
 from the ramparts. At night he had to 
 pass through an outer room, in which 
 his own mother slept. But the lovers 
 showed such audacious presence of 
 mind that no one suspected them for an 
 instant. They dared even to have tryst 
 in the da3i:ime. Colombel came before 
 dinner, and Therese only closed the 
 window. The desire to be together 
 was always upon them— not to whis- 
 per the tender love-words of lovers 
 of twenty, but to take up the hot com- 
 bat of their pride and sex. Oftentimes 
 a quarrel sprang up, and they abused 
 one another in low tones. More often 
 they were faii'ly trembling with rage 
 that they could not cry out and fight. 
 
 And so, one evening, before dinner,
 
 FOR A NIGHT 71 
 
 Colombel had come as usual. "While he 
 was walking up and down the room, he 
 had a sudden whim to seize Therese and 
 have his way by main force, then 
 and there. Therese struggled to free 
 herself, crying: 
 
 "Let go! You know I'm stronger 
 than you. I'll hurt you!" 
 
 Colombel only laughed. "Very well, 
 hurt me, ' ' he murmured. 
 
 He kept swinging her about to throw 
 her. Then she grappled with him. 
 They had often played at this game, to 
 satisfy their craving for fight. Often- 
 est it was Colombel who fell first, 
 breathless, his limbs lax and worn out. 
 He was so little she would gather him 
 up and crush him against her body. 
 
 But this time Therese slipped to her 
 knees, and Colombel with a sudden push 
 threw her back. He was on top in 
 triumph.
 
 72 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 **You see now, you are not the 
 stronger," he exclaimed, with a tantal- 
 izing sniile. 
 
 She had become livid. She got up 
 slowly and grappled with him again, 
 without a word. She shook so with 
 anger that he shuddered. Oh, to crush 
 him! To have done with him! To see 
 him there lifeless— beaten forever! For 
 a moment they struggled in silence, 
 their breath came hot and fast, their 
 limbs cracked under the strain. It was 
 no longer play. The cold thought of 
 homicide was on their heads. His 
 throat began to rattle. And, fearful 
 lest they should be overheard, she gave 
 him one last push with all her strength. 
 
 Therese was getting her breath. She 
 gathered up her hair before the mirror. 
 She pulled a strip of embroidery 
 from her skirt, which had been torn, 
 pretending not to heed the vanquished.
 
 FOR A NIGHT 73 
 
 He could manage to pick himself up. 
 Then she prodded him with her toe. 
 Finally, since he did not move, she bent 
 over him, with a little shiver in the back 
 of her neck. Colombel's face was as 
 pale as wax, his eyes glassy, his mouth 
 distorted. There was a hole in his right 
 temple; his head had struck the edge 
 of the biu'eau. Colombel was dead. 
 
 She arose, cold as ice. She spoke 
 aloud to herself in the silence : 
 
 ' * Dead ! He 's dead now ! ' ' 
 
 And suddenly the reality filled her 
 with frightful anguish. True enough, 
 a moment before she had wanted to kill 
 him. But that was only part of her na- 
 ture, a cloud of passion. One always 
 wants to kill when one is fighting. But 
 one does not always kill, because the 
 dead are disquieting. No! No! She 
 was not guilty ! She had not wished to 
 do this. In her own room— the idea!
 
 74 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 She continued to speak aloud in little 
 broken sentences. 
 
 '^AVell, it's done! He's dead, and lie 
 can't get out of here by himself." 
 
 A fever followed the cold stupor of 
 the first moment and welled up like a 
 wave of fire. There was a dead man in 
 her room. She could never explain his 
 presence there, barefoot and in shirt- 
 sleeves, with a gash in his temple. She 
 was lost. 
 
 Therese stooped and looked at the 
 woimd. But a sudden fear seized her, 
 leaning over the corpse. She heard 
 Fran^oise, Colombel's mother, passing 
 along the corridor, then other noises, 
 footsteps, voices— the preparations for 
 a dance which w^as being given that veiy 
 evening. They might call her or come 
 to look for her at anv moment. And 
 this dead man was with her— this lover
 
 FOR A NIGHT 75 
 
 whom she had killed and whose weight 
 was now on her guilty shoulders ! 
 
 Deafened by the noises in her head, 
 which were becoming louder and louder, 
 she rose and began to turn around the 
 room. She was looking for a hole into 
 which to thrust this dead man, who 
 threatened to ruin her future. She 
 peered under the furniture, into cor- 
 ners, shaking all the time at her help- 
 lessness. No. There was not a spot ; the 
 alcove was not deep enough, the closets 
 too narrow,— the room utterly refused 
 to help her. And yet it was here they 
 had found a place to hide their em- 
 braces! He used to come in with the 
 soft noise of a malicious cat, and he 
 used to go out in the same manner. She 
 never thought he could become so heavy. 
 
 Therese kept fretting, moving about 
 the room with the restless fury of a 
 beast at bay. Then she thought she had
 
 76 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 an inspiration. "What if she were just 
 to throw Colombel out of the window"? 
 No. AVlien they found him they would 
 easily guess where he had fallen from. 
 But meanwhile she had lifted the cur- 
 tain to look out into the street, and of a 
 sudden her eyes rested upon the young 
 man across the way— the imbecile who 
 played a flute at his window, as subdued 
 as a dog! She knew his sallow face so 
 well, always turned towards her; she 
 had become so tired of all its cowardly 
 devotion. At the sight of Julien, so 
 humble and so faithful, she stopped 
 abruptly. A smile lit up her colorless 
 face. Here was help— her salvation! 
 The imbecile loved her like a dog; he 
 would obey her, even to the commission 
 of a crime. And besides, she would re- 
 pay him with all her soul— with her 
 body. She had despised him because 
 he was so soft ; but she would love him
 
 FOR A NIGHT 77 
 
 now ; she would buy him at any price, if 
 he would dabble his hands in this blood 
 for her. Her red lips throbbed at the 
 thought of a new love which the 
 stranger might inspire. 
 
 Then deftly, as she would have man- 
 aged with a bundle of linen, she lifted 
 ColombePs body, carried it to her bed. 
 And, opening the window, threw those 
 three kisses to Julien.
 
 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 IV. 
 
 Jiilien Tvas in a trance. Wlien he 
 recognized Colombel on the bed he was 
 not surprised : he found it all quite clear 
 and natural. Yes. Only Colombel could 
 be in the recess of that alcove, his 
 temple gashed, his limbs stiffened in a 
 horrible posture. 
 
 Therese spoke to him for some time ; 
 he did not hear,— her words blurred into 
 a confused stupor. Then he realized 
 that she was giving him instructions, 
 and he listened. He must not leave the 
 room now; he must wait until midnight, 
 when the house would be dark. This 
 dance which the marquis was giving 
 would prevent them from acting before 
 that time; but, on the other hand, it 
 would be of some advantage, since 
 everybody would be too busy to think
 
 FOR A NIGHT 79 
 
 of coming up to her room, meanwhile. 
 At the appointed hour Julien would 
 take the body on his back, carry it down 
 and drop it into the Chanteelair, at the 
 foot of Beau-Soleil. The tranquillity 
 with which Therese unfolded this plan 
 was marvellous. 
 
 She stopped and, placing her hands on 
 the young man^s shoulders, asked him: 
 
 *'You understand me thoroughly? 
 Are we agreed?" 
 
 He trembled. *'0h, yes, yes! Any- 
 thing you ask ! I am yours ! ' ' 
 
 Then she leaned towards him. He 
 did not seem to understand. So she 
 said : 
 
 "Kiss me." 
 
 Quivering, he imprinted a long kiss 
 on her cold forehead. And both of them 
 kept their silence. 
 
 Therese had drawn the curtains of 
 the bed again. She dropped into an
 
 80 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 aniicliair and rested, deep in the 
 shadow. After a moment Julien noticed 
 that he was still standing and took a 
 chair. Frangoise had left the next 
 room, and only confused, distant sounds 
 came up at intervals. The chamber 
 seemed to fall asleep, filling little by 
 little ^\ith shadows. 
 
 For nearly an hour nothing moved. 
 Great throbs kept beating in his head 
 and prevented him from thinking. He 
 was in Therese's room, and that filled 
 him with satisfaction. Then suddenly, 
 when he recollected that there was a 
 corpse at the back of that alcove, the 
 curtains brushing against his hand 
 made him shiver. He felt weak. She 
 had loved that abortion— merciful hea- 
 ven, was it possible! He forgave her 
 for having killed it. He could not ac- 
 cuse her of any wrong. But what 
 kindled his blood was the thought of
 
 FOR A NIGHT 81 
 
 Colombel's bare feet in the laces of her 
 bed! What a pleasure it would be to 
 drop him into the Chanteclair, from 
 the end of the bridge, in a deep, dark 
 spot of the stream he knew well ! Then 
 they would both be free— for each 
 other! And at this thought of happi- 
 ness, which he had not dared to dream 
 that morning, he seemed to see himself 
 on the bed, in the very spot where the 
 corpse now lay; but the spot was very 
 cold, and he was overcome with a fright- 
 ful repugnance. 
 
 Therese sat doubled up in her arm- 
 chair. She did not stir. Outlined 
 against the light of the window he saw 
 only the soft knot of her hair. She re- 
 mained with her face buried in her 
 hands, so it was impossible to guess the 
 thoughts which absorbed her. Was it 
 only the reaction after the frightful or- 
 deal she had been through? Or was it
 
 82 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 crusliing remorse— a regret for that 
 lover wrapped in his last sleep? Was 
 she quietly perfecting their plans of 
 safety or was she hiding the signs of an 
 awful fear on her face plunged in 
 shadow? He could not imagine. 
 
 The clock stnick in the silence. The- 
 rese rose slowlj^ and lighted the candles 
 on her bureau, and she was once more 
 thoroughly possessed of her usual calm 
 —beautiful, easy, strong. She seemed 
 to have forgotten the dead man behind 
 the pink silk curtains. She came and 
 went with the even step of one busied 
 in the jorivacy of her room. Then while 
 she undid her hair she said to Julien 
 without even turning: 
 
 "I must dress for this dance. If any- 
 one comes jovL will hide in the alcove." 
 
 He sat there watching her. She 
 treated him like a lover already, as 
 though the bloody complicity which she
 
 FOR A NIGHT 8a 
 
 had raised between them united them in 
 a tie of intimacy. 
 
 Her long arms raised high, she was 
 doing her hair. He could not take his 
 eyes from her. He quivered at the sight 
 of her bare neck and the languid move- 
 ments of her pointed elbows and slender 
 hands as they rolled up her tresses. 
 Was she trying to bewitch him by dang- 
 ling before his eyes the prize he was 
 about to earn, so as to make him strong ? 
 
 She was changing her shoes when 
 they heard a noise. 
 
 ''Quick! Hide in the alcove!" she 
 said in a whisper. 
 
 And with a prompt move she threw 
 over the rigid body of Colombel the lin- 
 gerie she had just taken off— still warm 
 from her skin. Fran^oise came in and 
 announced : 
 
 ''They are waiting for you, Mademoi- 
 seUe."
 
 84 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 a 
 
 'I*m coming," answered Therese 
 quietly. ** Wait— you can help me with 
 my dress.'' 
 
 Through an opening in the curtains 
 Julien could see the two women. He 
 trembled at the girl's boldness and his 
 teeth chattered so lively that he held 
 his hand over his mouth to stifle the 
 sound. Right next to him, under a 
 waist of Therese 's, he saw Colombel's 
 foot hanging over the edge of the bed. 
 ."What if Francoise, his own mother, 
 should happen to pull aside that cur- 
 tain and stmnble over her son's foot- 
 that bare foot that stuck out! 
 
 *' Carefully," Therese was saying, 
 **Go gently— you'll crush the flowers." 
 
 There wasn't the least trace of emo- 
 tion in her voice. She was smiling now, 
 like a girl preparing for the ball. The 
 dress was white silk trimmed with eg- 
 lantine—white flowers with a spot of
 
 FOR A NIGHT 85 
 
 red at the heart. And as she stood in 
 the centre of the room she was like a 
 great bouquet of virgin whiteness. Her 
 bare arms and neck were as white as 
 the silk itself. 
 
 *^0h, how pretty you look! How 
 pretty you look!" repeated the satis- 
 fied old woman. "But your wreath! 
 Wait " 
 
 She seemed to be searching for it, and 
 her hand came near the curtain as 
 though to look on the bed. Julien al- 
 most allowed a cry of anguish to escape 
 him. But Therese said leisurely, smil- 
 ing all the while in her mirror : 
 
 *' There it is— on that press. Give it 
 to me. Oh, no. Don't touch my bed. 
 I Ve arranged some things there. You'll 
 disarrange everything." 
 
 FranQoise helped her put the spray of 
 eglantine in her hair, with just an end 
 falling over the neck. Then Therese
 
 S6 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 stood befoi'e the mirror a moment 
 longer— satisfied. She was quite ready ; 
 she was drawing on her gloves. 
 
 ^*Ah, my dear," cried Fran^oise, 
 "there are no girls as white as you, even 
 in the church!" 
 
 This compliment made her smile 
 again. She took a last look in her mir- 
 ror and turned toward the door. 
 
 "Come; let us go down. You can 
 snuff the candles," she said. 
 
 In the sudden darkness which fol- 
 lowed Julien heard the door shut and 
 Therese's dress sweep along the cor- 
 ridor. He sat on the floor, next the bed, 
 not yet daring to come out of the alcove. 
 Dark night had thrown a veil before his 
 eyes, but he could feel the presence of 
 that bare foot. It seemed to chill the 
 whole room. He had been there for a 
 time, which he had failed to note, v/hen 
 the door opened again. By the littlo
 
 FOR A NIGHT 87 
 
 Svvish of silk he knew it was Therese. 
 She did not come in ; she only stooped to 
 set something down and murmured : 
 
 ''Listen. You can't have dined. You 
 must eat something. Do you hear?" 
 
 The little swish was repeated as her 
 dress trailed along the corridor again. 
 Julien started and stood up. He was 
 becoming stiff in the alcove; he could 
 not remain crouched against that bed 
 any longer beside Colombel. The clock 
 struck eight. Four hours more. He be- 
 gan to walk softly. 
 
 A faint light, the glow of a starlit 
 night, enabled him to make out the dark 
 shapes of the furniture. Some of the 
 corners were pitch black. But the mir- 
 ror retained a reflection as of old silver. 
 He was not naturally timorous; but in 
 that room at times the sweat stood out 
 on his forehead. All around him the 
 black masses of the furniture seemed
 
 88 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 to move, to take on menacing shapes. 
 Three times he thought he heard dis- 
 tinctly sighs from the alcove. He 
 stopped, rooted. AYlien he listened in- 
 tently he knew it was the sound of 
 revelry below— dance-music and the 
 ripple of laughter of the crowd. He 
 closed his eyes ; and, instead of the dark 
 chamber, he saw a burst of light, a bril- 
 liant hall and Therese in her white 
 dress swept by to a waltz-strain on the 
 arm of a dancer. The liotel was re- 
 sounding with gay music. He was alone 
 in this abominable corner, left to quake 
 with terror. For a moment he stag- 
 gered; his hair stood on end. He 
 thought he saw a white light in one of 
 the chairs. When he got courage to go 
 near and touch it he found a white satin 
 waist. He picked it up and buried his 
 face in it. 
 
 Oh, what rapture ! He wanted to for-
 
 FOR A NIGHT 89 
 
 get everything. No. It was no longer 
 a death watch; it was a vigil of love! 
 He pressed his forehead against the 
 window-pane, still holding the satin to 
 his lips. And he told over the story of 
 his heart. Across the way he saw his 
 room ; the mndows were still open as he 
 had left them. There it was that he 
 had won Therese by his long evenings 
 of music. The old flute sang his love, 
 made his vows and its trembling voice 
 was so sweet and timid that the girl 
 was conquered, and had at last smiled 
 upon him. This satin he was kissing 
 was hers, a bit of remembrance she had 
 left him to keep him from losing in- 
 terest. His dream became so vi^dd 
 that he left the window and ran to the 
 door, thinking he heard her coming. 
 
 The chill of the room fell about his 
 shoulders, and he was disillusioned. He 
 remembered. Then a mad decision
 
 90 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 seized him. He would not wait; he 
 would come back this very night. She 
 was too beautiful. He loved her too 
 much. When a man loves guiltily he 
 loves madlv. Of course he would come 
 back, and running so as not to lose a mo- 
 ment, when once he had dropped his 
 load into the river. , And like a mad- 
 man, shaken by a spasm, he pressed the 
 satin against his face to choke his pas- 
 sionate sobs. 
 
 Ten o'clock struck. He listened. It 
 seemed to him years had passed. He 
 waited stupidly. Finding bread and 
 fruit under his hand, he ate ravenously, 
 standing; he had a pain in his stomach 
 which he could not appease. This would 
 make him stronger doubtless. But 
 when he had eaten he was overcome 
 with a great weariness. It seemed the 
 night would never be over. DoAvnstairs 
 the music sounded louder. Now and
 
 FOR A NIGHT 91 
 
 then he felt the throb of the dancing in 
 the floor. Carriages began to roll up 
 the drive. He was watching the door 
 closely when he saw the keyhole light 
 up like a little star. He did not even 
 conceal himself. If anyone came, so 
 much the worse ! 
 
 "No, thank you, Frangoise," Therese 
 was saying as she appeared with a 
 candle in her hand. "I can get along 
 verv well alone. Go to bed. You must 
 be tired." 
 
 She closed the door and locked it. 
 Then she stood still for a moment, her 
 finger on her lips, and holding the 
 candlestick. Even the dance had not 
 brought the least streak of color to her 
 cheeks. She did not speak, but set down 
 the candlestick and sat opposite Julien. 
 For almost half-an-hour they w^aited, 
 looking at each other. 
 
 The doors had been closed. The hotel
 
 92 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 was falling asleep. But what troubled 
 Therese ^Yas the proximity of Fran- 
 ^oise, who slept in the next room. They 
 could hear her moving about for a while. 
 Then her bed creaked ; she had retired. 
 For a long time she kept shifting about, 
 as though imable to sleep, but at last 
 the sound of strong and regular breath- 
 ing came through the wall. 
 
 Therese was watching Julien gravely 
 all the while. Now she said only one 
 word : 
 
 ''Come." 
 
 They drew aside the curtains. They 
 decided to clothe little Colombel fully. 
 He was already as stiff as a puppet. 
 When thev had finished this loathsom.e 
 task both their foreheads were wet w^ith 
 perspiration. 
 
 "Come,'^ she said a second time. 
 
 With one swing Julien lifted little 
 Colombel. He carried him on his shoul-
 
 FOR A NIGHT 93 
 
 ders as a butcher carries a carcass. He 
 stooped his great height and the feet of 
 the corpse were a yard from the floor. 
 
 *'I'll walk in front of you," mur- 
 mured Therese hastily. **I'll lead you 
 by your coat; you need only follow. 
 And go gently." 
 
 They had to pass through Fran^oise's 
 room first of all. It was a dreadful or- 
 deal. They had almost got through 
 when one leg of the corpse struck 
 against a chair. Frangoise awoke at the 
 noise. They heard her raise her head, 
 mumbling. And they stood still. The- 
 rese leaned against the door; he bent 
 under the weight of the body, both fear- 
 ful lest the mother might catch them 
 carrying her son to the river. It was a 
 moment of awful suspense. At last 
 Fran^oise appeared to go to sleep again, 
 and they moved on to the corridor 
 cautiously.
 
 94 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 But here another shock awaited them. 
 The marquise had not yet retired, and 
 a soft light filtered out at her door, 
 which was partly open. They dared 
 neither advance nor retreat. JuHen 
 felt that little Colombel was slipping 
 from his shoulders, and would fall if 
 they had to pass through Francoise's 
 room again. For nearly a quarter-of- 
 an-hour they did not move. And The- 
 rese had the awful courage to help hold 
 up the body, so that Julien should not 
 be worn out. Finally the thread of light 
 disappeared; they could make the 
 street. They were safe. 
 
 Therese opened the old deserted hall- 
 door again, softly. And when Julien 
 reached the middle of the square 
 Quatre-Femmes with his burden and 
 looked back, he saw her standing at the 
 top of the stoop, bare armed and all 
 white in her ball-dress. She was wait- 
 ing for him.
 
 FOR A NIGHT 95 
 
 V. 
 
 Julien was as strong as an ox. When 
 he was very young he had amused him- 
 self in a neighboring forest helping the 
 Imnbermen, and he used to lift tree- 
 trunks on his shoulders. So he carried 
 Colombel like a feather ; the little abor- 
 tion was no heavier on his back than 
 a bird now. He scarcely felt the 
 weight, and he was seized with a wicked 
 joy to find him so light, so delicate, 
 so like nothing at all. Little Colom- 
 bel would never grin again, passing 
 under his window when he was playing 
 his flute ; would never tantalize him any 
 more with his airs. And at the thought 
 that he was carrying a successful rival 
 thus, stiff and cold, Julien felt a shud- 
 der of satisfaction run down his back. 
 He shifted the load higher on his neck
 
 96 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 and gritted his teeth and hastened his 
 pace. 
 
 The town was dark. But there was 
 a light in one window on the square 
 Quatre-Femmes, in Captain Pidoux's 
 window. Doubtless the captain was in- 
 disposed. You could see the silhouette 
 of his corpulence moving to and fro be- 
 hind the curtains. Julien was uneasy 
 and crept along close to the houses on 
 the other side of the way. A sudden 
 noise froze him. He stopped in a door- 
 way. It was the notary Savoumin's 
 wife ; she was getting a breath of air at 
 her window, and looking up at the stars 
 with long sighs. Ordinarily at this hour 
 the square Quatre-Femmes was wrap- 
 ped in deep slumber. Happily, Ma- 
 dame Savournin soon withdrew to the 
 pillow of Maitre Savournin, whose snor- 
 ing reached the street through the open 
 window. And as soon as it was closed
 
 FOR A NIGHT 97 
 
 Julien crossed the square rapidly, with 
 the rotund profile of Captain Pidoux 
 always before his eyes. 
 
 In the narrow street Beau-Soleil he 
 felt easier. Here the houses were so 
 close together and the pavement so 
 winding that the starlight could not 
 penetrate to the bottom of this cavern 
 —simply a thread of shadow. As soon 
 as he found himself thus sheltered he 
 was carried away with an irresistible 
 desire to run. It was dangerous and 
 very stupid and he was keenly aware 
 of the fact, but he could not stop gallop- 
 ing. He felt behind him the empty 
 square Quatre-Femmes, with the 
 windows of the notary's wife and the 
 captain lighted up, like two large eyes 
 watching him. His shoes clattered on 
 the pavement so loud that he was sure he 
 was being pursued. Then suddenly he 
 halted. A few yards off he heard the
 
 98 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 voices of the officers who boarded at the 
 inn on Beau-Soleil, kept by an old 
 woman with blonde hair. They must be 
 celebrating the promotion of some com- 
 rade. Julien knew that if they came up 
 the street he was lost. There was no 
 side alley into which he might slip, and 
 it was too late to escape by turning 
 back. He heard the stamp of boots and 
 the clatter of sabres. For a full mo- 
 ment he could not tell whether they were 
 drawing nearer or going the other way. 
 But by degrees the sound died out. He 
 waited a little longer and then decided 
 to push on. But this time he walked 
 softly; he would have liked to be bare- 
 foot if he had dared take the time to 
 pull off his shoes. 
 
 At last, Julien stole out through the 
 city gate. There was neither watch- 
 tower nor any kind of sentinel. So he 
 could pass freely. But the sudden con-
 
 FOR A NIGHT 99 
 
 trast of the open country terrified him, 
 upon coming out of the narrow street of 
 Beau-Soleil. The landscape was all 
 blue, a very faint blue. A soft wind 
 w^as stirring, and it seemed to him that 
 an immense crowed was waiting, and he 
 felt their breath in his face. He 
 imagined he was seen. A dreadful hue 
 and cry went up and nailed him to the 
 spot. 
 
 However, there was the bridge. He 
 could make out the white road and the 
 two parapets, low and grey, like stone 
 benches. He heard the musical swish 
 of the Chanteclair among the rushes. 
 And then he risked it; he walked 
 crouching and avoided the open, to 
 elude the thousands of mute witnesses 
 which he felt all around him. The spot 
 he dreaded most of all was the bridge 
 itself, on which he must be quite un- 
 sheltered, in view of the whole town,
 
 100 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 built up like an ampliitlieatre. And he 
 wanted to go to the other end of the 
 bridge, to the very place where he 
 always used to sit with his legs hanging 
 over, to get the air on fine evenings. 
 There was a spot in the Chanteelair, a 
 great hole, placid and dark, hollowed 
 out by little rapids and the deep action 
 of a whirlpool. How often he had 
 amused himself by dropping stones into 
 this sheet of water to fathom its depth 
 by the ripples! With a last effort of 
 his will he crossed the bridge. 
 
 Yes, this was the spot. Julien recog- 
 nized the slab of the railing, smoothed 
 by long use. He leaned over and saw 
 the eddy with its little smiling currents. 
 He set his burden down on the parapet. 
 Before throwing him over he had an ir- 
 resistible longing to look at little Co- 
 lombel once more. Every eye in the 
 town upon him could not have deterred
 
 FOR A NIGHT 101 
 
 him from this satisfaction. He looked 
 the corpse in the face for several sec- 
 onds. The hole in the temple had 
 turned black. A wagon far off in the 
 sleeping country sounded like long 
 broken sobs. Then Julien hurried. To 
 avoid a loud splash he would break the 
 fall and let it down gently, so he took 
 hold of the body and leaned over with 
 it. But he did not know how the arms 
 of the dead man would cling to his neck 
 and pull him along. He saved himself 
 miraculously by gripping a projection 
 of the ledge. And so little Oolombel 
 wanted to take him along! 
 
 When he was once more sitting on the 
 parapet he was overcome with weak- 
 ness. He remained there, worn out, his 
 back doubled up and his legs swinging, 
 relaxed, like a man who had walked 
 very far, just as he had sat there so 
 often before. And he looked down into
 
 102 FOE A NIGHT 
 
 the sleeping water, where the smiling 
 dimities were beginning to reappear. 
 One thing certain, little Colombel had 
 wanted to take him along; he had 
 caught him about the neck with his dead 
 hands. But that was all over now. He 
 took deep breaths of the fresh country 
 air. He followed the silver course of 
 the river between the velvet shadows 
 of the trees. And this spot in nature 
 seemed to him like a promise of peace, a 
 ceaseless lullaby. 
 
 Then he recalled Therese. She was 
 waiting for him. He could see her at 
 this very moment, at the top of that 
 iTiined stoop, on the moss-groT\Ti door- 
 step. How straight she stood in her 
 white silk dress trimmed with eglantine 
 —each with its little red heart! Per- 
 haps she was getting chilled. Then she 
 must have gone up to wait in her room,
 
 FOR A NIGHT 103 
 
 and had left the door open and gone to 
 bed. 
 
 Ah, what sweet thoughts ! Never be- 
 fore had a woman waited for him. 
 Another moment and he would be at the 
 promised rendezvous. But his limbs 
 were getting so heavy, he was afraid he 
 was falling asleep. Was he a coward 
 after all? And to arouse himself he 
 pictured Therese in her room. As he 
 had seen her, he saw her again— her 
 arms raised and her neck bent, shaking 
 out her soft tresses with those white 
 hands. He urged himself with such 
 recollections— the fragrance and soft- 
 ness of that dream-paradise, where he 
 had drunk of madness. Was he going to 
 let all this love, held out to him, with 
 w^hich his lips were already afire, slip 
 by ? He would crawl if his legs refused 
 to carry him! 
 
 But the battle was already lost. His
 
 104 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 love, overpowered, was in its death 
 throes. There was only one thing he 
 must have— sleep— sleep. The picture 
 of Therese was fading; a black wall 
 was shutting it out. To save his life 
 he could not have lifted his finger as 
 high as his shoulder. His d}dng pas- 
 sion savored somehow of a corpse. Oh, 
 it was impossible; the ceiling would 
 have fallen on their heads if he had 
 gone back to that room and taken the 
 girl to his bosom! 
 
 To sleep— just to sleep on forever! 
 How good it would be when there wasn*t 
 anything to make waking worth while! 
 He wouldn 't go to the office to-morrow ; 
 what was the use? He wouldn't play 
 his flute any more. He wouldn't sit at 
 his window. Wlcij not sleep forever? 
 His life was full: he might as well lie 
 do^vn. And he looked into the river 
 again to see if little Colombel was still
 
 FOR A NIGHT 105 
 
 there. Colombel had been a clever boy; 
 he knew what he was doing when he had 
 tried to drag him along. 
 
 There was the water, rippled with the 
 dancing laughter of its eddies. The 
 Chanteclair was singing softly, while 
 one large shadow spread over the land- 
 scape—sovereign peace. Julien mur- 
 mured the name of Therese three times. 
 Then he let himself fall, and turned 
 like a bundle. There was a great splash 
 and some spray. And the Chanteclair 
 took up its song in the sedge. 
 
 When they found the two bodies 
 everyone immediately thought of a 
 struggle. They made up the whole 
 storv : Julien must have lain in wait for 
 little Colombel to avenge himself for all 
 the mocking; he must have struck him 
 in the temple with a stone, and then 
 thrown himself into the river. 
 
 Three months later Mademoiselle
 
 106 FOR A NIGHT 
 
 Tlierese de Marsanne wedded the young 
 Oomte de Veteuil. She wore white, and 
 her face was cahn and full of lofty 
 purity.
 
 THE MAID OF THE DAWBER
 
 The Maid of the Dawber 
 
 She is still in bed, half bare, smiling, 
 her head turned away and her eyes full 
 of sleep. One of her arms is lost in her 
 hair, and the other hangs over the edge 
 of the bed, the hand open. The count in 
 slippers stands before one of the 
 windows and rims up the shade. He is 
 smoking a cigar with an air of absorp- 
 tion. 
 
 You all know her. She was twenty 
 yesterday, and looks sixteen. She wears 
 the most magnificent crown that heaven 
 has ever bestowed upon one of its 
 angels, a crown of brown gold, the royal 
 crown of a deep blonde, soft and strong 
 as a lion's mane, glossy as a skein of 
 
 109
 
 110 THE MAID OF 
 
 silk. The wave of flame rolls about her 
 neck. Each mesh has its little revolts, 
 straightens itself and then rmis out very 
 long. The curls fall, the tresses glide 
 and roll; the entire mass glows like a 
 sunburst. And under the fire, in the 
 midst of its splendor, appears the nape 
 of a neck white and delicate, pale shoul- 
 ders and full breasts. Irresistible se- 
 duction dwells on that fair throat, peep- 
 ing out discreetly from the hair of in- 
 solent redness. Passion kindles and 
 burns when your eyes lose themselves 
 upon the neck of tender lights and 
 golden shadows. Here are the tawny 
 beast and the child, boldness and inno- 
 cence, intoxication which draws terrible 
 kisses. 
 
 Is she pretty *? It is hard to say : her 
 face is hidden by her hair. She must 
 have a low forehead: eves narrow and 
 long, gre\dsh. Her nose is doubtless ir-
 
 THE DAWBER 111 
 
 regular, capricious; her mouth a little 
 large, pale rose. AVhat matter for the 
 rest? You could not analyse her fea- 
 tures or stop over the contour of her 
 face. She confuses at first sight, as a 
 strong wine does at the first glass. You 
 see nothing but a whiteness in a red 
 flame, a rosy smile; and her glance is 
 like the flash of silver in the sunlight. 
 She turns her head and you are too far 
 gone already to study her perfections 
 one by one. She is of medium stature^ 
 just a little slow and heavy in her move- 
 ments. Her hands and feet are like a 
 little girl's. Her whole body expresses 
 indolent pleasure. One of her bare 
 amis, full and dazzling, provokes a ver- 
 tigo of desire. She is queen of May 
 evenings, queen of loves that last for a 
 night. 
 
 She leans on her left arm, slightly 
 bent. She will soon rise. Meanwhile
 
 112 THE MAID OF 
 
 she half opens her eyelids to get them 
 accustomed to the daylight and the pale 
 blue bed-curtains. She lies lost in the 
 lace of her pillows. She seems ingulfed 
 in the delicious moisture and fatigue of 
 awakening. Her body is stretched out, 
 white and motionless, gently stirring 
 with a soft sigh. Rosy palenesses ap- 
 pear here and there, where the batiste 
 stretches. Nothing could be richer than 
 this bed and the woman lying upon it. 
 The di^dne swan has a nest worthy of 
 her. 
 
 The chamber is a marvel, a delicate 
 blue, sweet and reserved. The colors 
 and the perfume are refreshing. The 
 air is languishing^ thrilling and cool. 
 The curtains hang in large, lazy folds. 
 The carpet lies deaf and mute. The 
 silence of this temple, the softness of 
 the lights, the prudence of the shadows, 
 the purity of the furnishings remind
 
 THE DAWBER 113 
 
 one of a goddess, who unites all the 
 graces with all the elegancies. Surely 
 she was reared in milk baths. Her del- 
 icate limbs bespeak the noble indolence 
 of her life. It is amusing to fancy that 
 her soul is just as white as her body. 
 
 The count is finishing his cigar, keenly 
 interested in a horse which has just 
 fallen in the Champs, and which they 
 are trying to get upon his feet. The 
 poor beast has fallen on his left flank, 
 and the shaft must be breaking his ribs.
 
 114 THE MAID OF 
 
 II. 
 
 At the back of the chamber, on her 
 perfumed bed, the wonderful creature 
 is awakening, little by little. Now she 
 has opened her eyes wide, but remains 
 motionless. The mind is awake, the 
 flesh asleep. She is dreaming. To what 
 luminous sphere has she been soaring? 
 What legions of angels are passing be- 
 fore her and bring a smile to her lips? 
 '\Aniat project, what pretty task is she 
 meditating? What first thought, dawn 
 of her awakening, has just surprised 
 her? Her wide-open eyes are fixed on 
 the curtain. She has not yet stirred. 
 She is lost in her dreams, and only her 
 eyelids blink at intervals. She is long 
 caressing her thoughts. 
 
 Then briskly, as though obe^dng a 
 sharp call, she stretches forth her
 
 THE DAWBER 115 
 
 feet and springs lightly to the carpet. 
 The statue has come to life. She tosses 
 back from her forehead the hair, which 
 winds flaming about her shoulders of 
 snow. She gathers up her laces, slips 
 into her blue velvet mules, crosses her 
 arms in a charming pose; and then, 
 half-stooping, her shoulders arched, 
 pouting like a mischievous child, she 
 trots off rapidly, noiselessly, and lifting 
 a portiere, disappears. 
 
 The coimt throws away his cigar with 
 a sigh of satisfaction. The horse in 
 the street is up. A lash of a whip 
 brought the poor animal to its feet. 
 The count turns and sees the empty bed. 
 He looks at it a mom.ent; then advances 
 leisurely, and sittins: on the edge, begins 
 in his turn to study the pale blue cur- 
 tain. 
 
 A woman's face is brazen: a man's is 
 like a clear spring which reveals all the
 
 116 THE MAID OF 
 
 secrets of its limpidity. The count is 
 studying the curtain, and figures me- 
 chanically how much it should have cost 
 a yard. He adds and multiplies, for 
 mere distraction, and concludes with a 
 large figure. Then involuntarily, car- 
 ried away by the relation of ideas, he 
 sets a valuation on the whole bedcham- 
 ber, and arrives at an enormous total. 
 His hand rests on the bed, below the 
 pillow. The spot is warm. The count 
 forgets the temple to think of the idol. 
 He studies the bed, that voluptuous dis- 
 order which every fair sleeper leaves 
 behind her ; and at the sight of a golden 
 hair, glistening on the whiteness of the 
 pillow, he loses himself in thought of 
 this woman. Then two ideas unite : he 
 thinks of the woman and of the chamber 
 at the same time. He amuses himself 
 with a long comparison of the woman 
 and the furniture, the draperies and the
 
 THE DAWBER 117 
 
 carpet. Everjrthing is harmonious. 
 Here the count's revery strays, and 
 by one of those inexplicable mysteries 
 of human thought his boots claim his 
 attention. Suggested by nothing, they 
 suddenly take possession of his whole 
 mind. He recalls that for about three 
 months every morning when he has left 
 this room he has found his boots blacked 
 and polished. He wonders in this recol- 
 lection. 
 
 The chamber is splendid. The woman 
 simply divine. The count is staring 
 again at the sky-blue curtains and the 
 single golden hair on the linen. He com- 
 pliments himself, declaring that he 
 righted an error of Providence when he 
 installed in satin this queen of grace, 
 whom chance bore to a sewer-cleaner 
 and a porteress at the foot of a dark 
 alley, near Fontainebleau. He praises 
 himself for having given a soft nest
 
 118 THE MAID OF 
 
 to this marvel for the mere sum of five 
 or six thousand francs. He rises and 
 walks a few paces. He is lonesome. 
 He recalls that for three months he has 
 been left alone thus every morning for 
 a full quarter of an hour. And then, 
 without curiosity, just for the sake of 
 doing something, he lifts the portieres 
 and disappears in his turn.
 
 THE DAWBER 119 
 
 III. 
 
 The count passes through a long suite 
 of rooms, where he finds nobody. But 
 returning, he hears in a closet a violent 
 and continued sound of brushing. 
 Thinking that it is a servant, and wish- 
 ing to question her as to her mistress' 
 absence, he opens the door and looks in. 
 And he stops on the threshold, gaping, 
 stupefied. 
 
 The closet is small, painted yellow, 
 with a brown base the height of a man. 
 In one corner there is a pail and a large 
 sponge, in another a broom and a 
 feather-duster. A bay-window throws a 
 stiff light on the bareness of this store- 
 room, very high and ver^^ narrow. The 
 air is damp and fresh. 
 
 In the centre, on a straw mat, sits the 
 beauty with golden hair, her feet gath-
 
 120 THE MAID OF 
 
 ered up under her. On her right is a 
 pot of boot-blacking, with a brush and 
 a dawber caked from use, still thick and 
 damp. On her left is a boot, shining 
 like a mirror, masterpiece of the boot- 
 black's art. About her are spattered 
 spots of dirt and a fine gray dust. A 
 little further off lies the knife to scrape 
 the soles. She is holding on her hand 
 the other boot. One of her arms is quite 
 lost in the leather upper. Her little 
 fingers clutch an enoraious brush with 
 long, stiff bristles, and she is scrubbing 
 furiously at the heel, which seems to 
 refuse to take a shine. 
 
 She has swathed her laces about her 
 bare knees, which she holds apart. 
 Drops of sweat roll down her cheeks and 
 her shoulders; and now and then she 
 must stop to toss back impatiently her 
 tresses, which fall over her eyes. Her 
 bosoms and her arms of alabaster are
 
 THE DAWBER 121 
 
 covered with spots, some tiny as pin- 
 heads, some as large as beans : the black- 
 ing, as it flies from the bristles, has 
 flecked that dazzling whiteness with 
 black stars. She compresses her lips 
 and eyes, wet and smiling. She bends 
 lovingly over the boot, appearing rather 
 to caress than to rub it. She is devoted 
 to her task and forgets herself in her in- 
 finite pleasure, shaken by her rapid 
 movements. The bay-window pours on 
 her its cold light. A wide ray falls 
 across her, kindling her tresses, enhanc- 
 ing the rosy tint of her skin and turn- 
 ing her laces blue ; it displays this mar- 
 vel of grace and delicacy in the dirt. 
 
 Here she is, greedy and happy. She 
 is the daughter of her father, the daugh- 
 ter of her mother. Every morning, 
 upon awakening, she thinks of her 
 childhood passed on the filthy staircase, 
 in the midst of the old shoes of all the
 
 122 THE ]MAID OF 
 
 lodgers. She thinks; and a wild de- 
 sire possesses her to scrape something, 
 even if it is only a pair of boots. She 
 has a passion for the dawber, as other 
 people have a passion for flowers. This 
 is her secret, the thing of which she is 
 ashamed, but in which she finds strange 
 delights. And so, she rises and goes 
 every morning in her luxury, in her im- 
 maculate beauty, to scrape the soles with 
 the tips of her white fingers, and to wal- 
 low her delicacy of a great lady in the 
 unsavory task of a bootblack. 
 
 The count touches her lightly on the 
 shoulder ; and when she raises her head 
 in surprise he takes his boots from her, 
 puts them on, tosses her twenty-five 
 sous, and quietly withdraws.
 
 THE DAWBER 123 
 
 IV. 
 
 Later in the dav the maid of the daw- 
 ber is vexed and harrowed and out- 
 raged. She writes to the count. She 
 claims damages of a hundred thousand 
 francs. The count replies that he does 
 recall owing her something. Polishing 
 his boots at twenty-five sous a day makes 
 twenty-three francs at the end of three 
 months. He is sending her twenty- 
 three francs by his man.
 
 COMPLEMENTS
 
 COMPLEMENTS 
 
 In Paris they have everything for 
 sale— silly girls and wise, lies and truth, 
 tears and smiles. You surely know that 
 in this land of business beauty is a com- 
 modity in which they deal on a tre- 
 mendous scale. They buy and sell large 
 eyes and small mouths ; noses and chins 
 are valued down to a fine point. This 
 dimple or that mole represents a certain 
 price. And since imitation is always 
 going on, they often counterfeit God's 
 merchandise; artificial eyebrows traced 
 with burnt matches or false switches 
 stuck on with long hairpins are more 
 highly prized than the genuine article. 
 
 All of which is perfectly reasonable. 
 
 127
 
 128 COMPLEMENTS 
 
 We are a civilized people, and of what 
 use is civilization if it doesn't help us 
 to deceive and to be deceived in order 
 to make life more worth the living? 
 
 But I was really surprised when I 
 learned yesterday that a business man, 
 old Durandeau, whom you know as well 
 as I do, had hit upon the ingenious and 
 astounding inspiration of dealing in 
 ugliness. That they should sell beauty 
 is perfectly comprehensible; that they 
 should sell false beauty is quite natural, 
 —it is a sign of progress. But beyond 
 the shadow of a doubt Durandeau has 
 earned the gratitude of all France by 
 putting on the market that commodity, 
 deadwood until now, called ugliness. 
 Understand me, I am speaking of ugli- 
 ness that is ugly— frank ugliness, 
 honestly sold as ugliness. 
 
 You have surely often met women 
 traveling in pairs on the principal ave-
 
 COMPLEMENTS 129 
 
 Hues. They walk slowly, stopping at the 
 shop-windows with stifled laughter and 
 carrying their clothes gracefully. They 
 lock arms like two old friends with an 
 air of intimacy ; almost of the same age, 
 costumed with equal elegance. But you 
 will always find one of them fairly good- 
 looking— one of those faces which call 
 for no especial remark. You wouldn't 
 think of turning aroimd to get a better 
 view, but if by chance you should notice 
 her you could look without displeasure. 
 The other is always atrociously ugly— 
 irritatingly so, an ugliness which 
 catches the eye, which compels passersby 
 to make comparisons between her and 
 her companion. Confess that you have 
 been ensnared, and that sometimes you 
 have started to follow the two women. 
 The monster alone on the avenue would 
 have frightened you. The fairly good- 
 looking yoimg woman would have left
 
 130 COMPLEMENTS 
 
 yon quite indifferent. But they were 
 together, and the ugliness of the one 
 heightened the beauty of the other. 
 
 Well, I can tell you : the monster, the 
 atrociously ugly woman, belongs to Du- 
 randeau's Agency. She is one of his 
 ** Complements." The great Duran- 
 deau has let her to the insignficant face 
 at five francs an hour.
 
 COMPLEMENTS 131 
 
 11. 
 
 Here is the story. Durandeau is a 
 business man of originality and inven- 
 tion, a millionaire who can afford to 
 be something of an artist in trade. For 
 many years he bewailed the fact that 
 one had never been able to make a cent 
 out of ugly girls. As for speculating in 
 the pretty ones, it is a delicate business, 
 and Durandeau, who has all the scru- 
 ples of a rich man, would never think 
 of it. One day he was suddenly in- 
 spired. He conceived his original idea 
 in a twinkling, just as all great inven- 
 tors do. lie was walking on the Avenue 
 when he saw in front of him. two girls, 
 one pretty and the other ugly. And as 
 he looked he understood that the ugly 
 one was an adjustment which comple- 
 mented the pretty one. Just as ribbons.
 
 132 COMPLEMENTS 
 
 rice powder and false tresses are to be 
 had for sale, so it was right and proper, 
 he reasoned, that beauty should be able 
 to purchase ugliness like an ornament 
 which should be becoming. 
 
 Durandeau went home to reflect at 
 leisure. The venture which he was 
 meditating must be conducted with the 
 greatest tact. He did not wish to jmnp 
 pell-mell into an enterprise which would 
 prove a bonanza if it succeeded, but 
 lidiculous if it miscarried. He passed 
 the night in calculations and reading 
 the philosophers who have said the 
 cleverest things about man's folly and 
 woman's vanity. Next morning, at 
 dawn, he had come to a decision. Cal- 
 culation had borne him out: the phil- 
 osophers had said so much about the 
 vileness of humanity that he counted 
 upon a large patronage.
 
 COMPLEMENTS 133 
 
 III. 
 
 Would I had the inspiration ; I would 
 write the epic of the foundation of Du- 
 randeau's Agency. It would be an epic 
 farcical and sad, full of tears and 
 bursts of laughter. 
 
 Durandeau had more trouble than he 
 anticipated in laying in a stock of 
 wares. Wishing to act directly, he con- 
 tented himself at first with posting on 
 pipes and on the trees in by-places little 
 placards which bore the following 
 legend, written by hand: "Wanted— 
 Ugly girls to do easy work." He 
 waited eight days, and not a single ugly 
 girl applied. Five or six pretty ones 
 came and begged for work, sobbing. 
 They were just hovering between 
 hunger and vice, and still hoped to save 
 themselves by work. Durandeau, much
 
 134 COMPLEMENTS 
 
 embarrassed, told them over and over 
 again that they were pretty and 
 wouldn't do. But they insisted that 
 they were ugly, that it was pure gal- 
 lantry and quite wrong on his part if 
 he called them prett}^ And now, be- 
 ing unable to sell the ugliness which 
 they had not, they are selling the good- 
 looks which they have. 
 
 Durandeau, in the face of this result, 
 imderstood that only pretty girls have 
 the courage of o'^oiing to imaginary 
 ugliness. As for the really ugly ones, 
 they would never come of their own will 
 and admit the unmeasurable size of 
 their mouths nor the extraordinary 
 smallness of their eyes. Advertise by 
 hand-bills that you will give ten francs 
 to every ugly girl who will present her- 
 self, and 3^ou will not be impoverished. 
 
 Durandeau gave up advertising. He 
 hired half-a-dozen emissaries and
 
 COMPLEMENTS 135 
 
 turned them loose on the city in quest 
 of monstrosities. There was a general 
 recruiting of the ugliness of Paris. The 
 emissaries, men of tact and taste, had 
 ticklish business. Their methods de- 
 pended upon the character and position 
 of those they approached ; brusque when 
 the subject was in dire need of money, 
 more gentle when they were dealing 
 with some gii^l not yet on the brink of 
 starvation. It is impossible for a polite 
 man to say to a woman: *' Madam, you 
 are ugly. I will pay you for your ugli- 
 ness so much a day.'* 
 
 Some m.emorable episodes occurred in 
 this hunt for the poor girls who weep 
 before their mirrors. Sometimes the 
 emissaries were hot upon the scent. 
 They had seen in the street a woman of 
 ideal ugliness, and they did their best 
 to bring her before Durandeau, to earn
 
 136 COMPLE]\IENTS 
 
 the thanks of the master. Some of them 
 had recourse to extreme methods. 
 
 Every morning Durandeau received 
 and inspected the stock gathered the 
 day before. Comfortably ensconced in 
 an armchair, in vellow housecoat and 
 black satin cap, he had the new recruits 
 file past him, each with the emissary 
 who had ca]'>tured her. Then he would 
 turn awav, blink his eves, and look like 
 a fancier— displeased or satisfied. He 
 would pause and hesitate ; then to get a 
 better view he would have the goods 
 turned around and would examine them 
 on all sides. Sometimes he would even 
 rise, totlch their hair and examine their 
 faces, as a merchant feels of a woolen or 
 as a grocer satisfies himself about 
 candles or pepper. "When the ugliness 
 was unquestionable, when the expres- 
 sion was stupid and dull, Durandeau 
 would iTib his hands gleefully and con-
 
 COMPLEMENTS 137 
 
 gratulate the emissary; he would even 
 have embraced the monster. But he 
 was chary of new kinds of ugliness. 
 When the eyes glistened and the lips 
 had sharp smiles, he fro^vned and 
 mumbled to himself that such a type of 
 ugliness, if it was not exactly fit for 
 love, might do for passion. He showed 
 marked coldness to the emissary, and 
 told the woman to come back again, 
 later on, when she was older. 
 
 It is not as easj^ as one might think 
 to be an expert on ugliness, to make 
 a collection of women truly ugly, quite 
 harmless to pretty girls. Durandeau 
 proved his genius in the selections he 
 made, for he showed how deep a knowl- 
 edge he had of the heart and of the 
 emotions. The great criterion for him, 
 of course, was the face, and he accepted 
 only discouraging faces— those which 
 froze by their grossness and stux^idity.
 
 138 COMPLEMENTS 
 
 Tlie day on Tvliich the agency was 
 finally opened, when it placed at the 
 disposal of pretty women ugly ones 
 suited to their complexions and their 
 particular styles of beauty, he issued 
 the following prospectus :
 
 COMPLEMENTS 139 
 
 IV. 
 
 Paris, 1st Mav, 18— 
 AGENCY FOR COMPLEMENTS, 
 
 L. DUEANDEAU, 
 
 18 Rue M , Paris. 
 
 Office Hours : 
 10 to 4. 
 
 Madam:— 
 
 I have the honor of advising you that 
 I have just established this house, which 
 must be of the greatest service for the 
 maintenance of woman's beautv. I am 
 the inventor of an article which will 
 set off with a new glory nature 's graces. 
 
 Heretofore adornment has been pa- 
 tent. Laces and jewels are ob\dous.
 
 140 COMPLEMENTS 
 
 You can easilv detect a false switch in 
 the coiffure, and whether the purple of 
 the lips and the delicate pink of the 
 cheeks are tinted. 
 
 Now, I have set myself to the solu- 
 tion of this problem— impossible at first 
 blush— to beautify women, leaving 
 everyone to guess whence comes the 
 added touch. Without an extra ribbon, 
 without touching the skin, my purpose 
 has been to find for them an infallible 
 means of attracting all eyes, and yet 
 not overdoing nature's tender grace. 
 
 I believe I may flatter myself that I 
 have completely solved the apparently 
 insoluble problem to which I addressed 
 myself. 
 
 And to-day every lady who will honor 
 me with her confidence can secure, at 
 a low figure, the admiration of all eyes. 
 
 My device is extremely simple and 
 reliable. I need only describe it.
 
 COMPLEMENTS 141 
 
 Madam, and you will understand at 
 once exactly how it acts. 
 
 Plave you ever noticed a poor woman 
 in close proximity with a beauty in silks 
 and laces, who is giving her alms from 
 her gloved hand? Did you mark how 
 the silk shone in contrast mth the 
 tatters; how well all that richness was 
 set off and how it gained from contrast 
 with the miserj^? 
 
 Madam, I have to offer to handsome 
 faces the most complete line of ugly 
 ones that can be found anywhere. 
 Seedy garments set off new. My ugly 
 faces set off pretty ones. 
 
 No more false teeth; no more false 
 switches; no more false necks! No 
 more make-up, costly costumes, 
 enormous expenditures for colors and 
 laces ! — Only * ' Complements, ' ' which 
 one takes by the arm and leads along
 
 142 COMPLEMENTS 
 
 the Avenue, to set off: one's beauty, and 
 ^-in the tender glances of the gentlemen. 
 
 Your patronage is respectfully solic- 
 ited, Madam. You will find here the 
 ugliest and most varied assortment. 
 You are at liberty to select and suit 
 your beauty with the type of ugliness 
 which best becomes it. 
 
 Rates: 5 francs an hour; 50 francs 
 a dav. 
 
 I am, Madam, most respectfully, 
 
 DURAXDEAir. 
 
 N. B.— The Agency supplies likewise 
 well-trained mothers, fathers, uncles 
 and aunts. Charges moderate.
 
 COMPLEMENTS 143 
 
 V. 
 
 The success was great. Next day the 
 Agency opened for business. The of- 
 fice was crowded with customers, each 
 of whom chose her "Complement," and 
 marched her off in a sort of ferocious 
 joy. Can you imagine what a pleasure 
 it is for a handsome woman to lean on 
 the arm of an ugly one? She enhances 
 her own beauty, and thoroughly enjoys 
 the ugliness of the other. Durandeau 
 was a great philosopher. 
 
 It must not be supposed, however, 
 that the working of the Agency was per- 
 fectly easy. A thousand unf orseen ob- 
 stacles arose. The difficulty of acquir- 
 ing a stock in trade was nothing beside 
 that of satisfying customers. 
 
 A lady would come in and ask for a 
 * * Complement. ' ' They showed the stock 
 and bade her choose, presuming only
 
 144 COMPLEMENTS 
 
 to give a hint of advice now and then. 
 Thereupon, the lady would flit from one 
 "Complement" to another, disdainful, 
 finding the poor girls too ugly or not 
 ugly enough, complaining that not one 
 of the uglinesses suited her own style 
 of beauty. The clerks pointed out to 
 her the crooked nose of this one, the 
 receding forehead of another ; they were 
 put to their wits' end. 
 
 At other times the lady herself was 
 frightfully ugly— so much so that Du- 
 randeau, had he been there, would have 
 been possessed of a mad desire to pro- 
 cure her at am^ price. She came to 
 have her beauty heightened, she would 
 say; she wanted a young "Comple- 
 ment"— not too ugly, since she needed 
 only a slight adornment. The clerks, in 
 despair, stationed her before a large 
 mirror and paraded behind her the en- 
 tire stock. But she herself would have
 
 COMPLEMENTS 145 
 
 taken the prize. Then she would sweep 
 out, indignant that they had the pre- 
 sumption to offer her such looking ob- 
 jects. 
 
 Little by little, however, the patron- 
 age settled down. Each * * Complement ' ' 
 had her regular customers. Durandeau 
 could rest assured in his heart of hav- 
 ing helped humanity take a great step 
 in advance. 
 
 I doubt whether the position of the 
 *' Complement'* is thoroughly appre- 
 ciated. It has its joys, which are shown 
 to the world; but it has also its tears, 
 which are hidden. The "Complement" 
 is ugly. She is a slave; she draws her 
 salary for being a slave and for being 
 ugly. As for the rest, she is well- 
 dressed, she shakes hands with celebri- 
 ties, she lives in carriages, she luncheons 
 and dines at the fam.ous restaurants, 
 she passes her evenings at the theatre.
 
 146 COMPLEMENTS 
 
 She is apparent!}' on terms of intimacy 
 with famous beauties; and the unini- 
 tiated think her of the inner circle at the 
 races and at first nights. All day she is 
 in a whirl of gaiety. At night she eats 
 her heart out, in tears. She has taken 
 off her finery, which belongs to the 
 Agency; she is alone in her attic room, 
 before her little mirror, which tells the 
 truth. She is face to face with all her 
 ugliness, and she realizes that she will 
 never be loved. She whose business it 
 is to kindle emotion for others will 
 never taste a kiss herself.
 
 COMPLEMENTS 147 
 
 VI. 
 
 My present purpose has been only 
 to outline the establishment of the 
 Agency, and to transmit the name of 
 Durandeau to posterity. Such men 
 have their positions well defined in his- 
 tory. Some day perhaps I will write 
 the "Confessions of a Complement." I 
 knew one of the unfortunates, and her 
 sufferings touched me to the quick. 
 She used to enjoy the patronage of some 
 women whom all Paris knows ; and they 
 were pretty hard on her. Have pity, 
 my ladies ! Do not tear the laces which 
 bedeck you : be gentle to the ugly, with- 
 out whom you would not be so engaging. 
 
 My ** Complement" was a spirited 
 creature, who, I imagine, had read a 
 great deal of Walter Scott. I can think 
 of nothing sadder than a cripple in love 
 or an ugly woman yearning for the
 
 148 COMPLEMENTS 
 
 ideal. The poor girl fell in love with 
 all the men whose eyes her dreadful 
 face deflected to her patronesses. She 
 has lived many a little di^ama. She was 
 fi'ightfully jealous of those women who 
 paid for the use of her, as one pays for 
 a pot of pommade or a pair of boots. 
 She was a thing let for so much an hour, 
 and it always turned out a good bar- 
 gain. Can you imagine her bitterness, 
 all the while she was smiling and prat- 
 tling with those women who were steal- 
 ing the love that should have been hers ? 
 And those very pretty women who took 
 a sjDiteful delight in cajoling her in- 
 timately before the world treated her 
 like a servant when alone; they would 
 have liked to crush her for fun, as they 
 might break the ornaments on their 
 etageres. 
 
 But of what account is a suffering 
 soul to the i^rogress of the world ? Hu-
 
 COMPLEMENTS 149 
 
 inanity marches on. Durandeau will be 
 blessed by generations yet unborn for 
 having put on the market a line of 
 goods unheard of before, for having in- 
 vented a device to make woman's con- 
 quest easier.
 
 NEW EDITION JUST OUT 
 
 The Awakening of Spring 
 
 A TRAGEDY OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK WEDEKIND 
 
 A drama dealing with the sex question in its relationship 
 to the education of children 
 
 Cloth, gilt top, deckle edge, $1.25 net. By mail, $1.35 
 
 Here is a play which on its production caused a sensation 
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 they are unique. — TJie Athenaeum, London. 
 
 The dialogue is extraordinarily fresh and actual, and the 
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 may well be learned here as elsewhere, and it witnesses to a 
 high purpose in its author and to a brave spirit. — New York 
 Times Saturday Review. 
 
 Tn "The Awakening of 'Spring" we have German realism at 
 its boldest. Nearly all the characters of the play are children, 
 and its action revolves about that groping for knowledge, par- 
 ticularly upon certain forbidden subjects, which comes with end 
 of childhood. 
 
 It must be said of Wedekind that he is nowhere gross. His 
 object in writing the play was to arouse German parents just 
 as Edward Bok is trying to arouse the mothers of America, and 
 he has succeeded. He is one of the most accomplished of the 
 yo\mger Germans. His work shows profound thought. — The 
 Sun, Baltimore. 
 
 BROWN BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 
 N. E. Cor. Fifth and Pine Streets, Philadelphia
 
 The Creditor 
 
 Fordringsagare 
 
 A Ps>xhological Study of the Divorce Question by the 
 
 Swedish Master 
 
 AUGUST STRINDBERG 
 
 Author of "Froken Julie," "Swanwhite," 
 "Father," "Motherlove," etc. 
 
 Translated from the Swedish by Francis J. Ziegler 
 
 Qoth, $1.00 net. Postage, 8 Cents 
 
 Amid that remarkable group of one-act plays, which 
 embodies Augfust Strindberg's maturest work as a play- 
 wright, the tragic comedy "Fordringsagare" (The 
 Creditor), occupies a prominent place. 
 
 "Fordringsagare" was produced for the first time in 
 1889, when it was given at Copenhagen as a substitute 
 for "Froken Julie," the performance of which was for- 
 bidden by the censor. Four years later Berlin audiences 
 made its acquaintance, since when it has remained the 
 most popular of Strindberg's plays in Germany. 
 
 BROWN BROTHERS, Publishers 
 
 N. E. Cor. Fifth and Pine Streets, Philadelphia
 
 SWANWHITE 
 
 A KAIRY dram: A 
 
 By august STRINDBERG 
 
 Translated by Francis J. Ziegler 
 
 PRINTED ON DECKLE EDGE PAPER AND ATTRACTIVELY BOUND 
 
 IN CLOTH 
 
 $1.00 net, Postage 8 Cents 
 
 A Poetic Idyl, which is cliarming in its sweet purity, delightful in its 
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 that pure love can conquer evil. 
 
 So out of the cold North, out of the mouth of the world's most terrible 
 misogynists, comes a strange message — one which is as sweet as it is unex- 
 pected. And August Strindberg, the enemy of love, sings that pure love 
 is all powerful and all-conquering.— SPRINGFIELD, MASS., 
 REPUBLICAN. 
 
 It is worth while to have all of the plays of such a great dramatist in 
 our English tongue. Since the death of Ibsen he is the chief of the 
 Scandinavians. . . The publishers deserve thanks and support fo.' theii 
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 temporary foreign plays. . . ." — THE SUN, Baltimore. 
 
 " An idyllic play, filled with romantic machinery of the Northern fairy 
 tales and legends. ... It belongs to a class by itself. . . ." — 
 PHILADELPHIA RECORD. 
 
 BROWN BROTHERS, Publishers 
 
 N. E. Cor. Fifth and Pine Streets, Philadelphia
 
 A DILEMMA 
 
 A STORY OF MENTAL PERPLEXITY 
 
 By LEONIDAS ANDREIYEFF 
 
 Translated from the Russian by John Cournos 
 
 Cloth, 75 Cents net. Postage, 7 Cents 
 
 A remarkable analysis of mental subtleties as experi- 
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 he is insane. A story that is Poe-like in its intensity and 
 full of g^rim humor. 
 
 One of the most interesting: literary studies of crime 
 since Dostoieffsky's "Crime and Punishment." — Chicago 
 Evenbig Post. 
 
 A g:rim and powerful study by that marvelous Russian, 
 Leonidas Andreiyeft. — The Smart Set. 
 
 Leonidas Andreiyefif is a writer who bites deep into 
 life. In him Slavic talent for introspection is remarkably 
 developed. Poetic, powerfully imaginative, master of 
 stark simplicity, he has written stories stamped with the 
 seal of g^enius. Andreiyeff is an O. Henry, plus the 
 divine fire. — Boston Daily Advertiser. 
 
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 The Woman and the Fiddler 
 
 A PLAY IN THREE ACTS BY 
 
 ARNE NORREVANG 
 
 Translated from the Norwegian by 
 
 MRS. HERMAN SANDBY 
 
 Cloth, Uncut Edges, $1.00 net. By mall, $1.08 
 
 This play is based upon one of the legends of the 
 fiddlers who used to go about from valley to valley, play- 
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 moment when the "great red sun of night stands still, 
 while mortals dream!" 
 
 We see the vision ; we seem to tread upon the clouds ; 
 we are under the spell of the enchantment! The story 
 is one of love and renunciation. The "great moment" 
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 mother's white dwelling has to die! "She has gone too 
 long upon the mountains with the sight of the glisten- 
 ing snow in her eyes." She enters the land of mist! 
 
 BROWN BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 
 N. E. Cor. Fifth and Pine Streets, Philadelphia
 
 MODERN AUTHORSl_SERIES 
 
 Under this title appear from time to time short stories and dramas, 
 chiefly translations from the works of modern European authors, 
 each containing from 32 to 64 pages. Printed in large, clear type 
 and tastefully bound in gray boards with paper label. Price of 
 each volume, 25c. net. By mail, 29c. Five Volumes nowReady; 
 
 ii C*l '^ ^y LEONIDAS ANDREIYEFF 
 
 li3ll6flC6 Translated from the Russian, Second Edition 
 
 An unusual short story, that reads like a poem in prose, by the 
 leading exponent of the new Russian school of novelists 
 
 "Motherlove" 
 
 By AUGUST STRINDBERG 
 Translated from the Swedish 
 
 An examplcof Strindberg's power as analyst of human nature. A 
 
 one-act play in which the dramatist lays bare the 
 
 weakness of a human soul 
 
 "A Red Hower" 
 
 By VSEVOLOD GARSHIN 
 
 A powerful short story by one of Russia's popular authors, 
 unknown as yet to the English-speaking public 
 
 "The Grisley Suitor" 
 
 By FRANK WEDEKIND 
 
 Author of "THE AWAKENING OF SPRING." etc. 
 
 Translated from the German 
 
 An excellent story of the De-Maupassant type 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 "Rabbi Ezra." "The Victim" 
 
 Two Sketches Charncteristic of the Pen of this Noted German Author 
 OTHER VOLUMES IN PREPARATION 
 
 BROWN BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 
 N. E. Cor. Fifth and Pine Streets, Philadelphia
 
 DISCORDS 
 
 A VOLUME OF POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 DONALD EVANS 
 
 Net, $1.00. By Mail, $1.08 
 
 With the publication of this volume must end the oft- 
 repeated complaint that real English poetry is no longer 
 being written. 
 
 These poems have no sermon to preach, no evils to 
 arraign, no new scheme of things to propound. They 
 are poems written in the sincere joy of artistic creation, 
 and they possess a compelling music and an abiding 
 
 beauty. 
 
 This poet, who is singing only for the pleasure of sing- 
 ing in his sixty or more poems that make up the volume 
 offers vivid glimpses of the stress and strain of modern 
 life. 
 
 He thinks frankly, and his utterances are full of free 
 sweep and a passionate intensity. 
 
 BROWN BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 
 N. E. Cor. Fifth and Pine Streets, Philadelphia
 
 1 I 
 
 IMVERSITV OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 w 
 
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 OCT 1 i) 197§,,o u. ,. 
 
 APR ;>• ^ 
 
 MAR 241981 
 
 MAY 061991 
 
 APR 6 I99I 
 
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 Form L9-Series 4939
 
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 3 1158 00388 0399