• «^*j' 
 
 GIFT OF 
 John H, Mee 
 
 
 
 «# 4t 
 
 .. .m»^s 
 
 •• 'Wt^^yVM-- '■.•:!' V'^- 
 
.. •• • '..v. 
 
THE COMEDY OE HUMAN LIEE 
 By H. DE BALZAC 
 
 SCENES FROM PRIVATE LIFE 
 
 FAME AND SORROW 
 
 (LA MAISON DU CHAT-QUI-PELOTE) 
 
BALZAC'S NOVELS. 
 
 Translated by Miss K. P. Wormeley. 
 
 Already Published: 
 PERE GORIOT. 
 DUCHESSE DE LANGEAIS. 
 RISE AND FALL OF CESAR 
 
 BIROTTEAU. 
 EUGENIE GRANDET. 
 COUSIN PONS. 
 THE COUNTRY DOCTOR. 
 THE TWO BROTHERS. 
 THE ALKAHEST. 
 MODESTE MIGNON. 
 THE MAGIC SKIN. 
 COUSIN BETTE. 
 LOUIS LAMBERT. 
 BUREAUCRACY. 
 SERAPHITA. 
 SONS OF THE SOIL. 
 FAME AND SORROW. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 
 BOSTON. 
 
HONORH DE BAt'ZAC 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY 
 
 FAME AND SORROW 
 
 WITH 
 
 COLONEL CHABERT, THE ATHEIST'S MASS, 
 
 LA GRANDE BRETfeCHE, THE PURSE, 
 
 LA GRENADIERE 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS 
 
 3 SOMERSET STREET 
 
 BOSTON 
 1890 
 

 GIFT OF ^Li-i' 
 
 Copyright, 1890, 
 By Roberts Brothers. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 ®nt6frBitg l^rrss : 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 
 

 CONTENTS. 
 
 Fame and Sorrow 1 
 
 Colonel Chabert 93 
 
 The Atheist's Mass 193 
 
 La Grande Bketeche 221 
 
 The Purse 255 
 
 La Grenadiere 303 
 
 '96244 
 
FAME AND SORROW.' 
 
 Dedicated to Mademoiselle Marie de Montueau. 
 
 About the middle of the rue Saint-Denis, and near 
 the corner of the rue du Petit-Lion, there stood, not 
 veiy long ago, one of those precious houses which 
 enable historians to reconstruct b}- analogy the Paris 
 of former times. The frowning walls of this shabby 
 building seemed to have been originally decorated by 
 hieroglj'phics. What other name could a passing ob- 
 server give to the X's and the Y's traced upon them 
 b}' the transversal or diagonal pieces of wood which 
 showed under the stucco through a number of little 
 parallel cracks? Evidently, the jar of each passing 
 carriage shook the old joists in their plaster coatings. 
 
 1 This was the title (Gloire et Malheur) under which the story 
 was first published in 1830. The name was clianged in 1842 to 
 La Maison du Chat-qui-pelote. The awkwardness of the title in 
 English (The House of the Cat-playing-ball) leads the translator 
 to use the original name given by Balzac. 
 
 1 
 
2 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 The venerable buildiBg 1ya,s covered with a triangular 
 roof, a shape of which no specimen will exist much 
 longer in Paris. This roof, twisted out of line by the 
 inclemencies of Parisian weather, overhung the street 
 hy about three feet, as much to protect the door-steps 
 from the rain as to shelter the wall of the garret and its 
 frameless window ; for the upper storey was built of 
 planks, nailed one above the other like slates, so as not 
 to overweight the construction beneath it. 
 
 On a rainy morning in the month of March, a young 
 man carefully wrapped in a cloak was standing beneath 
 the awning of a shop directly opposite to the old build- 
 ing, which he examined with the enthusiasm of an archae- 
 ologist ; for, in truth, this relic of the bourgeoisie of the 
 sixteenth century presented more than one problem to 
 the mind of an intelligent observer. Each storey had 
 its own peculiarity ; on the first were four long, narrow 
 windows very close to each other, with wooden squares 
 in place of glass panes to the lower sash, so as to give 
 the uncertain light by which a clever shopkeeper can 
 make his goods match any color desired by a customer. ' 
 
 The young man seemed to disdain this important part 
 of the house ; in fact, his eyes had not even rested on 
 it. The windows of the second floor, the raised outer 
 blinds of which gave to sight through large panes of 
 Bohemian glass small muslin curtains of a reddish tinge, 
 seemed also not to interest him. His attention centred 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 3 
 
 on the third storcj-, — on certain humble winclows, the 
 wooden frames of which deserved a place in tlic Con- 
 servatory of Arts and Manufactures as specimens of 
 the earliest efforts of French joinery. These windows 
 had little panes of so green a glass that had he not 
 possessed an excellent pair of ej-es the young man could 
 not have seen the blue-checked curtains which hid the 
 mysteries of the room from the gaze of the profane. 
 Occasionally the watcher, as if tired of his abortive 
 watch, or annoyed by the silence in which the house 
 was buried, dropped his e3'es to the lower regions. An 
 involuntar}^ smile would then flicker on his lips as he 
 glanced at the shop, where, indeed, were certain things 
 that were laughable enough. 
 
 A formidable beam of wood, resting horizontally on 
 four pillars which appeared to bend under the weight of 
 the decrepit house, had received as many and diverse 
 coats of paint as the cheek of an old duchess. At the 
 middle of this large beam, slightly carved, was an an- 
 tique picture representing a cat playing ball. It was 
 this work of art which made the young man smile ; and 
 it must be owned that not the cleverest of modern 
 painters could have invented a more comical design. 
 The animal held in one of its fore-paws a racket as big 
 as itself, and stood up on its hind paws to aim at an 
 enormous ball which a gentleman in a brocaded coat was 
 tossing to it. Design, colors, and accessories were all 
 
4 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 treated in a way to inspire a belief tliat the artist meant 
 to malie fun of both merchant and customers. Time, 
 by altering the crude colors, had made the picture still 
 more grotesque through certain bewildering changes, 
 which could not fail to trouble a conscientious observer. 
 For instance, the ringed tail of the cat was cut apart in 
 such a way that the end might be taken for an onlooker, 
 so thick, long, and well-covered were the tails of the 
 cats of our ancestors. To the right of the picture, on a 
 blue ground, which imperfectly' concealed the rotten 
 wood, could be read the name " Guillaume," and to the 
 left the words " Successor to the Sieur Chevrel." 
 
 Sun and rain had tarnished or washed off the greater 
 part of the gilding parsimoniousl}^ bestowed upon the 
 letters of this inscription, in which U's stood in place of 
 V's, and vice versa, according to the rules of our ancient 
 orthography. In order to bring down the pride of those 
 who think the world is daily growing cleverer and wit- 
 tier, and that modern claptrappery surpasses everything 
 that went before, it may be well to mention here that 
 such signs as these, the etymology of which seems fan- 
 tastic to man}' Parisian merchants, are realh' the dead 
 pictures of once living realities by which our lively' an- 
 cestors contrived to entice customers into their shops. 
 Thus, "The Sow a-Spinning," "The Green Monkey," 
 and so forth, were live animals in cages, whose clever 
 tricks delighted the passers in the streets, and whose 
 
Fame and Sorroiv. 6 
 
 training proved the patience of the shopkeepers of the 
 fifteenth century. Such natural curiosities brought bet- 
 ter profits to their fortunate possessors than the fine 
 names, "Good Faith," "Providence," "The Grace of 
 God," "The Decapitation of Saint John the Baptist," 
 which are still to be seen in that same rue Saint-Denis. 
 
 However, our unknown young man was certainly not 
 stationed there to admire the cat, which a moment's 
 notice sufficed to fix in his memory. He too, had his 
 peculiarities. His cloak, flung about him after the man- 
 ner of antique drapery, left to sight the elegant shoes 
 and white silk stockings on his feet, which were all the 
 more noticeable in the midst of that Parisian mud, 
 several spots of which seemed to prove the haste with 
 which he had made his wa}- there. No doubt he had 
 just left a wedding or a ball, for at this early hour of 
 the morning he held a pair of white gloves in his hand, 
 and the curls of his black hair, now uncurled and tum- 
 bling on his shoulders, seemed to indicate a st^-le of 
 wearing it called " Caracalla," a fashion set b}- the 
 painter David and his school, and followed with that 
 devotion to Greek and Roman ideas and shapes which 
 marked the earlier jears of this centur}'. 
 
 In spite of the noise made by a few belated kitchen- 
 gardeners as they gallopped their cartloads of produce 
 to the markets, the street was still hushed in that calm 
 stillness the magic of which is known only to those who 
 
>( 
 
 6 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 wander about a deserted Paris at the hour when its 
 
 nightly uproar ceases for a moment, then reawakes and i i 
 
 is heard in the distance Uke the voice of Ocean. 
 
 This singular young man must have seemed as odd 
 to the shopkeepers of the Cat-playing-ball as the Cat- 
 playing-ball seemed to him. A dazzling white cravat 
 made his harassed white face even paler than it really 
 was. The fire of his black eyes, that were sparkling 
 and yet gloom}', harmonized with the eccentric outline 
 of his face, and with his large, sinuous mouth, which con- 
 tracted when he smiled. His forehead, wrinkling under 
 any violent annoj'ance, had something fatal about it. 
 The forehead is surely the most prophetic feature of the 
 face. When that of this imknown young man expressed 
 anger, the creases which immediatelj' showed upon it 
 excited a sort of terror, through the force of passion 
 which brought them there ; but the moment he recov- 
 ered his calmness, so easil}' shaken, the brow shone 
 with a luminous grace that embellished the whole coun- 
 tenance, where joy and grief, love, anger, and disdain 
 flashed forth in so communicative a way that the coldest 
 of men was inevitabl}- impressed. 
 
 It chanced that the man was so anno5'ed at the mo- 
 ment when some one hastih' opened the garret window, 
 that he missed seeing three joyous faces, plump, and 
 white, and ros}*, but also as commonplace as those given 
 to the statues of Commerce on public buildings. These 
 
Fame and Sorroiv. 7 
 
 three heads framed by the open window, recalled the 
 puffy angel faces scattered among the clouds, which 
 usuall}^ accompany the Eternal Father. The appren- 
 tices were inhaling the emanations from the street with 
 an eagerness which showed how hot and mephitic the 
 atmosphere of their garret must have been. The elder 
 of the three clerks, after pointing out to his companions 
 the stranger in the street, disappeared for a moment 
 and then returned, holding in his hand an instrument 
 whose inflexible metal has lately been replaced by sup- 
 ple leather. Thereupon a mischievous expression came 
 upon all three faces as they looked at the singular watch- 
 er, while the elder proceeded to shower him with a fine 
 white rain, the odor of which proved that three chins 
 had just been shaved. Standing back in the room on 
 tiptoe to enjoy their victim's rage, the clerks all stopped 
 laughing when they saw the careless disdain with which 
 the 3'oung man shook the drops from his mantle, and 
 the profound contempt apparent on his face when he 
 raised his eyes to the now vacant window. 
 
 Just then a delicate white hand lifted the lower part 
 of one of the roughly made windows on the third floor 
 by means of those old-fashioned grooves, whose pulleys 
 so often let fall the heavy sashes they were intended to 
 hold up. The watcher was rewarded for his long wait- 
 ing. The face of a young girl, fresh as the white lilies 
 that bloom on the surface of a lake, appeared, framed 
 
8 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 hy a rumpled muslin cap, wbicli gave a delightful look 
 of innocence to the head. Her neck and shoulders, 
 though covered with some brown stuff, were plainly 
 seen through rifts in the garment opened by movements 
 made in sleep. No sign of constraint marred the in- 
 genuous expression of that face nor the calm of those 
 eyes, immortalized already in the sublime conceptions 
 of Raffaelle ; here was the same grace, the same virgin 
 tranquillity now become proverbial. A charming con- 
 trast was produced b}^ the youth of the cheeks, on which 
 sleep had thrown into relief a superabundance of life, 
 and the age of the massive window, with its coai^se 
 frame now blackened by time. Like those day-bloom- 
 ing flowers which in the early morning have not as yet 
 unfolded their tunics tightly closed against the chill of 
 night, the 3'oung girl, scarcely awake, let her eyes wan- 
 der across the neighboring roofs and upward to the sky ; 
 then she lowered them to the gloomy precincts of the 
 street, where they at once encountered those of her 
 adorer. No doubt her innate coquetry caused her a 
 pang of mortification at being seen in such dishabille, 
 for she quickl}^ drew back, the worn-out sash-pulle}- 
 turned, the window came down with a rapidity which 
 has earned, in our day, an odious name for that naive 
 invention of our ancestors, and the vision disappeared. 
 The brightest of the stars of the morning seemed to the 
 j'oung man to have passed suddenly under a cloud. 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 9 
 
 While these trifling events were occurring, the heavy 
 inside shutters which protected the thin glass of the 
 windows in the shop, called the House of the Cut- 
 ])laying-ball, had been opened as if by magic. The 
 door, with its old fashioned knocker, was set back 
 against the inner wall by a serving-man, who might 
 have been contemporary with the sign itself, and whose 
 shaking hand fastened to the picture a square bit of 
 cloth, on which were embroidered in yellow silk the 
 words, " Guillauoae, successor to Chevrel." More than 
 one pedestrian would have been unable to guess the 
 business in which the said Guillaume was engaged. 
 Through the heavy iron bars which protected the shop 
 window on the outside, it was difficult to see the bales 
 wrapped in brown linen, which were as numerous as a 
 school of herrings on their waj' across the ocean. In 
 spite of the apparent simplicity of this gothic facade, 
 Monsieur Guillaume was among the best known drapers 
 in Paris, one whose shop was always well supplied, 
 whose business relations were widely extended, and 
 whose commercial honor no one had ever doubted. If 
 some of his fellow-tradesmen made contracts with the 
 government without possessing cloth enough to fulfil 
 them, he was always able and willing to lend them 
 enough to make up deficiencies, however large the num- 
 ber contracted for might be. The shrewd dealer knew 
 a hundred ways of drawing the lion's share of profits to 
 
10 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 himself without being forced, like the others, to beg for 
 influence, or do base things, or give rich presents. If 
 the ti'adesmen he thus assisted could not pay the loan 
 except by long drafts on good security, he referred 
 them to his notary, like an accommodating man, and 
 managed to get a double profit out of the aflTair; an 
 expedient which led to a remark, almost proverbial in 
 the rue Saint-Denis, " God keep us from the notar}' of 
 Monsieur Guillaume ! " 
 
 The old dealer happened, as if by some miraculous 
 chance, to be standing at the open door of his shop 
 just as the servant, having finished that part of his 
 morning duty, withdrew. Monsieur Guillaume looked 
 up and down the rue Saint-Denis, then at the adjoining 
 shops, and then at the weather, like a man landing 
 at Havi'e who sees France again after a long voy- 
 age. Having fully convinced himself that nothing had 
 changed since he went to sleep the night befoi'e, he 
 now perceived the man doing sentry duty, who, on his 
 side, was examining the patriarch of drapery very much 
 as Humboldt must have examined the first electric eel 
 which he saw in America. 
 
 Monsieur Guillaume wore wide breeches of black 
 velvet, dyed stockings, and square shoes with silver 
 buckles ; his coat, made with square lappels, square 
 skirts, and square collar, wrapped a figure, slightly bent, 
 in its loose folds of greenish cloth, and was fastened with 
 
 I 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 11 
 
 large, white, metal buttons tarnished from use ; his gray 
 hair was so carefully combed and plastered to his yel- 
 low skull that the two presented somewhat the eflcct of 
 a ploughed field ; his little green eyes, sharp as giuilcls, 
 glittered under lids whose pale red edges took the place 
 of lashes. Care had furrowed his brow with as many 
 horizontal lines as there were folds in his coat. The 
 pallid face bespoke patience, commercial wisdom, and 
 a species of sl}^ cupidity acquired in business. 
 
 At the period of which we write it was less rare than 
 it is now to meet with old commercial families who pre- 
 served as precious traditions the manners, customs, and 
 characteristics of their particular callings ; and who 
 remained, in the midst of the new civilization, as ante- 
 diluvian as the fossils discovered by Cuvier in the quar- 
 ries. The head of the Guillaume famil}- was one of these 
 noteworthy guardians of old customs ; he even regretted 
 the provost-marshal of merchants, and never spoke of a 
 decision in the court of commerce without calling it " the 
 sentence of the consuls." Having risen, in accordance 
 with these customs, the earliest in the house, he was 
 now awaiting with a determined air the arrival of his 
 three clerks, intending to scold them if a trifle late. 
 Those heedless disciples of Mercury knew nothing more 
 appalling than the silent observation with which the 
 master scrutinized their faces and their movements of a 
 Monday morning, searching for proofs or traces of their 
 
12 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 frolics. But, strange to sa}-, just as the}- api^eared, the 
 old draper paid no attention to his apprentices ; he was 
 engaged in finding a motive for the evident interest 
 with which the young man in silk stockings and a 
 cloak turned his e3'es alternatelj- on the pictured sign 
 and then into the depths of the shop. The daylight, 
 now increasing, showed the counting-room behind an 
 iron railing covered by curtains of faded green silk, 
 where Monsieur Guillaume kept his huge books, the mute 
 oracles of his business. The too inquisitive stranger 
 seemed to have an e3'e on them, and also to be scruti- 
 nizing the adjoining dining-room, where the famil}', 
 when assembled for a meal, could see whatever hap- 
 pened at the entrance of the shop. So great an interest 
 in his private premises seemed suspicious to the old 
 merchant, who had lived under the law of the maxi- 
 mum. Consequentl}", Monsieur Guillaume supposed, 
 not unnaturally, that the doubtful stranger had designs 
 upon his strong-box. 
 
 The elder of the clerks, after discreetlj^ enjoj-ing the 
 silent duel which was taking place between his master 
 and the stranger, ventured to come out upon the step 
 where stood Monsieur Guillaume, and there he observed 
 that the 3'oung man was glancing fui'tivel}' at the third- 
 floor windows. The clerk made three steps into the 
 street, looked up, and fancied he caught sight of Ma- 
 demoiselle Augustine Guillaume hastily retiring. Dis- 
 
Fame and Sorroiv. 13 
 
 pleased with this show of perspicacity on the part of his 
 head-clerk, the draper looked askance at his subordi- 
 nate. Then suddenly the mutual anxieties excited in 
 the souls of lover and merchant were allayed, — the 
 stranger hailed a passing hackney coach, and jumped 
 into it with a deceitful air of indifference. His depart- 
 ure shed a sort of balm into the souls of the other 
 clerks, who were somewhat uneasy at the presence of 
 their victim. 
 
 "Well, gentlemen, what are you about, standing 
 there with your arms crossed ? " said Monsieur Guil- 
 laurae to his three neophytes. " In my day, good 
 faith, when I was under the Sieur Chevrel, I had ex- 
 amined two pieces of cloth before this time of da}- ! " 
 
 " Then it must have been daylight earlier," said the 
 second clerk, whose duty it was to examine the rolls. 
 
 The old dealer could not help smiling. Though two 
 of the three clerks, consigned to his care by their fath- 
 ers, rich manufacturers at Louviers and Sedan, had only 
 to ask on the day they came of age for a hundred thou- 
 sand francs, to have them, Guillaume believed it to be 
 his duty to keep them under the iron rod of an old- 
 fashioned despotism, wholly unknown in these da3's in 
 our brilliant modern shops, where the clerks expect to 
 be rich men at thirt}', — he made them work like negro 
 slaves. His three clerks did as much as would have 
 tired out ten of the modern sybarites whose laziness 
 
14 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 swells the columns of a budget. No sound ever broke 
 the stillness of that solemn establishment, where all 
 hinges were oiled, and the smallest article of furniture 
 was kept with a virtuous nicety which showed severe 
 economy and the strictest order. Sometimes the gid- 
 diest of the three clerks ventured to scratch upon the 
 rind of the Gruyere cheese, which was delivered to 
 them at breakfast and scrupulousl}^ respected by them, 
 the date of its first delivery. This prank, and a few 
 others of a like kind, would occasionally bring a smile 
 to the lips of Guillaume's youngest daughter, the pretty 
 maiden who had just passed like a vision before the 
 ej'es of the enchanted watcher. 
 
 Though each of the apprentices paid a large sum for 
 his board, not one of them would have dared to remain 
 at table until the dessert was served. When Madame 
 Guillaume made read}' to mix the salad, the poor 3'oung 
 fellows trembled to think with what parsimony that pru- 
 dent hand would pour the oil. They were not allowed 
 to pass a night off the premises without giving long 
 notice and plausible reasons for the irregularity. Every 
 Sunday two clerks, taking the honor hy turns, accom- 
 panied the Guillaume family to mass and to vespers." 
 Mesdemoiselles Virginie and Augustine, Gillaume's two 
 daughters, modestly attired in printed cotton gowns, 
 each took the arm of a clerk and walked in front, 
 beneath the piercing eyes of their mother, who brought 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 15 
 
 up the domestic procession witli her husband, com- 
 pelled by her to carry two large pra3'er-books Uound 
 in black morocco. The second clerk received no salary ; 
 as to the elder, whom twelve years of perseverance and 
 discretion had initiated into the secrets of the establish- 
 ment, he received twelve hundred francs a 3'ear in re- 
 turn for his services. On certain famil}- fSte-days a few 
 gifts were bestowed upon him, the sole value of which 
 lay in the labor of Madame Guillaume's lean and wrinkled 
 hands, — knitted purses, which she took care to stuff 
 with cotton wool to show their patterns, braces of the 
 strongest construction, or silk stockings of the heaviest 
 make. Sometimes, but rarely, this prime minister was 
 allowed to share the enjoyments of the family when they 
 spent a day in the country or, after months of deliber- 
 ation, the}' decided to hire a box at the theatre, and 
 use their right to demand some play of which Paris had 
 long been weary. 
 
 As to the other clerks, the barrier of respect which 
 formerly separated a master draper from his appren- 
 tices was so firmly fixed between them and the old 
 merchant that they would have feared less to steal a 
 piece of cloth than to break through that august eti- 
 quette. This deference may seem preposterous in our 
 day, but these old houses were schools of commercial 
 honesty anfl dignit}'. The masters adopted the appren- 
 tices ; their linen was cared for, mended, and often re- 
 
16 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 newed by the mistress of the house. If a clerk fell ill 
 the attention he received was truly maternal ; in case of 
 danger the master spared no money and called in the 
 best doctors, for he held himself answerable to the 
 parents of these young men for their health as well as 
 for their morals and their business training. If one of 
 them, honorable by nature, was overtaken by some dis- 
 aster, these old merchants knew how to appreciate the 
 real intelligence such a j'outh had displayed, and often 
 did not hesitate to trust the happiness of a daughter to 
 one to whom they had already confided the care of their 
 business. Guillaume was one of these old-fashioned busi- 
 ness men ; if he had their absurdities, he had also their 
 fine qualities. Thus it was that Joseph Lebas, his head- 
 clerk, an orphan without property, was, to his mind, a 
 suitable husband for Virginie, his eldest daughter. But 
 Joseph did not share these cut-and-dried opinions of 
 his master, who, for an empire, would not have married 
 his youngest daughter before the elder. The unfortu- 
 nate clerk felt that his heart was given to Mademoiselle 
 Augustine, the younger sister. To explain this passion, 
 which had grown up secretl}', we must look further into 
 the system of autocratic government which ruled the 
 house and home of the old merchant draper. 
 
 Guillaume had two daughters. The eldest. Made- 
 moiselle Virginie, was a reproduction of *her mother. 
 Madame Guillaume, daughter of the Sieur Chevrel, sat 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 17 
 
 so firm]}' upright behind her counter that she had more 
 than once overheard bets as to her being impaled there. 
 Her long, thin face expressed a sanctimonious piety. 
 Madame Guillaume, devoid of all gi-ace and without 
 amiabilit}' of manner, covered her sexagenary head with 
 a bonnet of invariable shape trimmed with long lappets 
 like those of a widow. The whole neighborhood called 
 her "the nun." Her words were few; her gestures 
 sudden and jerky, like the action of a telegraph. Her 
 eyes, clear as those of a cat, seemed to disHke the 
 ■whole world because she herself was ugly. Mademoi- 
 selle Virginie, brought up, like her 3-ounger sister, under 
 the domestic rule of her mother, was now twentj'-eight 
 j-ears of age. Youth softened the ill-favored, awkward 
 air which her resemblance to her mother gave at times 
 to her appearance ; but maternal severity' had bestowed 
 upon her two great qualities which counterbalanced the 
 rest of her inheritance, — she was gentle and patient. 
 Mademoiselle Augustine, now scarcely eighteen years 
 old, was like neither father nor mother. She was one 
 of those girls who, by the absence of all physical ties 
 to their parents, seem to justify the saying of prudes, 
 "God sends the children." Augustine was small, or, 
 to give a better idea of her, delicate. Graceful and full 
 of simplicity and candor, a man of the world could have 
 found no fault with the charming creature except that 
 her gestures were unmeaning and her attitudes occasion- 
 
 2 
 
18 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 ally common, or even awkward. Her silent and qui- 
 escent face expressed the fleeting melancholy which 
 fastens upon all young girls who are too feeble to dare 
 resist the will of a domineering mother. 
 
 Always modestly dressed, the two sisters had no way 
 of satisfying the innate coquetry of their woman's nature 
 except by a luxury of cleanliness and neatness which 
 became them wonderfully, and put them in keeping 
 with the shining counters and shelves on which the old 
 servant allowed not a speck of dust to settle, — in 
 keeping, too, with the antique simplicity of everything 
 about them. Forced by such a life to find the elements 
 of happiness in regular occupation, Augustine and Vir- 
 ginie had up to this time given nothing but satisfac- 
 tion to their mother, who secretly congratulated herself 
 on the perfect characters of her two daughters. It is 
 easy to imagine the results of such an education as 
 they had received. Brought up in the midst of busi- 
 ness, accustomed to hear arguments and calculations 
 that were grievousl}^ mercantile, taught grammar, book- 
 keeping, a little Jewish history, a little French history 
 in La Ragois, and allowed to read no books but those 
 their mother sanctioned, it is unnecessary to say that 
 their ideas were limited ; but they knew how to manage 
 a household admirably ; they understood the value and 
 the cost of things ; they appreciated the diflSculties in 
 the way of amassing money ; they were economical and 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 19 
 
 full of respect for the faculties and qualities of men of 
 business. In spite of their father's wealth, they were 
 as clever at darning as they were at embroider}' ; their 
 mother talked of teaching them to cook, so that they 
 might know how to order a dinner and scold the cook 
 from actual experience. 
 
 These girls, who were ignorant of the pleasures of the 
 world and saw onl}' the peaceful current of their parents' 
 exemplary lives, seldom cast their 3'outhful e^'cs beyond 
 the precincts of that old patrimonial house, which to 
 their mother was the universe. The parties occasioned 
 b}' certain family solemnities formed the whole horizon 
 of their terrestrial joys. When the large salon on the 
 second floor was thrown open to receive guests, — such 
 as Madame Roguin, formerly Mademoiselle Chevrel, 
 fifteen j'ears 3'ounger than her cousin, and who wore 
 diamonds ; 3"oung Rabourdin, head-clerk at the ministry 
 of Finance ; Monsieur Caesar Birotteau, the rich per- 
 fumer, and his wife, called Madame Caesar ; Monsieur 
 Camusot, the richest silk merchant in the rue des Bour- 
 donnais ; his father-in-law, Monsieur Cardot ; two or 
 three old bankers, and certain irreproachable women, — 
 then the preparations in getting out the silver plate, the 
 Dresden china, the wax candles, the choice glass, all 
 carefully packed away, were a diversion to the monoto- 
 nous lives of the three women, who went and came, 
 with as many steps and as much fuss as though they 
 
20 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 were nuns preparing for the reception of their bishop. 
 Then, at night, when all three were tired out with the 
 exertion of wiping, rubbing, unpacking, and putting in 
 their places the ornaments of these festivals, and the 
 ^•oung girls were helping their mother to go to bed, 
 Madame Guillaume would sa}', "My dears, we have 
 really accomplished nothing." 
 
 If, at these solemn assemblies, the pious creature al- 
 lowed a little dancing, and kept the whist and the 
 boston and the tric-trac players to the confines of her 
 own bedroom, the concession was accepted as an un- 
 hoped-for felicit}', and gave as much happiness as the 
 two or three pubhc balls to which Guillaume took his 
 daughters during the carnival. Once a year the worthy 
 draper himself gave an entertainment on which he 
 spared no expense. However rich and elegant the in- 
 vited guests might be, they took care not to miss that 
 fete ; for the most important business houses in the 
 city often had recourse to the vast credit, or the wealth, 
 or the great experience of Monsieur Guillaume. The 
 two daughters of the worth}" merchant did not, however, 
 profit as much as might be thought from the instructions 
 which society offers to young minds. They wore at 
 these entertainments (bills of exchange, as it were, upon 
 futurity) wreaths and ornaments of so common a kind 
 as to make them blush. Their style of dancing was not 
 of the best, and maternal vigilance allowed them to say 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 21 
 
 only " Yes " or " No " to their partners. Then the invari- 
 able domestic rule of the Cat-playing-ball obliged them 
 to retire at eleven o'clock, just as the party was getting 
 animated, 80 their pleasures, apparently conformable 
 ^vitll their father's wealth, were really dull and insipid 
 through circumstances derived from the habits and 
 principles of their family. 
 
 As to their daily life, a single fact will suffice to paint 
 it. Madame Guillaume required her daughters to dress 
 for the day in the early morning, to come downstairs 
 at precisely the same hour, and to arrange their occu- 
 pations with monastic regularity. Yet, with all this, 
 chance had bestowed upon Augustine a soul that was 
 able to feel the void of such an existence. Sometimes 
 those blue eyes were lifted for a moment as if to ques- 
 tion the dark depths of the stairway or the damp shop. 
 Listening to the cloistral silence her ears seemed to hear 
 from afar confused revelations of the passionate life, 
 which counts emotions as of more value than things. At 
 such moments the girl's face glowed ; her idle hands 
 let fall the muslin on the polished oaken counter ; but 
 soon the mother's voice would say, in tones that were 
 always sharp, even when she intended them to be 
 gentle, "Augustine, m}' dear, what are 3'ou thinking 
 about?" 
 
 Perhaps " Hippolyte, Earl of Douglas," and the 
 " Conite de Comminges," two novels which Augustine 
 
22 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 had found in the closet of a cook dismissed by Madame 
 Guillaume, may have contributed to develop the ideas 
 of the young girl, who had stealthily devoured those 
 productions during the long nights of the preceding 
 winter. The unconscious expression of vague desire, 
 the soft voice, the jasmine skin, and the blue e^-es of 
 Augustine Guillaume had lighted a flame in the soul of 
 poor Lebas as violent as it was humble. By a caprice 
 that is easy enough to understand, Augustine felt no 
 inclination for Joseph ; perhaps because she did not 
 know he loved her. On the other hand, the long legs 
 and chestnut hair, the strong hands and vigorous frame 
 of the head-clerk excited the admiration of Mademoiselle 
 Virginie, who had not 3et been asked in marriage in 
 spite of a dowr}^ of a hundred and fiftj^ thousand francs. 
 What could be more natural than these inversed loves, 
 born in the silence of that shop like violets in the depths 
 of the woods? The mute contemplation which constantly 
 drew the eyes of these j'oung people together, through 
 their violent need of some relief from the monotonous 
 toil and the religious calm in which they lived, could not 
 fail to excite, sooner or later, the emotions of love. 
 The habit of looking into the face of another leads to 
 an understanding of the noble qualities of the soul, and 
 ends 1)3' obliterating all defects. 
 
 " At the rate that man carries things," thought Mon- 
 sieur Guillaume when he read Napoleon's first decree on 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 23 
 
 the classes for conscription, '• our daughters -will have 
 to go upon their knees for husbands." 
 
 It was about that time that the old merchant, noticing 
 that his eldest daughter was beginning to fade, be- 
 thought him that he himself had married Mademoiselle 
 Chevrel under very much the same circumstances as 
 those in which Virginie and Joseph Lebas stood to each 
 other. What a fine thing it would be to marr}' his 
 daughter and pay a sacred debt by returning to the 
 orphaned young man the same benefaction that he him- 
 self had received from his predecessor in a like situa- 
 tion? Joseph Lebas, w^io was thirtj'-three years of 
 age, was fully conscious of the obstacles that a differ- 
 ence of fifteen years in their ages placed between Au- 
 gustine and himself. Too shrewd and intelligent not to 
 fathom Monsieur Guillaume's intentions, he understood 
 his master's inexorable principles far too well to sup- 
 pose for a moment that the 30unger daughter could be 
 married before the elder. The poor clerk, whose heart 
 was as good as his legs were long and his shoulders 
 high, suffered in silence. 
 
 Such was the state of things in this little republic of 
 the rue Saint-Denis, which seemed in many waj's like an 
 annex to La Trappe. But to explain external events 
 as we have now explained inward feelings, it is neces- 
 sar}- to look back a few mouths before the little scene 
 which began this history. 
 
24 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 One evening at dusk a young man, happening to pass 
 before tlie shop of the Cat-playing-ball, stopped to look 
 at a scene within those precincts which all the painters 
 of the world would have paused to contemplate. The 
 shop, which was not yet lighted up, formed a dark vista 
 through which the merchant's dining-room was seen. 
 An astral lamp on the dinner-table shed that j'ellow 
 light which gives such charm to the Dutch pictures. 
 The white table-linen, the silver, the glass, were bril- 
 liant accessories, still further thrown into relief by the 
 sharp contrasts of light and shadow. The figures of 
 the father of the family' and his wife, the faces of the 
 clerks, and the pure lines of Augustine, near to whom 
 stood a stout, chubby servant-girl, composed so remark- 
 able a picture, the heads were so original, the expression 
 of each character was so frank, it was so eas^^ to imagine 
 the peace, the silence, the modest life of the famil}-, that 
 to an artist accustomed to express nature there was 
 something absolutely' commanding in the desire to paint 
 this accidental scene. 
 
 The pedestrian, thus arrested, was a 3'oung painter 
 who, seven 3'ears earlier, had carried off the prix de 
 Rome. He had latety returned from the Eternal City. 
 His soul, fed on poesy, his eyes surfeited with Raffaelle 
 and Michael- Angelo, were now athirst for simple nature 
 after his long sojourn in the might}' land where art has 
 reached its highest grandeur. True or false, such was 
 
Fame and Sorroiv. 25 
 
 his personal feeling. Carried away for )'ears by the fire 
 of Italian passions, his heart now sought a eahn and 
 modest virgin, known to him as yet only upon canvas. 
 The first enthusiasm of his soul at the simple picture 
 before his eyes passed naturally into a deep admiration 
 for the principal figure. Augustine seemed thoughtful, 
 and was eating nothing. By a chance arrangement of 
 the lamp, the light fell full upon her face, and her bust 
 api)eared to move in a circle of flame, which threw into 
 still brighter relief the outline of her head, illuminating 
 it in a wa}' that seemed half supernatural. The artist 
 compared her involuntarily to an exiled angel remem- 
 bering heaven. A mysterious feeling, almost unknown 
 to him, a love limpid and bubbling overflowed his 
 heart. After standing a moment as if paralyzed be- 
 neath the weight of these ideas, he tore himself away 
 from his happiness and went home, unable either to 
 eat or sleep. 
 
 The next day he entered his studio, and did not leave 
 it again until he had placed on canvas the magic charm 
 of a scene the mere recollection of which had, as it were, 
 laid a spell upon him. But his happiness was incom- 
 plete so long as he did not possess a faithful portrait of 
 his idol. Many a time he passed before the house of 
 the Cat-playing-ball ; he even entered the shop once 
 or twice on some pretext to get a nearer view of the 
 ravishing creature who was always covered by Madame 
 
26 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 Guillaume's wing. For eight whole months, given up 
 to his love and to his brushes, he was invisible to his 
 friends, even to his intimates ; he forgot all, — poetr}-, 
 the theatre, music, and his most cherished habits. 
 
 One morning Girodet the painter forced his way in, 
 eluding all barriers as only artists can, and woke him 
 up with the inquiry, " What are you going to send to 
 the Salon?" 
 
 The artist seized his friend's arm, led him to the 
 studio, uncovered a little easel picture, and also a por- 
 trait. After a slow and eager examination of the two 
 masterpieces, Girodet threw his arms around his friend 
 and kissed him, without finding words to speak. His 
 feelings could only be uttered as he felt them, — soul 
 to soul. 
 
 " You love her ! " he said at last. 
 
 Both knew that the noblest portraits of Titian, Raf- 
 faelle, and Leonardo da Vinci are due to exalted human 
 feelings, which, under so manj' diverse conditions, have 
 given birth to the masterpieces of art. For all answer 
 the 3'oung painter bowed his head. 
 
 ' ' How fortunate, how happy you. are to be able to 
 love here, in Paris, after leaving Ital}'. I can't advise 
 j'ou to send such works as those to the Salon," added 
 the distinguished painter. " You see, such pictures 
 cannot be felt there. Those absolutelj^ true colors, 
 that stupendous labor, will not be understood ; the 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 27 
 
 public is no longer able to see into such depths. The 
 pictures we paint now-a-days, dear friend, are mere 
 screens for decoration. Better make verses, say I, 
 and translate the ancients, — we shall get a truer fame 
 that way than our miserable pictures will ever bring 
 us." 
 
 But in spite of this friendl}' advice the two pictures 
 were exhibited. That of the interior made almost a 
 revolution in art. It gave bii'th to the fashion of genre 
 pictures which since that time have so filled our exhi- 
 bitions that one might almost believe they were produced 
 by some mechanical process. As to the portrait, there 
 are few living artists who do not cherish the memory of 
 that breathing canvas on which the general public, occa- 
 sionally just in its judgment, left the crown of praise 
 which Girodet himself placed there. 
 
 The two pictures were surrounded by crowds. People 
 killed themselves, as women saj-, to look at them. Spec- 
 ulators and great lords would have covered both can- 
 vases with double-napoleons, but the artist obstinately 
 refused to sell them, declining also to make copies. 
 He was offered an immense sum if he would allow them 
 to be engraved ; but the dealers were no more success- 
 ful than the amateurs. Though this affair engrossed 
 the social world, it was not of a nature to penetrate the 
 depths of Egyptian solitude in the rue Saint-Denis. It 
 so chanced, however, that the wife of a notary, paying 
 
28 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 a visit to Madame Guillaume, spoke of the exhibition 
 before Augustine, of whom she was veiy fond, and 
 explained what it was. Madame Roguin's chatter nat- 
 urally inspired Augustine with a desire to see the pict- 
 ures, and with the boldness to secretly ask her cousin 
 to take her to the Louvre. Madame Roguin succeeded 
 in the negotiation she undertook with Madame Guil- 
 laume, and was allowed to take her little cousin from 
 her daily tasks for the short space of two hours. 
 
 Thus it was that the young girl, passing through the 
 crowd, stood before the famous picture. A quiver 
 made her tremble like a birch-leaf when she recognized 
 her own self. She was frightened, and looked about 
 to rejoin Madame Roguin, from whom the crowd had 
 parted her. At that instant her e^-es encountered 
 the flushed face of the 5'oung painter. She suddenly 
 remembered a man who had frequently passed the shop 
 and whom she had often remarked, thinking he was 
 some new neighbor. 
 
 " You see there the inspiration of love," said the ar- 
 tist in a whisper to the timid creature, who was terrified 
 b}' his words. 
 
 She summoned an almost supernatural courage to 
 force her way through the crowd and rejoin her 
 cousin. 
 
 " You will be suffocated," cried Augustine. " Do let 
 us sro ! " 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 29 
 
 But there are certain moments at the Salon when 
 two women are not able to move freely through the 
 galleries. Mademoiselle Guillaume and her cousin were 
 blocked and pushed by the swaying crowd to within 
 a few feet of the second picture. The exclamation of 
 surprise uttered by Madame Roguin was lost in the 
 noises of the room ; but Augustine involuntarily wept 
 as she looked at the marvellous scene. Then, with a 
 feeling that is almost inexplicable, she put her finger on 
 her lips as she saw the ecstatic face of the young artist 
 within two feet of her. He replied with a motion of 
 his head toward Madame Roguin, as if to show Augus- 
 tine that he understood her. This pantomime threw a 
 fire of burning coals into the being of the poor girl, 
 who felt she was criminal in thus allowing a secret com- 
 pact between herself and the unknown artist. The stif- 
 ling heat, the sight of the brilliant dresses, a giddiness 
 which the wonderful combinations of color produced in 
 her, the multitude of figures, living and painted, which 
 surrounded her, the profusion of gold frames, — all 
 gave her a sense of intoxication which redoubled her 
 terrors. She might have fainted if there had not welled 
 up from the depths of her heart, in spite of this chaos 
 of sensations, a mj'sterious joy which vivified her 
 whole being. Still, she fancied she was under the do- 
 minion of that demon whose dreadful snares were threats 
 held out to her by the thundered words of the preach- 
 
30 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 ers. The moment seemed like one of actual madness 
 to her. She saw she was accompanied to her cousin's 
 carriage by the mj'sterious young man, resplendent 
 with love and happiness. A new and unknown excite- 
 ment possessed her, an intoxication which delivered 
 her, as it were, into the hands of Nature ; she listened 
 to the eloquent voice of her own heart, and looked at 
 the young painter several times, betraying as she did 
 so the agitation of her thoughts. Never had the carna- 
 tion of her cheeks formed a more charming contrast to 
 the whiteness of her skin. The artist then beheld that 
 beaut}' in its perfect flower, that virgin modest}- in all 
 its glory. 
 
 Augustine became conscious of a sort of joy mingling 
 with her terror as she thought how her presence had 
 brought happiness to one whose name was on CA^er}' lip 
 and whose talent had given immortality to a passing 
 scene. Yes, she was beloved ! sne could not doubt it ! 
 When she ceased to see him, his words still sounded in 
 her ear : " You see the inspiration of love ! " The pal- 
 pitations of her heart were painful, so violently did the 
 now ardent blood awaken unknown forces in her being. 
 She complained of a severe headache to avoid replying 
 to her cousin's questions about the pictures ; but when 
 they reached home, Madame Eoguin could not refrain 
 from telling Madame Guillaume of the celebrity given to 
 the establishment of the Cat-plajung-ball, and Angus- 
 
Fame and Sorroio. 31 
 
 tine trembled in every limb as she lieard her mother 
 say she should go to the Salon and see her own house. 
 Again the young girl complained of her headache, and 
 received permission to go to bed. 
 
 "That's what you get by going to shows!" ex- 
 claimed Monsieur Guillaume. "Headaches! Is it so 
 very amusing to see a picture of what you see every 
 da^' in the street? Don't talk to me of artists ; they are 
 like authors, — half-starved beggars. Why the devil 
 should that fellow choose my house to villify in his 
 picture ? " 
 
 " Perhaps it will help to sell some of our cloth," said 
 Joseph Lebas. 
 
 That remark did not save art and literature from 
 being once more arraigned and condemned before the 
 tribunal of commerce. It will be readily believed that 
 such discourse brought little encouragement to Augus- 
 tine, who gave herself up in the night-time to the first 
 revery of love. The events of the day were like those 
 of a dream which she deligbted to reproduce in thought. 
 She learned the fears, the hopes, the remorse, all those 
 undulations of feeling which rock a heart as simple and 
 timid as hers. "What a void she felt within that gloomy 
 house, what a treasure she found within her soul ! To 
 be the wife of a man of talent, to share his fame ! 
 Imagine the havoc such a thought would make in the 
 heart of a child brought up in the bosom of such a fam- 
 
32 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 ily ! What hopes would it not awaken in a girl who 
 lived among the vulgarities of life, and j-et longed for 
 its elegancies. A beam of light had come into her 
 prison. Augustine loved, loved suddenly. So manj' 
 repressed feelings were gratified that she succumbed at 
 once, without an instant's reflection. At eighteen love 
 flings its prism between the world and the ej'es of a 
 maiden. Incapable of imagining the harsh experience 
 which comes to ever}^ loving woman married to a man 
 gifted with imagination, she fancied herself called to 
 make the happiness of such a man, seeing no disparity 
 between them. For her the present was the whole 
 future. 
 
 When Monsieur and Madame Guillaume returned the 
 next day from the Salon, their faces announced disap- 
 pointment and annoyance. In the first place, the artist 
 had withdrawn the picture ; in the next, Madame Guil- 
 laume had lost her cashmere shawl. The news that the 
 pictures had been withdrawn after her visit to the Salon 
 was to Augustine the revelation of a delicacy of senti- 
 ment which all women appreciate, if onl}' instinctivel}'. 
 
 The morning on which, returning from a ball, Theo- 
 dore de Sommervieux (such was the name which cele- 
 brit}' had now placed in Augustine's heart), was 
 showered with soapy water by the clerks of the Cat- 
 playing- ball, as he awaited the apparition of his in- 
 nocent beauty, — who certainly' did not know he was 
 
Fame and Sorroiv. 33 
 
 there, — was onl}' the fourth occasion of their seeing 
 each other since that first meeting at the 8alon. The 
 obstacles which the iron s^'stem of the house of Guil- 
 lanme placed in the way of the ardent and impetuous 
 nature of the artist, added a violence to his passion for 
 Augustine, which will be readily understood. Plow ap- 
 proach a young girl seated behind a counter between 
 two such women as Mademoiselle Virginie and Madame 
 Guillaume? How was it possible to correspond with 
 hor if her mother never left her? Ready, like all 
 lovers, to invent troubles for himself, Theodore se- 
 lected a rival among the clerks, and suspected the 
 others of being in their comrade's interests. If he 
 escaped their Argus eyes he felt he should succumb to 
 the stern glances of the old merchant or Madame Guil- 
 laume. Obstacles on all sides, despair on all sides ! 
 The very violence of his passion prevented the young 
 man from inventing those clever expedients which, in 
 lovers as well as in prisoners, seem to be crowning 
 efforts of intellect roused either by a savage desire for 
 libert}' or b}' the ardor of love. Then Theodore would 
 rush round the corner like a madman, as if movement 
 alone could suggest a wa}' out of the difficult}'. 
 
 After allowing his imagination to torment him for 
 weeks, it came into his head to bribe the chubby 
 servant-girl. A few letters were thus exchanged during 
 
 the fortnight which followed the unlucky morning when 
 
 3 
 
34 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 Monsieur Guillaume and Theodore had first met. The 
 loving pair had now agreed to see each other daily at a 
 certain hour, and on Sunday at the church of Saint- 
 Leu, during both mass and vespers. Augustine had 
 sent her dear Theodore a list of the friends and rela- 
 tives of the family to whom the young painter was 
 to gain access. He was then to endeavor to inter- 
 est in his loving cause some one of those mone}'- 
 making and commercial souls to whom a real passion 
 would otherwise seem a monstrous and unheard-of 
 speculation. 
 
 In other respects nothing happened and no change 
 took place in the habits of the Cat-play ing-ball. If 
 Augustine was absent-minded ; if, against every law 
 of the domestic charter, she went up to her bedroom 
 to make the signals under cover of the flower-pots ; 
 if she sighed, if she brooded, — no one, not even her 
 mother, found it out. This may cause some surprise 
 to those who have understood the spirit of the house- 
 hold, where a single idea tinged with poetry would have 
 contrasted sharply with the beings and with the things 
 therein contained, and where no one was able to give a 
 look or gesture that was not seen and analj'zed. And 
 yet, as it happened, nothing was reall}^ more natural. 
 The tranquil vessel which navigated the seas of Parisian 
 commerce under the flag of the Cat-playing-ball, was at 
 this particular moment tossed about in one of those 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 86 
 
 storms which may be called equinoctial, on account of 
 their periodical return. 
 
 For the last fifteen da\-s the five men of the establish- 
 ment, with Madame Guillaume and Mademoiselle Vir- 
 ginie, had devoted themselves to that severe toil whicli 
 goes by the name of " taking an inventory." All bales 
 were undone, and the length of each piece of goods was 
 measured, to learn the exact value of what remained on 
 hand. The card attached to each piece was carefully 
 examined to know how long the different goods had 
 been in stock. New prices were affixed. Monsieur 
 Guillaume, alwa3's standing up, 3-ard-measure in hand, 
 his pen behind his ear, was like a captain in command 
 of a ship. His sharp voice, passing down a hatchway' 
 to the ware-rooms below, rang out that barbarous 
 jargon of commerce expressed in enigmas: "How 
 many H-N-Z ? " " Take it away ! " " How much left 
 of Q-X?" "Two yards." "What price?" "Five- 
 five-three." " Put at three A all J-J, all M-P, and the 
 rest of V-D-0." A thousand other such phrases, all 
 equally intelligible, resounded across the counters, like 
 those verses of modern poetry which the romanticists 
 recite to each other to keep up their enthusiasm for a 
 favorite poet. At night Monsieur Guillaume locked 
 himself and his head-clerk and his wife into the count- 
 ing-room, went over the books, opened the new accounts, 
 notified the dilatory debtors, and made out all bills. 
 
36 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 The results of this immense toil, which could be noted 
 down on one sheet of foolscap paper, proved to the 
 house of Guillaume that it owned so much in monej', so 
 much in merchandise, so much in notes and cheques ; 
 also that it did not owe a sou, but that so many hun- 
 dred thousand francs were owing to it ; that its capital 
 had increased ; that its farms, houses, and stocks were 
 to be enlarged, repaired, or doubled. Hence came a 
 sense of the necessity of beginning once more with 
 renewed ardor the accumulation of more money ; 
 though none of these brave ants ever thought of ask- 
 ing themselves, "What's the good of it?" 
 
 Thanks to this annual tumult, the happ}' Augustine 
 was able to escape the observation of her Arguses. At 
 last, one Saturday evening, the " taking of the inven- 
 tory " was an accomplished fact. The figures of the 
 total assets showed so many ciphers that in honor of 
 the occasion Monsieur Guillaume removed the stern 
 embargo which reigned throughout the ^-ear at des- 
 sert. The sly old draper rubbed his hands and told the 
 clerks they might remain at table. They had hardly 
 swallowed their little glass of a certain home-made 
 liqueur, however, when carriage-wheels were heard in 
 the street. The family were going to the Varietes to 
 see " Cinderella," while the two younger clerks each 
 received six francs and permission to go where they 
 liked, provided they were at home by midnight. 
 
 I 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 37 
 
 The next morning, in spite of this debauch, the old 
 merchant-draper shaved at six o'clock, put on his flne 
 maroon coat, — the lustre of its cloth causing him, as 
 usual, much satisfaction, — fastened his gold buckles to 
 the knee-band of his ample silk breeches, and then, 
 toward seven o'clock, while every one in the house was 
 still asleep, he went to the little office adjoining the 
 shop on the first floor. It was lighted by a window 
 protected by thick iron bars, and looked out upon a lit- 
 tle square court formed by walls so black that the place 
 was like a well. The old merchant opened an inner 
 blind that was clamped with iron, and raised a sash of 
 the window. The chill air of the court cooled the hot 
 atmosphere of the office, which exhaled an odor peculiar 
 to all such places. Monsieur Guillaume remained stand- 
 ing, one hand resting on the greas}' arm of a cane-chair 
 covered with morocco, the primitive color of which was 
 now effaced ; he seemed to hesitate to sit down. The old 
 man glanced with a softened air at the taU double desk, 
 where his wife's seat was arranged exactly opposite to 
 his own, in a little arched alcove made in the wall. 
 He looked at the numbered paper-boxes, the twine, the 
 various utensils, the irons with which they marked the 
 cloth, the safe, — all objects of immemorial origin, — 
 and he fancied himself standing before the evoked shade 
 of the late Chevrel. He pulled out the ver}' stool on 
 which he formerly sat in presence of his now defunct 
 
38 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 master. That stool, covered with black leather, from 
 which the horsehair had long oozed at the corners (but 
 without falling out), he now placed with a trembling 
 hand on the particular spot where his predecessor had 
 once placed it; then, with an agitation difficult to de- 
 scribe, he pulled a bell which rang at the bed's head of 
 Joseph Lebas, When that decisiA^e deed was done, the 
 old man, to whom these memories may have been op- 
 pressive, took out three or four bills of exchange which 
 had been presented to him the da}' before, and was 
 looking them over, but without seeing them, when 
 Joseph Lebas entered the office. 
 
 " Sit there," said Monsieur Guillaume, pointing to 
 the stool. 
 
 As the old master-draper had never before allowed a 
 clerk to sit in his presence, Joseph trembled. 
 
 "What do you think of these drafts? " asked Guil- 
 laume. 
 
 " They will not be paid." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " I heard yesterday that Etienne and Company were 
 making their payments in gold." 
 
 " Ho ! ho ! " cried the draper. " They must be very 
 ill to show their bile. Let us talk of something else, 
 Joseph ; the inventory is finished ? " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, and the dividend is the finest yon 
 have ever had." 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 39 
 
 " Pray don't use those ncw-fanglod words. Sa}' 
 ' proceeds,' Joseph. Do you know, my boy, that we 
 owe that result partly to 3'ou? Therefore, I do not 
 wish you to have a salary any longer. Madame Guil- 
 laume has put it into my head to offer 3'ou a share in 
 the business. Hey, Joseph, what do you say ? 'Guil- 
 laume and Lebas,' — don't the names make a fine part- 
 nership ? and we can add ' and Company ' to complete 
 the signature." 
 
 Tears came into .Joseph's e3'es, though he tried to 
 hide them. " Ah, Monsieur Guillaume," he said, " how 
 have I deserved such goodness ? I have onl}' done my 
 duty'. It was enough that you should even take an 
 interest in a poor orph — " 
 
 He brushed the cuff of his left sleeve with his right 
 sleeve, and dared not look at the old man, who smiled 
 as he thought that this modest 3'oung fellow no doubt 
 needed, as he himself once needed, to be helped and 
 encouraged to make the explanation complete. 
 
 "It is true, Joseph," said Virginie's father, " that 
 you do not quite deserve that favor. You do not put 
 as much confidence in me as I do in j'ou" (here the 
 clerk looked up hurriedly). "You know my secrets. 
 For the last two years I have told j'ou aU about the 
 business. I have sent you travelling to the manufac- 
 tories. I have nothing to reproach myself with as to 
 you. But 3'OU ! You have a liking in your mind, and 
 
40 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 yon have never said a word to me about it" (Josepli 
 colored). " Ha ! ha ! " cried Guillaume, " so you thouglit 
 3'ou could deceive an old fox like me ? Me ! when you 
 knew how I predicted the Lecocq failure ! " 
 
 "Oh, monsieur!" replied Joseph Lebas, examining 
 his master as attentively as his master examined him, 
 " is it possible that you know whom I love? " 
 
 "I know all, you good-for-nothing fellow," said the 
 worthy and astute old dealer, twisting the lobe of the 
 young man's ear ; " and I forgive it, for I did as much 
 myself." 
 
 " Will 3'ou give her to me ? " 
 
 " Yes, with a hundred and fifty thousand francs, and 
 I will leave you as much more ; and we will meet our 
 new expenses under the new firm name. Yes, boy, we 
 will stir up the business finel}' and put new life into it," 
 cried the old merchant, rising and gesticulating with 
 his arms. " There is nothing like business, son-in-law. 
 Those who sneer and ask what pleasures can be found 
 in it are simply fools. To have the cue of money-mat- 
 ters, to know how to govern the market, to wait with 
 the anxiety of gamblers till Etienne and Company fail, I 
 
 to see a regiment of Guards go by with our cloth on 
 their backs, to trip up a neighbor, — honestly, of 
 course, — to manufacture at a lower price than oth- 
 ers, to follow up an affair when we 've planned it, to 
 watch it begin, increase, totter, and succeed, to under- 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 41 
 
 stand, like the miuister of police, all the wa^'s and 
 means of all the commercial houses so as to make no 
 false step, to stand up straight when others are wrecked 
 and ruined, to have friends and correspondents in all the 
 manufacturing towns and cities — Ha, Joseph ! is n't 
 that perpetual pleasure ? I call that living ! Yes, and 
 I shall die in that bustle like old Chevrel himself." 
 
 In the heat of his allocution Pere Guillaume scarcely 
 looked at his clerk, who was weeping hot tears ; when 
 he did so he exclaimed, " Hej-, Joseph, my poor boy, 
 what is the matter ? " 
 
 •' Ah ! I love her so, Monsieur Guillaume, that my 
 heart fails me, I believe." 
 
 " "Well, my boy," said the old man, quite moved, 
 "3'ou are happier than you think you are ; for, by the 
 powers, she loves you. 1 know it ; yes, I do ! " 
 
 And he winked his two little green eyes as he looked 
 at Joseph. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Augustine! Mademoiselle Augus- 
 tine ! " cried Joseph Lebas in his excitement. He was 
 about to rush out of the office when he felt himself 
 grasped by an iron arm, and his astonished master 
 pulled him vigorously in front of him. 
 
 "What has Augustine got to do with it?" asked 
 Guillaume, in a voice that froze the unfortunate young 
 man. 
 
 " It is she — whom — I love," stammered the clerk. 
 
42 Fame and Sorroiv. 
 
 Disconcerted at his own lack of perspicacity, Guil- 
 laume sat down and put his pointed head into his two 
 hands to reflect upon the queer position in which he 
 found himself. Joseph Lebas, ashamed, mortified, and 
 despairing, stood before him, 
 
 "Joseph," said the merchant, with cold dignit}-, "I 
 was speaking to yon of Virginie. Love is not to be 
 commanded ; I know that. I trust your discretion ; 
 we will forget the whole matter. I shall never allow 
 Augustine to be married before Vu-ginie. Your interest 
 in the business will be ten per cent." 
 
 The head-clerk, in whom love inspired a mysterious 
 degree of courage and eloquence, clasped his hands, 
 opened his lips, and spoke to Guillaume for fifteen min- 
 utes with such ardor and deep feeling that the situation 
 changed. If the matter had concerned some business 
 aflTair the old man would have had a fixed rule b}' 
 which to settle it ; but suddenly cast upon the sea of 
 feelings, a thousand miles from business and without a 
 compass, he floated irresolutely before the wind of an 
 event so " out of the wa}'," as he kept saj'ing to him- 
 self. Influenced by his natural paternal kindness, he 
 was at the mercj' of the waves. 
 
 "Hey, the deuce, Joseph, you know of course that 
 my two children came with ten years between them. 
 Mademoiselle Chevrel was not handsome, no ; but I 
 never gave her an^- reason to complain of me. Do as 
 
 1 
 
Fame and Sorro7iK 43 
 
 I (lid. Conic, don't fret, — what a goose 3-ou aro ! 
 Perhaps we can manage it ; I'll try. There 's always 
 some way to do a thing. We men are not exactly 
 Celadons to our wives, — you understand, don't you? 
 Madame Guillaume is pious, and — There, there, my 
 bo}', you ma}' give Augustine your arm this morning 
 when we go to mass." , 
 
 Such were the sentences which Pere Guillaume scat- 
 tered at random. The last of them filled the lover's 
 soul with joy. He was alread}' thinking of a friend 
 who would do for Mademoiselle Virginie as he left the 
 smoky office, after pressing the hand of his future 
 father-in-law and saying, in a confidential way, that it 
 would all come right. 
 
 "What will Madame Guillaume say?" That idea 
 was terribl}' harrassing to the worthy merchant when 
 he found himself alone. 
 
 At breakfast, Madame Guillaume and Virginie, whom 
 the draper had left, provision all}-, in ignorance of her 
 disappointment, looked at Joseph with so much mean- 
 ing that he became greatly embarrassed. His modesty 
 won him the good-will of his future mother-in-law. 
 The matron grew so livel}' that she looked at Monsieur 
 Guillaume with a smile, and allowed herself a few little 
 harmless pleasantries customary from time immemorial 
 in such innocent families. She discussed the relative 
 heights of Joseph and Virginie, and placed them side 
 
44 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 by side to be measured. These little follies brought a 
 cloud to the paternal brow ; in fact, the head of the 
 family manifested such a sense of decorum that he 
 ordered Augustine to take the arm of his head-clerk on 
 their way to church. Madame Guillaume, surprised at 
 so much masculine delicacy, honored her husband's act 
 with an approving nod. The procession left the house 
 in an order that suggested no gossippiug constructions 
 to the neighbors. 
 
 "Do you not think, Mademoiselle Augustine," said 
 the head-clerk in a trembling voice, " that the wife of a 
 merchant in high standing, like Monsieur Guillaume 
 for example, ought to amuse herself rather more than 
 — than your mother amuses herself ? She ought surely 
 to wear diamonds, and have a carriage. As for me, if 
 I should ever marry I should want to take all the cares 
 myself, and see my wife happy ; I should not let her sit 
 at any counter of mine. You see, women are no longer 
 as much needed as they used to be in draper's shops. 
 Monsieur Guillaume was quite right to do as he did, and 
 besides, Madame likes it. But if a wife knows how to 
 help in making up the accounts at times, and looking 
 over the correspondence ; if she can have an eye to a 
 few details and to the orders, and manage her household, 
 so as not to be idle, that 's enough. As for me, I should 
 always wish to amuse her after seven o'clock, when the 
 shop is closed. I should take her to the theatre and 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 45 
 
 the picture galleries, and into society, — but you are not 
 
 listening to me." 
 
 " Oh, yes I am, Monsieur Joseph. What were j'ou 
 saying about painters? It is a noble art." 
 
 " Yes, I know one, a master painter, Monsieur Lour- 
 dois ; he makes mone}"." 
 
 Thus conversing, the family reached Saint-Leu ; 
 there, Madame Guillaume recovered her rights. She 
 made Augustine, for the first time, sit beside her ; and 
 Virgiuie took the fourth chair, next to that of Lebas. 
 During the sermon all went well with Augustine and with 
 Theodore, who stood behind a column and prayed to 
 his madonna with great fervor ; but when the Host was 
 raised, Madame Guillaume perceived, somewhat tardily, 
 that her daughter Augustine was holding her prayer- 
 book upside down. She was about to scold her vigor- 
 ouslj' when, suddenly raising her veil, she postponed 
 her lecture and looked in the direction which her daugh- 
 ter's eyes had taken. With the help of her spectacles, 
 she then and there beheld the 3'oung aitist, whose 
 fashionable clothes bespoke an officer of the a.\'my on 
 furlough rather than a merchant belonging to the neigh- 
 borhood. It is difficult to imagine the wrath of Madame 
 Guillaume, who flattered herself she had brought up her 
 daughters in perfect propriety, on detecting this clan- 
 destine love in Augustine's heart, the evils of which 
 she magnified out of ignorance and prudery. She 
 
46 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 concluded instantly that her daughter was rotten to 
 the core. 
 
 "In the first place, hold your book straight, made- 
 moiselle," she said in a low voice, but trembling with 
 anger ; then she snatched the tell-tale prayer-book, and 
 turned it the right way. " Don't dare to raise 3'our 
 eyes off those prayers," she added ; " otherwise you will 
 answer for it to me. After service, your father and I 
 will have something to say to 3'ou." 
 
 These words were like a thunderbolt to poor Augus- 
 tine. She felt like fainting; but between the misery 
 she endured and the fear of creating a disturbance in 
 church, she gathered enough courage to hide her suffer- 
 ing. Yet it was eas}' enough to guess the commotion 
 of her mind by the way the book shook in her hands 
 and by the tears which fell on the pages as she turned 
 them. The artist saw, from the incensed look which 
 Madame Guillaume flung at him, the perils which threat- 
 ened his love, and he left the church with rage in his 
 heart, determined to dare all. 
 
 "Go to your room, mademoiselle!" said Madame 
 Guillaume when they reached home. " Don't dare to 
 leave it ; you will be called when we want you." 
 
 The conference of husband and wife was held in 
 secret, and at first nothing transpired. But after a 
 while Virginie, who had comforted her sister wilh 
 many tender suggestions, carried her kindness so far 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 47 
 
 as to slip down to the door of her mother's bedroom, 
 where the discussion was taking place, ho[)ing to over- 
 hear a few sentences. At her first trii) from the third 
 to the second floor she heard hei father exclaim, 
 "Madame, do you wish to kill your daughter?" 
 
 " M}- poor dear," said Virginie, running back to her 
 disconsolate sister, " papa is defending you ! " 
 
 " What will they do to Theodore ? " asked the inno- 
 cent little thing. 
 
 Virginie went down again ; but this time she staj'ed 
 longer ; she heard that Lebas loved Augustine. 
 
 It was decreed that on this memorable day that 
 usually calm house should become a hell. Monsieur 
 Guillaume brought Joseph Lebas to the verge of de- 
 spair b}- informing him of Augustine's attachment to 
 the artist. Lebas, who b}- that time had met his friend 
 and advised him to ask for Mademoiselle Virginie in 
 marriage, saw all his hopes overthrown. Virginie, 
 overcome by the discovery that Joseph had, as it 
 were, refused her, was taken with a violent headache. 
 And finally, the jar between husband and wife, result- 
 ing from the explanation they had together, when for 
 the third time only in their lives the}- held different 
 opinions, made itself felt in a reall}- dreadful manner. 
 At last, about four o'clock in the afternoon Augus- 
 tine, pale, trembhng, and with red eyes, was brought 
 before her father and mother. The poor child related 
 
48 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 artlessh'' the too brief story of her love. Reassured by 
 her father, who promised to hear her through in silence, 
 she gathered enough courage to utter the name of her 
 dear Theodore de Sommervieux, dwelling with some 
 diplomacy on the aristocratic particle. As she yielded 
 to the hitherto unknown delight of speaking out her 
 feelings, she found courage to saj* with innocent bold- 
 ness that she loved Monsieur de Sommervieux and had 
 written to him, adding, with tears in her e3'es : "It 
 would make me unhappy for life to sacrifice me to any 
 one else." 
 
 " But Augustine, j'ou do not know what a painter is," 
 cried her mother, in horror, 
 
 " Madame Guillaume ! " said the old father, imposing 
 silence on his wife — " Augustine," he went on, " artists 
 are generally' poor, half-starved creatures. The}- squan- 
 der what the}' have, and are always worthless. I know, 
 for the late Monsieur Joseph Vernet, the late Monsieur 
 Lekain, and the late Monsieur Noverre were customers 
 of mine. My dear, if you knew the tricks that very 
 Monsieur Noverre, and Monsieur le chevalier de Saint- 
 Georges, and above all. Monsieur Philidor pla3'ed upon 
 m}' predecessor Pere Chevrel ! The}' are queer fellows, 
 ver}' queer. The}- all have a glib way of talking and 
 fine manners. Now your Monsieur Sumer — Som — " 
 
 "De Sommervieux, papa." 
 
 *' Well, so be it, — de Sommervieux, he never could 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 49 
 
 be as charraing with you as Monsieur le chevalier de 
 Saint-Georges was with me the day I obtained a con- 
 suUir sentence against him. That's how it was with 
 people of good-breeding in those days." 
 
 "But papa, Monsieur Tht'odore is a nobleman, and 
 he writes me that he is rich ; his father was called the 
 Chevalier de Sommervieux before the Revolution." 
 
 At these words Monsieur Guillaume looked at his ter- 
 rible better-half, who was tapping her foot and keeping 
 a dead silence with the air of a thwarted woman ; she 
 would not even cast her indignant ej'es at Augustine, 
 and seemed determined to leave the whole responsi- 
 bility of the misguided affair to Monsieur Guillaume, 
 inasmuch as her advice was not listened to. However, 
 in spite of her apparent phlegm, she could not refrain 
 from exclaiming, when she saw her husband playing 
 such a gentle part in a catastrophe that was not com- 
 mercial : " Reall}', monsieur, you are as weak as j'our 
 daughter, but — " 
 
 The noise of a carriage stopping before the door in- 
 terrupted the reprimand which the old merchant was 
 dreading. A moment more, and Madame Eoguin was 
 in the middle of the room looking at the three actors in 
 the domestic drama. 
 
 " I know all, cousin," she said, with a patronizing 
 air 
 
 If Madame Roguin had a fault, it was that of think- 
 4 
 
50 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 ing that the wife of a Parisian notary could play the 
 part of a great lady. 
 
 " I know all," she repeated, " and I come to Noah's 
 Ark like the dove, with an olive-branch, — I read that 
 allegory in the ' Genius of Christianity,' " she remarked, 
 turning to Madame Guillaume ; " therefore the compari- 
 son ought to please you. Let me tell you," she added, 
 smiling at Augustine, " that Monsieur de Sommervieux 
 is a charming man. He brought me this morning a 
 portrait of myself, done with a masterly hand. It is 
 worth at least six thousand francs." 
 
 At these words she tapped lightly on Monsieur Guil- 
 laume's arm. The old merchant could not refrain from 
 pushing out his lips in a manner that was peculiar to 
 him. 
 
 " I know Monsieur de Sommervieux very well," con- 
 tinued the dove. " For the last fortnight he has at- 
 tended my parties, and he is the present attraction of 
 them. He told me all his troubles, and I am here on 
 his behalf. I know that he adores Augustine, and is 
 determined to have her. Ah ! my dear cousin, don't 
 shake j^our head. Let me tell 3'ou that he is about to 
 be made a baron, and that the Emperor himself, on the 
 occasion of his visit to the Salon, made him a cheva- 
 lier of the Legion of honor. Roguin is now his notary 
 and knows all his affairs. Well, I can assure 3'ou t^iat 
 Monsieur de Sommervieux has good, sound property 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 51 
 
 which brings him in twelve thousand a year. Now, the 
 father-in-law of a man in his position might count on 
 becoming something of importance, — mayor of the 
 arrondissemcnt, for instance. Don't 30U remember 
 how Monsieur Dupont was made count of the Empire 
 and senator merel}' because, as mayor, it was his duty 
 to congratulate the Emperor on his entrance to Vienna? 
 Yes, yes, this marriage must take place. I adore the 
 3'oung man, myself. His behavior to Augustine la 
 hardl}' met with now-a-days outside of a novel. Don't 
 fret, m}- dear child, 3'ou will be happ}', and everybody 
 will Qwxy 3'Ou. There 's the Duchesse de Carigliano, she 
 comes to my parties and delights in Monsieur de Som- 
 mervieux. Gossiping tongues do sa3' she comes to my 
 house onl3' to meet him, — just as if a duchess of 3es- 
 terda3- was out of place in the salon of a Chevrcl whose 
 famil3' can show a hundred 3'ears of good, sound bour- 
 geoisie behind it. Augustine," added Madame Ro- 
 guin, after a slight pause, " I have seen the portrait. 
 Heavens ! it is lovel3\ Did you know the Emperor 
 had asked to see it? He said, laughing, to the vice- 
 chamberlain, that if he had many women like that 
 at his court so man3' kings would flock there that he 
 could easil3' keep the peace of Europe. Was n't that 
 flattering?" 
 
 The domestic storms with which the day began were 
 something like those of nature, for the3' were followed 
 
52 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 lay calm and serene weather. Madame Eogiiin's argu- 
 ments were so seductive, she managed to pull so many 
 cords in the withered hearts of Monsieur and Madame 
 Guillaume that she at least found one which enabled her 
 to carr}' the da^-. At this singular period of our na- 
 tional histor}^ commerce and finance were to a greater 
 degree than ever before possessed with an insane desire 
 to ally themselves with the nobility, and the generals 
 of the Empire profited immensely by this sentiment. 
 Monsieur Guillaume, however, was remarkable for his 
 opposition to this curious passion. His favorite axioms 
 were that if a woman wanted happiness she ought to 
 marr}- a man of her own class ; that persons were al- 
 ways sooner or later punished for trying to climb too 
 high ; that love could ill endure the petty annoyances of 
 home-life, and that persons should look onlj' for solid 
 virtues in each other ; that neither of the married pair 
 should know more than the other, because the first 
 requisite was complete mutual understanding ; and that 
 a husband who spoke Greek and a wife who spoke 
 Latin would be certain to die of hunger. He promul- 
 gated that last remark as a sort of proverb. He com- 
 pared marriages thus made to those old-fashioned stuflTs 
 of silk and wool in which the silk alwaj's ended b}' wear- 
 ing out the wool. And 3'et, there was so much vanity 
 at the bottom of his heart that the prudence of the pilot 
 who had guided with such wisdom the aflTairs of the 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 53 
 
 Cat-playing-ball succumbed to the aggressive volubil- 
 ity of Madame Roguin, The stern Madame CJuilhuune 
 was the first to derogate from her principles and to find 
 in her daughter's inclinations an excuse for so doing. 
 She consented to receive Monsieur de SommeiTieux at 
 her house, resolving in her own mind to examine him 
 rigorously. 
 
 The old merchant went at once to find Joseph Lebas 
 and explain to him the situation of things. At half- 
 past six that evening the dining-room immortalized by 
 the painter contained under its skylight Monsieur and 
 Madame Roguin, the j'oung artist and his charming 
 Augustine, Joseph Lebas, who found his comfort in sub- 
 mission, and Mademoiselle Virginie, whose headache 
 had disappeared. Monsieur and Madame Guillaume 
 beheld in perspective the establishment of both their 
 daughters, and the certaint}- that the fortunes of the 
 Cat-playing-ball were likely to pass into good hands. 
 Their satisfaction was at its height when, at dessert, 
 Theodore presented to them the marvellous picture, 
 representing the interior of the old shop (which they 
 had not yet seen), to which was due the happiness of 
 all present. 
 
 " Is n't it pretty ! " cried Monsieur Guillaume ; " and 
 they give you thirt}' thousand francs for it?" 
 
 " Wh}', there are m^- lappets!" exclaimed Madame 
 Guillaume. 
 
54 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 "And the goods unfolded!" added Lebas ; "you 
 might take them in your hand." 
 
 "All kinds of stuffs are good to paint," replied the 
 painter. "We should be only too happy, we modern 
 artists, if we could approach the perfection of ancient 
 draperies." 
 
 "Ha! so you like drapery?" cried Pere Guillaume. 
 " Shake hands, my young friend. If you value com- 
 merce we shall soon understand each other. Why, in- 
 deed, should persons despise it? The world began 
 with trade, for didn't Adam sell Paradise for an 
 apple? It did not turn out a very good speculation, 
 by the bye ! " 
 
 And the old merchant burst into a hearty laugh, ex- 
 cited by the champagne which he was circulating liber- 
 ally. The bandage over the eyes of the young lover 
 was so thick that he thought his new parents very 
 agreeable. He was not above amusing them with a 
 few little caricatures, all in good taste. He pleased 
 every one. Later, when the party had dispersed, and 
 the salon, furnished in a wa}^ that was ' ' rich and 
 warm," to use the draper's own expression, was de- 
 serted, and while Madame Guillaume was going about 
 from table to table and from candelabra to candlestick, 
 hastily blowing out the lights, the worthy merchant 
 who could see clearh'^ enough when it was a question 
 of money or of business, called his daughter Augus- 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 55 
 
 tine, and, placing her on his knee, made her the 
 following harangue : — 
 
 " M}' dear child, you shall mam' your Sommcrvicux 
 since yon wish it ; I give you permission to risk 3'oiir 
 capital of happiness. But I am not taken in b}' those 
 thirty thousand francs, said to be earned by spoiling 
 good canvas. Money that comes so quickly goes as 
 quickly. Didn't I hear that young scatterbrain saj^ this 
 ver}- evening that if money was coined round it was 
 meant to roll? Ha! if it is round for spendthrifts, it 
 is flat for economical folks who pile it up. Now, my 
 child, your handsome j-outh talks of giving you car- 
 riages and diamonds. If he has monej- and chooses 
 to spend it on you, bene sit ; I have nothing to say. 
 But as to what I shall give you, I don't choose that any 
 of my hard-earned money shall go for carriages and 
 trumpery. He who spends too much is never rich. 
 Your dowr}' of three hundred thousand francs won't 
 buy all Paris, let me tell you ; and j-ou need n't reckon 
 on a few hundred thousand more, for I '11 make you 
 wait for them a long time yet, God willing ! So I took 
 your lover into a corner and talked to him ; and a man 
 who manoeuvred the failure of Lecocq did n't have much 
 trouble in getting an ai'tist to agree that his wife's prop- 
 erty should be settled on herself. I shall have an e3-e 
 to the contract and see that he makes the proper settle- 
 ments upon you. Now, m}' dear, I hope you '11 make 
 
5Q Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 me a grandfather, and for that reason, faith, I 'ra be- 
 ginning to think about m}' grandchildren. Swear to me, 
 therefore, that jou will not sign any paper about money 
 without first consulting me ; and if I should go to rejoin 
 Pere Chevrel too soon, promise me to consult Lebas, 
 who is to be your brother-in-law. Will 3'ou promise 
 and swear these two things?" 
 
 "Oh, 3-es, papa, I swear it." 
 
 At the words, uttered in a tender voice, the old man 
 kissed his daughter on both cheeks. That night all the 
 lovers slept as peacefully as Monsieur and Madame 
 Guillaume. 
 
 A few months after that memorable Sunday the high 
 altar of Saint-Leu witnessed two marriages very unlike 
 each other. Augustine and Theodore approached it 
 beaming with happiness, their eyes full of love, ele- 
 ganth' attired, and attended by a brilHant company. 
 Virginie, leaning on the arm of her father, followed 
 her young sister in humbler guise, like a shadow needed 
 for the harmon}' of the picture. Monsieur Guillaume 
 had taken infinite pains to so arrange the wedding that 
 Virginie's marriage should take precedence of Augus- 
 tine's ; but he had the grief of seeing that the higher 
 and lesser clergy one and all addressed the younger 
 and more elegant of the brides first. He overheard 
 some of his neighbors highly commending Mademoiselle 
 
 ( 
 
Fame and Sorrotv. 57 
 
 Virginie's good sense in making, as they said, a solid 
 marriage and remaining faithful to " the quarter ; " and 
 he also overheard a few sneers, prompted by envy, 
 about Augustine who had chosen to marry an artist, a 
 nobleman, coupled with a pretended fear that if the 
 Guillaumes were becoming ambitious the draper's trade 
 was ruined. When an old dealer in fans declared that 
 the young spendthrift would soon bring his wife to 
 poverty. Monsieur Guillaume congratulated himself in 
 peito for his prudence as to the marriage settlements. 
 
 That night, after an elegant ball followed by one of 
 those sumptuous suppers that are almost forgotten b}' 
 the present generation, IMonsieur and Madame Guil- 
 laume remained at a house belonging to tlicm in the rue 
 du Colombier, where the wedding part}' took place, and 
 •where the}' intended to live in future ; Monsieur and 
 Madame Lebas returned in a hired coach to the rue 
 Saint-Denis and took the helm of the Cat-pla}ing-ball ; 
 ■while the artist, intoxicated with his happiness, caught 
 his dear Augustine in his arms as their coupe reached 
 the rue des Trois-Freres, and carried her to an apart- 
 ment decorated with the treasures of all the arts. 
 
 The raptures of passion to which Theodore now de- 
 livered himself up carried the young household through 
 one whole year without a single cloud to dim the blue 
 of the sky beneath which they lived. To such lovers 
 existence brought no burden ; each day some new and 
 
i 
 
 58 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 exquisite fioriture of pleasure were evolved by Theo- 
 dore, who delighted in varying the transports of love 
 with the soft languor of those moments of repose when 
 souls float upward into ecstasy and there forget cor- 
 poreal union, Augustine, wholly incapable of reflec- 
 tion, gave herself up to the undulating current of her 
 happiness ; she felt she could not yield too much to 
 the sanctioned and sacred love of marriage ; simple 
 and artless, she knew nothing of the coquetry of denial, 
 still less of the ascendency a 3'oung girl of rank obtains 
 over a husband by clever caprices ; she loved too well 
 to calculate the future, and never once imagined that 
 so enchanting a life could come to an end. Happy in 
 being all the life and all the joy of her husband, she 
 believed his inextinguishable love would forever crown 
 her with the noblest of wreaths, just as her devotion 
 and her obedience would remain a perpetual attraction. 
 In fact, the felicity of love had made her so brilliant that 
 her beauty filled her with pride and inspired her with a 
 sense that she could always reign over a man so easy 
 to impassion as Monsieur de Sommervieux. Thus her 
 womanhood gave her no otlier instructions than those 
 of love. In the bosom of her happiness she was still 
 the ignorant little girl who lived obscurely in the rue 
 Saint-Denis, with no thought of acquiring the manners, 
 or the education, or the tone of the world in which she 
 was to live. Her words were the words of love, and 
 
Fame and Sorrotv. 59 
 
 thoi'G, indeed, she did display a certain suppleness of 
 mind and delicacy of expression ; but she was using a 
 language common to all womankind when plunged into 
 a passion which seems their clement. If, b}' chance, 
 Augustine gave utterance to some idea that jarred with 
 those of Theodore, the artist laughed, just as we laugh 
 at the first mistakes of a stranger speaking our lan- 
 guage, though they wear}^ us if not corrected. 
 
 In spite of all this ardent love, Sommervieux felt, at 
 the end of a year as enchanting as it had been rapid, 
 the need of going back to his work and his old habits. 
 Moreover, his wife was eiiceinte. He renewed his rela- 
 tions with his friends. During the long 3'car of physical 
 suffering, when, for the first time, a young wife carries 
 and nurses an infant, he worked, no doubt, with ardor ; 
 but occasionall}' he returned for some amusement to the 
 distractions of society. The house to which he pre- 
 ferred to go was that of the Duchesse de Carigliano, 
 who had finally attracted the now celebrated artist to 
 her parties. 
 
 When Augustine recovered, and her son no longer 
 required assiduous cares which kept his mother from 
 social life, Theodore had reached a point where self- 
 love roused in him a desire to appear before the world 
 with a beautiful woman whom all men should envy and 
 admire. The delight of showing herself in fashionable 
 salons decked with the fame she derived from her hus- 
 
60 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 band, vas to Augustine a new harvest of pleasures, but 
 it was also the last that conjugal happiness was to bring 
 her. 
 
 She began bj offending her husband's vanit}' ; for, in 
 spite of all his efforts, her ignorance, the incorrectness 
 of her language, and the narrowness of her ideas, viewed 
 from the standpoint of her present surroundings, were 
 manifest. The character of de Sommervieux, held in 
 check for nearly two ^^ears and a half by the first trans- 
 ports of love, now took, under the calm of a possession 
 no longer fresh, its natural bent, and he returned to the 
 habits which had for a time been diverted from their 
 course. Poetry, painting, and the exquisite enjoyments 
 of the imagination possess inalienable rights over minds 
 that can rise to them. These needs had not been balked 
 in Theodore during those two and a half 3'ears ; they 
 had simply found another nourishment. When the 
 fields of love were explored, when the artist, like the 
 children, had gathered the roses and the wake-robins 
 with such eagerness that he did not notice his hands 
 were full, the scene changed. It now happened that 
 when the artist showed his wife a sketch of his most 
 beautiful compositions, he took notice that she answered, 
 in the tone of Monsieur Guillaume, " Oh, how prett}' ! " 
 Such admiration, without the slightest warmth, did not 
 come, he felt, from an inward feeling, it was the ex- 
 pression of blind love. Augustine preferred a glance 
 
 I 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 61 
 
 of love to the nol)lost work of art. The only subliuiity 
 she was able to perceive was that in her own heart. 
 
 At last Theodore could not blind himself to the evi- 
 dence of a bitter truth ; his wife had no feeling for 
 poetr}' ; she could not live in his sphere of thought ; 
 she could not follow in the flight of his caprices, his 
 impulses, his joys, his sorrows ; she walked the earth 
 in a real world, while his head sought the heavens. 
 Ordinar}^ minds cannot appreciate the ever-springing 
 sufferings of one who, being united to another by the 
 closest of all ties, is compelled to drive back within his 
 own soul the precious overflow of his thoughts, and to 
 crush into nothingness the images which some magic 
 force compels him to create. To such a one the tor- 
 ture is the more cruel when his feeling for his com- 
 panion commands him, as his first duty, to keep nothing 
 from her, neither the outcome of his thoughts nor the 
 effusions of his soul. The will of nature is not to be 
 evaded ; it is inexorable, like necessity, which is, as it 
 were, a soi't of social law. Sommervieux took refuge in 
 the silence and solitude of his studio, hoping that the 
 liabit of living among artists might train his wife and 
 develop the benumbed germs of mind which all superior 
 souls believe to exist in other souls. 
 
 But, alas, Augustine was too sincerely religious not 
 to be frightened at the tone of the artist-world. At the 
 first dinner given by Theodore, a young painter said to 
 
62 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 her, with a juvenile light-heartedness she was unable to 
 understand, but which really absolves all jests about 
 religion: "Why, madame, 3'our paradise is not as 
 glorious as Raflfaelle's Transfiguration, but I get a little 
 tired of looking even at that." Augustine, conse- 
 quently, met this brilliant and artistic society in a 
 spirit of disapproval, which was at once perceived. 
 She became a constraint upon it. When artists are 
 constrained they are pitiless ; they either fly, or they 
 sta}^ and scoflT. 
 
 Madame Guillaume had, among other absurdities, 
 that of magnifying the dignity she considered to be 
 an appanage of a married woman ; and though Augus- 
 tine had often laughed about it she was unable to keep 
 herself fx'om a slight imitation of the maternal prudery. 
 This exaggeration of purit}^, which virtuous women do 
 not alwa3's escape, gave rise to a few harmless carica- 
 tures and epigrams, innocent nonsense in good taste, 
 with which de Sommervieux could scarcely be angry. 
 In fact, such jests were only reprisals on the part of his 
 friends. Still, nothing could be really a jest to a soul 
 so ready as that of Theodore to receive impressions 
 from without. Thus he was led, perhaps insensibly, 
 to a coldness of feeling which went on increasing. 
 Whoso desires to reach perfect conjugal happiness 
 must climb a mountain along a narrow way close to 
 a sharp and slippery precipice ; down that precipice 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 63 
 
 the artist's love now slid, lie believed his wife in- 
 capable of understanding the moral considerations 
 which justified, to his mind, the course he now adopted 
 towards her ; and he thought himself innocent in hid- 
 ing thoughts she could not comprehend, and in doing 
 acts which could never be justified before the tribunal 
 of her commonplace conscience. 
 
 Augustine retired into gloom}' and silent sorrow. 
 These secret feelings drew a veil between the married 
 pair which grew thicker day by da}'. Though her hus- 
 band did not cease his attentions to her, Augustine 
 could not keep from trembling when she saw him reserv- 
 ing for society the treasures of mind and charm which 
 he had hitherto bestowed on her. Soon she took 
 fatall}' to heart the lively talk she heard in the world 
 about man's inconstanc}'. She made no complaint, but 
 her whole bearing was equivalent to a reproach. Three 
 years after her marriage this j'oung and pretty woman, 
 who seemed so brilliant in her brilliant equipage, who 
 lived in a sphere of fame and wealth, always envied by 
 careless and unobserving people who never rightl}' esti- 
 mate the situations of life, was a prey to bitter grief; 
 her color faded ; she reflected, she compared ; and then, 
 at last, sorrow revealed to her the axioms of experience. 
 
 She resolved to maintain herself courageously within 
 the circle of her duty, hoping that such generous con- 
 duct would, sooner or later, win back her husband's 
 
64 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 love ; but it was not to be. When Sommervieux, tired 
 of work, left bis studio, Augustine never hid her work 
 so quickly that the artist did not see her mending the 
 household linen or his own with the minute care of a good 
 housekeeper. She supplied, generouslj' and witliout a 
 word, the money required for her husband's extrava- 
 gances ; but in her desire to save her dear Theodore's 
 own fortune she was too economical ou herself and on 
 certain details of the housekeeping. Such conduct is 
 incompatible with the free and easy ways of artists, 
 who, when they reach the end of their tether, have 
 enjoyed life so much that they never ask the reason 
 of their ruin. 
 
 It is useless to note each lowered tone of color 
 through which the brillianc}' of their honeymoon faded 
 and then expired, leaving them in deep darkness. 
 One evening poor Augustine, who had lately heard her 
 husband speaking with enthusiasm of the Duchesse de 
 Carigliano, received some ill-natured information on the 
 nature of de Sommervieux's attachment to that cele- 
 brated coquette of the imperial court. At twenty-one, 
 in the glow of youth and beaut}', Augustine learned she 
 was betrayed for a woman of thirt^'-six. Feeling herself 
 wretched in the midst of society and of fetes that were 
 now a desert to her, the poor little creature no longer 
 noticed the admiration she excited nor the envy she in- 
 spired. Her face took another expression. Sorrow laid 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 65 
 
 upon each feature the gentleness of resignation and the 
 pallor of rejected love. It was not long before men, 
 known for their seductive powers, courted her ; but she 
 remained solitar}- and virtuous. A few contemptuous 
 words which, escaped her husband brought her to intol- 
 erable despair. Fatal gleams of light now showed her 
 the points where, through the pettiness of her educa- 
 tion, complete union between her soul and that of 
 Theodore had been prevented ; and her love was great 
 enough to absolve him and blame herself She wept 
 tears of blood as she saw, too late, that there are ill- 
 assorted marriages of minds as well as of habits and of 
 ranks. 
 
 Thinking over the spring-tide happiness of their 
 union, she comprehended the fulness of her past 
 jo3's, and admitted to her own soul that so rich a 
 harvest of love was indeed a lifetime which might 
 well be paid for by her pi-esent sorrow. And 3-et she 
 loved with too single a mind to lose all hope ; and she 
 ■was brave enough at one-and-twenty to endeavor to 
 educate herself and make her imagination more woT'thy 
 of the one she so admired. " If I am not a poet," she 
 said in her heart, "at least I will understand poetry." 
 Employing that force of will and energy which all 
 women possess when they love, Madame de Sommer- 
 vicux attempted to change her nature, her habits, and 
 her ideas ; but though she read manj- volumes and 
 
66 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 studied with the utmost courage, she only succeeded in 
 making herself less ignorant. Quickness of mind and 
 the charms of conversation are gifts of nature or the 
 fruits of an education begun in the cradle. She could 
 appreciate music and enjoy it, but she could not sing 
 with taste. She understood literature and even the 
 beauties of poetry, but it was too late to train her re- 
 bellious memory. She listened with interest to con- 
 versation in society, but she contributed nothing to it. 
 Her religious ideas and the prejudices of her early 
 youth prevented the complete emancipation of her mind. 
 And besides all this, a bias against her which she could 
 not conquer had, little b}' little, gUded into her hus- 
 band's mind. The artist laughed in his heart at those 
 who praised his wife to him, and his laughter was not 
 unfounded. Embarrassed by her strong desire to please 
 him, she felt her mind and her knowledge melt away in 
 Ms presence. Even her fidelit}^ displeased the unfaith- 
 ful husband ; it seemed as though he would fain see 
 her guilty of wrong when he complained of her \irtue as 
 unfeehng. Augustine struggled hard to abdicate her 
 reason, to yield and bend to the fancies and caprices of 
 her husband, and to devote her whole life to soothe the 
 egotism of his vanity, — she never gathered the fruit of 
 her sacrifices. Perhaps they had each let the moment 
 go by when souls can comprehend each other. The day 
 came when the too-sensitive heart of the young wife 
 
Fame and Sorroiu. 07 
 
 received a blow, — one of those shocks which strain 
 the tics of feeHng so far that it seems as though they 
 snapped. At first she isolated herself. But soon the 
 fatal thought entered her mind to seek advice and con- 
 solation from her own ftxmily. 
 
 Accordingly, one morning earl}', she drove to the 
 grotesque entrance of the silent and gloom}- house in 
 which her childhood had been passed. She sighed as 
 she looked at the window from which she had sent a 
 first kiss to him who had filled her life with fame and 
 sorrow. Nothing was changed in those cavernous pre- 
 cincts, except that the business had taken a new lease 
 of life. Augustine's sister sat behind the counter in 
 her mother's old place. The poor afflicted woman met 
 her brother-in-law with a pen behind his ear, and he 
 hardly listened to her, so busy was he. The alarming 
 signs of an approaching " inventory" were evident, and 
 in a few moments he left her, asking to be excused. 
 
 Her sister received her rather coldl}', and showed 
 some ill-will. In fact, Augustine in her palm}' days, 
 brilliant in happiness and driving about in a pretty 
 equipage, had never come to see her sister except in 
 passing. The wife of the prudent Lebas now imag- 
 ined that money was the cause of this early visit, and 
 she assumed a reserved tone, which made Augustine 
 smile. The artist's wife saw that her mother had a 
 counterpart (except for the lappets of her cap) who 
 
68 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 would keep up the antique dignity of the Cat-pla}'- 
 ing-ball. At breakfast, however, she noticed certain, 
 changes which did honor to the good sense of Joseph 
 Lebas, — the clerks no longer rose and went away at 
 dessert ; they were allowed to use their faculty of 
 speech, and the abundance on the table showed ease 
 and comfort, without luxurj'. The 3'oung woman of 
 society' noticed the coupons of a box at the Fran^ais, 
 where she remembered having seen her sister from 
 time to time. Madame Lebas wore a cashmere shawl 
 over her shoulders, the elegance of which was a sign 
 of the generosit}' with which her husband treated 
 her. In short, the pair were advancing with their 
 century. 
 
 Augustine was deeply moved to see, during the 
 course of the day, manj' signs of a calm and equable 
 happiness enjo3-ed hy this well-assorted couple, — a 
 happiness without exaltation, it was true, but also 
 without peril. They had taken life as a commer- 
 cial enterprise, in which their first dut}' was to honor 
 their business. Not finding in her husband any great 
 warmth of love, Virginie had set to work to pro- 
 duce it. Led insensibly to respect and to cherish his 
 wife, the time it took for their wedded happiness to 
 blossom now seemed to Joseph Lebas as a pledge of its 
 duration ; so, when the sorrowful Augustine told her 
 tale of trouble, she was forced to endure a deluge of the 
 
Fame and Sorroiv. G'J 
 
 commonplace ideas which the etliics of the rue Saint- 
 Denis suggested to Virginie. 
 
 " Tlie evil is done, wife," said Joseph Lebas ; " we 
 must now try to give our sister the best advice." 
 Whereupon, the able man of business ponderously ex- 
 plained tlie relief that the laws and established customs 
 might give to Augustine, and so enable her to sur- 
 mount her troubles. lie numbered, if we may so 
 express it, all the considerations ; ranged them in 
 categories, as though they were goods of different 
 qualities ; then he put them in the scales, weighed 
 them, and finally came to the conclusion that necessity 
 required his sister-in-law to take a firm stand, — a 
 decision which did not satisfy the love she still felt 
 for her husband, a feeling that was reawakened in full 
 force when she heard Lebas discussing judicial methods 
 of asserting her rights. Augustine thanked her two 
 friends and returned home, more undecided than before 
 she consulted them. 
 
 The next day she ventured to the house in the rue 
 du Colombier, intending to confide her sorrows to her 
 father and mother, for she was like those hopelessly ill 
 persons who try all remedies in sheer despair, even the 
 recipes of old women. Monsieur and Madame Gnil- 
 laume received their daughter with a warmth that 
 touched her ; the visit brought an interest which, to 
 them, was a treasure. For four years they had floated 
 
70 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 on the sea of life like navigators without chart or com- 
 pass. Sitting in their chimney-corner, i\\ey told each 
 other again and again the disasters of the maximum / 
 the story of their first purchases of cloth, the manner in 
 which they escaped bankruptc}', and above all, the tale 
 of the famous Lecocq failure, old Guillaume's battle of 
 Marengo. Then, when these stock stories were ex- 
 hausted, they recapitulated the profits of their most 
 productive j'ears, or reminded each other of the gossip 
 of the Saint-Denis quarter. At two o'clock Pere Guil- 
 laume invariably went out to give an eye to the estab- 
 lishment of the Cat-pla3'ing-ball ; on his way back he 
 stopped at all the shops which were formerly his rivals, 
 whose 3'oung proprietors now endeavored to inveigle 
 the old merchant into speculative investments which, 
 according to his usual custom, he never positively de- 
 clined. Two good Norman horses were dying of pleth- 
 ora in the stable, but Madame Guillaume never used 
 them except to be conveyed on Sundaj's to high mass 
 at the parish church. Three times a week the worthy 
 couple kept open table. 
 
 Thanks to the influence of his son-in-law, de Som- 
 mervieux, Pere Guillaume had been appointed member 
 of the advisory committee on the equipment of troops. 
 Ever since her husband had held that high post under 
 government, Madame Guillaume had felt it her dut}' to 
 maintain its dignity ; her rooms were therefore encum- 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 71 
 
 bered with so many ornaments of gold and silver, so 
 much tasteless though costly furniture, that the sim- 
 plest of them looked like a tawdry chapel. Economy 
 and prodigality seemed fighting for precedence in all 
 the accessories of the house. It really looked as if old 
 Guillaume had considered the purchase of everything in 
 it, down to a candlestick, as an investment. In the 
 midst of this bazaar, de Sommervieux's famous picture 
 held the place of honor, and was a source of consola- 
 tion to Monsieur and Madame Guillaume, who turned 
 their spectacled e^^es twenty times a da}' on that tran- 
 script of their old life, to them so active and so 
 exciting. 
 
 The appearance of the house and of these rooms 
 where all things had an odor of old age and mediocrit}', 
 the spectacle of the two old people stranded on a rock 
 far from the real world and the ideas that move it, sur- 
 prised and affected Augustine ; she recognized the sec- 
 ond half of the picture which had struck her so forcibly 
 at the house of Joseph Lebas, — that of an active life 
 without movement, a sort of mechanical and instinctive 
 existence, like that of rolling on castors ; and there 
 came into her mind a sense of pride in her sorrows as 
 she remembered how they sprang from a happiness of 
 eighteen months duration, worth more to her than a 
 thousand existences like this, the void of which now 
 seemed to her horrible. But she hid the rather un- 
 
72 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 kindly thought, and displayed her new qualities of mind 
 to her old parents and the endearing tenderness which 
 love had taught her, hoping to win them to listen favor- 
 ably to her matrimonial trials. 
 
 Old people delight in such confidences. Madame 
 Guillaume wished to hear the minutest particulars of 
 that strange life which, to her, was almost fabulous. 
 " The Travels of the Baron de La Houtan," which she 
 had begun many times and never finished, had revealed 
 to her nothing more inconceivable among the savages 
 of Canada. 
 
 " But, m}' dear child," she said, " do j'ou mean to 
 say that j'our husband shuts himself up with naked 
 women, and 3'ou are simple enough to believe he paints 
 them ? " With these words she laid her spectacles on 
 a work-table, shook out her petticoats, and laid her 
 clasped hands on her knees, raised by a foot- warmer, — 
 her favorite attitude. 
 
 "But, m}' dear mother, all painters are obliged to 
 employ models." 
 
 " He took care not to tell us that when he asked 3'ou 
 in marriage. If I had known it I would never have 
 given my daughter to a man with such a trade. Re- 
 ligion forbids such horrors ; they are immoral. What 
 time of night do you sa}' he comes home? " 
 
 " Oh, at one o'clock, — or two, perhaps." | 
 
 The old people looked at each other in amazement. "^ 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 73 
 
 " Then he gambles," said Monsieur Guillaurae. " In 
 mj day it was onl}- gamblers who staj'ed out so late." 
 
 Augustine made a little face to deny the accusation. 
 
 "You must suffer dreadfully waiting for him," said 
 Madame Guillaume. "But no, 30U go to bed, I hope, 
 — don't you ? Then when he has gambled away all his 
 money, the monster comes home and wakes you up?" 
 
 " No, mother ; on the contrar}', he is sometimes very 
 gay ; indeed, when the weather is fine, he often asks 
 me to get up and go into the woods with him." 
 
 " Into the woods ! — at that hour? Your house must 
 be ver}' small if he has n't room enough in it to stretch 
 his legs ! No, no, it is to give you cold that the villain 
 makes such proposals as that ; he wants to get rid of 
 3"ou. Did any one ever know a decent man with a 
 home of his own and a steady business galloping round 
 like a were- wolf ! " 
 
 " But, m}' dear mother, you don't understand that he 
 needs excitements to develop his genius. He loves the 
 scenes which — " 
 
 " Scenes ! I 'd make hira fine scenes, I would," cried 
 Madame Guillaume, interrupting her daughter. " How 
 can you keep on any terms at all with such a man ? 
 And I don't like that idea of his drinking nothing but 
 water. It isn't wholesome. "Why does he dislike to 
 see women eat? what a strange notion ! He 's a mad- 
 man, that's what he is. All that j'ou sa}' of him proves 
 
74 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 it. No sane man leaves his home without a word, and 
 stays away ten days. He told 3'ou he went to Dieppe 
 to paint the sea ! How can any one paint the sea ? He 
 told you such nonsense to blind j'ou." 
 
 Augustine opened her lips to defend her husband, 
 but Madame Guillaume silenced her with a motion of 
 her hand which the old habit of obedience led her to 
 obc}', and the old woman continued, in a sharp voice : 
 " Don't talk to me of that man. He never set foot in 
 a church except to marry you. Persons who have no 
 religion are capable of anj^thing. Did 3'our father ever 
 venture to hide anything from me, or keep silent three 
 da^'s without saying boo to me, and then begin to chatter 
 like a blind magpie ? No ! " 
 
 " My dear mother, j'ou judge superior men too se- 
 verel}'. If the}' had ideas like other people they would 
 not be men of genius." 
 
 "Well! then men of genius should keep to them- 
 selves and not many. Do yoxx mean to tell me that a 
 man can make his wife miserable, and if he has got 
 genius it is all right ? Genius ! I don't see much 
 genius in saying a thing is black and white in the same 
 breath, and ramming people's words down their throats, 
 and lording it over his famil}', and never letting his 
 wife know how to take him, and forbidding her to amuse 
 herself unless monsieur, forsooth, is gay, and forcing 
 her to be gloom}' as soon as he is — " 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 75 
 
 " But, my dear mother, the reason for all such 
 imaginations — " 
 
 " Wliat do 3'ou mean b}* all such imaginations?" 
 cried Madame Guillaume, again interrupting her daugh- 
 ter. "He has fine ones, faith! What sort of man 
 is he who takes a notion, without consulting a doctor, 
 to eat nothing but vegetables ? If he did it out of piety, 
 such a diet might do him some good ; but he has no 
 more religion than a Huguenot. Who ever saw a man 
 in his senses love a horse better than he loves his neigh- 
 bor, and have his hair curled like a pagan image, and 
 cover his statues with muslin, and shut up the windows 
 in the daj-time to work b}' lamplight? Come, come, 
 don't talk to me ; if he were not so grossly immoral he 
 ought to be put in the msane asylum. You had better 
 consult Monsieur Loraux, the vicar of Saint-Sulpice ; 
 ask him what he thinks of all this. He'll tell you that 
 your husband does n't behave like a Christian man." 
 
 " Oh ! mother, how can j'ou think — " 
 
 "Think! yes I do think it! You used to love him 
 and therefore you don't see these things. But I re- 
 member how I saw him, not long after j'our marriage, 
 in the Champs-Elj-sees. He was on horseback. Well, 
 he galloped at full speed for a little distance, then he 
 stopped and went at a snail's pace. I said to m3'self 
 then, ' There 's a man who has no sense.' " 
 
 " Ah ! " cried Monsieur Guillaume, rubbing his hands, 
 
76 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 " what a good thing it is I had 3our property settled on 
 j^ourself." 
 
 After Augustine had the imprudence to explain her 
 real causes of complaint against her husband the two 
 old people were silent with indignation. Madame Guil- 
 laume uttered the word " divorce." It seemed to awaken 
 the now inactive old business-man. Moved hj his love 
 for his daughter and also b}' the excitement such a step 
 would give to his eventless life, Pere Guillaume roused 
 himself to action. He demanded divorce, talked of 
 managing it, argued the pros and cons, and promised 
 his daughter to pay all the costs, engage the lawj'ers, 
 see the judges, and move heaven and earth. Madame 
 de Sommervieux, much alarmed, refused his services 
 declaring she would not separate from her husband 
 were she ten times more unhappy than she was, and 
 saying no more about her sorrows. After the old peo- 
 ple had endeavored, but in vain, to soothe her with 
 manj^ little silent and consoling attentions, Augustine 
 went home feeling the impossibility of getting narrow 
 minds to take a just view of superior men. She learned 
 then that a wife should hide from all the world, even 
 from her parents, the sorrows for which it is so difficult 
 to obtain true sympath}-. The storms and the suffer- 
 ings of the higher spheres of human existence are com- 
 prehended only by the noble minds which inhabit them. 
 In all things, we can be justl}' judged only by our equals. 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 77 
 
 Thus poor Augustine found herself once more in the 
 cold atmospliere of her home, cast back into the hor- 
 rors of her lonely meditations. Study no longer availed 
 her, for study had not restored her husband's heart. 
 Initiated into the secrets of those souls of fire but 
 deprived of their resources, she entered deepl}' into 
 their trials witliout sharing their J03S. She became dis- 
 gusted with the world, which seemed to her small and 
 pett}- indeed in presence of events born of passion. 
 In short, life to her was a failure. 
 
 One evening a thought came into her mind which il- 
 luminated the dark regions of her grief with a gleam 
 of celestial light. Such a thought could have smiled 
 into no heart that was less pure and guileless than hers. 
 She resolved to go to the Duchesse de Carigliano, not to 
 ask for the heart of her husband, but to learn from that 
 great lady the arts which had taken him from her ; to 
 interest that proud woman of the world in the mother 
 of her friend's children ; to soften her, to make her the 
 accomplice of her future peace, just as she was now the 
 instrument of her present sorrow. 
 
 So, one da}', the timid Augustine, armed with super- 
 natural courage, got into her carriage about two o'clock 
 in the afternoon, intending to make her way into the 
 boudoir of the celebrated lady, who was never visible 
 until that time of da}'. 
 
 Madame de Sommervieux had never yet seen anj' of 
 
78 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 the old and sumptuous mansions of the faubourg Saint- 
 Germain. When she passed through the majestic ves- 
 tibule, the noble stairways, the vast salons, filled with 
 flowers in spite of the inclemencies of the season, and 
 decorated with the natural taste of women born to opu- 
 lence or to the elegant habits of the aristocracy, Augus- 
 tine was conscious of a terrible constriction of her heart. 
 She envied the secrets of an elegance of which till then 
 she had had no idea ; she inhaled a breath of grandeur 
 which explained to her the charm that house possessed 
 over her husband. 
 
 When she reached the private apartments of the 
 duchess she felt both jealousy and despair as she noted 
 the voluptuous arrangement of the furniture, the dra- 
 peries, the hangings upon the walls. There, disorder 
 was a grace ; there, luxury affected disdain of mere 
 richness. The perfume of this soft atmosphere pleased 
 the senses without annoying them. The accessories of 
 these rooms harmonized with the vista of gardens and 
 a lawn planted with trees seen through the windows. 
 All was seductive, and yet no calculated seduction was 
 felt. The genius of the mistress of these apartments 
 pervaded the salon in which Augustine now awaited her. 
 Madame de Sommervieux endeavored to guess the 
 character of her rival from the objects about the room ; 
 but there was something impenetrable in its disorder as 
 in its symmetry, and to the guileless Augustine it was 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 79 
 
 a sealed book. All that she could really make out was 
 that the duchess was a superior woman as woman. Tlic 
 discovery brought her a painful thought. 
 
 " Alas ! can it be true," she said to herself, " that a 
 simple and loving heart does not suffice an artist ? and to 
 balance the weight of their strong souls must the}' be 
 joined to feminine souls whose force is equal to their 
 own? If I had been brought up like this siren our 
 weapons at least would have been matched for the 
 struggle." 
 
 " But I am not at home!" The curt, sharp words, 
 though said in a low voice in the adjoining boudoir, were 
 overheard by Augustine, whose heart throbbed. 
 
 " The lady is here," said the waiting- woman. 
 
 "You are crazy! Show her in," added the duchess, 
 changing her voice to a cordially polite tone. Evidently 
 she expected then to be overheard. 
 
 Augustine advanced timidly. At the farther end of 
 the cool boudoir she saw the duchess luxuriously reclin- 
 ing on a brown-velvet ottoman placed in the centre of a 
 species of half-circle formed by folds of muslin draped 
 over a yellow ground. Ornaments of gilded bronze, 
 an'anged with exquisite taste, heightened still further 
 the effect of the dais under which the duchess posed 
 like an antique statue. The dark color of the velvet 
 enabled her to lose no means of seduction. A soft 
 chiaro-scuro, favorable to her beauty, seemed more a 
 
80 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 reflection than a light. A few choice flowers lifted their 
 fragrant heads from the Sevres vases. As this scene 
 caught the eye of the astonished Augustine she came 
 forward so quickly and softly that she surprised a 
 glance from the eyes of the enchantress. That glance 
 seemed to sa}' to a person whom at first the painter's 
 wife could not see: "Wait; yow. shall see a pretty 
 woman, and help me to put up with a tiresome visit." 
 
 As Augustine advanced the duchess rose, and made 
 her sit beside her. 
 
 "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, ma- 
 dame ? " she said, with a smile full of charm. 
 
 "Why so false?" thought Augustine, who merely 
 bowed her head. 
 
 Silence was a necessity ; for the j'oung woman now 
 saw a witness to the interview in the person of an 
 oflScer of the army, — the youngest, and most elegant 
 and dashing of the colonels. His clothes, which were 
 those of a civilian, set ofl" the graces of his person. 
 His face, full of life and j^outh and very expressive, 
 was still further enlivened b}^ small moustachios, black 
 as jet and waxed to a point, by a well-trimmed im- 
 perial, carefully combed whiskers and a forest of black 
 hair which was somewhat in disorder. He played with 
 a riding-whip and showed an ease and freedom of man- 
 ner which agreed well with the satisfied expression of 
 bis face and the elegance of his dress ; the ribbons in 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 81 
 
 Lis buttonhole were carelessl}' knotted and be seemed 
 more vain of bis appearance than of bis courage. 
 Augustine looked at tbe Duchesse de Carigliano, with 
 a glance at tbe colonel in which many prayers were 
 included. 
 
 "Well, adieu, Monsieur d'Aiglemont; we shall meet 
 in tbe Bois de Boulogne," said the siren, in a tone as 
 if the words were tbe result of some agreement made 
 before Augustine entered tbe room ; she accompanied 
 them with a threatening glance, which the officer de- 
 served, perhaps, for the undisguised admiration with 
 which he looked at tbe modest flower who contrasted 
 so admirably with tbe haughty duchess. Tbe young 
 dandj' bowed in silence, turned on tbe heels of bis 
 boots, and gracefully left tbe room. At that moment 
 Augustine, watching her rival whose ej'es followed the 
 brilliant officer, caught sight of a sentiment tbe fugitive 
 expressions of which are known to ever}' woman. She 
 saw with bitter sorrow that her visit would be useless ; 
 the artful duchess was too eager for homage not to have 
 a pitiless heart. 
 
 " Madame," said Augustine, in a broken voice, " tbe 
 step I now take will seem very strange to you ; but de- 
 spair has its madness, and that is my excuse. I can 
 now understand onh' too well why Theodore prefers 
 3'our house to mine, and bow it is that 3-our mind 
 should exercise so great an empire over him. Alas \ 
 
 6 
 
82 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 I have but to look within myself to find reasons that 
 are more than sufficient. But 1 adore my husband, 
 madame. Two years of sorrow have not changed the 
 love of my heart, though I have lost his. In my 
 madness I have dared to believe that I might struggle 
 against you ; I have come to you to be told by what 
 means I can triumph over you. Oh, madame ! " cried 
 the young woman, seizing the hand which her rival 
 allowed her to take, " never will I pray God for my 
 own happiness with such fervor as I will pray to him 
 for yours, if you will help me to recover, I will not 
 say the love, but the friendship of my husband. I have 
 no longer any hope except in you. Ah ! tell me how 
 it is you have won him, and made him forget the early 
 days of— " 
 
 At these words Augustine, choking with her sobs, 
 was compelled to pause. Ashamed of her weakness, 
 she covered her face with a handkerchief that was wet 
 with tears. 
 
 " Ah, what a child you are, my dear little lady!" 
 said the duchess, fascinated by the novelty of the 
 scene and touched in spite of herself at receiving such 
 homage from as perfect a virtue as there was in Paris, 
 taking the young wife's handkerchief and herself drj-- 
 ing her tears and soothing her with a few murmured 
 monosyllables of graceful pity. 
 
 After a moment's silence the accomplished coquette, 
 
 i 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 83 
 
 clasping poor Augustine's prett}- hands in her own, 
 which had a rare character of noble beauty and power, 
 said, in a gentle and even affectionate voice : " My first 
 advice will be not to weep ; tears are unbecoming. We 
 must learn how to conquer sorrows which make us ill, 
 lor love will not stay long on a bed of pain. Sadness 
 may at first bestow a certain charm which pleases a 
 man, but it ends by sharpening the features and 
 fading the color of the sweetest face. And remember, 
 our tyrants have the self-love to require that their 
 slaves shall be alwa^-s gay." 
 
 " Ah, madame ! is it within my power to cease feel- 
 ing ? How is it possible not to die a thousand deaths 
 when we see a face which once shone for us with love 
 and joy, now harsh, and cold, and indifferent? Xo, I 
 cannot control my heart." 
 
 " So much the worse for you, m}- poor dear. But I 
 think I already know joxxx history. In the first place, 
 be very sure that if your husband has been unfaithful 
 to you, I am not his accomplice. If I made a point of 
 attracting him to m}' salon, it was, I freely confess, out 
 of vanity ; he was famous, and he went nowhere. I 
 like you too well already to tell you all the follies he has 
 committed for me. • But I shall reveal one of them be- 
 cause it ma}' perhaps help us to bring him back to you, 
 and to punish him for the audacit}' he has lately shown 
 in his proceedings toward me. He will end by com- 
 
84 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 promising me. I know the world too well, my dear, 
 to put mj-self at the mercy of a superior man. Believe 
 me, it is very well to let them court us, but to marry 
 them is a blunder. "We women should admire men of 
 genius, enjoy them as we would a play, but Uve with 
 them — never ! No, no ! it is like going behind the 
 scenes and seeing the machinery, instead of sitting in 
 our boxes and enjoying the illusions. But with yoxx, 
 my poor child, the harm is done, is it not? Well, 
 then, you must try to arm yourself against tjTannj'." 
 
 " Ah, madame, as I entered this house and before I 
 saw you I became aware of certain arts that I never 
 suspected." 
 
 " Well, come and see me sometimes, and 3'ou will 
 soon learn the science of such trifles, — really impor- 
 tant, however, in their effects. External things are to 
 fools more than one half of life ; and for that reason 
 more than one man of talent is a fool in spite of his 
 superiority. I will venture to lay a wager that you 
 have never refused anything to Theodore." 
 
 " How can we refuse an3-thing to those we love? " 
 
 " Poor, innocent child ! I adore your folly. Let me 
 tell you that the more we love the less we should let a 
 man, speciaU}' a husband, see the extent of our passion. 
 Whoever loves the most is certain to be the one that is 
 t^'rannized over, and, worse than all, deserted sooner 
 or later. Whoever desires to reign must — " 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 85 
 
 " Oh, madame, must wc all dissimulate, calculate, be 
 false at heart, make ourselves an artificial nature, and 
 forever? Oh, who could live thus? Could you — " 
 
 She hesitated ; the duchess smiled. 
 
 " M}' dear," resumed the great lady in a grave tone, 
 " conjugal happiness has been from time immemorial a 
 speculation, a matter which required particular study. 
 If 30U persist in talking passion while I am talking 
 marriage we shall never understand each other. Listen 
 to me," she continued, in a confidential tone. " I have 
 been in the wa}- of seeing man}' of the superior men of 
 our da}'. Those of them who married chose, with few 
 exceptions, women who were ciphers. "Well, those 
 women have governed them just as the Emperor gov- 
 erns us, and they have been, if not beloved, at least 
 always respected by them. I am fond of secrets, 
 especially those that concern our sex, and to amuse 
 m^'self I have sought the ke}' to that riddle. Well, 
 m}' dear little angel, it is this, — those good women 
 knew enough to analyze the characters of their hus- 
 bands ; without being frightened, as j'ou have been, 
 at their superiority, they have cleverly discovered the 
 qualities those men lacked, and whether they them- 
 selves had them or only feigned to have them, the}- 
 found means to make such a show of those very qual- 
 ities before the eyes of their husbands that they ended 
 by mastering them. Remember one thing more : those 
 
86 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 souls which seem so great all have a little grain of folly 
 in them, and it is our business to make the most of it. 
 If we set our wills to rule them and let nothing deter 
 us, but concentrate all our actions, our ideas, our fas- 
 cinations upon that, we can master those eminently 
 capricious minds, — for the very inconstanc}^ of their 
 thoughts gives us the means of influencing them." 
 
 "Oh!" cried the young wife, horror-struck, "can 
 that be life ? Then it is a battle — " 
 
 " — in which whoso would win must threaten," said 
 the duchess laughing. " Our power is artificial. Con- 
 sequently we should never let a man despise us ; we 
 can never rise after such a fall except through vile 
 manoeuvres. Come," she added, "I will give 3^ou the 
 means to hold your husband in chains." 
 
 She rose, and guided her young and innocent pupil 
 in conjugal wiles through the labyrinths of her little 
 palace. They came presently to a private staircase 
 which communicated with the state apartments. When 
 the duchess touched the secret lock of the door she 
 stopped, looked at Augustine with an inimitable air of 
 wiliness and grace, and said, smiling: "My dear, the 
 Due de Carigliano adores me, — well, he would not dare 
 to enter this door without my permission. Yet he is a 
 man who has the habit of command over thousands of 
 soldiers. He can face a battery, but in my presence — 
 he is afraid." 
 
 * 
 
 i 
 
 t 
 
Fame and Sorroio. 87 
 
 Augustine sighed. They reached a noble gallerj', 
 where the duchess led the painter's wife before the 
 portrait Theodore had once made of Mademoiselle 
 Guillaume. At sight of it Augustine uttered a cry. 
 
 "I knew it was no longer in the house," she said, 
 "but — here!" 
 
 "My dear child, I exacted it only to see how far 
 the folly of a man of genius would go. I intended to 
 return it to you sooner or later ; for I did not expect 
 the pleasure of seeing the original standing before the 
 copy. 1 will have the picture taken to 3-our carriage 
 while we finish our conversation. If, armed with that 
 talisman, you are not mistress of yoxiv husband during 
 the next hundred years, you are not a woman and you 
 deser\'e your fate." 
 
 Augustine kissed the hand of the great lady, who 
 pressed her to her heart with all the more tenderness 
 because she was certain to have forgotten her on the 
 morrow. This scene might have destroyed forever 
 the puritj' and candor of a less virtuous woman than 
 Augustine, to whom the secrets revealed by the duchess 
 could have been either salutary or fatal ; but the astute 
 polic}' of the higher social spheres suited Augustine as 
 little as the narrow reasoning of Joseph Lebas or the 
 silly morality of Madame Guillaume. Strange result 
 of the false positions into which we are thrown by the 
 even trivial mistakes we make in life ! AuOTStine was 
 
88 Fame and Sorrow. 
 
 like an Alpine herdsman overtaken by an avalanche ; 
 if he hesitates, or listens to the cries of his comrades, 
 he is lost. In these great crises the heart either breaks 
 or hardens. 
 
 Madame de Sommervieux returned home a prey to 
 an agitation it is difficult to describe. Her conversation 
 with the duchess had roused a thousand contradictory 
 ideas in her mind. Like the sheep of the fable, full of 
 courage when the wolf was away, she preached to her- 
 self and laid down admirable lines of conduct ; she 
 imagined stratagems of coquetr}- ; she talked to her 
 husband, he being absent, with all the resources of 
 that eloquence which never leaves a woman ; then, 
 remembering the glance of Theodore's fixed, light eyes, 
 she trembled with fear. When she asked if Monsieur 
 were at home, her voice failed her. Hearing that he 
 would not be at home to dinner, she was conscious of 
 a feeling of inexplicable relief. Like a criminal who 
 appeals against a death-sentence, the delay, however 
 short, seemed to her a lifetime. 
 
 She placed the portrait in her bedroom, and awaited 
 her husband in all the agonies of hope. Too well she 
 knew that this attempt would decide her whole future, 
 and she trembled at every sound, even at the ticking of 
 her clock, which seemed to increase her fears by mea- 
 suring them. She tried to cheat time ; the idea oc- 
 curred to her to dress in a manner that made her still 
 
 i 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 89 
 
 moro like the portrait. Then, knowing lior husband's 
 uneasy nature, she caused her rooms to be lighted up 
 with unusual brilliancy, certain that curiosity would 
 bring him to her as soon as he came in. Midnight 
 sounded, and at the groom's cry the gates opened and 
 the painter's carriage rolled into the silent courtyard. 
 
 "What is the meaning of all this illumination?" 
 asked Theodore, gayly, as he entered his wife's room. 
 
 Augustine took advantage of so favorable a moment 
 and threw herself into his arms as she pointed to the 
 portrait. The artist stood still ; immovable as a rock, 
 gazing alternately at Augustine and at the tell-tale can- 
 vas. The timid wife, half-dead with fear, watched the 
 changing brow, that terrible brow, and saw the cruel 
 wrinkles gathering like clouds ; then the blood seemed 
 to curdle in her veins when, with a flaming eye and a 
 husky voice, he began to question her. 
 
 ' ' Where did you get that picture ? " 
 
 " The Duchesse de Carigliano returned it to me." 
 
 " Did 3'ou ask her for it? " 
 
 " I did not know she had it." 
 
 The softness, or rather the enchanting melody of that 
 angel voice might have turned the heart of cannibals, 
 but not that of an artist in the tortures of wounded 
 vanit}'. 
 
 " It is worthy of her ! " cried the artist, in a voice of 
 thunder. "I will be revenged ! " he said, striding up 
 
90 Fame and Sorrow, 
 
 and down the room, " She shall die of shame ; I will 
 paint her, — yes, I will exhibit her in the character of 
 Messalina leaving Claudius' palace by night." 
 
 " Theodore ! " said a faint voice. 
 
 " I will kill her ! " 
 
 " My husband ! " 
 
 " She loves that little cavalry colonel, because he 
 rides well ! " 
 
 *' Theodore ! " 
 
 " Let me alone ! " said the painter to his wife, in a 
 voice that was almost a roar. 
 
 The scene is too repulsive to depict here ; the rage 
 of the artist led him, before it ended, to words and acts 
 which a woman less young and timid than Augustine 
 would have ascribed to insanity. 
 
 About eight o'clock on the following morning Madame 
 Guillaume found her daughter pale, with red eyes and 
 her hair in disorder, gazing on the fragments of a 
 painted canvas and the pieces of a broken frame which 
 lay scattered on the floor. Augustine, almost uncon- 
 scious with grief, pointed to the wreck with a gesture 
 of despair. 
 
 "It is not such a very great loss," cried the old 
 woman. " It was very like you, that's true ; but I 'm 
 told there is a man on the boulevard who paints 
 charming portraits for a hundred and fifty francs." .ll 
 
 "Ah, mother!" 
 
 \ 
 
Fame and Sorrow. 91 
 
 *' Poor dear! well, 3'ou arc right," answered Madame 
 Guillaume, mistaking the meaning of the look her 
 daughter gave her; "there is nothing so tender as 
 a mother's love. My dearest, I can guess it all ; tell 
 me your troubles and I '11 comfort you. Your maid has 
 told me dreadful things ; I alwaj's said j'our husband 
 was a madman, — why, he 's a monster ! " 
 
 Augustine put her finger on her pallid lips as if to 
 implore silence. During that terrible night sorrow had 
 brought her the patient resignation which, in mothers 
 and in loving women, surpasses in its effects all other 
 human forces, and reveals, perhaps, the existence of 
 certain fibres in the hearts of women which God has 
 denied to those of men. 
 
 An inscription engraved on a broken column in the 
 cemetery of Montmartre states that Madame de Som- 
 mervieux died at twenty-seven j'cars of age. Between 
 the simple lines of her epitaph a friend of the timid 
 creature reads the last scenes of a drama. Every 3'ear, 
 on the solemn second of November, as he passes before 
 that earl}- grave he never fails to ask himself if stronger 
 women than Augustine are not needed for the powerful 
 clasp of genius. 
 
 " The modest, humble flower, blooming in the valley 
 dies," he thought, " if transplanted nearer to heaven, 
 to the regions where the storms gather and the sun 
 wilts." 
 
COLONEL CHABERT. 
 
 To Madame la Comtesse Ida de Bocakm^ 
 
 NEE DU ChaSTELEK. 
 
 " There 's our old top-coat again ! " 
 
 This exclamation came from the lips of a clerk of the 
 species called in Parisian law-offices " gutter-jumpers," 
 who was at the moment munching with a yery good 
 appetite a slice of bread. He took a little of the crumb 
 and made a pellet, which he flung, with a laugh, through 
 the blinds of the window against which he was leaning. 
 Well-aimed, the pellet rebounded nearly to the height 
 of the window after hitting the hat of a stranger who 
 was crossing the courtyard of a house in the rue Vivi- 
 enne, where Maitre Der\dlle, the lawyer, resided. 
 
 "Come, come, Simonnin, don't play tricks, or I'll 
 turn you ofl". No matter how poor a client may be, he 
 is a man, the devil take you ! " said the head-clerk, 
 pausing as he added up a bill of costs. 
 
94 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 The gutter-jumper is usually, like Simonnin, a lad 
 of thirteen or fourteen years of age, who in all law- 
 oflSces is under the particular supervision of the head- 
 clerk, whose errands he does, and whose love-letters 
 he carries, together with the wi'its of the courts and the 
 petitions entered- He belongs to the gamin de Paris 
 through his ethics, and to the pettifogging side of law 
 through fate. The lad is usually pitiless, undisciplined, 
 totally without reverence, a scoffer, a writer of epi- 
 grams, lazy, and also greedy. Nevertheless, all such 
 little fellows have an old mother living on some fifth 
 story, with whom they share the thirty or forty francs 
 they earn monthly." 
 
 " If it is a man, why do you call him an ' old top- 
 coat/ " said Simonnin, in the tone of a scholar who 
 detects his master in a mistake. 
 
 Thereupon he returned to the munching of his bread 
 with a bit of cheese, leaning his shoulder against the 
 window-frame ; for he took his rest standing, like the 
 horses of the hackney-coaches, with one leg raised and 
 supported against the other. 
 
 " Couldn't we play that old guy some trick?" said 
 the third clerk, Godeschal, in a low voice, stopping in 
 the middle of a legal document he was dictating to be 
 engrossed by the fourth clerk and copied b}- two neo- 
 phj^tes from the provinces. Having made the above 
 suggestion, he went on with his dictation: '■''But in 
 
Colonel Chabert. 95 
 
 his gracious and benevolent wisdom Jlis Majesty 
 Louis the Eighteenth^ — Write all the letters, hi, 
 there! Desroches the learned! — so soon as he re- 
 covered the reins ofpotcer, understood — What did 
 that fat joker understand, I 'd like to know ? — the 
 high mission to which Divine Providence had called 
 
 him! Put an exclamation mark and six 
 
 dots ; they are pious enough at the Palais to let 'em 
 pass — and his first thought loas, as is proved by the 
 date of the ordinance herein nained, to repair evils 
 caused by the frightful and lamentable disasters of 
 the revolutionary period by restoring to his faithful 
 and numerous adherents — ' Numerous ' is a bit of 
 flattery which ought to please the court — all their 
 unsold property wheresoever situate^ whether in the 
 public domain or the ordinary and extraordinary 
 croxon domains, or in the endowments of public in- 
 stitutions / for we contend and hold ourselves able to 
 maintain that such is the spirit and the meaning of 
 the gracious ordinance, rendered in — " 
 
 " Stop, stop," said Godeschal to the three clerks ; 
 "that rascally sentence has come to the end of my 
 paper and is n't done 3'et. Well," he added, stopping 
 to wet the back of the cahier with his tongue to turn the 
 thick page of his stamped paper, " if you want to play 
 the old top-coat a trick tell him that the master is so 
 busy he can talk to clients only between two and three 
 
96 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 o'clock in the morning ; we '11 see if he comes then, the 
 old villain ! " and Godeschal returned to his dictation : 
 *' gracious ordinance rendered in — Have you got 
 that down?" 
 
 " Yes," cried the three copyists. 
 
 " Rendered in — Hi, papa Boucard, what 's the date 
 of that ordinance ? Dot your i's, unam et omnes — 
 it fills up." 
 
 " Omnes" repeated one of the clerks before Bou- 
 card, the head-clerk, could answer. 
 
 "Good heavens! you haven't written that, have 
 you ? " cried Godeschal, looking at the provincial new- 
 comer with a ti'uculent air. 
 
 "Yes, he has," said Desroches, the fourth clerk, 
 leaning over to look at his neighbor's copy, ' ' he has 
 wi'itten, " Dot your i's, and he spells it e-y-e-s." 
 
 All the clerks burst into a roar of laughter. 
 
 " Do you call that a law-term. Monsieur Hure ? " cried 
 Simonnin, " and 3'ou sa}^ you come from Mortagne ! " 
 
 " Scratch it out carefully," said the head-clerk. " If 
 one of the judges were to get hold of the petition and 
 see that, the master would never hear the last of it. 
 Come, no more such blunders, Monsieur Hure ; a Nor- 
 man ought to know better than to write a petition care- 
 lessly ; it 's the ' Shoulder-arms ! ' of the legal guild." 
 
 Rendered in — in — " went on Godeschal. " Do 
 tell me when, Boucard?" 
 
Colonel Chahert. 97 
 
 "June, 1814," replied the head-clerk, without raising 
 his head from his work. 
 
 A knock at the door interrupted the next sentence of 
 the prolix petition. Five grinning clerks, with lively, 
 satirical eyes and curly heads, turned their noses to- 
 wards the door, having all shouted with one voice, 
 " Come in ! " Boucard remained with his head buried 
 in a mound of deeds, and went on making out the bill 
 of costs on which he was employed. 
 
 The office was a large room, furnished with the clas- 
 sic stove that adorns all other pettifogging jorecincts. 
 The pipes went diagonallj- across the room and entered 
 the chimney, on the marble mantel-shelf of which were 
 diverse bits of bread, tnangles of Brie cheese, fresh 
 pork-chops, glasses, bottles, and a cup of chocolate for 
 the head-clerk. The smell of these comestibles amalga- 
 mated so well with the offensive odor of the over-heated 
 stove and the peculiar exhalations of desks and papers 
 that the stench of a fox would hardly have been per- 
 ceived. The floor was covered with mud and snow 
 brought in b}' the clerks. Near the window stood the 
 rolling-top desk of the head-clerk, and next to it the 
 little table of the second clerk. The latter was now on 
 duty in the courts, where he usually went between eight 
 and nine o'clock in the morning. The sole decorations 
 of the office were the well-known large 3'ellow posters 
 which announce attachments on property, mortgagee- 
 
 7 
 
98 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 sales, litigations between guardians and minors, and 
 auctions, final or postponed, the glory of legal offices. 
 
 Behind the head-clerk, and covering the wall from 
 top to bottom, was a case with an enormous number of 
 pigeon-holes, each stuffed with bundles of papers, from 
 which hung innumerable tags and those bits of red 
 tape which give special character to legal documents. 
 The lower shelves of the case were filled with paste- 
 board boxes, yellowed by time and edged with blue 
 paper, on which could be read the names of the more 
 distinguished clients whose affairs were cooking at the 
 present time. The dirty window-panes let in but a 
 small amount of light; besides, in the month of Feb- 
 ruary there are very few law-offices in Paris where the 
 clerks can write without a lamp before ten o'clock in the 
 day. Such offices are invariably neglected, and for 
 the reason that while every one goes there nobody 
 staj's ; no personal interest attaches to so mean a 
 spot ; neither the lawyers, nor the clients, nor the 
 clerks, care for the appearance of the place which is 
 to the latter a school, to the clients a means, to the 
 master a laboratory. The greasy furniture is trans- 
 mitted from lawyer to lawyer with such scrupulous ex- 
 actness that certain offices still possess boxes of " resi- 
 dues," parchments engrossed in black-letter, and bags, 
 which have descended from the solicitors of the " Chlet," 
 an abbreviation of the word " Chatelet," an institution 
 
Colonel Chahert. 99 
 
 which represented under the old order of things what a 
 court of common pleas is in our day. 
 
 This dark office, choked with dust and dirt, was there- 
 fore, like all such offices, repulsive to clients, and one 
 of the ugly monstrosities of Paris. Certainly, if the 
 damp sacristies where prayers are weighed and paid 
 for like spices, if the second-hand shops, where flutter 
 rags which blight the illusions of life by revealing to us 
 the end of our festive arrays, if these two sewers of 
 poesy did not exist, a lawyer's office would be the most 
 horrible of all social dens. But the same characteristic 
 may be seen in gambling-houses, in court-rooms, in the 
 lotter}' bureaus, and in evil resorts. Why? Perhaps 
 because the drama played in such places within the 
 soul renders men indifferent to externals, — a thought 
 which likewise explains the simplicity of great thinkers 
 and men of great ambitions. 
 
 " Where 's my penknife?" 
 
 " I shall eat mj- breakfast." 
 
 " Look out ! there 's a blot on the petition." 
 
 " Hush, gentlemen ! " 
 
 These various exclamations went off all at once just 
 as the old client entered and closed the door, with the 
 sort of humilit}' which gives an unnatural air to the 
 movements of a poverty-stricken man. The stranger 
 tried to smile, but the muscles of his face relaxed 
 when he had vainly looked for symptoms of civility 
 
100 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 on the inexorably indifferent faces of the six clerks. 
 Accustomed, no doubt, to judge men, he addressed 
 himself politely to the gutter-jumper, hoping that the 
 office drudge might answer him civilly : — 
 
 " Monsieur, can I see 3'our master? " 
 
 The mischievous youngster replied b}' tapping his 
 ear with the fingers of his left hand, as much as to 
 sa}^, " I am deaf." 
 
 " What is it you want, monsieur?" asked Godeschal 
 swallowing an enormous mouthful as he asked the 
 question, — brandishing his knife and crossing his legs 
 till the foot of the upper one came on a line with his 
 nose. 
 
 "I have called five times, monsieur," replied the 
 visitor; "I wish to speak to Monsieur Derville." 
 
 " On business?" 
 
 " Yes ; but I can explain my business only to him." 
 
 "He's asleep; if you wish to consult him you'll 
 have to come at night ; he never gets to work before 
 midnight. But if you will explain the matter to us we 
 can perhaps do as well — " 
 
 The stranger was impassive. He looked humbly 
 about him like a dog slipping into a strange kitchen 
 and afraid of kicks. Thanks to their general condi- 
 tion, law- clerks are not afraid of thieves ; so thej^ felt 
 no suspicion of the top-coat, but allowed him to look 
 round in search of a seat, for he was evidently fatigued. 
 
Colonel Chahert.''V'',\ ' I'Ol 
 
 It is a matter of calculation with lawyers: to fcave'few 
 chairs in their offices. The common client, weary of 
 standing, goes awa}- grumbling. 
 
 " Monsieur," rei)lied the stranger, " I have already 
 hud the honor of tolling you that I can explain my 
 business to no one but Monsieur Derville. I will wait 
 until he is up," 
 
 Boucard had now finished his accounts. He smelt 
 the fumes of his chocolate, left his cane chair, came up 
 to the chimney, looked the old man over from head to 
 foot, gazed at the top-coat and made an indescribable 
 grimace. He probably thought that no matter how 
 long the}' kept this client on the rack not a penny 
 could be got out of him ; and he now interposed, 
 meaning with a few curt words to rid the office of an 
 unprofitable client. 
 
 " They tell you the truth, monsieur," he said ; *' Mon- 
 sieur Derville works only at night. If your business is 
 important I advise you to come back here at one or two 
 in the morning." 
 
 The client looked at the head-clerk with a stupid air, 
 and remained for an instant motionless. Accustomed 
 to see many changes of countenance, and many sin- 
 gular expressions produced b}' the hesitation and the 
 dreaminess which characterize persons who go to law, 
 the clerks took no notice of the old man, but continued 
 to eat their breakfasts with as much noise of their jaws 
 as if they were horses at a manger. 
 
102 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 '^ Mo5is]'Bnr. -I giiiall return to-night," said the visi- 
 tor, who, with the tenacity of an unhappy man, was 
 determined to put his tormentors in the wrong. 
 
 The onl}^ retaliation granted to poverty is that of 
 forcing justice and benevolence to unjust refusals. 
 When unhappy souls have convicted society of false- 
 hood then they fling themselves the more ardently 
 upon the hosom of God. 
 
 ' ' Did you ever see such a skull ? " cried Simonnin, 
 without waiting till the door had closed on the old 
 man. 
 
 "He looks as if he had been buried and dug up 
 again," said one. 
 
 " He's some colonel who wants his back-pay," said 
 the head-clerk. 
 
 " No, he's an old porter." 
 
 " Who '11 bet he 's a nobleman ? " cried Boucard. 
 
 "I'll bet he has been a porter," said Godeschal. 
 " None but porters are gifted by nature with top-coats 
 as greasy and ragged round the bottom as that old 
 fellow's. Did n't you notice his cracked boots which 
 let in water, and that cravat in place of a shirt ? That 
 man slept last night under a bridge." 
 
 " He may be a nobleman and have burnt his candle 
 at both ends, — that's nothing new ! " cried Desroches. 
 
 " No," replied Boucard, in the midst of much laughter, 
 "I maintain he was a brewer in 1789 and a colonel 
 under the Republic." 
 
Colonel Chabert. 103 
 
 "Ha! I '11 bet tickets for a play all round that he 
 never was a soldier," said Godeschal. 
 
 " Done," said Boueard. 
 
 "Monsieur, monsieur!" called the gutter-jumper, 
 opening the window. 
 
 " What are you doing, Simonnin?" asked Boueard. 
 
 "I'm calling him back to know if he is a colonel or 
 a porter, — he ought to know, himself." 
 
 " What shall we say to him?" exclaimed Godeschal. 
 
 " Leave it to me," said Boueard. 
 
 The poor man re-entered timidl}', with his eyes low- 
 ered, perhaps not to show his hunger bj' looking too 
 eagerl}' at the food. 
 
 " Monsieur," said Boueard, " will you have the kind- 
 ness to give us your name, so that Monsieur Derville 
 may — " 
 
 "Chabert." 
 
 ' ' The colonel who was killed at Eylau ? " asked 
 Hure, who had not 3'et spoken, but was anxious to 
 get in his joke like the rest. 
 
 "The same, monsieur," answered the old man, with 
 classic simplicity. Then he left the room. 
 
 "Thunder!" 
 
 "Sold!" 
 
 "Puff!" 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " Ah ! " 
 
104 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 "Bourn!" 
 
 " The old oddity ! " 
 
 "Done for!" 
 
 " Monsieur Desroches, you and I will go to the the- 
 atre for nothing ! " cried Hure to the fourth clerk, with 
 a rap on the shoulders fit to have killed a rhinoceros. 
 
 Then followed a chorus of shouts, laughs, and excla- 
 mations, to describe which we should have to use all 
 the onomatopoeias of the language. 
 
 " Which theatre shall we choose?" 
 
 " The Opera," said the head-clerk. 
 
 "In the first place," said Godeschal, "I never said 
 theatre at all. I can take you, if I choose, to Madame 
 Saqui." 
 
 " Madame Saqui Is not a play," said Desroches. 
 
 "What's a play?" retorted Godeschal. "Let's 
 first establish the fact. What did I bet, gentlemen ? tick- 
 ets for a \}\B,y. What 's a play ? a thing we go to see — " 
 
 " If that 's so, you can take us to see the water run- 
 ning under the Pont Neuf," interrupted Simonnin. 
 
 " — see for money," went on Godeschal. 
 
 "But you can see a great many things for money 
 that are not plays. The definition is not exact," said 
 Desroches. 
 
 " But just listen to me — " 
 
 "You are talking nonsense, my dear fellow," said 
 Boiicard. 
 
Colonel Chabert. 105 
 
 " Do you call Curtius a play?" asked Godeschal. 
 
 "No," said the head-clerk, "I call it a gallery of 
 wax figures." 
 
 " I '11 bet a hundred francs to a sou," retorted Godes- 
 chal, " that Curtius's gallery constitutes a collection of 
 things which may legally be called a play. They com- 
 bine into one thing which can be seen at different prices 
 according to the seats you occupy — " 
 
 " You can't get out of it ! " said Simonnin. 
 
 " Take care I don't box your ears ! " said Godeschal. 
 
 The clerks all shrugged their shoulders. 
 
 " Besides, we don't know that that old baboon wasn't 
 making fun of us," he continued, changing his argu- 
 ment amid roars of laughter. "The fact is. Colonel 
 Chabert is as dead as a door-nail ; his widow married 
 Comte Ferraud, councillor of state. Madame Ferraud 
 is one of our clients." 
 
 "The cause stands over for to-mon-ow," said Bou- 
 card. " Come, get to work, gentlemen. Heavens and 
 earth ! nothing ever gets done here. Finish with that 
 petition, — it has to be sent in before the session of the 
 fourth court which meets to-day. Come, to work ! " 
 
 "If it was really Colonel Chabert, would n't he have 
 kicked that little Simonnin when he pretended to be 
 deaf ? " said the provincial Hure, considering that ob- 
 servation quite as conclusive as those of Godeschal. 
 
 " Nothing is decided," said Boucard. " Let us agree 
 
106 Colonel Chdbert. 
 
 to accept the second tier of boxes at the Fran5ais and 
 see Talma in Nero. Simonnin can sit in the pit." 
 / Thereupon the head-clerk sat down at his desk, and 
 the others followed his example. 
 
 " Rendered June one thousand eight hundred and 
 fourteen — Write it in letters, mind," said Godeschal. 
 " Have 3'ou written it? " 
 
 " Yes," replied the copyists and the engrosser, whose 
 pens began to squeak along the stamped paper with a 
 noise, well known in all law-offices, like that of scores 
 of cockchafers tied by schoolboys in a paper bag. 
 
 " Ayid we pray that the gentlemen of this tribunal — 
 Hold on ! let me read that sentence over to mj'self ; I 
 don't know what I 'm about." 
 
 " Fort^'-six — should think that often happened — 
 and three, forty-nine," said Boucard. 
 
 " We pray ^'' resumed Godeschal, having re-read his 
 clause, '"'•that the gentlemen of this tribunal will not 
 show less magnanimity than the august author of the 
 ordinance, and that they will deny the miserable pre- 
 tensions of the administration of the grand chancellor 
 of the Legion of honor by determining the jurispru- 
 dence of this matter in the broad sense in which we have 
 established it here — " 
 
 "Monsieur Godeschal, don't you want a glass of 
 water?" said the gutter-jumper. 
 
 " That imp of a Simonnin ! " said Boucard. " Come 
 
Colonel Chahert. 107 
 
 licrc, saddle your double-soled horses, and take this 
 package and skip over to the Invalides." 
 
 '•'■Which we have established it here — " went on 
 Godeschal. "Did 5'ou get to that? Well, then add 
 in the interests of Madame (full length) la Vicomtesse 
 de Grandlieu — " 
 
 "What's that?" cried the head clerk, "the idea of 
 petitioning in that affair ! Vicomtesse de Grandlieu 
 against the Legion of honor ! Ah ! 3-ou must be a 
 fool ! Have the goodness to put away your copies and 
 3'our minute, — the}' '11 answer for the Xavarreins affair 
 against the monasteries. It 's late, and I must be off 
 with the other petitions ; I '11 attend to that myself at 
 the Palais." 
 
 Towards one o'clock in the morning the individual 
 calling himself Colonel Chabert knocked at the door of 
 Maitre Derville, solicitor in the court of common pleas 
 for the department of the Seine. The porter told him 
 that Monsieur Derville had not 3"et come in. The old 
 man declared he had an appointment and passed up to 
 the rooms of the celebrated lawyer, who, j'oung as he 
 was, was even then considered one of the best legal 
 heads in France. Having rung and been admitted, the 
 persistent client was not a little astonished to find the 
 head-clerk laying out on a table in the dining-room a 
 number of documents relating to affairs which were to 
 come up on the morrow. The clerk, not less astonished 
 
108 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 at the apparition of the old man, bowed to the colonel 
 and asked him to sit down, which he did. 
 
 "Upon my word, monsieur, I thought j'ou were 
 joking when you named such a singular hour for a 
 consultation," said the old man, with the factitious 
 liveliness of a ruined man who tries to smile. 
 
 " The clerks were joking and telling the truth also," 
 said the head-clerk, going on with his work. "Mon- 
 sieur Derville selects this hour to examine his causes, 
 give directions for . the suits, and plan his defences. 
 His extraordinary intellect works freer at this hour, 
 the onl}^ one in which he can get the silence and tran- 
 quillity^ he requires to evolve his ideas. You are the 
 third person only who has been admitted here for a 
 consultation at this time of night. After Monsieur 
 Derville comes in he will talk over each affair, read 
 everything connected with it, and spend perhaps five 
 or six hours at his work ; then he rings for me, and 
 explains his intentions. In the morning, from ten to 
 two, he listens to his clients ; the rest of the day he 
 passes in visiting. In the evening he goes about in 
 society to keep up his relations with the great world. 
 He has no other time than at night to delve into his 
 cases, rummage the arsenals of the Code, make his 
 plans of campaign. He is determined, out of love for 
 his profession, not to lose a single case. And for that 
 reason he won't take all that are brought to him, as 
 
Colonel Chahert. 109 
 
 other lawyers do. That 's his hfe ; it 's extraordinarily 
 active. He makes a lot of money." 
 
 The old man was silent as he listened to this explana- 
 tion, and his singular face assumed a look so devoid of 
 all intelligence that the clerk after glancing at him once 
 or twice took no further notice of him. A few moments 
 later Derville arrived, in evening dress ; his head-clerk 
 opened the door to him and then went back to the 
 papers. The Aoung lawyer looked amazed when he 
 saw in the dim light the strange client who awaited him. 
 Colonel Chahert was as motionless as the wax figures 
 of Curtius's galler}- where Godeschal proposed to take 
 his comrades. This immovability might have been less 
 noticeable than it was, if it had not, as it were, com- 
 pleted the supernatural impression conveyed by the 
 whole appearance of the man. The old soldier was 
 lean and shrunken. The concealment of his forehead, 
 which was carefully hidden beneath a wig brushed 
 smoothly over it, gave a mysterious expression to his 
 person. The eyes seemed covered with a film ; you 
 might have thought them bits of dirt}' mother-of-pearl, 
 their bluish reflections quivering in the candle-light. 
 The pale, li^nd, hatchet face, if I may borrow that 
 term, seemed dead. An old black-silk stock was fas- 
 tened round the neck. The shadow of the room hid 
 the body so eflectually below the dark line of the ragged 
 article that a man of vivid imagination might have 
 
110 Colonel Ghahert. 
 
 taken that old head for a sketch drawn at random on 
 the wall or for a portrait by Rembrandt without its 
 frame. The brim of the hat worn by the strange old 
 man cast a black line across the upper part of his face. 
 This odd effect, though perfectly natural, brought out 
 in abrupt contrast the white wrinkles, the stiffened 
 lines, the unnatural hue of that cadaverous counte- 
 nance. The absence of all motion in the bod}', all 
 warmth in the glance, combined with a certain ex- 
 pression of mental alienation, and with the degrading 
 s^^mptoms which characterize idiocy, to give that face a 
 nameless horror which no words can describe. 
 
 But an observer, and especiall}' a lawj'er, would have 
 seen in that blasted man the signs of some deep an- 
 guish, indications of a misery that degraded that face 
 as the drops of rain falling from the heavens on pure 
 marble gradually disfigure it. A doctor, an author, a 
 magistrate would have felt intuitively a whole drama as 
 they looked at this sublime wreck, whose least merit 
 was a resemblance to those fantastic sketches drawn by 
 artists on the margins of their lithographic stones as 
 they sit conversing with their friends. 
 
 When the stranger saw the lawj-er he shuddered with 
 the convulsive movement which seizes a poet when a 
 sudden noise recalls him from some fecund rcvery 
 amid the silence of the night. The old man rose 
 quickly and took off his hat to the young lawyer. The 
 
Colonel Chahert. Ill 
 
 leather that lined it was no doubt damp with grease, for 
 his wig stuck to it without his knowledge and exposed 
 his skull, horribly mutilated and disfigured by a scar 
 running from the crown of his head to the angle of his 
 right ej'e and forming a raised welt. The sudden re- 
 moval of that dirty wig, worn by the poor soul to con- 
 ceal his wound, caused no desire to laugh in the minds 
 of the two young men ; so awful was the sight of that 
 skull. "The mind fled through it!" was the first 
 thought suggested to them as they saw that wound. 
 
 "If he is not Colonel Chabert he is some bold 
 trooper," thought Boucard. 
 
 " Monsieur," said Derville, " to whom have I the 
 honor of speaking?" 
 
 " To Colonel Chabert." 
 
 ''Which one?" 
 
 " The one who was killed at Eylau," replied the old 
 man. 
 
 Hearing those extraordinary words the clerk and the 
 lawyer looked at each other as if to say, " He is 
 mad." 
 
 "Monsieur," said the colonel, "I desire to confide 
 my secrets to 3'ou in private." 
 
 The intrepidity which characterizes lawyers is worthy 
 of remark. Whether from their habit of receiving 
 great numbers of persons, whether from an abiding 
 sense of the protection of the law, or from perfect 
 
112 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 confidence in their ministr}', certain it is they go 
 everywhere and take all risks, like priests and doc- 
 tors. Derville made a sign to Boucard, who left the 
 room. 
 
 " Monsieur," said the lawj-er, " during the daj' I am 
 not ver}- chary of my time ; but in the middle of the 
 night everj^ moment is precious to me. Therefore, be 
 brief and concise. Tell 3'our facts without digression ; 
 I will ask 3'ou any explanations I may find necessary. 
 Go on." 
 
 Bidding his strange client be seated, the young man 
 sat down before the table, and while listening to the tale 
 of the late colonel he turned over the pages of a brief. 
 
 "Monsieur," said the deceased, " perhaps yon know 
 that I commanded a regiment of cavalry at Eylau. I 
 was the chief cause of the success of Murat's famous 
 charge which won the daj'. Unhappily' for me, mj' 
 death is given as an historic fact in ' Victories and 
 Conquests' where all the particulars are related. We 
 cut the three Russian lines in two ; then they closed be- 
 hind us and we were obliged to cut our waj^ back again. 
 Just before we reached the Emperor, having dispersed 
 the Russians, a troop of the enemy's cavalr}' met us. I 
 flung myself upon them. Two Russian officers, actual 
 giants, attacked me together. One of them cut me 
 over the head with his sabre, which went through every- 
 thing, even to the silk cap which I wore, and laid my 
 
Colonel Chahert. 113 
 
 skull open. I fell from my horse. Murat came up 
 to support us, and he and his whole party, fifteen hun- 
 dred men, rode over me. The}- reported my death to 
 the Emperor, who sent (for he loved me a little, the mas- 
 ter !) to see if there were no hope of saving a man to 
 whom he owed the vigor of our attack. He despatched 
 two surgeons to find me and bring me in to the ambu- 
 lances, saying — perhaps too hurriedly, for he had work 
 to attend to — ' Go and see if ni}' poor Chabert is still 
 living.' Those cursed saw-bones had just seen me 
 trampled under the hoofs of two regiments ; no doubt 
 they never took the trouble to feel my pulse, but re- 
 ported me as dead. The certificate of my death was 
 doubtless drawn up in d"ue form of military law." 
 
 Gradually, as- he listened to his client, who expressed 
 himself with perfect clearness, and related facts that 
 were quite possible, though somewhat strange, the 
 j-oung law3"er pushed away his papers, rested his left 
 elbow on the table, put his head on his hand, and 
 looked fixcdh' at the colonel. 
 
 "Are you aware, monsieur," he said, "that I am 
 the solicitor of the Countess Ferraud, widow of Colonel 
 Chabert?" 
 
 " Of my wife? Yes, monsieur. And therefore, after 
 man}' fruitless eflTorts to obtain a hearing from lawyers, 
 who all thought me mad, I determined to come to j'ou. 
 I shall speak of m}' sorrows later. Allow me now to 
 
114 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 state the facts, and explain to you how they probably 
 happened, rather than how they actually did happen. 
 Certain circumstances, which can never be known ex- 
 cept to God Almighty, oblige me to relate much in the 
 form of hypotheses. I must tell you, for instance, that 
 the wounds I received probably produced something 
 like lockjaw, or threw me into a state analogous to a 
 disease called, I believe, catalepsy. Otherwise, how 
 can I suppose that I was stripped of my clothing and 
 flung into a common grave, according to the customs of 
 war, by the men whose business it was to bury the 
 dead? Here let me state a circumstance which I only 
 knew much later than the event which I am forced to 
 call my death. In 1814 I met in Stuttgard an old cav- 
 alry sergeant of my regiment. That dear man — the 
 only human being willing to recognize me, of whom I 
 will presently speak to 3'ou — explained to me the ex- 
 traordinary circumstances of my preservation. He said 
 that my horse received a bullet in the body at the same 
 moment when I m3'self was wounded. Horse and rider 
 were therefore knocked over together like a stand of 
 muskets. In turning, either to the right or to the 
 left, I had doubtless been protected by the body of 
 my horse which saved me from being crushed by the 
 riders or hit by bullets." 
 
 The old man paused for a moment as if to collect 
 himself and then resumed : — 
 
Colonel Chabert. 116 
 
 " "When I came to mAself, monsieur, I was in a place 
 and in an •atmosphere of which I could give you no 
 idea, even if I talked for days. The air I breathed was 
 mephitic. I tried to move but I found no space. My 
 eyes were open but I saw nothing. The want of air 
 was the worst sign, and it showed me the dangers of my 
 position. I felt I was in some place where the atmos- 
 phere was stagnant, and that I should die of it. This 
 thought overcame the sense of extreme pain which had 
 brought me to my senses. My ears hummed violently'. 
 I heard, or thought I heard (for I can affirm nothing), 
 gi'oans from the heap of dead bodies among whom I 
 laj'. Though the recollection of those moments is dark, 
 though my memory is confused, and in spite of still 
 greater sufferings which I experienced later and which 
 have bewildered my ideas, there are nights, even now, 
 when I think I hear those smothered moans. But there 
 was something more horrible than even those cries, — a 
 silence that I have never known elsewhere, the silence 
 of the grave. At last, raising m}' hands and feeling 
 for the dead, I found a void between m}- head and the 
 human camou about me. I could even measure the 
 space thus left to me b}' some mere chance, the cause 
 of which I did not know. It seemed as if, thanks to 
 the carelessness or to the haste with which we had been 
 flung pell-mell into the trench, that two dead bodies 
 had fallen across each other above me, so as to form an 
 
116 Colonel CJiahert. 
 
 angle like that of two cards which children lay together 
 to make houses. Quickl}' feeling in all directions, — for 
 I had no time to idle, — I happily came across an arm, 
 the arm of a Hercules, detached from its body ; and 
 those good bones saved me ! Without that unlooked- 
 for succor I must have perished. But now, with a 
 fury you will readily understand, I began to work my 
 way upward through the bodies which separated me 
 from the layer of earth hastily flung over us, — I say 
 ' us,' as though there were others living. I worked 
 with a will, monsieur, for here I am ! Still, I don't 
 know to-day how it was that I managed to tear through 
 the covering of flesh that lay between me and life. I 
 had, as it were, three arms. That Herculean crow-bar, 
 which I used carefully, brought me a little air confined 
 among the bodies which it helped me to displace, and I 
 economized my breathing. At last I saw da^'light, but 
 through the snow, monsieur ! Just then I noticed for 
 the first time that my head was cut open. Happily, 
 my blood — that of my comrades, possibly, how should 
 I know ? or the bleeding flesh of my horse — had co- 
 agulated on my wound and formed a natural plaster. 
 But in spite of that scab I fainted when my head came 
 in contact with the snow. The little heat still left in 
 my body melted the snow about me, and when I came 
 to m^'self m}'^ head was in the middle of a little opening, 
 through which I shouted as long as I was able. But 
 
Colonel Chahert. 117 
 
 the sun had risen and I was little likely to be heard. 
 People seemed already in the fields. I raised myself to 
 my feet, making stepping-stones of the dead whose 
 thighs were solid, — for it was n't the moment to stop 
 and say, ' Honor to heroes ! ' 
 
 "In short, monsieur," continued the old man, wlio 
 had stopped speaking for a moment, "after going 
 through the anguish — if that word describes the rage — 
 of seeing those cursed Germans, ay, many of them, 
 run away when they heard the voice of a man they 
 could not see, I was at last taken from my living grave 
 1)3' a woman, daring enough or inquisitive enough to 
 come close to my head, which seemed to grow from the 
 ground like a mushroom. The woman fetched her hus- 
 band, and together they took me to their poor hovel. 
 It seems that there I had a return of cataleps}', — allow 
 me that term with which to describe a state of which I 
 have no idea, but which I judge, from what my hosts 
 told me, must have been an effect of that disease. I lay 
 for six mouths between hfe and death, not speaking, 
 or wandering in mind when I did speak. At last my 
 benefactors placed me in the hospital at Heilsberg. Of 
 course you understand, monsieur, that I issued from 
 m}' grave as naked as I came from m}- mother's womb ; 
 so that when, many months later, I remembered that I 
 was Colonel Chabert, and endeavored to make my 
 nmrses treat me with more respect than if I were a 
 
118 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 poor devil of a, private, all the men in the ward laughed. 
 Happil}' for nie, the surgeon made it a point of honor 
 or vanit^^ to cure me ; and he naturall^^ became inter- 
 ested in his patient. When I spoke to him in a con- 
 nected manner of my former life, that good man (his 
 name was Sparchmann) had my statements recorded in 
 the legal forms of his country, also a statement of the 
 miraculous manner in which I had escaped from the 
 trench, and the day and hour m}' benefactress and her 
 husband had rescued me, together with the nature and 
 exact position of my wounds and i\ careful description 
 of ni}^ person. Well, monsieur, I do not possess a 
 single one of those important papers, nor the declara- 
 tion I made before a notary at Heilsberg to establish 
 my identity. The events of the war drove us from the 
 town, and from that da}^ I have wandered like a vaga- 
 bond, begging my bread, treated as a lunatic when I 
 told ra}^ stoi'y, unable to earn a single sou that would 
 enable me to send for those papers, which alone can 
 prove the truth of what I say and restore me to m}^ 
 social status. Often my physical sufferings have kept 
 me for weeks and months in some obscure country town, 
 where the greatest kindness has been shown to the sick 
 Frenchman, but where they laughed in his face when he 
 asserted he was Colonel Chabert. For a long while 
 such doubts and laughter made me furious, and that in- 
 jured m}' cause, and once I was shut up as a madman 
 
Colonel Chahert. 119 
 
 at Stiittgard. You can imagine, from wliat I have told 
 YOU, that there were reasons to lock me up. After two 
 years in a madhouse, where I was forced to hear my 
 keepers sa}- : ' This poor man fancies he was once Col- 
 onel Chabert,' to visitors, who replied compassionately, 
 ' Ah, poor man ! ' I myself was convinced of the im- 
 possibility of mj' story being true ; I gi'ew sad, resigned, 
 tranquil, and I ceased to call myself Colonel Chabert, 
 so as to get mv release and return to France. Oh, mon- 
 sieur ! to see Paris once more ! it was a joj' I — " 
 
 With those unfinished words Colonel Chabert sank 
 into a rever}-, which the lawj'er did not disturb. 
 
 " Monsieur," resumed the client presently, " one fine 
 day, a spring day, they gave me raj- freedom and ten 
 thalers, on the ground that I talked sensibly on all sub- 
 jects and had given up calling myself Colonel Chabert ; 
 and, God knows, at that time my name was disagree- 
 able to me, and has been at intervals ever since. I 
 would like not to be myself; the sense of vay rights 
 kills me. If my illness had only taken from me forever 
 the remembrance of my past existence, I might be 
 happy. I might have re-entered the service under some 
 other name ; and, who knows ? perhaps I should have 
 ended as a Russian or an Austrian field-marshal." 
 
 "Monsieur," said the lawyer, " 5-ou have upset all 
 my ideas ; I fancy I dream as I listen to you. Let us 
 pause here for a moment, I beg of you." 
 
120 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 "ybii are the only person," said the colonel sadly, 
 "• who have ever listened to me patiently. No lawyer 
 has been willing to lend me ten napoleons, that I might 
 send to German}^ for the papers necessary for my suit." 
 
 "What suit?" asked the lawyer, who had forgotten 
 the unfortunate pi-esent position of his client, as he 
 listened to the recital of his past misery. 
 
 " Wh}', monsieur, you are well aware that the Com- 
 tesse Ferraud is my wife. She possesses an income of 
 thirty thousand francs which belongs to me, and she 
 refuses to give me one penny of it. When I tell this to 
 lawyers and to men of common-sense, when I, a beg- 
 gar, propose to sue a count and countess, when I, 
 risen from the dead, deny the proofs of my death, they 
 put me off, — they refuse to listen to me, either with 
 that coldl}^ polite air with which 3'ou lawyers know so 
 well how to rid yourselves of hapless creatures, or 
 brutally, as men do when they think they are dealing 
 with a swindler or a madman. I have been buried 
 beneath the dead, but now I am buried beneath the 
 living, — beneath facts, beneath records, beneath society 
 itself, which seeks to thrust me back underground ! " 
 
 "Monsieur, have the goodness to sue, to prosecute 
 now," said the lawyer. 
 
 "Have the goodness! Ah!" exclaimed the unfor- 
 tunate old man, taking the hand of the j'oung lawyer ; 
 " that is the first polite word I have heard since — " 
 
Colonel Chahert. V2\ 
 
 IIo wept. Gratitude stifled his voice. The :ill-i)cne- 
 trative, iudeseribable eloquence of look, gesture, — even 
 silence, — clinched Derville's conviction, and touched 
 him keenly. 
 
 " Listen to me, monsieur," he said. " I won three 
 hundred francs at cards to-night ; I can surely afford to 
 give half that sum to procure the happiness of a man. 
 I will make all the investigations and orders necessary 
 to obtain the papers you mention ; and, until their 
 arrival, I will allow you five francs a day. If you are 
 Colonel Chabert, you will know how to pardon the small- 
 ncss of the loan offered b}' a young man who has his 
 fortune to make. Continue." 
 
 The self-styled colonel remained for an instant mo- 
 tionless, and as if stupefied ; his great misfortunes had, 
 perhaps, destroyed his powers of belief. If he were 
 seeking to recover his illustrious military fame, his 
 home, his fortune, — himself, in short, — it maj' have 
 been only in obedience to that inexplicable feeling, that 
 germ in the hearts of all men, to which we owe the 
 researches of the alchemists, the passion for glory, the 
 discoveries of astronomy and of physios, — all that 
 urges a man to magnify himself b}' the magnitude of 
 the facts or the ideas that are a part of him. The ego 
 was now but a secondary consideration to his mind, 
 just as the vanity of triumph or the satisfaction of gain 
 are dearer to a man who bets than the object of his 
 
122 Colonel CJiahert. 
 
 wager. The words of the young lawyer came, there- 
 fore, like a miracle to this man, repudiated for the last 
 ten years hy wife, bj' justice, by the whole social crea- 
 tion. To receive from a lawj'er those ten gold pieces 
 so long denied him, by so man}' persons, in so manj' 
 wa^-s ! The colonel was like the lady who had been ill 
 so long, that when she was cured she thought she was 
 suffering from a new malad}'. There are joj's in which 
 we no longer believe ; the}' come, and we find them 
 thunderbolts, — thej' blast us. So now the poor man's 
 gratitude was so deep that he could not utter it. He 
 might have seemed cold to a superficial mind, but Der- 
 ville saw iutegrit}^ in that very stupor. A swindler 
 would have spoken. 
 
 " Where was I?" said the colonel, with the guileless- 
 ness of a child or a soldier ; for there is much of the 
 child in the true soldier, and nearly alwaj's something 
 of a soldier in a child, especially in France. 
 
 " At Stuttgard ; the}' had set you at liberty." 
 
 "You know my wife?" asked the colonel. 
 
 " Yes," replied Derville, with a nod of his head. 
 
 "How is she?" 
 
 " Always fascinating." 
 
 The old man made a gesture with his hand, and 
 seemed to conquer some secret pang with the grave 
 and solemn resignation that characterizes men who have 
 been tried in the fire and blood of battle-fields. 
 
Colonel Chahert. 123 
 
 " IMonsicnr," be said, with a sort of gayct}' ; for he 
 breathed anew, poor soul ; he had issued a second 
 time from the grave ; he had broken through a crust of 
 ice and snow harder to molt than that which once had 
 frozen his wounded head ; he inhaled the air as tiiough 
 he were just issuing from a dungeon. " Monsieur," he 
 said, " if I were a handsome fellow I should n't be where 
 I am now. "Women believe men when the}- lard their 
 sentences with words of love. Then they '11 fetch and 
 carry, and come and go, and do anything to serve you. 
 They 'II intrigue ; they '11 swear to facts ; the}' '11 play 
 the devil for the man they love. But how could I make 
 a woman listen to one like me? With a face like a 
 death's head, and clothed like a sans-culotte, I was 
 more of an Esquimau than a Frenchman, — I, who in 
 1799 was the finest coxcomb in the service ! — I, Cha- 
 bert, count of the Empire ! At last the day came when 
 I knew I was an outcast on the streets, like a pariah 
 dog. That day I met the sergeant I told you of; his 
 name was Boutin. That poor devil and I made the 
 finest pair of broken-down old brutes I have ever seen. 
 I met him, and recognized him ; but he couldn't even 
 guess who I was. We went into a tavern. When I 
 told him my name his mouth split open with a roar of 
 laughter like a burst mortar. Monsieur, that laugh is 
 among the bitterest of my sorrows. It revealed, with- 
 out disguise, the changes there were in me. I saw 
 
124 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 m3self unrecognizable, even to the humblest and most 
 grateful of my friends ; for I had once saved Boutin's 
 life, though that was a return for something I owed 
 him. I need n't tell 3"ou the whole story ; the thing 
 happened in Italj', at Ravenna. The house where Bou- 
 tin saved me from being stabbed was none too decent. 
 At that time I was not colonel, only a trooper, like 
 Boutin. Happil}', there were circumstances in the affair 
 known only to him and me ; when I reminded him of 
 them, his incredulity lessened. Then I told him the 
 story of my extraordinary fate. Though my ej'es and 
 m^' voice were, he told me, strangely altered ; though I 
 had neither hair, nor teeth, nor eyebrows, and was as 
 white as an albino, he did finally recognize his old colo- 
 nel in the beggar before him, after putting a vast number 
 of questions to which I answered triumphantly. 
 
 " Ah ! " went on the old soldier, after a moment's 
 pause, "he told me his adventures too, and the}' were 
 hardly less extraordinary than mine. He was just back 
 from the borders of China, to which he had escaped 
 from Siberia. He told me of the disasters of the Rus- 
 sian campaign and Napoleon's first abdication ; that 
 news was another of my worst pangs. "We were two 
 strange wrecks drifting over the globe, as the storms of 
 ocean drift the pebbles from shore to shore. We had 
 each seen Egypt, S3'ria, Spain, Russia, Holland, Ger- 
 many, Italy, Dalmatia, England, China, Tartary, Si- 
 
Oolonel Chahert. 125 
 
 bcria ; nothing was left for us to know but the Indies 
 and America. Boutin, who was more active on his 
 legs than I, agreed to go to Paris as quickh- as he 
 could, and tell my wife the state in which I was. I 
 wrote a long and detailed letter to Madame Chabert ; it 
 was the fourth I had written her. Monsieur, if I had 
 had relatives of my own, the thing could not have hap- 
 pened ; but, I must tell you plainl}-, I was a foundling, a 
 soldier whose patrimony was his courage, the world his 
 family, France his countr}-, God his sole protector, — 
 no ! I am wrong ; I had a father, — the Emperor ! 
 Ah ! if he, dear man, were still among us ; if he saw 
 ' his Chabert,' as he called me, in such a plight, he 
 would be furious. But what's to be done? our sun has 
 set ; we are all left out in the cold ! After all, poHtical 
 events might be the reason of my wife's silence ; at least 
 I thought so. Boutin departed. He was luck}', he was, 
 poor fellow ! he had two white bears who danced and 
 kept him in food. I could not accompany him; my 
 pains were so great I could not go long distances. I 
 wept when we parted, having walked as far as I had 
 strength with the bears and him. At Carlsruhe I was 
 taken with neuralgia in my head, and la}- six weeks in 
 the straw of an inn barn. 
 
 "Ah ! monsieur," continued the unhappy man, "there 
 is no end to what I might tell you of m}' miserable life. 
 Moral anguish, before which all physical suflferiugs are 
 
126 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 as nought, excites less pity because it is not seen. I 
 remember weeping before a mansion in Strasburg where 
 I once gave a ball, and where the}- now refused me a 
 crust of bread. Having agreed with Boutin as to the 
 road I should follow, I went to every post-office on my 
 way expecting to find a letter and some mone}'. I 
 reached Paris at last without a line. Despair was 
 in m}' heart ! Boutin must be dead, I thought ; and 
 I was right ; the poor fellow died at Waterloo, as I 
 heard later and accidentall}'. His errand to my wife 
 was no doubt fruitless. Well, I reached Paris just 
 as the Cossacks entered it. To me, that was grief upon 
 grief. When I saw those Russians in France I no 
 longer remembered that I had neither shoes on my feet 
 nor money in my pocket. Yes, monsieur, my clothes 
 were literally in shreds. The evening of m}' arrival I 
 was forced to bivouac in the woods of Claye. The 
 chilliness of the night gave me a sort of illness, I 
 hardly know what it was, which seized me as I was 
 crossing the faubourg Saint-Martin. I fell, half-uncon- 
 scious, close by the door of an ironmonger. When I 
 came to my senses I was in a bed at the Hotel-Dieu. 
 There I stayed a month in some comfort ; then I was 
 discharged. I had no mone}', but I was cured and I 
 had vay feet on the blessed pavements of Paris. With 
 what jo}- and speed I made my wa^- to the rue du Mont- 
 Blanc, where I supposed my wife was living iu my 
 
Colonel Chabert. 127 
 
 liouse. Bah ! the rue du Mont-Blanc had become the 
 rue de la Chaussee-d'Antin. My house was no longer 
 standing ; it was pulled down. Speculators had built 
 houses in my gardens. Not knowing that my Avife had 
 married Monsieur Ferraud, I could hear nothing of her. 
 At last I went to an old lawyer who formerly took charge 
 of my affairs. The good man was dead, and his ofHce 
 had passed into the hands of a younger man. The 
 latter informed me, to m}' great astonishment, of the 
 settlement of my estate, the marriage of mj- wife, and 
 the birth of her two children. When I told him that 
 I was Colonel Chabert, he laughed so loudly in my face 
 that I turned and left him without a word. My deten- 
 tion at Stuttgart made me mindful of Charenton, and I 
 resolved to act prudentl}'. Then, monsieur, knowing 
 where my wife lived, I made my wa3' to the house — 
 Ah ! " cried the colonel, with a gesture of intense anger, 
 " I was not received when I gave a borrowed name, but 
 when I sent in my own I was turned out of the house ! 
 I have stood night after night leaning against the but- 
 tress of her porte-cochere to see her returning from a 
 ball or from the theatre. I have plunged my eyes into 
 that carriage where I could see the woman who is mine 
 and who is not mine ! Oh ! from that day I have Uved 
 for vengeance," cried the old man, in a hollow voice, 
 standing suddenty erect in front of Derville. " She 
 knows I am living ; she has received thi'ee letters which 
 
128 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 I have written to her since my return. She loves me 
 no longer ! I — I don't know if I love her or if I hate 
 her ; I long for her and I curse her by turns ! She 
 owes her prosperity and all her happiness to me, and 
 she denies me even the meanest succor ! Sometimes 
 I don't know where to turn ! " 
 
 The old man fell back into a chair, motionless and 
 silent. Derville too was silent, contemplating his 
 client. 
 
 " The matter is serious," he said at last in a mechan- 
 ical way. " Even admitting the authenticity of the 
 papers which ought to be found at Heilsberg, it is not 
 clear that we can establish our case, — certainly not at 
 once. The suit will have to go before three courts. 
 I must reflect at my leisure over such a case. It is 
 exceptional." 
 
 "Oh!" replied the colonel, coldly, lifting his head 
 with a proud gesture, " if I am compelled to succumb, 
 I can die, — but not alone." 
 
 With the words the old man seemed to vanish ; the 
 eyes of the man of energy shoue with the fires of desire 
 and vengeance. 
 
 " Perhaps we shall have to compromise," said the 
 law3'er. 
 
 " Compromise! " repeated Colonel Chabert. "Am 
 I dead, or am I living?" 
 
 "Monsieur," said the lawj^er, "you will, I hope, 
 
Colonel Chabert. 129 
 
 follow ni}' advice. Your cause shall be my cause. 
 You will soon, I trust, see the true interest I take 
 in your situation, which is almost without precedent 
 in legal annals. Meantime let me give you an order 
 on my notary, who will remit you fift}' francs every 
 ten days on your receipt. It is not desirable that you 
 should come here for this monc}'. If you are Colonel 
 Chabert you ought not to be beholden to an}' one. I 
 shall make these advances in the form of a loan. You 
 have property' to recover; you are a rich man." 
 
 This last delicate consideration for his feelings 
 brought tears from the old man's eyes. Derville rose 
 abruptl}', for assuredly it is not the thing for a lawj-cr 
 to show feeling ; he went into his private study and 
 returned presently with an unsealed letter, which he 
 gave to Colonel Chabert. When the old man took it 
 he felt two gold pieces within the paper. 
 
 "Tell me precisely what the papers are; give me 
 the exact name of the town and kingdom," said the 
 lawyer. 
 
 The colonel dictated the necessar}' information and 
 corrected the spelling of the names. Then he took 
 his hat in one hand, looked at Dennlle, offered him 
 the other hand, a hornj- hand, and said in a simple 
 way, — 
 
 "After the Emperor you are the man to whom I 
 owe most. You are a noble man." 
 
130 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 The lawyer clasped the colonel's hand, and went 
 with him to the stairway to Ught him down. 
 
 " Boucard," said the law^'er to his head-clerk, whom 
 he summoned, " I have just heard a tale which may 
 cost me some monej'. If I am deceived I shall never 
 regret what I pay, for I shall have seen the greaitest 
 comedian of our time." 
 
 "When the colonel reached the street, he stopped 
 under a lamp, drew the two pieces of twentj' francs 
 each from the letter which the lawyer had given him, 
 and looked at them for a moment in the dim light. He 
 saw gold for the first time in nine years. 
 
 " I can smoke cigars," he said to himself. 
 
 About three months after the nocturnal consultation 
 of Colonel Chabert with Derville, the notary whom the 
 latter had directed to pay the stipend he allowed to his 
 singular client went to the lawj'cr's office one day to 
 confer on some important matter, and opened the con- 
 versation by asking for the six hundred francs he had 
 alread}' paid to the old soldier. 
 
 " Do 30U find it amusing to support the old army ? " 
 said the notar}-, laughing. His name was Crottat, — a 
 young man who had just bought a practice in which he 
 was head-clerk, the master of which, a certain Roguin, 
 had lately absconded after a frightful failure. 
 
 " Thank j'ou, my dear fellow, for reminding me of 
 
Colonel Cliahert. 181 
 
 that afTair," replied Dcrville. " M3' philanthropy docs 
 not go bcj'ond twenty-five louis ; I fear I have been llic 
 dupe of my patriotism." 
 
 As Derville uttered the words his eyes lighted on a 
 packet of papers the head-elerk had laid upon his desk. 
 His attention was drawn to one of tlie letters by the 
 postmarks, oblong, square, and triangular, and red 
 and blue stamped upon it in the Prussian, Austrian, 
 Bavarian, and French post-offices. 
 
 " Ah ! " said he, laughing, " here 's the conclusion of 
 the corned}' ; now we shall see if I have been taken in." 
 
 He took up the letter and opened it, but was unable 
 to read a word, for it was in German. 
 
 "Boucard! " he called, opening the door and hold- 
 ing out the letter to his head-clerk, " go yourself and 
 get that letter translated, and come back with it as fast 
 as you can." 
 
 The Berlin notary to whom Derville had written now 
 replied by informing the latter that the papers he had 
 asked for would reach him a few days after this letter 
 of advice. They were all, he said, perfectly regular, 
 and were fully certified with the necessary legal forms. 
 He added, moreover, that nearly all the witnesses to 
 the facts were still living, and that the woman to whom 
 Monsieur le Comte Chabert owed his life could be found 
 in a certain suburb of Heilsberg. 
 
 " It is getting serious," said Derville, when Boucard 
 
132 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 had told him the substance of the letter. " But see 
 here, mj dear fellow, I want some information which I 
 am sure j-ou must have in your office. When that old 
 swindler of a Roguin — " 
 
 "We say 'the unfortunate Roguin,'" said Crottat, 
 laughing, as he interrupted Derville. 
 
 " Well — when that unfortunate Eoguin ran off with 
 eight hundred thousand francs of his clients' money 
 and reduced many families to pauperism, what was 
 done about the Chabert property? It seems to me I 
 have seen something about it among our Ferraud 
 papers." 
 
 "Yes," replied Crottat, "I was third clerk at the 
 time, and I remember copying and studying the docu- 
 ments. Rose Chapotel, wife and widow of Hyacinthe, 
 called Chabert, count of the Empire, grand officer of 
 the Legion of honor. They had married without a con- 
 tract and therefore they held their property in common. 
 As far as I can recollect, the assets amounted to about 
 six hundred thousand francs. Before his marriage 
 Comte Chabert had made a will leaving one fourth of 
 the property of which he might die possessed to the 
 Parisian hospitals ; the State inherited another fourth. 
 There was an auction sale and a distribution of the 
 property, for the law3'ers made good speed with the 
 affair. Upon the settlement of the estate the monster 
 who then ruled France made a decree restoring the 
 
Colonel Chahert. 133 
 
 amount which hail gone to the Treasury to the colonors 
 widow." 
 
 " So that Comte Chabert's individual property," said 
 Derville, " does not amount to more than three hundred 
 thousand francs ? " 
 
 "Just that, old man," said Crottat; "you solicitors 
 do occasionally get things right, — though some people 
 accuse you of arguing just as well against as for the 
 truth." 
 
 Corate Chabert, whose address was written at the 
 foot of the first receipt he had given to the notary, 
 lived in the faubourg Saint-Marceau, rue du Petit-Ban- 
 quier, with an old sergeant of the Imperial Guard named 
 Vergniaud, now a cow-keeper. When Derville reached 
 the place he was obliged to go on foot to find his client, 
 for his groom positively- refused to drive through an un- 
 paved street the ruts of which were deep enough to 
 break the wheels of a cabriolet. Looking about him 
 on all sides, the lawyer at length discovered at the end 
 of the street nearest to the boulevard and between two 
 walls built of bones and mud, two shabby rough stone 
 pillars, much defaced by wheels in spite of wooden 
 posts placed in front of them. These pillars supported 
 a beam covered with a tiled hood, on which, painted 
 red, were the words, " Vergniaud, Cow-keeper." To 
 the right of the name was a cow, and to the left eggs, 
 all painted white. The gate was open. 
 
134 Colonel CJiabert. 
 
 At the farther end of a good-sized 3'ard and opposite 
 to the gate stood the house, if indeed that name right- 
 fully belongs to one of those hovels built in the suburbs 
 of Paris, the squalor of which cannot be matched else- 
 where, not even in the most wretched of country' huts ; 
 for they have all the poverty of the latter without 
 their poetry. In fact, a cabin in the open countr}- has 
 the charm that pure air, verdure, the meadow vistas, 
 a hill, a winding road, creepers, evergreen hedges, a 
 moss}^ roof and rural implements can give to it ; but in 
 Paris poverty is heightened onlj' bj- horrors. Though 
 recently built, the house seemed tumbling to ruins. 
 None of its materials were originally destined for it ; 
 they came from the "demolitions" which are daily 
 events in Paris. On a shutter made of an old sign 
 Derville read the words " Fancj^-articles." No two of 
 the windows were alike, and all were placed hap-hazard. 
 The ground-floor, which seemed to be the habitable part 
 of the hovel, was raised from the earth on one side, 
 while on the other the rooms were sunk below a bank. 
 Between the gate and the house was a slough of ma- 
 nure, into which flowed the rain-water and the drainage 
 from the house. The wall upon which this rickety 
 building rested was surrounded by hutches in which 
 rabbits brought forth their numerous young. To the 
 right of the gate was the cow-shed, which communicated 
 with the house through a dairy, and over it the hay-loft. 
 
Colonel Chabert. 135 
 
 To the left was a poultry-yard, a stable, ami a pig- 
 st}', all of which were fiuishod off, like the house, 
 with shabb}' plauks of white-wood uailed one above the 
 other and filled in with rushes. Like most of the pur- 
 lieus whence the elements of the grand dinners daily 
 eaten in Paris are derived, the yard in which Derville now 
 stood showed signs of the haste required for the prompt 
 filling of orders. The great tin cans in which the milk 
 was carried, the smaller cans with their linen stoppers 
 which contained the cream, were tossed higgledy-piggle- 
 dy in front of the dairy. The rags used to wipe them 
 out were hanging in the sun to dry, on lines fastened 
 to hooks. The steady horse, of a race extinct except 
 among milk-dealers, had walked a few steps away from 
 the cart and stood in front of the stable, the door of 
 which was locked. A goat browsed upon the spindling, 
 powdery vine-shoots which crept along the cracked and 
 yellow walls of the house. A cat was creeping among 
 the cream-cans and licking the outside of them. The 
 hens, scared at Derville's advent, scuttled away cack- 
 ling, and the watch-dog barked. 
 
 "The man who decided the victor}' of Eylau lives 
 here ! " thought Derville, taking in at a glance the 
 whole of this squalid scene. 
 
 The house seemed to be under the guardianship of 
 three little ragamuffins. One, who had clambered to 
 the top of a cart laden with green fodder, was throwing 
 
136 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 stones down the cbimnc}- of the next house, prolial»h' 
 hoping that the}' would fall into the saucepans below ; 
 another was tr3'ing to lead a pig up the floor of a tip- 
 cart, one end of which touched the ground, while the 
 third, hanging on to the other end, was waiting till the 
 pig was fairly in to tip the cart up again. "When Der- 
 ville asked if that was where Monsieur Chabert lived 
 none of them answered ; and all three gazed at him 
 with lively stupidit}', — if it is allowable to unite those 
 words. Derville repeated his question without result. 
 Provoked at the saucy air of the little scamps, he spoke 
 sharply, in a tone which J'oung men think the}' can use 
 to children, and the boys broke silence with a roar of 
 laughter. Derville was angr}'. The colonel, who heard 
 the noise, came out of a little room near the dairy and 
 stood on the sill of his door with the imperturbable 
 phlegm of a militarj' training. In his mouth was a 
 pipe in process of being "colored," — one of those 
 humble pipes of white clay with short stems called 
 " muzzle-scorchers." He raised the peak of a cap 
 which was horribly greas}', saw DerviUe, and came 
 across the manure heap in haste to meet his bene- 
 factor, calling out in a friendly tone to the boj's, 
 "Silence, in the ranks!" The children became in- 
 stantly and respectfully silent, showing the power the 
 old soldier had over them. 
 
 " Wh}' haven't you written to me?" he said to Der- 
 
Colonel Chahert. 137 
 
 villo. " Go along by the cow-house ; see, tlic j.inl is 
 paved on that side," he cried, noticing tlie hesiUitiou 
 of the young lawyer, who did not care to set his feet 
 in the wet manure. 
 
 Jumping from stone to stone, Dcrville at last reached 
 the door through which the colonel had issued. Chabert 
 seemed anno3ed at the necessit}^ of receiving him in the 
 room he was occupying. In fact, there was only one 
 chair. The colonel's bed was merel}^ a few bundles of 
 straw on which his landlad}' had spread some ragged bits 
 of old carpet, such as milk-women lay upon the seats of 
 their wagons, and pick up, heaven knows where. The 
 floor was neither more nor less than the earth beaten 
 hard. Such dampness exuded from the nitrified walls, 
 greenish in color and full of cracks, that the side where 
 the colonel slept had been covered with a mat made of 
 reeds. The top-coat was hanging to a nail. Two pairs 
 of broken boots lay in a corner. Not a vestige of 
 under-clothing was seen. The " Bulletins of the Grand 
 Arm}-," reprinted by Plancher, was lying open on a 
 raoukl}' table, as if constantl}' read by the colonel, 
 whose face was calm and serene in the midst of this 
 direful povert}'. His visit to Derville seemed to have 
 clianged the ver}' character of his features, on which 
 the lawyer now saw traces of happy thought, the special 
 gleam which hope had cast. 
 
 "Docs the smoke of a pipe auno}' you?" he asked, 
 
138 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 offering the one chair, and that half-denuded of 
 straw. 
 
 " But colonel, joxx are shockingly ill-lodged here ! " 
 
 The words were wrung from Derville by the natural 
 distrust of law^-ers, caused hy the deplorable experience 
 that comes to them so soon from the dreadful, mysteri- 
 ous dramas in which the}- are called professionally to 
 take part. 
 
 " That man," thought Derville to himself, " has no 
 doubt spent my money in gratifying the thi'ee cardinal 
 virtues of a trooper, — wine, women, and cards. 
 
 "True enough, monsieur; we don't abound in lux- 
 ury'. It is a bivouac, tempered, as yoxx may sa}-, by 
 friendship ; but " (here the soldier cast a searching look 
 at the lawyer) " I have done wrong to no man, I have 
 repulsed no man, and I sleep in peace." 
 
 Derville felt there would be a want of delicacy in 
 asking his client to account for his use of the money he 
 had lent him, so he merely said: " Whj' don't you 
 come into Paris, where you could live just as cheaply' 
 as 3-ou do here, and be much better off ? " 
 
 "Because," replied the colonel, " the good, kind 
 people I am with took me in and fed me gratis for 
 a year, and how could I desert them the moment I 
 got a little mone}'? Besides, the father of these 
 young scamps is an Egyptian." 
 
 "An Egyptian?" 
 
Colonel Chahert. 139 
 
 "Tliat's what wc call the troopers who returned 
 from the expedition to Eg^'pt, in which I took part. 
 Not only are we all brothers in heart, but Vergniaud 
 was in my regiment ; he and I shared the water of the 
 desert. Besides, I want to finish teaching those little 
 monkeys to read." 
 
 " He might give you a better room for your money," 
 said the law3"er. 
 
 "Bah!" said the colonel, "the children sleep as I 
 do on straw. He and his wife have no better bed 
 themselves. They are very poor, you see ; they have 
 more of an establishment here than they can manage. 
 But if I get back my fortune — "Well, enough ! " 
 
 " Colonel, I expect to receive your papers from 
 Heilsberg to-morrow ; your benefactress is still living." 
 
 " Oh ! cursed money ! to think I have n't any ! " 
 cried the colonel, flinging down his pipe. 
 
 A "colored" pipe is a precious pipe to a smoker; 
 but the action was so natural and so generous that 
 all smokers would have forgiven him that act of leze- 
 tobacco ; the angels might have picked up the pieces. 
 
 " Colonel, your affair is verj' complicated," said 
 Derville, leaving the room to walk up and down in 
 the sun before the house. 
 
 " It seems to me," said the soldier, " perfectly sim- 
 ple. The}- thought me dead, and here I am ! Give 
 me back my wife and my property ; give me the rank 
 
140 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 of general, — to which I have a right, for I had passed 
 colonel in the Imperial Guard the night before the battle 
 of Eylau." 
 
 " Matters are not managed that way in law," said 
 Derville. " Listen to me. You are Comte Chabert, — 
 I '11 admit that ; but the thing is to prove it legally 
 against those persons whose interest it is to deny 
 j-our existence. All your papers and documents will 
 be disputed ; and the very first discussions will open a 
 dozen or more preliminary questions. Every step will 
 be fought over up to the supreme court. All that will 
 involve expensive suits, which will drag along, no matter 
 how much energ}' I put into them. Your adversaries 
 will demand an inquiry, which we cannot refuse, and 
 which will perhaps necessitate sending a commission 
 to Prussia. But suppose all went well, and you were 
 promptly and legally recognized as Colonel Chabert, 
 what then ? Do we know how the question of Ma- 
 dame Ferraud's innocent bigamy would be decided ? 
 Here 's a case where the question of rights is outside 
 of the Code, and can be decided by the judges only 
 under tlie laws of conscience, as a jury does in many 
 delicate cases which social perversities bring up in 
 criminal courts. Now, here 's a point : you had no 
 children by your marriage, and Monsieur Ferraud has 
 two ; the judges may annul the marriage where the ties 
 are weakest, in favor of a marriage which involves the 
 
Colonel Chahert. 141 
 
 well-beiug of children, admitting that the parents mar- 
 ried in good failli. Would it be a fine or moi:d posi- 
 tion for you, at your age, and under these circumstances, 
 to insist on having — will ye, nill ye — a wife who no 
 longer loves you? You would have against you a hus- 
 band and wife who are powerful and able to bring in- 
 fluence upon the judges. The case has many elements 
 of duration in it. You may spend years and grow an 
 old man still struggling with the sharpest grief and 
 anxiet}'." 
 
 " But m}' property? " 
 *' You think you have a large fortune?" 
 *' I had an income of thirty thousand francs." 
 " My dear colonel, in 1799, before your marriage, 
 you made a will leaving a quarter of your whole prop- 
 erty to the hospitals." 
 "That is true." 
 
 " Well, you were supposed to be dead ; then of 
 course an inventory of your property' was made and 
 the whole wound up in order to give that fourth part 
 to the said hospitals. Your wife had no scruples about 
 cheating the poor. The inventory, in which she took 
 care not to mention the cash on hand or her jewehy, 
 or the full amount of the silver, and in which the fur- 
 niture was appraised at two-thirds below its real value 
 (either to please her or to lessen the treasur}' tax, for ap- 
 praisers are liable for the amount of their valuations) , — 
 
142 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 this inventory, I say, gave your property as amounting 
 to six hundred thousand francs. Your widow had a 
 legal right to half. Everything was sold and bought 
 in by her ; she gained on the whole transaction, and 
 the hospitals got their seventy-five thousand francs. 
 Then, as the Treasury inherited the rest of j'our prop- 
 ertj' (for you had not mentioned your wife in your 
 will), the Emperor made a decree returning the portion 
 which reverted to the Treasury to your widow. Now, 
 then, the question is, to what have you any legal right ? 
 — to three hundred thousand francs onlj', less costs." 
 
 "You call that justice?" said the colonel, thunder- 
 struck. 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 " Fine justice ! " 
 
 "It is always so, my poor colonel. You see now 
 that what you thought so easy is not easy at all. Ma- 
 dame Ferraud may also tr}' to keep the portion the 
 Emperor returned to her." 
 
 " But she was not a widow, and therefore the decree 
 was null." 
 
 " I admit that. But everything can be argued. Lis- 
 ten to me. Under these circumstances, I think a com- 
 promise is the best thing both for you and for her. 
 You could get a larger sum that way than by assert- 
 ing your rights." 
 
 " It would be selling my wife ! " 
 
Colonel Chahert. 143 
 
 " "With an income of twent3'-four thousand fiancs 
 you would be in a position to find another who would 
 suit you better and make you happier. I intend to go 
 and see the Comtesse Ferraud to-day, and find out how 
 the land lies ; but I did not wish to take that step with- 
 out letting you know." 
 " We will go together." 
 
 " Dressed as you are? " said the law3-er. " No, no, 
 colonel, no ! You might lose your case." 
 "Can I win it?" 
 
 " Yes, under all aspects," answered Derville. " But 
 my dear Colonel Chabert, there is one thing you pay 
 no heed to. I am not rich, and my practice is not 
 yet wholly paid for. If the courts should be willing 
 to grant you a provisional maintenance they will only 
 do so after recognizing your claims as Colonel Chabert, 
 grand officer of the Legion of honor." 
 
 " So I am ! " said the old man, naively, " grand officer 
 of the Legion of honor, — I had forgotten that." 
 
 "Well, as I was sa3-ing," resumed Derville, "till 
 then you will have to bring suits, pay lawyers, serve 
 writs, employ sheriffs, and live. The cost of those 
 preliminary steps will amount to more than twelve or 
 even fifteen thousand francs. I can't lend you the 
 money for I am crushed by the enormous interest I 
 am forced to pay to those who lent me money to buy 
 my practice. Where, then, can you get it? " 
 
144 Colonel Chahert, 
 
 Big tears fell from the faded eyes of the old soldier 
 and rolled down his cheeks. The sight of these difl3cul- 
 ties discouraged him. The social and judicial world 
 lay upon his breast like a nightmare. 
 
 " I will go to the column of the place Vendome," he 
 said, " and cry aloud, ' I am Colonel Chabert, who broke 
 the Russian square at Eylau ! ' The man of iron up 
 there — ah ! he '11 recognize me ! " 
 
 " They would put 3'ou in Charenton." 
 
 At that dreaded name the soldier's courage fell. 
 
 " Perhaps I should have a better chance at the 
 ministrj' of war," he said. 
 
 " In a government office? Well, try it," said Der- 
 ville. '' But 3'ou must take with you a legal judgment 
 declaring your death disproved. The government 
 would prefer to get rid of the Empire people." 
 
 The colonel remained for a moment speechless, mo- 
 tionless, gazing before him and seeing nothing, plunged 
 in a bottomless despair. Militar}' justice is prompt 
 and straight-forward ; it decides peremptoril}^ and is 
 generally fair ; this was the onl}' justice Chabert knew. 
 Seeing the labyrinth of difficulty which la}- before him 
 and knowing that he had no mone}' with which to enter 
 it, the poor soldier was mortally' wounded in that par- 
 ticular power of human nature which we call will. He 
 felt it was impossible for him to live in a legal struggle ; 
 far easier to his nature was it to stay poor and a beg- 
 
Colonel Chabert. 145 
 
 gar, or to culist in some cavalry regiment if they woukl 
 still take him. Physical and mental suffering had vitiated 
 his body in some of its important organs. He was 
 approaching one of those diseases for which the science 
 of medicine has no name, the seat of which is, in a wa}-, 
 movable (like the nervous system which is the part of 
 our machinery most frequently attacked), an aflcctioa 
 which we must fain call " the spleen of sorrow." 
 However serious this invisible but most real disease 
 might be, it was still curable by a happy termination 
 of his griefs. To completelj' unhinge and destroy that 
 vigorous organization some final blow was needed, 
 some unexpected shock which might break the weak- 
 ened springs and produce those strange hesitations, 
 those vague, incomplete, and inconsequent actions which 
 ph3'siologists notice in all persons wrecked bj' grief. 
 
 Observing symptoms of deep depression in his client, 
 Derville hastened to say: "Take courage; the issue 
 of the affair must be favorable to you in some way or 
 other. Only, examine your own mind and see if you 
 can place implicit trust in me, and accept blindly the 
 course that I shall think best for you." 
 
 " Do what 3'ou will," said Chabert. 
 
 " Yes, but will 3'ou surrender j'ourself to me com- 
 pletel}', like a man marching to his death ? " 
 
 " Am I to live without a status and without a name? 
 Is that bearable? " 
 
 10 
 
146 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 " I don't mean that," said the lawyer. " We •will 
 bring an amicable suit to annul the record of j'our 
 decease, and also your marriage ; then you will resume 
 your rights. You could even be, through Comte 
 Ferraud's influence, restored to the army with the 
 rank of general, and yow. would certainly obtain a 
 pension." 
 
 "Well, go on, then," replied Chabert; "I trust 
 implicitly to you." 
 
 " I will send you a power-of-attorney to sign," said 
 Derville. " Adieu, keep up your courage ; if you want 
 money let me know." 
 
 Chabert wrung the lawyer's hand, and stood with his 
 back against the wall, unable to follow him except with 
 his eyes. During this conference the face of a man had 
 every now and then looked round one of the gate pil- 
 lars, behind which its owner was posted waiting for 
 Derville's departure. The man now accosted the young 
 lawj^er. He was old, and he wore a blue jacket, a 
 pleated white smock like those worn by brewers, and 
 on his head a cap of otter fur. His face was brown, 
 hollow, and wrinkled, but red at the cheek-bones from 
 hard work and exposure to the weather. 
 
 '* Excuse me, monsieur, if I take the liberty of 
 speaking to you," he said, touching Derville on the 
 arm. ' ' But I supposed when I saw you that you 
 were the general's friend." 
 
Colonel Chahert. 147 
 
 " Well," said Dcrville, "what interest have 3-ou in 
 him? Who are you? " added the distrustful lawyer. 
 
 "I am Louis Vergniaud," answered the man, "and 
 I want to have a word with you." 
 
 " Then it is you who lodge the Comte Chabert in this 
 way, is it? " 
 
 " Pardon it, monsieur. He has the best room in the 
 house. I would have given him mine if I had had one, 
 and slept myself in the stable. A man who has suffered 
 as he has and who is teaching m}^ kids to read, a gen- 
 eral, an Egyptian, the first heutenant under whom I 
 served, — wh}', all I have is his ! I 've shared all 
 with him. Unluckily it is so little, — bread and milk 
 and eggs ! However, when you 're on a campaign 30U 
 must live with the mess ; and little as it is, it is 
 given with a full heart, monsieur. But he has vexed 
 us." 
 
 "He!" 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, vexed us ; there 's no going behind 
 that. I took this establishment, which is more than I 
 can manage, and he saw that. It troubled him, and he 
 would do my work and take care of the horse ! I kept 
 saying to him, 'No, no, my general!' But there! he 
 only answered, ' Am I a lazybones? don't I know how- 
 to put my shoulder to the wheel ? ' So I gave notes for 
 the value of my cow-house to a man named Grados. 
 Do you know him, monsieur?" 
 
148 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 " But, my good friend, I have n't the time to listen 
 to all this. Tell me only how Colonel Chabert vexed 
 you." 
 
 " He did vex us, monsieur, just as true as my name 
 is Louis Vergniaud, and my wife cried about it. He 
 heard from the neighbors that I couldn't meet that 
 note ; and the old fellow, without a word to us, took 
 all you gave him, and, little by little, paid the note \ 
 Wasn't it a trick ! My wife and I knew he went with- 
 out tobacco all that time, poor old man ! But now, 
 3'es, he has the cigars, — I 'd sell my own self sooner ! 
 But it does vex us. Now, I propose to you to lend me 
 on this establishment three hundred francs, so that we 
 ma}- get him some clothes and furnish his room. He 
 thinks he has paid us, doesn't he? Well, the truth is, 
 he has made us his debtors. Yes, he has vexed us ; 
 he shouldn't have played us such a trick, — wasn't it 
 almost an insult? Such friends as we are! As true 
 as my name is Louis Vergniaud, I will mortgage myself 
 rather than not return you that monej'." 
 
 Derville looked at the cow-keeper, then he made a 
 step backward and looked at the house, the 3'ard, the 
 the manure, the stable, the rabbits, and the children. 
 
 " Faith ! " thought he to himself, "I do believe one of 
 the characteristics of virtue is to own nothing. Yes," 
 he said aloud, " 3'ou shall have your three hundred 
 francs, and more too. But it is not I who give them 
 
Colonel Chahert. 149 
 
 to you, it is tlio colonel ; he will be vieli enough t(^ help 
 yon, and I shall not deprive him of that pleasure." 
 
 " Will it be soon?" 
 
 " Yes, soon." 
 
 "Good God! how happy my wife will be." The 
 tanned face of the cow-keeper brightened into J03-. 
 
 " Now," thought Derville as he jumped into his 
 cabriolet, " to face the enemy. She must not see our 
 game, but we must know hers, and win it at one trick. 
 She is a woman. What are women most afraid of ? 
 Why, of—" 
 
 He began to study the countess's position, and fell 
 into one of those deep reveries to which great poli- 
 ticians are prone when they prepare their plans and try 
 to guess the secrets of foreign powers. Lawyers are, 
 in a way, statesmen, to whom the management of indi- 
 vidual interests is intrusted. A glance at the situ- 
 ation of Monsieur le Comte Ferraud and his wife is 
 necessary for a full comprehension of the lawyer's 
 genius. 
 
 Monsieur le Comte Ferraud was the son of a former 
 councillor of the parliament of Paris, who had emigrated 
 during the Terror, and who, though he saved his head, 
 lost his property. He returned to France under the 
 Consulate, and remained faithful to the interests of 
 Louis XVnL, in whose suite his father had been before 
 the Revolution. His son, therefore, belonged to that 
 
150 Colonel CTialert. 
 
 section of the faubourg Saint-Germain which nobly re- 
 sisted the Napoleonic seductions. The young count's 
 reputation for good sense and sagacity when he was 
 called simply '' Monsieur Ferraud " made him the object 
 of a few imperial blandishments ; for the Emperor took 
 as much satisfaction in his conquests over the aris- 
 tocracy as he did in winning a battle. The count was 
 promised the restitution of his title, also that of all 
 his property which was not sold, and hopes were held 
 out of a ministry in the future, and a senatorship. The 
 Emperor failed. At the time of Comte Chabert's death 
 Monsieur Ferraud was a young man twenty-six years 
 of age, without fortune, agreeable in appearance and 
 manner, and a social success, whom the faubourg Saint- 
 Germain adopted as one of its distinguished figures. 
 
 Madame la Comtesse Chabert had managed the 
 property derived from her late husband so well that 
 after a widowhood of eighteen months she possessed 
 an income of nearly forty thousand francs a year. 
 Her marriage with the young count was not regarded 
 as news by the coteries of the faubourg. Napoleon, 
 who was pleased with an alliance which met his ideas 
 of fusion, returned to Madame Chabert the monej' 
 derived by the Treasury from her late husband's estate ; 
 but here again Napoleon's hopes were foiled. Madame 
 Ferraud not only adored a lover in the j'oung man, but 
 she was attracted by the idea of entering that haughty 
 
Colonel Chabert. 151 
 
 society which, in spite of its political abasement, was 
 still far above that of the imperial court. Her various 
 vanities as well as her passions were gratified by this 
 marriage. She felt she was about to become ' ' an 
 elegant woman." 
 
 When the faubourg Saint-Germain ascertained that 
 the 3'oung count's marriage was not a defection from 
 their ranks, all salons were opened to his wife. The 
 Restoration took place. The political fortunes of the 
 Comte Ferraud made no rapid strides. He understood 
 very well the exigencies of Louis XVIII. 's position ; 
 he was one of the initiated who waited until ' ' the 
 revolutionary gulf was closed," — a royal phrase which 
 the liberals laughed at, but wliich, nevertheless, hid a 
 deep political meaning. However, the ordinance with 
 its long-winded clerical phrases quoted by Godeschal 
 in the first pages of this storj' restored to the Comte 
 Ferraud two forests and an estate which had risen in 
 value during its sequestration. At the period of which 
 we write Comte Ferraud was councillor of State, also 
 a director-general, and he considered his position as no 
 more than the opening of his political career. Ab- 
 sorbed in the pursuit of an eager ambition, he depended 
 much on his secretar}-, a ruined lawj-er named Delbecq, 
 — a man who was more than able, one who knew every 
 possible resource of pettifogging sophistr}', to whom 
 the count left the management of all his private affairs. 
 
152 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 This clever iDractitioner understood liis position in the 
 count's household far too well not to be honest out of 
 policy. He hoped for some place under government 
 through the influence of his patron, whose property he 
 took care of to the best of his ability. His conduct so 
 completely refuted the dark story of his earlier life 
 that he was now thought to be a calumniated man. 
 
 The countess, however, with the shrewd tact of a 
 woman, fathomed the secretary, watched him carefully, 
 and knew so well how to manage him, that she had 
 alread}' largely increased her fortune by his help. She 
 contrived to convince Delbecq that she ruled Monsieur 
 Ferraud, and promised that she would get him made 
 judge of a municipal court in one of the most impor- 
 tant cities in France if he devoted himself wholl}' to 
 her interests. The promise of an irremovable office, 
 which would enable him to marry advantageousl}' and 
 improve his political career until he became in the end 
 a deputy, made Delbecq Madame Ferraud's abject tool. 
 His watchfulness enabled her to profit b}' all those 
 lucky chances which the fluctuations of the Bourse 
 and the rise of property in Paris during the first three 
 yeai-s of the Restoration offered to clever manipula- 
 toi's of money. Delbecq had tripled her capital with all 
 the more ease because his plans commended them- 
 selves to the countess as a rapid method of making 
 her fortune enormous. She spent the emoluments of 
 
Colonel Chahert. 153 
 
 the count's various offices on the household expenses, 
 so as to invest every penny of her own income, and 
 Delbecq aided and abetted this avarice witliout inquir- 
 ing into its motives. Men of his kind care nothing 
 for the discovery of any secrets that do not affect their 
 own interests. Besides, he accounted for it naturally by 
 that thirst for gold which possesses nearly all Parisian 
 women ; and as he knew how large a fortune Comte Fer- 
 raud's ambitions needed to support them, he sometimes 
 fancied that he saw in the countess's greed a sign of 
 her devotion to a man with whom she was still in love. 
 
 Madame Ferraud buried the motives of her conduct 
 in the depths of her own heart. There lay the secrets 
 of life and death to her ; there is the kernel of our 
 present history. 
 
 At the beginning of the year 1818 the Restoration 
 was established on an apparently firm and immovable 
 basis ; its governmental doctrines, as understood by 
 superior minds, seemed likel}- to lead France into an 
 era of renewed prosperit}-. Then it was that society 
 changed front. Madame la Comtesse Ferraud found 
 that she had made a marriage of love and wealth and 
 ambition. Still 3'oung and beautiful, she played the 
 part of a woman of fashion and lived in the court at- 
 mosphere. Rich herself, and rich through her husband, 
 who had the credit of being one of the ablest men of 
 the royalist party, a friend of the king and likelj' to 
 
154 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 become a minister, she belonged to the aristocracy and 
 shared its glamour. 
 
 In the midst of this triumphant prosperity a moral 
 cancer fastened upon her. Men have feelings which 
 women guess in spite of every effort made by such men 
 to bury them. At the time of the king's first return 
 Comte Ferraud was conscious of some regrets for his 
 marriage. The widow of Colonel Chabert had brought 
 him no useful connections ; he was alone and without 
 influence, to make his way in a career full of obstacles 
 and full of enemies. Then, perhaps, after he had coolly 
 judged his wife, he saw certain defects of education 
 which made her unsuitable, and unable, to further his 
 projects. A word he once said about Talle^'rand's mar- 
 riage enlightened the countess and showed her that if 
 the past had to be done over again he would never 
 make her his wife. What woman would forgive that 
 regret, containing as it did, the germs of all insults, 
 na}', of all crimes and all repudiations ! 
 
 Let us conceive the wound that this discovery made 
 in the heart of a woman who feared the return of her 
 first husband. She knew that he lived ; she had re- 
 pulsed him. Then, for a short time, she heard no more 
 of him, and took comfort in the hope that he was killed 
 at Waterloo together with the imperial eagles and Bou- 
 tin. She then conceived the idea of binding her second 
 husband to her by the strongest of ties, by a chain of 
 
Colonel Chahert. 165 
 
 gold ; and she determined to be so rich that her great 
 fortune should make that second marriage indissoluble 
 if by chance Comte Chabert reappeared. He had rea[)- 
 pcared ; and she was unable to understand why the 
 struggle she so much dreaded was not begun. Per- 
 haps the man's sufferings, perhaps an illness had de- 
 livered her from him. Perhaps he was half-crazy and 
 Chareuton might restore his reason. She was not wil- 
 ling to set Delbecq or the poUce on his traces, for fear 
 of putting herself in their power, or bringing on a ca- 
 tastrophe. There are manj' women in Paris who, like 
 the Comtesse Ferraud, are living secretly with moral 
 monsters, or skirting the edges of some abyss ; they 
 make for themselves a callus over the region of their 
 wound and still continue to laugh and be amused. 
 
 "There is something very singular in Comte Fer- 
 raud's situation," said Derville to himself, after long 
 meditation, as the cabriolet stopped before the gate of 
 the hotel Ferraud in the rue de Varennes. " How is it 
 that he, so wealthy and a favorite of the king, is not al- 
 ready* a peer of France ? Perhaps Madame de Grandlieu 
 is right in saying that the king's policy is to give higher 
 importance to the peerage by not lavishing it. Besides, 
 the son of a councillor of the old parliament is neither 
 a Crillon nor a Eohan. Comte Ferraud can" enter the 
 upper Chamber only, as it were, on sufferance. But if 
 his marriage were ruptured would n't it be a satisfac- 
 
156 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 tion to the king if the peerage of some of those old 
 senators who have^ daughters onl}' could descend to 
 him? Certainly that's a pretty good fear to dangle 
 before the countess," thought Derville, as he went up 
 the steps of the hotel Ferraud. 
 
 Without knowing it the lawyer had laid his finger on 
 the secret wound, he had plunged his hand into the can- 
 cer that was destroying Madame Ferraud's life. She 
 received him in a pretty winter dining-room, where she 
 was breakfasting and plaj'ing with a monkey, which was 
 fastened by a chain to a sort of little post with iron 
 bars. The countess was wrapped in an elegant morn- 
 ing-gown ; the curls of her pretty- hair, carelessly caught 
 up, escaped from a little cap which gave her a piquant 
 air. She was fresh and smiling. The table glittered 
 with the silver-gilt service, the plate, the mother-of- 
 pearl articles ; rare plants were about her, growing in 
 splendid porcelain vases. 
 
 As the lawyer looked at Comte Chabert's vrife, rich 
 with his property, surrounded by luxury, and she her- 
 self at the apex of society, while the unhappy husband 
 lived with the beasts in a cow-house, he said to him- 
 self: " The moral of this is that a prettj- woman will 
 never acknowledge a husband, nor even a lover, in a 
 man with- an old topcoat, a shabby wig, and broken 
 boots." A bitter and satirical smile expressed the 
 half-philosophic, half-sarcastic ideas that necessarily 
 
Colonel Chahert. 157 
 
 come to a man wlio is so placed that he sees to tlic 
 bottom of things in spite of the lies unck-r which so many 
 Parisian families hide their existence. 
 
 " Good morning, Monsieur Dcrville," said the counfc- 
 ess, continuing to make the monkey drink coffee. 
 
 " Madame," be said, abruptly, for he was offended at 
 the careless tone in which the countess greeted him. 
 ' ' I have come to talk to you on a serious matter." 
 
 "Oh! I am so very sorry, but the count is ab- 
 sent — " 
 
 " I am glad, madame ; for he would be out of place 
 at this conference. Besides, I know from Delbecq that 
 you prefer to do business yourself, without troubling 
 Monsieur le comte." 
 
 "Very good; then I will send for Delbecq," she 
 said. 
 
 "He could do you no good, clever as he is," re- 
 turned Derville. "Listen to me, madame; one word 
 will suffice to make you serious. Comte Chabert is 
 living." 
 
 ' ' Do 3'ou expect me to be serious when 30U talk 
 such nonsense as that?" she said, bursting into a fit 
 of laughter. 
 
 But the countess was suddenl}' subdued b}' the 
 strange lucidity of the fixed look with which Derville 
 questioned her, seeming to read into the depths of her 
 soul. 
 
158 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 " Madame," he replied, with cold and incisive gravity, 
 " 3'ou are not aware of the dangers of 3-our position, 
 I do not speak of the undeniable authenticity of the 
 papers in the case, nor of the positive proof that can 
 be brought of Comte Chabert's existence. I am not 
 a man, as j'ou know, to take charge of a hopeless 
 case. If you oppose our steps to prove the falsitj^ 
 of the death-record, you will certainly lose that first 
 suit, and that question once settled in our favor de- 
 termines all the others." 
 
 " Then, what do 30U wish to speak of ? " 
 
 " Not of the colonel, nor of 3-ou ; neither shall I re- 
 mind you of the costs a clever lawyer in possession 
 of all the facts of the case might charge upon you, 
 nor of the game such a man could play with those 
 letters which 3'ou received from your first husband 
 before you married }'our second — " 
 
 "It is false ! " she cried, with the violence of a 
 spoilt beauty. " I have never received a letter from 
 Comte Chabert. If any one calls himself the colonel 
 he is a swindler, a galle3'-slave perhaps, like Cogniard ; 
 it makes me shudder to think of it. How can the colo- 
 nel come to life again? Bonaparte himself sent me 
 condolences on his death by an aid-de-camp ; and I 
 now draw a pension of three thousand francs granted 
 to his widow b3' the Chambers. I have ever3^ right to 
 reject all Chaberts past, present, and to come." 
 
Colonel Chabert. 159 
 
 " Happily wc are alone, madame, anrl we can lie at 
 our ease," he said, coldly, inwardl}- amused by inciting 
 the anger which shook the countess, for the purpose 
 of fo)"cing her into some betrayal, — a trick familiar to 
 all lawyers, who remain calm and impassible themselves 
 when their clients or their adversaries get angry. 
 
 " Now then, to measure swords ! " he said to him- 
 self, thinking of a trap he could lay to force her to 
 show her weakness. "The proof that Colonel Chabert's 
 first letter reached 3'ou exists, madame," he said aloud. 
 *' It contained a draft." 
 
 " No, it did not ; there was no draft," she said. 
 
 " Then the letter did reach you," continued Derville, 
 smiling. "You are caught in the first trap a lawyer 
 la3-s for you, and yet you think you can fight the 
 law ! " 
 
 The countess blushed, turned pale, and hid her face 
 in her hands. Then she shook off her shame, and said, 
 with the coolness which belongs to women of her class, 
 " As 3-ou are the lawyer of the impostor Chabert, have 
 the goodness to — " 
 
 " Madame," said Derville, interrupting her, "I am 
 ^ at this moment your lawyer as well as the colonel's. 
 Do 30U think I wish to lose a client as valuable to me 
 as you arc? But you are not listening to me." 
 
 " Go on, monsieur," she said, graciously. 
 
 ♦'Your fortune came from Monsieur le Comte Cha- 
 
160 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 bert, and you have repudiated him. Your property is 
 colossal, and you let him starve. Madame, lawyers 
 can be verj' eloquent when their cases are eloquent; 
 here are circumstances which can raise the hue-and-cry 
 of public opinion against j'ou." 
 
 " But, Monsieur," said the countess, irritated by the 
 manner in which Derville turned and returned her on 
 his gridiron, " admitting that your Monsieur Chabert 
 exists, the courts will sustain my second marriage on 
 account of my children, and I shall get off by repaying 
 two hundred and fifty thousand francs to Monsieur 
 Chabert." 
 
 " Madame, there is no telling how a court of law 
 may view a matter of feeling. If, on the one hand, 
 we have a mother and two children, on the other there 
 is a man overwhelmed by undeserved misfortune, aged 
 by 3'ou, left to starve by jour rejection. Besides, the 
 judges cannot go against the law. Your marriage with 
 the colonel puts the law on his side ; he has the prior 
 right. But, if 3'ou appear in such an odious light you 
 may find an adversary j'ou little expect. That, ma- 
 dame, is the danger I came to warn you of." 
 " Another adversary ! " she said, " who? " 
 "Monsieur le Comte Ferraud, madame." 
 "Monsieur Ferraud is too deeply attached to me, 
 and respects the mother of his children too — " 
 "Ah, madame," said Derville, interrupting her, "why 
 
Colonel Chabert. Ml 
 
 talk such nonsense to a lawyer who can read hearts. 
 At the present moment Monsieur Ferraiul has not tin.- 
 slijjlitest desire to annul his marria<^e, and I have no 
 doubt he ailores 30U. But if some one went to him 
 and told him that his marriage could be annulled, that 
 his wife would be arraigned before the bar of public 
 opinion — " 
 
 " He would defend me, monsieur." 
 
 " No, madame." 
 
 ♦» What reason would he have for deserting me? " 
 
 *' That of marrying the only daughter of some peer 
 of France, whose title would descend to him by the 
 king's decree." 
 
 The countess turned pale. 
 
 " I have her ! " thought Dcrville. " Good, the poor 
 colonel's cause is won. Moreover, madame," he said 
 aloud, " Monsieur Ferraud will feel the less regret be- 
 cause a man covered with glory, a general, a count, 
 a grand oflicer of the Legion of honor, is certainly 
 not a derogation to you, — if such a man asks for his 
 wife — " 
 
 "Enough, enough, monsieur," she cried ; " I can have 
 no lawyer but you. "What must I do ? " 
 
 " Compromise." 
 
 " Does he still love me? " 
 
 " How could it be otherwise ? " 
 
 At these words the countess threw up her head. A 
 11 
 
162 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 gleam of hope shone in her eyes ; perhaps she thought 
 of speculating on her husband's tenderness and winning 
 her way by some female wile. 
 
 " I shall await your orders, madame ; you will let 
 me know whether we are to serve notices of Gomte 
 Chabert's suit upon you, or whether you will come to 
 my office and arrange the basis of a compromise," said 
 Derville, bowing as he left the room. 
 
 Eight days after these visits paid by Derville, on a 
 fine June morning, the husband and wife, parted by an 
 almost supernatural circumstance, were making their 
 way from the opposite extremes of Paris, to meet again 
 in the office of their mutual lawyer. Certain liberal 
 advances made by Derville to the colonel enabled the 
 latter to clothe himself in accordance with his rank. 
 He came in a clean cab. His head was covered with 
 a suitable wig ; he was dressed in dark-blue cloth and 
 spotlessly- white linen, and he wore beneath his waist- 
 coat the broad red ribbon of the grand officers of the 
 Legion of honor. In resuming the dress and the 
 habits of affluence he had also recovered his former 
 martial elegance. He walked erect. His face, grave 
 and mysterious, and bearing the signs of happiness 
 and renewed hope, seemed younger and fuller ; he was 
 no more like the old Chabert in the top-coat than a two- 
 sous piece is like a forty-franc coin just issued. All 
 
Colonel Chabert. 168 
 
 who passed him knew him at once for a noble relic of 
 our old array, one of those heroic men on whom the 
 light of our national glory shines, who rellect it, as 
 shattered glass illuminated by the sun returns a thou- 
 sand rays. Such old soldiers are books and pictures 
 too. 
 
 The count sprang from the carriage to enter Dervillc's 
 ottice with the agility of a young man. The cab had 
 hardly turned away before a pretty' coup(j with armorial 
 bearings drove up. Madame la Comtesse Ferraud got 
 out of it in a simple dress, but one well suited to dis- 
 play her youthful figure. She wore a pretty drawn 
 bonnet lined with pink, which framed her face delight- 
 fully, concealed its exact outline, and restored its 
 freshness. 
 
 Though the clients were thus rejuvenated, the office 
 remained its old self, such as we saw it when this 
 history began. Simonnin was eating his breakfast, 
 one shoulder leaning against the window, which was 
 now open ; he was gazing at the blue sky above the 
 courtyard formed by four blocks of black buildings. 
 
 " Ha ! " cried the gutter-jumper, " who wants to bet 
 a play now that Colonel Chabert is a general and a 
 red-ribbon ? " 
 
 " Derville is a downright magician," said Godeschal. 
 
 "There's no trick to play him this time," said 
 Desroches. 
 
164 Colonel CJiahert. 
 
 "His wife will do that, the Comtesse Ferraud," said 
 Boucard. 
 
 " Then she '11 have to belong to two — " 
 
 " Here she is ! " cried Simounin. 
 
 Just then the colonel came in and asked for Derville. 
 
 " He is in, Monsieur le Comte," said Simonnin. 
 
 " So you are not deaf, you young scamp," said 
 Chabert, catching the gutter-jumper by the ear and 
 twisting it, to the great satisfaction of the other clerks, 
 who laughed and looked at the colonel with the inquisi- 
 tive interest due to so singular a personage. 
 
 Colonel Chabert was in Derville's room when his 
 wife entered the office. 
 
 " Say, Boucard, what a queer scene there 's going to 
 be in the master's room ! She can live the even da3-s 
 with Comte Ferraud, and the uneven days with Comte 
 Chabert — " 
 
 " Leap-year the colonel will gain," said Godescbal. 
 
 "Hold your tongues, gentlemen," said Boucard, se- 
 verely. " You '11 be overheard. I never knew an office 
 in which the clerks made such fun of the clients as you 
 do here." 
 
 Derville had put the colonel into an adjoining room 
 b}' the time the countess was ushered in. 
 
 " Madame," he said to her, " not knowing if it would 
 be agreeable to you to meet Monsieur le Comte Chabert, 
 I have separated you. If, however, you wish — " 
 
Colonel Chabert. 165 
 
 " I thank yon for tliat coiisicU'mtion, monsieur." 
 
 " I liavi' |)n'[)arc'(l tlio dranj^lit of an agrcfniciit, the 
 conditions of wliicli can be iliscusseil here ami now, be- 
 tween you and Monsieur Cliabert. I will go from one to 
 the other and convey the remarks of each." 
 
 "Begin, monsieur," said the countess, showing signs 
 of impatience. 
 
 Dervillc read : " Between the undersigned, — ■ Mon- 
 sieur Ilyacinthe, called Chabert, count, brigadier-gen- 
 eral, and grand ollleer of the Legion of honor, living 
 in Paris, in the rue du Petit-Banquier, of the lirst part, 
 and Madame Rose C'hapotel, wife of the above-named 
 Monsieur le Comte Chabert, born — " 
 
 '' That will do," she said; "skip the preamble and 
 come to the conditions." 
 
 " Madame," said the lawyer, " the preamble explains 
 succinctly the position which you hold to each other. 
 Thi-n, in article one, 30U recognize in presence of three 
 witnesses, namel}', two notaries, and the cow-keeper 
 witli whom your husband lives, to all of whom I have 
 confided your secret and who will keep it faithfully, — 
 you recognize, I say, that tiie individual mentioned in 
 the accompanying deeds and whose identity is else- 
 where established b\- affidavits prepared b}- Alexander 
 Crotlat, your notaiy, is the Comte Chabert, your first 
 husband. In article two Comte Chabert, for the sake 
 of your welfare, agrees to make no use of his rights 
 
166 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 except under circumstances provided for in the agree- 
 ment, — and those circumstances," remarked Derville in a 
 pai'enthesis, " are the non-fulfilment of the clauses of 
 this private agreement. Monsieur Chabert, on his 
 part," he continued, " consents to sue with you for a 
 judgment which shall set aside the record of his death, 
 and also dissolve his marriage. " 
 
 " But that will not suit me at all," said the countess, 
 astonished ; " I don't wish a lawsuit, you know why." 
 
 " In article three," continued the lawyer, with imper- 
 turbable coolness, " j'ou agree to secure to the said 
 Hj'aeinthe, Comte Chabert, an annuity of twentj'-four 
 thousand francs now invested in the public Funds, the 
 capital of which will devolve on you at his death." 
 
 ' ' But that is far too dear ! " cried the countess. 
 
 " Can yon compromise for less? " 
 
 " Perhaps so." 
 
 " What is it 3'ou want, madame? " 
 
 " I want — I don't want a suit, I want — " 
 
 " To keep him dead," said Derville, quickly. 
 
 " Monsieur," said the countess, " if he asks twentj'- 
 four thousand francs a 3'ear, I '11 demand justice." 
 
 " Yes, justice ! " cried a hollow voice, as the colonel 
 opened the door and appeared suddenly before his wife, 
 with one hand in his waistcoat and the other pointing 
 to the floor, a gesture to which the memorj^ of his great 
 disaster gave a horrible meaning. 
 
Colonel Chahert. 167 
 
 " It is he ! " said the countess in her own mind. 
 
 "Too dear?" continued the old soldier, "I gave 
 3'ou a million and now you trade on my povert}'. Well, 
 then, I will have you and m}- property both ; our mar- 
 riage is not void." 
 
 "But monsieur is not Colonel Chabert!" cried the 
 countess, feigning surprise. 
 
 " Ah! " said the old man, in a tone of irony, " do 
 you want proofs? Well, did I not take you from the 
 pavements of the Palais-Ro3'al ? " 
 
 The countess turned pale. Seeing her color fade be- 
 neath her rouge, the old soldier, sorr}- for the suffering he 
 was inflicting on a woman he had once loved ardently, 
 stopped short ; but she gave him such a venomous look 
 that he suddenly added, " You were with — " 
 
 " For heaven's sake, monsieur," said the countess, 
 appealing to the lawyer, " allow me to leave this place. 
 I did not come here to listen to such insults." 
 
 She left the room. Derville sprang into the office 
 after her ; but she seemed to have taken wings and 
 was already gone. When he returned to his own 
 room he found the colonel walking up and down in 
 a paroxysm of rage. 
 
 " In those days men took their wives where they 
 liked," he said. " But I chose ill ; I ought never to 
 have ti'usted her ; she has no heart ! " 
 
 " Colonel, you will admit I was right in begging you 
 
168 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 not to come here ! I am now certain of your identit}-. 
 When you came in the countess made a little move- 
 ment the meaning of which was not to be doubted. 
 But 30U have lost your cause. Your wife now knows 
 that 3'ou are unrecognizable." 
 
 " I wiU kill her." 
 
 "Nonsense! then you would be arrested and guil- 
 lotined as a criminal. Besides, jo\x might miss jour 
 stroke ; it is unpardonable not to kill a wife when you 
 attempt it. Leave me to undo 3'our foil}', 30U big 
 child ! Go awa}' ; but take care of yourself, for she 
 is capable of laying some trap and getting jou locked 
 up at Charenton. I will see about serving the notices 
 of the suit on her at once ; that will be some protection 
 to 30U." 
 
 The poor colonel obeyed his young benefactor, and 
 went awaj', stammering a few excuses. He was going 
 SI0WI3' down the dark staircase lost in gloom3* thought, 
 overcome perhaps by the blow he had just received, to 
 him the worst, the one that went deepest to his heart, 
 when, as he reached the lower landing, he heard the 
 rustle of a gown, and his wife appeared. 
 
 " Come, monsieur," she said, taking his arm with a 
 movement like others he once knew so well. 
 
 The action, the tones of her voice, now soft and 
 gentle, calmed the colonel's anger, and he allowed her 
 to lead him to her carriage. 
 
Colonel Chahert. 100 
 
 *' Get in," she said, when the footman Imd ht down 
 the steps. 
 
 And he suddenly found himself, as if by magic, 
 seated beside his wife in the coupe. 
 
 " Where to, madame?" asked the footman. 
 
 " To Groslay," she replied. 
 
 The horses started, and the carriage crossed the 
 whole citj'. 
 
 "Monsieur!" said the countess, in a tone of voice 
 that seemed to betray one of those rare emotions, few 
 in life, which shake our whole being. 
 
 At such moments heart, fibres, nerves, soul, body, 
 countenance, all, even the pores of the skin, quiver. 
 Life seems no longer in us ; it gushes out, it conveys 
 itself like a contagion, it transmits itself in a look, in 
 a tone of the voice, in a gesture, in the imposition of 
 our will on others. The old soldier trembled, hearing 
 that word, that first, that expressive "Monsieur!" 
 It was at once a reproach, a prayer, a pardon, a hope, 
 a despair, a question, an answer. That one word in- 
 cluded all. A woman must needs be a great comedian 
 to throw such eloquence and so man}' feelings into one 
 word. Truth is never so complete in its expression ; it 
 cannot utter itself wholly, — it leaves something to be 
 seen within. The colonel was filled with remorse for 
 his suspicions, his exactions, his anger, and he lowered 
 his eyes to conceal his feelings. 
 
170 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 " Monsieur," continued the countess, after an almost 
 imperceptible pause, " I knew you at once." 
 
 " Rosine," said the old soldier, " that word contains 
 the only balm that can make me forget my troubles." ■ 
 
 Two great tears fell hotly on his wife's hands, which 
 he pressed as if to show her a paternal affection. 
 
 "Monsieur," she continued, "how is it you did not 
 see what it cost me to appear before a stranger in a 
 position so false as mine. If I am forced to blush for 
 what I am, at least let it be in m}' own home. Ought 
 not such a secret to remain buried in our own hearts ? 
 You will, I hope, forgive my apparent indifference to 
 the misfortunes of a Chabert in whom I had no rea- 
 son to believe. I did receive 3'our letters," she said, 
 hastily, seeing a sudden objection on her husband's 
 face ; ' ' but they reached me thirteen months after the 
 battle of Eylau ; thej^ were open, torn, dirty ; the writ- 
 ing was unknown to me ; and I, who had just obtained 
 Napoleon's signature to my new marriage contract, sup- 
 posed that some clever swindler was trj'ing to impose 
 upon me. Not wishing to trouble Monsieur Ferraud's 
 peace of mind, or to bring future trouble into the family, 
 I was right, was I not, to take ever}' precaution against 
 a false Chabert ? " 
 
 ' ' Yes, 3'ou were right ; and I have been a fool, a 
 dolt, a beast, not to have foreseen the consequences of 
 such a situation. But where are we going?" asked the 
 
Colonel Chahert. 171 
 
 colonel, suddenly noticing that they had reached the 
 Barriere de la Chapelle. 
 
 "To my countiy-place near Grosla}', in the valley 
 of Montmorency," she replied. " There, monsieur, we 
 can think over, together, the course we ought to take. 
 I know my duty. Though I am yours legally, I am no 
 longer yours in fact. Sureh', you cannot wish that we 
 should be the common talk of Paris. Let us hide from 
 the" public a situation which, for me, has a mortifying 
 side, and strive to maintain our dignit}'. You love me 
 still," she continued, casting a sad and gentle look 
 upon the colonel, " but I, was I not authorized to 
 form other ties? In this strange position a secret 
 voice tells me to hope in j'our goodness, which I know 
 so well. Am I wrong in taking you, you onlj", for the 
 sole arbiter of my fate? Be judge and pleader both ; I 
 confide in your noble nature. Yon will forgive the 
 consequences of m}' innocent fault. I dare avow to 
 you, therefore, that I love INIonsicur Ferraud ; I thought 
 I had the right to love him. I do not blush for this 
 confession ; it may offend you. but it dishonors neither 
 of us. I cannot hide the truth from you. When acci- 
 dent made me a widow, I was not a mother — " 
 
 The colonel made a sign with his hand as if to ask 
 silence of his wife ; and they remained silent, not sa}'- 
 ing a word for over a mile. Chabert fancied he saw 
 her little children before him. 
 
172 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 " Rosine ! " 
 
 "Monsieur?" 
 
 " The dead do wrong to reappear." 
 
 "Oh, monsieur, no, no! Do not think me ungrate- 
 ful. But 3'ou find a mother, a woman who loves an- 
 other man, where jow left a wife. If it is no longer in 
 my power to love you, I know what I owe to you, and 
 I offer you still the devotion of a daughter." 
 
 "Rosine," said the old man, gently, "I feel no re- 
 sentment towards you. We will forget all that once 
 was," he said, with one of those smiles whose charm is 
 the reflection of a noble soul. " I am not so lost to 
 delicacy as to ask a show of love from a woman who no 
 longer loves me." 
 
 The countess gave him such a grateful glance that 
 poor Chabert wished in his heart he could return to 
 that grave at Eylau. Certain men have souls capable 
 of vast sacrifices, whose recompense to them is the cer- 
 tainty of the happiness of one they love. 
 
 "My friend, we will talk of all this later, with a 
 quiet mind," said the countess. 
 
 The conversation took another turn, for it was im- 
 possible to continue it long in this strain. Though 
 husband and wife constantl}'^ touched upon their strange 
 position, either by vague allusions, or grave remarks, 
 they nevertheless made a charming journey, recalling 
 many of the events of their union, and of the Empire. 
 
Colonel Chabert. 173 
 
 The countess knew how to impart a tender charm to 
 these memories, and to cast a tinge of melancholy upon 
 the conversation, enough at least to keep it serious. 
 She revived love without exciting desire, and showed 
 her first husband the mental graces and knowledge she 
 had acquired, — trying to let him taste the happiness 
 of a father beside a cherished daughter. The colonel 
 had known the countess of the Empire, he now saw a 
 countess of the Restoration. 
 
 They at last arrived, through a cross-road, at a fine 
 park in the little valley' which separates the heights of 
 Margency from the pretty village of Groslay. The 
 house was a delightful one, and the colonel saw on 
 arriving that all was prepared for their stay. Misfor- 
 tune is a sort of talisman, the power of which lies in 
 strengthening and fulfilling our natural man ; it in- 
 creases the distrust and evil tendencies of certain 
 natures just as it increases the goodness of those whose 
 heart is sound. Misfortune had made the colonel more 
 helpful and better than he had ever been ; he was there- 
 fore able to enter into those secrets of woman's suffer- 
 ing which are usually unknown to men. And yet, in 
 spite of his great lack of distrust, he could not help 
 saying to his wife : — 
 
 " You seem to have been sure of bringing me here? " 
 "Yes," she answered, " if I found Colonel Chabert 
 in the petitioner." 
 
174 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 The tone of truth which she gave to that answer 
 dispersed the few doubts which the colonel already felt 
 ashamed of admitting. 
 
 For three days the countess was truly admirable in 
 her conduct to her first husband. By tender care and 
 constant gentleness she seemed to try to efface even 
 the memory of the sufferings he had endured, and to 
 win pardon for the misfortunes she had, as she ad- 
 mitted, innocently caused. She took pleasure in dis- 
 playing for his benefit, though alwaj's with a sort of 
 melancholy, the particular charms under the influence 
 of which she knew him to be feeble, — for men are 
 more particularl}' susceptible to certain ways, to certain 
 graces of heart and mind ; and those they are unable 
 to resist. She wanted to interest him in her situation, 
 to move his feelings enough to control his mind and so 
 bend him absolutel}' to her will. Resolved to take any 
 means to reach her ends, she was still uncertain what 
 to do with the man, though she meant, undoubtedly', to 
 destro}' him socially'. 
 
 On the evening of the third day she began to feel 
 that in spite of all her efforts she could no longer con- 
 ceal the anxiety she felt as to the result of her manoeu- 
 vres. To obtain a moment's relief she went up to her 
 own room, sat down at her writing-table, and took off 
 the mask of tranquillit}' she had worn before the colonel, 
 like an actress returning weary to her room after a 
 
 I 
 
Colonel Chahert. 175 
 
 trying fifth act and falling half-dead upon a couch, 
 while the audience retains an image of her to which she 
 bears not the slightest resemblance. She began to 
 finish a letter already begun to Delbecq, telling him to 
 go to Derville and ask in her name for a sight of the 
 papers which concerned Colonel Chabert, to copy them, 
 and come immediately to Groslay. She had hardly 
 finished before she heard the colonel's step in the cor- 
 ridor ; for he was coming, full of anxiety, to find her. 
 
 "Oh! " she said aloud, "I wish I were dead! my 
 position is intolerable — " 
 
 "What is it? is anything the matter?" said the 
 worthy man. 
 
 " Nothing, nothing," she said. 
 
 She rose, left the colonel where he was, and went to 
 speak to her maid without witnesses, telling her to go 
 at once to Paris and deliver the letter, which she gave 
 her, into Delbecq's own hands, and to bring it back to 
 her as soon as he read it. Then she went out and seated 
 herself on a bench in the garden, where she was in full 
 view of the colonel if he wished to find her. He was 
 already searching for her and he soon came. 
 
 " Rosine," he said, " tell me what is the matter." 
 
 She did not answer. It was one of those glorious 
 calm evenings of the month of June, when all secret 
 harmonies diffuse such peace, such sweetness in the 
 sunsets. The air was pure, the silence deep, and a 
 
176 " Colonel Chahert. 
 
 distant murmur of children's voices added a sort of 
 melody to the consecrated scene. 
 
 " You do not answer me," said the coloneL 
 
 " My husband — " began the countess, then she 
 stopped, made a movement, and said, appealing!}-, with 
 a blush, " What ought I to say in speaking of Mon- 
 sieur le Comte Fen^aud ? " 
 
 " Call him your husband, my poor child," answered 
 the colonel, in a kind tone ; " he is the father of your 
 children." 
 
 "Well, then," she continued, "if he asks me what I 
 am doing here, if he learns that I have shut mj^self up 
 "with an unknown man, what am I to say? Hear me, 
 monsieur," she went on, taking an attitude that was 
 full of dignity, " decide my fate ; I feel I am resigned 
 to everything — " 
 
 " Dear," said the colonel, grasping his wife's hands, 
 " I have resolved to sacrifice myself wholly to j'our 
 happiness — " 
 
 " That is impossible," she cried, with a convulsive 
 movement. "Remember that in that case you. must 
 renounce yoMX own identity — and do so legall3^" 
 
 "What!" exclaimed the colonel, "does not my 
 word satisfy you ? " 
 
 The term " legally" fell like lead upon the old man's 
 heart and roused an involuntary distrust. He cast a 
 look upon his wife which made her blush ; she lowered 
 
Colonel Chahert. 177 
 
 her eyes, and for a moment he feared he should be 
 forced to despise her. The countess was alarmed lest 
 she had startled the honest shame, the stern upright- 
 ness of a man whose generous nature and whose primi- 
 tive virtues were well-known to her. Though these 
 ideas brought a cloud to each brow tlicy were suddenly 
 dispelled, harmony was restored, — and thus : A child's 
 cry resounded in the distance. 
 
 " Jules, let your sister alone ! '■ cried the countess. 
 
 "What! are your children here?" exclaimed the 
 colonel. 
 
 " Yes, but I forbade them to come in 3-our wa}'." 
 
 The old soldier understood the delicacy and the 
 womanly tact shown in that graceful consideration, and 
 he took her hand to kiss it. 
 
 " Let them come ! " he said. 
 
 The little girl ran up to complain of her brother. 
 
 " Mamma ! he plagued me — " 
 
 "Mamma!" 
 
 "It was his fault — " 
 
 "It washers — " 
 
 The hands were stretched out to the mother, and the 
 two voices mingled. It was a sudden, delightful picture. 
 
 " My poor children ! " exclaimed the countess, not 
 restraining her tears, "must I lose them? To whom 
 will the court give them? A mother's heart cannot be 
 shared. I will have them ! yes, I — " 
 
 12 
 
178 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 " You are making mamma cry," said Jules, the elder, 
 with an angry look at the colonel. 
 
 " Hush, Jules ! " cried his mother, peremptorily. 
 
 The two children examined their mother and the 
 stranger with an indescribable curiosity. 
 
 " Yes," continued the countess, " if I am parted from 
 Monsieur Ferraud, the}' must leave me my children ; 
 if I have them, I can bear all." 
 
 Those words brought the success she expected. j 
 
 " Yes," ci'ied the colonel, as if completing a sentence 
 he had begun mentally. " I must return to the grave ; 
 I have thought so already," 
 
 ' ' How can I accept such a sacrifice ? " replied the 
 countess. "If men have died to save the honor of 
 their mistresses, they gave their lives but once. But 
 this would be giving your dailj^ life, 3'our lifetime ! No, 
 no, it is impossible ; if it were only your existence per- 
 haps it might be nothing, but to sign a record that 3'ou 
 are not Colonel Chabert, to admit yourself an impostor, 
 to sacrifice 3'our honor, to live a lie for all the da3-s of 
 your life, — no ; human devotion cannot go to such a 
 length ! No, no ! if it were not for my poor children 
 I would fly with you to the ends of the earth." 
 
 "But," said Chabert, "why can I not live here, in 
 that little cottage, as a friend and relative. I am as 
 useless as an old cannon ; all I need is a little tobacco 
 and the ' Constitutionuel.' " 
 
Colond Chabert. 179 
 
 The countess burst into tears. Tlion followed a 
 struggle of generosity between them, fnnn which Colo- 
 nel Chabert came forth a conqueror. One evening, 
 watching the mother in the midst of her children, 
 deeply moved by that picture of a home, influenced, 
 too, b}' the silence and the quiet of the country, he 
 came to the resolution of remaining dead ; no longer 
 resisting the thought of a legal instrument, he asked his 
 wife what steps he should take to secure, irrevocably, 
 the happiness of that home. 
 
 " Do what you M-ill," replied the countess ; " I declare 
 positively that I will have nothing to do with it, — I 
 ought not." 
 
 Delbecq had then been in the house a few days, and, 
 in accordance with the countess's verbal instructions, 
 he had wormed himself into the confidence of the old 
 soldier. The morning after this little scene Colonel 
 Chabert accompanied the former lawyer to Saint-Leu- 
 Taverny, where Delbecq had already had an agreement 
 drawn up by a notary, in terms so crude and brutal that 
 on hearing them the colonel abruptly left the office. 
 
 " Good God ! would you make me infamous ! whv, 
 I should be called a forger ! " 
 
 ''Monsieur," said Delbecq, "I advise 3-ou not to 
 sign too quickly. You could get at least thirty thou- 
 sand francs a year out of this aflTair ; Madame would 
 give them." 
 
180 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 Blasting that scoundrel emeritus with the luminous 
 glance of an indignant honest man, the colonel rushed 
 from the place driven b}' a thousand conflicting feel- 
 ings. He was again distrustful, indignant, and merci- 
 ful by turns. After a time he re-entered the park of 
 Groslay b}' a breach in the wall, and went, with slow 
 steps, to rest and think at his ease, in a little study 
 built beneath a raised kiosk which commanded a view 
 of the road from Saint-Leu. 
 
 The path was made of that j'ellow earth which now 
 takes the place of river-gravel, and the countess, who 
 was sitting in the kiosk above, did not hear the slight 
 noise of the colonel's footstep, being preoccupied with 
 anxious thoughts as to the success of her plot. Neither 
 did the old soldier become aware of the presence of his 
 wife in the kiosk above him. 
 
 "Well, Monsieur Delbecq, did he sign?" asked the 
 countess, when she saw the secretary, over the sunk- 
 fence, alone upon the road. 
 
 "No, Madame; and I don't even know what has 
 become of him. The old horse reared." 
 
 " We shall have to put him in Charenton," she said ; 
 " we can do it." 
 
 The colonel, recovering the elasticitj^ of his youth, 
 jumped the ha-ha, and in the twinkling of an eye ap- 
 plied the hardest pair of slaps that ever two cheeks 
 received. " Old horses kick ! " he said. 
 
Colonel Chnhert. 181 
 
 His ai)p;or onco over, the colonel Iiad no strength loft 
 to jump llie ditch again. The truth hiy before him in 
 its nakedness. Ilis wife's worils and Delhecq's answer 
 had siiown him the plot to which he had so nearly been 
 a victim. The tender attentions he had received were 
 the bait of the trap. That thought was like a sudden 
 poison, and it brought back to the old hero his past 
 suirerings, ph3sical and mental. lie returned to the 
 kiosk through a gate of the park, walking slowly like 
 a broken man. So, then, there was no peace, no truce for 
 him ! Must he enter upon that odious struggle with a 
 woman which Dervillc had explained to him? must he 
 live a life of legal suits? must he feed on gall, and drink 
 each morning the cup of bitterness. Then, dreadful 
 thought! where was the money for such suits to come 
 from. So deep a disgust of life came over him, that had 
 a pistol been at hand he would have blown out his brains. 
 Then he fell back into the confusion of ideas which, ever 
 since his interview with Dervillc in the cow-yard, had 
 changed his moral being. At last, reaching the kiosk, 
 he went up the stairs to the upper chamber, whose oriel 
 windows looked out on all the enchanting perspectives 
 of that well-known valley, and where he found his wife 
 sitting on a chair. The countess was looking at the 
 landscape, with a calm and quiet demeanor, and that 
 impenetrable countenance which certain determined 
 women know so well how to assume. She dried her 
 
182 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 eyes, as though she had shed tears, and plaj^ed, as if 
 abstractedly, with the ribbons of her sash. Neverthe- 
 less, in spite of this apparent composure, she could not 
 prevent herself from trembling when she saw her noble 
 benefactor before her, — standing, his arms crossed, his 
 face pale, his brow stern, 
 
 " Madame," he said, looking at her so fixedly for a 
 moment that he forced her to blush ; •' Madame, I do 
 not curse 3'ou, but I despise j'ou. I now thank the 
 fate which has parted us. I have no desire for ven- 
 geance ; I have ceased to love 3'ou. I want nothing 
 from you. Live in peace upon the faith of m}' word ; 
 it is worth more than the legal joapers of all the notaries 
 in Paris. I shall never take the name I made, per- 
 haps, illustrious. Henceforth, I am but a poor devil 
 named Hyacinthe, who asks no more than a place in 
 God's sunlight. Farewell — " 
 
 The countess flung herself at his feet and tried to 
 hold him by catching his hands, but he repulsed her 
 with disgust, saying, "Do not touch me!" 
 
 The countess made a gesture which no description 
 can portra}^ when she heard the sound of her husband's 
 departing steps. Then, with that profound sagacity 
 which comes of great wickedness, or of the savage, 
 material selfishness of this world, she felt she might 
 live in peace, relying on the promise and the contempt 
 of that loyal soldier. 
 
Colonel Chahert. 183 
 
 Chabort disappeared. The cow-keeper failed and 
 became a cab-driver. Tcrluips the colonel al lirst 
 found some such occupation. Perhaps, like a stone 
 flung into tlio rapids, he went from fall to fall until he 
 sank engulfed in that great pool of filth and penury 
 which welters in the streets of Paris. 
 
 Six months after these events Dei-ville, wlio had 
 heard nothing of Colonel Chabert or of the Comtesse 
 Ferraud, thought that the}- had probably settled on a 
 compromise, and that the countess, out of spite, had 
 employed some other lawyer to draw the papers. Ac- 
 cordingly, one morning he summed up the amounts ad- 
 vanced tx) the said Chabert, added the costs, and 
 requested the Comtesse Ferraud to obtain from Mon- 
 Bieur le Comte Chabert the full amount, presuming 
 that she knew the whereabouts of her first husband. 
 
 The next day Comte Ferraud's secretary sent the 
 following answer : — 
 
 Monsieur, — I am directed by Madame la Comtesse 
 Ferraud to inform you that your client totally deceived you, 
 and that the individual calling himself the Comte Chabert 
 admitted having falsely taken that name. 
 
 Receive the assurance, etc., etc. 
 
 Delbecq. 
 
 "Well, some people are, upon my honor, as devoid 
 of sense as the beasts of the field, — they 've stolen 
 
184 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 their baptism ! " cried Derville. " Be human, be gen- 
 erous, be philanthropic, and \o\x '11 find j'ourself in the 
 lurch ! Here 's a business that has cost me over two 
 thousand francs." 
 
 Not long after the reception of this letter Derville 
 was at the Palais, looking for a lawyer with whom he 
 wished to speak, and who was in the habit of practising 
 in the criminal courts. It so chanced that Derville en- 
 tered the sixth court-room as the judge was sentencing 
 a vagrant named Hj-acinthe to two months' imprison- 
 ment, the said vagrant to be conve3'ed at the expiration 
 of the sentence to the mendicit}' office of the Saint-Denis 
 quarter, — a sentence which was equivalent to perpetual 
 imprisonment. The name, Hyacinthe, caught Derville's 
 ear, and he looked at the delinquent sitting between two 
 gendarmes on the prisoner's bench, and recognized at 
 once his false Colonel Chabert. The old soldier was 
 calm, motionless, almost absent-minded. In spite of 
 his rags, in spite of the poverty marked on every 
 feature of the face, his countenance was instinct with 
 noble pride. His glance had an expression of stoicism 
 which a magistrate ought not to have overlooked ; but 
 when a man falls into the hands of justice, he is no 
 longer anything but an entity, a question of law and 
 facts ; in the eyes of statisticians, he is a numeral. 
 
 When the soldier was taken from the court-room to 
 wait until the whole batch of vagabonds who were then 
 
Colonel Chahert. ISf) 
 
 being sentenced were ready for removal, Dcrvillc nsetl 
 his privilege as a lawyer to follow him into the room 
 adjoining the sheritfs ollice, where he watched him for 
 a few moments, together with the curious collection of 
 beggars who surrounded him. The ante-chamber of a 
 sheriffs olllce presents at such times a sight which, un- 
 fortunately, neitlier legislators, nor philanthropists, nor 
 painters, nor winters, ever stud}'. Like all the labora- 
 tories of tlic law this antechamber is dark and ill- 
 smelling ; the walls are protected by a bench, black- 
 ened by the incessant presence of the poor wretches 
 who come to this central rendezvous from all quarters 
 of social wretchedness, — not one of which is unrepre- 
 sented there. A poet would say that the daylight was 
 ashamed to lighten that terrible sink-hole of all miseries. 
 There is not one spot within it where crime, planned or 
 committed, has not stood ; not a spot where some man, 
 rendered desperate by the stigma which justice laj'S 
 upon him for his first fault, has not begun a career 
 leading to the scaffold or to suicide. All those who fall 
 in Paris rebound against these yellow walls, on which 
 a philanthropist could decipher the meaning of many a 
 suicide about which hypocritical writers, incapable of 
 taking one step to prevent them, rail ; written on those 
 walls he will find a preface to the dramas of the Morgue 
 and those of the place de Greve. Colonel Cliabort was 
 now sitting in the midst of this crowd of men with 
 
186 Colonel Chdbert. 
 
 nervous faces, clothed in the horrible liveries of pov- 
 erty, silent at times or talking m a low voice, for three 
 gendarmes paced the room as sentries, their sabres 
 clanging against the floor. 
 
 "Do 30U recognize me?" said Derville to the old 
 soldier. 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur," said Chabert, rising. 
 
 *' If you are an honest man," continued Derville, in 
 a low voice, "how is it that 3'ou have remained my 
 debtor?" 
 
 The old soldier colored like a young girl accused by 
 her mother of a clandestine love. 
 
 "Is it possible," he cried in a loud voice, "that 
 Madame Ferraud has not paid you?" 
 
 " Paid me ! " said Derville, " she wrote me you were 
 an impostor." 
 
 The colonel raised his ej'es with a majestic look of 
 horror and invocation as if to appeal to heaven against 
 this new treachery. " Monsieur," he said, in a voice 
 that was calm though it faltered, " ask the gendarmes to 
 be so kind as to let me go into the sheriff's oiSice ; I will 
 there write you an order which will certainly be paid." 
 
 Derville spoke to the corporal, and was allowed to take 
 his chent into the office, where the colonel wrote a few 
 lines and addressed them to the Comtesse Ferraud. 
 
 " Send that to her," he said, " and you will be paid 
 for your loans and all costs. Believe me, Monsieur, if 
 
Colonel ChaheH. 187 
 
 I have not shown the gratitude I owe you for your kind 
 acts it is none the less there" he said, laying his hand 
 upon his heart ; " yes it is there, full, complete. IJiit 
 the unfortunate ones can do nothing, — they love, 
 that is all." 
 
 " Can it be," said Derville, " that j'ou did not stipu- 
 late for an income ? " 
 
 " Don't speak of that," said the old man. " You can 
 never know how utterly I despise this external life to 
 which the majority of men cling so tenaciously. I was 
 taken suddenl}' with an illness, — a disgust for humanit}'. 
 "When I think that Napoleon is at Saint-Helena all 
 things here below are nothing to me. I can no longer 
 be a soldier, that is my onl}- soitow. Ah, well," he 
 added, with a gesture that was full of childlike playful- 
 ness, "it is better to have luxury in our feelings than 
 in our clothes. I fear no man's contempt." 
 
 lie went back to the bench and sat down. Der- 
 ville went away. "When he reached his office, he sent 
 Godeschal, then advanced to be second clerk, to the 
 Comtesse Ferraud, who had no sooner read the mis- 
 sive he can-ied than she paid the money owing to Comte 
 Chabert's lawyer. 
 
 In 1840, towards the close of the month of June, 
 Godeschal, then a lawyer on his own account, was on 
 his way to Ris, in company with Der\-ille. When they 
 
188 Colonel Chabert. 
 
 reached the avenue which leads into the mail road to 
 Biceti'e, they saw beneath an elm b}" the roadside one 
 of those hoary, broken-down old paupers who rule the 
 beggars about them, and live at Bicetre just as pauper 
 women live at La Salpetriere. This man, one of the 
 two thousand inmates of the " Almshouse for Old Age," 
 was sitting on a stone and seemed to be giving all his 
 mind to an operation well-known to the dwellers in 
 charitable institutions ; that of drj-ing the tobacco in 
 their handkerchiefs in the sun, — possiblj- to escape 
 washing them. The old man had an interesting face. 
 He was dressed in that gown of dark, reddish cloth 
 which the Almshouse provides for its inmates, a dread- 
 ful sort of livery. 
 
 "Derville," said Godeschal to his companion, "do 
 look at that old fellow. Is n't he like those grotesque 
 figures that are made in Germany. But I suppose he 
 lives, and perhaps he is happ}' ! " 
 
 Der\'ille raised his glass, looked at the pauper, and 
 gave vent to an exclamation of surprise ; then he said : 
 " That old man, m}' dear fellow, is a poem, or, as the 
 romanticists sa}', a drama. Did you ever meet the 
 Comtesse Ferraud ? " 
 
 "Yes, a clever woman and very agreeable, but too 
 pious." 
 
 " That old man is her legitimate husband, Comte 
 Chabert, formerlv colonel. No doubt she has had him 
 
Colonel Chabert. 189 
 
 placed here. If he lives in an jilinshouse instead of a 
 mansion, it is because he reminded the pretty countess 
 that he took her, like a cab, from the streets. I ran 
 still see the tigerish look she gave him when liu 
 said it." 
 
 These words so excited Godeschal's curiosity that 
 Derville told him the whole story. Two days later, on 
 the following Monday morning, as they were returning 
 to Paris, the two friends glanced at Bicetre, and Der- 
 ville proposed that they should go and see Colonel 
 Chabert. Half-way up the avenue they found the old 
 man sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, and amusing 
 himself b}' drawing lines on the gravel with a stick 
 which he held in his hand. "When they looked at him 
 attentively they saw that he had been breakfasting 
 elsewhere than at the almshouse. 
 
 " Good-morning, Colonel Chabert," said Denillc. 
 
 " Not Chabert ! not Chabert ! my name is llyacinthe," 
 answered the old man. " 1 'm no longer a man ; 1 'm 
 number 164, seventh room," he added, looking at 
 Derville with timid anxiety, — the fear of old age or of 
 childhood. " You can see the condemned prisoner," 
 he said, after a moment's silence ; " he 's not married, 
 no ! he 's happy — " 
 
 "Poor man!" said Godeschal; "don't you want 
 some mono}' for tobacco?" 
 
 The colonel extended his hand with all the naivete 
 
190 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 of a street boy to the two strangers, who each gave him 
 a twentj'-franc gold piece. He thanked them both, with 
 a stupid look, and said, "Brave troopers ! " Then he 
 pretended to shoulder arms and take aim at them, 
 calling out with a laugh, " Fire the two pieces, and 
 long live Napoleon ! " after which he described an im- 
 aginary arabesque in the air, with a flourish of his 
 cane. 
 
 " The nature of his wound must have made him 
 childish," said Derville. 
 
 "He childish!" cried another old pauper who was 
 watching them. " Ha ! there are days when it won't 
 do to step on his toes. He 's a knowing one, full of 
 philosophy and imagination. But to-da}-, don't you 
 see, he 's been keeping Monda}'. Why, Monsieur, he 
 was here in 1820. Just about that time a Prussian 
 officer, whose carriage was going over the Villejuif hill, 
 walked by on foot Hyacinthe and I were sitting by 
 the roadside. The officer was talking with another, I 
 think it was a Russian or some animal of that kind, 
 and when they saw the old fellow, the Prussian, just 
 to tease him, says he : ' Here 's an old voltigeur who 
 must have been at Rosbach — ' 'I was too 3'oung to 
 be at Rosbach,' says Hyacinthe, but I 'm old enough 
 to have been at Jena ! ' Ha, ha ! that Prussian cleared 
 off — and no more questions — " 
 
 " What a fate ! " cried Derville ; " born in the Found- 
 
Colonel Chahert. 101 
 
 ling, he returns to die in the asyhim of old aj^o, having 
 in the interval helped Napoleon to conqiUT Kirypt and 
 Europe ! — Do you know, my dear fellow," continued 
 Derville, after a long pause, " that there are three men 
 in our social system who cannot respect or value the 
 world, — the priest, tlie physician, and the lawyer. They 
 wear black gowns, perhaps because they mourn for all 
 virtues, all illusions. The most unhappy among them 
 is the lawyer. "When a man seeks a priest he is forced 
 to it b}' repentance, b}- remorse, b}' beliefs which make 
 him interesting, which ennoble him and comfort the 
 soul of his mediator, whose duty is not without a certain 
 sort of joy; the priest purifies, heals» reconciles. But 
 we lawyers ! we see forever the same evil feelings, never 
 coiTccted ; our offices are sink-holes which nothing can 
 cleanse. 
 
 "How manj' things have T not seen and known 
 and learned in my practice ! 1 have seen a father die 
 in a garret, penniless, abandoned by daughters, to each 
 of whom he had given an income of fort^' thousand 
 francs. I have seen wills burned. I have seen mothers 
 robbing their children, husbands stealing from their 
 wives, wives killing their husl)ands by the ver}' love 
 the}' inspired, so as to live in peace with their lovers. 
 I have seen women giving to the children of a first 
 marriage tastes which led them to their death, so that 
 the child of love might be enriched. I could not tell 
 
192 Colonel Chahert. 
 
 jou what I have seen, for I have seen crimes against 
 which justice is powerless. All the horrors that ro- 
 mance-writers think the}" invent are forever below the 
 truth. You are about to make acquaintance with such 
 things ; as for me, I shall live in the country with my 
 wife ; I have a horror of Paris. " 
 
 1832. 
 
THE ATHEIST'S MASS. 
 
 tuis is dedicated to auguste borget, by his friend, 
 
 De Balzac. 
 
 A PHYSICIAN to whom science owes a masterly physi- 
 ological theory, and who, though still young, has taken 
 his place among the celebrities of the School of Paris, 
 that centre of medical intelligence to which the phy- 
 sicians of P^urope pay just homage, Doctor Horace 
 Bianchon practised surgeiy for some time before he 
 devoted himself to medicine. His studies were directed 
 bj" one of the greatest of French surgeons, the illustri- 
 ous Desplein, who passed like a meteor through the 
 skies of science. Even his enemies admit that he 
 carried with him to the grave au incommunicable 
 method. Like all men of genius, he had no heirs of 
 his facult}' ; he held all within him, and he carried all 
 awa}- with him. 
 
 The fame of surgeons is something like that of 
 actors ; it lives during their lifetime onl}', and is not 
 fully appreciable after they are gone. Actors and 
 
 13 
 
194 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 surgeons, also great singers, and all virtuosi •who by 
 execution increase the power of music tenfold, are the 
 heroes of a moment. Desplein is a proof of the uni- 
 versal fate of these transitory geniuses. His name, so 
 celebrated j-esterda}', to-day almost forgotten, remains 
 within the limits of his specialty, and will never reach 
 beyond them. 
 
 But, let us ask, must there not exist some extraor- 
 dinary circumstances to bring the name of a great 
 worker from the domain of science into the general 
 history of humanity? Had Desplein that universality 
 of knowledge which makes a man the Word and the 
 Form of an era? Desplein possessed an almost divine 
 insight ; he penetrated both patient and disease with 
 an intuition, natural or acquired, which enabled him 
 to seize the idiosyncrasies of the individual, and so 
 determine the exact moment, to the hour and the 
 minute, when it was right to operate, — taking note of 
 atmospheric conditions, and peculiarities of tempera- 
 ment. Was he guided in this by that power of deduc- 
 tion and analogy to which is due the genius of Cuvier? 
 However that may have been, this man certainly' made 
 himself the confidant of flesh ; he knew its secrets of the 
 past, and of the future, as he dealt with its present. 
 But did he sum up the whole of science in his own 
 person, like Galen, Hippocrates, Aristotle? Has he 
 led a school to new and unknown worlds? No. 
 
 11 
 
The Atheist's Mass. 195 
 
 Though it is impossible to dony to tliis porpftual 
 obsorver of human chemistry some faculty of tlie un- 
 dent science of magic, — tliat is to say, a perception of 
 principles in fusion, the causes of life, the life before 
 the life, and what the life becomes through its prepa- 
 rations before being, — we must admit, speaking just!}-, 
 that unfortunately all with Dcsplein was Self; he was 
 isolated in life through egoism, and egoism has killed 
 his fame. No speaking statue surmounts his tomb, and 
 tells the future of the mysteries that genius wrested 
 from her. But perhaps Desplein's talent was one 
 with his beliefs, and therefore mortal. To him, the 
 terrestrial atmosphere was a generating ponch ; he saw 
 the earth like an egg in its shell ; unable to discover 
 whether the egg or the hen were the beginning, he de- 
 nied both the cock and the egg. He believed neither 
 in the anterior animal nor in the posterior spirit of man. 
 
 Desplcin was not a doubter ; he affirmed his beliefs. 
 His clear-cut atheism was like that of a great many 
 men of science, who are the best people in the world, 
 but invincible atheists, atheists like those religious 
 folk who will not admit that there can be atheists. 
 It could not be otherwise with a man accustomed from 
 his earliest youth to dissect the human being before, 
 during, and after life ; to pry into all its apparatus 
 and never find that soul-germ so essential to religious 
 theories. Finding in the human body a brain centre, 
 
196 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 a nervous centre, a centre of the blood circulation (the 
 first two of which so complement each other that during 
 the last two days of Desplein's life he came to a con- 
 viction that the sense of hearing was not absolutely 
 .^ necessary' in order to hear, nor the sense of sight abso- 
 lutelj' necessary in order to see, and that, beyond all 
 doubt, the solar plexus did replace them), — Desplein, 
 we sa}', finding thus two souls in man, corroborated his 
 atheism by this very fact, though he asserted nothing 
 in relation to God. The man died, the world said, in 
 the impenitence in which so many men of noblest 
 genius unhappily leave this life, — men whom it may, 
 perhaps, please God to pardon. 
 
 The life of this man presented, to use the expression 
 of his enemies, who were jealous of his fame and sought 
 to belittle it, many pettinesses which it is more just to 
 call apparent contradictions. Fools and detractors, 
 having no knowledge of the influences that act upon 
 superior minds, make the most of superficial incon- 
 sistencies, to bring accusations on which the}- sit in 
 judgment. If, later, success attends the labors of a 
 man thus attacked, showing the correlation of prepa- 
 rations and results, a few of the past calumnies are 
 sure to remain fixed upon him. In our day Napoleon 
 was condemned by contemporaries when his eagles 
 threatened England ; it needed 1822 to explain 1804 
 and the flat-boats of Boulogne. 
 
Till- Atheist's Mass. I'.'T 
 
 Dcsplcin's fame and scioiKv wore iiniiliior:il>l<' ; his 
 enemies tliereforc fouiiil fault witli liis odd lc'iii|icr, 
 his peculiar character, — the lact being that he inert.l y 
 j)OSsessed that quality which the English call "eccen- 
 tricity." At times gorgeous!}' dressed, like the tragic 
 Crcbillon, he would change snddenl}' to a singular in- 
 ditrerence in the matter of clothes ; sometimes he drove 
 in his carriage, sometimes be went about on foot. By 
 turns rough and kind, apparently crabbed and stingy, 
 he was capable of olfering his whole fortune to his ex- 
 iled masters, who did him the honor to accept it for a 
 few da^s ; no man was therefore more liable to con- 
 tradictory judgments. Though capal)lc, in order to 
 win that black ribbon which physicians ought never 
 to have solicited, of dropping a prayer-book from his 
 pocket in some room at the palace, it was more because 
 in his heart he sneered at all things. He had the deep- 
 est conten)[>t for men, having examined them from head 
 to foot, having detected their veritable being through all 
 the acts of existence, the most solemn and the most in- 
 significant. In great men great qualities often sui)port 
 and require each other. Though some among these 
 Colossi ma}- have more faculty than mind, their minds 
 are nevertheless more enlightened than that of others 
 of whom the world says simply, "They are men of 
 mind." All genius presupposes a moral insight ; that 
 insight may be applied to some specialty, but whoso 
 
198 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 can see a flower can see the sun. The story is told of 
 Desplein that when he heard a diplomate, whose Ufe he 
 had saved, asking " How is the Emperor?" he replied, 
 "The courtier returns, the man will follow," — proving 
 that he was not onlj- a great surgeon and a great ph}-- 
 sician, but wonderfully wise and witty. So the patient 
 and assiduous student of humanit}' will admit the ex- 
 orbitant claims of Desplein, and will think him, as he 
 thought himself, fit to be as gi'eat a statesman as he 
 was a surgeon. 
 
 Among the enigmas offered to the e3es of contempo- 
 raries by Desplein's life we have chosen one of the most 
 interesting, because of its final word, which may, per- 
 haps, vindicate his memor}' from certain accusations. 
 
 Of all the pupils whom the great surgeon had taught 
 in his hospital, Horace Bianchon was the one to whom 
 he was most attached. Before becoming a house pupil 
 at the Hotel-Dieu, Horace Bianchon was a medical stu- 
 dent living in a miserable ])ensio?i in the Latin quarter, 
 known under the name of the Maison Vauquer. There 
 the poor young fellow felt the assaults of bitter povert}', 
 that species of crucible from which great talents issue 
 pure and incorruptible as diamonds which can bear all 
 blows and never break. From the strong fires of their 
 vehement passions such natures acquire an uncompro- 
 mising rectitude ; thej- gain the habit of those struggles 
 which are the lot of genius through constant toil, in 
 
The Atheist's Mass. 199 
 
 the (lull roniul of which the}' arc forced to keep their 
 balked appetites. 
 
 Horace was an honorable young man, incapable of 
 paltering with his sense of duty ; given to deeds, n<^t 
 words ; read}' to pawn his cloak for a friend, or to give 
 hiiu his time and his nights in watching. Horace was, 
 indeed, one of those friends who care nothing for what 
 they receive in exchange for what they give, sure of 
 finding a return in their hearts far greater than the 
 value of their gift. Most of his friends felt that in- 
 ward respect for him which virtue without assumption 
 inspires, and many among them feared his censure. 
 Horace displayed his fine qualities without conceit. 
 Keither a puritan nor a sermonizer, he gave advice 
 with an oath, and was ready enough for a " tron^on 
 de chiere lie " when occasion offered. A jolly comrade, 
 no more prudish than a cuirassier, frank and open, — 
 not as a sailor, for sailors now-a-days are wily diplo- 
 mates, — but like a brave young fellow with nothing to 
 conceal in his life, he walked the earth with his head 
 up and his thoughts happy. To express him in one 
 sentence, Horace was the Pylades of more than one 
 Orestes, creditors being in these days the nearest 
 approach to the ancient Furies. He carried his pov- 
 erty with an easy gayety which is perhaps one of 
 the greatest elements of courage, and like all those 
 who have nothing he contracted few debts. Sober as 
 
200 The Atheisfs Mass. 
 
 a camel, agile as a deer, be was firm in his ideas, and 
 in his conduct. Bianchon's successful life may be 
 said to have begun on the day when the illustrious 
 surgeon became full}'' aware of the virtues and the 
 defects which made Doctor Horace Biauchon so doubly 
 dear to his friends. 
 
 When a clinical chief takes a young man into his 
 rounds that young man has, as they sa}', his foot in the 
 stirrup. Desplein ah^ays took Bianchon with him for 
 the sake of his assistance when he went among his opu- 
 lent patients, where man}- a fee dropped into the pupil's 
 pouch, and where, little by little, the mysteries of 
 Parisian life revealed themselves to his provincial eyes. 
 Desplein kept him in his study during consultations 
 and employed him there ; sometimes he sent him trav- 
 elling with a rich patient to baths ; in short, he provided 
 him with a practice. The result was that, after a time, 
 the autocrat of surgerj' had an alter ego. These two 
 men — one at the summit of science and of all honors, 
 enjoying a large fortune and a great fame ; the other, 
 the modest omega, without either fame or fortune — be- 
 came intimates. The great Desplein told his pupil every- 
 thing ; the pupil knew what woman had been seated in 
 a chair beside the master, or on the famous sofa which 
 was in the study and on which Desplein slept ; Bian- 
 chon knew the mj-steries of that temperament, half- 
 lion, half-bull, which finally expanded and amplified 
 
Tlie Atheist's Mans. 201 
 
 bc3'oiKl all reason the great man's chest, and caused 
 his death by enlargement of the heart. He studied 
 the eccentricities of that bus}' life, the schemes of 
 that sordid avarice, the hopes of the politic man hid- 
 den in the scientific man ; he was therefore fitted to 
 detect the deceptions, had any existed, in the sole 
 sentiment buried in a heart that was less hard than 
 hardened. 
 
 One da}' Bianchon told Desplein that a poor water- 
 carrier in the quartier Saint-Jacques had a horrible 
 disease caused by over-work and poverty ; this poor 
 Auvergnat had eaten nothing but potatoes during the 
 severe winter of 1H21. Desplein left all his patients 
 and rushed otf, followed by Bianchon, and took the 
 poor man himself to a private hospital established b}' 
 the famous Dubois, in the faubourg Saint-Denis. He 
 attended the man personally, and when he recovered 
 gave him enough money to buy a horse and a water- 
 cart. This Auvergnat was remarkable for an original 
 act. One of his friends fell ill, and he took him at 
 once to Desplein, saying to his benefactor, " I would n't 
 hear of his going to an}- one else." Gruff as he was, 
 Desplein pressed the water-carrier's hand. " Bring 
 them all to me," he said ; and he put the friend in the 
 Hutel-Dieu, where he took extreme care of him. Bian- 
 chon had alread}' noticed several times the evident 
 predilection his chief felt for an Auvergnat, and es- 
 
202 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 pecially for a water-carrier, but as Desplein's pride was 
 in the management of his hospital cases the pupil saw 
 nothing really strange in the incident. 
 
 One day, crossing the place Saint-Sulpice, Bianchon 
 caught sight of his master entering the church about 
 nine o'clock in the morning. Desplein, who at that 
 time of his life went everywhere in his cabriolet, was 
 on foot, and was slipping along b}' the rue du Petit- 
 Lion as if in quest of some questionable resort. Katu- 
 rall}' seized with curiosity, the pupil, who knew the 
 opinions of his master, slipped into Saiut-Sulpice him- 
 self, and was not a little amazed to see the great 
 Desplein, that atheist without pity even for the angels 
 who so little require a scalpel and cannot have stomach- 
 aches or fistulas, in short, that bold scoflfer, humbly 
 kneeling — where ? in the chapel of the Virgin, before 
 whom he was hearing a mass, paying for the service, 
 giving money for the poor, and as serious in demeanor 
 as if preparing for an operation. 
 
 "Heavens!" thought Bianchon, whose amazement 
 was bej'ond all bounds. " If I had seen him holding 
 one of the ropes of the canopy at the Fete-Dieu I 
 should have known it was all a joke ; but here, at this 
 hour, alone, without witnesses ! Certainly it is some- 
 thing to think about." 
 
 Not wishing to seem to sp}' upon the great surgeon 
 of the Hotel-Dieu, Bianchon went away. It so chanced 
 
The Atheist's 3Ia88. 203 
 
 that Dosploiii asked him to dine with him that daj', 
 awa}' tVom home, at a restaurant. B}' the time the 
 dessert appeared Bianehon had reached by clever stages 
 the topic of religious services, and called the mass a 
 a farce and a mummery. 
 
 "A farce," said Desplcin, "which has cost Chris- 
 tianity more blood than all the battles of Napoleon and 
 all the leeches of Broussais. The mass is a pai)al 
 invention leased on the Hoc est corpus, aud dates back 
 to the sixth century onl}'. What torrents of blood had 
 to flow to establish the Fete-Dieu, by the institution of 
 which the court of Rome sought to confirm its victory 
 in the matter of the Real Presence, — a schism which 
 kept the church in hot water for three centuries ! The 
 wars of the Comte de Toulouse and the Albigenses were 
 the sequel of it. The Vaudois and the Albigenses both 
 refused to accept that innovation — " 
 
 Aud Desplcin launched with all an atheist's ardor into 
 a flux of Voltairean sarcasm, or, to be more exact, into 
 a wretched imitation of the " Citateur." 
 
 "Whew!" thought Bianehon; " where 's the man 
 who was on his knees this morning?" 
 
 He was silent, for he began to doubt whether he had 
 really seen his chief at Saint-Sulpice after all. Desplein 
 would surel}' never have troubled himself to deceive 
 him. The}- knew each other too well, had exchanged 
 thoughts or questions fully as serious, aud discussed 
 
; 1 
 
 204 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 sj'stems de natura rerum, probing them or dissecting 
 them with the knife and scalpel of unbelief. 
 
 Six months went by. Bianchon took no outward 
 notice of this circumstance, though it remained stamped 
 in his memory. One day a doctor belonging to the 
 Hotel-Dieu took Desplein by the ai-m in Biauchon's 
 presence as if to question him, and said, — 
 
 " Why did you go to Saint-Sulpice to-day, my dear 
 master? " 
 
 " To see a priest with caries of the knee whom 
 Madame la Duchesse d'Angouleme did me the honor 
 to recommend to me," replied Desplein. 
 
 The doctor was satisfied, but not so Bianchon. 
 
 "Ha! he went to see a stiff knee in a church, 
 did he?" thought the pupil. "He went to hear his 
 mass." 
 
 Bianchon resolved to watch Desplein. He recollected 
 the day and hour at which he had seen him entering 
 Saint-Sulpice, and he determined to return the next 
 year at the same time and see if he should surprise 
 him in the same place. If so, then the periodicity of 
 his devotion would waiTant scientific investigation ; for 
 it was impossible to expect in such a man a positive 
 contradiction between thought and action. 
 
 The following j'ear, at the time named, Bianchon, 
 who was now no longer Desplein's pupil, saw the 
 surgeon's cabriolet stop at the corner of the rue de 
 
TJie Atheist's Mass. 205 
 
 Tournon and the rue du Petit-Lion, from which point 
 his friend slipped jesuitically along the wall of the 
 chnrch, where he again entered and heard mass be- 
 fore tlie altar of the Virgin. Yes, it assuredh- was 
 Desplein, the surgeon-in-chief, the atheist in petto, the 
 pietist by chance. The plot thickened. The persist- 
 ency of the illustrious surgeon added a complication. 
 
 When Desplein had left the ciuircli, I'.iancliou went 
 up to the verger, who was rearranging the altar, and 
 asked hira if that gentleman were in the habit of 
 coming there. 
 
 "It is twenty 3"ears since I came here," said the 
 verger, " and ever since then Monsieur Desplein comes 
 four times a year to hear this mass. He founded it." 
 
 "A mass founded by him!" thought Biiinchon as 
 he walked away. "It is a greater mystery than the 
 Immaculate Conception, — a thing, iu itself, which would 
 make any doctor an unbeliever." 
 
 Some time went by before Doctor Bianchon, though 
 Desplein's friend, was in a position to speak to him of 
 this singularity of his life. "When the}' met in consul- 
 tation or in society it was difTicult to find that moment 
 of confidence and solitude in which they could sit witli 
 their feet on the andirons, and their heads on the back 
 of their chairs, and tell their secrets as two men do at 
 such times. At last, however, after the revolution of 
 1830, when the populace attacked the Archbishop's 
 
206 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 palace, when republican Instigations drove the crowd 
 to destro}^ the gilded crosses which gleamed like flashes 
 of lightning among the manj' roofs of that ocean of 
 houses, when unbelief, keeping pace with the riot, 
 strutted openly in the streets, Bianchon again saw 
 Desplein entering Saint-Sulpice. He followed him and 
 knelt beside him, but his friend made no sign and 
 showed not the least surprise. Together the}^ heard 
 the mass. 
 
 "Will jou tell me, my dear friend," said Bianchon, 
 when thej^ had left the church, ' ' the reason for this 
 pious performance? This is the third time I have 
 caught you going to mass, j'ou ! You must tell me 
 what this mj'stery means, and explain the discrepancy 
 between 3'our opinions and 3'our conduct. You don't 
 believe, but you go to mass ! My dear master, I hold 
 you bound to answer me." 
 
 "I am like a great man}' pious people, — men who 
 are deeply religious to all appearance, but who are 
 reall}^ as much atheists at heart as j-ou or I — " 
 
 And he went on with a torrent of sarcasms on certain 
 political personages, the best known of whom presents 
 to this century a new and living edition of the Tartufe 
 of Moliere. 
 
 "I am not talking to you about that," said Bianchon ; 
 " I want to know the reason for what 3'ou have just 
 done; and why you founded that mass?" 
 
The Atheist's Mass. 207 
 
 "Ah, well! my dear friend," replied Desploin, "I 
 am on the verge of my grave, and I can alForil to toll 
 yon the events of my early life." 
 
 Jnst then Bianchon and the great surgeon were pass- 
 ing through the rue des Quatre- Vents, one of the most 
 horrible streets in Paris. Desplcin pointed to the sixth 
 story of a house that looked like an obelisk, tlie gate of 
 which opened upon a passage-way at the end of which 
 was a winding stair lighted by holes in the planked side 
 of it. It was a greenish-looking house, occupied on the 
 gi'ound-tloor b}' a furniture-dealer, and seeming to 
 harlx)r on each stor}' some different form of poverty. 
 Desplein threw up his arm with an energetic action 
 and said to Bianchon, " I once lived up there for two 
 years." 
 
 "I know the house; d'Arthez lived in it. I went 
 there nearl}' every day in my early youth ; we Ui^ed to 
 call it the ' harbor of great men.' ■Well, what next?" 
 
 "The mass I have just heard is connected with events 
 which happened when I lived in the garret where you 
 say d'Arthez lived, — that one, where )-ou see the 
 clothes-line and the linen above the flower-pots. My 
 beginnings were so hard, my dear Bianchon, tliat I 
 can bear away the palm of Parisian sufferings from 
 every one, no matter who. I have endured all, — hun- 
 ger, thirst, the want of a penny, of linen, boots, all, 
 even the worst that poverty can bring. 1 have blown 
 
208 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 upon my frozen fingers in that harbor of great men, 
 which I should like now to see again with you. I have 
 worked there a whole winter and seen the vapor issu- 
 ing from my head just as you see horses smoking in 
 frosty weather. 
 
 " I don't know where a man can take his stand and 
 find support against a life like that. I was alone, with- 
 out help, without a sou to bu}- books, or to pay the 
 costs of my medical education ; having no friend to 
 understand me, my irascible temper, uneasy and 
 touch}' as it is, did me harm. No one saw in my irri- 
 table wa3's the evidence of the anxietj' and toil of a 
 man who from the lowest social state is struggling to 
 reach the surface. But I had, — and this I can say to 
 you before whom there is no need that I should drape 
 mj'self, — I had that understratum of right feelings and 
 keen sensibility' which will alwa3-s be the attribute of 
 men who are strong enough to mount a height, no 
 matter what it is, after paddling long in the swamps 
 of misery. I could ask nothing of m}' famih, nor of 
 my native town, beyond the insufficient allowance that 
 they made me. 
 
 " Well, at this time of my life, I made my breakfast 
 of a roll sold to me b}- the baker of the rue du Petit- 
 Lion at half-price, because it was a day or two da} s 
 old, and I crumbled it into some milk. So my morning 
 repast cost me exactly two sous. I dined, ever}- other 
 
The Atheiat'n Muss. 209 
 
 day only, in a pension where the dinner cost sixteca 
 sous. Tims I spent no more tlmn ten sous a day. 
 You l<no\v as well as I do wliat cure I liad to tal\e of 
 my clotlies and ni}' boots ! I really can t tell wlictlicr 
 we suffer more in after years from the treachery of a 
 tried friend than you and I have suffered from the 
 smiling grin of a crack in our l)oot-s, or the throadl)are 
 look of a coat-sleeve. I drank nothing but water, and 
 I held the cafes in reverence. Zt)[)i)i seemed to me the 
 promised land, where the LucuUusesof the Latin quarter 
 alone had the right of entrance. ' Shall I ever,' I 
 used to say to myself, ' drink a cup of codec there, 
 with cream, and play a game of dominoes? ' 
 
 " So I let loose upon my work the rage mv misery 
 caused me. I tried to possess myself of positive knowl- 
 edge, so as to have a vast personal value, and thus de- 
 serve distinction when the day came that I should issue 
 from my nothingness. I consumed more oil than bread ; 
 the lamp which lighted me during those toilsome nights 
 cost me more than all m}' food. The struggle was long, 
 obstinate, and without alleviation. I awakened no sym- 
 pathy in any one about me. To have friends we must 
 be friendly with young men, we must have a few sous 
 to tipple with, we must frequent the places where other 
 students go ; but I had nothing ! Who is there in 
 Paris who realizes that nothing is iiothimj .^ When I 
 was forced at times to reveal my poverty my throat 
 14 
 
210 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 contracted just as it does with our patients, wbo then 
 imagine that a ball is rolling up from the oesophagus to 
 the larynx. In later years 1 have met these people, 
 horn rich, who, never having wanted for anything, knew 
 nothing of the problem of this rule of three : A j^oung 
 man is to crime what a five-franc piece is to x. These 
 gilded imbeciles would say to me : ' But why do you 
 run in debt ? why do you saddle yourself with obliga- 
 tions?' They remind me of the princess who, when 
 she heard the people were dying for want of bread, 
 remarked : ' Wh}' don't they buy cake ? ' 
 
 "Well, well, I should like to see one of those rich 
 fellows who complain that I charge them too dear for 
 m}^ operations, — yes, I should like to see one of them 
 alone in Paris, without a penny to bless himself with, 
 without a friend, without credit, and forced to work 
 with his five fingers to get food. What would he do ? 
 where would he go to appease his hunger ? — Bianchon, 
 if you have sometimes seen me hard and bitter, it was 
 when I was setting my early sufferings against the un- 
 feeling selfishness of which I have had ten thousand 
 proofs in the upper ranks of life ; or else I was thinking 
 of the obstacles which hatred, envy, jealousy, and cal- 
 umny had raised between success and me. In Paris, 
 when certain persons see 3'ou about to put j^our foot in 
 the stirrup some of them will catch you by the tails of 
 your coat, others will loosen the buckles of the belly- 
 
The Atheist's Mass. 211 
 
 band to give yon a fall which will crack your skull ; 
 that one will pull the nails out of the horses' shoes, that 
 other will steal your whip ; the least treacherous is he 
 whom you see approaching with a pistol to blow out 
 your brains. 
 
 " Ah ! uiN* dear lad, you have talent enough to be sqon 
 plunged into the horrible strife, the incessant warfare 
 which mediocrity wages against superior men. If you 
 lose twenty-five louis some evening the next day you 
 are accused of being a gambler, and your best friends 
 will spread the news that you have lost twenty-five 
 thousand francs. Have a headache, and they '11 say 
 you are insane. Get angrv, and they '11 call you a 
 Timon. If, for the purpose of resisting this battalion 
 of pygmies, you call up within you all the powers you 
 possess, your best friends will cry out that you want to 
 destroy everything, that you want to rule, to tyrannize. 
 In short, your fine qualities are called defects, your 
 defects ^nces. and your vices crimes. Though you may 
 save a patient you will have the credit of killing him ; 
 if he recovers, you have sacrificed his future life to the 
 present ; if he does n't die, he soon will. Slip, and 3-ou 
 are down ! Make an invention, claim 3'our right to it, 
 and you are a quarrelsome knave, a sting)' man, who 
 won't let the young ones have a chance. 
 
 " And so, my dear fellow, if I don't believe in God, 
 still less do I believe in man. Don't you know that 
 
212 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 there is in me a Desplein who is totall}' different from 
 the Desi)lein whom the world traduces? But don't let 
 us drag that muddy pond. 
 
 " Well, to go back, I lived in that house, and I was 
 working to pass my first examination and I had n't a 
 brass farthing. You know ! — I had reached that last 
 extremit}^ where a man says, 'I'll pawn!' I had 
 one hope. I expected a trunk of underclotliing from 
 my home, a present from some old aunts, who, knowing 
 nothing of Paris, think about your shirts, and imagine 
 that with an allowance of thirty francs a month their 
 nephew must be living on ortolans. The trunk arrived 
 one day when I was at the hospital ; the carriage cost 
 forty francs ! The porter, a German shoemaker who 
 lived in the loft, paid the money and kept the trunk. 
 I walked about the rue des Fosses-Saiut-Germain-des 
 Pres and the rue de L'Ecole-de-Medecine without being 
 able to invent an}' stratagem by which I could get 
 possession of that trunk without pa3ing the forty 
 francs, which I could, of course, pay at once as soon 
 as I had sold the underclothes. My stupidity was 
 enough to prove that I had no other vocation than that 
 of surgery. My dear Bianchon, sensitive souls whose 
 forces work in the higher spheres of thought, lack the 
 spirit of intrigue which is so fertile in resources and 
 schemes ; their good genius is chance, — thej' don't seek, 
 they find. 
 
The Athene 9 Mass. 213 
 
 " Tli.it iiiijht I pntored the house just as my iHMj^h- 
 bor, a wuUT-c-arrier naiiiod IJoiirj^cat, from S:iiiit-KI<jiir, 
 came home. We knew each other as two tenants must 
 when their rooms are on the same landing, and they 
 hiar one another snore, and cou^h, and dress, and 
 at iengtii become accustomed to one another. ^M}' 
 neighbor told me that the proprietor of the house, to 
 whom I owed three months rent, had tunicd me out ; 
 I was warned to quit the next day. He himself was 
 also told to leave on account of his occupation. I 
 passed the most dreadful night of my life. How could 
 I hire a porter to carry away m}' few poor things, m}' 
 books? how could I pay him? where could I go? 
 These insoluble questions I said over and over to 
 myself in tears, just as madmen repeat their sing- 
 song. I fell asleep. Ah ! poverty alone has the divine 
 slumber full of glorious dreams 1 
 
 " The next morning, as I was eating my bowlful of 
 bread and milk, Bourgeat came in, and said in his 
 patois, ' Monsieur, I 'm a poor man, a foundling from 
 the hospital at Saint-Flour, without father or mother, 
 and I 'm not rich enough to marry. You are no bet- 
 ter off for friends, and relations, and money, as I 
 judge. Now listen ; there is a hand-cart out there 
 which I have hired for two sous an hour ; it will hold 
 all our things ; if you like, we can go and find some 
 cheap lodging which will hold us both, as we are both 
 
214 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 turned out of here. After all, you know, it is n't a 
 terrestrial paradise.' ' I know that,' I said, ' m}- good 
 Bourgeat, but 1 am in a great quandary ; I have a 
 trunk downstairs which contains at least three hun- 
 dred francs' worth of linen, with which I could pay 
 the proprietor if I could only get it from the porter, to 
 whom I owe forty francs for the carriage.' ' Bah ! ' he 
 cried, cheerily, ' I 've got a few pennies tucked away ; ' 
 and he pulled out a dirty old leather purse. ' Keep your 
 linen ; you '11 want it.' 
 
 " Bourgeat paid my three months' rent, and his own, 
 and the porter. He put all our things and the trunk 
 into his hand-cart, and dragged it through the streets, 
 stopping before each house where a sign was up. Then 
 I went in to see if the place would suit us. At mid- 
 da}' we were still wandering round the Latin quarter 
 without having found what we wanted. The price was 
 the great obstacle. Bourgeat invited me to breakfast 
 in a wine-shop, leaving the hand-cart before the door. 
 Towards evening, I found in the Cour de Rohan, pas- 
 sage du Commerce, on the top-floor of a house, under 
 the roof, two rooms, separated by the staircase. For a 
 yearly rent of sixty francs each, we were able to take 
 them. So there we were, housed, my humble friend and 
 I. We dined together. Bourgeat, who earned about 
 fift}' sous a day, possessed something like three hun- 
 dred francs. He was close upon realizing his great 
 
The AtheiHt's Matm. 215 
 
 ambition, which was to buy a horse and a watcr-curt. 
 Learning my situation, for ho wormed my sccrctH out 
 of me, with a depth of cunning and an air of good- 
 fellowship the remembrance of which to this day stirs 
 every fibre of my heart, he renounced, for a time, the 
 ambition of his life. Rourgeat never attained it; ho 
 sacriticcd his three hundred francs to my future." 
 
 Desplein clasped the arm he held, violently. 
 
 " He gave me the money I needed for my examina- 
 tions. That man — my friend — felt that I had a mis- 
 sion ; that the needs of my intellect were greater than 
 his own. He busied himself with me ; he called me his 
 son ; he lent me the money I needed to buy books ; he 
 came in sometimes, very softly, to watch me at work ; 
 he substituted, with the forethought of a mother, a 
 nourishing and sutllcient diet for the poor fare to which 
 I had been so long condemned. Bourgeat, a man then 
 about forty years of age, had a middle-aged burgher 
 face, a prominent forehead, and a head which a painter 
 might have chosen for a model for Lycurgus. The poor 
 soul had a licart full of unplaced affection. He had 
 never been loved except by a dog which had reccntl}' 
 died, and of which he often spoke to me, asking whether 
 I thought the Church would be willing to say masses 
 for the repose of its soul. That dog, he said, was a 
 true Christian, who for twelve )ears had gone with 
 him to church and never barked, Ustening to the organ 
 
216 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 without opening his jaws, and crouching by him when 
 he Ivnelt as if he prayed also. 
 
 "That man, that Auvergne water-carrier, spent all 
 his affection upon me. He accepted me as a lonelj^ 
 suffering human being ; he became my mother, my deli- 
 cate benefactor ; in short, the ideal of that virtue which 
 delights in its own work. When I met him about his 
 business in the street he flung me a glance of inconceiv- 
 able generosity ; he pretended to walk as if he carried 
 nothing ; he showed his happiness in seeing me in good 
 health and well-clothed. His devotion to me was that 
 of the people, — the love of a grisette for one above 
 her. Boui'geat did my errands, woke me at night when 
 I had to be called, cleaned my lamp, polished m}' floor ; 
 as good a servant as a kind father, and as clean as 
 an English girl. He kept house. Like Philopoemen, 
 he sawed our wood, and gave to all his actions the 
 simple dignity of toil ; for he seemed to comprehend 
 that the object ennobled all. 
 
 " When I left that noble man to enter the Hotel- 
 Dieu as an indoor pupil, he suffered dark distress fi'om 
 the thought that he could no longer live with me ; but 
 he consoled himself with the idea of laying by the 
 money required for the expenses of my thesis, and he 
 made me promise to come and see him on all mj- days 
 out. If you will look up my thesis you will find that 
 it is dedicated to him. 
 
The Atheist's Mass. 217 
 
 " During the last year I was in hospital I oarncMl 
 money enough to return all I owed to that noble Auvt-r- 
 gnat, with which I bought him his horse and water-cart, 
 lie was very angry when he Ibuntl out I had deprived 
 myself of my earnings, and ^et delighted to see his 
 desires realized ; he laughed and scolded, looked at his 
 cart and at liis horse, and wiped his eyes, saying to me : 
 ' It is all wrong. Oh, what a line cart ! You hud no 
 right to do it ; that horse is as strong as an Auvergnat* 
 Never did I see anything as touching as that scene. 
 Bourgcat positively insisted on buying me that case of 
 instruments mounted in silver which you have seen in 
 my study, and which is to me the most precious of my 
 possessions. Though absolutely intoxicated b}- my 
 success, he never by word or gesture let the thought 
 escape him, ' It is to mc that he owes it.' And yet, 
 without hiui, misery wouUl have killed rae. 
 
 " The poor man had wrecked himself for me ; all he 
 ate was a little bread rubbed with garlic, that I might 
 have coffee for my studious nights. He fell ill. You 
 can well believe that I spent nights at his bedside. I 
 pulled him through the first time, but he liad a relapse 
 two years later, and, in spite of all my care, he died. 
 No king was ever cared for as he was. Y'es, Bianchon, 
 to save that life I tried amazing things. I longed to 
 make him live as the witness of his own work ; to 
 realize his hopes, to satisfy the sole gratitude that ever 
 
218 The Atheist's Mass. 
 
 entered my heart, to extinguish a fire which burns there 
 still. 
 
 " Bourgeat," resumed Despleiu, with visible emotion, 
 " m}' second father, died in my arms, leaving all he pos- 
 sessed to me, in a will drawn up by a street writer and 
 dated the year we went to live in the Cour de Rohan. 
 That man had the faith of his kind ; he loved the 
 Blessed Virgin as he would have loved his wife. An 
 ardent Catholic, he never said one word to me about my 
 irreligion. When he was in danger of death he asked 
 me to spare nothing that he might have the succor of the 
 Church. Ever}' day masses were said for him. Often 
 during the night he would tell me of his fears for the 
 future ; he thought he had not lived devoutly enough. 
 Poor man ! he had toiled from morning till night. To 
 whom else does heaven belong, — if indeed there is a 
 heaven? He received the last offices of religion, like 
 the saint that he was, and his death was worth}- of his 
 life. I, alone, followed him to the grave. When the 
 earth covered m}' sole benefactor I sought a way to 
 pay my debt to him. He had neither family, nor 
 friends, nor wife, nor children, but, he believed ! he 
 had a deep religious belief; what right had I to dispute 
 it? He had timidly spoken to me of masses for the 
 repose of the dead, but he never imposed that duty 
 upon me, thinking, no doubt, it would seem like pay- 
 ment for his services. The moment I was able to 
 
The Atheist's Mass. 219 
 
 found a mass I gave Saint-Sulpicc the necessary siun 
 for four yearl}* ser^•ice8. As the sole thing I can olFcr 
 to Bourgeat is the satisfaction of his pious wishes, I 
 go in his name and recite tor him the appoiuteil prayers 
 at the beginning of each season. I say with tlie sin- 
 cerity of a doubter : ' My God, if there be a spliere 
 where thou dost place after death the souls of the 
 perfect, think of the good Bourgeat ; and if there is 
 anything to be suffered for him, grant me those suffer- 
 ings that he may the sooner enter what, they say, is 
 heaven.' 
 
 " That, m}' dear friend, is all a man of my opinions 
 can do. God must be a good sort of devil, and he '11 
 not blame me. I swear to you I would give all I am 
 worth if Bourgeat's belief could enter my brain." 
 
 Bianchon, who took care of Desplein in his last 
 illness, dares not affirm that the great surgeon died an 
 atheist. Believers will like to think that the humble 
 water-carrier opened to him the gates of heaven, as he 
 had once opened to him the portals of that terrestial 
 temple on the pediment of which are inscribed the 
 words : — 
 
 " To HER Great Men, a grateful Country ! " 
 
 1836. 
 
LA GKANDE BREXtClIE. 
 
 " An ! Madame," replied Doctor Horace Bianchon 
 to the lady at whose house he was supping, "it is 
 true that I have many terrible histories in my reper- 
 tory ; but every tale has its due hour in a conversa- 
 tion, according to the clever saying reported by 
 Chanifort and said to the Duo de Fronsac : ''There 
 are ten bottles of champagne between your joke and 
 the present moment." 
 
 "But it is past midnight; what better hour could 
 you have?" said the mistress of the house. 
 
 "Yes, tell us, Monsieur BiancTion," urged the as- 
 sembled company. 
 
 At a gesture from the complying doctor, silence 
 reigned. 
 
 " About a hundred yards from VendOrae," he said, 
 " on the banks of the Loir, is an old brown house, 
 covered with ver}' steep roofs, and so completely 
 isolated that there is not so much as an evil-sraelling 
 tannery, nor a shabb}' inn such as jou see at the en- 
 trance of all little towns, in its neighborhood. In 
 
222 La Grande Breteche. 
 
 front of this dwelling is a garden overlooking the 
 river, where the box edgings, once carefully clipped, 
 which bordered the paths, now cross them and straggle 
 as they fancy. A few willows with their roots in the 
 Loir have made a rapid growth, like the enclosing 
 hedge, and together they half hide the house. Plants 
 which we call weeds drape the bank towards the river 
 with their beautiful vegetation. Fruit-trees, neglected 
 for half a score of years, no longer yield a product, and 
 their shoots and suckers have formed an undergrowth. 
 The espaliers are like a hornbeam hedge. The paths, 
 formerly gravelled, are full of purslain ; so that, strictly 
 speaking, there are no paths at all. 
 
 "From the crest of the mountain, on which hang 
 the ruins of the old castle of Vendome (the only spot 
 whence the eye can look down into this enclosure) we 
 say to ourselves that at an earlier period, now difficult 
 to determine, this corner of the earth was the delight 
 of some gentleman devoted to roses and tuUps, in a 
 word, to horticulture, but above all possessing a keen 
 taste for good fruits. An arbor is still standing, or 
 rather the remains of one, and beneath it is a table 
 which time has not yat completel}^ demolished. 
 
 "From the aspect of this garden, now no more, the 
 negative joj's of the peaceful life of the provinces can 
 be inferred, just as we infer the life of some worthy 
 from the epitaph on his tomb. To complete the sad 
 
La Orande lircteche. 228 
 
 and tender ideas which t;ike possession of the soul, a 
 sundial on tlie wall lu-ars this inscription, CMnistiun yet 
 bourgeois, ' L'ltijiam Cochta.' The roofs are dilapi- 
 dated, the blinds always closed, the balconies are filled 
 with swallows* nests, the gates are locked. Tall herbs 
 and grasses trace in green lines the chinks and crevices 
 of the stone portico ; the locks are rusty. Sun and 
 moon, summer and winter and snow liave rotted the 
 wood, warped the planks, and worn away the i)aint. 
 The gloomy silence is unbroken save by the birds, the 
 cats, the martens, the rats, the mice, all free to scamper 
 or fly, and to fight, and to eat themselves up. 
 
 " An invisible hand has written the word ' INIvstery* 
 everywhere. If, impelled by curiosity, you wish to 
 look at this house, on the side towards the road you 
 will see a large gate with an arched top, in which the 
 children of the neighborhood have made large holes. 
 This gate, as I heard later, had been disused for ten 
 years. Through these irregular holes you can observe 
 the perfect harmon}' which exists between the garden 
 side, and the courtyard side of the premises. The 
 same neglect everj-where. Lines of grass surround 
 the paving-stones. Enormous cracks furrow the walls, 
 the blackened caves of which are festooned with pelli- 
 tory. The steps of the portico are disjointed, the n^pc 
 of the bell is rotten, the gutters are dropping apart. 
 What fire from heaven has fallen here? What tribunal 
 
224 La Grande Breteche. 
 
 has ordained that salt be cast upon this dwelling? Has 
 God been mocked here ; or France betraj'ed ? These 
 are the questions we ask as we stand there ; the rep- 
 tiles crawl about but they give no answer. 
 
 " This empty and deserted house is a profound 
 enigma, whose solution is known to none. It was 
 formerly a small fief, and is called La Grande Breteche. 
 During my sta}^ at Vendome, where Desplein had sent 
 me in charge of a rich patient, the sight of this strange 
 dwelling was one of va.y keenest pleasures. It was bet- 
 ter than a ruin. A ruin possesses memories of positive 
 authenticity ; but this habitation, still standing, though 
 slowly demolished by an avenging hand, contained some 
 secret, some mysterious thought, — it betrayed at least 
 a strange caprice. 
 
 " More than once of an evening I jumped the hedge, 
 now a tangle, which guarded the enclosure. I braved 
 the scratches ; I walked that garden without a master, 
 that propert}'^ which was neither public nor private ; for 
 hours I staj'ed there contemplating its decay. Not 
 even to obtain the history which underlay (and to 
 which no doubt was due) this strange spectacle would 
 I have asked a single question of an}' gossiping coun- 
 tryman. Standing there I invented enchanting tales ; 
 I gave myself up to debauches of melanchol}' which 
 fascinated me. Had I known the reason, perhaps a 
 common one, for this strange desertion, I should have 
 
La Grande lintcche. 225 
 
 lost the unwritten poenis with which I intoxicated my- 
 self. To me this siuicturiiy evoked the most varied 
 images of human UtV darkened l)y sorrows; sometimes 
 it was a cloister without the nuns ; sometimes a grave- 
 yard and its peace, witiiout the drad who talk to you in 
 cpitajjlis ; to-day the house of the le[)cr, to-morrow that 
 of the Atrides ; but above all was it the provinces with 
 their composed ideas, their hour-glass life. 
 
 " Often I wept there, but I never smiled. More than 
 once an involuntary terror seized me, as I heard above 
 my head the mulUed whirr of a ringdove's wings 
 hurrying past. The soil is damp ; care must be taken 
 against the lizards, the vipers, the frogs, which wander 
 about with the wild libert}' of nature; above all, it is 
 well not to fear cohl, for there are moments when you 
 feel an ic}' mantle laid upon your shoulders like the 
 hand of the Commander on the shoulder of Don Juan. 
 One evening I shuddered ; the wind had caught and 
 turned a rusty vane. Its creak was like a moan issuing 
 from the house ; at a moment, too, when I was ending 
 a gloomy drama in which I explained to myself the 
 monumental dolor of that scene. 
 
 " That night I returned to my inn, a pre}- to glooms- 
 thoughts. After I had supped the landlady- entered my 
 room with a mysterious air, and said to me, ' 3Ion- 
 sieur. Monsieur ReLcnault is here.' 
 
 " ' Who is Monsieur Regnault?' 
 15 
 
226 La Grande Breteche. 
 
 "'Is it possible that Monsieur does n't know Mon- 
 sieur Regnault? Ah, how funny!' she said, leaving 
 the room. 
 
 " Suddenl}' I beheld a long, slim man, clothed in black, 
 holding his hat in his hand, who presented himself, 
 much like a ram about to leap on a rival, and showed 
 me a retreating forehead, a small, pointed head and a 
 livid face, in color somewhat like a glass of dirty water. 
 You would have taken him for the usher of a minister. 
 This unknown personage wore an old coat much worn 
 in the folds, but he had a diamond in the frill of his 
 shirt, and gold earrings in his ears. 
 
 " ' Monsieur, to whom have I the honor of speaking? ' 
 I said. 
 
 " He took a chair, sat down before my fire, laid his 
 hat on my table and replied, rubbing his hands : ' Ah ! 
 it is very cold. Monsieur, I am Monsieur Regnault.' 
 
 "I bowed, saying to myself: '7/ bondo cani! 
 seek ! ' 
 
 " ' I am,' he said, ' the notary of Vendome.' 
 
 " ' Delighted, monsieur,' I replied, ' but I am not in 
 the way of making my will, — for reasons, alas, too 
 well-known to me.' 
 
 " ' One moment ! ' he resumed, raising his hand as if 
 to impose silence ; ' Permit me, monsieur, permit me ! 
 I have learned that you sometimes enter the garden of 
 La Grande Breteche and walk there — ' 
 
La Grande Breteche. 227 
 
 " * Yes, monsieur.' 
 
 "'One nionieiit ! ' he snid, re|H'ating his prstiiro. 
 'That action constitutes a misdenieunor. Monsitiir, I 
 couie in the name and as testamentary executor of ihe 
 late Comtosse do Merret to beg you to discontinue your 
 visits. One moment ! I am not a Turk ; I do not wish 
 to impute a crime to you. IJesides, it is quite excusable 
 that you, a stranger, should be ignorant of the circum- 
 stances which com[x;l me to let the handsomest house 
 in Vendomc go to ruin. Nevertheless, monsieur, as 
 you seem to be a person of education, you no doubt 
 know that the law forbids trespassers on enclosed 
 property. A hedge is the same as a wall. But the 
 state in whidi that house is left may well excuse your 
 cm-iosity. I should be only too glad to leave you free 
 to go and come as 30U liked there, but charged as I am 
 to execute the wishes of the testatrix, I have the honor, 
 monsieur, to request that you do not again enter that 
 garden. I myself, monsieur, have not, since the read- 
 ing of the will, set foot in that house, which, as I have 
 alread}' had the honor to tell you, I hold under the will 
 of Madame de Merret. We have onl}' taken account 
 of the number of the doors and windows so as to assess 
 the taxes which I pay annually from the funds left by 
 the late countess for that purpose. Ah, monsieur, that 
 will made a great deal of noise in Vendumc ! ' 
 
 "There the woilhy man paused to blow his nose. 
 
228 La Grande Breteche. 
 
 I respected his loquacity, understanding perfectly that 
 the testamentary bequest of Madame de Merret had 
 been the most important event of his life, the head and 
 front of his reputation, his glory, his Restoration. So 
 then, I must bid adieu to my beautiful reveries, my 
 romances ! I was not so rebellious as to deprive m}-- 
 self of getting the truth, as it were officially, out of the 
 man of law, so I said, — 
 
 " ' Monsieur, if it is not indiscreet, may I ask the 
 reason of this singularity?' 
 
 " At these words a look which expressed the pleas- 
 ure of a man who rides a hobby passed over Monsieur 
 Regnault's face. He pulled up his shirt-collar with a 
 certain conceit, took out his snuff-box, opened it, 
 oflfered it to me, and on my refusal, took a strong 
 pinch himself. He was happy. A man who has n't 
 a hobb}' doesn't know how much can be got out of 
 life. A hobby is the exact medium between a passion 
 and a monomania. At that moment I understood 
 Sterne's fine expression to its fullest extent, and I 
 formed a complete idea of the joy with which my Uncle 
 Toby — Trim assisting — bestrode his war-horse. 
 
 "'Monsieur,' said Monsieur Regnault, 'I was for- 
 merly head-clerk to Maitre Roguin in Paris. An ex- 
 cellent lawj-er's office of which 3'ou have doubtless 
 heard ? No ! And yet a most unfortunate failure made 
 it, I may say, celebrated. Not having the means to 
 
La Grande Bretcche. 229 
 
 bu}' a practice in Paris at the price to wliich tlu-y rose 
 in 181 G, I canio here to Voiulnine, where I have re- 
 lations, — among them a rich aunt, who gave nii.' h«T 
 daughter in marriage.' 
 
 " Here be made a slight pause, and then resumed : — 
 " ' Three montiis after my appointment was ratified 
 by Monseigneur the Keeper of the Seals, I was sent for 
 one evening just as I was going to bed (I was not then 
 married) by Madame la Comtesse de Merret. then 
 living in her chateau at Merret. Tier lady's-maid, an 
 excellent girl who is now serving in this inn, was at 
 the door with the countess's carriage. Ah ! one mo- 
 ment ! I ought to tell you, monsieur, that Monsieur 
 le Comte de Merret had gone to die in Paris about 
 two months before I came here. He died a miserable 
 death from excesses of all kinds, to which he gave him- 
 self up. You understand? Well, the da}' of his de- 
 parture Marlanie la Comtesse left La Grande Breteche, 
 and dismantled it. The}- do say that she even burned 
 the furniture, and the carpets, and all appurtenances 
 whatsoever and wheresoever contained on the premises 
 leased to the said — Ah ! beg pardon ; what am I say- 
 ing? I thought I was dictating a lease. Well, monsieur, 
 she burned everything, they sa}', in the meadow at 
 Merret. Were 3'ou ever at Merret, monsieur?' 
 
 " Not waiting for me to speak, he answered for me : 
 *No. Ah! it is a fine spot? For three months, or 
 
230 La Grande Breteche. 
 
 thereabouts,' he continued, nodding his head, ' Mon- 
 sieur le Comte and Madatae la Comtesse had been 
 living at La Grande Breteche in a very singular "waj-. 
 They admitted no one to the house ; madame lived on 
 the ground-floor, and monsieur on the first floor. After 
 Madame la Comtesse was left alone she never went to 
 church. Later, in her own chateau she refused to see 
 the friends who came to visit her. She changed greatly 
 after she left La Grande Breteche and came to Merret 
 That dear woman (I sa^' dear, though I never saw her 
 but once, because she gave me this diamond), — 
 that good lady was yevy ill ; no doubt she had given 
 up all hope of recovery, for she died without calling 
 in a doctor ; in fact, some of our ladies thought she 
 was not quite right in her mind. Consequently, mon- 
 sieur, my curiosity was greatly excited when I learned 
 that Madame de Merret needed my services ; and I 
 was not the only one deeply interested ; that very 
 night, though it was late, the whole town knew I had 
 gone to Merret.' 
 
 "The good man paused a moment to arrange his 
 facts, and then continued : ' The lady's maid answered 
 rather vaguely the questions which I put to her as we 
 drove along ; she did, however, tell me that her mis- 
 tress had received the last sacraments that day from 
 the curate of Merret, and that she was not likely to 
 live thi'ough the night. I reached the chateau about 
 
La Grande Bretrche. 281 
 
 eleven o'clock. I went up tlie gnmd Btaircase. Aflcr 
 passing through a number of dark and lofty ro<«ns, 
 horribly cold and damp, I entered the state bedroom 
 where Madame la Comtesse was l3ing. In conse- 
 quence of the man}' stories that were told about this 
 huly (really, monsieur, I should never end if I related 
 all of them) I expected to find her a fascinating co- 
 quette. Would you believe it, J could scarcely see her 
 at all in the huge bed in which she lay. It is true that 
 the only light in that vast room, with friezes of the old 
 style powdered with dust enough to make 3-ou sneeze on 
 nierel}' looking at them, was one Argand lamp. Ah ! 
 but 30U say you have never been at IMenet. Well, 
 monsieur, the bed was one of those old-time beds with 
 a high tester covered with tlowcrcd chintz. A little 
 night-table stood by the bed, and on it I noticed a copy 
 of the " Imitation of Christ." 
 
 "'Allow me a parenthesis,' he said, interrupting 
 himself. ' I bought that book subsequentl}-, also the 
 lamp, and presented them to my wife. In the room 
 was a large sofa for the woman who was taking care of 
 ]\Iadame de Mcrret, and two chairs. That was all. No 
 fire. The whole would not have made ten lines of an 
 inventory. Ah ! my dear monsieur, could 30U have 
 seen her as I saw her then, in that vast room hung with 
 brown tapestr}', you would have imagined you were in 
 the pages of a novel. It was glacial, — better than that, 
 
232 La Grande Breteche. 
 
 funereal,' added the worth}^ man, raising his arm the- 
 atrically and making a pause. Presentl}^ he resumed : 
 
 " ' By dint of peering round and coming close to the 
 bed I at length saw Madame de Merret, thanks to the 
 lamp which happened to shine on the pillows. Her face 
 was as yellow as wax, and looked like two hands joined 
 together. Madame la Comtesse wore a lace cap, which, 
 however, allowed me to see her fine hair, white as snow. 
 She was sitting up in the bed, but apparentl}' did so 
 with difficult}'. Her large black eyes, sunken no doubt 
 with fever, and almost lifeless, hardl}' moved beneath the 
 bones where the eyebrows usually grow. Her forehead 
 was damp. Her fleshless hands were like bones cov- 
 ered with thin skin ; the veins and muscles could all be 
 seen. She must once have been ver}- handsome, but now 
 I was seized with — I couldn't tell you what feeling, as 
 I looked at her. Those who buried her said afterwards 
 that no living creature had ever been as wasted as she 
 without dying. Well, it was awful to see. Some mor- 
 tal disease bad eaten up that woman till there was 
 nothing left of her but a phantom. Her lips, of a pale 
 violet, seemed not to move when she spoke. Though 
 my profession had familiarized me with such scenes, 
 in bringing me often to the bedside of the dying, to 
 receive their last wishes, I must say that the tears and 
 the anguish of families and friends which I have wit- 
 nessed were as nothing compared to this solitary 
 
La Grande Breteche. 233 
 
 woman ill that vast luiildinjr. I did not hoar the sli}»ht- 
 est noise, I did not soc the inovenient which the breath- 
 ing of the dying woman would naturally give to the 
 sheet that covered her ; 1 myself remained motionless, 
 looking at her in a sort of stupor. Indeed. I fancy I 
 am there still. At last her large eyes moved ; she 
 tried to lift her right hand, which fell back upon the 
 bed ; then these words issued from her lips like a 
 breath, for her voice was no longer a voice, — 
 
 " ' "I have awaited you with impatience." 
 
 " ' Her cheeks colored. The effort to speak was 
 great. The old woman who was watching her here 
 rose and whispered in my ear : " Don't speak ; Madame 
 la Comtesse is past hearing the slightest sound ; you 
 would only agiUite her." I sat down. A few moments 
 later Madame de Merret collected all her remaining 
 strength to move her right arm and put it, not without 
 great dilllculty, uiuler her bolster. She paused an in- 
 stant ; then she made a last effort and withdrew her 
 hand which now held a sealed paper. Great drops of 
 sweat rolled from her forehead. 
 
 " ' " I give 3"ou my will," she said. " Oh, m}' 
 God ! Oh ! " 
 
 " 'That was all. She seized a crucifix which lay on 
 her bed, pressed it to her lips and died. The expression 
 of her fixed eyes still makes me shudder wlien I think 
 of it. I brought away the will. "When it was opened 
 
234 La Grande Breteche. 
 
 I found that Madame de Merret liad appointed me her 
 executor. She bequeathed her whole property to the 
 hospital of Vendome, save and excepting certain be- 
 quests. The following disposition was made of La 
 Grande Breteche. I was directed to leave it in the 
 state in which it was at the time of her death for a 
 period of fifty years from the date of her decease ; I 
 was to forbid all access to it, by any and every one, no 
 matter who ; to make no repairs, and to put by from 
 her estate a yearly sum to pay watchers, if they were 
 necessary, to insure the faithful execution of these 
 intentions. At the expiration of that time the estate 
 was, if the testatrix's will had been carried out in all 
 particulars, to belong to mj' heirs (because, as mon- 
 sieur is doubtless well aware, notaries are forbidden by 
 law to receive legacies) ; if otherwise, then La Grande 
 Breteche was to go to whoever might establish a right 
 to it, but on condition of fulfilling certain orders con- 
 tained in a codicil annexed to the will and not to be 
 opened until the expiration of the fifty years. The will 
 has never been attacked, consequently — ' 
 
 " Here the oblong notary, without finishing his sen- 
 tence, looked at me triumphantly. I made him perfectly 
 happy with a few compliments. 
 
 "'Monsieur,' I said, in conclusion, 'you have so 
 deeply impressed that scene upon me that I seem to 
 see the dj'ing woman, whiter than the sheets ; those 
 
La Grande Breteche. 285 
 
 glittering eyes horrify nic ; I shall dream of her nil 
 night, lint you must have formed some conjectures as 
 to the motive of that extraordinary will.' 
 
 "'Monsieur,' he replied, with comical reserve, 'I 
 never permit myself to judge of the motives of those 
 who honor me with the gift of a diamond.' 
 
 " However, I managed to unloose the tongue of the 
 scrupulous notary so far that he told me, not without 
 long digressions, certain opinions on the matter emanat- 
 ing from the wise-heads of both sexes whose judgments 
 made the social law of VendOmc. But these opinions 
 and observations were so contradictory, so diffuse, 
 that I well-nigh went to sleep in spite of the interest I 
 felt in this authentic stor}'. The heav}' manner and 
 monotonous accent of the notary, who was no doubt in 
 the habit of listening to himself and making his clients 
 and compatriots listen to him, triumphed over my curi- 
 osity. Happily, he did at last go away. 
 
 " 'Ha, ha! monsieur,' he said to me at the head of 
 the stairs, ' man}' persons would like to live their forty- 
 five years longer, but, one moment ! ' — here he laid the 
 forefinger of his right band on his nose as if he meant 
 to say, Now pay attention to this ! — 'in order to do 
 that, to do that, thev ought to skip the sixties.' 
 
 " I shut ni}- door, the notary's jest, which he thought 
 very witty, having drawn me from my apath}' ; then I 
 sat down in my armchair and put both feet on the 
 
236 La Grande Breteche. 
 
 andirons. I was plunged in a romance a la Radeliffe, 
 based on the notarial disclosures of Monsieur Regnault, 
 when my door, softh' opened by the hand of a woman, 
 turned noiselessly on its hinges. 
 
 " I saw my landlad}', a jovial, stout woman, with a 
 fine, good-humored face, who had missed her true sur- 
 roundings ; she was from Flanders, and might have 
 stepped out of a picture b}' Teniers. 
 
 " ' Well, monsieur,' she said, ' Monsieur Regnault 
 has no doubt recited to you his famous tale of La 
 Grande Breteche?' 
 
 " ' Yes, Madame Lepas.' 
 
 '"What did he tell you?' 
 
 "I repeated in a few words the dark and chilling 
 story of Madame de Merret as imparted to me hy the 
 notar}'. At each sentence my landlady ran out her 
 chin and looked at me with the perspicacity of an inn- 
 keeper, which combines the instinct of a policeman, the 
 astuteness of a spy, and the cunning of a shopkeeper. 
 
 " 'M3' dear Madame Lepas,' I added, in conclusion, 
 ' you evidently know more than that. If not, wh}' did 
 you come up here to me ? ' 
 
 " ' On the word, now, of an honest woman, just as 
 true as my name is Lepas — ' 
 
 " ' Don't swear, for your eyes are full of the secret. 
 You knew Monsieur de Merret. What sort of man 
 was he?' 
 
La Grande Bretcrhe. 287 
 
 " * Goo(1nos8 ! Monsieur do Mcrnt? well, you sec, ho 
 was a haiulsorae man, so tall you never could sec tho 
 top of him, — a very worthy gentleman from Picardy, 
 who had, as 3'ou may say, a temper of his own , and 
 he kiu'w it. He paid every one in cash so as to have 
 no quarrels. But, I tell you, he could be quick. Our 
 ladies thought him very pleasant' 
 
 " 'Because of his temper?' I asked. 
 
 "'Perhaps,' she replied. 'You know, monsieur, a 
 man must have something to the fore, as they say, to 
 marry a lady like Madame de Merret, who, without 
 disparaging others, was the handsomest and the rich- 
 est woman in Vendome. She had an income of nearly 
 twenty thousand francs. All the town was at the wed- 
 ding. The bride was so dainty and captivating, a real 
 little jewel of a woman. Ah ! they were a fine couple 
 in those days ! ' 
 
 " ' "Was their home a happy one?' 
 
 " ' Hum, hum ! 3-es and no, so far as any one can 
 say ; for you know well enough that the like of us 
 don't live hand and glove with the like of them. Ma- 
 dame de IMerret was a good woman and very charming, 
 who no doubt had to bear a good deal from her hus- 
 band's temper ; we all liked her though she was rather 
 haughty. Bah ! that was her bringing up, and she was 
 born so. When people are noble — don't j'ou see ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes, but there must have been some terrible 
 
238 La Grande Breteche. 
 
 catastrophe, for Monsieur and Madame de Merret to 
 separate violentl}'.' 
 
 "'I never said there was a catastrophe, monsieur; 
 I know nothing about it.' 
 
 " ' Very good ; now I am certain that you know all.' 
 
 "'Well, monsieur, I'll tell j^ou all I do know. 
 When I saw Monsieur Regnault coming after 3'ou I 
 knew he would tell you about Madame de Merret and 
 La Grande Breteche ; and that gave me the idea of 
 consulting monsieur, who seems to be a gentleman of 
 good sense, incapable of betraying a poor woman like 
 me, who has never done harm to any one, but who is, 
 somehow, troubled in her conscience. I have never 
 dared to say a word to the people about here, for 
 they are all gossips, with tongues like steel blades. 
 And there's never been a traveller who has sta3-ed 
 as long as you have, monsieur, to whom I could tell 
 all about the fifteen thousand francs — ' 
 
 " ' My dear Madame Lepas,' I replied, trying to stop 
 the flow of words, ' if your confidence is of a nature to 
 compromise me, I would n't hear it for worlds.' 
 
 " ' Oh, don't be afraid,' she said, interrupting me. 
 ' You '11 see — ' 
 
 " This haste to tell made me quite certain I was not 
 the first to whom my good landlady had communicated 
 the secret of which I was to be the sole repositary, so I 
 listened. 
 
La Grande Bretdche. 289 
 
 *' ' Monsieur,' she said, * when the Emperor sent the 
 Spanish luul otlicr prisonors of war to Vcndomi' I lo<I^t'd 
 ouu of tliem (at the cost of the government), — a young 
 Spaniard on parole. But in spite of his parole he had 
 to report every day to the sub-prefect. He was a gran- 
 doe of Spain, with a name that ended in os and in dia^ 
 like all Spaniards — Bagos de Fiiredia. I wrote his 
 name on the register, and you can sec it if you like. 
 Oh, he was a handsome young fellow for a Spaniard, 
 who, they tell nic, are all ugly. lie was n't more than 
 five feet two or three inches, but he was well made. 
 He had pretty little hands which he took care of — ah, 
 you should just have seen him ! lie had as many 
 brushes for tliose hands as a woman has for her head. 
 He had fine black hair, a fiery eye, a rather copper- 
 coloretl skin, but it was pleasant to look at all the same. 
 He wore the finest linen I ever saw on an}- one, and I 
 have lodged princesses, and, among others. General 
 Bertrand, the Due and Ducbesse d'Abrantos, Monsieur 
 Decazes and the King of Spain. He did n't eat much ; 
 but he had such polite manners and was always so ami- 
 able that I could n't find fault with him. Oh ! I did 
 really love him, though he never said four words a day 
 to me ; if any one spoke to him, he never answered, — 
 that 's an oddity those grandees have, a sort of mania, 
 so I 'm told. He read his breviar}- like a priest, and he 
 went to mass and to all the services regularlv- "Where 
 
240 La Grande Breteche. 
 
 do you think he sat ? close to the chapel of Madame de 
 Merret. But as he took that place the first time he went 
 to church nobod}^ attached any importance to the fact, 
 though it was remembered later. Besides, he never 
 took his eyes off his prayer-book, poor young man ! ' 
 
 "My jovial landlady paused a moment, overcome 
 with her recollections ; then she continued her tale : 
 
 " ' From that time on, monsieur, he used to walk up 
 the mountain every evening to the ruins of the castle. 
 It was his onl}" amusement, poor man ! and I dare say 
 it recalled his own countrj' ; they say Spain is all 
 mountains. From the first he was alwa3's late at night 
 in coming in. I used to be uneasy at never seeing him 
 before the stroke of midnight ; but we got accustomed 
 to his ways and gave him a key to the door, so that we 
 did n't have to sit up. It so happened that one of our 
 grooms told us that one evening when he went to bathe 
 his horses he thought he saw the grandee in the dis- 
 tance, swimming in the river like a fish. When he 
 came in I told him he had better take care not to get 
 entangled in the sedges ; he seemed annoyed that any 
 one had seen him in the water. Well, monsieur, one 
 day, or rather, one morning, we did not find him in his 
 room ; he had not come in. He never returned. I 
 looked about and into everj'thing, and at last I found 
 a writing in a table drawer where he had put avfay fifty 
 of those Spanish gold coins called " portugaise," which 
 
La Grande Bretcche. 2J1 
 
 bring a hundred francs npitcc ; tla-re were also dia- 
 monds worth ten tliousand francs sealed up in a Utile 
 box. The paper said that in case he should not return 
 some day, he be(iueathed to us the money and the 
 diamonds, with a retiuest to found njasses of thanks- 
 giving to God for his escape and safety. In those days 
 my husband was living, and he did everything he could 
 to find the young man. liut, it was the queerest thing ! 
 he found only the Si)aniard's clothes under a big stone 
 in a sort of shed on the banks of the river, on the castle 
 side, just opposite to La Grande lireti-che. My hus- 
 band went so early in the morning that no one saw him. 
 He burned the clothes after we had read the letter, and 
 gave out, as Comte Feredia requested, that he had fled. 
 The sub-prefect sent the whole gendarmerie on his 
 traces, but bless your heart ! they never caught him. 
 Lepas thought the Spaniard had drowned himself. But, 
 monsieur, I never thought so. I think he was somehow 
 mixed up in :Madame de Merret's trouble ; and I '11 tell 
 you why. Rosalie has told me that her mistress had a 
 crucifix she valued so much that she was buried with it, 
 and it was made of ebony and silver ; now when Mon- 
 sieur de Feredia first came to lodge with us he had just 
 such a crucifix, but I soon missed it. Now. nionsit-ur, 
 ■what do you saj'? isn't it true that I need have no 
 remorse about those fifteen thousand francs? are not 
 they rightfully mine?' 
 
 16 
 
242 La Grande Breteche, 
 
 " ' Of course they are. But how is it you have never 
 questioned Rosalie?' I said. 
 
 " ' Oh, I have, monsieur ; but I can get nothing out 
 of her. That girl is a stone wall. She knows some- 
 thing, but there is no making her talk.' 
 
 "After a few more remarks, my landlad}' left me, a 
 prey to a romantic curiosity, to vague and darkling 
 thoughts, to a religious terror that was something like 
 the awe which comes upon us when we enter b}^ night 
 a gloomy church and see in the distance beneath the 
 arches a feeble light ; a formless figure glides before 
 us, the sweep of a robe — of priest or woman — is 
 heard ; we shudder. La Grande Breteche, with its tall 
 grasses, its shuttered windows, its rust}' railings, its 
 barred gates, its deserted rooms, rose fantastically 
 and suddenly before me. I tried to penetrate that 
 mysterious dwelling and seek the knot of this most 
 solemn history, this drama which had killed three 
 persons. 
 
 " Rosalie became to my eyes the most interesting 
 person in Vendome. Examining her, I discovered the 
 traces of an ever-present inward thought. In spite of 
 the health which bloomed upon her dimpled face, there 
 was in her some element of remorse, or of hope ; her 
 attitude bespoke a secret, like that of devotees who 
 pray with ardor, or that of a girl who has killed her 
 child and forever after hears its cry. And yet her pos- 
 
La Grande Bretcche. 243 
 
 tiiros wore nuivi', uiul vwn vulL^ar ; her silly smile was 
 surely not criujinul ; you wouUl have judged her inno- 
 cent if only by the large neckerchief of blue and red 
 sijuares wiiich covered her vigorous bust, clothed, con- 
 fuied, anil set olf b}' a gown of purple and white stripes. 
 ' No,' thought I ; ' I will not leave Vendonic without 
 knowing the history of La Grande lireteche. I '11 even 
 make love to Rosalie, if it is absolutely necessary.' 
 
 " ' Rosalie ! ' I saiil to her one day. 
 
 " ' What is it, monsieur? ' 
 
 " ' You arc not married, arc 3'ou?' 
 
 She trembled slightly. 
 
 "'Oh! when the fane}' takes nie to be unhappy 
 there '11 be no lack of men,* she said, laughing. 
 
 "She recovered instantly from her emotion, what- 
 ever it was ; for all women, from the great laily to the 
 chambermaid of an inn, have a self-possession of their 
 own. 
 
 " 'You are fresh enough and taking enough to please 
 a lover,' I said, watching her. ' But tell me, Rosalie, 
 why did you take a place at an inn after you left ^la- 
 dame de Merret? Did n't she leave you an annuity? ' 
 
 " ' Oh, 3es, she did. But, monsieur, my place is the 
 best in all Yendome.' 
 
 "This answer was evidently what judges and lawyers 
 call ' dilatory.' Rosalie's position in this romantic his- 
 tory was like that of a square on a checkerboard ; she 
 
244 La Crrande Bretiche. 
 
 was at the very centre, as it were, of its truth and its 
 interest ; she seemed to me to be tied into the knot of 
 it. The last chapter of the tale was in her, and, from 
 the moment that I realized this, Rosalie became to me 
 an object of attraction. By dint of studying the girl 
 I came to find in her, as we do in every woman whom 
 we make a principal object of our attention, that she 
 had a host of good qualities. She was clean, and 
 careful of herself, and therefore handsome. Some two 
 or three weeks after the notary's visit I said to her, 
 suddenly : ' Tell me all you know about Madame de 
 Merret.' 
 
 ' ' ' Oh, no ! ' she replied, in a tone of terror, ' don't 
 ask me that, monsieur.' 
 
 " I persisted in urging her. Her pretty face dark- 
 ened, her bright color faded, her eyes lost their inno- 
 cent, liquid light. 
 
 " 'Well! ' she said, after a pause, 'if you will have 
 it so, I will tell you ; but keep the secret.' 
 
 " ' I '11 keep it with the faithfulness of a thief, which 
 is the most loyal to be found anywhere.' 
 
 "' If it is the same to j^ou, monsieur, I 'd rather you 
 kept it with 3'our own.' 
 
 ' ' Thereupon, she adjusted her neckerchief and posed 
 herself to tell the tale ; for it is very certain that an 
 attitude of confidence and security is desirable in order 
 to make a narration. The best tales are told at special 
 
La Grnudi IWrtrrhe. 246 
 
 hours,-- liko lli:it, in wliiili we :irr now at tiililc. No 
 one ever toKl u story well, standiiiji or fnMtiiijj. 
 
 " If I were to reproduce faithfully poor HoHnlie'a 
 (litfusc eloquence, a whole volume would scarce sulllce. 
 Hut as the event of which she now <^ave nic a ha/.y 
 knowledge falls into place between the facts revealed 
 by the garrulity of the notary, and that of Madame 
 Le[)as, as precisely as the mean terms of an arithmeti- 
 cal proposition lie between its two extremes, all I have 
 to do is to tell it to you in few words. I therefore 
 give a summary of what I heard from Kosalie. 
 
 "The chamber which Madame dc Merret occupied 
 at La Grande Brcteche was on the ground-floor. A 
 small closet about four feet in depth was made in the 
 wall, and son-ed as a wardrobe. Three months before 
 the evening when the facts I am about to relate to you 
 happened, Madame de Merret liad been so seriously 
 unwell that her husband left her alone in her room and 
 slept himself in a chamber on the first floor. By one of 
 those mere chances which it is impossible to foresee, he 
 returned, on the evening in question, two hours later 
 than usual from the club where he went habitually to 
 re.ad the papers and talk politics with the inhabitants of 
 the town. His wife thought him at home and in l»ed 
 and asleep. But the invasion of France had been the 
 subject of a livel}' discussion ; the game of billiards was 
 a he.ated one ; he had lost forty francs, an enormous sura 
 
246 La Grande BretecJie. 
 
 for Vendorae, where everjbod}- hoards his money, and 
 where manners and customs are restrained within modest 
 limits worth}' of all praise, — which may, perhaps, be 
 the source of a certain true happiness which no Parisian 
 cares anything at all about. 
 
 " For some time past Monsieur de Merret had been in 
 the habit of asking Rosalie, when he came in, if his 
 wife were in bed. Being told, invariabl}', that she was, 
 he at once went to his own room with the contentment 
 that comes of confidence and custom. This evening, 
 on returning home, he took it into his head to go to 
 Madame de Merret's room and tell her his ill-luck, 
 perhaps to be consoled for it. During dinner he had 
 noticed that his wife was coquettishly dressed ; and as 
 he came from the club the thought crossed his mind 
 that she was no longer ill, that her convalescence had 
 made her lovelier than ever, — a fact he perceived, as 
 husbands are wont to perceive things, too late. 
 
 " Instead of calling Rosalie, who at that moment was 
 in the kitchen watching a complicated game of ' brisque,* 
 at which the cook and the coachman were playing, 
 Monsieur de Merret went straight to his wife's room by 
 the light of his lantern, which he had placed on the 
 first step of the stairway. His step, which was easily 
 recognized, resounded under the arches of the corridor. 
 Just as he turned the handle of his wife's door he fan- 
 cied he heard the door of the closet, which I mentioned 
 
Ln Grande Bretcche. 247 
 
 to you, shut ; but when lie entered, Madame de Mcrrct 
 was alone, standing before tlie fireplace. The husband 
 thought to himself that Rosalie nuist be in the closet ; 
 and }'et a suspicion, which sounded in his ears like 
 the ringing of bells, made him distnistful. lie looked 
 at his wife, and fancied he saw something wild and 
 troubled in her eyes. 
 
 " ' You are late in coming home,' she said. That 
 voice, usually so pure and gracious, seemed to him 
 slightly changed. 
 
 " Monsieur de Mcrrct made no answer, for at that 
 moment Rosalie entered the room. Her appearance 
 was a thunderbolt to him. lie walked up and down 
 the room with his arms crossed, going from one win- 
 dow to another with a uniform movement. 
 
 " ' Have 30U heard anything to trouble you?' asked 
 his wife, timidly, while Rosalie was undressing her. 
 He made no answer. 
 
 '* ' You can leave the room,' said ^Madame dc Merret 
 to the maid. ' I will arrange my hair myself.' 
 
 " She guessed some misfortune at the mere sight of 
 her husband's face, and wished to be alone with 
 him. 
 
 '' "When Rosalie was gone, or supposed to be gone, 
 for she went no further than the corridor, Monsieur de 
 Merret came to his wife and stood before her. Then 
 he said, coldl}' : 
 
248 La Grande Breteche. 
 
 " ' Madame, there is some one in your closet.' 
 
 " She looked at her husband with a calm air, and 
 answered, ' No, monsieur.' 
 
 " That ' no ' agonized Monsieur de Merret, for he 
 did not believe it. And yet his wife had never seemed 
 purer nor more saintly than she did at that moment. 
 He rose and went towards the closet to open the door ; 
 Madame de Merret took him by the hand and stopped 
 him ; she looked at him with a sad air and said, in 
 a voice that was strangely shaken : ' If you find no 
 one, remember that all is over between us.' 
 
 " The infinite dignity of his wife's demeanor restored 
 her husband's respect for her, and suddenly inspired 
 him with one of those resolutions which need some 
 wider field to become immortal. 
 
 "'No, Josephine,' he said, *I will not look there. 
 In either case we should be separated forever. Listen 
 to me : I know the purity of your soul, I know that you 
 lead a saintly life ; you would not commit a mortal sin 
 to save yourself from death.' 
 
 " At these woixls, Madame de Merret looked at her 
 husband with a haggard eye. 
 
 " ' Here is your crucifix,' he went on. ' Swear to me 
 before God that there is no one in that closet and I will 
 believe you ; I will not open that door.' 
 
 "Madame de Merret took the crucifix and said 'I 
 swear it.' 
 
La Grande Bretcrhe. 249 
 
 *' * Louder I ' said her husband ; ' ropcnt nflor mo, — I 
 swear before God that there is no person in timt 
 closet.' 
 
 " She repeated the words composedly. 
 
 "'That is well,' said Monsieur de Merret, coldly. 
 After a moment's sik'ncc he added, examining the 
 ebony crucifix inlaid with silver, 'That is a beautiful 
 thing ; I did not know you possessed it ; it is very 
 artisticall}* wrought.' 
 
 " ' I found it at Duvivier's,' she replied ; * he bought 
 it of a Spanish monk when those prisoners -of- war 
 passetl through Vcndume last 3*ear.* 
 
 " ' Ah ! ' said Monsieur de Merret, replacing the 
 crucifix on the wall. He rang the bell. Rosalie was 
 not long in answering it. Monsieur de Merret went 
 quickly up to her, took her into the recess of a window 
 on the garden side, and said to her in a low voice : — 
 
 " ' I am told that Gorenflot wants to marrj* you, and 
 that poverty alone prevents it, for you have told him 
 you will not be his wife until he is a master-mason. Is 
 that so?' 
 
 " ' Yes, monsieur.' 
 
 " ' "Well, go and find him ; tell him to come here at 
 once and bring his trowel and other tools. Take care 
 not to wake any one at his house but himself; he will 
 soon have enough money to satisfy you. No talking to 
 anv one when vou leave this room, mind, or — * 
 
250 La Grande Breteehe. 
 
 " He frowned. Rosalie left the room. He called her 
 back ; ' Here, take my pass-key,' he said. 
 
 " Monsieur de Merret, who had kept his wife in view 
 while giving these orders, now sat down beside her 
 before the fire and began to tell her of his game of 
 billiards, and the political discussions at the club. 
 When Rosalie returned she found Monsieur and Ma- 
 dame de Merret talking amicably. 
 
 "The master had latel}' had the ceilings of all the 
 reception rooms on the lower floor restored. Plaster 
 is very scarce at Vendome, and the carriage of it 
 makes it expensive. Monsieur de Merret had there- 
 fore ordered an ample quantity for his own wants, 
 knowing that he could readily finds buyers for what 
 was left. This circumstance inspired the idea that 
 now possessed him. 
 
 " ' Monsieur, Gorenflot has come,' said Rosalie. 
 
 " ' Bring him in,' said her master. 
 
 " Madame de Merret turned slightly pale when she 
 saw the mason. 
 
 "'Gorenflot,' said her husband, 'fetch some bricks 
 from the coach-house, — enough to wall up that door ; 
 use the plaster that was left over, to cover the wall.' 
 
 " Then he called Rosalie and the mason to the end 
 of the room, and, speaking in a low voice, added, 
 ' Listen to me, Gorenflot ; after you have done this work 
 you will sleep in the house ; and to-morrow morning 
 
La Orande Breteche. 261 
 
 T will fcivo you a passport into a fonii^n conntrv, ami 
 six thousand francs for the journey, (io through I'aris 
 wliere I will meet you. There, I will secure to you 
 legally another six thousand francs, to be paid to you at 
 the end of ten years if you still remain out of France. 
 For this stun, I demand absolute silence on what you 
 sec and do this night. As for you, Rosalie, I give you 
 a dowry of ten thousand francs, on condition that 
 you marry Gorenflot, and keep silence, if not — ' 
 
 "'Rosalie,' said Madame de Merret, 'come and 
 brush my hair.' 
 
 " The husband walked up and down the room, watch- 
 ing the door, the mason, and his wife, but without 
 allowing the least distrust or misgiving to appear in 
 his manner. Gorenflot's work made some noise ; un- 
 der cover of it Madame de ^Icrret said hastily to 
 Rosalie, while her husband was at the farther end of 
 the room. ' A thousand francs annuity if you tell 
 Gorenflot to leave a crevice at the bottom ; ' then aloud 
 she added, composedly, ' Go and help the mason.' 
 
 " Monsieur and Madame de Merret remained silent 
 during the whole time it took Gorenflot to wall up the 
 door. The silence was intentional on the part of the 
 husband to deprive his wife of all chance of saying 
 words with a double meaning which might be heard 
 within the closet ; with Madame de Merret it was 
 either prudence or pride. 
 
252 La Grande Breteche. 
 
 " When the wall was more than half up, the mason's 
 tool broke one of the panes of glass in the closet door ; 
 Monsieur de Merret's back was at that moment turned 
 away. The action proved to Madame de Merret that 
 Eosalie had spoken to the mason. In that one instant 
 she saw the dark face of a man with black hair and 
 fiery eyes. Before her husband turned the poor creat- 
 ure had time to make a sign with her head which 
 meant ' Hope.' 
 
 "By four o'clock, just at dawn, for it was in the 
 month of September, the work was done. Monsieur de 
 Merret remained that night in his wife's room. The 
 next morning, on rising, he said, carelessly : ' Ah ! 
 I forgot, I must go to the mayor's office about that 
 passport.' 
 
 "He put on his hat, made three steps to the 
 door, then checked himself, turned back, and took the 
 crucifix. 
 
 " His wife trembled with joy ; ' He will go to Duvi- 
 vier's,' she thought. 
 
 "The moment her husband had left the house she 
 rang for Rosalie. 'The pick-axe!' she cried, 'the 
 pick-axe ! I watched how Gorenflot did it ; we shall 
 have time to make a hole and close it again.' 
 
 "In an instant Rosalie had brought a sort of cleaver, 
 and her mistress, with a fury no words can describe, 
 began to demolish the wall. She had knocked away 
 
La Grande Brett che. 258 
 
 a few bricks, and was drawing back to strike a still 
 more vigorous blow with all her strength, when sho 
 saw her liusband behind her. She fainted. 
 
 "'Put niadanie on her bed,' said her iuisband, coldly. 
 
 "Foreseeing what would happen, he had laid this 
 trap for his wife ; he had written to the mayor, and 
 sent for Duvivier. The jeweller amved just as the 
 room had been again put in order. 
 
 " ' Duvivier,' said Monsieur de Mcrret, ' I think you 
 bought some crucifixes of those Spanianls who were 
 here last year?' 
 
 " ' No, monsieur, I did not.' 
 
 " ' Ver}* good ; thank you,' he said, with a tigerish 
 glance at his wife. ' Jean,' he adtled to the footman, 
 ' serve my meals in Madame de Merret's bedroom ; she 
 is ver}' ill, and I sluiU not leave her till she recovers.' 
 
 "For twenty days that rnan remained beside his 
 wife. During the first hours, when sounds were heard 
 behind the walled door, and Josephine tried to implore 
 mercy for the dying stranger, he answered, without 
 allowing her to utter a word : — 
 
 " ' You swore upon the cross that no one was there.' " 
 
 As the tale ended the women rose from table, and 
 the spell under which Bianchon had held them was 
 broken. Nevertheless, several of them were conscious 
 of a cold chill as they recalled the last words. 
 
TllK PURSE. 
 
 To Sofka: 
 
 Have you ever remarked, Mademoiselle, that when the 
 painters and sculptors of the middle ages placed two fij^urea 
 in adoration beside some glorious saint they have always 
 given them a filial resemblance ? 
 
 When you see your name among those dear to me, under 
 whose protection I place my books, remember this likeness 
 and you will find here not so much a homage as an expression 
 of the fraternal affection felt for you by 
 
 Your servant, De Balzac. 
 
 For souls easily moved to joyous feelings there comes 
 a delightful moment when night is not yet and day is 
 no more ; the twilight casta its soft tones or its fantastic 
 reflections over ever}thing, and inWtes to a revery 
 which blends vaguely with the pla}- of light and shadow. 
 The silence that nearly always reigns at such a moment 
 renders it particularly dear to artists, who then gather 
 up their thoughts, stand back a little from their crear 
 tions, at which they can sec to work no longer, and 
 
256 The Purse. 
 
 judge them in the intoxication of a subject the esoteric 
 meaning of which then blazes forth to the inner ej^es of 
 genius. He who has never stood pensive beside a friend 
 at that dream}', poetic moment will have difficult}' in 
 comprehending its unspeakable benefits. Thanks to 
 the half-light, the chiaroscuro, all the material de- 
 ceptions employed by art to simulate truth disappear. 
 If a picture is the thing concerned, the persons it repre- 
 sents seem to speak and move ; the shadow is reall}'^ 
 shadow, the light is da}', the flesh is living, the eyes 
 turn, the blood flows in the veins, and the silks shimmer. 
 At that hour illusion reigns unchallenged ; perhaps it 
 onl}^ rises at night-fall ! Indeed, illusion is to thought 
 a sort of night which we decorate with dreams. Then 
 it is that she spreads her wings aud bears the soul to 
 the world of fantasy, — a world teeming with voluptuous 
 caprices, where the artist forgets the actual world, for- 
 gets yesterda}', to-da}'^, to-morrow, all, even his dis- 
 tresses, the happy as well as the bitter ones. 
 
 At that magic hour a young painter, a man of talent, 
 who saw nought in art but art itself, was perched on a 
 double ladder which he used for the purpose of painting 
 a very large picture, now nearly finished. There, criti- 
 cising himself and admiring himself in perfect good 
 faith, he was lost in one of those meditations which rav- 
 ish the soul, enlarge it, caress it, and console it. His 
 revery no doubt lasted long. Night came. Whether he 
 
The Purse. 2r,7 
 
 tried to como down his hiddiM-, or wliotln'r. thinking he 
 was on the ground, he imule some imprudent movement, 
 he was unal)lc to rcmeral)er, but at any rate he fell, his 
 head struek a stool, he lost consciousness and lay for a 
 time, but how long he did not know, without moving. 
 
 A soft Voice drew him from the sort of stui)or in which 
 he was plunged. When he opened his eyes a bright 
 light made him dose them again ; but through the veil 
 that wrapped his senses he heard the murmur of 
 women's voices, ami felt two young and timid hands 
 about his head. He soon recovered consciousness and 
 perceived, by the light of one of those old-fashioned 
 lamps called " double air-currents," the head of the 
 loveliest young girl he had ever seen, — one of those 
 heads which are often thought artistic fancies, but which 
 for him suddenh' realized the noble ideal which each 
 artist creates for himself, and from which his genius 
 proceeds. The face of the unknown maiden belonged, 
 if we ma}' say so, to the school of Prudhon, and it also 
 possessed the poetic charm which Girodet has given to 
 his imaginary ^^sions. The delightful coolness of tiie 
 temples, the evenness of the eyebrows, the purity of 
 the outlines, the \'irginity strongly imprinted on that 
 countenance, made the young girl a perfected being. 
 
 Her clothes, though simple and neat, bespoke neither 
 wealth nor povert\'. When the painter regained pos- 
 session of himself, he expressed his admiration in a 
 
 17 
 
258 The Purse. 
 
 look of surprise as he stammered his thanks. He felt 
 his forehead pressed b}' a handkerchief, and he recog- 
 nized, in spite of the peculiar odor of an atelier, the 
 strong fumes of hartshorn, used, no doubt, to bring 
 him to himself. Next he noticed an old lad}', like a 
 countess of the old regime, who held the lamp 'and was 
 advising her companion. 
 
 " Monsieur," replied the j'oung gu-1 to one of the 
 painter's questions asked during the moment when he 
 was still half-unconscious, " ray mother and I heard the 
 noise of j'our fall on the floor and we thought we also 
 heard a groan. The silence which succeeded your fall 
 alarmed us and we hastened to come up to you. 
 Finding the kej- in the door we fortunately' ventured 
 to come in. We found you lying on the floor uncon- 
 scious. My mother obtained what was necessary' to 
 bring you to and to stanch the blood. You are hurt 
 in the forehead; there, do you feel it?" 
 
 " Yes, now I do," he said. 
 
 "It is a mere nothing," said the old mother, " for- 
 tunateh' 3'our fall was broken b}' that lay-figure." 
 
 "I feel much better," said the painter; "all I 
 want is a carriage to take me home. The porter can 
 fetch it." 
 
 He tried to reiterate his thanks to the two ladies, but 
 at ever}' sentence the mother interrupted him, saying : 
 "To-morrow, monsieur, put on blisters or apply 
 
Tlie Purse. 269 
 
 leeches ; drink n few cups of some icstoriitivo ; tiike 
 care of yourself, — fulls are dangerous." 
 
 The young girl glanced shyly at the painter, and 
 around the studio. Her look anil demeanor were those 
 of perfect propriety, and lier eyes seemed to express, 
 with a spontaneity that was full of grace, the interest 
 that women take in whatever troubles men. These 
 unknown ladies appeared to ignore the works of the 
 painter in presence of the sutlering man. When he 
 had reassured them as to his condition they left the 
 roou), after examining him with a solicitude that was 
 devoid of either exaggeration or familiarity, and with- 
 out asking any indiscreet questions, or seeking to in- 
 spire him with a wish to know them. Their conduct 
 was marked with ever}- sign of delicacy and good taste. 
 At first their noble and simple manners produced but 
 little etfect upon the painter, but later, when he recalled 
 the circumstances, he was greatly struck by them. 
 
 Reaching the floor below that on which the studio 
 was situated, the old lady exclaimed, gently, "■ Ade- 
 laide, you left the door open ! " 
 
 " It was to succor me," replied the painter, with a 
 smile of gratitude. 
 
 " Mamma, you came down just now," said the young 
 gill, blushing. 
 
 " Shall we light 3-ou down? " said the mother to the 
 painter ; " the stairway is dark." 
 
260 The Purse. 
 
 " Oh, thank yon, madame, but I feel much better." 
 
 " Hold by the baluster." 
 
 The two women stood on the landing to light the 
 young man, listening to the sound of his Steps. 
 
 To explain all that made this scene piquant and un- 
 expected to the painter, we must add that he had only 
 lately removed his studio to the attic of this house, 
 which stood at the darkest and muddiest part of the 
 rue de Suresnes, nearly opposite to the church of the 
 Madeleine, a few steps from his apartments, which 
 were in the rue des Champs Elysees. The celebrity 
 his talent had won for him made him dear to France, 
 and he was just beginning to no longer feel the troubles 
 of want, and to enjoy, as he said, his last miseries. 
 Instead of going to his work in a studio be^-ond the 
 ban'ier, the modest price of which had hitherto been in 
 keeping with the modesty of his earnings, he now satis- 
 fled a desire, of daily growth, to avoid the long walk 
 and the loss of time which had now become a thing of 
 the utmost value. 
 
 No one in the world could have inspired deeper in- 
 terest that Hippolyte Schinner, if he had onl}' con- 
 sented to be known ; but he was not one of those who 
 readily confide the secrets of their heart. He was the 
 idol of a poor mother who had brought him up at a 
 cost of stern privations. Mademoiselle Schinner, the 
 daughter of an Alsatian farmer, was not married. 
 
The Punic. 261 
 
 ITer tciulor soul had ouco l)oon cruelly woiitnlcfl by a 
 wealthy man who boasted of little delicacy in love. 
 The fatal day when, in the glow of youth and boanty, 
 in the glory of Ikt life, she enihned at tlm cost of all 
 her beautiful illusions, and of her heart itself, the dis- 
 eneliantnient which comes to us so slowly and Act so 
 fast, — for we will not believe in evil until t<Jo late, and 
 then it seems to come too rapidly, — that day was to her 
 a whole century of rellection, and it was also a day of 
 religious thoughts and resignation. She refused the 
 alms of the man who had betra3'ed her ; she renounced 
 the world, and made an honor of her fault. She gave 
 herself up to maternal love, enjoying in exchange for 
 the social enjoyments to which she bad bid farewell, 
 its fullest delights. She lived l)y her labor, and fijund 
 her wealth in her son ; and the day came, the hour 
 came wliich repaid her for the long, slow sacrifices of 
 her indigence. At the last Exhibition her son had re- 
 ceived tlie cross of the Legion of honor. The news- 
 papers, unanimous in lavor of a hitherto ignored talent, 
 rang with praises that were now sincere. Artists them- 
 selves recognized Schinner as a master, and the dealers 
 were ready to cover his canvases with gold. 
 
 At twenty-five years of age Hippolyte Schinner, to 
 whom his mother had transmitted her woman's soul, 
 fully recognized his position in the world. ^Vishing to 
 give his mother the pleasures that society had so long 
 
262 The Purse. 
 
 ■withdrawn from her, he lived for her on!}', — hoping 
 to see her some da}-, thi'ough the power of his fame 
 and fortune, happy, rich, respected, and surrounded 
 by celebrated men. 
 
 Schinner had therefore chosen his friends among the 
 most honorable and distinguished men of his own age. 
 Hard to satisfy in his choice, he wished to gain a posi- 
 tion even higher than that his talents gave him. En- 
 forcing him to live in solitude (that mother of great 
 thoughts) the toil to which he had vowed himself from 
 his youth up had kept him true to the noble beliefs 
 which adorn the earlier years of life. His adolescent 
 soul had lost none of the many forms of chastit}- which 
 make a young man a being apart, a being whose heart 
 abounds in felicity, in poesy, in virgin hopes, — feeble 
 to the e^es of worn-out men, but deep because they 
 are simple. He was endowed by nature with the 
 gentle, courteous manners, which are those of the heart, 
 and which charm even those who are not able to 
 comprehend them. He was well made. His voice, 
 which echoed his soul, roused noble sentiments in the 
 souls of others, and bore testimony by a certain candor 
 in its tones to his innate modesty. Those who saw 
 him felt drawn to him b^- one of those moral attrac- 
 tions which, happily, scientific men cannot analyze ; if 
 they could they would find some phenomena of gal- 
 vanism, or the flow of heaven knows what fluid, and 
 
The Purge. 268 
 
 formulate our feelings in proportions of oxygen and 
 electricity. 
 
 These details may pcrliai)n oiili;^hton persons who are 
 bold by nature, and also men with gw;d cravats, as to 
 wh}' Ilippolyte Schinner, in the absence of the |)ortor, 
 whom he had sent to the nie de la Madeleine for a hack- 
 ney-coach, did not ask the porter's wife any question 
 as to the two ladies whose kindness of heart accident 
 had revealed to him. But though he answered merel}* 
 yes or no to the questions, natural enough under the 
 circumstances, which the woman put to him on his 
 accident, and on the assistance rendered to him by the 
 occupants of the fourth floor, he could not prevent her 
 from obeying the instincts of her race. She spoke of 
 the two ladies in the interests of hor own policy and 
 according to the subterranean judgment of a porter's 
 lodge. 
 
 " Ah ! " she said, "that must have been Mademoi- 
 selle Leseigneur and her mother ; they have lived here 
 the last four 3ears. We can't make out what those 
 ladies do. In the morning (but onl}- till twelve o'clock) 
 an old charwoman, nearly deaf, and who does n't talk 
 any more than a stone wall, comes to help them ; in 
 the evening two or three old gentlemen, decorated, like 
 you, monsieur, — one of them keeps a carriage and ser- 
 vants, and people do say he has sixty thousand franca 
 a year, — well, they spend the evening here and oftea 
 
264 The Purse. 
 
 stay very late. The ladies are verj' quiet tenants, like 
 you, monsieur ; and economical ! — they live on nothing ; 
 as soon as they get a letter they pa}' their rent. It is 
 queer, monsieur, but the mother has n't the same name 
 as the daughter. Ah ! but when they go to walk in the 
 Tuileries mademoiselle is dazzling, and often young 
 gentlemen follow her home, but she has the door slmt 
 in their faces, — and she is right ; for the proprietor 
 would never allow — " 
 
 The coach having arrived, Hippolyte heard no more 
 and went home. His mother, to whom he related his 
 adventure, dressed his wound and would not let him 
 go back to the studio the next da}'. Consultation was 
 had, divers prescriptions were ordered, and Hippolyte 
 was kept at home three daj'S. During this seclusion, 
 his unoccupied imagination recalled to him in vivid 
 fragments the details of the scene that followed his 
 swoon. The profile of the young girl was deeply cut 
 upon the shadowy background of his inner sight ; 
 again he saw the faded face of the mother and felt 
 Adelaide's soft hands ; he remembered a gesture he had 
 scarcely noticed at the time, but now its exquisite grace 
 was thrown into relief by memory ; then an attitude or 
 the tones of a melodious voice, made more melodious 
 b}' recollection, suddenly reappeared, like things that 
 are thrown to the bottom of a river and return to the 
 surface. 
 
The Purse. 205 
 
 So the first day on which hi? was fxlde to go to work 
 he went early to his studio ; but tlie visit which he hud, 
 incontestably, the right to make to his neighlKjrs was 
 the real reason of his haste ; his pictures were forgotten. 
 The moment a passion bursts its swiiddlinj^'-clotlies it 
 finds inexplicable pleasures known only to those who 
 love. Thus there are persons who will know why the 
 painter slowly mounted the stairs of the fourth story ; 
 they will be in the secret of those rapid pulsations of his 
 heart as he came in sight of the brown door of the hum- 
 ble apartments occupied by Mademoiselle Leseigneur. 
 This young girl, who did not bear the same name as her 
 mother, had awakened a thousand sympathies in the 
 young painter ; he longed to find in her certain similari- 
 ties of position to his own, and he invested her with the 
 misfortunes of his own origin. While he worked, IIij> 
 polyte gave himself, complacentl}-, to thoughts of love, 
 and he made as much noise as he could, to induce the 
 ladies to think of him as much as he thought of them, 
 lie stayed very late at the studio, and dined there. About 
 seven o'clock he went down to call on his neighbors. 
 
 No painter of manners and customs has dared to 
 initiate us — restrained, perhaps, by a sense of pro- 
 priety — into the truh* singular interiors of certain 
 Parisian homes, into the secret of those dwellings 
 whence issue such fresh, such elegant toilets, women so 
 brilliant on tlie outside who nevertheless betray signs 
 
266 The Purse. 
 
 of an equivocal fortune. If the painting of such a home 
 is here too frankly drawn, if you find it tedious, do not 
 blame the description, which forms, as it were, an integ- 
 ral part of the history ; for the aspect of the apartments 
 occupied b}" his neighbors had a great influence upon 
 the hopes and feelings of Hippoly^ Schinner. 
 
 The house belonged to one of those proprietors in 
 whom there is a pre-existent horror of repairs or im- 
 provements, — one of the men who consider their posi- 
 tion as house-owners in Paris as their business in life. 
 In the grand chain of moral species such men hold the 
 middle place between usurers and misers. Optimists 
 from self-interest, they are all faithful to the statu quo 
 of Austria. If 3'ou mention moving a cupboard or a 
 door, or making the most necessary of ventilators, their 
 e^'es glitter, their bile rises, they rear like a frightened 
 horse. When the wind has knocked over a chimney- 
 pot they fall ill of it, and deprive themselves and their 
 families of an evening at the G3'mnase or the Porte- 
 Saint-Martin to pay damages. Hippolj'te, who, apropos 
 of certain embellishments he wished made to his studio, 
 had enjoj'ed, gratis, the pla3'ing of a comic scene by 
 Monsieur Molineux, the proprietor, was not at all sur- 
 prised by the blackened, soiled colors, the oily tints, 
 the spots, and other disagreeable accessories which 
 adorned the woodwork. These stigmata of poverty 
 are never without a certain poetry to an artist. 
 
Tlie Purse. 2<;7 
 
 Maderaoisclle Lcseigncur herself opened llie door. 
 Recognizing the young painU-r xhe liowi-d lo him ; 
 then, at the same moment, with rarisiun dexterity, 
 and that presence of mind which pride afl'ords, she 
 turned and shut the door of a glazed partition through 
 which Hippolyte might have seen linen hung to dry 
 on lines above a cheap stove, an old tlock bed, coal, 
 charcoal, flatirons, a water-filter, china and glass, and 
 all utensils necessary to a small household. Muslin 
 curtains, that were sufllciently clean, carefully con- 
 cealed this '' capharnaiim," — a word then familiarly 
 applied to such domestic laboratories, ill-lighted by 
 narrow windows opening on a court. 
 
 With the rapid glance of an artist Hippolyte had 
 seen the furnishing, the character, and the condition 
 of this first apartment, which was in fact one room 
 cut in two. The respectable half, which answered the 
 double purpose of ante-chamber and dining-room, was 
 hung with an old yellow paper, and a velvet border, 
 manufactured no doubt b\' Reveillon, the holes and 
 the spots of which had been carefully concealed un- 
 der wafers. Engravings representing the battles of 
 Alexander, by Lebrun, in tarnished frames, decorated 
 the walls at equal distances. In the centre of the 
 room was a massive mahogany table, old-fashioned in 
 shape, and a good deal rubbed at the corners. A 
 small stove, with a straight pipe and no elbow, hardly 
 
 ' 
 
268 TJie Purse. 
 
 seen, stood before the chimney, the fireplace in which 
 was turned into a closet. By way of an odd contrast, 
 the chairs, which were of carved mahogany, showed 
 the relics of past splendor, but the red leather of the 
 seats, the gilt nails, and the gimps showed as many 
 wounds as an old sergeant of the Imperial Guard. 
 This room served as a museum for a variety' of things 
 that are only found in certain amphibious households, 
 unnameable articles, which belong both to luxur}' and 
 povertj'. Among them Hippolyte noticed a spy-glass, 
 handsomely ornamented, which hung above the little 
 greenish mirror on the mantel-shelf. To complete the 
 oddity of this furniture, a shabb}^ sideboard stood be- 
 tween the chimney and the partition, made of common 
 pine painted in mahogany, which of all woods is least 
 successfully imitated. But the red and slipper}- floor, 
 the shabby bits of carpet before the chairs, and all the 
 furniture, shone with the careful rubbing which gives 
 its own lustre to old things, and brings out all the 
 clearer their dilapidations, their age, and their long 
 service. 
 
 The room gave out an indefinable odor resulting from 
 the exhalations of the capharnaiim mingled with the 
 atmosphere of the dining-room and that of the stair- 
 case, though the window was open and the breeze from 
 the street stirred the cambric curtains, which were 
 carefully arranged to hide the window-frame where 
 
The Purse, 2i;9 
 
 preceding tciiaiits Iiad nuirktd lluir prt'Hcncc by variouii 
 curviiigs, — a sort of domestic frescoing. 
 
 A<lt'l:iide quickly opened the door of the next room, 
 into wliieli slic ushered tlie painter with evident pleas- 
 ure. Ilippolyte, who had seen the same signs of pov- 
 erty in his mother's homo, nolited tlicm uimv with that 
 singular keenness of iinpression which characterizes the 
 first acfpiisitioiis of our memory ; and he was ahle to un- 
 derstand, bettor perha[)s than otliers could have done, 
 the details of such an existence. Recognizing the things 
 of his childhood, the honest young fellow felt neither 
 contempt for the hidden i)overty before him, nor pride 
 in the luxury he had lately achieved for his mother. 
 
 '' Well, monsieur, I h(>[)e yi)U arc none the worse 
 for your fall?" said the mother, rising from an old- 
 fashioned sofa at the corner of the fireplace, and 
 olfering him a chair. 
 
 "No, madame. I have conic to thank you for the 
 good care you gave me ; and especially mademoiselle, 
 who heard me fall." 
 
 While making this speech, full of the adorable 
 stupidity which the first agitations of a true love 
 produce in the soul, Ilippolyte looked at the young 
 girl. Adelaide lighted the lamp with the double cur- 
 rent of air, no doubt for the purpose of suppressing a 
 tallow candle placed in a large pewter candlestick that 
 w^as covered with drippings from an unusual flow of 
 
270 The Purse. 
 
 tallow. She bowed slightl}', placed the candlestick on 
 the chimney-piece, and sat down near her mother, a 
 little behind the painter, so as to look at him at her 
 ease, while seemingly engaged in making the lamp 
 burn ; for the feeble flame of the double current, affected 
 b}' the dampness of the tarnished chimnej-, sputtered 
 and struggled with an ill-cut, black wick. Observing 
 the mirror above the mantel-shelf, Hippol^'te promptly 
 looked into it to see and admire Adelaide. The little 
 scheme of the young girl served therefore onlj- to 
 embarrass them both. 
 
 While talking with Madame Leseigneur, for Hippolyte 
 at first gave her that name, he examined the salon, but 
 discreetl}^ and with propriety. The Eg3ptian figures of 
 the andirons (made of iron) could scarcely be seen on 
 the hearth full of ashes, where two small sticks of wood 
 were trying to meet each other in front of an imitation 
 back-log of earthenware. An old Aubusson carpet, 
 well-mended and much faded and worn, hardly covered 
 the tiled floor, which felt cold to the feet. The walls 
 were hung with a reddish paper in the style of a bro- 
 cade with bufl" designs. In the centre of the partition 
 opposite to the windows the painter observed an inden- 
 tation and cracks in the paper, made by the two doors 
 of a folding-bed, where Madame Leseigneur doubtless 
 slept, and which was only partly concealed b}' a sofa 
 placed in front of it. Opposite to the chimney, and 
 
The rurse. -JTl 
 
 above a chest of clniwcrs in nmlioi;:iny, the Htvlu of 
 which was liiuulsomc ami in {^ood UisU?, was the porlruil 
 of an olllccr of hi^li rank, which the poor H^^ht hardly 
 enabled the painter to make out ; but, from what h« 
 could see of it the thought occurred to hini that the 
 frijihtful daub must have been painted iu China. The 
 red silk curtains to the windows were faded, like tho 
 coverings of the furniture in this salon with two pur- 
 poses. On the inarlile top of the chest of drawers was 
 a valuable tray of malachite, holding a dozen collee- 
 cups, exquisitely painted, and made no doubt at Sevres. 
 On the mantel-shelf was the inevitable Empire clock, a 
 warrior driving the four horses of a chariot, the twelve 
 spokes of the wheel each telling an hour. The wax 
 tai)ers in the candelabra were yellow with smoke, and 
 at each end of the shelf was a china vase filled with arti- 
 ficial flowers covered with ilust and mixed with mosses. 
 Ilippolyte noticed a card-table in the centre of the 
 room, laid out with new packs of cards. To an ob- 
 server there was something indescribably sad in this 
 scene of poverty decked out like an old woman who 
 tries to give the lie to her face. Most men of common- 
 sense would have secretly and immediatcl}- formulated 
 to their own minds a problem : were these women 
 honor and uprightness itself; or did they live by cards 
 and scheming? But the sight of Adelaide was to a 
 young man as pure as Schinner the proof of perfect 
 
272 The Purse. 
 
 innocence, and it provided the incoherencies of the 
 room with honorable causes. 
 
 " My dear," said the old lady to her daughter, " I 
 am cold ; make us a little fire, and give me my shawl." 
 
 Adelaide went into an adjoining room, where no doubt 
 she slept herself, and returned, bringing her mother a 
 cashmere shawl which when new must have been of 
 great value, but being old, faded, and full of darns, it 
 harmonized with the furniture of the room. Madame 
 Leseigneur wrapped it artistically about her with the 
 cleverness of an old woman who wishes to make 3011 
 believe in the truth of her words. The 3'oung girl 
 darted into the capharnaiim, and reappeared with a 
 handful of small wood which she threw into the fire. 
 
 It would be difficult to write down the conversation 
 which took place between these three persons. Guided 
 by the tact which deprivations and trials endured in 
 youth nearly alwaj^s give a man, Hippol^^te did not 
 venture on the slightest allusion to the position of his 
 neighbors, though he saw all around him the signs of 
 an ill-disguised indigence. The simplest question would 
 have been indiscreet, and permissible onl^' in the case 
 of an old friend. And jet the painter was deeply 
 preoccupied by this hidden poverty ; his generous heart 
 ached for it ; knowing, however, that all kinds of pit}', 
 even the most sj'mpathetic, may be offensive, he grew 
 embarrassed by the conflict that existed between his 
 
The Pur He. 273 
 
 thoughts and liis words. Tlio two ladies talked first 
 of painting ; for women readily understand the secret 
 embarrassnu'iits of a first visit; perhaps they feel 
 them, and the nature of their minds gives them the 
 art of overcoming them. I>v (juestioning the yoinig 
 man on matters of his profession and his studies 
 Adelaide and her mother cmboMcMied him to converse. 
 The little nothings of their courteous and lively conver- 
 sation soon led him naturally to remarks and reflections 
 which showed the nature of his habits and his mind. 
 
 Sorrows had prematurely withered the face of the old 
 lady, who must once have been handsome, though 
 nothing remained of her good looks but the strong 
 features and outlines, — in other words, the skeleton of 
 a face which still showed infinite delicacy and much 
 charm in the play of the eyes, which possessed a cer- 
 tain expression peculiar to the women of the old court, 
 and which no words can define. These delicate and 
 subtle points ma}', however, denote an evil nature ; 
 they ma}" mean feminine guile and cunning raised to 
 their highest pitch as much as they may, on the other 
 baud, reveal the delicac}' of a noble soul. In fart, the 
 face of a woman is embarrassing to all commonplace 
 observers, inasmuch as the difference between frankness 
 and duplicity, between the genius of intrigue and the 
 genius of the heart is, to such observers, imperceptible. 
 A man endowed with a penetrating insight can guess 
 
 18 
 
274 The Purse. 
 
 the meaning of those fleeting tones produced "by a line 
 more or less curved, a dimple more or less deep, a 
 feature more or less rounded or prominent. The un- 
 derstanding of such diagnostics lies entirelj' Tvithin the 
 domain of intuition, which alone can discover what 
 others are seeking to hide. The face of this old lady 
 was like the apartment she occupied ; it seemed as 
 difficult to know whether the penury of the latter cov- 
 ered vices or integrit}- as to decide whether Adelaide's 
 mother was an old coquette accustomed to weigh and 
 to calculate and to sell ever^'thing, or a loving woman 
 full of dignit}' and noble qualities. 
 
 But at Schinner's age the first impulse of the heart is 
 to believe in goodness. So, as he looked at Adelaide's 
 noble and half-disdainful brow, and into her eyes that 
 were full of soul and of thought, he breathed, so to 
 speak, the sweet and modest perfumes of virtue. In 
 the middle of the conversation he took occasion to say 
 something about portraits in general that he might have 
 an opportunity to examine the hideous pastel over the 
 chimne^'-piece, the colors of which had faded and in 
 some places crumbled off. 
 
 "No doubt that portrait is valuable to you, ladies, 
 on account of its resemblance," he said, looking at 
 Adelaide, "for the drawing is horrible." 
 
 " It was done in China, in great haste," said the old 
 lady, with some emotion. 
 
The Purse. 27.') 
 
 She looked up at the inisorahlc sketch witli tliat sur- 
 render to feeling whkli the memory of happiness brings 
 when it falls upon the heart like a blessed dew, to 
 whose cool refreshment we delight to abandon our- 
 selves. Hut in that old face thus raised there wt-ro 
 also the traces of an eternal grief. At least, that was 
 how the painter chose to interpret the attitude and 
 face of his hostess, beside whom he now seated him- 
 self. 
 
 "Madame," he said, "before long the colors of that 
 pastel will have faded out. The portrait will then ex- 
 ist only in 3'our memory. You will see there a face 
 that is dear to you, but which no one else will be able 
 to recognize. Will you permit me to cop3' that picture 
 on canvas? It will be far more durable than what you 
 have there on paper. Grant me, as a neighbor, the 
 pleasure of doing 3'ou this ser\'ice. There come times 
 when an artist is glad to rest from his more important 
 compositions by taking up some other work, and it will 
 really be a relief to me to paint that head." 
 
 The old lady quivered as she heard these words, and 
 Ad«^laide cast upon the artist a thoughtful glance which 
 seemed like a gush of the soul itself. Hippolyte wished 
 to attach himself to his two neighbors by some tie, and 
 to win the right to mingle his life with theirs. His 
 offer, addressing itself to the deepest affections of the 
 heart, was the only one it was possible for him to 
 
276 The Purse. 
 
 make ; it satisfied his artist's pride, and did not wound 
 that of the ladies. Madame Leseigneur accepted it 
 without either eagerness or reluctance, but with that 
 consciousness of generous souls, who know the extent 
 of the obligations such acts fasten on them, and who 
 accept them as proofs of respect, and as testimonials 
 to their honor. 
 
 "I think," said the painter, "that that is a naval 
 uniform ? " 
 
 "Yes," she said, "that of a captain in the navy. 
 Monsieur de Eouville, mj^ husband, died at Batavia, 
 in consequence of wounds received in a fight with an 
 English vessel which he met off the coast of Asia. 
 He commanded a frigate mounting fift^'-six guns, but 
 the ' Revenge ' was a ninet3'-gun ship. The battle 
 was unequal, but my husband maintained it bravel}' 
 until night, under cover of which he was able to escape. 
 When I returned to France, Bonaparte was not yet in 
 power, and I was refused a pension. Lately, when I 
 applied for one again, the minister told me harshly- that 
 if the Baron de Eouville had emigrated I should not 
 have lost him, and he would now in all probability be 
 a vice-admiral ; his Excellency finally refused my appli- 
 cation under some law of forfeiture. I made the at- 
 tempt, to which certain friends urged me, only for the 
 sake of my poor Adelaide. I have always felt a repug- 
 nance to hold out m}^ hand for mone}' on the ground of 
 
TJie Purse. 277 
 
 a sorrow whiih deprives n woman of her voice and 
 her strongtii. I do not like these valuations of I)1u<m1 
 irreparably shed." 
 
 *' Dear mother, it always harms you to tiilk "ii tliis 
 subject" 
 
 At these words the Baronne Leseigneur de liouvillo 
 bowed her head and said no more. 
 
 '' Monsieur," said the young girl to Ilippolyte, " I 
 thought that the occupation of a painter was generally 
 a rather quiet one?" 
 
 At this question Schinncr blushed, recollecting the 
 noise he had been making overhead. Adelaiile did 
 not finish what she seemed about to saj', and perhaps 
 saved him from telling some fib, for she suddenly rose 
 at the sound of a carriage driving up to the door. She 
 went into her room and returned with two gilt cande- 
 labra filled with wax tapers which she quickly lighted. 
 Then, without waiting for the bell to ring, she opened 
 the door of the first room and placed the lamp on the 
 table. The sound of a kiss given and received went to 
 the depths of IIipix)Iyte's heart. The impatience of the 
 young man to see who it was that treated Adelaide so 
 familiarly was not very quic^kl}- relieved, for the new 
 arrivals held a murmured conversation with the girl, 
 which he thought very long. 
 
 At last, however, Mademoiselle de Rouville reap- 
 peared, followed by two men whose dress, physiognomy, 
 
278 The Purse. 
 
 and general appearance were a history in themselves. 
 The first, who was about sixty years of age, wore one 
 of those coats invented, I believe, for Louis XVIII., 
 then reigning, in which the most difficult of all vestuary 
 problems was solved b}' the genius of a tailor who ought 
 to be immortalized. That artist knew, not a doubt of 
 it ! the art of transitions, which constituted the genius 
 of that period, politicall}' so fickle. Surel}', it was a rare 
 merit to know how to judge, as that tailor did, of his 
 epoch ! This coat, which the 3'oung men of the present 
 day may consider a m3th, was neither civil nor mili- 
 tary, but might pass at a pinch for either military or 
 civil. Embroidered fleurs-de-lis adorned the flaps be- 
 hind. The gold buttons were also fleur-de-lised. On 
 the shoulders, two unused e3'elet-holes awaited the use- 
 less epaulets. These military symptoms were there like 
 a petition without a backer. The buttonhole of the old 
 man who wore this coat (of the color called "king's 
 blue ") was adorned with numberless ribbons. He held, 
 and no doubt always did hold in his hand his three- 
 cornered hat with gold tassels, for the snow}' wings of his 
 powdered hair showed no signs of the pressure of that 
 covering. He looked to be no more than fift}-, and 
 seem to enjoy robust health. While there was in him 
 every sign of the frank and loj^al nature of the old 
 emigres, his appearance denoted also easj^^ and liber- 
 tine habits, — the gay passions and the careless joviality 
 
TJie Purnr. 279 
 
 of the motisfjuetaires, once so celebrated in tin- imnala 
 of galliuitry. His gestures, liis bearing, his manners, 
 all proclaimed that he did not inti-nd to change his 
 royalism, nor his religion, nor his mode of lifi-. 
 
 A trill}' fantastic figure followed this gay '' voltiycur 
 of Louis XIV." (that was the nickname given by the 
 lionapartists to these relics of the old monarchy) ; but 
 to paint it properly the individual himself ought to be 
 the priuci[)al fiuure in a ijictmc in which he is only 
 an accessory. Imagine a thin and withered personage, 
 dressed like the first figure, and yet onl}- the reflection 
 or the shadow of it. The coat was new on the back of 
 the one, and old and fadi'(l on that of the other. The 
 powder in the hair of the counterpart seemed less white, 
 the gold of the fleurs-de-lis less dazzling, the e3"elets 
 more vacant, the mind weaker, the vital strength nearer 
 its termination, than in the other. In short, he realized 
 that saying of Rivarol about Champcenetz : "He is 
 my moonlight." He was only the echo of the other, a 
 faint, dull echo ; between the two there was all the dif- 
 ference that there is between the first and last proof 
 of a lithograph. The chevalier — for he was a chevalier 
 — said nothing, and no one said anything to him. Was 
 he a friend, a poor relation, a man who stayed by the 
 old beau, as a female companion by an old woman? 
 Was he a mixture of dog, parrot, and friend? Had he 
 saved the fortune, or merely the life of his benefactor? 
 
280 The Purse. 
 
 "Was he the Trim of another Uncle Tob}'? Elsewhere, 
 as well as at Madame de Rouville's, he excited curiosity. 
 Who was there under the Restoration who could recol- 
 lect an attachment before the Revolution on the part of 
 the Chevalier to his friend's wife, now dead for over 
 twenty years? 
 
 Tlie personage who seemed to be the less ancient 
 of these two relics, advanced gallantly to the Baronne 
 de Rouville, kissed her hand, and seated himself beside 
 her. The other bowed and sat beside his chief, at a 
 distance represented by two chairs. Adelaide came up 
 and put her elbows on the back of the chair occupied 
 by the old gentleman, imitating unconsciously the atti- 
 tude which Guerin has given to Dido's sister in his 
 famous picture. Though the familiarity of the old gen- 
 tleman was that of a father, it seemed for a moment to 
 displease her. 
 
 " What ! do yoii mean to pout at me? " he said. 
 
 Then he cast one of those oblique glances full of 
 shrewdness and perception at Schinner, — a diplomatic 
 glance, the expression of which was prudent uneasi- 
 ness, the polite curiosity of well-bred people who seem 
 to ask on seeing a stranger, "Is he one of us ? " 
 
 " This is our neighbor," said the old lady, motioning 
 to Hippolyte. " Monsieur is the celebrated painter, 
 whose name you must know very well in spite of your 
 indifference to art." 
 
The Purse. 2Hl 
 
 The gentlemnn smiled at his old frii-nd's tnisfhicvous 
 omission of thr iianu', and liowcd to the yoiitij; iiiuii. 
 
 " Yos, indeed," he said, "■ I have heard a great deal 
 about his pictures in the Salon. Talent has many 
 privileges, monsieur," he added, glancing at the artist's 
 red riblton. " That distinction which we acquire at the 
 cost of our blood and long services, you obtain young; 
 but all glories are sisters," he added, touching the cross 
 of Saint-Louis which he wore. 
 
 IIippol3'te stammered a few words of thanks and re- 
 tired into silence, content to admire with growing en- 
 thusiasm the beautiful head of the young girl who 
 charmed him. Soon he forgot in this delightful con- 
 templation the evident poverty of her home. To him, 
 Adelaide's face detached itself from a luminous back- 
 ground. He answered briefly all questions which were 
 addressed to him, and which he fortunately heard, 
 thanks to that singular faculty of the soul which allows 
 thought to run double at times. "Who does not know 
 what it is to continue plunged in a deep meditixtion, 
 pleasurable or sad, to listen to the inward voice, and 
 yet give attention to a conversation or a reading? 
 Wonderful dualism, which often helps us to endure bores 
 with patience ! Hope, fruitful and smiling, brought him 
 a thousand thoughts of happiness ; wliat need for him 
 to dwell on things about him? A child full of trust, he 
 thought it shameful to anal3ze a pleasure. 
 
282 The Purse. 
 
 After a certain lapse of time he was aware that the 
 old lady and her daughter were playing cards with the 
 old gentleman. As to the satellite, he stood behind his 
 friend, wholly occupied with the latter's game, answer- 
 ing the mute questions the player made to him hy little 
 approving grimaces which repeated the interrogative 
 motions of the other's face. 
 
 " Du Halga, I alwaj-s lose," said the gentleman. 
 
 "You discard too carelessl}-," said the baroness. 
 
 "It is three months since I have been able to win a 
 single game," said he. 
 
 " Monsieur le comte, have 3'ou aces?" asked the old 
 lady. 
 
 "Yes, mark one," he answered. 
 
 " Don't 3'ou want me to advise 3'ou?" said Adelaide. 
 
 " No, no ; sta}' there in front of me ! It would double 
 my losses if I could n't see your face." 
 
 At last the game ended. The old gentleman drew 
 out his purse and threw two louis on the table, not 
 without ill-humor. " Fort}' francs, as true as gold!" 
 said he ; " and, the deuce ! it is eleven o'clock." 
 
 " It is eleven o'clock," repeated the mute personage, 
 looking at the painter. 
 
 The young man, hearing those words rather more 
 distinctly than the others, thought it was time to with- 
 draw. Returning to the world of common ideas, he 
 uttered a few ordinary' phrases, bowed to the baroness, 
 
The Purse. 288 
 
 lirr (l;ui;4liUT. and the two gentlemen, and went home, 
 a [n\'y lu tlic liisL juys of ti-iii' luvi-, wilhoiil ti-\ iii^ l<> 
 un:ily/,i' tlie liltli' cvi-nt.s of tliis c-vcninj;. 
 
 Tlie next day the painter was possessed with the most 
 violent desire to sec Adelaide again. If he liad listened 
 to his passion he woiihl have gone to his neighbors on 
 arriving at his studio at six o'elock in the morning. 
 But he still kept his senses siillieiently to wait till the 
 afternoon. As soon, however, as he thought he could 
 present himself he went down and rang their bell, not 
 without mueh palpitation of the heart, and then, blush- 
 ing like a girl, he timidly asked Mademoiselle Le- 
 seigneur, who had opened the door, for the portrait of 
 Monsieur de Rouville. 
 
 " But come in," said Adelaide, who had no doubt 
 heard his step on the stairway. 
 
 The painter followed her, abashed and out of counte- 
 nance, not knowing what to say, — so stupid did his 
 happiness make him. To see Adelaide, to listen to 
 the rustle of her gown after longing all the morning to 
 be near her, after jumping up a dozen times and saying, 
 " I will go ! " and yet not daring to do so, — this, to him, 
 was so rich and full a life that such emotions if too pro- 
 longed would have exhausted his soul. The heart has 
 the singular property of giving an extraordinary' value 
 to nothings. We know the joy a traveller feels in 
 gathering the twig of a plant or a leaf unknown to him, 
 
284 The Purse. 
 
 when he has risked his life in the quest. The nothings 
 of love are precious in the same way. 
 
 The old lady was not in the salon. When the young 
 girl found herself alone with the painter she brought a 
 chair and stood on it to take down the portrait; but 
 perceiving that she could not unhook it without stepping 
 on the chest of drawers, she turned to Hippoljle and 
 said to him, blushing : — 
 
 " I am not tall enough. Will you take it down?" 
 
 A feeling of modesty, shown in the expression of her 
 face and the accent of her voice, was the real motive of 
 her request ; and the young man, so understanding it, 
 gave her one of those intelligent glances which are the 
 sweetest language of love. Seeing that the painter 
 had guessed her feeling, Adelaide lowered her eyes 
 with that impulse of pride which belongs onl}^ to virgins. 
 Not finding a word to say and feeling almost intimi- 
 dated, the painter took down the picture, examined it 
 gravely in the light from the window, and then went 
 away without saying anything more to Mademoiselle 
 Leseigneur than, " I will return it soon." 
 
 Each during that rapid moment felt one of those 
 mysterious, violent commotions the effects of which in 
 the soul can be compared only to those produced by a 
 stone when flung into a lake. The soft expansions 
 which then are born and succeed each other, indefinable, 
 multiplying, unending, agitate the heart as the rings in 
 
The Pane. 285 
 
 the water widen in the distance from the centre wlicre 
 the stone fell. 
 
 Hippolvte returned to his studio, armed with the j>or- 
 trait. His easel was already prepared with a canvas, 
 the palette was set with its colors, the brushes cleaned, 
 the light arranged. Until his dinner-hour he worked 
 at the picture with that eagerness whirh artists put into 
 their caprices. In the evening he again went to Madame 
 de Rouville's and remained from nine to eleven. Except 
 for the different topics of conversation, this evening was 
 very like its predecessor. The old men arrived at the 
 same hour, the same game of piquet was played, the 
 same phrases were repeated, and the sum lost by 
 Adelaide's old friend was the same as that lost the 
 night before, — the onl}- change being that Ilippolyte, 
 grown a little bolder, ventured to talk to Adelaide. 
 
 Eight days passed in this waj', during which the 
 feelings of the painter and those of the 30ung girl 
 underwent those delicious, slow transformations which 
 lead young souls to a perfect understanding. So, da\' 
 by da}', Adelaide's glance as she welcomed her friend 
 became more intimate, more trustful, gayer, and more 
 frank ; her voice, her manners grew more winning, more 
 familiar. The}- both laughed and talked and communi- 
 cated their ideas to each other, talking of themselves 
 with the naivete of two children, who in the course of 
 one da}' can make acquaintance as if they had lived 
 
286 The Purse. 
 
 together for three years. Schinner wished to learn 
 piquet. Totally ignorant of the game he naturally 
 made blunder after blunder ; and, like the old gentle- 
 man, he lost nearly every game. 
 
 Without having yet told their love, the two lovers 
 knew very well that they belonged to each other. 
 Hippolyte delighted in exercising his power over his 
 timid friend. Many a concession was made to him by 
 Adelaide, who, tender and devoted as she was, was 
 easily the dupe of those pretended sulks which the 
 least intelligent of lovers, and the most artless of 
 maidens invent, and constantly emplo}', just as spoilt 
 children take advantage of the power their mother's 
 love has given them. For instance, all familiarity sud- 
 denly ceased between the old count and Adelaide. 
 The young girl understood the painter's gloom, and 
 the thoughts hidden beneath the folds of his brow, 
 from the harsh tone of the exclamations he made as 
 the old man unceremoniously kissed her hands or 
 throat. On the other hand, Mademoiselle Leseigneur 
 soon began to hold her lover to a strict account of 
 his slightest actions. She was so uneasy and so un- 
 happy if he did not come ; she knew so well how to 
 scold him for his absence, that the painter renounced 
 seeing his friends, and went no longer into society. 
 Adelaide showed a woman's jealousy on discovering 
 that sometimes, after leaving Madame de Rouville's 
 
TJie Purge. 287 
 
 at eleven o'clock, the painter nmile other visits and 
 appeared in several of the gayest salons of I'aris. 
 That sort of life, she told him, was very bad for his 
 health, and she asserted, with the profound conviction 
 to which the tones, the gesture, the look of those we 
 love give such immense power, that " a man who was 
 obliged to give his time and the charms of his mind to 
 several women at once, could never be the possessor of 
 a reall}- deep affection." 
 
 So the painter was soon led, as much b}- the despot- 
 ism of his passion as bj- the exactions of a young girl, 
 to live almost wholly in the little homo where all things 
 pleased him. No love was ever purer or more ardent. 
 On either side the same faith, the same mind, the same 
 delicac}', made their passion grow apace without the 
 help of those sacrifices b}' which so many persons 
 seek to prove their love. Between these lovers there 
 existed so constant an interchange of tender feelings 
 that they never knew who gave or who received the 
 most. A natural, involuntary inclination made the 
 union of their souls close indeed. The progress of 
 this true feeling was so rapid that two months after 
 the accident through which the painter obtained the 
 happiness of knowing Adelaide, their lives had be- 
 come one and the same life. From early morning the 
 young girl, hearing a step above her, said to herself, 
 "He is there!" When Hippolyte returned home to 
 
288 The Purse. 
 
 dine with his mother he never failed to stop on his 
 way to greet his friends ; and in the evening he rushed 
 to them, at the usual liour, with a lover's punctuality. 
 Thus the most tyrannical of loving women, and the 
 heart most ambitious of love could have found no 
 fault with the young painter. Adelaide did indeed 
 taste an unalloyed and boundless happiness in finding 
 realized to its fullest extent the ideal of which youth 
 dreams. 
 
 The old gentleman now came less often ; the jealous 
 Hippolyte took his place in the evening at the green 
 table, and was equally unlucky at cards. But in the 
 midst of his happiness, he thought of Madame de 
 RouviUe's disastrous position , — for he had seen more 
 than one sign of her distress, — and little b}^ little an 
 importunate thought forced its way into his mind. 
 Several times, as he returned home, he had said to 
 himself, "What! twenty francs every evening?" 
 The lover dared not admit a suspicion. He spent 
 two months on the portrait, and when it was finished, 
 varnished, and framed, he thought it one of his best 
 works. Madame de Rouville had never mentioned it 
 to him ; was it indifference or pride which kept her 
 silent? The painter could not explain it to himself. 
 He plotted gayly with Adelaide to hang the picture 
 in its right place when Madame de Rouville had gone 
 out for her usual walk in the Tuileries. 
 
TJie PurBe. 289 
 
 The day came, and Ailt'hiido went up, for the first 
 time alone, to Ilippolytc's studio, under pretence of 
 seeing the portrait fuvonihly in the light in whieh it 
 was painted. She stootl before it silent and motion- 
 less, in a delicious contemplation where all the feelings 
 of womanhood were blended into one, — and that om , 
 boundless admiration for the man she loved. Wlu-n 
 the painter, uneasy at her silence, leaned forward to 
 look at her, she held out her hand to him unable to 
 say a word ; but two tears dropped from her eyes. 
 Ilippolyte took that hand and kissed it, and for a 
 moment they looked at each other in silence, both 
 wishing to avow their love, neither of them daring 
 to. As the painter held her hand within his own, 
 an equal warmth, an equal tlirob, told them that their 
 hearts were beating with the same pulse. Too deeply 
 moved, the young girl gently left her lover's side, say- 
 ing, with a guileless look, " You will make my mother 
 very happy." 
 
 " Your mother — onlj- ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh, as for me, I am too happv," she replied. 
 
 The painter bent his head and was silent, frightened 
 at the violence of the feeling the tone of those words 
 awakened in his heart. Both understood the danger 
 of their position, and they went downstairs with the 
 portrait and put it in its place. That night Ilippolyte 
 dined for the first time with the baroness, who kissed 
 
 19 
 
290 The Purse. 
 
 him with tearful gratitude. In the evening the old 
 emigre, a former comrade of the Baron de Rouville, 
 made a special visit to his two friends to announce his 
 appointment as a vice-admiral. His terrestrial na^i- 
 gations across Germany and Russia had been credited 
 to him as naval campaigns. When he saw the portrait, 
 he shook the painter by the hand, exclaiming : " Faith ! 
 though my old carcass is not worth preserving, I'd 
 gladly give five hundred pistoles for anything as like me 
 as that Is like my friend Rouville." 
 
 Hearing the proposal, the baroness looked at her friend 
 with a smile, and let the signs of a sudden gratitude 
 appear on her face. Hippolyte fancied that the old 
 admiral intended to pay the price of the two portraits 
 in pa^'ing for his own ; he was offended, and said 
 stiffly, "Monsieur, if I were a portrait-painter I should 
 not have painted that one." 
 
 The admiral bit his lips and began to play. The 
 painter sat by Adelaide, who proposed him six kings 
 which he accepted. While playing, he noticed in 
 Madame de Rouville a degree of eagerness for the 
 game which surprised him. The old lady had never 
 before manifested such anxiety to win, or looked with 
 such pleasure at the admiral's gold coins. During that 
 evening suspicions once more came up in Hippolyte's 
 mind to trouble his happiness and give him a certain 
 sense of distrust. Did Madame de Rouville liv-e by 
 
T}ic Purse. 21 •! 
 
 cards? Was she playing at that moment to pay sonio 
 debt, or was she (hivtu to it by some necessity? I'er- 
 haps her rent was due. That old man seemed too 
 worldly-wise to let her win his money for nothing. 
 What interest brought him to that poor house, — he, 
 a riih man? Why, though formerly so familiar with 
 Adt-laide, had he lately renounced all familiarities, — 
 bis right perhaps ? These involuntary thouglits promi)led 
 Schinner to examine the old man and the baroness, whose 
 glances of intelligence and the oblicjue looks they cast 
 on Adelaide and himself displeased him grcatl}". 
 
 " Can it be that they deceive me?" 
 
 To Ilippolyte the thought was horrible, withering; 
 and he believed it just so far as to let it torture hi in. 
 He resolved to remain after the departure of the two 
 old men, so as to confirm his suspicions or get rid of 
 them. He drew out his purse at the end of the game, 
 intending to pay Adelaide, but his mind was so filled 
 with these poignant thoughts that he laid it on the table 
 and fell into a revcry which lasted several minutes. 
 Then, ashamed of his silence, he rose, answered some 
 commonplace inquir3' of Madame de Rouville's, going 
 close up to her to scrutinize that aged face. He left 
 the salon a prey to dreadful uncertainties. After going 
 down a few stairs, he recollected his purse and went 
 back to get it. ''I left my purse," he said to Adelaide. 
 
 " No," she answered, coloring. 
 
292 The Purse. 
 
 " I thought I left it there," he said, pointing to the 
 card-table. 
 
 Ashamed for both mother and daughter at not finding 
 it, he stood looking at them with a bewildered air which 
 made them both laugh ; then he turned pale, and felt in 
 his waistcoat pockets, stammering, "I am mistaken, 
 I must have it somewhere." 
 
 At one end of the purse were fifteen louis, at the 
 other some small change. The robbery was so flagrant, 
 so impudently denied, that Hippolyte had no doubt as 
 to the character of his neighbors. He stood still on the 
 staircase, for he could hardly go down ; his legs trem- 
 bled, his head swam, he perspired, his teeth chattered 
 in a cold chill, and he was literally unable to walk in 
 the grasp of that cruel convulsion caused by the over- 
 throw of all his hopes. At that moment, a crowd of 
 apparently trifling circumstances came back into his 
 mind, all corroborating his dreadful suspicions ; taken 
 together with the certainty of this last act, they opened 
 his eyes to the character and the life of the two women. 
 Had they waited till the portrait was done to steal his 
 purse? Thus combined with profit, the theft seemed 
 more odious than at first. The painter remembered, 
 with anguish, that for the last two or three evenings 
 Adelaide had examined, with what seemed girlish curi- 
 osit}', the netting of the worn silk, probably to ascertain 
 the sum contained in the purse, — making jests that 
 
TJie Purse. 293 
 
 spomcd innocent, Imt wore no (loiil)t intondcd to covrr 
 tlic f:u't tluit she was watcliiiig for the time wlu-n tin; 
 purse should be well filled. 
 
 " The old admiral must have good reasons for not 
 marrying her, and the baroness intends that I — " 
 
 He stopped, and did not continue the thought, for it 
 was checked by one more just 
 
 " If," thought he, " the baroness wished me to njarry 
 her daughter they would not have robbed me." 
 
 Then, unable to renounce his illusions, or to abandon 
 a love so deeply rooted in his being, he tried to find 
 some explanation. " My purse must have fallen on the 
 ground ; perhaps it was under my chair ; perhaps I 
 have it, I am so absent-minded ! " He felt in all his 
 pockets with rapid motions, — but no, that cursed purse 
 was not in them. His cruel memory recalled every 
 particular of tlie fatal facts ; he distinctly saw the purse 
 lying on the table. Unable to doubt the theft, he now 
 excused Adelaide, saying to himself that no one ought 
 to judge the poor and unfortunate too hastily. No 
 doubt there was some secret in this apparently de- 
 grading action. He would not allow himself to believe 
 that that proud, noble face was a lie. Nevertheless, 
 that miserable apartment had now lost all those poesies 
 of love which once embellished it ; he saw it as it was, 
 dirty and faded ; it seemed the outward likeness of an 
 inward life without nobleness, unoccupied and vicious. 
 
294 Tlie Purse. 
 
 Are not our feelings written, so to speak, on the things 
 about us? 
 
 The next morning he rose without having slept. 
 The anguish of the heart, that serious moral malady, 
 had made great strides into his being. To lose an 
 imagined happiness, to renounce an expected future, 
 is far more bitter suffering than that caused by the 
 ruin of an experienced joy, however great that joy 
 may have been. Is not hope better than memory? 
 The meditations into which our souls suddenly fall 
 are then like a shoreless sea, on whose bosom we 
 may float for a moment, though nothing can save 
 our love from sinking and perishing. It is a dreadful 
 death. Are not our feelings the most vivid and glori- 
 ous part of our lives? From such partial death as 
 this come those great ravages seen in certain organiza- 
 tions that are both delicate and strong, when assailed 
 bj' disillusions or hy the balking of hopes and passions. 
 Thus it was with the young painter. He went out 
 earl}' in the morning and walked about in the cool 
 shade of the Tuileries, absorbed in thought, and taking 
 no notice of any one. There, by chance, one of his 
 young friends met him, a college and atelier comrade, 
 with whom he had lived as with a brother. 
 
 " Wh}', Hippolj'te, what's the matter?" said Fran- 
 9ois Souchet, a 3'oung sculptor who had just obtained 
 the grand prix and was soon going to Ital}^ 
 
Th,- Pur»e. 296 
 
 " I am very unhappy," replied Ilipjwiyto. {^mvoly. 
 
 " >iotlung but a luvc-aHuir cuu make you ho. Wealtli, 
 fame, consideration, — you have everything else ! " 
 
 Little by little, the confidences began, and linally 
 the paint<'r acknowledged his love. When he spoke of 
 the rue de Suresnes, and of a young girl living on the 
 fourth story, "Halt!" cried Souchet, gayly, "that's 
 a little girl I go to see every morning at the Assumj^- 
 tion ; I 'm courting her. Why, m}' dear fellow, we all 
 know her. Her mother is a baroness. Do you believo 
 in baronesses who live on a fourth floor? IJrrr ! Well, 
 well ! 3'ou belong to the age of gold. The rest of us 
 meet that old mother every day in the Tuileries. That 
 face of hers, and the way she carries herself tells all. 
 Come now, did 30U never guess what she is, from the 
 way she carries her bag ? " 
 
 The two friends walked alwut for some time, and 
 several young men who knew Schinncr and Souchet 
 joined them. The painter's love-affair was related by 
 the sculptor, who supposed it of little importance. 
 
 Many were the outcries, the laughs, the jests, inno- 
 cent enough, but full of the familiar gayety of artists, 
 and horribly painful to Hippolyte. A certain chastity 
 of soul made him suffer at the sight of his heart's secret 
 lightl}' tossed aI>out, his passion torn to shreds, the 
 young girl, whose life had seemed to him so mo<lest, 
 judged, truly or falsely, with such careless indifference. 
 
296 The Purse. 
 
 "But, my dear fellow, have you never seen the 
 baroness's shawl?" said Souchet. 
 
 "Don't you ever follow the little one when she 
 goes to the Assumption?" said Joseph Bridau, a 
 young art-student in Gros's atelier. 
 
 "Ha! the mother has, among her other virtues, a 
 graj^ dress which I regard as a t3'pe," said Bixiou, the 
 caricaturist. 
 
 " Listen, Hippol3'te ; " said the sculptor, " come here 
 at four o'clock, and analyze the demeanor of the mother 
 and daughter. If, after that, you have any doubts, I 
 give 3'OU up, — nothing can ever be made of you ; 
 you '11 be capable of marrying 3'our porter's daughter." 
 
 The painter parted from his friends a victim to a 
 contradiction of feelings. Adelaide and her mother 
 seemed to him above such accusations, and at the 
 bottom of his heart he felt remorse for having ever 
 doubted the purity of that young girl, so beautiful 
 and so simple. He went to his studio, he passed the 
 door of the room where she was sitting, and he felt 
 within his soul the anguish that no man ever misun- 
 derstands. He loved Mademoiselle de Rouville so 
 passionately that, in spite of the robbery of his purse, 
 he adored her still. His love was like that of the 
 Chevalier des Grieux, adoring and purifying his mis- 
 tress in his thoughts as she sat in the cart on her way 
 to the prison for lost women. 
 
TJie Purge. 207 
 
 "Why should not my love make hor the purest of 
 bcinfjs? Shall I abfiiulon her to sin and vico, and 
 stretch no friendly hand to her?" That mission pleased 
 liiin. Love makes profit out of all. Nothing attracts a 
 young man so much as the thought of playing the part 
 of a good genius to a woman. There is sometiiing truly 
 chivalrous in such an enterprise wiiich conunends itself 
 to lofty souls. Is it not the deepest devotion under the 
 highest form, and the most gracious form? What 
 grandeur in knowing that we love enough to love still 
 where the love of others would be a dead thing ! 
 
 Hippolyte sat down in his studio, and contemplated 
 his picture without touching it. Night overtook him in 
 that attitude. Wakened from his revcry b}- the dark- 
 ness, he went downstairs, met the old admiral on the 
 stairwa}-, gave him a gloomv glance and a bow, and 
 fled awa}*. He had meant to go to his neighbors, but 
 the sight of Adelaide's protector froze his heart and 
 overcame his resolution. He asked himself, for the 
 hundredth time, what interest it could be that brought 
 that old beau, a man worth eighty-thousand francs a 
 year, to that fourth story where he lost fort}- francs a 
 night ; that interest, he fancied, alas, he knew. 
 
 The next day and the following days Hippolyte spent 
 on his work, tr3-ing to fight his passion by flinging him- 
 self into the rush of ideas and the fire of conception. 
 He succeeded only partially. Study comforted him, 
 
298 The Purse. 
 
 but it did not stifle the memorj- of those dear hours 
 passed with Adelaide. One evening, leaving his studio, 
 he found the door of the apartments of the two ladies 
 half-open. Some one was standing in the recess of the 
 window. The position of the door and the stairs was 
 such that Hippol3-te could not pass without seeing 
 Adelaide. He bowed coldl}', with a glance of indiffer- 
 ence ; then, judging of her sufferings by his own, an 
 inward tremor overcame him, thinking of the bitterness 
 his cold glance might have carried to a loving heart. 
 "What ! end the sweetest jo3's that ever filled two sacred 
 hearts, with the scorn of an eiglit daj's' absence, with a 
 contempt too deep for words ? — horrible conclusion ! 
 Perhaps that purse was found ! he had never inquired ; 
 perhaps Adelaide had expected him, in vain, every 
 evening ! This thought, so simple, so natural, filled 
 the lover with fresh remorse ; he asked himself if the 
 proofs of attachment the young girl had given him, if 
 those delightful conversations bearing the impress of 
 love and of a mind which charmed him did not deserve 
 at least an inquiry, — whether indeed the}^ were not a 
 pledge of justification. Ashamed of having resisted 
 the longings of his heart for one whole week, thinking 
 himself almost criminal in the struggle, he went that 
 same evening to Madame de Rouville's. All his sus- 
 picions, all his thoughts of evil vanished at the sight of 
 the young girl, now pale and thin. 
 
The Purge. 299 
 
 "Good God! what is the matter?" he said to her, 
 after bowing to Madame de Kouviile. 
 
 Adelaide made no answer, but she gave him a sad, 
 discouraged look which went to his heart. 
 
 " You look as if you had been working too hard," 
 said the old lady. " You are changed. I fear we have 
 been the cause of your seclusion. That portrait must 
 have delayed other work more important for your 
 reputation." 
 
 Hippolyte was only too happy to Cud so good an 
 excuse for his absence. " Yes," he said, '' I have been 
 ver}' busy — but I have suffered — " 
 
 At these words Adelaide raised her head ; her e3-e3 
 no longer reproached hira. 
 
 " You have, then, thought us indifferent to what 
 makes you happy or unhappy? " said the old lady. 
 
 " I have done wrong," he said. " And yet there are 
 sufferings which we can tell to no one, no matter who 
 it is, even to a heart that may have known us long." 
 
 " The sincerity and the strength of friendship ought 
 not to be measured by time. I have seen old friends 
 who could not shed a tear for each other's misfortune," 
 said the baroness, nodding her head. 
 
 " But tell me, what is the matter?" asked Hippolyte 
 of the poor girl. 
 
 "Oh, nothing," said the baroness; "Adelaide in- 
 sisted on sitting up two or three nights to finish a piece 
 
300 The Purse. 
 
 of work ; she would not listen to me when I told her 
 that a day more or less could make no difference — " 
 
 Hippolyte was not listening. Seeing those two faces, 
 so calm, so noble, he blushed for his suspicions and 
 attributed the loss of the purse to some mysterious 
 accident. That evening was delightful to him, and 
 perhaps to her. There are secrets that young souls 
 understand so well. Adelaide divined her lover's 
 thoughts. "Without intending to reveal his wrong- 
 doing, Hippolyte tacitl}- admitted it ; he returned to 
 his mistress more loving, more affectionate than ever, 
 as if to buy a silent pardon. Adelaide now tasted joys 
 so sweet, so perfect, that the pangs which had cruelly 
 bruised her spirit seemed but a slight penalty to pay 
 for them. And yet that absolute accord between their 
 hearts, that comprehension which was full of magic, 
 was clouded suddenly by a little speech of Madame de 
 Rouville's. " Let us get ready for our game," she 
 said. " My old Kergarouet insists upon it." 
 
 That speech roused all tiie poor painter's fears ; he 
 blushed as he looked at Adelaide's mother. Yet he 
 could see on that face no other expression than one of 
 a true kind-heartedness without insincerity ; no latent 
 thought destroyed its charm ; in its shrewdness there 
 was no perfidy ; the gentle satire it expressed seemed 
 tender, and no remorse marred its placidity. So he sat 
 down at the card-table. Adelaide shared his game, 
 
The Purse. 301 
 
 pretending that he did not know piquet and needed an 
 adviser. While they phiyed, signs of an understand- 
 ing passed between the mother and daughter wliieh 
 again made Ilippolytc anxious, — all the more because, 
 for once, he was winning. At last, however, a lucky 
 throw put the lovers in Madame de Kouville's debt. 
 Hippolytc withdrew his hands from the table to search 
 for money in his pockets, and suddenly saw lying 
 before him a purse which Adelaide had slipped tiiere 
 without his noticing her ; the poor child held his own 
 purse in her hand, and was hiding her confusion by 
 pretending to look for money to pay her mother. The 
 blood rushed so violently to Hippolyte's heart that he 
 almost lost consciousness. The new purse substituted 
 for the old one bad the fifteen louis in it, and was 
 worked with gold beads. The rings, the tassels, all 
 proved the good taste of the maker, who had no doubt 
 spent bar little savings on those ornaments of her pretty 
 work. It was impossible to sa}* with greater delicacy 
 that the painter's gift could be acknowledged only by a 
 pledge of tenderness. 
 
 "When Ilippolyte, overcome with happiness, turned 
 his eyes on Adelaide and her mother he saw them 
 trembling with pleasure, happ}' in the success of their 
 little fraud. He felt himself small, petty, contemptible ; 
 he longed to punish himself, to rend his heart. Tears 
 came into his eyes, and he sprang up with an irresistible 
 
302 The Purse. 
 
 impulse, took Adelaide in his arms, pressed her to his 
 heart, snatched a kiss, and cried, with the honest good- 
 faith of an artist, looking straight at the baroness ; — 
 " I ask you to give her to me for my wife ! " 
 Adelaide's eyes as she looked at him were half-angr}', 
 and Madame de Rouville, somewhat astonished, was 
 seeking a repl}' when the scene was interrupted b}' a 
 ring at the bell. The vice-admiral appeared, followed 
 b}' Madame Schinner. After guessing the cause of her 
 son's grief, which he had vainly tried to hide from 
 her, Hippolj'te's mother had made inquiries among her 
 friends as to Adelaide. Alarmed by the calumnies 
 which assailed the young girl, unknown to the old ad- 
 miral, the Comte de Kergarouet, she went to the latter 
 and told him what she had heard. In his ftuy he wanted, 
 he said, " to cut the ears of those rascals." Excited hy 
 his wrath he told Madame Schinner the secret of his 
 visits and his intentional losses at cards, that being the 
 cnl}' way in which the baroness's pride gave him a 
 chance to succor the widow of his old friend. 
 
 When Madame Schinner had paid her respects to 
 Madame de Rouville, the latter looked at the Comte de 
 Kergarouet, the Chevalier du Halga (the former friend 
 of the late Comtesse de Kergarouet) , then at Hippolyte 
 and Adelaide, and said, with the delightful manners of 
 the heart, " We seem, I think, to be a family party." 
 
LA GRENADlfillE. 
 
 TO CAROLINE. 
 
 To TUE POESY OK HIS JoiRXET. 
 
 A Grati'ful Tracellrr. 
 
 La Grenadi^re is a little ha])ilatlon on the right 
 bank of the Loire, sloping towards it and about a 
 mile from the bridge of Tours. Just here the river, 
 broad as a lake, is strewn with green islets, and mar- 
 gined b}- rocky shores, on which are numerous countrj'- 
 houses. all built of white stone and surrounded by 
 vineyards and gardens, in which the finest fruits in 
 the world ripen under a sunny exposure. Industri- 
 ously terraced bj* generation after generation, the hol- 
 lows of the rock reflect the rays of the sun, and the 
 artificial temperature thus produced allows the culti- 
 vation of the products of hot climates in the open 
 ground. 
 
 From one of the least sunken of these hollows which 
 cut into the hillside, rises the sharp steeple of Saint- 
 Cyr, a little village to which the scattered houses nomi- 
 nallj' belong. A little beyond, the Choisille falls into 
 
304 La Grenadiere. 
 
 the Loire, through a rich valley which runs up among 
 the hills. La Grenadiere [The Pomegranate], standing 
 half-way up the rocky shore, about three hundred feet 
 from the church, is one of those venerable homesteads 
 some two or three hundred years old, •which are seen 
 in every lovely situation in Touraine. A cleft in the 
 rock has facilitated the making of a stairway, which 
 descends by easy steps to the "lev^e," — the local name 
 given to the dike built at the base of the slope to keep 
 the Loire to its bed, and along which runs the mail 
 road from Paris to Nantes. 
 
 At the top of this flight of steps is a gate opening on 
 a narrow, stony road, cut between two terraces which 
 resemble fortifications, covered with vines and palings 
 to prevent the rolling down of the earth. This path- 
 way, starting from the foot of the upper terrace, and 
 nearlj' hidden by the trees that crown it, leads to the 
 house by a steep pitch, giving a view of the river which 
 enlarges at every step. This sunken path ends at a 
 second gate, gothic in character, arched, and bearing 
 a few simple ornaments, which is now in ruins and 
 overgrown with gilli-flowers, ivy, mosses, and pellitory. 
 These ineradicable plants decorate the walls of all the 
 terraces, hanging from the clefts of the stone courses 
 and designating each season by a garland of its own 
 flowers. 
 
 Be3'ond this mould}' gate a little garden, wrested 
 
La G renailiCre. 305 
 
 from tlio rock by nnotlior terrftce, with an oM and 
 bhu-ki-ncil balustrade whieli overlooks iIh! rest, pre- 
 sents a lawn adorned bs' a few trees, and a inullitudo 
 of roses and other llowerinLi plants. Opposite to the 
 gate, at the other end of the terrace, is a wooden 
 pavilion resting^ against a neijjhboring wall, the posts 
 of which are hidden under jasmine, honeysuckle, vines, 
 and clematis. In llie middle of the garden stands the 
 house, beyond a vaulted portico covered with vines, on 
 which is the gate of a huge cellar hollowed in the rock. 
 The house is surrounded with vine-clad arbors, and 
 pomegranate-trees — which give their name to the place, 
 — are growing in the open ground. The fa(;ade has 
 two large windows separated by n very countrified front- 
 door, and three attic windows, placed very high up 
 in the roof relatively to the low height of the ground 
 floor. This roof has two gables and is covered with 
 slate. The walls of the main building are painted 
 j-ellow, and the door, the shutters on the lower floor, 
 and the blinds on the roof arc green. 
 
 When you enter the house, you find a little hall-way 
 with a winding staircase, the grade of which changes 
 at every turn ; the wood is rotten, and the balusters, 
 turning like a screw, are discolored by long usage. 
 To the right of the door is a vast dining-room with 
 antique panelling, floored in white tiles, manufactured 
 at Chaleau-Kegnault ; on the left is the salon, a room 
 
 20 
 
306 La Grrenadiere. 
 
 of the same size, but without panels, hung with a gold- 
 colored paper with green bordering. Neither of the 
 two rooms has a plastered ceiling. The joists are of 
 walnut, and the spaces are filled in with a natural 
 white clay mixed with hair. On he first floor are 
 two large chambers with white-washed walls ; the stoue 
 chimney-pieces in these rooms are less richly carved 
 than those in the rooms below. All the windows face 
 south. To the north there is onl^' a door opening be- 
 hind the staircase on a vineyard. m] 
 
 On the left of the house, a building with a wooden 
 front backs against the wall ; the wood being protected 
 from the sun and rain by slates which lie in long blue 
 lines, upright and transversal, upon the walls. The 
 kitchen, consigned as it were to this cottage, commu- i 
 nicates with the house, but it has an entrance of its 
 own raised from the ground by a few steps, near to 
 which is a deep well covered with a rustic pump ; 
 its sides overgrown with water-plants and taU grass 
 and juniper. This recent construction proves that 
 La Grenadiere was originally a mere vendangeoir^ 
 where the owners, living in the city (from which it is 
 separated only by the broad bed of the Loire), came ; 
 only to attend to their vintages, or to bring parties of 
 pleasure. On such occasions they sent provisions for ; 
 the day, and slept there at night onl}^ when the grapes 
 were being gathered. 
 
 
La Grenadiere. 307 
 
 But the English have fulh-ii hkc a Hwarin of 
 grass-hoppers upon Touraine, and Lu Grenadicn- was 
 furnished with a kitehcn that they might hire it. 
 Fortunately this modern appendage is concealed by 
 the first lindens planted along a path running down 
 a ravine behind the orchard. The vineyard, of about 
 two acres, rises above the house, and overlooks it 
 on a slope so steep that it is very dillieult to climb. 
 Between the back of the house and this hill, green 
 with trailing shoots, is a narrow space of not more 
 than five feet, always cold and damp, a sort of ditch 
 full of rampant vegetation, and filled in rainy weather 
 with the drainage from the vineyard, used to enrich 
 the soil of the flower-beds of the terrace with the 
 balustrade. 
 
 The little house of the vine-dresser backs against the 
 left gable ; it has a thatched roof and makes a sort of 
 pendant to the kitchen. The whole property is enclosed 
 by walls and palings ; the orchard is planted with fruit- 
 trees of all kinds ; in short, not an inch of the precious 
 soil is lost to cultivation. If man neglects an arid 
 corner of this rock. Nature flings into it a fig-tree 
 perhaps, or wild-flowers, or a few strawberry-vines 
 sheltered among the stones. 
 
 Nowhere in the world can you find a home so modest, 
 yet so grand, so rich in products, in fragrance, and 
 in outlook. It is in the heart of Touraine, a little 
 
308 La Grenadiere. 
 
 Touraine in itself, where all the flowers, all the fruits, 
 all the beauties of that region are full}' represented. 
 There are the grapes of ever}^ clime, the figs, the 
 peaches, the pears of every species, melons growing 
 wild in the open ground, as well as liquorice, the yellow 
 broom of Spain, the oleanders of Italy, the jasmine of 
 the Azores. The Loire flows at 3'our feet. You look 
 down upon it from a terrace raised thirty fathom above 
 its capricious waters. You inhale its breezes coming 
 fresh from the sea and perfumed on their waj' by the 
 flowers along its shores. A wandering cloud, which 
 changes at every instant its color and its form as it 
 moves in space beneath the cloudless blue of heaven, 
 gives a thousand varied aspects to each detail of that 
 glorious scener}' which meets the eye wherever turned. 
 From there, 3'ou may see the river shores from Amboise, 
 the fertile plain where rises Tours, its suburbs, its manu- 
 factories, and Le Plessis ; also a portion of the left bank, 
 from Vouvra}^ to Saint-Sj'mphorien, describing a half- 
 circle of smiling vineyards. The view here is limited 
 only by the rich slopes of Cher, a blue horizon broken 
 by parks and villas. To the west the soul is lost in 
 contemplation of the broad sheet of waters which bears 
 upon its bosom, at all hours, vessels with white sails 
 filled with the winds which ever sweep its vast basin. 
 
 A prince might make La Grenadiere his villa ; a 
 poet would make it his home ; lovers would count it 
 
La Orenadlere. 809 
 
 their sweetest refuge ; a worthy burgher of Tour« might 
 live there, — the spot has poems for all iuiaginntions. 
 for the humblest, for the coldest, as for the highest and 
 the most fervent ; no one ever stayed there without 
 breathing an atmosphere of happiness, without compre- 
 hending a tranquil life devoid of ambition, relieved of 
 care. Kevery is in the air, in the murmuring flow of 
 waters ; the sands speak, they are sad or gay, golden 
 or sullied ; all is in motion around the possessor of this 
 spot, motionless amid its ever-blooming flowers and its 
 toothsome fruits. An Englishman gives a thousand 
 francs merely to live six months in that humble dwel- 
 ling, and he binds himself to gather no products ; if he 
 wants the fruits, he pays a double rent ; if the wine 
 tempts him, he doubles it again. What, then, is La 
 Grenadiere worth, with that flight of steps, the sunken 
 path, the triple terrace, the two acres of vineyard, those 
 balustrades, those roses, the portico, its pump, the 
 wealth of tangled clematis and the cosmopolitan trees? 
 Ofler no price. La Grenadiere cannot be bought. Sold 
 once in 1690 for forty thousand francs, and left with 
 bitter regret, as the Ar.ib of the desert abandons a 
 favorite horse, it still remains in the same family, of 
 which it is the pride, the patrimonial jewel, the Regent 
 diamond. To see is not to have, saith the poet. From 
 these terraces you see three valleys of Touraine and the 
 cathedral suspended in ether like a delicate filagree. 
 
310 La Girenadiere. 
 
 Can you pay for such treasures? Could you buy the 
 health you will recover beneath those lindens? 
 
 In the spring of one of the finest ^-ears of the Restora- 
 tion, a lad}', accompanied hy a maid and two children, 
 came to Tours in search of a house. She saw La 
 Grenadiere and hired it. Perhaps the distance that 
 separated it from the town decided her to take it. The 
 salon was her bed-chamber ; she put each child in one 
 of the rooms on the upper floor, and the maid slept in 
 a little chamber above the kitchen. The dining-room 
 became the living-room of the little family. The lady 
 furnished the house very simply, but with taste ; there 
 was nothing useless and nothing that convej'ed a sense 
 of luxury. The furniture was of walnut, without orna- 
 ment. The neatness, and the harmonj' of the interior 
 with the exterior made the charm of the house. 
 
 It was difficult to know whether Madame Williamson 
 (that was the name the lady gave) belonged to the rich 
 bourgeoisie, or to the upper nobility, or to certain 
 equivocal classes of the feminine species. Her sim- 
 plicit}' of life gave grounds for contradictory supposi- 
 tions, though her manners seemed to confirm the most 
 favorable. It was, therefore, not long after her arrival 
 at Saint-C3'r that her reserved conduct excited the 
 curiosity of idle persons, who had the provincial habit 
 of remarking upon everything that promised to enliven 
 the narrow sphere in which they lived. 
 
La Orenadiere. 811 
 
 Madame Williamson was rather tall, slij!;ht and thin, 
 but (lelirHtely made. She had pretty feet, more re- 
 markalde for the {^niee with whieli they were joint-d to 
 the ankles than lor llnir narrowness, — a vulgar merit. 
 Her hands were handsome when gloved. A certain 
 redness, that seemed movable and rather dark in tone, 
 disfigured her white skin, whieh was naturally fair ami 
 ros}'. Premature wrinkles had aged a brow that was 
 flne in shape and crowned with beautiful aulnirn hair, 
 always braided in two strands and wound around the 
 head, — a maidenly fashion which became her melan- 
 choly face. Her black eyes, sunken in dark circles and 
 full of feverish ardor, assumed a calmness that seemed 
 deceptive ; for at times, if she forgot the expression she 
 imposed upon them, they revealed some secret anguish. 
 Her oval face was rather long, but perhaps in other 
 days happiness and healtli ma}- have rounde<l its out- 
 lines. A deceptive smile, full of gentle sadness, was 
 ever on her pallid lips, but the eyes grew animated, and 
 the smile expressed the delights of maternal love when 
 the two children, by whom she was always accomiianied, 
 looked at her and asked those idle and endless questions 
 which have their meaning to a mother's heart. 
 
 Her walk was slow and dignified. She wore but one 
 style of dress, with a constancy that showed a deliberate 
 intention to take no further interest in personal adorn- 
 ment, and to forget the world, by which, no doubt, she 
 
312 La Grenadicre. 
 
 wished to be forgot. Her gown was black and very- 
 long, fastened round the waist with a watered ribbon, 
 and over it, in guise of a shawl, was a cambric kercliief 
 with a broad hem, the ends passed negligentl}' through 
 her belt. Her shoes and her black silk stockings be- 
 trayed the elegance of her former life, and completed 
 the conventional mourning that she always wore. Her 
 bonnet, always of the same English shape, was gray in 
 color and covered with a black veil. 
 
 She seemed very weak and ill. The only walk she 
 took was from La Grenadiere to the bridge of Tours, 
 where, on a calm evening she would take the two 
 children to breathe the cool air from the river and 
 admire the effects of the setting sun upon a landscape 
 as vast as that of the Bay of Naples or the Lake of 
 Geneva. During the time she lived at La Grenadiere 
 she went but twice to Tours, — once to ask the principal 
 of the college to direct her to the best masters of 
 Latin, mathematics, and drawing ; and next to arrange 
 with the persons thus designated the price of their in- 
 structions, and the hours at which her sons could take 
 their lessons. But it sufficed to show herself once or 
 twice a week on the bridge in the evening, to rouse the 
 interest of nearl}' all the inhaljitants of the town, who 
 made it their habitual promenade. 
 
 And yet, in spite of the harmless sp3'ing which the 
 dreary leisure and uneasy curiosity of provincial towns 
 
La Qrenadiire. 813 
 
 forces upon their leading societies, no real information 
 as to the unknown \iu\\, her rank, h«T fortune, or 
 even her present condition, was obtained. The owmr 
 of La Grcnadiere did, however, tell some of his friends 
 the name (and it was no doiiht a tnu- one) under wliich 
 slie hud taken tlie lease. She gave it as "AugusUi Wil- 
 liamson, Countess of Brandon." The name was doubt- 
 less that of her husband. The later events of her 
 history confirmed this statement ; but it was never 
 made public be3ond the little world of merchants 
 frequented by the owner. 
 
 So Madame "Williamson continued a mysterj* to the 
 leading societ}- of Tours, and all that she allowed them 
 to discover was her simple maimers, delightfully natu- 
 ral, her personal distinction, and the tones of an an- 
 gelic voice. The complete solitude in which she lived, 
 her melancholy, and her beauty so cruelly obscured 
 and even faded, charmed the minds of a few 3*oung 
 men, who fell in love with her. But the more sincere 
 the}- were, the less bold they became ; moreover, she 
 was so imposing that it was difficult to address her. 
 When one or two, more courageous than the rest, 
 wrote to her, Madame Williamson put their letters 
 unopened into the fire. She seemed to have come to 
 this enchanting retreat to abandon herself wholly to 
 the pleasure of living there. The three masters who 
 were admitted to La Grcnadiere spoke with respectful 
 
814 La Crrenadiere. 
 
 admiration of the close and cloudless union which 
 bound the children and the mother in one. 
 
 The children also excited a great deal of interest, 
 and no mother ever looked at them without envy. 
 Both resembled Madame Williamson, who was really 
 their mother. Each had a bright, transparent com- 
 plexion and high color, clear, limpid eyes, long eye- 
 lashes, and the purity of outline which gives such 
 brilliancy to the beauties of childhood. The eldest, 
 named Louis-Gaston, had black hair, and a brave, 
 intrepid eye. Everything about him denoted robust 
 health, just as his broad, high forehead, intelligently 
 rounded, foretold an energetic manhood. He was brisk 
 and agile in his movements, a strapping lad, with 
 nothing assuming about him, not easily surprised, and 
 seeming to reflect on all he saw. His brother, named 
 Marie-Gaston, was very fair, though a few locks of 
 his hair were beginning to show the auburn color 
 of his mother's. He had also the slender figure, the 
 delicate features, and the winning grace so attractive 
 in Madame Williamson. He seemed sicklj*, his gray 
 eyes had a gentle look, his cheeks were pale ; there 
 was a good deal of the woman about him. His mother 
 still kept him to embroidered collars, long curls, and 
 those pretty jackets with frogged fastenings which 
 are worn with so pleasing an effect, and which betray 
 a feminine love of dress. 
 
La Grenndiere. 3ir> 
 
 This dftinty attire contrastc*! with the plain jacket 
 of the elder brother, over which the plain linen collar 
 of his shirt was turned. The trousers, boots, and 
 color of the clothes were the same in the two brothers, 
 and proclaimed their relationship as much as did their 
 physical likeness. Seeing them together, it was im- 
 possible not to be struck with the care which Louis 
 took of Marie. The look he gave him was paternal ; 
 and Marie, in spite of his childlike heedlessness, 
 seemed full of gratitude to his brother. These two 
 little flowers, scarcely apart on the same twig, were 
 shaken b}' the same breezes and wanned b}- the same 
 sun-ra}' ; but while one was \igorous and ros}*, the 
 other was half-etiolated. A word, a look, an inflection 
 of the voice sufBced to catch their attention, to make 
 them turn their heads and listen, hear an order, a 
 request, a suggestion, and obey. Madame Williamson 
 made them understand her wishes and her will as though 
 there were but one thought among them. 
 
 When they were running or playing before her in 
 their walks, gathering a flower, examining an insect, 
 her eyes rested upon them with such deep and tender 
 emotion that the most indifferent observers were 
 touched ; sometimes they even stopped to watch the 
 smiling children, and saluted the mother with a 
 friendly glance. Who, indeed, would not have ad- 
 mired the exquisite nicety of their garments, the 
 
316 La Grenadiere. 
 
 pretty tones of their voices, the grace of their move- 
 ments, their happ}' faces, and that instinctive nobility 
 which told of careful training from their cradles? 
 Those children seemed never to have wept or screamed. 
 The mother had an almost electric sense of their wishes 
 and their pains, and she calmed them or forestalled 
 them ceaselessly. She seemed to dread a plaint from 
 her children more than eternal condemnation for her- 
 self. All things in and about them were to her honor ; 
 and the picture of their triple life, seeming one and 
 the same life, gave birth to vague, alluring visions of 
 the joys we dream of tasting in a better world. 
 
 The domestic life of these harmonious beings was in 
 keeping with the ideas their outward appearance con- 
 veyed ; it was orderly, regular, and simple, as became 
 a home where children were educated. The two boys 
 rose early, by daybreak, and said a short pra3'er, taught 
 them in infancj', — true words said for seven years on 
 their mother's bed, begun and ended b}'^ two kisses. 
 Then the brothers, trained to that minute care of the 
 person so essential to health of body and purity of 
 soul, dressed themselves as carefully as a pretty woman 
 might have done. They neglected nothing, so fearful 
 were they of a word of blame, however tenderly their 
 mother might utter it, — as, for instance, when she said 
 at breakfast one morning, " My dear angels, how did 
 you get your nails so black already ? " 
 
 J 
 
L(i Grenadicre. .".17 
 
 After (Ircssiiiij, the p.-iir would <^o down into tlio 
 g:u(U'U and Hlmke oil' tlio hi'tivincss of Ww \\v^\\\, in its 
 dewy freshiu'ss, whik* wiiiting for the servant to put in 
 order the dining-room, where the}* studied their lessons 
 till lluir niulher wuke. IWit fnun time to time they 
 peeped and listened to find out if she were awake, 
 though forbidden to enter the room before a given 
 hour; and this daily irrui)lion, made in defiance of a 
 compact, was a delightful niomenl both to tliem and to 
 their mother. Marie would jump upon the bed and 
 throw his arms about his idol, while Louis, kneeling 
 beside the pillow, held her hand. Then followed tender 
 inquiries like those of a lover, angelic laughter, caresses 
 that were i)assionate and pure, elocjuent silence, words 
 hall-uttered, childish stories interrupted by kisses, begim 
 again, always listened to, seldom finished. 
 
 " Have you studied your lessons?" the mother would 
 Bay, in a gentle voice, ready to pity idleness as a mis- 
 fortune, but readier still with a tearful glance for the 
 one who could say he had done his best. She knew 
 those children desired only to satisfy lier ; they knew 
 she lived onl}' for them, — that she led them by the 
 wisdom of love and gave them all her thoughts and all 
 her time. A marvellous instinct, which is neither rea- 
 son nor egotism, which we may juTliaps call sentiment 
 in its first sincerity, teaches children whether they are 
 or are not, the object of exclusive care, and whether 
 
318 La Grrenadiere. 
 
 others find happiness in caring for them. Do j-ou 
 truly love them? then the dear creatures, all frankness 
 and all justice, are delightfully grateful. They love 
 passionately and jealously ; they possess the sweetest 
 delicacy, they can find the tenderest words ; they confide 
 to you, they trust to you in all things. Perhaps there 
 are no bad children without bad mothers, for the 
 afllection children feel is always in reply to that they 
 receive, to the first caress given to them, to the first 
 words they have heard, to the first looks from which 
 they have sought for love and life. At that period all 
 to them is attraction or repulsion. God has put children 
 in the womb of the mother to teach her that she must 
 bear them long. 
 
 And yet we find some mothers cruelly misunderstood 
 by their children ; we see sublime maternal tenderness 
 constantlj' wounded b}' horrible ingratitude and neg- 
 lect, — showing how diflHcult it is to lay down absolute 
 principles in matters of feeling. 
 
 In the heart of this mother and in those of her sons 
 no one of the thousand ties which could attach them to 
 one another was missing. Alone on earth they lived a 
 united life and understood each other. When Madame 
 Williamson was silent the boys said nothing, respectful 
 even to the thoughts they could not share. But the 
 elder, gifted with a mind that was already strong, was 
 never satisfied with his mother's assurances that her 
 
 .^ 
 
La Orenadicre. 819 
 
 health was good; he studied lur face with sih-nt un- 
 easiness, unaware of danger, yet loieljuding it wlien he 
 noticed the purple tinta round the sunken eyes and 
 saw that the hollows deepened and the red patches ou 
 the face grew more inflamed. Full of true perception, 
 when he thought that his brother's games were begin- 
 ning to tire her he would say, " Come, Marie, let's go 
 and breakfast ; I 'm hungry." 
 
 But when he reached the door he would turn back to 
 catch the expression on his mother's face, which always 
 wore a smile for him, though sometimes tears would start 
 from her eyes as a gesture of her boy revealed his exqui- 
 site feeling, his precocious comprehension of her sorrow. 
 
 The mother was always present at the lessons which 
 took place from ten to three o'clock, interrupted at 
 midday by the second breakfast, generally taken in the 
 garden pavilion. After this meal came a play-hour, 
 when the happy mother, the unhai)p3- woman, lay on a 
 8ofa in the pavilion, whence she could see that sweet 
 Touraine, incessantly changing, ceaselessly rejuvenated 
 b}' the varying accidents of light and sky and season. 
 
 The boys ran about the place, climbing the terraces, 
 chasing the lizards, themselves as agile ; the}' watched 
 the seeds, and studied the insects and the flowers, run- 
 ning constantly to their mother with questions. Children 
 need no playthings in the country ; the things about 
 them arc amusement and occupation enough. 
 
320 La Grenadiere. 
 
 During tlie lessons Madame Williamson sat in the 
 room with her work ; she was silent and never looked 
 at either masters or pupils, but she listened attentively 
 to catch the meaning of the words and know if Louis 
 were understanding them, and whether his mind were 
 acquiring force. If he interrupted his master with a 
 question, that was surely a sign of progress ; then the 
 mother's eyes would brighten, she smiled, and gave the 
 bo3' a look fall of hope. She exacted very little of 
 Marie ; all her anxiety was for the elder, to whom she 
 showed a sort of respect, employing her womanly and 
 motherly tact to lift his soul and give him a high sense 
 of what he should become. Behind this course was a 
 hidden purpose which the child was one day to compre- 
 hend — and he did comprehend it. After each lesson 
 she inquired carefullj' of the masters what they thought 
 of Louis's progress. She was so kindly and so winning 
 that the teachers told her the truth and showed her how 
 to make Louis work in directions where they thought 
 him wanting. 
 
 Such was their life, uniform but full, — a life where 
 work and play, cheerfullj' mingled, left no opening for 
 ennui. Discouragement or anger was impossible, the 
 mother's boundless love made all things easy. She 
 had taught her sons discretion by refusing nothing to 
 them ; courage, b}' awarding them just praise ; resig- 
 nation, by showing them its necessity under all cir- 
 
La Grenadiere. 321 
 
 cumstanccs. She developed and strengthened the 
 angelic nature withhi thoni witli the care of a guard- 
 ian angel. Sometimes a few tears would moisten her 
 e^es, when, watehing thorn at play, the thought came 
 that they had never caused her a moment's griif. 
 She spent delightful hours lying on her rural couch, 
 enjoying the fine weather, the l)road sheet of water, 
 the picturesque country, tlie voices of her children, 
 their merry laughs rippling into frcsii laughter, and 
 their little disputes, which only evidenced their union, 
 and Louis's fatherly care of Maiic, and the love of both 
 for her. 
 
 The}' all spoke French and English equally well, and 
 the mother used both languages in conversing with her 
 boys. She ruled them by kindness, — hiding nothing, 
 but explaining all. She allowed no false idea to gain 
 a lodgment in their minds, and no mistaken principle 
 to enter their hearts. "When Louis wished to read she 
 gave him books that were interesting and yet sound, 
 true to the facts of life, — lives of famous sailors, bio- 
 graphies of great men, illustrious captains ; finding in 
 such books the occasions to explain to him tlie world 
 and life, to show him the means by which obscure 
 persons who had greatness within their souls, coming 
 from the lower walks of life and without friends, had 
 succeeded in rising to noble destinies. 
 
 Such lessons she gave him in the evening, when 
 21 
 
322 La Qrenadiere. 
 
 Marie, tired with his play, was sleeping on her knees 
 in the cool silence of a beauteous night, when the 
 Loire reflected the heavens. But they increased her 
 secret sadness, and ended often in leaving her ex- 
 hausted, thoughtful, and with her eyes full of tears. 
 
 " Mother, why do you cr}'?" asked Louis, one rich 
 June evening, just as the half-tints of a softly-lighted 
 night were succeeding a warm day. 
 
 "My son," she answered, winding her arm around 
 the neck of the boj', whose concealed emotion touched 
 her deepl}^, "because the hard lot of Jameray Duval, 
 who reached distinction without help, is the fate I have 
 brought on you and your brother. Soon, my dear child, 
 you will be alone in the world, with no one to lean 
 on, no protector. I am forced to leave j^ou, still mere 
 children ; and yet I think that you, my Louis, know 
 enough, and are strong enough to be a guide to Marie. 
 I love you too well not to suffer from such thoughts. 
 God grant 3'ou may not some day curse me." 
 
 " Why should I curse you, mother?" 
 
 " Some day, my child," she answered, kissing his 
 brow, " 3'ou will realize that I have done you wrong. 
 I abandon you, here, without means, without fortune, 
 without" — she hesitated — "without a father," she 
 added. 
 
 Tears choked her voice ; she gently pushed her son 
 away from her, and he, understanding by a sort of 
 
La Grenadiere. 323 
 
 intuition that she wished to ho alono, carried the 
 sleeping Marie away with him. An hcnn- l:it»r, when 
 his brother was in bed, Louis returned with eautious 
 steps to the pavilion where his mother was still lying. 
 He heard her call, in a voice that sounded sweetly on 
 his ear, — 
 
 "Louis, come ! " 
 
 The bo}' flung himself into his mother's arms, and 
 they kissed each other almost convulsively. 
 
 "Dearest," he said, for he often gave her that name, 
 finding even that too feeble to express his tenderness, 
 " dearest, why do you fear that you will die? " 
 
 " I am very ill, my poor loved angel," she said. " I 
 grow weaker daily ; my disease is incurable, and I 
 know it." 
 
 " What disease is it?" 
 
 " I must forget ; and you, 30U must never know the 
 cause of m}' death." 
 
 The child was silent for a moment, glancing furtively 
 at his mother whose eyes were raised to heaven, watch- 
 ing the clouds. Moment of tender melancholy ! Louis 
 did not believe in his mother's approaching death, but 
 he felt her griefs without understanding them. He 
 respected her long revery. "Were he less a child he 
 might have read upon that sacred face thoughts of 
 repentance mingled with happy memories, — the whole 
 of a woman's life ; a careless girlhood, a cold marriage, 
 
324 La Grenadiere. 
 
 a terrible passion, flowers born of a tempest, hurled by 
 the lightning to the depths of that abyss from which 
 there is no return. 
 
 " 'My precious mother," said Louis at last, " why do 
 30U hide 3'our sufferings from me ? " 
 
 "My son," she answered, "we should always hide 
 our troubles from the eyes of strangers, and show to 
 them a smiling face ; we should never speak to others 
 of ourselves, but think only of them. Those things, if 
 we practise them in our homes, will make others happy. 
 Some day you, too, will suffer deeply. Then remember 
 your poor mother, who died before 3'our e^'es hiding 
 her griefs, and smiling for you ; it will give you courage 
 to bear the woes of life." 
 
 Smothering her feelings, she tried to show her boy 
 the mechanism of existence, the just value, the ground- 
 work, and the stability of wealth ; the power of social 
 relations ; the honorable means of amassing mone^^ for 
 the wants of life ; and the necessity of education. Then 
 she revealed to him one cause of her sadness and her 
 tears, and told him that on the morrow of her death he 
 and Marie would be destitute, possessing only a trifling 
 sum of money, and with no other protector than God. 
 
 " What haste I must make to learn ! " cried the bo}', 
 glancing at his mother, with a deep, 3'et plaintive look. 
 
 "Ah, I am happy!" she exclaimed, covering her 
 son with tears and kisses. "He has understood me! 
 
La Qrenadlvre. 32') 
 
 Louis," she added, " yoii will ho your brother's guard- 
 ian, will you not? you promise me? You are no longer 
 a child." 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " I promise; but you will not 
 die yet? Say you will not! " 
 
 "Poor children!" she said, " mj' love for you de- 
 tains me ; and this country is so beautiful, the air is so 
 reviving, perhaps — " 
 
 " I shall love Touraine more than ever now," said 
 the lad, with emotion. 
 
 From that da}' Madame Williamson, foreseeing her 
 end, talked to her eldest son of his future lot, Louis, 
 •who had now completed his fourteenth jcar, became 
 more thoughtful, applied himself better, and cared less 
 for play. Whether it were that he persuaded Marie to 
 read, instead of caring only for games of pla}-, it is certain 
 that the two boys made much less noise in the sunken 
 paths and in the terraces and gardens of La Grcnadiere. 
 They conformed their life lo the sad condition of their 
 mother, whose face grew paler day by da}', with yellow 
 tints, the lines deepening night after night 
 
 In the month of August, six months after the arrival 
 of the little family, all was changed at La Grcnadiere. 
 The pretty house, once so gay, so lively, had grown 
 sad and silent, and its occupants seldom left the prem- 
 ises. Madame Williamson had scarcely strength to 
 •walk to the bridge. Louis, whose imagination had 
 
326 La Grenadiere. 
 
 suddenl}' developed, aud who had now identified himself, 
 as it were, with his mother, guessing her weariness, 
 invented pretexts to avoid a walk w^hicli he felt was too 
 long for her. Happy couples passing along tlie road to 
 Saint-Cyr and the groups of pedestrians below upon the 
 levee saw, in the warm evenings, the pale, emaciated 
 woman in deep mourning, near her end jet still brilliant, 
 pacing like a phantom along the terraces. Great suffer- 
 ings are divined. Even the cottage of the vine- dresser 
 became silent. Sometimes the peasant and his wife 
 and children were grouped about their door, Fann}', the 
 old English servant, would be washing near the well, 
 Madame Williamson and her boys sitting in the pavilion, 
 and yet no sound was heard in the once gay gardens, 
 and all ej'es turned, when the dying woman did not see 
 them, to contemplate her. She was so good, so thought- 
 ful for others, so worthy of respect from all who ap- 
 proached her ! 
 
 Since the beginning of the autumn, which is always 
 fine and brilliant in Toui-aine, and which, with its bene- 
 ficent influences, its fruits, its grapes, did somewhat 
 prolong the mother's Hfe beyond the natural term of 
 her hidden malady, she had thought of nothing but her 
 children, and rejoiced over every hour she had them 
 with her as though it were her last. 
 
 From the month of June to the month of September 
 Louis studied at night without his mother's knowledgce 
 
La Grenadiere. 827 
 
 and made enormous progress ; ho was alrcntly in tho 
 equations of the second degree in ulgrhru, hail Icarnt-d 
 dcscnptive geometry, and drew adniiral)ly well. He 
 was, in fact, prepared to pass an entrance examination 
 to the Ecole Polyteehnique. Occasionally in l\w even- 
 ings he went to walk on the bridge of Tours, where he 
 bad met a lieutenant of the navy on half-pay ; the 
 manl}' face, the decorated breast, the hearty bearing of 
 tliis sailor of the Empire, aft'ected his imagination. The 
 lieutenant, on the other hand, took a fancy to the lad 
 whose eyes sparkled with energy. Louis, eager for 
 militar}' tales and liking to ask questions, walked about 
 with the old salt and listened to him. The lieutenant 
 had a friend and companion in an infantry colonel ; 
 young Gaston could therefore hear of the two lives, 
 military and naval, life in camp and life on seaboard, 
 and he questioned the two oflicers incessantly. 
 
 After a time, entering into their hard lot and their 
 rough experience, he suddenly asked his mother for 
 permission to roam about the canton to amuse himself. 
 As the astonished masters had told Madame Williamson 
 that her son was studying too hard, she acceded to his 
 request with extreme pleasure. The bo}' took immense 
 walks. Wishing to harden himself to fatigue he climbed 
 the highest trees with agility, he learned to swiu), and 
 he sat up working at night. lie was no longer the 
 same child ; he was a young man, on whose face the sun 
 
328 La Grenadiere. 
 
 had cast its brown tones, bringing out the lines of an 
 ah-eady deep purpose. 
 
 The month of October came, and Madame Williamson 
 could rise only at midday, when the sun-rays, reflected 
 from the Loire and concentrated on the terraces, pro- 
 duced the same equable warmth at La Grenadiere that 
 prevails on warm, moist days around the Bay of Naples, 
 — a circumstance which leads physicians to recommend 
 Touraine. On such da^^s she would sit beneath an 
 evergreen, and her sons no longer left her. Studies 
 ceased, the masters were dismissed. Children and 
 mother wished to live in one another's hearts, without a 
 care, without distractions from the outside. No tears 
 were shed, no happy laughter heard. The elder, lying 
 on the grass beside his mother, was like a lover at her 
 feet, which he sometimes kissed. Marie, restless and 
 uneasy, gathered flowers, which he bi'ought to her with 
 a sad air, rising on tiptoe to take from her lips the kiss 
 of a 3'oung girl. That pallid woman with the large 
 black ej'es, lying exhausted, slow in all her motions, 
 making no plaint, smiling at her two children so full of 
 health, so living, was indeed a touching spectacle amid 
 the melancholy glories of autumn, with its yellowing 
 leaves, its half-bared trees, the softened light of the sun 
 and the white clouds of a Touraine sky. 
 
 The day came when Madame Williamson was ordered 
 by the doctor not to leave her room. Daily it was 
 
La Grenadiere. 829 
 
 adorned with the flowers she loved best, find lior rliil- 
 dreii stayed there. Early in Novcnihi-r she opened her 
 piano for the last time. A Swiss landscape hnn;; al>ovc 
 it. Beside the window the brothers, with their arms 
 around each other, showed licr their niinirled heads. 
 Her eyes moved constantly from her children to the 
 landscape, from the landscape to her children. Her 
 face colored, her fingers ran with passion along the 
 ivory notes. It was her last fete, a fete hidden from 
 others, a fete celebrated in the depths of her soul by 
 the genius of memory. 
 
 The doctor came and bade her keep her bed. The 
 sentence was received by her and b}- her sons in a 
 silence that was almost stupid. 
 
 When the physician went away she said: "Louis, 
 take me on the ten'ace that I may see the country once 
 more." 
 
 At these words, simply said, the lad gave her his arm 
 and took her to the centre of the terrace. There her 
 eyes sought, involuntarily perhaps, the heavens rather 
 than the earth ; it would have been difficult at tliat 
 moment to sa}' where was the finer landscape, for the 
 clouds represented vaguely the majestic glaciers of tlie 
 Alps. Her brow contracted violently, her eyes took 
 an expression of remorse and sorrow, she caught the 
 hands of her children and pressed them to her beating 
 heart. 
 
330 La G-renadiere. 
 
 " Father and mother unknown ! " she cried, casting 
 an agonized look upon them. "Poor children! what 
 will become of 3'ou? And when you are men, what 
 stern account will yoxx not demand of me for my life 
 and yours?" 
 
 She pushed her children from her, placed both elbows 
 on the balustrade, hid her face in her hands, and re- 
 mained for a few moments alone with her soul, fearing 
 to be seen. When she roused herself from her grief 
 she saw Louis and Marie kneeling beside her like two 
 angels ; they watched her looks and both smiled at 
 her. 
 
 " Could I but take those smiles with me ! " she said, 
 drying her ej'es. 
 
 She returned to the house and went to her bed, to 
 leave it no more until they placed her in her coffin. 
 
 Eight days went by, each day like the rest. The old 
 waiting- woman and Louis took turns to watch that bed 
 at night, their ej^es fixed on the patient. It was the 
 same drama, profoundly tragic, which is played at all 
 hours and in all families where they dread that every 
 breath may be the last of some adored member. On 
 the fifth day of this fatal week the doctor proscribed 
 flowers. One by one the illusions of life were taken 
 from her. 
 
 After that day Louis and Marie found fire beneath 
 their lips when they kissed their mother's bi'ow. At 
 
La Grenadiere. 331 
 
 last, on the Saturday night, she could bear no noise, and 
 ht-r room was left in disorder. That necessary nej^lect 
 nuukod the beginning of the death of this woman, once 
 so fastidious, so enamoured of elegance. Louis no 
 longer left her even for a moment 
 
 During the night of Sunday, in the midst of deepest 
 silence, Louis, who thought her dozing, saw by the 
 light of the lamp a white, moist hand put back the 
 curtain. 
 
 "My son," she said. 
 
 The tones of the dying woman were so solemn that 
 their power, proceeding from her troubled soul, reacted 
 violently on her child ; he felt a burning heat in the 
 marrow of his bones. 
 
 " AVhat is it, mother?" 
 
 " Listen to me. To-morrow all will be over. We 
 shall see each other no more. To-morrow you will be 
 a man, my child. I am obliged to make certain ar- 
 rangements which must remain a secret between you 
 and me. Take the key of my little table. You have it? 
 Open the drawer. You will find on the left two sealed 
 papers. On one is marked Louis, on the other, Mauie." 
 
 " I have them, mother." 
 
 " My darUng son, they are the legal records of your 
 birth, of great importance to you. Give them to my 
 poor old Fanny, who will take care of them for you, and 
 return them to you when needed. Now," she continued, 
 
832 La Grenadiere. 
 
 " look again in the same place and see if there is not 
 another paper on which I have written a few lines?" 
 
 " Yes, mother." 
 
 And Louis began to read : " Marie Augusta William- 
 son, horn at — " 
 
 " That will do," she said quickly, " Don't go on. My 
 son, when I am dead, give that paper also to Fanny and 
 tell her to take it to the ma3'or's office at Saint-Cyr, 
 where they will need it to draw up the record of my 
 death. Now bring what 3'ou require to write a letter 
 at m}' dictation." 
 
 When she saw that her son was ready and that he 
 turned to her as if to listen, she said, in a calm voice, 
 dictating: "Sir, your wife. Lady Brandon, died at 
 Saint-Cyr, near Tours, department of the Indre-et-Loire. 
 She forgave you. Sign it — " 
 
 She stopped, hesitating and agitated. 
 
 " Do you feel worse? " asked Louis. 
 
 " Sign it, ' Louis Gaston.' " 
 
 She sighed, then continued: "Seal the letter and 
 direct it to ' The Earl of Brandon, Brandon Square, 
 Hj-de Park, London, England.' Have you written it? 
 Very good," she said. " On the da}^ of my death you 
 must mail that letter from Tours. Now," she continued, 
 after a pause, " bring my little pocket-book — yon know 
 it — and come close to me, dear child. In it," she said, 
 when Louis had returned to her, " are twelve thousand 
 
 i 
 
La Grenadiere. 883 
 
 francs. They arc rightfully ^'ours, alas ! You would 
 have had far more had your fatluT — " 
 
 " My father! " exelaiiucd the lad, " where is he?" 
 
 " Dead," she replied, laying a finger on her lips, — 
 "dead to save my honor and my life." 
 
 She raised her eyes to heaven ; she would have wept 
 had she still had tears for sorrows " Louis," she said, 
 " swear to me on this pillow that you will forget all that 
 you have written, and all that I have said to you." 
 
 " Yes mother." 
 
 " Kiss me, dear angel." 
 
 She made a long pause as if to gather courage from 
 God, and to limit her words to the strength that was 
 left to her. 
 
 " Listen," she said at last " These twelve thousand 
 francs are your whole fortune ; you must keep them 
 upon your person, because when I am dead, the legal 
 authorities will come here and put seals on everything. 
 ^Nothing will belong to you, not even your mother. 
 Poor orphans! all you can do is to go away — God 
 knows w here. I have provided for Fanny ; she will 
 have three hundred francs a year and stay in Tours. 
 But what will j'ou do with yourself and your brother?" 
 
 She raised herself in the bed and looked at the brave 
 boy, who, with great drops on his forehead, pale from 
 emotion, his eyes half-veiled in tears, stood erect 
 before her. 
 
334 La G-renadiere. 
 
 "Mother," he replied in a deep voice, "I have 
 thought of it. I shall take Marie to the college of 
 Tours. I shall give ten thousand francs to old Fanny 
 and tell her to put them in safety, and to watch over my 
 brother. Then, with the rest, I will go to Brest, and 
 enter the navy as an apprentice. While Marie is get- 
 ting his education I shall be promoted lieutenant. 
 Mother, die easy ; I shall be rich ; I will put our boy 
 into the Ecole Poly technique, and he shall follow his 
 bent." 
 
 A flash of joy came from the half-quenched ej'es of 
 the mother ; two tears rolled down her burning cheeks ; 
 then a great sigh escaped her lips. She barely escaped 
 djing at that moment from the joy of finding the soul 
 of the father in that of her son, now suddenly trans- 
 formed into a man. 
 
 "Angel from heaven!" she said, weeping, "j'ou 
 have healed my sorrows with those words. Ah ! I can 
 die now. He is my son," she added; "I have made, 
 I have trained, a man." 
 
 She raised her hands in the air and clasped them, as 
 if to express a boundless joy ; then she lay back on the 
 pillows. 
 
 " Mother, you are turning white," cried the bo3^ 
 
 " Fetch a priest," she answered, in a dying voice. 
 
 Louis woke old Fanny, who ran in terror to the 
 parsonage of Saint-Cj'r. 
 
La Grenadiere. 335 
 
 Early in llu' morning l^Inchuno Williainson received 
 the sacraments in presence of her children, with ohl 
 Fanny, and the family of the vine-dresser, simple folk, 
 now part of the family, kneeling round her. The silver 
 cross borne by a humble choir boy, a village choir boy ! 
 was held before the bed ; an old priest administered 
 the viaticum to the dying mother. The viaticum ! sub- 
 lime word, idea more sublime than the word, which the 
 apostolic religion of the Roman Church alone employs. 
 
 "This woman has sulfered much," said the curate 
 in his simple language. 
 
 Madame "Williamson heard no longer ; but her eyes 
 remained fastened on her ciiildren. All present, in 
 mortal terror, listened in the deep silence to the 
 breathing of the dying woman as it slackened and 
 grew slower. At intervals, a deep sigh showed that 
 life was still continuing the inward struggle. At last, 
 the mother breathed no longer. Those present wept, 
 excepting Marie, too young, poor child, to be aware 
 of death. Fanny and the vinc-dresser's wife closed 
 the eyes of the once exquisite creature, whose beauty 
 reappeared in all its glory. They sent away those 
 present, took the furniture from the room, placed the 
 body of the departed in its shroud, lighted the wax- 
 tapers around the bod, arranged the basin of holy 
 water, the branch of box, and the crucifix, after the 
 manner of that region of country, closed the blinds 
 
336 La Grenadiere. 
 
 and drew the curtains. Then the vicar came and 
 passed the night in praj-er with Louis, who would 
 not leave his mother. 
 
 The funeral took place Tuesday morning ; old Fanny, 
 the children, and the vine-dresser alone followed the 
 bod}' of a woman whose beauty, wit, and grace had 
 given her in other daj's a European fame ; and whose 
 funeral would have been pompouslj' heralded in the 
 newspapers of London, as an aristocratic solemnit}', 
 had she not committed a tender crime, a crime always 
 punished on this earth, perhaps to allow the pardoned 
 angel to enter heaven. When the earth fell on his 
 mother's coffin, Marie wept, comprehending then that 
 he should see her no more. 
 
 A simple wooden cross stands above her grave and 
 bears these words, given by the curate of Saint-Cyr. 
 
 HERE LIES 
 
 A SORROWFUL WOMAN. 
 
 SHE DIED AGED THIRTY-SIX, 
 
 Beaking the name Augusta in Heaven. 
 Pray for her. 
 
 When all was over the children returned to La 
 Grenadiere to cast a last look upon their home ; then, 
 holding each other b}^ the hand, they prepared to 
 
La Grenadiere. 837 
 
 leave it with Fanny, making the vinc-drcsscr rcHjwn- 
 sible to the aiitlioritics. 
 
 At the Inst inomiMit the old waiting-woman callicl 
 Louis to the steps of the w«ll, and said to him apart : 
 
 " Monsieur Louis, here is mndame\s ring." 
 
 The boy wopt, — moved at tiie sij^ht of a living monio- 
 rial of his dead niotlicr. In iiis strong sclf-coinniand 
 he had forgotten tiiis last duty. He kissed the old 
 woman. Then all three went down the sunken path- 
 way, and down the flight of stops, and on to Tours 
 without once looking back. 
 
 " Mamma used to stand here," said Marie, when they 
 reached the bridge. 
 
 Fanny had an old cousin, a rotirod dressmaker, 
 living in the rue de la Ciuerehc. There she took the 
 lads, thinking they could all live together. But Louis 
 explained his plans, gave her Marie's certificate of 
 birth and the ten thousand francs, and the next day, 
 accompanied by the old woman, he took his brother 
 to the school. lie told the priueii)al the facts of the 
 case, but very briefly, and went away, tiiking his 
 brother with him to the gate. There he tenderly and 
 solemnl}' told him of their loneliness in the world and 
 gave him counsel for the future, lookt'il at him silently 
 a moment, kissed him, looked at him again, wiped 
 away a tear, and went awav, looking back again and 
 again at his brother, left alone at the college gate. 
 _ 22 
 
338 Xa Grrenadiere. 
 
 A month later Louis Gaston was an apprentice on 
 board a government ship, leaving the Rochefort roads. 
 Leaning against the shrouds of the corvette " Iris," he 
 watched the coasts of France as they dropped below 
 the blue horizon. Soon he saw himself alone, lost in 
 the midst of ocean, as he was in the midst of life. 
 
 "Mustn't cry, young fellow; there 's a God for all 
 the world," said an old seaman, in his gruff voice, both 
 harsh and kind. 
 
 The lad thanked him with an intrepid look. Then 
 he bowed his head and resigned himself to a sailor's 
 life, for — was he not a father? 
 
 1832. 
 
BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 COUSIN PONS. 
 
 " It is late in tlie day to xpeak of the genius of Kalzac, but it is wnrth while to 
 eommeiid the reader to the admirable translation of a number of hit works 
 issued by an American firm of publishers. Ihc work of Misi Wornieley, whoM 
 name does not appear upon the titltpanc, but who is said to be the translator, it 
 deserving of the hinhest praise, llal/at's intensely idiomatic French, as well a* 
 his occasional treatment of recondite subjects, and his frequent elucidation of 
 complic.ited business transactions, render the translation of his works difficult ; but 
 the present translator has turned the original into clear and fluent Knglish, read* 
 ing not at all like a translation, yet preserving Halzac's vigorous and characteristic 
 style. It is not only the best translation of lialtac which we have, — whicli would 
 not be high praise, since English versions of his novels have hitherto been few .md 
 fragmentary, — but one of the most excellent translations of any Krench author 
 which we have met. The publishers have laid the American readers under 
 obligation both by undertaking the enterprise of presenting I'.alzac in an Kngli%h 
 dres.s, and by their selection of a translator ; and it is most desirable that they 
 should complete the work so well befyin by putting within the reach of Knglish- 
 speaking readers the remainder of that marvellous body of fiction, Tht Comidu 
 Humaine." — The thurch Revietv. 
 
 " ■ Cousin Pons' is the latest translation in the Baliac series now being issued 
 by Roberts Brothers, Boston. It is a strong story of Iriendship and of greed. To 
 all intents and purposes the narrative indicates a complete and perfect triumph of 
 vice over virtue ; but vice is painted in such hideous colors, and virtue is >hown in 
 such effulgent beauty, as to make the moral well-nigh awe-inspiring. Balz.ic does 
 not stay the natural course of events. He permits each character to work out its 
 own results, and then makes the impression desired by comparative methods. In 
 thi.s, as in all his works, the wonderful writer manifests a familiarity with the 
 ethics of life which has gained for him the eternal remembrance and gratitude 
 of all readers; and it is f.iir to presume that the Balzac now being translated and 
 published by the Roberts Brothers will revive his name and bring .igain to his 
 feet the worid of English-speaking people." — S/iritigJiflti Kepuhtuan. 
 
 "The last translation from Balzac brought out by Roberts Brothers in their 
 new and beautiful edition is one of the fainous Frenchman's most original stories. 
 It is, in fact, one of the most extraordinary and origmal novels ever written, and 
 only the mind of a genius could have conceived such a peculiar plot. The heroine 
 of the novel — for whom the principal character sacrifices his comfort, his pleasure, 
 and indeed his life; for whom many other characters in the book sacrifice their 
 honor : and around whom all the excitement and interest centres — is, strangely 
 enough, not a woman ; and yet this heroine calls forth the most ardent and 
 passionate devotion a man is capable of, and her intluence is elevating and not 
 degrading. The manner in which a mania of any kind can absorb a man, body 
 and soul, is wonderfully brought out in 'Cousin Pons;' for the heroine of the 
 book is a collection of curios. 
 
 "Those who have formed a hasty judgment of Balzac from reading the 'Duchesse 
 de Langeais' would do well to read 'Cousin Pons.' Balzac sees and depicts 
 virtue as perfectly as vice, and it is his faculty of describing beauty as well as 
 ugliness which has made him famous. The delicacy of perception which enabled 
 him to perceive and describe every shade of feeling in ' Cousin Pons ' and to 
 appreciate the nobility of Schmucke's character is the chief characteristic of 
 genius. The re.-ider must read all the ' Scenes from Parisian Lite ' to have any 
 full conception of Balzac's greatness. His breadth of vision, his dramatic power, 
 his searching analysis of the most transient emotions, and his quick perceptions of 
 beauty, are all evident in "Cousin Pons.' It is an interesting, exciting novel, a 
 perfect piece of literary execution, and a story which is, if sad, neither coarse nor 
 immoral." — Boston Transcript. ^ 
 
 One handsome i2ino volume, uniform with " Pcre Goriot," 
 " Duchesscde Langeais," " Cesar Birotteau," " Eugenie Grandet." 
 Bound in half morocco, French style. Price, $1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, Boston. 
 
BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 The Magic Skin. 
 
 (LA PEAU DE CHAGRIN.) 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY. 
 
 "The Magic Skin " is a great novel, — great in its conception, great in its 
 execution, and great in the impression it leaves upon the reader's mind. Those 
 who deny that Balzac is a moral teacher will retract their opinion after reading this 
 powerful allegory. It is a picturesque representation of the great moral truth that 
 m life we have to pay for every excess we enjoy. In the gradual shrinking of the 
 "Magic Skin" we see the inevitable law that by uncontrolled dissipation of body 
 or mind we use up our physical strength and exhaust our vitality. In that beauti- 
 ful, cold, fascinating character, Fedora, the writer shows us the glittering world of 
 fashion and frivolity which men pursue vainly and find to their cost only dust and 
 ashes. In the gentle, loving, and devoted Pauline, Balzac represents the lasting 
 and pure pleasures of domestic life. But in Raphael's short enjoyment of them 
 we see the workings of that inflexible law, " Whatever ye sow that shall ye also 
 reap." In the vivid, striking, realistic picture of Parisian life which Balzac pre- 
 sents to us in " The Magic Skin," the writer had a conscious moral purpose. We 
 know of no more awful allegory in literature. — Boston Transcript. 
 
 The story is powerful and original ; but its readers will be most affected by its 
 marvellous knowledge of human nature, and the deep-cutting dissection of charac- 
 ter which makes the attempts of our own analytical novelists appear superficial 
 and experimental. Life in all classes of the Paris of Louis Philippe's time is por- 
 trayed in the strongest lights and shadows, and with continual flashes of wit, 
 satire, and sarcasm which spare neither politician, philosopher, priest, poet, jour- 
 nalist, artist, man of the world, nor woman of the world. Through a maze of 
 heterogeneous personages Raphael, the hero, is carried, pursued by the relentless 
 Magic Skin, which drives him mercilessly to his doom. The vices of high society 
 are laid bare ; but there is also a beautiful exposition of purity in the humble life 
 of Pauline, who is the good angel of the story. In translating " La Peau de Cha- 
 grin" Miss Wormeley has done work that is at once skilful and discreet. It is a 
 man's book, virile though not vulgar, and exposing prominences in French social 
 views such as most writers veil in obscurities. Here all is frankly and honestly 
 shown, but by a man of genius, who had no more need of prudish hypocrisy than 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Mr. Parsons's thoughtful preface is a fitting introduction to the most wonder- 
 ful of all Balzac's romances. It is not a whit too strong for Mr. Parsons to write 
 that, saving Shakespeare, "no man could have been belter fitted to examine men- 
 tal processes, to gauge their effects, to estimate their significance, and to define 
 their nature and scope ' than Balzac. If llalznc had been a German, and not a 
 Frenchman of the French, this book of his would be as much of an epoch-maker 
 as Goethe's " Faust." It may take years before the fuller appreciation of " La 
 Peau de Chagrin " comes, but it is a study of life which will be studied in cen- 
 turies yet to come. — New York Times- 
 
 One handsome iimo volume, uniform with " Pire Goriot^'' " The 
 Duchesse de Langeais,'^ '^ Cesar Birotteau,^' "■Eugenie Grandet,^' 
 " Cousin Pojis,'" " 77/1? Country Doctor,'^ " The Two Brothers,'" " The 
 Alkahest," and '■' Modeste Mignon.^' Bound in half m.orocco, French 
 style. Price, ^1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 
 
 Boston. 
 
BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 SONS OF THE SOIL. 
 
 Translated by Katharine Preacott Wormeley. 
 
 Many critics have regarded " Les Paysans," to which Miss Wormeley, 
 in her admirable translation, has given the title " Sons of the Soil," as one 
 of Balzac's strongest novels ; and it cannot fail to impress those who read 
 this English rendering of it. Fifty or sixty years ago Balzac made a pro- 
 found study of the effects produced by the Revolution upon the peasants 
 of the remote provinces of France, and he has here elaborated these obser- 
 vations in a powerful picture of one of those strange, disguised, but fero- 
 cious social wars which were at the time not only rendered possible, but 
 promoted by three potent influences, namely, the selfishness of the rich 
 landholders ; the land-hunger and stimulated greed of the peasants ; and 
 the calculated rapacity of middle-class capitalists, craftily using the hatreds 
 of the poor to forward their own plots. The first part of " Les Paysans " 
 (and the only part which was published during the author's life) appeared 
 under a title taken from an old and deeply significant proverb, Qui a terre 
 a guerre, — " Who has land has war." 
 
 It is the account of a guerilla war conducted by a whole country-side 
 against one great land-owner, — a war in which, moreover, the lawless 
 aggressions of the peasantry are prompted, supported, and directed by an 
 amazing alliance between the richest, most unscrupulons, and most power- 
 ful of the neighboring provincial magnates, who, by controlling, through 
 family council, the local administration, are in a position to paralyze resist- 
 ance to their conspiracy. The working out of this deep plot affords the 
 author opportunity for the introduction of a whole gallery of marvellous 
 Studies. 
 
 It is perhaps hardly necessary to say that this powerful and absorbing 
 story is lifted above the level of romance by the unequalled artistic genius 
 of the author, and that it is at times almost transformed into a profound 
 political study by the depth and acumen of his suggestions and comments. 
 Nor should it be requisite to point out analogies with territorial conditions 
 in more than one other country, which lend to " Les Paysans " a special 
 interest and significance, and are likely to prevent it from becoming obsolete 
 for a long time to come. Of the translation it only need be said that it is 
 as good as Miss Wormeley has accustomed us to expect, and that means 
 the best rendering of French into English that has ever been done. — 
 New York Tribune. 
 
 Handsome 12mo volume, bound in half Russia. Price, 
 $1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 
 
 BOSTON, MASS. 
 
BALZAC IN ENGLISH 
 
 LOUIS Tambert. 
 
 "As for Balzac," writes Oscar Wilde, "he was a most remarkable combination 
 of the artistic temperament with the scientific spirit." It is his artistic tempera- 
 ment which reveals itself the most clearly in the novel before us. As we read 
 "Louis Lambert," we feel convinced that it is largely autobiographical. It is a 
 psychical study as delicate as Amiel's Journal, and nearly as spiritual. We follow 
 the life of the sensitive, poetical schoolboy, feeling that it is a true picture of Bal- 
 zac's own youth. When the literary work on wliich the hero had written for years 
 in all his spare moments is destroyed, we do not need to be told by Mr. Parsons 
 that this is an episode in Balzac's own experience ; we are sure of this fact already ; 
 and no writer could describe so sympathetically the deep spiritual experiences of 
 an aspiring soul who had not at heart felt them keenly. No materialist could have 
 written " Louis Lambert." — Boston Transcrifit. 
 
 Of all of Balzac's works thus far translated by Miss Katharine Prescott Wormeley, 
 the last in the series, " Louis Lambert," is the most difficult of comjirehension. 
 It is the second of the author's Philosophical Studies, "The Magic Skin" being 
 the first, and " Seraphita," shortly to be published, being the third and last. In 
 "Louis Lambert" Balzac has presented a study of a noble soul — a spirit of 
 exalted and lofty aspirations which chafes under the fetters of earthly existence, 
 and has no sympathy with the world of materialism. This pure-souled genius is 
 made the medium, moreover, for the enunciation of the outlines of a system of 
 philosophy which goes to the very roots of Oriental occultism and mysticism as its 
 source, and which thus reveals the marvellous scope of Balzac's learning. The 
 scholarly introduction to the book by George Frederic Parsons, in addition to 
 throwing a great deal of valuable light upon other phases of the work, shows how 
 many of the most recent scientific theories are directly in line with the doctrines 
 broadly set forth by Balzac nearly sixty years ago. The book is one to be studied 
 rather than read ; and it is made intelligible by the extremely able introduction 
 and by Miss Wormeley's excellent translation. — Tke Book- Buyer ■ 
 
 " Louis Lambert," with the two other members of the Trilogy, " La Peau de 
 Chagrin" and "Seraphita," is a book which presents many ditficulties to the 
 student. It deals with profound and unfamiliar subjects, and the meaning of the 
 author by no means lies on the surface. It is the study of a great, aspiring soul 
 enshrined in a feeble body, the sword wearing out the scabbard, the spirit soaring 
 away from its prison-house of flesh to its more congenial home. It is in marked 
 contrast to the study of the destructive and debasing process which we see in the 
 " Peau de Chagrin." It stands midway between this study of the mean and base 
 and that noble presentation of the final evolution of a soul on the very borders of 
 Divinity which Balzac gives us in " Seraphita." 
 
 The reader not accustomed to such high ponderings needs a guide to place him 
 en rapport with the Seer. Such a guide and friend he finds in Mr. Parsons, 
 whose introduction of one hundred and fifty pages is by no means the least valu- 
 able part of this volume. It is impossible to do more than sketch the analysis of 
 Balzac's philosophy and the demonstration so successfully attempted by Mr. Par- 
 sons of the exact correlation between many of Balzac's speculations and the 
 newest scientific theories. The introduction is so closely written that it defies 
 much condensation. It is so intrinsically valuable that it will thoroughly repay 
 careful and minute study. — From "Light" a Londoti Journal of Psychical and 
 Occult Research, March 9,1889. 
 
 One handsome i2mo volume, uniform with ^' Pire Goriot" " The 
 Duchesse de Langeais,'' " Cesar Birnffeati,'^ " Eugenie Grandet,^'' 
 " Cousin Pons,'''' " The Country Doctor." " The Two Brothers^'' " The 
 Alkahest" " Modeste AIis;tton," " The Magic Skin," "Cousin Bette." 
 Bound in half morocco, French Style. Price, ^1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 
 
 Boston. 
 
BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 THE ALKAHEST; 
 
 Or, The House of Claes. 
 
 AmonR the novels of Honor^ de Balzac " La Recherche de I'Absolu " has 
 always cor.med one of the masterpieces. The terrible dominion of a fixed idea 
 was never shown with nmre tremendous force than is depicted in the absorption of 
 all the powers, the mind, and body of B.illh.izar Claes by the desire to discover 
 the Absolute, the " Alkahest." The lovely old mansion at Dual, its sumptuous 
 furniture, its priceless pictures, its rare bric-A-brac, the pyramid of costly tulips 
 th.it glowed in the garden, are painted with a touch rich and vivid, which shows 
 Balzac at his best. This great novelist was always minute and e.xhaustive in his 
 descriptions; but in this story the material in which he worked was of a sort to 
 arouse his enthusi.ism, and he evidently revels in the attractive setting which its 
 events demand. The tale itself is penetrating and powerlul. — Boston Courier. 
 
 The " Alkahest " is a strong story, and all through it is to be felt that sub- 
 current of vitalizing energy which in so many of Balzac's books seems to pri pe! 
 the principal characters as in a special atmosphere, hurrying them with a kind of 
 fiery yet restranied impatience toward the doom assigned them. . . . The scien- 
 tific and mystical features of the story are cleverly handled. Balzac made deep 
 inquests before writing his philosophical studies, as he called them, and he wzs 
 always rather ahead than abreast of the thoughts of his time. The central prob- 
 lem dealt with here is, of course, as complete a mystery to-day as when the 
 " Recherche de I'Absolu " was written. . . . Miss Wormeley has made a charno 
 teristically excellent translation of a book which presents many unusual diflficulties 
 and abstruse points. It is rarely possible to assert with any truth that an English 
 version of a French book may be read by the public with nearly as much profit 
 and apprehension as the original ; but it is the simple fact in this instance, and it 
 is certainly remarkable enough to deserve emphasis. — Kew York Trilruue. 
 
 He who would know the art of novel-writing may go to Balzac and find an art 
 that is natural, simple, and beautiful in its exercise, and is directed to both thought 
 and feeling in behalf of humanity, and that realizes something good and enduring. 
 He may look without much trouble at " The Alkahest ; or. The House of Claes," 
 one of the most illustrative of the author's method and aim, and excelling in 
 philosophical analysis and in philosophical value. 
 
 In this work Balzac has opposed the heart and intellect in a contest amid the 
 conditions of social life, and sought to reveal their comparative nature and influ- 
 ence, siding, although a remarkable example himself of intellectual development 
 and force, in favor of the heart, — that I lemish heart which is ideal of all that is 
 powerful tor good and happiness in domestic life, and determines Flemish charac- 
 ter so strongly that the qualities of that character impress themselves fixedly in 
 Flemish painting and architecture — Sunday Globe. Boston. 
 
 One more scene in Balzac's wonderful " Comedy of Human Life."' It is "The 
 Alkahest; or. The House of Claes," the greatest of the "philosophical studies." 
 It tells of the mad, persistent, vain endeavors of Balthazar, a scientist, to dis- 
 cover the Absolute. Through years he squanders his estate in fruitless experi- 
 ments. Ii is a drama that slowly chills the blood. Then comes the Jinaie. 
 " Suddenly the dying man raised himself by his wrists, and cast on his frightened 
 children a look which struck like lightning ; the hairs that fringed the baid head 
 stirred, the wrinkles quivered, the features were illumined with spiritual fires, a 
 breath passed across that face and rendered it sublime. He raised a hand 
 clenched in fury, and uttered with a piercing cr>' the famous word of Archimedes, 
 'Eureka!' — I have found." It is the way Balthazar found the Absolute.— 
 Philadelphia Press. 
 
 One handsome izmo volume, uniform with " Pere Goriot" " The 
 Diichesse de Langeais," " Cesar Birotteau" " Eugenie Grandet" 
 " Cousin Pons," " The Coit7itry Doctor" and " The Two Brothers^ 
 Bound in half morocco, French style. Price, $1.50. 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, Bo.«TOK. 
 
BALZAC IN ENGLISH. 
 
 THE TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 " It is quite possible that many French students may be somewhat puzzled to 
 encounter that story of Balzac's which they have always known under the title of 
 ' Un Menage de Gargon,' in the strange and unfamiliar appellation 'The Two 
 Brothers.' The explanation is simple enough, and it is interesting as illustrating 
 one of Balzac's peculiarities. A number of his books underwent many changes 
 before they crystallized permanently in the edition definitive. Some of them were 
 begun in a newspaper or review, carried along some distance in that way, then 
 dropped, to appear presently enlarged, altered, 'grown,' as is said of children, 
 ' out of knowledge.' The ' History of Balzac's Works,' by Charles de Lovenjoul, 
 gives all the details of these bewildering metamorphoses. The first title of the 
 present story was that which the American translator has selected, namely, ' Les 
 deux Freres.' The first part of it appeared in La Presse in 1841 with this desig- 
 nation, and in 1843 it was published in two volumes without change of title. The 
 second part (now incorporated with the first) appeared in La Presse\n 1842, under 
 the title ' Un Menage de Gargon en Province,' and figured as the continuation ol 
 ' The Two Brothers ' In 1843 the two parts were brought together, and the 
 ■whole published as ' Un Menage de Gargon en Province.' Balzac, however, was 
 not yet satisfied. Having announced yet another title, namely, ' Le Bonhomme 
 Rouget,' he abandoned that, cancelled both the former ones, and called the tale, 
 in the definitive edition of his works, ' La Rabouilleuse," after Flore Brazier, one 
 of the characters in it. There can be no doubt that Miss Wormeley has chosen 
 the most apposite of all these titles. The real subject is the career of the two 
 brothers, Philippe and Joseph Bridau." — New York Tribune. 
 
 " Messrs. Roberts Brothers, of Boston, have added to the excellent translations 
 they have already publish ed of several of Balzac's most famous novels a translation 
 of ' The Two Brothers,' which forms a sequence in ' Scenes from Provincial Life.' 
 As with the other novels that have preceded it, nothing but the highest praise can 
 be awarded the work of the translator. Itgives to the readerof English a remark- 
 able rendering of Balzac's nervous, idiomatic French ; and it presents the novel- 
 reader a novel that must challenge his comparisons with the popular novels of the 
 times. One cannot read far in Balzac's pages without feeling refreshed by contact 
 with a vigorous intellect. In this story he attempted to display two opposite types 
 of character in brothers, which had been inherited by them from different ances- 
 tors. In order to do this effectively he introduces in a few opening pages these 
 ancestors, before coming to the real action of the story. . . . There is no plot, no 
 intrigue, no aim whatever except to depict the characters of Joseph, Philippe, the 
 mother, and the immediate friends about them. All this is done, however, with 
 such vivid reality that it fascinates the attention. It is like watching an artist de- 
 velop with telling colors a great breathing, living picture. It is, in its «'ay, a study 
 of evolution. ' Perhaps I have never drawn a picture,' said Balzac, in reference 
 to the book, 'that shows more plainly how essential to European society is the 
 indissoluble mamage bond, how fatal the results of feminine weakness, how great 
 the dangers arising from selfish interests when indulged without restraint.' There 
 are many Philippes in the world outside of France; the shrewd, selfish, swagger- 
 ing Philippes who march through life rough-shod, regardless of kindred, friends, 
 or foes. Here is the man painted to the life for all time, and any country. Here 
 also is the woman, with all her simplicity and weakness, who always and ever fails 
 to gauge rightly this sort of man ; who is doomed to be his slave and victim. 
 Balzac met them in his Parisian world forty years ago, and here they take their 
 places in his comedy of human life. While there are such strong portraitures in 
 literature as these novels, it is not easy to understand how so many weak, flimsy, 
 pretentious ones find any readers at all. Let us have Balzac in excellent transla- 
 tion by all means, — all that remarkable series that are still quite as good as new 
 to the great majority of the English-speaking people.'' — Brooklyn Citizen. 
 
 One handsmne \2mo volume, tiniform with " Pire Goriot,^' " Tka 
 Dtichesse de La7igeais'^ '^Cesar ISirotteau,'" '■'Eugenie Grandet" '•'■Cousin 
 Pons," and " The Country Doctor.'''' Half tnorocco. French style. 
 Price- $\.'^o, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, Boston. 
 

 
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