THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 \icardtlty
 
 LITTLE PIERRE
 
 rue 
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 <BY 
 
 FT^ANCZ 
 
 DODD-MEAD fcf COMPANY
 
 Copyright, 1920, 
 BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, INC. 
 
 Printed in U. S. A.
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I INCIPE PARVE PUER, Risu COGNOSCERE 
 
 MATREM 9 
 
 II EARLY DAYS 20 
 
 III ALPHONSINE 26 
 
 IV LITTLE PIERRE GETS INTO THE NEWS- 
 
 PAPERS 29 
 
 V WHAT CAME OF AN ERROR OF JUDGMENT 32 
 
 VI THE FATE OF GENIUS 37 
 
 VII NAVARINO 42 
 
 VIII How IT EARLY BECAME EVIDENT THAT I 
 
 LACKED THE BUSINESS SENSE . . 49 
 
 IX THE DRUM 62 
 
 X COMEDY WELL HANDLED .... 75 
 
 XI THE LINT MAKERS 83 
 
 XII THE Two SISTERS 91 
 
 XIII CATHERINE AND MARIANNE .... 96 
 
 XIV THE UNKNOWN WORLD 101 
 
 XV MONSIEUR MENAGE in 
 
 XVI SHE LAID HER HAND ON MY HEAD . 116 
 XVII A BROTHER Is A FRIEND BESTOWED ON 
 
 Us BY NATURE 128 
 
 XVIII OLD MOTHER COCHELET 143 
 
 XIX MADAME LAROQUE AND THE SIEGE OF 
 
 GRANVILLE 146 
 
 XX "'TWAS THUS THOSE MONSTERS FELL 
 
 DID GRIND THEIR TEETH" . . . 156 
 
 XXI THE PAPAGAY 163 
 
 XXII UNCLE HYACINTHS 182 
 
 XXIII BARA 197 
 
 XXIV MELANIE 201 
 
 5 
 
 641808
 
 6 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXV RADEGONDE 209 
 
 XXVI CAIRE 215 
 
 XXVII THE DAUGHTER OF THE TROGLODYTES . 222 
 
 XXVIII DRAMATIS PERSONS 227 
 
 XXIX MADEMOISELLE MERELLE .... 236 
 
 XXX DIVINE MADNESS 249 
 
 XXXI PIERRE'S FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH THE 
 
 ROMAN WOLF 259 
 
 XXXII BUTTERFLY WINGS 269 
 
 XXXIII A DIGRESSION 277 
 
 XXXIV THE COLLEGIAN 281 
 
 XXXV MY ROOM 294
 
 LITTLE PIERRE
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 Indpe, Parve Puer, Risu Cognoscere Matrem 
 
 Y mother often used to tell me a 
 variety of things connected with my 
 entry into this world that did not 
 strike me as meriting the impor- 
 tance she attached to them. I paid 
 no very great attention to them and 
 they 'have faded from my recollection. 
 
 "Quand vient 1'enfant a recevoir, 
 II faut la sage-femme avoir 
 Et des commeres un grand tas . . ." 
 
 It may certainly be affirmed, if the stories told 
 me were true, that the custom referred to in these 
 lines of an old Parisian rhymester had not alto- 
 gether fallen into desuetude in the days when the 
 reign of King Louis Philippe was drawing to a 
 close; for there was a great gathering of worthy 
 dames in Mistress Noziere's bedchamber to await 
 my arrival in this vale of tears. It was April and 
 the weather was chilly. Four or five of the neigh- 
 bouring gossips, among them Madame Caumont, 
 
 who had a bookshop hard by, Madame Veuve 
 
 9
 
 io LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 Dusuel and Madame Danquin, kept piling logs on 
 the fire and drinking mulled wine, while my mother 
 lay on her bed of suffering. 
 
 "Groan away, Madame Noziere, groan all you 
 can," said Madame Caumont, "it will ease the 
 pains." 
 
 Madame Dusuel, not knowing what to do with 
 .her daughter Alphonsine, aged seven, had brought 
 her into the room, from which, however, she kept 
 hastily thrusting her lest I should dawn, with unbe- 
 coming abruptness, on the view of this very young 
 lady; for that would have been a most unseemly 
 occurrence. 
 
 These ladies had well-oiled tongues, it seemed, 
 and cackled away quite in the good old fashion. 
 Madame Caumont, to my mother's great displea- 
 sure, kept telling the most horrible tales of the 
 sinister effects of the "Evil Eye." She had a friend 
 who, when she was in an interesting condition, met 
 a legless woman holding a laundry iron in each 
 hand and begging alms of the passers-by. That 
 friend's child was born without legs. She herself, 
 when she was expecting her daughter Noemi, was 
 frightened by a hare which rushed in between her 
 legs; and, behold, Noemi was born with pointed ears 
 that waggled I 
 
 At midnight the pains ceased and matters were 
 at a standstill. It was an anxious time, particu- 
 larly as my mother had previously had a still-born
 
 LITTLE PIERRE u 
 
 child and nearly lost her life. All the women in- 
 sisted on giving advice. Madame Mathias, the old 
 servant, was at her wits' end. My father came 
 in every five minutes looking very pale and went 
 out again without a word. Himself a clever and 
 capable practitioner physician, surgeon and, when 
 need was, accoucheur he would not attend his own 
 wife in her confinement and had called in his con- 
 frere, old Dr. Fournier, who had been a student 
 under Cabanis. During the night the pains came 
 on again, and I made my appearance at five o'clock 
 in the morning. 
 
 "It's a boy!" said old Fournier. 
 
 Whereupon all the gossips exclaimed with one 
 accord that they had declared all along that it 
 would be. 
 
 Madame Morin washed me with a big sponge in 
 a copper basin, a circumstance which recalls the 
 old paintings of the nativity of the Virgin. In point 
 of fact the utensil in question was the household 
 preserving-pan. Madame Morin informed the com- 
 pany that I had a red spot on the left hip due to a 
 longing for cherries which had come upon my mother 
 in Aunt Chausson's garden before I was born. 
 Whereat old Dr. Fournier, who had a great con- 
 tempt for all such popular superstitions, remarked 
 that it was lucky Madame Noziere had kept her 
 desires within such modest limits during the period 
 of gestation, since, if she had allowed herself to
 
 12 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 hanker after feathers, trinkets, a cashmere shawl, 
 a coach-and-four, a town-house, a country mansion 
 and a park, there wouldn't have been skin enough 
 on the whole of my poor little body to hold the 
 record of such inordinate ambitions. 
 
 "You may say what you like, Doctor," said Mad- 
 ame Caumont, "but one Christmas Eve, my sister 
 Malvina, who was in the family way, was seized 
 with an irresistible desire to stay up and take part 
 in the revels, and her little girl " 
 
 "Was born with a black pudding at the end 
 of her nose, wasn't she?" interrupted the Doctor. 
 And he told Madame Morin to be careful not to 
 bind me too tightly. 
 
 Meanwhile I set up such a yelling that they all 
 thought I was going to choke. I was as red as a 
 tomato and unanimously pronounced an ugly little 
 creature. My mother asked them to let her see me. 
 She raised herself nearly upright in the bed, stretched 
 out her arms, smiled on me and then let her head 
 fall wearily back on the pillow again. Thus it was 
 that, for welcome into this world, I received from 
 her pure and tender lips that smile without which, 
 the poet says, a man is unworthy of the table of 
 the gods or of the couch of the goddesses. 
 
 What I have always looked upon as the most 
 notable circumstance about my birth was that Puck, 
 since named Caire, came into the world at the same 
 time as myself, being born in the next room on an
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 13 
 
 old bit of carpet. Finette, his mother, though her 
 parents were nobodies, had plenty of brains. M. 
 Adelestan Bricou, an old friend of my father's, who 
 was a liberal and an ardent reformer, used tri- 
 umphantly to quote Finette as exemplifying the in- 
 telligence of the lower orders. Puck bore no re- 
 semblance to his dark and fluffy mother; his coat 
 was tan, close and wiry, but it was from her that 
 he derived his common manners and his uncommon 
 brain. We grew up together and my father was 
 compelled to admit that his dog's intelligence devel- 
 oped more rapidly than his son's, and that, after 
 six years or so, Puck was in much closer touch with 
 life and had a far better knowledge of nature than 
 little Pierre Noziere. It was an unwelcome con- 
 clusion for him to come to because he was my father 
 and also because his tenets scarcely permitted him 
 to credit the lower animals with any portion of that 
 superior wisdom which, according to his idea, was 
 the exclusive birthright of man. 
 
 Napoleon, in his St. Helena days, expressed sur- 
 prise that O'Meara, being a doctor, was not also 
 an atheist. Had he seen my father, he would have 
 beheld a man who was at once a doctor and a be- 
 liever in the unseen and, as such, a believer in a god 
 distinct from the world and in a soul distinct from 
 the body. 
 
 "The soul," he used to say, "is the substance; the 
 body, the shadow or appearance. The words them-
 
 14 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 selves tell you that. Appearance is what is visible, 
 and substance means the thing hidden." 
 
 Unfortunately I was never able to interest ray- 
 self in metaphysics. My mind was modelled on my 
 father's, but after the manner of the cup that the 
 craftsman moulded on his mistress's breast. It re- 
 produced, in intaglio as it were, all its soft and 
 rounded curves. My father regarded the human 
 soul and its destiny as sublime. He believed it was 
 made for heaven and his belief rendered him an 
 optimist. Yet in the ordinary intercourse of life 
 he was grave and sometimes gloomy. Like Lamar- 
 tine, he seldom laughed, had no sense of the comic, 
 could not tolerate caricature and cared neither for 
 Rabelais nor La Fontaine. Wrapt in a sort of 
 poetic melancholy, he was indeed a child of the age. 
 He felt and looked the part. The way he did his 
 hair, the clothes he wore, were in harmony with the 
 spirit of those romantic times. The men of that 
 epoch wore their hair tumbled. Doubtless a 
 skilful twist of the brush imparted this neglige 
 appearance to their locks; but they looked as though 
 they were perpetually fronting the tempest and 
 braving the blasts of Boreas. My father, plain and 
 unaffected as he was, would nevertheless have his 
 hair in disorder and his touch of melancholy. Tak- 
 ing my cue from him, I became just as pessimistic and 
 merry as he was optimistic and melancholy. Instinc- 
 tively I went contrary to him in everything. After
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 15 
 
 the manner of the Romanticists, he took pleasure in 
 the vague and shadowy, while I cultivated a love for 
 the stately moderation, the ordered beauty, of classic 
 art. As the years went by, the contrast between 
 us grew more marked. But though it made con- 
 versation a little difficult for us, it had no effect 
 upon the warmth of our regard for each other. 
 This, then, explains how it is that I owe to my ex- 
 cellent father my few good points and my many 
 bad ones. 
 
 My mother, though her milk was not abundant, 
 was very anxious to nurse me herself. In this she 
 was seconded by old Dr. Fournier, a disciple of 
 Jean-Jacques, and she gave me the breast with a 
 lively joy. My health throve therefrom and I have 
 good reason to bless her if, as many folks say, our 
 disposition depends on the milk we suck. 
 
 My mother was endowed with charming intellec- 
 tual gifts, a beautiful and generous soul and a diffi- 
 cult temper. Too sensitive, too loving, too prone 
 to emotion to find peace within herself, she found, 
 she said, tranquility and contentment in religion. 
 Sparing of outward observances, she was neverthe- 
 less profoundly pious in spirit. A strict regard for 
 the truth compels me to add that she did not believe 
 in hell. But her disbelief was founded neither in 
 contumacy nor in malice, since the Abbe Moinier, 
 her confessor, did not refuse her the sacraments. 
 Though she was naturally disposed to gaiety, a
 
 16 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 joyless childhood, followed by household cares and 
 the anxieties born of a mother's love that almost 
 amounted to a passion, clouded her disposition and, 
 strong as she was by nature, affected her health. 
 She brought sorrow into my childhood by her fits 
 of melancholy and her storms of weeping. Her ten- 
 derness, her anxiety for me, were so great as almost 
 to unbalance her reason, which in all other matters 
 was so firm and lucid. She would have liked me 
 never to grow up, so that it might always be easy 
 for her to press me to her bosom. And, though she 
 said she hoped I should be a genius, she rejoiced 
 that I lacked brains and consequently had to rely on 
 her. Anything that seemed to promise me a little 
 freedom or independence gave umbrage to her. She 
 would picture to herself all the terrible things that 
 might befall me away from her side, and if I came 
 back from a walk a little late I would find her with 
 her brain in a whirl and panic staring from her eyes. 
 She praised up my good qualities beyond all reason 
 and never lost an opportunity of holding them up to 
 the admiration of others. This was very painful to 
 me, for I have always looked upon testimonies of 
 regard which I did not deserve as a cruel humilia- 
 tion. Still worse, however, was the equally exag- 
 gerated view that my poor mother took of my faults 
 and shortcomings. She never punished me for them, 
 but she made them the subject of reproaches uttered 
 in such sorrowful tones that they nearly broke my
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 17 
 
 heart. Times without number, the things she said 
 were calculated to make me think I was a great 
 criminal and she would have made me scrupulous to 
 excesss had I not, early in my career, drawn up for 
 my own use an indulgent rule of conduct. Far from 
 experiencing regret at so doing I have never ceased 
 to pat myself on the back for it. They alone are 
 gentle to others who are gentle to themselves. 
 
 I was christened at the parish church of Saint- 
 Germain-des-Pres. My godmother was a fairy 
 known among mortals as Marcelle. She was lovely 
 as the light of day and had married an imp named 
 Dupont whom she loved to distraction, for fairies 
 adore imps. She weaved a spell over my cradle and 
 sailed away at once to a land beyond the seas in 
 company with her imp. I caught sight of her for 
 one fleeting moment when I was on the verge of 
 manhood. She seemed like the stricken shade of 
 Dido in the grove of myrtle, like a ray of moonlight 
 in a forest clearing. It was but a glimpse, but it 
 left within the chambers of my memory a radiance 
 and a perfume that faint not, nor fade. The recol- 
 lection I have of my godfather, M. Pierre Danquin, 
 is of a more commonplace description. I can see him 
 now, short and fat, his grey hair all curly, his eyes 
 shining kindly and keen through his gold-rimmed 
 spectacles. His corporation, which would have done 
 credit to Grimod de la Reyniere, was adorned 
 with a satin waistcoat whereon flowers had been em-
 
 i8 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 broidered by Madame Danquin's own hand. He 
 used to wear a great black silk cravat that went 
 seven times round his neck and the collar of his 
 shirt encircled his* florid face like a piece of white 
 paper wrapped round a bunch of flowers. He had 
 seen Napoleon at Lyons in 1815. For the rest, he 
 was a liberal in politics and much taken up with 
 geology. 
 
 It was in one of the streets which lead down to 
 the Seine and its quays that a child was born, who 
 even now, after all this lapse of years, cannot tell 
 whether he did well or ill to come into the world. 
 Here, too, where a nameless multitude of men and 
 women were living out their dim, inglorious lives, 
 there dwelt a man with a mighty head, rugged and 
 gaunt as a block of Breton granite, whose eyes, deep 
 sunken in their hollow sockets, had once blazed with 
 a quenchless fire of which there now survived but a 
 faint and fading glimmer. This old man, morose, 
 infirm, yet proud of mien, this old man who had been 
 the glory of his generation, was then slowly and 
 sorrowfully sinking into the grave. His name was 
 Chateaubriand. 
 
 Sometimes, from the heights of Passy, another 
 old man used to come down to stroll along these 
 same quays. He was bald save for a few straggling 
 grey hairs. His cheeks were full and ruddy, he had 
 a rose in his buttonhole and a smile on his lips. He 
 was just as bourgeois in appearance as the other was
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 19 
 
 aristocratic. He was a popular song writer and the 
 passers-by would stop to take a glimpse of him. 
 Chateaubriand, the Royalist and the Catholic; 
 Berenger, the admirer of Napoleon, the upholder of 
 the Republic, the free thinker such were the two 
 signs beneath whose influence I came into this world.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 EARLY DAYS 
 
 [Y earliest memory is of a tall hat, 
 with very long nap, and a very 
 wide brim. It was lined with green 
 silk and the upper part of its inner 
 band of tan leather was cut into 
 strips bent downwards like the 
 leaves of a closed crown save that, as these strips did 
 not completely join, you could catch a glimpse, 
 through a round opening, of a red bandana poked in 
 betwixt the leather band and the gold stamped 
 crown. A white-haired old gentleman would be 
 shown into the drawing-room, holding this hat in 
 his hands. He would then proceed to draw from it, 
 in my presence, the red silk snuff-stained handker- 
 chief which, when unfolded, exhibited Napoleon in 
 his grey overcoat on the top of the Colonne Ven- 
 dome. Then the old gentleman would extract 
 from the depths of the crown a little dry cake 
 which he slowly raised above his head. It was 
 a little flat, round cake, shiny and striped on 
 one side. I used to stretch out my hands to 
 catch hold of it, but the old gentleman would not 
 let it go till he had had his fill of amusement at my 
 
 20
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 21 
 
 vain efforts and the plaints of my frustrated en- 
 deavours. In fine, he played with me as he would 
 have done with a little dog. And I fancy that, as 
 soon as I realized this, I resented it, already con- 
 scious within me of belonging to that high-mettled 
 race that tame all animals to their will. 
 
 These cakes, when you put your teeth into them, 
 broke as it were into sand in the mouth, but this 
 sand was soon reduced to a sort of sugary paste by 
 no means unpleasant despite the bitter taste of to- 
 bacco which, now and again, obtruded itself. I 
 liked them, or thought I did, until I discovered that 
 they came from an old bakehouse in the Rue de 
 Seine where they reposed dejectedly in a dubious 
 looking jar of greenish glass. I thereupon con- 
 ceived a disgust for them which I failed sufficiently 
 to conceal from the old gentleman, who grew sad 
 thereat. I learned afterwards that the old gentle- 
 man's name was Morisson and that he had been a 
 surgeon-major in the British army in 1815. 
 
 One evening after the battle of Waterloo, in the 
 Officers' Mess, the talk got on the prominent men 
 who had been killed. As the deaths of various 
 people were being deplored, M. Morisson broke 
 in saying: 
 
 "There is one death, gentlemen, you have over- 
 looked, one that is more to be regretted than any, 
 one that we should lament most bitterly of all."
 
 22 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 Every one wanted to know to whose death he 
 alluded. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said he, "I refer to the death of 
 Promotion. Our victory, by terminating Bona- 
 parte's career, has put an end to the wars which 
 brought us rapid advancement. Promotion was 
 killed at Waterloo; let us mourn its passing, gen- 
 tlemen." 
 
 M. Morisson resigned his commission and came 
 and settled down in Paris, where he married and 
 set up in practice. There he and his wife were both 
 carried off by cholera in 1848. 
 
 It was also about this time that, coming into the 
 drawing-room one day holding on to Madame 
 Mathias's apron, I saw a dark man there with big 
 whiskers (it was M. Debas, surnamed Simon de 
 Nantua) repairing, with a paint brush soaked in 
 glue, the green striped wall-paper, about a foot of 
 which was torn and hanging down. The rent dis- 
 closed a piece of coarse canvas with a great hole in 
 it, and, behind the canvas, a darksome cavity. These 
 things impressed themselves upon me with great 
 vividness, and they still remain strangely distinct 
 in my memory though so many other sights presented 
 to my vision in those far-off days have utterly faded 
 from my recollection. Doubtless I did not think 
 much about the matter at the time, not having ar- 
 rived at the reflective age. But some time after- 
 wards, when I was nearing my fourth year, and
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 23 
 
 had sufficient brains to reason erroneously and suffi- 
 cient education to misinterpret phenomena, I con- 
 ceived the notion that, behind this coarse canvas 
 with its covering of striped paper, unknown beings 
 were hovering in the darkness, beings that were dif- 
 ferent from men or birds or fishes or insects ; vague, 
 shadowing things yet cunning withal and full of evil 
 intent. Thus it was not without curiosity, not with- 
 out terror, that I used to pass by the place where M. 
 Debas had repaired the rent in the paper, a rent 
 that still remained visible, since the edges of the 
 green paper had not been so thoroughly joined but 
 that you could just catch between them a glimpse 
 of a piece of newspaper that had been stuck on as 
 a foundation; not perhaps aesthetic, but comforting, 
 since it deprived those spirits of darkness, those 
 dim sinister creatures of two dimensions, of the 
 power of access to the room. 
 
 Once upon a time (as Eastern story-tellers say, 
 being, like myself, doubtful in their chronology) one 
 fine day in my fourth year, I noticed near the piano 
 another hole, shaped like a star, in the green wall- 
 paper, through which you could see a few threads 
 of packing-cloth interlaced across a black hole even 
 more fearsome than the one previously stopped up 
 by M. Debas. With an impious daring, worthy of 
 the bold race of Japhet, I put my eye close to the 
 opening and there beheld living shadows that made 
 my hair stand on end. I then applied my ear to the
 
 24 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 spot and heard an uncanny murmur, what time an 
 icy breath passed along my cheek, all of which con- 
 firmed me in the belief that, behind the wall-paper, 
 there existed another and an unknown world. 
 
 My life, at this period, was a double one. Natu- 
 ral, commonplace, occasionally even wearisome, by 
 day, it became supernatural and terrible at night. 
 Round about my little bed, wherein my mother used 
 *o tuck me up with her own fair hands, there used 
 to pass by, in a wild, fantastic rout, yet not without 
 rhythm and measure, a procession of little mis- 
 shapen, hump-backed, crooked personages clad in 
 very antique fashion, such, in fine, as I have since 
 discovered in Callot's engravings. Certainly I had 
 never invented them. The fact that Madame Le- 
 tord dwelt hard by, Madame Letord a print-seller 
 who displayed her engravings on the piece of waste 
 land now occupied by the ficole des Beaux-Arts, ex- 
 plains the circumstance. Howbeit my imagination 
 played its part too. It armed my nocturnal perse- 
 cutors with spigots and squirts, and little brooms and 
 divers other household utensils. This, however, did 
 not detract from the gravity with which they filed 
 past, their noses blossoming with warts and bestrid 
 with round barnacles. Yet they were in a great 
 hurry, withal, and appeared not to notice me. 
 
 One evening, while the lamp was still burning, my 
 father came and stood by my little bed and gazed at 
 me with the exquisite smile of sad hearted men with
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 25 
 
 whom smiles are rare. I was already half asleep 
 as he quietly caressed the palm of my hand hum- 
 ming a little nursery rhyme of which I caught noth- 
 ing save the words, "I've got a cow to sell." And I, 
 not seeing any cow, inquired, sensibly enough, 
 "Papa, where is the cow you've got to sell?" 
 
 I fell asleep and saw my father again in my 
 dream. This time, he was holding a little red and 
 white cow in the hollow of his hand. It was quite 
 lively and spirited, so much alive that its breath was 
 warm to me and it smelt of the cow-shed. For many 
 nights afterwards I saw that little red and white 
 cow.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ALPHONSINE 
 
 LPHONSINE DUSUEL was seven 
 years older than I, and a thin, 
 weedy creature. She had greasy 
 hair and a freckled face. Unless 
 I am very far wrong these charac- 
 teristics afterwards constituted her 
 most inexcusable defects in the eyes of the world. 
 I knew that she had others not so serious, such as 
 hypocrisy and spite, which were so much a part of 
 her nature that they almost became her. 
 
 One day my dear mother was taking me for a 
 walk on the quay when we met Madame Dusuel 
 and her daughter. We stopped, and the two ladies 
 had a little talk together. 
 
 "Oh, the pet, how pretty he is!" exclaimed Al- 
 phonsine, flinging her arms round me. 
 
 Though at that time I had not as much intelli- 
 gence as a dog or a cat, I was, like them, a domestic 
 animal and, like them, I loved those words of praise 
 which creatures in their wild state despise. In an 
 access of affection which touched the two mothers' 
 hearts, dear Alphonsine picked me up, pressed me 
 to her heart and smothered me with kisses, saying 
 
 26
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 27 
 
 all the while what a darling little fellow I was. At 
 the same time she was busily pricking my legs with 
 a pin. And so I began to fight like fury, punching 
 and kicking Alphonsine, yelling and shedding floods 
 of tears. 
 
 Beholding this, Madame Dusuel betrayed, by her 
 silence and the expression in her eyes, the surprise 
 and indignation she felt at such conduct. My mother 
 gazed at me in sorrow and marvelled how she could 
 have brought so unnatural a child into the world, 
 now blaming heaven for visiting her with unmerited 
 misfortune, now finding fault with herself for having 
 incurred it by her own shortcomings. At last she 
 stood silent and perplexed before the insoluble mys- 
 tery of my perversity. How was I to explain it to 
 her, however, if I could not talk? The few words 
 which I was able to babble were of no service to me 
 in the present crisis. Planted at length on my feet, 
 I stood there panting and tearful. And Alphonsine, 
 bending over me, wiped my eyes, petted me, and 
 pleaded for me: 
 
 "He is such a tiny little fellow. Please don't 
 scold him, Madame Noziere. I should be so sorry; 
 I am so fond of him." 
 
 Not once only, but a score of times did Alphonsine 
 embrace me ecstatically and dig pins into my legs. 
 
 Later on, when I could talk, I denounced her 
 perfidy to my mother and to Madame Mathias, who 
 had the care of me. But they didn't believe me.
 
 28 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 They blamed me for slandering the innocent in 
 order to palliate my own misdeeds. 
 
 It is a long time ago, now, since I forgave Al- 
 phonsine her cruel deceit, and even her greasy hair. 
 Nay more, I am grateful to her for having vastly 
 added, when I was but two years old, to my knowl- 
 edge of human nature.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 LITTLE PIERRE GETS INTO THE NEWSPAPERS 
 
 long as I was unable to read, news- 
 papers had a mysterious attraction 
 for me. When I used to see my 
 father spreading out their big 
 sheets covered all over with little 
 black signs, when passages were 
 read aloud and connected ideas were produced 
 from those same signs, it seemed to me as 
 though I were a party to some work of magic. 
 From this sheet so thin and covered with lines 
 so tiny, lines that had no signification in my 
 eyes, there issued tidings of crimes, disasters, 
 adventures, festivals of Napoleon Bonaparte 
 escaping from the fort of Ham; of Tom Thumb 
 dressed up like a general; of the stalled Ox 
 Dagobert being led through Paris; of the murder of 
 the Duchesse de Praslin. All these things were con- 
 tained in a single sheet of paper, all these things and 
 numberless others besides, things not so solemn but 
 more homely, whereby my curiosity was aroused. 
 There were "Misters" who gave blows or received 
 them, who got run over by vehicles, who fell off 
 
 roofs or picked up purses and took them to the 
 
 29
 
 3 o LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 police. How came it that there were all these 
 "Misters" about when I never set eyes on a single 
 one? I tried, but in vain, to imagine what a "Mis- 
 ter" was like. I asked people about it, but never 
 got any satisfactory answer. 
 
 In those far distant times Madame Mathias used 
 to come to our house to help Melanie, with whom 
 she didn't get on at all well. Madame Mathias was 
 grim, hot-tempered and easily ruffled, but she took 
 a lot of interest in me. She invented all sorts of 
 subtle devices to make a better boy of me. She 
 pretended, for example, to discover in the news- 
 paper, under "Paris Day by Day," sandwiched in 
 between an "alleged case of arson," and an acci- 
 dent to "Mr. Duchesne, labourer," an account of my 
 conduct on the previous day. "Yesterday," she 
 would read, "little Pierre Noziere was naughty and 
 would not do as he was told in the Jardin des 
 Tuileries; but he has promised not to behave badly 
 any more." 
 
 I was wide enough awake, when I was two years 
 old, to feel a certain difficulty in believing that I 
 was mentioned in the newspapers, like M. Guizot 
 and Mr. Duchesne, labourer. I noticed that 
 Madame Mathias, who could read the news of the 
 day, a little stumblingly perhaps, but without having 
 to correct herself over much, used to stammer in 
 the most singular manner when she came to the 
 items which had to do with me. I therefore arrived
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 31 
 
 at the conclusion that they were not printed in the 
 paper at all, but that she used to make them up as 
 she went along, without being quite equal to the 
 task. In short, I was not wholly taken in, yet it 
 was not without a pang that I renounced the glory 
 of figuring in print and I preferred in my heart to 
 regard the matter as doubtful rather than to pos- 
 sess the certainty that it was false.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 WHAT CAME OF AN ERROR OF JUDGMENT 
 
 ERE is another memory gathered up 
 amid the twilight of those far-off 
 days. A little thing, perhaps, but 
 then origins always have for us the 
 fascination of mystery and, as we 
 cannot trace the well-springs of 
 human thought, it is at all events interesting to 
 note the signs of the dawning of intelligence 
 in a child. And, if there is nothing singular 
 or exceptional about the child, it is all the more 
 valuable as an object of study, inasmuch as it 
 represents in itself a host of other children. 
 That is one reason why I am going to relate my 
 anecdote. Another is that I shall be pleasing my- 
 self mightily in the process. 
 
 One day I cannot express myself with greater 
 precision than that, for the place of that day in the 
 order of time is lost beyond recall one day, I say, I 
 had been for a walk with Melanie, my old nurse, 
 and when I got home, I went, as usual, to my moth- 
 er's room. There I noticed an odour that I could 
 not identify and that came, as I afterwards discov- 
 ered, from a smoky chimney. It was not pungent or 
 
 32
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 33 
 
 choking, but faint, pervasive and sickly. Neverthe- 
 less it didn't annoy me much for, as regards the ol- 
 factory sense, I was, in those days, more akin to 
 the little dog Caire than to M. Robert de Montes- 
 quiou, the poet of perfumes. Now it chanced that, 
 while this unknown, or rather unidentified, odour 
 was titillating my inexperienced nostrils, my dear 
 mother put into my hand a sort of emerald coloured 
 stick, about as long as a dessert knife, but ever so 
 much thicker. It seemed to me a marvellous delicacy 
 invested with all the charm of the unknown. I had 
 never before seen anything to come near it. 
 "Taste it," said my mother, "it's very nice." 
 And it was. When you bit it, the stem split up 
 into little sugary splinters that had a flavour that 
 was undeniably pleasant and more delicate than 
 any of the sweets and sugar-stuffs I had tasted up 
 to then. 
 
 The sweetness of this plant was such that I fell 
 a-dreaming of the fruits of that land where rivers 
 of gooseberry syrup flow through rocks of caramel, 
 though truth to tell my belief in the Land of Co- 
 cagne was no greater than Virgil's in those Elysian 
 Fields belauded of the Greeks: 
 
 "Quamvis etystos miretur Gracia campos" 
 
 but, like Virgil, I loved tales of enchantment, and 
 my mind was filled with wonder, for I did not know, 
 in those days, what the confectioners do to a stalk
 
 34 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 of angelica to render it so pleasant to the palate. 
 For this highly delectable rod was nothing else than 
 a piece of angelica given to my dear mother by Ma- 
 dame Caumont, who'had had a whole boxful sent her 
 from Niort. 
 
 Coming in a few days later from my usual walk 
 with Melanie, my nurse, I noticed in my mother's 
 room the same peculiar sickly smell which I had 
 perceived when I saw angelica for the first time and 
 which I therefore took to be the smell of angelica. 
 
 I kissed my mother with ceremonious punctilio. 
 She asked me if I had enjoyed my walk, and I said 
 I had; if I had worried Melanie too much, and I 
 said I hadn't. Having thus performed my duties as 
 a son, I waited for my mother to give me a piece 
 of angelica. As, however, she had taken up her 
 needle-work again and gave no sign of performing 
 the pleasing act for which I was waiting, I decided 
 to make a request for my piece of angelica, which 
 I did, though not without reluctance, so great was 
 the delicacy of my sentiments. Mamma looked up 
 from her work, with an air of some surprise and 
 said she hadn't any. 
 
 Unwilling to suspect her of telling a lie, however 
 trifling a one, I told myself she was joking and 
 that she was putting off the appeasement of my long- 
 ing, either because she wanted to render it the 
 greater or because she was indulging in the bad
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 35 
 
 habit grown-up people have of deriving amusement 
 from the impatience of dogs and children. 
 
 I urged her to give me my piece of angelica. She 
 replied, a second time, that she had no angelica and 
 clearly she intended her reply to be final. Relying, 
 alas, on the testimony of my senses and on the 
 verdict of my reasoning faculty, I answered with as- 
 surance that there was angelica somewhere in the 
 room because I could smell it. 
 
 The history of Science abounds in examples of 
 similar faulty deductions, and the world's greatest 
 geniuses have often been misled in the same man- 
 ner as little Pierre Noziere. That little person 
 ascribed to one substance a certain property that 
 belonged to another. In physics and chemistry 
 there are laws reposing on foundations just as false, 
 laws that are respected and will go on being re- 
 spected till time at last brings about their abroga- 
 tion. 
 
 These reflections did not suggest themselves to 
 my mother's mind. She merely shrugged her shoul- 
 ders and told me I was a little silly. That was too 
 much for me. I told her I was not a little silly, 
 that there was angelica there because I could smell 
 it and that it was not seemly for a mamma to tell 
 falsehoods to her little boy. On hearing this re- 
 proach, my mother gazed at me with an expression 
 of profound and sorrowful surprise. I was sud- 
 denly convinced, when I saw this look in her eyes,
 
 36 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 that my dear mamma had not deceived me and 
 that, despite the evidence of my senses, there was 
 no angelica in the house. 
 
 And so, on that occasion, my heart came to the 
 rescue of my reason. I would fain draw the con- 
 clusion that we should always regulate our actions 
 according to the dictates of our heart. That would 
 be the moral of the story and all affectionate souls 
 would welcome it. But the truth must be told, even 
 if it causes disappointment. The heart can err as 
 well as the intellect; its errors are no less ruinous 
 and it is more difficult to escape from them, by rea- 
 son of the honey that besmears their meshes.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE FATE OF GENIUS 
 
 ENIUS is fated to meet with injus- 
 tice and contempt, a truth whereof 
 I early made probation. When I 
 was four, I used to be an ardent 
 draughtsman. Nevertheless I did 
 not essay to depict all the objects 
 that presented themselves to my view; it only por- 
 trayed soldiers. If the truth must be told, I did not 
 draw them according to nature. Nature is complex 
 and does not lend herself to easy imitation. Nor did 
 I draw them according to the coloured prints which 
 they produce at fipinal and which I used to buy at 
 a halfpenny apiece. These likewise exhibited a su- 
 per-abundance of detail through which I should 
 never have found my way. I decided to take as my 
 model the simplified recollection of those same 
 prints. My soldiers had a round "O" for a head, 
 a line for the body and a line for each arm and 
 leg. A line with a crook in it, like a streak of 
 lightning, represented the rifle with bayonet fixed, 
 and it was eminently expressive. I did not fit the 
 shako down on to the head. I placed it just on 
 
 the top in order to demonstrate my scientific knowl- 
 
 37
 
 38 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 edge of the subject and to display at once the 
 shape of the head and that of the headgear. I drew 
 a large number after this style, a style common to 
 all children's drawings. They were skeletons, if 
 you will, and very sketchy ones at that. But, such 
 as they were, I deemed my soldiers very passably 
 well executed. I drew them in pencil, copiously wet- 
 ting the point to make it mark the better. I would 
 rather have used a pen, but ink was not allowed 
 me for fear I should make a mess. Nevertheless 
 I was pleased with my handiwork and considered 
 myself a person of talent. I was destined in no 
 long time to astonish even myself. 
 
 One evening, one memorable evening, I was busy 
 drawing on the dining-room table which Melanie 
 had just cleared. The lamp, with its green shade 
 like a Chinaman's hat, shed a warm glow upon my 
 paper. I had already drawn five or six soldiers 
 after my customary method, which I practised with 
 facility, when, all of a sudden, I was visited with 
 a flash of genius. I conceived the idea of repre- 
 senting arms and legs not by a single line but by 
 two parallel lines. I thus achieved a result that 
 conveyed a striking semblance of reality. It was 
 the living thing. I gazed at it in delight. Daeda- 
 lus, when he created his walking statues, was not 
 more pleased with his handiwork than I. True, I 
 might have asked myself whether I was the first 
 to think of so pleasing a device and whether I had
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 39 
 
 not already seen examples of it. I asked myself no 
 such questions; I asked myself no questions at 
 all, but, with staring eyes and protruding tongue, 
 I sat gazing like one dazed at what I had done. 
 And then, since it is the nature of artists to hold 
 up their works to the admiration of mankind, I went 
 over to my mother who was reading a book, and 
 extending my scrawl before her eyes, exclaimed: 
 
 "Look!" 
 
 Seeing that she was paying no attention to what 
 I was showing her, I laid my soldiers on the page 
 that she was reading. 
 
 She was patience itself. 
 
 "It's very nice," she said gently, but in a voice 
 which showed she did not adequately appreciate the 
 revolution I had just effected in the art of drawing. 
 
 "Mamma, look!" I repeated again and again. 
 
 "Yes, I see, very nice, now run away." 
 
 "No, you don't see, mamma," I said, endeavour- 
 ing to snatch away the book that was diverting her 
 attention from my masterpiece. 
 
 She forbade me to touch the book with my dirty 
 hands. 
 
 "But you're not looking!" I cried in desperation. 
 
 She would not deign to take any further notice, 
 and ordered me to be quiet. 
 
 Exasperated by an attitude so blind and so un- 
 just, I stamped my feet, burst out crying and tore 
 my masterpiece to shreds.
 
 40 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 "How excitable the child is," said my mother with 
 a sigh as she led me away to bed. 
 
 I was a prey to dark despair. For just ima-gine! 
 After having given an immense impetus to the arts, 
 after creating a prodigiously effective means of por- 
 traying life, all I got in the way of recompense 
 and glory was to be sent to bed! 
 
 Shortly after this reverse, I suffered another one 
 that inflicted a wound no less cruel. It befell thus: 
 my mother had taught me pretty soon to form my 
 letters with tolerable skill. Being able to write 
 a little, I thought there was nothing to prevent 
 my composing a book and so, beneath the eye of 
 my dear mamma, I set my hand to a little moral 
 and theological treatise which I began thus, "What is 
 God . . ." and forthwith I took it to my mother 
 to ask her if that was right. My mother replied 
 that it was quite right except that a note of inter- 
 rogation was needed at the end of the sentence. 
 I asked her what a note of interrogation was. 
 
 "A note of interrogation," said my mother, "is 
 a sign used to signify that one is asking a question. 
 It is placed at the end of every interrogative sen- 
 tence. You should put a note of interrogation here 
 because you ask, "What is God?" 
 
 My answer was noble. 
 
 "I am not asking," I said proudly, "I know." 
 
 "But you are asking, dear," she replied. 
 
 A score of times I repeated that I was not ask-
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 41 
 
 ing because I knew, and I flatly refused to add that 
 
 
 
 note of interrogation which seemed to me to be 
 merely a mark of ignorance. 
 
 My mother upbraided me severely for my ob- 
 stinacy and said I was nothing more nor less than 
 a silly little boy. Thereat my amour-propre as 
 a writer was wounded and I replied with some im- 
 pertinent remark for which I was duly punished. 
 
 I have changed a great deal since then. I never 
 refuse now to put notes of interrogation in the places 
 where it is customary to employ them. I am sorely 
 tempted indeed to add very big ones after everything 
 I write, or say, or think. Perhaps, were she living 
 now, my poor mother would say I use too many.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 NAVARINO 
 
 S far back as I could remember I had 
 known Madame Laroque, who, 
 with her daughter, occupied a little 
 flat at the other end of our court- 
 yard. She was a little old lady 
 from Normandy, the widow of a 
 Captain in the Imperial Guards. All her teeth had 
 gone and her soft lips were tightly drawn in over her 
 gums; but her cheeks were round and ruddy as the 
 apples of her native country. Having no idea of the 
 instability of Nature and the transience of material 
 things, I regarded her as coeval with the earliest 
 period of the world and endowed with an imperish- 
 able old age. From my mother's room you could 
 see Madame Laroque's window festooned with nas- 
 turtiums, and on the sill of it her parrot swung to 
 and fro on its perch, trolling forth snatches of ribald 
 songs and patriotic ballads. He had been brought 
 from the East Indies in 1827 and had been chris- 
 tened Navarino, in memory of the naval victory 
 gained by the combined fleets of France and Eng- 
 land over the Turks, the news of which reached 
 Paris on the day of his arrival. Madame Laroque
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 43 
 
 petted him like a baby, and put him in the window 
 every morning in order that the old fellow might 
 enjoy the bustle and animation of the courtyard. 
 Of a truth, I cannot make out what sort of pleas- 
 ure the old Yankee derived from looking at Au- 
 guste washing M. Bellaguet's carriage or the aged 
 Alexandre pulling up the grass that grew between 
 the paving stones; but in point of fact he seemed 
 scarcely at all dispirited from his long exile. With- 
 out claiming to read what things were in his mind, 
 one might have supposed that he was delighting in 
 his strength, and he was indeed an animal of sin- 
 gular toughness. When his little grey claws closed 
 round a piece of wood, he would tear it to shreds 
 with his beak in less than no time. 
 
 I have always been fond of animals; but in 
 those days they inspired me with veneration and a 
 sort of religious fear. I had a notion that they were 
 possessed of a more unerring intelligence than my 
 own and a deeper understanding of Nature. The 
 poodle, Zerbin, always seemed to me to compre- 
 hend things that were beyond my ken and our beau- 
 tiful Angora, Sultan Mahmud, who understood the 
 language of birds, I used to look upon as a mys- 
 terious spirit endowed with the power of reading 
 the future. My mother one day took me to the 
 Louvre, where, in the Egyptian galleries, I saw the 
 mummies of domestic animals swathed in bandages 
 and covered with aromatics. "The Egyptians," she
 
 44 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 told me, "adored them as divinities and, when they 
 died, carefully embalmed them." 
 
 I do not know what ideas the ancient Egyptians 
 entertained concerning the ibis and the cat; I do not 
 know whether, as some people hold nowadays, ani- 
 mals were the first gods worshipped by men; but I 
 came very near to ascribing supernatural powers to 
 Sultan Mahmud and to Zerbin, the poodle. That 
 which rendered them most marvellous in my eyes 
 was that they appeared to me in my sleep and 
 held converse with me. One night, in a dream, I 
 beheld Zerbin scratch away at the ground and pres- 
 ently unearth a hyacinth bulb. 
 
 "This," he said, "is what little children are like 
 in the Earth before they are born; they unfold like 
 flowers." 
 
 So, you see, I loved animals. I admired their 
 wisdom and plied them with questions somewhat 
 anxiously during the day so that they should come 
 to me by night and instruct me in natural philos- 
 ophy. Birds were by no means excluded from my 
 friendship and from my veneration. I would have 
 cherished Navarino with filial affection; I would have 
 bestowed unnumbered tokens of solicitude and re- 
 gard on this aged Cacique; I would have become 
 his docile disciple, if only he would have let me. 
 But he would not suffer me so much as to look at 
 him. Whenever I drew near he would swing im- 
 patiently on his perch, ruffle up the feathers on his
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 45 
 
 neck, stare me full in the face with eyes of fire, 
 open his beak menacingly and display a black tongue 
 as thick as a haricot bean. I should have liked to 
 know the cause of his unfriendliness. Madame La- 
 roque ascribed it to the circumstance that, when 
 I was quite little, and before I was able to walk, 
 I used to insist on being carried up to his perch, 
 stretched out my baby fingers to touch his eyes that 
 blazed like rubies and howled shrilly because I could 
 not reach them. She loved her parrot and tried 
 to make excuses for him. But who would have 
 credited the existence of so rooted and tenacious a 
 resentment? 
 
 Well, whatever its cause, Navarino's hostility 
 seemed to me both cruel and unjust. Anxious to 
 regain the good graces of this puissant yet fear- 
 some being, I deemed that gifts might appease him 
 and that an offering of sugar might prove accept- 
 able in his eyes. In contravention of my mother's 
 express injunctions, I opened the cupboard of the 
 side-board in the dining-room and selected the finest 
 and most attractive looking knob in the sugar-basin ; 
 for it must here be observed that, in those days, 
 sugar was not broken up by machinery as it is now. 
 Housekeepers used to buy it in the loaf and, in 
 our family, the aged Melanie, armed with a ham- 
 mer and an old broken knife minus its handle, used 
 to break it up into pieces of various shapes and 
 sizes, scattering an abundance of splinters in the
 
 46 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 process, after the manner of a geologist chipping 
 off samples of ore from the solid rock. Nor must 
 I omit to add that sugar was very dear then. With 
 my heart filled with peace and goodwill, my offer- 
 ing safely stowed in the pocket of my pinafore, I 
 proceeded to Madame Laroque's apartment and 
 found Navarino at his window. He was crack- 
 ing grains of hemp-seed with an air of leisurely non- 
 chalance. Deeming the moment opportune, I held 
 out the lump of sugar to the aged chieftain. He 
 did accept the proffered gift. He looked at me for 
 a long time sideways, in silent immobility; then sud- 
 denly swooped down on my finger and bit at it. The 
 blood began to flow. 
 
 Madame Laroque has often told me that, as soon 
 as I beheld the colour of my blood, I uttered the 
 most terrific shrieks, wept copiously and asked if 
 I should die. I have always been loath to accept 
 her version of the story. All the same, it is pos- 
 sible that there may have been some modicum of 
 truth in it. She comforted me and tied a rag round 
 my finger. 
 
 I went home indignant, my bosom bursting with 
 hatred and fury. Between Navarino and me it 
 was war from that day forth; war, stern and piti- 
 less. Whenever we met I proceeded to insult and 
 provoke him, and he would fly into a rage; that, 
 to do him justice, was a satisfaction of which he 
 never deprived me. Sometimes I tickled his neck
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 47 
 
 with a straw, sometimes I pelted him with bread 
 pills and he would open his beak wide and in hoarse 
 tones rasp out all manner of unintelligible threats. 
 Madame Laroque, knitting as her custom was, a 
 width of a flannel petticoat, used to look at me over 
 her spectacles. 
 
 "Pierre," she would say, threatening me with her 
 wooden needle, "let that creature alone. You know 
 what he did to you before. Mark my words, some- 
 thing worse will happen next time, if you don't leave 
 off." 
 
 I disregarded this sage warning, and I had rea- 
 son to regret it. One day, when I was playing havoc 
 with his feeding tray, throwing about his maize seed, 
 the old warrior leapt upon me, and plunging his 
 claws into my hair, mauled and tore at my head 
 with his talons. If the infant Ganymede was scared 
 by the ravishing eagle that gathered him lovingly in 
 his soft embrace, judge of the terror I felt when 
 Navarino began tearing at my head with his iron 
 claws. My yells were heard right down on the banks 
 of the Seine. Madame Laroque, laying down her 
 everlasting knitting, detached the American from 
 his prey and bore him back on her shoulder to his 
 perch. Thence, his neck ruffled with arrogance, the 
 spoils of my hair tangled in his claws, he glared at 
 me in triumph with a fiery eye. My overthrow was 
 complete, my humiliation profound. 
 
 A few days later, I made my way into our kitchen,
 
 48 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 where countless delights exerted an unceasing fas- 
 cination over me ; and there I saw the aged Melanie 
 chopping up parsley on a board with a knife. I 
 put several questions to her regarding this herb, 
 whose pungent odour titillated my nostrils. Mela- 
 nie favoured me with copious information concern- 
 ing it. She imparted to me that parsley was used 
 in stews and as a seasoning for grilled meats. Finally 
 she told me that it was a deadly poison for par- 
 rots. On hearing this, I snatched up a sprig which 
 had escaped the knife and took it into the rose- 
 papered cabinet, where I meditated alone and in si- 
 lence. I held the doom of Navarino in my hands. 
 After deliberating long within me, I quitted the 
 apartment and betook myself to Madame Laroque's; 
 there I displayed to Navarino the death-dealing 
 herb. 
 
 "Look here," I said to him, "this is parsley! If 
 I were to mix up these little green, curly leaves 
 with your hemp-seed you would die and I should 
 have my revenge. But I intend to reap another 
 sort of vengeance. I am going to revenge myself 
 by letting you live," and with these words I flung 
 the fatal herb out of the window. 
 
 From that day forth I ceased to worry Nava- 
 rino. I made up my mind that nothing should mar 
 my clemency. We became friends.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 HOW IT EARLY BECAME EVIDENT THAT I LACKED 
 THE BUSINESS SENSE 
 
 T was before the Revolution of '48 ; 
 I was not yet four, that is certain, 
 but was I three and a half? That 
 is what I cannot be quite sure of, 
 and now, for this many a year there 
 has been no one left on earth who 
 could throw any light on the point. One must make 
 the best of this uncertainty, and console oneself with 
 the reflection that more important and more exasper- 
 ating lacunae present themselves in the history of na- 
 tions. Chronology and geography, it has been said, 
 are the two eyes of history. If that be so, everything 
 leads one to conclude that, despite the Benedictines 
 of Saint-Maur, who invented the art of verifying 
 dates, History is, to say the least of it, blind of one 
 eye. And, let me add, that is the least of its de- 
 fects. Clio, the muse Clio, is a personage of grave 
 and occasionally somewhat austere deportment, and 
 her erudite discourse, as we are told, is calculated 
 to interest, to inspire and to amuse; one could listen 
 to her readily a whole day long. Yet have I noticed, 
 from long and assiduous cultivation of her company, 
 
 M
 
 50 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 that she but too often allows it to be seen that she! 
 is forgetful, vain, biased, ignorant and untruthful. 
 Yet with all her faults I have loved her much and 
 love her still. These are the only bonds that unite 
 me to Clio. She has nothing to record of my 
 childhood nor, for that matter, of the rest of my 
 life. Happily, I am by no means an historic per- 
 sonage and proud Clio will never seek to discover 
 whether I was at the beginning, the middle or the 
 end of my third year when I betrayed an indication 
 of character that deeply impressed my mother. 
 
 I was then a very ordinary child, with, if I re- 
 member rightly, nothing original in my composi- 
 tion, save a certain reluctance to swallow everything 
 that people told me. This characteristic, the mark 
 of an inquiring mind, used to get me into bad odour, 
 for it is not the critical sense that people usually 
 admire in a child of three or three and a half. 
 
 I might dispense, if I liked, with making these re- 
 marks, for they have just as little to do with the 
 story I am about to relate as chronology, the art of 
 verifying dates and the muse Clio. If I make so 
 many digressions, if I wander away along so many 
 by-paths, I shall never reach my journey's end. But 
 then if I don't amuse myself as I go along, if I 
 keep strictly to the road, I shall get there all at 
 once; I shall have finished in the twinkling of an 
 eye. And that would be a pity, at least for me; 
 for I love to linger by the way. I know nothing
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 51 
 
 more pleasant and at the same time more profitable. 
 Of all the schools I ever went to, Dr. Truant's 
 was the one in which I got on best and learned the 
 most. There is nothing like straying from the 
 beaten track, my friends. If Little Red Riding 
 Hood had gone through the wood without linger- 
 ing to gather nuts, the wolf wouldn't have eaten her; 
 and every moral person will agree that the best 
 thing that could happen to Little Red Riding Hood 
 and her like is to be eaten up by the wolf. 
 
 This reflection brings us conveniently back to the 
 subject of my narrative. I was about to inform you 
 that in the third year of my age and in the eighteenth 
 and last of the reign of Louis Philippe the First, 
 King of France, my greatest pleasure in life was go- 
 ing for walks. They did not send me into the wood, 
 like Little Red Riding Hood; alas, I was not so Ar- 
 cadian ! Born and brought up in the heart of Paris, 
 on the brave Quai Malaquais, I knew not the pleas- 
 ures of field and hedgerow. But assuredly the town 
 also has its charm. Taking my hand in hers, my 
 mother led me along the streets with their countless 
 sounds, crowded with shifting colours and enlivened 
 by the throng of passers-by; and when she had any 
 purchases to make, she would take me with her into 
 the shops. We were not rich, and she did not spend 
 much money, but the shops she used to visit seemed 
 to me to be unsurpassable in extent and splendour. 
 The Bon Marche, the Louvre, the Printemps, the
 
 52 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 Galeries did not exist in those days. The largest es- 
 tablishments, in the latter years of the constitutional 
 monarchy, could only boast a local clientele. My 
 mother, who belonged to the Faubourg Saint-Ger- 
 main, used to go to the Deux-Magots and the Petit 
 Saint-Thomas. 
 
 Of these two shops, one of which was in the Rue 
 de Seine and the other in the Rue du Bac, only the 
 latter now survives, but it has grown so big and so 
 different, with the lions' heads that lend terror to its 
 front, from what it was in its early days, that I no 
 longer recognize it. The Deux-Magots have disap- 
 peared and perhaps I am the only one left in the 
 world who can recall the big oil painting which served 
 as a shop sign and which represented a young Chi- 
 nese woman between two of her fellow country men. 
 I was already keenly alive to feminine beauty, and 
 this young Chinese woman, with her hair held back 
 with a large comb and her kiss-curls about her tem- 
 ples, quite took my fancy. But of her two admirers, 
 of their bearing, their expression, their features, 
 their intentions, of these I could say nothing. I knew 
 nothing of the art of captivation. 
 
 The shop seemed to me immense and filled with 
 treasures. It was there, perhaps, that I acquired that 
 predilection for sumptuous things which became very 
 strong in me and has never left me since. The sight 
 of the stuffs, the carpets, the embroideries, the feath- 
 ers, the flowers, threw me into a kind of ecstasy and,
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 53 
 
 with my whole soul, I used to admire those affable 
 gentlemen and gracious young ladies who smilingly 
 offered these marvels to hesitating customers. When 
 an assistant who was serving my mother measured 
 out some cloth by means of a yard wand fixed hori- 
 zontally to a copper rod dependent from the ceiling, 
 it seemed to me that his calling was splendid and his 
 destiny glorious. 
 
 I also admired M. Augris, the tailor of the Rue 
 du Bac, who used to fit me with jacket and knicker- 
 bockers. I would have preferred him to make me 
 long trousers and a frock-coat such as the gentlemen 
 wore; and this desire became very ardent a little 
 later on when I read a story by Bouilly concerning an 
 unfortunate little boy who was taken care of by a 
 worthy and kind-hearted professor. The professor 
 employed him as his secretary and dressed him in 
 his old clothes. The worthy Bouilly's story led me 
 to do a very silly thing, which I will relate another 
 time. Full of respect for the arts and crafts, I ad- 
 mired M. Augris, the tailor of the Rue du Bac, who 
 did not merit admiration because he cut his cloth all 
 awry. Truth to tell, in the clothes he made for me, 
 I looked like a monkey. 
 
 My dear mamma, like the good housekeeper she 
 was, did her shopping herself, buying her groceries 
 at Courcelles' in the Rue Bonaparte, her coffee at 
 Corcelet's in the Palais Royal, and her chocolate 
 at Debeauve and Gallais' in the Rue des Saints-
 
 54 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 Peres. Whether it was that he gave one plenty of 
 sugar-plums to taste, or that he made the crystals of 
 his sugar-loaves glisten in the sun, or that, with a 
 gesture combining boldness and elegance he turned 
 a pot of gooseberry jelly upside down to show how 
 well it had set, M. Courcelles charmed me with his 
 persuasive graces and his convincing demonstrations. 
 I used to get almost angry with my mother because 
 of the doubtful and incredulous air with which she 
 listened to the assurance, always backed with ex- 
 amples, offered by this eloquent grocer. I have since 
 learned that her scepticism was justified. 
 
 I can still see Corcelet's shop, at the sign of the 
 "Gourmand"; a little low-ceiled place with the 
 name painted in gilt letters on a red ground. It 
 exhaled a delicious smell of coffee, and there was 
 to be seen there a painting, an old one even in those 
 days, representing a gourmand dressed in the same 
 style as my grandfather. He was seated at a table 
 set out with bottles and a pasty of monstrous size, 
 and adorned with a pineapple by way of decoration. 
 I am in a position to state, thanks to information 
 that came to me a very long time afterwards, that 
 it was a portrait of Grimod delaReyniere byBouilly. 
 It was with feelings of respect that I used to enter 
 this house, which seemed to belong to another age 
 and to take one back to the Directoire. Corcelet's 
 man weighed and served in silence. The simplicity 
 of his demeanour, which contrasted with the em-
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 55 
 
 phatic mannerisms of M. Courcelles, made an im- 
 pression on me and it may be that my first lessons 
 in taste and moderation were derived by me from 
 an old grocer's assistant. 
 
 I never came out of Corcelet's shop without tak- 
 ing a coffee bean to chew on the way. I told myself 
 it was very good and I half believed it was so. I 
 felt in my heart that it was execrable, but I was not 
 yet capable of bringing to light the truths that lay 
 hidden within me. Much as I liked Corcelet's shop, 
 at the sign of the "Gourmand", that of Debeauve 
 and Gallais, purveyors by appointment to the Kings 
 of France, pleased me more and charmed me more 
 than any other. So beautiful did it seem to me, that 
 I did not judge myself worthy of entering therein 
 save in my Sunday clothes, and, on reaching the 
 threshold, I looked carefully at my mother's attire 
 in order to satisfy myself that it was suitably ele- 
 gant. Well, well, my taste- was not so bad I The 
 house of Debeauve and Gallais, chocolate makers to 
 the Kings of France, is still in existence and its 
 appearance has changed but little. I can therefore 
 speak of it from actual knowledge and not from 
 fallacious recollection. It creates a very good im- 
 pression. Its scheme of decoration dates from the 
 early years of the Restoration, before style in such 
 matters had become too heavy, and it is in the man- 
 ner of Percier and Fontaine. I cannot help sadly 
 reflecting when I look at these motifs, rather frigid,
 
 56 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 it may be, but delicate, pure and well ordered, how 
 taste in France has deteriorated during the last cen- 
 tury. What a distance we have travelled from the 
 decorative art of the Empire, inferior as that was 
 to the style of Louis XVI and the Directoire. In 
 this old-world shop one cannot but admire the sign 
 with its well proportioned, bold lettering; the arched 
 windows with their fan-shaped mouldings, the far 
 end of the shop rounded like a little temple, the 
 counter semi-circular in shape following the curve 
 of the room. I don't know whether I am dreaming, 
 but it seems to me that I have seen pier-glasses there 
 adorned with allegorical figures of Fame which 
 might do honour to Arcole and Lodi quite as ap- 
 propriately as to chocolate creams and chocolate al- 
 monds. In fine, the whole thing was consistent. 
 It possessed a character and conveyed a meaning. 
 What do they do nowadays? There are still ar- 
 tists of genius, but the decorative arts have fallen 
 into a most ignominious decline. The style of the * 
 Third Republic makes one sigh for Napoleon III; 
 Napoleon III for Louis Philippe ; Louis Philippe for 
 Charles X; Charles X for the Directoire; the Di- 
 rectoire for Louis XVI. The sense of line and pro- 
 portion is completely lost. Therefore I hail with 
 delight the advent of the New Art, not so much, 
 indeed, for what it brings as for what it takes away. 
 Need I remark that when I was but three or 
 four years old I was not given to discussing the the-
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 57 
 
 ory of decoration? But, whenever I went into the 
 establishment of Messrs. Debeauve and Gallais, it 
 seemed to me as though I were entering a fairy 
 palace. What assisted the illusion was the sight 
 of certain young ladies there in black gowns, with 
 lustrous hair, seated round the semi-circular coun- 
 ter in attitudes of gracious solemnity. In the midst 
 of them, gentle and grave of mien, sat a lady of 
 riper years, who made entries in registers which 
 reposed on a big desk, and handled pieces of money 
 and bank-notes. It will soon be shown that I quite 
 failed to acquire any adequate understanding of the 
 operations performed by this venerable dame. On 
 either side of her, young ladies, both dark and fair, 
 were busily engaged, some in covering the cakes of 
 chocolate with a thin metal leaf of silvery bright- 
 ness, others in enveloping these same cakes, two at 
 a time, in white paper wrappers with pictures on 
 them and then sealing these wrappers with wax 
 which they heated in the flame of a little tin lamp. 
 They accomplished these tasks with skill and with 
 a celerity that seemed to betoken delight. I im- 
 agine, when I come to think of it now, that they 
 did not work like that for the fun of the thing; but 
 in those days I might quite well have made a mis- 
 take, seeing how ready I was to look on any kind 
 of work as a diversion. This at least is certain, 
 that it was a joy to the eye to watch the deft fingers 
 of those young women.
 
 58 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 When my mother had completed her purchases, 
 the matron who presided over this assembly of wise 
 virgins extracted from a crystal bowl that stood be- 
 side her a chocolate drop, which she offered me with 
 a watery smile. And this solemn gift, more than 
 anything else, made me love and admire the estab- 
 lishment of Messrs. Debeauve and Gallais, purvey- 
 ors to the Kings of France. 
 
 Being fond of all that had to do with shops, it 
 was quite natural that, when I got home, I should 
 try to imitate in my games the scenes I had wit- 
 nessed while my mother was making her purchases. 
 Thus it came about that, in my father's house, I 
 became all to myself, and without anybody being 
 aware of it, successively a tailor, a grocer, a fancy- 
 goods man and, no less readily, a dressmaker and a 
 chocolate saleswoman. Now it befell that one eve- 
 ning, in the little room with the rosebud wall-paper, 
 where my mother was sitting with her needlework in 
 her hand, I was applying myself with more assiduity 
 than usual to the task of imitating the fair ladies of 
 Messrs. Debeauve and Gallais' establishment. Hav- 
 ing collected as many pieces of chocolate as I could 
 lay hands on, together with some bits of paper and 
 even some fragmentary pieces of those metallic 
 leaves which I termed emphatically silver paper, all 
 if the truth be told considerably the worse for wear, 
 I seated myself in my little chair, a present from 
 my Aunt Chausson, with a moleskin stool in front
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 59 
 
 of me. All of this paraphernalia represented in my 
 eyes the elegant semi-circle of the store in the Rue 
 des Saints-Peres. Being an only child, accustomed to 
 amuse myself and always deep in some day-dream, 
 passing, that is to say, a great part of my time in 
 the world of shadows, it was easy enough for me 
 to summon up to my imagination the absent shop 
 with its panelling, its glass cabinets, its pier-glasses 
 adorned with the allegorical figure of Fame and 
 even the purchasers flocking thither in crowds 
 women, children and old men so great was my 
 power to evoke at will both scenes and actors. I had 
 no difficulty in enacting, in my sole person, the young 
 lady customers, the young demoiselles of the counter 
 and the highly respectable dame who kept the books 
 and looked after the cash. My magic power knew 
 no limits and exceeded all that I have since read 
 of in The Golden Ass concerning the witches of 
 Thessaly. I could change my nature at will. I was 
 capable of assuming the strangest and most ex- 
 traordinary shapes, of becoming, by magic, a King, 
 a dragon, a demon, a fairy, nay, of changing into 
 an army, or a river, a forest or a mountain. What 
 I was attempting that evening was therefore a mere 
 trifle and offered no difficulty whatever. And so I 
 wrapped up and I sealed and I served customers 
 without number women, children and old men. 
 Filled with the idea of my own importance (must I 
 avow it?) , I spoke very curtly to my imaginary com-
 
 60 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 panions, chiding their slowness and taking them un- 
 mercifully to task for their mistakes. But, when it 
 came to playing the part of the aged and respectable 
 dame who had charge of the cash, I became suddenly 
 embarrassed. In this crisis I left the shop and went 
 to ask my dear mamma to clear up a point con- 
 cerning which I was still in the dark. I had seen the 
 old dame open her drawer and stir the money about, 
 but I had never arrived at a sufficiently exact notion 
 of the nature of the operations performed by her. 
 Kneeling down at my mother's feet she was em- 
 broidering a handkerchief in her deep easy chair 
 I asked: 
 
 "Mamma, in the shops, is it the people who sell 
 or the people who buy that pay the money?" 
 
 My mother looked at me in wide-eyed surprise, 
 raised her eyebrows and smiled at me without re- 
 plying. Then she grew thoughtful. At that mo- 
 ment my father came into the room. 
 
 "What do you think Pierrot has just been ask- 
 ing me?" she said. "You will never guess. He 
 wants to know whether it is the people who buy 
 or the people who sell that pay the money." 
 
 "Oh, the little duffer!" said my father. 
 
 "It's not just ordinary childish ignorance, that," 
 said my mother, "it's a sign of character. Pierre 
 will never learn the value of money." 
 
 My dear mother had read my character and my 
 future: she was prophesying. No, it was never to
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 61 
 
 be my fate to know the value of money. What I 
 was as a little boy of three or three and a half, in 
 the little sitting-room papered with rosebuds, that 
 I have remained till my old age, which rests lightly 
 upon me, as it does on all who are free from avarice 
 and pride. No, mother dear, I have never known 
 the value of money. Even now I know it not, 
 or perhaps I had better say that I know it too well. 
 I know that money is the cause of all those ills 
 that afflict our social order, which is so cruel and 
 whereof we are so proud. That little boy whose 
 memory I have just evoked, that little boy who, 
 when playing his games, did not know whether it was 
 the buyer or the seller who had to pay, sets me 
 thinking all at once of that maker of pipes whom 
 William Morris presents to us in that fine Utopian 
 story of his, that simple-hearted craftsman who, in 
 the city of the future, made pipes which surpassed 
 all others in beauty because he brought love to the 
 carving of them and bestowed them as gifts, taking 
 no money in exchange.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE DRUM 
 
 O live is to desire. And, according 
 as a man deems that desire is sweet 
 or bitter, so will he regard life as 
 good or bad. Each one of us has 
 to decide the question for himself. 
 Argument is useless: it is a matter 
 of metaphysics. When I was five, I desired a drum. 
 Was that desire sweet or bitter? I know not. Let 
 us say that it was bitter in so far as it resulted from 
 the lack of something, and that it was sweet inas- 
 much as it conjured up to my imagination the ob- 
 ject desired. 
 
 In order that there may be no misunderstanding 
 in the matter, let me add that I wanted to have a 
 drum without being conscious of any desire to be- 
 come a drummer. Of that calling I contemplated 
 neither the glory nor the risks. Although fairly fa- 
 miliar, for my age, with the military annals of 
 France, I had not as yet heard the story of Bara, 
 the Drummer, who died clasping his drumsticks to 
 his heart, or of that heroic boy of fifteen who, at 
 the Battle of Zurich, with his arm pierced by a bullet, 
 
 continued to sound the charge, was rewarded by the 
 
 62
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 63 
 
 First Consul with a pair of presentation drumsticks 
 and, to prove himself worthy of them, got killed at 
 the first opportunity. Brought up during a period of 
 peace, I knew nothing of drummers save the two 
 drummers of the Garde Nationale who, on New 
 Year's Day, used to present my father, a Major in 
 the 2nd Battalion, and his lady, with an address 
 ornamented with a coloured picture. The picture 
 represented the two drum majors, very much ideal- 
 ized, in a magnificently gilded salon, bowing to a 
 gentleman in a green frock-coat and a lady wearing a 
 crinoline and lace flounces. In reality they had rov- 
 ing eyes, heavy moustaches and rubicund noses. My 
 father would give them a crown piece and send them 
 off to drink a glass of wine which old Melanie poured 
 out for them in the kitchen. They would drink it 
 down at one long draught, smack their lips and wipe 
 their mouths on the sleeve of their tunics. Although 
 there was a joviality about them that rather took my 
 fancy, they never inspired me with any desire to be- 
 come as one of them. No, I had no desire to be a 
 drummer. I would rather have been a general, and, 
 if I burned to possess a drum and a pair of black 
 drumsticks, the reason was that I used to associate 
 these objects with countless scenes of war. 
 
 No one could have reproached me at that time 
 with preferring Cassandra's couch to Achilles' spear. 
 Arms and combats were the breath of life to me. I 
 revelled in slaughter. I had become a hero, if the
 
 64 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 fates that hamper our projects had permitted. But 
 they did not. 
 
 The very next year they turned me aside from so 
 glorious a path and inspired me with a love for 
 dolls. Despite the way people tried to shame me, I 
 bought several out of my savings. I loved them all; 
 but I adored one above all the rest and my mother 
 said it was not the prettiest. But why should I 
 be in such a hurry to dim the glory of my fourth 
 year, when all my desires were centred on a drum? 
 
 Not being endowed with a stoic's restraint, I often 
 avowed my longing to persons able to satisfy it. 
 They pretended not to hear, or else answered in 
 a way that drove me to desperation. 
 
 "You know perfectly well," my mother used to 
 say, "that your father dislikes toys that make a 
 
 noise." 
 
 As she refused me out of a sense of wifely duty, 
 I transferred my request to my Aunt Chausson, who 
 felt no compunction in making herself disagreeable 
 to my father. I had perceived that very clearly, 
 and it was a circumstance on which I relied to ob- 
 tain possession of the object I so ardently coveted. 
 Unfortunately, Aunt Chausson was parsimonious. 
 She rarely gave anything away, and not much, at 
 that. 
 
 "What do you want with a drum?" she said. 
 "Haven't you got toys enough? You've cupboards 
 full of them. In my day children were not spoiled
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 65 
 
 as they are now. My little playmates and I used 
 to make dolls out of bits of paper. Haven't you 
 got a lovely Noah's Ark?" 
 
 She was referring to a Noah's Ark which she 
 had given me on New Year's Day, twelve months 
 before and which, I confess, had appeared to me at 
 first as something supernatural. It contained the 
 patriarch and his family, and couples of all the living 
 things in creation. But the butterflies were bigger 
 than the elephants, and that, after a time, outraged 
 my sense of proportion. And now that the quadru- 
 peds, owing to my rough usage, had only got three 
 legs to stand on, and that Noah had lost his staff, 
 the Ark had no longer any charm for me. 
 
 One day, when I had a cold and was obliged to 
 stay in my room with my nightcap tied under my 
 chin, I made myself a drum out of a butter tub and 
 a wooden spoon. It must have been a thing rather 
 in the Dutch manner, after the style of Brauwer 
 or Jan Steen. My tastes were more exalted, and, 
 when my old Melanie entered in a fume to recover 
 possession of her butter tub and cooking spoon, I 
 was already sick of them. 
 
 It was about that time that my father, one eve- 
 ning, brought me home a fancy biscuit representing a 
 Pierrot beating a big drum. I don't know whether 
 he thought that the image would prove a satisfactory 
 substitute for the reality, or whether he wanted to 
 make fun of me. He smiled, as was his wont, a
 
 66 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 little sadly. Whatever the reason, I received his 
 present with an ill grace and the biscuit, harsh and 
 rasping to the touch, filled me with a sudden aver- 
 sion. 
 
 I had quite given up hope of ever attaining the 
 object of my desires when, one bright summer's day, 
 after lunch, my mother embraced me tenderly, told 
 me to be a good boy and sent me out with Melanie 
 for a walk, having put into my hands an article 
 shaped like a cylinder and wrapped in a piece of 
 brown paper. 
 
 I opened the parcel, and, behold, it was a drum I 
 By this time my mother had gone out of the room. 
 I hung the beloved instrument on my shoulder by 
 the cord which did duty for a bandoleer and raised 
 no question as to what the fates would demand of 
 me in return. In those days I thought that the gifts 
 of fortune were gratis. I had not learned from 
 Herodotus to identify the heavenly Nemesis, and I 
 knew not the poet's adage, whereon in after years 
 I have pondered long: 
 
 "C'est un ordre des Dieux qui jamais ne se rompt 
 De nous vendre bien cher les grands biens qu'ils nous font." 
 
 Happy and proud, the drum at my side, the drum- 
 sticks in my hands, I darted forth and marched in 
 front of Melanie, beating my drum with a gallant 
 flourish. I marched as though to the attack, as one 
 leading his armies to certain victory. I had a sort 
 of feeling, though I did not avow it even to myself,
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 67 
 
 that my drum was not very sonorous and was not 
 to be heard three miles away. And it was the fact 
 that the ass's skin (if skin it were, which I greatly 
 doubt to-day), being loosely stretched, did not re- 
 sound beneath the blow of the drumsticks, which 
 were so slender and so light that I could not feel 
 them between my fingers. I recognized the peace- 
 loving and watchful spirit of my mother and her 
 zeal in banishing noisy playthings from the house. 
 She had already removed all the guns, pistols and 
 rifles, to my great regret, because I delighted in up- 
 roar and my soul was uplifted at the sound of de- 
 tonations. Doubtless no one would want to have 
 a silent drum. But enthusiasm makes up for every 
 defect. The tumult of my heart filled my ears with 
 the sound of glory. I seemed to hear a cadence that 
 made ten thousand men march onward keeping step 
 as one ; I seemed to hear the rolling sounds that fill 
 men's heart with heroism and awe; I seemed to be- 
 hold, in the flowering gardens of the Luxembourg 
 columns advancing as far as the eye could see across 
 illimitable plains ; I conjured up the vision of horses, 
 cannons, gun-carriages making deep ruts in the 
 roads, gleaming helmets with sable streamers, fuf 
 caps, aigrettes, plumes, lances and bayonets. 
 
 I saw, I felt, I created it all, and, in the world of 
 my imagination, I myself was all, the men, the 
 horses, the guns, the powder magazines, the fiery 
 heavens and the blood-stained earth. That was
 
 68 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 what I conjured forth from my drum. And my 
 Aunt Chausson had asked me what I wanted with a 
 drum! 
 
 When I returned to the house it was silent. I 
 called out for my mother, but she did not answer. 
 I ran to her bedroom and to the rosebud sitting- 
 room, but there was no one there. I went into my 
 father's study; it was empty. Standing erect on 
 the drawing-room clock Foyatier's Spartacus alone 
 responded to my anxious look, with his gesture of 
 eternal indignation. 
 
 "Mamma!" I cried, "Mamma, where are you?" 
 
 And I began to weep. 
 
 Then old Melanie told me that my father and 
 mother had departed on the diligence that leaves 
 the Rue du Bouloi for Le Havre, with Monsieur 
 and Madame Danguin, and that they would be away 
 a week. 
 
 This announcement plunged me into the depths 
 of despair, and I knew at what a price Fate had 
 granted me a drum; I knew that my mother had 
 given me a toy to cover her departure and to dis- 
 tract my thoughts from her absence. And remem- 
 bering the grave and somewhat melancholy voice 
 in which, as she kissed me, she bade me "Be a good 
 boy!" I wondered how it was I had nfcver sus- 
 pected it. 
 
 "If I had only known," I thought, "I wouldn't 
 have let her go."
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 69 
 
 I was sad and also ashamed at having allowed 
 myself to be taken in. And there had been so many 
 signs that ought to have told me what was afoot 
 For days past I had heard my parents whispering 
 together, I had heard cupboard doors creaking, I 
 had seen piles of linen on the beds, trunks and port- 
 manteaux encumbering the rooms the domed lid 
 of one of the trunks was covered with a skin worn 
 bare in patches, over which were fixed bands of 
 very dirty black wood; it was a hideous thing. All 
 these presages appeared to me in vain, though a 
 wretched dog would have been disturbed by them. 
 I had heard my father say that Finette used to know 
 when anyone was about to go away. 
 
 The house seemed vast and cheerless. The hor- 
 rible silence which reigned within it sent a chill to my 
 heart. To fill the void Melanie was really too little. 
 Her fluted cap scarcely reached above my head. I 
 loved Melanie, I loved her with all the force of my 
 childish egoism, but she was not sufficient to occupy 
 my mind. Her remarks struck me as insipid. For 
 all that her hair was grey and her back growing 
 round, she appeared to me to be more of a child than 
 I was. The thought of living a whole week alone 
 with her reduced me to despair. 
 
 She tried to console me. She said that a week 
 was soon over; that my mother would bring back 
 a nice little boat, that I could sail it on the Luxem- 
 bourg lake, that my father and mother would tell
 
 70 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 me about all the things that happened to them on 
 their journey and would give me such a good de- 
 scription of the fine port at Le Havre that I should 
 fancy I was there myself. It must be admitted that 
 this last touch was not without merit since the pigeon 
 of the fabulist employed it to console his tender con- 
 sort for his absence. But I refused to be comforted. 
 I did not think consolation was possible and I deemed 
 that it would detract from the nobility of my atti- 
 tude. 
 
 Aunt Chausson came to dine with me. It gave 
 me no pleasure to behold her owlish countenance. 
 She also proffered consolation, but her comfort had 
 a flavour of old bones about it, like everything else 
 she gave away. Hers was too niggardly a nature 
 to bestow consolation in fresh and pure abundance. 
 At the dinner table she sat in my mother's place, 
 from which, therefore, no imperceptible effluence of 
 her could arise, no impalpable shade, no invisible 
 image, nothing of that mysterious essence of absent 
 beloved ones which lingers about the things with 
 which they were familiar. The incongruity of the 
 thing exasperated me. In my despair I refused to 
 eat my soup and took pride in the refusal. I don't 
 remember whether it occurred to me then that, in 
 similar circumstances, Finette would have done as 
 much; but, if it had, I should not have felt ashamed, 
 for I realized that, in matters of instinct and feel- 
 ing, animals were far beyond me. My mother had
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 71 
 
 left orders that there should be a vol-au-vent and 
 some cream for dinner, thinking that these things 
 were calculated to take my mind off my troubles. I 
 had refused the soup ; I accepted the vol-au-vent and 
 the cream and, in them, found some relief for my 
 woes. 
 
 After dinner Aunt Chausson advised me to go 
 and play with my Noah's Ark; this suggestion made 
 me blaze with fury. I answered her in a most im- 
 pertinent manner and, not only that, but hurled some 
 very unseemly insults at Melanie, who, in the whole 
 course of her saintly life, never merited aught but 
 praise. 
 
 Poor soul, she put me to bed with delicate care, 
 wiped away my tears and fixed up her own truckle- 
 bed in my room. Nevertheless, I was swiftly to per- 
 ceive the terrible effects of the lonely state to which 
 my mother had abandoned me. But, properly to un- 
 derstand what befell me, it must be borne in mind 
 that, every night, in that very room, before I fell 
 asleep, I used to see from my bed a troop of little 
 men with big heads, hump-backed, bandy-legged, 
 curiously deformed, wearing felt hats with feathers 
 stuck in them, great round spectacles on their noses, 
 and carrying divers objects such as spigots, mando- 
 lins, saucepans, tambourines, saws, trumpets, 
 crutches, wherewith they made strange noises, tread- 
 ing fantastic measures. Their appearance there at 
 this hour had ceased to astonish me. I was not suf-
 
 72 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 ficiently well acquainted with the laws of Nature to 
 know that such a phenomenon was inconsistent with 
 them; and since the same procession took place 
 regularly, night after night, I did not regard 
 it as extraordinary. It scared me, without, how- 
 ever, causing me sufficient fear to make me 
 scream. A circumstance that greatly allayed my 
 terror was that I noticed that these little min- 
 strels kept very close to the wall and never came 
 near my bed. Such was their custom. They looked 
 as if they did not see me and I held my breath so as 
 not to attract their attention. It was assuredly my 
 mother's good influence that kept them away from 
 me, but doubtless the aged Melanie did not exert the 
 same sway over these mischievous spirits, for on 
 that dreadful night when the diligence of the Rue 
 du Bouloi carried off my beloved parents to distant 
 shores, these little musicians noticed my presence for 
 the first time. One of them, a little personage with 
 a wooden leg and a plaster over his eye, nudged his 
 neighbour and pointed his finger at me and then all 
 of them, one after another, turned to look at me, 
 put on enormous round spectacles and examined me 
 curiously, with no friendly expression. I began to 
 tremble in every limb. But when they came over 
 to my bed, dancing and brandishing spigots, saws 
 and stewpans, and one of them, with a nose like a 
 clarinet, pointed at me with a syringe as big round
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 73 
 
 as the telescope at the Observatory, I was frozen 
 with terror and called out: 
 
 "Mamma! Mamma!" 
 
 Hearing my cry, old Melanie came running to 
 see what was the matter. At the sight of her I 
 burst into tears. Then I dropped off to sleep again. 
 
 When I awoke to the twittering of the sparrows, I 
 had forgotten all, the melancholy absence of my 
 parents and my own loneliness. Alas, my mother's 
 radiant face did not lean down over my bed, her 
 dark wavy tresses did not caress my cheeks, I did 
 not breathe-in the iris which perfumed her dressing- 
 gown. Instead, I beheld the cheeks of my old Mela- 
 nie, that resembled winter apples. She appeared to 
 me in an enormous night cap and I saw temples and 
 Cupids on the dear creature's night-gown. They 
 were printed in pink on a hodden-grey ground and 
 she wore them in perfect innocence. The sight re- 
 newed my grief. All the morning I wandered, dis- 
 consolate, about the silent dwelling. Finding my 
 drum on a chair in the dining-room, I threw it on 
 the floor in a passion, and, with a blow of my heel, 
 stove it in. 
 
 Later on, when I had arrived at Man's estate, it 
 may have chanced that I again felt a desire for some- 
 thing similar to that sonorous and hollow instru- 
 ment for which I had longed so greatly when a little 
 child for the tympana of glory or the cymbals of 
 popular favour. But, as soon as I felt this desire
 
 74 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 coming to life and stirring within me, I bethought 
 me of the drum of my childhood when I was a little 
 boy of four, and of the price I had paid for it, and 
 forthwith I ceased to desire the favours that des- 
 tiny does not bestow on us without asking something 
 in return. 
 
 Jean Racine, reading in his Latin Bible, under- 
 lined the following passage : Et tribuit eis petitionem 
 eorum, and he recalled it when he put into the mouth 
 of Aricie those words which bring a pallor to the 
 cheek of the imprudent Theseus : 
 
 "Craignez, seigneur, craignez que le ciel rigoureux 
 Ne vous hai'sse assez pour exaucer vos voeux. 
 Souvent dans sa colere il re^oit nos victimes: 
 Ses presents sont souvent la peine de nos crimes."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 COMEDY WELL HANDLED 
 
 N those days, when I lay sleepless in 
 bed because I was out of sorts, or 
 simply because I had awakened 
 earlier than usual, I used to be 
 conscious that an ashen and dismal 
 countenance was gazing at me, a 
 countenance vast and indeterminate of outline, a 
 phantom, in short, morei dreadful than pain or 
 fear. It was the thing we call Ennui. Not 
 the sort of heart-ache whereof the poets sing, 
 a heart-ache tinged with the hues of hatred or 
 of love, a heart-ache high-sorrowful and splendid; 
 no, not that, but the dull, monotonous, fathomless 
 ennui, the fog within, emptiness grown visible. To 
 banish this spectral intruder I would call for my 
 mother and for Melanie. Alas, they came not, or if 
 they came, they stayed but a moment at my side, and 
 said to me, as the bee remarked to Madame Des- 
 bordes-Valmore's little boy: 
 
 "Je suis tris pressie, 
 On nc rit pas toujours." 
 
 And my mother would add the recommendation that 
 I should just run through my multiplication table to 
 pass away the time. 
 
 75
 
 76 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 That was an extreme measure that I was loath to 
 adopt. My tastes lay rather in the direction of 
 pretending I was making a voyage round the world 
 and taking part in extraordinary adventures. I used 
 to get shipwrecked and to swim ashore to an island 
 inhabited by lions and tigers. With a powerful 
 imagination to back me, that ought to have been 
 enough to keep ennui at bay. But unfortunately the 
 pictures I conjured up were so colourless and in- 
 substantial that they hid neither the wall paper of 
 my room nor the misty countenance that I abhorred. 
 As time went on, I did better and succeeded in pro- 
 viding myself, as I lay in my cot, with a pastime as 
 agreeable as it was witty and, moreover, one very 
 much in vogue among civilized communities: I played 
 me a comedy. My theatre, I need hardly say, did 
 not attain perfection all at once. Greek tragedy, 
 it will be remembered, had its origin in the bucolic 
 wain of Thespis. I used to hum tunes, beating time 
 with my hand. Such was the origin of my Odeon. 
 It was of lowly birth. A kindly attack of measles 
 kept me in bed that I might bring it to per- 
 fection. I had five actors to look after, or rather 
 five characters, like those of the Italian comedy. 
 They were the five fingers of my right hand. Each 
 had his own name as well as his distinctive physi- 
 ognomy. And after the manner of the masks of 
 the Italian theatre on the resemblance to which I 
 cannot too greatly insist, my dramatis persona kept
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 77 
 
 their names in the roles they played, unless of course 
 the piece made a change obligatory, as sometimes 
 happened, in historic dramas for example. But they 
 invariably retained their characters. In this respect, 
 and I am not flattering them, they were never found 
 wanting. 
 
 The thumb was called Rappart. Why? you ask. 
 I cannot tell. We must not expect to clear up every 
 mystery. It is impossible to explain everything. 
 Rappart was a short, broad, thick-set fellow of 
 prodigious strength ; an uneducated, violent, quarrel- 
 some, besotted creature, a regular Caliban, black- 
 smith, porter, pantechnicon man, brigand, soldier, 
 according to the part he was playing. Everything 
 he did was violent and cruel. When need arose 
 he took the part of savage beasts, such as the wolf 
 in Little Red Riding Hood, or of the bear in a rather 
 nice comedy in which a young shepherdess comes 
 upon a white bear fast asleep, slips a ring through 
 his nose and leads him captive and capering to the 
 palace of the King, who weds her forthwith. 
 
 The index finger, whose name was Mitoufle, pre- 
 sented a striking contrast to Rappart both in ap- 
 pearance and mentality. Mitoufle was neither the 
 tallest nor the handsomest of the troop. Indeed, he 
 seemed a little defective and deformed by some 
 manual labour undertaken at too tender an age. But 
 for vivacity of movement and talent for repartee he 
 was the best of my actors. Nature had endowed
 
 78 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 him with a big heart and his first impulse was to 
 hasten to succour the oppressed. His courage was 
 carried to the point of rashness and the dramatist 
 gave him plenty of opportunities to display it. He 
 hadn't a rival, when a house was on fire, in snatching 
 a baby from the flames and restoring it to its mother. 
 His sole defect was an excess of sprightliness. But 
 for that we forgave him, or rather we loved him 
 the better for it. 
 
 "Achille deplairait moins bouillant et moins prompt." 
 
 The middle finger, elegant, upright, tall and proud 
 of mien, harboured, beneath his charming exterior, 
 a chivalrous soul. Descended from the most illus- 
 trious ancestry, he was called Dunois. And in this 
 instance I've a strong notion that I know how he 
 came by his name. I don't think there is much room 
 for doubt that my mother was the cause. My dear 
 mother was not a very good singer and she only 
 sang when there was no one save me to listen. She 
 used to sing: 
 
 "Partant pour la Syrie 
 Le jeune et beau Dunois 
 Alia prier Marie 
 De benir ses exploits." 
 
 She also sang Reposez-vous, bans chevaliers. Nay, 
 and she sang too, En soupirant, j'ai vu ncntre I'au- 
 rore. My dear mother thought a tremendous lot of 
 the ballads of Queen Hortense, which were con- 
 sidered charming in those days. 
 
 Excuse me for going so slowly; but it is a whole
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 79 
 
 art that I am setting forth. The ring-finger, which 
 bore no ring, was identified with a lady of great 
 beauty named Blanche of Castille. It was very likely 
 a pseudonym. Being the only woman in the troop, 
 she took the part of mothers, wives and sweethearts. 
 Virtuous and persecuted, she was rescued times with- 
 out number from the greatest perils by the young 
 and handsome Dunois, with the eager and unselfish 
 assistance of Mitoufle. She often married Dunois, 
 rarely Mitoufle. One more character and I shall 
 have finished with my troop. Jeannot, the little fin- 
 ger, was a very innocent small boy, who, when neces- 
 sary, became a girl, as, for example, when the piece 
 was Little Red Riding Hood. And I think that, 
 when he turned into a girl, his wits grew sharper. 
 
 The plays designed for the interpreters whom I 
 have just enumerated resembled the commedia del 
 arte in this respect, namely, that I composed the can- 
 vas and my actors improvised the dialogue, adapting 
 their language to their characters and situations. In 
 all other respects, however, they differed widely from 
 the Italian farce and the pieces enacted in booths 
 at country fairs where Harlequin, Columbine and 
 the Doctor engage in rivalry for sordid interests 
 and ignoble passions. My works were cast in a no- 
 bler mould and appertained to the heroic order, as 
 befits the innocent and the simple-hearted. I was 
 lyrical and I was pathetic, tragic and very tragic. 
 When passion soared to heights beyond the scope of
 
 8o LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 mortal speech, I had recourse to song. My dramas 
 also had their comic scenes. Thus all unwittingly 
 I composed in the Shakespearean manner. I should 
 have found it much harder to have imitated Racine 
 Unlike M. de Lamartine, I had no rooted detesta- 
 tion of buffoonery. Far from it; but my comic scenes 
 were very simple, without any admixture of irony. 
 The same situations were often repeated in my thea- 
 tre. I hadn't the heart to take myself to task on 
 that account; they were so touching! Captive prin- 
 cesses set free by valiant knights, children kidnapped 
 and restored to their mothers, these were the sub- 
 jects I loved best. 
 
 Nevertheless, I traced out other stories besides 
 these. I composed love dramas, lavishly supplied 
 with ladies of conspicuous beauty. These plays, 
 however, were deficient in action and, more espe- 
 cially, lacking in denouement. These defects really 
 resulted from my purity of mind, for, looking on 
 love as in itself its own sufficient reward, I did not 
 consider that it demanded any further satisfaction. 
 It was fine, but rather tedious. 
 
 I also dealt with warlike subjects and was not 
 afraid to tackle the story of Napoleon, which I 
 gathered from the lips of survivors of those glori- 
 ous times, for they were numerous about me in my 
 childhood days. Dunois used to be Napoleon; 
 Blanche of Castille was Josephine (I knew nothing 
 about Marie-Louise); Mitoufle, a grenadier; Jean-
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 81 
 
 not, a fifer. Raopart represented the English, the 
 Prussians, the Austrians and the Russians, that is 
 to say, the enemy. And these resources sufficed me 
 to win the battles of Austerlitz, Jena, Friedland and 
 Wagram and to make a triumphal entry into Vienna 
 and Berlin. As a rule, I did not give the same piece 
 twice over. I always had a play ready. For fer- 
 tility I was a veritable Calderon. 
 
 It will readily be appreciated that, thanks to the 
 diversions of this theatre in which I was at once 
 manager, author, actors and audience, I did not have 
 such a bad time of it in bed. Indeed, I used to re- 
 main there as long as I could and pretended to be 
 suffering from all sorts of ailments in order not to 
 have to get up. My dear mamma, who did not know 
 me for the same boy, asked me how it was I had 
 grown so lazy all of a sudden. Not understanding 
 my art or taking the measure of my genius, she 
 applied the term laziness to what was in fact action 
 and movement. 
 
 This theatre, having attained its zenith about my 
 sixth year, fell suddenly into a rapid decline whereof 
 it behoves me to explain the cause. When I was 
 about six years old, some indisposition incidental 
 to childhood kept me several days in bed and, hav- 
 ing at my side a little table, a box of paints and 
 some pieces of ribbon, I decided to employ the 
 means thus ready to my hand in embellishing my 
 theatre and in bringing it to a state of perfection
 
 82 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 hitherto undreamt of. I set to work at once and 
 carried out with ardour the feverish conceptions of 
 my imagination. It had never struck me that none 
 of my actors had anything more in the way of physi- 
 ognomy than an egg. Suddenly becoming aware of 
 this defect, I made them eyes, noses, mouths and, 
 perceiving that they were nude, I attired them in 
 raiment of silk and gold. It next occurred to me 
 that they ought to have something on their heads 
 and I made them hats or bonnets of divers shapes 
 but for the most part pointed. I never wearied in 
 my quest after picturesque effect. I built a stage, 
 painted scenery, and manufactured accessories. In 
 an access of great emotion I produced a play en- 
 titled, "The Knights of the Holy Sepulchre," in 
 which East and West were to encounter one another 
 in a formidable combat. Alas, I couldn't even get 
 through the first scene. The well-spring of inspira- 
 tion had been frozen; soul and movement, all had 
 disappeared. No more passion, no more life. My 
 theatre, so long as it had remained independent of 
 artifice, had put on all the hues and all the shapes 
 of illusion. When luxury appeared on the scene, 
 illusion faded away. The Muses took wing. They 
 never came back. What a lesson was there! Art 
 must be allowed to retain its noble nudity. Rich 
 dresses and brilliant scenery stifle drama, whose sole 
 adornment should consist in the grandeur of the 
 action and the truth of the characters.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE LINT MAKERS 
 
 HAD not yet completed my fourth 
 year, when, one morning, my 
 mother took me out of my bed 
 and my dear papa, who had put on 
 his National Guard's uniform, em- 
 braced me tenderly. On his shako 
 he had a golden cock and a crimson tuft. Down 
 on the quay the drums were beating to arms. The 
 noise of galloping horses resounded along the 
 cobbled street. From time to time there came the 
 sound of singing and uproarious shouting and in the 
 distance the rattle of musketry. My father went 
 out. My mother went to the window, drew aside 
 the muslin curtain and fell a-sobbing. It was the 
 Revolution. 
 
 I have but a scanty recollection of those Feb- 
 ruary days. I was never once taken out while the 
 street fighting went on. Our windows looked on 
 to the courtyard and the events which were tak- 
 ing place in the outer world were, for me, infinitely 
 mysterious. All the tenants began to fraternize 
 with each other. Madame Caumont, the wife of 
 
 the bookseller and publisher; Mademoiselle 
 
 83
 
 84 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 Mathilde, the daughter, already well on in years, of 
 Madame Laroque; Mademoiselle Cecile, the dress- 
 maker; the very elegant Madame Petitpas; the beau- 
 tiful Madame Moser who, in ordinary times, used 
 to get the cold shoulder from every one, all fore- 
 gathered at my mother's to make bandages for the 
 wounded, whose numbers increased every minute. 
 The custom then followed in all the hospitals, was 
 to apply linen threads to the wounds, and no one 
 entertained any doubts as to the wisdom of this treat- 
 ment until a revolution in surgery prescribed the ap- 
 plication of moist dressings. Each of these ladies 
 brought her parcel of linen. They sat in the dining- 
 room round the circular table and tore the linen 
 into narrow strips which they then proceeded to un- 
 ravel. It was wonderful, when one comes to think 
 of it, what a quantity of old linen these housewives 
 possessed. On a piece of an old shirt which she had 
 brought with her, Madame Petitpas deciphered the 
 monogram of her maternal grandmother and the 
 date 1745. Mamma took part in the work with her 
 guests. We, young Octave Caumont and myself, 
 likewise bore a hand in this labour of mercy, under 
 the controlling eye of old Melanie who, with her 
 toil-hardened hands was unravelling muslin, sitting, 
 out of deference to the company, a foot or two away 
 from the table. For myself, I was acquitting myself 
 of my task with zeal, and my pride went on increas- 
 ing with every thread I drew out. But, when I per-
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 85 
 
 ceived that Octave Caumont's pile was bigger than 
 mine, my amour-propre was wounded and my satis- 
 faction at preparing these comforts for the wounded 
 suffered a sensible abatement. 
 
 From time to time some good friend of ours, M. 
 Debas, surnamed Simon de Nantua, or M. Caumont, 
 the publisher, would come in and tell us how matters 
 were progressing. 
 
 M. Caumont had on the uniform of the National 
 Guard, but he was far from wearing it with the ele- 
 gance of my dear papa. My papa's complexion was 
 pale and his figure slender and graceful. M. Cau- 
 mont had a puffy, rubicund countenance, and the 
 folds of a triple chin reposed upon his tunic front. 
 Moreover, he was too fat to get it to, and it gaped 
 ingloriously over the stomach part. 
 
 "Things are in a terrible state," he said. "Paris 
 in flames, the streets bristling with seven hundred 
 barricades, the mob besieging the Chateau, Marshal 
 Bugeaud defending it with four thousand men and 
 six pieces of artillery." 
 
 These tidings were received with the liveliest 
 manifestations of terror and pity. The aged 
 Melanie, seated apart from the rest, kept making 
 the sign of the cross and moving her lips in silent 
 prayer. 
 
 My mother ordered sherry and biscuits to be put 
 on the table. (Tea was very seldom drunk in those 
 days, and ladies were more accustomed to drink wine
 
 86 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 than they are now.) A sip of sherry brought a 
 sparkle to their eyes and a smile to their lips. You 
 wouldn't have thought they were the same faces, or 
 the same people. 
 
 While refreshments were being taken, M. Clerot, 
 carver and gilder of the Quai Malaquais, presented 
 himself before us. He was a very stout man, far 
 stouter than M. Caumont, and his white blouse made 
 him look rounder than ever. He bov/ed to the com- 
 pany, and begged that Dr. Noziere would come to 
 the Palais Royal and see to the wounded who were 
 lying there helpless and neglected. My mother re- 
 plied that Dr. Noziere was at the Charity Hospital. 
 M. Clerot gave us a terrible account of what he had 
 seen near the Tuileries. Dead and wounded all 
 about the place, horses with one leg broken, or with 
 gaping wound.s in their bellies, trying to get on their 
 feet and falling down again, and notwithstanding all 
 that, the cafes filled with people out to see what they 
 could see, and a group of street arabs making game 
 of a dog that was howling beside a corpse. He told 
 how the guard-house of the Chateau-d'Eau, be- 
 sieged by a heavy column of rebels equipped with 
 arms and munitions, was enveloped in flames, and 
 how its defenders at length laid down their arms. 
 
 M. Clerot continued his narrative somewhat as 
 follows : 
 
 "After the surrender of the guard, volunteers 
 were called for to help put the fire out. I happened
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 87 
 
 to be among the number; we procured some buckets 
 and formed up in a line. I was stationed about fifty 
 paces from the burning mass between a respectable 
 middle-aged citizen and a slip of a boy who was 
 wearing a military cartridge box slung over his 
 shoulder. The buckets were passed to and fro. 
 'Steady, there, citizens!' said I. 'Steady!' I was 
 not feeling very well. The wind was blowing the 
 flames and the smoke right in our faces. My feet 
 were as cold as ice, and every now and then I felt 
 a deathly chill pass right down my leg. I tried to 
 discover the cause, but could not. At last I began 
 to wonder whether I had been wounded in the com- 
 bat without noticing it, and was losing all my blood, 
 and as I stood there in the line I said to myself, 
 'This feeling isn't natural,' and I looked in front, 
 behind, right and left, to find out what was happen- 
 ing to me. But would you believe it, all of a sudden 
 I caught my left-hand neighbour, the boy, busily 
 emptying the contents of the bucket I had just passed 
 to him, into the pocket of my blouse. Ladies, the 
 young rascal got a beautiful box on the ears, and I 
 hope he will go and show it to his lady-love. And 
 now, if you would be so kind, Madame Noziere, I 
 should be very glad to warm myself for a minute or 
 two by your fire. The young beggar has chilled me 
 to the bont. It's enough to make you shudder to 
 think that youngsters nowadays don't know better 
 than to behave like that."
 
 88 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 And the obese gentleman, having extracted from 
 his pocket a three-foot rule, a glazier's diamond, and 
 a newspaper reduced to a paste, turned it inside out 
 all dripping with water. He pulled up his blouse, 
 and soon his clothes began to steam in the heat of 
 the fire. My mother poured him out a glass of 
 brandy, which he drank to the health of the com- 
 pany, for he knew his manners. I thought it all tre- 
 mendously exciting, and I plainly saw Madame Cau- 
 mont making frantic endeavours to prevent herself 
 exploding with laughter. 
 
 At this juncture, M. Debas, surnamed Simon de 
 Nantua, appeared on the scene, rifle in hand. He 
 was wearing his belt and shoulder-straps buckled on 
 over his frock coat. He bore himself with an air of 
 extreme importance, and in tones of great solemnity 
 informed Madame Noziere that the doctor was de- 
 tained at the hospital, and would not be home to 
 dinner. He told us all about the things he had seen 
 or heard, devoting himself chiefly to the events in 
 which he had personally participated: six municipal 
 guards chased by the rebels and concealed by him in 
 a cellar in the Rue de Beaune; a royal outrider, 
 whose scarlet coat would have made him a certain 
 victim of the infuriated populace, taken by him to a 
 wine shop at the corner of the Rue de Verneuil and 
 there disguised in a cellarman's overall. He told us 
 that Firmin, M. Bellaguet's valet, had just been 
 killed on the quay by a stray bullet ; and, as we are
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 89 
 
 principally moved by the things which happen in our 
 own neighbourhood, this last piece of news upset us 
 all greatly. 
 
 I also remember that a little while later, when 
 darkness had come on and I was at Madame Cau- 
 mont's with my dear mamma, I peered through the 
 entresol window, which looked on to the quay, and 
 saw a cart piled with a very tall and bulky freight 
 coming through the gates of the Louvre, all on fire. 
 A lot of men dragged it along on to the Pont des 
 Saints-Peres between the two-seated statues, and 
 when they reached the middle of the bridge they 
 tipped it up. It rebounded twice on its springs, and 
 then, carrying away the cast-iron railings, toppled 
 over into the Seine. This sight, which was suddenly 
 followed by utter darkness, struck me as splendid 
 and mysterious. 
 
 Those are my recollections of the 24th. February, 
 1848, as they impressed themselves on my childish 
 mind, and as my mother has time and again recalled 
 them to me. There you have them in their naked 
 artlessness. I have been very careful not to dress 
 them up, not to add any sort of embellishment. 
 
 The manner in which I then became acquainted 
 with current events permanently influenced my atti- 
 tude towards public life and went a long way 
 towards building up my philosophy of history. In 
 my earliest childhood, French people had a sense of 
 the ludicrous which, under the influences of causes
 
 90 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 that I am unable to define, they have since lost. 
 In pamphlet, in picture, and in song, their mocking 
 spirit was manifest. I was born in the golden age 
 of caricature, and it was from the lithographs of the 
 Charivari and the quips of my godfather, M. Pierre 
 Danquin, a typical Paris bourgeois, that I acquired 
 my ideas of national life. It struck me as comic, in 
 spite of the riots and revolutions amid which I was 
 brought up. My godfather used to call Louis Na- 
 poleon Bonaparte the moping parrot. I used to de- 
 light in picturing this bird as doing battle with the 
 Red Terror, the Red Terror being represented as a 
 scarecrow tied to the end of a broom handle. And 
 round about them I saw the Orleanists with pear- 
 shaped heads, M. Thiers as a dwarf, Girardin as a 
 Merry Andrew, and President Dupin with a face 
 like a colander and shoes as big as boats. But I was 
 especially interested in Victor Considerant who, I 
 knew, lived close by, on the Quai Voltaire, and who 
 appeared to me as hanging from the branches of 
 trees by a long tail, with a great big eye at the tip 
 of it.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE TWO SISTERS 
 
 T that time, my mamma frequently 
 took me down the Rue du Bac. 
 Winter was coming on, and in that 
 busy street she purchased knitted 
 things and all sorts of woollen 
 garments, and ordered a warm suit 
 for me from M. Augris, a tailor equally notable 
 for his courtesy and his incompetence. His shop 
 was opposite the house where M. de Chateau- 
 briand had died the year before. This con- 
 sideration affected me but little, and I glanced 
 but casually at the doorway, adorned with medal- 
 lions in a chaste and dignified style, which had 
 opened to let him pass out never to return. What 
 especially delighted me in the beautiful Rue du Bac 
 were the shops full of objects marvellous in form 
 and colour, tapestry in infinite variety, note-paper 
 with letters engraved in gold and azure, lions and 
 panthers figured on bed hangings, heads modelled 
 in wax with the hair most beautifully dressed, Savoy 
 biscuits of which the dome, like the dome of the 
 Pantheon, was surmounted by a full blown rose; 
 
 then, too, there were wondrous little pastries in the 
 
 91
 
 92 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 shape of three-cornered hats and dominoes and man- 
 dolins. As she showed me these marvels, my mother 
 added a word or two that made them more marvel- 
 lous still, for she had the rare gift of giving every- 
 thing a soul and of infusing mere symbols with life. 
 At the corner of this street and the Rue de 1'Uni- 
 versite, there used to live a picture-dealer, the en- 
 trance to whose shop was through a somewhat nar- 
 row doorway painted yellow and decorated in the 
 contemporary manner, with a certain richness of 
 ornamentation. Of the cornice which surmounted 
 it, I can say nothing, for I have no recollection of it, 
 but it is certain that, leaning their backs against the 
 two consoles which supported that cornice, there 
 were two little figures about as long as one's arm, 
 weirdly partaking of the characteristics of man, 
 bird, and beast. They were not, strictly speaking, 
 chimeras, for they in no way proceeded from the 
 lion or the goat, nor were they griffins, since they 
 had a woman's breasts. Long ears stuck up from 
 their heads, which were something like a bat's. Their 
 thin, lithe bodies were of the greyhound order. On 
 the lamp brackets of the Pont de Suresnes, there are 
 some fantastic little creatures somewhat resembling 
 them, and they were also a little like a monster that 
 supported a lantern on the fagade of the Palazzo 
 Riccardi at Florence. As a matter of fact, they were 
 little decorative figures executed somewhere about 
 the year 1840 by Feuchere, or one of his school, but
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 93 
 
 they were endowed with a very singular physiog- 
 nomy, and they fill much too important a place in 
 my life for me to mix them up with any other carving 
 of a similar description. 
 
 My mother it was who pointed them out to me 
 one day as we were passing by. 
 
 "Pierre, look at those little creatures," she said. 
 "They have a lot of expression. Their faces are 
 full of gaiety and mischief. One could look at them 
 for hours together, so sprightly and so full of life 
 they seem." 
 
 I asked what their names were. My mother re- 
 plied that they had no names in Natural History 
 because they did not exist in Nature. 
 
 "They are the two sisters," I said. 
 
 We had to go back next day for M. Augris to try 
 on my winter suit again. As we passed by the two 
 sisters, my dear mamma gravely pointed them out 
 to me with her finger. 
 
 "Look," said she, "they are not laughing now." 
 
 And mamma spoke truly. 
 
 The expression of the two sisters had changed. 
 They laughed no more. They had a grim and 
 threatening aspect. 
 
 I asked why they had ceased to laugh. 
 
 "Because you have not been a good boy to-day." 
 
 There was no gainsaying that. I had not been 
 good that day. I had gone into the kitchen, whither 
 my heart ever impelled me to go, and where I had
 
 94 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 found old Melanie peeling turnips. I wanted to 
 peel them, too, or rather to carve them, for I medi- 
 tated moulding them into the shapes of men and 
 animals. Melaine objected. Annoyed at her op- 
 position, I clutched hold of her goffered cap with its 
 lace wings, and tore it off her head. A wild impul- 
 sive genius might have done a thing like that; it was 
 certainly not the deed of a good boy. I turned my 
 gaze on the two sisters, and, whether it was that 
 they really did appear to me to be endowed with 
 supernatural power, or whether it was that my mind, 
 hungering after the marvellous, assisted the illusion, 
 a little shiver of fear, half joy, half terror, made my 
 heart quake. 
 
 "They do not know the naughty things you have 
 done," said my mother, "but you may read them in 
 their eyes. Be good and they will smile upon you, 
 they and all Nature with them." 
 
 Since then, every time we passed by the two sis- 
 ters, my mother and I, we scanned them anxiously, 
 to see whether their faces were wrathful or serene, 
 and always their expression corresponded exactly 
 with the state of my conscience. I consulted them 
 in the fullness of faith, and found in their counte- 
 nance, whether smiling or sombre, the recompense 
 of my good behaviour, or the penalty of my mis- 
 deeds. 
 
 Long years slipped by. Having attained to man's 
 estate and complete intellectual emancipation, I still
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 95 
 
 used to consult the two sisters in hours of perplexity 
 and irresolution. One day, when I had a special need 
 to read clearly within my heart, I went to ask them 
 for guidance. They were no longer to be seen. 
 They had disappeared, together with the door that 
 they adorned. I departed filled with doubt and 
 hesitation, and forthwith committed an error of 
 judgment
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 CATHERINE AND MARIANNE 
 
 HE sea, when I saw it for the first 
 time, only impressed me with its 
 vastness by reason of the infinite 
 sadness which it brought into my 
 heart as I gazed upon it and 
 breathed its salt savour. It was the 
 sea, wild and untamed. We had come to spend one 
 of the summer months at a little village in Brittany, 
 and one aspect of the coast is graven, as though with 
 an etcher's needle, on my memory, and that was the 
 sight of a row of trees beaten by the sea wind and 
 stretching, beneath a lowering sky, their bowed 
 trunks and withered branches towards the flat, bar- 
 ren soil. 
 
 It was a sight that ate itself into my heart. It 
 lingers with me as the symbol of some unparalleled 
 misfortune. 
 
 The sounds and scents of the sea haunted and 
 troubled me. Every day and every hour, the sea 
 seemed to me to undergo a change, now sleek and 
 blue, now overspread with tiny, gentle wavelets, blue 
 on one side, silvery on the other, now seemingly hid- 
 den beneath a sheet of polished green canvas, now 
 
 96
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 97 
 
 heavy and sombre and bearing on its tossing crests 
 the tameless herds of Nereus; yesterday coy and 
 smiling; to-day tumultuous and threatening. Little 
 child as I was, and indeed because I was but a poor 
 little child, this treacherous instability greatly les- 
 sened the confidence and affection wherewith Nature 
 inspired me. The living things of the sea, fish that 
 swam, fish that dwelt in shells, and especially the 
 crustaceous creatures, were more terrifying than the 
 monsters that gathered round St. Anthony in the 
 hour of his temptation, monsters which I had been 
 wont to examine with such curiosity on Madame 
 Letord's stall, on my own Quai Malaquais. Those 
 crayfish, octopuses, star-fish, and crabs told me of 
 forms of life that were too dreadfully uncanny, 
 creatures that assuredly had less of brotherly love 
 about them than my little dog Caire, than Madame 
 Caumont's pony, than Robinson Crusoe's asses, than 
 the Paris sparrows, less of friendliness than the lions 
 in my picture Bible, and the animals in my Noah's 
 Ark. These denizens of the deep pursued me even 
 in my dreams, and came to me, by night, vague and 
 vast in their horny coverings of bluish black, prickly 
 and hairy, armed with pincers and saws, without 
 faces, and more terrifying on that account than on 
 any other. 
 
 The very next day after my arrival, I was enrolled 
 by a big boy in a troop of children who, furnished 
 with picks and shovels, built a sand castle on the
 
 98 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 beach, planted the French flag thereon, and defended 
 it against the advancing tide. We were defeated 
 with honour. I was one of the last to quit the dis- 
 mantled fort, having done my duty, but accepting 
 defeat with a ready acquiescence that scarcely be- 
 tokened a warlike spirit. 
 
 One day I went out in a boat with Jean 16 to 
 catch shell-fish. Jean filo had light blue eyes. His 
 face was tanned and sun cured, and his hands so 
 rough that they scraped my own when he took hold 
 of them to show his love for me. He went out to sea 
 to catch fish, he mended his nets, he caulked his boat, 
 and occupied his spare time in building a fully rigged 
 schooner in a water bottle. Though he was but little 
 given to talking, he told me his history, which con- 
 sisted solely of descriptions of the death of his rela- 
 tives and connections who had perished at sea. His 
 father and three of his brothers had all been 
 drowned together the winter before, wherein, as in 
 everything else that happened, he saw naught but 
 good. What religion I possessed led me to regard 
 Jean 16 as one gifted with celestial wisdom. One 
 Sunday evening we discovered him lying on the path 
 dead drunk, and we were obliged to step over him. 
 He was none the less perfect in my eyes. Perhaps 
 the sentiment arose from a leaning towards Quiet- 
 ism on my part. But I leave that for others to de- 
 cide ; theology was not my strong point in those days ; 
 it is a good deal less so to-day.
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 99 
 
 My dearest delight was to go shrimping with two 
 little girls who inspired me with a fairylike and fleet- 
 ing affection. One of them, Marianne Le Guerrec, 
 was the daughter of a Quimper lady, with whom 
 my mother had struck up an acquaintance on the 
 beach; the other, Catherine O'Brien, was Irish. 
 Both of them had fair hair and blue eyes. They 
 were very much alike, which need not excite surprise : 
 
 "Car les vierges d'Erin et les viergcs d'Armor 
 Sont des fruits detaches du meme rameau d'or." 
 
 Prompted by a secret, instinctive grace to inter- 
 weave their movements, they were always to be seen 
 arm linked in arm or hand clasped in hand. Keep- 
 ing time with their slender bare legs bronzed by the 
 sun and sea water, they raced along the sand, turn- 
 ing and twisting as though weaving some mazy 
 dance. Catherine O'Brien was the prettier of the 
 two, but she spoke French badly, and that puzzled 
 me somewhat. I looked for pretty shells to give 
 them, and these they disdained. I went out of my 
 way to do them little services which they either pre- 
 tended not to notice or to be overcome by them. 
 When I looked at them they turned away their heads, 
 but if, in turn, I feigned not to see them, they at- 
 tracted my attention by some prank or other. They 
 used to make me nervous, and at their approach I 
 forgot all the things I had intended to say to them. 
 If I spoke to them roughly sometimes, it was due to 
 fear or spite or some inexplicable perversity. Man-
 
 ioo LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 anne and Catherine were at one in making fun of 
 the little girl bathers of their own age. On all other 
 matters they were more often quarrelling than not. 
 They made it a mutual grievance that they had not 
 been born in the same country. Marianne bitterly 
 reproached Catherine for being English. Catherine, 
 who hated England, flared up at the insult, stamped 
 her foot, ground her teeth, and cried that she was 
 Irish. But Marianne didn't see the difference. One 
 day, in Madame O'Brien's bungalow, they came to 
 blows about their respective countries. Marianne 
 came to us on the beach with her face all scratches. 
 "Goodness gracious, what has happened to you?" 
 exclaimed her mother when she saw her. 
 Marianne's reply was very simple: 
 "Catherine teased me because I am French, and 
 so I called her an ugly English thing, and gave her 
 a punch on the nose and made it bleed. Madame 
 O'Brien sent us both up to Catherine's room to wash, 
 and we made it up because there was only one basin 
 between us."
 
 THE UNKNOWN WORLD 
 
 VERY day, when lunch was over, old 
 Melanie went up to her attic and 
 put on her flat shiny shoes, tied the 
 strings of her white lace bonnet 
 before her glass, wrapped her little 
 black shawl across her chest, and 
 fastened it with a pin. She performed all these 
 things with studious attention to detail, for, in 
 every department of activity, art is difficult, and 
 Melanie left nothing to chance in respect of 
 those things which she deemed calculated to render 
 the human body respectable, seemly, and worthy 
 of its divine origin. Satisfied at length that she 
 had befittingly attended to all the externals re- 
 quired of her sex, age and condition, she locked 
 the door of her room, went downstairs with me, 
 stopped dumbfounded in the hall, gave vent to 
 a loud exclamation, and hurried upstairs again to her 
 garret to fetch her bag, which she had left behind, 
 in accordance with her long established custom. She 
 would never have been prevailed upon to go out 
 without the red velvet bag which contained her ever- 
 lasting knitting, and from which she would pull out 
 
 1 01
 
 102 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 her scissors, needle and thread when she needed 
 them, from which, too, on one occasion she had pro- 
 duced a little square piece of court plaster to put on 
 my finger which was bleeding. She still kept in this 
 bag of hers a sou with a hole in it, one of my first 
 teeth, and her address written on a scrap of paper, 
 in order, she said, that, if she dropped down 
 dead in the street, she might not be taken to the 
 Morgue. Whenever, having reached the quay, we 
 turned to the left, we always used to go and say 
 "How do you do?" to Madame Petit, the spectacle- 
 seller. Madame Petit had her establishment in the 
 open air, alongside the wall of the Hotel de Chimay, 
 and there she sat by her glass-case, on a high wooden 
 chair, bolt upright and motionless, her face seared 
 by the sun and frost, in an attitude of gloomy aus- 
 terity. The two women would exchange remarks 
 which varied little from one meeting to another, 
 doubtless because they related to the basic and un- 
 changing facts of human nature. 
 
 They spoke of children suffering from whooping 
 cough or croup, of children wasting away with low 
 fever ; of women and their more mysterious ailments ; 
 of workmen cut off by terrible accidents. They 
 spoke of the ill effects of the changing seasons on 
 one's health; of the high cost of victuals; of the 
 growing rapacity of men, who, as a class, were get- 
 ting worse and worse every day, and of the fearful 
 number of crimes that filled the world with horror.
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 103 
 
 I observed later on, when I came to read Hesiod, 
 that the spectacle-seller of the Quai Malaquais 
 thought and spoke even as the old gnomic poets of 
 Greece. 
 
 So far from exciting my admiration, this wisdom 
 bored me beyond measure, and I tugged my nurse 
 by the skirt in order to get away from it. If, how- 
 ever, on reaching the quay, we turned to the right 
 instead of to the left, I was always ready to stop 
 and look at the pictures which Madame Letord used 
 to display along by a wooden fence which enclosed 
 the piece of waste ground on which the Palais des 
 Beaux-Arts now stands. These pictures filled me 
 with wonder and admiration. Above all Napoleon's 
 Farewell at Fontainebleau; The Creation of Eve; 
 The Mountain shaped like a man's head and The 
 Death of Virginie i awoke in me an emotion that even 
 now, after all these years, has not completely sub- 
 sided. But old Melanie pulled me along and would 
 not let me linger, either because she did not think 
 me of a proper age to examine all these pictures or, 
 which is more probable, because she herself could 
 make nothing of them; for the fact is that she paid 
 no more heed to them than did our little dog Caire. 
 
 We went sometimes to the Tuileries, sometimes to 
 the Luxembourg. When the weather was mild and 
 fine, we extended our walk as far as the Jardin des 
 Plantes or the Trocadero, in those days a lonely hill 
 beside the Seine, grassy and flower bedecked. There
 
 104 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 were some lucky days when they took me to play in 
 M. de La B's garden, permission to go there being 
 granted me during the owner's absence. This gar- 
 den was cool and sequestered, and was planted with 
 tall trees. It was situated at the back of a fine 
 house in the Rue Saint-Dominique. I brought with 
 me a wooden spade about the size of my hand, and 
 when it was the time of year for the plane-trees to 
 shed their smooth, thin bark, and when, at the bot- 
 tom of their trunks, the mould had been softened by 
 the rain and streaked with little winding furrows 
 which became ravines and precipices in my imagina- 
 tion, I spanned them with little wooden bridges, and, 
 at their edge, built villages, ramparts, and churches 
 fashioned from the slender bark. I brought blades 
 of grass and branches to represent trees, and laid out 
 gardens, avenues and forests. And I was well 
 pleased with my handiwork. 
 
 Those walks in city and suburb sometimes seemed 
 to me tedious and monotonous, sometimes exciting, 
 sometimes irksome, occasionally delightful and full 
 of gaiety. Ranging over wide tracts, we used to go 
 down that long avenue bravely bordered by shops 
 where they sold gingerbread, sticks of barley sugar, 
 penny whistles, paper kites, the Champs-lysees, to 
 wit, where there were goat carriages too, and 
 wooden horses revolving to the sound of the steam 
 organ, and Guignol, in his theatre, doing battle with 
 the Devil; and then we would find ourselves on dirty
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 105 
 
 wharves with cranes busily unloading cargoes of 
 stone, while on the towing path horses tugged away 
 at heavy barges. Scene followed scene, landscape 
 succeeded landscape, populous or deserted, barren 
 or cultivated; but there was one region into whose 
 confines I longed beyond all others to penetrate, one 
 which, at certain moments, I thought I was on the 
 point of attaining, but which I reached never. I 
 knew nothing about this region, and yet I was sure 
 that when I beheld it I should recognize it. I did 
 not picture it as fairer or more pleasant than the 
 places I knew already quite the reverse but as 
 something completely different, and it was my ardent 
 ambition to discover it. This region, this world, 
 which I felt to be inaccessible yet near at hand, was 
 not that divine world whereof my mother taught me. 
 For me that world, the spiritual world, was strange- 
 ly co-mingled in my mind with the world of sense. 
 God the Father, Jesus, the Blessed Virgin, the An- 
 gels, the Saints, the souls in Paradise, the souls in 
 Purgatory, the demons, and the damned, all these 
 had no mystery. I knew their story, everywhere I 
 encountered faces that were like to them. The Rue 
 Saint-Sulpice alone provided me with hundreds of 
 examples. No, the world which excited my uncon- 
 trollable curiosity, the world of my dreams, was a 
 world unknown, gloomy and silent, the mere idea of 
 which caused me to feel a thrill of terror. My legs 
 were, in all conscience, little enough to carry me
 
 106 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 thither, and my old nurse Melanie, at whose skirt I 
 pulled so eagerly, could only trot along pit-a-pat 
 with feeble little steps. Albeit I did not lose heart; 
 I clung to the hope that one day I should cross the 
 confines of that country which I sought with longing 
 and with awe. Sometimes, and in some places, it 
 seemed to me that a few more steps would bring me 
 to the land of my desire. To pull Melanie along 
 with me, I had recourse to stratagem or violence, 
 and, when the sainted creature was for turning 
 home again, I would drag her furiously toward the 
 mysterious frontiers at the risk of tearing her dress. 
 And as she could make nothing of my divine frenzy, 
 wondering what was amiss with my heart or with 
 my mind, she would raise her eyes brimming with 
 tears to heaven. Nevertheless, I could not tell her 
 why I acted so; I could not cry aloud, "One step 
 more and we shall pass within the nameless realm." 
 Alas, how many times since then have I been com- 
 pelled to devour within me the secret of my longing I 
 Assuredly, I drew for myself no mental chart of 
 the Unknown Land. I knew not its geography, but 
 I thought that I could tell some places where that 
 mysterious world impinged upon our own, and those 
 confines, as I deemed, were not far removed from 
 the places where I lived and had my being. I know 
 not by what sign I recognized them unless it was by 
 a certain strangeness, a certain disturbing charm 
 about them, and a feeling of curiosity not unmingled
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 107 
 
 with fear with which they inspired me. One of these 
 border lines which I had never been able to pass be- 
 yond was marked by two houses united by an iron 
 grille. They were not like other houses, but were 
 built of great stone blocks, heavy looking, and melan- 
 choly, and girt about with a noble frieze of female 
 figures standing hand in hand between silent es- 
 cutcheons. And there in truth, if not the gateway 
 of the material world, was situated, at all events, one 
 of those barriers of Paris erected in the reign of 
 Louis XVI by Ledoux, the architect, to wit, the Bar- 
 riere d'Enfer.* 
 
 In the humid regions of the Tuileries, not far 
 from the spot where the marble boar sits beneath 
 the shade of the chestnut-trees, beneath the terrace 
 by the waterside, there is a cool cavern wherein a 
 white woman lies sleeping, a serpent coiled about her 
 arm. I used to suspect that this cavern communi- 
 cated with the Unknown World, but that to descend 
 therein it was necessary to raise a heavy stone. 
 
 In the cellars of the very house in which I lived, 
 there was a door, the sight of which thrilled me with 
 fear and expectancy. It was nearly the same in 
 appearance as the doors of the adjoining cellars; the 
 lock was rusty, the woodlice glistened upon the 
 threshold and in the crevices of the rotting wood- 
 work, but, unlike the other doors, no one ever came 
 
 * Place d'Enfer, by a wretched pun, in the manner of the Marquis 
 de Bievre, became known in 1879 as Place Denfert-Rochereau.
 
 io8 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 to open it. It is ever thus with the doors of mystery; 
 they are never unlocked. And then, in the room 
 where I used to sleep, there rose up from the crev- 
 ices between the boards, forms, nay, not forms, 
 shadows, nay not even shadows, influences rather, 
 emanations, which overwhelmed me with terror, and 
 could not but come from that world that was so 
 near and withal so inaccessible. Perhaps the mean- 
 ing of what I am saying now will not be clear. At 
 the moment it is to myself alone that I am speaking, 
 and for once I listen to what I have to say with in- 
 terest, ay, and with emotion. 
 
 Despairing sometimes of ever discovering the Un- 
 known World for myself, I longed at least to hear 
 tell about it. One day, when Melanie was seated 
 with her knitting on one of the chairs in the Luxem- 
 bourg, I asked her if she knew anything about what 
 existed in the cave where the white woman lay asleep 
 with the serpent coiled about her arm, or of what 
 was behind that cellar door which never, never 
 opened. 
 
 She seemed not to understand me. 
 
 But I returned to the charge: 
 
 "And the two houses of the stone woman, what is 
 there after you have passed them?" 
 
 Getting no reply, I gave another turn to my ques- 
 tions : 
 
 "Melanie, tell me a tale of the Unknown Land." 
 
 Melanie smiled.
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 109 
 
 "Mon petit monsieur," she said. "I know no tale 
 
 of the Unknown Land." 
 
 As I insisted and grew importunate: 
 
 "Mon petit monsieur, I will sing you a song." 
 
 And under her breath she hummed so softly you 
 
 could hardly hear her: 
 
 "Compere Guilleri, 
 Te lairreras-tu mouri'?" 
 
 Alas, Life, that Queen of Metamorphoses, has suf- 
 fered me to remain like to the child which asked his 
 nurse to tell him the things that no man knoweth I I 
 have dragged a long chain of days without giving up 
 the hope of finding the Unknown Land. 
 
 Whithersoever I have wandered, I have sought 
 for it. Ah, many a time and oft, beside the silver 
 waters of the Gironde, as I roamed the billowy ocean 
 of the vines with my comrade, my friend, the little 
 brown dog Mitzi, many a time and oft, have I trem- 
 bled, at a turning in the track, as I came upon a path- 
 way unexplored. Thou hast seen me, Mitzi, scan- 
 ning the crossways, every corner of the road, every 
 winding of the woodland track, thinking to behold 
 that dread apparition, formless, like to the uncreate, 
 which would have for a moment relieved me of the 
 burthen of the mystery, the heavy and the weary 
 weight of life. 
 
 And thou, my friend, my brother, wast thou not 
 seeking also something that thou didst never find? 
 I never read all the secrets of thy soul, but I read
 
 i io LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 therein too many things that resembled mine not to 
 believe that thou, too, wast restless and tormented. 
 Even as mine, thy quest was vain. Our search is 
 bootless. We seek and only find ourselves. For, 
 to every one of us, the world is only what we have 
 within us. Poor Mitzi, thou hadst not, as had I, a 
 brain with many convolutions, and speech, and com- 
 plex apparatus, and books rich with the spoils of 
 time to illumine thy path withal. The light of thine 
 eyes is extinguished, and the world with it; that 
 world whereof thou knewest scarcely anything. Oh, 
 if thy beloved little shade could but hear me speak, 
 I would say to it: "A little while and my eyes, too, 
 will close for ever, and I shall have learnt but little 
 more than thou concerning the mystery of Life and 
 Death. As for that Unknown World which I was 
 seeking, rightly did I think when I was a little child 
 that it was close at hand. The Unknown World is 
 all about us; it is everything that is outside us. And, 
 since we can never escape from ourselves, we shall 
 discover it never."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 MONSIEUR MENAGE 
 
 NDER the personal direction of the 
 landlord, M. Bellaguet, our block 
 of flats on the quay was respectable, 
 quiet, and, as the saying goes, "well 
 let." Although he had made a for- 
 tune during the Restoration and the 
 July government, M. Bellaguet looked after the let- 
 ting himself, drew up the leases, managed the repairs 
 with parsimony, and, whenever a suite of rooms fell 
 to be redecorated, a thing that rarely happened, su- 
 pervised the work in person. You never heard of a 
 dozen yards of wall-paper at fourpence the piece 
 being hung anywhere in the building, without the 
 landlord's being there to see it done. For the rest, 
 he was kindly, affable and anxious to oblige his ten- 
 ants, provided always it didn't cost him money. He 
 dwelt among us as a father among his children, and 
 I used to see his bright blue bedroom curtains from- 
 my window. He was not thought any the less of for 
 keeping a close eye on his property. Possibly peo- 
 ple esteemed him the more for it, for what entitles 
 wealthy people to consideration is their wealth. 
 
 Their stinginess, by making them richer, increases 
 
 in
 
 ii2 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 the estimation in which they are held; whereas, if 
 they are generous, they diminish their stock of 
 wealth, and, with it, their credit and reputation. 
 
 When M. Bellaguet was a young man, at the 
 time of the Revolution, he had pursued all sorts of 
 avocations. Like his King, he was something of an 
 apothecary. In urgent cases of injury or suffocation, 
 he administered first aid to the sufferers who, good 
 folk, were duly grateful to him for his services. You 
 couldn't see a finer looking old man, one more vener- 
 able or more stately in his bearing. He had no 
 "side." Things were told about him that would have 
 done credit to Napoleon. One night he had opened 
 the front door himself rather than disturb his porter. 
 He was a good father; his two daughters testified, 
 by their merry, contented looks, to the kindness of 
 the paternal treatment. In short, M. Bellaguet en- 
 joyed the unanimous esteem of all who dwelt within 
 his walls, wherever indeed his Turkish cap and flow- 
 ered dressing gown came within the range of vision. 
 The rest of the world always called him "That old 
 sharper, Bellaguet." 
 
 He had attained to that bad eminence by having 
 been mixed up in some case of swindling and corrup- 
 tion which involved the July Government in the thun- 
 der and lightning of a first class scandal. M. Bel- 
 laguet was jealous of the honour of his establish- 
 ment, and only "let" to tenants of unblemished repu- 
 tation. And if the fair Madame Moser was the
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 113 
 
 only one of them not quite above suspicion, she was 
 at least vouched for by an ambassador and conducted 
 herself with perfect propriety. But the house was 
 very large, and divided up into numerous flats, some 
 of which were small, low, and dingy. The attics, 
 which were more numerous than was necessary for 
 the servants' accommodation, were poky, incon- 
 venient and draughty; hot in summer and cold in 
 winter. Very sensibly M. Bellaguet reserved the 
 small flats, garrets and attics for people like Mon- 
 sieur and Madame Debas and Madame Petit, the 
 spectacle-seller; little people who didn't pay much 
 rent but paid it regularly every quarter. 
 
 M. Bellaguet was a handy man and had himself 
 fitted up a little studio in the loft, where M. Menage 
 did his painting. This studio was just opposite 
 Melanie's room, from which it was separated by the 
 width of a narrow, sticky, grimy, spider-haunted 
 passage, which always smelt of the sink. The stairs 
 ended there, and were very steep at the top. Right 
 in front of you as you came up was the door of 
 Melanie's room. It was heavily wainscoted and lit 
 by a skylight of greenish glass which had been broken 
 in several places and was patched up with paper. The 
 glass was thick with dust and begrimed the face of 
 the heavens. Melanie's bed was covered with a 
 coloured quilt ornamented with an oft-repeated de- 
 sign, printed in red, representing a young girl receiv- 
 ing a prize for good conduct. That, with a walnut
 
 ii 4 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 chest of drawers, made up the total of my dear 
 nanny's worldly belongings. Opposite her room was 
 the door of the artist's studio. A visiting card with 
 M. Menage's name on it was nailed to the door. 
 On the right, facing the door, in the dingy light that 
 trickled through a skylight covered with cobwebs, 
 you could see a sink with its waste pipe, whence there 
 proceeded an everlasting smell of greens. At this 
 end of the passage, facing the quay, it was only about 
 ten paces or so up to the skylight. At the other 
 extremity the only light was a faint glimmer that 
 came up the staircase. The passage disappeared in 
 the gloom and seemed to me to be endless. My 
 imagination peopled it with monsters. 
 
 Sometimes my good Melanie, when she went to 
 put her linen away in her chest of drawers, permitted 
 me to accompany her. But I was not allowed on the 
 top floor alone, and I was expressly forbidden to 
 enter the painter's studio, or even to go near it. Ac- 
 cording to Melanie, I should not have been able to 
 bear the sight of it. She herself had been scared 
 out of her wits to see a skeleton hanging there and 
 human limbs pale as death stuck up along the walls. 
 This description awke fear and curiosity within me, 
 and I was burning with desire to gain entrance to the 
 studio of M. Menage. One day I had gone up with 
 my old nurse to her attic where she began to fold up 
 numberless old pairs of stockings and I deemed that 
 the favourable moment had arrived. I slipped out
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 115 
 
 of the room and quietly covered the two paces that 
 divided me from the studio. I could see daylight 
 through the keyhole and was just going to put my 
 eye to it when, terror-stricken at the horrible noise 
 the rats were making overhead, I started back and 
 hurriedly retreated into Melanie's room. This did 
 not prevent my telling her all the things I had seen 
 through the keyhole. 
 
 "I saw," I said, "human limbs as pale as death. 
 Thfire were millions of them it was frightful. I 
 saw skeletons dancing round in a circle, and a mon- 
 key blowing a trumpet it was frightful. I saw 
 seven women. They were very beautiful and wore 
 dresses of gold and silver, and cloaks the same colour 
 as the sun and the moon and the weather. They 
 were hanging with their throats cut, all along the 
 wall, and their blood was flowing in torrents over 
 the white marble floor." 
 
 I was thinking what else to say I had seen, when 
 Melanie asked me, ironically, if I had really seen all 
 those things in so short a time. I expunged the 
 ladies and the skeletons from the indictment; possi- 
 bly I had not seen them very plainly. But I stuck 
 to it that I had seen "the human limbs as pale as 
 death." And perhaps I really believed I had.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 SHE LAID HER HAND ON MY HEAD 
 
 MORIN had a full-blown face 
 and big lips, which, curving up- 
 wards at each corner, joined com- 
 pany with a pair of pepper and 
 salt whiskers. His eyes, his nose, 
 his mouth, all his broad, open 
 countenance seemed, literally, to breathe frankness. 
 He was simple in his dress, meticulously clean, and 
 smelt of primrose soap. M. Morin was neither 
 young nor old, and, if he was in the position of the 
 man in the story whose two lady admirers wished to 
 make him match their respective ages, it was cer- 
 tainly Madame Morin, his wife, who pulled out his 
 dark hairs, for she seemed older than he. Her man- 
 ners also were superior, and she bore herself with 
 much elegance for a woman of her station. But I 
 did not like her because she was sad. 
 
 Madame Morin was concierge at a house near 
 ours, which also belonged to M. Bellaguet, and she 
 performed the duties of the porter's lodge with an 
 air of melancholy distinction. Her pale, withered 
 features might well have belonged to the daughter 
 
 of some illustrious but ill-fated line, and my mother 
 
 116
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 117 
 
 used to say she was like Queen Marie Amelie. M. 
 Morin also did his share of work in the porter's box; 
 but that he looked on as the least of his duties. Two 
 other important employments occupied the bulk of 
 his time and energies: he was M. Bellaguet's facto- 
 tum, and an employe at the Chamber of Deputies. 
 My father held him in such high esteem that he left 
 me in his company whole mornings together. M. 
 Morin was much respected. Everybody in the dis- 
 trict knew him, and he had his niche in history be- 
 cause he had carried the Comte de Paris in his arms 
 on the 24th. February, 1848. 
 
 It will be remembered that, after Louis Philippe 
 had abdicated in favour of his grandson, and the 
 Royal Family had taken to flight, the Duchesse 
 d'Orleans, quitting the palace now invaded by the 
 populace, proceeded in the company of her two chil- 
 dren, the Comte de Paris and the Due de Chartres, 
 both of tender age, and a few loyal servitors, to the 
 Chamber of Deputies, where she caused herself to 
 be announced as mother of the new King, and Queen 
 Regent of the Realm. Simultaneously with her en- 
 try, a group of Republicans burst tumultuously into 
 the Chamber. Erect at the foot of the tribune, 
 clasping her two children by the hand, she waited 
 for the Assembly to ratify her appointment. The 
 applause that had greeted her entry swiftly died 
 away. The majority were not in favour of a re- 
 gency. Sauzet, the President, called on all non-
 
 u8 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 members to withdraw from the Chamber. With 
 slow and measured steps the princess made her way 
 from the hemicycle, but, actuated either by ambition 
 or a mother's love, she resolved to uphold her sons' 
 rights, and, reckless of the perils that encompassed 
 her, refused to leave the Hall. Ascending by the 
 central stairway to the top of the amphitheatre, she 
 there unfolded a paper and essayed to address the 
 assembly. This little woman, so pale in her flowing 
 widow's weeds, had a power over individual hearts, 
 but it was not given her to move and to sway multi- 
 tudes. Her voice was inaudible; you could scarcely 
 see her amid the shouting groups that surged around 
 her. Suddenly the dull murmur without grew louder 
 and nearer. The doors were battered down with 
 the butt end of rifles, and working men, students, 
 and National Guards came pouring into the hemi- 
 cycle shouting: 
 
 "Down with the Bourbons! Down with the 
 King! The Republic for ever!" 
 
 Shots were fired off in the corridors. But, above 
 the shouting and the noise of firearms, there fell 
 upon the ear a sound, distant, confused, and faint as 
 yet, but more terrible than all the billows of the 
 human ocean beating against the Palace walls. Soon 
 another wave of men came flooding in, surging this 
 time round the public tribune, and overwhelming the 
 assembly. Bands of ruffians armed with pikes, cut- 
 lasses and pistols, incited each other to slaughter.
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 119 
 
 Lamartine was in the tribune, and was suspected 
 (quite wrongly) of speaking in favour of a regency. 
 Rifles and blood-stained swords were pointed in his 
 direction. The panic stricken deputies made a rush 
 for the doors. The Duchesse d'Orleans was borne 
 along with her children by the avalanche of fugi- 
 tives, pushed towards the little door that opens on 
 the left of the office, and swept out into the narrow 
 passage, where, trampled upon and nearly suffocated 
 between the deputies who were trying to get out and 
 the mob who were trying to get in, crushed against 
 the wall, and separated from her children, she fell 
 half fainting at the foot of the staircase. It hap- 
 pened that Morin was just then in the passage and, 
 hearing a child crying, he looked about him and 
 caught sight of the little Comte de Paris, who had 
 been knocked down and was being trampled under 
 foot. He raised him in his arms, carried him 
 through the salons and vestibule, and, passing him 
 through a little window that opened on to the gar- 
 den, handed him over to an artillery officer who was 
 looking for his royal charges. 
 
 Meanwhile, the Duchess, who had taken refuge 
 in one of the Presidential salons, was calling loudly 
 for her children. They brought her the Comte de 
 Paris, and told her that the Due de Chartres was 
 safe and sound, disguised as a girl, in one of the 
 Palace attics. 
 
 Such was M. Morin's story. He related it fre-
 
 120 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 quently and always wound up with the following 
 reflection : 
 
 "All through this trying time the Duchesse 
 d'Orleans displayed extraordinary courage, and such 
 powers of resistance as few men would have been 
 capable of. If only she had been eighteen inches 
 taller her son would have been king. But she was 
 too small. You couldn't see her in such a crowd." 
 
 The most convincing evidence of the high esteem 
 in which M. Morin and his wife were held by my 
 parents was the fact that they allowed me to be with 
 them as much as I liked, although they were very 
 particular concerning the people with whom I asso- 
 ciated. Their strictness in these matters was a worry 
 to me. On the floor above us, for example, there 
 lived a certain Madame Moser, concerning whom a 
 good deal of whispering went on. She used to spend 
 long, idle days alone in her rooms, which were fur- 
 nished in Oriental style; she wore a pink dressing- 
 gown, slippers of pale blue and gold, and she was 
 daintily perfumed. Every time an opportunity of- 
 fered, she carried me off to her rooms to amuse her. 
 Stretched languorously on the sofa, she would take 
 me playfully in her arms. I was just going to relate, 
 in quite good faith, that she hoisted me up in the air 
 on the sole of her foot, like a toy dog, but I remem- 
 bered, just in time, that I wasn't pretty enough for 
 that, and I probably got the notion from Fragonard's 
 Gimblette, which I saw for the first time when
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 121 
 
 Madame Moser's pretty feet had for many a year 
 been resting in the eternal shades; but memories of 
 divers times have a habit of changing places in the 
 mind, of dissolving one into another and forming 
 themselves into a single picture. That is what I am 
 Afraid of in these tales of mine, which if they have 
 not the merjt of truthfulness have no merit at all. 
 Madame Moser gave me sweets, told me stories 
 about brigands, and sang me love songs. Unhappily 
 for me, my parents forbade me to respond to the 
 advances of this lady, and threatened me with their 
 direst displeasure if ever I crossed the threshold of 
 those Oriental rooms with their alluring colours and 
 insinuating odours. I was also forbidden to venture 
 up into the attics into M. Menage's studio. Me- 
 lanie announced as a reason for this that M. Menage 
 was in the habit of suspending livid pieces of the 
 human body and skeletons, in his studio. But those 
 were by no means the only complaints she had to lay 
 against her neighbour, the painter. She informed 
 M. Danquin one day that that horrible creature, 
 Menage, prevented her sleeping by singing and play- 
 ing all night long with his friends, so that it was like 
 Bedlam let loose, and my godfather told the dear 
 simple creature, whom he was not ashamed to make 
 fun of, that these artistic people not only sing and 
 dance the livelong night, but that they quaff blazing 
 punch from dead men's skulls. Melanie was much 
 too proper a person to doubt my godfather's word;
 
 122 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 moreover, the painter blackened his reputation in the 
 eyes of this highly respectable old servant by a deed 
 more horrible still. One night, when she went up to 
 her attic, candle in hand, Melanie saw on the door 
 of her room a little Cupid sketched in chalk; his bow 
 and his quiver were suspended between his wings, 
 and with a suppliant air he was beating at the closed 
 door with his little fist. Strongly suspecting that M. 
 Menage was responsible for this compromising pic- 
 ture, she called him a rogue and a scoundrel, and 
 once more repeated her injunction that I was to 
 have nothing whatever to do with so ill-bred a 
 ruffian. 
 
 Few, in fact, were the people who were deemed 
 worthy of close acquaintanceship with me. I was 
 not allowed to play in the courtyard with the child 
 of M. Bellaguet's cook, young Alphonse, who was 
 bold, and skilled in cunning tricks, for his manners 
 were bad and he said coarse things, made long noses 
 at people, and ran the streets. One day Alphonse 
 took me to a baker's in the Rue Dauphine, where 
 they sold trimmings from sacramental wafers, of 
 which he ordered a pennyworth, and for which I 
 paid, being the rich one of the party. We divided 
 it into two portions, which we carried away in our 
 pinafores. Alphonse, however, ate the whole lot as 
 we were going along. This escapade got me into a 
 serious scrape, and I was compelled to break with 
 Alphonse. Nor was I permitted to associate with
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 123 
 
 Honore Dumont. Honore, whose father was a 
 High Court Judge, was of good family, and fair as 
 day, but he was cruel td animals and endowed with 
 perverted instincts. I was, however, given full leave 
 to enjoy the company of Monsieur and Madame 
 Morin. 
 
 I availed myself but sparingly of this permission 
 with regard to Madame Morin; for, wearing an 
 elaborate white head-dress, after the manner of 
 Queen Marie Amelie, her long dismal face yellower 
 than an orange, she radiated an atmosphere of mel- 
 ancholy and desolation. Even so, if only Madame 
 Morin had inspired those who approached her with 
 a vast and fathomless sadness, a splendid desolation, 
 a sense of some abysmal calamity, I should have, 
 perhaps, been conscious of that sort of pleasure 
 which I experienced from anything excessive, mon- 
 strous, or out of the common order, but the melan- 
 choly of Madame Morin was regular, moderate, 
 monotonous, and hum-drum; it soaked into me like 
 fine rain, and made me feel quite numb. Madame 
 Morin rarely quitted her lodge, which had been fitted 
 up at the side of the carriage entrance. It was nar- 
 row, low and damp, and the only thing about it 
 worthy of note was the bed, which was so lavishly 
 furnished with palliasses, mattresses, blankets, coun- 
 terpanes, bolsters, pillows, and eiderdowns, that it 
 seemed to me incredible that anyone could sleep in it 
 without being suffocated. I suppose that Monsieur
 
 124 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 and Madame Morin, who used to sleep in it every 
 night, owed their miraculous preservation to the 
 sprig of boxwood which, stuck under the cross of a 
 china holy water stoup, surmounted the couch of 
 death. 
 
 A wreath of orange blossom under a glass globe 
 adorned the walnut chest of drawers. On the black 
 marble chimney-piece, a clock, also covered with a 
 glass globe, half Gothic and half Turkish in style, 
 served as a stand for a gilt group representing, as 
 Madame Morin informed me, "Mathilde plighting 
 her troth to Malek-Adhel amid the storm in the 
 desert." I inquired no further, not that I was not 
 an inquisitive and curious little boy, but because the 
 story, thus incomplete, charmed me by reason of its 
 mystery; and the names of Malek-Adhel and Ma- 
 thilde remain associated in my memory with the 
 smell of boiled leeks, braised onions, and soot that 
 clung about Madame Morin's lodge. That worthy 
 person, wearing her habitual air of melancholy, used 
 to do her cooking in an oven that was very low. The 
 flue pipe was fitted into the chimney, and was for 
 ever smoking. The liveliest amusement I found in 
 her company was to watch her skimming the soup 
 and peeling carrots. The great care she took to 
 remove as little as possible revealed a parsimonious 
 mind. On the other hand, M. Morin's occupations 
 entertained me greatly. 
 
 When, armed with carpet brushes, feather mops
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 125 
 
 and brooms, he prepared to introduce into a room 
 the order and neatness that were dear to him, he 
 laughed a merry laugh, and opened his mouth from 
 ear to ear. His big round eyes lit up, his broad 
 features beamed. There was something of the heroic 
 about him that seemed to suggest Hercules going 
 about his domestic labours in Elis. If I had the good 
 fortune to come upon him at such a moment in his 
 day's work, I would hang on to his rough hairy hand 
 all smelling of yellow soap, and we would go up the 
 stairs together and enter one of the suites of apart- 
 ments entrusted to his care during the absence of the 
 owners and their servants. Two of them I remem- 
 ber well. 
 
 I can still see in my mind's eye the spacious salon 
 of the Comtesse Michaud, with its mirrors and all 
 their phantoms, its furniture shrouded in white 
 covers, and the portrait of a general erect in full 
 dress uniform amid a whirlwind of smoke and grape- 
 shot. Morin informed me that the picture repre- 
 sented General Comte Michaud, at Wagram, with 
 all his decorations. The third floor was more to 
 my taste. It was the pied-a-terre of Comte Colonna 
 Walewski. A thousand and one strange and charm- 
 ing things were to be seen there. Chinese figures, 
 silken screens, folding screens in lacquer, narghiles, 
 Turkish pipes, suits of armour, ostrich eggs, guitars, 
 Spanish fans, portraits of women, luxurious divans 
 and heavy curtains. When I expressed the wonder
 
 ia6 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 I felt in the presence of all these strange objects, 
 Morin, with a touch of pride in his manner, would 
 remark that the Comte Walewski was a dashing 
 blade. He had been living for a time in England, 
 and was now passing through Paris on his way to 
 Italy, where he had been appointed ambassador. I 
 got to know the world when I was with Morin. 
 
 It happened that one day, as I was mounting with 
 him up the rather narrow staircase that led to the 
 apartments of the Comtesse Michaud, the Comte 
 
 Walewski and some other tenants whose names I 
 
 i 
 
 forget, (the outside of the house, which I often look 
 at, has not changed; what reason unknown to myself, 
 what secret instinct has kept me from going to see 
 whether the staircase is still the same as it was when 
 I was a child?) one day, I say, finding myself with 
 Morin between the first and second landing, we 
 looked up and saw a young lady coming down the 
 stairs. Forthwith Morin, who was the last Word in 
 politeness and who always instructed me, as occa- 
 sion demanded, how to behave like a nice little boy, 
 made me stand up with him close to the wall, told 
 me to hold my cap in my hand, and doffed his own. 
 The young lady was wearing a velvet gown and a 
 cashmere shawl with a big palm-leaf pattern. Her 
 dainty, pale face was encased in a coal-scuttle bonnet. 
 She descended the stairs with graceful air. As she 
 passed us, she lowered her dark bright eyes upon
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 127 
 
 me, and from her little mouth, her tiny little mouth 
 like to a pomegranate, there stole a grave soft voice, 
 the like of which for richness and expression I have 
 never heard in another. 
 
 "Morin," she said, "is this your little boy? He 
 is a nice little fellow." And she laid her white-gloved 
 hand on my head. 
 
 Morin having informed her that I belonged to 
 one of the neighbours, she went on : 
 
 "Yes, he's a nice little boy; but his parents ought 
 to be careful. He looks very delicate, and his cheeks 
 are flushed." 
 
 Those eyes, which looked on me so gently, lit up 
 on the stage with the "dark flame" wherewith Phe- 
 dra was consumed. That slender hand, laid affec- 
 tionately on my head, used to thrill the audience as it 
 gave the signal for the murder of Pyrrhus. Rachel, 
 already stricken with the disease which was to bring 
 her to the grave, was seeking out the signs of it upon 
 the face of a poor little boy whom she chanced to 
 encounter on the staircase with the porter. I was 
 not old enough to go to the theatre until she had 
 given up the stage, and I never saw her perform, but 
 I can still feel her little gloved hand on my head.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 BROTHER IS A FRIEND BESTOWED ON US BY 
 NATURE" 
 
 Aunt Chausson lived at Angers. 
 She had been born and married 
 there. Having been left a widow, 
 she eked out her slender means with 
 the strictest regard to economy and 
 used to make a little sparkling wine, 
 of whicn sne was very proud and very niggardly. 
 Whenever she came to Paris, which was looked upon 
 as a long journey in those days, she stayed with my 
 parents. The announcement of her coming used to 
 be received without enthusiasm by my mother, and 
 also by old Melanie, who was afraid of her stingy, 
 provincial ways. 
 
 "It's a funny thing," my father used to say, "but 
 my sister Renee, although she was married for eight 
 years before she lost her husband, exhibits the type 
 of old maidishness in all its baleful perfection." 
 
 My Aunt Chausson, who was much older than her 
 brother, thin, and parchment-skinned, her clothes 
 skimpy and out of date, appeared a great deal older 
 than she really was, and I looked on her as bowed 
 
 down with years without respecting her any the more 
 
 128
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 129 
 
 for that. That is a confession that costs me but little. 
 Respect for old age does not come naturally to chil- 
 dren: it is the result of education and never takes 
 a deep hold on them. I did not love my Aunt Chaus- 
 son, but, having no desire to love her, I felt quite 
 at my ease in her company. Her arrival caused 
 me the greatest joy because it necessitated changes 
 in the house, and I delighted in any kind of change. 
 My bed was wheeled into the little rose-flowered 
 sitting-room, and I was in the seventh heaven. 
 
 The third time she came to stay with us after I 
 was born, she examined me with greater attention 
 than on any previous occasion, and the examination 
 was not favourable. She discovered defects that 
 were both numerous and contradictory: an importu- 
 nate turbulence which she blamed my mother for not 
 sternly correcting, a quickness unnatural to my age, 
 which in her view boded nothing good. I was in- 
 curably lazy, immoderately restless, dull and back- 
 ward, far too precocious. To these various and un- 
 favourable qualities, she assigned a common origin. 
 According to my aunt, the whole evil (and it was a 
 big one) arose from the fact that I was an only boy. 
 
 When my mother was worried because I was pale 
 and languid, my aunt would say: 
 
 "How can you expect him to be bright and healthy 
 when he has-no child to play with, no little brother?" 
 
 If I didn't know my multiplication table, if I up- 
 set the ink down my velvet tunic, if I ate too many
 
 130 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 biscuits or dried apples, if I obstinately refused to re- 
 cite "The Beasts that died of the Plague" to 
 Madame Caumont, if I fell down and raised a bump 
 on my forehead, if Sultan Mahmud scratched me, 
 if I wept over my canary which was found one day 
 motionless in its cage, with its eyes closed and its 
 feet in the air, if the rain came down or the wind 
 howled, it was all because I hadn't a brother. One 
 evening at the dinner table I took it into my head 
 to put a pinch of pepper on a piece of cream tart 
 that was being reserved for Melanie, who delighted 
 in sweet things. My mother caught me in the act 
 and reproached me for an action which she did not 
 consider a credit either to my intelligence or to my 
 feelings. My Aunt Chausson, who dotted the i's and 
 crossed the t's of this verdict, and read in this act of 
 mischief the symptoms of a deep-seated depravity, 
 excused me on the ground that I had no brother or 
 sister. 
 
 "He lives alone. Solitude is not a good thing. It 
 develops the perverse instincts, the seeds of which 
 are already in the child. He is unbearable. Not 
 only does he try to put poison in this old servant's 
 pudding, but he blows down the back of my neck, 
 and hides my spectacles. If I lived here long, An- 
 toinette my dear, the boy would drive me crazy." 
 
 As I felt perfectly innocent of trying to poison 
 anybody, and I should not have had the least com- 
 punction in driving Aunt Chausson crazy, I was not
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 131 
 
 much affected by her accusations. So far from tak- 
 ing what the old lady said for gospel I was much in- 
 clined to go counter to her opinions, and if she said 
 she wished I had a brother or a sister it was quite 
 enough for me to hope that I should never have 
 either one or the other. Moreover, I got on quite 
 well without a playmate. I may not have found the 
 time pass so quickly as it does to-day, but I never 
 found it heavy on my hands, because, even then, my 
 inner life was very active, I felt and pondered things 
 deeply and absorbed everything in the external world 
 which I could take in with my childish intelligence. 
 Furthermore, I knew that little brothers, when they 
 come, are usually quite tiny, knowing not how to 
 walk, incapable of conversation and offering no sort 
 of usefulness. There was no certainty that, when 
 mine was grown big, I should love him or be loved 
 by him. The august and familiar example of Cain 
 and Abel did not tend to reassure me. 
 
 It is true that from my windows I used to see 
 the twin pumpkins, Alfred and Clement Caumont, 
 slumbering side by side in a sort of deep vegetable 
 peace. But then I often saw Jean, the bricklayer's 
 apprentice, punching into his brother Alphonse like 
 so much mortar, while Alphonse replied by putting 
 out his tongue and making long noses at him. 
 
 So that it seemed to me rather a difficult thing to 
 base one's views on any authoritative example. And, 
 in point of fact, being an only child presented, in
 
 132 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 my opinion, distinct advantages, among others those 
 of never being thwarted, of not being obliged to 
 share my parents' love with others, and of safeguard- 
 ing that taste, that necessity, for communing with 
 myself which I had always experienced from my 
 earliest childhood. At the same time I wanted to 
 have a little brother so that I could love him; for 
 my mind was full of uncertainties and contradictions. 
 One day I asked my dear mamma to tell me in con- 
 fidence whether she didn't think she would give me a 
 little brother. Laughingly she said "No," adding 
 that she was too much afraid he might turn out to be 
 another naughty little boy like me. This did not 
 seem to me to be taking the matter seriously. My 
 Aunt Chausson went back to Angers, and I thought 
 no more about the subject that had occupied my mind 
 so deeply during her stay with us. But some days 
 after her departure, some days or some months (for 
 what gives me the greatest trouble in these narra- 
 tives, is the matter of chronology) my godfather, M. 
 Danquin came one morning to have lunch with us. It 
 was a brilliant day. The sparrows were twittering 
 on the housetops. Suddenly I was seized with an ir- 
 resistible desire to do something out of the ordinary, 
 something that should, if possible, partake of the 
 nature of the miraculous, in order to vary the mo- 
 notony of things. The means at my disposal for the 
 arrangement and execution of such an enterprise 
 were very meagre. Having an idea that I might find
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 133 
 
 something to my hand in the kitchen, I entered and 
 found it glowing, fragrant and untenanted. Just as 
 she was going to dish up, Melanie, in her usual fash- 
 ion, had gone off to the grocer's or the fruiterer's for 
 some herb or grain or condiment she had forgotten. 
 On the stove stood a sizzling casserole of jugged 
 hare. At the sight of it, I was seized with a sudden 
 inspiration. In obedience to its dictates, I took the 
 jugged hare off the fire and went and hid it in the 
 cupboard where the brooms were kept. This move 
 was successfully carried out save that four fingers of 
 my right hand and both my knees were burnt, my 
 face scorched, my pinafore, my stockings, and my 
 shoes entirely spoilt, and that three parts of the 
 sauce, with some pieces of bacon and a lot of little 
 onions, were upset all over the floor. Incontinent I 
 rushed away to fetch the Noah's Ark I had had given 
 me for Christmas, and poured all the animals it con- 
 tained into a magnificent copper saucepan which I 
 put on the stove in place of the hare. This fricas 
 see very pleasantly recalled to my mind what I had 
 learnt, from hearsay and from picture books, of the 
 feast of Gargantua. For, if the giant spitted with 
 his two pronged fork whole oxen at a time, here 
 was I compounding a dish of all the animals in crea- 
 tion, from the elephant and the giraffe down to the 
 butterfly and the grasshopper. I revelled in anticipa- 
 tion over the amazement that would be Melanie's 
 when she, good, simple soul, thinking to find the hare
 
 134 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 which she had prepared, discovered in its stead, the 
 lion and the lioness, the he-ass and the she-ass, the 
 elephant and his lady in a word all the animals that 
 had been saved from the Flood, not omitting Noah 
 and his family whom I had stewed up with the rest 
 by inadvertence. But the thing did not turn out as 
 I had hoped. A most intolerable stench proceeding 
 from the kitchen, a stench unprovided for by me, and 
 stupefying to the others, began to invade every room 
 in the place. My mother, coughing and choking, 
 came running to the kitchen to find out what had hap- 
 pened, and there discovered poor old Melanie, gasp- 
 ing for breath, with her basket still on her arm, just 
 taking hold of the saucepan in which the charred re- 
 mains of the occupants of the Ark were smouldering 
 hideously. 
 
 "My 'castrole,' my lovely 'castrole' !" cried Mela- 
 nie, in accents of despair. 
 
 I had come to triumph over the success of my plot; 
 I remained to feel the crushing weight of shame and 
 remorse. And it was in quavering tones that, at 
 Melanie's summons, I revealed that the jugged hare 
 was to be found in the broom cupboard. 
 
 I was not scolded. My father, paler than usual, 
 pretended not to see me. My mother's cheeks were 
 very flushed, and she looked at me askance, scanning 
 my face to see whether she could detect the symptoms 
 of incipient crime or madness. But the most deplor- 
 able spectacle of all was presented by my godfather.
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 135 
 
 The corners of his mouth, usually framed so jovially 
 within a pair of round cheeks and a fat chin, drooped 
 most ruefully. Behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, 
 his eyes, so lately beaming, had ceased to twinkle. 
 
 When Melanie brought in the hare, her eyes were 
 red and tears were streaming down her cheeks. I 
 could bear it no longer, and, getting up from the 
 table, I rushed to my poor old friend, hugged her 
 with all my might, and burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 From the pocket of her apron she drew her 
 chequered handkerchief, gently wiped my eyes with 
 her knotted hand all smelling of parsley, and said in 
 a voice broken with sobs: 
 
 "Don't cry, Master Pierre, don't cry!" 
 
 Turning to my mother, my godfather said: 
 
 "Pierrot is not really a bad boy at heart; but he's 
 an only child. He is lonely and doesn't know what 
 to do with himself. Put him to boarding-school. He 
 will be under a healthy discipline, and will have lit- 
 tle friends to play with." 
 
 On hearing these words, I remembered the advice 
 which Aunt Chausson had given my mamma, and I 
 longed for a little brother so that I might not be sent 
 to a boarding-school, and also that I might love and 
 be loved by him. 
 
 I knew that a brother is a gift bestowed by Na- 
 ture, and, without being aware of the conditions on 
 which the gift is vouchsafed to families in favour 
 with the heavenly powers, I was certain that, to pro-
 
 136 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 duce it, nothing could replace that force which causes 
 the seed to germinate and life to flourish on the 
 earth. I had an obscure yet profound intuition of 
 the mysterious power which nourished me after hav- 
 ing brought me into the world, and I was perfectly 
 well able to differentiate the works of Cybele, whom 
 I adored though I knew not her name, from the most 
 marvellous of man's productions. It would have 
 caused me no difficulty to believe that a magician 
 might fashion a man capable of walking, speaking 
 and eating, but I could never have persuaded myself 
 that such a man was of the same substance as a man 
 produced by Nature. In a word, I abandoned the 
 idea of ever having a brother according to the flesh, 
 and resolved that adoption should obtain what Na- 
 ture denied me. 
 
 To be sure, I did not know that the Emperor Had- 
 rian by adopting Antoninus Pius, and Antoninus by 
 adopting Marcus Aurelius, had given the world for- 
 ty-two years of tranquil happiness. Of that I had no 
 idea, but, nevertheless, it seemed to me that adoption 
 was an excellent practice. I did not regard it from 
 the strictly legal point of view, for of jurisprudence 
 I was completely ignorant. At the same time I 
 looked upon it as a process invested with a certain 
 solemnity. That was rather to my taste, and I had a 
 vague notion that my parents would put on their best 
 clothes to receive the child that I should present to 
 them for adoption. The difficulty was to find him.
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 137 
 
 My field of research was very limited; I saw few 
 people, and none of the families I visited would have 
 consented to hand over one of their children, without 
 some powerful motive, such a motive, for example, 
 as compelled the mother of Moses to expose her lit- 
 tle baby on the banks of the Nile. Certainly Ma- 
 dame Caumont would never have agreed to part 
 with either of her pumpkins. It occurred to me that 
 it might be less difficult to obtain a little workhouse 
 child and I broached the subject to my friend Morin, 
 who scratched his head and said that to take a foun- 
 dling into one's family was a very risky business, and 
 that, moreover, my parents could not adopt a child 
 because they had one already. Knowing nothing of 
 the law, I was quite unimpressed by that argument, 
 and, in the course of the walks I took with Melanie, 
 in the Luxembourg, the Tuileries, and the Jardin des 
 Plantes, I continued to look out for a brother to 
 adopt. Despite poor old Melanie's injunctions to 
 the contrary, I went and tried to make friends with 
 all the little boys we used to meet. I was shy, awk- 
 ward, and delicate-looking, and generally got noth- 
 ing but taunts and contumely for my pains. Or, if 
 by any chance I discovered a child as shy as I was 
 myself, we parted from each other without a word, 
 with drooping heads and full hearts, neither being 
 able to make known to the other the affection that 
 stirred within him. The conviction was borne in 
 upon me at that time that, though not perfect, I was
 
 138 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 more worthy than the majority of other folk. 
 
 Some little time after that, one autumn day when 
 I was alone in the drawing-room, I saw a little 
 Savoyard, as black as an imp, come stepping out 
 from the chimney. The apparition was not so alarm- 
 ing as diverting. 
 
 Little Savoyards, who, like that one, did chimney 
 sweeping, were in those days not uncommon in Paris. 
 In old houses, such as ours, the flues are as wide as 
 the walls are thick, quite big enough for a child to 
 climb up them, and as a rule the work was performed 
 by little boys from Savoy. It used to be said that 
 they learnt how to climb from watching their mon- 
 keys, but they used to have a rope with knots in it 
 to help them. The youngster of my story, all be- 
 smeared with soot, with a little brewer's cap pulled 
 right down to his ears, displayed, when he smiled, a 
 set of dazzling white teeth and a pair of bright red 
 lips, which he licked to clean away the dirt. On his 
 shoulders he carried a coil of rope and a trowel, and 
 he looked a little shrimp of a thing in his vest and 
 shorts. I liked the look of him, and asked his name. 
 He answered in nasal but very gentle tones that he 
 was called Adeodat, and that he came from Gervex 
 near Bonneville. 
 
 I went up to him, and, with an affectionate ges- 
 ture, said: 
 
 "Will you be my brother?" 
 
 He rolled a pair of wondering eyes within his
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 139 
 
 black and white harlequin's mask, opened his mouth 
 from ear to ear, and nodded his head in assent. 
 
 Thereupon, in a sort of frenzy of fraternal af- 
 fection, I told him to wait a moment, and rushed 
 away to the kitchen. Ransacking larder, cupboard, 
 and pantry, I lighted upon a cheese, of which I forth- 
 with took possession. It was one of those cheeses 
 which they make at Neufchatel, and which, being 
 shaped like the wooden plugs they stick into the bung 
 holes (bonde) of wine casks, have come by the 
 name of bondon. This one was in perfect condition, 
 with little red flecks showing here and there on its 
 bluish, velvety surface. I brought it back to my 
 brother, who had remained as stock still as if he had 
 been a clock. He rolled a pair of astonished eyes, 
 and accepted it with alacrity. He drew his knife 
 from his pocket, began to dig into the bondon, and 
 conveyed large pieces of it to his mouth on the point 
 of the blade. He moved his jaws with a grave, 
 meditative deliberation that was doubtless habitual 
 with him, never pausing a second to take breath. At 
 this point my mother came on the scene. Little then 
 remained of the bondon but the skin. I thought it 
 incumbent on me to explain : 
 
 "Mamma, this is my brother. I have adopted 
 him." 
 
 "That is very nice," said my mother smiling. "But 
 he will choke himself. Give him something to 
 drink."
 
 140 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 Melanie, whom by good luck I found in the kit- 
 chen, brought in a glass of water coloured with a 
 little wine. My brother drank it down at a gulp, 
 wiped his mouth on his sleeve and heaved a sigh of 
 content. ji 
 
 My mother asked him about his home, his family, 
 and his circumstances, and he must have answered 
 becomingly, for, when he had gone, my mamma 
 said: 
 
 "He's a nice little boy, that brother of yours." 
 
 She decided that his master, who lived in the 
 Rue des Boulangers, should be asked to let him come 
 to us one Sunday. 
 
 I must confess that Adeodat, when washed and in 
 his best clothes, pleased me less than when wearing 
 his black brewer's cap and his mask of soot. He 
 had his lunch in the kitchen, where we went to look 
 at him, my mother and I, feeling a little compunction 
 at our curiosity. Old Melanie signed to us not to 
 come too near for fear of vermin. He behaved with 
 perfect politeness, but he refused point blank to fall 
 to until he had put on his hat, which had been hung 
 up on a peg. Such manners we thought a little rus- 
 tic. When one comes to think of it, however, they 
 were in reality very aristocratic. In the seventeenth 
 century a man of quality never sat down to table 
 with his head uncovered. It was seemly that he 
 should wear his hat during a meal, since etiquette 
 compelled him to be continually taking it off; when,
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 141 
 
 for example, he received an attention from his neigh- 
 bour, or when he bestowed his services on the lady 
 at his side. In his new "Treatise on polite observ- 
 ances practised in France," published in Paris in the 
 year 1702, M. Courtin under the heading "Beha- 
 viour at the table," expressly states as follows: "If 
 a person of rank proposes a health, or drinks to your 
 own, you must remove your hat, bending forward a 
 little over the table, until he has drunk. When he 
 speaks to you, you must uncover before replying, 
 taking care not to have your mouth full. The same 
 civility should be observed whenever he addresses 
 you until he requests you to desist, after which you 
 should remain covered, lest you should weary him 
 with excessive ceremony." Adeodat wore his hat 
 during the repast like an old time courtier of the 
 days of Louis XIV; but, truth to tell, he did not 
 doff it so often. He put the meat on his bread and 
 conveyed the pieces to his mouth with his knife, and 
 he was very grave. After luncheon, at my mother's 
 request, he sang to us, in a voice scarcely audible, a 
 folk song of his native country: 
 
 "Escouto, Jeannetto, 
 Veux-tu d'biaux habit*? 
 La ridetto." 
 
 He replied briefly, and very sensibly, to my dear 
 mamma's questions. We learnt that he worked in 
 Paris during the winter and, when the spring 
 began to draw near, returned on foot to his own
 
 142 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 country. His mother, being too poor to buy a cow, 
 worked for hire in the creameries. He worked with 
 her or went gathering myrtle berries or "maurels" 
 as he called them, on the mountain side. They lived 
 on pancakes and did not get too much of them. 
 
 I determined to save up and buy a cow for Adeo- 
 dat's mother, but I soon forgot all about it. The lit- 
 tle chimney-sweep went home when the spring came. 
 Mamma sent some" woollen garments and a lit- 
 tle money to his mother. And believing him to 
 be a steady and intelligent boy she wrote asking the 
 village schoolmaster to teach him the three "R's" 
 saying that she would pay the expense. Adeodat 
 wrote a letter in printed characters to thank her. 
 
 I often inquired for my brother. I asked for him 
 again as the winter came on. 
 
 "Your brother is staying in his own country," 
 answered my mother, fearing lest she should grieve 
 me by saying more. 
 
 My brother Adeodat was never destined to come 
 back again. He lay sleeping in the little cemetery 
 of his native village. My mother had heard about 
 him from the schoolmaster at Gervex, but she never 
 showed me the letter. It informed her that little 
 Adeodat had died of meningitis without ever know- 
 ing how ill he was, only wondering to find his head 
 so heavy. A few hours before he died he spoke of 
 the kind Madame Noziere and sang his song: 
 
 "Escouto, Jeannetto . . ."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 OLD MOTHER COCHELET 
 
 NE morning, having accompanied 
 old Melanie into her attic, I ex- 
 amined with greater attention than 
 usual the coloured quilt which she 
 had on her bed and which, as I have 
 already mentioned, was ornamented 
 with a design representing a village school treat. 
 The subject was printed in red and many times 
 repeated. It seemed to me to have a grace about 
 it. It appealed to my imagination and excited my 
 curiosity. Melanie upbraided me for wasting my 
 time on silly things. 
 
 "What can you find to admire in that old thing, 
 Pierrot? It's been patched over and over again. 
 Madame Sainte-Lucie, where I was in service, had 
 it all spick and span on her death-bed, and I got 
 it when the young gentlemen shared out their 
 mother's wardrobe among the servants." 
 Still I went on plying her with questions. 
 "Who is that pretty young lady the gentleman 
 is crowning with roses? Why these drums and 
 trumpets, these maidens all in a row, these peasants 
 hand in hand?" 
 
 "Where do you see all that, mon petit monsieur?
 
 144 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 You can't possibly see all those things there. I 
 must put on my glasses and look." 
 
 She perceived that I had invented nothing. 
 
 "Upon my word, it is so, sure enough. They're 
 all in the picture, young maidens, gentlemen, coun- 
 tryfolk, and goodness knows what besides. Well, 
 I never! I've had that quilt on my bed fifty years 
 and I never noticed those things. Why, if anybody 
 had asked me what colour it was I shouldn't have 
 been able to tell them. And I've darned it often 
 enough tool" 
 
 As I was coming out of the room with Melanie 
 I heard a noise of crutches and footsteps tapping 
 along at the dark end of the corridor, and slowly 
 getting nearer. I stopped, and was frightened out 
 of my life when I saw, slowly emerging from the 
 shadow, a hideous old hag, bent double, her back 
 where her head ought to be, and a cavernous look- 
 ing countenance on her chest, her right eye covered 
 up with an enormous green shade. I seized hold of 
 Melanie's apron. When the apparition had gone by, 
 she told me it was old Mother Cochelet. Melanie 
 could tell me nothing about her, never speaking with 
 her, or, indeed, with anyone, an assertion which my 
 aged friend often repeated but which must not be 
 interpreted according to the strict meaning of the 
 word, but which should be taken rather in the light 
 of a testimony rendered by herself to her own dis- 
 cretion. Old Mother Cochelet lived in a noisome 
 hovel at the far end of the passage. However, she
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 145 
 
 was not believed to be in want because she had three 
 cats for which she bought a pennyworth of lights 
 every morning. M. Bellaguet had frequently offered 
 to get her into an almshouse, but she refused with 
 such energy that he had to give up the idea. 
 
 "She is proud," said Melanie. Then lowering 
 her voice, she added: "Elle est pour le roi" (Mela- 
 nie pronounced it roue). "She is for the King." 
 Folk say that up in her garret, where everything is 
 rotting away, she has a magnificent counterpane em- 
 broidered with fleurs de lis. 
 
 That was all I got to know about Mother Coche- 
 let. But some time later on, when we were taking 
 our walk in the Tuileries, Melanie and I, we came 
 across the old woman, who was sitting on one of the 
 seats and offering a pinch of snuff to an old mili- 
 tary pensioner. She was wearing a shabby black 
 straw hat over her fluted cap, in the 1820 manner, 
 and had a dirty old yellow shawl wrapped round 
 her shoulders. Her chin, resting on her crutch, was 
 shaking, and the shade over her eye was trembling. 
 
 The pensioner's nose and chin were like a pair 
 of nut-crackers. They were talking together. 
 
 "Let's go and sit somewhere else," said Melanie. 
 
 And she got up. But anxious to hear what Mother 
 Cochelet was saying, I went close up to the seat 
 where she was sitting. She wasn't talking, she was 
 singing. She was singing, or rather she was hum- 
 ming: 
 
 "Que ne mis-je la fougire?"
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 MADAME LAROQUE AND THE SIEGE OF GRANVILLE 
 
 [ADAME LAROQUE had apart- 
 ments in the same house as our- 
 selves, but at the far end of the 
 court, and there she lived with her 
 daughter, Therese and her parrot, 
 Navarino. I used to catch sight 
 of her from my window, and sometimes from 
 my bed. Her face was hale, and puckered like 
 the skin of apples that have been stored in a 
 cellar for the winter. She used to appear to me 
 at her nasturtium-bordered window, betwixt a 
 pot of carnations and the pagoda-shaped parrot's 
 cage, looking like one of those worthy house- 
 wives the old Flemish masters used to portray in an 
 embrasure of masonry and flowers. Every Satur- 
 day, after dinner, which in those days was over about 
 six o'clock, my mother put on her hat to go across 
 the courtyard, and took me with her to spend the 
 evening with the Laroque ladies. She took her 
 work in a bag, so that she might do her sewing or 
 embroidery with her neighbours. The other ladies 
 who visited there did the same. It was a survival 
 
 of the old regime by no means peculiar to the middle 
 
 146
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 147 
 
 and lower-middle classes, as one might think to-day. 
 It was, indeed, a custom observed in the time of 
 Louis XVI, by the highest aristocracy, who were, 
 nevertheless, far from being wedded to the simple 
 life. In the reign of Louis XVI, women of the 
 highest rank used to do their sewing together. Ma- 
 dame Vigee-Lebrun relates in her memoirs that, dur- 
 ing the period of the Royalist emigration, she was 
 received in Vienna by the Comtesse de Thoun, and 
 that, when there, she used to take her place at the 
 large table round which the princesses of the court 
 worked at their tapestry frames. These remarks of 
 mine are not intended to convey the impression that 
 my dear mamma and I went once a week to call on 
 princesses. 
 
 Madame Laroque was an old lady of very sim- 
 ple habits, but in diligence, in patience, and in quali- 
 ties of the heart she was among the great, and she 
 was endowed with a wisdom in domestic affairs that 
 never failed her in good or evil fortune. She bore 
 within her the experiences of well nigh a century of 
 French national life and of two regimes, the old 
 and the new, united and welded by the hearts and 
 minds of the women who, like her, threw themselves, 
 after the manner of David's Sabine Women, between 
 the contending parties. 
 
 Rich and comely, descended from Normandy yeo- 
 men of Republican sentiments, Marie Rauline was 
 of marriageable age when the wars of Vendee broke
 
 148 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 out. When I knew her, she was over eighty, 
 and as she sat in her easy chair, knitting stockings, 
 she used to tell stories of her young days. Her 
 friends had given up listening to them because she 
 told them every day and sometimes, if she had the 
 opportunity, several times a day. Such was the tale 
 of the young suitor, who being no taller than a 
 jack boot, had been rejected as unfit for military 
 service, and, since the Republic would have none of 
 him, Marie Rauline would have none of him eithef. 
 She used generally to finish off the story by singing 
 the pretty air: 
 
 "II etait un petit homme 
 Qui s'appelait Guillen 
 Carabi." 
 
 The story Madame Laroque was most fond of tell- 
 ing and the one I delighted most to hear was the 
 story of the siege of Granville. 
 
 Marie Rauline married in the year IV a soldier 
 of the Republic, named Eugene Laroque, who sub- 
 sequently became a captain in the Imperial army. 
 He took part in the Spanish campaign, and being am- 
 bushed by some of the irregular troops of Julian 
 Sanchez perished by the hand of an assassin. Left 
 a widow with two daughters, Madame Laroque lived 
 in Paris on the proceeds of a little drapery busi- 
 ness. Her elder daughter took the veil and became 
 Superior of the Dames du Saint-Sang at Crecy; she 
 was known as Mother Seraphine. The other made 
 a small fortune as a dressmaker. When I knew
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 149 
 
 them they were already advanced in years. Mother 
 Seraphine, whom I saw but seldom, impressed me by 
 the noble simplicity of her bearing. Mademoiselle 
 Therese, her younger sister, I liked for her merry 
 and equable disposition. She was a great hand at 
 making betises. Now betises was the name people 
 gave in those days to caramels served in little paper 
 wrappers, a thing I used to look upon as a triumph 
 of art. She was also a very good pianist. 
 
 Whenever we went to visit the Laroques, we were 
 always sure to find Mademoiselle Julie, who believed 
 in ghosts and whose friendship I cultivated despite 
 the fact that she was a withered, crabbed creature. 
 But she told ghost stories, and spoke of dire and 
 dreadful things to come, of unheard-of marvels. 
 And, ever since I was five years old, my faith in evil 
 spirits has needed a good deal of bolstering up. 
 
 Alas, I found a snake in the grass at Mesdames 
 Laroques', and that was Mademoiselle Alphonsine 
 Dusuel, who, in days gone by, had been wont to stick 
 pins into my legs, what time she hailed me as her 
 "treasure." I still used to complain to my mother 
 about the horrible cruelties perpetrated by Al- 
 phonsine, but, in reality, I was more fright- 
 ened than hurt, or rather, to tell the whole 
 truth, I was really neither hurt nor fright- 
 ened. She didn't so much as notice my pres- 
 ence now. Alphonsine was fast growing up into a 
 young lady; the perfidies that she perpetrated now
 
 ISO LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 were less simple in their nature, and had other ob- 
 jects in view than a little boy like me. I saw well 
 enough that she liked to practise her wiles on a 
 nephew of Mademoiselle Therese. His name was 
 Fulgence Rauline; he played the violin and was go- 
 ing to attend classes at the Conservatoire. Although 
 I was not jealous by nature, and although Alphon- 
 sine was plain and her face all over freckles, I would 
 still have preferred her to go on sticking pins into 
 my legs. No, I wasn't jealous and, if I had been, 
 it would not have been about one of Alphonsine's 
 favourites; but, being wrapped up in myself and 
 eager for attention and love, I wanted the whole 
 world to concern itself with me, even though it were 
 but to torment me. At the age of five I had not 
 succeeded in getting rid of the old Adam. 
 
 When the ladies, old or young, had grown tired of 
 sewing and folded up their work, we played the game 
 of Goose, or Loto. I didn't like Loto at all. I am 
 not saying that I could form any intelligent estimate 
 of the dismal stupidity of the thing, but it is a fact 
 that it did not satisfy my young ideas ; the thing was 
 all figures and symbols ; it did not appeal to my im- 
 agination. My partners also must have found it too 
 abstract for their taste, since they employed all man- 
 ner of things to liven it up ; not invented out of their 
 own heads certainly, but handed down from their 
 forbears. They likened the Arabic symbols, for ex- 
 ample, to some tangible object; the figure 7 was a
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 151 
 
 shovel, 8 was a pumpkin, n a pair of legs, 22 a 
 couple of chicken, 33, two hunchbacks, or else they 
 would embellish the cold statement of the number 
 with some poetic tag. Then there were some very 
 old names given to the numbers, which only Madame 
 Laroque knew perfectly, such as "i, a hair of Mat- 
 thew's head," "2, the Testaments Old and New;" 
 doubtless these additions relieved the game of some 
 of its monotony, but, all the same, I found it too 
 abstract for my taste. The noble game of Goose 
 which was in vogue among the ancient Greeks de- 
 lighted me beyond measure. In it everything lives 
 and speaks, it is Nature and Destiny themselves, 
 it is as marvellous as it is true, and as orderly as it is 
 hazardous. The prophetic geese stationed at every 
 "nine" seemed to me like divine beings and, as in 
 those days I was prone to adore animals, these great 
 white birds filled me with awe. Their role was that 
 of mystery, all the rest belonged to the domain of 
 reason. When I was held up at the hostelry, I could 
 smell the meat roasting. I fell into the well on the 
 edge of which, for my salvation or my ruin, stood 
 a pretty peasant girl with crimson stomacher and 
 white apron. I lost myself in the maze, where it 
 caused me no surprise to find a Chinese kiosk, such 
 was my ignorance of Cretan art. I fell off the bridge 
 into the river. I was flung into prison. I escaped 
 death by a hair's breadth, and at last I won my way 
 to the wood guarded by the Heavenly Goose, the
 
 152 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 dispenser of all felicity. Sometimes, however, hav- 
 ing had my fill of adventures, like Sinbad the Sailor, 
 I gave up tempting Providence. I dared not ap- 
 proach the well or the bridge, the labyrinth or the 
 prison ; I went and sat me down on a little red stool 
 at Madame Laroque's feet, and there, well away 
 from the table and the lamp, I got her to tell me 
 the story of the siege of Granville. 
 
 And Madame Laroque, as she knitted a stocking, 
 told me the story which I here reproduce word for 
 word: 
 
 "On leaving Fougeres, M. de la Rochejacquelin, 
 who was in command of the brigands, was for going 
 to Rennes, but some emigres, disguised as peasants, 
 came to him with letters and gold from England, 
 concealed in hollow sticks. Thereupon, M. Henri, 
 as they used to call him among themselves, com- 
 manded the brigands to proceed to Granville, be- 
 cause these gentry had a promise from the Eng- 
 lish to send ships of war to attack the town from 
 the sea, while the brigands attacked it on land. But 
 no reliance ought to be placed on the promises of 
 the English. I heard the same thing said later on by 
 a man from Bressuire. These are things I heard 
 with my own ears and saw with my own eyes. The 
 brigands arrived in their thousands at Granville. 
 They came in such numbers that you could see them 
 from the promenade swarming like ants over the 
 foreshore. The General commanding in the town
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 153 
 
 marched out to meet them with the volunteers from 
 the Manche, and the Paris gunners, who wore caps 
 of liberty tattooed in blue on their arms, with the 
 words 'Liberty or Death.' But the number of brig- 
 ands kept on increasing; they stretched as far as 
 the eye could see, and M. Henri, who looked like 
 a young girl, bore himself gallantly as their com- 
 mander. Then the General realized that they were 
 too many for him. His name was Peyre. There 
 were good and bad reports going about concern- 
 ing him, as there were concerning every one who 
 was in the public eye in those days. All the same he 
 was a straightforward man, and commanded con- 
 siderable resources. 
 
 "That day, my mother being ill in bed, I went to 
 the Town Hall with our old linen, which had been 
 requisitioned by the authorities. The guns were 
 rumbling and a thick smoke hung over the outlying 
 parts of the town. Men were going about shout- 
 ing, 'We are betrayed, they are coming; every man 
 for himself.' The women were shrieking loud 
 enough to wake the dead. Then citizen Desmaisons 
 rushed on to the promenade wearing his plumed 
 hat and his tricolour scarf and I saw him, quite close 
 to me, reel like a drunken man, clutch at his breast 
 and fall face forwards. He had had a bullet through 
 the heart. And, despite the terror I was in, I re- 
 member thinking that dying was a pretty quick busi- 
 ness. People were not taking any precautions at
 
 154 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 the time and two women had just fallen on the prom- 
 enade. I managed to reach home by sidling along 
 close up to the wall and found a Paris gunner at 
 the door. He had come to ask for some wood in 
 order to make the cannon balls red hot. 'It's 
 warm,' said he. He was joking, because it was 
 blowing a gale and you could feel the sting of the 
 coming winter. 
 
 "I said to him, 'Come and take some wood.' 
 Thereupon the Chappedelaine girl comes rushing up 
 and says, 'Don't you give him my wood, Marie. 
 Isn't the place burning quite enough as it is? Haven't 
 there been enough Christians roasted like swine? 
 You can smell them from here. If you give him 
 wood you'll get what you deserve; when the Ven- 
 deans get in they'll put you to death.' It was fear 
 that made her say these things, for there were well- 
 to-do people in the town who were paying money 
 to get the brigands in. 'Mathilde,' said I, 'you can 
 take my word for it that, if these gentry take the 
 town they will restore the toll and bring in the Eng- 
 lish. However, if you want to go on being a slave 
 and to become an Englishwoman yourself, that's 
 your look out. I'm going to remain free and a 
 Frenchwoman. Long live the Republic!' Then the 
 Parisian tried to kiss me, but I slapped his face, for 
 the look of the thing. Meanwhile people began 
 shouting, 'Look, they're getting ready to storm.' I 
 was afraid, and still more curious than afraid. I
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 155 
 
 slipped down to the promenade and saw the Ven- 
 deans thrusting their bayonets into the walls to make 
 themselves a foothold. But the Republicans were 
 firing on them from the top of the ramparts and 
 bringing down the luckless assailants who crashed 
 down on the rocks beneath. At last, seeing the tide 
 was out and that it was no use waiting for the Eng- 
 lish to come and help them, they took to flight, fling- 
 ing away their sabots. The shore was strewn with 
 corpses still clasping their beads in their rigid fin- 
 gers. The Chappedelaine girl shook her fist at them 
 and said they had died too comfortably. And then 
 all the people who had been for surrendering th'e 
 town began to vilify them for fear they should be 
 denounced as traitors to the Republic." 
 
 Thus spake Madame Laroque, and this story of 
 an event that happened more than a hundred and 
 twenty years ago now, I heard from the lips of an 
 eye-witness.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 "'Twas thus those monsters fell did grind their teeth." 
 
 Ronsard. 
 
 HEY were dreary times at home just 
 then. My father was worried, my 
 mother agitated, and old Melanie 
 inclined to weep. The chilly 
 silence that reigned at meals was 
 broken only by the briefest of 
 utterances. 
 
 "Has Gomboust paid up?" 
 "Gomboust did not put in an appearance." 
 "Did you see the bailiff?" 
 
 "Rampon has advanced the money, but the in- 
 terest he wants, good heavens ! The man's a regular 
 vampire!" 
 
 Then silence again. Their faces were mournful. 
 Joy being as necessary to me as sunlight to plants, I 
 drooped and languished in this atmosphere of gloom. 
 They were dreary days. My father, who of all 
 men in the world had the least aptitude for busi- 
 ness, had gone and mixed himself up in some specu- 
 lation or other. Why he did so I don't know; blind 
 confidence in a friend, perhaps, or because he wanted 
 to go out of his way to oblige, or because he thought 
 he saw a way of keeping his wife in ease and com- 
 
 156
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 157 
 
 fort and providing handsomely for his son's educa- 
 tion, or for some philanthropic reason, or, good 
 Lord I it may have been pure wool-gathering and ab- 
 sence of mind. Anyhow, he had joined his friend 
 Gomboust in a scheme to exploit the springs at Saint 
 Firmin, which had been analysed by various emi- 
 nent chemists and had been recognized by several 
 members of the medical profession as possessing val- 
 uable curative properties in disorders of the stom- 
 ach, liver, and kidneys. 
 
 This venture, which was to bring in enormous 
 profits, promptly went smash. It would be quite im- 
 possible for me to define the nature of the company 
 that was formed to exploit this mineral water, or to 
 indicate the share of it that was allotted to my 
 father. That were a task for Balzac, not for Pier- 
 rot. I readily confine my account of the matter to 
 the impressions left of it on my childish brain. 
 
 Adelestan Gomboust, who was the proprietor of 
 the Saint Firmin Springs in the Hautes-Pyrenees, 
 was the owner of a tall paralytic body which gave, 
 so to speak, no sign of life. Lids that never moved 
 covered his hollow eyes. Between his shrunken lips 
 you could just discern the gleam of a couple of 
 white teeth. His face was like a dead man's, but 
 from his mummy-like mouth there issued a voice of 
 delicious clearness, which, like a silver flute, pro- 
 duced modulations of sweetest sound. As he came 
 along guided by a child, and leaning upon crutches,
 
 158 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 there was something uncanny in his appearance that 
 sent a chill through one's marrow. 
 
 "Here's bad luck come our way," sighed Melanie, 
 as she saw him, and whether it was that she could 
 not remember his name or whether she thought the 
 name an unlucky one, she never uttered it, but al- 
 ways announced him with bated breath as "The gen- 
 tleman with the skin eyes." 
 
 I often used to find myself alone in the drawing- 
 room with this inanimate body. It frightened me, 
 and I hardly dared to look at it. But no sooner did 
 it open its mouth than the charm began to work. 
 Gomboust taught me how to rig a boat, fly a kite, 
 and make a Hero's fountain. The music of his 
 voice, the orderly sequence of his thoughts, gave me 
 the utmost delight, however little I may have been 
 able to appreciate the art of good speaking. With 
 his expressionless face and his motionless body the 
 man was the very personification of persuasiveness. 
 I was trying to think just now how it was my father, 
 who was so prudent, and so indifferent to money-get- 
 ting, came to get mixed up in the Saint-Firmin Com- 
 pany. The reason however is evident; he had heark- 
 ened to the voice of Gomboust. Gomboust's utter- 
 ances had the same effect on my parents as they had 
 on me, and this is a proof of it: 
 
 It was, I remember, one evening, one of the dark- 
 est of those dismal times. M. Paulin, a solicitor, 
 a suave man, M. Bourisse a chamber counsel who
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 159 
 
 was suaver than M. Paulin, M. Philipeaux, who was 
 suaver than M. Bourisse, M. Rampon, who advanced 
 money on weekly loans, and was suaver than M. 
 Philipeaux, had all suavely acted on my father's 
 artless and timid mind till they had thoroughly and 
 completely frightened him. My mother, who be- 
 held in Gomboust the arch-contriver of our ruin, 
 being informed by Melanie that "the man with 
 the skin eyes" wished to see her, gave him a very 
 chilly reception in the lobby, where I was hiding un- 
 derneath a form pretending that it was the cave of 
 the nymph Eucharis, and that I was Telemachus. I 
 lay low and listened to my mother as she heaped re- 
 proaches on the head of the motionless Gomboust. 
 I felt, as it were, a blow at the heart when she said 
 to him: "Monsieur, you have deceived us; you are 
 not an honest man." 
 
 After a prolonged silence, Gomboust made reply. 
 His voice trembled and emotion made it even more 
 musical than usual. I did not understand what he 
 said. He spoke at great length. My mother lis- 
 tened to him without interrupting. From the place 
 where I lay concealed I watched her face grow 
 calmer and her expression soften. She was under 
 the spell. At luncheon next day my father showed 
 her a paper which she glanced through, and handed 
 back to him exclaiming: "That's another of Gom- 
 boust's scoundrelly tricks I" 
 
 Even now I don't know all the rights of that Saint-
 
 160 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 Firmin Mineral Water Company, for I never had 
 the curiosity to read the documents concerning it, 
 which I found among my father's papers, and all of 
 which were stolen from me together with the rest of 
 the family records. But I have good reason to believe 
 that my mother did Gomboust no injustice when she 
 pronounced him miserly, rapacious, and unscrupu- 
 lous, in short, a bad lot; and it puzzles me now, when 
 I think of it, how it was that this unhappy man, who 
 was three parts blind and almost incapable of move- 
 ment, cut off so to speak from the world, a burden 
 to himself and to others, this man who dwelt not 
 so much in a living body as in a coffin of flesh, should 
 be so enamoured of money as to commit acts of 
 treachery and cruelty for the sake of it. What, in 
 heaven's name, was he going to do with his money? 
 There are some things that incline me to think 
 that from inexperience and sensitiveness my parents 
 exaggerated their responsibility in this matter of 
 The Saint-Firmin Mineral Water concern. They 
 were the victims of legal and financial sharks. Ram- 
 pon, the obliging Rampon, deemed it his duty for- 
 sooth to come to the rescue of a distinguished medi- 
 cal practitioner and a worthy citizen and parent, and 
 he squeezed us dry. In point of fact, it was no very 
 tremendous catastrophe, but it left us with nothing. 
 My mother's poor little bits of jewellery, not much 
 in the way of gold and less still in the way of dia- 
 monds and pearls, the odds and ends of the old
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 161 
 
 family plate, battered and dented, the sugar-basin 
 with the swan handles, the coffee-pot with my grand- 
 father Saturnin Parmentier's crest upon it, the mas- 
 sive soup-ladle, all had to be pawned to pay the 
 lawyers' fees. 
 
 One day my father came home and said: 
 "Well, it's done; Le Mimeur is soldi" 
 Le Mimeur was a little farm near Chartres, and 
 it was the last bit of family property that my mother 
 had to call her own. I had been taken to Le Mi- 
 meur when I was quite a little boy, and all I re- 
 membered of it was a white butterfly on a bramble 
 hedge, the shrill flight of the dragon flies among the 
 wind-swayed reeds, a startled field mouse scamper- 
 ing along a wall, and a little greyish flower shaped 
 like a snout which my mother pointed out to me, 
 saying: "Look, Pierrot, isn't it pretty?" * 
 
 That summed up Le Mimeur for me, and it 
 seemed a strange, a cruel thing that the hedge, the 
 rushes, the blue grey flowers, the field mouse, the 
 butterfly and the dragon-flies should all be sold. I 
 could not quite see how the sale could be carried out. 
 But my father said it had been done, so there it was. 
 And I brooded within me on this sorrowful mystery. 
 Like all the other things, Le Mimeur went to Ram- 
 pon, who, nevertheless, could not take it within him 
 into the next world. All dead men are paupers, 
 Gomboust, and Rampon, no less than the rest. If 
 I knew in what cemetery Gomboust lies buried, I 
 
 It was probably the toad-flax.
 
 162 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 would go and whisper these words among the grasses 
 that cover his grave: "Where is now thy treasure?" 
 
 Thus it came about that, in my very earliest child- 
 hood, I learned to know what manner of men are 
 lawyers, and usurers. They are an immortal race. 
 All things about them suffer change. They alone hold 
 true to type. Even as Rabelais portrayed them so 
 they remain to-day. They are the same to their beak 
 and claws, and even to their unintelligible jargon. 
 
 It was some five years after the dark days which 
 I have described. Calmer times had supervened, and 
 I was at school, and our master, M. Triaire } had 
 been telling us about the Harpies in the -/Eneid. 
 Those sinister fowl, those human headed vultures 
 which, swooping down upon the table of the pious 
 -/Eneas and his companions, snatched away the meat, 
 defiled the victuals, and spread abroad a loathsome 
 stench, I knew them right enough ! More expert in 
 such matters than my fellow scholars, I knew them 
 for lawyers and hucksterers. 
 
 But how wholesome and pleasant is that cave of 
 harpies, which Virgil describes for us as all befouled 
 with dung and dripping flesh, compared with the 
 office and green cardboard files of a man of law. 
 
 It is because I loathed and detested those mur- 
 derous paper holders that I never could endure to 
 have any files or filing cases about me. And so I 
 have always mislaid my papers, my poor harmless 
 papers.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE PAPAGAY 
 
 HEN she came in with the coffee, old 
 Melanie informed us that the 
 Comtesse Michaud's parrot had 
 escaped. The people thought they 
 could see it on M. Bellaguet's roof. 
 I got up from the table and rushed 
 to the window. In the courtyard a group, consist- 
 ing of the concierge and a few domestics, were 
 gazing upwards and pointing towards the gutter 
 round the roof. My godfather, coffee-cup in hand, 
 followed me to the window and asked where the 
 popinjay was. 
 
 "There," said I, pointing upwards like the people 
 in the yard. 
 
 But my godfather could not see it, and I could 
 not show it him because I could not see it myself, 
 and merely affirmed its presence there on the au- 
 thority of others. 
 
 "And you, Madame Noziere, can you see the 
 papagay?" asked my godfather. 
 "The papagay?" 
 "The papagay or the papegaut?" 
 "The papagay?" 
 
 "The papagay," repeated by godfather laughing. 
 163
 
 1 64 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 His laughter sounded like little rippling bells and 
 made his braces tinkle on his green silk waistcoat. 
 His gaiety was infectious, and I kept on laughing 
 and repeating, without knowing what I was saying: 
 
 "The papagay, the papagay!" 
 
 But my dear mamma, being of a prudent disposi- 
 tion, forbore to smile until my father informed her 
 that the old name for the parrot was papagay or 
 popingay. 
 
 "Gay as a papagay, as Rabelais says," said my 
 godfather, by way of illustration. 
 
 At the name of Rabelais, which I then heard for 
 the first time, I burst into fits of laughter, I don't 
 know why stupidity, silliness, tomfoolery, I sup- 
 pose, for it certainly was not from any presentiment, 
 intuition, or revelation of the sublime buffoonery, the 
 merry whimsicality, the folly wiser than wisdom, that 
 lies concealed beneath that name. Nevertheless, it 
 cannot be gainsaid that it was a becoming manner in 
 which to salute the creator of Gargantua. My dear 
 mamma signed to me to hold my noise, and asked 
 if there were any real grounds for saying that par- 
 rots were gay. 
 
 "Madame Noziere," my godfather made reply, 
 "Papagay rhymes with gay. That is itself reason 
 enough for the common run of men, who attach 
 more importance to the sound of a word than they 
 do to its meaning. Moreover, one may reasonably 
 suppose that a parrot is pleased to see himself ar-
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 165 
 
 rayed in such a smart green dress. Is not the green 
 of a parrot's feathers usually called 'gay' green?" 
 
 In the neighbourhood of my fifth year I had had 
 some little differences with Madame Laroque's par- 
 rot, Navarino ; that I had not yet forgotten. He had 
 bitten my finger, and I had thought seriously about 
 giving him a dose of poison. We had made up our 
 quarrel, but I wasn't drawn to parrots. I had 
 learnt about their ways from a little book called 
 "Ernestine's Aviary," which I had had for a New 
 Year's gift, and which dealt with all the birds in the 
 space of a few pages. Anxiety to shine in conversa- 
 tion led me to say, on the authority of my book, that 
 the savage tribes of America feed on parrots. 
 
 "Its flesh must be dark and tough," objected my 
 godfather. "I have never heard that it was fit to 
 cat." 
 
 "What, Danquin," said my father. 'Don't you 
 remember the story about the Princess de Joinville 
 when she first came to the Tuileries from her home 
 in the Wild West? She had a cold and refused 
 chicken broth, demanding parrot broth instead." 
 
 My father had been hostile to the July Govern- 
 ment, and even now, after the revolution of '48, 
 still retained a feeling of animosity towards Louis 
 Philippe's family. It was, therefore, with a spice 
 of malice that he launched this shaft, glancing the 
 while at my mother, who was rather inclined to pity 
 the lot of exiled princesses.
 
 166 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 "Poor princesses," sighed she, "they pay dearly 
 for the public honours accorded them. 
 
 All of a sudden I caught sight of the parrot in 
 the gutter. I uttered a yell of triumph so savage 
 that my mother was at first horrified, and then 
 angry. 
 
 "There it is, mamma, look! there! there!" 
 
 "Do you know 'Greenie-Green,' Madame No- 
 ziere?" asked my godfather. 
 
 My mother shook her head. 
 
 "What, you don't know 'Greenie-Green?' Well, 
 you've missed something." 
 
 "There's no time for reading, Monsieur Danquin, 
 when you've got a child belonging to you that wears 
 out his knickerbockers as if by magic. It's a piece of 
 poetry, I suppose?" 
 
 "It is, Madame Noziere, and a very charming 
 piece too." 
 
 "At Nevers, then, in a convent cell 
 A famous parrot once did dwell. 
 His plumage was bright and fair to see, 
 And his manners were gentle and frank and free 
 As the ways of the young are wont to be." 
 
 The nuns loved him to distraction : 
 
 "They petted him more, so I have heard, 
 Than if he had been the king's own bird." 
 
 And then at night: 
 
 He'd roost so snug on the Agnus box. 
 
 Greenie-Green used to talk like an angel. But " 
 and there my godfather stopped short.
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 167 
 
 "But what?" I asked. 
 
 My father at this juncture very properly remarked 
 that I did not speak like an angel. 
 
 "But," my godfather went on, "he went away 
 cruising on the Loire with bargees and musketeers, 
 and his language suffered in consequence." 
 
 "You see," said my mother, pointing the moral, 
 "how evil communications corrupt good manners." 
 
 "God-papa, is he dead Greenie-Green?" I asked. 
 
 My godfather put on a most dismal countenance, 
 and said in a psalm-droning voice: 
 
 "He died from eating too many sweets. Let him 
 be a warning to greedy little children." 
 
 And my godfather gazing out on the court, which 
 was all gold in the sunlight, smiled a melancholy 
 smile. 
 
 "What radiant weather," said he. "The last 
 bright days seem always the sorest to part with." 
 
 "They seem like a boon from heaven," said my 
 mother. "The cold and dark days will soon be 
 here now. This afternoon old Debas is coming to 
 sweep the dining-room chimney." And thereupon 
 she went off to her bedroom. 
 
 I can vividly remember the most trifling circum- 
 stances connected with the memorable events of that 
 day. 
 
 My mother reappeared with her velvet bonnet 
 tied under her chin, her mantle of puce-coloured silk, 
 and her umbrella with the folding handle.
 
 168 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 From her preoccupied and pensive air, I guessed 
 that she was going out to do some winter shopping 
 and that she was wondering how to lay out her 
 money to the best advantage, for she thought a lot 
 of her money, not for its own sake, but because her 
 husband had to work so hard to get it. She bent 
 down her dear face which her bonnet enshrined as 
 though in a velvet jewel-case, kissed me on the fore- 
 head, told me to get on with my lessons, reminded 
 Melanie to open a bottle of wine for M. Debas, and 
 went out. My father and my godfather left the 
 house almost immediately after. 
 
 And so I was all by myself. But, as usual, I did 
 not learn my lesson, being led away by instinct and 
 the inspiration of the potent spirit which governed 
 the workings of my mind. It prompted me not to 
 learn my lessons, and indeed deprived me of all 
 opportunity of so doing by continually imposing upon 
 me other arduous tasks amazing in their diversity. 
 
 That afternoon it suggested in a manner not to 
 be denied that I should look out of the window and 
 watch for the truant parrot. But it was in vam 
 that I kept staring up at the roofs and the chimney- 
 tops. The parrot was nowhere to be seen. I was 
 beginning to yawn with weariness when I suddenly 
 heard rather a loud noise behind me, and turning 
 round beheld M. Debas. He had a bucket on his 
 head, and was carrying a ladder, a jug, a grappling 
 hook, some rope, and heaven knows what besides.
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 169 
 
 It must not be inferred therefrom that M. Debas 
 was a mason or a plumber. In point of fact, he was 
 a secondhand bookseller, who displayed his wares 
 in boxes on the parapet of the Quai Voltaire. My 
 mother had nicknamed him Simon de Nantua after 
 a pedlar about whom she used to make me read in 
 a little book that no one hears about nowadays. 
 Simon de Nantua used to go up and down the coun- 
 try visiting all the fairs. He bore a canvas pack on 
 his back and indulged in endless moralizings. He 
 was always in the right. His story bored me cruelly, 
 and left a most dismal impression on my memory, 
 but, nevertheless, it was instrumental in enabling me 
 to recognize one important truth, and that is that 
 it does not do to be always in the right. M. Debas, 
 like Simon de Nantua, moralized from morning till 
 night, and occupied himself with everything save 
 his own business. Always ready to oblige his neigh- 
 bours, and to do odd jobs for all and sundry, he 
 would put up or take down stoves, rivet broken 
 crockery, fit new handles to knives, see to the bells, 
 grease the locks, regulate timepieces, help people to 
 move out or to move in, give first aid to folk rescued 
 from drowning, fix draught excluders to windows 
 and doors, hold forth at the wine merchant's in fa- 
 vour of constituted authority, and sing of a Sunday 
 in the chapel of the Little Sisters of the Poor. My 
 mother looked upon him as a good man who was 
 superior to his station in life. As for me, I should
 
 170 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 have found it difficult to put up with the everlasting 
 sermons on seemliness and good behaviour with 
 which M. Debas was continually plaguing me, had 
 it not been that he amused me enormously with an 
 excessive ardour for work, a trait of which I was 
 the only person in the world to see the comic side. 
 Whenever I saw him, I always counted on being 
 entertained by some amazing piece of excitement. 
 Nor on this occasion were my expectations falsified. 
 Our dining-room stove was of white earthenware, 
 cracked and split in various places. It stood in a 
 recess in a corner of the room. It was fitted with 
 a pipe, likewise of earthenware, surmounted by the 
 head of a bearded man, which, because I had heard 
 the information given to M. Debas, I knew to be 
 that of Jupiter Trophonius. And the beard of so 
 august a deity duly impressed me. M. Debas put 
 on a white overall and mounted the steps. And 
 lol in a trice, Jupiter Trophonius was lying on the 
 floor, and from the column from which he had 
 been dismounted the soot was pouring in volumes. 
 The stove itself, now taken to pieces, was strewn in 
 little bits all over the floor, and clouds of ashes 
 darkened the air. The gloom was still further in- 
 tensified by an impalpable powder which ascended 
 to the ceiling, and slowly descended again to settle 
 in a thick layer on the furniture and the carpet. 
 M. Debas was mixing mortar which was running 
 all over the side of his bucket. It was quite evident
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 171 
 
 that he enjoyed labouring after the manner of the 
 god who wrought order out of chaos. At this 
 juncture Melanie came in, her basket on her arm. 
 She gazed from wall to wall, and from ceiling to 
 floor in dismay, and with a deep sigh exclaimed: 
 
 "How in the world am I going to lay dinner in 
 here?" 
 
 Then, apparently despairing of a satisfactory 
 reply, she went out to get on with her shopping. 
 
 Chaos was still reigning when suddenly there was 
 a fresh outbreak of excitement in the courtyard. 
 M. Bellaguet's coachman, old Alexandre, our con- 
 cierge, the Caumont's servant and young Alphonse, 
 all began to shout at once: 
 
 "There it is. I see it. There it is!" 
 
 This time I caught sight of it right enough. There, 
 on the top of the roof, was the Comtesse Michaud's 
 parrot. It was green, with a splash of red on the 
 wings. But scarcely had it shown itself when it 
 disappeared again. 
 
 The people in the court were arguing about the 
 direction it had taken. One thought it had flown 
 towards M. Bellaguet's garden, the idea being that 
 it would be reminded of the Brazilian forests in 
 which it had spent its early days. Another swore it 
 had made for the quay, so that it could cast itself 
 into the riven The concierge had seen it perch on 
 the tower of Saint-Germain-des-Pres. But the old 
 concierge had served under Napoleon, and his recol-
 
 172 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 lection of the eagle with the national colours had 
 evidently acted upon his imagination. The Com- 
 tesse Michaud's parrot was not flying from one 
 church tower to another. M. Caumont's clerk con- 
 jectured with greater probability that, driven by 
 stress of hunger, the fugitive was making for the 
 roof that concealed its food supply. Simon de Nan- 
 tua, leaning against the window, was lending a 
 thoughtful ear to what was passing. In order to 
 display my knowledge, I remarked to him that this 
 parrot was not such a fine one as Greenie-Green. 
 
 "Greenie-Green, what do you call Greenie-Green?" 
 said he. 
 
 My bosom swelled with pride as I informed him 
 that Greenie-Green was a parrot belonging to the 
 Visitandines of Nevers, which used to speak like 
 an angel, but which had got to use bad language 
 after travelling up and down the Loire in the com- 
 pany of bargees and musketeers. As soon as I had 
 said it, I realized that it is a mistake to air one's 
 knowledge to the ignorant, for Simon de Nahtua, 
 having glared at me severely with a pair of big eyes 
 about as expressive as lamp globes, rebuked me for 
 talking rubbish. 
 
 Meanwhile, he was revolving deep thoughts with- 
 in his breast. 
 
 Among the countless services that his kindness of 
 heart prompted him to render his neighbours, the 
 one which he loved best to perform was that of re-
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 173 
 
 capturing escaped birds. For example, he had often 
 brought back Madame Caumont's canaries. He 
 deemed that to restore her parrot to the Comtesse 
 Michaud was his bounden duty, and he did not hesi- 
 tate to take steps to accomplish it. Having hastily 
 replaced his white overall by an old green frock-coat 
 which was turning yellow like the autumn leaves, he 
 acquainted me with his intention, and, leaving the 
 dining-room in the chaotic condition which he had 
 not had time to reduce to order, he went out, his 
 head full of his scheme. I tore after him down 
 the staircase. At a bound we covered the short 
 space that separated us from the house I knew so 
 well, the house where Morin was concierge, the 
 house where the Comtesse Michaud lived. We flew 
 upstairs as far as the second floor landing, found 
 the door wide open, and entered to behold an air 
 of desolation over all. In the dining-room we saw 
 the deserted perch. Mathilde, the Countess's lady's 
 maid, explained the circumstances which had pre- 
 ceded and led up to Jacquot's flight. The day be- 
 fore, about five o'clock in the afternoon, a grey cat, 
 with short fur, an enormous great torn, whose depre- 
 dations had long since earned him an unfavourable 
 reputation, had come bounding into the dining-room. 
 At the sight of him Jacquot, in terror, had flown 
 out on to the landing, and escaped through the sky- 
 light. Twice did Mathilde relate this story. As 
 she was about to repeat it a third time, I slipped
 
 174 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 out into the drawing-room and fell to gazing at the 
 full length portrait of General Comte Michaud 
 which occupied the principal panel. As I have 
 already mentioned, the General was depicted in full 
 dress, white breeches and patent leather boots, at 
 the battle of Wagram. At his feet were fragments 
 of shell, a cannon ball, a smoking grenade. In {he 
 background soldiers, quite small by reason of their 
 being so far off, were charging. On his broad chest 
 the General wore the ribbon of the Grand Eagle 
 of the Legion of Honour, and the Cross of St. 
 Louis. I saw no incongruity in his wearing the 
 Cross of St. Louis at Wagram. I should have 
 done, when I saw the picture at a dealer's some years 
 later, if I had not been told that General Comte 
 Michaud, having been overwhelmed with favours 
 and distinctions by the Bourbons had, in 1816, caused 
 the cross to be added to his portrait. Simon de 
 Nantua aroused me from my reverie, and informed 
 me that people did not go into drawing-rooms with- 
 out being asked and without first wiping their feet. 
 His reprimand was brief, for time was precious. 
 
 "Come on!" he said. 
 
 And armed with a thick rope, from which ap- 
 parently he intended to suspend himself in mid air, 
 he mounted the staircase. I followed carrying a 
 glass which he had given into my charge, and which 
 contained some bread soaked in wine as a bait for 
 Jacquot. My heart beat violently at the thought
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 175 
 
 of the dangers into which this expedition was about 
 to plunge me. Never in their most thrilling adven- 
 tures of warfare or the chase did the trappers of 
 Arkansas, the filibusters of South America, or the 
 buccaneers of St. Domingo, feel more keenly than I 
 the intoxication of peril. We mounted the stair- 
 case as far as it went, then we began on one of the 
 steepest of steep ladders, up which we struggled as 
 far as a skylight, through which Simon de Nantua 
 thrust one half of his body. I could now only see 
 his legs and his enormous posterior. First he called 
 Jacquot in wheedling tones, then he imitated Jac- 
 quot's raucous notes in case, I take it, the bird pre- 
 ferred the sound of his own organ to the speech of 
 man. Now he whistled, now he sang like a siren, 
 interrupting his incantations from time to time to 
 impart to me precepts in matters ranging from eti- 
 quette to ethics, and to instruct me how to blow my 
 nose in company, and how to comport myself to- 
 wards the powers that be. 
 
 The hours went by. As the sun declined^ the 
 shadows of the chimneys along the roofs grew longer 
 and longer. We were just beginning to despair, 
 when Jacquot hove in sight. The forecast of M. 
 Caumont's clerk was in a fair way to being brought 
 to pass. I thrust my head through the skylight, and 
 saw the parrot. He was coming along with diffi- 
 culty, balancing his bulky body, and slowly and gin- 
 gerly descending the sloping roof of the gable. It
 
 176 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 was he right enough, and he was making his way 
 towards me. I could not keep still for joy. He 
 was now quite close up. I did not dare to breathe. 
 Simon de Nantua hailed him in rousing tones, and, 
 taking the piece of bread soaked in wine, put it 
 on to his closed fist and held it out to him at arm's 
 length. Jacquot stopped short, darted a mistrustful 
 glance in our direction, turned back, flapped his 
 wings, and flew away. At first his flight was la- 
 boured, but gradually it grew more rapid and sus- 
 tained, and, at length, carried him as far as the 
 roof of a neighbouring house, where he disappeared 
 from view. The discomfiture of both of us was 
 great, but Simon de Nantua was not going to let 
 himself be beaten by a bit of bad luck. He stretched 
 forth his arm towards the ocean of roofs. 
 
 "After him!" he cried. 
 
 This masterful gesture, this short, sharp utterance 
 carried me away. I hung on to his old frock-coat 
 and, to relate the facts as they present themselves 
 to my recollection, I clove the air with him and de- 
 scended from the cloudy heights into an unknown 
 enclosure wherein there rose up facades of carved 
 stone. And I beheld a multitude of naked men; 
 huge, terrifying figures, floating in a sunless sky. 
 Some were upstaying there the weight of their 
 mighty frames, others were falling in desperate 
 headlong flight towards the dark verge where 
 hideous demons were waiting to seize them. This
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 177 
 
 vision filled me with a sort of religious terror. My 
 sight grew dim, my legs gave way beneath me. Such 
 are the facts as they appeared to my senses 
 and my understanding and as they remain graven 
 on my memory, and faithful is the account of them 
 I have here set down. Howbeit, if these facts are 
 to be subjected to the laws of the higher criticism 
 I must add that we, Simon *de Nantua and I, had 
 apparently descended the staircase with lightning 
 rapidity, run along the quay, turned down the Rue 
 Bonaparte and come to the cole des Beaux-Arts 
 where, through a half-open door, I caught sight of 
 a copy of Michael Angelo's "Last Judgment" 
 painted by Sigalon. This is only a hypothesis, but 
 it is a likely one. And now, without further com- 
 mitting ourselves to anything definite on this point, 
 let us continue our narrative. I had only a moment 
 to contemplate the floating giants, when I found my- 
 self, with Simon de Nantua at my side, in a spacious 
 quadrangle around which were to be seen beadles in 
 cocked hats, and young men with long hair shadowed 
 by wide-brimmed felts a la Rubens, and carrying 
 portfolios under their arms. The beadles said they 
 had seen nothing of the Comtesse Michaud's parrot. 
 The young men jocularly told Simon de Nantua to 
 put some salt on its tail if he wanted to catch it, or, 
 better still, to scratch its head. They swore that 
 there was nothing parrots liked better. And with a
 
 178 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 bow the young men begged us to present their com- 
 pliments to the Comtesse Michaud. 
 
 "Saucy young cubs !" said Simon de Nantua, and 
 he quitted the place in a huff. 
 
 Returning to the Comtesse Michaud's, we went 
 into the dining-room, and found what do you sup- 
 pose? The parrot himself back on his perch. He 
 was riding it with an unruffled, easy-going air, and 
 looked as though he had never left it. A few grains 
 of hempseed that lay scattered about the floor bore 
 witness to the fact that he had just had a meal. At 
 our approach, he turned on us an eye that was as 
 round and defiant as a cockade, swung to and fro on 
 his perch, ruffled his feathers, and opened wide the 
 beak whose curve determined the outline of his whole 
 countenance. An old lady, wearing a black lace 
 cap, her thin cheeks framed in white curls, doubt- 
 less the Comtesse Michaud, was seated near Jacquot. 
 At the sight of us she looked the other way. The 
 lady's maid went in and out of the room without 
 vouchsafing a word. Simon de Nantua kept fiddling 
 about with his hat, holding it first in one hand, then 
 in the other. He pretended to smile, but only 
 looked silly. At last Mathilde informed us, with- 
 out deigning to cast a look in our direction, that 
 Jacquot had just returned of his own accord, having 
 come in through the skylight in the attic where she 
 slept, and which the dear creature knew so well from
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 179 
 
 having so often been carried thither on his Mathilde's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "He would have come back all the sooner," she 
 added sourly, "if you hadn't frightened him away." 
 
 They did not ask us to stay, and, as Simon de Nan- 
 tua ruefully remarked to me as we were going down 
 the stairs, they did not so much as offer us a little 
 refreshment. 
 
 It was getting dark when I returned home. I 
 found the whole household in a state of consterna- 
 tion; my mother was feverishly excited, old Mela'nie 
 in tears, my father doing his best to appear calm. 
 They thought I had been kidnapped by gipsies or 
 travelling circus folk, or taken up by the police out- 
 side some shop with a crowd of hooligans, or at 
 the very least that I was lost and wandering about 
 in some far-off maze of streets. They had been to 
 find out whether I was at Madame Caumont's, or 
 at the Laroques' or at Madame Letord's, the print- 
 seller's. They had even gone to M. Clerot's, the 
 mapseller's, where I sometimes liked to wander to 
 contemplate a globe representing this earth, whereon 
 I deemed that I occupied no unimportant place. They 
 were just thinking, when I rang the bell, of going off 
 to notify the police. My mother looked at me very 
 carefully all over, touched my forehead and found 
 it moist, ran her fingers through my tangled hair 
 that was full of cobwebs, and said, 
 
 "But where have you been, to come home in such
 
 i8o LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 a state, without your hat, and a great hole in the 
 knee of your knickerbockers?" 
 
 I recounted my adventure, and how I had gone 
 with Simon de Nantua to look for the parrot. 
 
 "Well," she cried. "I should never have thought 
 M. Debas would dare to keep the child out the whole 
 afternoon without my permission and without let- 
 ting anyone know." 
 
 "You must put it down to his ignorance I" 
 said old Melanie, with a toss of her head. Melanie 
 was a good soul, but being humble and lowly she was 
 inclined to be down on her own class. 
 
 Dinner was served in the drawing-room, the 
 dining-room being totally out of the question. 
 
 "Pierre," said my father, when I had finished my 
 soup, "how was it you did not realize how terribly 
 anxious your mother would be at your being out all 
 that long time?" 
 
 I had to undergo a little more scolding, but, obvi- 
 ously, it was Simon de Nantua who was regarded as 
 the chief culprit. 
 
 My mother kept asking me about my climbing ad- 
 ventures, and seemed unable to shake off her terror 
 at the dangers I had been through. 
 
 I answered her that I had not been in any danger. 
 I tried to calm her, but, at the same time, I was 
 anxious to give proof of my powers and courage, 
 and, while I kept repeating that I had been careful 
 to run no risk, I represented myself as mounting
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 181 
 
 ladders suspended in space, scaling walls, clambering 
 over precipitous roofs, and careering along gutters. 
 At first, as she listened to my tale, a slight tremulous- 
 ness of the lips betrayed her emotion. Then, gradu- 
 ally recovering her serenity, she tossed her head and 
 finally burst out laughing in my face. I had over- 
 done it. And, when I told her how I had seen a 
 host of enormous naked men suspended in mid-air, 
 they put on the closure and sent me to bed. 
 
 The adventure of the parrot became famous in 
 our family and among our friends. My dear mamma 
 used to tell, not perhaps without a touch of motherly 
 pride, how I had raced along the house tops in com- 
 pany with M. Debas, whom she never forgave. My 
 godfather used to dub me ironically "the parrot 
 hunter;" M. Dubois himself, notwithstanding his 
 habitually grave demeanour, almost smiled as he 
 listened to so strange a story, and remarked that 
 with his green coat, his big head, his short thick 
 neck, his wide chest, squat figure and grim aspect, 
 the warlike parrot on his perch offers a pretty close 
 likeness to Napoleon on board the Northumberland. 
 And M. Marc Ribert too, when he heard this story, 
 M. Marc Ribert, the long-haired romanticist whose 
 clothes were of velvet, and who was given to dally- 
 ing with the Muses, would begin to murmur: 
 
 "In the springtime, pretty ring time, 
 
 There is naught so gay, I ween, 
 As the plumage of the parrot 
 
 Blue, grey, yellow, red and green."
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 UNCLE HYACINTHE 
 
 NE day when I went into the draw- 
 ingroom, I was very much taken 
 aback to find my mother in con- 
 versation with a rather fine-looking 
 old man, whom I had never seen be- 
 fore. His bare pate, encircled with 
 a coronal of silver hairs, was pink in hue. His com- 
 plexion was clear, his eyes blue, and a smile hovered 
 about his lips. He looked spruce and well shaven, 
 and a pair of mutton-chop whiskers befringed his 
 chubby cheeks. He was wearing a bunch of violets 
 in the buttonhole of his great coat. 
 
 "Is this your little chap, Antoinette?" he asked 
 when he saw me. "You'd take him for a girl, he 
 looks so soft and shy. You must give him plenty of 
 plum pudding if you're going to make a man of 
 him." 
 
 He signed to me to draw near, and laid his hand 
 on my shoulder 
 
 "Little man," he began, "you're just at the age 
 when life seems all smiles and caresses. One day 
 you'll find out that life is often hard and occasionally 
 
 unjust and cruel. For your sake I hope you won't 
 
 182
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 183 
 
 have to learn the lesson in too harsh a school. But 
 let me tell you this, and never forget it, that a stout 
 heart and a clear conscience will bring you through 
 anything." 
 
 Honesty and kindness seemed to beam in his 
 face. His voice went straight to your heart. It 
 was impossible not to be moved as he looked at you 
 with eyes that melted as he spoke. 
 
 "M on enfant," he went on, "Fortune has blessed 
 you with excellent parents who, when the time comes, 
 will give you their guidance in the difficult task of 
 choosing a career. Wouldn't you like to be a sol- 
 dier?" 
 
 My mother answered for me, and said she didn't 
 think so. 
 
 "It's a fine calling, though," the old fellow rattled 
 on. "One day, without food and without shelter, 
 the soldier flings himself down like a beggar on a 
 bed of straw, the next night he sups in a palace, and 
 the highest ladies in the land deem it an honour 
 to wait on him. He is familiar with every change 
 of fortune, with every mode of life. But if ever 
 you should have the honour to wear a soldier's uni- 
 form, remember, my son, that it is a soldier's duty 
 to protect the widow and the orphan, and to spare 
 the vanquished foe. He who speaks these words 
 to you bore arms under Napoleon the Great. Alas, 
 more than thirty years have now rolled by since the 
 god of battles quitted this earth, and now that he
 
 1 84 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 is gone there is no one left to rally our eagles to 
 the conquest of the world. Ah, my son, don't be a 
 soldier." 
 
 He pushed me gently from him, and, turning to 
 my mother, resumed the conversation which my ap- 
 pearance had interrupted. 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes, just a modest little place; something 
 after the style of a gamekeeper's cottage. Well, 
 then, it's settled, and, thanks to you, my dear An- 
 toinette I shall be able to have what I have always 
 longed for. After all the disappointments and the 
 ups and downs of life I shall taste the delights of 
 repose. I require so little to live on. I have always 
 hoped that I should be able to end my days in the 
 peace of the country." 
 
 He rose, kissed my mother's hand with a gallant 
 air, nodded affectionately at me, and took his depar- 
 ture. His mien was noble and his step was firm. 
 
 I was much surprised when I learned that this 
 amiable old gentleman was Uncle Hyacinthe, whom 
 I had never heard mentioned save in terms of horror 
 and reprobation, who brought with him disaster and 
 despair wherever he went, when, in short, I heard 
 that he was indeed that same Uncle Hyacinthe who 
 was the terror and black sheep of the family. My 
 parents had refused him the house; but Hyacinthe, 
 after ten years' silence, had, in a touching letter, just 
 announced to my mother that he intended retiring 
 to some hamlet in his native county if she would pro-
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 185 
 
 vide money to pay his fare and set him up in a little 
 home of his own. Once there, he said, he could 
 support himself by managing the estates of a foster 
 brother with whom he had always remained on ex- 
 cellent terms. My mother, all too ready to believe 
 his tale, and deaf to my father's advice, agreed to 
 lend him the money. 
 
 Some little time afterwards she learnt that, having 
 squandered in riotous living the funds received by 
 him for a different purpose, he had got a job as 
 bookkeeper and accountant at the establishment of 
 a marchand d'hommes in the Rue Saint-Honore. 
 Such was the name given to those who, for valuable 
 consideration provided rich young men anxious to 
 evade military service, with men to take their place. 
 These gentry did a roaring trade, but they were held 
 in scant esteem, and members of their staff could 
 hardly aspire to be greatly looked up to. They con- 
 gregated for the most part in a big house in the 
 Rue Saint-Honore at the corner of the Rue du 
 Coq, which was covered from top to bottom with 
 signs adorned with croix d'honneur and tricolour 
 flags. On the ground floor was a shop where they 
 sold second-hand epaulettes and N.C.O. stripes, and 
 a bar frequented by soldiers who had completed the 
 seven years' service required of them by the State, 
 and desired to rejoin the colours. Outside, by way 
 of signboard, there hung a picture painted on a 
 piece of sheet iron, representing two grenadiers
 
 1 86 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 seated at a table in an arbour, each of them pulling 
 the stopper from his jar of beer with so free and 
 lucky a sweep of the arm that each jet of the foam- 
 ing liquor, after describing a bold curve in the air, 
 descended neatly into his comrade's glass. It was 
 there, I am afraid, behind a pair of frowsy curtains, 
 that Uncle Hyacinthe busied himself with his new 
 duties, which consisted in making the discharged 
 soldiers gamble and drink so as to render them care- 
 less as to the price of their re-engagement Perhaps, 
 when I passed by this house in the Rue Saint-Honore, 
 it was the gaiety of the sign that helped me to bear 
 with equanimity the sight of the dram shop in which 
 the good name of the family was being dragged in 
 the mire. 
 
 Hyacinthe who, albeit no scholar, was good at 
 figures and a quick reckoner had, what used to be 
 called in those days, a good hand. That is to say 
 he was a skilful penman. One conspicuous example 
 of his work was a copy of Bonaparte's proclamation 
 to the troops in Italy. It was written in microscopic 
 characters, and the lines were so arranged as to 
 form a portrait of the First Consul. He became a 
 conscript in 1813, and was promoted to the rank of 
 adjutant the following year, during the campaign in 
 France. He used to boast of having had a conver- 
 sation with the Emperor one night, when the army 
 was bivouacking near Craonne. 
 
 "Sire," said Hyacinthe, "we will shed our last drop
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 187 
 
 of blood under your leadership, for you are the 
 living symbol of Freedom and of our native land." 
 
 "Hyacinthe," replied the Emperor, "you have 
 read me aright." 
 
 Our only knowledge of this interview, let me 
 hasten to add, is derived from the account given of 
 it by Hyacinthe himself, who, we have his own word 
 for it, covered himself with glory next day at 
 Craonne. As the most splendid deeds occasionally 
 bring about the most undesirable results, it came to 
 pass that Hyacinthe, having blossomed out into a 
 hero in the space of a few moments, considered he 
 had earned a lifelong emancipation from all those 
 rules and obligations by which ordinary folk are en- 
 cumbered, and thenceforward respected neither God 
 nor man. He had squandered all his virtue in a 
 single day. It is doubtful whether he was at Water- 
 loo, and this point will probably never be settled. 
 Even at this early stage he was a great haunter of 
 taverns and would rather talk about his exploits than 
 repeat them. When, in 1815, he was just completing 
 his twenty-second year, he got his discharge. A hand- 
 some, strapping, upstanding blade, he was the darling 
 of the sex and no feminine heart was p'roof against 
 his blandishments. He was beloved by one of my 
 mother's aunts, a well-to-do yeoman's daughter. He 
 consented to marry her and played ducks and drakes 
 with her money. By betraying, ill-treating and de- 
 serting her he afforded her numerous opportunities
 
 1 88 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 of proving how fervently she idolized, how madly 
 she loved him. Careful, even stingy, with her money, 
 she would simply throw it away where he was con- 
 cerned. He might have been seen at this period, 
 between Paris and Pontoise, wearing a grey hat with 
 a steel buckle and a very broad crown, a green frock- 
 coat with gold buttons, nankeen breeches and patent 
 leather top boots, driving a two-wheeled dog-cart, 
 altogether an admirable subject for a picture by 
 Carle Vernet. Frequenting the Bazuf a> la Mode 
 and the Rocher de Cancale, in the company of women 
 of the town, and passing his nights in brothels and 
 gambling dens, it only took him a few years to get 
 through his wife's property fields, meadows, woods, 
 mill and all. Having reduced the poor devoted 
 thing to beggary, he abandoned her, to go off on a 
 career of adventure with a man named Huguet who 
 had once been a postmaster. Huguet was an ill- 
 dressed, bandy-legged, dried-up little wisp of a man 
 whom Hyacinthe made his servant, his partner and 
 sometimes, when there were any risks to be run, his 
 employer. Huguet was a rogue and had swindled 
 people right and left, but to Hyacinthe he showed 
 himself the most faithful, the most generous and the 
 noblest of friends. Huguet, who was a Royalist and 
 a bit of a firebrand, and who, moreover, had brought 
 the White Terror into Aveyron, his native place, 
 turned Bonapartist because of his regard for his be- 
 loved Hyacinthe, who was a Bonapartist because it
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 189 
 
 paid him. Hyacinthe dressed for the part. He wore 
 a long frock-coat buttoned up to the chin, a bunch 
 of violets in his buttonhole and carried a club 
 in his hand. On the Boulevard de Gand, sur- 
 rounded by a few brothers in arms, and Huguet 
 following behind like a spaniel, he used to anathema- 
 tize England for keeping Napoleon in captivity and 
 when he came out of the tavern he would face north- 
 west and pointing an avenging finger toward la 
 perfide dlbion denounce her monstrous conduct. 
 His lips moved in silent prayer for the advent of the 
 Kingdom of the Son of Man. If he met some loyal 
 subject of the King decorated with a silver lily he 
 would give an inaudible grunt and say, "There goes 
 another companion of Ulysses." If he could lay hold 
 of a dog without being seen, he would tie a white 
 cockade on to its tail. But he never got involved in 
 plots or conspiracies. He did not even fight duels. 
 Uncle Hyacinthe was like Panurge. He had a natu- 
 ral dislike to being hit. Huguet supplied the pluck 
 and was always ready for a set-to. Being reduced to 
 living by his wits, Hyacinthe set up as a professor 
 of writing and bookkeeping in the Rue Montmatre. 
 Huguet scrubbed the floor and grilled the sausages, 
 and Hyacinthe, while waiting for the pupils to come, 
 operated on the quills like a master in the art, placing 
 the point on his left thumbnail so that he might 
 bring down the knife with the skill of an adept and 
 make the requisite slit. But in vain he sat and
 
 190 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 trimmed his quills, in vain a notice, writ in round- 
 hand copper plate, Gothic and sloping, hung up at 
 the front door enumerated the various diplomas of 
 the expert caligraphist and certificated accountant. 
 Not a pupil came. Then he started as an agent for 
 a life insurance company. His fine presence and 
 persuasive address would have brought him many 
 clients, but wine and women accounted for his initial 
 profits and prevented him from getting any subse- 
 quent ones, and this, despite the zeal displayed by 
 Huguet, who did the touting on his friend's behalf, 
 but met with no success because he squinted horribly, 
 reeked of wine, and had a stammering tongue, and 
 because persuasion abode not within his lips. After 
 this set back the two cronies set up a fencing school in 
 a plaster-caste maker's studio at Montrouge. Hya- 
 cinthe was the master, Huguet his assistant. As the 
 moulder continued to make use of the studio in his 
 own hours, the plaster which filled the chinks in the 
 floor rose up at every assault, covered the feet of 
 the fencers and enveloped them in a cloud of pungent 
 dust which made them weep and sneeze beneath their 
 masks. It was wine and women again that put an 
 end to this attempt to follow the noble profession 
 of arms. After trying a few other lines of business 
 of which no record remains, Hyacinthe conceived 
 the brilliant idea of exploiting "The Elixir of the 
 Old Man of the Mountain," prepared in accordance 
 with the formula of Dr. Gibet. Huguet distilled
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 191 
 
 the liquor and Hyacinthe "placed" it with the grocers 
 and chemists. But this partnership was brief and 
 looked as if it was going to have an ugly sequel, for 
 the police began to suspect that "Giber, Doctor of 
 Medicine," was nothing but a fraud. It is believed 
 in some quarters that Huguet, the distiller, had a 
 month or two's experience of prison life over the 
 business. Hyacinthe then placed his faculties at the 
 service of the State and became a market inspector. 
 He exercised his functions at night, but he was more 
 often found in the tavern than at his post, and, al- 
 though his friend Huguet did his best to understudy 
 him, he was several times reprimanded and finally 
 dismissed. This decision was regarded as a political 
 measure. In the person of Hyacinthe the authori- 
 ties were persecuting one of Napoleon's old soldiers. 
 This gained him the assistance of certain liberals who 
 procured him a berth as a copyist and he thought no 
 small beer of himself when he had to copy "Les 
 Plaideurs sans proces," a three-act comedy in verse 
 by M. fitienne. "M. fitienne," said Hyacinthe, 
 "deserves less kudos for having got into the Insti- 
 tute by merit than for being turned out of it again 
 by a King." It is, of course, a fact that in 1816 
 fitienne was expelled from the Institute after its reor- 
 ganization. Meanwhile, at Hyacinthe's instigation, 
 Huguet took up the wine trade and defrauded the 
 Customs, which earned him some five thousand 
 francs profit and six months in gaol. "Not the worst
 
 192 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 bit of business I have done by a long chalk," said 
 Huguet, on reflection. Such cynicism was revolting 
 to the hero of Craonne, who had principles, pro- 
 fessed the moral code of the Savoyard vicar supple- 
 mented by the sense of military honour and incul- 
 cated in Huguet, over their potations, what he owed 
 to duty and the law. "Keep to the narrow path, or 
 get back to it if you have strayed from it. Innocence 
 or repentance," such was the old soldier's motto. 
 Huguet, as he listened to him, gazed at him in ad- 
 miration and wept into his glass. Seeing him thus 
 rehabilitated by repentance, Hyacinthe joined him 
 in the formation of a company for the distribution 
 of books and printed matter in the city of Paris. 
 It did not prove a success. It was, I think, 
 shortly after this discomfiture that Hyacinthe came 
 to interview my mother, as I have already related, 
 and became secretary to a marchand d'hommes. 
 
 His enterprises had one thing in their favour: 
 they were very short lived. He did not remain long 
 buying men at the sign of The Two Grenadiers. 
 No one knows what he did after that. His final oc- 
 cupation was the only one known to his family. 
 Hyacinthe, who by this time was a very old man, 
 opened an office in the back room of a tavern in the 
 Rue Rambuteau. Seated at a table with a bottle of 
 white wine and a bag of roasted chestnuts in front 
 of him, he gave advice to the little local tradesfolk 
 as to how to get out of paying their debts and avoid
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 193 
 
 legal proceedings. I don't know whether I have 
 mentioned it, but Uncle Hyacinthe was a genius at 
 chicanery. This trait gives the finishing touch to 
 his portrait. Cunning, tricky, familiar with all the 
 tortuosities of legal procedure, he could have given 
 points to Chicaneau himself. The sight of a writ 
 caused him to rub his hands with glee. In his little 
 back office he also acted as secretary to the female 
 domestics round about. His friend Huguet, shriv- 
 elled up, lame but still alert, had not forsaken him. 
 They slept in an outhouse behind the tavern. Huguet 
 taxed all his resources to keep his friend's pipe 
 charged with tobacco. One night he was stabbed 
 between the shoulders in an affray with some roughs. 
 He was taken to the hospital, where Hyacinthe 
 went to visit him. Huguet smiled on him and 
 gave up the ghost. Hyacinthe returned to his la- 
 bours, drawing up leases and acting as counsel and 
 secretary to distressful shopkeepers and lovelorn 
 scullery-maids. But his beautiful handwriting began 
 to get shaky, his sight drew dim and his head nodded. 
 For hours at a stretch he would sit dozing and va- 
 cant. Six weeks after Huguet's death, he fell down 
 in an apoplectic fit. They took him away to the 
 house in the Rue du Sabot where his poor wife was 
 living in a single room. She had not set eyes on him 
 for forty years, but she loved him just as dearly as 
 on their wedding day. She nursed him with the most 
 loving care. Paralysed all down his left side and
 
 194 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 dragging one leg, he scarcely ever moved and hardly 
 said a word. Every morning she would help him 
 from his bed to the window where he would sit the 
 whole day looking towards the sun. She filled his 
 pipe for him and her eyes never left him. Six months 
 later he had a second stroke and lived for six days 
 unable to move. His speech had quite gone, he 
 could only mutter unintelligible sounds; but just as 
 he was dying they thought they could hear him call- 
 ing out for Huguet. 
 
 My father never mentioned Uncle Hyacinthe's 
 name. My mother avoided speaking of him. Nev- 
 ertheless, she often told the following story which, 
 in her eyes, summed up the frivolous and deceitful 
 character of the man. 
 
 It was at the time of the Revolution of 1830. 
 Hyacinthe, though past his fortieth year, was still a 
 man about town, and home life bored him. During 
 the Trois Glorieuses he lay low hoping the people 
 would win the day. On the 3Oth July, after the de- 
 fection of the royal troops, when the firing had quite 
 ceased, and the tricolour was floating over the Tuil- 
 eries, our gentleman ventured to show his nose out of 
 doors. For reasons best known to himself, he want- 
 ed to get to a place at the corner of the Bastille and 
 the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. He was living at the 
 time near the Barriere de 1'fitoile, an out-of-the-way 
 and lonely place. To achieve his object he would 
 either have had to foot it, beneath a scorching sun.
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 195 
 
 along streets with the pavement torn up, and get past 
 more than thirty barricades guarded by the people, 
 or he would have had to go a long way round 
 through some very unsafe quarters of the city. To 
 get over the difficulty Hyacinthe bethought him of 
 an ingenious device. He betook himself to a neigh- 
 bour of his who kept a little eating house, soaked a 
 piece of linen in some rabbit's blood, tied it round 
 his head and got the landlord and a boy to carry him 
 up to the first barricade, which was hard by on the 
 Faubourg du Roule. As he had anticipated, the men 
 guarding the barricade thought he had been wound- 
 ed. They took him from his bearers and conveyed 
 him past the obstacle with every possible care. That 
 done, they gave him a glass of wine and picked out 
 two of their number to carry him along on a 
 stretcher. A procession formed and increased in 
 numbers as they went along. A student from the 
 ficole Polytechnique marched at its head with drawn 
 sword. Some working men with their shirt sleeves 
 rolled up and sprigs of evergreen thrust into their 
 rifle barrels, marched on either side of the stretcher 
 shouting: 
 
 "Honour the brave!" 
 
 Some printers' apprentices, recognizable by their 
 paper caps, bakers' men clad all in white, school- 
 boys wearing the epaulettes and leather trappings of 
 the Guard, an urchin of ten in a shako that came
 
 196 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 right down over his ears, brought up the rear and 
 kept calling out: 
 
 "Honour the brave I" 
 
 Women knelt down as they passed, others tossed 
 flowers to the stricken hero and laid tricolour rib- 
 bons and laurel branches on the stretcher. At the 
 corner of the Rue Saint-Florentin, a grocer of liberal 
 convictions delivered himself of an harangue and 
 presented him with a medal stamped with a figure of 
 La Fayette. As the procession hove in sight, the 
 defenders of the barricades dragged paving stones, 
 casks, carts and everything out of the way in order 
 to clear a passage for the wounded man. All along 
 the route the rebel sentries presented arms, drums 
 beat a salute, bugles sounded. Shouts of "Hurrah 
 for the people's defender. Hurrah for the supporter 
 of the Charter I Long live the champion of Liberty" 
 mounted up through a glare of dust and sunlight to 
 a brazen sky. At every drink-shop glasses filled with 
 ruby liquid flew to the lips of the unknown hero 
 stretched on his couch of glory, and whole bottles 
 went to slake the thirst of his bearers who were 
 smoking like cassolettes. 
 
 And Uncle Hyacinthe was deposited with honour 
 in the shop of Madame Constance, laundress, at 
 the corner of the Place de la Bastille and the Fau- 
 bourg Saint-Antoine.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 BARA 
 
 HAT I find fault with," said my 
 mother, after recounting this 
 episode of a disreputable career "is 
 that Hyacinthe, by this piece of 
 trickery, usurped the prerogatives 
 of misfortune and counterfeited a 
 victim." 
 
 "He ran a big risk in so doing," said my god- 
 father. "The popular enthusiasm he had excited 
 would have immediately turned to fury if he had 
 been found out. He would have been treated with 
 ignominy by those who had honoured him as a noble 
 citizen and he might have been torn to pieces by 
 the furies who had given him drink. An armed mob 
 is capable of any outrage. Nevertheless it must be 
 allowed that the Parisian populace displayed much 
 restraint during the Trois Glorieuses and in no wise 
 abused their victory. The wealthy middle classes 
 and the learned societies fought side by side with 
 working men; the students of the ficole Polytech- 
 nique did a great deal to make success a certainty. 
 . And for the most part they distinguished themselves 
 by acts of heroism and humanity. 
 
 "One of them, who made his way into the Chateau 
 197
 
 198 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 at the head of a band of popular troops, called on 
 the Royal Guards to surrender. They held the butt- 
 end of their rifles in the air in token of submission, 
 but the old captain who commanded them rushed 
 furiously, sword in hand, upon the Polytechnique 
 student. The latter, just as the sword was at his 
 breast, turned it aside and managed to wrest it 
 away. He then returned it to the officer saying, 
 'Monsieur, take back this sword which you have 
 wielded with honour on so many fields of battle but 
 which you will never more employ against the peo- 
 ple.' The Captain, overcome with admiration and 
 gratitude, removed the Cross of the Legion of 
 Honour from his tunic and presented it to his young 
 adversary saying, 'Doubtless the country will one 
 day confer this decoration upon you. Permit me 
 now to offer you the insignia.' In this civil struggle, 
 it was the sentiment of honour and patriotism that 
 diminished the bitterness between the combatants." 
 
 My godfather had scarcely finished his story when 
 M. Marc Ribert began on another: 
 
 "On the 28th July," he said, "when the Parisian 
 troops on the Place de l'H6tel-de-Ville were be- 
 coming demoralized under a heavy fire, a young man, 
 bearing a tricolour flag fixed to the point of a lance, 
 rushed forward to within ten paces of the Garde 
 Royale crying, 'Citizens, see how sweet it is to die 
 for freedom !' And he fell, riddled with bullets." 
 
 My mother, touched at the recital of these heroic
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 199 
 
 deeds, asked how it was that such noble acts were 
 not more generally known and more widely cele- 
 brated. 
 
 My godfather gave many reasons : 
 
 "The wars of the Monarchy, of the Revolution 
 and of the Empire have saturated the history of 
 France with acts of heroism, so that there is no 
 room for any more. Besides, the glory attaching to 
 the conquerors of July is obliterated by the insignifi- 
 cance of their success. They did but bring about the 
 triumph of mediocrity, and the dynasty that came 
 into being as a result of their devotion never cared 
 to recall its origins, so, you see, even heroes are not 
 immune from the caprices of destiny." 
 
 "Possibly," said my mother, "yet it is a great pity 
 that a noble deed should sink into oblivion." 
 
 On hearing this, old M. Dubois, who had been 
 toying with his snuff-box during the whole conversa- 
 tion, turned his great calm countenance upon my 
 mother. 
 
 "Do not be too eager to tax Fate with injustice, 
 Madame Noziere. All these brave deeds, all these 
 fine speeches, are but fables and empty hearsay. If 
 it is impossible to give an accurate account of things 
 said and done in an attentive and orderly assembly, 
 is one likely, my dear madame, to be able to take 
 stock of a gesture or a speech amid the tumult of a 
 combat. It matters little to me, gentlemen, that 
 your stories are imaginary and without any founda-
 
 200 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 tion in fact; what is of prime importance is that 
 their whole conception is alien alike to Nature and 
 to Art, they lack the beautiful simplicity that is 
 the sole preservative against the corrosion of time. 
 That is why we should let them moulder undisturbed 
 in those back Christmas numbers in which they lie 
 embalmed. Historic truth is not concerned with 
 those magnificent examples of heroism that are ban- 
 died about from mouth to mouth, from one genera- 
 tion to another; they have no existence outside the 
 realms of Art and Poetry. I know not whether 
 Bara, the youth whose life the Chouans promised to 
 spare on condition that he shouted, 'Long live the 
 King,' actually shouted 'Long live the Republic,' and 
 so fell pierced by a score of bayonets as a reward 
 I know not, nor ever shall know. But I do know 
 that the picture of the child, laying down his life, 
 still in its very flower, for Freedom's sake, brings 
 tears into our eyes and fire into our hearts, and that 
 no more perfect symbol of sacrifice could possibly be 
 imagined. I know, too, I know above all, that when 
 David, the sculptor, brings this child before me in all 
 his pure and charming artlessness, giving himself up 
 to death with the serenity of the stricken amazon 
 in the Vatican, his cockade clasped to his bosom, and 
 in his death-cold hand one of the drumsticks with 
 which he had been sounding the charge, the miracle 
 is wrought, the boy-hero is created, Bara lives, Bara 
 is immortal I"
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 MELANIE 
 
 BOUT this time a cruel blow fell upon 
 me. Melanie began to fail. Up to 
 then, the different ages of man had 
 only affected me by their amusing 
 diversity. Old age I liked because 
 it was picturesque, sometimes comic 
 and easy to make fun of; I had yet to learn that it 
 was burdensome and sad. Yes, Melanie was grow- 
 ing old! Her basket began to weigh over-heavily 
 on her arm, and when she came in from her shop- 
 ping, you could hear her troubled breathing from 
 the foot of the stairs through all the rooms. Her 
 eyes were dim, dimmer than the ever-clouded glasses 
 of her spectacles, and they were growing weaker 
 day by day. Her failing sight caused her to make 
 mistakes which at first made me laugh, but which 
 soon began to distress me, so frequent and so woe- 
 ful they became. She would take the lump of bees- 
 wax she kept to polish the floor for a crust of bread, 
 and a soiled duster for the chicken she had just 
 plucked. One day, thinking to sit down on her 
 stool, she sat down instead on a toy theatre my 
 godfather had given me. She was so mortally terri- 
 fied at the crash that she forgot all about saying 
 
 201
 
 202 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 she was sorry. Her memory was going; she mixed 
 up the different periods of her life. She would talk 
 about the open-air ball that took place at the Em- 
 peror's Coronation when she danced with the Mayor 
 of the village, and tell how, at the time of the in- 
 vasion, she had refused, at some peril to herself, to 
 kiss a Cossack who was billeted at the farm, re- 
 ferring to these events as if they had just recently 
 happened. She repeated the same stories over and 
 over again, and was everlastingly telling us how bit- 
 terly cold the weather was on the i5th December, 
 1840, when the Emperor was brought back to Paris 
 from St. Helena. His petit chapeau and his sword 
 had been placed on his coffin. She had seen them, 
 but nevertheless, she did not believe that he was 
 dead. She began to worry herself and get muddled. 
 She could not quit the kitchen for a minute without 
 being afraid she had left the water running, and 
 her fear lest the place should be flooded spoiled all 
 those walks of ours that had once been so happy 
 and free from care. 
 
 I thought it odd that my old nurse should be like 
 this, but it did not disturb me, for I did not realize 
 that she would grow worse ; but one evening I heard 
 my father and mother talking together in an under- 
 tone: 
 
 "Melanie is failing every day, my dear. You can 
 see it." 
 
 "She is like a lamp going out for want of oil."
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 203 
 
 "Do you think it's safe for Pierrot to go about 
 with her out of doors?" 
 
 "Ah, my dear Antoinette, she loves the child too 
 well not to have enough strength and intelligence 
 left in her old heart still to take good care of him." 
 
 These words came as a revelation to me. I un- 
 derstood and I wept. The idea that life is fleet- 
 ing, that it flows by like a stream, then dawned on me 
 for the first time, and from that day forth I clung 
 with wistful eagerness to my old nurse's bony arms 
 and toil-worn hands. I flung my arms about her, 
 but even then she had eluded me. 
 
 During that summer, which was a very fine one, 
 her strength improved and her memory came back. 
 She bloomed anew, bustling about round her oven 
 and her saucepans, and I began to tease her again. 
 She went and did her daily shopping, and came back 
 not too much out of breath, and did not find her 
 basket over-heavy. It was like old times again. But 
 when the wet days returned, she complained of feel- 
 ing giddy. "I'm like a tipsy woman," she used to 
 declare. One day she went out as usual. A little 
 while later there was a ring at the door. It was 
 M. Menage, who had discovered Melanie in a faint- 
 ing fit at the foot of the staircase. She soon came 
 round again and my father said she would get over 
 it that time. I looked at M. Menage with eager 
 curiosity and studied him with an attentiveness be- 
 yond my years, for I had made greater progress in
 
 204 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 observation than in manners. It was true that M. 
 Menage had a red, forked beard, that he wore a 
 Rubens hat and breeches a la hussarde. But he did 
 not look at all the sort of man to drink blazing 
 punch from a dead man's skull. Laying Melanie on 
 the sofa, he raised her head and performed the of- 
 fice of the Good Samaritan quite unaffectedly. He 
 seemed gentle and intelligent. With his fine eyes, 
 sad, tender eyes with a hint of weariness in them, he 
 gazed about him in a friendly way, and I thought I 
 saw them light up with a smile as they lingered oil 
 my mother's beautiful hair. He looked at me with 
 as much benevolence as a plain child was calculated 
 to inspire, and advised my parents to let Nature, 
 that source of all energy, have her way with me. 
 
 M. Menage was warmly complimented and 
 thanked. My mother was visibly touched by his 
 thoughtfulness in bringing back the basket. Me- 
 lanie alone showed no gratitude to the painter for 
 coming to her rescue. He had once gravely of- 
 fended her by drawing a suppliant Cupid on her 
 bedroom door, and she had never forgiven him for 
 taking such a liberty, so potent is the sense of honour 
 in the bosom of a virtuous woman. 
 
 As the doctor had prognosticated, our old servant 
 recovered sufficiently to get about again, but it was 
 clearly time for her to give up work. 
 
 There was a deal of whispering behind the scenes, 
 a lot of sighing, wiping away of tears, and tying up
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 205 
 
 of parcels. Covert references were made to one of 
 Melanie's nieces who had married a farmer named 
 Denisot, and worked a farm with her husband at 
 Jouy-en-Josas. 
 
 One morning this niece appeared, humble and 
 grim, a tall, gaunt, swarthy woman. Her teeth were 
 very big, but few in number. She had come to fetch 
 her Aunt Melanie and to take her away to her home 
 at Jouy. I felt that it was useless to resist, and I 
 burst into tears. We kissed good-bye. To comfort 
 me, my mother promised to take me to Jouy one 
 day soon. Poor old Melanie was more dead than 
 alive, but I was struck by one profound and subtle 
 thing about her. I saw that when she took off her 
 apron she had severed the ties that had bound her 
 to bourgeois life, and that she was now a person 
 between myself and whom there was no longer any 
 bond of union; she was now, in short, a peasant, and 
 I knew that my beloved Melanie was lost to me be- 
 yond recall. 
 
 We went out to see her into the trap in which she 
 was to take her seat beside her niece. A flick of 
 the whip at the mare's ears and off they went. The 
 little white circular crown of her rustic cap looked 
 like a cheese, and I watched it disappear into the 
 distance. That was my first sorrow, and I feel it 
 still. 
 
 By losing Melanie I was losing more than I knew. 
 I was bidding good-bye to the sweetness and joy
 
 206 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 of my earliest childhood. My mother, who knew 
 Melanie's worth, was generous enough to feel no 
 jealousy at the love I bore my old nurse, and, if that 
 love was not so great or so august as that which I 
 kept for my mother, it was, perhaps, more tender 
 and assuredly more "intimate." 
 
 Melanie's heart was as simple as my own. It 
 was because there were no sophisticated ideas be- 
 tween us that we were so near to each other. Me- 
 lanie was already old when I was born, and she was 
 not given to mirth. That indeed she could not be, 
 for her life had been a hard one, but her shining 
 innocence was to her instead of youth, instead of 
 mirthfulness. 
 
 No less, nay more, than my mother herself, Me- 
 lanie formed my mode of speech. That, I have no 
 cause to regret. Unlettered as she was, she spoke 
 well. 
 
 She spoke well because the words she used were 
 the words that persuade, the words that console. 
 When I tumbled down on the gravel and grazed my 
 knees or the tip of my nose, she spoke healing and 
 comfortable words. If I told her a lie, if I showed 
 selfishness, if I flew into a passion, she would utter 
 the words which bring back to the heart confidence 
 and strength and peace. To her I owe the basis of 
 my moral code, and the additions I have since made 
 thereto are not so firm as that old foundation. 
 
 From the lips of my old nurse, I learnt sound
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 207 
 
 honest French. Melanie's speech was the speech of 
 the peasantry, it smacked of the countryside. She 
 used to say castrole, ormoirc and colidor (instead 
 of casserole, armoire, and corridor.)* With that ex- 
 ception she could have instructed more than one pro- 
 fessor, more than one academician, in the art of 
 speaking. From her lips there flowed the light, 
 limpid diction of our forefathers. Not knowing 
 how to read, she pronounced her words as she had 
 heard them as a child, and they from whom she had 
 learned them were untutored folk who spoke as 
 with the voice of Nature herself. And thus it was 
 that MelamVs way of talking was both natural and 
 seemly. Words as rich in colour and as full of 
 
 * When educated people like ourselves say If lierre for I'ierre 
 and It lendemain for I' en demain, we ought not to turn up our noses 
 when we hear common folk talk. Melanie used to say une legume 
 and canefon for calefon; but just a moment! You find une legume 
 in La Bruyere and canefon is in the Etat de la France pour 1692. 
 This reminds me of a story which Melanie once told me, and which 
 I cannot refrain from setting down here. One day during that 
 lovely summer which was destined to be the last we were to spend 
 together, as she was sitting on a seat in the Luxembourg, I fell to 
 devouring her wrinkled cheeks with kisses. Whereat the dear old 
 thing, pretending to be alarmed, cried: "Why, are you going to eat 
 me all up, mon petit monsieur! Have you turned into a were- 
 wolf?" 
 
 I asked her what a were-wolf was. She didn't answer my 
 question, but this is the story she told me: 
 
 "In my young days there was a certain boy concerning whom 
 the report got about at the village inn that he was a wolf and 
 was destined to eat his mother. The boy, who was simple-minded, 
 took it seriously. When he returned home that night he went up to 
 his mother, who had gone to bed, and said to her: 
 
 " 'Mother, my poor mother, I have got to eat you. Give me your 
 blessing. I am going to devour you . . .' " 
 
 At this point Melanie stopped short. In vain I urged her to 
 continue. She would tell me no more. There was this excellent 
 characteristic about Melanie's stories they never ended.
 
 208 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 savour as the fruits of our orchards came to her with- 
 out effort. Her discourse abounded in humorous 
 saws, wise proverbs, and illustrations drawn from 
 the life of Held and farmstead.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 RADEGONDE 
 
 T'S a little servant, dear," said my 
 mother to Dr. Noziere, "a little 
 maid from Tours recommended by 
 Madame Caumont. I should rather 
 like you to see her. She has only 
 been in one place before, and that 
 was at an old maiden lady's somewhere near Tours. 
 They say she is thoroughly trustworthy." 
 
 And indeed it was high time, for the peace and 
 order of our establishment, that we should get an 
 honest servant from somewhere. During the period 
 it was rather more than a year that had elapsed 
 since Melanie left, we had had a dozen or so of 
 servants, of whom the better ones departed as soon 
 as they found that money was none too plentiful. 
 We had had Sycorax who cultivated a beard on her 
 chin and provided us with nutriment from her 
 witch's cauldron. Then we had a girl of eighteen 
 with a very pretty face. She knew nothing of house- 
 work, but my mother thought she would be able to 
 train her. She went off after three days, with half a 
 dozen silver spoons and forks. Next we had some 
 
 one who had escaped from the Salpetriere; she said 
 
 209
 
 210 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 she was a daughter of Louis Philippe and wore a 
 string of corks round her neck. And my father a 
 member of the faculty had been the last, dear, 
 good, simple man, to perceive that she was off her 
 head. Then there was La Chouette who slept all 
 day when she ought to have been working, and at 
 night, when we imagined she was in her attic, ran a 
 little tavern down at the far end of a court, in the 
 Rue Mouffetard, where she dispensed the wine she 
 had stolen from our cellar to a gang of thieves and 
 vagabonds. For the rest, she was a first-rate cook, a 
 thorough expert in the art, said my godfather, and 
 he knew what he was talking about. Hortense Per- 
 cepied, the last, was, like Penelope, awaiting the 
 return of her spouse who had gone off to Icaria with 
 Cabot; she also resembled Penelope in that she 
 attracted a number of suitors who used to come and 
 take their meals in the kitchen. 
 
 There was the same complaint among the middle 
 classes in those days as there is now. "You can't 
 get servants anywhere. Things are not what they 
 used to be when you could pick up a good, faithful, 
 steady-going maid without any trouble. Now things 
 are quite different." Some people blamed the Revo- 
 lution, which, they said, had put all sorts of high- 
 falutin notions into the heads of the working-classes 
 and made them dissatisfied. But when were people 
 not dissatisfied? The truth of the matter is that 
 good masters and good servants are rare and always
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 211 
 
 have been. You don't often come across an Epic- 
 tetus or a Marcus Aurelius in your journeys up and 
 down the world. 
 
 My dear mamma awaited the arrival of the new 
 maid not indeed with a blind confidence, for that was 
 not her way, but certainly not without a favourable 
 presentiment which she was at no pains to conceal. 
 Whence did this arise? It was because she was told 
 that she was a respectable girl, the daughter of 
 honest countryfolk, and that she had been trained 
 in housework by an old maiden lady who belonged 
 to a family of soldiers and magistrates in the prov- 
 inces; moreover, my mother had it from the Abbe 
 Moinier, her confessor, that it is a great sin to give 
 way to despair. 
 
 "What is she called?" asked my father. 
 
 "She can be called what you like, dear. She was 
 christened Radegonde." 
 
 "I don't care much about the present-day fashion 
 of tampering with servant's names; it seems to me 
 that if you take away the names of members of the 
 human society, you rob them of a part of their per- 
 sonality. Still, I confess Radegonde is rather a 
 mouthful." 
 
 When the young girl was announced, my mother 
 did not send me out of the room ; this may have been 
 because she forgot to do so (for it was a charming 
 characteristic of hers that she mingled a certain 
 thoughtlessness with the most watchful prudence)
 
 212 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 or because she thought there was no objection to my 
 taking part in an innocent domestic interview. Rade- 
 gonde stumped in with big, loud strides. She planted 
 herself in the middle of the drawing-room and stood 
 bolt upright, motionless and mute, her hands folded 
 over her apron, half scared, half defiant. She was 
 very young, little more than a child. She had a 
 florid complexion, and she was neither fair nor dark, 
 neither plain nor good-looking. There was a simple, 
 yet wide-awake look about her which afforded an 
 amusing contrast. She was dressed like the humblest 
 little country girl of her district, but yet not without 
 a certain splendour; her hair was gathered up be- 
 neath a lace cap with a great flat top to it, her 
 shoulders were covered with a flower-patterned scar- 
 let shawl. She was very serious and very comic. She 
 took my fancy right away, and I noticed that my 
 parents were not displeased with her. My mother 
 asked her if she could sew. She replied , "Yes, 
 madam." "Cook?" "Yes, madam." "Iron?" 
 "Yes, madam." "Turn out a room?" "Yes, 
 madam." "Do mending?" "Yes, madam." 
 
 If my mother had asked her whether she could 
 forge cannon, build cathedrals, compose poems, rule 
 nations, she would still have replied, "Yes, madam," 
 because obviously she said "Yes," without any re- 
 gard to the meaning of the questions asked her, out 
 of pure politeness, because she thought it was the 
 proper thing, and because her parents had taught
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 213 
 
 her that it was not good manners to say no to 
 your superiors: 
 
 "Or d'aller lui dire non, 
 Sans quelque valable excuse, 
 Ce n'est pas comme on en use 
 Avec des divinites." 
 
 Thus says La Fontaine who would never have been 
 able to say no to Mademoiselle de Sillery. 
 
 But my mother made no further inquiries regard- 
 ing the qualifications of the little village maiden. She 
 told her gently but firmly that she required her to be 
 neat in appearance and always to be well conducted, 
 promised to write to her as soon as she had come 
 to a decision, and dismissed her with the faintest 
 suspicion of a smile. As she withdrew, little Rade- 
 gonde somehow or other caught the pocket of her 
 apron on the door handle. This incident was ob- 
 served by me alone. I noted every circumstance, and 
 I was struck with the look of surprise and reproach 
 which Radegonde gave the offending door knob as 
 though it had been an evil spirit trying to hold her 
 captive, as we read in fairy tales. 
 
 "What do you think of her, Francois?" said my 
 mother. 
 
 "She is very young," replied the doctor, "and 
 then . . ." 
 
 Peradventure he may at that moment have caught 
 a vague and fleeting notion of the genius of Rade- 
 
 Now to go and say no without a valid excuse that's not the 
 way to behave with gods and goddesses.
 
 214 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 gonde, but it vanished ere he gave it utterance. 
 He did not finish what he was saying. For me, 
 little as I was, and on a level with little things, I had 
 already seen enough to know that this little peasant 
 girl would change our peaceful abode into a haunted 
 house. 
 
 "She looks a nice little thing enough," said my 
 mother. "Perhaps I shall be able to train her. If 
 you like, dear, we will call her Justine."
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 CAIRE 
 
 E were Born on the very same day 
 and at the very same hour and we 
 had grown up together. At first 
 he had answered to the name of 
 Puck, which my father had given 
 him. He was afterwards called 
 Caire, and the change was not to his honour, if 
 honour, that is to say, has anything to do with 
 honesty. Seeing how clever he was at deceit, how 
 cunning a thief, and how rich in rascality, and 
 obliged, withal, to admire the wit and address with 
 which he perpetrated his trickeries, we called him 
 Robert Macaire, after that delightful highwayman 
 in Frederick Lemaitre's play, written fifteen years 
 before Robert Macaire whom the deft crayon of 
 Honore Daumier had represented, in the comic 
 papers, successively as a financier, a deputy, a 
 peer of France, and a Minister of State. The name 
 Robert Macaire having been found too long, we had 
 cut it down to Caire. He was a little brown dog 
 of no particular breed but with plenty of brain. That 
 was no wonder; Finette, his mother, used to do her 
 marketing herself, paid the dog's meat man his 
 
 215
 
 216 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 money, and brought back her meat to Madame 
 Mathias to be cooked. 
 
 Caire's understanding had developed much sooner 
 than mine, and he had long been practising the art of 
 gaining his livelihood when I was still in complete 
 ignorance concerning both the world and myself. 
 As long as I was an infant in arms, he was jealous 
 of me; he never tried to bite me, either because 
 he thought it was too risky or because he looked 
 on me with contempt rather than dislike, but he 
 glowered at my mother and my old nurse with 
 that gloomy and miserable air which betokens 
 envy. A shred of wisdom which this unhappy 
 passion left him prompted him to avoid them, as 
 far as one can avoid people with whom one has to 
 live. He used to run off to my father and spend his 
 days under the doctor's table curled up on a hideous 
 sheepskin mat. As soon as I was able to walk a little, 
 his feelings towards me underwent a change. He 
 became sympathetic and took pleasure in playing with 
 the weakly, tottering little creature. When I was 
 old enough to understand things I admired him. I 
 recognized him as my superior in his profound 
 knowledge of Nature, but in many points I had 
 caught him up. 
 
 If Descartes maintained, in complete defiance of 
 probability, that animals are machines, we must 
 excuse him, for he was compelled to do so by his 
 philosophy, and a philosopher always thinks more
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 217 
 
 of his theories, which are part of himself, than he 
 does of Nature, which is external to him. There 
 are no Cartesians nowadays, but there may still be 
 people who will tell you that animals possess in- 
 stinct and men understanding. When I was a child 
 that was the generally professed belief. It was an 
 absurdity. Animals have understanding just as we 
 have. It only differs from ours because their organs 
 are different, and, like ours, it contains the world. 
 Like animals we possess that secret genius, that un- 
 conscious wisdom called instinct, which is far more 
 precious than the understanding. Without it neither 
 flesh, worm, nor Man could survive an instant. 
 
 I hold with La Fontaine, who was a better philos- 
 opher than Descartes, that animals, particularly in 
 their wild state, are full of art and ingenuity. By 
 taming them we diminish their spirit and cramp their 
 intelligence. What capacity for thought would be 
 left to men supposing them reduced to the condition 
 to which we reduce dogs and horses, not to mention 
 the denizens of the poultry yard? When Zeus suf- 
 fers a man to fall into bondage, he deprives him of 
 half his worth. In fine, whether domesticated or 
 wild, the creatures of air, earth, and water are one 
 with us, in that, far down in the depths of their being, 
 they unite to instinct, which is unerring, reason, 
 which is fallible. Like men, they are liable to go 
 astray. Caire made mistakes sometimes. 
 
 He had a tender affection for Zerbin. Zerbin
 
 2i8 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 was a spaniel belonging to M. Caumont, the book- 
 seller. A well-brought-up dog. He came of good, 
 respectable parents, and he loved Caire with a still 
 greater affection. They were all in all to each other. 
 Caire's unfortunate reputation had extended to Zer- 
 bin, who was now called Zerbin no longer, but Bert- 
 rand after Robert Macaire's companion in misdeeds. 
 Caire led Zerbin astray, and soon made a rogue of 
 him. Whenever they could slip away unobserved, 
 they trotted off together, whither heaven only knows, 
 and came back coated with mud, and limping ears 
 torn, eyes bloodshot, but tails up, and happy. 
 
 M. Caumont would not let his spaniel have any- 
 thing to do with our dog. Melanie, in order to 
 avoid humiliation and reproaches, made up her mind 
 that Caire should not cultivate a neighbour of supe- 
 rior lineage and appearance to himself, but friend- 
 ship is resourceful and laughs at obstacles. In spite 
 of the watch that was set on them, in spite of bolts 
 and bars, they discovered countless means of getting 
 together. Perching himself up on the ledge inside 
 the dining-room window, which looked on to the 
 court, Caire sat and waited till his friend should 
 issue from the bookshop. Bertrand would put him- 
 self on view in the court and gaze up with gentle, 
 pleading eyes at the window whence Caire sat look- 
 ihg affectionately down at him. In spite of every 
 precaution, they were together in five minutes and 
 off on all kinds of jaunts and mysterious expedi-
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 219 
 
 tions. But one day Bertrand, at his customary hour, 
 appeared in the courtyard got up like a sort of minia- 
 ture lion and looking highly ridiculous. He had 
 been trimmed and clipped by one of those men who in 
 summer-time come and ply their calling at the water's 
 edge down by the Pont Neuf. His coat was ruffled 
 up about his shoulders so as to look like a mane. His 
 hind quarters and his belly had been clipped close. 
 They had a naked, starveling appearance and 
 showed, through his poor shaven skin, a dirty pink 
 colour with dark blue patches here and there. There 
 were little fuzzy tufts round his legs just above the 
 paw, like cuffs, and a tuft, pathetically droll, adorned 
 the tip of his tail. Caire examined him attentively 
 for some time, and then turned away his head; he 
 did not recognize him. Bertrand whined and begged 
 and pleaded; he gazed at him with his lovely, wistful 
 eyes, but all in vain. Caire looked at him no more 
 and sat there waiting. 
 
 People say that a dog never laughs. I have seen 
 our Caire laugh, and it was not a pleasant laugh. He 
 laughed a silent laugh, but the tension of his lips and 
 a certain wrinkle in the cheek betokened mockery 
 and sarcasm. One morning I was out shopping with 
 my old nurse. Mouton, the dog belonging to M. 
 Courcelles, the grocer, Mouton, a Newfoundland 
 that could have swallowed Caire at a mouthful, the 
 magnificent Mouton, who was lying stretched out be- 
 fore his master's door, was nonchalantly holding a
 
 220 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 leg of mutton bone betwixt his forepaws. Caire in- 
 spected him for a long time without accosting him 
 in any way, an omission which, in the dog world, 
 betrays a lack of good breeding. But Caire didn't 
 trouble himself much about manners. Mouton, ob- 
 serving the approach of a horse of his acquaintance 
 that was, as usual, drawing a cartload of Dutch 
 cheeses, let go his bone and got up to pass the time 
 of day with his friend. Seizing his opportunity, 
 Caire slyly picked up the bone between his teeth, 
 and, taking care not to be seen, made off to hide it at 
 Simonneau's, the greengrocer's in the Rue des 
 Beaux-Arts, at whose shop he was a regular visitor. 
 Then, with an air of assumed unconcern, he returned 
 in Mouton's direction, looked at him and, seeing that 
 he was hunting about for his bone, began to laugh. 
 
 Caire and I loved each other without being aware 
 of it, which is a safe and convenient way of loving. 
 It was about eight years since we had made our joint 
 appearance on this planet without being quite sure 
 what we had come there to do, when my poor com- 
 panion and coeval, who was growing fat and wheezy, 
 was seized with a painful malady, to wit, stone. He 
 bore his sufferings uncomplainingly, his coat became 
 dull and brittle, he grew low-spirited, and would not 
 cat. The vet performed an operation on him; 
 but it was not a success. The same evening the 
 patient ceased to suffer. As he lay in his basket he 
 turned his fading, friendly eyes towards me, got up,
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 221 
 
 gave just one wag of his tail, and fell down again. 
 It was all over with him. And then I knew how 
 much he had been to us. I realized what a power 
 he had been for us, how he had wrought and thought 
 and loved and hated; in short, what a great place he 
 had held in our household and in our thoughts. I 
 shed some bitter tears and then fell asleep. Next 
 morning I inquired whether Caire's death was in the 
 paper, like Marshal Soult's.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THE DAUGHTER OF THE TROGLODYTES 
 
 |Y eyes had not deceived me. Rade- 
 gonde, or I should say Justine for 
 my dear mamma had deliberately 
 transferred her from the patronage 
 of the noble Thuringian to that of 
 a saint with a name that came more 
 trippingly off the tongue Justine, then, signalized 
 her arrival by turning our abode into a fairy dwell- 
 ing place. But do not misconceive me. I do not 
 mean to say that a fairy godmother had bestowed 
 on this simple peasant girl the power to deck the 
 walls of the rooms she cleaned with porphyry, gold, 
 and precious stones. No. But, since she had entered 
 upon her duties, our house had become full of weird 
 noises; there were alarming thuds, panic-stricken 
 shrieks, gnashing of teeth, and peals of laughter. 
 The place was filled with the horrible smell of burn- 
 ing fat and charred flesh, water flowed amazingly 
 about the floor, suddenly there would rise such 
 clouds of smoke as would turn day into night and 
 make us gasp for breath; floors creaked, doors 
 slammed, windows banged, curtains bellied out, the 
 wind blew in great gusts and there were sinister 
 
 222
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 223 
 
 portents that brought a cloud to my father's brow; 
 the ink ran all over his table, his pens lost their 
 nibs, the chimney of his lamp cracked every night. 
 Surely this was witchcraft, and no mistake. My 
 mother kept saying that Justine was not really a 
 naughty girl, and that with time and patience she 
 would make a servant of her, but that she broke 
 rather too much in the process. It was not that 
 Justine was a clumsy girl. My parents indeed were 
 often amazed at her dexterity. But she was wild, 
 headstrong, and, as in her primitive mind she 
 invested inanimate objects with a soul and imagined 
 them as being stirred by the same feelings and pas- 
 sions as men and women, this daughter of the Trog- 
 lodytes of the Loire used to struggle with the kitchen 
 and household utensils as though with malevolent 
 beings. She assaulted the hardest metals; window- 
 catches, and tap-handles fell trophies to her prowess. 
 In a word, the spirit of her remote forefathers im- 
 bued her with the most uncouth fetishism. But then 
 which of us can boast of never having abused some 
 senseless object which hurt or merely got in our 
 way a stone, a splinter, or a twig? 
 
 I observed Justine, as she went about her daily 
 tasks, with a curiosity that never flagged. My 
 mother upbraided me for what she called my stupid 
 boobyishness. Therein she misjudged me. Justine 
 interested me by reason of her fighting spirit and 
 because all her domestic activities took on the char-
 
 224 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 acter of a grim and doubtful conflict. When, bran- 
 dishing her broom and feather brush, she said in 
 resolute tones, "I've got to go and do the drawing- 
 room," I followed eager and expectant, to see what 
 would come of it. 
 
 The drawing-room was furnished with a sofa and 
 great mahogany armchairs destined to receive, in 
 their capacious cavities with their shabby red plush 
 covers, the patients of my father, Dr. Noziere. The 
 walls were hung with green;, striped paper and 
 adorned with two engravings, The Dance of the 
 Hours and Napoleon's Dream, as well as with two 
 oil paintings cracked all over. They were family 
 portraits. One was of my grand-uncle and portrayed 
 a dark complexioned man with a very high coat col- 
 lar, a white cravat that concealed his chin, and shirt 
 studs linked with a small gold chain. The 
 other was a grand-aunt. She wore side curls 
 and her bust was closely enwrapped in a se- 
 vere black gown. Both, I was told, were 
 dressed in the style of Charles X. Painted a 
 short while before their untimely death, these figures 
 of a bygone day filled me with a profound melan- 
 choly. But what constituted the richest adornment 
 of this drawing-room were the bronze statuettes pre- 
 sented to my father as a mark of gratitude by pa- 
 tients whom he had cured. Each of these works of 
 art was an index to the mentality of the donor. 
 Some were gracious and smiling, others aloof and
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 225 
 
 austere. There was no similarity between them 
 either in character or workmanship. On one side 
 of the door a little Venus de Milo, cast in chocolate- 
 coloured metal, stood on a small Boule table. On 
 the other, a Flora, in common bronze, was smilingly 
 waving a spray of flowers modelled in gilded zinc. 
 Between two of the windows, bearded and horned, 
 sat the Moses of Michael Angelo; and, here and 
 there, on different tables, were to be seen a young 
 Neapolitan fisherman holding up a crab by one of 
 its claws, a guardian angel flying heavenwards with 
 a little child in his arms, Mignon weeping for her na- 
 tive land, Mephistopheles folding his bat-like wings, 
 about him, and Joan of Arc in an attitude of prayer. 
 Finally a Spartacus, who had broken his fetters, 
 stood up fierce and defiant clenching his fists on the 
 clock above the chimney-piece. 
 
 To clean them, Justine would violently belabour 
 pictures and bronzes with her stump of a feather 
 broom. This castigation did no appreciable damage 
 to my great uncle or my great aunt, who had already 
 endured manifold hardships, nor did it have any ad- 
 verse effect on the simple rounded forms of the 
 Venus or the Moses. But the modern sculpture 
 came off badly. Feathers torn violently from the 
 dusting implement got entangled beneath the wings 
 of the guardian angel, between the claws of the crab, 
 underneath Joan of Arc's sword, in Mignon's hair, 
 in Flora's garland, and in the chains of Spartacus.
 
 226 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 Justine had no love for these gewgaws, as she called 
 them, and she held the Spartacus in especial detesta- 
 tion. It was, he to whom she dealt the rudest buf- 
 fets. She made him rock on his base. He reeled, he 
 gave a terrible lurch forward as though he would 
 fall on the impious one and crush her as he fell. 
 Then with a fierce frown, the veins standing out on 
 her forehead, she would shout: "Hola! Ho!" as 
 though to the cows she had been wont to bring 
 home from the fields at evening, and finally, with a 
 well directed blow, she would knock him straight on 
 his pedestal again. 
 
 In these daily combats, the feather broom soon 
 shed all its plumage. There was only the leather 
 handle and the stick left for Justine to dust with. 
 The treatment soon brought the wings off the guard- 
 ian angel. Joan of Arc lost her sword, the fisher-lad 
 his crab, Mignon a lock of hair, and Flora had no 
 more flowers left to scatter. Justine did not let that 
 trouble her, but sometimes, as she gazed on the 
 havoc she had wrought, she would stand dreamily, 
 with her hands folded over the broom handle, and 
 murmur with a wistful smile : 
 
 "What a pack of duds they are, the lot of them!"
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 WAS fond of Justine's company. My 
 mother, indeed, thought I was too 
 fond of it. When I come to think 
 over the causes of this predilection, 
 I find several which testify to my 
 innocence and my simplicity. A 
 child's trustfulness, the need for friendship, a love of 
 fun and frolic, and an affectionate disposition, all led 
 me to cultivate her society. But there were other 
 considerations, less to my credit, that drew me to this 
 daughter of the Troglodytes. I thought her rather 
 a simpleton, rather a duffer, and altogether be- 
 neath me in intelligence. And so it happened that, 
 when I was in her company, I was often provided 
 with occasions for self-glorification. I greatly en- 
 joyed correcting and instructing her and possibly I 
 was none too indulgent in the process. I was some- 
 what of a quiz, and she gave me plenty of oppor- 
 tunities for being quizzical. I wanted to be thought 
 much of, so I tried to impress her with my superior- 
 ity, and held myself up to her as an object of admira-. 
 tion. 
 
 I did my best to shine before her, until one day I 
 227
 
 228 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 found out that, so far from admiring me, she looked 
 on me as quite devoid of sense and judgment, in 
 fact as nothing more or less than a noodle, without 
 a single strong point, in looks or anything else, in 
 my favour. How did I get to know that she har- 
 boured sentiments so diametrically opposed to those 
 with which I had credited her? Why, goodness me, 
 because she told me so ! Justine was crudely out- 
 spoken. She knew how to make herself understood, 
 and I was forced to recognize that she did not ad- 
 mire me in the least. To my credit be it said that I 
 was not angry with her, and that I loved her but 
 little the less in consequence. I diligently inquired 
 into the causes of so unlocked for a judgment, and I 
 succeeded in discovering them, for, whatever the 
 daughter of the Troglodytes might think of me, I 
 was no fool. I will report the result of my re- 
 searches. To begin with, she beheld me thin, deli- 
 cate, and pale, not half so sturdy and strong as her 
 brother Symphorien, who was a year younger than 
 I and more of a man. In her idea, a boy ought to 
 have plenty of "go" and determination, to be a 
 dashing, upstanding fellow; and don't for a moment 
 imagine that I disagree with her in that. Then, 
 although it may seem strange that a wench who 
 could not read should hold such a view, she looked 
 on me as an ignoramus. Though she did not 
 say as much, I could see she was astonished that 
 a boy of my age should be unacquainted with
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 229 
 
 facts about animals and Nature that her brother 
 Symphorien had known ages ago. My ignorance 
 on certain subjects struck her as absurd, for 
 good girl as she was, she was no ninny and had 
 no respect for simpletons. And then again, al- 
 though she would sometimes laugh enough to split 
 her sides, as she would say, she thought it a sign of 
 a defective understanding to laugh loudly at any- 
 thing and everything, as I was wont to do. Accord- 
 ing to her it argued a mistaken view of life, which 
 is no laughing matter, and a lack of heart. Such 
 then were the good and solid reasons which led Jus- 
 tine to regard me as devoid of understanding. 
 And truly they were good enough reasons in them- 
 selves, although, as a matter of fact, I was, for a 
 small boy, capable of taking in a great deal. Some- 
 times, however, I did behave in a very disconcerting 
 fashion. Of this I could give a number of instances. 
 Here at any rate is one which, I fancy, dates back to 
 Justine's early days in our establishment. On a 
 what-not in the little room with the rosebud wall- 
 paper there used to be some little books bound in 
 green and embellished with illustrations, which my 
 dear mother sometimes gave me to read. They were 
 "The Child's Companion." Berquin's stories took 
 me back to the France of olden times and acquainted 
 me with manners and customs very different from 
 those of our day. For example, I read therein the 
 story of a young nobleman of ten who wore a sword
 
 230 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 which he was too fond of drawing on the little vil- 
 lage children with whom he chanced to quarrel. But 
 one day, instead of a blade, he drew from the sheath 
 a peacock's feather which his wise tutor had put 
 there instead. Picture to yourself his shame and 
 confusion. The lesson did him good. After that 
 he was never arrogant and quarrelsome. To me 
 these tales had a certain element of freshness about 
 them ; they moved me to tears. One morning I re- 
 member reading the tale of two gendarmes who 
 greatly touched me by their kindness and devotion. 
 They used to go about bringing happiness into the 
 lives of poor peasant folk how they did it I have 
 forgotten and the peasants invited them to supper. 
 As there were no plates in the cottage, the good gen- 
 darmes ate their stew on their bread. That struck 
 me as such a fine thing that I made up my mind to 
 copy them at luncheon. Despite my mother's very 
 justifiable protests, I insisted on putting my haricot 
 mutton on my bread. I spilt the gravy all down my 
 clothes, my mother scolded me and Justine looked at 
 me with compassion. 
 
 The incident was a slight one. It reminds me of 
 another one of a similar nature, not less trivial. All 
 the same I am going to relate it, for it is not great- 
 ness that is important to my subject, but truth. 
 
 I read Berquin; I also read Bouilly. More mod- 
 ern than Berquin, Bouilly was not less touching. To 
 him I owe my acquaintance with one Lise who sent
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 231 
 
 her pet sparrow to Madame Helvetius with mes- 
 sages soliciting her favour on behalf of a family that 
 had fallen on evil days. I conceived a deep, nay, a 
 violent affection for Lise. I asked my mother 
 whether she were still alive. My mother replied 
 that she would be very old if she were. I next be- 
 came enamoured of a little orphan of whom M. 
 Bouilly drew a delightful portrait. He was a poor 
 little boy without shelter and half naked. An old 
 scholar took him in and made him work in his li- 
 brary. He gave him his old clothes to wear, nice 
 warm things, which had to be altered a little to make 
 them fit. That is the part I liked best in the story. 
 I longed for nothing so much as to be dressed like 
 Bouilly's little orphan boy, in a man^s old clothes. I 
 asked my father and my godfather for theirs, but 
 they only made fun of me. One day, when I was at 
 home alone, I lighted in the depths of a cupboard 
 on a frock-coat that seemed to have seen its best 
 days. I put it on and went to look at myself in the 
 glass. It trailed on the ground and the sleeves 
 came down over my hands. So far, there was no 
 great harm done, but, in order, I fancy, to conform 
 to the story in all its details, I curtailed the coat 
 a little with the scissors. The consequence was that 
 I found myself with a very awkward piece of busi- 
 ness on hand. Aunt Chausson went out of her way 
 on this occasion to credit me with perverted instincts; 
 my mother rebuked me for what she inappropriately
 
 232 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 termed my mischievous monkey-tricks. I was misun- 
 derstood. What I wanted was to be a gendarme a la 
 Berquln, an orphan a la Bouilly, to play a variety of 
 characters, to live several lives. I was giving vent 
 to a burning desire to get out of myself, to be some 
 one else, several other persons, every other person, 
 had that been possible, all humanity, the whole nat- 
 ural world; whereof there only remains with me the 
 rather unusual faculty of entering into other people's 
 points of view, of forming a good, occasionally a 
 too good, estimate of the arguments and opinions of 
 my opponents. It was this latter trait that convinced 
 Justine beyond all manner of doubt that I was not 
 right in my head. In fact, she soon came to look on 
 me as a dangerous idiot. 
 
 When I came to learn the stories of the Crusades, 
 the lofty exploits of the Christian barons fired me 
 with enthusiasm. It is good to imitate the things you 
 admire. In order to be as much as possible like 
 Godefroy de Bouillon, I fashioned myself a suit of 
 armour and a helmet out of some cardboard on 
 which I had gummed pieces of the silver paper that 
 chocolates are wrapped in. To critics who point out 
 that such a suit was more like the burnished armour 
 of the fifteenth century than the coats of mail of 
 the twelfth and thirteenth, I would deliberately re- 
 ply that more than one illustrious painter has been, 
 guilty of far more serious liberties in this respect. 
 At all events, the really essential part of my outfit
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 233 
 
 consisted, as will presently but too plainly appear, in 
 a double-bladed axe cut out of cardboard and fixed 
 on to the end of an old sunshade handle. 
 
 The kitchen represented Jerusalem, and I took it 
 by storm. I also belaboured Justine who, while 
 lighting the kitchen fire, had to be an infidel, much 
 against her will. The faith that clothed me like a 
 robe of fire lent might to my arm. Justine was not 
 made of cotton wool, she was indeed, as she herself 
 was wont to remark, "a tough 'un," and she would 
 have endured the onslaught of the two-bladed axe 
 with equanimity had it not become entangled with 
 her cap. Now this cap of hers she looked upon as 
 something beyond all price, not only because of its 
 pleasing shape and its valuable lace, but for reasons 
 of a deeper and more mysterious import because it 
 was, perhaps, for her an emblem of her native place, 
 a symbol of her country, the insignia of the daugh- 
 ters of the land she loved. She looked on it as some- 
 thing august, something sacred. And, now, behold 
 her bereft of it in most ignoble fashion. She heard 
 it give. But with the same blow I had done worse 
 still : I had disarranged Justine's chignon. 
 
 With the virgin shyness of some timid wild crea- 
 ture she would not suffer anything, not even a moth- 
 er's hand, not even a breath of air, to interfere with 
 the arrangement of her hair, which with its narrow 
 plaits patted tightly down was unbecoming enough in 
 all conscience. Never on any occasion had she been
 
 234 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 discovered with her hair down, not even during 
 an illness which kept her six weeks in bed in her own 
 room, when my mother went every day to make her 
 comfortable ; not even on that night of terror when 
 some one shouted "Fire" and the concierge saw her 
 rushing across the court with bare feet, in her night- 
 dress, her hair in the most perfect order. To pre- 
 serve this unvarying mode of coiffure was for her a 
 matter of honour, of glory, nay of conscience. A 
 single hair out of place would have been a disgrace. 
 As she felt these blows raining down on her cap and 
 headgear, Justine shook all over and put her hands 
 to her head. She was loath to believe the full extent 
 of her misfortune. She was obliged to feel about the 
 nape of her neck three times before she could con- 
 vince herself that her cap had been battered in and 
 her coiffure profaned. But the evidence was too hor- 
 ribly convincing. There was a hole in the lace big 
 enough to put your finger through, and a wisp of 
 hair about as long and as thick as a rat's tail was 
 hanging down her back. Thereupon the heart 
 of Justine was filled with an exceeding bitter sor- 
 row. 
 
 "I shan't stop any longer," she cried in doleful 
 tones. 
 
 She asked no redress, for the outrage was ir- 
 reparable, and without wasting words in vain re- 
 proaches, without so much as a glance in my direc- 
 tion, she went out of the kitchen. My mother had
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 235 
 
 all the difficulty in the world to get her to change her 
 mind. There is no doubt that the daughter of the 
 Troglodytes would never have resumed her apron if, 
 on reflexion, she had not come to the conclusion that 
 her young master was more of a fool than a knave.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 MADEMOISELLE MERELLE 
 
 N those days, if I mistake not, there 
 was a gentleness about life, a certain 
 air of good fellowship about men 
 and things, an atmosphere of in- 
 timate and gracious charm that to- 
 day exists no longer. It seems to 
 me as though people were nearer to one another 
 then, or, perhaps, it was because I was a child 
 and tender-hearted, that they seemed to be 
 more closely united one to another. Be that as 
 it may, you might have seen many a morning, in 
 the courtyard of the house where I was born, M. 
 Bellaguet, in his Turkish cap and check dress- 
 ing-gown, having a friendly chat with M. Morin, 
 who was the concierge next door and an em- 
 ploye at the Chamber of Deputies. Whoever did 
 not see them thus, missed a fine sight, for the pair 
 of them typified, as it were, the regime inaugurated 
 by the Trois Glorieuses. However, the misfortune 
 is not irremediable, for you may get the two charac- 
 ters repeated a hundred times over in Daumier's 
 lithographs. In short* everybody knew everybody 
 
 else m those days, and when three o'clock in the af- 
 
 236
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 237 
 
 ternoon came round and my mother was sitting at 
 the window sewing, with a pot of mignonette in front 
 of her, she would exclaim, as she glanced down at 
 the glass roof above the steps: 
 
 "There's Mademoiselle Merelle going to give 
 her grammar lesson to M. Bellaguet's little girl. 
 Mademoiselle Merelle is charming, and her man- 
 
 ners are so nice." 
 
 It was generally held that Mademoiselle Merelle 
 was a lady and that she always dressed in good taste. 
 If I was haphazard, in describing her dress, I 
 should depict her for you in the fashion of the 
 present day. I believe it is always the way. As 
 time goes on we re-array the young women we 
 used to know in clothes of the latest mode. It is the 
 same thing on the stage with plays that have seen 
 ten, fifteen, or twenty years go by. Every time 
 they are revived, the heroine's gowns are brought 
 up to date. But I have the historic sense and a lik- 
 ing for the things of old. I shall, therefore, care- 
 fully eschew those modernizing practices that change 
 the physiognomy of an epoch, and so I here put it 
 on record that Mademoiselle Merelle, then about 
 twenty-six or twenty-seven, wore leg of mutton 
 sleeves, and that her skirt, unlike those of the pres- 
 ent day, grew wider as it went down. She wore a 
 cashmere scarf wrapped tightly across her chest, and 
 she had, as the saying went, a wasp-like waist. I 
 nearly forgot to say that long side curls adorned her
 
 238 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 cheeks with their golden ringlets, and that she wore 
 according to the season a bonnet of velvet or Leg- 
 horn, a poke bonnet, which projected so far forward 
 as completely to conceal her profile. To put it 
 briefly, she was the last word in fashion. 
 
 Now, at the time of which I am speaking, I was 
 eight years old. My stock of knowledge was scanty, 
 but it came from a good source. It was my mother 
 who had imparted it to me. It included reading, 
 writing and arithmetic. I wrote and spelt pretty 
 well for my age, so they said, except for the par- 
 ticiples. My mother as a child had conceived a 
 mortal dread of participles. She had never got over 
 it, and she took good care not to lead me into gram- 
 matical mazes in which she was apprehensive that 
 she herself might lose her way. My mother, dear 
 soul, was the only one of them all who credited me 
 with brains. Every one else, including my father and 
 my nurse, looked on me as rather an ordinary child, 
 intelligent enough in a way, but not the way of other 
 children. I was of a more speculative turn, and, 
 being occupied with things of more varied range 
 and greater diversity, my mind seemed less compact 
 and less collected than theirs. My parents thought 
 me too young and too delicate to go to boarding 
 school, and they had no very high opinion of the lit- 
 tle academies round about, which they rightly con- 
 sidered as dirty and ill-managed. My father came 
 home with a specially bad impression of an estab-
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 239 
 
 lishment in the Rue des Marais-Saint-Germain which 
 he had been to see. At the far end of a dirty, stuffy 
 room sat an apoplectic dominie puffing and panting 
 with corpulence and choler. He had some dozen ur- 
 chins, all wearing dunce's caps, kneeling in front of 
 his chair, and he was threatening the rest of the 
 class with the birch thirty little ragamuffins who, 
 laughing, crying, and yelling all together, were en- 
 gaged in throwing their inkpots, their satchels, and 
 their books at each others' heads. 
 
 In these circumstances, my mother conceived the 
 idea of getting Mademoiselle Merelle to act as my 
 governess the celebrated Mademoiselle Pauline 
 Merelle herself. The enterprise was ambitious and 
 fraught with considerable difficulty. Mademoiselle 
 Merelle only taught in the houses of the nobility or 
 of such middle-class families as were rolling in 
 money. They had to be either rich or titled people. 
 She was the protegee of old Bellaguet, our landlord, 
 who had married one of his daughters to a Vil- 
 leragues and another to a Monsaigle, and there 
 were doubts as to whether she would consent to 
 teach the son of an obscure little local doctor. For 
 my father was poor, and his rooted dislike to ac- 
 cepting fees was not calculated to make him rich, 
 to say nothing of the fact that, being of a meditative 
 disposition, he spent, in reflecting on the destiny of 
 humankind, valuable hours which, had he been less 
 of a genius, he would have devoted to looking after
 
 240 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 his worldly affairs. Thus Dr. Noziere was rich only 
 in sentiments and ideas. My mother, who was nev- 
 ertheless anxious to have me taught by Mademoiselle 
 Merelle, persuaded Madame Montet, the cashier at 
 the Petit-Saint-Thomas, to say a word to her. 
 Madame Montet was a patient of my father's, and 
 was said to be a great friend of Mademoiselle Mer- 
 elle's mother. The latter was a great churchgoer, 
 was everlastingly to be seen carrying a horse-hair 
 reticule, and looked more like her daughter's maid 
 than her mother. So, at least, I have heard, for I 
 never saw her myself. 
 
 Through the good offices of Madame Montet, the 
 young governess consented to take me every day, 
 from one to two o'clock. 
 
 "Pierre, Mademoiselle Merelle will give you 
 your first lesson to-morrow," said my mother, with 
 a restrained joy, in which a note of pride could be 
 detected. 
 
 On hearing this I went to bed in such a state 
 of excitement that it was at least ten mintues be- 
 fore I fell asleep, and I believe I dreamt about it. 
 
 Next morning, my mother made me dress with 
 greater care than usual. She put pomade on my 
 hair and parted it herself, and I put on more pomade 
 on my own account, after she had gone. I should 
 have washed my hands again had I not known from 
 experience that it was useless and that, do what one 
 will, little boys' hands are never anything but dirty.
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 241 
 
 Mademoiselle Merelle came at the appointed 
 hour. She came, and lo, all the rooms were pervaded 
 with the scent of heliotrope ! My mother conducted 
 us both into the little room with the rosebud wall pa- 
 per, next to her own. She installed us at a little 
 mahogany side table and, having promised that no 
 one should disturb us, she withdrew. 
 
 Forthwith Mademoiselle Merelle unfastened a 
 dainty little Russia leather writing-case, took from 
 it a sheet of notepaper and a pen-holder made of 
 a porcupine quill with a silver knob at the end, and 
 began to write. She wrote very rapidly and only 
 paused now and then to look up at the ceiling and 
 smile, and to tell me to read La Fontaine's fables, 
 which happened to be lying on the table. In this 
 manner we got through the first lesson, and when 
 my mother asked me if Mademoiselle Merelle had 
 made me work hard I said yes, without quite 
 realizing that I was not exactly telling the truth. 
 
 The following day, when we had again seated 
 ourselves at the little table, my governess once more 
 told me to get on with a fable what time she herself 
 continued writing in a sort of seraphic rapture. 
 Sometimes she stopped as though waiting for an in- 
 spiration, and, whenever by chance her gaze rested 
 on me, her expression betokened mild and tranquil 
 indifference. The third lesson passed off in the 
 same manner, and so did those which followed. I 
 sat and feasted my eyes upon her. During the three-
 
 242 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 quarters of an hour that the lesson lasted, I drank 
 in the light of her eyes. To me those eyes of hers 
 seemed a wondrous marvel, and even now, after all 
 these years, a marvel I still believe they were. They 
 seemed as though fashioned of Parma violets. Long 
 lashes lent them mystery and shadow. No detail of 
 that pretty face have I forgotten. Mademoiselle 
 Merelle's nostrils were rather wide apart, pink in- 
 side, like a kitten's ; her mouth curved upwards a lit- 
 tle at the corners, and there was a slight down on her 
 lip whereof my juvenile organs of vision, magnify- 
 ing like a lens, seemed to distinguish each infinites- 
 imal separate hair. The leisure thus bestowed on 
 me by my governess was employed, not in reading 
 La Fontaine's fables, as she recommended me, but in 
 contemplating her and in wondering to myself what 
 manner of letters she could be writing; and I was 
 convinced that they were love-letters. Therein I was 
 right, save that at that time Mademoiselle Merelle's 
 ideas and mine, regarding the nature of love, did not 
 precisely coincide. Having further speculated as 
 to who the people were to whom she used to write, 
 I conjectured that they must be angels in Paradise, 
 not that the supposition seemed very probable even 
 in my own eyes, but it spared me the pangs of jeal- 
 ousy. 
 
 Mademoiselle Merelle never spoke a word to 
 me. I heard the sound of her voice when she read 
 over some of the phrases she had written, some-
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 243 
 
 times in tones of gentle melancholy, sometimes of 
 sparkling glee. I was unable to catch their mean- 
 ing. I remember, however, that she used to speak 
 of flowers and birds, of the stars, and the ivy which 
 dies on that round which it winds its tendrils. The 
 tones of her voice awoke responsive music in my 
 heart. 
 
 Now my mother's awe concerning participles was 
 really nothing more nor less than superstition. From 
 time to time she would inquire whether we had 
 reached that part of the grammar, as in her view it 
 was the most puzzling and difficult of all, particu- 
 larly the distinction between the verbal adjective 
 and the present participle. I replied vaguely and in 
 such terms that she worried herself with the thought 
 that perhaps I was not quite so bright as I might have 
 been. But how was I to tell her that all I took in 
 from Mademoiselle Merelle were her eyes, her lips, 
 her fair hair, her perfume, her gentle breathing, the 
 soft rustle of her dress, and the sound of her pen as 
 it sped over the paper. 
 
 I never grew tired of gazing at my governess, but 
 I admired her most of all when, pausing in her writ- 
 ing, a wistful look came into her eyes, and she would 
 sit, deep in thought, with the silver ball of her pen- 
 holder resting on her nether lip. In after years, 
 when I saw in the Museum at Naples that pic- 
 ture from Pompeii which portrays, in the form of a 
 medallion, a poetess, a Muse with her style resting
 
 244 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 on her lip in precisely the same manner, I felt a thrill 
 as I thought of those delicious hours of childhood.* 
 Yes, I loved Mademoiselle Merelle, and what 
 made her nearly as adorable in my eyes as her 
 beauty was her indifference, her infinite and divine 
 indifference. My governess never spoke a word to 
 me, never vouchsafed me a smile; never bestowed 
 on me a word of praise or blame. Perhaps, if she 
 had shown the least symptom of kindness the spell 
 would have been broken. But during the ten months 
 that I had lessons with her, she never displayed the 
 smallest interest in me. Sometimes, with the inno- 
 cent audacity of my age, I attempted to kiss her; I 
 stroked her rich dress, glossy as a bird's plumage, 
 I endeavoured to sit on her knee. She just put me 
 aside as though I had been a puppy, with never so 
 much as a reproachful or warning word. And so, 
 feeling she was inaccessible, I rarely indulged in 
 such manifestations. Nearly all the time I was in 
 her company, I was in a condition bordering on 
 idiocy and sunk deep in a state of gaping beatitude. 
 When I was but eight years old I made proof that he 
 is the happy man who, having abandoned mental ef- 
 fort and the attempt to arrive at an intellectual un- 
 derstanding of things, loses himself in the contem- 
 
 Without doubt she was a Muse. But in the same museum there 
 is another Pompeian painting representing the wife of Proculus, 
 the baker, with her style in the same position and her household ac- 
 count book.
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 245 
 
 plation of the beautiful; and it was revealed to me 
 that unbounded desire, desire that knows neither 
 fear nor hope, desire that is unconscious of its own 
 existence, brings to the mind and to the senses the 
 very consummation of happiness, for it is unto itself 
 entire contentment and its own complete satisfaction. 
 But that is a truth that I had quite forgotten by the 
 time I was eighteen, and I have never been able 
 thoroughly to recapture it since. I used then to 
 remain stock still in contemplation of her, my fists 
 dug well into my cheeks, and my eyes wide open with 
 wonder. When at length I awoke from my trance 
 (for after all I did awake from it) I gave evidence 
 of this reawakening of mind and body by kicking 
 the table and making blots on the fables of La 
 Fontaine. But it only needed a look from Mademoi- 
 selle Merelle to plunge me once again into a condi- 
 tion of beatific coma. That look of hers, devoid 
 alike of love and hate, was always enough to deprive 
 me of sense and motion. 
 
 When she departed, I used to go down on my 
 knees in front of her chair. It was a little ebony 
 chair in the style of Louis Philippe, intended to look 
 like Gothic. The back was shaped like a pointed 
 arch. The seat was upholstered in fine tapestry and 
 represented a spaniel on a red cushion, and this chair 
 I looked on as the most beautiful thing in the world 
 when Mademoiselle Merelle was seated on it. But, 
 truth to tell, my meditations used not to last long,
 
 246 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 and I turned from the rosebud-papered study, skip- 
 ping and jumping and shouting at the top of my 
 voice. My mother told me that I was never so 
 noisy as in those days, and it is a family tradition 
 that I used to run Justine very close in the produc- 
 tion of disasters. While the little maid was out in 
 the kitchen smashing up the crockery, I set fire to the 
 green lamp-shade with the Chinese figures on it, 
 which my father thought so much of and which had 
 been with us so long that it had come to be looked 
 on as immortal. Sometimes we were partners, Jus- 
 tine and I, in the same cataclysm, as happened on 
 the day when, each holding a bottle, we fell from top 
 to bottom of the cellar stairs, and again on that 
 tragic morning when, being both engaged in water- 
 ing the flowers on the window ledge, we dropped the 
 watering pot right on to M. Bellaguet's head. It 
 was at this period, too, that my passion for lead sol- 
 diers was at its height. I used eagerly to arrange 
 them in order of battle on the dining-room table, 
 and there I fought the most terrible battles despite 
 the remonstrances of Justine, anxious perhaps to lay 
 the cloth, who, when I persisted in my refusal to 
 pack away my fighting men in their boxes, would, 
 despite my clamorous protests, sweep them all off, 
 victors and vanquished alike, into her apron. To 
 pay her out I hid her work-box in the oven, and did 
 my level best to bedevil the guileless creature. In a 
 word I was a genuine boy, the real unadulterated
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 247 
 
 article, a merry restless little animal up to any piece 
 of mischief. It is, nevertheless, true that Made- 
 moiselle Merelle exercised an irresistible power over 
 me, and that the sight of her acted upon me like one 
 of those magic spells we read of in Eastern tales of 
 mystery. 
 
 Now it came to pass that one day at dinner, after 
 ten months of this enchanted existence, my mother 
 informed me that my governess was not coming any 
 more. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Merelle," went on my mother, 
 "told me to-day that you had made sufficient prog- 
 ress to go to school after the holidays." 
 
 The marvel is that I received this news without 
 amazement, without despair, almost without regret. 
 It did not surprise me. On the contrary, it seemed 
 natural that the apparition should, after the manner 
 of apparitions, fade away. This, at any rate, is the 
 only explanation I can offer of my imperturbability. 
 Mademoiselle Merelle was already so remote from 
 my sphere, even when she was with me, that I was 
 able to endure the thought of her going away alto- 
 gether. And, besides, little boys of eight have no 
 great faculty for sustained feelings of suffering and 
 regret. 
 
 "Thanks to your governess's tuition," pursued my 
 mother, "you now know enough French grammar to 
 go straight into the second form. I feel truly grate- 
 ful to that charming young woman for teaching you
 
 248 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 the rules about participles. They are the most dif- 
 ficult part of speech in our language, and unfortu- 
 nately I was never able to master them, for I was 
 never properly grounded." 
 
 My dear mother was labouring under a delusion. 
 No, Mademoiselle Merelle did not teach me the par- 
 ticiples, but she revealed to me truths still more 
 precious, secrets still more valuable. She initiated 
 me into the cult of all things gracious and comely; 
 by her indifference she taught me to love beauty even 
 when it was unresponsive and remote, to love it 
 with detachment, an art that is sometimes necessary 
 in this life. 
 
 I ought to let Mademoiselle Merelle's story con- 
 clude there. I know not what evil spirit it is that 
 compels me to spoil the ending. Anyhow, I won't 
 waste words in doing so. Mademoiselle Merelle 
 did not remain a governess. She went to live on 
 Lake Como with young Villeragues, who did not 
 marry her himself. He married her instead to his 
 uncle Monsaigle, so that in this respect her destiny 
 resembled Lady Hamilton's. But it flowed in ob- 
 scurer and more tranquil channels. I had several 
 opportunities of seeing her again, but I studiously 
 avoided them.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 DIVINE MADNESS 
 
 BOUT this time, at the close of a fine 
 summer's day, I was seated near the 
 window turning over the leaves of 
 my picture Bible. It was very old 
 and very tattered, and the en- 
 gravings being in a hard pompous 
 style, though they sometimes excited my surprise, 
 did not charm me, for they lacked that gentleness 
 without which nothing ever gave me pleasure. 
 There was only one picture which I liked, and 
 that was of a lady wearing a very small 
 head-dress, her hair flat and smooth on the 
 crown of her head, puffed out over the ears, 
 ana done up behind in the form of a ball. She was 
 very daintily decked out in the style of Louis XIII. 
 She wore a lace collar and, standing on an Italian ter- 
 race, was offering a tall beaker filled with water to 
 Jesus Christ. I was contemplating this dame who 
 seemed beautiful to me; I was meditating upon the 
 mysterious scene, and above all I was admiring the 
 beaker because of its graceful contour and the dia- 
 mond points which adorned its foot. And I was full 
 of the desire to possess such a glass when my mother 
 
 called me and said: 
 
 249
 
 250 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 "Pierre, to-morrow we will go and see Melanie. 
 That will please you, I expect?" 
 
 Yes, I was pleased. It was now more than two 
 years since Melanie had left us to go and live in re- 
 tirement with her niece, the wife of a farmer at 
 Jouy-en-Josas. At first I had fervently longed to 
 see my old nurse, and I begged and prayed my dear 
 mamma to take me to her. As time went on my 
 longing began to diminish, and now I had grown 
 used to not seeing her, and the memory of her, al- 
 ready remote, was dimmer in my heart. Yes, cer- 
 tainly I was pleased, but, truth to tell, it was the 
 thought of the journey that pleased me most. With 
 my old Bible open on my knees, I fell to thinking 
 of Melanie and reproaching myself for my ingrati- 
 tude. I strove to love her as I had used to do. I 
 drew the picture of her from the deeps of my heart 
 where it lay inurned. I rubbed it up and burnished 
 it, and managed to impart to it the aspect of some- 
 thing a little the worse for wear perhaps, but, never- 
 theless, clean and well cared for. 
 
 At dinner, seeing my mother drinking out of a 
 commonish sort of glass, I said: 
 
 "Mamma, when I am grown up I will give you a 
 beautiful glass as tall as a flower vase with a taper- 
 ing stem, like the one I saw in an old engraving 
 which represents a lady handing a glass of water to 
 Jesus Christ." 
 
 "I take the will for the deed, Pierre," said my
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 251 
 
 mother, "but we have got to think about taking a 
 cake for poor old Melanie, who is so fond of sweet 
 things." 
 
 We went by train to Versailles ; when we arrived 
 at the station we found a covered cart waiting for 
 us. It was drawn by a lame horse and driven by a 
 lad with a wooden leg. We drove to Jouy across 
 a valley with streamlets winding through meadows 
 and orchards, and shadowy woods crowning the 
 summits of the hills. 
 
 "This is a pretty road," said my mother. "No 
 doubt it was still prettier in the spring when the 
 pears, cherries and peaches were all in blossom, 
 bouquets of white, warmed and brightened with pink. 
 But then only pale, shy flowers would have been 
 found among the grass, crowfoot and meadow dais- 
 ies. The summer flowers are bolder; rose campion, 
 cornflowers, larkspur, poppies; see how they flash 
 their colours back at the sun!" 
 
 I was delighted with everything I saw. We ar- 
 rived at the farm and found Madame Denizot in 
 the yard, standing by a manure heap with a stable 
 fork in her hand. 
 
 She ushered us into the smoke blackened kitchen 
 where Melanie, seated at the chimney corner in a 
 tall wooden arm-chair, roughly padded with straw,, 
 was knitting with blue coloured wool. A swarm of 
 flies buzzed and circled about her. A saucepan 
 hummed a tune on the hearth. As we came in,
 
 252 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 Melanie made an effort to rise. My mother put 
 her arm about her affectionately, and made her keep 
 her seat. We exchanged kisses. My lips sank into 
 her soft cheeks. She moved her lips, but no words 
 came. 
 
 "Poor old soul," said Madame Denizot, "she's 
 got out of the way of talking. It's not to be won- 
 dered at, she has very little call to do any talking 
 here." 
 
 Melanie wiped her misty eyes with a corner of her 
 apron. She smiled on us and her tongue was loos- 
 ened: 
 
 "Gracious goodness, and can it be you, Madame 
 Noziere? You haven't altered, and how your little 
 Pierre has grown ; grown out of all knowledge 1 The 
 dear child is pushing us into the next world." 
 
 She asked for my father, such a fine looking man 
 and so kind to poor folk; for my Aunt Chausson, 
 who used to pick up pins when she saw them on the 
 floor, and quite right, too, for we ought not to let 
 anything get lost; for kind Madame Laroque, who 
 used to make me jam sandwiches, and for Navar- 
 ino, her parrot, who once gave me such a nip that 
 the blood flowed. She inquired whether my god- 
 father, M. Danquin, still liked trout cooked in wine 
 as much as ever, and if Madame Caumont had 
 found a husband for her eldest daughter. While she 
 was asking all these questions, without waiting for
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 253 
 
 them to be answered, Melanie had picked up her 
 knitting again. 
 
 "What's that you're making, Melanie?" asked my 
 mother. 
 
 "A woollen petticoat for my niece." 
 
 "She keeps dropping stitches and never picks them 
 up," said the niece, with a shrug and without low- 
 ering her voice. "She keeps getting it narrower and 
 narrower. It's wool thrown away." 
 
 M. Denizot, having taken off his working boots, 
 now came in and saluted the company. 
 
 "Madame Noziere," said he, "you may be sure 
 the old soul wants for nothing." 
 
 "She costs us a pretty penny," added Madame 
 Denizot. 
 
 I watched her as she knitted her petticoat, a 
 little grieved for her sake that it was wool thrown 
 away. She had only one glass in her spectacles, and 
 that was cracked in three pieces. This, however, 
 did not seem to trouble her. 
 
 We chatted like old friends, but we had not a 
 great deal to say to each other. She was over- 
 flowing with maxims, and instilled into me that one 
 should respect one's father and mother, never waste 
 a piece of bread, and learn what was necessary 
 to play one's part in life. All this bored me. 
 Giving a turn to the conversation, I told her that 
 the elephant was dead and that a rhinoceros had 
 come to the Jardin des Plantes.
 
 254 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 Thereupon she began to laugh and said: 
 
 "I can't help laughing when I think of Madame 
 Sainte-Lucie at whose house I used to be in service 
 when I was a young girl. One day she went to see 
 the rhinoceros at the fair, and asked a fat man 
 dressed up like a Turk whether he was the rhino- 
 ceros. 'No, madame,' answered the fat man, Tm 
 the man what shows it.' ' 
 
 She next spoke I don't remember what brought 
 it up of the Cossacks who came to France in 1815. 
 And she told me over again the story she had told me 
 times without number, during our walks in the old 
 days. 
 
 "One of those blackguardly Cossacks tried to kiss 
 me. I wouldn't let him, and nothing in this world 
 would have made me do it. My sister Celestine told 
 me to be careful as they had the upper hand of us, 
 and that if I rebuffed them like that they might set 
 fire to the village out of spite. And in fact they 
 were a vindictive lot. All the same I didn't let my- 
 self be kissed." 
 
 "Melanie, would you have pushed away the Cos- 
 sack like that if you had been sure that he would 
 set fire to the village if you did?" 
 
 "I would have pushed him away if my father and 
 mother, my uncles, aunts, nephews, nieces, broth- 
 ers and sisters, Monsieur le Maire, Monsieur le 
 Cure, and all the people had been burnt in their
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 255 
 
 houses, and all the cattle and all the stock into the 
 bargain." 
 
 "They were very ugly, weren't they, Melanie, 
 those Cossacks?" 
 
 "Oh, yes I They had flat noses, slit eyes, and goat 
 beards. But they were tall and strong, and the one 
 who wanted to kiss me was a fine specimen of his 
 tribe, a big strapping fellow. He was one of the 
 leaders." 
 
 "And they were very wicked men, the Cossacks?" 
 
 "Oh, yes I If any harm came to one of their 
 number, they would lay waste the whole country 
 round with fire and sword. People used to go 
 and hide in the woods. The Cossacks were al- 
 ways saying Capout, and made signs that they would 
 cut off our heads. We had to be very careful not 
 to thwart them when they had been drinking brandy, 
 for then they used to go raving mad,, and struck 
 at every one within reach, regardless of age or sex. 
 When they were short of victuals they shed tears 
 at having left their country, and some few among 
 them used to perform on an instrument like a small 
 guitar and played such melancholy tunes that it 
 nearly broke your heart to listen to them. My 
 cousin, Niclausse, killed one of them and threw the 
 body into a well, but no one got to know of it. We 
 put up a dozen of them at the farm. They drew 
 water, carried wood, and minded the children."
 
 256 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 I had heard these tales many and many a time. 
 They always interested me. 
 
 While we were alone with Melanie, my mother 
 slipped a little piece of gold into her hand, and I 
 saw the poor old thing tremble as she clutched it and 
 she hid it in her apron with such an expression of 
 greed and fear as it pained me to behold. Was this 
 then that same Melanie who used to take pennies out 
 of her own pocket, unknown to my mother, in order 
 to buy me sweets? 
 
 However, the old soul regained her equanimity, 
 and resumed her flow of talk. Smilingly she re- 
 called the pranks I used to play her. She told how 
 I drove her nearly crazy by putting her brooms 
 where she could not find them, or by concealing heavy 
 weights in her basket when she was getting ready to 
 go shopping. She was merry and seemed to have 
 thrown off the weight of years. At this point it came 
 into my head to say: 
 
 "And your saucepans, Melanie, the saucepans 
 which you kept so bright and which you thought so 
 much of?" 
 
 As she thought of them Melanie sighed deeply 
 and big tears coursed down her wrinkled cheeks. 
 
 The table was laid for my mother and me in the 
 bedroom, which smelt of linen freshly washed. The 
 walls were whitewashed, and, ranged along by the 
 looking-glass on the mantelpiece, were a couple of 
 daguerreotypes of Monsieur and Madame Denizot,
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 257 
 
 and an old fencing master's diploma festooned with 
 tricolour flags. I wanted them to let my old nurse 
 come and have her lunch with us. But the farmer's 
 wife said that her aunt had lost all her teeth, that 
 she ate very slowly, that she was accustomed to have 
 her meals in the kitchen by herself, and that if we 
 had her beside us at table she would not feel at her 
 ease. 
 
 I made a very good lunch, a savoury omelet, the 
 wing of a chicken and a piece of cheese. I drank a 
 nip of new wine, and my mother bade me go and 
 take a look round the farm. 
 
 The sun was beginning its downward course and 
 was breaking its spears of fire upon the peaceful foli- 
 age of the trees. Thin, white clouds hung motionless 
 in the heavens. Larks were singing low down over 
 the fields. A strange light-heartedness took posses- 
 sion of my soul. The influence of Nature stole in 
 upon my being through the portal of every sense, 
 and a delicious eagerness set me all aglow. I 
 shouted, I bounded along beneath the lofty trees, I 
 was drunk, visited with that frenzy which I recog- 
 nized later on when I came to read those Greek 
 poets who sang of the dances of the Maenads. Like 
 them I danced, and, dancing, waved a thyrsus torn 
 from a stripling hazel. Trampling on grass and 
 flowers, inebriated with the fresh air and the scent 
 of the woods and fields, whipped by yielding twigs, 
 I sped along like a wild thing.
 
 258 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 My mother called me and pressed me to her 
 bosom. 
 
 "Pierrot," she said, with a trace of anxiety in 
 her voice, "you're in a bath of perspiration. How 
 hot your forehead is, and how your heart is beat- 
 ing!"
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 PIERRE'S FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH THE ROMAN 
 WOLF 
 
 ELL, at all events," said my mother, 
 "he can't always be left to moon 
 about from morning till night with 
 Justine." 
 
 "Reading whatever he happens 
 to lay hands on," said my father. 
 Yesterday I discovered him deep in a treatise on 
 obstetrics." 
 
 They decided to send me to school. 
 After a great deal of looking about, my father 
 found a place to suit me, an educational establish- 
 ment under clerical control, and attended by the sons 
 of gentlemen. These were two essentials in the 
 eyes of my parents, who had leanings towards re- 
 ligion and the aristocracy. Not wishing to part with 
 their only son, they did not make a boarder of me, 
 and for that I entertain feelings of gratitude towards 
 them that will cease only with my life. However, to 
 send me to school for two hours in the morning 
 and then again for two hours in the afternoon they 
 deemed neither possible nor desirable. My mother 
 was suffering at that time from heart trouble, and 
 Justine, having all the cooking and housework on 
 
 259
 
 2 6o LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 her hands, really had not the time to go backwards 
 and forwards twice a day to take me all the way to 
 school. They were also afraid that, without the 
 master's eye upon me, I might be tempted to scamp 
 my homework. The apprehension was not without 
 foundation, for I should not have been very eager to 
 devote myself to improving my mind with study, 
 what time Justine was in her kitchen making ready, 
 to enact her flood-and-fire performance, or doing 
 battle in the dining-room with Moses and Spartacus. 
 In order that I might not be cut off from my own 
 folk, and also that I might be subjected to the neces- 
 sary discipline, I was sent as a day-boarder. Justine 
 had to make it her business to take me to St. Joseph's 
 at eight o'clock in the morning and fetch me again 
 at four in the afternoon. 
 
 St. Joseph's school was housed in a mansion in 
 the Rue Bonaparte, an old building with an aristo- 
 cratic air about it. 
 
 I will not go so far as to say that I took in the 
 beauty of its style, or that I appreciated, at its due 
 worth, the noble stone staircase with its wrought iron 
 balusters, and the great rooms whose whiteness was 
 tempered by the shadowy green reflected from the 
 trees without, the rooms in which M. Grepinet held 
 his classes. My uncultured taste rather prompted 
 me to admire the chapel with its coloured statue of 
 the Virgin, its vases of paper flowers under their
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 261 
 
 glass globes, and its gilt lamp suspended from a 
 blue star-spangled firmament. 
 
 As this establishment was a preparatory school 
 for the College X. it was not like the lycees where 
 the little boys are victimized by the big ones after 
 the manner of minnows and pike in lakes and riv- 
 ers. Being all very young, all equally strengthless, 
 and as yet but little advanced in iniquity, we did not 
 unduly tyrannize over one another. The masters 
 were mild-mannered men; the childish simplicity of 
 the ushers was a bond between ourselves 
 and them. In short, though I did not greatly 
 enjoy myself in this house, I was not a prey 
 to those fits of sadness that were destined, 
 later on, to cast a gloom over my school life. 
 Opining that Mademoiselle Merelle had taught 
 me enough French, they enrolled me in the second 
 form and though I never learned the reason why 
 put me with the boys who knew a certain amount 
 of grammar and had been through the Epitome. 
 But, then, is it always so easy to find out why the 
 authorities act as they do, whether in public or in 
 private matters? In the days when I passed under 
 the ferule of M. Grepinet, there flourished a philos- 
 opher with a kindly eye and long drooping mous- 
 taches whose name was Victor Considerant. I had 
 seen him scores of times fishing with a line beneath 
 the Pont Royal, and he was then giving out to the 
 world, on the authority of Fourier, his master, that
 
 262 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 mankind would enjoy the benefits of a good govern- 
 ment, when they found themselves in harmony, thai, 
 is to say, in a state regulated in every detail by Vic- 
 tor Considerant himself. When that time comes, 
 no little animal as ignorant as I was will 
 be put into M. Grepinet' s class, and the con- 
 dition of the human race will be ameliorated in 
 many other respects. We shall only do what we 
 have a mind to do. Like the baboons we shall have 
 a tail wherewith to suspend ourselves from the trees, 
 and an eye at the tip of that tail. This at any rate 
 was the account my godfather used to give of the 
 phalansterian philosophy. Meantime, things go on 
 pretty much as they used to in my young days, and, 
 taking them all round, schoolboys fare no better and 
 no worse than little Pierre Noziere. 
 
 My master, then, was called Grepinet. I 
 see him now, as he sat there in front of me. 
 Endowed by nature with a big nose and a 
 thick drooping underlip, he resembled Lorenzo 
 di Medici, not on account of the laxity of 
 his morals but the ugliness of his features. This 
 was borne in upon me when I saw the medals of 
 Lorenzo the Magnificent. If medals of M. Grep- 
 inet were obtainable, the only difference between 
 them and Lorenzo's would be the price we should 
 have to pay for them. The likenesses would be 
 the same. M. Grepinet was a very worthy man, un- 
 less I am greatly mistaken, and an excellent form-
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 263 
 
 master. It was assuredly not his fault that I de- 
 rived small profit from his lessons. The first one 
 enchanted me. As I listened to the voice of M. 
 Grepinet, I beheld visions of delight rise up as if 
 by magic from a book that to me was more unde- 
 cipherable than the most recondite of hieroglyphics. 
 It was the De Viris. A shepherd discovered, among 
 the reeds of the Tiber, a pair of new-born babes to 
 whom a she-wolf was giving suck. He bore them to 
 his hut, where his wife took charge of them and 
 brought them up as shepherd boys, unwitting that 
 the blood of gods and kings flowed in their veins. 
 I beheld them all as, one after another, the master's 
 voice summoned them forth from the dim recesses 
 of the text, all those heroes of the wondrous tale, 
 Numitor and Amulius, kings of Alba Longa, Rhea 
 Silvia, Faustulus, Acca Laurentia, Romulus and 
 Remus. I was occupied, heart and soul, with the 
 story of their adventures. The music of their names 
 rendered them beautiful in my sight. When Justine 
 came to take me home, I told her all about the twins 
 and the she-wolf which suckled them ; I recounted to 
 her the whole story which I had just learned and 
 which she would have listened to more attentively 
 had not her equanimity been disturbed by a bad two- 
 franc piece which the coal man had contrived to 
 palm off on her that very day. 
 
 The De Viris gave me some further delights. I 
 fell in love with the nymph Egeria who, in a grotto
 
 264 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 beside a fountain, inspired Numa with wise laws. 
 But soon I had the whole crowd of Sabines, Etrus- 
 cans, Latins and Volscians on my hands, and they 
 were more than I could tackle. And, then, if my 
 French was small my Latin was nil. One day M. 
 Grepinet put me on to construe a passage in this 
 obscure De Viris, something about the Samnites. I 
 showed myself totally incapable of performing the 
 task, and was reprimanded before the whole class. 
 I thereupon conceived a mortal disgust for the De 
 Vins and the Samnites. Nevertheless, my soul was 
 filled with wonder when I remembered Rhea Silvia 
 on whom a god bestowed two children who were 
 taken from her and suckled by a wolf amid the rushes 
 of the Tiber. 
 
 The superior, M. 1'Abbe Meyer, was attractive 
 by reason of his gentleness and distinguished appear- 
 ance. I still remember him as a prudent, affectionate 
 and motherly sort of man. 
 
 He used to dine in the refectory at eleven o'clock 
 with all the boys, and ate his salad with his fingers. 
 I do not say this in order to defame his memory. 
 In his young days, that used to be quite the correct 
 thing. My Aunt Chausson assured me that my 
 uncle never ate his lettuce in any other way. 
 
 The Director often came to see us while M. 
 Grepinet was taking his class. He signed to us, as he 
 entered, to keep our seats and, then, passing along in 
 front of the desks, he examined each boy's work. I
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 265 
 
 did not notice that he paid less attention to me than 
 to my richer or more aristocratic fellow pupils. He 
 spoke to us with a graciousness that was especially 
 noticeable when he had occasion to find fault with us, 
 and his reproaches did not crush our spirits. He did 
 not magnify our faults, he did not question our good 
 intentions. His admonitions were as innocent and 
 slight as the delinquencies which provoked them. 
 He told me one day that I wrote like a cat. The 
 comparison was a novel one to me and it sent me 
 off into fits of laughter, which became more than ever 
 uncontrollable when, in order to show me how to 
 form one's letters, he picked up my pen that only 
 had half a nib to it, and wrote like a cat indeed. 
 
 From that day forth M. le Directeur never once 
 passed by my desk without enjoining me to look 
 after my pens, not to dig them right down into the 
 inkpot, and always to wipe them when I had done 
 with them. 
 
 "A pen ought to last a long time," he added one 
 day. "I know of a great scholar who only used one 
 pen to write a whole book as big as " And cast- 
 ing his eye round the bare room he spread out his 
 arms and indicated the great red marble chimney- 
 piece. 
 
 I was lost in wonderment. 
 
 A little while afterwards, as I was walking with 
 Justine along the Rue du Vieux-Colombier, I noticed, 
 in a yard in front of an antique dealer's, a stone saint
 
 266 LITTLE PIERPJE 
 
 so huge that his head reached up to the first floor 
 windows. He was writing in a book as big as a 
 mantelpiece, with a pen to match. I informed my 
 nurse that he was the friend of M. le Directeur, and 
 she thought that well he might be. 
 
 If happiness did not regularly dwell with me, 
 ecstasy was an occasional visitor. It frequently hap- 
 pened to me to become drunk with all the movement 
 and noise that went on in the playground during one 
 of the after-dinner breaks. In play as in work I 
 could not put up with rules. I did not care about 
 those geometrical games such as prisoner's base 
 which had to be played strictly according to rule. 
 Their exactitude bored me. They did not seem to 
 me to give a picture of life. I liked the games de- 
 tested by mothers, the games that the ushers used 
 to put a stop to sooner or later because of the dis- 
 order they involved, games without rule or restraint, 
 rough, furious games, full of horror. 
 
 Now, on that day, at the usual signal, we swarmed 
 out into the playground. Hangard, our leader, who 
 lorded it over us all by reason of his lofty stature, 
 his big voice, and his masterful disposition, stood up 
 on a stone seat and held forth. 
 
 Hangard stammered, but he was eloquent. He 
 was an orator, a leader of men; there was some- 
 thing of the Camille Desmoulins in his composition. 
 
 "Look here, you kids," said he, "aren't you sick 
 to death of playing 'puss in the corner' and 'leap-
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 267 
 
 frog'? Let's have a change. Let's play at 'Rob- 
 bing the Coach.' I'll show you how. It'll be jolly 
 fine. You see if it won't." 
 
 We answered him with acclamations and shouts 
 of joy. Suiting the action to the word, Hangard or- 
 ganized the game. His genius was equal to every- 
 thing. In a trice the coach horses were put to, the 
 postilions cracked their whips, the robbers armed 
 themselves with knives and blunderbusses, the pas- 
 sengers strapped up their luggage and filled their 
 purses and their pockets with gold. The gravel in 
 the playground and the lilac bushes that enclosed the 
 garden of M. le Directeur furnished the necessary 
 accessories. Off we went. I was a passenger and 
 one of the humblest; but my heart thrilled at the 
 beauty of the landscape and the perils of the road. 
 The robbers were lying in wait for us in the gorge 
 of a fearful mountain to wit the glass roof of the 
 steps leading up into the parlour. The onslaught 
 was swift and terrible. The postilions were knocked 
 off their horses. I was bowled over, pounded with 
 blows, buried under a heap of corpses. Standing 
 erect on this human mountain, Hangard made a re- 
 doubtable fortress of it. Twenty times the robbers 
 swarmed up it, twenty times they were hurled back 
 again. I was beaten to a mummy; knees and elbows 
 scraped raw, the tip of my nose incrusted with little 
 bits of sharp grit, lips torn, ears aflame never had 
 I drunk in such delight. When the school bell rang
 
 268 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 and broke in upon my dream, my heart was rent in 
 twain. All the time M. Grepinet was giving us our 
 lesson, I sat dazed and devoid of feeling. My nose 
 was smarting, my knees burning; but I liked the sen- 
 sation because it recalled that crowded hour of glori- 
 ous life. M. Grepinet asked me several questions 
 which I was unable to answer. He called me a don- 
 key, which was the more painful to me inasmuch as, 
 not having read the Metamorphoses, I was as yet 
 unaware that I only had to munch roses in order to 
 recover my humanity. Learning it subsequently, 
 when I had reached man's estate, I have lounged at 
 leisure through the groves of Wisdom, feeding my 
 donkey nature on the roses of science and medita- 
 tion. I have devoured whole bushes, with their per- 
 fume and their thorns, but above my human head 
 there would ever be pricking the tiniest tip of a 
 pointed ear.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 BUTTERFLY WINGS 
 
 VERY time I go into the Pare de 
 Neuilly I am reminded of Clement 
 Sibille, the gentlest soul, as it seems 
 to me, of any that I ever saw 
 skimming the surface of this terres- 
 trial globe. He was, I think, near- 
 ing the end of his tenth year when I first made his 
 acquaintance. I was a year older than he, but the 
 superiority which my age gave me over him I 
 wantonly threw away by my faults. The fates only 
 suffered me to catch a momentary glimpse of him; 
 yet now, though so many years have rolled by, I 
 still seem to see him amid the foliage, through the 
 railings, whenever I go into the Pare de Neuilly. 
 
 Monsieur and Madame Sibille had a house there, 
 and in the summer I used to go with my father and 
 mother to spend a few hours with them of a Sunday 
 afternoon. Madame Sibille, whose Christian name 
 was Hermance, was pale, slim and supple of limb. 
 With her green eyes, prominent cheek-bones and 
 small chin, she gave one a tolerably close impres- 
 sion of a cat that had been metamorphosed into a 
 woman, with some of the characteristics of her for- 
 mer nature still clinging about her. Isidore Sibille, 
 
 269
 
 270 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 her husband, was an elongated, dismal looking per- 
 son, and resembled a stork. It was thus that the 
 couple appeared to my father, who, after the manner 
 of Lavater, used to amuse himself by seeking in 
 human countenances a likeness to members of the 
 animal kingdom. From these resemblances he would 
 deduce notions as to their character and tempera- 
 ment, but so vague and rash were his conclusions that 
 I should be hard put to it to say precisely what he 
 derived from these semblances of bird and cat. All 
 I know about M. Sibille is that he was manager of a 
 big French cashmere factory. I have heard my 
 mother say that the Empress Eugenie sometimes 
 wore these cashmeres for the sake of encouraging 
 home industries, and that this was one of the most 
 unwelcome duties that could devolve upon a sov- 
 ereign, so painful were these cashmeres to behold. 
 It was observed that Hermance herself always re- 
 frained from wearing them. 
 
 The Sibilles' house, in the Pare de Neuilly, was a 
 white one, flanked by a turret. In front, a flight of 
 steps led up from a beautiful lawn in the middle of 
 which was a fountain surrounded by a stone basin. 
 It was here, on the garden paths, that, frail and 
 seemingly ever about to take flight heavenward, 
 there first dawned on my view Clement Sibille. His 
 eyes were of a limpid blue, his complexion a 
 dazzling white, his features of extraordinary deli- 
 cacy. His fair hair was cut very close to his round
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 271 
 
 head, but his ears, so far from lying back against the 
 temporal bone, were at right angles to it, and stuck 
 out on either side of his head like a couple of flags 
 that by a curious freak of nature were so shaped as 
 to resemble the wings of a butterfly. They were 
 transparent and, when the light shone through them, 
 took on colours of pink and carmine, and glowed 
 with dazzling hues. You did not realize that they 
 . were big ears; you thought you were looking at 
 miniature wings. At all events that is the picture my 
 memory conjures up. Clement was very pretty, but 
 he was odd. 
 
 "Clement's got butterfly's wings," I said. 
 
 And my mother answered: 
 
 "Painters and sculptors portray Psyche after the 
 same fashion with butterfly wings, and Psyche was 
 taken to wife by Eros and admitted into the as- 
 sembly of the gods and goddesses." 
 
 One more learned than I in mythological lore 
 might have retorted that Psyche did not wear her 
 wings at the side of her head in the place where her 
 ears ought to be. 
 
 Clement was an unsubstantial fairy thing. He pro- 
 gressed by little leaps, not in a direct line but cast- 
 ing himself from side to side as though he were 
 the sport of the winds. The simplicity of his amuse- 
 ments, his childish ways, and the infantile awkward- 
 ness of his movements, were in pathetic contrast 
 with the kindness of his disposition, which was of
 
 272 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 a strength and a manly staunchness that seemed to 
 suggest a person of riper years. His soul was as 
 transparent and pure as his complexion, as serene 
 and untroubled as his expression. He spoke but 
 little and always affectionately. He never com- 
 plained, though he had perpetual reason to complain. 
 Diseases were only too ready to seek a lodging 
 within his puny frame, and scarlet fever, typhoid, 
 measles, whooping cough followed each other in 
 rapid succession. And perhaps a malady then but 
 little understood, tuberculosis, had gained access to 
 his narrow chest. Even when illness allowed 
 him a respite, Fate did not let him off. He met with 
 accidents so extraordinary in their nature and so 
 frequent in their occurrence, that it seemed as though 
 some invisible power were cunningly devising means 
 to persecute him. But all these misfortunes redounded 
 to his advantage in that they afforded him opportu- 
 nities to display his unalterable gentleness. He was 
 for ever slipping, stumbling, tripping in every con- 
 ceivable and inconceivable manner, butting into every 
 wall, pinching his fingers in every door, so that he 
 was perpetually growing fresh nails. He cut him- 
 self sharpening his pencils, he got a bone in his 
 throat from every fish that lake, pond, brook, 
 stream, river or sea produced for him and that Mal- 
 vina, the Sibilles' cook, prepared for his nourish- 
 ment. His nose would begin to bleed just as he was 
 going to see Robert Houdin or to have a donkey-ride
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 273 
 
 in the Bois de Boulogne and, despite the key they put 
 down the back of his neck, He would stain his new 
 waistcoat and his beautiful white knickerbockers. 
 One day I saw the thing happen before my very 
 eyes he was whirling round and round on the lawn, 
 when he went and tumbled right into the fountain. 
 Being afraid lest he should take a chill or get a cold 
 on the chest, his people did everything they could 
 think of to warm him up; I saw him in bed with a 
 monster eiderdown on the top of him, a baby's bon- 
 net on his head, and a seraphic smile on his coun- 
 tenance. When he saw me he begged my pardon for 
 leaving me all alone with nothing to do. 
 
 I had no brother, no playmate with whom to com- 
 pare myself. When I beheld Clement, I discovered 
 that Nature had bestowed on me a restless spirit, 
 tumultuous longings, a heart fulfilled of vain desire 
 and unreasoning sorrow. Nothing availed to mar 
 the tranquillity of his soul. If I failed to learn from 
 him that whether we are happy or unhappy depends 
 on ourselves alone, I only had myself to blame. But 
 I was deaf to lessons on good conduct. Well had 
 it been for me had I not provided, in contrast to 
 good little Clement, the very type of a child who 
 loved rough play, a harum-scarum mischievous ur- 
 chin. Such a child was I, and as such the world con- 
 sidered me. Must I plead, in my own justification, 
 that my actions were ordered by that mysterious 
 power, that dread Necessity, who imposes her laws
 
 274 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 alike on gods and men and who governed my ac- 
 tions even as she governs the universe. Am I to 
 plead that it was the love of Beauty that inspired 
 me then even as it has inspired me all the days of 
 my life, whereof it has been alike the torment and 
 the joy. Wherefore should I do so? When was 
 a man ever judged by the canons of natural philos- 
 ophy and the laws of aesthetics. But let me state the 
 facts. 
 
 One autumn afternoon Clement and I were 
 given leave to go for a walk by ourselves on the 
 boulevard in front of the Sibilles' house. This boule- 
 vard was not then disfigured by long lines of monot- 
 onous railings shutting off the gardens. It was more 
 countrified in those days, more mysterious, and more 
 beautiful. Dead leaves floated down from the tall 
 trees like flakes of light and strewed the ground 
 beneath our feet. Clement was skipping along a few 
 paces in front of me, and I noticed that his black 
 cloth cap trimmed with dark red braid, an ugly 
 shaped, ugly coloured thing, came right down over 
 his pretty little golden curls and pressed back the 
 wonderful appendages that served him for ears. I 
 did not like that cap. I was ill advised enough not 
 to keep my eyes off it, and the thing got more and 
 more on my nerves. At last I could stand it no 
 longer, and I asked my companion to take it off. 
 Doubtless he regarded the request as unreasonable, 
 since he did not trouble to reply but serenely con-
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 275 
 
 tinued his pirouetting. Again I told him peremp- 
 torily to remove his cap. 
 
 Taken aback at my persistence, he mildly in- 
 quired: 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because it's ugly." 
 
 He thought I was jesting, but all the same he kept 
 an eye on me, and when I tried to pull it off he re- 
 sisted my attempt and pressed his cap down on his 
 head with care and caution, for he loved his cap 
 and deemed it a thing of beauty. Twice more I es- 
 sayed to gain possession of the odious headgear. 
 Each time he pressed it farther down on his head 
 and made it more odious still. Thus foiled, I sus- 
 pended my attacks, but I had a dodge at the back 
 of my mind. His pretty face, whereon was written 
 a look of pained surprise, soon recovered its habitual 
 expression of tranquil innocence. How could I have 
 failed to be touched by his look of unsuspecting 
 trust? Alas, the spirit of violence was within me. 
 Watching my opportunity, I suddenly rushed at him, 
 laid hold of the cap, and sent it flying over the wall 
 into Louis Philippe's park. 
 
 Clement said not a word, he uttered not a cry. 
 He just looked at me with wondering, reproachful 
 eyes that cleft my heart in twain, and his eyes glis- 
 tened with tears. I stood there as though trans- 
 fixed, unable to realize that I had done so criminal 
 a deed, and on the winged and curly head of Clement
 
 276 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 I still sought the form of that ill-fated cap. It was 
 there no more ; it had vanished beyond recall. The 
 wall was very high, the park vast and deserted. The 
 sun was near to setting. Fearful lest Clement should 
 catch cold or, rather, distressed at the sight of his 
 bare head, I covered it with my own Tyrolese hat, 
 which descended right over his eyes and dismally 
 bent down his ears. In silence we made our way 
 back to the Sibilles' house. I need not describe the 
 reception I got. 
 
 That was the last time my parents took me to 
 call on their Neuilly friends. I never saw Clement 
 again. Poor little person, he soon afterwards van- 
 ished from this world. His butterfly wings waxed 
 larger and larger, and, when they were strong enough 
 to bear him, he flew away. His grief-stricken mother 
 essayed in vain to follow him. The kindly gods 
 metamorphosed her into a cat, and, uttering her 
 doleful plaint, she looks for him over the house- 
 tops.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 A DIGRESSION 
 
 HAVE already used up a good deal 
 of paper with these recollections of 
 my early days, but I have just found, 
 tucked away in a corner of my mem- 
 ory, something my mother said 
 about me when I was quite a little 
 boy. One day she was going to take me for a walk, 
 and she spent what seemed to me an eternity in get- 
 ting ready. When at last she appeared, looking so 
 nice and so happy, I glanced at her sullenly, so at 
 least I am told, and declared that I would not go 
 for that walk, or for any other walk, and that I 
 renounced all the pleasures and all the good things 
 of this world, from that day forth and for ever- 
 more. 
 
 "Oh, dear I What a temper the child has," sighed 
 my mother. 
 
 I did not think it was quite right of her to say 
 that, in spite of what had led up to it. It is true 
 that when I came to examine myself in comparison 
 with my well behaved little friend whom the gods 
 changed into a butterfly, I freely recognized that I 
 
 was not gentle, not placid as he was. And, to be 
 
 277
 
 278 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 quite frank about it, my desires being more ardent 
 than those of most children, I capitulated more 
 promptly to Necessity. From my earliest years, 
 Reason exercised a potent sway over me. That 
 means that I was an exceptional creature, for it is 
 not the case with the majority of my kind. Of all 
 the ways of defining man, I think the worst is the 
 one which makes him out to be a reasoning animal. 
 It is no great boast on my part to set myself up 
 as a being endowed with a larger share of reason 
 than most of those whom I have met or heard about. 
 Reason rarely dwells in common minds but still more 
 rarely in great ones. I say "reason," and if you 
 inquire in what sense I employ the term, I reply 
 in the everyday sense. If I attached a metaphysical 
 signification to it, I should not know what I meant 
 myself. I apply the same meaning to it as old Mela- 
 nie, who did not know her letters. I call a rea- 
 sonable man a man who makes his own particular 
 mind so to square with the mind universal that he 
 is never unduly surprised at anything that happens, 
 and manages to accommodate himself to circum- 
 stances more or less successfully. I call that man 
 reasonable who, observing the lack of order that ex- 
 ists in the natural world and the folly of mankind, 
 does not persist in talking of the order of the one, 
 and the wisdom of the other. In a word, I call him 
 reasonable who does not make too self-conscious an 
 effort to appear so.
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 279 
 
 I fancy I was such a one. But, upon my word, 
 when I come to think about it, I don't know, and I 
 don't want to know. An unbeliever in the wisdom 
 of the Delphic oracle, far from endeavouring to 
 know myself, it has been my constant endeavour to 
 do the very opposite. I hold the knowledge of one- 
 self to be a source of care, anxiety and distress. 
 I have had as little commerce as possible with my- 
 self. It seemed to me that wisdom lay in turning 
 away from the contemplation of oneself, in forget- 
 ting one's own existence, or in imagining oneself to 
 be different, by nature and fortune, from what one 
 really is. Know not thyself; that is the beginning 
 of wisdom. 
 
 If it be true that Montaigne composed his Es- 
 says in order to study his own personality, his re- 
 searches must have caused him more anguish than 
 the stones which rent his kidneys. I think, on the 
 contrary, that he wrote his book to distract his 
 thoughts from, rather than to concentrate them on, 
 the contemplation of his own individuality. 
 
 And let it not be said that this sermon on self- 
 forgetfulness is singularly out of place in a book 
 where the writer's self is his sole theme. I am a 
 different person from the child I am writing about. 
 We have nothing in common now, not a grain of 
 substance, not a grain of thought. Now that he 
 has become a total stranger, I am enabled to find
 
 280 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 in his company some relief from my own. I, who 
 neither hate nor love myself, love him. It is pleas- 
 ant to live over again in thought the days he lived. 
 The very air of these present times is painful to 
 breathe.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 THE COLLEGIAN 
 
 T was the first day of term. I had 
 spent a certain length of time at 
 St. Joseph's, where I used to con- 
 strue the Epitome to an accompani- 
 ment of twittering sparrows, and 
 I was now to attend the college 
 as a day boy. 
 
 I was, then, a collegian. I felt the honour, but 
 with some anxiety, for I feared it would be a weighty 
 one. I hadn't the slightest wish to cut a brilliant 
 figure on those ink-stained forms, and when I was 
 ten I had no ambitions. And, furthermore, I had 
 no hopes. At the preparatory school I had been 
 noted for a perpetual look of wonderment, and, 
 rightly or wrongly, that is not regarded as a mark 
 of very great intelligence. I was indeed looked upon 
 as just a little simple. That was an injustice. I 
 was as intelligent as the majority of my comrades, 
 but I was intelligent in a different manner. Their 
 intelligence served them in the ordinary circum- 
 stances of life; mine only came to my aid in the rarer 
 and more unlooked-for conjunctures. It manifested 
 
 itself unexpectedly in wanderings far afield or in a 
 
 281
 
 282 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 liking for reading things out of the ordinary run. I 
 had given up the idea of distinguishing myself in 
 class, and from the day I entered the college I set 
 about getting what distraction I could out of my 
 new surroundings. Such was my nature and my bent, 
 and I have never changed. I have always known 
 how to amuse myself. For me, that comprised the 
 whole art of living. Little and big, young and 
 old, I have always lived as far as possible away 
 from myself and away from the tristful reality of 
 things. And so, on this first day of term, I was con- 
 scious of a desire to escape from my environment 
 that was all the keener because that environment 
 struck me as peculiarly uninviting. The college was 
 ugly, dirty, and evil-smelling, my classmates disagree- 
 able and the masters depressing. Our form mas- 
 ter looked at us without enthusiasm and without af- 
 fection, and he was neither sufficiently sensitive nor 
 sufficiently insincere to put on the semblance of a 
 regard which he did not feel. He did not harangue 
 us. He merely surveyed us for a moment, and then 
 asking us our names, entered them, as we called them 
 out, in a big register that lay open on his desk. I 
 thought him old and machine-like, but I daresay he 
 was not as old as I thought him. When he had 
 taken down our names, he ruminated on them for 
 some time in silence, so as to assimilate them thor- 
 oughly. I believe that he got hold of them all im- 
 mediately. He had learnt from experience that a
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 283 
 
 master has no hold on his boys, unless he is familiar 
 with their names and faces. 
 
 " I will call out the names of the books you will 
 need and which you must get as quickly as you can," 
 he said. 
 
 Thereupon he proceeded to enumerate in monoto- 
 nous drawling tones a number of forbidding titles 
 such as lexicons and rudiments (why cannot these 
 things be introduced to little children by more at- 
 tractive names?), the Fables of Phaedrus, and arith- 
 metic, a geography, the Selects e Profanis, and so 
 on and so forth. And then he wound up with some- 
 thing I had never heard of before: Esther and 
 Athalie. 
 
 Forthwith there arose before my eyes, in a sort 
 of blissful haze, two graceful female figures, attired 
 as one sees in pictures, their arms encircling each 
 other's waist, exchanging words that I could not 
 hear, but that I divined were full of grace and 
 charm. The master, and the master's chair, the 
 blackboard, the drab walls, had all disappeared. 
 The two women were walking slowly along a narrow 
 path through fields of wheat a-bloom with corn- 
 flowers and poppies, and their names fell like music 
 on my ears : Esther and Athalie. 
 
 I knew, without being told, that Esther was the 
 elder. She had a kind heart. Athalie, who was 
 not so tall, had, as far as I could make out, fair 
 hair hanging down in plaits. They dwelt in the
 
 284 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 country. I seemed to descry a hamlet, thatched 
 roofs with smoke curling upwards, a shepherd, and 
 villagers joining in the dance. But all the features 
 in the picture remained undefined, and I was all 
 eagerness to learn what happened to Esther and 
 to Athalie. The master calling out my name rudely 
 dispelled my dreams. 
 
 "Are you going to sleep? You're wool-gather- 
 ing. Come, now, pay attention and take down what 
 I tell you." 
 
 The master began to call out the homework for 
 the next day. There was a Latin exercise to be 
 done, and one of Fenelon's fables to prepare. 
 
 When I got home, I gave my father the list of 
 books which I was supposed to get as soon as pos- 
 sible. My father quietly read it through and told 
 me I must obtain the books from the college bursar. 
 
 "By so doing," he said, "you will get the edition 
 adopted by your masters and used by most of the 
 other boys in your form; same text, same notes. 
 That will be far the best way." 
 
 And he gave me back the list. 
 
 "But," said I, "how about Esther and Athalie?' 
 
 "Well, my boy, the bursar will give you Esther 
 and Athalie when he gives you the other books." 
 
 I was disappointed. I should have liked to have 
 Esther and Athalie right away. I counted on get- 
 ting a deal of pleasure therefrom. I kept hovering 
 round the table where my father was busy writing.
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 285 
 
 "Papa, Esther and Athalie?" 
 
 "Don't waste your time. Get on with your work 
 and leave me alone." 
 
 I wrote out my Latin exercise, squatting on one 
 heel. I did it without relish and I did it badly. 
 
 During dinner my mother put several questions to 
 me regarding the masters, the other boys, and the 
 classes. 
 
 I told her that my master was old and dirty, that 
 he blew his nose like a trumpet, and that he was 
 always strict and sometimes unfair. As for the boys, 
 some I praised up to the skies, others I as inordi- 
 nately decried. I had no feeling for the finer shades, 
 and I was unwilling as yet to recognize the all-per- 
 vading mediocrity of men and things. 
 
 "It's nice, isn't it, Esther and Athalie?" I inquired 
 of my mother all of a sudden. 
 
 "Very nice; but they are two plays," replied my 
 mother. 
 
 I looked so blank as she said this that my excel- 
 lent mother deemed it behoved her to explain the 
 matter with great precision. 
 
 "They are two separate plays, dear, two trage- 
 dies; Esther is one play, Athalie is another." 
 
 Thereupon, with great seriousness, calmness, and 
 determination, I said: 
 
 "They're not." 
 
 My mother in amazement asked me how I could 
 contradict her in such a rude, silly manner.
 
 286 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 I persisted in my denial, and said that they Were 
 not two plays. Esther and Athalie was a single 
 story, and I knew it. Esther was a shepherdess. 
 
 "Very well, then," said my mother. "It is an 
 Esther and Athalie I know nothing about. You 
 must let me see the book in which you have read this 
 story." 
 
 I maintained a gloomy silence for some moments, 
 and then with a heart overflowing with bitterness 
 and melancholy I said again: 
 
 "I tell you that Esther and Athalie are not two 
 plays." 
 
 My mother was endeavouring to convince me, 
 when my father angrily told her to take no notice 
 of me if I persisted in being so opinionated and 
 pigheaded. 
 
 "He's taken leave of his senses," he added. 
 
 And my mother heaved a sigh. I saw I see it 
 still her bosom rise and fall beneath the black taf- 
 feta bodice that was fastened at the neck with a little 
 gold brooch in the shape of a knot, with two little 
 trembling tassels dangling from it. 
 
 Next morning, at eight o'clock, Justine, my maid, 
 took me to school. I had some cause for misgiv- 
 ing. My Latin exercise did not satisfy me and 
 seemed to me very unlikely to satisfy anybody else. 
 The mere look of it betokened a scamped and a 
 faulty piece of work. The writing, which was care- 
 ful and fine enough to begin with, got rapidly worse
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 287 
 
 as it went on, and finally degenerated into an un- 
 gainly scrawl. But I rammed my anxiety well down 
 into the obscure depths of my being. I drowned it. 
 When I was ten I was wise at least on one point. 
 I deemed it useless to repine over the irreparable, 
 and thought that, as Malherbe says, we ought not 
 to seek a remedy for an irremediable misfortune, 
 to repent a fault being merely adding to one evil 
 another more grievous still. We must forgive our- 
 selves a deal of things if we would accustom our- 
 selves to forgiving others. Thus I forgave myself 
 my Latin exercise. As I passed by the grocer's 
 shop, I caught sight of some candied fruits gleaming 
 in their boxes like gems in a white velvet jewel-case. 
 The cherries were rubies, the angelica emeralds, the 
 plums giant topazes, and since, of all the senses, it 
 is sight that procures me the strongest impressions, 
 the view of them straightway seduced me, and I 
 bewailed the lack of means that prevented me from 
 acquiring one of those boxes. The smallest was 
 one and threepence. If repentance held no sway 
 over me, desire has ruled the whole course of my 
 life. I may, indeed, say that my life has been one 
 prolonged desire. I love desire; I love the joys and 
 pangs of desire. To desire with ardour is almost 
 like to possession. Nay what am I saying? it is 
 possession, without satiety or disgust. Nevertheless, 
 can I aver with confidence that, when I was a child 
 of ten, I thus philosophized about desire, and that I
 
 288 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 held these tenets in their complete and finished form? 
 I would not stake my life on that; nor am I pre- 
 pared to swear that, in after years, the sting of de- 
 sire has not sometimes been so keen as to cause me 
 pain beyond endurance. Well had it been for me had 
 I never set my heart on anything but boxes of candied 
 fruits. 
 
 I used to live on the friendliest terms with 
 Justine. I was affectionate, she was lively. I loved 
 her without feeling that I was loved by her in re- 
 turn, a thing which, if the truth must be told, is a 
 little foreign to my character. 
 
 That morning we were walking along on our way 
 to the college, each holding on to the strap of my 
 satchel and giving, now and again, little sudden 
 sharp tugs that might have pulled us over if we 
 had been less firm on our feet. As a rule, I handed 
 on to Justine all the harsh and even insulting things 
 that had been said to me during the day. I ques- 
 tioned her on difficult subjects, even as I myself 
 had been questioned. She either did not answer 
 or else she answered wrong, and I said to her 
 what I had had said to me : "You are an ass. You 
 shall have a bad mark. Aren't you ashamed of your 
 laziness?" Thus it happened that on that particu- 
 lar morning, I asked her whether she knew Esther 
 and Athalie. 
 
 "Esther and Athalie, mon petit monsieur? But 
 those are just names."
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 289 
 
 "Justine, you deserve to be kept in for answering 
 like that." 
 
 "They are names, mon petit maitre. Natalie is 
 my foster-sister's name." 
 
 "I daresay it is, but you haven't read the story 
 of Esther and Athalie. No, you haven't read it. 
 Well, I am going to tell it you." 
 
 And I told it: 
 
 "Esther was a farmer's wife at Jouy-en-Josas. 
 One day, as she was walking in the country she 
 came across a little girl who had fainted from weari- 
 ness by the roadside. She brought her round, gave 
 her some bread and some milk, and asked her 
 name." 
 
 I continued the narrative until we reached the col- 
 lege gates. And I was sure that the story was true, 
 and that I should find it set down exactly like that 
 in my book. You ask how I arrived at that con- 
 clusion. I cannot say. But I was quite sure of it. 
 This day was not at all memorable. My exer- 
 cise went through unnoticed, and disappeared ob- 
 scurely like the great multitude of human actions 
 which hurry by into the darkness and leave no 
 memory behind them. Next morning I found my- 
 self possessed with a mighty enthusiasm for Binet. 
 Binet was a little thin person with sunken eyes, a 
 big mouth, and a grating voice. He wore little 
 black patent-leather boots with white stitching. He 
 dazzled me. The universe melted away before my
 
 290 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 eyes; I beheld but Binet. I can discover no reason 
 for my enthusiasm when I come to look back over 
 the matter now, except those same patent-leather 
 boots, which spoke so eloquently of the pride and 
 elegance of a bygone day. If you deem the reason a 
 trifling one, then I say that the history of man will 
 for ever remain a sealed book to you. When we 
 speak of the Greeks, are they not essentially known 
 to us as the well-greaved Greeks? 
 
 The next day, Wednesday, was a holiday, 
 and it was not until the Thursday that we got 
 our books from the bursar. He made us sign 
 a receipt which gave us a great idea of our im- 
 portance as members of the civil community. We 
 inhaled our books with delight. They smelt of 
 paper and glue. They were quite new. We wrote 
 our names on the title page. Some of us made a 
 blot on the cover of a grammar, maybe, or a dic- 
 tionary, and were exceeding sorrowful. Neverthe- 
 less, it was fated that these books were to receive 
 inkstains more numerous than the splashes of mud 
 on the windows of the grocer's shop in the Rue des 
 Saints-Peres in winter. The first stain was dread- 
 ful; the others followed as a matter of course. These 
 considerations suggest a train of thought which, if 
 pursued, would carry us far from grammars and 
 dictionaries. For my part, I searched forthwith in 
 my packet of books for Esther and Athalie. How- 
 beit, by a stroke of ill-fortune which wounded me to
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 291 
 
 the quick, that work was lacking. I spoke to the 
 bursar about it. He said that I need not worry, that 
 I should have it all in good time. 
 
 It was not until a fortnight later, All Souls' Day, 
 that I got Esther and Athalie. It was a little volume 
 bound in boards and backed with blue linen. A grey 
 paper label on the cover gave the title as follows: 
 Racine, Esther and Athalie, Tragedies Founded on 
 Holy Writ and Edited for the Use of Schools. That 
 title boded nothing good in my eyes. I opened the 
 book. It was worse than the gloomiest forebodings 
 could have suggested. Esther and Athalie were po- 
 etry. Now every one knows that things written in 
 poetry are hard to understand and uninteresting. 
 Esther and Athalie were two separate plays and all 
 in verse, and long verses, at that. Alas, my mother's 
 words had come too cruelly true ! So Esther was not 
 a farmer's wife, and Athalie was not a little beggar 
 maiden. Esther had not come upon Athalie by the 
 wayside. So I had been dreaming. And what a 
 charming dream! And how dismal and wearisome 
 the reality compared with my reverie! I shut the 
 book and vowed I would never open it again. I did 
 not keep my word. 
 
 O great and tender-hearted Racine ! best and dear- 
 est of poets ! in such wise did I first make acquaint- 
 ance with you. You are now my love and my delight. 
 In you lies all my happiness, my dearest joy. It 
 was little by little, as I went forward in life, slowly
 
 292 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 gaining experience of men and things, that I learned 
 to know you and to love you. Compared with you 
 Corneille is but a skilful rhetorician, and I know not 
 if even Moliere himself is so true to life as you, O 
 sovereign master, with whom all truth abides, all 
 beauty ! When I was young and misled by the pre- 
 cepts and examples of those barbarous romanticists, 
 I did not at first perceive that you were the pro- 
 foundest, even as you were the purest, of all tragic 
 poets. My eyes were not strong enough to con- 
 template your splendour. I have not always spoken 
 of you with sufficient admiration. I have neglected 
 to say that the characters created by you were the 
 truest that poet ever conjured forth into the light 
 of day. I have left it unrecorded that you were very 
 life and very nature. You alone have made real 
 women tread the stage. What are the women of 
 Sophocles and Shakespeare beside the women whom 
 you have animated with the breath of life? They 
 are but puppets. None but yours know love and 
 desire ; the others do but talk. I would not willingly 
 die without graving a few lines at the foot of your 
 monument, O Jean Racine, in witness of my love 
 and veneration, but if the time to perform this sacred 
 duty be not vouchsafed me, then let these lines, 
 casual but sincere, betoken what is in my heart. 
 
 But wait. I have not recorded that, having re- 
 fused to learn Esther's prayer: O mon souverain 
 roi (the noblest lines in the French language) my
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 293 
 
 form master made me write out fifty times the verb : 
 "I have not learnt my lesson." He was a profane 
 mortal. It is not so that we avenge the glory of a 
 poet. To-day I know my Racine by heart, and he is 
 ever new to me. As for you, old Richou (such was 
 my master's name), I loathe your memory. You 
 profaned the poetry of Racine when you spouted it 
 from your thick lips. The sense of harmony was not 
 in you. You deserved the fate of Marsyas. I deem 
 that I did well to refuse to learn Esther, so long as 
 I was under your sway. But you, Maria Favart, 
 you, Sarah, you, Bartet, you, Weber, may the benison 
 of heaven descend upon you, for that you distilled 
 from your lips divine, like honey and ambrosia, the 
 music of Esther, of Phedre, and of Iphigenic.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 MY ROOM 
 
 BELLAGUET continued till his 
 dying day to enjoy the esteem 
 which is the customary preroga- 
 tive of prosperous dishonesty. His 
 grateful family bore him to the 
 grave in solemn state. Prominent 
 financiers acted as pall-bearers. Behind the hearse, 
 the master of the ceremonies carried a cushion on 
 which were displayed the insignia of the various 
 orders crosses, ribbons, medals and badges and 
 stars that had been granted to the deceased. 
 
 As the procession passed along, women crossed 
 themselves, the men in the crowd took their hats 
 off and murmured under their breath such words as 
 "sharper," "swindler," and "old rogue," reconciling 
 in this way their respect for the dead with their sense 
 of justice. 
 
 Having entered into possession of the deceased's 
 estate, his heirs had several changes carried out in 
 the house, and my mother persuaded them to have 
 our flat rearranged and done up. By making a 
 few alterations and doing away with some dark 
 
 closets and cupboards, they managed to construct an- 
 
 294
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 295 
 
 other little room, which was allotted to me. Up to 
 then I had slept either in a sort of slip-room adjoin- 
 ing the drawing-room which was too small for the 
 door to be shut at night, or else in the dressing-room, 
 which was already chock-full of furniture. And I 
 used to do my homework on the dining-room table. 
 Justine would come and unceremoniously interrupt 
 my studies in order to lay the cloth and the substi- 
 tution of plates, dishes, knives and forks, for books, 
 paper, and writing materials was always attended by 
 a breach of the peace. But when I got a room of 
 my own I did not know myself. A child the day be- 
 fore, I suddenly became a young man. My ideas 
 and tastes suddenly sprang into being. Henceforth, 
 I lived my own life. I possessed an individual ex- 
 istence. 
 
 The view from my room was neither pleasant nor 
 extensive. It looked out on a back yard. The wall- 
 paper displayed a field of blue blossoms on a cream- 
 coloured background. The furniture consisted of a 
 bed, two chairs, and a table. The cast iron bedstead 
 is worthy of being described in some detail. It was 
 painted in a colour that was not selected with a due 
 regard to the circumstance that the bed was sup- 
 posed to imitate violet ebony. It was ornamented 
 throughout in the style of the Renaissance, as that 
 style was customarily interpreted in the days of 
 Louis Philippe, and the forepart especially was con- 
 spicuous for a medallion adorned with pearls, from
 
 296 LITTLE PIERRE 
 
 which there stood out in relief a woman's head with 
 a band round her hair. The head and foot of the 
 bed were embellished with figures of birds and foli- 
 age. It must be borne in mind that all these objects, 
 the woman's head, the birds, and the foliage, were in 
 cast iron designed to imitate violet ebony. How my 
 poor mother ever came to buy such a thing was a 
 cruel mystery that I never had the courage to 
 fathom. At the foot of the bed was a strip of carpet 
 with a pattern representing some little children play- 
 ing with a dog. On the walls hung water-colour 
 drawings of Swiss women in national costume. Be- 
 sides the articles of furniture already mentioned, 
 there were a set of shelves on which I used to put 
 my books, a walnut cabinet, and a little Louis XVI 
 rosewood table that I would gladly have exchanged 
 for my godfather's roll-top mahogany desk, which, 
 in my estimation, would have made me look more 
 important. 
 
 As soon as I got a room to myself, I began to live 
 a life of my own; I was conscious of an inward ex- 
 istence. I became capable of reflexion, of retiring 
 into my own soul. As for my room, I did not look 
 on it as beautiful. I never thought for a moment 
 that it ought to be. Nor did I think it ugly. I just 
 looked upon it as unique, incomparable. It fenced 
 me about from the universe, and within it I found 
 the universe again. 
 
 It was there that my mind was formed, there that
 
 LITTLE PIERRE 297 
 
 it broadened out and began to people itself with 
 phantoms. Poor little room of my childhood days, 
 it was within your four walls that there began slowly 
 to gather round me the many hued shadows of 
 knowledge, all those illusions that have hidden 
 nature from my sight and gathered more and more 
 densely between myself and her as I increased my 
 efforts to unveil her mystery. It was there, within 
 your four narrow walls, with their garlands of blue 
 flowers, that there appeared to me, at first faint and 
 far-off, the terrifying simulacra of Love and Beauty. 
 
 THE END
 
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